The Girl In the Painting

by Téa Cooper

  Jane sank down onto the bench seat. ‘Is there no one who might know? I wondered if we could telegraph ahead and see if anyone saw him getting off the train in Sydney.’

  ‘Be like trying to find a tadpole in the ocean.’

  ‘Can you remember any of the people who were in the waiting room?’

  ‘Course I can. There was Mrs Pettigrew and her two daughters, Major Witherspoon, the bloke from the Pig and Whistle—he’s the one that Penter fellow tried to take on. If it hadn’t been for my boy they would have knocked each other senseless.’

  ‘Your boy? Hunter.’

  ‘Yeah, ’unter. He was here giving me a hand with the sandbagging.’

  ‘Where’s Hunter now?’

  Mr Marsh flicked a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Up at the house moving the furniture upstairs.’

  ‘Can we go and have a word with him?’

  ‘Be my guest.’ He eased open the door. ‘Off you go, quick smart; don’t want any more wet in here.’

  Jane and Timothy trudged back out into the rain.

  ‘Why didn’t he tell me that yesterday?’

  ‘I think maybe your father upset him and he wasn’t overly keen on being helpful.’

  ‘Good job you did come with me.’ Timothy tucked her hand into the crook of his arm and heads down, they battled the wind to the stationmaster’s cottage.

  Hunter must have seen them coming because he was hanging out of the upstairs window before they had a chance to knock on the door. ‘Hey Jane. What’re you doing out in this rubbish?’

  ‘Looking for someone, thought you might be able to help.’

  ‘Give us a tick and I’ll be down.’ He pulled the window closed and disappeared.

  ‘Let me do the talking,’ said Jane.

  Timothy nodded and stepped back under the eaves as the door swung open.

  ‘Come in.’

  ‘Thank you.’ Jane stepped inside. ‘I won’t keep you a moment. I’m trying to find out if someone got the last train yesterday. A Mr Penter.’

  Hunter shook his head, pulled a bit of a face. ‘Nope. Not that I know. What’s he look like? Thought I knew most people around here.’

  ‘Not terribly tall, quite thin, pale eyes.’

  ‘Oh, the ratty bloke, three sheets to the wind. Nah! He didn’t get the train. Got fed up waiting, decided he was going to hire a sulky and head for Morpeth. Didn’t like his chances. The bridge went under sometime last night, but he wasn’t taking no for an answer.’

  ‘Any idea where he was going to hire the sulky?’

  ‘Pointed him in the direction of Smythe’s. He’s the only person who’d hire him a horse in this weather. Do anything for a quid, that bloke.’

  ‘Thank you, Hunter.’ Jane clasped his hand in both of hers, watched his ears turn a horrifying shade of purple, then bolted.

  Resisting the temptation to call out to Timothy, she ran down the length of the platform and found him sheltering under the awning.

  ‘Any luck?’

  ‘He went to hire a sulky. Come on.’ She grabbed his hand and towed him down the road.

  When they reached Smythe’s, the stable was locked up. Not a body in sight, human or equine.

  ‘Now what?’

  ‘We’re going to have to go right to the end of the High Street.’

  Thirty soggy minutes later, Jane stopped. ‘The bridge is down there. Over Wallis Creek.’ She pointed into a vast expanse of swirling water.

  ‘Right well, that’s not going to do us much good. Is there another way to this Morpeth place?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not without crossing the creek.’

  ‘It’s clearing up a bit.’ Timothy pointed up to a small patch of blue between two scudding clouds. ‘If it stops raining the water will drop.’

  ‘Not for two or three days, it won’t. Might even rise as it comes down river.’

  ‘So we’re cut off? All of Maitland.’

  ‘That’s about it.’

  ‘I can see the edges of the bridge.’

  ‘That’s the handrail.’

  ‘Maybe we could—’

  ‘Don’t even think about it. Those waters can carry a house away.’

  ‘Let’s go and take a look.’

  Shaking her head, Jane followed Timothy down the road. They didn’t get within fifty feet of the bridge. With the water lapping at their knees they watched whole trees and heavy branches, an upturned wagon, fence posts, and what looked remarkably like the bloated remains of a sheep, hurtle downstream.

  ‘I get your point. What am I going to tell Mother?’

