Читать книгу The Promised Land - Mudrooroo - Страница 8

Lady Lucille, or as she was affectionately known to her intimates, Lucy, since becoming a woman had been subjected to noctambulism. It was a pathological condition she bore sometimes well but often badly, as did her family and friends, who were afraid that this predilection (for they refused to look upon it as a sickness) might lead to the loss of her reputation and thus her marital prospects. A young girl roaming the streets in a somnolent state clad in flimsy night attire, they could see only as a gross indecency which must be checked and banished. ‘It’s a trial not to be accepted,’ her mother complained to her father. After due conference, they called upon her best girl chum, Mina, who was level headed and might alleviate the condition by her presence. Mina came to share Lucy’s chamber and bed, clasping the girl to her bosom as they slept. Alas, such precautions, though pleasurable, proved inadequate and in the early hours of a morning, Mina awoke to find her arms empty.

At the time, they had been staying in a picturesque fishing town in North Riding dominated by the ruins of an ancient abbey, below which was a cemetery with graves that were on the verge of slipping into the ocean. The combination of hilltop ruins, the ancient cemetery and the cliff edge had held them with its Gothic splendour. Such a romantic, though eerie, spot had stirred in the girls longings which they had discussed as they sat on their favourite mossy stone bench gazing over the port with its fishing vessels snugly safe from the windswept sea. They had talked of their future prospects and even of ghostly visitations as they eyed the eruption of another storm at sea. The indented coast was subject to sudden tempests; flashes of lightning and thunder had struck out above becalmed waters which then surged under a wind of gale strength and sheets of icy rain, from which the girls had had to flee like two startled birds.

Lucy had been languishing in the quiet town and needed to be fussed over. Sometimes she shivered as if from the cold, but complained that the constant flow and clash of the elements produced a magnetism that affected her emotionally. She confided in her friend that sometimes her innermost being was so infused that she had to rise and glide out into the open night air so that she might feel the electricity caressing her all over. ‘Like a lot of little fingers rubbing away at my sensitive places, and right under my dress too,’ she had said with a giggle to Mina, who reported the conversation to her chum’s parents. They had all agreed that she was a weird little lass, who threatened them with continuing maintenance if she could not be settled. What had to be done was to get her a husband who would put a stop to all such flights of fancy; but where to find such a man? They had sighed and passed on their responsibility to Mina, whose arms, alas, relaxed in repose. The night had begun with a sudden rush of wind, though this time, instead of the crying of the heavens, there came a stillness with the electrical display above the moaning sea. Mina had drawn the curtains against the aerial disturbance. She had snuggled up against her friend, comparing breasts for some time, then finally drifted off, tightly holding on to the warm body beside her. The night light which was always kept burning had illuminated both their sleeping innocent faces.

Mina awoke to an ominous stillness. She tried to snuggle up to the remembered warmth and felt only the cold sheet. She rubbed her eyes and leaped out of bed, quickly pulling on a thick robe. Now her alarmed gaze fell on Lucy’s dressing gown and day clothes. ‘Poor dear thing,’ she murmured. She snatched up her chum’s gown, rushed downstairs, slipped the latch on the door and darted out into the darkness of the early morning. Heavy clouds were racing across the sky like thick strands of hair, but at ground level the air was motionless and weighed down as if by some fluidic pressure. Thankfully, the moon began glimmering through the thick strands to light her way. She dashed towards the cemetery and as she reached it saw on their favourite bench a sprawled female body draped in white.

‘Lucy,’ she whispered, then her eyes widened and, with an involuntary cry, she darted forward. A dark figure appeared to be embracing her chum.

But when she reached the bench, Lucy was alone. A trick of the light, Mina thought, as she gently shook the girl into some semblance of consciousness, wrapped the robe about her shivering form and led her back to the safety of their bed where she held Lucy’s slight body and gently used her fingers to ease the trembling. With a slight moan, the girl pushed her hand aside and turned away and into sleep.

Fully alert, cheerful and even playful like a fluffy kitten in the full light of the morning, Lucy smilingly declared that she had no recollection of her nocturnal stroll, though she did admit to having had some dream in which a pair of red gleaming eyes had drawn her into a sweet phantasy, the details of which she blushingly declined to reveal. She levelled a meaningful glance at Mina who did not press her further, but who, with a stern sense of duty, informed her chum’s parents of their daughter’s latest escapade. They had not been able to keep hidden Lucy’s sleepwalking and mood swings, and hence there was a dearth of eligible suitors. But their family doctor had advised them that, with all the duties and obligations of matrimony, women had little time to indulge in such nonsense: ‘It is but the fluid intensity of a young woman’s imagination, perhaps stirred by an unhealthy indulgence in the reading of narrative fiction, which will be unable to claim her when there is a husband to be attended to, especially in those conjugal rites which, although there is doubt on this matter, a young woman such as your daughter needs if she is to free herself of the neuralgic symptoms she is manifesting.’

