A Changing Land

Hamish gave such a sigh that Claire’s eyes moistened. She turned aside, wiping angrily at her tears. ‘We have had common interests,’ she sniffed. ‘Respectability for one: Why, you courted Sydney society for years and now we have friends among the most prominent families in the country. Have you forgotten the length of the time it has taken for us to be accepted? When I think of the weeks spent in Sydney during the season when only a sprinkling of invitations were ours to choose from. When I think of the effort I myself went to –’

‘Then don’t think, my dear,’ Hamish said impatiently, continuing his walk. ‘You will find it less taxing. And if we are honest with ourselves I think you will agree that the upper echelons of society are what you aspire to. In truth I have little need of such things anymore. All of our preening and amiable conversation has been for Angus, after all.’

Claire smelled the pungent aroma of tobacco as Hamish stuffed his pipe, lit it and inhaled deeply. They were standing beneath the branches of a spreading gum tree, the muted pinky-blue of dawn creeping over the countryside. ‘How can you say that?’ Claire’s face was white, her features stiff with exasperation.

‘Because there is something far more important than respectability. However, you are a woman,’ he spoke a little gentler, ‘and as such God divined you to see virtue in matters of little consequence.’

She bit her knuckle, glad of the half-light. What had watered this cold wedge which had so recently grown within her husband?

‘Once Luke has left with the mob, may I suggest a little sojourn,’ Hamish stated between puffs of his pipe. ‘I thought perhaps a trip to the Blue Mountains to escape February’s heat; then some sea air.’

Claire thought back to Luke’s revelation, how his own mother Rose was not yet dead when Hamish became her unknown benefactor. ‘You will be joining me?’ Despite the mortification of the expected answer, Claire needed to know.

Hamish smoothed his moustache. ‘No. You will take Angus with you. He will be attending the Kings School at Parramatta.’

Claire shuddered inwardly at the calmness with which her future was being decided. Did he really have no affection for her anymore, not even as the mother of his son and heir? Or was her current tendency towards melancholy making her presume the very worst. The very worst, she repeated silently; if the heir was no longer at Wangallon, what need was there for her?

‘Many of the landed board their sons at an early age,’ Hamish continued. ‘The advantages are numerous. Apart from the educational and sporting benefits, the boys mix with the sons of other wealthy pastoralists, forming lifelong friendships with those of a similar social standing.’ He paused and looked at her directly. ‘That alone should make you agreeable.’

Now he was ridiculing her values. Dragging her feet up the verandah steps Claire attempted to formulate some last drastic retort, yet she could think of nothing that would wound him. He was beyond the understanding of mortal men. Claire lifted her head proudly as she walked towards the main door. There standing in the doorway was Angus. His face was pale.

‘Mother?’

Angus’s mouth opened, fat tears began streaming down his distorted face to roll across his cheeks and lips. ‘Mother?’ His violet eyes searched Claire’s face. ‘Father? W-what will I do in the city? What about Wallace and Lee and –’

‘This will be the making of you,’ Hamish explained. ‘Now stop blubbering.’

‘I’m not going,’ Angus cried out, stamping his foot. ‘I’m not going and I’m not leaving Wangallon.’

Hamish closed the distance between his son in three large strides. Removing his leather belt he doubled it and flicked it across the palm of his hand. ‘You will quell your predilection to disobedience and accept your good fortune.’

Claire watched the adamant stance of her son and thought of his recent attempts at riding his horse. The boy had shown his determination that day.

Angus squared his young shoulders. ‘Never,’ he retorted as his father approached him, belt in hand. He turned on his heel and quickly ran inside.

‘Please don’t take Angus from me,’ Claire pleaded as Hamish furiously looped his belt back around his waist. ‘If you ever cared for me and I know you did once, don’t take my one consolation, please don’t send him away. Think about how he will pine, please think about –’

‘This is ridiculous. The boy will benefit greatly from such an undertaking.’

Claire tugged at his jacket. ‘I was schooled here, as was Luke. We could employ a tutor as you did then.’

‘The schooling was adequate for a woman as it was for the mental faculties of Luke. Angus deserves and will receive far better.’

‘For what purpose? To converse with blacks and the decrepit likes of Jasperson?’ Claire opened her arms to encompass the land about them, her shawl falling to the ground. ‘To contemplate sunsets and count cattle? For what reason does he need this great education other than to make my presence here redundant?’

Hamish gave her a peculiar look. Claire dropped her arms quickly, bending to retrieve her shawl. Surely Hamish understood her anger was borne of sadness, surely some slight vestige of the man she cared for lay curled within the hardened shell he’d woven about himself. Claire tugged at her shawl, gave a wan smile. In truth he’d only suggested a holiday – a sojourn, was that not the word he had used?

