A Changing Land(67)



Margaret hesitated, her soft mouth opening and closing. The girl was staring at Luke whom, having been distracted by the opening window, was now looking directly at Claire. The maid glanced from Luke to Claire and walked quietly away.

Luke tipped his wide-brimmed hat, his eyes never leaving Claire’s face.

Claire closed the window quietly. From the Chinese-lacquered cabinet she poured herself a sweet madeira, drinking the liquid down in three swallows, before placing the glass on a leather-topped table, oblivious to the ring stain seeping into the leather.





It was midnight. Claire swirled the washcloth in the blue and white ceramic basin, wrung the excess water from it and gave a final freshening wipe to the nape of her neck. Dropping the cloth on the top of the wooden washstand she pulled the cotton nightgown over her head, the material catching on the dampness of her skin. The bed creaked.

‘I won’t be back till dusk. I’m expecting Mrs Stackland to prepare a feast for New Year’s Day celebrations.’

A wave of tobacco, brandy and Hamish’s rough male scent lingered in the room after he’d left. She could not recall when his lovemaking had been so amorous. It was late and tomorrow she would be tired, bruised and out of sorts. Hamish, once tender and careful in his affections, had grown physical and sometimes a little rough in his infrequent ministrations towards her. She touched her stomach. There was a swelling there and she was sure a flutter of movement awoke her not two nights ago. Could it be possible? Certainly her moods had been fractious recently and her health not as it should be.

During her life Claire had been as reliable as the full moon and although her womb chose to grace her with only one precious child, she now believed it possible there might be another, though why now? She was past child-bearing both in age and enthusiasm. How she wished she could recall her last fertile month. Of course such a condition excused her from her girlish fancies. One could expect to be emotional if they were with child. A convenient excuse, Claire decided, as she fingered the delicate workmanship of the tortoiseshell comb. Often she wondered where life may have taken her if Luke were older. Certainly she was aware of an attraction spanning some years, however Luke’s recent innuendo had changed her perceptions. She was past middle age – this was not the time for romantic fancies – and yet here she was thinking of Luke’s admiration and the presence of Wangallon’s stud master. As for being with child, Claire ran the silver-backed brush through the curling ends of her hair … How ridiculous.

Pinning her hair back in a loose French roll, Claire studied her reflection, first the left side, then the right. There was a softness to her jaw, hollows beneath once full cheeks and wisps of grey in her dark hair. She was no longer a girl, no longer gilded by the dewy gods of youth. She pinched her cheeks to heighten their colour as perspiration settled in the hollow of her throat, between her breasts and on the backs of her thighs. She touched her stomach again, hoping it was a phantom of past wanting. Strangely enough she’d never been one for tears. Even now, accepting her loneliness as she had these past few months, the pity of it remained contained within her. Where she once saw space and freedom, she now experienced isolation, and the great untamed wilderness that was Wangallon now seemed savage. One could be grateful for what they received in life and one could also resent it. Claire looked at the pretty hair comb on her dresser and thought of the many times she had wished to go dancing or to dine out or call on a friend or promenade down the street. She was the wife of one of the country’s wealthiest graziers. Good fortune was too hard to come by to treat it so poorly.

In bed the hot night brought beads of moisture to her skin. Beside her the bedside candle fluttered. Thank heavens, she muttered, as the slightest of breezes wafted about her face. It was strange how one could look for the most mundane of things: A cool place to sit, water to parch her thirst, and air, any air. Air, a puff, a gust, a draft or a zephyr; how she longed for wind to stir her clothes and blow away the heat of this place. It was as if Wangallon’s thirsty soil were reaching for her, its many hands dragging her down. Claire pictured the acres of land emanating from Wangallon Homestead, envisioned the cemetery down by the bend in the creek. She wanted to be buried near her beloved father in Sydney. Not here in this desolate place where few people visited and the sun cracked the ground like a piece of broken pottery. Turning on her side, Claire reached for her book.

Mrs Aeneas Gunn’s We of the Never Never had created quite a stir in social circles on publication and Claire, determined to converse on the book’s merits, had procured a copy via catalogue almost immediately. It did not appeal, however, for who wished to read of a woman’s pain, isolation and hardship when one’s own life was far from the gentrified circles of convivial female companionship. No, this was one book she would have little problem dismissing, although she kept it by her bedside, for Hamish had once noted his approval. Claire’s favourite book, which she was reading for the fourth time and which lay hidden beneath Mrs Gunn’s weighty tome, was Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows. Claire smiled as she turned to the next chapter. Sometimes she longed to have been born within the cool green of England’s bosom, instead of being conceived on the long sea voyage out to be born in the most distant of countries. She envied Wetherly his English life and wondered at his leaving of it. With a yawn she closed her eyes, her fingers automatically touching her lips where Hamish’s kisses had fallen.

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