Wildflower Hill

by Kimberley Freeman

  When Lucy came, it would have to be different. She would buy meat and porridge and honey, though Lucy would still have to sleep in Beattie’s bed. Henry would think she was a fool for keeping the house. Leo Sampson thought she was a fool, too. Beattie was starting to suspect it was true.

  Mikhail had stood by her. He did whatever was asked of him, whether it was walking into town, or helping Terry mend fences, or cleaning the kitchen, or just listening as Beattie complained about the horrific mess that the paperwork was in as she spent hours every day trying to sort it out. They were managing, they were getting by.

  But today Terry had come to see her.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, and his pale blue eyes really did look very sorry, “but Farquhar’s offered me a job next door. I have to take it.”

  “Why do you have to?” she snapped.

  “Because you’re going to run out of money before the next wool clip and put me off anyway. I’ve got to take the opportunity while it’s there.”

  She couldn’t blame him. He had been there for her in the past, but she couldn’t keep prevailing on his goodwill. She knew uncertainty herself and would do anything she could to keep it at bay. But his resignation was the final straw for Beattie. Without a farm manager, the farm couldn’t run. Without money, she couldn’t attract a new farm manager. It was time to let go of this silly dream. Time to sell Wildflower Hill and buy a little house in Hobart to be near Lucy and look for a job doing something else. To settle for a modest life instead of a dream of being rich or powerful.

  She carried the two plates to the table and went downstairs to call Mikhail. He was on his knees, fixing the wire cover over the vegetable patch. He was stiff when he stood, only in his fifties, but a lifetime of menial work was wearing him out. He would find it difficult to get another job. Beattie swallowed the guilt. Tell him quickly, get it over with.

  “I come,” he said. “I be just one more minute.”

  Beattie went up to the kitchen to wait for him. The gravy cooled on her plate. At last, he sat down across from her.

  “Those possums are too clever. They find a way into vegetable garden,” he said, picking up his fork.

  “Mikhail, I’ve bad news.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “So? What is it?”

  “Terry’s resigned.”

  “Ah.” He began to eat. “Farquhar got to him.”

  “You knew he’d offered Terry a job?”

  “Terry mention it last week. Farquhar is very interested in seeing you fail, I say.”

  Beattie mulled this over. Jimmy Farquhar had always been nice to her, but she didn’t doubt Mikhail’s words. When she’d acquired Wildflower Hill, she’d made many enemies. It wasn’t that Raphael was particularly well loved; it was the idea that a poor servant—a woman—could now own a large property. The details of the transaction had been secret, and rumors filled the vacuum, none of them generous. Beattie had constructed an elaborate story about an inheritance but so far had not seen anyone from town to tell it to. Now it looked like it wouldn’t matter.

  “I don’t think I can go on, Mikhail,” she said. “Everyone’s telling me to sell: Farquhar, Leo, Terry . . . Perhaps they’re right. I’m sorry. I know this will leave you with nowhere to go.”

  He ate in silence for a while. Then put down his knife and fork and considered her in the dim evening light of the kitchen. Electricity was a luxury she couldn’t afford. “You are give up?”

  She smiled tightly. “Yes, Mikhail. I am give up.”

  “I think you should not.”

  “I can’t see any other way.”

  “You hire good farm manager, you keep going. You be boss. Then you never work for another man again. That is good, yes?”

  “I can’t afford to hire another farm manager. I’ll run out of money before shearing season.”

  “Sell some more land. Farquhar will buy.”

  “But how will I know if I can trust a new farm manager? I don’t want to sell off another chunk of land on such a risk. Terry knows the farm backward.”

  Mikhail pushed out his bottom lip while he thought, which made him look ridiculous, like a petulant child. Beattie almost laughed. Then he said, “Charlie Harris.”

  It took her a moment to remember, then the events of the day she left Henry came back to her. Charlie saving Lucy’s life.

  Mikhail continued. “Nobody knew Wildflower Hill like Charlie. He is very clever man. He knows what is good for business. Mr. Blanchard not like him because he is too clever. You like him.”

