So far so good, she thought. But now would be the testing time. She looked at the faces of those who by the end of the evening would be either good friends or enemies. But first her guests’ physical needs must be addressed.
It was an area where the doctor had offered no instruction so Catherine relied on common sense to guide her. She indicated, in as genteel a way as she could, the whereabouts of the privy. One by one the ladies used the facilities but she, afflicted by nerves and perhaps the wine, knew it would be unwise to wait as she imagined a polite hostess should until her guests had finished. She therefore visited the servants’ privy in an alcove adjoining the kitchen. While she was there she heard Mr Moffatt and Mrs Amos talking.
‘So far so good, Mrs A,’ Mr Moffatt said. ‘She has not let us down.’
‘There’s still time,’ Mrs Amos said.
‘Not her. I reckon Dr Morgan can be proud. Us too, I believe. When you think what she was like when she first come here. Our Cat,’ he said fondly. ‘I never would have thought it.’
‘Best not let the doctor hear you calling her that,’ said Mrs Amos tartly. ‘It’s Miss Catherine now, just like you said it would be, and don’t you forget it.’
‘You mark my words,’ Mr Moffatt said. ‘They’ll be wedded and bedded, come winter. And a good job too, in my opinion. About time he had another pair of legs in his bed to keep him warm of nights.’ Catherine heard the smile in his voice. ‘I mind you complaining of the cold once or twice last winter.’
‘Maybe I did. And maybe I’m not looking for no extra legs in my bed either, thank you very much.’
‘Let me know if you ever changes your mind, Mrs A.’
‘Don’t hold your breath,’ Mrs Amos said.
Catherine sat in the darkness of the privy and listened. My dear life, she thought.
Back in the drawing room she looked around at the other ladies. ‘I believe a glass of port might not come amiss,’ she said brightly. As the former kitchen maid she felt odd ringing the bell for Mr Moffatt to bring the port but did so all the same. She still felt something of a fraud but perhaps less so than at the start of the evening; she thought the wine might have had something to do with that.
‘I am told you are a friend of Mr Jackson,’ the pale niece said.
‘Whoever told you that was mistaken,’ Catherine said. ‘I never saw him before tonight.’
‘But he lives not far away from you,’ the niece objected.
‘I believe Jackson’s Landing is a fair distance,’ Catherine said. ‘But I am unsure, not having been there.’
‘They say he rides like a centaur. Do you ride, Miss Haggard?’
Catherine was glad now that Dr Morgan had insisted on her taking lessons. It was still very early days – she’d had only three lessons – but she had found it easier than she’d expected and the instructor had complimented her on what he called her natural aptitude.
‘I am taking lessons,’ she said.
‘Perhaps we could ride together,’ Alicia said. She and Catherine were much of an age, after all, closer by far than the rest of this boot-faced company, and no doubt had many confidences to share.
Mrs Switzer had overheard the remark. ‘You must remember, Alicia, our hostess has not mixed in society until recently.’
Alicia Delamere… Catherine was relieved. Remembering the name made communication so much easier.
‘I had not realised,’ Alicia said. ‘Are you like me, then, a recent arrival?’
‘Not at all. I have been here eight years. I arrived here in eighteen-fifty.’
‘On the St Vincent, was it not?’ By her standards Mrs Switzer’s interjection was gentle but her eyes were as hard as glass.
‘The St Vincent?’ Alicia Delamere felt quicksands beneath her feet. ‘But wasn’t that…?’
Catherine nodded. Perhaps the port had tipped the balance or perhaps she was just sick of concealing the truth. ‘That is right, Miss Delamere. I came out here as a convict. If it comes to that, I am still a convict.’
Alicia Delamere did not know where to put her face.
Mrs Switzer smiled. ‘Tell me, my dear… Is it true what they say, that most women convicts are harlots?’
‘Some are, others not. Probably in the same proportions as polite society.’
Mrs Switzer’s smile became even sweeter. ‘I don’t think we can expect you to be the best judge of that, Miss Haggard. Not just yet.’
