waxy pallor of her face.
Whitby’s lips tightened. He pondered the portrait for a moment, as if not really seeing its subject, but rather something that existed beyond its shallow surface of paint. When he looked back at me his face seemed aged, as if the lines around his mouth had grown deeper, his skin become thinner, and the gleam in his eyes faded.
In a weary voice, he said, ‘My family originally came from Armidale. They were horse breeders, and very successful. When my father died fifteen years ago, he left everything to me. Of course, by that time I’d set up my own enterprise in Tasmania, but over the years I was able to greatly increase the worth of my inheritance by purchasing land holdings in this region.’
He flushed, and his eyes shone with intensity. ‘Miss Magavin, I don’t tell you this to impress you, but merely to explain myself. You see, while my businesses thrived, my personal life floundered. I have never married, and therefore lack an heir to whom I may pass on my estates. What I desire more than anything else in the world is a son.’
He regarded me closely as if to gauge my reaction.
I became very still. I understood where Whitby’s fine speech was taking him, and part of me rejoiced. He was about to offer a solution to our problem; a way to save the property we relied upon for a livelihood, a property we loved. But another, smaller and more selfish part of me dreaded the words I sensed were about to spill from Mr Whitby’s charming lips. Although I liked Whitby, the prospect of forsaking my home – and my freedom – dismayed me. I held my breath and anchored my fingernails into my palms, reaching inside myself for courage.
‘My proposal is this,’ Whitby said slowly, as though cautiously weighing his words. ‘I will pay the default against Lyrebird Hill if you will agree to wed me, and bear me a son. Once the child is born, if you should find yourself unhappy in the arrangement, then I will freely release you to return home, on the condition that the boy stay with me.’
The sound of smashing crockery erupted from the kitchen, and Whitby glanced across the room towards the parlour door. A pulse of perfect silence beat around us, then I heard the scraping of the dust pan and the quick babble of hushed voices. I became aware of a vein pounding in my throat, and when I looked back at Whitby, I saw that he had noticed it, too.
Taking a breath, I forced myself to meet his eyes.
‘You will pay the default?’ I asked, hating the quaver in my voice. ‘You will save our farm – if we are wed?’
Whitby inclined his head. ‘Consider it my wedding gift to you, my dear. As well as my promise to do all I can to make you happy. But of course, you need not reply this instant. Please, Miss Magavin, take some time to consider your feelings on the matter.’
I stared into his fine grey eyes, seeing reflected in them a smaller, vastly diminished version of myself. My feelings? Whitby was not proposing a union between two people who adored one another, nor even between people who shared the hopeful purpose of building fond relations in the future.
He was simply proposing a business deal.
My gaze went briefly to the window. Beyond the grassy slope of our garden, rambled three thousand acres of bushland. Some of it was grazed by my father’s flocks; much of it was wild and untouched. Westwards, along the river’s rocky course, was the Aboriginal encampment. Was my freedom too great a price to save Lyrebird Hill?
I didn’t need to ponder. Taking a shaky breath, I looked at Whitby and nodded.
‘I agree.’
Whitby appeared momentarily at a loss; his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared, but then he smiled. It was a wonderful smile, unguarded, full of surprise and delight. The sight of his face captivated me, and I realised that until this moment I had never seen him so pleased.
He leaned towards me, and I wondered if he meant to kiss me. Instead, he grasped my fingers and I found myself
Whitby’s lips tightened. He pondered the portrait for a moment, as if not really seeing its subject, but rather something that existed beyond its shallow surface of paint. When he looked back at me his face seemed aged, as if the lines around his mouth had grown deeper, his skin become thinner, and the gleam in his eyes faded.
In a weary voice, he said, ‘My family originally came from Armidale. They were horse breeders, and very successful. When my father died fifteen years ago, he left everything to me. Of course, by that time I’d set up my own enterprise in Tasmania, but over the years I was able to greatly increase the worth of my inheritance by purchasing land holdings in this region.’
He flushed, and his eyes shone with intensity. ‘Miss Magavin, I don’t tell you this to impress you, but merely to explain myself. You see, while my businesses thrived, my personal life floundered. I have never married, and therefore lack an heir to whom I may pass on my estates. What I desire more than anything else in the world is a son.’
He regarded me closely as if to gauge my reaction.
I became very still. I understood where Whitby’s fine speech was taking him, and part of me rejoiced. He was about to offer a solution to our problem; a way to save the property we relied upon for a livelihood, a property we loved. But another, smaller and more selfish part of me dreaded the words I sensed were about to spill from Mr Whitby’s charming lips. Although I liked Whitby, the prospect of forsaking my home – and my freedom – dismayed me. I held my breath and anchored my fingernails into my palms, reaching inside myself for courage.
‘My proposal is this,’ Whitby said slowly, as though cautiously weighing his words. ‘I will pay the default against Lyrebird Hill if you will agree to wed me, and bear me a son. Once the child is born, if you should find yourself unhappy in the arrangement, then I will freely release you to return home, on the condition that the boy stay with me.’
The sound of smashing crockery erupted from the kitchen, and Whitby glanced across the room towards the parlour door. A pulse of perfect silence beat around us, then I heard the scraping of the dust pan and the quick babble of hushed voices. I became aware of a vein pounding in my throat, and when I looked back at Whitby, I saw that he had noticed it, too.
Taking a breath, I forced myself to meet his eyes.
‘You will pay the default?’ I asked, hating the quaver in my voice. ‘You will save our farm – if we are wed?’
Whitby inclined his head. ‘Consider it my wedding gift to you, my dear. As well as my promise to do all I can to make you happy. But of course, you need not reply this instant. Please, Miss Magavin, take some time to consider your feelings on the matter.’
I stared into his fine grey eyes, seeing reflected in them a smaller, vastly diminished version of myself. My feelings? Whitby was not proposing a union between two people who adored one another, nor even between people who shared the hopeful purpose of building fond relations in the future.
He was simply proposing a business deal.
My gaze went briefly to the window. Beyond the grassy slope of our garden, rambled three thousand acres of bushland. Some of it was grazed by my father’s flocks; much of it was wild and untouched. Westwards, along the river’s rocky course, was the Aboriginal encampment. Was my freedom too great a price to save Lyrebird Hill?
I didn’t need to ponder. Taking a shaky breath, I looked at Whitby and nodded.
‘I agree.’
Whitby appeared momentarily at a loss; his pupils dilated and his nostrils flared, but then he smiled. It was a wonderful smile, unguarded, full of surprise and delight. The sight of his face captivated me, and I realised that until this moment I had never seen him so pleased.
He leaned towards me, and I wondered if he meant to kiss me. Instead, he grasped my fingers and I found myself
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