The Gentleman's Garden

  Nevertheless, he continued to demand his conjugal rights. This was the circumstance that Dorothea found most puzzling (and most lacerating to her sensibilities). She could not understand how, after calling her ‘Madam Mope’, and leaving her alone after dinner, he could reach for her in the marital bed. Of course, he was generally somewhat intoxicated when this occurred—but even so, his feelings were difficult to comprehend. Dorothea did not want to believe the worst. She did not want to believe that he forced his attentions upon her simply because they were not, at this time, very welcome.

  She preferred to ignore the matter entirely, turning her thoughts away from each episode with grim determination. While she had the courage to reflect on his discourteous remarks, and her own culpability, and even the bleak prospect of their future together, she could not bear to dwell on those incidents that took place in their bedroom after dark.

  Yet for all this, she continued to carry out her duties as expected. Guilt compelled her to do so. The more her husband repelled her, the more assiduously she attended to his wants. The house had never been so beautifully managed. The staff had never been so obliging or inoffensive. As for the garden, it flourished. Dorothea was always able to derive at least some satisfaction from contemplating its progress. Even in the depths of winter, it presented a pleasing appearance.

  Daniel’s tireless attention had, quite literally, begun to bear fruit.

  Often Dorothea would wander from the garden to the kitchen to the drawing room, noting the peaceful sense of order that prevailed in each, and wonder why her domestic arrangements were now so much more healthy and tranquil than her marriage. Had she devoted too much time to her home, and not enough to her husband? Certainly she had come to prefer the company of her servants—a shameful circumstance that she could hardly bear to acknowledge. Yet it was so. While the contemplation of Charles aroused in her all kinds of turbulent emotions (none of them sympathetic), she was always calmed by the sight of Emily patiently shelling peas. Nor did Daniel disturb her quite as Charles did—though she could not help regarding him with dismay. The memory of her most recent loss was, to some degree, a mortifying one. Though Daniel had exhibited the most irreproachable behaviour throughout her ordeal, Dorothea was troubled when she remembered what he had seen, and what she had said. She had been stripped of all dignity. He had witnessed her in that condition. She could not be easy when she thought of it, and in the days that followed her experience she would often blush when she spoke to him, frightened that he might attempt to impose on her in some way. Not that he would use his knowledge to his own advantage—she knew him too well to believe any such thing. He was a good man, she had decided. A man who, though he had fallen from grace, was not for this reason irredeemable.

  But she was fearful, at first, that he might address her with an inappropriate degree of intimacy. Her night of blood and pain and shadows had forged a certain bond between them. She knew that, and regretted it. She was confused by it. How was she to conduct herself, in the circumstances? No doubt she ought to have adopted a very cold and haughty demeanour, so that Daniel might be taught that he could not presume. She had not the heart, however, to treat him with such contempt. He had behaved so well. He had earned her trust.

  Nevertheless, she remained unsettled in his presence—she did not know why. And she became more conscious of that presence. She became more alert to his movements. She always knew where he was, at any time of the day or night.

  Which was more than she could say about her husband.

  It was towards the end of July that her misery finally drove her to address Charles on the subject of their estrangement. They were preparing for bed, and his consumption of alcoholic beverages had been moderate. Watching him drag on his woollen socks—socks that she had knitted for him—Dorothea was moved to voice her concerns. With a pounding heart, she remarked desperately: ‘Do you think that our situation will improve, once we leave these shores?’

  Charles cast her an impatient glance. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’

  Dorothea swallowed. ‘I—I mean our relations with each other.’ Seeing him look away, she blinked back tears. ‘We are not comfortable,’ she quavered. ‘You know that. It is so … hideous.’

  ‘It would be less hideous, Madam, if you would put off your sullen airs and behave with proper consideration towards me,’ Charles retorted.

  ‘But—’

  ‘No.’ He held up his hand. ‘I will not listen to a catalogue of unreasonable complaints. If you wish to apologise and make amends, very well. But I am not interested in your morbid fancies or your silly accusations. Frankly, Madam, I am tired of them. Until you are restored to a sensible frame of mind, I have nothing to say to you.’

