***
Claude Devereaux held Emma’s chair for her before taking his own seat at the table beside her. On his left, as planned, was Dora Appleton and next to her was nineteen-year-old Alex Macdonald. Jim Macdonald, the middle one of Bea’s brothers, sat on Emma’s right. Opposite him, and going down the other side of the table, were Matty Macdonald, Bea, Madame Fournier, Mr. Appleton and Anthony Appleton.
Mr. Macdonald took his seat at the head of the table. One thing he hadn’t allowed yet was for Bea to take her mother’s seat at the other end. It had been decided that Sachi would sit there tonight, but as it turned out Sachi elected to stay in the kitchen with Janey. She had found and fallen in love with Hux, the family’s aging Newfoundland. Hux loved everyone and Sachi had christened him l’ours, French for bear. The dog seemed perfectly comfortable with his new name.
Tillie served the soup. At the far end of the table, Alex and Anthony appeared to be engaged in a continuation of an earlier discussion on the merits of a .22 rifle over a shotgun for hunting various game, their voices drifting down the table. Alex was of similar build to Anthony, unlike his two taller and older brothers, having taken after their mother, rather than their father. Perhaps like attracted like in their case. They were also both the youngest in the family group.
Claude turned and spoke to Dora Appleton, and Bea, directly across from Emma, asked her uncle what he had thought of the horses. Mr. Macdonald, despite not wanting to sit near his half-brother, caught the question and seemed to strain forward to hear the answer.
“Humph. Something could be done with them, I suppose,” Vernon Appleton said, “if they were properly broken in.”
“I explained that to you,” George Macdonald responded in exasperation. “They’re still getting acclimatised to the stable. These horses have run wild for a year or two. They can’t be loaded onto a steamer and sent on a voyage for several weeks without first getting them used to being in a stall.”
“Well, if you will try to train wild brumbies.”
Mr. Macdonald opened his mouth to respond as Bea pleaded with her eyes to Emma for help. Apparently, any seat in the same room was too close a proximity for these two.
“Madame Fournier.” Emma jumped in with the first thing that caught her eye. “I couldn’t help but admire the necklace you are wearing. It is very elegant.”
“Yes? Thank you.” Her mouth lifted a little at the corners acknowledging Emma’s attempts at diverting an argument. “It is of the period of Napoleon the second,” she continued. “A sautoir gifted by my mother on my marriage.” She fingered the small pendant hanging in the centre of the silver chain. “A little heavy, I’m afraid, but I do favour it.”
“A sautoir?”
“Ah…” Madame Fournier looked to her brother.
“A long chain, something around the neck.” He shrugged.
“Merci, Claude. My English is not perfect I’m afraid, Miss ‘Aythorne.”
“You do very well, Madame,” Mr. Appleton said, in what was to Emma an irritatingly ingratiating manner.
“It is kind of you to say,” Madame Fournier responded formally.
Emma turned her attention to her soup. All that could be heard for the next few minutes was the clink of spoons on bowls and the occasional slurp. She began to wish she had seated Mrs. Appleton in a more prominent position after all. Even that lady’s self-serving monologue would be preferable to the awkward silence as everyone seemed to be wondering what topic of conversation would be safe. Whatever was wrong between Mr. Macdonald and Mr. Appleton it clearly wasn’t something that had just begun with the horses.
Tillie cleared the soup bowls and local conversations tentatively started up around the table. Alex and Anthony, probably unaware of any tension, had moved on to hunting stories, and Jim Macdonald asked his father a question about a new lambing paddock, which Matty joined in on. Estimations of fence posts and wire, and when they could do the work, reached Emma’s ears.
Mr. Appleton attempted, with a poor accent, to say something in French to Madame Fournier, and Claude Devereaux reached across and refilled his sister’s wine glass. Perhaps he thought she needed fortification. Apart from responding to Claude’s remarks to her, Mrs. Appleton was strangely quiet.
