The Secrets of Palmerston House Read online

  Ahead of him was Palmerston House glowing under the midnight moon, an extravagant show of his wealth and his greatest achievement. A mere three years ago he’d finished building it. A testament to how far a man can come with grit and courage. Dedicated to another man, his namesake.

  “Remember him. He was a good man.” The voice of his late father, William Temple, came from nowhere to confuse his drunken mind.

  How often had his father recounted the tale of his own poverty-filled youth, of a group of older boys chasing him until, in terror, he’d run headlong into a young, impeccably dressed man. Instead of the blow he expected, William was lifted back to his feet and the group sent packing by Henry John Temple. Viscount Palmerston, the man who would become Prime Minister. Their shared surname inspired the labourer to do better for himself.

  The horse nudged Harry, who swayed on his feet. His father would be proud of the mansion he’d created out of timber and limestone. He might not be a viscount, but this Henry John Temple believed in repaying a debt, and bestowing the name of Palmerston House on the grand homestead was his tribute on behalf of William.

  Inside, his wife and daughter slept. House staff kept watch for his return, no doubt waiting with a glass of whiskey. Under the full March moon, life was as perfect as a man could want.

  His legs buckled and Harry landed on his behind. The horse snorted and trotted off to stables beyond the recently dug, sprawling pond. Harry stared at Palmerston House through hazy vision. How would he tell them? How would his sweet Eleanor react to such news? What manner of a man throws away their life work, all for one more shot at a win?

  Not an hour ago, he’d swallowed another glass of whiskey and fallen into the trap set by Eoin Ryan, the local timber merchant who’d supplied the mountain ash for the homestead. How many times had Eoin admired his property, even helping build parts of it? Their regular poker games were friendly. Sort of. Until tonight, with Eoin egging him on.

  “One more hand. Ye can’t lose.”

  Arms wrapped around himself, Harry rocked from side to side. He’d wagered Palmerston House. Twenty years growing his wealth, all gone in a game of poker. He’d been tricked and there was no way to change it.

  ***

  Less than a week later, Eleanor took their daughter and left.

  Her initial disbelief at his terrible news turned to fury and finally, despair. Harry gave her flowers. She pulled the petals off each rose whilst silent tears soaked her cheeks. He followed a trail of red and yellow through the house and out to the stables. Eleanor stroked the velvet cheek of her favourite horse as it snuffled at what was left of the bouquet.

  “Can we keep the horses? The carriages?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

  He grimaced. “The lawyer will come in a fortnight to list everything. Whatever is here will belong to Eoin Ryan within a month.”

  Eleanor nodded without looking his way, holding out the remains of the flowers for him to take. Then, she threw her arms around him. Shocked, Harry squeezed her tightly, but when he would kiss her, she pushed herself away and ran back to the house.

  After an evening at the hotel drinking, Harry came home to a silent house. No servants, for they left when he could no longer guarantee their employment. Somehow, Eleanor had packed a trunk, harnessed the horse she loved to the largest buggy, and left with their daughter.

  He finished off a bottle of wine in the living room, cursing the name of Eoin Ryan with every mouthful. That consumed, he went in search of another. Legs wobbling, he made it to the cellar where he sank to the stone floor. Propped against the wall, he pulled the closest bottle from the rack and opened it by smashing the corked end.

  Harry toasted himself. “To Henry John Temple, self-made man.”

  He spat out a mouthful of shards and threw the bottle at the far wall, where it disintegrated. The wine leeched into the stone, leaving a dark red stain.

  “Like my blood. My blood you took from me, Eoin Ryan.”

  Instead of pooling, the wine trickled under the door to the next room, a small utility space. In there, Harry stowed things he didn’t want Eleanor to know about. A stockpile of his favourite whiskey. Ammunition she refused to have in the house. His gun collection. She hated the room for its coldness. What she didn’t know, what nearly everybody didn’t know, was why it was so cold.

  “Mother of God.” Harry pushed himself back to his feet. “You might have my blood, Eoin Ryan, but you will not have my whiskey or my treasures.”

