‘The cause, I believe, is pure air,’ she opined. ‘Pure air and woollen garments. Woollen garments give the best protection against sudden changes of temperature. A child may wear outer garments of linen, but should always be dressed in wool underneath.’
‘And white, always, at this time of year,’ Mrs Bent appended. ‘To prevent overheating.’
‘Which may also be avoided by the correct placement of covers,’ was Mrs Cowper’s contribution. ‘Nursemaids should always be instructed, when laying a child in its cradle, not to tuck the clothes in tightly, but to allow it full liberty to move about.’
The discussion then turned to regimental midwives, dusting powder, gripe water and leather mattress covers, while Dorothea listened in a wistful frame of mind, looking from one lady to another as each delivered herself of her opinions on child rearing. It was the darling wish of Dorothea’s heart to cradle, in her arms, her very own infant. She prayed for a child every night. And here she was, surrounded by mothers, in a house whose mistress was about to be endowed with the very gift for which Dorothea longed so passionately.
She could not prevent herself from feeling a little sad.
When they finally rejoined the gentlemen, it was almost nine o’clock, and the company soon began to disperse. Mr and Mrs Bent departed on foot. The Molles and the Brandes were to be conveyed home in the Governor’s carriage. On taking her leave of their host, Dorothea once again presented her compliments to Mrs Macquarie. She hoped, she said, that they might be properly introduced before long. She also expressed her gratitude to His Excellency for granting her the use of his carriage. The Governor, for his part, smiled broadly enough to show his teeth (which were in quite poor condition), and lowered his voice to address her. Stooping a little to take her hand, he said that he was honoured to welcome a lady such as herself to the colony, that Mrs Macquarie was eager to make her acquaintance, and that he was only too happy to supply Dorothea with the means of returning home in comfort.
‘He is not a very polished gentleman,’ she observed later, to her husband, ‘but he is a gentleman nonetheless. I am pleased with him—or “pleased enough”, as they say.’ Pausing in the application of her nightly pomade, Dorothea glanced across the bedroom to where Charles appeared to be counting out money. He was ominously silent. ‘Are not you, my dear?’ she asked.
He grunted. She had been watching him throughout the evening, and had noticed that he was not in the best of tempers. While remaining perfectly civil, he had been little inclined to talk, and his countenance had taken on the brooding, watchful quality of a person who had been offended in some way. He had conversed with most of the officers present, but had not attempted to widen his acquaintance. At dinner, he had picked at his food, hardly touched his wine, and had yielded to Mrs O’Connell on every point that she raised, his eyes rarely straying from the plate in front of him, his comments coming in abrupt little bursts. To the ladies who flanked him, he had almost certainly recommended himself as a shy young man, who perhaps required a little gentle encouragement before he could find the courage to speak freely. (Presented with his remarkably handsome appearance, ladies were always inclined to view his actions in the most favourable light.) Dorothea, however, knew him well enough to understand that he was not shy, but cross. Cross and uncomfortable.
She surveyed his knitted brows with a little inward sigh.
‘Are not you, my dear?’ she repeated, and he looked up.
‘I would be better pleased with the Governor if he did not foist people of dubious notoriety on my wife,’ he said. ‘I would be better pleased with him if he did not force me to dine with emancipists.’
‘Emancipists?’ Dorothea gasped, whereupon Charles amended his complaint, somewhat. Dr Wentworth, he said, while not in the strictest sense an emancipist, had been thrice acquitted of the charge of highway robbery in his youth, and had been so doubtful as to the outcome of his third trial that he had, before judgement could be handed down, declared his intention of sailing to New South Wales ‘in any case’. ‘The man is a blatant libertine,’ Charles concluded, ‘and a speculator, and is not proper company for a woman of any breeding.’
‘Oh dear,’ said Dorothea, faintly. She retained only an imperfect recollection of Dr Wentworth, who had not been sitting near her at dinner. He had been about the Governor’s age, she thought, but taller, and a little untidy in his appearance.
