The vice she administered was ‘vice in kid gloves and broad-cloth; vice with plenty of money at its command’. Her girls were particularly obliging and, more important, knew that Louis Raphael was a busy man.
While some clients liked to chat, to talk about their wives or their professions, even their hopes and dreams, this was not a service Mr Raphael required. Businessman that he was, he sought an uncomplicated transaction; fair work for fair money paid.
Frankly, it was a relief. After exhausting days spent using whatever powers he had to convince his clients that either the price they were demanding for their goods was too high or, alternatively, the amount being offered by prospective purchasers was laughably inadequate, Louis found such a straightforward arrangement soothing. That suited the girls, too; being quick and efficient, it relieved them of the burden of sympathy that was the invariable requirement of so many needy men.
‘Mr Raphael,’ they would say to each other, ‘might be a man in a hurry, but at least you know where you are with him.’
Louis, however, had recently decided that this hitherto satisfactory arrangement no longer sufficed. Being possessed of some ambition, it had occurred to him that, at the relatively mature age of thirty-two, if he were to make his way further in the world nothing less than a wife was required. Hence, when Edward introduced his striking niece, Louis was in a receptive frame of mind.
Mindful of her uncle’s advice, Rosetta embarked upon what she felt might be a suitable opening gambit. ‘Mr Raphael, what do you think of the plans for Federation?’ she enquired.
‘Come now, Miss Solomon,’ Louis replied. ‘Surely a young lady as lovely as you does not really wish to discuss politics.’
Rosetta could not help but enjoy the compliment. It was only later, when she recalled Mr Raphael’s quick assumption, that she experienced a faint annoyance.
Louis was decisive. ‘Rosetta would be an asset to any man,’ he thought. He did not acknowledge, even to himself, how much he wanted her in his bed. Lonsdale Street’s pouting harlots would not be so easily deceived. In the weeks to come, they noted the increased frequency of his visits, heard him cry her name at that moment when all men’s defences cease.
His mind made up, he began to woo Rosetta with earnest dedication. Picnic lunches were consumed, concerts attended and walks by the river took place, all properly chaperoned. An aunt or a married cousin was co-opted for the task; the courtship was a chaste, well-ordered process.
It was unusual then, when, one sunny Sunday afternoon, Rosetta found herself in her parents’ parlour with her admirer, quite alone. She knew, of course, of his interest in her and, feeling both nervous and excited, wondered what he might say or do. She did not have to wait long. Rather suddenly, Louis bent down on one knee, brought out a small diamond and sapphire ring and asked her to marry him.
Rosetta hesitated, a little flustered. Louis’ rapid courtship had barely allowed her time to contemplate a future spent in his company. She was so young; might there be more life to live before she took this step, perhaps even some other, more thrilling man for her, one she had not yet had the opportunity to meet?
But she knew her mother and father wanted the union to proceed.
‘He would do nicely, Rosie,’ had been the way her father, Lewis, had summed up Louis Raphael just a few days earlier. Her father had delivered this opinion a moment after he had finished playing a cheerful air on the piano; she remembered the way he had hummed along to the melody with an expression of contented satisfaction. It was not just that Louis was an acquaintance of Edward’s and thus known to the family. He was reputable, respectable and, like them, Jewish.
Neither Fanny nor Lewis considered their faith to be central to their identity. Though they observed the traditional Jewish rituals associated with birth, death and marriage, together with most colonists they considered themselves British above all else. They knew, however, that there were others who considered that their religion set people like them apart; perhaps it did. It was far better for their daughter to share a common faith with her husband. They thought it would help to protect her from harm.
So it was that Rosetta, who at least for now was dutiful, regained her composure and responded, ‘Yes,’ then added, ‘thank you, Louis.’ Her parents wished it, she understood their reasons, and she did like him. In any case, it was what young women did: they married.
