‘Why is it pointless?’
‘Because you are such an important man here in Government House, and so important to Governor Macquarie that he rarely goes anywhere without you. Even the officers treat you with so much respect. But me … I’m just a convict, a low felon convict … I could never be good enough for you.’
‘Never be good enough for me? Mary, you know nothing about me.’
‘I know you have never been a convict on a transport ship with rusty irons on your ankles.’
‘No, but I have been a slave, bought and sold many times, with a tight rope around my waist.’
Mary turned to him, her eyes wide with shock. ‘But Mrs Macquarie told me that when you were young … you were the son of a prince.’
‘Yes, the son of a prince, but also the child of a captured slave-girl sold to that prince, before she was sold again.’
Mary was so stunned she had to lean back against a tree. ‘And Governor Macquarie …’
‘Rescued me, when I was about seven or eight years old. He was a young soldier then, but he has been my true father ever since.’
‘But … your name is not Macquarie … it’s Jarvis.’
George closed his eyes and shook his head. ‘This is not the time …’
And again, as he so often had done in the past, when he needed a moment alone to think to himself, he slowly walked away from her, further down the path, and then stopped and stood looking up at the sky and the moon as if trying to make a decision.
She watched him, her chest choking with emotion and annoyance at her own stupidity, her own self-pity about being a convict, which had made him tell her things about himself which he had probably never told to any other person in the world outside the Macquarie family … yet now he had told her … why? And was he already regretting it, and that’s why he had walked away from her?
Trembling with fear, she took a step away from the tree and whispered, ‘George?’
He turned his head and looked at her, and then began slowly to walk back towards her, saying softly, ‘The only thing we really know is the truth … I love you, Mary … and in the past months I have felt as far away from you as the earth is from heaven.’
She moved to him in the warm moonlight and put her arms around his neck and hugged him so lovingly all further speech was unnecessary.
*
Mrs Kelly and Mrs Ovens were still in the kitchen, slumped opposite each other at the table, nursing the last few drops of the jug of rum.
‘Well, if we’re going to find out what he wanted to talk to her about, she’ll have to hurry up and get back quick,’ Mrs Kelly said tiredly. ‘It’s long past my bedtime so it is.’
Mrs Ovens nodded. ‘Maybe she went back in through the side door so as not to tell us. Or maybe it was all nothing worth talking about. Maybe I was mistook.’
Mrs Kelly blinked blearily at her empty glass, and then stretched her hand out vaguely towards the empty rum jug.
‘The only one who was mistook was him – warning us not to ask Mary any questions about it. What kind of women does he think we are – dead?’
*
Two candles were still burning in George’s bedroom, the warm night air coming through the open window causing their lights to flicker over her body, the slender beautiful body she had given to him so willingly, her words like unintelligible whispered prayers as he loved her, lost himself in her splendour, and then loved her again.
Now she lay very still, her eyes closed, her breathing calm, and when he eventually laid his hand softly on her shoulder, she opened her blue eyes and came awake as if from a dream.
Her voice just a faint whisper, she asked, ‘How long have we been here?’
He didn’t know. ‘An hour, maybe two.’
Her eyes closed again as she whispered, ‘An hour, maybe two … in heaven.’
Chapter Thirty-Four
The letters of complaints from Exclusives in New South Wales had been endlessly pouring into the Colonial Office in London, and one letter, in particular, had infuriated Lord Bathurst.
The writer of the letter had withheld his or her signature and address, remaining anonymous, but the gross charge against Governor Macquarie in that letter, had also been hinted at in other letters from New South Wales.
Too angry to detail the contents of the letter himself, Lord Bathurst simply enclosed the anonymous letter in a dispatch to Governor Macquarie, demanding an explanation and an answer to this grotesque charge against him.
And now that dispatch from the Colonial Office had arrived at its destination and was being read by the King’s Viceroy in Sydney.
As Lachlan read through the anonymous letter that Bathurst had enclosed, his eyes opened wider and wider, unable to believe it – every word it contained was the exact opposite to the truth.
And the fact that Lord Bathurst should not only give credence to such a malicious letter, but also demand that the Governor should be held in question to it, filled Lachlan with a cold fury he could barely contain. He thought long and hard before replying to Lord Bathurst.
I thank your Lordship for sending me the Anonymous letter, in order to give me the opportunity of refuting the false and malicious accusation therein contained.
First – the state of Prostitution in which it is stated that the Female Convicts, during their voyage out to this Country, are permitted to live with the Officers and Seamen of the ships.
I need only reply to your Lordship with the Question – How is it possible that I, dwelling in New South Wales, can prevent or be answerable for the Prostitution of Female Convicts antecedent to their arrival within my Government?
When the female convicts arrive, they are mustered by my Secretary John Campbell on board Ship, and the usual questions are put to them in regard to their good or bad treatment during the voyage; and if they appear healthy, and do not complain of ill usage, they are either assigned to such Married persons as require them for domestic servants, or are sent to work at the Government Female Factory at Parramatta.
