This Golden Land

by Wood, Barbara

  That saved a wretch like me . . .

  I once was lost but now am found,

  Was blind, but now, I see.

  When the last note from Alice's throat had rung in the rafters, the silence remained, no one moved. They continued to stare at the girl with the disfigured face. Then they tore their eyes away, trying to understand how deformity and beauty could go together, and they looked at the sawdusted floor and then at each other, and conversations took up again, slowly somberly, with everyone wondering if it was all right to applaud a hymn.

  Sam Glass shot to his feet. "Christ Almighty! Where did all that voice come from? You're just a little slip of thing. Don't look capable of blowing out a candle, never mind belting out God's most blessed hymn."

  He gestured for her to come down from the stage, and when Alice reached his table, Glass spoke quickly. "We open in four weeks. I'll put you in the middle, so we're sure to get everyone's attention. I'll have some of the girls fix your face with cosmetics, and we can do something with your hair, too. I want you to dress to dazzle. A short skirt, mind, that gives the gents a glimpse of stocking. Bare arms. And the neckline cut low to reveal as much bosom as you can without getting us raided. What's your name?"

  "Alice Starky."

  He thought a moment, then said, "From now on, you are Alice Star. And you are going to be a sensation."

  13

  A

  S HANNAH GUIDED THE BUGGY ALONG THE SHADY DRIVE OF Seven Oaks Station, she experienced two joyous emotions. The first was her feeling, as she approached the main house, of coming home. The second was thoughts of Neal. He should arrive in Adelaide any day now, and Hannah could barely eat or sleep with excitement. And now Alice was going to sing at the new music hall. The world, golden with blooming acacia, was glowing with promise.

  Hannah was not surprised to see Mary McKeeghan and her mother sitting in rocking chairs on the wide verandah, with the chubby, smiling Robbie in Naomi's lap. Mary had sent a message to Hannah at the Australia Hotel, informing her that both baby and grandmother were recovering from their spell of malaise. Mary invited Hannah to tea, and Hannah greatly appreciated the opportunity to make a friend in the district.

  As Hannah took a seat, Mary McKeeghan said, "I've already spread the word about you, Miss Conroy. We don't have a doctor out here, and God knows we need one. But I reckon you're as good as any doctor, and I know that folks around here will be comforted to know that there's someone who can help in times of need. Perhaps you can look in on Edna Basset on your way back? She's down poorly with croup, at Fairview Farm."

  14

  T

  HE SIGN ON THE MARQUEE SAID: "GRAND OPENING! Entertainment for the sophisticated upper classes only: music, singing, plays and other outstanding acts. Rowdies and drunks will not be admitted."

  Carriages were lined up along the wooden sidewalk as ladies in evening gowns and gentlemen in formal attire stepped down. A crowd had gathered to watch the parade as many of Adelaide's prominent citizens came to attend the opening of Sam Glass's extraordinary supper-theater. Overhead, the southern sky's million stars winked down at them.

  Inside, a colorful and noisy throng milled beneath glittering chandeliers, to sip champagne and socialize in the lobby before finding tables in the main hall, where musicians tuned their instruments. A grand red velvet curtain hid the stage from view. Unlike traditional theaters, Glass's music hall, called The Elysium, had a liquor bar along the back wall, carved of dark mahogany, outfitted with mirrors, shiny brass beer taps, and pyramids of crystal glasses and schooners. The kitchen was adjacent to the theater, and when the audience was settled at precisely seven o'clock, supper would be served by young waiters in white shirts, black trousers and white aprons. Tonight's offering was spring lamb, roast potatoes, and baby carrots, followed by French cheese and English custard. At eight o'clock exactly, the dishes would be cleared away, after-dinner drinks served, and the curtain raised.

  "I am so nervous, miss!" Alice said as Hannah waited with her backstage with other performers. Sam Glass had provided Alice with makeup so that her scars were hidden. It was not perfect, but with her blond hair combed a certain way and held in place with a rhinestone tiara and an egret feather, Alice's deformity would not be seen in the stage lights. Besides, with every gentleman in the audience smoking a pipe, cigar or cigarette, there was enough smoke in the air to make details indistinct.

