Bessie turned to look at her and Rose could see she’d been crying. She collected the infant in her arms and placed her down on Bessie’s bed, collecting a wet towel, pins and a clean nappy cloth.
‘What time is it?’ Bessie asked.
‘It’s after lunch. Can I bring you something to eat?’
Bessie turned to look back out the window. ‘I’m not hungry.’
Rose pulled the soiled nappy away from Gwendoline, wiped her down with the wet towel and fastened a clean one to her bottom. ‘Her skin is raw. They call it nappy rash. I’ll fetch some corn starch from the kitchen tonight. That should heal it, but you’ll have to be more diligent with her hygiene.’
‘All right,’ Bessie replied. ‘You would have made a good mother, Rose.’
Rose returned Gwendoline to the crib. ‘Well, it wasn’t meant to be.’
‘Alexander would have been lucky to have you.’
‘I’m the one who would have been lucky.’ Rose bent to tickle Gwendoline under the chin. ‘You’re fattening up, little one.’
Gwendoline gurgled at her.
‘How are you feeling today?’ she asked Bessie, sitting beside her on the bed.
‘I went to see him again this morning,’ she said, her gaze fixed on the trees outside. ‘I took Gwendoline with me. He wouldn’t hold her, wouldn’t even look at her. He just told me I was being intolerable, that I should know my place and exercise patience.’
‘I saw the duchess today at breakfast. The labour was hard on her and she’s unfit to sail at the moment. Perhaps that’s all he means. He just needs your patience to sort it all out.’
Bessie turned to her and the look in her eyes was of crushing defeat. ‘You’re defending him.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Either that or you’re trying to make me feel better. You and I both know he has no intention of taking us with him.’
Rose looked down at her hands.
‘I just want my baby to have a chance at life. I don’t expect gowns and tiaras and jewels, although all of that would be nice. I just want her to have a chance.’
The way Bessie spoke tore at Rose’s heart. It was the desire of every parent surely, to want to give their child the basics, to never want them to struggle, to be given the opportunities that they themselves never had.
‘If I leave here without pay or references, we’ll be on the street without a penny to our name. I doubt even a church or shelter would take us in. Those places are always overrun with expectant mothers.’
‘What about adoption?’ Rose suggested, though just saying it rang uncomfortably in her own ears.
‘I won’t do it.’
She reached for Bessie’s hand. ‘I wouldn’t either.’
Bessie turned again to the window and was quiet for the rest of the afternoon.
Two days later, after lunch service, Rose went to check on Bessie and baby Gwendoline. She rounded the corner of first class and climbed the hill up to the female staff quarters.
When she arrived, parlourmaids and housekeepers were gathered on their verandahs and a dull hush fell over them as she walked by. She could feel their eyes on her, pointing and whispering.
When she reached her cottage, she saw a group huddled on the verandah—Miss Dalton, Matron Cromwell, Doctor Holland and a man in a suit whom she guessed must be the superintendent. They were conversing sombrely around the open door, their voices low and expressions dark.
Rose climbed the steps, but Matron Cromwell moved her large body in front of the doorway to prevent her from going in. ‘Rose, stop.’
‘What’s happened?’ She looked past the matron’s bulk into the room. She could hear the baby crying, could see a chair overturned and a note on her bed. But it was the sight of the plump, lifeless body hanging from the rafters that brought her to her knees.
Emma
Present
Three weeks after Emma said goodbye to Matt on the wharf outside the museum, he called. She felt the phone vibrate, saw his name flash across the screen and she sighed.
It was nine pm on a Saturday night and it couldn’t have come at a worse time. She was in her pyjamas, eating a cold slice of quiche from The Coffee Bean, watching bad TV and listening to the jeers of the football crowd beneath her window as they moved from the stadium to the pubs.
It was a feeling she had only just gotten used to again, that one of solitude and ineptness, of being alone, her phone silent and her inbox empty. Matt’s call, so out of the blue, threatened to undo the carbon copy of normalcy she’d begun to tack together.