I have never for an instant, directly or by connivance, sanctioned or allowed Prostitution by female convicts after their arrival in this Country.
But thoroughly sick now of the bitter and endless class war, and the continuous malicious attacks upon his character, which Bathurst had sought to question, he enclosed with the letter his official Resignation of the Office of Governor-General of New South Wales.
And this time, he made it very clear, he would accept no refusal.
*
Elizabeth was also furious when she read the anonymous letter, drawing in her breath and then referring to ‘that pack of villains’ as the worst on God’s earth.
But later, when her fury had subsided, she felt very sad about Lachlan’s resignation, considering his future absence to be a great loss to this country of Australia, the land he had loved, the land he had named.
And she, too, loved this country, this sunny country, the sunniest country in the world with all of its boundless opportunities.
In the future, she had no doubt, that men like John McArthur and Reverend Marsden would rule this country and reap great wealth from it – but it would be the emancipist population who would turn out the best.
Of that she was certain.
Even now she could see it. See how it was the emancipist parents who kept warning their children ‘not to break the law.’ A law they had fallen foul of, and for them it had been a foul law too.
Later that evening, lost in her thoughts, sitting in a chair by the window overlooking the front garden and watching her tame wallabies, she suddenly turned her head and said to Lachlan:
‘That pack of villains … have you noticed how when speaking, and even in their letters, they always still refer to this place as a colony, and never a country, as we do.’
‘That’s because they are short-sighted and can’t see beyond their own stations,’ Lachlan replied. ‘They think human beings can be herded and made as obedient as sheep, which is impo
ssible. And their interests travel no further than their own bank accounts.’
‘In the bank that you had built and opened for them. The Bank of New South Wales.’
Lachlan shrugged. ‘Every city needs a bank, and so does every business.’
He looked at her. ‘But you know, despite my resignation, my own business here must continue. I must keep moving forward to complete the projects I’ve started. So much work still needs to be done here. And until my successor arrives, I intend to spend each day doing what I have always done – get on with the bloody job.’
*
Lachlan kept the news of his resignation secret for many months, knowing it could undermine his authority if it was known that he would soon be vacating his high office.
Only Elizabeth knew.
But eventually Lachlan realised that he would have to confide the fact to George Jarvis, because their lives were so inextricably linked.
George was stunned when Lachlan told him, realising its implications for him personally.
‘And you wish me to leave and go back to Britain with you?’
‘The choice is yours, George, what I wish is irrelevant.’
Yet George could see in Lachlan’s eyes that his choice was far from irrelevant to him. They had been together for so long now, since young man and small boy, always together, and in so many foreign countries. Together.
Silenced by a maelstrom of emotions, George thought back to that promise he had made to Lachlan, so long ago, from a passage he had read in their English Bible …
Wherever thou go, I shall go
Thy people, shall be my people
And thy God, my God …
But now George had made promises to someone else, someone he loved even more than he loved Lachlan, his father in all but blood, the man who had raised him.
George also knew that Lachlan’s resignation was due solely to the constant attacks against him by the Exclusives – they were responsible, they had forced him out – and theirs would be the victory.
So how could George leave his father’s side now? In his defeat? In his fall from grace, even with the Colonial Office who believed all the lies?
No, no, they had travelled and stood together through many wars, in Cochin, in Egypt, and even in China where Lachlan had suffered the worst defeat of all – not only against the British-hating Chinese Mandarins, but also in the loss of Jane.
No, no, too much had been given to him by both Lachlan and Jane, as well as Elizabeth. He could not, and would not leave them now.
But he could not leave Mary either. She was the star of his life, the sun in his sky, the sweet flower that made every day wonderful. No, he could not leave Mary either.
Yet how could he walk in two different directions at the same time?
*
When, in confidence, George told Mary about Governor Macquarie’s resignation, which would lead to his departure from Australia, as well as his own, Mary’s heart nearly burst with the pain of it.
‘No! No! I’ll not stay here without you, George, not in this house or the gardens where I’d keep seeing your ghost all the time.’
Tears began to spill down her face.
‘For you, George, just to be near you, just to know you are close by, I would submit myself to any hardship, any punishment, even going back to scrubbing kitchen floors and wearing convict yellow, but this –’ she put her hands to her eyes and pressed them as if trying to push the tears back.
He drew her hands down and held them tightly in his own saying, ‘You know I love you?’
She nodded, answering through her tears, ‘And I know I love you.’
‘Then trust me … I have no intention of leaving you.’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Lachlan turned away and tried to think rationally. As always, he only wanted the best for George Jarvis.
‘She is the best for me,’ George insisted. ‘For so long I have been sure of it, but now I am positive, convinced, definite, certain. How many more words must I use to assure you?’
‘But she is a convict, George.’
The argument in the room brought Elizabeth to the door. She had heard it all, and had never before seen George Jarvis lose his calmness and appear so irate.
Elizabeth looked at her husband. ‘May I join in this argument?’
‘No,’ Lachlan replied tersely. And it’s not an argument, it’s a discussion.’
