Master of Ransome: An Australian Outback Romance

by Lucy Walker

  When she came out of the bathroom Greg was in the office, bending over the table and sorting out the mail.

  ‘Bathroom’s free,’ Sara said, hesitating by the table.

  Greg looked up. Whether something touched him in Sara’s tired figure or whether her fatigue was greater in her appearance than in her legs and back, she did not know. He suddenly looked concerned for her. He dropped the packet of letters he had in his hand and came round the table to her.

  ‘Sara!’ He took her hand. ‘Sara … I’m sorry. I didn’t think about the ordeal of homecoming.’ For one moment he looked as he had looked in the church.

  But Sara dropped his hand. It was no good. If he kissed her she would be afraid he was holding Julia in his arms. Julia after all-day air travelling had been unblemished by dust and tiredness; had gone riding at five in the morning the following day.

  Sara had lost confidence, but not pride. She was not going to have Greg kiss her because he was sorry for her.

  ‘I’ll be all right when I’ve had some tea,’ she said. And she walked back into her room.

  She heard Greg’s door close softly as he himself went into his room.

  She had done it again! She had banished him! Her heart cried out against herself. But what else could she do? What else could she do?

  She sat on one of the beds and then lay back against the pillow. Greg would be some minutes in the bathroom anyway. She would rest … just a few minutes. … It didn’t matter what dress she put on … there was that pretty pale primrose one she had bought in Perth … Had Greg been going to kiss her? … Oh, Greg!

  The back of Sara’s hand lay across her eyes. She was asleep.

  The next thing Sara knew Greg was leaning over her and beyond him, in the doorway, was Mrs. Whittle.

  ‘I think she’s exhausted.’ Greg was speaking over his shoulder.

  Mrs. Whittle came into the room. Then Greg looked at Sara again and saw that her eyes were open. He straightened up.

  ‘Would you like some tea brought to you, Sara? I think it’s too much to expect you to go to the drawing-room for a formal reception.’

  Sara was making a move to sit up but Mrs. Whittle, who had now come into the room, gently pushed her back with her hand.

  ‘We’ll bring a tray in, Miss Sara,’ she said. Then she looked at Greg somewhat sternly. ‘I really thought she was going to faint in the hall, Mr. Greg.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I hadn’t realised.’ He looked thoughtfully at Sara. ‘Stay there, Sara. I’ll bring you a tray.’

  He turned away and left the room in the same abrupt manner that he had left the sitting-room in their suite at the hotel when he had gone downstairs to meet Julia.

  Mrs. Whittle stayed by the bed, looking down at Sara.

  ‘Is there anything I can do to help you, Miss Sara?’ Her manner was carefully correct but Sara knew that she knew there was something wrong with Sara other than mere fatigue.

  ‘It’s the aeroplane journey,’ Sara said lamely. ‘I’m afraid I’m an awful coward, Mrs. Whittle.’

  ‘So am I,’ said Mrs. Whittle unexpectedly. Her hand rested a minute on Sara’s forehead. Then she smiled. ‘You’ll be all right tomorrow, my dear. You should have told Mr. Greg. He’s not as hard-hearted as all that, you know.’

  She adjusted the lamp and turned out the main light in the centre of the room.

  ‘There you are. That will rest your eyes. Greg will be back in a minute. We’ll have our little celebration tomorrow. There was only Marion and me. The men thought they’d rather wait till dinnertime tomorrow to wish you both luck.’

  She went out of the room with her noiseless tread.

  Somehow Sara felt comforted. Mrs. Whittle was kindly disposed to her and that was something. It was probably because Sara now had the word Camden tacked on her name … but it meant she had a friend and not an enemy in the homestead. A resistant housekeeper would have made life dreadful.

  Greg came back carrying a tray which he placed on the round table near the window. He poured two cups of tea and carried one over to Sara. He brought her some turkey and cucumber sandwiches.

  ‘There’s a great quantity of food to eat outside,’ he said. ‘Do you feel like it, Sara?’

  ‘No, thank you. This will be lovely. It’s all I could possibly take.’

