The Last Rose of Summer Read online

  Catherine embraced her husband, too overcome to speak, vowing to herself to make every day they shared one of joy.

  And so began the creation of the grand house on the river.

  True to his promise to involve her in all aspects of his life as a partner and helpmate, both Robert and Catherine consulted with the Italian architect brought to Australia to oversee the construction of the house.

  Catherine showed such a flair for landscaping that Robert let her make the decisions about the design of the grounds while he concentrated on establishing a dairy, a produce farm, and a mixture of beef and dairy cattle on a small but exclusive scale.

  When it came to setting up an orchard, Robert did not wait for trees to reach bearing age, but had mature trees transplanted to the estate. The drive leading to the house was planted with stately boxwood trees and soon the grounds began to look as if they had been established for years. However, the building of the mansion, with all its hand craftsmanship, was taking longer than expected, so Robert doubled the number of workmen.

  ‘I still have to look after business in the city as well as this,’ he told Catherine. ‘Hock Lee is doing more than his share of the work.’

  ‘Then tell those men they are to take instructions from me,’ said Catherine. ‘I tell them things and they just nod and hold their caps and wait for you.’

  Robert laughed. ‘All right, my love. We’ll give it a try. I’ll talk to them and tell them from now on you are the boss.’ He hugged her. ‘I wish I’d had all this done while I was away and just handed you the front door key. But I didn’t know I was going to find the girl of my dreams and marry her when I left, did I?’ He kissed her lightly.

  ‘Oh, Robert, I much prefer that we build together. We are creating something beautiful, something we like and that will be here to be enjoyed by our children long after we are gone.’

  It took several attempts, some patience and a gentle but persistent firmness for Catherine to win over the workmen. Grudgingly, they began to see she was practical, fair and had a clear grasp of what was needed and the best way to achieve it.

  So it was just as well they didn’t overhear her prolonged discussion with the Italian architect over the matter of feng shui. It had been Hock Lee who had alerted her to the importance of the Chinese belief in feng shui. Hock Lee had taken a deep interest in the creation of their mansion and its grounds, and Catherine enjoyed his company on his frequent visits. She could understand Robert’s attachment to the gentle and humorous Chinaman who seemed to have centuries of wisdom stored in his heart and head.

  ‘Feng shui is the placement of one’s home in the most harmonious and auspicious setting,’ he explained. ‘We believe we are linked to our surroundings and that a building should find the perfect balance between the geography of the landscape, nature, energy of the universe and our position within it; for it all affects our destiny.’

  Catherine wanted to know more. It made sense to her. Instinctively she felt that they should disturb as little of the land as possible when building. Trees had been left standing, a watercourse left unaltered and the swell of a small hill incorporated into the design of the house and land.

  Hock Lee continued. ‘Everything about us has an effect on us. Good if the feng shui is right, bad if it is wrong. Things like shape, colour, sound, sight and light, for example. We want to achieve a perfect balance between our lives and the natural rhythms of the universe so that we are living a fruitful, fortuitous and peaceful existence. We must pay attention to the direction the house faces, what is around it, the placement of objects within it. By thoughtful and knowledgeable adjustment of these things, your life will be greatly enhanced.’

  Catherine attempted to explain this to Robert, who laughed indulgently but didn’t dismiss the concept out of hand. ‘I’ve learned over the years to trust Hock Lee’s beliefs, so if you can persuade the architect to go along with it, go ahead, my sweet.’

  Hock Lee sent a feng shui man to see Catherine and the old Chinese gentleman, dressed in simple cotton pyjamas and a peaked straw hat, spent several days walking around the property, sitting on a hill gazing at the river, watching the movement of the sun and studying the plans of the mansion. Mr Wang had a long straggly silver beard and deep brown eyes which reminded Catherine of rich dark raisins studded in the doughy softness of his round face. His voice was light and soft and sounded like the wind through she-oak trees. Before leaving, he presented Catherine with a set of bamboo wind chimes to frighten away any evil spirits.

