He refused to think about the rights or wrongs of what was happening. Need was driving him insane with desire. He cupped her face with his hands and stared deep into her blue eyes, and in them he saw something he hadn’t expected: not rejection, but a wondering acceptance.
Amy’s widening eyes stared at him. ‘We shouldn’t…’ she whispered.
‘Shhh. Don’t talk yet.’
Talking would break the enchantment, the feeling that this was their moment. All he wanted to do was to hold her close, just as they were, and to savour each emotion as it raced through him. Desire, the urge to cherish and care for her, and the depth of tenderness she aroused in him was amazing. With a muffled groan he kissed her again, this time deepening the caress. His tongue slid between her lips and demanded and received surrender, while at the same time his hands began to explore the curves of her body.
Amy’s sigh of delight was short-lived. This was beautiful, exciting, more than she’d believed possible. She ached for more kisses, yearned for his hands to touch her everywhere and for him to introduce her to the intimacies only lovers knew. But…what they were doing was wrong. She was betraying Danny’s trust and Randall belonged to Beth. She didn’t know how, but by some miracle of self-control she pushed away from him and moved further down the fallen tree to establish a reasonable distance between them.
He stared at her for a long time, his eyes and widening in surprise and delight as she stared back. Finally he said quietly, in a tone of absolute conviction and wonderment, ‘I’ve fallen in love with you, Amy Carmichael.’
‘Oh, Randall, I feel the same.’ She made the admission with a smile, astonished by his confession. She had hoped, prayed even, that he might have deep feelings for her, and now that she knew he had, it was…wonderful. And she knew that, with his natural reserve, it had cost Randall dearly to declare his feelings for her. Just as she knew that deep down they were honourable people who would, because of their beliefs and their upbringing, do the right thing. But what was the right thing?
‘What are we going to do?’ she asked simply, though she believed his answer would not be simple or mutually satisfying.
‘What can we do? You’re promised to my brother and I’m about to marry Beth.’ He let a moment’s silence, time to contemplate, lengthen between them, until he added, ‘We both have obligations that, while neither of us like them, must be honoured.’
‘But…Is that fair to them, to Danny or Beth?’
‘It is if they don’t know about our feelings for each other.’
Oh dear! How could he say in one breath that he loved her and in the next breath confirm his intention to marry Beth Walpole? She glanced furtively at him and saw dogged determination in his expression. Randall had enormous pride and, apparently, he was prepared to be seen to do the right thing rather than follow the dictates of his heart.
In seconds, hurt blossomed to anger. Amy had hoped, perhaps irrationally, that he would come up with a solution that would mean they could be together. That wasn’t going to happen! A flood of tears pushed at her eyelids, but she willed them back. No, she wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing her cry over him. She would not.
Without uttering another word, she got up, moved quickly towards the Duchess, mounted her and rode away, his plea to come back echoing hollowly in her ears.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Spring 1923
Willpower was the one thing that kept Amy’s mind on track after the afternoon at the creek. Her work at the hospital helped to distract her. She tried to convince herself that nothing had changed. She was still engaged to Danny, as Randall was to Beth—but in her inner world everything had changed, because she knew how Randall felt about her and how she felt about him. Whatever she looked at had a sharper focus, her heartbeat never seemed quite normal, and she had the impression that she was standing on the edge of a precipice and would either fall forward into a bottomless abyss or fall backward and be safe.
One Monday, their housekeeper, Meg, had one of her rare colds and Amy offered to do the shopping at the general store. A bitterly cold wind, unusual for spring, raced up Queen Street as Amy trekked to the shops, her cloche hat pushed firmly on her head, her scarf-ends billowing behind her, clutching her overcoat to herself. Nearing Quinton’s general store she noticed a cart pulled by two draught horses. The cart, about eight feet long, was stacked to groaning point with an assortment of household furniture, and a teenage boy, Jonathon Cohen, sat holding the reins. Amy knew him because she had nursed him through complications after a tonsillectomy the year before. Jonathon doffed his woollen cap to her as she passed by and went into the store.
