Rose picked up a knife and began on the first potato. “One more meal, only one, and we’ve completed our first day as shearers’ cooks. These past six months have been the longest of my life.”
“I expect time will pass faster now that the sheep are being clipped.” Ella pulled out another ladder-backed chair and sat beside Rose with her knife, her smile wry. She would have liked to discuss the sale of the wool, but facing Rose with reality right now would serve no purpose.
“The happiest day of my life will be the day we leave.”
“Mine will be when we can afford new dresses.” Vianna glanced at Rose’s stylish black silk gown. “Though you have them, already.”
“My godmother is very generous.”
“And so are you.” Ella lifted her head to stare into her older sister’s eyes. “You could have stayed with her, and yet you came back to help us.”
“My first duty is to my younger sisters,” Rose said in her annoyingly placid way.
Ella didn’t want to be anyone’s duty. She lifted her chin. “We could never have managed without you.”
“Not if we wanted nice scones.” Smiling wickedly, Vianna pushed a monogrammed spoon into her jam dish.
“You little baggage.” Ella gave a rueful laugh. “I’m no cook, that’s certain. I’ve never had the same proficiency as Rose in any of the feminine arts.”
Dimples formed in Vianna’s cheeks. “That’s why Papa sent her instead of you to the city to find a husband. Poor Rose.”
“He sent me because I’m the oldest. The oldest should be married first.” Rose frowned at her potato.
“And when she is, Vi, I’ll learn a few airs and graces. You’ll need some, too, if we’re going to live in the city.”
“You’ll like being away from the smell of sheep and the flies. I didn’t miss that for one minute. I think I’ve always been a city girl at heart.” Rose sighed. “But, since we’re in mourning, even if I were still there, I wouldn’t have been able to attend any social functions. Fill the big bowl with water for the potatoes, Vianna.”
Vianna filled the bowl from the sink and plopped it on the center of the table. The three sat together companionably. Vianna helped by dropping the peeled potatoes into the bowl while mulling about the finer points of her pony, Miffy.
Finally, Rose rolled down her pin-tucked sleeves and took the scones out of the oven. “I don’t miss the parties and balls as much as I miss the social interaction,” she said as Vianna tucked in.
Vianna licked the jam from her upper lip. “We don’t often do social interaction here.”
Ella forced a smile, recalling her gauche interchange with the handsome shearer. “Now, off you go. You need to finish the lessons I set for you.”
Vianna folded her arms across her flat chest. “I finished the arithmetic, and I’ll do the grammar later. I really ought to exercise Miffy. I haven’t taken her over the jumps since last week and it’s only a month till the town picnic.”
“A month?” Turning her back, Rose took a starched white cloth from the dresser drawer. “We’ll be gone by then. And before you dash off to see your pony, you can set the outside table for the shearer’s afternoon tea.”
“Me?”
Ella sighed. “Let her go.” A month seemed far too soon to leave the only place she’d ever lived. “I can do the table. It will only take me a minute.” She opened the oak dresser. Her reflection in the glass of the door didn’t surprise her: untidy hair, damp curls around her sweaty face, and big rosy cheeks. Resignedly, she piled up the nine thick white plates needed for the outdoor table where the shearers ate their meals and shifted the weight of the plates onto her left hip.
“Well, perhaps Vi should set our table in the dining room for tonight. Three places, the knives on the right and the forks on the left.”
“I know where knives and forks go,” Vianna said with a tilt of her pert nose. “But I’m sorry. I don’t have time to help, not with all the grammar lessons I need to finish.” Grabbing another scone, she swung on her heel and, head high, she left.
“Am I too hard on her?” Rose asked Ella.
Ella shook her head. “Being brought up by her sisters is hard on her. We had a mother.” With her right hip, she nudged the back door open.
Like Vianna, she’d led a pampered life until six months ago, having been responsible only for the housekeeper who’d run the homestead after Mama died. Mama had drowned while crossing the river with a flock of sheep, for which Papa blamed himself. From then on, he kept a strict eye on his daughters, stressing time and again each danger on the land. Ella knew the dangers on the land far better than she knew how to run the property.
