She was only fourteen, much too young to be in love. But she began to make up fantasies about George Fitzroy, imagining he walked in the garden with her at dusk, said he admired her, held her hand. As she sat at Lady Mary’s feet on the verandah, holding wool for Lady Mary to wind, or threading needles for her, she dreamed impossible rich beautiful dreams.
‘Bless me, Mrs Massingham, this is a quiet mouse,’ said Lady Mary.
‘Yes, but such peaceful company,’ replied Mamma. ‘I like her to be with me. I’m afraid Adelaide is much too restless and impatient.’
‘H’m. Well, my son doesn’t seem to think so.’
‘He does seem to admire her,’ Mamma said in her polite voice, that didn’t quite hide her gratification. ‘She’s much too young, of course. She put up her hair without permission, but it will have to come down when she goes back to school on Monday.’
‘She seems to know a great deal about viticulture.’
‘Yes, it’s quite unsuitable knowledge for a girl. She’s too precocious.’
‘So is George,’ said Lady Mary placidly. ‘You must bring your girls to the next garden party at Government House. I suppose I shall have to give one soon. But I find it very exhausting in the hot weather.’ Lady Mary mopped at her scarlet face. ‘How long did it take you to get accustomed to the Australian summer?’
‘I still am not. My husband forbids me to go out without a parasol.’
‘Well, you’ve kept your complexion, I must say. Most of the women I meet have faces like leather. Very unbecoming.’
The voices prattled on and Lucy dreamed. At the Government House garden party she would wear her organdie hat with the wide frilled brim. George wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her. The beautiful Miss Lucy Massingham…
But she scarcely said another word to him during the whole weekend. There wasn’t an opportunity.
Adelaide would have said, ‘Make one.’ But how could she when he was much too busy talking and laughing with Kit with whom he got on famously, or Adelaide, or the three of them were saddling their horses and going off on a long ride, or everyone took part in a picnic at the lake, or people came to dinner, and music and dancing followed? She could at least have sung at the piano, as Mamma pressed her to, but the very thought of singing before such a large company made her tremble with fright. Her imploring eyes made Mamma desist. So there was really nothing left to do but be a schoolgirl, well-mannered but virtually invisible.
George was an expert dancer. He taught Adelaide the polka. They whirled up and down the room until they were both out of breath and Adelaide’s hair had begun to tumble down. Then at least he could see that she was almost as much a schoolgirl as Lucy was. This, however, did not make him turn his attention to Lucy.
Perhaps he would come again when she was older. But she knew he never would.
Everyone except Lucy pronounced the important visit a great success. Kit was pleased that George Fitzroy was as infected by gold fever as he was. George, when he could escape from duties with his father, was planning to go to the state of Victoria to try his luck. Kit had determined to accompany him, although he was keeping quiet about that at present. There would be an almighty row with Papa, who could never see farther than his last row of vines. Privately Kit thought everything about growing grapes and making wine, except the drinking of it, a great bore. At least his father was pleased that he was rapidly becoming a connoisseur. But the silly old man never could refrain from pointing out that a great deal of hard work must be done before one reached the ineffably pleasant state of pouring the rich red stream from the bottle.
The reprimands became monotonous. There were plenty of people on Yarrabee to do the hard work. Laying the odorous farm manure in the autumn after the vines had been stripped of fruit and had dropped their leaves, piling up the soil to protect the roots from frosts, pruning away the unnecessary wood, leaving the vines in strange primeval shapes. That was only the beginning of the preparation for the next harvest. In the spring, when the shoots began to grow, another pruning must be made, and after the flowering an unceasing watch must be kept for fungoid, pests, barrenness. And plenty of prayers needed to be said for rain in the right quantity, sunshine of the right quality, and an absence of hailstorms.
Kit did not believe too much in prayers. Neither did he like puddling about in the winery. Besides, Jem McDougal had charge there, and Kit was damned if he was going to take orders from an ex-convict.
The whole thing was not his choice of occupation, and he intended to be off on an exploration trip even if he had to wait another eighteen months until he was of age.
