by Barbara Wood
The room contained stranger things still, which had come not from Scotland but from here in Australia. They were weapons of war and magic, and Judd knew that they had once belonged to Aborigines, and that they contained great power, because old Ezekiel, the black tracker, had told him so. The spirits of slain animals, Ezekiel had explained, lived in the wood of the spear, the boomerang, and the possum-skin drum. But most powerful of all was the tjuringa, which, Ezekiel had said, contained someone's soul. Judd was afraid of the tjuringa, and he never walked near it, in case the soul should reach out to grab him. But Judd's father was proud of these possessions, and he brought visitors into this room, which was his study, to boast about his collection.
Judd stood there uneasily on this October afternoon, and tried to pay attention while his father talked.
Colin was telling his son about the heroism of a MacGregor at the Battle of Culloden: "There was Robert MacGregor, cornered and without a weapon, who seized the shaft of a wagon and killed eight of Cumberland's men before he himself was killed. And you'll go there someday, son. I'll show you the place where Duncan, the fourth chief of Kilmarnock, slew a wild bull and cut off its horn. This horn, Judd," Colin said, showing it to the boy. Colin handled it proudly; for centuries young MacGregors had had to prove their manhood by draining this horn filled with claret. And the MacGregor coat of arms had a bull's head and the motto "Stand Fast."
But Judd wasn't sure that he ever wanted to go Scotland. His father had described Scotland as a place of mists and monsters that lived in the lochs, of the restless spirits of Celtic chieftains, and of seals who turned themselves into women to bewitch innocent men.
Worst of all, there were the ghosts and ghoulies which Judd decided must be very populous in Scotland, because his grandmother, Lady Ann, had sent him a sampler from Kilmarnock Castle in Scotland, which read: "From ghosties and ghoulies, and things that go bump in the night, may the Good Lord protect us."
While Colin told his son about the great clan battles and the brave chiefs who had resided at Kilmarnock Castle for seven hundred years, Judd's eyes strayed to the open window, where sunshine pierced the branches of elms and alders. He wanted to be out there, on the open plains beneath the hot sun, where the kookaburra laughed and kangaroos seemed to sail in great arcs against the sky.
Colin didn't notice his son's distraction. He was thinking of his ancestral home, the island of Skye in the Inner Hebrides, the "mild winter isle," fifty miles from tip to tip, where Bonnie Prince Charlie had once found refuge before leaving Scotland forever. It was the isle of red deer and golden eagles, and deep woods and clear streams; of the thrush singing after sunset, and bats winging from a haunted church; Skye, stern and wild, a land of heather and bracken and springy turf; of granite peaks, snow-water lakes and inland bogs, and sea inlets that were deep, like fjords. And of Kilmarnock Castle, a large and formidable fortress stronghold on a rocky promontory, home of MacGregors since the eleventh century, when Scotland had been called Caledonia.
Colin often dreamed of home, where the white-tailed eagle soared upon a six-foot wingspan, and a mythical prehistoric monster swam the cold, dark depths of Loch Kilmarnock. Colin longed to speak Gaelic again, "the language of the heart," and to watch the winter mists gather around the austere summits of the Black Cuillins.
Colin had left home when he was nineteen, twenty years ago, and he and his father, Sir Robert, had argued over the issue of clearances. The elder MacGregor had wanted to evict tenant farmers to make room for wool and mutton production, while young Colin had sided with the ousted farmers. Colin had lost, and had passionately vowed never to return. But finally he had gone back, eight years ago, homesick for Skye. His father would not receive him, but his mother, Lady Ann, had treated Colin kindly, and had sent him away with the heirlooms that now adorned his study. Colin did not consider the journey a waste, since now he possessed the treasures of his heritage, and also because he had brought home a bride.
Colin stared at his son and thought, how like Christina he is. With each passing year, Judd MacGregor grew more and more into the image of his mother. He had her sun-white hair, the periwinkle blue eyes, the delicately clefted chin. Colin saw nothing of himself in the boy; there was no sign of Colin MacGregor's jet-black hair or dark, hooded eyes. And Judd's little-boy lips were already full and pouty like Christina's, his chin soft and rounded like a cherub's, whereas Colin's mouth was a thin hard line, his jaw prominent and square.
