Over the Blue Mountains Read online

  OVER THE BLUE MOUNTAINS

  Mary Burchell

  “If I think it aver I won’t go at all.”

  Juliet knew it was foolish giving up her life in England and flying to Australia with her newfound relatives, but the thought of being with her fiancé sooner than planned made her feel it was the right choice.

  When she arrived to the heartbreak of learning that Martin no longer loved her, Max Ormathon was extremely kind and helpful. But that didn’t mean anything—Max was engaged to Juliet’s cousin, Verity.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Juliet closed the door of her apartment and stooped to pick up the one letter that lay on the doormat. The silence of the place seemed to envelop her, as it had done every day during the past two weeks since her mother’s death.

  No one, thought Juliet, has any idea of the loneliness of coming home to an empty place until it’s a personal experience. One thinks one understands but—

  With a sigh she turned over the letter in her hand. If it had an Australian stamp—if it were from Martin—that would help.

  It was not from Martin. The letter bore a London postmark and was addressed in a handwriting quite unfamiliar to her. Probably a letter of condolence from some old acquaintance who had seen the notice of her mother’s death in the newspaper. Well, she hardly felt like facing any more letters of condolence just now. Losing one’s dear and only close relation was enough, without having to go over the event again in the words of even the most sympathetic of friends.

  Juliet propped the letter on the mantelpiece and went into the kitchen to prepare her solitary meal. Then she forgot about it until later that evening when, the meal eaten and the table cleared, she looked around the little sitting room, trying to pretend that it was comfortably occupied when it really represented an emptiness that was indescribable.

  She took the letter and opened it, glanced at the signature and read, to her considerable astonishment, “Your affectionate Aunt Katherine.”

  Aunt Katherine ... Juliet groped in the recesses of her memory for any Aunt Katherine. Why, she must be the wife of her Uncle Edmund, her mother’s elder brother. The one, thought Juliet with suddenly quickening interest, who had gone to Australia in his youth. Hadn’t he married someone called Katherine?

  Juliet had never seen anything, or heard much, of her overseas relatives. Indeed, all her mother’s relatives had set up a complete barrier between themselves and the one member of the family who had, so they considered, married much beneath her.

  Perhaps they had been right in that estimate. Juliet could remember her father only as a gay, careless figure who had rather casually discharged his parental duties toward herself until she was about ten, but she had realized even then that he was associated with insecurity and a haphazard way of living. After his death, in spite of the fact that her mother had then had to work for their living, everything had seemed much better ordered, much more stable than before.

  But it was not for one’s remoter relations to sit in judgment on the core of one’s family. And, though she was not aware of it, it was with the slightest narrowing of her candid, generously set gray eyes that Juliet glanced down once more at the letter in her hand.

  My dear Juliet,

  I was exceedingly sorry to see the notice of your mother’s death in a recent newspaper, the more so as Verity and I (Verity is my daughter and your eldest cousin) were looking forward to meeting you both and making your acquaintance.

  Juliet turned the page and wondered a little why they had not written beforehand to announce their coming. But already the faint severity of her expression had relaxed, and her heart—lonely and a good deal bruised—was warming toward the unknown relatives who, it appeared were so near at hand.

  We have been in London since May, but before we could get in touch with anyone. I very stupidly went down with an illness that necessitated an operation, and I am only just recovering.

  Verity and I have to return home to Australia within the next week or two and, my dear, I very much want to meet you first. Not only that; I cannot help wondering if, in view of your loss and, I suppose, the consequent breakup of your home, you would be willing to consider a proposal I have to make. I am not yet by any means myself, and I dread the journey back, particularly as Verity, though a dear girl, is no good with sick people.

  Would you consider coming back with us? And then your uncle and I would see what we could do for you out there. In any case, do phone and come to see me. I want to discuss the future with you.

  Your affectionate Aunt Katherine

  Juliet let the letter flutter to the ground and stared incredulously into the mirror over the mantelpiece. Reflected there—though at this moment she hardly saw herself—was an engaging heart-shaped face, almost dramatically pale with excitement, though the wide red mouth still retained its color. Short, thick, dark lashes seemed to stand out as though stiffened around gray eyes, which had widened and darkened with the intensity of her emotion. And as she absently thrust her fingers through her soft hair, it fell forward again across her forehead, so that she had to toss it back with an absent-minded gesture that was characteristic.

  Slowly Juliet expelled her long-held breath in a sigh—but cautiously, as though she were afraid of waking herself from some dream. Then she bent down and picked up the letter again.

  Did such things really happen to people?

  No—not to people. To oneself.

  Was it possible that, after some aching personal disaster, the most dazzling, incredible piece of good fortune could come as a sort of kindly counterbalance?

  One had no right to expect it. Other people faced loss and sorrow without compensation. And yet—here it was.

  For the moment, Juliet did not see Australia as a continent—a land of vast distances where a thousand miles or more might still separate one from the one person who now mattered. To her Australia meant Martin, who had gone out there more than a year ago, and was working so hard now in order to make enough money either for her to go out and join him or for him to return to England and marry her.

