Sara Dane

by Catherine Gaskin

  ‘Why, certainly.’ Sara moved past him, towards the shelves. ‘I have one here from China ‒ a lovely thing.’ She selected a box, and turned to him again. ‘I’m so glad that you have asked to see it, Major. I always hoped that someone with taste and discrimination would buy it.’

  ‘Er … quite!’

  She carried the box back to the desk, opening it and spreading the embroidered silk before him, letting the sun play on it, letting him take his time feeling and examining it. It was like spreading out the East under his hands, and for a time they were both silent.

  Then, as Foveaux considered it, Sara said quietly, ‘What news of the Speedy, Major?’

  She spoke of the vessel which had dropped anchor in the harbour the previous morning. As always, the interest of the whole colony had centred upon the ship’s arrival ‒ the passengers and cargo, letters from home, and news of the war. In Sydney, with the mail and dispatches still on board, twenty-four hours was still not too short a time to start the ball of gossip rolling.

  ‘The news, Mrs. Maclay?’ Foveaux turned to her with the trace of a smile that might well have been malicious. ‘There’s no news that we haven’t all been expecting for some time past. But the manner of its arrival is ‒ well ‒ abrupt. The Speedy brought out, among her passengers, Philip Gidley King, who, you probably remember, was Governor Phillip’s lieutenant, and commander at Norfolk Island. It’s now definitely known that the dispatches Mr. King presented at Government House this morning carried the Duke of Portland’s appointment of him as the next Governor!’

  Sara’s brows lifted, but she did not speak.

  ‘Hunter has been ordered to return to England in the first possible ship,’ Foveaux said.

  Sara glanced warningly across her shoulder. A small group of men were sauntering in from the street.

  She said, in a low voice, ‘Then they’re well aware at home of what has been going on here? The Colonial Secretary knows that Hunter has failed to carry out his instructions?’

  ‘Obviously.’ Foveaux’s voice was also low. They were both quite certain of their own part in the machine that had wrecked Hunter ‒ they represented the money-making circle he had not been able to break.

  ‘It’s an attempt, then, to tighten control.’ This, from Sara, was a softly emphatic statement.

  ‘It may be ‒ but they’ll soon find out that it will take more than a new Governor to do that. No Governor on earth will stop us trading as we wish to. After all, it’s we who bear the risks ‒ we produce almost all the food of the colony ‒ it’s our money that brings in the few commodities to make life supportable. Things like this …’ He flicked the shawl, and the silk rose gracefully in the air. ‘What is the price, might I ask, Mrs. Maclay?’

  Sara told him gently.

  His eyebrows shot up. He let the silken fringe slip from his fingers. ‘That’s a great deal of money, ma’am.’

  She gave him a provoking half-smile. ‘It cost my husband a great deal also, Major Foveaux. And then, look …’ She ran the length of the shawl through her hands. ‘There’s not a trace of sea-water on it. So few of these beautiful things arrive here unstained’ ‒ she looked at him fully ‒ ‘that the price of those that survive is necessarily high.’

  Suddenly, with a flash of exotic colours, she flung it about her shoulders. ‘You see, Major, it’s quite perfect.’

  ‘I do indeed see, ma’am. But the wearer enhances it beyond all that’s fair.’

  Sara accepted the compliment smilingly, but unmoved. After four years of such compliments, she was able to judge their commercial value to within a hairbreadth. She reluctantly let the shawl slip from her shoulders.

  ‘In a way, I hate to let it go. Any woman would lose her heart to it.’ She gave a faintly audible sigh. ‘Shall I have it wrapped for you, Major?’

  ‘Er …’ He capitulated before her enquiring gaze. ‘Er … yes, if you please.’

  ‘I’m sure that it will …’ Sara paused here. Major Foveaux had not mentioned the lady for whom the shawl was intended, and she had long ago learned that, in business, the customer’s private affairs were best left to himself. ‘I’m sure you won’t regret it,’ she finished.

  ‘I hope not, Mrs. Maclay,’ he answered, a little unhappily, watching anxiously as she handed it over to Clapmore for wrapping. It had cost a good deal more than he had expected.