Winnie Cohen, Jonathon’s mother, had lost her husband, Micah, in the recent floods, and the country grapevine, often more reliable than the Chronicle, said that the bank had foreclosed on the Cohens’ and two other graziers’ properties, forcing Winnie and her four children off the land they’d worked for more than fifteen years. It was unofficially rumoured that, having moved to South Australia from Europe twenty years ago, they now had no money and nowhere to go.
As Amy went into the store, the thought ran through her head—not for the first time, either—that there should be some kind of local group or organisation to help families like the Cohens. The clergy at the two churches in town did what they could, but they were limited by a lack of funds and a lack of parishioners who had the time or desire to help. And the sad truth was that the Cohens, being Jewish, wouldn’t be high on either church’s list of worthy causes.
Dot Quinton was serving Winnie, and Amy, waiting her turn, couldn’t help but overhear the two women’s conversation.
‘I’ve come to settle our account before we leave,’ Winnie said matter-of-factly.
Dot, known to be a tougher business person than her husband, nodded. ‘I’ll get the ledger.’
Amy watched three of the Cohen children stare longingly at the glass jars with their assortment of sweets, and the baskets of apples and oranges on the floor. She thought it would be a long time before they got any such treats.
Dot opened the monthly accounts ledger, which was in alphabetical order. ‘Right. Cohens owe nine pounds, fourteen shillings and threepence.’
‘That much?’ Winnie sighed. ‘I didn’t realise.’
‘Micah hadn’t paid the bill for three months,’ Dot replied in her forthright way.
Winnie took an old purse out of her coat pocket and counted out the money. It wasn’t hard to see that by the time she paid the store’s bill there would be few coins left for anything else. She glanced at the children; each was holding an apple in one hand and looking hopefully at their mother. Winnie gave her head a single, vigorous shake and, without complaint, the children put the apples back in the basket.
Amy watched Dot take the money off the counter and put it into the cash register. She wasn’t impressed by the store owner’s hard-heartedness. Dot Quinton called herself a good Christian woman, and right now she had the opportunity to prove it, but she didn’t. Ben, her husband, would have written the Cohens’ debt off and insisted on thrusting a box of groceries into Winnie’s hands to see her through a few days on the road.
‘Morning, Winnie. Where are you and the children going to go?’ The question popped out of Amy’s mouth before she had time to debate whether she should ask it.
Winnie, who was about fifteen years older than Amy, glanced towards her. ‘I’m not sure. It’s been a bad few months and I haven’t had the time or the will to think things through. Micah has a brother on a farm near Ballarat. He’s offered to take us in, but I don’t know how we’re going to get there. Ballarat’s a long way from Gindaroo.’
‘Have you tried to find work around here, or a place to stay?’ Winnie shook her head. ‘What about the churches? Has Reverend Whitton or the Catholic priest been to see you?’
Winnie drew herself up to her full height, which still made her several inches shorter than Amy. ‘They have. But Cohens don’t take charity. We’ll manage.�
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It was all well and good to have pride, but pride wasn’t going to keep Winnie’s family housed or fed. There must be something she could do, Amy thought, without appearing to be helping. From the deep recesses of her brain she recalled an article she had read a while ago in the Hawker newspaper about a meeting called the ‘bush women’s conference’. It had been held in Sydney, some time last year. A non-denominational country women’s league had evolved from that meeting, their intention being to help families in crisis, to bring country women closer together, and to raise money for a variety of community-based projects.
That was exactly what Gindaroo needed. But first things first: the Cohens. If she could assist in some way…‘Winnie, before you and the children take to the road, come to Primrose Cottage for a cup of tea. Meg made two sweet pumpkin pies yesterday, and…’
‘Can we, Mum?’ Ruth, the youngest female Cohen, asked.
‘I like pumpkin pie,’ said Rebekkah, the eldest girl.
‘Me too,’ echoed James. He was a pudding-shaped boy with a reputation for eating anything and everything.
