The Grazier's Wife

by Barbara Hannay

  The baby gave a little mewing cry and she settled him against her shoulder and began to pat his back again. She drew a deep breath. ‘Look, I know I haven’t handled this well. For ages I tried to carry on as if the pregnancy wasn’t really happening.’

  After only the briefest pause, she hurried on with her story. ‘I had a job on a property just outside of Broome, doing a little cooking and helping the kids with School of the Air. I often thought about getting in touch with you, coming to see you, but I – I was worried. I was worried about your family’s reaction.’

  Giving a sheepish half-smile, she quickly dropped her gaze. ‘Then I saw on Facebook that your parents were away on holiday in Spain . . .’

  A nasty chill streaked down Seth’s spine. Joanna was spying on his family? He felt instantly defensive about his parents, who were away on their first overseas holiday, a long-overdue luxury that they both deserved so much.

  ‘You mentioned that you’ll be leaving for England soon.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you’re taking Charlie.’

  ‘No, Seth.’

  Seth had been standing, but now, blindsided, his knees caved and he sank swiftly into the armchair opposite her. The truth was suddenly, painfully obvious. Joanna was dumping the kid on him. That was why she’d come. Now, while the baby’s grandparents were safely out of the country. She didn’t have the guts to face them as well.

  ‘I’m getting married, you see,’ she said matter-of-factly. With her chin high and sounding more like the calm and ‘together’ girl that Seth remembered, Joanna added, ‘It’s been planned for ages. My fiancé is Nigel Fox-Richards.’

  After an expectant pause during which Seth made no response, she continued less certainly, ‘We didn’t have a formal engagement, but it was all settled before I left England. Nigel’s family has an estate in Northumberland. They’re – they’re quite well off.’

  ‘How jolly,’ Seth responded bitterly.

  She had the grace to blush.

  ‘So how does that work?’ Distaste lent a hard edge to his voice, but he was too angry to care. ‘Were you allowed your little adventure in the colonies before you settled down to married life in the castle?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it was more or less like that. Nigel had this list of adventures, you see – trekking the Himalayas, sailing to the West Indies, hugging polar bears or whatever. He wanted to tick them off before he got too busy with the estate and our life together, so we agreed on eighteen months apart. Now Nigel’s father’s health is failing and it’s time to take on all sorts of responsibilities.’

  Bizarrely, Seth could already picture Joanna fitting into that scene. She certainly had the posh accent and he could imagine her in skin-tight cream jodhpurs and knee-high boots, a riding crop tucked under one arm, a string of pearls around her tanned throat.

  ‘How does Nigel feel about Charlie?’

  ‘He doesn’t know about Charlie.’ Her mouth tightened and her eyes were suddenly hard and determined. ‘He’s not going to know about him. He can’t. He mustn’t. That’s the thing, you see.’

  ‘No, I don’t see.’ Seth was on his feet again now, too angry to sit. ‘You’d better explain. Preferably in words of one syllable, so everything’s perfectly clear.’

  Joanna sat even straighter, shoulders squared. ‘I can’t take Charlie back to England, Seth. There’s no way that Nigel’s family would accept him.’

  So, at last, the truth. Joanna was going to marry her Lord Fauntleroy, and she needed to keep her Aussie bastard hidden.

  Seth’s anger spilled. ‘For fuck’s sake, Joanna, how the hell can you be so bloody casual about this?’ Dramatically, he threw his arms wide. ‘Oops, I’ve had a baby, and here he is, and now I’m off home to England.’ He shot her his fiercest glare. ‘Is that the best you can bloody do?’

  He should have known she would give as good as she got.

  ‘Don’t forget, Seth,’ she said coolly, ‘you were as keen as I was at the time. And you were also pretty bloody casual about our relationship. When I left, I got a kiss on the cheek and a pat on the bum. Goodbye and happy memories of my trip Down Under.’

  ‘Well, yeah,’ Seth said defensively. ‘But if I’d known this had happened, I would have –’ He hesitated, unsure of his ground. ‘I suppose I knew you would have done your best to help me, to look after me and Charlie. I never really doubted that. The problem was –’

  Now it was Joanna’s turn to hesitate.

