A Changing Land

by Nicole Alexander

  He leant towards her slowly, his fingers tracing the fineness of her cheek, slipping to touch her lips. ‘If I asked you to follow me, to join me in Sydney, would you leave?’ He parted her lips gently and placed his mouth over hers.

  Claire pushed at his shoulders, it was a weary attempt. His was a gentle kiss, a slow languorous embrace, then he was breaking from her as slowly as he’d begun.

  Claire took a long shuddering breath. ‘You should not have done such a thing.’

  ‘There will come a time when I send for you,’ he continued on, oblivious to her annoyance.

  ‘You have taken advantage of me Sir,’ Claire remonstrated. The eggs and brandy were curdling together nastily in her stomach.

  ‘It will be soon. I have debts to repay and then we shall be together. My older brother has died of consumption – the estate is now mine. I would sail late February if you were willing?’

  ‘England?’ Claire could scarcely believe what he was telling her. She leant back in the wicker chair. His hands covered hers possessively. She shook him free.

  ‘Yes. I could make a fine life for us both.’ He glanced away in a moment of reflection. ‘I have not done as well as my family hoped here in the new world, Claire. I have not always been true in my life course.’ He looked at her. ‘However I believe I have found it now.’

  Claire moved away from him. She felt she could be ill at any moment. ‘If I have given you cause to think –’

  From his pocket Wetherly took a gold signet ring. ‘I have money coming to me soon for services rendered.’ The bloodstone centre was set with a horse rampant. He placed it in her palm, folding her fingers over it. ‘Here, take this as a keepsake.’

  ‘Wetherly, I can’t possibly –’

  He wrapped her hands around the ring. ‘When King Edward VII granted New South Wales a coat of arms in 1906 I took no interest in it. Now I understand the importance of the motto: Newly risen how bright thou shinest. You are my evening star, Claire, and you will guide me home.’ He kissed her hand. ‘You do not need love initially to be happy. It will grow. Think about what I offer you. I will send word very soon.’

  Claire glanced at the ring as Wetherly mounted his horse.

  ‘And you know not where your husband is?’

  Claire shook her head, stunned by Wetherly’s audacity. He spurred his horse and rode down the gravel path, breaking into a canter.

  An osprey-feathered hairpiece entwined with seed pearls sat in the partially packed trunk. Claire ran her finger along the finely stitched length of pearls, recalling her presentation at Government House in Sydney years earlier. Having arrived by carriage fashionably late, Hamish and she were announced to the assembled throng with the maximum of attention. Her black hair, dressed by a maid recommended by Mrs Crawford, contrasted superbly with the pale blue satin of her gown; an effect noticed and remarked upon via a series of polite nods and indiscreet whispering behind ostrich-plumed fans. Their walk to the farther end of the ballroom was the longest and most important promenade of Claire’s life.

  When the musicians resumed their places and the violinists, pianist and harpist filled the room with their lilting melody, Hamish took her in his arms. He encircled her slight waist, she rested her gloved hand in his and they stepped out in time to the strains of a waltz. There was a blur of magnificent oil paintings and the rich fabrics draping the windows, a rainbow splatter of gowned women and her Hamish, tall and imposing. Light on his feet, with a steady grip that at times caused her toes to barely touch the floor, theirs was a heady evening. They twirled until breathlessness made her plead for rest, then when they retired for supper Hamish’s moustachioed lips touched the pale skin of her neck. That night Claire understood what it was to be admired, what it meant to be loved. Four years later Angus was born. Long after supper, with many of the guests retired for the evening, Claire played a little Chopin on the perfectly tuned piano to a select gathering of the wealthy and the titled. It had certainly been the high point of her life.

  In retrospect it was a shallow thing to lay claim to in middle age, but perhaps her time in the spotlight would assist her re-entry into Sydney society. Of course Mrs Crawford would undoubtedly prove both loyal and formidable in her support and would assist with recommendations as to household staff and a woman of standing to be her companion.

