A Changing Land

Angus stood back as the bulky frame of his father removed a long key from his trouser pocket. The creak of metal was the only indication that the chest had been opened, for Angus could not see past his father. Seconds later the creak sounded again and the map had been replaced with a thick book, the Wangallon station ledger.

‘You can go now, Angus. Jasperson and I have business to discuss. If you see that brother of yours, send him to me.’

Angus raced out onto the verandah. One of the maids was rushing away, crying, a man’s chuckle reverberating with the encroaching dusk. There was a crunch of gravel and Luke appeared. He gave the straggly youth Angus recognised a sound shove, sending him sprawling to the ground, and was astride the prone body in an instant, his fist raised. The sharp intake of female breath broke his momentum. Both Angus and Luke followed the noise to where Margaret watched.

‘Luke,’ Angus spluttered. Margaret stepped back into the shadows.

Grabbing the youth by the scruff of his neck Luke jerked him towards the verandah. The face before him was of no remarkable feature, except for the line of boils which ran down one cheek. The boy looked at him and gave a sly grin.

‘I’m McKenzie.’ The youth made a show of dusting himself down. ‘I’m employed by –’

‘Mr Gordon,’ Luke interrupted impatiently, ‘considering no one else would likely show at this hour of night without an invitation.’ The boy’s accent was Scottish, reason enough for his father to employ him. ‘I’ve not seen you before.’ Angus joined Luke, clutching at the string of dropped ducks.

‘I’m with Jasperson.’

Luke’s mouth curled downwards with distaste. ‘Don’t make the mistake of thinking the blacks on Wangallon are easy picking.’ He would have said more except for Angus. The boy stood very close; the ducks at his feet, his hands shoved in his pockets.

‘Apologies, Luke. McKenzie didn’t know that one was taken.’ Jasperson gave a short amused chortle through spindly yellow teeth.

‘Careful, McKenzie,’ Luke warned. ‘My father has no time for troublemakers.’

‘Nor I,’ Jasperson mounted his horse. ‘Half of these blacks should be culled.’

‘Who would do your work for you then?’ Luke retaliated as the two men turned their horses into the darkening night.

‘Who would you be friends with?’ Jasperson mocked. Only the crunch of hoofs on the gravel and the creak of oiled leather marked the men’s leaving.

‘You don’t like Jasperson, do you, Luke?’ Angus asked. There was a smear of blood on Luke’s cheek and the sickly sweet smell of death mingled with the sharp tang of cordite and the staleness of sweat. Angus poked a finger at one of the lifeless birds.

‘Luke?’ Hamish was standing in the doorway, his frame blocking all but a few stray streaks of light from the hall behind him. ‘Come inside.’ Angus bolted around the corner of the house.

Depositing the ducks and rifle on the verandah, Luke brushed his hands on his shirt front and followed his father into the study.

The room was musty and hot as Luke sprawled in the packing-case armchair. Hamish offered brandy, swigging his own down quickly. ‘Must you start a fight on my front lawn?’

Luke picked at the dried ducks’ blood under his fingernails. ‘You have a bad habit of choosing debauched employees.’

Hamish let out a deep belly laugh. ‘And how is your whore?’

Luke flicked a ball of blood onto the floor. ‘I’m not married,’ he challenged.

They stared at each other. ‘I’ll be wanting to drive 1500 head south to market in two months. The feed’s cutting out so it would be best to leave a little earlier while the cattle are strong.’

‘I’ll be wanting news of my inheritance before I go,’ Luke countered, lifting his brandy glass towards the light as if a connoisseur.

Hamish screwed his bushy eyebrows together.

‘The emporium,’ Luke reminded him. ‘I expect it to be left to me.’

Hamish laced his fingers together. ‘And what would you be wanting with that? You have Wangallon and you’re boss drover.’

‘You have Wangallon now and Angus will have it in the future. What do I get?’ He threw the contents of the glass down his throat. ‘It’s the only thing that will truly be mine.’

Hamish frowned. ‘What in God’s name do you think I’ve been doing out here for the last fifty-plus years? You will be running Wangallon after I’m dead, in trust until Angus is old enough to take over.’

‘I see,’ Luke stood. ‘It’s a fine plan, father, and probably a good offer for an elder son who’s a few years off fifty.’

‘Sit, sit. I’ve a problem with a neighbour. Crawford has stock of ours.’

‘You’re not accusing them of theft?’ Luke queried. ‘Things have been quiet for some years now. Let’s keep it that way.’

