CHAPTER TWO
An Adventure
It took Frances just three days to repent her decision to live with her aunt. She soon discovered that life at Wintersleigh, without her cousins, was dull beyond belief. Nothing ever seemed to happen. Her aunt, for instance, spent her days like a true old English lady, and did as little as she could possibly manage. To Frances’s mind, the only movement that occurred at Wintersleigh was the crawl of the hands around the clock. A typical day involved alternating between the dining room for formal meals, and the gas-lit drawing room for reading or sewing. Apart from the gas flaring noisily in the background and the ticking of the clock, the evenings were silent. Frances was not used to such lengthy periods of stillness. Before her move to Hobart, she had lived in a terrace house in East Melbourne, and over the years her ears had grown accustomed to the noises associated with living on a busy suburban thoroughfare. Whether it was a carriage rattling past, or the hum of people’s voices as they streamed up and down the pavements, Frances accepted, and even embraced these sounds. Their comforting familiarity reminded her that there was an exciting world beyond her window, a world she would one day explore.
On the fourth day of her monotonous visit, Frances was taking luncheon with her aunt in the dining room. Louisa was sitting in state at the head of the table, and as usual was dominating the conversation.
‘Remind me to make some arrangements about your clothes, Frances,’ Louisa was saying in between mouthfuls of sandwich. ‘Your mother may have approved of your attire, but I do not. And before you ask me why, my dear, I will explain. Your skirt is too short, for a start. I have also noticed that you are not wearing a corset.’
‘Aunt Wentworth!’
‘Now pray do not take that tone with me, young lady. You need not look quite so offended. It gives me no pleasure discussing such an indelicate subject, but something must be said.’
‘Very well, then. Your observations are quite correct. My skirt has been altered to allow me more freedom of movement, and as for the corset, I can proudly say that I don’t even own one. Mother is the same. She says that over a period of time, tight lacing can deform a woman’s body.’
Louisa stared. ‘Stuff and nonsense! What has your mother been reading? Don’t tell me she is one of those ghastly suffragists! A cigar-smoking, bicycle-riding radical, no doubt. What do they call them now? A New Woman?’
‘Mother does ride a bicycle, yes, as do I.’
‘Mercy!’ Louisa gasped. ‘Your mother has much to answer for!’
‘Please don’t alarm yourself, Aunt. Bicycle riding is very common in Melbourne.’
‘Yes, and so is pick-pocketing, but no-one condones that.’
Frances ignored her aunt’s words, and went ahead in the same vain. ‘If it’s any comfort to you, we don’t ride in skirts. We prefer to wear a bifurcated costume.’
‘Oh, it is worse than I thought!’ Louisa wailed.
‘In fact I was discussing this very subject with a young lady on the boat coming over here. I told her that I brought my bicycle with me, and she warned me that female cyclists weren’t common in Tasmania. She had, in fact, never seen one, and urged me to be cautious, lest I should offend anyone.’
‘You brought your, your (she could not bring herself to say the word ‘bicycle’) vile machine with you?’ Louisa asked in a faltering voice. ‘Why was I not informed of this?’
Once again Frances ignored her aunt. ‘I really can’t understand why some people are so vehemently opposed to the bicycle. I personally—’
‘Oh, hush, Frances! I cannot bear to discuss a subject that is so repugnant to me. While you are staying with me you will not be permitted to ride your, your new fangled apparatus. God invented the carriage for a reason, and that is so people can travel with dignity, without having to exert themselves. Only the vulgar classes are permitted to sweat.’
Frances’s heart sank. It was clear that her aunt would not change her mind on this subject, and it was therefore a subject not worth pursuing.
‘And while I am laying down the rules, Frances, I am warning you to be mindful of my neighbours. We are a small tight-knit community down here, and everything a person does and says is subject to some kind of scrutiny. Whilst I am exceedingly grateful that you are not wearing your bifurcated outfit, the clothes you are now wearing will provoke comment from people, and consequently that will reflect on me.’ She waved a finger vaguely at Frances. ‘As you know, I used to be a Norwood before I married into the Wentworth family. Both the Norwood and Wentworth families have proud traditions to maintain. I simply cannot have you dressing so singularly.’
Frances almost choked on her tea, but regained her composure enough to survey her aunt’s drab clothes. Louisa, as usual, was dressed in a black satin gown, a dress, Frances surmised, her aunt had worn every day for the last ten years. For as long as Frances had known her, she had never seen Louisa regaled in any other colour but funereal black. As for Louisa’s hair, which these days was more grey than black, it was parted austerely in the middle of her head, and was drawn into a meticulously arranged bundle that rested on the nape of her neck. Not one straggling wisp of hair was to be seen. Endeavouring to suppress a grin, Frances leant over the table and helped herself to a chicken sandwich.
