Beautiful Lies (20 page)

Even Mei questioned her decision as the days crept by. Bluey was trying to move faster now, muttering frequently about the approaching Wet. He planned to stay at the station where the couple was bound until the rainy season ended, but clearly he wasn't certain they would make it in time. At last, when they crossed an invisible boundary and he announced, “Jimiramira,” Mei was too numb with fatigue to do anything except nod.

Most of four days passed before they spotted smoke
from the homestead chimney. “There'll be a real boil-over if the boss isn't at home,” Bluey muttered.

“Why?” Mei squinted into the distance.

“The missus set the place on fire once. No fires on the hearth now, not unless he's there himself, or maybe his boy. They got no help at the house but the blacks, and the blacks would just as soon let the place burn to the ground.”

By now Mei knew Archer and Viola Llewellyn had one son, a boy named Bryce who was about her own age. She wanted to ask if Viola had set the fire on purpose, but she was afraid to know.

“So help me bob, the woman's off her nut,” Bluey said, with no prompting. “You take care and watch her up close. Don't know why Sayers sent a young lass here, but I'll tell you this. I head up to Darwin after the Wet, but before I do, I'll be coming by here to take you back with me.”

Mei hoped that in the intervening months she would discover whatever she needed to know about the pearl and take it for her own.

They didn't reach the homestead that night. A wheel came loose, and they were forced to camp several miles away to make the necessary repairs. They started a fire, and Mei made the damper and boiled the billy while Bluey tended to the wheel. She was just pulling the damper from the ashes when she heard the sound of approaching hoof-beats. The couple, who had sat mutely by as Mei did the work, stood and straightened their clothing. Mei dusted off her hands and rose as a horse appeared.

Her heart beat faster, fueled by thoughts of the father she had never known. She touched the jade bracelet securely tucked into the pocket of her skirt and watched without blinking as the horse, just one, came to a halt several yards away. The rider dismounted, holding the reins.

She faced the son of the man who had murdered her father.

“I'm Bryce Llewellyn.” He nodded politely to Mei and the couple. Then his face lit in a wide grin as he spied Bluey by the wagon. “G'day, Bluey! Made it just in time, did you?”

“Bloody well did. In good nick, till now. You'd just get yourself a road out here, I'da made it sooner.”

“Are you right there, mate?”

Mei watched as the young man walked over to Bluey and clapped him on the back. She had thought little about Archer and Viola's son except as an opponent in her quest to steal the pearl. Now she assessed her foe. He was tall and lean, brown-skinned from the sun and fit from a life that seemed to suit men and destroy all but the hardiest women. Under the cabbage palm hat shading his face, she saw hair just light enough to be called blond and pleasant features that were settling into maturity.

“I've about got it,” Bluey said. “Still got six, seven days before we get down to Shadyside.”

“Six or seven if you push hard.” Bryce shoved his hands in the pockets of dusty moleskin trousers. “You'd better push hard, Bluey. Old Jake says the Wet's coming early this year.”

“Too right.”

“Why don't I take the girl back with me? You can leave from here in the morning. Save you a trip into the homestead.”

“I got boxes, too.”

“Leave them. I'll send a man in our wagon to get them first thing tomorrow.”

Bluey looked relieved. “That's what we'll do, then.”

“Will that suit you, miss?” Bryce asked Mei politely. His eyes flicked to Bluey. “She speak English?”

“As good as you, lad, and better than me.”

Bryce grinned at Mei. “Do you have a name?”

“May.” She wished Bluey hadn't extolled her English. In the days ahead she had intended to communicate as sparingly as possible, hoping that the Llewellyns would treat her like a piece of furniture, useful, but with no thoughts of her own.

Bluey wiped his hands on his trousers. “You'll stay for tea? We have damper to go with it.”

“I should get back.” Bryce hesitated. “My mum's alone at the house.”

Bluey didn't insist. “May, you take your share.”

Bryce started toward his horse. “You ought to do as he says, miss. The cook went walkabout, and the tucker's been sparse ever since.” He paused. “Can you cook?”

“I can.”

“Can you ride?”

She hesitated. “I'll learn.”

