‘Of course,’ he said. ‘You are absolutely right.’ His brooding eyes were fixed so intently on hers that she thought she might blush. But Eliza never blushed. That was Amy’s department.
‘Are you perchance the wife of one of those gentlemen seated at the table?’ asked the dark-eyed stranger.
‘I am nobody’s wife.’
‘You say that in a most determined way, Miss . . .?’
‘Miller. Eliza Miller. And you are . . .?’
He looked askance, as though she should be aware of his identity. ‘I am Charles Conder.’
She extended her hand in the same way she had done with Mr Roberts. But whereas he had been most circumspect, Mr Conder swooped on her hand and raised it to his lips. The gesture was rather unseemly, yet oddly enjoyable.
‘Are you an actor, Mr Conder?’ she asked, basing her question on his theatrical manner, together with his assumption that she should have known who he was.
‘I am a painter,’ he announced, before adding a caveat, ‘however I am working as a surveyor until such time as I am discovered by the art world.’
‘In that case, this is the best place for you to come. Miss Scott is a celebrated patron of the arts.’
‘Yes, I am acquainted with Miss Scott. This is my third visit. And you, Miss Miller?’
‘Miss Scott and I are pen friends. She invited me for the weekend. I come from a small town called Millbrooke. Have you heard of it?’
‘I’m afraid I haven’t. I only arrived in the colony last year. I’m looking forward to travelling all over New South Wales. That is the redeeming feature of my job. The survey camps afford me an opportunity to do what I like best.’ He removed a leather-clad book from under his cloak. ‘This is my sketchbook.’ He pronounced those words with such solemnity he might have been presenting her with an ancient Bible.
Eliza stood directly under the chandelier lighting the hallway, and opened the book. What she saw on its pages delighted her – vignettes of shearing sheds and dilapidated cottages, country roads and eucalypt trees, sheep and cattle in grassy paddocks.
‘Your drawings remind me of home,’ she said. Her thoughts drifted to Millerbrooke. Although it was barely ten o’clock, her family would be sound asleep. Country people were wont to retire early because they had to rise at dawn. Mr Conder, on the other hand, with his rakish demeanour and flashing eyes, appeared to be a nocturnal creature, and an exotic one at that.
‘If you are ever undertaking one of your surveys in the Millbrooke district, you must come and visit us,’ she said. ‘You could paint a picture of the purple hills and the creek running through the valley. We even have a platypus.’
‘A what?’
‘A duck-mole. It has a bill like a duck, fur like an otter and can emit poison like a snake.’
‘You are tricking me, Miss Miller. There is no such creature. Next minute you will be telling me there are dragons in this Mill . . .’
‘Millbrooke. But our house is called Millerbrooke. It is named for my grandfather, Alexander Miller and his wife, who was formerly a Brooke. Later the name of the town was shortened to Millbrooke. And yes, we have a kind of dragon known as a goanna. It can grow to over a yard in length. I have even seen one climb right up a tree trunk.’
‘Does it have wings and breathe fire?’ he asked with a laugh.
‘Come to Millbrooke and I shall show you.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
Eliza began to wonder what her parents would make of Mr Conder’s flamboyant ways. As for Joseph, she could just imagine his reaction to a man who wanted to be an artist. ‘Have you met Mr Roberts?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘I feel certain he would be interested in your work.’
‘Is he a collector?’
‘No, he’s an up-and-coming painter, visiting from Melbourne. Actually, I was only speaking with him earlier this evening. Rose . . . Miss Scott bought one of his paintings this past week.’ Eliza lowered her voice. ‘It is still wet.’
‘Really? Are you going to introduce me?’ With a swirl of his cloak, he put his arm in Eliza’s and ushered her across the hall and into the parlour.
Rose was seated in a wing chair near the fire, holding court. Although the room was still brimming with guests, Mr Roberts was nowhere to be seen.
‘Charles,’ she greeted him. ‘How good of you to come. I see you have met Eliza.’
‘Miss Miller was hiding in the library, pretending to be Jane Eyre. So I decided to be Mr Rochester and rescue her.’
