by Barbara Wood
Pauline sometimes thought there was something sexual in competition, whether it was competing against other people, as she did, or against nature, as Hugh Westbrook did. It was, in fact, Hugh's intensity and fight that had attracted Pauline to him in the first place, when she had seen that not even numerous setbacks could deter him from establishing Merinda. His determination to succeed was exciting. Pauline had always known that she could only love a winner. She liked to think that while other people got drunk on wine, she got drunk on victory.
Even the small victories, she thought, arranging her hat on her head. Such as changing Hugh's mind about the nanny he had brought from Melbourne. She had offered to bring the boy to live at Lismore, but Hugh had said he preferred the arrangement the way it was. He could be stubborn, Pauline knew, but she also knew that she would have her way in the end. One way or another, Miss Drury was going to go.
When Louisa suddenly sighed, Pauline looked at her and said, "I have the distinct feeling, Louisa, that you did not come here this morning to tell me about Vilma Todd. What is it?"
"I've caught you at a bad time, Pauline. You're getting ready to go out."
Pauline motioned for the maid to leave, then sat down next to her friend on the bed and said, "Tell me what's the matter, Louisa. Perhaps I can help."
"You can't help," Louisa said as tears rose in her eyes. "I ... I think I'm pregnant."
"Louisa dear! That's nothing to cry about."
"Isn't it? I only just gave birth to Persephone and now I am in that way again! You don't know what it's like, Pauline. You know nothing of bedroom matters."
Bedroom matters, Pauline thought—something she was very much looking forward to experiencing. She thought again of Hugh, how he had appeared unexpectedly three nights ago, after his trip to Melbourne. She had only just taken him into the parlor and closed the door when he had suddenly drawn her into his arms and kissed her, impulsively and ardently. Pauline had reeled both from the unexpectedness of it, and from the intimate nature of the kiss. If Hugh had not remembered himself, they would have gone on, and Pauline would not now still be facing the delicious mystery of the wedding night. But although Hugh had behaved like a gentleman, Pauline had sensed the sexual tension in him, the coiled energy that had caused him to pace back and forth in the parlor. He had excited her more than ever before.
"You just don't know what it's like," Louisa said, as she dabbed her eyes with her handkerchief. "Miles is so demanding. Do you know, Pauline, that there are times when I pretend to be asleep at night so that he will leave me alone."
"Louisa, I had no idea. Can't you speak to him about it?"
"Talk to him? Pauline, Miles won't discuss sheep breeding in my presence, let alone our own personal matters. He is very correct, you know."
"Yes, I know," Pauline said, wondering why her vivacious friend had married such a stiff, stuffy man. When Miles Hamilton had kissed Louisa at the altar, seven years ago, Pauline had thought he looked as if he were eating a lime. Pauline could not imagine him being demanding in the bedroom.
"I'm so unhappy, Pauline. I don't know if I can keep going like this."
Pauline was beginning to wish Louisa hadn't come to see her. She disliked emotional displays, considered them to be in poor taste. "My dear Louisa," she said. "You must learn to take control. Crying isn't going to help your situation."
"You can say that now, Pauline. But wait until after you're married. It will be different then."
"I have no intention of allowing my life to change simply because I am married. I intend always to be in control, married or not. And that is how you should start thinking. Surely there is a solution, Louisa. If you can't talk to Miles, then assert yourself. Move into another bed room. Plead fatigue or ill health. You can take control, Louisa. Just decide to try."
Louisa wrung her handkerchief as her eyes darted around the room. Finally she said in a voice that was nearly a whisper, "I have tried to take control. Pauline ... I've done a terrible thing."
When Louisa said nothing more, Pauline finally said, "My dear, you know that whatever you say will not go beyond this room."
