The Dark Mountain

by Catherine Jinks

  You may scoff at our feelings. You may see nothing admirable or romantic about a silly young girl with windblown hair and a dirty gown making sheep’s eyes at a freckled youth wearing tattered ribbons on his hat. I concede that we were not the stuff of Shakespeare. Yet we were as much star-crossed as any Montagu or Capulet, and I know that my heart was beating double-quick time when we gained the picket fence encompassing my mother’s house. In the setting sun, it looked not unlike a row of bared teeth.

  My mother was at home. I discovered this when I pushed open our front door, and stepped into the drawing room. For she walked straight up to me and slapped me hard across the cheek.

  Behind me, Mr Cummings gasped.

  ‘Loathsome creature!’ my mother exclaimed. ‘What? Are you shameless? Have you brought him with you?’

  I burst into tears. It was not a weakness in which I frequently indulged; perhaps I was a little sun-struck. In any event, it touched a nerve with Mr William Cummings.

  ‘Mrs Barton,’ he protested, shielding me, ‘this is hardly fair or reasonable.’

  ‘Mr Cummings,’ said my mother, ‘get out.’

  ‘You’ve not heard what I have to say—’

  ‘Nor wish to,’ my mother spat. ‘Will you leave, sir, or must I summon the police?’

  ‘I will not leave until you calm yourself.’

  At this, my mother threw herself against him, trying to push him back across the threshold in a foolish and undignified manner. It certainly must have struck him as an absurd response; he was, after all, at least a foot taller than she was. I noticed that he began to smile as he braced himself.

  ‘Mrs Barton . . . please . . .’ he protested. ‘What good will come of this?’

  ‘You are not welcome here!’ my mother cried. ‘You are corrupting my daughter!’

  ‘Indeed I am not.’ His smile faded, to be replaced by a very grim look. ‘Ma’am, if you will allow me to explain—’

  ‘I got lost!’ was my hurried contribution. ‘Mama, I could not find you! Mr Cummings rescued me!’

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘Mrs Barton—’

  ‘Leave him alone!’ I tried to pull her off Mr Cummings, conscious all the while of Emily and Louisa staring from the hall doorway. ‘You are ruining everything! You always ruin everything!’

  ‘If I may say one thing, Mrs Barton—’

  ‘No! Get out! You weasel! You rogue!’

  ‘Mrs Barton, I wish to marry your daughter!’

  After a moment’s shocked silence, my mother ran from the room.

  Thirty

  If you had glanced at the Sydney Morning Herald on the sixth of March, 1844, you would have seen the following item of domestic court news.

  ‘Atkinson v Barton on Petition

  This was an application to the court to refer it to the Master to enquire and report whether Charlotte Elizabeth Atkinson, aged about sixteen years, and now residing with her mother, Mrs Barton, might be married to William Cummings junior of Liverpool, and if so that arrangements might be made for her marriage settlement out of the funds and property in which she is interested, and which is under control of the Court. It was also stated that Mrs Barton and several other parties interested had given their consent, some to the marriage and others to the reference, provided the costs of the same, and of the application, were not taken out of the funds under the control of the Court.

  The Court granted the application, at the same time remarking that it would be a very important part of the Master’s enquiry to ascertain as to whether the young gentleman who proposed as a husband for the young lady named on the petition was a man of substance . . .'

  It makes me smile now. A ‘man of substance’? Mr William Cummings was as insubstantial as a ray of sunlight; he had hardly any weight to him at all, and this was what endeared him to me. Yet with regard to property and reputation, I suppose that he was well enough endowed. Certainly there was nothing shabby about him—not that leapt to the eye. Even my solicitor could see no clear objection to the marriage, though he droned on about my ‘inexperience’ and my ‘tender years’. ‘If your mother has doubts,’ he said, ‘perhaps you should reconsider your intentions. For Mrs Barton is a good deal older, and knows what is best for you.’

  ‘My mother has approved the marriage,’ I rejoined stoutly. ‘She will not stand in my way.’

