‘You’d better get down to the wharf,’ he told Mullett. ‘Make sure you make her feel welcome. Quick as you can. Take the carriage.’
Emma came ashore at ten o’clock of the forenoon. An early gale threatened to spill the wherry and its passengers into the waters of the Derwent River but she cared nothing about that. While other ladies squealed around her she sat in the stern of the wildly rocking boat, holding the strings of her hat beneath her chin to keep it safe, and her heart was a paean of praise that she was there, free at last of Arthur Naismith and her arch enemy Lady Raedwald.
I would have ended up drowning myself in Betty’s Mere, she thought as she looked up at the mountain, but here, at last, I shall be free.
The wherry reached the wharf. Emma accepted a sailor’s hand, hard and rough, to help her ashore. She stood, solid ground under her feet at last, feeling it sway as though she were still at sea.
‘Strange but exciting,’ Emma announced to the air.
If only she were not doing it alone. But that was past. You will not think of him any more, she instructed herself. Instead she concentrated on what she saw in front of her.
The scene was remarkably familiar, which was the most surprising thing of all. The thatched cottages along the waterfront, the passers-by with their English-looking faces, a troop of soldiers marching under the command of a sharp-voiced corporal, made it seem as though the months at sea had never been and the miles that now separated her from her past life existed only in her imagination. Certainly the mountain behind the town was new, as was the exotic scent of what Captain Cooling had told her were eucalyptus trees, yet the town itself and the people wearing their familiar clothes provided the oddest echo of what until five months before had been all she had known of life.
Now she stared about her, feeling the wind pressing her skirts closely against her legs, and smiled as a ferrety little man in a blue cap and jacket came up to her.
‘Miss Tregellas?’ Touching the brim of his cap.
‘Yes?’
‘Name of Mullett, miss. Your uncle sent me to meet you.’
‘That was very good of him. What about my luggage?’
‘I’ll arrange for it to be sent on. If you’d like to step this way I’ve got Mr Tregellas’s carriage waiting.’
They walked along the wharf together.
‘Good voyage, miss?’
‘Very good. This town gives me the strangest feeling, though. There is so much that is familiar it feels almost as though I’ve never left England.’
‘I think you’ll find quite a lot of differences, miss. When you gets to know the place better.’
At that moment, as though to confirm Mullett’s words, she heard an astonishing cacophony.
‘What on earth is that noise?’
‘A bird, miss.’
She stopped to look around. ‘I never heard anything like it. It sounds as though it’s laughing at us.’
‘So it does, miss.’ Mullett pointed. ‘That’s your culprit, miss.’
A big bird with a knowing look was clinging to the branch of a tree on the other side of the narrow roadway. As she watched it threw its head back, opened its powerful bill and gave the same extraordinary cry as before.
‘It’s called a kookaburra, miss. It’s the name the natives give it.’
An extraordinary name for an extraordinary bird.
‘It’s welcoming me to Van Diemen’s Land,’ Emma said. She liked the idea of the raucous bird, so different from anything in her old life.
They reached the carriage and Mullett opened the door and pulled down the folding step. ‘If you’d like to hop in, miss, we’ll be on our way.’
Barnsley heard the door close as the manservant left the room and resumed his watch of the river. Nothing much was happening down there but watchfulness was a habit he had acquired over the years. Barnsley Tregellas was rich and had every intention of becoming richer before he was through. His banker’s mind – shrewd, cautious and endlessly acquisitive – was always at work: watching, assessing, plotting. Information secretly acquired and swiftly acted upon was the key to his success.
Since his arrival in Van Diemen’s Land, Barnsley’s affairs had prospered mightily. Ventures into whaling, initially in the Derwent River and later deep in the Southern Ocean, had been his first venture. To begin with he had chartered vessels and crew; later, the voyages proving profitable, he acquired his own fleet. He had invested in merino sheep imported from Spain and pastured on the ten thousand acres he had acquired free of cost through the governor’s office. He had taken on ex-convicts as shepherds, whom he armed, giving them carte blanche to deal as they chose with any who interfered in the operation of the runs. The fact that some of them later decamped, intent on robbery or worse, was no concern of his. Foreseeing Hobart Town’s importance as a port and trading centre, he had speculated in property development that had also proved highly profitable.
