The Gentleman's Garden

  Unless she gave the excuse of her health, perhaps? India, after all, would very likely kill her. Certainly Charles would, if he continued to treat her so badly. But it was possible—just possible—that the departure from New South Wales might work an improvement upon his temper. He might find that its air had disagreed with him, and that a change of habitation would cure him of his ills. Was it not her duty to embrace the opportunity that this removal gave them of making a fresh start? Was it not better to attempt to repair her marriage, rather than face an utterly dreadful voyage home, followed by the shock and distress of her family at the end of it?

  Occupied with matters of this immensity, Dorothea could not sleep for some time. She was awake when Charles finally came to bed. She continued awake long after he was asleep and snoring. Much to her surprise, he had not behaved in an offensive fashion before dozing off. On the contrary, he had complimented his wife on her dinner arrangements, and had not reproved her for retiring early. Nor had he attempted anything of a more intimate nature. Heartened by this evidence of respect, or at least goodwill, she had come to the conclusion that all was not lost—that it behoved her, as a married woman of good breeding, to accompany her husband to India. Her position, if she did otherwise, would be insupportable.

  Moreover, she could never even hope to bear a child unless she remained with Charles.

  Away from this poisonous place, she decided, I may find that I am happier. I may find that Charles is happier. I may even find that our health improves, and that I am blessed in a way that will restore me to a state of unassailable contentment, no matter what my circumstances might otherwise be.

  For the first time, she contemplated her sojourn in India with a gleam of hope. It might not be England, she thought, but surely—surely—it could not, in every facet of existence, be worse than New South Wales?

  New South Wales

  September 10th, 1817

  My dearest Margaret,

  Perhaps this will be the last letter that I write to you from New South Wales. As far as I can gather, we are to sail on the ‘Matilda’ within a fortnight—and I am certain to be very busy as a result! There are so many things to settle. The horse must be sold, our boxes must be packed, our servants must be placed—for I am quite determined that Daniel and Emily should find respectable situations before we leave. I am only sorry that Emily cannot join us. She is native to this country, and has a sister still at the Female Orphan School; consequently, she will not be persuaded to leave. It is a pity, for she would make quite an acceptable lady’s maid, I am sure. What I shall do without her, I cannot imagine. I am hoping that Mrs Molle might lend me Anne Ezzey’s services. Otherwise I shall be most disadvantaged, there being (as you know) a terrible dearth of reliable maidservants in this part of the world.

  It has to be said that while I shall not miss Sydney Cove, I regret having to leave the garden, which will be truly lovely in another five years. I am bequeathing a treasure to our wretched landlord, knowing full well that he has not the taste nor the discernment to appreciate what I have done. I can only hope that whoever succeeds us to the possession of this house will nurture my roses, and keep things in good order. Indeed, I have been anxious to secure a promise from Mrs Wilde that she will take up residence here, but she is maddeningly undecided. (I am given to understand that she and her husband must practise the very strictest economy, because her daughter is engaged to be married, and you know what an expensive business that can be.)

  My dearest wish, I should tell you, is that Mrs Wilde will move into the house and engage Daniel as her servant. If that should happen, then my garden will be safe—and Daniel himself will be happily employed. Poor Daniel. He is such a good and gentle soul, despite his shameful history. I should not like to have him treated cruelly by a master or mistress who cannot appreciate his worth, simply because he is an assigned servant. Being free and female, Emily will have her choice of respectable situations, but Daniel is awkwardly placed. In three or four months he will be given his ticket-of-leave, and will be able to make his own way—until then, however, he must labour under the usual disadvantages of a Government man.

  How I wish that we could take him with us!

  As to other news, there is not much of it. Charles and I are in good health. We recently attended a very grand affair in the grounds of Captain Piper’s new villa, which is the most lavish of constructions. One hundred and twenty officers and their ladies were taken from Farm Cove to Eliza Point in boats ornamented with flowers, ribbons and silk. The band of the 46th greeted us when we arrived, and a magnificent picnic lunch was provided for us. Then we were conducted through the house, which is built in the latest style, and boasts a ballroom and a grand salon. (You will be wondering at my willingness to be entertained by Captain Piper, but I must inform you that he is now married to the mother of his children—have I told you that, Margaret?—and so one is encouraged to overlook his past dissipation in the light of his current respectability.) I cannot say that the house, however sumptuous, was much to my taste. It was characterised by a lack of restraint, a kind of pretentious self-consequence, that I could not wholly admire. But I fear that I am alone in my opinion, for the rest of the colony is in raptures over it.

