Beattie didn’t tell her the phone was no longer connected. “I’ll see you then.”
Lucy came running back, and Beattie’s heart beat uncomfortably with indignation. How dare Molly? How dare she offer such reasonable explanations for her actions? Beattie knew that Molly longed for a child of her own, that Lucy calling her Mama was as much about her own desires as the child’s.
“Are you all right, Mummy? You look cross,” Lucy said.
Beattie leaned down and kissed her head as the car pulled away. “Not with you, my love,” Beattie said. “Let’s go inside our new house.”
Lucy woke up early. Too early. Mummy was still asleep beside her, curled on her side with one arm over Lucy’s tummy. Lucy tried to snuggle back down to sleep, but the bed was strange, the birds were noisy, and she needed to wee.
She rose and pulled on her pink dressing gown, the one that Molly had knitted for her. Molly didn’t make pretty clothes the way Mummy did, and the dressing gown was lopsided. Lucy tiptoed out of the bedroom, remembering what Daddy and Molly always said: “If you’re up early, go and make your own breakfast. Don’t wake us up.”
The hallway was cold, and she pulled her gown around her tightly. She stopped by the toilet, then went downstairs. She loved Mummy’s big new house, with all of its empty rooms. She wondered if Mummy would let her set up a tent in one of the big rooms and sleep on the floor with blankets one night.
Lucy found the kitchen and cut herself an uneven piece of bread, poured honey on it with a spoon, and went to the window. Down in the paddock, she could see a man saddling a horse. He had dark skin, but nowhere near as dark as the maid of Mrs. Bainbridge across the road back home. She was so dark that she made Lucy think of licorice.
Lucy watched for a while. She had a toy pony back home, but she longed to touch a real one. Last time she’d been here, she’d been told off by a man for going near the horses. But the dark-skinned man looked friendly. Besides, Mummy owned the farm now, so he probably had to do what Lucy said. She opened the door to the laundry and descended the stairs, then let herself out into the paddock.
The grass was still dewy, and the sun rimmed the clouds with gold. The sky was the color of a strawberry milk shake. The man was about to climb on the horse, and then he’d be gone, so she called out, “Hello! Wait!”
The dark-skinned man turned and smiled at her, waited for her to approach.
Her bed socks grew damp from dew. Up close, the dark-skinned man was handsome, with big dark eyes that seemed very kind. “My mummy owns the farm,” she said to him. “I want to pat the horse.”
“Of course,” he said. “But you must be gentle.”
The horse put his head down, and Lucy carefully rubbed his nose. The horse’s ears flicked backward and forward.
“There, he likes you,” the man said.
“My name’s Lucy,” she said.
“My name’s Charlie. We’ve met before, a few years ago.”
Lucy turned to look at him. “I don’t think so. I have a very good memory.”
“You were small, crossing a swollen creek with your mum. The water caught you, and I had to jump in and pull you out.”
She stretched her mind back as far as it would go, but struggled to turn up the memory. A brief flash of being in the water and of being frightened came to her, though not fully formed. “Really? It’s a good thing you did, or I might have drowned.” She patted the horse’s mane, then stood back to look at him. “Why is your skin so dark?”
“Why is your hair so red?”
She shrugged, and he shrugged back. Lucy laughed.
“You better get in out of the cold,” he said, pulling on his hat and mounting the horse. “Your mum will be worried.”
“No, she won’t.”
Charlie laughed. “She might.” He whistled, and two dogs shot out of the stables and raced toward him. Then he was galloping off, leaving Lucy standing in the damp field.
Had he really pulled her out of a creek when she was little? Surely she’d have remembered that. Perhaps he was lying. Molly said that Mrs. Bainbridge’s maid couldn’t be trusted because she was black; perhaps it was the same with Charlie. Though he seemed nice to her. Sometimes Molly said things about people that didn’t seem quite right, though. One time Lucy had heard her arguing with Daddy—the only fight they’d ever had—and Molly had called Mummy a name. She couldn’t remember it now, but she knew it wasn’t a nice word.
