Dorothy Eden (47 page)

Could he have ever loved her?

But yes, she told herself, determined not to give way to despair. For what about their shared nights now? They were as precious to him as to her. She had no need to be told that this was so. He held her in his arms, or his hand lay on some part of her body, as if he were reassuring himself all the night that she was there.

He did love her. And there were not enough nights left.

All the same, this situation could not be ignored. There would have to be a highly unpleasant interview.

Eugenia rang the bell and sent for Mrs Jarvis. She waited ten minutes, tapping her foot with impatience, the colour high in her cheeks. At last Mrs Jarvis appeared, apologizing in her quiet manner.

‘I’m sorry to be so long coming, ma’am. The master fancied a lightly boiled egg for his breakfast and I was just taking it upstairs. He isn’t eating enough to keep an infant alive. What is to be done?’

Eugenia closed and unclosed her hands, knowing that, for all her anger, she was a coward. For anxiety had relaxed Mrs Jarvis’s guard. The pain was naked in her eyes. There was no need to cross-examine her. Her very pain betrayed her. To add to it would be an act of unnecessary cruelty of which Eugenia knew herself to be incapable. She might as easily have tried to wield the lash on a naked back.

Yet something must be said.

‘Doctor Noakes has said that we must do all we can to keep him happy. Perhaps you are more successful at that than I am.’

The steady gaze of the anguished brown eyes did not flinch.

‘Is that why you sent for me, ma’am?’

‘Yes. It is. You must have thought me very blind and very stupid for a long time.’

‘No, ma’am. You nice woman’—there was a touch of irresistible contempt in her voice—‘don’t know much about life.’ Then she had got back her iron discipline and added, ‘If you will pardon me for saying so.’

‘You’re telling me you kept my husband out of worse hands!’

‘No, I wasn’t saying that. But it’s true, all the same. Others would have made demands. I had no need to ask for anything. Conveniently, I expect you think. I don’t suppose you can forgive me. I always felt very badly about deceiving you.’

‘I should think that, at least!’

Mrs Jarvis bent her head. ‘I couldn’t help myself, ma’am. If it was to do over again, I would behave in the same way. I loved him too much.’

Eugenia abruptly turned away, unable to contemplate the unassailable dignity of this wretched guilty woman who was contriving to look innocent.

‘You will wish me to leave, ma’am?’ Mrs Jarvis was asking stonily.

Yarrabee without Mrs Jarvis? How ever would she explain that to Gilbert? It was an impossibility.

‘I don’t think you understand me, Mrs Jarvis. Doctor Noakes has left instructions that his patient is to be kept happy. We must do the best we can between us. For one thing, he must never know about this talk.’

She had never seen Mrs Jarvis cry. Even now the welling tears were sternly disciplined.

‘Perhaps, for a nice woman, I know more about life than you suspect,’ Eugenia added wryly. So now she must live with the eroding pain of jealousy, as well as with the pain of Gilbert’s slow inexorable illness.

He had already lived longer than Philip Noakes had expected him to. When the pain became unbearable, Eugenia remembered Doctor Noakes’ advice. ‘Let him drink, Eugenia. Wine, whisky, brandy. Anything so long as it’s intoxicating. Keep him in a stupor, if you can.’

She who had always hated drunkenness. It was the final irony.

Gilbert was not unaware of the irony, either.

‘You used to be against this, Genia. You said I helped to kill that Irishman. I believe you really thought I killed Mrs Ashburton, too. That wasn’t true, although I admit I encouraged her to enjoy my wine. And I gave her the tombstone I promised her, even though she deceived me about her fortune. The crafty old witch. But she saved Yarrabee. Blessings on her grey head.’

Saving Yarrabee was the highest deed anybody could do, in Gilbert’s mind.

It was surely fate that arranged the heat wave the night the Frenchman was expected to dinner.

Monsieur Jacques Sellier was an eminent wine connoisseur, from Paris. Travelling in the antipodes, he had heard of the young Australian wines, and was greatly interested. Could he propose himself one evening for the purpose of sampling some of the Yarrabee wine? If it met with his approval he would be only too willing to take some bottles back to Paris and also to London with his personal recommendation.

When the Frenchman’s letter arrived Gilbert was revitalized. He must be entertained royally. Eugenia and Mrs Jarvis must work out a menu that would complement the wines which Gilbert was already discussing with Jem. The Yarrabee Christopher claret, of which there were a few dozen bottles left, and which was still Yarrabee’s finest wine. The 1850 riesling, and the 1840 port. Did Jem agree?

