by Téa Cooper
‘How do you know?’ Fleur delved into her pocket and dropped the box into his wrinkled palm as the sun bathed the water in a golden glow.
Bert lifted the lid slowly, his hand shaking, and pulled out the thick watch chain. He dangled it in front of his eyes, the sunlight catching the flashes of colour in the gemstone embedded in the fob. The look of anger on his face stopped her breath.
He lifted his arm and flicked his wrist.
The fob and chain arced through the air, out over the water, hesitated for a moment then dived below the surface with barely a ripple.
It was as much as Fleur could do to stop herself jumping in after it. She turned on Bert. ‘What did you do that for. You’ve no right—’
‘For you, for Kip, for me daughter, for anyone who comes after. Bad bloody luck that thing is. Only thing the Capt’n and I disagreed about, should’ve buried it with the Baron. There’s a long line of people whose lives were cut short. Capt’n thought he could outrun it. He was wrong.’ He brushed his hands together. ‘Right, that’s that sorted. I tried to tell ‘em but they wouldn’t listen. Family heirloom my arse, bloody family curse. Good riddance.’
* * * * *
Epilogue
Sydney, NSW January 1920
Fleur stepped inside the Curio Shop into a shaft of sunlight and inhaled the intoxicating scent of the future.
She had every intention of leaving the Baron’s suite at the hotel and moving in. Vera thought she was insane but the place held no fear for her anymore. They’d taken Cordelia away and she’d been buried, alongside her brother, Thaddeus Atterton, and his wife.
Bert was the first to arrive, in a dark suit and a pin-striped waistcoat, his boots shining. ‘All sorted then?’
‘I’ve just got one more question to ask.’ Fleur moved to the corner of the room and placed her hand on the head of the white kangaroo.
His lips twitched. ‘Just one? I reckon there’ll be more.’
Maybe there would be but the kangaroo had fascinated her since she and Kip first found it. ‘Do you know anything about this fellow?’
‘That ain’t no fella. She’s Tidda.’
She didn’t take the bait, she’d learnt Bert’s ways. She waited while he came and stood next to her.
‘Della’s pet she was, out at Mogo. Near broke her heart when we found her. An albino kangaroo would be worth a bit to hunters, but she didn’t have a mark on her. I wanted to bury her but Della wouldn’t have a bar of it. Locked herself up in the workshop with those tools of hers and didn’t come out until the job was done. We brought Tidda back here to keep an eye on the shop.’ He gave the kangaroo a pat then settled himself on the sofa.
So many stories, and so much history. The Curio Shop, with its sparkling clean windows and the furniture from the cellar, felt like the home she’d never truly had.
Moments later Kip and the Lyttletons arrived, Michael carrying a large buff-coloured folder and Vera a vase of roses which she placed on the desk.
Thanks to Hugh’s legacy, his promise, so many people would benefit. Death had cast its shadow over this family—more than that, over all the owners of the opal. Bert was right. It had to go. But she wouldn’t be saying goodbye to Hugh. His memory would be with her forever. He’d given her more than his love, he’d given her, and so many people, a future.
‘Are you ready, Fleur?’ Michael Lyttleton stood behind the desk, his hands resting on the back of the chair. ‘Come and sit here. It seems appropriate.’
With her heart thumping, in fact her whole body vibrating, Fleur settled at the desk and reached out her shaking hand for the fountain pen.
‘Just sign here.’ Michael bent over and flicked through a few more pages. ‘And initial here and here and one more signature at the end. Are you sure you’re certain?’
‘Yes. I am. Bert, Kip. Are you sure you want to do this?’
‘Bloody sure. Can’t think of a better use for Hugh’s money.’
Kip wrinkled his nose. His relationship with Bert was still new, new and fresh, but since his mother had admitted her part in their estrangement he had gradually come to appreciate Bert. It made her laugh because they were so alike as to be ridiculous. ‘There’ll be a lot of families who’ll thank you for this. Especially after the mess that goddamn influenza’s caused. Mum’s got it all under control. Soon as we can, we’ll get the work done on the warehouse.’
