Land of Golden Wattle

by J. H. Fletcher

‘The word is Darling is soon to be recalled.’

  ‘Why should we assume his replacement will think any differently?’

  ‘You think we should?’

  ‘It might be for the best. If in your opinion it is the wiser course.’

  ‘But the children must stay,’ Ephraim said in a strong voice.

  ‘Of course they must stay,’ Emma said.

  They examined every inch of the new road leading to the area of level ground where the house was nearing completion. They inspected the house itself. The outer walls were done as was the roof although most of the interior remained to be fitted out.

  ‘It will certainly be big enough,’ Ephraim said.

  ‘So it should, to match our position in society,’ Emma said.

  Ephraim laughed. ‘The only society we’ll be likely to see are bushrangers.’

  ‘Or Aborigines,’ Emma said.

  With spears and no kindness towards those who were occupying their land.

  Dangers or not, Emma, who had made sure Lady Arthur was informed of their expedition, was delighted with what she had seen. All the same, this talk of marauders made her think. Bowling back down the road to Oatlands, she asked Ephraim when he thought they would be taking possession of their estate

  ‘Certainly not before the house is finished.’

  ‘Of course. But afterwards?’

  ‘At some stage, I suppose. I doubt there is any urgency.’

  ‘Is it not one of the conditions of the grant that we should live on the property?’

  ‘I don’t think we need to take that too seriously. Not for a while, anyway.’

  ‘Nevertheless, should we not prepare for that time?’

  He stared at her while the carriage sped lurching down the uneven road with dust spilling in amber clouds behind the spinning wheels.

  ‘What do you have in mind?’

  ‘I should like to be on hand to ensure that the interior of the house is completed as we wish. With your permission, of course.’

  Ephraim frowned. ‘I do not think I shall be able to spare the time.’

  ‘Perhaps, with a man to assist and a maidservant to observe decorum, I could base myself at Oatlands? To represent our interests? And you would obviously come up here whenever you could get away, to give guidance.’

  ‘I suppose something of the sort might be possible.’

  ‘There is one more thing,’ Emma said. ‘You mentioned bushrangers. I believe I would feel more comfortable if I had some means of defending myself, should the need arise.’

  ‘My dear, you need have no concerns on that score. As you said, you would have servants.’

  ‘Nevertheless…’

  By his expression Ephraim had a problem coming to terms with the notion that any woman, least of all his wife, should think in terms of providing her own defence,

  ‘What do you have in mind?’ he joked. ‘A sabre?’

  ‘A pistol might be more appropriate.’

  ‘But equally ridiculous!’

  Emma challenged him at once. One of the less satisfactory developments in Ephraim’s personality since his return to Van Diemen’s Land had been the acquisition of a masculine arrogance he had never shown in England. ’In what way would it be ridiculous?’

  ‘A pistol would be too heavy. This monster of mine I can hardly lift myself. And the strength needed to pull the trigger… It makes no sense, my dear.’

  ‘I was not thinking of a pistol like yours. Surely there must be lighter ones better suited to a lady?’

  ‘I would have said that was most unlikely.’

  She saw it was the idea of his wife having a weapon that discomfited him rather the practical difficulties of using one.

  ‘Lady Arthur tells me that such a weapon is widely used by the ladies of New South Wales.’

  Not for the first time, Ephraim found himself wishing that the relationship between Emma and Lady Arthur was less intimate than it was. Nevertheless he managed a laugh. ‘A lady marksman? Or should we say markswoman? No disrespect to her ladyship, but I question whether that can possibly be true.’

  The carriage was slowing as they approached the inn where they would be staying overnight. Emma looked around her with a pleased expression. ‘I understand it is called a derringer,’ she said.

  It was not the practicality of the idea but its foolishness that made Ephraim decide to humour her, if only to put the notion to rest. His old regiment had moved on but Ephraim had a word with the armourer of the Royal Scots Fusiliers, which had replaced it.