  The Italian architect remained dubious. Especially when Catherine told him that the feng shui man advised that the house be turned around. The architect felt the front of the house should face the expanse of rolling countryside. But Mr Wang had shaken his head emphatically. ‘To face the river will bring wealth. The flow of the river is towards the front door meaning good fortune will flow into the home as the house is embraced by the bend of the river.’

  Patiently Catherine went through the other feng shui suggestions with the architect, who finally threw up his hands, muttered in Italian and altered the plans so that the house faced the river.

  Robert nodded as he looked at the revised plan. ‘It makes sense. I like this curving driveway to the front entrance too.’

  Catherine smiled. ‘Signor Bocco is still muttering and tends to disappear when he sees me coming. But I’m happy. I can’t wait for it to be finished, darling.’

  As the mansion grew from a skeleton to a solid structure, craftsmen laboured over the sweeping staircase, wood panelling, and interior details designed by Catherine. Her love of roses manifested itself in delicate patterns in the pressed metal ceiling panels and were etched into the frosted glass door sections. Around the ceiling cornices trailed plaster rosettes and stylised ivy leaves.

  In the ballroom, Corinthian columns were set in the four corners and floor to ceiling windows flooded the room with sunlight. Catherine hated the darkness of Victorian design and had the room painted ivory. The pale daffodil brocade curtains at each window were held to the sides in a draped swag held by gold silk tassels. A Venetian crystal chandelier hung above a polished floor.

  But not all the rooms were as lavish as the ballroom. Nooks and interesting corners were utilised for practical as well as decorative purposes. One section was turned into a cedar-lined linen room where ceiling-high shelves and cupboards held an exquisite collection of fine lawn and damask. Camphor, lavender and cedar chips kept moths at bay and the linens smelling sweet.

  The workmen, now won over by Catherine’s enthusiasm, took pride in creating this splendid home, and they went out of their way to perfect small details and to please her. But Catherine derived her greatest pleasure from creating her rose garden. She experimented with all types of roses and found the Mediterranean-bred roses preferred the Australian sunshine. Borrowing a pair of stout boots from Mrs Johnson whose husband Sid looked after the stables, she hitched up the hem of her cotton skirt and worked alongside the gardeners, planting, grafting bushes and tying thorny branches along lattice espaliers.

  A tiny walled garden in one section provided protection and privacy. The rambling roses clung to the natural sandstone wall, while others were pruned into hanging topiary clusters. The hillside rising beyond was terraced into rows of beds and banks, planted in a gradual shading and blending of colours. An old craftsman made a rustic garden seat from twisted tree branches. Catherine set this under a pergola among the roses in the walled garden, and it became her favourite place to sit and enjoy the beauty, perfume and peace of her rose arbour.

  But she wasn’t yet done with the grounds of the estate. Robert staggered in mock horror at her next suggestion — that they build a bathing pool. The pool was dug close to the river bank, screened by she-oaks. It was tiled with blue and white Minton tiles and pale biscuit sandstone blocks were set around its edge. A bathing house, with separate change rooms for ladies and gentlemen, sat at one end with a discreet latticed screen for ladies to enter the water and swim i
n private. Catherine did not plan on taking up the new fad of swimming, but liked to look at the reflection of the trees and clouds in the surface of the long deep pool.

  While Catherine busied herself with the gardens and finishing touches to the interior of the house, Robert spent time consulting with the architect and builders on a special project he kept secret from his wife. Several large wooden crates arrived at the estate but were quickly spirited out of sight.

  One evening at sunset while Catherine was reading The Dawn magazine, Robert hurried off to find the builders. He came back into the house looking mightily pleased and embraced Catherine.

  ‘In two days we can move into the big house, my darling. But tomorrow I have a special surprise for you.’

  The next morning, Robert took Catherine’s hand and they walked along the path by the river, where a sturdy jetty and boathouse were being built, through the near completed gardens up to the grand new mansion. Workmen were fitting the last panes of thick lavender glass into the conservatory and they gave Mr and Mrs MacIntyre a friendly wave as they passed.

  ‘Close your eyes, my sweet,’ whispered Robert.