  ‘We can’t do any more than we have.’ For goodness sake, Penter was a grown man, if he’d been foolish enough to try and cross the river in full flood it served him right. ‘We better be getting back. If the waters keep rising we won’t be able to reach Church Street.’

  Jane turned off the road across country. They’d cut the trip in half if they didn’t go back along the High Street.

  ‘It’s not the way we came,’ said Timothy.

  ‘I know. It’s a shortcut. If we’re lucky, we’ll be able to get through. If not, we’ll just backtrack.’

  ‘Rain’s stopped.’ Timothy unbuttoned his oilskin and scratched at his hair under his hat. ‘It’s warm.’ A gust of wind snatched his hat and it flew down the bank towards the river.

  ‘You’ll never catch it.’

  ‘Not mine. John’s.’ He took off.

  Jane stood on the rise, unable to control her smile as Timothy galloped down the bank, arms flailing. A bubble of joy broke in her chest. Although she would admit it to no one, she’d enjoyed the last few weeks more than any other time she could remember. So many dreadful things had happened—Michael’s death, Elizabeth’s turns. The whole mystery surrounding Elizabeth had fired her with an enthusiasm she hadn’t known she lacked. Not only that, Timothy’s arrival had turned her life around, making her realise how lonely she’d been. As much as she appreciated Michael’s bequest, he had made her realise the narrowness of her life in Maitland. She couldn’t wait until she was twenty-one. So much to explore—university, travel, a thousand possibilities.

  She lifted her arm and waved.

  Standing under a large tree, the wide expanse of water behind him and John’s hat nowhere to be seen, Timothy waved his arms around and around his head, high in the air.

  ‘Jane!’ His voice drifted up towards her as he beckoned.

  She folded her arms and stood watching him. If the hat was gone, it was gone. There would be plenty of others coming through the auction house, and John wasn’t the sort of man who’d be upset about a genuine accident.

  ‘Jane! Jane!’ The breeze from the river amplified his words and she picked up a tinge of panic.

  Without further thought, she bolted down the incline, cursing her damp skirts and the overlong oilskin. It wasn’t until she’d almost reached the tree that she spotted the remains of a sulky, no sign of the horse.

  ‘I’ve found him. Father’s here.’ Timothy’s voice quavered. ‘I think he’s dead.’

  She stared down at the crumpled body propped up against the twisted wheel and dropped to her knees. Gritting her teeth against the overwhelming stench of alcohol and putrid river water, she rested her ear against Penter’s chest. Felt for a pulse.

  ‘He’s alive. Quick, help me.’

  They pulled him away from the wheel and Jane slipped behind him, hooked her hands under his armpits and wrenched them back.

  ‘Stop it! You’ll hurt him.’ Timothy grabbed at her arm, tried to drag her aside.

  A jet of foul-smelling river water and vomit spewed from Penter’s mouth.

  ‘Go and get help.’

  ‘I’ll stay. You go.’

  ‘No.’ She dragged in another breath and yanked Penter’s arms back again. ‘First Aid. Know what to do. Go.’

  Timothy stared blindly towards the town.

  ‘Go up the hill until you get to the railway line, half a mile. Then follow it to the station. You
’ll see Church Street on your right—six hundred paces and you’re there. Get John to bring the wagon. Go!’

  With one last backwards glance, Timothy left, loping across the paddock until he faded into the rising mist.

  Jane worked on Penter for several more minutes, counting the time between each stretch of his arms, while the foul, foul water spewed from his mouth. When he finally began to splutter, she rolled him onto his side.

  There was no sign of Timothy along the bank, so she sat down and drew her knees up, matching her breaths to the rise and fall of Penter’s chest. How long would Timothy be? What if Penter died and she was left sitting beside the rising river with a corpse?

  What rubbish! He was breathing, they’d found him in time. It was hours off sunset, the water level hadn’t risen any further, and the rain had eased to a fine drizzle. Timothy could hardly get lost, and if he did, he was quite capable of asking directions to Aileen House.

  ‘A man’s job.’

  Jane crawled closer to Penter.

  ‘See. I did good fer yeh.’ His lips twisted in a sycophantic grimace. ‘I did me best.’

  She crouched to catch his mumbled words. Words unlike any she’d heard before. The accent thick and slurred, nothing like the drawling tone she associated with the man in the checked jacket she’d first met at the gallery.

