by Di Morrissey
‘I know. But time is a great healer. It can’t be rushed. He’s still mourning for Catherine and, even if he doesn’t realise it, he blames this wee thing for her death.’
‘And in the meantime, you get to play mum. Don’t get too attached, Glad . . . you know she’ll be taken over by nannies and governesses as soon as the master is himself again.’
‘I know,’ sighed Mrs Butterworth, lifting up little Ben to prevent him sitting on the baby’s plump tummy. ‘Well, we’d better get back to the big house. Upsadaisy, Kate.’
‘Kate? She has a name now?’
‘That’s just what I call her. After her dear ma. Terrible thing she hasn’t even been christened. He won’t even hear it discussed. Said the child was never to come into his sight or be mentioned in his presence. It’s quite frightening the way he’s so cold. He hasn’t laid eyes on her. I bet if he just saw and held her, his heart would melt. Anyway, thanks for the cool drink, Nettie.’
Gladys settled the baby in her arms, draping the cotton shawl about her. Kate’s blue eyes were beginning to droop from the fresh air and exercise. Gladys set off through the gardens and on an impulse took the longer path that wound past the sunken garden towards the dark grove of trees which hid the Indian House.
She hadn’t been there since Catherine had died. Indeed, she had rarely been there. It had been Catherine’s private retreat and she was never disturbed during the times she sat in peaceful meditation or drifted to sleep on what she called her magic bed. It was always cool in the Indian House and in the heat of summer Catherine had often taken a nap there. Surrounded by sweetly scented oils that burned over a small candle, her mind would drift as she gazed at the jewelled sky inset in the canopy, before her eyelids closed and she slept peacefully.
Mrs Butterworth was surprised to see the door of the Indian House ajar, and she cautiously pushed it open and stepped inside. A sudden movement made her gasp, and clutch the baby to her chest.
‘Ooh, Mrs B . . . you scared me!’ Little Mary jumped off the bed and stood meekly before her.
‘Mary! What are you doing in here?’
‘I come here a lot since our mam . . . went away.’
‘I don’t think you should, dear. I thought it was kept locked. Did you take the key?’
Mary hung her head and produced the big brass key from the pocket of her dress. ‘I come and keep it tidy. Look . . . I dust and I sweep up the floor and shine all the pretty windows.’ Eagerly the young girl dashed about the tiny palace, pointing out her work.
‘Well, that’s very nice, dear. It does look spick and span.’ Gladys laid the sleeping baby in the centre of the bed and followed Mary. ‘It is nice in here. It still smells of those oils and perfume she liked.’ Gladys Butterworth felt tears spring to her eyes as she looked through the faceted window of coloured glass. She missed Catherine more than she could say, even to Harold.
While Gladys indulged in a moment of rare melancholy, she didn’t notice Mary edge towards the bed and stare stolidly at the sleeping baby. Slowly Mary reached out and placed her hand on the baby, then awkwardly leaned down to gather her in her arms.
Mrs Butterworth turned at the slight noise. ‘My goodness, Mary, what are you doing? You’ll drop her if you pick her up like that! Don’t touch her . . . oh dear, you’ve woken her up.’ Mrs Butterworth picked up the now crying baby. Making soothing noises, she turned towards the door and didn’t see Mary’s arms fall to her sides as she looked down at her feet, her eyelids masking glistening eyes. ‘Come along now, lock up. And you ask permission first before you come here again. Understood?’
‘Yes, Mrs B.’
Hock Lee had taken over Robert’s role in the business while he mourned, but now he thought it was time he made some move to drag Robert from his sorrowful lethargy.
The Governor General was visiting Sydney and Hock Lee insisted that Robert make the effort to entertain the viceregal couple. ‘It will be an opportunity to pick up the business and government connections you have dropped these past months, Robert. I’m afraid I will be more in the background as your “silent partner”. These fears and silly protestations over the “yellow peril” descending in hordes from the east put me in an uncomfortable position.’
‘You are a respected and influential businessman, Hock Lee; none of this hysteria applies to you.’
