Bessie has pr epared the loft at the far end of the barn where the Swanstons’ unwanted furniture had once been stored. Now there are new-made curtains at the windows. There is a bed, a chest, a table, a chair, a jug and a washbasin. The floor has been sw ept and a rug laid down. Caroline sees that Bessie has filled a jar with flowering sage, lavender and rosemary , and placed a cake of soap beside the washbasin. One convict to another, a code of shared understanding. Nothing to be said beyond what has been lived. Fate tallying the cost of folly and frailty with an unyielding indifference, moving through lives with an elegance that belies its harshness, gathering up misst eps and weaknesses like fallen leaves. Caroline sends Bessie and Quill to visit with Mrs Roper, and to collect a list of supplies at various stores, ensuring they will not return for some hours. She sits in one of the wicker chairs on the verandah, a book beside her, a glass of water, too, but she finds her mind unable to settle on the page nor find reassurance in the azure sky, the furrows of high white clouds, a flock of black cockatoos passing overhead. Who will her father be when he arrives? Will he be a semblance of the man she once knew? Or will he be a stranger , altered entirely by all he has endured? Does the madness still trouble him? Surely it would have been mentioned by Captain Maconoc hie if it did. She wishes the vineyard was ready for harvest, so that he might see it ripe with possibility . But it is better this way . He can see things as they are. Perhaps he will not like the way it is laid out, or the way the vines are pruned. More concerning is that he will not like it that she has lured him here as if he is unknown to her. What if he cannot pretend that she is a stranger rather than a once-beloved daughter? What if he refuses to participate in this charade? If Swanston becomes suspicious? What if he is unwell, broken down and unable to be the winemaker that is required, ruined as she has seen other men? What if he is sent away, sent back to Norfolk Island for some misdeed, real or supposed?
‘I want you to bring him to the cottage first, Cornelius,’ she had said. ‘I will walk him to the barn later .’ ‘Of course, Mrs Caroline.’ ‘Thank you, Cornelius. Thank you for everything.’ He had looked at her and smiled. ‘Don’t you worry, my friend. Too late to start doing that now . One st ep at a time, steady as you go.’ A horse and cart are coming over the hill from the township. She cannot be sure but she thinks she recognises Cornelius, with someone beside him. She hurries inside, smoothing her dress and checking her hair in the mirror. Her eyes look wide and a little startled. She checks the things she has pr epared in the kitchen. By the time she returns to the verandah, the cart is turning into the laneway . She wants to run. She wants to fly down the track past the Swanstons’ pine trees, to see his face light up, to have him swing down and hold open his arms so she can fling herself into his embrace. She wants him to hold her so tight that all the years apart collapse into nothing. But she cannot. Why must Cornelius go so slowly? Now the gig is past the Swanstons’, the cottage and the vineyar d ahead. She waits and watches. At last Cornelius stops where the lane splits. His passenger descends with a small sack in his hand. He wears a grey jacket and trousers, a grey cap. Cornelius flicks the horse and the cart moves on and away . The man is coming towards the cottage, his head down. She st eps off the verandah and onto the path. Heedless of the risk, she is out of the gate. He has seen her. She strides towards him. She runs. She is throwing her arms around him, holding him to her , feeling the thinness of his body . ‘Papa,’ she says. ‘Papa.’ ‘Caroline,’ he says. ‘ Comment est-ce possible? ’ He crumples then. She catches him, feeling the fragile weight of him, holding him fiercely , holding him as if she will never let him go. ‘ C’est vrai? ’ he is asking. ‘Yes, Papa, it is true,’ she says. ‘You are home now. You are home. It is not a dream.’ He is like a man off a ship unable to get his footing. She sits him at the table in the sun, behind the cottage. She is bringing a tray of wine and cheese. Two glasses, and a bottle of Broughton’ s champagne dusted off. She unwinds the wire and pulls the cork. There does not seem to be anything to
say. He looks up and she searches for the man she once knew beneath the wearied and weathered visage aged beyond any expectation. ‘Champagne, Papa,’ she says. ‘Because we have made magic happen.’ Mr Culp eper had declared that nothing grows in vain. The earth is a patient teacher and offers no gift without purpose. God and Nature are the unfailing sources from which all cures spring forth, intertwining life and healing in a tapestry both intricate and profound. Each leaf, each root, each bloom holds within it the promise of a restoration, a quiet assurance that in every cycle of decay lies the potential for rebirth, waiting only for the eye to see and the heart to understand. Once Jacques-Louis has eaten, and the wine has been sipped, she takes him to review the herbs and flowers and vegetables in the walled garden, the chooks and fruit trees. He sees and nods and says almost nothing, yet it is her father. She cannot let go of his hand, until she must. She feels a de ep cold in his bones, and wants to wrap him in a blanket, to shelter him from the world until he warms and speaks and smiles, and she wonders will it ever be so. At the top of the vineyard, she opens the gate and ushers him through. He stops and bends to touch the leaves. She would like to tell him that all is forgiven, that it is time to start anew, to put the past behind them, but that is not true. It will never be true. ‘You are here, Papa,’ she says instead. ‘It is all that matters now .’ He hardly notices the food put in front of him. She watches him spill tea on his shirt. She warms porter with lemon and sugar. Though he is not ill, as such, she thinks the sangaree might benefit him. When she tells him of Augusta’ s death, and Henriette’ s, his silence is interminable. She makes him a new coat, a shirt and woollen pants. Cornelius makes him work gloves and new boots. She sees the scars furrowing his back and the effort it takes to lace those boots and the scars around his ankles. His hands are not the long fine hands she remembers, but gnarled and misshapen from labours she does not want to discuss. He often appears caught in eddies and rapids. For many weeks after he arrives, before she goes to the vineyard to meet with him, she stands and sighs one long de ep sigh after another .
Every day he is in the vineyard at dawn. All day he works, bending here to weed about the roots, to untangle a vine, to mulch and water as required. In the mornings, she works near him and is glad of the simple monotony of the work. What must give over, what must succumb to the greater good, what will bear fruit. Caroline wishes that tending a person was as easy as tending a plant. Where there is damage or disease, excise it with a simple clip from a pair of shears. Where an aspect of the plant is growing in the wrong direction, curving inwards rather than outwards to the light, snip it away to encourage new growth. Where there are dead branches or tendrils, cut them of f. When the day grows late, he likes to sit at the base of the giant gum. Caroline sits beside him, aware that there they cannot be seen by anyone who might look across the valley. She recalls when she first found the speck of land called Norfolk Island and stole away with the map from that beautiful house. She makes in her mind a path of dots of the voyage each of them has taken to be here. Between them they have circled the world, rounded Cape Horn and the Cape of Good Hope, and come at last to this tree and this land together . Her father regards the vista, but whether it is a vista within or without she cannot know. He is overflowing with silence. Perhaps contrition is a form of survival. She thinks of Mrs Murray at Mama’s bedside , and of the night she tossed the bloodied knife into the Thames. She ke eps Quill away from him—just until Papa settles in. But the boy is drawn to the new man in the field. ‘Should I speak to him in French?’ he asks. ‘ Bien sûr .’ She smiles. ‘But give him time. There is much he has to adjust to.’ One morning, returning from her walk, she sees them sitting together beneath the gum tree. She realises they are regarding a rainbow at her back, illuminating the morning mist above the river . Jacques-Louis is explaining the phenomenon to the boy. ‘It is a manifestation of hydrogen, oxygen, phosphorus and electrical substances combined in the atmosphere which form that happy accident. The sun is illuminating the colours, just as a lighted candle enclosed in a coloured glass does.’ Quill regards him with interest.