  ‘You didn’t want my help,’ Seth supplied. ‘It would have complicated your life. I might have tried to ruin your plans.’

  ‘Yes.’ For a moment she almost looked penitent, but then she said calmly, ‘Now it’s your call, Seth. You asked me to make everything clear. And I’m asking you now – do you want Charlie, or not?’

  No. Hell, no.

  I can’t possibly . . .

  It was way too sudden. Most guys had nine months to get used to this sort of news . . .

  For the first time, Seth looked properly at the striped bundle in Joanna’s arms. The baby was curled up like a koala – his golden head lying against her shoulder and one small, dimpled hand resting on her breast. He had fat cheeks and neat little ears. His eyelashes were blond and his eyelids heavy, drooping sleepily.

  This was Seth’s son. His flesh and blood.

  His son. If Joanna was telling the truth – and Seth suspected she was – this tiny scrap of humanity carried Drummond genes. He was Charlie Drummond. He was going to grow into a toddler, a schoolboy, a teenager.

  A man.

  I knew that one day he could inherit all this.

  Emotion clawed at Seth’s throat. Anger again, certainly. He was furious with Joanna for her secrecy, for treating him like a last resort. He felt fear, too, as he contemplated the responsibility suddenly landed on him. His lifestyle, his freedom – hell, his whole life as he knew it – would be totally stuffed.

  And then, very much to his surprise, Seth felt another emotion emerging, something deep and primal and unexpected: a fierce welling up of protectiveness.

  But hell.

  ‘Are you expecting us – me – to take care of Charlie?’

  Joanna nodded. ‘That would be the ideal situation.’

  ‘What if I told you that I couldn’t?’

  She drew a deep breath. ‘I know this must be a terrible shock, Seth, and I apologise for landing it on you like this, but the only alternative I can think of is to hand him over to the state for adoption.’

  Adoption? A ward of the state?

  Seth was surprised by the vehemence of his reaction.

  Heaven knew he didn’t want a baby. He had a cattle station to run and while he knew a fair bit about caring for newborn calves, he knew absolutely zilch about looking after a human baby. More importantly, he thoroughly enjoyed being a bachelor.

  Joanna’s bombshell was as shocking and unwelcome as a grim health diagnosis for a person who’d always been fit and well. And yet . . . Seth knew that life could deal hefty punches from time to time. If he was honest, he’d had a pretty free run so far. He’d grown up in a beautiful part of the country, had enjoyed the fun of boarding school, representative rugby union, university. The life of a cattleman, the life that he’d always wanted, had been handed to him on a plate.

  Joanna was right. When they’d had their careless, casual fling, he’d been a very willing partner. Now, he had little choice but to cop this blow. An unpleasant reality had to be faced and, to his own somewhat stupefied amazement, he was already coming to terms with this new and weighty responsibility. Charlie.

  But there were still questions to be asked.

  In a desperate bid to get his head straight, Seth marched to the French doors that looked out across the dusk-shadowed landscape. He saw the fiery glow on the rim of the distant hills. The evening star was already showing and he watched the flight of a trio of ibises, their long necks straining as they winged their way homewards.

  He turned. ‘Are you sure you
’ve thought this through? Can you really give up your baby? He looks well cared for. I’d say you’ve been a good mother. How are you going to feel down the track, Joanna? Have you thought about that?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Say he settles in here, becomes part of this family. How do I know you won’t turn up in a few years’ time to tell me you’ve changed your mind?’

  ‘That won’t happen, Seth.’

  He might have rejected this assertion if he hadn’t seen the silver glitter of tears in Joanna’s eyes. Her mask had slipped and the pain and stoic resolution in her face told their own story. She had made a difficult choice and now she was determined to go through with it. All the way.

  ‘Well,’ Seth said quietly, as he eyed the bulging zippered bag, which presumably contained all the necessary equipment for the baby’s care. ‘I suppose you’d better show me what’s involved in feeding him.’

  She smiled shakily as he returned from the French doors. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘You should at least hold him.’

