The River Charm Read online

  ‘Is this better, Charlotte?’ asked Emily with a smile. ‘I thought Mozart would help you to concentrate on your Account of the Esquimaux People of Northern America.’

  ‘Don’t tell Mamma but I finished that,’ Charlotte confessed, waving her paper in the air. ‘Now I’m working on the chronicles of Princess Arabella.’

  Charlotte adopted a dramatic tone, reading from her story. ‘The Princess Arabella, dressed in rags, is imprisoned in the northern tower of the castle by her evil step­father Lord George.’

  ‘Lord George?’ asked Emily, ceasing her playing and raising her eyebrows.

  ‘The dastardly, evil villain Lord George,’ confirmed Charlotte. She showed the paper with a sketch of a man’s face, twisted and cruel.

  The youngest girl looked up from her doll. ‘He looks like Mr George Bart–’

  ‘Louisa, shush,’ demanded Charlotte, glancing towards the door.

  Emily stood and swooped down near her sister on the rug. Pulling her onto her lap and smoothing back the girl’s dark ringlets, she said, ‘Let’s listen to Charlotte’s story, shall we, poppet?’

  The boy stopped playing with his soldiers and sat up cross-legged.

  ‘Princess Arabella has been treated most cruelly, receiving no food or water for several days,’ Charlotte continued. ‘Famished and weak, she falls on her knees to beg her dastardly stepfather to set her free. Kicking her so that she falls to the ground, he laughs like the Lord of the Underworld himself, and slams the door, locking it with an immense silver key.’

  Charlotte paused and looked around at her siblings expectantly.

  ‘What happens next?’ asked James.

  ‘I’m not quite sure,’ confessed Charlotte, sighing.

  ‘A handsome young prince is riding by in the Forbidden Forest, mounted on his proud dappled stallion,’ suggested Emily. ‘He is on a perilous quest to find a golden dragon egg and hears her wretched cries for help. James, what comes next?’

  ‘He gallops across the castle drawbridge, leaps from his horse, takes his battle sword and with a single blow sunders the head of Lord George,’ added James, miming the attack with his clenched fists.

  ‘Princess Arabella calls for her beloved mamma, who races to her rescue and sets her free,’ said Louisa, cuddling her doll to her thin chest.

  Charlotte pondered the suggestions, chewing the end of her pencil.

  ‘I think Princess Arabella removes the sheets and curtains from her vast four-poster bed and knots them together to make a flimsy rope,’ decided Charlotte. ‘She tosses that out the narrow window and climbs down. Twice she nearly falls to a certain death. She is nearly at the bottom when, overcome with exhaustion, she slips a third time – but this time she tumbles into the dark depths of the slimy, green moat.’

  Charlotte enacted the scene, swooning on the rug.

  Emily laughed and pushed her shoulder. ‘So, shivering and soaked, the weary Princess Arabella crawls up the bank of the moat in the mud, where she collapses, dying from consumption,’ she concluded for her sister, pretending to collapse.

  ‘Then, the prince finds her and vows to avenge her untimely death with his mighty battle sword,’ said James.

  ‘No,’ insisted Charlotte, pointing at him with her pencil. ‘Princess Arabella crawls up the moat, steals her horse from the stables and rides off to find the handsome prince. Together they return to rescue the impoverished queen, who is imprisoned with her younger children in the rat-infested dungeon. Realising he is defeated, the evil Lord George flees to the battlements, but there is no escape. As Princess Arabella and the handsome prince pursue him, he slips off the battlements and plunges to his gruesome death.’

  Louisa screwed up her face, looking distressed. ‘But –’ she began.

  ‘Princess Arabella then marries the prince and lives happily ever after in the stately castle with her mamma, her brave brother and her two beautiful sisters,’ concluded Emily, smoothing out the frown from Louisa’s forehead with her fingertips.

  ‘Never ever again to be bothered by the villainous Lord George,’ declared Charlotte with satisfaction.

  Millie was still standing in the doorway, mesmerised by the impossible scene before her, the gold charm bracelet heavy on her wrist. She stepped further into the room, curious to know more.

  Charlotte looked up, staring straight through her. ‘Quick! I think Mamma is coming back.’

