And so it is that I attend the three-day party at Dunrobin Station, feeling akin to Old Widow Laird from our tenement building in Greenock and more than a little grave about my future prospects. I hold my hand out in front of me and examine the deepening lines, their presence almost as alarming as the white strands creeping into my hair …
‘Mrs McCulloch?’
I drop my hand to my side as my cheeks redden. I have left the children in attendance of a puppet display on the front lawn, and now I fear I have been discovered exploring the gardens when I should be elsewhere. But as I turn, I find a most welcome woman approaching me.
‘Catherine Cameron! For a moment I thought you were here to remind me of my duties.’
She laughs and takes my arm. ‘I should not be up this way either. I was collecting water and recognised you instantly. Come, let us walk along the fence line behind the row of trees. That way we can reacquaint ourselves without concern of being seen.’
As we walk, she tells me of her current circumstances. ‘We’ve two children, and such a blessing they are too. I’d have a hundred more if it were possible. And we’ve a small acreage in Winton where John runs sheep. He does some shearing work in season — that’s why we’re here.’ She points down the valley towards a large shed and two cottages. ‘I run the cook house.’
She asks after my own fortunes, and I tell her of Ellen Ann and Isabella, and of the family with whom we live.
‘Dear Minnie,’ she says when I have finished, ‘you seem so well and happy. Lord knows it’s a blessing you deserve after all you have been through with the death of your husband.’
I am stabbed by guilt for deceiving her.
‘Who is that?’ I ask to change the topic of conversation. A figure on horseback has appeared over the ridge and pulled up, changing direction towards us.
‘Mrs Cameron,’ the rider says when he is upon us, ‘you were told to stay with the camp.’ His horse whinnies and stomps at the ground.
‘Mr Dean, I will return at once.’
The man, Mr Dean, seems familiar.
‘Could we not have just several minutes more?’ I say. ‘You see, I am governess to one of the guests and we haven’t seen each other —’
‘Pay’ll be docked. Both of you.’
‘But —’ Catherine starts before I find my tongue.
‘Mr Dean,’ I say, ‘it grieves me to find you are of so little compassion that you will not allow two women a moment in which to reacquaint with one another, when clearly we are causing harm to no one and have no desire to do so. On such a beautiful day and in such pleasant surrounds, two women who certainly work at least as hard as is required, that they should wander together for but a few minutes, and —’
‘Hold it.’ He brings his hands to his ears. ‘Hold it.’
I do not know whether it is the sharp edge in his voice, the sound of gunshot from the rifle range or an unseen contour in the ground, but at this moment his mount stumbles and Mr Dean lands with a thud at my feet.
‘Darn horse!’ He remounts his saddle and eyes the ground with such contempt that I can almost not contain my humour.
‘Woman, I’ll be hearing no more of your babble.’
I now recall where it is I have seen him before.
‘I wonder, did you ever return that black horse to Mr Stevenson?’ I say, and take Catherine’s hand. ‘Goodbye, sir. We shall return to our duties immediately.’
‘Wait a moment.’
Mr Dean eyes me intently, and then tips his hat and smiles a full broad grin.
‘We have met before, madam.’
‘I believe so.’
‘It is you.’
‘It is I, yes.’
‘Printer’s.’
‘That is right.’
‘Good with words.’
I nod.
He lifts his eyebrows and tips his hat again.
‘In that case you got fifteen minutes,’ he says, before galloping away.
‘Mrs McCulloch? You have a caller. Mr Charles Dean from Dunrobin Station. I have escorted him to the drawing room.’
Even before I enter the room I can see him pacing the floor nervously, clutching his hat to his chest and twisting it so that I fear he might rip it to pieces.
‘Thank you, Bessie. That will be all,’ I say.
The servant girl looks at Mr Dean. ‘Are you sure, Mrs McCulloch?’
‘Quite sure, thank you, Bessie.’
‘I will watch the children for you, Mrs McCulloch.’
‘Thank you.’
‘And I will be within hearing distance —’
‘Bessie!’
