Free Summer at Mount Hope by Rosalie Ham Page A

erosion, on the drought, on selective breeding and the eventual extinction of some breeds of common farm animals. From which she moved seamlessly to votes for women and, finally, the artists’ colony at Esperance.
    Lilith recovered. She smiled, she laughed, she said, ‘How interesting’ a lot. Marius, in between trying Robert’s wine, was totally engaged by her. When he left at somewhere around four o’clock, he had the distinct impression that the Crupps were a generous lot with quite advanced notions and that their youngest daughter, Lilith, was a charming, bright girl.
    Phoeba felt peaceful, as if she had finally finished a game of Patience without cheating. It wasn’t until she was in bed that night that she thought of Hadley and realised she hadn’t seen him for three days.
    Henrietta had spent that afternoon chopping kindling for the copper. She’d already chopped the day’s wood, but when her mother’s guest, Mr Titterton, after his tea and pikelets, had stood at the mantelpiece reading Shakespeare sonnets – ‘When forty winters shall besiege thy brow, And dig deep trenches in thy beauty’s field …’ – Henrietta had left.
    She rested a pine log on its end on the chopping stump, eyed the spot between two knots where the grain curved, then swung the axe to split the log into two neat halves, which tumbled to rest at her boots. She split her halves again and again until she had a wheelbarrow full of sweet, pale woodchips with some medium-sized branches and a couple of good logs piled carefully on top of the kindling. Leaning against her axe, she caught sight of her brother, a figure in the distance, a man in shirtsleeves shepherding a small flock of confused rams through a dry paddock: strange, she thought he had moved them just yesterday. Life without Hadley would be tolerable when he went to Overton. She would ride with Phoeba to see him and there would be no more collars to starch or shirts to iron.
    Taking off her felt hat, she wiped her forehead with her sleeve and set out across the yard towards the laundry with the wheelbarrow.
    At the parlour window she caught a glimpse of her mother as she fell towards Mr Titterton, who caught her in his arms. Fainted again, thought Henrietta, those corsets – but then Mr Titterton lowered his head and opened his mouth and the Widow Pearson’s bonnet tipped back. They were kissing, clamped together at the mouth, a corpse’s teeth rubbing against her mother’s. Henrietta’s heart thudded and she felt like she had been dancing too long in a tin shed in summer. The wheelbarrow handles twisted in her hands and the barrow skewed and crashed, spilling her carefully balanced wood across the dirt. She plopped down on the wood box, removed her hat again and fanned her cheeks as they flushed red.
    â€˜Erk,’ she said.
    She gathered up her wood and went to the washhouse. And as the serviettes and sheets swirled in the boiling copper, Henrietta worried. What would she do if they got married? Surely they wouldn’t. Should she tell Hadley?
    By the time the towels, smalls and finally the handkerchiefs were on the line, Henrietta had decided not to tell her younger brother. It would ruin his start at Overton and he already seemed preoccupied enough by that. But if old Mr Tit did marry their mother, what would become of her and Hadley? She would talk to Phoeba about it all. Phoeba would know what to do.
    Thursday, January 4, 1894
    T hursday was cheese day, so Phoeba milked Maggie early. Lilith, who didn’t do cheese, took charge of the mending and fancy-stitching. She preferred less taxing duties on the whole – replenishing vases, plumping cushions and filling the kerosene lamps every day.
    Aunt Margaret took herself to the vegetable garden with her sketchpad and when Phoeba arrived in the kitchen to make the cheese she found her mother there, soaking the