The Valley

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The Valley Page 15

by Di Morrissey


  ‘Indeed it has. There are sad stories buried in its soil. But you’ll be safe here. The spirits are all around your cottage. They’ll protect you.’

  ‘Thanks. I’m glad.’ She just hoped the spirits kept to themselves. She didn’t want to confront any of them just the same.

  ‘Someone’s been here,’ said Max as they drove in beside the house. He pointed to tyre marks in the grass.

  ‘There were some roses in the front garden bed there too,’ said Dani. ‘I wonder if the solicitor came out to check. The owner doesn’t live here.’

  ‘You can put the key away, the door’s unlocked,’ said Max. ‘Mostly how it is in the country. Or used to be. Vandals do roam around occasionally.’

  There was a bigger surprise when they stepped inside.

  ‘My God, it’s been furnished!’ exclaimed Dani.

  They hurried through the house to find beds, a wardrobe, tables, kitchen dresser, wicker chairs along the verandah.

  ‘It’s old stuff, sturdy enough. Not exactly French-polished antiques though,’ said Max with a man’s practical eye.

  ‘But, Max, it’s fabulous. This is the real thing. I love it,’ enthused Dani. ‘Real and rustic.’ She began calling the solicitor on her mobile.

  ‘You’ll probably have to go outside to get reception,’ said Max. ‘I’ll take a look around.’

  Dani raced out the door to stand on a small hillock close to the old clothesline held up by a wooden forked prop. When she returned she found Max in her ‘studio’. ‘He said it was stored up at the old house across the hill. I might as well make use of it. There’s a caretaker who comes and goes.’

  ‘Very handy. Now this is a great space, Dani. I reckon you should face towards that window when you work. Shall we bring in the stuff and see what goes where?’

  Two hours later Dani and Max had arranged her studio with easel, boards, paints, rags, turps, brushes, jars, sketchbooks and several spotlights.

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said Max, going back to the car.

  Dani went through the house again, visualising where she’d put the few personal items – books, rugs, ornaments, some photographs, china, linen and clothes – she’d brought with her. She looked at the stack of firewood by the pot-bellied stove and then saw on the old beechwood dining table the roses from the garden in a quaint crystal vase. She went back to the studio to find Max adjusting a large painting on the wall.

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m intruding on your space, but I thought you might like this. It’s a painting of the river flats near Riverwood.’

  ‘Max, it’s beautiful,’ gasped Dani. ‘I’m honoured to have the loan of one of your pictures. It will be my inspiration.’

  ‘It’s not on loan. I’d be happy to know you have it. You’re part of this landscape now.’

  Dani couldn’t speak for a moment. ‘Thank you, Max.’ She hugged him. ‘Let me buy you lunch at the Nostalgia.’

  ‘There’s certainly a lot of that around here,’ smiled Max as Dani whistled for Jolly and closed the door, not bothering to lock it.

  As the house disappeared from view in the gully and they turned onto the dirt road, Dani glanced back at the gate. The Vale, her new home. It was going to be fine. She just hoped she could live up to Max’s expectations and produce good work.

  Max was thoughtful as he drove. It was a great place for Dani, and he trusted the spirits there would protect her. For he had an unmistakeable and uneasy sense that sadness lurked in the story of the land where The Vale now nestled.

  6

  Mount George, 1844

  Isabella

  ISABELLA UNHITCHED THE OLD mare from the dray, turned her loose and then lifted down the plants she’d collected from the wetlands and a thick pocket of littoral rainforest on her property, much of which she had yet to explore.

  Labourers had built post-and-rail fences close to the homestead where the best brood mares and foals were kept and she was pleased with the progeny from her stallions and mares. She’d chosen well, even if she’d paid more than planned. The agent had been impressed and sought her opinion on several horses he had in mind for himself. He wondered where Miss Kelly had acquired her knowledge of horseflesh and assumed she must have come from a family of wealthy landowners in Ireland and England. He hoped he would continue to be hired by Miss Kelly when it came time to sell her young horses. Good animals were in strong demand from the British Army in India as well as in a fast-expanding Sydney town and other parts of the colony.

