Salt Creek (40 page)

‘Your hair,' I said.

She had hardly bothered with it for days, just plaited it and left it. Now she touched it and felt about and shrugged. I led her outside and sat her in a patch of sun on the veranda and brushed it out. The forgotten past flew up at me as if startled, like the ground parrots that grazed hereabouts. How often I had done this for Mama. Addie's tangled hair smoothed and I drew the mass of it back until it was sleek, plaiting the sides in as intricately as I could and coiling it into a bun. We forgot ourselves for a while. Finally it was done and she stood and turned for me to see.

‘Well, you are beautiful,' I said, which was nothing more than the truth. She did not belong at Salt Creek. She was a lady in this dress, and every part of our house was dull brown as a sparrow. The longer I looked the more that impression of civilization seemed an illusion. The greater thing that it did was to frame something in Addie, not only her looks, but also something barely containable: her rage.

‘That's done then,' she said.

The dogs set up a barking on the tenth day and for a mad moment the world changed. It would be the troopers and Addie would be spared, and Tull too. It would end well. How quickly we rushed at hope. Addie was at the veranda in seconds and I was fast behind. A lone rider, that was all. A man in a tall hat on a terrible horse. Mr Stubbs. We watched him all the way down the path – Addie as if she had set eyes on her executioner.

‘Mr Stubbs,' she said in a faint voice when he approached.

He removed his hat and held it in front of him. ‘Miss Adelaide,' he said, with an uncertain smile. ‘I am a little early. I could not wait.' His cheeks flushed very bright; almost, he seemed shy. Then, noticing me, ‘Miss Finch.'

‘Won't you come inside, Mr Stubbs. Papa is out at present, but I hope you would like some tea.'

‘Yes, please,' he said. He came up the stairs and approached Addie and put his hands to her upper arms, and though she reared back in surprise, his head followed and he touched his mouth to her cheek. ‘A little signal of affection for my future bride,' he said and laughed, ‘Huh, huh,' like that, as if relieved that some test had passed.

Addie looked at me.

‘Into the parlour,' I said, and opened the door so that Mr Stubbs would enter.

Addie followed, wiping his touch from her cheek as she went. Afternoon tea could hardly have been more awkward. Poor Mr Stubbs could not understand, Addie always before having been so lively. She sat opposite him, her gaze travelling from his smart boots up his thick legs and snug waistcoat to his florid cheeks and flat eyes. I thought of Tull's dark elegance, as I am sure she did.

‘Won't you take me for a walk, Mr Stubbs?' she said after a time, which startled me. From the way she did not look at me for approval or sympathy or anything else I could see that her thinking had moved beyond mine. She was as alone as could be now. Nothing I did could make any difference. It was fantastical to imagine otherwise.

‘Why, certainly. Only your ankle— Can you walk?'

‘If I may take your arm, I believe we will manage,' she said.

I watched them walk away, very slow, Mr Stubbs bending his head to her. He supported her quite tenderly. I did not think him a cruel man, at least not to people he regarded as his equals, but he was inferior in every respect but wealth and social standing to Tull, and watching him I felt some of Addie's anger. She deserved better.

It was my melancholy task late the following morning to row out to fetch Reverend Taplin, who was to perform the wedding ceremony, from the mail boat. The great surprise was that Albert was standing on the deck at his side, as tall and strong as Stanton, though with Mama's soft brown hair – the hair Mary would have had. He was burned by the sun and had the beginning of a soft moustache: he was sixteen now, and somewhat watchful. There was little of the boy in him, and a distance between us.

‘Hester,' he said, holding out his hand to take mine when he had lowered himself down.

‘Albert.' I pulled the oars in and leaned forward to embrace him.

He patted my back awkwardly. ‘It took Addie getting married for Papa to summon me. I suppose I should not be surprised.'

‘It's because of the money.'

‘Nothing's changed then.'

I turned my attention to Reverend Taplin once Albert had helped him down. The boat rocked; he quickly sat, flicking his coat back fussily so he didn't sit on it. He was dressed in black and had a beard that I considered ridiculous, circling the bottom of his face only and leaving his upper lip quite bare. He had a flat face and an unsmiling countenance, whether from disposition or disapproval, I was not certain. Remembering Tull's distress on his return from the mission, I found it difficult to be pleasant.

We walked up the slope to the house. Fred spied us from the veranda and ran down the stairs to see Albert, and after some awkwardness they began to laugh and talk. Soon they wandered off – to explore old haunts I supposed. I did not see Albert meeting Papa, but later saw them speak politely enough. Papa took Reverend Taplin on a tour of the house and its immediate surrounds and I observed Mr Stubbs wandering the short path from house to stable and back in his bobbing gait, his hands folded behind him and bent forward a little from the waist.

There was only Addie now and I found her easily enough. She was sitting in the bedroom with tears sliding down her cheeks. ‘Oh, Tull, Tull. I want him, Hettie.' She mopped them with one of Mama's handkerchiefs.

