The Larnachs Page 7

  He still likes to watch me dressing, but there is little exhilaration in our lovemaking, and often his embraces come to nothing. William is a clean man, but his body emanates a slight mustiness that I must steel myself to ignore, and hair grows upon his back as well as his chest. That we have separate rooms here is something for which I am now thankful. All of this is a most private reflection: I say nothing of it to any other, and barely to myself. But it is so. Even to my sisters I would not talk so directly of such things. I have never felt with my husband that unnerving lurch of excitement I experienced with Josiah, that rush of blood, that constriction of the heart and giddy temptation to cast all reserve aside. Men are free to go in search of pleasure and satisfaction; women, who have so much more to lose and fear, yet equal power to feel, must wait for an approach truly based in love.

  I have not seen Josiah since the day of my wedding, but being a friend of Alfred’s he will be about in the society we frequent in Wellington. I expect to confront him with equanimity, yet we will both be aware of those times when he was very pressing in his attentions. Sometimes I recall us together, alone, and the freedom he took with his hands and lips, despite being married, and my refusal. I think he would be a callous man, although very handsome. I slapped his face in the cloak room of a party for the Speaker of the House and said I would appeal to Alfred if he kissed me again. I am not a parlour maid to be so used. Yet I remember the disconcerting pressure of his lower body against mine, and the assurance with which he described a private entrance to a room in his legal chambers.

  So we will go to the capital and spend a good deal of time there during sessions. Alfred is presently mayor of Wellington, which he sees as more advantageous for his legal firm than parliamentary duties. William and I will take our choice of society, and I will be close to many friends of my single years. I think I understand the nature of politics better than most women, and indeed most men, because of my family, my education, and my inclination.

  William says little to me about business, but much of the time is unhappily preoccupied with his finances. Basil Sievwright comes often, other men with legal and financial advice at times. The Colonial Bank and its connection with the staggering Bank of New Zealand have become a quagmire from which William struggles to extricate himself. For me, even as explained by Dougie, it is a boring mass of manipulated figures, of claim and counter-claim, but I see clearly enough that William fears it could bring all down.

  When we returned from Lawrence and our adventures, it was so good to see Dougie, and he was happy to have me back at The Camp. As I got down from the buggy he came quickly from the lion steps. ‘Back at last,’ he said, and kissed me impulsively on the mouth. He has never done so before, but it seemed very natural and open, a salutation between close friends and close family. William was present, and if he noticed he saw nothing untoward in it, and neither did I.

  He was in good spirits that evening. We had no guests to entertain, and Gladys was at boarding school, so the three of us sat together until late, Dougie giving Dunedin and household news, William and I cropping the best of the Tuapeka experiences. William was pleased to have bested a big man like Scobie Mackenzie, and even the carriage disaster, and the poor food throughout most of the trip, were made a joke.

  Harriet Connelly, one of the laundry maids, has provided our household scandal by falling pregnant. Dougie says that even Miss Falloon cannot persuade her to name the father. I can see that my welcome-home task will be to confront her and her family. She is a quiet, obstinate thing, not one I would have picked to give in to the farm men, who like to flatter the girls. I imagine she is little to blame, but unless she names the man and we can have them married promptly, we shall return her to family. I believe firmly that men must accept their responsibility: too often they escape it and the women involved do not insist sufficiently. My guess is that poor Harriet has fallen prey to a married man, who has offered her money to say nothing. It is a sad situation, but a common enough one.

  Because William and I have been married only three years, and he is so much older, I must sometimes expect from him conversation about places and people with which I have no connection, and I try to accept that without impatience. I wish, however, that he would stop occasionally to think how little interest there often is for me in such recollections. In Lawrence we stood before the church and post office in the cold, because they had been designed by Robert Lawson, another Scot, the architect of The Camp and also of the mournful miniature of First Church that William commissioned as Eliza’s tomb in the Northern Cemetery. The second evening of our return ended with William talking at length about his friendship with Lawson and wife Jessie, whom I have never met and who shifted to Melbourne before our wedding. Dougie sensed my boredom, but was unable to move William on to subjects more interesting to me, so I excused myself and went to my music.

