The Gentleman's Garden

  ‘I did,’ the Governor conceded. ‘And your feelings do ye credit, Mrs Brande. But what is it that ye want from me?’

  For a moment Dorothea was at a loss. She cast around, her gaze sweeping the walls, the ceiling, the carpet, in a quest for inspiration. At last she said: ‘I want Daniel out of gaol.’

  ‘Has he been arrested? By the constabulary?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘On Dr Wentworth’s order?’

  ‘Yes. But Dr Wentworth is not being at all helpful.’

  The Governor had been sitting very still. Upon Dorothea’s uttering this complaint, however, he moved, placing one elbow on the arm of his chair and putting a knuckle to his bottom lip.

  ‘Dr Wentworth,’ he rumbled, ‘is a canny gentleman, Mrs Brande. If he declines to help, there must be a good reason.’

  ‘Oh yes. It is because Colonel Molle is trying to have him court-martialled.’ Dorothea drooped in her chair. ‘Naturally he feels disinclined to help anyone associated with the Regiment.’

  The corner of His Excellency’s mouth twitched.

  ‘Ye’ve no’ a very gude opinion of Dr Wentworth,’ he said.

  ‘Oh, but I have, Sir! I think him a most respectable and judicious person! It is only that Colonel Molle is being so unreasonable—and of course my husband supports Colonel Molle—’

  ‘Does he support your own position, Mrs Brande?’

  Startled, Dorothea stared at the Governor for an instant, before dropping her gaze. She began to smooth her skirts over her knees.

  ‘My husband would not approve of my being here,’ she mumbled, wondering if this confession might win her the sympathy that she desired. ‘He is very exclusive.’

  ‘So I have been led to believe,’ the Governor said drily.

  ‘It was his notion entirely to refuse your invitations, Sir!’ Dorothea blurted out. ‘I would have accepted them with gratitude—indeed I would!’

  ‘I am not offended, Mrs Brande.’

  ‘Please will you help Daniel? Can you not have him pardoned, or—or something of that sort? He is innocent, I swear to you!’

  ‘Unfortunately, Mrs Brande, it is not as easy as that—for all ye might have heard to the contrary.’ Again the Governor’s chair creaked, as he shifted and sighed. ‘But I shall luke into the matter.’

  ‘You will? Oh, thank you! Thank you!’ Dorothea’s voice was unsteady. She felt extravagantly grateful. ‘You are such a good man, Sir!’

  ‘I cannae promise a happy result, mind. Dr Wentworth is as reliable a man as ever I knew.’

  ‘Of course. But he is one of the magistrates who will judge Daniel. As is your secretary, Mr John Campbell, Sir. Perhaps, if you were to speak to them, they would know how ill founded are the charges against Daniel.’

  At this, the Governor smiled, showing his very bad teeth.

  ‘Mrs Brande,’ he protested (though in amiable accents), ‘I can see ye’ve been spending your time here in the company of Mr Jeffery Bent and his ilk. Clearly ye’re of the opinion that the colonial magistracy has been deprived of its independence. I must assure you, Madam, that this is not the case.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dorothea, a little lost.

  ‘But I shall certainly convey your sentiments on the matter.’ His Excellency rose, then, with a grunt and a grimace—obliging Dorothea to rise also. ‘Ye must excuse me, Mrs Brande,’ he continued, ‘but I am expecting another visitor. Is there any other way in which I might assist ye?’

  ‘No, Sir,’ Dorothea replied, softly.

  ‘And the fellow’s name is Callaghan?’

  ‘Daniel Callaghan.’

  ‘I shall make a note of it.’ Much to Dorothea’s surprise, the Governor conducted her, in person, to the door of his office, which he opened with a slightly awkward flourish. She curtsied, and prepared to take her leave. But before she could thank him again for his time, he looked down at her and said: ‘Ye’ll be leaving for Madras, soon, will ye not, Mrs Brande?’

  ‘Yes, Sir.’

  ‘And will ye be taking many pleasant memories with ye, may I ask?’

  Dorothea hesitated. His expression was impenetrable. ‘Not many, Sir,’ she admitted. ‘I have not been very happy here.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘It is a cruel place, you see. In—in many ways.’

