The Opal Dragonfly

by Julian Leatherdale

  ‘This is a very fine likeness, Mr Probius, and a generous gift, sir,’ exclaimed Mrs Blunt as she held the picture in her hands.

  ‘It is by way of a small thank you for the opportunity to pay my respects to you both,’ said Mr Probius, a master of courtesy and good manners. ‘If it pleases you, madam, I will have it properly prepared as a lithograph to add to your excellent collection.’ The artist’s gaze made a sweeping appraisal of the artworks on the drawing room walls.

  ‘Well, I don’t know what to say! Please accept my deepest gratitude,’ replied Mrs Blunt, quite abashed. ‘You are welcome in this house whenever you can spare the time.’

  ‘Thank you. As you probably know, Mr and Mrs Cooper are vacating Juniper Hall and plan to return to England. They have asked me to join them.’

  Mr Probius’s dark eyes met Isobel’s for what seemed a long moment. Isobel felt her heart lurch in her chest. She had struggled to hold any strong sentiments concerning Mr Probius at arm’s length to safeguard her heart. The vertigo of darkness that threatened to overcome her at the notion of him leaving proved that she had failed.

  ‘But I have declined their offer.’

  Isobel felt her heart resume its normal rhythm. She hoped that her cheeks were not too flushed from her seizure of panic but her face betrayed her untrammelled relief with a broad smile. The smile was returned by the gentleman with such a look of tenderness that it was a fresh spring to Isobel’s wilted soul. ‘The colony has changed so much for the better in the last few years. I feel, as so many others do, that this strange, infuriating and yet lovely land is my permanent home. I have hopes of making a bright future here.’

  ‘Well, that is good news, Mr Probius,’ said her aunt, seemingly oblivious to the dramatic exchange that had just passed between Isobel and the artist. ‘But what of your employment, sir, if you do not mind my asking?’

  ‘Ah, yes. It is true that I will no longer have my post as drawing master. But I am confident of securing such a position, or something similar, with another family.’

  ‘I am greatly pleased to hear that,’ said Isobel for more reasons than she could name publicly. ‘I am sure you will be much missed by Mr and Mrs Cooper and their children.’

  Mr Probius asked if he might look at some of Isobel’s work, including the sketches she was currently doing for Juniper Hall. Isobel excused herself and hurried to her room to fetch her sketchbooks. Her heart was full, agitated by a mix of fear and joy and she could not say what. She had never been so delightfully confused. The looks she exchanged with Mr Probius were as eloquent as the most heartfelt declarations of passion. She prayed that these sentiments were felt equally on both sides.

  Mrs Blunt looked on as Mr Probius and her niece sat side by side on the chaise longue with Isobel’s sketchbooks in their laps. ‘You show a good grasp of perspective here,’ said Mr Probius as he studied the first page closely. ‘And I like the way you have filled in the shadows under the eaves. That provides a nice sense of weight to the roofline. But you must keep in mind the position of the sun in relation to the building. Shadows must be consistent.’

  With careful deliberation, Mr Probius turned the pages. His observations were all expressed with a respectful frankness and sincerity that disclosed no hint of aiming to please. Isobel understood that his criticisms paid her the honour of taking her work as seriously as he would those of an assistant or acolyte. As their talk grew increasingly animated and obscurely technical, with references to charcoal and penmanship and chiaroscuro, Aunt Louisa excused herself. ‘Please don’t get up. I have one or two matters to attend to. Emmet will refresh the tea tray. I shall be back soon.’

  Aunt Louisa shut the drawing room door behind her. This lapse in her aunt’s moral vigilance as her chaperone was totally unexpected, if welcomed as evidence of her trust in Mr Probius’s honour as a gentleman. Even so, Isobel was taken aback. Was it possible that Aunt Louisa had no idea how she felt about this man? Or did she completely discount the possibility that Mr Probius may have an interest in her? It was then that the novel and alarming thought flashed across Isobel’s mind that while Aunt Louisa was undeniably charmed by this handsome and dashing gent, she regarded him as no more than a fop, a dandified drawing master, clever and sweetnatured and stylish but in no sense a hot-blooded man who posed any threat to her niece’s morals. Was that even possible?

