A Changing Land

Great, Sarah thought. Just as well he was going out on the stock route. He cantered off, leaving Sarah to wonder how much of the scene between her and Anthony he’d witnessed. She figured their lovers’ tiff would make good campfire talk on the route tonight, except that it was a great deal more than a tiff.

‘Come on fellas.’ Bullet jumped into the back of the cruiser and Sarah lifted Ferret up to join him. ‘Time for a drive.’At the sheltered clearing waking birds tweeted, fluffed and preened themselves against a background of leaves rustling in the wind. Sarah opened the latch on the wooden gate and Bullet brushed past her legs into the cemetery, bush quails fluttering upwards in fright at their sudden disturbance. The clearing, silvery with the remnants of the frost, appeared to shiver with morning energy. Sarah stared at the headstones. The ageing monuments appeared to guard each other. There was a sense of sadness here, it was true; however, more often it was hope that seemed to hover in this special place. Above her, through the canopy of trees the sky brightened with the rising of the sun. They were all here. All of those who had come before her: three generations of Gordons both known and unknown to her. Overhead, a flutter of wings accompanied the mournful call of an owl. The frogmouth left the tall gum tree to soar above her, its wings increasing in beat until the owl swooped, gliding through the tightly packed leaves that wept the scent of eucalyptus. It landed lightly, its claws grappling the headstone of her great-grandfather Hamish Gordon.

She studied the stonemason’s handiwork, the height and depth of the H and G. There was no date of death noted on the gravestone, only a date of birth with a hyphen beside it, as if he was destined for immortality. Sarah squatted amid the grasses. There were too many issues in her head; too many problems that needed to be sorted and then addressed in order of importance. Her thoughts returned to Anthony. She loved Anthony yet he’d been unsupportive and inconsiderate and seemed now to be beyond discussing anything with her. She needed someone who would live with, care for and work beside her; not a man who became emotionally challenged and stubborn when his management was questioned. She was the Gordon after all. Anthony needed to understand and respect that. If he couldn’t there was no future for them as a couple. Sarah twisted off a blade of grass and chewed on the pale green sweetness of it. Maybe he wasn’t meant to be a part of her future. Maybe he had come into her life for a reason and now the time had come for him to leave. She wasn’t the grief-stricken teenager or the ignored daughter anymore. She had grown up, was learning to live without the solid presence of her grandfather, had let go of her unstable mother and was capable and prepared to lead Wangallon into the future.

Sarah blew on her chilled fingers. There was little point compartmentalising everything; only one issue could be addressed at a time and the most pressing was the threat that Jim Macken posed. What was she to do? Sell part of Wangallon or fight to retain it all? Her hand reached automatically into the depths of her pocket to touch the ancient fob watch. ‘What would you do Great-grandfather?’ But of course there had only ever been one answer. It came before love and joy and companionship, for without it none of the former could exist. She loved Wangallon more than anything else in the world and she would fight to not only retain it, but control it – her forefathers wouldn’t expect anything less. She was the custodian of Wangallon now. The choice was clear. Sarah whistled to Bullet and he ran through the frosty grasses like a canine movie star from a dog food commercial.

‘Cute.’

Bullet gave a showman’s yawn, stretching out his front legs. Together they walked back to the cruiser where Ferret was waiting. Once behind the wheel, Sarah gritted her teeth and accelerated – it was time to return to Sydney. She would call Frank before her departure and let him know of her decision.Frank placed the telephone down on his desk and looked at the large oil painting covering the wall safe. It was a particularly good work by an early Australian artist and was similar in style to Frederick McCubbin, in that the work showed a softer, more lyrical style. It was a gift to his grandfather for services rendered on behalf of Hamish Gordon with regards to one Lorna Sutton, Sarah’s great-grandfather’s first wife’s mother. The painting was a river scene, all blue-greens, stately trees and tranquillity. Such an illusion, Frank decided, as he pushed the intercom button. ‘Rhonda, can you call and confirm the meeting with Tony Woodbridge and his client, Jim Macken, for eight-thirty in the morning?’

Instead of Rhonda’s efficient voice travelling back to him, she was standing in person in his office within moments, the door closed firmly behind her. The problem with sixty-year-old immaculately groomed personal assistants that had been with an employer for over thirty years, Frank mused, was that one invariably slept with them.