  Emily flew to the piano stool and resumed her playing. Charlotte stood up and ran to the table where she tucked the papers away inside a sketchbook.

  She picked up an abandoned book of poetry from the armchair and opened it to a random page.

  ‘Come and read with me, Louisa,’ coaxed Charlotte. ‘We’ll read “Mariana” by Alfred Tennyson.’

  Louisa squeezed next to her sister in the armchair. Charlotte recited the poem in a clear voice, rich with dramatic expression:

  With blackest moss the flower-plots Were thickly crusted, one and all;The rusted nails fell from the knots That held the pear to the gable wall.The broken sheds look’d sad and strange;Unlifted was the clinking latch:Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.She only said, ‘My life is dreary,He cometh not,’ she said;She said, ‘I am aweary, aweary,I would that I were dead!’

  Millie slipped backwards from the room and pulled the door shut, her heart thumping. She paused in the hallway. What did I see? Where have I been? Why didn’t I talk to them? She nibbled on her fingertip, tearing the quick until it bled.

  Taking a deep breath, she opened the door into the drawing room and hurried in, determined to speak to the children this time – but they were gone. Instead, the drawing room was as it had been: empty and cold. Millie stepped back into the vestibule and tried opening the door again, but nothing changed. She stood in the sitting room, eyes closed, concentrating hard, willing the ghost children to return. Nothing happened.

  Feeling confused and strangely bereft, Millie slowly wandered back out to the garden to join the others.

  ‘Oh, there you are, Millie,’ said Mum. ‘I was beginning to think you’d lost your way.’

  Millie smiled wanly and handed the gloves to Aunt Jessamine, who drew them over her cold hands.

  ‘Are you all right, Millie?’ asked Mum. ‘You look very pale.’

  ‘She looks like she’s seen a headless ghost,’ joked Bella. ‘Is the old house haunted, do you think, Millie?’

  Millie glared at Bella. ‘I was feeling a little faint.’

  Mum took Millie’s wrist to feel her pulse. ‘Perhaps we should take you home if you’re not well?’

  ‘No, no,’ Millie insisted. ‘I’m fine. Actually, Aunt Jessamine, I was wondering if you could tell me more about the Atkinson family. When did they live here? What happened to them?’

  Aunt Jessamine’s eyes lit up. ‘Of course, Millie. I’d love to tell you about the family. Why don’t you sit down here beside me?’

  Millie sat on the old timber seat and looked up at the ancient tree, its vast branches spreading against the blue sky.

  ‘Is there anything in particular you’d like to know?’ Aunt Jessamine asked.

  ‘I’d like to know about the children,’ suggested Millie. ‘About Charlotte and Emily, and James and Louisa.’ She could see their faces clearly in her mind.

  ‘Let me tell you their story,’ invited Aunt Jessamine, wriggling her back against the timber seat. ‘We have some time before lunch . . .’

  3

  Master Maugie

  Oldbury, Winter 1839

  The sun shone down out of a deep-blue sky, bathing the valley in a golden, late-afternoon haze. A flock of jewel-coloured lorikeets soared across the valley, swooping and diving.

  The two girls rode their ponies at a walk, side by side, through the river paddock, a black dog trotting along beside them. They rode side-saddle, their long
blue skirts and flounced white petticoats cascading down the horses’ left sides.

  A flock of 300-odd sheep were scattered over the field, grazing on the dry, golden winter grass. Lambs gambolled, playing chase and tag, their long tails wagging. A glossy black crow, perched on a fence post, watched the lambs with beady yellow eyes.

  The sisters waved to the convict shepherd, who was smoking his pipe in the sunshine. He waved back languidly, his face brown and wrinkled under his broad-brimmed hat. Samson the dog bounded over to say hello to the shepherd’s dogs and received a welcome scratch behind the ears.

  ‘Where shall we ride today?’ Charlotte asked her younger sister. ‘Would you like to ride along the creek towards Golden Valley, or shall we ride to the top of Gingenbullen and sketch up there?’

  Emily glanced along the creek, which was flowing sluggishly without the usual winter rains.

  There were a number of timber slab huts built beside the waterhole where the shepherds and stockmen lived. Two of the workers’ wives were hanging up washing on a rope strung between two trees. Chickens and geese scratched among the vegetables.