Catherine nodded, letting her eyes drift casually to Mrs Switzer’s niece, whom Mrs Amos had discussed in unflattering terms. ‘You are right, ma’am. Perhaps I should have said in lesser proportions than polite society.’
Mrs Arbuckle looked displeased. ‘I believe this is not a proper subject for us to be discussing.’
‘A most improper subject,’ Catherine agreed. ‘The conditions aboard these vessels are not fit for polite conversation, although it is possible they improved after my time. In any case it’s all history now, isn’t it? No more transports since 1853, no more convicts coming out.’
‘Although those here have to finish their terms,’ Mrs Talbot said.
‘As you say, ma’am.’ Catherine nodded judiciously. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to put up with the likes of me for a few years yet.’
For a moment the ladies stared at each other and had nothing to say. Their hostess had shown a regrettable lack of taste in admitting so frankly to a past which they could no longer pretend not to know and for the moment conversation withered. Eventually Mrs Talbot managed to revive it. They talked of babies and husbands and the difficulty of obtaining adequately trained staff and the high cost of food. They discussed how hard it was to get male servants of any sort with so many gone to the goldfields. There was no more mention of Catherine and Alicia Delamere riding together.
Eventually Mrs Talbot referred to the latest news regarding a gang of bushrangers which it seemed had become more and more brazen in its raids, most of which were directed at the wealthier members of the community.
‘I hear they struck again only last week. I understand they wounded one of the scoundrels but unhappily they all got away.’
‘Utterly shameless,’ Mrs Arbuckle said. ‘They have been terrorising the countryside for months. Mr Arbuckle was saying only yesterday that if they are not stopped they will soon be coming into the city.’
It was the first Catherine had heard of it. ‘Who are these people?’
No one knew. They came at night. They robbed. They threatened. In several cases – ‘One of them a very good friend of mine,’ said Berenice Switzer – barns had been emptied of grain and burnt.
‘An entire harvest lost,’ Mrs Arbuckle said. ‘An outrage.’
‘Women live in terror,’ Ruth Talbot said.
‘Why? Have any been –?’
Apparently not. Or not yet. But of course no one could be certain of the future.
‘Maids are too frightened to go on errands after dark,’ mourned Mrs Talbot. Which might mean the end of civilisation, if true.
‘A clean sweep by the military,’ said Mrs Switzer, who would not have been terrified by a regiment of foot guards. ‘That is what is needed. Lay an ambush. Shoot the lot of them.’
‘All that can be said for sure,’ said Mrs Arbuckle, ‘is that their leader is a big man who wears a mask and rides a black stallion.’
‘How exciting!’ said Alicia Delamere, who had a fondness for stallions of all kinds. ‘Perhaps one of these days he will carry us all off.’ A prospect to which it seemed she was not in the least averse.
Her aunt was still inwardly fuming at having had the worst of her exchange with the Haggard woman: a misfortune for which she blamed her niece.
‘Stop talking nonsense,’ she said.
In the dining room, wreathed by the contemplative smoke of cigars, the gentlemen were also discussing the activities of the raiders.
‘We should band together,’ said Arthur Dunstable, uninhibited by his ignorance of the colony and its inhabitants. ‘Only a scally
wag bunch of convicts, I suspect. Time to show them we are the masters.’ He threw back his port and refilled his glass.
‘It would help if we knew who they were,’ said Dr Morgan.
‘Who cares who they are?’ Arthur said. ‘Shoot first and ask questions afterwards: that’s the way to deal with them.’ And again the port.
‘It has created certain problems in fulfilling trading orders,’ Helmut Switzer said. ‘I have ample reserves of my own but a consignment of grain for New South Wales was lost only recently. It gives the colony a bad name. And I hear the treasury is almost out of coin too.’
‘Not for much longer,’ Arthur said.
‘Of course. Antares is your vessel, is she not?’
‘She is.’
‘And bringing coin from London, I understand.’
‘For the treasury, that is correct.’
‘I suspect quite a lot will be required,’ Mr Switzer said. ‘May one ask how much she is bringing?’
