Tables had been laid upon the verandah and further out under the trees. Cut glass and silver gleamed upon the damask cloths.
“Sit down, child, sit down. Wait for the men to come.” Her sister patted the chair near her with her fan.
By the time the meal finished, when the last piece of tipsy cake, and the last spoonful of trifle had disappeared from the serving dishes, the company had lost any hint of their earlier awkwardness. Faces shone with pleasure, the air was full of the laughter of good fellowship, drink had loosened many a tongue and the succession of tantalising dishes had brought to the evening a touch of the banquet, the feast, the celebration. A celebration of their way of life in spite of the drought.
But Mary Ann had to force the smiles to her lips. What a waste of time, when they could be dancing! Not a soul would have guessed as she sat dutifully with her family, that all she could think of was being in George Brownlow’s arms once more. She could see him chatting and joking and handing platters and plates to his party, she could almost hear him above the noise, at least she thought she could. Why didn’t he turn once in her direction? How could he spend his time with those two blousy women? Of course they belonged to his employer’s family, but even so, hadn’t he felt the magic of those moments together?
Stubbornly she set her lips in a smile, obstinately she nodded and agreed and listened to all the conversation around her. Catching sight of the steps leading up to the verandah she caught her breath. She had come up those steps as simple Mary Ann from Bywong, now she knew herself to be a completely different person. Something had happened to her and she did not understand.
After supper the evening dragged on for her. Everyone else had been invigorated but she had been disappointed. George Brownlow’s back seemed always turned towards her. Occasionally she caught sight of him in the throng of dancers as she allowed herself to be steered around by one elderly neighbour after the other. Almost in tears with disappointment she did not at first feel the tentative touch upon her shoulder. “Miss Mary Ann…you promised me another dance, remember?”
There he was, smiling down at her. As if he knew how her heart had leapt he grasped her hand tightly then pulled her to him.
If this wasn’t Heaven then no such place existed.
As she lay in bed in the small hours Mary Ann relived every minute of the ball. Even when the magpies were chortling and the clanking of Job’s milking pails came from the cowshed she still lay there dreamily conjuring up every moment of the night before.
The music went round and round in her head, the lilt of the violin, the melodies which came one after the other from the pianist. The sound, the scent and the sight of all that had taken place sent her spinning from the awaiting domain of household chores, calico skirts and eternal pinafores to another place, a place where, instead of scurrying about endless tasks, people would sit and exchange pleasantries, they’d nod and greet and compliment each other.
She experienced once again the pleasure of being held in George Brownlow’s arms, the completeness of looking up and seeing eyes that held only her reflection.
How could Mary Ann understand what had happened? That she had chanced upon that unique moment in a lifetime when you look into another’s soul and your destiny is clear? Those strong arms had enfolded and for the first time in her life she had been the focus of a man - and she could feel his longing. She still could not believe the sensations that had flooded through her. Happier than she had ever been in her life, smiles wreathed her face as she burrowed deeper and deeper into the pillows and danced once more to the memories of waltz and mazurka.
She was in his arms again, she had reached that place where you swim in the enchantment of another’s gaze, experiencing the ecstasy of swimming on and on, buoyant, weightless, ethereal. A cobweb on those deep waters of desire where you scarcely care if you drown.
CHAPTER 7
Two weeks later George Brownlow came calling. He did not come as a suitor, instead managed to find quite another reason for visiting William Guise. The whereabouts of some missing steers, he maintained, had brought him over to Bywong.
“Thieving blackfellows!”
“The camp’s empty. I thought they’d moved off because of…”
“It’ll be them, mark my words, there’s always a few around and when I catch up with them they’ll wish they’d been long gone. Sooner we’re shot of the lot of them, the better.”
But quick-witted and observant, he immediately noticed the flicker of disapproval on the older man’s face. “Things aren’t getting any better,” he swiftly changed the subject. ‘They say folks are even eating quails and the little bears. Anything to keep going now there’s hardly any stock left. I’m putting a padlock on the chicken run. That’s for sure.”
