Eugenia.
There was a tap at the door.
‘Is that you, Jane? Come in.’
‘It’s Mrs Jarvis, ma’am.’ The door opened. Mrs Jarvis, dressed in the grey cotton dress in which she had travelled yesterday, but which also had been cleansed of travel stains, stood there.
‘Jane is poorly still, ma’am. So I’ve come to see if there’s anything I can do.’
Eugenia’s first impulse was to send her away, those warm brown eyes saw too much. But this was nonsense. The woman seemed to be a good servant, that was the important thing. Much better that composed face than Jane’s sickly hysterical one bending over her. Besides, she found she rather badly wanted the company of a woman, otherwise that terrible combination of homesickness and fear that lay just beneath her consciousness would rise and burst over her in a flood.
‘Thank you, Mrs Jarvis, you can help me dress, and pack my night things.’
‘Very well, ma’am. Can I brush your hair for you, too? There’s no mirror, and the water they expect you to wash in isn’t fit for a pig. But I expect we can manage one way and another.’
The hair-brushing was soothing. Mrs Jarvis had a nice rhythmic style. She twisted the heavy locks into a respectable coil, pinned it up securely, and then helped Eugenia into her dress. Since there was no mirror Eugenia had no way of knowing what her face looked like, and she didn’t intend to ask Mrs Jarvis. The quiet eyes were observing enough already.
‘I am stiff all over from that jolting in the waggon yesterday,’ she said, and at last found that she could talk about the previous night. ‘What has happened to the convict?’
‘Two troopers came for him. He was taken away before dawn.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He’ll be hanged,’ said Mrs Jarvis quietly. ‘I have to tell you the truth.’
Eugenia shivered.
‘How have you not been brutalized, Mrs Jarvis? You must have seen so many dreadful things.’
‘It’s my nature not to be, I expect, ma’am.’
‘And you don’t want to go back to England?’
‘What would there be for me there? I belong here now. My child will belong here.’
And so will yours, those too perceptive eyes said.
Eugenia pressed her hands to her stomach, wondering fleetingly if there were the seed of a child there already. She saw that Mrs Jarvis had noticed the movement, and hastily smoothed down her skirt.
‘Did you hear the dog barking all night, Mrs Jarvis?’
‘It was a dingo. There, ma’am. You look very well after such a long journey yesterday.’
‘It was a long journey for you, too, in your condition.’
‘I’m a strong woman. And I’m used to the climate.’
‘Yes, you seem to be, I must say. Then I will be obliged if you will bring me my breakfast. Just some tea and a little bread and butter. Then I must go and see how Jane is. If she is still so poorly, she had better ride in the buggy with Mr Massingham and me.’
Though her motives, she admitted privately, were not entirely concern for Jane. The girl’s presence would serve to postpone the moment when she had to be alone with her husband.
Chapter VIII
T HE HOUSE WAS SUCH a surprise that, as the buggy stopped and Gilbert leaped out, Eugenia fell spontaneously into his arms.
They had turned off the road at a sign ‘Yarrabee’ painted on a post in rough black letters, and had driven more than a mile over a bumpy track that seemed to lead nowhere. Then suddenly the graceful sand-coloured house, on a slope that led down to green willows and a glint of water, was like a mirage in the parched landscape. It had two storeys, a verandah running round the lower one, and balconies at the upper windows. The doors and window frames and verandah posts were painted a pristine glistening white. The whole impression was of cool shady comfort.
‘Oh, Gilbert, I couldn’t imagine it would have been like this,’ Eugenia exclaimed in delight.
Gilbert looked pleased and proud. He looked a suitable part of the
There was a tap at the door.
‘Is that you, Jane? Come in.’
‘It’s Mrs Jarvis, ma’am.’ The door opened. Mrs Jarvis, dressed in the grey cotton dress in which she had travelled yesterday, but which also had been cleansed of travel stains, stood there.
‘Jane is poorly still, ma’am. So I’ve come to see if there’s anything I can do.’
Eugenia’s first impulse was to send her away, those warm brown eyes saw too much. But this was nonsense. The woman seemed to be a good servant, that was the important thing. Much better that composed face than Jane’s sickly hysterical one bending over her. Besides, she found she rather badly wanted the company of a woman, otherwise that terrible combination of homesickness and fear that lay just beneath her consciousness would rise and burst over her in a flood.
‘Thank you, Mrs Jarvis, you can help me dress, and pack my night things.’
‘Very well, ma’am. Can I brush your hair for you, too? There’s no mirror, and the water they expect you to wash in isn’t fit for a pig. But I expect we can manage one way and another.’
The hair-brushing was soothing. Mrs Jarvis had a nice rhythmic style. She twisted the heavy locks into a respectable coil, pinned it up securely, and then helped Eugenia into her dress. Since there was no mirror Eugenia had no way of knowing what her face looked like, and she didn’t intend to ask Mrs Jarvis. The quiet eyes were observing enough already.
‘I am stiff all over from that jolting in the waggon yesterday,’ she said, and at last found that she could talk about the previous night. ‘What has happened to the convict?’
‘Two troopers came for him. He was taken away before dawn.’
‘What will happen to him?’
‘He’ll be hanged,’ said Mrs Jarvis quietly. ‘I have to tell you the truth.’
Eugenia shivered.
‘How have you not been brutalized, Mrs Jarvis? You must have seen so many dreadful things.’
‘It’s my nature not to be, I expect, ma’am.’
‘And you don’t want to go back to England?’
‘What would there be for me there? I belong here now. My child will belong here.’
And so will yours, those too perceptive eyes said.
Eugenia pressed her hands to her stomach, wondering fleetingly if there were the seed of a child there already. She saw that Mrs Jarvis had noticed the movement, and hastily smoothed down her skirt.
‘Did you hear the dog barking all night, Mrs Jarvis?’
‘It was a dingo. There, ma’am. You look very well after such a long journey yesterday.’
‘It was a long journey for you, too, in your condition.’
‘I’m a strong woman. And I’m used to the climate.’
‘Yes, you seem to be, I must say. Then I will be obliged if you will bring me my breakfast. Just some tea and a little bread and butter. Then I must go and see how Jane is. If she is still so poorly, she had better ride in the buggy with Mr Massingham and me.’
Though her motives, she admitted privately, were not entirely concern for Jane. The girl’s presence would serve to postpone the moment when she had to be alone with her husband.
Chapter VIII
T HE HOUSE WAS SUCH a surprise that, as the buggy stopped and Gilbert leaped out, Eugenia fell spontaneously into his arms.
They had turned off the road at a sign ‘Yarrabee’ painted on a post in rough black letters, and had driven more than a mile over a bumpy track that seemed to lead nowhere. Then suddenly the graceful sand-coloured house, on a slope that led down to green willows and a glint of water, was like a mirage in the parched landscape. It had two storeys, a verandah running round the lower one, and balconies at the upper windows. The doors and window frames and verandah posts were painted a pristine glistening white. The whole impression was of cool shady comfort.
‘Oh, Gilbert, I couldn’t imagine it would have been like this,’ Eugenia exclaimed in delight.
Gilbert looked pleased and proud. He looked a suitable part of the
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