‘Now don’t say yes because you think you have to humour me. I’m still able to listen to another opinion.’

‘I do agree with you, sir. But Addie thinks the riesling we drank at our wedding superior to the 1850. I tell her she’s being sentimental.’

‘What’s wrong with sentimentality? Anyway, she may be right. You wouldn’t have married a wife without a palate, would you? So let us have Addie’s riesling.’

‘Thank you, Papa,’ said Adelaide later. ‘Did Jem tell you we’ll be drinking to something more important than your Frenchman’s visit?’

‘What’s that?’

‘Can’t you guess? Jem and I are going to have a baby.’

Gilbert’s sunken eyes gleamed.

‘Does your mother know?’

‘No. You’re the first to be told.’

‘Make it a boy, Addie.’

‘For Yarrabee, I suppose. That’s what Jem said, too. It’s a good thing I like wine or I would be as cynical as Mamma.’

‘Don’t say a word against your mother,’ Gilbert said sharply.

It was a miracle how well the master of Yarrabee looked on that final important night. Candlelight softened his gauntness. Excitement brought a flush to his hollow cheeks, and the old burning sparkle to his eyes. Nothing was to be said to the Frenchman about his illness. Nothing was to cast a blight over this evening. For the past week he had been getting up and walking in order to get the strength back into his legs.

So that M’sieur Sellier found himself greeted by a tall over-thin but erect figure, full of animation and enthusiasm. His hostess was as elegant as a Frenchwoman, which was the highest compliment M’sieur Sellier could pay. The younger daughter was enchantingly pretty though unfortunately too self-effacing. The older daughter had plenty of assurance and her husband looked to be of sound peasant stock which, in his opinion, was just what this country needed.

All the same it was a pity that the heat was so fierce on this particular night. There was every sign that another of the colony’s disastrous droughts was beginning. The sun had shone unclouded for weeks. The land was crackling with dryness. In addition a strong wind was blowing, stirring up dust storms and making travelling hellishly unpleasant.

Yarrabee was a surprisingly civilized oasis, the house handsomely furnished, the dinner table with its polished silver and crystal, a pleasant surprise. As for the wine, M’sieur Sellier declared himself to be astonished and delighted.

‘But it is excellent, my dear sir. It has a good nose. It is light, fragrant, altogether palatable.’

‘Ah, I thought you’d be surprised,’ Gilbert said complacently. ‘But wait until you taste the claret.’ He indicated to Jem to pour the wine. Then, as Mrs Jarvis carried in the roast ducklings, he called to her to wait a moment. Before she served the food he wanted to drink a toast.

Slowly he stood up, and as he held himself completely erect, he seemed immensely tall, dominating the table. The flickering candlelight even gave an illusion of the old vigorous red to his hair. He raised his glass, and Eugenia saw that he was looking down the table to her. For a long moment his blue eyes burned into hers. She remembered vividly when she had encountered that look across the space that had separated the bobbing boat from the shore, the brilliant blue eyes, the burnt umber head against the burnt umber of the Australian soil. She clenched her hands to stop them trembling. Her eyes were filling with tears.

‘I give you a toast,’ said the familiar strong resonant voice. ‘To Eugenia, my wife, my partner of twenty-three years.’

The room dissolved into mist as the tears ran helplessly down Eugenia’s cheeks. She began to rise, but was waved down by Adelaide.

‘No, Mamma. You must sit. We’re drinking to you.’

Eugenia fumbled for her handkerchief. ‘But this—can you think of anything more undeserved, M’sieur Sellier?’ She was half laughing, half crying. ‘To be quite honest, I don’t even care for wine.’

‘Then, madame’—she had forgotten how gallant Frenchmen were—‘I drink to you again for your loyalty, whether it was to the vineyard or its master.’

Loyalty? Was that the word? The blue eyes burning down the table signalled affirmation.

But we were not loyal to each other, she was saying silently. Yet we were, we are, for there are different kinds of loyalty.

‘Later Eugenia will sing you some French songs,’ Gilbert said.

‘You see, we are far from uncivilized. I remember when—’ He stopped suddenly, lifting his head to sniff the air.

The windows had had to be closed because of the strong wind, but a flow of cool air came in through the hall doorway.

