The Gentleman's Garden

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘To teach him to shoot?’

  ‘To acquaint him with the manner in which a manly and gentlemanlike fellow spends his time,’ said Charles.

  ‘That is to say, not lying about sick indoors, being tended like an infant?’ Dorothea snapped, in heavily ironical tones. Then she left the room quickly, before her husband could devise a suitable retort.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  A WEEK LATER, MR ELLIS BENT DIED.

  His spirit failed him rather suddenly, in the middle of the night, with the result that the Brandes were roused one morning at a quarter before two by a sharp rapping on their front door. When Captain Brande went to investigate, he found Mr Jeffery Bent seeking admittance.

  ‘I’ve come for the boy,’ Mr Bent gasped. ‘His father is dying.’

  From the bedroom, Dorothea heard this announcement and gave a little cry. Charles shuffled, and blinked, and grunted. He was still half asleep.

  ‘I must take him,’ Mr Bent continued. As white as chalk and carelessly dressed, he presented a somewhat unnerving spectacle in his black riding cloak. Dorothea therefore suggested that she wake the child herself.

  ‘Very well,’ Mr Bent agreed. Though Dorothea was wearing only a nightgown under her shawl, he did not appear to be disconcerted. In fact she wondered if he truly saw her at all; his eyes were blank, as if fixed on some internal horror.

  Quickly she went to fetch young Ellis.

  The sight of him, lying wrapped in the pure slumber of childhood, almost broke her heart. She roused him slowly and quietly, stroking his brow and murmuring in his ear. When he woke, with a start, she told him that his mama needed him.

  ‘Why?’ he asked, his dark eyes huge in the dimness.

  ‘Because your papa is very ill,’ Dorothea replied. Her voice quavered, and he took note of that. He took note of his uncle, waiting on the threshold. He missed nothing, Dorothea suspected, for he was not a stupid child. He asked no questions because he doubtless knew the answers already.

  Mutely, he allowed himself to be dressed in the clothes that Dorothea had laid out. Then he went with his uncle, riding on the same horse. They were accompanied by a police constable, and a servant with a lantern.

  Dorothea watched them from her front door, until the glow of the lantern disappeared from view.

  Though Charles insisted that she return to bed, she slept no more that night. To begin with, she half expected another summons. (Mrs Bent might need her. Ellis Henry might need her.) Furthermore, she was full of grief—not so much for Mr Ellis Bent as for his son. Certainly, there was no doubt that Mr Ellis Bent would be sadly missed. He had been generally admired for his discernment, his civility and his dutiful conduct. His passing would deprive the colony of one of its greatest men.

  But it would also deprive a sensitive boy of his father—and that, to Dorothea’s mind, would be infinitely worse. Ellis Henry would not recover quickly from such a blow. He was of an age to be greatly affected. He was his father’s eldest and dearest. What torments might the poor boy endure over the coming weeks? As she lay there, tossing and turning, Dorothea’s heart went out to Ellis Henry.

  In the morning, she awaited news of Mr Bent’s fate. Breakfast was a gloomy occasion, during which Ellis Henry’s absence was much felt by Dorothea, and much remarked upon by Peg Whiting. Peg, who was forever comparing Ellis Henry to her own grandchildren, observed that he would undoubtedly ‘take it ’ard’, being a ‘delicate crayture’ who had a dainty appetite at the best of times. A child like that, she remarked breezily, would stop eating, and hide in corners, and be troubled by nightmares at the death of his father.

  ‘Will ’e be stopping ’ere for dinner?’ she wanted to know. ‘Maybe you’ll be wanting mutton broth now, Madam, in place of the white soup. I know as ’ow the master’s not so partial to white soup.’

  After a good deal of hesitation, Dorothea ruled in favour of the white soup. If, by some stroke of good fortune, Ellis Henry should be returned to her care (it was not, after all, out of the question; what if Mrs Bent should have been prostrated by grief?), then the child must be presented with a nourishing meal that suited his childish tastes. And it was not as if Charles utterly rejected white soup. He had simply had rather too much of it over the past week or so—white soup being Ellis Henry’s favourite dish.

  ‘White soup hit is,’ Peg declared, upon receiving her orders. ‘And would you fancy a little hot tea, Madam? You’re looking sadly peaked.’ With a warm and sympathetic smile, she added: ‘You’ll miss ’im, I know. We all will, dear little crayture. Sad to see a child pulled so low.’