Hamish’s eyes gleamed. ‘No, no. I intend to make another offer for Crawford Corner. It’s a large tract of land with good grass coverage and a mix of mainly black to light soils.’

‘I thought we were consolidating?’

‘I thought you wanted to be a shopkeeper,’ Hamish retaliated. ‘The purchasing of the property would enable the rotation of our stock. You know well enough that overstocking is damaging our fragile soils. I’m not of a mind to be forced to decrease stocking rates and lose productivity.’

Luke cared little for neighbours, good, bad or indifferent. ‘Well, it sounds like you’ve made up your mind. You know where to find me.’

Hamish took a sip of his drink. ‘Under a tree I presume’.

Jim took a sip of his beer and cradled the glass in his hands. A fire flamed brightly beneath a long mantlepiece upon which decorative pieces were carefully arranged; two large painted eggs belonging to some type of prehistoric bird that were mounted on gold stands, a pair of vases and a fancy clock. Sarah was twiddling with the stem of her wine glass as Anthony returned with another log for the fire. He dropped it atop the burning wood, a scatter of sparks flying out.

‘Be careful of the carpet,’ Sarah reminded him, turning her attention from the wine glass to a spot on her jeans. Jim watched as she rubbed at the denim with a determined finger.

They were sitting in the drawing room. One wall held a large hand-painted Chinese fan encased in glass, which was highlighted by a single spotlight above it. Apparently the item had been purchased by Hamish’s first wife, Rose, from a travelling hawker in the late 1850s. To Jim’s thinking it should have been in a museum. It was faded in places and fly-spots dotted one side of it. Sitting his beer down on a flowery drink coaster he tried to find a more comfortable position in the plush burgundy velvet of the deep armchair. He was exhausted. Sleep had eluded him for most of the night and when he did manage to doze off he awoke to the sensation of someone standing at the end of his bed. Of course such imaginings were ridiculous, but the image of a tall barrel-chested man with the crinkled face of a raisin was not something his own subconscious had offered up before. Nor was Jim particularly used to waking at dawn to find his few belongings strewn about the bedroom. Although he was not one for believing in ghosts, Jim admitted last night may have been his first introduction. With less than steady hands he took another sip of beer. That same room was waiting for him tonight.

Jim glanced up at the eleven-foot ceilings and crystal chandelier, his sleep-deprived mind less than calm as he digested the recent news that the man sitting opposite him also owned a thirty per cent share in Wangallon. So much for their solicitor’s research; Mr Levi had said nothing of a long-time employee who’d managed to ingratiate himself with Angus Gordon.

‘So who makes the final decisions when it comes to running Wangallon?’ Jim asked when the room’s silence reached the uncomfortable threshold.

Sarah crossed and uncrossed her legs.

‘Everything is done jointly here,’ Anthony began. ‘We have weekly planning meetings with our stock manager, Matt, who you met earlier.’

An obvious frown shadowed Sarah’s face. She took a sip of white wine.

‘Right,’ Jim said slowly. Sarah was looking a touch uncomfortable. ‘So does that work?’ No one rushed to answer him. ‘I mean, you’re the Gordon, Sarah. Don’t you get the final say?’ By the expression crossing Sarah’s face he had hit on a rather delicate subject.

‘The management team works fine here, Jim. Besides,’ Anthony moved from standing next to an oval mahogany table stacked with photographs and expensive-looking figurines, ‘maybe Sarah hasn’t had a chance to tell you, we’re engaged. I’ll get you another beer, mate.’

For a moment Jim wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. He looked directly at Sarah’s left hand as Anthony left the room.

‘Oh, I don’t wear the ring unless we’re entertaining or I go to town. Jewellery in the bush can be a bit dangerous if it gets caught in anything.’

‘When?’ Jim knew it shouldn’t matter.

‘After I came back from Scotland.’

‘I see.’ While he managed to develop a crush on Sarah during her short stay in Scotland, Sarah had already been in love with Anthony. And hadn’t Anthony made things neat and tidy for himself.

‘So what did you think of the property?’ Anthony returned, refilled Jim’s beer glass and positioned himself on an ancient-looking wooden chair. Another family heirloom, Jim guessed, assessing both the extent and limitation of his inheritance. A thirty per cent share in the land was his, yet he wondered about his rights to the old homestead and its valuable contents.

‘There’s a lot of it and it looks the same to me.’