  “How would I even find him?”

  “He went to Bligh.”

  “That was years ago.”

  “Maybe he is still there. Write letter. Postmaster will find him if he is still in town.”

  Beattie was tempted. The idea of having someone brilliant run the farm, somebody who could make it work, was so appealing. If she sold the property, she would be wealthy in the short term. But if she could make the farm work, she would secure herself for life.

  “All right,” she said. “I’ll write to him, but if I’ve heard nothing in two weeks. I’ll have to ask Leo to find me a buyer.”

  Mikhail nodded and returned to his meal. If he was worried about his future, he hid it well.

  A week passed. Nothing. Then Leo Sampson phoned one morning just as Beattie was putting clean sheets on her bed in readiness for Lucy’s first visit. She’d put off Lucy coming to see her until things were settled at the farm; now she realized that settlement might never happen.

  “There are rumors in town you’re going to sell the farm,” Leo said.

  Beattie jammed the phone between her shoulder and ear and pinned her hair again. She was growing it longer, and it kept slipping out of its pins. “I’m thinking about it,” she said warily. “Why?”

  “I’ve had an offer.”

  Beattie’s heart picked up its rhythm. “You have? From whom?”

  “He doesn’t want to be named.”

  “It’s Jimmy Farquhar, isn’t it?”

  “Do you want to know how much?”

  “Go on.”

  Leo read out the figure. It was a lot of money, but it was nowhere near what the property was worth.

  “It’s an insult,” she said. “It must be Farquhar.”

  Leo was silent.

  “He’s preying on me when he knows times are bad. He poached my farm manager.”

  “I think you should take it,” Leo said. “You’d be securing your future.”

  “I’d be selling my future,” Beattie said. “And my daughter’s.”

  “This is more than you could have imagined a year ago, Beattie.”

  “But I’ve imagined more since,” she said, then sighed. “I’ll consider it. I’m not a fool.”

  Just as she hung up the phone, there was a knock at the front door. Nobody ever came to visit, so she went to it curiously. With trepidation.

  On the other side was a tall, dark man in a white button-down shirt and dark trousers. Under his hat, his hair grew almost to his shoulders in loose curls. It took a moment for Beattie to recognize him as Charlie Harris.

  Beattie couldn’t help but smile. “You came,” she said.

  He grinned back at her, lifted off his hat. “Got your letter, missus. Can I come in to talk to you about it?”

  Two black and white dogs flanked him, but they sat respectfully back as she opened the door wide. She knew that other women in town would be much more circumspect: an Aborigine calling when she was alone. But this was the man who had risked his own safety to pull her daughter from a raging flood.

  Besides, she already knew she was different from the other women in town.

  Beattie led Charlie to the kitchen and put the kettle on the stove. He took a dish of water outside for his dogs, then returned and folded his tall, lean body into a chair. There was an easy languidness about him.

  “I hope I haven’t put you to any trouble,” Beattie said as she spooned tea leaves into the pot, stopping herself from m
easuring out the length of his legs with her eyes.

  “Not at all. I love Wildflower Hill. I’m keen as mustard to come back. Wouldn’t have walked all the way from Bligh if I wasn’t.”

  “I need to explain a few things.”

  “You sure do. Last time I saw you, you had nothing but a soggy box and a little red-haired girl. Now you’ve got more than a soggy box.”

  “Raphael Blanchard ran this business into the ground. He needed to sell, and an uncle of mine in Scotland died and left me a small inheritance.” There, that hadn’t been a hard lie.

  “I see. And the little red-haired girl?”

  “She’s with her father at the moment. Due for a visit at the end of the week.”

  She made the tea, slid the tray onto the table, and watched as Charlie dumped three teaspoons of sugar into his cup. He took a slurp like a man dying of thirst, then seemed to remember his manners and settled back in his chair to sip politely.

  “I must be honest with you, Mr. Harris. There’s no more money. I sold off three hundred acres to pay debts, and now I’m running out fast. I’m on the verge of selling the whole lot. If you agree to come and work for me, I’ll sell off enough to pay your wage and hang on a little longer.”