  Claire reread her letter to Mrs Crawford and sealed it. Once she’d begun the correspondence she’d found it a remarkably easy thing to gild her less-than-happy ostracism from Wangallon. Residing in Sydney while her only son attended school at Parramatta was a worthy excuse, one that would have little bearing on her marital conundrum. If it were not for her frequent headaches and her predilection for conversations with herself, Claire would have considered herself to be handling her recent stresses quite well; in fact she was not. After her interview with Wetherly she could barely hold a glass of water for fear of the contents shaking to the floor. She examined the bloodstone ring where it sat near the inkwell and pondered over their few conversations. Claire was certain she’d done nothing to give him any hope of an attachment forming between them. She picked up the ring, slipped it on her finger. Jacob Wetherly offered the sort of escape she’d only dreamt about; a younger man with an English estate.

  Claire angrily swiped the letter, inkwell and ring to the floor. Her father once advised that all problems were containable if superior advice could be sought. Well he’d failed to explain that some problems could not be rectified, they could only be endured. Claire clutched at the writing desk. There was a terrible pining within her; it bashed at her insides like a mad woman and wept like a willow dying for love of water. Despite what she knew, despite everything that had occurred, events were beyond her.

  Closing the lid on the trunk, Claire secured the leather strapping and sat on it, exhausted. Through her bedroom window the garden was illuminated by moonlight; it silhouetted trees and shrubs, an ageing trellis with trailing beans and two rabbits frolicking under a clear summer night. Claire knelt by the window, resting her arms along the polished cedar of the ledge. A moth was bashing itself repeatedly against the gauze in an effort to reach the kerosene lamp sitting on her desk. She admired the insect’s persistence while pitying the fruitlessness of its mission. It was a familiar theme.

  Claire thought of her years on the property, of the great wool shipments that had departed the Wangallon woolshed, first by camel train and then by bullock teams. How many baby lambs were born for the clothing of mankind? How many cattle driven south to market? Notwithstanding the hard seasons and loneliness and distance, Wangallon had been her home for a great many years. The property had given her shelter, provided food, clothes and comfort. It was hard to leave her.

  Outside the moon shone down the length of the gravel driveway. It was a splendid sight, as if a ribbon of light was waiting to spirit her away to a new life, one without hurt or loneliness. Yet despite what could await her, despite the glorious uncertainty of adventure, Claire couldn’t do it. She knew she couldn’t walk away and she refused to be tossed aside. She was a Gordon and she loved this land as if it were her own. She loved it for one reason only: Wangallon had been founded by her husband and despite her girlish fancies, despite the ruthless heart of this man who controlled her life, Claire would not leave him, could not leave him. She adored him and the love she felt for him was beyond right or wrong, it was beyond her control.

  Sarah sat in one of three chocolate-brown armchairs in Frank Michaels’ waiting room. Arriving twenty minutes early for the meeting with Jim Macken had done little to quell her nerves and she fought the urge to bite an already ragged thumbnail. Through the wide glass window a glimmer of colour began to spread itself across the city, slowly diffusing the monotone office building street scene from white to a musty grey. It was a rather washed-out morning sky, similar to the exhaustion edging through Sarah after a sleepless night in a strange bed. Every time sleep chanced to claim her, Anthony’s face appeared, disintegrating any thought of rest. Sarah
replayed yesterday morning repeatedly until she had calculated the length of their brief embrace and Anthony’s forceful breaking of it. She felt queasy and her head ached from what Shelley termed a relationship event post-mortem. She rubbed at the fine skin around her eyes and looked again at her watch. It was one thing to be fighting to retain Wangallon, quite another to have to physically leave it to save her.

  When Jim Macken and his solicitor finally arrived they all sat quietly at the conference table as Frank offered coffee and his secretary placed a jug of water and four glasses in the centre of the table. There were lined notepads and brand new pencils before each person while Frank had a thick manila folder at his place. Sarah noted with dismay Jim’s swollen jaw with its yellow slash of a bruise and a thin line of purple beneath his left eye. The injury appeared recent, as was Anthony’s. Tony Woodbridge caught Sarah’s eye and smiled.

  Within minutes an argument over Jim’s overt demand for a share of the contents of Wangallon Homestead caused Sarah to slam her fist on the table in annoyance.

  ‘I thought if we all met in neutral surroundings we may well be able to come to some sort of amicable agreement,’ Frank Michaels said. ‘Let us agree first off that there will be no claim to the contents of Wangallon Homestead.’

