‘Why don’t you try to sleep?’ Amy whispered to Charles as they sat in a compartment opposite an elderly lady who was reading.
‘I shall try,’ said Charles, but she noticed him waking every few minutes as if he were on guard duty.
The woman was holding her book so high in front of her face that Amy could read the title printed in gold on the cover. It was The Pilgrim’s Progress. Even her father would approve of John Bunyan.
Whenever Charles dozed, Amy observed his face. Two vertical frown lines, which she hadn’t noticed before, had appeared between his brows. She raised her hand to smooth them away and then realised the elderly lady opposite her was no longer reading but staring at her and Charles instead. Although she knew it was rude to do so, Amy stared back. The woman lowered her eyes and continued reading.
Where had the worried expression on Charles’s face come from? Amy knew he hated deception and lies. Dishonesty was against his nature. How could an honourable man like Charles justify an elopement? It would eat away at him.
She felt ill. It was her fault. She knew how much he loved her and she had pressured him until he gave in. She had tainted him with her impatience and her capacity for deceit.
While Charles napped, she stroked his hand and didn’t care whether the woman saw or not. All the same, a tiny nugget of fear lodged deep inside her.
From Redfern terminal, they took a carriage to the inn that Charles’s solicitor had organised for them in George Street. Then, using the services of a messenger employed by the innkeeper, they sent notes to the minister of religion and to Aunt Molly, seeking meetings for the next day.
Dearest Aunt Molly,
By now you may have received a telegram from my father and if you have, you will be acquainted with the events which have occurred these past days. I am sorry to involve you in this situation.
You know, of course, of my feelings for Charles Chen. What you do not know is that he returned from China without a bride. He could not bring himself to follow the traditions of his homeland or to satisfy the long-held expectations of his dear mother. The reason, as you might have guessed by now, is that he was already in love with someone else. A Scottish girl living in Millbrooke! He asked me to marry him and naturally I accepted. However, when he sought consent from my father, he was met by insults and abuse. It broke my heart to see him treated in that way. Nevertheless, Charles was determined to persuade my father of his cause, but you and I are familiar with the intransigence of Matthew Duncan. Aunt Molly, there was no hope of my father changing his mind.
So I convinced Charles we should elope. We are here in Sydney, lodging in George Street. We need your assistance in presenting our case to a minister of religion with whom Charles has been in touch via his solicitor. Would it be convenient for us to come to see you tomorrow morning to discuss these matters?
When you meet Charles, you will understand.
Your loving niece,
Amy
P.S. The messenger will wait for your reply.
On Sunday night as they were preparing for bed, the innkeeper knocked at the door.
‘Mr and Mrs Miller, I thought you might care for some tea and biscuits.’ He was holding a tray.
‘Thank you, sir. Please set it on the table,’ said Charles.
The man’s probing stare made Amy wonder if the refreshments weren’t simply a pretext to spy on them. Apparently Charles was thinking the same thing because his next words were uncharacteristically terse.
‘That will be all, thank you,’ he said, walking the innkeeper to the bedroom door and shutting it firmly behind him.
When they finished their tea, Charles offered to sleep in an armchair. Then Amy told him how Aladdin was so distraught about the prospect of his beloved princess spending her wedding night with the Chief Minister’s son that he had his faithful genie imprison the bridegroom for the night. And afterwards Aladdin took the groom’s place in the princess’s bed, placing a sword between them.
‘We shall have an imaginary sword,’ she said.
‘It is a fairytale, Amy. I’m not sure that I can sleep so close to you.’
Like Aladdin and his princess, they lay down on the bed with an invisible sword separating them. Although Amy was tired, she couldn’t sleep. Not when Charles was beside her, taking every breath in unison with hers. She wanted to reach across the barrier and place her hand in his, but something told her that if she embarked upon such a step, there would be no going back. When his breathing became softer, she knew he was finally asleep. Then she too succumbed to the tiredness that had been dogging her all day.
