Chapter 1+

 

 

 

 

 

December 31st, 1878.

 

Just before mid-night. A lump of coal had been put in his hand as he was pushed outside the main door of the castle. As he understood it, this was a custom and this night there could be no-one more dark than he. The night as cold as any James had known in his far away desert home. It was a different kind of cold; one of the many differences he had experienced in the recent months. His senses were overwhelmed by the events of this evening and he welcomed the moment of silence to gather his thoughts, reflect to remember, to later remember and attempt to understand. The noise from inside had paused, burst into a round of cheers then subsided to a hub-hub as he reached out to the bell-pull. Before he could tug the knob, a hand closed over his wrist. He froze. He had neither heard nor sensed the presence of another. The two men slowly faced each other. James saw the man was dark-haired and although many shades lighter than himself, his skin was darker than the majority of those beyond the castle door. In his left hand was a lump of coal. With his right, the man flicked  his neckerchief so that the ends were no longer tucked within his shirt but dangled out and blew in the breeze. He extended his right hand, saying "Peter." James stood uncertainly caught between two customs. His custom was to maintain an absence of touch except with intimate recognition among friends. Was it rude not to accept the hand of this stranger? No sooner was the thought thought but he felt an instant flash of knowing that this Peter was a spirit akin to his own. "James," he responded. Peter thrust the lump in his hand into James right hand then clapped James around the shoulder, telling him those inside would be waiting for the bringer of good luck. Peter disappeared into the darkness. James pulled the knob and heard the bell clang indoors.

With the door flung open, James came face to face with Her Grace. In welcoming him inside, Vanora noted the second lump of coal and felt a stab of desire as she realised that Peter had kept their tryst. Before closing the door against the chill of the night she looked into the darkness, facing the path to the parterre, closed her eyes and, taking a deep breath, returned to her duty as the evening's hostess.

James stood aside from the dancers in the Great Hall. It was like nothing he had ever seen. Men and women touching each other as they danced changing partners in the doing of the steps. Hand to hand, hand on waist, hand on shoulders. First as one couple in a group of four, then as another couple as partners changed until returning to the original pairing as women moved in one direction and the men in its opposite. What kind of people were these? To so openly advertise their intimacy, their infidelities as they danced to celebrate what they called "A New Year."

Peter entered the maze-like parterre at its most north-western opening. Squares within squares. Diamonds within diamonds. Triangles within triangles. Twelve straight paths, thirty-three resting stages, the parterre appeared both simple and complex with gradually grown and regularly trimmed yews forming walls screening nearly all but the highest of heads. Of average height, Peter settled on the first of the stone benches near which he had earlier placed a brazier containing coals taken from his grandmother's campfire earlier that evening.  If only he knew how long he had to wait on Vanora's arrival.

Douglas watched his wife slip away from the gathering. This was the one night of the year from which there would be no recriminations. The one night of licence. He knew she played her part in the seduction of the first footer as he would play his part in the taking later of the young scullery maid. Whatever happened, happened. But this year with a difference. Douglas, having heard that his heir, Edward, was playing cricket against a visiting team of aboriginals from the colonies, had instructed Edward to invite one home for the Hogmanay celebration. How much more dark can a dark man be? With any luck, she would become pregnant and provide Douglas with incontrovertible evidence of the adultery should he ever need to gain both a divorce and retain her wealth.  For wealth she would surely have on the death of her father. Well met in Italy, with her father taking her to his home country to introduce Vanora to her extended family and to display to them the wealth he had acquired in Britain, and Douglas on a continental tour, passing time as a younger son. Aged twelve years, Vanora was of an age to marry in Italy in 1852. Later that year she gave birth to the ducal heir, Edward. Things changed. Cascading calamities. Douglas' second oldest brother, a commissioned officer in the British Army killed in the Crimea. The oldest brother, sent to India to oversee a family investment in the British East India Company, succumbed to infection. Douglas, no longer a spare, became the heir. Then the death of his father which revealed the inherent poverty of the estate. It was Douglas who held the title, but Pietro, Vanora's father who held the purse-strings. A metal-worker who had founded a factory manufacturing brass buttons for the British, Pietro became more wealthy by the year as the Empire expanded. Until the death of his father-in-law, Douglas would only receive the annual income allowed by her father to Vanora instead of a dowry expressed in a lump sum. The amount had been carefully calculated by Pietro such as to provide his beloved daughter with protection and comfort within the castle within which she now resided. Should Douglas, for any reason other than adultery, put Vanora aside then he would be obliged to return her dowry. Now, here in 1878, Vanora was two years away from forty. No longer the young, innocent girl who so excited his desire both for her body and to provide her with his protection, Douglas ached for the opportunity to exercise himself on younger, firmer flesh. At this stage of the evening, Vanora would well and truly be elsewhere with the first-footer. Best of luck to them, thought Douglas as he made his way to the kitchen and thence to the scullery.