‘Please, you’d be very welcome,’ Amy offered again. But how could she help them in the long term? Then she remembered a recent talk her father had had with the owner of the Royal Hotel, Clem Yarborough. Clem had mentioned that he was looking for staff. A plan began to form in her head, but she should talk to Clem before suggesting anything to Winnie.
‘Very well, for a quick cuppa then,’ Winnie said, surrendering to the appeal in her children’s eyes.
Meg, in spite of her heavy cold, got tea and pie for the Cohens while Amy went into her father’s surgery, picked up the telephone and dialled the number of the Royal Hotel.
After his initial surprise, Clem Yarborough was receptive to the idea of Winnie and Jonathon Cohen working at the hotel. He needed a housemaid to attend to the rented rooms and help in the kitchen, and Jonathon, who at fourteen was old enough to work, could train to be a cellarman and bartender. Clem even had accommodation at the back of the hotel: nothing fancy, but adequate for the family until they found a house to rent.
Winnie was enjoying her second cup of tea when Amy returned to the kitchen. ‘Winnie, I’ve been making, uummm, some enquiries around town on your behalf. There’s work for you and Jonathon, and a place to stay, if you want it, at the Royal Hotel. Clem Yarborough said, if you’re interested, to come to the hotel and talk to him about it.’
‘A paying job?’ Winnie’s jaw went slack with amazement. ‘How did you…?’
Smiling, Amy brushed the question aside. ‘That’s not important. What is important is for you to decide whether you want to give the job a go or make your way to Ballarat.’ She glanced at Jonathon, who was now, technically, the man of the family. ‘What do you think, Jonathon?’
Jonathon, a lanky, placid boy, wasn’t known to be a quick thinker, and he took his time answering. He looked at his mother. ‘At Uncle Jonah’s I’d work on the farm, just like here. I kind of like the idea of working in a pub—I’d learn new things. And being in town, close to the school for Ruth, James and Rebekkah, would be good.’
Winnie stared at her eldest child for a moment or two, then made up her mind. ‘Very well. We’ll go to see Mr Yarborough, and find out exactly what kind of work he’s offering.’ She glanced at Amy, then blinked several times to push back a moistness from her eyes. ‘I—I don’t know how I can ever thank you, Amy. Not everyone wants to help our kind of people, you know.’
‘Your kind of people?’ Amy queried. ‘This has nothing to do with religion, Winnie. It’s one neighbour giving another neighbour a helping hand when it’s needed.’
Winnie nodded. ‘If you say so, Amy, but I won’t forget your kindness to us.’
After the Cohens left, Amy helped Meg clean up the kitchen, put the plates and earthenware mugs in the sink and wash them up.
‘You did a nice thing, Amy,’ Meg told her. ‘Winnie Cohen might be poor, but she’s proud. For a couple of seconds after you’d made the offer I thought she’d refuse. Getting Jonathon on side was a smart move.’
‘They’re a good family, and everyone in Gindaroo should try to find ways to keep people like them in the district, by helping them when they need it,’ Amy replied.
Meg coughed, then laughed. ‘Good heavens, you’re beginning to sound like a politician. Be satisfied with what you’ve done and leave it at that.’
Amy, however, had no intention of letting it rest there. She had found something worthwhile to take her mind off Randall, and she was going to find out more about that ‘bush women’s conference’ in New South Wales and what had happened afterwards…
Danny McLean’s forehead wore an almost permanent frown as he went about his chores around the homestead before joining Jim out on the range. Since his and Jim’s return from Hawker, after delivering the sheep for transportation, Randall, often short-tempered at the best of times, had been and still was in a foul mood. Something—Danny didn’t know what—was eating at his brother, and it was making living and working with him quite unpleasant.
Were things not going well between Randall and Beth? Danny liked Beth. He thought she would be good for Randall, but she was outspoken and strong-minded, like her father. He grunted as he pitched another forkful of hay onto the pile they were storing for winter feed, this being one of the few tasks Jim found difficult to do. Even Jim, who rarely murmured a word of criticism, had commented on Randall’s liverishness.
