Dorothy Eden (26 page)

‘I feel a little tired, Ellen. Ask Mrs Jarvis to send me up a tray, with a little soup and some thin toast. I intend to rest here quietly for the afternoon.’

‘Very well, ma’am.’

‘I will come in and see Baby at bedtime, of course.’

‘Yes, ma’am.’

Ellen bobbed and withdrew. She was really learning to curtsey quite well, Eugenia thought, sitting back luxuriously and plunging deep into the dream.
You live in my heart…

Baby was enchanting. He crawled, and made funny attempts to stand upright on uncertain fat legs. He clapped his chubby fists together, and gave deep gurgles of laughter. He was very handsome and knew already that he had a slavish following, more especially his foster sister who delighted in retrieving his toys and handing them to him solemnly.

‘She spoils him,’ Mrs Ashburton said darkly. ‘Starting like this in his cradle, that young man will expect women to wait on him all his life.’

‘And I expect they will,’ Mrs Jarvis answered, thinking that Christopher had his father’s eyes, deeply blue, very alive. The kind of eyes a woman couldn’t resist.

Little Rosie also took after her father, but in this case not so fortunately. Harry Jarvis had had narrow features and slightly slanted brown eyes. He had been a wisp of a man, and Rosie had inherited his small bones, his straight brown hair and the strange tilted eyes. She was a queer little elf. It was possible she would make an appealing enough young woman, but doubtful, Mrs Ashburton thought. She hadn’t any of her mother’s handsomeness.

They were all looking forward to the new baby. Eugenia, poor child, who suffered so much in the early months of pregnancy, seemed to have got over that trouble now, and was looking much more cheerful. Although she sat at her writing desk too much, writing those endless letters. She was becoming an obsessive letter-writer. But perhaps that was as well. It was an outlet for her, now that her social life had to be severely curtailed. She did little more than drive to church each Sunday, and make an occasional visit to her friend Mrs Bourke who was ailing, and homesick for England.

The baby was due at the time that the grapes began to ripen. So far the weather had been ideal. The vines that had survived the big frost were bearing in profusion, the new cuttings had flourished. One didn’t dare to look more than a day ahead in this sort of life, but it almost seemed that new baby and new vintage were both going to be a profound success.

There was one problem, however. Doctor Noakes had expressed it as his opinion that Eugenia was not the type of woman who would have a free flow of milk. So either another young woman expecting a child at the same time must be found, or Eugenia might prefer to try the more difficult method of rearing her baby on cow’s milk.

Mrs Jarvis expressed her opinion that the latter course was the best. Perhaps she was jealous of another woman having what had been her privilege. Maternity had developed her figure. She was a fine full-bosomed woman now, and it was strange that she had not married again. There were others beside Tom Sloan who admired her. But she kept her eyes lowered, her mouth prim. No one knew what she thought or hoped for. Perhaps she already had all she wanted.

The sun that was so beneficial to the ripening grapes was torture to Eugenia, in her last weeks of pregnancy. She wandered about the darkened room, limp and exhausted. Only in the early morning, or in the evening, did she venture outdoors, and then she did no more than walk across the parched lawn, pausing now and then to sniff a wilting rose or admire some new feature of Peabody’s genius. For it was genius that kept anything alive and in flower this summer. Except, of course, the hardy native plants that blazed with their outrageous crimsons and purples.

Peabody, carrying endless buckets of water, shared the garden with the mistress in the brilliant mornings and warm golden evenings. He paid special attention to the white climbers because he knew she loved them. She looked like them herself in her pale trailing gowns. A bucket of water round their roots revived the roses, but the mistress quietly dried up in the heat, her eyes becoming larger and her face paler as her stomach grew.

When the sun at last sank and the gum trees stood crow-black and lonely against the paling sky, she would revive a little, and make some remarks.

‘The night stock smells so sweet, Peabody. Could we have more of it next year? And Mrs Bourke has promised me some carnation cuttings from the Government House garden. Do you think we can persuade them to grow in this rusty soil?’

‘Ain’t done bad so far, my lady. All the things you thought couldn’t be done—the roses and the sweet williams and the peonies. All flourishing.’