  I have become even more appreciative of the compositions of Rossini, especially since the series of concerts last year arranged by musician Charles Baeyertz. He is an amusing and outspoken performer and critic who has gingered up the local artistic community. I intend to invite him here before we leave for Wellington. At one of the concerts we heard him give a humorous recitation called ‘A Masher’s Story’. William was much taken, but the clog dancing by others and the demonstration of the new phonograph machine were less entertaining. When I talk with Mr Baeyertz I will point out that low vaudeville is well enough catered for here and he should ensure he gives us more Rossini, and Beethoven.

  Also I shall challenge him to explain why there are no great women composers, while in literature, singing and art they increasingly assert themselves. I am sure it is not any absence of talent, but the blinkered conviction of male critics, backers and conductors that they are not worthy. I would like to make a serious attempt myself, but am reluctantly realistic enough to realise that I have neither the supreme ability, nor the dedication to the point of sacrifice, necessary to succeed. A paradox, perhaps, that I have had too pleasant a life to focus entirely on the one thing most important to me.

  I was able to follow my inclination and determine all the pieces to be played at the ball held here at The Camp early in the year, and to invite individually the five players for an ensemble to accompany the dancing. It was quite the grandest social affair William and I have attempted since our marriage, and one that both of us enjoyed planning and on the night. Although quite imposing and spacious, the ballroom is seldom used for its avowed purpose. The exposed beam ceiling captures sound. I had the three great fireplaces dressed with holly and flowers. The double entrance door from the house has oak leaf and acorn carvings that I love to brush with my hand. They are in such wonderful relief that I almost feel I could pluck them in passing.

  More than a hundred and sixty people in a considerable variety of formal dress. All my friends, and a few of my enemies if their families were sufficiently significant. Even Colleen and Alice put aside petulance for the night, and visited to dance with us. Every bedroom in the house was in use, with other rooms pressed into service besides. Often the weather frustrates, or limits, our plans, but this night was almost balmy. William claimed to have achieved it by drinking an alcohol-free toast to his Scots forebears the night before, Dougie by commissioning a Maori chant to the weather gods.

  William spoke well, and briefly as I had advised him, and what interjections were made arose from good humour, wine and the high spirits of the occasion. Ethel Morley later told me she knew of two proposals of marriage made after the dancing, one of which was accepted on the spot — perhaps before it could be retracted. I stood up with a number of men apart from William and Dougie, and was paid the usual compliments. Dr Langley, who said my dancing made him acutely aware of his own deficiencies on the floor, also commented that he had never seen the ballroom so resplendent. Mr Guthrie said he knew of no other woman so light on her feet.

  There was a moment of farce when Mrs Paisley tripped in a turn and fell on her husband, so injuring his leg tha
t he had to be carried from the dance floor, attended in the house by Dr Langley and then taken home early. Very cross that he had proved such a weakling and denied her the pleasure of a full night at the ball, his wife accompanied him with distinct reluctance. Dr Langley murmured to me with a smile that he feared Paisley might suffer further harm at home.

  During a waltz, Dougie told me I should go outside and see how the ball had drawn the farm workers and tenants to catch a glimpse of it all. I did so, keeping some distance in the dark from the building. In the glow from the tall windows of the ballroom, children and adults were clustered to peer in, some whispering excitedly about the goings on inside, others silent, but intent on a life so different from their own. There were carriage men too, watching their employers after a supper at the kitchen door.

