‘Oh, but I do!’
‘No, no. Make no attempt to deny it, he is not to your taste. Well, he is a rackety fellow, and never a favourite with the ladies, but he makes me laugh, he does indeed. And Mr Jeffery Bent—what a firebrand! Sharp as a pin, though. I admire his principles.’ Climbing into bed, Charles reached for Dorothea. ‘Miller said to me tonight, “You are a damn lucky fellow, Brande. How did you win such a wife, with a face like yours?”’ Laughing, he added: ‘We toasted the ladies. You were much praised. Wallis wants to paint you.’
Submitting to her husband’s caresses, Dorothea did not know whether to be gratified or not. On the one hand, it was pleasant to be admired. On the other hand, it was less pleasant to know that she had been freely discussed by a gathering of somewhat intoxicated gentlemen. The very thought made her uneasy.
Margaret, she knew, would not have approved.
‘We must invite our friends to dine again,’ Charles mumbled, into his wife’s neck. ‘We must do it often.’
‘Oh!’ said Dorothea, faintly.
‘As often as we can support the expense. It will be very little work for very great gain. There’s not many a fellow in this regiment who can be so obliging; I am a source of great envy. Besides, if I am ever to secure an appointment, I must do it by feeding the Old Man. Shovel enough roast beef down him, and he will be too much in our debt to tell me nay.’
Very little work for very great gain, thought Dorothea, wondering if her sudden access of dismay and resentment was ill judged and unwifely. On reflection, she decided that it was. And her sense of guilt was such that she welcomed Charles into her arms with a fervour that pleased him very much.
Even so, she could not banish from her mind the dread that she felt at the prospect of confronting Martha. It stayed with her despite her compliance, and she could only be grateful that Charles was too well wined, that night, to notice the slight abstraction in her manner as she performed her conjugal duties.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CAPTAIN BRANDE WAS NOT in a cheerful mood the next morning. Fortunately, however, he was fit enough to attend the morning parade. Dorothea waited until he had left the house before approaching Martha, who—surprisingly—had been up and working since daybreak. Though sluggish and morose, she had cooked a perfectly acceptable breakfast for the Brandes. And when Dorothea marched up to her, she was shuffling about, helping Daniel to wash dishes.
Even so, she did not look well.
‘Martha,’ Dorothea said sternly, ‘this way, if you please. I must speak to you. Now.’
Martha winced, as if her mistress’s voice was causing her some discomfort. Daniel dropped his gaze. Dorothea turned on her heel and led the way to the drawing room, where she seated herself, straight-backed, on a hard chair. Here it was that she confronted Martha, after the housemaid had removed her apron and walked the length of the hallway on dragging feet.
‘Well?’ said Dorothea coldly. ‘What have you to say for yourself?’
Martha sniffed. She did not dare raise her eyes.
‘Sorry, Mum,’ she murmured, ‘but I were poorly—’
‘Do not lie to me!’ Dorothea cried. Of a sudden she was so overcome with anger that she leaped up, eyes blazing, as Martha cowered and hid her face. ‘You were intoxicated! I saw you! You were drinking, Martha! Do not attempt to deny it!’
The housemaid sniffed.
‘How long? How long have you been drinking?’ Dorothea demanded. ‘How long have you been lying to me?’
Still Martha did not reply.
‘Very well. Since you refuse me the courtesy of an answer, I have no choice but to inform Captain Brande. He will dismiss you for drunkenness, and provide you with no references, and you will never work again for any respectable folk in this colony. Is that what you want, Martha? To work as a housekeeper for a hutful of convicts?’
‘I don’t care!’ Martha retorted, and burst into tears.
‘Martha—’
‘I don’t care!’ The housemaid began to sob out a disjointed tale of a husband lost to hunger; of an infant daughter torn from her breast on the journey to the prison hulks, and never restored; of a savage attack on board the hulks, resulting in a pregnancy that was abruptly terminated by a brutal kick during the voyage to New South Wales …
‘Enough,’ said Dorothea.
‘My daughter was taken! My little girl …’
Martha’s face was a terrible sight, all streaming fluids and gaping mouth. She collapsed onto her knees as Dorothea edged away, clutching her shawl tightly about her in consternation.
