A Changing Land (20 page)

‘Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you.' Sarah shut the bedroom door. She was beyond feeling anything. From the dresser she selected underwear, the string of pearls once owned by her grandmother and a pair of pearl earrings. ‘You told me a couple of days ago that I'd have to sort out the problem myself. Well, that's what I've decided to do.'

Anthony tugged at the bedclothes. ‘I didn't mean for you to rush off on some hair-brained –'

‘Clearly I have to see a solicitor and as you seem so ready to accept what you consider to be the inevitable, there's no point in you being involved in this particular exercise.'

‘I see.' He bashed his pillow into a more comfortable shape. ‘So what you're saying is that you're effectively cutting me out.'

Sarah zipped up the bag and sat it on a small chair in the corner of the room. ‘Jim arrived yesterday afternoon. Tonight is the first I've seen of you. Look at this from my corner, Anthony. You haven't exactly been the supportive fiancé.'

‘Is this your idea of some type of payback?'

Sarah shook her head and sat on the end of the bed. ‘Anthony,' she began as if talking to a child, ‘this isn't about you, or me. It's about Wangallon. I'm the last direct descendent after Dad – there is no one else.'

‘There's Jim.'

Sarah frowned, choosing to ignore the jibe. ‘There are spare seats on tomorrow's plane to Sydney.'

‘I'd be calling Ronald. It is his bloody mess after all.'

‘I can't.' She sat on the edge of their bed. ‘Sue's ill.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry. I didn't know.'

Sarah wished she didn't feel so alone. ‘Well, once again you haven't been here much to support me and when you have we've been arguing.' The expression didn't change on his face. Sarah
wasn't the only one facing change both internally and externally; Anthony was developing into the type of person who wouldn't give an inch and she didn't like it. What happened to the man she fell in love with. ‘I'll have to go see Dad anyway, and Mum, so I'll tell him then, in person.' She reached out and touched his hand. It had been days since they'd last held each other. ‘If I don't try to keep the property together I'll feel like I've failed every one of the Gordons who have come before me.'

Anthony pulled his hand away and tugged the blanket higher across his chest. ‘And what about us?'

Sarah sighed. ‘Did you consider my feelings when you dreamt up the Boxer's Plains idea? Do you even comprehend how painful it is to me to hear you talk about Jim's inheritance as if it's inevitable? Knowing you feel that way, what is the point of you coming with me?'

‘You haven't answered my question, Sarah.'

‘And I can't. You are the one who has to answer it. You have to look at the way you've behaved over the past few weeks. Our relationship began on Wangallon and it will end on Wangallon, whether it be next year or in fifty years, but there has to be a Wangallon first for everything else to exist. That's the way I see it.' He was staring at her as if she were a museum sculpture. ‘I don't expect you to understand.'

‘Good, because I think you're being a bit melodramatic.'

‘That's probably because there's not three generations of your forefathers buried here.' Outside the wind rattled the doors leading out onto the verandah. ‘When you first came here, this place was just a job for you.'

‘That's unfair. I love this place.'

‘You do now.' Sarah could feel their relationship taking on a new form, one which would never be quite the same again. ‘Wangallon has to continue being run the way it always has. I'll accept the two thousand acres of cultivation, the grassland that's already been
cultivated. I have to as it has already been developed. I think that's fair considering how you went about it, but that's it. I want the rest of the project stopped until this mess with Jim is sorted.'

‘You're serious? You're actually telling me how you want the property run, after all the bloody hoo-ha about teamwork?'

‘I'm making a suggestion that you shouldn't take offence at if you are willing to work as a team as Grandfather intended.' Sarah couldn't believe she was even having this conversation. All Anthony had to do was include her in the decision-making, even if sometimes it was just a courtesy. ‘Well, are you?'

‘I told you the benefits of the project, that I was doing it for Wangallon, for the future, our future.'

‘And you admitted you had gone about it the wrong way.'

He was silent.

‘Look, I don't expect you to understand or agree with what I'm saying, but I do expect some consideration. The Boxer's Plains project is stopped indefinitely. Agreed?'

He looked at her evenly.