  "You will be fine," Hannah said, trying not to be in the way of the men in tights, or clown costumes, or dressed like gentlemen in evening wear. They were singers, acrobats, magicians and actors. The women were garbed in glittering costumes that exposed a lot of skin. Alice, on the other hand, despite Sam Glass's instructions, had chosen to wear a simple white gown, Empire style, with a high waist and neck, long sleeves, and absolutely no skin showing.

  The stage manager came through, ordering all non-performers to leave as the show was about to begin.

  Hannah gave Alice a hug, wished her well, and hurried back to the table she was sharing with Mrs. Guinness. The curtain rose and the small band in front of the stage played God Save the Queen. The audience cheered and applauded the various acts that came out one after another, laughing at the clown, singing along with a balladeer and his banjo, jeering at a magician who kept dropping his wand.

  At the rear of the packed house, Sam Glass chewed his cigar and watched and worried. A few mishaps had occurred, but nothing the patrons could have guessed. The kitchen ran out of spring lamb and the bar ran out of claret, but everyone seemed happy. Glass had a lot invested in this venture. He was counting on this mob to go home tonight satisfied, and tomorrow tell all their friends about The Elysium.

  It was three-quarters through the evening when the curtain came down, the audience grew restless with anticipation, but when the curtain rose again and Sam Glass saw Alice Star—wearing an Empress Josephine gown, looking like a choir angel—he felt a fierce throb at his temples. He had given her explicit instructions on the sort of costume she was to wear. So far the audience had been treated to bare ankles and low-cut necklines. They had been awe-struck by the lady trapezist in tights. Alice Star was supposed to follow suit.

  He chomped his cigar and spat juice into a brass spittoon. For the successful running of a supper-theater, it was necessary for everyone to obey the boss. What sort of chaos would ensue if everyone did what they chose? He would let her sing this once, and after the performance she was getting the sack.

  Alice waited on the stage. The audience grew restless, conditioned now to performances with brassy, explosive openings. The girl in the virginal gown and yellow hair did nothing to grab their attention. She just stood there. Hannah's heart pounded. Her mother had told her, long ago, of something called stage fright. Was that what gripped Alice now?

  And then she saw Alice nod her head ever so slightly, and the violinist in the band stood up and began to play. Alice drew in a breath and began to sing.

  All in the merry month of May

  When the green buds were swellin',

  Young Jimmy Grove on his deathbed lay

  For love of Barbara Allen.

  The audience released a collective sigh. It was a familiar song, a sweet song, and a sad one. People reached for their glasses filled with ruby-red liquids, or their tea cups, while they remembered the first time they had heard the song of Barbara Allen.

  He sent his man to find her then,

  To the town where she was dwellin'.

  "You must come to my master dear,

  If your name be Barbara Allen,"

  The audience grew hushed as they watched the girl dressed in white, standing alone in a column of light, her voice seeming to come from no human throat but perhaps from the whiteness of her dress. An angelic voice, many thought.

  For death is printed on his face

  And o'er his heart is stealin'.

  Then haste away to comfort him,

  O lovely Barbara Allen."

  Some began to remember bittersweet moment
s in their own lives, loved ones lost, nights of comforting, days without comfort. Tears sprang to a few eyes. Sam Glass's ire grew. His audience was sinking into sadness! He was ruined!

  And very slowly, she came up

  And slowly she came nigh him,

  And all she said when there she came,

  "Young man, I think you're dyin'."

  Sniffs were heard throughout the hall. Hannah herself needed to retrieve a handkerchief and dab the corners of her eyes. It was made of fine linen and was embroidered with the initial "N.S". Neal's handkerchief, which she carried with her everywhere, a memento made all the more precious as Alice's pure, clear voice reminded Hannah of her desire for Neal, and how she missed him. Mrs. Guinness swallowed painfully as she recalled a young man from long ago, whom she had not called to mind in years, but who now materialized behind her eyes, handsome, smiling, going off to fight Napoleon. She, too, needed a handkerchief.

  When he was dead and laid in grave

  Her heart was struck with sorrow.

