The Gentleman's Garden Read online

  Nevertheless, it was the only society now open to her. Pacing the exposed floor of her drawing room, she wondered if she could bring herself to entertain guests without a sideboard. (Where would the wines be poured?) Then she saw, through the still intact drawing-room window, that Daniel Callaghan was approaching the house, and she quickly sat down. She had no wish to be seen prowling like a caged animal. Hurriedly she picked up her tambour frame and began to stitch; during the long voyage to New South Wales she had started to make a receiving cloth. It was her intention that, when completed, the cloth would present a perfect view of the Old Parsonage (her sister’s home), complete with rose garden, kitchen garden, shrubbery, poultry house and venerable oak tree. Piecing it together would, she hoped, do something to stifle the pangs of homesickness that affected her with an almost physical torment.

  Presently she heard the sound of Daniel’s footsteps in the hallway, followed by a soft tap on her door. She told him to enter.

  ‘I’ve been and delivered yeer letter, Ma’am,’ he announced, looming suddenly into the room. He was very tall, for a man of such undistinguished lineage. ‘Mr Nichols said to tell ye it’ll be leavin’ within the week.’

  ‘Very well.’ She kept her eyes on her work, because she was not easy in Daniel’s presence. Not only was he an Irishman, he was also a thief. Charles had informed her that Daniel Callaghan was a convicted and admitted thief, but had dismissed her protests against allowing him to enter her house. ‘You’ll not find many servants here who are not Government men,’ he had declared. ‘Daniel will be dressed and victualled from the Government stores, so he will cost us almost nothing to keep. And if he misbehaves, we shall have him flogged.’ The Brandes had therefore purchased, for Daniel’s use, a blanket and a hammock (which was hung in the kitchen). The fact that he did not spend his nights under the same roof as the Brandes was some small comfort. So was the fact that Dorothea’s tea chest, tantalus, needlework box, linen press and writing desk could all be securely locked. She went about jingling keys like a housekeeper. ‘It must be so, I assure you,’ Mrs Bent had sighed, at their last meeting. ‘I used to be careless of such things, until Mr Bent’s desk was robbed by one of our staff.’ Convicted forgers, she had claimed, were often genteel persons, who made good servants—but they were in great demand as government clerks. Therefore the respectable householder was forced to make do with thieves and rick-burners.

  ‘Some say that thieves have the knowledge to protect a house from other thieves,’ Mrs Bent had concluded, ‘but I have never found it so. On the contrary, they are more likely to band together to commit their crimes.’ Such advice, though well meant, only caused Dorothea further dismay.

  With her gaze fixed firmly on a fragment of appliquéd rose, Dorothea instructed Daniel to ask Sarah if she required wood, or water. Otherwise, he could clean the lamps. He had already demonstrated that he could clean lamps without being supervised; in most other household tasks (with a few, very simple exceptions), he was utterly inexperienced. Sarah had been obliged to show him how to clean the silver, how to lay a breakfast table, how to wash ivory-handled knives. He was slow, Sarah said, but willing. She seemed undaunted by the prospect of having to acquaint an untutored Irishman with the customs of a genteel household. In fact, her demeanour had remained constantly cheerful since her departure from England, despite the trials of the voyage and the difficulties inherent in a colonial existence.

  She had been one of Margaret’s maids—a doughty Devonshire girl off a Shortland farm. Dorothea had assigned to her a hammock in the little room where the soap, the candles and the linen press were now stored; with unfailing good humour she served the Brandes as cook, housemaid and (occasionally) lady’s maid. Captain Brande’s own servant, Private Jack Lynch, was not often to be found on the premises, for he slept at the barracks, and was required to attend his master at regular intervals throughout the day. So it was upon Sarah Wells that Dorothea chiefly relied, as she struggled to make a home for herself and her husband on this alien shore.

  Sarah did not seem at all cast down by the change in her circumstances. Although shopping at the Sydney markets must have been quite distressing to the sensibilities of a country-bred girl, Sarah repeatedly assured her mistress that she liked the ‘bustle’ of it all. When emery paper, soda and spirits of turpentine proved almost impossible to procure, Sarah insisted that emery paper was hardly necessary, if sufficient ‘elbow grease’ was employed and that, in the absence of soda, wooden floors could be cleaned quite efficiently by the application of a mixture of soft soap, ash, sand and table beer. Even more remarkably, Sarah was quite prepared to share her kitchen with a convicted thief. Her conduct towards Daniel was unexceptionable. Dorothea had not once been troubled by any altercations, complaints or sullen remarks of the kind that can so often disrupt the tranquillity of a household where servants are feuding. While Daniel and Jack Lynch were clearly not on good terms, Sarah was happy to work with both.