Black as the night and hidden in the moon cast shadow of the castle wall, James watched Vanora lift the hems of her skirts to better speed her way across the lawn to disappear within the regimented shape of the parterre. Manners required that not only would he look in another direction but that he would turn his mind to something other. Turning away, he crossed the path leading to the front door and followed the wall around to the right. Rising ground, unfamiliar trees and shrubs to his left as eventually he arrived at the rear of the building. A door stood part open and in its less dark shadows, he saw the movement of Douglas' thrusting against raised skirts held against the wall. James hastened away from the castle, over a small rise and down a gentle slope to a well-worn path. In the distance he could see as much as feel the warmth of an ember rich camp-fire. Something familiar in this strange land on this even more strange evening.

Andrea was unresisting. Some summers past, Lord Edward and his London friends used her for their sport, tearing into her in all manner of ways her mind refused to admit. With shut eyes she thought of this earlier experience which had taught her the futility of resistance. Cowed now into acceptance without murmur, she pictured herself as a captive hen squatting down in expectation of a repeat of past experience. To her surprise, she began to relax against the gentle but firm thrusting of His Grace and thought it possible the activity could be even enjoyable. When he was done, she shook herself as if to smooth out feathers and walked out the door some lingering minutes behind James on his journey into an unknown.

 Jorie sensed the presence of the stranger before she saw him in the shadows. In the brief moment that her eyes were closed she had a short glimpse of a lion's head before noting the sticks in his hand, one curved, the other short and straight. Eyes open, she looked toward where he stood in the darkness, clearly waiting an invitation to approach the camp-fire. Clearly, she thought, a warrior in his own country. Dressed now like castle folk, she could almost feel the wriggling of his toes as he ached to rid his feet of the polished shoes he wore for this night. Picking up the stick which lay across her lap, she tapped the ground next to her and as clearly as if she spoke, James understood the invitation. Side by side, they stared into the embers at tiny flames dancing in a breeze so slight as if the night were gently breathing. Looking down, each in turn cast a sideways look at the other, eyes never quite catching. Campfire communion. Question. Answer. Same as Us. Question. Answer. Same as Us. Question. Answer. Same as Us. Shshss. Secret Business. On birth, naming, marriage, death, families. There is the Here and the Now and that place we all go to in Dreaming. From the Dreaming we wake with all we need to live right in the Here and Now. Jorie wrapped her hand around the log which had burned away from the centre of the fire. In moving it into the remaining embers, her sleeve rode over her lower arm revealing a silver bracelet. By now, James was not surprised to recognise the serpents twined around her wrist and each other. Jorie spoke of her people. Outcast in a time beyond memory. Land taken, homes razed. Each scored above the breath, a scar across the bridge of the nose to identify them as pariahs and thus made unwelcome wherever they were across this country. How adversity brought them together, melded, welded them into a separate people, perversely proud of their heritage and digging deep into their dreams for guidance as they created customs, created boundaries, created their own myths. They were the tinkers and tailors, soldiers and sailors, they had rich men, poor men and yes, they had beggars and thieves. They are the People. Some, such as a brother's son, were far across the water, even as far as James' country. They call it the Swan River Colony. James had heard of these young people, the Parkhurst apprentices, and had met some working as slaves on white man's farms. It would be too much of a co-incidence, thought Jorie, for this dark man to have met her nephew, Arnold. She told him how Arnold had sent her a bundle of dried plants from the colony. Her experiments led to the production of an unusual shade of green, not before seen in this country. She had incorporated this discovery into the dyes used to colour the fine wools from this estate. The success of this shade of cloth, woven from wool dyed and spun by Jorie and her family had secured the niche they occupied on this land. How the laws had made it necessary to find a place they could rightfully stay rather than risk trespass as they moved camp. Their skills, her knowledge and the knack of being at the right place at the right time provided a tenancy based on tolerance.

