Matilda's Last Waltz (27 page)

Andrew Squires began a close inspection of his manicured nails. ‘I was educated abroad, Mrs Sanders, and only returned once I'd been accepted at the Bar. My practice is in Melbourne. Kurrajong is merely a retreat from the hurly-burly of the city for me.' His eyes were very blue as they looked back at her. ‘I never had the pleasure of meeting the Thomas woman. But I understand my father knew her well.'

Liar, she thought as she returned his gaze. ‘Then perhaps I should return your visit, Mr Squires. It would be interesting to talk to your father about those early years.'

He looked down his long nose, his expression cold, his voice drawling, ‘I doubt if he could tell you much. They didn't mix socially.'

He's a self-important clothes horse as well as a liar, Jenny decided. And he was sitting in her kitchen drinking her tea as if he owned the place. It was time he went.

‘You really should have called first, Mr Squires,' she said coolly. ‘I have plans for today, and I'm running late as it is.'

Andrew seemed smugly amused by her heavy-handed attempt to make him leave. He selected a gold-tipped cigarette from a silver case and fitted it into a short ivory holder. He lit it with a silver lighter, and blew smoke to the ceiling before answering her.

‘You don't make a chap feel terribly welcome, dear lady. Especially when he's taken such a long drive to visit you.'

‘Was there a particular purpose for this call?' She glanced towards the door. Where the hell was Brett?

‘My, my,' he drawled. ‘Such a businesslike approach. How refreshing. I think you and I will get along famously, Mrs Sanders.'

‘That depends on what business you have to discuss,' she said coldly.

He eyed her through the cigarette smoke. ‘You seem a sensible woman, and God knows they're rare enough. With your artistic talents and growing reputation, you must obviously feel more at home in the city than in this godforsaken place.'

‘Get to the point, Mr Squires. I don't have all day.'

He smirked as he tapped ash into a saucer and Jenny wondered what it would be like to come up against him in court. He was a cold bastard, the sort you chose to be on your side not with the opposition.

‘I understand Wainwright has already told you of our interest in Churinga, Mrs Sanders. I'm here this morning to make you an offer.'

Jenny was about to speak when he raised his hand to silence her. ‘At least have the courtesy to let me finish, Mrs Sanders.'

‘Only if you have the courtesy to remember this is my home and you have no right to come in here throwing your weight about,' she retorted. ‘This isn't a court of law – I'm not in the witness box.'

‘Touché.' His smile was cold as his gaze swept over her. ‘I like a woman who speaks her mind, Mrs Sanders. One gets so tired of sycophants, don't you agree?'

Jenny eyed him disdainfully. ‘I wouldn't know.'

He seemed unfazed by her rudeness. ‘As I was saying, I'm willing to offer you more than a fair price for the property. If you agree to sell, then I'm sure we can come to an arrangement that will suit both parties.'

Jenny leaned back in her chair, keeping a tight rein on her rising anger. The Squires just wouldn't give up, and because of what Brett had told her last night she knew they never would. Now Ethan had sent this snake to do his dirty work – just as he had all those years ago with Matilda.

She forced a smile but her pulse raced and she itched to slap that reptilian smile off his face. She would play him at his own game. ‘What figure did you have in mind?'

Animated at the thought of achieving his goal, Squires sat forward. ‘Three-quarters of a million dollars. Plus stock at value.'

Jenny was astounded, but made sure it didn't show on her face. She'd seen the balance sheets and valuations, and knew the price he offered was way above what it was worth. This game was too dangerous to take any further. She could demand a million – and knowing how much he wanted Churinga he just might agree.

‘It's certainly a good price, Mr Squires,' she said more calmly than she felt. ‘But what makes you think I'm in the market to sell?'

He lit another cigarette, his movements liquid, all sign of nonchalance dissipated in his confidence she could be bought. ‘I've done my homework, Mrs Sanders. You're a widow. An artist with a fast-growing reputation and a partnership in a city gallery. You've had to scrimp and scrape most of your life. Now you have the opportunity to be rich beyond your wildest dreams. What possible use is a sheep station in the middle of nowhere to a woman alone when you could be set up for life back in the city?'

