Dorothy Eden (12 page)

This property had been part of their hunting grounds. They were disturbed that white settlers were destroying the game, kangaroos and wallabies, emus, wombats and the giant lizards called goannas. Or so Gilbert had told her. In the past raiding parties of blacks had sometimes attacked small farms. But that time was over. All was peaceful now in these parts.

And if there had once been a gum forest here, there were still plenty of the tall graceful eucalyptus trees, some with white trunks, some mottled, some a pale pearly pink, like human flesh. There was also boxwood, tea tree, wattles and the fascinating blue-grey smoke trees. And down at the creek the willows drooping in the heat.

If there were no water, how did the willows survive?

Actually, there was the tiniest trickle of water surrounded by cracked yellow clay. And on the opposite side of this miserable stream in the shadow of one of the tired willows, a small cross. Two sticks nailed together and tilting sideways.

Surely it wasn’t a grave!

Catching her breath, Eugenia stepped across the tiny rivulet of water.

Unmistakably the mound, covered in dusty weeds and thistles, was a grave. A very small one which must belong to a child. What innocent little creature had breathed her last in this lonely unhallowed spot?

Bending down, Eugenia could decipher letters scratched with a burnt stick on the home-made cross. PRUDENCE.

In the distance white cockatoos, like overblown peonies, screeched in the gum trees. A little wind stirred the heat. A trickle of perspiration ran down Eugenia’s forehead. She caught the long-ago grief that had hung round the lonely little grave, and was filled with a sense of desolation.

What a strange haunted country this was, and how utterly alien she felt.

I
T HAD BEEN A
good satisfying day, Gilbert reflected. At eight o’clock the swift dusk had come down. Now they sat dining by candlelight.

It was exactly as he had imagined it would be when he had returned from England and begun to plan his home. The pleasant civilized evenings spent with his wife after the toil of the day, the occasional conversation, though not too much of that because he didn’t care for chitter-chatter all the time. Nevertheless, this evening Eugenia had been a little too quiet.

She had asked some questions about a child’s grave down at the creek. He had had to make an effort to remember the circumstances. Mrs Jarvis was waiting on the table. Eugenia would have to make other arrangements about that. He had hired the woman to cook, not to wait on table. He found her quiet movements curiously distracting. She must have been well-trained in her youth. Her downcast eyes and expressionless face were faultless. But her neat dress accentuated rather than concealed a certain voluptuousness of figure, which perhaps accounted for his distraction.

‘What were you saying, my love? A child’s grave? Yes, I do remember the circumstances. A family on their way west by bullock waggon had camped down at the creek. It was vintage time, my first vintage. We were pretty busy. A man came up for help. He said his little girl was sick with a fever. He wanted to borrow a horse to go to Parramatta for a doctor. But the child died in the night, before the doctor arrived. So they asked permission to dig a grave by the creek and buried her there. Someone said prayers. Then they packed up and went on.’

‘Leaving her?’ Eugenia said distressfully.

‘What else could they do? This kind of thing happens out here.’

‘Was the mother very upset?’

‘I never saw her. I gave the father a glass of wine. But it was pretty raw and sour and he was in a distressed state. It only made him vomit.’

Eugenia winced.

‘How old was the little girl?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t believe I asked. She was the eldest of four. I suppose she was six or seven.’

Eugenia’s face in the candlelight looked very pale. Her eyes were intense. She might have been the bereaved mother herself.

‘I told you to keep out of the sun. You shouldn’t have walked down to the creek in the afternoon heat.’

‘I thought I could see water. It looked cool. But the leaves of the willows were dropping off.’

‘I’m afraid we’re in for a drought. My vines are ripening too fast. The grapes haven’t enough flavour. At this rate we’ll have to start picking in two or three weeks.’

Eugenia stirred her food with her fork. She exerted herself to make polite conversation.

‘Was everything well since you had been away?’

‘Comparatively. I have a good overseer, Tom Sloan. There have been no fights, which is saying something. One man was caught stealing. He had a bottle of wine under his coat. Meaning to drink it secretly, I expect. Have you given any thought to the garden, my dear?’

‘Did he have to be punished?’

That too intense look in her eyes again. But he liked her sensitivity.

