Somehow she had to ignore her screaming nerves. Slow and steady was the only way.
Twenty yards.
Now she could see the child trembling, on the edge of panic. On the edge of flight.
She began to talk to him, speaking in a quiet voice, hoping to calm him. ‘It’ll be all right. Don’t move. Whatever you do, don’t move.’
Ten yards.
The bull’s head was still down, its right front hoof raking the ground.
Bec stopped.
‘Now back towards me. Slowly. You’ll be quite safe. That’s the way. That’s right. That’s lovely.’ She sharpened her voice. ‘Don’t turn round. Keep your eyes on him.’
Bec too was watching the bull. She was conscious that other people had arrived and were now watching from the edge of the paddock. A woman screamed but none of that mattered; for the moment there was nothing anyone else could do. Out there she and the boy were alone. Alone with the bull.
She was calm now, her veins like ice.
‘Come on now,’ she said to the slowly moving boy. ‘That’s right. Everything’s jake. Come on now.’
She had one eye on the boy, the other on the bull. Which still – thank God! – had not moved. She reached out her hands and at last took the boy by his frail-seeming shoulders. This precious child.
How he was trembling!
He wasn’t the only one.
She spoke soothingly. ‘We’re all right now. We’re fine.’
They were edging backwards, moving steadily away from danger. Ten yards from the bull; twenty yards. Now – surely? – they were outside the animal’s comfort zone. Now – surely? – they were safe.
They backed into the waiting crowd. The boy’s mother snatched him up, weeping. Arms held Bec too. She was unsure whether her legs would go on supporting her or whether she was about to collapse in a heap on the dusty ground. The mother, sobbing, was saying something to her but the words did not register. She did not know what to do with her hands, her body. Tears pricked her eyes as she surrendered herself to the arms that held her.
Frances was fussing, her face wet with the tears of remembered terror, but Bec was too weary to pay her any attention now.
In the middle of the paddock the bull was grazing, innocence personified, while those from whom it had escaped approached it cautiously.
That blessed creature might have killed me, Bec thought with mounting outrage. Killed me and the boy. How could they have been so careless? But her weakness was such that she could not sustain even outrage for long.
‘You orright, miss?’
She had no idea who the man was.
‘I’ll be fine in a minute,’ she said.
A la-di-da man’s voice said, ‘I’ll look after her now.’
Looking at the newcomer, Bec saw and for a moment was unsure. Then memory brought back the past.
‘Jonathan?’ Her voice sounded as weak as she felt, yet inside her suddenly leaping heart she was not weak at all. Inside she was all smiles. ‘When did you get back?’
Jonathan had missed out on the ram, the final bid far above what the agent had thought the beast was worth. He had considered heading home again but then decided that as he was there he might as well look around the show.
He had been strolling about for ten minutes when he came across the drama of the bull, the child and the brave girl who had brought the little boy to safety. It was only after she was back in the crowd that he realised who the girl was.
Bec Hampton. It was three years since he had seen her. She had grown up a lot in that time; grown up and developed too. She had been an attractive child. Now she was no longer a child, there was no doubt about that. No longer merely attractive, either; now she was beautiful.
Oh God she was beautiful. And brave. He had seen her do something not one person in a thousand could have done. He was not sure he would have had the guts to do it himself.
So many things people did not know. About themselves. About others.
He knew this much. He saw she was trembling. Shock, no doubt, knowing how close to death she had come. How she had faced it down.
Faced it down and won.
Jonathan was trembling too. Trembling at feeling something in him that he had never expected.
This beautiful woman.
It was ridiculous to feel such a thing. She was not for him, not in a thousand years. They lived on different planets, Derwent House and… He didn’t even know where she lived nowadays. He knew only that her father had looked after the Derwent horses before he’d decided to move on.
Grandma Bessie said it proved he could not be relied upon but Jonathan knew he had saved his father’s life in the Boer War. He never knew the details; only knew that much because his father had told him.
He remembered Rebecca’s father was called Conan. Conan Hampton. An Irish name and an Irish temper to go with it, or so Grandma had said.
At his father’s funeral he’d asked Conan about the Boer War business.
‘What business would that be?’
‘Father told me you saved his life.’
‘Did he now? I wouldn’t have put it like that meself but who am I to argue with the likes of your dad?’
‘He said you helped him escape after the Boers shot him.’
‘I’ve only the haziest memory of them days. So I couldn’t say what happened, one way or the other.’
And went off whistling.
Grandma had seen him talking to Conan and ticked him off for it. ‘It doesn’t do to get too familiar with the staff. They only take advantage.’
‘He saved Father’s life.’
‘Is that what he told you? Bragging, no doubt.’
‘It was Father said it, not Conan. He told me nothing.’
Her smile might have been dipped in acid. ‘No doubt because there was nothing to tell.’
‘Why are you so unfair?’
Her laugh brushed his question away. ‘He works for the estate. Provided he does his job I have no feelings about him, one way or the other.’