Sarah’s mouth dropped open in amazement. ‘I’m sorry, but I’m not interested in you two sitting here and discussing Wangallon like you’re mates. This isn’t exactly a social visit.’

‘Aye, you’re right there, Sarah.’ Jim drained his beer. ‘I want my inheritance, the full amount in cash.’ If he believed there could be a modicum of friendship between him and his half-sister, he was wrong. There was too much at stake.

Sarah turned white. ‘But we have to keep the property together, Jim.’

‘Why?’

‘Why?’ Sarah repeated the word, looking at him as if he was an idiot.

‘I’m sorry, Sarah, but I’ve no ties to you or Wangallon.’

‘But you could move into West Wangallon Homestead,’ she began. ‘Couldn’t he, Anthony?’ Anthony’s broad back was turned in her direction. He was gazing out the wide casement windows at the gathering darkness. Sarah turned helplessly back to Jim. She’d had no opportunity to discuss any of this with Anthony. He’d returned late again and left at dawn. She bit her lip. Her only option was to make Jim realise the importance of keeping all the country together, to explain to him Wangallon’s significance to the Gordon family, of which he was now a part. She could not bear to see one acre of the property sold. ‘We would teach you everything about the property, pay you a partner’s salary, you would have a car, be involved in management decisions …’

Jim put his beer glass down. ‘You honestly believe I want to stay here?’

Sarah spread her hands, palms up. She was desperate. ‘Why not?’ She gave a weak smile of enticement. She didn’t want Jim Macken here any more than he wanted to stay.

‘No,’ Jim said with finality. ‘Just give me my share.’

Sarah steadied herself by taking a sip of her white wine. ‘We can’t afford to buy you out.’

‘I don’t need to know the details.’

‘You insensitive bastard,’ Sarah said angrily, rising.

‘Hey, Sarah, cool off.’ Anthony tried to lead her back to her seat but she shrugged him off.

‘Fine, fine.’ She ran her fingers through her hair, pacing the room. ‘What about a payment plan? You know, a cash sum every year for say –’

‘What? Ten years, twenty years? I don’t think so, Sarah. What is the point of dragging this on?’

‘But why? Why are you doing this?’ Even as she asked the question Sarah knew the answer. He didn’t know the history of Wangallon. He had no concept of those who’d lived and died in its creation. It was just a commodity to him. He was too ignorant to appreciate what he was intent on destroying. ‘You are no longer welcome at Wangallon.’

‘Sarah!’ Anthony said loudly.

She folded her arms across her chest. ‘Get your things and get out.’

Jim stood. What did she intend to do? Leave him under a tree? ‘I’ll be staying until I meet my father, Ronald.’

‘Ronald has no interest in meeting you,’ Sarah seethed.

‘Mate, look,’ Anthony began. ‘Why don’t you move into the pub?’

‘Don’t mate me.’ The one thing Jim knew he would not be able to tolerate was any interference from Anthony.

‘Fine, work it out yourself,’ Anthony retaliated.

‘You can bunk over in the jackeroo’s quarters,’ Sarah finally relented. ‘I’ll telephone Jack and let him know you’re coming. When you walk out the back door, you’ll see the lights in the distance. It’s about a mile. You Scots are used to walking across the hills and dales, should be a doddle for you.’

‘Was that really necessary?’ Anthony asked when they were alone.

They were sitting in the kitchen, eating a hastily prepared dinner of leftover steamed chicken with lettuce and tomato. Sarah speared a piece of chicken and chewed on it sullenly. She was in no mood to justify her actions. ‘I hear the work is still going on over at Boxer’s Plains.’

Anthony, finishing his own meal, drained his beer. ‘I don’t think tonight is the time to be discussing this.’

‘And when should we be discussing it, Anthony? When you have succeeded in wiping out some of our prime grazing country or when our costs escalate from your broadacre farming enterprise and the bank telephones and says, “I’m sorry, but we have a problem”?’

Anthony tried not to take offence at the curt anger in her voice. ‘Jim is going to be the problem.’

Sarah shook her head. ‘You think?’ She carried their plates to the sink.

‘Hey, I am on your side, Sarah. The Boxer’s Plains project is being done specifically so that we can increase our productivity and therefore our income. Jim is legally entitled to his share and when that happens we will have less country and the same amount of debt to service.’

Sarah dropped the plates loudly in the sink. ‘Unlike you, I don’t consider Jim’s claim to be a done deal.’

