A Changing Land(66)
One of the maids entered and, with a curtsey, walked towards the lead fireplace with a dustpan. The girl was reasonably efficient and as yet had not broken any of her knick-knacks, although Claire was not taken with the way she picked up ornaments and inspected them. Hamish walked idly around the drawing room. ‘You’ve been playing?’
‘A little. Lemonade, Margaret.’
‘For two,’ Hamish ordered sternly. The girl bobbed a poor excuse for a curtsey and left them alone. Hamish peered out the damask curtain, flicking at the tasselled fringing. ‘New?’
Claire repositioned a hair pin. ‘Twenty years ago.’ In the past her husband was quite particular about their furnishings; however, time had rendered many things commonplace. This phenomenon did not extend beyond the mud brick walls of Wangallon homestead. Her husband’s obsession lay with the land and it spread out beneath him like a great fount of prosperity. ‘If you recall we ordered the material during a visit to Sydney.’
‘Yes, of course.’
There was little doubt in Claire’s mind that Hamish would not remember. Her husband knew every bend in the creek and river, every fence and outbuilding and clump of trees in every paddock. He knew Wangallon so well that Claire was convinced he could start at one end of the property and recall every single detail of the landscape as if he were riding through it on a summer’s day. In comparison he ensured his homestead was suitably impressive for the holding it sat upon, although it remained only a dwelling to him. Wangallon was Hamish’s love and she drew his focus like a demanding mistress well used to lavish attention.
‘Have you seen Luke?’
‘No.’ Claire retrieved her fan from atop the piano. In truth she was pleased that he’d not come calling, for after their last conversation she had suffered from such a sense of confusion that she doubted her ability to converse properly on any subject at all.
Hamish examined the silver-mounted emu egg and the matching ruby lustre vases on the mantlepiece. ‘One of the maids is sweeping the verandah at an unfathomable hour. Dawn and dusk should be sufficient.’
Claire wafted the air with the ivory and lace fan. ‘I’ll mention it to Mrs Stackland.’
‘Good.’ He walked to the armchair and, retrieving her quilting, passed it to her.
‘Have you received correspondence from Mrs Crawford?’
Claire began stitching a square of yellow material. ‘Only that her eldest has arrived to visit his father. Should we entertain them?’ Her mind quickly leapt to the table seating. They could invite Henrietta Webb for the younger Crawford’s sake, the father, of course and, and Wetherly? Who else was there to make up a suitable number after all?
‘We shall see. I would like to call upon you tonight.’
The needle pricked Claire’s finger, drawing blood. It was some weeks since he’d come to her bedroom, although Claire was sure he did not lack companionship. She sucked at the bead of blood welling on the fleshy pad of her finger. His back remained stiffly towards her as her assent was mumbled.
Margaret returned with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses as Hamish left the room. Claire held out her hand and, accepting the poured glass, sipped at it, wincing at the sourness.
‘Mrs Stackland says to tell you, Missus, that the last of the preserved lemons are a might tart.’
‘Indeed Mrs Stackland is a fount of wisdom,’ Claire answered brusquely. ‘I would like cold cuts and some tasty vegetables this evening.’ She would be needing sustenance, she thought with a smile.
The girl left hastily with the tray. Claire heard a screech and then the smash of glass; Mrs Stackland’s taut reprimand followed. She flicked her eyes closed in annoyance before securely closing the door leading down the hall to the kitchen. It was too hot in this room, far too hot. There was a sensation of discomfort in her stomach and she felt the debilitating approach of a headache. Claire opened the window on the southern wall, flinging back the curtains in an effort to stir the air. Her home was beginning to resemble a madhouse. Now she could hear muffled sobbing. Despite the heat and the massing flies, Claire crooked her neck out the window to see who was making such a pitiful racket.
Margaret sat crouched by the meat house, the black skirt of her maid’s uniform wet with what Claire assumed to be spilt lemonade. About to slam the window shut, she watched in surprise as Luke approached the girl.
‘Are you all right?’ He squatted beside her. ‘Mrs Stackland will be wondering where you are.’ At the mention of the cook, the girl wiped her eyes. ‘That’s better.’ He held out his hand to her. She looked at him as if he were offering something forbidden. ‘Here.’ He took her hand and helped her up.