No, Jack Murphy was definitely not like a brother to her. He never had been really.
What was he doing, riding around half dressed like that? she wondered distractedly. Maybe he’d been for a swim. That would explain it…although he didn’t look as if he’d been swimming. Maybe he’d been about to, and that was where he was headed when he saw me. Or – maybe he had been taking his clothes off for other reasons. Maybe Rose even took them off. Veronica sat up straighter, not liking that idea at all. No, he wouldn’t do such a thing…would he?
The O’Shay and Murphy children had been brought up going to the same small local church with the same teachings every Sunday, and they all knew that sins of the flesh only led to damnation. Jack would surely resist, even if this particular temptress were Rose, with her generous cleavage and flirtatious ways. Veronica sighed, looking down at her own breasts, wondering if she would ever tempt him in the ways that Rose did. As if I’d want to! she told herself primly. But as she emerged from the water and put on her clothes she knew somehow that was exactly what she wanted, and she had no idea how to pray for that.
Two
Highview, Beecroft
It looked as though it was going to be a long, lazy Saturday afternoon, and Catherine O’Shay was just settling onto the rocking chair on the porch, her favourite Austen and a nice cup of tea on the table beside her, when she spied the buggy coming over the rise.
She rose with a sigh and smoothed her hair. ‘Veronica, the Dwyers are coming. Tell Eileen, will you?’ She paused, waiting, then repeated, ‘Veronica?’
Her daughter started from where she’d been sitting on the front step of the family homestead, Highview, lost in a daydream as was usual. She was even more prone to them of late. ‘Pardon? Oh, yes, Mother.’
Catherine watched her rush off and sighed, wishing her children would stop growing up. All this mooning about was obviously due to one thing, or one young man to be more precise, and as she considered the competition Catherine didn’t envy her daughter’s plight. Watching the carriage approach she reflected there would be little respite for any of them from Miss Rose Dwyer that summer, especially if the hot weather continued, and the socialising that came with it.
Her English sense of propriety had never quite become accustomed to the ‘surprise pop-in visit’ that was so popular in this part of rural Sydney, though at least after so many years she knew to expect it. She didn’t mind if it was the Murphys visiting: they were practically family. No, it was more these new neighbours, the Dwyers, who had her on edge.
Her husband Kevin joined her on the verandah with a wide grin and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Here comes a bit of fun, eh, Cate?’ he whispered in her ear. ‘Should I fetch you a sherry?’
‘Behave,’ Catherine warned him, but patted his cheek just the same. ‘Where are the boys?’
‘Checking out the race results down at Riley’s. You didn’t ask who won the game.’
‘Judging by the superior expression on your face I can see that we did.’
‘Victory to Beecroft once more, my dear girl! And there was some other excitement this morning –’
‘Hush. Here they are.’
The Dwyers alighted amidst a flourish of courtesies. Mildred and Rose were ushered into the front room while Kevin stole Dr Dwyer away to smoke cigars, discuss the cricket and leave the ladies to their ‘nattering’.
‘What a lovely dress, Rose. You look very pretty today,’ Catherine said, settling her skirts on the velvet settee. She acknowledged that Rose was masterful when it came to promoting her natural advantages, appearing cool and crisp in the dark green dress, its rich hue finding the gold in her skin and the cut emphasising her much admired curves.
Rose curled one red tendril about her finger and smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs O’Shay.’
‘And how are you faring in this heat, Mildred?’ Catherine addressed Rose’s Irish mother, nodding in anticipated sympathy.
‘Oh, ’tis dreadful hot, Catherine. I don’t know how we’re to bear it this whole summer long.’ Mildred fanned at the round expanse of her face, flushed in mottled pinks, her greying fair hair already clinging about her neck. She looked nothing at all like her attractive daughter, who had inherited her red hair from her father, along with his cooler complexion and brown eyes. The Dwyers’ son, Iggy, also looked like his father and younger sister, and Catherine often thought poor Mildred looked like a weed in the flowerbed. Even so, despite being a bit of a fusspot, Mildred radiated genuine kindness, and Catherine had liked her instinctively. Her opinion of young Rose, however, was far less favourable.
