She had always known that grave lay there waiting for one of her babies…
‘My love! Come and sit down. The captain’s sending for some brandy. Come.’
She knew at once that Gilbert was intensely relieved that the victim was not his son. She could hear the relief in his voice.
It was natural. He loved his son, and he hadn’t yet got to know the ineffable sweetness of his daughter. She had been like one of Peabody’s white rosebuds.
Had been!
A storm of violent rage swept over Eugenia. All her old prejudices were back, nothing had altered. She tore herself away from her husband’s protecting arms.
‘I told you Kit was ill. But you couldn’t stay, you said your wines would be spoiled. They were the most precious thing. We had to think of them first. So we sacrificed our baby instead!’
Her voice was so wild that everyone was staring. Gilbert tried to take her hands, telling her to hush, but she snatched them away, and pushing her way through the curious knots of passengers, fled down the gangway and ashore.
‘Hush, little one, hush!’ Mrs Ashburton’s voice was infinitely loving and soothing. ‘It was the scarlet fever. She didn’t suffer long. And Kit is almost himself again.’
Mrs Ashburton’s black bosom smelt of stuffiness and lavender water. Her purpled face had aged shockingly. Eugenia had to lift her heavy eyes and contemplate the change.
She turned to Ellen.
‘You cared for her, Ellen?’
‘I held her in my arms, ma’am.’
‘You might have caught the disease yourself.’
‘As if I cared!’
Gilbert had joined them.
‘Let us all go home as quickly as possible. Has Sloan brought the buggy?’
Eugenia said with automatic courtesy, ‘Mrs Ashburton and Ellen must have had a dreadful time. While we were—’ Her voice trembled uncontrollably.
‘Now don’t you blame yourselves for anything,’ Mrs Ashburton said vigorously. ‘We would have sent for you if we could. But since we couldn’t, we had the doctor stay three days until Kit was out of danger. That Rose, that charity child,’ she added vindictively, ‘didn’t even get a spot on her. And if the Lord in heaven thinks that is fair, I don’t.’
Chapter XX
WITH SOME OF THE proceeds of the sales of his wine in Sydney, Gilbert had an expensive tombstone in the form of an angel with folded wings erected over the baby’s grave. He was unhappy that Eugenia would never go to see it.
She preferred to walk down to the creek instead, holding her parasol at its habitual elegant angle over her head, and sit for a long time beside the poor grave of the unknown child with its nailed sticks for a headstone. When she came back to the house her face was sad and empty, her manner vague. Doctor Noakes had come from Sydney. His advice to Gilbert was to give Eugenia time to recover. Women took these things hard at any time, but especially when they were in exile.
But Eugenia would be all right. After all, she still had the boy, and she would have more children. Just give her time. The excessive antipathy she had towards the vineyard would also lessen. At the present time she had to fix the blame on something.
Actually, Eugenia had made a difficult apology to Gilbert for her thoughtless and unfair remarks. It was not his wine but her own deep love for the baby that was to blame. It gave her a feeling of guilt that she had dared to love anything so much.
She would grow out of that morbid notion, Gilbert was sure. All the same he was deeply uneasy about her. He had gone wrong somewhere with her. How? He had been a good husband, generous, more tolerant than most. He had had to stop that nonsense with the Irishman, but that was over long ago. And he understood that he had a wife of excessive sensibility, but he had been long-suffering enough about that. Occasionally, after the baby’s birth, he had sensed her almost within his reach. If she didn’t fly into his arms, at least she didn’t shrink from him. There was often a warm laughing gaiety in her eyes. Then this damnable tragedy had happened and she had removed herself so far from him that she might have been perched on some chilly star.
Patience, Phil Noakes had advised. But he was getting sick and tired of patience.