Thus advised, they removed to Bath for Lucy to take the healing waters while they kept an eye out for a suitor of some means, preferably a mature man who would be able to give the necessary stability to their overimaginative daughter. It was on their second evening at the dinner table that the newly-titled knight, Sir George Augustus, made their acquaintance. Enquiries revealed that he was of dubious ancestry, though possibly of the Durham Augustuses, and a widower of independent means as well as of some status in scientific circles. Apart from this, he was short and rotund, with a baldness concealed by a wig of gingerish colour. He also had a roving eye and often it settled on Lucy. The parents did not object and they invited him to share their table. It was soon obvious that he was smitten by the pale, blonde girl and in proof of this he composed some indifferent verses:

The sky’s blue is bordered,

Alack a daisy,

By the fringed lashes of palest bronze;

Let it be said that a beating heart

Becomes all mazy

With thoughts of sweet bindings,

One to another.

This did elicit a smile from Lucy and, thus emboldened, he approached her parents, who, after ahumming and ahemming and a settlement of two hundred a year, agreed to him as a protector for their dear, dear daughter. He did not notice their sigh of relief. Lucy lurched into a crisis when she was presented with the decision. She wanted a young Byron (without the pain), not an ancient chap who, once when he had been seen walking with her, had become a laughing stock as a sudden dash of breeze had whipped the red wig from his head and sent it flying off like some errant rooster with him in short-breathed pursuit. Still, her parents made some allusion to her malady and to the necessary stability that a mature personage would engender on her flighty nature, and even sat genially through a tantrum or two as their daughter adjusted to the idea of her new future. Eventually, her sullen face creased with frown lines, Lucy surrendered her life. She found herself the wife of an elderly man, though one who did not neglect his marital duties and in his way loved her to some length; for, like many older men, he was slow to spend but he remained smitten, enjoying showing her off as a property well worth the expense.

Marriage did indeed put an end to her sleepwalking, but not to her dreams, which now were tinged with a vague eroticism which her husband’s embraces stirred rather than alleviated. She turned pensive, restless with inchoate desires which fluttered her heart and pinched her face. She might have continued like this, growing steadily sour, had not Sir George received a commission to voyage to a faraway colony on a tour of inspection. This news raised her spirits and she twirled about the floor in a dance step. Of course she would be going, and where to? The Great South Land! It would be a perfect romantic wonderland, she knew it, she knew it. And Sir George, in the face of such enthusiasm, could not deny her the imagined pleasure, though he knew the substantiality was nowhere near the perfection of her dream.

At first glance, the Great South Land did seem romantic in its desolation; and before this impression could be replaced by one of tedious boredom, the young wife met a mysterious woman, a Mrs Amelia Fraser, who fascinated her much as a serpent is said to fascinate its prey. Lucy welcomed this feeling, for she had been pining for her best friend, Mina, now thousands of miles away in the motherland. The woman had a strange malady (that is, if it was not mere vanity) being unable to receive the full light of the sun on her skin. She appeared in public completely draped in black so that not a patch of pale skin showed. Even her features were hidden, beneath a deep bonnet and a closely woven net, Lucy had a somewhat unorthodox imagination and so Mrs Fraser became the dark figure to which she had surrendered in many of her dreams. Now, here she was in the flesh and just as powerful. Lucy’s eyes sought to penetrate the veil and she flushed as she felt a return gaze examining her form. Her innermost being began to tremble with an intensity such as had left her gasping in the troubled electric air of the fishing village where she had had Mina alone to herself for perhaps the last time. She sighed at the memory, then turned away blushing as she remembered their playful games.

In her present dreams, Lucy often found herself trapped, lying naked and helpless under the onslaught of some dark figure while being pierced through and through as if by large hot needles. Now she awoke from such a dream, her body tingling from its exertions to be free. She stretched and as she did so there was a tapping at her door. It opened to let Mrs Fraser (and her beast) slip through just as the sun was sinking from the sky. She sat beside the still-dazed girl and in the gathering darkness made smalltalk. Then with a sigh of ‘at last’ she tugged off her bonnet to reveal her pale face and hair. She turned her burning gaze on the figure of the girl, much like a carnivorous animal might on its prey. Then her hands were pushing up the shift Lucy had been sleeping in and pulling it over her head. Lady Augustus had sat up for the latter, and now completely naked she flushed a deep startled pink which made the woman even more assertive.

Lucy was a willing, but submissive participant. To emphasise her complete subjection, Mrs Fraser tied the girl’s hands and feet to the bedposts with scarves. She glared down at her spreadeagled victim as she stripped off her own bulky garments. Naked, she sat beside Lucy, gently stroking her cheek, before parting the girl’s blonde flowing hair to reveal the pulsing vein at the side of her neck. Lucy’s helpless eyes stared up at the woman’s face as she felt the fingers pressing against the jugular vein through which her blood soared in anticipation. She moaned as the woman’s lips and then other lips touched her skin. She had forgotten about the dingo.