 

 

Their silence was broken by the faint sounds of Andrea skirting the fire and crawling into the dark space created by layers of blankets laid over saplings bent and tied to form a dome. Jorie sniffed the air and sighed. The mood was broken. From the blackened pot at the edge of the fire Jorie scooped some liquid into a tin mug, took a sip and handed it to James. Strong, dark and very bitter. James put the mug on the ground. He held his left hand out, palm upwards. Jorie laid hers over his. In that instant, each saw the dark road ahead. James rose and melted back into the woods before he fput his feet on the path which would return him to the castle. Peter heard the weeping on his way to the Drosce camp where he knew his grandmother would be waiting by a dying fire until all were returned. But the weeping was but counterpoint to his descent from ecstasy. It had been a long night, but a night which would live to refresh his spirit for all time.

 

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

September, 1879

 

Long, lithe and laconic is that which Douglas, Duke of Jamberlyne considered others would see him. To which he would now add, learning the lessons of lust. He was in an ‘ellish mood. Around midnight, Vanora, his wife had him woken with the news her labour had started. Banished from the household, he rode out into the duck egg blue of early morning light. Now out of the saddle, he sits on dew with his back against a tree planted by his great-grandfather. Douglas considers the day. He had married Vanora for her good sense and sturdy health as well as the money she represented.  She would, undoubtedly, sail through this delivery with her usual vocalisation of pain leaving none within hearing of any doubt of the depths of her toil. He had long ago accepted that her yelling and uncharacteristic cursing was her way through her torment. Once it was over, it was over and forgotten - until the next time. This time he was mindful of the possibility of difference. Should the child prove not to be his, then the time would be ripe for a re-evaluation of the terms of their relationship.

Douglas remounts and canters down to the farm rented to Henry Scrimpton these nineteen years past. The lease will soon be due for renewal. Henry was a good, solid farmer open to suggestion from Douglas. Together they have continued to transform the farm from grain to raising sheep; producing wool of the finest texture in the county, in the country and, who would dispute his belief, in the world.

It was never far from his mind that seven successive famines of the previous century were even more effective than the Black Death in reducing the population generally, and the availability of labour in particular. For those who had not been starved either to death or off the land, there was work aplenty. New jobs, different jobs but for the first time most people had a real choice in employment. That is, unless one was born into a position and expected to fulfil such duties. As was Douglas after his brothers were lost to deaths overseas. The way the tale was told had one brother gallantly, valiantly charging his way into that valley of death. What good could come from the telling of the truth of it, that his brother had died in a field hospital made squalid by the stench of fevered sweat, vomit and liquid bowels? However they died, they were both dead and Douglas had been catapulted into the title and responsibility of the ducal estate without the preparation given by his father to his elder brothers.  Whatever he did, Douglas did thoroughly. Finding the facts of his brothers’ deaths exemplified his need to touch on, to feel something which to him had a solid ring of truth about it. He found no comfort in self-deception. One visit and he knew that the House of Lords was not for him. The parleying and the politicking gave him no pleasure. His great pleasure lay before him. Successful farming. Caring for the land and the people it supported. Let the rest of the world care for itself. 

