by Judy Nunn
Ten minutes later, she gathered herself together and left the house to inform the family of the news.
‘She’s a very fine vessel indeed, there’s no denying it,’ Silas said admiringly and beside him Mathilda nodded agreement.
‘She certainly is, Reggie, you’ve every right to be proud.’
It was Tuesday morning and Reginald had brought his parents down to Constitution Dock to admire the SS Lady Evelyn, which had arrived from the Huon just the previous day bearing a full cargo of timber for shipment to the mainland. Evelyn had not accompanied them to view her namesake for it was barely three weeks since the birth of baby Rupert.
As the three of them stood amid the hustle and bustle of the docklands, their coat collars turned up against the nip in the southerly breeze, they were not the only ones to admire the new steamer. The SS Lady Evelyn looked particularly elegant amongst the other working vessels sitting in the dock and many a comment could be heard from passers-by.
‘Yes,’ Reginald said, ‘George Powell is a master craftsman, there’s no doubt about that.’ He decided to take advantage of the moment and push another expansion idea his father’s way. In Reginald’s opinion Stanford Colonial should aim to acquire its own fleet for trade with the mainland and perhaps even Britain, thereby eliminating altogether the need to rely upon major shipping lines. He was aware his father would dismiss such a grandiose plan, but he felt there was no harm in planting the seeds that might eventually lead them in the right direction
‘The Powell family is rather impressive all round, Father,’ he said, ‘and I’m thinking we should perhaps join forces with them. They have a whole fleet doing the Huon run, you know.’
‘A whole fleet, eh.’ Silas was beyond dismissive. He didn’t even register the topic as worthy of conversation. ‘They’d better watch out is all I can say. A whole fleet can spell disaster. Look what happened to Alexander McGregor.’
Reginald felt a flash of annoyance. Was it the old man’s intention to irritate? ‘I fail to see the logic in that remark, Father,’ he said icily. ‘Fifty years ago McGregor’s was the largest and most successful individually owned fleet operating south of the equator. Where is the warning in that?’
‘Ah, but the death of whaling saw the death of his fleet, didn’t it?’ Silas pointed a bony and triumphant finger at his son. ‘He overextended himself. ‘No whales left and too many ships: that’s not sound business logic. Keep your parameters realistic, I say.’
Reginald longed to hit his father. How smug, he thought, how smug and how totally irrelevant. The old man was deliberately baiting him.
Mathilda, sensing her son’s annoyance, came smoothly to the rescue. ‘I like Alexander McGregor,’ she said. ‘He is a fine man.’
‘Yes, you’re right, my dear,’ Silas agreed, ‘he is a good man. Popular fellow too.’ Silas had not been deliberately baiting his son at all. Silas Stanford was in an excellent mood. He felt quite sprightly and was very much enjoying being out and about. ‘And the man has excellent taste, I’ll give him that much.’ He jabbed his walking cane in the direction of Battery Point, where McGregor’s stately mansion, Lenna, sat high on the hill overlooking the Derwent and the whole of Sullivan’s Cove. ‘That’s a damned fine piece of architecture.’
They gazed across the harbour at the elegant sandstone building that dominated the skyline, and for once Reginald couldn’t disagree with his father. Lenna was in his opinion one of the finest homes in Hobart, far finer than Stanford House, and its position was undoubtedly the grandest. A perfect example of Italianate style architecture, the building was a thing of beauty and its location a symbol of power. Reginald longed to own Lenna. Were he ever successful in purchasing the property he would of course change the name to Stanford Manor to lend it the dignity it deserved. McGregor’s choice of an obscure Aboriginal word apparently meaning ‘living place’ was utterly absurd.
Reginald had already tried to purchase Lenna. Twice he’d approached the old man and made offers, but each time the answer had been a resounding no. The McGregor clan had even looked upon his offers as in rather poor taste, given the fact that old Alexander had been suffering bouts of dementia for several years. But Reginald hadn’t cared. Business was business and if, in a moment of demented confusion, McGregor had said yes, Reginald would have held him to it. Allowing sentimentality to play any part in a deal was foolish.
