The Lost Sapphire (20 page)

The next morning, Violet, Imogen, Edie and Audrey were drinking tea on the northern terrace, seated on green wicker chairs at a round wicker table overlooking the croquet lawn. A fairy wren, with its iridescent blue markings, flitted back and forth above their heads.

The garden was golden in the sunshine, the beds bursting with late spring flowers in shades of mauve, blue, pink and white. Romeo was chasing his own shadow around the lawn, and Juliet was washing her paw on the top step, pretending not to notice the birds.

The four girls were having a progress meeting to discuss the Russian Ball. Edie and Imogen had updated them on delivery of the invitations, advertising and ticket sales.

Afterwards, Violet explained her ideas for the decorations and entertainment. The others listened, making suggestions and asking questions where necessary. Lastly, she showed the sketches she had drawn for the costumes and sets.

Audrey placed her teacup into its saucer. ‘I must say that you've done a splendid job, Violet. These drawings are marvellous – and I love the idea of the
mazurka
dance and the gypsy songs. It will make the whole event far more remarkable than your run-of-the-mill charity ball.'

Saunders came out through the French doors, carrying a silver salver. There were a number of envelopes on the tray with a bone-handled letter opener.

‘Mr Theodore Ramsay has called to see you, Miss Hamilton,' Saunders announced. ‘Shall I tell him that you are otherwise engaged?'

‘No need, Saunders,' Imogen replied. ‘Please show him in and ask Mrs Darling to send another pot of tea.'

‘Very good, Miss Hamilton,' said Saunders.

Audrey pulled on her gloves. ‘I think we've covered everything for now. We'll leave you to see Mr Ramsay.'

Everyone rose to their feet to say their farewells. Imogen quickly checked her hair.

Saunders offered the salver to Violet. ‘Two letters for you in the post today, Miss Violet.'

Violet felt her heart pound with excitement as she took the envelopes and the letter opener. A quick glance at the back of each revealed that they were from two of the newspapers where she had sent her article. Her hands were trembling so much that she had trouble slitting the envelope.

But good manners meant that she could not read her
mail until she had said goodbye to Audrey and Edie, and exchanged pleasantries with Theodore Ramsay. Sally arrived with the fresh pot of tea, and Imogen and Violet resumed their seats.

Theodore was shown in and stood at the edge of the terrace, looking out at the garden. Violet took the opportunity to peek at her letters while Theodore and Imogen exchanged news. The first letter was a disappointment: the editor of the paper with the biggest circulation in Melbourne regretted that he would not publish her article, but he wished her good luck with her future writing. Violet quickly pulled out the second letter, feeling hopeful, but this one was worse. The editor's secretary had sent a short form letter, saying that her submission could not be accepted. Two out of the three newspapers had said no. All that work for nothing.

‘Are you quite well, Violet?' Imogen asked quietly. ‘You look rather pale.'

Violet pulled herself together, hiding the letters in her lap. ‘No, it's nothing. Could I have another cup of tea please?'

‘So have you had a pleasant morning?' Theodore asked, taking a seat as Imogen poured the tea.

‘Yes, we've been planning the Russian Ball,' replied Imogen. ‘We've sold nearly half our tickets, so we've almost covered our costs. If we sell the remaining tickets, we'll make a tidy sum for the Russian Relief Fund.'

Theodore took a sip of tea. ‘Well then, I suppose it doesn't matter whether you get any more people, so long as you've covered your costs. It will be a jolly evening, I'm sure. A bit of fun for you girls.'

Violet bristled – Theodore always seemed to irritate her. Romeo barked under the table. The dog apparently didn't like Theodore either.

‘Not just fun,' Imogen corrected him. ‘We do hope to make nearly two hundred pounds. The Russian Relief Fund says that every pound will save a child's life.'

Theodore put his hand in his breast pocket and pulled out a cheque book. ‘Well, in that case, I'd better buy my ticket. Will twenty pounds cover it?'

Imogen's eyes widened. ‘The tickets are twelve shillings six pence …'

Theodore wrote out the cheque, signed it with a flourishing hand and presented it to Imogen. ‘And the rest is a donation to your ball fund – I am assured it will be a huge success.'

