by Jean Plaidy
“I know Papa had a First Wife!” What did she mean? Margery knew she ought to turn the conversation, but for the life of her she couldn’t.
“What’s this?” she said.
“What’s this?”
“Papa had a First Wife!” whispered Katharine.
“Well, what of it? What of it? There’s no law in this country to stop a man marrying again if his first wife’s dead, that I know of “Oh.” said Katharine.
“She is dead then!”
“Of course she is.”
“Margery, did you know her?”
“Know her!” said Margery.
“Know her!” Purple colour was in Margery’s cheeks. The children had to know some time, hadn’t they? It was the talk of Sydney at one time. To marry so soon after… People were shocked. She wondered the master did it. But there was something headstrong about the master. Marrying like that two months after she died, and the baby born a cool three and a half months later this Katharine here. No wonder the child felt something was wrong! No wonder people talked! No wonder they were still talking!
“Yes,” said Margery, “I knew her.” This was success undreamed of.
“Oh, Margery, what was she like?”
“Sickly.” Here, this wasn’t the way to talk to a child, this wasn’t. Oh, but things got dull in a kitchen. And since she’d married the master, the excitement seemed to die down. There they were like any other couple, eating together, sleeping together and having children. There was something in those two that overcame scandal, just as it would overcome most things that stood in their way. They fought all the gossipings. all the slanders. For a time Mr. Masterman was very unpopular. And she went about the house, carrying her child with the dignity of a queen. But there had been a certain triumph about her in the last months of her first pregnancy, as though she had worked out something and brought it off. That was the impression she gave. It wasn’t until after the child was born that that room, where the first Mrs. Masterman had died, seemed to take on a special significance. It was only then that she made it into a guest room and moved up to the second floor.
Murder’s a funny thing. It won’t let you test. It would make you feel a bit funny to have had a hand in murder. You’d keep remembering, thinking of the one you’d killed. I wouldn’t like to be no murderer. Did she murder the first Mrs. Masterman? Or did he?
Overdose of a drug she took for sleeplessness. Nobody knew where she’d got it from. Nobody knew she’d been taking it When people took overdoses of drugs just in time to let Their husbands marry girls who were in trouble, you couldn’t help sitting up and taking notice. You couldn’t help feeling this delicious creepy feeling all over you.
“Sickly?” prompted Katharine.
“Always ill.”
“Did Papa love her very much?”
“Now how should I know?”
“You would know. Were you in the kitchen then?”
“Yes I was then.”
“You must have known, Margery. You know everything.”
Such flattery was irresistible.
“And what if I did?”
“Then you shouldn’t say you didn’t know!”
“If I have any cheek from you, Miss, I’ll get down the whip over the mantel.”
“That’s for convicts, Margery, not for me.”
“Well, and are you so far removed from convicts…”
“What, Margery?” . It was getting dangerous, but Margery liked danger.
“What do you mean, Margery? I’m not so far removed…”
“One man’s as good as another. Miss. That’s what I mean.”
“A convict is as good as a free man?”
“As a man he might be.”
As a man! What did she mean? Intriguing Margery!
“Oh, I like talking to you!” She put her arms round Margery’s neck.
“Here, steady! Trying to strangle me?”
“You smell of grog.”
“Well, and it’s a good thing to smell of.”
“My Mamma smells of violets.”
“I’ve no doubt she does. There’s some that gets on better than others in this world.”
“Do you mean Mamma got on better than you? Is that why she smells of violets and you smell of grog?”
Sharp as a packet of needles, this child was. I wish she was mine. Golly, wouldn’t I love her. A regular one she’ll be when she grows up; she’ll be the honey and the men will be the flies. I reckon I see a nice match being made up there for her. Madame Carolan will want the best for her daughter. And where would she be, eh, if the first Mrs. Masterman hadn’t died at exactly the right minute! Did she do it? Or did she egg him on to do it? Not the master! I wouldn’t believe that of the master. But her … “Your Mamma did get on better than me.”
