Breakfast at Midnight

By Fiona MacFarlane

Miss Frances Norwood's new life as a governess in Hobart begins inauspiciously when her pupil dies before she arrives, leaving Frances unemployed, with nowhere to live. With few connections and little personal fortune in a climate of economic depression and rampant unemployment, Frances has little option but to live with her Aunt Louisa Wentworth at her stately home, Wintersleigh House.

With Christmas fast approaching, new and unexpected visitors arrive on the scene, including Frances's cousins, Agnes and Charlotte, local doctor Michael Brearly, and his charismatic younger brother George.

The festive season of 1894, however, will bring no 'peace on earth' for the Brearly and Wentworth families, only an inevitable conflict that will drag everyone into the fray and change the family dynamics forever...

From the mouldering cells of Port Arthur to the sun-dappled grounds of Wintersleigh House, Breakfast at Midnight analyses the expectations placed on young people by family members and by society as a whole. It also explores the polarised society of the mid 1890s, a time when trenchant Victorian conservatism and burgeoning feminist ideals seemed increasingly incompatible.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fiona MacFarlane
• Release date: Mar 26, 2012

Fiona MacFarlane

I was born in Tasmania, Australia in 1973 and at the age of five I moved to Victoria with my family. After my graduation in 1995 I moved back to Tasmania and a few years later I began working as an Archivist with the Archives Office of Tasmania, now known as the Tasmanian Archive and Heritage Office. It was here I fell in love with Tasmanian history and decided to utilise my extensive historical research skills by writing an historical novel, Breakfast at Midnight. My next novel, The Married Spinster, is also historical fiction and is set in New Norfolk, Van Diemens Land (Tasmania) in 1826, when the infamous bushranging gang, led by Matthew Brady, was terrorising the colony. In addition to my novel writing, I am a keen poet.

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

This Fragile Life

There was no warning of what was about to happen; no dark clouds gathered overhead to herald the coming storm. For those destined to live another day in Hobart, Tasmania, 3rd of December 1894, life carried on with humdrum normality. Mr Wood put an advertisement in the local paper offering a reward of two pounds for the return of his lost silver snuff box, the intemperate John Slater appeared in the City Police Court, charged with using obscene language in public, Mrs Marshall’s bunch of turnips won her third prize in the vegetable section of the Hobart Horticultural Society’s Spring Show, and the thermometer outside in the shade stood at 88 degrees.

Yet amidst this ordinariness of life, something profound took place, an event that reminded everyone involved just how fragile and capricious human existence could be. A young girl, on the eve of her tenth birthday, died unexpectedly, and while the child’s suffering had been brief, it was of no consolation to her family and friends. A beautiful life had inexplicably been taken away, and their lives would never be the same again.

These were the thoughts that occupied Frances Norwood’s mind as she stood in the foreground of an open balcony door, breathing in restorative breaths of air. It was Frances’s first night at her Aunt Wentworth’s house, on the outskirts of Bellerive, and as three shimmering candles on a mantelpiece suffused the bed-chamber with a gentle hue of yellow, she briefly contemplated her own mortality. In another moment, however, she discerned the sound of brisk, approaching footsteps, and the rustle of a gown behind her.

‘There you are!’ a voice suddenly declared.

A startled Frances stepped back hurriedly from the door, just as an older woman bustled forward and wrenched the balcony door shut. ‘I do beg your pardon, Aunt Wentworth,’ Frances ventured. ‘I was in need of some fresh air.’

‘Never mind about that, my dear,’ Louisa Wentworth replied, forcefully drawing together the curtains, ‘I am here to discuss another matter with you. Minnie Gibbs. You informed me of her death just after you arrived here.’ Frances nodded but said nothing. ‘How singular. I was led to believe that she had the constitution of an ox. Evidently not.’ She paused momentarily. ‘So, how did this seemingly robust child meet her end?’

Frances noted a gleam of excitement in her aunt’s bilious brown eyes. ‘I’m afraid that I can furnish you with none of the particulars,’ she replied.