‘Must you take another one?’ Louisa asked, fixing her eyes on Frances with solemn reproach. ‘You do not need to put on any more weight.’ Frances’s hand lingered over the plate. ‘Being well-rounded is one thing, but being fat is another. Dear, oh dear! If you continue the way you are going,’ Louisa resumed, ‘you will end up like your poor mother. She used to be such a pretty thing,’ she lamented, ‘and now look at her. She is scarcely recognisable.’
Frances felt a fleeting surge of hatred for her aunt pulse through her veins. She was used to her relative’s hurtful remarks and insults, but when they were directed at her mother, it always struck a raw nerve. Being too infuriated to reply, Frances defiantly claimed the sandwich, before cramming it into her mouth.
Louisa puckered her brows, and was just about to voice her disapproval, when a maid entered the room and presented Louisa with a gleaming silver salver.
‘If you please, Ma’am,’ the servant said a little tremulously, ‘the mail has just come.’
Louisa made no acknowledgment of the maid, and demurely took the mail from the tray. To her surprise, there was only one letter, and after a cursory inspection of the flowing handwriting on the envelope, she dismissed the servant and held the letter up for Frances to see.
‘It is for you, my dear. It is from your mother.’ She scrutinised the letter more carefully before she proceeded. ‘It looks as though this was forwarded on from Minnie Gibbs’s mother. Poor creature.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘As soon as you get a chance, Frances, you had better cable your mother and let her know your change of circumstances and address.’
Frances was too overjoyed at the prospect of her mother’s letter to acknowledge her aunt’s comments. Not surprisingly, she pounced on the envelope with alacrity, and was on the verge of tearing it open, when Louisa spoke:
‘Must you read that now? I am of the opinion that reading at the dining table is abominably rude, not to mention exceedingly ill-mannered. A letter,’ she went on haughtily, ‘ought to be read in private, unless, of course, it is a letter for general consumption.’
Frances seized upon her aunt’s words. ‘Well in that case, Aunt,’ she said, pushing her chair back from the table, ‘may I please leave the table?’ She watched her aunt expectantly.
‘And what about luncheon?’ Louisa’s attitude soon softened. ‘Oh, very well. Leave if you must. I confess I am most anxious to hear about your dear mother. She has not written to me for quite some time…’
Frances didn’t wait for her aunt to finish before she rose from the table. Receiving a letter from her mother was by far the most important event of her visit so far, and Frances was determined that nothing, not even her aunt, would spoil the pleasure it would no doubt bring. Once she
was out of Louisa’s sight, Frances fled down the long, portrait-lined hallway, and out the back door. The tepid summer air was a refreshing change from her aunt’s company, and as she looked around the vast grounds for a place of repose, she caught herself almost smiling. She eventually found herself an arbour near the rose garden, and as she fumbled excitedly with the envelope, she breathed in the heavily scented air. Without wasting another second, she extracted the folded paper from the envelope and began to read. The letter from her mother Lucy was uncharacteristically short, and from the date, Frances could see that it was written shortly after Frances’s departure from Melbourne.
Dearest Franny —It seems as though you have been gone for years, but I keep having to remind myself that you only left yesterday! Needless to say, your dear old mother misses you terribly, and hopes you’re settling in well with your new position. I still can’t completely understand why you wanted to work in Tasmania, but knowing your sweet and most generous nature, I can only suppose that you wanted to give Herbert and me some room, and some time to get to know each other. In that regard, my dear, I can never thank you enough. Now Franny, I have some rather important news to impart to you. I will endeavour to keep the details to a minimum, which may astound you, given that brevity was never one of my strong points. I hardly know where to begin, but before I go into the particulars, I want to assure you that I’m very well, so you have no need to worry yourself on that score. Now this news might come as a surprise to you, dear girl, so it might be best to sit down and compose yourself. Mr Fairbrother, or ‘Herbie’ as I affectionately call him, has just proposed to me, and I’ve accepted him. What do you think of that, Franny? Your dear old mother agreeing to marry a man who is ten years her junior! Not bad for a woman of my advanced years!
Frances let the letter fall from her hand. Positioning herself under a nearby canopy of rustling leaves, she stared vacantly beyond the sloping velvet lawns and pyramidal trees to Wintersleigh. Through the dazzling sunlight, the lofty white house, with its sweeping verandahs and large windows, seemed to shimmer like a mirage. Frances blinked through the fragrant afternoon haze, and by the time she re-opened her eyes, the mirage had vanished. The sun had dipped behind a passing cloud, and the house, a shade darker, loomed in the foreground, shadowed and imposing. Frances blinked again, but the mirage did not return. Tears filled her eyes, and before she could stop their flow, she was crying.
