The Long Road to Loving Byron

Prologue

Le Froid Peninsula, Tasmania, 1881

‘What do you see, son?’ The well-dressed man leaned back in the saddle to squint into the swaying canopy of leaves above his head.

‘One moment, Father.’ The boy climbed monkey-like along a sturdy tree branch, stopping to peer through each break in the foliage as he went.

‘Take care, lad.’ The man dismounted, loosening the reins of both horses so they could pick at the lush grass. When a boyish cry of, ‘There it is!’ came from above, his face lit up and he barked, ‘What?’

‘The harbour, Father. I spy the harbour.’

‘And the open ocean, do you see it also?’

‘Yes, the ocean too.’

‘And the port?’ When this met with scrabbling sounds above, the man called more urgently, ‘Do you spy the port?’ Only grunts and a shower of leaves greeted him. He raised his voice in concern. ‘Son?’

‘All is well, Father,’ the boy called, breathless with exertion.

‘Tell me, is the port visible?’ The man turned his face away as more leaves fell.

‘I … yes!’ The boy’s voice squeaked with excitement. ‘The port, I see it, Father!’

Clenching a triumphant fist, the man hurried to tie the horses to a low branch before clambering up the tree to join the beaming, jubilant boy.

The two sat side-by-side on the branch, legs dangling, staring out through the leafy canopy.

‘Well done, my lad. We have found a most favourable situation.’ Ducking his head and widening the gap in the leaves with a hand, the man swept a gaze over the ocean at the mouth of the harbour and up to the bustling port. ‘From here I will observe the arrival of ships bearing my timber, as will you and your sons.’

Puffing out his chest, he threw an arm around the boy’s lanky shoulders. ‘This will be the site of our new home, Edward. Our home, our castle. And our family’s legacy.’

International waters, Pacific Ocean, 1902

The stately ship, her name inscribed in elegant cursive on her foam-flecked hull, rose and dipped in the swell as she rode the squally ocean. The blustery wind carried the scents of fish and seaweed, the creak of marine timbers and slap of salt water against wooden hull, the strident cries of gulls, and raised voices.

Men’s voices, audible above the snarling tempest.

‘Captain!’ The tall figure on the ship’s salt-sprayed deck stood legs apart, heavy coat tails flapping in the rising wind, holding a cheroot in one hand and the fingers of the other hooked into the pocket of his tailored waistcoat.

‘Aye, sir?’ A stocky figure in oilskins, moving with a slight limp, joined the other man on the blustery deck.

‘Why are you furling the sails, man? With this gale we could make up time, arrive earlier.’

‘But the approaching storm—’

‘Storm be damned!’ The well-dressed man glared down at him. ‘Is your vessel not capable of withstanding a blow?’

‘That she is, sir.’ The captain rose to his full height and stuck out his chest. ‘I’ll ’ave you know that since bein’ launched in eighty-five, the Polly Brown has safely rounded Cape Horn a number of times.’

‘Is that so?’ The tall man straightened and tugged down his waistcoat. ‘Then she is more than capable of maintaining speed in weather such as this.’

The captain eyed him warily. ‘We’re enterin’ a bad stretch, sir, littered with treacherous reefs.’

‘Did you not just this moment assure me of your ship’s competence? This squall is surely but a trifle when compared to the infamous Cape Horn. Or is it your own competence you call into question?’

‘Not at all, sir.’

‘Then do as I say.’ Bending, he put his face close to the captain’s. ‘It is a matter of urgency that I return to Australia, and I cannot—will not—be delayed by a patch of bad weather.’ His voice, his very essence bristled with authority. ‘So you will unfurl the sails, my good man, and take us there with every possible speed.’ Rising to his full height once more, he stood with hands behind his back, booted feet firm on the pitching deck.

The captain stared up at him. ‘There’s not many would ’ave the effrontery to override a ship cap’n’s orders.’ But this passenger, standing proud and authoritative before him, appeared unaccustomed to being disobeyed. And beneath the impeccable grooming and fine clothes, indicative of a life of privilege and high social standing, lay a barely concealed iron will, of that the captain was certain. Such a man was unlikely to accept disappointment with anything akin to mildness of spirit.

