‘Are we to celebrate?’ asks Geor giana. ‘Do you have news?’ A wine bottle in a bucket of iced water and two glasses have been delivered by a servant to the front verandah, where she and Caroline are seated while the boys are of f catching tadpoles. ‘Yes, there is news,’ says Caroline. ‘This is one of the last of Mr Broughton’ s wines. Cornelius unearthed it. I have been studying his journals of the vineyard, too. He believed that the weather in Van Diemen’ s Land, being very similar to the north of France, offered a unique opportunity . The grapes that comprise champagne like the cold and damp.’ ‘Have you tasted it? Is it any good?’ asks Geor giana. ‘Shall we see?’ Caroline smiles. She unwinds the string and pulls the cork from the bottle. ‘It will be too old now to have any effervescence,’ she says, ‘but let us try it anyway .’ She pours a small measure into each glass. It is the same pale golden colour as that from the bottle Cornelius had opened for Caroline. The two women drink and an expression of surprise appears on Georgiana’s face. ‘It is delicious,’ she says. ‘So perfect for a warm afternoon. This must enthuse you, Caroline!’ ‘It does, but if the vineyard is to be restored, the labour required is but one st ep. Then there is the making of the wine. The barrels and bottling, the knowledge of fermentation.’ ‘And Cornelius cannot do this?’ ‘He knows about the care of the grapes, but not about the making of wine. Mr Broughton was the expert in that.’ ‘I do think the colony would be improved by an allocation of wine instead of rum to the soldiers—and to the prisoners, too, for that matter,’ says Geor giana. ‘Rum seems only to damage men.’ ‘A little more?’ asks Caroline.
‘Please,’ says Georgiana. ‘I think, if you do not mind, that I will tell Captain Swanston this evening that you have something of great interest to share with him.’
Captain Swanston sits behind his desk and peruses the numbers Caroline has placed in front of him. ‘You are telling me, Mrs Douglas, that this vineyard you are attempting to reclaim may prove valuable. That three hundred gallons were made in one year and that you anticipate, on those figures, that the vineyard might make twenty hogsheads of wine next year and thirty the following year?’ She nods. ‘In five years,’ he continues, ‘these figures suggest the yield could be one hundred hogshead. The current price being ten pounds per hogshead?’ ‘Yes,’ says Caroline. ‘But if the wine is very good, it could be worth more than twice that sum, I am told by the Walkers.’ ‘I hear you happened upon a bottle or two,’ says Captain Swanston. ‘Relics, as I understand?’ Caroline draws a bottle from her satchel and presents it to him. ‘My wife r eports that it is very pleasant,’ says Captain Swanston. He stands and takes two glasses from the sideboard where he ke eps a bottle of brandy. He unwinds the string around the cork and releases it. He pours the wine and passes a glass to Caroline. He inspects the contents of his own glass and nods. ‘To your good health, Mrs Douglas.’ ‘And to yours, Captain Swanston.’ He sips, and cocks his head. ‘Surprisingly good. No bubbles, though.’ ‘I fear it is too old for those. But still good, as you say .’ ‘And I thought to plough up those vines,’ he says. She lays two of Broughton’ s leather-bound volumes on Swanston’ s desk. ‘The figures you see before you are drawn from Broughton’ s journals and ledgers.’ ‘You found these?’ ‘They were given to Cornelius after Broughton died.’
