by Dorothy Cork
That morning as she told Ellen and Ruth what she wanted them to do in the house, she was aware she felt differently about it all. She was going to be the Missus here—the real Missus. This was going to be her house, her home. Her children would grow up here. This would be her kitchen—she could reorganise it as she chose without wondering if Mrs Wilson would mind.
She could hardly wait for the girls to go so that she could be on her own and take a long leisurely look around and decide on any alterations she was going to make. `I'm going to live here—for always,' she kept reminding herself, and wondered why she felt deep down so unconvinced. Perhaps it was that little matter of love and romance. Did he believe that love was more than sexual attraction? And did he feel more than that for Edie Asher? Rather glumly, she admitted it was hardly likely. But surely it would work out somehow—it would have to. After all, she loved him—hopelessly, madly.
She was walking past Drew's office after the house girls had gone when she paused, and on impulse opened the door. All the packets and parcels that had been on the desk yesterday had gone. He'd have taken them out to the camp with him this morning—or over to the women in the bungalows, the women whom soon
she would have to get to know, now that she was really going to belong here. The
, letters, too, had gone, all excepting a small pile that must belong to Drew.
Edie moved further into the room. He'd said last night he'd had a letter from his aunt, from Ireland—to let him know what was happening on the other side of the world. Almost without thinking, Edie picked up the letters and thumbed quickly through them, looking for one with an Irish stamp. Laurel was in Ireland, Mickie had said, so surely Drew's aunt would have sent him news of her. The minute this thought entered her head, Edie felt unbearably curious. Her fingers began to tremble, and when she didn't find the letter she wanted she felt both baffled and frustrated. She flicked through the letters again. On most of them the address was typewritten and Drew had scribbled something on an envelope here and there. Of course !— they were all business letters. His aunt's was the only personal mail he had received, so it would be somewhere else. Where?
After a second she opened the drawer of the desk—guiltily, her heart beating fast. Incredibly it was there—an envelope that bore a stamp marked Eire, with an intricate Celtic design, no doubt from the Book of Kells. It was postmarked Limerick, and as she held it in her hand she fought a brief battle with herself as to whether or not she should open it. It was despicable to read someone else's personal mail—it was unforgivable. It was the kind of thing one simply didn't do. Yet he'd read the letter she'd written to Barb last night—even though she hadn't wanted him to read it, hadn't given him permission. It wasn't quite the same thing, of course, but it was an approximation. His excuse had been that he wanted to know what was going on in her
mind. Well, she wanted to know something too—something, anything—about Laurel.
She gave in to temptation and drew the folded pages from the envelope. She hated herself, despised herself, for doing it, but she did it all the same.
His aunt's handwriting was large and showy and quite easy to read, and her eyes skimmed over it with guilty speed. 'Dear Drew,' she read, 'I'm afraid I have some bad news for you. Laurel won't be coming back. In fact, by the time this letter reaches you, she'll be married to Greg. I'll admit I'm delighted, it's something I've always wanted, and I believe it would have happened years ago if you hadn't come between them. However, Laurel and Greg apart, I suppose the greatest blow to you will be losing the cattle station after all your determined efforts to commandeer it regardless of the rights of anyone else. I shouldn't need to remind you that Dhoora Dhoora was Greg's and my home for twelve years—and that I looked after Philip all that time. But for your influence, he would have married me, and that would have settled a number of things.
`However, it's all ending the way it should, thanks be, and I'll admit now that my motive in inviting Laurel to visit us was to give her a fair chance to decide who she really wanted, you or Greg—and incidentally, who's to have D.D., you or my son. Laurel loves it in Limerick as much as we do, and Greg will probably put D.D. up for sale and invest the money in the bloodstock farm we've acquired. One reason I'm telling you all this is to give you the opportunity of raising the money if you wish to buy the property. If you can't make it, or don't want to, I'm sure you'll be able to stay on as manager as it will probably be bought by one of the big pastoral companies ...'
