‘Do as you please,’ he said gruffly. ‘But I don’t want to see you until we make port.’
She yanked the thick shawl more firmly around her shoulders. ‘I’ve got better things to do than hang on to your coat-tails, Mister High and Mighty,’ she retorted. ‘I’m making a fortune amongst the gadjikanes. They love the idea of a drabarni telling them their fortune and it only costs me a few pennies to bribe the sailors to look the other way.’
John watched as she stalked unsteadily down the deck. He had to smile. Tina had a lot of spirit for one so slight.
The journey seemed to take forever but as soon as they docked John began to ask questions of the shop-keepers and merchants clustered around the quay. The heat was fierce after the freezing rain-storms they’d come through and he was almost blinded by the glare of the sun on the water. Yet he was too anxious for word of Rose and Lady Fitzallan to notice the bright birds and the bustling energy of this burgeoning town.
They spent a week in Sydney town before John finally had enough information to make a journey into the hinterland. He bought three horses and a wagon and several guineas’ worth of supplies to tide them over for the long trek. As he waited for the merchants to load his barrels and sacks, he realised that here was an opportunity to make money. After questioning the merchants more closely, he ordered extra supplies and another flat-bed wagon to carry them, two more horses to pull it with another pair so he could interchange them.
Tina sat in docile silence on the buck-board of the first wagon, her dark eyes following him as her fingers idly jingled the coins in her hidden pocket. ‘What do you want that lot for?’ she demanded, tilting her head at the sacks of grain and seed and the barrels of lamp oil and rum he was adding to the collection of tools and rope and boxes of nails already lashed beneath the wagon’s tarpaulin.
He put a finger to his lips and winked. Tina had to stifle her curiosity until they had left the city far behind them. ‘This is a big country,’ he confided eventually. ‘Some say three, maybe four or five times bigger than home, with people living hundreds of miles from the nearest town. I can sell those stores at a good profit which will buy more the next time.’
‘Once a rom, always a rom,’ she teased. ‘Puri daj would be proud to know you’re keeping up the traditions.’
They travelled for months along the winding dirt tracks that led into the throbbing heartland of their new country, and although he wished it was Rose who held the reins on the following wagon, John was glad of Tina’s company. For this was a lonely, almost desolate place, and a man needed someone to talk to.
Their stock dwindled as they sold it to housewives who greeted them in the doorways of hovels that had been thrown together in the middle of nowhere, to diggers in the rough male world of the mining camps, and to the squatters on the endless grazing pastures that lay beyond the mountains.
With money in his pocket, and the knowledge that his kind were welcome in this hot red country, John began to make plans. He would set up his own store in Sydney town, buying directly from the farms and the incoming ships, then employ other men to take his supplies to the outback stations and isolated mining camps.
But first he had to find Rose and she was proving elusive. The Mission House had burned down, the town was deserted and there were only rumours of Lady Fitzallan having moved to the Hunter Valley.
They returned to Sydney and restocked. He knew what the women wanted, stuck so far from civilisation, and he got Tina to choose bales of material and fancy hats and parasols to stow alongside the picks and shovels, axes and nails. His respect for her tenacious courage deepened as they travelled the lonely tracks together.
The people in the Hunter were little help. Rose had simply disappeared. John’s spirits were low as they returned once more to Sydney before setting out for the interior. The months had turned into a year and there was still no sign of her. His travels had shown him he’d set himself an impossible task. This was indeed a big country, and he knew that beyond the mountains and deserts there lay many thousands of miles he might never see.
Rose was in his heart, but eventually he turned to Tina for comfort one dark night on the wallaby tracks when he’d had too much rum and was convinced he would never find his lost love.
He awoke the next morning, the canvas of the make-shift tent damp with condensation as the sun burned low in the sky and the earth warmed. He looked across at the sleeping Tina, and felt only a few regrets. She might not be Rose but there were similarities between them, he realised. Tina was loyal and strong, with a will that bowed to no man. He was indeed fortunate to have her – even if she didn’t fill every corner of his heart.
