The Secret Heiress

by Luke Devenish

  ‘Who is it?’ Jim called down from inside the tower.

  ‘It’s Biddy. I’ve brought you your pasty, Mr Skews.’

  After a moment she heard Jim’s feet coming down the spiral stairs and the door opened. The smiling lightning squirter greeted her like an old friend. If the significance of Sybil’s relatives’ words from the morning had caused a seismic upheaval downstairs, Jim gave no indication of it bringing anything amiss above.

  Her mind filled with the task ahead of her, Biddy came up the staircase with him to eat, seating herself on the room’s stuffed leather armchair, the tray on her knee. Jim gave no sign of this being amiss, either, dining at his desk.

  ‘You don’t wear a maid’s uniform, Biddy. Don’t they mind?’ he wondered.

  ‘They probably would if I was a maid,’ said Biddy.

  Jim seemed to mull on this. ‘Not a maid at all then? Well, that’s a bit rum.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Biddy with a smile. ‘And I do work here, you know. It’s not as if I’d make up stories about such a thing.’

  ‘You don’t strike me as the fibbing sort,’ said Jim.

  Biddy was disconcerted by this and looked to see if he was having a joke. ‘I’m sorry, I thought you knew,’ she said, when it seemed apparent that he wasn’t. ‘I’m Miss Sybil’s companion.’

  ‘Ah . . .’

  Biddy still thought she saw a glimmer of a tease in his eyes. ‘Sybil’s relatives have mentioned me in their telegraph message,’ she said, after a time, deciding to proceed with care.

  Jim chewed upon his pastry. ‘They don’t miss much,’ he said.

  Biddy nodded, as if this was something of which she was all too aware.

  ‘But sometimes I wonder if I do,’ said Jim. His eyes twinkled.

  The pasty went leaden in Biddy’s mouth.

  Jim kept on smiling while he ate.

  The rest of her meal was hastily consumed. Biddy rose to take up the plates and cutlery, and as Jim passed his plate to her he held his grip upon it when she took the other edge. ‘I’m just going along to the convenience now,’ he said. ‘Keep an eye on the room while I’m gone, will you, Biddy? I don’t like to think of anyone trying to get in.’

  A sweat bead broke and ran down Biddy’s back. ‘Yes, Mr Skews.’

  ‘Why don’t you call me Jim?’ He released the willow pattern plate and went down the spiral staircase.

  Biddy leapt at the wire desk tray labelled ‘Out’ and rifled through the papers. The new week’s letters yet to be sent were there and, miraculously, beneath them were the letters from the previous week, face down to show they were done. They hadn’t been returned to their senders and they hadn’t been thrown away. Biddy flipped the sheets aside, discarding Miss Garfield’s penmanship first, before she reached Mrs Marshall’s block capitals. She flicked over the first, then the second page of the correspondence, seeking the third and final sheet; the sheet to which Biddy had added the postscript.

  It wasn’t there.

  Biddy looked under the wire basket, and then in the drawers, but the doctored sheet of Mrs Marshall’s letter wasn’t to be found. With sickening certainty beginning to form in her stomach that Jim was one step ahead of her, Biddy looked in the rubbish bin. It was empty of anything except peach stones.

  • • •

  When Jim returned, Biddy was standing at the base of the staircase, waiting for him with the tray of luncheon things in her hands.

  ‘Best get back to it, then,’ said Jim. Biddy was more than ready to leave. ‘Oh, and Biddy?’

  She turned and found he was right at her shoulder.

  ‘Some people find independence wrong in a girl,’ he said, ‘do you think that’s fair?’

  The tray grew heavy in Biddy’s hands. ‘What some people find is of no interest to me,’ said Biddy, carefully.

  ‘I don’t think it’s fair at all,’ said Jim. ‘Why shouldn’t a girl want what she wants? Some people think they can dictate a girl’s heart.’

  Biddy span around to glare at him, the tray things before her like a shield. ‘Are you trying to intimidate me, Mr Skews?’ she asked. ‘Because I wouldn’t if I were you.’

  Thrown, he stepped back a pace. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘What are you talking about?’ she said. ‘Is it the threat of something improper? Sounds like it might be, and if so, think again. You might think you’re safe in Summersby, but I’ll tell you something for nothing: I’m safer. I’ve got a protector. Want to put him to the test?’