  Left alone, an awkward silence sprang up briefly between the couple seated on the lounge. Isobel spoke first, her heart brimming with feeling. ‘My father is going to England after my sister Grace’s wedding in two weeks. He will be gone for most of a year.’

  She knew exactly why her heart had alighted on this topic as the most urgent to convey in the short time they had alone. If Mr Probius had any honourable intentions regarding her future then he would not be able to seek her father’s permission in person for a whole year if he did not act soon. There, she had laid her cards upon the table.

  ‘Miss Macleod.’ Charles Probius spoke softly. ‘May I call you Isobel?’

  ‘Please do.’

  ‘You know I believe in plain speaking, Isobel.’

  She nodded. He prized honesty so greatly he had even taken it as his name.

  ‘I have something to tell you that I cannot in good faith keep secret. I would not wish you to discover this other than directly from my own lips. If—by any good fortune—you should regard me with favour, I would like to take this opportunity to tell you what is in my heart.’ Isobel could barely speak. Why did she feel so nervous? did she have reasons to be afraid? Please let it not be some great obstacle to their love.

  ‘dearest Isobel. I told you at the ball how I had been curious to meet you from the first time I heard about you. That curiosity has grown quickly, even on so short an acquaintance, into nothing short of fascination. And admiration. And dare I say it, affection.’

  ‘Oh, Mr Probius. Charles,’ said Isobel who could not stop a tear or two spilling from her eyes. ‘My tears are happy ones. Relief that my own feelings are so perfectly mirrored.’

  ‘do I dare hope that you regard me with favour?’ the artist asked, taking both her hands in his and looking into her eyes with such fervour that she felt consumed by their fire.

  ‘I do.’ Neither had spoken the word ‘love’ but Isobel knew how much she yearned to explore the landscape of that unknown territory with this man.

  ‘Then I must tell you something before either of us takes another step. To not tell you would be deceitful and would put everything at risk. It is the only honourable path.’

  Dear God! What was this secret that Mr Probius must confess, so very dreadful that not to confess to it could imperil their courtship, even their love? And in the instant before he opened his mouth, Isobel knew exactly what it was. What else could it be? Her heart stopped.

  ‘You are to going tell me that you were once a convict,’ she said.

  ‘So you knew?’

  ‘No, but I have guessed. This is the colony of New South Wales after all.’

  ‘Are you shocked?’ the artist asked.

  ‘Surprised. But not shocked,’ she lied.

  ‘I want us to have no secrets that could be an impediment to our happiness,’ said Charles Probius. He kept one eye on the door in case Aunt Louisa suddenly entered but his voice stayed steady and calm. ‘If you can bear to hear the details, I will tell you.’

  ‘Please,’ Isobel nodded, barely able to speak.

  ‘In 1832 I was living in London, a poor artist. There were many times I could not find work. I went hungry and homeless. One evening I stole the contents of a rich woman’s purse right outside the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden. To this day, I cannot tell you my motive beyond simple desperation. One could imagine a much less public and better-planned theft. But I was no seasoned highwayman; I acted on impulse. I say none of this to excuse my behaviour. I was convicted, sentenced to be hanged and had my sentence transmuted to transportation. After seven years in New South Wales, I was exempted from government
service and have plied my trade as a painter ever since.’

  Isobel looked at him closely. She knew he told her the truth. It must have cost him dearly. But there was nothing abject in this confession. He told his story with a quiet dignity.

  ‘I do not ask you to tell me now if this alters your view of me,’ he continued. ‘I want you to have time to think about what I have told you. If you find it in your heart to still look on me with favour, then, of course, I will be the happiest man alive. But you must decide this freely and without consideration for my feelings. You must instead consider your own situation. Including the opinions of your family and friends.’

  Isobel was grateful that she had not been pressed to declare her intentions right away. Charles probably knew about her father’s views on emancipists, even though the Major had given his blessing for Grace to marry into an emancipist family. ‘I thank you for your honesty,’ said Isobel. ‘I shall do exactly as you ask and you shall have my answer soon.’

