If so, I hardly know how to feel. Good or bad? Rewarded or condemned? Excluded, certainly. For I expect that I shall never know the truth. Not, at least, until I appeal to that eternal tribunal, before which everyone may receive the things done in his body, according to that he hath done, whether it be good or bad.
Thirty-seven
1847
My marriage to Thomas McNeilly was not a foregone conclusion, even after our first kiss. Only consider the objections to such a match. Thomas was an Irish Catholic groom, whereas I was a Protestant lady of English extraction, ten years younger than he was. To contemplate so unlikely a union was to foresee all manner of insurmountable difficulties.
Perhaps that is why I shut my eyes to the future, living wholly in the present until circumstances forced me to do otherwise.
With a purpose to my existence, I no longer spent all my time sulking and raging. Instead I was careful not to flout any rules, since this would inevitably have led to further restrictions. I was helpful, meek and industrious. I avoided the subject of Belanglo, at least in my mother’s hearing, and did not go riding off on my own. I had no desire for solitude. My longing now was for Thomas’s company, though it was not easily assuaged. Oldbury seemed a hive of people; I would be going to accost him when someone—a relative or servant—would suddenly emerge from a room or outbuilding, compelling me to swerve off course. Thomas, moreover, was rarely invited into the house. And I could find very few legitimate reasons for visiting the stables.
Oh, but we were star-crossed lovers! In more ways than one, too, for we did not understand each other in the least. How could we? I hardly knew whether to trust him. He, in turn, did not feel sure of me. ‘I could not understand what ye wanted,’ he once confessed. This is hardly surprising, since I did not know myself.
Certainly he must have been on tenterhooks after kissing me. There was every chance that he might lose his job. A day passed, and then two, during which we exchanged only intent looks as we passed each other in the yard. Gradually it must have become apparent to him that I had not run and told my mother. Whereupon his wary expression became more speculative, and the muscles in his shoulders relaxed.
I was up and about, limping slightly but otherwise capable, when at last he approached me again. That was in the dairy, one drowsy afternoon. It was the luckiest thing that I should have been alone, and in such a secluded spot; normally my mother skimmed the cream, while it was Sarah’s job to churn the butter. My duties tended to keep me either inside the house or somewhere that admitted of no concealment. (The vegetable garden, for example.) And though I was often in the kitchen, so was Sarah. Traffic through the kitchen was such that one could not be sure of a minute’s solitude among the cooking pots.
The dairy was a different matter. Because it was generally kept locked, this little stone building was not much frequented. Milk and butter being such precious commodities, my mother was extremely protective of the dairy and its contents. James, for example, was never allowed in. For James could not be trusted with cream.
‘If that is you, James, Mama says you mayn’t even cross the threshold,’ I announced, when I heard the creak of hinges. Then I looked up, and my heart bounded.
‘’Tisn’t yer brother, Miss,’ said Thomas, quietly pushing the door shut behind him. ‘I came on account o’ yer Ma. She says that, if ye start ridin’ agin, it must be on Ida. At least ’til ye’re well ready for the hack.’
‘Oh,’ I said. He smelled of horse, and his hair was damp with sweat, and his boots were filthy. Yet I did not care in the least. I thought him in every way admirable.
‘Are ye puttin’ much weight on that foot?’ he inquired, taking a step forward.
‘I—I don’t know,’ was my stammered response.
‘Will ye take a turn around the room, Miss? So as I might see how ye’re farin’?’
I laid down my skimmer, prepared to comply. But my pride then came to my rescue.
‘You want me to parade up and down like a horse, in order to check my gait? I think not.’
‘Then I suppose I must examine yer fetlock,’ he said, cocking his head and taking another step forward.
‘You will do nothing of the kind!’ I exclaimed, with a delicious thrill. ‘Really, what an idea!’
‘Then how am I to judge ye fit?’ he said plaintively.
‘I shall be the judge, not you.’
‘Oh, aye?’
