The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

‘I gave Arthur red and Timothy orange. Mrs Watson is brown. And so on.’

  ‘It’s very clever,’ said Amy, perusing the chart. ‘However there does seem to be a great deal of green. Are you sure you haven’t taken on too much work?’

  ‘Not at all. I could do even more, should you require it.’

  ‘What happens if a job is finished early or someone falls ill?’

  ‘I can always amend the roster. I shall place it on the table in the services hall, right next to the servants’ bells.’

  It was not long before the staff had gathered to gaze at Mr O’Donnell’s chart. Every task, even to the smallest thing, had been allocated its place on the grid. And if a job wasn’t done, it would be easy to identify the culprit. Amy made a note of the navy-blue tasks. For the next two days she would be busy completing the invitations.

  ‘It is truly a most wonderful thing,’ she said with a sigh. How had she ever managed her life before the advent of Liam O’Donnell?

  After Amy completed her assigned job a day ahead of Mr O’Donnell’s timeline, she arranged the invitations in two piles, tied them with string and took them to his office.

  ‘They’re done!’ she said, placing the envelopes on his desk. ‘All that remains is to add the wax seal.’

  ‘Thank you. I’m glad to see a smile on your face. And I have some news that will make you even happier. We have received our first booking. A party of eight arriving on Friday. Four doubles.’

  ‘Will we be ready in time?’

  ‘Mr Rotherwood has informed me that we can move the furniture into the first-floor bedrooms tomorrow.’

  ‘That’s wonderful.’

  ‘And there are yet more good tidings. The panelling in the foyer is now complete and the area is ready for your furniture and embellishments.’

  ‘Today?’

  ‘Indeed. Arthur and Timothy are collecting the sofas and tables from the coach-house at this very moment.’

  Amy was so excited she wanted to clap her hands in delight, but instead she forced herself to remain dignified. ‘I have dreamed of this moment for so long.’

  The sofas were soon in place – five chaises longues covered in magenta velvet, with rosewood side tables beside them. Amy borrowed one of them for her office. Last of all, Arthur carried in a round table, its cabriole legs carved with dragon motifs.

  ‘Where do you want this, Mrs Chen?’

  ‘Right in the very centre, Arthur. And would you kindly fetch the large blue and white urn? I’m going to fill it with wildflowers and place it on top of the table.’

  ‘Would you like me to organise the purchase of the flowers?’ Mr O’Donnell asked, as Arthur headed back outside to collect the urn.

  Liam O’Donnell reminded her of Aladdin’s genie – make a wish and it shall be granted. But this time she didn’t require his assistance.

  ‘We don’t need to buy the flowers. I’ll go into the bush right now and pick them.’

  ‘You can’t go off into the wilds on your own,’ Mr O’Donnell said. ‘What about poisonous snakes and other dangerous creatures?’

  Amy suppressed a laugh. ‘I’ll make a lot of noise. That will scare them away.’

  ‘You really should have someone accompanying you, Mrs Chen.’

  ‘In that case, why don’t you come with me? We could have a picnic.’ The invitation had escaped from her lips before she could stop it.

  Mr O’Donnell drove the sulky, while Amy directed him down Goldfields Road.

  ‘Look!’ said Amy as she spotted a spiny anteater ambling across the road.

  ‘That’s the oddest hedgehog I’ve ever seen,’ Mr O’Donnell remarked.

  After the bridge Amy pointed out a laneway veering off to the right. ‘Here’s the track leading down to the river,’ she said. ‘I hear it’s quite a trysting place.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I realise that, Mrs Chen,’ he said with a grin.

  They tied up the horse to a sapling and walked down towards the sandy beach swathing the banks of the river. Amy found a stand of banksias with seed pods, and Mr O’Donnell cut some branches for her. Then they added wattle foliage, gum blossoms and stalks of wild grass.

  ‘I’ve never seen plants like these before,’ said Mr O’Donnell. ‘They are most peculiar, yet strangely appealing.’

  At that moment a wombat appeared from its burrow and rolled around in the dust for a while, oblivious to their presence. After they had accumulated a generous bunch of flowers and foliage, Mr O’Donnell collected Amy’s basket from the sulky and spread a blanket on the sand in the shade of an overhanging gum tree. She laid out the food, swiping at blowflies as she did so.

