Betts threw a stone into the dirt. ‘We’ll see. This place is the ends of the earth.’
His mate scoffed. ‘You said that when we got off that hulk in the harbour. Bet you’re wishing you didn’t steal that bread now.’
‘Shut your trap,’ Betts growled.
Chapter 14
1837 October – The Rocks, Sydney
Georgina Lycett was seated by the window, her gaze fixed on some point beyond the tall masted ships moored in the harbour. The view across the water to the heavily timbered foreshore was breathtaking. The ocean glimmered. Vessels plied the calm surface leaving tiny streamer-like trails in their wake. Winston could have watched the activity for hours. It was a scene so different from the brown-green stillness of the farm that he found himself wondering why his father hadn’t chosen a merchant’s life, or at least some employ associated with the riches that the ocean could provide. There was also the intriguing enjoyment of being in Sydney, where women, wine and song were available any hour of the day, if one had the coin to pay for it. Which he now did.
It was a clear, sunny morning and fashionable Princes Street was abuzz with activity. Men and women strolled casually, stopping to talk to friends, their voices carrying upwards to the second storey of the townhouse owned by a family friend. The friend in question, Mrs Annabel Beuth, sat on the opposite side of the room, her fingers rarely faltering in the cross-stitch she was absorbed in. Her merchant husband had been one of the first to see the benefit of building in this particular section of The Rocks and Annabel, now fifty years old, was at long last enjoying the life that years of toil had rewarded. It was true that their locale was bordered by minor streets with less than desirable occupants, however, in only a matter of years the wealthy had made Princes Street a coveted address.
Although pleased to see his mother, Winston wished to be anywhere but here. Georgina Lycett had not shifted in her chair, her profile, with its patrician nose and stubborn chin, thrown into relief by the brightness of the day. Mrs Beuth had rung for tea and an assigned servant had delivered the hot drink. Small talk had been made and still his mother remained silent. A carriage clock ticked. From the street below came the sound of a woman laughing. There was to be a hanging this morning and the crowds on Gallows Hill were already thick.
‘I must thank you for the care you have shown my mother, Mrs Beuth,’ Winston began, noticing not for the first time the fineness of the furniture in the room; the chairs with their brightly upholstered seat cushions, the matching window dressing and the gleaming breakfast table, an environment that was in stark contrast to the Lycett farmhouse. ‘Is she sufficiently recovered?’ He was inclined to reach for the fruit bowl where grapes, nectarines and plums enticed. The quality and cheapness of the food in the city was quite remarkable.
The heavily built woman lifted her cap-covered head. ‘I wonder you have not been to visit sooner. It is past a month since her arrival.’ Mrs Beuth’s grey eyes were reproving.
Draining his tea cup Winston sat the service on a side table. ‘There were things that needed to be attended to.’ What was he meant to say to a mute woman? He assumed that his mother would regain her speech when her strength returned. In the meantime there were too many sights and sounds drawing him. He’d spent the early morning walking about the foreshore. The area was crowded with merchants and chandlers, hardware shops, taverns and bond stores. This was a place of smells and sights such as he’d never imagined.
The woman returned to her sewing. ‘Your mother has expressed a desire to return to London. I have written on her behalf to your father’s sister informing Mrs Farrah of her imminent return. You will make the necessary arrangements for her passage.’
His mother remained expressionless.
‘Of course.’ Winston tried not to show his surprise. Mrs Beuth was a right old boiler, but then what could one expect of the merchant class. ‘I did not think, however, that she would wish to leave here. There is our farm, after all, the family business, and my father’s will stipulates that my mother remain in my care.’
