by Janet Woods
Julia Hardy was capable, keeping herself busy helping women with children, who were afflicted with seasickness. The woman took it all in her stride, no task seemingly distasteful to her, from washing clothes to nursing the sick. She carried out her duties unobtrusively, her services taken for granted rather than commented on with gratitude. She didn’t have the air of being a servant but rather, it seemed, she was used to being of service.
Julia Hardy interested him, so he cornered her when she was hanging some children’s clothing on a makeshift line to dry, threading the cord through the sleeves so the garments couldn’t fly away on the breeze. ‘You’re a paragon of virtue, Miss Hardy,’ he told her. ‘Would you care to spare some time amusing a perfectly able man who craves a little of your time and feminine attention? A woman of your station should not be bent over a tub of suds.’
Julia had a sense of humour, gently chiding him for his attempts at gallantry with a broadside. ‘Charming as your approach is, Mr Ibsen, I have no spare time, for Mrs Morris and her children are in an unenviable state due to the motion of the ship. As for my station, I’m under no illusions as to that. I was raised up to keep house for my father, who was a penniless parson, and am travelling to join my stepbrother and his wife, who are of modest means and have three children in need a tutoring. I’ve been made aware of my lowly role in the family hierarchy, but have very little choice, since I’ve nowhere else to go. And since I’m plain and have no money of my own, I know I’m destined to be craved company for only as long as this journey lasts. You must find some way of amusing yourself, without me.’
The fact that she’d known his name gave him hope, though he was seeking nothing more than her companionship, for any romance on board ship wouldn’t go unnoticed or remain uncommented upon, and that would badly mark her reputation. After that, though, he took the trouble to waylay her whenever he could.
Eventually, she relaxed in his company. He found that the more he grew to know her the more he liked her, for not only could Miss Julia Hardy indulge in an intelligent and lively conversation, there was nothing false about her. They began to play chess together in the salon every evening, in the company of the other passengers, totally absorbed in their game.
Towards the end of the journey, when he finally allowed her to win her money back, she grinned triumphantly, though he thought she may have seen through his ruse. ‘There, Mr Ibsen. I have trounced you, at last. It’s about time somebody did.’
‘So you have, Miss Hardy. It’s a warm night, would you care to take a turn around the deck? We might be able to see the lights of Hobart Town.’
The sails above them sang as the breeze slid from their surface. The rigging creaked, the dark sea hissed and slapped against the hull.
Marcus nodded to the first mate, who stood at the ship’s wheel, a smile on his face as the ship respond to his overtures. ‘A nice night, Mr Johnson.’
‘It is that, sir. If the wind remains fair, we should be slipping into port tomorrow at dusk. Watch your step in the darkness. I’d be obliged if you’d give me a shout when you go below, so I don’t set my mind to worrying about you.’
‘We will. We’re just taking a turn or two around the deck.’ There was no moonlight to guide their steps. The stars were a spread of silver freckles across a black velvet sky, the breeze had a touch of humidity. ‘Are you being met in Hobart Town, Miss Hardy?’
‘I do hope so. Though my stepbrother told me in his last letter that Hobart Town is small, so I doubt that I’ll get lost if he doesn’t meet me.’ She gazed up at him, said shyly. ‘Mr Ibsen, I consider us to have become trusted acquaintances on this journey.’
‘Friends would be a better word to use, I think.’
She drew in a deep breath. ‘Then, as a friend, would you grant me a favour?’
‘If it’s within my power.’
‘Oh, it is. Would you kiss me, please?’
The unexpected request surprised him. ‘Kiss you?’
‘Oh, I daresay you think I’m foolish spinster, and quite forward. But you see, I’m already twenty-six years old. I have never been kissed by a man, nor am I likely to be. It would be a memory for me to treasure.’
‘Would you treasure it?’ he said lightly, intrigued by such naiveté coming from a woman of her age, and reckoning she displayed a romantic heart.
