Jacaranda Vines

by Tamara McKinley

  He whipped round and had crossed the space between them before she could blink. His hand encircled her neck as his face loomed over hers. ‘Don’t you ever threaten me like that again, Cordelia. You are my wife.’

  ‘No, I’m not,’ she gasped as she clawed at his hands. ‘I was just a means to an end. It was Jacaranda you wanted, not me.’

  The pressure of his fingers tightened momentarily, then he released her. ‘Leave me and I’ll see you never keep Jacaranda. Take my sons and I’ll break you and your precious family. From now on, Cordelia, you will do things my way.’

  She swallowed, her hands fluttering at her throat, remembering. She could still feel the pressure of his fingers around her neck, could still see the rage in his eyes and hear the icy determination in his voice. She hadn’t left him that night, for she couldn’t risk losing the boys or the vineyard. Yet a spark of determination was lit within her then and with a bravado that shocked them both, she’d locked herself in the bathroom and cut twelve inches off her hair.

  They had returned home following that disastrous trip to Adelaide, and after many months of protracted silence between them, had found a kind of compromise – a truce. But as the years had passed and the catalogue of his various women had steadily lengthened, Jock abandoned any pretence of discretion and Cordelia had learned to regard them as unimportant – no matter how much it hurt – no matter how humiliating it became. It was that or risk losing Jacaranda forever.

  With a sigh, she settled down to sleep. Jock hadn’t had everything his own way, though, she thought. There were secrets of her own he might have suspected but never uncovered, and when she’d finally got her revenge, it had been delicious to sit back and watch him make a fool of himself.

  11

  ‘It’s very beautiful here, Gran,’ Sophie said as they settled down with a cup of coffee after breakfast. ‘I checked the map. You didn’t tell me we were coming to the northern boundaries of the Hunter.’ She stared wistfully towards the rolling plains of the valley floor. ‘Coolabah Crossing must be down there somewhere. Jay was always talking about it – now I understand why.’

  ‘You were very much in love with him, weren’t you?’

  Cordelia’s expression was artless, but Sophie noticed how watchful she’d become and sensed there was something going on in that devious mind. ‘I suppose so,’ she replied carefully. ‘But we were both so young. What did we know about anything?’

  ‘Probably more than you realised,’ replied her grandmother.

  Sophie placed the cup on the table, her expression deliberately blank to mask the rush of feelings Cordelia’s question had aroused. ‘What are you trying to say, Gran?’

  She shrugged. ‘Nothing,’ she said airily. ‘I just wondered if you ever heard from him once you both left college, that’s all.’

  Sophie eyed the old woman and wondered where this conversation was leading. ‘You know I didn’t, Gran. That was why we split. Then Grandad stuck his oar in and I went off to London and university.’ She looked away, but the sunlight was making her eyes water and the horizon a blur. ‘I always wondered why he disapproved of Jay.’

  ‘He had his reasons – as he did for everything,’ said Cordelia enigmatically. ‘But I thought you and Jay went well together. You had so much in common, with your families owning vineyards, and I was disappointed when you married Crispin on the rebound.’

  ‘I didn’t,’ spluttered Sophie. ‘I adored him. He was everything I wanted in a man. Independently wealthy, handsome, charming, and from a good family.’

  Cordelia’s look said it all and Sophie blushed. ‘Okay, Gran. I made a mistake and picked someone who couldn’t keep his zipper up. But I was over Jay a long time before Cris came along.’

  ‘I wonder,’ murmured the old woman.

  Sophie watched as she refused help to get out of her chair and hobbled off down the gravelled path to the wash block. Left alone to her thoughts, she wondered what Jay was doing now and whether he’d stayed at Coolabah Crossing. He could be married and have a brood of kids for all she knew. She’d followed the rise and rise of Coolabah Wines over the years, but there had been no mention of him in the business news or gossip columns, and she’d always been curious as to whether he’d fulfilled his ambition to take over the family vineyard.