  ‘A derringer?’ the sergeant said, stroking his chin. ‘Aye, I’ve heard of such a weapon. I canna say I’ve ever handled one but there’s a gunsmith in Sydney who might be able to advise.’

  ‘I doubt that will be necessary.’

  Ephraim was privately pleased that a pistol of this type was unavailable. He informed Emma that she would just have to forget the idea but the woman who had triumphed over Lady Raedwald was not so easily put off. She spoke to Lady Arthur, who was kind enough to contact the wife of the newly appointed Governor Bourke, who undertook to mention the matter to her husband.

  The upshot was that within two months of raising the subject with Ephraim Emma was the proud possessor of a one-shot Derringer pistol with a three and a half inch barrel which could easily be concealed in her cloak.

  ‘With a barrel that size you’ll be lucky to hit anything,’ Ephraim said.

  ‘Then I shall just have to throw it at him,’ said Emma.

  ‘Him?’

  ‘Whoever is threatening me.’

  ‘And if there is more than one?’

  ‘I shall hope to have terrified them into running away.’

  Ephraim looked stern. ‘In that case I shall ask the fusiliers sergeant to provide you with lessons.’

  ‘Whatever Mr Dark thinks is best,’ said Emma, so demure now she had won her way.

  Armed with her derringer, an ample supply of rounds and accompanied by the maid Enid and by Monk, a sailor who had fallen out of love with the sea and been instructed by Ephraim to protect her with his life, Emma took temporary root at Oatlands in order to supervise the final stages of the construction of the house she was determined would adequately reflect the status of a family that was one of the most substantial landowners in Van Diemen’s Land.

  It was a big job and vastly more expensive than she would have thought possible, but a year after the first brick had been laid it was finished, down to the last Venetian chandelier and the elaborately crafted cornices in the main rooms.

  Emma took delight in escorting her husband around the large house and showing him the exquisite furniture she had obtained from the leading importer of quality furniture from Paris and London.

  ‘And what do you plan to call this palace in the middle of nowhere?’ Ephraim asked.

  ‘In the middle of our estate for which we both have such hopes and expectations,’ she corrected him. ‘I would like to call it Derwent House. If that is agreeable to you.’ She took his hands in hers, holding them tight and willing him to see the visions he had once seemed to share. ‘Do you not remember the dreams we had when we first came here? How we foresaw the time when we would be self-sufficient in our own kingdom?’

  ‘If we had built where I first suggested we would have saved half our eventual costs,’ Ephraim said.

  ‘But surely it is money well spent. See how grand the present situation is,’ Emma said. ‘How it overlooks all our land. We have to remember, my dear, that we are building not just for us but for the future. For Richard and William and any other children we may be blessed with.’

  That was how Emma saw it.

  Unhappily for Ephraim the question of finance had become a concern overriding all others.

  Construction of the port at Emu Bay on the island’s undeveloped north coast was still incomplete, and had consumed vast quantities of capital without tangible reward. Lacking an operational port in the north meant that his plan to develop trade with the mainland was
stillborn, but the half-dozen trading schooners he had ordered still had to be paid for. He had considered abandoning Emu Bay and basing the fleet in Hobart Town. It was possible to trade with the Pacific islands or the mainland from there, but the stormy seas of the Southern Ocean needed skilled crews, and skilled crews were hard to find in Hobart Town, where demand for their services was high.

  He had also paid for large numbers of merino sheep he had purchased from Spain but had discovered, too late, that he could not accept delivery because shepherds were unwilling to work in a district where so many of their predecessors had been murdered by bushrangers or Aborigines. In London he had spoken airily of bringing in South Sea islanders but Sir George Arthur would not countenance it, which meant that was not a feasible idea either. Now he was having to pay station owners in New South Wales to agist the flocks he had seen as their golden path to riches.

  Even Tancred was not earning her keep. Despite the large sums he had spent on her the whale ship remained insufficiently seaworthy to venture deep enough into the Southern Ocean to catch the whales taken by sturdier craft. This had led to trouble with the crew, many of whom had left to pursue betters prospects with more successful vessels.

