Miles Off Course (13 page)

Edna’s face softened. She put her hand on Rowland’s arm. “Dear Rowly, it’s so sweet of you to worry about me, but I’m well now. I’ve got to get back to being
me.”

Rowland groaned, but he relented. Edna was not one who’d wait meekly to inherit the earth, and he would never change her. Apparently she was determined to treat this excursion like a trail
ride. “Tremendous.”

She rewarded him with her most enchanting smile. “Good. That’s settled then.”

“So it seems.”

They retired to the guest lounge after dinner, which initially was crowded with other guests. Clyde and Milton joined a card game with a couple of holidaymakers. Rowland sat by the fire with his
notebook, drawing Moran from memory—the sun-lined face, the shadowy eyes. He hadn’t come to a decision about Moran, but he was not predisposed to like him. He wondered if he should just
sack the man and hire a new crew to muster the cattle… but the fact remained that finding experienced cattlemen this late in the season might not be easy, and he still had nothing specific
to prove that Moran was not simply doing his job.

“Are they worth a penny?” Edna sat down and poked him from his reverie.

He smiled. “No—nowhere near that valuable.”

She looked over at his notebook. “Is that Mr. Moran?”

“Yes.”

“They’re interesting, aren’t they,” she whispered, “the people up here. They make me want to work.” She told him quietly of her plan to sculpt their
hostesses. “If I use the right oxides I can turn the clay rosy in the pit… can we dig a pit at
Woodlands
? Will it upset the neighbours?”

Rowland laughed. “We’ll say we’re barbequing—it’s very fashionable at the moment.”

Edna giggled and, curling up on the couch beside him, chattered about her plans for a series of figures based on the rotund ladies of the Rules Point Guesthouse. Rowland drew them as she talked
and then Edna showed him how she would simplify the images for her sculptures, choosing the lines that best conveyed the solid softness, the maternal comfort, of the women. They must have been so
engaged for a while as, when they thought to notice the room again, most of the other guests had retired. Clyde and Milton were still playing cards though it was just the two of them now.

Rowland checked his watch. It was nearly midnight. He was just about to suggest they turn in when one of the bedroom doors creaked open. A woman walked out into the dark hall. She was small,
with an extraordinary amount of grey hair piled in a bouffant knot on her head. It looked heavy. She emerged from the room muttering, “The words, where are my words?”

Rowland nudged Edna and nodded towards the woman.

“Oh that must be the writer, Miss Brent. She’s writing a book about monkeys.” Edna raised her voice. “Hello Miss Brent. Would you care to join us?”

Sarah Brent turned and squinted into the lamp-lit room. She stepped towards them. The gentlemen stood hastily.

In the light, the writer looked to be on the wrong side of fifty. Her frame was diminutive, her face unremarkable except for the masses of hair which were loosely tied up around it.

“Hello Miss Brent, I’m…” Edna extended her hand, but the woman was not paying any attention to her. Sarah Brent stared at Rowland as if she were looking at some kind of
apparition. She turned abruptly and scurried back into her room, leaving them standing bewildered in the lounge.

“What the devil was that?” Milton asked.

“A writer apparently.”

Then Sarah Brent was back. She held a card in her hand, and she looked from it to Rowland repeatedly. “You… who are you?” she asked.

Milton moved quietly to peer over her shoulder at the card. It was a photographic postcard, the kind servicemen had sent back from Egypt in the Great War. He recognised the soldier in the
picture.

“Well, I’ll be blowed, that’s Rowly’s brother! What are you doing with a picture of Rowly’s brother?”

Rowland stiffened, surprised. This was most odd.

“Brother?” Sarah Brent started. “You can’t be Wilfred?”

“No, madam, I’m Rowland Sinclair. I’m Wilfred’s youngest brother.”

Edna approached the writer. “Miss Brent, would you mind if I…?”

Distractedly, Sarah handed her the postcard. Edna too recognised it—a similar picture of Aubrey Sinclair had always graced the mantelpiece at
Woodlands
. Though he was now several
years older than Aubrey had been when the photograph was taken, the image could easily have been of Rowland Sinclair. Edna handed the postcard to Rowland. He glanced at it and then turned it over.
Aubrey had signed it with love. Now Rowland was confused. He had no doubt that his late brother had had sweethearts, but Miss Brent seemed a bit old for that.

“You knew my brother?” he asked.

Sarah Brent seemed finally to gather herself. Her lips pressed into a tight smile. “Your brother… well, isn’t this a peculiar thing?”

She stepped a little closer to Rowland. “I knew both your brothers many years ago.” She sat in an armchair, leaning forward with her elbows on her knees as she continued to study
Rowland. “How old are you, Mr. Sinclair?”

“Twenty-eight,” Rowland replied carefully as he returned to the couch.

“Well there you go then—it was all before you were born.”

“What was?”

“I took a situation as a governess on a property near Yass in 1897,” the writer said, without taking her eyes from Rowland. “Both circumstance and research really. Two little
boys: the elder, a funny solemn child called Wilfred, and Aubrey, my beautiful laughing baby.” Her eyes became misty. “I was fond of Wilfred—he was away at school a lot, of
course. I loved Aubrey like he was my own.”

Rowland looked down at the photograph again: Aubrey posing in front of the Sphinx. “You kept in touch?”

Sarah Brent smiled. “I’d write and visit. Your dear mother was very kind to let me do so. Aubrey was such a bright little boy; he grew up to be such a handsome decent young man. I
was very proud of him.”

Rowland was at a bit of a loss. He’d had governesses too, before he’d started school, but they were just vague memories. He had no idea what had become of them after they’d
left his parents’ employ. He didn’t think any had ever tried to keep in touch. And yet, here was this writer, still carrying a picture of Aubrey some seventeen years after he’d
died.