‘I’m afraid you have the wrong Brontë, Mr Conder,’ said Eliza. ‘You are more like Heathcliff than Mr Rochester.’
‘If you mean that I’m wildly romantic, then I agree,’ he said, flashing his eyes at her.
‘What a pity you missed Tom Roberts,’ said Rose. ‘He left not long ago for his lodgings. It seems he has an early start, painting the sun rising over the harbour.’
Mr Conder didn’t seem to be listening. Instead, he was mesmerised by the painting hanging over the mantel.
‘What do you think of Charles?’ Rose whispered in Eliza’s ear.
‘He’s rather dashing, isn’t he?’ she whispered back.
‘You do know he’s only seventeen, don’t you, my dear?’
Eliza was shocked. ‘But he seems so worldly. Are you sure?’
Rose nodded. ‘Charles is old beyond his years.’ Then she shielded her mouth with her hand so that only Eliza could possibly hear her. ‘I fear he is not long for this world. He lives every moment as if it were his last.’
Eliza ventured a quick glance at Charles Conder, staring intently at Mr Roberts’s landscape. He was so handsome it almost hurt to look at him.
‘What a pity Mr Conder wasn’t able to meet Mr Roberts,’ said Eliza as they took breakfast in Rose’s back garden. Rose’s mother was still asleep and little Harry was playing on the lawn with the knucklebones Eliza had brought him. ‘Do you think it might still be arranged?’
‘Not for the time being, I’m afraid. Tom is returning to Melbourne this afternoon. However I feel certain it will happen in due course. He would be such a steadying influence on Charles. A father figure, so to speak.’
‘Doesn’t Mr Conder have a father?’
‘He lives with his Uncle William. That is how he acquired his job – his uncle is head of the Lands Department.’
‘Well, I agree with you about Mr Roberts. He seems to have a most sensible approach to life, without being prissy or pretentious. I imagine he would make a fine friend.’
‘Speaking of friendships,’ said Rose, moving her chair a little so that her pale-skinned face was in the shade, ‘you mentioned a certain Doctor Burns in your latest letter. Do I detect a hint of romance?’
Eliza thought for a moment. ‘I would describe it as an affectionate friendship.’
‘Do you desire it to be more than that?’
‘I’m really not sure, however I do know that Martin has serious intentions. On one occasion he almost asked me to marry him.’
‘Almost?’
‘I changed the subject before he could pose the question.’
‘One day he will catch you off guard.’
‘I know.’ Eliza fell silent, considering the implications. Finally she said, ‘Rose, do you think it is possible for a lady to be married and still pursue her calling?’
‘I suppose it depends on three things – the woman, her husband and the nature of her vocation.’
‘I cannot think of anyone who has managed to juggle a family with a career in medicine. Doctor Blackwell, Doctor Jex-Blake, even Miss Nightingale – they are all spinsters.’ Then Eliza remembered an exception. ‘I forgot about Elizabeth Garrett. She continues to be a physician, even now that she is a wife and mother.’
‘Each woman’s situation is different, Eliza.’
‘And what about you, Rose, if I may be so bold as to ask? Have you ever considered getting married?’
‘You are assuming that I have received a proposal.’
&nb
sp; ‘I am sure you have had many.’
Rose laughed. ‘There was someone long ago, who held a special place in my heart. But I made a choice not to marry. Even if the gentleman in question is exceptional, there are always expectations that the woman will run the home and raise the children.’
‘I agree,’ said Eliza, ‘and I have no idea how one could balance those things. Surely something would have to suffer – the husband, the children, one’s life’s work.’
‘It is a dilemma you will need to reflect upon, Eliza, because your Martin is going to make another proposal. It is only a matter of time.’
XIV
AMY
Friday 28th August, 1885
For the past month Amy had been contemplating Mr Tart’s advice: ‘First and foremost, ye’ll need a manager.’ She had worded and reworded the classified so many times in her head that when it came to actually writing it, she finished the task in no time. After she made a fair copy, she read it aloud.
