From the far end of the table came a deep sigh. Mrs Kable’s attention was directed at the sideboard with its gleaming silverware.
‘No obligation at all,’ he reiterated. ‘I would not send any young woman out to the wilds if she does not wish to go. And as the Major says, my cousin’s farm is a great distance to the north. You must say no if you do not wish to go.’
Kate looked at the wobbly custard that was set before her. There was a scent of cinnamon and a mound of currant jelly beginning to slide from the warmth of the pudding.
‘Mrs Ovens prides herself on this particular dessert,’ Mrs Kable interrupted with a forced smile.
‘May I suggest Miss Carter think on it, sir? We are a day from leaving, time enough for a decision and there is further business that needs our attention tonight,’ said Major Shaw, clearly impatient for the meal to be over.
‘Please do not rush, there is compote of fruit to finish.’ Mrs Kable ensured more wine was poured.
When the evening meal was over and the conversation had turned from lack of rain to politics, Kate wondered if she could now excuse herself. Her back and shoulders pained from the day’s long journey, but there was far more on her mind than the aches snaking through her body.
When Mrs Kable finally announced that the women would retire, Kate was quick to leave the table. Without a backward glance she followed the older woman out into the hallway as the men laughed and chairs were dragged across the timber floor.
Once ensconced in the parlour, Mrs Kable lost a little of what affability remained. ‘I will forget your recent outburst, Miss Carter, but while you are under my roof you will refrain from any further outspokenness. Agreed?’
Kate gave a slight nod. The anger that had welled up within her was only just beginning to recede.
‘Now to the matter at hand. Is it true that the Reverend led you here under false pretence? And if so, one must ask what occurred? There is no need for a response, men do what they wish and leave their women-folk to make the best of things. It is more important perhaps to ask if you have other means of support, a parent perhaps, or a relative?’
When Kate was not immediately forthcoming, Mrs Kable directed her to sit in one of the sofas near the fire. The room was comfortably warm. The effects of the food and brandy made her sleepy.
‘You are of marriageable age, Kate. Any number of young men would be quite willing for your hand. Lieutenant Wilson is certainly enamoured.’
‘I had not thought of marriage,’ stated Kate, sitting stiffly erect, her hands folded in her lap.
Mrs Kable seated herself on the opposite sofa. ‘We of the weaker sex must seize upon an opportunity when it presents itself. Someone in your position –’
‘Marriage is not something I have considered,’ Kate repeated. Her personal state was none of this woman’s business, and she was beginning to resent her dictatorial manner.
‘My dear, an assumption on your part has led you down a path that it now appears you do not wish to take.’ She rose to stand before the fire. From the direction of the kitchen came a crashing sound and then a loud shriek. ‘Heavens! I am off to Sydney at week’s end, but my travel is sullied knowing I leave my household in the grip of servants.’
A condemning voice quickly stilled the ruckus from the kitchen and Mrs Kable returned to her seat, rearranging her skirts. ‘Now, I can understand your reluctance to travel inland. My husband’s cousin has selected land beyond the boundaries of the colony. Such an ungodly place to raise a family. We have two of their younger children here, out of harm’s way, while the boys are safely returned to England this past year for education. But there is one child with them and our old cook, whom my husband forced upon them. The woman is partially blind so if you do accept the position, be wary of the ingredients she uses.’
