Amy smiled at his banter. He had been unusually quiet on the drive to the creek, and it had taken a good deal of cajoling and persistence to find out why. He and Randall had had a row about using the automobile to take her for a picnic. Danny had won the argument, though he’d had to promise to be back in time to do chores. A frown flicked momentarily across Amy’s unlined forehead. What was wrong with Randall McLean? Why was he such a difficult man? Didn’t he want his brother to have time to relax from the neverending work required of him at Drovers Way?
While Danny set out the rug and the picnic hamper, she continued to wonder why Randall was the way he was. Had he always been hard to get along with? She could ask Danny. It was quite possible that his dictatorial streak had surfaced because of the Great War. He’d been an officer, and as such had been used to giving commands and having them obeyed. Or was there another, more subtle reason? Could it be that he was simply mean-spirited and didn’t want to see Danny enjoying himself?
She unfolded the legs of the easel and set it up so she had a view of the creek and the gums on the opposite bank, having decided that would make the best subject for her sketch. Turning the pad to a blank page, she clipped the paper to the easel.
‘I’ve brought a billy and will make a fire so we can have a mug of tea with lunch,’ Danny said. He’d spread a plaid blanket out on the ground, placed a couple of cushions there for them to sit on, and was happily delving into the recesses of Amy’s picnic hamper to make sure that Meg had included tea, sugar and a small container of milk.
‘I’ll gather the wood if you’ll make the fire pit,’ Amy suggested.
She admired Danny’s bushcraft knowledge. He’d told her of earlier times when he and his brothers would take off for a few days and live rough in the bush. How they’d slept under the stars, lived off the land, explored the more remote corners of their property and tried, unsuccessfully, to pan for gold in the upper reaches of Boolcunda Creek. According to the many tales Danny had recounted, the three had shared a wonderful, carefree childhood until their mother became unwell, after which everything had changed.
Over the many months Amy had been seeing Danny he had also told her a good deal about the McLean family history, and there’d been pride in his voice as he’d told her of the success of his grandfather and father on Drovers Way. From what he’d told her, she understood that there was considerable camaraderie between himself and Randall, which made the elder brother’s present behaviour harder to comprehend. Perhaps, the thought ran through her mind, she shouldn’t even try. After all, Randall was Randall. But then…why did his prickliness have such an effect on her? She believed she was capable of getting along with anyone, but she could not get along with Randall McLean and that was a fact!
So…stop thinking about him and enjoy the day with Danny, she told herself.
She began to pick up kindling to start the fire, and some larger branches too. Watching Danny build the fire pit, she silently acknowledged the warm feelings she had for him. Were they love? She wasn’t sure, though she knew that she felt good and at ease when she was with him, that she admired and respected him, and that she cared about him, his wellbeing, but…was what she felt strong enough to be love? Embarrassed by the train of thought, her cheeks tinted a delicate pink. She dumped her gatherings near the fire pit and retreated to the easel, determined not to analyse what she felt for Danny, nor her uncharitable thoughts towards Randall, but to concentrate on getting her drawing finished before they had lunch.
Sketching the line of eucalypts with their gnarled roots partly exposed, the half-submerged tree in the creek, the way the bank scalloped due to the creek’s flow, succeeded in taking Amy’s mind off her earlier wonderings. The only other thing she was aware of was the smoky smell from the fire pit as Danny boiled the billy.
‘My, that’s looking good.’ Danny peered over her shoulder at the crayon sketch as he gave her the compliment. ‘I envy people who can draw. I can’t draw a recognisable cat, myself.’
‘I could teach you,’ she offered, with a teasing twinkle in her eyes. ‘I believe everyone is capable of drawing a recognisable cat.’
‘Mmm, I might take you up on that offer some time. You know, one day I’d love you to come to Drovers and sketch the homestead, when we’ve tidied the place up a bit more. But right now, Miss Carmichael, come and have lunch. The billy’s boiled and I’ve set the food out.’ He chuckled as he looked at the rug and the various plates arranged at one end of it. ‘Do you think Meg thought she was feeding a regiment rather than just two people?’
