‘Mr Wetherly, I’m afraid I am not dressed for visitors,’ Claire remarked, straightening her rather drab grey skirt, which was matched with a blouse adorned with black lace inserts. It was certainly her least becoming gown and her hair was piled atop her head in an unflattering bun.
Wetherly gave a formal bow, somewhat overdone for midday. ‘My apologies, Mrs Gordon. I was seeking your husband.’
‘I’m afraid he is not here.’ Claire wished she’d chosen her cream silk gown this morning. ‘I could have refreshments sent out to the verandah if you care to wait.’
Wetherly hesitated. It was not particularly appropriate for the stud master to be in her drawing room alone with her. He was, after all, staff and undeniably single. Yet he loitered without answering, staring at her unabashedly until her cheeks flushed under his gaze. ‘Thank you,’ he replied with a cool slowness. ‘I think not. I had –’ he cleared his throat – ‘better wait outside. Besides, I find my thirst quite sated,’ Wetherly answered smoothly. He turned to find Hamish staring at him with uplifted eyebrows.
‘I’ll meet you at the yards at four o’clock, Wetherly. It’s far too hot to be working stock until then.’ Hamish dismissed Wetherly instantly, shutting the door quietly. ‘The man has a high regard for himself and his abilities.’
‘Give him time,’ Claire returned to the piano feeling like a child whose outstretched hand had been caught seeking the boiled lolly jar. ‘He is very new to Wangallon.’
‘I see he has earned your admiration,’ he sniffed, removing his jacket and throwing it across the horsehair couch. A puff of dust lifted into the air. ‘I don’t think it appropriate for Wetherly to be alone in your company, my dear. He has somewhat of a reputation.’
One of the maids entered and, with a curtsey, walked towards the lead fireplace with a dustpan. The girl was reasonably efficient and as yet had not broken any of her knick-knacks, although Claire was not taken with the way she picked up ornaments and inspected them. Hamish walked idly around the drawing room. ‘You’ve been playing?’
‘A little. Lemonade, Margaret.’
‘For two,’ Hamish ordered sternly. The girl bobbed a poor excuse for a curtsey and left them alone. Hamish peered out the damask curtain, flicking at the tasselled fringing. ‘New?’
Claire repositioned a hair pin. ‘Twenty years ago.’ In the past her husband was quite particular about their furnishings; however, time had rendered many things commonplace. This phenomenon did not extend beyond the mud brick walls of Wangallon homestead. Her husband’s obsession lay with the land and it spread out beneath him like a great fount of prosperity. ‘If you recall we ordered the material during a visit to Sydney.’
‘Yes, of course.’
There was little doubt in Claire’s mind that Hamish would not remember. Her husband knew every bend in the creek and river, every fence and outbuilding and clump of trees in every paddock. He knew Wangallon so well that Claire was convinced he could start at one end of the property and recall every single detail of the landscape as if he were riding through it on a summer’s day. In comparison he ensured his homestead was suitably impressive for the holding it sat upon, although it remained only a dwelling to him. Wangallon was Hamish’s love and she drew his focus like a demanding mistress well used to lavish attention.
‘Have you seen Luke?’
‘No.’ Claire retrieved her fan from atop the piano. In truth she was pleased that he’d not come calling, for after their last conversation she had suffered from such a sense of confusion that she doubted her ability to converse properly on any subject at all.
Hamish examined the silver-mounted emu egg and the matching ruby lustre vases on the mantlepiece. ‘One of the maids is sweeping the verandah at an unfathomable hour. Dawn and dusk should be sufficient.’
Claire wafted the air with the ivory and lace fan. ‘I’ll mention it to Mrs Stackland.’
‘Good.’ He walked to the armchair and, retrieving her quilting, passed it to her.
‘Have you received correspondence from Mrs Crawford?’
Claire began stitching a square of yellow material. ‘Only that her eldest has arrived to visit his father. Should we entertain them?’ Her mind quickly leapt to the table seating. They could invite Henrietta Webb for the younger Crawford’s sake, the father, of course and, and Wetherly? Who else was there to make up a suitable number after all?
‘We shall see. I would like to call upon you tonight.’