With a tug on his dripping beard, the captain rasped, ‘If anyone ’as the right to do so, it be the man whose timber fills my ship’s hold to burstin’.’ His tone soured. ‘Somethin’ what happens less ’n less now merchants are favourin’ them new steam ships for transportin’ their goods.’ He gave a slow, pensive nod. ‘A Pacific Ocean storm should pose no serious threat to a ship what’s proven ’erself a match for the most challengin’ routes known to seafarers.’

Fixing the tall man with a narrow-eyed gaze, he touched grimy, work-roughened fingers to his temple. ‘Very well, sir. I will give the order—’ His remaining words were torn from his mouth by a snarling gust of wind.

On the horizon, the mounting swell curled into a wave and sprouted an angry white crest, while ahead of it, the ship’s newly unfurled sails caught the rising wind and she surged bravely—hopelessly—forward.

As the deadly surge continued toward the Polly Brown, its poison-green, frothing threat gained height and ferocity as it bore down relentlessly on the ill-fated vessel. Capable as she was, the ship stood no chance of outrunning the fuming, destructive wall of ocean water. It rose higher still until suspended above its victim like a raptor about to swoop on its prey.

Screams from many throats pierced the ocean water’s roar, until the wave descended with a thundering crash, swallowing the Polly Brown like an insignificant sliver of driftwood.

1

Lorienne Castle, Le Froid Peninsula, Tasmania, 2012

Madeleine Brande stepped lightly onto the circular gravel driveway, tilting back her head to taste the cool air with its hint of salt and sea. Sweeping a gaze over the surrounding vista of cushion-thick lawns, full-to-bursting flower beds, blossom-festooned arbours, and glistening harbour backdrop, she spread her arms wide in delight.

Almost too perfect....

‘There you go, Miss.’ The bus driver transferred her travel-weary suitcase to the base of the stairs with a crunch. At her thanks he gave a smiling salute, closed the luggage bin and climbed back up for the return trip along the castle’s tree-lined access road.

Humping her suitcase up the steep steps, Madeleine paused between the stone lions guarding either side of the landing to catch her breath. When her ears caught the cries of sea birds she glanced upward, shielding her eyes with a hand.

Were they albatross, those dark specks cruising on air currents in the expanse of blue? From nearby Albatross Island maybe? Tasmania was known for harbouring the graceful, feathered seafarers on its offshore islands. Albatross, thought to carry the souls of dead sailors, like in poet Coleridge’s Ancient Mariner....

Instead of the cross, the Albatross about my neck was hung.

Madeleine’s spine tingled with anticipation.

How exciting to observe these seafaring harbingers of doom in their natural environment....

Behind her the bus trundled off, and a taxi nosed forward with a bip of its horn.

Inside the castle, a man at reception gave a start and twisted to peer through the leadlight entrance doors and past the woman loitering on the landing outside. Seeing the taxi crawl to a stop on the circular drive, he cleared his throat, tugged down his crumpled shirt, and turned back to the receptionist. ‘That’s my cab.’

The shrill edge to his voice and his wide, freaked-out eyes had the receptionist averting her gaze as she hastened to finalise his payment. Sticking doggedly to the script despite her departing guest’s nervy antics, she handed him the receipt and mustered some cheerfulness to say, ‘Thank you for staying with us. I hope you’ve enjoyed your time at Lorienne Castle.’

With a surly, ‘Enjoyed? More like survived,’ the man snatched the receipt and stuffed it into his pocket. ‘It’d be a cold day in hell before I ever set foot here again.’ Grabbing his suitcase, he spun on his heel and was about to charge out when the hastily shut case fell open and spilled some of its contents on the floor.

Pausing as if tempted to simply leave them there, he gave a snarled curse and bent to retrieve them.

