Wildflower Hill (19 page)

When Mikhail picked her up that night, he was coughing wetly into his handkerchief.

“Are you sick?” she asked, not expecting an answer.

He folded away his handkerchief and pulled in to the
street. Along the way, he coughed, spluttered, sneezed, and generally looked miserable. Beattie was mostly lost in her own thoughts—Henry was returning the following Saturday to collect Lucy for the first time—but not so much that she didn’t feel sorry for Mikhail. It was miserable to be sick, though more so when one lived alone, as Mikhail did in the shearers’ cottage.

He dropped her at the door, and she climbed out of the car, then leaned back in the driver’s side window to say, “Can I get you anything?” He looked at her blankly. She patted his arm. “Never mind. Get some rest.”

Then she was caught up in work for a while. Raphael was having dinner with his lawyer, Leo Sampson, and two other men she hadn’t seen. After their main course, she took a break while Alice served. As usual, she made herself a small meal and was about to sit down to eat when she thought about Mikhail.

Here in front of her, she had beef soup and hot toast with butter melting on it. Perfect food for a sick person.

“Alice,” she said, “I’m going to take this over to Mikhail. He’s sick.”

Alice sniffed. “I wouldn’t bother. He’ll give you no gratitude.”

Beattie was already up on her feet and finding a tray. “Still, everyone likes to be looked after when they’re feeling poorly.” She arranged the food on a tray, headed down the stairs through the laundry, and crossed the dewy house paddock to the shearers’ cottage.

The old timber structure housed only Mikhail at the moment—Alice had a room downstairs in the homestead—but in about six weeks, it would house a half-dozen shearers from all over Tasmania, following the seasonal shearing work from place to place.

Beattie lifted the latch and let herself in. She crossed the large sitting room, past the narrow bench with the sink and stovetop, and stood at the top of the hallway. Only one light under a door. She moved down the hall and knocked loudly.

A moment later, Mikhail stood there. He looked bleary.

“I brought you dinner. Soup and toast.”

Something softened in his face. He opened the door wide, and she walked in. In his room was a narrow bed and a table with a single chair. The room was large, enough floor space for three or four swags, and the lack of furniture made it echo as her shoes clipped on the floor. She slid the tray onto the table and turned to leave, but Mikhail said, “Wait one moment.”

Beattie stared. She’d never heard Mikhail speak more than a single word at a time.

He pulled out the chair and offered it to her, taking his tray back to his bed to eat.

She sat down, waiting.

“Thank you,” he said. “You very kind.”

“I didn’t think you could speak English.”

“I am not stupid. I live here now since five year. I hear everything. But easier for me if Mr. Blanchard think I have no understand.”

“Does Alice know?”

He nodded.

Beattie smiled. “Well, you certainly fooled me.”

He smiled back. It was the first time Beattie had seen him smile, and it transformed his face. He didn’t look so much like a creature formed of rock anymore. “Yes, I fool you.” He indicated his soup. “You have good heart.”

Beattie looked at the food and remembered she hadn’t eaten herself. Mikhail seemed to sense what she was thinking and offered her a piece of toast. She took it gratefully.

“So why do you think it’s easier if Mr. Blanchard doesn’t know you speak English?” she asked.

“He will expect too much. He will talk to me and never stop. He will find some way to put me in the wrong. That is what he do with all his staff.”

Beattie thought about her own dilemmas with Raphael. “Alice seems to manage him all right.”

“Alice is only one. Everyone else, Mr. Blanchard he gives them fired before a year is over. I don’t speak to him, he don’t speak to me, I still have job. It is hard to find job. I keep it.”

“I understand.” She thought about Charlie, the man who had rescued Lucy all those months ago, leaving town. “I met a man named Charlie my first day in Lewinford. He was on his way out . . .”

“Charlie Harris. A good man.”

“I heard he stole from Raphael.”

Mikhail shook his head, slurping soup from his spoon. “Charlie was not thief. They say he stole cuff links! What use is cuff links to Charlie? No. He was given fired for telling Mr. Blanchard how bad is his business.”

“I’m sorry?” She had trouble understanding Mikhail’s syntax.

“Charlie is only one that I ever see who will say to Mr. Blanchard his business is bad.”

“The farm? It’s a bad business?”

