Elly mused over the conversation long after, unable to equate this Paul with the one she thought she knew. It pleased her to think she’d influenced his thinking about a woman’s rights, although she doubted whether he’d carry it much further than this one act of charity. Still, it indicated a change in attitude.
As for the glimpse of his childhood, she could easily imagine Paul as a tough little street-arab, and she ached for the child he’d been. It was a wonder that he’d done so well. Someone other than the grief-broken convict father must have taken an interest in his upbringing. It also explained Paul’s drive to succeed, whatever the challenge. She’d have liked to know more, but doubted whether Paul’s reticence about his personal affairs could be probed. Besides, to get close enough for such intimate questions could be dangerous. She’d already made up her mind on that subject.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Cornwallis’ invitation was accepted and Elly duly dined with him at the Cafe Restaurant Francais. Delighted with the delicious meal – an eye-widening array of seafood, viands, vegetables and side-dishes such as she’d never tasted before – she also appreciated the attention to her comfort and entertainment by an experienced escort.
Cornwallis had been gentlemanly and circumspect. He held her arm only briefly when she descended from the carriage outside the Prince of Wales Theatre in Castlereagh Street, and laid her cloak about her shoulders with scrupulous delicacy. As for her entertainment, Toccarini’s magnificent tenor voice had spangled her night with stars, sealing it forever in her memory as one of life’s high-lights. Music had never touched her before, never had the chance. But tonight it had brought something awake, and the glorious soaring notes were locked within to be recalled whenever she wanted them.
Now Cornwallis escorted her home in an open carriage for all the world to see that her good name remained secure. It was the long way back, of course, through the Domain, yet plenty of people were about, either driving or strolling in the balmy spring night. The gentle clop of hooves, the jingle of harness, the swaying motion of the carriage all combined like a lullaby to soothe Elly into a state of total relaxation. Knowing the outing had almost ended, she leaned back with a regretful sigh. Her dangling jade ear-bobs, borrowed from Jo-Beth, and the extravagant luxury of long gloves against her skin would soon be as much a memory as the perfume of the rose tucked into her bosom – one of Cornwallis’ roses.
Cornwallis. What did she really think of him? Seated at dinner with a barrier of starched napery and silver separating them, she had been conscious of his magnetism. Although not precisely handsome, his features were striking in the dark Byronic mode, without the brooding manner associated with the poet. She’d describe them as strong, even heavy, with an expressive mouth which could by turns become arrogant or persuasive. Yet his conversation had been impeccably impersonal until she changed this. Curiosity had prompted her to question him about his interests, and he’d been willing enough to inform her.
‘One of my principle concerns is land ownership. There has always been a desperate hunger for land in this Colony, ever since men spread out beyond the confines of the Sydney Basin. Most of the best pasture was taken up by the squatters, men of means who could afford to keep themselves and stock the holdings until they made a decent return. Their leaseholds run from the edges of the heavily settled areas right out to the dry west, and they currently hold these until 1861-62. One leading subject of public debate is: who uses the land after that date?’
Elly took a sip of wine while she thought about this. ‘It hardly seems fair for one small section of the community to hold so much land. I’ve heard it said these squatters, having paid a pittance for their lease-holds, now make huge tax-free profits.’ She didn’t mention Paul Gascoigne as her source of information.
‘True. Yet they were pioneers. Don’t they deserve consideration for all the heartbreaking labour they’ve put into what were often wastelands? For the risks they ran?’
‘I can see justice will be difficult to ensure when the time comes. A lot of little people will want to take up a selection and spread their roots in their new country.’
Cornwallis flicked a finger towards the waiter and ordered more wine, saying easily, ‘The little people, as you call them, have always lost to wealth and influence. It’s the way of the world.’
‘Do you think that makes it right?’
He leaned forward, smiling. ‘By no means. I have the utmost respect for anyone prepared to battle his way above the crowd to take what he wants. Such men are all too rare.’
Elly’s thoughts went to Paul Gascoigne, prepared to do battle not for his own advancement alone, but for all the little men whose only strength lay in combining against a wealthy autocracy. She was discovering unsought socialist sympathies in herself.
Cornwallis watched her, amused. ‘I see you believe me to be one of the plutocrats, or at least a sympathizer.’
‘Are you?’
‘The answer is yes, to both indictments. I am of my class and naturally support it. I own land which adjoins Mr MacArthur’s property at Camden, from which I derive profits and which provides employment for twenty men and women. In the days of convict labour, so bitterly regretted, there were some fifty or more engaged in clearing and building for me. Yes, I paid a small enough sum for the land. However, I’ve also added such improvements as a homestead, housing for employees, fences, wells and dams. I stocked the pastures then put in a manager to free me to live in the town and pursue business activities here.
‘One day I shall have to leave the colony when I inherit my father’s estate, but I shall leave these shores richer for my having been here.’ He paused and amended, ‘I mean the shores will be richer, as well as my own coffers. I’m one of that band of entrepreneurs who will develop the Colony, not merely exploit it. With our wealth and background we are in a position to do this. The little man is not.’
