Mrs. Shelby stood to James’s left, covered in black, a worn dress now faded with memories of those long buried. Tom stood to his right, their postures even. The ring of red-haired girls flanked him. John and Will were away at war but their presence still strong. The Shelby circle stood close, a buffer against the outside world as they had always been.
The preacher offered the only shade in the high noon, his imprint stretched on the ground in front of the tombstone. The ground below his feet lay unbroken, no fresh mound of disturbed dirt, for the marker was only that—a reminder of a life that was; a reminder of who was buried far out in the fields, unmarked.
“And so we mourn the passing of Shamus O’Reilly,” the priest heralded before sprinkling holy water on the ground, the dust sucking God’s moisture in quickly. “May he rest in peace.”
Two white tombstones. Side by side. Tess O’Reilly. Shamus O’Reilly. Mrs. Shelby tucked her hand through James’s arm—orphaned twice in one lifetime.
The preacher clicked the gate of the cemetery, a useless bit of metal to keep the ghosts tucked in and the living pushed out.
“Come back an’ eat.” Mrs. Shelby touched James’s elbow. “Leave this day behind. No mass, I promise.”
“I’ve got some things to clear up at the house.”
Mrs. Shelby nodded and squeezed his arm, then turned to Tom. “You still heading out?”
“Yeah. It’ll be late.”
“Be good, Tommie, or so help me . . .” Mrs. Shelby pointed a finger in his face.
Tom smiled and batted her hand away. “Always.”
“Orright,” said Mrs. Shelby. “I’ll ride back with the preacher. Children gettin’ rowdy. Better feed ’em before they start killin’ each other.” Mrs. Shelby patted James’s shoulder. “You go back to that house an’ do what you have to. After that, you put this day behind you, son. That place ain’t your home no more. Your home’s with us now. Always has been.”
James bent down, kissed her cheek. She squared her shoulders, yelled out to the children, “Pile on! We’re headin’ back.”
James watched the wagon grow smaller, the empty land grow wider. He turned to Tom. “Where you off to?”
“The Cross.” Tom kicked the dirt and looked up shyly.
“Yeah?” James grinned. “What’s her name?”
“Ashley.” His eyes bounced with the name. “From the dance a few months back.”
“I remember.” James crossed his arms and eyed his friend. “Also remember we didn’t see you for two days after.”
Tom laughed and raised his eyebrows. Then he turned his face to the cemetery and grew serious. “Want me to come with you? Just say the word, mate.”
“No, thanks,” James said. “Just need to be alone. Do this myself. Long time coming.”
Tom nodded. “See you back home then.”
“Be good.” James pointed a finger at him, just as Mrs. Shelby had done.
“Always.” He smirked.
Once Tom left, James walked past the cemetery, lowered his hat over his brow. The sun beat from the front, so he kept his head down, watched his boots spray red earth with each step. The buzz of cicadas rose from the ground and hovered until it seemed no other sound existed.
To the east, a thin line of wheat bordering an acre of Livingston property shimmered in brushed gold. A breeze blew, perhaps as far away as the sea. The gold strands rippled as thin and smooth as hair. Warmth flooded his chest as the memory of a friend, of hair and sea and light carried on a wind from very long ago. But then he blinked, raised his chest, shoved his hands into his pockets and turned the wheat back into wheat.
On Leonora’s wedding day, Eleanor Fairfield tapped her foot harder and quicker as she assessed her niece. “Thank God for veils. You look like a ghost.” She adjusted a few strands of Leonora’s pulled-back hair.
“Did you find those diamonds?” Eleanor snapped at the maid.
“Yes, Mrs. Fairfield.” The woman handed her a rosewood jewelry box.
Eleanor raised the lid and grimaced. “I swear, you’re like a five-year-old child, Leonora.” She picked up a small, round stone. “Stashing gravel with diamonds!” She flung the rock across the room. Without moving her head, Leonora watched its path until it rolled under the bed.
