The half-light that came just after sunset darkened the water, accentuating the long-necked birds stalking for prey.
‘Egrets,’ said Darcey. ‘Once I would have asked you to shoot one for me. They’re in great demand for women’s hats.’
‘And you no longer fancy them?’ asked Ross, as the birds lifted into the evening air.
‘Most of what I know about birds and animals came from books, Ross. The fripperies I once enjoyed aren’t so important anymore.’
Ross caught her profile, contentment showed. They knew every inch of each other’s skin, but little else. He’d not allowed it. Since Darcey’s arrival, it was plain to Ross that more than the hope of a child kept his wife at Waybell. He was sorry for her dreams.
Only once during her months on the station had Darcey complained, and that small comment was made during the height of the monsoon when a number of dry days had created relentless heat and the humidity made the brightest of souls irritable and depressed. Connor coined the phrase ‘suicide season’, the antidote to which he believed was keeping well clear of people. When the cloudbursts eventually arrived Darcey countered the stifling weeks by enticing him to play cards, then she cut up some of her clothes and sewed them into curtains. Ross observed the way she laid out the useless gowns, tracing the patterns, collars and cuffs before unpicking the fabric and winding the pulled thread onto an empty reel. There were scissors and measuring tapes and much holding of fabric against walls to check the suitability of her choice and careful, neat stitching as the rain poured down. At the end of each day Darcey poured a large rum for him and a small glass of wine for herself, adding the tincture that she explained was for nervous tension. Why she required the mixture, Ross could only speculate. Darcey Grant was the most singularly composed woman he knew. Silk now framed the gauze on her bedroom window, heavy brocade in the dining room. It was a small thing. A simple decorative touch like the native flowers on the table and the sharing of drinks at dusk, and yet it felt like a gradual encroachment. As if, inch by inch, Darcey was staking a greater claim.
‘My father called this time of night the gloaming.’ She picked up a stick and threw it into the water where a lily pad cushioned its entry. ‘Often he would sit in the garden until dark, enjoying the changing sky.’
‘A man of simple pleasures,’ responded Ross. ‘You must miss him.’
‘I do. He died a few months after we were married.’
‘I’m sorry,’ said Ross.
‘Don’t be. You didn’t know him, however he knew of you. I wrote to him the day after our wedding. He knew that I was cared for. That’s all he ever wanted.’
‘We should go in.’ Ross directed them towards the homestead, wondering about the letter Darcey had penned to her father. He imagined it full of a woman’s wrath and regretted her writing it, firstly for her father, who undoubtedly hoped for better things for his only surviving child, and secondly because of the negative portrayal it would have cast on him. Not that he was undeserving.
Across the water, the fires of the camp sent spiralling embers into the sky as fresh logs were thrown onto the flames.
‘Will you be away for long?’ she asked. ‘Mr Sowden told me that there is the opportunity to stop at the homestead, instead of staying away for so many months.’
‘The men will certainly be back here in a month or so, but I’m considering buying another property, so I’ll head south at some stage with Connor and leave Mick and Eustace in charge.’ He didn’t mention that he also intended on going to Darwin.
‘They seem like good, reliable men.’
‘They’re as trustworthy as their conscience stretches, Darcey, but yes they do a good enough job.’
‘You sound like your father. It suits you.’
Ross stiffened. ‘I’d rather hoped I was my own man, not a carbon copy of another.’
‘Of course. I didn’t mean to offend you. And this property you’re thinking of buying. Is it very large?’
‘Large enough.’ A hand on her elbow, Ross guided her up the stairs into the house. The rooms were dark. The floorboards creaked as they walked across them.
‘Our house in England had a nightingale floor,’ Darcey told him. ‘My father said it was built by smugglers who worried about the authorities coming for them in the night. It squeaked and groaned when you walked on it, and I never could sneak downstairs for a glass of milk in the middle of the night without my parents knowing. It’s the same with this floor. I know when you’re coming.’
Ross lit a candle, replacing the flue. ‘Darcey, it’s been months. This situation can’t go on forever, you know.’
‘Will you come to me tonight?’ she asked.
‘I have to leave early in the morning,’ Ross told her.
