The Model Wife Read online

  Praise for Tricia Stringer’s Table for Eight

  ‘Delivers a gentle satisfaction that makes it a great choice for a lazy Sunday afternoon read.’

  — Books + Publishing

  ‘A witty, warm and wise story of how embracing the new with an open heart can transform your life.’

  — Herald Sun

  ‘…a moving, feel-good read…a warm and uplifting novel of second chances and love old and new in a story of unlikely dining companions thrown together on a glamorous cruise.’

  — Sunday Mail, Adelaide

  ‘A wonderful story of friendships, heartbreak and second chances that may change your life.’

  — Beauty & Lace

  ‘Stringer’s inviting new novel is sprinkled with moments of self reflection, relationship building, friendships and love.’

  — Mrs B’s Book Reviews

  ‘…a really moving tale…This truly was a delightful read that left me with that feel-good happy sigh…be enticed by this tale of love and laughter, trauma and tears, reflection and resolution.’

  — The Royal Reviews

  ‘This winner from Tricia Stringer…is a light-hearted and easy-to-read novel with twists and turns along the way…enjoyable and fun.’

  — The Black and White Guide

  ‘Tricia has no trouble juggling a large cast and ensuring we get to know and connect with them…captivated me start to finish; if it wasn’t the wishing myself on board for a relaxing and pampered break from reality, it was connecting with the characters and hoping they managed to find what they were looking for. Definitely a book I didn’t want to put down!’

  — Beauty & Lace

  ‘A heart-warming novel that celebrates friendships old and new, reminding us that it’s never too late to try again…If you enjoy stories that explore connections between people and pay tribute to the endurance of love and friendship, you will love Stringer’s new novel. Table For Eight is a beautiful book…If you’re looking for a getaway but don’t quite have the time or funds, look no further – this book is your next holiday. Pull up a deck chair and enjoy.’

  — Better Reading

  About the Author

  TRICIA STRINGER is a bestselling and multiple award-winning author. Her books include Table for Eight, and the rural romances Queen of the Road, Right as Rain, Riverboat Point, Between the Vines, A Chance of Stormy Weather, Come Rain or Shine and Something in the Wine. She has also published a historical saga; Heart of the Country, Dust on the Horizon and Jewel in the North are set in the unforgiving landscape of nineteenth-century Flinders Ranges. Tricia grew up on a farm in country South Australia and has spent most of her life in rural communities, as owner of a post office and bookshop, as a teacher and librarian, and now as a full-time writer. She lives in the beautiful Copper Coast region with her husband Daryl, travelling and exploring Australia’s diverse communities and landscapes, and sharing her passion for the country and its people through her authentic stories and their vivid characters.

  For further information go to triciastringer.com or connect with Tricia on Facebook, Instagram @triciastringerauthor or Twitter @tricia_stringer

  Also by Tricia Stringer

  Queen of the Road

  Right as Rain

  Riverboat Point

  Between the Vines

  A Chance of Stormy Weather

  Come Rain or Shine

  Something in the Wine

  The Flinders Ranges Series

  Heart of the Country

  Dust on the Horizon

  Jewel in the North

  Table for Eight

  The Model Wife

  Tricia Stringer

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  For Alexandra

  The Model Wife

  by

  Mrs Gladys Norman

  London 1928

  In my role as a surgeon’s wife I have managed a busy household, raised three children and maintained a healthy happy marriage.

  I feel it my bounden duty to offer the benefit of my wisdom and experience for new brides here in the pages of this book.

  Contents

  Praise

  About the Author

  Also by Tricia Stringer

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Natalie King put her shoulder against the wooden door and shoved it open, then cringed at the shuddering bang it made against the solid wall. Another dent in the hundred-year-old plaster. Milt kept promising he’d install a new stopper, just like he’d promised to replace the window runners in the bedrooms and the warped kitchen door.

  The warmer air inside was a relief from the chilly wind gusting across the dry paddocks. It was already late May but so far there’d been no rain of any significance. She kicked the door shut behind her and made her way along the scuffed wooden floor of the passage to the kitchen. In one hand she clutched a basket filled with exercise books and in the other a bag of shopping and her handbag. Both loads threatened to pull her arms from their sockets.

  In the kitchen the old black-and-white cat rose from its position in front of the vestiges of a fire in the slow-combustion stove.

  “What are you doing still inside, Bubbles?”

  The cat stretched and blinked sleepy eyes at her.

  Natalie’s mobile began to ring. She dumped her basket and the bag of groceries on the big wooden table, clear except for a small vase of gerberas in the centre with a scrap of paper beside it, and dug in her bag for the phone.

  “Hello.”

  “Mum, are you free to talk?”

  Natalie held her breath. She knew the waver in her youngest daughter’s voice well. “What’s up, Laura?” She kept her own voice light.

  “Nothing.” The response was a little too happy; the pause too brief. “I just wanted to know if you were home over the weekend. I thought I’d come up.”