  He had received letters from the London debenture holders – initially courteous, latterly less so – asking when they might expect to see a return on their investment. He had replied, painting a rosy picture and forecasting early and lavish returns well in excess of what he had originally promised, but in reality the situation was not rosy at all.

  There were days when Ephraim asked himself whether he was capable of producing anything but endless disaster.

  ‘We must be more frugal in our living,’ he said.

  ‘I shall exercise every economy,’ Emma said, but he saw she did not take the matter seriously.

  It was at this point in the family’s fortunes that, four days after returning to Hobart Town, he received a message from Emma’s uncle requesting him to call on the banker at his earliest convenience.

  1913

  Jonathan Penrose had been back in Tasmania less than a month when he met Judith Hargreaves at a party thrown by her parents, people he did not know, at their house on the outskirts of Hobart. The large room was crowded with guests celebrating Judith’s nineteenth birthday, which made her three years younger than he was.

  Judith was tall, handsome rather than pretty, with black hair and dark eyes in a pale face. She had an arrogant look and the private smile of someone who knew more than she was saying. She told him her father was Julius Hargreaves, personal assistant to the governor.

  ‘You have heard of him, of course.’

  Jonathan had not.

  ‘You must live under a rock. Everybody knows Daddy.’

  ‘I’ve only been back in the country a month,’ he said.

  ‘Where have you been?’

  ‘To school in England and then Oxford.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘What’s lucky about it?’

  ‘Boys get to see the world. If you’re a girl you’re stuck at home.’

  Jonathan would not have come to the party at all had Grandma Bessie not insisted; he had already re-discovered what he had previously forgotten, that Bessie had a remarkable talent for getting her own way.

  ‘Of course you must go. We are all going. The Hargreaves are one of the richest and most influential families in Tasmania. It would be the height of discourtesy to refuse their invitation.’

  Now she was seated at one of the side tables, Jonathan’s mouse-like mother folded neatly at her side, with her basilisk eyes watching his every move.

  ‘What does your father do?’ Judith said. Her expression showed she did not care but one must say something.

  ‘My father is dead,’ Jonathan said. ‘He was wounded in the Boer War and died later, after they’d brought him home.’

  ‘And where is home?’

  ‘Derwent.’

  Her indifference vanished at once. Derwent was a name to conjure with, being one of the biggest properties in Tasmania.

  ‘Who owns Derwent now?’

  ‘My grandmother.’

  Judith’s eyes measured him thoughtfully. ‘And you are her heir?’

  ‘For the moment.’

  Because you could never be sure with Grandma, an autocrat who could have taught Catherine the Great a trick or two.

  ‘Once again, lucky you.’

  ‘You’ve obviously never met my grandmother if you think that.’

  ‘Is it true people call her The Terror that Walks by Night?’

  ‘And by day.’

  Judith’s eyes invited him. ‘I am sure you are man enough to handle her,’ she said.

  ‘Time will tell,’ Jonathan said.

  The carpets had been rolled back from the wood strip floor and there was a band, which now struck up a tune.

  ‘The Chicken Reel,’ Judith said. ‘Do you dance the two-step?’

  ‘After a fashion.’

  ‘Let’s give it a whirl,’ Judith said. ‘I see he’s tracked her down,’ Grandma Bessie said. ‘I was hoping he would.’

  At her side Rose squeaked. ‘But isn’t she the one who was involved with that terrible adventurer fellow?’

  Grandma waved away the implied criticism. ‘An adolescent indiscretion.’

  ‘Should we not warn Jonathan?’ Rose said. ‘He’s probably unaware of her reputation.’

  Grandma did not condescend to look at her daughter-in-law. She was a great believer in the power of names. Ideally she would have wished her son to choose a bride called Boadicea; instead he had ended up with Rose Michaels. Rose… What else could she have expected?

  ‘We will do no such thing,’ she said.

