Daughter of Mine Read online

  Daughter of Mine

  FIONA LOWE

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  FIONA LOWE has been a midwife, a sexual health counsellor and a family support worker; an ideal career for an author who writes novels about family and relationships. She spent her early years in Papua New Guinea where, without television, reading was the entertainment and it set up a lifelong love of books. Although she often re-wrote the endings of books in her head, it was the birth of her first child that prompted her to write her first novel. A recipient of the prestigious USA RITA® award and the Australian RuBY award, Fiona’s books are set in small country towns and feature real people facing difficult choices and explore how family ties and relationships impact on their decisions.

  When she’s not writing stories, she’s a distracted wife, mother of two ‘ginger’ sons, a volunteer in her community, guardian of 80 rose bushes, slave to a cat and is often found collapsed on the couch with wine. You can find her at her website, fionalowe.com, and on Facebook, Twitter and Goodreads.

  In memory of Debbie who, on being told this book was to be published, replied with her characteristic response of ‘Sensational!’

  Miss you, Deb. Rest in Peace.

  Sisters may share the same mother and father but appear to come from different families.

  Anonymous

  CONTENTS

  Part One

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Part Two

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Part Three

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Book Club Discussion Questions

  PART ONE

  CHAPTER

  1

  ‘Auntie Harry, look at my frog.’

  Harriet Chirnwell recoiled as her eight-year-old nephew, Hugh, thrust a muddy bug catcher under her chin. She could just make out a tiny frog nestled in the greenery.

  ‘It’s our frog,’ Ollie corrected. He was the younger twin by four minutes.

  Harriet’s nose wrinkled as the rancid scent of mud and sheep dung hit her nostrils. ‘And you found it down at the dam.’

  ‘Yes!’ the twins chorused, sounding surprised that she’d guessed correctly.

  ‘Why is there mud on my clean floor?’ Xara, Harriet’s middle sister, walked into the kitchen. She pushed her daughter, Tasha—the twins’ sister—in her specially designed wheelchair.

  ‘We’re showing Auntie Har—’

  ‘It was a rhetorical question, Hughie.’ Xara shook her head indulgently. ‘Trust you to find the only mud on the farm during a drought. Go back to the mudroom and take off those boots. You too, Ollie. Now.’

  Ignoring the groans of her sons, Xara lifted Tasha from the wheelchair. While she positioned her in a foam chair in her favourite spot by the window, she said, ‘Hello, Harry. I didn’t hear you drive up.’

  ‘European engineering’s incredibly quiet,’ Harriet said, getting a thrill just thinking about her new car. ‘And those sheep in the home paddock are bleating so loudly I’m surprised you can hear yourself think.’

  Xara threw an old towel down on the muddy floor and while she mopped it around with her foot, she stirred a pot on the Aga that smelled deliciously like beef and ginger. ‘I keep telling Steve it’s time Chump, Chops and Racka went on the truck but you know how pathetic he is with the ones we hand raise.’ She reached left, opened a cupboard, grabbed two thick-rimmed mugs and threw a teabag into each.

  Harriet flinched. She preferred her tea in a bone china cup and made with leaves, not dust. ‘Do you still have those Royal Albert mugs I gave you for your birthday?’

  ‘Sorry.’ Xara sounded completely unapologetic. ‘I usually hide your mugs at the back of the cupboard but after your last visit, I forgot. Steve took one down to the shearing shed and Hughie dropped the other one.’

  The twins rushed back in whooping, ‘Cake, cake, cake,’ and Tasha squealed, joining their enthusiasm. The ear-piercing shrieks formed a wall of sound that forced every nerve ending in Harriet’s body to fire off a salvo of tingling aversion.

  She wasn’t particularly fond of children. As a general rule they were sticky and damp, loud and unruly, and they came with an inexhaustible supply of questions, which she found disconcerting. Of course, she was fond of her daughter, Charlotte. She loved her, especially now that that she was no longer sticky and clingy. Harriet considered Charlotte, now almost eighteen, to be one of her greatest achievements; the others were the day she become a fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons and the year she joined her father in his medical practice. Over the last decade, she’d taken the practice into the twenty-first century while maintaining a successful and happy marriage to James. She had no time for women who said it was impossible to have it all and her usual response to such statements was that it came down to choice. She’d chosen James because his drive and determination matched her own and he wanted what she wanted. Now, twenty years after saying ‘I do’, they were Billawarre’s power couple: rich, respected, well educated, philanthropic and with the added prestige of being descended from the squattocracy.

  Her mother’s family, the Mannerings, had been the founding family in the district, arriving in 1838. They’d gone on to establish a farming dynasty as well as diversifying into manufacturing. Harriet loved that she could trace her Australian heritage back to William and John, who’d arrived from England with a mob of sheep and a vision. Since those early pastoralist days when the brothers had bred sheep, cattle, racehorses and children, their descendants included a very successful gold prospector, businessmen, war heroes and heroines, parliamentarians, doctors, an Olympic equestrian and a novelist.

