“He’s always about on his father’s property… least, that’s what Papa used to say. Either over in Corsica seeing to their affairs, or spending most of his days on their property here, never in one place long.”
“S’pose the Rossis and your pa’d have a lot in common really, coming from the old world with all them hoity, toity ideas.” George picked up a scone and ate it quickly. “Got to go. Lost two yearlings down past the dam.”
Mary Ann took the shawl and tucked it at the back of one of the drawers of the chest in their bedroom. Poor George, only too true, really. He’d had to work his way up, man and boy, and certainly there’d been no helping hand there. He had every reason to feel resentful. Some were born in a privileged position, some just weren’t. Hopefully Frank de Rossi didn’t call in again on his way back. Nice of him to bring that shawl but seeing him stirred up memories which had been good at that moment, but now were surprisingly painful. Grand-père’s stories, the Ball of the Yew Trees, her father’s easy guiding arm leading her into the de Rossi ballroom. Loss! Highlighted for a moment the past was painful. A whole flood of memories washed away her composure for one moment. She had to hold on to the well-worn wood of the chest and steady herself. So much had gone for ever from her life.
Quickly, returning to her senses, she hurried out on to the verandah. Someone was calling her name. Oh no, surely Frank de Rossi hadn’t come back so soon, not after that chilly farewell.
“Mary Ann, it’s your sister!” George called out.
He frowned as he followed Elizabeth up the steps. “They want you over at Woodbury.” Turning on his heel he left the room.
“What’s the matter? What’s happened? Is it Grand-père?”
“Now don’t take on. Not in your condition. Don’t take on!” Her sister put a comforting arm around her shoulder. “Just not himself, he isn’t. He’s had a couple of turns and they leave him dizzy-like, and he keeps calling your name. Well, you know how the old ones are. We just thought it’d be a good thing if you came over for a few days; it’d settle him.”
“Oh, Grand-père!”
“Like I said. Don’t take on. If you could get a few things together, we’ll be off and away. I’ll help you with Cathy.”
As the gig rattled out of the yard Mary Ann waved to her husband who stood on the verandah watching them go.
“I’m so lucky, Elizabeth, so very lucky. He’s always looking for new ideas too. Why, the other week he brought home a dozen of those Spanish sheep from the sales. There’s nothing George can’t do. You’ve no idea how hard he works.”
“He’s a good enough worker,” grudgingly admitted her sister. “By the way, who’s that fellow over by the well? Where’s Job?”
“He’s out at the wash pen.”
“That’s hard work for an old’un. He’s usually in the yard. So who’s that man, then?”
“George needs more hands, he says. He’s taken on a couple of the Irishwoman’s boys … Mick and Seamus.”
“The Irishwoman!”
“Yes, you know. The hut down near the river. She had that one daughter and all those boys.”
“And a different father for each one, some say. That girl, not that she’s a girl any longer…”
“What about her, then?”
Elizabeth paused. “Least said, soonest mended. Couldn’t he find better than those fellows? Rough as goat’s knees, the whole family, in fact. I don’t know why Papa let them stay all those years, a real blot on the landscape they’ve been. That place of theirs no better than a humpy. Full of brats it always was and now look at them! My Henry says ’tis a wonder none of them’s had their neck stretched. No better than tinkers.”
“Well, they’re working for us now.”
“I can’t believe George would take them on. He’d know the score alright.” Elizabeth frowned as she flicked the whip and set them off at a spanking trot.
That night as they sat beside the old man neither of them could make sense of his mutterings. Whilst his fingers plucked at the sheets his mind wandered along paths which only he could see. He called for his dear wife time and again. Tears so steadfastly unshed over the years spilled down his cheeks as he moaned and muttered into his pillow.
“You stay with him.” Elizabeth rubbed her eyes as the first light of dawn filtered through the curtains.
“He’s been calling for you all the time.”
