The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

  About the Book

  ‘There were times when Amy was drawn to the topsy-turvy world that Eliza espoused, where women were able to vote and Australia was one nation. Then again, it might be like falling down Alice’s rabbit hole to a place where chaos reigned.’

  It is 1885, and Amy Chen is still in black, more than a decade after the death of her beloved husband, Charles. But her widow’s weeds belie a determined young woman with a big ambition: Amy is going to build the grandest rural hotel in the colony of New South Wales, complete with its very own ‘ascending cabinet’.

  Meanwhile, her best friend, Eliza Miller, has dreams of her own – to become one of Australia’s first female doctors. However, when she returns to Millbrooke from her medical studies at the Sorbonne, she finds the job she thought was hers has been taken . . . by a man.

  Over the course of two turbulent years both women will face difficult choices: love or duty? Career or marriage? Is it possible to have it all . . . ?

  The Jade Widow is a captivating tale of pioneering women finding their way in a man’s world, from the author of the bestselling Mr Chen’s Emporium.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Part I The Home Front

  I Amy

  II Eliza

  III Amy

  IV Eliza

  V Amy

  VI Eliza

  VII Amy

  VIII Eliza

  IX Amy

  X Eliza

  PART II The Emporium Hotel

  XI Eliza

  XII Amy

  XIII Eliza

  XIV Amy

  XV Eliza

  XVI Amy

  XVII Eliza

  XVIII Amy

  XIX Eliza

  XX Amy

  XXI Eliza

  XXII Amy

  XXIII Eliza

  XXIV Amy

  Epilogue

  Whatever Happened To . . .?

  Acknowledgements

  Author’s Note

  Q&A With Deborah O’Brien

  Reading Group Questions

  About The Author

  Also by Deborah O’Brien

  Copyright Notice

  Loved the Book?

  For my mother with love.

  ‘But it’s no use going back to yesterday,

  because I was a different person then.’

  LEWIS CARROLL

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter X

  PROLOGUE

  Millbrooke, New South Wales

  Friday 26th November, 1886

  It’s over. Amy knows that now. There will be no reprieve. No miracle. No fairy godmother to wave a magic wand and make everything right. She can barely look at him for fear of weeping.

  He turns and climbs onto the box seat of the carriage. The coachman flicks the reins and they move off. From the shade of the portico, Amy watches as the carriage makes its way down the main street towards the railway station. Though she waits for the top-hatted passenger to turn and wave, not once does he look around.

  In the distance the steam engine is being filled with coal and water, ready for its return journey to Sydney. Most days she would find the whooshing sound a comforting reminder of the newly built branch line, joining dusty little Millbrooke to the rest of the world. Today, however, the noise of the engine is a plaintive warning she might well have thrown away her last chance at love.

  ‘The black widow’, her friends are wont to call her, because she continues to wear sombre colours more than a dozen years after her husband’s death. Is that to be her lot in life? To remain a widow, finding comfort in her son and the grand hotel she has turned into one of the finest establishments in the colony? How did she ever imagine she could have it all?

  Amy goes back into the hotel, crosses the foyer to her office and closes the door. Slumping at the desk, she straightens the leather blotter and rearranges the nibs lying on the brass pen stand. In her wooden stationery rack there is a letter that she sealed and addressed a couple of days earlier. She had forgotten all about it. With a shaking hand she takes it from the rack and places it on the blotter. For a minute or two she just stares at the salutation written across the front, before holding the envelope aloft as though it is a crystal ball containing the clues to her future. Perhaps it does. She glances at her fob watch – ten past eleven. The Sydney train will be leaving in five minutes. She can still make it to the station, but only if she hurries. Tucking the envelope into her pocket, she doesn’t even bother to don a hat and gloves. That would waste precious time. As she rushes out of the office and into the foyer, Timothy, the porter, asks:

  ‘May I help you, Mrs Chen?’