The couple celebrated with her parents and drank sherry. Louis, constrained by his formal black suit, reached awkwardly for the decanter. As he poured, Rosetta regarded him, noted the white, scar-like line that lay between his sunburnt skin and shorn hair. ‘He has made sure to visit the barber,’ she thought. ‘He has prepared.’
That night, after Louis had left for his St Kilda home, Rosetta, thoughtful, stood alone in her parents’ garden, inhaling the fading perfume of late roses mixed with the headier fragrances of frangipani and jasmine. In the quiet, scented stillness, she considered her future husband. He was a man of practicalities; there was nothing fanciful about him. Rosetta was aware that life with Louis was likely to be conventional. But no doubt this was the best, the safest way to live.
SEVEN
The thought that something intensely physical, highly intimate and almost certainly painful will take place on her wedding night has not crossed Rosetta’s mind. She knows, of course, that children are the inevitable consequence of marriage. However, in the absence of maternal enlightenment she has developed her own idiosyncratic theory for the way in which the process of creating progeny might transpire.
Rosetta has observed that the world is filled with new and inexplicable phenomena, such as the telegraph, or electricity, whereby one unlikely thing emerges from quite a different entity. Words and heat and light are, she knows, produced by way of unseen emanations that exist somewhere in the atmosphere. From this she has determined that babies are most likely to be conceived in a similarly abstract fashion.
A woman retires to bed with her husband. She sleeps next to him. Invisible pulses fly through the air. This is the way in which it happens.
Secure in the confidence of these conclusions, Rosetta waits for Louis. She glances at the brass clock beside the bed, sees that a half-hour has passed since he announced he was going to the bar for whiskey. Rosetta puzzles over this prolonged absence. Suddenly lonely, she longs for his company.
When she hears the rasp of the key turning in the lock, she looks up eagerly. She has no doubt what a new husband’s customary expressions of devotion might be. Rosetta anticipates a charming compliment and the type of romantic gesture described in the novels she borrows from the library. (They make much of eyes meeting eyes and lips other lips, say little of greater familiarity.)
The door swings open. She sees Louis frowning. He is terse, says only, ‘I left you long enough. Yet I see that you have chosen not to prepare yourself for me.’
Rosetta is confused. What does he want? Why are his lips so narrow, his jaw so tight? Her husband’s arms are folded high upon his chest. His hands are clenched in a way that reminds her of the men she has seen outside factories when there is no work to be had. She hasn’t seen him look like this before, frustrated and annoyed and grim. He has always seemed reasonable and moderate. Rosetta does not know what she has or hasn’t done to bring about this change of temperament.
She looks away, finds herself confronted by the ruby coverlet upon the bed, the amber and the gold of its embellished trim. This lavishness, so recently admired, now cloys. She feels uncomfortable.
Louis steps forward. He holds her shoulders, hard, looks at her and says, ‘I expected you to be ready in the manner in which a wife should be. Take off your clothes now, Rosetta.’ He does not like women to toy with him.
She does not like his voice. She hears a razored edge. It brings out the wilfulness within her. She may be just eighteen but, as an eldest child of many children, Rosetta is used to commanding some authority.
She does not try to struggle from his grip, not yet, but mere
ly says, ‘What right have you to speak to me like this?’ The tone she strains for is imperious, but a tremor in her voice betrays a lack of certainty.
‘Rosetta, I am your husband.’
It is not the words – they are innocuous – but the way in which he speaks them that penetrates. There is no tenderness, no warmth. Even anger would be better. At least that would provide some evidence of feeling. Often Rosetta’s own emotions bubble over – the younger children know when to avoid her quick tirades. But she has always been filled with life and when she swings them high or plans some adventure they soon forget her hot temper, the sudden slap.
Louis’ tone is cold. Cold and hard as metal railings on a freezing day. He is a strong man with muscled arms and a fierce grip acquired by heaving bails of wool and lifting bags of wheat. He hoists them in the air to feel their weight, trusting instinct more than the scales of other men. He will not be taken for a fool.
