The Gentleman's Garden

  Dorothea was speechless. She could say nothing—do nothing. Her stomach revolted.

  She stared at him, her hand still over her mouth.

  ‘It is beginning to rain,’ Dr Redfern observed, glancing out the window. Dorothea had not noticed. She barely understood what he was saying to her.

  After a minute, he crossed the floor and lifted her wrist between his fingers.

  ‘Stay here, Mrs Brande,’ he finally requested, a reluctant trace of softness entering his tone. ‘I shall inquire as to whether you might borrow the Governor’s carriage. The weather is very wet, and … you have had a shock, I fear.’

  So it was that Dorothea returned home in the vice-regal carriage, through the teeming rain, with a hot brick under her feet and a fine rug around her shoulders.

  EXTRACT—MEMORANDUM FOR MR D’ARCY WENTWORTH

  Government House, Sydney, September 13th, 1817

  … Further to your Duties on the Sydney Bench, I have lately been approached by Mrs Charles Brande with a Testimonial concerning one Daniel Callaghan, whose fate seems to be of Particular Concern to her.—I believe you have known me sufficiently long and well enough to require no proof of my abiding Approbation and Regard, and that you will therefore not take exception to my request that you enlighten me as to the circumstances of Callaghan’s recent Arrest.—Mrs Brande’s claims are no doubt exaggerated, but she merits some consideration at my hands if only on account of her sound Moral Principles and praiseworthy sentiments …

  … May I offer you, in addition, my earnest wish for a happy conclusion to your contest with Colonel Molle, whose Charges against you I regard as frivolous and ridiculous in the extreme.

  I remain with esteem, my dear sir,

  yours sincerely,

  L. Macquarie

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  THE JOURNEY FROM GOVERNMENT House to Clarence Street, by coach, was not a long one. It was long enough, however, to allow Dorothea sufficient time in which to draw certain conclusions. When she descended from the equipage that had been so generously placed at her disposal, and entered the house wherein her husband awaited her, she had already been transformed.

  Her look, beneath a misleading wash of tears, was steely—and her heart even more so.

  ‘Mrs Brande,’ said Charles, upon meeting her at the door. He spoke in tones of pompous gravity. Stepping back, he indicated that his wife should precede him into the drawing room. Dorothea could only conjecture, as she surveyed his rigid posture and icy expression, that he intended to present her with an exhaustive and formally worded list of her many failings.

  Fortunately, however, she had the wit to prevent him from doing so.

  ‘You killed our children,’ she said, before he had the opportunity to draw breath.

  He blinked, and his jaw sagged. ‘What?’

  ‘You killed our children,’ she repeated. ‘You contracted the pox, you gave it to me, and you killed our children.’

  To her immense and abiding satisfaction, he turned white.

  ‘Do not attempt to deny it,’ she continued, from her position of advantage. ‘I have sought a medical opinion on the matter. It is indisputable.’

  ‘You are mistaken—’

  ‘No.’

  ‘On the contrary—’

  ‘Do you deny it?’

  ‘Of course I deny it!’ His face was now suffused with hot blood. ‘This is—this is outrageous! Absurd! How dare you accuse me of such a thing, how dare you—you, of all people—’

  ‘I?’

  ‘You, Madam! You, with your filthy interest in that whoreson Irishman—’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I have eyes in my head, do you think me a fool?’

  ‘I think you a monster!’ Dorothea cried. ‘You betray me with some diseased whore, and then you defame my virtue?’

  ‘I have never betrayed you!’

  ‘Then what am I to believe? That you married me knowing that you were so affected? Despite the disease? Or because of it?’ She gasped, suddenly, and stared at him in horror. ‘Of course. I remember—you were ill. You were ill before I met you. Is that why you married me? Is it? Because you were about to depart on a long tour of duty, and were frightened to expose yourself again to the dangers of pox-ridden harlots?’

  He seized her, then, in a painful grip. He shook her, and she shrieked, and there was a most undignified scuffle. It ended when she scratched his face, by this means freeing herself from his bruising hold.

  ‘If you touch me again,’ she cried, ‘the whole world will know! I’ll tell the Molles what you did! I’ll tell them your dirty secret!’

