The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

  When the train pulled into Millbrooke station, Liam was on the platform to meet her.

  ‘Did you have a good journey, Mrs Chen?’ he asked, taking her portmanteau.

  Hearing the soothing lilt of his voice reminded her of how much she had missed him.

  ‘Very pleasant, thank you, Mr O’Donnell,’ she replied.

  ‘And how was Mr Tart’s wedding?’

  ‘Most touching.’

  ‘It is a great love story,’ he said, fixing his green eyes on hers.

  ‘It is indeed,’ she replied.

  Although it was officially springtime, the Millbrooke nights remained chilly. But that didn’t deter the guests, who had flocked to the hotel following a series of advertisements Amy had placed in The Sydney Morning Herald, promoting Millbrooke as the perfect holiday location, free from Sydney’s sultry humidity. As she worked at her desk, she pulled her shawl around her shoulders. It was almost nine o’clock when she finished her paperwork, extinguished the oil lamp and locked her office door. In the adjoining room the light shining under Liam’s door indicated he was still at work. She knew she should go home, but that narrow shaft of light was tempting her to stay. She knocked ever so gently. Then, thinking better of it, she turned to go. Before she could make her escape, the door had opened and he was standing there in his shirtsleeves, a silver shamrock glistening at each cuff. His silk tie, which he always wore perfectly knotted, was hanging loose in the most unsettling way. Where is your self-possession? she asked herself. There’s really nothing to be ruffled about. Yet the rapid beating of her heart told her otherwise.

  For a moment he seemed to be as surprised by her presence as she was by his state of disarray.

  ‘I thought you’d gone home hours ago,’ he said.

  ‘I had some paperwork to finish.’

  ‘You should have given it to me.’

  ‘I didn’t mind doing it. With Charlie away, there was no reason to go home.’

  What happened next seemed to ignite like spontaneous combustion. Later she couldn’t remember who had moved towards the other first. She could only recall his lips on hers and hers on his, as if all the unresolved emotions of the past few months had been channelled into this one moment. It was both exhilarating and terrifying. Exhilarating because she’d never thought she would feel like this again. Terrifying because her response was so intense. If a kiss could produce feelings of this magnitude, what might happen if they . . .?

  Just as the embrace had started without a preamble, it ended equally abruptly. They released each other and moved apart. Amy smoothed her hair and straightened her shawl. He knotted his tie and tidied his shirt.

  ‘Shall I walk you home?’ he asked.

  ‘Thank you, but I’ll be fine on my own.’ It wouldn’t do for some local night owl to observe her with Liam O’Donnell at her side, heading down Paterson Street. By next morning the story about the black widow consorting with her Irish manager would be circulating all over the town.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow then,’ he said.

  ‘Yes. Sleep well.’

  ‘You too.’

  Anyone eavesdropping on the conversation would have thought it was simply a series of polite platitudes. But Amy knew better. Boundaries had been crossed, and there was no going back.

  The morning sun was warming her face. Or was it the tingling of a half-remembered kiss? In the demi-world between sleeping and waking, she couldn’t quite determine whether it had been a dream or something delightfully real. As her mind shook off its state of languor, she began to recall the details of the previous night’s encounter. In a few brief seconds everything had changed. No longer employee and employer, they were now simply man and woman.

  She climbed out of bed and wrapped herself in a silk dressing-gown, replaying the kiss in her head like a much-loved refrain. After her bath, she dressed in the lilac gown she had worn as Nancy’s matron of honour. It had been hanging unused in the wardrobe ever since that day. When she checked her reflection in the princess mirror, the woman who gazed back at her seemed ten years younger than the solemn dowager she had seen reflected for so long. As a finishing touch, she clipped one of Nancy’s more frivolous fripperies into her hair. There, she looked like a person with something to celebrate.

  When she reached the hotel, Liam was at the reception desk, organising a carriage for a family wishing to drive to the waterfall. Her heart did a little pirouette at the sight of him in his grey suit and green tie. Meanwhile, he was so immersed in his discourse that he didn’t appear to see her crossing the foyer. She would seek him out later when things were quieter. Perhaps they might even indulge in another kiss once they were alone.

