A Changing Land (30 page)

Anthony shrugged. ‘Well you didn't listen to me on that score either. Good luck.'

‘Good luck? Geez, Anthony, what's got into you?'

He opened the back door. ‘Reality.' Then he was gone.

In the kitchen Sarah sat near the Aga. He'll come back. She cushioned her head with her arms on the kitchen table.
He will come back
, she whispered. Hadn't her grandfather told her that same thing many years ago? Everyone came back, they couldn't help themselves; Wangallon got into your soul.

That night Sarah dreamt of Wangallon. She hovered above the countryside, darting down like an eagle hawk to inspect dams and fences, swooping low over grassland to check sleeping ewes and resting cattle. She breasted the wind and let it carry her high into the stratosphere and then folded her wings against the updraft to plummet down to where men on horseback walked a single trail. The men carried their need to protect Wangallon like the rifles slung across their thighs, carefully but with determination. When she awoke in the pre-dawn Sarah
understood this necessity – there was much to lose. And there was something else that unexpectedly came to her: the tin chest that contained her great-grandfather's ledgers was in her grandfather's massive wardrobe.

‘Is it not too early for you to be wandering about?' Hamish addressed the lone figure stalking the garden as the first tinges of light illuminated the eastern sky. Claire was dressed only in her chemise and wrap. He took his wife by the elbow and together they walked the perimeter.

Claire ran her fingers across the top of the white paling fence, feeling the sharp prick of splinters in her soft skin. The fence divided their two worlds as perfectly as any boundary. ‘This is a pleasant fiction,' she said evenly as her slipper-encased feet stepped over twigs. ‘Have you tired of me, Hamish? Do you wish me to leave?' It was the only feasible solution unless they could come to some form of understanding.

‘I will be away for some days.' Hamish steered her towards the length of bougainvillea hedge that was now large enough to block the westerly winds.

‘Do me the courtesy of an answer,' she said, patting at her lacklustre hair.

‘I have tried to ensure your happiness, yet it is undeniable that we have grown apart.' The fine leather of his boots kicked at a fallen branch. ‘You came here as a young carefree woman. I wonder what became of the person I admired.'

‘So you do not love me?'

Hamish breathed in the earth about him, imagined the being of his land rising and falling in sleep. ‘I have, during my lifetime, Claire, utilised whatever means at my disposal to carve out a place for myself in this new world. You have benefited from my efforts.'

‘I do not deny that.' Her fingers clutched a little tighter at the shawl about her shoulders. ‘You loved me once, I think. I remember your smile, your body next to mine for weeks on end.' She glanced coyly at his weathered profile. ‘I think perhaps you liked the idea of love, of being loved. Or maybe you just like possession.' Claire felt him stiffen at her words. ‘We have a divide between us, husband, one made gaping by your single-minded interest in this great property you have created.' Claire placed the slightest of pressure on his arm. ‘Your obsession with Wangallon has led you away from the comforts of hearth and home, from the wife who would welcome gentle conversation. We could bridge the divide between us if –'

‘When my time is over my descendants will benefit from the substantial legacy I leave. The Gordons will be remembered. I don't believe I owe anyone,' he looked at her, ‘any more or less than that.'

‘I see,' Claire replied tightly. Although used to his harsh demeanour, there was an unmistakeable edge to his words. ‘So you care not for our small family, for those who have supported your endeavours and assisted in giving your family name a measure of respectability.'

‘I am beyond caring about respectability. It means nothing. A man can raise himself up to the highest echelons and still be considered no better than a dog by some.' Having paused at the
furthest end of the garden, Hamish removed his arm from hers and looked out across the wavering grassland. A mob of kangaroos was travelling slowly across his field of vision.

‘Hamish, what has happened to create such a fury within you? I have seen it growing like a watered seed these last months.' His brown hands stretched wide across the weathered fence. She reached tentatively towards him, then thought better of the action. ‘You are angry at something that has no bearing on our relationship. And I have not been at my best these past weeks. Between the two of us our marital difficulties have tripled through circumstances that will surely pass.'

