‘A woman as governor?’ she said. ‘Impossible!’
‘The Governor’s House is not simply a place where the governor lives,’ he said. ‘It is the destination towards which you have been working all your life. In that sense it is not impossible at all.’
‘Can we not journey towards that destination together?’ she said.
His answer had been as cold and hard as stone. ‘I am not a man for the Governor’s House. I shall love you till I die but from now on our lives will follow different paths.’
‘You destroy me when you talk like that,’ she said.
‘It is reality,’ he said. ‘Your vision of the future may be right for you and for the colony but not for me.’
Had Mungo been right? she thought now. One part of her said yes, there was indeed no other choice, but the other part refused to accept the loss of the most precious thing she had ever known. How could she live without his love? He had changed his views to the point where he now said he would love her until he died but what was the use of that if their lives would follow different paths?
The next morning while it was still dark she saddled Sheridan and rode up the slope of the mountain. The stars were dying as she hobbled the gelding on a patch of good grazing and went on, climbing more steeply, until she reached a point from which it was possible to see across the river to the hills standing as black as jet against the eastern sky. Here she sat down, waiting for the dawn that she hoped would somehow, miraculously, bring not only light but enlightenment.
She thought and thought. It did no good. The choice was uncompromising. Mungo owned her heart. She had shared with him love, adventure and danger, terror and triumph and ecstasy beyond anything she had known. She had dreamt of spending the rest of her days with him. It broke her heart to think he wanted a degree of independence that was incompatible with the challenges and opportunities that now lay before her but that was the reality.
Life without Mungo would mean pain and secret tears but to reject the opportunity she now had to do something good for the world would be to turn her back on fulfilment.
The eastern sky had grown light. The apricot flush along the horizon had turned to red. She watched as the sun rose hard and bright. Her decision, for good or ill, had been made.
She got to her feet and made her way back down the hill.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Catherine had woken from a world of beauty to desolation. The sky and shining river held no joy and when she galloped Sheridan across the lower slopes of the mountain she found only wilderness. Even work failed her. She had no concentration, no interest, no will to make the decisions that must be made. Like the poet in Dante’s Inferno, she was in a dark wood, the straight way lost. She had never known it was possible to feel such pain.
Both Mr Moffatt and Mrs Amos guessed something of how she felt. They blamed Mungo Jackson for it.
‘I never would have thought it of him,’ Mr Moffatt said.
Neither of them mentioned it to Catherine. It wasn’t their place. Besides, what was there to say? The silence became oppressive; as Mrs Amos said, it was like living in a house of ghosts.
Catherine received an invitation. She was drinking her morning chocolate – no taste, no pleasure – when Mr Moffatt brought in a flunky in a uniform so smart that he might have been an earl instead of a footman.
‘He has a letter for you, miss. I tried to take it from him but he said his instructions were to deliver it to you personally.’
Mr Moffatt was indignant, as well he might be, but the footman worked at the Governor’s House and no doubt thought himself a cut above ordinary domestics.
Catherine opened the envelope and what would once have been a moment of delightful anticipation meant nothing at all. She took out a gilt-edged card and read the copperplate message inscribed on it.
His Excellency the Governor and Lady Black request the pleasure of the company of…
Catherine placed the card on her breakfast tray. ‘Thank you,’ she said to the footman.
The footman stood his ground. ‘Mr Mortimer said as how there might be an answer,’ he said with a touch of arrogance.
There had been a time when Catherine might have been intimidated by his manner, to say nothing of the splendid uniform, but those days were long gone.
‘What is your name?’
‘William, miss.’
‘Very well, William. If Mr Mortimer asks you, you can say you put the letter into my hands as you were instructed. You may also say I shall be replying when I am ready to do so.’
She turned away while Mr Moffatt, in look if not in deed, booted the impertinent young puppy out of the door.
She picked up the invitation and read it, pondering, and put it down once more.
‘I really don’t think I can be bothered to go,’ she confided to Mrs Amos when she came to clear the table.
Mrs Amos gave her a look, remembering the kitchen maid who had been so eager to learn from the household’s experienced cook. What would that young woman say now, if she were here? Give me back my spirit.
My darling girl, you never lost it.
‘I mind what Mrs Morgan used to tell me,’ she said.
‘What’s that?’
‘You always got to move on. Lizzie Amos, she would say, when life kicks you in the teeth there’s only one thing to do: move on. Otherwise where are you?’
‘You think I should accept?’
‘Not for me to say, is it? All I know is moping never cooked a pudding yet. That was something my old gran used to say: moping never cooked a pudding yet. And she was right. Whatever’s been troubling you, you’ve got to move on.’
After Mrs Amos had gone Catherine sat unmoving in her chair. She felt ashamed of herself. She had chosen, nobody else, and it had been the right choice. In a dark wood, was she, with the straight way lost? Then find it, girl. Find it.
She went to the kitchen, as to a confessional.
‘Please send Gladys to Miss Jillibel and say I would like her to wait on me at three o’clock this afternoon. And tell her to drop into Mr Fitch’s office and ask him to come and see me as soon as possible. I have matters I wish to discuss with him.’