  Dorothea could only agree. In fact she realised, to her consternation, that Peg’s somewhat disrespectful (though kindly meant) remarks had brought a lump to her throat. Resisting the urge to rest her brow on the housemaid’s plump shoulder, she went to wait by the drawing-room window, thankful that Charles, being at last restored to full health, had returned to his duties. He had been a great deal too lively and demanding at breakfast. Unless Dorothea was mistaken, it almost seemed as if he was relieved that Ellis Henry had departed.

  Dorothea was not relieved. She was miserable. And when Mrs Molle appeared on her doorstep early in the afternoon, her misery was increased. Mrs Molle came to inform her that Mr Bent had, indeed, expired. He had died in his wife’s arms. The Reverend Mr Cowper had also been present; Mrs Cowper had sent Mrs Molle a message to that effect, requesting that she retain the Bents’ youngest child until poor Mrs Bent was capable of dealing with it.

  ‘Oh!’ said Dorothea. ‘Does that mean I should be expecting Ellis Henry back again?’ Her spirits lifted at the thought.

  But Mrs Molle shook her head.

  ‘I think not,’ she replied. ‘I went to the house to offer my assistance, and was informed that Mrs Bent derives some small degree of comfort from her son’s presence. He is so like his father, you know.’

  ‘I see.’ Dorothea strove to conceal her disappointment. ‘You spoke to Mrs Bent?’

  ‘No. I would not have expected to. I spoke to Mr Jeffery Bent—he was quite distracted with grief, poor man.’ Carefully, Mrs Molle set down her cup of tea. ‘He blamed his brother’s death on overwork,’ she continued, ‘and he blamed the overwork on Governor Macquarie. But I believe that he was not himself—he had a great affection for his brother.’

  Dorothea agreed. Mr Ellis and Mr Jeffery Bent had been very close. Their mutual affection had not been so great, however, that the loss of its support had utterly unmanned the unfortunate survivor. Late that afternoon, two men arrived to dismantle Ellis Henry’s bed and to collect his belongings—for despite all the confusion attendant upon his brother’s death, Mr Jeffery Bent had not forgotten this mundane detail.

  The boy, he wrote to Dorothea, in a letter accompanying the two men, was needed at his mother’s side. Together, mother and son would assuage each other’s sorrows. He, Jeffery Bent, would watch over them both, grateful that he was there to serve as their staff and guide during such a tragedy. On their behalf, he wished to offer Dorothea his most grateful thanks for services rendered, &c, &c.

  Dorothea spent a good deal of time composing her reply. Thinking of Ellis Henry’s no doubt distraught condition, she expressed herself with great feeling when she offered her condolences. She assured Mr Jeffery Bent that she would happily receive the boy into her house whenever her succour was required, for he was an angel and a blessing, and her heart went out to the poor, fatherless child. His loss was the colony’s loss. His plight, and the plight of his poor mother, was difficult to contemplate. The entire family would remain forever in her prayers.

  Dorothea scribbled this message to the resounding noise of grunts and thuds issuing from Ellis Henry’s former bedroom. Then, as the two men responsible for the din loaded young Ellis’s possessions into their handcarts, she scurried about the house, gathering up gifts.

  ‘But Madam,’ Peg protested, upon Dorothea’s rolling the roast beef in a linen cloth, ‘what about yer dinner?’

&nbs
p; ‘You have mutton, have you not? You mentioned mutton broth.’

  ‘There’s mutton enough for broth, but not for ’ash—’

  ‘Then make a stew of it!’

  ‘Too late for that, Madam,’ Peg said reproachfully.

  ‘Very well. Give us pickled meat or eggs. I care not. These cakes must go, as well.’ They were added to Dorothea’s basket. ‘We have, I think, some stewed apples—they will serve to accompany the custard. Where is Daniel?’

  ‘Fetching water.’

  ‘I must speak to him.’

  There were spring flowers blooming in the garden—not daffodils or hyacinths, certainly, which were long gone, but roses and geraniums—and Dorothea wanted to cut some of them for a bouquet. On reflection, she decided that geraniums were probably too bold a flower to include in such an arrangement. Lilies would have been more correct, but in the absence of lilies, she would have to denude her garden of white roses and forget-me-nots. If only she had possessed a laurel tree—or even a camellia! Something, at any rate, with dark, shiny, funereal leaves.