Elly frowned. ‘I feel there is a flaw in your argument, yet I can’t put my finger on it. However, I do see that you would resist having your holdings cut up into small pieces for other men to farm.’
Their talk drifted into wider cultural avenues where Elly, although inexperienced, held her own through having been her well-educated father’s only conversational partner for so many years. She turned aside any attempt to discuss her own ambitions, resolved to leave the hospital behind for one night. However, unexceptionable as their words might be, she noticed a subtle undercurrent to their exchanges, a delicate emotional probing on the part of Cornwallis that she knew she must withstand. It was flattering and delightful, but hazardous.
And now the magic night had almost ended. She felt, rather than saw Cornwallis’ head turn towards her in the dark, the white frill of his shirt-front reflecting the moonlight.
‘Why do you sigh? Are you weary, my lady?’
‘Not at all. I sighed because the evening is almost finished and I don’t know how long it will be before I enjoy such another.’ Realising how ambiguous this sounded, she added, ‘Because I can’t get away from my duties. We’re still so short-staffed, even with the addition of Malone and Irvine.’
‘Surely you can delegate to others. The competence of your training has been noted, believe me. And you must long for more in life than a never-ending devotion to duty. You’re too intelligent not to want more.’ His voice, so warm and interested, played on her nerves like music. She felt his shoulder sway against hers with the motion of the carriage, his hand press hers before he moved back.
Annoyed that she’d tricked herself into breaking her self-imposed rule of silence on hospital affairs, and gratified by Cornwallis’ compliment, Elly let her guard slip.
For an instant she was tempted to give way to the spell of the night and her companion and begin to weave fantasies of a life which included more than hard work and ambition. Did she want to wear herself down to a taper in the service of others, only to flicker and burn out at the end never having known the joys and heartbreaks of marriage and children, of
devotion to the close few?
She answered her own question immediately. She knew what she wanted, and it was not this present singing in the blood, a mere physical attraction, a pointless indulgence when measured against her great ambition. She’d already decided she had no time for romantic attachment, not even a deep friendship which might sap her will to fight and draw her away from the battlefield.
Yet this man’s magnetic personality pulled, not just at her senses, but at her intellect. He challenged her to meet him on a level few women were expected to reach. Only Paul Gascoigne had come close, with his ability to burrow beneath her calm facade and goad her into opposition. D’Arcy Cornwallis didn’t burrow or goad. He asked her opinion, then argued a different viewpoint with tact and a sweet deference all too soothing to someone accustomed to having her opinions swept aside as negligible. A very dangerous man, Cornwallis.
She sat up straight, banishing the insidious languor. ‘Look, over there. It’s a rally of some kind.’
He followed her gesture. ‘A speaker on his box, with the usual crowd in attendance.’ He sounded bored. Was he irritated to have the mood between them broken?
Elly forced excitement into her voice. ‘Oh, I’d love to hear him. I’ve never listened to a speaker in the Domain. Could we not go closer?’ Unable to see his face, she still sensed his displeasure.
‘Of course. If you wish it.’ He directed the coachman to draw up and assisted Elly to alight, then escorted her across the grass to the fringes of the crowd.
They seemed a happy enough group, although interjections forced the speaker to raise his voice. In the light of a nearby lantern set on a pole Elly recognised Paul Gascoigne, joined in an impassioned argument with his listeners.
Cornwallis said, ‘I know that man. He’s one of Parkes’ tribe of iconoclasts. You won’t learn much of value from his speech.’
‘What does he usually talk about? Land rights?’
‘The rights of the “common man” is his favourite topic, which can be stretched to include every kind of entitlement imaginable, including, if you can believe me, a common labourer’s right to vote for a representative in government.’
‘I suppose you might call it iconoclasm.’
‘It’s madness. Wentworth has to stop it.’
Elly looked at him. Shadows flickered across his face, altering the noble prow and twisting the strong features into something quite satyric. She must have gasped, for he turned, shattering the illusion with his smile.
‘I’ve talked enough politics for one night. Do you want to move in closer to hear what this fellow has to say?’
Elly shook her head. ‘It’s late. I’d better go back.’
She climbed wearily into the carriage, her marvellous mood dissipated. Why did politics have to enter into everything? She couldn’t escape them, inside the hospital or out.
Five minutes later she stood at the main door which Cornwallis opened for her. He bent suddenly and brought her fingers to his lips.
‘Miss Ballard, I cannot recall having enjoyed an evening more. Thank you for your excellent company.’
‘Sir, I can only return the compliment and wish you a good night’s rest.’ Regaining her hand, Elly stepped inside and closed the door.
A candle had been left ready for her, but the sounds from upstairs warned that others were still about. She hurried up to the landing to be met by Pearl, an amused quirk to her lips.
‘Come quickly. We have had a disaster.’
‘What sort of disaster? Where?’ Elly accompanied her into one of the men’s wards and followed her pointing finger.
