The Gentleman's Garden

  ‘So I will, Madam. So I will,’ Peg assured her, with breezy confidence. Dorothea wondered if such confidence was entirely appropriate in a housemaid. But she was desperate, and Peg’s smile was beguiling. Without further ado, she offered Peg the situation, stipulating only that there must be a testing period of two weeks, during which Captain Brande might very well decide that he disapproved of his new servant.

  ‘His standards are exactingly high,’ Dorothea warned, ‘and he cannot abide an intrusive manner. You must be careful not to offend him, Peg.’

  ‘I’ll hendeavour to give satisfaction, Madam,’ came the unabashed response.

  Peg had no objection to starting the next day. So Dorothea showed her the kitchen and introduced her to Daniel, who was scrubbing the kitchen floor. Peg seemed delighted with Daniel; she said that it was always good to have a ‘big, strapping feller’ about the place, for all he was a croppy, and that they would deal very nicely together. She praised the fittings, exclaimed over the pantry, beamed at the pots, and assured Dorothea that before anything else, she would learn how to grind and brew coffee.

  Then she left—whereupon Dorothea, having shown her out, went to talk to Daniel again.

  ‘Peg will continue to lodge with her daughter, near Charlotte Place,’ she informed him. ‘Consequently, Daniel, you might wish to occupy Martha’s room.’ Dorothea had given this offer some thought before making it, and had concluded that she would no longer feel uneasy if Daniel were to sleep under the same roof as herself. ‘You may sleep there until … until the possibility arises that someone else may require it, in the future,’ she continued. (Not having informed anyone of her desire that it might be transformed into a nursery, she did not elaborate. Doubtless he would assume that she was referring to other housemaids.) ‘In many ways it would be more comfortable than the kitchen,’ she finished, ‘because it has windowglass. You may find it warmer. In any event, you must decide for yourself.’

  He was standing in his customary attitude, head slightly bowed, eyes downcast. His hands were red and chapped, his sleeves were rolled, and his trousers were rolled, too, up to the knees. Below them his naked calves and ankles, newly exposed to Dorothea’s drifting gaze, showed evidence of the most dreadful mutilation.

  ‘I thank’ee, Ma’am,’ he said, ‘but I’ll keep me bed here. ’Tis warm enough in winter, with the fire always lit, and in summer there’s no need for the windowglass.’

  Dorothea was sickened. The scars on his ankles were disfiguring—she had never seen them before. How had he come by them? The flesh, in some places, had been penetrated to the very bone.

  ‘Sure, an’ I’d not want an empty kitchen at night, if I were you,’ Daniel continued. ‘ ’Twould be a sad temptation, for all those seekin’ a quick profit.’ He faltered, suddenly; Dorothea, who had been staring fixedly at his ankles, wrenched her gaze away from them, and saw that he had coloured.

  A flush mounted to her own cheeks. She found that she could not break the silence.

  ‘I was in double irons on the hulk Leviathan, before they moved me to the General Hewitt,’ Daniel finally murmured, studying his scars. ‘I could not pay the warder for the easement, and the irons were on for eight months.’

  Dorothea put her hand to her mouth.

  ‘You were on board the General Hewitt?’ she gasped, unable to prevent herself.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘That was my ship!’

  ‘I know’t.’ He glanced up—a brief glimpse of darkness—before looking away again. ‘I saw ye, the one time.’

  Dorothea was utterly at a loss. She wanted very much to speak, but could not find the words.

  So she nodded, and rearranged her shawl.

  Then she left the kitchen.

