CHAPTER FIFTY THREE
Hill Street
Charlotte was right. The property that Michael was due to inspect at noon was only a few blocks away from Charlotte and Cyril’s house, but while the distance to the house was short, the terrain was rather steep, and by the time Frances arrived at her destination, her face was scarlet from over exertion, and she was breathing sporadically in hard gasps.
Michael, meanwhile, was dressed formally in his best clothes and was standing on the front steps of the house, shaking the real estate agent’s hand. Michael didn’t see Frances straight away, but once he saw her dismounting her bicycle, his face dropped, and he hurried over to her.
‘Good heavens, Frances!’ he cried, evidently startled by her almost wild appearance, ‘what is it? What is wrong?’ He took hold of the bicycle and wheeled it up the path to where the bemused agent was now standing.
‘It’s nothing, Michael,’ Frances assured him, ‘nothing at all.’ She began self-consciously smoothing down her crumpled bicycle skirt. ‘I’ve just had an interesting experience cycling up this street. Not only was it steep, but several bystanders made some nasty comments about my attire.’
Michael grinned. ‘Well, that will serve you right for being a radical, and for not making use of Charlotte’s carriage.’
Frances narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously. ‘How did you know I was at Charlotte’s?’
Michael made no reply, but his beaming face seemed to answer for him. ‘Mr Rogers,’ he said, turning towards the middle-aged agent from Rogers and Son’s Real Estate, ‘please forgive me for detaining you. I know how precious your time is. Allow me to introduce Miss Frances Norwood to you. Frances is my, my…’ He paused and looked questioningly at Frances.
‘Cousin,’ Frances professed. ‘I’m Michael’s cousin.’
Michael smiled his approval, before introducing Frances to the agent. Once the formality of the introductions was over, Frances began to appraise Michael’s potential new house. Her first impression was that the garden was in a state of disarray, but not beyond help, and the cobbled path leading to the front door was damaged, and would eventually need replacing. As for the building itself, it was a double-storey sandstone house with sweeping cast-iron verandahs on both levels, an ivy covered portico that arched impressively over the front door, and two nondescript chimneys protruding from the roof. The house was at least half the size of Rosewood, Frances considered, but it struck Frances at that moment how similar the two houses were in appearance.
‘I can see why you like this house,’ Frances murmured to Michael, as she accompanied the two men into the house. ‘It looks remarkably like Rosewood.’
‘Does it?’ Michael replied. ‘It never once crossed my mind.’ He started laughing.
Frances turned towards Michael and realised with surprise that she had never seen him so happy before. She was tempted to remark on it, but she didn’t want to spoil the moment, and ended up saying nothing at all.
‘And this here is the drawing room,’ Mr Rogers was saying haughtily in the background. ‘You may notice that this room has recently been re-decorated. The floral wallpaper was ordered from London.’
Frances drew Michael towards her. ‘It’s hideous,’ she whispered. ‘What do you think?’
‘My sentiments exactly. It’ll definitely have to go.’
Despite Mr Rogers’ age, his hearing was still sound, and the young couple’s comments did not amuse him. ‘Shall I continue,’ he asked rather petulantly, ‘or would you prefer to look around the house by yourselves?’ Michael chose the latter option. ‘Very well then,’ the agent replied, ‘I shall be waiting outside if you need to ask me any questions.’ He withdrew from the room, closing the door behind him.
‘Oh thank heavens for that,’ Michael remarked. ‘Mr Rogers was beginning to sound like Thomas Maycroft at Port Arthur. Rest his soul.’
After exchanging meaningful smiles, Frances and Michael meandered through every ground floor room, discussing almost every feature of the vacant rooms as they went. Eventually they reached the staircase, and as they climbed the stairs together, they lapsed into a comfortable, yet short-lived silence.
‘I don’t think Mr Rogers believed that story of yours about us being cousins, do you?’ Michael asked.
‘Not for a second. Still, it was amusing just the same.’
‘Yes, it was amusing, but in all seriousness, Frances, how am I to introduce you in the future? Do I simply introduce you as my friend?’ Michael faltered briefly at the top of the steps to catch his breath.
‘Ah, yes, I was wondering when you would bring that topic up.’
‘I assume that’s why you came here.’
‘Of course. I owe you an explanation for my conduct.’
‘It’s all right,’ Michael assured her, ‘there’s no need to explain.’ He walked down the corridor towards the first open door on the left. ‘You don’t want to marry me,’ he said, poking his head through the open doorway and inspecting the well proportioned room. ‘End of story. I understand perfectly.’
‘It’s not that,’ Frances said, following his lead and surveying the Etruscan red walls within. ‘I never said that I didn’t want to marry you. As I recall, I said that I couldn’t. There’s a material difference, you know.’
Michael glanced up at the ceiling and noticed that there were several cracks in the decorative cornice. He then turned his head towards Frances. ‘And why can’t you marry me?’