How embarrassing that an itinerant shearer knew more about Papa’s land and sheep than she did. She could walk through the flocks and had often helped with rounding up, but sales and numbers and routine maintenance had never been discussed with her. Only by reading the account books had she learned about the regular outputs of money and the far fewer inputs. However, she could learn. Anyone could.
To learn how to do a task, a person needed no more than a good set of eyes and ears. Learning courage was another matter. She had never been intrepid, and Papa’s fears had become hers. She screwed up her face as she carefully placed the plates on the long outdoor table. A woman brought up on a sheep station ought to be able to swim or at least be willing to wet her feet. Surely being brave was only a matter of trying?
Sighing, she strode to the woodpile, where she chopped the kindling, which she then delivered to the washhouse. After clearing the ashes from beneath the copper and resetting the fire for the next day, she folded the clean laundry, sorted the dirty, and hurried to the stable paddock to fill the trough. When she found the task already done, she raced into the stables and doled out the chaff. Leaving a measure in three stalls, she refilled the water buckets, ran to the kitchen for scraps for the flustering hens, and flustered a little herself.
A quick glance at the sun, already on the downward dive into the glistening sea on the horizon, told her she just had time to prepare the table in the dining room for the evening meal. Rose was nowhere to be seen, possibly napping. Ella’s courage stiffened by the clench of her jaw, she dashed through the courtyard and past the woolshed. Not once in her twenty-one years had she stepped into the sea, a river, or a creek. Not once. Today she would conquer her fear.
A short time later, she reached her destination, the dappled billabong that fed from the river bordering the property. Her feet slowed. The sweat on her face cooled as she contemplated the water, the gracious red gums, and the delicate undergrowth surrounding the area. Despite the heat of the late afternoon sun, she shivered. Drawing a deep breath, she lowered herself onto the withered grass to remove her shoes and stockings.
She stayed, staring at her toes, knowing Mama’s drowning had been an accident and not a foregone conclusion. Before she could convince herself she had no need to prove herself to herself, she rose to her feet, scooped her crinoline to hip height, and stepped in. Yellow mud oozed between her toes. Within the next few moments, the woman who didn’t know her paddocks had been overgrazed and her sheep didn’t produce the finest quality wool would overcome an even greater obstacle. Abject cowardice. Holding her breath, she studied the pale ocher gleam of the water. Her feet hesitant on the slimy pebbles, she waded two paces, reaching ankle height. Her breath ached in her throat.
From behind, she heard a crackling of leaves. A small branch split and dropped. Two white cockatoos flew overhead, screeching, and a dark shape launched at her. She screamed, flailed, and fell backward.
The water dragged at her heavy skirts. She skidded straight into the deep center of the pool. Bubbles burst around her face and into her nose and mouth. Her inverted crinoline floated over her head, caging her. Water rushed past her ears and she saw nothing but the blurred white of her arms. Time stood still. She would drown, just like Mama.
A sudden shadow, a clamp on her wr
ist, and her arm was caught.
The fabled bunyip did exist. She would die, torn and bloody.
Terror galvanized her. She thrashed out, gouging at the slimy black shape. With inexorable strength, the bunyip forced her upward. She gulped in fresh air, spluttering, fighting to evade its flesh-tearing teeth.
“Keep still!”
She blinked the gritty water from her eyes, gasping, swiping at the new shearer, unable to believe she didn’t see a bunyip.
“Stop hitting me, and I’ll get you to the bank.” He scooped one iron-hard arm around her shoulders.
She clenched her elbows around his neck, and he hauled her until he found a footing. Then, with her pasted to him like a sodden leaf, he staggered to the sandy edge. “The bunyip,” she said, her throat constricted. “The bunyip tried to drown me.”
“You fell.” His lashes were thick, wet, and dark.
