‘That is the first place your father would look.’
‘Then we shall stay in a hotel. Under assumed names.’
When Charles gave her a questioning look, she continued: ‘We can’t very well use our real names, Charles. You could be Mr Wickham and I Lydia Bennet.’ She giggled.
‘What is so funny?’
‘They eloped together in Pride and Prejudice.’ Then, as she recalled that Mr Wickham was a scoundrel, Amy flushed with embarrassment, but Charles didn’t appear to have read Miss Austen.
‘Amy, we should stay in separate rooms. For the sake of propriety.’
‘If we travel together, we should lodge together.’
‘But people might think I had sullied your honour.’
‘You wouldn’t do that,’ replied Amy, not exactly sure what he meant by ‘honour’.
‘No, of course not.’
‘Well, that is settled.’
When he laughed in exasperation, Amy knew she had won. He was still smiling when he said, ‘There is also the manner of our departure to consider. It may well be sudden and rushed. You might have little more than a few hours’ notice. You must bring only your travelling bag and nothing else.’
‘Neither my pink dress nor my parasol?’
‘No, Amy Duncan, nor your collection of bonnets. We shall travel light.’
Years of living under her father’s iron rule, nodding obediently when she was inwardly rebelling, reading behind a closed door, and sneaking out to forbidden places, had made Amy skilled at pretence. Even though she could barely contain her excitement, day after day she played the perfect daughter, silent and compliant. No doubt her father thought her resigned to his judgment.
Although she wanted to have her bag packed and ready, she couldn’t do it without giving the plan away. However, there was something she could do in advance – hide the prohibited books. After the elopement Amy didn’t want her father checking to see what was missing and finding Sylvia’s Lovers and other volumes tucked away in a drawer. But where could she put all her secret things? Not in the wardrobe. That was far too obvious. Then she recalled her trunk. It was sitting at the bottom of the linen press – empty, except for some old blouses which were too small.
She gathered the books and all the other forbidden treasures – the perfume bottle, now empty, the pincushion, the picture from the weekend at Millerbrooke, the fan and the tin. She couldn’t decide whether to include the cameo or to take it with her. Probably best to leave her grandmother’s brooch behind. She arranged everything in the trunk and laid the blouses on top. Then she slipped out to the garden, picked a bunch of lavender, tied it with a piece of ribbon and placed it inside. The lavender would keep everything fresh until her return. And nobody would ever imagine that the trunk contained anything but old clothes.
As she was closing the lid, Amy felt a shiver pass up the back of her neck. It didn’t last more than a second or two, and it wasn’t frightening like the icy fingers which brushed her skin when she read Mr Collins’s The Woman in White by candlelight. In fact, it had been so warm and comforting, she wondered if it was really a shiver at all. But whatever it was, it seemed to have something to do with the treasures in the trunk. As if someone was surveying the contents and smiling at them. She wasn’t sure who that might be – certainly not anyone in this household.
Then she remembered the note from Charles, his reply to the letter she had written the night her father sent him away. After some thought, she hid it beneath the wallpaper lining in the bottom drawer of her bureau. It would be safe there until her homecoming as a married woman.
On the final day of November, as Amy arrived for their secret afternoon rendezvous, Charles was leaning against the largest boulder, watching the duck-mole.
‘He is such an amusing creature, Amy.’
‘Charles, what makes you think the duck-mole is a he?’
‘I don’t really know. Possibly the fact that he is always on his own.’
‘Perhaps she is an independent type.’
‘Like my Amy.’ He stole a quick kiss.
‘Do you believe in ladies being independent, Charles?’
‘How could I say otherwise? After all, my betrothed is a person with a mind of her own.’
As the duck-mole floated on the surface, they sat close and silent for a moment.
‘Amy dearest, I almost forgot the news I have come to deliver. We are leaving tonight.’
She threw her arms around him so tightly that he laughed and gently pushed her away.
‘Will your parents be asleep by eleven?’
