Summer Lightning Read online

  Summer Lightning

  Tamara McKinley

  New York • London

  © 2003 by Tamara McKinley

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  e-ISBN 978-1-62365-564-8

  Distributed in the United States and Canada by

  Hachette Book Group

  237 Park Avenue

  New York, NY 10017

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, institutions, places, and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  www.quercus.com

  Tamara McKinley is the author of more than eleven novels. She was born in Tasmania, but now lives in Sussex and Cornwall and writes full time. Her novels are both contemporary and historical, following the lives of Australian pioneers and those who came after them.

  Also by Tamara McKinley

  Matilda’s Last Waltz

  Jacaranda Vines

  Windflowers

  Undercurrents

  Dreamscapes

  Ocean Child

  For Brandon John Morris,

  the first of the next generation

  Acknowledgements

  Thanks to the Historical Societies in the mining towns we visited for their stoic keeping of records, and to my dearest friends, Deanna, Tony, Dianne and Alan – Christmas in Tasmania was more than special. Barry and Leeanna in Perth, you were stars – as too were Michael and Gil and darling Max – thank you for sharing so much with me.

  Over eighteen thousand kilometres were travelled in the quest for this story, and my heartfelt thanks go to Ollie Cater for his love and companionship in what proved to be a traumatic journey. After all the frogs I’ve kissed – I’ve truly found a Prince!

  The gentle mind by gentle deeds is known

  For a man by nothing is so well betrayed

  Edmund Spenser 1552–1599

  Contents

  Cover Page

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue 1969

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  Also Available

  Prologue 1969

  Dawn was still an hour away as Miriam Strong stepped on to the verandah of Bellbird homestead. It had been a restless night filled with dreams and images from the past, evoked by the events of the previous day. Now, as she stood there and breathed in the freshness of rain-soaked grass and the sweet reminder of good red earth she felt energy and determination return. She would need them, for the battle ahead would not be pleasant.

  She closed her eyes, willing the night images to fade by counting her blessings. Her life may have begun almost seventy-five years ago in the cooler green of southern Australia, but she felt she’d been born to this hot, sepia world. To the chatter of crickets, the laughter of the kookaburra, and the sigh of the warm wind in the trees. This was home and she would never leave, for it gave her strength and solace. She had ridden her first pony in home yard and had learned the vagaries of life on this outback station – the harsh lessons of the terrible beauty that surrounded her. Her life had been played out here and the echoes of its laughter and tears could almost be heard in the stillness that came just before dawn.

  Bellbird Station sprawled across the isolated north-western corner of New South Wales. The homestead was a six-room Queenslander, built almost a century ago. There was the kitchen at the back, a rarely used parlour and three bedrooms. A bathroom had been added twenty years ago, and the old dunny at the back of the property had rapidly yielded to the termites and the elements.

  The inevitable corrugated-iron roof sloped down over the deep verandah that ran around all four sides of the homestead. Most of life was lived on this verandah, especially during the heat of summer, and Miriam had a day-bed and mosquito net set up in one corner, table and chairs in another. A collection of battered cane chairs were set haphazardly amongst the vast pots of ferns and assorted greenery that added to the cool green shade of the surrounding trees. These trees were home to galahs and budgies of every colour, and of course to the tiny bellbird whose single note was one of the purest sounds in the bush.

  With a deep sigh, Miriam sat in one of the cane chairs and carefully placed the music box on the rickety table. She would think about that later. Her visitor would be arriving soon and she needed these still moments to garner strength for what was to come. How her family would react, God only knew.

  Chloe, her daughter would probably tell her not to make a fuss. She didn’t like trouble of any kind, preferring to hide herself away with her paintings in that great rambling house on the beach at Byron Bay. She’d always lived in a dream that girl, Miriam thought wearily. She stared out over the yard, seeing again the little girl with a halo of copper hair and green eyes that had lost none of their brilliance over the ensuing years. She supposed she was happy, but who could tell? She and Leo might be divorced, but she suspected they liked one another better now they were apart – and that had to be good. Didn’t it? Miriam clicked her tongue. Too many thoughts were going round in her head, and trying to sort out her family’s problems was the least of her worries.

  As for her granddaughters. Miriam smiled. As different as chalk and cheese. Fiona would probably relish the adventure of the forthcoming battle, but Louise? Poor down-trodden, frustrated Louise would see it only as another problem in her life.

  Miriam pushed all thought of her family aside as she struggled into her boots. The pain in her back helped. It was a constant reminder of her mortality. She swore under her breath as the laces took on a life of their own and refused to tie. It was absolutely bloody being old, and far from being proud of her age she cursed it. What she wouldn’t do to be young and supple again. To be able to sleep through the night without bathroom visits and ride for hours across the paddocks without ending up stiff and aching for days after.