  ‘It is. I agree. But I have been endeavouring to make it less so.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. That is why my—one of my more pleasant memories will be that of your own kindness. Your Excellency.’

  He bowed.

  ‘I just …’ she continued, and hesitated. ‘Please, Sir,’ she said, ‘I do not want him flogged. That is all. Thank you, Sir.’

  Another bow. Then she was delivered into the care of Sergeant Whalan, who had been sitting in the hall. He escorted her to the front entrance, and they emerged from the house just as a neat, blunt-featured, weathered-looking man was approaching it. He carried a leather bag, and was attired in sober colours.

  He paused—with his foot on the lowest stair—when he saw Sergeant Whalan.

  ‘Dr Redfern,’ the sergeant observed. ‘His Excellency is expecting you, Sir. In his office.’

  A nod was the only response to this statement. Dr Redfern tipped his hat as he edged past Dorothea, his eyes downcast. She watched him cross the verandah, and disappear into the house. Beside her, Sergeant Whalan was surveying the sky with the slightly detached interest that seemed to be characteristic of him.

  ‘Looks to be a storm coming,’ he remarked. ‘You had best hurry home, Ma’am.’

  But Dorothea’s mind was on other matters.

  ‘That was Dr Redfern,’ she said.

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Might I—might I have a word with Dr Redfern, Sergeant?’

  He looked at her.

  ‘That is to say—might I wait for him? In the parlour? Now?’ she stammered. ‘I would not be very long.’

  The sergeant lifted his eyebrows. ‘I shall have to inquire, Ma’am,’ he responded.

  ‘I should be very grateful.’

  ‘Perhaps you would care to wait by the door, here?’

  She did, while he went to make inquiries. She saw him disappear into the shadows (for the light, both outside and in, was very dim by now); she heard his receding footsteps, and the tap of his knuckles on wood. Then there was a long silence until he returned, his tread heavy on the geometrically patterned, black-and-white canvas carpet.

  ‘If you would wait in the parlour, Mrs Brande,’ he announced, ‘Dr Redfern will be with you presently.’

  Dorothea had seized the moment almost without thinking. Now she retired into the parlour nursing serious doubts. Perhaps she had been unwise. She carried not a single penny of currency or sterling—would Dr Redfern require payment? She was a guest in a strange house—would he insist on examining her, and take offence if she refused?

  She had thought, upon seeing him, that this was an opportunity never to be repeated. She had felt that, having so blatantly flouted her husband by visiting the Governor, she might just as well commit a further outrage and consult an emancipist physician. But had she perhaps been incautious—even foolhardy? Would she come to regret this impetuous decision?

  Only the knowledge that she could not, now, escape with dignity kept her sitting in the parlour, nervously playing with the ribbons on her bonnet (which had not yet been restored to her head). Outside, the wind was freshening. Treetops swayed, and the gloom grew even more oppressive. Dorothea wondered, with dismay, how she was ever to reach home before the rain commenced. She considered the prospect of her return to that modest abode, and to her husband, and to her husband’s dinner, and her heart sank.

  She thought of Daniel, in a dark, damp cell. If only the Governor had met him! No one of the Governor’s acuity, upon meeting Daniel, could fail to perceive his rectitude.

  She was dwelling with a kind of dolorous affection on Daniel’s many admirable qualities when there was a tap on the parlour door, and it opened to admit Dr Redfern.


  ‘My word,’ he said brusquely, ‘it is as black as a dungeon in here.’ Turning, he raised his voice. ‘Sergeant! Could I trouble you for a light, man? Thank you.’ Again he fixed Dorothea with a pale, piercing gaze. ‘Mrs Brande, I believe?’

  ‘Yes, Sir,’ said Dorothea, rising.

  ‘You wish to speak to me?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Concerning what, if you please?’

  ‘Concerning my health, Doctor.’

  ‘I might be approached at any time, Mrs Brande. At the hospital. At my house. At your own.’ Although his manner of expression was without grace, it also possessed a vigour—an intensity—that spoke of a boundless and enduring interest in everything that passed before him. ‘This is a curious time and a curious place to make inquiries of me.’