Tillie returned with Janey, bearing the roast lamb and vegetables. While Mr. Macdonald carved the meat, she and Tillie served up the crisp potatoes and carrots and the green beans, before the plates were passed down for the addition of slices of lamb. The gravy boat did the rounds. Janey had flavoured the gravy with herbs, the way her mother had been taught by Emma’s grandmother.
The scent of the gravy made Emma suddenly homesick for the comforts of Wirramilla and her own family, fond as she was of the Macdonalds. Perhaps when the visitors had left she would leave Janey in her place and go home for a few days. The knowledge of Mrs. Macdonald lying in the bedroom was always present in the back of her mind. Unfortunately, she couldn’t give Bea a break from that, not that she thought Bea would take it if offered, in any case.
“Do you live far from here Miss Haythorne?” Claude Devereaux asked, startling her as if he had been reading her mind.
“Oh, n-no. My family’s property is two hours’ easy ride further up river. Wirramilla it is called. You will pass it on your way home,” Emma said, hearing an echo of the words she had spoken to Dora Appleton a few hours earlier.
“And it is the same as this place? Sheep and horses, yes?”
“We concentrate on sheep, although, of course, we have horses for work and pleasure. My own horse, Pepper is in the stable here.”
“Ah, let me guess. It is the little roan.” He smiled, his gray eyes twinkling at her.
“Wrong, sir. That is Bea’s mare, Poppet.”
“And a poupée she is indeed, mmh?” Was he referring to the horse or to Bea? He put a finger to his lips as he mused. “Then it must be the dark horse, pepper coloured is it not?”
“Very clever. You are right, of course.” Although what he would make of names like Poppet and Pepper she did not know. They had been much younger when they’d named the horses.
Janey’s dark hand reached from behind for Emma’s empty plate.
“Is anyone in the kitchen with Sachi, Janey?” Emma asked, knowing there wouldn’t be as she could see Tillie waiting behind the other side of the table.
“No, Miss,” Janey replied, on her best behaviour in company. “Hux is with her,” as if that absolved the need for anyone else.
“The child shouldn’t be left on her own, regardless. Please stay in the kitchen with her. Tillie can serve dessert.”
“I would appreciate, if you would,” Madame Fournier said. “She is in a strange place.”
“Certainly, ma’am.”
The click of the tongue that followed told Emma that Janey was ill-pleased at being barred from the dining room and missing the action, whatever there might be of it. She was a worse gossip than her mother, if that were possible.
“She has been with you a long time, that one?” Madame Fournier asked, turning to Bea when Janey had left with a pile of plates.
“Oh, no. Not with us. Janey comes from Wirramilla. Another loan,” Bea said, with a smiling look at Emma.
“But you are right, Madame Fournier,” Emma said. “Janey was born at Wirramilla. Her mother Lucy is our housekeeper of twenty-five years.”
“Ah, that explains it. It is very comfortable to have long-time servants, is it not?”
“Most of the time,” Emma said with a laugh.
“I am fortunate to have Mrs. Appleton. A very competent housekeeper,” Vernon Appleton said, attempting to take his part in the conversation. “Not that she is a servant, of course,” he hastened to add, “being in fact my dear brother’s widow.” Did a look from Dora prompt that qualification? “But certainly, it has been a very comfortable arrangement.” Perhaps not so much for Mrs. Appleton, who didn’t comment.
Tillie served the dessert of apple crumble with fresh cream and everyone occupied
themselves with it for a few minutes.
“And what do you do when you are not riding your Pepper, Miss Haythorne?” Claude Devereaux eventually asked.
“I read, I garden, I assist my grandmother with her herbal remedies. There is always something to do in the running of a home, even with servants.”
“That is true. And what do you read, when you are not doing something?”
“My favourite author is Anthony Trollope. Do you read him, Mr. Devereaux? A very English author. His mother lived for some years in France, I believe.”
“Ah, yes. The inimitable Fanny. Very amusing her work on the Americans, don’t you think?”
