by Paul Howarth
“I am sitting with you.”
“You’re sitting like you’re in church. Relax.”
“It’s late. We should both get some sleep.”
“Sit, Jonathan.”
Slowly, awkwardly, he did as he was told, leaning backward, his features cast in profile against the bare lamplight. He looked handsome, and even younger than he was. Henry inched sideways and lowered himself down until his head rested in Jonathan’s lap. He pulled up his feet and lay with his cheek nuzzling the soft fabric of Jonathan’s robe and his arm draped over his legs. He felt Jonathan’s hand touch his shoulder then his fingers raking into Henry’s hair. Henry moaned and arched into it, catlike; if he could, he would have purred. For a while they remained just like that, Henry listening to Jonathan’s breathing and the sounds of the city outside—footsteps, a dog barking, a horse clipping by—then slowly he twisted and tipped himself over the edge of the sofa, falling clumsily to his knees. He shuffled around in front of Jonathan and parted his legs, Jonathan saying, “No, Henry, you’re drunk, or worse, and . . .” until the words trailed away. Henry untied the cord and flapped open Jonathan’s robe, ran his hands over the tensed muscles of his thighs. He hooked his fingers into the pajama waistband, Jonathan raised his hips, allowed Henry to slide the trousers down. They stared at each other intently, Jonathan fully exposed now, his chest heaving, his mouth open, his eyes wild and almost scared, until Henry dipped his head and began, and Jonathan sank back on the sofa, a long breath washed out of him, and his eyes rolled slowly closed.
Chapter 12
Katherine Sullivan
In awkward silence they sat around one end of the long maple-wood dining table, eating roast rib of beef and mashed potatoes, cutlery tinkling the china plates, the room stifling from the dozens of candles Wilson Drummond had asked to be lit. The chandelier, the candelabras, the sconces on the walls—it was like eating in an oven, Katherine thought. Her father was planning something. She knew him well enough by now. Sitting on her right, at the head of the table, he wouldn’t stop smiling; had even opened a special bottle of red wine. Opposite, Charles Sinclair grinned at her horribly between forkfuls of beef. The man repulsed her. His skin was too smooth, his hair too slick, his features too sharp; he reminded her of a lizard, or some buttoned-up prince in a fairy tale. And even as a girl, Katherine had always hated fairy tales.
“I went to see Joe today,” she told her father, breaking the silence before one of them could. “Reminded him about the upper paddocks. Told him Morris is to be let go.”
He looked up, chewing. “Has he done something? Morris?”
“The man’s lame. He can’t work. It’s charity, us keeping him on.”
“You see?” Wilson said to Charles Sinclair, pointing at her with his fork. “What did I tell you? Ruthless, when she needs to be.”
“Sounds reasonable,” Sinclair said. “If the man can’t work.”
Katherine said, “I first asked Joe to clear those paddocks two weeks ago. Apparently, you told him not to.”
Her father frowned. “I think I suggested we hold off a while, that’s all.”
“Oh? For what reason? The cattle? The fodder? The weather, perhaps?”
“I just thought—”
“That our guest should have a say in the matter, apparently.”
“Katherine, please, now is not the time. Charles? More wine?”
He slid over his glass. Wilson poured. Topped himself up too.
“This is my station,” Katherine said. “You seem to have forgotten that.”
“Look.” Wilson took a long drink, returned his glass to the mat. “We’re getting ahead of ourselves here. This is meant to be a celebration. Charles and I have some news to share . . .” She glanced across the table. Charles flashed a reptilian smile. Here it comes, she thought. “I’m delighted to say he’s agreed to stay on at Broken Ridge. To marry you, that is. We were thinking a ceremony sometime in the next few weeks. Get the formalities over with. No sense messing around.”
They both sat there beaming. The food caught in Katherine’s throat. She forced it down and looked between the two men, settling on Charles. “And is that meant to be a proposal, Mr. Sinclair? Is this really the best you can do?”