‘No, no, that will not do in the slightest, Frances. You must do better than that.’

‘I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I really can’t satisfy your wishes in this matter. The household, not surprisingly, was in disarray when I arrived at the house. I spoke only with the parlour maid—’

‘And what did the servant say? Did she describe the event itself? Will there be a coronial inquest? Did she seem much affected by what had happened?’

Frances sighed and crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I confess I was too much out of countenance to pay heed to the finer details of our ‘conversation,’ if you could call it that. I’d just discovered that the girl I was to have taught had succumbed to a short illness, only hours before I arrived, the result being that I’m now without a situation.’

A brief silence ensued between the two women. ‘Dear, oh dear! How dreadful this all is!’ Louisa eventually exclaimed. ‘Of course it reminds me of your Uncle Harold. He was only forty when he left me. One minute he was berating the gardener for over fertilising the roses, and in the next instant, his spirit took flight and he passed through the gates of death. Just like that.’ She clicked her fingers to further emphasise the last word. She then drew out a handkerchief and dabbed it at her nose. ‘Such a death! Poor Harold, and poor Minnie Gibbs! Still,’ she said, tossing her proud head, ‘there is no point going on about it. It is all too late for her, most assuredly. The girl is dead, and now our lives are in chaos.’

‘Well I hardly—’ Frances began.

‘Now, my dear,’ Louisa interrupted, ‘enough of this idle chatter. We have a great deal to discuss.’ She moved away from the balcony window, and subsided with a satisfied sigh onto Frances’s bed. ‘So,’ she resumed, smoothing out imaginary creases in her gauzy black gown, ‘what are your plans?’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘Your long term plans, Frances!’ an increasingly irritated Louisa cried. ‘The Gibbs girl is no more of this world. It seems as though you have come all this way for nothing.’

Frances reluctantly sat beside her aunt on the foot of the bed. The bed sagged under the weight of the two women. ‘I don’t think so,’ she replied casually.

‘How can you not think so? You can hardly work as a governess without a pupil. Surely there is no reason to stay here in Hobart.’

‘In spite of today’s unfortunate business, I intend to remain in Hobart for as long as I can. To be honest, I have no intention of ever returning to Melbourne.’

Louisa raised her eyebrows. ‘Not return home?’ she echoed. ‘Why ever not?’

‘Melbourne is not my home, Aunt Wentworth. It never has been. I was born here, and it’s here where I wish to remain. As for my situation, I’m confident that I can find another one. The Gibbs family has given me a sum of money to compensate me for my sudden loss of employment, and it’s enough to make me financially self-sufficient for the present time.’

‘And what does your mother say to all this?’ Louisa asked, eyeing her niece suspiciously. ‘Surely she does not condone this?’

‘Well,’ Frances began, ‘I haven’t exactly told her yet. I always meant to, of course, but somehow that conversation never took place. I’ll cable her in the morning.’

The bed-chamber was now filled with the un-nerving sound of a distant clock, breaking the silence with a solitary tick, tick, tick. Louisa, meanwhile, had risen from the bed and was pacing up and down the room. She was a tall, large-boned woman, with a ramrod straight back and a protuberant chest, which was thrust out in front of her, like a shield. At close range, she was an impressive and even formidable looking woman.

‘This is most vexing,’ Louisa was saying, ‘most vexing indeed. I am very put out.’

‘I’m sorry, Aunt Wentworth, but—’

‘Mercy, Frances! Please do not interrupt me!’ She resumed her pacing. ‘And where do you intend to stay while you look for another situation?’ Her lip curled perceptibly as she uttered these last words.

‘Well, naturally I would look for another place of accommodation. I would in no way want to trespass on your hospitality for more than a few days.’

‘Stuff and nonsense,’ Louisa returned. ‘I would not dream of allowing a young woman of twenty-five to live somewhere on her own. It is most unseemly.’

Frances smiled. ‘I travelled here by myself, and no harm came to me.’