With the return of purpose, the world seemed a brighter place.
Mr Fitch arrived within the hour.
Catherine met him in her office. She’d had Mrs Morgan’s sewing room redecorated in stern colours: grey and white for the most part, with touches of red in the cushions of the chairs. She had picked up at auction a large mahogany desk that had been imported from England and this now dominated the room. She had cleared away most of the knick-knacks and had had the portrait of the young Mrs Morgan brought here from the dining room. Now it hung in a place of honour on the wall behind her chair.
‘A tribute to a lovely lady,’ she had told Mrs Amos. She knew the room would come as a shock to visitors more accustomed to chintz and clutter but where business was concerned she intended to be as businesslike as she knew how, and the setting in which she worked would be an important part of that.
If Mr Fitch was aware of the room’s unconventional appearance he showed no sign of it, nor did Catherine waste any time coming to the point.
‘What would you say are the most pressing needs of our society, Mr Fitch?’
The lawyer took a minute to think about it and Catherine was pleased. It was a topic too close to her heart to want an off-the-cuff answer.
‘A strong economy,’ he said eventually. ‘Opportunities for employment. Education.’
‘That is really one thing,’ she said. ‘Without a strong economy the others are unattainable. I have been speaking to Mr Griffiths and he tells me the Mount Haggard mine will soon be generating more money than the rest of the colony put together. I want to use that revenue to fund new businesses.’
‘What businesses do you have in mind?’
‘I believe we should start with fish. The seas around Tasmania are teeming with fish. We need to set up an industry to harvest the se
a, Mr Fitch.’
‘There are fishing boats now,’ he said.
‘Indeed there are but at the moment each boat operates for itself alone. There is no concerted effort. We need a fleet of trawlers. We need packing sheds. A means to transport the catch to inland areas. We need an industry, Mr Fitch, not individual operators.’
‘The individual operators will not thank you if you take away their trade. And how do you stop the fish going bad in warm weather?’
‘Ice, Mr Fitch.’
‘Ice?’
‘People who can afford it have ice harvested in winter. I believe it has commercial potential. If freezing food helps preserve it, that will solve the problem of supplying fresh produce to faraway places. Not only fish; it may also be possible to preserve meat. We need to build storage sheds on the lines of the domestic ice houses but much larger. Fill them with ice during the winter and experiment to see whether frozen meat and fish remain fresh. If they do I believe there will be a huge demand for a service of that type.’
‘Indeed.’
‘I also believe we should explore the west coast for more mineral deposits. I do not believe Mount Haggard is an isolated case.’
‘More tin?’
‘Or copper; even gold, perhaps. We need to engage surveyors – working for us, Mr Fitch, not themselves – to explore and see if I am right.’
‘Explore where?’
‘That would be for them to decide. Now,’ she said, ‘the question of education, which you correctly identified, Mr Fitch, as a pressing need in our society.’
‘There is the Hutchins School in Macquarie Street. It was established by the Buckland family about fifteen years ago.’
‘I am aware of the school,’ Catherine said. ‘And I believe it has a good name. But I was thinking more of opening schools across the colony. What we need is a system of universal education.’
‘That would hardly be an economic venture.’
‘I disagree, Mr Fitch. I believe that would be one of the most important investments we as a society can make.’
‘But surely that is a matter for the government?’
‘It is indeed. And I intend to take it up with them. One final question for you, Mr Fitch. A friend of mine canvassed some of these ideas with Mr Hoskins, whom you no doubt know. I understand he felt it was wrong to do anything to alleviate the conditions of the poor. He feels the poor are poor because of divine decree and that it is sacrilegious to address these matters. Do you share Mr Hoskins’s views?’
‘I understand that the church feels –’
‘I am not interested in the church’s opinions but your own.’
‘I believe it is in the best interests of society to improve the lot of all its citizens.’
Catherine’s blue eyes flashed. ‘A lawyer’s answer. I was brought up in penury, Mr Fitch. I wish to see no worthy person suffer as I and those around me suffered through no fault of their own. Where I have the power to assist them, I intend to do so. I need to know whether you are on my side in this or not.’
They stared at each other across the desk.
‘Miss Haggard,’ Fitch said, ‘I respect and if I may say so admire you very much. You may rely on me to assist you in everything you wish to achieve.’
‘That is excellent news, Mr Fitch. I shall certainly hold you to it. So let me summarise. I want you to make discreet enquiries as to the cost of setting up a small fishing fleet of four trawlers and how we go about acquiring waterfront land for the building of a workshop, blacksmith’s forge, packing sheds and all the other facilities we shall need to create a successful trawling business. Also for a large ice house. When you have done that I would like you to recommend surveyors to carry out exploratory work for more mineral deposits.’
‘And the education question?’
‘Leave that to me. Please inform me as soon as you have information on the other matters.’
After Mr Fitch had left she went back to her desk. The game’s afoot, she thought. As Henry V was supposed to have said.