  With one hand shielding her eyes and the other holding Robert’s hand, Catherine was led to the front entrance of the house. Her shoes scrunched on the new driveway of crushed river stones.

  ‘Now look up.’

  She opened her eyes. The imposing front doors stood open and welcoming, but what captured her attention and caused her to gasp in delight was the engraved name above the doorway — ZANANA 1898.

  ‘You remembered!’

  He kissed her cheek. ‘Your visit to the zanana in India seemed to make such an impression on you, I thought it might be appropriate to name our home Zanana.’

  ‘It’s a wonderful idea, Robert! A sanctuary, a place of beauty and protection for women. Oh, I do hope we have daughters. Thank you, darling. It’s such a sweet thought.’

  ‘There’s more. Come.’ He led her through the grounds to the northeast corner of the estate. Once again he made her close her eyes until they reached a secluded part of the grounds. ‘Now.’

  Catherine’s eyes flew open. She was speechless. She clutched Robert’s arm. There before them stood a miniature replica of an Indian palace. ‘An Indian House . . . a palace . . . oh, Robert!’ She ran forward, slipping her shoes from her feet at the marble entrance, and stepped inside.

  Immediately Catherine was transported to India. Memories flooded back — the smell of incense, patchouli and sandalwood. The coolness of marble underfoot, the prisms of coloured light falling through jewelled windows. The carving, the mirrors and mosaics were all faithfully reproduced.

  ‘Oh, Robert . . . I had no idea. What is it for?’

  ‘For you, my darling. A little retreat for you. A souvenir of our honeymoon.’

  ‘You’re too wonderful.’ She hugged him. ‘I was wondering what you were up to with the architect.’

  ‘We had a lot of help from Sir Montague and Lady Willingham. They sent pictures and plans, and shipped over some of the materials.’

  Catherine fell back among the silk cushions on the canopied bed. ‘I feel like a princess with my own fairy-tale palace.’

  Robert and Catherine were soon settled in their splendid new home; yet despite its size and grandeur, the house had an air of warmth and intimacy. Catherine employed a lady from the nearby village to do the laundry and began training young girls to help in the house. While she busied herself with the final decorating touches to Zanana’s rooms, Robert applied himself to his business affairs once more, travelling to the city twice a week.

  Once a week he lunched with Hock Lee in his new Lotus Tea Rooms which he’d opened in the heart of King Street, Sydney. Hock Lee’s mother, who seemed to have changed little since the days Robert had first known her on the goldfields, supervised the cooking of the Chinese and Australian cakes and delicacies served in the Tea Rooms, and the restaurant soon became a favourite institution with professional and working people. It was a large and simple room with black metal tables topped with round slabs of white marble; the floor was shiny black and white tiles, the curtains and table linens bright dragon red. The severity and simplicity of the room was broken by tall palms standing in brass tubs and several bamboo and silk Chinese screens. It was noisy and jolly with pretty waitresses hurrying back and forth with large china teapots and trays of sweet rice cakes, sandwiches, biscuits, old-fashioned English pastries and sponge cakes smothered in fresh cream from Zanana’s dairy. Simple wholesome fare such as soups, noodle and rice dishes were popular cheap meals.

  Zanana soon became a showpiece, written about in newspapers and periodicals, and visitors were stunned by its gracious grandeur, the magnificent gardens and the elegant style in which Mr and Mrs MacIntyre entertained. Catherine gave dinners and luncheons for Robert’s business associates and for various charity organisations.

  They kept their formal entertaining to a minimum, however, and Catherine devoted herself to her roses, taking an interest in the financial side of their garden produce which was sold in the city markets. But her days were lonely and she longed for a baby, superstitiously believing she would never have one till she found the little stone given to her by Guru Tanesh.

  Loyal housekeeper Gladys Butterworth understood her longing for a baby, being childless herself. The doctors had told her she would never have children and she and Harold had resigned themselves to the fact as the years had passed. But Gladys believed that Catherine would have children one day for she was still young and, though a delicate build, appeared in good health. While she never raised such a delicate matter, she did her best to cheer up her mistress.

