‘True. And therefore Jane would not be punished as you would have her punished.’ Seeing the stubbornly petulant expression on her husband’s face, Dorothea struggled to remain pleasant and reasonable. ‘Charles, Daniel would prefer not to bear witness against Jane Steel,’ she said. ‘But he will do it from a sense of duty. Is that not deserving of some consideration?’
Charles, however, refused to concede the point. ‘I fail to see why he should be so reluctant. The woman assaulted him. Why should he receive any special favours simply because he has agreed to assist us in having her thrown in gaol?’
‘Because he is an assigned servant,’ Dorothea sighed (not wishing to employ the term ‘convict’). ‘Naturally, he feels some reluctance—’
‘To see a criminal punished?’ Charles interjected. ‘If that is so, Mrs Brande, I would question his moral readiness for freedom, would not you?’
‘Of course he understands that Jane must be punished.’ Dorothea chose her words carefully. ‘But he is not happy to be the agent of her condemnation. Neither am I. It is dreadful to think that one might be directly responsible for having a person ironed, or gaoled, or put in the stocks, no matter how wicked that person might be. It is distasteful.’
‘My dear, I hardly think that you should compare your own feelings with that of an Irish felon,’ said Charles. ‘The fact of the matter is this: if Daniel were given his ticket-of-leave owing to our intervention, he would have to find other employment. I cannot afford to pay him full wages. Now, if you wish to look for another Government man, by all means do so. But your experience of assigned maids does not encourage me to believe that you would easily find a satisfactory replacement for Daniel.’
Dorothea could see the justice of this remark. It would be impossible to replace Daniel. She shuddered to think of what her domestic arrangements would be like without him.
But would she necessarily lose him, if he were given his ticket-of-leave? She suggested to Charles that he might agree to remain in the Brandes’ service for less than a full wage.
‘Nonsense,’ said Charles. ‘Why should he do that?’
‘Because …’ Dorothea hesitated. She could not begin to explain her curious understanding of Daniel, of his fears and his loyalties. She knew that he felt safe in her house, yet she knew also that Charles would not comprehend Daniel’s need for safety. ‘Because he loves my garden,’ she replied at last. ‘He loves it, and he does not wish to leave it.’
‘Nonsense,’ Charles repeated.
‘I assure you, Charles.’ They were eating breakfast, and Dorothea clenched her fists under the table, reminding herself that she had a duty to her husband. ‘Perhaps,’ she suggested, ‘if I were to make it a provision of his ticket-of-leave that he continue in our employment, receiving the wages of an assigned servant—would that be acceptable to you?’
Charles snorted. He wiped his mouth with his napkin. ‘Mrs Brande, you are very naive,’ he said. ‘Of course he would agree to such a proposition. And then, having gained his ticket-of-leave, he would depart.’
‘But—’
‘What would prevent him from doing so? He would no longer be assigned. He would be on his own hands, and free to seek employment wherever he wished.’
‘But would there not be some legal means of ensuring that he kept his word?’
Charles gazed at his wife in disbelief. Then he shook his head, as if in despair at her vacuity. ‘My dear,’ he remarked, his tone one of strained patience, ‘if I had the funds to pay a lawyer to draw up an agreement of that sort, I would have the funds to employ Daniel on full wages.’ Rising, he adjusted his uniform. ‘I fail to see why you are so preoccupied with this matter. The man was given a seven-year sentence, was he not?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he has been with us now for more than three years?’
Dorothea nodded.
‘Then he will receive his ticket-of-leave soon in any case. I believe most Government men serving a seven-year sentence are eligible for a ticket-of-leave after four years of good conduct. Why should we lower ourselves to petition the Governor, or Hutchison, or whichever dubious official is responsible for issuing tickets-of-leave, when Daniel will receive his own, without our intervention, within the year? A waste of effort, I call it.’
Silenced, Dorothea submitted to her husband’s farewell kiss. She did not look up as he left the room, nor follow him to the door as he left the house. She was disappointed, but not surprised. It had never seemed likely that Charles would agree to put himself out on Daniel’s behalf. Why should he? Dorothea’s inclinations appeared to count very little with him—and he had always regarded Daniel with barely concealed hostility.