Now his strength is used against Rosetta. He spins her around, forcing her down until she is pinned to the bed. Rosetta’s face is buried in that treacherous coverlet. It seems to rise up about her so that she gasps for air. One of Louis’ hands moves from her shoulder. It clamps a flailing, pale-skinned arm. His other hand claws at the silken undergarments beneath her petticoats and gown. The sound as they tear and give way is like a sea bird’s cry, a sharp lament.
She has misjudged him. He is not passionless and cold. His manner masks the fury of a man who, thwarted, feels humiliated. Rosetta tries to stop him, tries to strike out with the hand she still has free. He doesn’t notice, immersed in a ruthless mission all his own. Face still down, struggling for breath, Rosetta is blinded. It is impossible to see or know what is taking place. Possession, when it comes, is short and brutal. Any softness she has felt for him has been replaced by something poisonous and molten. Her sightlessness intensifies the pain. Robbed of one sense, those that remain are so heightened that all her being is inhabited by violation. She is engulfed by it.
EIGHT
The events that took place on her wedding night, on that troubled bed in the Hotel Windsor suite, were the key to much that happened afterwards. As Rosetta lay back the next morning amid the twisted sheets, she vowed that she would never forgive her husband for what he had done.
Louis had already risen, dressed swiftly and, with barely a word to his wife, removed himself downstairs for breakfast. Rosetta, grateful for her solitude, reflected upon the circumstances that led up to the horror of the night. She recalled her pride when she had stood with Louis by her side beneath the richly embroidered wedding canopy, or chupa, a vestige of the tents occupied by their desert-dwelling ancestors in ancient times. The rabbi had presented them with two silver cups of ruby-coloured wine. One cup stood for sorrow, the other joy, a symbol of all a couple might encounter in their life. Rosetta, struggling to contain her fierce dismay, knew that the contents of the first cup had already prevailed.
I see her, as the wedding ceremony drew to a close, watching Louis raise one polished boot then stamp down hard upon the crystal glass that lay before him on a marble tile. This, too, was an act that harked back to a different time. Twelfth-century Kabbalists believed that there were demons intent upon ruining the newlyweds’ peace of mind. I wonder, when Rosetta saw the splinters fly, if she imagined, as did those medieval mystics, that this small act of destruction would be enough to keep the evil spirits satisfied.
She could not avoid it: her gaze continued to turn to the tangle of torn tulle that lay on the floor in disarray. Her pretty gown was now a distasteful, mocking reminder of her shame.
‘No, I will not have it!’ Rosetta exclaimed, tearing her eyes away. She leapt from her bed and went to bathe; tried to eliminate both her bruised and bloodied soreness and her profound agitation. The warm water of the deep bath calmed her and, as her body relaxed, her mind floated free. In that liquid moment, when her anger commenced its bitter journey towards disdain, she began to formulate a plan.
Fanny must be told of the attack – how shocked she would be! Rosetta felt certain that once her mother was informed, her own extrication from this intolerable situation would be imminent. With this conclusion came a modest recovery.
To become swept away by strong emotions was a part of Rosetta’s nature. But, conversely, there existed that quality of mind that allowed her to detach, to coolly weigh up options and act upon them. It was strange, this trait, which permitted calculation to replace passion. In the years ahead, perhaps it was this ability that enabled her to do the unthinkable things she did.
As Louis sat wincing in the sunlight that flooded into the Windsor’s breakfast room, he contemplated, with an aching head, the disaster of the previous evening. In a moment of unusual introspection, he realised that too much champagne followed by claret and whiskey and the allure of Rosetta herself – why, she’d looked nearly naked in that gown – had only added to his desire; he suspected it might have made him vile.
Feeling irritable, he put this thought aside. After all, he was not to blame. Having paid a large sum for the hotel’s hospitality he had naturally expected that Rosetta would be, if not eager exactly, then at least grateful.