Roughly, Eleanor pushed the diamond studs through her niece’s ears, looked her over one last time. “That will have to do. We’re already late.” Her aunt opened the door to leave, then turned back. “Well?”
“I just need a minute,” she said softly. “Please.”
Eleanor rolled her eyes and bustled into the hall, her voice trailing orders as the maid followed at her heels.
Leonora scrambled to the bed, scrunched the wedding dress around her knees as she bent down and reached across the floor, rescued the stone that was as smooth and perfect as a tiny bird’s egg. She rubbed the surface, saw the kind smile of a dear friend and felt an old warmth that went beyond the sun’s.
James stood upon the sloped porch of his old home, the splintered wood buckling under his weight. Tobacco spit stained the walls like splattered blood; broken bottles littered the floorboards. He opened the screen door, the hinges screeching from rust. Flies were everywhere. Disrupted, they buzzed at the intruder before settling back into favorite corners. The curtain wall that divided his room from the others was torn, the mattress on the floor hollowed out from rats.
Shamus’s room lay gutted, the iron bed pushed against a wall, no blankets or pillows. The striped, thin mattress was stained from rusted springs, soiled with yellow spots. Drawers were gone. No remnants of good days remained—only scars of the bad days, the bad years.
James left the house and went to the small shed in the back, pushed the cans and tools aside until he found the kerosene. He twisted the cap, doused the base of the wood frame and the steps along the porch with short, quick splashes. The wood was dry and old; the fuel, a guarantee. James lit a match against a stone, the blue flame hissing with new life.
Leonora stepped from the car, blind to who carried the gown’s train or put flowers in her hand. Life moved through the veil in a foggy haze.
Music began. Violins and cellos stretched bows across taut strings; resin powdered under bridges. Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. Voices and chatter hushed within the hall. Her uncle took her elbow, whispered in her ear, “You’re breathtaking, darling.” And her feet moved. One step at a time. One step closer.
James threw the match at the kerosene-soaked timber, stood back, his spine firm, his thumbs tucked in belt loops. He watched the fire fill the space under the porch, wrap around the boards.
Leonora looked through the smoky veil. Alex took her hand. The priest spoke. “Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”
Fire inched up the posts, the weak fibers collapsing quickly into a fountain of sparks. Spastic flames licked each beam, blackened fissures sizzling under their tongues. The fire reached inside, disintegrated the flimsy curtain shreds.
Leonora answered, “I do.”
The porch collapsed. The charred slats of the house crumbled.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Harrington.”
Smoke choked James’s throat.
Tears burned her eyes under the veil.
Flames of regret—embers of pain.
CHAPTER 38
James returned to the Shelby homestead, the hour late. A magpie, its caterwaul hauntingly human, cried out from the trees. A lamp took form in the kitchen window. Home.
James put the horse in the barn. A tiny glow bobbed near the verandah. It was Tom stooped on the steps, his shadowed figure smoking. James sat down next to him and stretched his long legs, the vibration of the horse still in his thighs. The smell of tobacco was heavy around his friend. Cigarette butts littered the stairs. He studied Tom for a minute and his brows lowered—Tom didn’t smoke.
“Burned it down?” Tom asked quietly. James nodded.
“You orright?”
“Yeah,” said James. “It’s done.” He bent his head back and stared at the stars. “Figured you’d be out all night.”
Tom sucked at his cigarette, one eye closing with the pull. He paused for a moment, then exhaled the smoke from his nose in a long stream. “I’m in trouble, mate.”
James waited, watched his friend darken.
“She’s pregnant.”
The men grew silent, the weight of the words drowning out the magpies.
“You going to marry her?” James ventured slowly.
“Wish it were that simple.” A low laugh broke from Tom as he reached around his knees and rocked, the cigarette pinched between two fingers. “Already got herself a bloke. Married.”
“Christ.”
“I didn’t know,” he blurted. “I swear to God, she never said a word.”
“Who’s the bloke?”
