He watched Harriet now as she bent over the fire, preparing to unwrap the possum meat. Her dress was only loosely laced and he knew she hadn’t put her undergarments back on. The thought of it aroused him again and the recollection of their time in her little nest of a bed made him want to drag her back there again but he remained on the seat, watching her. She’d said no one else had used her, but could he believe her?
She put the possum on an old china serving plate that had also been in the trunk then went and fetched his blanket from his bed under the wagon. She draped it over the log and onto the ground, then she placed the plate of food on it and sat down, resting her back against the log. She patted the space on the other side of the plate.
“Rest here, Septimus,” she said, “and eat.”
He hesitated a moment then did as she asked. Together they ate the food in silence as the sun went down behind them.
Twenty-two
Harriet woke to the cool early morning air on her bare leg. She pulled the blanket her way a little then nestled against the warm body beside her. From the sound of his deep rhythmic breaths, Septimus was still fast asleep. Yesterday had been a big day for him, for both of them, but she knew he would be physically exhausted. He’d taken her to bed as soon as she’d offered to lick the possum grease from his fingers and once again their bodies had joined together. He’d fallen asleep the instant he was spent.
She couldn’t see his features in the murky pre-dawn light but she hoped he would still be without the scowl that had permanently lined his face since his accident. Yesterday she had seen the old Septimus. The one who had taken her in the stable at the back of Mabel’s and enjoyed her body and her company. The man she loved. His thick wavy hair was in need of a cut but it didn’t hide his angular cheekbones and lively eyes.
Harriet slipped from the blanket, pulled on her clothes and made her way down to the creek to wash. The water was freezing but ever since her swim in the waterhole near Burra she’d taken to bathing more often. The cold water invigorated her and made her skin glow.
Back in camp she could hear soft snores. She was glad Septimus was still asleep.
Yesterday had been wonderful, a big step towards the future she knew could be theirs, but she wasn’t sure whether he would feel the same in the light of a new day. He had been overcome with lust for her as she had thought would eventually happen. It had been her opportunity to remind him of her abilities. All the same, she knew she’d have to tread carefully. Septimus wasn’t a fool, or easily manipulated, but she hoped he would soon see the benefits of keeping her with him.
She had been wise to keep silent about her violation. There was no need for Septimus to know of it. Her body had healed from Pig Boy’s assault – in all places. Mercifully she’d been unconscious when he raped her but she’d known about it for weeks afterwards. Yesterday she had served Septimus well, as she would continue to do. If that meant convincing him he was the only man who’d ever entered her then that’s what she’d do.
Hands ripped the dress from her body. She gasped. She had been so lost in her own thoughts she hadn’t heard his approach. He spun her around. His hands gripped her tight. She shivered and kept her lashes lowered. Had he found out she’d lied? Then suddenly his arms were around her, holding her against his warm body.
“I think it’s time I bought you a new dress, Harriet.” She felt the chuckle rumble in his chest. “You seem to have outgrown that one. Can’t have Mrs Wiltshire, wife of respected hawker, Mr Septimus Wiltshire, looking like a whore can we?” He lowered his voice. “Even if she acts like one in bed.”
Her teeth were chattering, whether from the cold or the release of the fear that had coursed through her body when he’d grabbed her, she wasn’t sure.
“In the meantime I’d better warm you up,” he said and guided her back to the bed in the bush.
*
Septimus wouldn’t linger in the bed as Harriet wanted him too.
“I’ve got too much to do,” he said as he buttoned up his pants.
He went to the trunk and came back with some clothing. He tossed a pair of men’s trousers and a shirt beside her.
“You can wear those until I return,” he said. “I’ve got many jobs to do in Adelaide and one of them is to buy you a new dress, Harriet.” His moustache twitched above his lips. “One that fits.”
Harriet smiled back. She knew he would look after her. She dressed in the men’s clothing and cooked him damper for breakfast while he scurried around their camp. He almost had a spring in his lopsided step. Before she knew it, he had kissed her goodbye and set off with Clover pulling the wagon.