The dew had dried. The sun now higher in the sky. Had he been asleep or had his mind so drifted away as not to notice the day’s advance?  He saw the smoke rise from the kitchen chimney of the house below. Henry’s widowed sister Claire Nagel shared the farmhouse. Fresh baking would  be in the oven. He could almost taste it.

 

* * *

 

Her back is aching. A dragging, dragging pain.Taking her hands off the wall, Vanora leans back and runs the back of both hands, now gripped into fists, down her back. Did Douglas send for Jorie? Where is she? Vanora grips her hands, fingers tucked into palms, fingernails digging in. Pain tightens a band about her rock hard belly. She paces her way along the walls of this special room. It was in here that her children were born. The castle had more rooms than ever they used daily. This room is small, scrubbed clean, a table, a cradle and a birthing chair sat not far from the empty fireplace. It was a compromise between the comfort Vanora had come to expect and the demands of the ancient crone, Jorie, who had expressed disgust at the birth of a child in anything lower than God's ceiling.  Vanora was not yet screaming. The pain was still contained within her body.

 

 

* * *

 

Jorie stirred the embers of the camp's fire. Tossing some dried leaves and a handful of twigs onto a tiny glow, she breathed upon it. Daylight had found her still sleeping, not yet awake within her dream. Thirst. Thirst. Her dry tongue called out for the tisane kept in its own wee kettle at the edge of the fire. Luke warm, but wet she took a mouthful from her mug, swilling the herbs over her remaining teeth then swallowed. Thirst remained, but now is is curiosity which takes over. The dream had hovered between the cottage constructs of her dream world and the strong knowledge that today would be a day from which there would be no turning back. In her dreaming world, she was rocking in a chair, surrounded by grandchildren with the newest of them all in her arms. The strong knowledge was that the master was his usual self, but that today she, Jorie, would come out of the shadows into his light. She arched her neck and ran her left hand firmly round the back of her head. Standing, she felt a dragging pain down her back. The time had come. For someone. Andrea was away in London. It must be the mistress. From within her shelter, she opened a small bundle and selected a headscarf. A headscarf used on special occasions. Now dressed and shod for the day, she picked up the spindle and a handful of washed fleece and took the path through the woods and up to the castle, her hands busy as she walked. Hands busy and feet set on the well worn and familar path, Jorie allowed her mind to wander then focus on the fleeted vision in front of her eyes. She knew it pictured a scene not of this country. Her only visits were in dreams and  her thoughts in mind, were with Arnold, a wayward nephew long since sent to the Swan River colony on the other side of the world. A Parkhurst apprentice transported for offences as a boy, now grown and not able to return. But never far from her thoughts. Indeed, she owes much to him. Aware of her skills with plants and herbs, he had sent and continues to send a parcel of leaves from that far and strange place. Extracting a dye, unique in this country, she had made herself invaluable to the master. The cloth spun from wools dyed in her secret concoction was highly regarded, sought after for the rarity of colour.  (insert IM001201.jpg from Dimboola Download). Indeed, were it not for the secrets she held they would have been moved on long ago, leaving them vulnerable to being jailed for trespass. As it was, their family group had, over the years, made themselves sufficiently useful on the estate to be tolerated. As now, with her Ladyship near her time.

 

* * *

 

Seeing Douglas ride up to their farmhouse gateway, Clare set out another cup on the kitchen table. Just like him. Mild resentment at his behaviour smothered by his Lordship being the landlord of the farmhouse occupied by her brother, Henry, and herself. Of course, he had the right to enter and inspect the farm at whatever time he chose. She shook her head at what she saw was his convenient knack of arriving when the bread was out of the oven. She wondered whether he had eaten this morning. If it were put before him, he could hardly refuse. She added some sausage and rashers of bacon to the frying pan. Whatever had brought him here at breakfast time? Or driven him away from his own table? Ah. Vanora. The baby. Another mild wave of resentment. Whyever Vanora preferred to have that old crone with her at a time like that is a mystery. Not that she, Clare, had ever given birth, her personal cross to bear, but to let that old woman - Clare shuddered at the thought. In the back of her mind, and that is where she intended it to stay, is the knowing that the old woman was somehow related to them, but Clare had forgotten and did not recall the naming pattern which would spell out their relationship. Enough that she and Henry had the shelter of a proper roof over their heads. It was worth the price they paid, the turning back and turning away from the Drosce.