‘I think,’ Hamish said bitterly, ‘you have made yourself redundant’.Claire, having partaken of some hot water and cod-liver oil, was still dressed in her chemise. She busied herself by rummaging through the cedar wardrobe, attempting to find something suitable to her disposition. She threw various items over her shoulder, each small thud helping to eradicate the most shocking of conversations she’d ever had the misfortune to endure. The bed was already strewn with finely pintucked blouses, three skirts of varying shades of brown and two of the so-called hobble skirts. Those she would not wear again. Claire tossed the black and grey aside. The constrictions of female fashion were becoming an abomination. She decided on a fashionable morning dress of water-weave taffeta. The pink was undoubtedly a little ostentatious for a dreary bush day and was more suited to a citified soiree, however Claire was in need of cheering up. She chided at her weeping, which threatened to engulf her should she not stay angry. All manner of emotions were raking across her body. Guilt, hate and hurt being the ones she could put immediate description to. ‘I hate you,’ she muttered, tearing gloves, woollen stoles and boned corsets from their drawers. ‘I hate you.’

Leaving the wardrobe and dresser Claire embarked on the contents of the large camphorwood chest from within which she began to yank at a selection of carefully folded evening gowns.

‘Mrs Gordon, can I get you some breakfast?’ Mrs Stackland’s voice echoed strongly in the hallway.

Claire’s fingers sorted nimbly through layers of silky material. ‘No, thank you.’ There were satins and silks, cottons and taffetas in all colours. With practised efficiency she swept a royal blue taffeta into her arms, the material unfolding in a shimmer to reveal a seed pearl embroidered bodice. Next she selected a burgundy satin with gold fringing on the skirt’s front panel and hem. Holding up each of the gowns, she studied her reflection in the mirror above the dresser. Her skin looked sallow against the royal blue and bloodless next to the burgundy. She would need to do something about her pallor least she were relegated by the Sydney gossips to such a position of sickliness that it was deemed unsuitable to extend her a single invitation.

Dumping the gowns on the cypress floor a rip of pain surged through her. Claire buckled to her knees, clutching at her abdomen. She began to crawl towards the door, hopeful of leveraging herself up so that she could call for assistance. She slipped on the material beneath her and fell heavily as a rush of blood left her body. With a moan Claire turned onto her back, tentatively touching the wetness between her legs. She struggled upwards expecting to see some sliver of her unborn child resting amid the rich weave of the evening gowns. ‘Don’t look,’ she chided, ‘don’t look, Claire.’ With tired arms she wrenched the chemise from her body and wadded the material between her legs. Placing her palms on the floor she dragged herself backwards, her body sliding easily across the silk-and-taffeta covered floor until her back rested against the foot of the bed. Her head lolled back, her neck arching uncomfortably. Slowly the pain subsided, leaving behind a shallow emptiness.

Claire watched a triangle of sun enter the partially opened bedroom curtains. The elongated strip of heat travelled silently until sometime later it struck the soft flesh of her bloodied thigh. She would take the Cobb & Co coach from Wangallon Town once her recuperation was complete. Claire flinched at the unwelcome heat pricking her skin and focused on the washstand with its ceramic water jug and matching bowl. It was a long journey to Sydney, over 650 miles. On their last trip south the eight-seat passenger coach took 35 hours to travel 135 miles. Claire began to heave herself up until she was standing. The jolting and boredom of the trip south was almost too ferocious to contemplate, especially when a single 135 mile leg included an overnight stop. She took a tentative step forward as new warmth, agitated by her movement, trickled down her leg. One could expect a minimum of five nights’ stopover en route as long as dry weather prevailed and the coach or horses didn’t suffer a break down. At the washstand Claire poured water into the ceramic bowl and sobbed quietly. She cried for her lost baby whose soul was winding its way heavenward, and for the man who was her husband. This time, however, Claire refused to cry for herself.Catherine Jamieson was not a woman Maggie Macken conversed with. Indeed, on prior occasions when she could feign not having seen her approach, Maggie would fiddle with the contents of her handbag and cross the main street in the village of Tongue in order to avoid the older spinster. Today, however, no such escape seemed possible for as Maggie stepped from the curb, Mrs Jamieson followed. Maggie caught the woman’s reflection in the window of the grocery store and saw the determined swing of her arms when she doubled back to the telephone booth. Attempting to give an air of an errand just remembered, Maggie scrambled in her purse for coins as she ducked in the pillar-box red door of the booth and dialled her sister in St Andrews. Maggie could usually rely on a string of complaints to issue forth from Faith with the subject, her sister’s bank-teller husband, centring on ungratefulness. She listened as the telephone rang out and then stopped altogether. Damn. Unused coins fell into the change box. A sharp tap of knuckles sounded on the glass behind her. Maggie wondered how obvious it would be if she chose to ignore her stalker and try another of her ever unhelpful sisters. Instead she took a deep breath and opened the door.

