Dear Aunt Charlotte, I was so delighted to receive your letter! How kind of you to write. As you say, it is high time our two branches of the family became better acquainted. I fear that my own is sadly reduced, now that my dear parents are both deceased. But I do have a little daughter, Janet, who is eager to meet your many grandchildren. She has so few cousins, poor thing, especially now that your brother’s sons are gone to Western Australia.
In response to your inquiry, I am sorry to tell you that few of my mother’s papers have survived. This is because all her possessions remained at Oldbury. I do not know why my father left them there when he moved to Sydney from Swanton. It may have been because your brother refused to give them up. I regret to say that my father and your brother quarrelled dreadfully when I was about two—did you know?—and I never laid eyes on Oldbury again until I was orphaned. Then, as I mentioned in my last letter, I returned for a short time. But I trust you will not be offended if I confess that I was never very happy there. Though my uncle was a kind man, he was also extremely quiet and melancholy. As for his wife, she was not a nice woman. I hate to speak ill of a relative, and one who must have been sorely tried by the symptoms of such a violent stroke, but I cannot forgive Aunt Sarah for what she did to my mother’s papers. In addition, might I say that I had a great deal of trouble with her eldest son, and firmly believe that his difficult nature arose from the example she set.
When your brother died, I was immediately expelled from Oldbury. I went to live with the Reverend Joseph Mullens and his family in Sutton Forest, where I could not have been happier. I had already moved to the rectory when Aunt Sarah and her sister put Oldbury up for auction in 1887. In preparation for this event, those two wretched women decided to burn all of my mother’s possessions! All her manuscripts, her paintings, her specimens—even her collection of stuffed birds and animals! I barely heard the news in time, and had to run all the way from Sutton Forest to Oldbury (which must be at least three miles) in order to save what I could. I was given no assistance whatsoever, and was able to rescue only as much as I could carry back with me. That was little enough, I’m afraid, and none of it refers to an incident at Belanglo involving my grandmother. My mother did write a brief memoir of her own mother’s life shortly before she died, which happily escaped destruction. I treasure it greatly, because it was written for my benefit, but it does not refer to Belanglo. Even so, it makes me wish that I could have known my grandmother. She must have been a remarkable person!
If you would like a copy of the memoir, I could easily make one for you. Be assured that it does nothing but justice to its subject. ‘At the age of 2,’ according to my mother, ‘she (that is, your mother) could read well and professed throughout her life brilliant talents and great clearness of mind. No words could too highly paint her excellence and worth. Warm in disposition and affections, she was too marked a character not to meet with persons to whom her uprightness and courage made her obnoxious.’ It fills me with pride when I think that I am descended from such an excellent and formidable lady!
I’m so sorry that I could find nothing among the papers that was addressed to you. But I have enclosed something that must have belonged to you. Apparently, when my parents were living at Swanton, some remains were discovered in the forest beyond Berrima, near Cutaway Hill. There was nothing to indicate who the dead man might have been, but the police returned to your brother a gold watch which bore the name ‘James Atkinson’, and which was found amongst the bones. Since the watch had mysteriously disappeared some time previously, it was concluded that the bones belonged to a thief. One can only assume that the thief must have robbed Oldbury at some point, because the silver pencil-case that I have enclosed was also discovered in his possession. And I was informed by your brother that it was originally yours.
You should know that your brother spoke of this pencil-case specifically before he died. He said that it had been identified as your own by Aunt Louisa, who had recognised it instantly when the police showed it to her. And Aunt Louisa had always vowed that it should be returned to you, because you were always so attached to it, and would never have sold it or freely given it away. But no one knew where you were living at that time, and so the pencil-case was kept in trust.
I took it when I last left Oldbury, knowing that Aunt Sarah would not bother to restore it to you. I do think that my uncle felt very strongly that he had a duty to return the case, or why mention it to me at all? He actually called me into his study, and said: ‘If you should ever come across your Aunt Charlotte, then you must tell her about this little silver case. Because she ought to know when it was found, and where. She ought to know that your Aunt and I realised how sorely she must have grieved to have been parted from it. But at least the thief has received his just desserts, however much we may pray for his unredeemed soul.’ I remember his exact words, because I recorded them directly afterwards in my journal. (I kept a journal in those days, though not any longer—I have far too much else to do!)
It therefore gives me great pleasure to return this precious article, which I hope will not be unwelcome. I think I can say, without exaggeration, that it comes to you with the loving regards of your brother and sister—and of myself, naturally! If you would like a copy of the memoir as well, please send me word, and I will take up my pen at once.
Until then I remain, most respectfully yours,
(Mrs) Louise S.A. Cosh