  As she sat at her desk, she let her imagination run free in a way that she hadn’t done for years. In her mind’s eye she saw herself wearing a wedding gown made of cream guipure lace – she wouldn’t be able to wear white, of course, having been married before – with a coronet of matching roses in her hair. As for Liam, she pictured him in an elegant black suit and top hat. There might even be a silk waistcoat, the colour of his eyes. Eliza and Nancy would be her attendants, while Charlie, dressed in his St Peter’s uniform, would act as ring bearer. How he would love having Liam as his stepfather. The three of them would be a real family, playing card games together, going on picnics, reading aloud from their favourite books. She might even be able to have another baby. Liam’s baby. Imagine a little green-eyed sister or brother for Charlie. If it were a girl, they would call her Eliza. And if it were a boy . . . Her thoughts were interrupted by a firm knock at the door.

  ‘Come in.’

  And there he was – the man of her dreams. As he shut the door behind him and secured the latch, she rose from her chair. The anticipation was unbearable.

  ‘I’ve been waiting for you, Liam,’ she said, shocked at her own boldness.

  ‘I know.’

  She thought she would explode with the excitement building inside her. But instead of taking her in his arms, he said in a strained voice she barely recognised, ‘There is something I need to tell you.’

  Surely she had misheard him. What he must have said was: there is something I need to ask you.

  ‘Go ahead,’ she encouraged, certain he was going to propose.

  ‘I should have told you a long time ago, but I kept putting it off. I tried to confess the night you gave me the cufflinks, however I couldn’t summon the courage. I was sure you would dismiss me if you knew the truth. And I couldn’t bear to leave you.’

  All of a sudden Amy felt faint. A clammy feeling was overtaking her body. She only just made it back to her chair before her head began to swim.

  ‘Shall I fetch you a glass of water?’ he asked anxiously.

  ‘No. Just tell me what you have come to say.’

  A dreadful possibility was confronting her. A possibility so obvious she couldn’t believe she hadn’t considered it before. Had Liam O’Donnell told a falsehood when he’d said he had no family except for his sisters? Was he about to confess that he was married with a wife and children back in Britain? Her legs felt like jelly. Thank goodness she was sitting down.

  ‘It’s about the testimonial,’ he said quietly.

  ‘The testimonial? What has that to do with your wife and children?’

  For a moment he looked puzzled. ‘I’m not married. I’ve never been married.’

  She didn’t know whether to be relieved or not. Yet surely nothing could be worse than his being married. Unless he was a criminal or a murderer.

  ‘I just don’t understand,’ she said. ‘What could possibly be wrong with your testimonial? It’s positively glowing.’

  It seemed like an eternity before he answered:

  ‘That’s because I wrote it.’

  Was he making some kind of joke? She couldn’t detect anything funny in what he had just said. Nor could she see a smile on his face. Why would he write his own testimonial when he was so good at his job that any employer would gladly testify to the fact? It
didn’t make any sense.

  ‘I don’t grasp why you would do such a thing,’ she said. ‘Did you lose your testimonial or leave it in London? Surely they could have written another one for you, had you requested it.’

  ‘If only it were that simple.’ His complexion had turned the colour of Amy’s dress. ‘When I arrived from England and saw your job notice in the paper, I wanted the position so much, I did something shameful. I used a sheet of stationery from the Great Western and wrote my own reference.’

  ‘How did you come by their stationery if you didn’t work there?’

  ‘But I did. I did work there. Only not as a manager.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘I was a porter.’

  She looked at the dashing Irishman standing opposite her. The man who dealt effortlessly with customers, organised grand dinners, penned letters in an exquisite hand, kept meticulous accounts and was able to draw the best out of his staff. He was a born leader. He couldn’t possibly be a porter, the lowliest job in the hotel hierarchy . . . could he?