‘I consider myself a very independent woman.’
‘You are indeed,’ Michael acknowledged with an admiring gaze.
‘Well how can I be married and be independent at the same time?’
‘I suppose that depends on what you want to do. I understand that you want to study next year.’
‘Most definitely.’
‘Well, that’s all right. I wouldn’t prevent you from going to university. In fact, if anything, I’d encourage it.’
Frances stood transfixed just inside the doorway. ‘You would?’
‘Of course. I think it’s a capital idea. As it happens, I’m thinking of studying next year too. Just think, Frances, we could study together.’ His voice echoed as he receded further into the depths of the room. ‘You could carry my books around for me.’
‘Then if that’s the case, my cartage fees are very competitive.’
Michael exploded into laughter. ‘Forgive me for making sport of you. I feel so ridiculously happy at present that I can take nothing seriously.’ His voice appeared to be getting further away. ‘So,’ he shouted out, ‘what else is on your mind? What are your other reservations?’
‘I don’t want to ruin our friendship.’
After a pause of some duration, Michael moved towards Frances. In another moment he was standing before her. ‘I think you already know the answer to that question.’ He sighed. ‘What is this really all about?’ he asked her earnestly. ‘What are you afraid of?’
‘Everything.’
‘And that’s perfectly understandable. I feel the same.’
‘All right then,’ Frances replied, exhaling her feelings of frustration, ‘this one relates to my aunt and disparaging comments that I have made to her regarding the institution of marriage.’
‘I think I know where you’re going with this line of thought,’ Michael ventured. ‘You think your aunt will label you a hypocrite if you decide to marry me.’ Frances nodded. ‘Do you know something, Frances,’ Michael began to explain, ‘I’ve realised over the past few months that I’ve spent my entire life worrying about what people thought of me, and in particular, what they expected from me. I realise now that it was a waste of time. Provided it doesn’t hurt anyone else, do what makes you happy.’
Frances was yet again reminded of her mother’s pre- Christmas engagement. It was now the last week of April and she still hadn’t forgiven her mother for deciding to re-marry. ‘It would seem that my mother shares your new philosophy. She became engaged not long after I left Melbourne.’
/> ‘Well I’ll be bound! What joyous news!’ Michael soon hesitated after seeing Frances’s expressionless face through the rich gloom of the chamber. ‘It is good news, isn’t it?’ he added with less confidence.
‘For her I suppose, but not for me. I don’t think much of the man she is about to marry. He’s a young divorcee.’
Michael considered Frances’s words carefully before replying. ‘I can see why that would be upsetting to you, but you’re not the one who is marrying him.’ He deliberated. ‘Does this man make your mother happy?’ Frances nodded. ‘And do you want her to be happy?’
‘Of course.’
‘Then where is the problem?’
Frances fixed her eyes on an ornate fireplace that was nestled into the wall on the other side of the room. ‘I, I don’t know,’ she stammered. ‘It’s awkward. I haven’t had the courage to write to my mother in months.’
‘Forgive me for being frank, but I must speak my mind. Cherish your mother while she’s still alive, because one day she might not be there. If I were you I’d make peace with her as soon as you can. If that means telling her how you feel, then do it. But tread lightly. Don’t be too harsh on her for what she did. If you ask me, I think she was brave for taking such steps to secure her happiness. If she stood around waiting for people’s permission, she probably would never have received it.’
‘Well, at least not from me.’
‘My point entirely.’
For the first time in the conversation Frances smiled. She hated to admit it, but Michael was right. In the whole scheme of things, what did it really matter if her mother remarried? Her new step-father wasn’t abusive, mean-spirited or selfish, and it was obvious to all who knew him that he was quite besotted with her mother, a feeling clearly reciprocated.
‘I assume from that look on your face that you agree with me.’
‘I’m still thinking about it,’ she lied. In her mind, however, she was already drafting the contents of an apology letter to her mother. She could barely wait to put pen to paper.
‘Very well. I’ll say no more. As for our earlier conversation, you were explaining to me why you couldn’t marry me.’
Frances sighed. ‘I can hardly remember what I said now, although I’ve always been worried about having to submit to my husband.’
‘Submit?’ Michael repeated. ‘Do you really think that marriage is about submission?’ Frances nodded. ‘It’s true that one has to make sacrifices and allowances for each other in marriage,’ he said, trying to choose his words carefully, ‘but I’d hardly use the word submission.’ Michael looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘We’d both have to give up certain freedoms. It wouldn’t be just you.’ He began to appear out of spirits. ‘I didn’t realise that your perception of married life was such a negative one. You obviously see it as some sort of prison. As for me, I see marriage as a partnership that provides love, companionship and support throughout the course of a lifetime. I see nothing negative in that.’