‘Did you notice on your voyage here how the wake of a sailing ship often produces similar colours?’ ‘Yes,’ says Quill. ‘The prism, the oriental pearl, the mother of pearl ... all in the ascent of the sun produce these same colours. Atmospheric air is loaded more or less with vapours or gases. ‘Have you ever considered,’ he continues, ‘that everything we observe is through the accomplishment of our eyes? The pupils contract and expand, and the nerves attack and seize the object under observation so that you are capable of distinguishing the familiar, and then other objects, near and far, which are not immediately obvious.’ ‘Oh,’ says Quill, and blinks, and blinks again, as if to see the world anew. ‘A curious mind seeks knowledge,’ says Jacques-Louis. ‘A man called Rousseau believed that each man was a beginning, for within him was all the potential of humanity . Curiosity will help you find your potential, Quill.’ It is the first flow of words she has heard from him since he arrived. He cannot eat with them in the cottage. It would be inappropriat e to invite a felon into the house. Cornelius says he has always managed such things for himself and can do so for both of them, but Caroline insists on contributing meals and provisions. Cornelius tells her that the quality of his fare has improved, and he and Jacques-Louis may have to grow used to it. ‘You have given over your solitude to this new guest,’ she says to Cornelius. ‘My solitude was not a resolutio n,’ says Cornelius. ‘It was a necessity . I was a black man in this colony. I still am. Look upon it like this: our winemaker has given me the opportunity to care for someone.’ ‘You have cared for me since first I came here,’ Caroline says. ‘It has been a privilege you have allowed me, Mrs Caroline.’ ‘Caroline,’ she says. ‘Just Caroline.’ ‘Caroline,’ he r eplies. Some evenings, after Quill is in bed, she joins them in the forge, though all the conversation is between Cornelius and Caroline, her father watching the flames of the fire until his head droops. It is then Cornelius wakes him and urges him to bed, handing him a lantern ready to light the way .
‘It is leased, all this?’ her father asks, the night scent of the vines lifting on the evening air . Caroline has been anticipating the question and has thought of many ways she might answer it, but she finds herself saying, ‘No, Papa, I purchased the cottage and the vineyard from Captain Swanston when I arrived here in Van Diemen’ s Land. The story of being a tenant is to protect myself from gossip.’ ‘Did something happen to make such a thing possible?’ he asks. ‘Do you really wish to know?’ she asks. ‘ Oui, bien sûr ,’ he r eplies. ‘I apprenticed myself to Tante Henriette.’ ‘Ah,’ he says. ‘And I made other investments on my voyage here that were fruitful.’ She waits. ‘Perhaps it is time,’ he says at last, ‘to tell me everything. Shall we begin with Quill?’
Christmas comes and goes, and the fruit sets. Ripening grapes hang red, pale, magenta, dusty green and golden beneath their distinctive leaves. There is a long stretch of dry weather and they water the vines by hand, buckets being wheelbarrowed to the field. ‘Not too much,’ Jacques-Louis says. ‘Patience and adversity . Nature teaches us that.’ Jacques-Louis and Quill create a series of scarecrows to ke ep away the birds that come to investigate the crop. But after a week or two, the figures do little to dissuade the feathered scavengers. Swanston suggests Quill take watch and shoot into the air, lending him a gun. It is effective, and Quill delights in causing a flock to rise into the sky. Caroline does not like the noise of the gun and its reverberations across the valley. Such a method also requires constant vigilance. The summer days are warm and Quill’s watch can become distracted by his immersion in a book, and then the easy descent into a snooze. When he startles from the pages to find wattlebirds inspecting the readiness of the banquet, he shoots into the air and fells one of the birds. He is devastated, bringing the wounded creature to Caroline wrapped in his shirt, but the bird dies in his hands. A few days later, he has the idea that instead of shooting the birds, they could tie cats on leashes throughout the vineyard to leap at the birds. ‘Not so they can harm them,’ he says. ‘Just so it frightens them.’ ‘The birds or the cats?’ asks Caroline, with a raised eyebrow . It seems an unlikely method, but Quill and Bessie set about acquiring a small company of stray cats from the town. They house them in the woodshed, the howling at first something both terrible and comical, but the meat they are given soon settles them down. Quill, Bessie and Jacques- Louis carry them each morning in boxes to the vines and secure them with rope.
To everyone’s amusement, the cats do leap at the marauding magpies, currawongs, parrots, thrushes and cockatoos. They also continue to hiss at one another , and lie in the sun and sle ep. At night they are returned to their shelter. This goes on for some weeks, but slowly the cats lose interest and the birds learn to graze at a careful distance. Still, several of the cats become excellen t mousers in the cellar, the house and the barn, and find the forge a very pleasant place to reside. Caroline often finds both Cornelius and her father each captive to a slumbering cat when she visits in the evenings. Malachy remains above all this, continuing her decorative life curled by the fire in the cottage, or in any ready pool of sunshine on a windowsill. It is Bessie who has the idea of turning the ineffective scarecrows into women. She reshapes the figures to make them very tall and dresses them haphazardly in remnants of sackcloth and fabric giving each an embroidered face. She sews together wigs of long lengths of dried ferns, seaweed and strips of cloth that erupt wildly from the crown of the head and move in the breeze. She gives them large splayed hands of sticks, and together Jacques -Louis and Cornelius, Bessie and Quill stretch fishing nets between the wild women, who hold the woven lines in their long fingers above the ripening grapes. It is a field of helpful witches casting spells, Caroline thinks. At Bessie’s instigation, Corneliu s creates a kind of instrument of found and discarded objects whose parts move in the wind, knocking together , clacking, chiming, whirring and rattling even in the softest breeze. Cornelius is so surprised at the success of these that he and Bessie create four more. The sculptural instruments are placed throughout the vineyard. Now the witches have accompanying musicians and the new harvest is protected. The wind becomes the chief antagonist. After a strong westerly , the nets must be mended and stretched anew between the watchful women, and their fingers mended. Sometimes birds must also be freed, and Quill takes great care with this. Neighbours come to look at their inventions and ask Cornelius to make his strange instruments for them. He r eplies that he is but the manufacturer; it is Bessie who is in charge of design. Several are made and, on a still night in the valley, the gentle clock, knock and whirr is a music Caroline listens for as she is falling asle ep.
Jacques-Louis tells Quill that it will be about twenty-five days until harvest for this variety, and a little longer for that one, while the slowest variety will reach peak sweetness a little after that. They wait for the sugar to intensify in the fruit, for the lurking promise of ripe peaches, golden apples and honey to de epen in the grapes. Every day Jacques-Louis takes Quill to taste the fruit, and urges the boy to record his findings in a journal. On day twenty-five, Quill and Jacques-Louis return from the vineyard. ‘They are ready ,’ Quill says, eyes shining. Caroline takes the grape he of fers her and sucks it. ‘The flavours of this world,’ says Jacques-Louis. ‘But most of all, your love, Mrs Douglas. And yours, Quill.’ Quill observes him. ‘One cannot grow a vineyard like this without love,’ Jacques-Louis says. In pr eparation for the harvest, Caroline employs two young women from the female prison to assist Bessie in the kitchen. She listens as Bessie schools them in the pr eparatio n and clean-up of meals. She is firm but patient as she explains their tasks, and Caroline smiles to hear her admonishing them sternly if they prove idle or truculent. ‘Was I such a hapless creature, Mrs Douglas?’ she asks. ‘A little bit,’ Caroline says. ‘But look how far you have come. You are mistress of the kitchen.’ The two maids sle ep upstairs beside Bessie’s room. Quill has long been downstairs, where he can stand upright, which he can no longer do under the sloping ceiling of the attic. He will soon need to duck when he enters any doorway . The first day of the harvest arrives with a crisp autumnal shine to the air. The musical instruments have been returned to the barn. The nets between the witch women are to be rolled back row by row as the grapes are picked. Caroline has employed ticket-o f-leave women who will see the harvest through. They gather early at the cottage for tea, bread, cheese and preserves, and are issued with shears and gloves. Washington and Julia Walker arrive with their little boy. Also Julia’s sister and husband, and the Giblins with their two married daughters and their husbands. The Swanston boys arrive with Geor giana carrying two baskets, each bearing a fruitcake.
When they break for lunch, Captain Swanston joins them. Cornelius and Mrs Roper have arranged trestle tables covered in cloth and decorated with vine leaves by Bessie. Mrs Roper, passing Caroline as they ferry items to the picnic, says, ‘The most handsome man in Hobart Town, Cornelius was. Maybe still is.’ ‘I didn’ t realise you had known him such a long time.’ ‘Oh, yes. We both knew this place when the houses didn’t go further than the top of Murray Street. Always k ept to himself, though. They said he ... well, ’ tis just gossip.’ Mrs Roper shakes her head and moves on. Murray Street. Murray . Caroline considers how it is for her father to hear the name. The table is arrayed with pies and tarts, cured meats and pickles, tomatoes, salad greens, warm bread and butter. Caroline has brought out the last of Broughton’ s champagne. It seems fitting to share it at this moment. Jacques-Louis has determined that it may soon pass its peak and should be savoured. Caroline invites everyone to join in a minute of silence, the Quaker silence she has learned from Julia and Washington before any gathering. A hush settles upon them, punctuated only by buzzing insects and a stirring of leaves above, the distant sound of wood being chopped, a horse and cart on the road going north. When the minute is over , they all sigh, and smile. Caroline invites Captain Swanston to make a toast, and he does so, declaring it will be a time of hard work but also with the possibility of great reward. He thanks them for their labours and urges them to eat well so they might pick every good grape and ensure nothing is wasted. He thanks Caroline for her hospitality . They all lift their glasses and drink. Jacques-Louis sits with hat removed for the meal, the scar from the fall still vivid and puckered across his brow. Sometimes Caroline feels as if she is a branch in the middle of a river and her father is holding on, clinging to her lest he be washed away. Sometimes he stands on the shore and they watch together, dutiful to memories, respectful in their silence of all the dead. She has not asked him what he has lived through, and he does not offer it up. She quietly suggests to him that the winemaker might also address those gathered. She is not sure if he will speak and is pleased when she sees him rise. She taps her spoon on her plate to draw the table to attention. ‘I have asked our winemaker to say some words also.’