"Some day, son," Colin said. "You are going to be the laird of Kilmarnock. When my father dies, I will become the laird. But after me, comes you. And you will inherit all this."
But Judd wasn't sure he wanted to inherit "all this."
There was a knock at the door, and the butler appeared. "Dr. Ramsey said you may go up now, Mr. MacGregor."
Father and son went upstairs, and when they entered the bedroom, Colin went straight to Christina and sat on the edge of the chaise lounge. "How are you feeling, my dear?"
Christina was reclining against satin pillows with a fox fur blanket over her legs. The curtains were drawn against the sunlight; but the glow from the oil lamps illuminated a pale complexion and blond hair. "I feel fine, darling," she said. "I'm not ill. I'm just going to have a baby."
Colin looked at David Ramsey, who, with his reddish hair and lanky frame, looked too young to be a physician. "How is she, doctor?" Colin asked.
"Your wife has what is called an incompetent cervix, Mr. MacGregor," Ramsey said, as he folded away his stethoscope. "Which means that her womb might not be able to support a baby. I could operate, but sometimes surgery triggers a miscarriage. I recommend complete bed rest, limited activities and absolutely no stress."
Although the diagnosis sounded alarming, Colin found it reassuring nonetheless. There was comfort in scientific facts, as opposed to old Doc Fuller's attribution of Christina's previous miscarriages to full moons and goosedown in the pillows. Colin was glad now that he had taken John Reed's advice and sent for David Ramsey, for all his youth and recent graduation from medical school.
Colin took his wife's hands and searched her face. After eight years of marriage, she still possessed the enchantment that had won him over one magical evening in Glasgow. Colin was beside himself with worry. This dangerous pregnancy had not been his idea. After giving birth to Judd, Christina had suffered two miscarriages and one stillbirth. Against Colin's better judgment and fears, she had persuaded him to let her try again for a child. He prayed now that he would not regret it.
The butler came in, bearing a card on a tray. "You have a caller, madam," he said, handing the card to Christina.
"No," Colin said. "No callers."
"Oh, but Colin dear, it's Pauline Downs. I would love to see her."
"It's all right, Mr. MacGregor," Dr. Ramsey said. "Your wife can have visitors, so long as they don't tax her or excite her."
"You must take care of yourself and the bairn," Colin said to Christina. "I could not bear to lose you. Without you, Christina, my life would not be worth living."
Pauline came in then, and saw Colin kiss his wife, and heard him say to her, "When you're well enough, my love, I'll take you and the bairns home for a visit. We'll see the moonlight on the heather, and we'll stay at the inn where we spent our first night together as husband and wife." Pauline thought: It will be like this with Hugh and me.
"Pauline," Christina said. "How nice of you to come. Please sit down. Have you met Dr. Ramsey? Dr. Ramsey, Miss Pauline Downs. Colin, will you please ring for tea?"
"I hear Westbrook has got himself a son now, too," Colin said to Pauline as he went to the bell pull. "Still, it's not the same as having your own, is it?"
Pauline didn't care for Colin MacGregor, but she conceded that he did have the darkly handsome looks of a Celtic highlander. She knew several women in the district who had expressed the secret desire to know him "better."
"Speaking of Hugh, have you seen this?" Christina said, as she handed a newspaper to Pauline. "You mu
st be very proud of him."
Pauline had already seen the poem that Frank had printed on the front page of the Times. It was Hugh's latest ballad, "Droving Days," which he had published, like the rest of his poems, under the pseudonym "Old Drover":
The dust is blowing in the Southern Land,
The dust that follows ten thousand head,
Over the black soil, over the sand,
Over the ridges red.
Hugh is too modest, Pauline thought, I must convince him to publish under his real name.
"How are you feeling, Christina?" she said. "I heard from Maude Reed that you've been having morning sickness."
"And afternoon and evening sickness!" Christina said with a smile. "But I'm feeling better today, as I was just telling Dr. Ramsey. This was sent over yesterday." She handed Pauline a small stoppered phial.
Pauline uncorked it and sniffed the aromatic decoction it contained. "Chamomile?" she said.