  Sara expected him to sit down by the table to drink his tea, but he brought it over and sat down on the side of the other bed. He stirred his tea thoughtfully a minute.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me you were nervous in the plane, Sara?’

  ‘I was nervous when going down to Perth too. Somehow it didn’t seem to matter so much. I had other things to worry about, I suppose. I’m sorry I haven’t got more stuffing in me. It makes me feel ashamed when I realise how hardy everyone on Ransome is.’

  ‘You’re hardier than you think. That horse ride out to the cattle camp was a considerable feat for someone who had only been riding a week or two.’

  ‘It could have been. I didn’t really understand what I was undertaking. Then there were the other three. They were so confident.’

  ‘Confident enough to make a bet.’

  ‘Don’t hold that against them, Greg. It was my fault.’

  He looked at her over his teacup.

  ‘The particular company makes a lot of difference in the things we undertake with a glad heart,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that so?’

  Sara didn’t quite understand what he meant. A puzzled frown wrinkled her brow.

  ‘Never mind, Sara. Don’t worry yourself about it. I understand.’

  He put his cup down and lit a cigarette. He smiled rather soberly and his teeth shone white in his brown face as they caught the reflection from the light in the lamp.

  ‘Am I allowed to smoke in a lady’s boudoir?’

  ‘Of course.’

  Sara ought to have added, ‘It’s your boudoir too,’ but she couldn’t. There was a barrier somewhere inside herself that she could not hurdle. She felt vaguely that Greg was trying to do it for her. He was looking at her now. How fine-looking he was, sitting there so easily, one knee crossed over the other, the smoke from his cigarette spiralling into his eyes so that he closed them a little and the fine lines at the corners showed white against the tan of his face. He was looking at her steadily. His eyes were thoughtful and there was a hint of a smile still left on his mouth.

  Sara would have given all her youth to have made that gesture that would have put her in his arms. But she couldn’t. Perhaps it was because she knew she was in love with him now. Before she had known that, the terms of their bargain had been good enough. They had been amply good enough. Now they were not, and she did not believe in the possibility of his being in love with her.

  But why did he persist in looking at her like that?

  Sara found it hard to drag her eyes away from his. When this had happened to her before she had thought he was questioning, asking something about herself. Now she knew this was not so. He was asking nothing. He was telling her something. Could it be … there was a sort of gentle but relentless command in his eyes? And did he know he was doing it?

  Sara sat up and put her teacup on the table between the two beds. When she looked back at Greg he wasn’t looking at her any more. He was looking at the last of his cigarette.

  ‘Don’t worry, Sara,’ he said quietly. ‘I understand how you feel. I won’t trouble you any more. We’ve both got rather heavy going in the next few weeks. Together, if we can face them, we might be able to face other things later. If not … there is your marriage settlement. I don’t want you ever to worry about money.’

  He stood up and carried both teacups to the tray on the round table. He picked the tray up.

  ‘I’ll leave both the doors open,’ he said. ‘If you want anything in the night you have only to call. Would you like aspirin? Or a relaxing tablet?’

  ‘No thank you. All I’d like is sleep. I’ll be better in the morning.’

  He was at the door now.

&n
bsp; ‘Good night, Sara.’

  ‘Good night, Greg.’ And to the closing door she added, ‘And take your horrid marriage settlement with you. And Julia. And the wretched colts in the yard that you break by talking to them with your eyes.’

  She turned her face into her pillow.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sara slept dreamlessly and until eight o’clock the following morning. She had no sooner begun to stir, however, when Nellie knocked at her door.

  ‘You want ’um tea, Missis Sara?’

  ‘I’ll have a shower first and then come along to the dining-room. Have you got some of that chilled grapefruit, Nellie?’

  ‘Plenty fella grapefruit. I get ’um chop too. Andy Patterson bin tell Blue-Bag kill ’um fat lamb for you an’ Greg. That fella Greg plenty eat much ’um. Him hungry that fella.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure he is … was. I suppose he’s had his breakfast, Nellie?’

  ‘Oh, him bin go longa Sam Benson. Then him bin go longa Andy to horse yards.’

  Sara had her dressing-gown on now. ‘Nellie, while I’m in the shower you look in that small grey case. Plenty little boxes for you and Mary and all the other girls. You take them.’