  New South Wales

  May 29th, 1815

  My dearest Margaret,

  You will be delighted to learn that I have acquired a new housemaid since last I wrote, and that she is proving to be, if not precisely a treasure, at least not a thief or a drunkard. She is a cheery soul—indomitably cheerful—and continues to beam at me whether I am praising her parsley sauce or chastising her for her tardiness. One out of every four mornings she is late to work, and breakfast must be prepared in a terrible rush; she will offer as her excuse all manner of tales about her daughter’s domestic tribulations—whether I want to hear them or not—and will then excel herself in the production of apple dumplings, or roast loin of beef, so as to forestall my complaining to Charles. She really is an excellent cook. I am astonished at her prowess, for she has had little training, and must for the most part follow her instincts—which are remarkably sound. Never have I consumed a more admirable stewed shoulder of mutton than the one she prepares. (Charles, as you may imagine, is very pleased with her, for this reason alone.) Yet she is forever flitting off to the markets, and returning only after she has ‘looked in’ on her daughter (who seems remarkably ill equipped to face the trials of existence). Furthermore, she will not work if she can talk instead, and many’s the time I have come upon her in the garden—which is not her rightful domain—chattering at Daniel when she should have been making the bed or scrubbing the floor. I say chattering at Daniel because he gives her not one word of encouragement. He has been constructing the garden paths recently, and it is heavy work that often leaves him short of breath. Consequently, he cannot converse with any ease, while thus occupied.

  Do not believe, however, that Peg is for one moment put off by this circumstance. If she receives no reply to any one of her singularly banal observations, she simply moves to the next. I have never heard anything like it in my life. And nothing will shame her into silence. She cannot be squashed.

  Forgive me for my endless talk about servants, which you must find very tiresome. As I have previously remarked, servants are the chief topic of conversation here, and I find myself adopting the local custom in this regard. Believe me, my dear Margaret, when I tell you that one day last week, when I was taking tea with Mrs Molle, Mrs Bent and Mrs Vale, we spent almost the entire afternoon discussing the Quartermaster’s servant, who took his own life late in April. The inquest is now over, and it was established that he went to the stables with the Quartermaster’s firelock and shot himself. I must confess that I have found the whole affair most distressing. Who can say that we are not all exposed to such a hideous eventuality? But Mrs Molle informs me that Thomas Cowup (for this was the dead servant’s name) was given to liquor, and from this I derive some comfort. Daniel, you see, does not indulge, and Peg, for all her failings, is neither morose nor a tippler.

  I suppose I must be thankful that I was preserved from discovering Martha in an extinct state. No doubt, had she not been removed, such a circumstance would have been inevitable. It is one of the many risks that we run in this benighted country.

  As to the other main topic of discussion, hereabouts, I beg to inform you that after a delay of some eight months, Mr Jeffery Bent at last opened the Supreme Court of Civil Judicature. Unfortunately, the first order of business was the presentation of petitions, submitted by the emancipist ‘attornies’ to whom I have previously referred, seeking admission to practice. Mr Jeffery Bent wished to reject them, but his fellow magistrates, Mr Riley and Mr Broughton, disagreed with him. I am told that there was an unseemly exchange. Mr Riley and Mr Broughton later wrote to Mr Jeffery Bent, stating that they would not again sit with him on the Bench until assured that he would mend his manners. Mrs Bent says that their letter was very offensive to her brother-in-law, who pointed out in his reply that he had a right to feel irritated at their gross disrespect; should a barrister of near ten years’ standing be obliged to learn law from two laymen? Meanwhile, he is determined that he will never sit in a Court where emancipist attornies are admitted to practice.

  So the proceedings of the Supreme Court are again suspended. I am told that a public meeting had been called to protest Mr Jeffery Bent’s actions, but that the Governor (quite rightly) intervened to prevent it. Of course Mr Jeffery Ben
t’s principles are perfectly sound, but I cannot help wondering if his manner works sometimes to his disadvantage. He is such an excitable gentleman, with such an impetuous tongue. I am convinced that the fault cannot all be on the side of Mr Riley and Mr Broughton, no matter what Mrs Bent might say.

  Charles is well. He wishes me to transmit to you, and to his uncle’s family, his fond regards. I am well enough, though pining (as always) for my only sister. I see that I have forgot to thank you for the miniatures, which arrived two days ago. I cannot bear to be parted from them, and carry them around with me, alternately smothering them with kisses and bathing them in tears—for it is sweetly sad, to see how much the children have changed since last I saw them. My dearest darlings! Harriette will be a beauty. I am convinced of it. And little John will be his father all over again—I am astonished at the resemblance. Margaret, you must thank the Lord, on bended knee, for the gift of His blessings. You are a fortunate woman. You are rich beyond calculation. I envy you with all my heart.

