He gestured towards the bottle. ‘As you see, it is hardly opened yet. Perhaps you’ll share it with me, Mistress Finnigan?’
She made no show of reluctance. ‘Always glad to share a bottle.’ This was said with a particularly sweet smile.
She seated herself on the opposite side of the table, and, without waiting, poured herself a full glass. She tossed half of it back with a swiftness that made him wince. Then she seemed to remember what she had come for in the first place, and turned directly to her subject.
‘Mrs. Maclay is probably on her way to join her husband,’ she began.
Louis raised his eyebrows encouragingly. ‘So …? I’m afraid I don’t know …’
‘Her husband is Andrew Maclay ‒ he’s just bought the old Priest place three miles farther on,’ she volunteered easily. ‘Clever as a monkey with money, he is. He’s made himself a rich man in the eight or so years he’s been here ‒ with a bit of gambling on the side, to help things along. And there was talk of him getting salvage money ‒ a lot of it ‒ for a ship in India, or China, or one of those foreign places.’ She laughed a little. She was a pretty woman, with beautiful eyes. ‘But there’s not so much gambling for Mr. Maclay now, believe me!’
‘No!’
‘No, he’s getting too important these days, too respectable. And as for that wife of his … Well, look at the way she’s dressed, for one thing. You’d never think she’d landed here as a convict, now, would you?’
He leaned nearer to her. Her wide, bold eyes were fixed on him unblinkingly. He could smell her faint, clean smell, that seemed to come from the generous expanse of bosom her gown revealed.
‘So, Mrs. Maclay was a convict, was she?’
Nell Finnigan shrugged her plump shoulders. ‘Oh … it’s an old story. Everyone knows it … how she had Andrew Maclay all tied in knots before he ever stepped ashore in this place. It was this way …’
As she talked Louis refilled her empty glass.
II
Ten years ago, when Joseph Priest first cleared and fenced his land, he had had dreams of how his property might be in the future. With reckless disregard of both time and labour, he had found and transplanted forty young mimosa trees, spacing them at regular intervals among the eucalyptus, twenty each side, along the avenue leading to the house. He was one of the first who came to the colony to find beauty in this harsh, austere landscape, and with the impractical soul of a poet, he had made his gesture to it. Priest drank heavily. Year by year he and the farm deteriorated with equal speed; he dismissed more labourers, and the very promising property gradually slipped into ruin. But every spring the mimosa trees were a little taller, the avenue turned bright gold in the midst of the green, and Joseph Priest smiled whenever he looked at it. He found contentment in the fact that, although he was counted a failure, he had created here a thing of lasting beauty ‒ created it out of an untouched wilderness. Crazed with drink, and overwhelmed by hopeless debt, in the end he could not wait until the trees bloomed again. He hung himself from the tallest and strongest of them before the winter was over.
The mimosa were in their golden bloom when Sara drove along the avenue for the first time. Something of the spirit of Joseph Priest touched her; she had a sudden understanding of his practical notion to fashion a thing of ordered loveliness out of the resources at hand. This was the sort of thing she longed to do for Kintyre ‒ but at Kintyre, prosperous as it was, and well-run, time and labour could never be spared, as this madman had spared them. She breathed a prayer of thankfulness to him for all his wild folly.
The house itself was an unpainted ruin. It had a badly thatched roof, and sagging, rotten verandas around three sides of it. Once there had been some attempt at a garden, and a straggling orchard beside it. The garden was choked and overgrown, and Sara’s experienced eyes knew that the trees had not borne fruit for some years, although now they made a show of heartbreaking beauty, with sparse, frail blossom on every bough.
She saw Jeremy appearing round the side of the house before the carriage stopped. Her bonnet, which she had taken off when they left Castle Hill, lay on the seat beside her. She picked it up and waved it excitedly. He hesitated, and then came forward at a half-run. The carriage lurched and halted, and Jeremy flung open the door.
‘Sara! What brings you here? Oh, but this is wonderful! Wait until Andrew …’
She laughed a little, accepting his hand as she stepped down. ‘Am I welcome, do you think, Jeremy? Or is this a time when no woman should intrude?’
