In Edda’s opinion, no man could hold a candle to Jack Thurlow, whom she had met on the bridle path along the Corunda River when she had been all of seventeen. Then as now, he was riding a tall thoroughbred of dappled grey with a blackish mane and tail, the kind of horse Edda, astride fat old Thumbelina, would have given much to own, and knew she never could.
Still she could remember the day: Winter coming, and the long, graceful canes of weeping willows were flying yellow leaves like a blizzard of slender darts. The river water was as clear as glass, freshly shed along the crest of the Great Divide whose rounded old mountains hunched against Corunda’s eastern rim. A magic world of sharply tangy winds, the far-off breath of snow, pungently redolent soil, a streaming mackerel sky . . .
He was cantering down the bridle path, so she first saw him through the rain of frozen willow tears. Sitting his horse so well, his brown, sinewy arms loose across his mount’s neck, barely holding the reins. Horse and rider were old friends, she thought, pulling Thumbelina off the path and waiting to see if he would just thunder by without acknowledging her presence, or stop to greet a fellow rider.
The overcast day meant he wore no hat; slowing, he lifted his hand to his brow, fingers curled as if they gripped a brim that wasn’t there. No film star, he, but to Edda he was better than one of those artificial gentlemen, with their pancake makeup, mascaraed lashes, and lipsticked mouths. A true Corunda landsman, and beautiful in Edda’s adolescent eyes. Displaying good manners, he halted, dismounted, then helped Edda down, for all she didn’t need helping.
“This old lady needs turning out to pasture,” he said after introducing himself, patting Thumbelina’s nose.
“Yes, but now Daddy has a motor car, she’s the last horse left in the Rectory stables.”
“I’ll trade you.”
The hooded pale eyes widened. “Trade me?”
“The Rector, really. My home paddock is too small for a good young horse, but it would suit your old lady just right. I’ll take her in exchange for a four-year-old mare named Fatima, provided you keep her exercised,” said Jack, rolling a cigarette.
“If Daddy says yes, it’s a bargain!” Edda cried, feeling as if in a dream. A horse worth riding as well as a lush little paddock for Thumbelina! Oh, pray Daddy said yes!
At the time Jack Thurlow was just thirty years old, tall and well built without seeming clumsy or lumbering; his thick, waving hair was streaked between golden and flaxen, his face was handsome in a masculine mold, and his eyes were a stern blue. A Burdum to the core, Edda thought, from hair to eyes.
“I’m old Tom Burdum’s heir,” he said gloomily.
Her breath caught; Edda laughed. “You’re complaining?”
“Darned right I am! What would I do with all that money and power?” he demanded, as if money and power were disgusting things. “I’ve managed Corundoobar for old Tom since I was eighteen, and Corundoobar is all I want. The fat lambs bring in a steady income, and the Arab horses I breed for lady’s hacks are beginning to win me prizes at some important country shows. Anything more would swamp me.”
A man with finite ambitions, thought Edda, fresh at that moment with the heartbreak of learning she couldn’t do medicine. If old Tom Burdum gave me £5,000 to do medicine, he wouldn’t even notice a pinprick in his wealth, while his heir is of a mind to renounce everything except a pinprick. Corundoobar is 5,000 acres of magnificent land, but it’s not even the biggest or the best of old Tom’s properties. What circles we run in!
That had been the start of a curious friendship limited to rides along the Corunda River, a friendship that Edda was surprised to find her father did not oppose in any way, from Fatima the gift horse to the unchaperoned nature of his daughter’s contacts with Jack.
For which, blame Maude. The ready-reckoner in her mind began to hum and then to click as the indignant Rector informed her of Jack Thurlow’s cheek in scraping an acquaintance with his virgin child, and there would be no Fatima in exchange for Thumbelina, and definitely no more rides for Edda along the bridle path . . .