“People are becoming desperate.”
“And the lake’s disappeared before our eyes. You’d not credit it. Someone told me they recalled a time when five men drowned out there, difficult to accept. Their boat turned over in a storm and no one worried much as they were near enough to land and reckoned they’d wade ashore. But the bottom was just a thick layer of mud! Sucked down they were, not one managed to escape. Difficult to believe it nowadays. Mrs Patterson drove her curricle right across it the other week. Speaking of the Pattersons. There’ll be hell to pay when they come back from Melbourne. So I’ll trouble you to keep your ear to the ground, sir, if you hear anything about those steers.”
“I’ll speak up for you,” William offered. Friendly as George seemed to be with his employers, losing stock would be regarded with severity. “’Tis more likely to be some of the riff-raff over Bungendore way. ’Tis said, not a dray’s safe, they sneak the bales of wool off the back when it’s on the road. Else there’s that Frenchman, one with the inn, he’s in with every cattle duffer in the place, keeps his ears open – and in their cups quite a few tongues wag – then he passes it on. We’re surrounded by thieves and been cursed with the drought. It’ll be a marvel if we’re still here this time next year.”
Drought, bushranging, cattle duffing, the perils of the Wool Road? The two men mulled over a multitude of events as George skilfully steered the older man towards the real object of his visit.
“You enjoyed yourself the other night? Trust old Mr Guise did not find the evening too tiring – wonderful man for his age. Trust Miss Mary Ann enjoyed herself of course?”
William smiled to himself, at last they’d got to the real reason for the younger man’s visit. “Passing fair, passing fair. You’d best call in at the house on your way back.”
George eagerly accepted the tacit invitation of welcome, certainly not repeated later by the irate grandfather. Grand-père was sitting on the verandah as he watched their visitor approach the house, all the time regarding him with even greater suspicion than he had in the de Rossi ballroom.
“Thank you, I’m very well, Mr Brownlow. And yes, I certainly did enjoy the ball.”
In the silence that followed George shifted nervously from foot to foot.
“And I trust Miss Mary Ann is keeping well?”
“Well enough, sir. She’s occupied at the moment but I’m sure would like me to give you her kind regards.” With that he picked up the Herald which lay beside his chair and flipped it open decisively.
“That ignorant fellow!” Grand-père exploded as William came up the steps a while later. “I’ll not have him set foot in this house.”
“Come now, Father. You can’t keep our Mary Ann wrapped up like a precious china ornament all her life. He’s a perfectly decent chap.”
“There I beg to differ. I’ve kept my ear to the ground since that ball, heard a thing or two, it’s said the company he keeps is not to be recommended. Weakness for the horses too. Four-score years and fifteen I’ve lived, don’t forget that, my son. And I’ve kept my wits about me. Very rarely misjudged a man, all those years. Known who could be trusted and who could not,” he eyed his son sternly, “and he’s not welcome under our roof.”
�
�Oh really, Father, any man making his way in the Colony has to rub shoulders with all and sundry.”
‘Making his way! Don’t presume to talk to me about making a way in the Colony,” snorted Granpère as he struggled to get out of the chair. “I certainly didn’t like the way he had his eyes on our Mary Ann.”
“Maybe like any other single man? Seeing a pretty girl and a smiling face? Think back, Father, think of when you first laid eyes on Mamma.”
“And that’s what I’m doing, son. The moment I laid eyes on her I can tell you I knew she was the one for me but ‘twas weeks before I even spoke with her. Never walked up, straight up I might say, bold as brass, and asked for a dance!”
“Times are changing, Father.”
“You can say that, alright. But human nature’s always been the same, hasn’t it? And always will be. Hard times we’re having but I can tell you they’re nothing compared with the hard times we had back then.”
William sighed, he’d heard it all before.
