The Opal Dragonfly

by Julian Leatherdale

  Heavens above! Was Grace proposing to read Isobel’s private correspondence? Was this a taste of the new regime at Rosemount? Isobel imagined herself as a prisoner in a domestic version of Mr Bentham’s Panopticon, her every movement and thought scrutinised by her sister-gaoler. She was momentarily overcome by a suffocating dizziness.

  ‘But out of my love for you, dear sister, and in the interests of your proper rehabilitation, I shall not insist on such oversight,’ Grace informed Isobel with an unpleasant smile. ‘I only ask that you share any news of our brother William’s whereabouts and plans. If—Heaven forfend!—anything should happen to poor Papa, it will be necessary to notify Alice, William and Joseph and arrange for their speedy return home.’

  Isobel agreed to share any pertinent news and withdrew. William had last written her from Melbourne where he had been seeking business opportunities. She fervently hoped he was already on his way back to Sydney. She opened the letter and read:

  Dearest Isobel,

  I received your alarming note two days ago when to my astonishment I discover’d The Argus report of 29th Sept, entitled ‘Absurd Test of Arms in Swamp’. I regret I could not provide timely counsel to prevent this unseemly Farce and this injury to our family name. In the circumstances, I would have admonish’d you not pursue your perilous stratagem. While I have no illusions about your Courage, dear sister, I am fiercely protective of your personal safety—and Reputation! If that is a fault, I plead fraternal love as my defence. I was surpris’d that you felt unable to consult your sister Grace about such ‘desperate measures’. I have taken the liberty of writing to Dr Finch to learn about Father’s prospects for recovery.

  I wish to share some Important News: Joseph and I have both been offered promising situations with a trading company in Madras. I hope this will furnish an ideal resolution to the ongoing conflict with Father over Joseph’s (rumoured) authorship of the scandalous pamphlet that upset Mr Macleay and his son, William. With luck, tempers will cool over time and Joseph’s new prospects will win him favour again with Papa. We have already book’d our passage from Sydney to Madras in three weeks’ time. There are many urgent matters to orchestrate before then but I shall make every effort to visit Rosemount Hall. My prayers are with Father and, of course, with you, my brave but impetuous, headstrong sister.

  With a brother’s affectionate concern & love etc., etc.,

  William E. Macleod

  Isobel had sought reassurances of William’s sympathy but this response left her bewildered. The chiding tone of her brother’s letter stung. It appeared to blame her as much as it did Papa for ‘this injury to our family name’. How unfair! She had not challenged Mr Davidson to a duel. Even he—her father’s enemy—had praised Isobel’s courage. And in public too. And the suggestion that Isobel should have conferred with Grace! This betrayed William’s total ignorance of the chasm that had grown between the sisters and was a measure of her brother’s remoteness from the world of Rosemount. And there were even more unpleasant surprises. The shock of learning about both her brothers’ departure for India (for how long, she wondered) only confirmed Isobel’s sense of loneliness and isolation. What help would her brothers be to her in Madras? She would be lucky to be favoured with a letter every twelvemonth or so.

  Isobel felt tears on her cheeks. She could no longer deny the truth that she was utterly alone. There was nobody to be her confidante or champion, nobody to hear her sorrows and fears or take her part. On all sides, she was subjected to censure and reproach.

  And she suspected there was worse to come.

  Chapter 11

  THE INTERVIEW

  1 OCTOBER 1851

  The afternoon after her father’s resurrection and request for a lamb chop, the Major asked to see Isobel. Too weak yet to ascend the staircase to his bedchamber, he was content to stay in his camp bed in the company of his books. despite telling herself she had no reason to fear him, Isobel knocked on the study door with trepidation.

  ‘Come in,’ came the familiar reply.

  Isobel entered the dim room, all its wooden shutters closed but one. A stream of sunlight poured in behind her father’s bed, crowning his head in a bright aureole and casting his face in shadow. She could barely credit that it was here, only five days earlier, she had spied her father cleaning his French pistols and resolved to save his life. The Major sat, propped upright with pillows and bolsters, a pile of books at his bedside. ‘How are you feeling, Papa?’ Isobel asked as she approached the bed.

  ‘I am much improved. As you can see,’ her father replied.

