The Bark Cutters (9 page)

‘All right, all right, enough speculation on my sister's list of suitors. We should be discussing mine.' Cameron quickly diverted the conversation to himself and away from Sarah, whose face was now the colour of a tomato.

Lorna Sutton, forty years of age with the fatty folds of an overfed pig, knew breeding. The Scot, well, he was breeding. They said he came from just over the border from England, had been raised near Sir Malcolm himself in a fine manor house and, upon the loss of his family in a terrible fire, come to start anew in Australia. Wasn't it just God himself bringing the man to her door and she with a learned daughter? Lorna crossed herself in thanks, her pudgy fingers patting dry her sweating chest with the bed linen.

‘Well?'

The man's voice startled her from her daydreams.

Lorna rolled off the bed. Kneeling on the floor she positioned herself between his thighs. What about his money? She'd not been able to find out where he kept it. Not that she felt the temptation to steal it, mind. She was not a thief. It was just that she believed she would feel so much better if it was safe. A hand pulled her head harder towards him, twisting his fingers through her hair.
Grimacing, Lorna did as she was bidden, sucking harder until he gripped her head tightly between his palms, before pushing her sprawling to the floor.

Wiping her lips and chin, Lorna scurried into a shift, before pouring water into the porcelain basin on the washstand.

‘Nothing else has come to hand?' Matthew Reynolds asked as he wrung out the wash cloth in the cool water and swiped roughly at his body.

Lorna shook her head, no.

He splashed water beneath each hairy armpit and then rubbed his member vigorously.

‘Well, stupid or not, the man's got money. You keep him here, Lorna. Make sure he takes up with that lass of yours. If he's gonna be a-spending his money, in Ridge Gully it will be.' Matthew Reynolds pulled his clothes on, placed some coins on the bed in his spare room and walked out.

Closing the door quietly, Lorna began to wash carefully, lifting the folds of her skin to remove all traces of his scent. So, she had lain with him for that. He knew as much about the Scot as she did, and he too wanted his money. Well, her intent remained firm. Mr Gordon would take up with her Rose; the girl had the looks and was untouched, unlike her mother, Lorna giggled to herself. But that was all she could be expected to do. After all, she had a daughter to marry off and her own comforts to be thinking of. Stepping into her dress, Lorna smiled demurely at her surroundings. The nice wooden bedhead with the carved ball posts, the matching washstand, even a marginally fine wardrobe and the bedspread. She ran pudgy fingers over the patchwork of green, blues and reds. Oh, she so liked fine things. Lorna snatched up the coins and counted them twice. She'd be needing to purchase a few items if she were to pass as somewhat gentrified.

‘Nice,' Lorna commented as her daughter descended from the two-horse dray like a lady. The girl's brown wool dress, relieved with tuffs of white at collar and wrist, displayed a rather large gold brooch with intricate filigree work, a green stone flashing at its centre.

Rose immediately noticed her mother's pointed interest in the jewel. ‘A birthday gift from Sir Malcolm, Mama. He says I may stay until his return from the Parliament; six weeks, Mama, although I may return sooner.'

‘Hmm, and what of your resigning and returning here to me?' Lorna queried, her arms bulging at the seams of her tightly fitted bodice. ‘You read my letter?' She surveyed the slim-waisted, ample-chested fifteen-year-old she had created.

‘I shall marry for both position and love, Mama, and my best chances for both remain with Sir Malcolm.' Rose observed with some distaste the deepening stains around the arm holes of her mother's dress.

‘What's this? You think I'd be happy with a jumped-up gardener or overseer? Your best chance is currently holed up here, a Scottish gentleman if you don't mind, with his manservant. So leave your airs and graces in that cart and come inside and ready yourself to make his acquaintance. This is our chance, for both of us and I'm not having your
if you please
airs ruining my plans.'

Rose gave her mother her best look of disdain and addressed the red-faced driver of the cart, one of the many staff employed by Sir Malcolm Wiley. ‘Would you kindly carry my baggage inside the house, please?'

The man reached around from where he had been adjusting one of the horse's harnesses and with a bemused expression, lifted the two leather and fabric bags, dumping them unceremoniously in the dirt. ‘This ain't the estate now, Miss.'

Rose looked dismally at her mother as the dray rolled away.

‘Now if you've spare coin, I'll be needing that,' Lorna puffed as she helped her daughter drag her belongings into the two-bedroom timber cottage. ‘I've been a bit poorly myself and unable to take in the laundry as usual.'

‘I had planned …' Rose began.

‘Leave the planning to me. I've purchased a few essentials, but we will be needing brandy. Every person knows these gentlemen prefer it to the rough rum the common folk drink. And you and I will be sharing my room.'

‘Actually,' Rose begged to differ, dusting one of the kitchen chairs with a tea-towel before sitting, ‘Sir Malcolm drinks …'

Lorna plopped down on Rose's trunk, mopping her brow with a handkerchief retrieved from the folds of her ample bosom. ‘Brandy, Rose. This is a house of gentrified females. Now, the money, if you please.'

Rose handed over a drawstring bag with a sigh. ‘What if I don't like him?'