  ‘Yet she has expressed certain reservations . . .’

  ‘When?’ I glared at him. ‘When were you speaking to my mother?’

  ‘Miss Atkinson, it is my duty to protect your interests—’

  ‘Then you will kindly listen to me instead of my mother. Mr Cummings is a good, respectable man who will take care of me for the rest of my life. And I fail to see why there has to be all this fuss, simply because I intend to marry him! He has money of his own, you know! He is not chasing after mine!’

  If you are shocked at my bluntness, please consider my family’s past experience with the legal profession. Though Mama and I were barely on speaking terms by this stage, I was fully aware that lawyers had made her life a misery with their astronomical fees and outrageous demands. That I was now required to parade myself through the Courts in order to marry the man I loved seemed to me yet another example of the Law’s unreasonableness.

  All the same, I used it to my advantage. Had my mother not been in such a precarious position, I might never have carried the day. The very fact that I was obliged to petition the Courts meant that she could not forbid me to marry without running the risk of yet more tedious and expensive litigation. And she was tired of it. She could not summon up the energy to fight.

  So she submitted, with as much ill grace as she could muster.

  I shall not describe the many, many arguments that we had regarding my decision to accept Mr Cummings’s proposal. Some of them flared up at moments of great anxiety—when we were discussing my trousseau, for instance—and some were reasonably civil, with both of us sitting down to explain our positions in a vain attempt to win the other’s support. My mother thought me too young to marry, especially in light of my ‘restless’ disposition. She distrusted any man who had made his way in the world by selling spirits, however sunny and good-natured he might appear. She also pointed out that Mr Cummings and I were not well suited, since there was a great disparity of age, education, rank and temper. ‘How well do you know him really?’ she once asked. ‘And how well does he know you?’ Whereupon I was driven to retort: ‘How well did you know Mr Barton, Mama?’ And the exchange became heated, and nothing useful was accomplished.

  Perhaps, if my mother had been frank with me, she might have achieved her purpose. I would have listened to her then. Despite all the noise and fuss—despite the fact that most of my attention was fixed firmly on William Cummings—in one still, small corner of my mind I was waiting for an explanation. And every time my mother and I locked horns over my betrothal, I was expecting an illuminating remark about marrying in haste, or matches made in Hell, or unfortunate choices. It seems incredible to me that she never let slip a single piece of advice that might have had at least some bearing on her own situation. My mother had married the wrong man, for what must have been precisely the wrong reasons. Yet for all that we conversed endlessly about my falling into a trap of my own making, she never once claimed that her hard-won experience gave her valuable insight. She never took me aside and said: ‘Charlotte, I do not want you to make the same mistake that I did.’ She never tried to show me how, in jumping to certain conclusions, or in submitting to certain threats, or even (who knows?) in accommodating certain social conventions, my mother had spoiled all our lives.

  Perhaps it was something that she could not bear to acknowledge, even to herself.

  As for me, my thinking was so muddled by emotion that I did not seize the opportunity as I should have. I did not use my betrothal as a lever, to pry open the sealed places in her heart. Though I tried once or twice, in a clumsy way, it was not done with sufficient skill or determination. My
passions always seemed to distract me, blowing me off course. Perhaps I was too young to know my own mind.

  At any rate, you must imagine a household in turmoil during the late summer and early autumn of 1844. There were, as I have described, various legal questions to be settled: money would be due to me from my father’s estate when I came of age, and how exactly that might be disposed upon my marriage was something that concerned a great number of Sydney lawyers. The estate itself was still the subject of much wrangling. (Its management continued to be investigated, though a receiver had been appointed just a few month before, at my mother’s request.) Furthermore, we were plagued by other difficulties of a more humdrum nature. Louisa caught a chill, and had to be removed from Mr Rennie’s school for some weeks. Our milking cow broke through the fence and went wandering off down the road to Darling Point, where she met with an unknown fate—possibly involving wild dogs. My mother and I bickered incessantly. Betsy left us for a better-paying position, to be replaced by a graduate of the Female School of Industry, who—though manifestly good-hearted—was so distressingly stupid that she could not be trusted with the ironing or the shopping.

