A HAZARD OF HEARTS (25 page)

Now Cornwallis escorted her home in an open
carriage for all the world to see that her good name remained secure. It was
the long way back, of course, through the Domain, yet plenty of people were
about, either driving or strolling in the balmy spring night. The gentle clop
of hooves, the jingle of harness, the swaying motion of the carriage all combined
like a lullaby to soothe Elly into a state of total relaxation. Knowing the
outing had almost ended, she leaned back with a regretful sigh. Her dangling jade
ear-bobs, borrowed from Jo-Beth, and the extravagant luxury of long gloves against
her skin would soon be as much a memory as the perfume of the rose tucked into her
bosom – one of Cornwallis’ roses.

Cornwallis. What did she really think of him? Seated
at dinner with a barrier of starched napery and silver separating them, she had
been conscious of his magnetism. Although not precisely handsome, his features
were striking in the dark Byronic mode, without the brooding manner associated
with the poet. She’d describe them as strong, even heavy, with an expressive
mouth which could by turns become arrogant or persuasive. Yet his conversation
had been impeccably impersonal until she changed this. Curiosity had prompted
her to question him about his interests, and he’d been willing enough to inform
her.

‘One of my principle concerns is land ownership.
There has always been a desperate hunger for land in this Colony, ever since
men spread out beyond the confines of the Sydney Basin. Most of the best
pasture was taken up by the squatters, men of means who could afford to keep
themselves and stock the holdings until they made a decent return. Their
leaseholds run from the edges of the heavily settled areas right out to the dry
west, and they currently hold these until 1861-62. One leading subject of
public debate is: who uses the land after that date?’

Elly took a sip of wine while she thought about
this. ‘It hardly seems fair for one small section of the community to hold so
much land. I’ve heard it said these squatters, having paid a pittance for their
lease-holds, now make huge tax-free profits.’ She didn’t mention Paul Gascoigne
as her source of information.

‘True. Yet they were pioneers. Don’t they
deserve consideration for all the heartbreaking labour they’ve put into what
were often wastelands? For the risks they ran?’

‘I can see justice will be difficult to ensure
when the time comes. A lot of little people will want to take up a selection
and spread their roots in their new country.’

Cornwallis flicked a finger towards the waiter
and ordered more wine, saying easily, ‘The little people, as you call them,
have always lost to wealth and influence. It’s the way of the world.’

‘Do you think that makes it right?’

He leaned forward, smiling. ‘By no means. I have
the utmost respect for anyone prepared to battle his way above the crowd to
take what he wants. Such men are all too rare.’

Elly’s thoughts went to Paul Gascoigne, prepared
to do battle not for his own advancement alone, but for all the little men
whose only strength lay in combining against a wealthy autocracy. She was
discovering unsought socialist sympathies in herself.

Cornwallis watched her, amused. ‘I see you
believe me to be one of the plutocrats, or at least a sympathizer.’

‘Are you?’

‘The answer is yes, to both indictments. I am of
my class and naturally support it. I own land which adjoins Mr MacArthur’s
property at Camden, from which I derive profits and which provides employment
for twenty men and women. In the days of convict labour, so bitterly regretted,
there were some fifty or more engaged in clearing and building for me. Yes, I
paid a small enough sum for the land. However, I’ve also added such
improvements as a homestead, housing for employees, fences, wells and dams. I
stocked the pastures then put in a manager to free me to live in the town and pursue
business activities here.

‘One day I shall have to leave the colony when I
inherit my father’s estate, but I shall leave these shores richer for my having
been here.’ He paused and amended, ‘I mean the shores will be richer, as well
as my own coffers. I’m one of that band of entrepreneurs who will develop the
Colony, not merely exploit it. With our wealth and background we are in a
position to do this. The little man is not.’

Elly frowned. ‘I feel there is a flaw in your
argument, yet I can’t put my finger on it. However, I do see that you would
resist having your holdings cut up into small pieces for other men to farm.’

