Somewhat surprisingly, Douglas is my quiet ally in taking control. He, too, has been resisted in small ways since William gave over the running of The Camp to him, and has faced the same grudging obedience from some staff, and ingratiation from others. Because most of his time is spent outside the house, his knowledge of the trivial rivalries and character traits below stairs is necessarily incomplete. I am resolved to have my finger rather better on the pulse of things.
I don’t know my stepsons well — Donald hardly at all, for he is in Melbourne now. Once, in ’87, not long after Father died, he came down from Auckland, and William introduced him to me when both our families were attending a luncheon to raise money for the Wellington Girls’ School. Donald is a handsome fellow in his way: darker hair than the others, and with the confidence of a first born, and an Oxford education. That Oxford assurance he shares with my brother Alfred, and both have been called to the Bar of the Inner Temple.
Douglas is William’s favoured son. If I were to be both unkind and honest, I could say that is because he is more amenable to his father’s instruction and draws less attention to himself. He has not his brother’s looks, confidence and education, or William’s drive and shrewd understanding of the world. I think that is true, but yes, unkind, because it takes no account of the dreadful accident he suffered while a schoolboy in England, and his age when his mother died. He has never spoken much of his injuries, but William said he was thrown from his horse while riding to hounds, and as well as suffering broken bones has become weakened internally.
On our move here from Wellington, it was Douglas I expected to be the most difficult to win over, because he had been placed in charge of The Camp and all the activities of the estate, while William concentrated on parliamentary duties in the capital, and wider business dealings. A considerable responsibility for a young man then twenty-six and with little training, or experience, in any field at all. Yet I find him pleasant enough in a diffident way. His attempts to play the complete gentleman amuse me at times, but I don’t show that. He is seldom without his pipe, which I suspect he assumes gives him an air of masculine maturity. In fact he has a collection of them and is as fastidious in selection as a society woman is with hats. He smokes even on horseback.
There are fewer than eight years between us, and I understand his sensitivity to slight. William had wished him to go to Edinburgh to study medicine after finishing school, but Douglas was resolved to come home and become a farmer. He has done that in part, but still, somewhat unfairly, harbours a grievance that he has not a university education like his brother. Yet he has his own set of friends who encourage him in shallowness, and is much about the town seeking diversion. No doubt he is seen as an excellent catch by local belles and their mothers.
William has relied on him a good deal during this wretched time following Kate’s passing, and took solace, too, in having Gladys, the baby of the family, home with us from her Dominican convent school for some weeks. Poor Gladys — a mother, an aunt and now a sister gone, and she is only thirteen, and young even for that age, because she has been made much of by the rest of the family, who are so much older. William tries not to show his desolation when they are together, and she attempts the same in an open way that is entirely moving.
Colleen and Alice remain aloof and disapproving of the marriage. I have gone out of my way to be both civil and hospitable, but they are seldom at The Camp. I hope in time to have a friendship with them both, and to be accepted as their father’s wife, and mistress of the house.
William is bewildered and cross with their studied reserve, but I have told him allowances must be made, for a time at least. It is more difficult for a daughter than a son to have a stepmother. Women have more areas of common dispute. Besides, they will marry, no doubt, and become busy with their own families. Alice is seeing much of William Inder, who is a lawyer in Naseby, and Colleen will not wish to lag behind her younger sister.
Coming to William’s house here in Otago has not been as I imagined it, or would wish it, and much has had to be set aside because of Kate’s death and his grief, but I am not a girl bride with fanciful expectations. My concern is to support William in his loss and then to establish myself with people of some distinction of mind and character who can be our friends. Always I have my music, and that is a boon for us both. William spends much time listening to me play, and though Douglas, like his father, has only a rudimentary knowledge of music, he sometimes sits with us. The grand piano is a fine one, because William has ensured that everything in his house is of the best available quality. There is a certain ostentation in his nature that my brother Alfred mocks, and an element of profligacy as well, but there is also such generosity and genuine goodwill, such shrewd perception of human nature, that his vanity seems only a cheerful expansiveness.
Yesterday afternoon several businessmen came to see William in connection with the international exhibition held in Dunedin last year. The doomsayers claimed it would fail because of the times, but William was an energetic supporter, and not only did hundreds of thousands of people visit over the months, but it was also a financial success. The deputation gave William a book on Scottish history and sought his advice on the best way to thank Richard Twopeny for his support when he was the editor of the Otago Daily Times. Although William has not wanted to see people much, he was cheered by the thanks and by the reminder of the exhibition’s achievement. When we were alone, he made play with Twopeny’s name, recalling other oddities such as a Dr Bigg-Wither, whom he knew while in England with his uncle, and the Goodenough family, with their history of naval valour and rank. A laugh in private at the Twopeny name was certainly not a laugh at the man himself: along with Dr Hocken, Robert Stout and William Hodgkins, he has been a conspicuous leader for art and music in the city.
