Breakfast at Midnight

by Fiona MacFarlane

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  A Word of Advice

  ‘Well, well,’ George began impulsively, ‘if it isn’t Agnes Wentworth, Hobart’s champion tennis player!’ He stood before her, his hands in the pockets of his belted Norfolk jacket, and his broad chest thrust forward. ‘And to what do we owe this rare honour?’

  Agnes stiffened perceptibly at his allusion to the Rosewood tennis match, but was able to check the first leap of anger. ‘Actually, George,’ she began in a carefully genteel voice, ‘my business is with my cousin, not with you.’ Seeing the look of suspicion on Frances’s face, she sought to explain herself. ‘Now don’t look like that, Frances,’ she drawled. ‘Is it so unusual for two cousins to talk to one another?’ She offered her cousin a rare smile.

  ‘No,’ Frances answered. ‘I’m only wondering why you’re making the effort now. Up until this point, you’ve avoided me at all costs.’

  Agnes kept smiling, despite the fact that her blood was tingling with anger. ‘George,’ she said between clenched teeth, ‘could you please leave my cousin and me alone for a moment.’

  ‘And miss out on what promises to be an entertaining scene? I think not!’

  ‘George!’ Agnes pleaded. ‘Please, just go!’

  ‘Don’t mind me, Agnes Wentworth,’ he said demurely. ‘Please, continue.’ He smiled. ‘Oh, and by the way, you have a strand of hair out of place. It might excite comment aboard the ship. Best fix it now.’

  Agnes flamed with anger and resentment. ‘Frances,’ she said, looking at her cousin imploringly, ‘you seem to have all the influence with Mr Brearly these days. Would you kindly tell him to leave?’

  ‘I’m sorry, Agnes, but George is a grown man. He makes his own decisions. I therefore cannot tell him what to do.’

  ‘That is quite so, Miss Frances,’ George replied, ‘but I’ll make you an exception to the rule. I’m completely and utterly at your disposal. Tell me to leave, and I will.’

  Frances reflected. ‘Well if I’d known that before,’ she said smilingly, ‘I could have gotten rid of you much earlier.’

  ‘I take it you want me to go then,’ he said, watching Frances in admiration.

  ‘I think it would be best, all round,’ Frances admitted.

  George sighed playfully, and grinning from ear to ear, wandered off amongst the colourful throng, only to disappear seconds later. In his absence, the two young women were briefly silent.

  ‘So, Frances,’ Agnes eventually began, ‘I trust you are enjoying yourself?’

  Frances regarded her cousin with more looks of suspicion. ‘Very much. And you?’

  Agnes faltered. ‘I’m enjoying it more now that Michael has come.’ Frances nodded her head but said nothing. ‘Actually, Frances,’ she said cautiously, ‘the reason I’m here is that I, I want to talk to you about George.’

  ‘George?’ Frances returned, regarding Agnes with bewilderment.

  ‘Yes, George.’ Agnes’s face had grown tense and she appeared to be groping for words. ‘I, I don’t know how to say this, and really it’s not my place to say anything at all, but please understand that my reasons for telling you are only motivated by the genuine desire to be helpful.’

  She broke off briefly, as a man behind her accidentally bumped into her. He apologised for his carelessness, but Agnes, roiled by the untimely interruption to her explanation, made no acknowledgment of the man’s words of contrition, and positioned herself closer to the boat’s railing.

  ‘It has not escaped my attention that you and George have been spending time together. In short, I am aware that you have formed an attachment with him.’

  Frances’s face clouded. ‘You’re right,’ she retorted coolly, ‘it’s not your place to say anything. What’s more, we hardly have an attachment. We take delight in ridiculing each other. That’s as far as it goes.’

  Agnes pursed her lips. ‘I fear for you, Frances. I honestly do. George Brearly is notoriously predatory when it comes to women. I daresay when he has grown tired of you, he’ll move onto someone else. Someone less suspecting.’

