Lyrebird Hill (6 page)

Jindera nodded. ‘Nardoo. Hard time food.’

I found myself going through the pages, pointing out drawings I considered particularly successful, or reading anecdotes that held special memories for us of shared adventures.

Jindera reached for the water skin, and again we both drank. My heart was large with her unspoken approval. In our own way, we had fought an important battle – not with spears and nulla-nullas, but with brush and ink, with knowledge and quiet observation. My collection of drawings and Jindera’s vast store of experience that accompanied them were a testament to our friendship. We had refused to let fear dampen our alliance, and we were both the richer for it.

‘Brenna?’ came a voice from outside.

A shadow darkened the hut’s doorway, and I caught a whiff of horse sweat and tannery leather, rifle oil and gunpowder; scents that did not belong in the tranquil darkness of Jindera’s hut.

I emerged into the sunlight, Jindera close on my heels, to find my foster brother, Owen, dismounting his horse. He was tall for a twelve-year-old, and lean; the grey shirt and breeches he wore seemed to hang off his skinny frame. The sun had bleached his hair, and his eyes shone blue as lagoon water.

Owen’s face lit up when he saw my companion.

‘G’day there, Jindera.’

‘Hello, young Owen. You be good boy for Aunty?’

‘I try.’

‘How them fish biting upriver?’

‘I caught a couple of turtles this week, but no trout.’

They bantered for a while in their easy way, while I bundled my journal into my dillybag, only half listening.

Owen had been orphaned a decade ago when an accident on a neighbouring farm took his parents. My father – Fa Fa, to those close to him – had found the little boy wandering along the road in the dark, hungry and as skinny as a stray dog. Fa Fa brought him back to the farmhouse, where our Aboriginal housekeeper Millie fed and bathed him and swaddled him in one of Fa Fa’s old shirts. Owen soon became my father’s shadow, perched on the saddle behind him when he rode out to check the fences, sitting at his feet when he smoked his evening pipe,
sleeping at the foot of his bed. He had been a cherub of a child, eager to run errands or lend a hand with chores, a golden boy we all adored.

‘Is Aunt Ida on the war path?’ I asked warily.

‘Afraid so, Sis. You have a visitor, and he wasn’t all that pleased to arrive and find you not there.’

‘Oh dear.’ My heart kicked over. ‘It’s Mr Whitby, isn’t it?’

Owen made a face and nodded.

I sighed. Poor Mr Whitby. Owen disliked him intensely, despite the fact that Whitby was one of my father’s oldest and most trusted friends. Whitby lived in Tasmania on a large property, but often travelled to New South Wales on business. He had bought nearly a dozen holdings on the New England tablelands after the property crash in 1893, and liked to keep his finger in the pie of their management and occasional sale. Although he was in his mid-forties – a few years younger than my father – he had never married. Aunt Ida said that he was wed to his work, but my father scoffed at this.
Carsten is a private man
, he would declare,
he keeps his personal affairs close to his heart
.

‘Where is Whitby now,’ I asked with more calm than I felt. ‘At the house? Has he brought news of Fa Fa?’

Owen examined a hangnail and took his time to answer. ‘Fa Fa is still at the auctions in Newcastle. Aunt Ida’s bailed up Whitby in the parlour. She’s feeding him leftover Christmas cake and bottled apricots. Whitby seemed anxious for you to join them.’

Jindera was frowning at me, her eyes dark with quiet disapproval. She shared Owen’s lack of esteem for Carsten Whitby, although she would never admit as much. Whenever I told her that he had visited, or if I enthused about his polished manners or fine looks, Jindera always managed to find something of greater interest – a gumnut fallen from a tree, or snake tracks in the dirt, or the dusty wrinkles that time had drawn across the palm of her hand.

We said goodbye to Jindera, and Owen climbed on his horse and hauled me up behind him. He clicked his tongue, and the mare plodded along the track towards home. I hooked one arm around Owen’s middle and settled myself for the ride back to the house.

‘Did Whitby mention the nature of his visit?’ I asked.

My brother shook his head, and nudged the horse into a trot. I twisted around, trying to see Jindera’s shadow in the doorway of her hut, hoping to give her a wave.

The only movement was a breeze ruffling the animal hides strung on the branches. The camp looked deserted, as though its inhabitants had fled.

Sitting at my dressing table, I hurriedly brushed my hair. It was more tangled than usual, and soon my brush was full of knots. I emptied some sweet almond oil from a bottle into my hands, and smoothed the oil over my wayward strands. As I pinned my chignon, I heard a shuffle in the doorway.

Aunt Ida moved into my bedroom, clutching a jar of cornflour. Pink blotches coloured each sharp cheekbone, and her eyes were as sharp as a bird’s. ‘I declare, Brenna. The sooner you’re married off and away from those people, the better for all of us.’

I made a sour face in the mirror. ‘Jindera’s my friend. I’ve no intention of staying away from her.’

Aunt Ida’s frown carved crevices between her brows. ‘I’ve got Carsten Whitby in the room downstairs, of which I’m sure you are aware. I’ve spent the last hour apologising for your absence.’

Taking out a handkerchief, I wiped it over my face, getting rid of the dusty smears. ‘Did he bring news of my father? When is he coming home?’

‘Whitby didn’t say.’

Something in her voice made me glance at her. It was no secret that she disapproved of my frequent visits to the encampment, and we often had words. But today she seemed subdued, almost depressed.

‘What is it, Aunt?’

There was a long silence. Finally she said quietly, ‘The clan doesn’t want you there. Jindera is indulging you by letting you visit, but the elders resent your presence. They see you as a threat. You might not care about putting yourself at risk, but when are you going to learn to think about others?’