She listened to the sounds of his departure until she could hear him no more. She shivered. A niggle of doubt wormed its way into her chest but she pushed it away, remembering his smile and his kiss. She reorganised the small stores in the wooden box and packed the pretty tea set back into the trunk. One of the linen tablecloths had a tear in it, so she took out her needle and thread and mended it. Once that was done she thought about food. She broke up the remains of the damper. Supplies were low but there was still possum meat left for their evening meal. There was nothing else to prepare.
In the late afternoon she sat huddled alone by the fire. Her earlier doubt returned to unsettle her. Septimus had been gone a long time. Perhaps his tenderness towards her had all been a ploy to lull her into believing he wanted her to stay with him. She’d been duped before.
She put more wood on the fire and stood warming her hands. Yesterday there had been brilliant sunshine and the promise of a warm summer ahead. Today the sky was murky; a chilly wind had blown up, whirling the ash from the fire into her eyes. Today she’d been glad of the shawl she’d tied around her shoulders.
Harriet glanced around the camp. There was very little left there. Septimus had even taken down the canvas cover and put it back on the wagon. Her gaze skipped over her old dress folded up on top of the trunk, then returned to study the solid chest still beside the log seat where they’d unpacked it last night. A quick surge of excitement raced through her. Surely Septimus would come back for the trunk.
She knew it had belonged to the man called Thomas. It was his goods that Septimus was taking to town to sell off. The rest of the items Septimus said had been his mother’s, including the books. He wasn’t a reader, so he hadn’t thought them very important, but Harriet had pored over them when he’d pulled them from the bottom of the trunk. His mother had written her name inside in tiny flowing letters, Hester Baker.
Books had been a part of Harriet’s early childhood, but they’d been lost along with her innocence, and there’d been no books at Mabel’s. It warmed her heart to think Septimus at least had his own mother’s books and that they could also be hers.
Now, with nothing left to do, she settled back and started to read, her ears alert for the sounds of Clover and the wagon.
By the next morning, Harriet had resigned herself to accept he’d gone. Besides the trunk, he’d left little of value at the camp. The cooking pots and few provisions would be easily replaced with the money she knew he’d made. Perhaps he’d decided the trunk wasn’t worth the bother of loading up again. Even though he’d been markedly stronger on his leg, it still would have been a struggle for both of them to get the trunk back into the wagon.
Harriet didn’t bother to wash but she encouraged the fire into life again. The previous day had been cool and today the clouds were thicker and ranging in colour from light to grey to almost black. It looked like rain.
She folded up her bed with a heavy heart then slumped down at the edge of the fire and gave in to the tears that had been threatening to flow all morning. How could she have ended up like this? She’d survived so much, then found Septimus when he most needed her, got him to the doctor and managed to help him make the long journey back to Adelaide and now, when she thought he’d finally accepted her worth, he’d deserted her again.
This time he had a good head start on her – and she had no idea
which direction he’d taken. Every crumb of energy and intuition that had helped her in the past washed out of her with the huge sobs that wracked her body. Harriet had never been one to indulge in self-pity but now she couldn’t help herself. She cried until her stomach muscles cramped and she vomited a small amount of liquid onto the dirt beside her. Had she eaten today? She didn’t care. She shuddered as another posset of bile trickled from her mouth. When finally her muscles relaxed she curled up in the dirt by the fire and closed her eyes, oblivious to the first drops of rain dotting her body.
Twenty-three
1847
Every one of Thomas’s muscles screamed as he bent to haul the next struggling sheep towards him. The air was thick with the oily smell of wool and the astringent pong of urine. Over the clicking of the blades, the bleating was constant, even pervading his sleep at night. Sweat soaked his clothes and dribbled down his brow. He brought one hand up to wipe the trickle from his eyes and the sheep kicked, connecting with his shin. The pain jarred up his leg but he contorted the yelp into a low groan and gathered the animal back. Just one more and he would have to go and help the lad with the fleeces. There was quite a pile for him to sort again.
