Heart of the Country

by Tricia Stringer

“And so soft.” She tipped her head back and laughed. “Oh, how different from our first bed.”

  The hair fell back from her neck, revealing her pale skin and the locket hanging from the delicate chain. He had a sudden vision of the smooth black of Dulcie’s skin against the creamy white of Harriet’s. He imagined them together, the three of them in this bed. A shudder went through him.

  “Are you all right, Septimus?” Harriet jumped up. “I should light the fire. There’s a chill in the air.”

  “There are other ways to warm us, Harriet.” He pushed the door shut with his boot.

  “Not now, Septimus.” Harriet gave him one of her coy looks. “Tonight.”

  He grabbed her arms and pulled her against him. “I’ve bought you a new bed, wife,” he growled, “and I want to test it out.”

  “Mama?” Henry whined from beyond the door.

  Harriet twisted in his grasp. “Septimus, you’re hurting me.”

  “Mama!”

  “Septimus.” Harriet struggled.

  He let go one hand and slapped her face.

  She gasped.

  “Shut him up,” he hissed, “or I’ll do it.”

  Harriet stared at him, then her eyes lowered in compliance. “Mama’s all right, Henry,” she called. “Play with your train. I’ll be out in a minute.”

  There was a whimper then silence.

  Septimus smiled and pushed her back onto the bed. Her body was still his for the taking. He leaned over her.

  “Unbutton me, Harriet,” he commanded.

  Harriet listened to the steady breaths that told her Septimus was asleep. She eased out of bed, made herself decent then let herself quietly out the door.

  Henry was asleep on the floor, his head resting on his outstretched arm, the train still clutched in his hand. She bent down to pick him up. Her heart ached at the sight of his face, damp with tears. She kissed his pale cheek. He stirred in her arms but didn’t wake.

  He became withdrawn and nervy only when Septimus was at home. The rest of the time he was such a good little boy and so happy. She carried him to the small room off the kitchen and laid him on one of the two matching single beds. Even this room was well furnished and had its own small window overlooking the backyard.

  She brushed a lock of dark hair from Henry’s forehead and kissed him again. She almost wished Septimus would stay away forever. He hardly ever took her to bed any more and today, quite suddenly, he’d forced her. That had never happened before. Or perhaps it was that she’d always complied easily whenever he’d wanted her.

  Whatever the case, she didn’t want it to happen again while Henry was about. He must have been so frightened. She would have to do her best to satisfy Septimus again at night so that he wouldn’t be wanting more during the day.

  She sighed and shut the door on her sleeping child. Just for a moment she had her body and her house to herself. She wandered between the two main rooms, checking every corner.

  The kitchen had a proper wood oven and griddle top with a separate grate to heat the kettle. Running across the wall above it was a mantel crafted from wood and polished to a shine. The best part of the house, however, was the solid wood of the floors. Harriet closed her eyes and drew in a breath. She couldn’t smell dirt. After years of living in a wagon and then in the little hut up in the hills with its rough wooden floor, she was happy to have a house that she could keep free of dirt.

  She gave a brief thought to the captain who had built this for his wife. How sad she never got to see it. It was so beautiful and fresh there must have been people lined up to buy it. She wondered how Septimus had come to purchase it. Harriet turned slowly in the middle of the room and banished sad thoughts from her mind. She busied herself setting the fires, one in the kitchen and one in the front room. She had a delightful new house and she knew better than to ask how it had come to be theirs.

  By the time Septimus and Henry woke from their afternoon naps she had a mutton stew simmering over the fire – Septimus had brought the meat from their hills property – and she’d prepared a roly-poly to cook in her new oven.

  Septimus came into the kitchen. He stepped around Henry, who was once again on the floor with his train. “Can’t he play outside?”

  “He likes the new house too.” She shuffled Henry to a corner out of the way.

  “Hmph!” Septimus snorted. He lifted the lid on the stew. “That smells good, at least.”

  “We can have a celebratory dinner.” Harriet smiled at him. “Then an even better celebration later.” She fluttered her eyelashes.