Louisa went to the window and looked out over gardens that were acclaimed by everyone as the most beautiful in Victoria. A hundred acres of orchards, lawns, lake and deer park surrounded Lismore's Tudor-style mansion. The house was set so far away from the working heart of the sheep station that from here you could see nothing of the sheep business, allowing you to believe that you were at a manor house in the English countryside. From where she stood, Louisa could see the flagstone terrace where Pauline and Frank held garden parties. Nearby were a croquet lawn and an archery range. Beyond were the servants' quarters, woodshed, laundry, and extensive stables for horses and carriages. Louisa knew that a staff of fifty took care of the house and grounds for Frank and Pauline, while many more worked the station. Lismore was like a small town, complete with store, blacksmith, wheelwright, veterinarian and housing for both permanent and transient workers. It was one more thing for which Louisa envied Pauline.
Would Pauline understand? Louisa wondered. Could a woman who had led such a sheltered life possibly begin to imagine what she was going through?
Louisa also knew that Pauline was spoiled. The elder Downs, who had worked many years ago back in England as a stable boy, had often spoken of the bitterness and frustration that had marked those boyhood years, when he had been kicked like a dog, or whipped for no reason, taking abuse from rich men because he was powerless to defend himself. Pauline's father had sworn, with every stroke of the lash, that someday he, too, was going to be rich and rule over other men. So he had come to the colonies and had built up a prosperous sheep station on 25,000 acres of lush grazing land in the western plains of the Australian colony of Victoria. Then he had built a house that was a copy of the half-timbered Elizabethan manor house where he had worked as a stable boy, sending to England for the finest furniture, carpets, chandeliers and paintings to fill it. No expense had been spared, and his two children, Frank and Pauline, shared in that reward.
And so Pauline moved in a world of richness and elegance. The rooms to which Louisa had been brought made up Pauline's private suite—a bedroom, sitting room, dressing room and personal bathroom. Louisa remembered when this last had been installed, and the talk it had caused around the district. The architect who had built Lismore had fascinated the local people with descriptions of Pauline Downs's amazing bathroom. At a time when even the richest home did not have indoor plumbing, Pauline had insisted upon having pipes installed and a flushing toilet and a sunken bathtub built right into a room off her bedroom! Louisa often thought it was like something out of Cleopatra's palace. And how typical of Pauline, too, to go against convention: Everyone knew that sitting in a tub was bad for the health. Doctors, in fact, advised against immersion bathing, citing that not even the Queen herself bathed more than twice a year. But Pauline boasted that she sat each day in a tub of hot water, and thought it was the most healthful practice in the world.
Could such a pampered woman, Louisa wondered, have the slightest notion of the torment she was going through? Louisa was torn. She had to talk to someone about her problem, and Pauline, although she might not understand, was nonetheless a woman whom Louisa knew for certain could be counted on to keep a secret.
"I paid a visit to Doc Fuller in Cameron Town," she said at last. "I asked him for advice. I'd heard that there are ... ways to prevent these things from happening. Winifred Cameron told me that women in Europe have found a way to keep from getting pregnant. But it's all very secretive. It's against the law to write or talk about such things. But I thought that Doc Fuller, being a physician ... I thought he might know and might tell me."
Pauline stared at her. "And did he?"
Louisa shook her head. "He lectured me about God's laws and wifely duties, and then he threatened to tell Miles about my visit. But I cried and begged him not to, and finally he said he wouldn't, so long as I gave up this foolish idea of trying
to prevent further pregnancies. He made me feel wretched, Pauline."
"What are you going to do now?"
Louisa turned and looked at her. "There's a new doctor in town, David Ramsey—"
"Yes, I heard about him from Maude Reed. She says he's very good."
"He's young, Pauline. I thought a young man might have a more liberal mind. I'm going to go to him. I'll beg him for the information if I have to. I'll offer him money, whatever he wants. I'm not going to give up. I don't want to end up like my mother did. She died giving birth to her eighteenth child. She had only just turned thirty-nine, you know."
"Yes, I know," Pauline said, wondering if there really were ways in which a woman could control her fertility. She had never thought about it before; she had always pictured her future as Mrs. Hugh Westbrook, surrounded by an army of beautiful, perfect children. But the producing of those children—childbirth itself, and the attending unpleasantness of pregnancy, such as physical discomfort and gaining weight, to say nothing of the limitations pregnancy put on what a woman could do—Pauline had never given these much thought. But now she did, and she was intrigued. A new challenge faced her, because she had no intention of being encumbered and kept from engaging in her favorite activities, such as riding, hunting and archery. Most especially she did not want to end up like Louisa and so many of the other young wives in the district, who had given up their youth and who were prematurely old because of being unable to control the timing of their pregnancies. Whatever those special secrets of the European women were, Pauline was determined to learn them.
