Altogether, Sara thought, he was such a man as women fell in love with by the score ‒ the born charmer and favourite. But he was a disappointment to most of them in the fact that he was by temperament too lazy to pursue flirtations once they threatened to become serious. With all this dangled before her eyes, Sara couldn’t understand why she didn’t marry him. He had wanted that, and kept pressing it, almost since the day she had arrived in England; for one reason or another she had never answered him finally. He had joked good-humouredly about her avoidance of the question. But then, he could afford to be good-humoured and patient; his life spread before him like a golden afternoon, and there seemed little need for hurry when dalliance was so pleasant. No longer full of impulse, he seemed content to wait. She wondered if perhaps it was his very contentedness that disturbed her ‒ it was almost as if loving her had become a habit which he couldn’t take the trouble to shake off. She knew well enough that if she had not appeared in London as a widow, he would eventually have married someone else. It was not in Richard’s nature to live long without the absorbed attention of some woman. But she had appeared, and there was enough of the passion of long ago left to make him ask her immediately to marry him.
For six months she had hesitated ‒ and each day that passed in which David made no mention of returning to the colony, brought her closer to agreement. She knew she was going through the phase in which the unobtainable ‒ suddenly put into her hand ‒ was not, after all, so desirable. All her life she had loved Richard, and she loved him still. But in more than twenty years she had learned to analyse that love, and to know precisely how strong it was. It was not any longer the consuming force it had been for the young Sara, nor could it ever again cause her the anguish she had suffered when he had first come to New South Wales. It could not be weighed against her love for Kintyre, for Banon, and Dane Farm. But her feeling for Richard had its undisputed place in her life, and one that she could never deny.
She held Richard off, and waited for some move from David. If he was going to disappoint her, and treat his inheritance with indifference, then she would take the consolation which marriage to Richard could give her. She envisaged the life that lay before her ‒ in the small and elegant town house and the Devon estate. In that, and in Richard himself, there would be enough distraction to ease the pain of watching David turn into an absentee landlord.
Yet, she was equally certain that if David had suddenly declared, with any degree of enthusiasm, that he was going back to the colony, she would have gone with him gladly, and Richard would have assumed once more the role in her life that he had always played.
She knew well enough what he meant when he called her discontented.
‘Discontent?’ … she repeated the word slowly, not quite knowing how to meet his charge.
He stirred, and leaned towards her; stretching out and taking possession of her hand quite firmly.
‘Sara, you must know what causes your restlessness. You won’t settle your future, and you play about with your own emotions and mine like a child with a toy. Why don’t you marry me quickly and put an end to this indecision? Once you’ve made up your mind there won’t be any place for restlessness.’
She shook her head. ‘Not yet, Richard, not yet. I must give David more time ‒ and Duncan and Elizabeth.’
‘More time … time?’ he echoed after her. ‘What are you talking about? If you’re thinking of settling their futures out of hand before you marry me, you’re making a great mistake, Sara. You just can’t seem to see that they’re no longer children, and they make their own decisions. Why do you hold on to them like this? Let them go free ‒ they won’t thank you to wait your own happiness on their convenience. If you would once settle your own life, you’d find they’d quickly enough settle theirs.’
‘If David wants to go back to New South Wales ‒ then let him,’ he added. ‘Duncan also. Elizabeth will, of course, marry here. What is there all the fuss about, Sara?’
‘But you don’t understand …’
‘No, I don’t,’ he agreed. ‘I don’t pretend to understand your attitude towards them. Whether they stay here or return to the colony, they’re well provided for. They cause you no worry ‒ and you’re free to marry any time you want. Besides that ‒ I’m growing more than a little impatient.’
‘I’m sorry, Richard. I’ll try to decide about it soon.’
He smiled as if he were humouring a child’s whim. ‘Very soon, I hope, Sara. A long and leisurely wooing is pleasant enough, but I must watch that I don’t become rather ridiculous by my very faithfulness. After all, we’ve wooed each other for the greater part of our lives. Isn’t it time it came to an end, my dear?’
The carriage turned into Golden Square, and she withdrew her hand from his gently.
‘Yes, Richard. Very soon.’
The footman flung open the door with a flourish. Richard got out first and handed her down, waiting with her until her own front door was opened.
She took her leave of him feeling as if she had made an escape.
III
David came to the head of the stairs as Sara entered the hall. Something about the changed expression of his face as she glanced towards him halted her; slowly her hands reached up to the ribbons of her bonnet.
‘David … what is it?’ she said quietly.
‘We’ve been waiting for you, Mother. Could you come into the drawing-room?’
She nodded, and with the ribbons dangling loose, hurried up the stairs towards him. He smiled at her, and she could sense the excitement about him, but his face was serious enough. Inside the drawing-room Duncan got to his feet when she appeared, and Elizabeth, who had been standing by the window, turned and came towards her.
‘Mr. Macarthur’s been here, Mama. He’s just left ‒ we thought you’d be back from the Park much later.’
Sara laid aside her bonnet. ‘Macarthur ? I’m sorry I missed him. What news does he have from the colony?’