‘Indeed.’ Captain Swanston sips the wine and considers. ‘Yet you wish to make a request, if I am not mistaken. What is it you would have me do, Mrs Douglas?’ ‘I am in need of a partner in this endeavour , Captain Swansto n, and I would like that person to be my closest neighbour . A man highly regarded in this colony in all matters of enterprise.’ ‘Mrs Douglas, customs duties are the bulk of this government’ s revenue, along with our taxes. That is what runs this colony. Perhaps you are not aware that rum and brandy account for sixty per cent of the imports here. Fortified wine is another twenty per cent, malt liquor the rest. The Governor , as you know, has banned the local distillation of spirits, putting an end to six whisky distilleries in Hobart that were producing a product of variable merit. Breweries remain and they proliferate. I think there are close to fifty across the island. There would be a rebellion before they were forced to shutter their doors. I simply do not see a demand for wine, let alone champagne.’ ‘I was thinking beyond the local market, Captain Swanston.’ ‘New South Wales?’ ‘Perhaps. And Europe.’ He shakes his head. ‘We cannot even gain an export certificate for our wheat. The price at which we are forced to sell to New South Wales makes a mockery of us. We are stymied at every turn.’ ‘You are right,’ says Caroline, ‘I know nothing of these complexities.’ Swanston rubs his cheek, perusing again the figures before him. ‘I have disheartened you. But the current Governor will not be here forever, and a man of greater vision may yet follow him. So let us surmise a little. If your calculations prove correct and the wine is good ... If you can find buyers and it fetches a good price in New South Wales ... If an export certificate is granted and, by some miracle, it can be shipped to Europe and it sells well there ... How much are you looking to invest?’ ‘You know well the state of the vineyard, Captain Swanston. It will be an investment in both labour and goods. Workers are needed to finish the task of clearing the vineyard, r epairing the fencing, and to tend the vines throughout the course of the seasons. There is also the investment in casks, for I understand from Broughton’ s journals that French oak is superior and we must import those from Europe. New plants are needed to r eplace those that have died or succumbed to disease, and they will take time to mature.
Then sufficient bottles must be purchased. England makes the superior version: a thicker glass that will not explode as the French bottles do. These must also be shipped. It is evident from the records that the breakages on the voyage here can be significant, as can the loss of wine when it is shipped.’ ‘None of that is reassuring, Mrs Douglas.’ ‘Forgive me, I am doing this badly. May I speak plainly, Captain Swanston?’ ‘I feel certain that you will.’ ‘The Governor’s wife makes herself unpopular by dabbling in the world of men. I want no such attention. My fervent wish is to ally myself with a partner with the knowledge to make it a success, and who would allow my in volvement to remain confidential. I would naturally invest both my capital and my ener gy, but I would prefer to remain unseen.’ Swanston rubs his top lip and stares out the window for a few moments. It is a windy afternoon and a passing wagon is shedding hay as it navigates the busy street. ‘Mrs Douglas,’ he says finally, ‘I have significant investments both here and abroad, and many are yet to reward my investors in a manner that would subdue my concerns. I fear I would be able to add little to this venture. And beyond these journals and ledgers, you also know little of wine or business. Does it not occur to you as foolhardy?’ ‘Sometimes it does, Captain Swanston. But Cornelius learned from Broughton how to care for a vineyard. He is willing to train workers in the skills of pruning and harvesting.’ ‘I did not know that. A great curiosity , that man. And why does it have to be champagne in particular?’ ‘Broughton’ s vineyard was planted for that purpose. He chose the grape varieties grown in northern France, in the Champagne region, where the climate is very similar to here. And the wine he made is still good even more than ten years after his death. You are tasting it right now. There is also a small amount of red wine. It is possible we might proceed in that direction, too. But there are records of significant sales and letters declaring the champagne well received by wine sellers and critics in London and Paris.’ Swanston nods and interlaces his fingers. ‘My wife is very fond of you, Mrs Douglas, and I am appreciative of the education you are giving my
sons, which far outshines that of any other children in this colony. I see that this venture captivates you. Let me review Broughton’ s figures and we will meet soon. But do not be disappointed if I decline.’ ‘Of course, Captain Swanston. And should you decide such a venture is not right for you at this time, perhaps you might recommend some other investor . I rely on your wisdom and, as always, your discretion, Captain Swanston.’
Days go by, and then a week, and Caroline does not hear from Captain Swanston. Georgiana advises her that he has been called away to Melbourne. When he returns for Christmas, he will be bringing home their two sons who are building their she ep and cattle interests there. ‘The boys are in charge of nine and a half thousand acres my husband purchased near a hamlet called Geelong,’ Georgiana tells her. ‘A great number of she ep were lost in the first crossing of Bass Strait when the weather blew up and swamped their boats near the entrance to the bay. One servant drowne d. But my husband was resolute in his vision and sent another cargo with Oliver and Kinnear , our second and third sons, to ensure all arrived safely. They have with them now twelve servants, all convicts once, husbands and wives and their children, too. I understand the convicts are especially glad to be free of this colony .’ ‘It is a significant undertaking for your family ,’ says Caroline. ‘Charles fought hard for John Batman’ s treaty with the Melbourne natives to be recognised, but the Sydney government denied it. We could make no claim, despite having contributed to the whole scheme. Finally, the government offered the land acquired through the treaty for auction. He was a strange man, Batman,’ Georgiana added. ‘I think Charles thought him a scoundrel, but a clever scoundrel.’ ‘He is no longer?’ ‘A prolonged illness. I did not like him, although I met him only briefly. His wife left him almost as soon as he became bedridden, which says a great deal, I am sure.’