“What utter piffle!” snapped Maude, astonished at the Rector’s stupidity. “You will drive me out to Corundoobar this evening, Thomas, and thank Jack Thurlow very prettily for his kindness in giving Edda a decent hack. Oh, what fools men can be! The man is very comfortably off, a Burdum by blood, and at the moment old Tom Burdum’s only heir. You ought to be down on your knees at the high altar thanking God for throwing Edda in Jack Thurlow’s direction! With any luck as well as plenty of good management, she’ll be his wife within three years.”
A tirade that all four girls overheard, and discussed many times over those three years. The object of it, Edda, took it better than her sisters, as success meant Fatima and a new friend. The one who cringed and flinched at such naked determination was poor Kitty; if Maude could behave like that over Edda, about whom she didn’t care, what would she be like when Kitty’s turn came?
Friendship was all it could be, of course. Virginity was highly prized, and the Rector’s daughters brought up to believe that a decent man expected his wife to be a virgin on her wedding night; pregnancy out of wedlock was the worst sin imaginable.
There were reasons, of course, and the Rector, as religious instructor to his daughters, made sure they understood that this was not a caprice, but a logical law. “A man has only one proof that he is the father of his wife’s children,” said the Reverend Latimer in his most serious voice to his fifteen-year-old girls, “and that is his wife’s virginity on her wedding day, coupled to her fidelity during the marriage. Why should a man give food and shelter to children who are not his? Both Old and New Testaments condemn unchastity and infidelity.”
From time to time Thomas Latimer repeated this sermon, though without understanding that his greatest help in assuring the innocence of his girls was the fact that none of them was tempted to throw her cap over the windmill, including Edda.
For all his attractions, Jack Thurlow didn’t tug at Edda’s heart. Nor had any other man, for that matter. Knowing herself capable of fascinating men, Edda waited for the tug at her heart that never came. Because it is human nature to blame the self, she ended in deciding that she lacked profound emotions. I am a cold person, she said to herself; I can’t feel as others feel. Not one of the boys and men who have kissed me since the C.L.C. ball in 1921 has provoked a deep response. A bit of a pash-up in a dark corner that I inevitably remember as ending in my slapping sweaty male hands away from my breasts—what on earth gets them so excited?
Despite such fancies, she continued to encounter Jack Thurlow on the bridle path, grateful because he never tried to embrace her or kiss her. Oh, there was a definite physical attraction between them, but clearly he disliked its ruling him as much as she disliked its ruling her.
Then in January of 1926, she kissed him.
The moment he saw her he kicked the grey gelding to a hasty meeting, slid off its back, and yanked her from Fatima with trembling hands.
He was shaking and openly weeping, which didn’t stop his lifting her off the ground and twirling her in a crazy, stepless dance—a kind of fool’s caper.
“A new Burdum heir has crawled out of the woodwork!” he said, putting her down. “Edda, I’m let off old Tom’s chain! At ten this morning I became the legal owner of Corundoobar free and clear, and signed a paper renouncing any other claims on old Tom’s estate. Free, Edda! I’m free!”
She couldn’t help it; she kissed him on the lips, a warm and loving message of congratulations that went on for long enough to hover perilously on the brink of becoming something more serious, more intense. Then he broke away, face wet with tears, and took her hands in one of his.
“I am so happy for you,” she said huskily, smiling.
“Edda, it’s my dream!” He groped for his handkerchief to mop his eyes. “Corundoobar is a prime property of just the right size, and there’s not a ruby anywhere near it, so money and power will pass me by.” Grinning, he ruffled her bobbed hair, something she hated. “With you going nursing in three months and our rides at least curtailed, I didn’t know what I was going to do. I even thought of going out west to merino country. Now this!”
“We can still ride on my days off,” she said seriously.
“I know, and it’s a factor.”
Old Tom Burdum, apparently, had finally found a suitable heir, and the entire district naturally expected the new heir to appear off the Sydney or Melbourne train. But he never did, and old Tom refused to say why.