Mr Arbuckle, stiff as iron, had been listening to the conversation with displeasure. ‘The authorities do not encourage this type of information to be disseminated too freely,’ he said.
‘The traders need to know the treasury has enough funds to meet their bills. How else is confidence to be maintained?’
‘We’re among friends, in any case. Ain’t that so?’ Arthur Dunstable was enjoying the attention that discussion of large sums of money always brought. ‘Silver enough to last the colony at least a year,’ he said.
‘That is good news indeed,’ Mr Switzer said.
‘And when is she due?’ Charles Talbot wondered.
‘All being well, in two months’ time.’
‘Better not let the bushrangers get wind of it,’ Mungo Jackson said.
‘No worries there,’ Arthur said. ‘There’ll be marines on board the moment she arrives.’
‘Do the authorities have no idea who the rascals are?’ Mungo asked.
‘At the moment we have no information at all,’ said tight-lipped Mr Arbuckle.
‘Offer a reward, that’s the way to do it,’ said Charles Talbot, ‘but the powers that be won’t play.’
‘The governor does not think it appropriate to offer rewards to criminals,’ Mr Arbuckle said.
‘Shoot the lot of them,’ Arthur reiterated. ‘That’s the way to deal with scum.’
‘As Dr Morgan said just now, before we start murdering half the population it might be helpful if we first took the trouble to identify them,’ Mungo Jackson said.
Dr Morgan saw there was scope here for disagreement. ‘I believe it is time to join the ladies,’ he said.
The party assembled in the drawing room, where there was a piano. Alicia had been talked into singing a little song, a trifle off-key, about two lovelorn lovers while she smiled brightly at Mungo Jackson. Mrs Talbot had played a minuet by an Austrian composer of whom Catherine had never heard. She, unable to play and with a voice like a frog, had successfully resisted attempts to get her to take part. Now, the stress of being continuously on her best behaviour beginning to tell, she was sitting a little apart from the rest while Mungo Jackson leant down to talk to her.
Big as a tower, my ’andsome. He was certainly that, Catherine thought. Six foot at least, and the shoulders to go with it. A fine figure of a man, her mother would have said. He’ll make ’ee dance, the old gypsy woman had told her.
She allowed her imagination to take hold. Would he? She took in his dark smile and watchful eyes. Will you?
‘Today has been an ordeal for you,’ he said in a quiet voice.
‘Not too bad.’ She smiled. ‘Although Mrs Switzer did suggest just now that most women convicts are harlots.’
‘I hope you told her off.’
She shook her head sadly. ‘I fear I have lost any chance of being Mrs Switzer’s friend.’
‘Believe me when I say nobody is Mrs Switzer’s friend.’
‘I hear you have a station called Jackson’s Landing on the river south of the city,’ said Catherine. ‘Where you breed cattle?’
‘In a small community one’s business is soon known.’
‘It must be a quiet life.’
‘I crave quietness,’ he said.
She did not believe him. Every aspect of his being declared the lie.
‘You said one’s business is soon known,’ she said. She tilted her head in what might have been a challenge. ‘Even a convict’s?’
‘Especially a convict’s. Some convicts, at least. Those who stand out from the rest.’
‘Why should that be?’
‘Because they deny the basic principle of our civilisation.’
‘Which is?’
‘That we should all be satisfied with the place in society allocated to us by God.’ He smiled at her and here too was a challenge. ‘Those who defy that rule could be said to be in conflict with the Almighty, could they not? And what worse sin could there be than that?’
‘Very convenient for those at the top.’
‘Indeed. But not surprising, since they are the ones who make the rules.’
Catherine had never thought to hear a man of his class talk in such a way. ‘There are some in this room who would not agree with you,’ she said.
‘That is true. But we are merely talking, are we not?’
‘I had the impression you were being more serious than that. You say a convict’s business is soon known, especially the ones who rise above their station. What about the rest?’
‘They are the lost peoples of the earth and need support to help improve their position.’
‘Do you really believe that?’ Words, after all, were cheap.
