The Opal Dragonfly

by Julian Leatherdale

  As Isobel watched her sisters bent over the Telescopic View to spy on the Lilliputian world within, she was struck by the oddest notion: was this how our little lives appeared to God, she wondered, no more than miniscule tableaux spied through a peephole? To think that all our travails and suffering, our feverish hopes and desires, must seem so comically insignificant to the Omnipotent.

  The Herald and the other Sydney papers had carried reports of the Great Exhibition but Dr Finch’s son had also sent clippings from The Illustrated London News. Grace was fascinated most of all by the pictures of the Koh-i-Noor, the world’s largest diamond and the undisputed star of the show. Once the possession of a maharaja, it had been surrendered to Queen Victoria two years ago as a spoil of war following her conquest of the Punjab. Inside a red cloth tent, it sat on a silk cushion, illuminated by gas jets, with a concealed iron box below, set on a hair-trigger to swallow the diamond whole at the slightest touch. Police struggled to control the restless throng that queued for hours to be admitted to its hallowed presence.

  ‘Have you ever seen anything so beautiful?’ gushed Grace.

  There had been fears that such a huge gathering of the general populace—estimated at some fifty thousand visitors a day—face to face with these extravagant trophies of wealth and machines of profit would lead to rioting. As it turned out, these fears proved groundless. For the price of a shilling, the working masses came as humble pilgrims to Prince Albert’s glass cathedral to worship at these shrines of industry.

  ‘Thank God for the stout hearts of Englishmen and women,’ said the Major, taking a sip of his lobster soup. ‘Still, one can never be too careful. We live in unsettling times.’

  Indeed, they did, thought Isobel. These last three weeks, the streets of Sydney had borne witness to its own rowdy multitudes, stirred up by the shrill campaign speeches for the Legislative Council elections. Isobel had been tempted to go down to George Street to see all the excitement for herself but she knew her father would never allow it. To the consternation of many older and wiser heads, the majority of votes had gone to demagogues and rabblerousers like Reverend Lang, who spoke openly about the virtues of ‘democracy’.

  Mercifully, there had been no acts of violence in Sydney despite the rich squatters raising the spectre of mob rule and the terrors of 1848. Who could forget how, only three years earlier, Europe had been narrowly saved from the bonfires of revolution thanks only to bullets and bayonets on the streets of Paris, Vienna and Berlin?

  All discussion of politics was soon eclipsed by more cheerful topics and laughter, a pleasing accompaniment to what, in Isobel’s estimation, was as perfect a dinner party as could be hoped for. The Finches and Bradleys had made excellent company. Grace was in a lighthearted mood for a change and Anna did not disgrace herself with any unpredictable behaviour. In this harmonious scene, Isobel detected only one discordant note.

  During their talk of the Great Exhibition, Isobel saw how Papa fidgeted, nervously fingering his wine glass and shifting about in his chair. This was not like him at all. There was a credible explanation for his unease but only Isobel and her sisters could have guessed what it was. Some four years ago, Sir Angus had patented a design for a new type of ship’s propeller, modelled on the shape of the ‘boomerang’, that curious flying weapon he had seen used by Australian natives on his expeditions. despite sinking large sums into prototypes and sea trials, his invention had not been ready in time for the Great Exhibition. He still had hopes for its future but for now all he had to show for his troubles were debts.

  Sir Angus may have been financially stretched but he was well known for his generous table. With the help of two domestics, Rosemount’s butler kept the guests’ glasses charged with fizz and claret and ferried dozens of dishes back and forth from the servery. Cook had even been prevailed upon to prepare a collared eel, such an elegant spiced delicacy coiled into a tight spiral inside its own ceramic dish. The richness of the meal combined with the sumptuousness of Rosemount’s dining room induced a glow of warm self-regard in all present. The Finches, Bradleys and Macleods counted themselves fortunate to be among the privileged beneficiaries of the Empire’s munificence and loyal instruments of her power and prestige. At that moment, Isobel felt especially blessed to live in such a golden age of invention and enlightenment. Who could tell what the future would bring? Ideas as yet undreamed of to expand the sum of human happiness beyond imagining.