The imprisoned girl writhed, but not to be free. At the extent of her vision, at her loins, was the thin tawny animal lapping away with a long tongue that, sweeping in and out of her, made her body squirm. The sensations were of such strength that she did not at first cognise the lips at her throat turning into hard teeth, two of which were as sharp as needles. This she knew suddenly, as they bit down. She felt the blood spurting from her and into a mouth clamped about her wound just as her body spasmed and spasmed. She gave a piercing scream and then went limp, content only to be fed on.

The government mission was of a minor nature which Sir George Augustus, bored in England, had been urging his patron in Bath to get for him. Now he and his new wife had voyaged to this distant and most obscure colony of Westland whose only settlement was a squalid collection of shacks clustered about a few substantial buildings below a rise on which the governor’s house squatted: a dak bungalow transported from India with rooms opening onto a surrounding verandah. Although it might have served for a waystation for company officials in India, it lacked the dignity of a seat of government and so the governor, at his wife’s urging, had commenced a more substantial dwelling, which after a lengthy correspondence had been sanctioned by London. At the moment only the foundations had been dug, for all work had come to a standstill with the egress of almost the entire male population from the town.

The dwelling indeed was small even for the limited affairs of the colony. The largest room, which had to serve as a dining room, drawing room, library and often as the governor’s office, was crowded with bulky furniture. A piano stood in one corner and in the other the governor’s desk. A bookcase leaned against another wall, and there was a sofa, two easy chairs and a small table with a large leather armchair beside it, which might have been termed the governor’s residence, for in it he sat for hours at a time, sipping on brandy when he could get it, or rum bartered from the ships when he could not. There he sat like a Hindoo yogi contemplating nothing, except when he became the harassed husband; then he thought about how to avoid his wife, Rebecca Crawley, who had never grown used to being exiled at the edge of the known world. She lamented her evil fate much too often for his comfort and when it had grown too overbearing he had petitioned the colonial office for a better posting. These requests were acknowledged, and that was all, for in truth the obscure posting was the result of Rebecca Crawley’s own misdeeds and had been engineered to get her as far away from the capital as possible, to put a stop once and for all to her meddling in affairs above her station.

Now, the unhappy woman arranged herself on the sofa in her once sumptuous finery, an evening dress of a heavy velvet material which draped her hips in countless folds while leaving her shoulders bare. With a weary shrug, she tossed her black hair – often dyed, now streaked with grey, but still carefully arranged to dangle curls about her narrow fox-like face – and leaned back attractively as her deep dark eyes studied the man who held the floor. His small dainty feet, shod in Bond Street leather, supported his short sturdy legs, while he pronounced on colonial policy in which the Crawleys had not the slightest interest. To distract herself, Rebecca Crawley stared brazenly at his rather coarse features, which were marred, if that was possible, by eczema scars. She wondered what had become of the world when such men as he reached a prominence of sorts and strutted about the empire as if they personally had created it. They achieved what no ambitious woman could in such a world. Look what had happened to her. Merely for taking an interest in politics, she had been exiled to the periphery of all that was modish and powerful in the world.

‘Such is my fate as a woman,’ she murmured, and sighed as she continued to stare at the man.

Sir George Augustus was one of those self-made knights who, with the Reform Act of 1832, had risen from the enfranchised lower classes, though he had yet to create a suitably noble genealogy to go with his advancement. Hence his family was completely unknown to Mrs Crawley. She, using brazen invention together with her beauty and sharp intelligence, had glossed over her own origins, which were lower than those of the knight; her husband’s family was of ancient lineage which she, supposedly a distant cousin, had rejoined through their union. Now she daintily but saucily yawned without putting a hand over her rosebud mouth while the parvenu explained how the government of the day, under some compunction from concerned Christians centred on Exeter House, had formed a committee to inquire into the conditions of the natives within the acquisitions of the empire. It had appointed commissioners to report on their wellbeing. He was one of these and had been sent to this colony as he possessed some knowledge of the natives of the Great South Land, of which the colony was the western end. The governor greeted this information with a stolid expression which revealed not even his complete lack of interest. As an old soldier, he believed that as long as the natives stayed quiet that was a good enough condition for him and for the settlers. Under the pressings of the colonial office, however, he had taken a step to elevate the natives, and to control them, through the formation of a native police detachment.