Hamish gave such a sigh that Claire's eyes moistened. She turned aside, wiping angrily at her tears. ‘We have had common interests,' she sniffed. ‘Respectability for one: Why, you courted Sydney society for years and now we have friends among the most prominent families in the country. Have you forgotten the length of the time it has taken for us to be accepted? When I think of the weeks spent in Sydney during the season when only a sprinkling of invitations were ours to choose from. When I think of the effort I myself went to –'

‘Then don't think, my dear,' Hamish said impatiently, continuing his walk. ‘You will find it less taxing. And if we are honest with ourselves I think you will agree that the upper echelons of society are what you aspire to. In truth I have little need of such things anymore. All of our preening and amiable conversation has been for Angus, after all.'

Claire smelled the pungent aroma of tobacco as Hamish stuffed his pipe, lit it and inhaled deeply. They were standing beneath the branches of a spreading gum tree, the muted pinky-blue of dawn creeping over the countryside. ‘How can you say that?' Claire's face was white, her features stiff with exasperation.

‘Because there is something far more important than respectability. However, you are a woman,' he spoke a little gentler,
‘and as such God divined you to see virtue in matters of little consequence.'

She bit her knuckle, glad of the half-light. What had watered this cold wedge which had so recently grown within her husband?

‘Once Luke has left with the mob, may I suggest a little sojourn,' Hamish stated between puffs of his pipe. ‘I thought perhaps a trip to the Blue Mountains to escape February's heat; then some sea air.'

Claire thought back to Luke's revelation, how his own mother Rose was not yet dead when Hamish became her unknown benefactor. ‘You will be joining me?' Despite the mortification of the expected answer, Claire needed to know.

Hamish smoothed his moustache. ‘No. You will take Angus with you. He will be attending the Kings School at Parramatta.'

Claire shuddered inwardly at the calmness with which her future was being decided. Did he really have no affection for her anymore, not even as the mother of his son and heir? Or was her current tendency towards melancholy making her presume the very worst. The very worst, she repeated silently; if the heir was no longer at Wangallon, what need was there for her?

‘Many of the landed board their sons at an early age,' Hamish continued. ‘The advantages are numerous. Apart from the educational and sporting benefits, the boys mix with the sons of other wealthy pastoralists, forming lifelong friendships with those of a similar social standing.' He paused and looked at her directly. ‘That alone should make you agreeable.'

Now he was ridiculing her values. Dragging her feet up the verandah steps Claire attempted to formulate some last drastic retort, yet she could think of nothing that would wound him. He was beyond the understanding of mortal men. Claire lifted her head proudly as she walked towards the main door. There standing in the doorway was Angus. His face was pale.

‘Mother?'

Angus's mouth opened, fat tears began streaming down his distorted face to roll across his cheeks and lips. ‘Mother?' His violet eyes searched Claire's face. ‘Father? W-what will I do in the city? What about Wallace and Lee and –'

‘This will be the making of you,' Hamish explained. ‘Now stop blubbering.'

‘I'm not going,' Angus cried out, stamping his foot. ‘I'm not going and I'm not leaving Wangallon.'

Hamish closed the distance between his son in three large strides. Removing his leather belt he doubled it and flicked it across the palm of his hand. ‘You will quell your predilection to disobedience and accept your good fortune.'

Claire watched the adamant stance of her son and thought of his recent attempts at riding his horse. The boy had shown his determination that day.

Angus squared his young shoulders. ‘Never,' he retorted as his father approached him, belt in hand. He turned on his heel and quickly ran inside.

‘Please don't take Angus from me,' Claire pleaded as Hamish furiously looped his belt back around his waist. ‘If you ever cared for me and I know you did once, don't take my one consolation, please don't send him away. Think about how he will pine, please think about –'

‘This is ridiculous. The boy will benefit greatly from such an undertaking.'

Claire tugged at his jacket. ‘I was schooled here, as was Luke. We could employ a tutor as you did then.'

‘The schooling was adequate for a woman as it was for the mental faculties of Luke. Angus deserves and will receive far better.'

‘For what purpose? To converse with blacks and the decrepit likes of Jasperson?' Claire opened her arms to encompass the land about them, her shawl falling to the ground. ‘To contemplate
sunsets and count cattle? For what reason does he need this great education other than to make my presence here redundant?'