Jacques-Louis says, ‘I thank Captain Swanston and Mrs Swanston for entrusting me with the making of this wine, and Mrs Douglas to whom I owe so much. I thank this harvest which is here by the generosity of the earth. I also wish to thank the mountain who tempts the rain, and the clouds who carry it forth. The sun that warms the earth, inspires the buds and ripens the fruit. The moon that watches over the vineyard night after night, season upon season, welcoming the dew that sinks within the roots. This plenitude all about us, and your generosity in bringing your labour to harvest this bounty. It is all generosity.’ He indicates the vines about them. ‘Before us is a wine we cannot anticipate. Today we are harvesting the future. We will reap what nature and care allow. It will be of this place. And it will be of your good hearts. I thank you all.’ His words leave a small silence and then everyone again raises their glasses and toasts the harvest. Flies are waved away from the food. Dishes are passed. Plates are filled and conversation begins to flow around the table. Caroline looks across at her father, whose eyes are fixed on the plate of chicken pie and salad, bread and new potatoes Bessie has handed him. ‘Thank you,’ Caroline says to him. He nods, and then begins his meal. She sees in him, for the first time since he’s arrived, the man who might have inherited a great estate. He is in simple clothes amongst his fellow workers, with battered hands and a scarred face, his body ageing, but he is noble nevertheless.
Cornelius has pr epared the barrels and k ept them filled with water to ensure they do not leak and that the timber does not dry out before they must do their work. The last grapes of the harvest are the meunier . Jacques-Louis thinks to make a wine using only the meunier , given its vibrant qualities , but he can taste that it may yet be a natural fit with the morillon blanc. To add the black cluster will increase the complexity . Perhaps he will mix only the morillon blanc and the black cluster. Meanwhile the first fermentation of the new harvest begins. After two weeks, Jacques-Louis lets the wine rest in the barrels. He and Caroline taste the vins clai rs , the early wines where the varieties are unmixed and the flavour is sharp and acidic. Even this early, Jacques- Louis finds the meunier promises charm. In the morillon blanc there is a litheness. In the black cluster he is delighted by the d epth of flavour in the fruit. This is what he has been tasting in the few bottles of red wine in the cellar, aged and grown complex with time. The small amount of wine stored from the previous harvests, too. Jacques-Louis also sets aside some of the wine of this harvest as insurance against a poor harvest in the future. This also gives him the opportunity to see how each grape’s flavour matures with the second fermentation. ‘Some winemakers mix, they do not blend,’ says Jacques-Louis. ‘Tell me, Monsieur Chef de Cave,’ says Caroline. ‘T each me.’ ‘Each grape must offer something. It must complement and enhance, harmonise. If I were to blend all three of the varietals we have, we may find that in one glass the morillon blanc may be entree, the black cluster the main meal and the meunier the music in the background. I must find the alignment, so that in one wine the result is vivid and tantalisi ng, yet also complete. But first we must wait.’ As the months go by, they will taste countless times. The morillon blanc becomes expressive. Jacques-Louis says it has opened and may yet become
more vivacious. The black cluster is sle eping. ‘But,’ says Jacques-Louis, ‘it will awaken in a few months.’ Only the meunier remains constant. On this north-facing land with its unfamiliar mix of friable and heavy soils, in these foothills looking out across an enormous river, he is learning. It had been a good growing season, the summer was dry and the spring before it cool and wet. In France, when he was in the tasting room with Philippe, it was the interplay of the chablis, a sister to this morillon blanc, and the pinot noir, so similar to the black cluster, that fascinated him. It was a combination of endless complexity and subtlety . He has tasted the raw wines of the Walkers and considered the land beyond, where Captain Swanst on runs she ep. He has investigated. If he were to plant there, nearer the river, within a few years those vines might benefit from the slightly warmer location. In the fields, he applies different techniques to the pruning, instructing the workers and ensuring they are rigorous with cutting back, and choosing the new canes that will carry fruit into the next year. In the cellar he makes choices, too. He blends new wine with the wine of the previous years. He makes copious notes, assigning scores to each wine. The weeks pass and he tastes and tastes again. ‘A wine may be of a pleasing colour even if it comes from mediocre elements,’ he says, ‘but it is not usual. And it will put the method, and indeed the r eputation of the winemaker , at risk. The cuvée de tirage , the blended wine, cannot disguise the taste of poor grapes.’ As autumn passes he continues his work in the cellar. The air is chill in its close confines, but not as chill as it is outside. Winter blankets the mountain in snow for weeks and weeks. There is snow in the foothills, and it lays upon the gardens and fields for an hour or two before the sun reaches it. As the first dewdrops poke their heads up to see the world, the bottling begins. The measuring and dosage to bring about the second fermentation is done with exacting precision. Each bottle is then labelled and racked. The cellar fills with rows and rows of bottles, each with a rudimentary label noting the year and a code. The codes correspond to notes in Jacques-Louis’ journal. The second fermentation begins and, when it is done, the wine that will become their first champagne rests.
The year circles and returns. There have been ducklings on the pond but they have grown and disappeared. The swallows, too. Geese are moving east. John Mercer ’s letters continue to arrive every few months. He tells Caroline of his studies and the areas of research he intends to embark on, particularly in the area of infections. When his mother dies, he writes of her with fond affection, sharing his recollections of her and saying how much he will miss her. She can detect no overt romantic sentiment in John Mercer ’s communications with her, but as the letters amass in her bureau she knows that she is growing more fond of him. In turn she sends him small watercolours of the farm and anecdotes of her days. She likes to move the water across the paper, to trail impetuous colours and create unexpected effects. It is a watercolour world, she thinks. Was this how Augusta saw it, too? A tableau infused by something translucent and transient. In the reading room in Hobart, she learns of the skull of a quadruped discovered in the mouth of the Mississippi River that indicates the animal had been more than two hundred and fifty feet in length. In Yorkshire the remains of el ephants, rhinocero s and hyenas have been found, as well as quantities of petrified palm trees and sugar canes. The formation of the universe could not be a late phenomenon when such infinite discoveries continue to be made. Had there been enormous animals here, too? Had the people before her seen them? Had they hunted them or been hunted by them? A tree discovered in a stream bed in Kent measured four hundred and fifty feet in length. She puts her hands on the giant gum tree by the cottage and wonders what it has seen. Barrels are made ready for the next harvest. Bottles and corks arrive by ship from suppliers abroad as the new grapes bud, flower, fruit and ripen. Bessie’s fishing nets are r epaired and r eplaced, her women with their floating dresses and fern-and-seaweed hair standing sentinel once more.
