Fires of Fortune

by Patricia Shaw

Genres: General Fiction; Sagas

Synopsis

River of the Sun revealed the indomitable spirit of former slave girl Diamond. Now her intrepid son faces his own struggle for survival... Patricia Shaw's Fires of Fortune is the thought-provoking sequel to the unforgettable saga, River of the Sun. The perfect read for fans of Tricia McGill and Fleur McDonald. As a boy, Ben Beckman is sheltered from the harsher aspects of life by his Aborigine mother Diamond, who is all too familiar with the prejudice rife within Brisbane society. He is unaware that his father is the ruthless Ben Buchanan, a prominent figure in the state political scene. Then one appalling night Diamond's life comes to an end. Crazed with grief, Ben vandalises his neighbour Dr Thurlwell's mansion - as the doctor refused to tend his mother. Ben's actions are to have tragic consequences... Over hard years, Ben's hatred for Dr Thurwell deepens. The girl next door is Phoebe Thurlwell, whom Ben has known all his life. When she offers the hand of friendship he is still motivated by a bitter feud with her parents. Phoebe is sent away to a friend's cattle station to remove her from Ben's influence, but he follows. There he comes face to face with his own father, a far more dangerous adversary than he ever thought possible... What readers are saying about Fires of Fortune : 'An imaginative and compelling account of what life was really like for early pioneers of Australia ' 'The characters come alive and keep the reader gripped from first page to last' 'As always, Patricia Shaw writes a great story with great historical care '

Release date: October 27, 2011

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 416

Sample

In his mind’s eye Ben was a seafarer, a proud and fearless mariner who would take his ship down the river to Moreton Bay and then swing out with the winds, his sails riding high, to the ocean blue. In fair weather and foul he would be at the wheel, a brave captain greatly admired by his loyal crew.

He would be wearing a peaked cap and a fine jacket with brass buttons, just like Grandfather Beckman in the portrait over the mantelpiece. Poor Captain Beckman! He went down with his ship on a dark and stormy night on the Great Barrier Reef. Ben could imagine him standing there – upright and true, the storm raging about him – shouting to his men to save themselves, but refusing to surrender his honour by abandoning ship. That, to Ben, was the best part of the story, as told to him many times by Oma Beckman. It was a fine thing to have a hero in the family.

Ben scrambled to the edge of the dusty orange cliff and dropped down to a ledge, his favourite vantage spot. From here at Kangaroo Point he could look across to the town of Brisbane and, in the foreground, the long, busy wharves. This was the most exciting lookout in the whole world. No ships could pass without his scrutiny. Well … a few might slip by. It annoyed him to find he’d missed one, caught up in house and yard chores and Oma’s interminable lessons. Those lessons! She never let up. When he complained, his mother threatened to send him to school so that he’d never have time to watch his ships.

He smiled at that, as he noted an old paddle steamer thumping upriver. She was the Louisa Jane, not very interesting. She carried stores and passengers up and down from the settlements on the south coast: a dreary life for a captain. Ben always let her pass. Sometimes he lined up strange ships with a piece of clay piping that was his cannon and blasted them out of the water for daring to pass his fort without permission, because he was the Queensland navy, the harbour master and the suspicious customs officer all rolled into one.

Send him to school! That was a good one. Ben knew as well as his mother did that he couldn’t go to school, not here, not anywhere. The kids who hung about the wharves told him that. But he always pretended to be scared of that punishment to please her. He loved his mum. She was a good-looking lady and very tall, but he was catching up. She and Oma often measured him with a ruler flat on his head, cutting notches in the timber wall to mark his progress. Grandma, Oma Beckman that is, said Mum spoiled him, but it was Oma who came to his rescue when Mum really put her foot down, threatening the strap. She’d make excuses for him, so the old razor strop still hung in the laundry, unused since the days when it had travelled far and wide with the Captain.

Some days, when the ferryman was in a good mood, Ben would cadge a ride on the ferry and wander about the wharves, especially when the big ships were in port, caught up in all the excitement of the loading and unloading and the strange voices of passengers milling about on the decks, eager to disembark or calling tearfully to families and friends as the gap between ship and shore widened. Although what they had to weep about, he couldn’t imagine. Ben had decided that one day, when he had his own ship, he would take his two ladies, Mum and Oma, all around the world. Even across the Pacific to the Spanish Main, where great treasures were to be found. He had dreamed once that he’d found a fabulous treasure chest in an old cave, and it was such a wonderful dream he made an effort to keep remembering it, although it was slipping away these days.

