by Joanna Lloyd
Chapter Twenty
Electra sent a scalding look at her husband, spun around, and walked toward the kitchen. She did not miss the look of smug satisfaction that crossed Charlotte’s face. Electra’s fierce bravado was a cover for the suffocating heaviness in her chest at seeing them together. Tears burned her eyes and she swallowed back her fear that William would now redirect his emotions to the cool, beautiful Charlotte. After all, she was his first love, a love that haunted him for nearly ten years. Electra knew she could not compete.
She stumbled into the familiar, warm fug of the kitchen and sat on the little stool Mary used when chopping and kneading for Shi Liang. The little cook was nowhere to be seen. A pungent rabbit stew bubbled in a large pot over the fire, and the sharp tang of yeast drew her attention to freshly baked bread. She took a deep breath of the fragrant aromas and gagged as a sudden wave of nausea gripped her. She lurched to the door, taking great gulps of fresh air until it passed. This was ridiculous. To allow the woman to make her physically sick would play right into her cunning hands. Electra wiped the beads of perspiration from her forehead and pondered her next move.
First she would feed poor, chastised Isabele. Electra recalled her own childhood. Of days spent riding in the country and the insatiable hunger on her return. She looked dubiously back into the kitchen. Satisfied her nausea had passed, she retrieved a bowl and ladled the steaming stew into it. Next she broke off a chunk of the freshly baked bread, put them onto a tray and headed into the house. A quick glance into the drawing room revealed Charlotte sitting alone stabbing at her embroidery. William was nowhere to be seen.
Electra crept upstairs, careful not to be seen by Charlotte. She nudged the slightly ajar door open with her foot and carried the food into the room. Isabele lay across the bed, her body heaving with silent sobs. Electra cleared her throat and the child leapt to her feet, sucking back a sharp breath. When she saw who it was, she slowly exhaled and lowered herself back onto the bed.
“Oh! I thought it was mama. She gets ever so angry when I cry,” she hiccoughed, as a sob caught in her throat. Her eyes widened as she saw the bowl of stew in Electra’s hand. “You’ve brought some food. Am I allowed to have it? It smells wonderful.” She rubbed her hands impatiently on the coverlet of the bed, waiting for permission to eat.
“Of course you’re allowed to have it. I am not going to let you go hungry.” She leant over conspiratorially. “However, we mightn’t tell anybody about it. Is that all right?”
Isabele nodded, unable to speak as her mouth was already filled with the fragrant stew.
Electra sat on the bed beside her, trying to hide a grin as the child shovelled food into her mouth. Fresh air and physical activity had, as she suspected, given her a hearty appetite.
“Isabele? I know you might be very busy but I have a favour I would like to ask of you.” The child looked up, a dribble of rich gravy running down her chin. “I’m not sure if you are aware but our maid, Mary Buckley and one of William’s field hands, Sean Sullivan, are getting married on Christmas Eve.” Isabele shook her head. “There is so much to do, I could use some help. Do you think you might have time to help with the wedding?”
Isabele swallowed, her eyes widening. “Are you really going to organise a servant’s wedding? Mama never allowed the servants to marry as she said they would be too distracted with husbands and families to do their chores properly.”
A small niggle of doubt entered Electra’s mind. Perhaps it was wrong to introduce the child to such an unfamiliar world. Isabele was not hers, she had no right to influence this child. No matter how tempting it would be to irritate the vexing Charlotte.
She pulled Isabele’s hair from her eyes and tucked it behind her ear as the child continued eating. “Yes, you’re right, I did not think. Perhaps we had better not upset your mother further; I will find somebody else to help with the wedding.”
Isabele spluttered and coughed, nearly choking on a mouthful of rabbit meat. Electra grabbed the precariously balanced bowl, pushing it back onto the tray.
“No, Aunt Electra, you must let me help. The reason I was crying was because I had never had so much fun as I had today, and mama never allows me to do anything. I want more fun. Please say I can help. Please?”
Well, you only have yourself to blame for this one, Electra thought. What a pickle. How could anyone deny a child the fun and adventure of youth? How would she ever get Charlotte to agree to Isabele being part of a servant’s wedding? And what would William have to say about her encouraging Isabele to defy her mother?