‘I ain’t got nothin’!’ gasped the housemaid. ‘They took it all!’
‘Martha—’
‘Ah God—ah God—won’t you take me?’ And Martha began to beat her head against the floor.
‘Now stop that!’ Dorothea exclaimed. ‘Stop it at once!’ She hurried to the bellrope, and rang for Daniel’s assistance. Later, it occurred to her that Daniel must have been waiting nearby, for he appeared almost immediately. One look at Martha told him all that he needed to know; Dorothea was not required to offer an explanation. Seeing that Martha was apparently attempting to raise a bruise on her forehead, Daniel disappeared again, returning in a few minutes with a vessel of water, the contents of which he cast over the housemaid’s bowed head and shoulders.
This act, though somewhat extreme, served to silence her at last. As Dorothea sat down, Daniel stood with his dripping saucepan, awaiting instructions, his eyes flicking from Martha to Dorothea and back again. Martha did not move.
Dorothea could hear her snuffling breath.
‘This is—this is most unfortunate,’ Dorothea stammered. Her heart was pounding, because she could sense that horrible visions—unwanted reflections—were about to encroach on her peace of mind. A kick in the belly. A stolen child.
An assault …
She shook her head, as if to chase away unwelcome imaginings. She could not afford to accommodate such thoughts. She had not the strength for it.
‘I am—indeed, I am sorry for your troubles,’ she said quickly, ‘but they are no excuse for drunkenness. I will not tolerate drunkenness. Do you hear, Martha? I will not.’
A sniff was the only reply.
‘If you swear to me, on the holy scriptures, that you will not touch another drop of rum,’ Dorothea continued, ‘then I have a mind to be lenient. Martha? You may stay and work, if you promise not to drink.’
Martha moved. She raised her head slightly.
‘Will you swear? On the Bible?’ asked Dorothea, and waited. After several minutes, Martha nodded. Water was pooling around her. It dripped off her chin, off her nose, off the sodden ruffles on her drooping cap. Her hair was plastered across her face.
When Dorothea fetched the Bible, she felt a strange reluctance to approach the wet, hunched, despondent shape of her housemaid. So she set the book down on the floor beside Martha, and retreated.
‘Put your hand on that Bible,’ she instructed, her voice lamentably unsteady, ‘and swear that you will not drink spirits again, Martha.’
Martha’s head moved.
‘Nor any other intoxicating beverage,’ Dorothea added. She cleared her throat. ‘Come, now. Say: “I swear.”’
Martha put her hand on the leather-bound scriptures. Hoarsely, she repeated the words, ‘I swear’. Then she wiped her nose with the selfsame hand.
There followed a strained silence. Dorothea found herself at something of a loss.
‘Very well,’ she said at last. ‘You may go. Thank you, Daniel.’ She wondered, in a distracted way, if Daniel should have been privy to the incident. Perhaps a more capable mistress would have dealt with Martha alone; Mrs Molle, for example, would not have had to ring for assistance. But I am not Mrs Molle, Dorothea thought fretfully, watching the two servants withdraw. I am not accustomed to such excessive displays—they are quite outside my experience. What was I supposed to do, in the circumstances?
Charles, she knew, would have been ruthless. H
e would have expelled Martha from the house instantly. But Charles would not have been obliged to deal with the consequences of such an act. It was not his duty to find a suitable housemaid to replace Martha. If the colony had been better stocked with good housemaids, Dorothea would no doubt have been as unyielding as her husband—lost daughter or no lost daughter. She would have hardened her heart (against what might very well have been a fabrication; how was it possible to know?) and turned Martha away, rather than allowing a moment’s weakness to place her in a very undesirable position.
For it was only now, upon considering the matter, that she realised what her promise to Martha would really entail. It would require that she lie to her husband—or, if not lie, at least conceal from him an episode of very great importance. To tell him about Martha’s weakness would result in a broken promise, since he would almost certainly disregard any oath that the housemaid might have sworn, and throw her out. He would override Dorothea’s decision. He would inform her that bargaining with servants was not only a profitless exercise, but a mode of conduct so far beneath her dignity that no undertakings given during such an ill-conceived exchange could possibly be regarded as binding, or indeed as anything but ridiculous.