Below him fishing boats were returning, accompanied by screeching seagulls, and he waved to the crews, who were sorting their catches with swift hands, ready for the markets. They waved back to him in their good-natured way, so they were safe from his cannon. He would protect them when he was a buccaneer captain with his own ship, which he’d already decided to call the Black Swan, after the swans that sailed his river like tiny dignified galleons.

Whenever he stayed too long on the wharves, he ran into trouble, because the ferries were crowded and that meant a long walk in the opposite direction to the Victoria Bridge. Once across the bridge he’d have to run for miles through the dank and scary streets of South Brisbane and then on up to the Point. Many a time drunken men had grabbed him as he’d sprinted past the taverns and brothels:

‘Where you goin’ in such a rush, sonny?’

‘You’re a pretty boy. Hold here a while.’

‘Come on, I’ll buy you a rum.’

Frightening as they were, they were nothing to Diamond’s anger when he was late home. Diamond, his mum, worried so much she’d be in a real panic by the time he came sprinting down the street, and what an ear-wigging he’d get! She didn’t like him to go to the wharves, she said it was no place for kids. And it had been a mistake to tell her that he never stole like the other kids or slipped aboard the ships; that only made her worse.

Diamond yelled at him. ‘You keep away from those wharves, I tell you! Stay on your own side of the river. They’re bad, those people.’

Defiantly he’d turned to Oma. ‘The Captain was a seafarer! Why should I be afraid of seafarers?’

But on this point Oma agreed with Diamond. ‘The Captain was a good God-fearing man. You don’t know who those people are.’

‘But I want to know. It’s boring over here. There’s nothing to do.’

Another mistake. Diamond soon found him more chores. But every so often he still managed a ferry ride, churning across the river to see his friends, the skinny lads and the wild-eyed girls he’d met over there. Most of them had no real homes at all, finding refuge in the big woolsheds or under the warehouses or over the road in sheds behind shops. They hung about the wharves for a purpose: to survive on pennies earned or whatever pickings they could find. Ben found them exciting company. They wore ragged clothes and they grinned at Ben’s neat shirts and knee-breeches and long socks, but they accepted him. He wasn’t a squealer. He saw what they did: the pilfering; the sly, shifty encounters with men behind the sheds; the swift shuffling of grog cases to baffle customs men; and the pickpocketing, moving silently among the excited new arrivals from passenger ships.

He saw it all, astonished by their boldness but deeply aware from the pinched faces that necessity drove them on. Oma’s larder was well stocked and she expected their ‘growing boy’ to help himself whenever he felt the pangs of hunger between meals, so he was able to stuff his pockets with food filched from the shelves to give to his friends.

His best friend was Willy Sloane. He was the same age as Ben, and the leader of a gang. Willy had a hideout somewhere on a rooftop which, he boasted, was free from rats. He knew that Ben lived on the other side of the river but, like the others, never asked where. They were all too busy.

Many a time Willy had dragged Ben out of the way when the police were on the rampage, marching him down to the gardens to sit awhile.

‘But I haven’t done anything wrong,’ Ben would complain.

‘A lot they care, mate. Just make yourself scarce or you’ll cop it like the rest.’

Ben often thought that when he had his own ship, Willy could be his first mate. He’d never met a smarter person than Willy. He’d have liked to have invited him home but nobody much ever came to their house, and a restless, fidgety boy like Willy would probably find it deadly dull.

Over the fence, the neighbours had plenty of visitors. But theirs was a big house, ‘A mansion,’ Oma called it. There was no envy in Ben’s heart, though. He looked from the cliffs back to his own home. It was a lovely white weatherboard cottage set well back towards the street, and it had a big garden. Inside there were three bedrooms, one for each of them, and that was all they needed. From the windows of his room he could gaze out at night at the gaslit fairyland of Brisbane and conjure up more dreams of the world out there.

The next-door house was two-storeyed; he figured there’d be a great view from the balcony up there. The couple who lived there – Dr and Mrs Thurlwell – were very important people, so naturally they didn’t talk to the Beckmans. They stayed on their side of the high fence and, according to the newspapers, entertained all the society people – even the Governor, though Ben had never spotted him.

