The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  He, in turn, would make reference to his own straitened childhood—to potato blight, and empty bellies, and stealing apples, and the money spent on clothes for dead infants. Though it was not a very coherent picture that he painted, I heard enough to understand that he was haunted by his own ghosts. Nevertheless, he seemed more generally content than I was—perhaps because, in his own words, he had ‘left most of his troubles in Ireland’.

  I replied gloomily that there were no vast oceans dividing me from George Barton. The last I’d heard, he was farming near Bathurst. But that was not to say he wouldn’t return.

  ‘If he does, I shall kill him,’ was my heartfelt promise. ‘I shall get the gun from the study, and shoot him in the head.’

  ‘That ye won’t,’ said Thomas.

  ‘I will!’

  ‘No, no. There’ll be no need for that. Not while I’m here. Ye’ve nothing to fear while I’m here.’

  ‘Oh, Thomas.’ We were sitting together on the mounting block, so I was able to fling my arms around his neck without undue effort. ‘Don’t ever leave! I’ll die if you leave!’

  ‘Now, why would I want to do that?’ he replied tenderly, smoothing the hair from my forehead. ‘Unless I was to take ye wit’ me.’

  ‘I wish we could go somewhere! Just the two of us, with no one else to pry and scold . . .’

  ‘Aye.’ His voice was suddenly glum. ‘That would be a fine thing.’

  ‘Somewhere Barton would never find us. Somewhere Mama would never find us.’ And I would make my fanciful suggestions, without for one moment thinking seriously about the future—which frightened me so much that I had no wish to confront it. For if I married Thomas, it would be in the face of such opposition as I had never endured, and might never survive. Whereas if I did not marry Thomas, then I would surely perish.

  Thomas, I think, was more practically minded. He must have taken at least a little time to consider his options, perhaps because he was less inclined to live in a dream of romance. Men rarely are, I have found. It has always surprised me that Eve gave the apple to Adam, since in my experience it is never the woman whose thoughts first drift towards sins of the flesh. Certainly it is never the woman who takes the first, definite step in that direction. Poor Thomas; it must have been very hard for him. He was a passionate man, and kisses are rarely enough for passionate men. All those childish embraces must have driven him halfway to distraction. During the course of our long and volatile marriage, he compared me unfavourably to at least three other women of his acquaintance whose favours were bestowed on him long before we met. (I even have a suspicion that there was another, some time in the ’60s, when he was working on the drays.) At any rate, he was not inexperienced. At least not with women of his own class.

  But I was another proposition entirely. I have no doubt that he was far more tentative with me than he would have been with Sarah or with Mary Ann. This was partly because he lacked confidence, and partly because he could foresee no happy resolution. Thomas knew that I had not reached my majority. As a consequence, I would be unable to wed without my mother’s permission. And even with her permission, he was not sure that I would actually stand by him if it came to the point. ‘A young lass livin’ on a cloud’ was how he described me, long afterwards. I rather fancy that the women of his class learn to abandon their illusions at a far younger age than I did. Thomas therefore never felt utterly confident of my attachment. ‘I did wonder if I were buildin’ my castle on a bed o’ smoke,’ he once confessed.

  All the same, he was willing to build his castle. And that meant making plans. I am absolutely convinced that he never, at any time, intended to play the heartless seducer. Nor was he trying to marry money. He loved me—of that I am sure. But he did not know me, any more than I knew him. We each fashioned our own idol in the shape of our beloved, and invested it with all manner of improbable virtues. We could do this so easily because we had such different backgrounds. And while I do not believe for an instant that he was motivated by greed, it cannot have escaped his notice that I would receive at least a small sum on attaining my majority.

  For this reason alone, he would have been a fool to aim for anything but marriage.