Even in the raging candlelight, the man visibly blushed. He dabbed his lips with his napkin and hurried around the table, stammering out an apology and dropping to one knee at her side. He reached for her hand but she wouldn’t give it, clasping them firmly in her lap, meaning that when he spoke his own dangled uselessly, pawing at thin air.
“I realize we haven’t spoken much while I’ve been here . . .”
“If at all,” Katherine said.
“But I’ve been watching you closely, and find I have become quite smitten.”
Katherine rolled her eyes to her father, who gave a warning stare.
“In fact, I think you’re most lovely.”
“I can assure you, Mr. Sinclair, that I am not.”
He laughed nervously, steadied himself, and with grave formality asked, “Katherine Sullivan, née Drummond, will you do me the honor of becoming my wife?”
She was quiet a long time, then: “You have a ring, I assume?”
He threw a panicked glance at her father. “I, uh, I didn’t think it was . . . haven’t really had the chance to . . .”
“There’ll be a ring, Katherine. Stop torturing the poor boy.”
She smoothed the creases from her napkin. “Very well. I decline.”
A delicious silence followed. Katherine took a sip of wine. Savoring the flavor, and Charles Sinclair floundering beside her, and the heat of her father’s stare.
“Now, now,” Wilson said. “Don’t be hasty. Let’s discuss this at least.”
“There’s nothing to discuss. I do not want to marry this man.”
“You’re being ridiculous.”
Charles piped up below her: “I vow that I will love you, care for you, honor you—”
“Oh, be quiet, man,” she told him. “Have some self-respect.”
“Katherine! That is enough!”
“You married me off once, Father. I won’t let you do it again.”
Charles struggled to his feet and stood there crestfallen. Katherine folded her napkin and laid it beside her plate. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Sit down!” Wilson banged a fist on the table, leaned on his elbow, and pointed at her, Charles standing dumbly at his side. “You listen to me, young lady: Charles is a fine man, the best you could ever hope for. A widow stuck out here—for all your good fortune they are hardly beating a path to your door. You think you can do this alone, playing house with the savages in the wild? This place will swallow you up, Katherine. You will find yourself run off your land, destitute, and who’s going to want you then? You are not equipped for this world. You were barely equipped for Melbourne—I only agreed to John’s proposal because I knew he would make sure you were all right.”
“And I suppose his money had nothing to do with it?”
“I am your father. I do not need to explain myself any more. Charles and I have reached an agreement that is more than fair. The two of you shall be married, and that is the end of it. Congratulations, Charles. Well done.”
Dumbly, Charles shook his hand. Katherine sat very still in her chair. The men parted and she murmured, “I am expecting.”
Wilson frowned. “Sorry? What was that?”
“I am expecting, I said.”
He laughed quickly, shook his head. “Expecting what?”
“A child. I’m expecting a child. A baby.”
“That’s . . . impossible.”
She snorted. “It really is not.”
“Who’s the father?” Charles demanded.
Katherine smiled at him and stood, felt their gazes slide to her midriff. “Where does your proposal stand now, Mr. Sinclair? Am I still so lovely? Will you still honor me and care for me, I wonder, while I carry another man’s child?”
Hi
s mask slipped then. No longer the fairy-tale prince. His jaw clenched and his eyes burned and Katherine gave him no chance to respond, marching around the far end of the table to the door, the candelabra guttering as she went by. Her father called out but she ignored him, pulling the door closed and exhaling shakily with the click of the latch. She stood a moment, recovering, and noticed the houseboy, Benjamin, waiting outside the room.
“Y’all right there, missus?” he asked her.
“Yes, thank you, Benjamin. I think perhaps I overate.”
He looked at her evenly. His placid, weary face. She had known him longer than almost everyone else out here. Lightly she touched his arm. “Good night.”
“Night, missus.”
She went upstairs, suddenly exhausted. Her confession had drained her dry. She hadn’t planned on telling them. Couldn’t even be certain herself yet. Oh, but it was worth it. The horror in her father’s face.
