The heat was bad this summer. Even Gilbert admitted that he had not experienced such a long period of extreme temperatures. He had boasted that the wells at Yarrabee would never run dry, but they were coming perilously near to it.
Eugenia’s garden had to be sacrificed. She could hardly bear to look at the wilting shrivelling plants. Her early morning and late evening walks were given up. For one thing, it was too hot even at those hours. The heat, close and suffocating, lasted all night, and turned to a furnace at mid-day. Sometimes a strong wind blew dust, the precious topsoil from the paddocks, through every smallest crevice. All the windows had to be kept tightly shut, and even then the filter of red powder hung in the air.
The hardy Australian shrubs, the thorn bushes and spinifex and the gum trees, haggard and stark against the burning sky, survived. So did the lizards and the flies, and the noisy shouting birds, the parrots, the kookaburras, the crows. Although one day a small cloud of tiny green parrots, gasping and dying, settled in the wattle tree like shrivelling green figs.
Kit caught one of them and it died in his hot hand. He was extremely distressed. He had not known that birds died.
The great danger was a bush fire. Gilbert watched every day for the significant stain of smoke on the heat-blanched horizon.
This was still only a threat. A reality was the way the bunches of grapes on the vines were shrivelling. When the wells were dangerously low Gilbert organized a clumsy but continual conveyance system from the lake by means of buckets and bullock waggons. The lake, too, was in danger of drying up, the remaining water brackish, and crowded with water-birds who were forced farther and farther from the reedy shores.
Eugenia wanted to beg an occasional bucket of water for her white climbing rose, but did not dare. The greedy vines demanded every drop.
She felt as limp as her drooping roses. Even Gilbert lost his look of ruddy health, and grew almost emaciated, his blue eyes blazing in his deeply sun-burned face. There was no longer water for bathing. A few cupfuls in a china basin had to suffice. The baby, fretful with the heat, had a damp sponge squeezed over her body at intervals. Eugenia contrived a meagre toilette in the same way but Gilbert, frantically preserving every drop of water for his vines, fell into his bed at nights lean, sweaty, exhausted. His wife was the last thing in his mind.
Lying in the warm darkness in her own room, listening to the everlasting hoarse harping of the cicadas. Eugenia conjured up in her mind all the cool green things she could remember. Streams trickling over mossy stones, rain on a summer garden, cool flagstones beneath bare feet, the smell of roses when the dew still lay on them…
Sometimes, the power of her imagination failed, and she could think of nothing but her discomfort. She was being dried up, parched, made prematurely old, a prisoner in this old old land that was lying waiting outside for the brief darkness to be over so that it could smoulder and burn again in the triumphant sun.
Then abruptly the rain came, streaming out of the low clouds in a waterfall, creating lakes in every hollow, running over the sunbaked earth too quickly for absorption so that every creek was swollen to a miniature river, and the river itself bursting its banks.
Sheep and cattle, weakened by starvation, were swept into the rising floods and drowned. Kangaroos, wallabies, dingoes, foxes, shared the horrible grey odorous debris along the banks of the receding river. But the earth was growing green again, the immaculate blue days suggested a serenity that was profoundly welcome if no longer believable.
There would be no vintage, Gilbert reported bleakly.
His vines had survived, but not their harvest. The grapes hung in shrivelled rotting bunches. News drifted through that every vigneron in the Hunter River valley had suffered a similar disaster. Some had sufficient means to carry on. Others intended abandoning such a precarious way of life, either turning their land holdings to ordinary farms, or giving up altogether and returning to town life.
One family was actually planning to catch the next ship to England. When Eugenia heard of this a wild hope leapt within her. She dared to speak of it only in the most devious way.
Gilbert was so haggard, so remote, so sunk in his disappointment that ordinary conversation was almost impossible.
The night after he had made his announcement about the ruined harvest, he had not come upstairs until dawn, and then only to wash and change his clothes. Eugenia thought he must have sat up drinking alone, or perhaps with Tom Sloan. But he showed no signs of having been drinking when he did come up in the early dawn. He saw her in the doorway and apologized for disturbing her.
‘Where have you been?’ she asked.