The Thurlwells called the mansion Somerset House, and Ben was familiar with every inch of the grounds. For years he’d been sneaking along the cliffs and wriggling through their hedge to gain entry to the colourful gardens shaded by stately pines and rustling palm trees. The lawns and bushes were carefully trimmed and flowerbeds bordered paths that wound down from the side of the house. The front garden was even more spectacular, especially when the big flame trees were in bloom. Under cover of the lush greenery he was able to watch carriages and gigs crunch down the long drive to the front door, and observe servants in fancy dress opening doors and bowing to their betters. Ben marvelled at the show and at the beautiful people who lived in this house. On the cliff side, at the rear of the building, was an elegant veranda where ladies in dazzling white dresses and fine gentlemen took the air, resting languidly on easy chairs and sofas.

Occasionally the gardeners would catch him and chase him off, but they knew he was from next door and never made a fuss.

Ben sighed, tossing stones down the cliff. After the wharves, Somerset was his favourite place. He’d miss it when he went to sea. He’d miss her too, that girl, Phoebe Thurlwell. Not that he ever spoke to her or let her know he was hiding in her garden.

It seemed she’d always been there, graduating from dolls and tea sets to reading books and playing games with girls who came to visit. None of them were as pretty as she was, though. She looked like a doll herself in her soft summery dresses and long blonde plaits, always neatly tied with bright ribbons that matched the sashes at her waist. Ben had met plenty of girls on the wharves, cheeky girls with sharp eyes and whiny voices, and had found their company no different from that of the boys. They could filch and fight and run like the wind when they had to. No, the ‘girl’ thing didn’t bother him – after all, he lived with two women – but that Miss Phoebe had him beat. It irritated him that a silly girl could turn his legs to jelly, make him too shy to even attempt to speak to her.

Sometimes she’d be naughty and venture past the hedge to the cliffs, and maids would swoop, pulling her back, threatening to tell her mother. On such occasions Ben imagined himself her protector. If she were in danger at the cliff edge he would save her. He would fling himself forward with the ground crumbling under him and throw her back to safety so that, gratefully, she would ask his name and he could tell her he was Ben Beckman from next door. And she would tell her mother, Mrs Doctor Thurlwell, who would be so pleased with him she would invite him up to the white house for a fizzy drink, but Ben, being respectful, would not accept. He knew his place. It was enough that he had been recognized as a hero …

Diamond was calling him, so he turned to climb back up from his ledge, but as he reached for a tuft of grass at the top, a snake was waiting. He wondered how long it had been sitting there, just above his head, coiled on the warm rock, contemplating the back of a boy’s head. And he wondered if this snake were an honourable fellow who did not strike from the rear but waited to face the enemy before it killed him, for as sure as eggs this yellow-belly meant business now!

For that matter, he pondered, as he remained motionless, his right hand still clutching the grass, his feet firmly planted on the ledge, was there ever a taipan that didn’t mean business? This one was unmistakable, with its metallic yellow and black skin and its big head poised, tongue spitting, only a few feet from Ben’s face.

As if to distract him, force him to make the first move, the snake brazenly uncoiled some of its polished length but its head remained still, beady eyes fixed on its prey.

Ben’s arm was becoming stiff; he’d have to let go of the grass soon, but those powerful eyes seemed to forbid him to do anything but pay attention. Maybe the snake was trying to hypnotize him, Ben thought fearfully, to prevent him from considering an escape route. Because there was one. He could fling himself backwards and take his chances over the cliff. And break his neck and his legs and his arms as well, and that would hurt a damn sight more than a snake bite.

Where was his mother? She had called him, so why didn’t she come looking for him? She had a gun, she could shoot this brute whose head was now shifting slowly from side to side as if it were listening to his thoughts, taking its time, still challenging him with its flicking tongue to have a go.

A little honeybird flipped out of a tree by the wall and fled. Without altering his gaze Ben could see that tree behind the snake. It was a big old thing, with spreading branches, growing in Somerset grounds but overhanging his garden. He’d often used it as a short cut home. Painfully still, he wondered what had spooked the bird, and then he saw among the branches, the girl next door in her white frilly dress, staring at him. He wanted to call out to her but he didn’t dare, and as he hung on, he was vaguely annoyed to see her in his tree, although he allowed that the gnarled old thing was an easy climb for a girl.

Desperately, he forced his mind back to the snake, which he knew now was trying to wear him down, as cats did with little birds, frightening them so much they lost the nerve to fly free. If he didn’t make a move soon, try to bat that head out of the way, he’d be too stiff to move fast enough. But there in the background the silly girl was climbing the tree even further, and stepping out to the overhanging branches, hanging on to the ones above her. She was coming over the wall!

