Dorothy Eden (30 page)

But some strange metamorphosis had come over her. She kept wondering what it would have been like to feel the taut anger go out of his body and tenderness take its place. A tenderness she knew that she could coax into being. If only he would give her the opportunity.

It seemed that he had no intention at present of parting with his righteous anger. She would have to be patient.

Very well, she could be that. There was plenty of time. All their lives.

Not that she had any high esteem of herself. The letter she must write to Colm, cruelly honest, was still a complete betrayal.

She wept with shame and sadness as she wrote it.

‘I find I cannot be two people after all. Forgive me, dear Colm. Can you ever forgive me? But something has happened that has made me realize that I must make an attempt to be one single wholehearted person. It is my duty to my husband and my child. Our continued liaison is quite impractical. We are allowing ourselves to turn into figments of a dream…’

‘I don’t like this room,’ Rosie said in her self-contained voice. ‘Why must I have a bed in this room, Mammie?’

‘Because you’re a big girl now,’ Molly replied calmly. ‘You’ll be next door to Phoebe. You like Phoebe, don’t you?’

‘Will I always have to sleep here?’

Molly looked at her daughter’s sharply intelligent face. What the child lacked in looks, she had been compensated for in wits. Molly hadn’t cared for Rosie looking so much like poor Harry, it had seemed a pity that, being a girl, she wasn’t bonnier. But now she was thinking that wits might be a more useful thing than beauty. Otherwise Rosie might indeed always sleep in this narrow bit of a room in the servants’ wing. Australia was a great country with boundless horizons. The lowest could rise to be the highest.

‘No, you won’t always have to sleep here, love.’

‘Kit won’t know where I is.’

‘You can tell him, can’t you?’

The child’s mouth tightened in a grimace, a mannerism she used when tears were repressed. She seldom cried. She withdrew into some private world where tears were not necessary. Molly found her a strange unknowable elderly little person. She loved the child deeply, and was passionately determined to make amends to her for her inauspicious conception and birth. She was hurt now because she was banished from her mother’s room, but that had had to come soon enough. It was difficult to be single-minded about protecting Rosie’s feelings today. She had too many of her own.

All the same, looking at her daughter in her neat cotton dress and apron, she did wonder what characteristics Harry Jarvis had had that she had not known about, and what he may have passed on to his daughter.

In the end, moving the two or three rag books bestowed on Rosie by Kit in a generous mood, and the wooden doll with the gummed-on tow hair that had come in the English parcel, it was Molly who had to wipe away tears.

But that was because she was in such a trembling emotional state today. She had been so happy last night that she knew soberly she could never reach such a state of ecstasy again. For one thing, daylight had brought guilt and remorse. What a terrible thing she had done to the mistress whom she liked and admired. How could she remain at Yarrabee and be so treacherous? She had intended to give her notice immediately, before she weakened.

It was for that reason that she had taken in the breakfast coffee, thinking to find Mr Massingham alone.

Instead, there at the table had been the mistress, too. And looking delicious in her frilled muslin gown. And taking all her husband’s attention.

Molly had been shocked by the intensity of her jealousy. When Mr Massingham frowned at her, and spoke sharply, she had almost flung the tray to the ground in a passion. She heard herself answering questions with apparently the right words, while all the time in her mind she was cradling that splendid red head on her breast. She was trembling. Her arms actually ached with longing.

She knew that she had come to the point in her life when all her painfully learnt discipline meant nothing. She could not leave Yarrabee. Even if she lay night after night, alone, she must be there, waiting. For one night he would come again. She knew that as surely as that there would be another vintage, and another and another.

She was in a thrall, and there was no answer for someone like her. Only waiting and snatching at crumbs.

So she shifted Rosie to the narrow little room that was meant for the newest and lowest servant, and recognized one crumb that she could already ask for. Or demand.

Eugenia no longer found her writing desk such a haven. She had hardly been able to read the strange incoherent note that had come from Colm, her eyes had been so blurred with tears.

It was written in sprawling unsteady writing.