She let the call go to voicemail. After a minute, her phone tinged, letting her know a message had been left. Despite all self-reasoning, she dialled her voicemail service and her heart leapt involuntarily at the sound of his voice—warm, gravelly, still as desirable as she remembered it.
‘Hi, Em. It’s me.’ He sounded nervous, clearing his throat. ‘I know you probably don’t want to hear from me right now but I’ve found something you’re going to want to see. I’ve found a lot of things, actually. Meet me tomorrow at Rose and Thomas’s cottage around three. If I don’t see you there, I’ll understand.’
Emma placed her phone down and stared at it. Her shift tomorrow ended at three, but she knew Chloe wouldn’t mind her leaving early. The question was, should she? Did Emma want to go down that path again? It had been hard enough three weeks before, sitting beside him on the floor of the archive room, wanting to put her arms around him but knowing she couldn’t. Could she dredge it all up again, prolong the inevitable in that they just weren’t meant to be?
Still, the next morning, as is the way with intrigue, it got the better of her. She was curious as to what he’d found. Something you’re going to want to see, he’d said, and with such conviction that it caused Emma to wonder about it the entire day.
With Chloe’s blessing, she left her shift at two and headed north towards Manly.
Under sultry, grey skies she passed the Manly Hospital, drove beneath the sandstone arch and followed the road to the reception carpark. Ted was waiting in his usual spot out the front reading the newspaper when she climbed aboard.
‘Hey there, Emma,’ he said cheerily. ‘Matt said you might be coming.’
‘Hi, Ted. Can I get a ride to third class?’
‘You sure can.’ He placed the paper down and started up the shuttle.
They rumbled down Entrance Road, veering left onto Cottage Road. Ted halted the bus at the former male staff quarters near third class, and Emma climbed down onto the grass.
‘Get Matt to radio me if you need a lift back. I don’t know how much longer this weather’s going to hold out.’ He indicated towards dark, brooding skies.
‘Thanks, Ted,’ Emma said, waving goodbye as he closed the door and swung the bus away. She skirted the former staff cottages, as eucalypts rattled in the wind and fallen gumnuts crunched under her shoes. She saw Matt waiting for her by the concealed path.
‘Hey,’ he called out.
‘Hi,’ she replied, reaching him.
‘I wasn’t sure if you were going to come.’
‘I wasn’t sure myself. Chloe gave me an early mark.’
He nodded. ‘Well, we better get moving. I’m not sure how long we’ve got before this storm hits.’
‘What did you find?’ she asked as they followed the path towards the cliff edge, dodging branches.
‘A lot of things. We weren’t there long enough last time to have a good look. And I understand why,’ he said, glancing back at her apologetically.
‘Are you going to give me any hints?’
‘It’s better if you see for yourself.’
They emerged out onto the clearing, waves crashing against the escarpment below. The wind was starting to whistle and black clouds from the west charged towards them. Thunder rumbled down the harbour.
Matt, having fixed the door from the last time he’d broken through it, turned the handle. It squeaked open and Emma stepped inside.
Th
e temperament in the cottage had changed as though something of significance had been unearthed. The navy blue trunk she’d pulled from the wardrobe last time was now open and she glimpsed what looked like more of Rose’s diaries sitting on top of old blankets and clothing.
Over on the table, Matt had set aside the bowl and ewer, abacus and other items and had wiped the surface clean. Lying there now was a gas lantern, torch, his drink bottle and phone, a backpack and an apple core.
‘You didn’t spend the night here, did you?’ she asked, raising an eyebrow at him.
He laughed. ‘No, but I’ve been here since early this morning. I was here all day yesterday too.’
Emma turned back to the trunk and pointed to the small brown books, all with the same matching clasp. ‘Are those more of Rose’s diaries?’
‘Yes,’ Matt said. He reached into the trunk and retrieved one of them. He seemed to know exactly which one to select and Emma realised he’d already read them.
