Margaret Way - The Cattleman

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!

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, which I love, but I’ve moved on to oils and acrylics.”

“It’s a wonder you’ve found the time,” he said. “You’re twenty-four?”

“Yes, but you already know that, Mr. Bannerman.” Jessica held out her hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir,” she said, though aspects of the man had already started to worry her. His gaze was so piercing, she felt she needed protection.

Bannerman took the slender hand, thinking most people had to work hard at containing their awe of him, but this chit of a girl showed no such deference. He stared into her large green eyes. Memories speared through him, for a moment holding him in thrall. “Please, sit down,” he said after a moment, his voice harsher than he intended. On no account did he want to frighten her away. “Has Robyn organized some coffee?” With an impatient frown, he went around his desk, sitting in the black leather swivel chair.

“Yes, she has,” Jessica answered, thinking intimidation was something this man would do supremely well. He had been born to power. Clearly, he took it as his due. Broderick Bannerman had to be nearing sixty, but he looked at least ten years younger. He didn’t have his son’s amazing sapphire eyes, but his icy glance was remarkable enough. His hair was as thick and black as his son’s with distinguished wings of silver. All in all, Broderick Bannerman was a fine figure of a man with a formidable aura. Why in the world would a man like this choose her to handle such a big project? Brett would have been the obvious choice.

“Speaking of watercolors,” he said, “my aunt Lavinia loves them. She’s a very arty person, so you should get on well.”

“I had the pleasure of meeting her momentarily,” Jessica said, thinking it best to say. It would come out sooner or later.

“Really? When was this?” The frosted gaze locked on hers.

“She happened to be in the entrance hall when I arrived.”

“Good. I don’t want her to hide. Then you’ll know she’s somewhat eccentric?”

“I found her charming,” Jessica said.

“She can be a handful,” Bannerman said, with a welcome trace of humor. “Most people think she’s senile, but she’s not. She likes wearing weird costumes. She had a brief fling as an opera singer in her youth. Still daydreams about it. You’ll no doubt get to see the costumes. Tosca’s my favourite. She’s a Buddhist at the moment. She’s actually had an audience with the Dalai Lama. Regretfully she has arrived at the point where we can’t let her go out alone, though she managed to get to Sydney recently—but I’d sent along a minder for her and she stayed with relatives. Don’t be too worried by anything she says. Livvy never really knows what time frame she’s in.”

Wary of his reaction, Jessica didn’t tell him Lavinia had called her Moira.

Bannerman was still talking when a middle-aged woman in a zip-up pale blue uniform wheeled a laden trolley into the room without once lifting her head. Robyn was standing directly behind her, looking very much as if one false move and the tea lady would get a good rap on the knuckles.

“Thank you, Molly,” Bannerman said. “This is our housekeeper, Mrs. Patterson, Jessica. You’ll be seeing quite a bit of each other.”

The two women exchanged a smile, Jessica saying a pleasant hello.

“I’ll pour, shall I?” Robyn asked.

Bannerman looked back at her coolly. “This is a private conversation, Robyn.”

Jessica felt mortified on Robyn’s account. Was this his normal behavior?

Robyn colored, as well she might. “I thought you might need a little help.”