“More information?” Genevieve requested, knowing in advance what Maggie was going to say. It had been long recognised by the family that Michelle had had an extra sense. She had inherited it. No denying genetics.

“Of course, dear.” Maggie lowered her eyes, giving Gena a little time to gather herself from that all too brief moment of—what, exactly? “A senior member of the family—Trevelyan is the name, Miss Hester Trevelyan, who’s had the sense to avoid marriage—needs a ghost writer to help with the family history. That would be from colonial days. And she might want to bring in their illustrious Cornish family background. Richard Trevelyan emigrated to the free colony of South Australia in the mid-1800s. We know there was a big influx of Cornish migrants from the mid-nineteenth century right up until after World War II. It was actively encouraged by the government, I believe.”

Genevieve made a real effort to calm her agitation. “After the demise of their tin and copper mines. Cornish mines were known to traders as far back as ancient Greece. It was thought that with their wealth of experience and expertise Australia was the place to come for mining families. The New World—a new beginning. We still refer to Yorke Peninsula in South Australia as ‘Little Cornwall’.”

“So we do!” Maggie exclaimed. “These Trevelyans have their own family crest.”

“How very jolly!”

“The Cornish side of the family did own tin and copper mines, as far as I know, but Richard Trevelyan was the last in a line of sons. He wanted to make his own way, so he decided to found his own dynasty in Australia. Apparently he was more interested in sheep and cattle than in getting involved in the mines—though I believe the Trevelyans are heavily involved in the mining industry. Also real estate, hotels, air, rail, and road freight. You name it. A lot of diversification going on there. The current cattle baron is Miss Trevelyan’s great-nephew, Bret Trevelyan. Bret short for Bretton, I guess. Bit of information on him: he’s just thirty, still unmarried, one of the most eligible bachelors in the country. He was once engaged to the daughter of another well-heeled landed family, the Rawleighs. Obviously the grand romance and the unification of two dynasties fell through. His parents divorced when he was in his early teens. An acrimonious split, I believe. The mother ran off with a family friend—tsk, tsk. The father never remarried. He was killed in a bizarre shooting accident on the station. Apparently a guest’s rifle discharged when he was climbing over a fence. I don’t know the full story. There’s a younger brother, Derryl, and a sister, Romayne. Romayne married the Ormond shipping heir two years back—remember? It was a big society wedding. Got a lot of coverage.”

“I remember.” Genevieve sat quietly. She knew all about the Trevelyan family.

“The cattle station is vast—on the Simpson Desert fringe,” Maggie continued. “Djangala, they call it. Aboriginal. No idea what it means. You don’t pronounce the D. They also own a chain of cattle and sheep stations across Queensland, New South Wales, the Northern Territory and the Kimberley. So they’re super-rich and very proud of their heritage.” Maggie sat back, intrigued by Gena’s initial reaction. It was almost as though she had thrown a switch. “Miss Trevelyan is well into her seventies, but apparently still in good health.”

Genevieve concentrated on breathing in and out gently. She hoped she didn’t look as perturbed as she felt.

She had first overheard the name Trevelyan in a conversation between her maternal grandparents when she was twelve. Her grandparents had returned home on one of their periodic visits to celebrate her birthday. She had been about to enter the room to tell them lunch was ready when she was stopped in her tracks by the sound of her grandmother’s voice. It had literally throbbed with pain. Even at that tender age she had known the pain sprang from a deep well of anguish—as if the event Nan spoke of had straddled her life and caused her the deepest torment.

Genevieve had since come to realise what was the past for some people was as yesterday to others.

Nan had been speaking of a tragic event in her youth, the trauma of it still fresh in her mind. Genevieve had hung back, a strange jangling in her ears. She hadn’t been deliberately eavesdropping. She couldn’t have moved even if she had wanted to. One peek had revealed tears pouring down her grandmother’s face. The grief she’d suddenly felt had—incredibly—been a variation on Nan’s own.

Afterwards, she hadn’t dared ask who the Trevelyans were. She’d had to find out for herself years later. She wasn’t about to tell Maggie the story now. She would be agog. But Genevieve knew beyond doubt that she would take on the role of ghostwriter for Hester Trevelyan. It was the only opportunity she would ever get.

Two weeks later.

HER nightmares came for her by night. Unlike most dreams, they didn’t vanish on awakening; they stayed with her. She knew what caused them. The shock entry of the Trevelyans into her life.

Her maternal grandmother’s first cousin, Catherine Lytton, had died in tragic circumstances on the Trevelyan family’s Djangala Station in the late 1950s. It reassured Genevieve to know any family connection of hers would be difficult to trace. She wrote under the pen-name Michelle Laurent, and she was going to Djangala as Genevieve Grenville. She had insisted Maggie did not mention her blossoming literary career, let alone her pen-name. Maggie hadn’t been altogether happy about it, but had given in to Genevieve’s adamant request. It was essential she go incognito. Everything was organised for her trip.

Djangala had escaped being contaminated by scandal. Catherine’s death had been deemed a tragic accident. A city girl, she had stepped too close to the crumbling edge of an escarpment the better to admire the stupendous view. The ground had abruptly crumbled beneath her, hurtling her to her death on the plain below. The Trevelyans and the police officer who had headed the investigation had been in totalagreement—an accidental death that had devastated them all. A beautiful young woman with her whole life before her!

Not a word of the marriage proposal Catherine Lytton had received from Geraint Trevelyan ever surfaced. Only Catherine had written ecstatically about it to her favourite cousin.

Trevelyan had later gone on to marry Patricia Newell, long stuck in the wings as his future wife. Catherine had been on Djangala as companion for her friend Patricia. The two young women had gone to boarding school together and had kept up their friendship.

Once again the wheels of fate were set in motion.

Geraint Trevelyan was Bret Trevelyan’s grandfather.

Genevieve’s father, who had torn strips off Mark and Carrie-Anne, had given his approval of her new assignment, thinking it would hasten the healing process and that the Trevelyans were a splendid pioneering dynasty. He had no idea of Genevieve’s true motivation. The Grenville side of the family had never learned Nan’s secret. But Genevieve, given such an unforeseen opportunity, was determined on learning the truth about the final days of Catherine’s life. She’d had a burning curiosity since the age of twelve—both because she was family and, it had to be said, due to her nature as a budding writer—to solve this mystery. Mysteries cried out to be solved.

Had Catherine’s death simply been a disastrous accident? Or was there more to it? Had the Trevelyan family buried the truth, as Catherine’s family had had to bury her broken body? The “accident” might well have revolved around the eternal triangle. People did terrible things for love.

Old faded photographs of the two young women revealed they had been physical opposites. Catherine tallish, very slender, with strawberry blonde hair, deep blue eyes and porcelain skin; Patricia petite, a little on the stocky side, with fine dark eyes and an abundance of dark hair. The photographs, all of them taken between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, showed two young and untested girls.