  And if this letter from her unknown aunt meant what it seemed to mean, then half the world need no longer divide her from Martin. The last months of their waiting and saving could be passed near each other. They might even be able to be married almost right away.

  “I can’t believe it!” Juliet exclaimed aloud. “I simply can’t believe it!” And the words seemed to shatter, finally and completely, the silence that had so enveloped and depressed her. Even when the sound of her own voice ceased, little whispers and ripples of-hope and suggestion still eddied around her. The vacuum of grief and inanimation in which she had been sealed was broken open. Life was beginning again—and in terms more exciting and thrilling than anyone could have dreamed.

  In feverish haste, she rushed to the telephone and dialed the number of her aunt’s hotel. A brisk voice answered, and Juliet asked to be connected with Mrs. Burlett’s room.

  “Mrs. Burlett’s suite?” the brisk voice replied, on a note of subtle correction. And Juliet waited with beating heart.

  Her aunt might be out. She might have changed her mind. She might not really have meant what she seemed to mean in her letter. She...

  “Hello,” said a languid, but very sweet, voice in Juliet’s ear. “This is Mrs. Burlett speaking.”

  “Oh—Aunt Katherine!” Juliet exclaimed, and the catch in her voice was not for the excitement or nervousness of the occasion, but simply because it was suddenly very moving to find that one still had some sort of family, however remote. “Aunt Katherine, this is Juliet.”

  “Who? Oh, my dear child, how glad I am to hear from you!” Juliet—who was, later, to be fascinated, astonished, repelled and char
med by the way of her aunt used the changing tones of her beautiful speaking voice to make people do what she wanted—heard at that moment only the half-tender note of affection and concern, which seemed to her to apply the first real comfort she had known since the loss of her mother.

  “Darling, where are you? And when can you come to see me?”

  “I’m at home, Aunt Katherine. And I can come—any evening you like.”

  “This evening?”

  “Why—of course. If it’s not too late.”

  “Late? What time is it?”

  Juliet glanced at her watch.

  “About ten to nine.”

  “Well, I don’t call that late, do you?” Her aunt laughed, and Juliet thought it was the loveliest sound she had ever heard. “How long will it take to get here? Shall I send the car for you?”

  “Oh, no, thank you,” Juliet assured her, flattered and a little impressed. “I’ll come by subway and be there in half an hour.”

  “Very well. Hurry up. I shall be waiting for you,” her aunt assured her, with that subtle note of affectionate amusement once more in her voice. And, charmed beyond expression, Juliet replaced the receiver and began a mad rush to get ready and be at the hotel as quickly as she had promised.

  She must look nice. Nice enough to impress her aunt with the idea that she would be a pleasing and suitable addition to the family.

  Her navy grosgrain suit, with its pencil-slim skirt and the jacket cut to show off her really rather good figure. The white Swiss-embroidered blouse, which had seemed such an extravagance at the time, and just right now.

  Juliet looked in the mirror anxiously. Yes, the effect was good. Now the white straw bonnet with the navy ribbon. Did it make her look too young and irresponsible? No, just young and ... Well, anyway, it was the most becoming that she had had for a long time and she was going to wear it. White gloves (thank heaven she had washed them last night) and her navy handbag.

  She was ready now. Ready to go to see her Aunt Katherine. Ready to take the first step that might well lead her halfway across the world—to Martin.

  With the assistance of a taxi part of the way, Juliet actually did arrive at the magnificent revolving door of the hotel just half an hour after she had hung up the receiver of her telephone. And, as she followed the smart young page to whose care she was consigned into the elevator and then along the softly carpeted cream-and-rose corridor, she hardly felt that she could still be herself. Just someone who had been allowed to play a charming, improbable role for a few hours in some West End domestic comedy.

  “Come in,” cried the now familiar, sweet voice of her aunt, in answer to the page’s knock. And, as the boy opened the door and stood aside to let her pass into the room, Juliet had the curious impression that she had stepped out of her old life into a new one. A fascinating, enthralling, but slightly alarming one.

  But there was nothing alarming about the woman on the sofa who turned to greet Juliet with a smile that matched her voice. She was, however, completely in keeping with the idea of a West End stage production, for never off the stage had Juliet seen anyone so beautifully dressed, groomed and generally “presented” to the public eye.

  “Darling,” cried the lovely creature—who made no pretensions to youth, but quite obviously adorned any age that she happened to be—“darling, how delightful to see you at last! You can’t imagine how I’ve been longing to make your acquaintance.”

  And so convincing was the tone of her voice that Juliet forgot completely the many years during which, by the simple process of resorting to the services of the international post, Aunt Katherine could have made the desired contact.

  Instead, she accepted—and returned with warmth—the charming, faintly perfumed embrace that was bestowed upon her, and smiled at her aunt as though she found her the most attractive thing she had ever seen. Which she did.

  “Sit down, child, and tell me all about yourself,” Aunt Katherine urged.

  And, nothing loath, Juliet proceeded to do so. Only, as it happened, at something like the third sentence the conversation changed around and Aunt Katherine was telling all about herself and her family.

  Not that Juliet minded. She could not hear enough about the new relations who had miraculously come into her life. And she listened with the most intense—and perhaps gratifying—interest while Aunt Katherine explained about herself and Uncle Edmund and their three children.