  He stared at Biddy for a shocked moment. ‘What are you getting worked up for? You misunderstand my meaning.’

  But Biddy walked outside to the corridor, the tray still in her hand, before he could say any more. If he’d been trying to convey something important to her, Biddy’s nerves and guilty conscience had stopped her from hearing it.

  • • •

  All the long way down the servants’ stairs, the tray things rattled like an earth tremor was under them. Biddy’s nerves had been stretched as if she’d just run half a mile. For the first time in her life she feared where her stories might take her. The promise made to Sybil had been rash and ill conceived, and she couldn’t perceive how she would fulfil it. Beyond subterfuge in the telegraph room, she had no further source of illicit information, and now that source was to be avoided, too. Worse, the story told to Jim about having a ‘protector’ was made in the spur of duress. Biddy had no protector; a fact easily exposed should Jim set his mind to doing so. Biddy feared the next encounter with him. What would he do? What would he say? Who else would he say it to?

  Biddy’s mind was in a tumult as she reached the kitchen. She resolved to throw herself before Sybil and tell her the truth behind the relatives’ words. This seemed the only way to disarm Jim. But as she placed the luncheon knives and forks in the sink and automatically began to wash them, she saw the hopelessness of this plan. Her friendship with Sybil was unequal. The well-to-do girl was skittish. Why would she forgive an untrustworthy friend when certainty could come with that friend’s banishment?

  As Biddy began to wash the plates she saw the consequences of confession stretching before her. Her companion’s position would end forthwith and Miss Garfield and Mrs Marshall would revert to their true selves, sheltering Sybil from all further pain while she, Biddy, was driven back to the abandoned hut. But then the hut would be denied her, too, given that it stood on Summersby land, so Biddy would be forced to return to Castlemaine, to stand at the lonely railway platform. And if Mrs Marshall and Miss Garfield were of a greater vindictive mind – and who could blame them if they were? – then Castlemaine Gaol would be her destination. Biddy would be locked up in prison for all of her stories, and the terrible truths that she’d shunned and ignored and tried to outrun would meet her in a rush, and everyone would know what she really was and why she had nothing and no one at all.

  This picture of what her existence would be was so stark that Biddy burst into tears over the dishwater. She tried to wipe the tears from her face, but they couldn’t be stopped, so she gave into them and allowed herself the comfort of crying, grateful for being alone where no one would see it.

  ‘G’day, Biddy!’ called a surprised voice behind her, ‘don’t tell me you’ve come back home to us again?’

  She turned around in shock and saw the tall, broad-shouldered form of Lewis Fitzwater at the door, caught in the act of wiping his boots and removing his hat.

  ‘Hey, hey now, what’s happened to you? You’re all cut up and crying, Biddy, don’t do that,’ he said, coming towards her at the sink.

  Biddy tried to reply but couldn’t make the words, and she continued to cry until she was led to a chair by a strong, brown arm about her shoulder, and encouraged to sit down.

  ‘This is your heart breaking for your friend, the Reverend, isn’t it?’ Lewis asked her. ‘I suppose he’s been gathered by now, has he? Well, that’s very sad, and you’re right to grieve for him as a good friend should. But this was his
time, Biddy, and there is nothing to be done.’

  Her tears ceased and she looked at him in confusion.

  ‘Your mate, the Reverend,’ said Lewis. ‘I’m sorry he’s died.’

  Biddy suddenly remembered the story she had written in the letter she’d left him at the hut, claiming she had returned to Melbourne. ‘Yes . . . yes . . . there was nothing to be done to save him.’

  ‘If I was a God-bothering bloke I’d say a prayer for him,’ said Lewis, sympathetic, ‘but I’m supposing he did enough God-bothering of his own while still breathing, and the Almighty’s probably heard enough prayers to have made his mind up about him long ago.’

  Biddy almost smiled, maintaining the fiction. ‘He was a very good man,’ she agreed. ‘Straight to heaven. No stops along the way.’ She found her handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes.

  ‘Doesn’t mean you won’t miss him before you get up there yourself though, does it?’ he ventured. ‘I’ve had a blub for everyone I’ve lost in my time. And there’s been a few.’

  Biddy looked at him anew.

  ‘So you’re back here at Summersby then?’

  Biddy nodded, searching for something to say to support the story that she’d worked as the Summersby cook. ‘Everyone’s been very kind.’

  ‘It’s a good house, this.’