"And black horehound and meadowsweet," Dr. Ramsey added, "with a touch of cloves. A rather effective remedy for morning sickness."
"Who sent it?" Pauline said,
Christina handed her the note that had accompanied the phial.
Pauline stared at it. The writing clearly belonged to a lady, and it was signed, "Joanna Drury, Merinda."
"Miss Drury certainly has an impressive familiarity with herbs," Dr. Ramsey said. "I encountered her the other day at Thompson's chemist's shop in Cameron Town. She was buying such a variety of things and in such large quantities that I asked her what she planned to use it all for. She told me that she keeps a supply of everything on hand, should the need arise. Apparently her mother had been something of a healer. Maude Reed was in the shop, telling Winifred Cameron about Mrs. MacGregor's morning sickness. Miss Drury must have taken it upon herself to have this decoction sent over."
"And I feel so much better," Christina said. "I must thank her."
"I'll be glad to take a message to Miss Drury for you, Mrs. MacGregor," Ramsey quickly offered. "I'll be passing by Merinda tomorrow, on my way to Horsham."
"Phoebe McCloud told me that Miss Drury was hired by Hugh Westbrook to take care of the orphaned boy he inherited," Christina said. "What is she like, Dr. Ramsey?"
"What is Miss Drury like?" he said, and Pauline noticed how he blushed.
As she listened to David Ramsey speak rather self-consciously of the "lovely and ladylike Miss Drury," Pauline looked at the note. She read again the correct salutation and closing, the perfect spelling and punctuation, all written in a delicate hand.
The butler appeared again with another calling card. "Miss Flora McMichaels to see you, madam," he said.
"This is too much," Colin said.
But Christina asked the butler to bring Miss McMichaels in.
Feeling suddenly disconcerted by this new information about Joanna Drury, Pauline turned to David Ramsey and said with a smile, "How do you find life in the Western District, doctor? After Melbourne, we must seem very dreary."
"Hardly dreary, Miss Downs! Since my arrival five weeks ago, I have barely had a moment to myself. Especially now, during shearing. We learned about shearing accidents in medical school, of course, but I had no idea what a dangerous occupation it really is."
A large woman entered the room, in a crinoline so wide that it threatened to knock over several small tables that were standing about. "Christina, my dear!" she said as she glided to the chaise longue with her hands extended. "I heard from Maude Reed that you're not feeling well. We can't have that, can we? I've brought you just the thing."
Pauline watched as Flora McMichaels placed a wicker basket on the floor and began to produce jars and tins, and cakes wrapped in cloth. "You must keep up your strength," Miss McMichaels said, but Pauline noticed that she kept her eyes on Colin while she spoke.
Pauline felt her uneasiness grow. Flora McMichaels, who was a bit too loud and who was obvious about her infatuation with Colin, was the embodiment of Pauline's secret fear—the one creature in the world who frightened her. It was not so much the woman herself that Pauline felt threatened by, but what she stood for. People regarded spinsters as unfortunate women who had somehow failed to get themselves a man. They were condemned to lives of loneliness and secondary status, to become the maiden aunts whom every family supported with begrudging charity.
Pauline didn't like being around such women, they disquieted her, their very presence a reminder of how unpredictable life can be—and how unjust. No woman asked for such a fate. Pauline knew that Flora McMichaels had once been a very pretty and lively young woman, engaged to be married to a well-liked young man from a good family. But Flora lost her fiance in a hunting accident on the eve of her wedding, and now, thirty years later, she was privately referred to by her friends as "Poor Flora."
Such a fate, Pauline knew, could strike any woman at any time, and she would be helpless to prevent it. As she watched Flora McMichaels smile coyly at Colin, Pauline thought of desperate women, and she wondered if Joanna Drury was such a one. Miss Drury was living at Merinda, in Hugh's cabin. "I've moved into the bunkhouse," Hugh had told Pauline. But that brought little reassurance now.
And then Pauline remembered how agitated Hugh had been the night he had returned from Melbourne, three days ago, talking about a lice infestation in his best wool producers, and the possibility of financial problems. Pauline hadn't thought anything of it at the time, but now she was hearing it in a different way: Hugh had almost seemed to be warning her that he might not be able to build the house.
