by Barbara Wood
"I have resented you all this time," Pauline said, looking at Joanna, "because I thought you stole Hugh from me. But now I realize that he was probably never mine in the first place. Especially in that year following the typhoid epidemic—I bore particularly hard feelings against you. And that is why I did something of which I am now ashamed."
Joanna regarded Pauline with some mystification. They had been vaguely distant rivals for such a long time that this sudden intimacy, and the confession that she sensed was about to be uttered, perplexed her.
"I am talking about the five thousand acres that my brother used to own," Pauline said, "that edge the northern boundary of Merinda. I knew Colin wanted them as part of his twisted response to Christina's death, his desire for revenge against Hugh. I offered that land to Colin because I wanted him to marry me. I didn't know what he was going to do with it. I'm sorry you and Hugh suffered such a loss in that storm."
Joanna stared at her. "I don't understand," she said. "I had heard rumors of this revenge, but I don't know what it's about."
Pauline told her in a straightforward manner about the night Christina died, and how Hugh had said Joanna would come to Kilmarnock after she woke. "I lied to Colin. I knew then that I had lost Hugh to you, and I hated you both. So I told Colin you had refused to come and help his wife."
"And then, when she died, he blamed both Hugh and me."
"Yes."
"I see," Joanna said, as she rose and went to stand by the fireplace. She ran her finger along the mantle and made a note to tell Peony that she had forgotten to dust it again. "I appreciate your honesty, Pauline," she said after a moment. "It was a terrible tragedy. We lost two men in that storm, and we almost lost Hugh. It set Merinda back severely. But we have recovered, and people can't always help what they feel. I think we should put it all behind us." Although, she thought unhappily, Stringy Larry and a fifteen-year-old boy died because of that vengeful act.
"I shall need to ask you some rather personal questions," Joanna said, returning to her chair. She would think further about Pauline's confession later, when she was alone, and when and how, or even if she was going to tell Hugh about it.
"You may ask me anything you like," Pauline said.
"Do you and your husband make love very often?"
Make love, Pauline thought wryly. We go to bed, we have sex. Love is not involved. "Once a week," she said.
"The position is sometimes important in matters of conception. Do you lie on your back?"
Pauline felt her cheeks redden. Not even the doctors she had gone to had asked her such intimate details. "Yes," she said.
Joanna asked a few more questions—Did Pauline get up immediately afterward? Did she take a bath right away? Was she in the habit of regularly using hygienic douches?—and then she proceeded to explain how little was known about women's bodies and the mysterious process of reproduction.
Joanna had purchased a book in Melbourne called Modern Gynecology. It had been written a few years earlier, in 1876, by a well-known American physician, and in it was a reference to the discovery of the human ovum, earlier in the century. The author postulated that the ovum might possibly be subjected to a periodic cycle, and that it might in some way be connected to the menstrual cycle. He went a step further with the radical suggestion that menstruation might not be triggered by the moon after all, as was commonly believed, but by physiological factors within the body.
Although the man's theories were generally snubbed by the medical community, Joanna had been wondering if it was possible that he was right. Was there a regular cycle in women, she asked herself now, that could somehow be predicted? She thought about sheep farmers, and how they had known for centuries that ewes were not fertile all year round, but only at certain times, and that those times could be predicted so that rams could be put with them. Was it possible, therefore, she wondered, that women were also fertile only on certain days in their cycle, and that those days might be determined and then charted?
"I am going to ask you, Pauline, to keep a diary throughout three or four complete cycles," Joanna said. "Write down how you feel every day—every hour, when possible. I will give you a thermometer. Take your temperature daily. Chart it. Note any changes you experience, physical and mental, no matter how slight. Describe your emotions, for instance, or any cravings you might have, or headaches or other problems. Perhaps we will see a pattern. And then perhaps we can determine when you are at your most fertile moment."
"I'll do whatever you suggest."
"I cannot guarantee anything," Joanna said, "but from what I have read about experiments in this cycle theory, which is called 'ovulation,' there have been promising results."
