by Anna Romer
‘Fa Fa lets me go.’
Aunt Ida shook her head, and placed the jar of cornflower on my dresser. ‘Rub that into your face. You’ve neglected to wear your hat again. You’ve already got colour on your cheeks. My word, Brenna, don’t you ever listen? Your Mama’s last words to me were to keep you out of the sun, so you wouldn’t end up—’ She made a clearing sound in her throat. ‘And look at your hair! I’d not be surprised if Whitby caught one glimpse of you and ran for the hills.’
Tucking away my handkerchief, I opened the jar of cornflour. White clouds puffed out as I swirled my wad of lamb’s wool in the powder, then daubed it on my face. Sitting back, I examined the effect in the mirror, tilting my head to the side.
‘What brings Whitby here, anyway?’
‘He has come to speak to you.’
I whirled on my seat. ‘Whatever about?’
My aunt’s lips thinned against her teeth, but she did not reply.
Lately, the topic of Whitby had become something of an obsession for her; she sang his praises at every opportunity, and was constantly reminding me of his various virtues. Did you know, she would say, her eyebrows shooting up as if the thought had just occurred to her, Whitby has a stable of fine horses? You like horses, don’t you, Brenna?
Why was she suddenly so restrained?
As I changed out of my dusty clothes, I studied her in the mirror. Sweat patches had formed on her blouse, and her face looked puffy and unusually pale. She was frowning fixedly at the cornflour, as if it were somehow responsible for her woes.
I sighed. ‘Oh Aunt, I do wish you’d stop worrying. I’m sure you’re wrong about Jindera’s clan. They don’t mind me being there.’
Aunt Ida stood silently for a time, then hurried out the door and vanished into the shadows of the hallway, the volume of her skirts whispering after her like an eddy of dry leaves. A moment later she returned carrying a small burlap-wrapped parcel.
‘Here,’ she said, placing the bundle on my dressing table. ‘If you insist on visiting the encampment, then for heaven’s sake keep your wits about you. And make sure you carry that on you at all times.’
I caught a whiff of gun oil, and my heart sank. Lifting a corner of burlap, I examined the contents.
‘It was your father’s,’ Aunt Ida informed me. ‘Before he saw fit to invest in a rifle. It’s smaller than the weapon you and Owen learned on, but the principles of loading and firing are the same.’
‘Why now?’ I said. ‘Why today?’
My aunt’s face tightened. ‘Whitby brought news of another killing on the plains. Further west from here, but you know how nervous people get when word spreads. Since you insist on wandering the far corners of this property, I’d feel better if you had a means of protecting yourself should anything happen.’
I lifted my chin. ‘Jindera’s clan would never hurt me.’
‘It’s not the clan I’m worried about,’ Aunt said quietly, then turned and went out.
Closing the burlap over my father’s revolver, I hid the package in my bottom drawer. My aunt’s fears had shaken me, but I refused to let them dampen my mood. Standing before the mirror, I regarded myself. Aunt Ida was right. The sun had touched my skin, putting colour on my cheeks.
My oval face was framed by unruly brown hair, which was almost as dark as my eyes. A light sprinkling of freckles lay across my tawny complexion, despite Aunt Ida’s regular reminders about wearing my hat. Fa Fa liked to say that I had inherited my looks from his grandmother, who had been born in Spain; both he and Ida were fair, so I supposed the Spanish blood had skipped a generation.
I wore my best black skirt, an ivory shirtwaist and a jacket of dark red wool with black trim. The day was hot for such heavy attire, but I had not chosen my outfit for comfort but, rather, to impress Mr Whitby.
For many months I had entertained the fancy that Whitby might fall in love with me. He was more than two decades older, but even Aunt Ida considered him a most desirable match. Yet it wasn’t his wealth and social standing that interested me. After his visits, my heart always beat faster at the memory of his intelligent grey eyes, and the way his gaze always seemed to single me out and light up when I appeared.
I ran a handkerchief over my boots to banish the last of the dust, and hurried downstairs.