On Monday afternoon at two o’clock, Charles Chen, Amy Duncan and Molly Mackenzie were seated on a sofa opposite the Reverend Jacob Foster in the parlour of his rectory.
‘Mrs Mackenzie, I understand you acted as Miss Duncan’s guardian while she was residing in Sydney.’
‘That is correct. I can supply a letter from a Miss Howe of Miss Howe’s School for Ladies verifying that I have been Amy’s guardian.’
Amy squirmed. Poor Aunt Molly. It wasn’t technically a falsehood. Although no such letter actually existed, theoretically they could obtain one, should they choose to contact Miss Howe, but the truth was that Amy had been reluctant to do so. Not yet. The fewer people who knew, the better.
Reverend Foster considered the statement and then replied: ‘In that case, I can see no problem regarding consent. There are, however, other matters we need to clarify.’ He directed his next words to Amy and Charles. ‘Is either of you already married?’
They both shook their heads.
‘There is also the matter of kinship. This refers to the prohibition on a brother and sister marrying. But it is obvious in this case that there is no such relationship between the two parties.’
Amy and Charles exchanged smiles. Something which had caused her father to reject the marriage was now a point in their favour.
‘Before we proceed, I need to counsel you both that you have chosen a difficult path. You will be shunned by many in our society.’
‘We have taken that into account, Reverend Foster,’ said Charles.
‘And our love for each other is strong enough to withstand the censure,’ said Amy.
‘I am pleased to hear that and I pray it is so. You realise, of course, that the banns must be read for three successive Sundays. I understand that the respective parish churches of the two parties are distant from here. Nevertheless, we could organise the notification by letter.’
‘But, Reverend Foster,’ said Aunt Molly, ‘we have already established there is no impediment to the marriage of Amy and Charles. So there is no need for notification elsewhere. Surely, it would be sufficient to post the banns here at St Paul’s. After all, Sydney Town is the very heart of the colony.’
Amy held her breath.
‘Yes, I concur, Mrs Mackenzie. And I would be delighted to solemnise the union of this charming couple. Shall we make a date for the ceremony?’
It was agreed that the wedding would take place on the Monday following the third reading of the banns: 23rd December, 1872.
Aladdin and Badroulboudour slept chaste and unmarried in the same bed for less than a week, yet it seemed like a lifetime to the young man who wanted only to be with her. Afterwards her father dissolved the marriage with the Chief Minister’s son on the grounds of non-consummation. Only when Aladdin was able to convince the Sultan of the worthiness of his suit, did he wed the princess. But for Amy and Charles, there was no convincing her father, and it wasn’t just a few nights, but three weeks before they could be married. Three weeks of the invisible sword. In Amy’s case, those nights together had ignited new feelings within her. She had always assumed that the heart was the site of all things pertaining to love, but now she suspected there was somewhere else, a secret place whose power would be unlocked when she and Charles were finally married.
At the end of their first week in Sydney, a letter arrived at Charles’s Sydney solicitor’s office, addres
sed to Miss Amy Duncan.
My dearest Amy,
I trust that you are both well. There has been a big kerfuffle in your absence, involving your father and mine. The night after you left, the Reverend stormed up to Millerbrooke and accused Joseph of aiding in your elopement. Poor Joseph, who had only just returned from Granthurst, was so tired he could barely speak.
Then your father called me a wicked girl for encouraging you to disobey your parents. My father stood his ground and declared that if the Reverend had behaved in a Godly manner, none of this would have happened. He even called your father a narrow-minded bigot. It was a rousing sight.
Never fear, Amy, we did not disclose your whereabouts. Then again, I might have let the word ‘Granthurst’ slip during the conversation . . .
Yours ever,
Eliza
Charles kept himself busy by visiting the warehouses which lined the wharves of Pyrmont, and sometimes Amy accompanied him. She was fascinated by the rows of tea chests stamped with exotic writing.
