The River Charm

by Belinda Murrell

  ‘A convict named John Lynch has been arrested, charged with murdering at least nine people in the Berrima district, and probably more,’ Ettie continued. ‘He murdered an entire family, including the sixteen-year-old son and the fourteen-year-old daughter, and moved into their house, passing himself off as the new owner.’

  Charlotte and Emily exchanged frightened glances. Wasn’t John Lynch the convict that Mr Barton was so terrified of?

  ‘Apparently he was an assigned convict on a property down there called Oldbury.’ Ettie paused and looked at Charlotte with wide, innocent eyes. She frowned, twirling one of her red curls around her finger. ‘I thought you and your sister used to live somewhere down near Berrima, didn’t you?’

  Emily went pale.

  Charlotte swallowed. ‘A few miles south of Berrima,’ she admitted.

  ‘Well, apparently a few years ago this John Lynch murdered one of the other Oldbury convicts by bludgeoning him to death with a cudgel.’ Ettie paused for effect as the other girls exclaimed in horror. ‘He was arrested, along with his accomplices, but when the convicts were brought to trial, their master, George Barton, turned up to court so drunk that he was unable to give evidence, so they were acquitted.’

  ‘Oh, that’s terrible,’ said Kitty. ‘Surely murderers could not be acquitted so easily.’

  Ettie flashed a glance at Charlotte. ‘My father says all those poor, unfortunate people would never have been slaughtered if Mr Barton had not been such an irresponsible drunkard. The murderer Lynch claims that it was getting away with the first killing at Oldbury so easily that gave him the courage to continue his murderous rampage.’

  Emily began to shake, her eyes filling with tears.

  ‘I dare say it is all exaggerated,’ said Charlotte, tossing her head. ‘I doubt that convict could possibly have murdered so many people without being discovered earlier.’

  Ettie smiled at Charlotte. ‘I wondered if he was perhaps any relation to you, this Mr Barton?’ asked Ettie, a sly expression on her face. ‘Your mother is Mrs Barton, is she not – the celebrated author?’

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Ettie,’ scoffed Kitty. ‘As if Charlotte and Emily’s mother would be related to anyone like that.’

  Ettie smiled enigmatically. ‘I didn’t think it could be her. Apparently the wife of Mr George Barton is not at all respectable.’

  Charlotte flushed and grabbed Emily by the hand. ‘Come on, Emily,’ she said sternly, her black eyes flashing with temper. ‘This all sounds like a lot of scurrilous gossip to me.’

  Ettie simpered. ‘I am sorry, Charlotte – did I say something to offend you?’

  Later in class, when Miss Rennie turned her back, Charlotte was sure there were girls up the back staring at her and Emily and whispering behind their hands.

  ‘What did she mean?’ asked Emily as they were walking home. ‘Why did Ettie say Mamma is not respectable?’

  ‘Do not listen to her,’ Charlotte insisted, swinging her bag to knock off the head of a weed. ‘She is just jealous and means to cut us down. Our best revenge is to rise above it.’

  23

  Kitty’s Ball

  November, 1843

  ‘Mamma, Mamma,’ Charlotte called, running into the sitting room after school. ‘Kitty’s papa says he is going to hold a ball, and Kitty has asked if I can come along.’

  Mamma frowned. ‘Charlotte, you are only fifteen – you are too young for balls.’

  ‘But, Mamma, lots of girls from school have been invited. It will be held at Kitty’s house over on the North Shore. She has a huge house, and Kitty has asked me to stay for the weekend. There’ll be music and dancing and lemonade and supper.’

  Charlotte twirled and dipped in a curtsy. Mamma smiled at her enthusiasm.

  ‘What about me?’ Emily begged. ‘Can’t I go too?’

  ‘Emily, no,’ insisted Mamma with a laugh. ‘Thirteen is definitely too young for a ball.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Emily, I promise I’ll tell you all about it. Please, Mamma, please say I may go.’

  Mamma looked at her eldest daughter lovingly. ‘I remember when I was fifteen,’ she admitted. ‘I had my first job as a governess, and there was no opportunity for balls then. All right then. I will write to Kitty’s mother and say you may go.’

  ‘Thank you, Mamma,’ she cried. ‘Oh, thank goodness we’ve been having dancing lessons at Miss Rennie’s.’ Charlotte grasped Emily by the wrist and twirled her into a waltz, their skirts flying around them. Emily laughed, her disappointment forgotten.