Two years earlier he had gone into banking and banking had made him. Envious rivals dubbed him Foreclosure Tregellas: it was not kindly meant. He cared nothing for them or their foolish name-calling. Within those two years he had doubled his fortune and was confident of doubling it again in the years ahead.
His health was good; he was becoming richer and more powerful by the day; he had one of the finest houses in Hobart Town. A bachelor, he had arranged for a succession of young women to be delivered by private conveyance to his house, always after dark, either singly or in pairs, and who later, after he was sleeping, departed in the same way. The ladies and their owner, a Mrs Rice, who ran what was euphemistically called a hotel on the waterfront, were under strict instructions that all traces of their presence be removed before Mr Tregellas awoke; the rays of the rising sun discovered a house and owner washed clean in the early morning light.
Only in one area had he failed.
He could buy and sell half the gentry on the island but was aware that the arrogant sons of Satan never thought of him as their equal. He was meticulous in his dealings; he paid his bills on time; he treated even the most foolish with a respect he was far from feeling yet they had never regarded him as one of their own. They never would. The one time he had applied for membership of the town’s most fashionable gaming club he had been refused. He was a rich man, a businessman who was feared rather than admired, which meant that by the standards of Hobart society he was not regarded as a gentleman and never would be. He hated that.
He would have married any woman of good family who might present herself but women of good family would never be in the market for Barnsley Tregellas.
He thought Mullett had been right; his niece’s arrival might change that. The relative of an earl backed by Barnsley’s money… Not many would turn up their noses at that. A good marriage for the niece and an entrée into the highest ranks of society for the uncle. He rubbed his hands.
He had sent the carriage to meet his niece. No matter; he would walk to the colonnaded building in Macquarie Street that housed the Tregellas Bank. The walk would do him good.
He told his housekeeper he would be home that evening and set off down the hill to the bank. On the way he paid a visit to a workshop where a young woman named Miss Jillibel Atkins had recently set up business and was making a name as the foremost dressmaker in the colony. It was rumoured that Miss Jillibel had even received commissions from Lady Arthur herself, and what was acceptable to the lieutenant governor’s wife would surely be good enough for Miss Emma Tregellas.
Having informed the dressmaker of his requirements he crossed the road and went into the bank, where he gave a curt nod to his fawning clerk.
‘I do not wish to be disturbed.’
He went into his private office, closed the door behind him and sat at his massive desk. He unlocked the desk drawer and drew out his confidential ledger. Dipping his pen into the inkwell set in the desk he began to prepare a list of the sons of men of wealth and status in the colony who might be beguiled by the thought of an heiress who was also, m
ore or less, a member of the English aristocracy.
Blood and guineas, Barnsley thought. Nothing to beat them.
The carriage climbed a sharp hill and was soon bowling down a lane flanked on its left by a wall that Mullett explained bordered the Tregellas land. After several minutes the carriage turned through a pair of open gates into Uncle Barnsley’s drive.
Emma studied the imposing building as they approached. ‘It looks very grand,’ she said.
Not to compare with Raedwald Hall, of course, but much grander that Arthur Naismith’s squint-eyed dwelling.
‘One of the best homes in Hobart Town,’ Mullett said. He spoke so proudly it might have been his own.
‘Will my uncle be there?’
‘He’ll be at his office in town, miss, but will be back this evening. In the meantime he said you was to make yourself at home. Anything you want, speak to the housekeeper about it. Mrs Alsop will see you right.’
He hopped down from the carriage, pulled out the step and opened the door with a flourish. As Emma got down he winked. She liked that: the first sign of friendship in her new land. That was how she saw it, and would make of it and herself what she could.
