A Changing Land(89)
The last spasm had left her quite faint. She gazed down over the sloping mounds of her breasts to where the gentle swelling of life she had so rashly hated now lay dormant. It was beyond her as to how the pains could come without a final exiting of her unborn baby.
The unmistakable tap of Mrs Stackland’s knuckles was followed by the woman’s entry into her bedroom. Without waiting for approval she pushed the door wider with her ample hip and sat a tray on the edge of Claire’s bed.
‘You’ll be excusing me, Mrs Gordon, however it’s high time you took a little nourishment. There’s mutton broth, a slice of bread and a glass of madeira.’
Claire glanced at the tray and nodded her thanks.
‘And I’ve brought you some Beecham’s pills. Now I know you’ve been poorly, what with the recent kafuffle, and Mr Beecham is just the thing for whatever ails you. Wind, stomach pain, indigestion, insomnia, vomiting, sickness of the stomach, scurvy, heat flushings, liver complaints, lowness of spirits …’ Mrs Stackland raised a scraggly eyebrow. ‘Well here you are then.’ She tipped two pills from the glass bottle and handed them to Claire, administering water from the glass on the bedside table as if she were a nurse. ‘Now you swallow those. Mark my words, you’ll be feeling better in the morning.’
Claire swallowed, the pills catching at her insides all the way down. What if she wasn’t with child? What if what ailed her was something far more sinister. Good gracious, she had heard the most unfathomable stories; twisted bowels and blocked bowels and growths in stomachs and troublesome appendix that burst when least expected.
‘Are you all right, Mrs Gordon?’ Mrs Stackland asked, her pale eyes narrowing.
Claire fiddled with her wrap, hoping she had not been muttering her concerns aloud. ‘Of course, Mrs Stackland.’
‘You will promise me that you will eat.’ The question hung in the air as the housekeeper waited for her response, which Claire gave dutifully.
Later in the night Claire awoke to the sound of footsteps. Her tray, the food partially eaten and the madeira consumed, was gone. Feeling a little better she opened the bedroom door quietly and glanced up one end of the hallway and then down the other to where a candle flickered. Elongated shapes were shadowed against a wall. One of the maids was tapping lightly on her husband’s door. Claire caught a glimpse of long dark hair and bare feet. There was the squeak of a brass doorknob and the creak of cedar and then the girl disappeared inside. For a moment Claire was unsure what she had witnessed. She stepped backwards into her room and shut the door, her teeth clenching together so hard they grated sideways. Guessing at her husband’s proclivities and witnessing them firsthand was more shocking to her person than Claire could have imagined. While aware that men had certain appetites and, according to Mrs Crawford a devoted family man of Hamish’s stature was a rare occurrence, Claire never dreamt his liaisons to be so rudimentary. She drew her wrap around her shoulders and threw Mrs Aeneas Gunn’s detestable monument to resilience at the bedroom door.
Matt Schipp waited at the rear of Wangallon Homestead. He was leaning against the fence near the back gate, scruffing the dirt with the toe of his boot, his arms crossed. Anthony figured there had been some balls-up with stock, a broken fence perhaps, which had led to different mobs getting mixed up or maybe one of the new bulls had damaged himself. That was all he needed – an expensive bull with a broken pizzle. ‘Problem, Matt?’ Anthony called from the back door, trying to curb the anger in his voice. A sleepless night had done little to restore Anthony’s mood. He was bloody furious with Sarah. None of this was Matt’s fault though, regardless of whether Anthony thought he was overpaid and milking his injury. ‘Come in and have a seat.’ Anthony opened the screen door. He needed a drink of water and a couple of panadol for his hand.
‘No, I’m pretty right. Thanks all the same.’ Matt hovered on the back path. He was rolling a cigarette, his damaged fingers having trouble with the tobacco cupped in his palm.
Matt was a quiet bloke yet he always looked a person straight in the eyes, all the time … except for now. ‘You wanna buy some tailor-mades, Matt,’ Anthony suggested, aware of a growing tension between them. ‘Make it a whole lot easier for you.’
‘Probably. You heard from Sarah?’
Anthony’s eyes flickered with interest. If Sarah had called Matt first … ‘Maybe you better come inside.’
Matt shook his head, looked at him squarely. ‘Toby and his boys will be here to muster up the cattle on Boxer’s Plains in a couple of days. They want to be on the route by the weekend.’