“You mean when the First Wife died, she married my Papa. If he had married you, would you have smelt of violets?”
Margery came as near to blushing as she could. The idea of the master so far forgetting himself as to marry her!
There was never any question of your father’s marrying me, you silly baby!” she said angrily.
There was only a question of his marrying my Mamma?”
“Of course. What do you take him for! He was never one for running after the women.”
“Wasn’t he, Margery?”
“He married, and there was an end of it.”
“No it wasn’t, Margery. There was the First Wife, and then there was Mamma.”
“You’re too sharp by half!”
“Margery, where was Mamma when he was married to the First Wife?”
She was getting to know too much. If Margery let out that her precious Mamma was an ex-convict, there’d be the very devil to pay. And I wouldn’t want to come up against Madame Carolan, no. thank you. At present there was a mocking affection between them, a little light blackmail practised by them both. Margery often thought, when the mistress came to the kitchen to give her orders and across the table their eyes met. Why, I could tell a few things to those children of yours. I could tell ‘em how you first come to my kitchen, a shivering, lousy scrap with your loveliness hid in filth; I could whisper outside how you was always up in the mistress’s room aye, and in the master’s room too. I could give a few hints that it was more than likely you had something to do with that sudden death of hers.
And Carolan’s green eyes said I could tell what you were up to down here … James creeping into the basement… The way you used to squirm and wriggle on that bed … in front of the others. Who is it now? Not James, for he’s married to Jin, and she doubtless keeps him in order by showing him the knife she wears concealed in her clothes. But there is someone. The master would not want that sort of thing going on in his basement!
No, by God he wouldn’t! And when it goes on upstairs it’s different, eh? Even when it’s necessary to put a poor sick lady out of the way to straighten things out! Not that Margery’d tell. Why, she’d half murder anyone who hinted a word of it … anyone from outside. Her master and mistress were the best in Sydney, she’d maintain. And without a doubt it was upstairs Madame Carolan belonged, not down here in the kitchen. Still, there was no harm in thinking about it when you were in your own kitchen, even though sometimes it did give you a funny feeling in the pit of your stomach to think you had, in a way, had a hand in it.
But now this little imp had stumbled on something. Surely the most inquisitive child that ever was. So pretty though … you could eat her, bless her… and fond of old Margery too.
“Margery, where was Mamma__? You know…”
Now that would be dangerous. Keep off that!
“How should I know? A man’s second wife don’t usually put in an appearance till his first’s dead and buried.”
That satisfied her, made her pensive.
“She lived on the first floor, didn’t she ?”
“Who?”
The First Wife.”
“Well, yes… she did.”
“
I know what it is. Mamma’s afraid.”
“Afraid? What of?”
Katharine leaned right over and whispered to Margery, because Poll’s mop was getting nearer and nearer.
“Of her ghost!”
Margery was very superstitious; she began to tremble like a jelly. Could it really be? What did the child know? There was something in the house … come to think of it, had been for a long time … She couldn’t lay a name to it, couldn’t explain it. Just something… “Did she tell you?”
“Oh, no! She pretended it wasn’t. You see, I was there.”
“What’s this?”
“I was hiding in the bed and I had the curtains drawn, and poor Mamma thought I was the ghost.”
Margery drew a deep breath.
“You were trying to frighten your poor Mamma. I hope she spanked you hard.”
“She didn’t.”
“She’s saving it up for your Papa to do when he comes home.”
“She isn’t; she laughed. But, Margery, when she came in she must have heard me behind the curtains; she thought I was a ghost… the First Wife!”
“How did you know?”
“I did know, Margery. Perhaps … the First Wife lived down there, didn’t she? And she wouldn’t like Mamma being Papa’s wife now. First Wives don’t, do they?”
“You know too much!”
Margery got to her feet.