Caroline is making a wreath for the door with long stems of gum leaves and yellow banksia. As she weaves the sturdy foliage, she recalls the smell of Esther’s roasted pheasant and cloves in the baked apples. The soft pleasure of crema catalana, a dessert that suited both her Scottish mother and her French father. Bowls of dried fruits and nuts, marzipan leaves on a festive cake, squares of nougat and candied citron, cumin and fennel seed biscuits arrayed on the festive table. The Yuletide log on the fire. Mama, Papa, Augusta, Tante Henriette and Esther , all of them gathered together . It had been Yuletide when she had first tried champagne, though she was too young to remember it. Mama had woven a rosemary wreath and fixed it above the doorway into the dining room. Each time Papa and Mama met beneath it, they had kissed. During one of these embraces, Jacques-Louis put down the glass he had been carrying and Caroline, at three years old, had picked it up. She had taken a sip and then consumed the entire contents before holding out the empty glass and saying, ‘ Plus, cher papa, s’il te plaît? ’ ‘ Non, mon petit bouton, c’est pas pour toi ,’ her father had said, laughing as he picked her up. She had thrown her arms around his neck and kissed him fervently . She kissed her mother and Esther fervently, and Tante Henriette, and her baby sister Augusta, expressing love and affection until she fell asle ep. Her parents had loved to recount this story when champagne was opened. Now Christmas is no longer in winter. Instead, it follows the daffodils and irises. Apple trees are budding green fruit. The roses have bloomed in her garden, lar ge pink and red blossoms that scent her bedroom. Caroline and Quill have this morning delivered preserves and cordials they have made for neighbour s across the valley. In the evening, Quill, Bessie and Caroline walk from the cottage across the field to the Swanstons’, where they have been invited to join the household for the service at St David’ s, followed by supper .
Bessie will dine with the servants, while Caroline and Quill will join the family. Five of the Swanstons’ sons will be present, along with their two daughters and sons-in-law . The one child missing is travelling from England, where he is completing his education. He is destined to be a diplomat, Georgiana has told Caroline. He is bringing a friend with him, and they are expected two days hence, having been becalmed south of Madras. Caroline has decided to wear a dress of grey muslin. Her state of mourning will not protect her forever. She likes the sober greys of the Quakers, and so has chosen this occasion to indicate that while she may no longer be in mourning, in the plainness of her dress, the lack of bauble or lace, she is still, and may always have, a preference for retreat. Bessie has made a careful arrangement of her hair. ‘If your mother could see you, Mrs Douglas,’ she says, as she assesses her handiwork, ‘she would say you are a very handsome woman.’ At the house, the two sons from Melbourne appear a little awkward in their formal garb—more used to horses, Caroline thinks, than hors d’oeuvres. One of the daughters has her mother’s r epose but her father’s imperious eye, and the other has her father’s height with the expressive mannerisms of Georgiana. Quill, Robert, Nowell and George jostle one another on the church bench, and suppress, and then fail to suppress, their yawns during the sermon. Robert whispers to Nowell when he believes Caroline and Georgiana are distracted. Quill has a way of belonging, she reflects. Of blending in. He had done it on the Alliance , with the men of the crew, and he has done it here with the Swanstons. He has done it with her . She and Quill had discussed many names for the cottage and vineyard since their arrival, laughing at some and pausing over others. Big Tree Farm. River View. Wind Song. Dragon Mountain. Quillville. But Quill had found a name marked on some of the barrels in the cellar when they had gone to select wine to bring to the Swanstons’ this evening, a name Broughton had put on the wine that was destined for England: Everlea. The congregation rises. Voices lift to the heights of the chapel. ‘ Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah. ’ Caroline recalls the fear that expelled her from London. She had run for fear of capture and imprisonment, but there was also the urge to flee from
the weight of it all. Her father, her mother, her sister. And Tante Henriette. She is at the far end of the world, and it is Christmas. A melancholy rises in her, and she blinks and breathes. Quill slides his hand into hers. She squeezes it gently, but does not gaze down at him. ‘What do you think of Everlea? ’ she had asked Quill. ‘Is that the right name for this place?’ ‘It’s like forever and everly ,’ he had said. ‘Forever and everly . Yes,’ she had agreed. By the time the hymn ends and the congregation sits, Caroline has muted her emotions but Quill continues to hold her hand.
