He closed the door, and walked towards her. ‘I hoped you’d try to sleep, Sara. You shouldn’t have waited … It’s very late.’
She leaned forward from the pillows to take hold of his hand. ‘There was no possibility of sleep,’ she said. ‘Tell me … what is the news?’
He hoisted himself up to sit on the bed beside her. There were drops of moisture on his head, as if he had stood bareheaded in the rain for some time; in the candlelight his face seemed very sun-tanned and weathered in contrast to the immaculate white frills of his shirt.
‘More news than I hoped for,’ he said. ‘I let Foveaux have slightly the better of me in a deal over some cattle. We shared a bottle of madeira, and he grew ‒ talkative. He knows a great deal more about the Barwells than he was prepared to tell you this morning.’
He burrowed his hand down into the quilt, in the hollow between their two bodies. After a few moments he looked at her again, and he said, ‘Among the mail that arrived with the Speedy was a letter from a friend of Foveaux, who was in Barwell’s regiment ‒ the man who had first introduced them to each other. It appears that the Barwells have had money troubles of one kind and another for some time now. They were all right so long as Sir Geoffrey lived, and while he had the money to keep them generously supplied. But it seems that Mister Barwell and his wife have extravagant tastes, and it wasn’t easy for them to cut down their scale of living when the old man lost most of his negotiable fortune.’
‘Lost it?’ Sara said. ‘How?’
‘He had money in ships. Two were captured by the French in the Channel. And another was lost in the Caribbean. The estate, of course, is entailed, and when he died there wasn’t much of his money left for Alison.’
‘And so …?’ Sara urged quietly.
‘And so Captain and Mrs. Barwell lived merrily on what was left until it ran out.’ Andrew was talking slowly, as if he were enjoying the story he told. ‘Barwell found that an army officer’s pay won’t keep a lady of fashion for long ‒ nor does it stretch to the sort of tastes he himself had acquired. At the time Foveaux’s correspondent wrote, they had been living with Alison’s aunt, Lady Linton, for a year. Apparently this good lady was very attached to Barwell ‒ from all accounts she made quite a pet of him. But being a woman of sound sense, as well as fashion, she soon realized that Barwell would do nothing for himself while he relied on her for support. Foveaux says she’s an extremely shrewd businesswoman. It set her thinking hard when she heard tales of this fabulous New South Wales ‒ how it’s possible to receive pay from the army, and still build up quite a sizeable fortune in other ways. It’s Foveaux’s private opinion that she sent them out to learn the proper uses of money, before she dies and leaves her own fortune to them.’
‘Then they’ll stay here indefinitely? They’ll take up land?’
Andrew nodded. ‘It seems so.’
‘Are there children?’ Sara was quite unable to keep the edge of sharpness out of her voice as she questioned him.
‘None ‒ so far. Foveaux says Mrs. Barwell is delicate. Perhaps this climate will make an improvement …’
‘Hothouse plants are likely to shrivel in such heat!’ she retorted.
Andrew smiled at her wryly. ‘I had the impression from Foveaux that she was a creature of considerable vivacity and spirit ‒ rather the sort who uses up more energy and strength than she can afford.’
‘Then she has changed,’ Sara replied shortly. ‘Or else Richard has changed her. However …’ She shrugged, and the corners of her mouth drooped. ‘We have more information than we hoped for. Now we must wait and see what develops.’
Andrew leaned towards her; his grip on her hand tightened, urgently.
‘This is no time for waiting, Sara!’ he said. ‘I’ve already taken steps in the matter.’
She caught her breath. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Quite simple, my dear. I asked Foveaux to present me to Barwell.’
‘Andrew!’
His eyes darkened with a touch of sudden anger. ‘I’ve told you before, Sara, that I don’t intend to be intimidated by men such as Richard Barwell. Nor have I the time or patience to wait and see which way he will jump. I had to know what his attitude towards you would be.’
‘Well?’ Sara uttered the word through tight lips.
‘Foveaux went to bring him from the drawing-room ‒ his wife had already retired. He came ‒ it seemed to me ‒ very readily. We talked of you ‒ he told me he had already asked Foveaux if he knew what had become of you.’
‘What had become of me!’ she repeated. ‘He said it just like that?’