In regard to the indigenous inhabitants, his wife wished them to be out of sight as well as mind. It was she who had had her husband promulgate a decree which forbade them the environs of the town, after they had hovered about like flies around her carriage and laughed at her appearance. Of course, they were still there, snatching up scraps and demanding food; but with the native police about to begin regular patrols, those who still persisted in lurking about the town, their nakedness now covered by dirty blankets or cast-off clothing, would be driven away to distant camps. This was only good and proper, she thought, for really they had no business about the town. Such a dirty, dirty, lazy lot, existing as they always had existed at the very bottom of the scale of civilisation. Why, they had been worth only a line or two in the letters she used regularly to send home, and now not even a line. Her eyes glazed as she lost her focus on the knight who was engaged in a boring monologue which went on and on. She sighed, wishing that her hearing was impaired. All too soon, he had become part of the tedium she had to endure in this wretched colony. She closed her eyes; but alas not her ears. Annoyed, she opened her eyes to survey the creature again. He was (and she was an expert at detecting them) a rogue out for his own advancement, and thus of more interest than if he had been merely one of those bores who held to a subject from belief rather than duplicity. She sighed as she regarded him, and it was then that a scream ripped apart his monologue. It brought welcome distraction, though not excitement. It lacked the desperate appeal of a call for speedy relief from serious danger. ‘Murder, murder!’ would have been more diverting.

‘That was quite a din. Not the natives, I hope,’ observed Governor Crawley, lifting up his glass and taking a gulp of the excellent brandy his guest had thoughtfully provided. ‘They do intersperse their yabber with shrieks.’

‘Yes, sometimes they do,’ partially agreed Sir George. ‘Then, some birds make almost human sounds; I have heard the curlew scream in the wilderness like a woman in agony. But this has erupted from my sweet wife. She is not used to these new lands and doubtless it was a bat or some such nightlife that startled her. Silly little thing, she’ll be along directly with a contrite expression on her face. Now, as I was saying, the natives if they are to become a source of labour must first be civilised and Christianised. There can be no other way –’

‘That shriek from your wife ...’ Mrs Crawley broke in, keen to put an end to the native problem. ‘I have heard such commotions before and they are not exclamations of fright, far from it.’ And she smiled a leering kind of smile which the knight caught, then evaded.

‘Well, be that as it may, Mrs Fraser – who has taken a fancy to her – will calm her down. Such a capable woman. One who has seen and experienced much since suffering shipwreck upon these shores,’ the husband commented, before returning to his topic. ‘There is a shortage of labour here and there are natives enough to alleviate it. Why, you only have a single serving woman to see to your needs. In other colonies with a native population, Colonel, you have servants aplenty. They need to be put to work.’

'Yes, except the beggars won’t work,’ observed the governor. ‘If they did they would be working, for recent events have deprived us of male labourers, including my own who came with us. In fact, the situation has become so desperate that I am in the process of petitioning the colonial office for convicts to be transported here. They will provide labour enough and we won’t need to use these savages. Other colonies have derived benefit from transportation –’

‘No, no,’ Sir George exclaimed. ‘I strongly advise against it, Governor. To import criminals is not a solution, but only an addition to your problems. Use the natives. Instil in them good work habits and that is your answer. We have only to take the example of our own poor –’

‘Well, it may be an evil, but it is one that we will have to embrace. The savages are lazy and –’

‘Colonel, I have been a free settler in a penal settlement and the state of affairs I found there is not a fit subject for delicate ears. Even if a convict is sent out for a trifling offence, under the direction of his fellows he soon becomes an adept in crime. It is with the greatest difficulty that they are brought to justice. They league together and even have a vulgar language of their own and they plunder whatever comes their way. The only way to make them work is through the liberal application of the lash, and this too merely hardens them. They are the scourge of a new colony, Governor! Let me relate a trifling episode to show you what they are like.

‘It was a scene which defies description,’ Sir George began, lowering his voice from its usual high-pitched whine. ‘Church on Sunday, and I to deliver an exhortation, but was there a sign of repentance? Could you expect it from such as they? Those who were in irons came in first, pouring in, pushing, pulling and crowding each other in a horrible cacophony of blasphemy, Colonel; abominable obscenity from those who had descended to the level of beasts and so were chained as beasts. And when I began my exhortation the noise subsided, it is true, but to a low hum of voices which, as I continued, rose on occasion to drown out my words. It was a scene from hell and if you bring such creatures here, this is what you can expect.’

‘How terrible for you, Sir George,’ commented Rebecca sardonically. ‘You must have felt like Daniel being thrown into the den of lions.’

‘The whip, sir, the lash; it keeps order,’ muttered the governor. ‘It serves the army well. I know it, for I have ordered it.’

‘Colonel, if you persist in your petition, you must raise a gibbet too,’ Sir George stated flatly. ‘They are hardened to the lash and at least a rope removes the main culprits; though even in the face of death some of the rogues remain defiant, not only to authority but to their very Maker as well.’

Governor Crawley raised a weary hand to his rough chin. A damn good barber was what he needed. He took a sip from his glass, then said absently: ‘It may not do now since gold has been discovered in the east. But the labour problem – there is a need for a decent barber and well-trained servants. Are savages capable of being trained for such duties? We need another Sergeant Barron to get them in condition.’

‘Gold!’ exclaimed Sir George. ‘Did you say gold?’