  Seth drew a sharp breath, then held out his arms, stiffly bent at the elbows.

  ‘You can relax a bit. You just need to support his head,’ Joanna said. ‘His neck’s not very strong yet.’

  The little guy was now in Seth’s arms. So small and warm. He felt his throat tighten.

  ‘Is the name okay?’ Joanna’s eyes were too bright. ‘I thought about asking you first, but I was too scared. I wanted to tell you about him, you know, face to face.’

  Seth shrugged. ‘Charlie, Charles, Chas – anything, as long as he’s not called Chuck.’

  For the first time, they both smiled. In his arms, the baby wriggled. ‘Hey, Charlie.’ Seth’s voice was choked.

  Charlie looked up at him, frowning like an old man with all the worries of the world, but staring solemnly, straight into Seth’s eyes.

  ‘G’day, little mate,’ Seth said, and he was rewarded with a heartbreaking, toothless grin.

  2

  It was another perfect night in northern Spain. Jackie Drummond was practically floating with happiness as she strolled through the narrow cobblestone streets of Parte Vieja, the old quarter of San Sebastián. The autumn air was cold and clear, and Jackie, wrapped snugly in a newly purchased red and purple pashmina, could see patches of star-splashed sky between the spires and rooftops.

  She loved the centuries-old feel of the place, the ancient stone churches, the solid arched doorways and the fountains adorned with baby angels. She loved, too, the warmly lit bars that rubbed shoulders with all this history, and hummed with a happy mix of tourists and locals.

  In the bars people were drinking sidra and dining on the tantalising canapés called pintxos. Anchovy and olive, foie gras and caramelised onions, jamon and goat’s cheese, crab and salmon. Meanwhile, mere streets away, the Atlantic Ocean hurled and thumped its might against the rocky foreshore, tossing white spray breathtakingly high.

  For Jackie, everything about this city was exotic and exciting, so very different from rural North Queensland where she’d spent her whole life. Each new sight and sound and taste was fascinating. It was such a surprise. She’d never dreamed that travel could be so much fun.

  For so long she’d resisted Hugh’s suggestions about going overseas. They had a time share in Noosa and she’d loved those annual holidays. She’d loved knowing exactly what to expect when she arrived. Why bother travelling to foreign countries when there were glamorous beaches and outstanding restaurants in their own state?

  But here she was, finally in Europe with her husband and their friends, having the time of her life. Everything was working out just as Hugh had assured her it would. She’d been foolish to worry.

  Unfortunately, worrying was second nature to Jackie. Even though she’d been married to her grazier husband for thirty-nine years, and they had two wonderful children anyone might be proud of, her humble past threw rather a long shadow.

  She’d been Jackie Greeves before she was married to Hugh, and she’d lived with her mum in a run-down worker’s cottage on the outskirts of Atherton. Her father, a timber-getter, had been killed in a logging accident when Jackie was four. After that, Jackie’s mother kept a roof over their heads by washing and ironing and cleaning houses.

  Her mum used to say that she didn’t mind the work. Cleaning houses was good honest toil, she said, and she got to see how other people lived. And although a few rich kids at school made unkind comments, Jackie hadn’t been an unhappy child.

  It was only when she reached her pre-teens that she became conscious of the difference between her life and those of her friends. This was especially clear in the Christmas holidays, when her school friends’ families towed powerboats to Lake Tinaroo and camped on its banks and waterskied. Others took off for even grander holidays down south at the Gold and Sunshine Coasts.

  One year a classmate had invited Jackie to join her family camping at the lake. Jackie had gleefully accepted and she’d had a fabulous time, but she’d felt guilty about abandoning her tired, struggling mum, who never got to have a holiday. In the years that followed, as a sort of penance perhaps, she’d spent the weeks over Christmas working alongside her mum hoping to lessen her load.

  It hadn’t been easy, trying to convince her mother that she enjoyed helping with the mopping and vacuuming, but the reward had been that they could finish early and spend precious afternoons at home watching videos together.