It was 1833 and the convicts continued to arrive in greater numbers than ever. The ships, with their strange assortment of living creatures, convicts in fetters, sheep, goats, pigs, turkeys, ducks, pigeons, as well as their unofficial cargo of rats and cockroaches, set sail from Portsmouth and three or four months later came up Sydney harbour, a pleasant sight with their billowing sails. Closer inspection was not to be recommended. Their cargoes had deteriorated appallingly. The surviving human population was skin and bone with vermin-filled hair, rotting teeth, diseased bodies. It was quite difficult to find an able-bodied man or woman who would be capable of a reasonable day’s work.
But conditions had improved in the colony. There was ample food now that the sheep and the grain industries were established. A few weeks ashore, and prisoners whose crimes did not warrant their being sent to the coal mines at Newcastle were available for hire.
From the last ship arriving, Gilbert, who needed more labour at Yarrabee, chose a fourteen-year-old boy because the lad’s look of stubborn courage pleased him. A few weeks of good food would make that emaciated adolescent body fill out. The breadth of bone was there, if not the flesh. The boy’s name was Jemmie McDougal. He spoke well because, he said, his mother had had schooling. She had taught him to read and write. But his father had liked the bottle and had taken the money his mother earned as a laundress, and also the miserable pittance Jemmie and his sister brought home from the cotton mill where they worked. So there was never enough to eat, and one day he began to steal. Not much. A loaf of bread, a bun, apples, a bit of fish, once a whole chicken. It was only food to keep them all alive. He became adept, and had been doing it for six months before he was caught.
They didn’t hang him. They said he was too young. They transported him instead. And now he didn’t know what had happened to his family. He supposed he would never know.
But he was too young for misery to last. Gilbert had seen the spark in the lad’s eyes when he contemplated the vast horizons. He realized the boy was feeling as he had himself on his first sight of the country, awed and dazed and tremendously excited.
So he took him to Yarrabee, and told Tom Sloan to keep a fatherly eye on him. They could make something of him, perhaps. At least the boy would be given a chance.
One day soon after Jemmie’s arrival Gilbert, in the winery racking off ten gallons of claret, felt himself being watched. He turned sharply, and saw the boy standing in the shadow. Realizing he was discovered, Jem moved like a cat.
‘Stop!’ said Gilbert peremptorily.
Cautiously the boy turned.
‘It’s all right. I’m not going to beat you. Why have you come here? To steal?’
The boy winced. The stubborn chin went up.
‘No, sir!’
‘Then what?’
‘I was watching. I want to learn.’
‘To make wine?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘You’re interested, eh?’
The boy took an impulsive step towards Gilbert.
‘I was watching you filling the bottles. You don’t fill them right to the top.’
‘That’s to allow ullage. Air space. There must be just the right amount. Too much and the wine will go sour, too little and it can’t breathe. The cork must be sound and bottles laid on their sides. Come and I’ll show you. The thin weak wines I market immediately, but a good vintage like last season’s, when the colour is a good ruby red, and there’s a broad earthy flavour with just a hint of acid tang—those are the wines for keeping.’
‘How long do you keep them casked, sir?’
‘This one has been casked for two years. Now it has a bouquet. Like to smell it?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Gilbert poured a little wine into a glass, nosed it, then handed it to Jem, amused and pleased t
o see that the boy exactly imitated his action.
‘It’s fine, sir.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It smells good.’
‘You’re right, it is good. This is Yarrabee claret. It will be on the Governor’s table in four or five years’ time. Well, now you’re down here you can give me a hand. I want all those bottles and corks washed. No soap in the water. When the wine’s in the bottle, I put the cork in with a mallet. Like this. Always hold the bottle with a gloved hand. Then dip the neck in melted sealing wax and stamp the Yarrabee crest on it. Do you follow?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Then get on with washing those bottles. And when you want to come here again, ask permission.’
‘I’m sorry if I did wrong, sir.’
‘No, no, you might be useful if you’re interested. Not everyone cares for the smell of a winery. My wife finds it nauseating.’
