by Peter McAra
Five minutes later, Tom met her on the verandah, bucket of water in one hand, scrubbing brush in the other.
‘This way.’ He led Kate on a narrow path across the hill behind the house. They passed a spill of weathered granite boulders, then headed for a clump of eucalypts. When he reached a lone rock that stood conspicuous on the otherwise smooth, gently sloping hillside, he stopped, looked down at a horizontal slab of polished black granite.
Kate peeped over his shoulder and read the etched words:
Eleanor Jane Fortescue
Born 13th July, 1852 Died 12th June, 1884
Native of Cranley, Hampshire
Her love was like the gentle rain that ends the drought
Ever remembered by her loving son Thomas Horatio Fortescue
‘She liked to sit here, rest her back against this boulder, take in the quiet,’ Tom murmured, almost to himself. ‘Sometimes she’d hold me on her knee, sing a little song into my ear.’ As Kate stood lost in the quiet strength of the epitaph’s message, she watched Tom clean the slab, discard dead flowers from a marble vase, and replace them with the fresh roses. Then it was as if he fell into a trance.
For minutes he stood quiet. Was he remembering a special time with the mother who’d been everything to him before she died? Perhaps he’d decided, in the simple ways children’s minds work, to keep loving her, remembering her. Obeying her, even. Was he now obeying his mother’s dying wish by wooing a woman she’d have approved of? A woman she’d have chosen for him?
He looked away. Now he seemed to flow into the friendly silence of the nearby hills. She imagined him talking to his mother, taking in her every word from the times she’d reached for his hand as she lay in hospital during those last sad weeks of her life. He’d have gritted his teeth at her hand’s coldness, its withered grey look, and listened to her whisperings. They flowed into Kate’s mind as if the dead woman stood beside her, whispering to her son.
‘I want you to bury me at Kenilworth, Tom. Up near that big lonely boulder, where you and I sat after our walks. The view from there is so beautiful. The essence of Kenilworth. I shouldn’t want a big ugly tombstone, Tom. Just something simple. Something that blends with Nature. Have the stonemason carve my epitaph on the boulder. Some words that you make up. To tell your children, your grandchildren, how things were for you and me.’
‘There,’ Tom said as he picked up brush and bucket. His voice returned to its usual matter-of-fact tone. ‘She liked things to be tidy.’ He stood for a moment, still, respectful, looking down at the slab of dark rock. Kate held her breath. This was a sacred moment for Tom. She mustn’t intrude.
He looked up from the grave into Kate’s face. She couldn’t recall a time when he’d seemed so at peace. His eyes told her it was time to go.
‘I love the epitaph, Tom,’ she said. ‘Who composed it?’
‘I did. Who else?’
‘I’ve seen another side of you.’ Kate wanted to tell him she sensed at least a little of the emotion that must surely fill his mind when he made these visits. Clearly, he wanted to preserve his memories of the mother who’d loved him more than anyone else in his life. ‘You must have really loved your mother. Sorely missed her when she died.’
‘Yeah. Now let’s head back,’ he said, voice calm, businesslike. ‘It don’t do for a bloke to get too sad.’ Kate watched him from the corner of her eye. Had that flick of his wrist across his face wiped away a disobedient tear?
As they walked home across the hillside, the quiet enfolded her. It was as if the two of them had become part of the great sweep of hills and valleys and plains that spread below them—silent, still, but alive, breathing, aware. When they reached the Big House, he’d transform to the busy, organised man with a vast property to run. But now, for a few moments, he was the son who’d loved his mother, who would never forget her.
‘I’ll just walk by the stables,’ Tom said as they headed home. See if there’s enough hay.’ As they closed on the old wooden building, a friendly neigh greeted them. Tarquin, the horse Tom rode day to day, poked his head through the open top half of the door to his stall. He whinnied again, evidently happy to see his master. Tom walked over and rubbed his nose. That must be the way the two greeted each other each morning, Kate decided. The two creatures—man and horse—were obviously good friends.
‘Wish I owned a horse,’ she murmured as she followed Tom to the stall door. ‘I’d love to have a friend like that.’