‘As a matter of fact, I am perfectly fit to ride side-saddle. And was planning to do so tomorrow.’
‘If ye cannot dance, ye cannot ride.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I’ll not be lettin’ any lass up on a horse who cannot show a trim pair o’ heels on a dance floor, beggin’ yer pardon, Miss.’ He folded his arms. ‘Thing is, if yer foot cannot take a sturdy polka, ’twill baulk at a stirrup.’
‘You want me to dance a polka?’ I could hardly believe my ears. ‘And then you will allow me up on a horse?’
‘Aye.’
‘Is that a promise?’
‘Word of honour.’
I promptly executed a quick polka step, somewhat hampered by my voluminous Holland apron.
‘There,’ I said.
‘Ye winced.’
‘I did not!’
‘I saw’t clear as day.’
‘Nonsense.’ I was growing annoyed. ‘We had an agreement. I shall not dance again.’
‘Not even wit’ me?’
I looked up at him, suddenly breathless. He had drawn very near, and seemed all at once immensely tall.
‘If ye can manage a waltz, I’ll not say another word about that foot,’ he said. ‘Once around the room, eh? Slow time.’
Though I made no reply, my expression must have betrayed me. I did not object as he put his arm around my waist. His hand found mine without any help, but without encountering any resistance either. ‘One, two, three; one, two, three . . .’ he counted, and we were off.
I watched his feet at first, because I did not have the courage to raise my head. His close proximity was almost dizzying; his warmth seemed to enclose me, much as it had before. Soon, however, I was distracted by his awkward gait. It had surprised me that he should have known how to waltz, for in those days the waltz was still very much a gentleman’s dance, and not one of which my mother’s generation thoroughly approved. I myself had learned it in Fanny’s drawing room—and Thomas, I later discovered, from watching a ball on board ship. As a consequence, he was not wholly accustomed to the steps, and was inclined to perform a kind of modified mazurka unless firmly restrained.
After a short time, I found that I had to stop.
‘I’m sorry, this will not answer,’ I said. ‘We are not well matched.’ The words had barely left my mouth when I grasped their full import, and glanced up in alarm.
His face was gloomy.
‘Sure, and weren’t we always a poor fit?’ he replied, without relaxing his hold. ‘Only a fool would think otherwise. And we’re neither of us fools.’
My eyes filled with tears, which must have glittered in the dim light. For he clicked his tongue, and shook his head.
‘Ah, don’t,’ he begged. ‘I’d not want ye to be unhappy. Not on my account.’
‘I am not unhappy on your account,’ I snivelled. ‘In fact—oh, I don’t know what to think!’ My voice broke on a sob, as I ducked my head. ‘I am so miserable!’
‘Aye, ’tis mortal hard.’ Still he would not release me. In fact his grip tightened. ‘When I first laid eyes on ye,’ he said, and his voice was hoarse, ‘I thought to meself: there’s the finest, fairest lass I ever saw, though she’d need a firm hand.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘Just so it’s said. I’ll never say one word again, if ye’d rather I didn’t. Would ye rather I didn’t?’
An unfair question! I gloried in such praise, and would have been delighted to hear more. Yet I could not for one moment have admitted it. Instead, I had to dissemble.
‘I am miser
able because I hate it here,’ was my oblique response. ‘I hate it here so much! I—I wish I could go away and never come back. Ever.’
‘From a spread such as this?’ He spoke gently, as if to a child. ‘There’s worse places than this, lass.’
‘You wouldn’t understand,’ I said, trying to pull away. ‘You must think it all very fine, but it is poisoned for me!’
‘Then what can I do to make it better?’ he asked, with a warm, almost fraternal smile. I hardly knew where to look. My confusion was disorienting.
He seemed to sense this, and did not press his advantage. Rather he backed down, dropping my hand and relinquishing my waist.
‘At least let me be a friend to ye,’ he said. ‘For it seems to me ye’re in sore need o’ one.’
‘Oh, I am! It is so lonely, here, and my mother hates me!’
