Daughter of Australia (43 page)

The sounds of music and laughter wafted, followed her. Leonora looked into the dark sky, sought the fresh air greedily. The stars, millions of them, dotted the blackness. She kept walking past the carriages, past the few cars lining the lot, until the music and the crowd blended to one undulating sound.

Leonora leaned her arms against the split-rail fence, let the slight breeze cool her face as she stared into endless space. It would be so easy to give in. But she sank with the impossibility. It would be so easy to just say yes, to close her eyes, take his hand and leave every other person, memory, behind. But the black children would follow her. Their white eyes, their empty wails for their mothers and fathers ringing in her ears until she screamed. If she left Alex, she destroyed families. If she stayed, she destroyed James.

Leonora rubbed the spot above her nose between her eyebrows. Her stomach fell deeper. She could keep James at the station—hold him hostage with glimmers of hope, shackling him. She could keep her heart still full and beating by knowing he was near. It was enough for her. But James would fade from it slowly, torturously, forsaking his own future and happiness. She thought about Mrs. Shelby's words. The pain he endured in his life. She could not, would not, add any more to it. Her life was of little sacrifice. Knowing what she needed to do brought no comfort; it ripped and clawed at her flesh and made her ill to her toes. Her decision mapped out a lonely, endless future that would leave her more dead than alive.

The stars stretched into diamonds, then distorted and lengthened through the lens of her tears. They flowed savagely down her cheeks and she bit her lip to stop them, but their number grew stubbornly. Deep sobs rattled her whole body and made her hiccup for air. Leonora rested her clenched palms against her lids and let the dark, buried sorrow spill. She loved him, loved him so much that it seemed better to die than to live without him. But there was more to this world than her life. Her happiness had always taken a backseat. This was her curse, her pain.

Footsteps crunched the gravel and she frantically wiped her eyes, tried to stop the flood. James emerged from the shadows. Her stomach was sick and she pressed it with her hand. She was thankful for the lack of light, hoping it hid her red eyes.

“You disappeared,” James said cautiously.

“Just needed a little air,” she sniffed.

He stepped closer. “Have you been crying?”

She shook her head even as fresh tears spilled. “No.”

“I can see that.” James gently rubbed a tear away with his thumb. He kept his hand at her face, caressed her cheek with his finger.

Her body was tired, so tired of fighting. She let her cheek sink into his palm. She closed her eyes and placed her hand upon his, wanting only to savor his touch for a moment—a moment that she could store within her memory for a lifetime.

James inched closer to her body, his strong thighs leaning into her hips. He took his fingers from her face and reached for her limp hand, brought it up to his mouth, turning her palm and placing his lips in the smooth center. She leaned against the post for support, her legs completely numb as he brushed his lips over her palm, her wrist, and across her forearm.

Her body burned and her muscles quivered. James placed a hand on her waist and moved closer still until the steel of his belt buckle pressed against the fabric of her dress and blazed and spun her abdomen. He leaned forward and, with the softest of lips, kissed the farthest edge of her cheek right next to her ear.

Drowning. Falling. Sinking. Helpless. The desire crippled her. His lips moved across her cheekbone. She was losing. If he kissed her on the mouth, she would be lost. She would melt into his arms. Clear thinking, any thinking, would evaporate into the night.

If you love him, you got t'stop it now,
Mrs. Shelby's words echoed between the kisses.
Poor man's had enough pain to last a lifetime.

James kissed the middle of her cheek, so close to her lips that it would only take a slight turn of her head for them to meet.
Let him go.

“I . . . can't do this,” Leonora whispered between her tears.

In the darkness James stopped, but his face was close. “You can leave him, Leo,” his words hushed with urgency. “
Leave him
.” He gathered her into his arms, his lips poised above hers. “I love you, Leo.”

She closed her eyes and swallowed hard, pushed every ounce of love for him down to her stomach. She hardened her face, straightened her neck and forced her wet eyes to ice. Then she brought the new, bitter words up, raised them to her throat like bile and delivered them roughly: “I'm in love with Alex.”

His body winced. A thrust of a knife into his ribs, pushed in with her own hand and twisted, would have caused less pain. James dropped his hand from her waist with deadweight. His arm hung loosely at his side. His brows knit above blank eyes. His face clenched with the hard, hard lines of his cheekbones and jaw. James stared at her for only a second, a last second, before he turned silently and walked away.

Leonora did not watch him leave. Her body stood rigid, paralyzed. Only her hand moved—her fingers tightening with white knuckles around the fence post as the pain in her stomach nearly crushed her to the ground.

 

The next morning, Tom, James and Leonora left the Shelby homestead under the rising, bitter sun. As they drove in the open car, the golden wheat waved in the wrong direction. Back. Back. If only she could go back.