  The door to the drawing room opened and Aunt Louisa came bustling in. ‘Has Emmet not been in to refresh the tea? I shall summon him at once!’

  ‘That is fine, Mrs Blunt, please do not disturb yourself,’ said Mr Probius as he stood up from the chaise longue. ‘I am expected at Juniper Hall soon and must reluctantly take my leave. Your niece and I have had a most instructive time together. With your permission, I hope I may continue to help with her art tuition in future. I believe she has a fine talent.’

  ‘I think you are right, Mr Probius,’ agreed Isobel’s proud aunt, still basking in the glow of her niece’s New Year’s day triumph. ‘I am more than happy for you to come here as often as you think fit to instruct my niece. In fact, I am happy to meet whatever costs are involved from my own purse.’

  ‘Oh, Aunt, that is so generous!’ Isobel flung her arms about her aunt’s neck. did Aunt Louisa feel sorry for her niece, forced to stay even longer at Faulconstone? Was this her gift to compensate for Isobel’s homesickness? Whatever the reason, it was warmly received.

  ‘Now, now. dear me, no need for fuss. I believe that a young woman should be accomplished in whatever way she is gifted but never proud. And I have no doubt that the Lord Himself takes pleasure in artistic work that pays tribute to the wonders of His Creation.’

  Emmet was ordered to bring in Mr Probius’s coat, hat and cane. ‘Thank you both for your hospitality,’ said Mr Probius as he stood on the threshold of the drawing room door. ‘I shall see you soon for our next lesson, Miss Macleod. I bid you both adieu!’

  ‘What a very well-bred gent he is. And so talented,’ said Aunt Louisa after the artist took his leave, admiring again the sketch of Faulconstone that sat on her chiffonier. As if in a trance, Isobel nodded her agreement. Her heart was in a state of turmoil, as delight and alarm, passion and fear contested for the upper hand in her emotions.

  ‘Yes, Aunt. Yes, he certainly is.’

  Despite Anna’s persistent hostility towards her, Isobel accepted the invitation to join her aunt, sisters and father for luncheon at Rosemount the following week to discuss Grace’s wedding, which was only six days away, as well as the family’s arrangements while the Major was abroad. His plan was to board his ship for England the morning after the wedding feast.

  Papa had recently spent two days in bed after a trip away surveying an improved detour to the Great South Road and catching a nasty chill, but was up again as soon as he felt fit. Even so, Isobel was shocked to see how much her father’s health and state of mind had deteriorated since she had last seen him at Christmas. He appeared paler than she remembered, his skin waxy and grey. Isobel wondered if this was a projection of her own distracted mind but she saw the same concern reflected in her aunt’s face.

  Her father recharged his glass with claret several times during luncheon and his speech grew more agitated and voluble. He was fighting again with the Governor over his leave pay, expressing in a recent letter his outrage at the ‘insult of being put on half pay given my tireless service to Your Excellency and the Executive Council.’ He had even written to the Colonial Office challenging the authority of Mr Macleay’s commission of inquiry, with the claim that, because of the nature of his appointment as Surveyor-General, the Major reported directly to the sovereign and her ministers and not to the Governor and his Executive Council.

  The Major’s most immediate cause of grievance was an insulting satirical poem that had recently begun circulating in Sydney. It made cruel fun of the Surveyor-General’s quixotic tilts at multiple windmills in pursuit of wealth and fame. While conceding praise for his map-making and road-building, it echoed strident public criticism of the land titles system where surveying work had ground to a standstill in large part due to the Major’s distractions and long absences on expeditions and trips abroad. The Major insisted on reading the offensive verse aloud to his family:

  See him of aspect dire and haughty gait,

  As though one man t’were a triumvirate!

  Who dreams of honours, forges Boomerang screws

  And does Ambition with High Dudgeon confuse;

  High roads Colossus once was yours the power

  To move each bullock team as coach and four;

  Go grave your maps, in survey you succeed

  Where praise is worthy, let me grant the meed:

  Thousands of men and money shout for land,

  But here as elsewhere work is at a stand.

