She cleared her throat, but even so her voice was husky as she spoke his name. ‘Randall.’
He jerked around to face her as if stung by a bee, his eyes widening in surprise. ‘Amy! What are you doing here?’ He walked towards her, then stopped. His gaze raked over her flushed, slightly dishevelled appearance.
‘I—I’ve—come to give you my answer.’ He looked so serious that her smile faltered. ‘If the offer still stands, that is.’
He straightened, drew a rough-edged cloth out of his back pocket and wiped his hands, arms and face. His expression didn’t change. ‘It does.’
Seeming to glide over the hard-packed dirt floor, she moved towards him. ‘I hope you’ve forgiven me for my…earlier reaction. It—your—I mean—’ oh, get it out, girl ‘—it was unexpected, you caught me unawares.’
His mouth tucked in at one corner and he nodded. ‘I realised that, albeit a little too late.’
‘Randall, I love you with all my heart, and if you’ll discount my earlier hesitancy…Yes. The answer is yes. I want very much to be your wife.’
He reached for her and pulled her into his arms, holding her tight against his chest. ‘Then that’s what you’ll be, my darling. Mrs Randall McLean.’ His lips found hers and sealed the proposal.
‘Come into the house. I need to wash up, and then we can plan what we’re going to do.’
She smiled up at him. ‘It sounds as if you already have a plan.’
He gave her a roguish grin and, with his arm around her waist, propelled her towards the shed doorway. ‘Indeed I have.’
Once in the house he led her to the drawing room and, leaving her there, said he’d be back in a minute. When he returned, his hair was combed and he was wearing a clean shirt. Amy was standing by the fireplace and he joined her there.
‘I’ve been carrying this around with me for months, waiting for the right time to…’ he began, as from his trouser pocket he took out a small velvet cloth and unwrapped it. Sitting in the palm of his hand was a diamond ring.
‘This was my mother’s. It’s the one piece of jewellery I kept when I came back after the war and had to liquidate almost everything to get working capital for Drovers.’ He took her left hand and slid the ring onto her third finger. They both smiled when it fitted perfectly. ‘Now we are officially engaged.’ He noted that she had amazingly slender hands and fingers, and for a moment or two he marvelled at their capabilities. Her touch was sublime, she could paint delightful watercolours, and yet those same hands could hold a scalpel and perform surgical procedures. All the months of agonising were over. They were going to be together, forever. Danny had said they were meant for each other, and as soon as it could be organised they would become man and wife.
‘You didn’t give the ring to Beth?’ Her features radiant with happiness, the question popped out of her mouth before she could stop it.
‘I’m not sure why I didn’t.’ He thought about that then corrected himself. ‘No, I am sure. Even when I asked Beth to marry me, subconsciously I had feelings for you. I guess it didn’t seem right to give her the ring when really, deep down, I wanted you to wear it.’ He smiled as he recognised the love in her eyes. From now on there would be no need for either of them to hide their emotions, and that felt good.
She put her hands on his shoulders. ‘Oh, Randall, we’ve wasted so much time, and made too many mistakes about our love for each other.’
He kissed her, lightly at first, but then more deeply as the passion they’d held in check for so long escalated. ‘I know, but not any more. From now on there will be no secrets between us. Not ever.’
They talked until sunset, finally deciding to elope and to ask David Carmichael and Meg to come with them to Adelaide for the ceremony. Over the months since Danny’s departure David had, due to Randall’s perseverance, got to know and come to accept Randall as the man his daughter loved. Randall believed a formal wedding in Gindaroo might set tongues wagging again and divide opinion, so it was best to go to Adelaide, get married there, have a brief honeymoon, then come back as a married couple, fait accompli. That way the people of Gindaroo and those in the surrounding district would have little opportunity to gossip about their forthcoming nuptials.