‘You can,’ Tom answered. ‘I must ask the other horses first. If they agree, we’ll see what can be arranged.’ She studied his face, took in its serious look. ‘Say, for next weekend?’
CHAPTER 5
All week Kate fretted over her looming meeting with the horse that would become hers while she lived at Kenilworth, tussling with a mixture of excitement and nerves. She mustn’t become an anxious schoolgirl as soon as next Sunday’s breakfast was over. She rehearsed her plan often. She’d wait patiently until the breakfast table was cleared, knowing it would be the moment that Tom would aim his trademark grin in her direction, then lead her down to the stables. She’d soon come to recognise that Tom was nothing if not organised.
‘Time to head for the stables, Kate,’ he said on cue as they took their breakfast plates to the kitchen.
‘I’ll fetch my boots from the cottage, meet you on the verandah,’ she said, trying to hide her bubbly excitement. Five minutes later, she joined him.
‘Wait here. I’ll fetch your new friend for you.’ He disappeared into the stables, then led a horse into the yard. Taking a bridle and saddle from the stable door, he attached them to the placid horse as it stood as still as a statue.
‘Meet Esmeralda.’ He chuckled as Kate’s eyes widened.
‘Mmm. What should I do next?’
‘Just say good morning, make friends. She’s been dying to meet you.’ He laughed to show he was joking. ‘I told Tarquin. He passed the word on to Esmeralda. She hasn’t had a regular rider since I bought Tarquin at the Croydon Creek Show last year.’
‘But—’ In all her life, Kate had never actually ridden a horse.
‘I took the liberty of choosing a saddle for you,’ Tom said. ‘Usually a lady tries a few, finds one that suits her, and buys it. This one’s pretty small about the— It should fit you very well.’
So Tom couldn’t bring himself to say the word ‘bottom.’ That was so like him. She watched as he patted the horse’s nose affectionately and murmured something in horse language, as if she was his older sister, or perhaps a maiden aunt. ‘First, you two girls should get acquainted,’ he said, waving Kate towards the horse.
‘And how do I do that?’ Kate asked. Already Esmeralda was looking her over, snorting thoughtfully.
‘Pat her nose.’
Kate obeyed. She’d seen such in horsey circles before. Perhaps it was the horse equivalent of shaking hands. As she reached out to make timid contact with the horse, it whinnied, tossed its head. Kate stared into its limpid eyes, sensed a bonding growing between them. Could that toothy look be a horsey smile?
‘I could grow to like you, girl,’ the horse’s eyes seemed to be saying. ‘If you behave like a lady, and treat me well, we could become good friends.’
Kate nodded to her new acquaintance, stroked her nose again, then stood back, taking in her looks. Clearly, the horse had aristocratic bloodlines. Its face told the world as much. But its sagging belly hinted at its age. No matter. If Kate must actually ride it, the elderly horse might be more docile, less inclined to skittishness, than a frisky adolescent mare. Soon Kate must actually mount the horse. But how?
‘First, you must climb onto the horse,’ Tom said, reading her thoughts.
‘Indeed?’ She hesitated. ‘Oh. I forgot to wear my riding habit.’
‘Esmeralda forgives you. Now you must mount. This is your first time in the saddle, so you won’t mind if I give you a little help.’ He meshed his fingers to make a step and lowered them beside the horse’s back. ‘Put your
boot here.’
‘You mean on your hands?’
‘I do, Miss Courtney. Surprising as that may seem to a well-bred young lady such as yourself.’ Pushing aside her city-girl worry about such an insanitary act, she eased her weight onto Tom’s meshed fingers. Then he flicked her upwards. His powerful lift almost pitched her over the saddle onto the ground on the other side. Instinctively she grabbed the saddle’s pommel, straightened, and smiled down at him.
‘Now, Kate. Excuse me if I …’ He took her waist in his hands and pulled her backwards. Her bottom nestled into the saddle’s rounded space. As his strong hands gripped her waist, her skin smouldered at the touch of his fingers through her thin cotton blouse.
‘Now this.’ He took hold of her knee and pushed it back, grasped the ankle of her boot and eased her heel into the stirrup. Then he walked round to the horse’s other side and repeated the exercise.