‘Ah, no—’
‘She does! It’s true! You don’t understand! Everything is ruined, and I cannot—it’s so wretched—I might as well be dead!’ Glimpsing the quizzical look in his eye, I turned on him. ‘You don’t know what happened here! You know nothing of what happened! I was once fed manure in that very yard outside, and now must live here as if it were all forgotten!’ Seeing his brows snap together in sudden shock, I clapped my hands over my mouth and ran for the door. I was full of tumultuous emotions: shame and desire, fury and despair.
Thomas caught me before I could escape.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Not yet. Wait till ye’re settled.’
‘I can’t—I can’t—’
‘Listen. What if someone sees ye come out o’ here like this, and me followin’ along behind? ’Twill do neither of us no good.’ Seeing me wring the tears from my eyes with my knuckles, he released my elbow, and wound an arm around my shoulders. ‘There now, don’t fret,’ he crooned, squeezing me hard. ‘There might have bin bad times, but ye’ll face ’em down well enough. I’ve seen ye face down that old cock when ye’re collectin’ eggs, and there’s no one else hereabouts can do it! The way ye raise yer chin and straighten yer back as if to say: “I’m Miss Charlotte Atkinson, and ye’ll not forget it in a hurry!”’
This elicited a watery smile. ‘Is that really what I do?’
‘’Tis.’
‘When I’m collecting the eggs?’
‘And leadin’ a horse. And fightin’ wit’ yer Ma.’
‘I like the way you pat the horses. And talk to them,’ I said shyly. Whereupon he swallowed, and looked away.
‘Aye . . . well . . .’ he mumbled. ‘It gets so as you have to talk, no matter who ye’re talkin’ to.’
‘You can talk to me.’
We looked at each other for an extended moment. I do not know what might have occurred, had we not heard a voice close by. It was Richard’s voice, raised in the yard. He was calling for Thomas.
Thomas and I sprang apart as if we had been scorched.
‘Aye! Comin’ directly!’ Thomas cried, and flashed me a curious, sheepish little grin. Then he departed the dairy, carefully closing the door behind him.
I did not speak to him again that day, though I thought about him often. And the next morning, when I presented myself at the stables clad in my riding habit, our conversation was stilted and formal, owing to the close proximity of Richard in the garden.
You must understand that circumstances were against us. Though my dream was to ride off with Thomas into the bush, I had as much hope of attaining it as I had of reaching the moon. We could ride together around the yard or the paddocks, exercising our horses at a gentle trot. We could snatch a few stolen moments in the stables, while saddling Sovereign or brushing down Ida. But there would never be any rambling rides for us—not if I was to keep my unsullied reputation. ‘Oh no,’ my mother remarked, when I raised the subject. ‘What would people say? Riding off into the forest with the groom? Oh no.’
‘But you told me that I must not go riding alone, Mama.’
‘And you shall not. You may take James with you. Or one of your sisters.’
‘But my sisters cannot ride Sovereign. And you have insisted that I must use Ida!’
‘Only as long as your foot continues to trouble you. When it is better, you may ride Sovereign—though never at a gallop—and take Emily or Louisa on the cob.’
‘But—’
‘I will not be defied, Charlotte. You are not a child any longer. You know perfectly well what people would think, if you were to be seen riding alone with the likes of Thomas McNeilly.’
‘Yes, I know what people would think!’ Denied my dearest wish, I became reckless in my anger. ‘No doubt they thought the same thing when you were seen riding alone with the likes of George Barton—though it never seemed to trouble you in the least!’
My mother reddened, but did not strike back. Instead she studied me pensively over her fancywork, slowly unpicking an errant stitch. She seemed distracted by some troubling thought.
‘It seems to me,’ she said at last, ‘that you are already spending a little too much time in Thomas’s company. I have said so before, and I shall repeat my warning—nothing good will come of it. I understand that you both share an interest in horseflesh, but he is not your equal, and you should bear that in mind.’