If she came over here he’d kill her. If he lived that long, after she’d stirred the snake and got him bit. Petrified, he watched her drop down on to a branch and hang over the high wall, her britches showing with the frills of her dress caught on a twig, ready to let go and drop to the grass below.

Ben wanted to groan, hoping she’d get stuck there. Old man taipan was still flicking at him, not in any hurry. His eyes glazed over, shutting out the background scenario; he wished he could close them, but he figured that could be a signal for the snake to strike so he snapped them wide open again, deciding to sit out this menace. Maybe he could. Maybe not. Then he saw Diamond standing over them. His mum seemed to have come out of nowhere. He hadn’t seen or heard her approach, she was just there, his lovely mum, in a long black skirt that brushed over her bare feet.

Ha! he thought. Mr Snake, you’re in trouble now. My mum will shoot you dead!

Ben braced himself, but then realized that Diamond hadn’t brought her gun. He had been hoping that the girl Phoebe had seen his predicament and run for help, but obviously not. No doubt she’d just galloped off home to play with her stupid toys, leaving him to his fate.

But instead of going back for the gun, Diamond lowered herself to sit cross-legged behind the snake. Terrified, Ben wanted to scream out to her to get away, that she was placing herself in danger now because the snake could strike her at that distance. She put her fingers to her lips, compelling him to remain still and silent, and tears sprang to his eyes as he realized she was trying to draw the taipan’s attention from him.

And then she began to sing, in a very low voice, a strange song with muttering repetitive words, the palms of her hands flat on the ground, as if proving to this horrible snake that she carried no weapons. Ben was angry with her for her foolishness; he didn’t want her to die, he loved her. Diamond and Oma were his whole life. Diamond’s song took on the rhythm of a lullaby now, and the damn snake reached out, widening its sway, the vicious forked tongue still flicking as it leaned from one to the other of the humans, deciding which, Ben thought frantically, it could hit with one fast jab.

His mother’s eyes, dark liquid, began to draw the snake away from him. There was an expression of such sweetness on her face that Ben was shocked. She should have taken a big stick and belted the thing, but instead she was exposing herself to the taipan. He released his grip on the tuft of grass and allowed his hand to slip down ever so slowly, as the snake reared away from him, listening to her. The coils unravelled and began to retreat, the strong head facing Diamond. She continued her chant, watching as the tongue disappeared and the snake swayed seductively in front of her, almost as if it were trying to please her.

She smiled, an audience now, watching it dance for her until it slowly drew back and, after what seemed an eternity to Ben, was gone.

He scrambled up the cliff. ‘Quick, Mum! Kill it before it gets away!’

‘No,’ she said. ‘He lives here. I’ve seen him many times. This is his home. You frightened him.’

‘But he would have bitten me and I’d be killed dead!’

‘Maybe. Next time you be more careful. I’ve told you before to keep off the cliffs, stay on clear ground at the top. Many little animals and birds live in burrows over the edge. You frighten them.’

Oma came running, her skirts billowing in the breeze, to throw her arms about him: ‘The little girl, she was so frightened! She saw the snake. She came to us crying. Are you all right, you poor boy? Ah, Diamond, the poor boy, bring him in, bring him in!’

‘Where is she?’ Ben asked. ‘The girl.’

‘Gone home,’ Oma said. ‘She was too shy with her dress all torn. I tell her I sew it up so no one ever know, but she wouldn’t stay, she ran off out the front gate. I think Miss Phoebe, she like our little Ben.’

‘Oh pooh!’ he said. ‘I’m not your little Ben and she don’t like anyone, that girl.’ Although he was surprised that Oma knew her name.

But what an embarrassment to have her save him! To have her get help for him, after all his daydreams about being her protector. What a dope she must think he was.

As the weeks passed, however, his attitude changed. She had been smart enough to run for help without disturbing the snake, and so now he owed her. Probably his very life. And one day he would be there when she needed him and he would come to her rescue, a pirate captain rescuing the Lady Phoebe from a doomed ship …

The ladies were charmed. Lalla Thurlwell’s ‘long’ room was a delight. As she explained, since Somerset House already had a parlour and a drawing room she’d been quite at a loss to know what to do with this room when she first saw it.

‘One could hardly use it as a sitting room, it’s too large, running the full width of the house. And since it is sheltered by the wide veranda, it’s not a sun room. With the glass doors opening out all along the river side it reminded me of a greenhouse, so I decided to be brave and decorate in that manner.’

‘And it’s perfect,’ Mrs Sutcliffe, wife of the Speaker of the House, enthused. ‘With all this superb white cane furniture amid these glorious potted plants, especially the tall palms, it’s a study in green and white. And it is so cool, I really must congratulate you, Mrs Thurlwell.’