Anthony sighed. ‘Legally and morally it’s the right thing to do.’

‘And when did you decide to become a beacon for human rights?’

Jim walked through the kitchen in stony silence, his bag thrust over his shoulder. They listened as the back door slammed shut with a bang that shook the plate of chicken on the sink.

‘Where are my bloody boots?’ Jim questioned angrily, his voice loud.

Bullet’s bark answered. Sarah allowed a grim smile to settle on her lips.

‘This is turning into a debacle.’ Anthony shoved a split piece of wood into the Aga’s firebox.

‘You’re telling me. I’m sorry but I don’t understand what I’ve done to deserve your sneaking around with the Boxer’s Plains thing. While I’m starting to understand the reasons for the new development, I’m hurt and disappointed in the way you handled it.’

‘I know,’ Anthony brushed his hands free of dirt. ‘I just couldn’t see any other way of doing it. Wangallon has always been predominantly grazing and I knew you would want to keep it that way.’

‘Of course I want to keep it that way. We’re not bloody farmers, we never have been. I don’t know the arse-end of a scarifier from a set of harrows. And I’m not inclined to learn.’

‘Change can be good.’

‘Not if it’s not required,’ Sarah replied quickly.

‘You can’t stop Jim, you know.’ Anthony drew his eyebrows together. ‘The law is the law, Sarah.’

She stared back at him with the stirrings of the flinty gaze he’d grown accustomed to seeing in her grandfather. ‘Maybe if you’d strained yourself to come home at a decent hour last night we could have had some sort of a plan worked out. Instead you deserted me.’ The hot water splurted into the sink where it bubbled with dishwashing liquid. Sarah began washing their few dinner things.

Anthony recalled the comforting fug of the hotel with its billow of cold air every time the door opened to allow another stray in. Anastasia cooked him up some sausages for dinner and he’d managed to snavel the corner seat near the wood-fire heater. Later she’d joined him and they’d shared a glass each of rum and warm milk. The evening reminded him of what his life had become and what it could have been and now he felt guilty for it. He wanted to wrap his arms around Sarah, tell her he cared, ask her not to do anything rash. Although from the resolve that was showing in the set of her jaw he figured now was not the time for talking.

Sarah threw a tea towel over the draining dishes and pulled the plug from the sink. ‘I may not be able to stop Jim, at least not immediately, but I can make things very difficult for him.’ She looked pointedly at Anthony and walked stiffly from the room.

Anthony cringed. Sarah was setting herself up for a mighty fall.

Sarah tiptoed into the bedroom and began packing an overnight bag. Anthony had left one of the bedside lights on and the glow was bright enough to choose a couple of crisp white shirts, a pair of clean jeans and a tailored navy blazer with smart gold buttons.

‘What are you doing?’ Anthony sat up in bed, rubbing his eyes. ‘Geez it’s freezing in here.’

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you.’ Sarah shut the bedroom door. She was beyond feeling anything. From the dresser she selected underwear, the string of pearls once owned by her grandmother and a pair of pearl earrings. ‘You told me a couple of days ago that I’d have to sort out the problem myself. Well, that’s what I’ve decided to do.’

Anthony tugged at the bedclothes. ‘I didn’t mean for you to rush off on some hair-brained –’

‘Clearly I have to see a solicitor and as you seem so ready to accept what you consider to be the inevitable, there’s no point in you being involved in this particular exercise.’

‘I see.’ He bashed his pillow into a more comfortable shape. ‘So what you’re saying is that you’re effectively cutting me out.’

Sarah zipped up the bag and sat it on a small chair in the corner of the room. ‘Jim arrived yesterday afternoon. Tonight is the first I’ve seen of you. Look at this from my corner, Anthony. You haven’t exactly been the supportive fiancé.’

‘Is this your idea of some type of payback?’

Sarah shook her head and sat on the end of the bed. ‘Anthony,’ she began as if talking to a child, ‘this isn’t about you, or me. It’s about Wangallon. I’m the last direct descendent after Dad – there is no one else.’

‘There’s Jim.’

Sarah frowned, choosing to ignore the jibe. ‘There are spare seats on tomorrow’s plane to Sydney.’

‘I’d be calling Ronald. It is his bloody mess after all.’

