A Changing Land(105)
‘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.