Yet Dorothea had felt compelled to make an effort, if only to ease her own conscience. She felt that Daniel deserved some reward for his actions in defending her. Moreover, she was grateful that he had taken upon himself the entire responsibility of bearing witness against Jane Steel in court. Daniel’s recollections would be enough to convict the madwoman; no magistrate, in such distasteful circumstances, would insist that Dorothea stand up and corroborate Daniel’s story. Therefore she would be spared the distressing spectacle of the court proceedings. She would not have to set eyes on Jane Steel ever again.
It was Daniel who would have to suffer Jane’s presence as he testified against her. It was he who would have to endure her threatening, lunatic glare. And for this was he to receive no compensation?
Clearly not.
She toyed with the notion of telling him about her efforts on his behalf, but dismissed the idea. To do so would be to admit that she and Charles had disagreed—and she could not be so disloyal. If only they had been able to find another convict housemaid! If an assigned servant had been found to replace Jane Steel, Dorothea might have argued against her husband’s decision. She might have pointed out that, previously, Rose and Peg had been employed on full wages, while Daniel’s services had come cheap. She might have indicated that, with an assigned housemaid on staff, a full-wage manservant would not have placed too great a burden on the household budget.
Alas, however—Jane’s replacement was not a convict. She was a freeborn, fifteen-year-old girl called Emily Galvin. And she had come to the Brandes, via Mrs Bent, from the Female Orphan School.
Emily had served Mrs Bent for almost a year. She was a shy little thing, very thin and fair, with buck teeth and freckles. Though not quick-witted, she was surprisingly strong, and had enough sense to undertake the duties of a cook and housemaid in a thorough, workmanlike fashion. No fault could be found with her dusting or sweeping. She made beds neatly, and was merciless when beating mattresses. Though her cookery was not inspiring, she could turn out an edible meal, and was proficient with a needle and thread. Furthermore, she was biddable. Mrs Bent, in recommending her, had laid great stress on the importance of this favourable attribute.
‘Emily has been properly trained,’ she had said. ‘She puts on no airs. She does not answer back, and you will never see her dressed unsuitably. She knows her place, Mrs Brande—no higher compliment can be paid, in this colony.’ With a tremulous smile, Mrs Bent had laid her hand on Dorothea’s. ‘It would give me so much satisfaction if you were to engage her. By engaging her, you would not only relieve my mind of any anxiety that I might feel as regards her future placement, but you would be securing your own future against impertinence of any kind. I assure you, Mrs Brande, Emily has never given me a moment’s misgiving with respect to her conduct. You will find, as I have, that she is perfectly unexceptionable.’ With a little laugh, Mrs Bent had added: ‘She is a good maid, deserving of a genteel mistress—and I know what difficulties you have suffered, lately. Indeed, I am only glad that I can be of assistance. At least some benefit may be derived from our sudden departure.’
She had dabbed at her eyes upon making this last observation, not being entirely happy at the prospect of leaving New South Wales. In her opinion, she and her brother-in-law had been dismissed rather abruptly and u
ngenerously; she had often declared herself insulted at the manner in which arrangements had been made. Nevertheless, she had also been forced to concede that life in the colony was becoming more and more difficult under Governor Macquarie’s erratic rule. And of course it would be delightful to see England again. And the children, in particular, were thrilled at the prospect.
‘Ellis is very anxious to see the Tower of London,’ she had confessed fondly. ‘He talks of nothing else.’
‘I shall miss him,’ Dorothea had replied. She was, in fact, most distressed at losing Ellis Henry. Upon embracing him, on the day of his departure, she had blinked back tears, and bestowed on him her very own edition of William Cowper’s collected works. Ellis, in response, had mumbled his thanks, looking a little embarrassed. He had asked her to bid farewell to Daniel Callaghan for him.