‘Thank you.’ Lalla beamed. ‘I could hardly ask you to take tea with me in the “greenhouse”, hence the “long” room.’

Mrs Buchanan was equally enthusiastic. ‘The wonderful rugs and those beautiful little white statues really set it off, Mrs Thurlwell, but would I be out of order if I asked from where you obtained all this furniture? It’s so solid for cane, and so roomy.’

Her mother, the formidable Belle Foster, a leading Brisbane socialite, glared at her. ‘Clara! Don’t be so crass. You are, most certainly, out of order.’

‘I just thought,’ Clara said, shrinking, ‘that before we go back upcountry I could speak to my husband. We do need new furniture and it’s difficult to know what to buy. It can get so hot.’

‘Of course it does,’ Lalla said kindly. ‘I’ll send you the catalogue, Clara. We imported all of this furniture, the chairs, tables and stands, from Hong Kong.’ She dropped her voice to a whisper. ‘But I must say that when it arrived William got a shock.’

‘What? At the bill?’ Mrs Foster boomed.

Lalla giggled. ‘Oh no! He didn’t mind the cost. He was most impressed with the whole consignment, especially those big winged armchairs, but when I announced I intended to have them all painted white … well, you can imagine! He really bridled. But I just told him to trust me and went ahead. He’s resigned to it now.’

‘Just as well,’ Mrs Foster said, looking about her. ‘It wouldn’t have the same impact in the dull old bamboo cane.’

All the women turned as Dr Thurlwell came to the door. Lalla glided over to meet him, the embroidered silk train of her dress making a slight shushing sound on the polished floor.

‘My dear,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek. ‘You do look beautiful.’

The guests sighed their appreciation of this well-trained husband, for Lalla did look lovely. Her thick blonde hair was swept up into wide rolls framing her face, with pert little strands allowed to fall loose, softening her fine features, and her white tea dress, showing off her curvaceous figure, was a dream. A very expensive dream, they all noted, set off by an emerald brooch at the high lacy collar. They had heard that this woman dressed to match the colour schemes of her reception rooms, and here was proof to take away with them.

‘The ladies are just leaving,’ she told her husband and he turned, disappointed. ‘Just my luck to be deprived of the company of three lovely ladies, but duty called. I hope you enjoyed your afternoon.’

‘Oh, indeed we did, Doctor. The tea was quite superb,’ Mrs Sutcliffe gushed.

Mrs Foster, a tall, bosomy woman, took the opportunity to snipe at her, in order to let the others know that she was not impressed by the office of the Speaker. Politicians, to Mrs Foster, were servants of the people and should be treated as such. She gathered herself up and looked down on little Mrs Sutcliffe: ‘One would hardly expect less of Mrs Thurlwell!’

As the maid led the visitors to the front door, William nudged Lalla and whispered, ‘Did they go along with it?’

‘Of course.’ She smiled confidently. ‘Biddy,’ she called to another maid, ‘where is Phoebe? I want her to say goodbye to the ladies.’

‘I can’t find her, ma’am,’ Biddy wailed. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere.’

‘Then look again!’ Lalla hissed as she sailed forth into the white-tiled lobby.

Two light carriages had presented themselves at the front door to carry off the visitors. Lalla, making small talk, fumed. Where was that brat? She had told her daughter to make herself scarce during tea but to be there when the ladies were ready to leave. It was typical of Phoebe to disappear when she was needed. God alone knew why she’d been stuck with a daughter who not only had a lisp and was as plain as pudding, but was also a defiant child, never easy to deal with, always arguing, contradicting her mother …

‘Good heavens!’ Mrs Foster exclaimed, staring as Phoebe came towards them, cutting across the circular lawn, the centrepiece of the driveway.

Lalla was mortified. Neatness was almost an obsession with her. Everything in her house had a place and everything in it had to be in place, right to the inch. Family attire must be kept immaculate, perfectly laundered with not a loose thread or button.

And now look at her daughter! Phoebe had lost one of her ribbons, so one plait was unravelled, and worse, her dress was torn, the sleeve ripped and a hem frill hanging loose, dragging on the ground like a grubby streamer.

‘Hello!’ she said cheerfully, gravitating like a magnet towards Mrs Foster, the most powerful pole. ‘Did you have a nice day?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ the woman replied. ‘What happened to you, child? Did you fall out of a tree?’