From where she stood on the landing outside, Madeleine’s gaze skimmed over the castle’s grey stone walls. The afternoon light made the aged stones shine like old silver. Leaning to press a hand on the wall, she noted the flinty coolness, the chill seeping through her skin to slither up her arm.

Ooh ... ethereal.

She gave a shiver.

To think the Lorienne estate was once in her family ... kind of. Could the connection be reforged if her planned sleuthing produced positive results? Not to re-establish some sort of loose claim to the castle for monetary benefit, nothing that tacky. Her goal was to restore her family’s good—and full—name.

If that were possible.

Anticipation sparkled in her brown-gold, green-flecked hazel eyes as she withdrew her hand and bent for her suitcase. Her fingers had hardly brushed the handle when a figure burst through the double doors, nearly collecting her.

The man from reception.

At her gasp and sideways stagger he didn’t stop, merely puffed, ‘Sorry,’ while taking the stairs two at a time.

She watched, frowning, as he darted to the taxi, wrenched open the passenger door, tossed in his bag, and dove inside. Moments later the cab sped away in a shower of gravel.

Wow, someone was in a hurry. Late for a flight perhaps?

Shrugging off her curiosity, Madeleine turned and bumped through the still-swinging doors into the reception area, a screened-off section of the castle’s original entrance foyer. Behind the antique, leather-topped counter, the smartly dressed receptionist sat talking on a vintage telephone. At Madeleine’s approach the young woman glanced up to nod a ‘one moment please’ acknowledgement.

With an answering dip of her head, Madeleine parked her case and wandered the room, taking in the collection of sepia-coloured photos and framed pencil drawings mounted on the stone walls. Most featured the castle and grounds, so when her eyes fell on the sizeable oil painting of a gracious tall ship, she moved closer.

A bronze plaque beneath the picture read, The Polly Brown, a nineteenth century tall ship at anchor in her home port of Lyttelton Harbour, NZ. A three-masted iron-hulled barque, described by many as the most beautiful ship built in Belfast, she was used for the deep water trade and carried timber, salt, grain, and coal to countries around the world. Sadly, in 1902, the Polly Brown struck a reef en-route to Australia and sank, leaving no survivors. Among the passengers aboard was Tasmanian timber merchant Edward Lorienne, whose life and valuable timber cargo were lost in the shipwreck.

Madeleine gave a slow nod.

Edward Lorienne, previous owner of the castle and her great, great grandfather’s brother-in-law.

Family ... even if loosely connected.

Moving on to a display of oval-framed portraits, she stopped in front of one featuring a handsome young couple. Their smiles and casual bearing set them apart from the other stern-faced subjects in the stiff poses of the day. The tall, dark-haired man stood casually smoking a cheroot, his other arm around the slender-waisted woman at his side. She was smiling tenderly up at him, her features familiar....

‘Really?’ From behind the desk the receptionist’s voice rose. ‘Well, despite what you think, not everyone appreciates the vagaries of life in a neo-Gothic castle.’ Thumping the phone’s receiver onto its stylish candlestick-shaped cradle, she caught Madeleine watching her and reddened.

Setting her lips in a polite smile, she cleared her throat, flicked back her hair, and stepped up to the counter. ‘Good afternoon. Sorry for the wait. How can I help you?’ She noticed Madeleine’s case. ‘Checking in?’

‘Yes, thanks. Name’s Brande, Madeleine ... Maddie ... Brande.’

The receptionist nodded. ‘Welcome to Lorienne Castle, Miss Brande. I’m Emma, and if I can assist you in any way during your stay, please let me know.’ As she spoke, she ran heavily made-up eyes over the new guest.

She saw a slim woman of around her own age, a touch over average height, smartly dressed in jeans and tailored shirt, with her honey-blonde hair in a ponytail and a long, side-parted fringe sweeping the brow of a heart-shaped face. Beneath her natural eyebrows and darkly lashed lids, a pair of unusually coloured—hazel?—eyes tilted upward at the outer corners. And below them, this ‘Maddie’s’ straight, freckle-dusted nose sat above a wide mouth that appeared inclined to grin.

