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www.authordellbrand.com.au
authordellbrand
Category:
Historical Fiction
Publisher: CreateSpace
ISBN-10: 1481115316
Type: Fiction
Pages: 456
Copyright: Oct 22, 2013
ISBN-13: 9781481115315
Price: $9.57 (eBook)
A story of twin girls destined to change the fabric of Melbourne society during its early days and the heady times of the Victorian gold rush.
Joey and Maddy Gower are twins, born to an unwed mother in Bedford, England in 1819. Florence, their mother, went to work as a housemaid at Stanford Hall in Lutterworth, Leicestershire for Sir Robert Luxford, a revered MP. She fell in love with his profligate son, Thomas, and fell pregnant to him but Thomas denied all responsibility. Florence left her employment and travelled to Bedford where she found a new job working in a boarding house. Here her twins were born. Sir Robert, the twins’ grandfather, eventually found where they were living and discretely took over their care.
However, at the tender age of nineteen, the girls lost both their beloved grandfather and their mother. Circumstances forced them to leave not only their home, but England as well, and they found themselves bound for Australia. Determined to make a new life for themselves in the young and brash settlement of Melbourne, the girls use their inheritance to begin building an empire.
The book follows the trials and tribulations, the triumphs and the dramas of these two women as they work to earn a place in a man’s world. Joey is determined to remain a spinster, despite the difficulties this presents. Maddy decides to marry but find that her chosen partner is far from perfect. As the saga of Melbourne’s early years unfolds, the reader becomes involved in the tragedies and celebrations of two women who are destined to change the fabric of Melbournian society and make a lasting impact on the character of Australian life.
Excerpt
Part 1
Bedford 1820
Chapter 1
The contraction took hold. Florence Gower screamed, shattering the silence of the cramped attic. In the cold pre-dawn, nobody cared. Not the owner of the shoddy boarding house where she earned her keep and not the grizzled midwife who had been called from her warm bed to attend the birth. There was no worried husband pacing downstairs. There was no husband at all. Florence was alone in her pain.
She screamed again as her infant tried to make its way into the world. Torment ravaged her slight frame. Her clammy, blond ringlets splayed across the pillow as she tossed and turned. Brow streaming and with her striking cobalt blue eyes screwed tightly shut, she clenched her fists. She felt the midwife gently wipe her face and heard her utter something soothing. But that did little to quell her fear. She was frightened. She did not want it all to end here. Despite the dire turn her life had taken in the last twelve months, she was determined to survive this and all the trials that she knew were yet to come.
A third scream escaped her. No one had told her that birthing could be this bad. Her mind wandered in the brief respites between contractions. Disjointed images of her life came to her, most frequently those of the recent folly that had brought her to this place.
***
Florence’s mother had died when she was seven and she could barely remember her father. He had gone away when she was very small. Her mother had told her he was earning the king’s shilling in France. So when her mother passed away, Florence was given into the care of her aunt, Clarice Powell, an elderly spinster living in Leicester. Florence had never met her aunt before, so it was with a great deal of trepidation that she entered her new home. Being snatched so abruptly from her familiar surroundings, grieving for her poor lost mother and entering the austere home of her estranged aunt, nearly broke Florence’s spirit. But she was tough. She endured.
She never heard from her father again. Aunt Clarice believed that he perished at Waterloo and Florence never thought to question her more about him. She and her aunt settled into a strange working relationship. It transpired that her aunt was not the dragon Florence had first thought. Although strict, she was always fair, and though not good at showing love, she did form an attachment to her vivacious young niece. Florence’s sharp mind and quick wit would often draw a smile from the otherwise taciturn old lady. And Florence, in turn, came to appreciate and rely on her elderly caregiver.
But all too soon things changed yet again. When Florence turned thirteen, her aunt secured a position for her at Stanford Hall, the home of Sir Robert Luxford, MP for Leicestershire. Stanford Hall was near the village of Lutterworth, some fifteen miles from Aunt Clarice and Leicester.
Despite her reluctance to leave the familiarity of Aunt Clarice’s home, Florence went meekly into service. It was clear that her aunt did not wish to continue supporting her and her life choices were very limited. So when this unexpected vacancy had arisen at Stanford Hall and Florence was offered the position, she could do nothing but accept. Though it promised little comfort, Aunt Clarice reiterated that she was lucky to have been given such a chance, something that had only come about because her aunt knew one of the servants there who had put in a good word about Florence to the housekeeper.
Stanford Hall was stately, immensely larger and more imposing than her aunt’s modest home. It had been built one hundred and thirty years ago for Sir Richard Cavell, one of the present owner’s ancestors. As Florence first approached the house, through the verdant parklands surrounding it, she saw a walled garden towards the banks of the River Avon. She caught the rich scent of rose blooms as the carriage clattered past before stopping by the stables at the rear of the house. Feeling slightly nervous, she climbed down, took her bag from the driver and thanked him. Slipping on the wet cobblestones and inhaling a heady mixture of rose scent, freshly-turned soil, wet horse and fresh manure, she walked with some consternation to the back door.
After knocking, she waited, bag in hand. A kitchenmaid answered and Florence introduced herself. She was directed to wait in the scullery while the maid sought Mrs Wellings. She looked around the vast kitchen, taking in the vast array of shiny pots and pans hanging from an iron wheel suspended above a large, well-scrubbed table. On the table sat a freshly plucked chicken and fresh carrots, peas and potatoes that must have come straight from the vegetable garden outside.
Some twenty minutes later the housekeeper swept into the kitchen. Sizing up Florence with a quick glance, she introduced herself then instructed her to go upstairs and change. She was to present herself back in the scullery in ten minutes ready to begin work. The maid, who had been hovering in the kitchen since her arrival, hurried her up to her room. Leaving the scullery and kitchen area, they climbed a flight of stairs leading straight to the servants’ quarters. A starched uniform was laid out on what was to be her bed. Thanking the maid, she quickly changed and reappeared in less time than the housekeeper had allowed.
