Dolly took a deep breath and lit a cigarette. ‘All right,’ she said flatly, ‘but one glimpse of a spider or snake and I’m out of here.’
Joe led the way through the freshly mown grass, past the woodpile and on to the veranda, where the easy chair waited rather forlornly. He swung the door open and stepped back, his expression unreadable. ‘I can get another bed, and whatever else you might need,’ he said quietly.
Lulu decided to reserve judgement as she stepped into the gloom with Dolly clutching her arm. The single room smelled sweetly of freshly planed timber and was surprisingly spacious. It was spotlessly clean, with an iron bedstead made up with crisp linens, chintz curtains at the single window and a scrubbed pine table set conveniently by the unlit range. She noted the pots and pans hanging from the hooks above it, the kettle sitting on the cover of the hotplate and the cutlery and china stacked on a shelf nearby. Her spirits plummeted. She and Dolly were clearly expected to fend for themselves – they had indeed been exiled.
Dolly tenuously examined the rafters and every corner for spiders and snakes. She glanced at the pot-bellied stove with little interest, and patted the bed to test its comfort. She ran her hands over the linen and eyed the curtains, which had definitely seen better days. ‘It will do for tonight, I suppose,’ she said reluctantly.
Lulu linked arms with her. ‘I think we might have to stay a little longer than that,’ she said softly. ‘Come on, Dolly, it’s not so bad.’
‘I’m not used to this sort of thing,’ she hissed. ‘Can’t you make him change his mind?’
Lulu shot a glance at Joe, who was standing in the doorway as if determined to bar them from leaving. ‘I don’t think I can, Dolly,’ she murmured. ‘We’ll just have to put up with it until we can find somewhere better.’
Joe cleared his throat. ‘If that’s settled, then I’ll get your bags.’
‘Just a minute,’ commanded Dolly. ‘Where’s the bathroom?’
Lulu’s spirits sank further. She had hoped that particular subject would not come up until after they had unpacked and settled in. She glanced at Joe, who shuffled his feet and looked more embarrassed than ever. ‘There’s probably a boiler outside to heat the water so we can fill that tub,’ she explained, pointing to the vast tin bath that hung by the range. ‘The other facilities will also be outside.’
Dolly’s eyes widened in horror. ‘You mean we have to go outside to … to … ?’
Lulu nodded and murmured in her ear, hoping Joe couldn’t hear what she was saying.
Dolly sank on to the bed, her eyes sparking with fury. ‘That just about puts the tin lid on it,’ she snapped.
Lulu burst out laughing. ‘Oh, Dolly,’ she spluttered, ‘you should see your face.’
‘This isn’t remotely funny,’ Dolly shouted. ‘I hate camping – could never see the point – and yet here I am forced to sleep in a shed and pee in a pot.’ Her scarlet lips thinned as Lulu continued to chuckle. ‘Lulu Pearson, you’re stacking up a lifetime of favours, and if I survive this – which I doubt – you will be made to repay every last one.’
Chapter 8
Clarice gazed through the streaming window at the October rain lashing the garden. The Indian summer had broken, and now the flowers were bedraggled, buckled beneath the weight of the downpour, their petals trampled like forgotten confetti. The distant hills were veiled in clouds and the gloomy day made her feel depressed.
She sighed and looked at the letters scattered on the table. They had arrived that morning, and she’d eagerly read them, hungry for Lorelei’s news. She had described so well the places she’d seen on her journey, and had even enclosed sketches so that Clarice could share her experiences. It seemed that Lorelei had decided to remain in contact despite their terrible falling out, and Clarice was delighted, for she deeply regretted the way they had parted, and wanted only to repair the damage. There had been nothing from Australia – it was too soon – and she hoped that Lorelei’s rose-tinted memories of her homeland would not be shattered by the reality.
Clarice sank into the chair by the window. It had been raining that day in Sydney, she remembered – that awful day when her world was torn apart and she lost everything that mattered.
Sydney, October 1888
Clarice had lived in fear for the first weeks of the New Year, but as time passed and there was no sign of the dreaded pregnancy, she breathed more easily. And yet she had changed. Gone was the defiance she’d so manfully struggled to attain – gone the spark of passion she’d held on to so tightly – and in their place was a haughty reserve that she wrapped around herself like a suit of armour.