  He pounced on her in a flash and pushed her up against the table. Harriet braced herself. Her hands gripped the wooden top.

  “You want me to take you again,” he snarled in her ear, “right here in front of the boy?”

  She gasped.

  “Might do him good to learn what a man does,” Septimus said.

  “Mama?” Henry’s voice wavered from the corner.

  “Mama,” Septimus mimicked and screwed up his face.

  He let her go and stepped away from her. Harriet pushed herself upright then moved forward as Septimus lowered his hand towards Henry. She stopped as he roughed up his son’s hair.

  Henry cowered away from his father.

  “Pfff!” Septimus exhaled. “The day will come when I have to take the boy in hand. Can’t have him at your apron strings forever, Harriet.”

  He strode away from Henry. “Get the food ready,” he snapped as he passed Harriet. “I have to go out later.”

  Henry opened his mouth but she put a finger to her lips and he closed it again, watching her intently.

  She listened as Septimus settled himself in a chair in the front room. Then she heard the rustle of the newspaper. Finally she kneeled down and Henry fell into her outstretched arms.

  Septimus made his way down the alley behind one of the new sheds at the wharf. There was barely a moon, so little light shone to mark his progress and he was glad of it. He had a contact who was going to be his eyes and ears at the port. He didn’t want anyone else observing their meeting.

  Septimus had learned over the years to keep his business within the law. If, on the odd occasion, something unlawful needed to be done, he’d found others to do the work for him. He’d killed two men and got away with it. He didn’t want to risk his luck further.

  A shadow emerged from the gloom at the end of the alley. Septimus stopped as a second figure joined the first.

  “It’s me, Mr Wiltshire, Rix. I’ve got me friend Pavey with me.”

  Septimus let out a breath, hissing over his teeth. He’d come across Rix and Pavey at a roadside inn a few months prior. They were heading to Port Augusta in search of work. He’d picked them as a pair of ex-convicts still willing to cross the line for some extra money. He’d kept in touch and was pleased to find they had secured jobs loading and unloading ships.

  “I told you to come alone,” Septimus growled.

  “Pavey has seen something,” Rix said. “I thought he should come and tell you himself what he saw. I think you’ll be interested.”

  Septimus stepped closer. “What is it, man?” He put his sleeve to his nose. There was a rank, fishy smell surrounding the pair.

  “There’s a load of wool,” Pavey said. “Just been delivered today. I had to help get it off the wagon.”

  “That’s your job, you fool,” Septimus snapped.

  “Yeah, but some of it was unmarked.”

  Septimus stared into the eyes of the man opposite him. Pavey shuffled his feet and looked from side to side.

  “In what way, unmarked?” Septimus asked.

  “There’s no name on them. Don’t know how it happened but the bales are free of any markings.”

  Septimus lowered his arm and rubbed his hands together against the damp chill of the air. “Where are they now?”

  “With all the other bales that come in from the property. I thought maybe the owner might pay a reward for having it pointed out to him.”


  Pavey yelped as Rix gave him a swift slap over the head.

  “Be quiet, man,” Septimus hissed.

  “I told Pavey we work for you now, Mr Wiltshire, and that you would be rewarding us for this information.”

  “Possibly.” Septimus was wary. “How would bales leave a property unmarked?”

  “There’s a few shearers we’ve met that does the rounds,” Rix said. “If they were to have a connection with a port …”

  Septimus frowned at the man. “But what if the owner notices unmarked bales being loaded on the wagon?”

  “If he does then it’s a mistake, ain’t it? The mark is applied and the deal on the side is lost. For this time.”

  “So are you saying you’ve intercepted someone else’s cut?”

  “Were only Pavey and the driver unloading this lot,” Rix said.

  “He was drunk on slops.” Pavey spat and Septimus took a step back.

  Rix hit him again but Pavey stood his ground. “Was barely any help to me at all. I was doing all the hard work.” His eyes glinted in the weak light.

  “Where are these unmarked bales now?” Septimus said.

