A Changing Land(45)
Claire sighed. ‘Must you always be so stubborn? Come walk with me.’
The warmth of her slim arm through his was accompanied by a bittersweet stab of pleasure. Luke smelled lavender water and the sweet musky scent that was indefinably hers. Claire smiled up at him as they walked through Lee’s garden and out into the orchard, which Lee had watered daily for over thirty years. It was a sight Luke would always remember for the patience and sturdy persistence it required; the bow legs and flapping pigtail and the long pole slung over his slight shoulders, which carried the two buckets of water.
Claire was walking in short stilted steps. ‘Have we grown so poor, Claire, that there is not enough money to buy enough material for your dress?’
She gave a laugh. ‘The fashionable ladies call it a hobble skirt for its lack of movement. And I admit to not being partial to its constraints.’
‘Then why wear it?’
‘Why, to be fashionable, of course.’ Claire gave his arm a quick squeeze. ‘It is good to see you, Luke. It has been an abominably boring year. When it stops raining, everyone seems to disappear; no parties, dances, balls. I have given only five soirees, with few attendees, and was staggered to see a number of my companions in last season’s gowns. Are things so very bad?’
Luke patted her hand, her skin dewy beneath his calloused fingers. ‘Not everyone has the advantages that come from a substantial property such as Wangallon, and there have been a few rumblings with some of the Aborigines a little south of us and you know how quickly that makes folk shun travelling.’
Claire’s mouth drooped prettily. ‘You think me shallow. It is only that there is no one with whom I can discuss matters of importance. And with Angus growing so quickly time seems to be spreading out before me. Our regular highlight is the interminable church picnic Hamish insists we attend. I’m not being disagreeable; however, I long for interesting, educated conversation.’
They strolled silently beneath the trees in the orchard, dappled light creating moving patterns on their clothing. Leaves, sparse grass and twigs crunched beneath their shoes as they walked first up one short avenue of trees and then turned to walk down the next. Beyond the orchard the open countryside beckoned. A murmur of a breeze stirred the branches above, the scents of the bush growing more distinguishable as they ventured to the end of the orchard. Luke could smell the brittleness of the grasses contrasting with Lee’s recently watered vegetable garden and the faint scent of rotting fruit. Claire’s arm remained pressed against his and for a moment he considered resting his free hand over hers, his sense of contentment was such.
‘This is for you.’ He placed the tortoiseshell comb in the palm of her hand, the pleasure of his giving increased by the delighted smile on Claire’s face.
‘Oh, Luke, thank you. It’s so very pretty.’ She tucked the comb into her hair beneath her hat. ‘Well, what do you think?’ She pirouetted like a young girl.
He searched for a suitable word. ‘Very becoming.’
She giggled, took his arm once again. ‘You’re spoiling me with these yearly gifts you bring. In this household one is lucky if your father even acknowledges the day. I can’t understand the fascination the Scots have for celebrating New Year’s Day. For me the festivities are over by then.’
Her words broke the quiet enjoyment of the moment. Luke turned abruptly towards the homestead, dropping her arm simultaneously. ‘Couldn’t we just once have a conversation without my father shadowing everything?’
‘I only meant that … I’m sorry.’
Luke slowed his pace.
‘I’m sorry for the recent loss of your grandmother,’ Claire offered, a little out of breath.
He thought of the emporium. ‘Well, I didn’t know her, so her passing means little.’
‘Still, she was family,’ persisted Claire.
‘There have been greater losses in my life, Claire.’ He held her eyes for just a moment, the intonation of his comment creating a bridge between them that Claire’s widening eyes acknowledged. What had possessed him to speak of his feelings? They walked on, their companionable silence replaced by awkwardness. What a fine facade this would develop into. Now they would have to continue on as if nothing were said until he left Wangallon for a new life in Ridge Gully. That was it then; clearly his subconscious had made the decision to depart.
‘You will be joining us for Christmas dinner?’ she asked stiffly.
Thinking of the fine French brandy, roasted turkey and Mrs Stackland’s plum pudding, Luke was of a mind to say yes. ‘No,’ he replied. He expected an argument, a practised pout; instead he was left alone with his adamancy. He watched her gently swaying figure, the lightness of her step, the graceful way in which she caught a handful of her skirt between her fingers to lift it above the dirt of the backyard. He thought of the warmth where her arm lay against his and knew he’d already been back at Wangallon too long.