“Lucy!”
She looked around and up to see Mummy standing at the bedroom window beckoning her.
“Come up! It’s too cold to be down there at this time of day.”
The sun broke over the clouds, illuminating the dew on the grass. Lucy made her way back inside, pretending to be a horse all the way.
Beattie pinched the bridge of her nose and put down her pen. Her neck was aching with tension, and her scalp was tight. She looked over the figures again, couldn’t make them add up properly.
The interest on the loan was going to kill her.
But Charlie had sourced two thousand of the finest-quality merino sheep from the farm he had last worked at on Friday. Too late for regrets now: she had already signed the paperwork.
Still, it was a beautiful afternoon. The sun was bright on the window of the study—a tiny room with a crate for a chair and a desk knocked together unevenly by Mikhail—and the wildflowers were blooming all over the hills behind the house. Perhaps she just needed to get out of the study, out into the fresh air, and clear her head.
A knock at the study door. She looked up to see Charlie standing there.
“Hey, missus,” he said. He insisted on calling her missus, no matter how many times she’d reminded him to call her Beattie. She’d given up.
“Charlie. How can I help?”
“It’s been two weeks, and you still haven’t got on that bloody horse.”
“You said yourself you don’t need me yet.”
“I’ll need you before summer’s over. Me and the dogs can’t do it all.”
Beattie didn’t want to admit to him that she was terrified of getting on the horse. Horses always seemed to her so big and unpredictable. “Well, there’s still plenty of time to learn.”
“Not plenty of time to get good. Listen, missus, you can’t run a sheep farm and not ride a horse. That’s the way Raphael Blanchard operated, and look what happened to him. The sheep need to be moved around a lot. We’ve got two thousand more coming this week. You’re going to have to help me, or you’re going to have to hire somebody else.”
Beattie looked at the row of figures, felt the familiar stab of heat to her heart.
Charlie crouched, leaning his arms on her desk and his chin on his arms. “Missus?” he said quietly. “You frightened?” He smiled broadly—he had such an infectious smile.
Beattie laughed. “Not frightened. Uneasy.”
“Everyone is, first time. But Abby’s pretty calm. She’ll be kind to you.” He stood, pointed at her skirt. “You got something else to wear? Get changed, meet me down at the stables.”
He strode off. Beattie closed the book, peered around the threshold to watch him walk away. He had such an easy grace, was so comfortable in his body. Beattie knew she was going to be awkward, ridiculous, trying to ride that horse. She felt embarrassed already.
She changed into a pair of trousers she’d run up for gardening and grabbed her hat from by the door, then made her way through the clucking chickens wandering in the garden—Mikhail was planting herbs today—and across to the stables. Abby, the big chestnut mare, was waiting. Charlie leaned against the horse gently, talking softly against her cheek. His own horse, the gray stallion Birch, waited tied up to his stall.
Beattie swallowed down hard. “I’m ready,” she said.
Charlie patted Abby’s flank. “Left side is the near side, right side is the off side. Stay on her near side, that’s what she’s used to. Let’s saddle her up.”
Slowly, with great patience and good humor, he to
ok Beattie through all the steps. Sliding the bit into the horse’s mouth, fastening the throat latch, smoothing the saddle cloth, and tightening the girth. He showed her how to talk softly to the horse to calm it, and he steadied her as she climbed up. It felt so high. She wanted to lean forward and clutch the horse’s mane for dear life.
“No, no,” Charlie said, “you’ve got to relax, missus. Hands down, heels down. Feet forward. You’ve got to be able to see your toes. Don’t jiggle. Relax. Take a deep breath.”
Easier said than done. Abby started to get twitchy, so Beattie forced herself to be still and sit properly. Charlie calmed the horse again. Beattie took deep breaths.
“Gentle now,” he said to Beattie, “nudge her with your heels. Gentle, gentle.”
She did so, and the horse began to move.
“Walk on, Abby,” Charlie said, rubbing the horse’s nose. “Walk on.”
“How do I tell her where to go?” Beattie asked, panicked.