  “They’re still with the rest from the property, waiting to be loaded on the ship due in tomorrow. I faced all the bales in so no one would notice the unmarked ones.”

  “You fool,” Rix said. “How will you find them again without turning them all over?”

  “I counted along the row.” Pavey grinned. “There’s four of them on the top at the back.”

  “Whose property has this load come from?” Septimus knew the shearers had recently been at Smith’s Ridge. This fool could have him robbing himself.

  “Wildu Creek.”

  Septimus blew out a breath that hissed between his teeth. His reluctant and arrogant neighbour had been careless with his wool. It would be a pleasure to fleece Thomas Baker again. He sniggered at his own cunning.

  Pavey fidgeted at the sound.

  Septimus wondered who’d been fool enough to try to steal from Mr High and Mighty Baker. Not that it mattered: Septimus Wiltshire had intercepted the job. No doubt the drunk in charge of the wagon was Baker’s brother-in-law, Isaac Smith. Septimus had kept him on at Smith’s Ridge but he’d become a thorn in his side, asking too many questions, always watching. Septimus had paid his other shepherd, Terrett, to rough the lad up, remind him who he worked for. Terrett had done that but the idiot had also filled Isaac with grog and made it a habit. Septimus couldn’t abide drinking on the job. He’d kicked Isaac off the property on his last visit there. No doubt his sister had talked her husband into giving him work.

  “We’ll get a good cut for this information?” Rix broke into his thoughts.

  “Yes, yes,” Septimus said. “You’ll be paid once the Smith’s Ridge stamp is on those bales. See to it and I’ll be back in town next week to pay you.”

  Rix nodded and Septimus turned, happy to get away from the foul stench of rotten fish.

  Forty-seven

  1856

  “What is it, Thomas?”

  He looked up from the paper he was holding into Lizzie’s eyes. The cornflower blue was as pretty as ever in spite of years of hardship and loss.

  “Nothing,” he said.

  “Why are you frowning over nothing?”

  She came over to the little desk where he sat in the corner of their good room. Times had been tough but at least he’d been able to build a house with Jacob’s help, and the structure kept out most of the dust and flies. They’d used solid pine trunks and filled the gaps with plaster made from mud. The paling roof kept out the rain. There was no ceiling but the house had glass windows and wooden floors. The two main rooms were large enough for them to move in without bumping into each other and there was a third room right across the back for cooking and stores.

  “I’m doing my sums.”

  “That would explain it,” she teased.

  “The wool cheque should be in when I get to Port Augusta.”

  He put the paper back on the desk and stood up.

  “Do you have to go?” she asked.

  “You know I’d rather not but we need another shepherd.”

  “You wouldn’t if Zac –”

  “It’s a much bigger job now,” he said quickly. He didn’t want to go over Zac’s shortcomings again. He’d hoped his youngest brother-in-law would have settled with time. He smiled at Lizzie, not wanting to add to her worries. “And I want to pick out a new ram myself. I hear there are some for sale at the port.” Thomas wouldn’t add he didn’t trust Zac to do that job either. “I’m going to bring back another horse and cart too.”

  “Don’t you go getting too grand, Thomas Baker.”

  “I’m not, Lizzie. But if we’re to lower our sheep losses we need another shepherd; and the cart we brought with us from Penakie is not ours.”

  “You’re a proud man. You know my father won’t ever want it back.”

  “I know. But I want everything to be our own. To come from the work of our hands.”

  “You’ll be gone a month or more.”

  “I’m sorry, Lizzie.”

  Since that first trip away when Annie had died, Thomas hated leaving her, and now his two-year-old son, Joseph, behind. The year before he’d sent Zac to the port with their wool but he hadn’t returned. Thomas had had to go looking and bring his drunken brother-in-law home.

  “Don’t be sorry,” she said. “I can manage fine without you.” She gave him a wink and lifted her head to kiss his lips. “It’s Joseph who misses his father.”

  “And you won’t miss me – just a little bit?”

  He pulled her close in his arms and smothered her lips with his. Lizzie still made him feel like he was the luckiest man alive, in spite of everything they’d suffered.

