The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

  WHATEVER HAPPENED TO . . .?

  CHARLES CONDER

  Charles Conder and Tom Roberts finally met in 1888 while Roberts was visiting Sydney. Encouraged by the older artist, Conder moved to Melbourne, where he joined the Heidelberg School of painters. His most famous paintings include the hauntingly beautiful ‘Departure of the Orient – Circular Quay’ (1888), ‘Under a Southern Sun’ (1890) and various delightful beach scenes at Beaumaris and Mentone. Along with Roberts and Arthur Streeton, he was also an instigator of the famous 9 x 5 Impression Exhibition, in which they painted scenes in oils on cigar-box lids. In 1890 he moved to England and spent time in France, the home of Impressionism. In Europe he gained accolades for his exquisitely painted silk fans. When he was thirty-three he married a wealthy, young Canadian widow. Eventually the complications of syphilis, contracted years earlier, overtook him and he died of ‘brain fever’ in a British sanatorium. He was not yet forty-one years old.

  SIR HENRY PARKES

  Sir Henry Parkes went on to serve fourth and fifth terms as NSW Premier (1887–89) and (1889–91). Today he is best known as ‘the Father of Federation’. In his time, he was a formidable politician who contested over thirty elections or by-elections, opposed the transportation of convicts, advocated universal suffrage and denounced the involvement in a foreign war. He established a magnificent country home and garden at Faulconbridge in the Blue Mountains where he would escape on weekends. In 1892 Tom Roberts painted Parkes’s portrait. His wife of over fifty years, Clarinda, died in 1888, and he remarried a year later. After his second wife’s untimely death from cancer in 1895, he married yet again. Parkes died in 1896, five years before Federation. He was eighty.

  TOM ROBERTS

  Tom Roberts became one of Australia’s greatest and most respected artists. His iconic works include ‘Shearing the Rams’ (1890), ‘A Breakaway!’ (1891), ‘The Golden Fleece’ (1894) and ‘Bailed Up’ (1895). He established a studio in Grosvenor Chambers, Melbourne but also continued to paint en plein air with members of the Heidelberg School. In 1903 he completed the ‘Opening of the First Parliament’, a monumental painting, which Roberts dubbed the ‘Big Picture’ and now hangs in Parliament House, Canberra. Roberts didn’t marry until he was forty. During World War I he put his age back in order to join the Royal Army Medical Corps, working as a porter in a London hospital where he was promoted to the rank of sergeant. He died in 1931 at the age of seventy-five.

  ROSE SCOTT

  Rose Scott continued to run her salon from her home in Woollahra. It is possible that Sir Henry Parkes might have been among the politicians and judges who congregated there on Friday evenings. In 1891 she and others formed the Womanhood Suffrage League of New South Wales. Renowned for her polite yet persuasive manner, she espoused a variety of causes such as the plight of unwed mothers, women’s working conditions, raising the age of consent and, of course, the voting rights of women. (Australian women gained the vote in 1902, well ahead of Great Britain and the US.) She was not a supporter of Federation and as a pacifist, opposed Australia’s involvement in the Boer War. Portraits of Rose Scott show a woman of great beauty, even in old age, but she never married. In later years she became disillusioned with the inequalities still afflicting women and the lack of political will to remedy them. She died in 1925 at the age of seventy-seven.

  QUONG TART

  Quong Tart and Margaret Scarlett Tart had a very happy marriage, creating a beautiful home in Ashfield, NSW. The arrival of six children – two boys and four girls – brought about reconciliation with Margaret’s parents. Quong Tart went on to establish a chain of elegant eateries in Sydney, including the Elite Tea Rooms in the Queen Victoria Building, where federalists and suffragettes sometimes gathered to discuss their respective causes. He was a highly respected merchant, renowned for his charity work and for offering his staff progressive working conditions. Throughout his life he worked hard to improve the welfare of the Chinese community in Australia and to fight the curse of opium addiction and was honoured by the Chinese Emperor for his achievements. In 1902 he was robbed and bashed in his office in the QVB. The attack had a debilitating effect on his health and he died the following year, aged fifty-three. Over a thousand people attended his funeral.