  “Of course. Your dad and I will be. I’m not sure what Bree’s plans are. It’d be lovely to see you.” Natalie allowed herself to relax. Perhaps no crisis after all. “Bringing anyone with you?” Laura’s visits usually involved one, often two girlfriends; girls from the city who played at being farm girls as they fed animals and rode motorbikes.

  “No, just me.”

  Natalie picked up the scrap of paper lying beside the flowers and realised it was a piece of an old envelope and on it was a scribbled list. Landmark was written in Milt’s bold hand at the top. No doubt another job to add to her string of after-school duties tomorrow.

  “Shall I cook lasagne?” she asked.

  “Only if you want. I’ll see you Thursday. Bye, Mum.”

  “Bye, darling.” Natalie stared at the screen a moment. Laura’s phone calls were usually half an hour long at least, full of the minutest details of her day. Perhaps she was tir
ed. That might explain the off-note in her voice and her indifference to the offer of her favourite meal. Although now that she thought about it, Laura’s phone calls had been fewer and shorter for a while and…Natalie tapped her finger against her lips trying to remember the last time her youngest had been home to the farm for a visit…her granny’s birthday. That had been nearly two months ago.

  Natalie flicked on the kettle and rolled up the blind. The late-afternoon sunlight streamed in from the side verandah, highlighting the golden honey glow of the solid pine cupboards as well as the crumbs and smudges on the worn laminex bench, left by whatever Milt and Bree had eaten for lunch. She turned away from the mess and back to the window, and looked out over her patch of brightly coloured gerberas and the hedge of rosemary, beyond the rusting wire fence and the barren outer yard towards the sheds. There’d been no dogs to greet her and Milt’s ute wasn’t anywhere to be seen as she’d driven in. He and Bree must still be off in a paddock somewhere.

  Behind her the house phone rang. She strode across the kitchen to the desk in the corner and plucked the handset from the cradle.

  “Hello, Natalie speaking.”

  “Terry Porter here from Landmark Agricultural Services. Is Milt available?”

  Natalie took a breath. She’d known Terry for ten years and what Landmark was at least twice as long but he was always so formal on the phone. “Hello, Terry. Milt’s not in yet. Can I help?”

  “When will he be home?”

  Natalie gritted her teeth and glanced at the clock. “Not for a few more hours, I expect.”

  “I’ve left a message on his mobile.”

  “He’ll get it when he’s back in range then. Do you want to leave a message with me?”

  “Just get him to call me back. Thanks, Natalie.” The line went dead.

  Natalie shook her head as she replaced the handset. Terry always insisted on speaking to Milt and the two of them would play phone chasey for days. If only he trusted the woman of the house with a simple message it would save a lot of trouble. She wrote a note on the whiteboard on the wall beside the desk and busied herself putting away the groceries, turning her thoughts to what she might cook. Laura hadn’t been home for such a long time. Natalie wanted to make some of her favourites.

  Part way through wiping down the bench she paused. Laura had said see you Thursday. That was a day earlier than usual. She had a full-time job at a city hairdresser. Her long hours earned her the odd Friday afternoon and weekend off. The wavering note in Laura’s voice replayed in her head but she pushed it away. If there was something wrong Natalie would find out all about it on Thursday. She fed the cat and stacked the small pile of mail, all envelopes with windows, between the vase and Milt’s list. Then, with a cup of tea in hand, she settled at the kitchen table, her basket on the floor and the stack of exercise books in a pile beside her.

  The table was a big one and yet they’d filled it. She glanced around, picturing her three girls sitting at the solid pine top doing their homework or playing cards, talking about their day, squabbling and laughing; Milt’s mum, Olive, presiding over them as if she was mistress of the manor, while Natalie cooked dinner for them all and her father-in-law, Clem, with his slow nod and twinkling smile sat at the head of the table taking it all in.

  Dear Clem. Perhaps that was why she was feeling a little melancholy. She’d realised when she’d looked at the calendar this morning that a year had gone by since he’d died. They’d had a special bond, not father and daughter but very good friends. She wondered if Milt remembered the date. Neither of them had said anything.

  A year ago today Milt had been the one to find his father sitting on the side verandah in his old wicker chair, just resting his eyes, as he liked to say when he dozed off. Only this time his eyes were permanently closed, never to rest his kindly gaze on any of them again. Milt had been a rock for his mother, for all of them, but when they were in bed after the long days of dealing with the sorrow and the quagmire of paperwork, Natalie would hold him close while his silent tears washed his cheeks. They didn’t talk about it, it wasn’t Milt’s way to talk openly about his feelings, but she knew he’d been hurting badly. She wondered if he still had the unexpected stabs of memory, the surge of loss that she did from time to time.

  She pushed back from her chair, the exercise books unopened, and looked around her neat kitchen. She had a sudden urge to bake; even though her freezer was full of food ready for the extra mouths to be fed during lamb tailing she knew Laura would appreciate some fresh home-baked goodies.