Louisa ignored this remark and looked up at a portrait hanging above her on the floral wallpaper. It was a painting of her late husband, Harold Wentworth, in a gilded frame. For several moments she studied his noble face.

‘It alarms me the way you were brought up, Frances,’ Louisa declared sententiously. ‘If your dear father had lived, I know he would not have raised you the way your mother has. Knowing my brother as I did, I know he would never have consented to you travelling unchaperoned on a ship. My other two brothers were exactly the same. They were all very protective of their womenfolk, for which I was exceedingly grateful.’ Frances refrained from answering. ‘Still, what is past is past. I cannot undo what has been done.’ She straightened her already erect posture. ‘You are in my house now, and while you are in my care, you shall abide by my rules.’

Frances clenched her jaw in annoyance. ‘Please, Aunt, there’s no need for you to be concerned. I’ll stay somewhere in town.’

‘Oh, hush now. You will do nothing of the kind. I want you to remain here with me at Wintersleigh, where I can keep an eye on you. It is about time you had some parental supervision.’

Frances stiffened. ‘Thank you for your offer,’ she began coolly, ‘but I couldn’t—’

‘And as for a room, do not worry yourself on that score. This room is yours for as long as you need it. I should also add that it is exceedingly comfortable, and will suit your needs tolerably.’

Frances was quickly losing patience. ‘But I—’

‘I will brook no opposition to this, Frances. Your cousins are away in England at present, and I am in need of some company. This arrangement, I dare say, will suit us both very well.’ She attempted a smile. ‘I will also need an additional pair of hands during the New Year. I am not sure whether your mother told you this, but your cousin Agnes has made a very fine match with a local man. She is to be married in February.’

Frances was taken aback by this news. In the past her mother had always kept her abreast of developments in the family, and she wondered why this important piece of information had not been shared with her. Given that her mother was infatuated with a ‘gentleman friend,’ however, Frances wasn’t in the least surprised at not being told. Her mother’s preoccupation with this wealthy divorcee was one of the main reasons why Frances had left Melbourne. After all, it was true what they said: ‘Two’s company, three’s a crowd.’

‘So, my dear,’ Louisa resumed with expectant eyes, ‘what is your answer? Will you stay?’

Frances sighed and looked up at her aunt. It was no use trying to argue with her, she decided. She would only lose. Besides, she thought, she needed somewhere to stay, and this option would cost her nothing, other than her patience, perhaps.

‘Thank you, Aunt Wentworth,’ Frances said in a voice that belied her despondency, ‘I’d very much like to stay.’ She regretted the words almost as soon as she had uttered them.

‘Oh, splendid!’ Louisa cried, clapping her hands together exultantly. ‘I knew you would come to your senses.’ She gave Frances an expressive look.

Frances instinctively glanced up at the small portrait of her late Uncle Harold, the one time school master, turned successful business man. From all accounts, he had made his vast fortune by presiding over no fewer than ten grocer’s stores (most of which were located in Sydney and Melbourne) and by underpaying his overworked employees. Frances thought it strange that his portrait should be hanging in a spare bedroom, but she said nothing to her aunt about it. Without really wanting to, she continued to study her uncle’s likeness. The mere sight of his stern face, immaculately trimmed beard, and censorious slate coloured eyes made her grimace, and she quickly looked away. She transferred her gaze to the majestic figure of her aunt, who was gliding towards the door like a black swan. As soon as Louisa was gone and the door was closed behind her, Frances removed the portrait of her uncle from the wall, and without one pang of guilt, shoved it behind the chest of drawers, where her aunt was least likely to find it. A victorious smile settled upon Frances’s lips, but unfortunately for Frances this triumph was short-lived. Looking up at the wall, to where she had removed the frame, she noticed a large unsightly tear in the wallpaper. For a brief moment, Frances felt a shiver of apprehension. She began to wonder whether she had made the right decision after all.