Hamish gave her a peculiar look. Claire dropped her arms quickly, bending to retrieve her shawl. Surely Hamish understood her anger was borne of sadness, surely some slight vestige of the man she cared for lay curled within the hardened shell he'd woven about himself. Claire tugged at her shawl, gave a wan smile. In truth he'd only suggested a holiday – a sojourn, was that not the word he had used?

‘I think,' Hamish said bitterly, ‘you have made yourself redundant'.

Claire, having partaken of some hot water and cod-liver oil, was still dressed in her chemise. She busied herself by rummaging through the cedar wardrobe, attempting to find something suitable to her disposition. She threw various items over her shoulder, each small thud helping to eradicate the most shocking of conversations she'd ever had the misfortune to endure. The bed was already strewn with finely pintucked blouses, three skirts of varying shades of brown and two of the so-called hobble skirts. Those she would not wear again. Claire tossed the black and grey aside. The constrictions of female fashion were becoming an abomination. She decided on a fashionable morning dress of water-weave taffeta. The pink was undoubtedly a little ostentatious for a dreary bush day and was more suited to a citified soiree, however Claire was in need of cheering up. She chided at her weeping, which threatened to engulf her should she not stay angry. All manner of emotions were raking across her body. Guilt, hate and hurt being the ones she could put immediate description to. ‘I hate you,' she muttered, tearing gloves, woollen stoles and boned corsets from their drawers. ‘I hate you.'

Leaving the wardrobe and dresser Claire embarked on the contents of the large camphorwood chest from within which she began to yank at a selection of carefully folded evening gowns.

‘Mrs Gordon, can I get you some breakfast?' Mrs Stackland's voice echoed strongly in the hallway.

Claire's fingers sorted nimbly through layers of silky material. ‘No, thank you.' There were satins and silks, cottons and taffetas in all colours. With practised efficiency she swept a royal blue taffeta into her arms, the material unfolding in a shimmer to reveal a seed pearl embroidered bodice. Next she selected a burgundy satin with gold fringing on the skirt's front panel and hem. Holding up each of the gowns, she studied her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Her skin looked sallow against the royal blue and bloodless next to the burgundy. She would need to do something about her pallor least she were relegated by the Sydney gossips to such a position of sickliness that it was deemed unsuitable to extend her a single invitation.

Dumping the gowns on the cypress floor a rip of pain surged through her. Claire buckled to her knees, clutching at her abdomen. She began to crawl towards the door, hopeful of leveraging herself up so that she could call for assistance. She slipped on the material beneath her and fell heavily as a rush of blood left her body. With a moan Claire turned onto her back, tentatively touching the wetness between her legs. She struggled upwards expecting to see some sliver of her unborn child resting amid the rich weave of the evening gowns. ‘Don't look,' she chided, ‘don't look, Claire.' With tired arms she wrenched the chemise from her body and wadded the material between her legs. Placing her palms on the floor she dragged herself backwards, her body sliding easily across the silk-and-taffeta covered floor until her back rested against the foot of the bed. Her head lolled back, her neck arching uncomfortably. Slowly the pain subsided, leaving behind a shallow emptiness.

Claire watched a triangle of sun enter the partially opened bedroom curtains. The elongated strip of heat travelled silently until sometime later it struck the soft flesh of her bloodied thigh. She would take the Cobb & Co coach from Wangallon Town once her recuperation was complete. Claire flinched at the unwelcome heat pricking her skin and focused on the washstand with its ceramic water jug and matching bowl. It was a long journey to Sydney, over 650 miles. On their last trip south the eight-seat passenger coach took 35 hours to travel 135 miles. Claire began to heave herself up until she was standing. The jolting and boredom of the trip south was almost too ferocious to contemplate, especially when a single 135 mile leg included an overnight stop. She took a tentative step forward as new warmth, agitated by her movement, trickled down her leg. One could expect a minimum of five nights' stopover en route as long as dry weather prevailed and the coach or horses didn't suffer a break down. At the washstand Claire poured water into the ceramic bowl and sobbed quietly. She cried for her lost baby whose soul was winding its way heavenward, and for the man who was her husband. This time, however, Claire refused to cry for herself.