  ‘Oh yes, Sara.’ Nellie had dropped the ‘Missis’ and Sara knew it was gone for all time. ‘I gib it other girl.’

  Nellie, still laughing, stooped to open the case and Sara went through the adjoining rooms to the bathroom.

  Things seemed easier now. Except for the fact she had woken in the wrong room life was just the same at Ransome as it had been before. Greg was gone out on the run. There was an absence of people around the living-rooms of the house. Breakfast was there in the dining-room for those who came, when they came, as ever, except for the fact the lamb chops were the most delicious Sara had ever tasted. A tribute from Andy! Sara smiled and then realised she felt almost happy.

  She and Greg were not going to quarrel. There were going to be no scenes between them. They would go on as they had gone on before with mutual respect and mutual good manners.

  Sara would, of course, fall in gladly with this. It was an easy explanation. Sara accepted it because the morning and the sameness of things on Ransome had lightened her heart. It did not occur to her that Greg might have given this instruction to Mrs. Whittle because he understood the embarrassment of Sara’s changed status and he wanted to make things as easy as possible for her.

  She was therefore in the office and leafing through the correspondence before Mrs. Whittle came in.

  ‘Mr. Greg was too tired last night for me to consult him about the menus,’ Mrs. Whittle said. ‘Perhaps you would look this over for him, Miss Sara.’

  Sara glanced quickly at Mrs. Whittle. Was this the housekeeper’s way of making it easy for Sara to make the domestic decisions that Mrs. Camden or Marion should have made in the past but which Greg had had to do?

  ‘I think between us we could save Greg that trouble,’ Sara said. ‘But your menus are always good, Mrs. Whittle.’

  ‘There’s too much sameness about them, Miss Sara. I’m hoping you might have a few ideas and be able to dress them up so that the men will accept them readily. Actually it is feeding so many men at the homestead that is the problem. They don’t like fancy or what they call ‘titivated’ things. That’s why Mrs. Camden and Miss Marion gave up interest.’

  ‘Goodness! You’ve set me a problem,’ laughed Sara. ‘Maybe I’d better send for some cookery books.’

  ‘Even if dishes are titivated up they mustn’t look it,’ said Mrs. Whittle with a smile. ‘I’m afraid the men will all be on guard for a while.’

  ‘Supposing we wear them out with patience,’ said Sara. ‘We’ll just give them what they’re used to until they forget all about it. Then we’ll slip an odd dish in when they’re not looking.’

  ‘I think you’re very wise,’ Mrs. Whittle said. She got as far as the door and then turned. ‘I think it is because you are very wise that you made a hit with Mr. Greg, Miss Sara. I hope you’ll forgive me saying so.’

  Sara blushed with pleasure.

  ‘Thank you so much for saying so, Mrs. Whittle. I didn’t know I showed any particular flair for wisdom. It wouldn’t have occurred to me. I’m not very old …’

  ‘Wise people don’t know they’re wise because they’re usually very natural. Foolish people don’t know they’re foolish … for the same reason. Everybody is nearly always … just themselves.’ Mrs. Whittle paused thoughtfully a minute and then added brusquely, ‘Well, I must get on with the day’s work,’ and she left the room before Sara could think of something more to say.

  Sara walked over to the window and stood looking out in the same characteristic way that Greg always stood when he was thinking.

  Wise? Had she been wise harbouring those bitter doubts the last two days? Was that wisdom? Feelings, Sara thought, had nothing to do with wisdom. They were irrational and often incomprehensible. They obeyed some deeper inner instinct that was beyond understanding or the reasoning of common sense.

  Perhaps she had acted with unconscious wisdom in the homestead matters before her marriage to Greg because she had no deep feelings about the people. She must keep it that way.

  Sara, looking out the window as Greg so often did, made her first marriage resolution. ‘I will have no “feelings” towards people. Even Greg. I will be myself … and let them be themselves.’

  And Julia? asked the ugly imp of doubt. Yes, Julia too, when she comes back.

  Sam Benson was coming across the garden towards the house and he saw Sara standing at the window. He took off his wide-brimmed ancient hat and bowed low from the waist.