‘I'm trusting you, Anthony. I need to know I can rely on you. I'll fly down to Sydney, see if there's an angle we can work on.'

‘And you don't want me to come.'

She busied herself, gathering cosmetics and toiletries together. ‘I don't see any point.' Sarah found her black leather handbag and placed her wallet inside. The bedclothes rustled and she turned to see Anthony walking out of the room down the hallway towards the spare bedrooms. She didn't call after him. They seemed to be coming from opposing directions with no possible hope of slowing down before they crashed. Stepping out of her clothes she slunk naked between the covers, moving across to where the warmth of Anthony's body still clung to the pale blue sheets. Sarah scrunched her eyes together. How did it come to pass that she was fighting Anthony as well as Jim Macken?

The piano was framed by two curly brass candle holders and a panel of rose-pink pleated silk above the keyboard. Claire had always thought it a lovely piece, even if the silk was faded and the travelling piano tuner never quite got the keys correct. Placing her fingers against the cool of the ivory keys, she began practising scales, pretending to ignore the discordant sound of middle C. Her fingers hit the keys lightly. She persisted for some minutes despite the stuffiness of the room and the perspiration dripping down her legs. Having drawn the curtains early in an attempt to hold the midday heat at bay, Claire was tempted to reopen them in the hope that a slight breeze might take pity on her. As her fingers ran up and down the keys, she tried the beginnings of a concerto.

‘Mr Wetherly, Ma'am,' Mrs Stackland announced with more than an air of dislike. Claire would have queried her attitude had not Mr Wetherly already been present. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit of a wool cotton mix and carried the smell of
sheep and manure with him and the chewy aroma of persistent perspiration.

‘Mr Wetherly, I'm afraid I am not dressed for visitors,' Claire remarked, straightening her rather drab grey skirt, which was matched with a blouse adorned with black lace inserts. It was certainly her least becoming gown and her hair was piled atop her head in an unflattering bun.

Wetherly gave a formal bow, somewhat overdone for midday. ‘My apologies, Mrs Gordon. I was seeking your husband.'

‘I'm afraid he is not here.' Claire wished she'd chosen her cream silk gown this morning. ‘I could have refreshments sent out to the verandah if you care to wait.'

Wetherly hesitated. It was not particularly appropriate for the stud master to be in her drawing room alone with her. He was, after all, staff and undeniably single. Yet he loitered without answering, staring at her unabashedly until her cheeks flushed under his gaze. ‘Thank you,' he replied with a cool slowness. ‘I think not. I had –' he cleared his throat – ‘better wait outside. Besides, I find my thirst quite sated,' Wetherly answered smoothly. He turned to find Hamish staring at him with uplifted eyebrows.

‘I'll meet you at the yards at four o'clock, Wetherly. It's far too hot to be working stock until then.' Hamish dismissed Wetherly instantly, shutting the door quietly. ‘The man has a high regard for himself and his abilities.'

‘Give him time,' Claire returned to the piano feeling like a child whose outstretched hand had been caught seeking the boiled lolly jar. ‘He is very new to Wangallon.'

‘I see he has earned your admiration,' he sniffed, removing his jacket and throwing it across the horsehair couch. A puff of dust lifted into the air. ‘I don't think it appropriate for Wetherly to be alone in your company, my dear. He has somewhat of a reputation.'

One of the maids entered and, with a curtsey, walked towards the lead fireplace with a dustpan. The girl was reasonably efficient
and as yet had not broken any of her knick-knacks, although Claire was not taken with the way she picked up ornaments and inspected them. Hamish walked idly around the drawing room. ‘You've been playing?'

‘A little. Lemonade, Margaret.'

‘For two,' Hamish ordered sternly. The girl bobbed a poor excuse for a curtsey and left them alone. Hamish peered out the damask curtain, flicking at the tasselled fringing. ‘New?'

Claire repositioned a hair pin. ‘Twenty years ago.' In the past her husband was quite particular about their furnishings; however, time had rendered many things commonplace. This phenomenon did not extend beyond the mud brick walls of Wangallon homestead. Her husband's obsession lay with the land and it spread out beneath him like a great fount of prosperity. ‘If you recall we ordered the material during a visit to Sydney.'