‘WANTED, from December, a competent and experienced gentleman to manage a first-class country hotel, opening January. Must be honest, sober and steady. Full board and £100 per annum. Apply in the first instance by letter, stating qualifications and references, to Mrs Charles Chen, c/- Chen Emporium, Miller Street, Millbrooke, NSW.’
Then she took a pen and put a line through ‘£100 per annum’ and wrote ‘suitable wages’ above it. Better not to be too specific. After all, she really had no idea what to pay such a person. If the stated amount was too low, the advertisement would be unlikely to attract a gentleman of sufficient calibre; too high and it would be an invitation to all manner of ne’er-do-wells and gold-diggers.
The alteration meant that she was forced to write yet another fair copy. It would never do to send off a piece of writing in which something had been crossed out. That would be evidence of laziness and bad manners. Afterwards she went to the post office, purchased a money order to pay for her classified – it only just met the fifty-word limit – and placed both documents in an envelope addressed to The Sydney Morning Herald. All that remained was to pray that God would present her with a suitable candidate.
When a week passed and there were no replies, she considered putting an advertisement in the Millbrooke Gazette, even though she was certain there was nobody in the local community with enough expertise to do the job. Every day, when she heard the postman’s whistle, she would rush out to greet him, but there would be nothing in his satchel, save for bills, circulars and catalogues, or perhaps a missive from Aunt Molly. On Wednesday of the second week, the postman’s whistle seemed to have an added shrillness. He greeted her with a smile on his face, removing four letters from his satchel, one of which bore the crest of St Peter’s.
By now she had given up any hope of Charlie winning the scholarship, and he had stopped asking about it. Dropping the other envelopes on the dining room table, she tore open the crested letter.
Dear Mrs Chen,
It is with great pleasure that I write to inform you that your son, Master Charles Chen, having attained first place in the scholarship examination held at St Peter’s College in July, has been awarded the Barnabas Solway Memorial Scholarship for 1886. Subject to academic performance, the scholarship will be renewed annually until the completion of Master Chen’s studies.
I shall be in touch in an expeditious manner regarding uniform and textbooks.
Yours most faithfully,
J .R. Ross
Jeremy R. Ross, B.A., M.A., Ph.D.
Headmaster, St Peter’s College for Boys
Amy was so anxious to give Charlie the news and hold a celebration involving currant buns and jasmine tea that she forgot all about the other letters until later that day. Then she went straight to the dining room where they were waiting for her. The first envelope she picked up bore an untidy scrawl across the front. Worse still, the applicant had misspelled her name as ‘Chan’. She dismissed him instantly. The second with its neat handwriting looked more promising. In Amy’s view, good penmanship was a sign of a tidy mind and sound character. The contents confirmed her belief. The applicant was a sixty-three-year-old gentleman called Mr Thomas, who had been employed for the past twenty-five years as manager of the coaching inn in Granthurst. Recently the proprietor had sold the premises and the new owners wanted to bring in their own staff. Mr Thomas begged her not to reject him on account of his age; he was energetic and in rude health, he assured her.
The writer of the third letter possessed the most beautiful writing Amy had ever seen, other than her husband’s. Perfect copperplate script with elegant loops and sinuous Hogarth’s curves. His words too captured her imagination. The penman in question was newly arrived in Sydney from Great Britain, where he had been assistant manager at the Great Western Hotel at Paddington Station in London. She could already picture him standing behind her soon-to-be-installed cedar reception desk – a mature gentleman in his fifties with silver hair and a clipped English accent.
That evening she composed two letters, offering each candidate an interview.
On the third Tuesday in September Amy went to Sydney Arcade on a special mission.
‘Good morning, Mrs Chen. To what do I owe the pleasure?’ Mr Tart asked as he greeted her at the door to the tea rooms.
‘Good morning, sir. I’m afraid it is not a social occasion. You see, I am here to meet an applicant for the manager’s position.’
‘A Sydney gentleman?’
‘Actually, he has only emigrated in the last month, but he has excellent credentials, having worked in London.’