  Yet I cherish you even more than I cherish your babies, and remain

  your loving sister,

  Dorothea Brande

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  IN JUNE, THE BRANDES were invited to dine with Colonel Molle and his lady, in order that they might welcome to New South Wales Captain Edward Sanderson. Dorothea was anxious to meet Captain Sanderson. Her husband had described him as ‘a very fine fellow’, and Dorothea was eager to welcome any gentleman newly arrived from England, whoever he might be. The society of New South Wales being so restricted, a new face was always greeted with delight. And when that new face belonged to an officer of the 46th, bearing tidings from England, the enthusiasm for his company was unequalled. Had Captain Sanderson talked of nothing but the rain afflicting South Devonshire, he could have done so throughout his entire visit to the Molles’ house without eliciting a single objection, even from his Commanding Officer. Like everyone else present, Colonel Molle would have listened intently to his every word.

  It was hardly surprising, therefore, that Captain Sanderson should have been pronounced ‘charming’, ‘amusing’ and ‘a very fine fellow’ by those who watched him drink his claret at Mrs Molle’s table. No other judgement would have been kindly received. But in her heart of hearts, Dorothea quickly came to realise that she did not like Captain Sanderson. She did not like his voice, which was loud and rough. She did not like his appearance, which—though large and imposing—was also distinguished by a high colour, a thick neck and a pair of very small, very pale blue eyes. Most of all, however, she did not like his manner of speech. Though not blatantly offensive, it would have met with her sister’s disapproval. Captain Sanderson’s coarseness—the overwhelming quality of his unrefined humour—argued a want of regard for the ladies present, which was further suggested by his slightly doubtful treatment of Dorothea during the course of the evening.

  When she asked him for his comments on the latest fashions, he observed that while the man who travels a thousand miles in a thousand hours might be judged tolerably quick-footed, he cannot compare to the woman who keeps up with the fashion. ‘I’m a stumble-footed fellow, myself,’ he boomed, ‘and never notice a new cut or curl until it has almost passed me by.’ He did add, however, that the waltz was now widely danced among people of good society, and that it ought to be introduced into New South Wales. ‘Stumble-footed I might be,’ he said, ‘but although I would never normally inflict myself on any dancing partner, I would make an exception for the waltz. Once the waltz is introduced, there is not a man who would decline to dance with the plainest girl in the room, I assure you.’

  A ripple of laughter greeted this sally, though Dorothea merely smiled. Mrs Molle, who was the bolder of the two ladies present, remarked that the waltz was purported to be ‘very shocking’, and that, while it might serve to attract gentlemen onto the floor, it would surely repel the ladies. Captain Sanderson, however, disagreed.

  ‘Nothing will prevent a plain young lady from dancing when the opportunity presents itself,’ he said, ‘and when the pretty ones see the plain ones up and about—by my hat, they will join them soon enough, I’ll warrant!’

  Again there was laughter, but Dorothea did not like Captain Sanderson’s tone; there had almost been a sneer in his voice. She found that she had no taste for his jokes. She could see nothing funny in his story about a gentleman who, upon asking a young lady why she was so fond of officers, received the reply: ‘Is it not natural that a lady should like a good offer, Sir?’ Nor did she join the general merriment when, upon the words ‘capital offence’ being uttered during a conversation about the judiciary, Captain Sanderson interrupted with a quip concerning his niece, who had defined kissing gentlemen as a ‘capital offence’. It was Dorothea’s opinion that Captain Sanderson lowered the general tone of the conversation at dinner.

  After dinner, when Mrs Molle and Dorothea had withdrawn, they heard raucous laughter in the dining room. It punctuated their discussion of winter gardening at more and more frequent intervals, until Mrs Molle was driven to comment. (‘Captain Sanderson appears to have put everyone in a very hilarious humour,’ she remarked.) When she and Dorothea rejoined the gentlemen, it was to discover that a decision had been made: the company would henceforth play lottery tickets, and talk of points and fishes. No one could object to such a harmless game, which would be much better sport than enigmas, charades or recitations. If there had been a piano in Mrs Molle’s drawing room, then perhaps a little dancing might have been attempted—but since no piano was at hand, lottery tickets would do just as well.

