Dorothy Eden (40 page)

The voices died round the turn of the staircase. Adelaide was overtaken with a fit of giggles.

‘Can you hear her huffing and puffing? I hope she doesn’t fall down the stairs like Grandmamma Ashburton. She is very nearly as fat. I wonder where the men are. Surely Papa hasn’t taken them to the winery already. I will be furious if he has, because I want to go, too.’

Adelaide darted away before Lucy could beg not to be left alone. And so it was that she was standing nervously in the hall when George Fitzroy strolled in.

‘Hullo,’ he said, and sketched her a small bow. ‘Are you the elder daughter or the younger? I’m George Fitzroy.’

Lucy murmured breathlessly that she was the younger. The warm brown eyes smiled at her briefly and impersonally.

‘I thought you must be. I saw you both looking out of the window.’

Lucy coloured in embarrassment.

‘Addie—has her hair up.’

‘Oh! Has she really?’

Lucy was trembling with nervousness. Where
was
everybody?

‘Won’t you c-come into the drawing-room?’

‘Thank you. The others are on my heels, I think. Ah, there you are, Mr Massingham. I took the liberty of coming in.’

Papa had on his jolly company face, his eyes sparkling, his lips smiling. He would tell amusing stories and laugh a lot and not once raise his voice in anger this weekend. But Lucy would still try to be invisible if his bright fierce glance shot her way. Otherwise she might be expected to say something clever or informative in the way Kit and Addie found so easy and which was utterly beyond her.

‘You’ve met my younger daughter, I see,’ Papa was saying, and the stout gentleman behind him said in a loud jovial voice,

‘My son may have, but I haven’t. Well, this is a pretty sprite, Massingham.’

‘Yes. She’s like her mother. Where’s Adelaide, Lucy?’

‘Who has her hair up,’ murmured George Fitzroy in a voice Lucy prayed no one else heard.

‘She was here a moment ago, Papa. Oh, here she is.’

Adelaide came bursting back, saw the company, and turned her boisterous rush into a graceful curtsey.

‘Sir Charles, may I present my elder daughter—good God, girl, what have you been doing to yourself?’

Adelaide’s poise was not so complete after all. She went crimson.

‘I have only put up my hair.’ She stared defiantly. ‘It was time.’

Papa, despite the fact that he was in the presence of the Governor, began to roar with laughter.

‘Well, there’s a minx for you, Sir Charles. It was done for your benefit, I haven’t a doubt.’

‘But I have,’ said Sir Charles, beginning to smile broadly. ‘Why should a young lady dress herself up for me?’

He turned pointedly to his son, who was also smiling in the most admiring way, his eyes fixed on Adelaide’s scarlet face.

‘Whoever it’s for, I must say that it suits her,’ George said.

‘Well, come in gentlemen, come in.’ Papa waved towards the drawing-room. ‘Addie, since you consider yourself old enough, you must help to entertain the guests.’

‘Don’t make it sound like a penalty for the young lady,’ Sir Charles said.

They filed into the drawing-room, Addie leading the way. No one seemed to notice that Lucy was left behind. No one had asked her to come in. She clenched her fingers into the palms of her hands, praying not to have to cry. Wasn’t she used to this? Addie always stole the show. Usually Lucy was glad for her to. She preferred to sit silent and unnoticed.

But not today. Not after looking into those warm brown eyes. Suddenly she desperately wanted to be noticed. And how could she be? A little girl with her hair in ringlets.

‘Lucy, my love, what are you doing?’ came Mamma’s voice. ‘Have they gone in without you? Then come in and sit beside Mamma. Lady Mary thought your flowers were most artistic.’

She was only fourteen, much too young to be in love. But she began to make up fantasies about George Fitzroy, imagining he walked in the garden with her at dusk, said he admired her, held her hand. As she sat at Lady Mary’s feet on the verandah, holding wool for Lady Mary to wind, or threading needles for her, she dreamed impossible rich beautiful dreams.

‘Bless me, Mrs Massingham, this is a quiet mouse,’ said Lady Mary.

‘Yes, but such peaceful company,’ replied Mamma. ‘I like her to be with me. I’m afraid Adelaide is much too restless and impatient.’

‘H’m. Well, my son doesn’t seem to think so.’

‘He does seem to admire her,’ Mamma said in her polite voice, that didn’t quite hide her gratification. ‘She’s much too young, of course. She put up her hair without permission, but it will have to come down when she goes back to school on Monday.’