  It was a family to be proud of, and throughout the one hundred and seventy-five years since the Mannering brothers had crossed the Moorabool River, there’d always been at least one branch of the family living in Billawarre. It gave Harriet a reassuring sense of tradition and a great deal of family pride. Like her mother before her, Harriet had been named after her great-grandmother. She’d continued the tradition, naming Charlotte after her own great-grandmother, and she hoped that when the time came—in another fifteen years or so—Charlotte would consider doing the same.

  Harriet glanced around the farmhouse kitchen and pursed her lips. She had no idea how Xara could be so laid back in the presence of so much chaos. When Tasha had been born with severe cerebral palsy and requiring twenty-four-hour care, Harriet had assumed Xara would stop at one child. After all, Harriet had stopped at one. She’d been stunned by the amount of time and attention a child took and Charlotte was healthy and developmentally normal—gifted, even, in some areas. Between piano lessons, ballet lessons, pony club, extension tutoring and general school commitments, Harriet and James had juggled their careers and employed Nya Devali to fill the inevitable gaps when neither of them were available. It had been a huge relief when Charlotte had turned thirteen and gone to boarding school, j
ust like Harriet had at that age. The school holidays were always a bit of a struggle but Charlotte enjoyed spending time with her aunts and Harriet always scheduled a few days off in the middle of the break, whisking her away to Lorne or Noosa depending on the time of year. Of course they took an overseas holiday every year, alternating between skiing in Europe or Canada and visiting somewhere warm. Last year, Harriet had even conceded to Charlotte’s request to go to Bali and she’d been pleasantly surprised by the beautiful north-coast resort.

  Harriet honestly couldn’t imagine her life with more than one child. She could still recall how stunned she’d been when Xara had announced she was not only pregnant again but with twins. That night, as she and James had been getting ready for bed, Harriet had said, ‘What on earth were Xara and Steve thinking, getting pregnant again?’

  James had come up behind her, pulled her in against him and pressed his lips against the crook of her neck in the exact spot that made her melt. ‘I doubt at the time they were thinking at all.’ His deep, rumbling voice had vibrated against her skin, making her shiver in anticipation.

  Soon after that, she and James hadn’t been thinking at all either. She smiled at the memory but her cheeks suddenly tightened as a thought struck her: how long had it been since James had kissed her like that?

  ‘I’ll buy you some new mugs,’ Harriet said quickly, thrusting the uncomfortable and unwelcome thoughts about James and their sex life to the back of her mind.

  ‘Perhaps it would be safer if you brought your own when you visit.’ Xara handed her a mug decorated with a picture of a sheep playing the bagpipes. ‘So what’s up?’

  Harriet ignored the tone in Xara’s voice that said, You only drive out to the farm when you want something, and instead brushed crumbs and a shrivelled pea off the kitchen chair before smoothing her black pencil skirt and sitting down. She sometimes questioned that she and her middle sister shared any DNA at all given her own need for order and Xara’s total disregard for it.

  ‘Edwina’s birthday’s a month away. We need to finalise the details for her party.’ Harriet had been referring to her mother by her first name since her fifteenth birthday. The celebration had coincided with another one of Edwina’s ‘episodes’, as her father had always referred to them. Harriet had never been particularly close to her mother and Edwina remained a frustrating mystery to her. She had never quite worked out if her mother was depressed or if she conveniently hid behind these random episodes to avoid the familial and social responsibilities she didn’t enjoy.

  ‘Finalise what details?’ Xara asked. ‘This is the first time we’ve talked about it. I can tell you right now, Mum won’t want a party.’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Of course she’ll want a party. She needs something to look forward to now that Dad’s—’

  Damn it. Her throat thickened as though a chunk of Xara’s beef stew were caught in it and she had to force herself to swallow around the lump. These days she could usually talk about her father without any problems at all so she hated the moments when her grief hit her without warning. It instantly took her back to the day he’d died thirteen months ago, forcing her to relive those awful hours again. She missed him desperately, not only because she loved him, but also because, unlike her mother and sisters, her father had been the one person in the family who truly understood her.

  She cleared her throat. ‘A party will be good for Edwina.’

  Xara didn’t look convinced. ‘Mum’s more comfortable with a low-key approach. This year her birthday’s right on top of Easter so Georgie and Charlie will be home for the school holidays. Georgie can drive from Melbourne and pick Charlie up from school on her way through Geelong. We can all have dinner here.’

  Harriet took in the fine film of dust that coated everything around her, the scattered toys and books, and the half-folded laundry that graced chairs, the dresser and every other available surface. She immediately thought of her beautifully renovated Victorian homestead kept immaculately clean by Nya. No, her plan was much better and besides, her house was designed for entertaining.

  ‘We did low key last year because it was so close to the funeral. This year her birthday needs to be a big splash like the parties Dad threw her.’ Harriet found herself drumming her fingers on the table. ‘We’ve always thrown big parties and people are expecting one. I’ve already had Primrose McGowan asking me if we’ve got plans.’

  ‘God, Harry, our role in life isn’t to entertain the district,’ Xara said, giving the saucepan another vigorous stir.

  ‘I remember you doing a pretty good job of it from seventeen to twenty-three,’ Harriet said waspishly, feeling the familiar bubble of annoyance rising in her chest. It frustrated her that Xara didn’t value her heritage or honour the responsibilities that came with being part of a respected establishment family.