There was a bright side to this. If it was too awful, Charlotte might leave. No sooner had the thought come to her than a strange sense of emptiness accompanied it at the image of the house without Isabele. In only one day, the little girl had wormed her way into Electra’s heart. She raised her eyes to Isabele’s expectant face.
“How about you start helping and if your mother is not happy, we will have to rethink your part in it?”
Isabele pursed her lips. “I suppose, but maybe I won’t say anything unless she asks.”
“Fair enough,” said Electra, taking the empty bowl from her. “Now wash and change, and I must do the same.” As she eased herself off the bed, Isabele suddenly jumped up and, standing on tiptoe, gave her a soft, stewy kiss. Without another word, the child then began to change her clothes.
Electra left the room, knowing her attachment to Isabele had just grown exponentially. This would only end in pain, one way or another.
• • •
Sean, Tom, and another of William’s workers had spent the past two weeks at the Hawkesbury River property, clearing land and beginning construction on one of the buildings. On Sean’s return, Mary put him straight to work preparing for the wedding.
Two days later, on Christmas Eve, Sean and two other field hands erected an archway in the front garden. Mary had once seen a wedding in a park where the bride stood under an archway of flowers and this had become her dream of the perfect wedding. Electra was only too happy for Mary’s dreams to come true. Now, with only hours to go, Electra watched Mary and Annie twist greenery through the arch and weave roses into the display. Molly Preston, who had now become a permanent part of Riverside, held the archway steady, calling out when the display lacked symmetry.
After the ceremony there would be a special Christmas feast for the workers of Riverside. It was a tradition William had established when he first arrived and, as he explained to Electra, the results far outweighed the cost. Unlike many of the convict workers on neighbouring farms, his workers were loyal, hard-working and honest.
On hearing there was to be a wedding of two convict servants and then a Christmas celebration involving all workers on the farm, Charlotte had taken to her bed with a cold compress. She wandered downstairs for meals and then returned to her room to read or rest. Rather than being concerned, Isabele was delighted as she could now take part in all the festivities without detection. Electra watched as she skipped in and out of the house, threw ribbons into trees, ran errands and in between, dashed into the kitchen to taste the latest offering from Shi Liang’s pots.
Electra turned away from the wedding preparations and caught sight of William standing near the wattle tree, also watching. Her heart skipped a beat and she clutched the top of a nearby chair to steady herself at the look of intense longing and sadness on his face as his eyes followed Isabele. Oh dear God, she thought, he wishes he was with Charlotte and that Isabele was his daughter. As if sensing her presence, William looked over and waved. Electra turned away, unable to respond.
• • •
All heads turned expectantly as Tom played a lilting rendition of the wedding march on his fiddle. There were tears in Mary’s eyes as she walked slowly toward a very nervous Sean. Pride and wonder shone from his eyes at the sight of his beautiful bride in her lemon muslin gown. Electra smiled as she remembered the excitement of having the gown made for Mary. The surprising conversation with the seamstress had not
been as pleasurable.
They had gone into town for the final fitting. Mrs. Grenville handed Mary the gown and once she pulled it over her undergarments, she stared, transfixed, at her reflection in the mirror.
“Ooh mum, I look jes’ beautiful don’ I?” She twirled in a circle, hugging herself. “I wish me poor ma could see me now. She always thought I were jes’ a good-fer-nuffin’.” She heaved a sigh, “Never mind, I done all right. I got me a good man, my luv’ly Freddy and jes’ look at me eh?” She twirled again.
Electra smile. “You certainly do look beautiful. Your mother would be so proud of you, I just know she would.” Mary beamed, nodding in agreement.
Electra noticed the seamstress seemed distracted. She went out the back to fetch something and came back empty-handed; poked Mary with a pin and kept asking Electra to repeat statements. On a number of occasions, Mrs. Grenville seemed about to speak to her but stopped whenever Mary came within earshot. While Mary was occupied in the change room Electra asked Mrs. Grenville if there was something on her mind.
