The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

LADIES OF ALL AGES ARE INVITED TO ATTEND.

  KINDLY BRING A PLATE FOR MORNING TEA.

  On the day in question Eliza arrived at the School of Arts a quarter of an hour early, accompanied by Nancy and Matilda.

  ‘Are you sure I should be here, Miss Eliza?’ asked Matilda. ‘After all, I’m only a servant and you’re my mistress.’

  ‘Firstly, Matilda, this is your morning off, in which case you are your own person and therefore entitled to call me Eliza – without the Miss. And secondly, no member of an eclectic society is inferior to another. We are all equal, not the least because we share a common goal.’

  ‘What might that be?’ Nancy asked.

  ‘Equal rights for women, of course.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Mi – Eliza, what does “eclectic” mean?’

  ‘It can mean whatever we want it to mean,’ Eliza replied mysteriously.

  Nancy and Matilda arranged plates of sandwiches and scones on a table in the corner, while Eliza boiled a kettle of water for tea and placed cups and saucers on a tray.

  ‘I’ve brought twenty. Do you think that is enough?’ she asked the others.

  ‘Perhaps we can borrow some cups from the emporium if we happen to run short,’ suggested Nancy.

  As the clock on the tower of the School of Arts struck ten, they waited for the influx of ladies. By a quarter past ten there were only two – a reluctant Amy, who had been commandeered from the hotel, and Mrs Brownlow, who had turned up of her own accord.

  ‘I shall now declare the meeting open,’ said Eliza. ‘Please ensure that you have signed the attendance book. Our first order of business is to elect a president. Do I have any nominations?’

  ‘Eliza Miller,’ said Amy.

  ‘Any other nominations?’ asked Eliza.

  Everyone looked down at their feet.

  ‘In that case, I accept the position unopposed.’

  In the same manner, Nancy became secretary and Mrs Brownlow treasurer, while Amy and Matilda formed the committee.

  ‘As I see it,’ said Eliza, ‘our first concern is to find ways in which we can attract the ladies of Millbrooke to our society.’

  ‘We could post handbills around the town,’ suggested Amy.

  ‘Or we could have a lecture by a learned person,’ said Nancy.

  ‘For example?’ asked Amy.

  ‘What about Doctor Burns?’ said Mrs Brownlow. ‘He could speak about ailments pertaining to the female population.’

  ‘Would that be proper?’ asked Amy.

  ‘I can’t see why not,’ said Eliza. ‘Every woman needs to know more about her own body.’

  ‘Body is a most indelicate word, Eliza,’ Amy admonished.

  ‘What else would you call it?’

  ‘Physique perhaps,’ Amy ventured.

  ‘What about figure?’ Nancy suggested.

  ‘If we cannot use the word body without feeling embarrassed,’ said Eliza, ‘how can we ever refer to our sexual organs by their correct names?’

  ‘Eliza!’ exclaimed Amy. ‘If you say things like that in front of the ladies of this town, they will walk out in disgust.’

  ‘Perhaps,’ ventured Mrs Brownlow, ‘we should offer a range of eclectic pastimes – watercolour painting, embroidery, tatting. I do believe the ladies would flock to those kinds of pursuits.’

  ‘But we are not running the Millbrooke Handicraft Society,’ said a disheartened Eliza.

  ‘Eliza, we need ladies coming through the door,’ said Mrs Brownlow. ‘An hour or two of amiable activity, followed by some serious discussion seems like a reasonable balance.’

  ‘I could demonstrate calligraphy,’ volunteered Amy.

  ‘I could show the ladies how to make a scrapbook,’ said Nancy.

  ‘I could teach cake decoration,’ said Matilda, ‘if you thought I was qualified to do so, Mi – Eliza.’

  ‘You have won prizes at the Millbrooke Show, Matilda,’ said Eliza. ‘That is the highest qualification of all.’

  ‘We could have a musical morning,’ said Mrs Brownlow. ‘Millbrooke ladies like nothing better than a good singalong.’ At which point she began to hum the tune of ‘Love’s Old Sweet Song’.

  Eliza considered for a moment before saying, ‘Thank you, everyone, for your suggestions. We shall make a roster. Amy, are you prepared to do your calligraphy at next month’s meeting?’

  ‘Gladly.’