She had never been good at falsehoods, and knew she didn’t have the skills to withstand Algernon’s probing questions, but it seemed he suspected nothing of the events of that fateful night and hadn’t noticed the shift in her demeanour. In fact he appeared oblivious to everything but his work, and for that she was grateful.
Clarice avoided all but the most important social events and had become the dutiful wife. Taking charge of the servants, seeing that Algernon ate regular meals, and entertaining his tedious guests with cool grace, she’d discovered sanctuary in her metamorphosis, and welcomed it.
The hardest part was trying to avoid Eunice. It would have been impossible to face her in the first weeks – to have to sit in her company knowing the terrible secret she harboured. But as time went on, and Eunice began to question her withdrawal from society and her reluctance to visit, she’d realised she had to continue her relationship with her sister as if nothing had happened. It hadn’t been easy – especially when Lionel seemed to make a point of being at home when she called.
But there were rumours that Lionel had found another distraction in the form of the young wife of a senior diplomat – and whether or not that was the reason, he began to spend more time away. Eunice never spoke of it, or confided in her sister about her husband’s unfaithfulness, so Clarice was saved from having to discuss his nefarious ways. And yet she knew her sister was suffering – that she, Clarice, had become a part of that suffering – and she wished there was something she could do to ease it. But of course there wasn’t, and Clarice’s guilt bore down every time they were together.
The winter had been mild, but as October dawned, it brought heavy rain and a chill wind. Lionel was away, reportedly on military business in Brisbane, and Eunice had invited her for luncheon.
The delicious meal had been marred by Gwen’s recalcitrant mood, but when it was over Clarice went to sit in her favourite chair so she could look at the spectacular view from the drawing-room window while she drank coffee. She drew the wrap over her shoulders as she watched the roiling sea crash to shore. It was still cold, despite the roaring fire in the hearth, for there was an easterly wind that bent the trees and blew horizontal rain past the windows.
‘I’d like you to look at these and give me some advice,’ said Eunice, as she picked up a catalogue.
‘You don’t need her advice,’ said Gwen rudely. ‘I know which dress I want.’
‘It isn’t appropriate, dear,’ sighed Eunice. ‘You’re far too young for such a sophisticated style.’
‘I’ll be fifteen,’ she snapped, ‘and I will not turn up at my birthday party looking like this.’ She flounced back in her chair and folded her arms.
Clarice regarded her coolly, unimpressed with her behaviour. Gwen’s long brown hair was tied back with two white bows of ribbon, and her dress was blue with a sailor collar and deep cuffs. It fell to mid-calf, revealing thick black stockings and frilled white petticoats, and was the customary attire of every girl who had yet to make their debut.
‘I never suggested you should,’ said Eunice drily. ‘I have chosen a perfectly good gown for you to wear on the night, which is stylish, but appropriately simple for your age. You will look lovely.’
‘I’ll look ridiculous,’ she muttered. ‘All my friends have been permitted to choose their gowns, so why can’t I?’
‘The décolletage is far too daring, an
d the style overly sophisticated for one so young. It will give entirely the wrong impression.’ She looked to Clarice for support, clearly at the end of her tether with this ongoing argument.
Clarice eyed the truculent Gwen and realised she had to be handled diplomatically if there was not to be a tantrum. ‘Why don’t you show me the pattern?’ she suggested. ‘Perhaps we could find a way of adapting it that will satisfy you both.’
‘It doesn’t need adapting,’ the girl said crossly. She grabbed the catalogue from her mother, riffled through the pages and slammed it back on the low table between them, making the coffee cups rattle in their saucers. ‘There it is. See? It’s perfect.’
Clarice looked at the photograph and shared her sister’s misgivings. The catalogue was from a Paris fashion house, and proclaimed their designs to be the epitome of the current rage sweeping Europe – ‘La Belle Epoque’. The dress was cut low, the model’s bosom pushed up by her corsetry and emphasised with a frilled bodice. The sleeves were fluted and highly decorated with more lace and ribbon, and the skirt swept from the tiny waist over a small padded bustle and into a layered train that was a lacy, beribboned waterfall. It was the most beautiful dress she had ever seen, and Clarice could understand why Gwen desired it – but it had been designed for a woman, not a child.