And he would be right, Dorothea decided mournfully. I am in error. I am caught in a trap of my own making, set upon a course of deceit. Whatever I do, whether I keep my promise or not, I am behaving without honour.
So distressing was this realisation—so disturbing had been her interview with Martha—that Dorothea immediately took to her bed, and remained there, nursing a headache, for the rest of the day. She was horribly ashamed of herself. Perhaps, if her husband had returned from the barracks in a cheerful and confiding temper, her shame might have driven her to confess. But as chance would have it, he was very put out when he finally came home. Captain Wallis had annoyed him, and, being unable to vent his spleen at the barracks, Charles was forced to do so at the dinner table.
It appeared that Captain Wallis had ingratiated himself to a great degree with Colonel Molle that day, by confessing to having lived for six months in accordance with his own personal rules of conduct, as drawn up in the journal that he also kept religiously. These rules of conduct governed the disposal of his day, requiring him to rise no later than six o’clock, occupy himself between the hours of twelve and two with serious reading and study, drink no more than one bottle of wine when he dined abroad, and go to bed before eleven.
‘Like a snivelling schoolboy,’ was Captain Brande’s opinion. ‘But of course the Old Man thinks him so very admirable. A model officer. A future Commander in Chief. Soon we shall all be encouraged to paint in watercolours, and abandon our drill for the study of botanical texts.’
Clearly, it was not a good time to trouble Charles with further exasperating news. And the longer his wife refrained from doing so, the more difficult the task became. Indeed, after a few days, she decided that she would remain silent on the whole subject of Martha’s tippling. Time, and the housemaid’s apparent willingness to abandon her fomer habits, softened the pangs of guilt that had tormented Dorothea. Her headache went away. Her appetite came back. She was able to leave the sanctuary of her bed, announce herself recovered from her ‘bad spell’, and resume the duties that were hers by right.
One of these, of course, was the management of her garden. Before preparations for the formal dinner had overwhelmed her, she had found time to draw up a plan of the beautiful garden that she most fervently desired—an arrangement of flowery beds and borders, cunning walks, well spaced trees and sensible proportions that did credit to her taste and gentility. She had then submitted the plan to Mrs Molle for consideration. Mrs Molle, after making one or two corrections, had passed the plan to Captain Wallis—a gentleman of artistic sensibility—and to Captain Gill. They too had approved it. They had even acquired for Dorothea’s use a load of good soil from the regimental garden. Dorothea was therefore soon ready to have her beds and walks marked out in preparation for planting, and it was Captain Gill (again) who generously provided her with the means by which this might be accomplished. Within four days of studying her plan, Captain Gill had sent to Dorothea, free of charge, a Government bricklayer named McLeod, who made the required measurements using a roll of string and a Government Field Standard.
Two half-days had sufficed for this task. When it was completed, Dorothea set Daniel to work on trenching, ridging and manuring, while she pored over Mr Wells’s advice as to the correct construction of a garden path. The first necessity, she soon discovered, was a load of gravel, one portion fine, the other coarse. As she informed Daniel, a layer of fine gravel would have to be placed upon a layer of coarse gravel, but not until a trench of eighteen inches was dug, and spread with stones, broken crockery, burned brick clay, or other rubbish.
‘So as to fill it to the surface,’ Dorothea read aloud, cradling The Gentleman’s Garden awkwardly in her arms, ‘we permit it to lie for a time, ramming it down every now and again until it has become perfectly solid.’ She was standing near one of the intended flower beds, from which Daniel was removing numerous small stones by means of a rake and his hands. ‘In a week or more, according to the weather and labour bestowed,’ she continued, ‘it will be sunk to a distance of six inches from the top of the trench. Then, according to Mr Wells, you must put down three or four inches of coarse gravel, two inches of fine gravel, and stamp it firm.’ Looking up, she added: ‘Those stones you have there, Daniel—they will do nicely for the first layer. Perhaps you should set them aside somewhere.’
‘Aye, Ma’am.’
