The Darlings of the Downs: The Downs, #1

By Casey Walsh

A heart-warming Australian historical rural family saga with a love story at its core. Book one in the Downs series.

 

They say bad things come in threes...

Tragedy forces the teenaged Cleary sisters to join the thousands leaving Ireland for the fabled good life in the colonies. But at the bottom of the world, they encounter dangerous and disconcerting characters, prejudices they thought they'd left behind, and choices that can only drive them apart.

Through the eyes of the dutiful and naive, Roisin; lovelorn stalwart, Grace; and feminist artist Stella, The Darlings of the Downs explores the secrets and the ties that bind families from one generation to the next and the impossible choices women make for the people they love.

Set against the backdrop of colonial and post-war era Australia, this richly layered historical family drama traces the delicate threads of cause and effect throughout five generations.

 

Features a discussion guide for book clubbers.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casey Walsh
• Release date: Feb 5, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223953463

Casey Walsh

Casey Walsh writes stories that combine her passions for history and mysteries, stories that explore our connections to the people and places of the past. She is the author of the dual timeline mystery, On Moreton Waters; books one and two in the Downs series: the sweeping family saga, The Darlings of the Downs and the romantic adventure novella, Phelan's Gold; all of which are set in her home state of Queensland, Australia. She is currently crafting the third book in the Downs series, a murder mystery.

Book preview

Part One

Chapter 1

THEY say bad things come in threes. In Roisin Cleary’s nineteen years, she had seen the truth of this and was on the lookout for the second disaster as though it might drop right out of the leaden sky. Trudging up the muddy lane on her way back to her parents’ cottage, she was wondering for the millionth time just how she was going to break it to them that she had lost her job.

She could picture the look of despair that would pass between them. But they would not chide her, nor rail against their bad luck at losing income at the time of year they could least afford to. She only hoped the news of her retrenchment hadn’t already reached them.

Roisin possessed an uncommon aptitude for sewing, and had learned all the tricks of the trade from her mother’s mother. The Lady of the local manor, Farrenbrien, had recruited her at age fourteen as one of three seamstress-cum-lady’s maids. Roisin would never have imagined that the wealth, the plenty, the ease of life in the big house was all hanging by a thread and that even the landed gentry were not immune from money problems.

Farrenbrien’s place in the district seemed as permanent and solid as the enormous oak door through which she and the other twenty staff had exited that very morning, dismissed without notice. Lord and Lady Dunleavy, their employers, had already retreated to the safety of England, leaving the running of their estate to a local agent.

And so here she was at noon on Friday, not expected at home until the end of the month on her Sunday off, with all her worldly goods bundled onto her shoulders, feeling an utter failure. She had steadfastly fixed her eyes on the ground while these dark recollections pursued her, but she raised them as she crested the hill overlooking Ballyfeard. She expected to see her father labouring in his field on the village’s southern outskirts, but his familiar form, bent over the plough, was nowhere to be seen.

Her sister, Shelagh, ran into the lane to meet her.

‘It’s Da, hurry!’

Roisin dumped her load by the door and stooped to enter the white-washed croft. Her mother turned wild eyes on her eldest child. Kneeling beside the pallet by a roaring fire were Roisin’s siblings: Maeve, Niamh, Paddy and Diarmid. They looked up at Roisin, faces stricken with fear. Beside them lay their father, flushed and groaning.

Roisin felt her legs go to jelly. Well, here it was, the second calamity. It just didn’t seem fair that it had come upon them so soon after the first.

Chapter 2

JOSEPH Cleary lay looking up at the distress on his children’s faces, the heat from the peat fire making him almost swoon. He tried not to think about the unsown crops in the field or the rent that was due this week, or the hands of his wife, rubbed raw, ruined before their time. Caitlin knelt by the pallet, swabbing his fevered brow, her pale eyes burning with tears. The priest had been called. He knew he must not have long.

It had been an accident, the work of a moment. Looking away from the furrow but for an instant, his boot wedged under the plough, the horse’s momentum drove metal deep into his flesh, crushing bone. Infection had set in, despite Caitlin’s tender ministrations, issued as though they were last rites. It turned out that they were.