‘Yes, and here is gold indeed along with silver,’ the governor muttered, suddenly perking up, as at the door appeared first Lady Lucy then a transformed Mrs Fraser.

The change between the dour day image of the woman and her sparkling night self was startling in its extreme. The sun was long gone and along with it her heavy widow’s weeds. She had borrowed one of Lucy’s cool muslin creations, beneath which her body moved naturally as she had disdained the girl’s efforts to get her into stays, protesting that her rigid upright posture and firm figure did not call for such confinement.

‘Nor does yours,’ she had told her companion, but the decorous young wife felt that she could not appear without them in public.

‘It’s fun getting tied in,’ she mused, ‘and if they are tight enough, you’re always breathless.’ Lucy got her new friend to lace her up, using the operation for many a caress until Amelia warned that time was passing and they had to make an appearance in the drawing room.

Now she tripped in on soft slippers, holding her companion’s arm. They stopped in the centre of the room, the cynosure of all eyes.

‘My, you look like sisters,’ exclaimed Sir George, pushing away the idea of gold to fasten his eyes on another gold – the locks of his wife in a heavy chignon. Then he switched his gaze to Mrs Fraser whose pale, almost white hair flowed freely to set off the delicacy of her features. He noticed that her face was somewhat flushed, her cheeks appearing like pink roses on a field of pure snow, and could not but think that she was a rare beauty; that is, until he met the coldness of her gaze and revised his opinion. Her eyes were the cold blue of sapphires, but reddened in the whites from some malady, which must be that which forbade her skin the touch of the sun. She was all pale hues and as cool as snowfields under a distant moon.

‘If not sisters, at least friends beyond the good, for already I love her,’ Lucy declared, dimpling prettily and giving a curtsy to the men, one slender white hand clasped around the alabaster arm of her companion. She appeared pale, though there seemed a radiance beneath the pallor that suggested she might blush at any time. The governor’s wife stared enviously from one to the other. Experience narrowed her eyes before she managed to uptilt the corners of her lips in a smile. Such things as she imagined were out of place in this godforsaken colony, though there had been that shriek of ecstasy. Even if that Amelia Fraser seemed about as passionate as an icicle, she had once been captured by savages and held at the mercy of their powerful lusts.

‘I thought I heard you scream,’ Sir George said to Lucy with a smile, speaking to hide the lapse of manners on the part of the governor as he pulled himself belatedly from his chair to greet the entrance of the women.

‘Oh, you know me and my little upsets. It was only Amelia’s – Mrs Fraser’s – dog. The silly thing sprang at me and put me in a panic. I thought it was about to attack, but it only gave me a good licking. Yuk, and it’s so difficult to get warm water here. I feel positively defiled.’

‘They got on famously,’ Amelia observed. ‘It is not often that my dog takes so readily to someone; but have no fear, I have brought him to heel.’

‘Oh, he’s a good doggy,’ Lucy pouted back. ‘Such a slobber he made over me.’

‘Please, come and sit by me,’ Rebecca broke in, jealous at how much attention the two fresh young women were receiving and wanting some of it for herself. ‘We do not stand on observance here and your costumes, though suitable to the climate, in other places would be too, too flippish for evening wear.’ And she shifted in her seat, calling attention to her own apparel which, if not de rigueur, was the correct attire for that time of day.

Lucy giggled when she glanced at the governor’s lady. She turned to her companion and made a moue. She had not seen a dress so out of fashion, except on older ladies, and this again brought forth the giggle as she tugged on her new friend’s arm to take her to the two chairs which were close to Mrs Crawley. The lady indicated the near one for her and she obliged, wishing that the woman had not occupied the couch, for she and Amelia might have sat pressed together indeed like two sisters or – and Lucy raised a slight blush – like she and Mina used to do.

‘Now, my dear,’ Mrs Crawley said pleasantly and maliciously. ‘Relate to me the incidents not of your voyage but of the past season in London. I know that you are not acquainted with the highest society, but it is well reported in the newspapers. Do you know that we were intimates of Lord Steyne? And oh, the balls and receptions I used to attend.’ And so she went on and Lucy had to listen, though every now and again she managed to give Amelia’s arm a squeeze.

With the ladies settled on their side of the room and engaged in conversation, the impatient Sir George returned to his new topic of interest.

Governor Crawley stroked his chin, listened, stared at his glass, looked up at the ceiling, which was of hessian stretched across the rafters, sighed as he set his thoughts into motion and then his thoughts into words. ‘Dashed unlucky for the colony, if you ask me. Dashed unlucky, what with our small population. Just getting on our feet and all that. Didn’t think of gold when I sanctioned that expedition by Bailey. Look for good sheep and cattle country, not gold, I told him. That’s where the real wealth is, you know. Pastoralism. Get some good estates going. Mutton, beef, straight to India. Wool too. Leather. Excellent prospects, excellent, and trade for some coolies. Indentured labourers, just like slaves, but under contract –’

‘Yes, but about this discovery of gold,’ broke in Sir George, raising his voice to a squeal which irritated an answer from any listener it was directed at.