‘The fellow stealing the wine? I let him off with a reprimand. Since I had just brought my bride home. He can count himself lucky. He owes his reprieve to you.’

‘Otherwise what would his punishment have been?’

‘A dozen lashes. Now why do you look at me like that? I don’t enjoy administering punishment any more than the poor wretch who gets it. But you must understand that these men are felons. Look at what happened last night.’

Eugenia pushed damp hair off her brow.

‘I would rather not talk about that. I have been trying to forget it. Could we have our coffee on the verandah?’

‘Of course. Splendid idea.’

They rocked gently in their rocking chairs in the warm darkness. Gilbert pointed out the southern cross, and other constellations, then, when Eugenia was silent, fell silent himself. He could see the pale blur of her face, her quiet figure. He wanted to move nearer and take her hand in his, but desisted. Tonight she was too remote, wrapped in private thoughts. He intended to be very gentle later. He had had an occasional fleeting feeling of anxiety that he had allowed his desire to get out of hand last night. He had been so excited and stimulated by the sight of his bride trapping a felon that he had been unable to control himself. He had hoped Eugenia had understood his passion.

She had been so quiet all day that he had been forced to have those vague feelings of remorse. But tonight, in their own home in that elegant French bed which had made him laugh with a distinctly sensual pleasure when he had seen it, he would make amends. If amends were required.

‘I will plant honeysuckle to climb up the verandah posts,’ Eugenia said at last, dreamily. ‘Do you remember the honeysuckle over the summerhouse at Lichfield? It used to scent the mornings and evenings.’

‘It will remind you of home,’ Gilbert said.

‘Yes. Do you object to that?’

‘By no means. Plant all the things that make you happy. Rose-beds, perennial borders, yew trees, whatever you can persuade to grow.’

‘I will make a beautiful garden. A lily pool, a sundial, a yew walk, climbing roses for shade.’ She sighed. ‘But it will take a lifetime.’

‘Growth is quick here. Anyway, we have a lifetime.’

Now he did reach over and take her hand. She didn’t resist. Her own, small and warm and dry, lay within his. His heart began to beat faster. He tried to check his rising excitement, remembering, as he hadn’t done last night, that this delicately bred woman would have to be taught, patiently and gently, to return passion. But on the whole he liked that. He wouldn’t have it any other way. Even if she never did… But she would, of course. At least she would always welcome him into her arms.

As if she read his thoughts she stirred, and said that she would go upstairs. Would he be late in coming to bed?

Was there eagerness in her voice ? He would like to have thought so. When she had talked about the garden she had sounded animated, though there had been a febrile edge to her voice that had made him think of someone whistling in the dark to keep his spirits up.

It would be different when all those plants she talked of were growing and she could watch them every day. And perhaps a seed would be growing inside her. A child would be the thing to make her settle down happily.

Yarrabee, his vineyard, this tremendous country he loved and with which he now absolutely identified himself. And this fragile elegant exciting woman. Would heaven strike because he had too much?

When he went upstairs half an hour later Eugenia, in a white lawn nightgown with lace at the high neck and wrists, was sitting up in bed, her fine dark hair loose and shining. She had obviously made every effort to be as attractive for him as was possible. A light flowery scent hung in the air. A blue silk bedrobe hung over a chair. The curtains were drawn and the room looked dim and mysterious in the candlelight, with the big bed, and its quiet almost ghostly occupant.

This was more like a wedding night, Gilbert thought with pleasure. This was different from that hot squalid room last night and the lumpy bed and the lovemaking he had not intended.

The only thing wrong, he realized, as he came closer, was his bride’s face. It was tense with apprehension.

He made himself delay a hasty undressing, and instead sat on the side of the bed and talked.

‘We must write and thank your grandmother for such a splendid wedding present. I shouldn’t think there’s a finer bed in Australia.’

‘It’s French.’

‘I know, you told me so, and I can see it for myself. That elaborate headboard. I remember nothing but solid mahogany beds and heavy curtains in England. Very sombre. This is delightfully foreign.’

‘My parents thought it a little frivolous. All those garlands and cupids. I hardly knew how you would like it.’

‘I like it immensely. It will be a feature of Yarrabee. Like the Venetian wine glasses, and the Chinese silk wallpaper.’