‘Talking. Discussing ways and means.’
‘But not all night!’
‘Seems like it.’ He was busy at the wardrobe, looking for a clean shirt, fingering his growth of beard. ‘We didn’t realize until we saw it getting daylight. Young Jemmie cried. A big lad like that. He had been looking forward to his first vintage.’
Miserably, Eugenia was aware that she also should have cried. That might have been one way of getting closer to a husband who had grown too remote.
‘Aren’t you going to rest now?’
‘No time. Don’t worry yourself, love. Go back to sleep.’
But she was wide awake, tense, puzzled by something in his manner. There was something subtly different about him. She realized what it was. His look of strain had gone. He was gaunt and hollow-cheeked but strangely relaxed. And this, after a night sitting up, talking. Some remarkable conclusions must have been reached.
She couldn’t help saying, ‘Gilbert, this profession is too hazardous. Wouldn’t it be wiser to turn to something else. Before you get deeper into debt—’ She faltered, not quite able to meet his gaze.
‘Is there anything you want you haven’t got?’
‘No, no, I have too much. But your debt to Mrs Ashburton—when will it be paid?’
‘This is hardly the time to remind me of that. Mrs Ashburton certainly didn’t. Indeed, she has already offered me a further loan.’
‘And you’ve accepted?’
‘Of course I have,’ he said in surprise. ‘How can I let myself be beaten at this stage? You don’t seem to understand.’
‘I only understand that it’s all so intensely worrying. Next year it will happen again. We’ll go through these weeks and months of anxiety. I don’t think I can stand it. I haven’t the temperament.’
‘That’s only because you have no liking for wine or wine making.’ Now he was indulgent. She hated his indulgent manner. ‘But you must try to have patience with it Go back to bed and get some sleep.’
Mrs Ashburton was smugly pleased about the turn of events. She liked to be indispensable, even if the reason was only her fortune. But such an unpleasant necessity as money must not come between her and dear Eugenia. She was growing more devoted day by day to the children, Gilbert and Eugenia, Yarrabee. She would like very much to be little Adelaide’s godmother. She adored that baby. So vigorous and demanding, so like her father with her imperious blue eyes.
‘I wish I could live to see her grow up. I’ll make a prediction that she’ll leave her brother miles behind.’
‘I should hope not,’ said Eugenia. ‘And of course you will live to see her grow up.’
Mrs Ashburton shook her head. She was growing untidy in her clothes, her cap was always awry, her grey locks straggling.
‘I think not. My legs swell. Philip Noakes tells me I’m dropsical.’
‘You drink too much wine.’
Mrs Ashburton chuckled, not at herself and her self-indulgence, but at Eugenia.
‘You’re getting to be a real Australian, my dear. I believe you’ll make your mark on this country. And on your husband, in spite of himself.’
‘What do you mean, in spite of himself?’ The uneasiness and unhappiness touched her again as she remembered Gilbert’s strange manner that morning.
‘He has an obsessive nature,’ Mrs Ashburton replied enigmatically.
‘Oh, you mean his passion for his vineyard. I have accepted that. I realize it will always come first with him.’
‘It doesn’t need to, my dear.’
‘But it will,’ Eugenia said hopelessly. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘And I so long to go home.’
Mrs Ashburton patted her hand. Eugenia noticed how the rings cut into the old lady’s swollen flesh.
‘I know, child, I know. Although sometimes I suspect you confuse homesickness with another thing altogether. But don’t blame me for this state of affairs. If I didn’t help Gilbert he would find other means. Much better to be in debt to me. And it’s time you realized that you didn’t only marry a man, you married a country. For better or for worse. Eh, my dear?’
Chapter XXIII
EUGENIA HAD NOT BEEN to Sydney since that ill-fated journey when little Victoria had died in her absence. Before that tragedy, there had been the terrifying events of her wedding journey. She could not help associating the trip with disaster.
Now, however, the recently knighted Governor, Sir Richard Bourke, was returning to England and a farewell ball was being given in his honour. It was unthinkable, Gilbert said, that they should not attend.