  ‘Good. In that case, I shall place a classified, advertising the first of our eclectic pastimes. If I happen to sneak in something more weighty, then so be it. Now let us adjourn for morning tea.’

  Afterwards, Amy made her excuses. Just as she was about to leave, her mother appeared.

  ‘I’m sorry I’m late,’ she said. ‘I couldn’t get away before now.’

  Everyone knew the reason.

  ‘Do have a nice cup of tea, my dear,’ said Mrs Brownlow, offering Margaret Duncan a chair.

  ‘When I showed my husband the notice in the Gazette,’ Margaret confided, ‘he said it sounded like a secret society for suffragettes. So I thought it best not to tell him I was coming. I didn’t expect to see you here, Amy.’

  ‘Actually, Mama, I didn’t intend to come, but I’m glad I did. I’m just on my way to the hotel. We’re about to use the ascending cabinet for the very first time. Would you care to take a look?’

  ‘I would love to see it. But . . .’

  Amy smiled sadly. ‘Perhaps another time, Mama.’

  Mrs Brownlow and Mrs Duncan departed not long after Amy, leaving only the original three, who cleared the table and began to wash and dry the dishes.

  ‘Poor Mrs Duncan,’ said Nancy.

  ‘Yes, it’s a very sad situation,’ said Eliza. ‘For Amy too.’

  ‘I think the way Reverend Duncan ignores Amy is disgusting,’ said Matilda. ‘Not that it’s my place to say so.’

  ‘You have as much right as anyone to state your opinion,’ said Eliza. ‘Personally, I can’t stand him. He calls himself a man of God and teaches the Word of Jesus, yet he snubs his only daughter and shuns his grandchild.’

  ‘Speaking of Charlie,’ said Nancy. ‘I fear Amy will miss him desperately once he goes off to school.’

  ‘I pray she will meet a good man and get married again,’ said Matilda. ‘She’s been a widow for far too long.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ said Eliza, suddenly glad Mrs Brownlow wasn’t present to hear her say it.

  ‘Do you think Mr O’Donnell might be a potential candidate for Amy’s affections?’ asked Nancy. ‘He’s awfully handsome.’

  Eliza had been wondering the same thing, but didn’t indulge in gossip of that nature. Instead she said, ‘Amy has never got over the death of her husband. He was the finest person I’ve ever known. Apart from my father and grandfather, of course.’

  ‘Finer than Doctor Burns?’ Nancy asked.

  Eliza pondered for a moment. ‘I have to admit that Martin is an honourable man in his own right.’ She smiled as she remembered him delivering Nancy’s baby, dressed in his nightshirt. He wasn’t dashing like Mr O’Donnell or dignified like Charles Chen or heroic like her grandfather. He wore shabby brown suits and forgot to comb his hair. He couldn’t drive a sulky, not in Eliza’s estimation, at any rate. And he was wont to tease her abominably. Yet he was also kind and funny and oddly attractive . . . and that counted for a lot.

  As for Mr O’Donnell, she wasn’t so sure. Could anyone be that perfect? Handsome, dapper, charming, clever, efficient . . . the list went on. Though Amy was doing her best to hide it, she was definitely smitten with him. And judging by the way his eyes followed her wherever she went, he seemed to be quite bewitched by her as well. Eliza prayed it would work out for the best. But in the back of her mind, she couldn’t help feeling that there was something not quite right about Liam O’Donnell.

  XVIII

  AMY

  Friday 8th January, 1886

  A my rushed back to the hotel, arriving just in time to see Mr Rotherwood and his team
of builders gathered around the ascending cabinet while Mr O’Donnell was standing nearby.

  ‘We were just about to go ahead without you,’ the builder growled.

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr Rotherwood, but I was caught up with the Eclectic Society.’

  ‘The Electric Society?’ the builder asked.

  ‘Not Electric – Eclectic,’ Amy corrected.

  She cast a quick glance in Mr O’Donnell’s direction, glimpsing the hint of a smile at the corners of his mouth. Then she turned towards the contraption. ‘Are those ropes strong enough?’ she asked anxiously, taking a close look at the winch housed inside a tall recess next to the cabinet.

  ‘You have nothing to fear, Mrs Chen. It could support the weight of an elephant.’

