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She couldn’t think of anything to say that would express how angry she felt without letting herself down. Instead, she sniffed. ‘Good luck having my father stay long enough. I’m afraid you simply don’t have the attraction any more for him to linger.’

‘Oh, you poor, clueless child. Do you think I really care? I’ve got what I need.’

That stung. Irma had been well armed and more than ready for her. ‘Just need me out of the way, do you?’ Fleur’s voice sounded brittle in its icy tone.

Irma shrugged but Fleur was clearly correct. ‘I’m just doing what’s expected of any mother.’

‘You’re no mother of mine. You’re an impostor . . . a conniving thief who stole my father’s heart under—’

‘Do be quiet, Fleur. I don’t think the servants need to hear your pathetic accusations. Henry Appleby made his choice – now he must live with it. And shortly I shall make a choice of my own – for you not to be in my house any longer.’

‘Your house?’

It was the smuggest of gestures when Irma shrugged at her. ‘I hope you don’t think it’s yours, little miss orphan?’ She didn’t wait for Fleur’s shocked expression to dissolve, nor for her stepdaughter to find an appropriate response. ‘So let’s just both make ourselves a lot happier by getting you out of it for good, shall we? I think Mrs James Coglin has a very nice ring to it and I, for one, will be very glad to remove you from the Appleby name.’

Fleur couldn’t feel more stunned and was sure her face reflected how Irma’s cruel words had injured her. ‘Well, at least now we’re being honest. I wonder what my father will make of this?’

‘I don’t know why you’d think your father wouldn’t agree with me,’ Irma baited her. ‘I think he’d settle for any answer that rids him of the fractiousness in this house.’

‘You are the reason for it, Irma. We were happy enough before you pushed your way into his life.’

‘Fleur, I am not going anywhere. I am Mrs Henry Appleby and you are an ageing spinster and adopted child from a previous marriage who really does need to take stock. I’d call you an old maid.’

‘And I’d call you a grasping, ageing, desperate woman with secrets!’

Irma laughed but Fleur could see one of her insults had landed a surprise blow. Which one? They were all offensive, but Irma had seemed to flinch at the notion of secrets.

Fleur decided to test it. ‘What secret are you hiding from my father that you think he’s too lost to alcohol and grief to discover? Perhaps I might find out what you’re hiding because I don’t like you and have never believed you had a place here.’

‘You’ve been a snoopy, self-assured and annoying child since I first arrived—’

‘As a secretary,’ Fleur qualified. ‘Don’t suggest my father went looking for another wife. You used your wiles to convince him he needed a mother for his child, and what a dreadful mother you have been.’ She watched Irma wince again. Fleur couldn’t imagine Irma cared a hoot for how she was regarded by her stepchild, so why that remark might cause even a single feather to ruffle was intriguing.

The woman’s lips flattened, lifting into a sneer at their edges. ‘I want you out of this house, Fleur. I don’t even know that we’ll need you in the business for much longer. I shall be talking to your father, when he’s sober, about bringing in new people.’

‘What?’ It came out as just short of a shriek. ‘Now I think you are going around the bend, Irma.’

‘Perfectly sane, actually. I see things clearer than your romantic lens.’

‘My father needs me.’

‘Your father will be dead sooner rather than later. His liver is shot.’ She smirked at Fleur. ‘Hasn’t told you, I see. Oh dear. Well, he hasn’t got long and now that he’s listened to my reasoning that he shouldn’t be holding back his daughter from marriage and starting her own family, it suddenly all makes sense to him to encourage you to become engaged.’

Her father was dying? No! It couldn’t be true. Why wouldn’t he have told her? Fleur took a deep breath. She felt like packing a bag and running away, but of course that too would play straight into her stepmother’s game. Instead, Fleur knew she needed to stay in her home and resist the woman’s manipulations as best she could until, on her terms, Fleur could leave. ‘Irma, stop talking. I will not go along with your plans.’

‘We shall see, dear.’ Irma pushed past her, turning briefly in the hall. ‘Remember, Saturday at six o’clock, looking your prettiest so James can take you to the Palais. Oh, and I gave Mae’s photo another spit and polish today. Don’t want her memory being lost, do we?’ She chortled as she walked away.

9

Tom found it hard to believe he was finally here, even after all the hours on the train, watching desert give way to greener pastures and ultimately into civilisation. He’d never seen so many people at once, he thought, as he alighted at the main terminus in Adelaide.

On the concourse he passed various refreshment rooms, including a grand dining room, and even a hairdresser was doing a good trade with the travellers from far and wide. The hall was lined with a marble so highly polished that he could see his own reflection staring back. And he soon learned not to stop suddenly and gawp, because it frustrated others in a hurry to get to wherever they were going. Stepping to the side for a moment to look up to the ceiling, Tom noted that a vast dome helped to create a lofty, dignified space in which travellers could sit on the concourse and wait for their connections to be announced. He was thrilled to be experiencing the new art deco building, which was fashioned in the neoclassical style and now served as the central city railway station, its administration layered in the levels above.

When he finally reached the street, he couldn’t help but turn back to regard the sandstone edifice that cast a pinkish glow in the afternoon sun, looming over several storeys. The station clock on this main facade told him it was nearing three. His intention was to travel down to the port to see about some casual work, but, excited by being in the state’s capital, he made the decision to walk around the city and acquaint himself with its layout.

That exploration took him down to the River Torrens for a while, before he strolled through the Botanic Gardens and came back onto North Terrace, one of the four main arteries encircling what was known as the ‘square mile’. He’d read that this was the grandest, and ran east to west along the northern edge of the city where many of the capital’s cultural institutions were based. It was elegant and leafy and he was contentedly taking in the scenery as he walked along the pleasantly wide streets, not focused on anything specific, until his attention was caught by a modest sign painted on the glass above a front door of a terraced house: Tillet & Associates.

Tom blinked. It felt to him as though all motion stopped in that moment, when it was him who had halted. A man who nearly bumped into him gave a sound of disgust and looked back over his shoulder with a vexed expression, but Tom didn’t respond because all of his focus was riveted on the door and the memories that it prompted. How many times had his mother made him repeat the name of Tillet & Associates? How could he have forgotten? He could only blame the grief and the strange time of isolation and confusion that had followed.