  Jackie and her mum shared a weakness for romantic movies and for butterscotch twirl ice-cream, and those afternoons were the hugest treat. They helped to ease the pain, too, when the other kids came back from their holidays with glowing suntans and exciting stories about skiing or surfing or going to Dream World.

  As soon as she was old enough, Jackie had left school and got a job in the local supermarket. It had seemed sensible. She knew she could never afford to go away to university.

  By contrast, her husband Hugh had grown up on the vast acres of his family’s cattle property, Ruthven Downs, and he’d travelled away to one of the state’s best boarding schools and then to university in Brisbane. Before he met Jackie, he’d spent a year backpacking around Europe and South America.

  For Jackie, marrying Hugh had been a bit unreal, like one of the romantic movies she’d so adored watching with her mum. As his wife, she’d applied herself earnestly to helping him maintain Ruthven Downs as one of the most thriving and successful properties in the district. She had adapted quickly to life on the land and didn’t mind the hard work and long days.

  When Hugh had first suggested an overseas holiday, Jackie was anxious, especially when he mentioned the two other couples that they might travel with. She wasn’t at all sure she would fit in.

  She was quite at home mixing with cattle people, whose conversations revolved around family, the weather and the condition of stock or pastures. She was a stalwart of the local CWA, where she’d always felt very welcome and comfortable. But the proposed travelling companions were old school friends of Hugh’s. Jackie was a little in awe of them and her old insecurities lingered.

  Ian Kinsella was an architect based in Cairns and his wife, Shelley, had her own business, an elegant gift shop that sold exquisite soaps and hand creams and scented drawer-liners. They had a spectacular house in Edge Hill, surrounded by trees and looking out to beautiful views of the Coral Sea.

  The other couple, Brad Woods and his wife Kate, were both lawyers in the Woods family firm in Burralea, a pretty town in the heart of the Atherton Tablelands. Brad was a third-generation Burralea lawyer. His father had been friends with Hugh’s father, Magnus Drummond, so their connection went back to boyhood.

  While Jackie had met these people on several occasions over the years, and no one in the group had ever made her feel inferior, she’d never felt completely relaxed around them. And of course she always tried too hard.

  The first time she and Hugh had invited them to lunch at Ruthven Downs, she’d fretted over the menu and the table settings, the flowers, an
d even the guest towels in the bathroom. In the end everyone had been incredibly friendly, though, and that afternoon and other occasions since then had gone without a hitch.

  And now, to her intense relief, the trip was working out beautifully, too. The three couples were sharing a three-bedroom apartment in San Sebastián and they’d fallen with surprising ease into a workable division of roles.

  Kate Woods set out each morning while it was still dark – it got light at eight-thirty at this time of the year – and returned with fresh baguettes and delicacies from the bakery. Ian fancied himself as a cook and on several mornings had produced scrumptious breakfasts – either scrambled eggs with local herbs, or an enormous Spanish omelette loaded with peppers and jamon.

  Jackie’s husband Hugh had chatted up the people at the info centre and garnered tips about the best sights and day trips available. Brad found the best delis with gourmet Spanish cheeses and meats, while Shelley hunted down the fashion shops and purveyors of gorgeous leather handbags.

  Jackie, the self-confessed novice traveller in the group, was happy to be guided by the others and to make herself useful in the kitchen, making the toast, unstacking the dishwasher, wiping down benches.

  At some point she’d been christened the ‘Toast Master’ and she was secretly pleased. The nickname was a sort of validation for her. She belonged.

  It helped that the Basque territory in Spain was new to all of the group, so they’d had fun making discoveries together. So far, they’d tramped through several museums and art galleries, and had visited the aquarium at one end of La Concha Bay and the funicular at the other end.

  They’d hunted down a restaurant hidden in the distant hills, where they’d enjoyed a sumptuous lunch. And they’d visited farms in the lush nearby countryside to see firsthand how sheep’s cheese was made, and how jamon ibérico was created from pigs fed on acorns.

  Now, this evening. They’d chosen to go back to a favourite restaurant opposite the Basilica of Santa María del Coro. As Jackie filed in with their group, the place was alive with voices and laughter. Delicious aromas of sizzling garlic, seafood and herbs floated from the kitchen.