‘If Dr Redfern had not been occupied elsewhere,’ Charles went on, ‘if he had been permitted to join us at the table, I would certainly have got up and left, I assure you.’
‘Dr Redfern?’
‘As a guest, I owe my host a duty of obedience. But I am also entitled to a certain amount of respect, and there are offences that cannot be overlooked.’ Charles was speaking quite hotly, now, but his gaze was fixed on the wall, not on Dorothea. She sensed that he was unburdening himself of a speech that he would have preferred to deliver in the Governor’s presence. ‘As an officer of the 46th Regiment of Foot,’ he declared, ‘I entered into a resolution that I would never hold intercourse with, nor admit into my society, any of those persons who arrived in this colony under sentence of transportation. Though I have not, by this means, assumed to myself the right to prescribe laws for the society of other corps, nor the colony as a whole, I would expect its commander in chief to display a certain tenderness towards the feelings of those respectable ladies to whom he offers his protection, when extending his hospitality.’
‘But Charles,’ Dorothea interjected, as her husband paused to draw breath, ‘Mrs Redfern is perfectly respectable. Why, is she not the daughter of an officer?’
‘Yes indeed. And the granddaughter of a convict,’ Charles snapped. ‘As for Dr Redfern, he himself came to this colony in chains.’ Climbing into bed, he rearranged the pillows with some force, and cast Dorothea an impatient look. ‘I am better acquainted with this colony than you are,’ he pointed out, ‘and I know who is, and who is not, fit company for my wife. As far as I am concerned, the society that you were offered this evening was little better than an insult.’
Subdued, Dorothea hastily completed her toilette. Then she blew out the candle and joined her husband in bed, wondering, with some dismay, how she would ever learn to navigate the treacherous shoals of colonial intercourse. Everywhere you turned, it seemed, there were emancipists waiting to disconcert you. Gentleman-like demeanours concealed monstrous pasts. People who should have been avoiding notice positively forced themselves on your attention.
As she recited her prayers (silently, in her head, so as not to disturb Charles), she implored God for divine guidance. Without it, she felt sure, she would not survive her husband’s colonial tour of duty unscathed.
CHAPTER THREE
CAPTAIN CHARLES EDWARD BRANDE was one of those rare mortals blessed with a very romantic appearance. While only of average height, he had a pleasing figure, and his features were extraordinarily good. They included a pale complexion, a straight nose, a well-shaped mouth, a firm jaw, a pair of strongly marked eyebrows, and eyes of a quite remarkable shade of blue, framed by long, sable lashes. His hair was thick and black, but not unruly. His teeth were very fine.
When Dorothea first met him, he was twenty-six years old, and she was three years younger. He had come to Bideham to visit his uncle, the Reverend Henry Brande, arriving in the spring of 1813; he was on his way from the 46th Regiment’s quarters in Devonshire to the Isle of Wight, where most of his regiment was stationed, awaiting transport. Captain Brande, however, had been given leave to attend his dying father in Kingsbridge, and this leave had been extended in order that he might settle his widowed mother’s affairs. His father, an architect of little renown, had left Mrs Brande and her two daughters with just enough money to pursue a modest existence—but Captain Brande had been left with nothing at all. Moreover, Captain Brande had been ill during his visit to Kingsbridge. This, together with the nervous strain attendant upon his bereavement, as well as the torment of his disappointed expectatio
ns, had left him in a rather delicate state.
His good-hearted uncle had therefore invited him back to Bideham Parsonage. A large, modern house, built by the Shortlands to supersede a smaller, darker, and (it must be admitted) damper Old Parsonage, the residence of Henry Brande was quite spacious enough to accommodate a sorrowful young man in fragile health, and Captain Brande had quickly recovered both his strength and his spirits. He had played with his nephews. He had exercised his horse. He had visited Bideham Park, promised to return during the hunting season, admired the pasturage, listened to music, sung a few songs, and spent a good deal of time with Miss Dorothea Hollins.