  She grimaced. The alternative wasn’t attractive, but she couldn’t quite accept what was happening to her. She’d been a fighter all her life, she was damned if she was going to give in now. With a grunt of satisfaction she finally got the laces tied and after glancing once more at the music box, stared out over home paddock.

  The sky was lighter, the first, soft pink of dawn bringing the trees into silhouette against the darker huddle of the outbuildings. The birds were stirring, the sharp sniping rasp of the cockatoos mel
lowed by the rolling, almost sensual croon of the magpies.

  She remained there on the verandah as the day dawned, smoke drifted from the cookhouse chimney and the birds took their first flight of the day. They rose in a cloud of pink and white and grey, the tiny green parakeets and blue budgies darting enthusiastically amongst the galahs as they headed for the billabong. She watched them for a moment, her keen eye noting the first of the fledglings to leave their nests. A new generation was on the wing. It would soon be time to make way for them.

  ‘But not yet,’ she breathed. ‘I need time to put things right first.’

  She reluctantly returned her attention to the music box. The cherry wood was inlaid with mother of pearl and scarred with age. Yet, that merely added to its allure, for the scratches and gouges spoke of long journeys across the world, of time spent in some of the harshest places on earth. And as a child Miriam had tried to imagine how they’d come to be there – had endeavoured to conjure up the people who’d once owned the box and kept it safe.

  ‘Until now,’ she muttered crossly as she eyed the shattered base. Yet her carelessness had set in motion a chain of events that could very easily spiral out of control if not handled properly. For breaking the music box had revealed a secret – a secret that could change the lives of her family for ever.

  She ran a finger over the lid as the doubts grew. Perhaps it would have been better to lay the ghosts to rest? To accept what had been found and use it to help her family? She didn’t need this – not now. And yet, how could she just ignore the find? It was the first positive proof that her suspicions had been correct. A tangible gift from the past that cried out for the truth to be told.

  She fumbled with the tiny gold key and lifted the lid. The black Harlequin danced with his pale Columbine before the smoky mirrors in perfect harmony with the tinny notes of a Strauss waltz, their expressions enigmatic behind their masks.

  Miriam eyed the jewel bright colours of the Harlequin’s costume and the dainty frills on Colombine’s dress. It was beautiful, she admitted, and probably very rare, for it was unusual to have a black Harlequin. Yet, even as a child she’d thought there was something eerie about the glazed eyes behind those masks – something prim and stilted in their emotionless embrace. She grimaced. In hindsight, perhaps they’d always known the secret they had hidden beneath them, and that was what made them appear so superior.

  The music died and the dancers came to a standstill. Miriam closed the lid and tried to forget about her visitor’s imminent arrival by giving herself up to the sounds and scents of a past she knew only through the stories she’d heard as a child. It was a time when she had yet to be born – but she had still been a silent, innocent witness to the drama that was about to have its final curtain call seventy-five years later.

  Chapter One

  Ireland 1893

  Maureen shivered as she wrapped the thin cloak around her shoulders and waited for Henry. He’d never been this late before and she was beginning to fret. Could something have happened up at the big house? Something that meant he was unable to slip away? She gritted her teeth in an attempt to stop them chattering. The walk from the village into the woods had been long and the rain had plastered her long dark hair to her skin and the icy drips were running down her neck and into her dress. Yet it wasn’t the knife of the wind that chilled her, but the thought they’d been betrayed – that he might not come at all.

  Seeking shelter in the doorway of the abandoned gamekeeper’s hut, she leaned against the rough wood of the doorpost and smeared the rain from her face. The day suited her mood well, for the sky had remained leaden and darkness was fast approaching. She would have to leave soon, or she would be missed at home – and she didn’t relish having to face Da, for he would demand an explanation. Yet the fear of missing Henry was even greater, for there were things that had to be discussed. Things that could not wait – not if they were to be resolved before her seventeenth birthday.

  The beating of the rain on the broken thatch deadened all sound as she stood there in the fast gathering gloom, and as she peered through the deepening shadows her mind raced through the words she needed to say. They wouldn’t be easy, but she had to keep faith in Henry. Surely he wouldn’t desert her now?

  ‘Maureen.’

  The soft voice made her turn swiftly. He jumped from his horse, and with a sob of pleasure and relief she fell into his open arms. ‘I didn’t think you were coming,’ she gasped.

  He dropped the reins and drew her close, resting his chin on the top of her head as they sheltered beneath the tumbledown roof. ‘I very nearly didn’t,’ he said grimly. ‘My brother turned up and Father insisted we discuss the running of the estate. I’m only here because one of the mare’s in foal and having trouble and I volunteered to fetch help.’

