The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

  A whole page was devoted to Daniela. Amy barely mentioned Nancy and Joseph, other than to remark fondly upon their mutual affection for Daniela and James. At the end there were two pages about Quong Tart’s wedding describing the touching nature of the ceremony. Right at the bottom Amy had written something which caused Eliza to ponder:

  ‘I have decided I’ve been a widow long enough.’

  There was no explanation or elaboration – just the single sentence appended to the account of the wedding, like a codicil to a will. Was Amy intending to abandon the widow’s weeds? If that were the case, it was not before time. But there might be more to it than simply making a sensible decision to dump the dark dresses. Could she be planning to marry Liam O’Donnell? Was this a gentle way of foreshadowing further news on the subject? Two and a half months had passed since the writing of the letter; perhaps an engagement had already taken place, though surely Amy would have sent a cablegram about something as significant as that. Eliza didn’t know how to react. On the one hand, she wanted Amy to be happy. On the other, she was apprehensive that the Irishman could ever give her friend the happy ending she deserved. Over the last year, Eliza’s initial doubts about him had developed into a theory – that he was either married, or a fortune-hunter, or both. Whatever it was, he could never be Charles Chen.

  After years of avoiding a romantic attachment, Amy had now invested all her feelings in this mysterious gentleman. Eliza had witnessed Amy’s single-mindedness in the love affair with Charles. It had been both awe-inspiring and frightening. In many ways Amy might have been a heroine from one of her romantic novels – Jane Eyre, Catherine Earnshaw or, heaven forbid, Anna Karenina, who was currently the subject of much discussion among the ‘Band of Sister’s, after they had acquired an English copy of Mr Tolstoy’s racy novel. As far as Eliza was concerned, Jane, Catherine and Anna were three deluded women sacrificing everything for love.

  Eliza had never been able to relate to that kind of woman. Someone who allowed passion to cloud her common sense and didn’t analyse things objectively or weigh up the pros and cons, but simply rushed in with her heart exposed. If you acted in that manner, you could easily lose your own identity, or worse still, you might lose your life. In Catherine’s case, she fell ill and faded away. As for that melodramatic Russian woman, Eliza shuddered whenever she thought about what happened to her. And while Jane Eyre’s reunion with Mr Rochester might have seemed like a happy ending, Eliza could just picture her at his beck and call for the rest of their married lives.

  There had only ever been one heroine among Amy’s favourites with whom Eliza had felt an affinity, albeit briefly – Elizabeth Bennet. What a clever young lady she was, with her fine sense of humour and independent streak. In the end though, she had proven to be just like the others. A woman focused on finding a husband. Whenever Eliza pictured Lizzie after a decade of marriage, she would inevitably incorporate a horde of children and a bored and paunchy Mr Darcy.

  The fictional female with whom Eliza identified most wasn’t a woman at all, but a little girl – Mr Carroll’s Alice. Apart from occasional tears of frustration, Alice had confronted a strange new world with courage and tenacity. She had stood up for herself against exotic creatures and so-called superiors – Duchess, kings and queens. She had even become a monarch herself for a short while. Alice had accepted change with wonder rather than dread. But sadly her Wonderland had turned out to be a dream. And when she woke from it, she discovered she was just an ordinary Victorian girl, after all. Yet Alice had experienced a taste of freedom, and those memories might have remained with her forever. Eliza certainly liked to think so.

  In terms of her own predicament, she sometimes wished she could put logic and reason aside and respond only to her emotions and physical needs. If that were the case, she would wed Martin without any hesitation. As it was, she had left him in limbo, unsure whether she was going to marry him or not. It wasn’t a decent thing to have done.

  On the eve of her departure, she had invited Amy to stay overnight at Millerbrooke where they had shared the big brass bed in Eliza’s room and chatted about all manner of things, studiously avoiding the two topics closest to their respective hearts – Martin Burns and Liam O’Donnell.

  Just as Eliza was nodding off to sleep, Amy had whispered, ‘Eliza, you’re not Sapphic, are you?’

  ‘Where in heaven’s name did you hear that word?’

  ‘I’d rather not say.’

