The Secret Heiress

by Luke Devenish

  ‘Truth is though,’ he went on in a quiet voice, ‘sometimes love feels like resentment; resentment that she gets to be more of a man than I do.’

  He tossed his cigarette into the garden before he’d finished smoking it.

  ‘Who’s Margaret Gregory?’ Biddy asked. ‘And don’t fib to me, Jim.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he told her.

  She crinkled her eyes at him.

  ‘I don’t,’ he repeated.

  ‘Could she be this Secret Heiress?’

  ‘Could be,’ said Jim, sucking his teeth. ‘Could be someone else again.’

  ‘Why is everything made so bloomin’ mysterious around here?’ Biddy asked him, exasperated.

  ‘Because Mrs Marshall’s got something she wants hidden away, something scandalous, that’s why,’ he told her. ‘It’s why everything’s sent in telegraph messages – she’s scared of sending letters the normal way in case someone reads ’em by mistake. Don’t ask me what the scandalous thing is, though, because I swear I don’t know – all I do know is Sybil’s part of it, but she’s not allowed to know either. Mrs Marshall won’t let her know.’

  In light of Biddy’s own experience of an unwitting life of lies, she knew she couldn’t live with herself if she let Sybil remain at the mercy of others who claimed to know better. Nothing was ever better than the truth. Nothing.

  ‘Do you know, Jim,’ she mused, ‘if I were a man feeling restless and frustrated in a situation like yours, I reckon I’d be looking for ways I could take some action that might make certain things change.’

  He tilted the hat from his brow. ‘Such as?’

  Biddy glanced at the Summersby tower where the telegraph machine lived.

  ‘Such as the lightning squirts, for a start.’

  • • •

  Biddy pressed the door to the drawing room shut before taking to the sofa, training her ears for the telltale signs of footsteps in the hall while she and Sybil kept their voices low. ‘You’ve never heard that name Margaret Gregory before?’ Biddy clarified. She was holding her tongue for now on what she had learned from Jim Skews.

  ‘Never,’ said Sybil, already seated.

  ‘Not once? Never in your entire life?’

  ‘I’d remember it if I had,’ said Sybil, ‘it’s the same as my own!’

  ‘Gregory. It can’t be a coincidence, can it?’

  Sybil agreed it was unlikely.

  ‘Identical twins changing places, a servant who was never once fooled – does any of that mean anything to you?’ Biddy went on.

  ‘No,’ said Sybil.

  ‘None of it?’

  ‘No. Should it?’

  Biddy frowned. ‘I sort of feel like it should, yes,’ she said, ‘but I’m blessed if I know why yet. Twins might have something to do with all this – one called Margaret, and the other, Matilda.’

  ‘Oh, Biddy,’ Sybil began again, trying to keep the excitement from her voice, ‘you’re very clever to work it out.’

  Biddy held up her hand. ‘Nothing is clear yet, Sybil, and I’ve hardly done anything. So tell me, how much of Mrs Marshall’s life do you know about?’

  Biddy suspected this was the first time the idea of the housekeeper even having a life outside Summersby had occurred to Sybil. ‘Well, I know she originally comes from Beechworth,’ she said, after a moment. ‘Wait, I think it was Myrtleford.’

  Biddy smiled, her suspicion confirmed. ‘Who might she know called Margaret Gregory that she’d have reason to send parcels to?’

  Sybil looked shamefaced. ‘She’s been the Summersby housekeeper all my life, but I know nothing of her family.’

  Biddy would have laughed at this, thinking it typical of those who employed servants, until she saw a parallel with her own situation. This made her see the housekeeper in an alternative light. ‘It may be then that Mrs Marshall has no family – or friends,’ said Biddy, speaking from experience, ‘meaning she never talks of those that don’t exist. It’s not a slight on you for knowing so little about her, Sybil; it’s just that what friends and family she has are all here at Summersby.’

  Sybil nodded. ‘Now that I think of it, she has never gone on a holiday,’ she said, ‘in all these years. She has never gone to visit someone. If she had people of her own outside Summersby, surely she would see them?’

  ‘And yet she sends a weekly parcel to someone,’ said Biddy, ‘and this week the parcel went to a Miss Margaret Gregory. You do realise this makes her a liar then?’

  Sybil looked alarmed. ‘Who’s lying?’