When their eyes met, Emma hurriedly lowered her gaze and moved to a screened-off section of the counter. ‘I’ll just call up the details of your booking.’

Madeleine’s lips twitched. She was used to having people find her direct gaze off-putting. ‘Perceptive and striking’ was how her mother described the ‘Brande topaz’ eyes, but Connie Brande was bound to appreciate them, having passed on the shape and colouring to her daughter.

Kris too had admired her eyes, describing them as ‘captivating’.

Kris....

No.

Mustn’t go there.

‘Have you stayed with us before?’ Emma’s voice brought her back to the present.

‘Only been here on a day trip, and promised myself I’d return and spend longer, have a proper look around.’

When Emma gave a cursory nod and bent over the large, old-fashioned guest register lying open on the counter, Madeleine followed her scarlet fingernail as it ran down the list of names. Each entry had room numbers and dates marked against them on the open, gold-edged page. Even upside-down, Madeleine could read the names written in a firm, clear hand.

Mr A and Mrs S Jenkins

Mr P and Mrs J Fox

Mr T and Mrs S Meier

Mr M and Mrs R Singh-Samra

Ms M and Mrs C Brande

Raising her eyes, she asked, ‘You still use a manual register?’

‘We employ a combination of systems.’ Emma turned to peer at the computer screen, saying absently, ‘This area, in fact the whole peninsula, is susceptible to power outages, so having a manual back-up system allows us to continue operating when the computer goes down.’

A crease formed in her otherwise smooth brow. ‘I’ve located a booking for a thirteen night stay for yourself, and a Mrs Brande?’ She raised sculpted eyebrows at her guest.

‘Mum was meant to come with me on this holiday, until a last-minute surgical procedure spoiled her plans. I did phone last week to advise I’d be on my own.’

Emma returned her focus to the screen. ‘Oh yes, there’s a notation to that effect below your booking.’ She straightened. ‘I’m sorry your mother hasn’t been well. I hope she recovers soon.’

‘You and I both. She’s the grumpiest patient ever, so it was something of a relief to come on my own.’ Madeleine gave an indulgent huff. ‘Though she made me promise to report back regularly by email, so she can share the trip from her convalescent couch.’

‘Well then,’ Emma said with polite finality, ‘I trust you have an enjoyable stay.’ She handed Madeleine a key. ‘You’re in room number sixteen of The Lodge, what used to be the castle’s stable building. That said,’ she went on quickly as though pre-empting an enquiry, ‘let me assure you that the room has been completely renovated since Elizabeth Lorienne’s favourite thoroughbred, and feline stable mate, vacated long ago.’

‘I love that the building has a history.’

‘One thing we’re not short of here is history.’ With a fixed smile Emma recited, ‘As a house guest, you’re welcome to dine in the castle with the McAlister family … unless you’re put off by the possibility of spectral entertainment. As you may have noticed,’ and she arched an eyebrow at the doors the freaked-out man had bolted through earlier, ‘it’s not for everyone.’

‘I don’t believe in ghosts, but wouldn’t be put off even if I did.’ Madeleine grinned. ‘They’d make more interesting dinner companions than some I’ve had. So please book me in for tonight.’

‘Of course.’

‘By the way,’ and she pointed at Emma’s name badge, ‘I couldn’t help noticing your surname is McAlister?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So … you’re a member of the family that owns the castle?’

‘I am.’ An edge crept into the young woman’s voice. ‘My brother and I share ownership of the estate with our mother.’

‘Oh, lucky you.’

With a tight murmur of, ‘Yes, lucky me,’ Emma turned away with a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

From: Madeleine.Brande

To: Connie.Brande

Re: Travelogue, day 1

You’ll be pleased to know I’ve arrived safely, Mum, though maybe not so pleased to hear I used the travelling time to ponder your accountant’s advice. Oh sure, he makes it sound simple, but what will you do with yourself if you hand over management of the business? The company has been the focus of your life, like ... forever. You’d go crazy without another project to take its place, and finding a sufficiently worthy project would be a serious challenge. That’s my take on it, anyway.