  Not that he pressed his suit with any great vigour. He was, as I said, very tentative. When I spat out my violent tales of George Barton, he would gravely inquire as to whether I thought all matches ‘of that kind’ were doomed from the start. Or he would make vague reference to other, more successful unions between ladies and their overseers. (Had not Mrs Samuel Hassall married her overseer after the death of her first husband?) When I praised my father, Thomas would observe that to be a good husband and father must constitute the finest ambition of any Christian man. ‘Though it were poor and hungry, there weren’t never no fightin’ in my home—not between my Ma and Pa,’ he assured me. ‘And there’s many a wealthy marriage that’s never so blessed.’ By means of such cunning little hints, he probably hoped to win me over before broaching the subject more openly. I do not know. We never discussed it. Because events overtook us long before he made up his mind as to how he should proceed.

  It was all on account of that wretched flower.

  You may not be surprised to learn that Thomas McNeilly sometimes picked flowers for me. These were not lavish bouquets, but modest single blooms which he found occasionally among the paddocks and scrubland of Oldbury, or along the road to Berrima. Though he had no particular interest in botany, he had been raised to regard the Floral Tribute as a correct and acceptable gift to bestow on his sweetheart. And I received them in the same spirit, taking care that they did not attract too much attention.

  One day he brought me from Berrima a fine example of Banksia spinnulosa, which he thought ‘most wild and fierce’, and not unlike his ‘fiery darlin’’. If you are familiar with the Banksia plant, you will know that its blooms do not lend themselves very easily to concealment, being large, exuberant and often highly coloured. This particular specimen, though not a bright and vibrant yellow (as they so often are), was rather an unusual shade of reddish purple, and easily as big as my hand. I saw at once that I should not be able to press it for a keepsake, as I had with his kangaroo-apple blossom. So I decided, rather foolishly, that I would sketch it in watercolours.

  Not being utterly brainless, I chose a secluded spot for this undertaking. I set up my easel out near the stockyard, beneath a mighty eucalypt, where I hoped to remain undisturbed. From a distance, it would surely look as if I was attempting a landscape, or perhaps a view of the house.

  My mistake was to borrow Mama’s camel-hair pencil.

  Inspired by my industry, perhaps, she soon came in search of it—surprising me before I had a chance to conceal anything. ‘Oh!’ she exclaimed. ‘A botanical drawing! I thought you must be painting Oldbury.’ Her gaze then alighted on the Banksia flower. ‘What a very unusual tint!’ she exclaimed. ‘I don’t believe I have ever seen anything comparable. Where did you find it?’

  ‘Oh . . . um . . .’

  ‘Louisa will want to see it. You know that she takes a particular interest in that genus. Is the bush anywhere nearby? It must be, I suppose, since the head is fresh-cut.’ She glanced about her, eyes narrowed. But as I remained silent (struck dumb, if you want the truth) her wandering regard was drawn back to my face. ‘Is the bush nearby?’ she repeated.

  ‘I—I—’

  ‘You have not been out riding, Charlotte?’

  ‘No!’

  ‘No, of course not. I’ve seen you about.’ She frowned. ‘Where did it come from? Show me.’

  Inextricably trapped, I had to resort to a careless, indifferent tone that cannot have been altogether convincing.

  ‘Oh, Thomas found it, not I. You must ask him,’ I said.

  ‘Thomas found it?’

  ‘He knows how interested we are in native flora. I told him to watch for unusual specimens.’

  Whereupon I applied myself vigorously to my sketch, conscious of Mama’s searching gaze. ‘I see,’ s
he said at last, before quietly withdrawing. Her restraint on the topic made me very uneasy. I was on edge for the rest of the day, expecting some form of interrogation that never, in fact, occurred. My mother’s preoccupied air at dinner made me doubly anxious. I therefore refrained from approaching the stables, keeping to the house and applying myself diligently to petticoats and dusters until the next morning, when I was instructed to go riding with Louisa.

  I forgot to mention my rides with Louisa. They had begun soon after my ankle mended, when I was given permission to mount the hack. Because I complained bitterly at being restricted to the yard and paddocks, my mother had made a suggestion. Though I was not to go riding by myself, she had no objection to my accompanying Louisa, who also liked to explore the bush roundabout. ‘Sustained and gentle exercise will do your sister the world of good,’ my mother remarked. ‘Only you must promise not to leave her and go galloping off to indulge some whim, Charlotte. If I ever hear that she has been left alone, you will never sit on a horse again, is that clear?’