  Charlotte stopped dancing and looked at her mother beseechingly. ‘Do you think . . .?’ she began. ‘Do you think I could possibly have a new dress, Mamma? We could sew it ourselves?’

  Mamma pursed her lips, as though disapproving, but her twinkling eyes belied her stern expression. ‘I suppose I could sew you a new dress,’ she admitted finally. ‘It has been a long while since you had any special new clothes.’

  Charlotte twirled again, then ran to kiss her mother. ‘Thank you, thank you. Now, what colour – blue or green? Tarlatan or muslin?’

  ‘I think white muslin,’ Mamma decided. ‘You will look beautiful in white, with your dark hair and black eyes.’

  Mamma was as good as her word and stayed up late, night after night, her eyes straining by candlelight as she sewed Charlotte’s new dress. The night before the ball, Mamma gave it to her eldest daughter wrapped in tissue paper.

  ‘Try it on, my love,’ she said, ‘but let me do your hair first.’

  In Mamma’s room, Charlotte sat in front of the dressing table on a stool. Mamma loosed her hair from its braids and pins so that it tumbled around her shoulders, and she ran her fingers through it. Carefully, Mamma twisted it up into an ornate bun at the back of Charlotte’s head and fixed it with hairpins. She left a long segment on either side of her face, and these she coaxed into soft curls. Mamma then helped Charlotte tie on extra layers of petticoats and lifted the dress over her head.

  Charlotte was enveloped in soft swathes of white, filmy muslin. She tugged on the tightly fitted bodice, which Mamma buttoned up at the back.

  ‘It fits perfectly,’ said Mamma, smoothing out the fabric so that it belled out over the flounced petticoats. Charlotte twirled, watching the fabric spin out about her.

  ‘I have another present for you,’ said Mamma, presenting Charlotte with a pair of white satin low-heeled dancing slippers, matching long gloves and a pale-pink reticule. Charlotte pulled the slippers on, turning her foot to admire them, and ‘oohed’ over the small bag that Mamma had decorated with tiny crystal beads and embroidered flowers.

  Lastly, Mamma pinned a soft, pink silk rose to the nipped-in waist.

  ‘This reminded me of the gorgeous pale-pink cabbage roses we used to grow at Oldbury,’ said Mamma. ‘Now look.’

  Charlotte gazed into the mirror and was met with a reflection she barely recognised. Her hair was soft and elegant, curling around her face, a startling contrast to the billowing white gown and pink accessories.

  ‘Oh, Mamma.’ Charlotte stroked the short, puffed sleeves with her gloved fingertips. ‘It is so beautiful. In fact, it is the most beautiful gown I have ever seen. Thank you so much.’

  Mamma kissed her gently on the forehead. ‘You are what is beautiful, Charlotte,’ her mother contradicted. ‘I do not think I have ever seen you look more lovely. You are truly growing up into an elegant young lady.’

  Kitty’s father sent a servant to meet Charlotte at Dawes Point wharf and row her across the harbour to the North Shore, her carpetbag at her feet and the new dress safely stowed in a calico gown bag on the seat beside her. Kitty met her in a carriage to escort her to Rosedale on the foreshore of Lavender Bay.

  Kitty’s father was a wealthy Sydney merchant who owned a number of ships that plied up and down the New South Wales coast and carried people and goods to and
from England. He had built a large mansion overlooking the harbour, surrounded by lush, manicured gardens.

  ‘Charlotte, you’re here at last,’ squealed Kitty, flinging her arms around Charlotte in a tight embrace. ‘I thought you would never arrive. We are going to have so much fun this weekend. Mamma has invited a number of eligible young gentlemen, so we will have lots of dancing partners, and the orchestra is simply divine. They are the same musicians who played at Ettie’s ball last week.’

  Charlotte and Kitty chatted and giggled about dresses, dancing slippers and filling their dancing cards.

  At Rosedale, there was an army of servants bustling about the house and grounds, preparing for the party, hanging lanterns, arranging flowers, polishing silver and setting up crystal glasses – all under the eagle eye of the housekeeper. Charlotte was whisked upstairs, where there were two maidservants to help them dress.

