by Jude Knight
“Oh, how terrible!” Rose was berating herself for her uncharitable thoughts.
“When I arrived, I found the warehouse humming along nicely, and it transpired that Mrs Moffat has been running it all along, while Moffat drank his income. I’d leave her in charge, but some of the ships’ captains won’t deal with a woman, so I offered her management of the store in Hartley Township.”
“That was very generous of you.”
“Not really. The miners behave better with a woman than a man, and—to be very selfish about it—she is old enough and soured enough on marriage not to be stolen to the altar almost before she arrives at the fields.”
“You paid her husband’s debts,” Rose guessed, “and probably the doctor’s bill, too.” She smiled at him. What a kind man he was.
And the rent through to the end of January, Thomas thought, but couldn’t bring himself to say, a little embarrassed at Rose’s obvious approval. Just good business. He needed a reliable, loyal storekeeper, and the price he’d paid to redeem Moffat’s gambling debts and pay his bills was cheap, compared to bringing someone of his own from another continent.
And Miss Campbell’s smile upon hearing the tale was a bonus; a lovely, joyful, open beam that transformed the dismal day into glorious summer.
Before he recovered from the mind-reeling effects of it, he found himself inviting her to the Grand Ball in January, being held by the Committee of the Widows and Orphans Institution of the Oddfellows. Just like that, the sun went out.
“Freemasonry is the work of the devil, and dancing encourages licentious behaviour,” she told him, primly, but her eyes were wistful.
“It will be a subscription assembly conducted by ladies of the highest probity,” Thomas assured her. “Do say you will come, Miss Campbell.”
“I cannot.” The wistfulness leaked into her voice. “Uncle Campbell would never allow it.”
They were at Campbell’s front door, and he could say no more, not wishing to draw the ire of Aunt Agnes upon her vulnerable head.
Aunt Agnes was no more welcoming than she had been the last time, making a few minutes of desultory conversation before reluctantly offering him a cup of tea, which he enthusiastically refused, claiming the pressure of other business.
“But I could not be at this end of town without paying my respects, Ma’am,” he said, his tongue firmly in his cheek.
After Aunt Agnes had seen him off at the front door, he doubled back to slip between the narrow houses to the rear garden, where Rose was struggling with the wind to pull in a line of sheets and other linen.
Without a word, Thomas came to her aid, his extra height helping him reach the pegs easily and fold the sheets more quickly.
Again, he was rewarded by a softening in her fine eyes, and that bright smile. “Thank you. Mostly, it is not a problem, but when the wind gets up, I swear the washing has a mind of its own! At least it is not wet.”
She folded the personal items he had politely left for her to retrieve, and tucked them under the sheets in the wash basket. How pretty she looked, embarrassment touching her cheeks with the rose of her name.
“The dance is on the sixth of January,” he said.
“I know.”
“I will be back in Dunedin by Christmas, or not long after. If you will trust me, Cousin Rose, I’ll come and fetch you for the dance and make sure you get back safely.”
“I cannot.” Her eyes yearned, but her voice was firm. “My uncle would never permit it. And it would be wrong of me to disobey him while I live under his roof.”
“If you change your mind, a message at the Empire Hotel will reach me,” he told her. But he didn’t press her any further. He should be grateful she refused him. No good could come of such an evening, however innocent.
It was an afternoon to pack away in her memories, and pull out to relive again and again. Rose had to be careful not to hum as she prepared and served dinner. Even listening to her uncle’s lectures and instructions over the meal could not suppress her mood entirely, nor did facing the pile of dishes that needed to be washed before she could go to bed, this being the maid’s half-day.
As she washed and dried, she imagined what it might be like to attend the Grand Ball. Now that would be a memory to treasure!
Rose packed away the dishes, scrubbed the sink, and set some oats to soften overnight for breakfast porridge, all the time, listing in her head the many reasons why accepting Mr O’Bryan’s invitation would be disastrous.
She believed him when he said there would be no harm in it. Why, even in their small break-away congregation, with its strict rules about social behaviour, some of the other women were going to the event. One was even on the organising committee!