‘Ah yes, gold, more trouble than it’s worth. Bailey was to mount an expedition and make a track eastwards. Set up some depots for others to follow on. Survey and report on the prospects of the country. Did that, he did. Good man. Yes, dry as a bone. Couple of waterholes along the way. Dug them out. Dismal country. Natives, buck naked, pretty wretched too. God knows what they live on. Got him enough drays, carts to carry supplies to set up the depots. Provisions too. Well planned. No problems. Bit of forage about the water, not much though, and no game to speak of. Adventurous cuss, that Bailey. Shook his hand when he set out. Shook his hand when he came back. Grand sight, him going off. Stretching out like an army supply line. Less grand when he returned, though.’

‘And the gold, man?’ squealed Sir George.

The governor ignored the ill-mannered intervention and continued on. ‘Well, it was him that found the dashed stuff. Rather, he came back with a lump of what I thought was copper ore. Just copper. Big hunk of stone. Used it for a door stop, thought nothing of it. When this fellow, forget his name, he came to see me on some business or other. Botheration, but he knew ores and rocks and suchlike things. He’s with me, drinking up the last of my brandy, when his eyes go to it. He picks it up, scrapes at it a little with a knife, then declares that it is gold. “Gold?” I ask and he replies, “Gold, and a good essay too.” And he wants to know where it was found and, like a confounded fool, I tell him. Too much work involved if it got out. Only realised that after and I got him to promise not to mention it. Word of a gentleman and all that. Well, there’s not many gentlemen about when there’s gold to be had. He went off after it, and not only that, but the whole town got wind of it and followed. Now the male population is out there. Only women and children left, sir. Only women and children. Even the shopkeepers are there, making more than a pretty penny. Dashed shame, and just when the colony was picking itself up too.’

‘Gold, gold,’ Sir George said, his voice dropping dramatically and his eyes shining with sudden greed. ‘Gold,’ he repeated in a whisper before recollecting himself. He puffed up as he assumed his official role. ‘Governor Crawley,’ he stated. ‘I’m afraid that this gives a different perspective to my mission. I had thought that the population of this colony would slowly increase and thus not upset the natives too much; but if gold has been discovered, this means that hordes of riffraff and rascals will descend upon them. Ruffians who will not hesitate to mistreat and take mean advantage of those poor wretches living in their desert fastnesses far from aid and succour. They must be protected, sir, and I am here on behalf of the government to see that they are protected.’

‘Hem, report wasn’t it? Just a report.’

‘It was and still is, Colonel Crawley, and to do that report properly, I must see for myself this ... this goldfield.’

‘That’s easier said than done, man. The dashed area is somewhat far from here. Hardship, sir, hardship. Too much for a type like yourself.’

‘Governor, I have tracked through worse wilderness to get to such wretched creatures as these. To fulfil my mission, I am ready and willing to endure trials and tribulations that might make a lesser man quake. But with your cooperation and goodwill, perhaps an expedition, similar to the one you sanctioned for Bailey, is needed. You have read my commission and it calls for your utmost aid and help. Colonel, an expedition is needed. I know that the committee will defray the costs of such a necessity.’

‘But dash it, man, where am I to get the men? All the buggers – excuse me, ladies – all the blighters are at the goldfield already. Those who are left I can’t spare.’

‘There must be some available who can accompany me. Soldiers, policemen? They could not leave their posts. Desertion is still a hanging matter, is it not?’

‘No, old boy, sorry about that. But wait: by deuce, there is a batch of fellows just sitting around. You know, being civilised and all that. A detachment of native police here. Twenty fine fellows. They don’t know what gold is and they are well trained by Sergeant Barron, a soldier first and last. I’ve seen him put them through their paces. Believe me, they can do the job and, best of all, they can be spared. Was going to use them to keep the natives out of town, but what matter if the womenfolk are scared? Maybe that’ll bring their menfolk home.’

‘And they can drive carts and ride horses, shoot guns and obey orders?’

‘They can do these and more under their sergeant. And not only are there these, but Bailey had a native guide – what was his heathen name? Montgomery, or some such. He’s given up his heathen ways and carries about a Bible, though he can’t read a word of it. He will be your guide. Just say that Jesus has commanded it and he’s your fellow. Into the wilderness, eh? Why not.’ And the governor almost rubbed his hands in glee to have gotten rid of the visitor so easily.

‘So, I can mount my expedition of mercy and compassion as soon as it is feasible – in a few days,’ Sir George Augustus replied; and he too might have rubbed his hands together in satisfaction, if he had not glanced at Rebecca Crawley and detected a gleam in her eye.