Mikhail snorted a laugh, and it turned into a cough. Beattie waited patiently for him to catch his breath. Then he said, “Mr. Blanchard has no interest for sheep. You know this. He loses money every year. He can keep no staff. He has two thousand sheep. Maybe make twenty-five bale of wool a year. Not enough. This business, he is worth very little. I think soon Mr. Blanchard will be called home to England from his father. All the money will be gone.” He shrugged. “Then nobody of us have job.”

Beattie’s heart stopped. If she had no job, no money, then what could prevent Henry from taking Lucy permanently? “Really? When do you think that will happen?”

He slurped more soup, rubbed his face with the napkin she had provided. “Who know? Maybe this wool clip, maybe next year’s. We all hang on and hope for best.”

Beattie realized she had been sitting in Mikhail’s room too long, and Alice would be waiting for her. “I’d best go,” she said, finishing her toast and wiping her fingers on her apron. “Thank you, Mikhail.”

“You not say anything to Mr. Blanchard about me talking?”

“Of course not.”

She hurried out, back across the paddock to the homestead.
We all hang on and hope for best.
Mikhail was right, it didn’t do to imagine the worst. Not yet.

*  *  *

Saturday morning was overcast and threatening to rain, but Lucy was as bright as the sun, and as Beattie combed her red-gold hair into two plaits, she chatted merrily and wriggled to be free. Margaret bustled about making morning tea for the guests who were due soon, humming softly. The smell of tea brewing, of currant bun toasting. The clink of the best china—the plates with the green flowers—being set out. But all Beattie felt was a growing sense of dread.

Today they were coming for her little girl.

She knew she shouldn’t worry: Henry loved Lucy and would be good to her. Still, the anxiety fluttered through her body, making her talk too fast, making her fingers fumble.

“Ow,” Lucy protested. “You’re pulling my hair.”

“Sorry, darling,” Beattie tied a bow at the end of the second plait, then stood back. “There, you look perfect.”

Lucy twirled coquettishly. “Daddy will think I look so grown up.”

The ache in Beattie’s chest flared to life again. “I’m sure he will.” The sound of a car arriving had her heartbeat echoing loudly in her ears.

“That sounds like them,” Margaret said as she laid out the butter container and a stack of china plates. “Lucy, will you—”

But before she had finished her sentence, Lucy was running down the hallway to the door, squealing, “Daddy, Daddy!”

Beattie caught Margaret’s eye and gave her a pained smile. Margaret, perhaps feeling guilty to have caused her so much anxiety, nodded sympathetically.

“She will be fine, you’ll see,” Margaret said.

“I won’t be,” Beattie replied.

Margaret made a dismissive noise. “Children aren’t ours for life. Every parent has to let go sometime.”

Beattie didn’t point out that Margaret had no children and therefore couldn’t know what it felt like. Instead, she followed Lucy down the hall.

The door was wide open, and Lucy was buried in her father’s arms at the front gate. Beattie experienced both a pang of jealousy and a brief moment of joy that Lucy was so happy.

Henry let Lucy go and urged her forward. His eyes met Beattie’s, and for a second, she saw a flash of the old Henry, the one she had fallen in love with. Then it was gone, and all she had were regrets.

Margaret was beside her, welcoming the guests in. “You’re right on time,” she said. “Lucy has been helping me all morning.”

This wasn’t entirely true. Lucy had begged to help but then done nothing beyond chatter and dance in the kitchen while Margaret worked, but still the little girl beamed proudly.

A woman in a long fitted coat—as gray as the cold sky—and hat and gloves walked a few paces behind Henry, her head down. On the verandah—he stopped and pulled her forward. “I’d like you all to meet Molly, my wife.”

Not “Molly, the Irish wolfhound,” as she’d once been known. Beattie might have laughed, but there was nothing about this woman that invited mockery. She had kind brown eyes and a shy smile.

“Hello,” Molly said in a musical, Irish accent. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Lucy looked at her warily but didn’t say hello. Margaret greeted her effusively, but Beattie wasn’t sure what the right protocol was for meeting the wife of the man she had stolen. She offered Molly half a smile and then hurried into the house.

Beattie assumed morning tea preparations while Margaret took their coats and settled them in the dining room. This morning her anxiety had been for Lucy: would Molly be nice to her? Or would she take out her resentment toward Beattie on the child? But now the anxiety was for herself. What if Lucy grew to love Molly? What if she preferred her to Beattie?

Beattie brought the tea tray to the table, and Margaret brought the toasted bun.