Mr Dean stands by the window and says nothing, so that it seems he has forgotten the reason for his call. I cough and indicate a chair on which he might like to sit. He does so, though continues to wring the hat between his hands.
‘Mr Dean?’ I say.
He looks at my left shoulder. ‘I understand your husband died some years back,’ he says at last.
‘That is correct.’
‘And you are familiar with hotels?’
‘I beg your pardon, sir, but if you are implying the death of my husband has driven me to the drink then I can assure you —’
‘No,’ he says. ‘That was not my intent.’ The colour drains from his face. He sucks in his lips and takes a deep breath. ‘I was merely wondering if you were accustomed to hotels …’
‘Bessie,’ I call, rising from my chair.
‘Please, hear me out. You see, like myself you are not getting any younger …’
‘Thank you, Mr Dean, but I think our conversation has reached an end.’
‘Mrs McCulloch, I assure you …’
‘Mr Dean, I do not know why you have sought me out — perhaps for interest, perhaps to torment me, though I know not for the life of me why.’
‘I need a wife, Mrs McCulloch.’
Was that a proposal of marriage?
‘Yes, yes, sir,’ I stammer. ‘I mean, not yes to the question, if of course it was a question, which it may not have been.’
He moves to the edge of his chair. I can smell him — a mixture of perspiration, horse and leather. ‘I have purchased a hotel,’ he says. ‘The one at Etal Creek. You may — probably won’t — know of it. I need a wife. And you need a husband.’
‘I see.’
‘And you being good with words and all, and used to hotels and all. Well. Just let me know. Only don’t be too long about it.’
He nods briefly, and for a moment I fear he is going to kiss me. Instead he heaves himself from his chair, bids me a firm ‘Good day’, and strides from the room as quickly as he is able.
MARRIAGE
Dean — McCulloch —
At Etal Creek, Mount Beaumont,
On the 19th June 1872
by the Rev. W.F. Oldham,
Mr Charles Dean to Williamina McCulloch,
niece of Mrs John Kelly,
of Seaward Bush, Invercargill.
‘Finally made an honest woman of you?’ the printer says. His spectacles are bound together at the join with tape.
‘Just print it,’ I say. ‘And mind you spell the Williamina correctly.’
‘Not so many here now, I see,’ Mr Spence says. He looks round the near-empty hotel lounge. ‘Used to be such a lively place. Shame the gold rush ended when it did. Bad luck for you folk, being on the gold track.’
‘We get by,’ I say. I hand him his whisky.
‘Been through the Elbow. Place like a ghost town there.’ He empties his glass and stands to leave. ‘Well, Mrs Dean, I’ll be seeing you next time.’
‘We’ll be here,’ I say.
‘It’s the drink,’ Dean says that evening. ‘Costs a fortune.’
‘Then we shall have to be rid of it. Accommodation brings in enough.’
‘Come on, woman, you can’t have a dry hotel. That would be like … like …’ He is lost for words.
‘I’ve been looking at trade figures. We lose the drink, or w
e close the doors.’
Dean pushes past. ‘Damn woman.’
NOTICE
To Travellers and Residents in the
Neighbourhood of Etal Creek.
-----------------------------
From and after 31st December, 1874,
no Liquors of any description will
be sold here. Travellers will otherwise
receive the same attention that
has hitherto been afforded them.
CHARLES DEAN
‘A hotel without ale?’
‘Just put it in the paper,’ I say.
I push open the printer’s door and let it slam behind me. The small bell jingles like coins in a jar.
‘Sold up,’ Dean says one morning.
‘I beg your pardon?’ I have almost finished sewing a blanket for Catherine Cameron’s new baby, and my fingers are full of pricks.
‘Bought some acreage up yonder.’ He waves his arm vaguely in the direction of the window.
‘But you can’t have,’ I say.
‘I did.’
The needle slips and draws blood. ‘But the price of land. Everyone knows it’s going to crash.’
He takes a swill of tea. ‘What do they know?’