‘That’s due to your watering, Peabody. Supposing the wells were to run dry. Mr Massingham says that’s a thing that can happen.’

‘The trees will have grown up by next summer. You’ll have more shade. Won’t need so much water. And I aim to lay gravel on the paths to keep down the dust. I thought of planting rhododendrons down at the bottom. Make a nice patch of green.’

‘I’d like some lilacs,’ Eugenia said. ‘Purple lilac and red and white rhododendrons. It would be nice if we could persuade wild primroses to grow.’

‘You can’t have everything, my lady. If you’re going to be able to pick ripe lemons and oranges in your garden, you’ll have to do without such delicate things as primroses. You’ve got to admit some things in this country has their advantages.’

Eugenia sighed. ‘Yes, Peabody. You’re perfectly right. But don’t you ever get homesick?’

The old man scowled furiously. ‘I’ll give myself time for a thought or two in that direction when I lie on my dying bed.’ He picked up his gardening fork to stump off. ‘Primroses is all right in their place. Pale things. I’d give you them if I could, my lady.’

At the end of the summer it was Mrs Bourke, the Governor’s wife, who was overcome by the heat. She took to her bed, her thin sweet face that had been slowly growing more and more waxy and delicate turned the colour of candle tallow, and in three short weeks she was dead.

Gilbert wanted to keep the news from Eugenia. Mrs Ashburton said bluntly, ‘How?’ So the sad information was imparted, and Eugenia said, ‘Gilbert, if I die when the baby is born I would like to be buried near to Mrs Bourke. She was my dearest friend in this wilderness.’

‘What absolute poppycock!’ Gilbert exploded with outrage. He didn’t know what else to say. He hated melancholy, he would have protected Eugenia from it, if he could. Her white face looked like a pearl in the shaded room. She was entirely too quiet. Why didn’t she cry or have the vapours or something, and get rid of her grief?

He could only tell her that the second baby would be easier than the first. Hadn’t Phil Noakes said so?

And there was to be absolutely no question of her going to Mrs Bourke’s funeral. She could have Peabody pick a sheaf of flowers from the garden and he would take them to Parramatta.

Eugenia stirred at last. ‘I will choose them myself.’

This task, however, was not finished, for before Peabody could complete cutting the lilies and the delphiniums, Eugenia had to tell him apologetically that she would have to go indoors, she had a sudden severe attack of cramp.

Her baby, a fragile little female creature not much bigger than a tadpole, with her mother’s enormous smoky-blue eyes, was born that night. She was six weeks too early, but she had a lusty cry. When the tiny head lay in the crook of her arm, Eugenia had a feeling of tenderness so deep that it was almost pain. She had not felt like that about her first baby. She wondered why.

‘I want her called Victoria,’ she said.

‘Such a big name for such a shrimp,’ said Mrs Ashburton.

‘If she is little she will need an important name.’

‘Then that’s settled,’ Gilbert said.

B
Y THE TIME THE
grapes were ready for picking the baby had overcome the disadvantage of her premature birth and was thriving. To Eugenia’s delight, she had been able to feed her for the important first weeks of her life, after which the change to cow’s milk was made with reasonably little trouble.

The cow Daisy, a placid brindled creature with a crooked horn, was milked morning and evening by Ellen who had taken on this task at her own request. She didn’t want any of those convicts whose hands might not have been clean touching the milk that was to feed the new baby. Little Victoria was her especial charge. After all, Mrs Jarvis had Rosie, and Christopher too, by tacit consent, since he screamed when he was separated from Rosie.

Eugenia’s strong possessiveness about Victoria still puzzled her. The little large-eyed creature was ineffably precious. She was almost secretive about her love for the baby, and kept all mention of her arrival out of her letters to Colm.

How could she have told a lover that she was having another man’s child? How could she inflict such pain on someone who was as sensitive as herself? Better that they should both bury themselves deeper in their dream and write things like,

‘Yarrabee has acquired a ghost. I thought only old houses had them, but I can swear I sometimes see a tall thin Irish shadow on the wall…’

But how explain that she was aware of the ghost less frequently now that she had the new baby to occupy so much of her time? She thought that the intensity of her feeling for Victoria was due to the fact that she had had to accept her as a substitute for her lover. If she couldn’t have Colm and that vividly remembered delight he had given her, she would pour all her emotion into maternal love. If was a defensive device nature had created in her.