  ‘Watch out for the bull ants,’ she said, spying a red pile of earth which indicated a nest, ‘they can inflict a nasty bite.’

  Meanwhile, Mr O’Donnell was looking around warily. ‘Are you trying to frighten me, Mrs Chen?’

  ‘Just a little,’ Amy teased, pouring glasses of apple cider. Sitting in the open air, away from builders, hotel staff and the Millbrooke rumour mill, she felt free to be herself – whoever that was; she had almost forgotten.

  After lunch Mr O’Donnell took off his jacket and lay back on the grass, squinting up at the sky. She couldn’t help noticing the way his hair shone like rose-gold in the midday sun. It took all her willpower not to reach across and touch it.

  ‘Mr O’Donnell,’ she said tentatively, ‘I hope you won’t be offended if I say that you seem awfully well educated.’

  ‘For a hotel manager, you mean?’

  ‘No, just in general.’

  ‘When I was about Charlie’s age I won a scholarship to a smart school in the city, but I had to give it all away.’

  ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘My parents died.’ He sat up and shook a blade of dried grass from his shirtsleeve.

  ‘They both died?’ Amy asked softly. ‘Was it an illness?’

  ‘An accident. I was away at school when it happened.’ He fell silent for a while, and she cast him a sideways glance, only to see him fishing in his jacket pocket and removing his wallet.

  ‘I don’t like to talk about it.’ He handed her a crumpled yellow cutting from a newspaper.

  As she read the article, a shiver passed down her spine. His parents had run a coaching inn that had burned down in 1863. They had both been killed in the fire, along with several of the guests. Two little girls were saved. Liam’s sisters.

  She folded the clipping carefully and returned it to him. ‘I’m so sorry, Liam. I didn’t know.’ It only struck her afterwards that she’d called him by his first name.

  ‘You’ve had your own share of loss,’ he said. ‘So you understand the uncertainty it leaves behind. Feeling helpless that you couldn’t have prevented it. Thinking that whenever you say goodbye to your loved ones, you might never see them again. Cosseting those who remain because you’re afraid you will lose them too.’

  A tear slid down Amy’s cheek before she could stop it. ‘I know exactly how that feels.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to make you sad.’

  ‘Nor I you.’

  Neither spoke for a while. A flock of black cockatoos flew overhead, squawking wildly.

  ‘It’s going to rain,’ said Amy.

  ‘But there’s not a cloud in the sky.’

  ‘According to the native people, the black cockatoos are a sign of rain. I’ve never known the forecast to be wrong.’

  They had only just finished packing up the basket when the sky clouded over and it began raining, gently at first, then so heavily they were both drenched before they could reach the sulky. When they arrived back in town, the road was bone dry.

  ‘It hasn’t rained at all here in Millbrooke,’ Mr O’Donnell said, helping her to alight.

  As they stood in the shade of the arched portico, Arthur climbed onto the sulky and took it to the coach-house.

  ‘Do you know, Mr O’Donnell,’ she said, ‘I have an idea.’
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  ‘What might that be, Mrs Chen?’

  ‘Whenever my husband used to visit his homeland, he sometimes stayed in country inns. He told me that it was customary for an innkeeper to welcome each guest as he or she alighted from the carriage by offering a hot dampened hand towel so that they could clean their hands after the long journey. Why couldn’t we do the same here? It might even become an Emporium Hotel tradition.’

  Mr O’Donnell considered the notion for a moment before replying, ‘I think it is indeed an excellent suggestion. I will have it organised in time for our first group of guests.’

  As she entered the foyer, Amy stopped dead. Hanging on the wall above the landing was the portrait of Charles, so real that he might have been standing there, overseeing the comings and goings of the hotel.

  She turned towards Mr O’Donnell, knowing he must have arranged it.

  ‘A surprise,’ he said, his green eyes shining.