CHAPTER TWO

An Adventure

It took Frances just three days to repent her decision to live with her aunt. She soon discovered that life at Wintersleigh, without her cousins, was dull beyond belief. Nothing ever seemed to happen. Her aunt, for instance, spent her days like a true old English lady, and did as little as she could possibly manage. To Frances’s mind, the only movement that occurred at Wintersleigh was the crawl of the hands around the clock. A typical day involved alternating between the dining room for formal meals, and the gas-lit drawing room for reading or sewing. Apart from the gas flaring noisily in the background and the ticking of the clock, the evenings were silent. Frances was not used to such lengthy periods of stillness. Before her move to Hobart, she had lived in a terrace house in East Melbourne, and over the years her ears had grown accustomed to the noises associated with living on a busy suburban thoroughfare. Whether it was a carriage rattling past, or the hum of people’s voices as they streamed up and down the pavements, Frances accepted, and even embraced these sounds. Their comforting familiarity reminded her that there was an exciting world beyond her window, a world she would one day explore.

On the fourth day of her monotonous visit, Frances was taking luncheon with her aunt in the dining room. Louisa was sitting in state at the head of the table, and as usual was dominating the conversation.

‘Remind me to make some arrangements about your clothes, Frances,’ Louisa was saying in between mouthfuls of sandwich. ‘Your mother may have approved of your attire, but I do not. And before you ask me why, my dear, I will explain. Your skirt is too short, for a start. I have also noticed that you are not wearing a corset.’

‘Aunt Wentworth!’

‘Now pray do not take that tone with me, young lady. You need not look quite so offended. It gives me no pleasure discussing such an indelicate subject, but something must be said.’

‘Very well, then. Your observations are quite correct. My skirt has been altered to allow me more freedom of movement, and as for the corset, I can proudly say that I don’t even own one. Mother is the same. She says that over a period of time, tight lacing can deform a woman’s body.’

Louisa stared. ‘Stuff and nonsense! What has your mother been reading? Don’t tell me she is one of those ghastly suffragists! A cigar-smoking, bicycle-riding radical, no doubt. What do they call them now? A New Woman?’

‘Mother does ride a bicycle, yes, as do I.’

‘Mercy!’ Louisa gasped. ‘Your mother has much to answer for!’

‘Please don’t alarm yourself, Aunt. Bicycle riding is very common in Melbourne.’

‘Yes, and so is pick-pocketing, but no-one condones that.’

Frances ignored her aunt’s words, and went ahead in the same vain. ‘If it’s any comfort to you, we don’t ride in skirts. We prefer to wear a bifurcated costume.’

‘Oh, it is worse than I thought!’ Louisa wailed.

‘In fact I was discussing this very subject with a young lady on the boat coming over here. I told her that I brought my bicycle with me, and she warned me that female cyclists weren’t common in Tasmania. She had, in fact, never seen one, and urged me to be cautious, lest I should offend anyone.’

‘You brought your, your (she could not bring herself to say the word ‘bicycle’) vile machine with you?’ Louisa asked in a faltering voice. ‘Why was I not informed of this?’

Once again Frances ignored her aunt. ‘I really can’t understand why some people are so vehemently opposed to the bicycle. I personally—’

‘Oh, hush, Frances! I cannot bear to discuss a subject that is so repugnant to me. While you are staying with me you will not be permitted to ride your, your new fangled apparatus. God invented the carriage for a reason, and that is so people can travel with dignity, without having to exert themselves. Only the vulgar classes are permitted to sweat.’

Frances’s heart sank. It was clear that her aunt would not change her mind on this subject, and it was therefore a subject not worth pursuing.

‘And while I am laying down the rules, Frances, I am warning you to be mindful of my neighbours. We are a small tight-knit community down here, and everything a person does and says is subject to some kind of scrutiny. Whilst I am exceedingly grateful that you are not wearing your bifurcated outfit, the clothes you are now wearing will provoke comment from people, and consequently that will reflect on me.’ She waved a finger vaguely at Frances. ‘As you know, I used to be a Norwood before I married into the Wentworth family. Both the Norwood and Wentworth families have proud traditions to maintain. I simply cannot have you dressing so singularly.’