  He gave a feeble cough and a stream of fetid water trickled from the corner of his mouth. ‘I got ’er tucked up. Safe ’n sound. Maggie took t’other. T’weren’t my fault, Mr Langdon, sir.’

  Mr Langdon? The man whose name Penter had taken, Timothy’s great-grandfather.

  ‘Did like yeh said.’ He struggled to push upright.

  Jane tucked her hands under his arms and tried to lift him but his weight was too much.

  ‘Ain’t told no one. Not ever. Kept me mouth shut.’

  He lolled to one side and she lost her grip.

  ‘Still got me shiny sovereign.’ His hand groped for the inside pocket of his jacket then fell free and his eyelids fluttered closed.

  Jane sat, her eyes fixed on his bleached face. After a few moments, the frantic movement of his eyeballs behind his closed lids ceased and his pale eyes flashed open.

  What should she do? She rested the palm of her hand against his chest, felt the feeble rise and fall. ‘Not long now, Mr Penter. Timothy will be back soon. We’ll get you home.’

  ‘G’woam.’ A satisfied smirk settled, as though everything had worked out just the way he’d planned.

  Jane felt for his pulse, rested her ear against his chest. A plaintive sigh whisked between his blue lips and his body went limp.

  She lurched upright. Penter’s sightless eyes gazed at her. No breath, no sign of life. Easing his limp body flat, she choked back a sob. There was little she could do until Timothy returned.

  What she wouldn’t give to know the thoughts that had left that look on his face. Gently she lowered his lids before sliding her hand into his inside pocket.

  Her fingers closed over a round metal disc.

  A polished coin, still warm.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and angled it to the single ray of sun breaching the clouds.

  The head of the young Queen Victoria encircled by the words Victoria dei Gratia and beneath the date—1862.

  The year Daisy Dibble vanished.

  Jane’s face pulsed warm as she tried to make sense of Penter’s words. If only Michael was still alive and she could talk to him. She gazed at the growing break in the clouds, far more fanciful than she’d ever admit, hoping Michael was looking down, guiding her.

  Perhaps he was. Through the clearing mist, Timothy came running down the hill. She stood up, pushed the wet hair off her face, and strode up to meet the man she might very well have fallen in love with, and tell him his father was dead.

  ‘Don’t say anything. I can tell from the look on your face.’ Timothy pulled her to him and hugged her tight. His snatched breaths reverberated against her. ‘Don’t tell me he suffered. I didn’t mean what I said to Mother, he made me angry. I hated the way he treated her but I wouldn’t wish anyone to die like this, so far from home.’

  It was on the tip of Jane’s tongue to tell Timothy of his father’s words, of the theory that had formed while she sat by Penter’s body, but the memory of walking into the house and finding Michael gone restrained her. That hollowed-out feeling, and worse, the fear. The knowledge that no matter what happened from this point in time, life would be inextricably changed.

  Darkness had fallen by the time Jane and Timothy reached Church Street. They’d traipsed back through the town behind the wagon, all the way to the mortuary. Neither of them speaking. Both immersed in their own thoughts, knowing their return would herald a torrent of emotion.

  Jane took Timothy’s hand and led him around the back of the house through the sloshing water, hoping they’d be able to slip inside without having to face Bessie and Lucy. The kitchen was in darkness. They peeled away their oilskins and kicked off their boots, leaving them in a miserable heap on the verandah, and made their way towards the sliver of light spilling beneath the sitting-room door.

  The moment Jane pushed open the door, Marigold leapt to her feet. Timothy took his mother in his arms and led her to the window.

  Elizabeth raised one eyebrow.

  Jane shook her head in reply. A great torrent of despair washed through her. ‘I tried, I really tried. I thought I’d saved him, and after Timothy left he seemed to be breathing normally. He started talking as though in his sleep, dreaming perhaps, his eyes moving beneath his lids. Then he smiled, and …’ Tears rolled down her cheeks and she buried her face in her hands.

  Elizabeth patted the cushion next to her and Jane sank down on the sofa.

  ‘Sssh. It’s not your fault. You did your best.’ She wrapped her arm around Jane’s shoulders and pulled her head close, one hand cupping her cheek.