  Sitting in her drawing room, alone once again, Dorothea allowed her thoughts to dwell fondly on Sarah. She was a treasure. A blessing. She was the shield that protected Dorothea from many of the more repulsive aspects of life at Sydney Cove. Moreover, she was an embodiment of Bideham and all its cherished beauties; her Devonshire vowels caressed the ears of her mistress, and the sight of her round, freckled face, which closely resembled those possessed by so many of the Shortlands’ staff and tenants (for Sarah’s family was large, and hardworking), gave Dorothea much comfort. Occasionally, Dorothea even found herself discussing Bideham with Sarah, recalling events and people with whom they were both acquainted. She tried to stop herself from doing this, because she knew that if she made a habit of indulging herself in such a way, even Sarah might come to take advantage of her position. But it was difficult to resist the urge. No one else in the colony had any familiarity with Ashcombe, or Bideham Park, or the country thereabouts. Not even Charles was well acquainted with that part of Devonshire. And he certainly had not frequented the Old Parsonage as often as Sarah had. Why, Sarah had been entrusted with the dusting of Dorothea’s room there!

  No—only Sarah could fully appreciate the extent of her mistress’s loss. And as she surveyed her own attempt to recreate Margaret’s roses, Dorothea thought: What would I do without Sarah? I am so grateful to Margaret for recommending her to me. I am so grateful to George for providing the little reward that, together with a few, gentle words on the subject of duty and experience, encouraged the girl to accompany me all this way. With Sarah in the house, we shall not be too uncomfortable.

  Then Sarah herself knocked at the door, and declared—in the most cheerful of tones—that she wished to hand in her notice.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘BUT MY DEAR MRS BRANDE, this was only to be expected.’ With a sympathetic little smile, Mrs Bent glanced about her. ‘It is the fashion in this part of the world, I assure you. Bring a female servant from England, and she will immediately produce olive branches, set up for herself as a milliner or a publican, and realise a fortune. Nothing can be done to prevent it.’

  A murmur of amusement greeted this remark, which, although directed at Dorothea, had been made with the object of entertaining those ladies who sat with her in the Governor’s formal reception room. Among the assembled company were the O’Connells, the Reverend and Mrs Cowper, and Colonel Molle, the guest of honour, who had been sworn in as Lieutenant Governor that very day. (His wife, naturally enough, had accompanied him.) Also present was Captain John Piper, who, in an unexpected demonstration of good taste, had left the mother of his children at home. Dorothea had been introduced to the Governor’s secretary, Mr John Campbell, and to the colony’s Chief Surgeon and Superintendent of Police, Mr D’Arcy Wentworth. She was already known to Dr Harris, whose acquaintance she had first made aboard the General Hewitt.

  Mrs Macquarie, the Governor’s wife, was not present. The Governor had declared her to be ‘indisposed’. Mrs Bent, who was herself in an interesting condition, had observed
to Dorothea, very quietly, that their hostess was almost certainly confined by a Blessed Event. Not much, however, could be said on this subject—not, at least, in the presence of so many gentlemen—and the talk among the ladies had therefore turned to Mrs Brande’s recent tribulations, while heads were occasionally cocked, and bright glances exchanged, at the sound of muffled footsteps or urgent voices overhead.

