The Ladies of Missalonghi (8 page)

She closed her eyes and heaved a big unconscious sigh. “Oh, how I envy you!”

He stared down at her curiously. “That’s an odd thing for a woman to say.”

Missy opened her eyes. “Is it?”

“Women usually don’t like being cut off from shops and houses and other women.” His tone was hard.

“You’re probably right for the most part,” she said thoughtfully, “but in that sense I don’t really count as a woman, so I envy you. The peace, the freedom, the isolation – I dream of them!”

The end of the track came into sight, and so did the faded red corrugated iron roof of Missalonghi.

“Do you do all your shopping in Sydney?” she asked, for something to say, then chastised herself for asking a silly question; hadn’t she met him first in Uncle Maxwell’s?

“I do when I can,” he said, obviously not connecting her with Uncle Maxwell’s, “but it’s a long haul up the Mountains with a full load, and I’ve got only this one team of horses. Still, Sydney’s definitely preferable to shopping in Byron – I’ve never encountered a place so full of Nosey Parkers.”

Missy grinned. “Try not to blame them too much, Mr. Smith. Not only are you a novelty, but you’ve also stolen what they have always regarded as their exclusive property, even if they never thought about it, or wanted it.”

He burst out laughing, evidently tickled that she should bring the matter up. “My valley, you mean? They could have bought it, the sale wasn’t secret – it was advertised in the Sydney papers and in the Katoomba paper. But they’re just not as smart as they think they are, that’s all.”

“You must feel like a king down there.”

“I do, Miss Wright.” And he smiled at her, tipped his battered bushman’s hat, turned and walked away.

Missy floated the rest of the way home, in perfect time to milk the cow. Neither Drusilla nor Octavia made reference to her bush walk, Drusilla because she had been more pleased at the display of independence than worried about the outcome, and Octavia because she had convinced herself Missy’s cerebral processes were being affected by whatever ailed her.

In fact, when by four o’clock there had been no sign of Missy, the two ladies left at Missalonghi had had a small tiff. Octavia thought it was time to inform the police.

“No, no, no!” said Drusilla, quite violently.

“But we must, Drusilla. Her brain’s affected, I know it is. When in her whole life has she ever behaved this way?”

“I have been thinking ever since Missy had her turn, sister, and I’m not ashamed to say that when Mr. Smith carried her in, I was terrified. The thought of losing her to such an unfair, unjust thing – I was never more glad than when Uncle Neville told me he didn’t think it was serious. And then I began to wonder what would happen to Missy had it been me? Octavia, we must
encourage
Missy to be independent of us! It is not her fault that God did not endow her with Alicia’s looks, or my strength of character. And I began to see that a whole lifetime’s exposure to my strength of character has not been good for Missy. I make the decisions about everything, and it is her nature to acquiesce without a fuss. So for far too long I have gone on making her decisions. I shall do so no longer.”

“Rubbish!” snapped Octavia. “The girl’s got no sense! Shoes instead of boots! Romances! Bush walks! It is my opinion that you must be more severe in future, not less.”

Drusilla sighed. “When we were young women, Octavia, we wore shoes. Father was a very warm man, we lacked for nothing. We rode in carriages, we had plenty of pin-money. And ever since those days, no matter how hard life has been, at least you and I are able to look back and remember the pleasure of pretty shoes, pretty dresses, coming-out parties,
gaiety
. Where Missy has never worn a pair of pretty shoes, or a pretty dress. I’m not castigating myself for that, for it isn’t my fault, but when I thought she might be going to die – well, I decided I was going to give her whatever she wanted, so long as I could afford it. Shoes I cannot afford, especially if there are going to be heavy doctor’s bills. But if she wants to walk in the bush, or read romances – she may.”

“Rubbish, rubbish, rubbish! You must go on as you have in the past. Missy needs strong direction.”

And from that viewpoint Drusilla could not budge her.

Unaware of her mother’s soul-searching, Missy decided she had better not read one of the new novels after dinner; she elected to tat instead.

“Aunt Octavia,” she said, fingers flying, “how much lace do you plan to set into your new dress? Is this going to be enough, do you think? I can easily make you a lot more, but I’ll need to know now.”

Octavia held out her knobby hand and Missy deposited the bunched-up lace in it, leaving her aunt to spread out each piece on her lap.

“Oh, Missy, it is beautiful!” breathed Octavia, awed. “Drusilla, do look!”