Kip had changed so much. Gone were the sullen scowls and the irrational sparks of anger now he had meaning in his life. The Noble Charity would provide support for returned soldiers and war widows and fill the gaping great hole the government seemed unable to plug, and it was the perfect solution to her longheld belief that others were more entitled to Hugh’s family fortune.
It was only then, with the people she’d come to know and love grouped around, she understood Hugh’s promise. He had brought her home.
In the slash of sunlight Bert’s mouth curved in a satisfied smile. She signed the paperwork with a flourish.
Fleur von Richter
Historical Note
The Woman in the Green Dress is a work of fiction, however in some cases fact has fed fiction.
Fact: Baron Charles von Hügel (1795-1870), Austrian noble, army officer, botanist and explorer visited ‘New Holland’ between November 1833 and October 1834, in an attempt to recover from a broken heart. (Truly!) In 1848 he aided Prince Metternich in escaping Vienna during the March Revolution and went on to become a diplomat. His New Holland notebooks were acquired by the Mitchell Library in 1932 for the princely sum of nine pounds. In 1994 they were translated into English and edited by Dymphna Clark. (Baron Charles von Hügel, New Holland Journal, translated and edited by Dymphna Clark, MUP, 1990.)
Johann Menge (1788-1852), a linguist and geologist, was born in Germany and employed by the South Australian Mining Company. Various sources credit him with the discovery of the first opal in Australia in 1850, but what became of it is not known. It wasn’t until the International Exhibition in London in 1873 that the world became aware of the quality of Australian opals.
Wollombi Road runs parallel with Mogo Creek from St Albans, over the Common, to Bucketty. This area is part of the traditional country of the Darkinjung people who are the custodians of Mount Yengo. Their land is bounded by the Hawkesbury and Hunter Rivers, the Pacific Ocean at Wyong and the Wollemi peaks in the west. It has been estimated that in 1788 there was a population of 5000 Darkinjung people but they were severely impacted by smallpox epidemics, settlement and settler killings. By the 1850s few survived and Mogo Creek was one of the last places the Darkinjung people lived before they were taken from their traditional lands to a reserve near Lower Portland on the Colo River.
The Settlers Arms in St Albans is still open for business (I can recommend their chicken pies!) and an inn certainly operated there in 1853, however there seems to be some confusion as to when the name was first adopted. For consistency, I have used the name Settlers Arms in both timelines.
In the latter part of the nineteenth century, two women, Tost and Rohu, opened a shop in George Street. An advertisement claims they sold all kinds of taxidermical work and held the largest stock of genuine native implements and curiosities and possum, native bear, kangaroo and wallaby skins made up into carriage and travelling rugs.
The rest is fiction.
Stefan and Della, Bert, Fleur and Kip are all figments of my imagination. They did not exist, nor did The Curio Shop of Wonders, or Cordelia Atterton. A line in the introduction to Dymphna Clark’s book sparked this story. She stated that von Hügel’s New Holland notebook was written in the hand of an amanuensis. In a flight of fancy, I dreamt up Stefan von Richter, Baron von Hügel’s (fictional) amanuensis, and the story of The Woman in the Green Dress.
Acknowledgements
I would like to acknowledge the Darkinjung and Eora people as the Traditional Owners of the land on which I live, work and play, and have set this story, and pay my respects to Elders both past and present.
/>
Thanks are due, as always, to so many people: my publisher Jo Mackay and the fabulous HQ team, Annabel Blay and Alex Craig for your never-ending patience and insightful editing, and Natika Palka and the wonderful HarperCollins sales team who take my stories into the world. It is an ongoing pleasure and privilege to work with you all.
As always my love and thanks to my long-suffering friends who walk every step of the way with me, especially Carl Hoipo, historian extraordinaire, for introducing me to Baron von Hügel, to Bert for the loan of his glorious name, and to Chief Researcher #1, Charles, who continues to hold the title of The Best Plot Wrangler in the business.
And finally, my loyal and enthusiastic readers. Thank you, without you my stories are nothing. I hope you enjoyed The Woman in the Green Dress.
Turn over for a sneak peek at...