  “Who will keep you warm at night when I’m not here?” he whispered in her ear.

  “The nights are warm enough without your –”

  “Give it a break you two.”

  They pulled apart and turned to the figure swaying in the open doorway.

  “Zac, have you been drinking again?” Lizzie moved towards her brother.

  He held up his hand. “No.” He wobbled against the door-frame. “Well maybe a little.” He chuckled and staggered away from the door.

  Lizzie turned to Thomas in exasperation. “Where does he get it?” she muttered.

  “He must have another still going.”

  Zac’s curse was something neither of them could understand. He would spend weeks as sober as a judge then something would set him off. When he was sober he was a good worker, and Joseph doted on his merry uncle.

  Thomas squinted into the bright sunshine beyond Zac. “Where’s Joseph?”

  Zac put his head to one side as if he was thinking.

  “You were looking after him,” Lizzie said. “Where is he?” She pushed past her brother and Thomas came around his other side.

  They stopped at the sight of Daisy leading two giggling toddlers up the hill. They were both naked and streaked with mud. One little boy had black skin and dark curls like Daisy’s and the other was white skinned with fair hair like Lizzie’s.

  “The boys been in the creek, Mrs Lizzie. I been telling them off.”

  “Thank you,” Lizzie said.

  Thomas reached down and picked up his son. Daisy swept her boy to her hip and carried him away.

  Lizzie rounded on Zac. “You said you’d look after him.”

  “There’s hardly any water there.”

  “He could have drowned.”

  “Lizzie, I’m sorry.”

  “You keep saying that, Zac.” Lizzie glowered at him. “But it makes no difference. You’re sober for a while and you work hard, then in no time at all you’re back drinking again.”

  Thomas put a steadying hand on his wife’s shoulder. “Joseph’s all right.” He put the squirming boy into her arms. Joseph giggled at his mother and clasped her cheeks in his dirty hands. She kissed the top of his head and, with a final
glare at Zac, carried him inside.

  “He’s a good boy.” Zac’s words slurred over his lips.

  Thomas swallowed his frustration. “Go and sleep it off, Zac. You can’t leave all the shepherding to Gulda and Tarka.”

  Zac tipped his head to one side and tried to look at Thomas but his eyes kept shutting. He wobbled to the end of the verandah and staggered in the direction of the original little wooden hut that had become his quarters.

  Thomas leaned against the verandah post and looked down the slope towards the creek. Zac was right. There was barely any water. During their first three summers at Wildu Creek there had always been pools fed by occasional cloudbursts in the hills behind them. This last summer had been long and hot and even though they were well into autumn they’d still had no rain to feed the creek. It was the same all over the property. His sheep were spreading further in their search for water, making it harder to look after them. They had lost a lot more to wild dogs in the past few months than ever before.

  At least he didn’t suffer many losses to the natives. Gulda’s presence seemed to make the difference. Not that he or Tarka stayed permanently – Gulda was sometimes away for weeks. He always returned and spent time at Wildu Creek, though. He and Daisy were camped with their son, Tommie, in their usual spot further up the hill. Thomas desperately needed another shepherd. With the natives’ occasional disappearances and Zac’s lack of reliability, he was often doing the work of three men alone.

  The sound of hooves approaching fast made him step down from the verandah. Gulda emerged from the bushes, bouncing on the back of Derriere. “Mr Tom, bad thing.” He was yelling before his horse had come to a stop.

  Thomas took the reins as Gulda slid from the horse’s back, waving his arms and pointing behind him.

  “What’s happened?”

  “Bad thing, bad thing,” he said and shook his head vigorously.

  Thomas put a tentative hand on his friend’s heaving shoulder. “What bad thing?” He had learned over the years that Gulda could exaggerate the importance of some events.

  “Terrett.”

  Thomas frowned and looked past him in the direction of Smith’s Ridge. He’d met Wiltshire’s overseer, Terrett, on a few occasions and had found nothing to like in the man. He’d also recognised fear in Zac’s eyes at any mention of the overseer’s name.