The Gentleman's Garden

  ‘Very true,’ said Mr Bent.

  ‘Certainly,’ said Mr Vale.

  ‘The Governor,’ said Captain Brande, who had become quite flushed with wine, ‘thinks very little of the rest of us. He prefers emancipists to gentlemen.’

  Dorothea said nothing. She considered herself too ill informed to expound on such a topic, or indeed on any of the other topics that were raised during dinner: the commencement of the road through the mountains, for example. Later, however, when the ladies had retired, she expressed herself freely on at least one subject, and that was the failings of her maidservant. Martha, she declared, was a great disappointment. Despite all attempts to educate her, she remained sullen, dirty, careless and slow.

  ‘How very disheartening,’ said Mrs Vale, who was a small, sickly-looking woman with dark circles under her eyes. ‘Do you know, we have resided here barely two weeks, and already I have received warnings from all quarters about the untrustworthy nature of servants in New South Wales. Particularly convict servants.’

  Mrs Bent smiled. ‘Yes,’ she observed drolly, ‘people talk of nothing else here, you will find. It is the prime topic of conversation.’

  ‘But with some cause,’ Dorothea was driven to remark. ‘We have all experienced difficulties in the domestic sphere, have we not, Mrs Bent? And every crisis can be attributed to servant problems.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mrs Vale, in hopeless accents, ‘I wonder how I shall cope? I am not at all strong since the voyage, and the children do tire me so.’

  Dorothea, seeing Mrs Vale droop like a thirsty garden herb, hastened to assure her that servant problems in New South Wales were not insurmountable. Her own manservant, though Irish and a convicted thief, was perfectly capable and honest.

  ‘Irish?’ said Mrs Vale, and shuddered. ‘I would never employ an Irishman. Never.’

  ‘I understand your objections, Mrs Vale,’ Dorothea replied earnestly, ‘for I shared them once myself, but Daniel has given me no cause for displeasure. He has never once left the house without being directed to do so by me. He purchases no extra rum for his own consumption, nor troubles me with an insolent manner. In fact,’ she added, struck by a sudden thought, ‘I would say that he has been quite chastened by his unfortunate experiences.’

  ‘It might appear so,’ Mrs Bent remarked, with a yawn, ‘but do not place too much confidence in his reformation. The Irish, you know, can never be wholly trusted.’

  ‘Goodness, no,’ Mrs Vale agreed. ‘They are always plotting and scheming.’

  ‘Is he Catholic, your manservant?’ Mrs Bent inquired, and Dorothea confessed that he was, indeed. ‘Even worse,’ Mrs Bent opined. ‘Take my advice, Mrs Brande, and keep your wits about you.’

  Later, as she was returning home in the Bents’ carriage, Dorothea pondered this remark. It seemed to her that Mrs Bent, with all her experience of life in the colony, would not proffer such a warning without good reason. In laying aside her natural distrust of Daniel Callaghan, was Dorothea perhaps letting her guard down? Yet she was unaccustomed to living with servants who merited only suspicion and doubt. At Bideham, there had been no such misgivings; everyone on the estate or in the village had been known to everyone else, without exception, since childhood, and their little foibles had been trying, rather than alarming.

  It was an unforeseen hardship that Dorothea should be obliged to live warily, forever on the alert, in her own house. How could she be comfortable if that were the case?

  The next morning, Dorothea decided against raising the possibility of hiring an additional servant. Charles had consumed a little too much wine the night before, and was also put out because Dorothea, in her concern for her unborn infant, had denied him particular rights that a husband might generally expect in more favourable circumstances. Therefore, instead of speaking, she remained silent. And after a somewhat trying breakfast—during which Captain Brande rejected his eggs with unnecessary force, before departing in a huff—she went to Martha’s room, which she surveyed with a critical eye.

  It was narrow and dark. The linen press occupied a very prominent position, and could not be moved, since there was not space enough anywhere else in the house to accommodate it. Martha’s hammock was unobtrusive enough, and the soap and candles, kegs and corkscrews, boxes of blacking and medicines could be somehow inserted into the kitchen or larder. But the grubby walls, the unadorned window, the creaking door, were all unsuitable in a nursery. And even if a transformation could be effected—with whitewash, curtains, carpet and pretty things—the room would still be small, dark and crowded.