Both of them stared at the withered lips. “Makes no sense to me,” Mary Ann muttered as she squeezed the old man’s hand. “They say old folks get these fancies at the end … but the sea? What does he mean?”
“I’ll get the girl to bring you up some breakfast, just you stay there. That’s what he’d want.”
Mary Ann took the old man’s hand in hers and settled herself more comfortably. “Grand-père,” she whispered, “you were trying to say something about the sea … that’s what Elizabeth said.”
A faint smile wreathed those features and a sigh escaped but no words were spoken. Instead, he squeezed his granddaughter’s hand and almost at once fell asleep.
He knows I’m here. The thought comforted Mary Ann as she kept up her vigil all that day and the following night.
Rarely had she sat and done nothing for so long. Elizabeth and her maid kept Cathy occupied and increasingly she found herself dozing off, grateful for the lack of any tasks, conscious always of the new life stirring in her womb..
She allowed herself to drift into a contented reverie and, as always, George dominated her thoughts.
How had she been so fortunate? Strong, energetic, blessed with the knowledge that would keep Bywong on the path to prosperity. Already the flocks of sheep had nearly doubled, only last week he’d brought back a fine Percheron mare from the Goulburn sales.
Feeling the child move in her womb she breathed a silent prayer that it would be a boy. Like all the men, George wanted a son.
She’d be quite happy with another daughter, but years stretched ahead. Soon there would be a family around them, just as there had always been under the roof of Bywong, chattering, clattering, filling every hour of the day with their plans and arguments and discussions. George would sit at the head of the table with the firstborn son on his right-hand side.
She could feel the muscles relaxing on her face, the radiance of a smile which came from her innermost depths. Love is enough, she repeated to herself.
The hours ticked by and in the silence of the sickroom her thoughts returned again and again to her life at Bywong.
How wonderfully well everything had turned out, how happy her father would be if he could see them now, drought well behind them and flocks increasing.
Yes, he’d be so pleased, except for Job.
Wouldn’t it be better if George sometimes asked her opinion? When to take the flocks up to the mountains, when to drench the cattle, when to do some of those myriad tasks she’d once shared with her father? Reluctantly, she accepted that such matters should be left with the man of the house, but, try as she might, she could not fathom George’s reason for getting rid of Job.
“You’re not serious?” she’d asked when George told her of his decision.
“Not for a few months, of course. There’s plenty for the lads to pick up from him yet. We need him around a bit longer.”
“Job’s always been at Bywong!”
Before she could walk he’d dandled her on his knee. Once marooned in the uppermost branches of the big elm he’d fetched the ladder and hauled her down. He’d tucked her under his arm and carried her into Grand-mère when she’d skinned her knees in the yard. He’d taken her mushrooming and explained how you could distinguish them from the poisonous toadstools. Together they’d sat on the river bank and watched the duckbills frolic. He’d shown her where the tadpoles wriggled down by the dam and explained each change in their bodies till they were tiny frogs hopping amongst the lily pads. Job had been one of the pallbearers at every family funeral, shouldering the weight with the Guise sons and grandsons. Every Gu
ise who lay in the tomb at St John the Baptist had been carried there by Job.
“All the more reason; we need’s the new blood.”
“Surely he can stop on. Won’t be many more years for him and…”
“Near his dotage, Mary Ann! Mark my words. You’ve got used to his ways but anyone taking a fresh look can see. He ain’t the full dozen any more, always blathering on. Can’t keep his mouth shut.”
“And why should that worry us? He’s been a faithful servant all these years, it’s wrong to cast him aside like that. Where can he go at his age, anyhow? We’ve got no secrets to worry about.”
“Wait on, wait on, you never give me half a chance. He’s welcome at the smithy, old Briggs’ll be glad to have him.”
Sitting beside her grandfather Mary Ann made up her mind. When she got back to Bywong she’d talk to George again. Explain to him that the old man was part of their family and, even if too old for work, he should be allowed to stay in his hut behind the yard.