Sir Charles Fitzroy had proved to be a great wine bibber. He said that he intended to spread the fame of Yarrabee wines far and wide. This put Gilbert into the greatest good humour. As the departing carriages were lost in a cloud of dust he turned and swept Eugenia into his arms, kissing her soundly in full view of everybody.
‘You did famously, my love. No one could have managed better. Lady Mary admired you, and Sir Charles was ready to eat out of your hands. You know, you look exactly as I had anticipated.’
‘I look as I always do,’ Eugenia said in some perplexity.
‘I mean I knew when I married you that you would look like this today. Yarrabee, too. And our children.’
‘It was what you wanted?’
‘Exactly. Why do you look at me with that little frown?’
‘I don’t know. We seem to be at odds too often.’
‘That gives marriage a spice. Can’t have it getting dull. I think we ought to get that Irish painter fellow back, and have him do a family portrait. The Massinghams in middle age with their children, I’m sure—what was his name?—would be glad to earn some money.’
‘It would scarcely be any use to him since he is dead.’
‘Dead! When?’
The sudden angry colour stained Eugenia’s cheeks.
‘How can you be so surprised? It was you who said he would drink himself to death. How could he still be alive a dozen years later?’
‘Is it as long ago as that? By George, how time flies. Well, don’t get in a fuss, my love. I meant no harm.’
Eugenia lifted her skirts to return indoors. She was suddenly tired. The weekend, for all its pleasure, had been a strain. ‘There, you see what I meant about always being at odds,’ she paused to say. ‘But your remark about middle age is right. You have some grey hairs, did you know? I noticed them last night, at dinner. And how did you hurt your hand?’
‘My hand? Oh, that sore. I knocked it and it hasn’t healed. It’s nothing.’
‘It needs some embrocation on it. Ask one of the maids for some. Now I must go and speak to Adelaide.’
‘I don’t care for that tone of voice,’ Gilbert called after her. ‘What’s Addie been up to?’
‘Didn’t you notice she had her hair up? Without my permission, I assure you. She’s behaved in a most forward way during the whole weekend.’
‘Well, young George liked her. Doesn’t that please you?’
‘Dancing with her petticoats flying over her head. And riding astride, I daresay, as soon as she was out of my sight.’
Gilbert’s hearty laughter followed her up the stairs.
‘She’s got plenty of spirit. Don’t dampen her down too much.’
Dampen her down? How was it possible? For there was more trouble immediately after Adelaide returned to school. Miss Hester Chisholm drove out especially to see Eugenia.
It seemed that three girls in Adelaide’s dormitory had been found in an intoxicated state.
‘We were intensely worried, Mrs Massingham. We simply didn’t know what was wrong with them and called the doctor. He asked bluntly what they had been drinking? Imagine it, Mrs Massingham. The scandal in our school!’
‘And what had they been drinking?’ Eugenia asked as calmly as possible.
‘Wine, of course. It seems that someone from Yarrabee—and I can’t prevail on Adelaide to give his name—had hidden a bo
ttle under the bush at the gate on her request. The three girls in question were then persuaded to drink it out of mugs in their dormitory that night. With young girls, unaccustomed to intoxicating liquor, the result was predictable.’
‘Was Adelaide also in this condition?’
Miss Chisholm lifted her chin in as contemptuous a gesture as she dared.
‘Naturally not, Mrs Massingham.’
‘If you are suggesting that wine is my daughter’s habitual beverage, Miss Chisholm, I can assure you that you are mistaken. What action do you propose to take?’
Miss Chisholm looked uncertain. She had shot her big gun and that had taken all the temerity she had.
‘I had hoped you would make a suggestion, Mrs Massingham.’
‘It’s your school. Naturally Adelaide must obey your rules. Do you wish to expel her?’
‘Why, no, that would never do!’ Miss Chisholm was horrified. ‘We couldn’t afford the talk that would cause. We must keep it quiet. Adelaide will be punished by having all privileges withdrawn for a certain time. But I would like your assurance that this can never happen again. In other words, the person who delivered the wine is as much to blame.’
Kit, Eugenia thought wearily.