  She sighed. They had been soul-mates at college, each one half of the other, sharing so much that they seemed destined for one another, and as she sat there in the early-morning sun, she had a clear image of how Jay had looked then. His dark hair and eyes were a direct contrast to Crispin’s cool English fairness, and although he hadn’t been as tall, she still had to look up at him. Jay’s skin was darkened by the sun, his hands rough from work on the terraces during college holidays, and when he’d forgotten to shave there was a dark stubble on his chin that made him look dangerous and exciting.

  She smiled sadly as she remembered how he’d meet her after classes and the way she would cling to his broad back as they roared down to the lido by the river on his motor-bike. Evenings were spent talking – they’d had so much in common – and weekends exploring the bush where he would teach her to cook bush tucker and spot the koalas in the trees. And one memorable summer they had flown up to Lindeman Island on the Barrier Reef where they lived like castaways and carved their initials in the rough bark of a palm tree, promising to love one another for always. ‘We were just kids,’ she murmured into the silence. ‘Of course things changed between us.’

  The exchange of letters had been frequent during those first few months after graduation, then suddenly, and inexplicably, there was nothing – not even a phone call. She wrote twice more – made phone calls that weren’t answered, left messages that were ignored – and had finally had to face the fact that he no longer loved her or wanted anything to do with her. His brother had been cold when he’d answered the phone, his tone brusque as he told her Jay had left for France for a year at a winery. She could still remember how hurt she was by his silence, how bewildered by his unexpected rejection – but she’d been too proud to beg an explanation.

  She stared down into the valley, the familiar ache returning after all these years to remind her of that overwhelming first love she’d lost. Where are you Jay? Are you happy? Do you ever think of me?

  ‘You’re getting sentimental,’ she muttered crossly as she cleared the breakfast table and stowed it away. ‘Too many sleepless nights and too much travelling. Get a grip, Sophie.’

  ‘Talking to yourself, dear? I thought it was only I who did that.’

  Sophie turned and smiled. ‘Just thinking aloud. Are you ready to leave, Gran? I’d like to finish our journey before the sun’s too high.’

  Cordelia settled herself in the camp chair under the awning. ‘There’s just a little more of Rose’s story I want to tell you before we reach our destination.’ She held up her hand to stem Sophie’s objections. ‘I know you’d prefer to travel before it gets too hot, but it won’t take long. Besides,’ she added with a smile, ‘it will go some way to explain what you will find at the end of our journey.’

  Sophie frowned. ‘You’re talking in riddles again, Gran.’

  ‘Then perhaps I’d better get on with story and make myself clear.’

  *

  The Hawk sailed into Botany Bay on 22nd December, 1839. It had taken three long months to navigate the distance between London Docks and New South Wales, and Rose was almost sorry the journey was at an end. Now, as she stood on the wooden deck and leaned over the rails, she had her first glimpse of this new country that was to be her home – her future.

  The hot wind tugged at the bonnet and dress Lady Fitzallan had bought her, the sun warmed her face and made her screw up her eyes, but the sight of the primitive buildings that clustered around the little jetty and the stretches of honey-coloured sand lapped by jewelled water made her pulse race. The beauty of the wooded slopes, so green against the glaring red of the earth and the blue of the sea and sky, was like something out of a picture book. So brig
ht, so clean – almost unreal.

  And yet, as she stood there in awe, she was soon to scent more familiar smells that reminded her of England, for together with the exotic aromas of the blazing flowers and strange-looking trees were the warm aromas of horse dung, cattle feed and hay that wafted out to sea on the hot wind.

  As the Hawk settled at anchor, timbers creaking, canvas sails slapping against the masts, Rose listened to the shouts of the sailors as they climbed like monkeys up into the rigging and prepared the ship for her long stay in port. She knew many of the officers on board had brought their wives and families, and that some of them, like her, had come on this long journey to begin a new life in this new world.

  The Dowager Lady Fitzallan was a pleasant employer compared to Lady Amelia, but though their long voyage had forced a certain intimacy between them, there was no guarantee she would need Rose’s services once they landed. If that should happen, what would become of her then? She pushed the gloomy thought aside. There could be no going back, no regrets despite the sickness for home and a fear for the unknown.

  ‘Rose. I’ve been hunting for you everywhere.’