Phoebe treated her to a toothy grin. ‘Yeth I did! How did you know?’

‘These things happen.’ Mrs Foster shrugged as she stepped into the first carriage, and then laughed. ‘Test the branches in future, child. Test the branches.’

Standing beside the wretched girl, a forced smile on her face, Lalla bade her guests farewell and then turned on Phoebe. ‘What happened to you?’

‘I fell out of a tree.’

‘Haven’t I told you, ladies do not climb trees!’

‘Yes, but—’

Lalla shook her. ‘I don’t want to hear your buts. And what were you doing out the gate looking like that?’

‘I was in next door. I saw the boy next door and he was—’

‘What? You went next door?’ Ever since they’d moved into Somerset House, the Thurlwells had refused to acknowledge their neighbours. In fact, many a time William had tried to buy that property, on the end of the Point, but the German woman living there had constantly refused to sell, and so it had remained, a rustic cottage out of place beside the Thurlwell mansion.

‘I had to,’ Phoebe argued and, infuriated, Lalla slapped her across her face.

‘Get inside, you little wretch. Biddy! Give her a good bath and clean her up. I’ll attend to her later.’ She saw the frown on her husband’s face and rounded on him. ‘What are you looking at me like that for? Do you want her associating with them? Well, do you?’

‘No, of course not,’ he admitted lamely. William could never stand up to his wife’s head-on confrontations. She was a slight woman, with an air of grace and refinement accentuated by the pale colours and expensive materials she chose to wear, and though he loved and admired her, he was always startled by her aggression when there was any hint that he might disagree with her. Over the years he’d learned it was easier to allow Lalla to have her own way rather than experience the discomfort of her wordy belligerence.

Right now, though, there were more important matters at stake. William was a dedicated anti-federalist whose family had pioneered the great cattle runs in north-west Queensland. Now a band of reformers wanted to amalgamate all the Australian states into a commonwealth, and to the Thurlwell family, and many of their friends, this would mean a loss of power and, of course, an increase in taxes. A federal government couldn’t operate on thin air, so where else would the money come from but out of the pockets of men who were already supporting state governments? To William it was preposterous, and he was delighted that Lalla had taken up the cause with her usual energy.

‘What did Mrs Foster say?’ he asked her.

‘She was a pushover. She can’t stand politicians at the best of times and the thought of electing another batch has just about given her the vapours. She’s happy to join our movement and will donate rather substantially, I believe.’

‘Excellent.’ He nodded. ‘And what about Mrs Sutcliffe?’

‘She’s a fool of a woman. She let it slip that Harold Sutcliffe is in favour of federation.’

‘Did she now? That’s interesting. He’s been giving the impression that he’s against, and by God, he’s on the committee chosen to produce a report on the subject.’

‘He might change his mind.’ Lalla smiled. ‘Mrs Foster gave his wife a good talking-to. I didn’t have to bother at all. By the time Belle Foster was finished with her she was all our way, and she promised to speak to her husband.’

‘If he’ll listen to her.’

‘He might if she remembers to tell him that the Fosters hold a swag of votes in his electorate. But there’s another problem. When the other two went for a walk in the garden, Clara Buchanan said not to tell her mother, but that her husband fancies the idea of a union of states. She didn’t want to give me the wrong impression by not mentioning his attitude in front of Belle.’

‘And did you tell Mrs Foster?’

‘Of course not. Ben Buchanan has always had political ambitions. He could be useful.’

‘Bloody idiot. Why doesn’t he stay in the bush and look after his own affairs?’

‘Because he’s not doing so well these days. He sold his cattle station up north and bought another one outside Charleville. About five hundred miles due west, Clara says. All was well for a start but now they’re facing a drought. Besides, he likes being in town.’

‘But he’s against us,’ William said.

‘Not necessarily. I suggest we find a way to get Ben Buchanan into the State Parliament. On condition he joins us in opposing federalism. He’d jump at the chance.’

William laughed. ‘My dear, you should have been a politician yourself.’

‘No. Even if ladies were admitted, I haven’t the patience for it. Buchanan’s easily swayed. We have to encourage him, so let’s invite Clara and Ben to stay with us for a while before they go home. That should do it.’

‘Now listen to me, darlin’,’ Biddy said as she brushed the girl’s hair. ‘Don’t be answering back yer ma. Just be quiet.’

‘She hit me again!’ Phoebe snapped.

‘Never mind that. She got a fright to see your dress all torn. She thought you must have been attacked or somethin’.’

‘And thay I had been? Is that a reaso