by Barbara Wood
Pauline was a member of Victoria's rural gentry, having been born and raised on one of the oldest and largest sheep stations in the colony. She had grown up in pampered luxury; her father had called her "princess," and he had made her brother Frank promise that, when the elder Downs was gone, Frank would keep his sister in a life of continued comfort and ease. Now she lived on a twenty-five-thousand-acre sheep station, alone with Frank in a two-storied mansion with a full staff of servants. Pauline's days were spent fox hunting and at weekend parties, holiday balls and social fetes, much as they would have been if she lived on a wealthy country estate in England. Frank and his sister were the trendsetters for the upper crust; they set the standards by which others of their class lived. Pauline firmly believed that despite the fact that one lived in the colonies, or perhaps because one lived in the colonies, it was important not to let oneself "go bush."
The only unfashionable thing Pauline had done was to remain unmarried at the age of twenty-four.
Not that she had not had opportunities for marriage. There had been many hopeful suitors, but they had mostly been men who had gotten rich quickly from sheep or gold, the rough sort who had made their fortunes in the outback and who had come to Victoria's grazing district to playact at being lords of the manor. A few were even wealthier than her brother. But she believed they had no manners or breeding, they gambled and drank beer straight from the bottle, they spoke atrociously; they had no respect for class. Worse, they had no ambition to improve themselves, nor saw any reason to do so. But Hugh Westbrook was not like that. Even though he, too, had come from the outback, had made a small fortune in gold and was now the sort of grazier who rode out with his musterers and drove his own fence piles into the ground, in many other ways he was different. There was something about Hugh that had drawn Pauline to him the moment she had met him, ten years ago, when he had purchased the Merinda property. Pauline had been only fourteen years old then, and Hugh, twenty.
It wasn't just Hugh's good looks that she had fallen in love with. She believed there was more to him than muscles and an attractive smile. For one thing, he was honest, a word that failed to describe most of the men in the outback. And she felt there was a special kind of strength to him, a quiet strength, not the sort one saw in the brag and swagger of the other bushmen. Hugh seemed to Pauline to have a strength that was deeply anchored, steady and sure, a strength that made her see not so much the man he was today, but the man he was going to be.
When Hugh had purchased Merinda there had been nothing there but a squatter's shack and a few diseased sheep. With his own hands and a strong will, Hugh had started out alone, struggling to build Merinda into a station worth being proud of. Ten years ago, Frank had estimated that the young Queenslander would sell out before the year was over. But Hugh had proven Frank and the rest of the graziers wrong. And now, there was no doubt that Hugh Westbrook was going to go even farther.
We will go far together, my darling, Pauline thought. And that was what excited her most about him: When other people looked at Hugh they might see his calloused hands and dusty boots; when Pauline looked at him she saw the refined gentleman he was someday going to be—that she was going to make of him.
"That will be enough for now," she said to the seamstress. "Go take a rest and have a cup of tea. And would you please tell Elsie to run my bath?"
For a long time Pauline had kept secret her hopes about Hugh Westbrook. While Western District gentry had expected her to marry someone of her own class—someone rich and cultured—Pauline had been determined to marry Hugh. She had managed to see him at every available opportunity: at the annual graziers' show, at barn dances and social events on the various stations, at the races and in her own home, when Hugh had come to discuss sheep farming with Frank. Each time she saw him her desire had grown. Sometimes he would appear unexpectedly, riding up on his horse, smiling and waving, and she would feel her heart jump. And afterward, Pauline would lie awake, imagining what it would be like to be his wife, to be in his bed ...
She could not say exactly when she had known she was going to marry him, but her careful and subtle seduction had spanned nearly three years, drawing Hugh into a mutual flirtation that had left him believing it was he who had pursued her. Pauline knew what moonlight did to her hair, so she arranged walks in the garden with Hugh on such nights. She was aware of the handsome figure she cut when she was at the archery range, so she made sure Hugh attended events in which she was competing. When she discovered that he had a passion for Dundee cake and egg curry, she cultivated a taste for them as well. And when Hugh had said that his favorite poet was Byron, Pauline had devoted days to familiarizing herself with his works.
Finally, Hugh began to talk about marriage. He turned thirty, and started to say "when I'm married," or "when I have children of my own." That was when Pauline knew the time was right. But other women had their eyes on Hugh, and although Pauline knew he felt something for her, she had as yet received no commitment from him. And this was when Pauline's secret was born.
She had done something that, if it were known, would have shocked local society. She had proposed to Hugh. While her friends would declare such an action demeaning to a lady, that no man was worth such a "low" step, Pauline had regarded it as a practical move. Time was passing, and various women in the district were inviting Hugh for tea or to go riding, and paying attention to him at local events. It had been simple expediency that had driven Pauline to invite Hugh on a picnic by the river, on a day that dawned with the promise of rain. They had gone riding together and had lunched by the river on egg curry and Dundee cake, talking about sheep, about colonial politics, the upstart Darwin and the new novel by Jules Verne, when, as if Pauline had orchestrated it herself, the rain clouds burst. She and Hugh had had to run for cover under the nearby trees, but not without getting wet and stumbling on the ground and holding onto each other because they were laughing so hard. And Pauline had said, "You know, Hugh, we really should get married," and he had kissed her, hard and passionately, and with an explosiveness, Pauline would later think, that dimmed the brilliance of the lightning breaking around them. There was only the one kiss, but it had been enough. Hugh had said, "Marry me," and Pauline had won.
