The Florentine Quilt

21. Amelia

21

AMELIA

WALHALLA, 1901

SERPENTINE: Regain purpose, spiritual understanding, healing energy.

I wake at the first flush of light with the decision made. Healing is the currency to save me. Giving to others. Whatever I can do to aid, be it poultice or balm, broth or tincture, moves me closer to redemption—to righting the errors of my past. I have been granted the wisdom of healing and sight and will use them to support those around me. I pray benevolence will be sufficient to protect me from total damnation in this life, and the next.

In the weeks following Alice’s mishap, I steer clear of the town. The days grow longer, and the sun sits high and lights the sky like a lantern from dawn until dusk. My family tires in the uncomfortable summer heat, and I grow restless with my child jostling inside me and keeping me from slumber.

Yet heat brings with it the freeing of inhibitions. We find ourselves more carefree in our behaviour. There is a relaxing of the common rules of propriety as we strip off stockings and pad barefoot. This lightness of temperament and high spirits tempts folk to behave more recklessly than the norm.

My small endeavour grows and news trickles like Stringer’s Creek throughout the valley. My dear friend, Ivy , with her cheerful nut-brown eyes and engaging smile, sings my praises. Maids knock at my door, having heard her crow like morn’s rooster. I have perfected a tonic that rids the children’s scalps of horrid crawling burrowing bugs, made with oil from the paperbark of the melaleuca tree mixed with lavender. It appears to be the season for it; the pesky creatures must enjoy the heat more than we do. Daylight hours are spent in conviviality gathered around my table sharing stories with children playing at our feet while I tend to ills or brew tea.

As I forage the bush for the bark and sap, or leaves and berries, for my medicinals, I often feel the presence of spirits guiding me on. I’m certain the people of this land before us used such gifts for healing too. Sadly , I know little of the first people here or their customs.

My baby grows and my body slows, yet I am ever enterprising. I spend hours drying flowers and herbs and weaving them through twigs collected from the fallen refuse of eucalyptus trees to make pretty wreath circlets. There is quite a market for them, and they’re spoken of as protection from bad spirits. Some believe it wise to have my remedies close at hand while others continue to trust in the superstitions of our homeland. ’ Tis many a time I have seen a pair of shoes left outside a front door to scare the piskies away!

Though grateful for my medicinal aids, Thomas is wary of what he calls my pellaring. Likewise , the maids hasten to depart before he arrives home; none care to have their business round my table reported to their husbands. Thomas is proud and insists he can provide for his family without my help. The extra coin I earn goes into our box of savings; surely my earnings are as worthy as his? I scoff at his high-handedness. It will be appreciated with another mouth to feed. At times he is too proud for his own good.

The younger maids come, seeking what they term love potions. Into a batch of liquid steeping rose petals and lilies, I add cloves and anise—the rest remains secret. When cooled, the infusion is corked into amber glass bottles. I never encourage women in their choice and let them choose freely. Some feel better armed and confident to take their chance at love with such potions in hand, and risk an open smile, or offer their cheek for a kiss with a lad behind a tree.

I encourage the maids to wash their hair in a rinse of apple and rosewater. There’s no harm in it. The clean fresh fragrance of sun-dried hair and pressed flowers is no trick or magic charm. ’ Tis merely an innocence, aided by the sprinkling of nature’s gifts: a romantic fancy that emboldens women to feel more self-assured.

The poor men of Walhalla drink the herbal tinctures with no knowledge of feminine intent, as naive as Tristan in the age-old tale when Isolde’s romantic potion bound him to her.

Jago’s face flashes before me, and I catch my breath, recalling another such potion. I quickly push it from my thoughts. I have no time to dilly-dally with careless thinking today. I have herbs to prepare, and a family to care for. The summer heat wickedly tempts each of us with its heightened effects.

When Thomas complained of dry lips due to dust down the mine, I prepared him a salve of lavender and rosehip. It was such a resounding success I now keep a stock of it, for not only is the balm able to heal chaffed lips, but I also suggest to the women it might entice passion in their lovers too. Either way it makes the men more kissable.

One morning, two sisters arrive on my doorstep. Agnes is a laundry woman, whom I met when she purchased balm for her cracked hands. I recall how her razor-sharp stare moved over my home while I scooped her salve into a canister, gazing from top to bottom as though I was the keeper of a pigsty.

Today is no exception. Agnes’s nose wrinkles, and she looks at me with disdain. In fact, the sour expression makes me wonder why she is here at all, if she finds me so disagreeable? More worrying is that the younger sister with her is in Mariah’s employ. Sarah is wary and avoids my gaze completely. But there is something on her mind. She looks so nervous and uncomfortable I offer them a cup of cool mint tea to put her at ease, sweetened with honey for good measure.

Braving a shy smile at last, Sarah requests a mixture to soothe her mosquito bites and shows me the red welts dotted across her arms. The pests are prolific in the deep scrub of the hills, and in the heat, and with the river snaking alongside the town, ’tis difficult to avoid them. My unguent of lemon mixed with eucalyptus leaves is soothing and will relieve the incessant itch.

When conversation stills, a look passes between the two, and colour bleeds deeper on Sarah’s cheeks. ‘ Will you tell my fortune, missus?’

