‘But—but I thought that you had letters to write,’ Dorothea stammered, all confusion.
‘And I shall write them, when you are not present to tempt me with your beguiling airs.’ He kissed her hand with blatantly simulated fervour. ‘You know me, my dear—I am a weak fellow. Take pity on me for my weakness, and do not press your company on me, or I am bound to harm the child.’
‘Oh!’ Dorothea exclaimed. She coloured and pulled back, as his meaning finally became clear to her. ‘Oh Charles, how absurd.’
‘Not at all, I assure you. Men have passionate natures. If we cannot indulge them, we must take care to stay out of harm’s way. Adieu, my dear.’ He blew her a jaunty kiss from the threshold. ‘I shall return before ten. Do not wait up for me, or all my resolutions will come to nothing. Private Lynch!’ he yelled. ‘Private Lynch! Attend me, if you please—the girl will clear the table.’
And with that, he was gone. His footsteps receded. The front door banged. Dorothea found herself alone with the blancmange, rudely abandoned. She had thought that her condition would place upon her husband an obligation to treat her with greater attentiveness; instead, it had driven him away. He had gone, he said, to resist temptation.
Well—it was a compliment, of sorts. And it might even be true. But it made her very uneasy, and cast an unflattering light on his own strength of character.
The fact of the matter is, she thought glumly, that if we cannot be intimate, he would rather not be with me at all.
A fine state of affairs.
New South Wales
March 7th, 1816
My dearest Margaret,
I continue well, thanks to careful habits and a moderate diet. The sickness so often attendant upon my state has not yet troubled me, perhaps because I do not customarily overload my stomach, nor indulge in the vulgar notion of ‘cravings’ for absurd and unhealthy foods. I restrict myself to nourishing and digestible dishes, and rest often, going no farther than the garden when I do exert myself. Mrs Bent called the other day, and commended my caution. She insisted that, when the long-awaited arrival does occur, I should not commit the fatal error of rising before nine days have elapsed. Nor should I burden my strained digestive system with anything more than weak tea and bread, or gruel, during the first three days of after-repose. She remarked that the strength and health of my entire life will depend upon judicious treatment immediately after my confinement.
Her understanding of this delicate subject is very thorough, I have found. She also spoke at length about the care of infants, assuring me that the safest remedy for a pain in the stomach is a few drops of peppermint in water and sugar, and a hot flannel laid upon the stomach or across the back. Is it true, Margaret, that a little oatmeal gruel, very thin and smooth, is the most satisfactory substitute for mother’s milk during the first two days of life? Mrs Bent maintains that it is very seldom the case that a mother will have the strength to nurse her infant within the first thirty-six hours, and that something suitable must therefore be offered in place of milk. I was under the impression that you yourself employed only sugared water, and was nursing within the day. (She also recommended syrup of violets for costiveness, and gave me a very good receipt.)
I should tell you that she brought her own darling infant with her, and complained constantly about the poor child’s colic, which is very severe and resistant to every form of gripe-water. She seems, I think, much changed. I had never previously thought her bitter, but she is bitter now, and has little to say in anyone’s favour—though she was most sympathetic to Mrs Molle’s predicament. Did I tell you that another pipe has been found, attacking Colonel Molle? I declare, it is too bad. Mrs Bent was of the opinion that the Governor himself is behind these offensive productions, and I did not try to dissuade her. She is too nervous and fretful to be challenged on any subject. She talked and talked of Mr Vale, who is facing a court martial for the ‘Traveller’ incident, and became quite upset. I therefore attempted to avoid all discussion of local affairs, conversing instead on domestic topics.
Needless to say, Rose provided an excellent starting point. For when the subject of the Waterloo Subscription Fund arose, she was serving tea, and remarked, without encouragement, that she herself intended to subscribe. She has not abandoned her distressing habit of offering up comments that would be better left unheard. Fortunately, Mrs Bent is now accustomed to Rose, and was not greatly offended. She simply began to complain about her own reduced staff (she had to dismiss her cook in December) and I listened sympathetically—though perhaps not as sympathetically as she would have wished. Her establishment, after all, is not inferior to mine, and she is assured of receiving a pension of at least two hundred pounds a year. Furthermore, she has five children to comfort her. Dear Ellis Henry accompanied her on her visit, and I cannot conceive of ever meeting with a more touching or sweet-natured little boy. I only wish that you were acquainted with him, Margaret. He was so attentive of his mama, so gentle with the baby, so polite in his expressions of thanks. I was troubled by his appearance, for he had dark circles under his eyes, and is clearly not sleeping well—but then a child of his delicate constitution cannot be expected to flourish so soon after the death of a parent.
