The celebration was in full swing. Sideboards groaned with lobsters. Guests feasted on truffles and oysters, foie gras and squab, while speculating on whether or not this was more than a birthday party. Their idle curiosity was soon laid to rest. A short speech by Daniel, proposing a toast on the occasion of his daughter’s seventeenth birthday. Then a long speech by Henry, announcing his only son’s engagement to Miss Isabelle Campbell. Much polite applause, accompanied by knowing nods. The odds had always been in favour of this union.
Elizabeth knew it was asking for trouble, seating Henry and Daniel at the same table, but convention demanded it. Tensions ran high between the two men during the cock-a-leekie soup. By the time the beef Wellington arrived, their voices were raised. Jane looked across the table at Elizabeth in alarm. There were still eight courses to come.
With agonising slowness, the procession of dishes marched on: venison, loin of lamb, chartreuse of duck, quail eggs in aspic, baked trout. The diners washed their food down with copious quantities of champagne and claret, sherry and port. Henry seemed well on the way to drunkenness. A dangerously long break until dessert allowed for much sniping across the table. Afterwards, the orchestra would strike up to introduce the main event of the evening – the ball. It couldn’t come quickly enough for Elizabeth. Belle quietly appealed to her father to ignore Sir Henry, but not quietly enough.
‘So, my soon-to-be daughter-in-law thinks to ignore me,’ said Henry. ‘Once married, she’ll change her tune and become as obedient as my own son.’
Edward went red, and Daniel opened his mouth to reply.
‘Hold your tongues,’ scolded Jane. ‘Both of you.’
Henry and Daniel lapsed into glowering silence. The timely arrival of desserts defused the situation: pineapple-cream cake, ginger pudding, wine and walnut trifle, colourful ices and fresh fruit salad in glittering crystal punchbowls. A truce settled on the table.
At long last the orchestra struck up, signalling the conclusion of the meal. Elizabeth breathed a sigh of relief, and followed Belle and Edward to the ballroom, her arm through Daniel’s. As guests of honour, Belle and Edward led off in a minuet. He was an ideal partner, his steps perfect. The next dance was a lively polka. Edward spun Belle around the floor in a flurry of giddy twirls, leaving her flushed and shining. Elizabeth looked on approvingly. There was no hiding it, Belle was enjoying herself.
Ignoring Elizabeth’s protests, Daniel retreated to the verandah. He gazed across the valley to the remains of an orange sunset. No breeze stirred the birches, yet above him high winds tore the clouds to shreds. A logging burn-off smouldered in the ranges, causing the rising moon to glow a dramatic bushfire red. Thin ribbons of pink-satin smoke scudded sullenly across its face. What an unusual sky. Ominous too. Like a beautiful stage curtain shielding an audience from the shocking scenes being prepared behind it.
Luke paid no attention to the strange moon as he and Bear hurried down the waterfall track to Binburra. All he could think of was Belle. A barking chorus greeted him as he headed for his room at the end of the cart shed. The double-brougham was missing. Damn, the family was out.
Sasha bounced out to greet them. Bear trotted off with her, no doubt to reacquaint himself with his puppies.
Another dog dashed from the shadows. ‘Scruffy?’ Luke picked up the little terrier, who squirmed with delight and licked Luke’s face. ‘What are you doing here?’
Davey hopped out of the shearing shed, trying to put his boots on at the same time. ‘I could ask you the same question. You’re supposed to be up at the pass.’
‘Where is everybody? Where’s Belle?’
Davey’s lips curled in a leer. ‘Belle, is it? I suppose you don’t know then. They’re all at Canterbury Downs for the engagement party. Miss Isabelle and Edward Abbott. Getting married, they are.’
‘You’re lying.’
‘Ask anyone,’ said Davey. ‘Anyway, what’s it to you?’
It made no sense. Luke ran to the tack room, stowed his precious swag, grabbed a bridle and headed for the stockhorse night paddock. The herd raised their heads at his approach. Sheba reared, her silver coat burned bronze by the blood-red moon. With a low nicker, she came to him with a proud, high-stepping walk. Luke whispered to her, kissed her nose, stroked her neck. The mare nuzzled him and consented to the bridle. Luke looked around for Bear, thinking to lock him up should he try to follow. The dog was nowhere in sight. Unwilling to waste another moment, Luke swung up bareback and took off down the hill at a gallop.
By road, a carriage might take upwards of an hour to complete the trip to Canterbury Downs. But with a swift horse and a full moon Luke could halve that time, cutting across country by way of Murderer’s Hill. Sheba sensed her rider’s reckless urgency and raced on, trusting Luke to steer her course.
With flying hooves they cleared a fallen tree, half-seen in moonlight. Luke checked his mare as they neared the summit. Flanks heaving, Sheba gulped down great lungfuls of air. Careful now. The ground ahead was rocky and he wouldn’t risk laming her. The mare cocked back one ear as Bear caught up with them. Luke swore and yelled for him to go home, but nothing could convince the dog to turn back. Luke started down the other side of the hill, holding Sheba to a canter until he cleared the steepest slope of loose stones. Then they took off in earnest, thundering down the dim hillside with the shadow of Bear at their heels.