She wrote her acceptance of the governor’s invitation, sealed it and ten days later arrived at the Governor’s House.
If I do this ten thousand times, she thought as she stepped out of the carriage, I shall never get used to how it feels.
Miss Atkins had excelled herself and Catherine was wearing an ivory-coloured dress with a blue trim that the dressmaker had said would bring out the colour of her eyes. The skirt, as always, was fashionably wide with flounces and a pearl inlay; the waist was uncomfortably tight-laced and the off-the-shoulders bodice had three-quarter-length sleeves.
The same official announced her; Sir Harry Black met her with hands outstretched to raise her from the deep curtsey she had spent hours practising; Lady Black smiled. The crowded room fell silent while eyes – some interested, some resentful – watched this woman who from less than nothing had become one of the most significant people in the colony. Both Mrs Switzer and Mrs Talbot pursed their lips and Catherine thought how either would drag her down if she could. No doubt some men too would be affronted by a woman taking a prominence that members of her sex were not supposed to have, yet Queen Victoria was a woman and you could hardly get more prominent than that.
A voice spoke at her shoulder. ‘I was delighted when I saw from the guest list that you had accepted His Excellency’s invitation.’
Roger Mortimer, evening suit and white shirt, gold studs and cufflinks, smiled at her.
‘A pleasure, sir.’
‘Are you alone?’
‘I am.’
‘Then might I have the very great pleasure of escorting you this evening?’
‘I would be honoured.’
‘The honour is mine. It is not every day one has the privilege of escorting the belle of the ball.’
‘You praise me too much.’
‘I do not think so.’
Tables had been arranged around an open area which, Roger explained, had been set aside for dancing later in the evening.
‘As you can see, tonight we have a small orchestra.’
Seated on the far side of the dance floor it was currently playing light background music that was half swallowed by the voices of the guests.
‘That is a pretty tune,’ Catherine said.
‘It is a waltz by Johann Strauss,’ Roger said. ‘He is very popular.’
Catherine smiled brightly. She had never heard of Johann Strauss.
‘I regret that my leg will prevent my escorting you on to the floor when the dancing begins,’ Roger said.
But she had noticed that his limp was less obvious than it had been the last time she had been there. Once again the bright smile took the place of words.
‘Are Mr and Mrs Dunstable here tonight?’ she asked.
‘Alas,’ Roger said.
‘They declined an invitation from the governor?’
‘It is difficult to decline an invitation you have not received.’
No wonder Mrs Switzer had looked like Lady Macbeth, Catherine thought.
‘And Mr Jackson?’
‘I understand Mr Jackson is in Sydney.’
Catherine was unsure whether she was relieved or not.
Roger lifted a finger. A waiter came with glasses of wine on a tray. Roger raised an eyebrow to Catherine.
‘Yes, please.’
He handed her a glass and took one for himself. The waiter vanished as discreetly as he had arrived.
‘I hear your business affairs are progressing well,’ Roger said.
‘Thank you. I believe so.’
‘And your other affairs?’
Catherine reflected that this was a society where your private business became public knowledge before you could turn round. ‘I believe I sneezed two days ago,’ she said. ‘No doubt people now wonder whether I am suffering from the plague.’
‘The penalty of fame,’ he said.
‘Fame? I don’t hardly think –’
The notion flustered her to the point wh
ere even her grammar escaped her.
‘Believe me,’ he told her. ‘Also when I say that at this moment I am one of the most envied men in this room.’
She could have pretended she did not understand him but coyness was not in her nature. ‘I’d better prefer you didn’t talk like that.’
‘Then I shall say no more. However, I cannot speak for others.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning, like it or not, that people know who you are. How could they not? First you save the colony from bankruptcy, then before the rest of us have had time to turn round you have discovered what the experts tell us could be the most valuable mine in the Empire. How can people not know you and admire you?’
And resent you too, some of them, he thought. Especially some of the women. Because you are young, beautiful and rich, and favoured – very much – by the governor. And now this dress which by some alchemy enhances the luminous pallor of your skin, so striking that it alone would be enough to make some of the ladies hate you. And the men to have warm thoughts. But you are with me and I am the luckiest man alive.
‘I declare you make too much of these things,’ she protested.
‘Do I? You see the man in the red uniform standing by the governor? You know who he is?’
‘I thought maybe he was another of those people who announce the guests, like the man at the door.’
Roger laughed, but kindly. ‘He is General Allen, Commander in Chief of the garrison here and formerly with General Godwin in the Burma campaign in 1852. I heard him ask Lady Black who you were.’
‘My dear life!’ she said, going very hot. ‘He never did.’
‘My word on it. I daresay he will be asking you to join him on the floor when the dancing starts.’
She dared a look across the room. ‘He’s old.’
‘By all accounts young at heart,’ Roger said.
She turned and looked at Roger Mortimer. She liked him: perhaps that was what caused it. Or because he was kind and tolerably handsome. Or because she told herself that life must go on. Life without Mungo, who was not there. Whatever the reason the words were out before she could control them.
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