The boy stared in disbelief. Gilbert had to laugh again, but with tolerant amusement. The lad spoke well. It might be a good idea to train an apprentice, someone who could take over if he were unable for any reason to do things as the strict routine demanded. The boy said he could write, so he would teach him to keep the record book. He could begin today by writing, ‘Ten gallons claret made 1832 racked off. Thirty gallons muscat made 30th April turned…’
If Jem McDougal, aged fourteen and a convicted criminal, was as interested as he seemed, it looked as if he might be at Yarrabee long after he got his freedom.
Eugenia kept Kit at her side a great deal. For some time after his illness he had been pale and peevish, and she had watched him with constant anxiety. But now he had recovered all his chubbiness and was restless when he was shut in the little sitting-room with Mamma.
‘Rosie!’ he would shout imperiously, banging the closed door with his fists. ‘Kit wants Rosie.’
Eugenia had tried hard not to share Mrs Ashburton’s prejudice against Mrs Jarvis’s little girl, simply because the child had contrived to escape the deadly scarlet fever. But she was growing increasingly impatient of Kit’s devotion to the plain child with the slanting topaz eyes. She was like a little pale fox with her triangular face and wispy brown hair. She had a way of appearing in places where she should not be, and then disappearing, always silently. One couldn’t complain to her mother that she was a nuisance because she had always vanished before the complaint could be made.
In any case it would have been of little use because Kit would have burst into loud sobs and demanded that her banishment end. He wanted her with him wherever he was. Finally it was easier to let him go to the kitchen quarters rather than endure the poking silent little girl in the drawing-room or Eugenia’s sitting-room.
It would have been different if Victoria had lived, to provide a playmate for her brother.
So usually Eugenia’s only company at her writing desk was Erasmus in his cage. She could then write in her secret letters to
Colm, ‘When Erasmus says “alannah” in exactly your tone of voice it seems as if you had never gone away…’
She believed that if she had not had her letters to Colm and to Sarah she would have died of grief and loneliness.
Dearest Sarah,
I know you must be getting weary of hearing about my sorrow, but I still miss my little Victoria every hour of the day. I constantly blame myself for having left her when she was so young. If I have another child it shall not leave my sight for the whole of its first year…
But would she ever have another child? Because since the baby’s death she had not been able to endure Gilbert near her. She did not attempt to rationalize her feelings, nor was she moved by the look of hurt and pity in Gilbert’s eyes.
Without any embarrassment she allowed him to ask the servants to have another room prepared for him. Neither did she wonder or care what the servants thought. She had the big French bed to herself at last. She sank into its comfort mindlessly.
‘You ask me to tell you about Christopher’s little ways,’ she continued in her letter. ‘I am sorry to say that he became very spoilt when Baby left us, and he has still to overcome his naughtiness. His father has temporarily forgotten his intention to take the child in hand because he is engaged in teaching a new employee the secrets of wine making. He is of course one of the convicts whom the English Government will persist in sending out here.
‘All the same, I must be fair, and say that this lad seems better than most. Gilbert declares that he is honest, and that even if he were not his flair for viticulture would compensate for a lot of sins. I do not know how his father will take it if Kit grows up to share my present strong aversion for wine…’
The winter was exceptionally mild. It seemed as if the frosts had scarcely begun before they were over, the duckling-yellow wattle was in bloom, and the first daffodils to grow in the red Yarrabee soil were sending up their green spears. The fresh brilliant mornings were a riot of birdsong. The willows down at the creek were bursting into leaf. One hot afternoon when the first lizard appeared, sunning itself on the verandah, Eugenia knew it was time to get out her parasol again.
But the days were still miserably long. Eugenia made little jackets for Kit since he would soon be out of petticoats, and then, relenting her hostility, took great pains over embroidering a sprigged muslin dress for Rosie. More and more merchandise was arriving by the now regular fleet of ships from England. It was possible to buy a great many varied goods in the drapers’ and haberdashers’ shops in Parramatta. Eugenia drove into town in the buggy and shopped, buying skeins of coloured silks for her tapestry, ribbons to refurbish an old bonnet, buttoned boots and sailor hats for Kit, and a length of lilac lawn for a new gown.
