Chapter 5

Rutherglen, October 1868

It was race day, and the entire population of Rutherglen was in a ferment of excitement. The atmosphere at Freshfields was particularly frenetic, as George Lavender had been co-opted into the Rutherglen Jockey Club, the group of leading citizens whose job it was to choose a site for the meeting and make the necessary arrangements. To add to the tension, Gus had insisted on entering his black gelding, Storm, and proposed to ride him himself.

‘You don’t stand a chance,’ his father told him. ‘If it was just local people you might, just, though I doubt it against horses like Wallace Chambers’ Gladiator. But people will come from up-country and they are serious breeders. You haven’t seen some of these thoroughbreds run. Against them any of our beasts will look like carthorses.’

‘You’ve never ridden in a race, Gus,’ May said. ‘You don’t know what you’re letting yourself in for.’

‘I’ve raced Storm against some of the other fellows, out on the road,’ Gus said obstinately. ‘I know what I’m doing.’

May and her father had given up the argument and concentrated on practical arrangements for the day. They had invited a number of other local people to join them and May and Maria were busy packing a picnic to satisfy a dozen large appetites. As soon as it was ready May hurried upstairs to change her dress and put on her most attractive bonnet, since she had been told that this was one of the occasions in the year when everyone was expected to appear in all their finery. By the time she came down again, Maria and the two boys who were employed to look after the stables, together with their Chinese gardener, had loaded the hampers of food and the magnums of wine onto a wagon, and they all set off for the stretch of land that had been chosen for the meeting.

There was no permanent structure, although there was talk of one day building a stand for the spectators and stables for the visiting horses. At present there was only a track, marked out by tapes, and some marquees to provide shade. A special area near the finishing post was set aside for members of the jockey club and their families. May supervised the unloading of the provisions and their storage in a corner of the marquee, then she and Maria spread a rug on the grass and settled down to watch the passing crowd. On the far side of the track a paddock had been created for the horses and their riders and a number of local men were engaged in either exercising their mounts or putting finishing touched to their appearance with grooming brushes and polishing cloths. As May watched, a horsebox drawn by two dray horses arrived.

‘That’ll be one of the squatters from up-country, bringing his thoroughbred to race,’ Maria said.

‘I don’t understand that term,’ May said. ‘I thought a squatter was someone who was occupying a house that didn’t belong to them.’

‘Well, I suppose the fact is that when those families first moved onto the land, it didn’t belong to them. They brought their sheep and their cattle over from New South Wales and just marked out territory for themselves. In the end the government realised they could never get rid of them, so laws have been brought in allowing them to lease the land, or sometimes even buy it. Most of them have huge runs with hundreds of head of sheep and cattle, so they are very well off.’

More horseboxes arrived, and May saw glossy animals being led out of them and tethered under the trees. Gus appeared, his brows drawn down in an expression May remembered from their childhood days, whenever he had conceived the idea that someone had insulted him or treated him unfairly.

‘Those damn squatters!’ he muttered.

‘Really, Gus,’ she protested, ‘you shouldn’t use words like that.’

‘Why not?’ he demanded irritably. ‘No one worries about language like that out here.’

Her father patted her arm. ‘I’m afraid he’s right, May. You have to remember that most of us come from pretty rough backgrounds, where that sort of language – and worse – was quite normal. All the same, Gus—’ he turned to his son ‘—you shouldn’t swear in front of ladies, and that includes your sister.’

‘Sorry,’ he mumbled, then more loudly, ‘but it’s not fair. Those chaps shouldn’t be allowed to bring their thoroughbreds here to race against local people. We don’t stand a chance against horses like that.’

‘Isn’t that what I told you?’ his father said. ‘I’m afraid horse racing is becoming big business. The Victoria Racing Club is beginning to lay down rules and regulations, and little local races like this will probably soon be a thing of the past. Soon the only people who can be involved are the ones with the money to import stallions from abroad and breed horses specifically to race.’

‘We’ve got money,’ Gus said. ‘Why can’t we breed our own horses?’

‘Well, for one thing, because we don’t know the first thing about it,’ his father responded with a laugh.

‘We could learn.’ May recognised the obstinate set of her brother’s chin and knew that this was something he would not easily let drop.

‘Yes, well,’ their father said easily, ‘you learn enough to convince me that it won’t be a waste of money and I’ll think about it.’