  ‘Was it used in reference to me?’

  ‘It might have been.’

  ‘Well, it just so happens that I’m not Sapphic.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘You do know what the word means, don’t you?’

  ‘Not really. I thought it might be a mental illness or a medical condition.’

  Eliza suppressed a smile. ‘Actually, it refers to an intimate friendship between women.’

  ‘Intimate? Like you and me?’

  ‘No, not like us.’ Eliza paused, reflecting on how to frame the explanation. ‘There are some ladies,’ she began, ‘who are attracted to those of their own sex. In the way that you or I might be attracted to a man.’

  ‘Eliza!’ Amy exclaimed. ‘You’re making that up!’

  ‘I swear I’m not. Anyway, if I really was Sapphic, would it make any difference to our friendship?’

  Amy pondered the question before replying, ‘I can’t see how it would.’ After that, she fell silent for a while. Just as Eliza was certain her friend had dropped off to sleep, she heard, ‘So if you are neither ill nor Sapphic, tell me why you don’t want to marry Martin.’

  ‘How do you know that he has even asked me?’

  ‘Of course he has. He’s in love with you.’

  ‘To be honest, I feel the same about him.’

  ‘Does that mean we will be celebrating a wedding on your return from France?’

  ‘I haven’t yet decided. It is something I shall have to reflect upon during my time away.’

  ‘But Doctor Burns is such a fine gentleman and the two of you have so much in common. I don’t see why you can’t make up your mind.’

  ‘The problem is that I never know who I am from one day to the next.’

  After Eliza tired of reflecting on her personal dilemma, she fell to contemplating her medical future. In some respects it looked bleak. She had sent letters to every public hospital in New South Wales, enquiring about a position. Not one of them would offer her a residency, let alone a job. Doctor Allen had even used his influence with the hospital in Granthurst, but they too believed the very notion of a lady doctor was unnatural. As an alternative, he had offered her an intern’s position at the Millbrooke surgery.

  ‘You have already served an apprenticeship of sorts over the years,’ he’d said in his letter, ‘but now we can make it formal. There is a proviso, however. I cannot give you a permanent job afterwards – as you are well aware, the practice is only big enough for two doctors. But there is another possibility. Would you be prepared to act as our locum once your residency is over?’

  She had sent a reply, thanking him for his generous offer and agreeing to his proposal, but it wasn’t what she really wanted. That was something else altogether, a notion born the same night as Bao Yu Chen. A special dream, which shone in her heart like Miss Nightingale’s lamp. One day she would establish a practice of her own – the Millbrooke Women’s Hospital. A safe haven where each and every mother-to-be would be welcomed and cared for during her confinement, whether she was wed or not. A place where ladies could seek answers to their intimate medical problems from a doctor of their own gender. And every patient would pay only what she could afford, even if it was just a penny.

  In her imagination Eliza had scanned Millbrooke’s streets, searching for a suitable building. Time and again, she returned to the old mill, which had produced the town’s flour until long years of drought destroyed the local wheat industry. As a child Eliza had once seen inside the building, marvelling at the huge boiler and steam engin
e. Some years ago the equipment had been sold off and the mill itself had fallen into disrepair. Even so, it had the makings of a fine hospital. She could already see newly laid floors covered with modern linoleum and the stone walls whitewashed to maximise the light. After that, it would be a matter of adding comfortable furniture and brightly coloured paintings to create a homely rather than an institutional atmosphere. The only drawback was the height of the building – four storeys, each floor connected by rickety wooden steps. But perhaps that problem could be solved by consulting with Amy’s draughtsman, the capable Mr White, about the inclusion of an ascending cabinet. After all, a doctor couldn’t expect heavily pregnant ladies to climb multiple flights of stairs.

  As Eliza pictured her hospital, its golden sandstone glowing in the Millbrooke light, she recalled something her father had said:

  ‘Your achievements will be a way of honouring Daniel.’

  She smiled at the memory of those words. Daniel had been a good brother and a fine soldier. And although she could never condone his selfish seduction of Nancy Gray, the anger she had once felt towards him had dissipated completely, like a wintry frost melting in the morning sunshine. She hadn’t realised it until now, but this melting process had begun with Daniela’s birth.