Mrs Beuth held the cross-stitch aloft and studied it critically. ‘You can hardly expect your mother to return to those wilds. My husband, may he rest in peace, always maintained that the lands beyond the mountains were no place for an English woman.’ Satisfied with her handiwork, she placed it aside. ‘Ridiculous. Still, your land cannot founder and sink to the bottom of the ocean,’ she concluded, referencing the loss of a whaling ship acquired and equipped by her husband for £10,000. ‘Your mother wishes to sell your father’s acreage. She will need monies of her own, else she’ll be at the mercy of her sister-in-law.’
Winston turned to his mother. He would never forget searching for her those many days, only to find her three nights after her husband’s death curled up by the creek. He had nursed her at the farm and then, once capable of travel, taken her to Sydney Town and Mrs Beuth’s home. In all that time she’d never uttered one word to him. Food and drink had passed her lips, indeed she’d been a most dutiful patient, but she never spoke to him, not once. Not even his father’s grave, placed with care amongst the smaller remembrances of Winston’s siblings, encouraged her to speak.
‘My father’s property has been bequeathed to me. I will not be selling the farm,’ Winston stated flatly. ‘I thank you for your interest in my mother’s situation, Mrs Beuth, but these matters are not of your concern.’ He wanted to add that Mrs Beuth should attend to her sewing and not meddle in the affairs of men, but for the moment the woman was providing his mother with all the necessary comforts appropriate to her station. ‘It is only right and proper that my aunt offer my mother hearth and home, if that truly is her choice, but I’m sure you will understand that I would like to hear such sentiments from her own lips.’
‘There is nothing for me here.’ His mother’s voice was soft, broken. It quavered like an unfinished musical note. ‘Annabel, you will excuse us, my dear. I need to have a few minutes alone with my son.’
Their hostess was slow to move. ‘You are sure?’ When there were no words spoken to the contrary, Mrs Beuth placed her sewing down. ‘Do not upset your mother, Winston. She has been through more than a person ought.’
Winston rose. ‘We both have.’
‘Really?’ Mrs Beuth regarded him coolly before leaving the room. The door closed with a sharp click.
Through the window a convict hulk and deep sea whalers sat stationary as a fleet of other vessels navigated between them. For the briefest of moments Winston wished he was aboard one of the boats moving men and equipment to whaling stations scattered along the coast. He focused on the activity. Sailors were busy loading barrels of salted meat, bales of wool and a supply of empty wooden casks to store whale oil.
‘The police paid me the compliment of a visit.’
‘The police,’ Winston repeated.
‘Have you become like one of the caged birds that your father kept?’
His mother rose, steadying herself on the windowsill. On facing him her eyes were puffy, her face blank. But it was the disappearance of her ready smile, a constant in his life, that struck him.
‘They wanted to confirm events on the day … the day of your father’s death.’
‘I see.’ This was unexpected. Winston had described the incident fully to the local police, the report of which was forwarded to the sheriff of New South Wales. He’d thought a warrant to have already been issued.
‘They wanted to confirm that it was indeed Adam who shot and killed your father.’ She paused as if to gauge his reaction. ‘I did not realise the regard in which Adam was held by some, although we knew his many attributes, didn’t we?’ Again she waited. ‘After the shooting was reported in the newspaper, apparently a number of people came forward attesting to his character.’
Winston said nothing. He’d been given no sign previously as to his mother’s recollections from that day, believing that the shock of his father’s death had obliterated the details.
‘It is a sorry t
hing that has happened.’
‘Indeed. Father’s death is a great loss to us both.’ In his own way, Winston wanted to honour his father’s life and dream. To that extent he intended to employ a manager to run the farm instead of selling it, and purchase a townhouse in one of the more fashionable areas of Sydney as his main residence. There was no point acquiring more land. Winston knew his father wouldn’t approve, but it was the best he could do. He wasn’t living out in the wilds a minute longer.
His mother began to pace the room, the dark taffeta of her skirt rustling as she moved. ‘If it was not Adam, the young boy who sat beneath the schooling tree, your friend, a man which your own father held with some regard, if it was another,’ her eyes grew glassy, ‘you, perhaps …’
Winston swallowed.
