Dust on the Horizon

by Tricia Stringer

  The woman advancing on him was tall, with her brown hair in a neat bun. She wore a soft cotton shirt, buttoned to her neck, and a black skirt. She moved with careful elegance. “Good afternoon, sir. How may I help you?”

  Henry removed his hat and gave a slight nod. “I am here to see my mother, Miss Wicksteed.”

  “Oh my, Mr Henry, I didn’t recognise you.” Colour flooded the woman’s pale cheeks. “I beg your pardon.”

  “No need.” Henry grinned at the woman who had been the first staff member to be employed by his mother once her business picked up. After his father had died and they’d moved from Port Augusta to Adelaide it had taken some time to become established. Since then her business had grown to the point where she had shifted to these fine new premises. “I haven’t been away that long.”

  “My but you’ve changed.” She looked him up and down. “Grown taller, filled out … I’m not sure what it is but married life must certainly suit you.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “Please do, and I must congratulate you on becoming a father.” Miss Wicksteed clasped her hands together. “What joy to have a new son. Your mother has been busy sewing for him.”

  “Thank you, Mrs Wicksteed.” Henry looked over her shoulder. The women behind the counter were eying him curiously but turned back to their work under his gaze. They were all new since his mother had opened her North Adelaide shop. “Is my mother in?”

  “Yes, Mr Henry. She’s in the house. She didn’t say she was expecting you. Is it a surprise?”

  “A quick visit. I am here to collect my wife and son and accompany them on the journey back to Hawker.”

  “Mrs Wiltshire says your shop there is doing very well.”

  “It is.” Henry took a step forward. He had more to do than make idle conversation with his mother’s employee. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Wicksteed. I am only here for a short time.”

  Once more the woman blushed. “Oh, forgive me, Mr Henry. It’s been so delightful to see you again but you will be wanting to see your mother of course.” Miss Wicksteed extended an elegant arm in the direction of the polished-wood door behind the counter. “Please do go through.”

  Henry nodded at Miss Wicksteed and the other women behind the counter as he passed and let himself through the door. The next room was long and narrow with several windows that let in ample light during the day. Stretching down the centre was a long wooden table. Several bolts of fabric were piled at one end. Under the windows three sewing machines were set up. Through the open door on the opposite side he could make out a tall cheval mirror and a chaise longue covered in deep maroon fabric. He assumed it would be the room where his mother’s clients took tea, looked at designs and fabrics, and had their fittings.

  He kept walking and quietly opened the door to the next room. It was beautifully furnished with comfortable chairs, an intricately patterned rug and rose pink curtains and was obviously his mother’s private sitting room. She was sitting close to the window, her head bent over the garment she was plying with a needle,

  “That can’t be good for your eyes, Mother.”

  The fabric fell from her hands and her head shot up. Her expression was almost fearful. She blinked.

  “Oh, it’s you Henry.” She used the high armrest of the chair to help her to her feet.

  “Were you expecting a different gentleman caller?”

  “I am far too old to entertain gentlemen.” She smiled and limped towards him.

  “Is your leg worse, Mother?”

  Harriet blew out a sharp breath. “No. It’s often stiff when I’ve been sitting a while. How wonderful to see you.”

  Henry accepted the hug from her open arms.

  “You didn’t expect I would come after receiving your telegraph?’

  “I hoped you would but I hadn’t reckoned on how quickly.” Harriet lifted her chin and studied him. “Have you been to see your son?”

  “I have only just arrived. I thought I would spend the night with you and go to visit my wife and child tomorrow.”

  “That’s very wise. Would you like a cup of tea? I made a pie today. We will have that for our meal later.”

  “I would very much enjoy a cup of tea. The last one I had at the railway station was all but cold.”

  Harriet crossed to a door at the back of the room. “How long do you plan to stay?”

  “Only tonight. I’ve booked passage on a steamer that leaves for Port Augusta tomorrow afternoon. We shall take in some sea air and then continue on the train to Hawker.”