‘Sarah Gordon is prepared to fight?’ she asked rather too enthusiastically, twisting the long strand of opera-length pearls that had been his gift to her last Christmas.

‘Yes, unfortunately,’ he said dourly, momentarily regretting their pillow talk, although he knew she would take everything to the grave. ‘It is to be expected. Genetics will out.’ He was glad to be retiring at the end of the year. ‘Clear my appointments in the morning will you, until eleven. I think I’m going to need some time.’

‘And her chances?’ Rhonda asked.

‘She will lose.’ Frank looked once again at the magnificent oil as Rhonda discreetly left the room. In a yellowing folio within the safe hidden behind the painting lay Luke Gordon’s hastily written letter from 1909. One needed to have the eyesight of a ten-year-old to read most of the scribble, however Frank’s own grandfather had managed to decipher most of the missive and it didn’t make for pleasant reading. Frank poured himself a whisky from the decanter in his cabinet and took a restorative sip. He would be the last Michaels to work here at what was once his family’s business. His son, a sixth-generation Michaels, was a surgeon and his daughters had married and were living abroad.

Still, one only had their reputation in life and although his family was to soon cease association with the firm, damage was still possible to his family’s name and the company. The safe needed to be cleared out.

Removing the picture, Frank sat it carefully on the floor. The work was redolent of the mythology of the Australian way of life, an artistic style that surfaced in Australia in the late 1880s leading up to Federation in 1901. The painting spoke of a life bound to the pioneer, pastoralist and explorer, all of which were displayed almost heroically on canvas. Frank turned the dial four times until a click sounded.

The safe door popped open. Reaching inside he removed the Gordon family Bible. Inside the tooled leather cover was Luke’s letter. It was an incredible slice of history. An account of how business was done by driven, determined men at the turn of the century. In a leather folio beneath the Bible were the directives given by his grandfather on behalf of the Gordons. It amounted to being an accessory to … He wasn’t even going to think the word; besides, every man eventually got his dues.

Taking another sip of whisky, Frank placed the Bible on his desk and, removing a single document for safekeeping, tipped the remaining ones into his wastepaper bin and lit the pile. ‘Must be my convict blood,’ he muttered grimly. He was sorry for Sarah, he guessed she had a right to know the truth, and he would tell her one day, however there were enough details burning in his wastepaper bin to fill a newspaper for a year and those media types loved a story with blood. What did they say? If it bleeds, it leads. Frank sipped at his whisky as the pile burnt out. That was it. There was no other evidence. Only what he knew and one day he too would be ash.Claire sipped at tea diluted with a little sweetened condensed milk. Although only late afternoon, she’d already consumed two discreet glasses of French brandy and managed a plate of boiled eggs. The effect was one of immediate stupefaction, which, considering the morning’s events, was a pleasant result. Her brain remained muddled from overtiredness and her limbs sagged with exhaustion, but she would survive. Scrunching an embroidered handkerchief between her fingers, she sent a wish of love to the slip of life so recently departed.

Claire leant her head on the arm of the couch and stared numbly at the piano and her portrait above. There were decisions that needed to be made; clothes to pack, a booking on the Cobb & Co coach and bloodied clothes to burn. Instead her mind reflected on the still clearing at the bend in the creek. Amid the drift of shadows and sunlight, a row of stone slabs marked the sleeping places of Rose’s children and her own. You will have to walk away from that place, she admonished, no good can come of remembrance. A dull ache eased its way back into her heart.

When Mrs Stackland announced Wetherly, Claire was dozing. She rose unsteadily from the couch, brushing at the creases in her brown skirt, dismissing her light-headedness and assuring the housekeeper of her wellbeing. Claire wished to see Wetherly. With all that had recently transpired, she desperately required a distraction and although she barely knew the man he was most definitely that. Ensuring her balance was equal to the task of walking, Claire straightened her shoulders and tucked the wisps of hair mussed by her sleeping. She patted at her cheeks in the hope of restoring a brief glow. He’d stood in this very room with the type of intention aflame in his eyes that made women swoon. Swooning wasn’t in Claire’s nature although nor was she immune to such blatant signs of manly interest.

