The Jade Widow

by Deborah O'Brien

  ‘It concerns yer husband.’ He drew a deep breath. ‘Did the two of ye encounter any objections to yer marriage?’

  What an odd question, Amy thought to herself. All the same, she didn’t have any qualms about answering it. ‘We did indeed. When Charles asked for my hand in marriage, my father vilified him in the most objectionable manner and forbade me from seeing him again.’

  ‘But ye went ahead and saw him anyway.’

  Amy smiled as she remembered meeting Charles each afternoon behind the boulders down by the creek.

  ‘So ye ne’er gave up?’

  ‘We loved each other too much for that.’

  ‘Did yer father e’er back down?’

  ‘No, quite the opposite. We ended up eloping.’

  ‘Eloping!’

  ‘I know it was wrong, but we had to be together. Charles was an exceedingly honest man, Mr Tart. He wanted to wait. He imagined he could win over my father with diplomacy. However, I pushed him into doing something which went against his character. I’ve always wondered if the strain of all the lies and deception took their toll on his health. He passed away two months after our wedding. It was diphtheria.’

  ‘And ye were carrying his wee bairn.’

  ‘Yes,’ she replied in a husky voice. Even now, twelve years after his death, the tears were just below the surface.

  ‘If ye hadn’t run away together,’ said Mr Tart, ‘he wid ne’er have had those two months of happiness. And he wid have fallen ill anyway.’

  ‘Someone once said that to me. But I’m afraid I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. We should have waited until I was twenty-one. In which case, I could have married Charles without my parents’ permission. As it was, we had to go to the city and prevail upon my aunt, who had once been my guardian, to vouch for us with a minister. Somehow we got away with it. But if I’d been patient and we’d done it the right way, we wouldn’t have needed to go behind my father’s back, and no one could have accused us of running off to the big city and consorting with each other.’

  Mr Tart’s face had become solemn. ‘I have made you sad, Mrs Chen, by bringing up all these matters from the past.’

  ‘I think about them all the time, Mr Tart.’

  ‘Ye do not know how much our wee conversation has helped me in my own difficulty.’

  It was impossible to imagine the affable and efficient Mr Tart ever encountering a difficulty.

  ‘May I ask to what difficulty you refer?’

  ‘It is a matter of the heart, Mrs Chen. Last year, I made a visit to Braidwood – the town where I used to live – and met a most enchanting young lady. Intelligent and full of life. I think ye wid like her.’

  ‘I’m sure I would. Is she Chinese?’

  ‘She’s English. The problem is her father.’

  ‘I should have guessed.’

  ‘I’ve known him a while, ye see. Ye might even call us friends. Yet he will not allow me to marry his daughter.’

  ‘I would have thought you’d be the perfect son-in-law, Mr Tart.’

  ‘Thank ye, Mrs Chen. I wish her father felt the same way.’

  ‘What do you intend to do?’

  ‘My fiancée and I have decided to wait until she turns twenty-one.’

  ‘When is that?’

  ‘Not until August of next year.’

  ‘That is a most wise decision, Mr Tart. Please do not feel tempted to go back on it, no matter how much you might wish to be married before then. I have seen the repercussions in my own family. My father still doesn’t speak to me after all these years and I have to meet with my mother in secret.’

  ‘Thank you for sharing yer story with me, Mrs Chen. It has been guid to converse with someone as wise as yerself. Ye have confirmed that the path we are taking is the right one. I will ensure ye receive an invitation to the wedding.’

  ‘You are most kind, Mr Tart. I shall write out my address for you. And may I ask the name of your fiancée?’

  ‘Margaret. Margaret Scarlett.’

  ‘Margaret is my mother’s name. She is the gentlest person you could ever meet.’

  ‘If I hadn’t been converted to Christianity, I might have said the coincidence is a propitious omen,’ said Mr Tart with a grin. A queue was forming at the door, awaiting his attention. ‘I must take my leave now, Mrs Chen. The lunchtime rush has begun. I trust ye will find a capable manager fer yer hotel.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Tart. I shall take care of it soon.’ She lowered her voice to a whisper. ‘And I shall uphold Miss Scarlett and your good self in my prayers.’