The older woman wrung her hands together. In the firelight the creases that fanned from her eyes were etched deeply into fine skin. ‘They should never have gone, at least Sarah, Samuel’s wife, shouldn’t have. She is at risk simply by virtue of her sex and yet she would not leave his side. Samuel, though his qualities are many, is an adventurer of means, the worst sort of husband. They would have been better to have remained in England, but I admit that to exist on two hundred pounds a year in London would be a sorry life. Perhaps he will be lucky, perhaps he will amass a great sheep holding and breed blood horses and create a seat in the north equal to his family’s lineage in London, faded though it may be. Of course he could have sent a manager or an agent to establish the farm, as my dear husband suggested, but Samuel is all for taking the lead, and five thousand pounds is an outlay that demands attention.’ Mrs Kable took a breath. ‘I should tell you that I have heard the most dreadful of tales – of homes made out of sticks, of starvation and attacks by the Aboriginals. I think now of Governor Macquarie. I had such time for him and his good wife and their attempts at cultivating a relationship with the natives, but even here I feel the danger of uppity emancipists, wayward convicts and the Aboriginals. It will be far worse up-country for there will not be another living white soul within some miles. If I were you I would not go, but then I have already waved Sarah off. It would certainly reassure me if you were to journey northwards and provide her with the feminine companionship she must so sorely be in need of.’
The fire was beginning to die down. ‘May I think on it?’ Kate said, rising, although it was more statement than question. Her hostess frowned and Kate realised that she’d not been given permission to take her leave. There was a reason free settlers such as the Kables were known as Exclusives, but her hostess was forgetting that Kate’s mother’s grandparents were of similar stock, albeit not as wealthy.
‘Of course,’ Mrs Kable agreed, somewhat reluctantly. ‘And should you not want to journey forth I am sure that we can find a suitable husband for you. Native born or not, there will be a gentleman out there grateful for one such as you and I am sure we could find you a very good match, one that would not have been afforded to you had you been in England. Even with your background and that slight scar marking you as it does, the dearth of women in the colony makes even the most unappealing of our sex of high value, as I am sure you well know.’
‘And if I have no wish for marriage?’ Kate wondered if Mrs Kable had any other thoughts on a woman’s role. She doubted it.
‘Every woman wishes for marriage, Kate. We have three stages in our lives: daughter, wife and mother. There is nothing else to aspire to. You are simply in a state of flux and have clearly not had the exposure to young gentlemen, which is as it should be, although a good marriage could have been arranged some years ago. Think on Lieutenant Wilson.’ She halted briefly for emphasis. ‘It is, however, the immediate future that we must consider. If you decline the current position offered, you would require housing and suitable employ. There are a number of large establishments seeking the services of a housekeeper. I myself could use you, however knowing your background, well, it is one thing to be native born and under the care of the Reverend Horsley, quite another for your mother to have lived in his household for many years in the capacity of husband and wife. I am only too aware that such understandings are far from uncommon in the colony but I, for one, cannot countenance such immoral behaviour.’ Mrs Kable produced a lace handkerchief from the sleeve of her gown. ‘It quite ruined your arrival,’ she sniffed, ‘especially having only lately discovered that following your mother’s passing you have continued to live there without a chaperone. You do understand how such an arrangement appears. But there are others, others more, shall we say, more avant-garde where such matters are concerned. But of course should you join Mr and Mrs Hardy up-country,’ she continued brightly, ‘one can make a new life and a new reputation.’
Kate walked to the door, lifted her hand to the brass knob and then, changing her mind, faced her condemner. ‘My mother is dead, Mrs Kable, and their “arrangement”, as you put it, was all that was available to her following my father’s passing. On his death our land was sol
d off to pay our debts following his illness, leaving my mother to care for me. We uppity descendants of emancipists and free settlers have had our difficulties, but I’ll not be condemned, nor my mother before me, when the Reverend Horsley sought her out and offered his home without the sanctity of marriage. I would add as well that as the Reverend was complicit in the very action that has so damned me and my mother in your eyes, that I wonder you had the temerity to let him break bread with you.’
Mrs Kable’s lips trembled with barely suppressed indignation.
Kate left the parlour quickly, the creamy cotton and muslin of her skirts swishing as she selected a candlestick from the hallway table. Pinching the wick with the metal snuffer to ensure the candle’s brightness, she lit it from one left burning and walked back towards her room.