But Uncle disapproved, and so she could not think of it.
4
But the idea would not go away, and as Christmas rushed ever nearer, Rose nerved herself to approach her uncle and ask if she might go to the ball. She did not even have time to confess to Mr O’Bryan’s invitation before he gave her an indignant refusal, followed with two hours of writing, in her best hand, the admonishments from the letters of St Paul about the behaviour of women.
She had expected nothing else, but that did not prevent her despondency. She was disappointed, too, as the Christmas Octave began, and Mr O’Bryan did not appear. She scanned the streets as she shopped, negotiating the excited crowds and looking wistfully at seasonal decorations.
The Campbell household did not celebrate the feast, except with an extra-long church service. No special preparations, no decorations, no presents.
Watching Mrs Moffat and two of her children negotiating with the grocer for baking supplies, arguing about which particular treats they would make, gave her a pang. She and her father used to bake special cakes and other treats at Christmas. They had hung ribbons and greenery to decorate the house, and sung carols together each evening. Christmas day had meant a special meal, and little gifts made or purchased in secret and presented to each other with great delight. At Christmas, more than ever, she missed him.
Mrs Moffat recognised her and stopped to say hello, admonishing the children to stand still or they’d have no treats, nor presents either, perhaps. They grinned, not at all concerned, but waited patiently nonetheless, while Rose asked after the sick child. “She is on the mend, thank the Virgin and all the saints,” Mrs Moffat said. “We will be following Mr O’Bryan up to Dunstan in a few weeks; by the end of January, beyond a doubt. And have you heard from the dear man, Miss Campbell?”
Rose shook her head. “He said he hoped to be back in Dunedin before, or just after, Christmas, which is only a few days away.”
“Well, if ever the world held a man who keeps his word, it is Mr O’Bryan. An angel from Heaven, he has been to me and mine. Don’t think I cannot see you poking your brother, Margaret Moffat. Butter would not melt in her mouth, that one, Miss Campbell, but I have to watch her every minute. I had best be getting them off home, and leave you to do your shopping. Merry Christmas.”
Rose wished the same to Mrs Moffat and the children. She expected they would have a happier Christmas than she. It would take more than the kind of miracle Mr O’Bryan had wrought for the Moffat family, to turn Aunt Agnes and Uncle Campbell into Christmas carollers.
Christmas Day was even worse than expected. No Mr O’Bryan, and too much Mr Hackerton. He came home with the Campbells after church and stayed for dinner, and Rose had to endure him and Uncle Campbell discussing her cooking and housekeeping skills, as if she were a piece of merchandise whose purchase Mr Hackerton was considering. Which, of course, she was.
As she and Maisie cleaned up after the meal, she listened to the maid’s grumbles with half her attention, much of her focus on whether she could refuse Mr Hackerton’s courtship, and what her uncle would do if she did.
Maisie’s chatter penetrated her distraction. “… leaving at the end of the quarter, and so I told him. ‘I am not your niece, to be kept from any fun and work for nothing eve
ry day of the week without a holiday,’ I told him.”
Maisie was leaving? “But what will you do? Where will you go?”
Maisie scoffed. “Oh, Miss, with servants taking off after gold, and all the new people, there is plenty of work for a willing girl. I don’t have to stay where they won’t give me a half-day at Christmas. No, I’ll see out the quarter, but come 31 December, when my wages be due, I’m taking my leave, and so I have told Mr and Mrs Campbell.” She nodded; her lips pursed in satisfaction. “Yes, and you should do the same, Miss.”
She should, too. The seed, thus planted, rapidly took root. Plenty of work, was there? It couldn’t be harder than she did here. Indeed, the difference between the way the Campbells treated their niece and the way they treated their servant put all the benefits on Maisie’s side—wages, a half-day a week off, as well as time to attend the church services of her choice.
Rose would be twenty-one on the thirtieth of January, no longer under her uncle’s guardianship.
She began to question Maisie about how one went about finding a job.