In the evening William’s lighter mood continued. He talked of the building of The Camp, and of the friendship he had with my father. Although Father was much older, they had similar political views and a similar sense of humour. William came often to our house, and we were all free with him in conversation. In our family, sons and daughters alike were accorded a hearing and judged on the perception of their comments rather than their gender.
I remember clearly the first time I became aware of William as a man, and not just a family friend. Father had been appointed to the Legislative Council and he and William had been at an informal recognition of that with friends at Parliament. They came home together for the evening meal. As usual, Mary was not with him. She spent much time in Otago. It was generally known that, after Eliza’s death, William had married her half-sister, long resident with them, largely to ensure the care of little Gladys. I met her only once, found her a conventional, obliging woman, closely in the orbit of her forceful husband. Kate had the same high, round forehead, although Mary was not even her full aunt.
I was conscious of being unwed, because I was almost thirty, if not turned, and had only recently declined a offer of marriage from an Anglican vicar who played the organ tolerably, but had little else to recommend him. And I was at once experiencing and resisting the attentions of Josiah, one of Alfred’s married legal colleagues. I had talked to Father concerning the offer that was proper, but of course made no mention of that which was not. He would have been pleased, I think, to have seen a daughter happily married. None of us then were, and my sisters are spinsters still, but he fully supported my refusal of the clergyman.
In a glancing, light-hearted way the matter came up in William’s presence after the meal and he joined in the banter. Later, though, when he was preparing to leave, and we were a little apart from the others for a moment, he said warmly, ‘Who wouldn’t envy the man fortunate enough to marry you, Conny.’ It was said quite openly, and perhaps others heard it, but accompanied by a steady gaze rather than a smile or laugh. I was conscious for the first time, I think, of William’s admiration for me as a woman.
Father died three years afterwards. The 22nd of September 1886 was the sa
ddest day of my life, for he was not only a great man in the colony, but a liberal and loving parent. During one of our last conversations, when he was seriously ill, he said that he had been lucky in life, and that he had found his greatest satisfaction in family. ‘There’s been so much fun, hasn’t there,’ he said.
‘You carried it with you,’ I told him. His skin had become almost yellow and folded on his neck like soft, pale fabric.
‘Thank you,’ he said, and I knew that was a part of his farewell. Mother has never really recovered, and resigned most of the household direction to me.
Mary Larnach died the next year. I knew, when William continued his visits, that I was the object of them. Alfred, now head of the family, was not warm to the idea, and my sisters brought home whispers of William’s past, but such tales are spun around every man of consequence, and embroidered over the teacups with mock solicitation.
I imagine that every woman has a clear recollection of each proposal of marriage made to her, and how the manner of it differs from the depiction in romantic novels. The clergyman was earnest and embarrassed, perhaps almost resigned to refusal even as he made the offer. His pronounced Adam’s apple made a distracting appearance above his collar whenever he swallowed. We were acquainted through a musical society, and he was at pains to tell me that he had some financial expectation from an uncle who was a prosperous chandler in Sydney. Every meeting we had after I declined him occasioned a certain awkwardness.
William had a deal more aplomb, but then we had seen more of each other, and an understanding had grown up. I have no patience with the notion that one should get to know a partner after the marriage rather than before. William talked a great deal about himself, but men do, and most of them are bores in the process. William is not: he has seen much of life at all levels of society, from the drunken tents of the Victorian goldfields to this colony’s Cabinet table, and has a good ear and a good eye for a story, and the human nature revealed in it.
William’s was not a parlour proposal, with Annie, or Fanny, hushed in anticipation behind the door. A group of us, including Thomas Cahill, the Seddons and the Montague sisters, took a carriage to Island Bay and walked there on the beach. There were Shetland fishermen who, despite the stiff swell, rowed some of the party out and around the small crag that gave the bay its name. William and I stood watching. ‘If we were married,’ he said, ‘we could do so many things together without the need for others.’
‘Would that increase our happiness?’ I said.
‘I’m certain it would mine, Conny, and I would do my very best to ensure yours.’
‘I’m mostly happy as I am. I don’t view marriage as either a necessity or a prize.’
‘The prize would be mine, of course,’ he said, so triumphantly that I had to laugh.
There is a healthy frankness in William that I admire, and I brought a similar realism to my decision when he went on to offer marriage. Opportunity and greater social freedom were the things I most desired, and by marrying him I have moved from the limitations of spinsterhood in the family home. William loves me and he encourages in me the inclination to be involved in the wider world that was lacking in both Eliza and Mary. I have grown up in a family accustomed to public and political life, and have no doubt I can support and influence William in a good deal more than just domestic matters. Also I will make acquaintances of my own in Dunedin, as well as often having my sisters to visit, I hope, and friends such as Doris and Cecilia. I have no fear of the social rank and involvement expected of me as Mrs Larnach.