And that wasn’t all he had concerns about. For the last two weeks Amy had been different, remote, preoccupied, even though they had managed to set a date for the wedding—the middle of next January. She was all fired up about starting some kind of country women’s league, fashioning it along similar lines to the one begun in New South Wales. He didn’t mind that, in fact he thought it admirable that she was so giving and community-minded, but…There were times when he wished she could simply be the Amy he’d met and fallen in love with years ago. In some ways she was, but she appeared to be changing, evolving into something more than just Amy, and while he admired her enterprise, a part of him felt somewhat alienated by it.
He forked another load onto the pile. Danny McLean, he chided himself, what’s the matter with you? You have a beautiful, intelligent, caring woman who wants to marry you. Why can’t you be satisfied with that?
What he needed right now was a horse under him and some solid riding out to Jim, who was moving half the flock, with Tinga’s help, down the slopes to the holding yards for shearing. He enjoyed shearing time on Drovers, had done ever since he was a small child.
When Danny’s father had been alive, up to half a dozen lean, tanned, rugged shearers would come onto the property, eat them out of house and home, shear any woolly thing they could lay their hands on, take their pay then move on to the next job. Shearing was always a busy time. Up before dawn, making gallons of scalding black tea, cooked breakfasts, scones or cakes for smoko time, a hearty lunch, then more shearing till afternoon smoko; then, as the sun set, cleaning up, dinner and beers all round.
To a man the shearers were hard-working, hard-drinking and hard-smoking, as well as being great yarn-spinners. Randall was pretty handy with the shears too. Not as fast as some, because he didn’t do it for a living, but not too shabby either. The shearers were due in less than a week, and Amy and Beth had promised to come over to help with the cooking, even though shearers often brought their own cook with them. Before they arrived, several chores had to be done, such as making the shearers’ hut habitable, washing the bedding, and getting in supplies, which would include several cases of beer.
Danny saddled his horse and led it out of the breaking-in yard. He dug his heels into the horse’s ribcage and his mount sprang forward at a trot, then a canter, then a gallop…
Danny found Jim and the mob halfway down the western slope, moving towards the homestead. There were several hundred head of sheep, many with young lambs. Jim, who’d become very much at home in the saddle, and Tinga wer
e having little trouble heading the lead sheep in the direction of the holding yards. It was an impressive sight seeing the mass of woolly animals moving slowly, steadily, down the slope. Lambs cut off from their mothers bleated plaintively till their mothers located them; dust from their hooves created a fine red cloud around the edges of the mob; and Tinga’s intermittent barks and charges after any renegade sheep intruded upon the bush’s silence.
Danny joined Jim on the other side of the mob and whistled and shouted them towards the homestead. Life doesn’t get much better than this, he thought. He couldn’t see himself doing anything else or living anywhere else…
A variety of sounds and smells Amy had never before experienced assaulted her as she ventured inside the crudely built shearing shed. She carried a tray stacked with freshly baked damper covered with lashings of jam and golden syrup. In the confines of the shed, the pungent aroma of male sweat, shorn wool permeated with lanoline, and hot tar—used to stop bleeding if the shears nicked an animal—was almostoverpowering. Four shearers, wearing navy singlets, some with holes in them, well-worn trousers held up by wide leather belts or braces, and heavy work boots, were bent over their tasks. The metal clash of the hand shears echoed around the cavernous shed as the shearers worked.
Danny acted as tally clerk. He checked the numbers of sheep shorn by each shearer and, at the end of the shed, the shorn sheep were pushed down a ramp into the sunlight. Amy spied Randall, dressed like the others, shearing a sheep. With Danny occupied sweeping the floor, gathering the fleece and throwing it on the classing table, then putting it into the wool press, she had the opportunity to study Randall. His head was slightly bent, his features knotted in concentration, and several strands of his black hair fell onto his forehead as he worked. Unwillingly, but predictably, her heart swelled with love. Dear God in Heaven, what was she going to do? Mesmerised by his wide shoulders, the rippling muscles in his arms that were shiny with sweat, she studied the perfect masculinity of him, and watched one large, square hand grip the shears while his other hand pulled the shorn fleece back.
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