your loving sister,
Dorothea Brande
CHAPTER FOUR
SHORTLY AFTER WRITING TO her sister in June, Dorothea discovered that her existence was indeed to be justified. It was a marvellous and utterly unexpected discovery. Overjoyed, she informed her husband, whose moodiness—which had been aggravated by certain regimental incidents—dissipated at once. They conversed with equal pleasure about the expected arrival, and how it would almost certainly be a boy. Charles spoke of Dorothea’s condition with great pleasure and excitement. He purchased for her a very beautiful, lace-trimed handkerchief from one of the better Pitt Street shops; he praised her needlework, and urged her to be more attentive to her health; he read to her, on two consecutive evenings, from The Absentee, by Mrs Edgeworth—one of the novels lent to Dorothea by Mrs Bent. Unfortunately, he found it not to his taste. In his opinion, there were quite enough Irishmen about. ‘I must speak to them constantly here—I do not want to be reading about them as well,’ he said. Nevertheless, he comported himself with all the good humour and sensibility that any wife could justifiably demand, and Dorothea’s spirits rose even further.
At first she did not make public her interesting state, instead nursing the treasured secret to her bosom. But a change in her habits was immediately apparent. Her condition was such that she felt justified in rising a little later than had been her custom since disembarking from the General Hewitt. She had also taken to resting in the afternoon, and drinking milk with her breakfast. She began to walk with exaggerated care, and to make inquiries of Mrs Molle about the Molles’ nursemaid. The question of nursemaid had begun to vex Dorothea a good deal. Martha was far too careless to serve in such a capacity, but Charles, she knew, would have to be persuaded that the expense of an extra servant could be countenanced.
Mrs Molle, of course, was instantly on the alert. ‘My nursemaid, Mrs Brande?’ she said, her piercing eye fixed on Dorothea’s face. ‘You wish to know the exact duties of my nursemaid?’
‘If you please.’
‘Why, what a very interesting question. Am I to understand that you foresee a time, in the near future, when a nursemaid is to become a fixture in this home?’
Blushing, Dorothea conceded that this was, in fact, the case. Mrs Molle then offered her most heartfelt congratulations. They began to discuss the correct deportment of a good nursemaid, together with all the many refinements expected of her while Martha shuffled in and out with tea, teacakes and sandwiches. It was to be expected that she would hear a part of her mistress’s conversation, while in the process of serving. It was even to be expected that she would transmit news of Dorothea’s condition to Daniel, the other member of the household.
What Dorothea did not expect was to find her weeping in a corner of the kitchen, after Mrs Molle had left.
‘Why, Martha!’ she exclaimed. ‘What is the matter with you?’
Martha jumped to her feet, wiping her eyes with her apron. ‘Sorry, Mum,’ she muttered.
‘Are you ill?’
‘No please, Mum.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Cleanin’.’
Dorothea could see no evidence of it. ‘I see,’ she said. ‘Then you had better continue, had you not? Those shelves are filthy.’ She turned, and would have left the room at that moment, if Martha had not—quite unexpectedly—addressed her.
‘Mum—if you please—’
‘What is it?’
‘Are you expectin’?’
Dorothea was astonished. ‘I hardly think it your business, Martha.’
‘No, but—’
‘Kindly continue with your work, if you please.’
Despite such annoyances, however, Dorothea remained, for the most part, in a buoyant mood. Her husband appeared to be reasonably content. She liked the winter weather, which was not so far removed from that which she had experienced in Devonshire. She had acquired, at a reduced price, a canvas carpet for the hallway, and her heart filled with joy whenever she contemplated the arrival of her child, some seven months hence. Such a prospect sweetened every common sorrow, and gilded every minor disappointment. With Mrs Molle’s encouragement, she had laid aside her receiving cloth and attempted a few pieces of infant’s clothing—a cap, a chemise. So cheerful was her frame of mind, in fact, that she had even turned her thoughts to the possibility of planting a kitchen garden. Could such an addition be achieved, in the poor colonial soil? Having surveyed the dusty plot behind her house, fingered one or two of the spiky bushes therein, and examined what appeared to be a failed attempt at raising runnerbeans, she approached Daniel. Did he, she asked, know anything about growing vegetables?
