‘The Messieurs and Miss Roberts,’ Matilda suddenly said, ‘they gave us dancing lessons, Matilda and—’ she stopped herself. ‘My sister and I.’
Ida was delighted. ‘You learnt as an accomplishment?’
Matilda nodded, delighted too. ‘We went to Castlemaine,’ she said, ‘where the Messieurs and Miss Roberts had come from Melbourne to give lessons in a church. They taught us the quadrille, the waltz, the Balmoral, and the minuet.’ She marvelled at the pictures that were plainly filling her head. ‘My father had been urged to have us taught. He was informed that the skill of dancing was just as important as polite address, elegant manners and a kindness of disposition to equip young ladies for everyday life.’
Ida could tell that Matilda’s mind was back in the past, hearing the piano, basking in effusive praise.
‘I don’t think I was very good at it,’ Matilda said. ‘I enjoyed it but I do believe my sister was much more naturally talented. She received compliments for it.’ She looked back to Ida and Aggie to see the mild surprise upon their faces. ‘What is it?’ she wondered.
‘It is pleasing to see you remember something like that,’ said Aggie. ‘Perhaps being back in your own home again is helping?’
Matilda looked at her reflection in the glass and seemed to like what she saw there. ‘Oh, it is, Marshall,’ she replied. ‘It is helping me very much. My heart feels uplifted every day.’
Aggie smiled. ‘That is because you are your own person again, miss,’ she said, in a manner that she plainly hoped would ring true with the young woman. ‘Your life is your own to live as you wish here. There is no one to decide things on your behalf anymore, no one to control you. You understand that, don’t you, miss?’
Ida could tell that Matilda saw only love and hopefulness in Aggie’s face. ‘I do,’ Matilda said. ‘I will make all my own decisions here, you mustn’t fear for me.’
Aggie now seized opportunity, and Ida realised that she had been steering the conversation to this very point the whole time. ‘And perhaps you will decide on Mr Samuel’s position soon?’ Aggie wondered.
Matilda stopped. ‘Brother Samuel?’
Ida’s heart began to beat faster.
‘As secretary, miss,’ said Aggie, ‘a position of service to a gentleman, certainly, but perhaps a less needed position in service to a lady . . .?’
There was silence. Desperate, Ida shot a pleading look to Aggie to desist, but she ignored her.
‘Should Samuel leave Summersby’s employ?’ Matilda asked at last.
‘Not in any disgrace,’ Aggie said quickly, ‘just as a means of maintaining propriety, that’s all. So that people don’t gossip.’
Matilda mused on the notion. ‘Ask Samuel to leave . . .’
‘Miss!’ Ida went to pipe up in Samuel’s defence, but Aggie spoke over her.
‘Tell him to leave,’ said Aggie, pushing it now. ‘You’re the mistress here, you pay his wages, and he’s not your brother really, you know. The look Ida gave Aggie was furious, but she was unabashed. ‘After the ball’s over, I mean,’ Aggie added, ‘there’s no need to spoil your fun.’
Ida waited, speechless with anxiety, as the idea of prising Samuel loose from Summersby sat with Matilda for the very first time. ‘I had never thought of brother Samuel in that way . . .’ Matilda whispered, ‘as someone to tell.’
Ida’s heart sank.
‘No one’s saying Mr Samuel is not a nice man,’ said Aggie, plainly as much for Ida’s benefit as Matilda’s, ‘but the need to keep him as your secretary is yours to decide, no one else’s. We just want to help you see it, that’s all.’
Matilda stood abruptly from the stool, causing Aggie to stumble back. ‘You’re wrong.’
Aggie was thrown. ‘Miss?’
‘Completely wrong,’ Matilda said, frowning at her. ‘The decision is not mine in this regard, far from it. Whether brother Samuel stays or leaves is nothing to do with me at all and I’m very cross with you for even thinking it,’ she said. Matilda took to her dressing table, picking up items and dropping them again.
Aggie was mortified. ‘But . . . but whose decision is it, then, miss, if it’s not your own?’
Matilda rested the photograph of herself against her dressing table mirror. Then she turned to depart the room without answering.
‘Miss?’ Aggie shot after her. ‘Whose decision is it?’
