Rose, her flawless complexion undisturbed by the temperature, stood kneading dough on the central table. She glanced up. “Ella, dear. At last. We’re very much behind with the cooking. Put the mutton on to roast would you, please?”
Ella took the meat from the safe. Wondering how to explain about the wool money, she began rubbing the legs with lard and salt. “I just took a moment to talk to Alf.” She tensed, awaiting criticism. Rose would never have considered setting foot in a shearing shed and she expected Ella to recognize the same social boundaries.
Her elder sister lifted her head. In the color of mourning, the twenty-three year old looked serenely beautiful. “You needn’t have. I planned to talk to him tonight before supper.”
“He didn’t have a lot to say.” Ella placed the roasting dish into the oven. “He thought the new shearer would be more help, and the man did seem to know everything about the sale of wool.” Her lips tightened. She’d had to prize out each reluctant fact from the newest member of the team and hear criticism of her gentle Papa.
Rose heaved a sigh. “Didn’t you ever wonder why Papa didn’t pay his debts with last year’s clip money?” She cut her dough into squares, placed the scones in the oven above the roast, and stood staring at Ella, checking the elegant, figure eight knot of hair on the back of her collar.
“He must have had reason not to.”
“But you did the accounts. Surely you saw the amounts he owed?”
“He only gave me the accounts he wanted balanced.”
Rose sat at the table, cupping her chin in her palm. “And since he couldn’t balance his gambling debts, he hid them.”
“He didn’t always lose,” Ella said in defense of Papa. “And we’d had a drought.”
“The rain was steady this past winter.”
“That was the first we have seen for years. You must remember how dry the land was before you left.”
“I’m starving,” a voice interrupted from the hall. Vianna, the youngest Beaufort at eleven years old, stood framed in the doorway, hands behind her back and a hopeful smile on her face. A miniature version of Rose, she had the same pure blue eyes and soft pale hair. She wore a starched white smock covering her black cotton dress.
“The shearers’ afternoon tea is almost ready.” Rose indicated the oven. “You can have a scone as soon as they’re cooked. Fill up the jam pot while you’re waiting.”
Vianna gave Rose a glance of resentment. “I don’t know how. Ella usually does that.”
“Ella has potatoes to peel.”
Reminded, Ella pulled the sack out of the larder and began loading the potatoes onto the table. “Use a plain white bowl, Vi. I don’t think the shearers will appreciate a rose-patterned jam pot.” She watched her little sister inexpertly scrape the newly made plum conserve into a thick white soup dish and smiled encouragingly. Vianna had never been asked to help in the kitchen before.
Rose picked up a knife and began on the first potato. “One more meal, only one, and we’ve completed our first day as shearers’ cooks. These past six months have been the longest of my life.”
“I expect time will pass faster now that the sheep are being clipped.” Ella pulled out another ladder-backed chair and sat beside Rose with her knife, her smile wry. She would have liked to discuss the sale of the wool, but facing Rose with reality right now would serve no purpose.
“The happiest day of my life will be the day we leave.”
“Mine will be when we can afford new dresses.” Vianna glanced at Rose’s stylish black silk gown. “Though you have them, already.”
“My godmother is very generous.”
“And so are you.” Ella lifted her head to stare into her older sister’s eyes. “You could have stayed with her, and yet you came back to help us.”
“My first duty is to my younger sisters,” Rose said in her annoyingly placid way.
Ella didn’t want to be anyone’s duty. She lifted her chin. “We could never have managed without you.”
“Not if we wanted nice scones.” Smiling wickedly, Vianna pushed a monogrammed spoon into her jam dish.
“You little baggage.” Ella gave a rueful laugh. “I’m no cook, that’s certain. I’ve never had the same proficiency as Rose in any of the feminine arts.”
Dimples formed in Vianna’s cheeks. “That’s why Papa sent her instead of you to the city to find a husband. Poor Rose.”
“He sent me because I’m the oldest. The oldest should be married first.” Rose frowned at her potato.
“And when she is, Vi, I’ll learn a few airs and graces. You’ll need some, too, if we’re going to live in the city.”
“You’ll like being away from the smell of sheep and the flies. 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