Despite her tiredness, the late afternoon captivated Claire. Light streamed through the bougainvillea hedge, its rays sweeping across the drowsy garden showering butterflies, birds and two mischievous rabbits with light. She walked directly towards Wetherly, sitting quickly in one of the wicker chairs, not quite trusting her strength.

‘Good afternoon, Mrs Gordon. I trust I find you in good health.’

Claire noticed his usually immaculate attire was dusty. His shirt tail was untucked beneath his waistcoat and his eyes were shadowed with tiredness. Were it not for the fact that he only resided some half mile from the homestead proper, she would have believed he’d been travelling for some days. ‘Mr Wetherly, you look quite out of sorts.’

‘While you are as fresh as dew.’

Claire’s cheeks coloured with the compliment despite knowing she must look ghastly.

‘I was hoping to find Mr Gordon. I was left a note last night and it appears he wishes me to take charge of the cattle for the route. However I’ve no experience in that regard.’

What of Luke, Claire wondered. ‘Mr Wetherly, if my husband trusts you to attend to this task, then clearly that is his preference.’ She gestured for him to sit but he placed his hat on the wicker table, clearly distracted.

‘If you could tell me where he is I would talk to him about the matter.’

‘I’m sorry, Mr Wetherly –’

‘Do you know where he is or not, Claire?’

Claire took a breath in anger. ‘I’ll ask you not to address me in that tone.’

Wetherly hesitated, took a couple of steps towards her and then smiled. ‘I apologise. It is important I speak to him and I would be grateful if you could tell me where he is.’

Claire felt her body begin to ebb with tiredness, she began to feel ill. ‘I cannot help you, Mr Wetherly.’

‘Jacob,’ he corrected her. ‘Call me Jacob.’ Kneeling, he took her hand. ‘If we are alone …’ His thumb circled her palm. ‘I find I cannot remain in my current position.’

He was so close, flecks of dust were obvious in his moustache. He grasped her hand more firmly. ‘I have already made a fool of myself in affairs of the heart. I cannot do it again.’

Claire pulled her hand free. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Oh I know I should not ask such a thing. It’s just after our talk in the garden the other night, I felt, I thought, that you were unhappy. Am I wrong?’

Claire gave a little shake of her head. Horribly, a gasp of sadness escaped her.

He took her hand again, squeezed her fingers. ‘Then in your drawing room there was this utter moment of complete surrender between us.’ He paused. ‘Am I wrong in my imagining?’

‘I think you have mistaken …’

‘It is strange is it not? We’ve only been alone three times and yet when I saw you at the picnic with that dreadful Mrs Webb and her poorly conceived daughters –’

Once again Claire freed herself of his grasp, ‘You mustn’t say such things.’

He leant towards her slowly, his fingers tracing the fineness of her cheek, slipping to touch her lips. ‘If I asked you to follow me, to join me in Sydney, would you leave?’ He parted her lips gently and placed his mouth over hers.

Claire pushed at his shoulders, it was a weary attempt. His was a gentle kiss, a slow languorous embrace, then he was breaking from her as slowly as he’d begun.

Claire took a long shuddering breath. ‘You should not have done such a thing.’

‘There will come a time when I send for you,’ he continued on, oblivious to her annoyance.

‘You have taken advantage of me Sir,’ Claire remonstrated. The eggs and brandy were curdling together nastily in her stomach.

‘It will be soon. I have debts to repay and then we shall be together. My older brother has died of consumption – the estate is now mine. I would sail late February if you were willing?’

‘England?’ Claire could scarcely believe what he was telling her. She leant back in the wicker chair. His hands covered hers possessively. She shook him free.

‘Yes. I could make a fine life for us both.’ He glanced away in a moment of reflection. ‘I have not done as well as my family hoped here in the new world, Claire. I have not always been true in my life course.’ He looked at her. ‘However I believe I have found it now.’

Claire moved away from him. She felt she could be ill at any moment. ‘If I have given you cause to think –’

From his pocket Wetherly took a gold signet ring. ‘I have money coming to me soon for services rendered.’ The bloodstone centre was set with a horse rampant. He placed it in her palm, folding her fingers over it. ‘Here, take this as a keepsake.’