  Standing in the warm, still night, mistress of it all, but for the moment, like them, an observer on the outside, I had a powerful sense of the privileged existence that was mine. How little I considered that, how much I accepted it as my right, how readily I found limitation and inconvenience in it. How it must seem to ordinary folk: the bedecked private Larnach ballroom, the spilling light and music, the laughter and dancing of important, well-dressed people who all seemed to know each other. How perceptive of Dougie to have noticed these gawpers, and to understand how they would affect me. When I was caught up with the whirl of the ballroom, that seemed everything the world held, and then I was standing in the darkness, on the soft grass, with natural scents of trees and blossom rather than women’s perfume, and the realisation that, even in that one place, experiences were quite different. How multifarious life is, and yet we assume our own activities and feelings to be the sum of it.

  When I came back into the ballroom, Dougie soon sought me out. ‘Did you see them?’ he asked. ‘Another population on the outside looking in, isn’t it? I wonder what they think of us.’

  ‘They want to change places, I suppose.’

  ‘The children,’ he said, ‘they’ll go home and dream of it, I imagine.’

  ‘You and your dreams, Dougie. The real world has enough interest for most of us.’

  ‘But not everybody has our world.’

  The ball was a considerable success, and quite repaid my many days of preparation and the money spent by William. For a time he was quite buoyed up by it all and read aloud the numerous cards sent by those who enjoyed our hospitality. Old Mrs Hallan, who still carries smelling salts, wrote that it reminded her of the great private balls in the Edinburgh of her girlhood. Dougie’s friend, Robert, told me soon after that he had never before seen so many animated and good-looking women together, and said there should be a Larnach ball every year. To have the event go off so well reassures William of his position socially, even though his business dealings are faltering. I wonder how many of our guests, who so readily accepted the invitation for the night, would support him if he needed it.

  The one unfortunate incident, which we didn’t discover until the next day, was a fight between two carriage men in the stables where a group had gathered to drink ale. Neither of them was from The Camp, but one had his nose so badly bitten that the bone was showing. Dougie said they had to wash blood from the cobbles, and the police had made an arrest. The best and worst of human behaviour can be so close together.

  I was struck by a most appalling cough in the aftermath of the ball. Maybe I had exhausted myself, or perhaps one of the guests had brought the infection and spread it in the close crush of the dancing and dining. Several people complained of similar symptoms. For six days I kept to my bed. The cough was not only painful, but kept me from sleeping at night. Dr Langley gave me a thick, sweet potion and also a camphor ointment for my chest. Dear Annie came from Wellington to nurse me, and to pass the time she read David Copperfield to me and brought out all my dresses for scrutiny. A timely sort out: some will be sent to Wellington for my sisters. Annie will have first choice, then Sarah and Fanny. I am now fully recovered and happy again.

  Not long after, we had a picnic at Broad Bay, to celebrate good health. A surprise for me that I suspect Dougie instigated. It was one of those most beautiful autumn days: frost early, but not a breath of wind or a cloud in the sky. In the great blue bowl of sky, a full sun that was warm on the skin, but not scorching. William and Dougie must have made a decision early and sent Boylan and Jane down to prepare a spot at the bay, all without my knowledge. Later in the morning, when I was in the music room, Dougie came to me and said he and William wished my company while they looked at a cottage left vacant by one of the tenants, and when we had jolted over the poorly formed road to the bay, there were Boylan and Jane waiting in the very best warm place close to the shore, with horse covers, rugs and cushions set out, and food in the shade beneath their buggy. Jane had gone to considerable trouble and smiled so openly when I complimented her. She is a funny old thing, the closest The Camp has to an ‘ancient retainer’. A tall body and a tall, lined face, and almost always she wears a starched apron. But she is devoted to the family and knows every inch and custom of The Camp. I am the third Mrs Larnach she has served, but she has warmed to me and now comes sometimes to confide concerning her occasional differences with Miss Falloon. It is not sneaking: she feels long service carries the right of commentary.

