A World Apart (25 page)

What to do with her life? She reminded herself that as a rich widow, she could mould her future as she wished. First, she must explore Sydney Town, make a new life for herself. Then the way would be open to consider ways she might return to the arms of the man she would always love.

When Eliza told Mrs Blakemore that she must leave the mission, the housekeeper poured her a generous cup of sympathy.

‘I understands, dearie. Your poor heart must be broke. Your husband dead, afore he took you to wife, proper-like. You must weep every time you sees his house, the chapel, the schoolhouse, all the places where the two of you took your loving walks.'

‘Er, yes.'

As Eliza embarked on the long coach journey to Sydney Town, she fell to wondering how she might conduct herself as a rich widow. Though born and raised as a lowborn child, she had read much of the ways of the gentry during her surreptitious years in the library of the Great House. Over those years, she had blended what she read with what she saw in the gentlefolk traversing its stately rooms and endless corridors. Back in England, everyone, from the humblest bootblack to the most elevated prince of the realm, instinctively placed others at a particular level on the shelves of the social hierarchy. And their first steps in making this placement began the moment they heard a stranger's first spoken word.

‘Prunes and prisms. Prunes and prisms. Prunes and prisms.' Eliza murmured the words to herself a hundred times as the coach rattled on its way. Her tutor Mr Harcourt had drummed into Eliza's brain what he termed the proper pronunciation of those words during her first heady days in the schoolroom of the Great House.

‘A slight rolling of the r, then shape the lips into a kiss as you pronounce the vowels,' her tutor had ordered.

Now her challenge would come from the first words she spoke to a local resident, likely a gentleman rather than a gentlewoman, when she stepped from the coach. Everyone knew that gentlewomen were thin on the ground in Sydney Town. Since its beginnings, the place had been host to shiploads of overwhelmingly male-dominated immigrants. Lately, waves of entrepreneurial young men — some tradesmen, some gentry — had crashed onto Botany Bay's shores as stories of the new land's wealth, its opportunities, filtered back to the Olde Country.

The men tended to be young, adventurous, risk-takers. Few of these fortune hunters had brought wives. Now, their fortunes accumulating healthily, they searched for mates. Children would become essential as the men realised they must bequeath their wealth to their offspring before they died. Newly arrived gentlemen would be on the lookout for that rarest of species, the unattached gentlewoman.

On the evening of the first day's travel, the coach pulled up at the King's Inn in the village of Liverpool. Never before having set foot inside an inn, Eliza must now take a room for the night; her first act as a gentlewoman. Certainly, money was no object, but still her nerves tingled at the prospect. She reached into her purse for a sovereign and stepped through the inn's battered doors, hoping her newly bought fine clothes would speak for her. A maid saw her, curtseyed.

‘Would ye be wantin' a room for the night, Miss?'

‘Indeed I do. Thank you.'

‘Your baggage, Miss?'

‘The ostler may fetch it.' Eliza must appear unconcerned.

‘We has smaller rooms, Miss. Then upstairs, larger; as costs three shillin's.'

‘The larger, thank you.'

‘And dinner, Miss? We has a big pot of beef stew on the fire. Along with vegetables. What we grows in the inn's garden.'

‘Thank you. Serve my meal in my room, if you please.'

‘Yes, miss. Thank ‘ee, Miss.' They reached the room; a comfortable enough space, with a generous dining table, a many-paned small window overlooking the road to Sydney Town.

‘Will that be all, Miss? I'll tell the ostler — your baggage.'

‘Thank you. One moment.' Eliza dropped the sovereign into the puzzled girl's hand.

‘Ow! My lady! Thank ‘ee. A blessed fortune!' The girl curtseyed low. ‘But why, my lady? Why did you — ?'

‘I want you to enjoy a little happiness for a moment or two. You deserve it.' She could hardly tell the peasant lass that she had provided Eliza's first step into the world of the gentry, and for that she must be rewarded appropriately.

‘I'll run and fetch your dinner, Miss. And thank ‘ee. From the bottom of my heart.'

Eliza eased herself into a chair beside the window and looked out into the evening. She had passed her first test as a gentlewoman. Now a new world lay open to her — a world in which she could begin her search for Harry De Havilland.