In any event, it seemed to me that Mrs Bent was not counting her blessings, but occupying herself with her grievances. She may have lost her husband, and the greater part of her income, but she is more fortunate than many in her position; she has an energetic brother-in-law to take charge of her affairs, and five of the healthiest, most appealing children that one could ever hope to possess. Of course she is still grieving, and recovering from her recent confinement, and much can be forgiven. I only hope, however, that dear little Ellis is receiving the intelligent and loving tendance to which so rare a spirit must be entitled.
He went out to converse with Daniel while he was here, and Mrs Bent never once remarked on his absence, nor questioned him about it when he returned. I made inquiries of Daniel myself, later, and was told that Ellis had somehow contrived to acquaint himself with a certain Irish myth concerning the ‘faerie race’ of that country. He had asked Daniel about one Aoibheal, the faerie queen of Craiglea, whose magic harp is said to herald the death of anyone hearing it. Daniel had confessed to knowing nothing of Aoibheal, but only of the Ban-Sidhe, a woman of the faerie race, whose cry also portends death.
It seemed a most unsuitable topic of interest for a young child, and I am guiltily aware that Daniel is probably to blame for any morbid fascination displayed by Ellis Henry. There can be no remedy, however; undoubtedly Daniel’s intentions were innocent, and even sensitive boys like Ellis can exhibit macabre tendencies (as you yourself know too well). Therefore I did not chide Daniel, but warned him not to encourage Ellis’s curiosity henceforth. It would not do to have the poor child brooding over such dark legends.
I must add, by the by, that Daniel was first told of the Ban-Sidhe when he himself was a boy, for the dread apparition was used to scare him into compliance. Do you wonder at the superstition and ignorance of the Irish people, when you consider the lies that they inflict upon their children? Any child of mine will be raised in the Light of Truth, not in the shadows of barbarous Error. I truly believe that without the ignorant usage of those in whose care he was placed, Daniel would not have strayed so grievously from the path of righteousness. He seems a gentle enough soul, modest in his bearing and occasionally even poetic in his speech. We are all sinners, of course, but I am convinced that Daniel’s ruination came about through poor education, and not through any innate viciousness.
But here I am, indulging in that dreary colonial vice of endlessly discussing my servants. Forgive me, dearest Margaret. The fact is, I am so very confined these days that I can find little else to talk about. Charles is well. The weather improves. The prices are increasing. That is all I can say.
Except that I think of you always, and pray for your health and happiness, and remain,
your loving sister,
Doroth
ea Brande
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
DESPITE ALL HER CARE, Dorothea miscarried in March—just one day after she had completed her receiving cloth.
The first pangs assailed her while she was entertaining Mrs Molle. This good lady had called with several fine articles of baby linen, which she proposed that Dorothea should borrow as models, or patterns. There was a quilted day flannel, a cross-stitched chemise, and a cambric muslin frock with three rows of insertion embroidery edged each side by narrow pointed work. While Dorothea admired these elegant garments, she was visited by a superstitious misgiving. It seemed to her that she would be tempting providence to proceed merrily with her preparations at so early a date. She felt that she was not yet out of danger.
And her instincts, it transpired, were correct. For within minutes of examining the boxpleats on the flannel, Dorothea experienced a peculiar, painless cramping of her internal regions that caused her to catch her breath and widen her eyes. Fortunately, Mrs Molle was at that moment admiring the muslin frock, and did not observe Dorothea’s reaction. She continued to talk of caps and stomachers as Dorothea strove to conceal her anxiety. Then another hidden convulsion followed the first, and another, at intervals of six or seven minutes. Dorothea broke into a sweat.