‘Why, Maggie Macken. I do believe you went out of your way to avoid me,’ accused Mrs Jamieson with a wave of her finger. The woman had gone grey prematurely and Maggie patted her own brown hair as a lock of grey fell onto Mrs Jamieson’s brow. ‘Well?’

Maggie pursed her lips and surveyed her antagonist with one unblinking stare – from the beige of the woman’s sturdy walking shoes and paisley dress, to a face ruined by loneliness.

‘So you sent young Jim over for Sarah’s money, I hear?’

Maggie began walking along the pavement in the direction of her car. She’d parked it next to the tourist walk with a mind to visit the ruin on the hill once her errands were completed. The fortress remained Jim’s favourite spot and was the place where he’d first met Sarah Gordon. Wouldn’t she obliterate that day if given the chance, Maggie thought. She’d not been to the ruin herself for many a year. But now there was a need for her to return there, to revisit the very spot where two lives were altered; hers and Jim’s. History had repeated itself, for Jim’s life had been thrown into chaos through chance, and hers through poverty.

Behind her Mrs Jamieson puffed to keep pace. ‘The village is agog with the millions he could inherit,’ she called out. ‘I bet you’re very pleased with yourself. Having been jilted by Ronald Gordon you now manage to get your haggis and eat it as well.’

Maggie crossed over the narrow road, passed the white facade of the pub, and walked towards her car. Why the fates interceded to have Sarah Gordon bedded down for the duration of her stay at this woman’s B&B over two years ago was beyond her. ‘Whatever are you talking about, Catherine Jamieson?’ Maggie could feel her cheeks burning.

‘Revenge. You didn’t get the Australian you stole from me.’

Maggie opened the rear door of her car to place her bag of groceries on the cracked upholstery. ‘You lost him yourself,’ Maggie said with controlled slowness. ‘You with your airs, why I’m sure you chased him away.’

Mrs Jamieson grabbed Maggie by the arm. ‘Ronald Gordon never would have stayed. If you’d truly listened when he spoke of his homeland, you would know that. Besides, he was already married.’

Maggie winced under the older woman’s grip. She shook herself free. ‘He didn’t ask you to go back to his famous property either though, did he?’

Catherine Jamieson gave her such a withering look Maggie felt as if she suffered from the plague. ‘He asked, Maggie Macken. But I could no sooner leave here than he could leave his blue haze.’

This was news quite unexpected. Maggie attempted to breathe evenly, but concentrating her thoughts in that department only made her more breathless.

‘You should have stopped Jim from going. It’s not right to steal from others.’

Maggie collected herself. She was an upstanding citizen in Tongue, well married with a son and, very soon most likely, the Mackens would be richer than all their neighbours. ‘Steal? It is certainly not stealing. Besides it’s you who decided to tell what lay hidden for years.’

‘Because your boy hankered after young Sarah when she visited and you did nothing to dissuade him. If he’d been my boy I would have told him to stay away. It wasn’t seemly the way you let them keep company. Especially when you made no bones about the company you’d kept.’

‘Were it not for you, my boy would not be over there,’ Maggie countered. ‘None of this would be happening. After all it was you with your “holier than thou” attitude who told what never should have been spoken.’ Maggie wondered once again at the logic of hiding a nasty mistake with a lie, especially when women such as Catherine Jamieson were probably shrewd enough to guess the difference. Still Maggie persisted with her argument. ‘Besides, it’s the grand father who has left the will.’ She fiddled with the car keys in her hand. Catherine Jamieson was still staring her down. ‘It’s family business now and naught to do with you.’

‘You shouldn’t have done it. You didn’t love Ronald.’

Maggie blinked. It was strange to think that this woman talking to her may once have been young, both in looks and spirit. Maggie cleared her throat, pressed her shoulders back a little. She reminded herself that she had nothing to prove to anyone, only her family to be considered. ‘Of course I loved him.’

The older woman looked at her, unconvinced, shuffled in her handbag for a tissue and pressed it against her nose. ‘More than your running? More than the running shoes your own poor mother heard you lament about daily? If I didn’t know better, Maggie Macken, I’d say you were lying.’ Mrs Jamieson turned smartly on her heels as if dismissing an unruly child.

Maggie watched Catherine Jamieson walk away. The town gossips said the woman had been jilted, or that her man had died; whether through accident or illness no one knew. What would those same gossips say if they ever discovered that the man in Catherine’s heart was Ronald Gordon? That Catherine Jamieson never married because she loved a man she could not have? That type of love was something Maggie could not even begin to comprehend. No wonder the woman hated her.