‘That's kind of you,' Violet said.

Theodore turned to face Imogen. ‘Now, I was wondering if I might be able to have a private word with you?'

Imogen glanced at Violet in alarm, laughing nervously. ‘I'm … I'm sure we can talk in front of Violet.'

‘There's no impropriety,' Theodore assured her. ‘I have already spoken with your father at the factory this morning, and I have his approval to speak with you.'

Imogen looked to Violet in mute appeal.

Violet paused for a moment, then gathered up the letters from her lap and pushed back her chair. ‘I'll just work on my scrapbook in the morning room. Call me if you need me, Immy.'

Romeo stalked after her, clearly ignoring the interloper.

The morning room had French doors leading onto the terrace. Violet sat at the round table and began laying
out her mementoes – the invitation to the Russian Ball, photographs she had taken around Riversleigh and in Richmond, cinema tickets, the drawings she had kept of Katya's, swatches from her new dresses, her own sketches.

Violet wasn't exactly eavesdropping, but Theodore's booming voice carried easily through the open doors: ‘My dear Imogen, would you do me the honour of becoming my wife?'

Violet put down the gluepot.
Theodore to marry Imogen?

‘It's beautiful but … I'm not –' Imogen began before Theodore interrupted.

‘I know you're only seventeen, but I think we'll make a good match. Our fathers are already business associates, so it makes sense to align the companies more closely. And now that your father has no sons, he assures me that if we marry you will inherit the house and half the assets.'

‘But it's –' Imogen's voice quavered.

‘Mother thinks we should be married at Scots Church next spring, after your eighteenth birthday, then we can have the wedding reception here at Riversleigh,' Theodore continued. ‘You don't have your own mother to help you, so Mother said not to worry – she'll make all the arrangements to ensure it's the wedding of the year. Then we can travel to Europe for six months for our honeymoon.'

‘I don't …' Imogen tried to respond but sounded dazed.

‘Of course it's a lot for you to take in, Imogen dear,' Theodore soothed. ‘I imagine you are feeling rather overwhelmed, but you needn't – I'll take care of everything for you.'

‘Daddy knows you're asking me to marry you?' Imogen asked, her voice desperate now.

Violet felt sick with dread. She longed to rush in and stop this nonsense altogether, but it would be terribly bad manners to interfere in her sister's wedding proposal. She had to sit with gritted teeth and wait until Theodore left.

‘He's absolutely delighted,' Theodore assured her. ‘Oh, I nearly forgot … I have a little present to match the engagement ring, something for you to wear to your Russian Ball.'

There was a scraping sound as Theodore rose from his chair.

‘It's stunning, Theodore, but I can't take it,' Imogen said. ‘I need time to think.'

‘Nonsense, Imogen,' Theodore insisted. ‘You know I'm mad about you, and we'll make a very handsome couple – I won't take no for an answer. We'll be very happy. Now I'd better be getting on.'

Imogen made some indecipherable reply.

‘Don't worry about calling for the butler; I can show myself out. And Mother says she'll telephone you to organise a little dinner to celebrate at our house and a visit to Madame Collette's to buy the clothes for your bridal trousseau. She said to tell you it's such a triumph for you to be engaged so early in your first season and not to worry – she'll send the announcement to the newspapers today.'

Theodore took himself back inside through the side corridor and was gone.

Violet jumped up and went out to Imogen, who was staring at the pearl ring on her finger. Around her throat was a long double strand of perfect, creamy pearls.

‘Immy, are you all right?' Violet asked.

‘I … Daddy wants me to marry Theodore …' Imogen looked utterly miserable.

Violet gave her a hug. ‘You can't marry Theodore. You love Tommy.'

Imogen burst into tears. ‘But what's the
right
thing to do?' She twisted the ring on her finger. ‘I don't know. I just don't know.'

Violet handed her a handkerchief. ‘The
right
thing to do is to return Theodore's ring and tell him that you can't get engaged until you are sure,' she insisted. ‘You know that's what Mamma would tell you if she was here.'

‘But Mamma's not here, is she?' Imogen retorted. ‘She left us. And Daddy hates Tommy because he's poor and Catholic, and he approves of Theodore because he's rich and Anglican and they're in business together.'