‘Please. If you don’t, more time will pass and I know you don’t want that. I’m afraid my age might take away any chance I have of ever having a child.’
‘That’s ridiculous, you’re still young.’
‘Older than you,’ she reminded him. ‘And yet to have success.’
‘All right,’ he relented. Ross had given thought to the possibility of Darcey being incapable of bearing a child and where that would leave their agreement. ‘We’ll have to talk about the future, Darcey, if nothing happens soon.’
It was a difficulty neither of them broached, for want of hearing the other’s expectations. Ross now struggled with the possibility of never having a son, an outcome that mattered more than he’d once thought it would. What had taken root was the inevitability of time and the plain truth that Ross didn’t want his name forgotten. Even if all that remained of him was a yellowing photograph atop a piano. It was mortality that kept Ross returning to Darcey’s bed. The thought of a son.
For once there was no prearranged time to their meeting. When Ross entered the bedroom unannounced, his wife was not already waiting in bed, a sheet preserving her modesty. And Ross realised that he’d forgotten to partake in the bolstering shots of rum that had usually been his custom.
Darcey lit the bedside candle and began taking the pins from her long hair. Ross tugged off his shirt and splashed water on his face from the washstand, smelling the lavender soap that he’d come to associate with Darcey. She struggled with a button on her skirt and Ross went to her, standing behind, their hands catching as he helped. The material billowed at her feet and Darcey stepped from it, her hair falling over a shoulder. Ross bunched the lengths in his palm, and turned her around. She lifted her face to his.
Chapter 41
Ross left the next morning before dawn, when the sky was inky blue. He rode westwards all day, the sun warming his back. The woodlands unspooled in a disturbance of orange, yellow and mauve flowers. Miles behind him, in the centre of the dining room table, anchored by a mug of wilted flora, lay the letter he’d left for Darcey. Its composition proved harder than Ross expected, so in the end he’d given up trying to find the right words. There were none. It was a brief note, direct. They were playing at marriage and Ross wasn’t prepared to wait forever, and neither should she. Surely the woman wanted a better life. And so he’d told Darcey to leave.
It wasn’t the expected parting. If Ross had thought of their goodbye at all it was in vague terms, a handshake at her bedroom door, a hug. Neither seemed proper. Both were awkward, as was the whole unusual messy time that they’d lived together. Yet they’d never once argued after that first day and as their time together had worn on, simple respect had led to understanding. It was as if Darcey had lit a fistful of twigs under their relationship, fanning it continually until it became a small fire. She was clever. She had seeped into his pores. This morning he’d woken up by her side, and he’d wanted to be there.
‘Where are you going then?’ Connor rode out from among the timber to where Ross had made camp for the night.
Ross lifted the rifle at his side and then returned it to the ground. ‘Did I ask you to follow me?’ he questioned. He resumed turning the wild ducks on the spit, the juices dripping onto the embers with
a hiss. A light easterly wind stirred the air, carrying with it scattered fluffy clouds. Ross glanced at the wispy sky and back to Connor, who was now tying his horse to a low branch.
The Scotsman squatted in the dirt, hands dangling between his legs. ‘The rest of the men should be at the first mustering camp by now. I had it in my head that we were going with them. What happened?’
‘Nothing,’ said Ross bluntly. He poked at the fire, jiggling the billycan in the coals. ‘I told Darcey to leave.’
Connor took out his pipe, tapping the stem in his palm. ‘Ah. That must have been tough. On both of you. How did she take it?’
Ross slid the threaded ducks from stick to plate, then he dug a damper from the coals, dusting the ash and dirt from its hard crust. ‘You hungry?’
‘That well, eh?’ Connor stabbed at one of the ducks with a knife and began pulling at the steaming flesh with his fingers. ‘Man shall not live by bread alone. So what’s your plan? Darwin, I presume?’
‘You deduct that from the fact I’m heading in the direction of the train lines?’ replied Ross.
‘Lucky guess.’ Connor grinned. ‘While you’re inspecting the abattoir I can find out if Holder has finally passed on and who’s handling the sale of his property.’
‘Keeping an eye on me wouldn’t be on your agenda too, I suppose?’