  She turned at the sound of the familiar voice. Lady Muriel Fitzallan was short and fat and seemed to float along the deck like a clipper in full sail, her grey skirts billowing from wide hips beneath a tightly corseted bosom. Her hat was broad-brimmed, covered in feathers and tethered beneath her copious chins with black lace. Her round face seemed unusually petulant today.

  Rose bobbed a curtsy. ‘I’ve been watching them sail into the harbour, Ma’am. Don’t you think it’s ever so pretty?’

  Lady Fitzallan’s frown relented and she smiled. ‘Pretty is as pretty does,’ she said confusingly. ‘We’ll see what’s what when we get ashore.’ She glanced out to the harbour, favoured it with a nod of approval, then turned back to Rose. ‘I seem to have mislaid my fan, dear. Go and fetch it, there’s a good girl.’

  Rose bobbed another curtsy and hurried back to their cabin. Lady Fitzallan was always losing something, but she didn’t mind the constant searching for she liked the old girl. In a way she reminded her of Cook. They shared the same shape and outlook on life, for like Cook the dowager’s tempers soon blew over, and under that rather bossy exterior was a bustling energetic soul who spoke her mind regardless of the company or situation and was never knowingly unkind.

  The dark panelled cabin was unusually tidy for Rose had packed the trunks the night before and now there were only a few last-minute things to be folded away in a portmanteau. She quickly found the fan which had somehow become wedged down the back of a chair, and after tidying away the last of the packing, she returned to the railings.

  The dowager fanned her scarlet face and dabbed her brow with a scrap of handkerchief. ‘My son warned me about the heat but surely this must be unusual? What person could survive in such temperatures?’

  Rose, who was sweating profusely in her thick woollen dress, had no reply. She wished only to strip off the layers of petticoats and underthings her employer had provided and plunge into the water. It looked so cool, so inviting.

  ‘Come along. It’s time for me to disembark.’

  Rose followed the billowing, portly figure along the deck to the rickety wooden ladder that ran down the side of the ship to the little boat bobbing beneath.

  After a long argument, during which Lady Fitzallan refused to yield, a special chair was produced that could be swung down by ropes. Rose watched in concern as, with a great deal of fuss and last-minute instructions, Lady Fitzallan was hoisted high over the railings.

  The dowager sat bolt upright, hands firmly gripping the ropes, her feet primly crossed. The round face had lost a little of its colour but those stubborn chins were valiant, nose firmly held in the air as the wind flapped the brim of her bonnet and ruffled her skirts.

  Rose stifled her giggles as the old woman was lowered in stately silence and carefully deposited on a narrow wooden bench at the bow of the rowing boat. No master craftsman could have made a more fitting figure-head.

  She watched as less particular passengers made their way down the ladder to the boat. When it was full, the sailors pulled on their oars and headed for shore. Lady Fitzallan’s wave was regal and Rose smothered another giggle. The old girl was enjoying herself, and why not? It was an adventure for both of them.

  Rose hurried away from the railings and after making sure all the luggage was safely lowered into the appropriate boats, carefully made her own way down the ladder and into the dinghy that had been reserved for the servants of the first-class passengers.

  She grasped the side of the rowing boat. The wind snatched at her bonnet, sending it bouncing against her back on the ribbons that were tied around her neck. Her hair was ripped from its pins and streamed behind her, making her want to laugh with the sheer joy of it all. The creak of the oars was accompanied by the groans of the sailors and the shout of the boatswain as the little craft plunged through the waves. Gulls screamed overhead and salt spray cooled her as the bow lifted and sank with the roll and pitch of the swell.

  Rose closed her eyes and lifted her face to the sun, breathed in the salt air and the warm scent of hot earth, and knew that, whatever her future held, she was content in this one moment of pure freedom.

  The short trip across the bay was over too soon. The ropes were thrown to the jetty, caught and firmly lashed. Hands reached down to help them out of the yawing boat and on to the slimy green steps.

  Rose climbed up to the cobbled quay, and as she stopped to catch her breath, swayed and would have stumbled if a strong hand hadn’t caught her elbow. She laughed and looked up into a sun-reddened face and bright blue eyes. ‘I feel as if I’m still on the ship,’ she said.

