A Waltz for Matilda (39 page)

She shook her head, realising it was Mr Drinkwater’s reaction that hurt the most. Did he think she wasn’t good enough for his son?

‘James?’

‘Yes?’

‘You said … you said you intended to marry me.’

His face softened a little. ‘I do. And I will.’

‘You might have asked me before telling your father.’

She waited for his anger to explode again. It didn’t.

He looked at her ruefully. ‘I’ll go down on bended knee to you, I promise. I’m sorry. It was just Father wanting to be in control.’

She nodded, trying to smile. He still seemed to expect that her answer would be yes. But for some reason she couldn’t melt like a heroine in a novel from the library; couldn’t say, ‘I love you, James. I want to marry you.’ She needed to get home, get out of her stays and this dress, to walk up the hills, perhaps, look at the land and try to think. She couldn’t think now, in the car so close to James.

‘I thought your father liked me,’ she said instead.

‘He does. He talks of you often. Used to write to me, telling me about you standing up with all the others at the sheep sale. He admires you.’

‘Then what was wrong?’

‘He was probably angry because I didn’t tell him beforehand, ask his permission. Maybe he feels I’m trying to take over too much, too soon. He’s been boss of his own place for so long.’ He took a deep breath, then reached over from the steering wheel to pat her hand. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll work it out. It’s all bluster and blather with Father, then his temper’s over and the sun comes out.’

Like his son, she thought. She had a sudden image of Mr Drinkwater, with grandchildren at his knee. Why shouldn’t those children be hers?

‘Matilda. Darling Matilda.’

She didn’t feel like anyone’s darling, just then. He smiled at her. She forced herself to smile back.

This has to be right, she thought. The two of us, wanting the same things. She was strong enough to cope with James Drinkwater and his father.

The motorcar swept between the cliffs. He stopped by the house, then held her hand after he helped her out. She watched him as he leaned forward, kissed her cheek and then her lips. He tasted of peppermint. His lips were warm.

It was the first such kiss she had ever had. Once she worked out where to put her nose she wanted it to last forever.

He stood back and touched her cheek. ‘I love you,’ he said. ‘I think I have always loved you. A woman who can stand by my side, face fire or drought.’

The words could have come from one of her novels. As if he could
always
have loved her. He’d been dreadful at first. But how like James, she thought, to know exactly the sweetest thing to say. ‘I … I love you too.’ It’s true, she thought. She loved his strength, the way he’d stretched out under the tree, the way he laughed with her, the way he made her feel, kissing her and saying she was beautiful.

But it wasn’t the whole truth. She loved him, but not quite all of him. Why could she be so honest with others, and not with him? Was loving most of him enough for marriage?

‘I’ll see you tomorrow. It will all be sorted out then.’ He bent, and kissed her again.

It worked better this time.

She watched the car as it vanished in the dust between the cliffs, till the sound of the engine was lost behind the ridge.

Only then did she pick up the carpetbag holding her dancing dress, her dancing slippers and the pen wiper in its small ignored parcel, and walk inside.

An engine growled up the driveway. James!

She had expected him all morning. She’d been awake half the night, trying to work things out.

She would tell him she needed time, she had decided. He had offered to go down on bended knee … well then, he could go
down on bended knee at Christmas. By Christmas they would know each other better — or she would at least know her own mind. By Christmas Mr Drinkwater would be used to the idea.

She glanced at her hair in the mirror, then lifted her skirts — no working trousers and boots today — and slipped outside as the motorcar pulled to a stop.

It was Mr Drinkwater. He looked older than yesterday, his eyes lost in his wrinkles. ‘Where is my son?’

Where’s that jolly jumbuck you’ve got in your tucker bag?
She thrust the song away. ‘James?’

‘Don’t play silly with me, missy.’

‘I wasn’t. James isn’t here.’

‘Of course he’s here.’

‘He isn’t!’ She waved her hand. ‘Look around if you don’t trust me. There’s only one horse in the yards. Do you think I’ve hidden his horse too?’ Suddenly she realised why he was here. ‘You mean James isn’t at home?’

He scowled at her. ‘His bed hasn’t been slept in. No sign of his horse. And he’s packed his things.’

She said slowly, ‘You thought he had come here to me?’ The insult stung — that he thought she would let a man stay overnight. ‘You … you old …’

‘Old biscuit? Where else would he go?’

‘I don’t know. But I will. He’ll let me know.’

‘I imagine that he will.’ He considered her. ‘Look, Matilda.’ She could see he was trying to keep his temper in check. ‘The boy and I quarrelled, I admit it. I admit I want something else for my son. Is that so wrong?’

‘Am I so bad?’

‘You’re wrong for him,’ he said harshly. ‘Neither of you can see it, but you are.’

She thrust her own doubts away. ‘It’s our choice. Not yours. Your son is not a boy. He’s a man. You made your life — a different one from what your father expected. Why can’t you let him make his?’