  The only misfortune that we did not suffer, at this time, was an unexpected visit from George Barton. My stepfather had been invisible for months. His absence might have been the result of a sudden windfall; the Equity Court had decreed that Mr Alexander Berry should pay George Barton ninety-five pounds, and my mother had been informed that her husband would be using this money to take over a farm near Bathurst. George Barton did not tell her this himself, not even in writing. He had abandoned us. Or at least, this is what we profoundly hoped.

  But we made no assumptions. It did not do to make assumptions where George Barton was concerned. And as you will see, we were right to be wary. For George Barton had not quite disappeared from our lives.

  He resurfaced in March, around the same time as the Sydney Morning Herald made mention of my betrothal. I cannot help thinking that the newspaper report may, in fact, have influenced his decision to return. Though I have forgotten the exact date, it was on the same afternoon as the match between the Australian and Cumberland Cricket Clubs in Hyde Park. I know this because I attended the match myself, with the Rickards family and Mr Cummings.

  Neither my mother nor my siblings joined us. Despite the fact that I was still spending a good deal of time with the Rickards, my mother was nowhere near resigning herself to their company. She avoided them wherever possible, just as she did her best to dodge William Cummings. Whenever he paid a call, there would be a domestic crisis, or a headache, or an appointment, and she would make her excuses in a hurried fashion—if, that is, she actually appeared at all. I do not know if she was protecting herself or Mr Cummings; it is possible that she distrusted her own temper, and wished to spare him any offence that she might cause by her tendency to outspokenness. At any rate, she usually left us alone. And since we had no quarrel with that, I never upbraided her for her conduct. Though impolite, it was not unwelcome.

  On the day of the cricket match, my mother took the rest of the family to Balmain. She was driven to such an extreme measure by the Rickards’ invitation. Not wanting to accept it, she had used the trip to Balmain as an excuse; James, she said, had long been wishing to ride the new Balmain steam ferry, and she had promised to indulge him on the very day of the scheduled match. I doubt that anyone believed her. But it was a face-saving pretext, and appeared to be accepted by the Rickards. So my family went off to collect molluscs at Balmain, and I went off to cheer cricketers at Hyde Park.

  I seem to recall that the Australian team lost, though I cannot be certain. I paid very little attention to the proceedings on the field. For this was yet another of those festive occasions at which the Rickards seemed to excel; there was endless laughter, and an excess of champagne, and quantities of delicious food, some of it eaten and some (it must be confessed) thrown about in imitation of a cricket ball. Fanny was in her element, thanks to the presence of Lieutenant Wren. William Cummings made us laugh with a great many absurd and spurious rules of the game, declaring in the most solemn manner that if a stump should fall, custom decreed that the batsman should be beaten around the head with it, briskly, a total of seven times. He even tried to demonstrate—using Fanny’s parasol and Thomas’s head—until brought to the ground by Fanny’s burly lieutenant. We all drank the health of both teams, and walked around the park several times. Fanny and I discussed the blossoms that would crown her when she served as my bridesmaid. Many fond jokes were made about my wedding, some of which caused me to blush. For I was not wholly inured to the broad humour of the Rickards’ set.

  It was a pleasant picnic, and I enjoyed it immensely. But towards four o’clock the weather failed. A biting wind sprang up, raising dust and penetrating shawls. Faced with such an unpromising turn of events, the party quickly scattered. The Rickards walked back to their house, which was just across the park. Lieutenant Wren and his companion sauntered away in search of further amusement. And Mr Cummings escorted me home on the omnibus.

