_
Well, the marble is Carrara.
That's from Italy.
The piano... German, of course.
The faux leather wallpaper, handmade in Japan with gilding.
Apparently, the finest makers in the world.
Oh, uh, and a formal rose garden.
Ladies like them.
All on a grand scale.
Hmm.
Look, I have a nice little Tudor on two acres closer to town.
Might be more suitable.
Best veggies in the region.
Mr. Whitehead's a magician.
The gardener.
Ladies compete for his strawberries.
His father worked for the royal family
in the gardens at Buckingham Schloss.
Interesting. Would he stay on?
Yes, most certainly would.
Arthur's right.
People always believe their own eyes.
Dress like a tart, you're a tart.
Dress like a widow...
So, uh... ten top-notch acres.
Two internal bathrooms and three water closets.
My husband mistrusted water closets.
A man after my own heart.
Some things belong outdoors.
Yeah, pigs and privies.
Passed away, has he? Your husband?
I feel he watches over me.
There's always naked tits in the finer establishments.
Oh, sorry about that.
Built by a prospector.
He only lived here for a year.
They can't settle once they've got the gold fever.
He died in New Zealand.
The family are open to offers.
I'll have to confer with Arthur.
Oh, yes, of course.
Speak amongst yourselves. Don't mind me.
The stables appear to be in good repair.
Oh, immaculate.
Look around you, ma'am.
It's barely sat in, barely slept in,
all of it better than new.
A husband might make me an offer.
Yes, of course.
There'd be a bit of argy-bargy.
We'd... agree on a sum,
what we mentioned earlier, less, say, ten percent?
All right. You drive a hard bargain.
Fifteen.
Including the vehicles,
less another five for immediate payment.
Well, I... think we could settle for that.
Good.
Then I will send for my trunks.
You... want to stay here... now?
I dislike hotels.
He'll never find us out here.
Arse end of the world.
New beginning.
Good-bye, Hester.
Hello, Widow Appleyard.
You're she.
Huh?
Good morning! And I am sorry,
but I think Miranda's been playing truant again.
Miss Lumley, try to set an example for the girls
by being punctual.
Yes, Mrs. Appleyard.
Good morning, ladies.
Good morning, Mrs. Appleyard.
As you are aware,
the seniors are attending a fete this afternoon.
Mademoiselle, you will accompany us.
Oui, Madame Appleyard.
Keep an eye on Miranda Reid.
- Mm-hmm. - Miss McCraw,
you will lead this morning's assembly.
- Thank you. - Thank you, Mrs. Appleyard.
Which one?
It's a fete, not a ball.
The one with beads is heaven.
And it has a sheer bodice.
Mrs. A will make you change.
There won't be any time.
I wish the juniors were going.
I long to see Government Cottage.
Oh, don't be a goose.
The real treat's gonna be our picnic.
I've been studying up on Mount Diogenes.
It's a mamelon. Millions of years old.
Magma poured out through a vent and congealed in place.
- Isn't that stupendous? - Sounds disgusting.
A magma mamelon.
- I can't wait! - Nor can I.
To be in the true wild again.
- Marion Quade. - Good afternoon, Mrs. Appleyard.
Irma Leopold.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Appleyard.
Mademoiselle, fetch Miss Leopold a shawl.
It's from the House of Worth.
You're not in London anymore, Irma.
Paris, actually.
Miranda Reid.
Mrs. Appleyard.
Blanche Gifford.
Mrs. Appleyard. What a perfect afternoon for a fete.
Rosamund Swift.
Kenton sisters.
Yes, very good.
Yellow. Interesting.
Some of our brave boys have joined the Mounted Rifle Brigade
to fight in Africa for Queen and country.
Today's fete is to fare them well.
You will maintain a serious demeanor at all times.
On Monday you will write a composition about the Boer War.
And who will read those?
As our new history teacher has yet to materialize,
Marion will mark your compositions out of ten.
Yes, Mrs. Appleyard.
Ladies, hats on.
In pairs, please.
Ah, look who's here.
Please give a round of applause for our soldiers,
led by the governor's wife.
Bravo!
Hear, hear, mate!