The musical instruments are erected again and continue to distract and startle avian arrivals. Bessie also takes to making tall, lean figures of bark and sticks in the perimeter of the forest. Some holding the hand of a bark child. Bessie calls them ‘the missing’. Caroline thinks of the letter Columbus wrote to Queen Isabella of his journey to the new world telling her how enchanted he was by the natives and the simple beauty of their lives. Yet he had taken their gold and left behind priests to school them in his foreign faith. Where were those people now? Had they too been lost to a modern world that had no time for their ways of living? The next vintage results in twenty-six barrels, more than doubling the harvest from the previous year. It is crushed, fermented, bottled and racked. Workers undertake the late autumn pruning, the suppression of the weeds and the insulation of the soil and vines for the coming winter, as well as the maintenance and improvemen t of fencing. Jacques-Louis is vigilant, fastidious, impatient, genial. ‘Some predators are small enough to be seen only with a microscope,’ he tells Quill. ‘They dust a leaf or blacken it. But of course some bound and climb and fly .’ One day Caroline finds her father lying on the grass in the sun under the giant gum tree. ‘Papa,’ she asks, for they are alone, ‘are you ill?’ ‘I had a sense of foreboding,’ he says. ‘As if at any moment my heart might leap from my body .’ ‘Has it passed?’ ‘I did not recognise it.’ ‘What was it?’ she asks. ‘Happiness,’ he says, and he takes her hand and holds it. The first vintage is good, but Jacques-Louis believes it could be better. He is pleased with some of the blends, but perhaps he will adjust the length of fermentation, both the first and the second. He considers extending the time on the lees, and experiments with reducing the sugar in the dosage. The blends he has made with the first harvest, using wines laid down before he arrived, are, in his estimation, the more sophisticated. But there is
not sufficient stock to r eplicate it. He is glad for the barrels set aside in reserve. Cornelius says, ‘R eplication and consistency , that’s what I know from Mr Broughton.’ ‘There it is,’ says Jacques-Louis. ‘The greatest challenge—nature being inconsistent, and every harvest bringing its own unique flavours.’ He wants to get a higher yield from the morillon blanc, which does best in the least fertile soil in the vineyard. It is quick to develop the botrytis mould. He appreciates the sweet wines this can create, but it is not good for the wine he desires. He is seeking a sparkling wine filled with fruit and vivacity yet tempered with earth and minerality: a wine of this place. A sparkling wine far from its origins, but from a similar cool climate. When he retires to his loft, and it is just Cornelius and Caroline by the fire in the for ge, Cornelius says, ‘He has ambition.’ ‘He wishes to be a great winemaker ,’ says Caroline. Some recompen se for all his daughter has done for him, Cornelius thinks, or something more? Captain Swanst on finds an agent for the wine in both Sydney and Melbourne. Caroline meets the costs of an increased workforce. The significant sum she had initially d eposited with Swanston has been much d epleted but Swanston is winning acclaim for the quality of his product which suits Caroline perfectly . The profits when they come are modest, but still they are profits. When Caroline notes that small income at last, after so much outlay, there is a relief in her. London feels like a long time ago— although whenever she and Quill play chess on the beautiful board, she is always transpor ted back to Tante Henriette’ s apartment and the treasure room below . Jacques-Louis will not attend any social occasion beyond the cottage or the forge. In any gathering he is quiet. It would be easy to think he was shy. He walks to the river most evenings at dusk. Sometimes when she and Jacques- Louis walk together , Caroline finds she is still looking about as if the two of them are walking up the river towards Putney. She wishes sometimes for transparency , to know all that is within him. But she fears the past is a riptide that might wrap about their ankles and drag them away, so she does not offer a reminiscence from those times, and nor does he.
With Swanston, Jacques-Louis is at first deferential but, after the second vintage, he becomes more confident. ‘That land there, sir,’ Jacques-Louis says, ‘now given to she ep, it will barely return, as we both know. But give it over to vines and in a few years, voilà , we will be making the finest sparkling wine in the world. I have investigated. See how it catches the sunshine all year round? This is what the vines need. The limestone soil, the moist air, the cold days and the summer warmth. The cellar must be expanded in the barn. There is insufficient room beneath the house to rack the quantities we can produce.’ ‘The man is infuriating,’ says Swanston to Caroline. ‘Every time I meet with him he has some demand for me. I have no other worker who so completely nettles me and yet there are few for whose labours I have more regard. But do not tell him that. He is Pain by name and a pain by nature. He must cause it in every conversation.’ Mr Pain. It is the name he has given Jacques-Louis publicly , whenever he introduces him. Jacques-Lou is Pain, once resident of the Jersey Islands. It is one of the st eps he has taken to remove information on Jacques-Louis Colbert from casual investigation. One cannot have such a villain associated with his venture, nor his family. So he shall have a nom de plume . Jacques- Louis is quite unoffended and Swanston is amused at his invention. Jacques-Louis is the most stubborn man he has ever encountered, he declares, a typical Frenchman. Jacques-Louis responds that Swanston is a man of vision but lacks imagina tion, a typical Englishman. But at the end of such exchanges, there is a measure of good wine that Jacques-Louis says is wasted on Swanston’ s palate, which has been ruined by rum and whisky . Caroline and Georgiana compare Jacques-Louis’ wine with the French champagne that arrives in the colony. They pretend they cannot decide and must drink another glass until they are sure. Jacques-Louis says it is hard to make comparisons with a wine that has travelled six thousand miles by sea, but still the wine they are making at Everlea is far superior . ‘Yes, yes,’ says Swanston. ‘I allow him that.’ One day in the cellar, during the disgorgement, Caroline suggests that perhaps if the champagne bottles might be inclined, the sediment would more easily move towards the cork and settle there so that the final wine might be clearer . Cornelius creates a tilted rack.
‘Let us see,’ Jacques-Louis says, ‘what gravity will do.’ The bottles twinkle in the lamplight, the wine inside transforms, time elaborating on subtle variations of flavour. Caroline feels the urge to turn the bottles gently as the weeks pass to ke ep the sediment moving towards the cork. She marks each bottle with chalk. It is a method that makes Jacques-Louis a little uncomfortable, yet he cannot dismiss the ease with which the sediment can then be removed before the final period of rest. He has Cornelius adapt more racks, and he instructs the workers who assist them to do the same, carefully marking each turn on the glass. There is some loss of wine as the sediment is released but they add wine and sugar to increase the volume. Gradually less wine is lost in the release as everyone becomes more practised. The bottles are given their final corks and tied closed with string. They wait in the cool dim silence for fermentation to summon the enigma of flavour .
Beer continues to be brewed, rum imported, whisky and gin slyly distilled and distributed. Huon pine from the wet forests of Van Diemen’ s Land is favoured above all other timbers by boat builders. Celery top pine, too. The Derwent River and the D’Entrecasteaux Channel are plied by dinghies, rowboats, sailing boats, larger ships and steam ferries moving people and produce. Ironware is cast and wrought. New bricks are loaded onto pallets. Ropes, sails and other items of chandlery are crafted. Soap, leather, clothing, barrels and paper, carts, carriages and tools are produced across the island. Wheat and wool remain the colony’ s most valuable exports, although New South Wales and England continue to pay poorly for it. Of late, Swanst on has become more troubled by the prospect s of the colony. The trade in whale oil has almost ceased, coal and gas r eplacing them. Seal populations have declined. The prison at Port Arthur grows in infamy. Every item exported and sold is tainted with its r eputation. Every person born in Van Diemen’ s Land is stained by it, too. Caroline worries for the investment she has made in Everlea and the expanding vineyards. Georgiana and Swanston talk of leaving Van Diemen’ s Land and making their home on their estate near Geelong. Swanston tells Caroline he will not sell New Town Park but would have one of his sons manage it—Charles could return from England, perhaps—until commerce and the colony’ s r eputation improves. Robert and Nowell have already d eparted to complete their education in England. George will go next year . Jacques-Louis thinks on the descendants that might succeed him from a place of such disr epute. He talks to Caroline of a different notoriety they might build for the colony. A place that grows wine to rival the great houses of France. ‘Can you see it?’ he asks her. She observes in him an enthusiasm that she has not seen in many years. A light she had believed was extinguished forever.
‘Yes, Papa, I see it,’ she says. Quill becomes an excellent rider, accompanying George and Captain Swanston on trips to various properties in which Swanston has an interest as a banker or a friend—usually both. Quill’s face is changing. His nose is bigger, his chin is longer, the planes of his cheeks are becoming more angular . It is a constant fascinati on to Caroline. Already there is a fine down on his top lip and his cheeks. His amber eyes have darkened into golden toffee. His hair, which he wears long and tied back, has settled into waves. His body is lean and strong and he is almost a head taller than George. She reconsiders, not for the first time, her initial assessment of his age. At harvest time he lifts countle ss bales of hay at the Swanstons’, the Walkers’ and the Giblins’. He carries barrels and casks in the cellar for Cornelius. When his studies are done for the day, he works with Jacques- Louis in the fields. He laughs often and almost every day brings Caroline flowers or some thing of beauty from his walks and rides. Quill and Cornelius hunt togethe r, bringing back rabbits and ducks, wild geese and wallaby , which become pies and stews. Bessie and Caroline harvest oysters and mussels from the rocks along the shore, and pipis from beneath the sand at low tide. Sometimes there are scallops, abalone and crayfish, scalefish, beef and mutton traded for vegetables, a case of apples or pears, nectarines, buckets of blackberries and bottles of wine. The cottage now has a glasshou se on its northern side. In the warmth, they are able to grow citrus fruits and some vegetables all year round, just as in the Swanst ons’ conservator y, and it, too, becomes a favourite place for Caroline and Geor giana to sit. ‘I have come to a point in my life where soon my children will no longer need me,’ says Geor giana. ‘And what will I do with myself then?’ ‘I am sure there will be much new life in Melbourne to occupy you, if you are to go there,’ Caroline says. ‘Oh, yes,’ says Georgiana, ‘but I can’t envisage being quite so content as I have been here.’