  A silence followed that lengthened uncomfortably as Isobel stood, staring at her feet, trying not to fidget. She felt like a little girl again, summoned to her father’s study to be scolded. The Major cleared his throat. ‘Here, sit down. I can’t see you standing there in the dark.’

  Isobel pulled a chair up close to the bed. There was a second awkward pause.

  ‘I expect you think I am angry with you,’ said the Major at last. This remark hovered uncertainly between an assertion and a question.

  ‘Yes,’ said Isobel in a small voice, choosing the latter.

  ‘I expect I should be,’ the Major said gruffly. ‘It is regrettable that you had to witness…events,’ he struggled for the right words, ‘events that no young woman, in fact no woman of any age, should witness. It is most regrettable.’

  ‘Yes, Father.’ Isobel looked at her hands, folded in her lap. Without much conscious thought, she dug her fingernails into the flesh of her palms, a small act of penance. The pain was a reminder of her sin and would keep her focused on her obligation to be contrite. She was still unsure how angry Papa was but his stern face and tone of voice did not bode well.

  ‘It is also regrettable that regarding a private matter to be settled between two gentlemen, some people see fit to judge. And to mock.’ The Major began to cough, a spasm that threatened to overwhelm him. Isobel reached for the jug and tumbler on the side table. Her father took a gulp of water and regained his composure.

  ‘This disgraceful trial by press is hardly your fault, of course,’ he conceded. ‘I attribute no bad motives to you, Isobel, believe me. What you did was foolish but not malicious. You intended no harm.’

  ‘Oh, Papa, quite the reverse!’ Isobel protested, a sob shaking her breast.

  The Major patted the air soothingly with both hands and shushed her as one would a small child. ‘Now, now. Calm yourself. I understand that you only wanted to help.’

  Isobel’s face was ashen. She leaned forward, clutching her father’s left hand and speaking low to make her confession. ‘I was so frightened, Papa.’

  ‘Of course.’ Her father patted her on the wrist. ‘Of course you were.’

  If the Major had any intentions to chastise Isobel, he had lost all momentum and enthusiasm for that course. His own countenance softened and he squeezed his daughter’s hand. ‘I only wish your mother was here to counsel you. She would know what to say.’

  Isobel smiled at him through her tears. ‘I miss her so much.’

  ‘So do I,’ her father murmured, his voice hoarse with emotion. Papa had borne Winnie’s death with the usual public stoicism expected of a gentleman but Isobel knew that, in private, the loss of his wife had overwhelmed him with sadness. The Major wiped his face and cleared this throat as if to shrug off this upwelling of grief. He spoke now in a brisker tone, suddenly mindful of his weighty responsibilities as a parent. ‘I fear that your moral and spiritual welfare have been sorely neglected since your mother left us, Isobel.’

  Isobel looked puzzled. What did he mean by this?

  ‘I blame myself, of course, for not taking a more direct interest. I assumed—or I hoped at least—that your sisters would prove exemplars in your mother’s absence. Perhaps that was a mistake.’

  Isobel did not know how to respond. This seemed a much less charitable view of her conduct; neglect of her ‘moral and spiritual welfare’ sounded like a failure of her own character. She wa
s disappointed by Papa’s change of heart. For one precious moment, Isobel had felt protected and exonerated by her father’s open-heartedness. And their shared grief. But now she was confused. Had her father forgiven her or not?

  ‘I promised your mother I would take good care of all of you,’ the Major sighed, his focus turned inwards. ‘I have done everything in my power to ensure your happiness and good character. I have also made provisions in my will to secure your future when I am gone. What more can a father do?’ A shadow of sorrow passed across his brow. ‘I wonder sometimes if it is enough.’

  ‘Please do not reproach yourself,’ Isobel said softly. ‘You have done so much.’

  There was another silence. Isobel could tell that Papa had more that he wanted to say. She waited patiently, trying to stay calm.

  ‘I have been giving your situation a great deal of thought.’ The Major spoke but his voice sounded distant and he did not meet her gaze. ‘A young woman, all alone in this big house with no mother to look out for her. And with her sisters preoccupied with their own concerns. It is not a situation conducive to happiness or propriety.’

