She found herself thinking back to a Christmas Eve when she was little. There was a large fir tree in the hallway, the topmost branches reaching almost to the third floor. Its boughs glittered with glass balls, lighted candles and small gifts wrapped in coloured paper. Underneath the spreading lower limbs were larger brown parcels with handwritten labels, tied up with curly string. On one of the lower branches she discovered a tiny teddy bear, a woolly blue scarf wrapped round its furry neck. Delighted, she reached up and tried to grab it.
‘Don’t touch!’ Her mother had swatted her hand away, pulled the bear from the branch with a tenderness Maisie had rarely seen from her and cradled it in her arms, like a baby.
Mrs Wallace rattled her teaspoon against the inside of the cup. ‘Do you know anything about your husband-to-be?’
Maisie felt the heat in her face. The shock of the memory had caught her out. ‘I know nothing about him other than that he is a sea captain. I have no idea what he looks like or even how old he is. He wrote to my parents before Christmas saying he was in a position to offer me marriage and so here I am two months later in Australia.’
Mrs Wallace looked stunned. ‘Did you not have any say in the matter?’
Maisie shook her head. ‘I think it was all arranged before they told me. It seems as if Cousin Maitland sent over a shopping list and I was one of the items on it.’
Mrs Wallace laughed. ‘I’m sure that was not the case.’
‘No, really,’ Maisie continued. ‘In my hold luggage I have a twenty-four-place china dinner service, glassware, linens and silverware and all sorts of other things too. Mama and Father said nothing about the expense. I suspect they were glad that someone would remove me as far away from them as is geographically possible on this planet. I’m not exaggerating – I looked it up on the atlas.’
Mrs Wallace patted the back of her hand. ‘Don’t be so introspective, dear. You overthink everything. No parent would throw their child to the lions without being reasonably certain she would survive, and they would most certainly have sent you on your way with a substantial dowry. Every parent wants a good marriage for their daughter – a husband and place in society. But enough of that. On a practical level, for the monthly trial, you will find it impossible in the heat to wear the rubber protective apron you have brought with you under your dress. It will stick to you and give you prickly heat. You’ve probably had a bit of that already on the ship with all those garments you’ve been wearing.’
Maisie thought her own face must have stained as red as the counterpane on her bed, but Mrs Wallace said all this without a hint of embarrassment.
‘You are going to have to manage with those sanitary knickers you have in your trunk. They are a boon in a hot country, provided you don’t overexert yourself. We might try to find you a night tidy, though. We should be able to pick one up from the chemist here. It’s made of muslin and has a waterproof lining. It will prevent accidents on the sheets and unnecessary extra laundry for your help. I’m glad also that you have brought the metal stock box to keep the towels dry. Otherwise they will go mouldy in the wet season and I am sure you don’t want them infested with silverfish or moths. The best plan is to have a baby straightaway and have one every year for a while. That way, you won’t need supplies for years. It’s what I did.’ Mrs Wallace poured Maisie another cup of tea.
‘Does it hurt like this, having a baby?’ Maisie ventured, knowing that she would never have asked this of her mother.
‘Were you not given any indication of what to expect?’
Maisie cringed, pulled the sheet up under her chin and sank down further towards the foot of the bed. She knew the rudimentary facts of life, but her knowledge of the sexual act and its consequences was vague. As far as she knew, her parents did not undress in front of each other, and they slept in separate beds in different rooms. She hadn’t really thought about the mechanics of procreation. She supposed that her mother must have lifted her skirts at least twice and invited her father in, but specific details hadn’t seemed important. Ignorance had enabled her not to incorporate the physical reality into her romantic dream.
Mrs Wallace pushed her generously padded posterior towards the back of the chair and set about a lengthy narrative on the subject of the needs and desires of the gentleman and his insatiable ‘boneless finger’.
‘But I am sure your husband will be sensitive to your needs and will treat you with the greatest of respect. And you can always say you have a headache – it’s an acceptable excuse that no decent man would contest. I have a copy somewhere at home of the Physiology of Marriage. I’ll search it out and send it to you.’
Maisie slid down another inch beneath the sheets. ‘What is that?’
‘The last word in marital relations. Perfect for you, I would have thought, with a mother who …’ Mrs Wallace bit her lip.
‘Who what?’
Mrs Wallace refilled her teacup and took a noisy gulp.
‘Who …’ She balanced the saucer on the chair arm. ‘I believe she was rather keen on someone else for a while.’
‘Before she married my father, you mean?’
Mrs Wallace lifted the teacup and Maisie watched the blush wash over her face. ‘Exactly, dear. Now you’ll have to remind me what I was saying just now as I have lost my train of thought.’
‘Physiology of Marriage and why it will be perfect for me, given my mother.’
‘Oh yes! The newspapers here have been running advertisements for it, but you wouldn’t have found it in England, as it is an Australian publication. It is only available here via mail order. As I said, I’ll send it on to you straightaway so you will have it before your wedding night. It might make you less anxious.’ She dispensed another spoonful of syrup into Maisie’s tea. ‘Now, drink this down and have a little nap. I’m going to sit on the balcony and make a list of what you will need. When you wake, we’ll have luncheon and then we will see about stocking you up with supplies.’
Maisie reached for the syrup bottle and squinted at the label, feeling faint as she studied the lengthy list of opiates, moving the black bottle backwards and forwards in front of her face trying to bring the tiny print into focus.
She gave up and sank back against the soft pillows, eyelids heavy, and in that brief moment she could not have cared less about Maitland Sinclair and his insatiable urges.
ALMOST A WEEK LATER, just before sunrise, Maisie put on a new cream dress, revelling in its floaty freshness. She lifted her arms, testing the weight of the unfamiliar, soft, feminine fabric. She’d passed over a pick of her mother’s from Peter Jones and shoved it to the bottom of her trunk. Thanks to Mrs Wallace, she now owned a wardrobe of loose-fitting clothes appropriate for the Australian climate. She went out on deck, her new shoes noisy on the planking, and settled herself into a deckchair, the familiarity of the hard wood beneath her skirts reassuring. The purpose of her dawn expedition was to see a glorious sunrise – her last at sea for a while. But the sun remained persistently hidden somewhere within an angry purple sky.
She had been aboard the coastal hopper for six days, the pace of which would have made a snail weep, and was set to arrive in Buccaneer Bay that evening. The ship inched along the flat, grey coast, which provided little of interest beyond rocks and endless scrubland. She shivered as she picked out a light winking beacon-like on the shoreline, hoping it was not a warning of danger ahead.
Mrs Wallace was no longer on board. Two days earlier, she had disembarked at Gantry Creek, in a hurry to get back to her husband, her boys and their sheep in the Pilbara.
Maisie had become uncharacteristically weepy in her arms as they said their goodbyes. ‘What will I do without you, Mrs Wallace?’
The