Her senses were assailed by noise and an overpowering stench of scorched linen. Patients had left their beds to group together, some almost hysterical with laughter, others wailing in dismay. Nurse Malone and Jo-Beth, clutching empty buckets, stood on either side of a drenched, blackened cot, while four burly wardsmen sat on two other men on the floor. The persons being sat upon protested loudly, their yells mingled with those of the patients.
Grasping Jo-Beth’s pail, Elly flung it into the middle of the room, where it landed with a mighty crack and split open. The row diminished instantly, to the point where she could be heard. ‘Be silent, all of you.’
The two men pinned to the floor continued to shout words unintelligible to Elly. She could now see they were native Islanders, their glossy brown limbs splayed and kicking, their faces beneath their crowns of woolly hair distorted with rage.
She turned to Pearl, who had her sleeve across her mouth. ‘Kindly tell me what’s going on here.’
Pearl pointed to the wardsmen. ‘They have to sit on them. Otherwise they will start the fire again.’
Elly approached the cot, grimly surveying the still-smouldering mattress and the scorched sheet covering a suspiciously motionless patient, also an Islander.
Jo-Beth’s eyes gleamed with repressed amusement. ‘It’s all right. He was not burned alive.’
‘You relieve my mind.’ Elly turned on the wardsmen, heaving under the struggles of their prisoners. ‘How did these men get in? No visitors are ever permitted at night.’
They shuffled sheepishly and did not answer.
‘You were bribed, I suppose.’ Elly indicated the bucket little Nurse Malone clutched to her apron. ‘Why did these men set the bed afire?’
The girl put down the bucket, answering dazedly, ‘I think... They say they were conducting a cremation.’
Elly hoped her jaw hadn’t fallen open. ‘A cremation! In the ward? On the bed?’
Jo-Beth nodded. ‘It seems it’s their custom. Something to do with sending the spirit onward as soon as it leaves the body. It... It seems a hygienic method of disposal.’ She disciplined her expression, but her voice verged on horrified laughter.
Pearl’s snort was immediately drowned in a roar from the floor and a surge of words which certainly would not translate politely.
Dismissing an urge to throw up her hands and leave, Elly issued her orders, which included sending for Doctor Houston and more wardsmen to replace her nurses, who were becoming a focus of attention by the male patients. Nobody focussed on her, except to try to avoid her eagle eye.
By the time she could go to her own bed the romantic trappings of her evening had dissipated entirely, and she had reverted once more to the real core Elly Ballard, Acting Matron very much in charge and responsible for just about everything.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Despite having yielded the once, Elly now reinforced her decision to dispense with a social life and threw herself into her work, refusing all distraction. Elegantly worded invitations from D’Arcy Cornwallis were politely declined in notes as formal and elegant; and while Paul Gascoigne’s agenda clearly kept him busy, he found the time to knock on Elly’s door on two further occasions with an invitation to walk with him and Pepper around the Botanical Gardens to Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, a wedge of land providing magnificent harbour views. After several unequivocal refusals Paul ceased to ask. Even J.G., bouncing in with his usual verve to try to drag Elly out for a drink at his favourite pub, had no success. She simply declined to socialise.
Baby Anne Wynham died, as predicted, with the mother following soon after, much to Elly’s distress. She hardly knew how to tell Paul. However, he laid no blame on anyone, saying that he believed Sophy to have given up on life long before her illness. The sad loss of the baby had been the final blow.
To add to Elly’s troubles, the pinpricks from the less loyal members of the staff had escalated into defiance, forcing her to draw on all her tact and patience to hold off open warfare. She knew her position was not yet strong enough. Her appointment had not been fully confirmed, nor would it be if she disregarded the Board’s warning not to antagonise the medical staff. The pity was they seemed bent on antagonising her.
The situation had reached a ridiculous point, she thought, when for the third day in a row a patient had been admitted with the attending physician refusing to give staff any indication of the pa
tient’s condition or illness. Notes were withheld and the confused nurses later accused of not giving proper care. Worse, they were not being informed when a patient had been listed for surgery, which meant certain essential preparations such as the administration of castor oil were not carried out in time, with the blame again falling on the nursing staff. Elly’s requests for this situation to be rectified were noted by the visiting Weekly Committee then dismissed. Her anger swelled. Her patients were not being well-treated in this petty battling for superiority.
Matters were not improved by the Board’s delaying tactics in supplying money for essential repairs, while their promise to provide facilities to train more nurses had not been fulfilled. Just about all Elly had achieved in the past eight months, it seemed to her, were a few coats of whitewash, a new stove and two extra unfledged nurses. Her ire reached a peak on the day when a child of no more than twelve was refused admission on the grounds that she did not have a good moral character, having come from a brothel in Durand’s Alley, an area as notorious as The Rocks for filth and depravity. Despite an argument with the current physician on duty which almost descended into a physical battle with the child torn between them, Elly lost.
Jo-Beth found her in the storeroom kicking a flour bag and swearing, words she’d never have used a year ago.
‘Elly, this isn’t like you.’ Jo-Beth urged her to sit on the convenient whitewash drum once occupied by J.G. ‘Why are you so distressed? We’ve seen worse cases turned aside.’
A HAZARD OF HEARTS Page 18