by Jean Plaidy
“But, my dear,” said Gunnar. ‘she needs more than Sydney can give her. There are things she must learn, which she can only acquire at home… the way to behave manners are necessarily a little rough here…”
“No,” she said, ‘no I should not have a moment’s peace. How do we know what would happen to her?”
She had had a frightful vision of life’s catching up reckless Katharine as it had caught up innocent Carolan. Newgate. The prison ship. But why should she be so caught, a young lady of substance? But how can you know what evil fate is in store!
She had her way. She remembered lying in the dark with him.
holding him in her arms.
“Gunnar, I could not bear it! What happened to me…” And he had soothed her and comforted her. Katharine should not leave her. It was for moments like that she almost loved him.
And now Katharine had grown secretive, her blue eyes full of dreams, her thoughts far away. You spoke to her and she did not answer; and she made no confidences in her mother. Sometimes Carolan thought she knew. Had it begun years ago when the child was only ten years old, and had disappeared one day and come back the next morning with Marcus ?
The thought of Marcus angered her, and comforted her and hurt her. So insolent he had looked, standing there in the yard. She knew he had kept the child purposely to hurt her, Carolan, that he wanted to hurt her as she had hurt him. Insolently he had looked at her, hating her and loving her as she hated and loved him. Gunnar had stood there, exasperatingly unobservant.
seeing in this man a kind friend who had looked after his daughter and brought her safely home.
It had seemed to her that Marcus’s eyes had said something else too, that they pleaded for a moment alone with her; they seemed to say: “Carolan, Carolan, we must meet again. Where, Carolan, where?” And her heart had beaten faster with excitement, and her need of him then was as great as her love for her children. He had seen that, and hope had leaped into his eyes. But Gunnar had been there, seeing nothing, his voice calm, his manner slightly pompous as he thanked Marcus with the charm and courtesy a successful man can afford to give to one who is not so successful.
“My dear sir, we are deeply indebted to you. We shall never forget…” And because he was such a good man, because he had always striven so hard to lead the right sort of life … no, not because of that. Because of that one lapse when for her sake … She let her thoughts swerve. Not that again! Not that. But it was the reason why she had turned from Marcus and ever since not known whether she was glad or sorry. All she knew was that her life was full of regrets … regrets for … she was not sure what. Life was a compromise, when for people like herself and Marcus who knew how to live recklessly, it should have been glorious. Up in the heights, and perhaps occasionally for Marcus could never be faithful to one woman even if she was Carolan down in the depths. But never, never this unexciting, boring level.
And that day when Marcus had come into the yard with Katharine was a bitter day, for it had lost her something of Katharine. She had been too harsh with the child, blaming her because she had stupidly wanted to blame someone for that for which she herself was entirely to blame.
“You shall never go there again!” she had said, and Katharine had answered with stubborn silence. If your daughter was so like you that the resemblance frightened you, you could often guess her thoughts. She had gone there, of course she had gone. She had felt the irresistible charm of Marcus. There was a boy, Henry … Esther’s child. He would doubtless be as like his father as Katharine was like her mother.
The child often absented herself all day. She would ride off in the morning and not return until sundown. Where had she been? She would come back, flushed with sunshine and laughter, and happiness looked out of her eyes. And when there had been that talk of going to England, how stubbornly she had set her heart against it!
“I do not want to go to England! I will not go to England!” Why? Because, if she went, she would miss those long days when she absented herself from her own home and went to that of Marcus.
Carolan had seen the boy, Henry. He had inherited that subtle attractiveness from his father. He was young and crude of course, but it was there, and Katharine possibly did not look for polish. Dark he was, dark as Marcus, with that quickness of eye; she had heard him call to someone in the town, and his voice had that lilting quality which belonged to Marcus’s.
Katharine was young, only just seventeen. It might be that she thought she loved the boy, because it was the first time anyone had talked of love to her. So she had contrived to arrange parties for her, gatherings where she could meet charming people. That was not difficult, for Sydney was no longer a mere settlement, Macquarie had vowed it should take its place among the cities of the world, and surely he was keeping his word. From the Cove it looked magnificent nowadays, unrecognizable as that notch potch of buildings it had been on her arrival. It was gracious and stately; large houses of hewn stone had taken the place of the smaller ones, and the number of warehouses had grown on the waterside to keep pace with the growing population and prosperity. Sydney would soon grow into a great town, busy and beautiful. There were young men of substance in the town who had shown signs of becoming very interested in the fresh young charms of Masterman’s daughter; and not least among these was Sir Anthony Greymore, recently out from England, a young man, sophisticated and charming, wealthy and serious-minded enough to make a good husband. He surely, if anyone, could wean Katharine from Henry.
I will not let her marry Marcus’s son! thought Carolan. I will not! Even though, for a time, she thinks her heart is broken. He will be like his father. I see it in him.
Audrey was looking at her oddly, comb poised.