‘Nonetheless, it is surprising how people suspect and fear origins or a heritage other than their own.’ Hock Lee was not at all perturbed at the idea he might be insulted or someone take offence at his Asiatic features. In recent years he had lopped off his long pigtail with due ceremony and now wore his silky black hair fashionably short. While most men sported a moustache or a beard, his olive skin was smooth and hairless, showing off his fine strong teeth and black almond-shaped eyes.
Hock Lee was trying to push Robert into taking control again. He was shocked at his appearance and vague, almost confused manner. Robert wasn’t functioning in the world of reality. Loneliness, heartbreak and too many bottles of whisky had pushed him into a grey world of shadows and memories.
‘I want you to come and stay with me for a few days . . . so I can fill you in on what’s been happening with the business. Besides, you could do with fattening up with some of mother’s cooking. I won’t take no for an answer. As to the reception, I’ve hired professionals to arrange the evening in conjunction with the Butterworths. You won’t have to worry about a thing.’
‘Catherine always made everything so beautiful . . .’ Robert’s voice trailed away.
Hock Lee was brisk. ‘Come along, Robert, let’s get you organised. The city is what you need right now.’
Two weeks later Zanana came to life, if only for a night. It was a perfect Indian summer evening. At dusk the gas lights along the driveway were lit, shining with a soft smoky glow, illuminating the trees that lined the drive. At the main entrance to the house a Moreton Bay fig tree was floodlit from below, its twisted branches casting eerie shapes across the lawn.
Zanana shimmered with lights. Through some of the ground floor French doors leading to the ballroom, the elite of Sydney society swirled slowly, making light talk beneath the huge crystal chandelier. White-jacketed waiters with silver trays moved through the elegantly dressed guests, many of them in dress uniform.
A reception party, led by Robert, finished their drinks, checked the time and moved to the main entrance. As they grouped at the bottom of the steps a motor car with the viceregal flag fluttering from the silver crest at the front rolled up the drive, the lights from the mansion reflected in the mirrored black polish of the car.
The viceregal party was introduced to the dignitaries waiting under the portico, then the entourage moved into the ballroom where the band played ‘God Save The King’, as the guests stood to attention.
‘I thought this was supposed to be an informal dinner,’ whispered Harold in Gladys’s ear.
‘It wouldn’t be any fun without a bit of pomp,’ she answered.
‘Doesn’t look like much fun to me. Imagine walking about in those getups. Feathers for goodness sakes.’
‘Oh, Harold! They only wear them on fancy occasions like this. My, look at the jewellery on that woman!’
‘The gee-gee’s wife looks like a schooner under full sail,’ remarked Harold unkindly as the rotund lady heaved into view.
‘Come on, Harold, we have work to do,’ said Gladys, nudging him towards the back stairs.
Sixteen people were seated at the main dining table, with two adjoining circular tables of eight on either side. The silver candelabra shone, the damask and linens were crisply starched, bouquets of roses were massed in crystal and silver vases next to the serving dishes on the walnut sideboard and mahogany chiffonier. The ornate epergne in the centre of each table was filled with sweetmeats, nuts, fruits and flowers. At each place setting the Georgian silver service was set beside the Mennecy dinnerware and Victorian glassware chosen by Catherine.
The meal was elaborate — wild mushroom s
oup, trout, roast duck and goose, followed by Madeira syllabub and kheer — a delicate rice custard Catherine had discovered in India which was served in pretty dishes, its surface covered in vark, a thin sheet of pure silver which was edible as well as decorative.
Despite the elegant setting, the smooth and stylish service, and the discreet palm court orchestra playing in the background, Robert was subdued. The spectre of his lost Catherine hung heavily at his shoulder. But the guest of honour was relaxed, clearly enjoying the informality of a private dinner. The conversation turned from the death of their beloved Queen Victoria to the newly proclaimed Commonwealth of Australia.
‘I say, I thought the celebrations well done. The troops from India and South Africa were most impressive.’
‘Apparently they had quite a show in Adelaide. Even had motorcars in the procession — rattled the horses, of course.’
‘I believe Lord Tennyson, the Governor of the South Australian province, had a choral society sing one of his late father’s poems.’