  Xara laughed and quoted Jane Austen at her. ‘“For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn.” This isn’t the fifties, Harry. You take all this stuff way too seriously.’

  ‘I’m taking our mother’s situation very seriously,’ Harriet said crisply, feeling tension raising her shoulders; it happened whenever she thought about her mother’s vagueness and periods of detachment. Edwina’s episodes could last from a few hours to weeks. They’d come and gone as far back as Harriet could remember and since her father’s death, she felt both an obligation to him and a begrudging responsibility to her mother to take care of her.

  ‘You know what she’s like, Xar. She needs a push now and then to be involved in things. Now Dad’s not here to do it, it’s up to us. This party will help.’

  ‘I’m not sure a party’s the best way.’ Xara sounded unconvinced.

  ‘It’s worked before,’ Harriet said firmly.

  Xara rolled her eyes. ‘Is there any point at all suggesting that you ask Mum if she wants this party?’

  ‘And ruin the surprise? Honestly, Xara, sometimes I wonder about you. Edwina’s surprise parties are both legend and tradition.’

  ‘They were Dad’s tradition,’ Xara said, an edge creeping into her voice.

  Harriet shook her head. ‘No, they’re a family tradition and by default a town tradition. I’m not letting them slide just because Dad’s not here to host them.’ Her voice cracked slightly and she cleared her throat. ‘And Georgie agrees with me.’

  Xara’s untamed eyebrows rose over her chipped mug. ‘Georgie has an opinion? Are we talking about our baby sister, Georgie, or another Georgie entirely?’

  ‘She suggested making Edwina’s favourite mini chocolate mud cakes with ganache.’ Harriet tweaked the truth around the edges to firm up her argument—one she refused to lose. She hadn’t actually texted Georgie yet to tell her about the party and ask her to make the cakes, but she would the moment she got Xara onside.

  ‘Wow, and you’re actually going to let her?’ A hint of sarcasm threaded through Xara’s words. ‘I thought you’d want the party to be colour coordinated and catered.’

  ‘Of course it will be colour coordinated and catered.’ Harriet ignored the jibe and made a mental note to tell Lucinda Petronella, the caterer, that she wanted turquoise and silver to be the signature colours. ‘I just thought if Georgie made the cakes it would add a personal touch.’

  Xara’s eyes narrowed into a gotcha glare. ‘So she didn’t actually offer to make them at all, did she?’

  Harriet shrugged. Sometimes the only way to get things done her way was to work people using both their strengths and their weaknesses. ‘Why are you getting all bogged down in semantics? Does it matter if I give Georgie the recipe? I mean, she loves to bake, so end of story.’

  Xara huffed out a breath. ‘She always takes the path of least resistance.’

  Unlike you.

  ‘Do you think she’s okay? I mean, it’s not something you just get over, is it?’

  An uncomfortable feeling tried to settle over Harriet but she fought it off. She refused to feel any guilt about being the only one
of her siblings to have a healthy and happy daughter. Then an idea slid in under her discomfort, offering her the perfect way to close her argument and bring Xara on board. ‘Do you talk to Georgie much?’

  A look of self-reproach crossed Xara’s face. ‘I try, but the days go so fast.’

  ‘Exactly, and Georgie hasn’t been home in ages. There’s no way she can refuse to come to this party, especially as the date is at the start of the school holidays. When we’ve got her face to face, we can really check up on her.’

  She leaned forward. ‘Come on, Xar, it will be fun. You know James and I throw great parties. You know Charlotte loves being the princess of the cousins and she’ll keep them entertained.’ Harriet wheeled out her closing argument: ‘You and Steve deserve a night away from wool prices, the drought and being parents. You deserve a night to let your hair down and be yourselves.’

  Xara grimaced as if she was in pain—the expression suggestive of having just struck a deal with the devil. ‘Is James serving French champagne?’

  ‘Bien sûr.’ Harriet smiled, knowing she’d just won. ‘I’ll text you your to-do list …’

  * * *

  ‘I caved over French champagne,’ Xara told Steve ruefully as she climbed into bed with exhaustion clawing at every muscle, tendon and bone.

  Her husband glanced up from his book, his green eyes laughing at her from behind his black-rimmed reading glasses. ‘You always cave if Möet or Veuve Clicquot are on the table. The reality is, I married a fickle debutante.’

  ‘Hey, sheep farmer.’ She elbowed him in the ribs before snuggling in against him. ‘I happily gave up my silver spoon fifteen years ago to slum it with you.’

  He squeezed her shoulder affectionately and kissed her hair. ‘Did you ask Harry to follow up with James about the status of the respite-care house cheque?’

  She slapped her forehead. ‘Sorry. I meant to ask but the whole party thing threw me for a loop. You know what she’s like when she’s in full-on Harriet-gets-what-Harriet-wants mode, railroading everyone and everything in her path. After I caved, she started telling me how Charlie’s coping brilliantly,’ her voice mimicked Harriet’s, ‘being house captain, rowing in the firsts and of course, still on track to get the marks she needs to study medicine.’