‘Then there might still be some form of punishment allotted to you. Someone must be held accountable for your father’s death, for the death of the shepherd, kin or not, accidental or not. Who knows what the verdict might be, or the sentence handed down, especially after the stories in the paper, after your rendition of that day. If the truth were to come out it may look as if you tried to mislead. If gaol was involved, there would be no-one to manage the farm and I will not waste money on a manager nor ever set foot on that property again. There is the possibility the holding would have to be sold.’
‘What are you trying to say, Mother?’
‘I told the police that I agreed with your version’ – she said the word slowly, deliberately – ‘of events. Though it went against my conscience, against my religion, against everything I was brought up to believe in. Do you want to know why I did this?’
Winston shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. ‘Firstly because it was a terrible accident and secondly, I’m your son, your only surviving child.’
‘The gossipmongers have filled the papers with stories, fact and fiction, about your father’s death. And thanks to you, Adam has already been tried by the press and found guilty. Do you know that the description of your friend was very detailed? Every item of clothing, the way he wore his shoulder-length hair, the darkness of his eyes, down to the shells he wore about his wrist were listed for all to read. But you are not surprised, are you, my son? For it was you who gave these details.’ Georgina brushed her hands together as if wiping away dirt. ‘In the end my current situation needed to be considered,’ she finished tiredly.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘I’m sure you do, Winston. As you already mentioned, your father left everything to you in his will with a small stipend for myself. But firstly let me confirm that a warrant has been issued. Adam is wanted for your father’s murder, along with the natives involved.’
‘You have done the right thing, Mother,’ Winston replied. What else could he say? It was too late to recant his story. The events surrounding the attack on the Lycett farm had grown out of all proportion and spread like one of the many fires across the colony.
‘Tell me this, why Adam? He was your friend. If you really were too scared to take responsibility for your own actions, why not blame one of the natives? Heaven knows there are plenty of them in the area and they were there that day. They started it.’
‘It happened so quickly. Adam arrived and he found me and Father and,’ he took a breath, ‘he just stood there with this horrified, disbelieving look on his face.’
‘The use of a musket would be a last resort for Adam,’ his mother concluded.
Winston hesitated. His childhood friend had grown to be a reminder of the type of person that he could never be. If his father hadn’t offered Adam management of the prospective holding at Bathurst, if Adam hadn’t told the blacks about Merindah, if that convict had not arrived as Adam had left that day … Winston had been in shock. He’d been angry, at life, at his father, at Adam. Grief and resentment and fury had led him to blame Adam for his father’s death. He’d told the convict, Chaffy Hall, that Adam was responsible, and then the constabulary. By the time Winston realised the enormity of what he’d done, it was too late. He couldn’t go back on his word, wouldn’t change his story, couldn’t risk smearing the Lycett name. It was all too late. And as his mother rightly insinuated, there could be consequences if he admitted his deception. ‘Adam was raised by blacks, Mother. There are things you don’t know about him.’
His mother had a stony look about her. ‘Clearly there are things I didn’t know about you either. Adam was your friend. You have shown yourself in a most despicable light. The farm is to be sold. We will share the proceeds equally.’ Moving to the bell pull, she tugged at the length of material that fed down from the picture rail.
‘I will never agree to it. That property is mine by right.’
‘Do not think, Winston, that I will return to England a pauper, not having buried your little brothers and sisters, not after having been subjected to the loneliness and discomfort of your father’s dream, though I loved him dearly.’ She gritted her teeth, her words leaden. ‘And do not think that I would hesitate in changing my story, in sullying the Lycett name with the truth, that you shot your father because you were terrified, a grown man cowering behind the door. You shot him in your cowardice even though I told you I could see him running towards the house.’ Her breath grew irregular. ‘I only agreed to your story because I will not return to London penniless, and in spite of what you have done I would not see you in trouble with the law. You have your conscience to answer to and the loss of the livelihood that you expected. You may consider the punishment in the extreme but it will never atone for the death of my husband or the noose that you have surely placed around Adam’s neck. Yes, the land is rightfully yours but you will sell it, my boy, or risk an uncertain future.’
