I turned on my heel, and began to retrace my steps. ‘Well if I may not ride, then I shall walk! Since you are so reluctant to entrust me with one of your precious horses,’ I snapped. But I was on the verge of tears, and he might have heard it in my voice. At any rate, he called after me in far more winning tones.
‘’Tis the horse I don’t trust, Miss,’ he wheedled. ‘This fella’s right hard in the mouth for a lady, never mind his colour. He’s a man’s hack, by my reckonin’, though he’s under fifteen hands. Ye’ll need a good seat to hold him back, and ye’ll never have that wit’out the slipper stirrup.’
‘Then I shall walk,’ I said. For Thomas was right: I could not use our side saddles wearing city heels, nor sit astride in my brown merino. And even if I had been willing to return to the house, my chances of finding a single pair of low-heeled boots among the confusion of crates and trunks and boxes were remote, to say the least.
‘Ah, now, don’t be walkin’ in this weather,’ Thomas protested, as I hunched my shoulders against the rain. ‘Miss! Wait! If ye’re wantin’ to pay a call, I’ll get out t’gig.’
Pay a call! I would have laughed a bitter laugh, had I not been afraid that it might turn into a sob. In whose house would my family be welcome? I was quite sure that our return would be viewed as an embarrassment by all those who had, in the past, been pleased to entertain my father—but whose relations with my stepfather had been less than cordial. They would not want to mix with us. So what did it matter that the yard was dirty? What did it matter that my boots would soon be spoiled beyond redemption? No one would ever see them. No one who mattered.
I squelched along, dragging my skirts through the mud, determined to find a lonely place where I could mope and mourn in private. Remembering the high rock on Gingenbullen, where I had many times sat pondering the mysteries of my fraught existence, I turned towards the old convict huts. I had a vague idea of punishing my mother with a prolonged absence. If I stayed out very late, she might even organise a search party.
‘Ye’ll not find nothin’ up that way, Miss,’ the ostler remarked behind me. ‘Lessen ye’re plannin’ to walk back to Berrima.’
He had followed me into the yard, and now had the gall to read me a lecture on the geography of the estate. It enraged me, for some reason. I swung around and upbraided him with quite unnecessary venom.
‘I know where I’m going! I grew up here! I know every inch of this wretched place, and could draw you a map if I chose to!’
‘Oh, aye?’ He seemed impervious to my fury. ‘Well, now, that’d be right helpful. If it could be managed.’
‘What?’ I was confused. ‘If what could be managed?’
‘A map.’ He stood with his hands in his pockets, his coat hanging open and his eyes screwed up against the misty rain. ‘See, it seems to me there’s folks hereabouts like to run their stock through yer fields—since no one’s bin around to stop ’em. And the fences not bein’ what they should be, it’s hard for the likes o’ me to know when to take a stand. I’d not be wantin’ to throw stones at any strange beast unless I knew’t were on yer land, Miss.’
Trespass! This was news. ‘You mean someone has been using Oldbury as a back run?’ I asked, my interest piqued.
‘Aye. ’
‘Who?’
The ostler shook his head. ‘That I cannot say,’ he replied, ‘not bein’ well acquainted with yer neighbours’ stock.’
‘One of the tenants, perhaps?’
He shrugged. ‘Thing is, Miss, I cannot be sure they’ve strayed— not wit’ so many fences gone.’
‘Gone? Completely gone? Or just collapsed?’
‘Taken away.’ His lip curled at the expression on my face. ‘Oh, aye. Some folks’ll stoop so low, ye’d have to dig to find ’em.’
‘But this is unacceptable.’ As much as I loathed Oldbury, it was still my family’s estate. It offended me to think that low-bred neighbours were taking advantage of my mother’s absence to plunder our meagre property. ‘This must be stopped. Have you told my mother?’
‘No, Miss. Though I mentioned it to Mr Welby.’
‘Then I shall tell Mama. And she will take you on a tour of the estate, and show you where the boundaries lie.’ These words were barely out of my mouth before a picture leapt into my head: a picture of my mother, riding out beside George Barton on that January day in 1836. She was ten years older now, and greyer, and heavier—but her spirit was still high. I was sure that, given the opportunity, she would have no hesitation in ruining her reputation all over again.
