About the author
ADA LANGTON lives with her husband, Pete, and her eldest daughter, Indea. Together they enjoy binge TV, dry martinis and all kinds of cheese. Ada has four other children and she hopes they all find someone who will support them to be all they aspire to be. Ada loves to hide away and write whenever she can — as long as there is a good supply of hot darjeeling tea.
She was a winner of the Varuna-HarperCollins Manuscript Award, writes a sometimes blog and published two books Sunday Best and After Before Time under the name Robbi Neal. She adopted the pen-name Ada Langton for her fiction. She chose Ada in memory of her great-grandmother who tragically died of cancer aged only forty-five, and Langton in memory of her much-loved grandfather who was the inspiration for Reuben in this novel.
The Art of Preserving Love
Ada Langton
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
This book is dedicated to
Asher, Seth, Indea, Zane, Maia and Pete
with all my love.
P.S. Pete — every hero is a version of you.
Half an inch, half an inch, half an inch shorter,
The skirts are the same for mother and daughter,
When the wind blows each of them shows,
Half an inch, half an inch, more than she oughter.
— The Triad, a journal devoted to literacy, Sydney, July 1928
Contents
About the Author
Part One
One: Edie
Two: The Cure
Three: The Seduction
Four: Paul
Five: The Gift
Six: The Decision
Seven: Theo
Eight: The Hole
Nine: The Lake
Ten: The Doctor
Eleven: The Miners
Twelve: The Nurse
Thirteen: Pumpkin Mash
Fourteen: The Rose
Fifteen: At the Door
Sixteen: Colin
Seventeen: Beth
Eighteen: The Birthday
Nineteen: The Smile
Twenty: The Engagement
Part Two
Twenty-One The Battle
Twenty-Two: Gracie
Twenty-Three: The Parcel
Twenty-Four: The Disappointment
Twenty-Five: The Mortification
Twenty-Six: The Comfort Pack
Twenty-Seven: The Afternoon Tea
Part Three
Twenty-Eight: The Soldier
Twenty-Nine: Reuben
Part Four
Thirty: The Grave
Thirty-One: The Train Trip
Thirty-Two: The Friendship
Thirty-Three: The Kiss
Thirty-Four: Lisbet
Thirty-Five: The Conversation
Thirty-Six: The Prince
Thirty-Seven: The Last Straw
Thirty-Eight: The Tests
Thirty-Nine: The Picnic
Forty: The Beach
Forty-One: The Shadow
Forty-Two: Lilly
Forty-Three: The Tree
Forty-Four: The Stranger
Forty-Five: The Bovril
Forty-Six: The Room
Forty-Seven: The Notebook
Forty-Eight: The Widower
Forty-Nine: Sunday Afternoon
Acknowledgements
Part One
One
Edie
Early in the morning of Sunday, 5 November 1905, in Ballarat, when the sun has just woken, wiping sleep from its eyes.
Edie had a plan. She’d written it in her notebook and once something was written in her notebook, Edie knew it would happen. The letters had curved and spun on the paper as she wrote, as if they were threading themselves into the ordinary moments of life, quietly breathing their magic and putting things into place while no one was looking.
Edie’s plan wasn’t a big majestic plan that would up-end governments or bring love sweeping in like the gust of wind that roared up the wide main thoroughfare of Sturt Street to the big intersection at Doveton Street, where it would swirl like a tornado and whip women’s skirts up around their thighs, throwing them off balance and into the waiting arms of lonely miners.
Edie had made a modest plan. A carefully thought out plan. A plan for a love that would be gentle and soothing like a freshly brewed hot cup of tea first thing on an icy morning.
The dim morning light wove its way through the trees into Edie’s room and turned the leaves of the rose-patterned carpet from olive to chartreuse, gently announcing the day.
Edie had woken before the sun and now eased herself up onto her elbow. She tugged hard at her nightdress, which was caught under her hip, and reached under her pillow. Her notebook had slept there, safely tucked under her dreams, and now as she held it in front of her the sun lit up its gold-embossed initials. She loved the feel of the leather cover and ran her fingers over her initials on the front. When she held it to her nose the warm musky smell filled her heart. Her father had given it to her on her birthday. It had a leather loop at the side to hold a small pencil. She opened it to her latest entry and read it over:
Fifth November Five
I am nineteen years old.
Plan — Marry (try to make it Theo Hooley).
She always wrote the date out in words, it looked more permanent than numbers. Then she put the notebook on her bedside table, threw the blankets aside and jumped out of bed. She was ready to put her plan into action.
Now, Edie wasn’t an ugly girl, not by anyone’s standards. She didn’t have skin that was cratered like the moon or a nose that was long enough to hang a coat on. She wasn’t too fat or too tall. But her looks were unremarkable; men didn’t turn to drink her in when she walked past. She was ordinary, as are most girls who don’t have older sisters to show them the ropes. No one had shown Edie what suited her or how to attract a man’s attention. She didn’t know how to tease with inviting words or how to catch a man’s gaze for just long enough to pique his interest before quickly pretending disdain so he would come scurrying after her.
Just yesterday her mother Lucy had said, ‘I think the problem is, my love, that none of the men match your intelligence and spark,’ and passed her a cup of tea exactly how she liked it.
‘You say that because I am your only child,’ Edie replied. ‘You have to say something to make me feel better.’
‘Plainer girls than you have married,’ said her father, jabbing his umbrella at an imaginary jury. ‘Your mother is right — you are just too intelligent for them.’ Paul Cottingham swirled his umbrella in the air as if it was a magician’s wand, only just missing the glass lightshade. ‘Edie darling, if I could click my fingers and conjure a devoted and loving husband from thin air I would do it in an instant. You know I will give you anything within my power,’ and he bowed to her to show that he meant it.
Then she saw him dismiss her problems from his mind and focus instead on