Edie didn't read the rest. She had enough to digest
and she felt slightly sick as she folded the pages and put them back in the envelope. She put the letter carefully back in the desk, closed the drawer, and sank down into Drew's chair. She'd learned all she wanted and more. She knew now that Drew must have been hoping Laurel would come back to him. It had been outside his power to decide that, but he'd out-manoeuvred them all when it came to Dhoora Dhoora. Drew was clearly the winner there. Even if he were to lose the girl, he'd made sure that he'd keep the property. That was why he had married—temporarily—Alfreda Asher. Who, if Laurel were to come back, could quickly be dispensed with.
And Alfreda Asher now knew exactly why he had been drinking whisky last night. He had been drowning his sorrows. And he had asked her to marry him—in fact as well as in name—because he'd lost Laurel. While her heart ached for him, it ached for herself as well. She was still going to marry him even though she knew now that not one part of him belonged to her. No wonder he hadn't wanted to go into the metaphysics of love !
She cooked him a beautiful, exquisite dinner that night as if to help make up for what he had lost. Or was it to show him that he was getting quite a prize after all—a wife who could cook? Edie wasn't sure and she didn't care. She knew she was an idiot and she knew he didn't love her, and she knew most of all that she couldn't bear never to see him again.
Besides, in a way he needed her now. Wasn't that something?
He praised her for the meal, but it didn't give her much of a thrill. She discovered she felt constrained with him, knowing what she now knew, and it was a relief when he said he was going into the office—to
catch up on some paper work, and to ring through to the outstation, or so he said.
`Oh, please give Mickie my love,' Edie said with a smile that she hoped didn't look as forced as it felt.
`I'll do that,' he agreed, and paused before leaving the room. 'By the way, I was talking to Frank Wilson today.'
`Oh. How is Mrs Wilson?'
`Fine—she's doing very nicely. Frank wanted to check up if it would be okay for her to spend two or three weeks with her sister over at the coast before she comes back.'
`That sounds a good idea,' Edie said cheerfully—and waited for him to ask her if she'd still be around. But he didn't. He smiled and continued on his way from the dining room.
Edie felt deflated. She'd have thought he'd want to know. It was as if last night had never happened, and she began to wonder if all those whiskies he'd drunk had made him say things he didn't remember. But most probably he simply wasn't in the mood for Edie. He was suffering still from the blow of knowing he'd lost Laurel irrevocably. Nothing she could say would make up for that, not even if she loved him a thousand times more than Laurel ever had.
She kept herself busy next day, working in the garden, so she'd be tired and maybe sleep well. The night was more or less a repetition of the previous one, with Drew doing a disappearing act so that once dinner was over she was on her own again. But this time, as he rose from the table, he said almost briskly, `I'll want your answer tomorrow night, Edie. Three days is enough.'
Her heart thumped and she looked across at him as he stood behind his chair at the dining table. She was
about to load some dishes on to a tray to take out to the kitchen and she put them down. Her lips parted, but on the point of telling him, 'I've decided now', she found she couldn't do it. Not—cold like that. Not while there was that guarded, closed look in his eyes. She needed some w
armth—some—some come-on sign from him. Some encouragement, some enthusiasm, some indication that he wanted her to say yes. She wanted his touch, his kiss, his assurance of—of something, even though she couldn't expect assurance of love. In bed together in the middle of the outback, he'd said, love will come. But had he meant that she'd learn to love him? Or that they'd learn to love each other? 'Kiss me,' she implored him silently. 'Kiss me, so I can tell you yes.'
He said almost irritably as she stared at him dumbly, Well, what's the matter? You know what I'm talking about, don't you?'
She nodded and picked up the dishes again. 'Yes, of course, Drew. I promise I'll tell you tomorrow night.' `You'd better,' he said coolly, and went on his way.
Next morning Edie dismissed Ruth and Ellen as soon as they'd done the dishes. She wanted to be by herself. She had some more thinking to do, because tonight she had to give Drew her answer and it was going to affect the rest of both their lives. It was going to be hard. She knew she was poor compensation for the loss of Laurel—not even second best, just someone who'd answered an ad. She'd have been a lot happier if she'd never read that letter, but accepted his assurance at its face value—that there was no one else. Sex can't take the place of love, she thought tiredly. Not even in the life of a man as strong and masculine as Drew. It was all very chastening and she felt herself of no account. Though she could give him her own love, she couldn't
stir it in his heart. She could try, of course. She would have to try. If they were going on with the marriage it was no use taking a defeatist attitude.