‘I can’t.’ She sat on the edge of their bed. ‘Sue’s ill.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

Sarah wished she didn’t feel so alone. ‘Well, once again you haven’t been here much to support me and when you have we’ve been arguing.’ The expression didn’t change on his face. Sarah wasn’t the only one facing change both internally and externally; Anthony was developing into the type of person who wouldn’t give an inch and she didn’t like it. What happened to the man she fell in love with. ‘I’ll have to go see Dad anyway, and Mum, so I’ll tell him then, in person.’ She reached out and touched his hand. It had been days since they’d last held each other. ‘If I don’t try to keep the property together I’ll feel like I’ve failed every one of the Gordons who have come before me.’

Anthony pulled his hand away and tugged the blanket higher across his chest. ‘And what about us?’

Sarah sighed. ‘Did you consider my feelings when you dreamt up the Boxer’s Plains idea? Do you even comprehend how painful it is to me to hear you talk about Jim’s inheritance as if it’s inevitable? Knowing you feel that way, what is the point of you coming with me?’

‘You haven’t answered my question, Sarah.’

‘And I can’t. You are the one who has to answer it. You have to look at the way you’ve behaved over the past few weeks. Our relationship began on Wangallon and it will end on Wangallon, whether it be next year or in fifty years, but there has to be a Wangallon first for everything else to exist. That’s the way I see it.’ He was staring at her as if she were a museum sculpture. ‘I don’t expect you to understand.’

‘Good, because I think you’re being a bit melodramatic.’

‘That’s probably because there’s not three generations of your forefathers buried here.’ Outside the wind rattled the doors leading out onto the verandah. ‘When you first came here, this place was just a job for you.’

‘That’s unfair. I love this place.’

‘You do now.’ Sarah could feel their relationship taking on a new form, one which would never be quite the same again. ‘Wangallon has to continue being run the way it always has. I’ll accept the two thousand acres of cultivation, the grassland that’s already been cultivated. I have to as it has already been developed. I think that’s fair considering how you went about it, but that’s it. I want the rest of the project stopped until this mess with Jim is sorted.’

‘You’re serious? You’re actually telling me how you want the property run, after all the bloody hoo-ha about teamwork?’

‘I’m making a suggestion that you shouldn’t take offence at if you are willing to work as a team as Grandfather intended.’ Sarah couldn’t believe she was even having this conversation. All Anthony had to do was include her in the decision-making, even if sometimes it was just a courtesy. ‘Well, are you?’

‘I told you the benefits of the project, that I was doing it for Wangallon, for the future, our future.’

‘And you admitted you had gone about it the wrong way.’

He was silent.

‘Look, I don’t expect you to understand or agree with what I’m saying, but I do expect some consideration. The Boxer’s Plains project is stopped indefinitely. Agreed?’

He looked at her evenly.

‘I’m trusting you, Anthony. I need to know I can rely on you. I’ll fly down to Sydney, see if there’s an angle we can work on.’

‘And you don’t want me to come.’

She busied herself, gathering cosmetics and toiletries together. ‘I don’t see any point.’ Sarah found her black leather handbag and placed her wallet inside. The bedclothes rustled and she turned to see Anthony walking out of the room down the hallway towards the spare bedrooms. She didn’t call after him. They seemed to be coming from opposing directions with no possible hope of slowing down before they crashed. Stepping out of her clothes she slunk naked between the covers, moving across to where the warmth of Anthony’s body still clung to the pale blue sheets. Sarah scrunched her eyes together. How did it come to pass that she was fighting Anthony as well as Jim Macken?

The piano was framed by two curly brass candle holders and a panel of rose-pink pleated silk above the keyboard. Claire had always thought it a lovely piece, even if the silk was faded and the travelling piano tuner never quite got the keys correct. Placing her fingers against the cool of the ivory keys, she began practising scales, pretending to ignore the discordant sound of middle C. Her fingers hit the keys lightly. She persisted for some minutes despite the stuffiness of the room and the perspiration dripping down her legs. Having drawn the curtains early in an attempt to hold the midday heat at bay, Claire was tempted to reopen them in the hope that a slight breeze might take pity on her. As her fingers ran up and down the keys, she tried the beginnings of a concerto.

‘Mr Wetherly, Ma’am,’ Mrs Stackland announced with more than an air of dislike. Claire would have queried her attitude had not Mr Wetherly already been present. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit of a wool cotton mix and carried the smell of sheep and manure with him and the chewy aroma of persistent perspiration.

‘Mr Wetherly, I’m afraid I am not dressed for visitors,’ Claire remarked, straightening her rather drab grey skirt, which was matched with a blouse adorned with black lace inserts. It was certainly her least becoming gown and her hair was piled atop her head in an unflattering bun.

