believe,’ she said to the lady behind the desk at Acme, ‘that there is a governess position available at Bramble Downs—the Stevensen family. I happened to hear about it and, since I have teaching qualifications and I’m on a working holiday in this part of the world, I thought of applying for it.’
The woman, whose name-tag labelled her as Joyce Cotton, blinked, then smote her forehead. ‘Glory be! I was getting quite desperate! Poor Mrs Ellery has broken her wrist, and as if that isn’t bad enough she’s just rung me to say the cook’s gone walkabout. She really needs help urgently now, but they have very high standards and it’s just not that easy to find quality staff—or any kind of staff,’ she added honestly, ‘for these stations.
‘Then there are floods up there, I believe, so Raefe Stevensen—he’s the girl’s father—is going to be desperately busy and can’t be home. Mind you, I’ll have to check you out before I can—’
‘Of course,’ Francesca said, and just thinking of Raefe Stevensen and the way he’d kept her waiting with no sign of being desperately busy, let alone the way he’d kissed her, helped her to say without a twinge, ‘My name is Fran Moorehouse, and I’ve brought along copies of my references and so on. You’re welcome to check them out.’
Not that I’m really telling a lie, she mused, having been christened Francesca Moorehouse Valentine—Moorehouse was her mother’s maiden name. And Fran Moorehouse was a name she often used to escape notice.
To do Joyce Cotton credit, she diligently checked most of them by phone, then said, ‘Right, Fran, I think that will do. Now there’s only the problem of getting you up there. What a pity it’s not yesterday! Raefe had a plane land in Cairns, I believe, but anyway, I’ll get on to him straight away. You can—’
‘Joyce,’ Francesca interrupted, ‘where exactly is Bramble Downs? I’ll tell you why I’m asking: I have a four-wheel drive, and if it’s at all possible to drive myself up there I’d rather do that than have to find somewhere to leave it.’
Joyce Cotton frowned, then pulled out a large-scale map. ‘It’s at least a six-hour drive from here, Fran, on difficult roads. And then there are the floods—but they may not have reached... Look, I don’t know about this,’ she finished anxiously. ‘On the other hand, if it saved Raefe a trip...’
Francesca studied the map and noted that Bramble Downs was on the east coast of the peninsula and about two hundred miles south of the town and airstrip she’d flown from yesterday. ‘Could...?’ She paused and frowned. ‘Perhaps I could get a road report from the RACQ? They should have up-to-date information.’
Joyce brightened and reached for the phone. It transpired that Bramble Downs should be accessible until the following afternoon at least.
‘Well—’ Francesca smiled ‘—that solves that.’
‘And you have no qualms about driving up there on your own?’ Joyce enquired.
‘None,’ Francesca assured her.
‘You know,’ Joyce said warmly, ‘I think you’re just the practical, capable kind of person the Stevensens need!’
‘Thank you,’ Francesca responded, with what she hoped was hidden irony, and ten minutes later she stepped out into the bright sunshine.
She then applied herself to the task of acquiring a four-wheel-drive vehicle at extremely short notice, and also all she would require for a stay of unknown duration on Bramble Downs.
CHAPTER TWO
TEN days later Sarah Ellery, Raefe’s sister, who was in her late thirties, said, ‘Fran, I don’t know how on earth I coped without you! This wretched wrist.’ She waved the offending arm with its plaster. ‘You just don’t realise how difficult it is to manage one-handed. I can’t believe the good luck that brought you our way. Raefe will be so delighted when he gets home—which should be any day now.’
Francesca hid a grimace. The floods had subsided, and although Bramble had been cut off for several days they hadn’t received nearly the inundation that had affected areas further north. The same inundation that had kept Raefe Stevensen from home as Banyo Air was heavily involved not only in moving people about to escape the waters but also in mustering halfdrowned stock. All of which couldn’t have suited her plans better.
But Judgement Day had to come, and, while her resolve stood firm concerning the man, his family was becoming another matter.
She glanced across to where young Jess Stevensen was doing a jigsaw puzzle, with the tip of her little pink tongue sticking out as she concentrated fiercely. She was a fair, serious child, and at first she’d shown an almost adult reserve that had puzzled Francesca slightly. But the reserve was lessening day by day— in fact she was beginning to show flashes of sweetness and affection that were quite beguiling.
Then there was Sarah, thin and elegant, with her brother’s eyes, although darker hair, and a gold wedding ring on her finger but no sign or mention of a husband. Sarah, who’d also been reserved at the start, and had a hint of unexplained sadness about her—although she too had dropped her guard after a couple of days and shown that she possessed a delightful sense of humour as well as being cultured and artistic. She read avidly, painted lovely miniatures and played the grand piano beautifully. Even one-handed.
Indeed, the whole of the Bramble Downs homestead had come as something of a surprise to Francesca. Its facilities alone were impressive, considering how far away from anywhere they were, and represented the considerable amount of money that must have been spent to achieve the degree of comfort there was on a property that had no town water or electricity.
Then there was the house itself. Solid and comfortable, it was in a magical position overlooking a white beach, an island and reef-studded waters that changed colour from aquamarine to dark blue depending on the time of day and tide.
It was surrounded by lawn and smothered in bougainvillea, and its thick white walls, cool tiled floors, wide verandas and Spanish-flavoured interior suited the tropical climate perfectly—it could not have been more different from the virtually tin-shed accommodation on Wirra, and it was obvious the Stevensen family was not short of cash.
Some demon of curiosity had prompted Francesca to ask Sarah one day whether Jess’s mother had been responsible for the uncluttered interior, the lovely pieces of heavy wooden furniture and the occasional splash of colour in a rug or a painting or a giant pottery urn filled with dried flowers.
This had provoked a brief, sad look from Sarah, although no explanation of what had actually happened to Jess’s mother, before she’d composed herself and replied that no, not really, it had mostly been her and Raefe’s mother’s doing. Then she’d gone on rather deliberately to chat about the family history, and Francesca had got the distinct impression that the subject of Jess’s mother was taboo.
But she had discovered that Bramble Downs had been in the Stevensen family for eighty years. It had been taken up by Sarah’s grandfather, and the original residence had been nothing but a tin shed. Now, whilst cattle had always been and still was the largest part of their business, Banyo Air, started by Raefe, was growing most satisfactorily. It was obvious to Francesca that Sarah Ellery was very fond of her brother.
‘He was always fascinated by flying, although he’s a cattleman through and through,’ Sarah added dreamily, then grinned wryly. ‘He even used to try to construct wings. I remember the day he jumped off the water tank and broke his leg. And he couldn’t wait to get into the Air Force. He was one of their top guns,’ she said proudly.
‘Is that all he did?’ Francesca heard herself ask, and hoped the slightly cynical note she heard wasn’t obvious to Sarah.
Sarah blinked and said, ‘Well, he did some sort of aeronautical engineering degree at the same time as he trained to be a pilot. Then he left the Air Force and did a stint for a year as a private pilot for some sheikh. Now that was quite an experience. The man had four wives and fourteen concubines, would you believe, and