The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  At any rate, she was enough to distract even the most dedicated scholar. So my mother believed me when I complained about the din, and allowed me to use the study. She did not even notice that I was wearing my second-best morning dress, because I had disguised it quite cleverly under a long, white shawl. And the reason that I gave for wearing my shawl, in such hot weather?

  ‘My nose is troubling me,’ I fretted, hiding behind a large cotton handkerchief. ‘I do hope that I haven’t caught a cold.’

  ‘Oh, Charlotte. At this time of year? How like you.’ My mother noticed nothing suspicious, probably because her mind was on the legal correspondence spread across her desk. ‘If it gets any worse, you must have Betsy make up a linseed poultice, with a few grains of mustard in it. And do not sit in any draughts.’

  A more Christian spirit might have felt ashamed at this evidence of my mother’s concern, in light of the trick being played on her. But my character has never been that good. Perhaps it was warped by my upbringing. Whatever the cause, I felt no pangs of guilt as I sat waiting for Fanny Rickards. Though anxious, and torn between hope and fear, I was not nursing a bad conscience.

  When the merry band finally came to a halt at our front gate, I went out to meet it with a light tread and a joyful smile.

  ‘We are late, Charlotte, I am so sorry!’ Fanny exclaimed, leaning out of the Dettmans’ carriage. It was a battered-looking barouche, with the hood pulled back. ‘Can you squeeze in here beside me? Thomas will help you—Thomas, help Miss Atkinson!’

  ‘With all my heart,’ her brother replied. As he swung down from his fine bay hack, I heard my mother’s voice behind me.

  ‘Charlotte?’ she said. ‘What is the meaning of this?’

  She was standing at the door of our house, her pen still in her hand, her slippers on her feet. I was glad to see the slippers. For the roads were so bad that no one wearing list slippers could possibly have run after the Rickards’ cavalcade, even if he (or she) had been so inclined.

  ‘We are off to Bondi Bay for a picnic,’ I replied, as coolly as possible.

  My mother blinked and moved forward. ‘Indeed, I think not,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, but my cold is much better, you see. I was quite mistaken to worry about it.’ Knowing that my mother was unlikely to risk embarrassing herself in front of so many unknown and ill-bred people, I neither flinched nor fell back. ‘I shall be quite all right, Mama. You know the sea air always agrees with me.’

  ‘We will take good care of her, Mrs Barton, never fear!’ Fanny added. ‘Mama is ever so strict, and will not let us anywhere near the rocks, I assure you!’

  My mother had almost reached the gate at this point, but I was too quick for her. Since the stairs of the barouche had already been let down, I braced my foot against one of them and, with Fanny’s assistance, launched myself into the midst of all the rustling petticoats and bobbing parasols awaiting me. With four ladies already sharing the carriage, there was hardly room for another. But Mrs Dettman being rather thin, I managed to wriggle in somehow.

  ‘It is not my daughter’s health that concerns me, Mrs Rickards,’ my mother was saying. Though her face was flushed, her voice remained steady. ‘She has work to complete. Work that is far more important than a day on the beach, however pleasant.’

  ‘Oh no, Mama.’ From high in the barouche, I felt quite safe—and perhaps my manner was a little cocky. ‘I have finished all my work. I took care to finish it. There will be nothing for me to do at home. I shall be quite lost for an occupation.’

  We gazed at each other, fiery words burning on our tongues. But they could not be expressed. Not even by my mother.

  It was a matter of pride, you see. She would not have wanted it known, especially by such a very low set, that her daughter had defied her. Nor was she inclined to squabble in public, lest damaging remarks be made on the subject of George Barton.

  And she realised that they would be made. One glance at my face must have told her that.

  ‘Very well,’ she suddenly announced, with the sweetest of smiles. ‘But what are you taking with you to eat, Charlotte? You are not joining the party empty-handed, surely?’