Their talk drifted into wider cultural avenues where
Elly, although inexperienced, held her own through having been her
well-educated father’s only conversational partner for so many years. She
turned aside any attempt to discuss her own ambitions, resolved to leave the
hospital behind for one night. However, unexceptionable as their words might
be, she noticed a subtle undercurrent to their exchanges, a delicate emotional
probing on the part of Cornwallis that she knew she must withstand. It was
flattering and delightful, but hazardous.

And now the magic night had almost ended. She
felt, rather than saw Cornwallis’ head turn towards her in the dark, the white
frill of his shirt-front reflecting the moonlight.

‘Why do you sigh? Are you weary, my lady?’

‘Not at all. I sighed because the evening is
almost finished and I don’t know how long it will be before I enjoy such
another.’ Realising how ambiguous this sounded, she added, ‘Because I can’t get
away from my duties. We’re still so short-staffed, even with the addition of
Malone and Irvine.’

‘Surely you can delegate to others. The
competence of your training has been noted, believe me. And you must long for
more in life than a never-ending devotion to duty. You’re too intelligent not
to want more.’ His voice, so warm and interested, played on her nerves like
music. She felt his shoulder sway against hers with the motion of the carriage,
his hand press hers before he moved back.

Annoyed that she’d tricked herself into breaking
her self-imposed rule of silence on hospital affairs, and gratified by
Cornwallis’ compliment, Elly let her guard slip.

For an instant she was tempted to give way to
the spell of the night and her companion and begin to weave fantasies of a life
which included more than hard work and ambition. Did she want to wear herself
down to a taper in the service of others, only to flicker and burn out at the
end never having known the joys and heartbreaks of marriage and children, of devotion
to the close few?

She answered her own question immediately. She
knew what she wanted, and it was not this present singing in the blood, a mere
physical attraction, a pointless indulgence when measured against her great
ambition. She’d already decided she had no time for romantic attachment, not
even a deep friendship which might sap her will to fight and draw her away from
the battlefield.

Yet this man’s magnetic personality pulled, not
just at her senses, but at her intellect. He challenged her to meet him on a level
few women were expected to reach. Only Paul Gascoigne had come close, with his
ability to burrow beneath her calm facade and goad her into opposition. D’Arcy
Cornwallis didn’t burrow or goad. He asked her opinion, then argued a different
viewpoint with tact and a sweet deference all too soothing to someone
accustomed to having her opinions swept aside as negligible. A very dangerous
man, Cornwallis.

She sat up straight, banishing the insidious
languor. ‘Look, over there. It’s a rally of some kind.’

He followed her gesture. ‘A speaker on his box,
with the usual crowd in attendance.’ He sounded bored. Was he irritated to have
the mood between them broken?

Elly forced excitement into her voice. ‘Oh, I’d
love to hear him. I’ve never listened to a speaker in the Domain. Could we not
go closer?’ Unable to see his face, she still sensed his displeasure.

‘Of course. If you wish it.’ He directed the
coachman to draw up and assisted Elly to alight, then escorted her across the
grass to the fringes of the crowd.

They seemed a happy enough group, although
interjections forced the speaker to raise his voice. In the light of a nearby
lantern set on a pole Elly recognised Paul Gascoigne, joined in an impassioned
argument with his listeners.

 Cornwallis said, ‘I know that man. He’s one of
Parkes’ tribe of iconoclasts. You won’t learn much of value from his speech.’

‘What does he usually talk about? Land rights?’

‘The rights of the “common man” is his favourite
topic, which can be stretched to include every kind of entitlement imaginable,
including, if you can believe me, a common labourer’s right to vote for a
representative in government.’

‘I suppose you might call it iconoclasm.’

‘It’s madness. Wentworth has to stop it.’

Elly looked at him. Shadows flickered across his
face, altering the noble prow and twisting the strong features into something
quite satyric. She must have gasped, for he turned, shattering the illusion
with his smile.

‘I’ve talked enough politics for one night. Do
you want to move in closer to hear what this fellow has to say?’

Elly shook her head. ‘It’s late. I’d better go
back.’