  Dorothea wondered if it would be possible to rent another house, but dismissed the thought immediately. Even if a larger one could be found that was within their means, Charles would never allow the expense of a larger house and four servants. No—she would have to make do. Wallpaper was unprocurable, so the walls would have to remain white. A great deal of muslin would soften the room’s starkness. There would be just enough space for a cradle (borrowed from Mrs Molle?) and for a very small chest of drawers. Fortunately, the room contained a fireplace. A nursery could not have been attempted without one. The fireplace had not, however, been used since their arrival, so Dorothea reminded herself (once again) to have Daniel light a fire in it. A smoking fireplace would be most injurious to the baby’s health.

  With thoughts full of calico coverlids and milk puddings, Dorothea then went to speak to Daniel about a kitchen garden. She was beginning to feel, after consulting Mrs Molle on the subject, that supplementing the regimental produce with vegetables from her own garden would improve the family’s diet immeasurably. She had seen with her own eyes, during her walk to Pitt Street, peach trees and broccoli beds. She had tasted Mrs Macquarie’s cucumbers, and Mrs Cowper’s broadbeans. So she approached Daniel, as he cleaned her bedroom grate, and said to him: ‘Daniel, I wish to start a vegetable garden. And you must work it.’

  He rose politely, his sooty hands hanging down. He had a way of watching her—almost as warily as she sometimes watched him—that annoyed her on occasion; his eyes were unreadable. Remembering Mrs Bent’s caution, she took a deep breath.

  ‘I have spoken to Mrs Molle about this,’ she continued, ‘and Mrs Molle, who is knowledgeable in such matters, tells me that certain seeds may be sown at this time, owing to the mildness of the winter, here. She says that German and Jerusalem kale, longpod and Spanish broadbean, carrots and coriander may be planted, as well as a late crop of cauliflower. To begin with, however, the ground must be prepared.’

  Listening intently, Daniel nodded. ‘Aye, Ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘Mrs Molle spoke of trenching, ridging and manuring. She said that when manure is applied, the ground should not be overdone with it. A little at a time, and often, is better than an abundance all at once.’

  Daniel’s expression shifted. ‘We’ve an abundance o’ nothin’ here, Ma’am,’ he murmured. ‘Not even slops.’

  ‘No. Quite. But come with me, Daniel. I wish to show you the place that I have chosen for the beds. The soil there must be thoroughly broken up, and turned, and turned again. It must be made rich and sweet. I shall borrow tools from the Quartermaster with which you might accomplish this. I have a notion,’ she admitted, ‘that you may find it rather stony, to begin with.’

  The plot selected by Dorothea was in a sunny but sheltered position, hard against the fence. (She had visions of runnerbeans climbing up the palings.) Daniel, upon viewing it, studied its dimensions with an inscrutable face; gently, with the toe of his shoe, he dislodged a jagged pebble from earth that had been softened, somewhat, by overnight rain. Then he said: ‘ ’Tis perilous close to the fence, Ma’am.’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘Ye’ll get nothin’ of yeer crop, if it can be reached from the road.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dorothea. She reddened. ‘Yes, of course. Then further in, perhaps. Over here.’

  ‘Aye.’ He stood gazing down at a patch of coarse grass until she began to grow irrita
ble. Obviously, he still had some objection that he was reluctant to voice.

  ‘Well?’ she snapped. ‘Have you nothing else to say?’

  ‘Ma’am,’ he began, then stopped, and hesitated, before proceeding. ‘I know only one thing about the gardens hereabouts. I had it from a man at the markets, who works a place up yonder, by the Brickfields. Chickens and ducks, he raises, as well as the cabbages and the onions.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was makin’ a great lament over the cost o’ raisin’ produce. The dirt, he said, must be brought from elsewhere. Not all the manure in the world would turn a profit on this land, without addition.’

