Neither Isobel nor her mother spoke for a while, absorbed in the loveliness of the scene. Isobel had her journal open on her lap and was making a sketch in pencil and watercolour of the bay and its traffic. They both listened to the harbour music: the screech of gulls overhead, the liquid slap of water against hull and pier, the ripple and snap of bellying canvas in the breeze, and the panting churn of the paddle-steamers.
Isobel broke their silence. ‘Can I ask you something, Mama?’
‘What is it, my darling?’
‘I hope I am not prying but…why does Papa look so unhappy all the time?’
‘Why, my dear…’ Winnie was taken aback. She turned and studied her daughter’s expression of sweet earnestness. On reflection, she realised she should not be so surprised by this question. In the last few months the Major’s usual buoyant confidence seemed to be foundering. Of late, Isobel had encountered her father as he returned home from his offices on Macquarie Street, his face dark with despair. At dinner he would say little and drink too much, hurrying away to avoid the affectionate attentions of his family. On other occasions, friends and colleagues came rushing through the front hall, shoulders hunched, eyes averted, scurrying to the Major’s study for what were evidently secret and weighty discussions. More than once Isobel heard voices behind that door raised in anger, her father’s as clear and resonant as a bell.
Like any dutiful daughter, Isobel took a gratified interest in her father’s accolades, basking in his reflected glory. He was always on the list of important guests for the Governor’s grand levee held every year on the Queen’s birthday. Winnie happily read aloud the plaudits in the Sydney papers and the Government Gazette to the enthusiastic applause of her children. In this way, Isobel formed a fragmentary understanding of Papa’s public life. The male sphere of civic duty and achievement was closed to women, of course, and its secret business jealously guarded. Lately this had struck Isobel as unfair as the consequences of her father’s troubles in that distant male world weighed heavily on his wife and children.
Isobel studied her mother’s face in turn and could read her thoughts: was her daughter old enough to know the secrets of adult life? Isobel prayed to have that door pushed open, even if just a little. She was sick of being kept in the dark, of having to guess at what fears consumed her parents’ minds. Like most children, she erred on the side of blaming herself for whatever upset them. In three years’ time she would be ready to formally come out into society. Surely she was now old enough to start learning the ways of the world.
Winnie placed her glass of lavender lemonade on the stone seat and brushed macaroon crumbs from her lap. She had made up her mind. It was time to tell Isobel something of her father’s troubles, and Winnie’s own. What was the point of hiding the truth from her children forever?
‘Are you sure you really want to know, my love?’ she asked gently. Isobel nodded solemnly. ‘Very well.’ The story started with great promise. ‘When your father took on the position of Surveyor-General all those years ago, the responsibility weighed heavily on him,’ said Winnie. ‘In his view, the prosperity of the whole colony lay in his hands.’
Her mother explained why. Not only was the Major expected to survey all the land grants that had been issued by the Governor (for which purpose he must prepare an accurate survey of the entire colony of New South Wales) but he was also responsible for the surveying and building of all roads and bridges. In a colony that was rapidly growing, both tasks were a huge undertaking that required urgent attention.
‘And all this was to be done with a team of only sixteen men!’ Winnie exclaimed incredulously. ‘So your father had to do a lot of the surveying himself. For weeks at a time he camped out in the harshest of bushland and the most rugged of mountains. Against all odds, he and his men completed the map of the Nineteen Counties in only seven years.’
Already, Isobel was surprised at how little she actually knew of her father’s life. This explanation accounted for her papa’s long absences ever since Isobel had been a small child. She blushed to think how she could have spent all her young days in such blissful ignorance of what put supper on her table and clothes on her back.
