Intrigued, Brandon walked down the slope and was heading to the front of the property when he met Miss Schaefer on her walk.
‘Good morning, Miss Schaefer,’ said Brandon, passing her.
‘Stop,’ she commanded curtly. ‘I want to speak with you.’
He turned to face her. The banging from the builders vibrated through the silence that hung between them.
‘I have heard of the most remarkable occurrences. Of attempted thievery and land granted. And now I am to believe that you have changed your name, effectively converting to our religion.’
It was as if a list of charges were being read out against him. Brandon was puzzled by Miss Schaefer’s attack, for it was none of her business.
‘You have been an easy convert, Brandon Ryan, perhaps too easy,’ she said.
‘I’ve never been a very religious person.’ Brandon spoke carefully.
‘My uncle spoke of paganism.’ She leant forward. ‘I understand it is the religion of the peasantry, but still, I was quite staggered to hear of it. I’d heard you were reasonably schooled and above average in intellect.’
‘Perhaps I don’t hold to any religion now,’ said Brandon.
Miss Schaefer flung her head back and laughed. ‘You are as changeable as the wind.’
‘Religion has not done me any favours,’ said Brandon just as abruptly.
‘You’ve grown outspoken. How things alter in a few days.’
He concentrated on the little dog, who was pulling determinedly at the lead in her hand.
‘So now you are a non-believer,’ Miss Schaefer continued.
‘Yes.’
‘Some of us wear masks to hide our true selves from the world,’ she said. ‘You’re not a simpleton. If you were, you’d still be with your cousin, however I think you believe that you’ve found a nice little position here. Your name is now on eight thousand acres of land. Land that holds the key to the successful running of this property. Without it, we have no access to water and without water, the rest of my uncle’s property loses substantial value.’
‘It’s a dummy contract,’ Brandon reminded her.
‘Don’t speak to me in that tone. It is a contract that forms a very important part of my uncle’s estate. My inheritance.’
‘Then I’ll break the contract and leave today.’ He may have sounded confident, but immediately Brandon wondered what he would do if he were forced to leave Mr Truby’s employment. He’d given up so much to be here. ‘I didn’t ask for this, it was your uncle’s doing.’
‘That’s what he said.’ The dog growled and Miss Schaefer wrapped the lead about her wrist so that the dog was forced to sit amongst the folds of her lavender skirt. ‘It seems I underestimated you,’ she said icily.
She left without another word and headed to the front of the property. Brandon followed her to where a covered bullock wagon waited. He arrived just as Mr Truby was adjusting the globe and blanket on the rear of the wagon and inspecting the loading of sacks of grain and other items. Hetty and Maggie stood close by; Miss Schaefer and her dog a little apart from them, a canvas bag at her feet beside an irate Glanville in a cage.
‘Hello, Brandon,’ said Maggie.
‘Maggie,’ he answered. It was difficult seeing her again so soon after their conversation the night before. Next to her, Hetty appeared engrossed in the movement about them, her attention firmly directed away from him. Brandon wondered why Mr Truby was letting the women loiter when there were the usual morning chores to be done.
Two men hoisted a trunk onto the wagon. One steadied the cumbersome chest while the other clambered up to disappear into the the wagon’s rear. Together they pushed and pulled it under the canvas covering. Their efforts shook the globe. It started to slowly spin.
‘Careful,’ said Mr Truby, steadying the world with a hand.
Brandon wondered where his employer was going. There were five horsemen standing by, thumbing reins and smoking pipes.
‘Eventually you’ll get beyond the outer limits,’ Mr Truby said to one of the riders. ‘Keep your eyes sharp and your wits about you. The natives might appear friendly but it’s not always the case. Your guide, Munroe, will meet you at Boulder Pass. After that you’re in his hands. Hopefully he’ll steer you in the right direction.’
He beckoned to his niece. Miss Schaefer allowed him to give her a very brief kiss on the cheek. Then, barely acknowledging Hetty, she was escorted wordlessly to the wagon and assisted up into the front where she sat on a trunk, her dog firmly clasped in her lap.