  For a long time neither of them spoke. Was he waiting for her to tell him everything would be all right? Well, it wasn’t. Liam O’Donnell had forged a document and used it to hoodwink her. His actions were immoral and probably illegal. As for the so-called connection they had both shared with the Great Western, it hadn’t proven to be a good omen at all, but a curse.

  ‘Mrs Chen, I am deeply sorry for what I did. I can’t offer any excuses. It was inexcusable. But it doesn’t change the way I feel about you. I’ve loved you ever since that first day in Mr Tart’s tea rooms.’

  ‘You lied about your credentials. How can I believe anything you say?’

  ‘You know I love you. That’s the reason I confessed. I had to try to make things right, particularly after what happened last night. But I understand if you want to dismiss me. I deserve it. In fact, you have every reason to send me packing this very moment.’

  She rose from her desk and turned towards the window, gazing out at the Chinese garden with its luxuriant shrubs. She had half expected to see the bushes leafless and the branches torn off as though a huge storm had just swept through. But everything looked perfectly normal. The birds were singing, the sky was a flawless blue and the viburnum hedge was laden with white blooms. It was only within this room that the world had been turned upside down. She wasn’t sure what she felt – puzzlement, disbelief, fury, disappointment – the emotions changed by the second. Above all, there was an overwhelming sense of sadness. She couldn’t bring herself to speak, even though she was aware that he was standing there, waiting for her response. Finally she turned towards him.

  ‘You’re right. You deserve to be sacked.’

  ‘In that case, I’ll catch tomorrow’s train to Sydney.’

  She remained icily silent.

  ‘I’m truly sorry, Mrs Chen.’

  As he turned to leave, a word was forming in her throat. ‘Wait!’ she said in a voice which seemed to belong to someone else. ‘You have disappointed me more than you will ever know. If there is one thing I cannot countenance, it is dishonesty and deception, especially from a person in whom I have entrusted so much.’ She paused for a moment to quell the waver in her voice. ‘However, credentials or not, you are a very fine manager – Sir Henry Parkes has even attested to the fact – and I cannot run this place without you. So I have made a decision. I am not going to dismiss you. You shall remain manager of the Emporium Hotel. Now, kindly unlatch the door and return to the reception desk. I am sure there are guests waiting to pay their accounts. And we shall never again speak of the testimonial, nor of last night’s unfortunate incident.’

  ‘But . . .’

  She cut him off before he could finish. ‘That will be all, Mr O’Donnell.’

  As soon as he left the room, she slumped on the sofa. Her head was spinning, her stomach a-churn. A chill was rising up from her feet as if she were standing barefoot in the snow, yet her face felt like it was on fire. Don’t faint, she told herself. But instead, she vomited all over her pristine velvet upholstery.

  For the next few weeks Amy addressed him only in regard to hotel business. In all other matters, he might not have existed. She told no one about the false testimonial. As for Sunday luncheons, he continued to attend, only because she feared it would be too difficult to explain his absence if he didn’t. But she didn’t speak to him, except when she absolutely had to, and then it was with studied politeness. If Eliza had been present, she might have asked questions. But the others, engrossed in Daniela’s antics, didn’t seem to notice anything was awry.

  One day Amy found herself on the landing, staring at the portrait of Charles. What would he have made of all this? Would he be appalled that his wife had fallen for a charlatan? Or would he tell her that we need to forgive each other our trespasses? Would he suggest throwing Liam out the door or giving him another chance?

  ‘Tell me what to do, Charles,’ she said, speaking aloud. As she turned to go downstairs, she caught Liam watching her from the foyer. She brushed past him without a word, though she did manage to sneak a glance at his face. The emerald eyes were duller, as though someone had dusted talcum powder over them. As for his expression, it was filled with such longing it made her heart ache. If only he hadn’t fabricated the testimonial. If only . . .

  ‘And now, who am I? I will remember, if I can! I’m determined to do it!’