  ‘Oh, we are well supplied, Mrs Barton,’ Fanny’s mother observed, and I saw at once that she disliked Mama. Though rather bloodless and frayed-looking, Mrs Rickards clearly nursed an abiding resentment against all those ladies who, over the years, had cast aspersions on her choice of allegiance. (No doubt her own family had turned up its collective nose at her marriage, too.) Moreover, my mother fooled her not at all. Coming from much the same background, I believe that they understood each other perfectly. ‘You must not think that we are meanly provisioned or ill prepared,’ the pallid lady said in her tired, slightly querulous voice. ‘We have quite enough for your daughter’s wants, I assure you.’

  ‘I have no doubt of it,’ my mother replied. Her mildly contemptuous tone seemed to suggest that that Rickards, being intimate with many rich grocers, would naturally be prone to excessive display and over-indulgence when it came to eating and drinking. ‘But I cannot think it polite to bring nothing at all. Let me just fetch you some rhubarb tart. I shan’t be long.’

  She was back inside the house before I could formulate an objection; her thinking had been quicker than mine. I realised, sitting there between Fanny and Maud Dettman, that I had been out-manoeuvred. As the minutes ticked by, my mother’s intention became clear to me. She would stay inside the house until the Rickards and their friends became impatient. At which point I would be sent to inquire about the tart, and all would be lost. My mother would lock me in my bedroom. Or smear hot treacle all over my gown. Or otherwise delay me to the point where the picnic party could afford to wait no longer.

  I wondered what would happen if I threw myself on the mercy of Mrs Rickards. If I was frank with her, would she express her regrets, and return me to the bosom of my family? Or would she take some delight in disobliging my mother?

  ‘Perhaps you should go and fetch the tart, Charlotte,’ Fanny suggested, as I had known that she would. The poor girl was frantic to proceed. ‘It need not be cut or wrapped, you know. We can put it in the basket.’

  I opened my mouth. I searched my mind vainly for an excuse. Before I could speak, however, I was interrupted.

  ‘Let me go,’ said Mr Cummings. ‘I could do with a little walk.’

  My astonishment was indescribable. Mr Cummings had come to my rescue! It would be incorrect to say that I had not noticed him, for I had. But he had figured very little in my reflections as I grappled with my mother. I had expected to fight this particular battle alone.

  My surprise was such that I did not even thank him for his kindness. Instead I sat open-mouthed as he let himself through our front gate and sauntered up the path.

  He was wearing his velvet coat again, and a dashing slouch hat.

  ‘Mr Cummings is such a dear,’ said Fanny. ‘We like him very much, do we not, Mama? He is far and away the nicest of Tom’s friends.’

  ‘And he is from Liverpool?’ I inquired awkwardly, conscious of the hot blood in my cheeks.

  ‘His business is at Liverpool,’ said Fanny. ‘Wine and spirits. He comes up to Sydney for the shipments. Jamaican rum, I think he said.’

  A wine and spirit merchant! Had I not been so appalled, I might have laughed out loud.

  If there was one activity that my mother deplored even more than hotel-keeping, it was the wholesale distribution of wine and spirits.

  ‘His father owns that hotel in Macquarie Street,’ Fanny continued. ‘I cannot recall its name. He is wearing the most beautiful coral studs, Charlotte, just a few shades darker than your muslin.’

  ‘Do stop fidgeting, Fanny,’ Mrs Rickards complained. ‘You will tear my gown.’

  I was watching the house intently—watching and waiting, my palms sweaty and my throat dry. Would my mother’s temper snap? Would she push Mr Cummings down the front steps and drag me out of the carriage by my hair? Having witnessed her fight
s with George Barton, I did not relish the prospect of weathering an attack myself.

  Fortunately, I was not required to. It was Mr Cummings who emerged from the front door, carrying a small, wrapped bundle. He brought it to the carriage and surrendered it to me, tipping his hat.

  ‘There was no rhubarb tart,’ he explained, with a mischievous smile. ‘Only this round of cheese, Miss Atkinson.’

  ‘Th-thank you,’ I stammered.

  ‘No trouble at all. A pleasure, in fact.’