“They did appear a little raw, didn’t they, like us here in the Australian colonies perhaps.”
“No, no. I cannot allow that. Australian’s have much more savoir faire. If you are a fan of Trollope, Miss Haythorne, you would have read his latest book.”
“Which one is that?”
“The Eustace Diamonds.”
“No, that title has not reached us yet.”
“You have a treat in store then. I will give you a quote: ‘the softest, tenderest, truest eyes which a woman can carry in her head are green in colour.’ What do you say to that?”
Emma felt her face growing warm. Green eyes were a trait she shared with her grandmother. “Really, Mr. Devereaux.”
“Claude, vous êtes un flirt incorrigibles,” Madame Fournier remonstrated gently.
“You have been caught out, sir,” Emma said. She was suddenly aware that Matty’s eyes were on her.
“You speak French, Miss ‘Aythorne?” Madame Fournier asked in surprise.
“I have been taught, but I rarely get a chance to speak. I would be ashamed of my accent now.” It had been eight years since her short time at Miss Enid Marshall’s School for Young Ladies in Adelaide, when Madame Dupre had tried to hone her pronunciation.
“We must be careful what we say in the lady’s hearing, ma chère soeur,” Claude said in mock dismay.
“You will, at least, dear brother,” said Madame Fournier. “And in English. Behave.”
Claude would have looked suitably chastened if it weren’t for the gleam in his eyes. Not someone to be taken too seriously, Emma decided. But fun, nonetheless.
“Thank you, Madame,” she said.
The men did not remain in the dining room with their port at the end of the meal, but accompanied the ladies to the drawing room, where Tillie was serving tea. Mrs. Appleton, freed from her restricting seat at table, took the armchair by Mr. Macdonald and engaged him in conversation. Vernon Appleton wasn’t fast enough to claim the seat on the sofa beside Madame Fournier, Claude beating him to it. Had she imagined Madame Fournier’s quick hand signal to her brother?
Vernon, relegated to the opposite sofa beside Bea, didn’t look displeased. Perhaps he adhered to the idea that it didn’t become a lady to appear too eager. Emma seated herself comfortably to one side. She’d had enough of dinner conversation and was happy to observe. Alex and Anthony still hadn’t worn out their conversation, and were both chatting happily in the corner, but Jim and Matty, more at home in the saddle than the sofa, stood around looking not entirely comfortable. Feeling they needed rescuing, Emma caught Jim’s eye and beckoned him over. He nudged Matty, who followed.
“Are you enjoying your visitors?” she asked quietly, hoping not to catch Mrs. Appleton’s ear.
“Rum lot,” Matty replied, leaning against the back of her armchair. “Don’t seem to like one another much. You seem to be getting on all right with that Devereaux fellow, anyway, Em. Bit too smooth for my liking.”
“He knows his horses,” Jim said, before Emma could respond to Matty’s remark. “You’ve got to admit that. He thought several of the two-year-olds we had collected would break in nicely. He could see they had good breeding.”
“Which your uncle didn’t apparently, from what he said during dinner,” Emma said.
“No. Well, they were spooked. Got a bit restless in the stalls, didn’t they, Matt?”
Matty nodded.
“How did that happen?” Emma wanted to know. “Was Pepper all right?”
“Yeah, she was grand. Stamped her feet and nickered at the younger ones to settle down.”
Emma laughed. Knowing Pepper, she’d probably just kept her head in her feed trough. The mare’s placid personality and love of her food were well known.
“So, what did happen?” Emma asked.
“Oh, well, it was young Anthony,” Jim explained, with an apologetic look toward his cousin, fortunately unaware of what was being said about him, engrossed as he was in his conversation with Alex. “He knocked over a couple of buckets and startled them. The young horses we’re still breaking in started kicking up a rumpus, lashing out in their stalls.”