In her room she locked the door and dressed for bed, climbed in between the crisp, cool sheets. She sighed. Lying on her back staring up at the patterned canopy, the same view she’d endured while John grunted away on top of her; she’d always intended changing the bed but never had. Vaguely she heard raised voices downstairs, Charles and her father arguing, she’d scuppered all their plans. She closed her eyes and lay there smiling. She doubted Charles Sinclair would still be here come the morning; with any luck her father might not stick around either. Was it possible this might be the end of it? That in one fell swoop she’d rid herself of them both?
* * *
Knocking woke her. Total darkness in the room. She roused and found a broken band of light beneath the door. Another knock, a gentle but insistent tapping on the wood. “Yes?” she managed, expecting her father to answer, but instead Charles Sinclair announced himself, and the proximity of his voice there, its presence in her bedroom, jolted her upright and alert.
“What do you want?”
He took a moment to answer. His shadow shifted beneath the door. “I’m leaving tomorrow. I came to say goodbye, and to apologize for earlier.”
“Both can wait until morning.”
“I’ll be gone at first light. Please, Katherine—I won’t sleep a wink.”
She sighed and climbed out of bed, spoke to him through the door: “It’s my father who should be apologizing, not you.”
The handle rattled. He said, “Can we at least do this face-to-face?”
“I’m hardly decent, Charles.”
She thought she heard him snigger. “Put on a robe. I promise I won’t peek.”
Irritably, Katherine fetched her robe from the stand, flapped it around herself, cinched the belt. He’d be out there all night otherwise, she’d never get any peace. She unlocked the door and cracked it ajar, found Charles Sinclair grinning at her, fully dressed still, clutching a lantern, his face woozy and flushed with drink. He traced the length of her body, lingered on her bare feet.
“Say your piece and leave me. I’m tired. I want to go back to sleep.”
His gaze settled on her face again. “Oh, but you are lovely.”
“Good night, Mr. Sinclair. And goodbye.”
She tried to close the door but found his foot blocking it, and in the second it took her to realize what was happening, he had forced his way into the room. He eased the door closed, then, without taking his eyes off Katherine, felt for the key, turned it, removed it, and slipped it into the breast pocket of his suit, which he patted twice with his hand.
“What the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I only want to talk. I have a proposal for you.”
“I should scream this house down.”
“Nobody would hear you. Your father’s so drunk I doubt he’ll wake before noon, and the servants are all gone or asleep. Would you like to sit down?”
“No.”
“Suit yourself.”
He drifted around the room, touching things. Katherine circled back to the door. She tried the handle, tugging, but of course the lock wouldn’t give. She scanned the room for a weapon, saw nothing, felt foolish for not sleeping with one to hand. He was over by the dressing table now. He dangled her rosary disdainfully then dropped it back down in the dish.
“I wouldn’t have thought you particularly pious, a woman in your state.”
“What do you want?”
“I already told you, I have a proposal to make.”
“And I told you at dinner: I’m not interested in your proposals.”
Charles smiled bitterly, placed his lantern on the dressing table, came toward her around the foot of the bed. He folded his arms. He was taller than she’d realized; broader. He tilted his head, appraising her. She clutched her robe tighter, pressed herself against the door.
“This one’s a little different. Your situation . . . changes things. But first I have a question: the father, it’s not a nigger, is it?”
“Of course not.”
“Good. Then we are in business. I see no sign of the baby yet, meaning you are not so far along. Assuming we are married immediately, and the marriage consummated, I am willing to pass off the child as my own, provided he—or she—has no claim whatsoever on this estate. Therefore, you shall sign over all rights in the property to me, give me the station entirely, and I shall bequeath it among our other children however I see fit. I intend creating a dynasty here, of which your bastard must play no part. In return, he will live here, receive an education, be raised in the usual way, and you will keep your dignity intact. We can enjoy a very fine life together, Katherine. You might even come to care for me one day. I’m not as bad a man as you seem to think.”
“No,” she said coldly. “I suspect you are much worse.”