  “Don’t sell anything,” he said, shaking his head. “This is a fine property, missus. You shouldn’t be selling it to anyone.”

  “Call me Beattie,” she said. “But I’m afraid that I’ve not got enough money to pay you until the wool clip comes in.”

  “How are you paying Mikhail?”

  “I’m not. We eat what we grow.”

  He shrugged. “I can do the same.”

  “It isn’t right, Mr. Harris.”

  “Call me Charlie.” He smiled, and she noticed a deep dimple in the dark skin of his left cheek. It made him look boyish.

  She smiled in spite of herself. “It’s not right, Charlie, to hire somebody and offer to pay him nothing.”

  He leaned forward and put down his teacup, seemed to be searching for words. “I watched Raphael Blanchard put the boot into this business,” he said. “He was a bloody fool. You can carry a lot of sheep here. You shouldn’t be selling a thing. You should be going to the bank and borrowing enough money for two thousand more sheep, at least. This farm will take seven thousand, easy. You could be making a hundred bales of wool a year. Then we can worry about what you’d pay me.”

  Beattie knew the right thing to do was say no. But the last wool clip had been twenty-two bales of wool. It had fetched a good sum, then been eaten up by Raphael’s debts before Beattie saw a penny. Fifty bales would keep the farm running longer than a year, would buy them furniture. A hundred might even make her rich enough to have Lucy back permanently.

  “But I’d need help. I can’t do it alone,” he said.

  “I can’t afford to hire more help, and I can’t expect everyone to come and work for me for free.”

  “Mikhail can help. Can you ride a horse? You can help.”

  “No, I’ve never even been close to a horse.”

  “I can teach you. The three of us and the dogs, we can turn this place around, make it into the kind of business it should be. When you spent your uncle’s inheritance on it, isn’t that what you intended? You wouldn’t have wasted the money. You wouldn’t have bought it just to off-load it at the first hurdle.”

  Beattie felt a pinch of guilt for her lie. “Of course not,” she said.

  “Then if we’re all willing to get our hands dirty, I reckon Wildflower Hill can be a fine business. It’ll be tough, but we can do it.”

  Beattie certainly wasn’t afraid of hard work. She was far more afraid of losing her newly gained power. With a deep breath, she reached across the table and shook his hand firmly. “You’re hired, Charlie Harris,” she said.

  * * *

  Beattie was exasperated with herself the morning Lucy arrived. She was so nervous. It was her daughter’s first visit since she’d acquired Wildflower Hill. What if Lucy didn’t like the new house? It made Beattie sad: once, Lucy had just been part of her, in her life daily. Well, with hard work and Charlie Harris, Beattie was going to get her back. Hard work and sacrifice. Beattie had to take a deep breath every time she thought about the loan she had just applied for. The bank manager had shown her a list of her quarterly interest repayments and when they were due. Terrifying. In fact, there wouldn’t be enough money for the final one of the year, but by then she hoped to be close enough to having sold her wool clip to put the bank off for a month or so. Even so, she had to be more careful than ever with money. She and her two staff had already switched to bread and dripping for breakfast: jam was officially no longer affordable. Luckily, Mikhail had a green thumb, and his seedlings were sprouting everywhere in the garden.

  Henry’s new car, a blue Chevrolet, hummed up the long earth driveway just before lunchtime. Much later than she’d thought. She hoped that Henry and Molly weren’t expecting to stay for a meal. There weren’t even enough chairs, let alone food. Beattie had been stockpiling for Lucy’s visit so her daughter didn’t have to go without; she didn’t want to give it all to Henry and Molly on the first day. Especially as they had so much already.

  She waited at the front door. The car engine cut off, leaving only the sound of the rustling gums. Lucy climbed out, her red hair gleaming in the sun, and Beattie spread her arms, expecting a running hug. But Lucy was more circumspect. She approached almost warily, awkwardly. It had been a long separation.

  Beattie knelt and put her arms around Lucy, ignoring her hesitation. “My darling, I have missed you so much.”