  ‘Are you mad?’ His eyes were anguished; he held his cheek, and his complexion was mottled, and his hair was on end. ‘Do you care nothing for your reputation?’

  ‘No, I do not! Why should I? You tell me that I have none as it is!’

  ‘I will have you confined!’

  ‘And I will have you examined! By an honest doctor! By Dr Redfern, who will not try to hide the truth from me! And I will publish a notice in the Gazette!’

  ‘You are mad.’

  ‘I am nothing of the sort! I am simply disgusted! You disgust me.’ Her voice shook. She wanted to spit at his feet. ‘You have done this to me, and you offer me not one word of regret—’

  ‘You are mistaken. Someone has lied to you.’

  ‘You have lied to me! Since the day we met, you have lied!’

  ‘Who has been defaming me? Who? I demand to know!’ He took a step towards her, his fists clenched, whereupon Dorothea screamed at the top of her voice.

  ‘Emileee!’ she screeched.

  He put his hands to his head. ‘For God’s sake …!’

  ‘Emileeee!’

  ‘Shut your mouth, you fool!’

  ‘I shall tell her.’

  ‘What?’ His expression was so appalled that it was almost laughable.

  ‘I shall tell her the truth,’ Dorothea panted, ‘if you do not leave this house at once.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Go to the barracks. Go where you will. You may return tomorrow, but I shall not sleep in your bed again.’ Her speech became more rapid and more shrill. ‘I will return to England. You may say that my health will not survive Madras. You may say what you like—I will not accompany you. I have no love for you. You are a boorish, ill-bred, unreasonable, insensitive man, and it is fortunate that we have been given this opportunity to part without incurring too much indelicate speculation.’

  There was a knock on the door. Dorothea glared at Charles. Charles stared at her. His appearance was enough to warrant inquiries about his health. He looked pale, dishevelled and wild-eyed, like a man recently emerged from a bout of the most debilitating and painful illness.

  ‘You—you want to return to England?’ he stammered.

  ‘I shall return to England.’

  ‘Do you know how much that will cost?’

  Another knock—louder, this time. ‘Ma’am?’ said Emily, from behind the door.

  ‘One moment, Emily!’ Dorothea replied, and fixed her husband with an eye devoid of reassurance or affection. He seemed to shrink before it.

  ‘Very—very well,’ he said huskily. ‘I shall sleep at the barracks.’

  ‘Good.’ It occurred to Dorothea, as it had never occurred to her before, that her husband was not, perhaps, the most courageous of men. She noted the thought without much interest, as she bade Emily to return to the kitchen. The housemaid was not required, at present.

  ‘But I suggest, Madam, that you are not well,’ Charles continued, with a break in his voice after Emily had departed. ‘I suggest that you are suffering from fever of the brain, and that you should consult a doctor.’

  ‘I have consulted a doctor,’ his wife retorted. ‘That, Sir, is where your difficulties lie.’

  He regarded her for a moment, narrow-eyed. ‘Redfern,’ he declared at last, in truly venomous accents. ‘This is Redfern’s work.’

  ‘I warn you, Sir—if you
set Captain Sanderson onto him, I shall be testifying against you in court.’

  ‘You are … good God, you are unspeakable. I am ashamed that you bear my name.’

  ‘No more than I am.’

  He appeared to be at a loss, for while his mouth flapped, no sound emerged. Then he turned on his heel—almost staggering—and made as if to depart. But when he reached the threshold, he paused. He swung around to face her.

  ‘I hope you understand what people will think of you, if you proceed in this manner,’ he hissed, and left the room.

  Dorothea did not succumb to tears upon his departure. Instead she felt triumphant, invigorated, and filled with a heady but quite unwholesome rage. She immediately went to her bedroom, where she began to make a collection of personal belongings. These included four silk handkerchiefs, a net handkerchief, a pair of fine leather gloves, two pairs of shoe roses, a pair of silk stockings, a pair of cotton stockings, a gauze muslin veil, a handworked reticule, five silk ribbons, three large white feathers (for evening wear), a bottle of Hungary water, a set of hardened and clarified quills, a set of darning needles, a roll of cotton tape, three pearl buttons, a pair of pearl earrings, a silver chain, a point-lace fichu, a sarcenet slip, one printed cotton morning gown, one plain Indian muslin skirt, and one embroidered muslin gown from Heading, Ashby, Allsop and Co., of Pall Mall.