‘She seems to know a great deal about viticulture.’

‘Yes, it’s quite unsuitable knowledge for a girl. She’s too precocious.’

‘So is George,’ said Lady Mary placidly. ‘You must bring your girls to the next garden party at Government House. I suppose I shall have to give one soon. But I find it very exhausting in the hot weather.’ Lady Mary mopped at her scarlet face. ‘How long did it take you to get accustomed to the Australian summer?’

‘I still am not. My husband forbids me to go out without a parasol.’

‘Well, you’ve kept your complexion, I must say. Most of the women I meet have faces like leather. Very unbecoming.’

The voices prattled on and Lucy dreamed. At the Government House garden party she would wear her organdie hat with the wide frilled brim. George wouldn’t be able to take his eyes off her. The beautiful Miss Lucy Massingham…

But she scarcely said another word to him during the whole weekend. There wasn’t an opportunity.

Adelaide would have said, ‘Make one.’ But how could she when he was much too busy talking and laughing with Kit with whom he got on famously, or Adelaide, or the three of them were saddling their horses and going off on a long ride, or everyone took part in a picnic at the lake, or people came to dinner, and music and dancing followed? She could at least have sung at the piano, as Mamma pressed her to, but the very thought of singing before such a large company made her tremble with fright. Her imploring eyes made Mamma desist. So there was really nothing left to do but be a schoolgirl, well-mannered but virtually invisible.

George was an expert dancer. He taught Adelaide the polka. They whirled up and down the room until they were both out of breath and Adelaide’s hair had begun to tumble down. Then at least he could see that she was almost as much a schoolgirl as Lucy was. This, however, did not make him turn his attention to Lucy.

Perhaps he would come again when she was older. But she knew he never would.

Everyone except Lucy pronounced the important visit a great success. Kit was pleased that George Fitzroy was as infected by gold fever as he was. George, when he could escape from duties with his father, was planning to go to the state of Victoria to try his luck. Kit had determined to accompany him, although he was keeping quiet about that at present. There would be an almighty row with Papa, who could never see farther than his last row of vines. Privately Kit thought everything about growing grapes and making wine, except the drinking of it, a great bore. At least his father was pleased that he was rapidly becoming a connoisseur. But the silly old man never could refrain from pointing out that a great deal of hard work must be done before one reached the ineffably pleasant state of pouring the rich red stream from the bottle.

The reprimands became monotonous. There were plenty of people on Yarrabee to do the hard work. Laying the odorous farm manure in the autumn after the vines had been stripped of fruit and had dropped their leaves, piling up the soil to protect the roots from frosts, pruning away the unnecessary wood, leaving the vines in strange primeval shapes. That was only the beginning of the preparation for the next harvest. In the spring, when the shoots began to grow, another pruning must be made, and after the flowering an unceasing watch must be kept for fungoid, pests, barrenness. And plenty of prayers needed to be said for rain in the right quantity, sunshine of the right quality, and an absence of hailstorms.

Kit did not believe too much in prayers. Neither did he like puddling about in the winery. Besides, Jem McDougal had charge there, and Kit was damned if he was going to take orders from an ex-convict.

The whole thing was not his choice of occupation, and he intended to be off on an exploration trip even if he had to wait another eighteen months until he was of age.

Sir Charles Fitzroy had proved to be a great wine bibber. He said that he intended to spread the fame of Yarrabee wines far and wide. This put Gilbert into the greatest good humour. As the departing carriages were lost in a cloud of dust he turned and swept Eugenia into his arms, kissing her soundly in full view of everybody.

‘You did famously, my love. No one could have managed better. Lady Mary admired you, and Sir Charles was ready to eat out of your hands. You know, you look exactly as I had anticipated.’

‘I look as I always do,’ Eugenia said in some perplexity.

‘I mean I knew when I married you that you would look like this today. Yarrabee, too. And our children.’

‘It was what you wanted?’

‘Exactly. Why do you look at me with that little frown?’

‘I don’t know. We seem to be at odds too often.’

‘That gives marriage a spice. Can’t have it getting dull. I think we ought to get that Irish painter fellow back, and have him do a family portrait. The Massinghams in middle age with their children, I’m sure—what was his name?—would be glad to earn some money.’

‘It would scarcely be any use to him since he is dead.’

‘Dead! When?’