  There are probably still today English ladies of good birth who would blanch at such a confession. To have gone off with a single gentleman! On a public conveyance! With no one else to attend me! I daresay the Macleays would not have approved, but I was past caring. I had no mind to model myself on the Macleays—not when I had Mr Cummings to guide my steps. Whatever Mr Cummings thought acceptable, I was ready to accommodate. And in his defence let it be said that he never took advantage of me. On the contrary, I think that he enjoyed playing the shepherd to my lamb—as men often do who are a little unnerved by the opposite sex. I cannot be sure, but I wonder now if his profoundly respectful demeanour, like his playful conversation, suggested a lack of confidence. After all, he was a man of twenty-six. Why did he want to spend his time frolicking with a mere child, unless he found older girls intimidating?

  You must understand, he gave no obvious indication of this. I never saw him tongue-tied in the presence of any lady; he sported with all females alike. Yet I am puzzled. And it occurs to me that my mother might have been puzzled as well. Perhaps that is why she warned me so fervently against the union.

  Perhaps I have done her an injustice.

  In any event, for whatever reason, Mr Cummings’s conduct was faultless. That is why I had no qualms about inviting him into the house when we reached it. I knew that our servant had been given the afternoon off. I knew that, in all probability, Mama and the others had not returned home. Yet I trusted Mr Cummings in a way that seems almost absurd, looking back. How naïve I must have been! Or was there something about the man—something peculiarly unsusceptible—that precluded any possibility of risk?

  Maybe so. Still, I am appalled at my own stupidity. No girl as well acquainted with the dreadful history of John Lynch should have put herself in such a vulnerable position. For if Lynch taught us one lesson, it was that an amiable manner can disguise a Devil’s heart. And as my mother had said: how well did I really know Mr Cummings?

  Fortunately, in my case, God tempered the wind to the shorn lamb. Though I did meet with a Devil upon entering that house, it was not a Devil in the form of William Cummings. When I pushed open the front door, and called out ‘Mama!’, I heard a noise from out the back. It was a scuffling noise, followed by the creak of a board, as if somebody was creeping around in one of the bedrooms.

  ‘Peggy? Is that you?’ Peeling off my gloves, I walked briskly towards the rear of the house, across the drawing-room carpet and through the library door. Mr Cummings followed me, pausing to lay down his hat and stick. ‘Mama? Mr Cummings brought me home. If Peggy has not returned, I can make the tea mys—’

  I froze, breaking off in mid-sentence. For there, in my mother’s bedroom, stood George Barton.

  We discovered afterwards that he must have climbed in through the kitchen window, which had not been properly secured. He was unshaven and dishevelled, and a most unhealthy colour. But the first thing I noticed about him was the
tangle of chains and trinkets in the palm of his hand. I realised straight away, without so much as a pause for reflection, that he had been rifling in my mother’s jewel-case.

  He thrust his spoils immediately into the pocket of his coat.

  ‘Is it you, is it?’ he rasped, trying to be appear unconcerned. ‘Aye, and sneaking yer fella home too. Fine behaviour, I must say.’ He pushed past me, heading into the hall. He smelled sourly of liquor. ‘I allus said you’d turn out wild, Charlotte.’

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ was my very natural retort. Having recovered from my initial shock, I hurried after him. ‘Stop! Stop at once!’

  ‘Does yer Ma know what you’re up to?’ he growled, without turning or pausing. By this time he had almost reached the front door; his heavy tread, as he made his escape, seemed to shake the whole house. Both of his pockets bulged with ill-gotten gains.

  ‘Who is that?’ said a bewildered Mr Cummings, behind me. But I ignored him. Instead of replying, I snatched up his cane from my mother’s writing desk, rushing across the room as Barton closed his fingers around the door-knob.

  ‘Stop! ’ I cried, bringing the stick down hard on Barton’s outstretched arm.

  You must understand that I was not thinking very clearly. My only intention was to retrieve our belongings—it outraged me that a cur like Barton should regard them as his own, or even touch them with his filthy hands. The sight of him, moreover, affected me like a slap in the face. I had thought myself rid of him. Now, once again, he had crawled out from whatever cess-pit he had been occupying, and smeared his dirt all over my mother’s lace and letters and mourning lockets—all over my beautiful autumn day in Hyde Park. The anger that engulfed me had more to do with revenge than reason.