Not one to waste time on small talk, Mrs. Grenville came straight to the point.
“Lady Charlotte was in the other day.”
“Oh?” said Electra, feigning disinterest.
“Yes. And she either has no idea that we are acquainted or she is entirely insensitive.” Mrs. Grenville paused, her eyes not leaving Electra’s face.
“All right,” exclaimed Electra, unable to continue the farce, “you’d better tell me what she said.”
Mrs. Grenville glanced at the changing room and, satisfied that Mary was still admiring her gown, continued.
“She breezed in, as grand as you like, and announced to all in the shop, at least half a dozen women, that she was the late Earl of Canby’s widow and demanded immediate service. Well,” chuckled Mrs. Grenville, “you can imagine the to-do!”
Electra nodded, raising her eyebrows. “There would have been much simpering and curtseying and jostling to be the first to visit.”
“Exactly,” agreed Mrs. Grenville. “So, while she had an audience, she announced she had made the arduous journey from England to ensure the new Earl of Canby,” Mrs. Grenville nodded significantly at Electra, “your husband, resumed his rightful place in society with those by his side worthy of his status.” She sat back, her lips pressed in a thin line.
Electra felt the heat rush up her neck and into her face. Her voice was hoarse with anger. “That devious, manipulative cow of a woman!” She stopped, horrified at her outburst. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Grenville, I should not have said that.”
Mrs. Grenville laughed and leant toward her. “You know, your mother was fiery like you, maybe not such colourful language, though. Your father always said she was shameless in her outbursts.” She winked at Electra. “I think it was her fire that he loved the most.”
Her anger dissipated at the comparison with her mother but she still needed the whole story. “I’m sure she said more, especially about her plans for William.”
“Yes. She also announced that the “Earl” was going to return to England with her and her daughter for an indefinite period and hoped he would not be badly missed by Sydney society.”
At the last piece of information, Electra fell onto a chair, her mouth open in shock. “Oh dear God,” she whispered, “I’m no match for her. How silly to think I would be.”
Further discussion was interrupted by Mary bustling out of the dressing room, her cheeks rosy with excitement. Mrs. Grenville took the gown from her and suggested Mary “pop out” and make some household purchases. Electra, taking her cue, reeled off a number of items for Mary and the girl left the shop. The seamstress walked to the door and hung the “Closed” sign over the handle. She then took Electra’s elbow and led her out to the back room while she made a cup of tea.
She began to speak as she laid out the cups. “For some reason, I feel a maternal responsibility toward you my dear. If there is anything I can do to prevent that woman from hurting you, I will do it.”
“Thank you,” said Electra, forcing a small smile through lips thin with defeat.
“I have a feeling your husband and Lady Charlotte have some shared history. Would I be right?”
“Yes, sadly, they do.” And without knowing why, Electra began to tell Mrs. Grenville the story of William and Charlotte’s love affair and the resulting disaster. She even spoke about the miniature of Charlotte in her lilac gown. When Electra had finished, Clara Grenville wordlessly shook her head. Her eyes held a mixture of disbelief, anger, and sadness at the pain Charlotte had caused William and now Electra.
Before Electra could ask, Clara Grenville put her mind at rest. “You have my solemn promise this story will never be repeated by me.” Electra nodded, grateful for her sensitivity.
At that moment, Mary burst in the back door declaring her frustration at unsuccessfully trying to enter through the front. This put an end to their conversation and no opportunity presented itself for further discussion before their business was completed.
It was time to leave but as Electra bid a last farewell to the seamstress, she saw a thoughtful, almost pleased look on her face. The last glimpse she had of Clara Grenville was of her reaching up to a top shelf for a bolt of lilac silk and hugging it to herself, smiling.
• • •
A sudden silence brought Electra’s mind back to the wedding. Tom had lowered his fiddle and the minister began the ceremony. Electra tried to focus on the excitement of the wedding and the festivities of Christmas. But her despair at losing William and spending the remainder of her sentence alone dampened her spirits.
