The Landowner's Secret

by Sonya Heaney

  Everyone knew Mister Farrer was the closest thing to a genius they had in the Southern Tablelands. He knew science and farming and crops, and had come from far away in England, and if not even he could find a snakebite on her foot, it was a good sign.

  The maid entered the room again and handed the housekeeper a handful of fabric, and before Alice had a chance to snatch her foot away in fright, she was muscled into place and bandaged from knee to toe-tips.

  ‘What’s that for, then?’ she asked through gritted teeth as the pressure became greater and greater. She trusted the lady, but surely that bandage was tighter than anybody with sense would recommend.

  ‘I beg your pardon, my dear?’

  It was a talent the woman had, to be speaking all polite whilst torturing someone.

  ‘Why’do I need bandagin’, d’you reckon?’

  ‘It’s only a precaution,’ the older woman explained as she tucked the end of the fabric into the rest of it. ‘You didn’t see how swollen your ankle was?’

  Answering was slow to come, because a flood of queasiness hit her so fast, it was all Alice could do to grab her belly and try not to moan too loudly. She saw swirls and sparks and had to force her focus to return to her torturer.

  ‘Mrs Adamson, I might be dyin’ right now. I didn’t see a thing.’

  Chapter 3

  ‘My guess would be a spider bite. Though the severity of the reaction is an unfortunate twist of fate for the girl. In situations such as this, no one can predict who’ll succumb to illness and who’ll be able to go on almost as normal.’

  ‘It wasn’t a snake, then?’

  ‘No.’

  Walter Dunn, provider of any and all medical services in the Barracks Flat’s district, placed his hat back on his head and adjusted his gloves while Robert thanked God he’d not given into his first instinct and made use of that gunpowder.

  ‘She should not be moved from the bed for a few days, at the least. Unless …’

  The physician—a fellow Robert had a fair amount of faith in—eyed him speculatively.

  ‘Unless arrangements can be made to move the girl to a different location?’ the man continued.

  Which was something Robert’s conscience would not allow, of course. Especially not now, considering all that’d happened overnight. His housekeeper and her husband were both in hearing distance, and Robert suspected there were a few other pairs of ears nearby that strained his way. No doubt each one of them would have an opinion ready to offer should he request it.

  However he was the master of the house—allegedly—and it was his choice to make.

  ‘I understand she lives nearby?’

  ‘She does, but there is nobody there for her, so it wouldn’t do.’

  There was nobody as far as Robert was aware of at any rate; he’d given up trying to keep track of the comings and goings of the Ryan family. He couldn’t help but wonder if the small house on the fringe of his property was even habitable. God knew, even he, a man who’d made a point of not noticing ladies’ fashions for the past five years, could tell Miss Ryan’s gown was clean but made as much of patches and darning as it was the original fabric.

  ‘She’ll stay here.’ He added some authority to his tone in case any eavesdroppers thought to object.

  ‘We have Mrs Adamson to care for her, and my sister will be home soon enough.’ He hoped.

  That made two people hurt and incapacitated over the course of the night, and both of them on the fringes of Farrer land. As Robert had suspected, the mysterious gunshot man’s prognosis was not good, and there seemed little even Dunn could offer as a means to save him.

  ‘It is in the hands of God now,’ the man had proclaimed gravely after examining the wound, which hadn’t seemed like the most helpful of explanations coming from a gentleman trained to use medical fact before faith.

  Troubled, Robert cast a brief glance at the members of his staff hovering at a respectful distance off to the side, each one of them failing miserably in their attempts to look like they had a legitimate reason for being there.

  Something had sent Alice Ryan out into the bush in the darkness, and Robert wanted to know what it was. For her safety, for his, and for Endmoor’s. For the town’s too, when it came down to it. Even though it was said bushrangers were a thing of the past, that armed men had stopped roaming the countryside since the Victorian stand-off at Glenrowan nearly half a decade ago, incidents still flared up all over the colonies, and Australia was far too large to be properly policed.