A lady guest shyly quoted the poem.
‘First pledge our Queen, my friends and then
A health to England every guest,
He best will serve the race of men
Who loves his native country best.’
‘Hear, hear,’ responded the group at the table.
The Governor General raised his glass. ‘It’s our home and our country and that of our children. Here’s to the Federation of Australia — one flag, one hope, one destiny!’
‘Is this your native country now too?’ whispered the Governor General’s wife to Hock Lee who was seated at her left.
’Indeed yes. I was a small child when my family came here. I have prospered in this country and feel very grateful for the opportunity given to me. This is my home, not where my ancestors lie.’
Robert remained silent unless addressed directly. He forced a smile and feigned interest when necessary, but sat with a distant and glazed expression throughout most of the dinner.
Hock Lee studied his old friend across the table with an ache in his heart. Robert had aged, deep furrows of sadness and bitterness were etched into his face. Watching Robert sink further into a reverie as the evening wore on, Hock Lee decided he would have to speak to Robert and call in Charles Dashford to settle the situation of Robert’s adopted daughter Mary and his natural infant daughter.
Fortunately most of the guests were having a fine time and barely noticed the dejection of their host. The ladies withdrew to the drawing room, the men lit their cigars and sipped their port in the afterglow of a splendid evening. At midnight carriages began moving to the entrance following the departure of the Governor General, his wife and attendants.
When the guests had left Hock Lee whispered his concern to Mrs Butterworth who agreed that Robert was deeply depressed. ‘I’m worried about those two children. He can’t go on pretending they don’t exist,’ she sighed.
Hock Lee nodded. ‘Even Charles Dashford, Robert’s solicitor, has been making concerned noises. The baby hasn’t been christened. know you call her Kate, and I must say you’re doing a wonderful job taking on two children on top of everything else.’
‘I was devoted to Catherine; I love her children,’ Gladys answered simply.
‘Umm,’ replied Hock Lee, deep in thought.
Following this forced re-emergence into the world, Robert tried to resume his former routine and habits. But it was a token effort. He spent hours in his office, but did little. He shuffled papers, stared out the window at the bustling quayside, and was vague and distracted.
At home he showed total indifference to what was going on about him. Despite this, Mary, like a small waif, began to dog his footsteps, bringing Robert a drink or quietly putting a cup of tea beside him. He ignored her most of the time, or would snap, ‘Take it away’.
Mary was puzzled and frightened by his attitude towards her. Mrs Butterworth told her to keep out of his way, telling her that Papa was still sad and upset but didn’t mean what he said about sending her away.
In Mary’s mind, Zanana was home. Catherine had shown her love and security for the first time in her short life and she thought of Robert as her father and protector. She did not want to go away, and she could not bear the alienation of his affections. She lived in constant fear of being sent away, no matter how hard Mrs Butterworth tried to reassure her. Instinctively Mary knew that the key to her future lay with Robert MacIntyre and, no matter how much he spurned her, she was steadfast in her determination to be loved or at least acknowledged by him.
Hock Lee had arranged for a governess to visit Zanana several days a week to teach Mary, a fact that was kept from Robert, though he scarcely noticed or cared about any visitors to the estate. Hock Lee tried to talk to Robert about the future of Zanana, and to interest him in new business ventures. He also took to visiting Robert in his office each day, bringing delicacies from the Lotus Tea Rooms for their lunch.
‘Robert, I saw Charles Dashford on a business matter yesterday and he raised a question about your estate, which I feel you really should discuss with him. You have some decisions to make, matters to attend to, which have been ignored long enough now.’
‘What matters?’
‘Your children, Robert. The baby and Mary.’
‘Mary is not my child.’
‘Catherine loved her as her own.’
‘Catherine isn’t here.’ He swung bitterly around in his revolving chair, turning his back to Hock Lee.
‘That is so. Catherine is gone, Robert. You must let her go and get on with your life. Think of the girls. The baby hasn’t even been christened.’
Robert lifted his shoulders in a small shrug but didn’t turn around.
