A Changing Land(18)
Hamish was not one to go against the vagaries of the market when said market was paying top dollar. Besides which, his last clip had topped the selling season. As for Crawford’s plans for his flock, nabbing the highly regarded Jacob Wetherly would put an end to that. And while employing Wetherly may not increase the chances of Crawford selling up, it was an opportunity to remind the Englishman of the undeniable benefits of the open market, especially if Oscar Crawford persisted in living next to Wangallon.
The maids began laying food on the table. Hamish and Reginald eyed parrot pie, small damper rolls, sliced mutton, potatoes, the usual fatty dish of fried fish provided by the minister’s household, and a duck and quail casserole. Hamish poured more brandy as the women came forward to be served. He greeted Hilda Webb and her red-haired daughters, chatted to the minister’s wife, Mrs Ovendale, and even felt gracious enough to comment on the storekeeper’s recent business investment into timber. A mill to service the demographic increase of Wangallon Town was a common-sense plan.
‘Here is Jacob Wetherly now,’ Reginald announced as a dapper figure approached the parkland surrounds on the banks of the creek. ‘Of course Crawford can never be persuaded to venture forth for an outing.’
‘Pity,’ Hamish agreed sociably, although personally the opportunity for information gathering was the sole reason he bore such engagements. Wetherly tethered his horse to the branch of a shady gum. ‘I believe I will offer him a position,’ Hamish announced to the bemused bank manager.
‘A position? I doubt that he would … but of course, come then,’ Reginald offered, ‘let me introduce you.’
Hamish was askance. Did the man think he would follow? ‘You can bring him to me,’ he stated formally, picking up a plate and dishing up some of the quail and duck concoction. He never was one for mixing meats, but one had to make do occasionally.
Claire tired of Hilda’s ongoing description of how markedly fine her daughter’s matching set of hair tongs, curlers, shoe buttoner and shoe horn were, and looked with disinterest about the scattered picnic rugs. The shopkeeper’s family, the Stevens, sat with an English couple who owned a pleasing amount of land to the south of Wangallon Town. Further away reclined the minister and his family – the three sons of whom were off, no doubt, making mischief with Angus. Sally Foster laughed delightedly at an anecdote shared by Mrs Ovendale. Claire would like to have extended an invitation for Sally to join her, however, having married a Baptist some years ago, she’d fallen foul of Hamish who believed that a Scot’s Presbyterian should stay with their own.
Claire brushed at the line of ants crawling across the picnic rug and shifted her position. Her whalebone corset was troubling her today, a usual occurrence during summer, and she pined for the coolness of her bedroom. She untied the chiffon scarf securing her curved brimmed hat and let the air waft about her.
‘Mr Stevens has invested in timber,’ Mrs Webb began by way of conversation, cutting through Claire’s daydreams. ‘I find the very concept of a trade abominable. Do you not, Mrs Gordon? The very thought of such a life, well,’ Mrs Webb gave a convulsive shiver. ‘Some say he is clever. Who can be clever in a small town is my response, for there is none to compare the man with.’ She ate a morsel of salted mutton and sipped at a warm glass of punch. ‘I find him altogether too shrewd, particularly as the foundations for another hotel are being laid almost diagonally opposite the current one. Besides which those that own a general store always know who has money and who does not. To my thinking that is most unpalatable.’
‘A big fish in a small pond?’ Claire remarked.
‘Exactly.’ Hilda patted Claire’s gown. ‘I saw that very ensemble in the Grace Brothers’ catalogue. I myself have never been one for all white.’
‘Mother thinks it decadent,’ Henrietta stated prettily. Jane took a bite of her parrot pie, the pastry crumbling down the front of her somber grey blouse. ‘Decadent,’ she repeated as if the food she ate had somehow intrinsically weaved its way into her vocal chords.
Claire, having never seen Hilda in anything other than black, patted the older woman’s hand. ‘Nonsense, white would suit you very well.’
Hilda gave a dimpled smile and then pounced on the arrival of Jacob Wetherly. ‘My dear husband promised us some entertainments today, did he not, my girls?’
‘Yes, Mama,’ Henrietta and Jane answered with the synchronicity of rehearsed obedience.