  Dorothea had not yet recovered from the shock of Sarah’s betrayal. Occupied as she was by the overthrow of her domestic arrangements, she found herself confiding in Mrs Bent, who had been so frank in revealing her own past problems with troublesome staff. Mrs Bent, though shrill and rather plaintive on occasion, was in many ways an ideal companion for an officer’s wife. Married to the Judge Advocate, she occupied a distinguished position in the colony; she possessed a fine house, a growing number of children, a Braidwood pianoforte, a healthy constitution, and a fund of knowledge, culled during her four-year sojourn in Sydney, which she was only too willing to share with bewildered newcomers like Dorothea. Lively and accomplished, with a fair, pretty face (now marked, somewhat, by the strain of her husband’s many illnesses), Mrs Bent had done her best to make Dorothea feel welcome. Though not many weeks from her anticipated confinement, she had twice entertained Dorothea in her lavishly appointed drawing room, which overlooked the street bearing Mr Bent’s name. Here, despite the demands of her offspring, she had commiserated with Dorothea on all the miseries attached to her situation. Servants in New South Wales, Mrs Bent had confirmed, were corrupt and disorderly. The climate was unendurable, violent and extreme. The population was largely Godless, and the working women addicted to the most unsuitable finery; Irish peasants could be seen parading about in hats and stockings. Every department of governance was staffed by corrupt and idle men, many of them convicted criminals. News from England was always six months late, and everything—even labour—was impossibly expensive. Oh yes indeed, it was a wretched place. Wretched. It had ruined Mr Bent’s health.

  ‘You must abandon every thought of pursuing a civilised existence,’ Mrs Bent had announced. ‘It cannot be. Resign yourself to the most tiresome deprivations, to the most restricted amusements, and confine all your most intelligent observations to the letters you write. Because no one here, outside your family circle, will appreciate either your wit or your acuity.’

  Mrs Bent always had a great deal to say in this vein. She bemoaned her circumstances at great length, and at every opportunity. Nevertheless, it occurred to Dorothea that, sitting in the Governor’s reception room, most of the ladies surrounding Mrs Bent were paying her the compliment of close attention, and greeting her remarks with barely suppressed delight.

  Mrs Molle asked Dorothea what Sarah was intending to do with herself, once delivered of her child.

  ‘Oh—I should think that she will be married, by then,’ Dorothea replied. ‘It was her intention from the start, so she tells me. She wishes to marry a soldier who courted her on board the General Hewitt. A Private Allan Smith.’ With a grimace, Dorothea added: ‘I had no notion that she was thus engaged, I assure you. She was very sly.’

  ‘Allan Smith,’ said Mrs Molle thoughtfully. She seemed to be reviewing ranks in her head. ‘I am not familiar with that name …’

  ‘You will never keep a free servant,’ Mrs Bent interjected, placing a hand on Dorothea’s arm, and speaking with humorous emphasis. ‘Free women are too much needed as wives and shopkeepers and licence-holders. Even the most depraved of them will find herself an emancipated convict with his forty acres of land, and deem him a far preferable fate to service in your employ. Of course, there are the girls from the Female Orphan School, who are very well trained, but—’

  ‘—they are always in great demand,’ Mrs Cowper finished. ‘If you wish it, however, I might have a word with the matron, Mrs Brande. On your behalf.’

  ‘Do not trouble yourself.’ It was Mrs O’Connell who spoke, in her most direct and commanding tones. She had a voice as penetrating as that of her father, the former Governor, Captain Bligh (or so Dorothea had been assured by those who had known the man). ‘Mrs Molle has brought her own nursemaid to the house that we recently vacated,’ Mrs O’Connell continued, referring to the fact that she and her husband, the outgoing Lieutenant Governor, were on the point of departing for England. ‘I was therefore obliged to dismiss a very willing and honest woman called Martha Potts. As far as I know, she has not found another situation. If you are searching for a maid, Mrs Brande, she would be the solution to all your difficuties.’

  ‘Why—why, thank you, Mrs O’Connell.’ Dorothea always felt a little delicate—a little ‘niminy-piminy’—when conversing with Mrs O’Connell. She cleared her throat. ‘Is this woman—that is to say …?’

  ‘Yes, she is,’ Mrs O’Connell interrupted, with perfect understanding. ‘Martha does not have her ticket-of-leave.’

  ‘Ah,’ said Dorothea. ‘Which is to say …?’

  ‘She is not on her own hands,’ Mrs Cowper supplied, without enlightening Dorothea to any degree. Sensing this, Mrs Bent hastened to explain.

  ‘She is a convict who has not been excused from compulsory labour or assignment, and she may not work for herself.’

  ‘I see.’ Dorothea was struggling, somewhat, to comprehend these fine distinctions. ‘But a person with her ticket-of-leave—this is not to say that she has served her sentence, or been pardoned at all?’

  ‘No,’ said Mrs O’Connell. ‘Not precisely that.’ And Mrs Bent smiled.