“I had nothing to offer my dear Elizabeth and she had less than that! Running away under her family’s nose. What was I? A rank and file soldier with the Corps. When we came out here back in ’96 we were sleeping with twelve other families, twelve to a room in the barracks. And here we are now, with more property than we can even manage, land up in the Monaro, land at Liverpool, land at Macquarie Fields, and more besides. We made our life, didn’t go round toadying up to any folk better off than ourselves. We made our way fair and square. This George Brownlow’s nothing but a piece of flotsam on the surface of life.”
“And how’d you know that?”
“I know, I know, alright. I haven’t lived over ninety years without being able to see beyond my own nose! Our Mary Ann’s young, she needs to meet the right sort of people. There’s bigger fish in the sea than ever came out of it.”
“You are referring to Frank de Rossi I suppose?”
“Anyone marrying into the Rossi family would be most fortunate. Frank’s a true gentleman through and through. I won’t deny a match with him would be a wonderful thing, but I daresay he’s a confirmed bachelor by now. He’s not a young man any more.”
“And what’s more, he’s so occupied with his father’s estates. So often having to go back to Corsica for the old man, old Rossi must have matters of great importance over there still. The city’s the place for a young girl, Father, girls need to be up in the city. Who would they ever meet round here? Going to flower shows and bazaars should be the order of the day, dancing around with their friends and taking part in charades, that’s what Hannah tells me anyhow, when she writes. If we want better things for our Mary Ann, that’s where she should be.”
“The de Rossis are a good family.”
The mention of Frank had came closer to his secret ambition than he would ever admit. Alone, amongst their scattered neighbours, the de Rossis had style. Who knew what the future might bring? Where people lived remote lives, death coming early in some families, loneliness stalking so many, then May-September marriages were quite common in the Colony.
“Perhaps a few months up in the city might be just what is needed.” The old man smiled, half to himself. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, they say.”
“But which heart, Father? Frank de Rossi’s or George Brownlow’s?”
“I’m not thinking of that chap. It’ll be ‘out of sight out of mind’ for the likes of him. No, certainly not George Brownlow.”
But now nature took a hand. Even if Mary Ann had finally agreed to sample the delights of the city it would have been impossible.
The drought broke.
Far away up north of the continent storm clouds sweeping in from across the ocean saturated mountain, forest and plain. The land was inundated with deluges so heavy that every channel and creek overflowed and soon floods swept their way down south Blankets of grey rolling clouds swallowed up the blue skies. Rain lashed down. First of all it ran off the baked earth but very slowly even that softened and then sopped up every drop. Journeying any distance on the muddy roads became nigh impossible.
Walls of water surged along dried-out creek beds, sweeping before it mud, twigs and every little creature that had nested and burrowed along the banks. Sticks and stones swirled and eddied in the dance of death which in a short while would bring back a celebration of life to those deceptive waterways. Anything which had been left down near the banks of the river whirled away. The Irishwoman lost her pails and wash boiler, stock-in-trade for the dirty linen she took in. The torrent snatched them up and spun them into oblivion.
Being the focus for three hundred and sixty square miles of the Great Dividing Range and over two thousand feet above sea level the lake surface at first merely dampened but then it, too, began to fill. Soon every nearby creek surged into the rising waters. Roads became impassable and any stock wandering too close to the water risked being swept away. Four pigs’ carcases lay bloated at the bend in the river.
“Pigs can’t swim,” muttered Job as he set off to drag away the remains and cut them up for the dogs.
“Every animal can swim if it has to,” proclaimed Mary Ann. What did he know?
“’Tis the way God made ‘em. If they tries to swim, their trotters slits their throats.”
“Well, they look just plain drowned dead to me.”
“Washed down from upstream they be. And from the look of the sky we’ll have a sight more surprises before a few days is out.”
The rain kept falling.
“Won’t it ever stop, Grand-père?” Day after day the rain battered down on the shingles. Every time she darted out to the dairy or the henhouse she stumbled back soaked to the skin. Water streamed down the walls and some even splashed into the bowls of milk, the sodden chickens clustered in a corner of their run to peck at the grain thrown to them, then disappeared into the henhouse. No happy clucking or scratching or dust baths in the earth; instead, their legs were black with mud.