  ‘Mrs Marshall, of course; she who would have you believe she knows as much about everything as you do – that is to say “nothing”. But if she knows the name and address of this person, and knows enough to send parcels, then she’s a liar, isn’t she? Mrs Marshall knows far more about secret Summersby things than she’s ever been prepared to let on. She’s been lying to your face for years!’

  ‘But . . . but Mrs Marshall was the one who told me there was another heiress in the first place – she first told me when I was a little girl, years and years ago.’

  ‘Well, yes,’ said Biddy, ‘but it’s not like Mrs Marshall told you any actual facts about her, did she?’

  ‘That’s what I like to see,’ said Mrs Marshall’s voice at the drawing room door, ‘broadening your mind already.’

  Biddy and Sybil nearly leapt from their seats as the housekeeper entered.

  Biddy looked up and smiled pleasantly, casting a sideways glance at Sybil, who was doing the same with impressive ease.

  ‘Enjoying some instructive reading already?’ Mrs Marshall wondered.

  Biddy glanced at her own lap and thanked her guardian angels that she’d placed the ‘sound’ Australasian over the ‘flamboyant’ Bulletin when she’d sat down, ostensibly to read.

  Joey trotted in behind and took a place he felt was rightly his on an armchair before Mrs Marshall shooed him off and took the seat herself. He curled up at Biddy’s feet on the carpet.

  ‘So then . . .’ said Mrs Marshall, with a motherly smile.

  Biddy and Sybil maintained their own smiles, not daring to throw each other another glance. Biddy tormented herself in imagining how much Mrs Marshall might have overheard.

  ‘I see you’ve caught Lewis Fitzwater’s eye,’ the housekeeper said to Biddy.

  Biddy went pink.

  ‘There’s no crime in it,’ Mrs Marshall said, ‘it’s natural that you would. You’re a very pretty girl, Biddy, and boys like Lewis always have an eye for pretty girls.’

  Biddy sought the safety of denial. ‘I . . . I don’t know what you mean by that, Mrs Marshall. I haven’t led him to expect things that he shouldn’t, if that’s what you think.’

  ‘Of course you haven’t, you’re a good girl,’ the housekeeper reassured her. ‘I didn’t mean to chastise you for anything. What catches a boy’s eye is hardly the fault of a girl, unless she’s a girl of poor virtue, and you’ll not be accused of that by me.’

  Sybil stood up. ‘Is this is a conversation that best be had with Biddy alone, Mrs Marshall? I’m sure you’ll not mind if I leave . . .’

  The housekeeper encouraged Sybil to resume her seat. ‘Companionship is a two-way street, Sybil,’ she said, ‘and what I must say to Biddy will do your ears no harm.’

  Sybil sat again. Biddy resumed tormenting herself, convinced the housekeeper had heard everything and was taking a very drawn-out path towards revealing it.

  Mrs Marshall shifted in her seat, her corset making it hard to get comfortable. She pulled a cushion to the small of her back, before something about Sybil’s own posture seemed to strike her as odd. ‘Sybil!’ she exclaimed, shocked. ‘Have you taken your corset off?’

  Sybil blushed, straightening herself at once. ‘No, Mrs Marshall.’

  The housekeeper stared at the girl’s torso. ‘You most certainly have. I can see every curve of your abdomen. Oh, Sybil,’ she said, dismayed.

  It was only now that Biddy realised it, too. Sybi
l was free of her corset. It wasn’t as if either of them needed such constrictive things anyway, although as she glanced at Sybil again, she wondered if perhaps her friend did require a little more support.

  Sybil was plainly mortified. ‘It is too tight. It cuts into me.’

  ‘Then you could only have gained weight from all my good food,’ pronounced Mrs Marshall, ‘because your undergarments were measured to fit you perfectly.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Marshall,’ Sybil muttered, embarrassed.

  The housekeeper changed the subject. ‘You have no mother to guide you, do you, Biddy?’ she enquired after a pause. ‘No mother alive, I mean?’

  Biddy sensed Sybil listening keenly. ‘No,’ she fibbed.

  The housekeeper nodded. ‘The circumstances are no one’s business, although I presume they are sad?’

  Biddy said nothing, but gave a single nod. She’d been made sad by them, it wasn’t a total untruth.

  ‘What is our business is your welfare, however,’ said Mrs Marshall, continuing. ‘At least while you’re under this roof, and likely when you’re no longer under it, too.’