There were times, she admitted to herself, that George did not think the same way as she did…
Impatiently her grandfather shifted in the bed, his fingers picking at the sheets. Faintly, she could hear his words.
“Grand-père, what is it about the three seas? Do you mean crossing the sea? Is it when you came here you are remembering?” Leaning closer Mary Ann stroked the old man’s hand.
“No one listens… not that kind of sea,” Grand-père muttered, his eyes opened wide and he stared at his granddaughter, seeing the dark eyes and olive skin of his own long-gone family.
Impatiently, he shook her head, too late now to try and explain what he meant. Like so many long-ago events any words would be inadequate.
He muttered and his grip tightened. “You’re a good girl, Mary Ann, you’re a real de Guise.”
Guise was the last word to pass the old man’s lips. He sank into a deep sleep and when Mary Ann tried to rouse him by patting his cheeks his head rolled upon the pillow and the great sigh he gave marked his last sound on earth.
Whether the unseasonably hot weather and the funeral or the sadness of her grandfather’s death brought on the first contractions, Mary Ann did not at first realise that she had gone into labour, for she had another six weeks to go.
While bending over tying up some raspberry canes she felt the first discomfort. A slight niggling at the base of the spine which went unnoticed for a couple of hours until the discomfort increased and spread and could not be ignored. Six weeks still to go!
Picking up Cathy she hurried into the kitchen. A cold drink? A quiet sit-down at the table while the little girl nibbled at a biscuit.
Reluctantly, she counted out the seconds before the next pain - nearly twenty. Once that had subsided she began counting again. Twenty. The regularity frightened her. Were they real labour pains?
Scooping Cathy up in her arms she almost ran along the path to the house and out on to the verandah. Not a soul was in sight.
Neither of the Irishmen was to be seen and Job had taken one of the horses down to the smithy. The last time she’d seen George he’d been riding off in the direction of the river.
“George!” Clutching Cathy to her she cried out into the empty air. “George!” Who was there to hear?
The little girl whimpered and struggled. “Hush, hush, it’s alright, love. Mama’s got a pain… a nasty tummy ache. Come along, we’ll find that dolly of yours.”
Insidiously the centre of pain spread, sending out its piercing tendrils further and further until the biting cramps encircled the base of her womb.
Never had she imagined her own body could give such torment. Where was George? Gasping, she clutched at the rail and cried his name time and again.
Cathy’s birth had been so easy. George had ridden off for Dr Morton, Elizabeth had come over from Woodbury and then rattled off in the trap to fetch the midwife. All had been so secure and safe. People were all around, telling her what to do, reassuring her.
What should she do now, all on her own?
Up and down the verandah she walked, first of all carrying Cathy, but finally having to put her down, just keeping an eye on the little girl as she played with her dolls.
Was it best to move around, or sit down quietly? Somewhere she had heard it said that movement helped in these situations. Up and down the verandah she paced as faster and faster came the pains. As each spasm gripped she clutched at the rail for relief until it subsided. Minute upon minute went by. The minutes became quarter-hours, half-hours and hours till she no longer thought of time, only of how much longer she could stay on her feet and endure the agony.
She longed to cry out but all the while she tried to keep her voice level and calm so as not to scare Cathy.
Faster and faster the cycle of pain and relief, then relief and pain took hold of her.
“Missus…Missus…” Job’s voice cut through the pall of agony enveloping her. Just at that moment her waters broke and poured onto the verandah. She had heard nothing of his approach, not the creaking of the gate nor the clatter of the trap, and as she fell back in his arms she fainted for the first time in her life.
Drifting in and out of consciousness she became aware of her husband, of Dr Morton and voices in the background. Each time after surfacing to reality she experienced the shock and the dread of knowing that more was to come.
She was in a trap. Her body had snared her in pulsing, pitiless waves of unbelievable pain. Pain that came and then went, came and went; what would be the end?
