“Bitch!” the old lady muttered sotto voce.
“So nice to have met you, Miss Lavinia,” Jessica smiled into the troubled old face. What was it, Alzheimer’s, dementia? The bane of old age. So sad. Lavinia had to be well into her eighties, though she didn’t look in the least demented. More an eccentric living in the past.
Lavinia kept hold of Jessica’s hand as though unwilling to let her go. “You’ve not come near the house for years and years,” she said, looking as though she were about to weep.
“I expect I had to wait for an invitation,” Jessica whispered back.
“My dear, don’t you care that you put us through such an ordeal?” The sunken eyes filled with tears.
“I didn’t mean to,” Jessica found herself saying. Anything to calm the old woman.
“Livvy, that’s quite enough!” The young woman swooped like a falcon. Her long-fingered hand closed over Lavinia’s bony shoulder. “You’re embarrassing Ms. Tennant. I suggest you go to your room before Dad finds out.”
Lavinia threw off the hand with surprising strength and adjusted her robe. “It was Broderick who brought her here,” she said. “I’ve never liked you, Robyn, though I tried hard. You were a frightful child and you’re a frightful woman. She pinches me, you know.”
“Lavinia, dear.” Robyn Bannerman smiled tightly, obviously trying to retain her patience. “If I’ve hurt you, I’m sorry. Your skin is like tissue paper. Now, Ms. Tennant is here to see Dad. He’s not a man to be kept waiting.”
Lavinia nodded fiercely, setting her abundant hair in motion. “Dear me, no.”
Robyn Bannerman lifted beautifully manicured hands. “She’s quite gaga,” she told Jessica softly.
There was nothing wrong with Lavinia’s hearing. “Not gaga, Robyn. Ask me who the prime minister is. I’ll tell you. John Howard. I didn’t vote for him. Ask me about the war in Iraq. I guarantee I’m better than you at mental arithmetic, let alone music, the arts and great literature. I speak fluent French. I had to give up on Japanese. I’m not reading The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by the way. And it’s The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire. I’m reading My Early Life by Winston Churchill. Quite delightful!”
“I couldn’t imagine anything worse,” Robyn sighed. “Please go to your room, Livvy. You’ll be happier there.”
Looking quite rebellious, Lavinia spun to face Jessica who said in a soothing manner before the whole thing got out of hand, “I’m looking forward to seeing you later, Miss Lavinia. I hope I may address you that way?”
The old lady gave her a startlingly sweet smile. “You always did call me Miss Lavinia. I have trouble sleeping, you know. But you always come into my dreams. I’ve had no trouble remembering you. Until later, then, dear.”
Lavinia moved off serenely, while Robyn Bannerman stood, rather inelegantly biting the side of her mouth. “I’m sorry about that,” she said after Lavinia had disappeared. “Poor old dear has been senile for years. She usually stays upstairs in her room, rereading the entire library or listening to her infernal opera. Some of those sopranos know how to screech, or it could be Lavinia. She had a brief career on the stage. She only ventures down for dinner, thank God. I’m Robyn Bannerman, as you will have gathered. Come on in. My father is expecting you.” Robyn’s dark eyes swept Jessica’s face and figure. “I must say you look absurdly young for such a big project.”
Jessica frowned and was about to respond when Robyn continued, “What you want to do is enjoy yourself for a few days, then head back to Brisbane. My father rarely if ever makes mistakes, but there’s a first time for all of us. Though I must say, I’m dying to hear what you come up with.”
A lot better than this, I hope, Jessica thought, glancing around in surprised disappointment. Although opulent, the interior of the homestead did not so much impress as overwhelm. The furnishings were far too formal for the bush setting, the drapery, though hellishly expensive—Jessica knew the fabric—too elaborate. This was, after all, a country house. It didn’t look lived in. In fact nothing looked even touched. There were no books lying around, no flowers, not an object out of place.
The air-conditioning, however, was a huge plus, utterly blissful after the blazing heat outside. Jessica felt that given what she had seen so far, she wouldn’t be right for the job. Not if Broderick Bannerman wanted more of this. Brett wouldn’t be happy, either, unless Bannerman gave her carte blanche. The homestead had a vaguely haunted air about it, or so it seemed to her, but she could see how it could be brought back to life.
“I see you’re admiring the decor,” Robyn said, as though they were gazing at perfection. “I did it all a couple of years back. I hoped to do the new place, but I can’t be expected to do everything! I practically run the domestic side of things here and I have businesses in Darwin that have to be looked after. If I do say so myself, I’m a hard act to follow.”
Jessica managed a smile, but she couldn’t for the life of her act impressed. In fact, she could hear Brett’s voice saying, Dump the lot!
CHAPTER THREE
SHE WAS SHOWN INTO A LARGE, luxuriously appointed study. There was no one inside.
“That’s funny. Dad was here ten minutes ago. I’ll go find him,” Robyn said, giving Jessica another of her dubious looks. “Take a seat. Won’t be long. You’d like tea or coffee?”
“Coffee would be fine. Black, no sugar.”
“Looking after your figure?” Robyn asked with a slightly sarcastic smile.
“I do, but I’ve grown to like coffee that way.”
Alone, Jessica stared around the room, thinking how one’s home environment reflected the person. It had to be the one place from which Robyn Bannerman’s decorating talents had been banned. It certainly looked lived in. Going by the faint film of gray on the wall of solid mahogany bookcases, Jessica doubted if anyone was game to go around with a feather duster. Behind the massive partner’s desk hung a splendid three-quarter portrait of an extraordinarily handsome man, not Broderick Bannerman, though the resemblance to Cyrus Bannerman was striking. He was painted in casual dress, a bright blue open-throated bush shirt the color of his eyes, a silver-buckled belt, just the top of his riding pants, the handsome head with crisp dark hair faintly ruffled by a breeze, set against a subdued darkish-green background. The eyes were extraordinary. Because of her own deep involvement with art, she stood up for a closer look, wanting to study the fluent brush strokes, which she had the strangest feeling she’d seen before.
“My father,” a man’s deep, cultured voice said from behind her. He startled her, as she felt sure he had meant to.
She turned quickly toward the voice, surprised he was standing so close to her. She hadn’t heard him come in. “It’s a wonderful painting,” she said. “I was just going to check on the name of the artist. I’ve a feeling I’ve seen his work before and—”
“You couldn’t have,” Broderick Bannerman cut her off, his appraisal of her intense, as though he wanted to examine every inch of her. “The artist was a nobody. Just a family friend.”
“He may have been a nobody, but he was a very good painter,” Jessica said, determined not to be intimidated by the great man. “Excellent technique.”
“Would you know?” His icy gray eyes beneath heavy black brows didn’t shift. Had he been a horse fancier, he might have asked to check her teeth.
“I think so. I have a fine-arts degree. I paint myself. I started with watercolors,