Along the boards beside him he knew the three men were still clipping the wool faster than he could but each sheep he could shear meant they were one closer to finishing; and it was one less for which he had to pay the shearers.
The three shearers were a rough lot but he’d had no other choice. Over the few weeks of the job they’d revealed little about themselves, camping together in the bush on the other side of the shed at night. Thomas had the distinct impression they were keen to be away from civilisation. He’d learned from the vile Gurr that this type of man could mean trouble but they kept to themselves and didn’t come near his hut. Even so, Thomas felt uneasy. After the first night, when he’d heard heated voices and strange yelps from the direction of their camp, he’d taken his bed roll into his hut and slept with his gun.
The lad they’d brought with them helped in the shed and cooked food for them, most of which was supplied by Thomas. This young jack-of-all-trades was a nervy, gangly creature they called Wick. He never walked anywhere but jumped and darted, often startling the sheep, for which he’d receive a clip over the head if he was close enough, or a mouthful of abuse if he wasn’t.
Wick was quick around the shed, pushing sheep up, gathering the fleeces and sweeping the boards. If he wasn’t doing that it was up to Thomas, or Jacob when he’d been there. Thomas smiled at the thought of the younger Smith brothers, Jacob and Isaac, who he now counted as firm friends. Without them – and Gulda and his cousin – Thomas knew he wouldn’t be ready for shearing. He’d still be searching for sheep and drafting them.
Once the shearers had arrived, the natives had disappeared. This time Thomas had given them a sheep and some other provisions for their work. Zac had gone home but Jacob would stay a few days to help shift the sheep and press the wool, then he’d leave as well, returning a few days later to help again. Each time he came back there was some small item of food from Lizzie. That brought a smile to Thomas’s lips. He planned to eat a piece of her latest gift, a possum pie, for his lunch today.
A bellow from the man next to him startled Thomas. Wallis was the unofficial leader of the small band of shearers. He was a thick-set man with wide shoulders and his upper body looked out of proportion on his short legs. Of the three shearers, Wallis had the most to say and usually did so with many expletives.
Thomas looked over his shoulder to see bright red blood pouring over the white of Wallis’s newly shorn sheep. Wick appeared with the pot of black tar. Thomas watched as it was applied to stop the bleeding. That was just one more thing he didn’t like about these men. They were far too rough. He’d lost count of the number of sheep they’d applied the thick black mixture to, and he’d had to slit the throat of one on the first day, its injuries were so bad. He docked money from their tallies for damage but it didn’t seem to make them take more care.
Wallis glared at Thomas over Wick’s head then shoved the lad out of the way before doing the same with the poor sheep. Thomas watched that Wallis didn’t put a mark on the board. There was no way he’d get paid for that one.
“Should have slit its throat. Would have made a good roast for tonight.” Wallis twisted his pock-marked face into an ugly sneer. He held Thomas’s look a minute longer then slid his gaze sideways and reached into the pen for the next sheep.
Thomas hauled his own sheep to its feet and pushed it through the door behind him with some small satisfaction. They were almost there. By knock-off this afternoon the job should be done: nearly three thousand sheep shorn. He had promised a celebratory meal, not that he felt the shearers deserved it; the celebration for him would be in seeing them off Penakie.
He moved quickly around the last pile of fleeces, pulling off any dags and checking for prickles and marks that could lower the price AJ would get for his wool. Jacob had already helped him load the first of the bags of wool onto the dray. As soon as shearing was finished, Thomas would make the trip back to Port Adelaide with a full load.
Outside, the midday sun belted down with the ferocity that had made the shed so hot, but at least the air was fresh. Thomas sucked in a huge breath and stretched. Behind him he heard Wallis give the shout to down shears. The men would take a break for an hour now, out of the heat of the shed. Wick shot out the door, making for their camp. Thomas once again felt pity for the young lad. There was no rest for him. He would have to be dishing up their food by the time the men reached him.
