‘Actually, Millie, I think you are the one who looks most like an Atkinson,’ decided Aunt Jessamine. ‘With your wavy brown hair and grey eyes, you look a bit like Emily or Louisa Atkinson. Emily was said to be the prettiest of the three girls. ’
Millie blushed again. She really didn’t like to be the centre of attention.
‘What about me?’ demanded Bella. ‘Do I look like an Atkinson?’
Aunt Jessamine examined her closely. ‘No,’ she replied, shaking her head. ‘Not really. I think you must take after your father’s side of the family.’
Bella looked momentarily crestfallen.
‘You’re pretty too, Bella,’ added Mum reassuringly.
‘I’ll show you a picture of Emily Atkinson.’ Aunt Jessamine left the room and came back with a pile of books and a manila folder filled with photocopies.
‘Here is a bundle of old newspaper articles, and that’s a copy of a journal that Charlotte Waring used on her journey out to Australia,’ explained Aunt Jessamine. ‘And here are the copies I made of some of the family sketches.’
Aunt Jessamine showed them four colour photocopies of a series of watercolour portraits, all in profile, of a mother and three children.
‘That is Charlotte Waring Atkinson,’ said Aunt Jessamine, pointing to a rather severe-looking woman in a white lace cap. ‘She was reputedly very handsome in her youth, but this was painted later after her husband died and all the troubles that followed.’
Millie thought she looked rather fierce with her black eyes and black hair.
‘She was an unusually independent woman for her time, with strong opinions on the importance of education for girls and women’s rights,’ continued Aunt Jessamine. ‘You must remember that in the early nineteenth century, women had very few legal rights to education, money, property, professions – even custody of their own children.’
Mum shook her head. ‘It’s hard to fathom now, isn’t it? You girls are so lucky to be growing up in a time when you can be anything you want to be.’
Millie tilted her head to the side. Could I be anything I want to be? she wondered. What do I want to be? Nothing amazing. Maybe just . . . brave?
Aunt Jessamine showed them another sketch. ‘This one is Louisa, the youngest daughter, who became a famous naturalist, artist and writer,’ she explained. ‘In fact, Louisa was the first Australian-born female novelist and one of the earliest female journalists, although it was her botanical discoveries that made her work truly remarkable. She has several plants named after her. What a shame only a tiny fraction of her drawings and paintings were preserved.’
Aunt Jessamine fanned through a book of exquisite drawings of plants and animals before showing them another portrait.
‘The only boy of the family, James John Oldbury Atkinson, was named after his father and eventually inherited the estate nearly twenty years after his father’s death. And this is the original Emily, the sweet second child and the family favourite.’
Millie noted the hazel eyes and brown hair parted in the middle, pulled back and braided into intricate loops around her delicate face.
‘We think these were painted by Charlotte Elizabeth Atkinson, the eldest daughter, who was named after her mother, as she is the only one in the family not depicted. Sadly, we don’t know what she looked like.’
‘So Charlotte painted as well?’ asked Millie, examining the faded prints closely.
‘Yes – all the children were very clever. They only attended school for a very short time, but nevertheless topped the prize lists. Their mother was an amazing woman . . . Did you know that she wrote the first children’s book published in Australia?’
Aunt Jessamine chattered on for a little while, then pushed back her chair and stood up.
‘But it’s such a lovely wintry morning,’ she said. ‘Why don’t we go for a walk down to Oldbury before lunch? I need to check the mailbox and water the plants, and it’s a pleasant walk.’
All four of them rugged up with thick winter coats, scarves, gloves, beanies and boots. Millie’s breath was smoky in the cold air. They walked back the way they had driven – down the long, rutted, dirt driveway through the paddocks and onto the road. The roadway wound up and over a steep hill, past some cattle yards, then down into the sheltered valley.
‘This land was all once owned by the Atkinson family and part of the Oldbury Estate,’ explained Aunt Jessamine as they walked down the hill. ‘James arrived in the colony in 1820 and was one of the first settlers in the area. When he applied for his land grants, the whole area was remote wilderness.’