The officially titled Doctor John Mercer sends a letter to tell Caroline that he will soon return to Van Diemen’ s Land with the young Charles Swanston. At the dinner given by Georgiana to celebrate their arrival, Doctor Mercer sits next to Caroline and surprises her by saying that he intends to settle in Hobart. He has not mentioned this before in his letters. ‘I understand there is a need for good doctors,’ he says. ‘You will have no family here,’ she says, knowing he has sisters and a brother still in Scotland. ‘I was inspired by the courage of a lady whom I met when I was here on my first visit,’ he says. ‘Her correspondence has assured me that here is where I wish to be.’ He visits Everlea, walking the vineyard with her, and meets Jacques- Louis. They talk for some minutes about grape growing. Caroline wishes she could introduce Jacques-Louis as her father. She knows he will perceive the doctor’s interest in her, and there would be much they might talk about of medicine and Edinbur gh. She invites John Mercer to tea. When he compliments Bessie on her fruitcake, she almost drops a fork. He asks Quill his plans for the future, and if he will be d eparting, like George, for further education in England. Caroline and Georgiana have discussed sending George and Quill together . Caroline cannot imagine life without Quill. She cannot imagine life without Georgiana. ‘If I am to leave,’ says Quill, ‘I would prefer to go to France, to study under a great chef de cave.’ ‘How useful that your aunt has encouraged you to be fluent in French,’ John Mercer says. Quill r eplies, ‘Monsieur Pain, as Captain Swanston calls him, insists upon it if I am to become a winemaker .’ Doctor Mercer extends an invitation to Caroline and Quill to accompany him to a play at the Theatre Royal. Caroline agrees, and ensures that Quill is
suitably attired for such an event. It is good to see him dressed in a fine suit and striped silk cravat. ‘I am so proud of you,’ she says. He smiles. ‘I am as you have made me.’ ‘No, darling Quill, you are as you have made yourself.’ Caroline observes the stylishly attired men and women alighting from their carriages. From their seats in the dress circle, under a regal cupola painted with portraits of the great composers, she looks about at those nearby and those in the stalls below. Some significant portion must have served time for some crime or other. She knows she is little different from them, disguised now in their coats and gowns, tie pins and hat pins, cufflinks and tiaras. Exc ept by some bene volent hand, she had not been caught. Here was a society created from the doings and misdoings of countless people. All societies must be so. But in London she had taken the weight of history as evidence of stability and perpetuity , while here the future was still a precarious and uncertain harvest. Her thoughts turn to Tante Henriette and their evenings attending performances in London. Tante Henriette laughed when a woman gave her a coquettish glance, for she made a handsome nobleman. Always they had dressed as they did for their work, never risking recognition by the genteel ladies who had shared travels and confidences with the womanly version of Tante Henriette. Would her aunt have been surprised to see Caroline here, established in this remote destination? No, Caroline thinks. She would understand. When they emerge onto the street, Doctor Mercer offers Caroline his arm. She takes it, and feels the warmth of him close beside her .
With the latest vintage, orders flow in from Melbourne and New South Wales and across Van Diemen’ s Land. In the Hobart Town Ga zette , Mr Pain is noted as the highly creditable winemaker manufacturing champagne pink and pale, sparkling and delicious, and infinitely super ior to the mer etricious but insinuating compound imported under this designation ... Jacques-Louis tells Caroline that it is time to set their wine amidst the great wines, to see how Van Diemen’ s Land’s bounty fares in a blind tasting. He wishes to enter their champagne in the Paris Wine Awards and see what great men and women of wine make of it measured against that of the Cape, California, Virginia and the many European countries that vie for such recognition. ‘And how would this extraordinary feat be accomplished?’ she asks. ‘I would go with it, escorting the bottles on the long voyage.’ When they broach it with Captain Swanston, he says, ‘Mr Pain, you have one job and one job alone: to make the wine of this vineyard, not to tout your wares in Europe. It is a fantasy of vanity—a most unlikely venture that can surely bring little reward.’ ‘You are not thinking of the greater good such an acknowledgement might bring, Captain,’ Jacques-L ouis r eplies. ‘I hold that this vintage is as fine as any in France, and I do not declare this lightly. I do not declare it from vanity. You have seen the response from the buyers. You have tasted it yourself, though we both doubt your expertise in such matters. Which is why you must trust this to me. To win in Paris brings not only the acclaim of the French, it would send a ripple across the world. A colonial wine, a wine from Van Diemen’ s Land, to garner such acclaim! It will never be forgotten. You wish to remake this place as a pastoral paradise, but nothing you or anyone else has done until now has succeeded. Think how this could declare to the world that we are not all felons and filth.’ ‘Clearly we are not all felons and filth,’ says Swanston, growing more heated. ‘But it is a fool’ s errand and would earn us nothing but derision.’
‘None can deride the wine! And it is no fool’s errand. Brave men win great accolades, Captain Swanston, as well you know. Come with me, if you doubt me in any way. Come with me to Europe, to Paris, if you cannot overcome this disbelief.’ ‘You do not have an absolute pardon,’ Captain Swanston points out. ‘You may not set foot in England.’ ‘It is unfortunate then that I know no one in the colony who might procure such a pardon,’ says Jacques-Louis. ‘The English are not who we wish to convince anyway . It is the world. You yourself could go on to England and meet with agents there.’ ‘Even if I were to secure a pardon for you—and I have no certainty of that—how can I be sure you will not use such an opportunity to abscond with my wine, sell it and establish yourself in some place in southern France, glad to be free of us all?’ At this, Jacques-Louis fixes him with a steely gaze. ‘I would never live in southern France. I was once a man of honour, Captain Swanston. You have entrusted me with a great deal, and I have not failed you, but you make a grave error in thinking I will not return here. I give you my word. I do it on the crest of my family, on the lineage of my people. I will return to you with the prize for the finest champagne. You are a man who must think always in profit. Well, there can be no greater flow of profit than if the world knows the fame of your vineyard.’ And on it goes for weeks. They are two goats butting heads, straining to have their way. The promise of the wine, the dream of acclaim, the possible bounty of success. Caroline wishes that Swanston knew that Jacques-Louis was her father. Then he would understand why Jacques-Louis would never abandon Everlea. Jacques-Louis perseveres. He speaks with Swanston of orders flowing in from America, England, Russia. ‘Wherever champagne is appreciated, there will be connoisseurs keen to taste your wine. This whole estate may yet be filled with vines, and all of it flowing to Europe, the profits flowing back to you.’ Something in Swanston eases. He comes to Caroline one afternoon and declares that he has enquired about an absolute pardon for Jacques-Louis so that he might sail to England. From there, the small voyage across the English Channe l to France will be easy. This way he can also more easily
ke ep track of Jacques-Louis. If he d eparts on a foreign ship and travels through foreign ports, such oversight will not be easy. He cannot risk losing his winemaker and, with pressing concerns in the colony, he cannot make the trip himself. It is Swanston who suggests that Quill might accompany Jacques-Louis, to be of assistance in managing the wine on the long voyage. Quill’s eyes light up at the suggestion. ‘But who will take care of the next vintage while we are gone?’ he asks. Jacques-Louis chuckles. ‘ Par ole de vrai vigner on! ’ he says. Caroline sees the sense in Quill accompanying her father. Jacques-Louis will need Quill’s vigour and care. The wine must be moved from shore to ship and ship to shore. It must be tended while they are at sea, no matter the weather . Then it must travel by wagon until they reach Paris. To ensure the wine arrives safely is no simple challenge. And it will all take money . She fears for the dangers of the voyage and the possibility of failure, but she sees that this is not simply about recognition for their wine, but a reclamation of Jacques-Louis himself, his wish to secure a more certain future for all that they have built here. He can acquire agents for them across Europe. Quill will have an opportunity to see the valleys of Champagne and the grand tradition of which he wishes to be a part. She feels certain he will find a good house that will apprentice him. In a few years, he may return with all manner of skills that will be of value to the vineyard. Washington and Julia Walker tell Caroline that Swanston’ s Derwent Bank is facing straitened circumstances that are much discussed in the town. Another bank has failed, leaving a wake of investors without recourse or return on their invested capital. A number of properties have been foreclosed. Caroline discusses the economic circumstances with Swanst on, who declares in a tone lacking neither bravado nor overt concern that such times will pass. They have excellent merchants working for them in Sydney and Melbourne, he reminds her. Are they not optimistic about the returns from this new vintage? ‘Captain Swanston, my savings have been consumed by the expenses incurred through the early vintages and the costs of increased production. As you well know, I have invested in the expansion of the vineyards, too. If
you will extend to me the capital, I will support this voyage.’ She knows it is a risk, but she has risked much before. ‘Mrs Douglas,’ Swanston says, ‘I cannot. The withdrawal of investors from the colony, this infernal d epression and the convict stain that continues to cripple this island, makes the lending of money unfeasible, even to one such as you. But Van Diemen’ s Land will surmount these challenges, I assure you.’