The room had grown dim, the sun slowly being swallowed by storm clouds and Matt lit the gas lantern at the table, indicating that Emma should take a seat.
‘I found this entry when I was going through the diaries.’ He opened it to the first page and placed it under the circle of lantern light. ‘It’s something you need to see.’
Emma glanced down at the diary and began to read.
5th March, 1919
My heart is broken, shattered into tiny pieces, beyond hope of ever healing.
I gave birth yesterday. I delivered a beautiful baby boy who was already with the angels when he appeared, who had the breath stolen from him before he could open his eyes.
To my beloved little Alexander Thomas, today we laid you to rest in a coffin built by your father, in a hole dug by the same. I held you in my arms and kissed your delicate crown. I heard your cries on the wind and the sweet sounds you would have made had you lived. I heard them all and it’s all my heart will ever know for I never got the chance to be your mother in the flesh. For that I will always grieve.
I will never forget the feel of you in my arms or against my cheek. I will always see your reflection in the windowpane, forever an imprint on my heart; your pure soul entwined with mine as mother and child should be.
Goodbye, my darling child. May you rest in peace.
Rose
Emma leaned back in the chair and let out a breath. The diary entry had been brief but it spoke volumes. More than that, it changed everything. ‘Rose gave birth to a baby boy and he died.’
‘Yes, a stillborn. I found the grave outside behind the cottage. There’s a headstone. It’s covered mostly with creepers and weeds now but I cleared enough of it to see the inscription. It belongs to her son, Alexander Thomas Van Cleeve, my great uncle.’
‘So Thomas and Rose didn’t give birth to Gwendoline. They gave birth to a boy and he died.’
Matt watched her closely.
‘That must mean Gwendoline isn’t Rose and Thomas’s biological child.’
‘Right.’
‘And that must mean we’re not…’
‘Related.’
Emma couldn’t help it. Her eyes flooded with tears and she wiped them away, feeling embarrassed. ‘I’m sorry. I’m just so relieved!’
Matt sat in the chair beside her. ‘I felt the same when I read it and put two and two together.’
‘It’s interesting why this diary wasn’t with the others in her suitcase behind the archive room. It could have saved us a whole lot of anxiety.’
‘She must have written about the birth then hid it here in the cottage to protect it from prying eyes.’
Emma chewed her lip thoughtfully. ‘So Rose and Thomas’s firstborn died, but is there any chance they had another child soon after and that could have been Gwendoline? Maybe her birth dates got mixed up. How else could Gwendoline have come into their care?’
‘She’s definitely not their child. There’s something else you need to see.’ He took the diary and flicked through the pages to an entry dated the twenty-second of May, 1919. ‘Read this one.’
Emma took the diary and her eyes swept over the page as Rose wrote about the suicide of her best friend, Bessie Briar, who had left behind an infant daughter called Gwendoline Anne.
It was another harrowing account and she could feel Rose’s grief in the sad loop of her letters; an outpouring of complete and utter devastation. When she turned the page, a folded piece of paper caught in the binding slipped out and dropped onto the table.
Thin and fragile with age, she carefully unfolded it.
I know you will care for her as I cannot.
I know you will give her all that she deserves.
Do not be sad, dear Rose, as I know you will be.
Gwendoline will have a better life with you.
She will grow to know you and Thomas as her parents.
Give her the castle I never could.
Your dearest friend, in life and death.
Bessie.
‘Gwendoline was Bessie Briar’s child,’ Emma said, stunned. The tiny hairs on her arms prickled. ‘My great-grandmother wasn’t Rose. It was Bessie.’
‘Yes. And not only did Rose have to contend with the loss of her child, a couple of months later she lost her best friend.’ Matt leant back in his chair. ‘After I read the diary entry and suicide note, I remembered something Gwendoline had said, that she recalled seeing Bessie Briar’s name on stone.
‘I took a walk down to the cemeteries that still exist on site. It took me a couple of hours, but I found Bessie’s grave. There isn’t much on her headstone, just her name and date of death.’