  She turned to him again. ‘Is there anything else I could show you, Major? I have some ribbons … And I’ve quite exquisite lace …’

  ‘No,’ he replied hastily. ‘Nothing more in that line. But I’ve a list of provisions.’ He fumbled in his pocket and drew out a slip of paper. ‘My housekeeper tells me that my stocks of provisions are low ‒ which is nonsense. I bought enough of the last cargo to feed an army, but it’s quite unaccountably used up. These convict house-women, they have the run of everything ‒ they’ve stolen my stocks, of course, and probably traded them for rum. But there’s little I can do about it. I can’t stand to see a woman flogged … I suppose I could send them packing and try others ‒ but, then, they’d more than likely be twice as bad.’

  While he talked, Sara had taken the list from his hand, noting with surprise the quantities he had marked.

  ‘This is a large order, Major ‒ with tea at six shillings a pound, and sugar at four shillings.’

  He frowned. ‘As much as that?’

  She regarded him calmly. ‘Surely you are not unaware of the prices, Major? After all, you buy your own share of the cargoes, and then help to fix the prices at which they will be re-sold. You also know that my husband is not permitted to under-cut.’

  ‘Well …’ Foveaux shrugged. ‘I’m in the unhappy position of being unable to do without these things, whatever the cost. I can’t give my guests too bad an impression of the colony in the beginning. They’ll know it all soon enough, won’t they, Mrs. Maclay?’ He gave a low, quiet laugh, as if this were a joke only they themselves shared.

  She smiled demurely, seating herself at the desk. ‘Then you have friends among the new arrivals in the Speedy, Major?’

  ‘Hardly friends, yet, dear lady. Captain Barwell and I met only briefly in London some years ago. He wrote that he was coming here ‒ and of course I was delighted to offer him and his wife hospitality until they can make their own arrangements. Barwell was wounded in the fighting in Holland and seems to be unfit for further active service. He exchanged his last commission for one with the Corps.’

  Sara sat still, looking up at him. A chilled sense of wonder had fallen on her; the sun still lay across her shoulders, yet she was cold. At the sound of the name on Foveaux’s dry lips, a sense of fear, close to panic, possessed her. She put the hand that held the list firmly on the desk to control its trembling.

  ‘Barwell?’ she repeated weakly. ‘Did you say Barwell?’

  ‘Why, yes ‒ Richard Barwell. Is it possible you know him?’

  She groped wildly in her mind for some of the caution the past years had taught her. But it was suddenly gone. In an instant she was like two women ‒ the one rigidly schooled in discipline and discretion, guarding her tongue and her actions from the gossip-hungry colony, keeping the name of Richard Barwell for ever shut away in the secret places of her heart; the other was the girl she once had been, the impetuous girl who ran away from the Bramfield Rectory because of her love for Richard. Now she must sit and listen to herself wrecking the discretion and the long silence, spilling out a claim to having once known Richard. She knew she could not stop herself; it was not possible for her to let Foveaux go without finding out the truth.

  ‘Barwell ‒ from Kent?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, I believe he and his wife are both from Kent. She is the daughter of Sir Geoffrey Watson. Perhaps you know …?’

  ‘I once knew … of both families,’ was all she would say.

  ‘Oh ‒ I see.’

  The Major made no further comment. There was an unwritten law in the colony ‒ gaining strength each year with the increasing numb
ers of convicts whose term of sentence had ended, and who were then entitled to call themselves free men ‒ that the past was never to be spoken of, never to be questioned. A man’s past might be guessed at, and spoken of behind his back ‒ but never to his face. This rule was applied to Mrs. Maclay in a special degree; she was the wife of the most prosperous of the free settlers, and still, as an ex-convict, she was not received by the women of her own standing. It created a delicate problem when her past returned to her in such a tangible fashion. It was implied, in the pause that fell between them, that he was not welcome to inquire into the circumstances in which she had known Richard Barwell and his wife.

  Her eyes moved, first to the paper in her hand, then back to Foveaux’s face.

  ‘I would be obliged if you would not mention this discussion to Captain Barwell, Major.’ She knew she threw this sop of discretion to her own outraged sense of propriety; this was the gesture of the foolish girl to the wiser woman.