“I am sorry, Audrey. I am fidgeting.” Audrey’s eyes in the mirror worshipped her. Where else could a convict find such a kind mistress?
Gunnar came in. He had just ridden home. He looked tanned and healthy. He was in a hurry for he was late, but he would be ready at precisely the right moment when he must descend to greet his guests. He would never be late. His dressing-room would be in perfect order and he would know just where to find everything. How wrong it was to get exasperated over someone’s virtues!
Audrey had finished her hair and the result was most attractive.
“You don’t look much older than Miss Katharine, M’am. You might be her older sister. People could easy take you for that.” What flattery! She looked years older than Katharine and most definitely she looked Katharine’s mother.
She felt an acute desire to be Katharine’s age, to be going to her first ball where she would be told by Everard that he loved her. Had she known what was waiting for her. how she would have pleaded with him to let nothing stand in the way of marriage! Had she never come to London she would never am known Marcus. She could not wish that. No, perhaps if she could live her life again, she would go back to that day when Margery had told her that Clementine Smith and Marcus were lovers.
She shrugged her shoulders impatiently. Had she not been fortunate? The life she had shared with Gunnar had dignity, security; and life with Marcus would never have given her either.
Gunnar came in from his dressing-room; he wanted to talk to her, she could tell by his manner, so she dismissed Audrey.
“Well,” she said, playing with her fan of green tinged ostrich feathers.
He smiled at her, admiring her beauty which never failed to stir him, admiring her adroitness in dismissing Audrey without his having to tell her that he had something to say.
“I was late,” he said, ‘because I met young Greymore. He asked .. for permission to approach Katharine.”
“And most willingly you gave it!”
She laughed, and he laughed too, though he was never sure of her laughter. To him this seemed a matter of the deepest gravity; the betrothal of their daughter was surely no matter for laughter.
“I gave it, of course,” he said.
“I hope she will accept him,” said Carolan pensive
ly.
“I should hate it if she were reluctant.”
“I was wondering if we should warn her, and tell her what our wishes are.”
Dear Gunnar! Did he know his daughter so little that he thought they had only to tell her Their wishes and they would immediately become hers?
“She may be difficult,” she warned him tenderly.
“She is very sensible,” he said.
“And it is a good match.”
She stood up then. He was sitting on her bed. She took his head and held it against her breast. He was always moved by these sudden displays of affection; they were so unexpected. Why should she embrace him now, while they were discussing this very important matter of their daughter’s marriage?
She said: “You think everybody can be as sensible as you, my dear.”
“Oh, I think Katharine has her share of common sense.” Oh, no! she wanted to say. There is no great common sense in our Katharine, because she has little of you in her; she is all mine. Reckless, adventuring. And yet there was a time when you… “Gunnar,” she said, ‘if she refuses him, what then?”
He said confidently: “We will talk to her. He is very eager. He seems to me the sort who’ll not take no for an answer.”
“She worries me, Gunnar. Sometimes I wonder whether she has not formed some attachment.”
“But, Carolan, with whom?”
“How should I know.”
“But surely there would have been some evidence…”
He did not see the evidence of bright eyes, of that absent manner, of that shine of happiness. He would never see that. Blind Gunnar. How did he ever love blindly himself?
“I am determined,” said Carolan fiercely, ‘that she shall make the right sort of marriage. I think she needs that sort of marriage. The boys will choose wisely… one feels that instinctively. Or if they do not, it will not be so important. But Katharine …”
She saw his face in the glass, and she knew he was thinking of the coming of Katharine; how she, Carolan, had talked of marrying Tom Blake; he was remembering it all vividly, for it lay across his life as darkly as it lay across hers.
She turned to him then, clinging to him in sudden tenderness.
“Oh, Gunnar, you have done so much for us all. You have made me so happy.”
“My dear!” he said in a husky voice. But the shadow was still in his eyes. Lucille was there.
Margery knocked at Katharine’s door and tiptoed into the room. Katharine was standing before her mirror, admiring herself in her blue ball dress with its masses of yellow lace. Audrey, before starting on Carolan’s hair, had dressed Katharine’s and it hung in curls about her shoulders. Margery clasped her hands together and rocked herself with delight.
“My little love! My little dear. The men will be at your beck and call tonight!”
“How your thoughts run on men!” said Katharine, and Margery cackled with glee.
She was more outspoken, this Katharine, than her mother had been. Not quite the same brand of haughtiness. Ready to enjoy a little joke. And up to mischief, if Margery knew anything!
“Pity Ac isn’t going to be here tonight!” Margery nudged her.
“Who?” said Katharine defiantly.
“You know who! Him who you sneak out to meet, me darling. Tell old Margery.”
“You know too much.”
“Well, what’s an old woman to do? The gentlemen don’t come calling on me now, you know.”
“You must not tell, Margery. You haven’t told?”
“I’d cut me tongue out rather.”
“Only sometimes I’ve thought that Mamma seemed to know. Margery, if you told I’d never speak to you again!”