Macarthur had become an occasional visitor at Golden Square, though the servants had strict instructions never to admit him if Admiral Bligh happened to be calling at the same time. The court martial which had cashiered Johnston after the rebellion, had been unable to try Macarthur. He could be tried only in New South Wales, and he knew that Macquarie had instructions to prosecute him, and that there was no hope that he could escape the verdict of guilty. Therefore he remained eating his heart out in self-imposed exile, and through letters from his wife and colonial contacts in London, vicariously living the life he longed for again. Sara often shook her head over the sight of his energies wasted on such trifles.
‘Plenty of news,’ Duncan burst out. From a side-table he picked up a letter, and brought it to Sara. ‘This is from Mrs. Ryder, Mother ‒ it came by the same ship that brought Mr. Macarthur’s mail. He’s wildly excited about it ‒ Macarthur is, I mean. He came straight round here directly he’d read his letters.’
Sara began to break the seals. ‘But what is it?’
David straightened from his leaning position against the mantelpiece. Sara’s hands dropped nervously into her lap as she looked at him; never before had David appeared like this ‒ with a light of passion and excitement in his face that might have been Andrew’s own. His cheeks had a pinched-in appearance, the corners of his mouth pressed in firmly to a thin line. She drew in a sharp little breath, and half-rose from her seat.
‘Well … what is it? Tell me!’
‘The mountains … Macquarie sent Surveyor Evans to follow Lawson’s route across them. He went down into the plains on the other side and travelled a hundred miles beyond the point Lawson reached.’
‘The land … what’s it like?’
‘As good … better than the best on the coastal side of the mountains. Like laid-out parkland ‒ grass three feet high, and none of the barren patches that occur on the other side. They went on for as long as their supplies lasted, and they could see no end to the fertile country. No sign of the desert that people pred
icted.’
Duncan tapped her shoulder impatiently. ‘Read Mrs. Ryder’s letter, Mother. She probably talks of it.’
Sara smoothed it out hastily, and the stiff crack of the paper was the only sound heard in the room. She skimmed the first pages, which were a collection of small items of news she knew their impatience would never permit her to read aloud. Finally she came upon it ‒ Julia’s reference to Evans’s expedition. With a feeling of wonder she noticed that her hand was shaking as she began to read.
‘We are in a great state of excitement here over the expedition which the Governor sent to follow Lawson’s route over the mountains … No doubt remains now that they have been crossed, and that fine land beyond extends far beyond the place Evans reached … The Gazette published Evans’s report on the journey. I have it by me as I write, and I quote Evans’s statements “… this soil is exceedingly rich, and produces the finest grass … the hills have the look of a park and grounds laid out; I am at a loss to describe this country; I never saw anything to equal it …” People say the new country teems with game, and Evans caught enormous fish in the westward-flowing river which he followed.
‘There are authoritative reports that the Governor does not mean to hesitate over the construction of a road. They say that it will be no more than a year before the country is opened up for settlement. This surely is what we have dreamed of all these years, Sara. James and myself, of course, will not leave Parramatta; we’re far too old for such pioneering now. This new country is for the young ones …’
David broke in suddenly. ‘There ‒ that’s it! The road! That’s everything. Without the road the land’s as useless for settlement as if it had never been discovered. Think of it ‒ grass three feet high. What flocks we’ll be able to run on that!’
Sara ran her tongue over her dry lips. ‘Does that mean … you want to go back, David?’
‘Back? Of course I’m going back. I tell you, Mother, that I mean to have my own land now. Something that no one but myself has ever worked on ‒ in ten years one could make a fortune from wool ‒ twenty years one would be a rich man.’
‘What … what about the other properties?’ Sara said weakly. ‘Don’t they count for something?’
He gestured impatiently. ‘They do very well, but with them I should only be following the same old routine that Father worked out years ago. They belong to the old pattern when agriculture was as important as sheep. When I get my own land I don’t mean to grow more than I need for myself ‒ over the mountains it’s sheep country.’
Suddenly Duncan smacked his hand resoundingly against his thigh. ‘By God, David, I’ll race you for it! Give me that ten years and I’ll show you who’s the best sheep farmer in the colony. Ships to take the wool to the London market … as much land as one wants for the flocks. By God!’ he said again, ‘This is something worth while.’
Sara gave a nervous little laugh. ‘To hear you both talk, one would imagine the farms on my side of the mountains amounted to nothing more than a few acres for growing vegetables.’
David turned, and answered her quietly. ‘It’s not that at all, Mother. Everything that you and Father have achieved will give Duncan and myself the money to start in the way we want. But that achievement is still yours. If I slaved my guts out for the next forty years I would never believe that I had done anything with those farms. They were yours from the beginning, and they always will be. We’re not ungrateful ‒ Duncan and I. But there’s no crime or ingratitude in wanting something of one’s own. I want more satisfaction from life than merely holding together what you’ve created. Beyond the mountains there’s a whole continent ‒ and it will belong to those who go and take it!’
