“How are your cattle settling in?” Henry poured sherry into three glasses. The Reverend continued to sip his lemonade and declined a cigar.
“More about how my men are settling to them. Not the same to move about as sheep. They have horns.” Prosser gave a derisive chuckle. “Something a few of my men have found out the hard way.”
Sydney Taylor took a puff of the cigar Prosser had lit for him and spoke to Henry. “And you’ve turned some of your cropping properties over to sheep, I’ve heard.”
“Just the one south of Cradock. It worked in both our favours. Ellis was looking to destock and I was looking for sheep.” What no-one knew was that Prosser had sent most of his stock to markets in the south and made good money on them. Many of the stock on Henry’s southern property were from Smith’s Ridge and he had bought them from Prosser for half the money they were worth to Joseph Baker, a deal that had given satisfaction to both Henry and Prosser. “Finding feed for them has proved difficult of course. The land is quite bare but we are managing with a relatively small number of stock for now.”
“Are you sure it was wise to convert cropping country to grazing?” Sydney blew a puff of smoke into the air. “The farmers I’ve spoken to have had a fairly good harvest.”
“They’re close to Hawker perhaps.” Henry stroked his chin. “Even Wilson had some average results but around Cradock the crops were very poor.”
“There are most certainly some very desperate families there in need of our prayers,” the Reverend said.
“Fools, all of them,” Prosser barked.
“That is surely harsh, Mr Prosser. These families have taken up their land and put everything they have into it in good faith.”
Prosser blew a cloud of smoke towards the Reverend. “Encouraged by a misguided government who has no understanding of the conditions.”
“Your property borders that Baker fellows who lost his wife recently, doesn’t it?” Sydney changed the subject. “How is he getting on?”
“Grief affects us all differently.” Prosser’s face darkened.
“I’m sorry, Ellis.” Sydney put a hand on the other man’s arm. “I didn’t mean to stir up sad memories.”
“I don’t believe Johanna and I will ever get over the loss of our son.”
“The police have not been able to bring his killer to justice?” Henry asked.
“Constable Cooper has done little to track down the culprit.” Prosser puffed himself up, his face nearly as red as his hair. “We grieve for our son every day but Baker appears to be managing fine without his wife.”
Sydney shook his head. “My wife spoke to him in your shop a while back, Henry. She said he was quite delusional with grief.”
Henry held his breath. Malachi had informed him of Baker’s claims that the tonic had killed Baker’s wife. Nothing more had come of it and sales were as brisk as usual for the variety of lotions and tonics he stocked.
“He may well be delusional but I am confident he has made up for the loss of his wife.” Prosser’s lips turned up in a lurid sneer.
“How so?” Sydney asked.
Prosser looked from Henry to the Reverend then back to Sydney. “He’s got a woman living there.”
“Be damned.” Sydney slapped his leg.
“He has young children.” The Reverend looked sternly at each of them. “No doubt he would need a housekeeper.”
Prosser stabbed a finger in the air. “She’s more than a housekeeper. And not only that but she’s black.” Prosser spat the last word as if it was poison.
Henry wasn’t surprised. He had always thought Joseph Baker was mixing his favours and he’d been right.
“One should be sure of one’s facts before speaking ill of others, Mr Prosser.” The Reverend had gone quite pale.
“Oh I’m sure,” Prosser growled. “I had reason to call in at his house only last week. Baker wasn’t there but his black woman was. Full of airs and graces and acting like the lady of the house with the youngest Baker child on her hip.”
Henry shook his head. “Shameful.”
Catherine appeared in the doorway, Charles in her arms. She hesitated, looking from one man to the other.
“Hello, my dear.” Henry hoped she hadn’t heard their discussion.
Catherine smiled sweetly. “I am putting the baby to bed, gentleman. Then we ladies hoped you might join us in the sitting room to sing some carols. Our shop assistant, Mr Hemming, has been dining in the kitchen with Mrs Nixon and her children. I’ve asked him and Flora to join us.”
Henry opened his mouth to speak but Catherine caught his eye.
“I think that’s very humble of you, to invite your workers to join us, Mrs Wiltshire.” The Reverend’s pale face was stretched in a wide smile.
Henry didn’t think so but he could hardly contradict the priest.
“You’ll lead us in the singing won’t you, Reverend?” Catherine asked.
“I’d be delighted.” The Reverend shot across the room as if eager to escape.
“Please don’t hurry. It will take me a few minutes to put Charles down but in the meantime Flora is about to bring out some of her delicious mead.”
Prosser clapped his hands. “Well that should lubricate our throats. What do you say, Sydney? Are you up to some singing?”
“I think so. It is Christmas after all.”
Catherine disappeared from the door and Prosser and Sydney made their way out towards the sitting room. Henry paused a moment, thinking of Baker. The man may have been feeling desperate enough to take a black woman to his bed or maybe they’d been cohabitating for some time. He remembered the first time he’d met Joseph. He had been brazen about his connection with the natives then.