  Then he lay down, and turned his back on Dorothea.

  She could not bring herself to speak to him again that night.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  ON AUGUST THE EIGHTH, the Matilda arrived in Port Jackson, bearing with it a large portion of the 48th Northamptonshire Regiment.

  This regiment, sent to relieve the 46th, was commanded by one Colonel James Erskine. Naturally, it was welcomed with a great deal of ceremony and enthusiasm, though Dorothea soon noted a spirit of competition entering into the exchanges that took place between the two sets of officers. Many of the 48th were heroes of the battle of Waterloo. They were better acquainted with recent military gossip and fashions than were the officers of the 46th. As a consequence, there was some friendly rivalry between the old garrison and the new, which was evident on the parade ground. Four days after disembarking from the Matilda, the headquarters division of the 48th joined the 46th for a parade in Hyde Park, to mark the fifty-third birthday of the Prince Regent. Each regiment strove mightily to outdo the other in the precise exercise of their drill and the neatness of their appearance. The result was very pleasing, and seemed to satisfy the Governor. He commended both regiments for an excellent turn-out.

  But thereafter, until the arrival of the rest of the 48th, no officer of the 46th Regiment (with the exception of Captain Gill and Lieutenant Watts) was invited to attend either official or informal functions at Government House.

  ‘He seeks to cow us,’ was Captain Sanderson’s opinion, offered during a private entertainment held in the Brandes’ dining room. Once again, Charles had insisted that he and his wife extend a dinner invitation to certain members of his Lodge. The purpose of the gathering was twofold; it gave the guests an opportunity to discuss matters pertaining to Lodge business—which could not, perhaps, be so informally debated at a proper meeting—and it also allowed them to air their opinions of the 48th without fear of being overheard. In no other surroundings had they been afforded this chance. Every private entertainment, of recent date, had been attended by representatives of both regiments, and had given the officers of the 46th no means by which they might speak freely among themselves. The barracks were crowded to bursting point. Major George Druitt was, at present, being accommodated in Colonel Molle’s house. As Captain Sanderson pointed out, it had been impossible to ‘complete one’s toilet in peace’ since the arrival of the 48th.

  Captain Brande had therefore felt it his duty to offer his comrades a place where they might converse together, in congenial surroundings, without giving offence.

  By this time, of course, they had much to converse about. The 48th was a source of endless complaint and speculation. Preparations for the departure of the 46th were well underway. And the dispute with Governor Macquarie continued to occupy certain officers of the 46th, even in the face of the 48th Regiment’s wary disinclination to become involved, or lend their brother officers any support.

  ‘His Excellency tries to snub us, by extending his favours to the 48th,’ Captain Sanderson declared. ‘What kind of favour is the hospitality of the Governor, when it is offered to men like Redfern and Wentworth?’

  ‘An insult, I would call it,’ said Charles (who was already a little intoxicated). ‘But perhaps Major Druitt does not think
it so.’

  ‘Major Druitt. Ah yes,’ said Colonel Molle, pensively. ‘I must confess, I am not entirely easy in my mind as to Major Druitt’s gentility. I have heard certain rumours—’

  ‘About Margaret Lynch? Aye. I have had it from their quartermaster.’ Captain Sanderson’s twinkling eye swept the table. ‘One of their privates had the ill sense to bring his fancy piece on board, stowed with the luggage,’ he related. ‘When she was discovered, they were married—but since then, Druitt has lured her away.’

  ‘And has spent a good deal of money setting her up,’ Captain Miller added, with a leer. ‘Paymaster Murray tells me that Druitt was so wanting for funds that he could not pay his mess bills on board ship—and now he intends to build himself a very fine house in which to display his strumpet! A most mysterious fellow.’

