Sunset Ridge (9 page)

‘Yes.' Dave was drawn to the care lines at the corner of the young woman's eyes. As he took the charcoal from her hand, their skin touched. Air caught in the back of his throat.

The moment was ruined by the arrival of Rodger. The station hand was at the back gate, a stockwhip looped across his shoulder. ‘I heard that you'd been crook. How are you feeling?'

Dave took back the sketchpad, flipping it shut. ‘Better, thanks.' If his father were at home, Rodger wouldn't dare to come anywhere near the homestead. Fraternising was strictly forbidden between the domestics and those employed beyond the back gate.

‘What tomfoolery is going on out here?' Cook appeared as Rodger walked down the path. ‘Get away, you young buck. You know the rules.'

Rodger turned smartly and hurdled the garden fence.

‘He only came to see how David was recovering from his illness,' the governess replied tightly as Rodger waved his hat from the safety of the chicken coop.

‘Shouldn't you be in the schoolroom?' A saucepan stuck out at a right angle from where Cook's hand rested knuckle-in on her hip.

‘Shouldn't ye be in the kitchen?' Miss Waites replied.

‘What on earth is going on?' Lily Harrow asked from the front door; their maid, Henrietta, stood on tiptoe to peer from behind. ‘I could hear you at the other end of the house.'

‘Rodger came to visit David,' Miss Waites explained, ‘and Cook took exception.'

‘Well, there are rules for a reason.' Lily gave the governess a cursory glance. ‘You should be in the schoolroom.'

‘Yes,' the governess agreed, stepping from the veranda, ‘I should.'

 

Three weeks later Dave was unsure how he came to be standing in the sitting room at nine o'clock at night in his pyjamas and dressing gown. Usually he and his brothers were in bed by this hour regardless of whether or not they were tired. He rubbed his right foot against his left ankle as his mother continued with her cross-stitch. The needle poked in and out of the material, a yellow flower emerging in the dim light of the kerosene lamp. Feet away, his father leaned over the round table in the centre of the room. Dave could barely see the thick centre table leg and the root-like scrolling foot. Usually the table was crowded with framed pictures of unknown relatives, a selection of leather-bound books and whatever bush foliage his mother could find and arrange in a vase. Tonight, however, the table was covered with papers. For a number of minutes the only sounds in the room were the flipping of turning pages and the fire crackling in the hearth. Finally his father straightened and twisted on his heels.

‘Well, I'm glad you brought this to my attention, Lily.'

‘It was only the magazines I was concerned about.' There was an edge to his mother's voice and, although she smiled kindly at Dave, he knew something was wrong. G.W. was rocking on his heels, one sun-browned hand grasping at a jacket lapel, the other tapping at his leg.

‘Cook drew my attention to them,' Lily continued. ‘She was present when Miss Waites opened the mail and Cook was a little upset by some of the content.'

Dave's stomach grew queasy. What had he done wrong? He knew nothing about magazines and he had hardly seen his father since the illness. In fact, the last few weeks had been spent either on the veranda, in his room or, more recently, under the instruction of Miss Waites once he returned to the schoolhouse.

His father glanced impatiently at his fob watch. ‘The tardiness of this household appears to be catching. Must everyone insist on being late?'

A knock sounded on the door and the governess entered. G.W. beckoned her to the table and pointed at the material strewn across its polished surface.

‘Guid evening. Oh, David's work.' Miss Waites sounded relieved as she joined G.W., the light from the fire glowing between them.

‘Mrs Harrow tells me that it was you that encouraged my son to pursue this.' He waved his hand vaguely above the contents of the table, which included Dave's sketchbook.

Miss Waites nodded. ‘Drawing? Yes, it was.'

‘And you believe this to be an appropriate occupation for David?' The fire popped and fizzed. G.W. stamped out the errant ember.

‘David began sketching while he was convalescing,' the governess explained. ‘I felt it important that he recommence some form of learning as soon as possible and that such a gentle preoccupation could hardly do any harm. Ye were aware of this, Mrs Harrow,' Miss Waites said in a pointed manner.

‘I think you forget yourself, Miss Waites,' Lily replied, gesturing to David and patting the seat by her side.

Without understanding why, Dave felt like a traitor as he sank down in the flowery material. His father resumed the examination of the table's contents, leaving Miss Waites floundering like one of Harold's fish.

‘David is very gifted,' Miss Waites began. ‘In fact his drawings are very guid and quite beyond anything I've seen, especially in a student so young. I took the liberty of ordering some of the latest information on –'

‘This?' G.W. waved a magazine in the air. ‘This pink-covered absurdity titled
Blast
?'

‘That is the first issue printed last year in London by followers of the Modernist movement.' Miss Waites's exasperation showed itself in a curtness of tone.

‘The what?'

‘The
avant-garde
, Mr Harrow. It is a new way of thinking for a new century.' Miss Waites looked to the couch for assistance. ‘Traditional forms of art are being revised, reinvigorated if ye like, and that is what David is achieving through his sketches. He is experimenting with form and –'

‘And what type of
art
is this?' Another magazine was waved in the air. Dave caught the words ‘form' and ‘feeling' typed in bold print across the front.

‘It is an introduction to –'

‘It is an introduction to nudity!' G.W. yelled.