Latched to him, afraid to let him go, she glanced into his grayish-green eyes, the same color as the hills in the distance, her mind a blank. Water streamed off his dark hair and a trickle ran from his cheekbone to his set jaw, sliding onto a firm, tanned neck.
“Girl only wanted to play with you.”
“Girl?”
His strong hands held her at the waist, and his large frame supported her. The thud of his heart beat against her chest. With his head, he indicated his drenched and chastened dog sitting on the bank. “Girl.”
“Your dog.” Numbly, she eased her stranglehold of his neck. Stepping back, she huddled in her own arms. She couldn’t cling to a man she didn’t know, a man who stood tall, wide-shouldered, and sternly handsome, gazing at her with concern. “What are you doing here?”
He flicked back his soaked hair. “This is the direct path to the homestead. I took a swim in the river to freshen up before supper.”
“You can swim?”
His wet blue shirt clung to his manly chest. She quickly averted her gaze.
“I would have been a very brave man to pull you out of the billabong if I couldn’t.”
Hearing the lightness of his tone, she set her quivering jaw. “Your stupid dog almost drowned me. That wretched animal shouldn’t be roaming free, as I...” Suddenly aware of her skirts hitched over her crinoline, she shook the drenched black fabric to her ankles, shamed by the display of the cage and most of her wet underwear. Mortified that more than her fear showed, she hauled in a shuddering breath. “I’m sure I can have you arrested for trespass and willful destruction,” she muttered, wanting to weep.
He stepped back, his expression amused. “Destruction? I don’t suppose you noticed I saved your life.”
“After your dog attacked me.” Pushing back the curtain of hair dripping over her nose, she began to shiver, a reaction she couldn’t control. “I thought she was a bunyip.”
“A bunyip?” He raised his eyebrows at Girl, who shook off a halo of water droplets, stretched full length, and grinned at him. “A mythical monster?”
She glanced at the hills, backlit by the endless blue sky. “If a jet-black, hairy creature attacked you in a billabong, you might believe in mythical monsters, too.” She swiped her wet sleeve under her nose.
“You weren’t expecting Girl. So you have an excuse.”
Her mind clutching at this justification for her craven behavior, she stared at her lily-white toes. “Nevertheless, please make sure you pen that dog this time.” She kept her tone firm, hoping to reclaim a modicum of dignity.
With his long fingers, he lifted the front of his shirt, finally masking his chest. “She never leaves my side.”
“However, she did leave your side, moments ago, to spring at me.” Ella made contact with his eyes and lost her breath again.
“You gave her such a fright that she won’t again.”
“I gave her a fright?”
“She has expectations of being caught when she leaps. She didn’t expect to sink her ship. Now, since you have fully regained your feet, I will take my leave.” He turned and collected his leather hat from the grass.
Glancing quickly at her bodice, she breathed with relief when she saw the black fabric had remained rigid and opaque. If not her dignity or her feet, at least she had maintained the upper part of her wardrobe.
He jammed his hat on his head, gave a courteous nod, and walked away. Bedraggled and humiliated, she watched him stride off, square-shouldered and lean-hipped, with his jaunty dog trotting at his heel.
Chapter 2
Just after dawn, Ella lit the fire beneath the copper and rammed in the dirty laundry. With Rose, she cooked the shearers’ breakfast of mutton chops, bread, and gravy.
Ever since she had dripped back to the homestead before supper last night, her thoughts had rarely strayed from the shearer, Cal. But for him she might have drowned. However, if he hadn’t ignored her orders about the dog, she might have waded up to her knees in the water and gone back today to sit in the shallows. Within weeks, she might have been swimming in the river, like him. But, why? Soon she would live in the city and have no rivers to cross.
An hour of laundering refocused her mind, and she finally poled out a single load, glad she didn’t need to cope with the shearers’ clothing yet. The men could reek to the high heavens for all she cared as long as she could have respite from endless boiling, stirring, wringing, and transporting to and from the line and the ironing pile. She stood back, her reddened hands on her hips, waiting for the load to cool enough to put through the wringer.