Matilda stopped in the doorway and turned to glare at Aggie. ‘It is my sister’s decision. She was engaged to brother Samuel. All decisions about him must therefore be hers to make and hers alone – just as decisions have always been. Her love for me is unwavering, I will not betray her now.’
Ida’s mouth fell open at the startling statement, but Aggie stayed composed.
Matilda looked fixedly at each of them from the door, letting the weight of her words sink in. ‘It upsets me that you should even need to ask.’
• • •
Aggie saw her mistress’s little purse sitting on the bed where she had forgotten it.
Ida was still reeling. ‘She actually thinks her sister’s not dead . . .?’
‘No time for that, look what she’s forgotten.’
‘Sometimes she gives me shivers,’ said Ida.
‘Put your shawl on then,’ said Aggie. ‘I’m taking this down before I miss her.’
‘No, you’re not. I’ll take it,’ said Ida, snatching the thing from Aggie’s hands.
She walked quickly into the hallway before Aggie could object, harbouring intentions of somehow putting in a good word for Samuel, to show that Aggie alone thought ill of the handsome secretary and that Ida held a different view.
She reached the stairs and looked down to the entrance hall below. She could see no sign of Matilda. ‘Miss . . .?’ she called hopefully. ‘Are you still down there?’
No reply came, so Ida began to descend. ‘You’ve forgotten your purse, miss!’
As she reached the first landing Ida felt the tiny hairs along the back of her wrists and forearms stand on end. It came upon her in an instant, the flesh beneath her sleeve prickling, and when she went to rub it with her hand she felt it ripple into gooseflesh. She shuddered; a familiar chill shot along her spine like a hard, iron hand was pressing at her, pushing her forward, willing her to trip and fall, to break her neck. She gripped the banister, looking slowly about her. She was alone.
Then and there she heard the sound of a dog’s nails tapping somewhere upon floorboards high above. A cool draught stirred and she felt the now familiar motion of fresh air upon her skin. The gooseflesh prickled her shoulders, reaching her throat.
She heard the dog’s nails louder, closer.
Ida stopped and turned again, truly frightened. ‘Miss Margaret?’
There was nothing.
Filled with a dread of remaining where she stood, while still telling herself she was being a fool for getting the spooks in the first place, Ida held the marble balustrade tightly as she continued to the ground floor.
The reception rooms were deserted. Ida wondered whether Samuel could really have collected Matilda so quickly and driven away. There was light from the dusk outside, so Ida went to pull open the great door to look for Matilda. As she reached for the handle the door was pushed inwards from the other side.
It was Barker. ‘Watch it,’ he grunted, displeased to see her.
‘Where’s my mistress?’ Ida demanded, refusing to be cowed by him. ‘She needs her purse.’ She looked past and saw Matilda in the distance, standing alone in the shadows on the long gravel drive.
‘Leave off,’ said Barker. ‘She’s with your fancy bloke.’
Ida shot him a disgusted look. ‘Don’t you think you should speak with more respect about the lady who pays you, Mr Barker?’
‘I’ll do as I please,’ said Barker, picking at his hard, white teeth. ‘Give it here.’ He held out his hand for the purse.
Ida clutched it to her chest and barrelled past him. Smirking at her defiance, Barker stayed, watchin
g her from the door.
‘Miss!’ Ida called out. ‘Your nice purse, miss!’
Matilda turned. In the soft, pink light of sunset the expression upon her face was unearthly, as if she was standing in the garden enjoying the warmth of the summer’s evening, yet not quite standing in the garden at all, but somewhere else, miles away. Ida ran towards her, boots crunching on the gravel, and in a moment arrived, panting, to slip the purse into Matilda’s hand. She was struck by the strange expression on her mistress’s face.
Ida launched into what she wanted to say. ‘What Aggie said, miss, back in your room, it’s not what I think, and I want you to know.’
Matilda looked at her uncomprehendingly.
‘Aggie means well and she loves you, miss, everyone does, but she just worries for you, that’s all, and the worry makes her say things that she knows she shouldn’t.’
It now struck Ida that Matilda had not the faintest notion of what she was saying to her. ‘Are you all right, miss?’
Matilda considered. ‘I am well,’ she said.