Caroline enters the drawing room and takes in the many Swanston children gathered about. She sees Quill seated on a couch between George and Robert, all of them engaged in a conversation that has them giggling. Two servants are of fering glasses of champagne to the adults. A fanfare sounds and the room stills. Everyone turns to the doors where Captain Swanston is blowing a regimental horn. Behind him come two men. Caroline looks to Georgiana, whose puzzlement is followed by surprise and then delight. She moves across the room in her dress of amethyst silk and holds out her hands to the first young man. ‘Charles!’ she says, and Carolin e sees the resemblance in the large dark eyes, the way they both smile. Charles, the eldest Swanston son, has somehow arrived earlier than anticipated. Captain Swanston is laughing. Suddenly he also looks young, and Caroline thinks this is how he must have looked when he was the military hero of India wooing his wife-to-be. ‘And Mr Mercer, welcome,’ Georgiana says, offering her hand to the companion of young Charles. ‘Mother , this is John. Everyone, this is my dear friend, John Mercer. We have sailed four nights from Sydney to be here, and hope to never have such a cramped passage again, but to see your face, dear Mother, is ample reward.’ ‘To be all together!’ Georgiana says, surveying the family she has grown, all eight of them gathered about. ‘My heart is elated. Let us raise a toast. Charles, will you say a few words?’ Captain Swanst on gives a convivial toast, adding, at the last, that he wishes to thank Mrs Douglas for the champagne that she has unearthed in the cottage cellar . ‘Perhaps in time we will drink Mrs Douglas’ s own champagne made right here on the land,’ he says, as they all raise their glasses. One of the daughters begins to play the piano and the younger Charles invites his other sister to dance. The two sons from Melbourne make a
partnership, too, and there is much merriment. Caroline observes Quill watching all this. Then she finds herself observed in turn by the friend, John Mercer. He is tall with somewhat unruly dark hair . He bows to her . Georgiana notices this exchange . She takes Mr Mercer ’s arm and leads him across the room to introduce him. ‘This is Mrs Douglas, my dear friend and neighbour , a widow, and governess to our youngest,’ Georgiana says. ‘I am going to attempt to persuade Captain Swanston to dance while you two become acquainted.’ She glides away . ‘Would you care to dance, Mrs Douglas?’ Mr Mercer asks. ‘I know we are only just introduced, but as it is a family occasion ...’ His soft Edinbur gh brogue makes Caroline’ s heart keen. It is so long since she has heard her mother’s accent. It is so long since she has danced. Papa was teaching her the waltz. Augusta was playing Strauss. Tears spring to her eyes. ‘I have been presumptuous. I did not mean to cause you anxiety, Mrs Douglas.’ ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘But no, perhaps not.’ ‘Yes but no?’ ‘I apologise ...’ ‘Then you will dance, Mrs Douglas?’ ‘I will not.’ ‘Is there a remedy for this state of not dancing?’ he asks. His warm eyes are twinkling. ‘Lily-of-the-valley ,’ she says, surprising herself. ‘Lily-of-the-valley?’ he r epeats, puzzled. ‘It strengthens the brain and comforts the heart and vital spirits.’ ‘Your brain does not appear weak, Mrs Douglas,’ he says. She cannot help laughing. He smiles. ‘Is there some assistance I can offer? I am studying to be a doctor ...’ She would like to look into his playful eyes and say, ‘I am sad with the ache of absence of those I have dearly loved, and you have made me laugh. But your proximity finds me unable to gather my thoughts.’ At that moment Quill arrives beside her. ‘Aunt Caroline, will you dance with me?’
