A Changing Land (33 page)

Sarah blew on her chilled fingers. There was little point compartmentalising everything; only one issue could be addressed at a time and the most pressing was the threat that Jim Macken posed. What was she to do? Sell part of Wangallon or fight to retain it all? Her hand reached automatically into the depths of her pocket to touch the ancient fob watch. ‘What would you do Great-grandfather?' But of course there had only ever been one answer. It came before love and joy and companionship, for without it none of the
former could exist. She loved Wangallon more than anything else in the world and she would fight to not only retain it, but control it – her forefathers wouldn't expect anything less. She was the custodian of Wangallon now. The choice was clear. Sarah whistled to Bullet and he ran through the frosty grasses like a canine movie star from a dog food commercial.

‘Cute.'

Bullet gave a showman's yawn, stretching out his front legs. Together they walked back to the cruiser where Ferret was waiting. Once behind the wheel, Sarah gritted her teeth and accelerated – it was time to return to Sydney. She would call Frank before her departure and let him know of her decision.

Frank placed the telephone down on his desk and looked at the large oil painting covering the wall safe. It was a particularly good work by an early Australian artist and was similar in style to Frederick McCubbin, in that the work showed a softer, more lyrical style. It was a gift to his grandfather for services rendered on behalf of Hamish Gordon with regards to one Lorna Sutton, Sarah's great-grandfather's first wife's mother. The painting was a river scene, all blue-greens, stately trees and tranquillity. Such an illusion, Frank decided, as he pushed the intercom button. ‘Rhonda, can you call and confirm the meeting with Tony Woodbridge and his client, Jim Macken, for eight-thirty in the morning?'

Instead of Rhonda's efficient voice travelling back to him, she was standing in person in his office within moments, the door closed firmly behind her. The problem with sixty-year-old immaculately groomed personal assistants that had been with an employer for over thirty years, Frank mused, was that one invariably slept with them.

‘Sarah Gordon is prepared to fight?' she asked rather too enthusiastically, twisting the long strand of opera-length pearls that had been his gift to her last Christmas.

‘Yes, unfortunately,' he said dourly, momentarily regretting their pillow talk, although he knew she would take everything to the grave. ‘It is to be expected. Genetics will out.' He was glad to be retiring at the end of the year. ‘Clear my appointments in the morning will you, until eleven. I think I'm going to need some time.'

‘And her chances?' Rhonda asked.

‘She will lose.' Frank looked once again at the magnificent oil as Rhonda discreetly left the room. In a yellowing folio within the safe hidden behind the painting lay Luke Gordon's hastily written letter from 1909. One needed to have the eyesight of a ten-year-old to read most of the scribble, however Frank's own grandfather had managed to decipher most of the missive and it didn't make for pleasant reading. Frank poured himself a whisky from the decanter in his cabinet and took a restorative sip. He would be the last Michaels to work here at what was once his family's business. His son, a sixth-generation Michaels, was a surgeon and his daughters had married and were living abroad.

Still, one only had their reputation in life and although his family was to soon cease association with the firm, damage was still possible to his family's name and the company. The safe needed to be cleared out.

Removing the picture, Frank sat it carefully on the floor. The work was redolent of the mythology of the Australian way of life, an artistic style that surfaced in Australia in the late 1880s leading up to Federation in 1901. The painting spoke of a life bound to the pioneer, pastoralist and explorer, all of which were displayed almost heroically on canvas. Frank turned the dial four times until a click sounded.

The safe door popped open. Reaching inside he removed the Gordon family Bible. Inside the tooled leather cover was Luke's
letter. It was an incredible slice of history. An account of how business was done by driven, determined men at the turn of the century. In a leather folio beneath the Bible were the directives given by his grandfather on behalf of the Gordons. It amounted to being an accessory to … He wasn't even going to think the word; besides, every man eventually got his dues.

Taking another sip of whisky, Frank placed the Bible on his desk and, removing a single document for safekeeping, tipped the remaining ones into his wastepaper bin and lit the pile. ‘Must be my convict blood,' he muttered grimly. He was sorry for Sarah, he guessed she had a right to know the truth, and he would tell her one day, however there were enough details burning in his wastepaper bin to fill a newspaper for a year and those media types loved a story with blood. What did they say? If it bleeds, it leads. Frank sipped at his whisky as the pile burnt out. That was it. There was no other evidence. Only what he knew and one day he too would be ash.

Claire sipped at tea diluted with a little sweetened condensed milk. Although only late afternoon, she'd already consumed two discreet glasses of French brandy and managed a plate of boiled eggs. The effect was one of immediate stupefaction, which, considering the morning's events, was a pleasant result. Her brain remained muddled from overtiredness and her limbs sagged with exhaustion, but she would survive. Scrunching an embroidered handkerchief between her fingers, she sent a wish of love to the slip of life so recently departed.