A note arrives from Doctor Mercer inviting Caroline to accompany him to the upcoming celebration for Captain Swanston’ s birthday . The Governor has been invited to the event, along with Swanston’ s political allies, visiting dignitaries, scientists and explorers currently in Van Diemen’ s Land, and the wealthy landed families who have claimed much of the island. Caroline sends back a short note of acc eptance. George is leaving for school in England in two weeks and Georgiana is to accompany him. They are to stop first in Madras to see Georgiana’s family. The likelihood of Captain Swanston and Georgiana relocating to Geelong after Geor giana returns appears ever more likely . The evening of the birthday party is calm and sultry after a warm day. The moon rises almost full across the Derwent River. In two days, the Hobart regatta is to be held and the harbour is filled with all manner of sailing craft in anticipation of the event. During the afternoon, Caroline receives a delivery . She opens the box to discover a fragrant spray of lily-of-the-valley . Within the box is a note in a familiar hand. So ther e can be dancing , it reads. Caroline wears a dress of emerald watered silk. The floral spray is pinned into her hair with a coronet of pearls, an arrangement Bessie has devised. She also wears the choker of diamonds that she has saved all this time. It is the last of the jewellery stolen in London with Tante Henriette and never before worn. She assures herself that she can explain it away as merely paste, should anyone be too curious. ‘You are a most beautiful woman, Mrs Douglas,’ John Mercer says, when he arrives to collect her. ‘The most beautiful woman I have ever seen.’ He is in a plum frock coat with an embroidered emerald waistcoat, and he looks remarkably handsome.
‘A happy coincidence,’ she says, noting the match of his waistcoat with her dress. ‘It is possible that I bribed Bessie,’ he says.
A stream of carriages continues arriving at New Town Park long into the evening, bearing women and men in all their finery. The drawing room has become a ballroom, the French doors open onto the patio where a string quartet plays. The dining room is laid with a sumptuous buffet. The new sparkling wine is being served along with a red wine Jacques-Louis has only now agreed is ready for drinking, and believes will be wasted on the palates of the partygoers. Naturally , Jacques-Louis is not in attendance. Swanston and Jacques-Louis may be equals when arguing over wine and business, but Captain Swanston would never invite him into Hobart society . They meet with neighbours and friends, and John Mercer introduces Caroline to a number of new acquaintances from the township. ‘You are very popular ,’ she says. ‘They have to like me,’ he says. ‘I know all their rashes and lumps.’ When he asks her to dance, John Mercer does so with a shy expression. Caroline takes his hand and feels the light touch of his fingers through her lace gloves. He leads with ease—reminding her of the savoir faire Jacques- Louis always imparted when he waltzed with Caroline and Augusta. As they dance, Caroline finds she wants to move closer so that there is no distance between them. She wants to breathe in the scent of grass after rain that she catches on his skin. She blushes when he smiles at her . Later, they stroll through the gardens, which are lit with lanterns. Jugglers move amongst the assembly . Fire twirlers toss batons that spin and circle, and there are gasps of delight and eruptions of applause. ‘You have been absent,’ she says. ‘Have you missed me?’ he asks. ‘I have,’ she says. ‘I have been occupied in making a new home,’ John Mercer r eplies. ‘I have taken a place in Sandy Bay, and it is at last painted and furnished. I am hoping that you and Quill might come to dine with me as my first guests. I
have employed a rather terrifying woman, a Mrs Curtain, who is an adequate cook. But perhaps she will rise to the occasion if she knows I am to entertain the intriguing Mrs Douglas.’ Caroline is about to express her agreement when she notices Captain Swanston in conversation with a lean, older man in a broad-brimmed black hat. They are regarding the new archway into the rose garden. It resembles tiny honeyeaters on a flowering vine. A beautiful piece of wrought iron crafted by Cornelius for the occasion. Something about the scene catches her attention. ‘We would be delighted to come,’ Caroline says, returning her attention to the doctor. His luminous eyes are watchful, thoughtful. He misses nothing, she thinks. He must be a good doctor . ‘Do you know the gentleman with Captain Swanston?’ he asks. ‘I believe he is a merchant from San Francisco. There is some discussion of the captain and Charles furthering business interests in that city .’ ‘Ah,’ says Caroline. Captain Swanston has made no mention of such an expedition to her. She knows there is a gold rush that is drawing many to California, but surely it cannot be that. The captain turns and sees them. ‘Doctor Mercer, Mrs Douglas , let me introduce you to Señor Clementi from the Americas. He is visiting Hobart briefly seeking opportunities for trade. Señor Clementi, our dear friends Mrs Douglas and Doctor Mercer .’ Señor Clementi and Caroline stare at one another . ‘A happy reunion for I have met Mrs Douglas before,’ the man says, bowing. ‘We travelled together by ship from New York to Rio de Janeiro some years ago. And now I find her here. What a pleasure, Mrs Douglas, and I see that this antipodean hamlet suits you for you are looking more beautiful than ever .’ Caroline’ s skin crawls. The collector of birds for his own mausoleum. The cockroach. ‘Señor Clementi,’ she says, ‘it is indeed a coincidence.’ ‘I have learned through my travels that the world is a very small place,’ Señor Clementi says with a calculating smile. ‘We are appreciating this beautiful archway that Captain Swanston tells me was created by a local blacksmith.’ ‘He lives here on our property ,’ Swanston says. ‘You are very lucky to have such an artisan in your employ ,’ Clementi says.
‘Oh, he is his own man,’ says Swanston. ‘And much in demand. But truly, this is quite something that you and Mrs Douglas are already acquainted, is it not?’ ‘Yes,’ says Caroline. ‘It is.’ ‘I fear,’ says Doctor Mercer, ‘that I have quite worn Mrs Douglas out with dancing, the night being so very warm. I was insisting on taking her inside for refreshments. Will you excuse us?’ As he leads her away he asks, ‘W as I right to ef fect a rescue?’ ‘You are my saviour ,’ says Caroline. ‘It is unusual,’ says John Mercer , ‘to see you perturbed.’ She wants to laugh it off, but instead she says, ‘Perhaps one day we will discuss it.’ ‘Will you promise?’ he asks. The sudden appearance of Clementi has indeed unsettled her. How long will he be here? What if he were to recognise Quill? Caroline had not considered how her inventions to settle the past might complica te the future in myriad unanticipated ways. She had thought herself safe, but now she is vulnerable. Her family, too. When should she tell John Mercer that the Swanstons’ winemaker is, in fact, her father and, by the way, he is also a murderer? When should she tell him that Quill is a boy she freed from enslavement? When should she speak of the deceit of her widowhood? Guests are continuing to arrive, and soon there are to be fireworks, but she tells John Mercer that she has wearied of the crowd. Quill is to stay tonight at the Swanstons’ with George. Instead of the carriage to return her home, she would much prefer to walk back across the paddock. She has in mind to stop in and visit her father and tell him of the evening before she rests. She wants to ask him what he makes of Doctor Mercer. She wonders how long the roles she and her father have enacted these past years must continue. Until he receives an absolute pardon? Until the Swanstons d epart the island and she must bear no longer the guilt of deceiving them? And this man who is now accompanying her home. What will this good and dear man make of her artifice and lies? He might never trust her again. He might never for give her .