‘Duty, duty, duty! Is that all that’s in your mind, alannah? I am returning to Sydney where I have a bit of a shack at Double Bay. But don’t be soiling your feet in its dust.

‘All the same, you could have made a man of me. Alas.’

Eugenia tore the letter up, which was not much use for the painful accusing words were burnt into her mind.

But there would be no more letters like this. And life would never be quite the same again. For Gilbert had decided that for the sake of convenience they would continue to have separate bedrooms. It had been thoughtless of him to disturb her, with his early rising and late retiring. On the hot nights, also, it would be more comfortable to sleep apart. After all, the house was big enough.

He didn’t quite look at her as he said these eminently sensible things. If he had looked at her she might have flung herself into his arms and confessed that in spite of what he imagined she didn’t really care about sleeping alone.

But he wouldn’t meet her eyes, and she knew that she had offended him so deeply that he had stopped loving her.

It was what she deserved. She had made two men unhappy with her vagaries. Why should she expect to be cherished?

‘So get the servants to fit up my room properly, will you, Genia.’

‘But now I will never know when you come in.’

‘That’s the idea.’ He dropped a light kiss on her brow, lifting a curl out of the way to do so. ‘Your beauty sleep won’t need to be interrupted by crises in the vineyard.’

After the new order was established, he did occasionally come to her room. She had thought he might have meant to stop that practice, too, and was sure he would have done so had his flesh allowed it. He no longer made a pretence of wooing her, but took possession of her briskly and unemotionally, as if merely establishing a relationship.

She tried to tell him once that she had got over her nightmare, but he had looked at her blankly. What nightmare was she talking about?

‘Hold me in your arms,’ she whispered.

‘You are a funny creature! You said you had got over this mysterious nightmare.’

He obeyed, however, and held her indulgently, like a child. He had made love with as little fuss as possible, since he knew she didn’t much care for that sort of thing. Now he wanted to sleep.

She could read his thoughts perfectly. She lay in the dark, in the circle of his arms, letting the slow humiliated tears slide down her cheeks. How soon would he return to his own bed? When would he come to her again?

Eugenia had to force herself to pick up her pen to write her weekly letter to Sarah. Even when at last she had some real news.

My dear Sarah,

It is mid-summer again, and, as always, tediously exhaustingly hot. We have been leading a very uneventful life, although I must drive into Parramatta later today as I am to interview some young woman in order to find a suitable governess for Kit. I do not think he is too young to begin, learning his letters. I remember that you and I could read words at that age.

Mrs Jarvis has asked if her little girl can share in the lessons. She is a silent, though I am sure very clever, child, but I am not entirely sure that I like her being Kit’s constant companion. However, living in this isolation, there is no alternative, and Gilbert favours the proposal. He is more enthusiastic than I. Indeed, I confess that Mrs Jarvis asked in such a strange way, as if it were her due. I hope she is not going to get above herself. I must be charitable and sympathize with her desire for the best for little Rosie.

I wish you could see my garden this summer. Peabody is as proud as a peacock. He has had great success with almost all the new plantings. We now have a lavender border, and the white rose has simply flown up the trellis and is a mass of bloom. What is more, miracle of miracles, the lily pond now holds real water though not as yet lilies. We have had enough rain this season to permit us to be extravagant with water. The children dabble their fingers in it, scarcely able to believe it. The fig tree is now big enough for me to sit in its shade. I am having a table and chairs made to put under it, and we will have tea out there. Also, Peabody found an old sundial in a shop full of discarded junk in Parramatta. He has erected it in the centre of the lawn. I confess I have a liking for the inscription,
Every hour shortens life,
but Gilbert finds it morbid, and stands indignantly beside it looking quite immortal himself.

When I talk to Kit about Lichfield Court he listens with big eyes, but he can never understand that there is another house where Mamma once lived. He asks endless questions about Grandmamma and Grandpapa and his aunts, but how he sees them in his little mind, I can’t guess. He will be four and a half years old when the new baby is born.