But once they were officially engaged, Pauline had discovered that pinning Hugh down to a date had been like trying to trap a willy-willy, a whirlwind. His sheep station always came first: the wedding couldn't be in the winter because of crutching—shearing the tails and hind legs of ewes who would soon be giving birth, to keep them as clean as possible—or in the spring because of lambing and shearing; the summers were busy with dipping and breeding, and the autumn—
But Pauline had pointed out that autumn was the least demanding season on sheep stations, and they had settled upon a March wedding.
Everything had been going according to plan until the letter arrived from the South Australian government informing Hugh about Adam Westbrook, the child of a distant relative.
Suddenly Pauline saw a flaw in her vision of their future together. She and Hugh would not be free to enjoy each other, they would not be free to be lovers, wild and impulsive and uninhibited. They would start married life already burdened with a child—another woman's child. And Pauline did not like to think of what Hugh might be bringing back: some half-wild, obstreperous creature. "He's not your responsibility," she had said, instantly regretting her words, because a flash of anger had come into Hugh's eyes. Pauline had quickly reassured him that she would welcome the boy, while in her heart she was dreading it.
She wasn't ready to be a mother—she wanted to get used to being a wife first. There were certain sacrifices involved, she knew, and a way of life that often meant placing the other's needs before her own. Pauline had no idea of how one went about being a mother. Her own had died years ago in an influenza epidemic that had swept across Victoria, also taking Pauline's two sisters and younger brother. Pauline was raised with her surviving sibling, Frank, by their father and a succession of
governesses. She had no idea how it was between mothers and children; she especially had no idea of what it was like between mothers and daughters. She wanted a daughter; she often imagined teaching her to ride and to hunt and to be "special." The teaching and molding of a daughter, Pauline often thought, must be very rewarding. But the feelings that passed between mother and daughter—the love and devotion and duty—seemed quite beyond her understanding.
"Your bath is ready," Pauline's maid said, interrupting her thoughts.
After a tiring yet exhilarating day spent over patterns and fabrics and standing still while her two dressmakers worked with pins and scissors, Pauline decided to enjoy a long, indulgent soak. She was a sensual woman; she enjoyed the kiss of pearls at her throat, the brush of a feather boa on her bare shoulders, the luxury of satin sheets and soft lace nightgowns. Textures gave her pleasure; even the hardness of gemstones in their silver and gold settings brought joy to her fingertips. There were few sensations she denied herself, or had not experienced. Frank was wealthy enough to provide his sister with champagne from France, and their dining table was always graced by the finest foods. Pauline spent hours at her grand piano, delighting in Chopin and Mozart. She also rode hard at hounds, taking the most perilous fences and ditches, relishing the sensation of controlling the horse, of flying through the air, of daring the fates. There was little, at twenty-four, that Pauline Downs had not indulged herself in, with the exception of one supremely cardinal pleasure: She had yet to be intimate with a man.
As Pauline luxuriated in the hot water, slowly moving the sponge over her body, she glanced in the steamy mirror at the reflection of Elsie, her lady's maid, laying out fresh undergarments. The girl was English, young and pretty and, Pauline knew, was walking out with one of the grooms who worked in the Lismore stables. As she watched the maid leave the bathroom, Pauline wondered what Elsie did with her young man when they were alone.
And suddenly she felt a pang of envy.
Looking at herself in the mirror, at the face she knew was beautiful, and framed in thick blond waves, she thought: Pauline Downs, daughter of one of the oldest and wealthiest families in Victoria, envious of her maid!
But, it was true.
Did they make love, she wondered, Elsie and her beau? Did they run into each other's arms every time they met, and then hurry away to some private spot where they embraced and kissed and felt the heat and hardness and softness of each other's bodies?
Pauline closed her eyes and sank deeper into the hot water. She moved her hands along her thighs, feeling the ache again, the ache that was becoming almost a physical pain, the wanting, the desire, the need to have Hugh Westbrook make love to her. She fantasized about their wedding night, she relived their one kiss on that rainy afternoon by the river, and recalled how his body had felt against hers, and the promise it held for future lovemaking.
Soon now, she thought. A mere six months away, and she would be in bed with Hugh, and she would know at last that ecstasy she had for so long dreamed about.
When the bedroom clock chimed the hour, Pauline suddenly realized it was getting late.
She was determined that her wedding was going to be like no wedding the Western District had known, and so she had asked Frank, who owned the Melbourne Times, to use his influence in trying to persuade a world-famous opera singer to sing at the wedding. Pauline would not settle for an Australian. No matter how perfect the voice, a colonial would still reduce the wedding to a colonial event. But the Royal Opera Company was scheduled to perform in Melbourne in February, and Dame Lydia Meacham, an Englishwoman known from Covent Garden to Leningrad for the purity and excellence of her voice, was coming with them. Pauline had informed Frank that her dream would be to have Dame Lydia sing at her wedding.