  ‘I owe you my thanks, Mr Fitzwater,’ she told him, in a rush of feeling. ‘It’s all worked out for me.’

  ‘You’re calling me “Mr” now? Didn’t I tell you my name was Lewis?’

  Biddy beamed back at him until she remembered Jim and the promise made to Sybil, and her smile fell away.

  ‘Getting yourself some tucker, mate?’ called another male voice behind them.

  Biddy lurched in her chair. Jim stood, giving an identical grin from the bottom of the servants’ stairs. But behind the cheer he was wary. There was unease in his eyes.

  Lewis at once stood up, looking caught out. ‘This is Biddy,’ he said, ‘she cooks here.’

  Biddy looked from one to the other.

  ‘This is Jim,’ Lewis said to her. ‘He’s me cousin, works as a lightning squirter.’

  Biddy’s mouth went dry.

  ‘Biddy, is it?’ said Jim to her with a wink, ‘Well, you’re a looker, ain’t she, Lew?’

  ‘Keep a smart tongue in your head,’ said Lewis, ‘she’s suffered bereavement.’

  Jim looked genuinely abashed to hear this. ‘I meant nothing by it. Sorry for your loss.’

  ‘No offence taken,’ said Biddy, narrowing her eyes at him. Jim’s own eyes reflected sympathy, yet the wariness remained. He almost seemed keen for his cousin to remain under the impression that he and Biddy hadn’t met.

  Lewis turned to Biddy again. ‘Jim’s practically all I’ve got in the world and I’m all he’s got, like it or lump it.’

  ‘Nice to meet you, Jim,’ said Biddy, carefully.

  Jim held out his hand and Biddy felt she had no option but to shake it. His grip was warm.

  Mrs Marshall entered the room through the baize door and all three of them sprang from each other as if guilty of something. ‘Is it a holiday?’ asked the housekeeper.

  ‘No, Mrs Marshall,’ said Biddy, speaking first. ‘Lewis is here to have his dinner, I think.’

  ‘Wait outside, please, Lewis,’ said the housekeeper. ‘I’ll not have your dusty clothes in the kitchen.’

  Lewis made haste for the door. ‘See you later then, Biddy,’ he said with a wink.

  ‘Unless I see her first,’ Jim added lightly from the stairs.

  Biddy willed herself not to look at Jim as he made his way back up to the telegraph room.

  • • •

  ‘Biddy,’ called Mrs Marshall on a late January morning when the day ahead looked to be milder. ‘I am going into town, will you accompany me?’

  ‘To Castlemaine, Mrs Marshall?’

  ‘To Summersby village,’ the housekeeper said. ‘Everything I require will be found there. No need to go any further afield today.’ She had a brown paper parcel before her on the table, in the process of securing it with string.

  ‘Yes, Mrs Marshall. I’ll fetch my hat and gloves.’ Biddy was excited. She had skirted the little local village when she’d been forced to live in the hut, but she hadn’t dared walk along the main street, fearful she’d be seen and talked about, and ultimately found. But the village of Summersby had seemed attractive from a distance, with its several little shops and even a restaurant of sorts. She wanted to see it. And it was also possible, Biddy thought, that the visit might unearth a clue that would help her in her quest.

  When Biddy returned to the kitchen attired for the excursion, she found Mrs Marshall at the door to the yard. ‘She is coming now,’ the housekeeper called out to someone when she saw Biddy, ‘we are ready to leave.’

  Biddy came to where Mrs Marshall was waiting and saw Lewis outside with a horse and surrey. He gave Biddy a wink and doffed his hat at her. ‘Morning, Biddy,’ he grinned.

  ‘This is Miss MacBryde,’ Mrs Marshall informed him as she took Lewis’s arm to mount the transport, ‘she is a companion here, not a servant, and should be addressed as such, Lewis.’

  Biddy went pink.

  ‘My mistake, miss,’ Lewis said. It was Biddy’s turn to be helped aboard and Lewis kept his grin in place, but raised an eyebrow at her. ‘Companion now, is it?’

  ‘To Miss Sybil,’ said Mrs Marshall.

  Lewis narrowed his eyes at Biddy, assessing her anew, as she steadied her gloved hand on his arm, making to climb the step. He didn’t seem perturbed by the discovery, but Biddy was embarrassed that she hadn’t been able to explain her altered circumstances to him in her own terms. ‘It doesn’t mean I’m up myself,’ she whispered to him.