For a moment his fingers tightened round her hand. ‘What a tease you are, Sara! You know that Andrew will be delighted. We never thought, either of us …’
He paused, aware that her smile had grown broader, and that she was looking beyond him. He turned, and saw Andrew come running along the veranda and jump down the three steps. Sara dropped Jeremy’s hand as if it had never been there, and he watched her outstretched arms go about her husband’s neck. They clung together tightly, quite unmindful of either his own gaze, or Edwards’ sardonic grin from the driver’s seat.
At last Andrew loosened his grip; his hands slipped forward a little until they rested on Sara’s shoulders. He held her back a little, looking at her with a beam of pleasure on his face.
‘How good to have you here!’ he said.
She laughed delightedly. ‘How could I stay away? Your letters made me so envious. Both of you here ‒ and I kept out of all this!’
With a slight gesture she indicated the tumble-down house, the ruin of the orchard and garden.
Andrew patted her shoulder. ‘We’ve needed you here, haven’t we, Jeremy? We’re killing ourselves with our own cooking!’
Sara’s eyebrows shot up. She said, with mock severity, ‘If a cook was all you needed, I’m quite sure that there’s more than one to be found in Castle Hill.’
Over her head, Andrew winked at Jeremy. ‘Oh, of course! And more than one who’d be willing to share the house with a handsome bachelor like Jeremy, I’ve no doubt.’
They all laughed together, and Andrew began to lead Sara towards the steps, his arm loosely about her shoulders.
Jeremy walked on the other side, holding her discarded bonnet, and listening to their talk.
‘Come and see the house first,’ Andrew said. ‘It needs a great deal done to it, of course ‒ but it should be pleasant enough when it’s finished. The farm …’ He shrugged. ‘Priest hasn’t done a stroke of work, or spent a penny-piece on it for years. But we’ll soon have it in shape. I think in a few weeks we can bring the first stock here …’
Andrew and Sara went on into the house. Jeremy stayed on the veranda, walking back to the three rickety steps. He could hear their voices as they planned together. They were excited, he thought ‒ not bitterly, but a little sadly. He felt the ribbons of Sara’s bonnet between his fingers, pulling them tight, and then loosening them. He thought of them tied beneath her chin, and his blood quickened. He wondered when it was that he had first begun to love her ‒ perhaps the night in the bush as Andrew’s bride, perhaps the night the convicts broke out at Kintyre. Perhaps he had always known and loved Sara ‒ might she not have been the myth of every love-dream he had ever had? He didn’t know.
He leant back against the veranda post, and his eyes were on the golden bloom of the mimosa.
Andrew stood at the foot of Glenbarr’s wide staircase, staring up at the landing above him. He looked at his watch for the second time in five minutes, brushed unnecessarily at the sleeve of his coat, listening all the time to the murmur of voices coming from the main bedroom. Suddenly, madly impatient, he leapt up three steps. ‘Sara!’ he called. ‘Are you ready?’
The voices ceased. A rustle of stiff brocade answered him, and the sound of Sara’s footsteps. When she reached the head of the stairs, his quick glance took in the gown of palest blue and silver ‒ extravagant material he remembered having brought her from India. She was smoothing her gloves as she came down; a trace of a smile lingered on her fac
e, as if she had just heard something that pleased her. Behind her, rigid and thin in a starched apron, came Annie Stokes. She carried her mistress’s wrap on her arm, and her wrinkled features wore a look of fierce pride and satisfaction.
Bennett opened the door as Sara came forward. She stood on the doorstep, while Annie adjusted the wrap, sniffing at the scent of the early dew. The night was dark, though later there would be a moon. The lanterns of the waiting carriage glowed warmly; one of the horses pawed gently at the gravel.
Bennett remained by the carriage door until Sara and Andrew were seated, then he signalled to Edwards up on the box.
Edwards gathered the reins in his hands. Ahead of him was Sydney’s huddle of lighted houses. He squared his shoulders, and, for the pure pleasure of hearing it, announced in a loud voice: ‘Government House, sir! Right!’