If the truth be told Henry was almost envious of Baker. Since Catherine had returned from Adelaide he could count on one hand the number of times they’d coupled. He was a married man for goodness sake but he felt constantly frustrated by Catherine’s lack of interest in that part of their marital life.
“Oh, I’m sorry Mr Wiltshire, I didn’t realise you were still in here.”
Henry looked around at the comely Mrs Nixon hovering in the doorway.
“Is it all right if I start clearing the table?”
“Of course.”
Henry watched her cross the room and begin stacking the plates. She kept her back to him but he could tell by her movements she was aware he was watching her.
“Catherine says you have some mead for us.”
Flora stopped her work and turned. He stared at her. She met his gaze with a look that suggested she could see right into him. He enjoyed her boldness. In fact, to his surprise, it aroused him.
“I have served it in the sitting room. I would like to clear up in here before the singing starts.” She turned back to her work.
Henry watched her a moment longer then left her to join his guests. He hoped some boisterous carol singing would burn up some of his restless energy.
It was nearly midnight by the time he stood beside Catherine on their front verandah farewelling their guests. Feeling jubilant at the success of their first official dinner and mellow from several glasses of mead he slid his arm around Catherine’s waist and nuzzled her neck as they stepped back inside. He felt his wife stiffen.
“Henry, please,” she whispered and slipped from beneath his arm.
He followed her into the sitting room where she put out the candles, keeping one to guide her. Henry turned off the lamp in the window and followed her to the bedroom. Once more he encircled her with his arms.
“Henry.” She pushed him away. “It has been such a busy week and now today with all our guests I am simply exhausted. I must get some sleep.”
“Charles sleeps all night now.”
“I know but it’s after midnight and he will still be awake at dawn. I am so desperately tired, my love, and my head aches. You understand, don’t you?”
Her big round eyes shimmered in the candlelight. It only served to inflame his desire fo
r her. He took her in his arms and pressed his lips to hers, trying to arouse that same desire in her but she struggled against him.
“Henry, stop.” She stepped back. “I am your wife, not a common strumpet to be taken at your pleasure.”
Henry was so shocked at her words he was speechless.
She turned away. “I am going to bed to sleep,” she snapped. “I think perhaps you should take the spare bed tonight.”
He watched her in disbelief as she removed the pins from her hair. What had happened to his sweet malleable wife? And where had such language come from? Damn, he felt not the least bit tired. Part of him wanted to slap her, show her she was his woman to be taken to his bed whenever he chose but he thought better of it. She was tired, overwrought from all the preparations. He would leave her be for the moment. He turned and left the bedroom. Down the hall there was light shining from the kitchen. Behind him the bedroom door closed. Henry walked towards the light.
It was extremely warm in the kitchen. Flora Nixon was standing at the scullery washing the last of the dishes. The jug of mead sat on the table. He loosened his necktie and poured himself a glass. Flora spun at the sound. Her sleeves were rolled up and the top buttons of her shirt were undone revealing the pink skin of her neck. One wet hand reached for the gap in her open shirt.
“Mr Wiltshire, you startled me.”
“I’m sorry.” He raised the glass of mead. “Care to join me?”
“No, thank you. I have a few more jobs to do before I retire.”
“I give you permission to have the rest of the evening off. It’s Christmas.” He poured another glass. “Come, join me.”
Flora hesitated then she wiped her hands on her apron and accepted the glass.
He raised his higher. “Merry Christmas.”
“Merry Christmas.”
She took a sip from her glass. Henry half-emptied his.
“This is very good mead, Flora.”
“Thank you, Mr Wiltshire.”
She took another sip and Henry drained his glass and refilled it.
“You must miss your husband.”
Flora met his glance as she put her glass to her lips. She took another mouthful of mead.
“My husband is a hard worker but circumstances … well let us say they haven’t made him an easy man to live with.”
Henry thought about that. His only memories of his own father conjured up thoughts of a man, gruff and remote. Was that why his mother never spoke of him? Perhaps her life had been similar to Flora’s. Often alone, raising a child; and yet his mother had done well and provided for all his needs.
“Did you say he was trapping rabbits?”
“Yes. He has to go a long way south. He says the farmers there are having terrible trouble with them.” Flora smiled. “But he called on us a few days ago. Brought the children some sweets. The Aberdeen rabbit sausages I served tonight were courtesy of my husband.”
“That was very generous.”
“Mrs Wiltshire paid for them.”
“Indeed.”
“He could only stay the day and then he set off again.” Flora drained her glass and set it on the table. “I was going to talk to you about that. He’s not bringing in very much money. It is a struggle.”
“You have free accommodation in exchange for the debt your family owes.”
“For which I’m very grateful but the children are growing so fast and young Hugh especially is always hungry. Mrs Wiltshire is so kind about letting me take leftovers home …” Her voice trailed away. It was one of her rare vulnerable moments.
“But still it’s not enough.” Henry’s eyes roamed from Flora’s pink cheeks, down her neck and took in the curve of her breasts. Not full like Catherine’s but shapely all the same. “Perhaps your husband should take the children with him.”
“Oh no. That would be no life for them. He does the best for us he can …”
Once again the unspoken ‘but’ hung in the air.