Their guests had arrived, and May and Maria set out the picnic. Gus looked around at the rest of the gathering.

‘Where’s Kitty? Her dad promised to bring her.’

‘They’ll be here soon, I expect,’ May said. ‘It’s quite a long drive from Chiltern.’

‘You should see those horses, May,’ Gus said. ‘They are the most beautiful creatures. Why don’t you come over to the paddock with me and I’ll show you? We’ve still got half an hour before the first race.’

‘I don’t know,’ May said. She had had very little experience of horses and they made her nervous.

‘Oh, come on! They won’t hurt you,’ he said.

She saw that he would be annoyed if she refused so she nodded and put aside her glass of lemonade. ‘Very well, then, if I must.’

He stretched out his hand and pulled her to her feet and they strolled around the track to the paddock. As they approached they were greeted by Anton Schloer, who was holding the reins of a tall grey horse. He clicked his heels together and made a little bow.

‘Good afternoon, Miss Lavender. I am glad to see that you have come to support us.’

Over the last months Anton had become a regular visitor to Freshfields. Ostensibly it was because he and Gus were friends, but he always took every opportunity to spend time with May. He carried her easel when she went to the lake to paint and sat with her, discussing the wildlife they saw. At the local dances he was always the first to ask her to dance and did his best to monopolise her attention. She enjoyed his company and his manner was always correct, even formal, but she knew that he was hoping for some indication from her that she was prepared to take the relationship further. She felt she was being unfair and longed to be able to explain her position, but without telling him, and her family, about James that was impossible. Her dilemma was complicated by the fact that Gus made no secret of his approval of a potential match and was puzzled and irritated by her reluctance.

She smiled and gave Anton her hand. ‘I don’t think my support is going to be much use to you. I know nothing at all about horses or horse racing.’

‘But we are not experts either,’ he said. ‘And seeing the competition, I do not think either of us stand much chance of winning a race. Is it not so, Gus?’

‘Not today,’ Gus agreed. ‘Not until we take a leaf out of the opposition’s book.’

‘Oh, and how do you propose to do that?’

‘I’m not sure, yet. But I’ll find a way.’ He indicated a dark chestnut horse that was being led past them by a groom. ‘Look at that! Look at the muscles in his hocks and the depth of his chest. That’s what I’d be looking for.’

‘Well, well! A farmer with an eye for horseflesh! That’s a new one!’

The speaker had come up behind them. He was a young man, perhaps in his mid-twenties, May guessed, with dark, slightly unruly hair and wide-spaced brown eyes fringed with thick lashes. She took this in, in the first seconds of the encounter, with a sudden jolt, as if she had missed her step on the grass.

Gus flushed angrily. ‘I’m not a farmer. I’m a wine grower.’

The man lifted dark brows. ‘There is a difference?’

Gus squared up to him. ‘Are you looking for a fight?’

It was Anton who stepped between them. ‘Whether farmers or vignerons, we know better than to behave in this way in the presence of a lady.’

The newcomer’s eyes went from Anton to May, and stayed focused on her face. ‘Forgive me, you are quite right. I should mind my manners. Please accept my apologies. My name is Rudolph Marshall. May I know yours?’

May glanced at her brother, who was still glowering, and knew that it was up to her to maintain the peace. ‘I am May Lavender, and this is my brother Augustus. This gentleman is Anton Schloer.’

Marshall nodded to Gus and then to Anton. ‘Pleased to meet you, gentlemen. Forgive me if I offended you just now. I was surprised, that is all, to hear you speak in such perceptive terms about my horse.’

‘He’s yours?’ Gus said, with a change of tone.

Marshall moved to pat the neck of the horse. ‘Yes, he’s mine. This is Excalibur – the winner of your three-thirty race. I can guarantee that.’

‘He is a splendid animal,’ Anton said. ‘I am glad that my race is the two-thirty, so I shall not be running against him.’

‘And you?’ Marshall turned to Gus. ‘Do you also ride today?’

‘In the two-thirty, also,’ Gus said.

‘Then I wish you both the best of luck.’ He offered his hand to May. ‘Miss Lavender. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance; I hope we may meet again – after the race perhaps?’

‘I …’ she hesitated, taken by surprise. ‘I don’t expect so.’

‘Oh? I am disappointed. Perhaps then, you will give me that flower you are wearing, to stick in my cap to bring me luck?’