And because her father and Meg would be with them, Amy was convinced that eloping was the best way to go. They might be disappointed that there wasn’t going to be a white wedding, but she was sure they’d agree that going to Adelaide was for the best. Randall went into the study and checked the train timetable, after which they decided to suggest driving to Hawker on Thursday with her father and Meg, then they could take the train to Adelaide, find an obliging minister to marry them, and honeymoon somewhere, preferably near the sea, before returning to Gindaroo.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘…And I pronounce you man and wife.’ Reverend O’Brien’s voice echoed hollowly around the picturesque interior of the Methodist church. He smiled at Randall and Amy as they sealed their marriage vows with a kiss.
The late-afternoon sun beaming through the stained-glass window above the altar threw prisms of coloured light onto the timber pulpit and the altar itself. Amy tried to take in every detail and commit their special moment to her memory forever. How proud her father had looked as he’d given her away, and how Meg had tried valiantly but failed to suppress a few tears. And the best thing was, she was now Mrs Randall McLean: the dream she’d had for so long had come true.
The reverend ushered them towards a table covered by a lace-edged linen cloth and two candles in brass holders, where they signed the marriage register and marriage certificate in front of David and Meg, who were the official witnesses to the ceremony. Later, a taxi took them to the three-storey South Australian Hotel, a favourite with graziers and pastoralists. Randall had booked the best suite of rooms, whose windows looked out over a verandah, and arranged for a special dinner, complete with a small wedding cake, in a private dining room.
Her father ordered French champagne to toast them, and Meg, a little overwhelmed by the proceedings and the food, sat back like an honorary aunt and beamed. Amy was sure the housekeeper had never dined in such sumptuous surroundings before, and would no doubt tell everyone the details of their wedding when she and Amy’s father returned to Gindaroo on tomorrow’s train.
Later that evening, on retiring to their suite, Amy, who normally had a good appetite, could not touch any of the light supper served on a traymobile by a waiter. Sitting at a small table by the window, her gaze skittered to and then away from the doorway that led to the bedroom and the stained timber double bed. It seemed that every nerve-end in her body was alive with nervous anticipation, and as she stole a glance at Randall, who’d removed his suit coat and waistcoat and loosened his tie, a thrill of pleasure ran down her spine. Her husband wasn’t handsome in the traditional sense—his features were too strong for that—but there was an air of command and self-assurance about him that could not be denied. She sipped the champagne he’d poured for her, hoping it would settle her nerves, but it failed to have the desired effect and the butterflies in her stomach continued to flutter.
As if sensing her nervousness, Randall went over to the phonograph and selected a cylinder, put it in the machine and cranked up the mechanical turning device. ‘It’s not quite the bridal waltz, but it’ll do,’ he said. As the music started he held out his hands for her to rise and join him.
Amy went into his arms and he whirled her around the timber floor, carefully navigating around the pieces of furniture in the sitting room. By the time the tune ended, she was breathless, not from the exertion of the dance but from an aching awareness of being so close to Randall and loving and wanting him as she did. The tension continued to build to an unbearable level, which multiplied further when he led her towards the bedroom doorway.
‘I’ll put the traymobile and plates in the hall, while you, my love, change in the bedroom.’ He smiled down at her. ‘Yes?’
She gave him a shy smile. ‘All right.’
When he returned in pyjamas and dressing gown she had donned her nightgown and sat primly on the edge of the bed, waiting for him, her hands clasped in her lap to disguise her nervousness.
He knelt in front of her and captured her hands in his. ‘You are very beautiful, Amy, and I intend to devote my life to making you happy.’ He kissed the backs of her hands several times then turned them palms up to kiss her wrists. After that his hand reached for the satin ribbon at her throat and tugged at the bow till it loosened. He moved and sat beside her on the bed, twisting his upper body around so he could draw her up against his chest. His free hand roamed over her throat, her shoulders, and descended to one of her breasts. Her gasp of surprise turned to delight as he rolled the nipple until it peaked and hardened.
Shards of pleasure coiled her stomach muscles into a tight ball, and the core of her womanhood began to throb as never before. He moved again, rearranging her body on the bed, and, discarding his dressing gown, lay on his side next to her. His kisses became more passionate as did his caresses, over her breasts, her stomach, her inner thighs, until she arched, tense with expectation, her nervousness evaporating under his skilful lovemaking. Slender, tentative fingers undid the buttons on his pyjama top so she could feel his muscled chest and the mat of dark, curly chest hair.