“You’re aware that Aubrey…”

“Yes, of course. I was volunteering at a hospital on the Serbian front then.” Sarah took a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbed her eyes and wiped her nose. “So many
boys… Wilfred found one of my letters amongst Aubrey’s belongings and wrote to me. It was so very kind…”

For a moment there was silence, none of them sure what to say, and then Sarah Brent spoke again.

“Tell me, is Wilfred well? I take it that he returned.”

Rowland nodded. “Yes, Wil came back. He’s well. I must telephone and tell him that I’ve run into you…”

“No! You mustn’t do that. I’m incognito you know.”

“Oh… really?”

“Wilfred will never have heard of Sarah Brent.” The writer was adamant.

Rowland had no doubt she was right. “Who would he know you as?”

“I think I was calling myself Sarah Frankling then.”

“I see.” Rowland was beginning to think the writer quite bizarre.

“What’s in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” Milton offered solemnly.

“Shakespeare,” Rowland muttered, then realised that the niceties had to this point been ignored. “Miss Brent, may I introduce, Messrs Milton Isaacs and Clyde Watson Jones. And
this is Miss Edna Higgins.”

Sarah Brent, as she was now calling herself, sat back in her armchair. “And what brings you all to Rules Point? Have the Sinclair fortunes changed? I would have expected you to be
holidaying at Caves House
,
at the very least?”

Rowland was mildly unsettled by the directness of the enquiry. “We are inspecting stock we have grazing on a snow lease up here,” he said. “It’s rather convenient to ride
out from Rules Point.”

The writer’s eyes sparkled. “Well that sounds most agreeable! I was born in Talbingo, you know, grew up in the saddle, a child of the bush. There’s nothing so exhilarating as
riding in the mountains.”

Edna smiled. “See, I told you, Rowly. Mr. Sinclair thought it would be too rough for me.” She poked him playfully.

Sarah Brent’s mouth tightened. “Did he indeed?” She fixed Rowland with a steely gaze. “How very patriarchal of you, Mr. Sinclair. I would have hoped a man your age would
have been less inclined to oppress the women in his acquaintance under the guise of concern!”

“I was just…”

“Oh yes, you cloak it all in civility and consideration, but it all amounts to the same thing—the unjust, unconscionable pursuit of power over women and the denial of a woman’s
basic right to self-determine!”

Rowland looked for help. Milton grinned and even Clyde’s mouth twitched. But only Edna came to his defence.

“I’ve been ill,” she said, squeezing Rowland’s hand. “Rowly was just being sweet—he didn’t want me to overdo it.”

Sarah sat back into the chair. “Oh I see. Well there is nothing so good for convalescence than a ride in the clear mountain air. I’m sure this excursion will do you the world of
good. A ride on the plains sounds delightful indeed, struggling as I am with this novel.” She sighed. “The words are elusive at this time, when I’m so nearly finished.”

Rowland, if truth be told, was a little afraid of saying anything now. Milton and Clyde were also conspicuously silent. It was up to Edna.

“Oh dear, I do hope we haven’t disturbed you too much. Have you written many books?”

“A few. Of course I’ve always had to fight the patriarchal conspiracy to find publishers. I’ve written under male names, travelled the world in search of more progressive
attitudes… every time I met a like-minded gentleman, he’d spoil it all by wanting to marry me!” Sarah Brent pointed at Edna, her gaze intense. “That’s how they do it,
Miss Higgins. They enslave you with matrimony—you take their name and lose your self.”

Edna nodded solemnly. Rowland got up to find a drink. Milton beat him to the decanter of sherry on the mantel. Sarah Brent moved into Rowland’s place on the couch next to Edna and the two
fell into earnest conversation. The writer engaged the sculptress with warnings and tirades against the suppression of their gender.

Rowland glanced at Clyde and Milton. It was clearly time to retreat gracefully.

R
owland sprinkled salt liberally over his eggs and bacon. “Where’s Ed?”

“Still sleeping, I believe,” Milton replied. “She was up most of the night with that writer woman.”

Rowland sighed.

Clyde agreed. “This could be ugly.”

Milton elected to change the subject. “What do we need to do today, Rowly?”

“We’ll have to get horses from somewhere I expect, and whatever supplies we need to stay out there a couple of nights.”

“Got any idea where?”

Clyde spoke up. “We can collect horses and saddles at Long Plain Homestead.”

“What’s Long Plain Homestead?”

“Well, it’s a homestead on Long Plain. It’s not too far from here. The chap who runs it keeps horses for hire. The road out to it is rough but we could drive it. We’ll
leave the Mercedes at the homestead and take horses from there.”

“You’re sure he’ll have horses?”

“He always used to—I’ll check with Mrs. Harris to be sure. He’s a cranky old bugger—he won’t miss you for the hire, Rowly.”

Rowland smiled. Clyde’s concern for his finances had always been greater than his own.

Milton looked around at the congested bustle of the dining room. Stockmen were already starting to come in for the Rules Point Sports Day. “Looks like every man and his dog is going to be
here tomorrow.”

Rowland buttered his toast. “You have any idea what this Sports Day is all about, Clyde? I assume they’re not talking about tennis?”

Clyde laughed. “No, I think it’s more of a rodeo—buck jumping, horse races, gambling and a lot of drinking. Apparently there’s a supper dance afterwards in the
stables.”

“Good thing we have dinner suits with us, then.” Milton dusted the crumbs from his cravat.

Clyde lowered his voice. “Look, Rowly, today may be a good time to ask around about your man Simpson. Every stockman within cooee will be coming in—someone’s bound to have
heard something.”