Free The Coral Tree by Joyce Dingwell Page A

destiny. My late uncle owned this estate, and eventually it has reached me.”
    “What estate?” she did find her tongue this time, and she asked the question almost rudely.
    “The estate on which you stand—Currabong.”
    “ You are Mr. Willoughby ’ s heir?” To herself she said: “ You are my future neighbor.”
    “Yes.”
    There was a pause.
    “But this is not Currabong property,” Cary dismissed triumphantly. “This creek is no man ’ s land.”
    “It is Currabong, madam; rest assured of that. You might also inform your host ’ s household when you return today. Incidentally, you should tell them to prevent any future trespass. ”
    “Trespass?”
    “You are trespassing at this moment. This is my country.”
    As she still looked unconvinced, he said: “Would you care to accompany me to the homestead to refer to the map and legend?” Not so sure of herself as she would have liked, Cary evaded pettishly: “What good will Currabong be to you, a doctor?”
    He smoked a moment.
    “I see you recall my profession.”
    “Most certainly. You assured me you did not attend litt le Paul Masser as a skier or skater, remember?”
    He shrugged carelessly. “Was any of our encounter worth remembering?” He appeared sardonically amused when she flushed with annoyance.
    As they climbed the bank to the corner of the paddock where Toby had bolted, Cary thought wistfully: “Now any pipedream I ever had of attaining Currabong in the distant future and using it as an annex to Clairhill is dissolved forever.” It came forcibly to her how very satisfactory it would have been, when eventually she did attain an interview with the great Richard Stormer, to have added the advantage of the handy proximity of a medical man to her schemes for the functioning of Clairhill. A sister, a doctor—what more could be asked? But, of course, she would not dare to. Not with this man. Any subsequent report of his to Mr. Stormer of anything to do with her would be depreciative, she realized bitterly, biased, adverse.
    She stood, still holding Toby, frankly dreading to mount. Her lack of exercise had made her slack. She gravely doubted whether she could clamber up unaided. The gallop had made her unbearably stiff.
    Fortunately she was spared the indignity of making an exhibition of herself. With a curt good afternoon and the barest nod he swung himself into the saddle of his own horse and in a few moments was out of sight.
    She stood hesitant a while, then, being the coward she was, especially as no one was there to see, decided to walk back.
    Her foot kicked at something. It was a hook, a slim volume, she found, bending over, of poems. Evidently he had been relaxing in the sun reading, the horse cropping, when she had almost ridden him down.
    The book was open. Curiously she glanced at it, wondering at this man ’ s taste for poetry. She would not have believed that he would read that sort of literature at all.
    Instinctively her eye fell on the verse he had been absorbing. She knew he must often have lingered over the lines, for the book fell open naturally at this point.
    Slowly, wonderingly, she read:
    “ ... Music, laughter, fireside embers,
    All the things the heart remembers —”
    She closed the book again, put it in her pocket, then led Toby over the northern paddock back to the house.

 
    CHAPTER NINE
    THE PLEASANT canter that had turned into a wild gallop—or had it been that unexpected meeting?—had unsettled her.
    As soon as she had stabled the chestnut she went into the homestead and lay down on one of the many dust-sheeted divans. I ’ m out of practice, she thought ruefully; six weeks of shipboard idleness, a luxury holiday before that, have made me soft. I must toughen up; I have a tough job ahead.
    She closed her eyes, trying to concentrate on practical things—trying not to think of the unpleasant encounter, the man ’ s cold, hard look, his probing, derisive stare. The air was warm and heavy, the cicadas were