He had just cleaned the drawing-room grate, and had entered the hallway with his cinderpail and brushbox. Adjusting his grip on these articles, he replied that he did not; that while his grandparents had been farm labourers, he himself had been apprenticed early to a pump-maker.
‘So you know nothing of gardens?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘A pity.’
But it is really of no consequence, Dorothea thought. An educated person can never be at a loss where books are available—and I can always consult Mrs Macarthur. Mrs Macarthur, she knew, had laid out a most impressive garden.
‘Daniel, I am going to make a few purchases in Pitt Street,’ she announced, and saw a fleeting look of surprise cross his face. ‘I want you with me. Inform Martha, please, and wash your hands. And give your jacket a quick brush, or I shall be ashamed to be seen with you.’
‘Aye, Ma’am.’
‘Ask Martha to attend me in the bedroom, for I shall need my cloak and gloves.’
It was a brisk, bright day, and Dorothea had been seized by a sudden desire to purchase ribbons with which to trim her unborn infant’s cap. She had never before walked as far as Pitt Street—nor even as far as the Tank Stream—but she felt strong enough, all at once, to attempt such a journey. The wind, though it blew hard, was not punishing. The air was clear, and the waters of Port Jackson were as blue as a cornflower. Standing at the front gate, waiting for Daniel, Dorothea was even able to gaze with benign interest on the people passing by: at the girls with their hair swinging in plaits down their backs; at the constable in his blue jacket, duck trousers and stock; at the little boy driving a pig; at the corporal with his musket. Then Daniel appeared, and she was pleased to see that he had combed his hair. He was not, she decided, an ill looking fellow, when decently groomed.
‘Tell me, Daniel,’ she said, as they proceeded on an easterly course, ‘how are you faring with Martha? Is everything well, in that quarter?’
‘Aye, Ma’am.’
‘And otherwise—you have no complaints?’
‘None, I thank ye.’
‘Good. I am very pleased with you, Daniel, though you have much to learn. Domestic labour, though humble, requires a high degree of skill and application if it is to be performed well.’ Dorothea hesitated, for they had arrived at their first corner. ‘Pray, which direction shall we take now?’
‘We should take a turn to the right, Ma’am, and left into King Street.’
‘Shall we be passing near the markets?’
‘No, Ma’am.’
Dorothea was anxious to avoid the marketplace, having been told that floggings often took place there. No doubt the lash was a necessary evil, but her limited experience of it—cowering in her cabin on board the General Hewitt, while strangled cries penetrated the bulkhead—had instilled in her such an aversion to this form of punishment that she could hardly bear to have it referred to in her presence.
It was therefore particularly unfortunate that they should have encountered the sight that forced itself upon them, when they had crossed the little King Street culvert and turned into Pitt Street.
‘Oh dear,’ said Dorothea, and stopped. On either side of the street, gutters had been scoured into deep ditches, which were bridged with cut logs. Near one of these logs, prone across the clay and gravel, lay the body of
a stuporous man.
His shirt was pulled up, exposing a back hideously scarred. His mouth was open, and his eyes were shut. He was snoring faintly.
Dorothea later chastised herself for having stooped to notice him. She should have walked on, without breaking her stride; she should have averted her eyes and feigned ignorance, not only of his condition, but of his very existence. As it was, however, she found that she could not disregard that fearsome back, to which her gaze was riveted in a kind of horrified fascination. It looked, she thought, like the street on which she stood.
The scars were not evenly spaced stripes, but a landscape of hillocks and ridges, ditches and knots. It was as if soft dough, trampled, scored and twisted, had been par-baked and left to grow cold.
Slowly, she became aware of Daniel’s voice.
‘Ma’am,’ he was saying. ‘Come over the way, Ma’am.’ And so dazed was she by the vision confronting her that she obeyed blindly, as she would have obeyed her husband.