The needle pricked Claire’s finger, drawing blood. It was some weeks since he’d come to her bedroom, although Claire was sure he did not lack companionship. She sucked at the bead of blood welling on the fleshy pad of her finger. His back remained stiffly towards her as her assent was mumbled.
Margaret returned with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses as Hamish left the room. Claire held out her hand and, accepting the poured glass, sipped at it, wincing at the sourness.
‘Mrs Stackland says to tell you, Missus, that the last of the preserved lemons are a might tart.’
‘Indeed Mrs Stackland is a fount of wisdom,’ Claire answered brusquely. ‘I would like cold cuts and some tasty vegetables this evening.’ She would be needing sustenance, she thought with a smile.
The girl left hastily with the tray. Claire heard a screech and then the smash of glass; Mrs Stackland’s taut reprimand followed. She flicked her eyes closed in annoyance before securely closing the door leading down the hall to the kitchen. It was too hot in this room, far too hot. There was a sensation of discomfort in her stomach and she felt the debilitating approach of a headache. Claire opened the window on the southern wall, flinging back the curtains in an effort to stir the air. Her home was beginning to resemble a madhouse. Now she could hear muffled sobbing. Despite the heat and the massing flies, Claire crooked her neck out the window to see who was making such a pitiful racket.
Margaret sat crouched by the meat house, the black skirt of her maid’s uniform wet with what Claire assumed to be spilt lemonade. About to slam the window shut, she watched in surprise as Luke approached the girl.
‘Are you all right?’ He squatted beside her. ‘Mrs Stackland will be wondering where you are.’ At the mention of the cook, the girl wiped her eyes. ‘That’s better.’ He held out his hand to her. She looked at him as if he were offering something forbidden. ‘Here.’ He took her hand and helped her up.
Margaret hesitated, her soft mouth opening and closing. The girl was staring at Luke whom, having been distracted by the opening window, was now looking directly at Claire. The maid glanced from Luke to Claire and walked quietly away.
Luke tipped his wide-brimmed hat, his eyes never leaving Claire’s face.
Claire closed the window quietly. From the Chinese-lacquered cabinet she poured herself a sweet madeira, drinking the liquid down in three swallows, before placing the glass on a leather-topped table, oblivious to the ring stain seeping into the leather.
It was midnight. Claire swirled the washcloth in the blue and white ceramic basin, wrung the excess water from it and gave a final freshening wipe to the nape of her neck. Dropping the cloth on the top of the wooden washstand she pulled the cotton nightgown over her head, the material catching on the dampness of her skin. The bed creaked.
‘I won’t be back till dusk. I’m expecting Mrs Stackland to prepare a feast for New Year’s Day celebrations.’
A wave of tobacco, brandy and Hamish’s rough male scent lingered in the room after he’d left. She could not recall when his lovemaking had been so amorous. It was late and tomorrow she would be tired, bruised and out of sorts. Hamish, once tender and careful in his affections, had grown physical and sometimes a little rough in his infrequent ministrations towards her. She touched her stomach. There was a swelling there and she was sure a flutter of movement awoke her not two nights ago. Could it be possible? Certainly her moods had been fractious recently and her health not as it should be.
During her life Claire had been as reliable as the full moon and althou
gh her womb chose to grace her with only one precious child, she now believed it possible there might be another, though why now? She was past child-bearing both in age and enthusiasm. How she wished she could recall her last fertile month. Of course such a condition excused her from her girlish fancies. One could expect to be emotional if they were with child. A convenient excuse, Claire decided, as she fingered the delicate workmanship of the tortoiseshell comb. Often she wondered where life may have taken her if Luke were older. Certainly she was aware of an attraction spanning some years, however Luke’s recent innuendo had changed her perceptions. She was past middle age – this was not the time for romantic fancies – and yet here she was thinking of Luke’s admiration and the presence of Wangallon’s stud master. As for being with child, Claire ran the silver-backed brush through the curling ends of her hair … How ridiculous.