But the sage bush squeezed through the thinning wheat until it did not wave any longer. And this sage bush grew bolder as the red earth grew bolder between the clusters and the stiff, hard grass did not wave but pointed straight into the hard, hot sky. The rabbit-proof fence picked up by the road, blurred outside the moving car until the posts were invisible and only long lines of gray wire pointed the direction home.

Tom slept in the backseat, sprawled and listless with hangover. His boots rested on the window, his ankles crossed; his hat slumped low on his forehead, covered his eyes and nose. At times his body jerked from a dancing dream or a twisted stomach and then went limply back to sleep.

James drove, his narrowed eyes glued to the road. He held the steering wheel with his right hand, rested the elbow of the left on the windowsill. Despite the unrelenting heat, the cold that radiated from him filled the car. Leonora occupied the passenger seat, kept her hands together and interlaced, still as a posed corpse. They had not spoken a word since they said their farewells to the Shelbys—the divide between them as large as if they rode in separate vehicles. In another few hours, the gates of Wanjarri Downs would come into view and then lock, one after another, behind her.

Leonora stared at her fingers fixed on her lap. “How long will you stay?” she whispered.

James did not answer for a long time, kept his gaze straight. “Until I talk to Tom.” Then added shortly, “He can stay on if he wants.”

“Where will you go?”

He ignored the question, leaned his elbow farther out the window, shifted his body away from her.

She had no right to ask him anything. He would leave soon, maybe by morning. There would never be another kiss, a touch, a look, again. Not even a good-bye. It was over. She wiped a heavy, lone tear. It was over before it had even begun.

T
he postman did not whistle or nod as he delivered the telegram from Alex. He dropped the note in Leonora's hand and took off to his truck as fast as his wishbone legs could wobble. And in the damp, charged air she could feel the storm coming before she read the words.

Alex was stuck in Coolgardie, delayed by bushfire that had started from lightning and spread through the dry bush. He sent directions to have the homestead protected. But as she read the note, it was not the fire or the storm that translated; it was the relief that Alex would not be returning today, the relief that Tom and James would stay another day.

Leonora had not seen James since returning to Wanjarri Downs. She wasn't even sure if he was still on the property. It was Tom who delivered their resignation with guilt-drawn cheeks and wincing eyes. “You gonna be orright, Leonora?” he had asked.

She nodded.

“We'll stay until Alex gets back,” he promised. “Only proper to tell him in person.”

She nodded again, bit her lip. Tom stepped forward and hugged her as he would a sister, her chin crinkling against the fabric of his shirt. She pulled away, kept her eyes glued to the wood grain of the front door, stared at anything hard and lifeless just to avoid Tom's soft gaze.

“James'll be orright,” he said, reading her mind. “He's a tough bloke.”

With the sound of his name, Leonora blinked with wet lashes, bore her focus up to the ceiling and waited until Tom had walked away.

Dawn broke; the darkness remained. There would be no sun today. Pots rattled and echoed from the kitchen. Leonora followed the sounds and found Meredith bent over the lower cabinets pulling out kettles and stockpots and skillets. The woman's face was already red with sweat, her sleeves rolled to her biceps, her elbows wrinkled and puckered from the tight fabric. Meredith dug farther into the recesses of the shelf and bumped her head during the retreat. “Och! Fer the love a . . .” She stood up rubbing her head. “Oh, mornin', Mrs. 'Arrington. Didn't hear yeh come in.” The woman gave a significant nod. “Storm comin'.”

“Just got word from Alex. There's bushfire near Coolgardie. Roads are all blocked.”

Meredith brought the skillet to the stove with a bang. “A big one orright! Things been quiet too long. This storm's plannin' t'make up fer lost time.” The woman pulled the stockpot up and placed it on the back burner. “Can't predict these ones, either. Some are real dowsers. Creeks flood over in minutes. Some bring the dry lightnin' wivout a drop of rain. Some bring both. Can't predict. Lightnin' be bad, though. Can feel it on m'skin.”

Meredith pulled out a drawer stacked and tangled with ladles, metal spoons and spatulas. “Men are workin' outside. Saw 'em on my way in. They're pullin' out the hoses an' sprayin' down the stables. All yeh can do. Soak the place wet an' pray.”

Leonora scanned the burdened stovetop. “Looks like you're planning to feed an army.”

“I am!” Meredith bellowed. “Law of the bush, Mrs. 'Arrington. If the bush is burnin', every man in the county be comin' out t'stop it. Station women got t'feed 'em. Take shifts.”

