Mrs Gordon, if you have suffered for a lack of entertainment you can be sure this savage assisted in the decision of many a hostess this season.’
Hamish gave a belch that carried down the length of the table. Claire turned her nose up distastefully. With that singular announcement he scraped the tapestry-backed chair across the polished wooden floor. ‘Yes, well, enough with the pleasantries. If you will excuse us, Claire.’
Mr Wetherly gave a formal bow. ‘Delightful, Mrs Gordon. Perhaps in repayment of your hospitality your husband will allow me the pleasure of escorting you about your spacious garden.’
Claire composed her features into a mask of politeness as their dinner guest looked pointedly from her husband to Claire. She could think of nothing more delightful than a stroll with Mr Wetherly, firmly reminding herself that her interest in being alone with him had absolutely nothing to do with the scandalous tidbit of information Mrs Webb had so thoughtfully let escape from her lips. ‘I would be delighted.’
‘Unfortunately, Wetherly, my wife retires early and you and I have much to discuss.’
‘Come, Sir. Ten minutes of your time,’ Wetherly insisted. ‘The walk will be quite invigorating. You should join us.’
Claire kept her lips pressed together.
‘I will leave you to enjoy the night air,’ Hamish relented. ‘But ten minutes and no more. I am an early riser.’
‘Of course.’ Wetherly bowed as he left the table.
Claire stepped lightly across the grass as they crossed to walk the length of the gravel driveway. She was pleased with her new evening gown. Having purchased it through Grace Brothers’ mail order service, this was only her second occasion to wear it and at the rate fashions were changing, very soon it too would have to be altered. In the space of just a few years women’s clothing had gone from the rather S-shaped silhouette that emphasised one’s bust and derriere, to a more vertical appearance. Although her figure was contained by the rigid under-structure of her corset, she did like the current fashion of a slightly high-waisted skirt that fluted becomingly over one’s hips to sweep outwards at the hem. Claire lifted her skirt just a touch, conscious of the grass, leaves and dirt that would catch on the fringing. An owl swooped. The frightened squeal of a mouse followed. As the countryside bedded itself, the outlines of the homestead and station buildings slid into a glow of sun-settled pinkness.
‘It is as if we were promenading along Collins Street,’ Wetherly remarked as a wallaby dashed through the grasses beyond the garden.
Claire’s arm was linked through his as the evening stretched into darkness. It was a hot night, cloudless, with not even a zephyr to stir the air. It was a most pleasant sensation to be strolling with an amiable gentleman, especially one so becoming in appearance.
‘I see you adhere to the latest fashions, Mrs Gordon.’
‘One tries.’ Cocooned as they were within the twilight embrace of a summer’s night, Claire felt her person the subject of intent observation. When Wetherly guided her from the path across the patchy lawn to a wooden bench, his hand moved to the small of her back. It lingered only momentarily, leaving a fleeting impression of genuine care and interest. Careful, she warned herself. Had she not been forewarned of the gentleman’s indiscretions?
‘And do you enjoy your life out here? You will excuse me, Mrs Gordon, for my forwardness; however, it is a remote, lonely environment for an elegant woman such as yourself to endure.’
‘You have journeyed here.’ She made a little space between their bodies, moving slightly away from him. It was a warm night and the lace insertions stretching to her high-boned collar itched Claire’s upper back and décolletage. ‘Life requires adaptability, Mr Wetherly. There will always be fulfilment and disappointment no matter where one resides. Admittedly station life has its own set of difficulties, yet once one grows to understand the parameters of their existence, life tends to become easier.’
Wetherly crossed his legs. ‘It is a burden to be endured.’
‘On the contrary, it is a challenge. Isolation causes one to be a little introspective, Mr Wetherly. If you are expecting me to pine for the perfect life you will be disappointed. What is the perfect life anyway? I can admit to disliking the dearth of social engagements available, the annoyance of petty conversations and the lack of women of my own elk with similar interests and accomplishments; however, these are petty complaints, I believe.’ A swirl of stars began to dust