The wind, no longer bearing the savage heat of midday, was pleasant and refreshing. It carried a faint smell of smoke and gum leaves and dried grass. The road that led back to the centre of the already sprawling town wound round the bay, giving glimpses of moon-washed sea. Far out the riding-light of the Caroline swayed gently, a friendly star. The stars in the velvety darkness of the sky seemed not too unfamiliar. The horse clip-clopped briskly along, and Gilbert’s arm came back round her waist.
Tomorrow she would continue her letter to Sarah, saying that she already had discovered that marriage necessitated an outward show of unity even though privately one might be in disagreement. But to please her dear Gilbert with loyalty would make her own sacrifice worth while. She would try to abide by that always.
But would she? Already she was realizing the impossibility of such a resolution, as her head came up.
‘Gilbert.’
‘Yes, my love.’
‘Can you swear to me that the child Mrs Jarvis is expecting is not—’ her tongue stumbled as she realized the enormity of her words, ‘—is not yours?’
There was a long moment of silence. She peered at Gilbert nervously. Was he furious with her? Was he wondering how to admit his guilt?
He was not angry. He was amused. If the shout of laughter he suddenly gave was amusement.
‘What have those confounded gossiping women been saying to you? I declare women should never be allowed to retire upstairs together. There must be more time spent talking scandal in bedrooms than there ever was in sleeping.’
‘Oh, no, Gilbert, nothing like that was said.’
‘Only by innuendo? Well, perhaps I am a fair target. I have led a free enough bachelor life. But I assure you that I had never set eyes on Mrs Jarvis until last night. Do you believe me?’
She did, of course. She was quite certain he would not lie to her about so important a matter.
But he still did not say that he would find a more suitable servant. In his eyes, Mrs Jarvis obviously was a suitable servant. If he had only met her so recently as last night, she had clearly made a very strong impression on him.
Eugenia began to be curious to meet the woman herself.
Chapter VI
THE PAST WAS THE past. Molly had told herself a thousand times to accept it and forget it. Even what had happened yesterday was now in the past. The grave dug in the dusty earth and the poor rough box that contained Harry Jarvis was only a memory. She doubted if she would ever visit it. The crackling gum leaves would lie on it, and the wind would stir the mounded dust until it was flattened and all trace of the grave gone. Not that she hadn’t had an affection for Harry. She would remember him every time she looked at his child. She was grateful to him for having given her a refuge, poor as it had been, and she was still bitterly angry about his unnecessary death. He had only just begun to be happy, poor wretch. He had called Molly his dear wife and his bonny girl. His terrible experiences had left him unbrutalized. There were permanent scars from irons round his thin wrists and ankles, but he had not forgotten how to have tenderness.
And now he lay in the bone-dry earth, and she, feeling slightly queasy from her pregnancy—or was it nervousness?—sat in Mrs Kelly’s little parlour opposite the young woman who was to be her mistress.
She had thought she had long got past feeling nervous about any situation. In ten years of humiliation and misery she had never failed to hold her head up. Her mother had taught her that, from childhood. She was the eldest of a large family. That had lived in a picturesque but damp and insanitary cottage in Buckinghamshire, her father working as a farm labourer. His wages were a pittance, but there had always been eggs and milk from the farm, and fresh vegetables grown in their little plot of land, and plenty of home-baked bread.
Molly’s mother, who had been a housemaid in the squire’s house before her marriage, had, if anything, been over-ambitious for her children. In the manor, she had had a glimpse of a fine style of living, and if her young ones could not hope to achieve that, they could, at least, better their lot. So they were all taught to read and write, to have pride in their persons, to be honest and obedient, but not servile. Molly went to her first position as a lively rosy-cheeked country girl, with what she thought was the whole world before her.