A flush rose to my cheeks as I looked at the ostler. For suddenly it had become apparent to me that he was just the sort of man who might easily give rise to gossip, what with his trim waist and broad, white smile.
The thought was hugely unpalatable.
‘I must go,’ I said, and found myself walking back to the house. Though my mother had evicted me, I felt that I should acquaint her with the facts as soon as I could. Or would it be better to wait until she was less preoccupied?
I hesitated, one foot on the back veranda.
‘Go on, Miss,’ said Thomas. ‘This is no weather for walkin’. Ye’ll spoil yer clothes and ruin yer health, and Mrs Barton’ll tear strips off me.’ He was still standing bare-headed in the middle of the yard, hands buried deep in his trouser-pockets. ‘Go on back inside, and I’ll saddle up a horse when t’rain clears.’
So I went inside. Only much later did I realise how clever he had been, in distracting me from my purpose.
It was not the last time he would do so, by any means.
Thirty-three
My mother did not appoint an overseer when we returned to Oldbury. We had no real need of one, because our permanent staff was so small. We kept a housemaid, a cook, an ostler (Thomas), a gardener and a black boy. My mother had to supervise the cook in the dairy, while my sisters and I helped the housemaid with our washing, ironing and mending. Occasionally we hired a ploughman or carpenter, or even a team of bullocks. But we no longer ran a dray or bred up heifers. We could not afford to. Especially in view of the fact that not one of our servants had been assigned to us.
They were free men and women, who required fair wages.
I know that there were land-owners in New South Wales who regretted the passing of the old assignment system. But my mother was not among them. Though cheap labour is all very well, it can come at a hidden cost; under the assignment system one was generally obliged to take what was given, no matter how raw and unrepentant, while at the same time enduring the constant scrutiny of Government officials. Living out in the bush, my mother felt more secure surrounded by staff who could be dismissed for bad service, rather than flogged for it. She once confessed herself well pleased to be ‘relieved of the job of a turnkey’.
Not that our servants were all of stainless character. The boy was, naturally; he was hardly old enough to have committed a multitude of sins. Our cook had never faced a magistrate’s bench either. She had simply followed her husband to Australia upon his emancipation, displaying the truest and most devoted conjugal attachment. Her husband was Richard Prince, our gardener. He had been transported for theft, but was not corrupted by the experience, and had quickly won himself a ticket-of-leave. Though diligent and hard-working, however, he was not quick-witted. His attempt to farm land of his own had been a failure; he had run up debts, and bad weather had finally sunk him. You could say that his ill luck had been our good fortune, because he was a reliable gardener without a vicious bone in his body. His wife, on the other hand, had not her husband’s happy temperament, so their presence was a mixed blessing. Her nerves had been overthrown by the loss of three children on the voyage out. She also pined, I think, for undisputed ascendency in her very own kitchen. Of all the servants, Sarah Prince gave Mama the most trouble.
Our housemaid, in contrast, was a treasure. Her name was Mary Ann, and she seemed to view Oldbury as a safe harbour in an uncertain world. As far as I am aware, her history was one of great m
isfortune. Having been seduced by a rascal and cast out by her parents, she had subsisted on the streets until arrested and transported for theft. Upon arriving in Australia, she had been most unfortunate in her assignments, which had exposed her to the kind of attention that played upon her undoubted weaknesses. Twice she was confined, once in the Female Factory and once under the aegis of the Dorcas Society. The first child died at birth; the second was raised chiefly at the Orphan School. I believe that Mary Ann contributed as best she could to the expenses of raising this little girl, and might have done more had the child survived her twelfth birthday. But this was not the case, and Mary Ann had fled the city soon afterwards. She preferred the country, she said. And the country around Sutton Forest reminded her of her own home in Oxfordshire.