  Having gathered these items into a large, drugget bundle—which was placed under the bed—she went to the kitchen, where she requested from Emily a bit of tongue and pudding, washed down by several cups of tea. She informed the girl that Charles would not be dining in the house that evening. Though he would doubtless return on the morrow, she added breezily, he would not be requiring breakfast. Emily looked askance, but said nothing. Her manner had become very timid of late.

  Daniel’s arrest had shaken her a good deal.

  ‘If you happen to hear Captain Brande knocking on the door, at any time during the night,’ Dorothea added, with a kind of fierce enjoyment, ‘kindly do not admit him. I shall deal with the matter myself.’

  Emily rolled her eyes nervously. ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘If you will attend me now, Emily, I shall retire forthwith. Tomorrow is going to be a very taxing day.’

  Despite these brave words, Dorothea did not expect that her night’s rest would refresh her. Indeed, she scarcely expected to sleep at all. She was consequently very much surprised when, after burrowing into her bed at half-past nine, she woke the next morning at six o’clock, having slept the night through. She was excessively pleased with herself for this accomplishment. It argued a strength of mind that she had not anticipated.

  She made a good breakfast of cured ham and eggs before setting off, on the stroke of eight, for George Street, taking with her the drugget bundle and her housemaid (who was required to carry the bundle). It was a fine morning, sunny and fresh. The previous night’s rain had washed much of the filth from the streets, and the obnoxious odours from the air. It had also left the footpaths very muddy. With a sigh for her padded hems, Dorothea resigned herself to a dirty walk, grateful that she would not be going to Government House again. Peg Whiting’s public house was much closer—not far from Charlotte Place. By crossing the churchyard of St Philip’s, Dorothea would be forced to endure very little in the way of discommoding traffic, for the Captain’s Inn stood near the George Street guardhouse.

  It was a mean little cottage of brick and shingle. A painted sign at the front of it showed a seaman in gold epaulettes and a cocked hat, hoisting a black bottle. The name ‘Whiting’ was inscribed on its walls in large, black letters. Its garden, behind a rickety paling fence, had a scrubby, sandy appearance. Its windows were shuttered.

  When Dorothea stopped in front of it, Emily looked at her in astonishment.

  ‘Ma’am?’ she said.

  ‘Wait here,’ Dorothea replied. ‘I must speak to someone.’ Then, taking the bundle from her maidservant, she swallowed, and passed through the open door of the establishment.

  She found herself in a large, low room containing a big open fireplace and two long tables. A knife was chained to each table, and two small, black oil lamps provided illumination. The air smelled of woodsmoke, tobacco smoke and beer. Hardwood benches lined the walls. Something was boiling in a pot over the fire.

  A harassed-looking woman, of about Dorothea’s age, shuffled across the beaten-earth floor to greet her new guest. Already the benches were partly occupied; two elderly men of bedraggled appearance were conversing in low voices, as they ate bread and cheese and drank from thick-based tumblers. Another woman sat morosely in a corner, holding a half-empty wine glass.

  Dorothea shrank back at the sight of these people.

  ‘Can I ’elp you?’ the harassed-looking woman inquired. Dorothea recognised her from Rose’s funeral. She was Peg Whiting’s daughter.

  The woman frowned suddenly, and said: ‘Ain’t you Mrs Brande?’

  ‘Yes. Yes, I am. May I speak to Peg, please?’

  ‘To Ma? Yes’m—directly. Ma!’ A piercing yelp. ‘Come out ’ere, there’s comp’ny!’ She offered up a watery, pitiable smile. ‘She’s in back—in the bedroom. Will you sit down, Mrs Brande?’

  ‘I—thank you, no.’ Dorothea had noted with a wince the greasy patina of the benches. ‘I shall stand, if I may.’

  ‘Cup o’ tea?’

  ‘No, thank you.’

  ‘ ’Ere she is.’ Peg had emerged from a door near the fireplace. She was frowning, and wiping her hands on her apron. A small child clung to her skirts. ‘Look, Ma—hit’s Mrs Brande!’ her daughter announced, unnecessarily.