‘Wetherly, I can’t possibly –’

He wrapped her hands around the ring. ‘When King Edward VII granted New South Wales a coat of arms in 1906 I took no interest in it. Now I understand the importance of the motto: Newly risen how bright thou shinest. You are my evening star, Claire, and you will guide me home.’ He kissed her hand. ‘You do not need love initially to be happy. It will grow. Think about what I offer you. I will send word very soon.’

Claire glanced at the ring as Wetherly mounted his horse.

‘And you know not where your husband is?’

Claire shook her head, stunned by Wetherly’s audacity. He spurred his horse and rode down the gravel path, breaking into a canter.An osprey-feathered hairpiece entwined with seed pearls sat in the partially packed trunk. Claire ran her finger along the finely stitched length of pearls, recalling her presentation at Government House in Sydney years earlier. Having arrived by carriage fashionably late, Hamish and she were announced to the assembled throng with the maximum of attention. Her black hair, dressed by a maid recommended by Mrs Crawford, contrasted superbly with the pale blue satin of her gown; an effect noticed and remarked upon via a series of polite nods and indiscreet whispering behind ostrich-plumed fans. Their walk to the farther end of the ballroom was the longest and most important promenade of Claire’s life.

When the musicians resumed their places and the violinists, pianist and harpist filled the room with their lilting melody, Hamish took her in his arms. He encircled her slight waist, she rested her gloved hand in his and they stepped out in time to the strains of a waltz. There was a blur of magnificent oil paintings and the rich fabrics draping the windows, a rainbow splatter of gowned women and her Hamish, tall and imposing. Light on his feet, with a steady grip that at times caused her toes to barely touch the floor, theirs was a heady evening. They twirled until breathlessness made her plead for rest, then when they retired for supper Hamish’s moustachioed lips touched the pale skin of her neck. That night Claire understood what it was to be admired, what it meant to be loved. Four years later Angus was born. Long after supper, with many of the guests retired for the evening, Claire played a little Chopin on the perfectly tuned piano to a select gathering of the wealthy and the titled. It had certainly been the high point of her life.

In retrospect it was a shallow thing to lay claim to in middle age, but perhaps her time in the spotlight would assist her re-entry into Sydney society. Of course Mrs Crawford would undoubtedly prove both loyal and formidable in her support and would assist with recommendations as to household staff and a woman of standing to be her companion.

Claire reread her letter to Mrs Crawford and sealed it. Once she’d begun the correspondence she’d found it a remarkably easy thing to gild her less-than-happy ostracism from Wangallon. Residing in Sydney while her only son attended school at Parramatta was a worthy excuse, one that would have little bearing on her marital conundrum. If it were not for her frequent headaches and her predilection for conversations with herself, Claire would have considered herself to be handling her recent stresses quite well; in fact she was not. After her interview with Wetherly she could barely hold a glass of water for fear of the contents shaking to the floor. She examined the bloodstone ring where it sat near the inkwell and pondered over their few conversations. Claire was certain she’d done nothing to give him any hope of an attachment forming between them. She picked up the ring, slipped it on her finger. Jacob Wetherly offered the sort of escape she’d only dreamt about; a younger man with an English estate.

Claire angrily swiped the letter, inkwell and ring to the floor. Her father once advised that all problems were containable if superior advice could be sought. Well he’d failed to explain that some problems could not be rectified, they could only be endured. Claire clutched at the writing desk. There was a terrible pining within her; it bashed at her insides like a mad woman and wept like a willow dying for love of water. Despite what she knew, despite everything that had occurred, events were beyond her.

Closing the lid on the trunk, Claire secured the leather strapping and sat on it, exhausted. Through her bedroom window the garden was illuminated by moonlight; it silhouetted trees and shrubs, an ageing trellis with trailing beans and two rabbits frolicking under a clear summer night. Claire knelt by the window, resting her arms along the polished cedar of the ledge. A moth was bashing itself repeatedly against the gauze in an effort to reach the kerosene lamp sitting on her desk. She admired the insect’s persistence while pitying the fruitlessness of its mission. It was a familiar theme.

Claire thought of her years on the property, of the great wool shipments that had departed the Wangallon woolshed, first by camel train and then by bullock teams. How many baby lambs were born for the clothing of mankind? How many cattle driven south to market? Notwithstanding the hard seasons and loneliness and distance, Wangallon had been her home for a great many years. The property had given her shelter, provided food, clothes and comfort. It was hard to leave her.