I can best encourage William at present by consoling him for Kate’s unexpected death and efficiently managing affairs here. It is not how we expected our time together at The Camp to begin, but I am sure better days lie ahead. I have position, opportunity, a home that is the marvel of many and, most importantly, a husband who loves me.
When William talked last night of Father, and of Wellington days before the wedding, I reminded him of the form of his proposal, its lack of ceremony, and he smiled, came to my chair, took my hand and kissed it. ‘I do so now,’ he said cheerfully, as he went down on one knee. And so we acted out a small charade of romanticism. ‘I plight my troth,’ he said with a music hall flourish, and took out his fob watch to mark the time. There is something quite special in such play and laughter between husband and wife.
Two
Kate was the best of us. Father recognised that. Kate was most like Mother in her wish for people to be happy, and in her unselfish willingness to achieve that. I remember that, when The Camp was being built, Mother had her own ideas about the furnishings, but even there she cheerfully gave way before Father’s organising zeal. He seemed to be able to be everywhere, do everything, with a boisterous enthusiasm that carried all of us along.
Gladys came back from school to be with Father for a time. So much younger than the rest of us, she’s always been his pet. Her presence is a consolation for him, and she and Conny get on well together, but Kate was an adult who had shared more of Father’s life, and remembered our mother well, whom she so much resembled in spirit. Father’s used to decisive action: at times he’s almost dictatorial, but his generous love for us has never been in dispute. Well, not by me. Donny says with humour, and perhaps some bitterness, that I’m the favourite son, but Kate was the one in the family who understood Father best, loved him unreservedly and was most loved in return. When Kate died it was like a second death of our mother for him.
He’s in a terrible place. ‘Slaughtered’ is the word he uses. Before the wedding it was financial and political worries that triggered an uncharacteristic despondency, but after the marriage he was almost exultant. I wonder if he thought Conny would refuse him? They bought the house in Molesworth Street after the honeymoon and as a couple were much in Wellington society, despite Father’s work on the commission. It was a pleasure to visit them. He was tolerant again of people he’d begun to complain about as petty or uninspired. Conny says he even allowed her to update his clothes somewhat, and smiled when she ribbed him about it in front of others. I remember Mother saying that as a young man he was something of a dandy, wearing colourful velvet jackets and high starched collars and carrying a silver-topped cane. Well, the years have a put a stop to all of that. What a state he was in on his arrival back with Kate’s casket. He’s a good sailor but he was sick on the boat — sick with grief. Enough to lose two wives to sudden illness, and now Kate taken in a ghastly way. That first evening I went to him in the library, his favourite room, and talked of the property in an effort to distract him. I wanted him to see that I’d been conscientious in all the transactions associated with the place, but he was unable to rouse himself, even when I talked of the successful foaling and the growing demand in Dunedin for everything from the dairy herd. He reminisced a little about our family years in Victoria, the satisfaction Kate had in her Wellington nursing, his indifference to no longer being in Parliament, but it was all forced, so eventually we sat in silence, apart from the regular puffing of his breath through his moustache. From time to time there were small contractions on his face, as if painful thoughts came, and he was attempting to ward them off.
Although the whole house is an expression of himself, it’s the library that shows best what manner of man he is. He prefers it even to the billiard room. His large collection of specially leather bound books of Scottish and Australian history, natural history and exploration. The heaped financial papers on the dark expanse of his desk, where also sits a clear bottle containing three gold nuggets. The paintings, oleographs and engravings crowded on the walls, many depicting places he knew. The gun cases, fieldglasses and nautical instruments. The photographs of himself in Wick and California, in Wellington and the wilds of the West Coast. He gravitates to his library when inside alone and loves to gather men friends there after dinner.
Normally he’s cheerful with all the evidence of his life about him, but not with Kate gone. I think he’d almost forgotten I was there, and when in an effort to r
ouse him I began speaking of my recent fishing in the channel, he broke in and said that he wanted Conny to play for him, then stood up, meaning to find her. Kate often played for him, and although her talents were much less than Conny’s, Father had loved that too. ‘Haven’t I had enough?’ he said. ‘What else could go wrong for me? Thank God for Conny, and you too, of course. Business presses on me, but family blows are far worse.’
‘Things will clear.’
‘Thank God for my Conny,’ he said again.
How he used to enjoy talk of The Camp and his plans for it. In his mind’s eye I think he saw himself creating something to rival Great-uncle Donald’s Sussex estate of Brambletye. Uncle Donald has been Father’s model in most things rather than his own father, whom he claims gave him nothing of practical, or spiritual, value — except a major part in the gift of life itself, as my brother pointed out. Father wasn’t amused.
The Larnachs Page 3