He turned and grinned. “You'll learn right now, sorry to say.”

“No matter.”

“Good on ya.”

Mei started toward him. She would ride the horse with the boy-man in front of her. She would wrap her arms around his waist as if he were not a stranger, and press her body against his to keep from falling to the ground.

But this was only a small sacrifice. Mei knew she could do anything to be reunited with Thomas. She would cook for these people, live in their house and make their life better in every way except one. When the right moment came, she would steal the pearl Archer Llewellyn had treasured more than the life of his best friend.

And then she would leave the Llewellyns to destroy each other.

M
ei's first days at Jimiramira left her with a blur of impressions. Bryce Llewellyn had a purity of character that was foreign to his parents. Viola Llewellyn was quite mad.

And Archer Llewellyn was a man who had achieved his heart's desire and forsaken his soul.

Jimiramira itself reflected the emotional tumult of its inhabitants. The homestead was incongruously large, designed for a way of life that was impossible so far from civilization. At dawn on her first morning in residence, Mei wandered through the house, taking note of rooms that had little or no furniture, of walls with no plaster, of windows shuttered with rusting sheets of metal, of floors surfaced with dirt from white ant hills, smoothed and watered into a rock-hard surface.

In the rooms that were used by the family, a fine dust covered everything, and when she drew her finger across the rough surface of a table, dust filled in the spot as soon as her finger was lifted. A rosewood piano in the parlor was missing keys and badly out of tune. Old photographs in
frames with broken glass sat on top of it like a profane altar to the departed.

In the sitting room, blackened stone and a charred fireplace mantel were testimony to the fire Bluey had mentioned the previous night. She ran her finger along the soot-streaked walls and wondered if Viola Llewellyn had wanted to kill herself and her family, or if she had merely forgotten to be careful.

Her next stop was the kitchen, erected to stand between the house and the men's dining room. It was awash in rotting vegetation and flies, and the window gauze, hung to eliminate the clouds of insects, had merely trapped them in solid, seething masses. She began her work there, fanning sticks into flame in the woodstove and scooping rusty water into a kettle to heat while she gathered garbage to be removed. By the time Bryce found her, she had cleared and scrubbed enough table space to begin breakfast preparations.

His “good morning” was tentative, as if he knew there was no way this morning would be anything of the kind. She prepared what little she could, coffee made from the boiling water, tinned tomatoes on bread so stale, mold would probably demand a better home. He said little until he had eaten, then he cleared off his own place and brought his tin plate and pannikin to her.

“My mother will be waking before long. I should warn you.”

She wondered where Bryce's father was. Archer Llewellyn had not greeted her last night, as if one Chinese servant girl was unworthy of his attention.

“My mother,” Bryce continued, “is not well. Sometimes she's quiet, and she won't answer if you speak to her.” He paused, then he dropped cutlery into the bucket with a clatter. “I'm afraid those are the good times. They shouldn't
have sent you here, you know. I can't imagine what they were thinking.”

“What are the bad times?” Mei asked.

“The times she isn't quiet.” Bryce rested against the table's edge. “She screams. She cries. She tries to tear out her hair. She can't be left alone then, and no matter how she acts, she can never be left in a room where a fire is burning. Not a lantern, not a fire on the hearth. She nearly burned the house to the ground once before.”

“When she has these bad times, you would prefer I care for her and not the house?”

“I think we'll have another cook by tonight. The blacks have a camp down the road a bit. I'll ride down after tea and see what I can stir up there. I might put my hands on some help for the house, too, if I have a piece of luck. But even without that to worry about, you'll be tempted to tie a knot in your swag and move on. There's still too much to do.”

“And when there's too much, you will help me?”

“If I'm here. But my father needs me, too.”

“Your father is not well?”

He laughed, but he sobered quickly. “As a matter of fact, sometimes he's a bit crook himself. It's an odd place you've landed, May. I wish I could say it were different.”

“Odd for me, but odd for you, as well.” She wished she could call back the words, but they had already flown away, like honeyeaters searching for the next perfumed flower.

Bryce didn't move, even though she had to walk around him to continue cleaning. “Why did you come here? You're young and strong. I should think anyone would hire you.”