‘Yes, they are always abed well before then.’
‘Then we shall meet at half past eleven by the elm tree at the end of Church Lane. You won’t have long to pack. Can you manage?’
‘I am travelling light, remember.’
There was a voice at the back door. It was her mother calling her.
‘I must go, Charles. I love you.’
‘And I love you. Until tonight then.’ He kissed her tenderly. When they drew apart, she saw an ardent look in his eyes that made her tremble. With a smile, he strode off, following the line of the creek towards the main street. Soon he was out of sight.
Amy skirted around the rocks and up the hill to the herb garden where she quickly filled her basket with sprigs of parsley and spikes of rosemary. Then, like a little girl, she skipped towards the back door.
Now
Most afternoons, just before sunset, Angie would check the next day’s weather forecast on the internet – a routine which had developed since her lavender hedge was burnt by the frost. Having pulled out the dead plants and replaced them with Lavandula angustifolia – on the recommendation of the local nursery – she was now tending the new plants as if they were babies, naked and vulnerable. If the frost indicator suggested a problem, she would collect hessian from the shed and cover each plant. It was a tedious process because every piece needed to be tied gently in place and then removed in the morning, once the threat had passed.
According to the Bureau of Meteorology, tomorrow morning promised to bring a severe frost, so she gathered the squares of hessian and was about to start work when Moira turned up with a sketchbook under her arm.
‘Do you need a hand?’ she asked.
‘Thanks, Moira; it’s a real chore doing this.’
In ten minutes the two of them had finished the hedge and covered the crab-apple with an old sheet, just as a precaution.
‘Two years ago we had a frost that burnt all the fruit trees,’ said Moira. ‘It was the last week of November when everyone thought the frosts were over.’
‘Did the trees recover?’
‘The leaves fell off and there was no fruit that year, but most of them survived. Not many apples last season though. We’ll see what happens with the summer fruit.’
In the dying light they drank tea on the terrace at the back of the Manse.
‘Jack not home yet?’ asked Moira.
‘No, not for an hour or two.’
Moira opened her sketchbook and showed Angie a drawing she’d done in coloured pencil.
‘I based it on a photo I took a few years ago when we had a heavy snowfall.’
‘It’s beautiful. I like the way you’ve covered St John’s tower in snow. And there’s even a snowman.’
‘I thought I might use it for the exhibition. What do you think, Angie?’
‘I love it. You could even do a series. The four seasons in Millbrooke.’
‘That’s not a bad idea.’
The sky had turned orange and purple. In the creek the platypus was diving for worms and insects. If it was lucky, it might even snare a yabby for dinner.
‘Don’t you worry about the fate of the platypuses, Angie?’
‘I don’t want to talk about it, Moira. I get enough of that from Richard.’
‘But if you care about the platypuses, you should make a stand. After all, you’re in a position to exert some influence on Jack.’
‘Of course he’d say that.’
‘Look, Moira, I don’t want to upset things between Jack and me. I need him right now. Sometimes I think if I didn’t have him in my life, I’d fall apart.’
‘That’s not healthy, Angie.’
‘It’s not forever. Just to tide me over until I can manage on my own.’
‘That’s what drug addicts say,’ Moira mumbled.
When Jack arrived home, it was half past seven so Angie dispensed with pre-dinner drinks and served their meal right away. She enjoyed their evenings at the table – perhaps it was the flirtatious anticipation of the night to come.
‘How was your day?’ she asked.
‘We had a meeting with the anti-mine people. They’re calling themselves MAM. Millbrooke against Mines. I wonder sometimes whether they’d rather see this town dwindle away to nothing than have a mine built here. And of course I’m the focus of all their hostility – the dastardly villain who’s out to ruin Millbrooke.’
‘But that’s not the general view. The business sector thinks you’re God’s gift to the town. My painting ladies like you too.’
‘Really? I would have thought they hated me for having my evil way with their art teacher.’