‘I’m sorry, Gwen, but I agree with your mother,’ she said quietly.
Gwen snatched the catalogue from her hands, her eyes glinting dangerously. ‘I might have known you’d side with her,’ she hissed.
‘We both know what is appropriate, Gwen, dear,’ soothed Eunice, ‘and please don’t be rude to your aunt. She’s only trying to help.’
‘Then she should mind her own business,’ Gwen muttered. She returned to the chair and flicked through the pages. ‘You’re both too old to understand anything about today’s fashions.’ She met her mother’s gaze belligerently. ‘Those awful dresses you wear went out with the ark.’
‘Gwen, behave, or I will cancel the party.’
Her laughter was scornful. ‘Daddy promised me a party, and you wouldn’t dare cancel it behind his back.’
‘Your father left me in charge of the arrangements,’ retorted Eunice. ‘He will support my decision to cancel once he knows why.’
Gwen’s eyes narrowed. ‘He’d never do that, and you know it. Daddy made me a promise, and he would never break it.’
‘Your father makes many promises,’ murmured Eunice. ‘He rarely keeps them.’
‘He tells you what you want to hear to keep you quiet,’ retorted Gwen. ‘He’s never lied to me or let me down – and never will.’
Clarice saw the blush in Eunice’s cheeks and the capitulation in the slant of her shoulders. The girl obviously had as little respect for her mother as Lionel – and Eunice knew it. Her palm itched to slap that spiteful face as she silently urged her sister to stand up to her for once – to stop giving in to Lionel’s undermining indulgences that had turned their daughter into a spoilt brat.
But Eunice had no fight left in her and remained silent.
Gwen’s expression was crafty. ‘He’s already seen the dress and approves, and has promised to send me the material from Brisbane.’ She tossed the catalogue on to the low table and leant back in her chair, the gleam of mocking humour still in her eyes as she twisted the white hair ribbon through her fingers. ‘You might as well save your breath for something more worthwhile than empty threats.’
‘Don’t talk to your mother like that,’ snapped Clarice.
‘I’ll talk to her any way I like,’ she drawled, her fingers still twirling the ribbon.
‘If you regard yourself sophisticated enough to wear such clothing, then you should address your manners,’ replied Clarice, her spine rigid with contempt.
Gwen eyed her coldly. ‘Since when did you take on the role of etiquette advisor?’
‘I do not claim to be an expert,’ said Clarice, ‘but I have learnt that the way one deports oneself is vital. Society shuns those who do not conform, and it would be a pity to become alienated before you’ve even left the nursery.’
‘I left the nursery long ago, and have no intention of being shunned by society. I’m perfectly aware of how to behave in public.’
‘Then have the grace to mind your manners when you are at home,’ Clarice said with a glare. ‘There is no excuse for rudeness, and it is deeply unattractive.’
‘I hardly think you’re the right person to hand out advice. You’re not exactly the social doyenne of Sydney, are you?’ Her critical gaze travelled from Clarice’s neat boots to the plain velvet hat. ‘More the dull little housewife with aspirations of grandeur. You and that creep Algernon are perfectly suited to one another.’
‘That’s enough!’ gasped Eunice. ‘Go to your room.’
‘Hmph. I don’t think so.’ Gwen stopped playing with the ribbon, picked up a book and flicked through the pages.
Eunice rose from her seat, grabbed the catalogue from the table and threw it into the blazing hearth. ‘There,’ she breathed, as she sat down again, ‘it’s gone. And so is your party.’
Incandescent with rage, Gwen flew out of her seat and upended the table. The scalding coffee pot landed in Eunice’s lap, and she leapt from her seat with a cry of distress and pain.
Then Gwen raised her arm as if to strike Eunice, and Clarice made a grab for it. ‘Stop it,’ she barked. ‘Stop this now.’
‘Don’t you touch me,’ she snarled, wresting from her grasp and giving her a shove.
Clarice reacted without thinking and shoved her back.
‘You bitch!’ the girl spat, as she stumbled over the fallen coffee pot and sat down with a bump on the carpet. ‘How dare you!’