After several steaming cups of coffee and, as a consequence, a clearer head, it occurred to Louis for the first time that he had made the wrong assumptions about the nature of his bride. He’d thought her anxious to please, a sweet, biddable girl, not the furious creature he had encountered on their wedding night.
Rosetta had fought him, when all that he demanded was his right. True, his needs had been satisfied – even now the memory of her violent possession stirred him – but even so, he could not help wondering if his marriage had been unwise.
Rosetta appeared at her parents’ house in Fitzroy that afternoon. She had concocted an excuse, as ridiculous as it was hasty, which had to do with the need to collect a particular wedding present from her mother, a fine china tea service without which, she claimed, it was not possible to properly begin married life.
She wasted little time after her arrival, pausing only to throw herself upon an overstuffed, patterned sofa before tearfully revealing the dreadful nature of her assault. She did not, however, receive the response she had expected. Rosetta heard only a small, uncomfortable cough, then silence.
‘But Rosie,’ her mother said finally, ‘did you really never anticipate something like this?’
Fanny’s strained expression only intensified when she saw Rosetta’s face. It was marked with an anger that she knew could overtake her daughter in an instant. She had observed it many times before; the flashing eyes and jutting jaw.
‘How could I,’ Rosetta retorted, springing to her feet, ‘as you told me only about pretty frocks and charming conversation and a thousand other things but nothing about this, this violation!’ With that, she picked up a small embroidered cushion and flung it across the room. The thunderous crash heard when the Coalport china dish it collided with hurtled to the floor seemed to echo Rosetta’s stormy mood.
Fanny, appalled by this display, took a large breath. Grappling now with the reluctance to speak of intimate matters that had left her daughter so ill prepared, she gripped the arms of the straight-backed velvet chair in which she sat before explaining, as briefly as was possible, those acts – she called them ‘physical congress’ – that customarily took place between man and wife.
‘Of course, this is the way in which babies are made,’ she added, as an afterthought. ‘That is, after all, the purpose of marriage.’
Rosetta felt the burn of mortification. How stupid, how ignorant she had been. She did not want her husband or his babies. Rosetta wished to go home, back to safety, to a world where if not completely unfettered she would at least not be bound to Louis for all eternity. ‘Let me return,’ she begged. Fanny ignored her daughter’s plea.
‘At first it is a shock, of course I understand that. But that is what a wife must do. She must obey. Marriage is forever. You must make the best of it. You can never leave.
You would be disgraced.’
This painful conversation occurred as Rosetta sat in Fanny’s parlour, an ordered room of stiff mahogany furniture and precise botanical prints. It was the beginning of June, a cold month in Melbourne, but there was no coolness in Rosetta. For the first time the enormity of what marriage meant struck her like a blow. Her breath came quickly as she felt the weight of realisation press against her chest.
‘I will never be free again.’ The thought was appalling.
NINE
MELBOURNE, 7 NOVEMBER 1899
Rosetta has no idea it will be at the Melbourne Cup, the colony’s premier racing event and prime occasion for ostentatious display, that she will meet a woman whose destiny will be intimately interwoven with her own. Nor does she know that one day she will, like this same woman, be on the closest terms with some of the most celebrated inhabitants of Europe and Great Britain.
On the morning of the Cup, a day of clear skies and brilliant sunshine, Rosetta’s chief preoccupation is the challenge of accommodating her stays. Though she is still only nineteen and it has taken some time for her pregnancy – the result of her disastrous wedding night – to show, still she struggles with the lacing and the many hooks and eyes.
There has been at least one redeeming feature of being with child. ‘Louis, you really cannot expect me to share a bed with you in my condition,’ she said sharply when her fears were confirmed. ‘It would be unwise.’ Her husband, now conscious of Rosetta’s quick temper, has retired to another room. Though he desires her still, he is prepared to wait. That he seeks comfort in the arms of other, more acquiescent women, is inevitable. As Louis says, though only to himself, ‘What is a man, with a man’s needs, to do?’
Rosetta Page 3