Elizabeth-beautiful, golden-haired Elizabeth of the soft voice and the shy, gentle charm-was all he had ever dreamed of in a woman.
He worshiped her, and now-He felt a sudden William Stuart Long
tightening of the throat. Now, to make their marriage complete, Elizabeth was about to give birth to their first child. She was no longer in their cottage; a week ago, at her mother’s insistence, she had moved into the homestead to await the birth, cosseted and fussed over by her family-although, according to the midwife’s calculations, she was not due to be brought to bed for at least another week or ten days.
Luke’s smile faded. He had gone on with his work, as an antidote to the anxiety he felt. The station was still shorthanded, although three of the older men, disillusioned in their search for gold, had returned a couple of months ago to take up their former employment. Even so, there never seemed to be enough of them to cope with the demands of the vast acreage and the livestock Pengallon supported. This year had seen the largest wool crop the station had ever produced; and when the shearing was completed, the fleeces had to be sorted, graded, and baled, ready for transport to Sydney-a long, hot, backbreaking task that had engaged virtually all his time for the past six weeks.
Grading wool was a skilled job; he was not yet as expert as his brother-in-law, Edmund, or even, come to that, as his wife, and the recent drought had caused dust to be collected in the fleeces after the sheep had been washed, with detriment to the wool’s quality. But at last it was over; the wool crop had been loaded onto the ox-wagons in tightly packed bales, ready to be shipped out to England in Claus Van Buren’s new clipper ship … in time, it was hoped, to reach London before the first sale lists closed.
Missing that list, Luke had learned, could spell disaster, since it would entail months with the entire cargo warehoused, at great expense, and a possible fall in wool prices before the next sale was scheduled. Even so, he was thankful to be free of the oppressive heat and stench of the sorting shed. It was still hot enough, in all conscience, and his ride out and back from the far paddocks had taken all day, but … he had been in the open air, alone and without the need to keep up the pretense of being carefree in front of the other men.
Once again Luke felt his throat tighten. He was anxious on Elizabeth’s account, for her pregnancy had put a severe strain
on her, and the doctor-the experienced Dr.
Morecombe, of Bathurst-had warned him that certain complications were a possibility, when her time came.
He had not fully understood Morecombe’s guarded explanation, but evidently Elizabeth’s mother had, for it had been she who had issued what amounted almost to an ultimatum, when he had wanted the birth to take place under their own cottage roof.
“You want what is best for her, Luke,”
Katie Tempest had said unanswerably. “And I want her under my eye. I had a
difficult time when both she and Edmund were born, and I lost two babies, you know. We don’t want that to happen with Elizabeth, and God forbid that it should.”
“Oh, no!” he had echoed, shocked and robbed of argument. “Of course not. God help me, I did not realize.”
He wanted the child-they both wanted the child, to set the seal on their loving, happy union, but …
Luke swore under his breath as, with the swift approach of dusk, a horde of stinging insects appeared, seemingly from nowhere, to lay siege to his face and arms. Irritably, he brushed them away and dug his heels into his horse’s sides. There was a line of fencing he had intended to inspect, but it was half a mile away, and both he and his mount were bone weary. The fence would have to wait until tomorrow; he would check the water trough in the brood mares”
paddock-there was time to do that-and then call it a day.
Elizabeth would be in bed when he got back to the homestead, but they would have an hour together, while she ate her evening meal and before her mother banished him from her room, on the plea that she needed all the rest she could get to prepare her for her coming ordeal.
He wanted to be with her, heaven knew; he wanted to sustain and reassure her, to hold her in his arms while she slept. He loved her so deeply, he-The thud of hooves brought his head round, to see the rider coming toward him at a brisk canter, emerging from the paddock to which he had been making his way. The huge figure with the heavy beard was unmistakable-Luke raised his arm to wave, knowing that Dickon O’Shea, who was deaf and dumb, would not hear his shout. The approaching William Stuart Long
horseman changed direction at once and gave an answering wave.
Conscious of a warm glow of affection, Luke quickened his pace. Dickon O’Shea was Rick Tempest’s nephew, an oddly childlike giant of a man, who, since his boyhood, had made his home at Pengallon. There was, despite his handicap, nothing that Dickon could not do; a superb horseman, he was also an expert stockman and shepherd and a first-rate shot, as much at home with the local aborigine tribe as he was with his own kind.
