A Changing Land(110)
‘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.