‘It changed me. I could not have sat and had a conversation like this with you if I had not met you. I am grateful for that.’ The smell of oysters wafting down the corridor has become pungent and strong. Betty covers her nose with the edge of her shawl.
‘I think the oysters are not as fresh as they might be. You should speak to her.’
‘About your visit.’ Adie’s dismissal is becoming urgent. ‘It cannot be the day before, or the day after. It is this day one week hence or not at all. Do you understand?’
‘Oh yes, I understand.’ But Betty stands poised as if listening to some other voice, her nostrils flaring and quivering. ‘Some say it smells like pork, tastes like pork, but the smell of an oyster that is not fresh gives me the same sensation, the same reminder. It is the paleness of the flesh that is similar.’
‘What is that? What are you talking about?’ asks Adie, her voice chill and afraid, even as she continues to move her visitor to the door.
‘Nothing. I’m sorry, nothing I should mention. It’s the dreams I’ve been having, the ones I told you about.’
A door bangs near by. Footsteps hurry along a corridor.
‘Louisa, my little girl, has not been well,’ Betty says. ‘She has a cough that pains her, but it’s not the whooping cough, which is different.’
Adie clutches the rail of the verandah, as if to keep herself from falling. ‘But you do understand? About the day?’ she says.
A sense of panic has gathered round the conversation. Both women seem suddenly afraid of something, or someone who might catch them in each other’s company.
‘I do, Miss Malcolm, but I cannot promise one way or another,’ Betty says.
A carriage draws up in the driveway. The two Roddick children are being delivered home after their outing.
‘You must leave now,’ Adie says to Betty. ‘At once.’
But Betty has had a moment to register the children, bustling Mathilde and little Austen, both clutching wilted bunches of flowers, as they climb down, assisted by the driver of the carriage. Betty cries out then covers her mouth again with her shawl. ‘The little boy,’ she says. ‘He is like my brother. He reminds me of David.’ She turns and flees without speaking again.
Chapter 12
Lieutenant Roddick unexpectedly dines at home. The children are excited but their father says they must not stay up late. Although Mathilde winds her arms around her father’s neck, he is adamant that their tea will be served in the nursery. He has had cook make up their plates already. And he will thank Miss Malcolm to see that they eat what is put in front of them and that they go to bed on time. They need early beds, he pronounces, for tomorrow he expects them to resume lessons in the afternoon. I’ve heard you’ve been playing truant, naughty things, he chides.
As she supervises the children’s meal, Adie Malcolm realises that Hettie, at least, had known the lieutenant would be home, for she has made several dishes. Adie eats modestly when she is alone; her digestion is not what it was. Today, when she calls at the kitchen for the children’s supper, she sees that, as well as the oyster pie, there is roast beef with Yorkshire pudding and vegetables, and a pudding followed by a syllabub. Adie wonders aloud if there will be a number of guests, but Hettie says curtly that if there are, she hasn’t heard about them. She is serving dinner for two.
Adie finds herself in a fresh state of agitation, wondering about the second person at dinner. She is unsure whether the lieutenant expects her to join him, or whether it is a friend, or perhaps another lady altogether.
Not for the first time, the unwelcome thought crosses Adie’s mind that one day the lieutenant might remarry. Gerald Roddick does not suffer widowhood well. Thinking of this sends a shiver of despair through her. If he were to look for someone else, where would he begin? There is not a woman in the world who could match Emmeline. For the sake of the children, Adie tells herself, she must be alert to the kind of person who might seek to fill her friend’s shoes. Her lips press themselves into a determined line.
‘We’ll dine at eight,’ says the lieutenant, catching her in the passage as she returns the children’s plates to the kitchen. So that is one worry off her mind. And now her heart flutters with anticipation.
When they are seated at the dining room table, the lit candles flickering over the silver, Gerald clears his throat. ‘A little wine, Miss Malcolm?’
‘Just a tiny drop then,’ she says, not wanting him to drink alone. He pours a glass of clear white wine to accompany the oyster pie that Hettie has left on the dresser for their entrée. The hot food sits on platters, under gleaming silver covers.