Louisa, in the meantime, had just finished luncheon and was about to drift through another torporific afternoon, when an unexpected visitor was shown into the vestibule. It was an old friend of Louisa’s, and while the two friends receded into the sumptuous realm of the drawing room, a servant girl was instructed to fetch Frances from the grounds, and accompany her back to the house.
In spite of Frances’s sobs and sniffles she still heard the servant calling her name, and having no desire to return to the house, she looked about her for somewhere to hide. She decided to take refuge in one of the estate’s outhouses, and had just snuck inside when she almost tripped over her beloved bicycle, which was resting up against the wall. Its mere presence was enough to cheer her flagging spirits, and without giving her next course of action much thought, she wheeled her bicycle out of the building, mounted the seat and cycled away as fast as she could. Her surroundings soon became a confused blur, except for the image of the servant girl who was clearly visible on the garden path.
‘I won’t be long!’ Frances declared, saying the first thing that came into her head. ‘I just need to stretch my legs!’
Fortunately for Frances she saw no-one else on her journey to the Wintersleigh front gates. The gardener was pruning on the other side of the estate, and none of the servants inside the house saw her fleeing figure recede into the distance. Having passed through the wrought iron gates into the outside world, she was aware that she was breathless, and that her skirt had ridden up above her knees. After repositioning her skirt to a more modest position, she inhaled deeply, letting the air fill her nostrils and lungs. She was feeling calmer already, and as her wheels crunched over the road, she looked about her. Scrubby bushland and towering eucalypts dotted the landscape, punctuated by the occasional farm and homestead. She soon discerned farm labourers in the field, and despite the fast pace at which she was travelling, she could feel their eyes upon her as she rode past them. This unwelcome attention reminded her of the conversation she had had with the woman on the ship coming over to Tasmania, and feelings of exhilaration were soon replaced by anxiety, and a creeping sense of self-consciousness. To further complicate matters, her once neatly dressed hair had spontaneously released itself from the combs and pins that were holding the composition together, and now a thick long plait of golden hair hung conspicuously over her shoulder. Any doubts about the gender of the lone cyclist were now at an end, and the further she traversed down the road, the more attention she seemed to be attracting. It wasn’t long before she was aware that she was being pursued.
Frances had, in the past, read newspaper articles about women cyclists being harangued, and even assaulted by male onlookers, but she had never personally experienced any abuse. A derogatory whistle was about as much as she had received, but in the end it was all harmless and no-one got hurt. Having said that, she often cycled with other people, and she was not accustomed to riding alone. She certainly had no experience of riding down an unfamiliar country road, with a stranger in pursuit.
In her anxiety, Frances quickened her pace, but to her dismay, the person behind her on horseback hastened after her. As fit and strong as she was, she knew she was no match for a horse. Not knowing what else to do, she tightened her grip on the bicycle’s cross-bar and kept her eyes focussed on the road ahead. No matter how hard she tried to ignore the clip-clopping sound of the horse’s hooves directly behind her, the noise grew louder in her ears. In the next moment, the horse and its young male rider were beside her.
‘Hullo there!’ Frances called out to him, in a voice that belied her trepidation. She secretly hoped that her pre-emptive greeting might create a good impression with the stranger. ‘A beautiful day, isn’t it?’
Evidently the rider didn’t share Frances’s sentiments. He regarded her with a quizzical look, as if he were studying some rare and exotic animal at the zoo. After a moment or two of bemused observation, he burst out laughing, and without saying a word, bolted off down the road, kicking up a trail of dust behind him. Unless Frances’s ears deceived her, she could have sworn she heard his hoots of laughter well into the distance.
While Frances was relieved that her fears hasn’t been realised, she was nonetheless still shaken by what had taken place. Without a moment of delay she pulled over to the side of the road and dismounted her bicycle. By now her whole body was aquiver with nerves, and it took her some time before she could control her breathing. Indignant tears began to blind her eyes, and after wheeling her beloved bicycle over the ditch at the side of the road, she hid it amongst a dense profusion of native lilac. While it grieved her to abandon her ‘freedom machine,’ as she fondly labelled it, she had to remind herself that it was only for a short time. As soon as she was able to, she would return to this very spot, and rescue her bicycle.
In the meantime, Frances continued her unplanned journey by foot. By this stage her tears had increased in intensity, and a combination of strong emotion, brought about by her mother’s letter, and lethargy, caused by her earlier exertions on the bicycle, made her uncharacteristically reckless. For the next few hours she traipsed about the countryside, giving no thought as to her intended destination. The truth was that she cared little about where the roads were taking her.
That was until heavy dollops of rain started to fall from the sky. The abrupt change of weather brought home to her how vulnerable she now was, and in a moment of desperation, she fervently wished that she was back with her aunt at Wintersleigh, comfortably ensconced in a drawing room chair, and drinking a hot cup of tea. The further Frances walked, however, the likelihood
of this last scenario eventuating, seemed ever more distant.