Pinning her hair back in a loose French roll, Claire studied her reflection, first the left side, then the right. There was a softness to her jaw, hollows beneath once full cheeks and wisps of grey in her dark hair. She was no longer a girl, no longer gilded by the dewy gods of youth. She pinched her cheeks to heighten their colour as perspiration settled in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts and on the backs of her thighs. She touched her stomach again, hoping it was a phantom of past wanting. Strangely enough she’d never been one for tears. Even now, accepting her loneliness as she had these past few months, the pity of it remained contained within her. Where she once saw space and freedom, she now experienced isolation, and the great untamed wilderness that was Wangallon now seemed savage. One could be grateful for what they received in life and one could also resent it. Claire looked at the pretty hair comb on her dresser and thought of the many times she had wished to go dancing or to dine out or call on a friend or promenade down the street. She was the wife of one of the country’s wealthiest graziers. Good fortune was too hard to come by to treat it so poorly.
In bed the hot night brought beads of moisture to her skin. Beside her the bedside candle fluttered. Thank heavens, she muttered, as the slightest of breezes wafted about her face. It was strange how one could look for the most mundane of things: A cool place to sit, water to parch her thirst, and air, any air. Air, a puff, a gust, a draft or a zephyr; how she longed for wind to stir her clothes and blow away the heat of this place. It was as if Wangallon’s thirsty soil were reaching for her, its many hands dragging her down. Claire pictured the acres of land emanating from Wangallon Homestead, envisioned the cemetery down by the bend in the creek. She wanted to be buried near her beloved father in Sydney. Not here in this desolate place where few people visited and the sun cracked the ground like a piece of broken pottery. Turning on her side, Claire reached for her book.
Mrs Aeneas Gunn’s We of the Never Never had created quite a stir in social circles on publication and Claire, determined to converse on the book’s merits, had procured a copy via catalogue almost immediately. It did not appeal, however, for who wished to read of a woman’s pain, isolation and hardship when one’s own life was far from the gentrified circles of convivial female companionship. No, this was one book she would have little problem dismissing, although she kept it by her bedside, for Hamish had once noted his approval. Claire’s favourite book, which she was reading for the fourth time and which lay hidden beneath Mrs Gunn’s weighty tome, was Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows. Claire smiled as she turned to the next chapter. Sometimes she longed to have been born within the cool green of England’s bosom, instead of being conceived on the long sea voyage out to be born in the most distant of countries. She envied Wetherly his English life and wondered at his leaving of it. With a yawn she closed her eyes, her fingers automatically touching her lips where Hamish’s kisses had fallen.
Robert Macken gulped down the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘A fine breakfast, Maggie. Fine indeed.’ He pushed the wooden chair back roughly. The legs caught on the rug beneath and he swore softly under his breath. ‘Have you heard from Jim?’
Maggie collected the empty cup along with her husband’s plate as he stood, stretching his back out. She shook her head.
‘I accepted the lad as my own. You know that, Maggie, and I have no problem with him not being mine. I don’t know why I tell you this now after so many years.’
Maggie left the dirty breakfast dishes on the end of the wooden table to place a small white hand on her husband’s chest. She looked up into his pale eyes.
‘I want the lad to get the money that’s owing to him and come home,’ Robert stated as he brushed her hair with his lips. He lifted his cap from the peg on the wall, flicking at the brim as if new.
Maggie moved to rest her head on his chest. Since Jim’s leaving she’d refrained from arguing against the lad’s inheritance. What was the point? He’d gone despite her protests. Now her nights were filled with anxiety as she wondered why she’d not done more to stop him.
‘There’s much we can do with the money.’ Robert rubbed his hands together. ‘A new sty for the pigs and a John Deere tractor: Aye, not a big one mind. I’d clear that field behind the milker’s shed and we’d have to move those rocks.’ He adjusted the cap, hitched up his trousers. ‘There’s a few days’ work in that.’ He rubbed his lower back at the thought of it. ‘Wouldn’t I love to see the look on Lord Andrews’ face when I tell him that I’ve no need of his contract?’
Maggie busied herself wiping imaginary crumbs from the table into the palm of her hand.
‘You all right then, lass? You’re looking a bit peaky.’