There! I have kept my news until the end. Gilbert, as usual, is delighted, and so am I, for I have not been able to bear the empty cradle since little Victoria left us. I hope you will not think it too tiresome of me if I ask you to send me some more of that delightful soft white wool, and I would dearly like some Nottingham lace and materials for baby gowns. They will not arrive before baby does, but that isn’t important. I will make them up later.

Mrs Ashburton had an unfortunate accident the other evening, tripping on her skirts, and falling down the stairs. She was shaken but luckily not badly hurt. I fear she was in a condition which made her feet unsteady and accounted for her fall. But my husband says this was a mercy, as people in that condition fall in too relaxed a manner to break bones.

All the same, I would
much
prefer her sober. She is something of a trial. But she must remain here. We are so much in her debt.

It was not until after vintage that Molly’s bedroom was invaded again. She had lain night after night, sometimes calm, sometimes in despair. Sometimes she wondered if he had forgotten he had ever been with her. Or if he treated his occasional women like this, with a deliberate loss of memory.

He had his conscience to deal with, she told herself. He was reconciled with his wife, he was as honourable as most men.

All the same, deep in her consciousness, she knew he would come.

When he did, slipping into her bed in the early hours one morning, smelling strongly of wine after the celebration following a successful vintage, he had no time to speak.

He simply took her, hungrily, and then fell soundly asleep. She had to rouse him at first light, whispering that he must go before any of the servants were stirring.

He was still half asleep as he dressed.

‘The devil take it,’ he complained. Her fingers found the buttons for him, and did them up. She wound her arms round his neck and kissed him passionately on the lips.

‘Molly, what if we have a child?’

‘Then I would go away.’

‘No!’

She smiled, but was half in tears at his violence.

‘It isn’t likely. There was something went a bit wrong at Rose’s birth. The doctor said I’d be lucky if I had another. Lucky!’ She managed to laugh a little.

He kissed the back of her neck, tenderly now.

‘My poor Molly. And you had no one to tell.’

‘It didn’t matter.’

‘It did. It did. Molly—I’ve been fighting this.’

‘I know.’

‘You’ve never said a word.’

‘How could I?’

‘You’re a rare woman, aren’t you.’

‘Never mind it now. You must go quick.’

In the dim light she could see the quizzical gleam in his eyes.

‘You know I’ll come back, don’t you?’

‘Yes. I know.’

‘Is that enough for you?’

‘It’s all I can have, isn’t it?’

He began to laugh. ‘You put Rosie out of the room, I see. You’re a treasure. Would you die for me, Molly?’

‘I think you’re jesting.’

‘Not in the least. I’ve always wanted to hear a woman say that to me. Not to carry it out, of course.’ He patted her shoulder swiftly, pushed her away. ‘Must be off.’

As the door closed softly behind him she leaned against it, laying her forehead on the cool wood.

‘Yes, I would die for you,’ she whispered.

T
HE YOUNG WOMEN SAT
in an uneasy row on the hard bench. They had been told that Mrs Massingham was expected at any moment. She was in need of a nursery governess for her little boy. Any girl who was given a position at Yarrabee could consider herself fortunate. It was the grandest house—apart from Government House—in the district, and Mrs Massingham was the kindest of mistresses. Though strict, of course. She expected a high standard of morals and behaviour.

The girls whispered among themselves. Two of them, Emmy Dawson and Minnie Higgins, had arrived only a week previously, sailing as immigrants under a scheme arranged for the purpose of bringing decent young women to the colony to work and to provide wives for the many unmarried settlers. The remainder of the young women had unfortunately arrived against their will. One was a freed convict, two were on ticket of leave.

It stood to reason that Emmy Dawson or Minnie Higgins was the logical choice for Yarrabee. It was widely known that Mrs Massingham, for all her benevolence, did not like convicts, in spite of the fact that her housekeeper had been one.

There were vague whispers about that, too. Something about Mr Massingham admiring her looks, although that scarcely seemed likely since he was said to worship his wife.