Tina opened her eyes, the love for him shining so clearly it stirred something in him he’d thought belonged to another. He bent his head and kissed her, breathing in the musky scent of her hair, hearing the tinkle of her bracelets sliding along her arms as she embraced him.
‘There can be no pliashka, no tumnimos or zheita,’ he warned her softly.
‘I don’t need an engagement feast or wedding arrangements, and as for bringing the bride home – my house is where you are. My home is here.’
She put her small hand on his chest and rested it just above his heart, and he buried his face in her neck so she couldn’t see the shame in his eyes.
20
Rose smiled as Isobel’s eldest son Henry kissed her cheek and rushed from the room. He had the good looks of his father, but thankfully none of his character flaws. He would make a good husband for her troublesome daughter Muriel.
She sighed as she stared out of the window of the blue-stone house. Muriel’s red hair matched her fiery nature. She was popular amongst the young sons of their neighbouring vintners, and her scandalous behaviour in the tightly knit Lutheran community had already caused Rose and Isobel sleepless nights. Unlike Emily, her twin, Muriel seemed to have no regard for the sensibilities of others, with her late-night buggy rides, her flirting and wild dancing at the country fairs – perhaps the rather staid, shy Henry would be a calming influence. He had always loved her, but had bided his time, waiting for the moment Muriel noticed him.
Isobel came bustling into the room. Her brown hair was streaked with grey now and her slender waist had thickened, but there was no mistaking her breeding despite the cheap cotton dress and work-worn hands. ‘Well?’ she asked.
Rose nodded. ‘We’re going to have a wedding,’ she said.
Isobel frowned. I do hope this isn’t another of Muriel’s hasty passions,’ she said wearily. ‘Henry does love her so, I wouldn’t want him hurt.’
Rose put her hand on Isobel’s arm. She had no illusions about her daughter but firmly believed marriage to Henry would turn her from a larrikin into a poised and happy woman. ‘They are mature enough to know their minds.’
Isobel smiled. ‘I’m glad our two families are to be formally united,’ she said. ‘But I must be honest with you, Rose. I thought Henry and Emily would make the match. They’re both so quiet, so involved in the wine business – and they spend a great deal of time together. I often wondered if Emily’s feelings went deeper than friendship.’
Rose pushed her own doubts aside. Emily might be quiet but behind those dark, smouldering eyes was a determined young woman – if she’d wanted Henry, then she would have had him.
With their arms linked, the two middle-aged women left the house and strolled in the warm breeze through the whispering jacaranda trees. It was an evening ritual begun almost fifteen years ago and they enjoyed the chance to discuss the day and plan tomorrow.
The tobacco crop had been increased to cover them in the bad years and now a vast drying shed for the leaves stood at the southern end of home paddock where they hung throughout the hot summer before they were graded and packed for the long journey by sea to Europe.
The vegetable plot had flourished. Most of the produce was carried to market in Nuriootpa where the diggers from the copper mines of Kapunda came to restock their supplies. From this same m
arket, the women bought material and sewing thread, pots and pans, and all the things that would make the bluestone house a home.
The vines were strung in low, dark green lines. Planted close together, each terrace was about eight and a half feet apart to make hand-picking easier. The quality of the grapes was improving with every year that passed, but none of the vines had yet reached the great age of seventy when, they were reliably informed, the grapes would be at their best.
Their distant neighbour, the German settler, Johann Gramp, could speak twelve languages and had been the first to see the potential of this wonderful wine-growing area once it had been surveyed by Lord Lynadock back in the ’thirties. It was his money that had paid for his fellow countrymen to travel to the valley and settle there. Most of the small towns that had sprung up in the area had German names that twisted the tongue far more than the aboriginal ones.
Gramp’s vineyard at Jacob’s Creek was one of the best and most successful in the valley yet he had time for everyone involved in the business of grape-growing and his expert knowledge and cheerful advice had helped the two women store and bottle their wine to its best advantage.