‘Fa Fa lets me go.’

Aunt Ida shook her head, and placed the jar of cornflower on my dresser. ‘Rub that into your face. You’ve neglected to wear your hat again. You’ve already got colour on your cheeks. My word, Brenna, don’t you ever listen? Your Mama’s last words to me were to keep you out of the sun, so you wouldn’t end up—’ She made a clearing sound in her throat. ‘And look at your hair! I’d not be surprised if Whitby caught one glimpse of you and ran for the hills.’

Tucking away my handkerchief, I opened the jar of cornflour. White clouds puffed out as I swirled my wad of lamb’s wool in the powder, then daubed it on my face. Sitting back, I examined the effect in the mirror, tilting my head to the side.

‘What brings Whitby here, anyway?’

‘He has come to speak to you.’

I whirled on my seat. ‘Whatever about?’

My aunt’s lips thinned against her teeth, but she did not reply.

Lately, the topic of Whitby had become something of an obsession for her; she sang his praises at every opportunity, and was constantly reminding me of his various virtues.
Did you know
, she would say, her eyebrows shooting up as if the thought had just occurred to her,
Whitby has a stable of fine horses? You like horses, don’t you, Brenna?

Why was she suddenly so restrained?

As I changed out of my dusty clothes, I studied her in the mirror. Sweat patches had formed on her blouse, and her face looked puffy and unusually pale. She was frowning fixedly at the cornflour, as if it were somehow responsible for her woes.

I sighed. ‘Oh Aunt, I do wish you’d stop worrying. I’m sure you’re wrong about Jindera’s clan. They don’t mind me being there.’

Aunt Ida stood silently for a time, then hurried out the door and vanished into the shadows of the hallway, the volume of her skirts whispering after her like an eddy of dry leaves. A moment later she returned carrying a small burlap-wrapped parcel.

‘Here,’ she said, placing the bundle on my dressing table. ‘If you insist on visiting the encampment, then for heaven’s sake keep your wits about you. And make sure you carry
that
on you at all times.’

I caught a whiff of gun oil, and my heart sank. Lifting a corner of burlap, I examined the contents.

‘It was your father’s,’ Aunt Ida informed me. ‘Before he saw fit to invest in a rifle. It’s smaller than the weapon you and Owen learned on, but the principles of loading and firing are the same.’

‘Why now?’ I said. ‘Why today?’

My aunt’s face tightened. ‘Whitby brought news of another killing on the plains. Further west from here, but you know how nervous people get when word spreads. Since you insist on wandering the far corners of this property, I’d feel better if you had a means of protecting yourself should anything happen.’

I lifted my chin. ‘Jindera’s clan would never hurt me.’

‘It’s not the clan I’m worried about,’ Aunt said quietly, then turned and went out.

Closing the burlap over my father’s revolver, I hid the package in my bottom drawer. My aunt’s fears had shaken me, but I refused to let them dampen my mood. Standing before
the mirror, I regarded myself. Aunt Ida was right. The sun had touched my skin, putting colour on my cheeks.

My oval face was framed by unruly brown hair, which was almost as dark as my eyes. A light sprinkling of freckles lay across my tawny complexion, despite Aunt Ida’s regular reminders about wearing my hat. Fa Fa liked to say that I had inherited my looks from his grandmother, who had been born in Spain; both he and Ida were fair, so I supposed the Spanish blood had skipped a generation.

I wore my best black skirt, an ivory shirtwaist and a jacket of dark red wool with black trim. The day was hot for such heavy attire, but I had not chosen my outfit for comfort but, rather, to impress Mr Whitby.

For many months I had entertained the fancy that Whitby might fall in love with me. He was more than two decades older, but even Aunt Ida considered him a most desirable match. Yet it wasn’t his wealth and social standing that interested me. After his visits, my heart always beat faster at the memory of his intelligent grey eyes, and the way his gaze always seemed to single me out and light up when I appeared.

I ran a handkerchief over my boots to banish the last of the dust, and hurried downstairs.

Sunlight streamed into the parlour, and a breeze blew through the French doors, bringing with it the musky scent of the shearing sheds. I stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. The spacious room appeared overcrowded, but in fact there were barely a handful of people present.

My aunt was by the fireplace, speaking intently to a muscular man clad all in black. Carsten Whitby was perfectly poised, straight-backed as a soldier, his handsome features serious as he nodded at Ida’s commentary about the drought, and the farm, and the poor conditions for shearing. Yet he seemed
distracted, his interest apparently caught by the painting above the mantle.

Nearby stood Owen, gazing as he always did in Fa Fa’s absence towards the front gate. At his feet, my father’s shaggy old wolfhound Harold slept, oblivious to Aunt Ida’s stream of chatter.

Millie fussed over the dining table, which had been laid with a red tablecloth and Aunt Ida’s best tea rose china. On a tray beside several glasses sat a crystal decanter of the sherry Whitby favoured. There was also a cake stand full of iced cakes, and a large platter of sandwiches.

Nerves rumbled in my belly, and I wondered if food might calm them. I looked across at Millie and the tray of meatloaf she was placing on the table. She caught my eye, and beamed.

She was a tiny woman of thirty with a round face and enormous brown eyes. She had been with our family since the age of ten. Her parents were once part of Jindera’s clan, but they had died two decades ago. My own mother had been ill at the time, so Aunt Ida – who’d never married – was pleased to acquire Millie’s extra set of hands. For years, my father had been encouraging Millie to find a husband, perhaps even visit the encampment and ask Jindera’s help, but Millie always refused, insisting she was content to live at the back of the farmhouse in a lean-to, where, she always claimed, she could breathe the sweet air that flowed up from the river.