‘Why am I worried about just one, when we are outnumbered by them every day?’ asks Georgiana. ‘To think that, but for the Re volution, he might have been a duke. It is doubtful he will be offended that we are housing him in the barn, after his previous accommodation, don’t you think? It was at Cornelius’ s suggestion that he be close to the vineyard, rather than in our servants’ quarters. Cornelius assures me that he wishes it this way. The two of them must learn a partnership if this is to succeed. And I understand that Cornelius has cleared the old entrance from the barn to the cellar beneath the cottage, so that our new arrival might come and go without disturbing you. Still, I imagine he will be often just below you. You are not concerned?’ ‘We will learn to adapt,’ says Caroline. ‘You have read Commandant Maconochie’ s letter?’ ‘Of course. And I know you have certainty in his recommendation.’ ‘It seems we must,’ says Georgiana. ‘We place great store in this winemaker . Perhaps we will surprise ourselves and like him.’ ‘Some of the most disappointin g people I have met have been people I liked,’ says Caroline. Georgiana laughs then urges the horse on. The gig rattles as they continue past a road gang rebuilding the wall by the creek. A few of the workers raise their heads as the women pass. Caroline sees the rough hair and whiskered faces, the mud yellow coats, the leg irons. She wills her thoughts away from prison cells and flogging. Georgiana says, ‘Do you think a man who was willing to murder once, in the heat of passion, is capable of murdering again?’ ‘I think it best we dwell not upon such considerations but rather on the afternoon tea we are to endure with the Governor .’ ‘Yes,’ says Georgiana. ‘A special form of torture. But the man is very fond of champagne, I am told, and he will be well pleased with your gift, I am sure.’
The wooden crate containing six of Broughton’ s store are packed in straw at Caroline’ s feet. ‘Without his assistance, we would still have no winemaker ,’ Georgiana notes. ‘We shall be duly grateful,’ says Caroline. ‘And most refined,’ says Geor giana.
Cornelius is swe eping out the forge. His movements are slow and careful. A wood stack runs along one wall. Caroline sees the red of split she-oak, the caramel of eucalyptus, the pale circles within the drying blackwood. She remembers Cornelius telling her that all timbers burn differently , some hotter, some quicker and some longer. Caroline knows this from the baking oven, but she has never pitted herself against the temperatures that Cornelius has mastered, nor felt the responsiveness of metal and iron wrought, beaten and shaped into form. ‘Mrs Caroline,’ Cornelius says, turning at her approach, ‘I hear a winemaker has been found.’ ‘Yes,’ she says. He sets aside the broom and invites her to sit. She takes the bench by the barn door and Cornelius eases himself down onto a wooden stool. The day glistens, the air is chilled, the sunshine welcome. ‘I believe there is snow coming,’ he says. ‘My old hip tells me so.’ Caroline draws from her pocket a jar of ointment. ‘It has chilli from India for warmth and turmeric and camphor to ease the inflamm ation, all in the beeswax you procured for me.’ ‘I thank you,’ he says, taking the jar and smiling. ‘Old injuries are always the first to complain. I heard it often in London,’ Caroline says. ‘You could make a business of selling your ointments. They are the only remedies that have ever brought me relief.’ ‘Has Captain Swanston told you anything of the man we are expecting, his history?’ Caroline asks. ‘He has, Mrs Caroline.’ ‘And you are not troubled to have such a man in close proximity to you?’ ‘If I were, I would never have made my home in a place like this,’ says Cornelius. ‘But for you I admit I find myself uneasy at the prospect. A
crime of such violence, especia lly against a woman, can be ingrained in a man’s nature. I do not doubt he has paid for that on Norfolk Island, but still, if you were my daughter , I believe I would be unwilling to have him close, no matter how excellent his skills in winemaking. Be assured I shall be ke eping a watchful eye on all he does.’ ‘Cornelius,’ she says, looking into the face which has become dear to her, ‘I must tell you something I have held long inside me.’ ‘Mrs Caroline, I have shared some terrible secrets with you, and still here we are. I am listening.’ ‘I fear that in this case it might be too much to ask.’ ‘I doubt that, but please, go on,’ says Cornelius. ‘The prisoner, the winemaker , his name is Jacques-Louis Colbert,’ she begins. ‘He may arrive any day, and I find myself anxious and troubled and uncertain.’ ‘Because of what he has been or what he might do?’ ‘No, Cornelius. Because he is my father .’ Cornelius stares at her. He rubs his chin with the back of his hand. They sit in silence, as if time itself needs a moment of contemplation. At last Cornelius speaks. ‘Y ou came to Van Diemen’ s Land ...’ ‘Yes,’ says Caroline. ‘And you purchased a vineyard ...’ ‘Yes.’ ‘So that one day ... ?’ ‘I did not have that plan at first,’ says Caroline. ‘I had no hope that anything I might effect would bring about his release. On Norfolk Island ... well, death had more certainty . I believed I would never see him again. But when I looked at the vines, it was as if there was a future. I do not believe the man who comes here will ever harm me. But I am not sure he will be sane.’ ‘It has all been a great act of love,’ says Cornelius. Yes,’ says Caroline. ‘Y es.’ Emotion threatens to engulf her. Cornelius yearns to hold her, to remark upon her rare wishful heart. But neither stirs. A raven passes over, calling as it goes. A breeze drifts around their feet. ‘And must you ke ep this from Captain Swanston? From Mrs Swanston? Is she not your friend?’ asks Cornelius.