  ‘Of course, ma’am ‒ just as you wish.’

  Sara acknowledged his half-bow with a slight nod. Until this moment she had always regarded Foveaux as a rather tiresome, amiable fool. Now, as she looked at him, she saw that his eyes were kindly, and that he was perplexed. Perhaps, she thought, he would keep his knowledge of her acquaintance with Richard Barwell to himself. She wished that, instead of standing there with his air of helpless wonder, he would go.

  ‘Could you have the provisions sent as soon as possible, Mrs. Maclay?’ he asked.

  ‘Immediately, Major.’

  He saluted her, and left. He walked with the quick, eager step of a man glad to be on his way.

  Sara sat there for a long time, the list lying unattended beside her. Her mind did not yet play with the reason for Richard’s coming ‒ why he was here, how long he would stay. All that would come to her later, in the hours of wondering and thinking. The only thing that she could clearly grasp was the fact of his coming, unwished and unbidden. He had come back where she did not want him. Sitting so still in the warm sun, with the everyday noises of the store about her, with Boney clawing at the cage practically above her head, she began to question herself about her feelings for Richard since the day she had married Andrew. Her questioning laid open the fact that Richard had been in her thoughts often in the early days of her marriage, and always there with a sense of soreness and grieving; and then he was with her less frequently as Andrew had learned to match all the desires of her heart and body, and as her children had taken her thoughts for themselves. But the picture she had held of Richard was a distinct one, remote from her own life, and therefore never possibly a part of it. He could never seriously interfere with it, dragging the past behind him like a trail of dust. She had loved him once, and she had believed that her love was finished and done with; it destroyed the confidence she had imagined was hers to consider that when he stood before her again she might find her love not so easily put aside a second time. She was shaken and bewildered to realize that, where Richard was concerned, she could not trust herself.

  At last her cold fingers took up the list for attention.

  ‘Mr. Clapmore!’

  He came hurrying forward. ‘Yes, ma’am?’ Then he paused. ‘Why … Mrs. Maclay, are you ill? You look …’

  ‘I’m perfectly well!’ she said sharply. ‘Please have this order filled out and sent to Major Foveaux immediately.’

  He took the list from her hand, and made to turn away.

  ‘And, Mr. Clapmore …’ She spoke more gently, regretting her sharpness.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Please send for the chaise. I’m … going home now.’

  II

  Bennett placed the decanter beside Andrew’s hand, hovered noiselessly for a few minutes, and then withdrew. Charles Bennett was Andrew’s latest acquisition ‒ a luxury in which it pleased him to revel to the full. He knew, as the whole of Sydney seemed to know, that Bennett had once been in the service of a duke, and that he was dismissed for insidious tippling. But that could not be counted beside the fact that he waited on table without a clatter which halted all conversation. Andrew guessed that he had probably been nothing more elevated than an under-footman in His Grace’s household, but he had learned to preside over a meal with great aplomb; his services had been highly bid for in the colony.

  Tonight, however, Andrew hardly noticed the merits of his manservant. As soon as the door closed he rose from his chair, carrying glass and decanter, and moved to where Sara sat at the opposite end of the table. He filled both their glasses, and then he drew a chair up close to hers.

  ‘What is it, my darling?’ As he spoke he took her hand in his own, gazing anxiously into her face. ‘You’ve looked whiter than a ghost ever since I came home.’

  She smiled at him with her eyes, half-relieved, yet half-fearful of his sure knowledge of her.

  ‘Dear Andrew ‒ you are never deceived, are you? I’ve been waiting all day to talk to you.’

  She sensed him stiffen apprehensively.

  ‘Yes?’ he said. ‘About what?’

  ‘About …’ She hesitated, her gaze dropping to the glass.

  ‘Sara …?’

  She gathered her resolution about her, and looked at him again.

  ‘Andrew … Do you remember me telling you about the Barwells ‒ the family my father was tutor to when he died? Do you remember there was a son with whom I used to have lessons ‒ Richard Barwell?’

  His hand tightened over hers. ‘Of course, I remember. What of him?’