  Frances bore this assertion as well as she could, and forcing a smile, she looked out across the undulating river towards Mount Wellington. It seemed to lie in the background of the town like some giant slumbering beast. She then glanced in the direction of the Exhibition-buildings, which had been purposely built for the Hobart International Exhibition. The main structure was an imposing structure of the Italian Renaissance style of architecture, and the remaining buildings were shaped into a rough triangular complex. To Frances’s mind, this vast, sprawling structure, which dominated the western bank of the Derwent River, looked completely out of place with the rest of Hobart. As the steamer picked up speed and rounded the Iron-pot lighthouse, the Exhibition-buildings seem to dwarf into the distance.

  ‘Is that what he did to you?’ Frances asked distractedly.

  Before Agnes could answer this question, George himself was suddenly disgorged from the crowd, and emerged looking as bright and carefree as usual. ‘So,’ he began, taking his place beside Frances, ‘what have you ladies been gossiping about? Not about me, I hope.’

  Agnes and Frances exchanged looks. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ Agnes mumbled.

  ‘Really, George,’ Frances said condescendingly, ‘why is it that men talk and women only gossip? Aren’t we capable of conducting an erudite conversation?’

  ‘I’m saying nothing that will incriminate me.’

  ‘Do you think that the subject of men is the only thing women discuss?’

  ‘I do indeed. We only talk about women.’

  ‘Oh come now, George,’ Frances playfully retaliated, ‘I am not fooled in the least. I daresay you talk about yourselves, your work and your horses. I’m sure the topic of women never once enters your mind.’

  George smiled. ‘You’d be surprised. Very surprised indeed. Now, enough of this sparkling repartee. What were you really talking about? I was watching you from across the way. You were both looking awfully engrossed.’

  ‘Mind your own business,’ Agnes warned with angry, flashing eyes.

  ‘It is my business if you were talking about me.’

  ‘And what makes you think we were talking about you?’ Agnes snapped. ‘Believe me, George, we have far better things to do with our time.’

  ‘I know you were,’ George persisted, ‘so don’t deny it. I must hasten to inform you that I am an awfully good reader of lips. It’s an important skill to have as a newspaper man. I get some of my best stories from lip reading.’ He paused to brush a loose strand of hair off his face. ‘For instance, at one point, you said something about Frances and I being mismatched.’

  ‘Stop it, George,’ Agnes threatened, ‘I mean it, stop it now.’ Her chest was beginning to heave.

  ‘And then you said that I was pre-eminent among men. Or something like that.’

  At last, Agnes could take no more. ‘George Brearly!’ she cried, ‘will you ever learn to keep your mouth shut! You are the most immature, obnoxious person I have ever met!’ She then speared him savagely in the foot with her parasol.

  George let out a loud yelp of pain, a cry so loud, that the groups of ladies closest to him ceased talking, and fastened their eyes on him disapprovingly. They soon began whispering excitedly amongst themselves. George, nonetheless, was oblivious to the attention he had just commanded, and was kneeling down on the deck to inspect the damage Agnes had inflicted upon him.

  ‘Look what you’ve done, woman!’ he blustered. ‘You could have crippled me for life!’ He ruefully began rubbing his newly acquired bruise.

  ‘You deserved it,’ Agnes retorted, her voice heavy with emotion. ‘I’m tired of the way you treat me, George Brearly, do you hear me? I’ve had enough!’ She raised her trembling hand to her head, and pushing her way blindly through the spectators, soon disappeared from sight.

  A startled Frances, standing isolated in the middle of the surrounding bystanders, attempted to escape the embarrassing scene. She h
ad only taken two steps, however, when the distinctive voice of George Brearly stopped her in her tracks.

  ‘Frances,’ he cried, jumping quickly to his feet, ‘what was it? What did I say?’

  Frances smiled in spite of her awkwardness. ‘Let’s just say, George, that you’ve got a very promising career as a newspaper reporter.’ Without saying another word, she turned on her heel and filtered into the murmuring assembly.