The sudden angry colour stained Eugenia’s cheeks.

‘How can you be so surprised? It was you who said he would drink himself to death. How could he still be alive a dozen years later?’

‘Is it as long ago as that? By George, how time flies. Well, don’t get in a fuss, my love. I meant no harm.’

Eugenia lifted her skirts to return indoors. She was suddenly tired. The weekend, for all its pleasure, had been a strain. ‘There, you see what I meant about always being at odds,’ she paused to say. ‘But your remark about middle age is right. You have some grey hairs, did you know? I noticed them last night, at dinner. And how did you hurt your hand?’

‘My hand? Oh, that sore. I knocked it and it hasn’t healed. It’s nothing.’

‘It needs some embrocation on it. Ask one of the maids for some. Now I must go and speak to Adelaide.’

‘I don’t care for that tone of voice,’ Gilbert called after her. ‘What’s Addie been up to?’

‘Didn’t you notice she had her hair up? Without my permission, I assure you. She’s behaved in a most forward way during the whole weekend.’

‘Well, young George liked her. Doesn’t that please you?’

‘Dancing with her petticoats flying over her head. And riding astride, I daresay, as soon as she was out of my sight.’

Gilbert’s hearty laughter followed her up the stairs.

‘She’s got plenty of spirit. Don’t dampen her down too much.’

Dampen her down? How was it possible? For there was more trouble immediately after Adelaide returned to school. Miss Hester Chisholm drove out especially to see Eugenia.

It seemed that three girls in Adelaide’s dormitory had been found in an intoxicated state.

‘We were intensely worried, Mrs Massingham. We simply didn’t know what was wrong with them and called the doctor. He asked bluntly what they had been drinking? Imagine it, Mrs Massingham. The scandal in our school!’

‘And what had they been drinking?’ Eugenia asked as calmly as possible.

‘Wine, of course. It seems that someone from Yarrabee—and I can’t prevail on Adelaide to give his name—had hidden a bottle under the bush at the gate on her request. The three girls in question were then persuaded to drink it out of mugs in their dormitory that night. With young girls, unaccustomed to intoxicating liquor, the result was predictable.’

‘Was Adelaide also in this condition?’

Miss Chisholm lifted her chin in as contemptuous a gesture as she dared.

‘Naturally not, Mrs Massingham.’

‘If you are suggesting that wine is my daughter’s habitual beverage, Miss Chisholm, I can assure you that you are mistaken. What action do you propose to take?’

Miss Chisholm looked uncertain. She had shot her big gun and that had taken all the temerity she had.

‘I had hoped you would make a suggestion, Mrs Massingham.’

‘It’s your school. Naturally Adelaide must obey your rules. Do you wish to expel her?’

‘Why, no, that would never do!’ Miss Chisholm was horrified. ‘We couldn’t afford the talk that would cause. We must keep it quiet. Adelaide will be punished by having all privileges withdrawn for a certain time. But I would like your assurance that this can never happen again. In other words, the person who delivered the wine is as much to blame.’

Kit, Eugenia thought wearily.

‘I understand, Miss Chisholm. You can safely leave that side of the deplorable affair to me.’

‘Your daughter is a very bright, very advanced girl, Mrs Massingham.’

‘Yes,’ Eugenia agreed. ‘She is both of those things.’

Kit swore he had had nothing to do with the affair.

‘Honestly, Mamma. Anyway, I haven’t been in to Parramatta for a week.’

Gilbert, whose mouth was twitching irrepressibly agreed that this was true. Kit hadn’t been off the place.

‘Then who has?’

‘I have. Jem and I took a shipment for the coastal towns. But if Addie wanted a bottle of wine I would give it to her and make no bones about it. I wouldn’t be hiding it under a bush. A bottlebrush, I believe. Aptly named, eh?’ And then Gilbert’s suppressed laughter did escape. He put back his head and roared until the tears rolled down his cheeks. ‘The minx, eh! I’m sorry, Genia, it’s just so deuced funny.’

‘So it was Jem,’ said Eugenia.

‘Jem?’

‘It wasn’t you and it wasn’t Kit. Who else could it have been?’

‘Old Jem, of course,’ Kit said gleefully. ‘He and Addie have always been friends.’

‘Friends?’ Eugenia said. ‘I should hope not.’

‘You know that Addie always tailed him about when she was little. And now she talks to him about wine-making. She’s interested in it. Much more so than me.’