  How had he forgotten? With a hand on the wine rack to steady himself, Harry staggered to the door and pushed it open. Set into the far wall of the storage room was a small stone door. Heavy, very thick, and locked.

  The key was where it always was. In plain sight of the family and he knew it was still there. Eleanor might have taken his beloved little girl and her most precious possessions, but not the key. He had a way to redeem himself. Hide everything before the lawyer arrived, then retrieve his goods and find his family.

  ***

  In the sober light of day, Harry’s plans changed. It wasn’t as simple as stockpiling everything of value. Some of the paintings he’d brought from England – at great expense – were too large to carry alone. The grandfather clock was simply too bulky. Instead, he spent the morning making a list in his diary of what he could hide.

  There was a strange comfort writing in the leather bound book, given to him by Eleanor for Christmas. “So you remember every important thing.” She’d known how much he liked order and this beautifully crafted diary went with him everywhere. From room to room he took inventory.

  Small artwork

  Silverware

  Crystal decanters and glasses

  Remaining jewellery and knick-knacks

  After three rooms, he stopped to lean against a wall, eyes closed. If it hadn’t been bad enough wagering Palmerston House, why on earth had he taken the bait on the contents? Eoin’s calm offer came as chaos descended on Harry at the loss of his home.

  “I will give ye a chance to win it back. One more hand. Winner takes all. Ye win, then Palmerston House stays with ye. I win, I get everything inside and outside as well.”

  “The carriages? Eleanor's china?”

  Eoin had pushed a fresh glass of whiskey across the table. “Or ye might win the lot back.”

  It took all of ten seconds for Harry to drain the glass and nod.

  Fool. He opened his eyes. Well, he wasn’t about to let Eoin Ryan walk in here and steal everything away. His head lifted, imagining Eleanor’s delight seeing the treasures she loved so dearly. It might take months, waiting on the right tide, the optimum conditions for retrieval, but he’d do it. Then he’d find Eleanor and their daughter and they’d start anew.

  Harry opened the diary and continued his list, smiling to himself. Nobody stole from Henry Temple and got away with it.

  ***

  In the third bedroom of Palmerston House, which once belonged to Martha, Bernie stood with one hand on the window. The front grounds of the property sprawled across an acre or so of perfect lawns and a mix of manicured English plants and native trees. Somehow it all blended into one magnificent garden.

  Below, the circular, red gravel driveway was centred by a fountain. At night it changed colour. Quaint. At the far end was the wide entry, flanked by perpetually open gates. Built for horse and carriage. And prestige. Palmerston House was still the largest homestead in the region, and the oldest of any note. A car turned in, a white Lotus with the top down.

  Bernie watched it drive around the fountain then pull over to one side. Christie Ryan. Squeezed onto the narrow back seat was a large dog. Looked like the one his headlights picked up last night near the cottage.

  She climbed out, grabbing a small box from the front seat and then letting the dog out. Dark sunglasses masked her eyes but when she glanced up at the window, Bernie was certain she’d looked straight at him. He stared back. The moment passed. She went up the front stairs, the dog close behind.


  He knew all about her. Miss Rich and Perfect. Might have lost her parents young but landed on her feet at her grandmother’s Toorak mansion. Some sort of international make-up artist with a list of film credits to her name. He even knew she’d almost died a while ago in a boating accident caused by an old boyfriend. Pity he didn’t do his job properly. Bernie turned his back on the window. There were still too many Ryans alive for his liking, even if one was an old lady and the other an interloper.

  Bernie reached under his mattress and slipped out a dark brown, leather bound book. He sat at a small desk against the wall, running his hand over the old cover of the diary. He opened it to midway and read the neat cursive script aloud.

  “Today the lawyer and his leeches spent six hours infecting my air. I sat on the verandah with a glass of something good. They even noted how much was left in the bottle and I laughed in their faces. And they warned me not to attempt to leave with anything. Little do they know. Damned be the Ryan family and all that follow them.”

  Bernie closed the diary and leaned back in his chair. “Damned be the Ryans. And all that follow them.”

