Merino Downs

1837 Colonial Australia
Maggie took a step back looking at her full reflection in the ornate oval mirror.
Margaret Rose Henty, she mouthed then rising onto the balls of her feet and lifting the sides of the dress she spun around. The fullness of the skirt billowed the blue silk like the gentle waves on the bay.
Her voice was excited, ‘Mrs Patrick Henty.’ A quick curtsy.
‘You look beautiful Maggie,’ her soon to be mother-in-law smiled and reached for the shawl on the back of the chair. ‘At the end of the shearing season I asked Patrick to choose a fine fleece. I explained why I needed it. During the last weeks I’ve spun the wool and woven it into this shawl. It’s your welcome gift from the Henty family, our finest Merino wool. As the southerly buster blows in this afternoon you’ll need its warmth.’
Maggie felt its softness as she draped it across her shoulders. Looking again in the mirror she expressed her delight.
‘My day is getting more exciting by the minute. Thank-you Mrs Henty. It’s beautiful. This will become a family heirloom.’
‘Perhaps soon it will wrap around a grandchild for us.’ There was longing in her voice. ‘I’ll ring for Annie and Emma to help you.’ She walked towards the door then turned. ‘Patrick’s a lucky man and you, Maggie, will have a wonderful husband before the sun sets.’
Maggie looked through the arched window at the preparation on the lawn below. An old sail from the whaling ship had been roped between the branches of the tall gum trees providing shade from the afternoon sun. Tables and chairs were being placed in position by the stable hands. The sandstone wall bordered the flourishing garden, a sea of red, yellow and blue.
How could she have ever dreamt of this occasion? The daughter of a whaler from the village becoming Mrs Henty.
The girls knocked on the door and entered, carrying a basket of blossoms which they began to thread together as they brushed and braided her long blonde hair.
‘Sit still Maggie,’ they pleaded. ‘We’re not done yet. These are the final touches. Your dress is amazing. Mr Henty won’t be able to take his eyes off you.’
Mr Henty. Paddy. It had seemed just a flirting connection when Maggie found herself alone with the Henty’s youngest son. At times he’d be waiting for her as she collected the eggs from the henhouse or carried the milk pails from the dairy. He was two years older than Maggie.
But Paddy was insistent and she liked him. When he suggested they meet in the orchard one afternoon she hesitated. She couldn’t risk losing her position after five years. As a kitchen hand first and then a maid in the manor house, she knew her place and kept her eyes averted when the family were gathered in the dining room or when serving their guests in the parlour. Perhaps one day Mrs Mac’s legs would be too stiff to climb up and down the curving staircase and Maggie would be ready to take over the household duties.
In the orchard Paddy was waiting. He had thrown a sheep skin under a leafy tree and picked some ripe apples. They talked or mainly Paddy talked. She enjoyed listening. He spent weeks away with his brothers on the land they had named Merino Downs. The paddocks were being fenced and the sheep, the prize stud, were producing thick fleeces. Each of the brothers had a share of the acres in the fertile valley beside the flowing Wandoan river. It was a day’s ride on horseback to reach their newly acquired land.
Mr Henty often travelled to Ballarat or even Melbourne Town as he took on civic duties. This left Philip, the oldest son, managing the estate that bordered Portland Bay. Philip was aloof and very like his father in looks and condescending manner. But not Mrs Henty. She was tall and elegant. Her Irish accent lilting as she gave instructions. She smiled often.