Adopted: Outback Baby

The Ruthvens’ cottage, on the other hand, felt very homelike indeed. There was something about Nell’s living room, about the lounge furniture upholstered in muted creams and dusty reds, that invited him in. The slightly cluttered casualness, the deceptively careless mix of colours and florals and stripes enticed him to relax, to feel welcome.

No doubt the cosy effect was completed by the marmalade cat curled in a sunny spot among fat cushions on the cane sofa beneath the window.

Jacob set the tray down beside a vase of red and cream flowers on an old timber chest that apparently served as a coffee table. A thick paperback novel had been left there and, beside it, elegant blue-framed reading glasses.

Nell wears reading glasses now.

He knew that shouldn’t bother him, but somehow he couldn’t help being saddened by such a clear marker of the passage of time.

The cat opened its pale yellow eyes and stared at him as he selected one of the deep and friendly armchairs and sat. Almost immediately, the cat rose, stretched its striped orange back, then leapt daintily off the sofa and crossed the floor to jump into Jacob’s lap.

As a general rule, he preferred dogs to cats and he eyed the animal dubiously as it balanced on his thighs, a small claw penetrating his denim jeans.

‘Don’t expect me to let you have this milk, mate.’

In response, the cat dropped softly into his lap, curled contentedly and began to purr, adding the final brushstroke to Jacob’s impression of Nell’s cottage as cosiness incorporated.

Unfortunately, he was particularly susceptible to cosiness. His childhood had been lonely. He and his mother had lived in a series of workers’ cottages on Outback properties and he’d longed for the permanence of a cosy family home. There had been several times during the past twenty years when he’d been on the brink of getting married simply so he could enjoy the pleasures of a comfy home and family life.

But whenever he’d come to the point of proposing marriage, something had always held him back—a vital, missing something.

‘Oh, heavens, Ambrose, what do you think you’re doing?’ Nell came into the room carrying a blue china teapot. ‘I’m sorry about the cat,’ she said. ‘Shoo, Ambrose. You should have sent him away, Jacob.’

‘I would have if he’d bothered me.’ Jacob watched the cat return to the sofa, tail waving sulkily. ‘Perhaps he’s mistaken me for your husband.’

A strange little laugh broke from Nell as she set the teapot down beside the tray. ‘No, I’m sure he hasn’t. Robert and Ambrose never got on.’ She looked flushed and avoided meeting his gaze, rubbed her palms down the sides of her skirt as if they were damp. ‘How—how do you take your tea?’

‘Black, no sugar.’

‘Oh, of course, I remember now.’

As she said this, she looked dismayed and he was dismayed too, suddenly remembering the camp fires down by the river when they’d made billy tea, hastily putting the fire out as soon as the water boiled so that the smoke wouldn’t give away their hiding place.

There was a tremor in her hands as she poured his tea and set the mug in front of him. She was nervous and he wanted to put her at ease.

‘This is a lovely home,’ he said. ‘Did you decorate it?’

Nell nodded and concentrated on pouring her own tea, adding milk and a half teaspoon of sugar.

‘You must have an artistic eye.’

‘Actually, I do seem to have a way with fabric.’ She smiled as she settled into the other armchair. ‘I make quilts and I sell them.’

‘You sell them?’

‘Yes. There’s quite a demand for my work, actually. It keeps me rather busy.’

Jacob swallowed his shock. But perhaps he shouldn’t be so surprised. After all, apart from the gossip his mother gleaned from the social pages, he knew next to nothing about Nell Ruthven. He’d always supposed she was a carefree and idle society wife. One of those ladies who lunched.

But Nell Harrington, the girl he’d loved, had been crazy about poetry, an artistic soul.

‘Your husband must be very proud of you,’ he said cautiously.

Looking more nervous than ever, Nell picked up her mug of tea, then seemed to change her mind and set it down again.

‘How Robert feels about my quilting is irrelevant,’ she said quietly. ‘He’s not my husband any more.’

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