  Harriet took a step back towards him, her gaze holding his. “So Catherine doesn’t know about this yet?”

  “No. I plan to surprise her.”

  Harriet’s eyebrows raised. “It may be a bigger surprise than you’d planned.”

  “In what way? Your telegraph was brief.”

  “They are expensive.”

  “Is there something going on that I don’t know about? Catherine’s letters are full of news about Charles Henry and nothing else.”

  “Sit down, Henry. I will make some tea and we can talk.”

  Henry opened his mouth but his mother left quickly in spite of her limp. He didn’t know whether to be worried about her comments or not. Surely there was nothing wrong with either Catherine or the baby. Henry would have been told by now. Instead of sitting he inspected his mother’s sitting room. It was furnished sparsely yet tastefully. A large mirror hung over the mantel on which sat some small oval-framed portraits. One was of his mother. He remembered it from their days in Port Augusta. Another had been taken at the same time, a picture of Henry as a young man, and the third was a photograph of Henry and Catherine on their wedding day. He picked it up and studied it. It was a full-length portrait rather than the head and shoulders picture that now adorned the new sitting-room wall in Hawker. Henry placed it back carefully on the mantel and looked around.

  Harriet came in carrying a tray. He reached out to take it from her but she ignored his offer of help.

  “What are you looking for?” She placed the tray on a low table between two comfortable-looking chairs.

  “There is no portrait of Father.”

  “I’ve told you before, Henry. Your father wasn’t ever interested in having a portrait taken. I only have those of you and me because I had a client who was a photographer and he took the photographs in exchange for some sewing I did for him.” Harriet poured the tea.

  “I don’t really remember him.”

  “Your father?”

  Henry nodded.

  “That’s not surprising. He was away for much of your life and he died sixteen years ago.”

  “Now that I am a father it makes me think of him.”

  “Perhaps that is a natural thing.” Harriet smiled. “I do remember missing my mother so much when I had you.”

  “But at least you remember your mother. I feel as if the little I recall is slipping away.”

  The cup wobbled on the saucer as Harriet passed it to him. “Now is not the time to be digging up the past, Henry. You have the future to plan for and I think you may have your hands full with that for a while.”

  “What is all this delaying about, Mother?” Henry placed the cup and saucer back on the table. He no longer felt like sipping tea. “Is there something wrong with Catherine or Charles Henry?”

  “Not that I can tell. They both appear fit as fiddles.” Harriet’s sour look changed to a smile. “I have given Catherine the locket that your father gave me. It was his mother’s.”

  Henry knew the locket well. His mother rarely took it off. “That was very generous of you. I know how much the locket meant to you.”

  “Now that Catherine is your wife and has given you a son I think it’s time it passed on to the next generation. It’s safer there.”

  Henry studied his mother. ‘Safer’ was a strange thing to say.

  “Charles Henry is so like you were as a baby.” Harriet’s mouth softened and her eyes twinkled.
“He’s long with a slender little face and a shock of dark hair.”

  A pang of envy swept over Henry. His child was past two months and he still had not held him in his arms. “What is going on, Mother?”

  Harriet sat stiffly back in her chair. His question had come out sharper than he intended.

  “What is it that is delaying Catherine’s return to Hawker, to her home?”

  He studied Harriet as she took a sip of her tea then maddeningly she replaced the cup and saucer on the table before she spoke.

  “A new mother’s devotion to her child is overwhelming. It can sometimes … well, change the way a woman regards her husband.”

  Henry leapt to his feet. Fear pounded in his chest.

  “Are you saying Catherine no longer loves me?”

  Harriet waved a hand at him. “No, no, that’s not what I mean. Sit down.”

  Henry frowned at his mother and lowered himself to the chair again. “What do you mean then?”

  “I think she has become accustomed to being taken care of.”

  Henry puffed out his chest. “Do you think I don’t take care of my wife?”

  “Of course not, Henry. I know you have provided for Catherine very well although her mother may not fully agree.”

