The Florentine Quilt

27. Amelia

27

AMELIA

WALHALLA, 1902

BLACK CALCITE: Returns soul to body after trauma, renews stability

I t comes to me one morning and will not stir from my thoughts. While unable to confide in Thomas , I am keen to register the birth of our daughter, the first Treloar birthed on Australian soil. Choosing a name is an important responsibility, and for too long our babe has gone without. Born amidst this period of turmoil and pain, she will need a strong name to carry her. Maude —the battle maiden.

Thomas’s wound is healing slowly, but I fear his health may never return. I struggle to remember the dreams we had for our future here.

Little Maude has been sick through the night, coughing and wheezing. In the cool night air, the poor child’s breathing is laboured. A vapour of eucalyptus leaves steeped over boiling water has done little to ease her discomfort. Nor has the mustard poultice wrapped in muslin and applied to her chest. Maude is a tiny wee thing and will need her strength to fight this. I prepare a mixture of honey and liquorice root tea, praying a few drops will calm her cries and give us some much-needed rest.

The climate of hot summers and wet winters here provides the perfect conditions for plants to thrive. Preparing medicines from my physic garden and picking wildflowers from the nearby hills has become more of a necessity than I ever imagined.

I woke with the strangest feeling today and have a mind to place rosemary on my door. The protective herb keeps harm away and the strong woody fragrance is most comforting. Alas , Maude is too ill to take into the morning air to collect it. Instead , while Alice plays next door with Mae , I content myself with wild lavender. Maude sleeps fitfully, and I sit at the table bundling the stalks of amethyst-coloured buds into tiny bunches to dry out overhead. Lavender and its oil have a calming effect that soothes and encourages peace and love.

After hanging out the washing, I make a strong brew of tea, glad of a break and to share a cup by Thomas’s side. ’ Tis mid-morning when I take out the freshly baked scones and cover them in a cloth to keep them warm. As always I spread the jam first, topped with a healthy dollop of clotted cream. Thomas hasn’t had much appetite of late, but this morning, he looked a little brighter. Perhaps with a few crumbs of the taste of home, the glow in his eyes might return.

My hand touches the doorknob and my stomach lurches as the call of death from the otherworld creeps into my mind’s eye. I leap to my husband’s side and the scone lands cream-side down on the floor.

His eyes are open but a dull grey in place of the sparkling sea mist of the Celtic Sea . Climbing onto the bed beside him, I curl into his body and pull the quilt over us, holding the last of his warmth while it slips away. My husband was none but thoughtful and full of love for all. Yet his goodness is what bested him in the end—his kind and selfless deeds brought about his demise; helping others, as was ever his way.

Tears pool on my pillowslip and the long, slow howl of a wounded animal emerges from the bowels of my being. What will I do without my stoic husband and loyal friend? Dear Thomas , whom I loved dearly, who toiled so hard to provide and care for us? I will be lost without him.

He has miner friends aplenty. They too will need time to grieve. I have faith that regardless of what they may think or believe of me, if there is kindness to be found in others, they will show Thomas the respect he deserves.

I imagine news of my husband’s death will bring the grocer, the baker, and the Olivers , too, knocking at my door to settle their accounts before our debts mount too high. People , after all, need to pay their way in this new land, where recently founded reputations carry little weight with creditors. I reach into my apron pocket for a handkerchief and find a stone of Fool’s Gold instead. It was all Thomas salvaged from the mine he and his friends began, and that closed within months of opening. I had kept the piece close these past years, hoping a more profitable lode might come our way one day.

Our savings have dwindled. My modest savings under the mattress must suffice. ’ Tis a far cry from the dreams Thomas and I planned together. I shut my thoughts to what might have been and trust fate to guide our path from now on.

I worry my fingers along the quilt’s seam and find loosened stitches in the corner. With a finger poked into the tiny hole, I tug at the shape bulging between the backing and embroidered face until it is big enough for two.

I draw out a note secured with thread, and handwriting I recognise well enough: ’tis my name. Tears spring to my eyes and with a sob, I hug Thomas closer. If only she were here. Alas , Mother cannot help me now. Slipping the note into my apron pocket, I save her missive for another day.

I f not for the kindness of the Penryns , I know not how my little family would have survived. In the first month after Thomas’s death, I was so low with sorrow I lost all interest in our care.

When a miner loses his life down mine, ’tis common for the men to offer the day’s earnings to the widow for the funeral, in recompense. It was not so for me. As expected, the creditors came knocking, first politely and then with coarse insistence. I made up bills to advertise the potions and salves I was known for and pinned them on trees and on the board outside the Mechanics ’ Institute in the centre of town. Word came that they were ripped down and discarded immediately.

One night Ned kindly calls by to check on my welfare on his way home from the mine.

‘ Maids will call, dreckly. Takes time.’ Ned smiles and ruffles Alice’s hair. I place a glass of cider in front of him and he takes his seat at Thomas’s place at the table, with his cap perched on top.

‘ Seems folk are some teasy. The notice outside the Mechanics ’ was painted over with words not fitting for maids’ eyes. What quarrels have ye with Carrick’s wife? I confess, it vexes me. She be mounting some fierce attack.

‘ Ivy says her relatives gossip in the store. An ’ men repeat the tales she be telling, mind. Perhaps ye might talk to her, show her what good ye do? Might help change her estimations, me luvver? Might be best.’

Indeed . The rumours of what I am are once again whispered with little compassion. It seems Lionel is not alone in repeating talk of my supposed witching ways. Since Jago’s departure, Mariah has become a law unto herself. I wish she would follow him. Few here can protect me from her vicious slander.

When Alice awakes the morning after Ned’s visit, she joins me at my tasks. I enjoy her chatter while she passes me stalks of parsley, singing songs and asking questions, barely taking a breath. After a while, she amuses herself cutting shapes from the newspapers kept by the fireplace. In an instant she looks up with eyes pleading and asks to play with Mae and her little friends.

A shadow crosses her face, and in her wistful expression I see her concern for me. I wave her off with a kiss and a smile, assuring her I can finish my tasks without her. I am glad she is a happy child amidst such difficult circumstances. She misses Thomas and the songs he taught her. The stories he read. Before she leaves her lips peel into a smile and a stab of sorrow twists in my belly. A glimpse of her father’s face. Then , the guise disappears, and she is my Alice , once more.

A short time later, I walk the floor with Maude , who moans and cries in discomfort while I try my best to soothe her. Lethargy drags at my heels from lack of sleep. Maude’s nights are unsettled and blend into daylight, with little change to distinguish one from the other. Intolerance shows in the manner of my pacing, and I rock her in my arms a little firmer than need be. Fortunately , her cries fade and she soon settles into slumber.

Irritation hovers over my day like a brewing storm, one I am not prepared to weather. I am reluctant to dwell on the meaning. But ignoring the signs is precisely how I find myself in this predicament.