Thomas crossed to the water barrel and took a long drink before going to his camp kitchen where he had buried kangaroo meat in the coals to cook slowly for tonight’s meal. Gulda had shown him how to do it so the meat didn’t dry out or toughen. It was tempting to remove the dirt to check the heat of the layer of coals below but Thomas resisted. He knew he had to trust the process and leave it alone.
He wondered where the native and his family were now. Gulda had been a quick learner once he got over his initial fear of the horse and could ride quite well. He was also very good at rounding up the sheep, even without the horse, when he was with his cousins on foot. Thomas wanted Gulda to keep an eye on things while he was away taking the wool to the port.
He pushed his hat firmly onto his head and tracked around the side of his hut to fetch a piece of Lizzie’s pie. He had just taken the last mouthful when the sound of a horse and cart rumbled from the creek. His spirits lifted at the sight of not only Jacob on his horse but Isaac driving the cart and, beside him on the seat, Anne Smith and Lizzie. They all raised their arms in greeting. He did the same then saw another rider bringing up the rear. Samuel had come as well.
“Hello,” Jacob called. “I thought you’d be about finished.”
“Not quite,” Thomas said, “but we’ll cut the last sheep by knock-off time today.”
“You can’t have cut out without a party,” Isaac said as the cart rumbled closer.
Thomas looked at Lizzie, whose face glowed under her wide hat. All the Smiths were beaming; even Samuel wore a small grin. They’d come to visit and he didn’t have anything but a baked kangaroo to feed them.
“What’s wrong?” Jacob was off his horse now. “I’d have thought you’d be celebrating. The shearing will be finished and you can see those poor excuses for shearers on their way.”
“I wish I’d known you were coming. I would have prepared more food.”
The cart came to a stop in front of the hut.
“Don’t you worry about food,” Isaac said. “Mother and Lizzie have brought enough to feed an army.”
“I hope you don’t mind us doing that, Thomas,” Anne said. “I knew you’d be too busy with the shearing to be thinking about food.”
“I’ve made a pie with the last lot of dried fruit you gave us,” Lizzie said as Jacob helped her from the wagon. She stopped in front of Thomas and her sweet smile made his heart thud in his chest.
“Duffy?” Thomas pushed back his hat and scratched his head.
“I saw him near the boundary yesterday,” Samuel said. “I mentioned you were close to cut out and that Mother and Lizzie were planning a feast.” He looked at Thomas apologetically.
“You don’t mind, do you, Thomas?” Lizzie’s gaze met his over the armload of food Isaac had passed to her from the cart.
Once again Thomas scratched his head. Some good company was more than welcome and it seemed that most of the Smith family were happy to talk to him. He glanced back at the track in case George and Edmund should suddenly appear as well.
“I assure you we only mean well by our unannounced arrival,” Anne said.
“You’re always welcome,” Thomas replied.
She patted his arm. “My husband sends his apologies. His shoulder is causing him a lot of pain at the moment and Edmund has stayed back to keep an eye on the place.”
They all looked around as a man’s bellow was heard, followed by a high-pitched wail that sounded a lot like Wick.
“I’d better go and see what’s happening,” Thomas said and, with a final glance at Lizzie, he set off for the shed.
He reached it at the same time as Wallis, who stuck his head through the door and bellowed: “You skinny little fool, I’ll have your hide. Get out here you little –”
“Wallis.” Thomas’s sharp call made the man stop his tirade and turn.
“We’re still on our break. Don’t interfere,” Wallis growled.
Thomas stood up straight. He glared at Wallis. “I’m in charge of this shed. What’s the problem?”
“That halfwit knocked hot tea over me.” Wallis pointed to a stain across one lower leg of his trousers. “I was going to give him a taste of his own medicine. Make him more careful in future.”
“I’m sure you’ve given him enough of a scare to remember.” Thomas assumed Wick was hiding in the shed. Wallis still looked as though he was planning to follow. “There’s no point in injuring the boy; we’re short enough on labour.”
Heart of the Country Page 15