  Sara tried to raise her glass to her lips, and was forced to put it down again, because suddenly her fingers had grown stiff and clumsy.

  She said slowly, ‘I heard today that Richard Barwell has arrived in Sydney with his wife.’

  Andrew leaned towards her. ‘Good God! He’s here … Why?’

  ‘I don’t know. Oh, Andrew …’ she said wretchedly. ‘I don’t know anything except what Major Foveaux told me ‒ that he arrived with the new Governor in the Speedy. And that he had exchanged his commission for one in the Corps.’

  ‘And his wife?’

  Her mouth hardened. ‘It’s as I expected. He married Sir Geoffrey Watson’s daughter, Alison.’

  ‘Watson? The man who …?’

  ‘The man who charged me with stealing his money,’ she finished for him. ‘The one who found me that night at The Angel, on the Marsh.’

  She put her free hand on top of his, conscious immediately of the warmth. ‘What shall I do now?’ she whispered. ‘What shall I do?’

  He sat, his unpowdered head bent over her hand; with the tip of his finger he absently traced a vein. She had a moment of dread that he would chide her for being melodramatic over Richard’s sudden appearance. How to tell Andrew that she had once been in love with Richard, and that she was afraid of her own emotions when she saw him again? Andrew, she thought, you wouldn’t understand. Not even you would have understanding enough for this. This was the hidden Sara Dane who had given her passionate young love to Sebastian and to Richard Barwell, of Romney. In honesty to herself, and in fairness to Andrew, she did not expect his tolerance to extend to the girlish caprices of a Sara he did not know.

  He raised his head, and she watched his face closely for his expression to change; it came slowly, the strange, preoccupied look that was habitual when his mind was working too swiftly for her to follow its processes. He had the wary and suspicious gaze of a man whose possessions are threatened. It is my happiness he is concerned about, she thought. He will try to stop Richard spreading any knowledge he has of my past. The look on Andrew’s face chilled her a little, and still comforted her; it meant that Andrew was not defeated in the way that she was, without a plan of combat, without even a hope of retreat. He had not climbed to his present position on the backs of other men without having nourished his own streak of ruthlessness. His eyes grew bright, until they glittered; the lines about his mouth deepened by the merest fraction, while he continued to stroke her hand with the tip of his fing
er.

  ‘Are you afraid, my darling?’ he said.

  ‘Yes …’ Her voice was not more than a whisper. ‘Afraid in a way I’ve never been before. They can harm me so much. They can harm you and the children. Everything you have built up here, they can tear down with a little talk.’

  ‘Then, by God, they won’t talk!’ Andrew snatched his hand away from hers and smacked it down on the surface of the table.

  ‘I have some say in how matters are run in this colony. Mister Barwell must need learn quickly that you are neither a servant at Bramfield Rectory, nor any longer a convict!’

  ‘Andrew …’ she breathed. ‘What will you do?’

  ‘I don’t know what I’ll do until I can find out more about him ‒ why he’s here to begin with. He must be vulnerable in some way ‒ and I must find that way.’

  She nodded slowly.

  ‘Every man has his vulnerable point,’ Andrew said, after a pause. ‘So I imagine the best way of finding Mister Barwell’s is to go straight to the source of the information. Is he staying at Foveaux’s house?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then …’ He rose, pushing his chair away regardlessly. ‘I think I must concoct some immediate business with Major Foveaux.’

  ‘Andrew …’ She stretched out and touched his sleeve. ‘I am afraid. The Barwells can tell the whole story if they choose to ‒ they can give the colony what it’s been waiting to hear for years.’

  He bent and kissed her fully on the lips. ‘No one will hurt you while I have any power left to fight them. So don’t be afraid, my Sara.’

  He went then and left her sitting at the table, staring straight ahead, the untouched glass close to her hand. He had taken some of her fear with him; but the real fear, the fear of her old love for Richard, sat like a spectre beside her, a companion for the hours until Andrew returned.

  Above the constant patter of rain against the window, Sara heard Andrew’s careful footsteps on the stairs. She sat up in bed, and waited for the door to open; the knob turned softly, and he came in. The candle by the bedside fluttered wildly in the sudden draught.