Every muscle ached with effort that she did not understand. Her body had been taken over by some giant hand which grasped and squeezed till she felt she could bear it no longer then suddenly gave a few moments complete peace. Each time the pain ebbed she gulped for air as she steeled herself for the next onslaught of agony.
As she lay and tensed against the agony beating upon her womb Mary Ann struggled to think of anything which might help her escape from the reality now gripping her. The farm, George, the orchard, the new trap smartly painted standing in the yard, even the passing of Grand-père. Rejoicing and regret chased each other around the prison that suffering had made of her body.
Faintly, she became aware of flickering candlelight and the faces above her in the dark. Dr Morton and a bulky woman with capable hands that gently pushed the strands of hair from her forehead and sponged her face.
Also she became aware that the pains, though just as fearful, were weaker in their intensity, or had she become used to them? Through a gap in the curtains she could see the first hint of dawn. Surely she did not have yet another day ahead.
“Why is she so ill?” demanded George as he followed Dr Morton into the parlour. “Last time there was none of this fuss.”
“Mr Brownlow, I must remind you that your wife is six weeks early with her confinement. Her body is not really ready for the delivery yet. She is in great pain…and I might add, in danger too.”
“Danger!” George’s eyes narrowed, he put up his hand to his face and the other man could only imagine that it was to hide his grief.
“I grant you she’s a strong woman,” Dr Morton fixed him with a serious gaze and gave a no-nonsense shake of the head, “but another few hours of this and I’ll not say what could happen. I should have been called sooner. This is a premature and sudden labour. It must be brought to a swift conclusion.”
“What do you mean?” muttered George.
“The risk becomes greater the longer we allow this to continue. I can induce matters by intervention. You’ll have to give me some understanding in the matter…”
“They comes in their own good time. Same as folks die in their own good time.” George shrugged and filled his pipe.
Dr Morton narrowed his eyes and regarded the other man with distrust. This was a time to think of life, not to put life and death in the same sentence. Did the fellow care one jot what happened to his wife? He’d seen the Guise family through fevers and broken limbs and more deaths than he cared to r
ecall. Was this fellow prepared to leave his wife unaided, possibly on her deathbed?
“She’s becoming exhausted. I need to intervene.”
Had the man even heard him? He’d walked over to the window and stood staring out. “Did you hear me? Something must be done.” George Brownlow continued to stare out, beyond the yard, beyond the paddocks to where a thin whorl of smoke marked the chimney of the hut down near the river.
“If she’s left… well… she could lose her life.”
“And the baby?”
“On the other hand there’s always a risk if I intervene, but I’d save the mother.”
“What’s the risk?”
“The baby could be stillborn.”
George did not answer. He still stared out, eyes fixed on the smoke.
“Well, answer me, man! I need to know.”
Before another word could be spoken a piercing cry came from the bedroom, another swiftly followed and as the surgeon sped down the passage the nurse could be heard muttering, “Lor’ bless us, Lor’ bless us and keep us, now you just keep trying… We’ll be alright. Push down just once more. We’ll try this, my dear. I know it’s no time to tell you to relax but this’ll help.” From a bowl of warm water the nurse took a sopping wet sponge. “Warm water, my dear, nothing like warm water.”
She held the sponge on high and let the warmth trickle down between Mary Ann’s legs. She did not bother that the mattress was soaked. All that mattered was that the young woman felt the comfort and for a moment could relax.
A different cry filled the room. A higher-pitched wail that wavered and paused, then peaked to an indignant howl.
Dr Morton grinned as he held up the baby. “As I always said, ma’am, ‘a good midwife’s worth a brace of surgeons.” Handing her some cloths, he stood back with relief.
CHAPTER 13
“For Christ’s sake, make it stop that noise.” George shifted violently beside her. “See to the child, can’t you?”
Rubbing her sleepy eyes, Mary Ann sat up. Heavy-breasted, still half-asleep, she got out of bed and went over to the cradle.
The Hanging of Mary Ann Page 15