  Isabella carefully laid the plants on damp sacks without disturbing the clumps of soil around the roots and marvelled at their unusual leaves, buds and seeds. Some looked like small creatures, others like works of art.

  But she was most elated at discovering several carnivorous plants that trapped and ate insects and even devoured very tiny fish and tadpoles from the marshy wetlands.

  She had first been alerted to these extraordinary plants by Lieutenant Benjamin Bynoe, a surgeon in the navy and amateur botanist, at a chance meeting in Sydney. At first she thought he was inventing the tale of plants that ate flesh, but when he produced his record books going back to his first voyage to the Galapagos with Charles Darwin on The Beagle, she had been convinced and intrigued. Isabella listened enrapt when he talked of his discoveries with Darwin in the Galapagos, devouring his knowledge. He was modest in recounting his exploits but Isabella was impressed and vowed when she had time and was properly established she would pursue further studies and research into the flora and fauna of her new land.

  In the meantime she couldn’t resist the urge to pick up plants that caught her eye. She had constructed a primitive greenhouse of bark and flour bags near the kitchen and had two convict girls collect used house water to pour on her plants. The girls thought it all a waste of time and effort but kept that to themselves. Very quickly Isabella had some success with the wild orchids, waxy epiphytes and ferns transplanted from the fringe of the dense and towering rainforest. She found it an eerie place and if it wasn’t for the lure of strange and beautiful plants clinging to the bark of old trees, or growing in the deep litter of decaying leaves and between the high roots of the massive fig trees, she wouldn’t have ventured into the forest.

  Isabella far preferred the grassy open bushland with stands of eucalypts, beech and white mahogany. The acacias with their delicate golden balls of fluffy flowers, the deep red blooms of the flame trees and the she-oaks that rustled along the waterways delighted her eye.

  She kept a meticulous diary with precise watercolour drawings of the plants she found and wrote notes describing their habitat. She wished she was a trained artist who could paint on a large scale and capture the vastness of this country. Her country. As far as she could see, even beyond the next mountain, she owned tracts of as yet undeveloped land. She had great dreams, but knew it would take time and careful planning to make those dreams a reality.

  Isabella was deep in thought and out of sight in the plant house when she heard a commotion near the homestead kitchen. One of the servant girls was calling and distraught.

  Rothwall, the overseer, was shouting. ‘Where are they? Where are they? Damned gins. Should be shot, the lot of them!’

  The girl broke into a wailing scream.

  ‘Come on’, shouted Rothwall. ‘Tell me where. Which woman is causing the trouble, has she been up here at the homestead?’

  Isabella stepped from the plant shelter. ‘What is this commotion about?’ she called loudly as she went towards the arguing workers.

  The servant girl ran to her, wringing her hands on her rough cloth pinafore. ‘Madam, please, there is a native girl. She needs help. I went to their camp and it’s terrible.’ She burst into a flood of tears.

  ‘You are expressly forbidden to go near any native camps,’ snapped Isabella and turned her attention to the overseer who was carrying a musket. ‘And you, Rothwall, what do you think you are doing with a weapon? Seeking another whipping at Port Macquarie?’

  ‘Ma’am, wi
th respect, I took it from the cook in order to protect your property. It seems there is some trouble with the blacks.’ He proffered the gun and made a gesture of apology. ‘I intended to protect this place.’

  Isabella took the gun from the overseer and turned to the sobbing girl. ‘Well, Hettie, what’s going on? Speak quickly.’

  The servant girl drew a breath and glanced fearfully at Rothwall. ‘This black girl came to the kitchen garden and cried out. She made motions of a baby and was babbling in her tongue. So I ran and bade her show me.’ She paused to swallow and take a deep breath. ‘Down by the creek, o’er there near the crossing, she has given birth to an infant and two native men want to kill it. Or so it seemed, ma’am.’

  ‘Please, Hettie, no more of this hysteria. Go back to your duties. I will handle this.’ Isabella handed the musket to the girl. ‘Put this back in the kitchen. Rothwall, follow me but do nothing without my instructions.’ Once again Rothwall had overstepped the boundaries she set. She knew very well it irked him to be subservient to a woman. Isabella strode out in her boots, long skirt, cabbage tree hat tied down with a scarf, pulled her thick gloves from her hands and stuffed them in a pocket of her skirt as she set out. Behind her back Rothwall shook his fist at the girl as he followed Isabella.