‘It is the truth.’
‘But how does speaking the truth help the lost?’
He smiled. ‘I see you believe in action rather than words, Miss Haggard.’
‘Is that wrong?’
‘No, it is right. And you are right in thinking that the truth alone will not help. But it can justify, perhaps.’
‘Justify?’
‘If it can help the lost to be found.’
‘I do not understand.’
He smiled at her. ‘Perhaps one day I shall explain.’
She was watching him, captured by the eyes that drew her deeper and deeper into unknown depths.
‘I look forward to it.’
Alicia Delamere joined them, pouting and ardent. ‘I declare you have been keeping Mr Jackson to yourself too long, Miss Haggard. Perhaps others may be permitted to join the conversation? Tell me, Mr Jackson, do you ride?’
‘Most men ride, Miss Delamere.’
‘I mean for pleasure.’
‘That too. But then I prefer to ride alone.’
She tittered, unabashed. ‘Lah, so serious! I declare I have never seen a more serious face. Yet I saw you smiling not a minute ago. Can I not tempt you to abandon your solitude, Mr Jackson, and show me something of the countryside? I declare I would find it most diverting.’
‘Unchaperoned, Miss Delamere? That would never do. Perhaps your aunt could be persuaded to join us?’
Which was unkind, for Mrs Switzer was no friend to the saddle, her hindquarters reminiscent of the chargers of the Royal Dragoon Guards.
Mungo Jackson turned to Catherine and smiled. ‘Do you perhaps ride, Miss Haggard?’
She gave him look for look. ‘Unchaperoned, Mr Jackson?’
He laughed. Careless of the displeasure on Alicia Delamere’s face; his dark eyes danced.
TWENTY-SEVEN
Catherine Haggard and Dr Morgan stood on the veranda of Aberystwyth and watched as Mr Dunstable, the last of their guests, rode away down the drive. The final lantern had guttered into blackness long since but the surface of the river shone its customary silver under the nearly full moon.
As the sound of the hooves faded Dr Morgan turned to her. ‘Something troubled you when we were receiving our guests?’
She gave him a beaming smile. ‘A moment’s nerves, that was all.’
‘I believe it was a most successful evening,’ he said. ‘Outstanding in every way. You are to be congratulated, my dear.’
He leant forward and kissed her on the cheek. With dry lips, indeed, but a kiss it was all the same and it shocked her into silence. A kindly gesture, she told herself, no more than that. Unexpected but kindly.
She knew what people like Mrs Arbuckle believed her relationship with the doctor to be but she did not give a fig for Mrs Arbuckle’s beliefs. Or Mr Moffatt’s either, come to that. It was not so and could never be. The doctor was old enough to be her father. He had been kind to her, yes. He had brought her into a world different from anything she had known. He had encouraged her reading. Through his books he had introduced her to some of the greatest minds in history. He had paid good money to have her taught how to behave like a lady. He was paying for her riding lessons. He had made her what she was. She respected him, could even be said to be fond of him, but as for anything more she was prepared to swear such notions had never entered his head. God knew there would be huge advantages to her in marrying the doctor. Most women would grab the chance but she was not most women. She was Catherine Haggard. Respect and gratitude were all very well but without love, where was the freedom?
She had her dreams. They might lift her to unimagined heights or plunge her into the depths, but she would settle for no less.
Lying in bed that night Catherine once again became Cat. That is who I have always been and will be forever. I know more than I did, I see the world differently now, but underneath I am the same. I am Cat.
The wind was up and she listened to its voice. Through the window she watched the riding moon. The boom and rattle of the wind, the serenity of the moon. What does it see? she thought. What does it know? Can it foretell the future?
‘Tell me your secrets,’ she said aloud.
But the moon remained silent behind a skein of racing cloud.
She turned restlessly in the bed, pulling the covers higher to her neck. Something was stirring inside her. She knew what it was but would not acknowledge it. It would mean trouble, she thought, perhaps disaster. She would not listen to the voices.
Big as a tower, my ’andsome. He’ll make ’ee dance, sure enough.
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