“Where on earth did you find that dreadful gown you’re wearing?” Rose said behind her.
Ella spun around, her body concealing the drying frame. “In the bottom of my tallboy.” She glanced down at the tight, faded floral she wore. “I had it set aside for a patchwork quilt but I decided to give it a second life as my gardening gown first.”
“You should be wearing mourning. What would people say?”
She swallowed. “I don’t have another mourning gown, Rose. That’s why I wore the gray skirt last night. The last black garment I owned has been ruined.” Shifting aside, she indicated the gown that had been drenched in the billabong, hanging rusty and wrinkled over the frame.
Rose put her fingers to her forehead. “Not again. I thought you would have learned from last time that you can’t boil cheap black cotton.”
“I forgot.” Not for the world would she tell Rose she had almost drowned. Rose would not understand her sister’s need to prove herself. Nothing fazed Rose.
Rose gave a sympathetic nod. “I’ve made the bread. And the shearers will want their luncheon any minute. Alf said ‘twelve on the dot.’ If I’m to be ready on time, I’ll need help with the serving.” She had already changed into a looped black silk morning gown, another of those given to her by her doting godmother. “I told Vi she could ride until luncheon, and then she would have to study. I thought that’s what you would have wanted.” She gave a wry lift of her shoulders.
“If you could help me with the mangle, I can be with you sooner.”
Rose eyed the steaming snarls. “Leave your wash to cool.” She left.
Ella followed, hoping Rose meant that when the load cooled she would help.
“Yesterday, when I was talking to Cal”—Ella hesitated while Rose opened the kitchen door—“the new shearer, he said—”
“Nothing that would interest me at this moment, dear. Could you slice the mutton, please? I’ll get the cheese and pickles.”
“He said—”
“You know better than to engage in idle conversation with shearers.” Rose inclined her head, a faint smile on her lips.
“I do know, but I was speaking to him about the wool.” Ella rubbed her forehead.
“You shouldn’t speak to him at all.” Rose calmly emptied a jar of pickled onions into a blue bowl. “You know what shearers are. You’ll only encourage him.”
“There would be no point in me encouraging him,” Ella said, her voice thin with frustration. “He�
��s a shearer, a seasonal worker who wouldn’t have two pennies to rub together for three quarters of the year. He’s no use to me, and aside from that I could be plastered to him and he would lift me aside. You’re the one men admire.”
“So Papa thought, which is why he expected me to marry well enough to restore his fortune.”
“You can’t believe Papa expected that.”
“His intention was clear.” Rose raised her eyebrows. “He also expected you to take care of Vianna.”
“Of course he did, and of course I would.” Ella’s path had always been set. She had a younger sister to rear and an older sister who needed her support until she married. She sat at the table, absorbing Rose’s perfect features. “But we have to change our plans. We can’t leave in a month as we thought. We can’t get the money for the wool-clip for ages. The drought has virtually stopped the paddle steamers.”
Rose rested her forefinger on her lips. “We’ll put the property on the market, then.”
“But when we sell, we have to pay off the mortgage and settle Papa’s debts. We need the money from the fleeces to live on.”
“Did you tell me this before?”
Ella’s head ached. “You know we won’t have any other income.”
“What if we don’t settle Papa’s debts?”
“We have to. He owed money to people who need it as much as we do,” Ella said, hearing the plea in her tone. “Shopkeepers and the neighbors.”
Rose looked perturbed. “How long do we have to wait for our wool payment?”
“Up to three months.”
“We’ll miss the entire ball season. Not that I mind. But if we only have the money from the fleeces, we’ll soon run out, and then where will we be?”
“We won’t run out if we invest the money and live on the interest.” Ella cleared her throat. The bank had promised ten percent as long as the capital remained undivided. “We sold the fleeces for seven hundred pounds last year, so we won’t have the lifestyle we once had, but if our inheritance stays intact everything will turn out well.”
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