‘Where is she going?’ Brandon asked Hetty quietly, as the falcon and remaining bag were placed in the rear of the wagon.
‘They’re taking her to Wirra and then she’ll catch a ship to Sydney. She and Mr Truby had a difference of opinion over some land,’ Hetty explained knowingly. ‘Apparently she needs further education on the niceties of being a lady.’
‘She told you that?’ asked Brandon, not sorry to learn of Miss Schaefer’s leaving.
‘The cook told me,’ whispered Hetty.
‘Maggie, be ready, girl,’ Mr Truby called.
Brandon took Maggie’s arm and led her away from the others. She was wearing her fancy shawl, last seen the day he’d found her in Niall Hackett’s arms. ‘What’s going on?’
‘I’m leaving for my new position,’ said Maggie.
‘What, now?’
‘I wanted to tell you yesterday.’ The mention of their last meeting caused her to gaze briefly at the ground. ‘Don’t make this difficult. There are people watching.’
‘You were going to leave without saying goodbye,’ continued Brandon.
Maggie gave a brave smile. ‘I’m to work for a family to the west of here.’
‘How far west?’ he asked.
‘It will take some travelling to reach. Mr Truby says that the Handalays are very wealthy. He’s entrusted the globe to my care and I’m to see it takes pride of place in the library once it’s built. It’s a housewarming gift and I must say he was sad to part with it, but Mr Handalay is one of his closest friends.’
‘You mean there is no house where you’re going?’
‘There will be.’
‘Maggie, I’ve wrapped the globe in a blanket and wedged it between the crates,’ instructed Mr Truby. ‘And do pay attention if it rains, I don’t want those books ruined. And the orange and lemon seeds for the orchard are packed with the provisions. Once they’re planted, they must be watered every day.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir,’ said Maggie, moving out of Brandon’s reach. ‘Goodbye, Hetty.’
‘Here, take this.’ Hetty passed her the cloth-covered Bible. ‘Lord knows you’ll be needing it out in the wild lands. You can read?’
‘Poor to middling, but I’ll try my best with it.’ Maggie opened the book. ‘Maybe I’ll see you again.’
‘Maybe,’ said Hetty indifferently.
Brandon took Maggie’s hand, feeling the calluses that told a story of their own. He wanted to take her in his arms one last time, to beg her not to leave, but he saw the determination that lay behind her wide, bright eyes and he knew that nothing he could say would alter her decision, and he had no right to ask. ‘You will try to send word to me once you’ve arrived? I won’t sleep until you do.’
‘Have a good life, Brandon,’ she said.
‘Don’t say that, Maggie. We’ll see each other again.’ He clutched at her hands but she drew free of his grasp. Then she was stepping away, into a beginning he was not to be part of.
‘Be well, Brandon, and if you ever see Sean again, tell him goodbye.’ Maggie nodded at Mr Truby, smiled at Hetty, and was lifted into the rear of the wagon by one of the horsemen, where she sat on a crate near the opening.
About them, men tightened surcingles and closed flaps on saddlebags. They placed boots in stirrups and heaved themselves up into newly greased saddles. The horses started off and then the bullocky cracked a whip and the wagon lurched forwards, dust rising under the creak of the wheels
.
Brandon started to walk after the wagon, his pace increasing, his stomach churning.
‘Brandon,’ said Mr Truby. ‘Brandon.’
He stopped and stared at the departing convoy. Maggie kept her gaze fixed on him from the rear of the wagon. He lifted a hand and waved, hoping that she’d reciprocate, to give a sign that they were still friends at least.
‘It’s a hard thing knowing you might never see your family again,’ said Mr Truby thoughtfully.
‘Where’s she going?’
‘Kirooma Station. It’ll be an adventure for her. Not many can say they’ve travelled into the interior.’
‘Kirooma Station,’ repeated Brandon, pronouncing the name as if it were a foreign territory. The riders and wagon completed a half circle and turned towards the main track. ‘Is it very far?’