20th August, 1878
WANTED, a good ploughman;
highest wages will be given.
For particulars apply office of this paper, or
to Charles Dean, Etal Creek.
I pass the notice across the counter.
‘Don’t ask.’
‘Wasn’t about to,’ he says, and pushes those huge spectacles further up his nose. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it.’
‘Collapsed.’ I can hardly speak the word.
‘What are you talking about, woman? I was just telling you I got a new ploughman. Dunlea.’
‘Here,’ I say. I point to the paper. ‘The City of Glasgow Bank collapsed.’
Dean raises his eyebrows and grins. ‘Not with them.’
‘What makes you think ours won’t be next?’
The smile slips from his face. He stands and snatches up his hat. ‘Just know,’ he says, already out the door and up the path to the shearers’ quarters.
Ellie stands by the window. She is a grown woman well into her seventeenth year, older than I was when I produced Isabella, and still without a suitor. How different she is to her sister. Uneasiness tugs at the pit of my stomach. While she peers out from behind the curtain watching the shearers head for the shed, Isabella strolls carelessly about the garden, in full view, wearing her prettiest day dress.
It is no surprise that the afternoon brings a knock at the door. I open it to find a very presentable young man, clean and shaven, and smiling eagerly. ‘Afternoon, madam,’ he says.
‘Good afternoon.’
‘I was wondering if I may, er, that is …’
‘Yes?’
‘Is your husband at home?’
I shake my head. ‘No, he is up at the creek on business.’
He looks disappointed.
‘Is there anything I may pass on to him, when he returns?’
The young man swallows. ‘I … I was just wanting to ask his permission as to whether I may be so bold as to ask his — your — daughter to walk with me in the garden. It’s a lovely afternoon. It seems a shame not to enjoy such a beautiful display as you have here, madam.’
I pause. ‘I daresay he would approve, though of course her sister would need to accompany you. Might I enquire with my daughters, Mr —’
‘Milne,’ he says. ‘Mr James Milne.’
The girls are fraught with excitement. ‘Is he handsome?’ Isabella asks, the curls in her hair bouncing as she dances. ‘I couldn’t see him from the window.’
‘I have seen him before,’ Ellie says. ‘And yes, he is handsome.’
‘Can I go, Mother? Please?’
‘Ellie will be escort, and you must stay in the front garden so I can see you.’
‘But what shall I wear? Should I change to the yellow dress?’
Ten minutes later we are back at the front door. Young Mr Milne is standing just as I left him.
‘My daughter, Isabella,’ I say.
She flutters a fan in front of her face, holding out her hand for him to escort her down the steps to the path. His eyes widen and his cheeks flush; I fancy he forces a polite smile as he takes her hand.
‘Mr Milne? Is everything all right?’
‘Madam, I am dreadfully sorry, please let me apologise. I would sincerely love to spend time with Isabella, but …’
‘But?’
He looks at the ground. ‘It is not Isabella whom I have come to see. It is, in fact, your other daughter.’ He swallows hard and looks past me, over my shoulder. ‘There she is. I believe her name is Ellen Ann?’
Isabella gushes all the way home from the wedding.
‘She looked beautiful in her dress, and so much in love. Did you notice James’s brother William? Isn’t he handsome? He asked me to dance not once, but twice.’
Dean raises an eyebrow.
One daughter is enough to lose at a time. When Isabella leaves, I shall be alone. And that is not a thought to fill me with happiness.
‘Mother.’ Ellie beckons me to her bedside. ‘Come and meet your grandson.’
To hold my child’s own baby takes away my breath.
‘Mother? What is it?’
‘It is nothing, Ellie. Only …’
‘Yes?’
‘He looks so much …’ I struggle for words. The lump in my throat tightens so I can barely speak. ‘He looks like your father, Ellie. He reminds me of him in so many ways.’
‘Is that so?’ Mrs Milne senior says. ‘In which way, precisely? I should love to know.’
‘In a great many ways.’
‘Then it is settled.’
‘What is settled?’ I look at Ellie.