  ‘Thank you, Timothy, but it’s something I must deal with myself,’ she replies as she dashes past him and into the street. Three blocks to the station. She starts down the hill, walking as fast as she can without actually running. A lady should never run. It is something her aunt has taught her. Nevertheless, she needs to be there before the train leaves. Halfway down the hill she breaks into a trot, hoping nobody will see her. It just wouldn’t do for Mrs Charles Chen to be caught careering along like a hoyden.

  By the time Amy reaches the station she is out of breath, but the train is still there, hissing steam. In front of the building the hotel’s carriage is empty and the horse listlessly nibbles at the scrappy patch of grass which passes for a lawn. Arthur, the coachman, appears with a trolley piled full of luggage. Gathered beside him is a family from Sydney, who have booked the Oriental Suite for the weekend.

  ‘Mrs Chen, is everything all right?’ Arthur asks, but she races past him with a nod to the newcomers.

  ‘Shall I wait for you?’

  ‘No, thank you, Arthur. I’ll be fine on my own.’

  She makes her way through the archway, past the ticket office and onto the platform. Not a passenger in sight, only a few locals waiting to farewell their family and friends. Steam is pouring in urgent gushes from the pistons, grey smoke billowing from the funnel. The guard blows his whistle. Any minute now, the train will be moving.

  Abandoning any vestige of decorum, Amy begins to run, peering in the windows of the carriages as she races past each one. When she reaches the far end of the platform, desperate tears are welling in her eyes. Just as she is wondering whether he has disappeared in a puff of smoke, there he is, sitting next to a window in the very first carriage. Frantically she calls out to him but can barely hear her own voice above the snorting of the engine. Then he happens to glance out the window.

  ‘Amy!’ he mouths the word through the window.

  He has never called her by her first name before, not even by mistake. All of a sudden he is standing up and heading towards the door.

  ‘Amy!’ he repeats. This time she can hear his voice. Before she knows it, he has leapt onto the platform and taken her ungloved hand in his. Next he is pressing it against his lips.

  ‘I knew it couldn’t end like that,’ he says in the lilting voice that can make her believe anything is possible.

  In her head the words ‘please stay’ are playing over and over to the rhythm of her pounding heart . . .

  PART I

  THE HOME FRONT

  ‘Off with his head!’

  LEWIS CARROLL

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter IX

  I

  AMY

  Millerbrooke House, Millbrooke, NSW

  Saturday 14th February, 1885

  All afternoon the fierce February heat had kept the two young women indoors, sipping lemonade and wafting silk fans in a vain attempt to cool themselves. Even the children had abandoned their outdoor pursuits and disappeared into the depth
s of the cellar where they were busy building a fort from fruit boxes.

  ‘I fear I will succumb to the vapours if this heat continues,’ sighed Eliza Miller, waving her fan theatrically.

  ‘I didn’t know you could catch the vapours from the heat,’ said Amy Chen, her voice full of anxiety.

  Eliza began to laugh. ‘Of course you can’t. I was speaking in jest. There is no such thing as the vapours.’

  ‘Did you learn that in your studies at the Sorbonne?’

  ‘Hardly. The professors are men.’

  ‘Then how did you reach such a conclusion?’

  ‘Have you ever heard of a man having the vapours?’

  ‘Of course not. It is a disorder of the feminine constitution.’

  ‘Piffle! It is an ailment created by physicians to keep us in our place.’

  Although Amy was inclined to berate Eliza for her use of a curse word, she really wanted to hear more. ‘Us?’ she enquired.

  ‘Women. They tell us we’re weak and hysterical. Which is why we can’t be entrusted with the vote. But that’s utter twaddle! The women of this colony are its unsung heroines, the silent supporters in a world where men claim all the credit.’

  This time Amy couldn’t let the curse pass without a comment. ‘Eliza! What if the children heard you speaking in such a manner?’

  ‘They are playing in the cellar. And Joseph’s dead to the world.’ Her older brother, who had only just returned from mustering, was slumped in an armchair, his yellow curls falling over his forehead.

