shaking hands with my future husband, sealing the business deal we had just negotiated.
On Sunday evening my father arrived home, weary after his weeks in Newcastle. After dinner, we sat together at the dining table. Millie brewed strong tea and placed a dish of oatmeal biscuits on the table. Fa Fa packed a pipe and lit it, then settled back in his chair and regarded me.
‘Whitby has promised me he will care for you,’ my father said at last. ‘Do you think you could grow to love him, Brenna girl?’
‘He is twice my age.’
‘He’s a fine-looking man. At least, according to Ida he is.’
‘Looks are not everything.’
‘He is devoted to his sister. When her fiancé died, he paid for the young man’s funeral, and then moved Adele into his house, the better to provide for her.’
‘Will he be devoted to me?’
‘Of course, my sparrow.’
I couldn’t withhold a snort. ‘Fa Fa, we shook hands. I wasn’t expecting fireworks, not exactly – but am I foolish to assume that when a woman accepts a man’s proposal of marriage, she is entitled to a kiss?’
Fa Fa lifted his brows and gave a weary sigh. ‘Carsten has many admirable qualities. Unfortunately, social grace is not one of them.’
‘But shaking hands?’
My father’s face softened. ‘You don’t have to marry him, Brenna. It’s not too late to write to him and admit a change of heart.’
A breeze lifted the curtains. The peppery scent of wildflowers mingled with the smell of tobacco. Drifts of native flowers had naturalised around the house. Nodding chocolate orchids, bluebells and golden hibbertia. My father loved them, and I’d crammed an armful into a Fowlers jar on the table especially to cheer him.
‘There’s been no change of heart, Fa Fa. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. Anyway, what is love, when the fate of our home is at stake?’
Fa Fa tapped his pipe and relit it, then drew on the stem until the embers burned bright in the gloom.
‘That’s easy enough to say now. But how will you feel after the passing of a year? Of a decade? Time will dim your enthusiasm. Married life will limit your freedom, and tax your inner resources. You will have new obligations, and new restrictions. After a while, my sparrow, you may well come to regret your sacrifice.’
I sensed my father was speaking from experience, and for the first time wondered about his marriage to Mama. I had always thought them content; was it possible that Fa Fa had been secretly unhappy?
‘I don’t believe I’m making a sacrifice,’ I told him. ‘I’m simply doing what needs to be done.’
I could see by my father’s frown that he wasn’t convinced. His features looked pinched, his eyes dark with worry, and I realised he was more troubled than he was letting on. Beneath our discussion of marriage, lurked a deeper fear – a fear that I understood perfectly.
I went to the window, gazing past my reflection to the darkness outside. I could scarcely believe that a week ago I’d been unable to think of anything but my botanical pictures. I had rushed through my chores, bolted my food, and stayed up late drawing by candlelight. Whenever I could, I escaped to visit Jindera, consulting with her over my newest collection of specimens. Flowers, seed pods, frills of lichen; finch eggs, the blue-green feathers shed by a kingfisher, a wallaby skull.
Nothing had seemed more important.
Until now.
‘Do you remember that squatter?’ I asked Fa Fa, turning to face him. ‘The one who paid his Aboriginal workers with loaves of damper, which turned out to be laced with arsenic?’
My father winced and looked away. ‘I remember.’
‘And do you recall that Aboriginal boy who was clubbed and left to die by the roadside?’
Silence.
My fingers trembled, but I couldn’t stop. ‘A few days ago, Aunt Ida told me about another killing, west of here.’
Pain rumpled my father’s face.
I hated torturing him this way, but a fever of purpose had taken hold of
On Sunday evening my father arrived home, weary after his weeks in Newcastle. After dinner, we sat together at the dining table. Millie brewed strong tea and placed a dish of oatmeal biscuits on the table. Fa Fa packed a pipe and lit it, then settled back in his chair and regarded me.
‘Whitby has promised me he will care for you,’ my father said at last. ‘Do you think you could grow to love him, Brenna girl?’
‘He is twice my age.’
‘He’s a fine-looking man. At least, according to Ida he is.’
‘Looks are not everything.’
‘He is devoted to his sister. When her fiancé died, he paid for the young man’s funeral, and then moved Adele into his house, the better to provide for her.’
‘Will he be devoted to me?’
‘Of course, my sparrow.’
I couldn’t withhold a snort. ‘Fa Fa, we shook hands. I wasn’t expecting fireworks, not exactly – but am I foolish to assume that when a woman accepts a man’s proposal of marriage, she is entitled to a kiss?’
Fa Fa lifted his brows and gave a weary sigh. ‘Carsten has many admirable qualities. Unfortunately, social grace is not one of them.’
‘But shaking hands?’
My father’s face softened. ‘You don’t have to marry him, Brenna. It’s not too late to write to him and admit a change of heart.’
A breeze lifted the curtains. The peppery scent of wildflowers mingled with the smell of tobacco. Drifts of native flowers had naturalised around the house. Nodding chocolate orchids, bluebells and golden hibbertia. My father loved them, and I’d crammed an armful into a Fowlers jar on the table especially to cheer him.
‘There’s been no change of heart, Fa Fa. I made a promise, and I intend to keep it. Anyway, what is love, when the fate of our home is at stake?’
Fa Fa tapped his pipe and relit it, then drew on the stem until the embers burned bright in the gloom.
‘That’s easy enough to say now. But how will you feel after the passing of a year? Of a decade? Time will dim your enthusiasm. Married life will limit your freedom, and tax your inner resources. You will have new obligations, and new restrictions. After a while, my sparrow, you may well come to regret your sacrifice.’
I sensed my father was speaking from experience, and for the first time wondered about his marriage to Mama. I had always thought them content; was it possible that Fa Fa had been secretly unhappy?
‘I don’t believe I’m making a sacrifice,’ I told him. ‘I’m simply doing what needs to be done.’
I could see by my father’s frown that he wasn’t convinced. His features looked pinched, his eyes dark with worry, and I realised he was more troubled than he was letting on. Beneath our discussion of marriage, lurked a deeper fear – a fear that I understood perfectly.
I went to the window, gazing past my reflection to the darkness outside. I could scarcely believe that a week ago I’d been unable to think of anything but my botanical pictures. I had rushed through my chores, bolted my food, and stayed up late drawing by candlelight. Whenever I could, I escaped to visit Jindera, consulting with her over my newest collection of specimens. Flowers, seed pods, frills of lichen; finch eggs, the blue-green feathers shed by a kingfisher, a wallaby skull.
Nothing had seemed more important.
Until now.
‘Do you remember that squatter?’ I asked Fa Fa, turning to face him. ‘The one who paid his Aboriginal workers with loaves of damper, which turned out to be laced with arsenic?’
My father winced and looked away. ‘I remember.’
‘And do you recall that Aboriginal boy who was clubbed and left to die by the roadside?’
Silence.
My fingers trembled, but I couldn’t stop. ‘A few days ago, Aunt Ida told me about another killing, west of here.’
Pain rumpled my father’s face.
I hated torturing him this way, but a fever of purpose had taken hold of
Similar Books
