The Black Dress by Pamela Freeman Read Free Book Online Page A

best of all,’ I said.
    After everyone left we sat on the verandah, watching Uncle Peter talk over the work for the upcoming week with the men. He spent time with them every week, to Mamma’s relief. She knew little about raising cattle or growing wheat.
    ‘I don’t know what I’d do without you, Peter,’ Mamma said. But Uncle Peter just ducked his head and shrugged.
    ‘Never mind that, Flora. Well, I’d better be getting back to Julia.’
    Some Sundays Aunt Julia did not come to Mass. The Sewards had rebuilt and moved back to their property, two miles down the road. Uncle Peter dropped Aunt Julia off there, and she visited her sister while Uncle Peter came to Mass. Mrs Seward, Mamma said, was ill and needed company. Aunt Julia drove into Melbourne another day in the week to go to Mass.
    ‘But Peter never misses,’ Mamma said. ‘You’d think the land was his own, he takes such good care of it.’
    ***
    Lots of things seemed strange without Papa. The dinner table, with his chair empty. Having Mamma lead the prayers in the morning and the rosary at night.
    But it was the lessons I missed most. I didn’t expect to.
    I had come back from the L’Estranges’ in early 1850, after Papa had bought Darebin Creek Farm. It had been odd, living with my family again, getting used to a house filled with children. It was like I didn’t know them any more, even though I’d seen them every Sunday. The oddest thing was starting lessons with Papa.
    The best part of being at the L’Estranges’ had been all the books in Mr L’Estrange’s library. But I could only read English. Soon after I came back to live at home I turned eight and Papa had decided I was old enough to learn Latin and perhaps Greek, later on. Mathematics. Rhetoric. History. And, of course, theology.
    ‘Nothing is as important as the study of your Faith, Mary,’ he said to me earnestly. I sat beside him at his big desk in the office. The whitewashed walls had only one picture: an engraving of St Peter’s Basilica, the Pope’s big cathedral in Rome. Papa had brought it back with him from Rome itself, all the way from Italy to Scotland, and then to Australia. It dazzled me. My papa had actually been to Mass in St Peter’s. With the Pope. My Papa had spoken to the Pope. When I thought about it, I grew a little dizzy. Rome was as far away as Heaven, it seemed, and the Pope was like one of the Saints. Not quite as important as the Blessed Virgin Mary, but almost. It is strange now to think that I have made that journey, spoken myself with the Holy Father and received his blessing. Oddly, that journey now seems like a dream, while the memory of Papa’s picture of Rome is crisp in every detail.
    ‘Pay attention, Mary,’ Papa said quietly.
    This was a strange thing, too. Papa, who was often so loud and impulsive, grew gentle as soon as we opened our books. His voice grew quiet. His hands were delicate as he turned the heavy pages. His fingertips lingered on the Latin words as he pointed them out to me and told me how to pronounce them.
    ‘ Fideles, Mary, do you know what that means?’
    I had heard it sung at Christmas: ‘Adestes Fideles’. ‘Oh Come, All Ye Faithful’.
    ‘Faithful?’ I asked doubtfully.
    ‘Faith, faithfulness and the faithful themselves, yes, indeed, that is right, child. It is the most important of the virtues and the most important thing in our lives. To be true to what you believe in, no matter what—that is the most important thing in life.’
    His eyes were shining as he put his arm around my shoulders and hugged me quickly.
    ‘And you have a faithful soul, Mary, I can tell.’
    I felt warm with pleasure. ‘Thank you, Papa.’
    ‘Now, I know you know the Lord’s Prayer, Mary, but do you know what it means? ’
    ‘Um...’
    ‘Say it for me.’
    That was easy.
    ‘Pater Noster, qui es in caelis: Sanctificetur nomen tuum...’ I began.
    ‘And what does it mean?’
    ‘Our Papa, who art in Heaven, Hallowed be Thy Name, Thou