“Lucy, we have a lovely little bedroom set up for you at home,” Molly said shyly, taking advantage of the quiet while tea was poured and butter melted. “With a toy pony you can ride on.”

Lucy’s eyes widened in excitement. “A toy pony? How big is it?”

Margaret indicated with her hand. “It’s on rockers.”

Lucy glanced at Beattie with awe. “Will you be upset, Mummy, if you don’t get to ride the pony?”

Beattie shook her head with a laugh. “No, my love. Perhaps you can draw me a picture of it while you’re away, to show me when you get back.” Her throat tightened around the words. She took a sip of her hot, strong tea.

Henry, sensing her discomfort, turned to small talk. Beattie was lost in her own head for a little while, letting the conversation swirl about her. Her instincts told her to hold Lucy
close to her, extract as much comfort out of her little body as possible in the short time they had left, but Lucy had climbed into Henry’s lap and didn’t look as though she’d budge. When Margaret rose to clear the table, Beattie pushed back her chair, too.

But Molly caught her gently around the wrist and, with her dark eyes locked on Beattie’s, said, “I wonder if I might have a word with you alone?”

“I really should help with—”

“I can manage,” Margaret said. “Off you go.”

Beattie glanced around. “We could go in the sitting room.”

Molly nodded, and Beattie led her to the sitting room and closed the door. Usually, the early-morning sun was caught beautifully by the large windows, but this morning they provided a view out onto the hedge shivering in the rainy wind. Beattie knelt to start the fire. When she had finished, Molly was sitting on the couch watching her.

Beattie sat opposite her. “What’s on your mind?” She didn’t want to know, not really. She expected a mouthful of recriminations.

Instead, Molly smiled kindly. “You’re anxious.”

“Yes, of course.”

“I don’t hate you.”

“Why not?”

“Because what happened was a long time ago, and besides, it was partly my fault. I wasn’t a good wife. I wasn’t meeting Henry’s . . . needs.”

Beattie remained silent.

“In any case, it has all worked out. Henry and I are very
happy. Beattie, I’m not able to have children. That is why I can promise you that Lucy is important to me, and I will be so kind to her, I’ll treat her as though she were my own daughter.”

“She isn’t your daughter,” Beattie said.

Molly blinked rapidly, taken aback. “Of course. But she is Henry’s. And I’m his wife.” She gathered herself. “I’m trying to reassure you, not to threaten you.”

Beattie sighed. “I know. I’m sorry. This is all rather difficult for me. I’ve not spent a night apart from Lucy since the moment she was born. And I’m still coming to terms with the fact that Henry is sober and secure.”

“I swear to you that he is, and I swear to you that I will keep him that way,” Molly said. “If I learned anything when he left me, it was what I needed to do next time to keep him. Put your mind at ease.”

At that moment, Lucy burst in, her doll Henrietta under one arm and a cotton nightie under the other. “I’m ready. It’s time to go, Mummy.”

Henry stood behind her, smiling at her. “There’s no hurry, little one.”

“I want to see my pony,” she said, matter-of-fact.

“Let me loan you a suitcase for those things,” Margaret said, relieving Lucy of her load. “I’ll pack for you.”

Molly rose. “Fetch your hat and coat, Lucy, and we’ll be on our way.”

At the gate, Lucy showed the first and only sign of being anxious about separating from her mother. Beattie crouched for a cuddle, and Lucy pressed herself hard against her. “Will you be all right without me, Mummy?”

Beattie fought back tears. “Of course. I have Margaret to keep me company and work to keep me busy.”

Lucy kissed her on the lips. “I’ll draw you a picture.”

“Please do.”

Then Henry and Molly were helping her into the car and saying their goodbyes. Minutes later, the car was pulling away, turning down toward the main street, disappearing, gone.

Beattie stood in silence in the vacuum that followed, already missing Lucy, already aching to hold her.

Margaret touched her shoulder. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back.”

Yes, that was so. But there would always be a part of her daughter that belonged to Henry, a part of her that would never return.

B
eattie swore that she’d never get used to losing Lucy for a week in every month, but somehow after two separations, she did. She fought tears both times, and her heart leaped on both returns. But she found it didn’t hurt so much the third time, that she didn’t imagine fearful scenarios anymore, that she didn’t try to memorize Lucy’s face as though it might be the last time they ever saw each other.