‘I could not admit his crime when I entered their employ . I dared not. I needed their trust. They believe, as I first told you, that both my parents are dead. I was, and am, in need of Captain Swanston’ s partnership. You understand that in this society, it is an impossibility for me, as a woman, to r epresent the vineyard. He has assured me that he will do all he can to conceal the fact that the new winemaker ...’ ‘Is a murderer ,’ says Cornelius. ‘Yes. If that were known, and if I were to be the daughter of that murderer , I fear it would put everything at risk.’ ‘How do you intend to maintain such a subterfuge once he arrives?’ ‘Oh, Cornelius, since my father’s crime, I do not know if there is subterfuge of which I am in capable.’ Cornelius chuckles. ‘Mrs Caroline, I knew from the moment you arrived that you were here for a reason— but I never imagined it might be to show me that I know very little of the world.’ ‘You know a great deal of the world, Cornelius.’ ‘That I do. But not of the hearts of women.’ ‘I am sorry , Cornelius. I have put you in a dif ficult position.’ ‘Do not apologise for the things you have done to make your way; we each face our own reckoning. I will make your father welcome. But beyond the two of us, it will be a dif ficult game. Will Quill not remember him?’ ‘He will not recognise the man who arrives here because Quill has never met him. I met Quill on the ship that brought me here. He was the cabin boy assigned to me, given to the captain some years before to settle a debt. I found when we were due to arrive in Hobart that I did not want to abandon the boy. All I have done is leave people behind. So I purchased his freedom. And he chose to come with me, to be part of all this.’ Cornelius has observed the boy’s skills in climbing and balance, his curious deftness with rope, his willingness to work and his love of order. He has noted Quill’s reluctance to speak about the past. But he had not wished to speculate, being one who sought to obscure the past himself. Yet he finds he is unspeakab ly moved by this admission, by the understand ing of what these two are to each other . ‘Well,’ he says to Caroline, ‘we must do all we can to make our new winemaker comfortable. Would you care to tell me about him?’
After Caroline had seen her father board the Rochester for Norfolk Island, she had written to Augusta, who was at her employer ’s country home in Berkshire now the London season was over. The sisters had continued to exchange affectionate weekly letters, until a message came from the houseke eper advising Caroline that Augusta was gravely ill and she should come at once. By the time Caroline arrived at the estate, late on a windsw ept night, Augusta was dead. A cold, she was told. A tight cough, a fever. Perhaps Augusta’ s heart had been weak, someone suggested. Perhaps it had been broken, Caroline had thought. There was a brief service, attended by Caroline and Tante Henriette and a few of the household staff. Caroline and Henriette returned by carriage to London with the timber casket. Augusta, her petite sister who had loved music and painting and cooking, barely seventeen, was laid in the earth beside their mother and baby Isobel, in the plot that had been reserved for their father. He would never rest in that avenue of headstones with their loving tributes. His bones would lie far from here, in an unknown world. Yea, tho ugh I walk thr ough the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for thou art with me; thy rod and staff comfort me ... It was Augusta’ s favourite Psalm, but there was no comfort in the words for Caroline. If she could have exchanged the life of her father for the return of Mama and Augusta, in some devil’s bargain, she might have said yes. Yes! Take that murderer. Take the madman and give me back my good mother and my dear , sweet sister . The rage had come then for all of it. For him offering to fix a roof and falling to the cobblestones. The months following, when he might have died on any day. The care with which they had nursed him back to health. Then the fits, the violent outbursts, the dejection, the nocturnal ramblings that worried their mother sick. And when finally he appeared to be restored to some semblance of himself, to have Mama struck down with the withering paralysis. To have lost their home, their beloved Esther, the apothecary , all
the knowledge Caroline had yet to learn, the recipes and remedies in her head useful for naught. She was a governess in the home of strangers and Augusta a kitchen maid. And then he had killed Mrs Murray . Caroline had held the knife on that summer night. She had taken it from her father in case he caused further harm, not wanting to know from whence the blood on it came. He had appeared, in those weeks before the event, to be happy. Caroline had visited her father and Mrs Murray that very day. Mrs Murray had walked with her back to Caroline’s place of employment when afternoon tea was done. It had been cloudless, the sky preternaturally blue. London had shrugged off its prudish mood and become young and festive. The women they passed were in pale muslins and silks, the men in light frock coats. There had been horses with floral garlands, and children flying ribbons. Caroline had asked Mrs Murray if she still intended to marry her father, the proposed wedding having been delayed for some time by then, and Mrs Murray had said, ‘In truth, I do not know if I am quite ready to give up the ind ependence I have grown accustomed to as a widow. When you have a husband and children of your own, it consumes every moment of your life. Your waking and your sle eping. I find I might prefer this unorthodox arrangement I have with your father if he is happy for it to continue. Perhaps it is enough.’ ‘But you do love Papa?’ Caroline asked. ‘Of course,’ said Mrs Murray , ‘and we are taught that love will be enough, Carolin e, but I assure you it is not. With your mother’s death, you have seen how quickly the security you had relied upon can be lost. It has taken me some years to make the life I have for myself and my son here in London ... so for give me if I am overly cautious now .’ Caroline had tossed the knife that had killed Mrs Murray into the Thames, never imagining that the woman she had walked home with was already dead. And then she had lost Augusta. Her father had created a terrible shadow that had descended upon all the women he professed to love. And here she was, years later, still hoping to orchestrate some act of redemption on his behalf.