When she had shopped she paid calls or attended a meeting of her charity, the Parramatta Women’s Benevolent Society. She became a familiar figure driving down the dusty street, sitting very erect, her bonnet ribbons tied securely beneath her chin, her gloved hands lightly holding the reins. Her maid Jane had never stopped fretting for England, and had finally decided to return home, accompanying a family en route for London. So it was Phoebe or Ellen who accompanied the mistress, sitting in the back seat. Sometimes her little boy perched at her side, a handsome little fellow clutching his straw hat.
The young women newly arrived off ships, and in need of positions, were at first intimidated by Mrs Massingham’s dignity and her probing serious eyes. But her soft sympathetic voice eventually lured them into blurting out all their terror and unhappiness. It became the ambition of most of them to work in the big house at Yarrabee. The one or two who heard the gossip that things were not as they should be, that the master was shut out of the mistress’s bedroom, refused to believe it.
Or if it were so it must be Mr Massingham’s fault. Mrs Massingham was so sweet, so kind, so gentle.
And spent so many hours at her writing desk… And the spring days grew longer and warmer and no one’s patience could last forever. Certainly not that of an impatient man like Gilbert Massingham.
He chose an evening when Eugenia had seemed happier and more friendly. He didn’t want to risk another rebuff, but she had laughed at dinner, and her eyes had been bright and lively.
He had never been faithful to one woman for so long with so little reward. He had not expected to have to practise celibacy when he had a healthy wife.
Give her time, Phil Noakes had said. Now he had done so. It was spring, and he had no intention of being patient any longer.
‘You haven’t sung for a long time, my love,’ he said.
‘I haven’t felt in the mood.’
‘You would if you began. I’ve missed your singing.’
‘So have I,’ mumbled Mrs Ashburton, sunk deep in an armchair. She had, as usual, dined and drunk fully, and now was dozy, her puce satin gown exactly matching her complexion.
‘You can’t grieve forever,’ Gilbert said.
‘The only way to stop grieving is to fill the cradle again,’ Mrs Ashburton observed. ‘I wonder you’ve waited so
long.’
Eugenia had made an indecisive move towards the piano. At Mrs Ashburton’s remark she stopped, and in the dreamy way that had become habitual to her she said that she was sorry, she could not sing tonight, she had some letters she must finish to catch the next English mail.
The door of the sitting-room closed behind her.
‘Oh, dear me! In the end she’ll have nothing but writer’s cramp,’ Mrs Ashburton remarked to the ceiling.
Gilbert paced up and down for a few moments, then, coming to a decision, went to the sitting-room door and flung it open. He was not drunk, but he had taken a little more than usual to make his tongue persuasive.
Eugenia, absorbed in her letter, did not hear him come. She had a clear flowing script. The words, ‘My beloved,’ at the top of the sheet of notepaper were all too visible.
Gilbert put his hand out and snatched up the notepaper. Eugenia stiffened, giving a startled exclamation.
‘My beloved,’ Gilbert read out. ‘Now who, I wonder, do you address in such intimate terms?’
‘Gilbert, this is unforgivable! My private correspondence.’
‘So private?’
‘All correspondence is private. I would never dream of reading your letters.’
Gilbert was holding the letter close to the candlelight, frowning over the contents.
‘If I had written one like this, you would have every right to read it.’ He began to read aloud, his voice full of outrage. ‘“My beloved, It is now nearly three months since I last heard from you. As usual, you see, I am counting every week, every day. Your letters are such a source of life, without them I sometimes think—”’
‘Gilbert, stop!’ Eugenia said with intensity.
‘You sometimes think what?’ Gilbert asked curiously. ‘Tell me.’
Eugenia sprang up. Her chair fell over with a clatter behind her. The candle flames dipped wildly.
‘I find this an intolerable intrusion.’
‘But you can’t go on locking yourself away, can you? First in your bedroom, and now in your sitting-room. Am I soon to be locked out of my own house? Now tell me’—his voice was short and hard—‘who is this letter to?’
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