  When Daniel came to her, at last, she was sawing at a fragile young plant with a kitchen knife. Upon seeing him, she jumped up and surrendered the knife. She wanted, she said, this bloom, that bloom, and the blooms over there—the pale ones.

  He frowned.

  ‘If ye take that one, Ma’am,’ he pointed out, ‘ye’ll be takin’ the whole plant.’

  ‘If needs must.’

  ‘It’ll not recover quick, if it does at all.’

  ‘Daniel, Mr Bent is dead,’ Dorothea declared. ‘If there must be a sacrifice, in this, then no one is more deserving of it.’

  ‘But should ye not be waitin’ for the funeral?’

  ‘Now, Daniel, if you please.’

  The flowers were duly collected, and Dorothea’s offerings delivered. She received a rather curt note of thanks the following day; clearly, Mr Jeffery Bent was still managing his sister’s affairs, and found them perhaps a little overwhelming. The same day, the pages of the Gazette were set within black borders. The entire colony was declared to be in mourning for Mr Ellis Bent.

  Dorothea, for her part, was mourning the departure of his son. Ellis Henry’s absence was acutely painful to her. While she and Peg baked cakes and prepared joints for the funeral, her thoughts dwelt continuously on the void that he had left behind him. How was it ever to be filled, unless she herself was blessed by God? While funerals normally left her in a highly disturbed and nervous state, she approached this one almost with eagerness, because it would give her the opportunity to speak to Ellis Henry, and to judge his state of mind. She even made him some gingerbread, which she concealed in her reticule. Though a little ashamed, she told herself that funerals could be long and draining affairs, and that a child of Ellis Henry’s sensibility might need sustenance to prevent him from fainting away. (One could not expect Mrs Bent to guard against such an eventuality, on a day like this.)

  The funeral service was held at St Philip’s church, and the body buried in a piece of ground, just south of the marketplace, which was reserved for such interments. Mr Cowper presided. During the proceedings (which were also attended by the Governor), Ellis Henry stood like a little ghost in his mourning suit and did not utter a sound. Though he shed a few tears, they were only a few; he wiped them away with a furtive movement when he was under the impression that no one was watching. Upon his father being finally laid to rest, he clenched his fists and stared at the ground. He did not even look up as his mother groaned, and swayed, and fell wailing into the arms of her brother-in-law.

  Under the circumstances, Dorothea wondered if the unfortunate woman was in a fit state to care for her children. Should she be permitted to grieve in peace, for a time? But there was no immediate opportunity to discuss the matter, for the crowd rapidly dispersed, and Dorothea was soon accompanying the Molles to Mrs Bent’s house. Here she refreshed herself with slices of her own sponge cake, which jostled for space on a table groaning with goodly viands. Here she offered her condolences to the widow, who received the Brandes in a darkened room, with all her family gathered around her. Dorothea was able to speak very briefly to young Ellis at this point, complimenting him on his bravery without receiving more than a mumble in reply. The gingerbread, however, remained in her reticule. She realised that it was an inappropriate gift. The last thing Ellis required was food.

  She remained at the Bents’ house, swilling down tea and talking in a low voice, for as long as Captain Brande could stomach it. Then she returned home with him. She was very downcast. Her limbs felt as if they were weighed down with chains. And her mood was not lightened by events that unfolded upon her reaching the haven of her little house. Charles, once he had ascertained that she had no further need of him (‘All right, my dear? Very good’), escaped to his barracks with a palpable air of relief—with almost, in fact, a spring in his stride. Dorothea retreated into the drawing room, where she settled down with her shawl, her tea caddy and her hartshorn. It was a muggy day, with a threatening, overcast sky. The warmth and humidity were wearing, and the wrenching emotion of the funeral had left Dorothea in a nervous state. So she rang for Peg, and requested, when the housemaid finally appeared, a hot cup of tea.

  ‘I should like it very strong,’ she added, handing over the requisite weight of leaves. (At Mrs Molle’s suggestion, Dorothea retained sole custody of the tea caddy, and would surrender its keys to no one.) ‘Strong and hot, with lemon. Oh—and a slice of bread and butter. Cut very thin.’ As the housemaid made no move to comply with this request, she said plaintively: ‘What is it, Peg? I am not well. What do you want?’