She was a short, sturdy, middle-aged woman, plain-faced but sweet-voiced. While not as highly skilled as she might have been, she took instruction with the utmost goodwill, and always worked steadily. I do not think that I have ever met with such a good-hearted soul. Louisa was her particular favourite. No doubt my sister reminded Mary Ann of her own daughter, who had died at exactly Louisa’s age. There was a definite bond between the two. If you consult the book Cowanda, you will find a portrait of Mary Ann, disguised as one ‘Aunt Nancy’. According to Louisa, Aunt Nancy was ‘such an everyday character, only unusual in the excess of her homely worth—not the remotest selfishness or unkindness in her composition. A peculiarly square, flat face, of a pale hue, and a pair of small, quiet grey eyes, were indexes of her abundant goodness, but utter absence of imagination: her house was her world, and all her honest, steady principles led her to an unaffected and sincere Christian faith in life.’
This description touched me. It surprised me too, for I had no idea that Louisa was so attached to Mary Ann. But my sister’s affections always ran quiet and deep. It was just like her to remember our housemaid in her book. Mr James Calvert was a lucky man to win such a heart as Louisa’s.
By now you must be wondering at my own lengthy portrayal of the Oldbury servants. Why these detailed descriptions? Why have I lavished so much time and attention on my mother’s domestic staff?
The answer is simple. My account of them is so thorough because I knew them so well. And I knew them so well because I mixed with almost no one else. Day in and day out, I was confined to the society of family and servants. Mr Welby was an occasional visitor, but he generally came on business, and never brought his wife. At church we exchanged platitudes with our more respectable neighbours, but nothing came of that. The Throsbys were still busily breeding, and far too preoccupied to waste any time on us. The same was true of the Badgerys. The Morrices, being Presbyterian, were rather exclusive. As for the Wilmots, my mother preferred not to communicate with them at all. It was said that Mr Thomas Wilmot had been transported for horse-stealing, though he was a generous benefactor of the church, and had acquired a large property not far from our own. Indeed, Mama would not even attend his funeral in the spring, for all that it was practically the event of the season, with two hundred people paying their respects and an account of it appearing in the Sydney Morning Herald. ‘A whited sepulchre’ was how my mother described Thomas Wilmot. Certainly he was a bigamist—though it was not until after his death that we learned of his first wife, still living in England. She tried to claim his property, you see.
The only neighbours who made even a token effort on our behalf were the Nicholsons. The reason, I believe, is that they were very intimate with the Reverend Stone and his family. Owing to Reverend Stone’s sense of pastoral duty, we were invited to the parsonage a number of times, and to Newbury twice. I remember how it pained me to see the flourishing condition of Newbury, in contrast to Oldbury’s decrepit state. Perhaps my mother felt the same, and quietly turned down any subsequent invitations that may have been extended to her. Or perhaps there were no invitations. Though Captain Nicholson was a bluff old sailor with a heart of gold, and his wife an agreeable lady of no pretensions whatsoever, they were not the type of people to fret themselves over matters outside their immediate purview. Energetic and cheerful, they were dutiful landlords, generous parishioners and loving parents. They were even sporadically kind neighbours, sending us the occasional new book or basket of produce. But they were not of a temper to feel the weight of tenuous moral obligations, and would have been nagged by no feelings of guilt at the thought of my family, alone on our isolated farm. Since they got through their own days easily enough, they probably expected that we were of a similar disposition.
They were wrong, however. We were not content. How could we be? My mother was perpetually short-tempered. She was struggling with the lawyers for money, while at the same time labouring over the sort of domestic tasks that should rightfully have been entrusted to a housekeeper, a laundress, or a dairywoman. I know how I used to feel at the beginning of my married life, when I looked up from my washboard to see grubby infants playing in a dirty yard. Mama must have felt the same. She must have wondered how a fifty-year-old matron of gentle birth, once the mistress of a score of servants and a flourishing estate, had been reduced to ironing flounces or plucking fowl.
James was not much happier. At fourteen, he was of an age to begin his apprenticeship as a country squire, though he had only my mother to instruct him. It was rather an abrupt transition. From a schoolboy excelling at geography and mathematics, among peers whose interests tended toward the naval and mercantile, he was abruptly cast into a strange world of tillers and reaping hooks, draught cattle and hurdle-making. Where once he had been pleased to pore over Latin epics, his evenings were now given over to what remained of my father’s library of farming works, which included an encyclopaedia of horticulture and a book on agricultural chemistry. I believe that his strengths lay more in the field of abstract thought than in the practical application of theoretical knowledge. At any rate, he must have felt the full weight of his inherited responsibility, for it showed in his face. His brow acquired an almost permanent pucker of concern. I would see him questioning the gardener, or receiving instruction from our ostler, and always that slight contraction of the forehead would be present.