Mrs Alsop looked to be in her fifties with a rounded face and rounded body. She was polite enough though with a certain reserve. Not surprising, Emma thought – she was probably wondering whether Emma had come to take charge. Maybe she would, in time, but it was too soon for that.
Mrs Alsop conducted her to her room. Emma looked about her. ‘It is truly delightful!’
‘It has a fine view,’ Mrs Alsop said.
The view down the slope to the river and the countryside beyond was indeed very fine.
‘It is splendid,’ Emma said. ‘I shall be comfortable here.’
‘The master asked me to inform you that the dressmaker will be here at four o’clock this afternoon,’ Mrs Alsop said. ‘He will be obliged if you will make yourself available to her.’
‘The dressmaker?’
‘Mr Tregellas has arranged a small dinner party for tomorrow evening to welcome you to the colony and wishes to present you with a gown suitable for the occasion.’
Emma had a horror of obligations. ‘I do not believe that will be necessary.’
‘That is not for me to say, miss, but those were his instructions.’
Which Mrs Alsop clearly expected Emma to obey.
Hmmm…
The housekeeper left her while Emma thought some more about this business of the dressmaker. It was a generous gesture, but Uncle Barnsley’s letter to her father had not been that of a generous man. She suspected an ulterior motive. She was his guest, which created certain obligations, but he did not own her. She would go along with his plans if she wished; she would ignore them if she wished.
Of course she would meet the dressmaker. Afterwards she would see how things worked out.
‘Will Miss Tregellas be requiring luncheon?’ Mrs Alsop said.
‘A cut of beef, perhaps?’
‘Or some cold mutton?’
‘Cold mutton will be fine.’
Lunch was served at twelve.
‘Delicious,’ Emma said. ‘Please tell me when Miss Jillibel arrives.’
Punctual to the minute, Miss Jillibel Atkins arrived at four o’clock. She was as sharp as a dozen knives; also little and assertive and not about to take any nonsense from anybody, Emma included. She knew what Mr Barnsley wanted and that he would get. She had no intention of listening to objections from Mr Barnsley’s niece or anyone else.
She demanded a private room and got it, Mrs Alsop leading them to a bedroom at the rear of the house with an ornate bed, a fireplace and a large mirror.
‘We shall need heat,’ Miss Jillibel said.
They waited until a kitchen maid came scurrying with a stack of cut wood. Within minutes a fire was blazing, the flames eating the room’s chill.
Miss Jillibel snapped imperious fingers and the assistants fled, returning within minutes, staggering beneath the weight of bolts of silks, satins and taffeta, which they spread on the bed in a rainbow of varied colours.
Miss Jillibel inspected Emma, instructing her to raise her arms and lower them again, turn this way and that, until Emma began to frown with exasperation, yet the little woman exuded an air of such authority that for the moment she said nothing.
‘Please remove your dress.’ The imperious fingers snapped; a tape measure appeared like magic. ‘Do me the favour of standing still,’ Miss Jillibel said.
She measured Emma’s height, ran the tape over waist, hips and bust, announcing the figures as one of the assistants noted them down. She paid particular attention to Emma’s bust.
‘Good,’ she said. ‘Good.’
Another signal and the assistants gathered up the bolts of material.
‘A fitting at nine o’clock in the forenoon tomorrow,’ Miss Jillibel said.
She had not asked whether the hour was convenient, nor had there been any discussion of the material or its colour. The colonel’s wife and Lady Raedwald apart, Emma had never known such a high-handed woman.
‘Should we not discuss the colour?’
‘Tomorrow, Miss Tregellas. At nine. We shall discuss everything then.’
And left without another word.
Emma’s preference was for red; red was the most striking colour as well as the colour of rebellion. She felt red best suited her temperament but suspected it was not a colour that would be favoured by Miss Jillibel Atkins. No matter, she thought. It was very simple. If she didn’t like the new dress she wouldn’t wear it.