They rose together and regarded each other across a mote-filled beam of sunlight.
"In the meantime," Joanna said. "Remember what I said about a pillow beneath the hips, and to remain on your back for a while afterward. And avoid drinking such teas as pennyroyal or juniper."
As Pauline rode away from Merinda, she thought of what Joanna had suggested: calendars and temperature charts. But where, she wondered, was the love?
TWENTY
S
ARAH STOOD IN FRONT OF THE MIRROR AND STUDIED HER reflection. She was naked, having just finished bathing.
Philip McNeal and his wife were due to arrive at Merinda any time now; Hugh had gone to the railway station to meet them. The household was bustling with last-minute preparations; Sarah could hear them in the hall: Beth instructing Button to behave, Adam asking Joanna if Mr. McNeal was going to tell them stories about America, and Joanna assuring Mrs. Jackson, the cook, that her meringue of peaches was going to be a huge success with the guests. The household had been preparing for days, ever since Hugh and Joanna had offered the McNeals the hospitality of Merinda and they had accepted. Nothing would do for Joanna except a thorough housecleaning. With the hired help of two local girls, they had gone through the rustic rooms with the vigor of people sprucing up a palace. Down came the curtains and up came the rugs; floors were scrubbed and polished; bedding was washed and ironed; and everything that didn't move was dusted, mended, polished and replaced with care. The house smelled of lemon oil and the aromas of Mrs. Jackson's days of baking.
The McNeals were going to be living at Merinda while the new house was being built. Philip would be sleeping here, in Sarah's bedroom, in her bed, with his wife. Sarah would to move into the next room with Beth.
She could hear everyone heading toward the veranda, where they would greet the visitors. She was lagging behind. She had lingered over her bath, and now she lingered before her mirror, studying her large breasts and wide hips with a critical eye. She felt cursed with the voluptuousness of her mother's people; she wished she had Joanna's modest breasts and slender hips.
She thought about Philip. She was surprised that he was married. He had seemed to her to be a rootless spirit, a soul that must always be on the move, following his own private songline. Perhaps that songline had led him to the woman he had married, perhaps she was what he had been looking for. Since the day they met at the exhibition, Sarah had been able to think of little else, and it troubled her. She knew she had once had a girlhood crush on him, but she had not really expected ever to see him again, especially as the years went by and she had no word of him. The sudden rush of emotion she had felt when she saw Philip in Melbourne had startled her, and now she was trying to sort out her feelings. Surely, she thought, she couldn't be falling in love with him.
She wondered what he thought of her. What had gone through his mind when he had seen her for the first time in six-and-a-half years? There had been a look of surprise on his face.
Sarah tried to picture what his wife would be like: She could only imagine Philip marrying someone strong, someone with substance. She thought of Pollen on the Wind. Perhaps that was whom Philip had married. He had spoken often of her.
But his wife's name was Alice. That was what he had written in his latest letter. Her name was Alice.
Despite the closed shutters and the wet sacking that had been hung on the outside walls to cool the house, the room was hot, and late-afternoon sun knifed through the slats of the louvered shutters. Sarah placed her hands on her breasts. Her skin was feverish, damp. She closed her eyes. Philip was married, she told herself.
Hurried footsteps in the hall outside her door reminded Sarah of the hour. And then she heard Beth's voice ringing through the house, "They're here! They're here!"
Sarah dressed hurriedly, her hands shaking as she did up the buttons of her white blouse. The high collar and cuffs were starched; her petticoats were heavy and layered. She suddenly resented the restrictive clothing, which was so impractical in this heat. She often wondered why, when they lived in such a warm climate, Australian women chose to dress as though they were still in cool, misty England. But Sarah complied with the rules. She cinched her waist with a corset; she wore her hair swept up on top of her head; she fastened a cameo brooch at her uncomfortable collar; and she pushed her feet into high-heeled leather boots.