‘I understand, Miss Chisholm. You can safely leave that side of the deplorable affair to me.’
‘Your daughter is a very bright, very advanced girl, Mrs Massingham.’
‘Yes,’ Eugenia agreed. ‘She is both of those things.’
Kit swore he had had nothing to do with the affair.
‘Honestly, Mamma. Anyway, I haven’t been in to Parramatta for a week.’
Gilbert, whose mouth was twitching irrepressibly agreed that this was true. Kit hadn’t been off the place.
‘Then who has?’
‘I have. Jem and I took a shipment for the coastal towns. But if Addie wanted a bottle of wine I would give it to her and make no bones about it. I wouldn’t be hiding it under a bush. A bottlebrush, I believe. Aptly named, eh?’ And then Gilbert’s suppressed laughter did escape. He put back his head and roared until the tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘The minx, eh! I’m sorry, Genia, it’s just so deuced funny.’
‘So it was Jem,’ said Eugenia.
‘Jem?’
‘It wasn’t you and it wasn’t Kit. Who else could it have been?’
‘Old Jem, of course,’ Kit said gleefully. ‘He and Addie have always been friends.’
‘Friends?’ Eugenia said. ‘I should hope not.’
‘You know that Addie always tailed him about when she was little. And now she talks to him about wine-making. She’s interested in it. Much more so than me.’
‘Then why can’t she discuss it with her father if she must discuss it with someone? Anyway, it’s not a suitable subject for a girl. Gilbert, Jem will have to be dismissed.’
Gilbert stopped chuckling.
‘Hardly, my love.’
‘Isn’t this a dismissable offence? If Miss Chisholm hadn’t been too scared of me, or you, Adelaide would have been expelled.’
‘But she isn’t going to be, and neither is Jem going to be dismissed. Quite frankly, apart from any other consideration, I can’t do without him.’
‘So he is to escape scot-free?’ Eugenia demanded incredulously.
Gilbert eyed her narrowly. A faint cynical smile touched his lips.
‘If he were still serving a sentence I would give him a dozen lashes. Would that satisfy you?’
‘Gilbert! How can you!’
Eugenia, seeing a long-forgotten glint in his eyes, was overwhelmingly conscious of a memory she thought had grown too dim to bother her.
‘If you asked Jem to make a choice, I could predict he would take the lashes rather than dismissal. He has the makings of an outstanding vigneron. I refuse to lose him because of a schoolgirl prank. But I’ll speak to him. I promise you that.’
‘Only speak to him! Is that all?’
‘Yes,’ said Gilbert curtly. ‘That is all.’
Chapter XXIX
DEAREST SARAH,
First, we are not so old-fashioned as you think. We are all now wearing bustles and six petticoats, quite unsuitable for this climate, and we have been learning to dance the polka. I should qualify that last assertion by saying that Kit and Adelaide are the polka enthusiasts. We had Sir Charles and Lady Mary Fitzroy staying here, together with their son George who took quite a fancy to Adelaide. But I daresay that was only a harmless flirtation. Adelaide is very headstrong. So different from Lucy. Although I fear for Lucy. She has such tender feelings. She has been pale and triste since the Governor’s visit, but when I ask her what is the matter she says nothing. It is growing pains, I suppose, though Adelaide never suffered in this way.
I wish I could bring both my girls to England. Gilbert has been hinting that if next year’s vintage is as good as this one was, we may really go. This journey now seems as unreal to me as a journey to the moon.
Now for some servants’ hall gossip. We have given Obadiah White and Emmy Dawson permission to marry. Then I hope they will work properly again, as they are hopeless in their present lovesick state. I still miss Peabody dreadfully. Obadiah is a diligent worker (when not gazing hopefully towards the house to see if Emmy will appear), but he has not Peabody’s touch of genius. It must be my imagination that none of the flowers have been so brilliant, or if it is not imagination the fault is due to the long dry summer.
As for the rest of the servants, Mrs Jarvis and Ellen are not on such good terms as they used to be. At least Ellen is inclined to sniff or avert her eyes when Mrs Jarvis appears, although she assures me they have not quarrelled. I suppose women living together for so long must sometimes get on each other’s nerves.