Veronica arrived with the tea. Although the O’Shays had two maids, Catherine believed in having her daughter assist in the finer points of entertaining, including supervising in the kitchen and bringing the tea. An unintended result of this excellent training was an appearance of servility she suspected Rose thoroughly enjoyed exploiting to advantage. The child was an artful player in the games women employed, Catherine observed. She had encountered many a Rose in her debutante days in London and knew when her dreamy daughter was walking straight into Rose’s traps. Sure enough, as Veronica poured the tea, Rose slyly dipped her cup, and its contents splashed on the spotless white tablecloth.
‘Veronica, please, do be careful! Dear me, Rose, are you all right? You’re not burnt?’ Catherine dabbed at the stained cloth with her napkin, inwardly seething.
Mildred clutched her handkerchief to her mouth, her watery blue eyes round. ‘Blessed saints, are y’scalded?’ She turned her daughter’s palms about in alarm and examined her wrists.
‘Oh,’ Rose breathed, ‘I’m sure it was my fault for holding my cup the wrong way. And no doubt Veronica will get better at pouring tea as she becomes more accustomed to entertaining company.’ She smiled sweetly at Veronica, who could only gape back at her. Catherine knew her daughter was aware she was being toyed with but was helpless against it. She’d little practice in societal scheming.
Mildred flapped with her handkerchief, blowing on the clearly non-existent burns. ‘Oh…oh there now, ’tis fine. A storm in a teacup,’ she said, calming down and nodding herself into reassurance, smiling at her little joke. She turned to look at Veronica and patted her hand, obviously confusing her frustration with guilt. ‘Don’t ye fret there, child. My now, that cake looks delicious. Is it one of your own fruitcakes then, Catherine?’
‘Actually it is. Would you care for some?’ Catherine gave Veronica an imperceptible nod and she handed each lady a slice, taking extra care when placing it in front of Rose. Catherine observed that her daughter looked as if she was half tempted to squish it into Rose’s perfectly smug face and sent her the slightest of frowns.
‘And what have you been up to today, Rose? You appear to have the sun in your cheeks,’ Catherine manoeuvred deftly, sipping her tea.
‘Oh, I just took a little walk along the lane earlier,’ Rose said. ‘Although I did hear something from Iggy that made me think twice about the safety of stepping out these days.’ She leant forward, her tone hushed. ‘They’re saying at the cricket there was a runaway cart along the road this morning, completely out of control. And apparently Jack Murphy was able to stop it and prevent a terrible accident.’ Veronica dropped a piece of her cake just as it reached her mouth and it landed neatly in her cup. Fortunately no one seemed to notice – except Catherine, who decided to completely ignore it. Truly, her daughter seemed to have learnt nothing about poise at that school.
‘Goodness, do you know who it was in the cart?’ Catherine asked, her focus firmly on Rose.
‘A young woman on her own; not much more than a child, he said. Honestly, if I may say, some of these girls are given entirely too much freedom. I am so grateful Mother brought me up to behave in a ladylike fashion.’ Rose shook her perfectly coiffed curls from side to side. ‘It’s just terrible to think of how this younger generation flout the rules of propriety. Apparently she had no bonnet, hair flying about and skirt high enough…Well, I needn’t go into further d
etail, I’m sure,’ she finished, looking scandalised.
‘A child, ye say? And how is she getting a hold of a horse and cart?’ Mildred gasped.
‘An older child, apparently,’ said Rose airily. ‘It’s a wonder she wasn’t old enough to know better, I suppose.’
Catherine nodded slowly, wondering at the machinations at play beneath Rose’s words.
Just then the men entered, carrying glasses of whisky and laughing loudly.
‘Looks like the boys are back from the tracks,’ said Kevin, gesturing towards the window and the sound of Tom and Mick’s voices carried towards them, and someone else. ‘Looks like young Dan is here too,’ he observed happily. ‘What say we make a party of it this afternoon, eh? I’ll send Tom to round up the masses. Who’s in for tennis?’
