“An’ that’s what I’m tellin’ youse,” finally managing to choke out the words. “You’ve fooled about with half the boys down the village, you think you’ve wasted yer time with that George. Mebbe you thought he wed yer, but believe me he’s on to the real stuff now and if you’ve any sense in you, then you stick by ’im. He’ll have that much cash in the bank as’d keep you comfortable for the rest of your natural.” And see me through me old age, she smiled to herself.
“Ma, that’s the whole point. When he wed that Guise girl that’s the end, ain’t it?”
“Not for men like George Brownlow. ’Tis the beginning, more like.”
“The Guise family, think, Ma! Always so high and mighty.”
“High and mighty they might always have been but they’ve had some mighty mishaps lately, haven’t they? Losing them two boys was bad enough but when Charles went and the old man died, well, family’s finished near enough, ain’t it?
“Bywong’s ripe for the picking. George Brownlow’s sized it up, believe me, and this is when you sticks as close to ’is coat tails as possible. Second kiddy on the way, I’ve heard. Well, he’ll have had enough of wedded bliss ’fore too long. He’ll be looking for somethin’ more tasty.”
“How’d you know that?” Brigid stared glumly out of the window. “You don’t know nothin’ of George Brownlow.”
“And there you’re quite wrong, my bird. Quite wrong. First time I clapped eyes on him up in the village I said to myself, ‘Mary, there’s a likely lad. Him with his eyes all over the place, swallering up all the girls, lookin’ all the so-called quality up and down. Mary, ‘I said to meself, ‘if I was twenty years younger I’d be lookin’ to leave me boots under ’is bed.’ You can tell, way he looks around him, smart turnout, decent horse, never a knock-kneed nag for him. Oh, it’s easy to see those who are lookin’ out for themselves. Anyone could see George Brownlow’s on his way up in the world.”
Brigid said nothing as she watched her mother’s eyes narrow and a knowing smile spread across her features.
“But he always had one problem in life, hadn’t he?”
“What’s that, Ma?”
“Too fond of the horses! Like most of ’em it’s either the liquor or the horses and our Mick reckons he’d ’ave made something of himself but for that. None of the ready, had he? Not till now, so he’s had to spend his life looking after other folks’ property.”
“Well, he’s always been an overseer. He told me that himself.”
“Doesn’t mean he wanted to end his days like that, does it? Bowing and scraping to someone who’s just had a bit more luck than he has, bin born with a silver spoon in their mouths, or struck it rich on the goldfields. No, the way I sees it is that he’s been very clever. He’s got all that property and a good home now. I’ll give it to him, from all accounts he’s mightily respected and he’s worked hard for it. He’s laboured for others all his life, George Brownlow’s worked alright. Perhaps now ’tis time for him to play!”
“Play! That’s what you calls it?” Brigid sniffed loudly. She was rapidly reaching the conclusion that her days for playing would soon run out.
The first faint lines about the eyes confirmed the ravages of the sun and all too soon the wonderful bloom would be gone. Even if she could have taken her pick of the village lads once, now there were younger girls coming along and when it came to the serious business of marriage she shied away from the thought of hearth and home, screaming children and a cradle always filled and another child on her knee.
“Yes, play. He’s got cash in the bank now. He’ll want to enjoy life. Always had a liking for the horses, he has, same as our Mick. Time’s come for our families to get closer acquainted, I’d say. Play your cards right and he’s yours – hook, line and sinker.”
“Oh stop yer woolgathering, Ma! He’s wed, he led me on and… ”
Mary O’Rourke fixed her gaze on her daughter. “Stead of moping around like a wet week you’d be better getting in with them up at Bywong, if you see what I mean.”
“All very well, Ma, but I ain’t exactly brushing shoulders with them Guises, am I?”
“Use yer loaf. Go up and ask if Mrs Brownlow needs some help. You’ve worked in a kitchen before. If she is expectin’ again so soon she might be glad of another pair of hands about the place. Another little’un on the way, well, yer never know yer luck!”