‘His name. He shall be named after his grandfather.’
I don’t know what to say. With my grandson nursed in my arms, I feel a sudden urge to tell her: Freddie. He looks so much like Freddie …
‘— John Henry,’ she says.
I shake my head to rid my mind of the memories I have kept hidden for so long. The babe begins to whimper and I hand him back to his mother, wrapping the shawl gently over him as she opens her nightdress to feed him. ‘John Henry. A lovely name, Ellie.’ I watch as the little body relaxes in his mother’s arms, happy and content to suckle at her breast, and I allow myself to think of Freddie just a little longer. I bend to kiss our daughter’s cheek. ‘Your father would have been proud.’
Mrs Milne coughs and leaves the room.
It is the worst winter on record. In the midst of a storm we get a knock at the door.
‘Is this the Deans’?’ The man’s voice shakes with cold.
‘Quickly, come in.’ Dean stands back as the man ushers in three children, all of whom head straight for the fireside.
‘Name’s Cameron. You must remember me, Dean. I met you a few years back at Dunrobin. I was shearing then.’ He holds out his hand to Dean, who shakes it and pulls up a chair.
‘Catherine’s husband,’ I say.
‘Indeed I am.’
‘Then I’m delighted to meet you. How is she? Is the new baby not due soon? How good you should think to stop with us — at her insistence, I hope? I shall have supper ready, and beds made up in a moment …’
‘For the love of God, woman!’
I turn abruptly to Dean. In the silence that follows comes the sound of sobbing, and to my horror I realise it is from Cameron himself. The children hurry to their father’s side and the youngest, a girl, climbs upon his knee.
‘Our mother is dead,’ she says.
‘No, dear Lord, no.’ My legs give way and I sink into my chair.
‘It is true,’ says Cameron. ‘Have you not read of it in the papers?’
I shake my head as Dean pours Cameron a whisky. ‘No,’ I say, ‘we haven’t been out for several days — we wer
e snowed in till this morning. I cannot believe it, poor darling Catherine.’
The little girl peers out from on her father’s lap and I see the resemblance now, undeniably. She looks barely five. Her brother stands upright and proud beside his father. He looks around seven years, the eldest girl around eleven. The same age I was when Mother died.
‘See to some supper for the children,’ Dean says to me and nods his head towards Cameron. ‘Then we can talk.’
I get up and with shaking hands do as he bids.
After they have eaten I tuck the children into cots and return to the fireside. ‘They’re asleep, bless them,’ I say.
I know there can be no avoiding this conversation, yet I cannot bring myself to begin it, so I kneel in front of the fire to warm my hands. It would seem Cameron is of a similar heart, for he too sits in silence.
‘What can we do for you, man?’ Dean finally asks.
‘I … I …’ Cameron’s voice trails off and his tears again fall at will. He reaches inside his coat and pulls out a crumpled piece of newspaper which he lays on the table, carefully smoothing it straight. He swallows then and pushes it across to Dean.
‘Inquest at Winton,’ Dean reads and stops to look at me, and then at Cameron.
‘Go on.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Get on with it. Please.’
Dean coughs and clears his throat. ‘“The coroner,”’ he reads, ‘“in addressing the jury, said they were met to examine into the cause of death of Catherine Cameron, who died on the thirtieth of the month. They were doubtless all aware that there was some suspicion that her death had been caused by some neglect or inattention on the part of the surgeon attending her.”’
I gasp.
‘“He presumed,”’ Dean continues, ‘“they all knew he had been arrested upon a charge of manslaughter.”’
‘What?’ I cry. ‘Do you mean she died at someone’s hand?’
Dean looks at Cameron, whose face is buried in his hands. ‘Just wait, woman,’ he says, ‘let me finish. “John Cameron deposed that he was a labourer residing in Winton. On Monday, about noon, Doctor Moffat was called in to attend his wife, who was in labour. After an examination he left, returning in the evening about seven o’clock. His wife was then, and had been for some time in labour, and was complaining very much of pains.”’
The Day She Cradled Me Page 16