  As she watched him greeting his lunchtime customers, she couldn’t help thinking what a fine man he was.

  Amy collected Charlie promptly at two. True to his word, Doctor Ross had hosted a little party at the end of the examination, offering milk and cakes.

  ‘Do you think I will win a scholarship, Mama?’ asked Charlie as they walked to the gate.

  ‘Best not to get your hopes up.’

  ‘I wish I could have gone to Uncle Daniel’s funeral.’

  ‘You’re too young for funerals.’

  ‘What is going to happen to Grandmama?’

  ‘What do you mean, Charlie?’

  ‘Is she ever going to stop crying?’

  ‘One day, but not for a long time yet.’

  ‘I could never do that to you, Mama.’

  Amy gave him a curious look.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about what I want to be when I grow up,’ he continued.

  ‘You told me you wanted to be a soldier.’

  ‘Not any more.’

  Amy’s heart soared. ‘Why not?’ she asked softly.

  ‘I don’t ever want you to be as sad as Grandmama.’

  ‘Do you have another job in mind?’

  ‘I might be a teacher like Doctor Ross or a minister like Reverend Brownlow.’

  ‘They are both noble careers,’ said Amy. What she didn’t say was that they were also among the most poorly paid. Still, he would probably change his mind a dozen times before he grew up. As long as he never chose to be a soldier, she would be content.

  When they hailed a hansom cab and climbed inside, Amy gave Charlie’s hand a squeeze.

  ‘Whether you win the scholarship or not, there is one thing of which I’m sure. Your father would be very proud of you.’

  ‘Curiouser and curiouser!’

  LEWIS CARROLL

  Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, Chapter II

  XIII

  ELIZA

  Thursday 13th August, 1885

  It was almost two months before Daniel’s personal effects arrived in the mail, carefully wrapped in brown paper with an inventory enclosed. There was a pile of letters bundled together with a piece of string, including half a dozen from Nancy. John Miller’s letter, announcing Nancy’s pregnancy and reminding Daniel of his obligations, was not among them. There was also some correspondence from a couple of Sydney ladies, but John and Eliza quickly disposed of those letters before Charlotte or Nancy could see them.

  The next day a separate parcel came by registered post, bearing Daniel’s medals. The Egypt medal, which had been the subject of discussion between James and his grandfather, hung from a blue and white striped ribbon with a silver bar saying ‘Suakin’. On the obverse side a veiled Queen Victoria stared solemnly ahead; from the reverse the Sphinx gazed enigmatically towards the Soudan.

  Is this all we have to show for Daniel’s service in the foreign war? Eliza thought to herself but didn’t dare say aloud, especially to her mother, who had latched onto the medals and the contents of Daniel’s kit bag as if they were religious relics. She was even making rubbings of the medals, cutting them out and gluing them into the pages of her memorial scrapbook.

  As for Daniel’s first letter to the family, it did indeed turn up in the post, as well as two others. Eliza warned her parents not to mention them to Nancy, who was still haunting the post office, waiting for the precious missive she thought had g
one astray. Better to imagine it might arrive one day than to realise that he hadn’t written at all.

  After several invitations Eliza had finally accepted Rose Scott’s kind offer to come to Sydney for the weekend. Every Friday evening Rose held a soirée in her terrace house, attended by Sydney’s cognoscenti. Although very few things intimidated Eliza, she was apprehensive about mixing in such circles. Still, she had survived three years in a foreign city as a female medical student. A little gathering of politicians, poets and judges might well be child’s play by comparison.

  She caught the morning train and took a cab from Redfern Terminal to Woollahra, passing the Lachlan Swamps along the way. If Sir Henry Parkes were to have his way, they would soon be transformed into a vast park celebrating the Centenary of the colony. Rose’s residence in Jersey Road was one of a series of tall houses joined together in a row. Behind a fence made of metal spearheads, its tiny front garden was full of rose bushes in flower. Eliza took a tessellated path to a narrow verandah where she rang the bell, expecting a maid to open the door. Instead, it was Rose herself.

  For some reason Eliza had always pictured Rose Scott as a plain-faced young woman, dressed sensibly in black. The girlish figure who greeted her was just the opposite. Who would have thought the famous Rose Scott would be wearing a pastel, lacy dress and a string of pearls? Or that she would have long, curly hair caught in a clasp? With her elegant cheekbones and symmetrical features, she could have been a society beauty. It was only the serious grey eyes and hooded lids that hinted at something more.