Frances almost choked on her tea, but regained her composure enough to survey her aunt’s drab clothes. Louisa, as usual, was dressed in a black satin gown, a dress, Frances surmised, her aunt had worn every day for the last ten years. For as long as Frances had known her, she had never seen Louisa regaled in any other colour but funereal black. As for Louisa’s hair, which these days was more grey than black, it was parted austerely in the middle of her head, and was drawn into a meticulously arranged bundle that rested on the nape of her neck. Not one straggling wisp of hair was to be seen. Endeavouring to suppress a grin, Frances leant over the table and helped herself to a chicken sandwich.

‘Must you take another one?’ Louisa asked, fixing her eyes on Frances with solemn reproach. ‘You do not need to put on any more weight.’ Frances’s hand lingered over the plate. ‘Being well-rounded is one thing, but being fat is another. Dear, oh dear! If you continue the way you are going,’ Louisa resumed, ‘you will end up like your poor mother. She used to be such a pretty thing,’ she lamented, ‘and now look at her. She is scarcely recognisable.’

Frances felt a fleeting surge of hatred for her aunt pulse through her veins. She was used to her relative’s hurtful remarks and insults, but when they were directed at her mother, it always struck a raw nerve. Being too infuriated to reply, Frances defiantly claimed the sandwich, before cramming it into her mouth.

Louisa puckered her brows, and was just about to voice her disapproval, when a maid entered the room and presented Louisa with a gleaming silver salver.

‘If you please, Ma’am,’ the servant said a little tremulously, ‘the mail has just come.’

Louisa made no acknowledgment of the maid, and demurely took the mail from the tray. To her surprise, there was only one letter, and after a cursory inspection of the flowing handwriting on the envelope, she dismissed the servant and held the letter up for Frances to see.

‘It is for you, my dear. It is from your mother.’ She scrutinised the letter more carefully before she proceeded. ‘It looks as though this was forwarded on from Minnie Gibbs’s mother. Poor creature.’ She shook her head sadly. ‘As soon as you get a chance, Frances, you had better cable your mother and let her know your change of circumstances and address.’

Frances was too overjoyed at the prospect of her mother’s letter to acknowledge her aunt’s comments. Not surprisingly, she pounced on the envelope with alacrity, and was on the verge of tearing it open, when Louisa spoke:

‘Must you read that now? I am of the opinion that reading at the dining table is abominably rude, not to mention exceedingly ill-mannered. A letter,’ she went on haughtily, ‘ought to be read in private, unless, of course, it is a letter for general consumption.’

Frances seized upon her aunt’s words. ‘Well in that case, Aunt,’ she said, pushing her chair back from the table, ‘may I please leave the table?’ She watched her aunt expectantly.

‘And what about luncheon?’ Louisa’s attitude soon softened. ‘Oh, very well. Leave if you must. I confess I am most anxious to hear about your dear mother. She has not written to me for quite some time…’

Frances didn’t wait for her aunt to finish before she rose from the table. Receiving a letter from her mother was by far the most important event of her visit so far, and Frances was determined that nothing, not even her aunt, would spoil the pleasure it would no doubt bring. Once she was out of Louisa’s sight, Frances fled down the long, portrait-lined hallway, and out the back door. The tepid summer air was a refreshing change from her aunt’s company, and as she looked around the vast grounds for a place of repose, she caught herself almost smiling. She eventually found herself an arbour near the rose garden, and as she fumbled excitedly with the envelope, she breathed in the heavily scented air. Without wasting another second, she extracted the folded paper from the envelope and began to read. The letter from her mother Lucy was uncharacteristically short, and from the date, Frances could see that it was written shortly after Frances’s departure from Melbourne.