‘Let’s go for a stroll,’ Mathilda suggested, gratified her change of subject had proved successful and that argument had been avoided. ‘The fresh air is doing you the world of good, Silas, I can tell.’
‘You’re right my dear, it is, it is.’
They set off down Morrison Street where, just one block from the wharf, ships’ chandlers and providores did a roaring trade alongside the hotels and the alehouses that never seemed to close.
As they reached Elizabeth Street, Reginald was about to make his excuses and leave his parents to themselves: he had no desire to walk with his father and there was little advantage to be found in any business discussion, for the old man was clearly in a mischievous mood. But before he could say anything, Archibald Dimbleby appeared by his side, breathless and in a state of obvious agitation.
‘I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Reginald. I must speak with you immediately.’ He tipped his hat to Mathilda and apologised profusely to Silas. ‘Please forgive the rudeness of this intrusion, sir, I beg you, but it is a matter of some urgency.’ Archibald Dimbleby, like most, held old Silas Stanford in the greatest esteem.
‘Yes, yes, I can see that.’ Silas waved his cane at them as if they were children. ‘Off you go then. Come along, my dear,’ he offered his arm to his wife, ‘we’ll be on our way.’ Mathilda smiled a farewell over her shoulder to her son as her husband marched her across Elizabeth Street.
‘I went to your offices and they didn’t know where you were.’ Archibald was more than agitated, he was on the verge of hysteria. ‘And then I called around to Stanford House and your man told me you were down at the docks . . . I’ve been looking for you everywhere, Reginald –’
‘What the devil is the matter with you, Archie? Get a grip on yourself, do.’ Reginald frowned disapprovingly. Archie was making a spectacle of himself. ‘Come along now, calm down. Take a couple of deep breaths and pull yourself together, there’s a good chap.’
Archibald did as he was told.
‘Right,’ Reginald said when he could see the man had regained a semblance of control, ‘now tell me what’s going on. What the deuce has happened to get you in such a state?’
‘It’s Shauna O’Callaghan.’
Reginald glanced about at the busy intersection. Workers were carrying barrels of ale from a dray into the Franklin Hotel and pedestrians were standing on the corner waiting for a carriage and four-in-hand to pass before crossing Elizabeth Street. Archie had not spoken loudly, no-one could have heard him, but one’s mistress was not a topic normally bandied about in public places.
‘What about her?’ he muttered.
‘She’s dead.’
Reginald stared uncomprehendingly at Archibald Dimbleby. What had the man just said? Had he just said that Shauna was dead? Was that really what he’d said? Reginald wasn’t sure if he’d heard correctly.
‘She bled to death in her own home, on her own bed – an abortion. Her mother discovered her yesterday.’
So it’s true, Reginald thought, I did hear correctly. Shauna is dead. But how could it be? That glorious creature, gone from this world, gone from his life . . . Why did he find it so impossible to believe?
‘We have to talk, Reginald. This affects us all.’ Archie was becoming jittery again. Why in God’s name was the man not saying something? ‘We can’t allow the story to become public: it could ruin us. We need to talk for heaven’s sake, we need to make a plan –’
‘You need a brandy, that’s what you need.’
Grasping Archie firmly by the arm, Reginald steered him into the Franklin Hotel and through the bar wher
e, even at ten o’clock in the morning, there were a number of hardened drinkers. He walked him on into the back parlour, which was fortunately deserted, and seated him in the corner.
‘Stay there and pull yourself together,’ he said, ‘I won’t be long,’ and, dumping his light felt hat on the table, he returned to the bar.
When he reappeared several minutes later with two glasses of brandy he was relieved to discover Archie in a considerably calmer state. Reginald, having recovered from his initial shock, found the man’s show of hysteria intrusive and intensely aggravating. He wanted to be left alone; his mind was jumbled and he needed to think.
‘So what exactly is this plan you believe we should talk about?’ he said coldly. The loss of his mistress was surely none of Archibald Dimbleby’s business.