Gilbert, I am sorry to say, has been looking fatigued. He works such long hours among his vines, not seeming to realize that he is no longer young. He has had a nasty little ulcer on the back of his hand which refuses to heal. The doctor says he has seen afflictions of this nature, and he thinks they are caused by the hot sun. Gilbert must keep his hand covered when he is in the sun until the sore heals. He scorned going to a doctor until Mrs Jarvis added her persuasions to mine. She once saw this type of persistent ulcer in her early days in Sydney, and it had become quite serious. But of course the sufferer was an unfortunate convict who would have had no medical attention.
Our next important festivity at Yarrabee will be Kit’s coming-of-age ball. Gilbert wants to make it a very magnificent affair. Part of his reason for this is, as usual, his wine. He will be opening the claret laid down at Kit’s birth. So I really don’t know which will be being toasted, our son, or the Yarrabee vineyard. I wish, for my husband’s sake, that I could have grown more enthusiastic about wine-growing, but it is a profession so full of anxieties, one can never be at ease. And I regret to say that I have now seen enough of the effect of wine to have an obsessive dislike of drunkenness.
I have left my own small piece of news to the last. Not that it is much to relate, but I cannot help feeling ridiculously proud of it. I have been asked to lay the foundation stone of a school the Government is building in Parramatta. At last they are taking education seriously, and it seems as if my own efforts have helped slightly towards this. Hence the honour. My name will be inscribed on the stone. So whether I like it or not I will have a small permanent record in the history of the colonization of this country.
I really have tried to help all the forlorn and homesick new arrivals, especially the young women. I identify myself so much with them. No one who had not experienced it can imagine the enormity of cutting off one’s home ties and beginning life in a strange and often harsh country.
That spring Gilbert found the oldest section of his vineyard suffering from oidium. It was a disease of old age, he told Eugenia. ‘Something we all have in common,’ he said, looking at the small itching ulcer on his hand which still refused to heal. The vines would have to be rooted out and burnt.
‘Perhaps the same should be done to me
.’ He laughed, the myriad wrinkles round his eyes deepening. But his eyes were still a brilliant blue, still sunny and charming when he was in an amiable mood. He had grown thinner and this suited him. There was a shadow of austerity in his face which Eugenia found moving. She could not tell him this because she had repressed her feelings for too long. She had become what he had wanted her to be, a poised composed woman in control of her emotions. He never knew how often her heart ached. For too many years he had been quite unobservant of her more subtle shades of feeling. He admired her, but didn’t see her, she would fume inwardly, and when her repressed emotions had to find an outlet, it was in an argument about the children or the vineyard.
Even when he began looking tired and she urged him to work shorter hours—after all he now had Kit to take over some of his duties—there had to be an argument.
‘The boy doesn’t show enough interest,’ Gilbert grumbled. ‘I can’t even trust him to bottle a cask of burgundy. I found he’d sealed all the corks without leaving enough air room. Jem had to do the job all over again. Jem makes ten of Kit, I’m sorry to say.’
‘He’s young. He doesn’t take life seriously yet,’ Eugenia said.
‘Then it’s time he did. At his age I had sailed round the world, and begun to clear my own land.’
‘Perhaps you should let him go off exploring for a year. That’s what he wants to do. Then I’m sure he would be glad to come home and settle down.’
The familiar obstinacy came to Gilbert’s face.
‘This is his place and here he will stay. I haven’t worked all my life to establish something that won’t be carried on. If I had more than one son, that would have been a different matter. But this is how it is, and this is the way it will remain.’
It was a worrying spring. A blight called black spot, or, more officially, anthracnose, appeared among the sauternes. Gilbert identified it with dismay. It had been a curse to viticulturists since the beginning of grape growing but until this season he had not encountered it. Sores and punctures appeared on the newly sprung leaves, making it certain that the vines would not bear fruit. The remedy, so the French said, was to puff sulphur over the afflicted area. Once again a tense exhausting fight took place.
Dorothy Eden Page 32