by Jean Plaidy
What would Mamma say if she knew she had been present at their musters! Papa too! But what a thrill to ride beside Henry!
“You’d better keep close, young Katharine.” That was Henry before he knew he loved her.
“A bullock on the run can be pretty savage. Keep near me!” That moment when the bull dashed into the plain with the cattle at his heels hundreds of them; she longed to join with them, with Marcus and Henry and Mr. Blake. She would one day. They would not let her at first; they said it was dangerous. She loved to hear the crack of the stock-whip, to see the skill with which they guided the cattle in the direction they must go. She was enormously proud of Henry. And then one day they let her join in, and it was after that that Henry gave her his first present, a stock-whip with a myall handle that smelt like violets.
She longed to stay at the station with them, to sit on the veranda with them till darkness came; to listen to the singing of the sheep-washers when their day’s work was done, and to heat the talk of the knockabout men who came for the shearings of to do odd fencing jobs. She would have loved to come in after dark with Henry, just the two of them alone, and cook their own meals … beef steak or bacon, or perhaps, after a muster, a fat calf.
Marcus had promised them their own station when they were married. They could go to it now … if they were married. Marcus would put no objection in the way. It was possible to discuss all one’s plans before Marcus. He never attempted to foil you; his suggestions were helpful, not destructive.
He said: “You’ll be my daughter, Katharine. Fancy that. I wished you were my daughter right from the very first moment I saw you!”
He was a darling. If it would not have been so utterly disloyal to Papa who really was the best father in the world she would have told him she would have loved to have him for a father. A father-in-law was almost a father anyway. She flung her arms round his neck and kissed him when he told them about the station. He liked that … and yet, oddly enough it embarrassed him. He said: “Katharine, Katharine! My sweet little Katharine, I’d have given twenty stations for that.” One didn’t always believe all he said. That about giving twenty stations for a hug was just his way of telling you how pleased he was. Perhaps all of his stories weren’t exactly true, but that didn’t matter; he made them more exciting because he knew you liked them that way. He spoke her name oddly, slurring it, making it a mixture of Carolan and Katharine; there was a similarity between the two, and he had a curious way of rolling them into one. She loved him next to Henry and Mamma and Papa, and there really was no one like Marcus in the whole world.
Henry’s mother she could never like, and she believed Henry’s mother did not like her and did not really want Henry to marry her; Katharine believed she protested to both Henry and Marcus.
Not that anything would stop them. She and Henry were meant for each other; Henry was as sure of that as she was. When she had lain with her ear to the ground; when she had coo-eed over the bush, she had been on the threshold of a new LIFE. Well, she knew that now I His eyes burned when he looked at her. He was eighteen. Papa would say: “Good gracious! How very young!” But Papa just did not understand.
She could recall indeed she could never forget the wonder of that day when Henry ceased to think of her as a little girl, and thought of her as Katharine. It was the day he had given her the stock-whip, and that gift represented more than the mere adventure of a muster shared; it was the adventure of finding each other. She was fourteen then. He was fifteen, but he seemed a good deal older; he had seemed a man when she first met him, and he had been little more than eleven then. They were shy at first, and Marcus knew why! He watched them with amused tenderness, and encouraged them to love each other.
She was sixteen when Henry said he loved her. It was there in that spot where he had first found her, and how deeply she had been touched by that sentiment which had led him to tell her there! They had lain on the harsh grass, and she had heard his heart beating, where once she had listened to the thud of his horse’s hooves.
He talked of their life together, and she saw the station they would share; she loved the life he lived; it was the only life for such as they were. Fresh air, sunshine, and a new life beyond the Blue Mountains where the town of Bathurst was beginning to grow, and where the land was good, with grazing for millions of sheep.
So they talked and planned, and made love and dreamed of the life they would lead beyond the Blue Mountains.
Margery watched her and saw the dreams in her eyes, and whispered: “Tell Margery … Tell old Margery. Is it an elopement, ducky? You can trust old Margery.”
Katharine shook herself out of her dreams, and shook old Margery by the shoulders.
“Stop it, Margery! Isn’t it bad enough? How can I hurt them! I love them. How can I be happy … even there beyond the Blue Mountains with Henry … if they aren’t happy too! How can I, Margery?”
“A new home, eh, t’other side the Blue Mountains? I don’t like the sound of that, ducky. Why not nearer home ?”
“Oh, Margery, don’t be silly! We want to go there, and that’s where the station is.”
“The station! What station?”
“Our new home. Oh, Margery, you’ve no right to make me tell. It’s a secret…”
“There, there, dearie! A station miles away … the other side of the Blue Mountains, eh?”
“It’s wonderful land, Margery. Marcus … People say it was well worth all the trouble to discover. It’s fine land …”
“Two little ‘uns like you two ‘ull want a bit of looking after, lovey. What about taking old Margery along of you?”
“You wouldn’t want to leave Mamma, Margery!”
“I might.”
“You wouldn’t, Margery… after all these years.”
“There’s things I ain’t altogether pleased about in this house. I reckon it wants pulling down, and a fresh one built in a new place.”