Douglas settled down to the full breakfast Clare had set before him. Having eaten, he discussed the farm at length. Anything to pass time. Fatherhood itself was neither new nor exciting, although this birth had the potential to change a thing or two. If the child is a darkie, then Douglas has all the proof needed to set Vanora aside and retain the financial benefit brought into their marriage.

 

 

* * *

 

Vanora leant back, eyes closed and rested while Jorie does whatever it is that Jorie does after each birth. Vanora was beyond caring no that it was over. The best thing that can be said about the process of giving birth is that it is so very easily forgotten. She smiles with the feeling that the relief has washed away all traces of pain from her memory. She knows that any thought will only be a memory of a memory, each fading in time and glad for it. Opening her eyes in readiness to close them again and enjoy a deep sleep, Vanora watches Jorie wipe the child clean, wrap him, yes, him in a shawl and bring him to her for the holding as she falls into a river of recuperation, waters washing over her as her spirit moves away from the turbulent river, upstream to where the water is clear and ankle deep. By the time she reaches the well spring, Vanora has fallen into the deep sleep of the kind only known in the realm of the totally relaxed and undisturbed space from which has been expelled all but the newness of life. This sleep, and the quality of this sleep, is both compensation and preparation.

In the brief time between the boy's birth and the expulsion of the placenta, Jorie had wiped the child with a clean cloth, extracted from the warmth of her bosom a green shawl, wrapping this around the boy as she whispered a name in his ear. She recognised this child. Had she not seen the same features as Peter at his birth? She did not question the whys and the wherefores but accepted and named the child as one of the tribe. Standing on a chair, raising him high, taking him to the eastern window to meet the day, Jorie then laid him in his mother's arms. Vanora's eyes had dwelt upon the child with joy then closed for a deep sleep. Jorie lifted the child from his mother's arms and laid him in the near-by cradle. Then she set about cleaning up the aftermath of the birth. Vanora had ignored the birthing chair. She chose, instead, to kneel on the floor above layers of straw and old cloth. Jorie gathered all for the burning. The bed was clean, the floor was clean, mother and child slept. Jorie could now get on with her day, hugging her knowledge to herself. Then thought upon His Lordship. May he only see as much truth as he can bear. Jorie took the bundle of waste into the courtyard where she had previously prepared a fire. Setting it alight and seeing that it caught, billowing smoke, she returned upstairs to cast a glimpse on Her Ladyship and the child. Both slept the sleep of the innocent.

Douglas saw the smoke on his return to the castle. Relief. It was over. Soon the truth would be known. As he climbed the stairs to the upper level, he more particularly than usual looked at the portraits lining the walls on his ascent. Men of the same mould. Generation upon generation. The door stood ajar. Looking into the room his eyes fixed on Jorie's profile. He froze. His father, his grandfather. Which? Unmistakeable. He shook his head, first in disbelief, then to bring himself to the moment. This being the first time of the day they had set eyes on each other, Jorie gave a quick, respectful greeting that was in no way subservient. For the first time, Douglas considered that her claim to his respect was based not, or not only, on age but also on breeding. It gave him pause. Releasing his breath, he moved to the bedside. Even sleeping, Vanora looked refreshed and years younger. He looked into the cradle, glancing over the green shade of the shawl swaddling the child and saw the pinkness of the face and the colour and texture of Vanora's hair. The face was pink, the hair was straight. His child. In part proud, in part resigned to the loss of his hoped for freedom from want, Douglas nodded his dismissal as Jorie left the room.