She shrugged, saying in a mortified manner, ‘Please disregard my request, then, for I believe I have embarrassed you.’
‘On the contrary, I’m honoured by the request. If you would allow me . . .’ He gently took her chin between thumb and finger, tipped up her chin and captured her mouth.
For a moment she stiffened, then she relaxed. Her mouth was soft and receptive and towards the end, as she grew used to the caress, satisfyingly responsive. Marcus parted from that kiss with some reluctance.
A faintly audible sigh reached his ears. ‘Thank you. I will never forget it.’
‘My pleasure, Miss Hardy.’
They resumed their walk in silence, as if nothing had happened. Julia said, after a little while, ‘What about you, Mr Ibsen? Do you have someone meeting you? A wife, perhaps?’
He smiled at that. She had not thought to ask him that before the kiss, and he wondered if she now harboured romantic notions about him.
‘I’m a widower with two young children at home in England. I intend to pay a surprise visit to a friend here.’ He smiled at the thought of seeing Siana again.
‘Tell me about your children. How old are they?’
‘They are infants, still. The boy is called Alexander and the girl is named Jane Louise. They are twins.’
‘Oh, how delightful. You must miss them enormously.’
‘Yes.’ He hoped she didn’t ask about Maryse, and she didn’t, though he could sense the question hovering about her. He didn’t offer an answer to it, despite the familiarity of the kiss they’d exchanged. It was still too painful to discuss with strangers.
Marcus didn’t see Julia again until it was time to disembark. He wondered if she’d been avoiding him. Spying her across the deck, he smiled and she blushed and averted her gaze.
He crossed to where she stood, took her hand in his and kissed it. ‘It was nice meeting you, Miss Hardy. Perhaps we shall meet again before I leave.’
‘I think I should like that.’ When her eyes came up to his he could see laughter in them, and it was aimed at herself. ‘Thank you for everything, Mr Ibsen, I did enjoy your company.’
He gazed at the small crowd on shore, at the unprepossessing Hobart Town, then at the majestic mountain behind the town, thrusting out of the earth into the sky. Marcus could feel the power of it, as if the sorrow of ancient spirits was imprisoned within its core and pulling him there. He shivered. ‘Can you see your stepbrother?’
Her smile faded a little. ‘It’s a long time since I’ve seen him, but he’s too much like my father to miss. He’s standing to the left. That must be his wife and children with him. Goodbye, Mr Ibsen.’
‘Miss Hardy.’ He watched her step ashore with a faint sense of regret, a drab figure in grey following after a seaman with her bags.
Her stepbrother and his wife were sour-looking; in fact, the whole family had hardly a smile between them to spare for Julia. They trooped off in single file, Julia struggling with a large bag and bringing up the rear. He felt sorry for her plight. She was a nice woman who should be married with a family of her own to look after.
When she turned to gaze back at him he blew her a kiss and she smiled. Such a small, happy memory for her to treasure in years to come, and it had cost him nothing.
He found himself a boarding house for the night, his room little more than a few rough boards nailed to a couple of posts to form a partition. There was a palliasse for a bed. Although he’d slept in worse conditions, his horse had a better stall at Cheverton Manor! There was precious little sleep for him, for the fellow in the next stall snored loudly.
The next morning, Marcus rose early and changed into his
robe, which was comfortable to travel in and often got him mistaken for the theologian he’d once studied to be. People trusted clerics, and his robe had opened many doors on his travels, as well as helping him merge into the landscape on occasion.
For all his discomfort, there was a hearty breakfast of ham and eggs to consume. He purchased a loaf, some hard-boiled eggs, and cheese and fruit from the landlord for the journey. The man had given him clear directions to where the trail began, and had offered him the services of a guide. Marcus had rejected the offer. He had always possessed a good sense of direction and, whenever possible, he liked to travel alone.
He gazed up at the dark, brooding mountain dominating the landscape. It would be there long after his fellow men had gone, a silent witness to their folly.
