He sighed again and fumbled with the pen, sharp enough with figures but lacking an easy hand when it came to words. Not always sure of the size of his flocks, not always able to describe the boundaries of his property accurately. Nine pages were completed before he sat back with satisfaction.
William would have no favouritism. He had many debts and there remained a legion of mortgages to be settled. The holdings of his nephews and nieces were inextricably woven into his own estate for his only brother had died some years earlier. The two brothers had agreed that the Guise properties should remain intact so now there would have to be careful division if he was no longer there to watch over the holdings. All of that had to be detailed and made clear. Even so the amount he’d leave should be enough to repay all and provide handsomely for his children. Land, effects and livestock would meet with everyone’s satisfaction and, now the pastures had begun to flourish once more, the old prosperity was returning.
Finally he set his mind to the task. This is the last Will and Testament of me William Guise of Gundaroo in the County of MURRAY in the COLONY of NEW SOUTH WALES Grazier. I hereby revoke and make…
But even as he penned their names he wondered again about the inheritance each of his daughters would receive. Whatever fine words he might use, however carefully phrased his bequests, the fact remained that the real owner of any property belonging to a woman was her husband. Hannah and Elizabeth had already married. Edward Cantor and Henry Lintott were reliable chaps. Never set the pond afire, but reliable, so he felt no concern over them. Certainly they were both cautious, dependable men and there need be no worries for the future.
But what of Mary Ann’s portion? Young and single, such an inheritance weighed heavily – and whoever she married might not have the stability of Henry or Edward.
Pondering over this for many hours, he puzzled over how to keep the Guise property in Guise hands. Finally coming up with a carefully worded formula which he used for each of his daughters.
Meticulous and fair, he left each girl the same. What Hannah and Elizabeth did with it depended on them. If they did not care to live on the land he gifted to them then they could sell it or put in an overseer. He knew which course Mary Ann would take.
Each bequest in turn had the same careful wording and when he came to disposing of the old Bywong property, the core of the Guise holdings, he left it to Mary Ann and breathed a silent prayer that she would not sell up or hand over control to any other…
1920 acres to the use of my daughter Mary Ann Guise during her natural life for her sole and separate use independently of and without being subject to the debts control or engagements of any husband with whom she may intermarry...
To each of the daughters he also gave three hundred head of cattle and ten mares.
Nearly two thousand acres constituted a large farm. Combined with the livestock she’d be the owner of a fine property.
Sitting at the table by the window he pondered yet again over his decisions. Fine words but everyone knew that it was the husband who had the say in all matters financial. Crows circled in the sky, swooped down to earth and perched for a moment on the branches of the gum trees near the dam, then finally flew off in search of food.
How many times he’d watched those birds as they squabbled over anything they’d been so fortunate as to find. The corpse of a ewe, a dying lamb or even an exhausted heifer struggling in the mud at the half-empty dam was food for their rapacious appetites. Fiercely the birds tore at the flesh, old ones squawked and hopped away from the jabbing beaks of the young bloods, several birds bunched together and waited their turn while the strongest gorged and gobbled with lordly indifference – just so, he mused, there would be many who might make a claim on the Guise estate.
Waiting for a will to be read was one of the eternal guessing games of life and well before the last breath left there would be many who had added up time and again what they might expect. Grimly William smiled to himself as he contemplated the questions which would go through the minds of all those related to the family.
Much would be gained from the breaking up of the Guise estates, the land at Macquarie Fields, the property beyond Liverpool, acreages in the Monaro, many a mile round Gearys Gap and up at Bywong. Rich pickings indeed.
Mary Ann never spared herself as she watched her father fading away before their eyes. She politely declined Hannah’s invitation and, when Frank de Rossi called one day, regarded him with chilly indifference.
Unfair, she admitted to herself, but she could not detach him from that moment when he had stood dishevelled before them and told them what had happened.