It was this that Gilbert was sniffing in such a curious way.

‘Smoke!’ he ejaculated.

Jem sprang up, knocking his chair backwards.

‘It’s the candles, Papa,’ Lucy said nervously. ‘They keep guttering.’

Jem was already out on the verandah, Addie close on his heels. ‘You’re right, sir,’ he called back. ‘Smells stronger out here.’

Already there were far-off shouts. Abruptly the memory of that other ruined dinner party long ago came to Eugenia. But this shouting did not come from mutinous convicts. This must be the other terror. A bush fire.

From the bottom of the garden, where they had all hastened, it was possible to get a clear view of the dark vineyards and the great luminous night sky shot, on the horizon, with patches of orange.

The aromatic smell of burning gum trees was tinged with another smell of singed hair and roasting flesh.

The wind was blowing strongly in their faces, which meant that presently, swarms of panic-stricken animals, the ones not already caught in the flames, wallabies, foxes, kangaroos, sheep and cattle, wild pigs, emus, the lethargic wombats which had not been shaped for speed, would be swarming in this direction in their desperate attempt to reach safety.

What was worse, to the petrified little group in Eugenia’s sweet-smelling garden, was that the vineyards lay in the direct line of the advancing fire.

‘Mon Dieu!’ exclaimed the Frenchman.

Jem was already hurrying off. Gilbert’s suddenly strong commanding voice stopped him.

‘I’ve fought fires before. You haven’t, lad. I’ll take charge. Fetch Sloan. He is probably on his way up by now. We’ll want every vehicle there is loaded with barrels of water, all the sacks available, every kind of fire-fighting weapon. Garden tools, brooms, anything that will beat out flames.’

Adelaide had fled after Jem, kicking off her high-heeled shoes, and unbuttoning her crinoline as she ran. Lucy was immobile, her hands wrung together. M’sieur Sellier was still staring in fascination at the flames on the horizon, exclaiming as they leapt about.

‘They’re like torches!’

‘It’s the intense heat,’ Gilbert answered briefly. ‘One tree ignites another even from a considerable distance.’ The thickening smoke was making him cough. Eugenia took his arm. He thrust it off and walked briskly up the path, imitating Addie by slipping off his collar and jacket as he went.

‘Gilbert, you can’t go to the vineyards!’ Eugenia cried in dismay.

He didn’t hear, or pretended not to. He joined the crowd of men assembling at the front door. Tom Sloan had brought up a dray. His grizzled head showed in the light from the verandah. Addie and Jem were already aboard. It was Jem who reached out to help Gilbert up.

‘No!’ Eugenia shrieked. ‘Don’t let him go.’

‘Mamma, don’t you see he
has
to,’ Addie cried.

The dray was already rumbling away. Another one, driven by Obadiah White, was coming up. Suddenly M’sieur Sellier exclaimed,
‘Voila!’
and sprang nimbly aboard. It was either his action, or the first dray rattling into the darkness, that caused Eugenia to follow his example. They perched side by side on the uncomfortable wooden seat, too concerned with the flickering sky to think of the spectacle they made in their evening clothes.

Eugenia remembered that she had heard Lucy’s horrified ‘Mamma!’ as she had clambered into the dray. Lucy was not fitted for this kind of thing. She would do well to take refuge in the garden where it would remain comparatively cool. Unless the fire could not be checked. Unless the vineyards, and then the house itself, were consumed.

Water splish-sploshed in the barrels. It was required to dip the sacks in, Eugenia explained to the Frenchman. They must try not to let it spill. Every drop would be precious.

A straggling line of people followed the drays. Eugenia thought she recognized Mrs Jarvis’s grey-blonde head. But it was difficult to see now. The smoke, growing thicker by the minute, was hot and suffocating, and made her eyes water. It seemed that the fire had already reached the north-east corner of the vineyard. And suddenly the darkness was alive with the leaping shapes of kangaroos. Somewhere a dingo was yelping on a high note of pain. Its anguish was lost in the bleating, woolly rush of a flock of sheep unable to soar through the air as the kangaroos did, and crashing violently through the vines.

The dray came to a bumping halt. Everyone tumbled out. Something struck Eugenia’s head, a bird, half stupefied in the smoke and darkness. It fell to the ground, a small green parrot which she could not stop to succour. For now the flames were not just torches on the horizon. They were sizzling and crackling a hundred yards away. The fight had begun.