‘Perhaps you would be good enough to lift us each a slice,’ he says. ‘I have asked that we dine without interruption.’
Miss Malcolm touches her fingers to her lips. A thought, so improbable that she can only blush, has just occurred to her. But surely she is too old? And as soon as she thinks this, as quickly she asks herself, too old for what? But straight away the answers present themselves. Perhaps not, after all. And, that. Not too old for that. She knows that the idea has been lurking there all along.
‘There’s something I need to talk to you about.’ His voice is a caress, as she serves up the pie. When she is seated, her fork trembles on the rim of her plate. She takes a slow mouthful of pie, waiting for him to speak.
‘I understand you are seeing something of Mrs Guard,’ he begins, his tone still soft.
Adie’s heart falls like a cold stone. She had almost persuaded herself that nothing untoward had been taking place in her life that would be noticed by others. She can hardly credit that news has travelled so fast, for it has only been twice, and only this afternoon that Mrs Guard has come in any planned fashion. After a pause, she says, ‘That is so.’
‘I’ve heard that woman is not as good as she might be.’
‘I do beg your pardon? Mrs Guard has been through a terrible ordeal.’
‘She has spoken to you about it?’
‘Well, no. Not really.’ She realises as she speaks that Betty Guard has talked to her a great deal and told her very little of consequence, so far as her rescue is concerned. ‘She speaks of her family. I think she feels alone in the world. Not that she has said so. But I sense something quite tragic about her.’
‘I wonder, from what’s been said, if her captivity was as harsh as it sounded. She hasn’t mentioned the native chief?’
Adie puts the cymbal of her noisy fork down. Her rapid breathing seems to fill the room. ‘I know nothing of this. Mr Barrett Marshall’s gossip, I presume.’
‘The surgeon? He’s left the colony.’
‘He was determined to make mischief,’ Adie replies.
‘What he says can’t be dismissed. He was a witness to what took place. Besides, there are others around who knew her in the Bay of Islands. People were shocked by her behaviour there.’
‘What did they say about her?’
‘I fear that I cannot repeat what I heard. Not to a lady. Let’s just say that some things took place between her and a native man for which she appears to have no regret. And that her husband behaved abominably. There is a view that the woman is possessed.’
‘Possessed?’
‘As if by the devil. For how else could one account for a white woman having no shame about her dealings with the native tribes?’
‘Perhaps she does.’
‘Well, perhaps you could enlighten me. You know a public appeal was got up for the family?’
‘Yes, indeed, by the Kentishes, whom I understand were rendered the greatest of assistance by Mrs Guard and her establishment in New Zealand, when they were shipwrecked in that country.’
‘People are anxious about the Guards. They don’t want to be taken for fools.’
Miss Malcolm thinks that Betty was right, that the oysters are a little off. The pastry is sticking to the roof of her dry mouth. She takes a gulp of wine. A bubble of wind rises in her stomach and she wonders why, whenever she is close to a man, her body l
ets her down in this remorseless way. ‘Are you asking me to make enquiries?’
‘Oh, it’s neither here nor there to me,’ Roddick says. ‘Have you had enough of that? We should try the roast beef.’
‘I don’t think I could.’ She doesn’t know which she is refusing, the business of Betty Guard, or the meat that is to follow. ‘The Governor has been a great support to the Guards.’
‘He would be, of course — he has stood up for Guard. It is very political, and not everyone supports the Governor’s views.’
‘Like the Bowmans?’ she says, with a touch of bitterness.
‘I think it more than simple prejudice against the emancipists. Or the woman’s reputation. The word is that Guard did not act well to the natives in Taranaki, and there could be a court of inquiry.’
‘And none of this was the fault of the military? I thought they were there to keep order.’
The lieutenant wipes perspiration from his brow. ‘More wine, Miss Malcolm? You must at least try the beef? Oh, nothing to do with the soldiers. Guard and his men simply went berserk on their own account.’
‘Mrs Guard has told me nothing of her rescue. She seems easily distraught.’