 

 

* * *

 

At first, walking the return to the camp Jorie mused on how coming home always seemed to pass more quickly than the departing. Thinking of the departing and the presently departed, she slowed her steps then stopped. This one safe into the world for now. And the other? Andrea must surely be close to her time. Jorie recalled the day she realised Andrea was with child. Since the girl had become a woman, the two of them separated themselves from the menfolk for the duration. They did not sleep under the same cover, touch the same items nor cook andshare their food with the men. It was the one time in the month that the women had some respite from the daily chores and demands of their menfolk, be they husband, father, brother or son or the husbands, brothers or sons of their sisters. Some might say it was the time of the curse. For Jorie, it was a blessing. Until the day she failed to detect the odour which was due to come from Andrea. To spare the family shame, Jorie arranged that Peter take Andrea to London for the while. Peter had travelled the whole country, Scotland, England and Wales in his years of building stone bridges. London had no fears for him, in fact he was likely to find work and stay until he had a need to leave. For Andrea, this was her first excursion out of Scotland. The reason for her visit was not, however, unusual. Across each country, the Drosce sent every unmarried girl with child to stay with distant cousins. For the first time anyway. Anyone and everyone was entitled to make one mistake and that one mistake would be forgiven and forgotten. It was regarded as experience, but one not to be repeated for anyone who does not learn from their experience is unable to be taught quickly enough to survive. Jorie could only hope that Andrea had learned her lesson well. At that thought, it entered her head to ask herself, just what lesson was she expecting andrea to learn? She had learned early to say "No." So the only person the child could not withstand would be someone of great stature in her eyes. Jorie had the sinking feeling of history repeating itself as she, as a baby, had been brought back to Scotland and introduced as an orphan child, adopted by her grandparents.

 

* * *

 

October, 1879

 

Andrea found no pleasure in giving birth. She recalled it as a nasty, horrid experience among strangers. Her London cousins had called in a strange midwife when things dragged on for so long. Even when the ordeal was over, she was fussed over by too many too much. She had not been left alone. She had not held the baby soon after the birth and by the time he was offered to her for the holding, she was beyond caring just as if he belonged to an unwelcome stranger. Put simply. She did not take to him. But she knew him to be her responsibility. But London. That was different. Something about London resonated within - a music for her spirit, her body. Even the odours were as a range of sound or colour which played music with her senses. London brought her alive as she had never felt before. Once, out flower selling with a Cockney cousin, Andrea recognised the Lord Edward among a group of young men, as beautifully dressed as himself. She thought that were she to stay by Charing Cross she could let the world come to her in London. While strong and healthy herself, she knew London not to be the best place for babies. While the Jamberlyne estate may not be for her, she had to grant that it had been a healthy place in which to grow. She could give the child that, if nothing else. She returned north.

Jorie was pleased to see Andrea and that Andrea was well. she was less pleased to see the baby. On the night of her arrival, the two women sat in the open by a small fire. They were, in the main, silent. In that silence the lid was lifted on the emotions firmly kept below the surface. Each taking a look at the feelings which surfaced  looked inwards to the visions created by their senses. With few words there was agreement, but first to sleep and dream on it.

It was scarcely light when Andrea crept, barefooted from the camp holding the baby within a lambswool shawl. She made her way to the Scrimpton's farmhouse. There was a frost beneath her feet. She laid the child on the doorstep then hurried away, through a gap to the shelter of a stone wall. She crouched and waited.

From the wooded hill, Douglas viewed the scene before him. He could see the girl, the one who used to help in the castle, crouching by the wall. Her red clothes bright against the grey stone and the whitened grass with its hoar frost. He wondered why. What had brought her here at such an hour? He heard a cry as the baby woke and continued bawling. He saw the light of a candle lit indoors and Clare's opening the door, seeing the bundle on the doorstep, watching her looking around before picking up the child, going inside and closing the door behind her. As soon as the farmhouse door closed he turned to look again at Andrea. But she had fled. Only the crushed frost beneath her feet told the direction. Away.

Her first instinct to bring the babe in from the cold, Clare carefully lifted the shawl so she could see the face. So tiny, fist in mouth, a tiny frown as the fist accorded no succour.