‘International experience. It ne’er goes astray.’
‘I’ll be interested to hear what you think of him, Mr Tart.’
‘Poor fellow. He doesna know he will have two people judging him. Now, may I show ye to yer table, Mrs Chen?’
It was the best table in the tea rooms, right beside the bay window. As the clock tolled eleven, Amy ordered jasmine tea and scanned the arcade for the mature British gentleman. What would he be wearing? She caught sight of a distinguished figure in an old-fashioned suit, who looked to be the perfect candidate. All of a sudden he was joined by a lady in a veiled hat and they both continued along the passageway. Absently she looked around the tea room. Since her last visit Mr Tart had added a big glass tank filled with water, holding brightly coloured fish darting in and out of Oriental pagodas and disappearing behind undulating water plants. She had seen goldfish bowls before, but nothing of this capacity. While she was pondering whether she could accommodate the cost of such a thing in her own budget, she looked up and saw Mr Tart bringing a gentleman to the table. It couldn’t be Mr O’Donnell, could it? This newcomer was far too young – not much older than Amy. What’s more, he stood a good six inches taller than Quong Tart.
‘Mrs Chen,’ said Mr Tart. ‘May I present Mr Liam O’Donnell. Mr O’Donnell, Mrs Charles Chen.’
Mr O’Donnell inclined in a shallow bow. As he raised his head, Amy noticed green eyes the colour of jade. Then he took a seat opposite her and placed his leather satchel on the tiled floor.
‘I shall leave ye to yer conversation,’ said Mr Tart, handing Mr O’Donnell a menu. ‘The waitress will be here to take yer order in a wee jiffy.’
‘Thank you, Mr Tart,’ said Amy, suddenly feeling shy about being left alone with this tall, green-eyed stranger. He wasn’t at all what she had been expecting. She fumbled in her head for something to say. Finally she asked, ‘Are you enjoying Sydney, Mr O’Donnell?’
‘I am indeed, Mrs Chen. How could anyone not enjoy the sunshine and the beautiful harbour?’
‘You’re not missing London then?’
‘Not at all. It is dirty and crowded, and the weather leaves much to be desired.’
‘Is that why you decided to come to New South Wales?’
‘I heard about a land of opportunity on the other side of the world. So I decided to take a chance. Life is all about taking chances, don’t you think, Mrs Chen?’
‘I am
not so sure about that, Mr O’Donnell. There is a time for taking chances and a time for measured decisions. How did your family view the prospect of packing up and coming here?’
‘Apart from my sisters in Ireland, I have no other family. Maeve and Maureen are both married now. They have their own lives. They don’t need their big brother looking after them any more.’ His voice trailed off for a moment. Then he looked her directly in the eye. ‘And what of your good self, Mrs Chen?’
‘I am a widow. I have a twelve-year-old son.’ She felt decidedly awkward in his presence, as though he were interviewing her. ‘Tell me, Mr O’Donnell, why would a gentleman with so much experience in city hotels desire to work in a humble, little town like Millbrooke? I would have thought you’d be seeking a position here in Sydney.’
‘That is an excellent question, Mrs Chen. The reason is simple. I have had enough of cities. I was born in a village. I want to breathe fresh country air again. I yearn to see green fields and grazing sheep. I need to be part of a community. When I came across your classified only a few days after disembarking, it seemed like a sign from the heavens.’
As he spoke, Amy was only half-listening to the content. It was the lilting cadences of his voice which enchanted her, like the lullabies her mother used to sing to her at bedtime, soothing and magical. At that point a waitress arrived and Amy ordered another pot of jasmine tea, while Mr O’Donnell chose a tisane.
‘If it is not a rude question, Mrs Chen, when do you think you will be making your decision?’
‘In a week or two, Mr O’Donnell. As you know, the hotel is scheduled to open in January, though I will need my manager to start as soon as the building is finished, but before it is fully furnished. I would expect him to help me hire and train the staff and set up the various procedures.’
The Jade Widow Page 15