So much for a lazy afternoon with Austen. Catherine sighed inwardly as she watched her husband and Dr Dwyer head out onto the verandah to welcome the boys. Kevin, the youngest of seven children, believed wholeheartedly in the adage ‘the more the merrier’ and felt that parties should be held spontaneously whenever possible. The minor detail of feeding said masses was left to Catherine, Veronica and the maids, Eileen and Molly.
Catherine had soon organised lemonade and racquets for their guests, then bundled Veronica off to the kitchen to help create a miracle. Somehow, between the four of them, they rolled out extra loaves of bread, carved the pumpkin and potatoes, strung the beans and dressed a turkey and a rabbit. Catherine herself made the sponge cake for dessert, to be filled with farm-fresh cream and blackberry jam that evening, as well as an enormous crumble made with apples picked from the Murphys’ orchards.
Life on a dairy farm in Beecroft might be a far cry from her own genteel upbringing in the English countryside, Catherine mused as she worked, but at least she was never idle.
By the time the others were done with tennis, Veronica was adding the finishing touches to the table, leaving her with only a few minutes to run upstairs and change.
The other ladies had freshened up earlier, none of them actually partaking in tennis in ‘this perishable heat’, as Mildred described it, and each enjoying a rare afternoon off from her own housekeeping duties as they applauded the men. Veronica was sure Rose had enjoyed that immensely, especially as Jack had arrived a few hours earlier and she’d probably been able to flirt and flatter to her heart’s content. She seethed to imagine it, resenting her strict mother’s rules tying her to the duties of the house when she longed to be outside with the others. Pattie had arrived with her brother Jack, and Veronica was somewhat cheered by the consolation that she was sure to be entertained by her friend’s accounts of the afternoon.
With that thought in mind, and the exciting prospect of seeing Jack bubbling away in her stomach, she ran up the staircase and into her room, opening the wardrobe and pondering the options within. Not that there was much choice: white, cream or lavender. The other girls were wearing modern styles of darker fabric and with lower necklines, but her dresses were all very conservative and plain. Even though she’d finished school these two weeks past, her mother was apparently inclined to keep her in girlish dresses forever. She chose the lavender, wishing she were allowed to wear her hair loose and pinned up at the sides as Rose and Pattie did. Instead she had to content herself with twisting her braids to one side.
Veronica paused and stared at the mirror, and gave in to the plaguing thoughts that had been racing through her head all afternoon. Did Rose know it was she, Veronica, who had been in that cart? Had she and Jack been seen? The laws of her social world had been thoroughly drilled into her at school and by her mother, and she was quite sure it was frowned upon for young ladies to spend time alone touching half-dressed men on a public road or even a quiet lane. Actually, especially not a quiet lane.
As a finishing touch she grabbed a pin and set a single deep lavender rose from their front garden in the hair behind her ear. Meeting her reflection she acknowledged that she at least looked innocent and pure. You are innocent and pure, she reminded herself, but her wrist warmed in memory and she felt as guilty as if she’d thrown herself into Jack’s arms and kissed him. Turning for the door she banished that tantalising thought.
The sun swept away the last of its gold, surrendering to the night in lengthening rays between the tree branches. Even the birds seemed relieved to Mick as he watched them from his favourite position, perched on the sandstone ledge that ran along the verandah. The white cockatoos arrived in their dozens, calling to each other as they came, gathering their families together. They settled in a series of flurries, dotting the heights of the old Sydney red gums down by the milking sheds. The noise of their activity was almost outdone by the rising song of the kookaburras, who were also settling their clan for the night.
Mick watched it all, letting the sounds of home drift over then sink within. How he loved it, even though he was no farmer. The O’Shay boys were ever the scientists. He’d fought Tom for the medical tomes in their library from a young age, devouring information wherever he could find it. It had taken some convincing before their father acknowledged that Nigel Gregor, their housekeeper Eileen’s husband, was a far more suitable farm manager than either of his sons would ever be, and they were finally permitted to pursue their academic aspirations. Of course it hadn’t hurt that their mother was keen to see them follow in her family’s footsteps, she being the daughter of a noted science professor at Cambridge University in England. She was an extraordinary woman, his mother, Mick acknowledged. A gentlewoman made of steel; although he was glad he was her son and not her daughter.