  Dorothea, who had committed to memory a portion of Cowper’s Boadicea in preparation for the evening, was very put out. But she said nothing. She played lottery tickets politely, if without enthusiasm, and made civil replies to Captain Wallis’s even more civil inquiries. Once again, the talk was not to her taste. From perfectly respectable subjects it kept veering away, dwelling instead on topics such as gambling and horse racing. Captain Miller spoke at length about an event at Green Hills, where ‘Mr Benn’s Scratch was matched against Mr May’s roan’, and where ‘several by-bets were made at starting, but no odds offered for the first half-mile, when Scratch became the favourite’. Captain Sanderson told a joke about pickpockets at a racetrack, and another about pickpockets at a gaming table. He mentioned, with a laugh, that anyone who came from New South Wales was regarded as a pickpocket in England. ‘Let fall that you are recently arrived from Botany Bay,’ he said, ‘and your neighbours will edge away, checking their pockets.’ He seemed to think this hugely entertaining.

  Finally, the hour grew late. Dorothea was at last able to remove herself from Captain Sanderson’s company. But as she and her husband walked home, he recited several of Captain Sanderson’s jokes that she had missed. He also described to her an incident that had taken place on the Isle of Jersey, involving Captain Sanderson and another officer. The two men had been refreshing themselves generously at a local hostelry, and had fallen into an argument about the relative merits of their horses. Captain Sanderson had then declared that a race should be run, in order to settle the matter. So he and his companion had mounted their horses and galloped off—never to return. They had not paid the innkeeper before doing so.

  ‘Oh, he’s a wily one,’ Captain Brande declared, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes. ‘What a fellow he is! Never a dull moment with Sanderson.’

  At this point Dorothea realised, with a sinking heart, that Charles was quite taken with Captain Sanderson. As the days passed, moreover, this fact became increasingly evident—for Charles was forever returning home from the barracks full of tales that perfectly demonstrated Captain Sanderson’s wit and daredevilry. On one occasion, for example, Captain Sanderson had been drilling his company, and had become dissatisfied with its appearance; the men had been showing the soles of their boots while they marched. He had therefore disappeared into the barracks, and had emerged onto the parade ground, minutes later, with a firelock in his hand.
r />   Raising it, he had declared: ‘The next man who shows me the sole of his shoe will do it because he is running for his life. Do you hear?’

  Charles was also delighted with Captain Sanderson’s solution to the problem of idle soldiers. Unless detailed for guard, many of those in the humbler ranks were left with nothing to do between their midday dinner and the tattoo. Consequently, they made mischief—as one of the privates in Captain Sanderson’s company certainly did, when he tore some palings off the fence of a lady friend, and attempted to beat her with them.

  Captain Sanderson, in response, had taken to measuring his company’s rolled greatcoats with a Field Standard.

  ‘Unless they are exactly eighteen inches across,’ Charles explained, between bursts of laughter, ‘they will not pass inspection. He has his men rolling and unrolling them all afternoon, until the dimensions are precisely correct. Keeping them on their toes, he calls it. Oh dear. Oh dear.’ He rocked back and forth. ‘That fellow will be the death of me.’

  Dorothea could only wonder if there was more truth in Charles’s remark than he knew. She had heard about Captain Sanderson’s explosive temper. He had once thrown a chamber pot at his servant’s head because the aforesaid pot had not been emptied. He had once broken a door by slamming it, hard, in a fit of rage. And there had been certain other incidents of a violent nature involving animals, natives and convicts—none of whom were safe from Captain Sanderson’s wrath if they displeased him in any way. But Dorothea had not believed Captain Sanderson’s fellow officers to be in danger until one afternoon, early in July, Charles stumbled home with his arm in a splint and his jaw badly scraped. With him were Jack Lynch, Captain Miller and Captain Sanderson.

  Dorothea saw them approaching through her drawing-room window. She immediately flew to the front door, flung it open and shrilly called her husband’s name. What had happened? Was he badly hurt? While Charles replied in petulant tones that he was not, Captain Sanderson grinned and Captain Miller giggled. They seemed to be highly amused about something.