  ‘I wasn’t afraid,’ Amy lied.

  Mr Rotherwood opened the polished wooden doors of the cabinet to reveal a space the size of a small storeroom. In spite of its modest dimensions, the interior was the epitome of luxury, its walls clad to waist height with cedar panelling. Above the dado rail, there were large mirrors bearing elegant scrollwork borders, acid-etched at Amy’s request by an artisan in Granthurst. Oil lamps, attached to the wall with brackets, provided gentle light. Thank goodness for that, Amy thought. She didn’t fancy travelling in the dark.

  ‘Who is going to accompany me on this journey?’ she asked.

  ‘We were intending to send Mr O’Donnell in your absence,’ said Mr Rotherwood.

  ‘In that case, Mr O’Donnell, will you join me for the first ascent?’ Although she tried to sound casual, her heart was pumping at full throttle.

  ‘Ladies first,’ said Mr O’Donnell.

  Once they were inside and the doors were closed, nothing seemed to happen for a minute or two. As she waited, Amy inspected the walls of the cabinet, only to see the two of them reflected many times over in the mirrors.

  ‘Quite a crowd,’ said Mr O’Donnell, reading her mind.

  All at once, she felt dizzy. She wasn’t sure why. It couldn’t be that she was surrounded by so many images of Liam O’Donnell, including the real one, could it? She forced herself to stare straight ahead.

  ‘Are you ready?’ Mr Rotherwood called from the foyer.

  ‘Indeed we are,’ the manager replied.

  As the lift began its ascent, Amy felt her stomach rising inside her. Heavens above, what was happening? ‘My goodness,’ she said aloud. Then the feeling of weightlessness disappeared as suddenly as it had taken hold.

  ‘We’ve reached our destination,’ Mr O’Donnell announced, pushing the doors open. ‘Here we are on the top floor.’

  ‘It takes a little getting used to,’ said Amy, gingerly stepping out of the cabinet into the hallway, its bare jarrah floor still awaiting a coat of tung-oil.

  ‘Once you catch your breath,’ said Mr O’Donnell, ‘would you care to make the descent? Or would you prefer to use the stairs?’

  ‘No, I’m ready,’ she said.

  As soon as they were both in the cabinet, he rang the bell. This time Amy knew what to expect, and though the sinking sensation felt decidedly odd, she tried to remain calm.

  ‘We’re almost down,’ said Mr O’Donnell. He had barely finished speaking when the cabinet landed with a thud and Amy fell against him. In a flash he put his arm around her waist to support her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said as she regained her balance.

  ‘My pleasure,’ he replied, withdrawing his arm.

  ‘I do believe there is a certain art to operating this cabinet,’ she told Mr Rotherwood when he opened the doors. ‘It will definitely require some practice.’

  In the first week of February a letter arrived from Sir Henry Parkes’s office, requesting that the Golden Jubilee dinner be postponed until May, and offering profuse apologies for the inconvenience. Considering that Sir Henry was the chief drawcard, Amy couldn’t really refuse. Not that she wanted to. In all truth, she couldn’t have received better news. The Oriental Suite would never have been finished in time, nor the dining room, for that matter. She would have been forced to accommodate Sir Henry in one of the first-floor rooms and to use the ballroom for the banquet. It would have meant forsaking her luxurious two-storey suite, not to mention the romance of seating her guests under a leadlight dome.

  As for Sir Henry, there had been considerable speculation about his real purpose in visiting Millbrooke. Ostensibly he was coming for the Golden Jubilee – fifty years since the township was first surveyed and the earliest buildings erected. But John Miller had postulated it was part of a broader campaign for the newly appointed Leader of the Opposition to regain the premiership a fourth time. John even remarked upon Sir Henry’s fondness for country tours in the manner of Britain’s Mr Gladstone. Eliza had speculated that he was canvassing possible sites for a national capital. Joseph protested that there would never be a national capital because the notion of Federation was sheer fantasy. Amy wondered whether Sir Henry had heard news of the Emporium Hotel with its ascending cabinet and wanted to see it for himself.

  Even with the extended deadline, she was feeling rather panicky. And it didn’t help that her son was away at boarding school – their first separation. This morning she had come into the office early, before the builders arrived for the day, to deal with the invitations to the dinner. Mr O’Donnell had offered to do it for her, but in the end she’d decided they required her personal touch, notwithstanding his superior penmanship.