‘Looking a bit thirsty,’ Tom remarked, walking up with Dan and handing him a glass of beer.
Mick turned and grinned. ‘Man cannot live on grass alone.’
‘Lucky we’re not cows then.’ Tom took a deep drink then whistled in mock appreciation as Jack walked up the wide steps in evening dress. ‘I take it back! We seem to have a fine-looking young bullock right here.’
Jack laughed, patting his slicked down, black hair that had been forced into submission from its usual forward lick. ‘Well something sure smells like bull out here,’ he replied, accepting a glass from Molly as she passed by with a tray.
‘What did you use on that hair? Paint?’ Tom pretended to investigate and Jack waved him away, trying not to spill his beer.
‘So how did you enjoy today, Dan? Settling in all right?’ Mick enquired, pushing his brother behind him.
‘Yes, thanks,’ Dan said.
‘A whole year exiled back in Braidwood after, what? A decade boarding at Joey’s? You must have forgotten what girls look like by now!’ Tom nudged at him. Dan blushed and gave a small shrug. ‘What do you make of our Beecroft fillies, eh?’
Mick was sure Dan was wishing himself back at ‘Joey’s’, or St Joseph’s College, right about then, or even on his parents’ isolated farm. He was on Highview to learn about the latest dairy-farming practices on behalf of his family, but spending a summer with his older brother’s schoolmates might prove to be a little more than the country boy could handle.
‘They seem…very nice,’ Dan managed, the crimson still staining his face.
Tom nodded knowingly. ‘Well one of them is our sister, remember, so you’d better do the right thing by her brothers. Just the essential bribery: money, jewels. No camels though. The horses get offended.’
‘Surely Veronica must be worth more than a camel,’ Mick suggested.
‘She runs a bit like one,’ Tom said, screwing up his nose. ‘A bit of a gangly old clomper, really, but don’t let that turn you off, young Dan. Other members of her family are remarkably gifted and talented, especially the second eldest son.’
‘Although fortunately she looks more like the eldest,’ Mick added, pointing at his fair hair for emphasis.
‘Yes, I’ve always thought you were the more feminine brother,’ Tom said, and they all laughed.
‘She’s pretty,’ Dan blurted out, seeming a bit shocked by his own admission. ‘I
mean, she…well she is.’
Jack moved away from where he had been listening, propped against the wall, and Mick noted he didn’t seem as amused as the rest of them. Putting his glass down, he looked directly at Dan. ‘She’s too young.’
As he watched Jack’s retreating back Mick wondered why he had felt the need to act the big brother.
‘Well, I don’t know about that.’ Tom shook his head as they walked towards the parlour. ‘She must be at least forty in camel years.’
The last of the twilight sent a soft crimson glow through the open French doors and between pale blue silk curtains held to each side with corded silver tassels. All the candles had been lit and the crystal chandelier turned on, each little flame and bulb making diamonds dance on the glassware. It was still warm, but the open doors sent the slightest of breezes across to the windows, carrying the scent of baking bread, turkey, rabbit and cake.
Catherine breathed it all in, humming along to the gramophone as she checked each detail. The soft strands of violin touched the night outside, inviting the languid evening indoors, as she smoothed the fine lace on the table once last time. She loved the soft white cloth, a gift from her mother as part of her trousseau. It reminded her of the elegant folds of her childhood home, such as the blankets of snow across their English lawns or the gentle meander of the river as it played with the trailing feathered branches of the willows. Cream roses spilt from the enormous cut-glass centrepiece, a wedding gift from her aunt, and the silver cutlery from her cousin’s family gleamed from the polish Eileen had applied that afternoon. Her dressed dining table always reminded Catherine of the way her family had so graciously accepted her marriage to a mere farmer, and an Irish-Australian of all things. It was a shrine to their forgiveness.
Catherine O’Shay had no regrets. She was no pining English lady, wilting and faded. She was a modern success, proof that an aristocrat could marry for love and bring her gentility with her. Probably an impossibility back in Cambridge, but here, in this hopeful, strange land, such things could happen.
Gallipoli Street Page 2