  Bound by half-a-dozen promises, I was finally allowed to flee Oldbury—at least for short periods. During the autumn of 1847, Louisa and I explored Gingenbullen, the eastern end of Black Bob’s Creek, and some of the wild country around Berrima. These were largely wordless excursions, since we rarely dismounted, and Sovereign was so much higher than the cob. But we fared pretty well together, despite the fact that I was always slightly discontented in any company other than my sweetheart’s, and Louisa’s fascination with even the humblest woody nut far outstripped my own. Occasionally she would get down to make a quick sketch, during which time I would take the opportunity (if the terrain was sufficiently accommodating) to kick Sovereign into a brief gallop, from which I would return breathless, sweaty, and very much improved in spirits. Louisa and I made a pact regarding these episodes. We each promised not to tell Mama that we had separated, even for so short a spell. ‘For if we do, she will forbid us to go out again,’ Louisa acknowledged, ‘and I shall never find a native cherry.’

  On the morning after the Banksia episode, Louisa came to inform me that, the day being very crisp and fine, Mama wanted us both to take some exercise on the horses. Such a command, though unusual, was not unprecedented; my mother had once or twice before made a similar request, since she was always careful of Louisa’s health, and was determined that my sister should not spend too much time ‘hunched over her desk’, ruining her posture and cramping her lungs. Nevertheless, I was suspicious. It occurred to me that Mama might wish to observe my behaviour towards Thomas, whose own response might also be of some interest to her. I was therefore quite surprised when she did not follow me to the stables. The thought crossed my mind: could she be hiding somewhere? Then I wondered if she had enlisted Louisa as her spy.

  For Louisa came with me, laden down with her sketchbook and pencils and magnifying glass. She was thirteen, by then, but still quite small, with a pale face, a sylph-like form, and hands that seemed permanently blue with cold. I remember her as always wearing my cast-offs, which did not suit her colouring as well as they had mine. Though not exactly shy, she had little to say on subjects outside her scope of interest, and rarely spoke to Thomas unless he addressed her. This he did rather gently and nervously. Her delicate health was a subject so endlessly discussed about the place that he had got into the habit of regarding her as one might regard an expensive crystalline vessel, liable to break at the slightest mishandling. For this reason, I think, he avoided her wherever possible—much as he avoided having anything to do with our snowy table-linen and fine English tea-service.

  But Louisa was far more robust than her appearance suggested. She sprang up onto Ida without difficulty, and with only the smallest degree of assistance. I myself mounted Sovereign in a similar manner, hardly daring even to look at Thomas, who had the wit not to let his hands linger at my waist. Something about my demeanour warned him off; we exchanged just a few, terse remarks as I prepared for my ride, and were indeed so brusque with each other that anyone watching must have wondered at our curious conduct.

  Louisa did, I am sure. Though she said not a word during the first portion of our ride, she threw me a number of pensive, sidelong glances, each of them calculated to raise an ominous tumult in my breast. We had agreed to head towards Mereworth, if only because a westerly course would ensure that the sun was not in our eyes. You may recall this route. I have already described the flat stretch of cleared land that intervened between Oldbury and Mereworth. It made the area quite a favourite with me, and provided Louisa with an incomparable source of butterflies during the summer. In winter, of course, the pickings were not so various—and at first, upon gaining the meadow, we saw nothing that merited stopping or even pausing. Only as we drew near to the unbroken mass of trees on the other side did a flash of black tail mark the abrupt departure of a wallaby. (Possibly a Petrogale penicillata, though it was far too quick to be sure.)

  ‘We shall never catch up,’ I remarked, as it vanished into the trees. ‘You would not want to chase it, would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Louisa.

  ‘Though we could take that path. We might flush out something else if we do.’ Reining in Sovereign, I turned to my sister. ‘Wherever we go, I want to return this way and get in a bit of a gallop. If you have no objection?’

  Louisa shook her head.

