It was a long ride to the homestead, over empty rubbled scrubland, miserable grazing country and not a cow in sight. Theremust have been fodder somewhere, perhaps closer to the creek, but not for the first time she wondered what it was with Billy,with most men: this stubborn battle to outdo their fathers, against all logic and good sense.
Because it was such a sorry victory: the house crooked and crumbling, the inside covered in dust. There was a smashed mugon the verandah, finger marks on the table, and two of the chairs were pulled out, but otherwise no sign that Billy was livinghere at all. She knew the reason. The bloodstains were still visible on the floor. She crossed the yard to the bunkhouse andfound a few items of his clothing scattered beside a stripped mattress—he’d left in a hurry, she realized. Gathered his blankets,packed his things. Meaning Noone had come calling like he’d threatened to, and Billy had rolled over again.
He had arrived at the house yesterday, uninvited, unannounced; the first Katherine knew, he was standing in her drawing room,impossibly tall, talking with her father and Charles. She had not seen him in half a decade but it felt much less: the unnervingway he spoke to her, so courteous and polite; that hollow stare; the warmth of his hand when they shook. His very presenceset the room akilter, as if she were suddenly drunk.
“As pleasant as this is, gentlemen, I would be obliged if you would excuse us. Mrs. Sullivan and I have some urgent policebusiness to discuss.”
Amid scowls and second glances the others left the room and Katherine and Noone were alone. Katherine rang the bell and asked for tea and they sat waiting in the armchairs, facing each other, twenty feet apart. Still he felt too close. Like she couldn’t breathe. He smiled and those dead eyes traced her body head to foot. She smoothed down her skirts to the ankle, but they weren’t quite long enough.
“So how are you, Mrs. Sullivan? Not short of suitors, I see?”
“Very well, thank you.”
“Is it official? Are you to be wed?”
“Nothing is decided. How can I help, Mr. Noone?”
The tea came and they fell silent while the housemaid poured, Katherine’s gaze flicking between the girl and Noone. She servedthem then hurried from the room, and Katherine found she had to grip her cup tight to the saucer to stop it rattling in herhands. Once, she had amused herself by teasing him, by speaking out of turn, but she hadn’t understood a thing. She’d beenso naive in those days, about everything, not least this man.
“I heard Billy McBride is working for you—is that true?”
Perhaps she’d flinched at the mention of Billy’s name, some twitch that had given her away, or perhaps he’d heard the gossipfrom the men, but when she told him that Billy was back at Glendale, starting up on his own, Noone grimaced and inclined hishead a little, said, “I’m very sorry to hear that. You must miss him, I am sure.”
She hadn’t known how to answer him, took another sip of tea, smiling politely while Noone talked in general terms about thedistrict, the colony, then asked quite sincerely if she’d had any trouble from the local blacks. “Good, good,” he said, nodding,when she answered she had not, like this was somehow news to him, an unexpected turn of events. She couldn’t read him at all,not like she could most men; there was always another meaning to everything he said. He had helped her once, after John died,going down to the compound to arrest Raymond Locke—did he assume she was now in his debt?
The state they had found Locke in afterward . . . the things Noone had done . . .
He drank his tea primly and told her about an expedition he was planning, for which apparently he needed Billy’s help. And hers: Might he trouble her for some rations, whatever she could spare? Again she rang the bell and asked for food parcels to be prepared, and didn’t think anything of it when Noone had said he needed five, despite there only being three men waiting when she later accompanied him outside.
“Congratulations, incidentally,” Noone said as they parted, his eyes on her stomach, his tongue wetting his lips. “I wishyou and the child the best of health.”
Now she stood among Billy’s detritus in the bunkhouse and reflexively touched her bump. Barely anything, the smallest hintof a bulge, but the signs were undeniable, no matter how hard she’d tried. Even the dates aligned. Not the last time withBilly but the time before that. Two months, then, still so early—how had Noone noticed through her housedress; how could hepossibly have known?
She picked through the items on the bookcase. A deck of cards, a tobacco tin—what she knew of Billy she cared for very muchbut she didn’t truly know him at all. There were glimpses. His tenderness, his stubbornness, his temper, his refusal to knowhis place . . . but these traits were all part of the appeal. He’d grown up so fast—the suitors her father kept bringing herwere boys compared to him. And now they were bound together, for better or worse, assuming the baby made it to term. She wouldn’tgo to the doctor. Wouldn’t have anything done. If the child was God’s will they would just have to accept it and make thebest of things. She stepped out into the yard, still holding her stomach. It was miraculous, really, the idea of a life growinginside. A blessing. Yes, they weren’t married yet, but that could be arranged, assuming Billy was willing to leave Glendale.She looked