The sudden influx of a group of men into the quiet stables, and several metal buckets clanking into one another, could have unsettled any horse, much less ones that were not fully broken-in.
“They were all right, though? None of them were injured?” Bea asked, picking up on the conversation.
“No damage done ‘cept to a stall door,” Matty assured her. “We thought of putting them back in the paddock for a couple of days, but figured it would defeat the purpose.”
“You put them into the stable before they were ready,” Mr. Appleton said.
Emma glanced across at Mr. Macdonald. Fortunately, he didn’t appear to have heard, his eyes unfocused, staring at nothing as Mrs. Appleton talked.
3
Trouble Brewing
Tillie was yawning over the stove, shoving more wood into the firebox, when Emma entered the kitchen next morning. The water in her wash bowl had been icy and the kitchen, its fire banked during the night, offered a welcome warmth to her chilled fingers. She was greeted by the smell of the fresh baked bread that Janey was just turning out of the tins onto the table. The girl cut several slices and popped them on the griddle to toast.
“Have you taken hot water into Mr. Devereaux and Mr. Appleton?” Emma asked, after greeting them both.
“Not yet,” Tillie said yawning again.
“Well do that now, and then have your breakfast. You’ll be too busy to eat once everyone gets up. Are Mr. Macdonald and the boys about?”
“Went off to the stables half an hour ago,” Janey said, her eyes on the toast.
Tillie bustled out with one of the kettles as Bea came in with a steaming bucket of milk.
“Poor Daisy wasn’t happy with my cold fingers this morning,” she said. “They’d warmed up a bit by the time I got to Maisie.”
“You’ll have to do them the other way around tomorrow, then, to even up,” Emma quipped.
“Huh, my hands could be icicles before Daisy would make way for young Maisie. Seems even cows have a pecking order.”
“Bit like people,” Janey said sourly, clearly still smarting at being sent back to the kitchen the previous night.
“We’re none of us free to do whatever we please,” Emma told her, shutting her up before she could say anything more. She spread honey on the toast Janey handed her and put the plate on a tray with the small teapot and a cup and saucer. “Do you want to take this in to your mother, Bea? I can deal with the milk.”
“Thank you, I will.”
Emma poured the milk into china jugs, protecting their open mouths from dust and flies with bead-trimmed muslin covers. She set the jugs on the dresser. At least in this weather there was no difficulty in keeping the milk cool. Tillie came back, having topped up the kettle at the rainwater tank outside, and the three sat down to tea and toast. By the time Bea returned for her own breakfast, they were all occupied cooking eggs, bacon and sausages, and another stack of toast, for the men.
“That’s it,” Emma said, when the dining room table had been set, all the food keeping warm in the bain-marie on the sideboard, and Tillie standing by with the teapot. “We can leave them to it for now.”
“Good morning.” Madame Fournier ca
me into the kitchen with Sachi, who made a beeline for Hux on his blanket in the corner.
“Breakfast is ready in the dining room, Madame Fournier. Please, do help yourself,” Bea told her.
“Oh, may I just have tea and toast in here? It reminds me of my grand-mere’s kitchen at the farm in Provence, so warm and welcoming. And I hear enough about horses and sheep.”
“If you prefer. You’re most welcome. I hope you slept well.”
“Oh, yes. Sachi and I, we snuggle up with the hot brick. We do well.”
Bea smiled her pleasure. “Just ask if you need more coverings,” she said.
Emma saw Mrs. Appleton in the doorway, staring at Madame Fournier with a considering look.
“We are just making some more toast, Mrs. Appleton. Unless you would prefer the cooked breakfast in the dining room?”
“Good morning. No, some toast would be very nice, thank you.”
Mrs. Appleton seated herself at the far end of the table from Madame Fournier. There was a noticeable chilling in the atmosphere as both ladies ignored one another. Janey made more toast and Bea poured a fresh brew. Sachi joined her mother, coaxing Hux to sit at her feet.