As Mary made her solemn oath to Sean, there was a high-pitched squeal. Freddy, clutched by one of the women workers, had recognised his mother. He jiggled and strained and pushed and bellowed until Sean ran back down the aisle, scooped him up and took him to the front. The ceremony continued with Freddy grabbing at his mother’s bonnet, squealing for the ring and babbling over the top of the minister’s voice. Mary’s fairy tale wedding had turned into a hilarious debacle. But she couldn’t have been happier as she clung to the two people she loved the most in the world and walked back down the aisle.
Isabele, standing next to Electra, giggled so hard at Freddy’s antics, she had to clutch her sides. It was impossible for Electra to remain serious in the midst of such hilarity. Encouraged by Isabele, she joined in, throwing rice and flower petals at “Mr. and Mrs. Sullivan” as they made their way back past the guests.
This was the signal for the Christmas feast to begin. Electra looked over to the tables spread with food and smiled with pride at the results of Isabele, Molly, and Annie’s decorating efforts. In the centre of the tables silver candlesticks, surrounded by yellow and white flowers, gleamed in the soft evening glow of the setting sun. Dangling from the wattle and river gums were coloured ribbons, paper stars, and glass ornaments.
Instinctively, Electra’s eyes searched for William.
• • •
William stood back from the crowd. Part of his attention was on the wedding ceremony but the larger part was focused on his wife. He was confused with her recent behaviour. For the past couple of days she had been so distant, treating him almost like a stranger. At night, she scuttled to bed and was asleep by the time he climbed the stairs to their room. There was a cold corridor of space between them in bed and he missed her warm body nestled against his. He wanted nothing more than to reach for her, but after his clumsy behaviour when she first came to his home, he resisted, not wanting her to feel pressured. Maybe her reticence had something to do with Charlotte but he could think of nothing he had done that could invite her jealousy. He sighed and pushed his hair back from his eyes.
• • •
Shelagh, standing with Callum, watched the play between William and Electra. She noted their recent happiness had been sorely damaged by the arrival of Charlotte.
William joined them and Callum laid a hand on his shoulder. “What have ye done with the grievi
ng widow, lad? She’s a bonnie wee lass, aye,” he said, with a grin.
William ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “You may laugh, my friend, but this situation is not a laughing matter. The ‘grieving widow’ is being amusing and charming while my wife is treating me like a leper.”
“Ah, and where is the charming Lady Canby?” Callum prompted.
“She said she had a headache but I think fraternising with the help, many of whom are convicts, is not her idea of social entertainment.”
“Right. So we’re no’ good enough for her, aye?”
William threw up his hands in irritation. “Give her time, man, she’ll find her way,” he said, as he walked away.
Shelagh touched Callum’s arm, shaking her head. “That canny witch is gettin’ under his skin. Poor Electra, she must be feelin’ right miserable.”
“I’ll no’ say ye’re wrong, lassie. Electra looks more like she’s at a funeral than a wedding. But as for our countess gettin’ the best o’ William, I give the lad more credit than that.”
Shelagh weaved through clusters of people, making her way to where Electra and Isabele sat. She grabbed Isabele from behind, tickling her until she gurgled with laughter, screaming for her to stop. She plonked herself on Isabele’s chair and pulled the girl onto her lap, both still laughing.
Electra smiled at their antics and Shelagh recognised the attachment already showing in Electra’s face when she looked at the child. It warmed her own heart to have the child around Riverside and she wished Isabele did not have to leave. It was unfortunate Isabele came attached to Charlotte, she thought with wry amusement.
Shelagh repositioned Isabele on her lap. “I hope ye have a verra pretty dress for tomorrow, wee one and no’ just because it’s Christmas,” she said.
“Why ever for, Mrs. MacDonald? Aunt Electra, what does she mean?” asked Isabele.
“I have no idea. Shelagh?”
“Well, ma wee lassie, I’m no’ supposed to say.” She remained silent with an innocent look on her face until Isabele jumped up and with her hands on her hips, demanded an explanation. Shelagh raised her hands in surrender and continued. “It seems a braw young lad by the name o’ Marcus Holbourne has heard stories o’ your beauty and canna wait to make your acquaintance. And it just so happens he and his family have been invited for Christmas lunch tomorrow.”