  "O mother, mother, make my bed

  For I shall die tomorrow.

  The voice of gold, accompanied by the sweet-sad tones of the violin, held the audience captive, keeping them silent, frozen. Not a hand moved, not an eye blinked. Sam Glass wondered if they were breathing even. A fine thing. Promising them an evening of merry entertainment and giving them instead a dirge.

  She on her deathbed, as she lay,

  Begged to be buried by him

  And sore repented of the day

  That she did e'er deny him.

  The song was over, the hypnotic voice grew silent. No one moved and Sam Glass imagined a stampede for the box office, and demands for money back.

  And then the applause began, gaining momentum as Alice stood on the stage, with people getting to their feet and shouting, "Bravo!"

  "You were wonderful!" Hannah enthused when she found Alice in the chaos backstage. Sam Glass was there, congratulating her, telling her that he was going to put her on last from now on. The acts that had followed Alice had not done as well as the ones before—either the performers' hearts were not in it, or the audience's mood had changed, or both. But everyone agreed that Alice had been the high point of the evening, and that was how Sam wanted his patrons to go home.

  "I owe you so much, Hannah," Alice said, as others crowded around to congratulate her. Alice couldn't put it into words, not yet, not until she was alone and could look back on this moment—but as she had sung out her soul and felt the emotions of the onlookers, had seen their faces, even their tears, Alice had been struck but a shuddering emotion that had overwhelmed her and even now left her at a loss for words. All she knew was that, while she had sung for these people, she had suddenly realized that this was what she was meant to do. Alice had found her calling in life.

  "Not at all," Hannah said, noticing that Alice no longer addressed her as "miss."

  She stood back to allow room for others to pay their respects to Alice, and when she was assured that her friend did not want for attention, Hannah withdrew from the crowd into a corner where she found an island of peace and privacy behind a tall potted palm.

  She reached into her purse and brought out her mother's book of poetry where she kept the photograph of Neal Scott tucked between Wordsworth's "Lucy Gray" and "Ode to a Nightingale" by John Keats. Hannah looked into Neal's soulful eyes and conjured up his voice in her mind. Holding his photograph brought back the romantic weeks aboard the Caprica. The night of the storm when they had embraced and kissed in fear and desire.

  With a racing heart, she looked at an envelope she had tucked in with the photograph. It had arrived that afternoon at the Australia Hotel with the daily post, just as Hannah, Alice and Mrs. Guinness were getting ready to leave for town. Hannah had taken one look at the Perth postmark, and the familiar handwriting—she had written to Neal to inform him about her residential change from town to country, in the hopes that when the HMS Borealis docked, he would check for mail before setting sail for Adelaide—and she had wanted to open it at once. But this was Alice's night. Whatever Neal had to say, it could wait until after the performance. Hannah did not want to detract from Alice's special moment.

  But now it was time to read the letter. Since he was long overdue arriving in Adelaide, she assumed it contained an explanation why, and with a new date for when she could expect to see him.

  With trembling fingers, Hannah opened Neal's letter.

  ADELAIDE

  APRIL, 1848

  15

  A

  ND THERE WE WERE, ME AND PADDY, GOD REST HIM, ALL alone with this mob of Aborigines staring us down—"

  When Liza Guinness saw the handsome stranger enter the front door of her hotel, to step in from the warm April sunshine and come striding across the modest lobby toward her, she forgot what she was going to say next. Forgot, in fact, who she was talking to and why. She quickly checked her hair to make sure it was up in its chignon and no strays.

  Though a widow with two grown daughters, Liza Guinness still considered herself young and worked hard to keep herself so, with henna rinses, nightly facials, and an eye on her trim figure. And although she had run the Australia Hotel on this country road ten miles north of Adelaide for five years, she refused to "go bush," as so many women did after months in the rugged countryside so far from civilization—women who took to wearing divided skirts, simply because they rode horses in men's fashion instead of side-saddle, and who pinned their hair up any way that worked, and who wore men's bush hats and leather work gloves, and let the sun tan their faces. Liza Guinness always wore presentable day gowns, with fashionable drop-shoulders and wide, ruffled sleeves, and a crinoline modest enough to let her maneuver behind the hotel's front desk.

