unlight filtering through the shaded windows awakened Madelana.

Blinking, she sat up abruptly in the antique four-poster bed, feeling at once both startled and disoriented, wondering where she was. And then she adjusted her eyes to the gentle, hazy light and looked around, took in the details of the lovely room, and remembered that she was at Dunoon, the McGill sheep station near Coonamble.

She turned her head, glanced at the little carriage clock on the taffeta-skirted bedside table, saw that it was early, only six o’clock. But that did not matter; she was accustomed to rising at the crack of dawn. Anyway, last night Daisy had told her she could get up whenever she wished, that she should make herself at home, explaining that she would find the housekeeper in the kitchen after six-fifteen. From that time on, such things as freshly-squeezed juice, coffee, tea, toast and fruit were always set out in the breakfast room; after seven, when one of the two cooks arrived, she could order a hot breakfast if she wanted, Daisy had added.

Throwing back the sheets, Madelana leapt out of bed, and hurried into the adjoining bathroom to shower.

Ten minutes later she emerged, wrapped in her white towelling bathrobe, and went over to the windows. She pushed up the shades on both of them, stood for a moment looking down into the gardens below. They were brilliantly green, filled with an abundance of vivid flowers planted in spectacular herbaceous borders, and in huge central flower beds cut into the rolling lawns. It was a radiant day, very sunny, with a bright blue sky scattered with billowing white clouds that looked like handfuls of cotton candy.

The excitement and anticipation she had experienced on arriving the night before flowed through her again, and she could hardly wait to go outside and investigate her immediate surroundings. Most especially she wanted to walk through those inviting gardens, which she knew Paula had had a hand in creating some years earlier.

Seating herself at the kidney-shaped dressing table positioned between the two soaring windows, Madelana began to brush her thick chestnut hair before applying her makeup, and as she wielded her brush her thoughts centred on this unique place where she had come with Paula, and Daisy and Jason Rickards, to spend the weekend.

Dunoon was unlike anything Madelana had expected, or had imagined it to be.

It was approximately five hundred and seventy kilometres from Sydney, situated in the North West plains region of New South Wales, and the flight in Jason Rickards’s corporate jet had been short and fast. They had left Sydney at five yesterday afternoon and had landed on the private airfield at Dunoon just after six o’clock.

Tim Willen, the station manager, had met them, greeting them jovially, and laughing and joking with them as he had helped the pilot and the steward load their luggage into the vintage station wagon.

Ten minutes later, when they were driving off the airfield, Madelana had been startled to see several different types of planes resting in the huge hangars they passed, as well as two helicopters parked on the nearby helipad.

She had voiced her surprise to Daisy, who had explained that it was easier to use air power to get around Dunoon, especially if there was some kind of sudden emergency. On the flight up, Daisy had told her that their fully-operating sheep station covered thousands upon thousands of acres, and from the air it had looked like a small kingdom. Seeing the planes and the helicopters had only confirmed this sense of vastness to Madelana.

The main house was five miles away from the airfield, and on the way there Madelana had sat with her nose pressed to the window, frequently feeling awestruck by the things she was seeing. Daisy had been her guide last evening, had pointed out a variety of interesting sights as the station wagon rolled along the wide tarmac road, which cut through the huge property and also encircled it.

At one point they had passed a cluster of buildings which resembled a small village, and Madelana had learned from her hostess that these included sheep-shearing sheds, barns for storing the raw wool shorn from the Merino sheep bred and raised on Dunoon, sheep pens, a smithy, a small abattoir for slaughtering the livestock used for consumption on the station, a small freezer plant for preserving the sides of lamb, mutton and beef, and a series of other large barns where feed, hay and grain were stored. There was also a water tower off to one side, and a generator which provided the sheep station with its own electrical power.

A short distance beyond these buildings were several fenced-in paddocks shaded in parts by beautiful golden elm trees and willows. Here cattle and horses grazed contentedly in the luxuriant grass, and overlooking the bucolic paddocks was a compound of attractive houses built on a slight rise against a backdrop of elms and thick old oaks.

Tim had slowed down so that she could see everything better. He had told her that he and his wife lived there, as did the station hands and some of the indoor staff from the main house; adjoining the compound were tennis courts and a swimming pool for the sole use of the staff and their families.

A quarter of a mile farther along the main road, they drove past indoor and outdoor riding rings, where the horses were trained, and close by were large stables.

These buildings had captivated Madelana. Low, rambling and very rustic in appearance, they were made of dark grey and black stone, and were partially covered in creeper. They seemed very old to her, and she had mentioned this to Daisy, who had explained that the stables dated back to the 1920s and had been built by her father, Paul McGill.