‘You must teach me Cantonese, Charles.’
That very evening, he taught her to say the numbers from one to ten. When he wrote them down, she marvelled at his calligraphy.
‘I don’t think I will ever be able to write it,’ she said.
‘As long as you can understand and read, you will manage. But once we get back to Millbrooke, I fear I will be too busy to teach you.’
‘Perhaps I can teach your brother English and he can teach me Chinese in return.’
‘He would like that, Amy.’
Sometimes they took tea in one of the eating-houses near the harbour, and reminded each other of the day they drank cinnamon tisane when he was Mr Chen, the merchant, and she his customer.
‘When did you fall in love with me, Charles?’ she would ask him as they sipped their tea.
‘I have already told you, Amy,’ he would reply.
‘Tell me again.’
‘It was when I saw you silhouetted against the doorway that very first morning. With your halo of golden hair I thought you were an angel.’
Every Sunday for three weeks they attended St Paul’s Church where their banns were read in front of the congregation. The first Sunday, there had been some shocked looks and a chorus of whispers as they entered the church. The next week they were greeted with fewer inquisitive looks and even some smiles. By the third week they were taking morning tea with the rest of the congregation following the service. Although there were some who refused to converse with them, there were many others who were charmed by Charles’s exquisite manners and gentle ways.
A few days before the wedding Amy was buying white hair ribbon in a haberdashery near their lodgings when she heard an excited voice saying: ‘Amy Duncan! Is that really you?’
Amy looked around to see a young woman in a smart striped dress and jaunty black bonnet trimmed with matching feathers. It was Dora Barnes who had been at Miss Howe’s, two years ahead of Amy. Although they had never been confidantes or even close friends, Amy had been suitably impressed when Dora left to complete her education at a finishing school on the Continent.
‘Dora Barnes. How lovely to see you.’
‘It’s Dora Digby-Watts now,’ she said, indicating a thick gold wedding band. ‘So much has happened since I last saw you, Amy. Do you have time for a cup of tea and I shall tell you everything?’
Dora swept Amy out of the shop and around the corner to a tearoom filled with well-dressed ladies partaking of high tea and speaking in low voices.
‘I met my husband when I was in London for the season,’ said Dora, once they were seated at a table in the bay window overlooking the street. ‘For some years he had been considering the idea of emigrating to New South Wales, but he had always procrastinated. After he met me, he knew his future lay here rather than in England.’
‘How romantic,’ sighed Amy.
‘Yes, indeed. He followed me home on the next ship and sought my father’s permission for us to marry.’
‘Was your father in agreement?’
‘Why, of course he was. Rupert is a wealthy man from a good English family.’
‘He sounds very nice.’
‘You must come and meet him. Perhaps next week.’
‘That may be difficult. I am afraid I shan’t be in Sydney very long. I’m just visiting.’
The waiter delivered a tiered stand holding tiny sandwiches and scones, and then returned with a teapot decorated with roses.
‘Where do you live now?’ asked Dora, helping herself to a scone.
‘Millbrooke. My father was posted there last year.’
‘I have never heard of it.’
‘It’s a gold town.’
‘I expect Rupert would know it. Gold is his livelihood.’
‘Is he a prospector?’
‘Heavens, no,’ laughed Dora. ‘He is an assayer. Precious metals. He has a big office down by the Quay with a view of the harbour. He can watch the ships coming in.’
‘That must be very pleasant.’
‘Not when a boat is loaded with Celestials. He says they march off in their funny hats and pigtails and head straight for the latest boom town. They actually walk there! What a primitive lot they are!’
Dora didn’t pause long enough for Amy to respond.
‘Too many of them are here already, Rupert says. They should be shipped back to where they came from. That would deter the others.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘They are sent here by secret societies in China who plan to overrun the colony.’
‘Did Rupert tell you this?’