  Indeed, perhaps the only other subject of discussion, hereabouts, is Colonel Molle’s dispute with Dr D’Arcy Wentworth, which has become quite heated. Colonel Molle is determined that Dr Wentworth should be court-martialled for ‘aiding and abetting’ the production of the verses that so offended him (because there is some suspicion that one of Dr Wentworth’s employees, Robert Murray, was responsible for them). Colonel Molle has been working towards that end for some time, and finally sent Governor Macquarie a copy of a letter dispatched to a certain Colonel Foveaux in 1799, from Ireland. In it, the writer—a Major Grose—warned Colonel Foveaux that if the Duke of York should hear that any officer of the New South Wales Corps had disgraced himself by associating with ‘a person named Wentworth’, His Royal Highness would be sure to turn him out of the service.

  According to Colonel Molle, this letter is proof that Dr Wentworth’s claim to the character of an officer and a gentleman is not based on firm foundations. Dr Wentworth, in response, wrote a letter to Governor Macquarie, which the Governor sent on to Colonel Molle—it arrived yesterday. I saw it myself this morning, for Mrs Molle displayed it to me, and its tone was most irate. Dr Wentworth called the Foveaux letter a ‘vile and infamous forgery’. He stated that Colonel Molle was himself a libeller, because he had published a libel against Dr Wentworth.

  Colonel Molle now wants to have Dr Wentworth arrested until a general court martial can be assembled for his trial. I do not know that His Excellency will allow such a thing, however. He has always expressed the highest opinion of Dr Wentworth.

  It seems as if this petty wrangling will continue until the very instant we embark—and beyond. I wonder if Madras will be as tiresome? I do hope not. You must be anxious about my spirits, as I confront another long voyage and foreign land. In truth, the prospect once filled me with horror, but I am now determined to be sanguine. Who knows what might await us? I am quite certain that New South Wales has affected my health, and deprived me of my dearest hopes; it is possible that India will prove to be a more congenial place altogether. Oh Margaret, I do hope so indeed! Life has been so dreadful here—I do not see how it could be any worse. Without doubt there must be better society in India, for I have been quite deprived of it here, lately, with Mrs Bent gone, and Mrs Vale gone, and Mrs Molle so very caught up in her husband’s affairs. No wonder I speak of nothing but servants. They are almost the only people I see from day to day. But you would have grown fond of them yourself, I am sure. Daniel has quite changed my opinion of the Irish (though I would never say as much to Charles, of course). He is a treasure indeed.

  I trust that my next letter will bring you happy news, and remain

  your loving sister,

  Dorothea Brande

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

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nbsp; MRS MOLLE HAD ADVISED Dorothea that, when packing away all those garments not required on the voyage, she should make sure to place between them small linen bags filled with cloves, cinnamon bark, orris root, lavender flowers and dried rose petals. ‘By this means,’ Mrs Molle had declared, ‘you will repel the musty odour which is so often the result of a long sea journey.’

  Dorothea had therefore measured up, cut out and hemmed twenty-five linen pockets. She had then procured the necessary ingredients with which to fill them, and had stuffed each pocket, much as she would have stuffed a fowl, with scented herbs and spices. She was proceeding to sew up the open ends of these pockets one fine morning, when she happened to look through the drawing-room window and see Charles approaching the house, accompanied by two police constables.

  She reached the front door just as they did, and welcomed her husband with an anxious inquiry. He should have been at the barracks. His return, at such an early hour, did not augur well.

  ‘Charles?’ she said. ‘What is the matter?’

  His face was as grim as she had ever seen it. His eyebrows were like a pair of thunderclouds. ‘You had better stay here,’ was his reply. Then he strode past her with a heavy tread, down the hallway and through the rear entrance. The two constables followed him.

  So did Dorothea.