Every time Tom touched her, Kate’s body sang. She mentally smacked herself. Yet again, she must remind herself that any closeness between her and Tom must be out of bounds—always. She should concentrate on the business at hand. In moments, she’d actually ride the horse. That daunting act might well require every last bit of her concentration. Tom mounted Tarquin, then bent and took hold of the leading rein attached to Esmeralda’s bridle.
‘We’ll take a stroll together first,’ he said as his horse led them across the stable yard. Esmeralda followed, walking easy. Kate sensed that her steed was a natural lady, oozing the common sense that came with maturity. They reached the gate.
‘Now you two must continue by yourselves,’ Tom said as he unfastened the lead rein. ‘Follow me. Take hold of your reins, Kate. Keep the lightest grip on them. Remember, they keep the bit in the horse’s mouth. Imagine the feeling if someone were to pull on a steel bit in your mouth.’
Kate felt the horse moving under her, relaxed, confident. It was telling her that it understood her nervousness, that it would gently educate her in the art of riding. Esmeralda strolled along the track, a few yards behind Tom and Tarquin. They turned onto a path which led into a paddock. Kate saw that the path led across a grassy hill in a gentle climb. Already she’d come to enjoy the rhythm of the horse’s easy gait as it rocked her body side to side in the saddle. She began to understand why some folk came to love horses and riding to distraction.
In minutes, they reached the top of the hill. Tom halted his horse. Kate followed suit, turning to take in the endless view. A few yards away, she spotted a craggy stone, roughly shaped into a column. Could it be a memorial? Tom dismounted, then helped Kate down from the saddle. Would she be able to climb back onto the horse by herself? As she walked to the stone, she saw a bronze plate, almost hidden by the long grass, bolted to the column’s base. She read the verdigris-encrusted letters.
On this spot, on June 14th, 1831, Horatio Fortescue, gentleman,
rested his horse and resolved to settle the land hereabouts.
May God preserve this land for eternity, for the nurture of all future
generations of the noble Fortescue family.
So this beautiful place was sacred to Tom and his ancestors, courtesy of the adventurous Englishman who’d travelled ten thousand miles to find his destiny. She turned to him.
‘Thought you might like to see this,’ he said as he pointed. ‘You seem rather interested in my family’s past.’ He eased a glance over the rolling landscape, took a long, easy breath. ‘When I ride up here, I like to sit awhile. Enjoy the quiet. If you wish, you might take a walk, Kate. Amuse yourself for a while.’
Kate chose to sit, to stare at the blurred horizon, sensing the long-dead Horatio’s feelings warming her own heart. Something stirred to life again in Kate’s mind—a forbidden fantasy that had already cost her too many sleepless hours. Ridiculously, impossibly, she was Tom’s wife. Mother to their children. Her six-year-old son, their eldest, stood beside Kate now, as she basked in the stillness.
‘Read those words to me, James,’ she told him as his exploring fingers traced the letters on the old plaque.
‘Why, Mother?’
‘Because they’re special. Because they’ll tell you who you are. Why you’re here.’
‘Very well.’ His fingers slid over each word in turn. ‘On—this—spot—on …’ She absorbed every hesitant nuance of his childish voice.
No! She mustn’t let that dream escape from the Pandora’s box buried in a deep cellar somewhere in her brain. It would only bring more pain—pain she’d already suffered for long enough. Obediently, she followed Tom’s example, sat on a grassy tuft a few yards from him and gazed at the horizon. It was minutes before he beckoned to her to mount. When she managed it by herself, he smiled and waved from his saddle.
‘Good,’ he said. ‘The monument? What did you think of it?’
‘It’s most impressive,’ she said, blocking any revisiting of her naughty fantasy.
‘I’m planning to show it to Laetitia if I can entice her up here.’ He smiled—a tad whimsically, Kate thought. ‘Show her I have the right bloodlines.’