Winnie’s eyes sparkled with pride. The truth was the Major had an indefatigable passion for his work and, little by little, had grown to love the countryside that he mapped. The other compensation was that the Major’s work came with handsome rewards. In a fit of magnanimity, Governor Darling decided to award members of his administration, including Major Macleod, generous grants of land on the peninsula east of Sydney Cove known as Woolloomooloo Hill and sometimes Woolloomooloo Heights. With a sweep of her hand, Winnie indicated the familiar craggy foreshore and vast bowl of silver water beyond—the world of Isobel’s childhood. Unlike her explorer father, this dusty city and its luminous harbour was the full extent of the Australia that Isobel Macleod knew. Winnie narrowed her eyes a little as if trying to re-imagine the Hill as it had once been. ‘Back then, this place didn’t have much to recommend it. Except for its harbour views, and the windmills along the ridge that ground Sydney’s daily bread.’
With its sandy soil and scrubby vegetation, Woolloomooloo Hill had largely been dismissed as ‘sterile’, prone to fierce outbreaks of fire and home to nothing but multitudes of snakes. The rough road from Sydney Town followed a native walking track through steep sand dunes that proved treacherous for wagons and carriages. Undaunted, Governor Darling conceived a ‘vision splendid’ for this sandstone promontory: an island of wealth and privilege for the colonial elite that would be, in his words, ‘an example and chastisement to the debased populace of Sydney Town’.
‘This was to be Governor Darling’s great legacy,’ explained Winnie. ‘He required that each landowner build a villa within three years and at a cost of no less than a thousand pounds. Oh, and the villa had to face his Government House. Like a Mohammedan facing Mecca!’ Winnie laughed, shaking her head at such hubris.
Folly or not, darling’s audacious ‘vision splendid’ soon became a reality. The windmills stayed but the ridge was renamed Darlinghurst Heights by the proud Governor. Within three short years, a manmade paradise had materialised on this barren stretch of sand and rock. Stately villas encircled by leafy gardens and broad carriageways transformed a wasteland into a cool, green idyll floating above the heat and filth of Sydney. darling’s second-in-command, Colonial Secretary Mr Alexander Macleay, was granted by far the largest lot, fifty-four acres around Elizabeth Bay. The Sydney papers were outraged at this shameless nepotism.
‘We were given ten acres of land where your father built our first home, Grangemouth. That was before we moved here when you were ten.’
Isobel remembered that day very well; she had hated leaving her old home but soon realised she had been admitted to a paradise full of beautiful secrets. (‘Oh my, we have our own forest!’ she had exclaimed as she roamed the estate.) From the grotto, she looked back up the sloping lawn to the brilliant white splendour of Rosemount Hall itself. The estate was thickly wooded with eucalypts and casuarinas and, from the front gates, the coach road passed through low scrubland. down here by the water, the cliffs and boulders showed the dry, ancient bones of the land. Isobel still struggled to imagine this peninsula stripped back to empty bushland, bare of all its villas and estates. These lush gardens and grand houses were the world she had been born into, as familiar and cherished as her parents’ faces.
While Papa was often away, Isobel had some idea how hard he worked. But she knew very well how hard her mother worked. It had been left to Winnie to manage Grangemouth and raise her seven children while the Major made his name and fortune. She also served on the Ladies’ Charity Committee of the Female School of Industry, whose patron was the Governor’s wife. Unlike Major Macleod, she received no public accolades for these labours.
‘Life had more challenges in store. Governor Darling turned out to be a meddler and a penny pincher. Worst of all, he questioned your father’s judgement.’ Winnie’s face gr
ew stern. Isobel felt that swooping lurch of foreboding in her stomach. This could not end well.
‘One of your father’s chief projects was looking after the road over the Blue Mountains, the main road west. He soon discovered there was a much safer way for carriages to descend the western slope than Mr Cox’s original road. So he decided to pull the chain gangs off repairing that road and put them to work on his new route, which he named Victoria Pass. When he found out, the Governor refused to authorise the change of plan.’ Winnie winced. It was plain that such memories pained her. ‘Your father went over the Governor’s head and wrote directly to the Colonial Office in London. Governor Darling was furious. He tried to have your father removed from office.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Fortunately, darling’s term as Governor was terminated and he was recalled to England. Your father was saved.’
Isobel was wide-eyed with amazement. She had not known any of this.