The pathway back to the cottage is easy to follow in the moonlight, and Caroline realises that, with Georgiana and George gone, she will have less reason to walk this way. If Quill does d epart with her father, she will be more alone than she has ever been in this town. The coming months loom with uncertainty . It is a weight on her heart. ‘Might we sit on your verandah for a while?’ John Mercer asks. ‘I would like that. There is cold p eppermint tea in the kitchen. Let me fetch it.’ They settle and take in the moonlight on the fields, the velvet summer sky pierced with stars. Music from the Swanstons’ party drifts through the evening air , accompanied by laughter and chatter . ‘Señor Clementi and his son were collecting birds from across the Americas, thousands of them, many species, to line a tomb he was building for himself. His son was employed as sharp shooter and taxidermist. I was very glad when they both d eparted the ship.’ ‘So not a cheerful fellow ,’ says Doctor Mercer . ‘I think he supposed I would find him attractive.’ ‘And he made that apparent?’ ‘Far too apparent,’ she says. ‘You are a remarkable woman, Mrs Douglas,’ he says. ‘You have travelled the world. You pretend a distance from this vineyard of Swanston’ s, yet I see you are much more in volved than you let on. You maintain an allure for all who know you, and there are many who love and admire you. Yet I come to see that none of this is as easy as it looks for you.’ She inhales. ‘Thank you for allowing me to be your friend,’ he says. ‘I see more and more that it is a rare gift you entrust me with.’ He lifts her gloved hand from the arm of her chair and kisses it. He invites her to rise. He takes both her hands in his and looks down at her
from his elegant height, his face illuminated by the lantern on the table. ‘This may be precipitate, but I find I must speak,’ he says. ‘I fell in love with you, Caroline Douglas, when I first saw you at the Swanstons’ Christmas supper. I could hardly bring myself to leave you behind. There has not been a day I have not thought of you. So many letters I wrote but did not send. I have little to offer you but my heart, dear Caroline. Yet with it, I promise to love you all my days. Do not feel you must speak. I ask only that we might walk your vineyard and share books and speak of all that fills you with joy and concern. And if, in time, you might come to love me, then I will be the most fortunate man in the world.’ She st eps into his arms. A single word occurs to her as she feels his chest beneath her cheek. Home. She wants to kiss him. She wants with all her heart to say she will spend all her days with him. But she st eps back. ‘And you would not mind an old widow?’ ‘I cannot imagine a better proposition.’ ‘And if I were not a widow?’ she dares. He regards her . ‘Not a widow?’ ‘You may not like what you must hear , dear John.’ ‘Caroline,’ he says, ‘I am ready to hear it all. I am not easily frightened. Or dissuaded.’ ‘Will you come tomorrow?’ she asks. ‘At dawn?’ he r eplies. She smiles. ‘Early evening. Let us take a long walk.’ ‘Of course,’ he says. They stare at each other for a moment before his lips meet hers, and she finds his mouth as beautiful and enticing as she had imagined. When they part, it is as if she has drawn herself back from the edge of bliss. An owl calls boobook , boobook . The moon is running fast now before a mass of clouds building over the mountain. She must speak to her father. They must discuss how to navigate this new part of life. How will she ever unravel all her secrets? She sits on the verandah for some time waiting for her heart and her thoughts to settle.
In her bedroom, after removing the evening’ s finery, she dons a shift and a warm shawl. She slips from the house and walks towards the barn, seeing sparks rising from the chimney . Perhaps they are there togethe r, Cornelius and her father. Perhaps she will seek guidance from both of them. But as she puts her hand upon the door, she hears an unfamiliar voice. She peeks through a gap in the timber to see Señor Clementi. His hat and tailcoat are discarded and he has rolled his shirtsleeves to the elbows. He is tending something in the forge with deliberate focus. The red hue of the fire illuminates the implements hanging on the long arm above him, swinging innocently in the rising heat. Cornelius is stripped to the waist and bound to a chair. A wound se eps from his head. Blood is running down the side of his face. Clementi’ s voice is a dark undercurrent in the dim-lit scene. ‘Did you think I would ever stop looking?’ Clementi says. ‘You carry my mark. Right there.’ He points to the crescent moon branded long ago on Cornelius’ s upper arm. ‘Need I remind you that your life belongs to me?’ ‘We are old men,’ Cornelius r eplies, his voice soft and weary, as if he has ebbed away and only a husk remains. ‘I searched for you for weeks,’ Clementi says. Cornelius says nothing. ‘You were the only one to ever es cape me.’ ‘Not true,’ says Cornelius. ‘There are the dead.’ ‘What is death to a slave?’ Clementi spits back. ‘The dead are merely the weak. Their deaths were at my pleasure.’ Can it be true? Clementi is not simply a ghost from her past, but Cornelius’ s, too? Can he be El Diablo, the slaver Cornelius had es caped in Panama? Yes, she can believe savagery lives beneath the veneer of Clementi’ s civility. But how has he found Cornelius? Then she realises. He had recognised his craft in the archway in the Swanstons’ garden.
‘You have made things of such beauty,’ Caroline remembers saying to Cornelius one evening by the forge. ‘Your gate at the cottage is one of the things I admired when I first discovered this place.’ ‘I made that for Mr Broughton,’ he said. ‘A gift for his thirtieth birthday .’ ‘You are an artist, Cornelius.’ ‘Ah, Mrs Caroline,’ he said to her. ‘A gate like that almost cost me my life.’ And he had told her of the wedding present, the gate of roses he had wrought and all that had ensued until he reached the Pacific Ocean. A blacksmith wielding metal, fire, water and air conjures the tools of farming, seafaring, industry and domesticity . He shapes trivets and toasting forks, kettle pourers and cutlery. He can summon from fragments ornate tongs to lift a single coal to light a gentleman’ s scrimshaw pipe. He moulds horseshoes, bridle bits and harnesses, chains and iron anchors that demand the patience of hours. Pieces so heavy that wooden cranes are required to lift them to the anvil. He can make axes, files and arrow heads, nails, clips and pins, and all manner of blade, scissors and knives. The knife Clementi has been holding to the fire is now red-hot. ‘We are indeed old men, so I will go slowly, gently,’ he says to Cornelius. Caroline’ s thoughts fly to her father. He will be in his loft but she cannot risk his interven tion, his in volvement in any scene that might cause him to be sent back to prison. Should she run to the Swanstons’ and seek help? But the party deters her. The distant cacophony of merriment is in eerie contrast to the scene within the barn. She inhales de eply, and wrenches back the door. As she st eps inside she feels as if she is entering a dream. ‘How dare you!’ she says. ‘Y ou will free him.’ ‘Señora Douglas,’ Clementi says, and crossing the floor with alarming speed, he has her pinned, the blade at her throat, terrifyingly hot. ‘Get off me,’ she spits. Clementi laughs. ‘Do not scream, Mrs Douglas, or I might be forced to cut out your tongue.’ He is moving her towards the workbench. There she sees a length of chain, a hammer . She struggles. He turns her to face him, then he slams his fist into her stomach with all his might. She gasps and collapses. She cannot
breathe. Blackness and pain are overwhelming her. He is stuffing her mouth with cloth. It tastes of ash and grime. She is on her knees, choking. She thinks she will suffocate. He is shackling her arms behind her. There is grit in her mouth. She wills herself to calm, to breathe, to lift her head and face him. ‘It is kind of you to join us,’ he says casually , hauling her to sit on a wooden crate, resuming his stance at the forge and reheating the knife. ‘I have always liked an audience. But if you move, I will remove your tongue. Or perhaps an eye. Do not doubt me. Beauty is fleeting, Mrs Douglas, especially in a woman.’ He approaches Cornelius, pressing the hot tip of the knife into his chest. A hiss erupts from Cornelius’ s skin. He flinches and trembles, making no sound. Clementi begins to carve. He does it with ease, as if the act of drawing a hot blade through flesh is familiar . ‘Such a beautifu l flower, the rose,’ he says. ‘I have travelled the globe and never smelled a more beautiful fragrance. Not in the night scents of the Amazon nor the frangipani in Otaheite. ‘You know, don’t you,’ he goes on, ‘that you were ever coming back to me. Who can say that we do not do this dance again and again, life after life, you and me? You the black man, I the white. You the slave and I the master. When we are finished here, we will return to the waterfront where my ship will d epart in the morning. It is your destiny, Cornelius. You know it and I know it. You are my property. None here in this little England will dare challenge it.’ The petals curve into an opening bud across the breastbone. Blood is we eping from the wounds. Cornelius’ s head has dropped back. His breathing is ragged. Caroline sees that a single tear is running from his eye into his hair . Clementi works the stem of the flower, running it down the centre of Cornelius’ s rib cage, finishing with a single leaf. Then he takes ash from the firebox and smears it across the wounds, the scourge of the rose now marked with lines of black. ‘Yes,’ he says, st epping back to admire his handiwork. ‘But what shall we do with you, Mrs Douglas? ’ He takes her face in his hand, his fingers hard. ‘What shall we conceive in this world of possibilities?’ She senses movement before she sees it. Jacques-Louis is upon him, a hammer coming down hard upon the side of Clementi’ s head, knocking him
sidewards, where he falls at her feet, motionless. Jacques-Louis removes the cloth from Caroline’ s mouth and unties her hands. He picks up the knife and slices through the bonds that hold Cornelius. Then he helps Cornelius to his feet. They all turn to Clementi. Jacques-Louis hauls him into the chair where Cornelius had been bound. Clementi’s eyes roll open and he struggles, but Jacques-Louis restrains him. ‘He is mine,’ Clementi’ s voice rasps. Jacques-Louis of fers Cornelius the knife. ‘He is yours,’ he says.
