Free The Ladies of Missalonghi by Colleen McCullough Page A

told Missy that, whether because of her sickly condition or because maybe she was so manifestly harmless, he had decided she could be counted a friend. “There’s an old logger’s hut near the bottom of the waterfall, and I’m camping in that for the time being. But I’m starting to build a house a bit closer to the waterfall itself – out of sandstone blocks I’m quarrying on the site. I’ve just been down to Sydney to pick up an engine to drive a big saw. That way I can cut my blocks a lot faster and better, and mill my own timber too.”
    She closed her eyes and heaved a big unconscious sigh. “Oh, how I envy you!”
    He stared down at her curiously. “That’s an odd thing for a woman to say.”
    Missy opened her eyes. “Is it?”
    “Women usually don’t like being cut off from shops and houses and other women.” His tone was hard.
    “You’re probably right for the most part,” she said thoughtfully, “but in that sense I don’t really count as a woman, so I envy you. The peace, the freedom, the isolation – I dream of them!”
    The end of the track came into sight, and so did the faded red corrugated iron roof of Missalonghi.
    “Do you do all your shopping in Sydney?” she asked, for something to say, then chastised herself for asking a silly question; hadn’t she met him first in Uncle Maxwell’s?
    “I do when I can,” he said, obviously not connecting her with Uncle Maxwell’s, “but it’s a long haul up the Mountains with a full load, and I’ve got only this one team of horses. Still, Sydney’s definitely preferable to shopping in Byron – I’ve never encountered a place so full of Nosey Parkers.”
    Missy grinned. “Try not to blame them too much, Mr. Smith. Not only are you a novelty, but you’ve also stolen what they have always regarded as their exclusive property, even if they never thought about it, or wanted it.”
    He burst out laughing, evidently tickled that she should bring the matter up. “My valley, you mean? They could have bought it, the sale wasn’t secret – it was advertised in the Sydney papers and in the Katoomba paper. But they’re just not as smart as they think they are, that’s all.”
    “You must feel like a king down there.”
    “I do, Miss Wright.” And he smiled at her, tipped his battered bushman’s hat, turned and walked away.
    Missy floated the rest of the way home, in perfect time to milk the cow. Neither Drusilla nor Octavia made reference to her bush walk, Drusilla because she had been more pleased at the display of independence than worried about the outcome, and Octavia because she had convinced herself Missy’s cerebral processes were being affected by whatever ailed her.
    In fact, when by four o’clock there had been no sign of Missy, the two ladies left at Missalonghi had had a small tiff. Octavia thought it was time to inform the police.
    “No, no, no!” said Drusilla, quite violently.
    “But we must, Drusilla. Her brain’s affected, I know it is. When in her whole life has she ever behaved this way?”
    “I have been thinking ever since Missy had her turn, sister, and I’m not ashamed to say that when Mr. Smith carried her in, I was terrified. The thought of losing her to such an unfair, unjust thing – I was never more glad than when Uncle Neville told me he didn’t think it was serious. And then I began to wonder what would happen to Missy had it been me? Octavia, we must encourage Missy to be independent of us! It is not her fault that God did not endow her with Alicia’s looks, or my strength of character. And I began to see that a whole lifetime’s exposure to my strength of character has not been good for Missy. I make the decisions about everything, and it is her nature to acquiesce without a fuss. So for far too long I have gone on making her decisions. I shall do so no longer.”
    “Rubbish!” snapped Octavia. “The girl’s got no sense! Shoes instead of boots! Romances! Bush walks! It is my opinion that you