‘But it's about who
you
love.'

Imogen wiped her eyes and sat up tall. ‘Girls like us are supposed to marry wealthy, respectable men. I can't let everyone down. I can't let Daddy down.'

Violet shook Imogen by the shoulder. ‘You can't spend the rest of your life with someone you don't love – you'd be miserable. And if Dad truly loves you, he can't want you to have a miserable life.'

Imogen slept in late on Saturday morning and Mr Hamilton was at his usual golf game, so Violet breakfasted alone. Saunders brought in the freshly ironed newspaper and the post on a silver salver.

‘A letter for you, Miss Violet,' said Saunders. Violet took the envelope and letter opener from the salver. She felt nervous, certain it was a rejection from the third newspaper editor, Mr Gibson.

‘I hope you don't mind my asking, but I was wondering if Miss Imogen was quite well?' asked Saunders, looking concerned. ‘She seemed very pale last night.'

Violet knew perfectly well that the servants must know about the marriage proposals from both Tommy and Theodore. It was impossible to keep secrets in a household full of staff. ‘It's kind of you to ask, Saunders. Imogen's still sleeping, and I hope she'll feel better soon.'

‘Very good, Miss Violet.' Saunders placed the newspaper
on the table. ‘Please let me or Mrs Darling know if there is anything at all we can do to help either of you.'

Violet felt comforted by his concern. ‘We do appreciate it, Saunders.' When Saunders withdrew, Violet finally opened the letter and read it.

He's going to publish my article
, Violet thought, hugging the letter to her chest.
My article will be published in one of Melbourne's top newspapers
. Violet was so excited that she decided to go at once on an expedition to Richmond to take more photographs.

She set off walking, camera case over her shoulder, towards Hawthorn Bridge. She stopped in the middle of the bridge and looked down at the green-brown Yarra River, flowing fast below her. Its swirling eddies refracted the reflections of weeping willows and majestic gums. To her right were the spacious estates and hilly parklands of wealthy Hawthorn, with their elms, oaks and pines. To her left was the dilapidated, flat Richmond slums.

A tram rattled past across the bridge, filled with workers on their way home for Saturday lunch. Violet jumped and swung around as it rang its bell. She took a deep breath and set off, crossing to the other side of the bridge. Once again, the energy felt quite different as soon as she crossed the river, moving from quiet gentility to working-class bustle. She felt brave and daring to be walking on her own among the crowds. She hated to think what her father would say – nothing good, she was certain about that!

Violet pulled her camera from its case and slung the strap around her neck. As she walked up Bridge Road, past the tram sheds, she heard a commotion from one of the side streets. For a moment she thought about turning back and heading home, but curiosity enticed her and she turned down River Street towards the clamour.

On the river side of the road were a number of large factories with smokestacks, surrounded by smaller sheds. One of these sheds had Ramsay's Tannery painted in large letters on the wall.
This must be Theodore's family business, which supplies Dad with his leather
, thought Violet.

Gathered outside the tannery was a large group of men, who were yelling and catcalling, but the mood of the crowd seemed festive rather than angry. Violet took a photograph of the men and stood back watching. Suddenly, she recognised a young boy in an oversized flat cap, standing on the edge of the throng. It was Sally's brother Frank. She strolled towards him.

‘Hello, Frank,' called Violet. ‘What's going on?'

Frank's face was alive with excitement at the novelty of the situation. ‘We've gone on strike, Miss Hamilton.
The bosses say they want the workers to take a pay cut to increase profits. But we won't put up with that.'

‘That doesn't seem fair,' Violet agreed.

‘They're not good bosses here, not like at some of the other factories,' confided Frank. ‘They don't care about their workers.'

‘You mean Mr Ramsay and his son?'

‘Yeah. We call the son Lord Muck, because he comes in wearing his film-star clothes, swans around for a few minutes givin' orders with his nose wrinkled up from the smell, then drives off in his fancy Bentley.'

Violet laughed at the perfect description of Theodore. ‘So are you enjoying working here, despite Lord Muck?' she asked.

‘I don't mind it,' said Frank. ‘The other boys are fun, an' I'm even gettin' used to the smell.'