Having sent a wagon to Adelaide to import labour from amongst the idle seamen, Rose and Isobel had giant stone vats built to store their wine. These vats were lined with paraffin wax to seal the walls and make them cool in even the hottest of summers, and when it was time to scour them before the next harvest, the paraffin was burned off and reapplied. For the barrels, they used oak imported from Europe for the red wine, when they could afford it, or jarra hardwood from Australia when they couldn’t. Port and sherry could be stored in warm rooms to help it mature, but as the port took at least four years to mature it was an expensive capital investment as well as time-consuming. Each barrel and each bottle had to be hand stacked in dark tunnels beneath the earth, and turned regularly until it was ready to be taken down to Adelaide.
The harvest in that year of 1871 was the best yet, and now the Barossa Valley vintage was over, the wine festival was in full swing. Rose and Isobel stood on the verandah of Nuriootpa’s feed store and watched the procession march through town to the accompaniment of a brass band. The long months of uncertainty were over, the grapes pressed and in the storage tanks. With the account books at last showing more black than red, they could begin to plan Henry and Muriel’s wedding for the following summer.
Rose put her hands to her ears as the trumpets sounded off key and the big brass drum thundered out the beat. ‘You’d think they’d have learned to play the flamin’ things by now – they’ve had enough years’ practice,’she shouted above the racket.
Isobel shaded her eyes and pointed towards the rear of the parade. ‘Look, Rose. Don’t they make you feel proud?’
Rose smiled as she saw Emily and Muriel riding sidesaddle for once, their smart black riding habits draped most fetchingly over the horses’ rumps. The animals’ coats gleamed in the sun after hours of grooming early this morning and they seemed to relish being the centre of attention, picking up their hoofs and high-stepping to the music. There were ribbons plaited in their manes and tails, and the girls rode with their heads high, the impertinent little hats tilted at a rakish angle over their brows. At their sides rode the two handsome young men, Henry and Clive, their grins broad, their skittish horses held firmly in line.
‘They make a pretty picture, don’t they?’ murmured Rose. ‘Wouldn’t it be wonderful if …’ Her voice faded into silence as the cavalcade rose past.
‘I know what you’re thinking, Rose, but Clive and Emily are happy to remain just friends,’ said Isobel comfortably. ‘I wouldn’t want either of them to compromise their future by making the same mistake I did. There were too many years of regret afterwards.’
Rose hardly heard her for something had caught her eye. She peered through the cloud of dust that had been lifted by the marching feet and trampling hoofs, trying to catch sight of it again. Yet she hoped her eyes had deceived her. Hoped the past hadn’t caught up with her after all these years – and she would be made to face it.
The small outback town was crowded with vintners and pickers, field hands and growers, merchants and sightseers, and as the dust settled, they began to climb back on their horses and buggies and head for Jacob’s Creek pasture where the pig roast had been laid on with plenty of wine and beer to see them through the rest of the day and into the night.
Rose was barely aware of Isobel chattering at her side as she caught glimpses through the crowd of the figures on the other boardwalk, deaf to everything but the thunderous pounding of the blood in her ears and the pulse in her throat.
‘Rose?’ A hand tugged at her arm. ‘Rose, whatever is it? You’ve gone quite white.’
She eased away from Isobel and, with her skirts lifted out of the dust, slowly descended the wooden steps to the street. The heat shimmered and danced on the wooden peg tiles of the roofs. The bull dust sifted with the wind along the wide well-trodden track that ran through town. The distant discord of the brass band was displaced by the chattering of a flock of budgies – but she had eyes for only one thing, ears for only one sound, mind tuned to only one person.
He turned as if he’d heard her silent call. His eyes found hers as if he’d been drawn by the same magnet that pulled her towards him.
They met in the middle of the street that was wide enough to turn a bullock cart, the sun beating down from an almost washed-out sky. It was as if the world had spun away from them and no one else existed.