  He pulled away reluctantly and smoothed the wet hair from her face before cupping her chin in his long, elegant fingers. ‘I’m sorry, my darling. But I can’t stay. Father’s in one of his moods and I daren’t be gone for too long.’

  Maureen looked up into his handsome face. Henry Beecham-Fford was twenty-two, and his fair hair clung wetly against his finely sculpted head. The eyes were blue and thickly lashed, the nose long and straight above a neat moustache and sensuous mouth. She took his hand and planted a kiss in the palm. ‘Can you not stay for just a moment?’ she pleaded. ‘I’ve seen so little of you in the past few days, and we never seem to have time to talk.’

  He kissed her then, drawing her to him, enfolding her in his arms, the warmth of his embrace flooding through her like a furnace. She melted into him, tasting him, breathing in his scent of fine cologne and damp tweed.

  ‘I’ll meet you here, tomorrow after the hunt,’ he said as he regretfully pulled away. ‘We can talk then.’ His blue eyes were full of humour as he looked down at her. ‘Whatever it is can’t be that important – we’ve said everything we need to right here, in this kiss.’

  She stepped away from him. If he kissed her again she would be lost, and she had to keep her concentration. ‘Henry,’ she began.

  He silenced her with a soft finger against her lips. ‘Tomorrow,’ he said firmly. ‘If I stay we run the risk of getting caught, and if I’m to make any headway with Father I need to be seen to be the dutiful son.’ With a hasty kiss he turned away and picked up the reins. Climbing into the saddle he reached down and stroked Maureen’s wet hair. ‘Go home and get dry before you catch your death, and remember that I love you,’ he said. ‘Have faith, my darling. We’ll find a way to be together always. I promise.’

  Maureen folded her arms around her waist as he turned the horse’s head and galloped away. She stood there for a long while, listening to the diminishing drumbeat of hoofs and the splatter of the rain in the forest canopy. She had said nothing because it had been obvious he wouldn’t have listened – he was in too much of a hurry – too afraid of their being caught. But she didn’t like the thoughts that were running through her mind. Could she trust him? Or was he just using her?

  Henry’s family were wealthy English Protestants. They owned the land that stretched up the hill from the harbour in a spider’s web of stone walls. Land that was sliced into plots hardly wider than the O’Halloran’s best parlour. Land that barely produced a harvest rich enough to feed the tenants who worked it once the rent had been paid. Henry’s heritage forbade their love. Would Henry have the strength to stand against his tyrannical father? Did he love her enough to risk losing everything?

  She ducked her head, her arms tight about her waist as she stepped from the shelter of the hut and began to thread her way through the forest. He’d asked her to have faith in him – but could she? Did she dare to hope he would keep his promise that they would be together one day? Would he still want her once the social season began and he was occupied with hunting and shooting and dances up at the big house?

  Her feet slipped on the wet leaves as she stumbled over fallen branches and around spiny bushes. She had no choice but to trust his word
– not now. But God help her if she was wrong.

  The wind seared as she stepped out of the shelter of the trees and on to the track that wound down the hill to the village on the shore. Her hair was whipped from her face as her skirts clung to her legs and flapped around her ankles and she leaned into the wind, chin tucked tightly into the collar of her cloak. Gulls shrieked above the harbour where the fishing boats strained at their moorings and the Atlantic waves thundered against the stone jetty, and the dim glow from the cottage windows was a welcome sight. Almost blinded by tears she struggled down the hill.

  She didn’t see the women until it was too late.

  *

  Henry left Dan Finnigan at the stables, and once he’d made sure his horse was dry and had plenty of feed and water, he dashed across the cobbles to the main house. The rain was heavier now, slashing the night in almost horizontal fury. He hoped Maureen had made it safely home, this wasn’t a night to be abroad.

  The thought of Maureen made him smile as he swiftly took the stairs two at a time and crashed into his bedroom. His love for her had come as no surprise, for he’d always adored her, even as a child. He tore off his sodden shirt and trousers and swiftly changed for dinner. Those childhood days had been the best, for although he’d been aware of the divisions in society then, there had been a greater amount of freedom – a freedom that had allowed their friendship to blossom despite their different circumstances.

  He sighed as he struggled with the starched collar and gold studs. The onset of adulthood had changed that and the divisions had become even wider. What was it about Ireland that stirred people to such hatred? It was evident on both sides, in the Protestant enclaves and the Catholic slums, but surely there had to be a solution – a way of rescuing this poor, benighted country from the centuries of trouble?

  He fixed his bow tie and slipped on his jacket. Eyeing his reflection in the mirror he raised an eyebrow in derision. What did he know about Irish politics, let alone a solution to the eternal fighting? All he knew was that he loved Maureen and was determined to find a way they could be together. So what if she was Catholic and her father one of the troublemakers calling vociferously for Irish Rule?