  Biddy dared risk a glance to Sybil, unsure of what to say. But Sybil’s own look gave her no clue.

  Mrs Marshall took Biddy’s hand. Biddy used her other hand to keep the Bulletin securely in place under the Australasian. ‘You’re a good girl,’ Mrs Marshall repeated, ‘but I won’t have you fail to stay that way for want of a mother’s advice.’

  ‘But my mother is gone,’ said Biddy, continuing the story.

  ‘And I’m sorry for you that she is,’ said Mrs Marshall. ‘I myself am not a mother, although once I wished that I might have been, but it wasn’t to be. I know when mothering is needed, however.’

  Biddy was confused.

  ‘What is it Biddy needs mothering for, Mrs Marshall?’ asked Sybil.

  The housekeeper withdrew her hand. ‘I should tell you that Lewis Fitzwater is somewhat boisterous. He’s known throughout the district for it – and all because he never had the benefit of a father’s strap on his rear when he might have benefited from it. His cousin Jim, at least, has acquired a respectable skill.’

  Biddy absorbed this in confusion ‘What do you mean, Mrs Marshall?’

  ‘Sybil knows, don’t you, child?’ said the housekeeper, turning to her.

  Sybil’s look to Mrs Marshall was stern. ‘I fear that is somewhat unfair of you to taint Mr Fitzwater’s character, Mrs Marshall,’ Sybil said, ‘given I have seen nothing to suggest insolence in his manner.’

  Mrs Marshall was quick to disavow. ‘He has never been insolent, of course he hasn’t, merely high-spirited.’ She cleared her throat and attempted to begin again. ‘When Lewis Fitzwater was sixteen he was given sole charge of a herd of cattle to drive to Newmarket,’ she said. ‘In disregard for laws, he took the herd through the streets of Melbourne, if you please, spinning shameless stories to the constables who tried to stop him.’

  Mrs Marshall waited for Biddy to react to this apparently scandalous anecdote, but Biddy’s opinion of Lewis shot up higher at an event she only wished she’d seen for herself.

  The housekeeper went on. ‘When a gentleman proved immune to Mr Fitzwater’s comedy and set loose his dogs on the cattle, Lewis slashed the man’s shirt with a stockwhip and would have flogged him insensible had not the dogs then been controlled. Needless to say, word of these antics reached Summersby.’

  ‘Did he still get the cattle safely to market, then?’ Biddy asked.

  ‘That is not the point,’ said Mrs Marshall.

  Biddy guessed that the answer was yes.

  ‘His moleskin trousers are far too tight and his spurs are unnecessarily large,’ Mrs Marshall condemned. ‘Too often have I heard that he frequents the Bush Inn, meaning his interests lie only in drinking, swearing and brawling, for that is all that any man does in there.’

  Biddy was flabbergasted. ‘But I’ve never once smelled drink on his breath.’

  ‘Neither have I,’ said Sybil.

  Mrs Marshall was clearly struggling. ‘Remember what I’ve told you when you look at him,’ she said to Biddy. ‘I know he’s very handsome – very handsome indeed – but a boy who starts his adult life with such outlandish behaviour goes to his early grave with it, too.’

  Biddy felt an injustice was being done, but the sincerity in the housekeeper’s face made it hard to see any malice behind.

  ‘His cousin Jim, on the other hand,’ Mrs Marshall went on, ‘seems to have avoided the family curse. He did very well in his schooling and gained himself a valuable skill.’ Mrs Marshall leaned close to her. ‘Should you ever find yourself catching Jim Skews’ eye, Biddy, well, you could do a lot worse.’

  Biddy made a quick intake of breath and glanced at Sybil, who looked mortified. Mrs Marshall was trying to play matchmaker.

  ‘Mrs Marshall,’ said Sybil, severely, ‘I’m sure Biddy has no interest whatsoever in catching the eye of Mr Skews, now or in the future.’

  ‘Well, that strikes me as a great pity,’ said Mrs Marshall, ‘a fine young man like Jim Skews could suit someone like Biddy very nicely.’

  ‘Someone like Biddy?’ said Sybil, her voice rising.

  Biddy said nothing.

  ‘Well, he’d suit any nice young woman, I’m sure,’ Mrs Marshall attempted to explain herself. ‘I’m just suggesting that Biddy would be foolish to limit her choices. After all, Jim has all his cousin’s looks and none of his impediments.’