‘Meg does tend to over-cater,’ Amy admitted. She took a final look at the sketch and nodded with satisfaction at what she had captured before she took her place. Almost half the rug had on it an assortment of crockery that contained appetising slices of corned beef, a jar of pickles, boiled eggs, tomato wedges, cheese, and thick slabs of homemade bread.
‘I think Meg knows we have fairly plain fare at Drovers and she’s spoiling me,’ Danny said as he sat cross-legged and began to fill a plate for Amy, then one for himself, with various items of food. ‘And there’s boiled fruitcake in one of those tins.’
Danny had a hearty appetite and Amy enjoyed watching him demolish the food on his plate while she ate more sparingly. But when she picked up the mug of tea, he cautioned her.
‘Don’t drink it yet. You’ll burn your lips.’
She smiled a thank you for the warning and put the mug down on the ground. They continued to eat in companionable silence until, finally, both pushed their plates away and downed the remains of the cooling tea.
‘That was great,’ Danny enthused, and added in a teasing tone, ‘now, if you’re game, fancy a paddle in the creek?’
‘Game?’ She took up the challenge. ‘Of course I’m game.’ After which she turned away and proceeded to remove her high-heeled, lace-up boots and lisle stockings. Gathering her skirt up to her knees, Amy didn’t wait for Danny. She rushed to the bank and sank her toes into the wet sand and then the water. ‘Heavenly.’
Danny, his trousers rolled up to above his knees, with his jacket off and his high-neck collar and tie loosened, joined her. ‘There isn’t much depth at the creek’s edge, but further out it deepens to almost four feet,’ he told her. ‘Edward, Randall and I used to swim there. In the summer it dries up and doesn’t fill up again until the winter rains come.’
‘This is fun.’
Danny smiled at her almost childlike enjoyment of something so simple. ‘That it is.’
They were standing side by side, close to each other but not touching. She felt his arm go around her shoulders and his other hand turned her towards him. And then their faces were only inches apart and she could see his eyes filling with emotion. His fingers reached under her chin to tilt her face slightly upwards and, as she realised his intention, he kissed her on the lips—for the first time. His mouth was warm and firm against hers, but not demanding. She heard his heavy breathing, and felt the tension in his body—they were so close—as his arms drew her against his chest. His lips moved, kissing thecorners of her mouth, her cheeks, the tip of her nose. Gentle, caring caresses. They had never kissed like this before; there had only been respectable pecks on the cheek. And…it was a pleasurable sensation—yes, very pleasurable.
‘Amy…’ he whispered close to her ear. ‘I’ve longed to do that ever since we first met, long ago, in Britain. You know, I used to watch you come down the ward towards my bed and dream of you being in my arms.’
She drew back from him slightly and regarded his features, tanned by hours exposed to the sun. ‘Did you now? Aahh, yes, now I understand why your pulse rate was often erratic back then.’
He chuckled low in his throat, his grin as good as an admission. ‘Don’t think I was the only one. Amy…’ the expression in his eyes changed, the light brown eyes becoming more intense. ‘I love you, Amy Carmichael. I have loved you practically from the first time I laid eyes on you.’
She took a deep breath, tried to
keep her composure. ‘Danny…’
‘No, let me finish while I have the gumption to.’ He put a finger across her lips to silence her. ‘I don’t want to rush you into anything, but I want you to know that, if you’ll have me, one day I’d like us to get married.’
She shook her head. ‘Danny, I—I’m…’ overwhelmed ‘…deeply honoured.’ What could she say? She wasn’t sure how she felt, didn’t know if the feelings she had for him were love. And when did liking turn to or become love? She didn’t know. Confusion swept through her for several moments as she agonised over how to respond.
‘Don’t give me an answer now. I’m a relatively patient man. All I need to know is that maybe there’s a chance for me. I’ll be content with that. For now.’ He kissed her lightly on the lips again.
‘All right.’ Thank goodness. He was giving her time to think, to work her feelings out.
As if to break the seriousness of the moment, he looked up at the sky. ‘Sun’s on the way down. We’d better think about drying our feet and packing up.’