“Rich, coming from a whore. You know, your father has already agreed to it. Begged me to take the child on. That’s how little he thinks of you. I could have named any price.”
She drew herself tall, defiant. “I’ll give you my answer tomorrow.”
“I bet you will.”
“I deserve at least to sleep on it. Please, I’d like you to leave.”
He didn’t seem to be listening. Brazenly he stared at her chest. He moistened his lips and said, “Or perhaps we had best just get on with it, before I get cold feet.”
Katherine bolted for the dressing room. He lunged, caught her arm, yanked her back with such force that she fell. He picked her up so easily. Shocking, his strength. He threw her on the bed and was upon her: tearing her robe open, pinning her with his weight. He shrugged off his jacket and tossed it on the floor and slobbered into her neck. He grabbed her breast through her nightdress, pinched it so hard her eyes filled. She screamed and he put his hand over her mouth, the skin soft, a smell of liquor and cigars. She felt so utterly helpless. Nothing she could do. His other hand was between her legs and he began whispering in her ear, calling her a whore, a harlot, telling her she wanted it, this was all she was good for. He would fuck the bastard out of her, he said, opening his trousers, at which Katherine dug her teeth into the flesh of his palm. He reared up and slapped her so hard she briefly lost sense of where she was, only to be brought back by the ripping of her underclothes, and the feel of him trying to force his way in. Wildly she fought him, bucking and clawing and hitting with all she had. He caught her hands but she slipped one free and raked her nails down his face, her thumb landing in the eye socket, so soft and warm and weak. She pushed. Easily it went in. Her nail, then the first knuckle, then the second to the hilt, the eyeball distending grossly, Sinclair screaming out in pain. He flung himself backward, clutching his face; Katherine scrambled off the bed. “I’m blind! I’m blind! You fucking bitch!” he was shouting, as with trembling hands she rooted in his jacket pocket for the key. She found it and was at the door when Sinclair thudded to the floor, mewling like a dying pig. She got the key in the lock finally. Her hands were shaking so hard. Out into the corridor, and as she pulled the door closed she caught a final glimpse of him writhing on the rug. She locked the do
or behind her, and ran.
Chapter 13
Billy McBride
Billy passed the coach on the hillside, rumbling its way down. He slowed as they crossed and saw Charles Sinclair slumped in the carriage, a bloodied white dressing over one eye. He didn’t notice Billy. His head rolled side to side. Billy spurred Buck and hurried up to the house, where he found Wilson Drummond talking to Dr. Shanklin at the bottom of the front steps. Their conversation stalled when they saw him, and Billy dismounted at a run, asking, “What’s happened? What’s wrong?”
“None of your business,” Drummond snapped. “Clear off.”
“An accident, Billy,” Dr. Shanklin offered. “Dealt with. No harm done.”
Filthy and bloodstained, Billy stood before these suited men like something feral that had wandered from the bush. “What accident? Is Katherine hurt?”
“She’s fine,” Drummond said. “But whatever this is will have to wait.”
“Where is she? Inside?”
“She’s sleeping,” Shanklin said. “I gave her some drops.”
Billy made to step between them but Drummond blocked his path. “How many times do I have to say it before I make myself clear: you’re not welcome here. You’ve no business coming round—hell, you don’t even work for us anymore. You got your bloody land back, grubbing bastard that you are, what else is there to discuss? If there’s some issue with the cattle, you can speak to Joe about it; otherwise, bugger off.”
Again Billy tried to pass. This time Drummond placed a hand on his shirtfront, as if to hold him there, this gray-haired city stiff with round reading glasses and a chin as weak as piss. There were so many things Billy could do to him, the man had no idea. But the longer their standoff continued, the longer Billy refused to retreat, the more the hand on his chest faltered and Drummond’s stare swirled with doubt. So used to being obeyed he became powerless when he was not, and so alien to violence that the prospect clearly terrified him—Billy saw the panic building, the realization of what he’d begun.
He leaned his face closer. “Get out my fucking way.”