Sunlight streamed into the parlour, and a breeze blew through the French doors, bringing with it the musky scent of the shearing sheds. I stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. The spacious room appeared overcrowded, but in fact there were barely a handful of people present.
My aunt was by the fireplace, speaking intently to a muscular man clad all in black. Carsten Whitby was perfectly poised, straight-backed as a soldier, his handsome features serious as he nodded at Ida’s commentary about the drought, and the farm, and the poor conditions for shearing. Yet he seemed distracted, his interest apparently caught by the painting above the mantle.
Nearby stood Owen, gazing as he always did in Fa Fa’s absence towards the front gate. At his feet, my father’s shaggy old wolfhound Harold slept, oblivious to Aunt Ida’s stream of chatter.
Millie fussed over the dining table, which had been laid with a red tablecloth and Aunt Ida’s best tea rose china. On a tray beside several glasses sat a crystal decanter of the sherry Whitby favoured. There was also a cake stand full of iced cakes, and a large platter of sandwiches.
Nerves rumbled in my belly, and I wondered if food might calm them. I looked across at Millie and the tray of meatloaf she was placing on the table. She caught my eye, and beamed.
She was a tiny woman of thirty with a round face and enormous brown eyes. She had been with our family since the age of ten. Her parents were once part of Jindera’s clan, but they had died two decades ago. My own mother had been ill at the time, so Aunt Ida – who’d never married – was pleased to acquire Millie’s extra set of hands. For years, my father had been encouraging Millie to find a husband, perhaps even visit the encampment and ask Jindera’s help, but Millie always refused, insisting she was content to live at the back of the farmhouse in a lean-to, where, she always claimed, she could breathe the sweet air that flowed up from the river.
She hurried over. ‘How’s Jindera?’
‘Good. They had kangaroo last night.’
A wistful look came into her eyes, but it vanished quickly. ‘When you finish here,’ she told me, ‘come out to the kitchen. I’ll save you a couple slices of meatloaf.’ Her dark gaze shifted, and she looked over my shoulder. ‘Look out, Fa Fa’s friend is on his way over.’
She moved away, back to the table, and I turned to see Mr Whitby heading my way.
‘Miss Magavin, you are breathtaking as usual.’
I felt a blush creep up, and found myself beaming. ‘Thank you, Mr Whitby. I trust your journey from Wynyard was a pleasant one?’
‘Indeed, it went swiftly enough.’ He bowed sharply and took my fingers, grazing his lips over my knuckles.
A shiver ran up my arm. He was a striking man, his dark hair and beard closely cropped, his skin pale; but most arresting were his expressive grey eyes, framed by black lashes and strong brows, and a gaze that always lingered searchingly on my face. He wore a snug-fitting double-breasted black frock coat that showed off his muscular physique, and a crisp throttling collar that made him seem taller and more upright.
‘I trust all is well in Tasmania?’ I asked.
‘My sister has been unwell.’
‘I’m sorry to hear it.’ Although I didn’t personally know Adele Whitby, my regret was genuine. I understood the heartbreak of watching a loved one wither away before your eyes. My mother had died from a weak heart when I was small, leaving a shadow over those of us who remained. ‘I hope she enjoys a swift recovery.’
Twin spots of red suffused Whitby’s craggy cheekbones. The lines around his mouth softened. ‘That is most kind, Miss Magavin.’
‘Aunt told me you saw my father in Newcastle,’ I ventured, eager for news. ‘Did he happen to mention when
he’ll be returning?’
Whitby shifted beside me. ‘Miss Magavin, I’m afraid I have some bad news.’
I looked back at him, hoping I’d misheard.
Whitby lifted his hand, signalling to Millie. A moment later she was at his side, her tray crowded with glasses and the decanter that glinted vermilion as sunbeams speared through the sherry. Whitby took a glass and swallowed the sickly liquor in one gulp. Millie poured him another, then retreated to the kitchen.
Whitby frowned at me. ‘Due to fluctuations in the wool market, your father’s bales didn’t clear his reserve. Any other year, he may have recovered the deficit the following season. But he has already suffered too many years of deficit. Recovering this latest loss is out of the question.’