‘Oh, y-yes. Of course.’ Amy fought to regain her composure but it was difficult. She had not expected the day to bring a proposal of marriage. She tried to keep her puzzlement at what had transpired under control. She knew she had a good deal of thinking to do.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘You’ll never guess whom I came across at the pub this afternoon,’ Randall said as he watched Danny prepare mutton chops and boiled potatoes for dinner—again! ‘And you’d better put a couple more chops on. We’ve got a dinner guest.’
Danny turned to face Randall, a frown creasing his forehead. ‘Who?’
‘Someone you know.’ Randall spun out the suspense. ‘From your time in Britain.’
‘Britain? You mean when I was in hospital?’
‘That’s right.’
Danny’s frown deepened. He couldn’t think of anyone. ‘I give up. Who is it?’
Disappointed by his brother’s lack of persistence, Randall shrugged. ‘All right. The private from the Royal Engineers, James Allen. You remember him?’
‘Jim. One-hand Jim. Of course I remember him. Gutsy bloke was Jim Allen.’ Danny’s voice held a note of admiration. ‘The grenade that blew off his hand caused other injuries and he was still in hospital when I left to come home.’ He paused then added, ‘How did you get to meet him, and what on earth is he doing in Gindaroo?’
‘I was having a beer at the pub and he came up to me. Said he recognised me from when I’d visited you in Ward Twenty. Poor bloke’s been roaming the countryside looking for work.’ He paused in the act of setting the table for three. ‘I reckon we should give him a job.’
Danny stared at his brother, his expression disbelieving. ‘Really! God, Randall, he only has one hand. What he could do on the property would be limited.’
‘That’s what I thought at first. Then he showed me what he can do, using the artificial hook attached to the stump of his arm. He’d manage better than you would think. And he says he can cook.’
Danny glanced at the half-prepared meal. ‘Better than this?’ he pointed to the chops cooking in the skillet, the potatoes bubbling away in the pot on the old fuel stove.
Before Randall had the chance to reply they heard a knock on the kitchen door, which then opened to reveal Jim, his broad-brimmed hat in his hand. ‘Hello, Danny.’
The two men embraced briefly, then Danny stepped back. ‘Jim, you look…bloody good, mate.’ He gave their visitor a boyish grin. ‘Better than the last time I saw you, that’s for sure.’ He had no trouble recalling that Jim had been pathetically skinny in hospital, that he hadn’t been able to eat, and for a while it had been touch and go as to whether he’d survive, physically and mentally. In the intervening period—more than three years—he’d filled out, and appeared remarkably fit, with his olive skin, dark eyes and curly black hair. For a second or two Danny’s gaze rested on Jim’s left arm, travelling down to the wrist to his missing hand.
Then it was Jim’s turn to grin. He held up his left arm. ‘See what they gave me?’ He waggled the arm about. ‘Works pretty well too, once I got the hang of using it.’
Shifting uncomfortably from one foot to the other, Danny tried to change the topic. ‘Randall says you’re a good cook.’
‘Bloody oath. I reckon I can do better than chops, boiled potatoes and fried bread, even with one hand,’ Jim said, the grin still in place as he gave Danny’s culinary endeavours the once-over. ‘My family used to manage hotels, and I spent a lot of time in the kitchen helping Mamma with the cooking. Mamma, God rest her soul, was half-Italian, and she taught me to cook many different dishes.’
‘Perhaps you should have become a chef rather than a bricklayer,’ Danny commented.
‘Naw. By the time I was fourteen I was bored with working in hotel kitchens. I wanted to do something different. My brother, Tom, got me a job on a building site in Melbourne and I became a brickie.’
Danny nodded approvingly at Randall. ‘Being able to cook sounds good to me, but can you rope a steer, hold a branding iron, work the plough? We intend to plant several more acres of wheat, and there’s a veggie garden out the back that needs tending. Well, there used to be one,’ he added with a grimace. ‘Neither Randall nor I have the time to look after it.’
‘I’m your man. I’m pretty good with a spade and fertiliser. We could build a coop, and if you got a few chooks there could be eggs for breakfast. Chook manure’s great for the veggie garden too.’ There was confidence in Jim’s voice as he suggested, ‘Give me a go and see if I work out.’