She was lying; Jonathan sensed it but had only found out the reason years later. Derwent was like a monastery in some ways, a closed community where the inhabitants knew everything about each other’s business but little of what went on in the outside world.
Ethel, one of the housemaids, told him about it.
‘Put Mary Smith in the family way ’e did. Probably the only reason ’e married ’er.’
‘Bec’s dad?’
At that age Jonathan hadn’t been sure exactly what Ethel was talking about, only that she had made it sound somehow shameful and therefore exciting, but it was another reason to think of Bec Hampton as special.
There were other reasons. The six years between them had ruled out playing together but he had seen her about the place all her life. Also Bec had been the only other child on the property, which made them allies even though they didn’t speak much.
‘Don’t let ’er know I told you, mind,’ Ethel said.
The day at the Campbell Town show brought all those thoughts and memories together. He was looking at a woman, no longer a child, whose actions had proved how special she was. The heroine daughter of a hero father.
One more thing. She was a woman who lived in a world as different from his as it was possible to be yet who between one moment and the next had driven a needle into his heart.
She had a friend with her. He remembered nothing about her. She was with them but it was as though she didn’t exist.
They found a café. Jonathan forgot what they ate. Later he found he had forgotten almost everything about that meeting, the first between them as adults, yet one thing he did remember. Sitting at the little table and eating whatever it was they had chosen, it felt not like a first meeting or first anything but a continuation of everything he had ever known, as though the simple fact of their meeting had made her a party to even those episodes about which she could know nothing: his education in England for instance. By being with him n
ow she had become part of everything he had known and done.
How that could be he didn’t know. What it implied for the present he didn’t know either; even less what it might imply for the future.
He had no thoughts at all yet was more aware than he had ever been in his life.
He was; she was. That was all. It was enough.
She told him she lived with her parents at her father’s forge near Waldren’s Corner, where she occasionally helped out Mrs Painter, the constable’s wife. Jonathan asked after her parents; she said they were well. She asked after his mother and grandmother; he said they were well.
He asked if she was married; she laughed and said of course not. She asked him the same; he told her no.
They walked around the show for a while then went their separate ways. He took it for granted they would be seeing each other again, and soon. Anything else was unthinkable.
1834
The island and the sloop anchored in its protective bay were out of sight now. Ahead of them the forested ground ran steeply downhill to where at the bottom of the slope Ephraim could see the silvery glint of water.
Eyes and ears alert, the two men eased their way cautiously between the trees. They saw neither animal nor human but the weight of the silence was heavy upon them. A clatter of wings as a bird flew, then silence returned.
Ephraim’s hand was never far from his gun as he remembered the skirmish that had left one trooper and five Aborigines dead and he with the spear wound that had ended his military career. He had thought it a disaster at the time but had long since changed his opinion. Without the injury he would never have met Emma and that good fortune he would treasure all his days.
It was Emma and her determination and lust for life that had lifted him from despair, bringing him and the children to this place so far from civilisation, days beyond even the most remote outpost of British power. Here they would restore their fortunes and his lost pride, and it was thanks to Emma that it was so.
The question now was how they were going to do it – and a hard question it was.
So little was known of these islands or the mainland vastness on the edge of which they now stood. People said this north country was inhabited only by wild beasts and savages but no one knew even that for sure. Bailey was still insisting there was gold there. Perhaps he was right, but it was timber, not gold, from which Ephraim hoped to make his fortune. Perhaps from fisheries and cattle, too, if adequate grazing could be found. From all three, perhaps, and even from gold if the fates were kind.
There were questions that would have to be answered before anything could be done. He did not think the heat would be right for sheep but would cattle flourish in a climate like this? Assuming they could, would they be able to ship them to the southern markets or would the costs be too great? Remembering the problems he’d had in Van Diemen’s Land, would he be able to recruit enough men to take care of them? In this unfamiliar country might there not be unknown diseases that would affect both cattle and humans?
One thing was sure: there were vast numbers of mosquitoes that plagued them every step of the way. Mosquitoes did you no lasting harm, but was it not possible that other more deadly creatures might live in these uncharted woods?
There would certainly be snakes and probably savages as well. How would they take the arrival of white men in their territory?
At a distance, making a fortune in the unnamed country of the far north had sounded simple; it looked a lot less straightforward now they were there.
They reached the bank of the creek flowing along the valley floor. Sunlight kindled silver sparks upon the surface of the water and its noise was loud in the silence. Beyond the creek the land, heavily timbered, rose to another ridge.
They filled their water bottles, waded the creek, the mosquitoes worse than ever here, and pressed on up the slope. Even under the trees the air was hot and humid, with a whiff of decay from the rotting vegetation. Climbing the slope was hard work but eventually they came out on the crest and inspected the country that lay ahead. The charred stumps of trees showed where fires had burnt the forest, with the emerald shoots of new growth bright amid the ash: grass and what might be the beginnings of new trees. Pasture and timber?