She saw something in his expression. Oh, I know you too, you old biscuit, she thought. You are so like your son. ‘What did you say to him yesterday? What did you say to make James leave?’

For a moment she thought he wasn’t going to answer. Then he said, ‘I told him he could choose. You or Drinkwater. If he marries you the place will go to Bertram.’

Fury filled her like the flood down the river — anger for the property as much as for the man. ‘You … you stupid old man!’

He stared at her. Good! How long had it been since anyone — apart from maybe James — had spoken to him like this?

‘Bertram is a … a slug. He doesn’t even like the bush! It’s James’s heart. It’s not fair to the place either. You can’t give land to someone who doesn’t love it — understand it.’

‘Then James will know which to choose.’

The stupidity of it made her want to stamp her foot. ‘Mr Drinkwater … if someone gave you an ultimatum like that, what would you do? Would you give in?’

He took his hat off, almost, she thought, like he was pleading. ‘Then you do it. Let him go.’

‘Whatever happens between me and your son is our business. Can you understand that? Not yours.’

‘If it’s money you want —’

She gasped as though he had thrown a bucket of water over her. ‘You are lower than a snake’s belly. Get out. And don’t come back.’

‘Matilda … Matilda, I apologise.’

‘Apologise to your son. I don’t want to hear it.’ She turned and went inside.

She put the letter down, almost in a dream, then opened the tiny box. The ring was gold, with a blue stone. A sapphire, she supposed. Was it an engagement ring? Once more he hadn’t asked, had just assumed.

She tried it on her left ring finger automatically. It was a bit loose, but it fitted. If she wore it she’d need to get it resized or wrap a bit of cloth around her finger.

She took the ring off, and stared at it. If she wore it she would be admitting to everyone who saw it that they were engaged. James obviously thought that they already were.

She placed the ring back in its box, then moved into the bedroom, reaching behind to undo the hooks on her dress. No need to wear a dress now that James wouldn’t see her. She would change into her trousers, put out hay for the sheep.

Her hands were shaking. She took a breath and tried to open the hooks again.

A sound rumbled through the valley now. A motorcar. Of course Mr Drinkwater would know a letter had come for her. All mail passed through Drinkwater. And yet he hadn’t opened it.

She hesitated, then opened the box again, and slid the ring onto her third finger, clenching her fingers so it didn’t fall off.

This time she put the kettle on while she was waiting for Mr Drinkwater to come in.

‘Matilda.’ He stood at the doorway; he was looking even older. His eyes were shadowed. She had forgotten that she had told him not to come back.

‘Mr Drinkwater. Sit down. I’ll make some tea.’

She gestured with her left hand, so he saw the ring. His eyes widened, but he didn’t comment. He looked around the house. ‘Is the old woman here?’

‘No.’ Auntie Love was none of his business either.

He sat at the table, waiting while she handed him his cup of tea. ‘You have a letter,’ he said abruptly.

‘Yes.’

‘From James?’

‘I’m sure you examined the handwriting before you let it come here.’

‘What does it say?’

Anger made her voice sharp. ‘You gave your son a choice. He’s made it.’

He shut his eyes, looking so tired she almost relented, told him that she hadn’t made up her mind, that James could come home. But she had put the ring on, and if James came back the arguments would just begin again.

‘You can write to him care of Beecroft Station, via Umbergumbie,’ she said instead.

‘Feather’s place?’ He nodded. ‘Thank you. I’m not going to change my mind, though.’

Why was he being so stubborn? It couldn’t just be because he hadn’t been asked, nor because she wasn’t a wealthy bride. Once again she had the feeling that she had been told the truth, but not the whole truth.

Suddenly she had had all she could stand of the Drinkwaters.

‘I need to check the water troughs,’ she said abruptly. ‘Please, stay and finish your tea.’

‘What? Oh, of course. I must be going.’ He stood up. ‘Thank you, Matilda.’

It was all too much. ‘For once in your life, can’t you do the right thing?’

‘I am,’ he said heavily. ‘Don’t you see? I am.’

JULY 1899

She stared at the words. She couldn’t plead with Tommy to come back like that. It wasn’t fair.

She crumbled up the piece of paper. Paper was precious, but if she used this again even for a grocery list someone in town might read it.

She tried on a fresh sheet of paper.

Was that better?

She dipped the pen in the inkwell again, then put it down. She’d try to write tomorrow.

Maybe tomorrow there would be another letter from James. He’d written every week, though sometimes two letters arrived together. He’d told her he rode fifty miles each Saturday to get to the mail.

She looked at the ring on her finger. It tied her to him, yet she had been the one who put it on, who even wrapped a rag around her finger to make it fit. I can take it off any time I want to, she thought.

She didn’t think she had ever felt so alone.

This wasn’t getting the hens fed, the eggs collected, the cow milked. She stood up from the table, then stared.