‘I have been usurped by a gallant knight,’ Mr Mercer says. ‘Did you bring lily-of-the-valley for the lady?’ ‘I did not,’ says Quill. ‘I am Quill Douglas.’ ‘John Mercer,’ he r eplies, offering his hand. ‘Take care of your lovely aunt, young Quill,’ he says. ‘Ensure she does not dance upon another ’s head.’ ‘Perhaps I am yet Cleopatra,’ she says with a lift of her eyebrow to John Mercer, before letting Quill lead her away . ‘What does he mean?’ Quill asks. ‘It is a poem called ‘The Waltz’ by Lord Byron. Another time, dear one. We have an engagement with Herr Schubert.’ No expense has been spared to create the Christmas supper. There are oysters, quail, fish, pheasant, goose, duck, beef and vegetables. Caroline is seated between the younger Charles Swanston and Quill. John Mercer sits opposite Charles and they speak of the shorebirds they saw on the voyage from England. Charles says that one flock, near the islands of Bass Strait, boasted more than one million birds. He speaks of their cleverness in responding to wind and air current, and how varied they are in plumage, wingspan and character of flight. Caroline thinks to speak of the birds she observed on the passage to Cape Horn—she could tell of Señor Clementi and his collection of dead birds surroundin g him in his tomb like some ancient warrior—b ut she does not. John Mercer has engaged Robert, seated beside him, who begins to speak of the birds he has drawn, and begs to be excused to fetch his drawing book. John Mercer ’s profile, as he reviews the sketchbook, has something of the Age of Kings about it. His head is large, his eyes brown, his nose a little hooked, a good strong chin. His complexion, she assumes, is coloured by the months at sea. Caroline wonders if he likes to wander in forests. Charles, despite his mother’s dark eyes and wide smile, is a younger version of his father: fair-skinned, robust and energetic, his voice and manner quick and a little abrupt. ‘John is to be a doctor,’ he says. ‘We met in Cambridge when he came from Edinburgh to meet with a group of scholars. I managed to convince him to spend a summer here, but he will give me only a few weeks before he must return to his books.’
‘Perhaps while I am here you will show us your vineyard, Mrs Douglas,’ John Mercer says, ‘that makes such fine champagne.’ ‘Of course, yes,’ says Caroline . ‘But no, I ...’ She pauses. What is wrong with her? ‘There we have it again,’ Mercer says, amused. ‘You are experienced in winemaking?’ Charles asks. ‘Not at all,’ says Caroline. ‘The champagne we have drunk tonight was made by the previous owner .’ John Mercer regards her with something she cannot quite define. Warmth? Curiosity? She blushes. Servants clear the plates. The desserts are carried in. Steaming fruit puddings with jugs of brandied custard. Bowls of fruit jelly and two towers of profiteroles filled with chocolate cream. The children gasp. Mrs Swanston claps. ‘We have the best cook in the colony ,’ she says. Captain Swanston is reserved, but that is not unusual. Caroline has noticed that he has little time for small talk, although when he is led into a conversation his affection for his family is evident. Perhaps, she thinks, he does not hear very well, and much of the conversation is lost. She had many an ex-soldier enter the apotheca ry with lost hearing, but that is never what they came for. They came for a salve for the socket where an eye was lost or something to help them sle ep when dreams awakened them. She takes in the lanterns lighting the walls, the beautiful wallpaper , the damask cloth and silverware upon the table. She feels the generosity of having been included in this intimate gathering. She meets the gaze of John Mercer, but they do not speak above the rising tide of voices as more wine is poured and more stories of family life unfold. She turns to Quill and he smiles at her. On the shirt that she has sewn for him over the past weeks, she has embroidered a sailing ship upon one cuff and the giant gum tree by their cottage on the other . ‘Are you having a pleasant evening?’ she asks. ‘I have not used all the knives and forks in the correct order ,’ he says. ‘But the food is still very good.’ ‘Yes,’ says Quill. ‘By the time you are seated at that end of the table,’ she says, indicating Captain Swansto n and Georgiana, ‘all such things will be habit, and will take very little concentration.’