‘Yes, of course.'

There was little doubt in Claire's mind that Hamish would not remember. Her husband knew every bend in the creek and river, every fence and outbuilding and clump of trees in every paddock. He knew Wangallon so well that Claire was convinced he could start at one end of the property and recall every single detail of the landscape as if he were riding through it on a summer's day. In comparison he ensured his homestead was suitably impressive for the holding it sat upon, although it remained only a dwelling to him. Wangallon was Hamish's love and she drew his focus like a demanding mistress well used to lavish attention.

‘Have you seen Luke?'

‘No.' Claire retrieved her fan from atop the piano. In truth she was pleased that he'd not come calling, for after their last conversation she had suffered from such a sense of confusion that she doubted her ability to converse properly on any subject at all.

Hamish examined the silver-mounted emu egg and the matching ruby lustre vases on the mantlepiece. ‘One of the maids
is sweeping the verandah at an unfathomable hour. Dawn and dusk should be sufficient.'

Claire wafted the air with the ivory and lace fan. ‘I'll mention it to Mrs Stackland.'

‘Good.' He walked to the armchair and, retrieving her quilting, passed it to her.

‘Have you received correspondence from Mrs Crawford?'

Claire began stitching a square of yellow material. ‘Only that her eldest has arrived to visit his father. Should we entertain them?' Her mind quickly leapt to the table seating. They could invite Henrietta Webb for the younger Crawford's sake, the father, of course and, and Wetherly? Who else was there to make up a suitable number after all?

‘We shall see. I would like to call upon you tonight.'

The needle pricked Claire's finger, drawing blood. It was some weeks since he'd come to her bedroom, although Claire was sure he did not lack companionship. She sucked at the bead of blood welling on the fleshy pad of her finger. His back remained stiffly towards her as her assent was mumbled.

Margaret returned with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses as Hamish left the room. Claire held out her hand and, accepting the poured glass, sipped at it, wincing at the sourness.

‘Mrs Stackland says to tell you, Missus, that the last of the preserved lemons are a might tart.'

‘Indeed Mrs Stackland is a fount of wisdom,' Claire answered brusquely. ‘I would like cold cuts and some tasty vegetables this evening.' She would be needing sustenance, she thought with a smile.

The girl left hastily with the tray. Claire heard a screech and then the smash of glass; Mrs Stackland's taut reprimand followed. She flicked her eyes closed in annoyance before securely closing the door leading down the hall to the kitchen. It was too hot in this room, far too hot. There was a sensation of
discomfort in her stomach and she felt the debilitating approach of a headache. Claire opened the window on the southern wall, flinging back the curtains in an effort to stir the air. Her home was beginning to resemble a madhouse. Now she could hear muffled sobbing. Despite the heat and the massing flies, Claire crooked her neck out the window to see who was making such a pitiful racket.

Margaret sat crouched by the meat house, the black skirt of her maid's uniform wet with what Claire assumed to be spilt lemonade. About to slam the window shut, she watched in surprise as Luke approached the girl.

‘Are you all right?' He squatted beside her. ‘Mrs Stackland will be wondering where you are.' At the mention of the cook, the girl wiped her eyes. ‘That's better.' He held out his hand to her. She looked at him as if he were offering something forbidden. ‘Here.' He took her hand and helped her up.

Margaret hesitated, her soft mouth opening and closing. The girl was staring at Luke whom, having been distracted by the opening window, was now looking directly at Claire. The maid glanced from Luke to Claire and walked quietly away.

Luke tipped his wide-brimmed hat, his eyes never leaving Claire's face.

Claire closed the window quietly. From the Chinese-lacquered cabinet she poured herself a sweet madeira, drinking the liquid down in three swallows, before placing the glass on a leather-topped table, oblivious to the ring stain seeping into the leather.

It was midnight. Claire swirled the washcloth in the blue and white ceramic basin, wrung the excess water from it and gave a final freshening wipe to the nape of her neck. Dropping the cloth on the top of the wooden washstand she pulled the cotton
nightgown over her head, the material catching on the dampness of her skin. The bed creaked.