  ‘Eliza!’ Rose said in a melodic voice. ‘How wonderful to meet you at last.’ She took Eliza’s hand and gave it a squeeze. ‘Now let me relieve you of your bag and do come inside. I have just this moment boiled the kettle.’

  Eliza followed her down a narrow hall, its walls patterned to waist height with an embossed paper.

  ‘I was so sorry to hear about your brother, Eliza. Such a great tragedy.’

  ‘It is indeed. He made it home only to die in the Quarantine Station. If anyone needed evidence of the sheer futility of that foreign war, they need look no further than Daniel’s death.’

  ‘You poor dear. I’ll make you a strong cup of tea and we shall talk of more cheerful things. Afterwards you can meet Mama and my nephew, Harry.’

  As Rose ushered her into the parlour, Eliza entered the most strikingly modern room she had ever seen. A lacquered Japanese screen stood in the corner. On either side of the marble fireplace were two enormous sofas, upholstered in dusky pink velvet with silk shawls thrown over the arms. A bay window framed the view of the garden. Its leadlight panels decorated with twining roses seemed to mirror the real blooms growing outside. How Amy would love this room, Eliza thought to herself, endeavouring to consign every detail to her memory in order to describe it to her friend.

  ‘I am rather partial to the Arts and Crafts movement,’ said Rose, noting Eliza’s reaction. ‘Mr William Morris of England, who is its chief proponent, once said, “Have nothing in your home that you do not know to be useful or believe to be beautiful.”’

  ‘My best friend would agree with that,’ said Eliza. ‘She is building a fancy hotel in the main street of our town and sparing no expense on the appointments.’

  ‘Yes, you mentioned her in one of your letters.’

  ‘Amy always says there is no reason why function and aesthetics cannot co-exist. As a scientist, I am more concerned with the practicalities, I’m afraid. Although I do have a fondness for paintings.’

  ‘What do you think of this one?’ Rose asked, indicating a landscape hanging over the mantel.

  ‘It reminds me of an exhibition I saw in Paris,’ Eliza replied, referring to an exposition she had visited three years earlier, held by the artistes indépendants. According to the catalogue it was their seventh exhibition, but she wouldn’t have known it. Not from the shocked reaction of the visitors, who exclaimed about the revolutionary nature of the brushwork and remarked that the pictures looked unfinished. Eliza herself had been fascinated by the dabs of paint which didn’t make any sense when the painting was viewed up close, but created a light-filled scene when she stood far enough away. The picture above Rose’s mantel seemed to use the same technique. The only difference was that the Frenchmen had depicted their own world – poplars, haystacks and poppy fields, boating parties on the Seine and the bustling cafés and bars of Paris. Rose’s scene, with its harbour cove and sandy beach, was distinctly Australian.

  ‘The artist has just returned from studying at the Royal Academy of Arts in London,’ Rose explained. ‘He is making quite a name for himself in Melbourne and I fear his work will soon be beyond my means. We are fortunate to have him here in Sydney for a brief visit.’

  Eliza reached up and touched the textured brushwork. ‘Oh dear,’ she said, ‘it’s still wet.’

  Rose laughed. ‘He had only just finished the painting when I bought it last Monday. My poor framer had to take precautions not to smear the paint.’

  ‘And now I’ve done that very thing,’ said Eliza, examining a small dot of paint on her fingertip.

  Rose put on her spectacles and peered at the picture. ‘I don’t think you have done any damage.’

  ‘Is the artist coming this evening?’

  ‘I have invited him, but painters are a law unto themselves,’ Rose said. ‘Like poets.’

  In emphasising the word ‘poets’, she seemed to infer an intimate knowledge of such gentlemen, or at least one of their kind. Although Eliza was intrigued, she didn’t know Rose well enough to pursue the subject. Not yet.

  From as early as seven o’clock, guests began to trickle into the Woollahra house bearing gifts – bunches of flowers or a new book, proffered in the hope of gaining Rose’s opinion about their work. Instead of a formal supper, she had arranged plates of food on a table where people could help themselves. She called it a buffet.