‘We’ll leave on Saturday and return a week later. You can buy yourself some new clothes in Sydney. A ball gown in the latest fashion.’
His assumption that the untidy colonial town would have the latest fashions, as well as his irresponsibility about money, jerked her out of her worry about leaving the children, and also about the possibility of meeting Colm again, a prospect that both elated and alarmed her. She turned on him, scolding.
‘How can you suggest such a thing! We have no money except Mrs Ashburton’s. I imagined that was for more important things than clothes.’
Gilbert shook his head impatiently.
‘You’re too honest for this catch-as-catch-can country. You say that your new maid is a good needlewoman. Then see what she can do with your clothes if you won’t agree to buying new ones.’
Once he would have said that he wanted to show her off. He was growing out of those small courtesies.
But he did want her to shine, even if he didn’t say so, for he supervised her packing, and insisted on studying every detail of the gown which she and Emmy concocted from a length of French brocade, bought at a bargain price in Parramatta.
Finally he said, as she revolved before him,
‘I think you were right after all, Genia. You don’t need to worry about fashion. You can make your own.’
‘You may think so, but the Sydney ladies won’t,’ Eugenia said worriedly, fingering the low-cut neck. Was it too low? It was exactly as in the fashions in the English journals sent by Sarah.
‘Who cares about the Sydney ladies?’ Gilbert’s eyes were approving. He only called her Genia when he was pleased. ‘You look fine to me. Don’t forget your diamonds.’
Three days later Mrs Jarvis watched them drive off, Eugenia laying her gloved hand on her husband’s arm as the buggy swayed round a curve, Emmy and Tom Sloan in the back to mind the baggage and the crates of Yarrabee 1830 claret, a vintage that had so far not been surpassed.
Her eyes narrowed as the equipage was lost in a cloud of dust. She stood a few moments longer, a pleasant figure with her well-rounded bosom, her luxuriant fair hair parted in smooth curves over each side of the forehead. There was a far-off look in her eyes, as if she were wondering what it would be like to be driving off to Sydney to a week of gaiety, to be wearing elegant clothes, and to being, as Mrs Massingham always was, the centre of attention.
But she didn’t linger long to watch the dispersing cloud of dust. No one need think that discipline would be relaxed because the master and mistress were away.
A flicker of pink caught her eye in the acacia tree.
‘Rosie! Why aren’t you in the schoolroom?’
Her daughter was still a moment, then guiltily slid out of the tree.
‘Mammie, Kit said—’
‘Kit needn’t think, because his mother’s away, that he can do as he pleases. It’s half past nine and Miss Higgins will be waiting for you both.’
‘But Kit’s mother said he could have a holiday today.’
‘That doesn’t mean that you can.’
The child pouted rebelliously. ‘It isn’t fair. I don’t like to learn to read all the time.’
‘But you’re going to, my lamb. To please your Mammie.’
It was pleasant, after all, to be in Sydney again. The changes were enormous. There were many more streets built with small neat brick or sandstone houses. In the centre of the town some fine public buildings had been erected. The harbour was full of vessels of all sizes from four-masted schooners to the little rowing boats that took people on pleasure expeditions. Carriages rattled down the dusty streets. There was a constant hubbub that was exhilarating after living so long in the country. Eugenia noticed the many new and thriving shops, the improved quality and variety of merchandise, and the modish clothes the women wore.
She was agreeably surprised by the comfort of the hotel. The bedroom reserved for Gilbert and herself was large and cool, the linen immaculate, the washstand and dressing table contained everything she could need. When she pulled the bellrope, a polite cheerful chambermaid came and indicated her willingness to do anything required. Water for a bath in the flowered tub behind the screen, a tea tray with freshly brewed tea and freshly baked cakes, travel-soiled clothes removed for laundering and ironing. Anything for Eugenia’s comfort seemed possible.
‘Happy, my love?’ Gilbert enquired in the pleasant unemotional voice that he all to frequently used to her. They scarcely even quarrelled now, for he would not be drawn. She supposed, unhappily, that there was no zest to quarrelling with someone for whom he no longer had any passion.
The old guilt nagged at her.