“Not me, lovey. Not me! And if she was to know, what of it? Do you think she’s never …”
She could silence with a look, the little beauty, and her with a secret on her conscience too! Old Margery had seen him. He was forever hanging about the yard, he was. And there was no mistaking where he’d come from; the look of him told you that. And his father all over again! He knew how to get round a woman, no mistake, and he’d got round her little ladyship till she was yearning for him. The things you could find out, if you kept your eyes open!
Margery finished lamely: “A pity he can’t come here tonight! Pity he can’t be introduced to your Ma and the master, and we can’t hear the wedding bells ring out! That’s how I’d like this to end.”
“Parents,” said Katharine, ‘have such ridiculous ideas!”
“Parents was young once, me lady!” Ah! That they was! And well I remember the two of them. Madam Carolan. flaunting herself in her mistress’s clothes, and you, me lady, well on the way before you should have been. And that… what I don’t like thinking of… and me having a hand in it, so’s I’m frightened to show me face on that first floor. I wish we’d get out of. this house. But ghosts don’t mind where you go; they follow. And they don’t need a-carriage, nor a stage… not they! And as sure as I’m Margery Green there’s a ghost in this house, though I ain’t and God forbid I ever should clapped eyes on it!
“Yes, Margery, but they’ve got this Sir Anthony in mind.”
“Ah! Marry him, me pretty dear, and you’ll be a real live ladyship. There’s some who.wouldn’t say no to that, I’ll be bound!”
“I thought you’d talk sense, Margery!” Sweet balm, that was. Madam and the master, they didn’t talk sense, but old Margery did, according to this lovely bit of flesh and blood. Margery put her hand on the bare shoulder, though it was risking her ladyship’s displeasure, for she was never one for being touched … except by some most likely … I never saw a child take after her mother more. And why not, and who are they to say her nay? What of them, eh? With the mistress lying in her bed, poor sickly lady. No, no, don’t think of that, Margery; it ain’t nice to think of. I wish we’d leave this house, but would that be any good? Ghosts don’t need the stage.
“Look here, my dearie, love’s a game for them that plays it. It’s not for them outside to give a hand. That’s Margery’s motto.”
“I agree, Margery!”
How her eyes flashed! Trouble coming, dear as daylight. Mrs. Carolan born again. Imagine telling her all those years ago who she was to love! Funny how people forget what they were lite when they were young! Now Margery Green, she remembered all too well!
Katharine had dreams in her eyes; she was thinking of long days in the sunshine, riding out to the station; he came to meet her. At first he had pretended to think her just a foolish girl when together they had listened to Marcus. But when the Blue Mountains had been crossed, they both seemed to grow up suddenly. Marcus, deeply regretting that he had not been one of the gallant band that first crossed the mountains, told them the story in his inimitable way, and it was as exciting as though they themselves had found the road.
“No matter how difficult a project may seem,” said Marcus, ‘stick to it, and you’ll get across as sure as men got across the Blue Mountains!”
She had ridden out to them, and kept her secret; she had planned and contrived, and it had been worth it. How she loved the sunny veranda and the talk of the two of them! Marcus smoking his Negrohead, drinking his grog, watching them, loving them, talking to them, welcoming her into his home. Sometimes he called her Carolan.
“That’s my mother, you know. I’m Katharine.”
“Of course! Of course! I forgot. I used to know your mother once.” And she had felt resentful towards Mamma, who, for no reason at all, had taken such a dislike to him, doubtless thinking him lacking in culture because he was not dabbling in politics, and did not attend the local functions, and was as different from Papa as it was possible for any man to be. Was Mamma perhaps a little snobbish? Her values were wrong surely since she tried to prevent her daughter’s friendship with a man like Marcus. She knew that Mamma had come out on the transport ship; she could not help knowing. One of the girls at school told her; it was a great shock. It made her look upon convicts in a different way; at on
e time, she feared, she had thought them sub-human.
“Are convicts real men and women?” Martin had once asked. She had been rather like Martin. But Mamma had been a convict, and Marcus and Esther. Convicts were ordinary people, and two of them Marcus and Mamma were among those she loved the best in the world. So Mamma should not have been snobbish about Marcus. She felt a slight estrangement between herself and Mamma then, but afterwards when she drew from Margery the story of the First Wife, she warmed to Mamma again. Poor Mamma, a servant in this house where now she was mistress, and Papa unhappy with his first wife! What a different picture from the house as it was today, and how proud Mamma must have suffered! It was really a good thing when the First Wife died, and Papa discovered that he loved Mamma. Vaguely from a long way back she remembered a certain fear about the First Wife. What an inquisitive and imaginative little creature she must have been in those days! Probing; scenting mystery; drawing out Margery and Mamma and anyone who would respond in the smallest way! Then she had discovered Henry and Marcus, and the house with the veranda and they filled her thoughts. She did not remember thinking very much about the first floor after that.