  On Friday 5th February, 1886, the Emporium Hotel officially opened its doors for the first time. When Amy arrived that morning, Timothy was already stationed at the entrance, polishing the brass door handles. Mary, the maid, was flitting around the foyer with her feather duster, and Mrs Watson was making cinnamon and apple scones – Amy could smell them from the doorway. Meanwhile, Mr O’Donnell was supervising everything in his calm, competent manner.

  Although there wouldn’t be a formal celebration as such – that was reserved for the Jubilee banquet – he had suggested a staff morning tea to mark the occasion. Promptly at ten, an hour before the Sydney train would unload their first guests, they gathered in the anteroom next to the kitchen, which served as the staff common room.

  ‘Good morning, everyone,’ Amy said, surprised at how serene she sounded. Inside, she felt as excited as a child having a birthday party. ‘I couldn’t possibly let today pass without thanking each and every one of you for your hard work in preparing the hotel for its first day. Not long ago we were all strangers; now we are a family. The Emporium Hotel family.’ She reached into her pocket and removed a wad of envelopes. ‘Mr O’Donnell, would you kindly distribute these small tokens of my appreciation.’ Each envelope bore the name of its recipient written in Amy’s best copperplate script. Little did they know that she had sacrificed many envelopes in her attempts to make the lettering perfect.

  ‘On behalf of the staff,’ Mr O’Donnell replied, ‘may I say thank you, Mrs Chen. You are most gracious.’

  Then Mrs Watson produced a cake crowned by a miniature version of the hotel. Amy sighed with delight. ‘What a beautiful cake, Mrs Watson. Thank you.’

  ‘I can’t take all the credit, madam. Matilda from Millerbrooke helped me with the marzipan. She’s won prizes at the local show for her cake decoration, you know.’

  They marvelled at the confectionery creation atop the sponge cake. Every detail was perfect, from the hexagonal turret to the tiny jade trees placed on either side of the front doors. The numerals ‘1886’ had even been inscribed on the keystone above the entrance.

  ‘This little hotel is so exquisite I couldn’t bear for it to be eaten,’ Amy said.

  ‘Don’t worry, madam,’ Mrs Watson replied. ‘I’ll remove it before I cut the cake. If we store it inside a sealed jar and leave it in a dark place, the marzipan will last for years.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Oh yes. But if the air gets to it, the whole thing will go sodden and you’ll have to throw it away.’

  ‘We couldn’t possibly let that happen,’ said Amy.

  After they finished their tea and cake, everyone returned to their posts, while Arthur took the carriage to the station. On the way back to her office Amy passed Mr O’Donnell’s chart lying on the table outside his office. Absently she ran her hand over the neatly ruled squares, each containing a list of colour-coded tasks. It was comforting to see how many of them had been ticked off. The roster brought a sense of order in a world fraught with chaos. Mr O’Donnell understood that. If your life had been turned upside down by a tragedy, you grasped the importance of having things under control.

  ‘Remember who you are!’

  LEWIS CARROLL

  Through the Looking-Glass, Chapter II

  XIX

  ELIZA

  Thursday 4th March, 1886

  ‘Eliza,’ said Nancy, as they sat on the verandah sipping tea and watching Daniela sleeping in her cradle, ‘do you ever get lonely?’

  ‘Lonely?’

  ‘You know, for the company of a man?’

  ‘I am surrounded by men.’

  ‘I wasn’t referring to platonic company.’

  ‘Oh.’ Eliza gave her a curious look. ‘Do you?’

  ‘I shouldn’t complain. I have all of you, and my beautiful baby too, but I miss Daniel. I miss what might have been.’ She dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief.

  ‘Of course you do,’ said Eliza, realising how Nancy must have built a whole life in her imagination while waiting for Daniel to return from the Soudan. The futility of his death still made her angry.

  ‘I admire your independence, Eliza, the way you are not reliant on a man for your happiness. I wish I could be like you.’

  Eliza didn’t know how to respond. She wasn’t even sure it was entirely true.

  ‘On the other hand, I am not a person who can live without a husband. I need to be married. That is why I wish to ask you about something important. You have always given me such wise advice, from that very first day I came to the surgery.’