Ida placed her hand against her mistress’s forehead to see if she was fevered, but Matilda pulled back in alarm. The look Ida returned was equally as startled. ‘I didn’t mean . . . You look a bit feverish. I wanted to see if you have a temperature.’
Matilda was looking at Ida in the very same way she’d looked at her the day in the library.
‘What is it, miss?’ asked Ida, feeling uncomfortable. ‘Are you sure you still want to go?’
Matilda recomposed her features, making an effort to become more pleasing. ‘Of course I wish to go, Ida, I couldn’t possibly miss it,’ she said. ‘Yet, if only I could take a long walk around the grounds first, they are absolutely splendid in this sunset.’ She pointed to a beautiful tree with glowing, golden leaves. ‘Look at how the last of the rays light up the robinia’s leaves . . .’ Matilda closed her eyes, breathing in the garden’s scents.
Ida looked to where her mistress had meant and then looked back at her. ‘Oh, your hair,’ she exclaimed. ‘Whatever’s happened to it? That’s not how Aggie arranged it at all.’
Matilda shook Ida’s fingers away. ‘I don’t care if it’s loose. I prefer it.’
‘Well, that’s what you get for running down the stairs. The pins must have dropped out along the way.’
The sound of footsteps on the gravel made them turn. Samuel had come from the side of the great house. Ida gave an involuntary gasp at how handsome he looked in his evening clothes. She had seen little of him in the last few days, and looking at him now, as striking a man as she was ever likely to see, she couldn’t stop questioning his actions in her mind. Had it all been pretend that day at the Hall when it had truly seemed as if each was meeting the other for the first time? She could believe it of Matilda; her damaged memory made so much seem like new to her, even when it wasn’t. But what of Samuel?
Matilda didn’t care that her own reaction to his appearance was noticed. ‘You are resplendent,’ she purred at him.
Samuel looked taken aback by this familiarity for a moment. Then Matilda’s own appearance struck him in turn. ‘And you are simply beautiful,’ he told her.
She held his gaze, appraising him, a cat-like smile starting to curl about her lips. Ida was shocked anew to see such a wanton look clear in her mistress’s face. It was the look she had had the night they found her in the hallway. ‘Where is the carriage?’ Matilda asked.
Samuel was lost in her eyes, lost in the heat of her look to him. But something seemed wrong to Ida, something she couldn’t quite see. This was Matilda, who had been so alarmed when Samuel had tried to kiss her.
‘Samuel?’ Matilda prompted.
‘No carriage this evening, I have a surprise,’ he told her, remembering himself. ‘Come with me to the stables.’
Matilda glanced at Ida. ‘What could it be, I wonder?’
Ida felt awkward, in the way. ‘Shall I go now, miss?’
‘Whatever for?’ laughed Matilda. ‘You’re coming with us tonight, remember?’
Ida did a double take.
Samuel held out his arm and Matilda slipped her own through his, her fingers brushing against the tight ball of muscles she found beneath his sleeve. She smiled appreciatively.
‘Miss?’ Ida piped.
‘You’re coming with us,’ Matilda said, harder now. ‘How can you have forgotten? I need you with me.’ She turned to Samuel. ‘Isn’t that right?’
‘Ida is very welcome to join us,’ said Samuel. He seemed barely aware of Ida at all.
Ida was stunned. Matilda had never said anything about accompanying her. ‘But . . . but what will I wear?’
Matilda waved her away, heading towards the rear of the house with Samuel.
Ida looked at her dowdy black housemaid’s dress with despair. There was no time to change into anything more suitable – not that she had anything suitable anyway. ‘I’ll fetch my shawl!’ she shouted to her mistress’s back.
Ida returned to the grand front door to find Barker still slouched there, his smirk unchanged. He revealed a lit cigar, the tip glowing red as he sucked upon it. When he gave no sign of standing aside so that she might squeeze past, Ida made to barrel through him again. He stepped out fully, blocking the way altogether. ‘Where d’you reckon you’re going?’
‘Let me in, please, Mr Barker,’ said Ida, in no mood for him, ‘I’m to go with the mistress.’
‘Are you now? There’s a treat. Mind you keep your eyes peeled.’
‘Why?’
Barker tapped the side of his nose as if somehow she already knew the reason. He released a cloud of acrid smoke. Fed up, Ida made to force her way in – just as Barker kicked the door shut in her face.