What was a good woman? She remembered Mrs Murray’ s comely figure, her carefully curled hair, her high cheekbones and her low laugh. The chic but simple wardrobe of smart dresses, shawls and boas. The food she had made for Mama in her final months. Her offer to take Caroline and Augusta in after their mother’s death, when Father was not to be relied upon. The work she had found for them. Had it all been stratagem and duplicity? Had she taken advantage of their situation to acquire their beautiful things, and all father’s savings and investments? Had she really been a prostitute? It seemed that she’d had other lovers of whom their father knew nothing. Was that prostitution? To allow men to give you beautiful things, to buy you dinners, to share your bed, all without the mantle of marriage? Caroline was unsure. Father had wanted to marry Mrs Murray . He had proposed, and Mrs Murray had acc epted. They had arranged the date and Caroline and Augusta were to meet them at the church. But then, Mrs Murray had deferred. If Mrs Murray had been a prostitute to wealthy men, if it had been well known by neighbours and tradespeople, had her father really been so blind? So much of life, Caroline had learned, was artifice. If Mrs Murray was a prostitute, it had not been the trade of the girls and women who lingered late on the streets. Those women were not taken about in carriages by their lovers. They did not have good teeth or silk bonnets. ‘London is no place for a woman alone,’ Mama had said. ‘Especially when there are bairns that need feeding and no other way than to sell her most private parts.’ She had taken soup to some of those women on the coldest nights, and brought the children in to sit by the fire. Yet if you were a woman alone, with your own money, you were a woman who didn’t fit. Unless you were very old and could barely get down the stairs. Caroline knew little of carnal pleasure. She had seen the diseases it could cause. Her own experience of such things amounted to her employer ’s brother attempting to rape her in London. She saw the way Mrs Swanst on delighted in her husband when he entered a room. How Georgiana leaned towards Captain Swanston, placing her hand on his in conversation. She had seen the affection between her own parents. She wondered what William Murray was making of his life without his mother. She had written to him, expressing her condolences and requesting
an opportunity to retrieve their goods from the attic, so that such a reminder might cause him no further injury. She had received no r eply. He had been there every day across the courtroom with Mrs Murray’ s sister as witnesses gave their accounts of the events on the bridge. She had watched William Murray give evidence. He had hissed at Caroline and Augusta as he had passed. Her father had sat downcast but attentive to it all. ‘Never forget he murdered my sister,’ Mrs Murray’ s sister had shouted at the judge. ‘He murdered the good woman who was this boy’s mother. He must hang.’ After the sentencing, Caroline had called at the house to speak to William but was sent away. She had wanted him to know that she bore the blame. She had failed to understand that her father could be dangerous. That his madness could drive him to violence against another person. She should have secured him in an asylum, but instead Mrs Murray had died. She could not forgive herself. To think she had once believed herself a healer . She had considered engaging a lawyer to retrieve their possessions and monies her father had left in Mrs Murray’ s care, but she had decided not to pursue it. Let their possessions, all the precious relics of another life, be a payment of sorts, for harm done. Never a redress. What would William Murray and Mrs Murray’ s sister make of Jacques- Louis being released? They would put it down to money, she imagined. Connections. Someone had paid. And they would be right. She had paid. If she had not secured the means to buy the cottage and vineyar d, and thus attain the respect of Captain Swanston, Father would not be freed. Mrs Murray was always, and forever, dead. No amount of remorse or suffering would return her to life. Meanwhile, the man who had taken her life went on living.