When Mary Ann opened the door to Brigid she did not at first recognise the girl who’d lived all her life in the hut by the river. Then she recalled that teeming family, the lanky lads all so alike and their little sister with her winning ways. Black curls framed a bright, heart-shaped face, they highlighted the porcelain delicacy of her cheeks and the perfect Cupid’s bow of her lips. The Irish colouring of dark hair and blue eyes had reached a peak of perfection and those deep indigo eyes gleamed with the joy of life.
Perhaps because the word ‘gleamed’ came to her mind too quickly, Mary Ann did not feel quite comfortable as she politely asked the girl to step inside.
“Our ma wondered if you was looking for a hand in the kitchen or out in the dairy. The boys is all workin’ down Gundaroo. She thought you might have a place for me.” As she spoke the words her eyes travelled round the room. The handsome clock, the long table with a bowl of fruit in the centre, the almanack, the stylish oil lamp – the very latest—and the half finished shawl and delicate white knitting wool. Hungrily she stared at the blue and red carpet and thought bitterly of their mud floor and the soft patches that oozed whenever it rained. A whiff of roses came in through the window and a hint of a baking cake wafted across from the kitchen. For a moment the bitter bile of envy almost sickened her as it rose in her throat, then she turned her brightest smile on Mary Ann and muttered something about being very used to general housework.
Mary Ann sat down at the table and gathered up her knitting. “It’s really kind of your mother and so good of you to come over.” She paused. Common sense told her that a helping hand would certainly not go astray, but something held her back. Brigid’s covetous glances had not gone unnoticed. Poor girl, Mary Ann thought, living in that pigsty of a place, all those rough brothers and just her mother…though gossip did hint the girl found plenty of amusement amongst the young men. Job had made a few remarks, and he knew most of what was going on in Gundaroo.
“Me cooking’s none too good but I can bake a tidy loaf.”
“Perhaps if I keep you in mind. At the moment everything’s alright but in a few months I may very well need some help.” Mary Ann could not look at her as she said the words. She knew she would never want this girl sharing the daily round. There was something about Brigid that troubled her and although she could not put her finger on it, the sensation would not go away. Watching her walking back across the paddock only intensified that sense of unease.
“There! I told you. Stuck-up cow. ‘Perhaps if I keep you in mind.’ ” Brigid caught Mary Ann’s tone with cruel accuracy as she flung open the door of the hut. “I’ll show ’er, I’ll show ’er.”
“And I’m sure you will, my bird, I’m sure you will. Just bide yer time,” chuckled her mother.
CHAPTER 12
Mary Ann tip-toed into the darkened bedroom and gazed down at her sleeping daughter. A healthy sheen of perspiration glowed upon Cathy’s brow, the clean, soapy scent of washed linen hovered over the cradle. All was well.
Why did she feel uneasy? Tucking in the sheet she went back to the parlour.
Knit one, slip one, purl one… the words echoed through her head as the wool passed between her fingers but she could not keep her mind on them.
Knit one, slip one, pass the slipped stitch over. Too complicated! Putting down the work she stared across the paddock. Why did she feel so uncomfortable with that girl? Something in her knowing glance and the set of her shoulders when she looked around the room had stirred a hint of menace.
Hastily she shrugged the sensation away. Why should she worry anyhow? George, Cathy and Bywong were a
ll she could wish for, and of course the new little life moving inside her. Would it be the son that George wanted so much? Her sigh of contentment wafted away the last of that uncertainty and she fell once more into the reverie which had become so much a part of everyday life.
Her life had changed even more since Cathy was born. No longer did she venture out into the paddocks or help Job about the yard. George had made it quite clear that she need not concern herself with the outdoor work at all.
“You put your feet up, remember. Every afternoon, while Cathy’s asleep you put your feet up.”
When she protested he shook his head. “Not the place for you out there. There’s more than enough for you to do about the place and I likes me dinner on the table when I get in!” A laugh accompanied this remark but it held more than a grain of truth as Mary Ann soon discovered. George expected an orderly life.