  ‘You haf the sea legs,’ he replied. ‘It vill soon pass.’ He removed his dusty hat to reveal hair as red as the earth. ‘Otto Fischer, at your service.’

  Rose blushed, smeared the damp hair from her face and bobbed an unsteady curtsy. She had never had a gentleman doff his hat to her before and rather liked it, even if he was a foreigner.

  ‘There you are, Rose. I thought you were never coming. The heat is appalling, and my son has arranged for us to stay in an hotel for a few nights before going on to the Mission.’ Muriel Fitzallan’s eyes took in the length and not inconsiderable breadth of Otto Fischer. ‘I don’t believe we have been introduced,’ she said haughtily.

  He clicked his heels and bowed low. The introduction over, his gaze returned to Rose. ‘It is a lovely name for a lovely lady,’ he said without a hint of false flattery. ‘I am hoping we can meet vile you are in town.’

  Rose blushed an even darker scarlet, but it was her employer who saved her from having to answer. ‘Rose is in my employ, Herr Fischer, and as this is our first day in this god-forsaken place, there is much to do.’ She turned her back on him. ‘Come, Rose.’

  She grinned up at the red-haired giant before ducking her head and hurrying after the bustling figure cutting a swathe through the jostling confusion of the quayside. She knew she would probably never see him again for they were due to leave Botany Bay in a couple of days for the interior, but she was very aware of his gaze following her into the crowd and wished there had been time to get to know him a little better.

  ‘Henry, this is Rose,’ proclaimed Lady Fitzallan to a tall, thin man with a drooping moustache and sad eyes. ‘She’s a little young, I know, but she’s a good girl and has looked after me well during the journey.’

  His hand was warm and soft as he took Rose’s fingers and bowed over them, but he didn’t speak and after only a cursory glance, turned back to his mother. ‘I have arranged for the luggage to be brought directly to the hotel. Take my arm, Mother. The pavement is rough, and I wouldn’t like you to fall.’

  Rose gathered up her small bag and followed them. This new country certainly had some features that reminded her of home, she noted with a grin. Horses stood dozing in the sun, flies swarming around their eyes and flicking tails. Whores stood on
street corners, as brazen as they were in the London alleyways, and skinny dogs foraged in the rubbish. The inns were doing a roaring trade, spilling out their staggering customers, and the bare-foot urchins running in the streets might have ruddy complexions, but as they watched the portly dowager stride along, there was the same knowing gleam in their eyes as in the London boys’.

  Yet the comparisons ended there. For here the smog of London was replaced by a fine red dust that seemed to hang permanently over everything. It got down your neck and made you itch, streaked the sweat on your face and made your eyes gritty. To make things worse, it was stirred up in a choking cloud by coaches dashing by and a bullock team laboriously toiling up the hill. Rose wished she had a handkerchief to cover her nose and mouth as Lady Fitzallan had.

  She trudged after Henry and his mother, her darting gaze taking in everything. Shops were crude wooden shacks, shaded by verandahs, their wares displayed in hectic profusion. There were the necessities of life, such as cooking pots and tools, stoves and clothing, but also brightly coloured parrots in cages, fringed shawls and highly lacquered oriental chests amongst the pottery, beads and native clubs and spears that caught her eye and her imagination. Rose eyed them longingly. What fun it would have been to explore! If only Lady Fitzallan would slow down a little.

  As she hurried after them, she noticed how the wooden houses all had little white fences to separate them from the street and verandahs which offered a shady resting place out of the broiling sun. The flowers and trees were nothing like she’d seen before and the heavy sweet scent of their blossom almost disguised the stench of garbage and manure that littered the street. The birds too seemed to have been painted from a child’s colouring box. Few dusty brown sparrows could be seen amongst the startling blue and yellow and pink and white of the circling, squabbling bird population.

  She gripped her small bag and took a deep breath of excitement. There was an energy here, a roaring untidy lust for life that was almost primitive in its challenge. Yet she could already see the promise of this city in the broad avenues and the few simple sandstone buildings that were obviously the homes of gentry. The promise that one day it would become an important place in this raw new country. It just needed time, and the energy of the new settlers to make it so, and she was infused with just such enthusiasm.