A Changing Land(65)
‘You’re serious? You’re actually telling me how you want the property run, after all the bloody hoo-ha about teamwork?’
‘I’m making a suggestion that you shouldn’t take offence at if you are willing to work as a team as Grandfather intended.’ Sarah couldn’t believe she was even having this conversation. All Anthony had to do was include her in the decision-making, even if sometimes it was just a courtesy. ‘Well, are you?’
‘I told you the benefits of the project, that I was doing it for Wangallon, for the future, our future.’
‘And you admitted you had gone about it the wrong way.’
He was silent.
‘Look, I don’t expect you to understand or agree with what I’m saying, but I do expect some consideration. The Boxer’s Plains project is stopped indefinitely. Agreed?’
He looked at her evenly.
‘I’m trusting you, Anthony. I need to know I can rely on you. I’ll fly down to Sydney, see if there’s an angle we can work on.’
‘And you don’t want me to come.’
She busied herself, gathering cosmetics and toiletries together. ‘I don’t see any point.’ Sarah found her black leather handbag and placed her wallet inside. The bedclothes rustled and she turned to see Anthony walking out of the room down the hallway towards the spare bedrooms. She didn’t call after him. They seemed to be coming from opposing directions with no possible hope of slowing down before they crashed. Stepping out of her clothes she slunk naked between the covers, moving across to where the warmth of Anthony’s body still clung to the pale blue sheets. Sarah scrunched her eyes together. How did it come to pass that she was fighting Anthony as well as Jim Macken?
The piano was framed by two curly brass candle holders and a panel of rose-pink pleated silk above the keyboard. Claire had always thought it a lovely piece, even if the silk was faded and the travelling piano tuner never quite got the keys correct. Placing her fingers against the cool of the ivory keys, she began practising scales, pretending to ignore the discordant sound of middle C. Her fingers hit the keys lightly. She persisted for some minutes despite the stuffiness of the room and the perspiration dripping down her legs. Having drawn the curtains early in an attempt to hold the midday heat at bay, Claire was tempted to reopen them in the hope that a slight breeze might take pity on her. As her fingers ran up and down the keys, she tried the beginnings of a concerto.
‘Mr Wetherly, Ma’am,’ Mrs Stackland announced with more than an air of dislike. Claire would have queried her attitude had not Mr Wetherly already been present. He was dressed in a dark three-piece suit of a wool cotton mix and carried the smell of sheep and manure with him and the chewy aroma of persistent perspiration.
‘Mr Wetherly, I’m afraid I am not dressed for visitors,’ Claire remarked, straightening her rather drab grey skirt, which was matched with a blouse adorned with black lace inserts. It was certainly her least becoming gown and her hair was piled atop her head in an unflattering bun.
Wetherly gave a formal bow, somewhat overdone for midday. ‘My apologies, Mrs Gordon. I was seeking your husband.’
‘I’m afraid he is not here.’ Claire wished she’d chosen her cream silk gown this morning. ‘I could have refreshments sent out to the verandah if you care to wait.’
Wetherly hesitated. It was not particularly appropriate for the stud master to be in her drawing room alone with her. He was, after all, staff and undeniably single. Yet he loitered without answering, staring at her unabashedly until her cheeks flushed under his gaze. ‘Thank you,’ he replied with a cool slowness. ‘I think not. I had –’ he cleared his throat – ‘better wait outside. Besides, I find my thirst quite sated,’ Wetherly answered smoothly. He turned to find Hamish staring at him with uplifted eyebrows.
‘I’ll meet you at the yards at four o’clock, Wetherly. It’s far too hot to be working stock until then.’ Hamish dismissed Wetherly instantly, shutting the door quietly. ‘The man has a high regard for himself and his abilities.’
‘Give him time,’ Claire returned to the piano feeling like a child whose outstretched hand had been caught seeking the boiled lolly jar. ‘He is very new to Wangallon.’
‘I see he has earned your admiration,’ he sniffed, removing his jacket and throwing it across the horsehair couch. A puff of dust lifted into the air. ‘I don’t think it appropriate for Wetherly to be alone in your company, my dear. He has somewhat of a reputation.’