Wetherly gave a formal bow, somewhat overdone for midday. ‘My apologies, Mrs Gordon. I was seeking your husband.’

‘I’m afraid he is not here.’ Claire wished she’d chosen her cream silk gown this morning. ‘I could have refreshments sent out to the verandah if you care to wait.’

Wetherly hesitated. It was not particularly appropriate for the stud master to be in her drawing room alone with her. He was, after all, staff and undeniably single. Yet he loitered without answering, staring at her unabashedly until her cheeks flushed under his gaze. ‘Thank you,’ he replied with a cool slowness. ‘I think not. I had –’ he cleared his throat – ‘better wait outside. Besides, I find my thirst quite sated,’ Wetherly answered smoothly. He turned to find Hamish staring at him with uplifted eyebrows.

‘I’ll meet you at the yards at four o’clock, Wetherly. It’s far too hot to be working stock until then.’ Hamish dismissed Wetherly instantly, shutting the door quietly. ‘The man has a high regard for himself and his abilities.’

‘Give him time,’ Claire returned to the piano feeling like a child whose outstretched hand had been caught seeking the boiled lolly jar. ‘He is very new to Wangallon.’

‘I see he has earned your admiration,’ he sniffed, removing his jacket and throwing it across the horsehair couch. A puff of dust lifted into the air. ‘I don’t think it appropriate for Wetherly to be alone in your company, my dear. He has somewhat of a reputation.’

One of the maids entered and, with a curtsey, walked towards the lead fireplace with a dustpan. The girl was reasonably efficient and as yet had not broken any of her knick-knacks, although Claire was not taken with the way she picked up ornaments and inspected them. Hamish walked idly around the drawing room. ‘You’ve been playing?’

‘A little. Lemonade, Margaret.’

‘For two,’ Hamish ordered sternly. The girl bobbed a poor excuse for a curtsey and left them alone. Hamish peered out the damask curtain, flicking at the tasselled fringing. ‘New?’

Claire repositioned a hair pin. ‘Twenty years ago.’ In the past her husband was quite particular about their furnishings; however, time had rendered many things commonplace. This phenomenon did not extend beyond the mud brick walls of Wangallon homestead. Her husband’s obsession lay with the land and it spread out beneath him like a great fount of prosperity. ‘If you recall we ordered the material during a visit to Sydney.’

‘Yes, of course.’

There was little doubt in Claire’s mind that Hamish would not remember. Her husband knew every bend in the creek and river, every fence and outbuilding and clump of trees in every paddock. He knew Wangallon so well that Claire was convinced he could start at one end of the property and recall every single detail of the landscape as if he were riding through it on a summer’s day. In comparison he ensured his homestead was suitably impressive for the holding it sat upon, although it remained only a dwelling to him. Wangallon was Hamish’s love and she drew his focus like a demanding mistress well used to lavish attention.

‘Have you seen Luke?’

‘No.’ Claire retrieved her fan from atop the piano. In truth she was pleased that he’d not come calling, for after their last conversation she had suffered from such a sense of confusion that she doubted her ability to converse properly on any subject at all.

Hamish examined the silver-mounted emu egg and the matching ruby lustre vases on the mantlepiece. ‘One of the maids is sweeping the verandah at an unfathomable hour. Dawn and dusk should be sufficient.’

Claire wafted the air with the ivory and lace fan. ‘I’ll mention it to Mrs Stackland.’

‘Good.’ He walked to the armchair and, retrieving her quilting, passed it to her.

‘Have you received correspondence from Mrs Crawford?’

Claire began stitching a square of yellow material. ‘Only that her eldest has arrived to visit his father. Should we entertain them?’ Her mind quickly leapt to the table seating. They could invite Henrietta Webb for the younger Crawford’s sake, the father, of course and, and Wetherly? Who else was there to make up a suitable number after all?

‘We shall see. I would like to call upon you tonight.’

The needle pricked Claire’s finger, drawing blood. It was some weeks since he’d come to her bedroom, although Claire was sure he did not lack companionship. She sucked at the bead of blood welling on the fleshy pad of her finger. His back remained stiffly towards her as her assent was mumbled.

Margaret returned with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses as Hamish left the room. Claire held out her hand and, accepting the poured glass, sipped at it, wincing at the sourness.

‘Mrs Stackland says to tell you, Missus, that the last of the preserved lemons are a might tart.’