‘I haven’t heard anything of either of those.’

‘Neither had I until this minute. You have inspired me to these ideas. My wine will require the glasses, and my wife the setting of a beautiful room. I know a sea captain who goes regularly to the East. He will get the silk for the walls, and silk for dresses, too, if you want it. And I know how to get the wine glasses, through an importer in Sydney. You must have realized we weren’t living in the wilderness after seeing Vaucluse. There are other homes in New South Wales that are just as fine.’

She was catching his mood.

‘I have brought family silver. It’s in the packing cases that haven’t yet been opened. And a lot of other things. Pictures, ornaments, rugs. A sampler I made when I was a child. A rocking horse.’ She laughed a little but her laughter trembled. ‘Mamma said I should bring that, although it seemed—well, how does one know?’

Gilbert sprang up.

‘Venetian goblets or not, we still have glasses out of which to drink wine. Where’s your maid? No, I’ll get them myself.’

‘Get what? Why?’

‘Only a glass of madeira to make you sleep. It’s not even of my own brewing.’

He thought this was an inspiration. Only Mrs Jarvis saw him return upstairs with the silver tray holding the bottle and glasses. She paused, then went quickly out into the courtyard as if she might have thought she was witnessing something private.

It was private, too, the fact that he had to make his wife relax and look loving. But not unusual. Far from it. Though it would have been better if he had had this aphrodisiac last night.

‘This is Spanish wine,’ he explained, as he poured the ruby liquid into the long-stemmed glasses. ‘I brought over a supply to carry me through until my own wines were ready. I still have a couple of dozen bottles. Now savour it, and tell me what difference you can detect between this and the Yarrabee claret we had at dinner.’

Eugenia sipped obediently, holding the glass in her narrow white hands. She was intent on trying to give an answer that would be intelligent enough to please him.

‘Does it taste more smoothly on one’s tongue?’

‘You’re perfectly right,’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘That’s because it has been bottled for several years. The flavour improves.

The rawness disappears. And the colour—’ He held up his glass, fascinated as always by the rich colour of red wine. There was nothing in the world like it. ‘Drink it up, my love. After a couple of glasses of this the world looks as rosy as the wine.’

‘Isn’t that—d-dangerous?’

Her tongue was already tripping delightfully over her words. The colour was coming into her cheeks.

She frowned a little. ‘I can hear people singing.’

‘That’s the servants. They’ll have had their rum issue.’

‘Rum?’

‘Unfortunately their tastes have been corrupted. Rum has been the drink that has saved their reason. Or so they think. But I intend to educate them differently. Let me quote from another Australian who brought some of the first vine cuttings here. Mr James Busby said, “Now I think it is extremely likely that if each farmhouse possessed its vineyard and produced a sufficiency of wine to supply the wants of all the labourers employed on the farm, as well as the farmer’s own family, a deadly blow would be given the ruinous habit of the farmer himself indulging daily in the excessive use of spirits and his free labourer running every time he received his wages to the nearest public house.”’

He paused. ‘How does that seem to you, as the farmer’s wife?’

‘I hadn’t heard of your ruinous habits, my love. But as an exercise in memory, you have done very well.’

Her dry voice, and the gleam in her eyes, pleased him. Another glass, and he would begin to undress.

‘But I shall never like the taste,’ she said presently, putting her glass down.

‘What, not even in France, at your uncle’s chateau?’

‘I pretended,’ she admitted, showing a dimple in her cheek.

Now he had to undress quickly, and blow the candles out. His self-discipline had come to an end. He wanted her nightgown over her head and that slight body in his arms. And gently… Gently, if he could…

So gently that she gave only one small cry…

From the beginning Eugenia had seen through Gilbert’s careful plan. She had had her own plans, the nightgown she and Sarah had made with such loving care, the brushing she had asked Jane to give her hair, a hundred strokes, and then ten more for good measure, the perfume, the welcoming picture she had made sitting up in bed when Gilbert had come in. She had even allowed her head to get dizzy with the wine, commending Gilbert’s good sense, for when he had pinched out the candles and she had lain down in the darkness, she had felt as if she were floating as lightly as a cloud.