At dusk next evening, the coach pulled up outside a small Sydney Town hotel that had struggled, and failed, to achieve the pretentiousness that would attract the wealthier visitor. Eliza made out the name Kangaroo Inn in faded paint atop the façade facing the street — George Street, she had observed as the coach turned off the highway a few minutes earlier.

‘Dinner is served in the dining room.' The concierge pointed. ‘Will
madame
?'

‘Thank you. First I must attend to my toilette.' She touched the brim of her hat, smoothed her skirts.

‘Of course, madam. Shall I tell the maître d' you require a table in, say, half an hour?'

‘Thank you.' Eliza ascended the stairs confidently, looking forward to the solitude and quiet of her room.

Soon she sat alone in the Princess Adelaide suite, the hotel's most expensive, apparently aimed at wealthy gentlewomen travelling alone. The concierge had read her clothes, her bearing, her accent, then offered her the finest room. She observed the depth of his bow when she accepted, and paid the tariff in advance. She was three parts a gentlewoman already. The rest should be easy.

A week later Eliza moved into her new house. She had bought the place immediately after inspecting it, finding the cost trifling by comparison with the healthy balance in her newly opened bank account, and the expectation of generous annual earnings from the investments in her portfolio. The house was three storeys high, with low-ceilinged servants' quarters at ground level, and two generously constructed floors above. A high stone fence with an iron gate faced the street and a stable opened onto a lane at the rear. Later she might buy a coach and horses, but not yet. Any place she might wish to visit was a mere ten minutes' walk away. This took her to the centre of the town, with its churches, markets, shops and dock towers.

What next? She would fit out her house with furniture, knick-knacks, a larder full of pots and pans and cooking ingredients. She would employ servants. She smiled as she recalled some of her fellow passengers on the
Swan
. Whatever came to pass, she must never make the mistake of recruiting one of them. But setting up house would not give her the diversion her mind hungered for. She pictured herself sitting in the large drawing room reading, dreaming of Harry. Never knitting or embroidery. She was simply not mentally equipped for such pastimes. When night fell after her first day in residence, she sat on a wooden crate in the drawing room and looked about her, imagined the room decked with elegant furniture. Imagined Harry seated on the sofa, next to her. Imagined his hand, his lips, reach for hers…

One morning, after she'd lived in her new house for a week, she took a walk round the harbour foreshore. As she had heard, it provided a pleasant distraction. She passed Mrs Macquarie's Chair, the place where the wife of former Governor Macquarie had ordered a seat to be built so that she could sit and contemplate the sea, all the while looking in the direction of her beloved Scotland. As Eliza returned through the town to complete the circuit back to Woolloomooloo, a man fell into step beside her. He was young, dressed in gentleman's attire from elegant hat to polished shoes with silver buckles. A lock of curly light brown hair fluttered
across his brow in the breeze. At odds with this pleasant picture was a large, much stitched and repaired canvas sack he carried on his shoulder.

‘A pleasant day for walking, is it not, Mrs Bentleigh?'

‘Er, indeed.' She maintained her pace and direction. How did the man know her name?

‘I sincerely beg your indulgence, ma'am. Addressing you informally before we have been introduced. But I am your next door neighbour. Horatio Cathcart at your service, ma'am.' He dropped a mock bow as he walked, then smiled, a smile that Eliza must describe as disarming. ‘Mr Thompson — he negotiated the sale of your house — he told me your name.'

‘All is forgiven, Mr Cathcart.' Eliza smiled back, enjoying the moment, resisting the reflex urge to curtsy in return. Never before in her life had she exchanged words with a dashing young gentleman as if she were his equal. She spoke inwardly to herself. Eliza Downing. You are become a gentlewoman. Now conduct yourself as such.

‘Perhaps,' He beamed as he spoke. ‘I may be of assistance to you as you…acclimatise to the neighbourhood.' His smile widened.

‘Indeed.' Eliza returned his smile. ‘I trust you to inform me of any bunyips which may lurk hereabouts.' She had learned the local word for hidden monsters from her Aboriginal pupils during her time at the mission. If she dropped the name in easy conversation, it might tactfully inform the dashing young Mr Cathcart that she had not arrived on the last ship from Southampton.