  Peg seemed to hesitate—an action so unusual that Dorothea became alarmed. She sat up straight.

  ‘What is it?’ she demanded. ‘Is it the master? Is it Daniel? What?’

  ‘Oh, no,’ Peg replied, in soothing tones. ‘I ham sorry, Madam, I know as ’ow them funerals take it out of a body. I’d not be coming to you, at such a time, only my daughter’s at ’er wit’s end, see, and … well …’ She heaved a great sigh. ‘You’re a good mistress, and you’ve used me ’andsome, but the long and the short of hit is—I want to ’and in me notice.’

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  PEG WHITING’S DAUGHTER HAD acquired a beer licence. According to Peg, this meant that her own expertise would be in great demand, for her daughter would not be capable of minding the children and running a public house alone. Peg had therefore negotiated a satisfactory settlement, by which she would henceforth be excused from paying even the smallest sum for fire and lodging. She was to be a partner in the enterprise, which would repair the family fortune as her son-in-law’s efforts never would. Her son-in-law, Roger, was on the Government boats, and would never rise above his present position.

  ‘Nobody likes ’im—no, nor minds ’im,’ Peg revealed. ‘Thinks ’isself the Lord Muck Almighty, but ’is brains are in ’is boots.’ She offered up the opinion that her daughter would soon be rid of this tiresome spouse, who would undoubtedly cheek the district constable once too often, leaving the way open for a better man. ‘A gang would be the best place for ’im. Knock some sense into ’is thick ’ead,’ she remarked.

  When Dorothea pointed out that, even on a chain gang, he would still be married to Peg’s daughter, Peg replied that they had never been married, in the strictest sense. Though husband and wife, they were not shackled together by law, nor by the articles of the Church of England. She did not seem to understand that a marriage had to be performed by a clergyman if it was to be a marriage at all.

  ‘They’ve bin sharing a bed these ten years,’ she said, ‘and spawned five brats together. Though I’d ’ave it otherwise, Madam, they’re married, no question.’

  Dorothea, while recognising it as her bounden duty to correct the vicious and perverted notions of the underclasses, had not the energy to do so. Peg’s decision had come as a terrible blow. Dorothea had barely recovered from Ellis Henry’s departure—and now she would have to cou
ntenance Peg’s as well! Though the housemaid promised not to leave until she had found a new servant to replace her, Dorothea was utterly dismayed. Who could ever replace Peg? Who would ever attain the perfection of Peg’s roasts or puddings? Dorothea wrung her hands at the thought of Peg’s talents being wasted on a crew of beer-swilling felons, and on the inferior meats which would no doubt be judged adequate to their requirements. When questioned, Peg observed vaguely that ‘vittles, in a public ’ouse, was generally bread, cheese and a bit o’ cold meat’, with perhaps a pot of boiling beef, potatoes and cabbage in addition. ‘They don’t come fer the food,’ she laughed. ‘If they do, well, they’re soon disappointed!’

  It was enough to break Dorothea’s heart. And her spirits were not improved when, during Peg’s final month of employment, Mrs Bent gave birth. Naturally, this event had long been expected. Mrs Bent had quite disappeared from sight since the funeral, and it had more than once been rumoured that she had suffered another ‘sad loss’, on account of the strain of her bereavement and the overpowering heat. These rumours, however, proved false. Mrs Bent was delivered of a fine, healthy baby on an exceptionally sultry morning, and was well enough to receive visitors within two days of the delivery. Her constitution was so vigorous that there was no need to banish her other children from the house for any great length of time. A long walk in Hyde Park and a visit to the Molles were judged sufficient for the purpose of removing them from the vicinity of certain, rather unpleasant scenes.

  Dorothea was therefore denied even the comfort of welcoming young Ellis back for a night. She had to go to the Bents’ house, and smile, and coo, and offer up her gifts, when she was almost faint with envy and despair. Mrs Bent already had Ellis Henry, as well as his three siblings; now she had been blessed again! Whereas Dorothea’s arms were empty, Mrs Bent was positively burdened with riches.

  It seemed a cruel dispensation.