The Hanging of Mary Ann. Angela Badger
to his chatter took up a lot of time and when she wasn’t expected to be at his side then Hannah whisked her off on shopping expeditions and visits to friends.
Mary Ann found the latter quite daunting. They were very fine ladies indeed. Hannah took her out paying visits nearly every day, the strict etiquette demanded that calls were made and returned with almost military precision, especially in the afternoon when Grand-père snoozed. On the days when they did not go out ladies came calling round to become acquainted with this newly arrived relative of dear Hannah’s from the country. Smiling and nodding they plied her with endless discreet questions as they sat perched upon the rosewood chairs sipping tea.
As soon as polite enquiries about events in the country flagged, because of course everyone knew nothing of importance ever happened away from the city…they fell back on their usual exchanges.
“Sixpence! Can you imagine, sixpence to be rowed just across the Harbour. And then the lazy fellow shipped the oars before we got to land. The gentlemen in our party had to take turns. Exhausted they were! That fellow declared he had the cramp and could go no further. I ask you, sixpence!”
The disgraceful lack of respect, the idleness and the sheer frustration of dealing with the lower orders came continually to the fore in their conversations.
The evenings proved no different. When guests arrived for dinner - whilst the Sauternes, the claret and the brandy lightened the conversation - the deplorable fecklessness of the working class remained the overriding topic.
The upper echelons of Sydney obviously had very hard burdens to shoulder. Only when talk turned to gold discoveries, and the new wealth that would follow on a good investment, did the mood lighten. When the port circulated and the ladies retired to the drawing room each sex could talk about matters that really interested them. Money and sport for the men. Marriage and fashion for the ladies.
As she listened Mary Ann was surprised to find she increasingly yearned for the old parlour, with the flames licking up the sides of the stones in the fireplace, the familiar smell of tallow candles.
“…and don’t you agree?” one of the ladies turned to Mary Ann for an answer but Mary Ann had never heard the question. Her thoughts had been back at Bywong and she stuttered out some hastily composed reply. With slightly raised eyebrows the ladies exchanged glances - these country folk!
It’s the newness of it all, she kept telling herself as Hannah’s housemaid fussed and tidied and dusted and polished every surface even though it already gleamed like glass. As she dutifully followed her sister into the parlour and waited for the ringing of the front doorbell to herald yet another caller she told herself not to be such a dullard. This was how ladies spent their days, after all. The only change in their routine occurred when they themselves went out visiting and invariably another orderly, prosperous establishment presented itself.
“And did you prefer Maritana to Satanella?” the ladies were sitting on the verandah at the rear of the house belonging to Hannah’s bosom friend Mrs McAllister. Mrs McAllister gleaned the gossip and ground it down to the tiniest particle, only then did it waft around the city’s tea tables.
“I felt the story of Maritana was a little…well, you know, a trifle risqué and I certainly preferred the singing in Satanella.”
“Ah, wait till you’ve seen Farouita,” chimed in another lady.
“I can assure you, Mr.McAllister would never suggest such a performance to me. No respectable person would be seen in the audience.”
The other lady was momentarily chastened, but only momentarily. “I certainly saw the Governor’s lady in a box and her friend Mrs.Wentworth was there, too.”
“We all know the company Mrs Wentworth keeps. Enough said.”
“While I think of it,” Hannah was adept at changing the subject if it became controversial.” That new dressmaker, the one who made up that lovely yellow taffeta of yours, where does she live?”
“Ah, Madame Duval. I’ll find her address later, my dear.” Mrs McAllister turned to her guest, “do you find the city very tiring, that is, after your life at…where is it…yes, of course…Gun… Gundarry...no, I remember… Gundaroo?” Before Mary Ann could reply another question followed.
“It must be wearisome, so far away from town. Do you have any society in that part of the world…does anyone actually live there?”
“There are several very large properties in the area…”
“But I don’t suppose anyone actually lives there more than a few months of the year, do they? The men would go down for a hunt now and then and see how matters are progressing but beyond that…what is there for them to do?”
“Many certainly prefer city life. Strangely, our mother seemed to favour the country. I can’t tell you the relief for me when dear Edward agreed to us moving up here. We’ve a very good overseer on the property. We only go back when I need to visit my family.”
“I have a cousin near Goulburn. That isn’t far from Gundaroo I believe?” Mrs McAllister gave Mary Ann a pitying glance. “She’s frantic, absolutely frantic to get back to the city. Not a soul lives down there, she tells me. There’s nobody living down there at all.”
Nobody? Uneasily Mary Ann shifted in her chair but she did not want to speak out in such sophisticated company.
Nobody? What about the schoolteacher and the blacksmith and the new store in Gundaroo where you could buy anything from cough linctus to a blade for the harrow. What about the hunting parties of the Canberri and the smoke rising from the fires of the Ngunawal? Then there were all the newcomers to the district, for people were always on the lookout for land. And round about seethed that underbelly of life, the runaways and the ne’er-do-wells, those who’d lost all they possessed and existed in the bush since they had nowhere else to go.
But of course they were all nobodies! Annoyance surged through Mary Ann as she listened to the desultory exchange.
“Everyone works very hard in Gundaroo,” she blurted out.
“Works?” muttered Mrs McAllister, rolling the word distastefully round her tongue. “Oh, really. How interesting. Surely there are picnics and the occasional races and perhaps a ball?”
Mary Ann shook her head. “Sometimes Ashton’s Circus comes, then just sometimes we have a ball. The Count de Rossi is going to give a ball one day. His father is building a ballroom.”
“Count de Rossi…doesn’t the family live at Rossiville?” a lady asked.
“The very same,” Mrs McAllister was quick to show off her knowledge.
“You know it’s said the old man gave up his title, but his son has reclaimed it,” another lady chimed in and others followed.
“Why would he do that?”
“Who knows with people of that ilk.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s common knowledge. The family come from Corsica.”
“Like Bonaparte?”
Mrs McAllister nodded. “But not of the same persuasion. The old count had been a spy in the pay of good King George.”
A hush had fallen round the table. “Of course he was well rewarded, that’s where their fortune came from. Perhaps that’s when he gave up his title. But his son has certainly taken it back, always over there attending to their property. You say he is giving a ball?”
Mary Ann nodded. “Yes, it will be a great occasion. We’ve never had a really grand ball before.”
“There! It’s as I said. Just one ball! So remote. You poor girl.” Her hostess added the last remark with a doleful shake of the head. “Ah! Out here, my love, we are taking advantage of the clement weather.”
Mrs McAllister raised her hand majestically as they heard a footstep inside