- Bravo. - Bravo.
Surely they're not taking these poor horses into battle?
Along with their poor selves,
yes.
Could you do it?
Sail off and kill someone you've never even met?
Imagine it.
Honestly, you two are the strangest girls.
Ready. Step. Lift.
Step. Lift.
Next, please. Okay.
And... step, lift.
- A lizard climbing up a tree... - Focus!
...stands still in silent reverie.
Wild spirit...
Oh! Sara Waybourne!
- That's enough! - Ugh!
I can hardly fit any more demerit marks under your name.
She's laughing, Miss!
Stop it!
And-and that is another demerit mark for you, Edith...
for letting yourself get bumped into.
Now back in line. Go on.
Sara Waybourne?
Over to the posture board with you.
Quick sticks.
Not... impressed.
Myrtle, strap her up.
Step. Lift.
Hmm, disappointing.
Let's see what we have here.
They do try to put on a good show,
but it's hardly what one would call a parade.
Oh, your little college is gaining quite a reputation.
Who's the dark one?
Justice Quade's bastard?
- Quade's a good man. - Indeed.
And she's inherited his intellect.
Much good it may do her.
- That the Rothschild? - Irma Leopold, yes.
A direct heir.
Send her along to our annual soiree.
Appleyard girls don't consort.
My nephew's just out from London.
I don't want him getting bored.
Why don't you chaperone her yourself?
Ugh.
Thank you, Colonel Fitzhubert.
I'd be honored.
Miss Leopold certainly seems
to have put us on the map.
Pity she's a Hebrew.
Who are your people?
Appleyard. Kensington?
I'm not familiar with the name.
My papa holds the chair of Ecclesiastical History
at the University of Cambridge.
My background doesn't encourage conversation.
If you'll excuse me?
What is it?
This is amazing.
What are you doing?
And one... becomes two.
- Can I share? - Mademoiselle.
Yes?
Where is Miranda?
Edith's mother approaches from the west.
Uh, other way.
You've never known your east from your west.
I'm sorry.
Good afternoon, Mrs. Horton.
Eh... Hello.
A drop for you.
Try not to perspire, ladies.
Ah, Mrs. Appleyard.
What an unexpected pleasure.
Dr. Mackenzie.
I've just been invited to the Fitzhuberts' annual soiree.
Oh. Well, I would have taken you every year
if I knew you wanted to go.
Well, one doesn't like to push.
He's a peer of the realm.
He's an old windbag.
And you're a wretched schoolboy at heart.
Tell me, have you seen Miranda Reid?
Mmm, no.
Hey, buddy.
Hey.
Careful, miss.
I could ride before I could walk.
Where was that, then?
North Queensland.
We own a cattle station.
You're a long way from home.
A country lass.
Maybe not.
Stuck-up little madam after all.
I have four brothers, and I can outride them all.
I'm not a shock to you, then.
Steady now.
Easy.
Ah.
Find water. Clean your dress.
Behind the house, there will be a pump.
Clean your dress. Say nothing to anyone.
Go.
Yeah.
Hurts like the devil to be trod on by a horse.
I suppose you're drunk.
Dr. Mackenzie will get you something for the pain.
You'd like that, wouldn't you?
Then button up your trousers.
Dr. Mack's certain to know
a horse didn't cause that injury.
You know there's going to be a humongous fuss.
Dr. Mack won't tell.
He's Mrs. A's pet. I've seen it in the tower.
She just tore the pitchfork out.
If she's from Kensington, I'm a stuffed parrot.
You're shaking. Lie down.
Don't bother.
You're wanted.
Something light for dinner the evening before.
The girls will stuff themselves
- at the picnic. - It's the fresh air.
It's the boredom.
Yes, ma'am.
Thank you, Cook.
You almost destroyed the reputation of my college.
You still don't understand why you've been sent here, do you?
Your brothers are at home, learning how to run the station.
Soon it will be theirs, along with the family name.
Nothing comes to you.
Your worth will be set by your future husband.
What almost occurred today...
- That will never happen again. - Of course it will.
You've grown up on the land.
What takes place in the marriage bed is no different
from what happens between beasts in a field.
