Heart of the Country (48 page)

“I'm glad you've come,” Thomas said but his words were hollow.

“Is Lizzie …?” Jacob tried to see his sister.

“She's sleeping,” Thomas said.

“Is there something we can do?” Zac flicked his eyes to the tiny shape on the bed.

Thomas knew he was going to have to make the trip up the hill to bury his daughter. It was a job he wanted to do alone.

“Can you get Joseph?” he said. “He's with Daisy. Perhaps he can sleep with you two tonight.”

“Of course.”

They backed out. Thomas pushed the door shut with the toe of his boot. He heard movement in the kitchen, soft voices and the sound of a meal being prepared, but he had no interest in any of it.

Finally the house was silent. Lizzie stirred in his arms, and he eased her back onto the bed. There was little light from the moon tonight but he could see enough to know she was in a deep sleep. Only then did he reach across and pick up his daughter. He carried her outside, took up the shovel and pick and made the journey up the hill.

A breeze ruffled the bushes. After the closeness of the bedroom he felt a chill across his shoulders; finally some relief from the heat. He set the lifeless baby down and began to chip away at the soil, each thrust sending another stab into his grieving heart. He struck at the earth, taking his rage out on the land that had given him so much and yet taken so much away. The ground was baked hard and it took him a long time to make a hollow deep enough. He kissed the tiny head, laid his daughter down and replaced the earth. He gathered rocks from the surrounding ridge to pile on top, then, totally drained, he sat on the rock, as he'd done so many times before, to watch over Annie's grave.

Small taps hit his shoulders. He hunched forward, unable to do more than stare at the two tiny mounds in front of him. The taps splattered all over him and onto the earth and rocks around him. A sweet scent filled the air. The drops got heavier until they stung his arms. His chest constricted, his body began to shudder and he let out a cry of despair. It was lost in the dashing of the rain. Thomas turned his face heavenwards. Tears coursed down his cheeks and mingled with the rain soaking his clothes. He gave in to his grief while the ridges and gullies around him began to flow with water, beginning the process of renewal.

“I don't know who I got 'em from.” Pell's voice was calm.

“You'd better start remembering.”

“I travel all over, constable. People will sell all sorts. During that last dry spell some of 'em would have sold their own mothers.”

Septimus pressed himself deeper into the corner of the wooden shed. He'd been waiting to meet with Pell when the constable had shown up. Thankfully the early hour meant the shed was all but dark. The constable hadn't noticed Septimus, who'd managed to squeeze behind some boxes in the back corner.

“Two of those bales you delivered to Mr Grant came from Wildu Creek.”

Septimus sucked in a breath. Pell had delivered five assorted bales to the agent the previous day. Months had passed since they had been gathered from several properties. How could Grant know two of them were Baker's?

“I don't keep a tally of where they come from,” Pell said. “I don't recall Wildu Creek but I may have been there. Who is the owner?”

“Mr Thomas Baker.”

“One bale of wool looks like another unless it bears a brand. How does Mr Baker know two of my bales came from his place?”

“He's got some …” The constable paused. “Never you mind. Perhaps I'd better take a look at the rest of this shed. Conduct a proper search.”

Septimus pressed himself into the corner. His heart thumped hard in his chest. There was no way for him to escape.

“There's no more wool here,” Pell said. “I'll come with you if you like but there's nothing more I can tell you.”

Septimus marvelled at the man's composure. Still, that was why he'd chosen Pell as his middle man. He had an unreadable face and wasn't one for idle talk. He'd never done time but he'd been involved in smuggling back in England. The law had come too close for comfort there and he'd decided on a new start in Australia. It had worked to their advantage until now.

A boot scraped across the wooden floor and a shadow loomed closer. Septimus could feel sweat wet under his collar. There was no way in hell he could be found here. He would launch an attack if he had to. The constable wasn't a big man and wouldn't be expecting it.

“Perhaps not.”

The voice was so close. Septimus braced ready to strike.

“But you can come with me and explain again where you got those bales of wool from. They were part of Mr Baker's last wool delivery. They never made it to the commissioning agent and now they've turned up with your delivery. You've got some explaining to do, Mr Pell.”

Septimus jumped as the shed door shut. He eased out from his corner, listening until he was sure the men had gone.

“Damned Baker,” he muttered.

Pell could be relied upon to keep quiet but there could be more evidence. They might catch up with Fowler, and Septimus wasn't as assured of his silence. There was nothing for it but to lie low for a while. He stayed where he was for several minutes before easing out of the shed and slipping down an alley away from the wharf.

*

Harriet inspected her sewing shop, a fine room added to the front of their cottage. Everything was as it should be. She wasn't expecting any customers today but she liked to be ready just in case. She stood in the centre and slowly turned a full circle. It wasn't a large room but it did the job well. The wall that faced the street had a six-paned window, which let in a much better light than her parlour boasted.

In the corner was a small fireplace, which would give ample heat in winter. Not that she'd need it for a while. The March weather had remained warm after a summer that had been so hot it was as if a fire burned over their heads each day. Even though they lived close to the sea, the little port was at the top of the gulf and surrounded by red sand. Hot winds like the one that had blown the day before were a common occurrence, and they blasted the fine grains into every nook and cranny. At least a house was easier to manage than the perpetual moving life of their hawking days, but Harriet still dreamed of a home in Adelaide.

She glanced around once more. Her eyes stopped at the bolt of fabric Septimus had brought her. He always managed to find her something that was quite different from her normal purchases. Many of her customers wanted her to make the huge skirts that went over their crinolines. She knew Mrs Forbes would like the broad stripes on this fabric: they would set her gown apart from any other in town. Harriet patted the bolt. The whole fourteen yards would be needed and she anticipated the tidy return it would bring her.