THE NATURALIST’S DAUGHTER
Tea Cooper
Two women, a century apart, are drawn into a mystery surrounding the biggest scientific controversy of the nineteenth century, the classification of the platypus.
1808 Agnes Banks, NSW: Rose Winton wants nothing more than to work with her father, eminent naturalist Charles Winton, on his groundbreaking study of the platypus. Not only does she love him with all her heart, but the discoveries they have made could turn the scientific world on its head. When Charles is unable to make the long sea journey to present his findings to the prestigious Royal Society in England, Rose must venture forth in his stead. What she discovers there will change the lives of future generations.
1908 Sydney, NSW: Tamsin Alleyn has been given a mission: travel to the Hunter Valley and retrieve an old sketchbook of debateable value, gifted to the Mitchell Library by a recluse. But when she gets there, she finds there is more to the book than meets the eye, and more than one interested party. Shaw Everdene, a young antiquarian bookseller and lawyer, seems to have his own agenda when it comes to the book but Tamsin decides to work with him to try and discover the book’s true provenance. The deeper they delve, the more intricate the mystery becomes.
As the lives of two women a century apart converge, discoveries rise up from the past and reach into the future, with irrevocable consequences…
One
Agnes Banks, New South Wales, 1808
Rose loved Pa’s dusty workroom filled to overflowing with notebooks and samples, paints and charcoals. A treasure chest of strange and wonderful objects. A charred boomerang; the tall, tall seed head from the shaggy grass tree; a huge oh-don’t-touch emu’s egg painted with careful patterns, more tiny dots than even she could count. Collected heads of banksia, their knotted faces leering; the beautiful curling tail feather of a bulln-bulln; and in the centre of the worn table her most favourite of all—the mallangong. Once it lived and breathed until Bunji’s Pa speared it out in the billabong. Now it sat … pre-ser-ved for all eternity—that’s what Pa said. Pre-ser-ved. She ran her hand over the dark brown fur and touched its funny little beak.
Pa rose from the chair, his brown face wrinkling as he smiled his special smile. ‘Shall we go down to the river, my heart?’
A trickle of excitement ran through her—she’d sat quietly waiting all afternoon for him to say those very words. ‘Yes please, Pa.’
‘Put on your boots before you tell your mother we are off.’
She rammed her feet into her clodhoppers, leaving the long laces trailing, and hoisted her knapsack carefully onto her back. Pa’s supplies were precious. How she loved the wooden box with its tiny blocks of paint and brushes wrapped in fine linen. Pa promised she’d have her own paintbox when she was bigger, all her very own. Now she shared his and she had to be careful, so very careful not to break anything.
The box came from London a long time ago with Pa on the big ship when the colony was blackfellas’ country. Now there were people everywhere—mostly convicts with their clattering, clanging chains and long sad faces.
Some days Mam was sad too. She’d stare down the river and sigh as though she’d been waiting a long, long time and every time Pa went to Sydney Town she asked him for a letter. When he shook his head, tears came to her eyes. One day she’d write her a letter so Pa could bring it back; maybe then Mam would smile.
‘Mam, where are you? We’re going to the river to see the mallangong.’
Mam turned from her seat on the ground, her fingers dirty from scrabbling in the garden where she grew her medicine—herbs that made people well, helped birth their babies, fixed their fevers and healed their cuts and bruises. That made Mam happy but the letter sadness never left her eyes no matter how hard Rose tried to be a good girl.
‘Tell your pa not to be late for tea. And don’t forget to keep your hat and boots on. The sun’s still strong.’
‘We can’t come home too soon because the mallangong don’t play until the sun goes down.’
‘You and your mallangong. I’m frightened one day I might lose you. You’ll swim away and not come back to me, go and live with them in Yellow-Mundee’s lagoon.’
She’d never do that, never leave Pa. Why would she do a thing like that?
‘Off you go now. That’s your pa calling; he doesn’t like to be kept waiting.’
Pa was always saying he had two precious treasures brought to him by the piskies. That made Mam smile. A sad faraway smile. She leant over and brushed her lips against her mother’s smooth cheek, wrinkling her nose when the curl of hair, black as black, tickled her face. ‘Bye Mam.’