And alarmingly it wasn’t yet finished with. Or so she learned from Bess Kelly.
Bess had got comfortably fat. Edmund had prospered and they now lived in a larger house in a more fashionable part of the town. Tom was away at school. The girls were cheerful and plain, with colonial accents. (Adelaide should never be permitted to speak like that.)
‘Well, I declare, Eugenia. We were all discussing whether you would have got countrified, but we might have known better.’
‘Nonsense! I can’t pretend to keep up with the latest fashions.’
‘Yes, there’ll be some showy dressing at the ball. But I don’t imagine you’ll pass unnoticed. Gilbert wouldn’t allow you to. Is he just as proud of you as ever?’
‘Well, yes, I believe I come somewhere between Yarrabee and his wine, and his children.’
‘Was that a cynical tone in your voice, Eugenia? Have you and Gilbert quarrelled?’ Bess looked uneasy. There was something distrait in her manner. She had curtly told the children to leave the room.
‘Naturally we have, now and then,’ Eugenia answered. ‘Don’t all husbands and wives? Why do you ask?’
‘Only—there are rumours—people have evil tongues.’
‘Dear Bess! What are you trying to tell me?’
‘That Irishman who painted your portrait. He talks when he’s had too much brandy. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to. He’s perfectly charming when he’s sober.’
Eugenia flushed, then went pale.
‘He’s in Sydney?’
‘Yes. They say his book’s to be published soon and that it’s a valuable record of Australian flora and fauna. But he won’t be at the ball, so you don’t need to worry about that embarrassment.’
‘He wasn’t invited?’
‘Not with his—unpredictable behaviour.’
Eugenia gave a faint sad smile. ‘That’s a charitable way of putting it, Bess. But I imagine there will be plenty of Australian or English or Irish gentlemen at the ball whose behaviour won’t be entirely predictable. I haven’t noticed a marked tendency to sobriety in this country, not even excluding my own husband.’
‘So long as y
ou don’t still care for him,’ Bess murmured.
‘Care for whom?’ Eugenia’s chin was in the air. ‘Mr O’Connor?’
‘He’s supposed to have said something about letters he has,’ Bess said uneasily. ‘I just hope they won’t get exhibited around.’
Eugenia hid her shock, although she couldn’t speak for a moment.
‘Then they mustn’t be allowed to, must they?’
‘I thought I should warn you. You might hear it from a less charitable source. This town’s a dreadful place for gossip.’
Eugenia straightened her shoulders. She found that she was very tired from the long journey, after all. Her heart was throbbing uncomfortably.
‘I expect all towns are full of gossip. It will be all right. Colm is a gentleman.’
‘When he’s sober,’ Bess said. ‘Which isn’t often.’ Reluctantly she added, ‘I must say this to you, Eugenia. You’ll have to do more than depend on his being a gentleman.’
Eugenia’s eyes widened. ‘Are you telling me I ought to ask him for my letters back?’
‘It would be wisest, love.’
‘See him!’
‘I’d come with you if you want me to. We could take the carriage and drive round the bays. You ought to see them. They’re very pretty. Rose Bay, Double Bay, Rushcutters Bay.’
‘Colm told me he lived in a shack.’
‘Yes, I’ve seen it from a distance. It’s not much of a place. Lonely. Sam can look after the horses while we walk down to the beach for half an hour.’
‘Sam?’
‘We have a coachman now,’ Bess said with pride. ‘He’s a surly old fellow, but he doesn’t gossip. Anyway, he’ll only think we want to get a breath of sea air.’
‘You have this all arranged!’
‘Edmund told me to,’ Bess confessed. ‘He said it would be an awful pity if this gossip flared up while you and Gilbert are in Sydney. You’re such an innocent, Eugenia. You’ve been too sheltered all your life. You don’t know how mean people can be, especially if they’re jealous. And I can assure you the ladies here—if you can call them ladies—will be jealous. The men, too. I know Gilbert’s having trouble with his vineyards, but he cuts such a figure. You’re both such assets to the colony, and I love you. I won’t let you be in the middle of a wicked scandal, especially one caused by a drunken Irishman.’
Dorothy Eden Page 25