  If you enjoyed The Jade Widow, look out for Deborah

  O’Brien’s new novel

  A PLACE OF HER OWN

  A modern-day sequel to Mr Chen’s Emporium.

  A compelling story celebrating one woman’s midlife renaissance – with all its twists and turns.

  Following the death of her beloved husband, Phil, Angie has made a new life for herself in the enchanting gold rush town of Millbrooke. The proud proprietor of the Old Manse B&B and a fierce protector of local history, her transition from ‘blow-in’ to bona fide Millbrooker is complete.

  She’s even fallen for the erudite but scruffy Richard Scott, owner of Millerbrooke House.

  But just as the relationship between Angie and Richard seems to be blossoming, a woman from his past arrives back in town – and turns their world upside down.

  Because Diana Goodmann isn’t all she seems, and when Angie vows to unearth the truth about her rival she finds herself a long way from home – and in very grave danger.

  AVAILABLE NOW

  Read on for a taster . . .

  1

  JUST FRIENDS

  Whenever Angie Wallace tried to chart her transition from ‘blow-in’ to local, she couldn’t find a single turning point. Instead, it had been a series of little things, so unremarkable she hadn’t noticed them at the time. Eighteen months ago she had been the newly arrived widow from the big smoke. Now she was a fixture, as much a part of Millbrooke as the Old Manse she had just finished renovating.

  Back then, her sons, both at university in the city, had warned their grieving mother against the move. Tim claimed that she was deserting her offspring, Blake accused her of being in denial and her friend Vicky had called her crazy. For a while she had wondered if they were right. Then slowly she’d made a new set of friends, a group of women she dubbed her ‘painting ladies’, though their art lessons were as much about bemoaning the lack of eligible men in Millbrooke as applying colour to canvas. When Angie had asked them why they’d never considered Richard Scott, the sixty-something property mogul, who had sold her the town’s historic Manse, the class had laughed in unison. Narelle insisted he was an alcoholic, Jennie dismissed him as too old, while Moira, the oldest member of the group, took the most sympathetic view, claiming he was just a little unconventional. As for Angie, she had seen only a dishevelled eccentric in a flannelette shirt and knitted cap.

  She was lingering over her cup of tea in the place she called the ‘emporium café’, once the site of Millbrooke’s renowned Chinese store, when she looked out the window to see a tall figure shambling across Miller Street and heading for the doorway.

  ‘Have you read the Gazette yet, Ange?’ Richard asked as he removed his old woollen coat and let it fall over the back of the chair.

  ‘Only the headlines. Why?’

  ‘So you haven’t seen the invitation?’

  ‘What invitation?’

  ‘For the second of September.’

  ‘That’s the day I’m launching the B&B.’

  ‘I know. You might have some competition.’

  ‘Will you stop being so cryptic and show me.’

  He turned the paper to the advertisements at the back and pointed to a quarter-page ad under ‘Local Government Notices’.

  AN INVITATION TO THE OFFICIAL OPENING OF THE MILLBROOKE AMENITIES BLOCK

  MILLBROOKE SHIRE COUNCIL IS DELIGHTED TO INVITE RESIDENTS TO THE OPENING OF THIS STATE-OF-THE-ART ECO-FACILITY BY SAM PORTER MP, MEMBER FOR MILLBROOKE. SATURDAY, 2 SEPTEMBER AT 2 PM AT MILLBROOKE PARK, GOLDFIELDS ROAD, MILLBROOKE. AFTER THE RIBBON-CUTTING CEREMONY, MEMBERS OF THE MILLBROOKE COMMUNITY ARE ENCOURAGED TO JOIN COUNCIL STAFF ON A GUIDED TOUR OF THE TOILETS, SHOWERS AND BABY CHANGING ROOM, AS WELL AS THE ECOLOGICAL WAST
E DISPOSAL SYSTEM, SOLAR PANELS, WATER TANKS AND ENVIRONMENTALLY FRIENDLY GARDEN.

  AFTERNOON TEA WILL BE SERVED.

  ‘They can’t do that!’ Angie fumed. ‘I sent the mayor his invitation weeks ago. And the general manager, too.’

  ‘That’s Millbrooke Council for you.’

  ‘Nobody will come to my launch now.’