  ‘Biddy,’ said the housekeeper, warningly, and Biddy went quiet. Lewis flicked the horse’s reins and the surrey set forth down the long Summersby drive.

  Mrs Marshall settled the brown paper parcel in her basket and began her favoured conversation, that of household tips and domestic matters. These chats were an education of sorts, an ongoing test of their respective domestic knowledge. Biddy was rarely found wanting.

  ‘What is a method to rid a home of mosquitoes?’ asked Mrs Marshall, launching in over the rhythm of the horse’s hooves.

  ‘There are several methods that I know of, Mrs Marshall,’ Biddy replied. Her eyes were on the back of Lewis’s hat, where he sat in front of them, pretending he wasn’t listening to her words. Biddy had a mind to show off a little. ‘The one I favour is to place a piece of cow pat on the fire embers before I go to bed. Not a fresh one, mind, because that won’t do anything. You need to make sure it’s dried. I’d keep a store of them for the purpose if I had my own household. They throw out a scented smoke, a bit peculiar but not nasty, and the mozzies don’t like it at all.’ She turned her smile to Mrs Marshall and found the housekeeper looking askance.

  ‘That sounds like a very old method,’ said Mrs Marshall, and Biddy perceived how unladylike the mention of cow pats had been. She thought she heard Lewis stifling a laugh in front.

  ‘But no doubt it’s effective,’ the housekeeper added. ‘I will list it in my book of household remedies for ever such time as I find myself living in a shearing shed.’

  Lewis stifled his laugh again and this time Biddy heard it distinctly.

  ‘And what of fleas?’ Mrs Marshall went on. ‘What is your remedy for those?’

  Biddy didn’t hesitate. ‘Half a teaspoon of black pepper, a teaspoon of sugar and a teaspoon of cream.’

  ‘And how do you apply it?’

  ‘Well, you don’t rub it in your hair,’ Biddy clarified for listening Lewis’s benefit. ‘You mix it all on a saucer and leave it in a room where the fleas are. They hate it as much as the mozzies hate the cow pat.’

  ‘Clever girl,’ said Mrs Marshall, approvingly. ‘Someone taught you well.’

  Biddy kept her eyes on the back of Lewis’s hat. ‘Someone did,’ was all she said. As to who that
someone was Biddy didn’t explain, and Mrs Marshall, who had already sensed that there were things from Biddy’s past about which she would not be pressed, did not enquire further.

  ‘I’ll remember that one when I put my head down tonight,’ Lewis offered from the front, without turning around. ‘That many fleas in our cottage, I could spread ’em on toast for me breakfast.’

  It was Biddy’s turn to stifle a laugh.

  ‘Are you saying Summersby has provided you with an inadequate cottage, Lewis?’ the housekeeper shot at him.

  ‘No, Mrs Marshall,’ said Lewis, still not turning around, ‘real comfortable it is. Apart from the fleas.’

  There was an affronted pause from Mrs Marshall, where only the clip-clop of the hooves was heard. ‘Remind me to prepare a saucer of the remedy for Lewis when we return, Biddy,’ she said at last.

  The surrey hit a hole in the gravelled road and all three of them lurched forward with a jolt. The parcel flipped from the shopping basket on Mrs Marshall’s knee and landed on the seat in front.

  ‘All right, ladies?’ Lewis asked.

  ‘Will you please drive with more care?’ complained the housekeeper.

  Lewis fished the parcel from where it had fallen next to him and returned it to Mrs Marshall.

  The three of them remained silent for the rest of the ride.

  • • •

  As Lewis steered the horse and surrey along Mitchell Street, named for the explorer who had first sighted the region, they neared some ladies selling delicacies from a cake stall, arranged on trestles outside the Presbyterian Church. ‘Halt here please, Lewis,’ instructed Mrs Marshall. Lewis reined the horse and assisted the housekeeper and then Biddy to the ground. ‘We shall not require you for an hour,’ Mrs Marshall told him. ‘Collect us from the front of the Railway Stores. Your time is your own until then.’

  ‘Thank you, Mrs Marshall,’ Lewis tipped his hat at her.

  Biddy flicked her eyes in his direction and was pleased to see he was smiling at her as Mrs Marshall went ahead to the ladies’ stall.

  ‘You sure you’re not up yourself?’ he wondered.