‘I feel that the paths should be built early. They will allow us to pass through the garden without muddying our feet, before the beds are fully planted. In fact, you should probably begin digging the trenches and laying the rubbish as soon as possible, since a week or two must pass before we can put the gravel down.’
‘Aye,’ said Daniel. He straightened, wiped his arm across his brow, and leaned on his rake. ‘But what if it should rain, Ma’am? What if yeer trenches should fill, in the meantime?’
Dorothea considered this question, which was a good one. She consulted her book for an answer.
‘It says nothing about drainage in those circumstances,’ she confessed. ‘Only that all garden paths should be somewhat higher in the centre than at the sides, to allow water to run off freely.’
‘Sure, and if the trenches fill, I’ll bail ’em dry,’ said Daniel. He flapped at a fly, and squinted around him; the autumn sun was surprisingly hot. ‘Where is the gravel to come from, Ma’am?’ he inquired. ‘From a river? From a quarry?’
‘I shall ask Captain Gill.’
‘Ye’ll be needin’ a goodly load.’
‘Captain Gill will know where to look.’
It occurred to Dorothea, as she went indoors, that Mrs Molle might also be helpful. So she donned her bonnet and shawl, took note of Martha’s progress in the kitchen, and trotted off to Mrs Molle’s house—where she was provided with tea, cake and a lot of good advice. Mrs Molle had not furnished herself with any gravel for her paths. It appeared that the Commanding Officer had always employed cinders for that purpose. Mrs Molle had, however, required stone for repairs to her house, not long before, and had applied to Charles McIntosh, the Barrack Master, for assistance.
‘He got the stone from the quarry of one Edward Cureton, at Cockle Bay,’ Mrs Molle revealed. ‘Cureton is apparently supervisor of the Government stone gangs, so is capable enough, and as honest as anyone can be, in this place. I should go to him for gravel.’
‘Oh!’ Dorothea exclaimed, shrinking back, ‘I could not approach him myself, Mrs Molle!’
‘No, no, of course not. Captain Brande must do it. Or Captain Gill. Or you might appeal to the Barrack Master—he would be happy to oblige, I am sure.’
‘Chips of stone,’ Dorothea murmured. ‘I only require chips of stone. Cast-off remnants. Would they cost very much?’ She was thinking of Charles, and how reluctant he was to spend mon
ey on the garden (or indeed, on anything at all of a domestic nature). ‘Veritable sweepings, Mrs Molle—they cannot be very valuable, surely?’
Mrs Molle did not feel competent to pass an opinion. Nor was she much interested in the subject. Instead she began to talk of other things—the price of butter, the native problem, Mrs Bent’s interesting condition—until Dorothea realised, with a start, that the hour was late. Charles would perhaps have returned home, and found no wife there to greet him. He would not be at all pleased.
So she hastily restored her bonnet to her head, took her leave of Mrs Molle, and hurried back to her own house—hoping that, by some happy coincidence, Charles might have been delayed at the barracks. Upon gaining the front door, she realised that her husband had indeed arrived home, for she could hear him shouting somewhere at the back of the house. In the kitchen, perhaps? With a sigh, she removed her bonnet. Then she went to find out if she could render him any assistance.
He was in the kitchen, and he was in a towering rage. All three servants were lined up before him: Jack stood to attention, his chin in the air; Daniel was hanging his head, every line of his body expressing fear and hopelessness; Martha was trembling, whimpering, as Captain Brande paced back and forth, shouting imprecations.
On catching sight of his wife, however, he stopped, and waited for her to ask him what was wrong.
She obliged, of course.
‘My dear, is something amiss?’ she queried nervously. ‘I was delayed, I fear, but—’
‘Come with me, Mrs Brande.’ Grim-faced, glowering, he took her arm, before turning to address his staff once more. ‘No one else will move from this spot!’ he barked, in his parade-ground voice. ‘Do not move, do not speak, do not so much as cough, do you hear me? Or you shall suffer for it.’ Then he led Dorothea back to the house, marched her into the dining room, and showed her certain marks on the tantalus which demonstrated, beyond dispute, that someone had been attempting to steal the decanters—or, at the very least, the spirits within the decanters.