  If Miss Ryan wouldn’t talk to him—he suspected he was in for a battle on that front—there was always Mrs Adamson to weed it out of her.

  Swiping his hat off the railing, Robert thanked the older man, left him to his assistant and makeshift bodyguard waiting with the horse and gig on the drive, and stepped back through the front door of his house.

  The interior was a dark, cool and swift change from the bright April day outside, and it took him a few moments before his eyes cleared of the sunshine.

  ‘It is a spider bite, he thinks,’ he repeated absently to the silhouetted figure hovering a few feet ahead. ‘Is she any improved?’

  ‘No.’ His housekeeper stepped closer, a curious look on her face. ‘But then it is very early to expect such things.’

  He knew that, he did, and he trusted the woman over just about anyone to do all that was necessary to make the girl better.

  ‘I suppose you’re right.’ Passing her at a stride, he started in the direction of the sickroom, and then common sense finally caught up with him and he stopped still.

  What had he been planning to do? Sit by her bedside? They were hardly on that level of familiarity.

  Choosing to ignore Mrs Adamson’s scarcely concealed amusement at his dithering, he grappled for something sensible to say.

  ‘Miss Ryan’s father died not long ago, correct?’

  ‘Yes. It’s been a couple of years now. The mother’s gone, too.’

  ‘And so … who is it I am supposed to contact about her illness?’

  He was beginning to think the answer to that question really was nobody, as he’d told Dunn, as surely she’d have been missed already if there was anyone to do the missing. There was the brother, but Robert had seen neither hide nor hair of the fellow for months, and he knew for a fact the town milkman’s position, the occupation Ian Ryan had tried after he found farm work to be distasteful, had been reassigned some time ago.

  ‘Since you booted the brother off Endmoor, best I can tell the girl has been pulling in most of the coin herself.’

  ‘Are you saying I should have kept him on, Mary?’

  It was more than a little rude to address her by her Christian name, but it was an immediate reaction to the stab of guilt he felt at her words.

  ‘Lord, no. If you pay a man, then he ought to be doing the work in return for it, correct? I never saw that boy put in an effort for more than five minutes at a time. His head was full of dreams of excitement. Thought he was too good for farm work, that one did.’

  Robert fiddled with the leather braiding on the hat in his hands.

  ‘And in town? Who ought to be told about this?’

  When the woman did not immediately answer, Robert felt a terrible ache on behalf of the girl. He looked towards the sickroom, lingering a moment as the events of the past few hours caught up with him.

  ‘There must be someone.’

  ‘Oh, there’s always someone. It is only the Ryans seem to have a talent for dying young. Or disappearing, at the least,’ she added in an undertone, eyes flicking briefly in the direction of the bedrooms.

  Why had it never occurred to Robert that the sister might suffer for her brother’s actions? She couldn’t be very old, by the looks of her, but she was a young woman now, rather than the girl he’d stupidly thought she still was. It was a consequence of knowing her in passing for as long as he could recall that she’d gone and matured without his notice.

  ‘Word will get around town soon eno
ugh,’ Mrs Adamson said in what he supposed was a comforting tone. ‘For the time being I’ve no plans to stray far from this house for any period of time. Not with bushrangers running riot in the countryside.’

  Bushrangers … apparently Mary Adamson was one Southern Tablelands resident who’d no issue with reviving a buried and fearful word.

  Her piece said, she patted him on the arm and brushed by to continue with her chores, the true ruler of the house no matter what posture he assumed.

  Completely unable to get on with his day as planned, Robert spent the next five minutes pacing distractedly in the library. There was plenty to do but it felt insensitive to even attempt it when he’d two invalids on his property. At any rate he was poised for the day’s next drama, whatever it would be. There was little point even trying to concentrate on the minutiae of consolidating his papers.

  His pacing took him by his desk with its documents full of graphs and notes on vinification lying in wait. It seemed to him the pile had grown since the day before, and it couldn’t be put off for much longer.