  Daniel lowered his eyes as Dorothea stared at him. After a while, she said: ‘I see.’ Then she said, ‘Well, if new soil is what we must have, then new soil is what we shall have. Mrs Molle will know where to find it. She has promised manure from the stables, and seeds as well. If I ask her, she may very well refer me to the regimental gardeners for good soil.’

  Daniel said nothing, but inclined his head.

  ‘I shall visit Mrs Molle this afternoon, and I shall also ask Captain Brande to make urgent inquiries,’ Dorothea announced. It was beginning to rain; the wind had freshened, and she felt a droplet like a pinprick on her cheek. ‘Daniel? Do you understand? This must be accomplished quickly, in order that a summer crop might be sown.’

  ‘Aye, Ma’am.’

  ‘Very well.’ Wrapping her shawl more tightly around her, Dorothea retreated into the kitchen. Martha was out delivering books to Mrs Bent, so Dorothea gave the fire a poke, and inspected the larder. It was as she had feared. The shelves were soiled and the bottles of vinegar incorrectly placed; only the muslin-wrapped butter pats were sitting, as they should have been, in their bath of brine. Checking the bread pan, Dorothea noted that it contained a blanket of crumbs. Martha had neglected to wipe it that morning. She counted the eggs and sniffed at the meatsafe. She nudged a sack of potatoes with her foot.

  Mrs Molle had not discussed with her the propagation of potatoes. She had touched on many forms of vegetable, but not all; the humble potato had been neglected in favour of cauliflower, celery and kale. Dorothea had been shown gooseberry seeds and walnut filberts, still packed snugly in different papers, which had in turn been placed in a large bottle, well corked and sealed, and thence into a small box, padded with straw, for shipping. With enviable foresight, Mrs Molle had brought these seeds to Sydney with her. ‘If you write to your family for seeds,’ she had advised Dorothea, ‘be sure that they are correctly packed.’ Dorothea wondered if she might request seeds from Bideham. What a comfort it would be, to know that her child was eating Bideham vegetables!

  Restlessly, she returned to the house. It seemed to her that Martha had been gone for too great a length of time. And yet how much more cheerful the kitchen was without her! The comfort of the Old Parsonage, in many ways, had been founded upon the contentment of its servants; Dorothea had not realised how greatly the tone of a household might be affected by the satisfaction of every member, high and low, until presented with the glum spectacle of Martha Potts. And Daniel, too—Daniel was not cheerful. Consequently, Dorothea could not be wholly at ease in his presence. It was foolish, of course, but it was so.

  Gazing out of the drawing-room window, Dorothea saw Martha struggling with the front gate, a small pot of jam clasped to her breast. (Obviously, Mrs Bent had been making preserves, and was kindly presenting a sample to her friend.) Dorothea went to meet the damp and dirty housemaid in the kitchen, because the evening’s fare was still to be discussed. There was also, of course, the matter of Martha’s tardiness. Dorothea raised the subject immediately upon her entrance, surprising Martha so much that she simply gaped, stupidly, still clutching her jam.

  ‘Now I shall say no more about it, Martha,’ Dorothea declared, after concluding her brief but pointed lecture on the evils of wayward behaviour, ‘for I have already spoken to you once. If you should persist in these long absences, I shall tell Captain Brande, and he may do with you as he likes. You know that he has little sympathy for persons in your, ah, predicament.’ Captain Brande, in fact, was sometimes so uncivil to his servants that it caused Dorothea to wonder about his upbringing. To Jack Lynch he was genial as long as his boots were properly cleaned. Upon finding fault with the appearance of any piece of his equipment, however, Charles would set upon Private Lynch like a low-born sergeant, bawling him out as if they were on a parade ground. To the convict servants he was uniformly brusque, despite the fact that Daniel never failed to give satisfaction. The truth of the matter was, Charles abhorred convicts. He had confided once to Dorothea that they made his ‘flesh crawl’. ‘I regard them as a disgusting necessity, like—like cesspits,’ he had said. Female convicts, in particular, aroused his ire. He called them ‘abominations’, explaining to Dorothea that the vice to which they had, uniformly, been exposed was of an infectious nature; their moral energy, he said, had been irreversibly weakened. Loss of virtue in a female was always irretrievable, and one false step would inevitably tumble her down the path to endless ruin and debauchery. ‘Never allow yourself to believe otherwise,’ he had instructed Dorothea. ‘You cannot know—you have not seen—the mire from which every female felon has emerged. It has left a stain upon her that cannot be expunged. I urge you not to put too much reliance on any woman of that description, for she will only disappoint you.’