Despite the gravity of the conversation they were having, Michael and Frances moved away together towards the large gleaming window that was bordered by a translucent stained glass motif. As Frances stood in the foreground of the window, admiring the distant river view, she was comfortably drenched in Autumnal light.
‘Oh, look at this view!’ she cried, gazing dreamily at the world beyond the glass confines.
Michael regarded her with a smile. ‘You are an odd one,’ he said, following her example and inspecting the view. ‘Still, I’m rather fond of you, all the same,’ he added, his eyes twinkling with affection.
‘And I’m quite fond of you too. In fact, if I were really honest with myself, Michael, I love you. Not that you deserve my affection,’ Frances added hurriedly. She sat herself down on the window seat that was built into the recess of the window. ‘You’ve treated me badly over the past month, and I can’t help feeling that you only proposed to me because it didn’t work out with Agnes.’
Michael followed suit and sat down. ‘If you think that you’re some sort of consolation prize, Frances, then you’re absolutely wrong. I’ve known for a long time that Agnes and I were ill-suited. Like two left shoes, I suppose.’
Frances took up Michael’s hand and squeezed it. ‘It’s all right, Michael,’ she said, ‘I was only teasing you.’ She raised his hand to her lips and kissed it lovingly. With Michael’s hand still in hers she then rested her head against the window and watched the progress of a boat as it coasted along the sun-dappled river. ‘How beautiful this room is! If I owned this house, I would undoubtedly make this my bedroom or my study.’
‘Well then,’ Michael said, tightening his grip on Frances’s hand, ‘it’s a pity that you shan’t be living here with me, isn’t it?’
Frances watched Michael with increasing tenderness. ‘All right, all right. I can see I’m going to have to give in. But before you get too excited, I want you to promise me three things.’
The glimmer of hope in Michael’s heart began to shine with more intensity. He could barely contain his elation. ‘All right then,’ he began, ‘I promise I’ll never ask you to carry my books for me.’
‘That’s a good start, but not quite what I had in mind. My thoughts were more directed towards cats. I’d like at least two more.’
‘Done. The more the merrier.’
‘Also, I don’t want to marry just yet. I need more time to myself.’
‘Good. I have a distinct aversion to churches at the moment.’
Frances grinned. ‘And last of all, I would like to use this room as my personal study.’ She looked at Michael expectantly.
‘Ooh you strike a hard bargain,’ he said, in a playfully severe voice, ‘but I suppose I must give in. I don’t want our relationship to end over this room.’ Having said this, he leant towards Frances and tucked a golden coil of hair behind her ear. His hand then faltered, and at that moment their eyes met. ‘I love you, Frances Norwood,’ he murmured tenderly. ‘I love you.’
Frances said nothing, but her eyes, full of love, seemed to answer for her. This look gave Michael all the encouragement he needed, and he took Frances’s face between his hands and gently drew her towards him. As their lips touched, Frances closed her eyes. The feeling of Michael’s warm mouth on hers soon filled Frances with strange new sensations, sensations she had never felt with George, and she moved closer to him.
It was only when Mr Rogers cleared his throat from the doorway that the couple realised they were not alone. They hastily drew back from each other and looked up at their intruder with guilty, yet self-satisfied, smiles.
‘Forgive me for disturbing you and your cousin, Mr Brearly,’ Mr Rogers ventured, looking a little startled, ‘but another gentleman has just arrived and would like to inspect the property. What shall I tell him?’
Michael and Frances exchanged quick glances.
‘Tell him,’ Michael began, ‘tell him that he is too late.’
The agent raised both eyebrows. ‘You wish to take the house?’
Michael turned towards Frances, and seeing her nod of approval, returned his attention to the agent. ‘No,’ Michael answered. ‘My fiancée and I will take it.’ He turned to Frances and smiled.
The agent looked considerably relieved. ‘That is very good news indeed. And now that the decision has been made, would you both like to join me downstairs? I will need this decision in writing.’
‘Of course,’ Michael said eagerly. ‘The sooner this is finalised, the better.’ He followed the agent to the door, but faltered when he realised that Frances hadn’t moved. ‘What is it, Frances? Are you not coming?’
‘Not right away, no. I just want a few moments to myself, that’s all.’ She smiled reassuringly. ‘Don’t let me stop you though. I’ll be down soon.’
Michael nodded and almost bounded out of the room, leaving Frances alone in the peaceful solitude of the room. After a slight tussle with the window, Frances managed to get it opened, and the light breeze, imbued with
sea salt, filled her nostrils. She sighed contentedly. It was now late April and nearly five months had passed since she had arrived in Hobart. The recollection of those months brought a bittersweet smile to her lips, particularly the memory of her first night at Wintersleigh, when she had stared into the black vacuum of night from the open balcony door of her bed-chamber. Back then her future had been uncertain, but five months on, she had found her direction. As she looked out the window towards the river and distant verdure of the eastern shore, she realised with excitement that there was no limit to what her eyes could now see.
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