Locking her car, Maggie walked towards the sign-posted trail. The locals had always been kind to her, believing her to be a young woman who’d been taken advantage of some twenty-eight years ago. This coupled with the fact that Maggie’s pregnancy coincided with enough money to finally purchase a pair of running shoes only added to the glances of pity afforded to her by neighbours and townsfolk alike. Overnight she was transformed. Maggie Macken was the promising local runner whose career was cut short by an unfortunate turn of events.

The track sloped downhill. Maggie slipped through wet grass and mud. In the distance, across the sea entrance, mountains rose enticingly. There was usually mist swirling about the peaks, while at the base the icy grip of the North Sea clutched at the rocky shoreline with each incoming wave. Maggie reached the bottom of the small valley and a pebble-strewn stream. She gasped as the cold water soaked immediately through her lace-ups and clucked her tongue at the stupidity of trying to negotiate an overgrown path in shoes meant for a morning’s shopping. Scrambling over a wooden stile, she brushed rising flies from her face, hung her handbag over her shoulder and looked at the overgrown track leading uphill. Her feet were cold, her body hot and the sun was beginning to prickle her skin. She couldn’t recall the distance to the ruin, nor whether the climb was a steep one. Maggie looked over her shoulder. Surely after all the years since she’d last climbed this track, hoping a young man followed, her memory wouldn’t fail her. There were at least two further stiles to be crossed. And the track was a slippery one, but quite doable even when wearing questionable shoes. Maggie tucked her hair behind her ears, stamped her feet in the soft vegetation to increase her circulation, and walked on.Hamish rode out towards a pinkish glare of heat and dust, refusing to look over his shoulder at the woman who had so wantonly provoked him. There was the tang of smoke in the dawn air, signalling bushfires to the south-east. Aborigines, he surmised, adjusting his arse in the saddle. He would need some of Lee’s salve if he was to carry out his plan against Crawford. Age had made his backside sensitive to riding long distances. He turned his horse to the ridge and headed towards the creek, his gaze drawn every so often to the smoke hanging on the horizon. The Aborigines were adept at lighting fires to smoke out kangaroos, lizards and other campfire edibles. Hamish had observed the regeneration of trees and plants once these untended fires had burnt through the county, yet such fires on Wangallon were banned. In the heat of summer a conflagration could quickly ensue, destroying the valuable grasses so vital to his livestock’s survival and Wangallon’s prosperity. Of more concern was the danger to his beloved cattle and sheep. Hamish had been witness to the terrible sight of burnt sheep; the sweet stench of lanolin and the horrific burns. He wished no such pain on any creature – friend or foe. Yet out east, as evidenced by the sting to his eyes this morning, there were no such constraints.

His mount picked his way past the ridge and stepped lightly across the paddock. As if aware of the coming heat, the horse moved quickly, sensing the opportunity for faster travel would be limited in only a matter of hours. In the tree line Hamish spotted smoke streaming into the sky. This, he knew by its position, was the black’s camp. He scanned to the left and right of the smoke. Sure enough there it was, downstream of the camp, a second fire; his son’s. Hamish touched his horse’s flanks with the heels of his boots and they moved into a trot. He leant forward in the saddle, the movement of both horse and rider causing a breath of air to brush at his face. Soon they were racing towards the growing tree line, weaving between the great coolibah gums and brigalow trees dominating the approach to the creek. As the denseness of the woody plants increased, Hamish found himself forced to slow and he picked his way carefully across fallen timber and ground made uneven by previous floods and the burrowing of rabbits.

He found Luke by his campfire, squatting like a black in the dirt. Some feet away was a reasonably solid lean-to plastered with dry mud. Luke stood as he dismounted, pulled his hat low over his forehead even though the sun was yet to breach the creek. Hamish swatted at the morning flies, noting the empty mussel shells piled to one side of the fire. One of the blacks had brought him breakfast.

‘It would be helpful to tell someone of your whereabouts,’ Hamish began, standing on the opposite side of the fire, his hands clasped behind his back.

Luke slurped at his freshly brewed tea, saying nothing. Hamish walked down to the edge of the creek.

‘I’ve decided to send Angus away to boarding school: The Kings School in Parramatta.’ Hamish brushed at the flies. There was rain coming for the air was humid. ‘I agreed with your grandmother for your sake,’ Hamish began, recalling parts of the conversation he’d faintly overheard from the sanctity of his study. He wouldn’t stand to have his plans ruined through petulance.

‘And how does being deprived of my inheritance benefit me?’

The brown water of the creek moved sluggishly onwards. Leaves and small twigs sailed past, caught on a deceptive current. ‘A shopkeeper’s life is not something you would take to, lad.’ Having a conversation with Luke had always been akin to having a tooth pulled.