Contrary to her expectations and after an initial settling in period, she found her new life at Stanford Hall quite agreeable at first though she missed her domineering yet companionable aunt, since they’d formed a decorous attachment over their six years together. She also missed their frequent conversations and she suspected her aunt would feel the same. Life at Stanford Hall proved very different. Under the ever-watchful eye of the formidable Mrs Wellings, Florence learned quickly to work hard and speak only when spoken to. At first she tried talking with the other servants in her free time, but soon discovered that they lacked her background, so conversations with them were limited.
However, Florence’s work at Stanford Hall soon became tiresome. The hours were long and the same mindless chores had to be completed day in and day out. She was bored and had to fight hard to maintain her equanimity as she went about her daily duties. It was the beauty of Stanford Hall that saved her. She revelled in all she saw around her, both the gracious lines of the house itself and the many priceless treasures it contained. She loved the grandeur and spaciousness of the flying staircase that led to the upper level and always paused in her polishing to gaze into the gilded mirror on the landing at the reflected image of the foyer below. She found all the formal rooms enchanting, especially the ornate pink and gold ballroom, with its French windows and pale velvet drapes. The plush drawing rooms and stately dining room were just as elegant and all held fabulous antiques. But the room that most captivated her heart was the library. Its wood-panelled walls held over five thousand books and Florence looked in envy at the endless rows of leather spines.
For Florence could read. She could also write and calculate, all thanks to her Aunt Clarice. From the age of seven her aunt had insisted that Florence not only become literate, but that she acquire a sound knowledge of the world around her. Aunt Clarice became her teacher and, later, her mentor. She recognised Florence’s sharp intellect from the beginning and rightly concluded that her only chance of finding a way out of her present situation would be through education. So every day over the years that her niece was in her house, she spent hours patiently teaching her. Florence’s enthusiasm for learning was payment enough. She soaked up knowledge like a sponge. Books became her consuming passion. They allowed her to escape into a fantasy world far preferable to the real world in which she was living.
Every day at Stanford Hall she really looked forward to only one task and always left it till last. Dusting the library was a means to an end. It hadn’t taken her long to realise that the library was mostly unoccupied during the late afternoons. And she reasoned to herself that if it was indeed empty, and her chores complete, then she may as well linger for a while. Despite knowing that this would hardly meet with Mrs Wellings’ approval, one day Florence decided to risk a snatched half-hour. This one day soon became many as she found herself unable to resist the lure of the printed page. Each day if the room was free, she would give the books a cursory dust before sinking into the brown leather chair and indulging in a stolen half-hour of pure bliss. The soft leather was warm and comforting and she was transported to another time and place as soon as she opened the cover.
One Thursday afternoon in the November of her first year at Stanford Hall, Florence very nearly ruined all that her aunt had made possible for her. Having just cleaned the fireplaces and set new fires for the evening, she returned to the scullery to wash her face and hands before assuring the housekeeper that she was off to dust the library. She escaped quickly before the grim-faced Mrs Wellings could think up another job for her to do. Finding the library empty as usual, she gave the treasured books her customary flick with the feather duster, before taking down the leather-bound edition of Austen’s Pride and Prejudice. Settling herself into the big leather chair beside the unlit fire, she opened the book at her flagged page and resumed reading.
It was a short time later that disaster struck. Engrossed in her book, Florence failed to notice a grey-haired, portly gentleman enter the room.
‘My goodness, what have we here?’ he intoned in a quiet but kindly voice.
Startled out of her reverie, Florence dropped the precious book on the floor and jumped to her feet.
‘Sir Robert...’ she stammered. ‘I ...I...I’m sorry, sir. I didn’t mean... I...Oh! Sir Robert! I was just reading...’
‘Calm yourself, my dear,’ said the kindly old gentleman. ‘It’s Florence, isn’t it?’ Florence nodded numbly.
‘I didn’t mean to startle you,’ he said. ‘But your presence in my library was quite unexpected. It didn’t occur to me that anyone on my staff, especially one as young as you, could read. Who taught you?’
‘My aunt, sir,’ answered Florence. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ she began again.
‘There is absolutely nothing to be sorry for,’ said Sir Robert. ‘It’s good to see someone enjoying my books. I assume you have finished your work for today?’
‘Oh! Yes, Sir Robert,’ Florence replied.
‘Well then, this can be our little secret. I won’t tell the redoubtable Mrs Wellings about what you do in your spare time and you may continue to do it. But then again, I won’t defend you if she catches you in here. I shall pretend I know nothing of it. So you had better be careful.’ He smiled at her and winked.
‘Oh! Thank you, sir.’
‘And what are you reading, young Florence?’ he asked.
Florence showed him the volume. He nodded with approval, then went over to the shelves and recommended a few other books for her to consider in the coming months. Then, with another smile and wink, he was gone. When her heart had ceased to thunder in her chest, Florence smiled weakly to herself. She couldn’t believe her good fortune.
She was elated. After he had left her she danced around the room in sheer joy. Sir Robert was such a nice old man! She just couldn’t believe that he had given her permission to read his books in his library. And he intended to keep her secret! It was simply too good to be true. Talking sense to herself when the elation had subsided, she vowed not to overdo it. Maybe once or twice a week. Or maybe three times. Mrs Wellings must not catch her. She knew it was the only good thing about her life at Stanford Hall and she wanted nothing to spoil it. She thought again of how nice Sir Robert had been. Very much like the father she never had and had always wanted. She wondered if she would have further opportunities to talk with him.
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