Her world had been before her, certainly. Fifteen thousand miles of it, across endless seas, in squalid misery. She had heard, years later, that her mother had died soon after hearing of her daughter’s sentence of transportation. She had cried in desperate sorrow, but she still refused to be entirely cynical or entirely crushed. How could she allow herself to be, with Mam in heaven watching and telling her to mind her manners, and keep her pride. There was nothing she didn’t know about men, beginning with the master in London, and continuing with that terrible four-month-long sea journey. After the first attempted rape in the night, in a foetid corner of the hold, when she had fought like an animal and finally overcome the skinny odorous creature, who had eventually wept at her feet, she had learned, in a strange way, to accept even that. These wretched men were as miserable as herself. As long as she had sufficient strength she wouldn’t be taken in that way, but neither would she hate too much. She had seen the women who hated and who grew into sharp tongued evil-eyed viragos.
She became bitterly hated herself for being different. She was called vain, stuck-up, ambitious. She was looking to catch the eye of one of the officers, that was it. Why did she think she was so much better than the rest of them?
At Botany Bay, when at last they arrived, she was in further trouble for resisting the advances of one of those officers. Dressed in her gown of harsh Parramatta cloth, issued only to convicts (for what poorest free person would wear it?), she made an attempt to be neat and modest and inconspicuous. The difficulties of her position, it seemed, were insuperable. Her ticket-of-leave was postponed for three years because of the trouble with that persistent lieutenant. She lost the position she had in a house with a decent but narrow-minded mistress, and almost starved rather than go on the streets as so many of her fellow convicts did. Inevitably, the day came when she encountered a man too strong to fight. She remembered that there had been a thorn bush on the ground where she was flung. Afterwards she hadn’t been able to tell which had hurt the most, the thorns, or that brutal animal attack on her. So this was the act of love, she had thought incredulously.
And at the same time a cool part of her mind, that had somehow contrived to let this storm pass over it, remembered the peacefulness of her childhood home, and the quiet devotion with which her parents had looked at each other.
So love could not always be bad. There must be two kinds, this nightmare of pain and humiliation from her unknown assailant (who had swaggered off, leaving her to try to arrange her torn clothing), and the other kind, the gentle familiar loving of her parents that put a new baby in the cradle each year.
One day she would find that kind.
She had not expected it of Harry Jarvis. He was weakened by disease and his hungry grasping of her had been pathetic. It was gratitude only that prevented her from wincing from him. She owed him this. And when she knew there was to be a child, she was glad for his sake. She resolved that her baby should know the kind of peaceful home that she had known, because it was the memory of that only which had enabled her to survive, without permanent scars, that other violent assault.
But now Harry was gone, and her unborn child’s secure home gone. Once more she had to face the unknown.
Yarrabee—the country place with the musical name. She had never been in the country, never seen more than the heat-hazed hills on the other side of the harbour, and wondered what lay beyond them.
Yarrabee, and the red-headed stranger who had been kind without the motives she had come to expect from men. Or if the motives had been there, they had not been apparent. Molly was so unused to either kindness or sympathy that she thought this must be why Gilbert Massingham’s remained so vividly in her mind. She remembered the liveliness of
his blue eyes, his quick smile, his look of virility. He was not over-handsome (she would have mistrusted that), but he had a strong stubborn look that she liked. He was a part of that unknown country that lay beyond the harbour hills. Her heart beat more quickly when she thought of it. Was this what she had kept her optimism for, for so long?
But the slight young woman sitting opposite her, very upright in an immaculately starched and ironed muslin gown, and asking questions in a cultured voice, was another thing. She looked so freshly out of a well-ordered London drawing-room that Molly was already anxious for her. And envious, too. Homesickness could surely be faced with equanimity if one had someone like Mr Massingham at one’s side, to cherish and protect one.
Cherish and protect. What lovely words, representing something completely alien to her.
‘Please answer me, Mrs Jarvis.’
‘I’m sorry, ma’am. I was wool-gathering.’
‘What were you wool-gathering about?’
‘I was thinking how long it was since I was in a nice room like this.’
The young woman looked about the room in some disbelief. Of course it wasn’t grand, but if Miss Lichfield only knew what other kinds of rooms existed in this country she would appreciate the luxury of the rugs and polished furniture and starched lace curtains.