  Having been introduced to Rose’s guests as a medical student, Eliza soon found herself the centre of attention, like a rare animal in a zoo.

  ‘A lady doctor. How extraordinary,’ said one gentleman. ‘Surely no one would want to seek medical advice from a doctoress.’

  Instantly Eliza was reminded of the ‘hermaphrodite’ comment.

  ‘I don’t see why not,’ she replied. ‘Women make up half the population.’

  ‘Are you suggesting a lady would wish to be attended by a doctor of her own gender?’ he continued. ‘That is most unnatural.’

  Before Eliza could offer a retort, she heard another male voice with the hint of an English accent.

  ‘Good for you, young lady. I am quite fascinated by medicine myself. Or more specifically, anatomy.’

  As Eliza turned towards the speaker, she saw a tallish gentleman with thinning hair and a bushy beard. Although her first impression was of someone in middle age, his unlined forehead and smooth cheeks indicated he was much younger.

  ‘Tom Roberts,’ he said, extending his hand.

  ‘Eliza Miller,’ she replied, shaking it firmly. She didn’t believe in Amy’s twaddle about never shaking hands with a man. ‘Are you a doctor, Mr Roberts?’

  ‘Do I look like one, Miss Miller?’

  ‘Actually, you do. The only thing missing is the bag.’

  ‘In that case, I have to confess that I once attended anatomy classes at the University of Melbourne, but only so that I could draw the human body accurately. I am a painter, you see.’

  ‘Did you paint the picture hanging over the mantel?’

  ‘Don’t you like it?’ He sounded defensive.

  ‘I love it. It reminds me of Messieurs Monet and Pissarro. They call themselves Impressionists and work en plein air. That means “in the open”,’ she added.

  ‘I know what it means. I am an Impressionist myself. What were you doing in Paris, Miss Miller? Was it part of a grand tour?’

  ‘Hardly. I spent three years at the Sorbonne. I am hoping to return next year to complete my course.’

 
‘Has it been difficult to be a lady in a field dominated by men?’

  ‘No more so, I imagine, than being an Impressionist among a world of staid traditionalists.’ She waited for him to smile, but he seemed to be pondering her words in a most serious way.

  ‘It is always difficult to be a pioneer, facing the invective and prejudice of ignorant minds.’

  ‘I suppose one has to develop a thick skin. Not that I have ever done so. The jibes still draw blood even now, and I cannot help defending myself.’

  ‘I am the same, Miss Miller. I say what I think and do not suffer fools gladly.’

  Eliza smiled to herself. This intense young man might well turn out to be a kindred spirit.

  Rose appeared from the dining room. ‘Eliza, I see you have met Mr Roberts. I am trying to convince him to move to Sydney. The weather is so much better for painting en plein air.’

  ‘I do enjoy Sydney, Miss Scott, but Melbourne is my home. Besides, it is the heart of the new school of Australian painting.’

  ‘In that case, I have no hope of persuading you otherwise,’ said Rose. ‘Eliza, will you forgive me if I borrow Mr Roberts for a moment? There are some guests who would like to meet him.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Eliza, a little disappointed that the conversation had come to an end. She wandered across the hall and peered into a room lined with books and lit by oil lanterns. A small group had gathered at a table, absorbed in a political discussion about the latest Premier. The government seemed to change leaders as often as Amy bought a new hat – which was frequently. Although Eliza eavesdropped for a while, nobody noticed her hovering on the periphery, just waiting for an invitation to join them. She was about to return to the parlour when a tall man in a velvet cloak swept down the hallway, heading straight towards her.

  ‘Have you been waiting for me?’ he asked, as though the two of them were old acquaintances.

  ‘How could I be waiting for you when I didn’t know you were coming?’ she replied. ‘Not to mention the fact that I have absolutely no idea who you are.’ It might have been an encounter from Alice’s Adventures in Wonderland, a puzzled Eliza thought to herself. Except that this gentleman hadn’t stepped out of Lewis Carroll. He was definitely more suited to Wuthering Heights. An Antipodean Heathcliff with wild, dark eyes and longish, black hair parted in the centre. If Amy were present, she would have dubbed him ‘Byronic’.