  The only problem with the new date was that she would have to write four dozen invitations all over again. Fortunately she hadn’t posted the first batch – she had been waiting on the delivery of the hotel’s wax seal to secure the envelopes. Briefly she considered crossing out the old date and writing the new one above it but decided it was a slipshod solution, unworthy of the Emporium Hotel. So she began again, noting there were only fifty gilt-edged cards remaining. For the first half-dozen invitations everything went smoothly. Then she smudged one invitation and discovered an ink blot on the next.

  ‘Damn,’ she said under her breath, even though she knew it was a terrible profanity. Suddenly she couldn’t stop crying. Like Alice in Wonderland, she was drowning in a pool of tears. Where was her handkerchief? She checked her pocket, looked on the floor, riffled through the desk drawers. She was so involved in the search that she didn’t hear the tap at the door or see the tall figure entering the room until he was standing right in front of her desk.

  ‘Are you all right, Mrs Chen?’

  ‘Perfectly,’ she said, stifling a sob. She rose from her chair and turned towards the window in an attempt to hide her tear-stained face.

  ‘Here,’ he said from behind her, offering his handkerchief.

  She mopped her face with the crisply ironed square of linen. When she turned around, he was standing barely a foot away, a concerned look on his face.

  ‘Are you sad because Charlie is away at school?’

  ‘That, and the ink blot and . . . everything,’ she sobbed. She knew it was pathetic to be caught crying, but she couldn’t seem to stem the tide.

  Before she knew it, he had put his arms around her. Or perhaps she had fallen into his arms. She wasn’t exactly sure who had initiated the embrace. But whatever had happened, her face was suddenly pressed against his grey jacket, and he was stroking her hair and whispering to her in comforting cadences, assuring her that everything would be all right. Gradually her sobs decreased, but she didn’t try to disengage herself from him. Nor did he make any effort to release her. All of a sudden Mr Rotherwood’s hearty voice could be heard in the foyer and they practically jumped apart.

  ‘Trust me. I’ll take care of everything,’ Mr O’Donnell said. ‘Now, why don’t you go next door to the emporium and have a cup of tea with Mr and Mrs Chen. The baby will cheer you up no end. And when you come back, I shall show you something that will put your mind completely at rest.’

  As he turned to go, she noticed a sodden patch on his jacket, just above the left breast pocket. A souvenir of her tears.<
br />
  ‘I’ve stained your jacket,’ she said. ‘Please forgive me.’

  He looked downwards, pressed his hand to the wet spot and raised his fingers to his lips. Then he gave her a quick smile and went to assist the guest.

  After her visit to the emporium, she felt much better. Liam – Mr O’Donnell – had been right about Bao Yu. She could make anyone smile with her infectious laughter and mischievous eyes. Whenever Amy cradled the baby girl in her arms, she longed for another child. But that wasn’t likely to happen, was it?

  And how would Charles feel about her being with another man and having his children? Could she still honour her love for Charles and have feelings for someone else? Or would that be a betrayal? She couldn’t very well ask Eliza for her opinion. She would say it was about time Amy stopped being a black widow. Aunt Molly would be a far better confidante. What’s more, there would be an opportunity in a few months’ time when her aunt came to town for the jubilee banquet. Amy intended to send her parents an invitation too – it was only good form to invite the town’s clergy. Her father would no doubt view it as a provocation, but that was his problem, not hers.

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Chen,’ Mr O’Donnell said, standing at her open door with a large roll of white paper. ‘Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I’m pleased to see that you are looking much brighter.’

  ‘Your suggestion about taking tea with the Chen family was exactly what I needed.’

  ‘In that case, I hope this chart will sustain your good cheer.’ And he unfurled a sheet of butcher’s wrapping paper on which he had made a grid and filled the squares with his elegant handwriting in shades of coloured crayon.

  ‘This is our timeline for the banquet,’ he said. ‘The tasks are indicated day by day.’

  ‘You have used colour as a code,’ Amy said enthusiastically.

  ‘Exactly. I have chosen green for myself.’

  Amy smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘And I took the liberty of selecting dark blue for your good self on account of your navy dress.’

  He had noticed!