"I'm sorry, Pauline," Louisa said. "I didn't mean to come here and spoil your morning. But I've been so wretched that I needed to talk to someone."
"It's all right, Louisa, I understand. I'm glad you told me. When are you going to see Dr. Ramsey?"
"I'll have to wait until I have an excuse to go into Cameron Town. I'll wait until Miles is busy with the wool baling." Louisa sighed again. "Now I must be getting back to the children."
"It's such a lovely day, Louisa. Why don't you come to Kilmarnock with me? I'm going to pay a call on Christina."
"Thank you, but I'd rather not. Kilmarnock is so gloomy. And poor Christina. I know she can't help it, but she is tiresome. I can't imagine why you would want to go there."
"The MacGregors are going to be my neighbors in a few months, I want to cultivate their friendship."
"And that husband of hers! Colin MacGregor is so cold, and he's so tedious about his peerage. He never passes up a chance to remind you that his father is a lord."
As they went out into the hall, Louisa said, "By the way, what do you think about the nanny Hugh brought from Melbourne?"
"I have no opinion at all. I haven't met her."
"I can imagine what she's like. We hired two of our downstairs maids straight off an immigrant ship, and they didn't know a fork from a spoon. And talk about no manners! Still, they're better than employing Aborigines."
They reached the downstairs foyer and Louisa caught a glimpse of herself and Pauline in a full-length mirror. She felt another stab of envy. She had never seen the new bustle-style dress before, and she thought it very becoming on someone tall and slender like Pauline. Louisa wondered if the new fashion might improve her own image. She was beginning to detest the cumbersome crinoline that billowed around her like a big brown cloud.
"But still, Pauline," she said, "if I were you, I would be burning with curiosity. I should think you would want to go to Merinda and see what she's like."
Pauline already had an idea of what Miss Drury was like. Frank had said she was pretty; no doubt she was a daughter of the lower classes, hoping to find a rich husband in the colonies. In Pauline's opinion, Australia was overrun with such women. "To go to Merinda," she said, "would be to ascribe a significance to her that she does not have. She's a hired nanny, nothing more. And only a temporary one at that. Once Hugh and I are married, I intend to replace her with someone more suitable."
"Older, you mean," Louisa said.
Pauline laughed. "Definitely older!" she said.
As they waited for their carriages, Louisa said, "I wish I were strong like you, Pauline. Nothing frightens you, does it?" She pointed to the glass case where some of Pauline's trophies and awards were displayed.
Pauline smiled, determined that her private fear would not surface. She knew that people thought of her as a woman whom nothing intimidated. She hunted wild dogs and rode spirited horses. The sudden appearance of a deadly tiger snake one day during a lawn-tennis party had sent other women running, but Pauline had killed it with an arrow. Even Frank regarded her as having a hard shell. "If you were ever pitted against an African lion, Pauline," he once said, "I wouldn't put my money on the lion!"
But there was, in fact, one creature on earth that did frighten Pauline, and she kept that fear a secret.
"Here's your carriage, Louisa dear," she said. "Please let me know how your visit with Dr. Ramsey turns out. I might find myself needing such information myself someday."
Louisa said, "Thank you, Pauline, for letting me talk. I do feel better, and I will let you know what Dr. Ramsey says."
They stepped out into the bright sunlight. "If you run into Vilma Todd," Pauline said, "please tell her that I am looking forward to seeing her on the archery range, and that I would love to put some money on the contest, if she is amenable to a friendly wager."
"Wager? Did I hear something about a wager?" Frank said as he came down the stairs. "Hello, Louisa. Leaving already? Give my regards to Miles."