“May I take l’ours for a walk after breakfast?” she asked, looking from Bea to Emma. She had her uncle’s grey eyes. They must be a Devereux family trait.
“Yes, of course. It will do him good,” Bea said.
Madame Fournier agreed. “The three of us will go, ma chere. It will do us all good, all these weeks on boats.”
“Good,” Sachi said, and laughed. “All good.”
“Stay within sight of the river,” Emma warned. “The mallee scrub looks all the same. It is easy to get disoriented and lose your direction. The sun can only tell you so much, and that’s when you can see it.”
“We will, certainement,” Madame Fournier assured her. “Thank you for warning. Is any direction best?”
“Downstream would be best. There is a creek not far upstream, and of course, it has water in it at this time of the year. You would not be able to cross. You could follow it for some way in, of course. That would be safe enough.”
“We will go downstream. Perhaps tomorrow we will venture up, yes?”
Breakfast over, Madame Fournier and Sachi, with Hux at their heels, set off on their walk. Sachi had borrowed the egg basket to take with her, in case she found anything interesting. Mrs. Appleton went to her room, stating she had some mending to do, and was promptly replaced by Matty, asking for a packed lunch to be made up.
“For five of us,” he said. “Us three, Anthony and Mr. Devereaux. There’s a bunch of wild horses hanging around near the bottom of the lake chain. We figure we might see if there’s anything worthwhile among them.”
“We have the leftover roast lamb. We were going to have that for lunch anyway,” Bea said. “I thought you had enough horses for the next shipment,” she added as she hunted out the jar of fruit chutney from the pantry and set Tillie and Janey to making up sandwiches.
“Yeah, we have. It’s just something useful to do while they’re here, and Mr. Devereaux is keen for some riding. Tomorrow we’ll have to get on with the training. Wouldn’t mind hearing what he has to say about that.” Matty seemed to be warming to the Frenchman.
“How long are they planning to stay? Has anyone said?” Emma asked.
“They arranged with the agents for the Sapphire to call in and collect them on her way upriver. Two or three days.”
“Good. The sooner they get back to their respective homes, the better, I think. I suspect they’ve spent too long in one another’s company already.”
Matty grunted. “Wouldn’t know about that, Em, but Uncle Appleton doesn’t seem to be enjoying his visit much. I asked him to join us but he said he wasn’t comfortable riding with his stiff leg. Seems pretty bitter about that.”
Emma and Bea took the lunches out to the yard in front of the stables where the boys were saddling up the horses. Mr. Macdonald was readying his own horse for Mr. Devereaux. The breath of humans and horses hung in the still, frosty air, while the clear sky promised a pleasant day for riding.
“You should be joining us, Miss Haythorne,” the Frenchman said coming up to her, rubbing his gloved hands together.
“Not today, sir.” If it had been just Bea and her brothers she would have, and had done many times, but her presence would put a damper on this outing, she suspected. “Pepper isn’t up to fast riding these days, I’m afraid,” she said in explanation.
“That’s no excuse. I’m sure a suitable ride could be found for you. You’re sure you won’t reconsider?”
“Positive, thank you all the same.”
“Very well. My misfortune.” He gave a little bow of his head and moved away to his mount.
“What was he saying to you?” Bea asked, turning back from putting some lunch in Jim’s saddle bag. Emma told her. “You could have gone.”
“No, I could not. You would have had to come as well, or I would have had to take Janey, more like, and that would have left you and Tillie to do everything. Besides, it’s a lads’ day out.” But it was not without a twinge of regret that she watched them leave.
The paddle-steamer Wattlebird called in mid-morning, delivering some supplies that had been ordered, and the mail and newspapers from upriver. Emma spent an hour sitting at Mrs. Macdonald’s bedside, reading to her from the papers. Lunch was a quiet affair with half the group away. Most of the conversation at the table was between the four women. Mr. Appleton and Mr. Macdonald barely said a word, and none directed to one another. It was as if a truce had been called. Or a lull in the storm.