  XXIV

  AMY

  Monday 22nd November, 1886

  Amy was cleaning Charlie’s room in preparation for his return for the summer when she came across a box which had once belonged to her husband. It was filled with his childhood games – knucklebones, dominoes, playing cards. At the bottom were some pieces of paper. She was about to dismiss them as old accounts until she noticed her own handwriting and retrieved the note she had written on the night Charles had come to ask for her hand in marriage and her father had thrown him out the door. She hadn’t seen it in fourteen years.

  Dearest Charles,

  How can I possibly apologise for the vile behaviour of my father? Please do not heed his words. They are but a reflection of his prejudices. I hate them, but I cannot hate my father. It is a sin to do so.

  Please know you are the finest, most wonderful person I have ever met. This evening you behaved with such dignity and grace that it only made me love you more, if that is possible. Somehow we will be together.

  I cannot sleep tonight and if I could escape this house and be with you, I would. But you would likely send me home because you know what is right and you always adhere to it. I wish I could be like you.

  Yours always,

  Amy

  The answer to her dilemma lay in the letter. What had Charles done in the face of her father’s abuse? He had behaved ‘with dignity and grace’. He had forgiven Matthew Duncan’s vile words almost as soon as they had been uttered. Charles’s life was predicated on forgiveness – from the incident with the drunkard to his dealings with his father-in-law.

  Then she recalled the eighteen-year-old Amy Duncan, the girl who had deceived her parents and spun a web of lies so that she could be with Charles. How could she condemn Liam for his dishonesty when she herself had been guilty of that same transgression many times over? Perhaps she’d been too harsh on Liam. After all, he had come forward and made a confession of his own accord, albeit belatedly. He had shown contrition. Surely a sincere mea culpa spoke in his favour.

  It even crossed her mind that the tragic loss of his parents might have something to do with the false testimonial, but try as she might, she couldn’t connect the two, not with more than a twenty-year gap between the respective events. At least she was certain he hadn’t made that story up. Even if she hadn’t seen the newspaper clipping with her own eyes, she knew enough about grief to recognise it in others. As for matters of the heart, she didn’t doubt he loved her, and she knew with complete certainty that she loved him – in spite of everything. If she had niggling doubts about him, it might be possible to push them to the back of her mind. If she allowed her emotions to rule, they could still be together. They loved each other. And wasn’t love enough?

  That night Amy was working late in her office when there was a tap at the door. She knew by the distinctive sound that it was Liam. As he entered the room, she felt the same tingle of anticipation she experienced every time she saw him. Even now, in the wake of his confession. After all, her heart had a mind of its own; the falsehoods were a matter for her head to consider. She indicated that he should take a seat.

  His green eyes fixed on hers, he said, ‘I have something I need to tell you.’

  Was there to be another confession? Her heart sank at the prospect.

  For a moment he was silent, as though he was assembling the words before uttering them. ‘Over the past few weeks there have been times when I’ve actually convinced myself you might forgive me, that one day I might even ask you to m . . .’

  As he paused, she willed him to finish the sentence. In spite of everything, she still longed to spend the rest of her life with him.

  He took a deep breath and began again. This time his tone was grimmer. ‘But each time I walk up that staircase and look at the portrait of your husband I’m reminded that I’m a lesser human being. No matter how hard I might try, I can never be Charles Chen, the man who upheld honesty and integrity above all else. And no matter what I might do in an attempt to redeem myself in your eyes, there would always be doubts. Little doubts which would grow into distrust and eventually form a chasm between us.’

  Amy swallowed hard.

  ‘I can’t see any solution to it. I can never be good enough. I cannot compete with the man in the painting. And as long as I stay here, I will always be the person who deceived you. It is a label I cannot possibly escape. Not unless I make a fresh start somewhere else.’

  No! her heart screamed.

  ‘So I am giving my notice. Do not fear, I won’t leave you in the lurch. I shall stay as long as it takes for you to find a suitable replacement. I will even teach him the job, if you deem it necessary.’