‘I sincerely trust that your mission of mercy will meet with satisfaction, for all of us,’ she said, smiling at him as if aware of the hidden purpose beneath his concern. ‘I too would accompany you, but alas I fear the dangers and discomforts would be too much for a woman of my constitution and station.’

It was then that Mrs Fraser made a sudden decision, for she also was interested in the gold, and the virile miners. ‘I too have the wellbeing of the natives at heart,’ she declared. ‘Their interests are to a great extent my interests, as they should be for all of us. They, it is true, held me captive in durance vile, but as a Christian I have forgiven them. “Forgive them, Father, for they know not what they do”, and are we not ordained by that blessed providence to bring the Word to everyone, even to those who exist in the most degraded of states? I have the strength and determination to accompany you on your noble mission, sir.’

‘But, madam,’ Sir George protested shrilly, ‘you are a woman and such an expedition is not for such as you. In short, it is man’s work.’

‘No, no,’ Lucy said, twisting her face up and clutching Amelia’s arm fiercely. ‘I could not bear it if you were gone from me. I won’t let you go.’ And she pressed her face into the shoulder of her friend.

‘Piffle,’ declared the governor’s lady loudly. In truth, she could not bear Mrs Fraser and her hard stare. Having the woman on her hands over the weeks the expedition would be gone was perhaps the most disagreeable thing she could imagine and so she again said ‘Piffle’ before going on. ‘What one sex can do another can also attempt. Was there not Frau Isa Pfeiffer, the world traveller, who enduring great hardships voyaged around the world? I keep her book constantly by my bed as an inspiration of what our sex can do. Sir George,’ she commanded, tapping her fan irritably against her wrist, ‘Mrs Fraser, who also has had experience among these savages, is well able to attempt this expedition. In fact, it is not into unknown wilderness that you penetrate, for the gold discovery has created such a rush of men into that remote part of our colony that it is remote no longer. Surely, a woman may travel where men have gone!’

‘But –’ began the knight.

‘Sir George,’ Mrs Fraser said quietly, gaining his attention and his glance. She held them steadily as she continued: ‘I have not told you that I dabble in the pictorial arts and that, in hearing of your adventures, I have attempted a number of sketches which perhaps you shall correct for me one day. I know only the mainland natives, and your experience was in the island to the south. Please examine them, for one of the reasons I wish to accompany you, though the road be hard, is to capture you at work. I feel that that in itself is a noble enterprise, especially if your report, or other publications which might follow, need to be – I would not say embellished – illustrated. I, alas, am all alone in the world and must make my way in as gentlewomanly a fashion as possible.’

So saying, Amelia left her chair, picked up a sketch pad which she had left on the piano and carried it to Sir George. He took it from her gingerly and then clumsily dropped it so that it fell open. He bent over, examined the revealed sketch, then picked the pad up and thumbed through it, stopping every so often as a page caught his fancy. Studying these, now and again he looked up at the woman to say, ‘That is not exactly right’. Or, ‘Certain details are lacking.’ At last, he closed the pad and handed it back to her, commenting as if he were the master and she the pupil: ‘You have a way with the charcoal which I admire. On my expeditions of conciliation, in my journals I made rough drawings, but alas lacked the skill to make them live. If you feel that you have the necessary endurance, you may join my mission to render it in graphic detail. What else may I say when this good lady has added her weight to your request?’

‘Thank you for your kindness,’ Amelia replied somewhat smugly. ‘I take it that I am to accompany the expedition as the official artist?’

‘Dash it,’ exclaimed the governor. ‘She is a female and what is more has an aversion to the direct rays of the sun. I do not believe that I can allow this. If something should happen to this lady, it will not go down well in London. Her sojourn among the natives has elicited much interest there, as well as concern.’

‘But Colonel Crawley,’ replied Sir George ‘we are to have an armed escort, and then I have brought with me an Indian bughi, four wheeled rather than two, which has a hood to shade the occupants from the sun’s harmful rays. The lady will ride in this, though I must state that she may accompany me only if the landscape is such that the vehicle may proceed without hindrance.’

‘There isn’t a track suitable for it,’ declared the governor, then added as he came under the hard eye of Mrs Fraser: ‘But the land is dashedly flat, as flat as a billiard table, and I suppose where carts can go so can that bughi. India is not noted for the smoothness of its roads, is it?’

‘No, that is why I chose such a vehicle,’ replied the knight. ‘Well, if it is to be, it must be. So, let us pass from this subject and enjoy the company of these delightful ladies. Perhaps they will treat us to a song or two. My good wife has a sweet voice. Some have compared it to that of an angel. Please, Lucille, treat us to a song.’

‘I can play the piano tolerably well too,’ said a petulant Lucy, who since her protest had withdrawn from the subject of the expedition.