  She was glad now that she kept up such practices, because the gentleman approaching the front desk with a charming smile was not only attractive but clearly well-to-do. He wore one of the new hats from Ecuador, made of white woven fibers with a black sweat band, that were becoming all the rage as they were light and comfortable in hot summer months. The stranger's clothes were all white as well, and the jacket was made of linen, the sign of a man who could afford a personal valet.

  Liza judged he was around twenty-six or twenty-seven, and found herself wishing she were fourteen years younger. "What can I do for you, sir?" she asked in her most charming voice, while plump and matronly Edna Basset, with whom she had been gossiping, and who had come to the hotel for her mail, watched with interest.

  He removed his hat to expose closely cropped dark brown hair, and looked around at the tidy lobby with plants, framed watercolors on the walls, and on the registry desk next to a vase of daisies, a hand-written sign that said, "Sleep fast, we need the beds."

  He smiled. "I'm looking for Miss Hannah Conroy. My name is Neal Scott."

  Two pairs of eyes widened. "Mr. Scott!" Liza enthused. "The American scientist? We've heard all about you, Mr. Scott, haven't we Edna? But Miss Conroy said you wouldn't be arriving for at least a year."

  "I know. There was a change of plans and no time to write ahead of time. Is Miss Conroy in?"

  "She went to Barossa Valley."

  His smile turned to a look of concern. "Do you know if she received my last message? I was here three weeks ago and was told I had just missed her. She was going to help with an influenza epidemic—"

  "In Barossa Valley!" Liza said again in dismay. The German wine country was a good thirty miles away, with hills in between, so who knew when Hannah would be back? Liza turned toward the wall of cubby holes that held room keys, messages, bills and mail. "Here," she said, retrieving a sealed envelope and handing it to him. "Is this it?"

  He looked at the envelop he had sealed three weeks prior and his heart sank. Hannah did not know he was in Adelaide! "I'm afraid so."

  "She should have been back by now," Liza said, replacing the envelope. "Can you wait for Miss Conroy? We have a lovely parlor and we serve a variety of teas and cakes."

&nbs
p; Neal glanced toward the open door where he saw a nicely furnished room that looked more like a parlor in someone's home than a public eatery. A few patrons sat on the sofas talking quietly, and an inviting fire roared at the hearth. It was so tempting . . . "I'm afraid I can't stay. I leave Adelaide this afternoon."

  "This afternoon!" Liza and Edna said in unison, both wishing to spend a bit of time with the intriguing American, and hoping to watch some romance blossom when Hannah returned. Life in the countryside could get monotonous. "We have heard that the epidemic has run its course," Liza said hopefully. "Which means Hannah is on her way home and could be here any minute. Just one cup of tea, Mr. Scott?"

  "I'm sorry, but I'm meeting up with an expedition, and if I'm late, I know Sir Reginald will not wait for me."

  Liza Guinness stared at this stranger who was the most exotic creature to ever cross her threshold—and the only American she had ever met. "Surely you don't mean Sir Reginald Oliphant?"

  "The same."

  "I have his books! I have read them all!" She turned to her friend with a glowing smile. "Fancy that, Edna. An explorer in my hotel." And Edna, who found herself wishing she was thirty years younger, returned the smile.

  Neal consulted his pocket watch, then looked at the clock on the wall, then glanced back at the front door, shifted on his feet, frowned in thought and indecision, and finally said, "I'll just have to leave another message. Have you paper and pen?"

  Mrs. Guinness loved romance, even when it was someone else's, and always helped it along when she could. She had heard all about the voyage on the Caprica, and had noted in particular that when Hannah spoke of the storm in which she and the American had almost died, her cheeks pinked and she cast her eyes down—classic signs, Liza thought, of a woman with a secret. It had been a shipboard romance, Liza was certain, and it thrilled her to think so. Especially now that she had laid eyes on the man himself instead of his flat, black and white photograph which, granted, showed an attractive young man but which did nothing for the exciting, flesh and blood male who stood before her now.