  Charlotte had to remind herself that she, too, used to live in a gracious house with elegant furniture, servants, and the finest silver and crystal. She felt a wave of longing for the old life at Oldbury. The nostalgia was soon banished by Kitty’s enthusiasm as she gushed over Charlotte’s new gown.

  It took the girls a long time to dress as the two maids, Mary and Bridie, fussed over their hair, curling it with hot tongs and pinning the back up into elaborate coils and braids. Bridie laced up Charlotte’s corset stays far tighter than Mamma would ever have done. Kitty’s mother had sent a bunch of creamy, fragrant gardenias from the garden to be pinned in their hair.

  At last they were ready. Charlotte felt a flutter of excitement as she and Kitty stood side by side in the mirror. Kitty also looked gorgeous in her pale-green gown with a ruffled undergown of cream lace. A cluster of chestnut ringlets hung down on either side of her face, garlanded with gardenia blossoms, their rich scent wafting through the air each time she moved.

  ‘It’s a shame you don’t have any jewellery,’ observed Kitty. ‘You should have borrowed some from your mother.’

  Charlotte thought of all Mamma’s beautiful gold jewellery – the locket, pendants, bangles and rings – that she had sold to keep the family afloat.

  ‘Mamma says a young girl doesn’t need jewellery,’ replied Charlotte. ‘Her youth is adornment enough.’

  Kitty rummaged through her jewellery case on the dressing table and brought out a gold bangle studded with tiny green peridot gems and seed pearls.

  ‘Here – this will look gorgeous on you,’ Kitty offered.

  ‘Kitty, I can’t,’ said Charlotte. ‘It’s too precious – it might get lost or broken.’

  ‘Nonsense,’ Kitty retorted, pushing the bangle onto Charlotte’s wrist. ‘See how glamorous it looks?’

  Charlotte felt torn. She had never worn anything so fine before.

  ‘It is gorgeous,’ Charlotte agreed. ‘Well, thank you, Kitty. I’ll look after it.’

  The girls swept down the grand staircase, their frothy skirts trailing behind.

  Kitty’s mother, Mrs Curlewis, was waiting in the entrance hall, directing the final preparations. Through the windows Charlotte could see paper lanterns strung from the tree branches and along the verandah. Candles blazed in the candelabrum overhead. The orchestra was already playing in the drawing room, filling the house with lilting melodies. The air smelt sweet with gardenia blossoms and melting candles.

  ‘Brown, move that vase a little to the left,’ Mrs Curlewis ordered. ‘Girls, come and let me take a look at you.’

  Charlotte fingered the peridot bangle nervously, as though Mrs Curlewis might command her to take it off at once.

  ‘Lovely.’ She nodded her approval. ‘You both look most becoming. The guests should be arriving any moment, so come and stand beside me to welcome them.’

  On cue, a carriage trundled into the driveway and delivered the first visitors at the front steps, the gentleman descending first to help the ladies out.

  ‘Pour the champagne, Brown,’ Mrs Curlewis ordered, then turned to gush over the first arrivals. In minutes the reception rooms were filled with ladies in their rich, full ball gowns and gentlemen in their white cravats and tails. Servants in uniform offered sparkling glasses of champagne and lemonade.

  Charlotte was introduced to dozens of people in a confusing whirl of names and bows.

  Mr Curlewis stood nearby, chatting about the devastating effects of the drought and depression, his silvery whiskers quivering with indignation. ‘I have three ships moored out in the harbour filled with goods from England that no one can afford to buy,’ he boomed, one hand behind his back. ‘The economy must improve soon or we will all be bankrupted.’

  ‘It was only three years ago when my ships would sail to England filled with the finest wool in the colony,’ replied his colleague. ‘Now the sheep are worth barely thrippence a head, and thousands of them are being boiled down to make tallow. It’s appalling.’

  Kitty raised her eyebrows at Charlotte. ‘Boring business,’ she whispered, shrugging her bare, white shoulders. ‘Come on – let’s find some fun.’

  They wandered through the shifting crowds. Kitty spied a couple of young gentlemen, about eighteen years old, chatting across the room. Both wore the correct evening dress of black trousers and tailcoats with white shirts, cravats, waistcoats and shiny patent-leather boots.