He had taken an aboriginal girl to wife but had never brought her to the homestead or revealed the fact that he had formed any sort of tie until, to everyone’s surprise, he had come in one day with a small, half-caste boy, who had addressed him solemnly, in English, as “Papa” and added that his name was Billy Joe. Thereafter, father and son had taken up residence in Dickon’s quarters at Pengallon, and the boy-now, as nearly as anyone could judge, aged about ten-was in a fair way of becoming as useful a farmhand as the man who had bred him.
But Dickon was alone now, Luke saw, and he appeared to be in some haste. Elizabeth, he thought, with a sudden twinge of panic-Elizabeth had been brought to bed, and Mrs. Tempest had sent Dickon to find him. Or perhaps it was over-perhaps all his anxiety had been needless, and Dr.
Morecombe’s glum warnings without foundation.
“Dickon,” he managed, as the big man pulled up beside him. Keeping his face toward the newcomer, to enable him to lip-read, Luke asked, forcing himself to speak calmly, “Is it Elizabeth?
Has her time come?”
Dickon nodded. Forestalling the second question, he grasped Luke’s rein and jerked his head in the direction of the homestead.
So it was not all over, Luke decided, with a sinking heart. And if Dickon was urging him to hurry, there must still, alas, be cause for anxiety. He kneed his tired horse into motion and, with Dickon beside him, rode at a headlong gallop for the station buildings.
In the living room of the homestead, he found his father-in-law and Edmund awaiting him. Rick Tempest, tall and white
haired, greeted him with a reassuring smile and the news that Elizabeth had gone into labor at about midday.
“Her mother and the midwife are with her,” he added.
“It’ll be best if you stay here, Luke. It takes time, you know, when it’s the first one. But I thought I ought to send Dickon to fetch you-I knew you would want to be here.” He splashed brandy into a bulbous glass and, ignoring Luke’s headshake, thrust the glass into his hand. “Drink it, lad-there may be a long night before us.”
Luke obediently gulped down the neat spirit, and his father-in-law resumed his seat, his own half-finished drink in his hand. Addressing his son, he continued what had evidently been an earlier topic of conversation.
“I had a long talk with Henry
Osborne of Marshall Mount-we dined together, after the Legislative Council meeting.”
“Osborne?” Edmund’s interest quickened. “Was he not the enterprising fellow who drove the mob of cattle to Adelaide a few years back, when the settlers there were hard put to it to feed themselves?”
Rick Tempest nodded. “Indeed he was …
and it was an incredible journey, which took him over four months. I’d never heard the full story before, and, I confess, after hearing Osborne’s account of the hardships they endured and the difficulties they encountered, my admiration for him knew no bounds. It was in December of thirty-nine that they set off-Osborne, with his foreman, three convicts, and three abo stockmen. They gathered a mob of nearly nine hundred cattle and about the same number of fat wethers, and, of course, when they finally reached Adelaide he was able to ask his own price for them.”
“He must have lost some,” Edmund demurred, frowning. “For God’s sake, Father, it’s-what?
Close on a thousand miles from Lake Illawarra to Adelaide, and in thirty-nine there were no roads-just wild bush. And I don’t imagine that all the black-fellows he met were friendly.”
“Quite the reverse,” his father confirmed. “And at one point, Osborne told me, he came pretty near giving up, abandoning the herd and making tracks for home as best he could. They had been ten days without finding water, but then-miraculously, Osborne said-the wind veered and the cattle suddenly William Stuart Long
picked up the scent of water and made for it. He lost a few head, but he delivered the bulk of both sheep and cattle in good condition … and made his fortune.” Rick Tempest smiled. “By heaven, he deserved to! It beats gold digging.”
“That’s debatable,” Edmund retorted, echoing his father’s smile. “And coming from you-was He turned his gaze on Luke, anxious to draw him into the conversation, but the younger man was sunk in his own thoughts and appeared not to hear him. Edmund shrugged. “You said you met Mr. Osborne at the Legislative
Council. He’s a member, I take it?”