  ‘There is your man,’ Charles announced. He had stepped out into the sunlight, and was pointing across the garden. When his wife reached him, she saw that he was pointing at Daniel.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked in bewilderment. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘He sleeps in here,’ Charles continued, gesturing at the kitchen. One of the constables plunged through the kitchen door. The other made his way towards Daniel, who was working among the vegetables.

  Upon being ordered to drop his hoe, the convict looked up, and straightened. His tool thudded to the ground.

  ‘Charles!’ Dorothea exclaimed. She was frightened. ‘What is the meaning of this? Charles?’

  He ignored her, disappearing into the kitchen as if deaf to her frantic entreaties. Once again, she pursued him. She found Emily cowering by the kitchen hearth, and the larger of the two constables searching through Daniel’s possessions. These were pitifully few in number: his fustian jacket, a pair of woollen gloves, a pair of woollen stockings, a comb, a razor, a razor strop, a large cotton handkerchief and a pale-blue ribbon, very worn and stained. The constable unrolled Daniel’s hammock and shook out his blanket. Dorothea caught her husband’s arm.

  ‘Charles!’ she cried. ‘Tell me at once what is happening here!’

  Suddenly the constable uttered a cry of triumph. He had been searching the pockets of Daniel’s jacket, from which he produced, with a flourish, one gold watch—with fob—and a silver snuffbox.

  ‘There!’ he crowed. He was a horrid-looking man, with a cast in his eye and a yellow, greasy complexion. ‘Solid proof!’

  ‘By God, I’ll have him flayed alive!’ Charles ground out. ‘The filthy rascal!’ Turning on his heel, he stormed from the room as if propelled by gunpowder, his hand clenched around his sword hilt. Dorothea flew after him. ‘Charles! Charles!’

  ‘You scoundrel!’ he roared, upon emerging into the garden.

  ‘You dirty, thieving toad!’ He was addressing Daniel, who flinched and stepped back. But the second constable was gripping his arm, and would not allow him to retreat any further. ‘How dare you!’ Charles bellowed. ‘Prey on my guests, would you, you devil!’ And he swung his hand.

  ‘No!’ Dorothea shrieked. But the blow never fell, for the constable at Daniel’s side blocked it. ‘Better not, sir, you could be up in front o’ the bench yerself.’

  ‘Do you know what this man has done?’ Charles exclaimed, turning on Dorothea. ‘He has robbed John Horsley!’

  ‘Ah—well no, sir, not this ’un.’ The cast-eyed constable spoke from behind Captain Brande. ‘It was another feller done that. This feller’s bin receivin’ stolen goods, is all.’

  ‘Horsley’s stolen goods!’ Charles cried. ‘Taken the very night he last dined here!’

  ‘I didn’t know,’ Daniel protested. His dark eyes were huge in a milk-white face. ‘I swear, Sir—Ma’am—I didn’t know they were stolen—’

  ‘Tell it to the beak,’ the cast-eyed constable remarked, in good-humoured tones, and attached himself to Daniel’s other arm. Then he touched his brow. ‘Yer pardon, Sir—Ma’am. Sorry for the inconwenience. Come on, me flash lad.’

  ‘Wait!’ said Dorothea. ‘Where—where are you going?’

  ‘To the gaol, of course,’ Charles snapped. ‘And I shall be going to Horsley’s house to apologise in person for the sins of my staff!’

  ‘But you cannot take Daniel to gaol!’ Dorothea could hardly speak. She put her hand to her breast. ‘He knew nothing about that watch! He said so!’

  The constables exchanged a sly glance.

  ‘Be quiet, Thea,’ Charles growled.

  ‘But Daniel is a good man!’ Dorothea protested. ‘He would not do such a thing!’

  ‘He is a thief, Thea!’

  ‘Not any more! Daniel, you would not lie to me, would you?’ She appealed to the convict, who seemed overcome. He shook his head mutely, and his lips trembled. ‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘How did you come by these objects? Who gave them to you?’

  ‘Tom Hodges,’ one of the constables supplied, and spat—just as if Dorothea were not present. She winced, and gazed up at Daniel in confusion.

  ‘Tom Hodges?’ she repeated.

  ‘From the General Hewitt,’ he said hoarsely. ‘My friend … he said they were his—’

  ‘Oh!’ She realised what it was that he was trying to tell her. ‘Oh Constable, you must understand! This man owes Tom Hodges his life! Naturally he would think well of Tom Hodges!’