  From Captain Brande, as Martha knew full well, she could expect no lenience.

  ‘Now,’ said Dorothea, in more cheerful tones, ‘I have decided what we shall have for dinner this evening. The rest of the cabbage soup, of course, and I will show you how to stew oysters. Stewing is the best way to serve oysters unless you are absolutely sure of their quality, and they make a very nourishing invalid dish. Mrs Bent gave me some oysters last night, as you know, because Mr Bent will not allow them in the house, but I find that if they are stewed, they are unobjectionable.’

  ‘Mum—’

  ‘We will make them together before the soup is served, because they must be warmed through quite slowly, and the soup is already made.’

  ‘Yes’m.’

  ‘Then salt beef, cauliflower and cheese, and treacle pudding. The pudding may be cooked early.’ Noting a flush on Martha’s cheeks, Dorothea said: ‘What is it, Martha? Are you ill?’

  ‘No, Mum.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ The maid’s hands were trembling. Her eyes were glassy. ‘You look feverish.’

  ‘No, Mum.’ Yet even as she moved away from her mistress’s scrutiny, Martha stumbled, and dropped the jam on the floor. Dorothea uttered an exclamation of dismay.

  ‘Oh, Martha!’ she cried.

  ‘Sorry, Mum.’

  ‘What is the matter with you? Why cannot you be more careful?’

  There was no reply. Dorothea watched as her maidservant began to pick up the shattered pieces of Mrs Bent’s preserving pot. The very manner in which she accomplished this task—her plodding and dispirited demeanour—only heightened Dorothea’s irritation. She found that she had to leave the room, lest her nerves become overwrought.

  Really, she thought, how am I to bear this woman for another day, let alone another three years?

  It was a question to which she could find no answer.

  CHAPTER SIX

  TWO WEEKS LATER, DOROTHEA lost her baby.

  This unhappy event, almost too painful to contemplate, occurred very early one morning between the hours of twelve and five. Awakened by her pains, Dorothea heard a constable pass, crying the hour; she lay in terror, silently praying, until the pains grew too insistent to admit of any hope. By that time, Charles had been roused by her muffled exclamations. He took one look at her, and rang for Martha. Then he scrambled from the bed and lit a candle.

  ‘My dear,’ he said, leaning over his wife. ‘What can I do? Tell me what I can do.’ The contortion of his fine features, the fear in his eyes, touched Dorothea profoundly, despite her own pain and despair. With his dark hair hangin
g awry, and his face full of feeling, he was at his most beautiful.

  ‘Oh Charles,’ she murmured brokenly. ‘Oh Charles …’

  ‘Is it …?’

  She began to sob.

  ‘Damn that girl! Where is she?’ he exclaimed. ‘Lying abed like a sloven, I’ll warrant, in her usual fashion.’ With another forceful tug on the bellrope, he signified his displeasure. Then, after removing his nightgown, he cast about for a shirt. Jack had hung a selection of his clothes over the backs of two chairs, ready for the morning, but they were draped with linen dust-covers, and laid one over the other, and the outside of each article had been turned inwards, as was customary. So Charles cursed as he flung garments about and struggled with inverted sleeves.

  He was not accustomed to dressing himself.

  ‘Martha!’ he roared. ‘Martha!’

  With his shirt in place—though hanging open—Charles was free to don the lower part of his uniform. He must have left the room after doing this, although Dorothea did not notice his departure. A gripping pain had seized her, and only after it had subsided did she realise that she was alone. She called for him, but her voice had no strength. She prayed aloud: ‘Oh God, our Lord in heaven, please preserve my child. Please preserve my child …’ She thought: I need Margaret. She whimpered her sister’s name, then tensed with the onset of the next wrenching pang. Only after it had passed could she find the fortitude to look for blood.