You are a ruinously spoilt child.
You abandoned restraint.
Imagine if you'd had to marry that brute as a result.
You're not...
unattractive.
You could have suitors to choose from,
but you lack refinement.
You may go.
I'll decide on your punishment in my own time.
What happened?
- Nothing. - That's not good.
Are those the stockings I lent you?
Oh, don't give them to Miss Lumley to mend.
I'll ask Mademoiselle.
I told you I didn't want them
because I knew I'd ruin them.
But you could be so elegant.
I don't want to be elegant.
I'm not a horse being groomed for auction like you.
What a bumpkin you are
to think this is anything like a real finishing school.
Happy St. Valentine's Day!
A blessing from St. Valentine, sister mine.
Happy St. Valentine's Day, Irma.
Beside the creek, she sits to rest.
Her feet as white as purest snow.
She dips them in the water blessed.
Like laughter does that water flow.
A lizard climbing up a tree
stops still in silent reverie.
No one has ever written me a poem.
Thank you, puss.
Happy St. Valentine's Day.
I have the weekly post.
Oh, I'm so excited.
This is for you.
Here's yours. Merci.
No. None for you, Edith.
Oh, you do?
How beautiful.
Oh, wow.
It's from my brother.
Good morning, girls.
Good morning, Mrs. Appleyard.
We are indeed fortunate
in our weather for the picnic
to Mount Diogenes.
As the day is likely to be warm,
you may remove your gloves
after the drag has passed through Woodend.
I must warn you,
the rock is extremely dangerous.
You are, therefore, forbidden
from engaging in any tomboy foolishness
in the matter of exploration.
The vicinity is also renowned
for its venomous snakes
and poisonous ants.
Try to have a pleasant day.
Sorry to startle.
We have been introduced, um...
That is to say, Miss Lumley,
your mistress of Deportment
and Bible Studies, is my sister.
Oh.
Um... Miss Leopold,
if I might, humbly,
with all deference to St. Valentine...
Thank you,
Mr.... Lumley.
Oh, my giddy aunt.
Oh, throw it away.
- No, open it. I want to see it. - Oh, my.
Looks like you've got some competition.
- Oh, not with Miss Lumley. - A love triangle.
Oh, don't be too jealous.
Mademoiselle. It's Edith.
Stop that caterwauling now.
Show me.
Oh.
Your monthly blood has arrived.
Yes, you are a woman now.
That means, Edith, you can now have a baby.
But it's the picnic.
Mademoiselle will show you how to protect your clothing.
- Yes. - I urge you to make hygiene a priority.
Maladies flourish in the dark.
One mystery at least is solved.
Why Mrs. Horton sent her to us,
to spare herself this very day.
Hurry.
Bad timing will define your life, Edith.
Sara, please return to your room for the rest of the day.
But... i-it's the picnic.
You won't be attending.
You can thank Miranda.
This is her punishment.
My sins have nothing to do with Sara.
You are excitable and drawn to danger,
and no good will come of it.
Perhaps Sara's disappointment will get through to you.
Oh, no, please. Please let Sara go.
Sara has many outings to look forward to.
This is your last year. Your parents expect me
to do all that I can.
Please, Mrs. Appleyard.
She'll take me to the tower.
Let me show her what you found.
- No. - She has to understand that we're...
we're not ignorant children.
We know her secret.
She'll leave you alone.
She'll be on her best behavior.
Trust me.
At least you'll get to see it,
the Hanging Rock.
Where is it?
Are you sure?
Let's burn her.
I despise our summer hats.
I shall design a new one and tell Papa to have them made.
Leave Sara alone.
You know gossip's like a wildfire.
Once it gets started,
where does it end?
Steady, Sailor.
Whoa, Duchess!
Belmonte, I will give you such a lathering!
Caramel, Mr. Hussey?
Not while I'm driving.
Thank you.
I heard a horse belonging to your father
won at Ascot.
Papa's horses always win.
- Is that a fact? - Yes.
Of course it's not a fact.
Otherwise Mr. Hussey might make his fortune.
Jump out of the way of the carriage!
Take them off.
Can we take our hats off as well?
Absolutely not.