‘Well, of course some unpleasant things happened. I would not like to see cannibals at their feast. Nobody should see that, let alone a woman,’ says Roddick, wiping his moustache with his napkin. ‘Perhaps these things altered the state of her mind. All the same, it seems to me that Mrs Guard is not the kind of visitor we should encourage. There are the children to consider.’
She sees how black his moustache is against the white linen of the napkin, how crisp and manly he is. She cannot think of other words for it. Her throat clenches round the rising bubble of gas as she excuses herself from the table. What else to say, but another headache.
At the same time, she feels a stubbornness overtaking her. It was something her mother warned her about, and Percy had been all too keen to remind her of, in the past. But what difference has it made, when it has came to her brother, whether she was meek and mild, as opposed to wilful?
Then the lieutenant does something surprising. He catches her free hand and presses his lips to the back of it, before turning it over, and repeating the gesture in the palm of her hand. She sees it as a sign of his forgiveness, and something more. They have been aroused, she feels, by the open nature of their discussion. She is flooded with longing, to be touched more, and everywhere.
She feels his eyes follow her up the stairs.
When first light breaks Adie Malcolm gets up and brushes her hair before the mirror. Although it is deeply flecked with grey, it is still silky fine. She holds it in her hand, twisting it like a rope before releasing it again over her plump shoulders and is surprised by the effect. She does not entirely recognise the woman looking back at her — still plain, in need of better teeth and with too many folds under her chin, but someone with brighter eyes and a better complexion than the last time she looked at herself. She dabs lavender water at the base of her throat and in the crooks of her elbows.
Adie goes to the window and pulls back the curtain. A tree in the garden is covered with what appear to be dense white magnolias, though she hasn’t known magnolias to bloom in this part of the world. Surely she must be imagining those huge petals, about to unfold. In a moment, perhaps hearing the sound of the window latch, or because it is time for them to wake, the petals move and stretch, begin to flutter. A cloud of white cockatoos rises in unison with a whirr of wings and the tree is left bare. She lies down on the bed and sinks into a brief sleep.
Chapter 13
LETTER FROM PERCEVAL MALCOLM ESQUIRE OF MALCOLM DOWNS, PARRAMATTA, TO LIEUTENANT GERALD RODDICK
10 January 1835
Dear Sir
I thank you for your esteemed correspondence and the concern you express for the welfare of my sister. As you say, she is a woman in middle life and has had her share of disappointments, for which I have to confess some responsibility. Perhaps I should have allowed her to remain back home, in the old country, for she does not seem to have settled well in the Colony. I had hoped that her longing for a family of her own might be tamed and subdued by her work amongst the poor when she arrived here, but that did not happen.
Unfortunately, she believed when we came here that I would remain at the centre of her life. You understand, for I am speaking very frankly, that she considered her life’s work as caring for me, and ironing my shirts and cleaning my shoes while I did business in the new town of Sydney. I should have disillusioned her of these plans, for that was never my intention. Nor, I believe, could she have imagined the place she would find, for her head has always been in a make-believe world of gods and heroes from the ancient times. I have been troubled, on seeing these preoccupations of hers, that she might lose sight of the very God of very Gods, the great Creator who made us all, and to Whom I have been drawn ever closer since my marriage to my dear Maude and the birth of our two sons, Herbert and Nathaniel. Nathaniel is a very recent arrival, a joy beyond our wildest hopes. Truly, my wife is a miracle.
I hope my sister is not foolish enough to think that you might take the place of a brother to her. I am sure someone as estimable as you will attend to any such aspirations with firmness and gentle courtesy. [Here the letter has been partly scratched out, and started again, as if the writer has considered a number of ways to address the problem he sees.]
As to your children, my dear sir, I am convinced that my sister will bring no harm to them. I believe that if you hold your ground, she will soon see the error of her ways.
If the worst comes to the very worst, I will of course take her in, until such time as a suitable berth can be arranged for her return to England, and I am able to work out a settlement to keep her in comfort. I have had a little cottage built near the river bank, our household staff having now expanded with the arrival of Nathaniel. I might be able to accommodate my sister there. But let us hope that it does not come to that.