“Thank you for calling, Mr de Rossi,” she smiled vaguely in his direction. “Grand-père is resting and… and Papa is down at the washing pen,” she added a white lie. Her father lay upon his bed staring into space.
“I can send over some fellows. You probably could do with some extra hands at shearing.”
“Thank you. Mr Brownlow has kindly offered help. He rides over frequently and Father wouldn’t know what to do without him.”
After a few banal exchanges she watched him ride away. His shoulders were broad and strong but if she had seen the pain on his face she might have regretted her words. Each day she rode out to check on the stock and galloped home to spend the rest of the time helping Job in the yard and working in the orchard or the vegetable garden. Mary Ann was on her feet from sun up to sundown. When another invitation came from Hannah to spend a few weeks in the city she politely declined again. And secretly William rejoiced; as he admitted to himself, he had come to rely on Mary Ann more and more. Her knowledge of the farm was now nearly as good as his own.
“Well, I’ll ride over and have a look at those ewes, Papa. If I can’t make up my mind we’ll ask George, shall we?” Ever more frequently she’d defer to George Brownlow. Her father always nodded and agreed and had to admit to himself that he felt easier with the other man’s practised judgement. After all, the younger ones kept up with the times, he had to admit to himself.
Scouring sheep, pink eye and beasts with the fluke were all in a day’s work and he knew he could rely on Mary Ann’s calculating eye to single out any ailing animal. And she, in her turn, when in need of practical advice, felt more secure when she received George’s verdict.
The rains had eased, leaving burgeoning pastures. Now water splashed within twenty feet of Geary’s Gap. Flotillas of black swans circled the water, swimmers, waders and flocks of seagulls had returned and once again the familiar sound of the Lake filled the ears. The heavy beat of the waves and the persistent splashes as ducks alighted on the waters and pelicans skimmed the surface filled the air with that uplifting chorus of hope and vitality. The Lake was alive again.
Familiar with every creek and waterhole, Mary Ann knew where stray cattle could be found or if the dreaded abortion had taken hold in the herd. Had the moment come to move them to fresh pastures? Time to cut out the weaklings? “Plenty of years ahead for the city,” she repeated yet again. “We’re just getting back on our feet. Look at that barley, doesn’t it do your heart good to see it? After all those months and months when we only had dust blowing about?”
Her father smiled. A true farmer’s daughter.
“If I went now, who’d finish that work in the orchard? Next year I’ll have those pear trees espaliered, you wait and see. Grand-père’s always wanted that and he can’t manage it, can barely manage getting down the path any more.”
Of course another reason ruled paramount but with her grandfather’s disapproving glances those thoughts were kept to herself. Hardly a day went by when George Brownlow did not call at Bywong. Sometimes to offer some help, other times just for a chat with her father, but always making sure he paid his respects to her grandfather and managing a few moments conversation. She looked forward to those visits more than she’d ever admit.
As she stood beside him, looking across the pastures, or listening to him talking, she could barely manage not to reach out a
nd take his hand. She yearned to feel if the reality of his body matched the perfection of the man she embraced in her dreams each night. His weatherbeaten hands, his sinewy arms, as strong and purposeful when he helped her father throw a beast as they had been when they’d encircled her waist upon the ballroom floor, would she ever feel their touch again? What she would not give to have his face close to hers once more, his eyes looking down with that softness which was only for her.
Mary Ann ached for George to turn, just once, and look at her and say the words her fantasies dreamt up each night.
If George had any inkling of her feelings he did not make it obvious. He had remained aloof from serious matters of the heart. All his life he had given his labour and been rewarded, never ventured into the mainstream of life which swept so many along on tides of passion and love, but sometimes stranded them in the backwaters. No, George bided his time, he intended to make something of himself.
Endowed with good looks and a shrewd personality he stood out amongst the local men like a racehorse amongst the hacks. Not a tall man but stocky and nimble and spectacular in the saddle.
