of
Millie the Milliner
. Though it would be fun to see it in Mr Brandywine’s shop, I didn’t think I’d write another book. Writing wasn’t my passion. Mrs Morcom, trudging through jungles and swamps to paint rare plants, had a passion. And so did Harold. So had Mama. Sighing, I rolled over and tried to get comfortable. I turned fifteen this year; I was nearly grown up. What would life hold?
I must have gone back to sleep soon after that, because I had another dream.
Papa and Mama again. They were still young and happy, but this time there was no red-headed man with them. They were walking together along a country road. They hadn’t seen me yet, for they were taking their time, talking quietly to each other, hand in hand. Mama looked up. Recognition seemed to light her face. She waved. It was then that I realised that I wasn’t alone. Someone was standing next to me. It was Della Parker.
Della took my hand in hers. “Come on,” she said. “It’s time …”
Della’s face, so like Mama’s, hovered in my mind when I woke. My hand in hers … I could almost feel the warm pressure of her fingers. And instead of alarm, I felt a strange feeling of peace. Della, I thought. Della Parker … You’ve come into my life for a reason. There was no fear as I pondered that thought, only curiosity. Why?
13
HAPPY DAYS
In the morning, after breakfast, we visited the Levinys. I was longing to talk to Drucilla. Had her feelings towards SP changed? Was she still angry, or was she beginning to miss him? But what with all those children and the important business of morning tea, we managed only a dozen words and none of them were about Saddington Plush. Never mind, I told myself. Though I wanted to know if there was any hope for SP, there was no hurry. We were staying in Castlemaine for two whole weeks.
After lunch, Connie was going off for her first lesson with Madame Fodor. Poppy planned to accompany her. Helen was busy with a meeting of her sewing circle, and Mr Petrov always rested in the afternoon. What was I going to do?
“Do you need to rest too, Mr Savinov?” asked Harold.
“Me? Not at all. I am enjoying the country air. I find it most invigorating.”
“Then perhaps I could take you and Verity for a drive.”
“Why don’t you go out to Paulina’s farm?” said Hannah, coming into the room. “We need apples and pears, and a few more bottles of wine.”
“What do you say?”
“I say it would be delightful,” said Papa.
The farm was at Barker’s Creek, only ten minutes or so out of Castlemaine. We turned off the Bendigo road onto a smaller one lined with orchards and rows of vines. All the leaves were turning yellow and gold and the rosebushes planted at the end of each row were covered in bright red hips.
Harold pulled up the horse and the buggy slowed to a halt. “We’re here.”
We got out in front of a large sign at the entrance. It read:
BLUMBERG PLEASURE GARDENS – WINES, PLANTS, FRUIT AND FLOWERS
Up ahead was a farmhouse surrounded by gardens and orchards.
“Ah!” said Papa, stopping still and looking delightedly around him. “What peace.”
“Peace,” I echoed. Yes, he was right. The honey-coloured stone walls, the trees with their autumn leaves, the brick paths and garden beds seemed to breathe serenity. Bees hummed over the flowers and herbs; brown butterflies chased each other in and out of the sunlight. Everything was warm and mellow in the afternoon light.
Papa took a couple of deep breaths and closed his eyes. When he opened them again, they were moist. Was Papa crying? I reached for his hand.
“Papa, what has upset you?”
“Nothing, Veroschka,” he said, bending down and kissing my cheek. “Your papa is not upset. How could I be, in such a place?” He wiped his eyes with his handkerchief. “I am growing sentimental in my old age. You see, I am reminded of my grandmother’s farm.”
Papa had never mentioned a farm before. In fact, he’d hardly talked to me about