Ella. Virginia Taylor

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СКАЧАТЬ I didn’t miss that for one minute. I think I’ve always been a city girl at heart.” Rose sighed. “But, since we’re in mourning, even if I were still there, I wouldn’t have been able to attend any social functions. Fill the big bowl with water for the potatoes, Vianna.”

      Vianna filled the bowl from the sink and plopped it on the center of the table. The three sat together companionably. Vianna helped by dropping the peeled potatoes into the bowl while mulling about the finer points of her pony, Miffy.

      Finally, Rose rolled down her pin-tucked sleeves and took the scones out of the oven. “I don’t miss the parties and balls as much as I miss the social interaction,” she said as Vianna tucked in.

      Vianna licked the jam from her upper lip. “We don’t often do social interaction here.”

      Ella forced a smile, recalling her gauche interchange with the handsome shearer. “Now, off you go. You need to finish the lessons I set for you.”

      Vianna folded her arms across her flat chest. “I finished the arithmetic, and I’ll do the grammar later. I really ought to exercise Miffy. I haven’t taken her over the jumps since last week and it’s only a month till the town picnic.”

      “A month?” Turning her back, Rose took a starched white cloth from the dresser drawer. “We’ll be gone by then. And before you dash off to see your pony, you can set the outside table for the shearer’s afternoon tea.”

      “Me?”

      Ella sighed. “Let her go.” A month seemed far too soon to leave the only place she’d ever lived. “I can do the table. It will only take me a minute.” She opened the oak dresser. Her reflection in the glass of the door didn’t surprise her: untidy hair, damp curls around her sweaty face, and big rosy cheeks. Resignedly, she piled up the nine thick white plates needed for the outdoor table where the shearers ate their meals and shifted the weight of the plates onto her left hip.

      “Well, perhaps Vi should set our table in the dining room for tonight. Three places, the knives on the right and the forks on the left.”

      “I know where knives and forks go,” Vianna said with a tilt of her pert nose. “But I’m sorry. I don’t have time to help, not with all the grammar lessons I need to finish.” Grabbing another scone, she swung on her heel and, head high, she left.

      “Am I too hard on her?” Rose asked Ella.

      Ella shook her head. “Being brought up by her sisters is hard on her. We had a mother.” With her right hip, she nudged the back door open.

      Like Vianna, she’d led a pampered life until six months ago, having been responsible only for the housekeeper who’d run the homestead after Mama died. Mama had drowned while crossing the river with a flock of sheep, for which Papa blamed himself. From then on, he kept a strict eye on his daughters, stressing time and again each danger on the land. Ella knew the dangers on the land far better than she knew how to run the property.

      How embarrassing that an itinerant shearer knew more about Papa’s land and sheep than she did. She could walk through the flocks and had often helped with rounding up, but sales and numbers and routine maintenance had never been discussed with her. Only by reading the account books had she learned about the regular outputs of money and the far fewer inputs. However, she could learn. Anyone could.

      To learn how to do a task, a person needed no more than a good set of eyes and ears. Learning courage was another matter. She had never been intrepid, and Papa’s fears had become hers. She screwed up her face as she carefully placed the plates on the long outdoor table. A woman brought up on a sheep station ought to be able to swim or at least be willing to wet her feet. Surely being brave was only a matter of trying?

      Sighing, she strode to the woodpile, where she chopped the kindling, which she then delivered to the washhouse. After clearing the ashes from beneath the copper and resetting the fire for the next day, she folded the clean laundry, sorted the dirty, and hurried to the stable paddock to fill the trough. When she found the task already done, she raced into the stables and doled out the chaff. Leaving a measure in three stalls, she refilled the water buckets, ran to the kitchen for scraps for the flustering hens, and flustered a little herself.

      A quick glance at the sun, already on the downward dive into the glistening sea on the horizon, told her she just had time to prepare the table in the dining room for the evening meal. Rose was nowhere to be seen, possibly napping. Ella’s courage stiffened by the clench of her jaw, she dashed through the courtyard and past the woolshed. Not once in her twenty-one years had she stepped into the sea, a river, or a creek. Not once. Today she would conquer her fear.

      A short time later, she reached her destination, the dappled billabong that fed from the river bordering the property. Her feet slowed. The sweat on her face cooled as she contemplated the water, the gracious red gums, and the delicate undergrowth surrounding the area. Despite the heat of the late afternoon sun, she shivered. Drawing a deep breath, she lowered herself onto the withered grass to remove her shoes and stockings.

      She stayed, staring at her toes, knowing Mama’s drowning had been an accident and not a foregone conclusion. Before she could convince herself she had no need to prove herself to herself, she rose to her feet, scooped her crinoline to hip height, and stepped in. Yellow mud oozed between her toes. Within the next few moments, the woman who didn’t know her paddocks had been overgrazed and her sheep didn’t produce the finest quality wool would overcome an even greater obstacle. Abject cowardice. Holding her breath, she studied the pale ocher gleam of the water. Her feet hesitant on the slimy pebbles, she waded two paces, reaching ankle height. Her breath ached in her throat.

      From behind, she heard a crackling of leaves. A small branch split and dropped. Two white cockatoos flew overhead, screeching, and a dark shape launched at her. She screamed, flailed, and fell backward.

      The water dragged at her heavy skirts. She skidded straight into the deep center of the pool. Bubbles burst around her face and into her nose and mouth. Her inverted crinoline floated over her head, caging her. Water rushed past her ears and she saw nothing but the blurred white of her arms. Time stood still. She would drown, just like Mama.

      A sudden shadow, a clamp on her wrist, and her arm was caught.

      The fabled bunyip did exist. She would die, torn and bloody.

      Terror galvanized her. She thrashed out, gouging at the slimy black shape. With inexorable strength, the bunyip forced her upward. She gulped in fresh air, spluttering, fighting to evade its flesh-tearing teeth.

      “Keep still!”

      She blinked the gritty water from her eyes, gasping, swiping at the new shearer, unable to believe she didn’t see a bunyip.

      “Stop hitting me, and I’ll get you to the bank.” He scooped one iron-hard arm around her shoulders.

      She clenched her elbows around his neck, and he hauled her until he found a footing. Then, with her pasted to him like a sodden leaf, he staggered to the sandy edge. “The bunyip,” she said, her throat constricted. “The bunyip tried to drown me.”

      “You fell.” His lashes were thick, wet, and dark.

      Latched to him, afraid to let him go, she glanced into his grayish-green eyes, the same color as the hills in the distance, her mind a blank. Water streamed off his dark hair and a trickle ran from his cheekbone to his set jaw, sliding onto a firm, tanned neck.

      “Girl only wanted to play СКАЧАТЬ