Throwing his bag across his shoulders, for he always travelled light, Marcus set out at a steady pace.
16
Christmas and New Year had proved to be yet another milestone for Siana to pass, for time progressed slowly. She delighted in the development of her daughter, who was eight months old now.
Bart Stowe’s eldest son, Thomas, was managing Francis’s estate, which ran a few cattle, sheep and poultry for local use. The logging brought in most of the income, for it was run on convict labour.
For the sake of propriety, Thomas Stowe lived in a cottage over by the sawmill, which was a mile or so away. Siana had never been there, neither did she want to see it.
‘Best you don’t,’ Bart Stowe had advised. ‘Although they’re guarded, the convicts are a rough lot and are no respecters of women. It would be best if they remained unaware you were in the district.’
She had no visitors except for the neighbouring Stowes, for there was nothing but wilderness beyond the adjoining properties.
Aware of her isolation, Siana was vigilant. She kept the rifles clean and ready to be loaded, checked the house was secure each night and made sure the outbuildings were kept locked. Jean Stowe had given her a pair of geese to look after, which had produced a clutch of goslings. Fierce towards strangers, they made noisy but effective watchdogs, harassing with their honks and thrashing wings any animals who happened to wander by.
‘I must keep faith that Francis will come for me soon,’ Siana told Jean, for they’d become closer since she’d confided her troubles to the woman at Christmas.
‘I’m sure he will. Your husband seemed a good man. He didn’t speak of his sufferings to me, but I know he was birched aboard the ship he arrived on.’
‘Did he say why?’
‘Elizabeth Hawkins told me he took the punishment for a young convict girl who was assigned as a servant to him. The girl drowned when the ship overturned. I believe she reminded him of one of his daughters. Elizabeth said he accepted punishment in the girl’s place. She was locked in the prisoners’ quarters when the ship went down. Dr Matheson thought he might have been able to save her life if she’d still been on deck.’
‘Ah . . . I see,’ Siana said, and she did. Francis found it hard to believe that events which had passed by in life had to be let go of. There were bound to be regrets, of course, but they must be set aside in order to serve the present. Her husband tended to spend too much time deliberating over what might have been.
But Jean was still speaking of Francis, giving Siana an insight into what he must have been through.
‘The second time he was flogged it was a case of mistaken identity, and undeserved. They used the cat on him. He was ashamed because he couldn’t stop himself from crying out with the pain and shock of it. They almost broke his will. I understood he wished for death so he could escape the pain.’ She shuddered. ‘Apparently, they lived like animals in the prison, fighting over scraps of food.’
Odd that Francis had confided these things to Elizabeth when he hadn’t been able to tell his own wife. He must have thought Elizabeth would have understood because of her own convict status. Tears filled Siana’s eyes. If Francis had been here she would have taken him in her arms and held him close. Not liking himself very much, he’d come home to heal, only to experience more sorrow, shame and degradation.
Now it was February. She placed Francine against her breast and experience the surge of her mother’s milk into the child’s mouth, she sighed as she remembered how. Francis had lashed out at her, said he would never father her child. Would he deny this daughter of theirs when he saw her?
Francine, pausing to take a breath, opened her eyes and turned her head to gaze up at her mother. Her eyes glinted greenly. For a revealing instant they seemed to contain all the pagan mystery and wisdom of her Welsh great-grandmother. It was a moment of recognition between them.
Then Francine’s sweet lips curved into a smile, like the sun coming out from behind a cloud. Siana’s breath caught in her throat. That smile of hers was all Francis.
Bryn suddenly thrust into her thoughts. What had happened to him? Francis wouldn’t have farmed him out for long, surely? He was too compassionate a man. Was Bryn happy, and would he have forgotten her after all this time? And what of Daisy and Goldie, were they well?
Something was going to happen soon, Siana knew it. There was an air of expectancy rising in her, a restlessness. It wasn’t that uneasy dread which had always foretold sorrow. This was something optimistic and promising, almost light. Siana could feel the faint cowl of the melancholy she wore begin to lift.