  ‘We can only hope that Colonel Erskine is of a more respectable stamp,’ Colonel Molle sighed, and Mr Horsley said, in his soft and rather insinuating way: ‘Indeed, we shall miss the South Devons sorely, Colonel. Whatever the Governor might think—and I know that he has taken offence at certain officers expressing this view in writing—all genteel persons in this colony must agree that the mess table of the 46th has set the standard for good society during the past four years.’

  A toast was drunk to this declaration, after which Dorothea retired from the company of her gentlemen guests. (In her opinion, the conversation had already touched on certain subjects with which no lady could have felt comfortable, but her presence in the dining room appeared to have been overlooked for some time.) She did not repair to the drawing room, however. Instead she went to the kitchen, where dishes were frantically being washed and uneaten morsels suitably disposed of.

  Here she paid off Mrs Molle’s cook, whose services had been required for so large a dinner. Here she also bestowed shilling tips on Daniel and Emily, to thank them for a job well done. Jack, who was still in the dining room pouring claret for the gentlemen, would doubtless receive some recognition from Charles; Dorothea did not propose to trouble herself over him. She had never cared for Jack. Furthermore, he had made himself difficult by refusing to clean up some gravy that he had spilled on the kitchen floor. It was the housemaid’s task, he had said, to do that.

  ‘I am very pleased with both of you,’ Dorothea informed Daniel and Emily, after Mrs Molle’s cook had taken his leave. ‘The dinner went off very well, I think. It is gratifying to see how well you work together. Emily, you will soon be as thoroughly trained as any servant I have ever known. Well done.’

  ‘Thank ’ee, Ma’am,’ Emily replied, with a bob, and Daniel nodded. He said: ‘Will ye be wantin’ yeer coffee now, Ma’am?’

  ‘I think—perhaps some tea,’ Dorothea decided. She was bone-weary. It was already in the region of nine o’clock. She wondered when she might expect to retire to bed, and was tempted to remain in the cosy kitchen, with its gleaming copper and rich smells. Certainly she viewed the prospect of the empty drawing room with some melancholy. As for her guests—she would have been quite happy not to lay eyes on them ever again.

  ‘Ma’am?’ said Daniel. ‘Ma’am—if it please ye—’

  ‘Yes, Daniel?’ Dorothea saw that Emily was twisting her little hands in her apron, and looking at the floor. Daniel seemed unsure as to what he should be doing with his own hands.

  ‘Ma’am, we’ve been hearin’ that ye’ll be away from here soon,’ he remarked, after a pause. ‘Is it true, by a mercy?’

  Dorothea’s heart sank within her. This was not a subject that she felt equipped to discuss at so late an hour. ‘Well … yes,’ she sighed.

  ‘When will it be, Ma’am?’

  ‘I—I am not sure. The rest of the Northamptonshire Regiment must arrive first.’ Dorothea swallowed. ‘I was meaning to speak to you about this,’ she went on, ‘for there will be a great deal of work involved in purchasing stores and packing luggage.’ Confronted by Daniel’s downcast eyes and blank expression, Dorothea felt a queer sort of fluttering in her throat. She swallowed again. ‘You need not concern yourselves,’ she added, ‘because I shall make arrangements on your behalf. No servant of your calibre, Daniel, will ever want for respectable employment in this colony. As for you, Emily—well, I would have no objection to your joining me on the voyage to India. As my maidservant.’

  Emily gasped. Her hands went up to her mouth, and her pale eyes widened.

  ‘Oh, Ma’am,’ she faltered. ‘Oh, Ma’am I … I …’

  ‘You need not give me an answer straight away.’

  ‘It’s me sister, y’see—’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘I dunno as ’ow—I mean—’

  ‘Yes, yes. I quite understand.’ Dorothea had not given much thought to the matter of who was to attend her on the voyage. Sarah, who had accompanied her to New South Wales, would doubtless be joining her husband, Private Smith, on the trip to India. But Sarah was now the mother of two children, with another expected any day. It was unlikely that she would be available to serve Dorothea.