Mrs Bent’s final message, before the entire family set sail, had concerned her former housemaid’s sweet tooth. ‘Do not allow her anywhere near the sugar,’ Mrs Bent had warned. ‘She will not steal it, but has such a taste for it herself that she will employ it far too liberally in her cooking. I believe that she would sweeten mutton if she could. Only give her as much sugar as a receipt may require, or you will find that your puddings are too sickly to eat.’
Dorothea neglected this advice, at first—with the result that Emily’s maiden custard, in the Brande household, was consumed only by Emily. (After that, her mistress was very careful to specify quantities when ordering dinner.) But the girl was, in every other respect, quite acceptable—neat, trustworthy and quiet. Very quiet. Indeed, she was a most retiring girl, who cleaned rooms without appearing to occupy them. It was almost like having a ghost or faerie about the place; her tread was so light as to be practically inaudible. Dorothea grew fond of her for this very reason, and did not chastise her as harshly as she might have for using too much jam, or overcooking meat. She gave her a good deal of sound advice, gently phrased, and took care to admire her work when it was well done.
As a result, Emily’s work quickly became better. She grew more confident, though not very confident. At first she was afraid of Daniel, because he was so large. She would avoid his eye, and jump when he spoke to her. But not even a nervous child like Emily could remain unaware of Daniel’s true character for very long. Soon his quiet voice and unobtrusive ways reassured her. Dorothea was well satisfied when she entered the kitchen one day to find both servants peacefully employed, one polishing silver and one kneading dough. Emily, she noticed, was humming a little tune under her breath.
Of course, Dorothea was anxious that they not become too comfortable with each other. Emily, in her opinion, was much too young to make Daniel a suitable wife. But after careful scrutiny, she decided that he seemed to regard the housemaid almost as a little sister. And that, she thought, was as it should be.
She could find satisfaction in very little else. Only two days after Emily’s arrival, Jane Steel was convicted of behaving in a riotous and disorderly manner. Her long-delayed trial lasted barely twenty minutes. After the charges were read, Daniel testified, and a sentence was passed. Charles, who had accompanied his manservant to court (determined that justice should be done), was quite satisfied with this sentence, which amounted to three months in gaol and sixteen hours in the stocks. He was particularly pleased that Jane would be required to wear an iron collar during her sixteen hours of public humiliation.
‘That, I think, will prove to be the most salutary lesson of all,’ he said. ‘I do not, as you know, have much respect for Wentworth, but in this matter I believe he has acted wisely and judiciously.’
Daniel expressed no such opinion. Upon returning from the performance of his public duty, he volunteered nothing and retreated into the garden, where he weeded energetically in a light drizzle. Later, he proved to be uncharacteristically slow in the performance of his duties, and would not eat his dinner.
When Emily reported this to her mistress, in anxious tones, she raised the possibility that Daniel might be ill. Dorothea thought it unlikely. But she went to him in any case, and inquired as to the state of his health.
He replied that he was well enough.
‘Well enough to eat?’ said Dorothea, as he stared at the floor. ‘You must eat, Daniel. You will become ill, if you do not.’
‘Aye,’ he mumbled.
Dorothea knew exactly what was troubling him. Charles had described to her the scene in court, dwelling on the obscenities that Jane had hurled at Daniel after sentence was passed. She had cursed him with all the venom of insanity.
So Dorothea said, very quietly: ‘She brought it upon herself, Daniel.’
He looked up—a quick, penetrating glance—before dropping his gaze again.
‘Aye,’ he said.
‘She was mad. You said it yourself. You must put the whole matter out of your mind.’
‘She was perilous company. A woman like that—you’d not want her roamin’ about.’
‘No.’
He sighed, and once more retrieved his dishcloth. Dorothea felt that she had not set his mind entirely at rest, but could think of nothing else to offer him, since her own conscience was far from easy. Of course Jane had deserved to be punished. Of course she had been a danger to those around her. Nevertheless, Dorothea was (perhaps unreasonably) troubled by the part that she herself had played in having her former housemaid pilloried. The iron collar, in particular, was a source of profound disturbance. She dreamed about wearing one herself, and woke in a state of panic. She felt that Jane, by her conduct, had somehow introduced the iron collar and the stocks into her mistress’s house. They seemed to haunt the place, just as Jane’s ugly words now seemed to haunt the kitchen.