Winnie sighed. ‘But that was just the beginning. The Major has now served under four different governors. And they have all, at one time or another, interfered in his work. They have even meddled in his expeditions, which have opened up thousands of acres of fertile land. Such is their gratitude for years of service.’
‘Poor Papa.’ Isobel shook her head in dismay. ‘It sounds as if he has been treated very badly.’
‘Yes, he has, my sweet. And now there is talk of yet another official inquiry into the conduct of his department. It seems the past never goes away. We are shackled to it like the wretched convict to his leg irons.’ Winnie’s face grew still and solemn. Her voice cracked as she spoke. ‘That, my dear Isobel, is why your father looks so unhappy.’
Isobel may have been only thirteen and confined to the narrow world of domestic life at Rosemount, but she had been privy at times to what people thought of her father. That he did not suffer fools gladly. That he treated some of his staff arrogantly and unfairly. That he picked fights with his superiors and became involved in bitter, long-running public quarrels. That he was aloof, prickly, difficult. Isobel herself had witnessed only a few displays of his famous volcanic temper: a book tossed in anger, a voice raised in a moment of frustration. It seemed that at least Papa showed great forbearance with his own family if not the rest of the world.
‘But enough of this gloomy talk,’ said Winnie, producing two lollipops wrapped in bright paper from the picnic hamper. ‘Your father is so immensely proud of his children and that makes him very happy. And tomorrow is your birthday, a day for celebration! I know he will be thinking of you.’
Isobel smiled. Strangely, this tale of woe had lifted her spirits. She felt fortunate to have such a father; there was nothing that daunted him, nothing that he refused to face with resolution and courage. For now, at least, she was grateful to still be a young woman safe in the bosom of her family, though lately she had sometimes felt the spur of boredom and impatience to step onto a wider stage. And, reluctant as she was to admit it, she was also relieved that father’s moodiness had nothing to do with her. She had a horror of disappointing or upsetting him. It was the price she paid for being his favourite daughter.
Winnie asked to look at Isobel’s harbour painting. With flecks of cream, chestnut and mustard yellow against a marbled wash of cobalt and aqua, the paper had mysteriously absorbed the restless caper of sunlight and shadow, the invisible heft of wind and wave that animated the harbour view before them. ‘Oh my, you are so clever, my sweet. You have captured it perfectly!’ cried Winnie.
Winnie was in no doubt that Isobel had inherited her father’s artistic eye and aptitude. Angus was widely praised for his draughtsmanship, not just his maps but also his sketches and watercolours. Winnie touched her daughter lightly on the hand. Her face was bright with gladness as she raised her glass of lavender lemonade. ‘A toast! To my clever youngest daughter—may your future bring you all the happiness you deserve, Isobel, my love!’
‘Thank you, Mama,’ said Isobel, fighting a bittersweet urge to cry for joy. How fragile this moment of closeness seemed, so precious and so fleeting. Was that why her heart was so full, why tears pricked at her eyes? Looking back, Isobel wondered if, at that very moment, she had been given a glimpse of how it would all end. Was that even possible?
She hugged her mother tightly. How honoured she was to be trusted with her parents’ trials and sorrows. did any of her sisters know of these things? She looked on this new knowledge not as a burden but a gift. The gift of respect. It was the best gift a mother could give a daughter on the threshold of womanhood.
A fresh breeze sprang up off the harbour and fanned them both. Isobel took one of the lollipops and unwrapped it. It was cherry, her favourite. ‘Even so, I still feel sorry for Papa,’ she said, her final word on the matter before popping the birthday treat in her mouth.
Winnie kissed her on the brow. ‘I know, my sweetness. He is a good man and should not have to bear such troubles. But we must not question God’s wisdom in such matters. We are a family that is blessed in many ways.’
Isobel nodded. She understood the bounty of God’s gifts. She smiled up at her mama, thankful for this cherished time together.
Her mother smiled back. ‘Just be grateful, my dear,’ she said, ‘that you were not born a man.’