‘… Bad thread makes bad work,’ Mrs Molle was saying. ‘I learned that at my mother’s knee, though I was not taught my stitching with the proper degree of application. It has never been one of my foremost accomplishments, I fear. These, as I told you, are my mother’s work …’
If Mrs Molle had any particular fault, it was her tendency to discourse, without encouragement, for extended periods of time. This she did now, as Dorothea grunted her responses, attentive only to the workings of her own interior. The cramps had begun to burn a little.
‘ … I have no patience with the showy superfluities that render a garment such as this more prone to wear,’ Mrs Molle continued. ‘What purpose does a piece of fine lace serve on a baby’s chemise, except to provide unnecessary display—and unnecessary trouble? It will disintegrate after only a few washes, if the white articles are to be boiled—which they certainly should be, in the case of baby linen. Unless, of course, the lace is to be removed with each wash, and that, as far as I am concerned, comprises a deal of extra work for little return …’
Within half an hour of the first cramp, Dorothea was suffering from a fair degree of bodily discomfort. Her mental discomfort was even more acute. She was unable to speak, and could not believe the evidence of her own senses. At last her uneven breathing, her pale cheek and her fixed gaze caught the attention of Mrs Molle, who looked at her sharply and said: ‘Are you unwell, my dear?’
Dorothea put her hands across her belly. She stared at her friend.
‘What is it?’ said Mrs Molle, and then she gasped, and covered her mouth. ‘Not …? Oh no. Are you in pain?’
‘It cannot be,’ Dorothea whimpered. ‘It cannot be …!’
‘Are there pains, Mrs Brande? Are they regular pains?’
‘The doctor …’
‘Into bed, if you please.’ Mrs Molle rose abruptly. ‘And try to remain calm, or you will make a bad situation worse. For all we know, it may be just a touch of colic.’
‘It must be. It cannot be the other. I have been so careful.’
‘Into bed, Mrs Brande.’
So Dorothea retired to bed, and Mrs Molle took charge. She had tea made, and a warm poultice, and she elevated Dorothea’s legs. Then she sent Daniel with a summons for Captain Brande and Surgeon Forster, instructing Rose (in a whisper that Dorothea nevertheless overheard) to heat up a pot of water, and hunt down every piece of spare linen in the house. Rose, naturally, was inclined to question Mrs Molle as to the nature of her mistress’s complaint—anxiety having loosened her already loose tongue—and Mrs Molle condemned her for it in no uncertain terms. Subsequently, there was bad feeling between them, which was made even worse by Mrs Molle’s decision to send for Anne Ezzey once Daniel had returned. But Dorothea paid no mind to the heated exchanges that flared up around her. She was concerned with only one thing.
‘It is a punishment,’ she croaked, as Mrs Molle sat holding her hand, awaiting Surgeon Forster’s arrival. ‘I am being punished.’
‘Nonsense.’
‘What else can it be? I took every care. Every care! I ate no rich food. I hardly moved from the house. I was not ill, or foolish—’
‘You are being foolish now,’ Mrs Molle replied, as Rose bathed her mistress’s fevered brow. ‘To begin with, you must not yet lose hope—be careful of the sheets, girl, do not slop it everywhere!—and if hope is to be extinguished (which I am not persuaded of, let me assure you), then you must remember that you are of a delicate disposition, and must therefore expect three times as many losses as successes.’
‘But what have I done?’ Dorothea wailed, and Mrs Molle patted her hand furiously.
‘Hush, now. Hush,’ she said, with a meaning glance at Rose—who immediately withdrew. ‘You have done nothing wrong. Nothing at all.’
‘Is it because I did not go to church? I was afraid to go to church. It was so hot. There were so many people. It would have been so close—’
‘Put such a notion from your mind,’ Mrs Molle said firmly. ‘You were wise to avoid the Sunday service. In the heat of summer, with a congregation full of noxious-smelling Government men, it was no place for a lady in your condition.’
‘But Mrs Bent used to go.’
‘Mrs Bent, I think you will agree, is a good deal stronger than you are. You will recall that she was accustomed to riding while in a similar state. Now stop upsetting yourself, Mrs Brande, or I shall go—I do not intend to sit here listening to such nonsense.’