I stood very still; my fingertips were suddenly cold, and my pulse drummed in my ears. Glancing across the room, I saw that Owen had wandered out to the yard, and Aunt Ida was presumably with Millie in the kitchen.
‘I don’t quite understand.’
‘When I left Michael in Newcastle yesterday, his position was bleak. You know that his financier has been struggling since the crash in ninety-one?’
A knot of worry tightened in the back of my neck. ‘Fa Fa’s bank is currently being taken over, but the new bank has assured him that it wouldn’t affect him.’
‘Miss Magavin, there seems to have been a misunderstanding. Owing to the economic collapse and the bank’s need to free up substantial quantities of cash, they have requested immediate payment. They have given your father thirty days to pay his default.’
‘Thirty days? But the sum owing is considerable. We won’t be able to pay.’
Whitby’s bleak expression was his only reply.
I felt sure he was wrong. If my father’s situation was so dire, Fa Fa would have mentioned it before now – wouldn’t he? I gripped my hands together to stop them trembling.
‘Why hasn’t my father spoken of this to us?’
Whitby grimaced, pushing his fingertips through the stubble of his thin beard. ‘I expect he was hoping to turn the situation around, before alarming anyone. Michael is a proud man, my dear. This predicament has taken its toll on him, but until now he was loath to share the burden.’
I shook my head, still trying to draw forth a solution. ‘But even if my father had sold his bales above reserve, the earnings would never touch the amount he owes. And now that we’ve made a loss on the wool, how are we going to . . . ?’ My words dropped away as the seriousness of our situation began to sink in.
Whitby drew out a silver watch and weighed it absently in his palm. ‘Michael’s been struggling to meet his repayments for years. He’s not the only one. There’s talk of unrest in Southern Africa again, and all over the country people are reluctant to part with their coin. Times are hard.’ Secreting the fob watch back in his pocket, he looked at me. ‘And as you know, there are those in the community who dislike Michael because of his political leanings.’
Whitby’s words touched a nerve, and I drew up to my full height. ‘You mean because he speaks out against murder? Because he talks about the rights of the tribal people to carry spears so they may hunt? Because he criticises the overgrazing of land, and the indiscriminate felling of trees?’ My cheeks were burning, my heart racing dangerously fast. I was overstepping the same line that had earned my father the dislike of which Whitby spoke, but I didn’t care. ‘The clans that migrate through this area are no threat to anyone. They only want to be left alone and be allowed to feed their families.’
Whitby’s eyes narrowed. ‘Michael’s actions here have made him unpopular. He has more than a few enemies in this town. If he went under, no one would extend a helping hand. Your father is ruined, Miss Magavin. You understand what that means, don’t you?’
I did understand, only too well. And as that understanding deepened, something dark and deathly crawled along my spine. My skin went cold, the room tilted under me. I thought I might fall.
I remembered a long-ago quarrel, one between my father and Aunt Ida. They’d been in the dining room at opposite ends of the table, their faces lit by candlelight, speaking in a hush. From my vantage point beneath the table – I’d been twelve and hiding from Millie – their voices were cracked and distorted with emotion.
Oh Michael, you’re a fool to borrow more money, my aunt had fumed. You’re digging yourself deeper into debt. There’s nothing left of our inheritance, and you already owe the bank so much. For heaven’s sake, Michael – if you must purchase those merinos, why don’t you finance them by selling off a few hundred acres of land?
I won’t sell the land, my father had replied, his voice as jagged as a crow’s. Not an acre of it, not even a square inch. Don’t ask me again, Ida. I won’t sell.
A long silence ensued, and I’d thought the argument done. But then Aunt Ida’s words had bitten into the darkness. You still think of her, don’t you, Michael? You can’t forget her. You’d rather drag us all to ruin than sell a chain of her precious land.
‘Miss Magavin?’
I forced myself to meet Whitby’s measuring gaze. ‘My father will never sell Lyrebird Hill. The loss—’ I had to finish on a whisper. ‘The loss of it would kill him.’