Mary Ann was alert for the first clatter of hooves as he rode into the yard, smiles wreathed her face at the sound of his voice. She’d hurry to her room and hastily brush her hair, twisting the long dark ringlets ever more tightly then tracing the outline of eyebrow and lip with her fingers, biting her lips to redden them and slapping her cheeks in the hope of bringing more colour into them. For she had the olive complexion of her grandfather. ‘One of the de Guises, alright,’ her grandfather always maintained. His Elizabeth had passed on the fair haired English heritage of her own family to all her other grandchildren. Golden hair and hazel eyes, the bloom of a peach until the harsh winds of the Colony roughened it. Mary Ann alone had the aquiline features, the glossy dark hair, the deepset eyes and the stately carriage of her grandfather.
A natural aristocrat, Grand-père sighed, dragging his thoughts back from those far-off days in France. Surely someone better than George Brownlow could be found? Immediately he pulled himself up. This was a new country, a different society; wasn’t his son forever telling him this? Values were not the same. Success with your own two hands had become the order of the day. The refined ways he remembered so lovingly would be regarded more with suspicion than admiration.
There was no doubt Mary Ann was in love with the man.
Love is not so much blind as completely blinkered. Only the central vision is intact. You look at the person and see the façade of that other human being, the eyes, the mouth, the entrancing whole of that intensely desirable person. Behind that façade you create your own vision of perfection and soon your Pygmalion stands before you. Nothing can match the exhilaration of this vision. You have found love. Love is beautiful, exciting, enticing and totally absorbing.
Those who can remove the blinkers and glimpse the uncertain edges of their creation may be wiser, but are they happier?
Who was he to stand in the girl’s way? So few men left in the family, such a responsibility to fall upon her shoulders in only a few years. Perhaps he was wrong, Grand-père puzzled, perhaps he’d misjudged the man. Perhaps he should take heed of William’s words; the world was changing. Anyhow, no time remained to alter the way events were unfolding. At his great age he had little energy to change anything at all. Wisdom dictated that the moment had come to sit by the fire and accept the remnants that life had to offer.
Age brings its own kind of loneliness. There may be people around, children nearby, but no longer can you share the memory of the past for it is better not to reminisce too often for fear of becoming an object of amusement.
Your world is still peopled with those you loved and lost. Those around have busy lives full of birthdays, daily tasks, arguments, making up, making do and listening to the latest piece of gossip. There is no one to share your memories. Who sang that song? Who wrote that piece? Was it a christening or a funeral when we met those people last?
As the wrinkles grow deeper the memories are buried even more profoundly, no one really cares. The conscious, polite expressions on your children’s faces are even more hurtful than the disinterest of the outside world.
When the body begins to fail the mind enters that no-man’s-land between reality and dreams. In his mind’s eye Richard still saw Elizabeth’s face opposite him at that dining table of long ago when she first walked into his life.
The sparkle of the cut glass decanters, the glint of the nutcracker in the bowl of walnuts – all that had marked the beginning of their great adventure. Now he was at the end but when he looked across the scrubbed table, past the guttering candle with its winding sheets of clinging wax he watched Mary Ann – at the beginning of her own journey in life. So like himself, such a de Guise, with her sombre dark eyes and lean features, the same dark hair and fine arched nose, the same impetuous movements and quick resolve.
For once, old Richard found himself at a loss, whether he should speak up or not? Whether to continue expressing his doubts and urge caution, perhaps suggest his granddaughter wait a while longer.
For the magic was working. Before his very eyes he could see the beginning of that fascination which grips and takes hold and listens to no reason. Mary Ann’s eyes sparkled whenever George Brownlow came to the house. The old man guessed that on those occasions she was no longer even aware of any other human being in the whole world.
