thought of the many times she had wished to go dancing or to dine out or call on a friend or promenade down the street. She was the wife of one of the country’s wealthiest graziers. Good fortune was too hard to come by to treat it so poorly.
In bed the hot night brought beads of moisture to her skin. Beside her the bedside candle fluttered. Thank heavens, she muttered, as the slightest of breezes wafted about her face. It was strange how one could look for the most mundane of things: A cool place to sit, water to parch her thirst, and air, any air. Air, a puff, a gust, a draft or a zephyr; how she longed for wind to stir her clothes and blow away the heat of this place. It was as if Wangallon’s thirsty soil were reaching for her, its many hands dragging her down. Claire pictured the acres of land emanating from Wangallon Homestead, envisioned the cemetery down by the bend in the creek. She wanted to be buried near her beloved father in Sydney. Not here in this desolate place where few people visited and the sun cracked the ground like a piece of broken pottery. Turning on her side, Claire reached for her book.
Mrs Aeneas Gunn’s We of the Never Never had created quite a stir in social circles on publication and Claire, determined to converse on the book’s merits, had procured a copy via catalogue almost immediately. It did not appeal, however, for who wished to read of a woman’s pain, isolation and hardship when one’s own life was far from the gentrified circles of convivial female companionship. No, this was one book she would have little problem dismissing, although she kept it by her bedside, for Hamish had once noted his approval. Claire’s favourite book, which she was reading for the fourth time and which lay hidden beneath Mrs Gunn’s weighty tome, was Kenneth Grahame’s The Wind in the Willows. Claire smiled as she turned to the next chapter. Sometimes she longed to have been born within the cool green of England’s bosom, instead of being conceived on the long sea voyage out to be born in the most distant of countries. She envied Wetherly his English life and wondered at his leaving of it. With a yawn she closed her eyes, her fingers automatically touching her lips where Hamish’s kisses had fallen.
Robert Macken gulped down the rest of his coffee and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘A fine breakfast, Maggie. Fine indeed.’ He pushed the wooden chair back roughly. The legs caught on the rug beneath and he swore softly under his breath. ‘Have you heard from Jim?’
Maggie collected the empty cup along with her husband’s plate as he stood, stretching his back out. She shook her head.
‘I accepted the lad as my own. You know that, Maggie, and I have no problem with him not being mine. I don’t know why I tell you this now after so many years.’
Maggie left the dirty breakfast dishes on the end of the wooden table to place a small white hand on her husband’s chest. She looked up into his pale eyes.
‘I want the lad to get the money that’s owing to him and come home,’ Robert stated as he brushed her hair with his lips. He lifted his cap from the peg on the wall, flicking at the brim as if new.
Maggie moved to rest her head on his chest. Since Jim’s leaving she’d refrained from arguing against the lad’s inheritance. What was the point? He’d gone despite her protests. Now her nights were filled with anxiety as she wondered why she’d not done more to stop him.
‘There’s much we can do with the money.’ Robert rubbed his hands together. ‘A new sty for the pigs and a John Deere tractor: Aye, not a big one mind. I’d clear that field behind the milker’s shed and we’d have to move those rocks.’ He adjusted the cap, hitched up his trousers. ‘There’s a few days’ work in that.’ He rubbed his lower back at the thought of it. ‘Wouldn’t I love to see the look on Lord Andrews’ face when I tell him that I’ve no need of his contract?’
Maggie busied herself wiping imaginary crumbs from the table into the palm of her hand.
‘You all right then, lass? You’re looking a bit peaky.’
Maggie brushed her hand against the floral cotton of her dress. ‘Never been much of