‘Mmm. The only bunyip here in Woolloomooloo is Miss Aynsleigh. A near neighbour to both of us. Eighty years old if she's a day, and always lying in wait for anyone who so much as drops a scrap of paper in our street. We are high society, you understand.'

‘Thank you. I must ever be on my guard against Miss Aynsleigh, then.'

‘Not too obviously on your guard, I trust. Miss Aynsleigh has a habit of inviting neighbours to
soirées
. She sings obscure ditties from her Home County — Kent, I believe — and accompanies herself on the harpsichord. And she serves truly irresistible cakes and tea. You have been warned.'

He beamed his friendly, outgoing smile again. It was to be hoped that the man wished to become her friend rather than her husband. For her part, she might become good friends with Mr Cathcart. As she looked at the odd contrast of an elegant young gentleman carrying an ancient sack, he registered her puzzlement.

‘Forgive my baggage. I come from the docks, Darling Harbour. I made a visit to the South Coast to buy land. My manservant is unaware of my return, so I'm obliged to become my own carter.'

‘Land? On the South Coast? Why?'

‘Haven't you heard? But then, being a woman…you are newly widowed, are you not?'

‘Indeed.'

‘Well then, the governor let it be known that land may be bought. And all the get-rich-quick gentlemen hereabouts, myself included, have set about dashing through the countryside to grab what land they can under the rules set by the governor. In a trice, all the land within a day's ride of Sydney Town was sold. So I must venture to the South Coast to avail myself of a little parcel of land before it is all taken up.'

‘And did you succeed?'

‘Yes, though I should have preferred a larger parcel. I was assigned one hundred acres. You see, the governor limits the size of a man's parcel according to his wealth.' He held out his hands, palms upward, to show his disappointment.

‘But why should you want land? And so far away from Sydney Town?'

‘Because the price of land is set to explode — thousands of men wanting to buy, and the land hereabouts all taken up. Why, I heard tell of a man who bought a thousand acres at one shilling an acre, then a year later sold it for three shillings an acre. You may not realise, Mrs Bentleigh, that the harbour is awash with ships berthing from London, all loaded to the gunwales with adventurous young blades come to invest their money, or more likely, their family's money, in land.'

‘Well then.' Eliza sensed her long-slumbering mind beginning to wake. ‘If I wish to buy land, what should I do?'

‘You buy land? And you a widow?'

‘I am a resident of the colony of New South Wales. I have sufficient funds in the bank. Why should I not buy land? You say it may well be sold at a profit.'

‘Indeed.' He looked into Eliza's eyes. ‘Mrs Bentleigh, we hardly know one another. Yet I am inclined to help you — if you want my help.'

‘Thank you, Mr…Cathcart.' Eliza chided herself that she had for a moment forgotten the man's name though he had introduced himself but a minute or two before.

‘Well then,' He cleared his throat. ‘We should visit the Land Sales Office.'

‘Thank you, Mr Cathcart. Perhaps you could advise me as to when?'

‘Er, does tomorrow at ten suit?' She watched him digest her unladylike eagerness.

‘Yes indeed,' she answered quickly. ‘My house is Number 10, though I imagine you knew that.'

‘Indeed. Greetings from the owner of Number 8. I'm sure our houses converse with each other often.'

‘I rather meant would you care to offer me transport in your carriage? I have yet to find time to equip myself with the means of transport. I must shop for horses, hay, and carriage. And hire servants, for that matter.'

‘Madam, my carriage, a mere phaeton, to be sure, is at your disposal, ever and always. But the Lands Office is a mere ten minute walk away, across the park. Would my lady prefer…?'

‘Indeed. I should much prefer a bracing walk.'

Next morning at ten precisely, according to the new clock ticking in her hallway, Eliza answered the gentle knock on the front door of her new house, regretting that she had not yet acquired a lady's maid to attend to such duties. The glowing Mr Cathcart, dressed as to the manor born, extended an arm as Eliza descended the steps to the street. She declined his arm, and he led the way to the place of business, passing the time of day in the lighthearted manner Eliza was coming to enjoy.