The kitchen door opened and Clare staggered in, smiling and sleepy, wearing the same dress as the day before. “Mornin', Mrs. 'Arrington,” she said stiffly, the mirth fading. “Storm's comin'.” Clare's eyes flitted to Meredith, impatient to chat in private. “Wamme t'close up the house?”

“No, I'll do it,” Leonora answered, taking the hint and glad to have a task. “Looks like Meredith is going to need your help.”

Leonora walked to the second floor and started closing the shutters. Gray clouds thickened miles and miles across the open, flat land. Stockmen scurried like ants as they prepped the water towers, dragged rubber hoses and moved hay and dry brush away from the buildings. Then James rode up on horseback, gave instruction to one of the Aborigines. Leonora touched the lace curtains, her insides hollowing, missing him before he was even gone. She pushed the despair away, shoved it down to her corners as a seamstress stuffs a pillow and slammed the shutters closed.

She moved down to the first floor. Russell was on the verandah spraying water at the side of the house. The wave of water smashed against the windows and streaked down the panes as she closed the tall French doors, the room dimming with each click.

“Get yer head outta the clouds, Clare, an' peel 'em potatoes!” Leonora could hear Meredith huffing from the kitchen, “Dense as a stone this mornin'! Whot's got yeh all tickled?”

“Let's jist say it was a good night.” Clare snickered. “Good mornin', too.”

“Yeah?” Meredith scoffed, unimpressed. “Whot? Yeh ride that swaggie that's been hangin' round?”

Leonora closed the shutters near the kitchen and rolled her eyes at the crude and never-ending gossip. She found no humor in their chatter, no humor in anything.

“Och! To think,” Clare retorted hotly. “Spent the night in the managers' quarters.”

Leonora froze, her hand flat and still upon the windowpane, her ears focused on every minuscule sound from the kitchen.

Meredith laughed a great bosom-shaking laugh. “Like Tom would 'ave yeh! Save yer lies fer somebody'll believe 'em.”

“Ain't a lie!” Clare's disgruntled voice came fast and adamant. “Sides, it weren't Tom that give it t'me. Was James.”

Leonora's ears and face burned. She didn't breathe—couldn't breathe.

“That man don't know yer alive, let alone goin' to bed wiv yeh!” spit Meredith.

“Well, he knows I'm alive now, don't he? Took me twice. Nearly left me bowlegged as postman Danny!”

Meredith laughed hard, then softened with affection. “Full of shit is whot yeh is, Clare.”

The words punched Leonora in the stomach with swift, blunt force, made her want to vomit. Her body fell limp against the wall, her knees buckling.

“Says he's been wantin' me fer a long time,” Clare bragged. “Guess he didn't want t'wait no more. On account he's leavin'.”

Leonora buried her face in her hands. Her spine bent and arched forward as her gut cramped.
No, no, no!

“Hate t'see 'em go,” said Meredith. “Good blokes.”

“James says he's sick of bein' Mrs. 'Arrington's whippin' boy!” Clare chimed expertly. “Tired of takin' orders from rich folks.”

The dull, jagged knife cut through the horror now. The betrayal, hard and cruel, ripped Leonora's heart in two. Her lips stretched over her teeth. A wail scratched up her throat, lodged before it could reach her mouth. It had all been a joke—a cruel, heartless game. Jabbing images bit into her flesh—James kissing Clare's thin, wretched mouth, touching her freckled skin, whispering in her waiting ear, laughing at
her
.

The thoughts weighted her bones. It had all been a lie. The pain turned with a sudden blinding fury.
It had all been a lie.
The tears were coming, but she smashed them away with the anger. Restless hands fumbled for the crystal vase on the table, then hurled it across the room. Shreds of glass shattered into giant prismed chunks just as her heart splintered into a million matching ones. The thrust opened the chasm in her chest and choked sobs rocked her body. She was such a fool! She had fallen for his words. He never loved her—no one ever did.

The closed windows trapped her as in a cage, the image of James with Clare blinding. She wanted to run away. Run away until her legs gave out and her heart stopped beating. She fled the confines of the house, the crushing walls. The wind whipped her hair. She ran to the barn. A stockman was sliding the door closed, his head ducking from blowing dust. She plowed past him, found the black stallion, slick and wide-eyed in the end stall, and pulled at the reins. The man stopped her, pointed in the flashing distance. “No good. Storm's comin'.”

But she couldn't see the storm or the wind or the lightning, just the hurt that devoured her insides. She jumped on the horse bareback. The stallion reared, but she held on and with one swift kick pushed him to a full gallop past the riding ring. James and Tom turned the corner, jumped out of the way as she tore past.