“Use the reins, of course.” With fluid ease, Charlie mounted his horse and was alongside her a moment later. “We’ll take it slow,” he said. “Just around the paddock.”
Beattie thought she would never get used to the feeling of being up so high, so dangerously perched on the animal. But Charlie was patient with her, never forcing her to do more than she was comfortable with. They walked the horses around the paddock twice, then returned to the stable.
“That’s it?” Beattie asked.
“That and a lot of practice,” Charlie said, dismounting and lifting his hands to support her hips as she attempted to climb down. He was strong and steady. She was awkward, clumsy, came down with a clatter. Abby whickered softly.
“Don’t you laugh,” Beattie said to the horse.
“Every day, missus,” said Charlie. “Twice around the paddock, then three times, then four. And when you’re used to it, faster and farther. I need you out mustering with me by autumn. Think you can manage that?”
Beattie blew out noisily. “I suppose I have to.”
His dark eyes grew serious. “Yes, missus. I suppose you do.”
TWENTY
Every day she practiced riding the horse, and slowly, she got used to it. The days were long, the new sheep settled in—crowding under the trees for shade in the hottest part of the afternoon. On the last day of February, she rode out with Charlie for the first time to muster stock from one paddock to another. In truth, the dogs were of more use than she was, but Charlie said nothing. At the end of the day, her legs ached, and her wrists were burned pink where the sun had found them between gloves and sleeves. But she slept better than she had in a long time.
Charlie and Mikhail were her two rocks. Mikhail managed the house, Charlie managed the farm, and Beattie tried to make sense of the paperwork. She spent almost nothing. They lived off the garden and tried to eat the eggs rather than the chickens. Once a fortnight she walked into town for supplies: porridge, honey, milk, soap, flour. She enjoyed the walk; it gave her time to think and relax away from the farm. She was so consumed by the numerous daily tasks that she often didn’t have time to reflect on anything.
The general store had new owners, and Beattie was hopeful. She never actively listened to the gossip in town. She suspected half of it was about her acquiring Wildflower Hill, and the other half was grim yet enthusiastic speculation about the possibility of war in Europe. But she had overheard two elderly women expressing their distaste for the young woman who ran the store.
“Too young and too ambitious,” one had said.
“Tells her husband what to do,” the other replied.
Beattie dreamed she might find an ally. Behind the long glass cabinet that served as the front counter stood a small, round woman with blond curls. She smiled up at Beattie when she walked in. Beattie smiled back. It was the first time anyone in town had smiled at her in a long time.
“Hello,” she said. “Welcome, I’m Tilly.”
“I’m Beattie Blaxland, from Wildflower Hill.”
“You’re Scottish. That accent . . .”
“Yes.”
“My mother was Scottish. I was raised by my aunts, though, in South Africa.”
“How did you end up all the way down here?”
Tilly laughed. “I might very well ask you the same thing. I married an Australian man.”
They chatted briefly as Beattie selected her purchases and eked out her pennies as though they were diamonds. Tilly asked her a few questions about the farm, how far away it was and how big, and commiserated with Beattie about the difficulties of working and also taking care of a house.
“I think our husbands expect too much of us.” Tilly laughed as she wrapped up a box of milk powder.
“Actually,” Beattie admitted, “I’m on my own now.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. Did your husband die?”
“He . . . It didn’t work out.” Her face flushed.
Tilly smiled again, a little tighter. “That’s bad luck. It must be difficult on your own. I feel for you.”
Beattie grasped at this morsel of sympathy, the only one she had ever received from someone in town. “It’s very, very difficult,” she said softly. “Thank you for your kindness.”
Then, like a lizard slithering out from behind a rock, a red-faced, oily-haired man in his thirties emerged from the storeroom. He looked Beattie up and down with narrow, cold eyes.
“Oh, here he is,” Tilly said with a laugh in her voice. “Frank, this is Beattie.”
He nodded once, with a tight smile. Beattie noticed Tilly had grown anxious. The idea that she bossed her husband around was patently ludicrous: the jealous rumblings of elderly women with too little to occupy themselves.