  By eleven o’clock, the party was over. The guests had been farewelled and the servants were clearing away the remains of dessert. Isobel’s sisters had retired to their rooms and their father to his study. Though tired, Isobel lingered a moment in the hall with her night candle. Her father had looked fatigued and distracted towards the end of the evening and she couldn’t help being worried about him so she decided to bid him a final goodnight with a kiss on his brow, just as she had always done as a child. Her father indulged such sentimentality in his youngest daughter, and even at times her good-natured teasing.

  Crossing the saloon, she noticed that the study door had been left slightly ajar. Again, this was not like Papa at all. He guarded his privacy jealously. As she was about to knock, she spied him seated at his desk. In a circle of lamplight, his face was grim with concentration, absorbed in the task of cleaning something with a cloth. He paused for a moment and held the object up to the light.

  Isobel stifled the gasp that rushed to her lips. There was no mistaking what he held in his hands: one of his prized pair of French duelling pistols. It shone with a holy lustre.

  When she was younger, Isobel had been allowed into the inner sanctum of her father’s study now and then to sketch some of the specimens in his nature cabinets. Shells, fossils, insects. He encouraged this precocious talent in her and her curiosity about botany (‘a fit science for a woman’s sensibility,’ he was fond of saying). On one such occasion, Isobel had been shown one of these pistols, nestled in their velvet-lined case like gems in a lady’s jewellery box. While Isobel had no fondness for guns, she had to admit to their masterful craftsmanship, even their unsettling beauty. The pistol’s octagonal barrel, trigger guard and percussion lock had been fashioned from brilliant silver-blue steel, intricately etched. The handle of polished walnut, mottled honey-brown and black, was carved in deep, elegant flutes and the stock engraved with a scroll of leaves and flowers.

  Isobel was in shock. What could this mean? She did not utter a sound but withdrew quickly, leaving her father to his preparations in private. She tried to stay calm but sobs broke from her as she hurried across the main hall towards the stairs.

  Passing by the dining room, she overheard Sarah, the parlourmaid, talking with someone. It was James, Rosemount’s groom. The two servants had recently given notice, informing Grace of their intention to marry and seek their fortune at Bathurst. In four weeks they would join the great human flood that had been flowing west since the discovery of gold was officially proclaimed in May. At the request of Governor FitzRoy, Sir Angus had travelled out to the diggings himself in the winter to survey the extent of the newly discovered fields that threatened to drain Sydney of every single able-bodied man and woman in pursuit of a quick fortune.

  ‘do you think the Major will be killed?’ Isobel heard Sarah ask.

  ‘Who knows?’ replied James. ‘A duel ain’t meant for killing. A light wound usually satisfies. But accidents do happen. Now and then.’

  They both heard Isobel’s cry of distress and saw her pale face in the doorway. Her colour was so deathly they feared she was about to faint. They both looked a little shame-faced, James hurrying to fetch a chair and Sarah a glass of wine.

  ‘We meant no ’arm, Miss,’ murmured James.

  Isobel thanked him. Only two years older than Isobel, James had served at Rosemount since he was a stable boy. He had always been respectful and pleasant without being familiar and regarded Isobel as the most considerate of the Macleod women, unlike her mother and sisters who treated servants with contempt and suspicion
, insisting on their invisibility. When Isobel entreated the young groomsman to reveal the truth, James told her everything he knew.

  ‘Sir Angus is having a big public stoush with Mr Simon Davidson, Miss.’ Everyone knew the name of Davidson, a Lancashire-born ‘exclusive’ with a 250,000-acre slice of New South Wales for his 34,000 sheep. He was one of the most ambitious young men in the colony and had just been re-elected to the Legislative Council. ‘Two weeks ago Mr Davidson made a speech on the hustings and said your father had wasted a great deal of public money. Sir Angus demanded an apology, of course, but Mr Davidson refused to give it.’