  ‘Well, thank goodness for that. I daresay he wouldn’t approve of anything you’ve said.’

  ‘And what about you, Amy?’

  ‘Sometimes I think you live in a different world from the rest of us, Eliza. A strange land where things are upside down and back to front.’

  Eliza just smiled. ‘It never hurts to look at things from a different perspective, you know. Some people around here are far too set in their ways.’ She shot a glance at the sleeping Joseph. Beside them a card table was piled neatly with Sydney newspapers. Eliza took the uppermost journal and glanced at the headline. ‘Do you think he’ll escape?’

  ‘General Gordon? Of course I do. I pray for him every night.’

  ‘It’s odd, isn’t it, how an Englishman, besieged in Africa, has become the focus of attention around the world. Everyone is waiting with bated breath for the latest news – even in little Millbrooke.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s at all odd. General Gordon is the greatest hero of our time. The entire British Empire is following his story, from India to Canada to . . . New Zealand.’ It was the most far-flung outpost of Empire that she could think of, save for her own country.

  ‘Well, I don’t think he should have been there in the first place,’ said Eliza. ‘And why in heaven’s name did Gordon take it into his head to stay on and defend Khartoum? Couldn’t he see it was a lost cause?’

  ‘Keep your voice down, Eliza. You do say the most provoking things.’

  But Eliza gave her a Sphinx-like smile and began flicking through the pages of the newspaper. As the clock struck five, the first hint of a breeze fluttered at the muslin curtains. Amy noticed it before the others. Born in Scotland thirty years earlier, she had never really become accustomed to Australian summers, even though she had spent the past two decades in New South Wales. ‘The cool change has arrived at last,’ she said, rising from the chesterfield and moving towards the French doors leading to the verandah.

  ‘It’s your imagination,’ said Eliza, who nonetheless proceeded to the glass doors and opened one to see for herself. ‘I think you’re right,’ she added after a moment. ‘Come on, we shall take tea on the verandah, and Joseph and the children can play cricket on the lawn.’

  ‘It’s still too hot for cricket,’ protested Amy. ‘They will surely succumb to heat stroke.’

  ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Amy,’ said Eliza, giving her friend’s arm a gentle nudge. ‘In a year’s time, I shall be a doctor. I wouldn’t allow them outside if I thought they’d become ill.’

  Amy continued to look doubtful. ‘Let’s wait until the temperature drops. They will have a couple of hours of daylight even then.’

  Amy moved to the verandah and took a seat overlooking the circular memory garden she had planted in remembrance of her husband, Charles, who had grown up at Millerbrooke House after his father died in an accident on the gold diggings. Every plant had been chosen for its significance. In the centre was a small bay tree which had survived the last eleven summers, even the year a severe heatwave turned its leaves brown, making it appear dead. Just as the gardener was about to pull it out, he had noticed tiny green shoots. No wonder it was considered a symbol of resurrection and renewal, Amy had thought when he showed her the buds. At its base was a leafy mass of chrysanthemums, the Chinese flower of mourning. Around them Amy had planted violets, her favourite flower; she had been wearing its perfume the first time Charles had held her in his arms. The outer circle was filled with pansies for thoughts, heart’s ease for comfort, and tiny forget-me-nots. Everything bloomed at different times, but in Amy’s imagination she saw Charles’s garden as a ring that flowered eternally.

  Beyond the flower plots and verdant lawns, the paddocks were burnt brown by the summer weather. Some two miles away she could make out the town of Millbrooke, its church spires shining in the afternoon light. Although she tried to identify the red iron roof of the store that she owned jointly with her brother-in-law, it was impossible to distinguish it from the other buildings in the main street. Her house in Paterson Street was obscured by a screen of eucalypt trees. As she gazed towards the east, she spotted a cloud of dust about a quarter of a mile away.

  ‘Are you expecting anyone, Eliza?’ she asked her friend who had joined her on the verandah.

  ‘Not today.’

  ‘Well, there’s somebody riding up the road from town. Do you think it might be your father?’