  After wasting another minute or two glaring at the work, and listening to the increasingly intrusive ticking of the clock on the mantle, he realised he wasn’t alone in the room.

  ‘Thank you for everything, John,’ he murmured, turning to his friend. ‘You’ll be thoroughly fed up with the ride to and from town by this point.’

  The fair-haired man made a dismissive gesture with his hand and stepped further in, not bothering to hide his amusement at Robert’s mood.

  ‘I’m glad of the exercise,’ he said, and grinned. ‘One tends to ride faster when they imagine a gang of highwaymen hot on their tail.’

  Still agitated despite his best efforts, Robert grabbed a book off the nearest shelf at random and shifted it from one hand to the other.

  ‘It feels redundant to stay here through the day when I won’t achieve a thing.’

  ‘You make a good point.’

  Tutting at Robert’s fidgeting, John relieved him of the tome. ‘And yet you will stay close by, because you intend to protect the household.’ He glanced down at the book in his hands, rose his eyebrows, and snorted. ‘Really, Robert? The Atrocities of a Convent? Instead of working, you’ll waste the day reading about randy nuns?’

  ‘Believe me, John, you’ve spectacularly misinterpreted the title.’

  ‘So it’s about regular nuns? The type with the rosaries and the canes? No doubt it’s as boring as every other religious work I’ve been unfortunate enough to cross paths with in my life. I misinterpreted it deliberately, of course.’

  ‘How predictable of you,’ Robert said. He hadn’t a clue what the book was about, and had no plans to read it in the near future.

  The other man pressed a hand to his chest. ‘Predictable? You wound me.’ He returned the book to its spot on the shelf, shaking his head in disappointment. ‘Come on. We can’t stand about in here all day without going at least half mad.’

  They left the room together and turned towards the front door in silent mutual agreement. Once they were free of the house, Robert rested his hands on the veranda’s rail.

  ‘They’d be mad to remain in town, those thugs, whoever they are. Surely they know they’re being hunted.’

  ‘And I suppose the girl will know incriminating information of some sort.’

  Robert was certain of it.

  ‘Miss Ryan? I suppose so, and I intend to ask when I can.’ If he could.

  Unfortunately, and no matter what he thought of Alice Ryan, with each hour his suspicions about Ian Ryan’s involvement in the night’s dramas grew stronger. As long as the man could avoid the noose, he’d be looking for an easier—and more exciting—way to earn his keep than honest work.

  ‘Want to make an attempt at checking the plans?’ John asked. ‘I’ve a sketch of a layout for the vines, if you’re in a mood to see it.’

  ‘Yes,’ Robert said, pushing away from the ledge, ‘Let’s do that.’

  Their path took them past the various buildings that surrounded the main house, the space eventually opening out onto an expanse of fields and the gentle rises of the mountains beyond. Merino sheep dotted the land, partially hidden behind the dry, yellowing grasses that grew in the region.

  Sheep and wheat: the two mainstays of the tablelands.

  An outbuilding up ahead was home to most of their recent work. The place, looking a little worse for wear now, was the original house built on the Farrers’ newly acquired land when Robert was just a boy. It served as home while the homestead was being built, and even though it’d seemed a perfectly fine house to Robert in the past, now it seemed to shrink with each passing year.

  He bent to pick up a rock from the middle of the worn gravel path and tossed it far out into the grass.

  ‘The police seemed at least as excited about all of this as they were concerned,’ John said as they neared the door. ‘It seems that brawls at the tavern and the odd lost cow aren’t excitement enough for the magistrate, but short of the two of us stalking the hills for unsavoury sorts, I doubt there’s much else that can be done for the time being.’

  For a good ten seconds Robert seriously considered doing just that, and then dismissed the idea. He needed to be close to his home, not off roaming the Brindabella Range on a wild-goose chase.

  He looked out at the mountains. The bushland covering the far slopes was thick and largely untouched, and from where they stood the eucalypts turned everything a deep blue. They could track that land for weeks and never see another soul.