She nodded, and looked down at the letter again. But she wasn’t reading it. Back into her mind had come the recollection of that bright morning when the Georgette had prepared for departure from Table Bay. Then Andrew had used words almost the same as David’s. He had started with a few pounds’ worth of credits, and livestock won at gambling. David and Duncan would have far more than that ‒ but what mattered was that they were willing to start before the first rough cart-track over the mountains had become a good road. Like Andrew they wanted to go and find their land, to settle for themselves where their flocks should pasture.
Vaguely she heard Elizabeth’s voice break in.
‘I mean to come back with you ‒ you can’t leave me here.’
David and Duncan wheeled round at her words. Almost together they answered her.
‘Of course you’ll come with us!’
Again Sara sought the place in Julia’s letter. She felt a choking sensation in her throat as she found the paragraph.
… this soil is exceedingly rich… I am at a loss to describe this country; I never saw anything to equal it …
IV
‘That finishes it, Richard,’ Sara said as she laid down her cards. ‘I’ve lost quite enough to you already.’
He smiled broadly. ‘I never mind your being in debt to me, my dear. It gives me an incredible feeling of superiority. Besides, after we’ve had supper I’ll give you the opportunity of winning it back.’
She shook her head. ‘I said “finish” and “finish” it is! In any case after supper I want to talk to you ‒ seriously.’
A mock expression of concern spread over his face. ‘I tremble. When you’re serious, you’re a very formidable woman.’
He made the remark lightly, and she joined in the laughter that followed, but as they ate supper together, it kept returning to irritate. Of course, Richard was right. To attempt to be serious over anything but cards in a gathering like this was futile. Lady Fulton’s house was thronged with a fashionably dressed crowd, some of the women still displaying the jewels they had worn for the occasion of the Czar’s visit with the Regent to the opera in the Haymarket that evening. They had brought with them the fantastic story of Princess Caroline’s arrival, a laughable figure in her diamonds and rouge. She had caused acute embarrassment to her husband, the Regent ‒ in which the Czar had seemed to take malicious pleasure ‒ and had been wildly applauded by the audience. It was a story that the whole of London would know by morning, and it made a delicious morsel for supper-time gossip.
But presently Richard caught her hand and led her towards the door of the supper-room. ‘I can see plainly enough, Sara, that my efforts to amuse you don’t meet with much success. You had better come and tell me what has happened since I left you this afternoon to cause that expression. It isn’t becoming to a beauty to keep frowning so.’
He took her along the hall, and opened the door of a small room that Anne Fulton used in the mornings. It was the only room in the house, so far as Sara could judge, that hadn’t been decorated to the last inch of space; with its collection of odd furniture it achieved an air of peace and intimacy completely lacking elsewhere. Richard indicated a small sofa for her to sit on, and he drew up a fat, padded stool for himself.
‘Now … this tale that you must tell,’ he said. ‘What is it?’
She began uncertainly. ‘We had a visit from John Macarthur this afternoon … and a letter came from Julia Ryder.’
‘Yes …?’
Telling him wasn’t easy, but by degrees she built it all up ‒ her fears over what David would decide about his inheritance, and his ability to influence Duncan in the same way. She told him of the months of unease when the conviction grew stronger that he would never return to the colony, or, at best, return unwillingly … her sharp sense of disappointment, the frustration of searching for a sign of enthusiasm and never finding it. Then at last the news of the crossing of the mountains, and the change it had wrought in him.
Richard gave her a hearing in silence, patiently listening while she groped for words to describe the scene in the drawing-room in Golden Square that afternoon. He regarded her thoughtfully, the points of his dark eyebrows almost meeting as he wrinkled his forehead.
‘And what you’re going to tell me now is that you’re going back
to New South Wales.’
She nodded.
‘You’re making a mistake, Sara. You can’t tie them to you like that. They’ll resent it ‒ and hate you for it. If they want to build their own new worlds they should be left to do so themselves. Let them at least make their own mistakes.’
‘I’ve no intention of following them into their bright visions beyond the mountains.’ She shook her head. ‘There’s quite enough on the coast side to occupy me ‒ and I think they won’t be averse, now and again, to learning something about farming when they visit Banon and Kintyre. But my decision doesn’t really concern them, Richard. It belongs to me. I knew quite certainly this afternoon ‒ whether the mountains had been crossed or not ‒ that I couldn’t remain here any longer. There’s an itch for power in me that will never be satisfied by what England can offer. I grow stifled here and breathless. I’m so cluttered by people and traditions that I live in mortal dread of tripping myself up. And none of this I had the courage to admit until this afternoon.’
Richard patted her hand rather absently.
‘You’ll think me a very faint-hearted suitor, Sara, that I don’t go on my knees and beg you to stay. In fact, to be truthful, my dear, I’m not sure that there isn’t some relief for me in this. One so often wants what is bad for one ‒ and I think that may be the case with me. You’re not my sort of woman, really. But because I’ve wanted you since I was a boy, it’s now become a point of pride not to admit my own mistake. You’ve still too much energy and spirit for the sort of man I’ve grown into. I begin to suspect that in old age I’m going to turn into a rather pompous bore, and I’ll need some cosy, comfortable wife who won’t mind in the least. I suppose Alison suited me far better than I knew.’
Sara Dane Page 52