Millie tried to imagine the neat farmland as wild bushland roamed by an ancient clan of Aborigines. It seemed too long ago to fathom.
‘I don’t know if it’s true, but my grandmother said that James Atkinson was told he could have as much land as he could ride around on horseback in a day,’ added Aunt Jessamine.
‘He must have had a fast horse,’ joked Bella.
‘Can you imagine the work involved in carving farmland from utter wilderness?’ asked Mum. ‘We think we work hard, but it must have been a tough life for the early settlers.’
‘Sadly, the estate was subdivided many years ago into smaller farmlets,’ explained Aunt Jessamine.
Mum looked longingly at a pretty stone cottage that had once been a workers home on the original estate. ‘I’ve always thought it would be lovely to have a farm down here,’ she said. ‘A perfect place to escape the hustle of the city on weekends. Unfortunately, we’d need to find a pot of gold to afford it.’
Aunt Jessamine laughed, waving her gloved hand. ‘You know this whole area was once infested with bushrangers. Gentleman Jackey Jackey and the Berrima axe murderer John Lynch were particularly infamous in the 1840s, when the Atkinsons lived here. There are some deep caves a few kilometres away where bushrangers are reputed to have had a hide-out. When I was growing up there were stories of hidden caches of bushranger treasure, but as much as we searched we never found any.’
‘Perhaps we’ll find some hidden treasure,’ suggested Bella, skipping along.
‘Now that would come in handy,’ joked Mum.
They walked down to the ornate front gate, with its large padlock. Aunt Jessamine unlocked the gate with a silver key. The gravel drive was covered in brown, dead leaves. A cold wind blew them in swirling eddies.
The grand house crouched among its gardens, quiet but watchful. It looked lonely and forlorn. To the right, across the paddock, Millie could see a waterhole, its banks fringed with reeds and rushes. An old, bare-leafed elm tree towered over it, with a mossy wooden garden seat underneath.
Aunt Jessamine emptied the mailbox of an assortment of envelopes, brochures and a local newspaper. Tucking the pile under her elbow, she led the way, crunching up the gravel driveway towards the house with its circular lawn, imposing steps and columned portico over the double front doors.
2
The House
Aunt Jessamine took off her tan leather gloves and drew an old-fashioned iron key out of her pocket to open the front door. They all took their boots off outside and entered in their socks. The house smelt musty and stale from being locked up.
The door opened into a large vestibule with heavy cedar doors opening off it on either side. Millie was glad of her warm coat – the air was as chilly inside as out. A stairway rose to the second storey, while a closed door obviously led to the rooms at the back of the house.
Aunt Jessamine placed the mail on top of a tottering pile on the hall table and dropped her gloves beside it.
‘The power is turned off so it’s a little dark,’ explained Aunt Jessamine. ‘But I’m sure the owners wouldn’t mind us having a peek inside, especially as the house was built by our ancestors.’
Millie and Bella looked around. ‘This is the dining room,’ said Aunt Jessamine, opening a door on the right of the
vestibule to reveal a gracious room, with its rose-pink walls, long dining table, balloon-back chairs and fireplace. ‘And over here is the sitting room.’ Mum, Bella and Millie followed her into the front room with its large, empty, cold fireplace.
‘The new owners have done a beautiful job renovating the house,’ said Mum, looking around the spacious room. ‘I remember my parents bringing me here when I was a child, and it was very run-down then.’
While Aunt Jessamine was showing Mum and Bella the fine example of the colonial woodwork on the cedar double doors at one end of the room, Millie walked over to the large picture window that overlooked the formal gardens with their clipped box hedges, sandstone walls and wide, green lawns. Over the gardens, Millie could see the grey circle of the gravel carriageway and down the straight, tree-lined driveway to the gate. A flash of white caught her eye. She realised it was a girl in a white dress running across the lawn towards the river, her long skirts and dark hair flying.
‘Oh, look,’ cried Millie. ‘There’s someone in the garden. A girl!’
Aunt Jessamine tutted and came over, followed by Mum and Bella. Millie turned towards them.