An idea began to take shape in Henry’s brain. Perhaps it was the mead; it was so brazen he shocked himself and yet like Flora he had his own desperate needs. “It must get very lonely for you without your husband.”
“We manage.”
“The nights must be …” He waved a hand in the air. “Empty.”
Flora lifted her chin. “My children are the most important thing, Mr Wiltshire.”
“Of course, and you would do anything for them.” Henry moved into the space occupied by Flora between the table and the scullery.
“Yes, but …”
Henry took another step towards her. Only a few inches separated them. Flora Nixon stared back at him, not backing away further. Excitement coursed through him at the boldness of
his idea.
“Perhaps there is a way that would benefit us both.”
Flora’s eyes widened. He slipped a hand around her waist. She met his gaze but she didn’t move.
“In what way?”
Henry barely registered her question. He could tell from her look she understood him and she wasn’t pulling away. He lifted one hand to her breast. She gripped it with her own hand and stared into his eyes. “What would be the benefit for my children, Mr Wiltshire?”
“We can work it out.” He leaned in closer. There was a faint smell of perspiration mingled with lavender.
She pressed herself against him. “We work out the arrangement first.” She murmured in his ear.
Henry growled. “Very well.” He lifted his head from the kiss he’d been about to plant on her neck. “What is it you require?”
Flora drew herself up. “My debt paid in full.”
“What!” Henry almost choked.
“And a full wage.”
“You ask too much.”
Flora placed a hand on his chest and then moved it slowly down to his waist. Her look was shameless. “Not for what I am offering in return.” Her hand slid lower.
Henry groaned. Right now he would give the damned woman anything she wanted as long as she came willingly to bed. “This will need to be a very regular occurrence.”
Flora lifted her hand. “As long as my children and your wife are unaware of our … arrangement.”
“Of course.” Stupid woman. As if he’d tell his wife he was bedding another woman. He grabbed her hand and pushed it back to where she had removed it from his rigid cock.
Once more she lifted her hand. She stepped away and turned off the lamp. He hurried to blow out the candles. He was fed up with delay. He caught her arm and pressed her to the wall, one hand on her breast and the other pulling her head to meet his lips. He would have some relief for his manly needs at last.
“The spare bedroom would be best I think,” she spoke softly in his ear.
He lifted her skirts, grabbed her buttocks and hoisted her up. She wrapped her legs around him. The sensation drove him wilder with desire. He carried her across the hall into the small bedroom and closed the door behind them.
Twenty-five
1883
Dust hung in the air, stirred up by several horses and carts ahead of them on the track to Bennie’s paddock. There had been some rain a week back but the pleasant autumn sunshine had soon dried the ground. Catherine flicked her fan despondently in front of her face. Her silence conveyed her displeasure. Henry had insisted she accompany him to the races. It was the opening meeting of the Hawker Jockey Club and most important that they be seen there.
He found a place to tether their horse and cart and offered Catherine his arm to get down. She was slow in doing so and almost collapsed against him as her feet reached the ground.
“My dear.” He put two steadying hands on her shoulders.
“I’m all right.” She adjusted her hat and looked around. “I didn’t think there would be many here.”
Like Catherine he swept his gaze over the scene before them. There were
already groups of people gathered under the tall trees at the edge of the paddock and many more lined up at the refreshment booths that had been erected. Horses were being led around a yard to one end of the paddock with several others tethered nearby. Flags fluttered from fence posts and temporary poles. The whole affair was quite festive.
“The who’s who of our district.” Henry puffed out his chest. “Today is a very important occasion. Holding our own race meeting marks what a progressive community Hawker is.”
“I do hope there will be a place for me in the shade.” Once more Catherine fanned her face, which looked pale and puffy under the delightful tall hat with a narrow brim his mother had sent from Adelaide. It was black with red plumes on the side which matched the red trim of her grey jacket. His wife was bound to be one of the best-dressed women here.
Henry had thought she had feigned illness to get out of accompanying him but now that he studied her more closely she didn’t look her usual self. He offered his arm. “I will make sure of it, my dear.”
They passed through the gate. Henry was a little taken aback that they should have to pay six pence each to enter; he was after all a sponsor of one of the races. They strolled past the refreshment booths and a tent that had been erected over a wooden floor for dancing for those who wished to stay on once the races were over, until they reached the stand of large gums. There Henry spied Ellis Prosser’s red hair near one of the larger trees. He steered Catherine in that direction.
“Here you are at last, Wiltshire.” Prosser thrust out a hand.
“My fault we’re late, Ellis.” Catherine smiled and her face lost its vexed look. “I was a little slow in my preparations.”
Prosser took her arm and looked her up and down brazenly. If they weren’t such good friends Henry would take offence.
“Well it was worth the wait.” Prosser said. “You look resplendent as always, Mrs Wiltshire. We have saved you a seat. Come and meet everyone.”
Johanna Prosser greeted them. She was very smartly dressed in a black-and-white jacket and skirt with a matching hat. No expense had been spared on her outfit Henry wagered.
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