Her destination was a certain house, owned by a former convict, that operated as a general store. (Mrs Molle had recommended it as a good place to buy dimity, calico and Japan muslins.) The front room of this house, which was altogether rather small and dark, had been fitted up with shelves, on which were displayed a greater variety of items than one might have expected to find in such an isolated colony. Shoes and gloves jostled with glass and earthenware, salt butter and Bengal soap with hose and handkerchiefs. Dorothea, upon entering the room, was so much disturbed by what she had just witnessed—and so dazzled by what she now saw—that at first she failed to notice her fellow customers. But it was not long before their strident tones caught her attention.
There were three of them: an older woman, a younger woman and a man, all of the most vulgar description. They were chaffing each other in what Captain Brande would probably have classified as ‘flash cant’. Dorothea knew only that it was, to her ears, almost incomprehensible. The older woman was smoking a clay pipe, and seemed to have made herself quite comfortable. The younger woman shrieked and brayed while the man peppered her with coarse pleasantries. Then a fourth woman, who soon revealed herself to be the proprietress, rose from a stool in one corner. She was of middle age and decently turned out, with a worn and weary countenance.
She addressed Dorothea in a flat but respectful tone, as her companions fell silent. They appraised the genteel newcomer in a way that she found positively unnerving, for although not hostile, their eyes were bold and intrusive. She felt that they were silently estimating the cost of her apparel. She also guessed that they would discuss her, in an offensive manner, the moment she left the shop.
‘I wish to purchase some ribbon,’ she declared, trying to ignore everyone save the respectable-looking woman who had inquired as to what her pleasure might be. ‘Some white silk ribbon, very fine.’
‘Yes’m. Broad or narrow?’
‘Narrow.’
A roll of ribbon was produced, and a length cut off. It was wrapped and paid for, as the silence lengthened. Feeling all eyes upon her, Dorothea was almost stifled by discomfort. She finally fled the shop as she would have fled a drinking den, with a brisk step and a pounding heart.
She knew that her face was flushed, and she averted it from Daniel upon gaining the street. He had been waiting for her there, in obedience to her request; furious at her own weakness, she would have preferred to ignore him. But she was a little lost. In one direction lay the supine body. In another lay the marketplace. How was she to reach her home, without running the risk of yet another ugly encounter?
‘Which way?’ she inquired.
‘Ma’am?’
‘I wish to take another route, Daniel.’
‘Ah.’ There was a pause. Determined not to look at her servant, Dorothea was obliged to look at Pitt Street instead. It did not reward her scrutiny. Modest houses lined it, some fronting onto the street, some set back behind rickety paling fences. A scattering of proprietors’ names could be seen, inscribed in black paint on brick walls. Those walls that were whitewashed with pipe-clay had a grimy, blistered look about them; there was a smell of slops in the air. The road had been churned into numerous ruts and furrows.
‘ ’Twould be best,’ Daniel said at last, softly, ‘if ye took Market Street, Ma’am. That’ll bring ye to Clarence.’
‘But the markets. Surely we would pass the markets?’
‘Aye, that we would.’
‘Then I would prefer not to take Market Street.’ Dorothea spoke coldly. Studiously avoiding Daniel’s eye, she was determined not to offer up an explanation.
‘ ’Tis a fair step to Hunter, Ma’am,’ Daniel pointed out. ‘And the causeway must be crossed. ’Twill be damp—aye, and messy, too.’
‘Nevertheless.’
So it was that Dorothea, owing to the repulsive sights that positively littered Sydney Cove, was forced to return home using a lengthy, dirty, toilsome route, quite steep in places, and much bestrewed with manure. By the time she reached her gate, she was flustered and despondent, her hair blown about and her petticoat trimmed with mud. She felt that she had lost her dignity. Her head ached, and she was breathless. The pleasant afternoon stroll had become a feat of endurance. The whole day was spoiled.
Even worse, her manservant had seen her at a very great disadvantage.
This wretched place, she thought, as she retreated to her bedroom. Here, well secured against the sights, sounds and smells of the colony, Dorothea shuddered as she recalled the mutilated back, the appraising stares, the raised voices. She sat on the bed. She pressed her hands to her temples.
Never again, she decided. Never again will I even attempt such an errand.
Despite the fresh wind and bright sky, it had been far too great a burden on her fragile spirits.