The landscape had made a deep impression on Madelana during the drive from the airfield to the house. Somehow, she had not expected the countryside to be so beautiful, had not anticipated such green lushness in Australia. Until she had arrived here, she had always pictured the continent as being arid and dry, and composed almost entirely of scrub-laden Outback once the great coastal cities had been left behind.

But Dunoon was glorious, set amidst lovely, undulating hill country, where gentle slopes fell down into verdant valleys, wide paddocks, and wooded areas. It was truly a pastoral landscape, with the Castlereagh River running through its dark rich earth, where everything seemed to flourish.

The driveway leading up to the main residence, known simply as the manor, was half a mile long, and the minute they had pulled into it Daisy had rolled down one of the windows. Instantly the station wagon had filled with the all-pervasive scent of lemon. ‘It’s the Eucalyptus citriodora,’ Daisy had explained, gesturing to the trees towering up above them and bordering the drive on both sides. ‘They stretch all the way to the house, and they’re very aromatic,’ And Paula had added, ‘When I smell lemons, no matter where I am in the world, I immediately think of Dunoon.’ Madelana had nodded. ‘I can understand why,’ she had murmured, breathing in the lovely sharp fragrance of citrus.

The manor had blazed with lights to welcome them in the dimming light of gloaming, and when Madelana had alighted from the station wagon and had looked up at the house, she had been momentarily dazzled, transported back to her beloved bluegrass country. Instantaneously filling with nostalgia and a flock of memories, she had had to blink back sudden, incipient tears. The manor at Dunoon was built in a classical style reminiscent of the great plantation houses of the American South, somewhat antebellum in feeling.

Its front faˆade was mainly of white-painted wood, with sections of very dark red brick. Wide verandahs swept around its four sides, shaded the walls in summer but allowed the sun to reach them during the winter months. Standing at the edge of the front verandah were eight elegant white columns, four on each side of the front door made of polished mahogany. These columns were tall, stately, and soared up past the first two storeys to support a terrace that encircled the entire third floor.

The green foliage of wisteria growing against the manor’s white paintwork contributed greatly to the feeling of cool serenity, as did the many leafy trees shading the graceful house in the back. Lawns bordered with huge pink and white azalea bushes sloped away from the gravel driveway, and the flower gardens were situated beyond these smooth and spacious greens.

Once inside the manor, Madelana had discovered that the interiors did justice to the exterior architecture. The rooms were furnished with choice antiques, crystal chandeliers, fine old carpets and marvellous paintings, many of them French Impressionists. Later she learned that the collection had been Emma Harte’s and included works by Monet, Van Gogh, Gauguin, Cézanne and Degas.

Paula had brought her upstairs to this charming bedroom located next door to hers. Decorated in delicate shades of apricot, lime and pale blue, it was large and airy, with a high ceiling, a white marble fireplace and watercolours of Dunoon hanging on the walls. The antique four poster took pride of place, and there was a loveseat and two chairs arranged in a grouping in front of the fireplace.

Fresh flowers in vases had been placed everywhere and they permeated the room with the mingled scents of the gardens outside. The flowers were potent this morning, but Madelana did not mind.

She peered at herself in the dressing-table mirror, smoothed the brush over her hair again, and then went over to the armoire, took out tailored, grey-flannel slacks, a white silk shirt and a hand knitted jacket of a bluish-grey mohair.

After she had dressed in these clothes, she slipped her feet into a pair of brown leather moccasins, put on her gold watch and a pair of gold Tiffany shrimp earrings, and left the bedroom.

It was just after six-thirty when she pushed open the door of the breakfast room and looked inside.

The housekeeper, Mrs Carr, whom she had met last night, was nowhere in sight, but Madelana’s nose twitched at the tantalizing aromas of coffee and warm bread and ripe fruit. She noticed that these were set out on the table placed against the far wall underneath a painting of a circus clown. The round table in the middle of the octagonal-shaped room was covered with a fresh white organdy cloth and had been set with pretty floral china for four people.

Madelana went over and poured herself a cup of black coffee. She stared at the painting of the clown. Oh, it’s a Picasso, she thought, as she turned away, not at all surprised. Nothing about Dunoon could surprise her anymore. It was a magical place.

She carried her cup of coffee outside, sat down on the steps of the back verandah, and drank it slowly, enjoying the smell of the grass and green-growing things, the lemony tang of the eucalyptus trees pervading the air, listening to the stillness of nature. The silence was broken only by the twittering of the small birds and the faint rustling of the leaves under the soft breeze.