  ‘That’s what Penter said. I did my best. I was too late. I couldn’t save him.’

  Elizabeth’s face creased in a frown. ‘Not your fault. I know you did your best. You always do. Now take yourself upstairs, you’re exhausted. I’ll bring you a cup of tea.’

  ‘Bessie and Lucy have gone to bed.’ Jane wiped the back of her hand under her nose.

  ‘Surprising as it may seem, I am quite capable of making a cup of tea. Now off you go. I shall see Marigold and Timothy settled and be with you shortly.’

  Casting one last look at Timothy and Marigold, Jane slipped through the door and made her way up to her attic bedroom. The next day she would have to tell them of Penter’s last words; now was not the moment.

  Half asleep, comforted by the sliver of moonlight illuminating her bed, Jane was taken by surprise by the knock on her bedroom door. Before she’d managed to get out of bed, Elizabeth had put a tray on the corner of her desk. Waiting for the inevitable complaint about the state of her room, she swung her legs over the edge of the bed and struggled to get up.

  ‘Get back under the covers, I don’t want you catching a chill. You spent all day sopping wet.’ She passed Jane a cup of black tea and poured her own jasmine tea into her favourite cup.

  In the moonlight, Elizabeth’s hair shone. Daisy’s hair was the colour of autumn leaves. Marigold’s words slipped into her mind as stealthily as the auction house’s cat.

  ‘Do you mind if we talk?’ Elizabeth settled on the side of the bed as though it was a nightly ritual.

  Jane jerked upright, a little of her tea spilling onto the sheet. She brushed it aside, unsure how, or even if, she should respond. The look on Elizabeth’s face was one she’d never seen before, unguarded perhaps, and in the low light Jane fancied they could be two friends sharing each other’s secrets.

  ‘While you and Timothy were gone, Marigold and I talked. We talked all morning and afternoon.’ A look of surprise flashed across her face. ‘I feel such a connection with her. We have a similar outlook, yet our lives have been so different.’ Elizabeth sipped her tea and let out
a luxurious sigh. ‘Seeing you with Timothy, the rapport you have, and sipping jasmine tea makes me realise how much, how very much I’ve missed Jing.’

  Every nerve in Jane’s body stilled, she didn’t even draw breath. She’d never heard mention of Jing.

  ‘I was telling Marigold about him, and explaining to her the way I’d allowed my life to be ruled by Michael. I was trying to make her see that Penter’s manipulation was no fault of her own. Despite all our brave words about women’s rights, we are products of an earlier age.’

  Elizabeth ran her finger around the lip of the paper-thin cup then placed it onto the tray. ‘She, in turn, recounted her own story—her time in Paris, and the way she and Penter had grown apart, despite the fact he’d strived to better himself, moved from nothing more than a peasant pigeon-keeper to the manager of the huge Langdon estate.’

  ‘Pigeon-keeper.’ The word exploded from Jane’s mouth.

  ‘Yes, pigeon-keeper. Such a quaint term. I don’t think we have them in Australia. Not a job I would relish. All those birds.’

  ‘Aunt Elizabeth, stop!’ She rocketed out of bed. ‘I’ve been trying to tell you this since yesterday. When you and Marigold left the auction house I talked to Timothy.’

  ‘You seem to have established quite a rapport with the young fellow.’

  ‘This is more important. Listen!’

  Elizabeth’s eyes flashed. ‘Continue.’

  ‘Marigold’s painting of The Village Church—I missed something, made a mistake. The building in the foreground is not a mausoleum, as I presumed. It’s a dovecot, a pigeon house. It used to be part of the Langdon estate. It was sold off about twenty years ago and incorporated into the churchyard.’

  ‘A pigeon house, you say. Birds. Well, that might perhaps account for my reaction to the painting.’ Her eyes flickered and she turned her gaze to the window. ‘There was a pigeon tree in Hill End. I hated it. When the birds came home to roost they’d flock, squawking and flapping in a great cloud. I always avoided it. I was telling Marigold about it. We swapped so many stories of our childhood.’

  ‘The dovecot is the one thing that connects everything.’ Jane’s mind spiralled back to the story Timothy had told her about his father growing up on the estate and taking the Langdon name. ‘Did Marigold say anything about Penter, how she met him, why she married him? They seem so very different.’