  “Verity is the eldest—about your age, I suppose. You’ll see her presently, I expect, if she isn’t out too late with her latest beau. But Max Ormathon is older than most of them and pretty responsible, and anyway Edmund belongs to the same club at home, which makes a difference.”

  Juliet didn’t see quite why it should, but she let that pass in favor of further inquiries about the other members of the family.

  “Well, then there is Andrew who is sixteen and quite charming. I try dreadfully hard not to have favorites among my children,” Aunt Katherine explained plaintively, “but Andrew does give me the least trouble. Not at all like Penelope—”

  For the first time a shadow came over her delicate, lovely face, and the soft line of her mouth changed in a way that slightly surprised Juliet.

  “Is Penelope at the difficult age?” she inquired tactfully.

  “Penelope was born at the difficult age,” declared Penelope’s mother dryly. “Though she is my own child, I don’t pretend to understand her.” And she made a deprecating little movement of her hands, which somehow left one with the impression that the trouble had nothing to do with her own powers of understanding—only that there was nothing in Penelope to understand.

  “How old is she?” asked Juliet, feeling faintly sorry for her youngest cousin, though she was not sure why because she obviously gave Aunt Katherine a great deal of worry.

  “Fourteen. But that doesn’t give you any real idea of her,” Aunt Katherine went on. “She behaves sometimes like a child of ten, and at other times she will say things that—that her own grandmother might say. Her paternal grandmother,” and Juliet could not help smiling, because she remembered her mother more than once describing Grandmamma Burlett as “rather a tartar, though she was my own mother.”

  “Is she a pretty child?” Juliet asked pacifically. But Aunt Katherine shook her head.

  “Not very. Not in the accepted sense, that is. Verity is—extremely. You’ll see that for yourself.”

  Juliet experienced those slight twinges of apprehension that have visited us all at some time or other when a contemporary has been held up to us as all that is attractive. But there were so many other questions to be asked.

  “Where do you live in Australia, Aunt Katherine?”

  “Why, Melbourne, my dear—” the tone suggested that one would hardly live anywhere else “—near the Domain and overlooking the Yarra. Rather a lovely house. But, of course, we travel around a good deal because of your uncle’s work.”

  Juliet knew nothing-about her uncle’s work, but she did not stop to inquire just then. The suggestion of “traveling about a good deal” was what arrested her attention.

  “Aunt Katherine, do you know of a place called Katoomba?”

  “In the Blue Mountains, you mean? Yes, of course. At least, I know of it, and I think we drove through there once when your uncle was on some work in Sydney. It’s nowhere near Melbourne, you know.”

  “No? No, I didn’t suppose so. But...”

  “In New South Wales,” Aunt Katherine added, and dismissed it.

  “Oh, yes—I knew that. I have a very great friend who lives quite near there. At least, it’s about two hours by car. In a small place called Tyrville.”

  “Two hours’ drive beyond Katoomba?” inquired Aunt Katherine with still less enthusiasm.

  “Yes, I—think so.”

  “Dear me. Very remote. Poor girl,” said Aunt Katherine.

  But before Juliet could explain that the poor girl was a man to whom she herself was engaged, the door opened and a dark girl in a wo
nderfully shaded yellow and orange tulle dress came into the room, followed by a tall man in the middle thirties. He had, Juliet noticed in that first glance, the bluest eyes she had ever seen, and there was a slight upward curve to the corners of his obstinate mouth which suggested that he found life amusing, only rather grimly so.

  “Verity, darling—Max—I’m so glad you came home early,” Aunt Katherine exclaimed. “You’ll never guess who this is.”

  Feeling ridiculously on show, Juliet rose a little self-consciously.

  “Cousin Juliet,” declared Verity, with a smile that was faintly critical.

  And the man whom Aunt Katherine had called “Max” added, “She would have to be a cousin of some sort. She’s so like Penelope.”

  “Like Penelope?” echoed the other two, and Juliet, who felt that Aunt Katherine immediately reexamined her in a less favorable light, was intensely irritated by this ill-chosen observation. Why couldn’t the man have minded his own business?

  “She is not in the least like Penelope,” Aunt Katherine stated after a moment. “Except that she has gray eyes.” And Juliet breathed again.

  Verity’s escort smiled and did not dispute the matter. Indeed after a few polite and conventional words to Aunt Katherine, he took his leave, although Juliet was nearly sure that her cousin would have very much preferred to have him remain.

  “Well, has mother told you about her idea that you should come out to Australia with us?” Verity inquired, kicking off her high-heeled sandals and standing on one foot to massage the other instep, while she still regarded Juliet in the faintly critical manner.

  “She—mentioned it in her letter. We hadn’t actually—discussed it yet.”

  “Well, I should start discussing it now, then,” Verity replied. And though she smiled and had shown no hesitation in coming straight to the heart of the matter, Juliet had the distinct impression that she was not especially welcome in her cousin’s eyes.

  “I don’t know that there’s really very much to discuss,” Aunt Katherine declared, with an air of great good humor. “Either the dear child is coming with us, or she is not. Which is it, Juliet?”