She was really surprisingly contented. A return of savage heat as late as the middle of March affected her far less than usual. She was too busy to think too much about it. Baby must be kept as cool as possible, and Christopher, or Kit, as he was beginning to call himself, must be taught to use up less energy in the middle of the day when the heat was at its worst, otherwise he was too cantankerous to be endured by evening.

It was fortunate that Sarah’s latest box arrived from England at this time. It took everyone’s mind off the sweltering weather.

They all clustered round it, Eugenia on her knees on the floor, Mrs Ashburton poking and prying, the maids giving gasps of excitement as the contents were displayed.

A length of grey taffeta—Eugenia made a mental note to write and tell Sarah that grey was a little insipid in this country. One was outshone by the birds.

An exquisitely fine lacy shawl for Baby. A jack-in-the-box for Kit (he screamed with excitement), and a wooden doll for Rosie. Sarah was always eminently fair.

There were lengths of striped gingham for dresses for the maids, and a great assortment of ribbons and coloured silk. And books, which Eugenia seized with delight. And at the bottom of the box half a dozen cravats for Gilbert.

Eugenia, flushed with excitement, sat back on her heels.

‘Kit, darling, fetch Papa. Show him your new toy. Tell him there’s a gift for him.’

She clapped her hands with pleasure when the little boy understood and toddled off calling, ‘Papa, Papa,’ in his high voice.

Presently he returned, followed by Gilbert.

‘What’s this? When did this arrive?’

‘Not half an hour ago. I’m afraid we have made short work of it. Look, I am to have a new gown and you have six new cravats.’

Gilbert folded one round his neck consideringly.

‘Seems I’ll be the best-dressed man in Parramatta.’

‘And about time. You were getting decidedly shabby. Perhaps we might give a dinner party?’

‘Papa, Papa, look!’ Kit cried, holding up his toy.

Gilbert nodded, but his eyes were on Eugenia.

‘You’re looking very pretty. I believe you’re as excited as the children.’

‘Indeed I am. I do so love a box from England. Look at these books. They’ll last all the winter.’ She brushed damp curls from her brow. ‘It’s so hot. As usual, I can’t believe winter exists in this country.’

‘But you’re getting accustomed to the heat, aren’t you? You have quite a colour. You used to be so pale when the temperature was this high.’

‘I admit I can stand it better. That doesn’t mean I
like
it any better.’

Gilbert laughed and swung her to him. Briefly, his hand lay over one breast. She could not quite prevent her tremor as a shatteringly vivid recollection of Colm’s exactly similar action that long-ago day by the lake came to her.

Her face contorted. She had thought she had successfully forgotten that forbidden pleasure. Gilbert dropped his hand. He had seen her look of pain. She was sorry about that. She was afraid she hurt him too often, and she could never tell him why. It was a pity, because at moments like this she could not help thinking what a pleasant family they were, and that if her marriage did not hold the rapture that only Colm could have brought to it, it was probably as successful as most.

The idea for a dinner party was discussed again, but Gilbert had had a much more ambitious idea. He wanted to take a consignment of wine to Sydney and proposed doing so by ship and having Eugenia accompany him. The sea air would do her good. So would a little social life in Sydney. She must pack her prettiest gowns.

Eugenia’s excitement was spoiled by her reluctance to leave the baby. She wanted to go, of course, but how was she to tear herself away from the cradle?

Gilbert was impatient. Privately he intended this to be a second marriage trip. It was time he and Eugenia grew closer again. She had recovered from the baby’s birth, and there was an air of maturity about her. After Kit’s birth she had still seemed young and girlish, but now, suddenly, she had this indefinable air of being completely a woman. Gilbert found it exciting but tantalizing, for there was too often a far-off look in her eyes that he didn’t understand. It was her eternal homesickness he supposed. He must make renewed efforts on this journey, to persuade her to fall in love with this entirely wonderful country.

‘The baby will thrive just as much without you,’ he said in answer to her protestations. ‘You know that Ellen dotes on her. If it comes to that, aren’t you worrying about Kit, too?’