Dave's cheeks pinked up at the word. Next to him his mother began to fidget with reels of coloured cotton.

‘David has talent,' the governess persisted. ‘We must be open to art in all its forms if he is to learn and grow as an artist. If ye read
Blast
you will see, Mr Harrow, that the contributors reject nudes and landscapes because they tend towards a geometric style, yet David is still learning and so he must be exposed to each of art's many forms. Abstract and Cubinism are new words for myself as well, yet in your son's work I see –'

‘Enough. While your interest in David's abilities does you credit, Miss Waites, all of this is quite inappropriate for
my son
.' He dropped the magazine on the table. ‘Naked people. Really!'

The governess levelled her chin. ‘It is art, Mr Harrow.'

‘It is improper, Miss Waites. And as for these . . .' He lifted the sketchpad, flipping the pages over to show Dave's drawings. ‘These are just, just an
indulgence
.' G.W. slammed the sketchpad on top of the untidy pile of magazines on the table. ‘We are at war, Miss Waites, and yet you have my son drawing dismembered chickens, and chairs that don't look like chairs and all manner of frivolous objects. If he must draw then let it be something correct and proper, something worthy of his time.'

‘Like what, Mr Harrow?' Miss Waites countered. ‘A corpse? A soldier with a rifle? Or perhaps an idyllic scene such as the one hanging above your fireplace – something that requires little imagination?'

The vein in G.W.'s neck grew and pulsed. ‘Enough. You will limit your teachings to the prescribed Learners. Do you understand me, Miss Waites? You are excused.'

Dave kept his eyes averted as the door clicked open and closed.

‘David.' His mother gathered all her sewing things and, placing them in a basket, closed the wicker lid. ‘We are not angry with you, my dear. You have simply been led astray by a young woman who knew no better.'

His father was staring at the painting hanging above the mantelpiece. ‘Throw the magazines on the fire, David.'

Reluctantly Dave gathered the magazines and threw them on the burning logs, watching as the pink cover of
Blast
curled at the edges and then burst into flames. Now how would he understand the images that filled his mind? He had not had a chance to look at any of the magazines, and now he never would.

‘Go to bed, David,' his mother said softly. ‘Take your sketchbook and go.'

His parents' voices rose in argument the moment the door closed.

 

‘I want her gone, G.W.,' Lily demanded, ‘and you know why.'

‘She is the only governess who has managed to exert some control over Luther. Despite her free thinking, I believe that she should stay.'

Lily tried to calm herself. How her husband could ignore the facts stunned her. Cook remained adamant that Miss Waites had received a man in her room some nights ago, an action that was strictly against station rules, and now the woman had the affront to think she knew best when it came to David's education. ‘Luther's formal schooling is finished, G.W. I only send him to the schoolroom occasionally in the hope his letters may improve.'

G.W. arranged his long limbs in an armchair. ‘We are partway through the year, Lily. We cannot risk relieving Miss Waites of her position, as it might be months before we find a replacement.' He sighed as if indulging a child. ‘Now, on to more pleasant things: brides for our sons.'

‘There's little to choose from in the Banyan district.' Lily's teeth grated at the abrupt change of topic. ‘We may well have to advertise,' she finished flippantly.

‘I see,' G.W. replied tersely. ‘Is there
anyone
in the area suitable?'

‘Julie Jackson.'

G.W. huffed. ‘A paltry six thousand acres.'

‘She may well have to do for one of the others; Luther perhaps. She appears strong-minded and sensible, which is not always a common occurrence out here.'

‘There's a whisper that the grandmother is German, so I think we can safely omit her. The family emigrated by way of London and there seems to be a tide of ill feeling against them, which is only natural considering the casualties. But what of Thaddeus? Have you made a decision?'

‘I have. I have invited the Bantams down in the spring.'

G.W. raised an eyebrow. ‘Seventy thousand acres, plus commercial interests in Brisbane. A sound choice, however –'

‘I know what you're going to say, my dear: that they are practically just off the boat. I wouldn't have contacted them, but one would assume that they would be partial to linking their name with an established bush family. You are third generation, G.W., while they have been in our country for less than fifteen years. They are also moneyed,' she enticed, although the Bantam fortune was the least of her interest. G.W.'s land gamble had cost them respectability as well as acreage, for bush society was slow to forget a man's folly. Marriage choices for the Harrow boys, therefore, were limited. ‘The Bantam girl has not come out into society yet, so we must –' Lily searched for the right word, ‘nab her before one of the larger landed families in Queensland shows interest.'

G.W.'s eyes widened in amusement. ‘Do you know much about her?'

‘Enough. Meredith is the eldest of eight and thought quite attractive.' Lily leaned forward as if sharing news worthy of confidence. ‘Connecting the two families and forging friendships at this early age can only assist Thaddeus's suit when the time comes.'

‘You seem quite determined.'

She hadn't been initially. Originally Lily simply wanted Thaddeus to marry well and hoped that some respectability might be restored to their family name in the process. No, it was G.W.'s recent talk of war that stirred her. Although Lily was not naïve enough to believe that an engagement would save Thaddeus from the army, he was the eldest and would one day inherit Sunset Ridge, and a promising union might make G.W. think twice before committing him to battle. She could only be grateful that Luther and Dave were still too young. ‘You did tell me to make contact with one of the families that we discussed.'