  ‘damn the cowardly scoundrel who wrote this! He should be publicly horsewhipped!’ the Major shouted, his face bright red, flushed with anger and wine.

  ‘Please calm yourself, Papa,’ said Grace soothingly. ‘Nobody takes these silly poems seriously. You have the respect of everyone on the Legislative Council and the most intelligent men of consequence in the colony. do not trouble yourself with this nonsense.’

  But the Major was in no mood to be mollified. There had been renewed speculation that the author was in fact his own son, Joseph, who had already been publicly accused of scurrilous versifying against the young Mr Macleay. Could Joseph possibly have written this before he embarked for India, a parting shot at a father who refused to see him? It seemed inconceivable to Isobel.

  ‘If that ungrateful boy of mine has penned these lines…’ The Major was too overcome with grief to finish the sentence.

  ‘Shame on the people who have suggested such a thing!’ cried Aunt Louisa. ‘I do not believe for one moment that Joseph is behind this. He is headstrong, yes, but not a viper.’

  Isobel was grieved to see Papa so embittered and besieged on all fronts. She had hoped for a moment alone with him to raise the delicate subject of Mr Charles Probius. She now questioned the wisdom of speaking with him at all when he was in such a disturbed state of mind. But when else would she have the chance before his departure? Certainly not on Grace’s wedding day. If she did not broach the subject now, she would have to raise it in a letter, which would take months, and was not her preference as she believed her persuasive powers were greater in person. And so she decided to take her chances.

  Her father’s mood was much improved by the conclusion of lunch, with the discussion of Grace’s forthcoming nuptials and his own plans for London. Grace wished to consult her aunt about the table settings for the wedding breakfast for which Louisa had kindly volunteered that she and Isobel would make fancywork card holders and table ornaments. Anna had drifted upstairs in a funk, leaving Isobel with an opportunity to talk with her father.

  ‘Papa, it looks like the wind has dropped. I would love you to join me for a walk in the gardens.’ Her father readily agreed. He was a man who preferred the outdoors, having spent much of his life in the saddle or by a campfire. Nothing gave him more pleasure than the sight of the morning sun breaching the dark ramparts of mountains to the east or the immense starry firewheel in the southern sky circling over his head at night.

  They donned their hats and outdoor vestments and set out, the Major seeming rejuvenated by the fresh air and the opportunity to survey his
domain. For a while they walked arm in arm in companionable silence, broken only by observations about the garden, the weather and the maritime traffic on the harbour, bristling with masts like the bare trunks of a wintry pine forest. In three days her father would board one of these vessels and be gone.

  The Major breathed in a lungful of salty air. ‘I hear that the P&O Steam Navigation Company have built a new steamship, the Chusan, for the mail service between here and England. She makes her maiden voyage to Sydney very soon. People say she will be able do the entire voyage in only sixty days! Not four to five months as we’re used to now. With a bit of luck, my dear, you will have letters from me sooner than you think.’

  ‘I will miss you, Papa,’ she said. ‘I have missed you these last few months.’

  ‘Of course,’ said her father, patting her arm with affection. ‘But your aunt tells me you have thrived at Faulconstone. You are greatly treasured in her circle of friends and acquaintances. I hope you feel the benefit of your time there.’

  ‘I do,’ replied Isobel. ‘It has turned out better than I could have hoped.’

  They strolled on a little further into the wood walk that had been thickly dotted with orchids when Isobel last wandered here in the spring. The Major rested on the same rustic seat where she had sat sketching when her brothers’ carriage arrived all those months before. Isobel sat beside him.

  ‘Your aunt has told me about your commission for a study of Juniper Hall,’ said her father. ‘Congratulations! Maybe you should do Rosemount next? I flatter myself I had a hand in encouraging your talents for drawing when you were younger.’

  Isobel kissed him on the cheek. ‘dear Papa, you know you did! And I was encouraged by your example too. Your lovely drawings. You showed me some of your sketchbooks from when you were a young lieutenant in Spain, do you remember?’