  Tony Woodbridge had a poor way of showing his displeasure. He rubbed the dark-haired back of his hand with his stubby nails, the action making a rasping noise, and then ruffled the hair above his ear, a shower of dandruff falling on his charcoal-grey suit. ‘My client doesn’t need to hear this preamble. We have a legal case here, Mr Michaels.’

  ‘Quite. However, so does Ms Gordon should she decide to contest her grandfather’s will.’

  ‘Contest the will?’ Jim said, his anger rising. ‘She can’t do that, can she?’ His head swivelled from his solicitor back across the blond expanse of wood to Frank.

  Frank continued. ‘If Ms Gordon decides to contest there is every possibility that your client may well lose and he would then be required to pay legal costs for both parties.’

  ‘Is that true?’ Jim asked his lawyer. His father and their Scottish solicitor, Mr Levi, had never mentioned that any of this could happen.

  Tony Woodbridge spoke placatingly. ‘Such occasions do occur, however I believe you have a very strong case.’

  ‘A strong case,’ Jim repeated. ‘In Scotland it sounded like a done deal.’ He listened as Frank Michaels listed all the factual reasons that could be presented on Sarah’s behalf in a court of law. Apparently Sarah could contest based on the length of time she lived on Wangallon, her management of the property and her family’s longstanding attachment.

  ‘Of course no case is clear-cut as I’m sure Mr Woodbridge has explained,’ Frank continued more pleasantly. ‘Should we end up in court we will use any number of measures to cement our case.’

  ‘Such as?’ Mr Woodbridge asked.

  Frank took a sip of his black coffee.

  Tony read from his own pile of copious notes. ‘The use of emotive elements such as, “Sarah’s brother dying in her arms on the property, the floods and droughts the family has withstood –”’

  ‘Certainly those areas are of interest and of course nowhere has your client been in sight during these tumultuous times, and’ Frank twirled his blue enamel pen in his fingers, ‘the fact remains there is some concern as to your client’s actual parentage.’

  ‘What?’ Jim stuttered.

  ‘Come, come, Frank,’ Tony Woodbridge tutted. ‘This is meant to be a conciliatory discussion.’

  ‘Well it’s all hearsay at this point, however we would require a paternity test,’ Frank continued. ‘In fact the court would demand it.’

  Sarah knew this was part of Frank’s plan. It would either delay proceedings or bluff Jim into a reduced settlement. Yet even she thought the test was a little much, after all, everyone accepted Jim as her father’s son.

  ‘I don’t want my mother dragged into this.’ Jim’s fist hit the table for emphasis, sloshing coffee from his cup.

  Frank nodded. ‘I quite understand your protectiveness towards your mother, Jim.’

  Tony Woodbridge lay a calming hand on Jim’s shoulder. ‘Paternity to my mind is not an issue,’ he looked furiously at Frank, ‘but my client is only too happy to comply. Consider it a necessary evil, Jim, one that will ensure your entitlement.’ He looked at Jim. ‘I’ll contact Mr Levi in Scotland and he can inform your mother that a blood test will be required.’

  ‘You are aware, Jim, that this case could go on for years? That there is the possibility, however slight, that your own family will be subjected to slander.’

  Sarah kept her eyes glued on the middle of the wooden table. Frank sure knew how to bait a client.

  ‘Slander?’ Jim repeated.

  Frank hunched his shoulders. ‘It happens.’

  Tony Woodbridge scratched the back of his hand, coughed politely as if clearing his throat. ‘Let’s keep everything above board shall we?’

  ‘Of course,’ Frank agreed smoothly, ‘we can talk if you drop all claims to the house contents and stock.’

  Jim and his solicitor conferred in whispers. Sarah crossed her fingers, strained to hear their words. Finally, Jim nodded.

  Tony Woodbridge sat back in his chair. ‘My client is in agreement to drop his claim towards the contents of Wangallon Homestead and the livestock. This is a gesture of goodwill on his part for the contents are of a historic nature and therefore valuable. However my client is cognisant of the importance of these material possessions to his half-sister, Sarah. Similarly he renounces any claim to the stock. In return my client requests his inheritance as stipulated by the late Angus Gordon.’