When the Spaniard fails to return to the ship, the captain dispatches a man to investigate Señor Clementi’ s accommodation at a nearby public house. There the sailor discovers the bed neatly made and all personal possessions removed. It is said he appeared briefly before dawn to gather his belongings, the cook the only witness to his d eparture. ‘He wore his hat,’ she said. ‘A shade, really , that man, by day or night.’ No words had been exchanged, but he had left money by the bed to settle his bill, with a small surplus. It was assumed he had returned to the ship. Enquiries are made at the Swanstons’. Interviews yielded few answers. Señor Clementi’ s d eparture had gone unremarked amidst the festivities. There had been so many guests. However , a group returning home from New Town Park were passed in their carriage by a lone rider moving at a swift canter long after midnight, a silhouette heading for the harbour wearing a distinctive hat. Clementi’ s disappearance leaves behind a trail of intrigue and speculation. Georgiana suggests a reward be offered. The story occupies a few lines in the Hobart Town Gazette , but then it evaporates. There has been another drop in the price of wool and more farms are foreclosing. Beyond the colony’ s economic woes, the annual regatta has been held and the fashions and the sailing races must be r eported and reviewed. The weekly list of visitors to Government House is published. A r eport from the Royal Society is discussed and an extract from a new book by Charles Dickens is attracting interest in literary circles. Mrs Georgiana Swanston and her son George d epart for England by way of Madras, while Captain Swanston, it is r eported, is travelling to San Francisco with his son Charles to secure investments for the colony .
The first snowfall settles on the rugged slopes of Mount Wellington, and Caroline, Jacques-Louis and Quill leave for the harbour . As the moment of d eparture nears, each finds themselves at a loss for words. They travel in silence, each breath a misty exhalation. A cloudless dawn of fuchsia pink and thistle mauve is se eping into the sky as the phaeton tops New Town hill and they look down upon the river, as calm as silvered silk, the docks filled with vessels at anchor and some already underway . At the waterfron t they navigate workers and wagons. Horses stamp on the bitter cobblestones, and drivers and sailors breathe into their hands for warmth. The briny tang of seaweed meets the mutterings and misgivings of the corralled she ep and cattle mingling with the scent of new-milled timber and steaming dung. Underneat h it all, water slaps against the wooden bollards as gangplanks rumble with barrows laden with supplies, workers coming and going as car go is stowed below decks. One ship flies a French flag, a barque of some two hundred and ninety tons. It is a research vessel called the Madeleine. In its hold lies a cargo of wine bound for France. It had been taken aboard the day before, each bottle placed carefully by Jacques-Louis and Quill into gimballed racks fitted to the ship’s interior and lined with felted wool to encase the bottles, reducing movement and vibration. At the stern of the barque, Jacques-Louis and Quill wave farewell. Jacques-Louis does not have his absolute pardon, for Swanston d eparted for San Francisco before it was issued. They were assured it would come, but it did not. Only when Swanston was crossing the Pacific was it discovered that the affairs of the Derwent Bank were in a state of derangement. Captain Swanston, the press declared, was more than one hundred thousand pounds in debt. Almost sixty thousand pounds of this he owed to the Derwent Bank —or, more correctly , its investors. The Colonial T imes r eported:
Sufferers had not knowingly , or with their consent, embarked their property in any commercial speculation. Neither had they entrusted the use or care of it to one whom they expected to use it for such a purpose. The man through whom their property is sacrificed employed it for his own benefit and aggrandisement, and that of his relatives, or other associates, in speculation from which, even if successful, investors could have derived no profit. Countless people, small landholders and large, were plummeted into a world of uncertainty . Creditors demanded their money. Properties were being r epossessed. Caroline discovered that many purchases for the vineyard ordered by Swanston—a number of which she did not recall—had languished unpaid. The sums were significant, and Swanston had ensured all the invoices bore her name. She reflected on the birthday party, the gardens lit with lanterns, the musicians and fire twirlers, jugglers and actors, food, wine and fireworks. Had it been the act of a man ever certain, despite all indications to the contrary , that the world must right itself in his favour? A last attempt to attract investors? Or a wilfully grandiose farewell? However it had been conceived, the night had been a reckoning. And then word came that Captain Swanston had died on his return voyage from San Francisco and been buried at sea. There was much speculation about his death, but if it had been a ruse to avoid his debts, it succeeded, for he was never seen again. Caroline had not wished to trouble Jacques-Louis with her financial predicament, but he knew enough of Swanston to suspect it. ‘This voyage is more than a little wine seeking glory, is it not?’ he asked. ‘You do not need to rescue me, Papa. We will be all right.’ ‘Do you owe very much?’ She nodded. Then she had given him the jewellery box that contained the diamond choker. ‘You must sell this in Paris, Papa. Get the best price you can. It will fund your time abroad and help Quill to establish himself. Whatever remains when you return will assist me with the debts.’ She raises her hand and waves again as the Madeleine is towed out into the river, crossing the harbour until the vessel’s sails fill in the light breeze
and the figures of Quill and her father disappear into the distance. It may be months before news of their voyage reaches her. They have promised to send her letters when they arrive in Batavia, Ceylon and Paris. The day before, Caroline and Quill had walked amongst the winter bones of the young trees in the Botanical Gardens. There had been frost in the fields, the grass damp and green. They had talked of how it would look in a hundred years, the trees above the entrance way, the ponds stocked with lilies, the slope of pastoral land to the river filled with garden beds and pathways. They had spoken of his anticipation of being once more aboard a ship. She confessed her worries that he would find himself awoken by new sights, places and peoples, his perspective growing so large that all that was here would be diminished, a strange passage of his life to which he might find it hard to return. That the distance between them would grow too vast and the ties that bound them would fray and fade with the passage of time. She wanted him to know that he was free to do whatever he must, but she was afraid that she might lose him. He was so much taller than her now, a young man. He had taken her hands and said, ‘It is with a heavy heart I leave you, my real mother. My dearest mother. I will never forget you or abandon you. I will always come back to you.’ Mother. A word bestowed after all these years. She held him tight. ‘Darling Quill,’ she said. ‘Yes, I am your mother and you are my beautiful, most precious son.’ If fortune smiled on them, by the time spring returned Quill and Jacques-Louis would be enjoying the late Parisian summer , their precious cargo delivered. A boy who had once dreamed of becoming a winemaker returning to his homeland with a shipment of rare champagne . And a lad who had forsaken the sea now set to pursue a career in the fields of France. When she returns to Everlea, Cornelius is there to meet her and take the phaeton away. She stands on the verandah looking out across the valley to the river. What will be the consequence of Swanston’ s fall? There is word that New Town Park is to be sold. She does not know if she can continue the enterprise of the vineyard alone. She does not know how the outstanding bills Swanston has left will be paid. She may be forced to sell, too.
But if the wine does well in Paris, if they secure agents and orders across Europe, if the diamond choker finds a good price, then perhaps it will be sufficient, and she can somehow find credit until the orders are dispatched and paid. Her father must succeed. John Mercer emerges from within the cottage. He wraps his arms around her waist and holds her close to him and together they regard the view. ‘What if he does not come back?’ she whispers. ‘Your father?’ ‘Yes.’ ‘He will come back,’ he says. A storm comes through in the night. John Mercer holds Caroline close. She’d had no idea the pleasures of the skin could be so tender and enlivening. Why had no one told her that this was marriage? They had made love for hours. Now she is waylaid on the tide of dawn, navigated and explored, dissembled and reinvented, cocooned in the content ment of her body. When she wakes again, light is slipping between the curtains, dazzling her. She closes her eyes and bathes in it. John’s breath is soft, his face so dear as he sle eps beside her. How was it possible to love like this? His skin, his mouth, his voice, his laughter , his words and deeds, his kindness. She had never imagined this commu nion, this confession, this union that is both altar and salvation.