“Don’t know.” Tom raked his fingers through his red hair. “Crazy son of a bitch, is what I hear. Works the chain gang up in Queensland. A deputy or somepin.”
“Does he know?” James asked.
“Not yet.”
“She planning on telling him?”
Tom picked up a stone and hurled it into the night, hung his head in exhaustion. “I guess that depends.”
“On what?”
“On whether I pay up. She wants money, James.” Tom picked up another rock and threw it past the first one. “Thinks we got money. Us bein’ squatters and all. I told her my dad didn’t leave us a pot to piss in, but she don’t buy it. Says I’m going to pay one way or another.”
“Doesn’t make sense. She’d have to admit what she did with you.”
Tom sucked at the last bit of tobacco, his fingers shaking. “Ashley’s a fool, but not stupid. Thought of everything.” He laughed coldly, his voice scared. “Says if I don’t pay, she’s gonna tell him I forced myself on her. Gonna tell him I raped her.”
Tom blinked fiercely, his face sick. “I’d never do that to a woman! You know that. I got five sisters. The very thought of somebody doin’ that to a woman makes my insides curl.” He grimaced. “And here she is waving a word like ‘rape’ around my face like it’s a bloody streamer!”
Tom dropped his head into his hands. The cigarette butt fell to the ground and smoldered. “What am I gonna do?”
James ground out the stub with his heel, stared hard into the dark.
“Got no money,” Tom choked. “Hell, I’d pay in a second just to get her off my back, but I got nothin’.” He shook his head. “Swear I don’t care what the bloke does to me. He can string me up from the nearest gum branch an’ I’d take it smiling. But I can’t have Mum livin’ with this shame. Kill her worse than Dad dyin’. Kill her worse than the boys goin’ off to war.”
James stood, felt the weight of Tom’s eyes as he walked in a clipped circle, hands on hips. “Let’s say you pay. She’s still pregnant. How’s she going to explain that?”
“Says once she gets paid, she’s gonna visit her bloke. Make him be with her so he thinks it’s his.” He spit at the ground. “She’s damn twisted, James. Evil and twisted right outta her gawddamn head.” Tom blew out the side of his mouth. “I think she planned it all along. Picked me out special. Just a dumb squatter.” He sighed. “Not half-wrong.”
James looked at his friend, his brother. His voice steeled. “We’ll get the money, Tom.”
The man’s lost eyes met his. “We don’t have—”
“I’ll find the money.” James extended a hand and pulled Tom up. “I’ll find it.”
CHAPTER 39
The elegant rooms of the Fairfield manor overflowed with guests. Leonora stayed quiet, smiled faintly at the well-wishers, her insides numb to words and sounds and sentiment. Alex loomed large and confident in his black tux as he made the rounds of greetings. He juggled a full tumbler agilely as he kissed hands, hugged shoulders and kept his fingers glued to his wife’s waist.
Waiters herded the lingering crowd to the ballroom to take their seats for dinner. Leonora and Alex sat at a small table draped in gold silk, centered with white roses.
Owen, dressed in a pure white tuxedo, stood and tapped his fork against his champagne flute. The room quieted. “It’s with great honor that we welcome you to our home on this wonderful day—the wedding of Alexander Harrington and my beautiful niece, Leonora.”
Leonora stared at her pale hands in her lap as if they belonged to someone else.
“But even as we share our congratulations and our love for this happy couple, we must also use this opportunity to say our good-byes.”
Leonora looked up. Owen and Alex exchanged grins. “As many of you know, Alex has become like a son to me. His business acumen, as well as his devotion to my niece, has been a great source of pride for my wife and I. And with that pride comes a deep trust. Alex has graciously agreed to step into the family business and will fill my shoes overseas.”
A live wire pulsed, itched her palms. Air came quick and short to her lungs.
“Please join me as we wish Alex and Leonora health and happiness in their new home.” Owen Fairfield raised his glass, met Leonora’s eyes deeply and tilted the glass solely to her.
Her breathing stopped.
“Australia!”