  ‘Come on, Cummings, stir your stumps!’ Thomas exclaimed, and we were soon bowling along the narrow white ribbon of Darling Point Road—which was so rocky and precipitous that our journey was marked by many little squeals of dismay, as we lurched and bumped and juddered. Conversation proved almost impossible. Remaining seated kept us busy enough; for the rest of the time I watched the thick woods roll past, and relished every glimpse of the glittering harbour.

  It being early December, the bush was not as bleached and dusty as it would later become. There was still some richness in the colour of the foliage; Darling Point was already trimmed with flowering Christmas bush, and great thatches of glowing fig-marigold adorned the sandy banks along the roadside. White sails flecked the choppy water. Gulls wheeled in the distance. A touch of Spring in the air lent some intensity to the blue of the sky, and to the green shadows of well-watered clefts that tumbled down into virgin bays.

  How beautiful the harbour was, in those early years. It seemed so free and fresh, defying the grubby wharves and warehouses that huddled around Sydney proper. Though there were a few houses scattered about the hinterland, they were fine, big, beautiful mansions that served to ornament the bush, rather than despoil it. As for Bondi Bay, I defy anyone to name a more glorious location. With its golden sweep of sand, its gentle rivulets, its mighty headlands and sheltering trees, it was a veritable Arcadia. An earthly Paradise.

  Of course, the road to the Bay was anything but paradisiacal. At one point I thought that we should certainly overturn. (The carriage should never have been brought so far, in my opinion.) Though our dogcarts were nimble enough to make their way over that jagged surface, which was more a track than a road, the carriage was far too unwieldy. In the end we left it some distance from the Bay, under the guardianship of an ostler. Two seats were then vacated in the dogcarts for the older ladies, and the rest of us (Fanny, Maud and myself ) were offered horses.

  Fanny, who could not ride, was appalled. Even with her brother leading her, she squeaked and yelped all the way to the beach, rocking about as if blown by a gale-force wind. Not that I blame her. The women were not properly dressed for riding astride, and the men had brought no side-saddles with them. Poor Fanny was therefore obliged to sit most precariously. She would have been far better walking, had she not been hobbled by a pair of satin boots.

  On being called to inspect these articles, I was amazed. Why on earth wear satin boots to a beach picnic? It made no sense to me.

  Maud was more sensibly attired. Nevertheless, she too preferred not to walk. I do not know why, since she cannot have been comfortable. Though she made no complaint, I saw the rigid set of her face and the white patches on her knuckles, as she strove to present a ladylike appearance while holding on for dear life.

  I myself refused Mr Cummings’s gelding. I valued my safety and my dignity far too much to risk either of them by riding astride in the wrong sort of clothes. When I said as much to Mr Cummings, he asked me if I actually possessed the right sort of clothes. I replied that I did, and we were still discussing horses when we arrived at the beach. It must be confessed that my pink tarlatan had suffered many pricks and tears during our scramble, and was never quite the same afterwards. My boots, too, were somewhat scarred. Nevertheless, that walk remains one of my happiest memories.

  When we arrived at our destination, my heart turned over. Bursting through a screen of prickly branches, we passed from clustering shadows into sparkling sunlight—from the spicy scent of eucalypts into a brisk, salt wind.

  ‘How I have missed the sea!’ exclaimed Mr Cummings. ‘If I didn’t have an excuse to return here now and then, I should have to manufacture one. For my own good health.’

  ‘The air is very bracing,’ I agreed.

  ‘If I could bottle it, Miss Atkinson, I would make my fortune. “Cummings’s Inhalational Tonic”.’ As I laughed, he added: ‘There must be folk in England who would willingly pay good money for fresh air. People who live beside smelting works, perhaps. Or beneath factory chimneys.’

  ‘Except that such people would not have any money,’ I pointed out. ‘Why live beneath a factory chimney unless you are obliged to?’

  ‘Quite so. And why live in England unless you are obliged to? When there are places such as this in New South Wales?’