How peaceful it was here. It was the kind of peace which was only ever found in the country, and she had forgotten it existed. It’s such a luxury, she thought, and closed her eyes, allowing the peace to penetrate her bones, to settle deep inside her. And she realized, quite suddenly, that she had not known a peace like this since her childhood.

A little later, Madelana went back into the house, deposited her cup and saucer in the breakfast room, and then wandered out to the main entrance hall. Earlier, when she had been doing her makeup, she had intended to take a stroll through the gardens in front of the house, but now she hesitated.

Opening off the other end of the foyer was the gallery. Paula had pointed it out last night on their way upstairs; they had not had time to go in then, since they were in a hurry to change for dinner. As they had mounted the grand, curving staircase together, Paula had said: ‘The gallery is hung with portraits of our McGill ancestors, but there’s also an extraordinary painting of Emma in there, which you must see, Maddy, before you leave Dunoon.’

Her curiosity of last night was aroused again, and Madelana decided to take a peek at Emma’s portrait. She would go for her walk afterwards.

The gallery was much longer than she had envisioned, with a high ceiling and a huge window at one end. The polished wood floor was bare, the walls were painted white, and a dark oak refectory table stood in the middle. A Chinese porcelain horse, quite large in size, had been placed on the table, and this appeared to be yet another priceless antique to Madelana.

She hurried down the length of the gallery, barely glancing at the portraits of the McGills, mainly interested in finding the one of Emma Harte.

When finally she stood in front of it, she caught her breath. It was extraordinary, just as Paula had said, so very lifelike, and so much better than any of those she had seen in the Harte Stores, even superior to the one at Pennistone Royal in Yorkshire.

She gazed at it for the longest time, marvelling at the vividness of the painting, and the exceptional brushwork. It had obviously been painted in the 1930s; the evening gown Emma wore was of the period and made of white satin, and Madelana felt that if she reached out, touched the painting, her fingers would rest against the real fabric. Emeralds blazed around Emma’s throat, at her ears and wrists, and there was a square-cut emerald on her left hand; the stones echoed the colour of her radiant eyes.

What small hands she had, Madelana thought, stepping closer, peering at the picture. Why, they’re so tiny, they’re almost a child’s hands.

The portrait which hung next to Emma’s was of a darkly handsome man, elegant in a white tie and tails. He had the most piercing blue eyes she had ever seen, a strong, very arresting face, a black moustache, and a deep cleft in his chin. Clark Gable, Maddy thought, and then smiled to herself, knowing it could not possibly be the late movie star. It was undoubtedly Paul McGill.

Tilting her head to one side, she studied the painting carefully, thoughtfully, wondering what kind of man he had been. A match for Emma Harte, she had no doubt.

Philip came running downstairs as the grandfather clock in the entrance foyer was striking seven.

He crossed the vast hall, heading in the direction of the breakfast room, when he noticed that the double mahogany doors leading into the gallery were slightly ajar. He walked over, intending to close them, and immediately saw the young woman inside. She stood at the far end, leaning towards the painting of his grandfather, studying it, and he realized she must be Paula’s American assistant.

As if she sensed his presence, she swung around swiftly. When she saw him in the doorway her eyes opened very wide and a look of astonishment crossed her face. She stared at him intently.

And in that instant his life changed.

It seemed to Philip that all about her was the light. Not simply the bright sunlight pouring in through the big window, but the light which emanated from within her. She was an incandescent being.

He knew at once that he wanted her, and that he would have her. Philip could not comprehend how he knew this, but it flashed through his brain like a bolt of lightning striking, and he accepted it as the undeniable truth.

Slowly he began to walk forward, his riding boots clattering loudly against the wood, and the noise was overwhelming to him, a dreadful intrusion on the perfect stillness enveloping her. She stood there waiting for him, not moving, appearing hardly to breathe, still watching him intently. And his eyes did not leave her face.

She was a stranger, yet entirely familiar to him, and he experienced a deep sense of predestination – of fate – as he finally drew to a standstill in front of her.

Looking up into his face, she smiled a slow, tentative smile, and he was aware that something stupendous was happening to him, and what startled him the most was that it was happening here, in his own home, in the one place he truly loved on this planet. She continued to smile up at him, and he felt as though a burden was lifting from his shoulders, and there was the total cessation of pain; a sense of peace flowed through him.

Dimly, as though from faraway, he heard his own voice. ‘I’m Philip, Paula’s brother,’ he was saying, and he was surprised he sounded so normal.

‘I’m Madelana O’Shea.’

‘So I’d guessed.’

She put her hand in his, and he clasped it firmly; he knew he had been waiting for her all his life.