Pauline realized the mistake she had made, that she had been complacent when she should have been vigilant. Suddenly Joanna Drury was no longer a hired nanny; she was an opponent.
"The real reason I came by, Christina dear," Pauline said suddenly, interrupting the talkative Flora, "is to invite you and Colin and Judd to a party I am giving next week for Adam, the little boy Hugh has taken in. I thought it would be nice to introduce him to the Western District, and let him get to know us, and us get to know him."
"How lovely," Christina said. "And how kind of you, Pauline. The poor child must feel very lost. Colin dear, we must see to it that Judd makes friends with Hugh's boy. And where is Judd? Where is my baby?" Christina said. "Come here, darling."
Judd left his place in the corner and buried himself in his mother's embrace. He knew she must be very sick, because of the careful way everyone was treating her.
"Yes," Pauline said, as the idea rapidly took shape in her mind. "It will be a garden party. I plan to have clowns and a magician, and Adam can make friends with the other children." And he will have presents to open, Pauline decided. He will be given his own pony and cart, he can have all the sweets he wants and I'll prepare a room for him at Lismore and fill it with toys. When the time comes to leave, he won't want to go back to Merinda. He'll want to stay at Lismore with me.
And the services of Joanna Drury will no longer be required.
SIX
S
OMETHING STRANGE WAS GOING ON, JOANNA WAS CERTAIN OF it. She had come out onto the veranda and found a cluster of feathers, carefully tied together with string, lying in front of the door.
This was not the first time such a thing had happened. In the two weeks since she had arrived at Merinda, she had come across strange objects: shiny river stones placed mysteriously on the outside windowsill; wild flowers lined up on the top step of the veranda; and, two days ago, a circlet woven from river grass and human hair hanging on the front door. And now these feathers. Who was placing these things here, and why? She looked around the busy yard, where frightened sheep were being funneled into chutes that led to the shearing pens. The noise and the smell were almost overpowering.
The shearing gang had arrived the day after Joanna had come to Merinda, and she had discovered that these three weeks each November were the reason for everything else that went on at a station throughout the rest of the year. This was when the sheep were shorn, and the wool was shipped to England. Shearing
season meant late nights and early mornings, hard work and stolen sleep, food grabbed on the run and a suspension of all activities until the shearing gang moved on and the wool was shipped to the harbor. In all that time, Joanna had seen Hugh only when he had come by the cabin each night to ask how Adam was doing, and to make sure that she and the child were comfortable.
Joanna stood on the veranda, and studied the feathers she had found in front of the door. They were cockatoo feathers, a lovely delicate pink with a hint of yellow at the tips, and they had been carefully tied together with a thin strip of bark. There were three of them, just as there had been three river stones, and three wild flowers. There was no doubt about it—someone had gone to the trouble of collecting them, and then placing them where they would be found. But who was doing it, and for what reason?
As she puzzled over it, she watched Adam run about chasing chickens. The scab was gone from his forehead, and there had been no more fits, no repeat of the headbanging episode. To a stranger, he might in fact appear to be a normal, healthy boy. But a stranger didn't see the torturous way Adam sometimes looked when he was trying hard to say something; a stranger didn't see the way the child suddenly fell into silence, just staring; a stranger wasn't awakened at night by Adam crying out in his sleep.
Watching him run made Joanna think of the toys that lay neglected in the cabin. She had bought them from Mr. Shapiro, the old peddler who made regular rounds through the district with his colorfully painted wagon drawn by an ancient horse named Pinky, and who sold everything from calico to "genuine Arabian perfume." Joanna had mainly bought items for the cabin—a hooked rug, a ceramic teapot, curtains for the window—but she had also bought a kite and a ball. To her surprise, Adam received them with indifference; and then she realized that he was unused to toys, that he had, in fact, never had any toys before. He preferred to play with nature. He paddled in the billabong, and spent hours watching the platypus skim the bottom for food. He carried Rupert around a lot, but the ball and the kite lay untouched. Joanna had tried several ways to reach Adam, to find the key to his private torment, but she had so far been unsuccessful. When she had shown him his mother's Bible and wedding ring, he had burst into tears.