  By this time the room’s other inhabitants were watching Dorothea with great interest, and had no doubt committed her name to memory. Seeing this, Peg shook off the small child, and approached Dorothea with a protective air. She said: ‘You shouldn’t be in ’ere, Madam—we’ll take a turn outside, shall we?’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘We’ll talk outside.’

  It was a great relief to Dorothea when they emerged from the house. She allowed herself to be led around the back of it, where a kitchen garden had been scratched out of the dry soil and wet washing had been draped over the fence. A dog tied to a post watched them narrowly. A black-and-white native bird ambled between scattered nut-shells.

  ‘What brings you ’ere, Mrs Brande?’ Peg wanted to know. ‘You’re looking right poorly, if I may say so.’

  ‘I wish to sell a few things,’ Dorothea said abruptly. With some effort, she lifted her bundle. ‘Clothes and jewellery. Needles. Items of that sort.’ Despite having resolved not to allow herself to feel embarrassed, Dorothea coloured as Peg Whiting blinked. ‘I came to you for assistance because I have not the least idea how I might go about it. I thought you might help.’

  ‘Well, and why not?’ Peg declared, with ready sympathy. ‘Would you be wanting currency, Mrs Brande, or rum in payment?’

  ‘Oh!’ Dorothea had not given the matter any consideration. ‘I should think—well, I had hoped for sterling …’

  ‘Is that so?’ Peg made a pensive face. ‘Then I fear you’ll be getting less of it, Madam—’

  ‘Currency, then. Whatever I may. Do you know of anyone who might purchase these things?’

  ‘I do. I do hindeed. Is it a pawnshop you’re a-wanting, or a dealer?’

  Dorothea recoiled from the very word pawnshop. Lowering her voice, she assured Peg that she did not intend to buy the articles back. ‘I shall be leaving the colony, soon,’ she explained, in flustered accents, ‘and have an immediate need for money.’

  ‘A dealer, then. I know one or two as would give you a fair price.’

  ‘Indeed? Who are they?’

  ‘Well, now …’ Peg pursed her lips, and wrinkled her nose, and rubbed her ear. ‘When I say as ’ow they’d give you a fair price, Madam, they’d not give it directly. If they saw you, you’d lose a quarter the value. Best leave it to me.’

  Dorothea stared in confusion.

&n
bsp; ‘I’ll not cheat you, Mrs Brande,’ Peg continued soberly. ‘I swear on me life. You ain’t never done me a hill turn, and I’ll never forget as ’ow you paid your respects to poor Rose. Give ’em to me, Ma’am, and I’ll see it won’t cost you a penny. You’ll ’ave the money by tomorrow noon.’

  Dorothea hesitated, but not for long. She realised that Peg was more worthy of her trust than a strange ‘dealer’, whose vulgar curiosity was bound to be mortifying—far more so than Peg’s—and whose place of business might prove to lie somewhere in the very heart of the Rocks, among the most coarse and villainous of its inhabitants.

  So she surrendered her bundle to Peg, extracting from her a promise that the sum raised by this proposed sale would be delivered by Peg herself, to the Brandes’ house, as soon as it was paid over.

  Then she and Emily went to the gaol, to visit Daniel.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  THE GAOL WAS A large, stone structure surrounded by a high, stone wall. It lay between George and Harrington streets; to reach it, Dorothea was obliged to penetrate more deeply into the infamous region of the Rocks than she ever had before. She was therefore much relieved when she and Emily encountered no corpses, flying bottles or leering, drunken seamen. On the contrary, they passed a good many females engaged in domestic occupations (bearing baskets of food or clothes, for example), together with a number of stray beasts and hordes of children. They saw very few convicts dressed in Government slops, and no sailors at all.

  When they reached the gaol, Dorothea was surprised at the ease with which they gained admittance.

  Upon giving their names to the constable at the gate (a man of hideous appearance, who had lost most of his nose), Dorothea and Emily were immediately invited to enter. They were then required to wait in a kind of brick gatehouse, for approximately fifteen minutes, under the kindly eye of one Constable Chandler. While his noseless companion went off to consult the gaoler on Dorothea’s behalf, the genial Constable Chandler entertained them with snippets of gossip concerning the gaol and its inmates. He informed them that a man was expected to hang that afternoon, and that Constable Phelan had had his nose chewed off by a pig, while lying drunk in his own garden.