  Lucy melted and clung to her tightly, her warm little heart beating hard. Beattie looked up to see Henry and Molly walking up the driveway. Henry wasn’t wearing a hat, and Beattie noted his hair was growing thin. She stood, hoisting Lucy onto her hip—even though the child was far too heavy to comfortably do so—and smiled in greeting.

  “Welcome to Wildflower Hill,” she said.

  “We’ve been here before,” Henry said dourly.

  Beattie realized that Henry was jealous. Perhaps he even wished that he was still together with her; perhaps he fancied himself as the owner of a farm this big. “But now it’s mine,” she said. “Come in.”

  Of course, inside there weren’t many opportunities to impress. She allowed Lucy to run about upstairs and downstairs, opening and closing doors to empty rooms.

  “So tell me about this uncle who died and left you the money to buy this place?” Henry said, peering around.

  “Great-uncle. On my mother’s side.”

  “You never mentioned him before. I didn’t know you were still in touch with your mother.”

  Thankfully, Molly interrupted. “Where will she sleep?” she called from upstairs, having peered into all of the empty rooms.

  “With me for now. I haven’t enough to buy a new bed just yet.”

  Lucy galloped down the stairs and put her arms around Beattie’s middle, but Henry turned his mouth down in disapproval. “She’s not a baby anymore, Beattie. She needs her own room.”

  “I don’t mind,” Lucy said.

  “Of course you don’t, my darling,” Molly said to her. “You’ve a good heart.”

  “So this uncle?” Henry continued.

  “Great-uncle Montgomery. He lived in Inverness. I only met him once.” She wondered if she were blushing.

  “And you’re here by yourself?” Henry asked as Molly headed back down the stairs.

  “No, I have Mikhail, who helps me with the house and the garden, and Charlie, who manages the farm.”

  “They live here?” Molly looked horrified.

  “Mikhail has a room downstairs, and Charlie has set up in the shearers’ cottage.” He’d been insistent. It wasn’t right for him to sleep in her house; nor would anyone else think it was right.

  “You can afford two staff, but you can’t afford furniture?” Henry asked.

  “Not until the next wool clip.”

  “When will that be?�
��

  They’d arrived back at the front door. She wasn’t going to tell Henry that no more money was coming for a year. That in fact, she might be trying to sell wild rabbits for a few pennies just to make the gas go at night. Winter was still months away, but already she dreaded it.

  “Soon,” she told Henry. “But Lucy will be comfortable and well cared for. I cared for her by myself for many years, Henry. You needn’t doubt me now.”

  Henry, chastened by the memory of his loose past, put his head down and headed for the car. But Molly hung back.

  “Lucy,” she said to the little girl, “could you go and give your daddy six kisses to say goodbye?”

  Lucy ran off, and Molly turned to Beattie. “I need to tell you something, because I know you’ll hear it from Lucy, and you’ll be upset.”

  “What is it?” Beattie tried to make her voice sound warm.

  “She doesn’t call me Mama Molly anymore. She just calls me Mama.”

  Beattie opened her mouth to protest, but Molly kept on talking.

  “I know that you are her mother, and I don’t aim to replace you. But Lucy is starting school next year, and it’s too complicated to explain to everyone—teachers, neighbors, friends—what the real situation is.”

  “Complicated?” Beattie said. “Or shameful?”

  Molly blushed. “Both. I admit it. The child was born out of wedlock. In Hobart, where we live, where she will go to school, I am the person who acts as her mother. Why tar the poor child with the stigma of being so different from her little friends? It isn’t her fault that her origins are . . . less than savory.”

  Beattie wanted to retort but restrained herself. After all, she had known Henry was married when she’d had an affair with him. It seemed a million years ago.

  “In any case, I am Mama and you are Mummy, and the child knows what is what,” Molly said, pulling her gloves on.

  “Hurry up!” called Henry from the car.

  “He’s in a very bad mood,” Molly said, waving him away. “We’ll see you in a week. Call us if you need us to come earlier.”