The Maclays’ names echoed through the long drawing-room at Government House, and many heads turned in a puzzled fashion to look at the latest arrivals. They watched Andrew’s bow, and Sara’s curtsy, noting, with eyes accustomed to discerning the degree of vice regal favour, that the Governor was affable, and that Mrs. King had a welcoming and gracious smile. Eyes turned away rather hastily, in case the inquisitive stares might be discovered, and the buzz of conversation rose louder than before.
The two newcomers advanced farther into the room, to join the Ryders; they were instantly aware that most of the talk was centred on them. Sara’s position in Sydney’s tiny society was still irregular ‒ although, since Alison Barwell’s claims of friendship, she had been more or less accepted and treated in a way that Andrew’s position demanded. But society had not let itself go with any noticeable generosity, until the seal of official approval and acknowledgement was offered her. And this evening it was bestowed for the first time in an invitation to Government House.
But the Kings were very new to their position of governing the colony, and more caution had been expected from them at the beginning. A question was asked and repeated among the little groups in the crowded drawing-room. Why was Sara Maclay received, when no other ex-convict had ever been given this privilege? One man in the gathering had the explanation on undeniable authority, and he saw no reason for holding back his knowledge. He leaned forward and whispered in his companion’s ear; then, from behind open fans, the tale was spread until no one had cause to wonder any longer.
Mrs. King, on acquainting herself with Sydney, had had the idea of starting a girls’ orphanage for the illegitimate offspring of hundreds of casual matings ‒ children who roamed the streets, and had already learned how to beg a living, and evade authority. These were to be rounded up and suitably housed; for this purpose Mrs. King needed money. The story travelled around the drawing-room that Sara Maclay’s invitation to Government House, a graceful gesture on Mrs. King’s part, had come after she received a donation of a thousand pounds from Andrew, and a firm promise of further help.
Interested eyes turned to look at the man who was a thousand pounds poorer for his evening’s entertainment.
Voices grew harsh in their effort to be heard above one another; the steady stream of talk continued, almost succeeding in drowning the announcement of each guest’s arrival. The soft lap of the water against the rocks below Government House was lost; groups had spilled out through the open French windows on to the veranda, but, so far, only a few had paused to notice that the rising moon had cast a brilliant track of light across the harbour. There were plenty of other nights, Sara thought, for them to watch the moon, and, sensibly, most of them were concentrating on the business in hand.
Half a dozen times Andrew was checked by men anxious to have a word with him, as he made his way, Sara at his side, towards the corner where they saw that Julia Ryder had found herself a comfortable sofa. Macarthur stopped them, his dark face bland and smiling ‒ smiling more broadly, with a bow to Sara, at Andrew’s invitation to call up at Glenbarr the following morning. Robert Campbell also made a bid for Andrew’s attention, desisting when he saw that the other was not to be side-tracked. Normally these men were Andrew’s business associates, the colony’s men of affairs, the men whose word was power. At any other time he would have been wrapped in conversation half the night with them. But, under the curious stares all around, he seemed bent on proving that, when his wife was at his side, he had eyes for no one else.
‘My dear Sara ‒ how lovely you look this evening!’ In full view of the room Julia offered her cheek to be kissed.
James Ryder smiled upon her with real pleasure. It touched his sense of humour to think of the effect on the present gathering if he were to suddenly recall ‒ as he most certainly could ‒ the picture Sara had made the first time Andrew had brought her up from the Georgette’s filthy hold. She was a beauty, even then, he reflected ‒ but those rags! He coughed into the crisp ruffles at his wrist, to hide the chuckle that rose in his throat. Julia twisted and glanced at him suspiciously. Then her face relaxed, as if she guessed his thoughts.
‘Sara does us great credit, do you not think so, James?’
‘Indeed, yes!’ he replied, letting his grin out of control, his eyes on Sara’s face. ‘There’s more satisfaction in watching Sara than there’ll ever be in that prim daughter of ours.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Ellen’s a good girl ‒ but a prude. It doesn’t seem possible that any daughter of Julia’s, brought up in a place like this, should turn out such a simpering little madam. But Ellen had somehow managed it.’
‘England will change her,’ Sara said reassuringly.
‘In that select Ladies’ Academy in Bath?’ James gave a hopeless shrug. ‘She’s doomed to prudery, I’m afraid ‒ and my only son gone off to pin his heart to Lord Nelson’s sleeve!’