  ‘But Papa, I beg you…’ The words tumbled urgently from Isobel’s lips before she had time to check herself. Her father’s face flashed with anger. He was not used to being interrupted.

  ‘do me the courtesy, please,’ he insisted sharply. ‘This is not a trifling matter.’

  Isobel kept her counsel and listened. The Major continued. ‘I have written this morning to your Aunt Louisa and proposed that it could be an arrangement beneficial to all parties if you were to live with her for a while.’

  Isobel was in shock, unable to comprehend what Papa had just said.

  ‘Your aunt has lacked for company ever since her poor George passed on and her youngest, Mary, married. As you know, my sister is a good-hearted woman, esteemed for her charity work and excellent common sense. She has raised three fine daughters of her own. I believe you would thrive under her care.’

  Isobel was crying now, head bowed and tears slipping down her face. Banishment! What had she done to deserve this? This was a much worse fate than she had imagined. She expected harsh words and punishment but certainly not this. Never this.

  Aunt Louisa was no monster. But the prospect of any period as her companion filled Isobel with dread. The widow lived in an elegant villa in Paddington, not far from Grangemouth, the Macleods’ old home. She was well advanced in years but, much like her brother Angus, tireless in all her good works. Her husband had been a successful solicitor and had left her a handsome pension. Isobel had made many visits with her mother and sisters to pay their respects to Aunt Louisa as well as her three daughters, now all happily settled in advantageous marriages. Isobel regarded her aunt as not an unkind soul but one who managed a tidy, austere household and had no tolerance for frivolity or pleasure.

  Isobel feared she had little hope of swaying her father’s heart. This was surely her sisters’ cruel victory. It was entirely possible that Anna and Grace had suggested such a plan, conspiring to overthrow their father’s fondness for Isobel, his favourite. Who knew? Maybe they had even hatched a crueller future for Isobel and Papa had offered this as a compromise. With the deaths of Winifred and Richard, the news of William and Joseph going abroad and now this new calamity, there seemed no firm ground left for Isobel to stand on safely. Everything was permanently changed and ever changing.

  ‘You will, of course, still attend all your lessons as before and be welcome here as our guest whenever you wish,’ her father continued. ‘You will enjoy all the advantages of your aunt’s wise counsel and tender attentions and lose none of the pleasures and benefits of the society of family and friends.’ He was still speaking but his voice was far away, drowned out by the galloping thud of Isobel’s heart and the loud surf of blood in her ears.

  Isobel nodded in obedience to his wishes. As soon as he finished, she fled the room, unable to speak or look him in the eye. The study door swung shut with a loud bang and she was quite certain, as she hurried across the saloon and up the stairs, that she could hear her sisters whispering in the breakfast room, no doubt eager to learn the outcome of the meeting.

  Back in the shelter of her room, Isobel recalled the chill that had come over her the morning of the duel as she rode out with James and looked over her shoulder at Rosemount. She had wondered then if the vision of her home bathed in morning fire was a beacon of hope or an apocalyptic warning. It seemed she now had her answer.

  Chapter 12

  A LAST WALK IN THE GARDEN

  OCTOBER 1851

  Aunt Louisa acceded to her brother’s proposal, glad to have a young woman to share in her busy schedule of charity work. Preparations were begun for Isobel’s room at Faulconstone, her aunt’s sombre villa on Old South Head Road. The house had a fine piano that only wanted retuning and a quiet aspect despite its location near the tollgate on one of Sydney’s busiest thoroughfares east, the main road to the signal station and the lovely beaches on South Head. A large frangipani tree in its front garden and a high stone wall protected the house from the din of passing coach traffic. Isobel’s only consolation was that the house was within walking distance of Victoria Barracks, a proximity that promised glimpses into (and maybe even encounters with) a world beyond the dreary isolation of Faulconstone.

  Isobel waited anxiously for the day of departure. She mourned the loss of her beloved Rosemount each morning on waking as she stood by the window trying to absorb every detail of the harbour view she loved so well, hoping to fix it in her mind. In the same spirit of anticipated loss, she memorised the exact curve of the staircase banisters, the play of afternoon light on the walls of the saloon, the composition of Mr Conrad Martens’ oil painting A Distant View of Rosemount over Elizabeth Bay that hung above the specimen cabinets in the study. Like one of Mr Freeman’s photographic plates, her mind recorded the waterleaf motif of the ceiling rose in the morning room, the red and buff pattern of the wallpaper in the breakfast room, the tapering architraves of the cedar doors to the study and the bulging perspective of the gilt-framed mirror in the dining room, in whose convex surface Grace checked that the servants didn’t purloin the cutlery or spill the gravy.