Luke threw the remains of his tea in the fire. ‘Well that’s something you have ensured I’ll not know.’ He picked tea leaves from his tongue, searched for his tobacco in the pockets of his trousers.

Hamish walked back towards him. ‘Look at you. You can’t even spend a night inside Wangallon Homestead. Not for you the constraints of a ceiling and walls. I understand that, Luke, although occasionally it would not hurt you to sleep in your room, dine with me on a more regular basis. Wangallon is your home after all, and as a Gordon you have a name and position to do credit to.’

Luke was rolling tobacco in the palm of his hand. ‘It’s never been my home. First it was yours. In the future it will belong to Angus. Surely I was entitled to something for myself.’

Fairness was not something Hamish had considered. ‘We’re landowners. You have Wangallon.’ The boy never loved Wangallon the way he should have. It was as if some strange process of osmosis occurred, transferring all the bitterness and melancholy of his mother into Luke’s own veins so that it flowed unbridled through his body. Hamish watched as his eldest struck a match, lighting his cigarette. ‘It was your grandmother’s decision.’ Hamish was drawing tired of the subject. ‘The drive will have to be bought forward. I’ve business with the Crawfords that must be taken care of. Inform the men accordingly. Tonight you and I will be riding out for the big river. We leave at dusk so you best break camp and move back to the homestead. We could be away for a number of nights so I’ll leave the provisioning to you.’

Luke considered the man before him. He was tall, a bearish, barrel-chested man yet it was his imposing stare, a thousand yard stare, that made most men acquiesce to his demands. ‘I’ll not be accompanying you, Father.’

‘This is not a subject for discussion, Luke,’ Hamish answered sourly.

‘I agree,’ Luke dragged on his cigarette, then poked the stub of it in the dirt. ‘It’s not.’

‘The business with Crawford –’

‘Is your business. You seem to disregard my affairs so I’m reckoning it’s time I repaid the favour.’

‘The cattle need to be moved at the end of the week. On the wan of the full moon.’

‘Look about you,’ Luke countered. ‘There’s been little rain, the grasses are drying, already the soil floats away on the breeze. To leave a month early could find the cattle starving on the route. We will be early for any rains further south.’

‘The steers must be out of this country by week’s end otherwise a calamity will be upon us. Besides which, they are already being mustered up.’

‘So I’m figuring you have some plan of ill that makes you push this decision.’

‘They are my cattle and you work for me,’ Hamish said angrily.

So there it was. One was expected to stay and work for the ongoing benefit of both the Gordons and Wangallon, even though he himself was considered no better than the other stockmen on the property. ‘Then I quit.’ The words came out so suddenly that Luke was momentarily stunned by his own audacity. Both men glared at each other. Luke wondered only briefly at the repercussions of his statement. What did it matter? He’d decided not to return from this drive. He looked up at his father, at the man that was like a foreign country to him. He admired him for what he’d accomplished during his life, however he never truly felt like his son, knew that he was unsure, still, if he even wanted to be Hamish Gordon’s son for the man threw a long shadow and, so far, Luke had been unable to crawl free of it.

‘So be it,’ Hamish finally responded. ‘I would never stand in the way of a man burdened by stupidity.’ Hamish mounted his horse. ‘I don’t expect to see you again.’William Crawford found his father at the dining table, a lone figure at the end of the gleaming hardwood that could comfortably seat twenty. He sat rather stiffly amid a selection of tureens arranged within ease of reach, although the food on his plate remained untouched and the crystal brandy decanter showed he had displayed a healthy interest. Billy, his page, although the eight-year-old was indeed of Aboriginal stock, waited patiently behind him dressed in the manor of an English estate domestic: breeches, waistcoat and jacket with the obligatory white stockings. The boy only needed a hand-held rattan fan to transport William back to the tropics.

‘Ah, my boy. You’re back. Good, good. Just in time for the evening meal although you missed a fine apple strudel at dinner today. Yes, a fine strudel.’

William took his place on his father’s left, poured a generous glass of French brandy and took a more than gentlemanly sip. Mr Hamish Gordon’s visiting card in the form of a garish purple and yellow bruise still graced his father’s left eye and cheek, and had clearly affected the grinding mechanisms of his jaw for it was a number of days since Gordon’s impudent visit and his father appeared to have lost some weight.

‘This weather, really, Father, I don’t know how you stand it,’ William announced, taking another sip of brandy and wincing at the warmth. He had friends in both Sydney and Melbourne who benefited from those new fangled ice chests and cellars that enjoyed the bedrock virtues of a cool environment. Here he was sitting among candle-flaming candelabras, the heavy gold damask curtains obliterating any hint of air.

‘The soup is excellent, cabbage, Mrs Dean informs me, with a hint of preserved orange.’