When news of the heir did come, it consisted of miserable little snippets devoid of hard facts, and never sufficient to sate the greedier among the Corunda gossips.
The most enterprising of them was Maude, who, blessed with a tree of early apples, most considerately took a basket of them out to old Tom and old Hannah Burdum. There she applied the instruments of gossip torture with unsurpassed skill, but to very small effect. However, she learned just enough to whet her appetite and stimulate her to new heights of information gathering.
From old Tom and old Hannah she learned that the new heir’s name was Charles Henry Burdum, that he was an Englishman born and bred, was thirty-two years old, and still lived in England. Even old Tom’s massive estate was as nothing to him, he was so wealthy in his own right; he dabbled, said old Tom with awe, in the money markets of the City of London, financial capital of the world!
Armed with these facts, Maude was on the sleety station at 3 A.M. to board the night express from Melbourne to Sydney, where she arrived at 6 A.M., had breakfast in the Central Railway restaurant, and was waiting at the doors of the public library when they opened. And there, in the reading room, she found out all about Charles Henry Burdum. A woman of resource, Maude Latimer.
A money man he might be, but Charles Burdum had an altruistic streak, too: he was a medical doctor, a graduate of Guy’s, and actually held a job as a deputy superintendent at the Manchester Royal Infirmary—very prestigious! Of course his money wouldn’t slow his medical career down, would it? Maude looked up biographical dictionaries (Eton, Balliol, Guy’s), ponderous broadsheet newspapers, yellow-journalist tabloid newspapers, society magazines, less fussy magazines, and the notorious, rather ratbaggy journals that skated on the thin ice of the libel laws. They all yielded grist for her mill; Dr. Charles Burdum was news.
In 1925 he became engaged to the only daughter of a duke. The sensational, scandalous affair had been headlines in tabloids on both sides of the Atlantic, for Dr. Burdum, despite his wealth and the ownership of some thousands of acres of Lancashire, was not good enough according to the lights of the duke. When his daughter, Sybil, made the front page of the News of the World dancing a mad Charleston with Charles Burdum at a shady party, the Duke stepped in and removed Sybil from Charles Burdum’s life. Enthralled, Maude discovered that Sybil was a mere seventeen, well and truly under her father’s authority. It was obviously a blazing love affair; the couple ran away, were caught, and Sybil vanished from the face of the earth. A prowling French photographer took a picture of the girl sitting mournfully on the loggia of a Riviera villa; in the next photograph she was clad as a bride and marrying the Duke’s choice of husband for her—a fellow who went back to William the Conqueror on his distaff side, was six feet four inches tall, owned most of Northumberland and Cumberland, and was related to the old House of Hanover on his father’s side.
What she couldn’t obtain was a decent photograph of this remarkable chap, half money, half medicine. The black-and-white pictures of him didn’t even answer the vexed question as to whether he was ugly or handsome: a mouth, a nose, two eyes and a mop of what seemed fair hair. However, snaps of him in a group of men said that he wasn’t overly tall. That’s good, thought Maude; too tall a man would never suit Kitty.
Though she was happy to disseminate the gossip, Maude spoke of her plans for Kitty to no one. Sooner or later Charles Burdum would visit his colonial inheritance, and the intensity of his foiled attempt to marry a duke’s daughter said that the wound to his pride would not heal quickly. His visit would occur while he was still a bachelor. And in the meantime, Kitty would be fully occupied by her nursing training, popped into storage on a shelf unawakened. Things were going so well! Edda would marry Jack Thurlow, Grace would marry some shiftless no-hoper who worked with his hands for a living, and Tufts would become that vital necessity, the maiden aunt, shuttled from sister to sister as their children needed her.
That all would go as she planned Maude had no doubt; even God conspired in her schemes, for the simplest of reasons: He was a sensible fellow, otherwise He wouldn’t have created any Maudes.