  ‘It won’t be more than five minutes,’ I added, ‘and I shall wait for you at the other side. There is absolutely nothing else around here except the road. And you know how bad that would be for the poor boy’s hooves. Thomas would never stand for it.’ I saw her gaze slide away, and was immediately unnerved. ‘Is something wrong?’ I inquired, too sharply. ‘Are you feeling ill?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘If you are feeling ill, Louisa, we had best head back straight away, or Mama will have my hide.’

  ‘No, no. We cannot. I mean—’ To my immense surprise, Louisa began to rub her forehead. She only rubbed her forehead during moments of acute anxiety. ‘What time is it?’ she asked. ‘How long have we been out?’

  ‘How long?’ I had been entrusted with Mama’s little jewel-encrusted watch, which was pinned to my tucker on every one of these mounted excursions. Usually, the watch was accompanied by a stern lecture regarding the necessity of being back within two or three hours. ‘We have been out for fifty-five minutes,’ I said, upon consulting the instrument. ‘Why? She told me that we had two hours—three, if we were inclined.’

  ‘At least two hours,’ Louisa corrected.

  ‘What?’

  ‘She told me that we must not return before the end of two hours. Three, if possible.’ As I stared at her in utter perplexity, Louisa rubbed her pale, puckered forehead again. ‘She even told me to head west.’

  ‘She told you?’

  ‘Yes.’ Louisa’s voice was very small. ‘I am so sorry, Charlotte. It didn’t occur to me, until just now. Of course, this would give her the perfect opportunity, with you out of the way . . .’

  Still I was at a complete loss. She must have seen it, because her colourless little face became a positive mask of anguish.

  ‘Oh, Charlotte!’ she quavered. ‘I think it so very wrong! And in such an underhanded fashion, too! But I had no idea—you must believe me—’

  ‘No idea about what?’ I exclaimed. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Why, Thomas McNeilly, of course.’ Seeing me flush, Louisa blinked back tears, and croaked: ‘She wants to have him dismissed.’

  Every muscle in my body must have tightened, because Sovereign suddenly lurched sideways. Bringing him back into line kept me preoccupied for a few seconds, while Louisa rushed to explain herself.

  ‘She never said as much to me, but I overheard her speaking to Emily last night. She was asking if Emily had ever witnessed . . . well, anything. Because you were spending too much time in Thomas’s company, Mama said. And when Emily told her no, she said that she would have to dismiss Thomas before matters became too serious.’
Gazing up at me with brimming eyes, she added: ‘You do like him, don’t you, Charlotte? I saw it at once, this morning. I never noticed, but—oh dear! I saw it at once, and I thought how cruel—how wrong—I don’t want you to hate me for the rest of your life—ah!’

  I had reached out and grabbed her wrist, so abruptly that even peaceful, plodding Ida started.

  ‘What else did she say?’ I hissed.

  ‘Ow—’

  ‘What did she say?’ I shook the poor girl’s arm. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Nothing! I mean—I don’t know! I didn’t hear! Charlotte, be careful!’

  I released her before she could lose control of her horse. My mind was racing. What should I do? Ride back to the house? But what if Thomas had already been expelled? Which road would he take? The road to Sutton Forest or the road to Berrima? Whichever way he took, he would be walking. That much was certain.

  ‘She told you to go west?’ I gasped. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘Then he must be heading east.’ I was sure of it. ‘If he were heading north, she would have told you to go south.’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘And it makes sense, if he’s walking. Berrima is too far away. The Crossroads, too. Perhaps she sent him off with a letter for the Throsbys, or someone else along the Argyle Road. Someone who will take him on. Do you think?’

  ‘I—I don’t know.’ Louisa was barely audible. ‘Perhaps. Charlotte, what are you going to do?’

  ‘What do you think?’ I tapped Sovereign’s flank and turned his head. But before I could bring him around, Louisa caught at my reins.

  It was a brave act, since she had never found Sovereign easy to handle.

  ‘Wait,’ she said.

  ‘Let go!’ I raised my whip, fiercely. ‘Don’t you dare interfere!’

  ‘I shan’t! I haven’t! I told you, didn’t I?’ She took a deep breath as she relinquished her grip. ‘It was wrong of her, Charlotte, but you must forgive her. She only did it for your sake, I know she did.’