  How had this news escaped her? Isobel knew that such an accusation would wound her father deeply. He was very proud of his record of service to the colony. ‘My father was made a Knight of the Realm,’ Isobel had recorded in her journal when she was only eight, ‘because he is good at drawing maps.’ The year Isobel was born, Sir Angus had completed his painstakingly detailed (and, Isobel later discovered, quite beautiful) Nineteen Counties map that documented the boundaries of the entire colony and all its districts and parishes. He had paid over nine hundred pounds out of his own pocket for the engraving of the copper plates. He had also accommodated the engraver, a gifted deaf mute, in his house for two years and, at his own expense, bought up all the copper in the port of Sydney that was stored for ships’ sheathing. As a little girl, Isobel had loved that story about her father’s single-minded determination.

  ‘Your father ’as challenged Mr Davidson to a duel,’ James told her. ‘It will be fought with pistols at seven o’clock tomorrow morning at the Lachlan Swamps.’

  Isobel fainted.

  Thankfully, James caught his mistress before she hit the floor. Sarah hurried to the pantry to fetch the sal volatile. Once revived a few moments later, Isobel stared at them both as if in a trance. She could not comprehend what she had just heard. Yes, her father was known for his outbursts of temper. And yes, he had made enemies over the years. But a duel? That was impossible. Her worst fears were now confirmed. She pressed the groomsman for more details. ‘Please, James. What is going to happen?’

  ‘Sir Angus ’as asked me to saddle up Pompey for six o’clock. Then ’e will ride out to the duelling ground with ’is seconds, Miss. Lieutenant Manning and Lieutenant Godfrey, I believe. Their job is to make sure everything is done according to the rules.’

  ‘Rules?’ Isobel looked bewildered.

  ‘The Major ’as the choice of weapons, which gives ’im the advantage, Miss,’ counselled James, trying to calm her. ‘And ’e is a very good marksman.’

  Her mind a storm of thoughts, Isobel thanked them again for their care and hastened to her room. On the stairs she hesitated. Even if he had thought to spare her feelings, Isobel could hardly believe her father had kept this secret from her. Should she go to the study right now and confront him? But she knew him better than that. She might well be his favourite daughter but she was in no doubt that none of her tears or pleading would change his mind. He would either be furious at her interference or deflect her concerns with hollow reassurances. Once her father set his mind on a course, nothing and no one could dissuade him.

  She did not share James’s confidence in her father’s chances of survival. He was now sixty-two, and his exertions as a public servant and an explorer had taken a heavy toll on his nerves. Then there was the gout and arthritis in both his legs, and his eyesight had deteriorated so that he often wore glasses in private. She knew he would be too proud to wear glasses to a duel.

  A duel? For a moment she wondered if a fever had afflicted Papa’s brain. Or was there something else at stake, something shameful and secret that drove him to such a desperate course? In the quiet of her room, Isobel tried to calm herself. There was no point in speculating about the whys and wherefores. Her choice was plain. She had to stop this duel or her father would die.

  Who could she approach for help? If the servants knew about her father’s plans it was possible—even likely—that everyone did. Most galling of all, if Grace and Anna knew, why had they said nothing? She hoped their silence was a sign of ignorance and not complicity. Or, even worse, indifference. ‘It is not our place to tell Father how to conduct himself,’ she could hear Grace lecturing her. Isobel did not trust either of them to be any use.

  What about her father’s friends—Dr Finch, Judge Dickerson, Captain Bradley? On this moonlit night, she could walk over to one of their houses in under an hour if needed. But she knew her father would never forgive her for raising the alarm in this way. And who knows, they might already know all about the matter and had refused to meddle in the Major’s private affairs. They may even approve of his decision to defend his honour. She had learned that grown-ups always behaved unpredictably, men most of all.

  Where else could she seek guidance? She had not seen her estranged brother Joseph in two years and did not even know where to find him. Her eldest brother William would know what to do in such circumstances. He always did. But there was not enough time to warn him. Even so, she penned a short note for Sarah to take to the post office first thing in the morning.

  Dear W—

  Tonight I have discover’d that our father has lost his mind. He is to fight a Duel with his French pistols tomorrow morning and I am firmly convinc’d he will be killed at the hand of that arrogant lout Mr Simon Davidson if nothing is done to stop him. Papa is no longer the man he once was. Richard and Mama’s deaths have undone him. I wish I had learn’d of this Duel earlier as I am sure Father would listen to you. So it is left up to me alone to save him. Desperate times justify desperate measures. You know I am not foolhardy but if any dire Fate should befall me in this venture, I beg you to please forgive me and pray for my wicked soul.