Andrew gave her hand an impatient shake. ‘How else could he have said it? For all he knew you might have died in Newgate.’
‘Exactly! I might have died in Newgate!’ She choked angrily. ‘But go on … I must hear the rest of this.’
‘The rest of it is that I’ve asked him to bring his wife here to dine with us on Wednesday evening. He accepted ‒ gladly, I thought.’
She fell back against the pillows, staring at him unbelievingly.
‘You asked them here! Andrew, you didn’t!’
He let go of her hand and caught her firmly by the shoulders. ‘And why not? Don’t you see how important it is for him to be willing to bring his wife with him here? He means to be friendly ‒ if you will let him.’
‘Oh, but Andrew …’ she protested. ‘Richard and Alison here ‒ so soon! I don’t think I can face it ‒ not yet.’
‘You must face it some time,’ he answered sharply. ‘Far better to do the facing here, in your own house, where you can control the situation. Remember that by now they know the new Governor very well ‒ they travelled out from England with him. They could be powerful friends, Sara.’
‘But Alison will soon know ‒ she probably knows already ‒ that none of the officers’ wives visit me, or invite me to visit them. She’ll come once, and that will be the end.’
‘I shouldn’t think that our friend, Foveaux, would leave the Barwells long without that bit of news. But, nevertheless, my invitation was still accepted.
‘And what’s more, Sara,’ he added, ‘before long I’ll find some way of making certain that the Barwells want to go on claiming our friendship.’
She half-closed her eyes, lying quite still, and thinking over what he had said. His invitation was for Wednesday ‒ and this was Monday. Two days in which to school herself to the idea of meeting and talking to Richard, to discipline her emotion so that Andrew’s discerning eyes would not detect it. And there was the dread of facing Alison, the slight, dark-haired girl whom she had now and then glimpsed in the hall at Bramfield. Was two days long enough? ‒ or would she ever be ready to face Richard? In her mind she sought about wildly for an excuse to delay this meeting ‒ and she could find none.
She opened her eyes fully, and found that Andrew was looking at her unblinkingly. She was grateful for the pressure of his hands on her shoulders.
‘I shall send a message to Julia Ryder in the morning,’ she said. ‘If she and James could be here on Wednesday evening …’ Her words trailed off as she considered the idea.
III
Julia spread herself comfortably in the easy-chair in the main guest room at Glenbarr, and unfastened her cloak. She looked about her carefully; her scrutiny was critical, but finally she nodded in approval.
‘It’s a fine house, Sara,’ she said. ‘You have made it very beautiful. And Andrew … Well, Andrew is an incredible man. This place should suit him well. Are you quite settled now? Are you happy here?’
Sara gestured towards the windows, where the gardens were already lost in the dusk. She gave a soft laugh, and reached to take the other’s bonnet.
‘You’ve spent too much time with us in our rooms over the store, Julia, not to know how grateful we are for the space and quietness here.’
‘I shouldn’t regret that time spent in the store, if I were you, my dear,’ Julia replied briskly, stretching her feet towards a low
stool. ‘Young people shouldn’t have all the comfort they want immediately ‒ it leaves nothing to work for, and that isn’t good. You’ve made a handsome profit from the store ‒ and running it has taught you some valuable lessons.’ Suddenly she looked enquiringly at Sara. ‘And so far as I can see you’ve come to no harm by it, have you?’
‘Oh, I don’t regret it,’ Sara said, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘But I do find that experiences that are good for one are always much better when they’re over. I still go to the store every morning, and I’m glad to do it. But it is a comfort to have this peaceful, quiet house waiting for me when I return to the midday meal.’
As she talked she was taking in the changes in Julia’s appearance since she had last seen her at Christmas time. At Christmas, Sara and Andrew had taken the three children to the Ryders at Parramatta for four days. This had been in the nature of a farewell visit to Ellen and Charles, who were both leaving for England in the next ship. Ellen had been enrolled in a young ladies’ seminary at Bath, and Charles, showing little of his father’s aptitude for farming, but a passionate worship for Admiral Nelson, was to join the Navy. Since Christmas, Sara thought, Julia’s face had become worn and thin; it showed the signs of exhaustion and pallor which were the legacy of the long, hot summer. Her movements, too, seemed slower, although the calm tone of her voice was unchanged. There was much grey in her hair now.