  So it was Catherine’s mother who was meddling. Once more Henry leapt to his feet.

  “For goodness sake stop jumping up and down like a jack-in-the-box.” Once more Harriet waved a hand at him.

  Henry ignored her flapping and remained on his feet. “Speak plainly, Mother.”

  “What I mean is that Catherine has not taken responsibility for anything but her child since the birth and even then she has her mother and the woman they employ to help her. It must seem daunting to Catherine to return to Hawker and the duties she knows will await her there.”

  “Is that all?”

  “It may seem of little importance to you but Catherine is not such a strong young woman.”

  Henry placed a hand on the mantel and studied the portrait of his wife. Desire coursed through him at the thought of her returning to his bed. He kept his body turned away from his mother while he tried to gain control of his wayward emotions. His mother didn’t know the real Catherine, especially not the one he knew in the privacy of their bedroom. “Catherine is made of tougher stuff than you know, Mother. I am sure her rest with her family has done her the world of good but it’s time for her to bring our son home. Tomorrow morning I will go and collect her—”

  “She will need time to pack.”

  “I will go early. The steamer doesn’t leave until the afternoon tide.”

  “Very good, Henry. You are the master of the house and you need to take charge. And I’m sure you’re right. Catherine will settle in again once she’s back home.”

  And warm within my arms, Henry thought smugly to himself. He went back to his chair and picked up his cup of tea. “I am most interested to hear about your business, Mother. Perhaps there are some ideas I can adapt for my shop in Hawker?”

  “Perhaps.” Harriet raised her cup in the air, smiled and took another sip of tea.

  Catherine put aside the book she was reading and pushed it under the cushion. There were heavy footsteps on the stairs. She could hear her mother’s voice and that of a man. Not her father, he had left for work some time ago.

  She got up from the chair under the window of her bedroom where she’d been enjoying some quiet after a fretful night with Charles. He’d woken several times and Mrs Phillips had offered to take him out for a walk this morning while Catherine took breakfast in her room and dressed. She’d had the breakfast but was still in her bed clothes.

  “You can’t go in. You have no right to burst in on her unannounced.”

  Catherine’s eyes widened at her mother’s voice. Who was this man who had come upstairs and was apparently now outside her door? She clutched her shawl tightly.

  “I have every right.”

  The voice was—. The door flew open and Catherine’s hand went to her cheek. “Henry,” she gasped.

  He hesitated a moment, taking in her no doubt dishevelled hair, the shawl she had draped over her nightgown, her bare feet.

  “My dearest.” He took the space between them in three strides and his strong arms gathered her in. His lips were warm on her cheek.

  “Really!”

  Florence’s indignant tone made Catherine pull away from Henry. She peered around him to take in her mother’s stunned face. Henry twisted his head to look too.

  “I am sorry I had to force my way in, Mrs Hallet, but I haven’t seen my wife for nearly three months. I am sure you understand how much I’ve missed her. We have much to say to each other. Please allow us some privacy.”

  Catherine almost giggled at the look on her mother’s face; her mouth opened wider and her eyes were round. Catherine felt a surge of excitement at Henry’s forthrightness. She had forgotten the strength of his arms, the softness of his lips.

  “It’s all right, Mother,” Catherine said. “I am quite safe with my husband.”

  “Well.” Florence wrung her hands. “Well, of course you are. I will make some tea. Perhaps you can come down and join me in a moment, Henry, allow Catherine time to dress.”

  “I am quite capable of assisting my wife while she dresses.”

  Catherine pursed her lips together. By the colour of her face, she thought her mother would explode.

  “Well,” Florence said again. “I will make the tea and wait for you both downstairs.” She backed out of the door and pulled it firmly shut behind her.

  Catherine giggled. Henry stifled the sound with his kiss. Before she knew it he was backing her towards the bed. Catherine stiffened.

  “Henry, what are you doing?”