Violet chatted to Frank for a few minutes about his job. It sounded like dirty, dangerous work.

‘One of the blokes lost his fingers on an unhairing machine last week,' Frank said. ‘They gave him some money, but he'll find it hard to get another job.'

‘That's dreadful,' replied Violet. ‘That poor man …'

‘It happens quite a lot,' Frank said. ‘But don't worry, I'm careful.'

Violet noticed a gang of young men swaggering down the road towards the mob, dressed in flashy suits with fedora hats. They had an air of bravado that seemed threatening. She snapped a quick photograph of them.

‘Look, there's Mr Ramsay's car now,' Frank said as Theodore's familiar red Bentley zoomed down the road and swerved to a stop near the gate that led into
the tannery yard, close to where Violet and Frank were standing. Violet hoped Theodore wouldn't notice her, but he seemed focused on the striking workers.

‘What's going on here?' boomed Theodore. ‘Any man who goes on strike can expect the sack.'

‘That's 'im – Lord Muck and his fancy car,' yelled one of the workers.

‘Boo! Down with the bosses!'

‘Bloated capitalist! Fat on the sweat and blood of 'is workers.'

Violet noticed that the group of swaggering young men had joined the mob of workers and seemed to be stirring up antagonism. There was shouting and fist-shaking as the workers surged forward. Theodore soon disappeared, lost in the crowd.

‘The crowd's getting worked up,' Violet said nervously. ‘Perhaps we should go. I think there might be trouble.'

‘Those lads who came down don't work at Ramsay's,' said Frank. ‘They're larrikins from a local push. The gang entertain themselves by getting into fights, smashing shop windows and streetlights, and scaring old ladies.'

One of the gang members wrenched some timber palings off a nearby fence, snapped them in half and handed them out as weapons. Violet could feel the aggression ripple through the air, sharp as an unsheathed knife.

‘I'm going to fetch the police,' Violet decided, feeling anxious for Theodore.

Frank pulled back on her arm. ‘No. They'll only cause trouble.'

Violet could never be sure what happened next, but one moment she and Frank were standing apart from the
crowd and the next it had surged forward, surrounding her and Frank. Fear gripped Violet's throat.

‘Miss Violet,' cried a familiar voice. ‘Violet, over here.' She wrenched her head around – it was Nikolai, his face pale and anxious. He was wearing a tweed suit and flat cap instead of his chauffeur's uniform. Violet almost didn't recognise him. He struggled through the jostling bodies towards her.

‘We need to get out of here,' he warned. ‘This crowd is turning nasty.'

‘How did you find me?' asked Violet. ‘How did you know where I was?'

Nikolai pulled her forward by the arm, through the angry crowd. Violet grabbed Frank's hand and towed him along, too.

‘I was catching a tram home for my half day off,' Nikolai yelled over the hubbub. ‘I saw you crossing Hawthorn Bridge and was worried. It's not safe to be walking around the streets of Richmond on your own. So I jumped off the tram and came looking for you.'

‘Thank you, Nikolai. I'm grateful,' Violet shouted. ‘We were watching from afar, taking some photographs, then suddenly we were swallowed by the crowd.'

Nikolai glanced over his shoulder, scanning the throng, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. ‘I've seen mobs like this in Russia. They can turn murderous in moments. We need to get away
fast
.'

The angry mob surged forward, dragging the three of them along with it.

Violet saw a Richmond Push lad pull a glass jar filled with liquid out of his bag. He threw it against the tannery
wall, where it smashed, releasing a strong stench of petrol. Violet automatically lifted her camera from around her neck, roughly aimed it and shot off a photograph of the lad tossing another jar towards the factory.

A second push member did the same. Then he flicked a burning match towards the spilled petrol. The effect was instantaneous. Flames roared into the air. The blaze licked the windows, the door, the walls, racing out of control as it took hold of the aged timber soaked with the grease from thousands of animal hides. A shout of excitement went up from the mob.

‘Fire,' yelled one of the workers. ‘Fire!'

The crowd pulled away from the flames. Violet knew she had to capture the chaotic scene on film. She lifted her camera and shot photos, regardless of keeping steady or framing shots. There simply wasn't time, and Nikolai was dragging her back.