‘Mara is utterly distraught,’ Archie said after he’d taken a sip of brandy, trying not to cough for he rarely drank hard liquor and certainly not at ten in the morning. ‘She was sobbing throughout the night. She didn’t sleep a wink, and she was still crying this morning – I’ve never seen her so distressed.’
Of course, Reginald reminded himself, Mara Dimbleby is Shauna’s sister. He supposed that did give the man some justifiable degree of involvement.
‘Mara knew that her sister was pregnant,’ Archie went on. ‘She says they discussed the matter at some length and that Shauna very much wanted to have the child. She blames you, Reginald. She holds you responsible for the abortion and therefore the death of her sister.’
‘Does she now?’ Reginald said. ‘Does she really?’ There was an unpleasant edge to his tone. ‘And how about you, Archie. What do you think?’
‘Me?’ Archie was unnerved. ‘What do I think about what?’
‘Are you also apportioning blame? Can you tell me in all honesty that you would allow a mistress of yours to bear your child?’
‘Of course not,’ Archie nervously avoided the ice-blue eyes, ‘unthinkable, utterly unthinkable.’ I wouldn’t have had a mistress in the first place, he thought, but he didn’t dare say it out loud. He found Reginald’s manner most intimidating. ‘But you must understand that Mara’s reaction is indicative of her family’s,’ he said with some urgency, ‘and this is where our problem lies.’
‘I see.’ Reginald nodded thoughtfully. He did indeed see that it was to his advantage to pay attention to Archie. Shauna had told him only the barest facts about her family; a hard-nosed businesswoman of a mother and a publican father, he recalled. Two sisters – one in Hobart, one in Launceston; two brothers – one disappeared overseas and one a drunk. So much he’d gleaned, but little more. And they were likely to cause trouble, were they? Archie had married into this motley bunch, so he should know. ‘Go on,’ he said.
‘The family is distraught. They’re Irish, you understand, and very prone to drama. They’re also common, although I must admit appearances can be deceptive, certainly where the daughters are concerned. They are unconventional and show little regard for the normal standards of social behaviour. In fact they don’t seem to care what people think of them, even when it comes down to an event as shameful as this . . .’
Archibald Dimbleby detested his involvement in the whole sordid business. This is the price one paid for having married beneath oneself, he thought. Much as he loved his wife, Archie cursed her family. He cursed the O’Callaghans, and he cursed himself for introducing Reginald to Mara’s slut of a sister, and above all he cursed Reginald Stanford for his infidelity. Why couldn’t the man honour his marital obligations and live as decent men should?
‘The O’Callaghans are quite likely to spread this hideous news all over Hobart, Reginald,’ he burst out. ‘I cannot have it known that my wife’s sister died aborting your child. I dread to think what it would do to the Dimbleby name.’
‘A great deal less than it would do to the Stanford name, I should imagine,’ Reginald said caustically, although the irony of his remark went quite unheeded.
‘Exactly,’ Archie agreed with fervour. ‘Neither of us can risk this story becoming public. The Dimblebys and the Stanfords are among those who made this town, Reginald. Our families’ names are synonymous with respectability, with philanthropic works, with the building of churches and schools. We cannot allow ourselves to be dragged through the mud. I will not have my family –’
‘Look to your own house, Archie.’ Reginald cut him off: he was not about to be lectured to by the likes of Archie Dimbleby.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Your wife. Can she be trusted to keep her mouth shut?’
‘Oh dear me, yes. Mara would not allow the name of her children to be besmirched. Much as she grieves, she will take the secret of her sister’s death to her grave rather than threaten –’
‘Good,’ Reginald said abruptly, ‘and the rest of the family, do you think they can be bought?’
‘I don’t know.’ Archie started to dither. Reginald’s sharpness was unsettling. ‘I suppose they might, I really couldn’t be sure. They’re a strange lot, the O’Callaghans.’
‘The parents live in Hampden Road, don’t they?’