Connor tore a chunk of bread from the loaf. ‘Never crossed my mind.’ He bit into the hot damper. ‘Not bad. We’ll make a cook out of you yet.’
Ross added a handful of tea leaves to the billy, which was nestled in the coals. ‘Tea?’
Connor retrieved his pannikin from where it was tied to his saddle and returned to the fire. ‘Don’t mind if I do,’ he replied, holding out the mug for Ross to fill. ‘This will be a good test for Mick and the rest of them. Leaving them in control again.’
‘We’ll see,’ said Ross, taking a sip of the scalding brew.
‘Are you sure it’s what you want, Darcey leaving?’ Connor asked between mouthfuls.
Ross picked at the damper, throwing pieces of it in the path of a trail of ants. ‘I didn’t ask her to come.’ He ate a portion of the duck and then, sitting his plate aside, pulled one of Alastair’s books from his belongings. There was barely enough light and Ross read the same paragraph twice before giving up.
‘The gloaming,’ he said quietly, recalling the previous evening’s walk around the edge of the billabong. The fire brightened against the coming dark.
‘You not eating then?’ queried Connor.
Ross took a few more mouthfuls and then passed the plate to Connor, who quickly shovelled the remaining food into his mouth, and made a show of licking his fingers. ‘It’s a fine thing to finish the day with a good feed in your belly. That and a sip of tea and a pipe. Now, if we had a bottle of something hard and you played the harmonica, Ross, we could make a night of it.’ Connor rolled out his swag.
Ross lay looking up at the stars as a layer of smoke settled over them, a remnant from the burning off of wet-season growth by the Aboriginal people further to the east.
Connor filled his pipe and then lit it, sighing contentedly. He began to hum.
Turning on his side, Ross moved back and forth until he managed to carve a slight depression in the earth with his hip. There was something to be said for being alone but the occasion was rare when that happened. At least Connor’s music, a melody of Scottish notes with the odd word thrown in, didn’t ask anything of him. Ross listened with some pleasure, wincing when the Scotsman tested the higher octaves.
Finally, he stopped. ‘Darcey got under your skin, didnae she?’
‘She cornered me. That’s what she did, Connor. Coming all this way.’
‘But she didnae, not really, Ross,’ Connor told him. ‘You took what she offered and now you’ve had enough, you’re sending her away.’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Then tell me,’ said Connor. ‘Spell it out, man, for I’m a daft highlander and I can’t make sense of this. You’ve been living together as man and wife. Sharing a bed. And now suddenly you tell her to leave? I dinnae understand. You were getting along just fine. Better than fine. And what about her? Didnae you ever wonder how she feels? How hard this must be?’
‘I didn’t ask her to come, Connor.’
‘What happened? What happened last night that’s made you run? I’ll tell you what I think’s happened. I think you’ve realised that maybe you dinnae want Maria quite so much, or maybe, maybe you want them both. Aye. That’s it, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Connor. I know you think I’ve done Darcey wrong,’ replied Ross.
‘Aye, mate,’ Connor said. ‘And you do too.’
Chapter 42
Darwin
A week later, Ross arrived in Darwin. Leaving Connor to meet with Marcus Holder’s solicitor, he went straight to the Reece residence. A woman was in the garden pruning an overgrown shrub, the branches of which were twisted around a picket fence. She rose unsteadily at Ross’s approach, clutching the railing with a gloved hand so that her plump figure made the timber squeak under the strain. Ross introduced himself and Mrs Reece’s bland expression immediately changed to one of interest.
‘Mr Grant.’ She peered from under the brim of a tatty felt hat. ‘This is a surprise. My husband wasn’t expecting you until this afternoon. It’s such a pleasure to finally meet you.’ She gave a small puff of exertion. ‘He’s at the slaughterhouse. Giving it a thorough going-over. He’s expecting a big season. Connor wrote to say that the cattle numbers will be up on last year.’
‘Hopefully, Mrs Reece, all going well,’ replied Ross.