“An elected member, yes. But now that the new constitution is about to give us a Legislative Assembly and fully responsible government, thanks to William Charles Wentworth’s efforts, Osborne intends to stand down. His eldest son is to take his place and stand for election in one of the Illawarra seats. As-was Rick Tempest paused and laid heavy emphasis on his next words. “As I wish
my
son would!”
Edmund’s explosive reaction had the effect of disrupting Luke’s reverie, and he looked up, startled, as Edmund exclaimed, “Oh, for God’s sake, Father! Perish the thought!”
“Why, Edmund?”
Edmund spread his big, work-scarred hands in a gesture of disgust. “Why, sir? Well, for a start because I’m not cut out to be a politician. I’m a pastoralist, a squatter, and I love the land.
If I were to serve in the Assembly it would mean that I’d have to spend half my time in Sydney, socializing and attending a lot of their infernal dinners and routs, as well as trying to make speeches and dressing as a blasted dandy. You carry on, sir, and let me take care of the property with Luke and Dickon, as I always have during your necessary absences on government affairs. You’ve nothing to complain of on that score, have you?”
“No,” his father conceded readily. “Nothing at all, my dear boy. But I’m past my
threescore years and ten, you know, and I’m beginning to feel my age. Henry Osborne is in his early fifties. He owns more land than I do, and more stock, it’s true, and he has a large family-thirteen children, I think he told me, though they have not all survived. But …” Again he paused, eyeing Edmund a trifle reproachfully.
“He has heirs, Edmund. Your mother and I have long hoped that you would marry and
give us grandchildren, but you’ve left it to Elizabeth and Luke, haven’t you?”
Edmund reddened. “There’s time enough, Father. I’m not in my dotage. I-was Dickon came in, and, as if he welcomed the temporary distraction, Edmund got to his feet and went to pour a drink for the new arrival, taking the opportunity to top off his own glass. “Luke?” he invited. “Just the thing for one who is about to beget an heir.”
Luke shook his head. He seldom drank spirits, and already the brandy he had been given had made his senses swim. “No, thanks,” he said. “I’m fine.”
Edmund returned to his seat, still looking disgruntled. “Do you suppose that getting myself elected to the new Assembly would enhance my chances of finding a bride, Father?” he asked aggressively.
“I imagine anything that took you to Sydney and forced you to-how did you express it?-socialize and attend dinners and routs might do just that,” his father answered, a slight edge to his voice. “Burying yourself up here lost you the lovely little Jenny Broome, did it not?” He sighed, reaching for his pipe. “I attended her wedding while I was in Sydney, Edmund. You know, of course, that she married William De Lancey?”
“Indeed I know!” Edmund, to Luke’s shocked surprise, appeared perilously near to losing his temper. “Devil take it, Father, if I had
wasted my time at balls and garden parties and picnics, which is how folk in Sydney amuse themselves, what chance would I have had against a hero of the Light Cavalry Brigade’s charge at
Balaclava? And one, furthermore, who returned here with an empty sleeve and the exalted rank of lieutenant colonel! Jenny had no eyes for me when Will De Lancey came on leave from India, for the Lord’s sake!”
Luke, fully distracted now, stared at his brother-in-law in frank bewilderment. The names meant nothing to him, and he said, in an attempt to stem Edmund’s unaccustomed anger, “Who is William De Lancey, Edmund? I suppose he’s a relation of Francis De Lancey, the one I met on the Turon River. But-was
Edmund controlled himself with a visible effort.
“They’re brothers, the sons of Judge De Lancey. Here-was He
William Stuart Long
rose again and, crossing to the table on the far side of the room, selected a copy of one of the newspapers his father had brought back with him from Sydney. “You can read all about Will’s exploits in this. Or I’ll read it for you.” He picked up an oil lamp and, setting it by the arm of his chair, spread out the paper on his knee and commenced to read in a flat, expressionless voice.
“Eulogies have been written, by this newspaper and others, lauding the heroism and the superb discipline of the British Light Cavalry Brigade in the recent Russian War. The fact that the charge was made as the result of a misunderstanding of the late General Lord Raglan’s order in no way detracts from the glory with which the gallant participants covered themselves-or the terrible price exacted from them by the guns of their enemies.
“Out of a total strength of just over six hundred of all ranks, half that number were killed, wounded, or taken prisoner, and subsequent deaths from wounds brought the number of casualties to well over three hundred.