She came out onto the veranda just as the carriage was pulling into the yard. Beth wanted to run down the path and greet the visitors, but Joanna kept a restraining hand on her daughter's shoulder with a murmured, "Act ladylike." Everyone's excitement was palpable in the still afternoon air. Houseguests were not uncommon at Merinda, but they were usually Hugh's grazier friends. An architect from America was quite a different matter.
Hugh got down from the carriage on one side, and Philip on the other. They both raised a hand to help Mrs. McNeal, and the little boy with her.
"She's lovely!" Mrs. Jackson whispered as she stood behind Joanna. "But she's so young. Still a girl, I'd reckon."
Sarah's eyes were fixed on Alice McNeal. She took in the petite figure dressed in a brown velvet traveling suit, the delicate way Alice put her foot to the ground, the graceful bend of her wrist as she accepted Philip's hand, and the demure smile she offered Hugh. When McNeal took the little boy by the hand, Sarah saw that Alice barely came up to her husband's shoulders. Compared to the two men who accompanied her along the walk, Mrs. McNeal appeared almost doll-like. Sarah saw the rich black hair beneath a smart bonnet, a complexion that was even whiter than she had imagined and the kind of heart-shaped face that was currently in vogue in ladies' fashion magazines.
"Mrs. Westbrook," Philip said, "I would like you to meet my wife, Alice. And Daniel."
Joanna went down the steps with her hands out. "I am so pleased to meet you, Mrs. McNeal. Welcome to Merinda. And Daniel, how nice!"
As Alice McNeal walked up the steps, Sarah saw a wan smile and deep-set, shadowed eyes. She was struck by an air of melancholy that had not been apparent at a distance.
"These are my children, Adam and Beth," Joanna said. "And this is Sarah King, who lives with us."
Sarah thought that Alice's eyes rested upon her for a rather long moment. And then everyone was going inside.
They went into the parlor, but Hugh couldn't wait to say to Philip, "Why don't we go down to the river and have a look at the building site? I'm anxious to hear what you have to say."
"But Hugh darling," Joanna said. "Our guests have only just arrived. Can't it wait until they have rested?"
"Not at all, Mrs. Westbrook," Philip said, as he and Hugh headed for the door. "I'm anxious to get to work. I've come up with some new ideas that I think you will find exciting. Gas lighting, for one thing. I predict that in ten years every household will have gas lighting. If we install gas piping and a shed for the gas machinery now, it will save an expensive conversion later. And indoor plumbing ..."
The two men left the room talking, with Beth and the dog and Adam trailing behind. When Joanna offered Mrs. McNeal a chance to freshen up, Alice accepted, saying, "Daniel and I would appreciate it, Mrs. Westbrook. The journey was most exhausting."
Joanna said, "I'll take you to your room," but in the next instant Hugh was in the doorway, saying, "Joanna? Aren't you coming with us?"
"You go ahead, Joanna," Sarah said. "I'll take Mrs. McNeal and Daniel to their room."
As they walked down the hall, with Sarah carrying a suitcase and Alice McNeal leading three-year-old Daniel, Alice said, "It's so warm out. How do you manage to keep the house so cool?"
"We hang wet sacking on the outside walls. As the moisture evaporates, it cools the inside of the house."
Sarah led the way into her bedroom, which had been made ready for the guests by the addition of another bed and a cot for Daniel, and the removal of Sarah's things. "The dresser has been emptied for you," she said as she opened the drawers. "And there is plenty of room in the clothes cupboard. These doors here," she said, going to the shuttered French doors, "open onto the veranda, which will make the room cool at night. There is fresh water in the pitchers on the washstand, and you will find extra towels on the top shelf of the cupboard. If there is anything else you need—"
Daniel suddenly pulled loose from his mother and went running out of the room.
"Daniel!" Alice said, going after him.
She and Sarah found him next door in Beth's bedroom, reaching for the stuffed fur toy that sat on her bed.
"No, no, Daniel," Alice said. "That doesn't belong to you."
But Sarah said, "I don't think there would be any harm in Daniel's holding it."