Lorna pursed her lips together until her face was drawn into a series of small circles. ‘You'll like him, Rose.'

Hamish, discovering himself dumbstruck in the company of womenfolk, immersed himself in dinner. Their rather plain meal of mutton, damper and glasses of sherry was enlivened with a highly seasoned parrot pie. Lee's contribution certainly appeared to intrigue his dining companions, for a good part of their meal was taken up with exclamations of delight. Hamish found Rose's intricate rendering of her daily routine charming, and the minute details of the running of Sir Malcolm's household allowed him the luxury of listening rather than having to add to the conversation. By the end of dinner he envied the lifestyle Rose's employer enjoyed.

‘With such knowledge, Mr Gordon, you can appreciate my Rose would have the capabilities to manage any sized household and, of course, she is used to staff; a most important qualification these days.'

‘Indeed,' Hamish agreed amiably, patting his moustache with a linen napkin. It appeared one's staff were a major consideration in any household.

‘And you, Mr Gordon. Was your estate very large?'

‘Large enough to demand staff, Mrs Sutton,' Hamish answered smoothly.

‘Why, of course,' his hostess smiled coyly, her head tilting coquettishly to one side. ‘More tea?'

‘Thank you, no.'

‘Perhaps then a stroll would be in order. Certainly it is a usual occurrence in this household.' Lorna fetched her daughter's shawl. The evening had gone remarkably well. Having purchased three stemmed glasses and some new linen, her small dining table now emanated a more gentrified air. A little light fingering led to three sets of cutlery and a rather nice sterling silver bowl care of Mr Reynolds' fine house. It was surprising the type of impression one could conjure with a little enterprise.

Rose found herself being pulled bodily from her chair; the best of her two shawls thrust around her shoulders. ‘Mr Gordon may not care for an evening stroll, Mama,' she answered, not quite able to keep the twitch of annoyance from her voice. One did not entrance a man by being so terribly forward. Besides, she barely knew him and as yet was unable to form an opinion as to his character. He was undoubtedly ambitious and clever, two characteristics one must admire. And he commanded respect. It was not one single aspect of his person but rather a combination. He was tall and broad-shouldered, well dressed and pleasing to look at. As for his education, Rose could only assume it would have been substantial, although his conversation revealed little of his
former life. Understandable considering the personal losses he had suffered in the great fire on his own Scottish estate. It was this aura of sadness she believed she found most attractive.

‘Nonsense, it is a fine, clear evening. Is that not so, Mr Gordon?'

‘And you, Mrs Sutton, will you not be joining us?' Hamish enquired.

‘No. Evening walks are for young people, not respectable matrons, Mr Gordon.'

Lorna shuffled her charges out quickly, peering through the faded floral curtain in the cramped dining room to check their progress. At the front gate, her house guest awkwardly offered his arm and Rose, with little enthusiasm, linked her thin arm through his. ‘Smile, girl, smile,' Lorna encouraged quietly as she slipped back into the kitchen to pour herself a small brandy. Her evening was to be spent in the company of Matthew Reynolds. A somewhat disenchanting prospect made palatable by being finally able to pay for the new dress recently ordered. And, Lorna thought, pouring herself another drink, providing her future son-in-law with a tasty cut of meat for tomorrow's dinner.

‘As a governess, most of your time is spent with children?' Hamish finally said as he rather roughly took Rose's elbow to cross the street, doffing his hat to another couple as they passed. His schooling with women remained limited, but surely a girl of this character with a mother running a respectable boarding house was a rare find. He studied her profile as she smiled prettily at a passer-by. Rose was finely featured and well proportioned. Indeed she was the very opposite of his beguiling Mary; slim, educated and pretty. Fair-haired and oval-faced, she moved gracefully, clearly thought before she spoke and, he believed, knew right
from wrong. But she was also a soft, frail thing: an unwanted quality in Highland women.

‘Not at all, Mr Gordon. In fact, I have only one charge now and spend equal time with Sir Malcolm. His wife is dead, you see, and his remaining three children, of the nine she bore him, have all returned to the family estate in England.'

‘I see.' Hamish studied the girl's chest, paying particular attention to the large gold and green jewelled brooch pinned near her breast.

‘I fear I shall lose my position within the year. A most unhappy occurrence.'

‘Most.' Deftly changing direction, Hamish steered his young companion back towards her home.

‘And your plans, Mr Gordon, if I may. There is talk of you buying property, sir. May I ask if that will be here in Ridge Gully?'

‘Aye, or perhaps further north.'

‘So you too wait for the great land rush, for the squatters to be divided and their land redistributed. It may happen sooner than you think, though Sir Malcolm feels it will be war.'

Hamish opened the door to the guesthouse, stopping to stare at the moist young lips, momentarily regretting the lateness of the hour and the mother inside, waiting.

‘I see by your silence you find me too forthright, sir. Perhaps Sir Malcolm's allowances are not so easily accepted outside his home.'

‘You must forgive me. It is the company of women I am not used to.' Hamish stepped aside for Rose to enter. ‘There are many who will fight.' He bowed his head briefly, referring quickly back to their conversation.