She climbed wearily into the carriage, her
marvellous mood dissipated. Why did politics have to enter into everything? She
couldn’t escape them, inside the hospital or out.

Five minutes later she stood at the main door
which Cornwallis opened for her. He bent suddenly and brought her fingers to
his lips.

‘Miss Ballard, I cannot recall having enjoyed an
evening more. Thank you for your excellent company.’

‘Sir, I can only return the compliment and wish
you a good night’s rest.’ Regaining her hand, Elly stepped inside and closed
the door.

A candle had been left ready for her, but the
sounds from upstairs warned that others were still about. She hurried up to the
landing to be met by Pearl, an amused quirk to her lips.

‘Come quickly. We have had a disaster.’

‘What sort of disaster? Where?’ Elly accompanied
her into one of the men’s wards and followed her pointing finger.

Her senses were assailed by noise and an
overpowering stench of scorched linen. Patients had left their beds to group
together, some almost hysterical with laughter, others wailing in dismay. Nurse
Malone and Jo-Beth, clutching empty buckets, stood on either side of a
drenched, blackened cot, while four burly wardsmen sat on two other men on the
floor. The persons being sat upon protested loudly, their yells mingled with
those of the patients.

Grasping Jo-Beth’s pail, Elly flung it into the
middle of the room, where it landed with a mighty crack and split open. The row
diminished instantly, to the point where she could be heard. ‘Be silent, all of
you.’

The two men pinned to the floor continued to
shout words unintelligible to Elly. She could now see they were native
Islanders, their glossy brown limbs splayed and kicking, their faces beneath
their crowns of woolly hair distorted with rage.

She turned to Pearl, who had her sleeve across
her mouth. ‘Kindly tell me what’s going on here.’

Pearl pointed to the wardsmen. ‘They have to sit
on them. Otherwise they will start the fire again.’

Elly approached the cot, grimly surveying the
still-smouldering mattress and the scorched sheet covering a suspiciously
motionless patient, also an Islander.

Jo-Beth’s eyes gleamed with repressed amusement.
‘It’s all right. He was not burned alive.’

‘You relieve my mind.’ Elly turned on the
wardsmen, heaving under the struggles of their prisoners. ‘How did these men
get in? No visitors are ever permitted at night.’

They shuffled sheepishly and did not answer.

‘You were bribed, I suppose.’ Elly indicated the
bucket little Nurse Malone clutched to her apron. ‘Why did these men set the
bed afire?’

The girl put down the bucket, answering dazedly,
‘I think... They say they were conducting a cremation.’

Elly hoped her jaw hadn’t fallen open. ‘A cremation!
In the ward? On the bed?’

Jo-Beth nodded. ‘It seems it’s their custom.
Something to do with sending the spirit onward as soon as it leaves the body.
It... It seems a hygienic method of disposal.’ She disciplined her expression,
but her voice verged on horrified laughter.

Pearl’s snort was immediately drowned in a roar
from the floor and a surge of words which certainly would not translate
politely.

Dismissing an urge to throw up her hands and
leave, Elly issued her orders, which included sending for Doctor Houston and
more wardsmen to replace her nurses, who were becoming a focus of attention by
the male patients. Nobody focussed on her, except to try to avoid her eagle
eye.

By the time she could go to her own bed the
romantic trappings of her evening had dissipated entirely, and she had reverted
once more to the real core Elly Ballard, Acting Matron very much in charge and
responsible for just about everything.

Despite having yielded the once, Elly now
reinforced her decision to dispense with a social life and threw herself into
her work, refusing all distraction. Elegantly worded invitations from D’Arcy
Cornwallis were politely declined in notes as formal and elegant; and while
Paul Gascoigne’s agenda clearly kept him busy, he found the time to knock on
Elly’s door on two further occasions with an invitation to walk with him and
Pepper around the Botanical Gardens to Mrs Macquarie’s Chair, a wedge of land
providing magnificent harbour views. After several unequivocal refusals Paul
ceased to ask. Even J.G., bouncing in with his usual verve to try to drag Elly
out for a drink at his favourite pub, had no success. She simply declined to socialise.