  Your affectionate & obedient servant,

  Isobel

  Was God watching over this little drama tonight through his heavenly peephole? Would He give her any sign of His providence apart from the urgent whisperings of her own heart? Not since her mother’s death had Isobel felt so alone and fearful. She could not shake her conviction that her father would be killed at seven o’clock tomorrow morning if nothing was done to save him.

  Isobel knew her father was regarded in some quarters as an impulsive, ill-tempered and arrogant man, the object of both common gossip and official opprobrium. She feared that it was possible, even likely, his political enemies would make use of this duel to harm him; that his reputation would now be permanently stained whether he lived or died; that her own prospects would be damaged if not ruined; and that her family’s name would be so traduced that they would pay for this shameful episode for generations. She had to act whatever the cost.

  All these reasons outweighed her fear of danger and social disgrace. And there was one other reason she would risk everything to save her father.

  She loved him.

  Chapter 2

  TIME TO GO

  There it was, his tread in the corridor as her father passed by her door. Isobel assumed he carried his precious pistols in their velvet-lined case, tucked under his arm. She did not know anything about duels. Would Papa put on his dress uniform as he did for public ceremonies? He cut such a striking figure with those magnificent martial side-whiskers of his and the lavish trimmings of his greatcoat with its tasselled epaulettes and campaign medals pinned to his left breast. She loved seeing him dressed up so splendidly.

  Behind her door, Isobel had almost completed her own transformation into a man. Her hair was pinned up beneath her brother’s hat. It had taken three thicknesses of stocking for her slender ankles and small feet to fill out his boots. Thanks to William’s slight build and similar height, she had no trouble concealing her womanly silhouette within his trousers and shirt. His cord jacket completed the deceit. But there was no room under these clothes for a corset or the usual layers of feminine undergarment and the lack of crinolines and multiple petticoats was—well, there was simply no other word for it—exhilarating. Her body moved differently, even oddly at f
irst, and then with an unaccustomed sense of freedom. She loved the feel of cotton and moleskin against her bare flesh. The sensation scared and delighted her. She was so wicked! Surely she would be punished for this sinfulness, and prayed for God to forgive her such unnatural feelings.

  Isobel had heard the salacious rumours years ago about the French aristocrat and navigator Louis de Freycinet. It was said that he had disguised his young wife Rose as a man for his voyage of exploration aboard the vessel L’Uranie. She had even dined with the Governor of Gibraltar dressed in a blue frock coat and matching trousers! The French authorities, unable to act at a distance, finally chose to overlook this breach of naval law when the expedition returned home. It seemed to Isobel so very French to break rules for the sake of romantic love. Would a British navigator do such a thing? She did not think so.

  Isobel examined her new male guise in the mirror. Would she pass for a man as Rose had? Before her stood a slim, awkward youth with delicate hands. dear me, what would her sisters say? She could not help smiling to imagine their comic expressions of disbelief. How on earth could she smile when her heart was gripped with terror?

  It was time to go. Closing her bedroom door gently, she tiptoed past Grace and Anna’s bedrooms. She looked over the staircase railing but did not see or hear anyone in the saloon below. It would be embarrassing to say the least if she ran into one of the staff.

  Above her, the rising sun shot rays of rose and amber through the skylight in Rosemount’s elliptical dome, the house’s crowning glory. Beneath this dome was the house’s other architectural centrepiece, the staircase. Mirroring the ellipse of the dome, it curved in on itself like the inside of a seashell. Its broad mudstone steps and iron banisters made the descent perfectly safe, but Isobel always felt a twinge of vertigo at the top, and today was no exception. The drop to the saloon floor was over sixty feet and the staircase created its own centripetal force, hurtling you forward faster and faster, like a drop of oil spiralling down a funnel. This was fun when you were a child. It was a different matter in a ball gown that hid your feet, or in a pair of your brother’s riding boots.