  ‘I don’t mind,’ replied Emily, patting her horse’s neck with her gloved hand and surveying the scenery. ‘It’s just so lovely to be out riding instead of doing chores or studying. Where would you prefer?’

  ‘Why don’t we ride up to the top of the mountain?’ replied Charlotte, pointing with her riding crop. ‘It’s so tranquil up there, and I’m sure we’ll find something pretty to sketch. It’s such a glorious day.’

  Charlotte was a striking girl with large black eyes, pale skin and curly black hair that tumbled down her back, under her broad-brimmed straw hat. Her sister Emily had a daintier prettiness with soft brown ringlets and gentle hazel eyes.

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed Emily. ‘I’d like to pick some wattle for Mamma if we can find some.’

  Charlotte whistled for Samson, who came bounding back obediently. Then she clicked her tongue to encourage her mare and headed left towards Gingenbullen Mountain, which loomed above the farmland covered in thick, silvery-green eucalypt forest. A track had been carved through the bush, leading up to the summit. Bellbirds chimed in the treetops, their songs echoing out over the valley. The two horses panted and puffed as they plodded up the slope, their hooves sliding on the rocky slope.

  The girls rode in silence, enjoying the rustling sounds of the bush. A couple of pale-grey wallabies started then bounded across the track and into the scrub on the other side. Samson barked madly after them, his tail wagging.

  ‘Leave them, Samson,’ ordered Charlotte, whistling him back to heel. Charlotte’s black mare, Ophelia, arched her neck and pranced skittishly.

  As the track flattened out near the grassy summit, Charlotte kicked her heels into her horse’s side and broke into a gallop. Charlotte’s heart soared as the wind whipped her face and tangled her flying hair. Ophelia’s hooves thundered on the track, kicking up clods of earth and flying scree.

  Emily followed at a much slower pace, her grey horse, Clarie, picking its way through the tussocks of grass.

  ‘Come on, Emily,’ Charlotte beckoned.

  ‘I’m coming,’ replied her sister with a smile, urging her horse into a slow jog up the slope. ‘I just do not fancy having your mud flung all over me.’

  At the top of the ridge was a pastured clearing with two gnarled gum trees framing the view.

  The two girls pulled up and gazed back the way they had come. Below them lay cleared paddocks dotted with grazing sheep, each field bordered by carefully tended hawthorn hedges or conifer windbreaks. Graceful elms and yew trees grew along the creek line, which formed a series of wider waterholes linked by a narrower stream. On the slope above the creek was the honey-warm stone house, its outbuildings nestled among the gardens and trees. Further away on the other side of the river, in the bush, a thin plume of grey smoke snaked into the sky where the local Gandangara clan was camping.

  ‘Isn’t it lovely?’ cried Charlotte, patting Ophelia’s damp neck. ‘I never tire of this outlook.’

  ‘It must be the most beautiful view in the world,’ agreed Emily. ‘The huts look like miniature doll’s houses.’

  The two horses quietly cropped the grass, their reins loose. Samson, pink tongue lolling, flopped down in the long grass. His thick black coat glistened in the sunlight.

  Charlotte slipped out of the saddle and rummaged in her saddlebag, pulling out her sketchbook and a bundle of pencils. A fallen tree provided a handy bench over­looking the view, as well as branches to tether the ponies to. She took a seat, removed her riding gloves and opened her sketchbook to reveal detailed drawings of dragonflies, beetles and butterflies.

  Emily dismounted and wandered around the clearing, searching for wildflowers, which she gathered into a large bunch of yellows, purples and reds. A sudden, unexpected sound caught her attention.

  ‘What was that?’ asked Emily, frowning. ‘Did you hear a strange noise?’

  Charlotte dropped her sketchbook and came over, her ears straining. The sound came again – a soft, plaintive whimper.

  ‘Is it a baby crying?’ replied Charlotte, looking around.

  ‘What would a baby be doing all the way up here?’ asked Emily. ‘Unless it is an Aboriginal baby.’

  Charlotte shook her head.

  ‘The Aborigines never come up here because of the grave mound,’ replied Charlotte.