  Catherine was grateful for the no-nonsense, positive thinking of Gladys Butterworth and she blessed the day the Butterworths had arrived at Zanana.

  Harold and Gladys had travelled from the northern rivers town of Bangalow to spend time in Sydney. They called in at Zanana to visit Sid Johnson who ran the stables. Sid and his wife Nettie were old friends from the Bangalow district. Catherine happened along while they were visiting, and was introduced. They all took an immediate liking to one another, sparked by a mutual interest in the farm and garden.

  Dressed in a navy pleated cotton skirt, its hem a trifle muddy, a white silk blouse with floppy chiffon bow at the throat, her waist cinched by a wide belt, a favourite straw gardening hat atop her fair curls, Catherine still looked every inch the lady of the manor. She offered to show Mrs Butterworth her rose garden and, as they strolled among the flowers, Mrs Butterworth told Catherine how she and Harold had been working for a wealthy pastoral home.

  ‘We had terrible flooding for the past two years, and it got them down. I think they lost a lot of money one way and another — it’s a hard life on the land — so they decided to sell up. Harold and me are down here for a bit of a break and looking around for other prospects.’

  ‘Do you want to go back to the country?’

  ‘I do like the countryside. Couldn’t live in the middle of a city. Though it’s nice to be near things. But something’ll turn up.’ She smiled cheerfully and sniffed a rose, gazing about the rose garden. ‘My goodness, I’ve never seen anything as lovely as this. What a peaceful place to come each morning. Get the day off to a jolly good start, I’d reckon.’

  Catherine smiled at the wholesome, beaming country woman beside her. ‘You know, Mrs Butterworth, that’s just what I do. Tell me, what did you do for the family you worked for at Bangalow?’

  ‘You name it, Harold and me did it. Cook, clean, run the staff — what little there was — and Harold looked after the practical side of the house too. He always seemed to be fixing something.’

  Catherine was pensive. She’d been looking for just such a couple. Several people had been sent to them, but Catherine had found them quite unsuitable and had decided to manage as well as she could with what help she had, and the extra staff she hired when needed. Harold had seemed a steady, affable sort of a fellow. She could contact the fam
ily they’d worked for and also quiz the Johnsons about their friends the Butterworths. Robert would have to be consulted. Then, following her intuition, Catherine resolved to take matters into her own hands. Robert had a series of problems with the latest cargo ships being delayed, so she decided not to bother him.

  ‘How would you and your husband feel about coming to work at Zanana?’

  Mrs Butterworth stopped in surprise. Then her hand flew to her mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness, I wasn’t thinking about getting a job here. I was just prattling on . . . I mean . . .’ She hesitated, studying the young woman beside her. ‘Do you mean it? I can’t think of anything more wonderful than to work here. For you. And your husband of course. Naturally you’d want to check out all about us. Well, my goodness. I’ll have to speak to Harold.’

  She was quite flustered. Catherine laughed. ‘I know you weren’t hinting about working here. It just suddenly occurred to me. It could be a happy solution for both of us. Your husband aside, how would you feel about being our housekeeper and cook?’

  ‘Me? I’ll start work tomorrow. But it’s up to Harold.’

  ‘It’s up to both of you. Why not talk to him tonight?’

  They returned to the orchard and Catherine spent a little more time talking to Harold and Gladys Butterworth and became convinced her idea, if impromptu, was the right one. The entire matter was worked out between the two women and the Butterworths moved into the caretaker’s cottage, sent for their belongings from Bangalow, and in no time at all seemed as if they had always been part of Zanana.

  That had been almost a year ago.

  Catherine’s mind returned to the present, and she stretched and left the rose garden.

  Robert sat at his office desk in the city, rereading a short letter penned in copperplate writing. As a prominent and wealthy member of Sydney society he received many requests to act as a benefactor, but this letter — a straightforward request — intrigued him. It was from the matron of a large city orphanage. She had read about Zanana’s magnificent gardens, the dairy, the orchard and the market gardens, and she asked if she could bring the children under her care to the estate for an outing.