I regard them cautiously. I’ve never announced I have cards for reading, though I consider it possible Agnes sighted them when she called the previous week. While Alice played in the garden, I was eager to see all was well for when my time came and had laid a spread to glean my baby’s path.

‘ Go on then, Mrs Treloar .’ Agnes glares. ‘ I don’t believe in such twaddle, but Sarah here is sweet on Joe Barrett . When I told her you had them cards the gypsies have, she asked me to bring her here. Tell us—are they well matched?’

‘ It would be up to Joe too, I expect.’ I smile at Sarah , conscious of her embarrassment.

‘ Can you, or no? Will save us the worry if there’s no future in it.’ Agnes stands with one hand on her hip.

‘ Not for certain.’ I hesitate, wiping my hands on my apron. ‘ There is more to love than merely what is written in the cards.’

With a nervous cough Sarah tries to shoo her sister away. But Agnes is not deterred. ‘ Stop your fussing, sister. Better to have Mrs Treloar say it now than waste your time on a lad not interested. Plenty of others here to choose from. May be best to find one who works above the surface.’

Her condescending manner makes me flinch. My neck aches and a cold finger trails the length of my spine. Agnes is a teasy maid, and too sly for my liking.

‘ Rest assured, we have good money. Sarah would be some pleased if you can give her the answer she seeks.’ Agnes’s voice turns syrupy sweet, her insincerity stamped in the downturn in the corner of her mouth.

My baby moves, and I rub the spot where he kicks.

Sarah looks to me with the expectance of a dairy cow before milking. Anyone who has seen her and Joe Barrett strolling the main street would think it folly he was anything other than smitten. What harm could there be in making the girl happy?

Smiling at Sarah , I invite her to sit opposite. Agnes watches over my shoulder, hovering behind me.

‘ Please take a seat, Agnes .’ I point to the rocking chair by the hearth. ‘ The energy needs to settle about us, and it does no good to have you at my back.’

With a grunt of irritation, she moves, and I shuffle the cards. I call for guidance and then ask Sarah to select from those spread like a fan between us. The pictures are faded but the colour sharpens and comes to life, contrasted against the knotted grain of my table. They paint a path in my mind in the same way a storyteller creates a tale. Both girls look back and forth, admiring their beauty.

A flush of pride assails me; I have a wondrous gift and am proud to show them something they have not seen the likes of before. False pride inflates and goes straight to my head.

I remember the feeling later, recalling their visit that afternoon. I was filled with self-importance, believing I was a class above them. What a fool I was! One maid is no better than another, yet in that moment, the power surged through me, and I glibly, guilelessly, told all.

‘ There is indeed love between you, and he is yours, truly. Joe is a hard worker. A good lad, driven by money and opportunity, and he wants to do well. But he works long hours…far longer than he ought.’

‘ Is he saving to prepare to take a wife?’ Sarah’s eyes are wide and hopeful. ‘ Does it bode well for us?’

I turn and glance at the last card, then slip it under my loose sleeve. With a sweep of my arms across the table I let it fall to the floor and kick it under my skirt. I choose another two cards from the deck for insight, turning them and holding my breath for the outcome. But the words spill from my mouth before I think. ‘ There is no marriage contract.’

‘ Whatever can you mean?’ Agnes stands with her hand on her hip. ‘ You said there was love. Then why is there no proposal?’

‘ I cannot say.’ I close my eyes and turn my head to veil my thoughts. Why did I agree to this? I’ve foreseen an accident, a great change coming. There is no wedding celebration. The only sacrament is an ending. Death .

‘ But Joe loves me, does he not?’ Sarah implores as I gather the cards. ‘ Mrs Treloar ? Then why will he not ask for my hand?’

I stand to dismiss them. ’ Tis enough. The dread of foreboding washes over me. ‘ I am sorry, Sarah , but it is not clear. The cards do not always show the answer. It happens…’

Agnes picks up the card from the floor and slaps it on the table. ‘ You’re a liar, Mrs Treloar . I saw you drop this. Death —you wish my sister ill! You’ve cursed her. That’s why there be no marriage. Tell me, Mrs Treloar , is that what you saw?’

She’s a shrewd one, that Agnes . I choose my words carefully.

‘ I cannot say for certain, but the card spells an ending. Perhaps there is someone else…’

I think it best to phrase a mistruth, for what I have seen will be more sorrowful to Sarah than another girl stealing Joe’s affection. ’ Tis true, Joe’s death is forewritten; I see it as clearly as I hear the voice in my head. Yet I have not willed it the way Agnes accuses. Nor will I say it.

While cruel for a young man to be taken early, sadly, that is the way for miners down the pit.

‘ You must excuse me now, ladies. I need to call my daughter home.’

The sisters leave with the song of a thousand storms written on their faces. Mariah will hear of this, I know it. I should never have agreed. Agnes’s eyes flash like lightning while Sarah’s hand is clamped over her mouth, shocked by the revelation that Joe is not in her future. I feel her pain and curse myself for having done naught but upset her.

Thomas is right. The cards should be kept out of sight.

And soon enough they will be my downfall.