Billy ladled soup, offered William a finely rolled bun.

Oscar waited for his son to begin an oratory of the property. Having spent a number of days in the saddle, each trip longer than the one before, detail was expected. The exercise assisted with the return of his son’s usual placid character, a marked feature of the youth that had been missing since Hamish Gordon’s uninvited visit.

‘The soup is rather good,’ William admitted, finishing off the bowl and taking another sip of brandy. ‘Are you still intent on pursuing your scheme?’ he asked as Billy served a large slice of potato and mutton pie.

‘Ah, so you have been ruminating on our discussions. Yes, my boy. You forget we were here before that Scottish brigand weaselled his way onto Wangallon. I know his type: ruthless and unforgiving; a seeker of revenge in the truest sense.’

William stretched his torso, readying his appetite for the next course. The house boy was lighting candles about the room and opening curtains with the disappearing sun. William stuck his fork into the pie. He couldn’t doubt the flaky texture of the pastry, however the mutton was a little tough and the salt, well, it would drive a man to drink water until he was fit to burst. ‘Exactly my point. We’re not quite of that stock, Father, and …’

Oscar burped loudly and waved his linen napkin for silence. There really was no excuse for this type of rendering of one’s opinion, not after the master of the household, and he might add the veritable brains behind their fortune, was decided on a course of action. ‘William, I have discussed the situation in detail with Peters and Tremayne. Tremayne you will recall is a tracker of some repute.’

‘Sounds rather African native to me.’ William waited for Billy to clear his partially eaten meal before custard was served. ‘You’re sure he will come?’

‘You may depend on it. Wetherly assures me of his plan. We don’t have all the details, of course, however we know he intends to strike during the full moon. And tonight the moon will be at its brightest.’

William licked pastry from his upper lip. ‘Wetherly can be trusted?’

Oscar gulped down more brandy. ‘The man is indebted to me. His liaison with Mrs Constable rendered him unemployable until I offered him the position of stud master. I believe his loyalty was proved upon informing me of Gordon’s counteroffer. I must say I find the machinations of life quite enthralling. Imagine Gordon having the audacity to offer Wetherly a position. Wetherly knows what side his bread is buttered on.’

William turned up his nose at the bowl of pale custard. ‘A common term, Father.’

‘For common people,’ Oscar reminded his son. ‘Hamish Gordon is not a man for paltry paperwork. He will come over the river with retribution in mind and we will be waiting, with a magistrate on hand, to witness his criminal intent.’

William doubted the plan would go quite so smoothly. Hamish Gordon, ignorant Scot he may be, was not stupid. In fact it seemed ludicrous to believe that Gordon would actually try to thieve their stock.

Oscar waved his stained linen napkin. ‘I know, my lad, what you are thinking; however, we have but forty or so stray cows belonging to that brigand and they have been moved well away from suspicious eyes.’

This snippet of information sat poorly with William. Still, if his father was correct and Hamish Gordon could be made an example of, they could perhaps purchase Wangallon. The heir, after all, was under ten years of age and the eldest was beyond the mantle of managing Wangallon. He was a drover of some repute but with little business acumen. ‘Very well. Certainly our plantations abroad have done very well this year, Father. The coffee trade is booming. We have, I believe, the necessary funds to purchase Wangallon.’

Oscar sucked at the spoonful of custard before waving a ruffled shirt sleeve for more brandy. Once his glass was filled and the child domestic had been sent from the room to refill the decanter, he tapped the arms of the hardwood chair. ‘My boy, I’m not thinking of buying Wangallon.’

William found his spoon suspended midway to his mouth. ‘What, but I thought that was what we had decided on.’

Oscar dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his linen napkin. Slowly his pale features slid into a smile. ‘I said that I wanted Wangallon. I didn’t say I wanted to pay for it.’

‘But how then?’ William stammered. He was a man of the law and should his father insist on some form of underhand deal, it would make them of no better elk than Hamish Gordon.

‘Do you not see, William? Once Hamish Gordon is incarcerated and the law has dealt with him in the appropriate manner, his wife will eventually consider remarrying. Believe me, Claire Gordon is no fool. She is still relatively young and –’

William looked askance. ‘You cannot be suggesting me? The woman is positively old.’

‘Making you most attractive to her, besides Claire Gordon is most becoming. She is markedly younger than her current husband and youthful in appearance. And, my lad, taking this woman as your wife does not preclude you from the company of younger, more attractive, shall we say, more vigorous women.’