Now, the castle. As promised, I won’t skimp on details.

Here’s an intriguing snippet ... on arrival I experienced a sensation of coming home. Fascinating, though perhaps not totally unexpected.

I’d forgotten how fabulous the views are from up here—you can probably hear my rapt sigh from over Bass Strait. Will send photos but they won’t do justice to the rolling green hills, glistening harbour, and wind-swept ocean. And as for the meticulously landscaped castle grounds ... yep, there’s another sigh.

My room is in The Lodge, the converted stable building on the edge of the escarpment. Apparently Elizabeth Lorienne’s favourite thoroughbred was accommodated right here, back when it was a horse stall.

Are you pulling a face? Silly question, of course you are!

Now while some might not relish the prospect of sleeping in a space previously occupied by equines, I’m thrilled by the sense of history contained within these walls. Can almost smell the scents of horse and hay, and hear the feed-bin snorts and scrape of hooves on cobblestones. And really, the room as it is now bears little resemblance to a stall. It contains a Queen Anne bed, winged armchair (cosy reading spot), French doors to a balcony, and a picture window overlooking the harbour.

Oh, and did I mention my roomy, the handsome grey tabby I found snoozing at the foot of the bed when I arrived? He welcomed me with loud purring and smiles from his feline version of ‘Brande Topaz’ eyes, so who am I to evict him?

As for tonight, I’m having dinner in the castle’s dining room, in the company of the McAlister family and other in-house guests. According to the brochure, I can look forward to a three course ‘table d’hôte’ meal similar to those served during the castle’s heyday. On tonight’s menu is cream of mushroom soup, roast New Zealand lamb with Yorkshire pudding, and baked custard with caramelised pears. Following all that, postprandial port and coffee will be served in the gentlemen’s drawing room. Yum.

You can probably tell that I’ve got my ‘happy tourist’ on, and it feels good after the recent ... upsets. Even though I had to leave you recuperating at home, I’m glad I came on this holiday, Mum, it’ll give me a chance to put recent events behind me. And if luck is on my side, I might even discover some clues to unlock long-buried secrets from our family’s distant past....

Holidaying AND doing some sleuthing in a castle? How lucky am I!

Luv,

Maddie xxx

2

The sea breeze ruffled the wide legs of her linen trouser suit as she strolled the dusk-gilded path toward the castle, her tabby ‘roomy’ sauntering by her side as though accompanying her to dinner.

The whoosh of nearby waves against rock and sand only partly filled the evening hush as the insect, bird, and animal inhabitants of the castle’s gardens bedded down for the night. From within a deepening patch of shade in the garden came the eerie cry of a curlew, answered moments later by equally mournful cries from the gloom of another corner.

Madeleine gave a delighted shiver.

Once outside the wrought iron gate of the castle’s rear courtyard, she inhaled the cooling air and swept one more look around the garden. Murmuring, ‘This place is really something isn’t it, Puss?’ she glanced at her feline companion.

Gone, without even a ‘by your leave’.

That’s cats for you. Loveable but oh-so fickle.

She gave a fond shake of her head and unlatched the gate. Its ornate metal grating creaked a flinty protest as she pushed through into the shadowy courtyard.

Her soft-soled boots made only faint thuds on the cobblestones as she strode past moss-drenched stone walls toward the hinged metal portcullis leading into the castle proper. It too complained on being opened, emitting a series of deep, indignant groans before closing behind her with a weighty clang.

Once inside the building she paused to absorb its historic, slightly damp and chilly allure. When her nose picked up wafts of warm bread and roasting meat, she licked her lips and set off along the corridor toward the dining room. On passing the butler’s pantry she slowed pace to admire the scrubbed bench tops, neatly stacked crockery gleaming from dark timber shelves, antique meat safe, and porcelain canisters standing to attention on an imposing dresser.

When a sizeable brass key