‘I won't be back till dusk. I'm expecting Mrs Stackland to prepare a feast for New Year's Day celebrations.'

A wave of tobacco, brandy and Hamish's rough male scent lingered in the room after he'd left. She could not recall when his lovemaking had been so amorous. It was late and tomorrow she would be tired, bruised and out of sorts. Hamish, once tender and careful in his affections, had grown physical and sometimes a little rough in his infrequent ministrations towards her. She touched her stomach. There was a swelling there and she was sure a flutter of movement awoke her not two nights ago. Could it be possible? Certainly her moods had been fractious recently and her health not as it should be.

During her life Claire had been as reliable as the full moon and although her womb chose to grace her with only one precious child, she now believed it possible there might be another, though why now? She was past child-bearing both in age and enthusiasm. How she wished she could recall her last fertile month. Of course such a condition excused her from her girlish fancies. One could expect to be emotional if they were with child. A convenient excuse, Claire decided, as she fingered the delicate workmanship of the tortoiseshell comb. Often she wondered where life may have taken her if Luke were older. Certainly she was aware of an attraction spanning some years, however Luke's recent innuendo had changed her perceptions. She was past middle age – this was not the time for romantic fancies – and yet here she was thinking of Luke's admiration and the presence of Wangallon's stud master. As for being with child, Claire ran the silver-backed brush through the curling ends of her hair … How ridiculous.

Pinning her hair back in a loose French roll, Claire studied her reflection, first the left side, then the right. There was a softness to her jaw, hollows beneath once full cheeks and wisps of grey in her
dark hair. She was no longer a girl, no longer gilded by the dewy gods of youth. She pinched her cheeks to heighten their colour as perspiration settled in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts and on the backs of her thighs. She touched her stomach again, hoping it was a phantom of past wanting. Strangely enough she'd never been one for tears. Even now, accepting her loneliness as she had these past few months, the pity of it remained contained within her. Where she once saw space and freedom, she now experienced isolation, and the great untamed wilderness that was Wangallon now seemed savage. One could be grateful for what they received in life and one could also resent it. Claire looked at the pretty hair comb on her dresser and thought of the many times she had wished to go dancing or to dine out or call on a friend or promenade down the street. She was the wife of one of the country's wealthiest graziers. Good fortune was too hard to come by to treat it so poorly.

In bed the hot night brought beads of moisture to her skin. Beside her the bedside candle fluttered. Thank heavens, she muttered, as the slightest of breezes wafted about her face. It was strange how one could look for the most mundane of things: A cool place to sit, water to parch her thirst, and air, any air. Air, a puff, a gust, a draft or a zephyr; how she longed for wind to stir her clothes and blow away the heat of this place. It was as if Wangallon's thirsty soil were reaching for her, its many hands dragging her down. Claire pictured the acres of land emanating from Wangallon Homestead, envisioned the cemetery down by the bend in the creek. She wanted to be buried near her beloved father in Sydney. Not here in this desolate place where few people visited and the sun cracked the ground like a piece of broken pottery. Turning on her side, Claire reached for her book.

Mrs Aeneas Gunn's
We of the Never Never
had created quite a stir in social circles on publication and Claire, determined to converse on the book's merits, had procured a copy via catalogue
almost immediately. It did not appeal, however, for who wished to read of a woman's pain, isolation and hardship when one's own life was far from the gentrified circles of convivial female companionship. No, this was one book she would have little problem dismissing, although she kept it by her bedside, for Hamish had once noted his approval. Claire's favourite book, which she was reading for the fourth time and which lay hidden beneath Mrs Gunn's weighty tome, was Kenneth Grahame's
The Wind in the Willows
. Claire smiled as she turned to the next chapter. Sometimes she longed to have been born within the cool green of England's bosom, instead of being conceived on the long sea voyage out to be born in the most distant of countries. She envied Wetherly his English life and wondered at his leaving of it. With a yawn she closed her eyes, her fingers automatically touching her lips where Hamish's kisses had fallen.