  Frank swallowed the urge to tell the pugnacious Woodbridge to go to hell. Currently he felt they had the edge. Sarah, to her credit, remained cool following her initial outburst while Jim appeared decidedly uncomfortable. Such character differences were of major importance when it came to deciding whether court was a viable option. Frank figured Jim only had fifty per cent of the fight in him that his half-sister had. Maybe the Gordon genetics weren’t that strong in the boy? Frank poured himself a glass of water and took a slow, calculated sip. ‘And if we decide to contest? How does your client feel about that? He would in the short-term no doubt prefer to return to Scotland, albeit empty-handed.’

  ‘You offered a payment plan.’ Jim’s voice was slow and meek.

  Sarah recalled their conversation at Wangallon the night Jim flatly refused her offer and she in return had practically thrown him out of the homestead. It had been a harebrained scheme on her part. The sum needed to pay Jim out was too large. Even a payment plan would require the sale of assets.

  Frank intervened. ‘Ms Gordon is not in a position to offer this.’

  ‘Why the hell not?’ Jim asked.

  ‘Then it would appear we have reached somewhat of a stalemate,’ Tony Woodbridge observed. ‘If your client has insufficient funds to fulfil the terms of her grandfather’s will, then I would ask that thirty per cent of the property known as Wangallon be advertised for sale within two weeks. Mr Macken is entitled to his inheritance and once he is in receipt of the funds he will return to Scotland. There will be no further claims on the estate once Mr Angus Gordon’s wishes are fulfilled and my client is prepared to sign documentation to that effect.’

  ‘No,’ Sarah said quietly. Her fingers closed around the gold fob watch in her hand.

  ‘Excuse me?’ Tony Woodbridge rubbed the back of his hand ferociously.

  Sarah looked directly at Jim. ‘No, I’m sorry. I cannot accept that a stranger can demand a share of something he has contributed nothing to. If it’s proven that you are indeed my half-brother, Jim, and you’re that desperate for money – I assume because you’re either incapable or too lazy to earn your own – then I can probably raise a million dollars, although I’m staggered at your lack of pride and stunned by the greed of your entire family.’ Sarah paused. ‘If, on the other hand, you proceed with this t
rial I will spend every last dollar I have fighting you and if you lose you will have to pay my court costs as well.’ She leant forward in her chair. ‘Take more than what I offer today, Jim, and I swear I will despise you for the rest of my life and haunt you after my passing.’ Sarah clutched at the fob watch. ‘That is my promise.’ Sarah stared stonily at Woodbridge and Jim and then sat back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest. She knew the ramifications of the ultimatum she’d delivered.

  Jim opened his mouth to speak and then, thinking better of it, sat quietly. Tony Woodbridge scribbled on his legal pad.

  Frank shuffled his papers. ‘There is the state of Angus Gordon’s mental faculties at the time he wrote his will. Having suffered a near death accident only weeks before it could easily be argued that his mental capacity had been somewhat diminished.’ Sarah had just edged them closer to a day in court.

  ‘I want the thirty per cent that belongs to me,’ Jim said flatly. ‘If our grandfather was happy enough to leave part of his beloved place to a jackeroo then I’m sure I’m entitled to my share.’

  Tony Woodbridge smiled. ‘Precedent, I have always relied on such basics.’ He smiled at Sarah, cleared his throat. ‘If we go to court I would be entitled to bring to light certain facts. A prominent pastoralist you may be, Ms Gordon, however all I need do is establish the doubt in the jury’s mind that by contesting your grandfather’s will you are not being fair and reasonable in the eyes of the law. To do that I would argue that your attitude could be the result of a history of somewhat dubious activity that has occurred in your family.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘What? Is this a joke?’

  ‘No joke, I assure you. Some of your property was purchased through dubious activities. There are links to stock theft, illegal dealings and some rather shadowy speculations regarding an acquisition in the early 1900s. Although probably hard to prove, it makes for interesting discussion.’

  ‘And you were there were you, Mr Woodbridge, in the 1900s?’ Sarah asked. If she were a man she would have punched him in the nose.