Chapter 8
1837 July – on the western side
of the Blue Mountains
The sun was dipping towards the horizon. Streaks of red-gold merged with the haze in the west, dappling the dull greens and browns of the land with a brightness that heralded a warming in the weather. Adam jogged rhythmically, his line of sight focused in the direction of the tribe’s camp, his gait never varying. Song did not come to him as it did with Bidjia and the others when they travelled long distances, their minds turning inwards. Instead he concentrated on the passing world. Native plants were beginning to sprout. Male birds, intent on finding partners, displayed their plumage, strutting across the ground before attentive females. Soon the cold earth would warm. The chilly nights would be a memory and the welcoming breath of the female sun would entice.
At this midpoint between the Lycett home and the tribe it was easy to forget the world of man. All Adam need do was turn north or south. Both directions would lead him away from the current problems that he’d found himself in the middle of. He yearned to leave them to their fights and their folly but it was simply not in him to desert the man who’d saved him and the other who’d taught him something of the world from which he’d come.
In a couple of hours it would be dark and the tribe would be settling for the night. The anger he’d felt had subsided a mile or so ago but it was a rage that stemmed from the intolerance displayed by Mr Lycett and the tribe. Neither would give way to the other, even just a little. What was to become of Bidjia and what remained of his clan if he stuck so stubbornly to the old ways? And how did the Lycetts expect to exist and flourish in this land if they were not considerate of those whose understanding and use of the country went beyond monetary concerns? Both parties were trying to manage the land and live off it in very different ways. There were lessons to be learnt that could benefit everyone, but Bidjia and Archibald Lycett were like two old rams butting heads. The former was unable to grasp the invasion of their land and the settlers’ use of it; and the latter was a product of Britain’s great class hierarchy, desperate to create a prosperous business, indifferent to the plight of the colony’s original inhabitants and supported by the Crown.
Surely this was enough to fill his head without the added concern of Winston’s friendship with Merindah.
Winston.
He was as fixed in his attitude and ideas as one of the many stars he was so entranced with. But Winston’s moodiness and his tendency towards inflexibility were unwelcome traits made worse by an unforgiving nature, all of which had attributed to the fractious relationship with his father. These same characteristics made friendship with Winston difficult at times and despite the length of their association, Adam knew that as adults their relationship survived only because they no longer saw each other often.
‘Father says you’re to be schooled with me,’ Winston, aged six, waited eagerly beside his mother.
‘It’s alright, Adam, I have spoken to Bidjia. He has agreed to this.’
‘He should stay with us, Archibald, not with them.’ Mrs Lycett gestured to where two Aboriginals retreated into the bush.
‘First things first, Georgina. Now, Adam, why don’t you go with Winston and sit on that bench under the tree? See, over there. Mrs Lycett will be there directly. Today she’s going to teach you about England and the King and the great dominions he rules over, including this colony.’
‘Where is Bidjia?’
‘Shush, lad. Bidjia is a good man for he found you and cared for you, but you are not one of them, Adam. You are one of us. You must learn your place in the world. He has agreed to this and in return I have agreed that we will send you back to him in the evenings.’ Mr Lycett met his wife’s gaze. ‘For the time being.’
‘My name’s not Adam. It’s Bronzewing,’ he remembered saying, eager to be gone. He didn’t understand everything these people said. Bidjia had promised to show him how to use a throwing stick and the kindly Mr Lycett, with his owl-ringed reading glasses and wooden pipe, was keeping him from practising with it.
Mrs Lycett grew impatient. The books she held were moved from one arm to the other. ‘It is not a proper name, Adam. It is the name of a bird, a pigeon. Bidjia said that you told him your name when he found you. That name was Adam.’
‘I like birds,’ Bronzewing replied, his toes curling in the dirt. He watched as Winston ran to the verandah of the Lycett house. Dragging a chair to the hanging birdcage, he returned with the cane enclosure within which was a small brightly coloured bird.
‘I like birds too,’ Winston grinned.
Later that afternoon the two boys freed it, but when Mr Lycett asked who was responsible, Winston blamed Bronzewing.