Thank you for your patience, may the good Lord succour you in the sorrows you currently endure.
My wife sends you her kind regards.
Yours faithfully
Percy Malcolm
PS Mrs Malcolm says, and I am in agreement with her, that a firm line should be taken. My sister suffers from too good an opinion of herself. I hope you will not see that as unChristian, but it is best to be aware of her true nature. My wife is a practical woman. I feel bound to deliver her opinion along with my own.
Chapter 14
I am not sure that Miss Malcolm is giving me her full attention today. There is something different about her, both excited and watchful. I have liked the attention she has given me in all our conversations, for the rest of my life feels bereft. Jacky has stayed so distant towards me I cannot bear it. All the last week he has slept in the big chair in the kitchen. I have been thinking of taking the children to my mother’s place, but there is no room for the children and me to be comfortable. Louisa is little better, though I try to tell myself it is not so. Her eyes implore me to give her comfort I do not have. I should be with her, but I will go mad if I do not get away from the Rocks and the glare in my husband’s eyes. In this spacious airy house, I can think of myself as some other person not weighted with the burden of the past. I imagine myself in this parlour, receiving visitors with an inclination of my head and a small smile, pouring out tea and offering a scone and a slice of fruitcake. I would, of course, have done something about the upholstery.
What I see in the governess is a kind of happiness which cannot be explained, and she is not going to tell me. I have brought her a gift of some enamelled buttons. They are quite fragile, painted with tiny blue cornflowers against a white background. I have cut them from an old dress of mine that was stored in the bottom of the wardrobe at the Cambridge Street house. I tell her that they will look nice on the dress she had worn last week, which was nice enough but plain.
Her face had lit with pleasure. You shouldn’t bring me these gift
s, she’d exclaimed, but I could tell she was pleased. Nothing in this house will belong to her.
As if reading my mind, she said simply: Everything of my mother’s that was brought from England is at my brother Percy’s place. Percy and Maude’s.
After inspecting the buttons and exclaiming some more over them, she assumes again an attitude of listening, as if for someone in the house. This is cook’s day off, she says. I’m sure she will have gone to town.
This explains her fidgeting. I ask if we should leave it for another day.
No, not at all, Betty, for I find your story riveting. There is so much I want to ask you.
It is my story, I say, and you must not ask me things.
I am sorry, she says. I did not know there were rules.
Well, of course there are. If you ask things I cannot tell you about, you are no better than my husband and my aunt. Without meaning to, I put my hands around my ears.
Betty, says Miss Malcolm, I am sorry to have upset you. If you would like to leave it for today you have only to say.
So we are going around in circles, she and I.
We sit in silence for a minute or two. The mantel clock ticks very loudly dud dud dud.
With an effort, she says, I would like you to call me by my Christian name.
Adie? I cannot hide my astonishment.
It is how friends address each other.
Thank you, I say. I know what this must have cost her. I’ll stay a little while, I say, because something tells me I may not see her for some time. I don’t know what it is, a premonition or a warning, my Granny would say.
I cannot stop thinking of David, I tell Adie. She shifts uneasily, and I remember I had alarmed her with likening the little boy Roddick to my brother.
Still, it is true. I think of him more, now that I am living back here at the Rocks, than I did in New Zealand, for I keep expecting to see him when I turn a corner. David. Beloved boy, I might add, but it sounds fancy. Instead, I say, he was like an angel, that boy. I remember first seeing him, even though I was only two when he was born. He was wrapped tightly in a sheet, and very still, which frightened me. I wondered if I’d imagined that for most children can’t tell you clearly about their early memories; usually what you think you have seen is what has been described to you by others. But I asked Granny when I was older if I had seen this right. She gave me a sharp look and said yes, this was exactly as it had been, and I must be a child with second sight. I don’t think this is so, for if I had been able to look ahead I don’t know that I would have followed Jacky Guard the way I did. Perhaps it would have been better if I had known what to expect.
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