  Isabella could hear the wailing and men’s voices as she approached the creek that led to Kelly’s Crossing. A young Aboriginal woman, naked save for a small loincloth, was sitting next to a campfire, suckling a newborn baby. Two older women sat behind her, watching the confrontation between Florian Holmes, a convict labourer who worked for Isabella, and two Aboriginal men, elders of the tribe. One of the Aborigines was shaking a spear in the direction of the woman and baby, while Florian brandished a gun.

  ‘Holmes! Step aside. Just what do you think you’re doing?’ demanded Isabella hurrying from the trees towards the group.

  ‘Madam, these savages want to kill the child!’

  ‘Put the gun on the ground, and tell those blacks to drop their spears at once.’ Isabella knew Florian Holmes had learned a smattering of the local language.

  Florian said a few words to the natives, who became less agitated and stared at Isabella sullenly as she approached the convict. ‘What is the issue with the child?’ asked Isabella.

  Florian glanced at the woman and child and looked at his boots as he spoke. ‘The child is sired by me, Miss Kelly. It is a boy and because of the light skin they want to send it away. Which I believe means to kill it. Noona says it is the custom as half-castes bring bad luck.’

  Isabella recalled the pretty young gin hanging around the outhouses and kitchen hoping for food scraps and being curious. She was wilder than the native girls who’d been taken into the township to work as house girls for white people. Already there was talk of missionaries setting up places to convert and save the heathen women but Isabella was not sure that was a good idea. Her instinct was to let the natives keep to their customs, as long as they didn’t get in her way. But she was angry that she had been so absorbed in recent months to have overlooked what some of her men were up to. Lust had caused the problem she now faced.

  ‘Does Noonamaji wish to abide by their law? You certainly can’t help the infant. It’s probably best to allow their custom to prevail,’ said Isabella.

  ‘Let them have their way once and they’ll try anything . . .’ said Jack Rothwall in an angry undertone.

  ‘Ma’am, Noona is a kind and pleasant-natured girl. I must defend her. And the child,’ said Florian with some passion.

  Isabella was surprised. Florian was still young, unschooled in ways of the world. ‘You owe this woman and child nothing, so learn from this unfortunate incident. Let matters be with the natives. I do not want conflict with the blacks on my property. I will overlook the “borrowing” of a weapon as you have been threatened by the blacks. Which you have brought on yourself. Return to your duties, Holmes,’ she said firmly.

  ‘Ma’am I cannot stand by and allow this – atrocity,’ cried Florian Holmes.

  ‘Disobey me again and you will be punished. Leave at once,’ said Isabella sternly. ‘You too, Rothwall.’ She did not like the way the convict overseer was glowering at the two Aboriginal men.

  Florian made a helpless gesture towards the girl who had been watching this exchange intently. On seeing him turn away, avoiding her, and walk to his horse, she began wailing. The Aboriginal elders, men and women, all began shouting, and the mother wailed louder.

  Isabella too turned and walked away, Rothwall hastening to keep up with her. ‘Madam, forgive me, but I fear this might cause trouble . . . among the other men. There is a lot of jealousy among the blacks over their women. If you’ll forgive me saying so, the blacks will now consider their laws prevail over ours.’

  ‘Then tell the men they should curb their desires and keep away from the blacks. Especially the women,’ said Isabella curtly. She was annoyed at the whole episode, but particularly by her sudden feelings of remorse, and that she had allowed the native custom to upset her. Even from a distance the lithe black body of the young mother caressing her light-skinned baby had presented a beautiful tableau. And, she had to admit, Florian Holmes appeared to show genuine feelings of concern and attachment to the baby he’d fathered. Rothwall was another concern. He had been in brawls and drunken altercations in town and made no secret of his deep hatred of the natives.

  A sense of ennui descended over the property, the convicts found tasks in sheds or on distant fences that kept them apart and sluggishly employed, away from Miss Kelly’s steely eyes. The women went about their tasks without interest, whispering instead of shouting and laughing. It was an uneasy peace.