‘Seems fair to me,’ Randall responded. ‘Say, a month’s trial. Room, board and two pounds, five shillings and sixpence a week. It’s not much, but it’s all we can afford at present.’
‘Just having a job is what I want, Randall. And the money, well, the government gives me a paltry pension—less than thirty shillings a week. It’s not enough to live on, but with your pay and conditions I think I’ll do fine.’
They shook hands on the deal, and Danny, unabashed by the basic meal he’d cooked, doled the food out onto three plates, before they sat at the long kitchen table, which had been scrubbed so many times that the timber stain had disappeared, and ate heartily…
Amy studied her reflection in the wardrobe mirror and gave a nod of satisfaction. She was sure that her evening gown wasn’t too formal for Bill Walpole’s fiftieth birthday dinner party.
A part of her was looking forward to seeing Ingleside on such an occasion—it was reputed to be the finest homestead not only in the district but in all of the Flinders Ranges. The other part of her was a little hesitant, because she would be seeing Danny again. She hoped he wouldn’t press for an answer to his proposal.
All week, whenever she’d had a spare moment, she had pondered over Danny’s marriage offer, but she still hadn’t made a decision. She didn’t want to make a mistake: marriage was a big step, and for life. Years ago she had thought that over time she would fall in love with Miles, and they’d eventually marry, but the war and life in general had intervened. Now she didn’t want to tell Danny she would marry him, hoping that love would grow. It wouldn’t be fair to either of them.
Besides, she had asked herself the question many times this week, what did being in love mean anyway? Some romantic books she’d read implied that emotional love was an illusion. Authors of other books claimed that affection could grow to love with the right kind of nurturing. Amy shook her head in confusion. She didn’t know what to believe. Had her mother been alive she could have asked her, because it had been obvious from a young age that her mother had loved her father wholeheartedly, and vice versa. Asking Meg was a waste of time. Strong-minded Meg Barnaby had said often enough that she’d never been in love and never wanted to be in love, because it made one weak and vulnerable.
All Amy knew was that she liked Danny very much. But in all honesty he didn’t make her heart thump madly in her chest; he didn’t make her feel weak or out of control; she didn’
t believe that she would be inconsolable if he went away forever. So many times, until she’d made herself dizzy, she had gone over things in her head, questioning whether she was expecting too much. Danny, she knew, would care for and take good care of her, but was that enough? Should there be more to agreeing to spend one’s life with another person, for better or for worse?
Meg knocked and opened the bedroom door. ‘Your father has hitched up the sulky. He’s waiting for you.’
‘I’m coming.’ Amy picked up her lined bouclé jacket with the fur trim, in case the evening became cool, and followed Meg through the kitchen and outside, to the waiting sulky.
No fewer than ten couples were enjoying pre-dinner sherries and hors d’oeuvres on Ingleside’s stone terrace when the Carmichaels arrived.
Beth greeted them at the imposing mahogany and stained-glass double front doors. ‘So glad you could come, Doctor, and you too, Amy.’ She put Amy’s jacket in a closet near the door and said, ‘Come out to the terrace for a sherry, or, if you prefer, a cordial.’
‘Sherry? I’d be delighted. I’m a sherry and port man from way back,’ David Carmichael said affably, as he took his daughter’s arm and followed Beth through the main foyer out to the gas-lit terrace.
By the time they’d sipped their sherries, wished Bill a happy birthday and joined Byron Ellis and his wife in general conversation, the delicate brass chimes used in place of a dinner bell sounded. The guests filed into the large dining room, with its rich burgundy velvet drapes and a long table set with an impressive array of glassware, crockery and silverware. Several members of the household staff, dressed formally for the occasion, helped people find their place cards and move to their chairs.
The Walpoles were out to impress, Amy thought, as she regarded the fine bone-china table settings, the silverware, the cut-glass wine glasses and the centrepiece of native flowers. She was a little disconcerted to find she’d been seated opposite Danny and Randall McLean, with Beth sitting between the two men. As the kitchen staff served the first course—oxtail soup—and others filled the wine glasses with white wine from the Barossa Valley, Byron Ellis pushed back his padded chair, stood and raised his glass to all and sundry.
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