  William and I walked by the sea for a time, and talked of the Seddons, who were planning to visit us, while Dougie went off and measured the girth of native trees that he was proposing be sold. When the three of us sat down in the stillness to have our picnic, the sun was so pleasant that I took off my hat to feel the warmth full on my face. Afterwards, William lay down and appeared to sleep while Dougie and I talked of everything and anything — the ball, the leak in the observation room, the merits of the Fernhill Club as compared with the Dunedin Club, the sudden death of the Hockens’ cook during a dinner party, the elopement of Millicent Powys with Eustace Apse. Although William lay with his hands folded on his chest and a serviette over his face, he was not asleep, for he would sometimes laugh when we did, sometimes abruptly alone, and sometimes interrupt with a brief comment.

  Such times are special, for William is a busy man and much in demand. So often there seems some urgent matter of land, money or investment, and obstacles posed by unscrupulous and grasping people. There at Broad Bay, though, lying happily in the sun with me and his favourite son, he was at his most cheerful, and when William is well disposed all around seems likewise. We stayed there until mid-afternoon when a cool breeze began from the sea, then set Traveller trotting for The Camp, leaving Jane and Boylan to bring things home.

  Yesterday, Dougie took me in to the Dunedin Orchestral Society’s Meyerbeer concert, where I joined the Hockens, before going on by himself to the club. I enjoyed the buggy rides just as much as the performance between them. Dougie is much closer to my age, and how good it was to feel and act young, to laugh at silly things, to be with someone who knows the same people, but will pass on nothing I say about them.

  From the men, especially Patrick Sexton and Boylan, Dougie gets to hear indirectly of goings on within The Camp that I am often unaware of myself. There is less formality outside than within the big house. ‘Miss Falloon has an admirer,’ he said, and refused to say more until I admitted interest. ‘But I know you don’t like to engage in idle gossip.’

  ‘Just tell me and stop being smug.’

  ‘Remember our tenant Edwin Tremain, who has a fishing boat as well?’

  ‘Yes, he brings us part of the catch and often won’t take payment because of William’s long-time support.’ When I said this, Dougie raised his eyebrows and pretended an absorption in the surroundings as we trotted along. He likes to tease me in this way as a means of proving I am interested in the trivial, despite my greater concern for what he terms my ‘causes’.

  ‘I’ll punch you,’ I said.

  ‘Well, evidently our Mr Tremain is more concerned for what might be gifted by our housekeeper in the future than anything he’s received from Father in the past. At
the kitchen he’ll release his offerings only to her, and goes as red as a turkey cock. Jane says he asked her to tell Miss Falloon he has been widowed for almost a year. I doubt he mentioned that his wife died quite worn out with child-bearing.’

  ‘Doesn’t he have awful mutton-chop whiskers?’

  ‘Maybe they’ll tickle Miss Falloon’s fancy,’ Dougie said. ‘She does seem partial to a good piece of fish.’ Dougie is fond of such nonsense, but it is fun to be so relaxed with him, to have no need of guarded language, or conventional propriety. Because he lives with me as family, yet is not a son or brother, we have a friendship closer than any other I have experienced with a man not my husband. But proximity is only what has allowed us to know each other well: the real basis of our understanding is a similar view of things despite our very different natures. Beneath his slightly puffed up and uncertain pose, the real Dougie is kind and thoughtful, still searching for his right place in a world dominated by his father.

  We arrived back at The Camp quite light-headed, and Dougie pursed his mouth in mock solemnity as we entered the house, which made me smile the more. I feel that he is on my side, against whatever opposition might arise. He has become a special friend, and I will miss him.

  Four

  Conny and Father will be spending much of their time in Wellington now that he’s been re-elected. I have very mixed feelings at the prospect. I’ll have greater freedom and authority here, but it means Conny will be absent for many weeks at a time. Her duty and her family are in Wellington, a journey of days away. She’s made a great fist of it here, despite knowing very few people at first, and being snubbed by Alice and Colleen. Not only has she established her own presence in the city despite a degree of gossip that was bound to follow the marriage, but she’s asserted herself at The Camp.