‘Very. I’ll expect to see you in a half hour. We have much to discuss. I’m investigating the recruitment of Islanders to work in the cane fields.’ Mr Truby walked towards the homestead.
Brandon watched as the overlanders kept up a steady pace. Before them lay the hills, a final landfall before Maggie’s proper journey commenced. There would be virgin ground to cross and trails to blaze and, beyond it all, a homestead carved out of nothing in the middle of nowhere that would be her home. A new start that he would not share in. All Brandon could see was an eternity of space and light stretching into emptiness ahead.
‘She wasn’t so bad in the end. Had she stayed, we might even have been friends,’ said Hetty.
He’d not realised that she was still there. ‘You didn’t tell me she was going to leave.’
‘She said nothing to me until this morning.’
‘You told me Maggie wanted to go home to Ireland. Isn’t that what you said?’
‘That’s exactly what she told me. And I’m sure she will one day, like all of us, one way or another,’ said Hetty wistfully, before leaving.
‘One way or another,’ repeated Brandon. It was inexcusable to feel the way he did, and his moral failing now fixed itself like an axe in a tree, forever branding itself into his life. Yet, he couldn’t help himself. He’d spent the entire night awake, wondering how he and Maggie could ever move past what had transpired yesterday afternoon. It never crossed his mind that she might leave and he’d never see her again. He stood on the flat outside his master’s homestead and watched as all that mattered to him was driven away.
Chapter 51
Late that evening, Brandon left the men’s quarters and walked aimlessly across the paddock. He was in no mood for the lighthearted banter amongst the men, nor was he keen to have his life dissected by McCauley, who’d recently returned from the tallow works, his slaughtering duties at an end until the new year. McCauley had been observing him most of the evening and more than once had tried to draw him aside. Brandon supposed his sadness at Maggie’s leaving was written across his face and so he’d escaped into the quiet of the night, unwilling for others to learn what he himself had taken so long to admit.
For a few brief seconds he had held Maggie in his arms and now she was gone. He was no longer whole. Maggie’s absence haunted him, for with her leaving, all of his family were now gone. He dragged his axe across the ground, finding solace in the weight of the tool. Every now and then he would lift it and thrust the blade needlessly into the soil, chipping unrelentingly at the earth’s crust until his shoulders pained from the effort. Eventually, habit led him to Hetty’s cottage. He stared at the outline of the dwelling and then quietly made his way towards it, where he sat on the edge of the veranda, scraping the heel of his boot in the dirt and thinking of Ireland. The gentle mists and trickling streams appeared before him as if in a dream and he saw himself as a boy, racing across the fields with Sean, throwing rocks and laughing as Maggie chastised them for their childish ways.
‘Brandon?’ said Hetty. Stepping outside, she emptied a bucket of water over the edge of the veranda and then stood before him. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I’m sorry. I needed somewhere quiet. I was thinking about home. About Ireland,’ he said.
‘Feeling sorry for yourself, are you? Some lose their families sooner than others, but just because we’re alone at the beginning of our lives and at the end, it doesn’t have to be that way in the middle.’ Hetty knelt before him and placed her hands on his knees. ‘I’d care for you if you’d let me.’
‘Even with what you know?’
‘That you were infatuated with your stepsister.’ Hetty gave a huff. ‘I blame your father for giving a boy a man’s job. If all of us were perfect it would be a piddling world, and anyway, she’s gone now. There’s only the two of us left.’
‘That’s true enough,’ said Brandon.
‘Don’t you care even a little?’ asked Hetty, moving closer.
‘I care that you think so kindly towards me when you know the type of man that I am and the things that I’ve done,’ replied Brandon.
She reached for him, stroking his cheek. Brandon concentrated on the warmth of her skin. It was such a simple gesture, and yet it made his chest heavy with loneliness. He heard the catch of her skirt on twigs as she moved nearer, the warmth of her sweet and untainted. Hetty pressed against him, resting her cheek against his.
