Heather Garside, Australian outback novels

Extract from A Hidden Legacy.

A young man sat his horse at the front gate, while the dog Sally circled him threateningly, growling a warning. At Louise’s sharp command, Sally dropped her head, abashed. She retreated a few yards, her tail drooping, but her eyes still wary.

The man dismounted and raised his hat, while keeping an eye on the dog. “Good day to you, ma’am. Would you be Mrs. Kavanagh?”

“Yes, I am.” She stared at him, the familiar accent evoking memories of the Devon countryside and a grey stone manor teeming with servants. He was very young, little more than a lad in his stockman’s moleskins and striped Crimean shirt, dark rumpled hair revealed by that momentary lifting of his stained hat. She stared at his brown face, feeling her skin prickle with something she could not define. He looked familiar, yet, she was certain she had never seen him before.

“Are you from Devon?”

“Aye.” His dark eyes were intent on her face. “Matt Jones, late of Fenham Manor.”

“M-Matt J-Jones?” She stumbled over the words, staring at him. Had he really said that name, or was she dreaming?

Her heart thumped unevenly, making the blood pound in her ears while she clutched the gate to steady herself. She felt light-headed, as if she might faint. Her lips trembled as she tried to speak, faltering over the words she was almost too afraid to ask. At last, she managed a compromise. “Are-are you related to Jones the coachman?”

He nodded, watching her with an unfathomable expression. “Aye. He’s me foster father.”

Disbelief and yearning rushed at her then, mixed with all the long-buried guilt. “You’re Matthew?” she whispered incredulously. “You must know who I am, then?”

He nodded again, still silently eyeing her in that unrelenting, yet, guarded way, as if he expected to be rebuffed. It tore at her already ravaged emotions.

“Oh, Matthew.” She fumbled with the gate catch, her fingers trembling and useless. He came to her aid, pushing the gate wide, and then there was nothing between them but a foot of space that she hardly knew how to bridge. She studied his face, seeing his father in his mouth and chin, the Ashfords in that arrogant nose. Her eyes swept over him, noting how tall and strong he was. He was beautiful, and he was her son.

A rush of possessive emotion prompted her to do what her mind was afraid to direct. With a sob, she moved forward, grasping his hands in both of hers as tears filled her eyes. “Oh, Matthew, forgive me for letting them take you away. I loved you so much, and I’ve never stopped thinking about you, even after all these years. Tell me what we did was best for you.”

He didn’t answer her, but she saw his Adam’s apple move as he swallowed. Silently, she acknowledged that particular assurance was more than she could realistically expect.

“The Joneses were good to me,” he finally said.

Hannah’s gasp behind her made her realize she was still holding his hands. She abruptly pulled away, swinging to face her daughter’s uncomprehending eyes.

“Hannah.” Louise struggled for composure, taking her handkerchief from her sleeve to wipe her eyes. “This is someone from my old home in England.” She drew her daughter forward with one arm. “I’d like to introduce Matthew Jones. This is my daughter Hannah, Matthew.” Your sister, she wanted to say, but couldn’t. How could she explain this other son to a five-year-old?

Hannah turned curious eyes on him. “How do you do, Mr Jones? If you’re from England, you must talk funny.”

Matt gave a forced-sounding laugh. “How do you do, Hannah? You Colonials talk funny to me.”

“But Mother talks like a Pom. Father says so.”

He grinned, his face softening. “I suppose she does, at that. Different to me, though.”

There was an awkward silence. What to do and say now? Louise tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Food provided a convenient refuge. “It’s lunch time. Hannah, please take Matthew and show him where he can leave his horse. Then, he can come and eat with us.”

Matt paused before turning away, his horse’s reins looped over his arm. “I’ve always been called Matt.”

Louise uttered a choked little laugh. “Give me time. I’ve thought of you as Matthew for all these years.”

Since her men-folk hadn’t been expected home for lunch, she’d given Betsy, the maid, a couple of hours off. She was glad of the few minutes alone as she set the table and prepared food. Her hands were trembling, her mind whirling, her stomach queasy. And yet, there was joy bubbling beneath the surface. After all this time, the child she had dared not claim had come to her. She tried to imagine Lloyd’s reaction when he arrived home, remembering how he’d hated to think of his son growing up at Ashford Manor. Surely, he must be as thrilled as she was?

Perhaps this was just a fleeting visit, and Matthew would be gone tomorrow. That thought brought another pang, making her feel physically sick with the mixture of emotions churning inside her. But if he stayed, there were her other two sons to consider; sons who knew nothing of this elder brother. How would they react to Matthew?