  ‘Has someone proposed marriage to you?’ Eliza asked, searching her memory for a possible candidate. She couldn’t recall Nancy ever speaking to a gentleman outside the family, unless it was the verger at St John’s. Dear, dear. What a crotchety bachelor he was, with his hair slicked across his scalp to conceal the bald spot. In his demeanour he reminded Eliza of a younger version of Matthew Duncan. Hardly suitable for the lovely Nancy. So, if it wasn’t the balding verger, who was this mystery man, prepared to marry the mother of an illegitimate child?

  ‘It’s not as though I’ve just met him,’ said Nancy. ‘He’s been here all along.’

  Eliza’s stomach began to churn. Not Martin! Please, God, not Martin. She held her breath, waiting for Nancy to reveal the identity of her suitor.

  ‘You see, Eliza, he is a very good man, who needs a mother for his son.’

  ‘It’s Joseph, isn’t it?’ said Eliza, relieved beyond measure. But it didn’t make sense at all. Nancy and Joseph were as different as any two people could be, except for one thing – they were each without a partner. But there had never been the slightest indication that he liked Nancy, let alone loved her. As for Nancy, she seemed to tolerate Joseph, yet where was the passion? Was this simply a union of convenience?

  ‘Do you love him?’ Eliza asked bluntly.

  ‘I respect him, although he can be rather set in his ways.’

  ‘That’s putting it mildly.’

  ‘He reminds me so much of Daniel with his golden curls and broad shoulders. When I half-close my eyes and look at him, I can even imagine Daniel has returned to me.’

  ‘Oh, Nancy,’ sighed Eliza. ‘Though I am no expert in matters of the heart, I cannot see how pretending that Joseph is Daniel could possibly form a sound basis for a marriage.’

  ‘Daniela needs a father and I need a husband.’

  ‘Have you given Joseph an answer?’

  ‘Not yet. I’ve told him I require time to think about it.’

  ‘I trust you didn’t say you were going to consult with me.’

  Nancy started to laugh. ‘Hardly.’

  ‘Have you discussed your fripperies with Joseph? Would he expect you to abandon them and devote yourself to him?’

  ‘We are yet to negotiate that matter.’

  Eliza smiled to herself. Behind the gentle Madonna-like façade, there was a strength which might well sustain Nancy in a marriage of convenience to Joseph. Eliza had seen it on the evening Nancy had got her own back about the fripperies. As for Joseph, h
e had been a widower for more than a decade, bringing up a son on his own. Now a mutually beneficial arrangement had presented itself, and where once he had questioned Nancy’s morals and the baby’s paternity, he had no reason to do so any more. The child was most definitely his brother’s. Not only that, he had embraced the baby as his own. And though the marriage would never be a love match, it might develop into affectionate companionship. At least, Eliza hoped so – for Nancy’s sake, and Joseph’s too.

  The same day the June wedding date was announced, Eliza booked her passage for London, departing Circular Quay a few days after the nuptials. If she dallied another year, she might find herself sprouting the grey hair characteristic of a genuine éminence grise. Mrs Brownlow had agreed to take over as president of the Millbrooke Eclectic Society, but only in an acting capacity until Eliza’s return. Secretly Eliza was rather pleased. Having the Anglican minister’s wife as the leader imparted a certain gravitas to their Society. While everyone knew Eliza Miller was a bit of a maverick, Mrs Brownlow was a lady in every sense of the word. Sometimes, however, Eliza wondered whether Mrs Brownlow might not possess a subversive streak just waiting to be cultivated.

  Their most successful meeting so far had been the one they advertised as ‘Matters of the Feminine Constitution’. The title was cryptic enough to escape the censure of the town’s straitlaced element and intriguing enough to entice the others. At the last moment their guest speaker, Martin Burns, was called out to an accident at Cockatoo Ridge, so Eliza stepped in to replace him, borrowing an anatomy textbook from the surgery and showing the ladies illustrations of parts of their bodies they didn’t know they had. She even taught them the correct names. Then she set about debunking a whole collection of old wives’ tales and myths:

  ‘Your uterus doesn’t roam around your body creating problems wherever it goes. Nor does it cause hysteria. Your health won’t suffer if you have a bath during your monthlies. Thinking too much won’t make you feverish or crazy or unable to have babies. And you are not weaker than men on account of being a woman.’