Just ten days after the accident, they buried Joseph in the churchyard in his native Ballyfeard. He had lived his whole thirty-eight years in this hamlet, not ten miles from Cork. Father Egan lamented that this would likely spell the end of the Clearys in the district, as Caitlin had not the wherewithal to take over their smallholding with two boys, only just in their teens.

There was always talk of folks leaving Eire. The spectre of famine and the tumult of the Land War hung over the country like the blade of a guillotine. People who had left for greener pastures would send word back home that life in the new colonies was hard, but fair, and that you could at least make a modest living. Those who were already weighing up their options needed no further incentive to leave. But Caitlin Cleary surprised them all by deciding to stay on, facing the chill winds and uncertain yields with a determination few realised she had.

But she wanted better things for her eldest daughters. As a child of the famine, her own family had narrowly avoided immigration, but it was always in the back of her mind that she may have to send her own children away when they were old enough to fend for themselves. She had discussed this with Joseph and he’d agreed in principle, but when it came to it, he could not part with them.

His passing had changed all of that. Roisin and Shelagh would have to go without delay. Feeding five mouths was going to be nigh on impossible, let alone seven. Father Egan had contacts in Cork who could arrange their passage.

Caitlin had given her daughters all she could spare from her paltry savings: some linen she’d squirrelled away over the years and a few coins. She refused to believe that she would not see them again. This was their home; the move to Australia was only to be temporary; she couldn’t conceive of her own flesh and blood making their permanent home at the ends of the earth. Her only comfort was that there were people from their village who had crossed the vast heaving oceans and survived to send word from that alien continent. They painted a land of merciless heat, strange landscapes and even stranger creatures. But if you worked hard, you could feed and clothe your family.

As the colony’s population was overwhelmingly male, there was a need for womenfolk – to serve as governesses, seamstresses, cooks and housemaids. The thought of Roisin and Shelagh’s fresh faces, their naivety, gave her pause. How would they fend off the attentions of unsuitable men? But she could not get caught up worrying about such things. She had to shake off her romantic notions now that she was a widow with a smallholding to run with four children under sixteen. She reproached Joseph in her more exasperated moments, for indulging her fancies, protecting her from life’s harsh realities. He had treated her like his boyhood sweetheart to the last.

She stood resolute at the crossroads of Ballyfeard before dawn. The horse that pulled the cart that would take Roisin and Shelagh away from the village of their birth to the unimaginable beyond was stomping the ground, impatient to be off. She would never see them again, but on that fog-bound morning in 1879, Caitlin Cleary could not know that. If she had, she would not have let them go. She had faith in a better future for her girls and this faith sustained her as she shuffled back to her village and the cottage where her other children slept the sleep of the innocent.

Chapter 3

CORK was heaving. Cargo was strewn all over the port ready to be loaded into the holds of ships bound for every corner of the globe. Roisin Cleary dashed the last of her tears away and gripped her sister’s hand as they walked along the quay; glad for the tenth time that day there was no one to see them off.

Not that Shelagh would have suffered any emotional leave-taking. Since their mother had told them of her grand plans for them, she had talked of little else; it was precisely what she had wished: to leave the narrow confines of their village and see something of the world. Roisin didn’t share her enthusiasm. She was content to while her life away in Ballyfeard, letting her youth slip past, filled with the fireside tales of the adventures of other people, not craving any of her own.

‘Is that our ship?’ Shelagh asked.

The Gypsy Bride, straining against its moorings, had caught her eye. It was a name to conjure romance and exotic locales. Roisin looked with alarm at the ship’s old timbers and hoped they could withstand the pressure of four oceans for just one more voyage. Please God, let them hold together long enough to deliver them safe and dry to the bottom of the world.

But all passengers at this end of the quay were being directed to the Oriental, a steamer whose steel robustness inspired much needed confidence.

Though just twelve months separated them, Roisin had a gravity that seemed to add a dozen more years to her nineteen, whereas Shelagh had the light heart of a child. Shelagh was humming a new tune she had picked up on the dock, impatiently threading her way through the crowds to find their berth in steerage.