  He made an expansive gesture with one hand, as he held onto his hat with the other. I suppose that I should describe him, at this point, though my memories are not as clear as they should be. When I think of William Cummings, I think of his smile, and everything else fades away. He was immensely fortunate in his smile. I do not know if its charm lay in the dimples that accompanied it, or the slightly crooked eye-tooth that distinguished it, or whether there was another cause altogether: the glint in his eye, for instance. Whatever the root of its appeal, however, it was hard to resist.

  For the rest, he was slim, fair, and of medium height, with sandy hair and no beard. I judged him to be older than Thomas Rickards, though I only later discovered that he was twenty-six. While he might have been described as a gay blade, there was nothing vicious or intemperate about him. For despite the fact that we all grew rather noisy and hilarious that day, there was never an instant when the proceedings could have been considered unsafe, or the jokes offensive.

  At least, they did not seem so to me.

  Lunch came first, and was much enlivened by several bottles of champagne. There followed an expedition over the rocks, during which Mr Cummings made us all laugh by striking absurdly heroic poses, and pretending to fight off a crab, and generally impersonating a man who fancied himself as a bold and gallant explorer. After that, we ran races. Poor Fanny took a tumble, and I tore my petticoat, so that a piece of it trailed along behind me in the most embarrassing manner. No sooner had this mishap occurred than I had three gentlemen pursuing me with drawn pen-knives, crying: ‘Let me cut it off, Miss Akinson!’ Whereupon I was forced to hide behind Mrs Rickards, almost sick with laughter.

  By this time it was the middle of the afternoon, and very hot. Some melons were cut, and we ate them in the shade of a cliff, with the breakers rolling in only a few feet away. I explained to Mr Cummings about cuttlefish, and described some stones that I had found years before at Swan Lake, which had floated in water. (‘They were pumice stones,’ I explained, ‘and you have never seen a more curious thing.’) Mr Cummings, in turn, told me the funniest story about a talking pig at Castlereagh—or at least, a pig that was supposed to have possessed the power of speech. (‘I said to the man, “Does it perhaps have a Scottish accent, Mr Larch? I have always had great difficulty understanding a thick Scottish accent.”’) I laughed until I cried, and then some of us climbed the cliff, and I tore my petticoat again. I was better off than Maud, however, who lost her hat, poor thing. It blew off her head into the sea. And though I leapt up onto a high rock, waving my arms and calling down to the others, they were too late to retrieve it. The unfortunate hat had already been sucked down in a tidal rip.

  Maud was quite upset by her loss. We tried to comfort her as best we could; I lent her my own hat, and Fanny promised her some silk ribbon. But the spell was broken, and the shadows were lengthening. Mrs Rickards decided that it was time to go.

  I need hardly say that we left reluctantly. The sun-dazzled joy of that wonderful day lives with me still. I do not know if I was ever so happy, so truly happy, as I was then. I remember standing on the edge of a cliff, with my arms outstretched and my skirts flapping, almost convinced that, if I launched
myself into the air, I would be able to fly.

  I also remember the sensation of being grabbed around the waist and pulled back. It was Mr Cummings who did this. ‘You are making me very anxious,’ he confessed, as the warmth of his hands invaded my entire body. ‘I should hate to see you meet the same fate as your friend’s hat, Miss Atkinson. What a tragic loss that would be!’

  I believe that I must have fallen in love with him at this very instant. Certainly, I was filled with a wild sense of elation. Suddenly my prospects seemed bright with promise; I felt strong and pretty and immensely free. But during the bone-shaking journey back to Darlinghurst, my mood became less sanguine. Though I faced a truly awful homecoming, it was not the thought of my mother’s imminent retribution that chilled me. It was the knowledge that I would soon have to part from William Cummings.

  How was I to ensure that we should meet again?

  ‘It was a very great pleasure, Miss Atkinson,’ he said, upon helping me down from the barouche. ‘I am not often in town, but I hope to see you at St James on Christmas Day. Or perhaps at the Anniversary Regatta in January?’

  ‘Oh yes,’ I replied. ‘Yes, I hope so.’

  And I determined that I should see him at both events, or die trying.

  Twenty-nine

  When I walked through the front door, my mother was waiting for me. She sat alone in the drawing room, straight-backed, a volume of sermons lying open before her.