  ‘But –’

  ‘The Hargreaves are rich,’ Grandma said. ‘Rich and influential. Wealth has a way of obliterating all transgressions. Besides, it is important to keep in with the government. I do not intend to fall out with the Hargreaves because of a trivial misstep by their daughter. Which in any case is in the past.’

  Judith, Grandma thought. Judith the Hittite, wife of Esau. A strong name and by the look of her a strong woman. We need another strong woman in this family.

  Father had been strong; his wife so much less so that Bessie had always found it hard to credit that the world had accepted her as Cynthia’s child.

  ‘Takes after her dad,’ people said, and so she had.

  People had called William Dark a ruffian, and that was true. As, it seemed, Grandfather Ephraim had been also. In his own interests William had built up the legend of Ephraim Dark, the pioneering hero who had pursued his dream in the face of endless obstacles, but Bessie’s great-uncle Barnsley, no saint himself, had described him in less flattering terms. Barnsley had claimed Ephraim had stolen a lot of money from him, although others said that anyone smart enough to steal anything from Barnsley Tregellas must have got up very early in the morning to do it.

  Whatever the merits of that, Bessie had inherited a substantial fortune, which over the years she had increased considerably. That would be her epitaph and the knowledge contented her: wealth, power and the family were all that mattered in life.

  Acquiring Judith Hargreaves and Judith Hargreaves’s money would put the seal on Derwent’s status as the largest and most important property in the state. Having a question mark over the girl’s background would be useful, too; it would make Mr Hargreaves eager to have his daughter satisfactorily settled; it would also make it easier to control a strong-willed granddaughter-in-law.

  As for the girl’s past antics… Knowledge was power and Bessie had made it her business to find out all there was to know about them.

  Jonathan had never been one to dream about girls and Judith was no exception. She was amusing company for an evening but no more than that. Grandma, her eyes on the Hargreaves’s wealth and influence, would not be pleased when he failed to pursue her, but there were limits beyond which he would not go, even for Grandma. Then he heard a snippet of ne
ws that delighted him.

  Dropped by the girl he’d abandoned her for, Judith’s former lover had crooked his finger and Judith had gone back to him as fast as she could run; Jonathan, to his relief, was off the hook.

  He gave Grandma the sad news over breakfast.

  When he had said his piece she flicked her finger at the maid who poured more coffee into her cup, its aroma filling the room. ‘Very distressing, I have no doubt, but that is no reason to break off the relationship.’

  ‘I don’t agree. What she did before we met was her business but rushing back to Walter English the moment he called is inexcusable.’

  ‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Grandma said.

  ‘You are saying I should excuse it?’

  ‘Don’t be pompous. What you have to do is ignore it. Marry her and the benefits will be huge to the family and therefore to you. That is what matters. Once Judith has your ring on her finger she will settle down. Give her a baby; that’s a certain way to bring her to heel.’

  Jonathan shook his head.

  Grandma’s eyes were like twin howitzers. ‘You have a privileged life. Privilege entails responsibility to the family and yourself. There are times when it can be a burden but that is the price we are obliged to pay. Each of us has a duty to each other and to Derwent. As you know, neither your father nor grandfather had any interest in the estate so I have run things ever since my own father died. There were times when I might have wished things were different but I never allowed myself to be distracted. I expect no more from you than I have given myself. We have expanded the property considerably from what it was originally. Twenty thousand acres more land, complete with new sheds and managers’ houses, and stocked with merinos. We have also bought – at a favourable price, I should say – land along the Murrumbidgee River at Yanco in New South Wales. It’s dry country now but they are planning to irrigate it. How did we finance it? Through the bank. That is why it is imperative that the marriage goes ahead – because the bank holds this family’s paper for the expansion and we need the settlement that Mr Hargreaves is prepared to make the day you marry his daughter. Judith’s peccadilloes mean nothing in the context of the greater good.’ She drained her cup. ‘The greater good,’ she repeated. ‘Let that be your guide. The family’s future prosperity, perhaps even its survival, depends on you.’