PART 5
CHAPTER 40
Ghan picked his way along the road furrows, the hour early as a sparrow fart. Frost crunched under his steps as he hunched his body against the cold, his hands taking turns holding the bag strap and warming in the front pockets. Only the nights and mornings brought the piercing chill. By noon, he’d be sweating through his shirt.
Ghan stopped, pulled off his boot and clawed his swollen, blistered toes. Damn chilblains. The more he scratched, the more they burned and swelled. Every season brought its own itch—fleas in the summer, lice in the spring, foot rot in the wet, chilblains in the winter—least he only had one foot to scratch. Ghan shoved his boot back on without relief. No time to dawdle. He had work today.
The sun peeped above the plain. Toes would be warming soon. Work came. Work went. He had a good run with the sandalwood that lasted a few years. Just tie the trunks to a few wily goats, pry at the roots and pluck the trees out straight. He could have done that work forever, but the forest cleared fast. After a few years, nothing was left but some lonely craters. Leaves a man hollow when he sees acres and acres of land barren and holed. No birds; no wallabies. Nothing. But somewhere a rich lady got a nice-smelling sandalwood box sitting atop her bureau.
Grounding wheels perked his ears and he turned. A small dray pulled up, the driver bulky and red, his worn coat buttoned to his chin. “Where yeh headin’?”
“Southern Cross.”
“Hop up.”
“Here’s the map.” Mr. Fletcher, the co-op owner, handed him the scrawled piece of paper. “Yeh can read, can’t yeh?”
“Course I can!” Ghan spit. Course he couldn’t read a lick, but a map’s a map and he could read one as good as any fancy sook could read a poem.
“Team’s ready,” said Fletcher. “Need ’em back in two days, yeh hear? No slackin’.”
“No worries.”
“Good people, the Monahans. Steady customers. Lost a boy in the war. Don’t put ’em out, yeh hear? Need this team back in two days, yeh hear me?”
Say it again an’ yer gonna hear my fist in yer jaw. “Yes, sir. Two days.” Ghan was getting too soft—but a man’s got to eat. He crumpled the map into his pocket and pulled himself up to the seat behind the two yoked bullocks.
“Put the animals in the barn t’night, yeh hear?” Mr. Fletcher hollered out. “Yeh hear me?”
Yeh, I hear yeh, yeh naggy son of a bitch. Bullocks be sleepin’ cozy in the barn while I’m freezin’ my arse in the paddock. “Yes, sir!” Ghan hollered back with a polite tip of his hat.
The roads from the Southern Cross branched out in fingers, and once he passed the outskirts of town he unwrinkled the map, caught his bearings and headed through the thumb.
Ghan passe
d a small cemetery on his right, no different from the others that dotted the inner land: a bent iron fence, humble white stones marking forgotten names, forgotten lives. A few hours later, he passed the remnants of a dead farm and a burned-down squatter shack. A few charred beams stuck from the soot-stamped ground. A wheelbarrow lay on its side, half-brown with rust, half-black with burn. The old water tank stood untainted. With the sound of the bullocks, a feral cat slinked with bowed back out of the empty chook house and sprinted into the rows of old wheat stalks. Shame, Ghan thought to himself, good land sitting empty.
By dinner, the Monahan station came into view. One by one the children poured from the house, yelling in shrieks that the supplies had come. They swarmed the wagon before he could pull to a full stop.
“G’day,” the station men and family men and women greeted in a round. “Thought O’Shaye deliverin’ the load?” they asked while their eyes flitted over the crates.
“Measles.”
“Goin’ round. Seems to every few years.”
Quick as bees to syrup, the people swarmed and climbed upon the boxes, the wagon creaking under the weight. Women searched until they found the bolts of gray calico, boxes of needles, threads and buttons. Men began unloading the supplies with grunts and veins popping in their necks. The children sniffed out the tins of barley sugar candy as if they could smell it straight from the packing straw.
A little girl with braids hanging down her ears held up one of the metal candy tins. “Can we, Mum?” she begged.
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