‘I know you do.' I could only help her once more into the dress and do her hair and by the time we were finished her tears had stopped. ‘I'm so sorry for it all, Addie,' I said.

‘Papa will regret what he's done. He might have an agreement with Mr Stubbs, but I have too, and so Papa shall discover.'

‘What have you done?'

‘Talked to my future husband.' She would tell me nothing more, and if she looked grim and stricken when she left the room to be married, she was still beautiful enough to light up Mr Stubbs's dull countenance. She would not have noticed that. She was looking past him, through the parlour window to the slope – and seeing it still empty, the wind drifting over the silvered grasses of summer and the brilliant green shoots of approaching winter, her eyes dulled.

Papa's demeanour during the wedding ceremony ill became him. He rocked on the balls of his feet and smiled at the words ‘I do' and ‘obey', and paid no attention to Addie's monotone. From his manner, I deduced that Mr Stubbs had waived some, perhaps all, of his debts in celebration. But observing how Mr Stubbs did not meet Papa's eye or return the heartiness of his tone after the ceremony was concluded I began to suspect the agreement that Addie had reached. Mr Stubbs was not as jovial as I had seen him at other times. He could not fail to be aware of Addie's sadness; he was not unfeeling I would say, but he was determined.

We had afternoon tea of Mrs Martin's layer cake. She had taught it to Addie while she was at the Travellers Rest. At sight of the rich cream I fled around the side of the house and was sick. I could no longer pretend or even hope that what had happened to Addie was not happening to me. My choices were so few and my feelings on the matter so desperate. But I had to shut them away for just a little longer, until Addie was gone.

At the last, when Papa approached her in farewell, Addie turned to him, as a boat turns in water, cumbersome and reluctant seeming, against its own nature, and held him off with an outstretched hand. ‘Do you remember what the bible says, Papa?' she said. ‘Amos, five: twenty-four I believe; you may check it to be sure. “But let justice roll down the waters, and righteousness like an ever-flowing stream.” Think of that, as I will. It will roll for you one day and I will do nothing to stop it.'

This discomfited him, as might be imagined, yet he rallied. ‘When you are more yourself I am sure you will understand, my dear.'

Addie ignored that and drew me aside, holding me tight. She spoke soft into my ear. ‘Listen to me, Hettie. You must get word to Tull for me. Tell him I will get Grace, I will make her mine.'

‘But how?' I said.

She shook her head. ‘Doesn't matter. I will. Stubbs wishes to make me happy, I believe. Imagine.' She released me and took my hand. ‘Tell Tull, oh, everything: my feelings, what Papa did, that I am sorry. My whole life I will be sorry for it. Then you must leave.'

‘Come, my dear,' Mr Stubbs called. Mr Stubbs and Addie rode away on their horses, with Addie's meagre possessions strapped to a third. Her back was very straight. She did not look back.

Albert, standing between Fred and me, said, ‘She doesn't seem very happy.'

‘She loves Tull,' Fred said. ‘Tull loves her.'

‘Tull. Good God. So that's why he left. Papa sent him away?'

Fred nodded.

‘Don't tell anyone,' I said.

‘As if I would. A black in the family. They'd kill him up at the lakes. They'd kill him for less. I'd not shed a tear.'

‘Why ever not?' I said.

Albert shrugged. His face twisted. ‘I was the one sent away; he stayed.'

‘How could Papa send him away to work? He wasn't family,' I said.

‘Yes he was.'

The mail boat's horn sounded its return from the south and Papa and Reverend Taplin strolled to the shore. Fred and I followed with Albert.

Before stepping into the boat, Albert said, ‘I might not see you for some time. I am to oversee Mr Baker's new station in the Flinders Ranges. Leaving quite soon.'

‘Well,' Papa said. ‘He thinks highly of you then.'

Albert regarded him coolly. ‘I believe he does.'

‘It's so far,' I said.

Poor Fred was stricken – from his old shame with Albert perhaps. He clasped Albert's hands in his own and pressed them. ‘We missed you; we did.'

Papa rowed them out and on his return we stood together watching the boat ride through the choppy waves. Papa said, musingly, ‘Perhaps Addie might send you some new clothes, Hester, if you ask her nicely, and we will see what sort of husband we might find you.' He had an air of gaiety, as if he were offering an unexpected treat.

‘Do not think of marriage for me. You will not compel me.'

He looked startled. ‘Yes, well, perhaps in time.' He rocked on his heels and stared towards the departing boat. ‘She will come around, my Adelaide. Her sweetness will out,' he said.

I thought it would not, that it was gone, that the steel of her would out, but did not say so. She was like Papa. She did not forgive and she did not forget. These things were not in her nature.

My dread was that Tull would return that very afternoon, that he might even see the boat making its way up the lagoon without knowing who it took away. We were spared that, at least. Papa and Fred left early the next day to begin rounding up the sheep. While they were gone I took the musket down and hid it in the stable. Later, as exhausted as he was from his hard day, Papa did not notice its absence from the wall. Fred hardly spoke. He washed when he came in and ate and worked on his drawing and writing until bedtime.