‘No one should be here,’ complained Aunt Jessamine. ‘All the gates are kept locked while the owners are away. One of the local children must have followed us in.’
They all looked through the window over the bare garden. There was no sign of the girl.
‘I can’t see anyone,’ said Bella, her breath fogging up the glass.
‘Why don’t we go down into the garden and see if she’s there,’ suggested Aunt Jessamine. ‘She’s probably not doing any harm, but I should check.’
Aunt Jessamine opened the glass-paned front door, pulled on her boots and led the way down the wide steps to the front path.
‘She ran down towards the river,’ said Millie, pointing to the left.
‘Technically, it’s a rivulet,’ said Aunt Jessamine. ‘The Medway Rivulet.’
The group trudged through the paddock towards the creek. There was no one there but some wild ducks, who squawked noisily as they approached.
‘No sign of your mysterious maiden,’ joked Mum. ‘Perhaps she jumped into the waterhole.’
Aunt Jessamine sank onto the wooden bench under the elm tree. ‘Time for a little rest,’ she said. ‘It’s quite a walk from my cottage to the big house.’
Mum sat down beside her, leaning against the back of the chair and closing her eyes.
‘Oh, this is so lovely,’ she said. ‘A beautiful walk in the fresh country air, gorgeous scenery, my favourite girls . . . It’s just what I needed.’
Bella picked up a stone from the bank and skimmed it across the waterhole. Millie followed suit, but her stone plopped and sank without a trace.
Bella laughed. ‘Millie, you have to throw it on an angle, like this,’ she suggested, sending another stone skipping across the still water.
‘Skimming pebbles,’ said Aunt Jessamine, watching with interest. ‘Now that takes me back to my childhood . . . Actually, it reminds me of a lovely story.’
‘Tell us,’ invited Mum, her eyes still closed, soaking up the warmth of some stray winter sunrays.
‘It’s the story of this charm on my bracelet,’ Aunt Jessamine began, showing the heavy gold charm bracelet. One of the trinkets was a polished red-and-brown streaked stone hanging from a gold loop.
Millie and Bella turned around to look. Mum opened her eyes.
‘It’s a beautiful bracelet,’ said Mum. ‘You can tell it’s old by the gorgeous rose colour of the gold, and it’s heavy.’
‘The stone is the oldest part of the bracelet,’ said Aunt Jessamine, holding the pebble between her forefingers. ‘This little stone was Charlotte Atkinson’s good luck charm.’
Millie looked at it closely.
‘You see, Charlotte Waring, as she was then, was a headstrong, adventurous lass,’ claimed Aunt Jessamine. ‘Her mother died when she was a wee babe. Her father married again and had a son, who inherited all the family wealth.
‘At the age of fifteen, Charlotte had to leave home and earn her living as a governess. By all accounts she was extraordinarily clever, able to read fluently by the age of two, and she had an unusually rigorous education for a girl of those times. She became a highly qualified and sought-after teacher. Eventually she was offered a prestigious post as a governess for one of the colony’s leading families of the 1820s.’
Mum nodded. She had heard the story before.
‘Most young ladies of those days would have been petrified at the very idea, but not Charlotte Waring,’ continued Aunt Jessamine. ‘She took the post, but only on the condition that she would travel to Australia first-class.
‘Just before she left on her journey, Charlotte went home to her father’s family estate in Kent. The family had owned land in the village of Shoreham for generations, and Charlotte had spent most of her childhood raised by an aunt. She went down to the River Darent, which flowed through the village and on into the River Thames.’
Aunt Jessamine gestured towards the waterway in front of them.
‘Charlotte leant down and picked up a small pebble that was lying on the riverbank, and slipped it in her pocket as a reminder of home and where she had come from,’ Aunt Jessamine explained. ‘In years to come, when life became difficult, Charlotte would rub the brown river pebble. It would give her hope, strength and courage. It would remind her where she had come from.’