‘You would reveal me if I don’t agree? But I’m your son.’
‘The pity of it is that you are my only child.’
The door opened. A servant bobbed a curtsey.
‘You will show my son out, Susannah, and then I would like you to accompany me up George Street. I wish to purchase some silk and lace for a new gown and I’m unsure of the best place to obtain these goods.’
‘Of course, Mrs Lycett.’ The girl waited for Winston.
‘I do miss him, Mother, and I’m sorry.’
A single tear was the only response Winston received as his mother turned away.
‘You will return Tuesday week, Winston. By that time I will have had the necessary papers drawn up for you to peruse. I already have an interested party.’
‘But, Mother, what do you expect me to do? I will have to work. I will have no income. I intended to pursue my studies, to purchase a residence in town and find a suitable wife. Please, you must forgive me. I too suffer. I wake up in a cold sweat at night thinking on what I’ve done. I have cried for my father, until I can cry no more.’
His mother returned to the seat by the window. ‘You are lucky. I am yet to reach that point. If I ever will.’
Winston shooed the maid from the room and took a step forwards. ‘As for Adam, please don’t think I don’t regret what I have done. I was just so angry. It was because of him that the blacks attacked.’
His mother spun in her seat to face him. ‘How is that possible?’
Winston was lost for words. How could he admit his fraternisation with Merindah? ‘I will spare you the details, Mother, but believe me when I say that it was Adam’s fault. I am only sorry that in my anger I accused him of Father’s death. It was a most terrible thing to do and I regret it.’ His hands dropped to his sides. The wickedness of what he’d done would stay with Winston forever.
‘We will say no more about this matter.’ Georgina Lycett turned back towards the window and the harbour beyond. ‘You are my son and I love you, but I don’t like you. Not after everything you have done. As for your future, you will have funds enough to afford decent lodging and you are a learned man, Winston. It is time to put your mental faculties to use, perhaps as a clerk, or a bookkeeper or a journalist – it seems you have a penchant for st
ories.’
‘Yes, Mother.’ Winston could think of no retaliatory argument that would restore her favour. Georgina Lycett was a grieving widow intent on ensuring her future comfort and meting out punishment along the way. ‘Goodbye, Mother.’
She didn’t respond as he left the room.
Outside, Winston blinked at the glare and, head down, began to walk. The street was busy with people, horses and drays and he found himself yearning for the quiet of the bush as he aimlessly turned down one street and then another. When he finally stopped to check his bearings Winston realised he had no idea where he was. The sun was at its highest point and he was hot and thirsty. The street housed a number of taverns and was close to the harbour, and unlike the area where his mother currently lived, it was certainly not a place for the upper classes.
Inside one of the taverns, Winston ordered a rum and sat at a corner table. The room held an assortment of men, rough sailor types from whaling ships and other undesirables. In hindsight it was not the best of hostelries to stop in for he was immediately the subject of unwanted stares, although the innkeeper was happy to keep his glass full, and by his fourth rum Winston was feeling a little better.
‘You want some company then?’ The girl was young and full-breasted, a feature enhanced by the unlaced bodice which gave a tantalising glimpse of pale skin. She straddled a chair, hiking the skirt up to her thighs. There were pox marks on her face, but not enough to mar the thought of bedding her and it only took a nod and she was leading Winston up narrow stairs, to the approving nod of the innkeeper.
In a tiny room with a crumpled cot and a washstand, Winston sat on the bed and told the girl to undress. She obliged, defrocking in an instant to stand naked before him as he quickly removed his jacket and shoes.
‘How do you like it then?’ she asked, giving him a coy smile.
Wild Lands Page 21