‘Mary may be a convict,’ Elizabeth went on, undeterred, ‘but her only crime was to borrow a mirror without asking her mistress’s permission. And apart from that small misdemeanour, for which she has already been more than severely punished, she is still a nice and decent girl in every way. You have said so yourself.’
Lachlan looked at his wife. ‘So? What are you saying?’
‘He is saying that Mary is not good enough for me,’ George snapped.
‘No, George, he is not saying that,’ Elizabeth responded steadily. ‘He is saying that Mary is a convicted felon, and there are laws concerning free persons and convicts entering into marriage. Laws that must be upheld, especially by the man who heads the government here.’
‘Exactly,’ Lachlan said, ‘that’s what I’ve been trying to tell him.’
‘No, you didn’t say it like that,’ George argued. ‘You just kept saying she is a convict.’
‘Because you would not allow me to say anything further before interrupting. And George, whether we like it or not, she is a convict, and there lies the problem.’
‘Of course,’ Elizabeth interjected coolly, ‘there is a very simple solution to the problem.’
Lachlan looked at his wife even more uncertainly. ‘Which is?’
‘To grant Mary a free pardon. You are still the Governor here, Lachlan. You hold the law in your hands. And you have granted pardons to other convicts for lesser reasons than Mary’s monumental achievement of finally making George, in his personal life, content and happy. You could free Mary with a stroke of your pen … if you truly wanted to.’
Lachlan and George stared at Elizabeth, and then at each other.
‘Well …’ Lachlan said slowly and thoughtfully, ‘Mary did save my son from breaking his neck in what could have been a fatal fall down the stairs, twisting her ankle badly and risking her own life in doing so … I suppose that could be considered an act of dedicated bravery way beyond her call of duty. Would you say so, Elizabeth?’
‘Oh, I would definitely say so. If she had not saved our son, well … dare we even think about it?’
‘And you, George, would you say so?’
George Jarvis was smiling. ‘Yes, my father, I would.’
*
One month later, George Jarvis and Mary Neely were married before Reverend Cowper in St Philip's Church in Sydney.
Later that night, when the wedding party was over and the household at Government House had retired to bed, only Mrs Kelly and Mrs Ovens remained up in one of the kitchens.
‘Did you see what she did in the church?’ Mrs Ovens asked. ‘Right there in front of Reverend Cowper? I think it was George who made her do it, and in the church too.’
‘I wasn’t in the church to see anything, remember? I was over in your kitchen helping to get the food ready. What did she do?’
‘Well, it was a good thing there was only Governor and Mrs Macquarie and myself and Joseph Bigg there, if there had been more people looking on it would have been very discomforting to say the least. Things like that don’t usually happen at weddings.’
‘What things?’ Mrs Kelly was getting impatient. ‘What did she do?
‘Well, after they had made their promises, she then opens her little silk purse that was hanging from her wrist, and from it she takes a pack of cards, and then right there, in front of the alter, she silently tears each card up, one by one, and each card she tore she handed over to George, and then when we came out of the church, George threw the torn pieces up in the air, and Mrs Macquarie laughed and thought it was very funny.’
‘When he goes, will you be going too?’ she asked Mrs Ovens moodily. ‘Back to Britain?’
‘Back to dear old London?’ Mrs Kelly looked nostalgic for a moment, and then sipped some more of her rum.
‘Well now, I’ve been thinking about it, I have, and what I keeps thinking is this … if I go back with Governor Macquarie, I’ll probably have to live in Scotland, which is a cold place they say.’
‘Oh, aye, very cold they say,’ Mrs Kelly agreed.
‘Mind you, he’s got his own big house and estate in Scotland has Governor Macquarie. Jarvisfield it’s called, the estate. And so once he goes back there, he’ll be the laird of Jarvisfield again.’
‘God in Heaven,’ Mrs Kelly sighed sadly. ‘I wish he’d just stay and carry on as the laird of Sydney.’
‘Me too, m’ducks, me too.’
‘So will you just go back to London?’
‘And then again, I keeps thinking…’ Mrs Ovens continued, ‘if I goes back to Lord Harrington’s in London, I can see them all now … a starched housekeeper and her assistant and then her assistant, and the stiff butlers with their white gloves and high noses … and then when I goes outside its to the crowded and wet London streets with their puddles of rain underfoot and the stenches and urchins and noise which never really bothered me before …’
She took another sip of rum, a bigger one this time, while Mrs Kelly hung on to her every word without drinking a drop herself.
‘And, of course, being older and away for so long, I’d not be given the position of head cook. I’d be one of the assistant cooks under orders. And then at night, in the kitchen … there’d be the head butler, sitting silently reading The Times no doubt, while the parlour maids and chamber maids sat doing their sewing and the like, and it would all be very nice and respectable … and every night I’d be sitting there by the fire thinking to myself – what the blazes am I doing here sitting staring into a smoky fire when I could be over in the fresh air of sunny Australia having a good gossip and a laugh and a nice glass of rum with my dear friend Mrs Kelly?’
The Far Horizon Page 18