  Chapter Six

  Out on the porch behind the cottage, Martha and Thomas shared the love seat, hand in hand. The seat rocked gently back and forth and Martha sighed, her eyes half closed.

  “What are you thinking?”

  “How clever Christie and Martin are.”

  “Depends.”

  “No, it doesn’t. Between them, they came up with putting this lovely seat here. Just like the one you used to have.”

  “My goodness, woman. You remember that old thing?”

  Sideways, Martha flashed a knowing smile. “I remember us sitting here at night-time, after your parents went to bed and before you walked me home. More than once, in fact.”

  “Do you now.” Thomas released her hand to put his arm around her shoulders. “I’m listening.”

  “I told you of my dreams. In the dark, it seemed alright to share my deepest wishes.”

  Thomas inched closer.

  “In my youthful silliness, I wanted to roam the world and write wonderful stories about it. You believed in me.”

  “And you, my love,” Thomas touched her face with his free hand and she turned to him, “always told me I could paint. And it is the only reason I never stopped,” He kissed her lips, just a soft caress. “So then, why did you not pursue your own dreams?”

  Her eyes darkened, the way they always did when powerful emotions arose. Thomas kissed her again, a lingering, sensual reminder of their connection. When he sat back, her eyes were still dark, but now there was a subtle longing. For him, probably. For their lost past. Definitely.

  “I did write, Thomas. But none of it ever made its way to a publisher. Too personal. Too...” She trailed off, looking away.

  “Is that what’s in the box you refuse to unpack?”

  Martha shot him a glance. “Yes. And don’t you go looking.”

  The familiar sound of the Lotus interrupted. “We’ll shelve this subject. For now. But be certain of this, Martha Blake, when Christie weds Martin and we are alone, you will talk to me about this.”

  The sudden arrival of Randall stopped any further discussion. The dog threw himself at Thomas’ feet, tail wagging madly. Christie wasn’t far behind and stopped abruptly when she saw Thomas and Martha.

  “Whoops. Sorry to interrupt.”

  “You didn’t,” Martha said. Thomas squeezed her shoulder but she ignored him. “Whatever is Randall doing with you?”

  “Should have mentioned we’d have a visitor for a few days,” Thomas said.

  “Yes, Thomas.” Christie did a poor job of sounding cross. “We had lunch together and you already knew Martin was going away.”

  “Not my place to tell you.”

  “Where is he?” Martha asked, getting to her feet and stepping around Randall.

  “Gone to help out at the camp he works at sometimes.”

  “When he’s getting married in a few weeks! Does he have any idea how much preparation there still is?” Martha put her hands on her hips. “I don’t even know if you’re having a hen’s night here in River’s End, or going back to Melbourne to have it with whoever will be your chief bridesmaid.”

  “Auntie, I’ve just heard all of this from Elizabeth, who has scolded me for being disorganised. So, I’ll use the time Martin’s away to sort out lots of outstanding details and the most important one needs sorting right this minute.” She held out both hands to Martha.

  Unable to stay cross at Christie ever, Martha took her hands.

  “Okay, Martha Blake, I don’t know about a hen’s night, but I won’t be needing a chief bridesmaid because I want a matron of honour. Will you do this for me? Please?”

  Martha squeezed Christie’s hands, eyes shining. “Are you sure? Wouldn’t you prefer someone your own age—”

  “Goodness me, woman. Say yes.” Thomas surrounded them both in a bear hug. “She’ll do it, Christie.”

  For once, Martha didn’t object to Thomas speaking on her behalf.

  ***

  Christie sat cross-legged on her bed as she texted Martin. He’d arrived safely at the camp in spite of taking his old motorcycle and having to navigate deep into the Otway Ranges. If anything, it was a surprise he had phone coverage.

  Randall appeared in the doorway, ears raised.

  “You can sleep in here if you want. Martin will be back soon.”

  “Or he can sleep in with us.” Thomas stuck his head around the door, hand reaching for Randall’s head. “Either way, dog, you won’t be lonely.”