Randall was introducing her to a world of rare and overwhelming delights, and when, finally, he entered her and she cried out, the moment of pain soon passed as, with consideration and great caring, he transported her to a plain of pleasure and fulfilment.
Afterwards, they lay in each other’s arms in the darkness. Amy could not stop tears of joy from running down her cheeks and onto her husband’s chest. Not in her wildest imaginings had she thought lovemaking between a man and a woman could be so…magnificent.
He felt the moisture and voiced his alarm. ‘Did it hurt that much?’
She kissed his chin and then her fingers reached up to trace his profile. ‘No. They’re tears of happiness, silly.’ Satisfied with her answer she felt his body relax and he snuggled closer. Her eyelids grew heavy, drooped, opened and closed again…
The nightmare began in the early hours of the morning, as Randall slept with Amy in his arms, and it was the same as always. His limbs began to jerk spasmodically as he fought the dream he hated. Yet it was all so real, as if it had happened just yesterday.
Artillery shells exploding, men screaming, rifle fire and blood, always lots of blood, and images of the young soldier who hadn’t survived his first bayonet charge. And the German private. Younger than him, begging Randall to release him from his misery, as one would a wounded animal. A moan of agony tore from Randall’s throat as the nightmare fully claimed him.
Amy woke, startled by the noise and Randall’s movements. She switched the bedside electric lamp on, which threw a subdued glow into the room.
Suddenly Randall sat upright, his eyes open but glazed. His speech was slurred as he muttered, ‘I had to do it, I had to do it. God help me, I had to.’ Slowly, as he was still dazed from the rigours of the dream, the pain of remembering left his features, then his shoulders slumped down as if he were exhausted. After a few seconds he saw that Amy was staring at him, a perplexed expression in her eyes.
‘Did I wake you? Sorry.’ He pushed strands of dark hair off his forehead. ‘A bad dream, that’s all.’
Wide awake, Amy wasn’t so easily fooled. She hadn’t forgotten the nightmare he’d had while recovering from the wound in his chest at Primrose Cottage. ‘You muttered things in your sleep, Randall. About the war. That’s what the dream was about, wasn’t it? And isn’t it always the same?’ she asked. His behaviour reminded her of soldiers she’d tended to from the Great War, wounded and having to face what some referred to as ‘terrors of the night’, recurring dreams of battles, death and maiming. This time, she decided not to let him fob her off with an excuse. ‘Tell me about it.’
He shook his head. ‘It’s not the kind of thing you talk to a woman about, and especially not on our honeymooon.’
She placed her hand on his chest. ‘I may be a woman but I’m also your wife, a wife’s who’s concerned about her husband’s wellbeing. And if you think you can shock me with bloody war stories, you’re mistaken. In Britain I saw and heard more than my fair share of dreadful happenings in and out of the trenches.’
He blinked again on hearing her words and his closed expression changed to one of surprise, then relief. ‘If you really want me to,’ he said hesitantly. When she gave him an encouraging smile he took a deep breath before he began. His hand closed over hers and held on firmly, almost as if he were trying to transfer some of her inner strength to himself.
‘All right. I’ll tell you everything and pray that when you know you won’t think too badly of me.’
Reliving the experience verbally after the nightmare was, Randall discovered, in some way therapeutic. It was good to get the guilt into the open, to share the torment with someone who was precious to him, someone he loved and respected dearly. Finally his tale was done.
‘There you have it, in all its ugliness. Most of the time I think I’ve forgotten it, put what was an awful war behind me, then I’ll have the nightmare and know that the memory will haunt me for as long as I live.’
Amy snuggled into his chest. Her fingers stroked his cheek in a gesture of love and understanding. ‘Medical experts say that talking about it helps, so whenever you want to I’m happy to listen. And you did the right thing, the humane thing. One day I believe you’ll come to accept that as the truth and the feeling of guilt will go.’
He was quiet for several moments then, sighing, he said, ‘I hope you’re right, my darling. But now, turn the light off so we can get some sleep. Tomorrow we’re going swimming in the Southern Ocean.’