William nodded thoughtfully. He was beginning to understand how his father had managed to amass such a fortune. It had everything to do with tenacity and planning and very little to do with luck.Sarah opened the cedar wardrobe in her grandfather’s room. She was sure she recalled seeing a chest inside but blankets and plastic-wrapped woollen jumpers filled the bottom portion while suits, tweed jackets and shirts hung above. She pushed her hand between the squishy softness, smelling naphthalene and stale air and the faintest whiff of mice. She would need to set some traps to stop them from nesting among Angus’s belongings. Again she pushed her hand in, this time managing to dislodge a storey-high pile of blankets. They tumbled outwards onto the carpeted floor and there, just to the left, was the glimmer of metal. Sarah stacked armfuls of folded articles to one side until finally the dented chest was revealed. She pulled it forward from the recesses of the cupboard. It landed with a dull thud on the bedroom floor, a tarnished padlock rattling with the movement. In the cupboard she found a sturdy metal shoehorn and, wedging the end in the padlock, she twisted the horn back and forth. The old lock snapped easily.

Sarah squatted down in front of the chest. She didn’t know exactly what she expected to discover, except that there now seemed to be three issues at stake: Jim’s inheritance and Anthony’s development plan, which in turn appeared to have raised questions about the Gordons’ past. The lid gave a squeak of complaint and then the overhead light illuminated a piece of folded red cloth. A musky scent pervaded the room; a hint of tobacco wafted about her. Sarah lifted the cloth tentatively, wondering whose hand had last reached for the contents and under what circumstances.

There they were. The historic ledgers her grandfather talked about: All the station ledgers since the settlement of Wangallon. Sarah carefully lifted one out. It was cloth-bound, dated 1907. She carefully turned the creamy pages. A tight hand had recorded the minute happenings of station life: dates and stock movements, weather conditions and acquisitions, supplies and sales. There were detailed lists of canvas sacks of flour and potatoes, condensed milk, cod-liver oil and beechams pills, tobacco and wooden pipes, nails, cast iron buckets, bridles and saddles, bolts of material and sewing thread. This was the year of West Wangallon’s purchase and the conditions of sale, acreage and purchase price were all noted down. There was also a hand-drawn map of the property on one of the ledgers’ pages and a carefully folded copy of the deeds. Searching through the remaining books, Sarah found each one meticulously filled out. This was going to be relatively easy, she decided, selecting the ledger dated 1909, the year Boxer’s Plains was purchased. Sarah merely needed to know who Hamish purchased the block from and then she would have a starting point for further investigations. She ran her fingers through the entries and was stunned to find that after late January the rest of the ledger was blank. There was no reference to Boxer’s Plains, no details of stock movements, not even acquisition lists of station supplies. She sat with her legs tucked under her, double-checking the ledger contents. The only points of interest were the dates noted for full moons in December and January 1909 and a remark about missing cattle thought to be on Crawford Corner.

‘That’s just weird.’

At the bottom of the chest were numerous letters tied with ribbon. Sarah flicked through them, discovering that many of them were either to or from Hamish Gordon’s solicitor, the firm Shaw-Michaels. She sat back heavily on the floor. The Gordons had been dealing with the same firm for over one hundred years – no wonder Frank Michaels was so involved. With renewed interest she skimmed some of the letters. There were instructions regarding a will belonging to Lorna Sutton of Ridge Gully. Apparently the entire estate was to be left to a woman named Elizabeth. Sarah had never heard of her. There were also wool shipment information and proceeds, bills of sale and purchase orders for supplies including a new dray and a number of horses. But there was no deed for Boxer’s Plains. Right at the bottom of the chest was a gold fob watch, a knotted dirty grey handkerchief, which appeared to have dirt in it, and a mourning card. Sarah opened the card and instantly found herself staring into the craggy face of her great-grandfather. The black and white photograph showed him as an older man although his eyes were alert, almost defiant. Beneath the picture was his name and a line from Psalm 27.

‘The Lord is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear.’

The hairs stuck up on the back of Sarah’s neck as she turned the card over. On the reverse was a grainy photograph of a woman aged somewhere in her thirties or forties. How bizarre, Sarah thought, she looks a bit like me. Lifting the small photograph with the corner of her fingernail, she peeled it from the cardboard backing. A name was visible: Elizabeth.

‘Elizabeth.’ Presumably the Elizabeth willed Mrs Sutton’s estate, Sarah decided, as she repacked everything in the tin chest except for the fob watch, and shoved the trunk back into the corner of the wardrobe. This wasn’t getting her anywhere and with a return trip to Sydney looming, there were other things to concentrate on, like Anthony.

Sarah returned to her empty room. Anthony had not returned during the night and now as dawn clambered over the horizon she looked at the ruby engagement ring on the bedside table. It spoke so much of hope and the future, both Wangallon’s and hers, so why couldn’t she just put the damn thing on forever and say I do? Dressing warmly in a beige skivvy, matching jumper and jeans, Sarah swept the fob watch from the dresser. She flicked the small latch on the side and the cover sprung open to reveal the watch face. On the inside of the lid were inscribed the initials HG. Sarah touched the engraving, shut the lid and found herself looking over her shoulder. Don’t be silly, she chided herself as a shiver ran down her spine. She slid the watch and chain into the pocket of her jeans.