“A place for everything and everything in its place,” he reiterated on more than one occasion with the single-mindedness of one who had existed all his life with so little and everything he owned having to be looked after. Every minute of the day was allotted to a task. Compared with the easy-going Guise habits he needed to work to a routine; he believed in having a plan.
Breakfast on the dot. In fact, Mary Ann laid the table before going to bed, there must be no delay. He’d be out on the property, but back sharp at midday for his dinner, ten minutes with his feet up, then off again to the far paddocks or down to the blacksmiths or searching for lost stock, any one of the myriad tasks always waiting to be done. He never returned till the light had left the sky and then, as he said, he expected his tea on the table. A few minutes nodding over the Goulburn Herald and then off to bed.
Long ago the house had resounded to the clamour of all those who dwelt beneath its roof. There’d been brothers and sisters busy about the place, and cousins calling in, and her own mother and Grand-mère always out in the orchard or the dairy. Meals would be cooked, fruit preserved, beds made and piles of dirty clothes waiting for the wash, and all the time the buzz of happy chatter and laughter filled the place.
Those times would come again, Mary Ann assured herself. Once the children began to grow up there’d be other families calling in, there’d be birthday parties and picnics and Christmases and Easters and all the gatherings which punctuated life. Now she had to expect life to be quiet, almost solitary in fact, but with Elizabeth over at Woodbury, Hannah up at Barrack Street and George out on the property all day long, she could not help feeling lonely.
Occasionally someone dropped by to borrow a harrow or have a chat over when to start cutting the hay, or pose a query about some missing stock. Nowadays there were even fewer callers than in her father’s day; it soon became apparent to his neighbours that George did not care to share any belongings. In fact, nobody had visited all autumn and now the frosts were beginning to whiten the paddocks.
So when she heard the clatter of hooves in the yard one early afternoon Mary Ann leapt to her feet - was George home early? What had happened for that to occur?
“Mr de Rossi!” Amazed she held out her hands in welcome.
“Mary Ann!” He’d already hitched his horse to the verandah rail. “Mary Ann, I mean, Mrs Brownlow.”
“Oh nonsense, of course I’m Mary Ann still! Please come in, what an unexpected pleasure.” All the negative thoughts she’d once harboured were swept aside as she welcomed him. Any thought of that fateful night was banished by the remembrance of her family’s friendship with the de Rossis - that wonderful ball! Memories jostled each other as she bade him come in.
“Such a pleasant surprise, Mr de Rossi, I was only thinking visitors are not very frequent. Everyone is so busy these days.”
“I’m taking the road to Melbourne, business of course, I wondered if I might take the liberty of calling on you and your husband.”
“George will be so disappointed,” she said, not quite truthfully for her husband regarded such as the Rossis as pampered settlers. ‘Rossiville! I ask you. Perhaps I should change our name to Brownlowville,’ he’d sneered on one occasion.
“And I’ve been carrying this around the world!” He laughed and handed her a parcel.
“For me?”
“Most certainly.” He did not tell her that the white silk shawl, threaded with gold silk and hung with slivers of mother of pearl, had in fact been bought with quite another thought in mind.
He’d left the country soon after the ball and taken with him the picture of that rather solemn girl. Many another girl and woman had crossed his path but every time it was those dark eyes and the curve of her lips and the delicate arch of the brows that came to him in his dreams. Not a day passed whilst he was away when he did not think about seeing her once again. Time and again, when out in a crowd, he’d catch sight of an elegant form tossing dark curls, a cheek half turned and a finely traced brow and he’d imagined for one throbbing, glorious moment that he was looking at Mary Ann again.
Before long he learnt the truth. His father kept him well informed of all that happened in the district, but if the old man had known of the pain which would surge through his son’s whole frame he would not have written as he did.