May swallowed hard. Behind her back she could sense Gus bristling and the thought came to her that she need not be bound by his disapproval. She was wearing a small sprig of wattle pinned to her collar, the golden yellow of which complimented the blue of her dress. She unpinned it and handed it to Marshall.

‘Here you are. I hope it does bring you luck.’

‘I’m quite sure it will.’ He raised the blooms to his nose, bowed and turned away to take the reins of his horse.

‘What did you do that for?’ Gus demanded, as he moved off. ‘You don’t want to encourage that sort.’

‘What do you mean, that sort?’

‘He’s one of the squattocracy. We don’t mix with his type.’

‘The what?’ Her laughter burst out at the name.

‘It’s a mixture of squatters and aristocracy. It means they’re at the top of the heap, or they like to think they are. Like the lords and dukes and such like back in England.’

‘I don’t see how they can think that,’ May said, puzzled. ‘I mean, what gives them the right?’

‘What gives the barons back in England the right?’ he countered.

‘Well, they inherited it.’

‘And that makes it right for them to own half the country and treat the rest of us like dirt?’

‘I never said that. And I don’t see what it has to do with these squatters. What right do they have to think themselves so superior?’

‘The same thing. They own great swathes of the land and that means they have great pots of money.’

‘We have money, now. Well, Papa does.’

‘Not like them. We’ll never be as rich as they are.’

‘Well, anyway, I don’t see why I shouldn’t be polite to that man. He seemed quite pleasant.’

‘He’s a condescending b … I won’t say the word. You know what I mean.’

Anton had stood quietly by during this exchange. Now he said, ‘We should perhaps give Marshall the benefit of the doubt. He did apologise for his bad manners to begin with.’

May smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Anton.’ On an impulse she added, ‘I’m sorry I haven’t got another flower to give to you for luck.’

He bent his head gallantly. ‘Just the wish from you is good enough.’

‘Oh, I have had enough of all this rubbish,’ Gus said. ‘Come on, Anton. We need to get ready.’

May walked back to the marquee feeling a strange mixture of excitement and embarrassment. Whatever had possessed her to give that strange man her flower? It had been more than just an impulse to defy her brother. What did he say his horse was called? Excalibur, that was it. A faint recollection flickered through her mind and then took shape. She was back in Mrs Kelly’s needlework classes at the workhouse and Mrs Kelly was reading aloud to them while they sewed. She had a big book full of pictures of knights in armour and ladies in beautiful flowing dresses. That memory triggered another. James had taken her to an art gallery and they had looked at pictures by artists he had called the Pre-Raphaelites. Some of those showed similar images. She had told him about Mrs Kelly’s book and that had led him to talk about the legend of King Arthur and the medieval cult of chivalry. It was James who had told her that sometimes when a knight was riding in a tourney he would ask his lady for a favour to wear in his helmet, to show that he fought in her honour. She realised with a small shiver that it was that recollection that had prompted her to respond to Rudolph Marshall’s request and she felt guilty, as if she had shared something with him that rightfully belonged to James.

Back at the marquee she found that Kitty and her family had arrived, and before long the first race was announced and everyone crowded forward to the edge of the course. May and Kitty edged their way through the crowd to stand as close as they could to the tape.

‘Do you think Gus stands a chance?’ Kitty asked.

‘I really don’t know,’ May answered. ‘I think it depends on whether any of the horses the squatters have brought are in the race.’

‘Oh, they won’t be running in this one,’ Kitty said. ‘The prize money is not big enough. They’ll save themselves for the three-thirty.’

‘You seem to know more about it than I do,’ May said.

‘Oh—’ Kitty flicked her dark hair back over her shoulders with a shrug ‘—my da’s very keen on the horses. It’s the Irish tradition, you know. We all love anything to do with horses.’

‘Gus wants to start breeding thoroughbreds,’ May told her.

‘Does he now? Well, if he does, my da will be more than ready to give any advice he can. Oh, look! They’re lining up at the start.’

The course was roughly oval in shape and the starting line was away to May’s right. Craning her neck, she made out the back of Gus’s big black and Anton’s grey, but beyond that she could not recognise any of the others. The starter dropped his flag and the horses leapt forward so closely bunched together that it was impossible to say who was leading. But by the time they came round the bend at the far end of the track the field had spread out and she saw that three horses were ahead of the rest. One she recognised as Gladiator, the horse her father had predicted would win, another she could not name and the third was Gus’s Storm. By now everyone was jumping up and down and yelling encouragement to their chosen riders, and May found herself jumping and yelling with the rest.