Dorothea, upon first seeing Captain Brande, had immediately thought him an angel sent from heaven. Never in her life had she beheld such symmetry of form, such grace of expression, such exquisite placement of colour. He was so beautiful that she had been afraid to look at him, for fear of staring. Not being particularly beautiful herself (though she was pleasing enough, with her plump, creamy face and round, hazel eyes), she had regarded him wistfully, as one might regard a duchess’s collection of jewels.
Moreover, Captain Brande’s recent trials had made him a very interesting object. His pale face, his moody wanderings, his sighs, his troubled looks, had all touched her heart. She would have been quite happy watching him—she would have been content to admire him from afar—without demanding the unexpected prize of his attention. But so intimate was Bideham society that they had often been thrown together, in her sister’s front parlour or the Shortlands’ blue drawing room, and on these occasions he had always sought her out. Sitting beside her, he had asked her about her books and her plants. He had admired the samples of her needlework that were placed about her sister’s home. And Dorothea, in turn, had asked him about his life in the military, which had taken him to France and the West Indies, and which had furnished him with so many remarkable experiences.
She admired him inexpressibly. He was so brave, and at the same time so retiring. He could be as awkward as a schoolboy, yet he had a strong, ringing laugh. He was proud of his horsemanship, but ashamed of his handwriting. In his scarlet uniform, he looked like a prince.
She was utterly smitten. She was in love. All thoughts of her father’s former curate, now serving the new incumbent of Ashcombe Parsonage, were completely abandoned. She lived for Captain Brande’s smile; she dreaded, as she would have dreaded death itself, the day of his departure. And as that day drew near, Captain Brande had also appeared to be affected by a sense of urgency. He had sought her out at more frequent intervals, and then only to smile sheepishly, and grope for things to say. He had confessed to an uncertain temper, and, when she expressed surprise, assured her that it had often driven him to speak or behave unwisely, though not in Bideham. ‘The sweetness of your character,’ he had said, ‘would prohibit even the most ungovernable rage from erupting in the heart of any man sensible to your goodness.’ Though recited like a speech carefully committed to memory, this remark had been a source of infinite delight to Dorothea. It had seemed to her, all at once, that her feelings must to some extent be reciprocated.
But then he had left. He had left, and, though he had promised to write, Dorothea had despaired. For three days she had wept unrestrainedly, behind closed doors—until the arrival of Captain Brande’s first letter had put an end to all her misery. He had written from a roadside inn, and he had written, not to Dorothea, but to her brother-in-law.
He had written to seek her hand in marriage.
What followed is what will generally follow, in such circumstances. Captain Brande’s fortune was practically nonexistent; his pay was but 170 pounds a year. Dorothea’s modest settlement would not improve his annual income by more than one hundred pounds. But she was of age, and his prospects were good—therefore, despite the reservations of her immediate family, the two young people were married in late July. Not even the knowledge that they would soon be leaving England for New South Wales could change Dorothea’s mind. She was determined to marry her handsome soldier, and marry him she did—in all haste.
Now, although she was not exactly repenting at leisure, she found herself dismayed at the changes that had taken place in her life. Her wedded state was not one of unalloyed happiness. Foreign travel, while it may have provided Charles with many thrilling tales to narrate during his visit to Bideham, was not the romantic adventure that Dorothea had anticipated as she lay dreaming her maiden dreams. On the contrary, it seemed to comprise nothing but wretchedness. The regiment was not a continual parade of masculine virtues, all decked out in scarlet and gold, but a congregation of men who were often ill humoured, undistinguished and under-employed. As for Charles, the uncertain temper to which he had once confessed was by no means an imaginary affliction. More and more, as time went on, Dorothea saw evidence of it, as he struggled with envious and despondent thoughts.
His chief cause of resentment was his failure to secure the post of Acting Engineer, Artillery Officer and Inspector of Public Works. Captain John Gill was the fortunate officer who received this appointment in April 1814—becoming one hundred and eighty-two pounds a year richer in consequence. Charles, who had never been an intimate of John Gill’s, was furious. Though ill suited to occupy such a position, he had been petitioning his commanding officer since early March for consideration as a candidate. Now his hopes were dashed.