Outside the moon shone down the length of the gravel driveway. It was a splendid sight, as if a ribbon of light was waiting to spirit her away to a new life, one without hurt or loneliness. Yet despite what could await her, despite the glorious uncertainty of adventure, Claire couldn’t do it. She knew she couldn’t walk away and she refused to be tossed aside. She was a Gordon and she loved this land as if it were her own. She loved it for one reason only: Wangallon had been founded by her husband and despite her girlish fancies, despite the ruthless heart of this man who controlled her life, Claire would not leave him, could not leave him. She adored him and the love she felt for him was beyond right or wrong, it was beyond her control.Sarah sat in one of three chocolate-brown armchairs in Frank Michaels’ waiting room. Arriving twenty minutes early for the meeting with Jim Macken had done little to quell her nerves and she fought the urge to bite an already ragged thumbnail. Through the wide glass window a glimmer of colour began to spread itself across the city, slowly diffusing the monotone office building street scene from white to a musty grey. It was a rather washed-out morning sky, similar to the exhaustion edging through Sarah after a sleepless night in a strange bed. Every time sleep chanced to claim her, Anthony’s face appeared, disintegrating any thought of rest. Sarah replayed yesterday morning repeatedly until she had calculated the length of their brief embrace and Anthony’s forceful breaking of it. She felt queasy and her head ached from what Shelley termed a relationship event post-mortem. She rubbed at the fine skin around her eyes and looked again at her watch. It was one thing to be fighting to retain Wangallon, quite another to have to physically leave it to save her.

When Jim Macken and his solicitor finally arrived they all sat quietly at the conference table as Frank offered coffee and his secretary placed a jug of water and four glasses in the centre of the table. There were lined notepads and brand new pencils before each person while Frank had a thick manila folder at his place. Sarah noted with dismay Jim’s swollen jaw with its yellow slash of a bruise and a thin line of purple beneath his left eye. The injury appeared recent, as was Anthony’s. Tony Woodbridge caught Sarah’s eye and smiled.

Within minutes an argument over Jim’s overt demand for a share of the contents of Wangallon Homestead caused Sarah to slam her fist on the table in annoyance.

‘I thought if we all met in neutral surroundings we may well be able to come to some sort of amicable agreement,’ Frank Michaels said. ‘Let us agree first off that there will be no claim to the contents of Wangallon Homestead.’

Tony Woodbridge had a poor way of showing his displeasure. He rubbed the dark-haired back of his hand with his stubby nails, the action making a rasping noise, and then ruffled the hair above his ear, a shower of dandruff falling on his charcoal-grey suit. ‘My client doesn’t need to hear this preamble. We have a legal case here, Mr Michaels.’

‘Quite. However, so does Ms Gordon should she decide to contest her grandfather’s will.’

‘Contest the will?’ Jim said, his anger rising. ‘She can’t do that, can she?’ His head swivelled from his solicitor back across the blond expanse of wood to Frank.

Frank continued. ‘If Ms Gordon decides to contest there is every possibility that your client may well lose and he would then be required to pay legal costs for both parties.’

‘Is that true?’ Jim asked his lawyer. His father and their Scottish solicitor, Mr Levi, had never mentioned that any of this could happen.

Tony Woodbridge spoke placatingly. ‘Such occasions do occur, however I believe you have a very strong case.’

‘A strong case,’ Jim repeated. ‘In Scotland it sounded like a done deal.’ He listened as Frank Michaels listed all the factual reasons that could be presented on Sarah’s behalf in a court of law. Apparently Sarah could contest based on the length of time she lived on Wangallon, her management of the property and her family’s longstanding attachment.

‘Of course no case is clear-cut as I’m sure Mr Woodbridge has explained,’ Frank continued more pleasantly. ‘Should we end up in court we will use any number of measures to cement our case.’

‘Such as?’ Mr Woodbridge asked.

Frank took a sip of his black coffee.