Dearest Franny —It seems as though you have been gone for years, but I keep having to remind myself that you only left yesterday! Needless to say, your dear old mother misses you terribly, and hopes you’re settling in well with your new position. I still can’t completely understand why you wanted to work in Tasmania, but knowing your sweet and most generous nature, I can only suppose that you wanted to give Herbert and me some room, and some time to get to know each other. In that regard, my dear, I can never thank you enough. Now Franny, I have some rather important news to impart to you. I will endeavour to keep the details to a minimum, which may astound you, given that brevity was never one of my strong points. I hardly know where to begin, but before I go into the particulars, I want to assure you that I’m very well, so you have no need to worry yourself on that score. Now this news might come as a surprise to you, dear girl, so it might be best to sit down and compose yourself. Mr Fairbrother, or ‘Herbie’ as I affectionately call him, has just proposed to me, and I’ve accepted him. What do you think of that, Franny? Your dear old mother agreeing to marry a man who is ten years her junior! Not bad for a woman of my advanced years!

Frances let the letter fall from her hand. Positioning herself under a nearby canopy of rustling leaves, she stared vacantly beyond the sloping velvet lawns and pyramidal trees to Wintersleigh. Through the dazzling sunlight, the lofty white house, with its sweeping verandahs and large windows, seemed to shimmer like a mirage. Frances blinked through the fragrant afternoon haze, and by the time she re-opened her eyes, the mirage had vanished. The sun had dipped behind a passing cloud, and the house, a shade darker, loomed in the foreground, shadowed and imposing. Frances blinked again, but the mirage did not return. Tears filled her eyes, and before she could stop their flow, she was crying.

Louisa, in the meantime, had just finished luncheon and was about to drift through another torporific afternoon, when an unexpected visitor was shown into the vestibule. It was an old friend of Louisa’s, and while the two friends receded into the sumptuous realm of the drawing room, a servant girl was instructed to fetch Frances from the grounds, and accompany her back to the house.

In spite of Frances’s sobs and sniffles she still heard the servant calling her name, and having no desire to return to the house, she looked about her for somewhere to hide. She decided to take refuge in one of the estate’s outhouses, and had just snuck inside when she almost tripped over her beloved bicycle, which was resting up against the wall. Its mere presence was enough to cheer her flagging spirits, and without giving her next course of action much thought, she wheeled her bicycle out of the building, mounted the seat and cycled away as fast as she could. Her surroundings soon became a confused blur, except for the image of the servant girl who was clearly visible on the garden path.

‘I won’t be long!’ Frances declared, saying the first thing that came into her head. ‘I just need to stretch my legs!’

Fortunately for Frances she saw no-one else on her journey to the Wintersleigh front gates. The gardener was pruning on the other side of the estate, and none of the servants inside the house saw her fleeing figure recede into the distance. Having passed through the wrought iron gates into the outside world, she was aware that she was breathless, and that her skirt had ridden up above her knees. After repositioning her skirt to a more modest position, she inhaled deeply, letting the air fill her nostrils and lungs. She was feeling calmer already, and as her wheels crunched over the road, she looked about her. Scrubby bushland and towering eucalypts dotted the landscape, punctuated by the occasional farm and homestead. She soon discerned farm labourers in the field, and despite the fast pace at which she was travelling, she could feel their eyes upon her as she rode past them. This unwelcome attention reminded her of the conversation she had had with the woman on the ship coming over to Tasmania, and feelings of exhilaration were soon replaced by anxiety, and a creeping sense of self-consciousness. To further complicate matters, her once neatly dressed hair had spontaneously released itself from the combs and pins that were holding the composition together, and now a thick long plait of golden hair hung conspicuously over her shoulder. Any doubts about the gender of the lone cyclist were now at an end, and the further she traversed down the road, the more attention she seemed to be attracting. It wasn’t long before she was aware that she was being pursued.

Frances had, in the past, read newspaper articles about women cyclists being harangued, and even assaulted by male onlookers, but she had never personally experienced any abuse. A derogatory whistle was about as much as she had received, but in the end it was all harmless and no-one got hurt. Having said that, she

Reviews for Breakfast at Midnight

[Lynn Ruvang · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Cozy coming-of-age and love story, with a similar feel and subject matter to Downton Abbey or Jane Austen’s works. Often, self-published books drive me crazy with abysmal editing, but I only found a handful of errors in this one. I enjoyed this book.