Julia broke in on her thoughts.
‘Come, now, Sara! You haven’t brought me all this way just to be philosophical. What is it? Your note told me nothing of any importance. So I packed and came ‒ all on faith!’
Then she gestured impatiently. ‘I hope your request that I bring a dinner gown means that you’re having some grand entertainment. I’m starving for some diversion.’
‘Dear Julia!’ Sara said warmly. ‘You’re always the same. I wonder how many times I’ve come to you to have my problems sorted out. Do you remember the first time ‒ when we were coming out in the Georgette?’
‘Yes ‒ and very sound advice I gave you on that occasion, madam.’ Julia’s brows drew together. ‘So it’s a problem again, is it? Well?’
Sara took a deep breath. ‘This is going to take quite a time, Julia, because I mean to tell you what no one but myself and Richard Barwell knows.’
‘Barwell … Barwell? Didn’t I hear that someone of that name arrived with the new Governor in the Speedy? He’s married to a baronet’s daughter ‒ is that right?’
‘How fast news travels!’ Sara gave a little laugh. ‘Yes ‒ Alison Barwell is a baronet’s daughter. Think of it, Julia ‒ a real lady for the colony to fuss over, now. The niece of a countess! What a scramble there’ll be to entertain her! Her dress and manners will all be faithfully copied ‒ because, despite all the sudden riches, New South Wales is rather short of genuine ladies, isn’t it?’
Julia ignored the tone of the remark. She said with quick annoyance, ‘Enough of this, Sara! Come to the point!’
‘Well, then …’
Sara edged back on the chest and began to talk. The dusk grew deeper in the unlighted room, and a faint swirling sea-mist rolled up from the harbour. She kept her eyes fixed on Julia’s face, on which the glow from the fire in the grate played gently. She found it surprisingly easy to speak truthfully to the other woman, older and wiser, and someone to be trusted with the story of her life with drunken Sebastian Dane, in Rye, and at Bramfield Rectory. She told the true reason for her flight across the Marsh on that cold, spring night.
‘We did love each other! I’m sure of that, even though we were hardly more than children. But all the circumstances against us were too much for Richard. I blamed him, and perhaps I shouldn’t. After all, I had nothing to lose ‒ he might have lost everything.’
‘Andrew knows nothing of this?’ Julia asked. ‘About your feelings for Richard Barwell?’
‘He knows that I worked for a time at the Rectory. But I have never told him that I was in love with Richard. Why should I tell him that? When I married Andrew I had no thought of ever seeing Richard again. It was as if he were dead!’
After a moment Julia said dryly, ‘But now he’s here. And Andrew has forced a meeting.’
‘Yes,’ Sara answered wretchedly. ‘You know what Andrew is ‒ he believes in taking the initiative. I knew myself that the meeting must come some time ‒ but this has come too soon. I have only until tomorrow night. Julia … I may do anything ‒ disgrace myself, or let Andrew see …’
‘Nonsense!’ Julia retorted. ‘You, of all people, can’t be telling me that you don’t know how to take a grip on yourself. You’ve made it your business, ever since you came to the colony, to see that no one should ever have cause for gossip about you. Surely Richard Barwell can’t shake your composure after all this time?’
Sara looked unhappily away. ‘How can I tell what he’ll do? Once before I made a fool of myself over Richard ‒ who’s to say I won’t do it again? Even knowing all his faults and weaknesses as well as I did, I still loved him. What if it should be the same way now?’
‘Sara! Sara! It won’t be the same way ‒ unless you let it.’
‘But Richard …’
‘You must forget that Richard was ever anything but your father’s pupil. Stop eating your heart out for something you never could have. And, Sara,’ Julia’s voice was sharp, ‘try to remember that your husband is one whom many women in the colony envy you.’
Sara rose stiffly, and bent close to the fire to light a taper. She put it carefully to the two candles on the mantelshelf, watching them as the wicks sprang into life. Then she blew softly on the burning taper; the smell of the smoke was pungent in her nostrils.
And suddenly, as if she were too weary to do anything else, she rested her forehead against her two hands clamped before her on the shelf.
‘If only he hadn’t come, Julia!’ she whispered, staring down into the fire. ‘Oh, why did he have to come?’