  “Surely we can spend a little time together. I haven’t seen my pretty wife for so long.” His hands slipped inside her nightdress and his lips nibbled at her neck. “You smell so sweet, Catherine.” A small groan gurgled from his throat.

  “No, Henry.” Catherine pushed him away. “We can’t. Not now. Don’t you want to see your son? Mrs Phillips will be back any moment. She’s taken him out for some air. He had such a restless night.”

  The hunger she saw in Henry’s eyes made her panic. She wasn’t ready for this. She bent to retrieve the shawl that had slipped from her shoulders and pulled it tight around her.

  “How long are you staying, Henry?”

  “We must leave by midday.”

  “We?”

  “Yes, I’ve booked us passage on the coastal steamer. It departs the port on the late-afternoon tide.” Henry clasped both of her hands in his. “I thought it would be a more comfortable journey for you, my dear, and for our son of course.”

  “But I’m not ready.” Catherine’s heart raced.

  “We have time.” Henry smiled benevolently. “I can help you, my dearest, and you don’t need to pack everything. I am sure your mother would be happy to send on anything you leave behind.”

  “Our little house will be so crowded.”

  “That is something I was going to surprise you with but allay your fears, my dearest.” He lifted one of her hands to his lips and kissed it. “Our new home is finished. I have been living there this last week. All is ready for your return.”

  Catherine glanced wildly around the room. She couldn’t go, not yet. Her gaze came to rest on the baby’s cradle. “Henry, I’m not sure you understand how much it takes to prepare and look after a baby.” She went to pull her hands from his but he gripped them tightly.

  “And I’m not sure you understand, Catherine.” His eyes darkened and the smile left his lips. “I want my wife and son by my side at home in Hawker where they belong. I am leaving here at midday and you will be at my side.”

  The command in his final words sent another shiver down her spine. Her heart continued to beat against her chest like a trapped bird. The sound of a baby’s cries broke the silence between them. They both turned at a tap on the door.

  �
�Come in.” Henry’s voice carried the tone of the owner of the house rather than a guest.

  Mrs Phillips came in carrying a wailing Charles in her arms. Henry was at her side in an instant. He reached out his hands for the baby.

  “My son,” he said.

  Mrs Phillips looked past him to Catherine. Catherine gave a small nod. Henry would soon see there was little to be done when Charles was screaming for the breast like he was now.

  Henry carried the baby to the bed where he laid him on the cover and unwrapped the blankets. Catherine could see Charles’s little hands waving angrily in the air. Once more she felt the milk gush in her breasts. Nothing would calm him now until he was fed.

  Henry slid his hands beneath his son. “Well, what a fine set of lungs you have young man.” He raised the baby up, studied his scrunched red face then gently put him to his shoulder, supporting the tiny head with one fine-fingered hand and patting the baby’s back firmly with the other.

  “Hello, Charles Henry,” he murmured into the baby’s tiny ear. “I am your father.”

  The wailing ceased almost instantly. Catherine’s eyes widened. Mrs Phillips gave a small cough.

  Henry turned his head slightly in her direction. “Thank you, Mrs Phillips. Can you tell Florence I will be down soon to take some tea with her? Then I’d be most grateful if you could return to begin packing while Catherine is taking care of our son’s needs.”

  Mrs Phillip’s eyes flashed but she simply gave a small nod and left the room, the only sound the crisp rustle of her skirt.

  Henry looked at Catherine, the benevolent smile firmly back on his face. “Make yourself comfortable, my dear. I am assuming the reason for all that bellowing and the snuffling now at my neck is because our son is hungry.”

  Catherine sat. “He is often so of late.”

  Henry watched while she undid the ribbons of her nightgown then he handed Charles to her as if the baby was made of delicate eggshells. Immediately Charles began to wail again. Catherine placed him on her breast. Henry put a gentle hand on the baby’s head then on hers. “He’s a feisty little fellow, isn’t he?”

  “He keeps me very busy,” Catherine said as forcefully as she could muster.