Alice watched how her little boy clutched the strange toy, and said, "What a curious-looking doll! It looks like a pillow made of fur. What is it supposed to be?"
"We don't know, really. It belonged to Joanna's mother." Sarah bent down and said to Daniel, "His name is Rupert. And he's very old. You will take good care of him, won't you?"
Alice looked around the room and saw how cramped it was, the second bed clearly not belonging. "You've given us your room, haven't you, Miss King?" she said. "I'm sorry to put you out. I told Philip that Daniel and I would be perfectly all right at a hotel, but he insisted upon staying here."
"It's all right," Sarah said. "I'll be sleeping with Beth for the time being. It's no inconvenience. And please call me Sarah."
Alice gave her an uncertain look, and it struck Sarah that even the bedposts seemed to diminish her. Sarah guessed her age at around twenty-five, and she spoke, to Sarah's surprise, with a British accent. "I'm afraid I'm a bit baffled by all of this," Alice said, smiling apologetically. "Philip and I have been on the move ever since we got married. We left England to live in America, and then, when we left America to come to the exhibition, I was under the impression that we would not be away for long. I miss my family. They're all in England, and I have been away from them now for such a long time."
She looked down at the little boy who was turning Rupert over and over, as if to determine which was top and which was bottom. Daniel's head was damp with perspiration; black curls were matted to his forehead. "Daniel has never known a real home," she said quietly. "Philip and I have only lived in hotels, because his work calls for us to move around a lot. And then there was the long ocean voyage to Australia, and five months at the exhibition. And now ..."
She looked at Sarah, and again her smile was apologetic. "Well, I am sure we shall make the best of it. Thank you for giving us your room. It is very kind of you. A house is so welcome after years of hotels. Daniel will be very happy here."
"He'll have Beth to play with, and the animals, of course," Sarah said, realizing that there was a sadness about Alice McNeal that was almost tangible.
Alice regarded Sarah for a long moment. Then she said, "Philip told me about you. You're just as nice as he said you were."
Sarah left and quietly closed the door behind her. She tried to understand her confused emotions—her sudden, unexpected feelings for Philip, and then meeting his wife and experiencing compassion for her, a woman-to-woman feeling; and sadness also for the little boy who had never had a home.
As Sarah carefully measured fennel leaves into the pot of boiling water, she tried not to think about Philip. She was in the solarium, making herbal syru
ps. It was late evening; Joanna and Alice were in the parlor with Beth and Daniel; Hugh and Philip had gone back to the river to view the foundation of the new house by moonlight. As she worked, Sarah could hear, in the distance, the lonely wail of dingoes.
The night seemed to wrap itself around her like warm velvet. Even the stars looked hot. And the moon was so big and yellow and bright that it might have been another sun. Sarah's skin was damp; she felt her petticoats clinging to her legs. As she watched the fennel leaves simmer in the pot, taking care not to let the water boil down too far, she thought of how she had watched Philip across the dinner table, the way the candlelight had glowed on his face. She had been fascinated by the shine of moisture on his upper lip. She had found herself watching his mouth, mesmerized by it while he spoke.
Occasionally, as the conversation had moved around the table, she thought she had caught Philip glancing at her. Had she seen a silent communication in his eyes? She chided herself for having an overactive imagination. Sarah told herself that it was only in her mind that Philip had seemed to look at her more frequently than he had looked at the others, or that while he had spoken to everyone at the table in general, whether it was to talk about America, or the exhibition, or the ideas he had for the Westbrooks' new house, he had seemed to be looking only at her. Hadn't she herself been guilty of staring? Hadn't she barely glanced at her companions? Could she recall what Joanna or Alice had worn at dinner? She hadn't been able to eat. She had moved the food around her plate. She had listened to Alice McNeal's soft-spoken description of their ocean voyage from San Francisco, and had stared at her wineglass. She had heard Philip's warm laughter fill the room, and she had heard him address his wife as "darling." Afterward, when the others had adjourned to the parlor, Sarah had excused herself, saying that if she let the fennel go for too long, it would lose its potency.