Several weeks later the same question was still being asked. When would the rain ever stop? True everyone had yearned for the end of the drought, but the pendulum now swung completely in the opposite direction. At midday a candle had to be lit in the kitchen.
“When will it ever stop?”
“Stop? You’ll never have seen rain like this in your life, my girl. There’s something strange about our weather in this part of the world. We’ll get years and years of everything just ordinary, then of course we had that terrible drought, but then sometimes we get this. I’ve seen this before. Seen years and years of drought, folk thinking this is the way of the world and building sheds and homes in beautiful places, settling on plains and river banks. Then the heavens open. Up on the Hawkesbury I’ve seen ninety-foot floods sweep whole towns away. Could be much the same down here. I’ve seen haystacks bobbing around like tennis balls. You are lulled into security and then once in a while the hand of Fate turns against you. You’ll never have seen rain like this in your lifetime.”
“Better than the poor animals dying in the drought.”
“Soon they’ll be scouring. We’ve had the scab and the footrot. The scouring will be the next,” muttered William.
“Better than dying of thirst,” Mary Ann persisted.
“Better maybe, but not good. Mark my words, we are in for months of rain, maybe a year or two to come. My joints tell me this, my back’s playing up. I’m going to ask your father to bring my bed in to the little parlour. I can’t manage those steps out the back.”
Mary Ann glanced at the old man. Never before had he asked for help. Till now he could manage to walk slowly beyond the back paddock and down to the dam, most days he was able to make his way across the yard and fetch in the kindling box.
The ferocity of the rain eased off, but not the frequency. Day after day dawned to a leaden sky, the showers falling relentlessly. For a while the blue skies might open up again, perhaps for a few weeks the sun shone weakly onto the sodden land, then the rain returned. In the vegetable garden we
eds sprouted between the lines of carrots, and runner beans climbed so quickly up their poles that the tops had to be pinched out. Phalanxes of snails streaked out from the undergrowth and slugs slimed their way amongst the vegetables.
“Want to take a look at those shorthorns,” William announced.
“You go with your father,” Grand-père glanced across at Mary Ann.
“I want to prune those young pears today. It’s the first fine day in weeks,” grumbled Mary Ann.
“Never mind what you want to do, young Miss, you go with your father. He’s not to ride out on his own and it’s a fair step over to Geary’s Gap. Didn’t you see him last evening, when he came back from the village. White as a sheet he was.”
“Papa’s alright, he just gets out of breath at times.”
“He’s not well.”
“He’s not told me that.”
“And neither would he, your father would keep it to himself.”
Over the last few months he’d noticed his son’s increasing breathlessness. A frightening spectacle indeed to watch the mainstay of the family begin to fail, especially when he knew that his own body could not last much longer.
“Job can go with him. I want to get on with those pears.”
“Job’s close on being an old dodderer. He’d be no help. No, you do as I say, Mary Ann, you go with your father.”
She urged her pony into a trot as they left the yard, all the time complaining to herself. George Brownlow might call by. He’d found the opportunity to ride over on several occasions and if she was lucky she’d been able to exchange a few words before Grand-père beckoned her indoors.
George had not called in yesterday. Surely he’d ride by today? And she’d be out!
Apart from that, this would be a whole day wasted. Too few days were without rain and now that the sun shone briefly she could have spent the time in the orchard. And such a fuss too. As if her father was really ill! Grand-père worried too much.
Optimism laced with the headiness of youth makes for a powerful combination. In her eyes her father was mantled with that enduring cloak of invulnerability. He could ride, shoot, track through the bush, swim across flooded creeks, round up cattle and keep the men in order just as expertly as he could add up all the debits and credits in the big ledger and work out the cost of every single item on their property.
The Hanging of Mary Ann Page 9