IV
The crunching of the carriage wheels on the short drive outside brought Andrew to his feet. Sara, glancing at him, also rose, though more slowly. The tension communicated itself to Julia and her husband. James fiddled with his watch, compared it with the little French clock, and shut it again with a click.
They could hear Bennett’s hurrying footsteps in the hall; then a low murmur of voices, and again the sound of footsteps approaching the drawing-room. The door was thrown open with a flourish more suited to London than to this raw, colonial town.
‘Captain and Mrs. Barwell!’
Sara advanced only a step. In spite of having schooled herself, her glance went immediately to Richard. He stood there, in the new uniform of the New South Wales Corps, a smile on his lips, and his eyes wearing a questioning look. The last time she had seen him, he had been standing unhappily in the hall at Bramfield, at the end of his Christmas leave; this evening there was a loose, careless elegance about him that was wholly lacking then. His face was thinner and more handsome than she remembered it; a white scar, no thicker than a strand of cotton, ran across his forehead, and his hair was streaked with grey where it furrowed into the scalp. She saw at once that he held that indefinable air of confidence and ease of a man who is accustomed to a considerable success with women. She guessed that he had, by this stage in his career, penetrated far into the gay, fashionable world of which he had dreamed naively during his dull boyhood on the Romney Marsh. Even with the new coating of veneer, she didn’t find it difficult to recognize the Richard Barwell she had once known ‒ he was standing there with a smile for her like a small boy’s, his eyes pleading for her forgiveness, and begging to be admitted to her favour again. And at the same time, she felt, he was quite certain that she would not resist him.
She looked then at Alison. Alison was also smiling ‒ a faint, prepared smile. She wore a fabulous gown of kingfisher blue satin, which offset her white skin and dark hair. Beside Richard’s height, she seemed incredibly tiny; her small hand rested possessively on his arm. Sara was s
truck by her appearance ‒ not beautiful, she thought ‒ but Alison had fine eyes, and black eyebrows that were drawn on her forehead like wings. She was slim and erect, and she, like Richard, carried the air of a fashionable world about her.
Sara halted her speculation about these two. She realized now that she had hesitated too long, and she hurried forward with a smile she hoped was welcoming.
‘Good evening, Mrs. Barwell,’ she said, extending her hand.
Alison responded in a calm, level voice. Sara turned to give her hand to Richard.
He took it, bowing over it, and seemed quite unconscious that he held it too tightly.
‘My dear Sara ‒ what a pleasure it is to see you again!’
He watched the faint flush mount in her cheeks. He had not intentionally set about to make her angry, but his memory of her told him that in such a situation her pride would be ready to be pricked by almost any remark. He studied her carefully. The years in this southern climate had left their mark; her skin had a darker shade than he remembered, and the sun seemed to have bleached her hair to a colour that was near white in the candlelight. But the promise of great beauty he had seen at Bramfield had been fulfilled beyond his expectations. He had forgotten how tall she was, and the way she had of looking unwaveringly into one’s eyes when she spoke. Her gown was the colour of pale jade, and the crusted, gold embroidery on the tight bodice and sleeves told him that it had come from the East. He was anxious to take in every detail of her appearance ‒ to form his own opinion of this woman whose story was now part and parcel of the colony’s history. Ready gossip gave her as being ambitious, hard, and grasping; but he had not heard it said that she was anything but an excellent wife and mother, and that her children openly adored her. He knew, by now, that she had profitably run a farm as well as the store during her husband’s absences in the Thistle, and he was well familiar with the tale of her having fought off a gang of convicts during an outbreak on the Hawkesbury ‒ of her killing, with a dagger, one of them who had molested her. A smile of admiration spread over his face. He recall momentarily the young, emotional Sara he had known ‒ and here she was now, the mistress of the best the colony could boast of. All achieved, so gossip said, by a husband even harder and more ambitious than herself. It made curious hearing, this story of the girl who had once joyfully walked and idled away a summer’s evening with him along the dykes of the Romney Marsh. She was strange and beautiful. In the years since his marriage, Richard had made his way into many of the great houses of London, and he had found favour in the eyes of many beautiful and distinguished women; yet he was conscious that in all that time no woman had ever looked at him like this, and no other woman had ever managed to disconcert him as Sara did now.
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