‘Hurry, Roisin! I want the top bunk if there’s one left.’

‘Slow down, you’re hurting my arm.’

They found their accommodation: a narrow cabin with four bunks wedged tight under the rafters with barely enough space to sit up on your elbow. The light from the solitary porthole was dim, yet it illuminated the grimy floor and walls and the mouldy straw that was escaping the mattresses.

‘So this is home for the next four months,’ Roisin said. She had expected much worse.

‘I bags the top one,’ Shelagh said as she spread out her things on the bunk below the porthole. ‘First in, best dressed.’ She laughed, as though they were on a luxury yacht bound for an island paradise.

Their fellow cabin mates joined them: a mother and daughter, whose accent revealed that they were from a neighbouring village, yet were complete strangers to the Clearys; such was the small arc of their acquaintance.

‘Good day to you. I am Shelagh and this is my sister, Roisin.’ Shelagh said as she jumped down off the top bunk and dropped a quick curtsey to the large lady and her tiny daughter.

‘Pleased, I’m sure.’ The woman, Mrs Connor, nodded curtly and turned to busy herself with arranging their meagre possessions.

Roisin tried to muster some warmth as she smiled at the little girl, who smiled tentatively in return and clung to her well-worn dolly.

The Oriental showed signs of movement. Roisin followed Shelagh back to the upper deck. She wanted to drink in the scene, to witness their retreat from the shore, to stand still and watch until the land was out of sight, swallowed by the inky ocean. For these images would have to sustain her, she suspected, for a very long time to come.

When her grandchildren asked her about her childhood home, she could close her eyes and recount what it had been like, the precise palette of earth, sky and sea, on the day she left Eire.

Chapter 4

ANY fears Roisin had that Shelagh might succumb to either homesickness or seasickness were allayed after the first two days on the open sea. This freed her to wallow in her own misery, riding the waves as though she were in the bilge, feeling every vibration and surge of the ocean. She could only close her eyes and try to escape it. The ship surgeon’s advice was that she should fix on a point and focus on that, but it hadn’t helped at all. She hoped that his assurance that she would soon get used to the roiling and heaving would at least prove true.

Days turned into weeks and as they reached warmer climes, the surgeon urged the passengers to spend more time in the sun on the upper deck. Shelagh didn’t need any encouragement. From the confines of her sickbed, Roisin felt as though she had had the life story of every passenger on board from Shelagh, most of which were likely exaggerated. Her sister took extreme delight in imagining things, shamelessly embellishing the facts if they were in want of spice or interest. She had already composed two new limericks. The girl had the gift of the gab, just like their da, God rest his soul.

One couple of Shelagh’s acquaintance dominated the conversation more than any other during Shelagh’s afternoon visits to their quarters. The sun’s rays were too high to penetrate the gloom of the cabin; still, Shelagh brought colour and light to her sister with her animated tales and amusing observations from her morning excursions.

‘Mr and Mrs Rutherford are quite charming and I think will prove useful acquaintances. They are eager to meet you,’ Shelagh said.

‘And why would that be now? Have you been exaggerating my talents?’ Roisin said, trying her best to sound cross.

‘Not at all. I speak only the truth. That you are one of the finest seamstresses in the county and that you worked for Lady Eliza Dunleavy, no less.’

‘Lady Dunleavy had little choice. You talk as though there were hundreds of seamstresses to choose from in Ballyfeard.’

‘But if you were rubbish, she would never have kept you in her employ, would she?’ Shelagh countered.

‘You have a point. But Shelagh, please, don’t be so free with your opinions among these strangers. You don’t know who they really are. Ma was right to warn us not to trust everyone we meet. Some people have a hidden agenda. And please promise you won’t befriend any men. I vowed to Ma that I wouldn’t let you out of my sight. If only I didn’t feel so wretched.’ Roisin lay back down, exhausted and annoyed; a flush had spread across her face and neck. She pressed her fingertips to her temples in a vain attempt to ease the throbbing there.