Drusilla plucked a scrap out of her sister’s lap and held it up to the weak light. “Yes, it is beautiful. You’re improving all the time, Missy, I must say.”

“Ah,” said Missy gravely, “that is because I have finally learned to unknit the sleeve of ravelled care.”

Both older ladies looked utterly blank for a moment, then Octavia cast a significant glance at Drusilla and ever so slightly shook her head. But Drusilla ignored her.

“Quite so,” she said majestically.

Cutting a dash at Alicia’s wedding won out; Octavia put Missy’s brainstorm aside. “Is it enough lace, Drusilla?” she asked anxiously.

“Well, for what I had originally planned it’s enough, but I’ve had a better idea. I’d like to let in some of the same lace all the way around the hem of the overskirt –
so
fashionable! Missy, would you mind doing so much extra work? Do be frank if you’d rather not.”

Now Missy looked blank; in all her life her mother had never deferred to her before, nor stopped to think whether what she asked was excessive. Of course! It was the heart trouble! How amazing! “I don’t mind in the least,” she said quickly.

Octavia beamed. “Oh, thank you!” Her face puckered. “If only I might help you with the sewing, Drusilla. It’s so much work for you.”

Drusilla looked at the heap of lilac crêpe in her lap and sighed. “Don’t worry, Octavia. Missy does all the fiddly bits like buttonholes and hems and plackets. But I do admit it would be wonderful to have a Singer sewing machine.”

That of course was out of the question; the ladies of Missalonghi made their clothes the old-fashioned hard way, every inch of every seam sewn by hand. Drusilla did the main sewing and the cutting, Missy the fiddly bits; Octavia could not manage to hold an instrument so fine as a sewing needle.

“I am so very sorry your dress has to be brown, Missy,” said Drusilla, and looked at her daughter pleadingly. “But it is lovely material, and it will make up very well, you wait and see. Would you like some beads on it?”

“And spoil the cut? Mother, you cut superbly, and the cut will carry it without any adornments,” said Missy.

That night in bed Missy lay in the darkness and remembered the details of the loveliest afternoon of her entire life. For not only had he said hello to her, he had climbed down from his cart and actually chosen to walk along with her, chatting to her as if she was a friend rather than a mere member of that tiresome gang called Hurlingford. How nice he had looked. Homespun, but nice. And he smelled not of stale sweat, like so many of the oh-so-respectable Hurlingford men, but of sweet expensive soap; she had recognised it immediately because whenever the ladies of Missalonghi received rare gifts of such soap, it was not consumed upon their bodies (Sunlight was quite good enough for that!), but inserted between the folds of their clothes as they lay in drawers. And his hands might be toil-roughened, but they were clean, even beneath the nails. His hair too was immaculate; no trace of pomade or oil, just the healthy gloss one saw on the fur of a freshly licked cat. A prideful and scrupulous man, John Smith.

Best of all she liked his eyes, such a translucent golden brown, and so laughing. But she couldn’t,
wouldn’t
believe any of the tales hinting at dishonesty or baseness. Instead, she would have staked her life upon his intrinsic integrity and fiercely defended ethics. She could see such a man doing murder, perhaps, if goaded beyond endurance, but she could not see him stealing or cheating.

Oh, John Smith, I do love you! And I thank you from the very bottom of my heart for coming back to Missalonghi to see how I did.

With only a month left until her wedding, Alicia Marshall came day by day closer to the most perfect manifestation of her long and glorious blossoming, and she meant to enjoy even that final frantic month to the top of her bent. The date had been set eighteen months previously, and it had never occurred to her to doubt the season or the weather. Sure enough, though occasionally springs on the Blue Mountains might be late, or wet, or unduly windy, this one, obedient to Alicia’s whim, was coming in with the halcyon dreaminess of Eden.

“It wouldn’t dare do otherwise,” said Aurelia to Drusilla, a nuance in her tone suggesting that just once Alicia’s mother might enjoy Alicia’s plans going awry.

Missy’s Sydney appointment had been set up, but a week later than had been hoped; which was lucky for Missy, because on the Tuesday that Dr. Hurlingford had planned she should see the specialist, Alicia did not make her customary weekly trip to town. For on the Thursday of this week Alicia had scheduled her bridal party, and the preparations for it allowed of no other consideration, even hat shop business. The bridal party was not a humble sort of affair where modest kitchen gifts and girlish chatter prevailed; it was instead a formal reception for Alicia’s female relatives of all ages, an occasion upon which everyone would have an opportunity to see and hear what would be expected of them on the Great Day. During the course of the festivities Alicia intended to announce the names of her bridesmaids, and show the designs and fabrics for the bridal party and the church décor.