Pauline stared at her brother. It was not yet noon, and here he was dressed in a black frock coat and starched white shirt, and carrying, of all things, his top hat and cane. In the middle of the day, during shearing season!
"Frank, what on earth has gotten into you?" she said. "In all the years that you have been running this station, I have never known you to be anywhere but in the paddocks during shearing. Napoleon's army couldn't drag you away from Melbourne during the rest of the year, but come shearing, you're out there watching the shearers like a dingo watching a wallaby. And now, four times in a row, you are all dressed up and about to go out in the middle of the day. Where are you going, Frank?"
"I have business in town," he said, pulling on his gloves, "and it is none of your concern."
"I see," she said. "So it's a woman then."
When he started to protest, Pauline held up a hand. "I don't want to hear about it, Frank. Enjoy yourself. Just don't whine at me when the wool clip comes up short, or if you don't get a good price from the wool brokers. I'm off to Kilmarnock."
"Good God, why?"
"I'm doing it for Hugh. It's important that he start to establish his position in the district."
As Frank watched her go he realized that, for the first time in his life, he envied his sister. She had the man she wanted, while at thirty-four Frank had yet to find a woman to whom he could be devoted. Although it was not for lack of trying.
That first night at Finnegan's, when the barmaid had done the flattering sketch of him, Frank had gone back and offered to escort her home. To his surprise—after all, he was a rich man—Miss Dearborn had declined. The next night he had asked her if she would like to go for a carriage ride. Again, to his astonishment, she did not accept. The third night he offered to take her out to dinner. But she said she was not hungry. So he had decided that he didn't want her after all. Who was she, a barmaid, to be so choosy! He hadn't gone to Finnegan's last night, and he was proud of himself for it. But when he awoke this morning, he found himself unable to stay away. He would have lunch at Finnegan's, he decided, before getting over to the shearing shed.
He wasn't going to give up. One of these times he was going to discover the one thing that Miss Dearborn could not resist. And then he would have her, the only man in the Western District to do so.
The big, castle-like house at Kilmarnock had many rooms, but there was only one which young Judd MacGregor was afraid to enter. He believ
ed it to be haunted.
Kilmarnock sheep station, situated between Merinda and Lismore, covered 30,000 acres. The house, built of bluestone, was meant to be a replica of Kilmarnock Castle in Scotland. It was massive, with turrets and battlements and tall narrow windows protected by iron bars. All that was missing was a drawbridge, although the illusion of a moat had been created by a deep bed of flowers encircling the house. It stood in the middle of vast lawns and was protected from the winds off the plains by towering eucalyptus trees. A strangely brooding sight for the first-time visitor, the house at Kilmarnock was both magnificent and foreboding. The interior continued the old world theme, with walls of dark wood, heavy Gothic furniture, and imported suits of armor standing guard. Its purpose was to create an ambience of feudalism and lordship, and anyone passing between Kilmarnock's massive doors and into the darkly paneled foyer, where crossed swords and medieval tapestries hung on the walls, could not help thinking of Colin MacGregor as the laird of his castle.
The room that six-year-old Judd MacGregor was afraid to enter stood behind a heavy door with a stone arch. Ghosts dwelt in that room, he was sure of it. Whenever Judd had to go there, he avoided looking at the waxy-skinned faces peering down from their places on the walls—austere men and women trapped between gilt frames, people long dead who seemed to look upon the living with jealous eyes. There were also ghosts who could not be seen, whose troubled spirits hovered around objects in a glass display case: a silver snuffbox, a pair of glasses, a bull's horn. And Judd knew the stories of all of them.
The first had belonged to fourteen-year-old Mary MacGregor, who had been beheaded for having hidden Bonnie Prince Charlie at Kilmarnock Castle. She had received as a reward a lock of his hair, which she kept in the silver snuffbox. The pair of spectacles had been worn by Angus MacGregor, the boatman who had taken Bonnie Prince Charlie to safety, and who had later hanged for it. Finally there was Duncan, the fourth chief of Kilmarnock, who, back in the fourteenth century, while out on the road, was confronted by a mad bull. Armed with only a dirk, he slew the beast and cut off one of its horns.