She was about to tell him that Jennie and Narelle would have given anything to be in Angie’s place, but decided his ego was already healthy enough.
‘So if there are so many different takes on Jack Parker, who are you really?’ she asked as they ate their meal.
‘I’m just an ordinary Californian boy who’s worked hard and made good.’
‘Seriously though, Jack, what do you want from life, what do you hope for?’
‘Well, I’m not sure that I hope for anything. I like my life. I know what I’m good at, and the fact I can make a decent living out of it. I like being married; I’m a good husband and father.’
‘Oh really,’ Angie said.
‘Okay, I’m away a lot, but that’s good for my marriage too. And if I didn’t have this going with you, I’d be less than what I could be. My wife doesn’t need to know. Maybe she guesses, but she keeps quiet if she does, and I do too. It works. And I like that I’m a good lover. Well, I don’t have to tell you that . . . do I?’
‘Are you telling me or asking me?’
‘Do we have time for a demonstration?’
SUMMER
‘Never fear, my adorable princess,
your honour is safe with me.
No matter how strong my passion
or how powerful your charms,
I pledge to treat you with the deepest respect.’
‘Histoire d’Aladdin, ou la lampe merveilleuse’
Nuit CCCXXX [Antoine Galland c.1710]
11
ALADDIN AND THE INVISIBLE SWORD
Then
On the most important night of Amy’s life, her mother and father had stayed up late, selecting the texts for the Festival of Lessons and Carols which Reverend Duncan was delivering the next morning to celebrate the first day of Advent. It was almost half past eleven when Amy heard the door to her parents’ bedroom click shut. Lying fully dressed under the bedclothes, she waited a few minutes to be certain they had settled for the night. Then she hopped out of bed and opened the curtains of the bay window so that silvery moonlight filled the room. From her bureau she snatched clothes and piled them into her bag. She had considered doing it earlier in the evening, but had been afraid her mother might pop her head around the door and catch her in the act. When the hall clock chimed the three-quarter hour, she began to panic. Her purple cape wouldn’t fit in the bag so she decided to wear it instead, together with her favourite bonnet, the one with the magenta ribbons. Charles had said not to bring the entire collection, but surely he wouldn’t mind if she was wearing one of them.
It was such a warm night she was already damp with perspiration. The cape didn’t help. She considered leaving it behind, but Miss Howe had always said a cape was essential when one went out at night, no matter what the season.
As Amy bent over to pick up the leather bag, something fell onto the floor. She felt around with her hand and retrieved the bunch of velvet violets which had come loose from her bonnet. After trying unsuccessfully to re-attach them, she gave up and threw them in the bottom drawer of her bureau, where Charles’s letter lay hidden. She had barely finished lacing her boots when the long-case clock began to chime the hour. Oh dear. Gingerly she opened the bedroom door. The third chime was sounding. She held her breath and crept down the stairs, taking care to avoid the noisiest, the fourth step from the bottom. As she passed the hallstand, she dropped an envelope addressed to her mother on the shelf. Just the briefest of notes, saying she would be in touch and not to worry. Another letter sat in her pocket, waiting to be mailed later. By the tenth chime she was at the front door and on the twelfth she was closing it behind her.
‘I’m sorry I’m late, Charles.’ She was out of breath from running up the lane with the heavy bag.
‘I thought you had changed your mind.’ Charles was smiling.
‘Not likely.’ She gazed up at the moon. ‘What a perfect night. Look at that marvellous sky.’
‘While I was waiting for you, I saw a shooting star.’
‘Did you make a wish?’
‘Of course.’
‘Will you tell me what you wished for?’
‘I shall. Once we are married. Now fai dee lah. They’re waiting for us.’
Charles took her bag in one hand and grabbed Amy’s wrist with the other. She was walking so fast she didn’t have the breath to ask who ‘they’ were. At the eastern end of the main street, she had her answer. Standing outside the School of Arts were all three Miller siblings and Charles’s brother Jimmy, who was carrying a large box. Beside them was the Millerbrooke dray and two black horses.
