‘Excellent, Mrs Gordon.’ Jacob Wetherly rested his damask napkin on the polished wood of the dining table and twirled the stem of his glass. ‘You cannot imagine the pleasure of being at a cultured table once more. And I believe I’ve not had roasted boar for some time. My compliments to your cook and no doubt to you as well, Mrs Gordon, for a table is only as remarkable as the mistress that rules over it.’ He raised his glass and, finding it empty, gave a small frown.

‘Our previous stud master, Andrew Duff, will now assume Boxer’s position as head stockman,’ Hamish announced irritably. ‘I advised the men today, Wetherly.’ Hamish pushed the crystal brandy decanter across the table to his left and watched as Wetherly topped his glass past the level of decorum. ‘Duff is better acquainted with sheep, however he’s really too valuable to lose.’

‘And Boxer?’ Claire enquired.

‘He has earned his rest.’

‘The man has been indispensable for over forty years, Mr Wetherly. A great mark of loyalty towards my husband,’ Claire revealed, sliding a morsel of custard onto her spoon. ‘Do you not agree?’

Wetherly nodded politely, his own dessert spoon rounding his shallow bowl with renewed concentration.

‘I think we should withdraw to take brandy,’ Hamish announced, his hands grasping at the arms of the great carver chair.

So soon? It had been some time since Claire had enjoyed the company of such a cultured guest and although Wetherly was somewhat obvious in his attempts to charm, his was an amusing diversion. She waited patiently as Mr Wetherly passed the decanter back to Hamish, hoping he might be inclined to sit at the table for just a little longer. It was a convivial evening after all and no one could deny the elegant setting. Their candlelit surrounds highlighted a pair of skilfully painted emu eggs perched either side of a French marble clock on the mantlepiece and although her husband’s grandiose oil portrait tended to dwarf near everything else in the room, she could hardly complain when her own imperfect rendering hung in the drawing room. She patted at her hair, pleased at the effect she’d managed to achieve without the services of a maid. Built up over strategically placed pads, her dark hair curled and puffed out most becomingly.

‘And are there many social engagements one can look forward to here, Mrs Gordon?’ Wetherly moved his arm to allow the maid to clear his dessert plate. There was a clatter of porcelain and silver.

Claire took a sip of water. ‘I usually hold a number of soirees a year. Unfortunately 1908 has proved exceedingly dull.’ She looked directly along the length of the table to where Hamish glowered.

As if sensing the change in his host’s demeanour, Wetherly tapped his nose knowledgeably and turned to Hamish. ‘There is some wild Aborigine causing mayhem just south of here.’

‘A renegade?’ Hamish asked, his fingers tapping the table with interest.

‘Apparently so. He has been travelling northwards. The constabulary thought they’d caught him at Ridge Gully but the black they’d chained to the tree for three days died before the land-holder for whom he worked could vouch for his innocence.’

‘Oh dear.’ Claire shuddered. ‘How terrible.’

Hamish poured more brandy.

‘It happens.’ Wetherly drained his glass. ‘However, Mrs Gordon, if you have suffered for a lack of entertainment you can be sure this savage assisted in the decision of many a hostess this season.’

Hamish gave a belch that carried down the length of the table. Claire turned her nose up distastefully. With that singular announcement he scraped the tapestry-backed chair across the polished wooden floor. ‘Yes, well, enough with the pleasantries. If you will excuse us, Claire.’

Mr Wetherly gave a formal bow. ‘Delightful, Mrs Gordon. Perhaps in repayment of your hospitality your husband will allow me the pleasure of escorting you about your spacious garden.’

Claire composed her features into a mask of politeness as their dinner guest looked pointedly from her husband to Claire. She could think of nothing more delightful than a stroll with Mr Wetherly, firmly reminding herself that her interest in being alone with him had absolutely nothing to do with the scandalous tidbit of information Mrs Webb had so thoughtfully let escape from her lips. ‘I would be delighted.’

‘Unfortunately, Wetherly, my wife retires early and you and I have much to discuss.’

‘Come, Sir. Ten minutes of your time,’ Wetherly insisted. ‘The walk will be quite invigorating. You should join us.’

Claire kept her lips pressed together.

‘I will leave you to enjoy the night air,’ Hamish relented. ‘But ten minutes and no more. I am an early riser.’

‘Of course.’ Wetherly bowed as he left the table.