  ‘Pardon me, Ma’am,’ the younger constable rejoined, ‘but that’s not fer the likes of us to judge.’

  ‘We jest follow our orders,’ his companion declared, pulling Daniel towards the house. Dorothea went after them, objecting vociferously. She trailed them inside, and down the hallway. But when they reached the front door, Charles prevented her from going any further.

  ‘Stay here,’ he barked.

  ‘I will not! This is foolish! They are arresting an innocent man!’ She tried to release herself from her husband’s grip, but was as much a captive as Daniel. Charles pushed her into the drawing room. He joined her there as Daniel was escorted into the street.

  ‘Have you no sense of decorum?’ Charles hissed. ‘Must you behave like a madwoman at every opportunity?’

  ‘How can you do this? Daniel is innocent!’

  ‘He is a thief, you fool! He had the watch in his pocket!’

  ‘He didn’t know it was stolen!’

  ‘Oh in God’s name, do you believe that?’

  ‘Yes I do! He would not lie to me!’

  Charles stepped back. He surveyed her through narrowed eyelids, his face blotched with red.

  ‘How can you be so blind?’ he gasped. ‘The man is an Irish felon!’

  ‘He is an honest soul!’

  ‘You astonish me. I cannot—’ He stopped, shaking his head. There was a strange and hostile look in his eye. ‘I wonder if you are mad.’

  ‘But you have lived with him, Charles! When has he ever given us a single reason to doubt his honesty?’ Dorothea was almost weeping. ‘You must help him! He cannot go to trial! It would be wrong! You must stop this!’

  Charles stared at her. Then he moved towards the door. She grabbed at his coat-tails, but he shook her off. ‘Promise me!’ she cried. ‘You must stop this, please!’ When she caught up with him again, at the front entrance, he gave her a push that sent her sprawling—and the shock of it silenced her.

  ‘STAY HERE!’ he shouted. The door slammed on his retreating back.

  It was some time before Dorothea could find the strength to stand. She burst into tears, and sat on the floor sobbing. At last Emily addressed her from the other
end of the hallway.

  ‘Ma’am?’ the housemaid whispered. It was a dreadful moment. Dorothea scrambled to her feet, wiping her eyes and attempting to compose herself. She was shaking. Her legs felt weak.

  ‘Please go to work.’ She had to support herself against the wall as she moved back into the drawing room. ‘I shall—I shall speak to you presently.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  Even in her confusion, Dorothea knew that she must not allow her husband’s unforgiveable conduct to cloud her reasoning. There were matters of far more importance to consider. She strove to regain a measure of self-control; she realised that she had to think, and think carefully. Daniel had to be freed. He did not belong in prison. How was she to effect his release? What means did she have at her disposal?

  Collapsing onto the sofa, she took several deep breaths. The police had arrested Daniel. She must appeal, therefore, to the Chief Constable. Or—no, not to the Chief Constable. To the Superintendent of Police.

  Dr D’Arcy Wentworth.

  She rang for Emily, then arranged her portable writing desk across her knees. It was fortunate that she had recently had occasion to sharpen all her nibs, for her hands were so unsteady that she would not have trusted herself with a penknife.

  ‘A cup of tea, if you please,’ she declared, when the maidservant entered. ‘And I shall need you to deliver a letter, shortly.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ The girl curtsied, but did not move. Dorothea looked up, frowning, and met a frightened, watery gaze. ‘Ma’am, what will they do to Daniel?’ was the question Emily put to her. ‘They’ll not ’urt ’im?’

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ Dorothea rejoined.

  ‘Did ’e steal them things, Ma’am?’

  ‘Of course not!’ Dorothea was offended. She waved the girl away. ‘Off you go, please, I must think.’

  It was difficult, however, to think coherently. She was barely acquainted with Dr Wentworth, who had cause to view the entire 46th Regiment with grave distrust. How was she to persuade him of her goodwill, and sound judgement? How was she to begin her letter? She made two aborted attempts before a hot cup of tea finally calmed her somewhat. With a firmer hand, and a more settled mind, she was able to compose a few paragraphs that did her no disservice.