‘Joseph will take you to Granthurst,’ said Eliza. ‘You cannot wait for the morning coach because it doesn’t leave until eight. Your father might notice you missing and the first thing he would do is come down to the coach stop. So we have provided you with your own coachman. It is not exactly Cinderella’s carriage, but it will have to do.’
Eliza was only trying to lighten the mood, but her remarks alarmed Amy. She and Charles had considered the possibility of Matthew Duncan pursuing them, but what if her father alerted the constabulary?
‘You will have a good head start,’ said Daniel, as if reading her mind. ‘And you will be safe in Granthurst by the morning. In time to catch the Sydney train.’
Amy looked around her at the drunkards who were meandering along the pavement and the ladies of ill-repute leaning over the iron lace verandahs of the public-houses. Late at night, Millbrooke was a different town altogether – an eerie, grey world containing grotesque characters worthy of Mr Dickens. For a moment the hellish scene around her seemed to be a portent of things to come and she was paralysed by anxiety. Then Eliza was beside her, squeezing her hand.
‘I wish I could have been your bridesmaid,’ she whispered.
‘I wish so too, Eliza.’ Then Amy lowered her voice: ‘Never mind, you will be the godmother of our first child instead.’
As dawn rose over the violet-tinted ranges, the town of Granthurst became visible in the valley below, its church steeples and iron-roofed houses emerging from the shadows of the night. Amy had slept through most of the journey, her head resting on Charles’s shoulder. They had made good time, even allowing for the regular breaks that Joseph took to rest and water the horses. When they arrived at the railway station, the town was still asleep.
‘We are here, my darling,’ Charles said, rousing her.
She had been lost in a dream about Charles. Then she opened her eyes and knew it was real. Before her was the deep yellow of the station building with its central clock tower and iron columns. They had an hour before the Sydney train left.
‘Let us find an inn and
partake of some breakfast,’ suggested Charles.
‘I shall leave you now,’ said Joseph.
‘No, Joseph, please come and eat with us,’ said Amy. ‘You have been such a dear friend to me and a loyal brother to Charles. Do not leave us yet.’ She wondered whether he still had feelings for her. It was impossible to tell from the expression on his face.
Soon they were seated inside an inn directly opposite the railway station. The proprietor couldn’t keep his eyes off the blond-haired boy and the girl who might have been his sister, travelling with a well-dressed Chinaman. Charles caught the man staring.
‘Are you sure about this, Amy? We will never be anonymous. We cannot simply disappear into a crowd like everybody else.’
‘I know. But I don’t care what other people might think about us,’ she said defiantly.
Just before nine Joseph bade them farewell. He was going to buy supplies for Millerbrooke in Granthurst’s famed general store and then begin the long journey home.
‘I almost forgot,’ he said, producing from his pocket a small box tied with a ribbon. ‘This is from Eliza, Daniel and me. Open it on your wedding day.’
In the distance the church bells of Granthurst were tolling the nine o’clock service. While Charles was buying the train tickets, Amy slipped away to the red pillar-box outside the station and dropped in a letter addressed to her parents.
Dearest Mama and Papa,
I am sorry I have worried you by my sudden departure and I pray you will forgive me for disobeying you. Sadly you have left me no choice but to elope with the man I love.
There is no point in contacting Aunt Molly. She is far away in Sydney and I have not informed her of where I am lodging.
When Charles and I return to Millbrooke as a married couple, I pray that we will all be reunited as a family.
Please give the boys a kiss for me.
Ever your loving daughter,
Amy
It wasn’t full of falsehoods, just the evasions at which she was so skilled. More than anything she was hoping the letter with its Granthurst postmark would divert her father’s attention from Sydney and have him scouring closer to home for a Chinaman with a white fiancée.
Mr Chen's Emporium Page 18