Obediently, Dorothea let the subject drop, but she resolved nevertheless to speak to the Reverend Mr Cowper. Between pains (each of which struck her with increasing force, and which drove all other preoccupations from her mind) she was filled, not so much with fear or despair, but with a shocked sense of outraged disbelief. The injustice of her situation was impossible to accept. She had spent all of three months on her back, she had shut herself off from the world, she had prayed regularly and fervently, and for what? What had she done that merited so unfair a punishment?
She wept tears of mingled grief and fury, which Mrs Molle gently wiped away.
‘Captain Brande is coming. Surgeon Forster is coming,’ Mrs Molle said. ‘They will make you comfortable.’
Surgeon Forster arrived soon afterwards, accompanied by the regimental widwife. He was himself indisposed, and sported a streaming nose and puffy eyes; his voice, as he proceeded through his customary catechism, was hoarse, and his manner distracted. He shook his head over Dorothea’s unhappy state. He laid a hand on her forehead, and palpated her abdomen. But he could do nothing more than offer her laudanum, and scoff at the midwife’s suggestion of boiled cabbage leaves applied to the nether parts.
‘Poppycock,’ he said. ‘I’ll have none of those cottage concoctions attempted here, Mrs Thornton, if you please. Shall I make up a laudanum solution, Mrs Brande? You may take it or not, as you wish.’
‘Not yet,’ gasped Dorothea. She was barely aware of his ministrations, so intent was she upon the tumult in her belly. She thought that the cramps were not as painful as those which she had previously experienced, and clung to this suspicion as a source of hope until the bleeding started.
Then she surrendered herself to abject misery, and to the disgusting requirements of every lying-in, which cannot be accomplished without a great deal of discomfort, filth and distress.
‘Th’art a brave lass,’ Mrs Thornton informed Dorothea, after the worst had been endured. ‘Ah’ve not seen braver. Wilt tha drink a little beef tea?’
‘No,’ Dorothea gasped.
‘Oop and over. That’s it. All done now.’
‘Where is my husband?’ Dorothea felt extraordinarily tired. She was not sure how much time had passed, but knew that afternoon must have succeeded mor
ning, and that preparations for dinner should have been underway. Her belly still burned. ‘Where is Mrs Molle? Did she not fetch my husband?’
‘Captain Brande was here,’ Mrs Molle remarked, appearing suddenly at the midwife’s elbow. ‘He arrived when you were, um, in the greatest distress, and found it very tormenting. He went for a walk.’
‘A walk?’
‘There’s nowt any man can do,’ Mrs Thornton interrupted, ‘and that fair destroys ’em. Ah’ve not seen one in twenty that can wait through’t all, without falling to pieces.’
‘He will return soon, my dear,’ Mrs Molle said reassuringly. ‘And if he has fortified himself in the meantime, we cannot hold him entirely to blame. It is a hard thing, indeed.’
‘Very hard,’ agreed Mrs Thornton.
‘And you must not worry,’ Mrs Molle added, ‘because Anne Ezzey has his dinner well in hand. It is all arranged, and you have nothing to do but rest, and recover your strength. I am so very sorry,’ she concluded, with almost a catch in her voice. ‘I shall pray for you, and for Captain Brande. You have my very deepest sympathy.’
Dorothea mumbled her thanks, overcome by a desperate sense of loss. It numbed her. She could not even cry. And when Charles finally appeared, she turned her face to the wall, unable to bear the sight of his crestfallen features.
‘Thea,’ he said softly. ‘Poor Thea.’ Approaching the bed, he laid a hand on her hip. ‘My poor darling.’
If she were to reply, she knew, it would be with a howl—so she swallowed, and clenched her teeth, and shut her eyes.
‘I am so very sorry,’ he continued, sitting beside her. She felt him kiss her hair. ‘What a terrible thing.’ A pause. ‘Do you need anything? Thea? What can I do for you?’
‘I lost the baby!’ she replied, and burst into tears. He gathered her up, and held her. He rocked her back and forth.
‘You must not despair, dear. There will be others.’