  Randall lay down between the two bedrooms and Christie and Thomas laughed.

  “I came to see if you’d like a glass of something? Port? Whiskey?” Thomas asked.

  “I’m fine thanks. I might spend a bit of time sketching some ideas up for the salon. But, once Barry gets things underway, I’ll need all the decorative pieces.”

  “Artwork?”

  “I wonder where I could get some. Maybe some prints from the internet?”

  Thomas kept his face stern, which made Christie laugh some more. “Or I could try painting some.”

  “Stop now or you’ll have two cranky artists to deal with once Martin hears about it.” Thomas glanced at the access door above him.

  “There’s not a lot up there now.” Christie got to her feet and joined him. “How long since you’ve been up there, Thomas?”

  “A long time.” He turned to stare at Christie. “What is there?”

  “An old armchair near the window. There’s a small blanket on its back, made me wonder if anyone would sit there in the sunshine and read.”

  “Anything else?”

  “The trunk where I found... you know.” She didn’t want to upset Thomas with old wounds from his past and his eyes flickered down and then back to hers.

  “Tell me about the trunk. My parents had no such item.”

  “Old. Very old in fact and quite beautifully crafted out of some kind of hardwood. You’d know better than I do. Curved top. Would you like me to bring it down?”

  “You like your mysteries, Christie. I’m surprised you’ve not put your mind to why those letters and rings were locked away here. In an empty house.”

  “Empty? I thought... well, I assumed you lived here. After your parents moved.”

  “You mean after I married Frannie?” Thomas turned around, keeping his voice down as he gazed toward the kitchen where Martha was singing softly to herself as she followed her nightly routine of cleaning down the table and benches. “The day my parents left was the last day I stepped foot in here. Helped them move out, then turned my back on the cottage until I came to retrieve my letters from a certain obstinate young woman.”

  “I was rather persistent.” Christie put her hand on his arm. “Thomas, if nobody lived here, who on earth stowed the trunk in the attic?”

  “Maybe it doesn’t matter anymore.”

  “Perhaps not. Tomorrow I’ll get it
down, just to take a look in proper daylight. Okay?”

  He nodded, eyes still on the kitchen. “Sure you don’t want a nightcap?”

  “I’m sure. Are you okay?”

  “Might give my bride a hand. Goodnight.”

  Thomas wandered away and after a moment Randall followed. It still hurts him. Frannie’s deception helped keep Thomas and Martha apart for decades. She shot a look up at the access door. All of a sudden, she really did want to get the trunk down.

  ***

  Martha lay beside her sleeping husband, listening to him breathe, with a sense of wonder that occasionally filled her. A lifetime apart might have been a dream. A bad dream going on for too long. She’d lived well, a happy enough life in Ireland, with yearly travel to different parts of the world. Being here, right here where their lives belonged, was more than she’d dare hope for. A miracle happened in the form of a beautiful, determined young woman. Her great-niece, Christie.

  Eyes open, Martha smiled. The discovery of a relative was a joyful one indeed. Dorothy shared nothing with Martha over the years, apart from one brief discussion when their parents died. How sad not to have known Dorothy’s daughter, Rebecca, and her husband Julian. Lost so young and tragically, leaving their beloved little daughter to the mercies of her cold grandmother. Why am I thinking about this? Martha turned over and closed her eyes tightly.

  She knew why. She’d heard Thomas and Christie earlier. Only a snippet of a conversation but one with the name of the woman who once was her own best friend. Frannie. Afraid to hear more, Martha had begun to sing to herself, a song from her childhood. Dorothy used to love the song and sometimes joined in. She missed her sister. The one of her childhood, not the one who’d ripped her world apart.

  Why were they talking about Frannie? Thomas never spoke her name and Martha always thought it was because the truth had cut him so deeply. But perhaps it was because he didn’t want to discuss her with Martha. Yet there were many unanswered questions, and if only he’d talk to her about his decision to marry the woman who’d helped Dorothy destroy their love, then maybe she’d find a way to forgive.