The only blight came from Alicia’s father and brothers, who brushed aside her attempts to enlist their help with a brusque impatience hitherto unknown.

“Oh, for God’s sake, Alicia, go away!” snapped her father, more passion in his voice than she certainly could ever remember. “Have your wretched bridal party, by all means, but leave us out of it! There are times when women’s affairs are a flaming nuisance, and this is one of them!”

“
Well
!” huffed Alicia, staylaces creaking dangerously, and went to complain to her mother.

“I’m afraid we must tread very carefully at the moment, dear,” said Aurelia, looking worried.

“What on earth’s the matter?”

“I don’t really know, except that it’s something to do with shares in the Byron Bottle Company. I gather they’ve been disappearing.”

“Nonsense!” said Alicia. “Shares don’t disappear.”

“Out of the family? Is that what I mean?” amended Aurelia vaguely. “Oh, it’s quite beyond me, I have no head for business.”

“Willie hasn’t mentioned it to me.”

“Willie mightn’t know yet, dear. He hasn’t had much to do with the company yet, has he? After all, he’s just finished at university.”

Alicia dismissed the whole tiresome business with a snort, and went off to instruct the butler to the effect that only female servants would be allowed in the front of the house, as it was a party purely for ladies.

Of course Drusilla came, and brought Missy with her; poor Octavia, dying to go, was obliged at the last moment to remain behind in all her best clothes, as Aurelia had forgotten to arrange the promised conveyance for the ladies of Missalonghi. Drusilla wore her brown grosgrain, happy in the knowledge that to do so would not be exposing this tried-and-true outfit to an early encore at the wedding itself. And Missy wore her brown linen, on her head the old sailor hat she had been forced to don on every occasion demanding a hat for the last fifteen years, including church each Sunday. New hats would be forthcoming for the wedding, though not, alas, from Chez Chapeau Alicia; the basics were already bought from Uncle Herbert’s emporium, and the final furbishings would be done at Missalonghi.

Alicia was looking stunning in a delicate apricot crêpe dress trimmed with lavender-blue embroidery and bearing a huge bunch of lavender-blue silk flowers on one shoulder. Oh, thought Missy, just this once I would love to be able to wear a dress like that! Now I
could
survive that apricot colour, I am positive I could! And I could survive that shade of blue too, it’s halfway to pale purple.

Over a hundred women had been invited to the party. They wandered about the house in little clutches, catching sight of faces and catching up on gossip. Then at four o’clock they settled like roosting hens in the ballroom, where they partook of a magnificent tea of scones with jam and cream, petits fours, cucumber sandwiches, asparagus cornucopias, éclairs, cream buns and deliriously gooey Napoleons. There was even a choice between Darjeeling, Earl Grey, Lapsang Souchong and Jasmine tea!

Hurlingford women were traditionally fair, and traditionally tall, and traditionally incapable of frank speech. Looking around the gathering and listening to its chatter, Missy saw for herself the truth of these observations. This was the first occasion of its kind she had ever been invited to, probably because it would have been impolite not to invite her when so many women less closely related were coming. Somehow in church on Sunday the awesome presence of Hurlίngford women en masse was watered down by the presence of a roughly equal number of Hurlingford men. But here in Aunt Aurelia’s ballroom the breed was undiluted and overwhelming.

The air was thick with participles properly tucked away and exquisitely spliced infinitives and a great many other verbal delicacies largely gone out of fashion fifty years before. Under the splendour and graciousness of Aurelia’s roof, no one dared to say “can’t” or “won’t” or “didn’t”. And, noted Missy, she herself was literally the only dark-haired woman there. Oh, a few borderline mouses glimmered (the greys and whites did not stand out at all), but her own jet-black hair was like a lump of coal in a field of snow; she quite understood why her mother had instructed her to keep her hat on throughout. Obviously, even when a Hurlingford man or woman married out of the family, he or she chose a blond partner. Indeed, Missy’s own father had been very fair, but his grandfather, according to Drusilla, had been as dark as a dago, this term then being conventional and acceptable.