Her eyes, swimming with tears, accused her friend of desertion; but proud of her skill she went to the piano, sat in front of it and ran her fingers over the keys. It was somewhat out of tune, but no one called attention to it and she didn’t care. She banged out a discordant chord which suited her mood, then looked around and said: ‘When we were taking ship, I brought this broadsheet which was to warn young girls about the perils of the South Land. I have not found such dangers here, but then, thank God, I am not one of those poor creatures sent to languish at the ends of the earth.’ She flung a glance at her friend, attempted an introduction, then using the out-of-tune piano sparingly began to sing:

‘Come all young girls, both far and near, and listen unto me,

While unto you I do unfold what proved my destiny.

My mother died when I was young, it caused me to deplore,

And I did get my way too soon upon my native shore.’

Her clear young voice rose into a lament and everyone listened, though not with the same feelings. Mrs Crawley found the sentiments tedious and her husband soon lost interest. Sir George disliked the subject matter and wished that his young wife had chosen a more fitting song. It was only Amelia who seemed to appreciate the ballad and tapped out the time on her wrist. Then, as the song ran its course, she got to her feet and went to stand beside the singer. The girl, still out of sorts, scowled up at her grumpily before shaping her quivering lips into a little sad smile and thumping out the melody. Both sang out the final verses in a charming duo.

‘Come all young men and maidens, do bad company forsake,

If tongue can tell our overthrow it will make your heart to ache;

Young girls I pray be ruled by me, your wicked ways give o’er,

For fear like us you spend your days upon this weary shore.’

‘A noble sentiment,’ observed Rebecca sardonically. ‘It would have done well for me if I too had heeded such advice; but enough of this levity. I remember a similar simple melody which I sang to my sweet child when last I saw him. How I miss him.’ She wiped away a fanciful tear before adding: ‘It was well received by Lord Steyne. Ah, those joyful, happy days, and so, like the convict lass, I shall sing my mournful lay.’

She rose from the sofa, arranged the voluminous folds of her skirt, then went to the piano, took Lucy’s place and sang:

‘The rose upon the balcony the morning air perfuming

Was leafless all the wintertime and pining for the spring;

You ask me why her breath is sweet and why her cheek is blooming.

It is because the sun is out and the birds begin to sing.’

Mrs Crawley’s voice, it must be admitted, still retained some sweetness; but since the time she had sung the lyric to the appreciation she had described, it had dropped and the song was pitched too high for her. Still, she sang on to the end and curtsied to the polite applause.

‘Such beautiful sentiments,’ declared Sir George. ‘And so well projected that one would think oneself listening to an opera diva.’

‘Oh, Sir George,’ simpered Rebecca. ‘It brings a tear to my eye when I think of my once life. Here, there is nothing but harshness, a dreary harshness in which I languish.’

‘May you soon return to those pleasure groves in which you roamed,’ Sir George said with some feeling. He turned away as her eye lingered on his, then thinking awhile, he returned to that dark gaze and said: ‘I have been so concerned about those poor creatures that I have quite forgotten my wife. She is too delicate to essay the parched hinterland. I must find a place for her and a companion whilst I am on my journey of mercy.’

‘Sir George, I am at your service,’ quickly replied Rebecca. ‘Fear not, your life’s companion shall reside safely here whilst you brave the perils of your expedition. Such a soft dove needs a shelter and she shall have it here with me.’ And putting action to words, she turned and embraced Lucy, who had not been asked for her opinion or assent.

‘And so it is decided,’ Sir George said. ‘Lucy, you shall find a home here while I am on my travels. And as I have some excellent wine, we shall raise our glasses to the success of my expedition. Lucy, go and get two bottles of the claret.’

His wife obeyed and when she was passing through the door, Amelia slipped out behind her. They had gone along the verandah only a few steps when the girl, with a little cry, flung herself into her friend’s arms.

‘I don’t want you to go,’ she cried petulantly. ‘I won’t let you go.’

‘Hush, child,’ Amelia replied, stroking her cheek. ‘When you are lonely, think of me and I shall be in your dreams.’

‘But I don’t want to be with that horrid old woman either. She smells of mothballs and dust. I want your smell. It’s ... it’s ...’ and not finishing her sentence she tugged her friend’s head down and tried to push her lips against her neck.

‘No, child, no,’ Amelia whispered, gently detaching herself from the embrace. ‘Now get the wine and when you return make excuses for me, say that I am indisposed or at prayer, or some such thing.’ And she slipped away, leaving Lucy alone except for a soft wet nose that slipped into her hand.

‘And I expect that you are going too,’ she exclaimed in mock anger at the dog. ‘Well, poof, who cares! I shall be as Clotho, the youngest Fate, and embroider a tapestry with scenes that show your mistress returning to me. I have that piece of canvas and now I shall begin on it when she leaves and continue on until she returns. O let there not be that other Fate, the third, Atropos, who cuts the thread that ends a life. Enough, I mix up the stories. The canvas is there and I will but place thereon the scenes in bright thread. Sweet Mela, I will get her to sketch in the scene for me.’