  He sighed and walked on as John pressed a hand to the old house’s door.

  ‘Come on and look at the plans and tell me what a genius I am. And if all goes well for the rest of the day—God knows, it can’t go worse—we might open that bottle of Château Margaux you’ve been saving.’

  It was then, when Robert had one foot across the threshold and had turned to say something to his friend that he’d immediately forget, that the shout rang out and footsteps sounded behind them, heavy and pounding the ground as one of the stockmen called Robert’s name.

  The fellow, Harry, skidded to a stop on the path, breathing heavily, all frowns.

  ‘What now?’

  ‘Kicked the bucket,’ the man managed, and Robert’s heart leapt. He exchanged a glance with John.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Died,’ the fellow said, as though the expression was beyond Robert’s comprehension. ‘Just now. Can’t say I’m surprised.’

  He had to ask; he didn’t want to ask.

  ‘Which one of them is dead?’

  ‘The—what? Oh,’ Harry said, realising what he’d not said, ‘It’s the chap, not the girl.’

  Robert let out a short, sharp breath. ‘What happened?’

  The man jerked his head back in the direction of the staff quarters and pulled a face.

  ‘He’s … well, he’s dead, isn’t he? Made this bloody awful sound—’ the man paused to demonstrate, ‘—and then opened his eyes, and that was it. He was gone. Took us by surprise, it came on so fast.’

  Robert could’ve done without the theatrics, and might’ve said so if he wasn’t so busy silently chanting it wasn’t the Ryan girl who’d died. It wasn’t her.

  ‘Well,’ John said, his standard humour gone from his tone, ‘I suppose this’ll change our plans for the day. You’ll want me riding back to town again now to notify the police and such. Let’s call our business cancelled for the afternoon.’ He began to button his coat.

  Robert scrubbed a hand across his face. ‘Thank you, and do not get yourself shot on the way.’

  John inclined his head. ‘I’ll do my best.’

  That decided, and the place in turmoil for the third time in half a day, Robert pivoted back towards the homestead as his friend once again left calling for his horse.

  ***

  Well, she’d done it.

  Alice had lasted as long as she bloody well could before the queasiness won over her stubbornness and s
he leaned over the bed to puke all over Mister Farrer’s fine wooden floor. She’d had enough sense to try and miss the rug, but no strength left to check if she’d managed it.

  A whole day, an entire night, and most of the day after had passed since she’d been dragged out of the bush by one of the fanciest men in the region, and she was obscenely grateful she’d not had to spend that time alone, terrified of her own shadow.

  But now it was time to be gone, before any well-meaning person tried to make her stay on.

  Vaguely, she was aware she’d won a victory over what’d seemed like certain death the morning before, but she was far too miserable right then to feel much in the way of triumph. Later, maybe, once she’d got herself out of the homestead and back on the road home she might feel gladder to still be alive. However she definitely needed fresh air and sunshine for such feelings, and the sickroom’s curtains were pulled closed.

  So instead she lay back, collapsed across the mattress, too miserable to be mortified, and too exhausted to call for help. Closing her eyes, she remembered too late that was what brought on swirls and sparks dancing in front of her vision, but opening them again seemed too hard. Instead she drifted, feeling like she was spinning in circles, and waited for someone to come and discover her sorry self.

  It was terrible being so cold but so hot at the same time, and right before she was sick on the floor both her feet had ached for a reason she didn’t understand—they still did. Actually, right then all of her ached.

  One good thing had come of it: in her trip over the side of the bed she’d found her old boots, which were going to be needed when she made her escape.

  And escape she would, because voices carried a long way in the country and she’d overheard more than enough talk since arriving at Endmoor to know she and Ian were in some bloody big trouble.

  Death—murder—possibly a robbery or two. All of them hanging offences in New South Wales, and so far she’d not a clue if her brother was one of the dead, or one of the fellows who’d be headed to the noose just as soon as he was caught.