Rose, full of her own plans for a future in domestic service, was completely taken by surprise when Uncle Campbell announced, a few days before the sixth of January, that he had given his approval for Mr Hackerton to escort her to the Grand Ball for the benefit of the Widows and Orphans.
She was torn. On the one hand, she had no desire to encourage Mr Hackerton’s courtship. On the other, this might be her only opportunity to attend such an event. Then again, she had nothing fit to wear to a ball. But that hardly mattered, did it? She would be there to see all the beautiful gowns and enjoy the music, so what she wore was of no importance.
With all these ideas cluttering up her tongue, she could only stammer, “The Ball, Uncle?”
“Hackerton thinks it will be a treat for you, and I’ve said you will go, Laura, so go you shall.”
Rose nodded her acquiescence, and went up to lay her Sunday-best gown out on the bed. It was brown, a soft, mousy colour, a shade or two darker than her hair. Plain, cut high to the neck and loose in the waist, it was not flattering. But it was serviceable, and it was what she had. She sighed and returned it to its hook.
When she had wages, she would buy herself a Sunday dress in green, or perhaps blue. And flowers and ribbons to trim her bonnets. As she came downstairs to answer a knock on the door, she smiled at the thought.
Maisie was right about the dearth of servants; Aunt Agnes was finding it hard to replace the maid, and would not be happy at all when Rose left. Her smile broadened at the thought, and she was grinning when she opened the door.
There on the step stood Thomas O’Bryan.
Miss Campbell met Thomas with a happy smile, and for a moment, all he could do was smile back.
She recalled him to himself, saying, “Why, it is Mr O’Bryan! Come in, Sir. Are you here to see your aunt?”
I am here to see you, Rose, he wanted to say, but he kept his peace and followed her to the parlour where Aunt Agnes sat at a narrow desk, writing out accounts.
“Turned up again, have you?” Aunt Agnes said, but though the words sounded unenthusiastic, she surprised him with a smile that was almost welcoming.
Thomas pulled out the first of the presents with which he had armed himself. “Happy Christmas, Aunt Agnes.”
“We do not celebrate Christmas in this house, young man.” Campbell had been sitting, unnoticed, on a chair facing away from the door. His glower followed his voice as he rose to glare at Thomas.
“Happy New Year then, Uncle,” Thomas said, peaceably, handing the old man a package wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, and passing another to Aunt Agnes.
For a moment, the two hesitated, then curiosity and avarice overcame their distaste, and they both began to untie the string.
Thomas turned to give his third present—the reason he’d bothered to bring the other two—to Rose, but she had left the room, and he had to wait.
Aunt Agnes thanked him for the pretty shawl, and Campbell, with considerably less grace, grumbled his grudging appreciation of the pen-and-wiper set.
“Take a seat, if you are staying. I suppose that girl has gone to make tea,” Campbell said. Thomas sat, determined to remain until he could speak to Rose.
Almost immediately, he stood again, and hurried to help her with a heavy tray.
“Thank you, Mr O’Bryan.” She blushed as he took the tray from her, and would have left the room again, had he not spoken.
“Miss Campbell, I trust I see you well?”
“Yes, thank you, Mr O’Bryan.”
Campbell interrupted, frowning. “No point in making calf’s eyes at my niece, boy. I’m supposing it is her you have rushed to see, all the way from Dunstan.”
“I came to bring you presents, Uncle, as I said. I am a few days later than I intended,” Thomas apologised. “I told you I would be here just after Christmas, Aunt Agnes, and that’s more than a week past. But here I am now.
“I have a present for Miss Campbell, as well.” He handed Rose the wrapped parcel, and her eyes shone when she found a duplicate to the shawl he had given Aunt Agnes, but with green the dominant colour, rather than the deep, wine red he had chosen for his aunt.
Campbell looked even dourer. He clearly wanted to complain, but could not, having accepted his own gift.
“So, what kept you, Thomas?” Aunt Agnes wanted to know.