A lady is given only one complexion.
She must protect it.
Right, Edith?
I'll get the gate.
You're some lucky farmer's dream, Miss Miranda.
Miranda...
Who's that?
Hah! Come on. Hah!
Hyah.
Look,
the Fitzhuberts are having a picnic, too.
And that must be the nephew from London.
Can I take my hat off?
Girls, the girl with the most Valentines
may now cut the cake.
Thank you.
To St. Valentine.
To St. Valentine!
Wish for true love, Irma.
You wrote Miranda a poem.
Miss Lumley brought it to me.
It is unseemly for a child to write such a poem.
There.
That's better.
Did they shave your head when you were at the orphanage?
Yes.
Did you recognize yourself afterwards?
No.
What animal did you look like?
A squirrel?
And the other children?
O-One girl looked like a dog,
squishy with little eyes.
There was one nasty boy who looked like a ferret.
There's always one of those.
But not my brother.
Bertie was handsome.
His ears stuck out a bit, though.
Over here!
Get down, Miss Reid.
Albert.
I know how unhappy you've been.
Your time with us will pass quickly.
Try to make the best of it.
We're here.
At last, we've escaped.
Show me your legs.
Show me.
They seem to be healing.
Do I need to look under your bloomers?
No.
You're lying. Pull them down.
Infection spreads.
She dances in the forest glen,
at home among the trees and flowers.
She sings a song, remember when there were
no clocks to chime away the hours?
- Wild spirit of the grove is sh... - Do you know
how lucky you are?
To be here?
You went into my room.
I know it was you.
You took something that belongs to me.
To impress a group of girls that would step over you
if you were dying of consumption in the street.
That's not true! They're my friends.
Who else saw the tin?
No one.
- Who else? - No one else!
I won't go into your room ever again. I promise.
The dark gets in.
You can't just say,
"I've had enough now."
It gets everywhere.
I've met your true father.
No.
He has horns and a tail.
No.
And eyes that look the wrong way.
And feet with little yellow hooves.
No.
Miss McCraw, we need to use the privy.
Well, just go over there.
- In the bushes?! - Yes.
Girls, it's a stick.
Greta, would you happen to have the time?
Oh.
It's my father's.
It's never stopped before.
Very strange.
Miranda.
Do you have your little diamond watch?
I don't wear it anymore.
I don't like the ticking next to my heart.
I'll heat the water again.
We'll have another cuppa before we set off.
Oh, thank you.
Can we take a closer look at the rock?
- Absolutely not. - We won't go far.
We promised to sketch it
for poor little Sara.
- Can I come? - No. -No.
I don't feel well.
I want to go home.
- We could take Edith. - Mm.
Yes, but for one hour, no more.
Hmm.
Wait for me!
Miranda is a Botticelli angel.
Angels don't climb trees.
I say, Albert... that's uncalled for.
I'm only doing what you were thinking.
You don't see girls like that at home.
Come on, Edith.
Get o-off. Get off!
Whoopsy-daisy, Maisie!
The good-looking one fancies you, Mr. Michael.
Don't you start.
Why is it that when one's a free fellow,
a wife is considered his only cure?
Anyway... call me Mike.
Come on.
No fear.
No, I'm a working man.
These dishes won't wash themselves.
Just stretching my legs.
Oh.
It's higher than I imagined.
It doesn't like us.
Stop it. Come on.
Where?
Up. You said you wanted to.
- What are you doing? - Climbing.
You can't.
Says who?
I'm telling Mamsell.
No, you're not. Come on.
I'm ill.
You shouldn't have had that second piece of cake.
Wait!
"The Wreck of the Hesperus."
"It was the schooner Hesperus that sailed..."
I had that dream again.
The one where I'm naked in company?
I envy you.
The way you sleep so easily,
hide away from the world.
Arthur?
You're not really here, are you?
Oh, God, I'm still asleep.
Wake up.
Wake up, Hester.
What the dickens is wrong with it?
Where the dickens is Michael?
Mike?
Miss Miranda!
Can you hear me?!
Dianne!
Where in God's name have you been?
Something terrible has happened.
Here it is, then.
Retribution.
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