Maggie brushed her hand against the floral cotton of her dress. ‘Never been much of a morning person, Robert. I expect my age is catching up with me.’
‘Rubbish. Steady as a black-faced ewe climbing a rocky hillside you are, my Maggie.’ He rumpled her hair, rested a large hand briefly on her shoulder and gave it a shake. ‘We’d have enough produce to sell direct to the supermarket. And I was thinking eggs, laying hens. Just enough to sell in Tongue first off and then we’ll see how it goes. Once the lad’s back we’d be able to manage the feeding of them, and the gathering. When we’re established we’ll get one of the Childers’ girls in to help with the sorting. That would be good for you too, Maggie,’ he clucked her under the chin. ‘Bit of female company eh?’
‘That would be good, aye.’
‘Well sound a bit keen about it, lass.’
Maggie untied her apron. She needed some fresh air. ‘They’re grand plans, Robert.’
Robert winked at her, picked up his wallet. ‘I’d add a room to this house too.’ He surveyed the tiny crofter’s cottage. The ground floor served as kitchen, living and dining area. ‘I’d build a new bookcase.’ He scraped his socks on the threadbare rug, ‘and carpet –’
‘You’ll be late,’ Maggie gently reminded him. Robert was meeting Mr Levi, the solicitor, in Tongue. There was an accountant arriving from Edinburgh to discuss the tax implications of Jim’s impending fortune.
Robert kissed her on the cheek and she helped him with his tweed jacket. Although it was summer the breeze from the loch was cold when she opened the door and Maggie shrugged her shoulders into her homespun cardigan as Robert stepped from the threshold.
‘It’ll be the most pleasure I’ve enjoyed in years, telling Lord Andrews he can stick his measly wool contract up his ill-gotten kilt.’
Maggie watched her husband drive away in his old pick-up. The vehicle made a grating noise and puffed dark smoke from its exhaust as Robert changed gears to drive up the slight hill to the left of the house. She smelled diesel and added a new pick-up to her husband’s list of improvements. She supposed she should be grateful for his excitement, yet she didn’t think she could live with someone else’s money, especially this money. It was wrong.
The air carried a whiff of moisture as Maggie left the whitewashed cottage. The loch rippled at the pebbled shoreline as she turned from the east and followed a low stone wall that ran past the house up the side
of the hill. In her youth Maggie dreamt of being a famous athlete, a long distance runner. She would tuck her skirt into her knickers, and run the length of the loch bordering her parents’ small block that lay some miles to the east. She had no running shoes then. Her brown lace-ups sped her around the loch as she slithered on pebbles, slippery with the misty breath of the night. If the wind was behind her on those dawn-lit mornings she would lift her arms in freedom, feeling the crick of her ankles as she stumbled with joy. On the weekends when school was done and she could wangle time away from her mother, she would add a scramble up the hill next to the loch as part of her running course. From this vantage point she would catch her breath amid the tangle of green and purple vegetation.
Maggie walked the hill of her home these past twenty-five years, stroking the stone wall that breasted the hill. It was a pleasing aspect, for Robert was a fine crofter. Not one stone wall was in disrepair, not one shingle loose on the roof of their house. Their few sheds were weatherproof, their new potatoes were soft and buttery and there was always a neatly stacked heap of peat for the fire. The cow always gave milk and Maggie still churned their own butter, though their neighbours laughed at her domestic tendencies when a trip to Tongue could supply most of what Maggie grew or made. If she were to ask herself if she were happy, her answer would be yes. Although she also comprehended that she knew no better. How did one judge a life if there was nothing to compare it with?
At the top of the hill Maggie paused by a cairn and collected her breath. Her forty-seven years were now presenting themselves in the form of swollen ankles and a stiffness that did not abide with the passing of winter. Even her breath seemed shallow now, as if her lungs were shrinking with age. Shielding her eyes from the sun, Maggie looked back across their loch. It was a fine view. The water stretched out like a wide yawn to disappear at the foot of another hill. Summer brought a shimmer of heather to the landscape and as the breeze picked up, the landscape shimmied with the vibrancy of a young girl at her first ceilidh. It was a far different atmosphere to the memory of her childhood.
A Changing Land Page 18