In the bitterness of his disappointment, he persisted in blaming Colonel Molle for failing to recommend him to Governor Macquarie. Molle, he said, was a man who played favourites. Molle had only recently transferred to the corps, and was unworthy to lead the men under his command. So portly a frame as the Colonel’s argued a fondness for sedentary pursuits. So languid and ponderous a manner of speaking argued a want of intellect. In the privacy of his own bedroom, Charles would accuse the Colonel of such all-encompassing failure that Dorothea grew quite frightened. She implored her husband not to speak unwisely. It was dangerous, she said. Moreover, in her heart of hearts, she disagreed.
As far as she could tell, Colonel Molle had not merited condemnation. On the contrary, he had very kindly made Dorothea a gift of eight yards of zeno for mosquito curtains, which would otherwise have cost her one shilling and sixpence per yard—if, indeed, it had been at all procurable in the colony. Mrs Molle, for her part, had been no less generous. Having followed her husband across the world, she was a positive fount of wisdom, and allowed nothing to dismay her. After Egypt, she said, New South Wales was quite delightful; its climate was far less enervating, its air so much purer. A healthier country all round, she declared, though if Dorothea should suffer any unpleasant effects, she must consult Buchan’s Domestic Medicine, a copy of which Mrs Molle would happily lend her. The Housekeeper’s Receipt Book was also very useful, especially when it came to the treatment of children’s complaints.
‘My eldest was much troubled by worms, in Egypt—which is a country sorely afflicted by parasites,’ Mrs Molle revealed one day, as Dorothea sipped tea in the Molles’ drawing room, ‘and without The Housekeeper’s Receipt Book, I should have been at a complete loss. But after treating the poor child with a solution of tartarised antimony, followed by a simple purging powder, the problem was entirely removed.’ Fixing Dorothea with a commanding gaze, Mrs Molle squared her shoulders. ‘One must learn to fend for oneself, in places such as this, Mrs Brande,’ she continued. ‘It is not difficult, provided one has good sense and a few helpful books of instruction.’
Meekly, Dorothea set her cup down. ‘But I have brought no books of instruction,’ she confessed.
‘Then you must compile your own. I am forever copying down receipts and patterns—there is nothing more useful. I am also very attentive to the advice of more experienced residents. Barrack-master Mackintosh, for example, has supplied me with some important information. He has warned me against purchasing any cheap shoes in this colony. He says that the leather made by Mr Wilshire, at the tan yards, is unexceptionable, but that many cheap hides are only stained, not ta
nned, and that these are sold for less than half the price of good leather.’
‘I see,’ said Dorothea. She always felt humbled by Mrs Molle, who was taller than Dorothea, and more erect, and who seemed to be settling into her new home quite nicely. Of course, Mrs Molle had the infinite advantage of a large, solid house—the commanding officer’s house—and a resident staff. She also had her husband’s enormous salary to draw on, and the services of a properly trained English nursemaid. Even so, it was to her energetic character that her mastery of the minutiae of a colonial existence could be chiefly attributed.
Her breadth of knowledge was truly astonishing. She had already, within the past fifteen minutes, warned Dorothea against using the soldiers’ wives as laundresses (‘Take my advice, Mrs Brande, and entrust your garments to a properly trained woman, as I have’), offered to provide Dorothea with some English half-pint basins, for preserving (‘colonial jars are too porous, as I have learned to my dismay’), and recommended a seamstress who charged only four shillings and sixpence for making up a simple gown. ‘Not for yourself, of course,’ she added, ‘but for any servant whose clothes you might be required to furnish. By the by, Mr Brande, how is that new girl of yours behaving? Mrs O’Connell’s old maid? I hope that she is proving satisfactory.’
Dorothea groaned. She gazed out a window at the barrack yard, where squads were being exercised. A non-commissioned officer was measuring steps with a pace-stick. Another was demonstrating firelock drill. A soldier’s wife was laying out clothes to dry on the sun-baked earth.