“It’s a pleasure,” Beattie said, picking up her parcels. “I must be on my way.”
She pushed open the door. As she did, she nearly ran into Margaret Day coming the other way. She hadn’t seen Margaret since the older woman had asked her to leave many months ago.
“Hello, Margaret,” Beattie said, buoyed by her successful exchange with Tilly.
Margaret gave her a cold stare, brushed past her. The shop door swung closed, and Beattie stood outside, her feeling of goodwill draining away. She dared to look over her shoulder, through the shopwindow, and saw Margaret leaning over the counter talking to Tilly. Tilly looked up, saw Beattie through the window, and looked away. No smiles this time.
Beattie wanted to run back inside and shout, “Don’t listen to her! She’s a pious fool!” But she didn’t. She set her chin and started the walk home. She didn’t need allies; she could manage on her own.
The long weeks when Lucy was away only pained her at nighttime, when she lay in her bed alone and had many dark hours to contemplate how she’d mismanaged her life. The days were busy and full, left her tired and yet satisfied. Only with the evening came the regrets.
In March it was crutching season. Charlie taught Mikhail how to use a pair of shears, and he chipped in, too. It was an intense time: up early, the predawn sky bruised with rain clouds, the black crags of dead trees standing still in the mist. Then endless days of mustering stock and wrangling them in and out of the sheds. Beattie fell into bed every night exhausted. But it was all worth it when they sold the crutching to a Launceston wool trader for much more than Beattie had hoped. A little extra money. She walked into town and bought a few feet of heavy pink cotton from Tilly Harrow’s store. Tilly had hardened toward Beattie but, like everyone else in town, was still happy to take her money.
With the cotton, Beattie hand-sewed a dress for Lucy. She’d forgotten how much she loved fabrics and sewing, seeing the neat lines of seams and pleats appear under her needle, and wondered what happened to the wool that she sold. If she could get a little of it back, made into cloth, she could wear her own farm on her back. The thought gave her a feeling of intense pleasure, of being independent, strong. That night, for the first time in many, many months, she pulled out a piece of paper and sketched a design for a jacket that would be perfect
made of wool. In the magazines for sale in the Lewinford general store, she had seen the long lines and wide bindings of the latest fashions. She lost herself in it for hours.
Easter finally came, but Henry refused to bring Lucy until after the Easter Sunday service. Beattie never made it to church; there was too much else to do, and anyway, Wildflower Hill with its unbroken silence and earthy smells felt much closer to God than the damp little church hall in town. Sometimes when she walked out at dusk—the distant mountains had shaded to blue, the dam was a silver mirror, the cool shadows spread from hollows to cover the grass and trees—she couldn’t believe she had ever lived in damp, crowded cities and been happy.
Finally, on Sunday afternoon, her little girl came back.
Charlie was wrestling with some fencing wire beside the driveway—they hadn’t money for new fencing, and he’d become an expert at patching it with old cutoffs—when Henry’s car rounded the bend and came into view.
Beattie’s heart soared. The long months of waiting were over. For two weeks now, she would have Lucy’s little body snuggled against hers in bed at night, would fall asleep with the warm smell of the girl’s hair in her nostrils.
The car beeped—surely not Henry acting unprompted; she could imagine Lucy and Molly urging him to—and then pulled to a stop at the top of the driveway.
The door opened and Lucy climbed out. This time Beattie didn’t wait for her. She folded Lucy into a tight embrace. When she stood back to look at her, Lucy’s face was awash with tears. “I missed you, Mummy,” she said.
“I missed you, too. More than you could know.”
Molly and Henry were climbing out of the car now. Molly, beautifully dressed as always with her hat and gloves, froze when she saw Charlie.
Henry approached Beattie and handed her two books. “Make her keep up with her reading,” he said gruffly. “She’s not doing well at school.”
Lucy blushed.
“Yes, Lucy, you must read better so that your mother can write you letters while you’re apart,” Molly said gently, her eyes darting back to Charlie nervously.
Wildflower Hill Page 23