Little puffs of dust rose at her heels and her heart beat in time with her boots as she ran. The rain hadn’t come and it was hot and dry and dusty. Down by the river it would be cool, underneath the big gum where the fallen branch stretched its arms into the river. That’s where the mallangong dug their burrows in the damp sand.
She skipped down the well-worn path. She was a big girl now and knew the way but still Mam said never go alone, not unless Pa was there. The blackfellas mightn’t like it if she did. Mam was a silly fuss. Bunji and Yindi were her friends: they showed her all the secret paths up through the rocks where the grass trees grew and down to the swimming hole where it was never hot. Sometimes they laughed at her when she took off her boots and tried to swim. Not her chemise, she never took off her chemise. Good girls didn’t do that. Yindi didn’t have to wear boots, or a hat.
A jackass made her jump right off the path and almost fall into the long grass. She waved her fist at him. He didn’t care. Just laughed and flew away.
She slowed and scuffed her feet. She hated her boots, hated them more than her apron and her hat. She plonked down onto the ground and reefed them off, tying the strings together and hanging them over her shoulder. Pa wouldn’t notice. By the time she got to the river he’d have his easel set and his paints—oh, his paints! No, he wouldn’t. She had his paintbox in her pack.
Quick, quick. She must be quick. Her bare feet pattered on the dry earth as she leapt around the tough kangaroo grass. Not much grass now, only the bunches like tiny spearheads. The bulbs tasted delicious—soft and always juicy. Yindi’s mam, Yukri, had shown her which ones to pull.
When she reached the big gum tree she skittered to a halt, her heart big and pattering hard. She loved Pa so much. His big strong arms and rumbling voice made her safe. ‘I’m here Pa.’ She waved and weaved along the track right to the edge of the billabong.
Pa raised his finger to his lips then beckoned. He hadn’t set up his easel; he stood staring across the grey-green water. ‘There’s movement over there. Can you see it?’ He took the pack from her back and settled it on the grass, then her boots. He didn’t say anything about her bare feet even though his lips made a funny shape as though he was eating his laugh. ‘Step lightly now. Shade your eyes with your hand, like this.’
She peered across to the shadows beneath the roots of the big tree. Little ripples broke the top of the water. Then she saw it. A squeal jumped out of her mouth as the sleek dark brown body dived and twisted.
‘She’s looking for food.’
; ‘Maybe she’s got babies.’
‘Juveniles. Call them juveniles. See? Just above the waterline.’
‘Juveniles.’ She wrapped her tongue around the word then squinted hard and moved her hand to and fro. ‘Yes, yes there. I can see the hole into their burrow.’
‘Good girl. You watch carefully. Tell me what she does. I want to make a record.’
‘Can I make one, too? Please Pa, please.’
He twisted one of her curls around his finger and tucked it behind her ear not saying a word about her missing hat. Thank goodness. Mam would be mad. Perhaps the jackass had made off with it.
‘Sit down over there and I’ll set you up. We must always record our evidence. It’s the only way.’ He opened his paintbox and took out a piece of charcoal. Only a little bit. It was precious and she mustn’t waste it. Then he passed her little sketchbook to her from the pack. Squirming she turned the pages past the first few drawings. They were baby drawings. Now she did better. She could make the mallangong’s fur look wet or dry when she mixed the paint. Dark for wet and not so dark for dry and she knew their fingers and their toes—webbed. She knew that word very well. And their bills, like a duck but not really; not hard and snappy like Mam’s ducks; soft and bendy.
Pa sat down next to her and his special smell of pipe and grass and scrunched-up leaves made her nose prickle. She turned her head to see his face, his deep brown skin almost like the blackfellas, with big creases around his eyes. He said they came when he was on the big ship and they’d got deeper like the cracks in the sandstone rocks at the swimming hole. Maybe he was getting old. That made her goosey even though the sun was still shining. Bunji’s grandfather was old, very old, and he’d died. She’d snuck through the trees and seen the corroboree. Big bonfires, the dancing stomp of the feet making her chest bounce.
‘So where is your drawing?’