  ‘Sir, it is the only time, and the only place, that I have,’ said Dorothea. ‘My husband, Captain Brande, labours under a very ill-judged prejudice.’ She took a deep breath. ‘You will forgive my mentioning such a thing, but it prevents me from, from—’

  ‘Inviting me into your home,’ Dr Redfern finished grimly. Accepting a lighted candle from Sergeant Whalan, he entered the room and closed the door behind him. Then he dropped his bag and hat onto the floor, placed the candle on a small, square sideboard, and laid his folded arms along the back of a chair.

  In dry, brisk, no-nonsense tones, he asked: ‘What appears to be troubling you, Mrs Brande?’

  Dorothea sat down. Her mouth was dry. She had to swallow and lick her lips before replying.

  ‘I cannot carry a child to full term,’ she croaked.

  He waited.

  ‘I have miscarried four times in as many years. Surgeon Forster is of the opinion that I am delicate, but I have wondered …’ She paused. ‘I have wondered if this colony is to blame,’ she continued falteringly. ‘Perhaps poisonous vapours, or—or some form of abiding ague. My husband is often ill. I have headaches—’

  ‘Begin at the beginning,’ Dr Redfern interrupted, still leaning on the back of the chair. ‘When did the first miscarriage occur?’

  ‘On board the General Hewitt. I was married barely three months before. But I was ill at the time—during the voyage—so I attributed my loss to the illness, and the—the—’

  ‘The conditions on board,’ Dr Redfern finished. ‘I am familiar with that particular voyage. What form did this illness take?’

  ‘A fever. My husband was stricken first. I recovered well enough, and he did too, though … well, he has been ill since. A recurring problem.’

  ‘Of what nature?’

  Dorothea put her hand to her brow. He fired questions at her as he might have fired shot, and she was a little overcome.

  ‘Ah, a sore throat. Costiveness. Debility. But Surgeon Forster has been treating him with mercury pills, and they seem to—’

  ‘Mercury pills?’ Dr Redfern interjected. Looking up, Dorothea saw him narrow his eyes.

  ‘Why, yes …’ she stammered.

  ‘Anything else? Nitric acid? Sarsaparilla? Mercurial ointment?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Besides the sore throat and costiveness, have you noticed any other symptoms? Any rashes? Any irrational or unreasonable outbursts, or souring of the temper?’

  ‘Why—why yes. He has become very moody—’

  ‘Have you suffered a sore throat yourself, Mrs Brande?’

  ‘Well … no.’

  ‘No illness of any sort?’

  ‘Only a cold, now and then. And the headaches, of course, but they might very well be caused by the glare hereabouts.’

  ‘Before your feverish spell aboard the General Hewitt, Mrs Brande, did you notice any other symptoms?’ As she cast her mind back, rather dazedly, he pressed her. ‘Did you notice a rash? A chancre or ulcerous lesion of some kind?’

  Dorothea blinked. Then a faint memory surfaced, a memory that she had been eager to suppress. A memory of voluntary seclusion. ‘The diet on board ship was very poor,’ she replied, in flustered accents. ‘I was not eating well, because of my seasickness and general debility. For that reason my skin was somewhat affected—’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘It was only one sore. Beside my mouth …’

  Dr Redfern uttered a short, explosive sigh. Abruptly he moved from behind the chair, and cast himself into it. Putting his hands together, he regarded her over them.

  Seeing him at close quarters, Dorothea realised that he was not as old as she had reckoned. No more than forty—possibly younger than that. His worn appearance and receding hairline had misled her.

  ‘Mrs Brande,’ he said at last, ‘if I were to examine you, I might be better placed to offer you a diagnosis. But from what you have told me … well, Madam, I can hazard a guess.’ As she looked at him blankly he cocked his head, and scratched his nose, and grimaced. ‘Mercury pills,’ he went on, ‘are an accepted cure for a complaint known as lues venerea. Or, in more common usage, the pox.’ He waited, but received no reply. Dorothea was knitting her brows. The pox? Which pox? Dr Redfern sighed again. ‘Are you not familiar with this condition, Mrs Brande?’ he asked.