Jardi was waiting for Adam a half-mile from the camp. He was sharpening a stick with a knife, the slender shavings falling on the long trousers he wore. Though his feet and torso were bare, Jardi liked wearing white man’s clothes, especially during the cooler months.
‘You have been gone a long time. You have missed the hunt. Bidjia thinks that one day you will go back to the world you came from and not return.’ He sheathed the blade and the pointy stick quickly, securing both at his waist and then picked up the spear lying on the ground.
‘I had some thinking to do, and anyway I’m not particularly welcome in the white world at the moment,’ Adam admitted.
‘Your time with Lycett did not go well?’
Together they walked through the timber as the sun’s rays lengthened. ‘No, it didn’t.’ He noticed splats of blood on the man’s trousers. ‘Do we eat tonight?’
Jardi was slow to answer. ‘Sheep. It was wandering alone when we came across it and there was no-one about,’ he explained quickly.
‘Damn. I suppose it belongs to Lycett?’
The younger man shrugged. ‘It doesn’t matter. No-one will know.’
‘They always know and if they don’t, they guess.’
‘It is a pity to waste such a skin. It would be good when the days grow short and the earth cold.’
‘You kept the hide? You can’t. You must bury it.’
Jardi reached out an arm and stopped Adam from walking further. ‘The child died and Merindah has given birth to another. It is early, by two moons, but Annie says it should survive.’
He nodded. ‘So it’s healthy?’
‘It is best that you see for yourself,’ Jardi said cautiously.
‘Why? What’s wrong with it?’
At the camp half a sheep roasted on the fire. The scent of the meat was strong and gamey in the still air. Adam knew they would have left the rest of the unwanted carcass lying in the grass where it had been killed. They only ever took what they needed. The smell of the cooking meat was enticing but if the wind picked up, a person would be able to smell it half a mile away. The skin lay in the dirt, ants crawling over it. Annie looked up from where she’d been stoking the coals. ‘You too late,’ she said bluntly. ‘Bidjia gone. The others go find him.’
‘What do you mean he’s gone?’ He turned to Jardi. ‘Where did he go to?’
The woman exchanged a brief glance with the younger man but said nothing.
‘Bury the skin,’ Adam told her.
The woman didn’t move.
‘Annie, you must bury it or there will be trouble.’
‘I know trouble. Trouble come when whitefella come to our place.’ She spat in the dirt and turned back to the fire.
Adam tossed the skin behind a log beyond the campsite. It was too quiet. There was no sign of the other children. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened, Jardi?’
The younger man shadowed his steps as Adam walked the thirty feet to where Merindah lay on her side by a humpy. There was blood on the ground where she’d cut herself in her grief for the dead child and a pile of sickness where she’d brought up the little she’d consumed that day.
On seeing Adam, Merindah sat up weakly. Her right eye was swollen and a cut to her lip was caked with dried blood and dirt. Jagged bloody welts on her chest and arms and a blood-edged tomahawk in the dirt showed the girl’s pain had been etched for eternity. Adam squatted near her, Jardi lingered some feet behind him. The question that needed to be asked caught in his throat. Had Bidjia learnt of Merindah’s relationship with Winston? Had he gone to see his friend? On the ground was the dress she’d shown him earlier. It was shredded.
‘How long ago did Bidjia leave?’ At best there was a chance that Bidjia might use this insult to negotiate the tribe’s movement across the Lycett farm, to reach an understanding on their continued use of the disputed land. Such bargaining was rare, but Bidjia and Jardi had grown to understand white ways.
‘Show him,’ Jardi said roughly. ‘Show Bronzewing the child.’
The girl’s tear-rimmed eyes were glazed but she retrieved the small bundle from the shadows of the hut, laying the child on the ground and unwrapping the blanket. The movement woke the baby. The child was tiny, its face pinched, but it moved its arms and legs with weak determination and let out a mewling noise. As Merindah leant forward to pick the baby up, Adam turned to Jardi.
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