  Late that afternoon the community magistrate, Mr George Rowley, passing through the area, stopped to pay his respects, and to discreetly observe how this unique pioneering lady was handling her staff and the property.

  In the privacy of her sitting room after tea was brought in and the door closed, Isabella confided the details of the morning’s fracas over the half-caste child. ‘I am concerned that matters have not been easily concluded. The boy seems genuinely concerned about the welfare of the child and the mother, but Rothwall is a hothead and one day he may do something foolish. He would run every one of them off the place if he got a free hand,’ said Isabella.

  ‘It is becoming a common problem,’ agreed Rowley. ‘The attorney-general is aware of widespread instances of Aboriginal women being, ahem, detained against their will by white men . . . ’ he said delicately.

  ‘No such arrangement was sanctioned here, I can assure you,’ said Isabella quickly. ‘Did not Governor Gipps issue a decree that anyone involved in such unchristian acts would lose their licence and be prosecuted as illegal occupiers of crown land?’

  ‘You are correct, Miss Kelly. The other issue is, unless women are returned to their tribe, other members of their people could take aggressive action and revenge upon settlers. Even innocent ones. As you have done, keep this matter quiet. These situations must be dealt with by the natives in their own fashion. Unsavoury as the outcome might be.’

  After a brief tour of the homestead facilities, Mr Rowley congratulated Isabella on the progress she was making and rode off, aiming to reach a small river settlement before sunset.

  It seemed to Isabella all had indeed settled down. She took some of the men and moved a big mob of cattle to hilly, timbered country where the grass was rich. On her return after several days in the bush, she left the men to unsaddle the horses and walked along the side of the house where the struggling kitchen garden was planted near the well that tapped into a reliable underground stream. Nearby was a rough lean-to of bark and split timber where the sulky and harness gear was kept from the weather.

  She paused on hearing the murmur of voices inside, then the delighted gurgle of an infant. From the entrance she saw, on a rough sacking bed behind the sulky, Florian Holmes kneeling beside Noona and tickling his baby son lying across her lap.

  ‘Holmes! What is
going on here? How long has that woman been here?’ Isabella noted the coolamon cradle made from a curved piece of tree bark, a blanket, a billycan and enamel mugs, which indicated the mother and baby had been in residence for some time.

  Florian scrambled to his feet. ‘Please, Miss Kelly, it is just for a short while. I couldn’t allow my child to be slaughtered.’

  ‘That might be commendable in our society, but you are dabbling in native affairs, Mr Holmes, and putting all of us here at risk. You are breaking the law. I can be charged and thrown off my land, the blacks will retaliate.’

  ‘No, no, Ma’am. They know Noona is with me. All will be well, I have –’

  Isabella raised a hand in protest and interrupted his passionate speech. ‘You cannot keep them here. They must leave.’

  ‘If they leave, so must I,’ he responded stubbornly. ‘There will not be any payback from the tribe. Noona has been made an outcast. They made her leave the baby behind when they moved on. But that night she ran back to the campfire where she’d left the baby in the warm ashes. So she is free to make her own way in the world provided she does not seek to return to the tribe with the child.’

  Isabella was momentarily stunned at this news. ‘You are a young man, soon a free man, surely you can’t mean to bind yourself to a native woman? You are very close to getting your ticket-of-leave. I’m sorry, I cannot condone their being here. I have put too much into this property. I have enemies in this valley and they will use any chance to bring me undone.’

  Florian nodded miserably. He knew she was right. ‘I don’t want to cause you trouble, Miss Kelly. I will make some arrangements. In two weeks I can make my own way as a free man. Allow her to stay with the babe until then.’

  ‘Who knows they are here?’

  ‘Hettie. She’s trustworthy.’

  Isabella hesitated. Something about the earnest young man and the gentle girl with the beautiful baby touched her. She knew she should be running them off her land, reporting the young convict – sentenced for stealing bread for his grievously sick mother he’d told her – but he was a hard worker, good with horses, likeable and respectful. Unlike the other men. She had no doubt Hettie was passing along food scraps and felt protective towards them. Hettie was a young girl, abandoned when her widowed father was jailed for drunken brawling in Sydney town.

 

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