  Nearly three weeks after the Major had pronounced her banishment from Rosemount, Isobel took up her artist’s satchel and went for a long walk in the gardens in search of some peace of mind. It was a warm spring afternoon with a light breeze off the harbour to cool her. She crossed the emerald expanse of the front lawn. Scattered profusely through the grass like the floral tapestry of a meadow were massed blooms of ixias, freesias and harlequin flowers, setting the lawn ablaze in pinks, peaches, corals and mauves. This was the scene of many a picnic lunch under a cloudless blue sky and country dances beneath starry summer nights, filled with music and fireworks. Isobel sighed at the unexpected rush of so many memories.

  She strolled past the sun-speckled orchard with its orderly brigades of orange and lemon trees, their lovely blossom scenting the air. The immense guavas by the stone wall promised a harvest of plump, creamy fruit in many shades of green and yellow, apple red and olive grey. Isobel was especially fond of the pineapple guava blooms with their festive sprays of bright red, yellow-tipped stamens and shell-like white petals flushed with purple. The pomegranate trees boasted a carnival of large flowers with their orange and white frilled petals like the ruffled skirts of Spanish dancers.

  Isobel followed the labyrinthine paths that wound through Rosemount’s botanic garden, all its exotic shrubs and flowerbeds now in bloom. The rose garden alone was a revelation, with every variety known to botany competing for one’s admiration. Visitors marvelled at this embarrassment of riches, so many botanical curiosities collected from every continent and corner of the Empire and miraculously raised out of Sydney’s poor, sandy soil.

  Isobel descended through the three terraces, each with a curving stone wall ending in lovely ornamental scrollwork. Away to her left, bordering the shining arc of Elizabeth B
ay itself, grew Rosemount’s extraordinary curated forest: colossal Moreton Bay figs and lofty Norfolk Island pines, umbrella-canopied Chilean monkey-puzzle trees and ancient Mauritian banyans, their roots hanging down like the ruined rigging of ghost ships.

  Isobel came out near the chain of carp ponds. This lovely oasis was encircled by man-made rockeries plush with mosses and silvered by waterfalls. Beneath a glossy archipelago of waterlily pads and velvet-tipped bulrushes, the stillness of the dark water was broken only by the occasional splash of a frog leaping or a fat white koi lazily coming to the surface.

  Isobel lingered a while. This was one of her favourite childhood spots. How much she wished she could have shared its secret pleasures with her playmate Ballandella. They had spent hours in the gardens at Grangemouth in search of small everyday miracles: a newly built bird’s nest, a lizard skull picked clean by ants, the footprints of bush rats and wallabies. Ballandella would have loved Rosemount and its endless trove of wonders.

  Over the years, Isobel had written letters to her little sister care of Dr Nicholson but the only news she had ever received was that Ballandella was now married to an Aboriginal named Barber and they lived at Wisemans Ferry. Ballandella herself never replied. She had vanished from Isobel’s life so completely and so long ago that it took an effort of will for Isobel to recall the finer details of her face. But Isobel still had dreams and memories of her friend in which Ballandella’s spirit was as vivid as ever.

  Isobel listened for the familiar thrum of insect wings. There it was; her patience was rewarded. A dragonfly, its wings broader than her hand, alighted on a clump of reeds. Could it be? She smiled. Petalura gigantea. A south-eastern petaltail or giant dragonfly, one of the largest species in the world. It must be a female, her five-inch wingspan wider than the male’s. The dragonfly’s huge glassy eyes resembled the domed paperweights on her father’s desk while the insect’s body, long and skinny as a penny whistle, was segmented into bronze and black stripes, notched like a shaft of bamboo. And her wings! Oh, such delicate, gauzy wings! The tracery of their veins reminded Isobel of the leading in St Mark’s stained-glass windows, casting kaleidoscopic patterns on stone and wood.