A Changing Land(49)
‘Excellent, Mrs Gordon.’ Jacob Wetherly rested his damask napkin on the polished wood of the dining table and twirled the stem of his glass. ‘You cannot imagine the pleasure of being at a cultured table once more. And I believe I’ve not had roasted boar for some time. My compliments to your cook and no doubt to you as well, Mrs Gordon, for a table is only as remarkable as the mistress that rules over it.’ He raised his glass and, finding it empty, gave a small frown.
‘Our previous stud master, Andrew Duff, will now assume Boxer’s position as head stockman,’ Hamish announced irritably. ‘I advised the men today, Wetherly.’ Hamish pushed the crystal brandy decanter across the table to his left and watched as Wetherly topped his glass past the level of decorum. ‘Duff is better acquainted with sheep, however he’s really too valuable to lose.’
‘And Boxer?’ Claire enquired.
‘He has earned his rest.’
‘The man has been indispensable for over forty years, Mr Wetherly. A great mark of loyalty towards my husband,’ Claire revealed, sliding a morsel of custard onto her spoon. ‘Do you not agree?’
Wetherly nodded politely, his own dessert spoon rounding his shallow bowl with renewed concentration.
‘I think we should withdraw to take brandy,’ Hamish announced, his hands grasping at the arms of the great carver chair.
So soon? It had been some time since Claire had enjoyed the company of such a cultured guest and although Wetherly was somewhat obvious in his attempts to charm, his was an amusing diversion. She waited patiently as Mr Wetherly passed the decanter back to Hamish, hoping he might be inclined to sit at the table for just a little longer. It was a convivial evening after all and no one could deny the elegant setting. Their candlelit surrounds highlighted a pair of skilfully painted emu eggs perched either side of a French marble clock on the mantlepiece and although her husband’s grandiose oil portrait tended to dwarf near everything else in the room, she could hardly complain when her own imperfect rendering hung in the drawing room. She patted at her hair, pleased at the effect she’d managed to achieve without the services of a maid. Built up over strategically placed pads, her dark hair curled and puffed out most becomingly.
‘And are there many social engagements one can look forward to here, Mrs Gordon?’ Wetherly moved his arm to allow the maid to clear his dessert plate. There was a clatter of porcelain and silver.
Claire took a sip of water. ‘I usually hold a number of soirees a year. Unfortunately 1908 has proved exceedingly dull.’ She looked directly along the length of the table to where Hamish glowered.
As if sensing the change in his host’s demeanour, Wetherly tapped his nose knowledgeably and turned to Hamish. ‘There is some wild Aborigine causing mayhem just south of here.’
‘A renegade?’ Hamish asked, his fingers tapping the table with interest.
‘Apparently so. He has been travelling northwards. The constabulary thought they’d caught him at Ridge Gully but the black they’d chained to the tree for three days died before the land-holder for whom he worked could vouch for his innocence.’
‘Oh dear.’ Claire shuddered. ‘How terrible.’
Hamish poured more brandy.
‘It happens.’ Wetherly drained his glass. ‘However, Mrs Gordon, if you have suffered for a lack of entertainment you can be sure this savage assisted in the decision of many a hostess this season.’
Hamish gave a belch that carried down the length of the table. Claire turned her nose up distastefully. With that singular announcement he scraped the tapestry-backed chair across the polished wooden floor. ‘Yes, well, enough with the pleasantries. If you will excuse us, Claire.’
Mr Wetherly gave a formal bow. ‘Delightful, Mrs Gordon. Perhaps in repayment of your hospitality your husband will allow me the pleasure of escorting you about your spacious garden.’
Claire composed her features into a mask of politeness as their dinner guest looked pointedly from her husband to Claire. She could think of nothing more delightful than a stroll with Mr Wetherly, firmly reminding herself that her interest in being alone with him had absolutely nothing to do with the scandalous tidbit of information Mrs Webb had so thoughtfully let escape from her lips. ‘I would be delighted.’
‘Unfortunately, Wetherly, my wife retires early and you and I have much to discuss.’
‘Come, Sir. Ten minutes of your time,’ Wetherly insisted. ‘The walk will be quite invigorating. You should join us.’