Tony read from his own pile of copious notes. ‘The use of emotive elements such as, “Sarah’s brother dying in her arms on the property, the floods and droughts the family has withstood –”’

‘Certainly those areas are of interest and of course nowhere has your client been in sight during these tumultuous times, and’ Frank twirled his blue enamel pen in his fingers, ‘the fact remains there is some concern as to your client’s actual parentage.’

‘What?’ Jim stuttered.

‘Come, come, Frank,’ Tony Woodbridge tutted. ‘This is meant to be a conciliatory discussion.’

‘Well it’s all hearsay at this point, however we would require a paternity test,’ Frank continued. ‘In fact the court would demand it.’

Sarah knew this was part of Frank’s plan. It would either delay proceedings or bluff Jim into a reduced settlement. Yet even she thought the test was a little much, after all, everyone accepted Jim as her father’s son.

‘I don’t want my mother dragged into this.’ Jim’s fist hit the table for emphasis, sloshing coffee from his cup.

Frank nodded. ‘I quite understand your protectiveness towards your mother, Jim.’

Tony Woodbridge lay a calming hand on Jim’s shoulder. ‘Paternity to my mind is not an issue,’ he looked furiously at Frank, ‘but my client is only too happy to comply. Consider it a necessary evil, Jim, one that will ensure your entitlement.’ He looked at Jim. ‘I’ll contact Mr Levi in Scotland and he can inform your mother that a blood test will be required.’

‘You are aware, Jim, that this case could go on for years? That there is the possibility, however slight, that your own family will be subjected to slander.’

Sarah kept her eyes glued on the middle of the wooden table. Frank sure knew how to bait a client.

‘Slander?’ Jim repeated.

Frank hunched his shoulders. ‘It happens.’

Tony Woodbridge scratched the back of his hand, coughed politely as if clearing his throat. ‘Let’s keep everything above board shall we?’

‘Of course,’ Frank agreed smoothly, ‘we can talk if you drop all claims to the house contents and stock.’

Jim and his solicitor conferred in whispers. Sarah crossed her fingers, strained to hear their words. Finally, Jim nodded.

Tony Woodbridge sat back in his chair. ‘My client is in agreement to drop his claim towards the contents of Wangallon Homestead and the livestock. This is a gesture of goodwill on his part for the contents are of a historic nature and therefore valuable. However my client is cognisant of the importance of these material possessions to his half-sister, Sarah. Similarly he renounces any claim to the stock. In return my client requests his inheritance as stipulated by the late Angus Gordon.’

Frank swallowed the urge to tell the pugnacious Woodbridge to go to hell. Currently he felt they had the edge. Sarah, to her credit, remained cool following her initial outburst while Jim appeared decidedly uncomfortable. Such character differences were of major importance when it came to deciding whether court was a viable option. Frank figured Jim only had fifty per cent of the fight in him that his half-sister had. Maybe the Gordon genetics weren’t that strong in the boy? Frank poured himself a glass of water and took a slow, calculated sip. ‘And if we decide to contest? How does your client feel about that? He would in the short-term no doubt prefer to return to Scotland, albeit empty-handed.’

‘You offered a payment plan.’ Jim’s voice was slow and meek.

Sarah recalled their conversation at Wangallon the night Jim flatly refused her offer and she in return had practically thrown him out of the homestead. It had been a harebrained scheme on her part. The sum needed to pay Jim out was too large. Even a payment plan would require the sale of assets.

Frank intervened. ‘Ms Gordon is not in a position to offer this.’

‘Why the hell not?’ Jim asked.

‘Then it would appear we have reached somewhat of a stalemate,’ Tony Woodbridge observed. ‘If your client has insufficient funds to fulfil the terms of her grandfather’s will, then I would ask that thirty per cent of the property known as Wangallon be advertised for sale within two weeks. Mr Macken is entitled to his inheritance and once he is in receipt of the funds he will return to Scotland. There will be no further claims on the estate once Mr Angus Gordon’s wishes are fulfilled and my client is prepared to sign documentation to that effect.’

‘No,’ Sarah said quietly. Her fingers closed around the gold fob watch in her hand.

‘Excuse me?’ Tony Woodbridge rubbed the back of his hand ferociously.

