Their Doorstep Baby

‘It’s too hard to keep hoping.’

‘Then look around you. There are many, many women who never have a baby and who live fulfilled, useful lives.’

‘But I’m not one of them!’

‘How can you—how can you be so certain?’

Claire sighed.

‘Adam, in my head I know you’re right. But my emotions tell me something else. Deep down I’m sure I’m meant to have a baby of my own.’

‘Oh, Claire—’

The tears welled and spilled. ‘I know I’m meant to be a mother, otherwise I wouldn’t feel this awful, aching, ongoing emptiness. That’s what made me do what I did tonight. I held Rosa and—and I—I lost it.’

‘I know, Claire. I know.’ Gently he kissed the top of her head and his fingers stroked the back of her neck.

But he couldn’t offer her any solution apart from his love. It should have been enough. She knew that. But tonight…why, oh, why wasn’t it enough tonight?

They prepared for bed and, when they slipped between the sheets, Adam didn’t try to seduce her. He kissed her and held her, massaged her tense shoulders and murmured soothing talk, but eventually he drifted away into sleep.

And Claire lay in the dark, tossing and turning, swamped with guilt. She kept seeing Maria’s stricken face and hearing her final words… ‘If you ever have a baby, you will understand. It’s too much to ask a mother to give her baby away. You’re asking the impossible. I’d rather starve than lose one of my little ones.’

If you ever have a baby…Those words echoed over and over in her head and they left her with the same desolate hollowness she’d felt this evening when she’d held Rosa. But now there was the bitter aftertaste of shame as well.

‘I’ve decided to start another garden. We need something more on the western side,’ Claire announced on the first morning after they arrived home at Nardoo.

They were lingering over a late breakfast. Nancy and Joe Fiddler, their elderly caretakers, had insisted that they indulge in one last day of a slower routine before they launched back into full-scale station work.

Adam pushed his empty breakfast plate aside so he could sort through the huge pile of mail that had come while they’d been away. Now he looked up at her and smiled. ‘Another garden? Sounds like a good idea.’

He knew that announcing a totally new project out of the blue was Claire’s way of telling him she didn’t want any more discussion about what had happened at Jim’s.

Ever since the evening at her brother’s, she’d looked vulnerable and uncertain. She’d spent the time in an agony of self-recrimination, going over and over how badly she’d behaved.

Now they were home, he could still see a haunting shadow dimming the loveliness in her eyes, but he hoped she would be able to put the whole regrettable incident behind her.

Claire always worried so much about what her family thought of her. Half the time he wondered why she bothered. Over the years, he’d had to hide his dismay when they hadn’t been more concerned and supportive about her problems.

He remembered the disbelieving, reproachful expression on his mother-in-law’s face when Claire had first tried to explain the difficulties she was having getting pregnant.

‘I don’t understand it,’ Mary Tremaine had exclaimed with a petulant quiver in her voice. ‘The women in our family never have trouble falling pregnant. Maybe you need to take more vitamins. Give some to Adam, too.’

Her younger sister, Sally, had been even less considerate than her mother. She’d simply grinned and winked at him as she’d commented flippantly, ‘You can’t really complain, Claire. Adam is so dishy that at least you can have a scrumptious time trying for a baby.’

And, of course, Jim and Maria had been so busy with their own family.

He noticed that, after initial attempts, Claire tended to avoid talking about her difficulties with her family. If they made enquiries, she invented cover-up lines. ‘Every time I decide it’s time to have a baby, Adam has to go off mustering,’ she’d tell them with a laugh.

He slit another envelope open with his penknife and Claire picked up her teacup. He fancied there was a tinge too much enthusiasm in her voice as she said, ‘I’m so glad it rained while we were away. I was worried that we’d come back to find everything in the garden brown and ugly.’

‘You know Nancy and Joe wouldn’t have let that happen. They’ve lived here for longer than I have and love it as much as we do. The place looks terrific.’

He pushed a pile of letters down the table towards her. ‘These are yours.’

‘I’ll read them later.’ She finished drinking her tea, replaced the cup on its saucer and stood. ‘It was too dark to see everything last night. I want to check on all my babies.’

Jumping to his feet, he walked around the table till he stood beside her. He touched her soft, too pale cheek.

‘Claire, you don’t mind being buried out here in the outback, do you?’

‘Oh, Adam,’ she sighed, dropping her head onto his shoulder and rubbing her nose into his neck. He could smell the clean, sweet fragrance of her hair and the familiar soap they always used at home. ‘Of course I don’t mind. I love it here.’ Then she kissed him and added, ‘Besides, you’re here.’

His heart gave a little tumble when he saw her innocent smile, as if the simple fact of his presence was enough to keep her happy.

‘I worry sometimes that being stuck in the bush makes everything harder for you. You’ve had to adjust to the isolation and you’ve been amazing the way you’ve learned so much about running the property. But you must miss your old friends. And you don’t have children to keep you busy.’

‘I’ve got the garden,’ Claire insisted. ‘And Heather Crowe has been onto me for years about taking part in the Open Garden Scheme. You know, opening our garden up to the public a couple of times each year. Apparently this district is getting quite famous for its gardens.’

‘Would you like that?’

‘I think I would. At least I’m going to give it some serious thought.’ She kissed him again, lingeringly on the mouth. ‘Now, please don’t worry about me. I made a terrible mistake in Sydney, but it doesn’t mean I’m becoming unhinged.’

‘Another kiss like that and you’ll never get to check your garden,’ he told her with a sexy growl. ‘Go, woman.’

Claire crossed the airy breakfast room and went down the hall, pausing to collect her hat from the row of akubras and oilskin coats in the entry-way, and then she stepped out through the heavy, silky oak-framed doorway onto the veranda where huge urns of lilies and wicker baskets full of lush ferns kept the front of the house looking cool and green all year round.

Before her stretched the Nardoo garden.

She was proud of the way she’d preserved the beautiful garden first planted by Adam’s great-grandmother. And she was equally proud of the way she’d extended and developed it, without losing sight of the tone and vision of the original garden with its old-world plants, low stone walls and winding flagged paths.

Even though she’d grown up in Melbourne, from the minute she’d arrived at Nardoo as a young and hopeful bride Claire had loved Adam’s home.

Last evening, as they’d rattled and bumped along the dirt track that led from the main road into their property, they’d both felt a kind of hushed awe as they’d looked around them at the enduring beauty of their own familiar, hazy bush and the soft silvery paddocks that ran down to the river.

Claire had felt the special thrill that only a true sense of belonging and homecoming could bring. She’d leant closer to Adam, slipped her hand along his jeans-clad thigh and rested her head against his shoulder.

And, without taking his eyes off the road, he’d half turned and kissed her forehead and said, ‘Nothing quite like home, is there?’

‘Absolutely nothing,’ she’d agreed and she’d felt a flutter of hope that perhaps her shameful episode in Sydney could be allowed to slip away like a bad dream that faded in the forgiving light of morning.

Now she pulled her wide-brimmed hat down firmly over her blonde curls, walked out onto the expanse of rolling green lawn and turned to look back at the house. It was a gracious, low-set homestead built to house a big family in colonial times, featuring two magnificent bay windows at the front and a bull-nosed, wrap-around veranda.

Last year she’d supervised the house’s repainting and, because she hadn’t wanted it to look too new or bright, she’d chosen a weathered, dusty red for the iron roof and the soft blue-grey-green tone of the surrounding eucalypts for the timber walls.

With its own separate nursery wing built in the late nineteenth century, it was a beautiful, welcoming house crying out for a family to fill it.

But Claire refused to let her mind linger on that dead-end path. She turned her attention to the familiar garden features.