‘You’ll be wanting the servants’ entrance,’ he shot at her from the other side.
• • •
The rough and raucous dancing so enjoyed in Castlemaine a generation earlier, when Matilda’s father had made a fortune on the goldfields and Ida’s grandfather had gone to a pauper’s grave instead was looked upon now, with the town having outgrown its uncivilised start, as unsuitable, somewhat to Ida’s disappointment. The boisterous hugging and swinging of partners, which the elders had once so enjoyed when young, was now viewed as offensive and objectionable behaviour by newer District folk seeking to create ‘Society’. Ida just wished she’d been alive to witness it all before the wowsers spoiled the fun. With the New Year of 1887 marking the start of Queen Victoria’s Golden Jubilee, the upper tier of Castlemaine was united in opposition to anything that risked the new and improved etiquette of modern dancing. For this class’s younger people, and for those still facing a climb up the social ladder, ballroom dancing was the essential accomplishment. It was very plain to Ida, watching on as she was from the sidelines, that Matilda and her late sister were by no means the only ones to have benefited from the instruction of the Messieurs and Miss Roberts.
Samuel beamed broadly, welcoming the admiring stares of others as he and Matilda stepped onto the Town Hall’s polished floor for the waltz. Her ears trained to the sound of their voices, Ida found she could largely follow what the two of them said to each other as they danced. ‘Do you know,’ Samuel to Matilda, his voiced raised above the music, ‘the gaiety of Australian social life would be the envy of civilised nations if only the word would get out about it.’
Matilda seemed to Ida to be just as aware as Samuel was of all the pairs of eyes that found them fascinating. Matilda’s head and feet were already lost in the music of the orchestra. She smiled back at Samuel, wonderfully happy, letting him lead her.
‘And the ladies of the colony of Victoria, it has been my very good fortune to discover,’ Samuel went on, ‘are by far the most accomplished dancers in the Empire.’
Matilda’s smile remained, her feet moving effortlessly, perfectly in time with the music’s sweeping chords.
‘The gift of dancing comes as naturally to you colonial girls as walking,’ Samuel declared, his rhythm and po
ise matching her own. ‘It is as rare to find a woman who dances badly here as it to find a woman in England who dances well.’
Matilda allowed her eyes to meet his in her obvious pleasure at the compliment. Ida glimpsed the desire there again and forced herself to glance away. Matilda’s provocative look tantalised Samuel, teasing him on to do what? Ida didn’t know. It was the most intoxicating look she had ever seen a woman give a man.
‘That’s Matilda Gregory for certain, I’d recognise her anywhere.’
Ida’s head turned to see a tiny woman in green, dancing alongside them with a pencil-thin rake of a man.
‘Miss Roberts!’ Matilda exclaimed from the floor, clearly remembering the woman at once.
The lady nodded her head; her partner gave a courtly wave and bow, all without losing a step. ‘Well, of course you’re Matilda, who else would you be?’ said Miss Roberts, gaily.
Samuel seemed to be looking for a gap in the throng that he might lead Matilda away from these two.
‘It astonishes me so many people here could be confused by it, much less waste the whole evening talking about it,’ the dance instructress trilled. ‘All they ever need do is look at your feet, Matilda, your graceful feet!’
Matilda playfully pointed a toe.
Miss Roberts was appreciative. ‘You were simply the finer dancer, mon chéri; your sister never attained the required elegance. I’m telling everyone who’ll listen.’
Matilda beamed. ‘Merci, mademoiselle,’ she said, in rather smoother French than Miss Roberts. ‘Mon nom est Matilda.’
Miss Roberts turned to her partner. ‘You recollect it, too, mon cher frère?’
But the too-thin man looked pained and hissed something in French that was as badly accented as his sister’s. Miss Roberts flushed to her hair. ‘Mon dieu . . .’ she said, horrified, ‘but why didn’t you stop me?’ She looked back to Matilda, mortified, and then to Samuel. ‘I didn’t know of the tragedy . . . We’ve been elsewhere for some time. Please forgive me my faux pas.’
Her brother spied a widening gap among the dancers before Samuel did and propelled the blushing Miss Roberts away.
The Secret Heiress Page 20