“I thought I had sufficient time to visit the new fields, Aunt Agnes.” He studiously did not look at Rose, for whom he intended the explanation. “Up on the Arrow and the Wakatip, they’re making finds every day, and at least one new town will be needed, perhaps more. Certainly, Hartley Township is too far for the diggers to bring their gold and buy supplies.” The new town would have a Rourke and O’Bryan store for those diggers to patronise. He had already purchased the land and hired the builders, though that wasn’t the whole reason for the delay.
No need to tell the ladies he’d discovered a body in the river—some poor digger drowned in the winter, by the looks of it, his remains exposed as the water level dropped. Rose, in particular, did not need to know he’d had to stay up the Arrow to give evidence at the inquest.
Might as well take the bull by the horns and address his real reason for coming. “Uncle, I hoped to gain your permission to escort Miss Campbell to the Grand Ball. It is for a good cause, and will be a gentile event.”
Campbell opened his mouth, but Aunt Agnes spoke first. “You are too late, Thomas. Laura has an escort. A gentleman from our congregation.”
“It is a respectable event, and her escort has my approval.” Campbell got to his feet. “Laura. Mrs Campbell. You’ll be about your work, if you please. I’ll be having a word with O’Bryan here.”
The ladies, Rose looking anxiously over her shoulder, left the room, and Thomas listened politely to the not-unexpected lecture from Campbell. He was to leave Miss Campbell alone. He was the wrong religion for her, and too worldly, and altogether unsuitable. Campbell had chosen her husband, and Thomas was not to interfere in any way, up to and including visiting her, dancing with her, and speaking to her.
Thomas said very little, seeing no point in causing trouble for Rose by arguing. Besides, Campbell’s objections were the same he’d raised for himself. They came from different worlds, he and Rose.
But somehow, hearing Campbell say it made him want to defend what he and Rose had in common. Whatever it was that was growing between them, if it proved to be real and true, could stand a bit of difference, surely? And he’d been in the world long enough to know that how a person acted counted for more than what church they attended.
Rose might have been raised Protestant, which made her a heretic, by his family’s measure. But she was as good a woman as any he’d met. Gentle. Kind. Generous. Sweet. Pure, too.
As he walked back to his hotel, he resolved to inspect this young man of Campbell’s at the Grand Ball. If he is a good man, well and good. But the kind of man Campbell was like
ly to support? Well, Rose should have a choice. That was all. She should be able to choose. Perhaps he could offer her a job in one of his stores? She could not be worse off than she was as Campbell’s unpaid skivvy.
5
“And you are to do as Mr Hackerton tells you, Laura,” Uncle Campbell said. “You are not to dance unless he says you might. Do not drink the punch, for I do not trust those Freemasons not to put ruinous liquor into it. And you are not to dance with Thomas O’Bryan, do you hear me?”
With her uncle’s admonitions ringing in her ears, Rose set off to the dance. Walking on a gentleman’s arm was strange. Mr Hackerton was much shorter than Thomas, barely an inch taller than she, and the strange pull she felt when with Thomas simply wasn’t there, the one that urged her to tuck herself up against his side. She kept a decorous distance between them.
Conversing with Mr Hackerton was easy enough. She had only to nod, smile, and make meaningless comments at appropriate intervals. “Oh, really?” “Well, I never.” “Indeed.” “How nice.” After a while, she began trotting them out in order, without regard to Mr Hackerton’s conversation. He did not notice, continuing to regale her with story after story of his victories over customers, suppliers, employees, and household.
She could not marry this man. She could not. He was no less a bully than Uncle Campbell, and she shuddered to think of putting herself under his thumb. Whatever the marriage bed involved, she was sure she would rather clean floors in a boarding house than submit to such intimacies with Mr Hackerton.
The new Murphy’s Assembly Room, on Rattray Street, was transformed with flowers and lights and great, hanging swaths of white and gold fabric. Mr Hackerton showed their tickets at the door, and attempted to hurry her through to the main hall, but Rose hung back. “I need to tidy my hair, Sir,” she told him. “I will come to join you directly.”