Claire stepped lightly across the grass as they crossed to walk the length of the gravel driveway. She was pleased with her new evening gown. Having purchased it through Grace Brothers’ mail order service, this was only her second occasion to wear it and at the rate fashions were changing, very soon it too would have to be altered. In the space of just a few years women’s clothing had gone from the rather S-shaped silhouette that emphasised one’s bust and derriere, to a more vertical appearance. Although her figure was contained by the rigid under-structure of her corset, she did like the current fashion of a slightly high-waisted skirt that fluted becomingly over one’s hips to sweep outwards at the hem. Claire lifted her skirt just a touch, conscious of the grass, leaves and dirt that would catch on the fringing. An owl swooped. The frightened squeal of a mouse followed. As the countryside bedded itself, the outlines of the homestead and station buildings slid into a glow of sun-settled pinkness.

‘It is as if we were promenading along Collins Street,’ Wetherly remarked as a wallaby dashed through the grasses beyond the garden.

Claire’s arm was linked through his as the evening stretched into darkness. It was a hot night, cloudless, with not even a zephyr to stir the air. It was a most pleasant sensation to be strolling with an amiable gentleman, especially one so becoming in appearance.

‘I see you adhere to the latest fashions, Mrs Gordon.’

‘One tries.’ Cocooned as they were within the twilight embrace of a summer’s night, Claire felt her person the subject of intent observation. When Wetherly guided her from the path across the patchy lawn to a wooden bench, his hand moved to the small of her back. It lingered only momentarily, leaving a fleeting impression of genuine care and interest. Careful, she warned herself. Had she not been forewarned of the gentleman’s indiscretions?

‘And do you enjoy your life out here? You will excuse me, Mrs Gordon, for my forwardness; however, it is a remote, lonely environment for an elegant woman such as yourself to endure.’

‘You have journeyed here.’ She made a little space between their bodies, moving slightly away from him. It was a warm night and the lace insertions stretching to her high-boned collar itched Claire’s upper back and décolletage. ‘Life requires adaptability, Mr Wetherly. There will always be fulfilment and disappointment no matter where one resides. Admittedly station life has its own set of difficulties, yet once one grows to understand the parameters of their existence, life tends to become easier.’

Wetherly crossed his legs. ‘It is a burden to be endured.’

‘On the contrary, it is a challenge. Isolation causes one to be a little introspective, Mr Wetherly. If you are expecting me to pine for the perfect life you will be disappointed. What is the perfect life anyway? I can admit to disliking the dearth of social engagements available, the annoyance of petty conversations and the lack of women of my own elk with similar interests and accomplishments; however, these are petty complaints, I believe.’ A swirl of stars began to dust the sky.

‘You are not what I expected,’ commented Wetherly.

She gave a gay laugh. ‘Nor you, Mr Wetherly.’ Around them the barest of winds stirred the air. It carried the scent of dry earth and spoke of parched grasses clinging tenuously to lifting soil. ‘May I enquire as to whether you have family in New South Wales?’

‘Alas, no. The family seat is in Devon. My older brother, Harold, has the good fortune of residing there.’

‘So you have come to make your fortune?’

Now it was Wetherly’s turn to be amused. ‘It is a little long in the making, I fear.’

Claire gave a wistful sigh. ‘England. I dream of the coolness the very word evokes.’

‘Ah then, I shan’t tell you of lush grasses, sparkling streams and the picking of wild strawberries in the summer.’

‘Do tell.’

He took her hand, drawing Claire towards him with a delicate slowness. ‘If I told you, that brave exterior in which you’ve cloaked yourself would surely crack.’

His features were barely visible. Claire could just discern the strength of his jawline and the outline of his hair. She could have chosen to be annoyed at his familiarity, instead she wondered at his own charming facade.

‘Come.’ He extended his hand and they resumed their walk. Claire lifted her tasselled hemline above the ground as they approached the house.

‘You are a devotee of this trend in greasy wool, I believe, Mr Wetherly. Can you tell me if it will last?’

‘Who knows, Mrs Gordon? We follow market preferences like a child pining for candy.’ Within a few minutes they were on the verandah and Wetherly was assisting her indoors. ‘Our allotted ten minutes are up.’

He took her hand in the hallway. Claire turned hesitantly towards the partially ajar drawing room door. Hamish was merely a wall’s width away.

‘Business precludes me from your company, Mrs Gordon, for which I am sorry.’ He bent and kissed her hand. ‘However I don’t believe our parting will be short-lived.’

Claire gave her best smile of understanding as Wetherly strode confidently away to join her husband. As the door at the end of the hall closed and male voices rose in conversation, Claire brushed at a smudge of dust on the hall table, straightened a landscape hanging on the wall above and shook the layers of her skirt free of dust. With those three things attended to there was nothing left to do but retire to her room. In the quieting household the muffled voices of the men carried through the empty rooms. Claire thought back to their conversation and fell asleep smiling.