  She cleared her throat. ‘Are you going back to Sydney?’

  ‘In the first instance. Then I intend to take a ship to New Zealand.’

  ‘New Zealand!’ The strangled voice belonged to someone else.

  ‘It’s a place to make a new life.’

  She wanted to beg him to stay, to tell him she loved him, but the words remained locked inside her.

  ‘I hope this news hasn’t inconvenienced you too much,’ he said.

  Inconvenienced! If the revelations about his deception had disappointed her, this latest news was destroying her.

  ‘Of course not,’ she said, her throat tightening. ‘I am grateful for your offer to train a new manager, but I have someone in mind already. A Mr Thomas from Granthurst. He ran the coaching inn there for twenty-five years and I have no doubt he could slip into the position without any trouble whatsoever.’

  ‘Well, in that case . . .’ His voice trailed off.

  ‘Thank you for informing me so promptly of your decision, Mr O’Donnell.’

  ‘You are most welcome, Mrs Chen.’ He rose from his seat and bowed ever so slightly, before taking a little box from his pocket and placing it on her desk. She recognised the Anthony Horderns’ crest and stared intently at the box because she couldn’t bear to look at his face. If she did, she might begin to weep right there in his presence.

  As soon as he closed the door behind him, she allowed the tears to flow freely. When the clock chimed midnight, she was still sobbing. She went over to the sofa and lay down. Her head was aching, her nose so blocked she could hardly breathe. She blew hard into her handkerchief and closed her eyes. Finally she fell asleep, only to endure restless dreams where she could see Liam O’Donnell waiting at the top of the stairs. But by the time she climbed the steps, he had already disappeared. And even though she searched in every room and climbed the spiral staircase to reach the viewing space, he was nowhere to be found.

  The following day she sent a telegram to Mr Thomas, seeking his availability. He replied the very next morning, saying that h
e could start immediately. She went straight to Mr O’Donnell’s office to tell him. His door was ajar. After a perfunctory knock, she entered and found him with his head in his hands. The moment he realised she was there, he sat up straight.

  ‘What can I do for you, Mrs Chen?’ he enquired, his eyes cast downwards. It had become a habit in recent weeks. She missed those green eyes already, and he hadn’t even left.

  ‘I have just heard from Mr Thomas regarding the manager’s position. He can start straight away.’

  ‘In that case, I suppose I should begin packing.’

  ‘Do take your time, Mr O’Donnell. I don’t want to rush you. It’s just that you seemed so keen to begin your fresh start.’

  ‘I shall take Friday morning’s train, should that be acceptable to you.’

  ‘That’s entirely acceptable. I will finalise your wages directly. And I’ll inform Mr Thomas that he can commence work on Friday.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said softly.

  ‘You’re most welcome.’

  She turned away and went back to her office. The pain in her chest was unbearable, as if her heart had been rent in two.

  After a while she felt calm enough to start work on an important letter. It was the most difficult piece of writing she had ever done, other than composing the missive to Charles’s mother following his death. There were many attempts before she was satisfied with the wording. Finally she made a fair copy on a pristine leaf of parchment, bearing an engraving of the Emporium Hotel at the top. Then she folded it in two and placed it in a matching envelope. Across the front she wrote the salutation in an elegant copperplate script. Although the handwriting was more than adequate, it could never measure up to Liam O’Donnell’s gracious penmanship with its subtle flourishes and gentle curves. She slipped the envelope into the stationery rack on her desk. It would be safe there until it was needed.

  On Thursday afternoon, Liam O’Donnell took the hotel’s carriage to the railway station to collect his successor. Within the half hour he was back with a dapper Mr Thomas, dressed in a black suit and red silk bow tie, accompanied by two suitcases and a travelling trunk. The sight of Mr Thomas’s luggage suddenly reminded Amy that by this time tomorrow, a new manager would be standing behind the reception desk, and his predecessor would be on his way to Sydney. She steadied her voice before she spoke. ‘If you don’t mind, Mr Thomas, I shall put you up in the porter’s room tonight and you can move into the manager’s quarters tomorrow.’