With one more glance around the room, she closed the door and retreated back along the verandah to the cooler air of the house. She should be thankful Septimus had agreed to fund the building of her sewing room. He was hardly ever at home any more but last October, he'd turned up unannounced. That wasn't unusual. What had surprised her was his taking her to bed and wanting her body. It was the first time in a long time and he hadn't done it since, but Harriet was never one to turn him away. Septimus had at least left with a smile on his face and she had his agreement to fund the small extension at the end of the front verandah. It was most beneficial to have a place where she met with her clients and left her work permanently on display.

Back in the front room of the house, she picked up his vest from the back of a chair, brushed it off and hung it on a hook. This visit, apart from presenting the fabric, he had shown little interest in her at all. Once again, home was just a place to lay his head when he came in late at night. He'd risen before her that morning and gone out. No doubt he would be off again soon, and she and Henry could return to the cosy little life she had made for them. It always unsettled the boy when Septimus was around.

Henry looked up at her now with his examining eyes; the blocks he'd been playing with formed a small castle. She worried sometimes his facial expressions and probing looks were so like his father's. He began to put his thumb towards his mouth, but she gave a small shake of her head. Septimus berated the child for still sucking his thumb, not understanding that Henry only did it when he was anxious. She gave her son a reassuring smile, lowered herself to a chair and held out her arms. He snuggled in to her and she breathed in the sweet smell of soap. He was tall for his age and had mastered his letters and numbers. He only stammered when Septimus pressed him to answer quickly.

Septimus pushed open the front door. He paused at the sight of Harriet fussing over Henry on the floor. He glowered at them and thought he saw the flash of a frown cross Harriet's face before she ducked her head.

“Take your blocks to your room, Henry,” she said as she handed over the calico bag they'd just filled.

The boy scurried away like a mouse.

Septimus stomped across the room and flung himself into his chair. He began to tug at his boots but Harriet was there in an instant, easing them off for him.

“Can I get you anything?” she asked in her meek tone.

Usually he liked it when she spoke that way but today it irritated him. He preferred Dulcie, who barely spoke at all. Harriet was far more demanding these days. He still couldn't believe she'd talked him into agreeing to build that extra room. She'd struck him at a weak moment. With his travels to Adelaide to search out goods and his visits to the inn and then time spent with Dulcie it was his first trip home in a long while. He hadn't seen the room finished. The pittance she made from her sewing would never pay for it and now another of his business ventures had gone sour. Everywhere he turned, money was disappearing faster than he could make it.

“I've got a headache,” he said. He laid his head back and closed his eyes.

He heard the rustle of her skirts as she left the room. Another thing to irritate him. Dulcie wore nothing except possum skins to warm her shoulders in the winter. She made no sound when she moved about.

The rustle returned and a cool cloth was pressed to his forehead. The sweet smell of lavender wafted around him. Harriet wriggled her fingers through his hair and massaged his scalp, then slowly moved down to his shoulders. Her fingers probed and pushed, unknotting his muscles. Septimus sighed and felt the tension ease from his neck and shoulders.

“You must relax more, Septimus,” she murmured in his ear.

“I have too much to do,” he said.

“Is there something I can help with?”

His eyes snapped open. “You know nothing about the things that trouble me.”

Harriet continued to manipulate the knots and tensions in his muscles. “The inn should be doing well.”

“The inn has been barely making enough to cover expenses.”

His irritation began to resurface but she replaced the cool cloth with another and her fingers kept working. He gave an exasperated sigh.

“That is surprising,” she said softly.

“I agree, but Ned says passing traffic is much decreased and those that stop to access the water don't all make use of the facilities at the inn.”

“Have you checked his ledger?”

“Of course, Harriet. There is little money coming in. That's if what he's recorded is correct.”

She made soothing sounds and kept massaging. Septimus felt as if every movement of her fingers was leeching his worries from his body.

“Perhaps it will be better with all the rain we've had this last winter,” Harriet said. “There will be grass for the bullocks to eat.”

Septimus drew in a breath and let it slowly pass out again over his teeth. “That could be so,” he said.

It gave him some hope too for Smith's Ridge, which had also been losing money. The rain should certainly make a difference there. He hadn't been back since last shearing and his run in with Baker and his useless brother-in-law.

Rix had reported to Septimus several times at the inn since then. They'd lost huge amounts of stock during the dry year and Baker had built a fence between their properties. Rix did his best to knock it down in places but the wretch kept fixing it. A fence made it much easier for him and his shepherds to patrol the boundary. But Harriet was right, the good rains that had fallen would see a return of the grasses that had covered the lower plains and gullies of Smith's Ridge when he'd first taken it over.

“Papa.”

Harriet's fingers stopped working and Septimus opened his eyes. Henry stood before him holding the small slate Septimus had brought him. It was a birthday present although a month late.

Septimus peered at the wobbly writing on the board. “What have you written, boy?”

Henry turned to the slate and spoke slowly and clearly.

“Henry Wiltshire, six years old.”

“Very good, Henry,” Septimus said and lifted his shoulders under Harriet's stilled fingers. She began to massage again.

“Now tell me,” Septimus said. “What is one plus one?”

“Two.”

“Two plus two?

“Four.”

“Very good. It must be nearly time for you to join Papa on his journeys to learn more about his business. It will be yours one day.”

Harriet's fingers left his shoulder altogether. “The boy is only six, Septimus. He's too young to be travelling away for so long.”

“You no longer accompany me.”

“I have my customers – my shop.”

Septimus snorted.

“It all helps feed us when you are short on money,” she said.

Septimus swivelled his head and glared at her. “Are you saying I don't provide for you, madam?”

Harriet looked away. “Of course not,” she said. “It's just that sometimes you are gone for long periods of time.”

“Looking after business,” he snapped.