February was the hottest month of the year. The day lived up to its promise, heavy with humidity. No wind came to relieve it. Sweat soaked the cloth between Siana’s shoulder blades and trickled between her breasts. Taking Francine into the forest, they bathed in the cool cascade of water coming over the fall, revelling in the relief it gave them.
Towards evening, Siana sat on the verandah watching the shadows lengthen over her lonely domain. A spider which lived in the darkest corner of the verandah came out to weave its web, attaching it by a strong thread to one of the posts. The mother goose harshly called her family together. They waddled in a bunch back to the safety of the barn, honking noisily at each other.
All was then peaceful. The dusk drifted around her in an amaranth haze. Birds settled into their nests and an owl hooted nearby. Soon, the sky would darken and the stars would blaze like silver campfires upon a wide desert of navy blue.
Behind her, the lamp she’d lit sent a faint glow through the window.
Siana didn’t know how long she sat there, listening to the siren song of the earth calling her as it grew darker.
Siana . . .
She smiled. She must be hearing things.
Siana Matheson.
The geese set up a clamour and there came the alarmed beat and flap of several pairs of wings as the army of birds came charging from the barn as one.
She stood up, her eyes straining down the slope. There was a dense moving shadow in the gloaming, and it was heading rapidly towards her. Going into the house she took down a rifle, returning to the door to call out, ‘Don’t come any closer, I have a rifle turned on you. State your name and business.’
The shadow stopped moving. Then, from amongst the honking of the geese she heard a familiar chuckle. ‘Call off your watchdogs, Siana, they’re trying to peck me to death.’
She closed her eyes for a second, blood rushing to her face as she said in wonder, ‘Marcus? How wonderful that you’ve come. I’ve been so lonely.’
‘And if I’d had a gun you’d be dead, for against the light you make a perfect target. Could you point the rifle elsewhere? You’re making me nervous.’
She laid it on the chair. ‘It’s not loaded.’
Stepping into the light spilling from the door, he held out his arms to her. ‘Come here.’
‘Shoo!’ Moving forward, Siana scattered the scolding birds and was swept into his arms. The moon rose from behind the trees to bathe them in white ethereal light as they hugged each other tight. The geese waddled back to the barn like a group of old women, their feathers fluffed and ruffled, gossiping indignantly amongst them
selves.
Until Marcus had shown up, Siana hadn’t realized exactly how lonely she’d become.
‘What are you doing here?’ she said to him when they went indoors. ‘Are you hungry? I have eggs and some chicken and I baked some fresh bread this morning.’
He dropped into a chair, yawning hugely behind his hand. ‘One thing at a time, Siana. That was a hell of a trail up here on foot. I’m tired and dirty. I need a wash and some sleep. Tomorrow, I’ll eat.’
Lighting the candle in the bedroom, she fetched the metal tub from the lean-to, sending a lizard sprinting up the wall in fright. Marcus took it from her, carrying it through to the bedroom and pouring cold water into the bottom. He spoke inconsequently of his journey and the people he’d met aboard ship while the water in the kettle heated, as if to keep himself awake. She added the hot water to the cold, giving it a stir with her hand, then passed over her precious tablet of soap, and a bath sheet to dry himself on.
‘Please don’t leave the soap in the water. It’s all I have and we’ll have to share it for the time being. In summer, I usually wash in the stream, for there’s a small pool and waterfall. I’ll show you where it is tomorrow. There’s a clean shirt and some cord trousers in the cupboard. They’re old, but I washed and repaired them. Jed Hawkins left them behind, so they’ll be a bit loose.’
He frowned. ‘I understood from Francis that Jed Hawkins was managing the place.’
‘Jed bought a property in New South Wales. He and his family have left?’
‘Susannah is with them?’
She nodded. ‘It didn’t take her long to settle down with her mother.’