‘Let me care for you, Brandon,’ she whispered, close to his ear. ‘Like only a woman can. Let me love you and feed you and support you. Let me have your children and work beside you. I promise you’ll never be sorry having me for a wife.’
He listened to the gentle intake of air into Hetty’s lungs. The pause in the rise of her chest as she waited for his response. He could give her no answer because he feared it might burden them both. He doubted he would ever accept what Hetty offered, but he knew what he wanted and, at that moment, feeding his desire was enough. He ran a finger around the plain round collar of her gown, felt the rough weave of material slip away as the butterfly shape of her shoulders was bared.
Hetty was quick to free him of his trousers and lift her skirts. It was not what Brandon expected. She wore nothing except God’s grace beneath. The roundness of her breasts and the hardened nipples were his to explore, her hips anchoring him, though she swayed like a tree caught in the drift of a gathering storm. With each movement, the angle of her hips grew closer to his. He leant back to take her weight as each thrust grew more forceful, until he began to forget who he was and where he’d come from. The gasps that came from his mouth were like those of a stranger and he fell back onto the timber boards, unmade.
Brandon woke on the cramped cot, Hetty sprawled next to him. One of her arms pinned his chest, a leg rested on his thigh. He rather thought he was like a fish caught in a moon-spun net and he straightened his aching body, extricating himself from the woman who’d finally managed to bring him to bed. He ran fingers through sweaty hair. The fire burnt steadily. Directly in front of him, Tommy sat on the floor, awake and watchful. Though the boy was too young to fully understand the scene before him, Brandon felt a son’s judgement. He stepped around the boy and moved to the pot kept warm by the fire and spooned mouthfuls of the meaty stew into his mouth, ensuring to leave a portion for Hetty. He was reckoning on her being starving as well, for one couldn’t say that she lacked enthusiasm.
Hetty stirred herself with a gentle snore. She rolled on one side, her back towards him, her spine passive and knobbly. He observed the length of it, the way it snaked from her neck to dip at the indentation of her waist before drawing his gaze to her buttocks and the dimples that centred his thoughts. Her skin was the colour of clotted cream. The taste of her was still on his tongue. There was no love, but there was desire. Perhaps one could grow from the other. The idea that love could be tended from passion seemed an impossibility. He saw love as a commitment, but it was certain fact that not everyone married for love and many, his father included, fashioned a life from need. For the moment, it was enough that Hetty fancied him and, in return, he had found solace in what she offered.
The little boy sta
rtled and glanced about the room, suddenly anxious.
‘What is it, Tommy?’ whispered Brandon. Shrugging on his trousers and shirt, he turned the knob on the door, opening it to voices calling into the night. Flames were coming from the men’s quarters, the oblong building a wall of sparks and licking fire.
Hetty joined him, a shawl concealing her nakedness, a knuckle rubbing at an eye.
‘Stay inside,’ said Brandon, as the baby began to cry. She nodded obediently and he heard the latch drop behind him.
Brandon pulled on his boots, worrying for the men inside the quarters and the smoke that might send a man to sleep unaware of the danger. He searched for his axe, reassured by the familiarity of its handle and then spun on his heel, noting the destruction. Great orange-red plumes traced the timber walls of the stable and the mill, sucking upwards into the sky. Horses were whinnying in fright. Brandon broke into a run, cold sweat seeping through his clothes. The homestead remained intact. The burning was reflected in the glass windows, flickering terror across the face of the great house. He reached the front door and knocked loudly.
‘Who is it?’ said Mr Truby, his voice uncertain with fear.
‘It’s me, Brandon.’
The Englishman was quick to draw him indoors. ‘We’re under attack.’
‘There are fires everywhere,’ replied Brandon, taking in the pistol his employer held.
‘The men will have scattered,’ Mr Truby said. ‘McCauley can probably be relied on, and a couple of the others. As for the rest . . .’ Mr Truby shrugged. ‘Here take this.’ He handed Brandon a pistol.
‘No,’ said Brandon warily, displaying the axe. ‘This will be enough of a weapon for me. Let’s hope we won’t be needing it.’
The Cedar Tree Page 32