‘Come on, Gus! Come on, Storm!’

Beside her Kitty was screaming the same. The horses thundered towards them.

‘He’s right there! He could win! Come on, Gus!’ Kitty yelled.

At the winning post, it was Gladiator who was half a length ahead, but Gus came in second, punching the air in celebration.

May headed back to the marquee with a sense of relief. Gus would be in a much better mood now.

‘Well, this calls for a celebration,’ her father said. ‘Who’s for a glass of wine?’

Some of the group opted for beer and May stuck to lemonade. She had tried to like the wine her father was so proud of, but the fact was she found it made her mouth feel dry and her head feel dizzy. They were all drinking when Gus re-joined them, sweating but triumphant.

‘Second, eh?’ he exclaimed. ‘Not bad for a beginner.’

‘Very well done!’ his father said. ‘Congratulations.’

Kitty stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek, with a boldness that May found slightly surprising. Patrick O’Dowd clapped him on the back and said, ‘We’ll make a champion jockey of you yet.’

May kissed him in her turn. ‘I’m so glad for you, Gus. Well done.’

No one had any great interest in the outcome of the next race but when the runners in the three-thirty began to line up May felt her pulse quicken. Gus got to his feet.

‘Let’s see how your toffee-nosed squatter gets on, shall we?’

‘He’s not mine!’ May protested, feeling the colour rise in her cheeks. Nevertheless, she followed her brother and Kitty to the side of the track.

‘What does he mean – your squatter?’ Kitty asked.

‘Oh, nothing really. It’s just a joke. We spoke to him earlier, before you got here.’

Gus had elbowed his way to the front of the crowd but May hung back. She did not want to seem too interested. This time she did not jump up and down and yell, but she still felt a thrill when she saw her sprig of wattle on the cap of the winner.

‘Well,’ Gus conceded, ‘that horse can certainly run. I wouldn’t mind riding something as fast as that.’

The races were over but the pleasures of the day were not finished. There was to be a hog roast, followed by dancing. May helped Maria pack the remains of the picnic onto the wagon and rode back to the house with her, glad of the chance to wash her face and change her dress. When she got back to the race course the sun was setting and the smell of roasting pork brought the saliva to her mouth. Lanterns had been strung in the trees at the edge of the field and beneath them there was a cheerful crowd, eating and drinking and chatting to friends and neighbours, some celebrating their winnings, others trying to forget their losses. A makeshift dance floor had been created by nailing sawn planks to a framework and very soon the band struck up. It was made up of an odd selection of instruments, played with varying expertise by local people, with Patrick O’Dowd taking a leading part on his fiddle.

As soon as the first dance was announced, Anton claimed May as his partner and succeeded in fending off potential rivals until she was out of breath and her feet were hurting and she insisted that she must sit the next one out. He went off to fetch them both a drink, and May sank down on one of the folding chairs that were placed around the floor.

‘Miss Lavender, at last! I thought I was never going to get a chance to return this.’

Rudolph Marshall bent towards her and held out a wilted sprig of wattle. She looked up in surprise.

‘Really, there was no need for that! It’s dying anyway.’

‘I know.’ He grinned. ‘But it gives me an excuse to speak to you, and thank you for bringing me luck.’

‘I don’t think luck had anything to do with it,’ she said. ‘The best horse and rider won.’ But she found herself smiling back at him.

Gus appeared at her other side. ‘Still here, Marshall? I thought you’d be on your way home by now.’

‘And miss the chance of paying my respects to your sister? And also congratulating you. Am I right in thinking this was the first time you had ridden in a proper race? You did very well to come in second. That’s a nice-looking gelding you were riding.’

‘Not as nice as your thoroughbred,’ Gus said. ‘Congratulations on your win, by the way.’

May could see from her brother’s face that he was torn between his instinctive antagonism towards what he termed the squattocracy and his new-found interest in horse racing. The interest won.

‘Did you buy him, or did you breed him yourself?’

‘We bred him,’ Marshall replied. ‘My father has always been interested, and five years ago we bought in an English thoroughbred stallion called Galahad and a couple of brood mares. Excalibur is one of the first colts they produced.’