“Why, Margery? Why?”
“I feel like it. And how d’you think I’d be liking it, with you eloping off to the other side of the Blue Mountains ?”
Katharine laughed and flung her arms round Margery’s neck.
“Promise, not a word, Margery! Swear!”
“I swear!”
“Margery, if you were to break your word, I’d … I’d get somebody’s ghost to haunt you for the rest of your days.” Margery shrieked and turned pale. Katharine laughed.
“Swear then, Margery… Quick!”
“I swear,” said the old woman.
“And, Margery?”
“Y … yes, Miss Katharine?”
“I’ll see about it. We … we’ll discuss it. I think it would be fun to have you around. I must go down now, Papa will frown if I am not there to help them receive the first of the guests.” She went to the door. Margery was still shaking; her face was the colour of cheese.
“Margery,” she said, turning back, ‘do you believe this house is haunted?”
Margery did not speak.
“You do, Margery. I know you do, and I know by whom!”
“Don’t speak of it. Miss Katharine. It’s better not to. You don’t know…”
“On the contrary, I do know!” She grimaced mockingly.
“First Wife! That’s it, isn’t it?” She went out, slamming the door.
Margery could not stop herself from trembling. Ah, she thought, my pretty dear, you think you’re clever! You think you’re smart. You laugh at ghosts, do you! Well, there’s a lot you’ve got to learn, me dearie. You don’t know what happened to the poor sickly lady. Margery looked furtively over her shoulder.
“I was always fond of the poor lady,” she said aloud, ‘fond of her and sorry for her.” She paused, as though waiting for some response. There was none, and she continued musing, Oh yes, me fine lady, you ain’t so clever! Ah, but when you’re seventeen you think you know life; you think life is all living snug in a nice cattle station, and making love in the sunshine. Oh no, me darling, it ain’t all that simp
le. And he’s such another as his father, I’ll be bound, from what I’ve seen. He’ll like the women and the women will like him. Well, it’s a different way you’ve chose from your lady mother, and I hope you’ll be happy. And I’ll be there … I’ll keep you to that, me darling. I’ll like to be there. I’ll watch him for you, dearie, and then when you find love’s young dream ain’t as pretty as you thought, you’ll have old Margery.
The candles were lighted in the drawing-room. It was bright with gay company, but how she longed for the shade of the veranda, and Henry, sitting close, leaning against one another whilst they talked of their home beyond the Blue Mountains! Mamma was watching her closely, and there was that hideous Miss Grant watching Mamma as she was always watching let, slyly, as though she knew something, as though she had caught Mamma doing something wrong.
Instead of candles she saw tall eucalyptus trees; their barks shone bright silver in sunshine.
“Waiting is silly.” Henry had said.
“We can’t wait, Katharine won’t wait!”
Miss Grant sidled over.
“Why, Miss Katharine, how grownup you’re looking tonight! It seems only yesterday that you were but a little baby.”
Poor Miss Grant! Homesick and angry, despising everything in the new country because of her nostalgia for the old. One imagined her coming over with her father, Major Grant, years and years ago. How dreary! Poor Miss Grant!
“Only yesterday!” she continued.
“I remember well the day you were born.”
“Do you? That is kind of you.”
Mamma was looking anxious. Dear Mamma! How lovely she was, but strained tonight! She looked as if she were trying to catch what Miss Grant was saying.
“Kind! Oh, dear me no! The whole town was so interested..”
“In my being born? I suppose they were interested in all the babies.”
“Not all, Miss Katharine. Not all! I said you were a very special baby.”
“I’m sure I was most ordinary really.”
Wouldn’t it have been fun if Henry could have come tonight. She should have been bold and gone straight to Papa and Mamma and told them. Why should she not?
“You were a rather … shall we say a much-heralded link baby!”
What on earth was the facetious little woman talking about? She probably adored babies. People who were never likely to have any often did. She thought of herself and Henry having babies… lots of them. She smiled.
“Ah! You are amused. We did not think it exactly amusing!”
“I’m sorry,” said Katharine.
“What did you say?”
Mamma came over.
“Katharine, Lady Greymore wants to talk to you. Over there.
She is waiting for you.”
Lady Greymore said: “Hello, my dear. I must tell you that you look charming tonight… charming … La! How beautiful it is to be young! Your dress is most becoming. Come, tell me, was it your own choice? Or did Mamma help you? I’ll whisper to you that you’ll love the London gowns. They would make anything here look positively provincial!”
Katharine murmured that she was sure they would.
“And you, my dear, would be a great success in London. Of that I am certain. They would love you because you are so different. And when they heard that you had come from Botany Bay, they would be so amused! After all, it would be something of a joke.”
“Why?” said Katharine.
“Why! Who in England has not heard of Botany Bay! But they do not expect lovely young girls to come out of the place, I assure you!”
“Doubtless they know little about it, and think they know a good deal!”
“La! What asperity! But it becomes you, child___It becomes you. Here are the men coming back. And, ah! Anthony has seen you. He is coming over, dear boy.” He was very elegant; she was interested in his elegance; it was such a contrast to the manliness of the men she had known.