  ‘He’s not expected back until tomorrow morning,’ Eliza replied, peering into the bright sunlight.

  Oblivious to the conversation on the verandah, Joseph continued to recline in the armchair, snoring so loudly they could hear him through the open door.

  ‘I’d better tell Mama we have a visitor,’ said Eliza. ‘She wouldn’t want to be caught unawares.’ Eliza’s mother, Charlotte, was taking a cold bath in the newly completed bathroom.

  Amy could almost smell the dust now, rising from the road leading into Millerbrooke. Suddenly a horse and sulky came over the rise. ‘It’s Papa,’ she cried. ‘He must have returned on the afternoon train.’

  At the sound of her voice, the children emerged from the cellar and raced down the drive to greet their grandfather.

  ‘Charlie,’ Amy called to her son, who had been named for her husband, ‘don’t inhale that dust. It will give you bronchitis.’

  But eleven-year-old Charlie and his nine-year-old cousin James had already reached the sulky. So had the stable boy, who helped John Miller to dismount and then led the horse and sulky towards the barn.

  By now Eliza and Joseph had appeared from the house to greet their father. Meanwhile Charlie and James were carrying his heavy Gladstone bag between them.

  ‘What brought you home so early, Papa?’ asked Eliza, giving him a kiss on the cheek.

  John Miller removed his top hat and shook his head wearily. ‘There’s been some bad news.’

  ‘Not Daniel?’ asked Eliza anxiously. Her brother, Daniel, was a captain in the regiment at Paddington Barracks.

  ‘No, he is hale and hearty. And so is your Aunt Molly,’ he said, smiling in Amy’s direction. ‘It is not someone we know, yet he has been close to all our hearts.’ As he spoke, John Miller waved a rolled newspaper in front of them. ‘Let us take tea and I shall tell you what has happened.’

  Having been reassured that all was well with her family members in Sydney, Amy could hardly wait to hear the unravelling of the mystery.

  ‘Do come and sit on the veran
dah, Papa,’ she said. He wasn’t her father. Not even her father-in-law. Not in the literal sense. Yet he felt more like a father to her than the Reverend Matthew Duncan had ever been. After her marriage to Chinese merchant, Charles Chen, the clergyman had shunned them both. John Miller, on the other hand, had welcomed his foster son’s bride as one of his own. That was his nature.

  They settled on the verandah and Matilda, the maid, brought a tray with tea for the adults and glasses of lemonade for the children, as well as a cake stand laden with jam kisses and fruit cake. John Miller unrolled the newspaper and began to read aloud.

  ‘Via submarine cable. Today the world mourns the death of Major-General Charles George Gordon C. B. R. E. who was stabbed and killed on 26th January during the fall of Khartoum.’

  There were gasps of shock. Amy placed her hand over her mouth, while Joseph shook his head in disbelief.

  ‘Reports suggest the attack took place on the steps of General Gordon’s palace and that his head was carried on a pike through the streets.’

  As John Miller’s voice faltered, he laid the newspaper solemnly on the wicker table. Even the children were silent. Finally Joseph spoke:

  ‘How appalling! Far worse than the killing of Nelson at Trafalgar.’

  ‘It’s a terrible blow,’ said Amy softly.

  ‘He should have pulled out before things became irrevocable,’ said Eliza.

  Her father shot her a warning look. ‘There has been a huge outpouring of grief in Sydney,’ he said, swiftly changing the subject. ‘It is almost as though our dear Queen had passed away.’

  At that moment Charlotte Miller appeared in the doorway, dressed in a crisp muslin gown, her damp hair pulled into a bun. John rose and kissed her on the cheek.

  ‘Daniel sends you his love,’ he said, offering her a seat.

  ‘Did I hear you say the Queen has died?’ she asked, her face turning white as chalk.

  ‘No, my dear,’ he replied, taking her hand. ‘Nothing quite so dreadful, but it is a calamity nonetheless. General Gordon has been killed.’