Ephraim fingered the soil beneath the ash. ‘Feels pretty good,’ he said. ‘Reckon this will be good grazing land.’
‘Looks to me these fires were lit deliberately,’ Bailey said.
Ephraim agreed. ‘Too neat and tidy for a wild fire,’ he said.
They looked at each other.
‘In which case there’s got to be people about,’ Bailey said. ‘We haven’t seen any,’ Ephraim said.
‘But maybe they’ve seen us.’
It was an uneasy thought. They stared across the scorched land but saw only birds circling in the distance, the occasional plume where ash was lifted by the light breeze. No animals; no people.
‘No gold either,’ Ephraim said.
‘It’s here,’ Bailey said. ‘It’s just a question of finding it.’
They walked on.
They found what remained of an animal that had been caught by the fire. The flesh that remained was black with bones protruding; it was this that had attracted the birds.
Still no sign of the people who had lit the fire.
‘Maybe they’ve moved on,’ Bailey said.
And maybe they hadn’t.
They reached the forest fringe and stopped. The trees here were tall and strong.
Good timber; good pasture. And they had already found from the lines they had trailed behind the sloop during the last days of the voyage that the seas were full of fish.
‘I’ve seen enough,’ Ephraim said. ‘Let’s get back.’
Aboard Ocean Rider Ephraim told Emma what they had discovered.
‘There is good water. Good pasturage and plenty of timber. I would say all this land has huge potential.’
‘And the islands?’
‘We’ll explore them later but it’s the mainland that interests me.’
‘We came across an area cleared by fire,’ Bailey said.
‘But we didn’t see anybody,’ Ephraim said.
Emma looked at the two men. ‘Are you saying the fire was deliberately lit?’
‘Looks like it,’ Bailey said.
‘I was thinking if we could make contact with the local people, we might be able to persuade some of them to work for us,’ Ephraim said.
‘Why would they do that?’ Emma said.
From her expression it was obvious she didn’t much like the idea of having savages in the area.
Ephraim avoided answering the question. ‘It won’t hurt to ask.’
‘Speak their language, do you?’
Ephraim was irritated by such practical considerations. ‘We shall manage somehow.’
And if they’re hostile?
But this Emma did not say. ‘I would like to see the country for myself,’ she said.
They were talking about making their home there, after all. She thought she could handle the distance and solitude, for a while anyway, but the prospect of becoming involved in a war with the locals was not something she was prepared to contemplate.
‘The natives trouble me,’ Emma said.
It was night. She and Ephraim lay in their bunks in Ocean Rider’s forepeak, whispering to each other so that Bailey could not hear them. A lantern hanging from an overhead beam cast shifting light on the lockers and bulkheads.
‘When we came north we knew we’d meet up with them.’
He was right but it didn’t stop Emma feeling uneasy now the notion had become reality. Yet she had been the one who had insisted they travel there as a family.
‘What’s the country like?’
Would it be suitable for making the fortune they wanted? Suitable for making a life so far away from everything and everyone they knew?
‘We didn’t go very far but from what I saw I’d say it’s ideal.’
‘Enough to attract o
ther settlers to come here?’
Otherwise they would be doomed to endless solitude.
‘Why not?’
Provided the natives were welcoming. But how could they find out whether they were or not?
Emma saw it would be dangerous whatever they did but that was life, was it not? She loved this man, had loved him from the moment she first saw him; that was the one certainty in her life. Both their lives, together and apart, had been subject to danger. The danger of her being forced into what would have been a catastrophic marriage; she had avoided that. After she had been obliged to sail without him it had meant the near certainty they would never find each other again, yet find each other they had. Uncle Barnsley had set out deliberately to destroy their future, yet there they still were. Danger every step of the way, yet always they had survived. There would be danger now, if they pursued their dream of settling in this unknown land, yet they had stood by each other from the first. Would she abandon the dream now because of what might be only imaginary dangers?
Warmth filled her, a combination of love and desire that made the breath catch in her throat. She stretched out an arm to him.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Come.’
She was consumed by impatience. He smiled and joined her. Later, loins melting, she came to the place of certainty she had sought.
They would face the future, as they had the past, side by side.
1982
Grant Venables had said he was not much of a one for going back but two weeks after Bec’s birthday, on a day when Giles, Raine and Jaeger had fortuitously decided to pay a visit to Ross, there he was, driving up the road to the big house.
Tamara was a tangle of words and hands, not knowing what to do with either.
Bec had seen him arrive but kept out of the way, for which Tamara was grateful.
Grant seemed as short of words as she, which was also a comfort. She took him for a walk, giving him the opportunity to revisit the place he had once called home. Back at the house she offered him tea, which he refused, saying he had to be on his way.
‘I’m going to Hobart,’ he said. ‘Thought I would drop in as I was passing.’
Yet he could have followed the more direct route via Bothwell.
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