When the meal is done, it is almost midnight. John Mercer walks to her side as farewells ensue. He speaks a few words which she does not recall. What she recalls is the light in his eyes, the sense that he wishes her not to forget him. Caroline plays the evening over in her mind as she and Quill walk home, a flirtatious moon accompanying them in a firmament bejewelled with precious stones, the sparkle and hush of waves as the sea and the river surrender to one another , entwining current and tide.
On Christmas morning Caroline wakes to hear church bells in the distance calling all to rise and gather. On her bedside table she sees a letter bearing her name. Inside is a sheet of paper with words carefully copied and crafted ... For oft when on your morning walk In vacant or in pensive mood It flashes to your wandering mind How much you like your solitude But home again, your heart does smile When thr ough the door a boy does slip How good it is you did not leave him Alone, alone on that gr eat ship Quill. And Wordsworth. It seems a long time since she shaved his head and now she cannot imagine life without him. At breakfast she presents him with a parcel wrapped in brown paper. It is a book of astronomy with maps of the stars. She had found it in a shop months ago and saved it until now. On a sheet of paper tucked inside, she has written four lines in response to his verse. ‘Aloud,’ she says. He reads: ‘ How good it is I have a boy , Who fills my heart with so much joy , How good he is no mor e at sea, But her e with me at Everlea. ’ ‘And I have another surprise for you,’ she says, and takes him outside and across to the giant gum tree where she has had Cornelius hang a swing. ‘It can fit us both,’ he says, and they sit on the wide seat and gain momentum until they are both adrift in the air and laughing. Bessie presents Caroline with a bird’s nest, whitewashed and transformed into a delicate bowl of sorts, filled with a selection of
periwinkles that grow on the rocks by the river , these too painted white. ‘I think each of the mantelpieces in this house might benefit from such a nest, or any arrangement, if you care to ...’ Caroline says, and Bessie drops her head to hide her pleasure at these words. Caroline has crocheted for Bessie a shawl of light cream wool. Quill gives it to her and delights in watching Bessie unwrap it. ‘It is too fine a thing for me, Mrs Douglas,’ she says, awed. ‘There is no such thing, Bessie,’ says Caroline. Bessie insists on draping it about her shoulders, though the day is hot and dry . Quill and Caroline accompany Bessie to the service at St John’s church, a weekly ritual demanded of all convicts and recipients of a ticket of leave. While Quill and Caroline seat themselves towards the front of the church, Bessie joins those at the rear who are in service. In a s eparate gallery of the church, those still incarcerated stand under guard in their woollen yellow and grey uniforms, the clink of chains evident in the quiet moments. The orphan children are in another gallery, many too small to be seen above the railing. Transportation has brought these people to a community where the future prospects of manumission are evident every day. But what of those men on Norfolk Island? Caroline wonders. What future do they imagine? She had gone to Woolwich when she heard that her father was to be transferred from Millbank Prison. Other families had gathere d, too, held back by a barrier and guards. When the prisoners emerged from the wagon in which they had spent the night, they stumbled and fell, rising unsteadily to their feet, clearly in a stupor. All were manacled hand and foot, and chained togethe r. From the crowd, a great cry went up. Names and messages flew through the air, final utterances of love given voice, a discordance of desperation and heartsickness. The prisoners flinched at the assault of noise. So many poured from the wagon Caroline wondered if some had not been crushed to death within. Several prisoners, upon emerging, fell to the ground convulsing. One foamed at the mouth and had to be dragged up the gangplank by the men chained either side of him. Guards cracked whips and shouted orders. The crowd w ept and called. Caroline was jostled and
pushed by those wanting to meet the eyes of husbands, brothers, sons and lovers one last time. At the end of the long line of men, she saw him. His hair had turned quite grey. He was a wraith, stooped and gaunt. She called to him in French. ‘ Père, je suis là, c’est Car oline. Je suis là, Papa .’ She thought he closed his eyes longer than a blink, almost a whole long breath, but he did not turn to look at her before he st epped onto the gangplank leading to the ship. If he died, would she be visited by a message? A vision or a dream? What would Georgiana think of Caroline if she spoke of her father? Or Captain Swanston, if he knew? She imagines saying to them, ‘If my father were here, there is little he doesn’t know about winemaking and the making of champagne.’ ‘What a pity he is no longer alive,’ Georgiana might say . ‘In a way, he still is,’ Caroline imagines responding. ‘He is a prisoner on Norfolk Island.’ ‘Norfolk Island, Mrs Douglas?’ she can hear Captain Swanston exclaim. ‘What on earth did he do to warrant that hell?’