Aunt Jessamine rubbed the pebble between her fingertips with a smile. ‘In time, many years later, this humble river pebble was given to her daughter Charlotte, who gave it to her daughter Flora, and so on until it was set in gold and hung on this bracelet along with lots of other charms – but for me, the river pebble is the most potent charm of all. Now I wear it as a symbol, to give me hope and courage and remind me where I came from.’
Aunt Jessamine sat back and beamed at Millie.
‘That’s a beautiful story, Aunt Jessamine,’ said Millie. ‘I wish I had a charm to give me strength and courage when I need it.’ Millie thought about the upcoming art show that she was dreading, and her face was so filled with yearning that Aunt Jessamine unclasped the bracelet.
‘Come and try it on, Millie,’ said Aunt Jessamine. ‘Perhaps you could borrow the bracelet to give you courage when you most need it. Would you like to wear it to your big art show next week?’
Millie breathed in, looking at the bracelet with awe. ‘Oh, could I?’ she begged. ‘Aunt Jessamine, that would be wonderful. Could I please, please wear it? I promise to look after it!’
‘Try it on for size,’ Aunt Jessamine suggested. ‘I think it will look simply gorgeous on you.’
Aunt Jessamine slipped the bracelet off and clasped it onto Millie’s thin wrist.
Millie held the bracelet up to the light and it slid down her arm, the gold gleaming in the weak sunlight. There were many charms, most of which looked like souvenirs from a lifetime of travel and adventures. There was a tiny Eiffel Tower, a Turkish prayer scroll, a pale-pink cameo, an amethyst heart and an oval locket with old photographs inside. The little red-and-brown stone – the River Darent pebble charm – shone with nearly 200 years of polishing and fingering.
‘Be careful of it,’ warned Aunt Jessamine. ‘It is irreplaceable.’
Millie smiled. ‘I promise.’
Aunt Jessamine rubbed her cold hands together.
‘Oh, bother,’ said Aunt Jessamine. ‘I’ve left my gloves up in the house.’
‘I’ll get them for you,’ offered Millie, jumping to her feet.
‘Are you sure?’ asked Aunt Jessamine. ‘That would be lovely – I think I left them on the hall table.’
Millie ran back towards the house, the charm bracelet jingling on her wrist. Aunt Jessamine had left the front door open to let the house air. Millie went inside, picked up the gloves and turned to go
outside again. She suddenly paused as she heard a creaking sound from the stairs above. Millie felt a flutter in her stomach.
She glanced up to see a strange girl in white running down the stairs. The girl looked oddly familiar. She had long, dark hair hanging down her back, clear, dark eyes and a long dress with full skirts that came to her ankles. The girl stared at her, startled, then hurried into the sitting room.
Could it be? It couldn’t. It was the girl from her dream.
As if in another dream, Millie walked reluctantly to the sitting room door. Something was different. Something was not quite right. The sound of piano playing wafted through the half-open door. Millie clutched the gloves tightly to her chest.
She opened the door to find a different drawing room to the one Aunt Jessamine had shown them. Instead of the pale-cream walls, they were papered a rich avocado green. A fire now roared in the grate, filling the room with warmth and a cheery light.
The room was no longer empty. Instead, there was a group of four children gathered around the fireplace – three girls and a boy, all dressed in strange, old-fashioned clothes.
One girl, her face framed by light-brown ringlets, sat on a stool at the piano, her fingers rippling over the keys. A slow, melancholy melody rang out, which she hummed along to, pumping the pedals with her foot. The youngest girl lay on the rug, playing with a soft rag doll, her lower legs encased in lace-trimmed pantalettes. The boy had an army of tin soldiers guarding the fireplace, and he marched them back and forth, slaying them with glee.
‘Ready, aim . . . fire!’ he boomed, knocking over half a dozen soldiers with a lump of coal cannonball.
The dream girl was sitting in the armchair, her feet curled beneath her. She had a pencil in her hand and was writing on a sheet of paper propped on a hardback book. Her brow was furrowed as she tried to concentrate.
‘Emily, play something more cheerful,’ she suggested. ‘That dirge is making us all feel gloomy.’
Emily obligingly began playing a country melody, singing a few lines in a sweet, strong voice.
The River Charm Page 2
