Authors: Margaret Tanner
He pushed her into a cane chair before disappearing with the baby into the house. The door slammed shut behind him. She huddled in one corner, her face buried in her hands. Time meant nothing now. It could have been hours, probably only minutes, when a voice broke through her cloak of anguish.
“Drink this.”
Her hands were removed firmly, her chin tilted, and a glass forced against her lips. The brandy burned, causing her to gasp for breath.
“Drink it all,” Luke ordered. “As soon as you've got yourself under control, one of my men will escort you home.”
“The baby?”
“I’m sorry, but she’s dead.”
“She can't be. She was alive, I know....”
“She was dead when you handed her to me.”
Jo lashed out at him, pummeling her fists against the hard wall of his chest. “You killed it, you let Mary die then you killed her baby. I despise you.”
He took hold of her flailing arms and held them. “Get control of yourself. The child had no chance. It was too tiny to survive.”
“You don't even care.” She stared into his face, surprised at the fleeting tenderness flickering in the deep grey depths of his eyes.
She scrubbed the tears away with her knuckles. “Will Mr. Smith see to things? What I mean is...”
“Everything needing to be done will be. You’d better come inside so my housekeeper can make you some tea.”
He stood aside as she rose but made no effort to help. It was then she noticed he wore dusty work clothes. The material of his damp, sweat stained shirt clung to his muscular back.
The entrance hall opened into a small sitting room, and scarcely had she seated herself on a brocaded chair than a short plump woman of indeterminable age bustled in.
“Mrs. Osborne, this is Miss Saunders. Bring her some tea will you please. Then get someone to check if Jack and his wife have left for Nat Smith's place. There's no urgency now.”
“Certainly, sir.” She bustled away.
“You didn't need to bother with tea. I've got myself under control now.” She knew a fat tear sliding down her cheek belied this statement.
To her astonishment, he dropped down on one knee beside the chair and using the flat of his thumb he gently smoothed away the moisture. This tender gesture brought a lump to her throat but she gulped it down. He must never know how his touch affected her. His face was now so close she could see how long and thick his eyelashes were; how they almost rested on his tanned cheeks.
“You're beautiful, Jo.” His knuckles caressed her chin. “You shouldn't be wearing men's clothing.”
She had an overwhelming desire to melt into his strong arms, to touch his smooth skin. “I wear these because they're comfortable to work in.”
Picking up her hand, he raised it to his lips. “You weren't meant to work as a farm laborer. You should be wearing pretty gowns, bonnets and jewelry, have servants to attend your needs.”
She snatched her hand away and wiped it on her pants. “You're disgusting.”
His face darkened, and she fled out of the room, almost colliding with the worried looking housekeeper carrying a bowl of water and a towel.
“Sorry,” Jo apologized. “I’m all right, thank you.” She sprinted down the hallway, her pace not slackening until she reached the front door. With her last vestige of control, she willed her legs to carry her, at a more sedate pace, to her horse. It wasn't until she was halfway home that the recriminations set in. Could she have done more to help Mary Smith and her baby? Why had she accused Luke Campton of being a murderer? She slumped in the saddle.
Fiona came out to meet her. “Where have you been? I’ve been so worried! What happened?”
Jo collapsed on the step and took a couple of deep breaths, before she could explain what had transpired.
“How terrible.” Fiona’s eyes filled with tears. “The poor things.”
“It was the most pitiful sight I’ve ever seen.”
Chapter Five
Hot and dry, the wind gusted across the lonely churchyard as Jo watched the Minister performing the burial service for Mary Smith and her baby. No mourners attended. Nat Smith hadn’t drawn a sober breath for days, and no one from Kangaroo Gully bothered to attend. When she had gone to see the Minister he said Luke had already made the funeral arrangements with him. To have no friends or family to mourn one's passing was truly pitiful.
Two men lowered the coffin into the freshly dug grave. Jo threw in a bunch of wild flowers, and stood tearless, as a cemetery worker shoveled dirt on top of it.
“Is there any charge? What I mean is…” What an indelicate way of putting it.
“There's nothing owing.” The Minister patted her arm. “My services come free. Luke Campton paid the undertaker.”
“It's terrible, isn't it?” She shuddered. “To be so alone.”
“It's God's will, Miss Saunders. They had a bleak outlook in this life, so maybe the next one will be better for them.”
“Thank you for coming.”
She watched him trudge off before turning to go herself. Something made her glance up. Away on a distant hillside, a lone rider sat staring down on them. Luke Campton.
***
One evening, a few days after Mary’s funeral, Jim Talbot came over to visit Jo. “Oh Jim, how nice to see you again.” She hated herself for feeling a twinge of disappointment because it wasn’t Luke.
“I hope you don't mind me calling in like this, Miss Saunders”
“I'm pleased you did, but call me Jo. Come in. Ian's away droving.”
“Oh.” He hesitated.
“Don't worry, my sister-in-law is here.”
“That's all right then.” A relieved grin spread over his features.
“Come to tell me the story of your life?” she teased.
“Maybe.”
He wore freshly laundered moleskins, a white shirt and a burgundy silk waistcoat. He swept his hat off, showing slicked back brown hair and he now sported a moustache on his upper lip. She guessed his age to be about twenty-five. When she introduced him to Fiona, he bowed slightly. No ordinary stockman, this. He was a gentleman.
What are you doing in Australia, she wanted to ask, but bit back the impulsive query in case it offended him.
“There's a picnic race meeting on Saturday at Kangaroo Gully.” He inclined his head to include Fiona. “Would you like to accompany me?”
“Well, I don't know, Jim. Are all the gentry going?” It would be nice. She had never attended a function like this before.