With sudden determination she put on her sun hat and went into the garden to cut some roses—red roses, for the dinner table. When she brought them inside, she put them in a deep bowl of water in the laundry, away from the heat of the day. Then she went to her bedroom to decide what she'd wear for dinner—and for later, when she told him she'd marry him. Or at least, when she gave him permission to make love to her, she corrected herself wryly. She'd be romantic, she decided —she'd stir him up, quite deliberately. She chose a long flowered skirt, a creamy silk blouse with a plunging neckline; and she'd wear a red rose. She held the blouse up to herself and studied her reflection—her dark eyes, the dark swathe of hair falling over her shoulder—and another image came into her mind—blonde, laughing. Well, it was good they were so different. At least she'd never catch Drew looking at her and thinking he could see Laurel there.
Presently, barefooted for coolness and with one of Mrs Wilson's big aprons on over bra and briefs plus a cotton scarf tied over her hair, she did some dusting and polishing. She was in the kitchen, repapering some shelves, having removed the mixing bowls and other kitchen crockery they contained, when she became vaguely aware that she'd heard the sound of a car outside.
Was it Drew? Come back because he couldn't wait till tonight? Positively not because of that, but all the same the colour rushed to her cheeks and she thought in dismay of the scantiness of her clothing under the apron. There was no chance of making a dash for her bedroom, for already she heard footsteps and within
seconds there was somebody in the doorway.
Edie stared. Her heart pounded and then seemed to stop. It had taken her only one shocked second to recognise Laurel Clarkson, and she stared and stared, like a rabbit hypnotized by a snake. Laurel stared back at her. Her eyes were blue and a little hard, her fair hair was beautiful, immaculate under its shimmer of lacquer. She wore a khaki-coloured skirt and blouse in a soft uncrushable cotton mixture, and the heels of her shoes were slim and high. Ellie felt exactly as if she were seeing a ghost. She moved two paces to rest her back against the edge of the sink, newly conscious of what she was wearing.
Laurel's eyes moved to look her over rapidly and then, in a voice as chilling as her glance, she exclaimed, `Who on earth are you? You can't possibly be the new boreman's wife!'
`No. I—Mrs Wilson was taken to hospital with appendicitis,' Edie got out huskily. 'She won't be back for a few weeks—she's going to convalesce at the coast.'
`And you've taken over the housekeeping?' Laurel said. Edie definitely didn't like her cynical smile or the scepticism in her voice. 'Well, well—how did you come to be chosen for the job, I wonder?'
Edie looked at her helplessly. Surely she must be dreaming—or having hallucinations or something. Laurel couldn't be here, in the kitchen at Dhoora Dhoora. She was far away in Ireland—she was married to Greg Sutton. A sudden thought struck her. Perhaps Greg was here too ! Ignoring the other girl's unpleasant insinuations, she asked tentatively, 'Is your husband with you?'
`My husband?' Laurel looked surprised. 'I don't happen to have a husband yet. I'm Drew Sutton's fiancée—I've been in Ireland for a holiday ... Who
are you, when you get out of your apron and mob cap, anyhow?'
Edie stopped. A wave of nausea engulfed her as the implications of what was happening came home to her. Drew's aunt had been wrong. Her efforts to part Drew and Laurel hadn't succeeded after all. Laurel wasn't married to Greg and never intended to be. She'd come back to Drew—and now of course he'd want Edie out of the way, their marriage annulled as he'd planned in the beginning. But he'd never let them know about his marriage, in Ireland. Would he want Edie to break the news? Wasn't it better to let him do it himself—in his own way? Thank heavens, she thought incoherently, their marriage hadn't been consummated—not yet. If Laurel had come back just a little later—tomorrow even—it might have been very different. For Edie, that was.