She needed to get outside for a few hours before readying to meet the Sydney plane and she needed to see Anthony. If they didn’t try to patch things up soon, there would be an awfully large hole to jump. She needed to hold out the olive branch while ensuring the development ceased. No matter what else may have occurred, Frank Michaels was right. Wangallon didn’t need any bad press. Not if they went to court. The question was, should they go to court or should she take everyone’s advice and just accept the inevitable.

A light fog clung to the waking day. Trees were blurred by the chilly whiteness of the air. Bullet was by Sarah’s side immediately, yawning, stretching and rubbing his head against her calf muscle. ‘Where’s Ferret?’ Bullet flicked his head towards the tank stand. Ferret was begrudgingly dragging himself upwards. ‘Come on then.’ Sarah tapped the dog’s water bowl with a stick, cracking the thin layer of ice on top, then with the two dogs in tow, they walked across ground hard with cold. Sarah listened as the rising wind carried the sounds of sheep crying across the paddocks, calling for their early born lambs. Elsewhere the bellowing of a bull reverberated across the rustle of grasses as the moist scent of the earth mingled with whiffs of herbage: some grown brittle by cold, others gathering in intensity as they awakened to a new day.

The Landcruisers were parked in the machinery shed and Sarah headed there. She thought she’d catch up with the musterers before they dispersed across Boxer’s Plains. Maybe see Matt and say hi to Pancake. She was doing her best not to think about Toby. She certainly didn’t expect to see Anthony with his head under the bonnet of the mobile work truck when she walked around the corner of the shed.

‘We really need to talk,’ she said.

He’d not heard her approaching and bashed his head on the hood. ‘Bugger it.’ He rubbed his head viciously. ‘When are you off?’

‘Lunchtime.’

‘What are you going to do?’

She shrugged her shoulders. Swallowing her pride she walked towards him, wrapped her arms about his body. ‘I thought we could talk about it.’ He smelled of oil and grease and the reassuring aroma of the man in her life. She kept her arms wrapped around him, willing him to hug her back. His arms hung by his sides. Sarah persevered, nestling her cheek against the raspy cold of his heavy work jacket. You have to give in, she pleaded silently. There has to be a bridging between us. She snuggled closer until her nose pressed hard against his neck. It was then he relented, with the touch of skin against skin. His arms lifted to encircle her and then his mouth touched hers. Sarah wriggled with delight at his touch. His hands pressed firm on her waist, he drew her to him roughly, bent her head almost fiercely and kissed her. She could sense the wanting between them. It hung in the air. They’d been too long apart, too long arguing. They needed to go back to the house and rid themselves of their need. Sarah’s fingers plucked at his shirt tail, her forefinger touched flesh … and then Anthony was physically removing her hands from his body.

Sarah found herself two steps away from him, cold air encircling her, the burn of embarrassment and disappointment flooding her cheeks. They looked at each other for a long moment, and then Anthony turned away. She stood there feeling stupid, wondering what she should do next. ‘Anthony?’

He slammed the bonnet down on the work truck, wiped his hands on a filthy rag.

‘Anthony, I need you.’

Leaning through the window on the driver’s side, Anthony turned the ignition, listened to the chug of the engine for a good minute and then turned it off. The stench of black exhaust fumes whirled around them in the increasing breeze. When he finally turned to look at her, there was something missing from his eyes.

‘You only need me when it suits you.’ He walked past her, got into one of the cruisers, reversed out of the shed and drove away.

Sarah waited until the last moment, sure he would stop the vehicle and come back to her. A billow of dust shadowed his departure. Moments later Bullet was licking her fingers.

Toby Williams walked his horse around the corner of the shed. ‘Morning. Wondering if Ant got the old truck going? We need the welder on the back.’

Sarah wiped her cheeks with the back of her hand. ‘Yep, sounds like it’s going.’

He hesitated. ‘Are you okay?’ He fiddled with his bridle, made a show of scratching his mare between the ears.

‘Fine.’

He nodded in the direction Anthony had left. ‘You know what they call ’em in Wangallon Town? The jackeroo.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve still got a half-share in my place: a million wild acres in the territory. There’s no chip on my shoulder. Hey Pancake,’ he shouted. ‘The truck’s a goer. I’ll leave it with you.’

‘No worries,’ Pancake yelled from somewhere behind the shed.

He rode across to her. ‘Do you remember what I said to you last night?’

‘Yes.’

Toby tipped his hat, gave her a look that would stop a woman at a thousand paces and rode away.