Leonora pushed the horse toward the storm, ran for miles under the growing gray sky, chased its entrance. The thick rolling clouds sped in equal speed as she pushed to meet it. She didn't know where she was going, didn't care as long as she was away from that house and Clare's laughter and James's cruelty and the images that beat inside her brain.

Light, intermittent rain began to fall, splattered against her face. Sharp crackles of thunder blasted from the south and made the horse rear again. The lightning was getting closer. The noise snapped with lucidity, cleared her mind. The air's electric charge itched under her skin, raised the hairs along her arms with the static. The nervous horse twitched below her thighs. She scanned the plains, found her bearings and searched for a point of shelter. The closest spot was at a barn in a paddock not far off. Leonora kicked the horse, veered him to the right, the thunder booming overhead.

Rain had soaked her to the skin by the time she reached the paddock. The horse huffed as she dismounted, steam rising like smoke from his nostrils and coat. The rain fell straight down now, pelted her hair. She walked the horse to the barn; the door was open. The new lambs were gone. She tied the horse and went back into the open, squinting at the sky as the rain poured against her face. Shielding her eyes with her hand, she peered across the wet dirt, heard the thunder getting louder, found the lambs huddled with the ewes under a gum tree.

The new lambs walked in circles with plaintive
baas,
disoriented from the thunder. She gathered them near the barn and one by one carried the tiny lambs. Her skirt was covered in red mud and her skin was soaked at every inch, her lungs labored. The ewes stayed frightened under the tiny tree, dug hind legs in stubbornly. Leonora pulled off a branch and whacked one's fleece until it inched forward. She wiped her hair out of her eyes and as she did saw the figure galloping full speed.

Her insides ignited with fresh rage. She grabbed the ewe with full force and dragged her into the barn, then returned for the last one, her limbs trembling. From the gray wet, James jumped off his horse, pulled her toward the barn, the rain pouring off his hat in a steady stream. “Leo!” he called through the downpour, but she didn't answer.

James rushed at her. “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

She ignored him, hated him, pushed the ewe on the rump toward the barn. James grabbed the sheep around the belly. “I'll get her!”

Leonora shoved him with all her might, her wet hair flying into her face. “I don't need your help!” she yelled. “Just go away!”

James stared at her stunned, oblivious to the rain. “Leo, what's wrong?”

“I don't need you!” She drove fists into his chest, her voice shaking. “Leave me alone!”

“Stop it!” He grabbed her slick wrists. “What's this about?”

She struggled against his grip, his hands wet and strong. “I heard Clare!” she shouted. “You were with her! I heard it all!”

His face froze. Leonora took the silence as confirmation and with one hard pull jerked from his grip. Her lips stretched. “How could you?” she cried.

“Clare? The maid?” James found his voice equally passionate. “Have you lost your mind, Leo?” He spit with disgust at the rain falling on his mouth. “Do you think I would ever lay a hand on that woman?”

“Don't lie to me, James!” Leonora glared at him, wanted to pound against his ribs. “I heard what she said!”

“She's a damn liar, Leo!” His chest heaved as he pointed into the distance. “Saw her slink out of an Abo shack this morning!”

The rain dripped down her face, curled around her open lips. He was telling the truth. The world pierced with clarity, the noise of the storm suddenly sharp and loud in her ears. Clare had lied. Leonora had heard the woman's gossip and lies a million times before, but it hadn't registered. The thought of James—the thought of him with Clare—had erased all logic. Remorse poked instantly. “I-I-I'm sorry,” she stammered.

James's jaw clenched and his lips tightened to a hard line. The anger was fierce in him now. The thunder cracked above their heads, but James didn't flinch. He stepped forward and shouted through the rain, “Why the hell am I defending myself to
you?
” His voice was rough and harsh. “You're the one who's married!”

James stepped another foot forward. “How dare you accuse me, question me on anything!” he yelled. He pointed to the direction of the station, his eyes furious. “Every night you go into that house and share a bed with that bastard when I know . . . I know you should be sharing my bed! Do you know what it does to me when I think about you lying next to him, night after night—thinking about him touching you? Do you have any idea? It eats me alive, Leo! It kills me!” He ran his hand through his hair, pulled at the wet strands. “So, no, I have never been with the likes of Clare, but I'm no saint, Leo. I'm still a man and I want you so bad that . . .” He scowled and stopped, unable to find the words. He stomped closer. “So, you tell me, Leo. Tell me what the hell right you have to ask me anything!”

“Because . . . I love you!” she shouted back, her voice choppy. “I love you.”

James grabbed her by the shoulders, kissed her lips feverishly, roughly, endlessly. The rain pelted their hair and ran over lips, the erupting sky invisible and soundless.

James slid his lips from hers, held her face with spread fingers. “Leave him,” he pleaded.