  ‘I—I think I have heard mention of it.’ In connection with some vulgar and unlovely circumstance, she was sure.

  ‘Perhaps you have encountered it in literature,’ said Dr Redfern. ‘An Italian fellow wrote a poem about it. Called it syphilis. No? Well, it has many names, and many manifestations.’ He began to examine his fingernails. ‘It is an unfortunate complaint, Mrs Brande, because often, I have noticed, those women afflicted with it experience some difficulty in carrying a child to full term.’

  There was a long silence. While Dorothea attempted to collect her scattered wits, Dr Redfern studied her intently. After a while, he said: ‘I can offer you no treatment for this particular problem, but I have known time to work a cure. More than one woman of my acquaintance, in your situation, has borne a healthy child after many failures. You should not lose hope.’

  ‘But …’ Dorothea struggled to form a coherent sentence. ‘Do you mean that I have contracted this … this complaint?’

  ‘It seems highly probable.’

  ‘From what source?’

  Dr Redfern lifted an eyebrow.

  ‘Why—I would assume from your husband, Mrs Brande.’

  ‘Then he is afflicted?’

  ‘I would say without question.’

  ‘Then why did he not tell me?’

  At this, Dr Redfern averted his eyes. He made a pensive face, and tugged at one ear. ‘As to that, Madam, I cannot venture to speculate,’ he rejoined, flatly.

  ‘Would he know? Would Surgeon Forster have told him?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘The pox,’ Dorothea muttered. ‘I cannot … I have had no pocks, Sir. No pockmarks. Will I be compelled to take a mercury cure?’

  ‘Time will tell us that, Mrs Brande. At present, you have no symptoms to treat. Perhaps none will manifest themselves. Certainly not pocks, as such.’

  ‘It was the ship,’ Dorothea said bitterly. She was aware of a mounting sense of anger and despair. ‘That ship—I knew it was unhealthy. No doubt my husband contracted his complaint from the convicts.’

  ‘I think not, Madam.’

  ‘Oh, but it must have been then. You cannot conceive of how wretched the conditions were! How unwholesome the air, and tainted the food!’

  ‘On the contrary, Mrs Brande, I am very well aware of what you must have suffered.’ Dr Redfern spoke almost roughly, as he folded his arms. ‘You may not recall that I was asked by the Governor to hold a medical investigation into conditions aboard the Surry, General Hewitt and Three Bees. I assure you, my inquiries were very thorough.’

  ‘Then how can you say that the mischief was not done then? By the convicts?’ In the heat of her passion, Dorothea had forgotten that Dr Redfern himself had once been a convict. She was only reminded of this circumstance after he had sat for a while, observing her with a bright, hard gaze and tapping his chin with two fingers.
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  ‘Not—not that I am in any way accusing them,’ she mumbled, her voice unsteady. ‘Of course I am not unreasonable.’

  ‘Mrs Brande,’ Dr Redfern said abruptly, ‘you are not my patient, but then neither is Captain Brande. You strike me as an intelligent woman. It has always astonished and troubled me that so many women of your age are ignorant about matters that have a serious bearing on their health. So I shall tell you what I think, Mrs Brande, because you have asked me for my advice in good faith, and you may draw your own conclusions.’ His fingers ceased to move. ‘In my opinion,’ he declared, watching her face, ‘it is highly unlikely that the convicts aboard the General Hewitt were responsible for working the “mischief”, as you call it—because none of those convicts was a woman.’ A sharp look. ‘I hope that you understand me, Mrs Brande.’

  At first, Dorothea did not. Then she uttered a squeak, or bleat, which she stifled behind her hand.

  ‘Forgive me, but it is not an uncommon predicament.’ Dr Redfern suddenly shot to his feet. ‘I think it very probable, from what you tell me, that the disease was contracted before your marriage, since the union took place only a couple of months before the voyage. And that is all I shall volunteer on the subject, Mrs Brande. If I were treating you both, I might be able to offer you more insight into your condition, but it hardly seems likely. As I said, I can provide you with no useful treatment, at present, and certainly not without an examination.’ He retrieved his hat and his bag, before turning back to Dorothea. ‘Is there anything more that I might help you with?’ he concluded, curtly.