Sarah looked directly at Jim. ‘No, I’m sorry. I cannot accept that a stranger can demand a share of something he has contributed nothing to. If it’s proven that you are indeed my half-brother, Jim, and you’re that desperate for money – I assume because you’re either incapable or too lazy to earn your own – then I can probably raise a million dollars, although I’m staggered at your lack of pride and stunned by the greed of your entire family.’ Sarah paused. ‘If, on the other hand, you proceed with this trial I will spend every last dollar I have fighting you and if you lose you will have to pay my court costs as well.’ She leant forward in her chair. ‘Take more than what I offer today, Jim, and I swear I will despise you for the rest of my life and haunt you after my passing.’ Sarah clutched at the fob watch. ‘That is my promise.’ Sarah stared stonily at Woodbridge and Jim and then sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. She knew the ramifications of the ultimatum she’d delivered.

Jim opened his mouth to speak and then, thinking better of it, sat quietly. Tony Woodbridge scribbled on his legal pad.

Frank shuffled his papers. ‘There is the state of Angus Gordon’s mental faculties at the time he wrote his will. Having suffered a near death accident only weeks before it could easily be argued that his mental capacity had been somewhat diminished.’ Sarah had just edged them closer to a day in court.

‘I want the thirty per cent that belongs to me,’ Jim said flatly. ‘If our grandfather was happy enough to leave part of his beloved place to a jackeroo then I’m sure I’m entitled to my share.’

Tony Woodbridge smiled. ‘Precedent, I have always relied on such basics.’ He smiled at Sarah, cleared his throat. ‘If we go to court I would be entitled to bring to light certain facts. A prominent pastoralist you may be, Ms Gordon, however all I need do is establish the doubt in the jury’s mind that by contesting your grandfather’s will you are not being fair and reasonable in the eyes of the law. To do that I would argue that your attitude could be the result of a history of somewhat dubious activity that has occurred in your family.’

Sarah laughed. ‘What? Is this a joke?’

‘No joke, I assure you. Some of your property was purchased through dubious activities. There are links to stock theft, illegal dealings and some rather shadowy speculations regarding an acquisition in the early 1900s. Although probably hard to prove, it makes for interesting discussion.’

‘And you were there were you, Mr Woodbridge, in the 1900s?’ Sarah asked. If she were a man she would have punched him in the nose.

‘Defamation is a serious issue,’ Frank countered. ‘I doubt your client would have the funds to pursue a second court case.’ Frank looked pointedly at Jim.

‘If you could let me finish,’ Woodbridge complained, ‘any information that reflects on the character of Ms Gordon would, I imagine, be quite admissible.’

‘You are drawing a fine line,’ Frank intervened.

Woodbridge puffed out a breath of air as he collected his papers and shuffled them into a neat stack. ‘And your client’s offer is not acceptable, despite the passion with which it was delivered. We will have our day in court and we will win.’

Sarah stood, her hands clutching at the fob watch. ‘We shall see,’ she said icily.‘Oh Frank, what the hell do we do now?’ They were back in Frank’s office, sipping coffee and feeling glum. ‘And what is this crap about dubious activities Woodbridge is talking about?’

‘Forget it, Sarah. The man’s an arse of the tenth degree. He loves to send a rocket out to a feisty opposition.’ Frank looked across at the young woman with the great burden on her shoulders, wondering how it had befallen her generation to right the wrongs committed in the past. ‘It would seem we will go to court.’

Sarah thought of the sprawling acreage that had been in her family for generations and mentally mapped out the property. Every single paddock held a story, told of the lives of those that had gone before hers. There was not one part of it that wasn’t valuable in terms of productivity. Not one speck of it that wasn’t important to the past and future life of Wangallon. Sarah knew she should be considering her only other option, to sell and pay Jim out. ‘You do understand, Frank, why I have to pursue this?’

‘Think it over.’

‘I have.’

‘Go home. I’ll advise your father that he needs to have a blood test.’

‘Unless Jim comes to the party, Frank, we won’t be settling out of court.’

Hundreds of kilometres away, people not of Gordon blood were heading out to work to manage the land left in her care. It was not right, Sarah thought flatly. Her grandfather should have known better, should have done better. Everything about his life revolved around the continuation of Wangallon. Why then would he risk everything their family had built over the decades by recognising her father’s illegitimate child? It didn’t make sense.

