An extract from A Great Act of Love by Heather Rose
- Allen & Unwin
- Sep 8
- 5 min read
Updated: Oct 9
From the award-winning author of The Museum of Modern Love and Bruny comes an enthralling tale of legacy, love and the making of champagne.
Van Diemen's Land, 1839. A young woman of means arrives in Hobart, with a young boy in her care. Leasing an old cottage next to an abandoned vineyard, Caroline Douglas must navigate an insular colony of exiles and opportunists to create a new life on this island of extreme seasons and wild beauty. But Caroline is carrying a secret of such magnitude it has led her to cross the world, and it will take all she is made of to bring it into the light.
A Great Act of Love is a spellbinding tale of legacy, passion and reinvention,
and a fearless woman determined to rewrite fate.
Read on for a sneak peek at A Great Act of Love by Heather Rose.
Caroline examines a map. The eastern and western spheres of the world resemble two orbs of an amulet.
She sees, to the far left, Great Britain. How unlikely that it is so small. France dominates it. All of Europe dominates it. She thinks of her father saying, ‘The British are never to be underestimated. Look what they have done with so little.’
She sees North America and, passing over the words Hudson Bay, her hand moves down to Florida, Gulf of Mexico and Caribbean Sea. How easy it is to travel on a map. Amazonia, Brazil and South Atlantic Ocean.
Alert to the danger of approaching footsteps, her gaze lingers on a finger of land as far south as that continent stretches. She has heard stories of the Magellan Straits and Cape Horn. Tales of men shipwrecked and rescued after months of living on seabirds. Men who drew sticks to see who would be eaten next. She considers the notion of eating a friend. Perhaps it would be easier than eating a stranger.
She moves her hand back to Europe, across Arabia, Hindoostan and the great landmass of Asia until it rests on the autumn leaf of New Holland. It is almost as big as Europe, but without cities or history. She wonders what it smells of there.
Prisoners, she imagines.
And there she finds it, at the edge of the Western Hemisphere, a black mark at the 30th latitude smaller than a flea. Norfolk Island. The dream returns. Her father caught in a shaft of sand. The walls are collapsing and he is reaching up, calling her name.
Tante Henriette is at the doorway indicating they must depart. She is sporting a neat black beard, cravat and frock coat, and carrying a satchel. Caroline quickly rolls up the map and slides it into a long leather cylinder beside the desk. She swings it over her shoulder. Her aunt raises an eyebrow but says nothing. Downstairs the party is continuing in the ballroom. Music, dancing, conversation, all receding as they stroll past unnoticed. They meet no one as they step from a side door into Belgravia, and they are away.
Back at Tante Henriette’s apartment, they shed their wigs and shoes, frock coats, braces, collars and cufflinks. They peel away beard and moustache. They brush out their hair and pin it up, then button and lace their dresses.
Caroline makes chocolat chaud in two silver cups and carries them on a tray into the sitting room. As she sits she sighs deeply, her body settling after the evening’s activities.
Tante Henriette places a polished wooden box on the low table. It is finely carved with a budding vine of gold entwined around a pattern of squares. Caroline opens it to reveal ebony and ivory pieces laid on green velvet. The horses look as if they are rearing in the wind. The robes of the clergymen each bear a tiny crucifix.
‘Beautiful,’ she whispers, examining the pieces. ‘From tonight?’
‘Bien sûr,’ says Tante Henriette and begins to set up the game. Despite making London her home for many years, Henriette prefers her native tongue. Caroline has moved between French and English all her life.
They each lead with a pawn, then Tante Henriette brings out her bishop. As Caroline weighs her next move, she describes the dream of her father being swallowed by sand, his hand reaching out to her.
‘You have had such a dream before?’ her aunt asks.
‘Several times now,’ says Caroline. ‘The same dream. The sand. His face.’
‘The map? Did you think it could lead you to him?’
Caroline says nothing.
‘Sometimes,’ says Henriette, ‘I see him in the fields walking between the vines. A boy again. Strange, non? Though it is best not to think of him; what good can it do?’
Caroline moves her knight, and her aunt responds by moving another pawn. Caroline loves the loyalty of the smallest pieces. They could easily be disregarded in the face of more powerful players. Yet they remain obstinate and steadfast in a battle waged to defend an ideal.
She says, ‘There are offers of passage for unmarried women to New South Wales and Van Diemen’s Land.’
Her aunt arches an eyebrow. ‘You are not still considering that?’
‘I am,’ says Caroline.
‘But why?’ asks Tante Henriette. ‘He will never be released—and even if he was, he will not be the man you remember.’
‘It is nothing to do with him,’ says Caroline, progressing her attack on the board, keenly aware of her aunt’s greater skill.
‘Then why would a young woman of your talents take herself to such a place?
Hardly to raise sheep, I think.’
Caroline does not want to admit to the fear that has shadowed her of late. The cry of ‘Police!’ at a most unexpected or inconvenient moment.
‘Of course,’ continues her aunt, ‘someone of military rank may offer his hand. Perhaps he is blind in one eye from a wound he took for England as a young man. It oozes and smells. He has the gout, too . . . and four or five very ugly children in need of a new mother . . .’ She takes Caroline’s knight.
Caroline admonishes herself for her lapse in attention. She stares at her pieces. But her mind is thinking of the map. Atlantic Ocean, Indian Ocean, Pacific Ocean.
‘You could come with me,’ Caroline says.
'And be without my ladies to take me on their tours of Europe?’ replies Henriette. ‘Without the shops and cafes and theatres of London and Paris that bring me so much pleasure? I have no wish to see these fingers dirtied by potatoes.’
‘We have enough, though, don’t you think?’
‘A sweet notion, but if we are to forgo our ways, enough must last us a very long time.’
‘Still . . .’ Caroline says.
‘This wriggling worm of loyalty, it is making you restless.’
Caroline does not reply.
‘I assure you, dear Caroline, there is no debt you must repay,’ says Henriette, her voice kinder now. ‘The past is not something that can be left behind, but nor is it wise to carry it ever upon your shoulders.’
For some time there is only the drinking of chocolat and the quiet movement of pieces.
‘I could advertise,’ Caroline says at last. ‘Young woman of disreputable family seeks rich husband for colonial adventure.’
‘Young woman of unique talents seeks a man unworthy of her character,’ says Tante Henriette. ‘And you must remember to beware the strong man offering you his hand, Caroline. Your father was one of those . . .’
Caroline sees she is entangled in a series of strategies her aunt has employed and feels momentary dread. She moves her queen out of danger, only to realise that she should have moved her king.
Henriette says, ‘If you go, you must invent a new story.’
An extract from A Great Act of Love by Heather Rose available now in all good bookstores or you can find it online here:
A Great Act of Love
by Heather Rose
From the award-winning author of The Museum of Modern Love and Bruny comes an enthralling tale of legacy, love and the making of champagne.
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