‘It was a long time ago, ma’am. I was only eighteen.’
‘That was your age when you were—when you left England?’
‘When I was accused and sentenced quite wrongly, ma’am. But I expect your husband will have told you about that.’
‘He is not my husband yet, Mrs Jarvis. We are to be married next week. But we are talking of you, not of me. Mr Massingham tells me that you are an accomplished cook. Is that by English standards or by those in the colony?’
‘I wasn’t trained as a cook, ma’am. But my mother taught me good plain cooking when I was a child. I was the eldest of nine, so I had to be useful. I never learned fancy dishes, but I can do everything else necessary.’
‘Well, that should not be a problem.’ The young lady had a very pleasant face when she smiled, not pretty, but lovely and gay, with light shining in her lavender grey eyes. ‘I have a large household companion book that my mother insisted I should bring. I am sure it contains all we will need to know.’ She pressed her lips together as if she had realized she was too quickly accepting a woman with so doubtful a past. She sat up straighter and said primly, ‘Since Mr Massingham has engaged you, I don’t imagine you expect to be cross-examined. I have only been here two days, but already I have seen that there is a great deal of misery in the colony. I don’t wish to make any judgment on your past. It is your future that concerns us. I hope you appreciate that Mr Massingham and I are offering you an opportunity to completely rehabilitate yourself, and I only ask you not to abuse our trust.’
‘Oh, I would never do that, ma’am,’ Molly said earnestly.
‘I believe you are in a certain condition.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
Miss Lichfield regarded her intently. Then she said in a suddenly gentle, sympathetic voice, ‘Mr Massingham assures me there is a great deal of room at Yarrabee. Accommodating the child should be no problem. I think that is all, Mrs Jarvis. Mr Massingham will be telling you how the journey to Yarrabee is to be accomplished. I believe he and I are to drive in the buggy, and you and my maid, Jane King, are to follow in another conveyance with the baggage. The heavy furniture that came out on the Caroline is being sent on ahead by bullock waggon. It will await our arrival at Yarrabee. We will have a busy time sorting everything out. I imagine you are used to the country and the bush?’
‘No, ma’am, I have never been beyond Sydney. I have always wanted the opportunity.’
‘Well, now you have it. It must be fate. That is what my sister Sarah would say.’
She was so young. Not as young as Molly had been when she had been thrust so rudely and miserably into this hostile country. But young in experience and the ways of the world. Under that poise which she wore like another dress, she was probably nervous about a great many things, including her marriage. Well, lucky for you, you delicate young thing, you won’t be thrown mercilessly into a patch of scrub, and suffer for weeks afterwards with thorn scars, as well as the other scar on your mind. You’ll have a soft bed, clean sheets, and a gentle lover—if that red-headed man knows how to be gentle…
As she curtseyed before leaving, Miss Lichfield stopped her with a movement of her hand. ‘Oh, dear, I am forgetting. Mr Massingham instructed me to tell you that your wages would be seven pounds a year, and I was to give you this’—she took five sovereigns out of a little leather purse—‘to purchase material and make suitable clothes. Can you sew?’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Good. I think one plain dress—I see you are already wearing a neat one, but you will require a warmer one for the winter. And I would like you to have three plain caps and aprons, and what underclothing you require. Will that amount be sufficient?’
‘Ample, thank you, ma’am—’
‘Then anything you have left—you will require baby linen—I leave it to your discretion, Mrs Jarvis.’
‘I managed very well in employing my first servant,’ Eugenia wrote to Sarah that evening. ‘You will be shocked to hear that she has been a convict, but she seems to have been unfairly accused of a quite petty crime and Gilbert absolutely vouches for her honesty. She seems a pleasant and capable woman who deserves another chance in life. But I confess I cannot get used to a country so full of felons. I have to force myself to walk past a chain gang in the street. The poor wretches make me feel sick with pity. Gilbert says I will soon accept this state of affairs as natural. Natural! It will never be so to me.’
The Kelly children were highly excited at having a bride dressed for her wedding in their house. One face after another peeped round the door until at last Eugenia asked that they be allowed to come in.