Chapter 6
GRANGEMOUTH
DECEMBER 1838
When it was finished, Rosemount Hall had been universally praised as the finest house in the colony. It had taken four years to build and cost its owner, the Colonial Secretary, Mr Macleay, a fortune, rumoured to be in excess of six thousand pounds. The funds had run dry before the doric colonnade (envisioned by the architect, Mr Verge, to wrap around three-quarters of the house) could be built, leaving his Greek Revival ‘temple’ even more austere than planned.
With equally little thought for the capacity of his purse, Mr Macleay had also laid out a lavish design for his fifty-four acres. This included an extensive botanic garden stocked with exotics from every corner of the Empire, a forest, a vineyard, orchards and kitchen garden, and several follies including a maze, a Linnean spiral, two grottoes, and a series of ponds and waterfalls spanned by stone bridges. His money was all gone before completing the Roman bathhouse on the foreshores of Elizabeth Bay. While most of the newspapers sneered at such hubris and excess, the Sydney Gazette had praised Mr Macleay for bringing order to the wilderness, showing ‘how those hillocks of rock and sand might be rendered tributary to the taste and advantage of civilized man.’
The house was almost an afterthought. Mr John Verge was engaged and soon became the architect of choice on Woolloomooloo Hill, designing villas and lodges for several wealthy clients. But Rosemount remained his masterpiece, even with its missing colonnade. Admired for its gleaming white façade, its elegant Regency proportions and unique elliptical dome and staircase, Rosemount Hall was the envy of every rich man in Sydney.
That included, of course, Major Angus Macleod, who rode past the estate’s front gates every morning on his way to the Surveyor-General’s office on Macquarie Street. The Colonial Secretary may have come by his piece of land through barefaced favouritism, but the Major had to agree that the house and its gardens reflected Mr Macleay’s good taste and broad intellect. Little did the Major suspect that one day, thanks to the inexplicable twists and turns of fate, his admiring covetousness of Rosemount Hall would be richly rewarded.
Out of his habitual curiosity and stubbornness, Isobel’s father had designed their family home all by himself, with some help from an architect’s pattern book. The result was Grangemouth, a two-storey Italianate mansion featuring a grand ballroom and an imposing portico of Ionic columns in imitation of the Parthenon that earned the house its soubriquet of ‘the Acropolis of Sydney’. There was no doubt it was worthy of Governor Darling’s ‘vision splendid’ and the other impressive villas that appeared on Woolloomooloo Hill such as Goderich Lodge, Waratah House, Tusculum and Roslyn Hall.
For fourteen years this house served
its purpose as a testament to the Major’s wealth and status as well as a comfortable retreat for his family. It was here that Isobel was born in 1834, the youngest of Angus and Winnie’s swelling brood. Winnie had endured the deaths of four babies in childbirth and the loss of a daughter, Margaret, as an infant; while Margaret’s portrait hung in the morning room, her death and those of the four little ones were rarely, if ever, spoken of. Isobel was to be Winnie’s last gift of a child to her husband.
It had taken Winnie the best part of two years to settle into her new life on the far side of the globe. She suffered terribly from homesickness and hated everything about Sydney. The dreadful heat and scorching winds. The clouds of mosquitos and flies. The extortionate prices. The venal convict servants who were invariably rude and lazy and stole the silver plate right out from under their noses. But worst of all was the suffocatingly tedious company of the Sydney society ladies, who talked of nothing but money and fashion. Eventually, the Major and his wife found kindred spirits among the more recent arrivals and became known for their excellent dinner parties and dances at Grangemouth.
For Isobel and her siblings, life was carefree. After their classes with the governess and the tutor, their days were filled with games and small adventures on the rolling sward in front of the house or among the trees along the coach loop. After lunch, Richard, William and Joseph would spin tops under the portico or play tag, Tom Tiddler’s Ground and cricket on the green. Alice, Grace, Anna and little Isobel took turns on the wooden swings hung from the tallowwoods or mucked around with mallets and hoops on the croquet lawn.
The Opal Dragonfly Page 4