  LEWIS CARROLL

  Through the Looking-Glass, Chapter III

  XXIII

  ELIZA

  Friday 19th November, 1886

  Eliza had settled back into her life at the Sorbonne as though she hadn’t been away. There were new students, of course, and the senior year had left, but the core group remained. The American girl, whose father didn’t approve of women doctors, the young Englishwoman, who had read and rejected the philosophies of Doctor Mackellar, and the Polish student, who believed that not all women were innately maternal. Eliza had dubbed the four of them a ‘Band of Sisters’. They had spent a long time debating how to translate the name into French. Finally they decided to leave it in English.

  On the morning of her thirty-second birthday Eliza had discovered she was now a genuine éminence grise. As she brushed her hair into a bun, the looking-glass revealed strands of silvery grey growing at her temples. It was yet another reminder that personal decisions had to be made sooner rather than later. Martin wrote weekly and she replied just as frequently. Although he never mentioned the proposal, it was like a submarine cable in every letter, humming just below the surface. Sometimes he asked tactfully about her opinion of Continental men, but there was no need for him to be jealous – it would be a rare Frenchman who would have the slightest interest in Eliza once he knew she was a doctoresse. And that reaction wasn’t just confined to Frenchmen. She had seen the same attitudes at Rose Scott’s salon – confusion, apprehension and, ultimately, fear. Men were intimidated by a clever woman, particularly one whose job it was to deal with the workings of the human body. Only an elite few treated her as an equal – her father, and Martin, and possibly the two artists, Messrs Roberts and Conder. Being creative gentlemen forging a new style of painting, their view of the world seemed much more flexible. Then again, if she found herself cast as the wife or sweetheart of either man, it might be a different story altogether.

  Although Eliza had found deep friendships in her ‘Band of Sisters’, there were times when homesickness still struck like a lightning bolt. Whenever that happened, she would haunt the foyer of the women’s dormitory, restlessly checking the pigeonhole marked ‘Mlle Miller’. Today was such a day. On her return from lunch she discovered a stack of letters in the little wooden cubicle. Two from her father, and one each from Martin, Amy and Mr Conder. They had arrived in record time – around the world in eighty days, like Monsieur Verne’s novel. Eliza took them upstairs, holding them to her body, as though she were a prospector gloating over a bag of gold nuggets.

  She opened Mr Conder’s first, not knowing what to expect. H
e hadn’t written to her before. Was he intending to come to Paris as part of a grand tour or even to pursue his artistic career? No, it wasn’t that at all. It seemed he had left his surveying job at the Lands Department and taken up a position as a sketch artist for the Illustrated Sydney News. There was a hint that he might have fallen out with his uncle, though whether it was over the job or something else, he didn’t say. Eliza was pleased to read that he was busy taking art classes and painting landscapes. What’s more, he had sold the painting of her, the one based on the sketch he’d made the day he came to Millerbrooke. Mr Conder even mentioned the purchaser – an elderly Sydney doctor, buying it on behalf of his son. Eliza drew a breath. It couldn’t be, could it? Her pulse began to race. If Martin had organised the purchase, it was an exceedingly thoughtful gesture. Some might call it romantic, but Eliza despised that word, so redolent of fairy tales with their vapid princesses and all-conquering knights.

  After a while she began to consider the practicalities of her hypothesis. How did Martin know about the painting in the first place? And how did he track it down? Finally she convinced herself that her theory wasn’t scientific at all, but silly speculation. All the same, it made her heart flutter to imagine the portrait in his possession.

  She left Amy’s letter till last, knowing it would contain the latest gossip, not that Amy would ever call it that. She would claim it was ‘news’, essential to keeping Eliza informed about the town’s activities. The letter began with an account of the August meeting of the Eclectic Society. According to Amy, things were progressing soundly under Mrs Brownlow’s stewardship, with a dozen ladies attending Matilda’s session on cake decorating. To Eliza, that sounded more like a handicraft group than an organisation dedicated to bettering the lot of women, and it made her even more determined to restore the society’s subversive agenda on her return.