“I'm riding in the main event, the Campton two mile steeple chase. There's a prize of ten pounds. Jack Mulvaney has won it for the last few years, but my stallion can beat any horse of his.”
“Sounds exciting, but won't the competition be fierce? I mean…” To those on the breadline like them, ten pounds sounded a veritable fortune.
“My stallion can win, he's bred to race.”
“You're not an ordinary stockman, are you, Jim?”
“No. My father’s the local squire in a small English village. He accused me of being a lazy young lay about who would starve except for him. I wanted to prove I'm man enough to stand on my own two feet.” He grinned. “I have, and it's been quite fun, really.”
“What about the stallion?” Jo asked.
“I imported him from England. My mother secretly got one of her brothers to organize things for me. She loaned me the money,” he confessed with a rueful grin. “I mean to pay it back, though. If I can win this race, well, my intention is to start up a stud. It would be excellent publicity. As it is now, who would want their mares served by… oh, I beg your pardon.” He flushed.
“Don't apologize, my father was an American cavalry officer, I'm quite familiar with the various terminology. All right, we’ll come. It will give us something to look forward to.”
“I don't know.” Fiona gnawed her lip.
“Come on, Mrs. Morrison. I can’t take Miss Jo without a chaperone and she does want to go.”
“It will be fun. We could leave Lucy with the Kirkmans. They won't mind.”
Still Fiona hesitated.
“I can always go without you.” Jo tried to keep exasperation from her tone.
“That wouldn't be proper. Ian would never agree to it.”
“I don't care if Jim and I get ourselves gossiped about.”
“All right, I'll go if the Kirkmans can take Lucy.”
“I'll pick you up at eleven,” he promised.
Over a cup of tea, he spoke about his life in England. He had attended Eton. Should have guessed as much, Jo thought.
“Then I went to Oxford for a couple of years,” he continued.
“I heard somewhere that Mr. Griffith from the bank went to Oxford,” Fiona said. “Did you know him?”
Jim laughed. “I happen to know his cousin, he attended Oxford with me. Our dear Mr. Griffith lasted a week before getting expelled. Before my time, but there was a frightful scandal.”
“How can a man like him be employed at the bank?” Fiona asked.
“Probably suits Campton and his kind, easy to wield power over a lackey like him,” Jim said.
“I didn't think about it that way,” Jo mused. “And he has the gall to look down on everyone else.”
Jo couldn’t suppress a twinge of disappointment when Jim left. She had enjoyed his friendly, uncomplicated company. He didn’t tie her emotions up in knots like Luke Campton always did.
“He seems nice, Jo, and very suitable.”
“For heaven’s sake, we hardly know him. Still, he is nice. I'm looking forward to going to Kangaroo Gully. Jim didn't say so, but I should imagine it would be exclusive, could be a lot of fun. We’ll wear our best gowns.” She gave a little skip of excitement.
***
Saturday dawned, showing promise of a warm and sunny day. Jim arrived at eleven o'clock, riding a magnificent stallion, a large bay with fire in his eyes, and a restless impatience to be off. Jo stared in envy. What she wouldn't give for a ride on him.
Jim wore finely cut breeches and black knee-length boots. With a top hat and dark riding jacket, he epitomized the English gentleman.
They brought a picnic hamper, cold chicken, and an assortment of salad vegetables, with apple and mince pies for dessert.
Jo chose to wear a white muslin gown, spot patterned in pale green, with plain fitted sleeves and eight pearl buttons fastened down the bodice. Three flounces on the skirt gave it an elegant finish and she felt pleased with her appearance. Fiona's pale blue gown had printed rose sprays, and narrow stripes on the gathered skirt. Their white natural straw hats had wreaths of colored flowers decorating the crowns.
“My, you do look beautiful.” Jim stared at Jo. “Both of you,” he added hastily. “I planned to tether this fellow behind the buggy and drive, but he's a bit skittish, so I’ll ride.” He patted the stallion’s glistening neck. “You know how important today is, don't you boy?”
Jo liked the way he spoke to his horse. In fact, she liked everything about Jim Talbot. He assisted both of them into the buggy and lifted Lucy up. He rode beside them, quite happy to let them do the talking.
“I’m glad we came.” Fiona’s eyes sparkled with excitement.
Arriving at Kangaroo Gully, they found a roped off area set aside for picnickers. It was near the river, about half a mile from the homestead.
A festive air prevailed. Jo watched with surprise as Jim handed over a ticket. Admission must be by invitation only. Had he paid for it? She wondered whether to make an offer to pay their share, but decided against it. Luke would have issued tickets to keep poor farmers away. This seemed to be confirmed when they saw all the expensive carriages lined up. Their shabby buggy looked completely out of place.
Deliberately, she picked out the most pretentious carriage with some type of gold crest on the side, and drove in beside it. Jim must have guessed her intention because he burst out laughing. Fiona, awestruck, was too busy summing up the fashionable gowns of the other ladies to notice anything else.
There must be a hundred people here Jo thought, lifting her hand slightly, much as a duchess might, to Mrs. Kilvain. She inwardly laughed at the woman's disdainful look and completely ignored Mr. Griffith who held his head so high, he wouldn’t be able to see where he walked.
“This is a good spot,” Jo said. They selected a grassy section, a little away from the rest of the picnickers. Jim, who had gone to register for the race, came back grinning.
“Luke Campton invited me to eat at the official table.”
“Official table?”
“Yes, in that colorful tent affair.”
“Oh, I didn't see Mr. Griffith or the Kilvains heading over there.” Jo laughed.
He grinned. “I know, but they aren't quite social enough to mix with all the best people.”
“But you are?” He made light of his background, yet he was obviously well connected.
“You’re frowning, Miss Jo.”
“Am I? Sorry, just thinking.”