Frank was not keen on the idea, not being overly fond of the Royal Opera Company in the first place. "They look at us as if we're an unwanted stepchild," he always complained whenever the company made the long journey from England down to the Australian colonies. "They come here with their fine airs and jumped-up ways and act as if they're doing us a big favor," Frank would say.
But how else could it be, Pauline wondered, with the colonies so far away?
It made her recall how she had felt, years ago in England, when she had attended her first dance. What a near disaster it had been! How hopelessly out of fashion Pauline had felt, with the other girls at the London Academy marveling that she would show up wearing such an out-of-date dress. And then, seeing her puzzlement and dismay, telling her that it was all right, that she had, after all, come a long distance. They had treated her in the patronizing manner she had finally learned to expect in England whenever someone discovered where she was from. People had called her and her brother "colonials" and they had seemed not to take them, or where they lived, seriously. Those girls had not meant to be cruel—they had merely expressed an honest disregard for someone who came from so far away and from a group of colonies to which English people gave little thought, and which, when they did think of them, they regarded as backward and provincial.
That had been when Pauline was sent to London for her "coming out." Well-to-do colonial girls always went "home" for schooling—"home" being England. Even Pauline's mother, who had been brought up on a farm in New South Wales, had made the voyage to Britain when the time came. And Pauline planned to do the same when her own daughters came of age, to have them "come out" in England, as was the proper thing to do.
As she stepped into the towel Elsie held for her, Pauline thought: Frank will be back any time now. She couldn't wait to hear his news. Had he been able to engage Dame Lydia for the wedding? Because everything must go perfectly: the wedding, the reception, the honeymoon. Her life.
Pauline smiled as her thoughts returned to Hugh and their wedding night, and how she hoped to make it a night of surprises for both of them.
"Frank!" John Reed said as he joined his friend at the bar in Finnegan's pub. "When did you get back?"
Frank had to look up meet his friend's gaze. Reed towered over him, as most people did. "Hello, John. I just got back today. I thought I'd stop and have a drink before going home." And before, Frank added mentally, facing Pauline with the bad news. "How are things over at Glenhope?"
"Couldn't be better. I'm expecting a good clip this year. Any news on the inland expedition?"
When Frank had purchased the ailing Times, it had been merely for the sake of diversion, a hobby. But it had soon evolved, some of his friends believed, into something bordering on obsession, as Frank grew increasingly determined to build it into a newspaper to rival any in the colonies. The Times was thus far still small, but it was growing, due mainly to the imagination and energy of its thirty-four-year-old owner. Frank was constantly seeking new ways to increase the paper's circulation, and so when he heard that the New York Herald had sent a man named Stanley to Africa to search for the missing Dr. Livingstone, Frank had come up with the idea of outfitting an expedition into the Australian interior, the great heart of the continent called the Never Never, to see what was there.
Many men had tried to traverse the continent from south to north, trekking from Melbourne or Adelaide in the south, northward to the Indian Ocean. But always they were stopped by a vast expanse of waterless salt flats and furnace-like temperatures. Those who ventured into that hell never came out alive. Frank believed that somewhere beyond the dancing heat lay a great inland sea, and he had used his own money to outfit a ten-man, sixteen-camel team in the hopes of finding it. The expedition was taking along an enormous boat, hauled on sleds, in the hope of reaching that sea, and in exchange for Frank's financial support of the expedition they were going to name the sea after him, should they find it.
The Times published periodic updates on their progress as they sent telegrams along the way; but the expedition had not been heard from in some time, and speculation was running high that they, like others before them, had perished in the Great Desert.
"Do you reckon we've lost them?
" Reed said.
Frank had grown up hearing stories about the Aborigines, who were said to inhabit that formidable, unexplored region—fantastic tales about songlines and Dreaming Sites, where magic and miracles were a daily occurrence; legends of ghosts and ancestors who grappled with mythical beasts like Yowie the Night Monster and the Rainbow Serpent. The stories were too incredible for a white man to believe, and yet, Frank had always argued, they must have some basis in fact. If Aborigines were surviving in that wilderness, then it was possible that white men could survive, too. "We'll hear from them, John," Frank said. "Don't you worry about that."
Reed took a long drink of beer, then said, "So, what do you think of the new barmaid?"
Frank had noticed her when he first came into Finnegan's. The pub was located on the edge of Cameron Town, where the main street joined the country road known as the Cameron Highway. Frank had been surprised, when he had ridden up in the late afternoon, to see so many horses and gigs tied up in the yard. Finnegan's was a quiet pub, being more expensive than its competitors; it catered to a genteel crowd; wealthy graziers and cattlemen gathered here to drink in peace and quiet, whereas Facey's, the workingman's pub across the street, did a more voluminous trade with station hands and shearers. Finnegan's yard was rarely crowded, but, on this late October afternoon, it was. And Frank was further surprised to find, when he walked in, that there wasn't an available seat in the place.