‘And we’ve been hearing great things of your improvements. What with your new homestead additions and the work on the western boundary.’ Mrs Reece removed her gardening gloves. ‘You will come inside for tea. I’ve just made a cake. It only needs a dash of cinnamon and sugar to finish it off. Oh, and did you bring your wife? I didn’t meet her when she came through last year but those that did sang her praises. Pretty and refined, that’s what people said of her. We never took much notice of that news paper gossip. You coming from such a fine family and all. And once Mrs Grant arrived, we knew everything was codswallop.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Reece, but I’ve only just arrived in town. You’ll tell your husband that I was here and that I’ll call on him later.’
‘Of course. You’ll join us for dinner, won’t you? And Connor, if he’s travelling with you. Charming man he is, with a cheeky sense of humour. Of course, once the Administrator knows you’re in Darwin you may well find yourself siting on the veranda at Government House with that lovely sea breeze. Such a well-situated building. Only the best for our public servants.’
‘I was wondering about the young woman who was put into your care. Maria,’ interrupted Ross.
‘Maria isn’t with us anymore.’ Her tone sounded slightly prickly now. ‘I did write and tell Connor but the way the mail is sometimes during the wet …’ She lifted her hands, palms up. ‘I don’t mind telling you it was a kerfuffle last year, Mr Grant. Not that we minded the responsibility. My husband said it was only proper we help, us being the face of the Grant family business here in Darwin.’ She leant a bit closer. ‘We had all sorts of people hanging about the house. The clergy, the do-gooders, newspaper journalists, all sorts. It was a hard time for Mr Reece and myself. Maria told us very little, however I did as Connor asked and intercepted any letters addressed to her and those she tried to mail. All of them were for you, Mr Grant.’
Ross thought he had heard her wrong. ‘What?’
‘I figured she was trying to obtain further help but we all know you’d already done quite enough. It was a difficult time. Why, people trailed us in the street, trying to find out the truth of things. We never did hear, not really,’ she hinted.
The woman continued to speak, but her words blurred together. Ross may well have walked away, stunned by Connor’s manipulations, were he not so struck by th
e extent of his plotting.
‘And poor Maria. Well, I was pleased when things turned for her. Not that I minded having her in the house. She was a worker and I’ve never been one to turn my nose at a good domestic, Aboriginal or otherwise, but you never can tell. If you know what I mean. Still, when you look the way Maria does, trouble follows a woman no matter the blood. Especially here, where girls of a marriageable age are hard to find.’
‘What do you mean Maria’s not with you? She’s meant to be in your care,’ said Ross, when the woman finally paused to dab at perspiration.
Mrs Reece straightened. ‘She was, Mr Grant, but Maria left here over a month ago with her young man.’
‘What young man?’ queried Ross, his voice raised.
‘Why, her fiancé, Edward. Hugh Carment’s son. And Maria was very fortunate to catch his eye. Very fortunate, indeed. Why it weren’t two months before they were outing. I was doubtful the young man would pursue her, for it takes more than pretty looks and we all know the rubbing needed when the silver’s tarnished. But Edward isn’t your average young man. He’s principled like you, Mr Grant. Anyway, they’re married now, so you don’t need to worry about the likes of Marcus Holder taking advantage again. May he rest in peace. Died ten days ago, he did. The minister said there was no record of a proxy wedding having ever taken place, not that such a thing is legal. But bless you for trying to save a girl like her. You will come for dinner, Mr Grant, we eat at –’
Ross wasn’t capable of listening to her anymore. He looked at the Reeces’ neat weatherboard house. The angled slats on the windows made the home appear heavy-lidded, the low-slung tin roof like a lined brow. He made his excuses to leave, and shut the garden gate forcefully. He only just remembered to tip his hat in farewell.
He turned left and left again. The deserted street unfurled to a narrow point where a speck of blue swam on the tilt of the horizon. A dray went past, the pop of a whip hastening its progress. Ross pursued the driver until the wagon turned at the end of the block. Still he kept walking, his direction fixed on the sea. The long avenue gradually filling with movement. Ross shouldered his way past men in grimy collars and tunic-clad Chinese people, quite unable to believe what he’d just heard. The laundries with their crippling heat propelled him onwards until the strange aromas of oriental cooking were left behind and neatly dressed sun-hatted women strolled along Smith Street. As if by instinct, he’d found his way to the Victoria Hotel. He stormed through the door into the public bar, jostling the early drinkers to one side.
Stone Country Page 24