  Natalie went to the little desk in the corner of the kitchen and rummaged through her shelf of cookbooks. She had a mind to make a caramel shortbread slice. The recipe, a favourite of Laura’s, was in a church ladies guild compilation crammed with old favourites.

  When it wasn’t among the cookbooks on the shelf above, she pulled open the drawer below. It came part way out then jammed. She tugged, to no avail, then reached in and felt something stuck at the back. Wiggling out one item at a time, she soon had a pile of well-thumbed school fundraisers and CWA cookbooks. At last the book at the back came free. Her heart skipped a beat as she stared at the little red book in her hand. How on earth had that got in this drawer?

  She stared down at its faded cover, more maroon now than its former vibrant red. The title had been embossed into the leather and was almost rubbed off but Natalie knew what it said. The Model Wife. The book had originally belonged to Milt’s grandmother who had passed it on to Olive as a young bride. Natalie remembered the first time she’d seen it. Olive had given it to her when she was pregnant with Kate. Natalie was still at the feeling nauseous stage and not full of the joy of expectant motherhood she’d observed in her friends. She had laughed when Olive had handed the book to her, thinking it was a joke to cheer her up – until she’d seen the serious look on her mother-in-law’s face.

  Now she sunk to the chair. One hand clutched the book and the other hovered over the cover. She felt the gnaw of anxiety in the pit of her stomach. Finding the book again was a bad omen, surely, if she believed in those things. She drew a breath, whipped it open and immediately she was back to the night she’d shown it to Milt.

  They’d just hopped into bed. She’d hidden the book under the sheet and swept it out to show Milt as if she was letting a genie out of a bottle. Little did she know she was letting something out, but it wasn’t a kind genie. She could still hear the laughter that had been in her voice.

  “Look what your mother gave me today.”

  “An old book.” Milt’s tone was sceptical.

  “It was your grandmother’s.”

  He took it from her. “The Model Wife.” Then he looked at her with that rakish gleam in his eye that turned her insides to mush. “I’ve got one of those already.”

  “Look inside,” she urged then rested her chin on his shoulder and cuddled against his naked back as they both read the writing on the flyleaf.

  The top inscription was in fading brown ink. For my daughter Charlotte on the occasion of her marriage to Thomas King with all my love Mother. October 1935. Olive had told her Charlotte was Olive’s mother-in-law who had come from England to marry Thomas King, a man she hardly knew. Underneath was another neatly written message, in blue ink this time. To Olive my new daughter-in-law with best wishes for a happy marriage from Charlotte. April 1957. And then in black biro written in Olive’s tidy cursive: To Natalie, welcome to the family from Olive. July 1985.

  “I didn’t know Mum had this.” Milt traced his finger gently down the page. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen it.”

  “It’s meant for the women in the family.”

  “Why didn’t she give it to Connie then?”

  “She said it should go to the eldest and if the eldest was a boy then to his wife.” Olive had explained that when Natalie had asked the same question. Natalie thought it was more about Olive thinking Connie already had all the makings of a model wife, qualities Natalie apparently lacked.

  Mi
lt turned to the contents page, glanced down then turned to the first chapter and roared with laughter.

  “A Husband is Master.”

  “Yes, my lord,” she said in a subservient voice and laughed too. She snuggled closer, enjoying the intimacy they only had alone at night. The quarters where they slept had originally been fully separate, but years earlier when the house roof had been replaced it had been extended to include the old quarters, which now connected via a door to the main passage. Even though it was basic Natalie had thought of it as her haven.

  Milt and his father worked long hours on their property and she’d found it hard to get used to. Teaching filled her week but she was often home before Milt, even with the hour drive from town. When she got home she did her prep for the next day and then helped Olive prepare the evening meal. Not that she had to do much. It was usually meat and three veg followed by some kind of dessert, often fruit and ice cream.

  “The model wife loves her husband truly,” Milt read on, “and does not highlight his faults. She accepts her husband’s demands and never criticises, argues or speaks disparagingly. The master of the house has the right to expect good health, good habits, and a sound knowledge of housekeeping in all of its phases from his wife who must provide for his every desire.” He wriggled his eyebrows up and down then went on again. “She shows affection, but never in public and is always attentive. If she is frigid she should not be in a hurry to inform her husband. To him it makes no difference in the pleasurableness of the act. Heed this advice. It has saved many women from trouble.” He frowned at her. “Is this for real?”

  “I guess it was in your grandmother’s day.”

  “I think I’ll like this book if chapter one is anything to go by.” Milt’s voice was low, his words rumbling through her thin nightie and to her skin.

  She snuggled closer. “I thought you would.” She truly did love Milt, truly, truly, more now than when they’d married three years earlier, and she thought she was doing a good job of providing for his every desire – up to a point. “I’m the model wife already,” she chirped.