  ‘Ma’am?’ said Daniel, and Dorothea started. Her thoughts had been far away. ‘Ma’am, I was wonderin’—shall I be stayin’ with the house? Only I remember you spoke of’t—’

  ‘I did, yes,’ said Dorothea. Involuntarily, she glanced out the window. The garden, however, was lost in darkness. ‘Again, I—I cannot say,’ she replied. ‘Not yet. I have discussed this house with Mrs Wilde, who is the wife of Colonel Erskine’s aide-de-camp, and she has expressed some interest in it. At present, she is lodged in the barracks.’ Rather uncomfortably, too—or so Dorothea had gathered. ‘She is a very genteel and pleasant lady. If she were to become your mistress, you would have no cause for regret, I am sure.’

  Daniel said nothing. Emily rubbed her nose. All at once Dorothea was overcome by acute feelings of guilt and unhappiness, which she strove to mask with a few, brisk words about tomorrow’s breakfast.

  ‘I intend to retire at eleven o’clock,’ she concluded, ‘whether or not our guests have departed. You may attend me at that time, Emily—and then you may go to bed. Daniel, I would have you wait on Captain Brande. He may need you to escort Mr Horsley. You should not go to bed until Captain Brande does.’

  As it transpired, Captain Brande did not go to bed until after his guests had departed, at a quarter before one. Dorothea, of course, had long since made her apologies. Having endured an hour alone in the drawing room, and another hour in the gentlemen’s company (listening to increasingly rowdy remarks about the Governor), she had been thankful to retreat into her bed chamber. Though immensely tired, however, she found that she could not sleep. Her mind was too much occupied with matters pertaining to the Regiment’s approaching voyage. She tossed and turned, and could not be comfortable. She fretted about the disposition of luggage and the purchasing of supplies. She worried about Daniel and Emily. (How wretched Daniel would be, if deprived of his beloved garden!) And she brooded over the inescapable fact that she soon must endure the unendurable—for she had not forgotten the horrors of her last voyage.

  Mercifully, the journey to India would be shorter than the last. And there would be no convicts on board—that, at least, was a source of comfort. But what lay at the end of the tedious passage? A country notorious for its unhealthy climate. Society of a questionable sort, though not as questionable as that to be found in New South Wales. Yet more bloodthirsty savages; continual campaigning at far-flung outposts; heat, dust, serpents, and another, interminable period away from Bideham.

  Dorothea had only recently become acquainted with the fact that the colonial tour of duty customarily included a spell in India, as well as in New South Wales. Charles had not seen fit to inform her of this fact upon requesting her hand in marriage. Doubtless he had been concerned (with some justice) that the prospect of such an extended absence from England would have caused her to quail.

  She certainly quailed now. And the worst of it was that she could no longer turn to her husband for succour. She would be entering t
his new realm of uncertainty and deprivation without the kind of companionship that a marriage should surely provide. How was she to survive the voyage, if Charles snubbed her, and ignored her, and snapped at her, as had been his wont of late? How was she to endure another strange country, full of native servants (worse even than convicts, surely), without any sympathetic encouragement whatsoever? Not even Mrs Molle’s benign presence would be enough to rescue her from the most profound misery—misery piled upon misery.

  For a moment she considered the possibility of returning to England. Alone, without Charles. The thought of England made her sigh. She longed for Bideham with a passion that was truly desperate. But how could the voyage be accomplished without her husband? On the one hand, his absence would be welcome. On the other, it would expose her to a variety of wretchedness that did not bear contemplating. Such a long voyage, attempted by a lone female—a lone, sickly female—without even a maid of decent character to attend her … the prospect was one that left her heartsick. What suffering it would entail! And that was without even taking into consideration the expense, or the calumny that would be heaped upon her for deserting her husband in such a way. For it would be desertion—nothing less. Charles, she was sure, would not even countenance it. For all his unfavourable views on her conduct, he would never have it said of him that his wife preferred a separation. And she hated to think of Margaret’s expression when the truth became apparent to her. It had been Margaret, after all, who had warned Dorothea against too precipitate a union. It would be unbearably galling to have to admit that her sister had been right.