‘I’m sure she’ll love it.’ A shaft of pain speared Kate’s heart. Those childish moments of fantasy with her imaginary son had been worse than stupid. For nights to come, she’d bleed. She must never again let herself fantasise about a life with Tom. Least of all, about having his children. It could never happen. For the hundredth time, he’d signalled where his heart was leading him—straight to a classically beautiful English gentlewoman called Laetitia—the woman his destiny had created for him. The wife who’d have his babies. She stole a look at him as he sat tall in the saddle, then forced her face into a smile. For the moment she must bandage her wounds until she had at least a little privacy.
‘You’ve passed your first test, Kate,’ he called. ‘Now follow me home. Reckon a beer will be in order tonight.’
Back at the stables, he waited as Kate slid down from the saddle, standing ready to catch her if she fell. She surprised herself by landing on both feet unaided.
‘You did that easy.’ Tom laughed. ‘I’d say you were born in the saddle.’
‘I’d say you’re much too kind,’ Kate said, struggling to sound at ease. ‘But I did love it.’
‘Glad to hear it,’ he said. ‘Now you know you can do it, you must practice. Often. I’ll teach you how to manage the bridle and the saddle.’ With a deft flick of his fingers he released the bridle from Esmeralda’s nose, then removed the saddle.
‘Now, Kate. Put it all back again.’
‘But—’
‘Come. I want you to feel confident. So you can go riding any time the mood takes you.’ He looked into the flawless blue of the sky. ‘I reckon some mornings have been created especially for people who love horses. People who want the joy of riding through this beautiful country.’ He looked into her face. ‘Do you want that, Kate?’
‘Yes!’ It was as if she’d been bitten by a sneaky bug. A bug that made city girls suddenly realise they loved the country—its endless horizons, its bracing air, its limitless space. She sensed a sting of sadness as she reminded herself that she would never actually live in this beautiful place.
‘Well, then. Here’s the bridle. Put it on the horse.’ Recalling Tom’s demonstration, she eased the bridle into place. As she fiddled with the buckles, Esmeralda looked on, a wise mother watching her toddler child put on its shoes for the first time.
‘Good. Now the saddle. Make sure the girth is tight.’
Soon Kate stood, mission accomplished.
‘Not bad.’ Tom’s smile told her she’d done a competent job. ‘Now you can enjoy a ride whenever you wish.’
Back in her cottage, Kate rubbed her tender bottom and relaxed. Yes, she’d ride Esmeralda again. And yes, she’d taken another step into the real life of Kenilworth. But she absolutely must block the infantile dreams that popped into her mind whenever Tom and she spent time together away from the classroom. A few moments of that naughty fantasy would cost her long nights of pain.
***
Over the following days, Kate slipped into the habit of persuading herself she was comfortable with her new life. Each morning, as she stepped out of her cottage into the cool stillness, she took deep breaths and let her thoughts drift free. Yes, she’d love to make a life here. A happy, fulfilling life. And no, it would never happen, of course. But lately, some germ had infected her brain, telling her she was allowed to pretend.
One night, she actually dreamed that Tom had joined her in her bed. He’d walked in round midnight, bare-chested, smiling. Then he’d flung back the sheets and— Stop! She absolutely must control those wicked instincts.
There were times when she had to struggle to concentrate on the afternoon’s lesson. The day before, as she worked with Tom in the study, she’d found herself watching his muscles flex under his too-tight shirt as he sat at his desk.
‘Now, Tom. Pronouns.’ She clicked into schoolma’am. ‘I want you to fill in the blank word in this sentence. You and I are in Sydney. We decide to visit the park. Your friend Bill drives by in his carriage. You wave, and you say, “Hello, Bill, could you kindly take Kate and … blank … to the park?”’
She watched as he considered the hidden implications of the question. Watched his muscled arms flex, the slow rise and fall of his chest.
‘Kate and me,’ he said. Kate’s eyes, her mind, stayed locked on the shirt stretched across his wide shoulders, lost in the moment. ‘Kate and me,’ he repeated, a little louder. ‘You know, personal pronoun stuff. Subject and object.’ He coughed. Loudly.
‘Oh. Yes. Perfect.’ Blushing, Kate heaved her consciousness back to reality—away from a bedroom incident her imagination had chosen to roll out like a play. ‘Very good. Not everyone would give the correct answer. Now shall we take a look at third person pronouns?’