‘Dashford said you need to make a new will, spelling out the situation as to who inherits what. Your baby daughter is the heiress to Zanana, but you were in the process of finalising the legal adoption of Mary when Catherine died. Where does she stand? You must settle this.’
‘I have no interest in Zanana or what becomes of it. It was built for Catherine.’
‘Then think of her for God’s sake, man,’ snapped Hock Lee in annoyance. ‘Turn around and face me, Robert. Catherine would be horrified to see you like this. You are neglecting your duty. Those girls are all the family you have.’
‘I have no family.’
Hock Lee stood, masking the shock that Robert’s cold statement caused. ‘That is your loss, Robert. Those girls could bring you a lot of joy in the coming years. Don’t throw it away. You must make a decision.’
Robert swivelled slowly back to face him. Seeing the heartbreak on his friend’s face, Hock Lee’s anger dissipated and he laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You are my friend, we have travelled far together in this life. It pains me greatly to see you like this. I will always be here to help you and yours, but you must help yourself first. Do you understand what I am saying, Robert?’
Robert looked at Hock Lee, and put his hand on his. ‘Yes. You have been a good friend. Promise me you will always think well of me. But Catherine was my life, Hock Lee.’
Tears began to roll down Robert’s face. Silently Hock Lee removed his hand and nodded. With no words exchanged the look that passed between them was one of deep affection and understanding. Quietly Hock Lee left the room, thinking finally Robert had turned the corner. He was letting his grief go at last.
As Hock Lee’s footsteps rang on the marble stairs leading back down to the street, Robert dropped his head onto his arms on his desk and sobbed convulsively, ‘Oh, Catherine . . .’
Over the next few days, away from the sanctuary of his office, the only place Robert wanted to be was in Catherine’s rose garden. He sat on her bench, reliving loving memories, looking back over the too brief years they’d spent together.
The sheltered, walled section of the rose garden caught the last of the autumn sun and one bourbon rose bush, Souvenir de la Malmaison, brought forth one last magnificent bud. Robert took to visiting the gard
en every day, touching the burgeoning bloom, waiting for it to burst into maturity. This little ritual gave his days meaning. The birthing of the rose began to assume some spiritual significance and somehow seemed to be a link with Catherine.
The morning it flowered was still and sunny with a crisp, clear blue sky. The rose was a magnificent creamy pink, its faint flush of colour as delicate as a baby’s cheek. Robert had been waiting for this day when the last rose of summer would blossom. It had become a symbol to him of Catherine’s short sweet life, and when its petals fell, he knew the pain would be over. He had come to a decision.
It was on this morning that Mary decided to take all her courage in her hands and show Robert how much he and Zanana meant to her. She went down to the kitchen early and watched Mrs Butterworth prepare his breakfast tray.
‘Please let me take it to him,’ begged Mary.
Gladys Butterworth looked up in surprise at the urgency and desperation in the young girl’s voice. ‘Why, Mary, that’s a sweet idea. Maybe it might make him wake up . . . in more ways than one.’
‘I won’t bother him or say anything . . . please!’
Mrs Butterworth handed her the white cane tray with the tea and toast on it. ‘You can say good morning but don’t chitty-chat. And don’t slop the tea.’
Gingerly Mary took the tray and, putting it to one side, dashed outside, unnoticed by Mrs Butterworth. A short time later she headed upstairs. She put the tray on the floor, tapped at the door and, at a muffled grunt, picked it up and went into the bedroom. Proudly she marched across the room and slid the tray onto the bedside table.
Robert was reading the morning newspaper and didn’t look up. Seven-year-old Mary stood with her hands clasped behind her back. ‘Good morning, Papa.’
Robert rattled the newspaper and peered at her over the top of his glasses.
‘I brought your tea.’ She gave him a big happy smile and glanced at the tray.
For a moment Robert almost returned her smile, then suddenly a strangled shout escaped from the depths of his chest, causing Mary to step back in alarm. Robert’s eyes were fixed on the perfect pale pink rose lying on the side of the tray. His last rose of summer, severed at its full flush of sweetness and beauty. Already its sweet spicy fragrance was filling the room.