‘The doctor says he will visit you tomorrow if you are still unwell.’ Shelagh said in her softest voice, taking Roisin’s hand.

‘The doctor? I must tell Ma how fortunate we are to have the ministrations of a doctor at our beck and call. We should have set sail years ago. You go on now and mind what I said.’

‘I’ll bring you some supper soon.’ Shelagh blew her a kiss and was out the door before Roisin could object to the idea of supper. She despaired of instilling any sort of discipline in her sister. She should be at her needlework or reading, ‘improving her mind’ as Lady Dunleavy had always advocated, not gallivanting.

Roisin was secretly proud of her skill as a seamstress and never more pleased now that it had some currency. It was their ticket out of a life of poverty and despair. As assisted immigrants, they had their passage paid for, but they would have to repay it as soon as they found employment in their new home. At least it wasn’t an entirely unknown quantity. Their old neighbours, the Driscolls and Tiernans, had settled in a place called Ipswich, near Brisbane, a new settlement on the east coast of the continent. Their descriptions were promising: fertile soils and a warm climate where ladies could dispense with half their petticoats if they cared to and best of all, it was far removed from the troubles that plagued Eire.

Roisin wanted to believe that it was a land of promise; she had doubts but not the heart to raise them in front of her mother and Father Egan. They had to believe that they would be better off, that the sacrifice of letting them go would be worthwhile. Only time would tell if their faith would be rewarded.

Chapter 5

‘HOW do you do?’ Mr Rutherford said, holding out a smooth hand to Roisin.

They were in the dining hall. It was the fourth week at sea. Roisin had, by degrees, felt better and began accompanying Shelagh on her daily visits to different parts of the ship, at least to those parts that were not barred to young women of their race and class. Shelagh said there were many new friends that were waiting to meet her. Roisin knew they were in for disappointment; she’d lost weight and was pale and weak – not exactly an advertisement for youth and vigour.

‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ Roisin replied. Though Mr Rutherford’s attire was immaculate on first impression, her expert eye soon detected evidence of wear and careful mending of his once fine garments. Turning to meet Mrs Rutherford, she saw where all their money went.

‘Charmed, I’m sure.’ Mrs Rutherford held out a bejewelled hand. Her smile did not extend to her eyes.

‘Miss Cleary tells us that you are an accomplished seamstress. As it happens, we are in the same line of business.’ While she spoke, she was scrutinising Roisin’s gown for any defect, as though she could not quite believe someone so young could have any real ability.

‘Yes, I was employed until recently by Lady Dunleavy of Farrenbrien,’ Roisin said. She knew she had to promote herself, but it was not something that came naturally to her.

‘I haven’t had the pleasure, but of course, a member of the aristocracy would be very discerning. Tell me, what are your plans in Australia? Do you have any contacts?’ The mention of Lady Dunleavy had obviously impressed Mrs Rutherford.

‘Oh, yes. We are bound for Brisbane, where we know two families from our village. They have promised us some introductions,’ Roisin said.

‘Well now, Mr Rutherford, what did we hear only the other day of this Brisbane town? That it is not perhaps the most desirable settlement, especially for unchaperoned young ladies.’

‘Yes, we’ve heard tell of malefactors, scofflaws, vagrants, and the like. What was that rogue’s name?’ Mr Rutherford asked his wife.

‘It was Eamon Phelan. Yes, he is something of a watchword for all that is villainous, apparently,’ Mrs Rutherford said, clicking her tongue.

‘Oh yes, beware of Eamon Phelan – we heard some people say that,’ Shelagh interjected. ‘Remember, Roisin? At the dock before we boarded? I remember because I was thinking of a word to rhyme with...’

‘Yes, yes, I remember,’ Roisin said, before Shelagh could recite one of her limericks amongst present company. ‘Well, we shan’t be alone, but thank you all the same for your kind concern, Mr and Mrs Rutherford.’

The Rutherfords were not at ease and took the opportunity each day to warn them again of the perils that faced unprotected young women. Sydney was the only civilised settlement on the entire continent, and there could be no better place for the young ladies to settle and begin their Antipodean adventure.