  ‘What’s a pong that would strip the slates from a roof if it’s not an impediment?’ Biddy cracked.

  ‘Biddy!’ cried Sybil. She looked far more shocked at this remark than Mrs Marshall did.

  ‘Very nasty pong on him,’ Biddy said, po-faced. ‘It’s a mystery to me if he takes the time to wash.’

  ‘Biddy, that is most uncharitable and I am quite sure, untrue,’ said Sybil.

  Biddy had to stop herself smiling. If only Sybil knew what she had learned from her clandestine sweetheart, she thought!

  There was sharp tap at the drawing room door and Miss Garfield admitted herself before anyone responded. She was flushed in the face.

  ‘What is it, Miss Garfield?’ asked Sybil, making the most of the interruption.

  ‘Some extraordinary news, completely unexpected.’ The governess held a piece of paper in her hand.

  Mrs Marshall looked wary. ‘Is that a telegraph transcription?’

  ‘It is indeed,’ said Miss Garfield. The two women held each other’s weighted looks for a moment. ‘Mr Skews was retrieving something from the telegraph room when the machine came to life,’ said Miss Garfield, ‘and it is very fortunate that he was.’

  Biddy kept a poker face.

  ‘It is something for all of us to hear . . .?’ Mrs Marshall asked. There was an unmistakable note of warning in her voice.

  Miss Garfield nodded, visibly steeled herself, and then turned to Sybil. ‘Your relatives have issued an instruction that I’m sure you will find both surprising and delightful.’

  Sybil sat up straight, held by the expression on her governess’s face. ‘This isn’t my summons . . .?’

  The governess glanced nervously at Mrs Marshall. ‘I’m not quite sure.’

  ‘You’re not sure? Is it or isn’t it, Evie?’ Mrs Marshall spluttered.

  ‘Perhaps it is, I can’t be certain.’

  Mrs Marshall sprang from her seat. ‘The day Sybil receives her summons from her relatives is one we have keenly anticipated. We have never been told when it will come, only that it will come, so surely there can be little confusion if it has arrived?’

  Agitated, the governess handed the transcription to the housekeeper. Mrs Marshall read what was there for a moment.

  ‘You see my confusion,’ said Miss Garfield.

  Sybil stood up, glaring at them both. ‘Please tell me what my relatives have instructed right now.’

  The two women just looked each other.

  Miss Garfield cleared her throat. ‘You are to b
e taken on a visit.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘You are to come away.’

  Sybil stared in amazement. ‘I’m to leave Summersby?’

  ‘For a visit,’ said Miss Garfield.

  Sybil grew visibly faint and Biddy stood to assist her, guiding Sybil to a seat again. ‘Oh, Biddy,’ she muttered, ‘this is my summons, it’s come at last.’

  Knowing more than anyone, Biddy said nothing.

  The governess struck an unmistakable note of doubt. ‘I’m afraid this is why we are uncertain as to whether this is your summons at all,’ she said. She caught Mrs Marshall’s look. ‘At least, I am uncertain . . .’ she trailed off.

  ‘But . . . but where is it that I am going?’ Sybil asked.

  ‘Melbourne,’ Mrs Marshall said, speaking up at last. Miss Garfield continued to look at her questioningly. The housekeeper braced herself. ‘It is not an address your governess recognised because she has no reason to. But I recognise it.’ She seemed to be wrestling with what would come next. ‘It is the home of your relatives. Auburn Grove, Hawthorn.’

  Biddy almost gave a little cry, risking giving herself away. Sybil kept calm. Miss Garfield looked greatly shocked, however. It became apparent at once to Biddy that Mrs Marshall had long been privy to information that Miss Garfield never had. The governess had not known the address.

  ‘Your relatives have decided it is time for you to enlarge your experience of society – and of them,’ said Mrs Marshall. ‘The message is emphatic. This address is where you shall visit, accompanied by Miss Garfield, of course, and . . . well.’

  ‘And Biddy?’

  ‘Yes, Biddy,’ said Miss Garfield. ‘She, too, has been mentioned.’

  Biddy smiled in apparent surprise.

  ‘Your relatives feel that a pair of reliable men are needed to provide assistance on the journey,’ said Miss Garfield, chiming in again and trying to mask her earlier shock, ‘and rather than having Mrs Marshall go to the trouble of hiring two who are wholly unproven, they have requested we utilise two young men already known to us here at Summersby.’