I swallowed, my flash of temper suddenly extinguished. It occurred to me that my mother must have some inkling of how I felt, since she herself had followed a similar path. But did she truly understand the depth of my devotion to Thomas McNeilly?
I sincerely hoped not. For once the truth came out, she would make sure that Thomas and I were forever sundered. And that would be unbearable.
‘Really, Mama,’ I said, deciding that the best defence was a vigorous offence, ‘I wonder why you are continually dwelling on such sordid, indelicate subjects. Could it be because you yourself have been a martyr to unsavoury gossip? Perhaps that accounts for your acute sensitivity, and your suspicious mind. Next thing you will be putting ideas in my head.’
‘Charlotte—’
‘I really do not see why you are so concerned about the neighbours. They think the worst of us already, owing to certain incidents in the past. How can I possibly disgrace myself in their eyes when our whole family is already disgraced?’
‘That is not true!’
‘Then why do we never see anyone, except at church? I think it most extraordinarily hypocritical to scold me for talking to the groom, when you yourself married your overseer, and used to ride out to Budgong with convicts—’
‘That is enough!'
—which fact happened to be dragged through the public courts, thanks to George Barton, so that the whole world came to know it—’
‘Are you trying to punish me for the past? Is that what this is all about?’ My mother had shot to her feet, and was gathering up her workbox as a prelude to leaving the room. ‘Because if it is, Charlotte, then let me point something out. While you might punish me with your indecorous behaviour, you will punish yourself far more. You will regret it for the rest of your life!’
‘As you have?’
‘Augh!’ She slammed down the lid of her workbox. ‘You are impossible!’
And she left me there, in possession of the sitting room. I thought myself rather clever for having thrown her off the scent. While she might once have suspected a love affair, she would now view my dalliance with Thomas as an elaborate attempt to wring some sort of admission or apology out of her. And this, I decided, could only work to my advantage. Why, her response might be to ignore me entirely! To show herself unaffected by my conduct!
It never occurred to me that she might be correct.
It never crossed my mind that I would indeed come to regret my indecorous conduct, which—as she so acutely promised—would punish me far more than it had ever punished her.
Thirty-eight
During the next few months, my attention was fixed on Thomas McNeilly. I do recall one or two events unconnected with my own affairs: in April, for instance, Bishop Broughton laid the foundation stone for a
new church at Berrima. But on the whole, I remember nothing of early 1847 except those shining moments that I spent with Thomas. They remain as clear and bright as stars in a night sky.
Mostly we met to exercise the horses. Thomas would mount Sovereign, and I would mount Ida, and we would walk or trot in a genteel fashion around the property, always within sight of the house. On these occasions we were very self-conscious, and rarely spoke of anything except equestrian matters.
Sometimes, when the gig was required, there would be no need to exercise the cob. If Thomas was sent to Berrima or Sutton Forest, I would usually secure a place beside him. I never enjoyed the good fortune of having Thomas to myself during any one of these trips. But at least I could watch him, surreptitiously, as I conversed with Louisa about nesting, or with James about wool. It was a strange and poignant pleasure. Though I was convinced that someone must surely notice how conscious we were of each other, nobody ever did. Once, at Berrima, I had the good fortune to accompany Thomas to the Post Office while my mother was buying ribbon. Unfortunately, however, there were so many people about that we were unable to converse freely.
Our most precious moments together occurred in the stables, where I insisted on helping him with the saddles and harness. We stole a few kisses there (under Bennett’s baleful eye) and talked as lovers generally talk, of beauty, and sadness, and when next we might meet. We spoke of the distant past, but not of the distant future. I found it comforting to describe scenes that were never discussed within my family; on one memorable occasion I confessed that I had tried to shoot George Barton, and that Barton had then tried to shoot me. It all came spilling out in a rush, like bile, and Thomas held me to stop me from shaking. He rocked me back and forth, with my head tucked under his chin. ‘Ah, Jaysus,’ he sighed. ‘That’s a hard thing t’carry in yer heart.’
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