“Here, Poll, going to take all day to swab this floor? You’re too slow by half! You’ll be feeling the whip about your shoulders, my girl…”
She wasn’t really thinking of Poll, nor of the floor swabbing, nor of the whip. Madame Carolan had looked frightened, had she! Why? She wasn’t the sort to show fear without a reason. The first Mrs. Masterman … Margery couldn’t remember much what she looked like. Sickly. Fair. Suppose … Oh, just suppose … She had died sudden, hadn’t she! People who’d been wronged came back to haunt them that had wronged them, didn’t they? And Margery had had a hand in it … what you might call an innocent hand. She knew nothing of a drug. It wasn’t likely she’d murder a woman just so as another woman could have her husband! But hadn’t she thrown Esther to that Marcus, and because of that hadn’t Madame Carolan gone to the master!
People would say. Don’t be silly ,.. ‘twasn’t none of your doing! But how could you know that a ghost saw things that way!
I ain’t going to have much peace as long as I live in this house. And what do ghosts care for houses? If I went, mightn’t it follow me? Oh, Lor’, I’m frightened. Proper scared, that’s me! I wouldn’t have done it if I’d knowed how she’d take it. I wouldn’t think anyone would kill themselves just because another woman was in trouble. Turn her out… that’s what I’d have done; not took drugs!
“I believe you’re frightened,” said Katharine.
“You start thinking again, Miss Know-all!”
“Margery, do you think the First Wife is really angry about Mamma’s being here?”
“No, Miss Nosey. I don’t! And what’s more, I don’t want to hear another word about ghosts and your Mamma. Don’t you know ladies don’t discuss such things in kitchens?”
“No,” said Katharine.
“I didn’t.”
“Well, it’s time you learned. Here! You run along. I’ve got work to do.”
“Oh, Margery, you haven’t got work to do!”
“Whose kitchen is this? Do you want me to put you out and complain to your Mamma?”
“Oh, Margery, I thought you liked me here.”
There’s a time for everything. You’ll get your feet wet. We can’t have Poll holding up her cleaning for you!”
“She usually washes all round us!”
“Well, she ain’t today!”
Margery was seriously rattled. She hadn’t liked the talk about ghosts. She was frightened… that’s what she was.
“Get out, you little faggot you!”
By God, she thought, she’ll be worming everything out of me before I know where I am. It ain’t safe with a Miss Nosey like her about.
You simply could not stay in a kitchen where you so obviously were not wanted. Katharine walked gingerly, but with dignity, over the wet floor of the kitchen. She went out into the yard.
It was hot, but she did not feel the heat as Mamma did. nor as Margery did, nor Amy and Poll; she had been born to it. It would be pleasant, riding beyond the town. The sea was. inviting; it was such a beautiful blue; but no, today was a special day. It was afternoon yet … and ages and ages before darkness fell. She could go far… explore! She loved exploring.
She went back into the house by way of the kitchen: Margery was still sitting in her chair.
“Ah! You’re soon back!”
But Katharine would not stay where she was not wanted. Margery should not have an opportunity of turning her out twice in one day.
“I am not staying; I am going riding.”
“In the heat of the day?”
“Call this heat?”
“Oh no, me lady, I call it midwinter!”
Katharine skipped upstairs. Even the first floor interested her but fleetingly. She wanted to be away. When she came down she was in her neat and modish riding kit, wearing the straw hat which she herself felt to be unnecessary, but which was worn as a concession to Mamma.
She went back through the kitchen. Margery softened towards her. Regular little beauty! And of course she wanted to know … Come to think of it, it might be rather fun to tell her.? Take a bit of the tilt out of that head of yours, me love, if you was to hear that your fine Mamma was nothing but a convict when she first come out here.”
“Here …” said Margery.
Katharine paused at the door, one hand on her hip, and in those clothes she looked the dead spit of what her mother must have looked sixteen or so years back.
“I’m in a hurry,” she said.