Archie nodded. ‘The white wooden cottage near Runnymede Street,’ he said. ‘What do you intend –’
‘Finish your drink. It’ll do you good.’ Reginald donned his hat as he stood. ‘Have mine too while you’re at it,’ he said and he left Archie sitting in the parlour like a lonely drunk with two full glasses of brandy.
Reginald visited his bank, where he withdrew quite a sizeable amount in the form of a letter of credit. He collected some papers from his safety deposit box and completed a little further business with the bank manager, and it was close to midday when he knocked upon the front door of the O’Callaghan’s house.
Mick had just arrived home for lunch. He always came home for lunch these days, Eileen’s potato soup being kinder to his ulcer than the rich stews they served at the Hunter’s Rest.
Eileen had left him in the kitchen tending the saucepan on the stove while she set the table. She carved two chunks of bread from the loaf she’d purchased that morning and was about to spread them with a thick layer of butter the way Mick liked them when she heard the knock on the front door.
She recognised him in an instant.
‘Mrs O’Callaghan?’
She made no move and said nothing.
‘I’m Reginald Stanford.’ He took off his hat but didn’t offer his hand – it seemed fairly evident she would refuse it.
‘I know who you are.’
‘May I come in?’ Silence. ‘Please, Mrs O’Callaghan. There is something I very much wish to say to you.’
She shrugged indifferently, stepped to one side, and he entered.
Mick had heard the front door and he peered through from the kitchen to see who the visitor was. He too instantly recognised Stanford.
‘Mr O’Callaghan.’ Reginald was surprised to see the Irishman framed in the kitchen doorway. He’d expected him to be at work and had presumed he would be dealing with the woman of the house only. ‘How do you do, sir, I’m Reginald Stanford.’ He made no move to offer his hand, sensing again that it would be rebuffed.
‘What are you doing here?’ Mick stepped into the dining room.
Eileen closed the front door and, as husband and wife joined forces beside the table, Reginald wondered if he should feel threatened.
‘I have come to offer my sincerest condolences,’ he said. ‘I loved your daughter very much. Indeed, had I been a free man I would have wished with all my heart to marry her.’ He could tell they didn’t believe him. The Irishman’s expression was one of loathing and the eyes of the woman, eyes so like Shauna’s he realised, were studying him with calculated scepticism, wondering why he’d come.
‘I swear to you I have never loved anyone as deeply as I loved Shauna,’ he said, marvelling at the fact that it was actually true, ‘and I know I will never again experience a love such as we shared. You may believe that or not, choose as you wish, but I am telling you no
lie.’ It was indeed no lie, for although Reginald had allowed himself little time to dwell upon the personal impact of Shauna’s death, he knew he would never again seek another mistress.
He waited for their reply, but they remained silent, their expressions unchanged; and realising his declaration had made no helpful impact Reginald turned to business.
‘I naturally wish to pay for Shauna’s funeral and for any other expenses that may be incurred throughout this whole sad business,’ he said with all the sincerity he could muster, ‘and to that end I have with me a letter of credit.’
He took a sheaf of papers from his inner coat pocket and, selecting the letter from among them, he held it out wondering which of the two would take it. He was not surprised when it proved to be the woman.
Eileen unfolded the letter and looked at the sum. Very generous, she thought, enough for any number of funerals.
‘I also have here the deeds to the house that was Shauna’s home for the past four years,’ Reginald said. ‘I cannot bring myself to visit the place and I no longer have any wish to own it, given the memories it holds.’ He placed the papers on the table. ‘The Molle Street property is yours to do with as you will. I have had the deeds signed over and all the arrangements made. You need only complete your details and present them to the bank manager in order to finalise the transaction.’
Again he awaited their response. Would they throw the papers back in his face and tell him to get out? Would the man attack him? He certainly looked as if he wanted to – his loathing was palpable. The woman, on the other hand, was less readable. He sensed no personal hatred from her. She is hard, he thought. She is hard and calculating. He’d put his money on the woman taking the practical path.
The woman did. She picked the papers up from the table and without even looking at them she handed them to her husband. Reginald waited to see what the Irishman would do.