Claire leant her head on the arm of the couch and stared numbly at the piano and her portrait above. There were decisions that needed to be made; clothes to pack, a booking on the Cobb & Co coach and bloodied clothes to burn. Instead her mind reflected on the still clearing at the bend in the creek. Amid the drift of shadows and sunlight, a row of stone slabs marked the sleeping places of Rose's children and her own. You will have to walk away from that place, she admonished, no good
can come of remembrance. A dull ache eased its way back into her heart.

When Mrs Stackland announced Wetherly, Claire was dozing. She rose unsteadily from the couch, brushing at the creases in her brown skirt, dismissing her light-headedness and assuring the housekeeper of her wellbeing. Claire wished to see Wetherly. With all that had recently transpired, she desperately required a distraction and although she barely knew the man he was most definitely that. Ensuring her balance was equal to the task of walking, Claire straightened her shoulders and tucked the wisps of hair mussed by her sleeping. She patted at her cheeks in the hope of restoring a brief glow. He'd stood in this very room with the type of intention aflame in his eyes that made women swoon. Swooning wasn't in Claire's nature although nor was she immune to such blatant signs of manly interest.

Despite her tiredness, the late afternoon captivated Claire. Light streamed through the bougainvillea hedge, its rays sweeping across the drowsy garden showering butterflies, birds and two mischievous rabbits with light. She walked directly towards Wetherly, sitting quickly in one of the wicker chairs, not quite trusting her strength.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Gordon. I trust I find you in good health.'

Claire noticed his usually immaculate attire was dusty. His shirt tail was untucked beneath his waistcoat and his eyes were shadowed with tiredness. Were it not for the fact that he only resided some half mile from the homestead proper, she would have believed he'd been travelling for some days. ‘Mr Wetherly, you look quite out of sorts.'

‘While you are as fresh as dew.'

Claire's cheeks coloured with the compliment despite knowing she must look ghastly.

‘I was hoping to find Mr Gordon. I was left a note last night and it appears he wishes me to take charge of the cattle for the route. However I've no experience in that regard.'

What of Luke, Claire wondered. ‘Mr Wetherly, if my husband trusts you to attend to this task, then clearly that is his preference.' She gestured for him to sit but he placed his hat on the wicker table, clearly distracted.

‘If you could tell me where he is I would talk to him about the matter.'

‘I'm sorry, Mr Wetherly –'

‘Do you know where he is or not, Claire?'

Claire took a breath in anger. ‘I'll ask you not to address me in that tone.'

Wetherly hesitated, took a couple of steps towards her and then smiled. ‘I apologise. It is important I speak to him and I would be grateful if you could tell me where he is.'

Claire felt her body begin to ebb with tiredness, she began to feel ill. ‘I cannot help you, Mr Wetherly.'

‘Jacob,' he corrected her. ‘Call me Jacob.' Kneeling, he took her hand. ‘If we are alone …' His thumb circled her palm. ‘I find I cannot remain in my current position.'

He was so close, flecks of dust were obvious in his moustache. He grasped her hand more firmly. ‘I have already made a fool of myself in affairs of the heart. I cannot do it again.'

Claire pulled her hand free. ‘Excuse me?'

‘Oh I know I should not ask such a thing. It's just after our talk in the garden the other night, I felt, I thought, that you were unhappy. Am I wrong?'

Claire gave a little shake of her head. Horribly, a gasp of sadness escaped her.

He took her hand again, squeezed her fingers. ‘Then in your drawing room there was this utter moment of complete surrender between us.' He paused. ‘Am I wrong in my imagining?'

‘I think you have mistaken …'

‘It is strange is it not? We've only been alone three times and yet when I saw you at the picnic with that dreadful Mrs Webb and her poorly conceived daughters –'

Once again Claire freed herself of his grasp, ‘You mustn't say such things.'

He leant towards her slowly, his fingers tracing the fineness of her cheek, slipping to touch her lips. ‘If I asked you to follow me, to join me in Sydney, would you leave?' He parted her lips gently and placed his mouth over hers.

Claire pushed at his shoulders, it was a weary attempt. His was a gentle kiss, a slow languorous embrace, then he was breaking from her as slowly as he'd begun.

Claire took a long shuddering breath. ‘You should not have done such a thing.'

‘There will come a time when I send for you,' he continued on, oblivious to her annoyance.

‘You have taken advantage of me Sir,' Claire remonstrated. The eggs and brandy were curdling together nastily in her stomach.

‘It will be soon. I have debts to repay and then we shall be together. My older brother has died of consumption – the estate is now mine. I would sail late February if you were willing?'

‘England?' Claire could scarcely believe what he was telling her. She leant back in the wicker chair. His hands covered hers possessively. She shook him free.

‘Yes. I could make a fine life for us both.' He glanced away in a moment of reflection. ‘I have not done as well as my family hoped here in the new world, Claire. I have not always been true in my life course.' He looked at her. ‘However I believe I have found it now.'

Claire moved away from him. She felt she could be ill at any moment. ‘If I have given you cause to think –'

From his pocket Wetherly took a gold signet ring. ‘I have money coming to me soon for services rendered.' The bloodstone centre
was set with a horse rampant. He placed it in her palm, folding her fingers over it. ‘Here, take this as a keepsake.'