“I am Chinese. Many people would not want me for that reason alone.”

“Foolish people.”

She was surprised he thought so, but she was also growing wary of this early-morning intimacy. Her upbringing had been untraditional, even for a Chinese girl born in Australia. Still, only rarely had she been in the presence of men her own age. As Willow's daughter she had been careful to avoid the attention of crewmen from the pearling vessels. With only a little effort she could have found a lover or even a husband, but she had seen what giving her heart might do. Her mother had never recovered from Tom Robeson's death. Willow had been glad to die.

“Foolish people, perhaps,” she answered Bryce. “But real enough, too. Now I work for you, and work hard.”

“Do you think you could stir up something for tea, then? Most of the men won't be back to the homestead until nightfall, my dad among them. But some will be riding in before that. Maybe five people all together.”

She thought with distaste of cooking a full meal in this room before cleaning it thoroughly. “And your mother?”

“With luck, she'll entertain herself today once she's up.”

“Will you spare a man to help me put this to rights?”

“I'll find someone. You're a goer, aren't you?”

She had been prepared to dislike everyone attached to Jimiramira, and although she hadn't spared a thought for Bryce, now she was dismayed to feel warmth at his simple praise.

He turned away. “I'll send Henry to see what he can do in here. He's a bit deaf, so you'll have to shout. And don't worry about Mum's breakfast. She won't eat until midday.”

He slipped out the door, closing it carefully behind him, but a new generation of flies slipped inside in the brief moments the door was open. She set to work without having anything to eat, the small appetite she'd awakened with having gone for good.

Henry had a beard that almost hid a toothless mouth and a habit of spitting in dark corners. But even though he grumbled continuously, he hauled away trash before he settled in with soap and water to scrub the table and hearth and bring in wood. He took a broom to the gauze as his last contribution, and when he left, the room was nearly fit to cook in.

Mei was sorry the crates destined for Jimiramira hadn't been carried to the homestead last night, but she did what she could with the supplies on hand in a Condamine safe she found in deep shade on the porch. The safe was made of galvanized steel, with wire mesh sides overhung with bags anchored in a shallow reservoir at the top. Water in the reservoir soaked the fabric, so when a breeze blew, the food was cooled.

She soaked salted beef, then chopped it for a stew, adding onions and handfuls of rice, and while that bubbled convincingly, she kneaded damper for the oven.

By the time Bryce came back, the simple meal was ready. “I'll serve the men and eat with them,” he offered. “Will you take a plate up to the house for my mum?”

She hadn't had time to meet Viola Llewellyn. She hadn't even had time to consider the purpose behind everything she was doing. But now she remembered that, for her, a job well done at Jimiramira had nothing to do with how clean the kitchen was or how savory the meal. It had to do with finding one flawless pearl.

“Is your mother feeling well this day?” She ladled stew into a quart pot to carry it to the house, and cut a thick slice of the steaming damper to go with it.

“She's docile.” His voice didn't change, but his expression grew sad. “You'll find she has moments when she knows what's happening and moments when she doesn't.”
He shrugged. “Days, actually. Today's one of them. She thinks she's back in Broome.”

“Broome?” she asked, as if she had never heard of it.

“A town in the west. A pearling town like Darwin, only my father claims pearling's the only thing they do there.”

“Such a great distance.” Mei forced herself to look mystified as she wrapped the damper for the short trip.

“Life there was easier for a woman,” he added.

She thought of her own mother's life but said nothing.

On the trip to the house, she both dreaded and anticipated meeting Archer Llewellyn's wife. Rose Garth had told her how Viola had left Broome at Archer's side, despite her father's warnings. Viola's headstrong ways and disregard for others had been a favored source of gossip during Mei's childhood. She had imagined that Archer and Viola were well matched in their selfishness and hoped they were slowly destroying each other. Now, from the few things Bryce had told her, she realized that, at least in Viola's case, the job was already done.

She let herself into the house, set the table and ladled the stew onto a chipped plate before she went in search of Bryce's mother. She found her in a bedroom at the end of the longest hallway, sitting on a stool, gazing blankly into a hand mirror.

