A Changing Land(76)
‘Big place, Boss,’ said McKenzie as they approached. Their horses trailed single file along the narrow dirt road up to the large verandah that encircled the homestead.
‘His holding does not match the grandiose view he holds of himself,’ Hamish stated with a patronising tone, although he had to admire the English for their ability to add regimented beauty to the Australian bush. ‘Jasperson, we are here as friends.’
His overseer raised a grey bristled eyebrow.
Once Hamish had craved success, then respectability, and now he had both. The gaining of it meant deliberation must now replace ruthless action, for the Gordon name needed to be protected. He chewed at his top lip, pulling at the hairs of his moustache; he was suppressing his innate need for revenge with a far more advantageous course of action. It was a pity the event didn’t feel more rewarding.
At the hitching rail they tethered their horses and Jasperson turned to survey the grounds. ‘Take a lot to maintain this, Boss.’
‘Indeed, Jasperson. Although I’m sure the domestics and gardeners will be keen to stay.’ At least for a while, Hamish concluded. There was little need for another homestead on Wangallon and the uptake of this one would be costly; besides, there was no one to live in it. Luke was beyond the niceties of a homestead such as this. For the moment he would continue to keep the household running and use it as a base for when he visited the property. It would make the five-hour round trip more bearable to know that there was a semblance of comfort at the end of the journey.
The wide verandah and sloping roof invited the three men into its embracing coolness. Hamish noted two hard-backed chairs, a table with books piled high upon it and an expanse of wooden boards.
‘Yes?’ A manservant in a black cloth suit, with a pointy chin lifted higher than his position demanded, was standing in the open doorway of the homestead.
Jasperson stepped forward, straightened his shoulders and gave the man his most withering look; a direct gaze of sunken cheeks, sun cracked skin and eyes that spoke of loathing. ‘Mr Hamish Gordon of Wangallon Station to see Mr Oscar Crawford.’
The manservant took a step back and opened the door wide for the trio to pass. They allowed their hats to be taken although on Hamish’s lead they refused to remove their riding boots and spurs.
‘Please follow me,’ the servant addressed Hamish.
They stood in a twelve-foot-high ceilinged hallway. The floorboards were highly polished, the tongue and groove walls whitewashed and hung with paintings. Undoubtedly these portraits were relations of Crawford. Hamish studied the florid face before him with its chin that resembled a sole dangling from a shoe. It still amazed him that men of this elk conquered Scotland. With a final glance at the dead, Hamish readied himself for business. He tapped dirt-stained nails against the carved wooden frame of the oil painting. Success, he decided, combined with respectability, was boring.
The manservant knocked once at a cedar door and waited until an impatient yes, yes answered. Hamish signalled for McKenzie to remain in the hallway outside the office as the door opened and they were announced.
Oscar Crawford was clearly not dressed to receive visitors. He wore a buttercup-yellow silk robe over which was another silk robe of the same quality material, this one in forest green. His remarkable white gold hair was just visible beneath his silk candy-striped smoking cap that gave a slight clownish air to a fair complexion ruined by sagging jowls. There were sheaves of paper to the left of his magnificent leather tooled desk and a number of folders secured with ribbon on his right. Before him sat a silver salver containing a selection of small glass bottles that he was studiously frowning at.
‘This is god early for a visitation, Gordon, especially when you come uninvited.’
Hamish sat down in the leather chair opposite, crossed his legs and smiled. ‘Might I have some tea?’ The servant looked from Hamish to his master.
Oscar removed his smoking cap in annoyance, dropping it on his desk. ‘Yes, yes, tea for all. And take this,’ he gestured to the salver, which was quickly removed. ‘The negative aspect of age,’ he said by way of explaining the potions. ‘I see you are still in service, Jasperson.’
Standing at Hamish’s right shoulder, Jasperson nodded.
‘And just as reticent. Well, sit. I don’t need another servant hovering around like one of the infernal flies that inhabit this landscape.’
‘I’m here to make you an offer to purchase Crawford Corner,’ Hamish began, never one to circumnavigate a subject. ‘It is my third such offer on my reckoning and it will be the last.’