‘Everyone knows it, Amy. The Celestials are a strange people. We do not need types like that in our country.’
Amy almost choked on the morsel of scone she had just placed in her mouth. It struck her that there would be many similar conversations in her future, and she would have to decide how to deal with them, whether to listen meekly to the ignorant hearsay or to take a stand. She cleared her throat.
‘There is something you should know, Dora. I am about to marry a Chinaman. He is the best person I have ever met. As for judging others by the colour of their skin, their place of birth or any such generality, it is an unreliable measure. Someone might walk into this tearoom right now and think you and I were alike. A type, as you call it. We both have yellow hair and pale complexions. But in our hearts, we are as different as . . .’ She hesitated, trying to think of the perfect simile. Nothing came to mind, and her voice trailed off.
She removed some coins from her purse and placed them on the table. ‘I must take my leave. I have wedding matters awaiting my attention. Good afternoon.’ Then she rose and walked towards the door. Not once did she look back.
That afternoon, Charles persuaded Amy to send a note to Miss Howe’s School, asking Amy’s two closest friends to be her attendants and inviting the headmistress and her students to St Paul’s Church for the wedding.
‘It is a futile gesture, Charles. I very much doubt that any of them will attend. Not even Miss Howe.’
‘Do it regardless, Amy. Let us not assume everyone is like Dora.’
Reverend Foster had warned them it was bad luck to see the bride before the service, offering Charles an invitation to spend the morning hours at his rectory instead. By the time Amy woke in their room at the inn, Charles was already gone. There was a note written in his elegant script beside the bed.
Dearest One,
Soon we will belong to each other, not just for the rest of our lives but forever.
Tonight we can banish the sword from our bed.
Yours always,
Charles
Outside the window, Sydney Town was bustling with merchants touting their wares and Christmas shoppers rushing about in the heat. Meanwhile Amy and her two friends were unpacking a large box delivered that morning by messenger. The girls had turned up at half past ten in the white dresses they reserved for Sunday best.
‘Just imagine,’ said one of them, ‘in a few hours you wil
l be Mrs Chen. It is such an exotic name.’
‘Is he handsome, Amy?’ asked the other.
‘You’ll have to wait and see,’ Amy teased, relieved that these two, at least, seemed pleased about her imminent nuptials.
When they finally removed the string and opened the box, they squealed with excitement. Inside was the most exquisite gown any of them had ever seen – Aunt Molly’s wedding dress. Carefully, Amy stepped into it, taking pains not to stand on the long lace train. Her friends secured the column of tiny buttons running down the back. It fitted perfectly.
As Amy’s carriage arrived at the church, Aunt Molly was there to greet her. So was Doctor Fullerton, who had been kind to her when she was ill.
‘Would you allow me to walk you down the aisle, Miss Amy?’ he asked.
‘I would be delighted,’ she replied.
Molly fussed with Amy’s train and plumped the folds of her skirt.
‘After I wed your Uncle Edward, I dreamed of having a daughter to wear this dress, but we were never blessed with children. Instead, I have been blessed with a special niece. You are a courageous girl, Amy. I don’t know if I could have done it.’
Then Molly followed the others into the church. Amy looked around, fearing her father might be lurking outside, ready to rush up and declare an impediment. The Granthurst ruse had worked for a while, but then he must have suspected his sister-in-law’s involvement because there had been a stream of telegrams and letters seeking the whereabouts of his daughter, and since Amy and Charles had never informed her of the address of their lodging house, Molly could truthfully say she had no idea. Even the delivery of the wedding gown had taken place via the solicitor’s office.
As she walked down the aisle on Doctor Fullerton’s arm, the sense of unease Amy had experienced outside the church hung over her like a dark cloud. Only by keeping her gaze fixed on Charles standing at the altar was she able to calm herself. When she reached his side, he mouthed the words, ‘I love you.’ Focusing on his liquid eyes, she told herself to think of nothing else.
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