Whitby shifted uncomfortably. ‘My dear, I understand your distress. It’s a hateful thing to contemplate the loss of your home. However, don’t alarm yourself. All is not lost. When I saw Michael yesterday, we discussed many possible scenarios, all of them unsatisfactory. So, after much thought, I put forth a proposal with the potential to benefit us all.’
His gaze skated around the room then alighted on the portrait over the fireplace: my mother in a pale pink dress, her golden hair spilling over her shoulders, her blue eyes huge against the waxy pallor of her face.
Whitby’s lips tightened. He pondered the portrait for a moment, as if not really seeing its subject, but rather something that existed beyond its shallow surface of paint. When he looked back at me his face seemed aged, as if the lines around his mouth had grown deeper, his skin become thinner, and the gleam in his eyes faded.
In a weary voice, he said, ‘My family originally came from Armidale. They were horse breeders, and very successful. When my father died fifteen years ago, he left everything to me. Of course, by that time I’d set up my own enterprise in Tasmania, but over the years I was able to greatly increase the worth of my inheritance by purchasing land holdings in this region.’
He flushed, and his eyes shone with intensity. ‘Miss Magavin, I don’t tell you this to impress you, but merely to explain myself. You see, while my businesses thrived, my personal life floundered. I have never married, and therefore lack an heir to whom I may pass on my estates. What I desire more than anything else in the world is a son.’
He regarded me closely as if to gauge my reaction.
I became very still. I understood where Whitby’s fine speech was taking him, and part of me rejoiced. He was about to offer a solution to our problem; a way to save the property we relied upon for a livelihood, a property we loved. But another, smaller and more selfish part of me dreaded the words I sensed were about to spill from Mr Whitby’s charming lips. Although I liked Whitby, the prospect of forsaking my home – and my freedom – dismayed me. I held my breath and anchored my fingernails into my palms, reaching inside myself for courage.
‘My proposal is this,’ Whitby said slowly, as though cautiously weighing his words. ‘I will pay the default against Lyrebird Hill if you will agree to wed me, and bear me a son. Once the child is born, if you should find yourself unhappy in the arrangement, then I will freely release you to return home, on the condition that the boy stay with me.’
The sound of smashing crockery erupted from the kitchen, and Whitby glanced across the room towards the parlour door. A pulse of perfect silence beat around us, then I heard the scraping of the dust pan and the quick babble of hushed voices. I became aware of a vein pounding in my throat, and when I looked back at Whitby, I saw that he had noticed it, too.
Taking a breath, I forced myself to meet his eyes.
‘You will pay the default?’ I asked, hating the quaver in my voice. ‘You will save our farm – if we are wed?’
Whitby inclined his head. ‘Consider it my wedding gift to you, my dear. As well as my promise to do all I can to make you happy. But of course, you need not reply this instant. Please, Miss Magavin, take some time to consider your feelings on the matter.’
I stared into his fine grey eyes, seeing reflected in them a smaller, vastly diminished version of myself. My feelings? Whitby was not proposing a union between two people who adored one another, nor even between people who shared the hopeful purpose of building fond relations in the future.
He was simply proposing a business deal.
My gaze went briefly to the window. Beyond the grassy slope of our garden, rambled three thousand acres of bushland. Some of it was grazed by my father’s flocks; much of it was wild and untouched. Westwards, along the river’s rocky course, was the Aboriginal encampment. Was my freedom too great a price to save Lyrebird Hill?
I didn’t need to ponder. Taking a shaky breath, I looked at Whitby and nodded.
‘I agree.’
Whitby appeared momentarily at a loss; his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared, but then he smiled. It was a wonderful smile, unguarded, full of surprise and delight. The sight of his face captivated me, and I realised that until this moment I had never seen him so pleased.
He leaned towards me, and I wondered if he meant to kiss me. Instead, he grasped my fingers and I found myself shaking hands with my future husband, sealing the business deal we had just negotiated.
On Sunday evening my father arrived home, weary after his weeks in Newcastle. After dinner, we sat together at the dining table. Millie brewed strong tea and placed a dish of oatmeal biscuits on the table. Fa Fa packed a pipe and lit it, then settled back in his chair and regarded me.