  On the side of Gingenbullen Mountain, the local Aboriginal clan had constructed a large conical grave hill about twelve metres high where, until recently, they had buried their dead. The gravesite was guarded by trees, with each trunk intricately carved with the symbols of weapons – spears, shields and boomerangs. While the local people no longer buried their dead here, they still scrupulously avoided the resting place of their ancestors.

  ‘Perhaps it’s an injured animal then,’ suggested Emily.

  The girls searched the long grass. The cries seemed very close.

  ‘Look there,’ Charlotte pointed under a large blue gum. ‘It’s a native bear and her baby.’

  A grey female koala lay still on her side. The joey clung pathetically to its mother, its breathing low and shallow, its furry ears flickering. Charlotte squatted by the two animals, her heart thumping in her chest. Is the mother alive or dead? What has happened to them?

  Samson approached and sniffed the animals.

  ‘No, Samson,’ ordered Charlotte. ‘Sit and stay.’ Samson obeyed, looking up longingly.

  Emily crouched and clutched Charlotte’s arm.

  ‘It might be better not to look,’ warned Charlotte. ‘I think the mother is dead.’

  She stood up and took off her fitted, dark-blue riding jacket, which she wore over a white shirt. Making soothing noises, she carefully wrapped the jacket snugly around the joey. Charlotte cuddled the shivering body to her chest then examined the mother. A bloody wound through the head was the obvious cause of death.

  ‘What happened?’ Emily asked, her voice shaking.

  ‘I think she’s been shot,’ replied Charlotte.

  ‘Who would shoot an innocent creature and just leave it to die?’ demanded Emily.

  ‘Probably one of the convict shepherds,’ guessed Charlotte. ‘I don’t know, but I think we should take the baby home and show Mamma.’

  Emily nodded and packed away their sketchbooks and pencils into the saddlebag. Taking a sheet of fallen paperbark, she placed it over the dead koala and laid her bouquet of wildflowers on the makeshift grave.

  ‘I wish we could bury her properly,’ Emily said wistfully, before turning away to mount Clarie.

  Using the fallen log as a mounting block, Charlotte clambered up into the side-saddle, still nursing the koala joey. ‘I’ll ask Mamma to send up one of the convicts to do it. Otherwise, the native dogs will find her. It is a miracle that they hadn’t found her and the
baby already.’

  Charlotte clicked her tongue, holding the reins with her free hand, and the mare walked on. The girls rode slowly back down the steep, rough track so as not to frighten the koala. At the base of the mountain was a gate leading from the wild scrub into the smaller fenced home paddocks, where cattle and horses grazed. Emily’s horse stood obediently while she leant down to open and then close the gate from the saddle.

  Close to the rear of the house was an orchard planted in long, straight rows with a vast variety of fruit trees – quince, apple, pear, peach, plum, cherry and lemon. A huge poultry yard was bustling with the clucking and scratching of chickens, geese and ducks. A flamboyant turquoise peacock paraded his tail feathers for his drab, grey mate.

  The back of the house was the working side of the estate – a collection of stone and wooden outbuildings, including the barn, stables and carriage shed. A gardener in a blue smock hoed between the mulched rows of the vegetable and herb beds, whistling as he worked.

  In the yard a convict carpenter, Dandy Jack, worked to mend a broken cart, while an Aboriginal boy called Charley sat polishing a saddle with linseed oil and rags. Two pet wallabies were nibbling scraps of hay and looked up curiously before hopping over to say hello.

  Charley jumped up as soon as he saw the girls and rushed to hold the horses’ heads while each of the girls dismounted in front of the stable. Samson ran straight to Charley, ignoring the handsome young carpenter.

  ‘Good ride, Miss Charlotte?’ he asked, rubbing Ophelia between the eyes down her white star.

  ‘Yes, but look, Charley,’ said Charlotte, holding up her bundle for inspection. ‘We found a baby bear. The mother had been shot. Do you think it might have been killed by one of the shepherds?’

  Charley peered at the koala cuddled up in Charlotte’s arms. ‘Perhaps,’ he agreed. ‘Those shepherds like hunting.’

  Dandy Jack stopped work and laughed. He was nicknamed Dandy because he always took particular care with his hair and clothes. ‘Or Mr Barton might have seen something. He was up there on the mountain hunting kangaroos yesterday. You could ask him.’