“Indeed you are, me lady! I tell you it’s too hot to go off riding. Wait till it cools off a bit.”
“I don’t feel hot.”
“Here! Come back and have a talk with old Margery.” But no! Her mind was made up now. She wanted to feel her horse beneath her; she wanted to ride and ride. The time for confidences was past.
“We can talk any time.”
“Oh, can we. Miss? It takes two to have a bit of a conversation.”
“Goodbye, Margery! Goodbye, Poll! Goodbye, Amy!” And she was off. her red hair flying out under the straw hat, her sharp little chin as determined as ever her mother’s was.
She rode out of the town away from the sea. Today she had what Margery would call the wind in her tail. It was all due to waking with that dream of Christmas in her mind. She had thought something really exciting was going to happen when she had hidden behind those bed curtains. She had a feeling that something might have happened, had she not called to Mamma. But then, she could not bear to see Mamma frightened.
It was hot, riding in open country, and when she came to a clump of trees she rested in their shade. Behind her the town lay like a toy town, the buildings all huddled together higgledy-piggledy, an uneven, untidy town; and beyond it the lovely harbour which Papa said was the finest in the world; and Papa ought to know because he had been to the Old Country, and said they had nothing like it there.
It was very lonely out there. There was, she knew, miles and miles of loneliness. She did not feel oppressed by the thought of that, although she did like to have people around her; she liked to watch them, to listen to them, to learn about them. She lay on the grass, musing. She looked, without noticing them, at the scrubby hills and the bush that ran right down to the water’s edge. The silver barks of the gum trees were pretty, she thought vaguely. Far away in the distance she saw a long-legged kangaroo with a baby in her pouch. She watched idly, Kangaroos were good to eat, if you cooked them in their skins; you cooked them in cooking pits. Years and years ago, before Papa and the white men came, there was no township down there. Where did the black men live? She must ask Wando. Mamma did not like
her to talk too much to Wando. Young ladies of Sydney did not talk to the natives, did not make friends of them. How could you make friends? Friends were … or weren’t. You didn’t make them. The kangaroo had leaped out of sight. Mamma and Margery told her about animals in the Old Country. There weren’t kangaroos, not koalas. Mamma had never seen those until she came to Sydney; nor had Papa. Fancy never having seen a kangaroo with a baby in her pouch, or two koalas clinging to each other, looking sillier than two babies, sillier than Edward. Fancy never seeing emus on their long funny legs, rushing about as though they were in a very great hurry like Papa, only not really like Papa because they were too scared to come near you, and Papa would never be scared of anything. He wouldn’t be scared of a ghost on the first floor.
She stood up and stretched herself; she was tired of resting. There were hours and hours before dark. So she mounted her horse and rode on. Her thoughts were mixed, flitting from subject to subject. Miss Kelly and her brother; Margery exciting Margery who had been transported for marrying too many men. What an exciting thing to be transported for! She thought of Poll and her baby, and Amy and her highwayman; of Mamma and Papa and the First Wife, and the room which “had been the First Wife’s bedroom that room at night with a moon peeping through the windows… showing what?
She was near enough now to see the outline of the mountains clearly. Beautiful they were, shrouded in blue mystery. She wondered what the time was. She had no idea except that she was getting thirsty. She was not supposed to go too far from home. She had set out. she knew, with some ridiculous idea of trying to make a way through the mountains; but with her thirst growing every minute, and her throat hot and parched, she realized that to dream in one’s bedroom is one thing, and to make those dreams a reality another. The wise thing to do was to go home. She turned her horse away from the mountains. Around ha were miles of bush, clumps of hills on which stood the tall eucalyptus trees. The brush was thicker here; there were few distinguishing features. A sudden fear came to her. Riding beside Papa, she knew now, she had always felt so safe because she had not even thought of safety. Margery said: “By golly, I wouldn’t be the one for staying out after dark in this place. Felons can stay felons even though they may well be free men.”