Papa was always well dressed, always neat; but never, never had he aspired to elegance! As for Henry, she had never seen him in anything but riding kit, and a shirt open at the front. Marcus sometimes wore gay coats, but they were Sydney made and very sombre compared with this blue satin affair from London which Sit Anthony wore so carelessly, as though there were nothing very special about it. A faint perfume followed him as he moved. His snuff box was of silver and lapis lazuli, his eyeglass a pretty thing of light tortoiseshell. But he had pleasant eyes, very blue and warm too as they rested on Katharine. She liked him better than she liked his mother.
“Ah!” said Sir Anthony.
“How I have looked forward to tonight!”
Lady Greymore moved away, leaving them together. He bent his head close to hers and he talked. He talked rather excitingly, in a way which recalled Marcus. He talked of the rich side of London life though, and it was that mingling of the rich and squalid that had made Marcus’s descriptions so fascinating. He talked of gambling and balls, of the Regent growing fatter every day and indulging in amours with the grandmothers for whom he showed such preference. He gave her a picture of a spacious house in a London square, and lovely rooms that were really old as nothing in this country could be old; he showed her a picture of a gracious life, of entertaining clever people, of listening to and perhaps one day contributing to their wit. Politics and fashion, wonderful clothes which would be out of place in this settlement. It was a gay picture he showed her.
In the next room, which had been cleared for dancing, some musicians were playing Mr. Mozart’s music. It was beautiful; she longed to dance; her feet tapped in time to the music.
The dancing here,” he said, ‘is years behind the times. In London we have the new dances … You will be enchanted by London, Miss Katharine.”
“I do not think I shall go to London. Perhaps later …” She smiled into a future. Henry, said Marcus, was made for prosperity; he was not content to ship his wool to London; he wanted to go there to hunt out the best markets. Henry said: “We shall go to London, you and I, and we shall see if it is as grand a place as they tell us.” She pictured Henry and herself, walking hand in hand along the riverside; looking together at that frightful Newgate at whose name Mamma’s face turned pale; visiting the chocolate houses; listening to the talk; riding about the town in a carriage. She had dreamed of London, but only with Henry by her side.
“Why should you not go to London?” He leaned so close that she could smell the wine on his breath; it mingled with the perfume in his clothes; she noticed his long white hands. One did not see such hands in this part of the world, idle hands, carefully manicured … women’s hands! Her own were well shaped but burned brown by the sun, and the nails were short; useful little hands they were.
“Well, because my home is here.”
“Why should your home always be here?” His hand was laid delicately on her arm, and she shivered though it was warm and caressing.
“Would you not like to go to London? I shall be returning soon. I could take you …”
“Oh, no!. she said.
“That could not be.”
“Could it not, Katharine? It would be delightful …” His fingers ran up her arm. It seemed sacrilege that anyone but Henry should touch her. She shrank back.
“No, no!” she said.
“You cannot mean…”
“I mean I will marry you, Katharine. I will take you back Home where you belong. You never belonged to this society of felons.” Hot blood ran into her cheeks. How dared he talk of her home like this. This stupid fop! What did he know of the men who had made this country? He talked of felons … slightingly, sneeringly. Marcus. Her own mother.
She said earnestly: “I would have you know that this country is being built; by great men. They are pioneers. They came here to make a new land; my father is one of them.” She had stood up.
“Felons!” she said.
“You talk of felons. Who was it who made these felons? Your England! Her wicked laws. Her cruelty! And she sent them here in
gloriously, to fend for themselves … eleven ships, and five packed full with sick and starving men and women. England did that… and not yet forty years ago! And already here we have our own Sydney. It is young, but it will be great. We have crossed the Blue Mountains! New country is opened up. These men have had a hand in that… these felons, as you call them! And I would have you know that we are not all felons.”
“Gad!” he said, amused and liking her fervour.
“What a patriotic little soul it is! And, Dammed, it becomes you, Katharine. I’d like well to hear you make that speech in your own drawing-room.”
“I mean it,” she said, ‘and am I not making it here in my own drawing-room?”
“In your father’s, my dear. Listen, Katharine. I’ll go and tell your father now that you’ve promised to marry me. You need not look so frightened. I tell you, I have already spoken to him.”
“You have spoken to my father?” He came nearer, his lips close to her ear, his eyes burning.
“He is delighted to receive me as his son-in-law, my dear.”
“But… I…”
“Hal Ha! A spirited young lady, as I saw at once when I first made your acquaintance! Remember, Katharine? You were on horseback, and Dammed if I ever saw a woman cut a better figure. And you are sweet as honey, and lovely as a garden of English spring flowers! Dammed. I can scarce wait to take you back!”
“I am not coming.”
He rocked back on his heels. A very self-opinionated young man. He did not believe that any Sydney-born young woman, with parents who, though among the wealthiest in the town, were for some reason not so well received even in Sydney society as they might have been, could really say No to him. She was a coquette then, for all her frank looks. She wanted wooing, did she! Dammed, he was ready enough to do the wooing. He put his hands on her shoulders.