‘Should we not at least consider Mr Rutherford’s offer?’ Shelagh stuck her head over the edge of the bunk, peering down at Roisin as they were getting ready for bed. They’d grown so used to the confines of the cabin and the perpetually raised eyebrows of Mrs Connor that they carried on their conversations as though alone.

‘Think of it: a situation in Sydney starting as soon as possible. You could always write to Ma and the Tiernans when we arrive, explaining all.’

‘Yes, we could, but...’

‘But what, Roisin? What if we can’t find employment in Brisbane? It will already take us years to repay the cost of our passage.’

‘Yes, that’s true, but we don’t know the Rutherfords at all. We shouldn’t be pinning all our hopes on them, no matter how good it sounds.’

‘Well, I think they’re grand. Mr Rutherford is so kind.’

‘We shall see.’ Roisin had to admit Shelagh had a point. Gaining a situation for them both was her biggest worry. It kept her from sleeping most nights. She knew not what Australia held for them, but it had to be more promising than the life they were leaving behind. Their parents had wanted them to expand their horizons, and she was determined to make a go of life in the new world, for their sakes. Even if they failed and had to return home with nothing, it would be better than never having tried at all.

Chapter 6

BY the time the Oriental had rounded the Cape of Good Hope, Roisin was warming to the idea of working for the Rutherfords in Sydney. If Mr Rutherford could convince his clientele to part with their coin in half so convincing a manner as he had used to persuade Roisin to be his head seamstress, she thought his new business venture would do well.

They met most days to go over the details of the establishment they were going to set up, right down to the colour of the drapes in the window and the style of lettering on the sign over the door. They talked of how long it might take to establish regular custom, where to source the best cloth at the most reasonable prices, and who their existing contacts were in Sydney.

Mr Rutherford had recruited two other young women on board who had some experience. Roisin came out of her shell and was getting excited about the prospect of being head seamstress. Her imagination had carved out a scene: a small but amply stocked store on a busy street, with a modest workshop out back, well-lit and warm where she could sew to her heart’s content. Maybe she could even put forward some of her own designs, the ones that came to her mind unbidden, but that she had never had the luxury of time or money to bring to life.

Then tragedy number three caught up with them. Mr Rutherford fell ill and within a week, he was dead.

The ship’s surgeon had purged and bled him, but the cyanosis defeated him in the end. His lips, tongue and torso had turned blue, and he had complained that his arms and legs were cold, despite the tropical heat. The doctor concluded that heart trouble had been the root cause. The suddenness of his passing shocked all his new acquaintances, none more so than Roisin and Shelagh.

Landfall was weeks away, and so his body was sewn into some canvas, weighed down with pig iron and let slip noiselessly into the depths of the Indian Ocean. The ship’s chaplain presided over his farewell, which was witnessed by a large group of silent onlookers.

Roisin dreamt of him the night of the burial. Freed from his shroud, he rose through the black waves, his blue face monstrous, contorted, grown larger than life.

The girls didn’t see Mrs Rutherford for days. After a week, Roisin thought to look out her cabin and offer some consoling words, which she hoped would miraculously spring to mind when the moment came.

She knocked gingerly and asked: ‘Mrs Rutherford, Roisin Cleary here, would you like some company?’

She had expected to find her weeping, wan with grief, but was met with dry-eyed steeliness. There seemed to be no trace of Mr Rutherford in the tiny cabin, other than his few possessions that were bundled into a small trunk that sat open by the door. Roisin recognised the bottle-green waistcoat he had always worn folded on top. Instead of anguished silence from Mrs Rutherford, she received a reprimand.

‘I thank you for your condolences, Miss Cleary. Please forget all that my late husband talked of – offering work as a seamstress. Mr Rutherford deluded himself, entertaining the most grandiose ideas. We had always intended to disembark at Fremantle, for I have people there.’

‘But what of Sydney, his business contacts, the shop he had all but leased? Was that all a fiction?’ Roisin was already reproaching herself for having believed