`Well?' said Laurel Clarkson. She had marched right into the kitchen and she was looking about her almost as if she expected to find evidence of—of immorality, Edie thought on the verge of hysterical laughter, though she was not really even the tiniest bit amused. Laurel whirled around suddenly and stood not more than a foot away. 'Who the hell are you?'
Edie struggled to regain her self-possession. After all, she had done nothing, to be spoken to in this angry contemptuous way, as though she were some little tramp who had moved in with Laurel's fiancé. The real facts were very different, and yet she couldn't say baldly, 'I'm Drew's wife'. It was a statement that required a terrific lot of qualifying, and after a momentary hesitation she said quietly and with dignity,
think Drew had better explain the situation to you, Miss Clarkson.'
The other girl glared at her haughtily. 'Drew? Don't
you mean Mr Sutton? And are you by any chance trying to give me the impression that there's something between you and my fiancé?' Her eyes raked aver Edie and now for the first time she seemed to register that she was wearing next to nothing under the big apron. `Exactly where is Mr Sutton right now?' she snapped out.
`He's out at the muster camp,' said Edie, her head up though inwardly she was in danger of going to pieces. This was a nightmare—and she just didn't like Laurel Clarkson at all, despite her pretty face.
`By the look of you, you're doing your level best to get him into bed with you,' Laurel commented. 'Have you succeeded?'
'A spot of colour came into Edie's pale cheeks. 'Perhaps you'd better ask him about that, too.'
`I shan't bother—I can guess,' the other girl bit out. `But I promise you here and now that you've spent your last day—and your last night—in this house ... Which paddock is being mustered?'
`I'm afraid I have no idea,' Edie said coolly. 'You might be able to find out from Harry.'
`I can find out without Harry's help,' Laurel snorted. `Drew keeps track of the camps on the chart in his office. But I suppose you wouldn't have the intelligence to know that. You'd better get this mess cleared up,' she added, indicating the things Edie had taken from the shelves. 'You won't be staying here now I'm back.'
She turned on her heel and marched off, and Edie stayed where she was, feeling shattered, indignant, and singularly helpless. How good it would have been to put that rude, arrogant girl in her place—to tell her, `I'm Drew Sutton's wife'. Suddenly her eyes filled with tears, and she turned and began blindly putting the crockery back on the shelves. Not bec
ause Laurel had
told her to do so, but because it was an inescapable fact that this was Laurel's kitchen now. At that moment, Edie knew exactly how much she had wanted it to be hers. And she knew that secretly, deep in her heart, she had believed there'd be a happy ending for her and Drew. But there wouldn't be. The happy ending was for Drew and Laurel. Drew wouldn't want her around anymore than Laurel did—and she wouldn't want to be around.
He'd be stunned when Laurel turned up at the muster camp, she thought—stunned and ecstatic. He'd explain away his marriage to Edie without any trouble at all. He knew he could trust her not to make mischief —nor to tell Laurel anything she ought not to know, such as that he'd asked Edie only the other night to marry him—to really marry him. So why was she hiding the basic facts from Laurel now? Didn't that make it look as though there were something to hide? What a fool she'd been ! By far the best thing to have done would have been to tell Laurel—simply and coolly and impersonally—the truth, as it had been back in the beginning when Drew had explained so clearly that he wanted a marriage certificate but not a wife.
`I'll tell her,' Edie thought, and hurried into the hallway immediately. But she was just in time to see Laurel, still in her smart khaki outfit, disappearing down the front steps in the direction of the car parked out there. Apparently she'd discovered to her satisfaction where the muster camp was, and as Edie watched, she started up the motor and drove off, the wheels of her car kicking up a spurt of gravel as she accelerated.
Well, her chance at honesty was gone now, and she wasn't really sorry. She couldn't pretend she fancied another encounter with Drew's fiancée.
They'd be home later on—both of them, she thought
as she stood disconsolately at the front door. She thought sadly of the dinner she had planned, the roses she had cut, of her little schemes for using her femininity to beguile, to stir, Drew. And there was an intolerable ache in her heart. She didn't want to be here when they came back—she dreaded the thought of an evening with Drew and Laurel. How could they possibly —any of them—act civilised in such a situation? Laurel hadn't been particularly civilised already.