‘Wetherly, I can't possibly –'

He wrapped her hands around the ring. ‘When King Edward VII granted New South Wales a coat of arms in 1906 I took no interest in it. Now I understand the importance of the motto:
Newly risen how bright thou shinest
. You are my evening star, Claire, and you will guide me home.' He kissed her hand. ‘You do not need love initially to be happy. It will grow. Think about what I offer you. I will send word very soon.'

Claire glanced at the ring as Wetherly mounted his horse.

‘And you know not where your husband is?'

Claire shook her head, stunned by Wetherly's audacity. He spurred his horse and rode down the gravel path, breaking into a canter.

An osprey-feathered hairpiece entwined with seed pearls sat in the partially packed trunk. Claire ran her finger along the finely stitched length of pearls, recalling her presentation at Government House in Sydney years earlier. Having arrived by carriage fashionably late, Hamish and she were announced to the assembled throng with the maximum of attention. Her black hair, dressed by a maid recommended by Mrs Crawford, contrasted superbly with the pale blue satin of her gown; an effect noticed and remarked upon via a series of polite nods and indiscreet whispering behind ostrich-plumed fans. Their walk to the farther end of the ballroom was the longest and most important promenade of Claire's life.

When the musicians resumed their places and the violinists, pianist and harpist filled the room with their lilting melody, Hamish took her in his arms. He encircled her slight waist, she
rested her gloved hand in his and they stepped out in time to the strains of a waltz. There was a blur of magnificent oil paintings and the rich fabrics draping the windows, a rainbow splatter of gowned women and her Hamish, tall and imposing. Light on his feet, with a steady grip that at times caused her toes to barely touch the floor, theirs was a heady evening. They twirled until breathlessness made her plead for rest, then when they retired for supper Hamish's moustachioed lips touched the pale skin of her neck. That night Claire understood what it was to be admired, what it meant to be loved. Four years later Angus was born. Long after supper, with many of the guests retired for the evening, Claire played a little Chopin on the perfectly tuned piano to a select gathering of the wealthy and the titled. It had certainly been the high point of her life.

In retrospect it was a shallow thing to lay claim to in middle age, but perhaps her time in the spotlight would assist her re-entry into Sydney society. Of course Mrs Crawford would undoubtedly prove both loyal and formidable in her support and would assist with recommendations as to household staff and a woman of standing to be her companion.

Claire reread her letter to Mrs Crawford and sealed it. Once she'd begun the correspondence she'd found it a remarkably easy thing to gild her less-than-happy ostracism from Wangallon. Residing in Sydney while her only son attended school at Parramatta was a worthy excuse, one that would have little bearing on her marital conundrum. If it were not for her frequent headaches and her predilection for conversations with herself, Claire would have considered herself to be handling her recent stresses quite well; in fact she was not. After her interview with Wetherly she could barely hold a glass of water for fear of the contents shaking to the floor. She examined the bloodstone ring where it sat near the inkwell and pondered over their few conversations. Claire was certain she'd done nothing to give him any hope of an attachment
forming between them. She picked up the ring, slipped it on her finger. Jacob Wetherly offered the sort of escape she'd only dreamt about; a younger man with an English estate.

Claire angrily swiped the letter, inkwell and ring to the floor. Her father once advised that all problems were containable if superior advice could be sought. Well he'd failed to explain that some problems could not be rectified, they could only be endured. Claire clutched at the writing desk. There was a terrible pining within her; it bashed at her insides like a mad woman and wept like a willow dying for love of water. Despite what she knew, despite everything that had occurred, events were beyond her.

Closing the lid on the trunk, Claire secured the leather strapping and sat on it, exhausted. Through her bedroom window the garden was illuminated by moonlight; it silhouetted trees and shrubs, an ageing trellis with trailing beans and two rabbits frolicking under a clear summer night. Claire knelt by the window, resting her arms along the polished cedar of the ledge. A moth was bashing itself repeatedly against the gauze in an effort to reach the kerosene lamp sitting on her desk. She admired the insect's persistence while pitying the fruitlessness of its mission. It was a familiar theme.

Claire thought of her years on the property, of the great wool shipments that had departed the Wangallon woolshed, first by camel train and then by bullock teams. How many baby lambs were born for the clothing of mankind? How many cattle driven south to market? Notwithstanding the hard seasons and loneliness and distance, Wangallon had been her home for a great many years. The property had given her shelter, provided food, clothes and comfort. It was hard to leave her.

Outside the moon shone down the length of the gravel driveway. It was a splendid sight, as if a ribbon of light was waiting to spirit her away to a new life, one without hurt or loneliness. Yet
despite what could await her, despite the glorious uncertainty of adventure, Claire couldn't do it. She knew she couldn't walk away and she
refused
to be tossed aside. She was a Gordon and she loved this land as if it were her own. She loved it for one reason only: Wangallon had been founded by her husband and despite her girlish fancies, despite the ruthless heart of this man who controlled her life, Claire would not leave him, could not leave him. She adored him and the love she felt for him was beyond right or wrong, it was beyond her control.