  ‘You will come to learn our quaint little customs in time, Mrs Brande,’ she remarked, eliciting more smiles from the ladies around her. ‘I assure you, one day you will be as comfortable chasing natives from your garden as you would be chasing pigs.’

  Then it was time for dinner, and the ladies rose. Dorothea found herself being escorted into the dining room by Dr Harris, her old acquaintance from the General Hewitt. So unhappy were her memories of that vessel, which had deprived her of her fondest hopes and tormented her with examples of the most depraved conduct, that she could not help regarding even her fellow passengers with some aversion, and tried to avoid them if she could. In this instance, however, she could not escape Dr Harris without appearing uncivil. Though normally rather gruff in his manner, he inquired very kindly into the state of her health, which had been so badly affected by the voyage. To Dorothea’s dismay, he also began to speak of the court of inquiry, held to examine the deaths aboard the General Hewitt. ‘I was called to testify,’ he informed her, ‘and defended Surgeon Hughes. As far as I can see, it was the wet weather that proved fatal. I frequently visited the prison, and never saw any place better fitted up, nor kept in a more cleanly state. As for the prisoners, they had frequent—indeed, almost constant—access to the decks, did they not? There could be no complaints on that score.’

  Wincing a little, Dorothea murmured her agreement. Recollections of teeming tropical rain and wild-eyed convicts lurching in her direction did nothing to improve her spirits. She was pleased, however, to find herself seated beside Mr Bent at dinner—and although Dr Harris, on her right, continued to make various comments about wet bedding and salt beef rations, for the most part she conversed with Mr Bent, a grave, pallid, softly spoken gentleman, who exhibited a very courteous interest in her family, her friends and her Devonshire home. (His own family’s estate was to be found in Surrey.) Dorothea liked Mr Bent. She appreciated the fact that he was so polite and refined. Balding and bespectacled, but with features finely drawn, he had the faintly liverish air, the colourless complexion and the laboured breathing of a man in poor health, yet he refrained from burdening Dorothea with a description of his many complaints. Only once did he approach the subject of illness, when he advised her to buy a dripstone. A Norfolk Island dripstone, he said, would protect her from any impurities to be found in the local water. He possessed one himself, and had never regretted its purchase.

  He also spoke of Bristol water, and of a cold sirloin of beef, roasted in London, whic
h had recently been served up to him in New South Wales. It had been bought, he explained, at Hoffman’s, in Bishopgate Street, where meat was preserved by packing it in a tin case which was then hermetically sealed, covered with tallow and enclosed in a wooden box. ‘I must confess that I assayed my own portion with some reluctance,’ he said, ‘but suffered no ill effects as a consequence of sampling it.’ The Governor’s table, he added, was always mercifully free of all but the freshest produce, and provided a variety of dishes adapted to every taste.

  Dorothea could only agree. The meal served to her was well cooked, with numerous courses. The wild duck was excellent, and the fricassee very cleverly conceived. (With the gentlest of hints, Mr Bent warned Dorothea off the oysters.) Several toasts were drunk; the Governor spoke little, but he spoke well. Dorothea watched him with interest, this being her first opportunity to do so at any length, and found him to be not utterly undistinguished. Though his complexion was coarse and mottled—here red, here yellow—he had a fine, aquiline nose. Though his hair was thinning, and of an indeterminate shade, he was fairly tall, with an upright figure. He wore a magnificent scarlet uniform, and displayed an admirable strength of resolve, exhibiting only on occasion the distracted, listening air natural to a man whose wife is undergoing the torments of a confinement in the room above.

  Governor Macquarie’s Scottish accent was a little harsh to the ear, but he seemed to have the manners of a gentleman. Indeed, he presided over the dining room with a stiff, old-fashioned, paternal air that Dorothea rather liked. She did not resent the fact that he neglected to address her directly during the course of the meal. There were, after all, thirty-eight guests present, and Dorothea was seated some distance away from him. Besides which, many omissions can be forgiven a husband who is anticipating the birth of his first child.

  Naturally, when the ladies withdrew for coffee, this fact was discussed with keen interest. Dorothea learned that poor Mrs Macquarie had had her ‘hopes dashed’ on previous occasions. Mrs Redfern—whose husband, it transpired, was at that moment attending the Governor’s wife—confirmed that Dr Redfern had been very anxious about Mrs Macquarie for some time. Mrs Molle referred briefly to her own recent confinement; her little son, she said, was in vigorous health.