George Brownlow certainly had captured Mary Ann, and Grand-père could not deny his glowing reputation amongst those who farmed around Bywong. Owned no property of course, but an able man. Gossip had it that his mother had been an easy woman who’d netted a husband late in life. Grand-père had shuddered when he heard this. Then he shook himself and thought again. No, this was what everyone admired in this new country—you put the past behind you and forged ahead to better things.
Since George Brownlow had become a frequent visitor at Bywong, Richard sensed his son’s growing reliance upon the man. A load of posts? Some extra hands for the haymaking? Help sorely needed, with the quest for gold. That word was still bandied about all over the land. ‘Gold’, and every able-bodied man dropped his tools and made for the diggings. Servants left their masters, soldiers deserted their posts and rumour had it that ships lay idle in the ports as all hands made for the goldfields.
Again and again he puzzled over the man. The heaven-sent answer to a family’s prayer, or the adventurer he feared? Even if he spoke out no notice would be taken of his words. People hear what they want to hear. He could sense that William had begun to see the saviour of the Guise property in the attentive younger man.
As the trees blossomed once again and the grass grew back to such an extent that the cattle brought back from the mountains stood in pasture up to their hocks, as he watched prosperity returning to their acreages, the old man tried to quell his unease.
The land had deceived them once, it could happen again. If the very earth led them astray, then what might be expected of mere humans, how much more deceptive is fellow man?
“You’ll see, Father. Good times are here again and if I’m not mistaken, our Mary Ann’ll be a happy woman.”
So he was surprised when William told him shortly afterwards that he had not immediately accepted George Brownlow’s offer of marriage to Mary Ann.
“I thought you liked the man?”
“Well enough. Well enough. But I remembered your words, Father. You think no one listens to you but you’re wrong. Mary Ann’s only seventeen, plenty of time. Let’s wait a little while.”
“You’ll do well to remember the three C’s when it comes to considering a husband for our Mary Ann.”
“The three C’s?”
“Colour, creed and class. Well, colour doesn’t come into it but class and creed certainly do. The Rossis are our class and their creed as near as makes no difference.”
“And what have you against George Brownlow then?”
“Well, he’s certainly not our class and as far
as I can see he wouldn’t even know what creed is.”
“Times are changing, Father.”
“And what does Mary Ann think? She’s always got views of her own.”
“Exactly. George brought up the subject yesterday, speaking to me first of course, which is very decent of him. She doesn’t know. I prefer to wait a while and we’ll see how the land lies. Plenty of time, plenty of time.”
But William had very little time left. No one realised the effort he made when he rode around the property, or realised how frequently he sat in the shade and rested. The strange light-headedness and the fast beating of his heart were all indications but then – but then, wasn’t that old age? Look at Father, he told himself. Still getting down to the orchard, still poring over the Herald, still giving a hand in the dairy – and at well over ninety. Good stock, he told himself. In fact he’d been rather foolish to bother so much over his will, plenty of time ahead.
In this William was wrong. One day too hot, one ride too far from home, a sudden dizziness and darkness engulfing him marked the end of his life. He went the way he’d have wanted to go, everyone agreed, he’d have wanted to end his life with the scent of the gum trees in his nostrils and the cry of the plover in his ears, rather than tossing and turning upon a sickbed.
As the family and friends stood around his graveside, Mary Ann shivered in spite of the hot January sun. Henry Lintott supported Grand-père who stoically watched the earth being shovelled upon his firstborn’s coffin. Far away in Barrack Street Hannah would be going about her usual tasks, quite unaware of her father’s death. “Poor Hannah,” Mary Ann whispered, “all she ever hears is bad tidings from home. First Charles, then Papa. She must dread ever getting a letter these days.”
The hot wind gusting across the Limestone Plains scorched the tips of white flowers in the wreaths and ruffled the veils of the ladies. Mary Ann did not weep loudly as her sister did, instead pulled her veil closer and stood straight, just like her grandfather. But beneath the black silk the tears coursed down her cheeks and she had to gulp for breath.
The Hanging of Mary Ann Page 11