“Such a journey, all the way to Gundaroo for a wedding. I ask you. Why do they want old fogeys like me! Good present I suppose, expect something from a de Rossi. No, that’s wrong, young Mary Ann would never even think of it but that Brownlow. Can’t say I’m too happy about that match.
“She’s a wealthy woman, isn’t she? Pity she couldn’t have waited a few years. Well they say ‘marry in haste, repent at leisure’. Let’s hope there’s not too much repentance in that match. The great shame is all those de Guises passed on so soon. Well, not the old man, but William never lived to be what you call old, and there’s two sons up in St John’s graveyard, and as for young Charles, a terrible accident, that drowning. Not a soul to run that property. You can’t blame Brownlow, I suppose…”
Now, face to face at last, a spasm clutched his heart. Amazed, he stared at himself in the mirror which hung across from the table. He’d never realised how profoundly he would be affected.
All those other times they had met came flooding back to him. Truly he had basked in her very rare smiles and once he had tried to convince himself that her coldness might perhaps mask a little more interest than she felt it suitable to display, and all the while he carried in his heart the memory of her at the ball. The serious face, the eyes which lit up with such pleasure as she took to the floor, her soft hands and hesitant smile, every single thought of her from that first night at the inn to the terrible events that befell the family, every recollection was graven on his heart. Many a night he’d tossed and turned but then finally came to the conclusion that he must ask for her hand. She was so young, though; something told him he must wait a while. Another year and the thought of marriage might be in the air. He did not want to spoil his chances by acting too quickly. The de Guises and the de Rossis! Both dogged with memories of past grandeur and the countries they came from. He had chuckled to himself as he thought of old Richard and his father harking back to that distant, noble ancestry.
How had he been so shortsighted and delayed so fatally? Even worse, he had been the bringer of such terrible tidings.
Perhaps he should have spoken before he left for that journey back to Corsica? But no, she’d looked so coolly at him, he had needed time. At that moment he thought he had time. Years and years stretched ahead.
Now she laughed and pulled aside the wrapping paper.
“How beautiful. I’ve never seen such a lovely shawl in my whole life!”
Emotion deepened her voice as she touched the silk with fingers roughened with housework. “How utterly beautiful.” She picked it up and laid it against her cheek. “Thank you so much, Mr de Rossi, thank you so much.”
“Frank. Do remember, my name is Frank.”
“How could I forget?” For a moment she looked at him with the eyes of that young girl, entering an inn fo
r the first time, a whole life ahead of her. That was the recollection he had taken over the seas with him, that was the Mary Ann who still ruled paramount in his heart.
“May I ask you to come over to the kitchen?”
He followed her heavy form.
Soon tea was on the table and a plate of scones before him. Spellbound, she listened to his adventures in Corsica after the dangerous sea journey around the Cape of Good Hope and the tumultuous passage to the Mediterranean. They were still talking when the door flew open and George walked in.
“Rossi! Was down by the river. Thought I saw a horse outside.”
“Frank… that is, Mr de Rossi… he’s back from his travels.”
“So I see.” George regarded him coolly, and just as coolly extended his hand and nodded. “Good of you to drop by.” He smiled at the other man but his eyes remained watchful and held no hint of welcome. “What you got there?” The shawl had caught his eye.
“Something from foreign parts, such a pretty shawl.” Mary Ann hastily tucked it under her arm.
“I’m taking the road to Melbourne, thought I’d call in on my way past.”
“Very good of you. I see my wife’s made you some tea. Hope she hasn’t held you up. Light’s beginning to fade.”
Frank de Rossi’s smile had faded too and after a few desultory exchanges he made his departure.
“Not sure I care for that fellow,” George remarked as he watched him ride away. “You never know with people like that.”
“People like what?”
“It’s said the old man was a spy in the British service. That’s how they got their land.”
“I know there were whispers, but gossips say anything.”
“Whispers? ’Tis a well known fact! All kinds of folk making a fortune hereabouts. Never had to get his hands dirty doing a day’s work in the paddocks, that one.”
The Hanging of Mary Ann Page 14