The bastard had done his homework, and it took all her will-power not to let him see how that affected her. ‘All true. But my late husband bought this place for me. It wouldn't seem right to sell.'

He sat forward eagerly. ‘That's just where you're wrong, Mrs Sanders. He bought Churinga for you both, planning to move here with your son and start a new life. He didn't mean for you to struggle on your own, to live out here with no family or friends to keep you company.'

Jenny watched his face, and vowed that if she ever did sell Churinga, it would never be to this particular snake.

Andrew was warming to his subject. ‘Just think, Mrs Sanders. You need never worry about money again. You'd be free to travel to Paris, Florence, Rome, London. You could visit the Louvre and the Tate, paint for pleasure not just a living.'

‘I've already travelled extensively and I didn't care for London,' she said flatly. ‘Churinga is not for sale.'

Surprise flashed momentarily in his eyes and was swiftly veiled. ‘I realise this comes rather soon after your bereavement, Mrs Sanders. Perhaps you need more time to collect your thoughts before you rush into any hasty decisions.'

He's a cold fish, Jenny thought. That smile's still in place even though my refusal obviously came as a shock. ‘I don't need time to consider your offer. Churinga is not, and will not be, for sale in the foreseeable future.' She stood up. ‘I have a lot to do today. So if you don't mind…'

Squires reached into an inside pocket of his neat tweed jacket. His face was tinged with colour, anger emanating in waves from beneath rigid politeness.

‘My card. If you should change your mind, Mrs Sanders, please call me. The price is of course negotiable, but only for so long.'

Jenny took the heavily embossed card, looked from the gold lettering to the blazing blue of his eyes. ‘Thank you. But you already have my answer.'

She walked to the door, the thud of his boots on the wooden floor like hammer blows as he followed her. They reached the verandah and she stepped outside with relief. The house had become claustrophobic.

Andrew Squires adjusted his soft, narrow-brimmed hat and pulled on his gloves. Jenny almost gasped at his audacity when he caught her hand, and after a courtly bow, kissed her fingers. ‘Until we meet again, Mrs Sanders.'

She stood transfixed as he went down the steps to his car, gunned the engine and roared off towards Kurrajong in a cloud of dust. The feel of his lips remained with her, and she wiped the back of her hand down her trousers.

‘What did he want?'

She turned to see Brett at the far end of the verandah. He was clutching the reins of two horses saddled and ready to ride, his eyes flint sharp in the morning sun.

She told him.

Brett dropped the reins and strode across the verandah. He grabbed her by the arms, pulling her close, forcing her to look up into his face. ‘He's poison, Jenny. Just like his father. Have nothing to do with any of them, or everything Matilda built up here will be destroyed.'

‘You're hurting me, Brett,' she protested.

He let her go and ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Sorry, Jen. But I meant what I said.'

‘I've met his kind before. Cold, calculating and greedy, used to buying their way through life – but I'm no fool, Brett. I can handle his sort.'

‘How did you leave it with him?' His face was still grim.

‘I told him I wouldn't take his three-quarters of a million bucks.'

‘How much?'

Jenny laughed. ‘You should see your face! Thought that would shock you.'

‘Bloody hell. Even I would've been tempted by that much money,' he said in wonder. ‘I had no idea Churinga was worth so much.'

‘It isn't, believe me,' she said dryly. ‘But he was willing to pay over the odds. I can't pretend I wasn't tempted, but it didn't seem right to sell to a Squires after all these years. Besides, he knew too much about me and my business. I reckon he's had someone spy on me.'

‘I wouldn't put it past him.' Brett muttered.

Jenny took a deep appreciative breath of the cool, early air. ‘Never mind about him. Sun's up, the horses are ready, and so am I. Let's go for that ride.'

‘Andrew and his family can't just be swept aside like that, Jen. They're wealthy, powerful people – and not to be trusted.'

Jenny looked up into Brett's face and saw he was haunted by the thought of things changing and having to move on. ‘I know,' she said solemnly. ‘But I'm not poor like Matilda – I've got the means to fight them – and it's me who owns Churinga, not them.' She put a conciliatory hand on his arm. ‘I'll never sell to them.'