‘Pull yourself together, Gwendoline.’ Eunice was holding up the folds of her sodden skirt in an attempt to keep it from touching her legs. She reached out a placating hand as Gwen scrambled to her feet. ‘You’re overwrought, dear, and will make yourself ill.’
She slapped it away. ‘Leave me alone, you milk-sop sow,’ she hissed.
Eunice paled. ‘What did you say?’
‘I called you a milk-sop sow! What’s the matter, Mother? Have you lost your hearing?’
Eunice’s hands were trembling. ‘There’s nothing wrong with my hearing, but I’m shocked you should use such disgusting language.’
‘Why? Daddy uses it all the time.’
Eunice shook her head and took a step back, her eyes wide with horror. ‘He doesn’t,’ she breathed.
‘Oh yes, he does. I’ve heard him. But of course you choose to ignore it, just like you ignore everything else he does. He works so hard, and tries to please you, but your whining and pathetic nagging makes his life a misery. No wonder he has to have his mistresses.’
Eunice sank to the couch, her face ashen, the soaked skirt forgotten. ‘How did you … ? You couldn’t possibly …’
Clarice rushed to Eunice and put an arm around her trembling shoulders, trying to comfort her. She looked up at Gwen, who was obviously still intent on provoking a fight. ‘I think you’ve said more than enough,’ she said firmly, ‘and if this is an example of your maturity, then I pity you.’
‘I don’t want your pity, you whey-faced trollop,’ she said with deadly calm.
Clarice froze – trapped by the predatory gleam in the girl’s eyes.
‘Please, Gwen, stop,’ sobbed Eunice.
‘Why? Because I’ve made you cry? Tears don’t work on Daddy, and they don’t work on me. No wonder he prefers to spend time away – you’ve driven him out with your snivelling, forced him to seek comfort elsewhere.’
‘I didn’t drive him away,’ Eunice whimpered. ‘I was just not enough for him.’ She lifted her tear-stained face in appeal. ‘I love your father, Gwen, and thought that if I could make him see how much he’s hurt me over the years, he’d stop his philandering and come back to me.’ She put her face in her hands and sobbed. ‘But he never did.’
There was no compassion in Gwen’s face as she looke
d down at her mother – merely contempt. ‘You stupid woman – of course he didn’t. Why come home to a feeble fool who does nothing but weep and wail and behave like a doormat? Daddy’s a handsome man, and women adore him. It isn’t his fault they force themselves on him.’
Eunice had no answer, and Clarice felt chilled as Gwen’s angry gaze swept over her before returning to Eunice.
‘It’s your fault Daddy spends so much time away. All you think about is yourself and what you need – you never give a thought to what I want. Well, I need him with me, and I want him to stay at home.’
‘He’s in the military,’ sobbed Eunice. ‘His work demands his absence.’ She grasped Clarice’s hand and leant on her shoulder. ‘Please make her stop, Clarry. I can’t take any more.’
Gwen watched them both with malevolence. ‘You must think you’re very lucky to have such a loving, loyal sister to depend on.’
Clarice found she couldn’t breathe. Where was this going? Surely Gwen didn’t know about that night in the rose garden? She was just a child – how could she?
Eunice clutched Clarice’s hand. ‘What do you mean?’ she whispered.
Gwen wet her lips. ‘Your precious sister knows what I mean.’ Her gaze settled on Clarice. ‘Why don’t you explain? After all, you’re one of the reasons Daddy has been away so much this year.’
Clarice released her hand from Eunice’s grip. Her heart was pounding and her mouth was dry, but the steely reserve that she’d honed over the past months came to her rescue. ‘Your spite will destroy your mother, and this has gone far enough,’ she said icily. ‘Stop now, Gwen, before you say something you will live to regret.’
Eunice was clearly confused as she turned to her sister. ‘What are you both talking about, Clarry? Have you and Lionel had a falling-out? I don’t understand.’
Clarice couldn’t speak as her gaze met Gwen’s.
‘They haven’t fallen out – far from it,’ said Gwen triumphantly. ‘Clarice is in love with Daddy, and has been pursuing him ever since she arrived here.’
‘That’s not true.’ Clarice’s voice rang out in the ensuing silence.
Ocean Child Page 16