A shade of fear touched Julia’s face, but she spoke quite firmly. ‘Charles will be back when he’s had enough of the sea. He’ll come back because he loves this place more than he cares to admit. As for Ellen …’
Sara didn’t listen any longer. At the other end of the room she heard Captain and Mrs. Barwell announced, and she stepped behind James to get a better view of the doorway. Alison was rising from her curtsy. She wore a white gown that made her look like an exquisitely turned-out doll. In an instant its simplicity caused every other woman in the room to look overdressed, though no feminine eye was deceived about its cost. On Richard’s arm she began to move through the crowd.
Sara quickly turned her head, because Richard was looking about him in a way she had come to recognize. His gaze would find her soon enough, she knew, but she was not anxious to appear conspicuous, and she drew back again behind James.
‘Mr. William Cooper!’
‘Monsieur Louis de Bourget!’
Again Sara’s head turned. The volume of talk swelled perceptibly after the announcement of this last name, and there was shifting and craning to get a better view.
‘… de Bourget .… de Bourget?’
She could hear the running whisper of it, as he made his bow to the Governor and his wife, and she felt that for the rest of the evening the gathering had found a far more absorbing topic of conversation than herself. She moved her fan gently, watching with narrowed eyes. He and Cooper were detained in talk by King, and she thought that now, with a cluster of English faces about him, his Gallic look was far more pronounced than when Nell Finnigan’s parlour had been his background. The magnificence of his dress was yet another feature to distinguish him. The dark red coat and gold-buckled shoes were too grand for this dull little vice-regal entertainment; but Mrs. King’s face wore a look of pleasure which told Sara that this Frenchman was well enough versed in the art of subtle flattery.
She flicked her fan again, and turned to Andrew.
‘This is the man,’ she said, ‘whom I told you about. He is the Frenchman I talked with at Nell Finnigan’s.’
Julia looked at her with raised eyebrows. ‘You’ve actually met him? Then that’s a great deal more than anyone else besides William Cooper has done.’
Sara s
hrugged. ‘I called in at Finnigan’s on my way to Priest’s ‒ de Bourget was there, on his way to Cooper’s house. It seems they became acquainted when their ships were waiting together in Cape Town some time ago.’
James gave another chuckle. ‘Then I had no need to waste all my afternoon gathering information about this fellow. All I need have done was to ask Sara.’
Sara shut her fan briskly. ‘Indeed, I could hardly have helped you then. We only arrived back from Priest’s this morning, and I know nothing of the man beyond his name. He’s a Frenchman, but as to what he’s doing here …’ She shrugged. ‘His nationality seems to be the only remarkable thing about him.’
Andrew laughed. ‘Don’t pretend, my dear, that you’re the only woman in the room who doesn’t find the cloth of his coat remarkable ‒ and the number of rings he wears! For myself, I’m utterly fascinated by his look of prosperity. I find this unknown gentleman extremely attractive.’
James cleared his throat. ‘Then do give me the pleasure of relating the gossip I’ve so carefully patched together from snippets I’ve picked up all over the town. No woman could have done it with greater skill, I assure you. Though, I must warn you, the source is none too reliable. The tales of this man, de Bourget, were begun by the captain of the Jane Henry, who brought him here from Île de France. And he claims to have heard the story all over the island.’
His wife reached up and tapped his hand with her fan. ‘For pity’s sake, James, do tell us! I’m dying with curiosity!’
‘Well, in that case … The rumour has it that Monsieur de Bourget is a kinsman of the Marquis de L… The name is only whispered, my dear Julia, in case it should prove to be wrong. De Bourget was a member of his household ‒ assisted him with some of his estates, or some such thing. Our young Frenchman had no money of his own, but he possessed considerable influence with the Marquis. But he was also, it’s said, very well known in other quarters of Paris. In fact, he exercised his full right to mix with people less well born than his noble cousin. He belonged, in a sense, to both worlds, as a young gentleman of no fortune is often obliged to do. He would have been a fool if his influence with the Marquis hadn’t occasionally been sold at a price.’
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