Until Jane’s arrival, Dorothea had kept the colony’s violence at bay. Even the attack on Mr Greenway had taken place outside her own domestic sphere—as had Rose’s murder. But Jane had carried the infection into Dorothea’s home; Dorothea was burdened by a strange sense of foreboding as she went about her duties, and found herself continually reflecting on subjects that should not have occupied her—floggings, gaol fees, roadgangs, the Female Factory, Daniel’s experiences on board the General Hewitt. Horrible subjects, unfit for a lady. When she was not struggling to resolve the terrible problems that afflicted her marriage, Dorothea was fretting about Rose’s murder, and bushrangers, and women with shaven heads. She could not seem to banish such unpleasant thoughts from her mind.
And then, to add to her sense of profound unease, she discovered that she was with child again.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
DOROTHEA INFORMED NO ONE that she was expecting. She kept silent on the subject, simply because she did not believe that the child would live.
Her state of mind was unenviable. She was almost bereft of hope regarding the outcome of her condition. Sometimes a small ray of light would penetrate the clouds that seemed to envelope her, and she would dare to envision a successful lying-in, with all its attendant joys. But the light would soon fade, and her fears and forebodings would take precedence once more. She was filled with the most dreadful anxiety—anxiety of the most debilitating kind, which left her incapable of sound or vigorous reasoning. She became forgetful, short-tempered, and morose. Disinclined to pay social calls, she would spend a good deal of time in bed, or on the sofa, staring into space. She lived with a gnawing fear, as would a man condemned to die. She counted the days and feared the worst.
On occasion she would attempt to argue herself out of her melancholy, but deep in her heart she knew that there would be no happy conclusion. How could there be, in such a place? Her own thoughts were poisoned; her head was full of horrid pictures and speculations, of horsewhips and bloody axes, of clanking chains and flayed backs. She grieved for the child that she carried in her womb. She knew that it would not, could not, survive. Yet she was unable to suppress the occasional, flickering hope, and that hope was devastating. It meant that she also lived in constant, grinding wretchedness, anticipating an event that could only br
ing her unrelieved sorrow.
Charles did not appear to notice her distress. He did not even chastise her for falling victim, once again, to the ‘megrims’; perhaps he was too caught up in his regiment’s dispute with the Governor to pay her any mind. On July the fifth, Charles and his fellow officers assembled to hear Colonel Molle read aloud the long-awaited Charges Intended to be Preferred by Major General Macquarie against the Officers of the 46th Regiment. After apprising his subordinates of these charges, Colonel Molle pointed out that no particular officer seemed to be exempt from them. Consequently, he requested that they each take a copy (from his reading) for the purpose of making a reply to their Commanding Officer, either in extenuation or refutation of the said charges.
Within an hour of the Colonel’s address, Dorothea received a long and rambling note from her husband. It informed her that, contrary to his previous instructions, he would not be home for dinner. He would be dining in the mess, so that he might discuss the Governor’s charges with his fellow officers, and consult them as to how a suitable response might best be phrased. The charges, he said, were utterly laughable. Officers were admonished for declining to dine with the Governor at Government House; for conniving at and sanctioning Ensign Bullivant’s caricature of the Governor; for censuring the public measures of Major General Macquarie at their mess table. They were accused of highly insubordinate and disrespectful conduct in arrogating to themselves the right of resolving ‘that the Mess Table of the 46th Regiment was regarded as the Standard of Society in this Colony’.
Such charges barely merit a reply, Charles wrote, but since the Old Man has requested the same, I suppose that I must undertake one. What nonsense it all is! Please leave a candle burning, and see to it that my nightgown, cap and socks are laid out, for I shall not be late.
As it transpired, however, Charles was late. He did not return home until the early hours of the following morning —by which time Dorothea had suffered her fourth miscarriage.