For Amy and Randall the next five days were filled with a mixture of activity and of doing nothing other than talking for hours. They bought bathers and took a tram to Henley Beach to bathe in the Southern Ocean, and the days and nights were interspersed with exquisite moments of making love. All too soon their honeymoon came to an end and it was time to return to their everyday surroundings and begin their life together at Drovers Way…
CHAPTER THIRTY
Parked in Queen Street, Joe Walpole pressed the starter button on his automobile and listened to the whirring, sickly sound of the motor as it refused to start. He was already cranky because his father had commanded him to go to their property on the other side of Blinman and check the work of the property manager, and the uncooperative vehicle made him even more cross. The task given to him would take a round trip of two days, and make him miss the next race meeting in Hawker. He pushed the button in again and the whirring sound was weaker. Not a good sign. He lifted his finger off the button and slammed both hands on the driving wheel. Damn it!
How many times had he asked his father to buy him a new vehicle? The Rolls was getting old, and in all truth, while it was luxurious, it wasn’t really suited to rough country roads. He got out of the automobile and threw open the bonnet to look at the engine. Not that he understood much about engines; they were too complicated for him. His hand reached for the radiator cap.
‘Having a spot of trouble, Joe?’ Randall asked as he came across, having parked his Ford on the opposite side of the street. Like Joe, he stared at the automobile’s engine. ‘Is there water in the battery?’
‘Yeah. I’m not a dill. It was the first thing I checked.’ Joe’s curt reply was defensive. He always felt defensive around Randall McLean. Even his father, who was trying hard to ruin Randall, had admitted that the owner of Drovers Way was an intelligent, formidable man and not to be underestimated.
‘How about the spark plugs? Did you take them out and clean them?’
‘Not yet.’ Joe made a grunting sound in his throat. ‘You know, I’ve been asking Dad for a new automobile but he’s a mean bugger when it comes to shelling out money on me.’ He didn’t bother to disguise the bitterness of his tone. ‘Reckon I�
�ll have to wait for my inheritance till he finally passes on.’
‘Your father’s a sound businessman, Joe. I’m sure he has a good reason for not supplying you with a new vehicle.’
‘No,’ Joe shook his head emphatically. People generally thought his father was a good businessman, and he was, but he had always been particularly tough on his son. ‘He’s just bloody tight-fisted with me. Beth, on the other hand, could always get whatever she wanted out of him. By the way,’ he changed the subject and paused for effect, ‘we got a cable the other day telling us she’s marrying some country squire in Britain. Wants us all to come over for the wedding.’ He squinted as he watched Randall’s reaction to his news. He’d had no illusions about his sister’s reason for wanting to marry Randall. It wasn’t because he was a war hero, or because she’d believed she was in love with him; she’d known their father would appreciate having Drovers Way within closer reach of the Walpole family.
Randall’s eyebrows rose then settled. ‘I’m pleased for Beth. She deserves to be happy. Will you go to Britain?’
‘No, just my parents. Which is good in a way. They’ll be away for about three months, and while they are I’ll be in charge of Ingleside and the other properties.’
‘That’ll be a good experience for you, Joe. After all, one day it will all be yours.’
‘Yeah. I just hope I inherit before I’m too old to enjoy it.’ And how he would enjoy it, Joe thought. He could do what he wanted, when he wanted to. That day couldn’t come soon enough as far as he was concerned.
Randall, not normally magnanimous towards the Walpoles, offered out of generosity, ‘Get a wrench from your toolbox and I’ll give you a hand.’
Joe’s smile betrayed his surprise. He knew Randall didn’t think much of him, that he thought him a whinger and a coward. Randall wasn’t like his brother, Danny, who accepted Joe at face value and let it go at that. ‘All right.’ He went to the vehicle’s toolbox, which was under the automobile’s running board. After he returned with three different-sized wrenches he watched with a mixture of admiration and envy as Randall proceeded to remove the spark plugs with expertise, one at a time, clean them with a cloth from his back pocket, then reinstall them.
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