Violet realised that she'd finished her first film and quickly wound it back into its cartridge. She opened the camera and slipped the finished one into her pocket, quickly winding on the second film and snapping the back of the camera closed.

‘Come on, Violet,' Nikolai hissed. ‘It's not safe. We've got to go.'

Violet shot off another couple of photographs of the men jostling, illuminated from behind by the flames, and the Richmond Push lads attacking Theodore's car with their fence palings, smashing the headlights and denting the duco.

‘Look, she 'as a camera!' warned one of the push lads.

Violet heard him and turned to flee. Nikolai put his arm around her protectively, hugging her to his side.

‘They've seen you, miss,' warned Frank. ‘You'd better get out of here. They won't like you takin' photos.'

Nikolai and Frank started to run, but a big, burly man barrelled into Violet. He clutched her arm, leering in her face, his breath rank with alcohol and raw onion.

‘Not so fast, young lady,' he sneered. ‘I'll take that.' The ruffian snatched the camera from Violet's hands and flicked the back latch.

‘Leave her alone,' Nikolai demanded, battling back through the throng to help her.

‘No,' cried Violet. ‘You'll ruin the film.'

The man grabbed the film and ripped it out of its cartridge, exposing it to the light. He thrust the camera back in Violet's hands, and she clutched it desperately.

‘That's the idea,' he slurred. ‘Can't have you takin' incriminatin' photos now, can we? You're lucky I don't smash your camera as well. Better get home where it's safe, missy.'

Violet planned to do exactly that when a loud whistle sounded from up on the main road. A group of policemen came running, their truncheons at the ready. The crowd dispersed and men began running for the side streets and laneways. A man burst between Violet and Nikolai, breaking them apart. Violet felt her hat get knocked off and saw it trampled underfoot.

‘It's the coppers,' yelled one of the protesters. ‘Get out of here!'

‘Come on,' Nikolai urged. ‘He's right.'

Running through the throng was like battling a huge wave. Violet and Frank were swept one way. Nikolai was swept another. Truncheon blows fell down on shoulders,
heads and backs. Violet saw Nikolai sink under a rain of blows.

‘Nikolai!' she screamed.

‘Go home!' Nikolai yelled, his arms flailing to protect himself.

Frank was pushed over by the surge. He fell flat on his belly and cried out in agony as dozens of tramping boots stomped over him.

Violet leaned down and dragged Frank, who was whimpering in pain, to his feet. She searched in vain for Nikolai, but he had been swept away. Violet didn't know what to do. She searched the crowd fruitlessly. A block away, men were being arrested and shoved into the back of two police cars.

Frank retched and groaned, holding his side. His face was white as a cloud. Violet decided that her priority was to lead him to safety.

‘Come on, Frank,' Violet whispered. ‘Let's get you back to Sally.'

‘I feel crook,' Frank gasped. ‘My ribs feel like they're on fire.'

Violet murmured reassuringly, ‘It'll be all right.' She carefully pulled his arm around her shoulder and set off, carrying his weight.

Violet looked back at the top of the road, scanning the crowd. Men were fighting and fleeing, but there was no still sign of Nikolai. Violet bit the inside of her cheek. There was nothing she could do. At last, she turned away. Nikolai had survived Bolshevik soldiers, starvation and violence. She was sure he would be all right.

It was a long walk back to Riversleigh with Frank
injured. Finally, they sneaked around the back of the house and came in through the servants' entrance. Violet sat Frank down in the servants' dining room and searched for Sally.

Sally and Mrs Darling were in the kitchen mending linen. They leapt to their feet as soon as they realised it was Violet.

‘Miss Violet, whatever's the matter?' asked Mrs Darling. ‘You look terrible.'

Violet forced a smile to reassure her. ‘Sally, please don't panic, but your brother Frank is here – he's been injured in a strike riot.'

‘Cripes,' said Sally, her face crumpling. ‘How bad is he?'

Mrs Darling raced into the dining room to check over Frank and wash his wounds. ‘I think the poor lad has broken some ribs,' she said. ‘He'd better stay here the night. Sally, you can make him a bed in the men's quarters.'