John Mercer and young Charles Swanston visit Caroline on Boxing Day. John Mercer inspects the books upon her shelves and surveys her ornaments and chess set. She wishes she could move her chair further from him, because he unsettles her. She finds herself aware of his long stride beside her as they walk out to survey the vineyard. ‘The mark of civilisation,’ he says, assessing the vines. ‘Things returning to their wild state?’ she asks. He turns to her and smiles wryly. ‘Few would think so,’ he says. ‘Although I have a great fondness for the untamed world.’ ‘I hear from my brothers there are many vineyards now planted in Port Phillip,’ says Charles. ‘Does Captain Swanston have an interest in it?’ John Mercer asks. ‘I am not sure,’ says Caroline. ‘I suggested a partnership in the venture and hoped it might pique his interest, but he is yet to give me his answer .’ ‘Father likes the surety of a good return,’ says Charles. ‘The champagne you have unearthed is very good, Mrs Douglas,’ Captain Swanston says, when they meet at last to discuss her proposal. ‘I have been giving our conversation due reflection but I fear you will be unhappy with my conclusions. There is every indication that the d epression will de epen in Van Diemen’s Land. The economy is stumbling. Unemploym ent is high. People cannot afford basics let alone luxuries. Wool prices falter. This colony offers little for the prudent investor . If I am to invest, I will do so on my lands at Port Phillip, where the weather is more agreeable.’ Stubborn. It was a judgement her mother had applied to Augusta, always determined to tie her own bows and polish her own boots, to make her own arrangement of breakfast and set the fire the way she thought best. She also had a particular way of placing her books by her bed, settling her pillow,
and practising her piano scales until they were perfect. When she made a tarte tatin every slice of apple was perfectly placed. Sitting on the shore in the late afternoon after her meeting with Swanston, Caroline watches an eagle wheel above her, regarding her as if she were potential prey. As she walks back towards the cottage, she watches it circle above the mountain before it becomes so small she can no longer find it in the enormous bluenes s. Dear Augusta, she thinks, I have missed you so often. I must muster some of your stubbornness to persist in this venture, for I can hear you telling me that I must not lose heart. On the day John Mercer sails for England, she finds a parcel wrapped in brown paper on the kitchen table. Bessie gives it a brief flick of her eyes and then continues with the bread she is making. Caroline walks to the sitting room with it and loosens the string. It is a framed watercolour of lily-of-th e-valley . There is a note attached: May your heart and spirit and lovely brain remain vital. I do hope you will permit me to write to you. J. M . A frost comes later in January , and in February , after a day of withering heat, there is a storm. Caroline and Quill stand upon the veranda h until well past midnight watching sheets of light and forks of electricity clashing between mounta in and distant hills. Hail the size of fat cherries batters every field and roof. Orchards lose their fruit. At least half of the vineyard is crushed. In March a fungus gets into the pear trees. Black mildew assails the vines and the roses. The hens give less eggs, the goats less milk. Everyone agrees it is a dif ficult year . By the time of picking, most of the grape crop is destroyed. What has managed to survive has produced strange bunches, with grapes of varying sizes. Caroline, Bessie, Quill, the Walkers and the Giblins—another Quaker family settled nearby—harvest what they can. And then Caroline, Quill and Bessie assist the Walkers and Giblins in their harvests, and other neighbours further across the hill. Cornelius puts a little of their harvest into barrels, but the remainder Caroline gives to the Walkers for vinegar . What remains inaccessible beyond the weeds and blackberr ies, Caroline leaves to be eaten by birds or
to spoil and rot into the earth. She despairs at the waste. Her mother’s voice speaks to her gently: ‘What’ s for you will not go by you, Mousie.’ Caroline might have employed men to tame the whole vineyard through autumn and winter the year before, and still the crop would have been lost. It was irksome to think that Swanston might be right. Perhaps the weather was too cold. Too damp. Too unpredictable. Who would know? Yet she finds the disappointment of the unseasonal summer spurs her on. Broughton had excelled at this. It cannot be unachievable. She continues her assault upon the wild tangle, stamping her feet and singing songs so the snakes will know she is coming. Her arms are raked with scratches and her face darkens from the sun. She soothes her skin with calendula at the end of the day and remembers Augusta. When she allows herself time to take up brush and paint, she observes the lands cape freshly. She attempts to capture the colours and curves of the giant gum, the oak doing its best to recover from another onslaught of opossums. She paints the cottage, the green parrots that sit on the verandah railing waiting for Bessie and Quill to feed them, and the ducks that are still in residence on the pond. None of her efforts reflect Augusta’ s skill, nor their mother’s, but Caroline finds satisfaction in her efforts. She and Bessie chop vegetables and pr epare fruits for bottling. They make sauces, jams, relish and pickles. Potatoes, turnips and apples are laid down in the cellar with the wine. When John Mercer sends accounts of life in Edinbur gh, it is these moments she shares in return. Through the winter, she employs six women with tickets of leave. She and Cornelius teach them the care and pruning of the vines. Slowly thoroughfares appear between the bushy plants, making for easy tending and weeding, and watering if required. Quill and Cornelius take a cart and collect the fallen needles of the she-oak trees. These are laid along the pathways through the vines to deter new weeds. Bessie feeds the convict women around the kitchen table and, although she is younger than them, they defer to her. Caroline sees in her a new authority . Bessie is walking taller, her stride is longer, the sound of her humming in the kitchen drifts through the house. When bud break happens, the growth is quickly luxuriant. Caroline watches a vineyard unfurl in the following days, optimistic in its voluptuous
greenness. ‘It is the law of nature,’ she hears her father say, ‘to urge towards the light.’ For a moment she is beside him in their garden in London. ‘To bud and fruit until the next generation is assured. To provide shelter and habitat. Anaximenes, born a century before Socrates, asserted that air is the universal principle. Everything receives life from it, or is formed by it, and —as everything has originated from it—therefore it must be infinite. The Stoics went further, believing that the soul, being universal and immortal, is a portion of divinity . If nature is the divinity , then perhaps each soul is a part of a natural law that extends to the whole universe. What say you to that, mon cœur ?’ Papa, she thinks, I miss our conversations. Caroline regards the store of empty barrels and bottles Broughton left behind. She tallies the corks. No doubt more will be required, but Cornelius assures her they have sufficient, even if there is a good harvest. It is remarkable to imagine that so many bottles might yet be filled with wine. She employs convict women for the harvest, giving half of it to the Walkers for their medicinal wine, but this time she is willing to acc ept a small payment. The rest is pressed and stored in barrels under Cornelius’ s instruction. With the blacksmith’ s assistance, they identify canes that are dead or mouldering and the convict women dig these up and prune the rest. New root stock takes its place amongst the established vines. Caroline continues to swim in the pond under the early morning sky. The cold that settles into her bones after being held in the water’s embrace can take hours to leave her, no matter how warmly she dresses afterwards, or how much she stokes the fire. On the coldest days she arranges for Bessie to have a hot bath waiting for her, and Bessie will say, as Carolin e appears in her damp robe, numb with the cold, ‘No one is forcing you to do this mad thing, Mrs Douglas.’ Yet Caroline continues to choose a little madness, for she worries that otherwise she might be overcome with responsibilities and forget that when there is mud between her toes in the covert waters of the reed-fringed pond, she sees anew her life as a passing moment of opportunity , and is fortified. She listens to the world as if perhaps there is a baton that conducts those superb fairy wrens in their vivid blue garb, a pair of red-breasted robins
landing upon that branch, the wallaby and her baby who startle and hop away, the love songs of frogs after rain, the black snake sliding under the blackberry bush, the wombats grazing, the currawongs calling, blossom emerging fragrant and alive with bees, an uprush of mushrooms , the arrival of dragonflies, a rainbow appearing in the sky, the d eparture of shearwaters, an albatross flying towards the river and all of it, all of it, lived beneath an immeasurable artistry of mounta in, forest and clouds and the ever-watchful eye of sun and moon. Another winter nears. Carolin e acc epts that she is learning patience. Meanwhile she considers her next approach to Swanston. She does not want to hide behind him, but if she is ever to bring her de epest yearning to fruition, his collaboration must be secured.