  ‘Alexander,’ she called, pulling Charlotte forward. The men smiled at the girls and bowed. ‘This is my friend from school, Charlotte Atkinson. Charlotte, this is my cousin, Alexander Curlewis.’

  Charlotte could see that there was a strong family resemblance between Alexander and Kitty – the same chestnut hair and hazel eyes.

  ‘Delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Atkinson,’ said Alexander, turning to his friend. ‘Will, this is my irrepressible cousin Kitty Curlewis. Kitty, Miss Atkinson, may I introduce my friend William Cummings.’

  Charlotte turned to William and smiled shyly. Will was tall with dark-blond hair slicked back, brown eyes and a gentle face.

  ‘Mr Curlewis, Mr Cummings, delighted to meet you,’ Charlotte replied, curtseying. At first Charlotte felt shy in the company of the two young gentlemen. She had not had much opportunity to socialise with young men of her own class. She was quite used to the convicts and stockmen of Oldbury and Budgong, but Will and Alexander were completely different, treating each other and Kitty with a teasing familiarity.

  She was soon laughing and joking along with Kitty.

  ‘I suppose I must do my duty and dance with my tiresome cousin,’ Alexander said in a loud aside to Will. ‘Miss Curlewis, will you do me the honour?’

  Kitty giggled and swiped his shoulder with her gloved hand. ‘Dreadful Alex – you are abominably rude.’

  ‘And you, Miss Atkinson, may I have the pleasure of a dance? asked Will, bowing and offering her his right arm.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ Charlotte replied, placing her hand on his proffered arm. ‘I would be delighted.’

  ‘Of course she would,’ said Kitty. ‘Come on, Charlotte – I hope we have partners for every dance this evening.’

  A trumpet sounded to signal the beginning of the dancing. The ballroom filled with dozens of girls in their filmy dresses of palest pinks, blues, greens, creams and white, all festooned with ribbons, lace and flowers. Each girl had a dance program in their reticule where the gentlemen could reserve a dance or two – daring waltzes, stately quadrilles, lively Scotch reels, jaunty mazurkas and old-fashioned cotillions.

  Kitty was right – the girls soon had their dance cards filled by dozens of eager young men and spent the evening dancing, chatting and laughing. Charlotte danced until her feet ached and her cheeks were sore from smiling. She waltzed with William Cummings four times, exhilarated by the novel sensation of dancing in the arms of a charming young man.

  When she tired, Will fetched her glasses of lemonade or delicacies from the supper table – cold chicken and ha
m sandwiches, followed by chocolate cake and strawberry meringue, which he delivered with cheerful gallantry.

  Charlotte thought it was probably the best night of her life.

  The party lasted until well past midnight. Charlotte had never been up so late. Her eyes were grainy and heavy when the last guests finally left. The servants bustled around, collecting dirty glasses and dishes and blowing out candles.

  Will Cummings took Charlotte’s hand. ‘Good night, Miss Atkinson. I hope we meet again soon. Alex and I are planning a boating party next week. Perhaps you and Miss Curlewis would be able to join us?’

  Charlotte felt her heart flutter. ‘Thank you, Mr Cummings,’ she replied. ‘That would be most pleasant.’

  Will pressed her hand. Charlotte realised he was still holding it and retracted it swiftly.

  ‘Do you like to ride, Miss Atkinson?’ asked Will.

  ‘Oh, above all things,’ replied Charlotte. It had been so long since she had ridden a horse. A wave of longing washed over her for Ophelia and all the long, adventurous rides she had enjoyed at Oldbury and Budgong. ‘I don’t keep a horse in Sydney, but I always rode when we lived in the country.’

  ‘Wonderful,’ he replied. ‘My father keeps a stable of fine horses at his property in Liverpool, and one of the mares is broken to the side-saddle. Perhaps you would like to ride with me sometime?’

  Charlotte’s eyes shone. ‘Yes, please.’

  ‘We are wine merchants,’ explained Will, ‘so I am often up in Sydney and would be delighted to have a riding companion.’

  Will raised his hand and pulled a gardenia from behind her right ear.

  ‘Your hair has come undone,’ he explained. ‘It must be all the dancing. May I?’

  Charlotte realised he was asking her if he could keep the wilted blossom.

  ‘Yes, of course,’ she murmured in some embarrassment.

  Will carefully tucked the flower away in his breast pocket. ‘Until next week then?’