That evening Emma’s uncle sent a messenger to say he had been delayed and that she was to eat without him.
This she did, a solitary presence in a big and empty room at a big and empty dining table heavy with silver candelabra.
It gave her time to think. To remember.
‘We shall celebrate our escape together,’ Ephraim had said on the evening before his departure from Raedwald Hall. She had believed him and he had not come.
Probably he had decided she would not make a suitable wife for the nephew of a countess. He had helped her escape but had that been to help her or see the back of her?
Once again she instructed herself to stop thinking about him. Ephraim was gone; it was time to move on.
She had finished her meal and was in the withdrawing room staring into the fire’s bright flames when she heard a man’s voice in the hallway. The door opened.
Emma saw at once that Barnsley Tregellas was a formidable man. His large head was set on a strong neck. With his pale, unblinking eyes he had the air of a person both patient and remorseless, someone who would always get his way in the end.
‘I was surprised to get your letter,’ he said. ‘But I have no doubt we shall get on very well.’
‘I trust so.’
‘Mrs Alsop has been looking after you?’
‘Mrs Alsop has been most helpful,’ Emma said.
‘Good, good.’
Emma saw that he was speaking for the form of the thing and not because he had any interest in her answers.
‘Miss Atkins came?’
‘She did. She is coming back tomorrow morning.’
He nodded. ‘I explained to her the urgency.’
‘She would not tell me what sort of dress she had in mind,’ Emma said.
‘Miss Atkins dresses the most important ladies in the colony. You may safely leave it her to decide what is most suitable for you.’
Emma sparked. ‘Do I have no say in what I wear?’
Uncle Barnsley looked through her. ‘You must excuse me,’ he said.
He was gone.
Emma felt less a person than a thing, and an inconvenient thing at that. She had been relieved and delighted to reach journey’s end. Now she looked around her and wondered what she was doing there.
In bed that night the darkness was full of questions. Had Ephraim really abandoned her? He had seemed so sure… Why else had he not joined her
? Had the injury been more serious than they had thought? Would he ever return to Van Diemen’s Land?
No answers; no hope. Later she slept.
The following morning Miss Jillibel Atkins arrived, once again punctual to the minute. She brought with her a team of other ladies whose purpose, Emma discovered, was to change her from the person she was into someone she barely recognised. There was a hair-dresser; a footwear specialist; a lady whose interest was limited to the undergarments Emma would be expected to wear.
‘What is wrong with the undergarments I am wearing at the moment?’
‘I am sure there is nothing wrong with them,’ said tart Miss Jillibel. ‘But you must understand, Miss Tregellas, that the well-dressed lady obtains the best from her gowns by accompanying them with undergarments tailored specifically to her needs.’ A hanging judge could have been no more implacable. ‘If you will permit us to demonstrate…’
Outrage. ‘You cannot expect me to disrobe entirely.’
Miss Jillibel sighed. ‘The corset fastens down the back. You cannot secure it unaided.’
Emma also sighed. ‘If I must… But you only, Miss Jillibel. Let the other ladies wait outside.’
‘Miss Fawcett is the expert –’
‘Out!’
Beyond the window a heavy squall was hurling rain against the glass. At least there was a fire in the room.
‘I shall not remove my drawers,’ Emma said.
‘There will be no need to remove them,’ said Miss Jillibel.
Emma undressed. She detested doing so in the presence of a woman she hardly knew and was grateful the dressmaker wasted no time in fitting the corset and securing its fastenings.
‘Is it supposed to be as tight as this?’ Emma said.
‘Oh yes,’ Miss Jillibel said.
The way it was designed, the garment constricted her diaphragm, cupping the underside of her breasts and pushing them higher than nature had ever intended.
‘I can barely breathe,’ Emma said.
Apparently this was of no concern. The latest fashions had never caught up with her at Chatham Barracks; now they had and fashion, it seemed, ruled all; breathing could wait.
Land of Golden Wattle Page 7