She plastered on a smile. ‘Forget the Squires family and show me your Churinga,' she said brightly. The conversation with Andrew had left a sour taste but she wasn't going to let it spoil her day with Brett.

They caught the reins and slowly walked across the hard-packed earth of the central clearing. They didn't speak and Jenny hoped Brett's mood wouldn't last for too long. She wanted Andrew and the Squires family out of her mind so she could see Churinga as Brett did.

She needn't have worried. He was soon pointing out the various buildings, taking her to see the stock pens and explaining the seasonal rituals.

‘We move the sheep according to the weather, the water, the grass and the grade of sheep. To ensure good breeding and the finest wool, all the sheep on Churinga are Merinos.'

Jenny stood by the stock pens, looking over the woolly, shifting backs. ‘Why pack them in so tightly? Surely there's no need?'

He grinned. ‘Because they're the silliest buggers on earth. They take it into their heads to shoot through, and when one goes they all follow. If it wasn't for the dogs, we'd never get the damn things shorn.' He eyed her solemnly for a moment. ‘They're only penned like this for a short time. The shearers work fast. They have to. Most of them are on a tight schedule to get to the next shed, and there's always a bonus for quick, efficient work.'

‘It seems cruel to shear them just as winter's coming. Surely they need all that wool to keep them warm and dry?'

Brett shook his head, a knowing smile twitching at the corners of his mouth. ‘Common fallacy of the city dweller,' he murmured. ‘Wool is king out here. Sheep are a commodity. To ensure a thicker, better fleece, they have to be shorn now.'

Jenny eyed the penned animals, realising that bleeding heart sympathy was of no use out here where only the strong and useful survived. ‘So, what does a year on this place entail? I suppose winter's about the only time you can relax.'

Brett lit a cigarette and meandered along the labyrinth of pens. ‘Sheep have to be looked after all year round – there's never much time for anything else. We move them from pasture to pasture, grade them, separate them, breed them. After shearing, they're dipped and marked, then drenched to get rid of internal parasites. If the rains don't come and the grass is poor, then we scrub cut and try to feed the blasted things by hand.'

He tipped back his hat and smeared sweat from his forehead. ‘Sheep are the most witless things on earth. They won't eat anything that isn't from their own pastures and refuse point blank to take the scrub we give them unless the Judas eats first.'

Jenny smiled. ‘Sounds familiar. I remember John Carey going on about the Judas sheep. The leader of the pack. Devil and saviour – blasted nuisance.'

‘Yeah. But if you don't get it through the open gate first, the rest of the idiots will stand about and get burned to a cinder in a bush fire because they haven't got the sense to see escape is only inches away.'

She looked up at him. ‘But you love your work, don't you?'

He nodded. ‘Most of the time. Not so much fun at lambing though. Each one has to be caught, its tail ringed, ear tagged, and if not wanted for breeding, castrated. Crutching's not my favourite job, and neither is shooting lambs who've had their eyes eaten by crows and are still running around the fields.'

Jenny shivered despite the heat of the rising sun.

‘I never promised it would be pretty, Jenny. It's life, that's all. We breed the finest Merino sheep. Everything here is geared to perfect wool. None of the sheep are sold for meat. When they're past wool-producing years, they're shipped off for skins, tallow, lanolin and glue. Everything is used – there's no waste.'

Jenny eyed the pens and fields beyond. She was still finding it hard to believe she owned all this. ‘How many sheep are there?'

‘We have about two sheep for every acre of pasture. That's about three hundred thousand head in all, but the numbers fall rapidly in the droughts or if there's a fire or flood.'

They moved away from the sheep pens, past the carpenter's shed where the pungent aroma of fresh wood shavings brought back memories of Waluna. There had been a small timber yard nearby and she'd loved the smell of it as a child, often slipping beneath the wire to gather the shavings which she kept in a box by her bed.

The hen house was a rough lean-to, fenced in by wire, the cockerels strutting amongst the hens with pompous majesty. The dairy was spotlessly clean, the milking machines glistening against the white tiles.