Dorothy Eden by Vines of Yarrabee Page A

in the warm dark night, Eugenia could have imagined she was at a party in England. There had been a four-poster bed with chintz hangings in the bedroom where the ladies had left their wraps. The winding staircase and hall were hung with large oil paintings, the drawing-room was completely English in style, with striped wallpaper, gilt-framed mirrors, heavy comfortable furniture. Everything was much more grand than she had thought it could be. The dining-table was laid with silver and crystal and a beautiful porcelain dinner service.
    It was reassuring. Life could be civilized here, after all. She was glad now that her grandmother had persuaded her to take with her the elaborate French bed and other bric-a-brac that had seemed to her unsuitable and foolish. She would make the house Gilbert had built as beautiful as this one. They would have parties, too, pretending for a little while that the wilderness outside did not exist. The thought made her look towards Gilbert and catch his eye. When he responded to her small secret smile, her heart fluttered a little. She recognized a lover’s glance. She believed she was in love, after all.
    Mr Wentworth, of whose tempestuous career she had heard little, except that he was a controversial person in Sydney and not welcomed everywhere, was gallant towards her. He was handsome, with his high aristocratic forehead, and thick glossy hair brushed smoothly back and curling on his neck. But he was autocratic and opinionated. When the subject turned to Gilbert’s wine, Mr Wentworth said that he believed Gilbert was making a mistake putting all his eggs in one basket. ‘You’ve heard what the Governor said in his speech in the House yesterday—that our wool is our wealth, that colonists must have sheep if they want to continue to be wealthy.’
    ‘I never have been wealthy,’ Gilbert said mildly.
    ‘No, and you may never be if you don’t run sheep. You have plenty of land. Wasn’t your grant a thousand acres? You can’t plant all that in vines?’
    ‘True. I have a herd of cattle, and a few sheep for killing for mutton, but otherwise,’ he said stubbornly, ‘I intend to put all my energies into my vineyard. It is the only way to succeed, to have a single aim.’
    ‘Well, I wish you luck,’ Wentworth said drily. He signalled to a servant to open another bottle of the Yarrabee wine which Gilbert had presented to him, and said to the table at large, ‘We must drink all we can to maintain our friend’s prosperity.’
    After dinner Mr Wentworth wanted to show Eugenia his treasures. He had bought Vaucluse at a public auction, and although the legal title was still in doubt and the subject of litigation in the Court of Claims, he had gone ahead making additions and improvements. He intended the house to be one of the best in the colony.
    ‘But I understand, Miss Lichfield, that you will be living in a very fine one at Parramatta?’
    ‘Yes, I haven’t seen it yet. Mr Massingham has only described it to me.’
    ‘Then allow me to say that it could not be too fine for its new mistress.’
    Eugenia lowered her eyes. The man’s admiration was a little blatant. Bess Kelly had told her that he was an illegitimate son. His father had been a fine young scoundrel, who, after a forced arrival in Botany Bay, had acquired a fortune very quickly. This had enabled him to have his son educated in England. But William Wentworth himself was one of that new race, a man who had actually been born in the colony, and who had its interests at heart. He would make his mark. He was a man to know, Gilbert had said. For it was at tables such as his that Australians would acquire the civilized habit of wine drinking.
    Nevertheless, the good taste of Vaucluse had reassured Eugenia, and she was happy that Gilbert was pleased with her tonight. She was learning quickly. The quality that would be of most importance in this country was tolerance. Accordingly she set herself to be charming to her host, admiring