‘John?’ she breathed. ‘Is it really you?’
‘Rose. My dearest, sweetest Rose. I can’t believe it’s you at last.’ His hands reached for hers and they stood in awed silence in the middle of that outback town, oblivious to everything around them as they drank in the sight of one another.
Rose noticed how he’d changed. Gone was the carefree boy and in his place stood a man with wings of grey in his long hair and a dashing moustache covering his lip. He was still wiry beneath that prosperous suit, the shoulders firm, the legs tapered and straight. But his eyes hadn’t changed. They still looked down at her with love. Were still dark and long-lashed, with a depth that seemed to encompass her and draw her to him.
‘I can’t believe you’re here,’ she said finally, drawing her hands away from his clasp. She felt suddenly awkward, aware of Isobel’s stare and that of the woman on the far boardwalk who watched them with barely concealed animosity.
‘Rose,’ he breathed. ‘Do you know how long I’ve been looking for you? Do you have any idea of how long I waited to find you?’
She took a step back. ‘I’ve been in this country for over twenty-five years,’ she stammered as all the old feelings returned. ‘I never expected to see you again. Never dreamed you would follow me.’
He sighed. ‘And now it’s too late,’ he said, his glance taking in his wedding ring, and the one on her finger. ‘Do you love him, Rose? Does he make you happy?’
There was no point in telling him she was a widow. She nodded, the tears making it difficult to focus on his face. Such a strong face, so filled with painful regret. ‘But I never loved anyone as much as I loved you – you were always in my heart,’ she whispered.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce us then?’
The sharp voice made them draw away from each other and Rose’s glance was caught and held by inquisitive black eyes as the woman tucked a possessive hand into the crook of John’s arm.
‘This is my wife Tina,’ said John. ‘Tina, this is Rose.’
Rose took in the rich cloth of her dress and the creamy lace of her parasol and gloves. Tina was as dark as her husband with the same Romany look around her high cheekbones. Rose thought she could remember her as a young girl running through the hay during harvest. She nodded in acknowledgement and received a curious scrutiny in return.
‘Max is waiting, John. He wants to drive us to the picnic.’ Tina tugged lightly on his arm.
John’s reluctance to go with his wife was obvious
in the set of his mouth and the lowering of his brows. ‘I have four sons,’ he said as if stalling for more time in Rose’s company. ‘But only Max and my daughter Teresa are with us today. The other three are looking after my business interests in Adelaide.’
‘And what business is that, John?’ Her voice was steady, her tone politely interested, but inside Rose was in turmoil. She was longing to have him to herself so they could catch up on the stolen years – longed to drink in the sight and sound of him once again before they were torn apart again.
‘We have one of the largest merchant warehouses in Adelaide, with another in Sydney and one in Melbourne,’ interrupted Tina proudly. ‘We supply most of these outback towns as well as the cattle and sheep stations further north, and at the end of the year we’ll be opening our first emporium in Adelaide. It’s the reason we’re here: to select wines. But of course the stock must be the finest as our customers will come from the highest in society,’ she finished with a sharp look at the home-made dress and hat Rose was wearing.
Rose smiled, not at all put out by the other woman’s cattiness. ‘I’m glad you’ve been so successful,’ she murmured as Isobel came across the road to join them.
With the introductions made, the women declined the offer of a ride in the buggy to the picnic fields and watched as it bowled past them. Rose noticed how John looked at her as she stood on the side of that dusty road in the searing heat. Saw how his son Max was the image of the young boy John had once been, and her pulse thudded as all the memories of her childhood returned. She knew from that one glance John would somehow find a way for them to be alone – and she wanted it to be so – yet she dreaded the moment for time had moved on and they could never hope to recapture what they’d once felt. No longer had the right to love each other.
Isobel too was strangely silent as they made their way down the street towards the celebrations.
Jacaranda Vines Page 33