  ‘Welcome home, young ’un. I don’t have to call you “Missis”, do I?’ he called.

  ‘I hope I’ll stay young enough long enough for you always to call me young ’un, Sam,’ said Sara, stepping out on to the veranda. ‘It will sound funny when I’m old and grey-haired, won’t it?’

  ‘I’ll be under the coolibah tree then, and I won’t care who calls who what, if I’m not there to hear it.’

  Sara had stepped off the veranda and she had come up to him. Sam’s smile eased away and he held out his hand. His face was serious.

  ‘You know,’ he said as Sara put her hand in his, ‘I never knew Greg do a stupid thing in his life … and he hasn’t done it now, you be good to him, young ’un. His kind is the salt of the earth … and you’ll cop it from every man jack on the place if you do him wrong, even in the little things.’

  ‘I won’t, Sam.’

  The rotund book-keeper closed his eyes to slits and looked hard at Sara.

  ‘You love him?’

  Strangely, Sara did not feel taken aback. She felt more as if she were on a witness stand with a bible in her hand.

  ‘Yes,’ she said simply. ‘I love him.’

  ‘Good. Well, let’s go up and have a cup of tea on it.’ His manner was jocund again. ‘You’ve got your hands full, young ’un, with that mob coming up the end of next week. Any idea how mad a city crowd goes when they get out in the Never-Never?’

  ‘Tell me, Sam, how to keep them all occupied.’

  ‘Let ’em catch an old man crocodile or two. Give ’em plenty of picnics, flies and ants and all. Round-up an easy-going mob every second day. Crack plenty of stockwhips. They’ll think they’re in a wild western film.’

  ‘Except that it’s real. I’ll have to go into it with Greg tonight. If we plan a sort of itinerary beforehand, the stockmen will cooperate, won’t they, Sam?’

  ‘They’ll co-operate all right. Stockmen will pull legs like nobody’s business … and a good time’ll be had by all.’

  The only alteration in the routine of life in the homestead was that Greg accompanied Marion and Sara on their sundown ride.

  He produced an alternative mount for Sara, a mettlesome mare who went by the name of Stella. ‘Because,’ as Andy explained, ‘she’s the star of Greg’s constellation. She’s the best hoss Greg ever broke in. Had so much spirit every man on th
e place bet he’d have to take the iron hand to her. But not Greg. He just took that much longer walking round the yard before he tried the halter on her. And took three days before he got her sniffing his hand. Patience … that’s what Greg’s got. Result … a mare with the same spirit she was born with but real co-operation. That’s what this hoss has got, Sara. Real cooperation. She’ll carry you like the wind, but you handle her right and she’ll never let you down. A real little lady is Stella.’

  Sara was pleased and flattered that Greg had produced Stella as her mount. When she thanked him he had looked at her with a smile.

  ‘I think you’ll learn to manage Stella, Sara. You’re a born horsewoman … not just a taught one. And my wife rides the best I can give her. That is her right.’

  Sara had felt a little fire shoot through her when Greg had said ‘my wife’. It was the first time. But she averted her eyes quickly. This sort of thing, she thought, was properly consistent with his attitude that she should not suffer indignity because of the odd nature of their marriage. An indignity to Sara would have been an indignity to himself.

  Moreover, as the days of that first week back at Ransome passed, Sara could not help noticing Greg’s tightening of the rein on Ransome’s affairs. There was no mistaking now that under the velvet glove there was a hand of steel. Every man on the place was conscious of Greg’s will … quiet, commanding, implacable in every little detail of the management of the station and the preparations for the big events.

  Clifford Camden had come in from the cattle camp and Greg, with a curt instruction to Mrs. Whittle, had altered the place positions at the long dining-table.

  ‘Mrs. Whittle,’ he said, ‘my wife and I will be pleased if you will continue at the end of the table and assist me to serve, during ordinary seasons and when we have only routine visitors here. If, and when, we have distinguished visitors I think it is a greater compliment to them if my wife takes your place and you move round to the left in order to assist her. In the meantime my wife will sit on my right and my mother on my left. Marion will move down two places. We will follow that order when the members of the family arrive next week, except for the initial dinner party.’