Mei took the opportunity to study the woman who owned what should have belonged—at least in part—to Willow. Viola Llewellyn had blond hair like her son, but there the resemblance ended abruptly. Bryce was in the full thrust of youth, tall and straight, clear-eyed and smooth-skinned. His mother was stoop-shouldered and bent, her complexion that of an old woman. She stared at herself out of red-rimmed, narrowed eyes.

The room itself contained an iron bedstead, shelves for
clothing and pegs on the wall for the overflow. The crude table in front of Viola's stool held a tarnished dresser set and crystal jars that were the only adornments in the room. Mei guessed that the Somerset servants in faraway Broome had finer quarters than these.

Mei spoke. “Missus, I have dinner waiting for you.”

Viola was unfazed by the unfamiliar voice.

Mei entered the room to stand beside her. “Would you like me to help you dress?”

“You're always bothering me. I tell
you
when to speak.”

Mei ignored the criticism obviously meant for someone in Viola's past. “Let me brush your hair.”

Viola finally looked up from her reflection. “I suppose.” Her voice wavered with the cadence of age, as if all traces of youth had fled. Mei was stung with pity, which she immediately banished. No one had forced Viola to marry a murderer or come to this desolate prison in the Northern Territory.

Mei lifted the hairbrush from the table and removed the few pins holding Viola's hair. It fell to her shoulders, thin and lifeless. Mei remembered brushing her own mother's hair. Willow's hair had been silky and strong, even as her body weakened with illness.

Viola closed her eyes, as if she enjoyed this pampering. “What shall I wear, Susan?”

Mei wondered if, back in Broome, a stranger named Susan would relish knowing that Viola believed Susan was still with her. “You are already dressed for dinner, missus.”

Viola ignored her. “The blue or the gold? My father dislikes me in gold. Perhaps I'll choose that.”

Mei was learning quickly. “You are already wearing that dress, missus.”

Viola looked down at the shapeless brown dress that badly needed washing and mending. “So I am.”

Mei twisted Viola's hair on top of her head and anchored it with hairpins, adding a mother-of-pearl comb she found on the table. “Much better.”

Viola lifted her chin. “You're good with hair, if not with anything else.”

Mei was feeling increasingly sorry for Susan. “Shall we find your shoes?”

“Don't be all day.”

Mei found shoes beside the bed, scuffed leather shoes that had to be painstakingly fastened with a button hook. When Viola was ready, Mei helped her to her feet, and, arm in arm, as if Mei had now assumed the identity of some former suitor, they walked through the hallway to the dining room.

Mei took one look at the table and closed her eyes. The plate she had carefully filled was covered with flies. Even the damper was black with them.

Viola eyed the table with interest. “I like nothing better than a roast of lamb.” She seated herself, gazing across the table as if she was at a dinner party. The flies lifted in a foul cloud and found homes on the ceiling. Viola picked up her fork and began to eat.

 

Viola napped in the afternoon, and Mei began the arduous task of putting the house to rights. An hour later Bryce appeared with two young Aboriginal women, Emma and Sally, whose real given names were something more musical and fitting.

“Emma will do the laundry,” Bryce told Mei. “And Sally claims she's an ace cook. She's helped out here before, so I'm willing to give her a go if you are.”

Mei realized she was now in charge. Although Viola should be the one to supervise everyone attached to the
household, obviously that was impossible. The two women seemed affable enough, smiling shyly at Mei. “Thank you,” she told them.

Together the three women stripped the beds, and Mei helped Emma carry the tattered bed linens to the billabong, which clearly served as the homestead laundry. Sally followed Mei out to the kitchen, and with a mixture of gestures and simple English, they communicated well enough to plan supper.

When Mei emerged, Bryce was lounging against a gum tree just outside the kitchen, idly stripping strings of bark and curling them around one finger. “When my father comes back, he'll be bringing Larry, the camp cook. If Sally can manage tonight, the two of them can work together when the men are here at the homestead.”

She thought what a striking man Bryce was. Lithe and graceful in a wholly masculine way, he possessed all the virtues of youth. But while most men seemed anxious to parade their assets, Bryce did nothing to draw attention to himself. He wasn't ill at ease, but he seemed to have little sense of his own charm.