He sought advice from other quarters as well. Sometimes he would shut himself away with Mr Welby. Sometimes he would ride to Newbury, unannounced, and make inquiries of Captain Nicholson. Sometimes he would corner Mr Throsby after church. I think that, of all our family, he was the member most sympathetically received. For there was something especially poignant about an earnest stripling made prematurely old by the manifold cares of proprietorship.
Louisa seemed far more satisfied with her lot. She had always been the keenest student of Nature among us, and pursued her interest with zeal when we returned to Oldbury. She discovered the nest of a wedge-tailed eagle on the crest of Gingenbullen, and made pets of two curlews, whose antics were a perpetual delight to her. Emily enjoyed them too, though not with such wholehearted enthusiasm. Indeed, poor Emily became more and more subdued. Rural life should have suited her very well, for she was naturally amenable, and shy of company. But she was also an impressionable soul, as sensitive to the feelings of others as she was to the atmosphere engendered by memories of past distress. She could not forget George Barton—not in that place where he had once reigned supreme. Nor could she disregard the short tempers and weary impatience that characterised our home. Discord was an absolute punishment to Emily. It gave her headaches, and made her cry. When I picture this period of my life, and turn my thoughts to the sitting room at Oldbury, I see James scowling at an essay on drainage, Mama sighing fretfully over a begging-letter, Louisa shelling peas in a cloud of abstraction, and Emily snivelling beside a great heap of darning, which was as much my burden as it was hers.
I need hardly add that my own presence at this scene would not have improved it. I was miserable during the latter part of 1846. Though spring came, and the buds opened, and the cows calved, and the fruit trees flowered, I took no solace from any of this. Wherever I looked, I saw evidence
of fertility and a promise of rich abundance. Yet I remained barren stock. I regarded myself as a flower ‘born to blush unseen,/and waste its sweetness on the desert air’. News of Fanny’s wedding reinforced this view. I felt cast aside, like a seed fallen upon stony places.
My mother sympathised, but only to a degree. She had no patience with my ‘tragic airs’, as she called them. ‘You are more fortunate than many,’ she would say. ‘Look how ill Louisa has been.’ Then she would add something to the effect that hard work was the cure for low spirits, and send me to milk the cow or bring in the laundry. At eighteen, I could no longer excuse myself from domestic tasks by claiming that I had to finish my lessons. Mama had decided that my formal education was complete. Though I might read, write and draw for my own amusement, henceforth such pursuits must always yield to more pressing demands.
I had played the housemaid in Sydney, of course. We had none of us lived like aristocrats there, either. But in Sydney we had bought most of our food. We had sent our laundry out, and had had our fuel delivered. The Sydney winters had also been much warmer, and the streets not so dirty as the yards and roads that turned to mire with every heavy rain at Oldbury. In the country, moreover, one seems surrounded by dung. It must be swept continuously from the yard and stables. It must be collected and distributed over the crops, though not before it has become ‘well-rotted’ after a lengthy sojourn against a wall in the sun.
As for the flies, they are never as bad on the coast as they are inland.
When I look back now, I am grateful that I was so well prepared for my married life. Had I but known it, Mama was continuing my education in the most practical way, and did me no disservice with her scoldings and demands. At the time, however, I was full of resentment. I considered my home a dreary cage, staffed by despondent gaolers.
Is it any wonder that I tried to escape?
To flee! To lose myself! That is what I most desired. Sometimes I thought that I should burst with all my pent-up longings and fettered fury. Yet I did not seek freedom in an acceptable way, as my sisters did. Emily found hers in the pages of her books. Louisa used her paints and brushes, carrying them with her on walks up to the heights of Gingenbullen. My own technique was more dangerous. I found my escape on horseback.
The Dark Mountain Page 36