  ‘Of course they will, Ange. I know where I’d rather be, and it’s not touring the public toilets. Anyway, who would want to have afternoon tea there, when they could be sampling treats made by you and your painting ladies?’

  She wasn’t listening to him. ‘I can just picture the front page of the Gazette. A photo of the toilet block on one side and the Manse on the other. With a joint headline – “Millbrooke’s Newest Ventures”.’

  ‘Cheer up. Everyone who really counts will be at your bash.’

  ‘I don’t suppose I can change the date now. It’s too late. The boys have arranged to come for the weekend. And my friends, Vicky and Chrissie.’

  ‘Trust me, Ange. It won’t affect you.’

  Richard spoke with such determination that Angie feared he might be planning to sabotage the opening ceremony, Millbrooke’s own Colonel de Groot arriving on a horse and cutting the ribbon with his sword.

  ‘Richard, may I ask you a favour?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Would you say a few words at the launch?’

  ‘I’d be glad to.’ He paused for a moment to play with the stubble on his chin. ‘Ange, I was wondering about something. How about dinner at Millerbrooke tonight?’

  ‘Your place?’ she said tentatively. ‘Tonight?’

  ‘You’ve never seen the garden lit up. And I’m not a bad cook.’

  He had caught her off guard. Although their ‘cuppas’ at the Manse and daily breakfasts at the café were something she looked forward to, dinner chez Richard had all kinds of connotations. Still, she lacked a plausible excuse. She couldn’t even say she was preparing a lesson for her painting ladies because the next class wasn’t until Wednesday.

  ‘Okay. But I don’t want a late night.’

  ‘No problem. I’ll come down to the Manse and pick you up at six.’

  ‘Would you like me to bring something?’

  ‘Maybe some wine.’

  Angie knew Richard didn’t have alcohol in the house. Some years ago there’d been a serious bout with the bottle and now he drank only orange juice. All the same, he didn’t seem to mind other people having a beer or a glass of wine in his presence.

  ‘All right, and I’ll bring dessert.’ She didn’t want to owe him any favours. If he cooked the mains and she made dessert, they would be even. This would be just two friends sharing a meal. No add-ons.

  Later in the day Angie’s elder son phoned from Sydney. He had almost finished his Master’s degree in Psychology and was prone to use his mother as a case study.

  ‘You’ve come a long way, Mum,’ he said, adopting his professional tone.

  ‘I still have my moments, Blake, but in general, I’m feeling much better.’

  ‘I’m glad. Actually, I think you might be ready to relocate.’

  ‘I’m not coming back to Sydney. Not anytime soon, anyway. I thought you knew that.’

  ‘That’s not what I meant. I’m talking about relocating Dad.’

  Angie gasped before it dawned on her that Blake didn’t mean disinterring the body and moving it elsewhere. ‘I gather you’re speaking metaphorically.’

  ‘Of course. It’s all about finding a new place to put your feelings for Dad.’

  ‘Well, if that’s the case, can you head me in the right direction?’

  ‘I can’t be your GPS. You have to find it for yourself.’

  ‘Like Ronald Colman seeking his lost horizon.’

  ‘Who’s Ronald Colman?’

  ‘Nobody you’d know, Blake.’

  Afterwards, Angie pondered Blake’s words. Was she supposed to relegate her dead husband to an outpost of her personal empire? Make him an exile like Napoleon on St Helena? Or, heaven forbid, was she expected to replace him with somebody else?

  Angie had never been to Richard’s at night, only daytime meals, usually in the presence of others. Matter-of-fact gatherings to consume food and indulge in badinage and banter. What should she wear to an evening meal at Richard Scott’s? She didn’t want to impart the wrong idea by donning something fancy or provocative like the black top with the draped V-neck – it revealed far too much décolletage. What about the blue dress? She would need to wear high heels with it and Angie knew what effect they had on men. Jeans and T-shirt? Was that too casual? She couldn’t decide, so she wasted the next half hour trying on different outfits and abandoning them on the bed.

  She donned her reading glasses and examined her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. There were fine lines on her forehead and a fan of crow’s-feet radiating out from each eye, but you could hardly expect a fifty-something woman to be in perfect condition, could you? At least her hair was still its original brown, apart from a few silvery strands lurking at the temples.