‘Galahad, Excalibur,’ May repeated. ‘They are all names from the legend of King Arthur, aren’t they?’

‘Ah.’ He looked at her with a new spark of interest. ‘You know the stories?’

She blushed and dropped her eyes. ‘Not really. But someone I know told me about them.’

‘Well,’ he said, ‘it wasn’t something I had taken an interest in until we got Galahad. I wanted to know where the name came from and it seemed a good idea to base the names of our stud around the legends. We have a filly called Guinevere, who looks quite promising.’

‘Do you keep all the horses you breed?’ Gus cut into the conversation.

‘Not all, no. We keep the most promising looking ones and sell the others on.’

‘I see …’ May could see that Gus was longing to ask the price, but was afraid it would be far out of his reach.

The band struck up a waltz and Marshall held out his hand to May. ‘May I have the pleasure?’

She heard Gus make a sound, as if he wanted to intervene, but she gave Marshall her hand and allowed him to lead her onto the dance floor. As they reached it, she saw Anton coming back with a glass in either hand and saw him frown in annoyance. Then Marshall put his arm round her waist and whirled her into the dance. This was a new experience. Anton had taught her to dance, practising the steps with her until she felt confident enough to dance in public. As with everything else, his teaching had been formal and correct, but she realised now that there was something stiff in the way he moved. By contrast, her new partner seemed to flow with the music, as if carried along by its current. She felt herself respond in a similar way and began to enjoy herself.

‘Tell me, Miss Lavender,’ he said. ‘Why have I not seen you before?’

‘Oh, I have not been here long,’ she replied. ‘I only came out just before Christmas.’

‘Came out from where?’

‘From Liverpool. I … I grew up there.’ It occurred to her that she was at risk of having to explain what she had been doing and who she had been living with. To change the subject she said, ‘Please call me May. Miss Lavender sounds so formal.’

‘With great pleasure,’ he agreed, ‘as long as you call me Rudi.’

‘Not Rudolph?’

‘No, I don’t care for Rudolph.’

‘Very well, Rudi it shall be,’ she said.

When the dance ended he led her back to where Anton was waiting, his lips pursed in a disapproving pout.

‘I have your lemonade here,’ he said. ‘I thought you were thirsty.’

‘Thank you, Anton,’ she responded, taking the glass with her warmest smile. ‘I am.’

She sat down and took a long drink, aware that over her head eyes were meeting in an unspoken challenge. She sighed inwardly. She was tired of being the prize in a struggle for male dominance and longed more than ever for James to arrive to claim her as his own.

Gus re-joined them with Kitty on his arm. Marshall turned to greet him.

‘I was thinking. We have a little colt that might interest you – if you’re serious about getting into thoroughbred racing. He’s only a yearling, but I think he has a lot of potential. Why don’t you come up to the station some time and look him over? Perhaps you could bring May with you.’

‘Isn’t it a long way?’ May asked.

‘No! We’re an hour’s ride west, fronting onto the Ovens River. Come and see, why don’t you? You’ll be very welcome.’

May looked at Gus, who was still struggling to reconcile opposing impulses.

‘I’ll talk to my pa,’ he said finally. ‘See if he can spare me for a day.’

‘Excellent! The homestead’s called Eskmere. Anyone will direct you.’

May went to bed that night subject to much the same confusion of emotions as her brother, though for different reasons. There was something dangerous about Rudi Marshall, something she sensed but could not put her finger on. It had to do with the way she had felt when they danced together; with the way his eyes met hers when they mentioned the Arthurian legends; with the annoyance she had felt with the rivalry between him and Anton. At the same time, there was a kind of defiance in her; a refusal to be confined and manipulated by men, whether by Gus or Anton or Rudi. And underneath it all was the question, ‘what would James want me to do?’ She turned over and buried her face in the pillow. ‘Oh, James, James! I wish you were here!’

On the morning after the races it seemed that some benevolent deity, unable to fully grant her prayer, had nonetheless provided a small compensation in the shape of a letter. Post had to be collected from the general store in town and May had taken that duty on herself. It meant that when a letter arrived from James she could read it in private without having to explain it to the rest of the family. As soon as she could she found a quiet spot down by the lake and devoured his words. The letter was full of expressions of love and his longing to be with her. By the time she had finished it she was able to think of the competition between Rudi and Anton as an amusing diversion, no more then that.