‘It will take a while for the test results to come through. Jim won’t dally. He’ll want this finished.’ Frank sorted through his file and passed Sarah a business card. ‘Your appointment is at 3 pm at the surgery of a specialist GP.’ Frank patted Sarah’s hand. ‘I’m only buying time, Sarah. Everything we discussed today involves a lot of ifs and Woodbridge knows it. Our best bet remains with young Jim deciding not to drag out this business and to negotiate a reduced settlement.’ He escorted her from his office through the cream and chocolate furnished reception area with its vases of palm fronds and orange bird of paradise flowers. ‘Now go home to Wangallon. And here.’ He gave her a parcel wrapped securely in paper and bagged. ‘It’s the Gordon family Bible.’

‘But how?’ Sarah looked in the bag and thought of the tin chest. ‘Who gave you this?’

‘My father.’

‘Why?’

Frank pushed the button for the elevator. ‘I don’t know, Sarah. I wasn’t born at the time. All I know is that it’s been in the safe in my office for as long as I care to remember.’

‘What else do you know, Frank? I know your firm has looked after my family since the time of my great-grandfather. I’ve seen the documents. What happened on Boxer’s Plains?’

The lift door opened.

‘Nothing I’m aware of. Now, my dear, you really will have to go. I have another client.’ Frank forced a kindly smile as the elevator doors closed and, returning to his desk, closed the manila folder. He’d seen that forceful type of character before, in Angus Gordon: the determined chin, the ruthless streak that made words powerful, the overriding need to protect Wangallon. Frank was not surprised to see Jim Macken visibly flinching at Sarah’s words during their meeting. The seeding of a forceful personality was a powerful event to witness.In the elevator Sarah looked at the business card and thought of Anthony. What could she say to him? Her finger pressed the ground floor button for the third time. Damn it, how did someone so meticulous end up stuffing things up so badly and in the middle of when their livelihoods were at stake? He should be supporting her efforts to save Wangallon, not chasing his own reckless agenda. Sarah stepped out of the chrome and glass swinging door and turned into a strong head wind. What a mixed bag Wangallon’s inheritors turned out to be. Anthony inherited a share in the property due to his ability and loyalty and because Angus hoped that one day they would marry; she’d been left a share because she was a direct descendent, and Jim? Sarah shook her head, it was all too simple. She came from a line of men that demanded testicles for succession and Jim had Gordon blood. Sarah walked down the street looking for a restaurant, any restaurant. She needed a drink and a friend.Lauren spooned the rest of the rabbit stew into her mouth, scraping at the watery juices with a piece of hard bread and her finger. She couldn’t recall eating such a feed before, especially one cooked and served by her mother. She lifted the plate, licking at it appreciatively until her tongue grew numb.

‘More?’ Mrs Grant heaved the cast iron pot from the hearth to sit it on the rickety table. She stuck the ladle into the bubbling contents and stirred the overcooked rabbit. Lauren considered another spoonful but having already consumed two platefuls she glanced guiltily at her young sister and baby brother. They were sitting on the dirt floor, grinding feathery peppercorn leaves between their fingers, smelling the pungent peppery scent before throwing the crushed leaves into the air. They would be sharing one meal tonight.

‘You’re sure then? You won’t be getting a decent feed for a good day I’d imagine.’

Lauren prodded at her belly. ‘I’m fit to bursting.’

‘Good. Now dab a little of this behind your ears.’

Lauren took the glass bottle of lavender water and did as she was bidden. Then, removing the filthy towel from about her neck that served as a napkin, she stood for inspection.

Mrs Grant pulled her roughly by the shoulders, turning her from left to right. A haze of dust sprinkled the wedge of light shining through the timber walls of the two-roomed hut. Lauren imagined it to be fairy dust and flicked at the shimmering particles with her hand, stirring the air so that her mother let out a tremendous sneeze. The baby immediately began to cry, which set Lauren’s young sister whining.

‘God’s holy trousers, Lauren,’ Mrs Grant complained, blowing her nose on the hem of her stained skirt. ‘Be quiet the both of you,’ she directed at the squealing children, ‘or I’ll send you to live with your slut of a sister, Susanna.’

Lauren watched with admiration as her mother’s raised hand elicited immediate silence.

‘Shoes.’