  From the pile of clothes littering the bed, she put on a paisley cotton peasant skirt and the problematic black top – it was the only thing that worked with the patterned skirt – and chose ballet flats instead of stilettos. High heels and cleavage could be a dangerous combination. Finally she pulled her hair back from her forehead, twisted it into a French roll and pinned it in place. Then she remembered the grey at her temples and undid the lot, letting it fall to her shoulders.

  Why all this indecision? After all, it was only a visit to a friend’s place, albeit someone whose friendship she valued. Richard was good company. She enjoyed the way they joked with each other. And she had been moved when he put his hand on her shoulder and told her it was okay to cry the day she’d been overwhelmed by grief. He’d always been able to sense when she was stressed or sad. She used to imagine a pair of horny growths hidden under his trademark woollen cap, little receptors able to pick up people’s feelings. It had turned out there was only a mane of silver hair. Still, she always suspected he possessed antennae of the internal variety humming away, receptive to her every thought.

  Having someone capable of reading her mind was not necessarily a good thing. For starters, anything other than a platonic relationship was likely to be tricky. And even if she could get past the eccentric clothes and the lack of personal grooming, she would be placing their friendship at risk. If something happened between the two of them and it was a disaster, they would never be able to face each other again. The logistics of a scenario like that were too frightening to contemplate in a small town like Millbrooke.

  You silly woman, she reprimanded herself. Why are you even thinking about the notion of a romance with Richard Scott? It’s out of the question. Ridiculous. Absurd. Nonsensical. He’s the scruffy man you see every morning in the emporium café. Good company, funny, kind, but nothing more.

  When Richard came to collect her, it had started to rain. As she opened the front door of the Manse, she saw he was holding an umbrella.

  ‘You look nice, Ange.’

  ‘Thanks,’ she replied in a no-nonsense way. ‘You don’t look half bad yourself.’

  He was dressed in clean clothes and his shirt was ironed. He’d shaved too.

  The rain had become heavier. He guided her to the ute, holding his umbrella over her as if she were a member of the royal family on an official visit.

  Angie was glad Richard was behind the wheel. She hated driving on wet, dark nights. Besides, the gravel road leading to Millerbrooke was riddled with deep potholes and Angie was certain she would have wrecked a tyre or cracked a sump had she attempted it herself. When they reached the house, all the lights were on and it looked very grand.

  She was embarrassed to see vases of fresh flowers in the hall and the sitting room, as if it were a special occasion. Purposely she took a seat in an armchair rather than the sofa while Richard poured her a glass of wine. Althoug
h their conversation had never been stilted or awkward before, tonight they might have been two mismatched strangers trying to make small talk.

  It was worse when he announced that dinner was served. He had set one end of the twelve-seater table with the best silver, including candelabra. He even served an entrée – yabby bisque. They ate it in silence, except when Angie complimented him on the flavour and asked if the yabbies had come from his own dam. Yes, indeed they had, caught that very day. If he was trying to impress her it was working. But this show of culinary skill also made her anxious. He was behaving as if it was a first date.

  The main course was a rack of lamb with the tips of the bones neatly clad in foil, restaurant-style. It looked an odd colour, though – a brownish grey. That meant the meat would be overcooked and dry. A definite no-no for a sheep farmer.

  With a guilty smile he said, ‘Sorry. I lost track of time.’

  ‘That’s what oven timers are for,’ she responded archly. She was about to add that if you were going to kill a sheep, the least you could do was to honour the animal by cooking it properly, but Richard looked so crestfallen, she thought better of it. Instead, she tried to make up for her harsh remark by enthusing about the potato bake, even though the edges were burnt black.

  ‘I wanted to impress you,’ he said sadly.

  ‘Friends don’t need to impress one another,’ she replied, emphasising the word ‘friends’.

  After the dessert of tiramisu minus the alcohol, they adjourned to the sitting room, where she resumed her position in the armchair.

  ‘I found a book that might interest you, Ange,’ Richard said, producing a worn orange paperback from a side table. ‘Particularly apt in terms of the forthcoming opening ceremony. It’s called Clochemerle.’