CHAPTER FIVE
IN JULY, THE TRANSPORT BROXBORNEBURY brought to Sydney Cove, not merely a load of convicts, but some gentlefolk as well. The most notable of these was Mr Bent’s brother, Mr Jeffery Hart Bent, who had been appointed Judge of the Supreme Court of Civil Judicature in New South Wales. With him had sailed the new regimental chaplain, the Reverend Mr Benjamin Vale, and his family. Both of these gentlemen were among the guests at Mrs Bent’s table in early August, when she invited the Brandes to dinner in order that they might welcome to the colony her ‘brilliant’ brother-in-law.
Mr Jeffery Bent was very quick in his speech and movements, and had a great deal to say on many subjects. He described his voyage in vivid terms, painting a fearful picture of its numerous perils and discomforts. The ship had almost foundered in a gale, and had almost fallen into the hands of mutineers. ‘But that was as nothing,’ he announced, ‘compared to the torments of our ship-board diet. The water smelt so abominably, I could not drink it without using a little brandy to disguise its bad taste. As for the poultry served at dinner, it was so very ancient that there was no such thing as getting through a leg.’ His face, as he spoke, was full of movement and expression; he was thinner and browner than his brother, though they shared the same long nose and small mouth. He looked healthy, whereas Mr Bent did not. He also ate heartily of the meal served to him, while Mr Bent only tasted a spoonful of soup, rejected the tongue, picked at the kidneys and allowed the jellies to pass him by.
The Reverend Mr Vale was not as lively as Mr Jeffery Bent—indeed, his manner was rather plaintive and fatigued—but he too had much to say about the voyage. He and his wife had been almost constantly ill. He complained that the bad food and weather had prevented him, on many occasions, from preaching the Sunday sermon. Moreover, after the trials attendant upon his journey, he had been most disappointed to discover, when he arrived in Sydney, that promises made by the Secretary of State’s Office had not been kept. ‘I was told,’ he said, ‘that in Sydney I should have a separate parish and church assigned to me, and that I would be provided with a cultivated glebe, and a well-furnished parsonage house, together with an allowance of Government servants, rations and fuel. Instead, I am assign
ed to the Reverend Cowper—an excellent fellow, of course, I have no complaint on that score, but it is not the same as occupying one’s own parish—and have received only one servant, and lodging money, and am expected to find my own residence until the parsonage at Liverpool is complete. And,’ he appended, ‘unless I am very much mistaken, Liverpool is not in Sydney.’
‘No,’ Mr Bent agreed. ‘It is not.’
‘I have raised the subject of a land grant, but can get nothing out of Mr Campbell,’ Mr Vale finished. ‘I wonder, now, if the Governor has even been appraised of my request.’
‘Campbell can be most obstructive,’ Mr Bent concurred, and his brother added, ‘He has been positively offensive to me. I applied to the Governor for a private residence purchased at the Crown’s expense, and was treated with absolute disdain by that fellow.’
‘But was your request granted?’ Mr Vale asked, suspiciously, and Mr Jeffery Bent shook his head.
‘I was told,’ he replied, his dark eyes snapping, ‘that the Governor would rent a house for me on the understanding that, if such an action were not approved by Lord Bathurst, the Government coffers would be reimbursed by me.’
A murmur of astonished disapprobation greeted this announcement.
‘Naturally, I took offence,’ Mr Jeffery Bent continued. ‘Now I have decided to lodge in this house, with my brother’s kind approval. I fancy that I shall be more comfortable here, in any case.’ He went on to point out that Governor Macquarie had proved himself, time and time again, to be deficient in that attentiveness which distinguishes a good administrator from a bad one. For instance, he had neglected to mark Mr Jeffery Bent’s arrival with a formal salute. ‘I was therefore obliged,’ Mr Jeffery Bent revealed, ‘to commission Captain Piper to inform the Governor that I would not land, nor proceed to Government House, if I was to be received only as a private individual.’ This display of firmness had resulted in a thirteen-gun salute. ‘To omit such little niceties,’ Mr Jeffery Bent concluded, ‘is to denigrate the importance of the position which I inhabit. One salutes not the man, but the power that he represents.’