‘So Rose and Thomas must have cared for Gwendoline after Bessie died and raised her as their own. By some turn of events they were allowed to remain on the station with her and live together in this cottage.’ Emma glanced again at Bessie’s note. ‘“Give her the castle I never could.”’
‘The duke was Gwendoline’s father.’
Emma’s eyes widened. ‘How can you be sure?’
‘I read through the entire diary. Rose names him as the father. She talks about how he promised Bessie he would take her and the baby back to England with him.
‘But when his wife, the duchess, had their child, his intentions changed. Bessie became fearful for her future. She either had to sail for England with the duke, which was looking more unlikely, or she’d be fired without pay or references. It was post-wartime and she was a single, unmarried mother. The prospects weren’t good.’
‘So my great-grandfather is the Duke of Northbury?’
‘Puts a different spin on things.’
As if to agree, the weather unleashed an almighty crack of thunder outside and Matt stood to peer out the window.
‘It doesn’t look good out there. We should head back.’
Emma slipped Bessie’s note back inside the diary and stood, placing the diary with the others in the trunk and closing the lid. Matt waited for her by the door with his backpack and the extinguished gas lantern.
When they opened it, they were greeted with a sizzle of lightning that lit up the sky and a downpour of torrential rain so heavy and cold, it brought with it pellets of hail.
‘Quick, back inside,’ Matt said.
They hurried back into the cottage and closed the door, Emma shaking water off her shirt and hair.
‘We’re not going anywhere in that,’ he said.
‘How long will it hang around for?’
‘It could set in for the rest of the afternoon. We might as well get comfortable.’
The clouds outside were black, chasing the daylight away. Matt relit the gas lantern and checked that the torch worked. He handed it to Emma and she took the opportunity to walk around, casting the beam of light over furniture and belongings, taking the time to appreciate it all properly as she hadn’t been able to the first time.
She ran her hands along Rose’s nurse uniform, over the remnants of Gwendoline’s half-eaten toys and a model WWI aeroplane that she g
uessed had been constructed by Thomas, everything coated in a thick veil of time.
A strange mix of emotions ran through her. These two wonderfully kind and caring people, who she thought had been her great-grandparents, weren’t at all. Two other people were—the Duke of Northbury and his lover, Bessie Briar.
It made Emma wonder just how much Gwendoline had known. Had she been aware that Rose and Thomas weren’t her biological parents? Was that the reason for her teenage rebellion? Could it have been the duke she’d been waiting for down by the wharf as a young child, hopeful that one day her real father would return for her?
It had to have been a pipedream at best. The duke would have been long gone by then, having sailed home already to his castle with his wife and Lady Eloise. But if that was the case, who were Rose and Thomas running from in 1926 and why did they change their names? There were still so many questions unanswered.
She cast the torch beam across an open doorway and into another room as thunder clapped overhead, rattling the windowpanes. The rain was relentless, drumming the roof.
‘This is the bathroom I showed you last time,’ Matt said, appearing at her side.
Emma swept the light across the room. She saw a small porcelain bathtub, a shelf lined with cobwebbed bottles, three hooks on the wall with towels hanging and an empty chamber pot in the corner.
‘It’s like they just got up one day and walked out,’ Emma said.
‘Maybe the duke sent for Gwendoline and Rose didn’t want to give her up so they fled.’
‘I doubt it. He wouldn’t have come back for her. He sounded like a jerk to be honest.’
Matt moved close beside her, their hands brushing, a silence settling between them.
‘I’ve been struggling the last couple of months,’ he said openly.
‘Me too.’
‘And I’m not sure what this means for us now, Em, but I’m hopeful.’
She smiled at him in the dark. ‘I’m hopeful too.’
His arms reached for her hips, drawing her in. She turned, tossed the torch onto the bed and let him embrace her, her head falling onto his shoulder. She was exhausted, the emotion of the past weeks and the long hours she’d worked to escape her own thoughts, taking its toll. They stood there for a while, holding each other.
The Quarantine Station Page 33