‘Very well, you may come in if you sit quietly,’ Bess said. ‘Annie, mind Tom. Don’t have him putting grubby fingers on things. Sit quietly on the bed, the three of you.’
Eugenia revolved slowly for the children’s benefit. ‘Well, how do I look?’
‘Like a bride,’ Annie said, awestruck with admiration.
‘Polly?’ Eugenia bent over the younger girl who hung her head bashfully.
Tom, the toddler, pointed a masterful finger.
‘I’ll marry ’oo.’
This precocious remark set the little girls off into fits of giggles, and the awed silence had vanished.
‘Little boys don’t get married, do they, Mamma?’
‘Mamma, will I look like Miss Lichfield when I’m a bride?’
‘Miss Lichfield, can I touch your veil? My finger’s very clean.’
‘When will Mr Massingham put the ring on your finger, Miss Lichfield? Will you have to keep it there until you die?’
‘Hush, hush!’ cried Bess. ‘If you can’t be quiet you’ll have to go out. Eugenia, does your veil need another pin? The wind could snatch it off your head as you get out of the carriage.’
This remark renewed the children’s giggles. It was very hot in the little room. Already Eugenia’s clothes were sticking to her, and her veil, securely pinned by Bess, dragged at her hair. But the children’s gaiety was infectious. She adored them, sitting there in their best clothes, their plain faces shining with innocence.
‘Come on then,’ she said, taking Tom by the hand and making him stand beside her. ‘If you are going to marry me, you must do so quickly, before Mr Massingham arrives. This is how it is done. You must put a ring on my finger. Bess, lend me your ring. Soon I will have my own, but that will be too late for Tom.’
This was too much for Annie and Polly, who shrieked with laughter until tears ran down their freckled cheeks. Real tears stood in Bess’s eyes. She impulsively kissed Eugenia’s cheek and said, ‘Oh, I do hope you will be happy. It’s so different from the way it would have been in your own home.’
‘I like this way very much indeed,’ Eugenia answered serenely. ‘I couldn’t have a more appreciative audience. Tom, now we are married. You must go back to your sisters and begin to grow up.’
‘Oh, the carriage!’ Bess cried, flying to look out of the little window. ‘Quick, children, take a peep at the white ribbons the driver has tied to his whip. Here’s Edmund come for you, Eugenia. Your gloves! Are you sure your veil is secure? Oh, and your flowers! Bless you, dearie, you look a real treat.’
In many ways, the getting ready had been the nicest part of her wedding, for the heavy airless atmosphere in the church had made Eugenia feel a little faint. The minister surreptitiously mopped his brow, the ladies fanned themselves, and the men, wearing uncomfortable collars and starched shirts, were red-faced and perspiring. Gilbert’s colour was high, also, but Eugenia knew she must look as pale as her dress. Bess Kelly had pinned her veil too tight, after all, and it was dragging painfully. Her white silk tight-waisted wedding gown trimmed with Brussels lace felt as hot as if it had been made of thick wool. She was damp all over with perspiration. She could hardly remove her glove for Gilbert to place the ring on her finger, and when he clasped her hand firmly and lovingly they became welded together with sticky heat. It was only in that moment that Eugenia realized she was married. She had been striving so determinedly against her faintness that she hadn’t taken in a word of the wedding service.
‘You must sign your name, my love,’ Gilbert was saying.
The pen shook in her fingers. In her endeavour to keep her hand steady a blot fell off the nib. It spread in a tiny black pool at the end of her new name, Eugenia Massingham. The minister blotted it up. Gilbert took the pen and signed his own name with a flourish. When he looked at his bride there was pride and excitement in his eyes. He didn’t seem to notice her pallor. He tucked her hand firmly in the crook of his arm and began to walk down the aisle. It wasn’t so much a walk as a swagger. Eugenia felt touched that he was so pleased to be showing her off, and relieved that he hadn’t noticed her distress. He wouldn’t have cared to have a swooning bride on his hands.
Dorothy Eden Page 6