As it happened, Dorothea ate her dinner alone that evening, because Charles was detained at the barracks. She was somewhat downcast at this development; she felt very strongly the pathos of her situation, dining alone while the colony was en fête. But she soon recovered when Charles returned home to dress, in a state of high excitement. He talked and talked. He seemed unable to stop talking. He talked of Ligny, and Quatre Bas, and thirty thousand French casualties, and double quick time, and artillery, and the Duke of Wellington. (He talked a great deal about the Duke of Wellington.) Then he danced Dorothea around the bedroom, complimented her on her appearance, glanced into the looking glass, tossed Jack Lynch a golden guinea, and went off to the barracks, with Dorothea on his arm and Jack trailing behind.
From the barracks, Dorothea travelled to the hospital with Mrs Molle and the Vales in Mrs Molle’s chaise. Captain Brande rode beside them, with some of the other officers; their progress was often interrupted by large groups of vulgar persons celebrating in the streets. There were scattered cheers as the officers proceeded, for were they not brothers-in-arms to the sacred dead at Waterloo? One excruciatingly common-looking trollop even threw a flower at Captain Brande (the most handsome of the assembled officers), who seemed startled, then embarrassed, then irritated. He smiled, but did not know what to do with the flower until at last Captain Miller relieved him of it, tucking it into his crossbelt. It was the only offering received during the journey, which would have been a triumphal progress on any other piece of English soil. But while the mood was festive, it was not feverish. Sydney Cove was frequented by a great many criminals and Irishmen, who were not renowned as fervent admirers of His Majesty’s loyal troops. Consequently, there were no patriotic choruses or ranks of weeping women to salute the redcoats as they passed.
At the hospital, however, a spectacle worthy of the occasion had been achieved. Pillars were wound about with greenery, arches crowned with stars and shields. Banks of candles flickered, though the sky was still light. Red carpets had been unrolled. Tables were piled high with food. The regimental band was already playing, and at the upper end of the room, the royal arms appeared through an elegant transparency. On the floor were painted emblems of martial glory, surrounding a figure of fame who was depicted sounding her trumpet, and bearing in her right hand a scroll on which were inscribed the words ‘Waterloo’, ‘Wellington’ and ‘Victory’.
It was all most impressive.
‘To give credit where it is due,’ Mrs Molle declared, upon receiving Dorothea’s compliments, ‘Mr Campbell was responsible for a great deal of what you see.’
‘It is magnificent.’
‘Not as magnificent as the victory we are celebrating.’
‘No, indeed.’
‘Or the sacrifice of those who laid down their lives. The Colonel says that thirteen thousand British troops were killed or wounded.’
‘Oh dear! That many?’
‘I have never seen him so profoundly moved.’
The sight of so much scarlet and white and gold, so much satin and lace, so many nodding feathers and glittering jewels, was very fine. Mrs Molle was majestic in green silk, with a short train. Mrs Vale was quite lively in mauve. Dorothea’s cream satin gown had first been worn while she was still a maid, and it was now a little tight. But she looked well in it, and was loudly complimented by many of the officers, including Colonel Molle.
It happened that she was speaking to Colonel Molle when the Governor approached, and addressed each of the party in turn. He greeted the Colonel with a few remarks about the excellence of the regimental band, praised Mrs Molle for her arrangements, and observed to Captain Gill that a proud day such as this must bring back memories of the capture of Guadeloupe. Upon turning his benign gaze on Dorothea, he smiled, and asked if the three white roses that she wore in her hair had been plucked from her own garden.
‘Yes indeed, Your Excellency,’ Dorothea replied, with a blush. ‘And I must thank Mrs Macquarie for them, because the bush was transplanted from her own garden, on the occasion—that is, when I was ill.’ The white rose, in fact, had been given to her after she had lost her baby. ‘I shall always be grateful for her kindness.’
The Governor inclined his head. ‘I know that Mrs Macquarie displays a keen interest in your garden, Mrs Brande,’ he responded. ‘Whenever I visit the barracks, she always inquires of me: “Did ye pass Mrs Brande’s garden? Did ye notice any improvements?” I believe her interest to be almost of the proprietary kind.’
‘She was generous enough to lend me a book about garden design,’ Dorothea explained, still blushing. ‘I have been following its advice very carefully.’
‘Ah,’ said the Governor, in grave tones. ‘That will account for her curiosity, then.’
‘I have been very remiss,’ Dorothea continued, ‘but I have not yet returned the book. Of course I shall do so as soon as possible—’
But the Governor lifted his hand. ‘If Mrs Macquarie should need it, she will send for it,’ he declared. ‘Until then, Mrs Brande, I know that she will be delighted to have ye make use of it so resourcefully, and to such good purpose.’
With a dignified bow, the Governor then moved away to address another cluster of guests, leaving Dorothea curiously gratified. She rarely spoke to the Governor. Athough she saw him nearly every Sunday at church, Charles did not encourage her to take part in what he sourly described as ‘the Inspection’, which took place on the porch after the service. It was Governor Macquarie’s habit, at this time, to exchange a few words with those among the colony’s worthies who cared to approach him. Since many of the aforesaid worthies were not gentlefolk—since many, indeed, were emancipists—Charles was anxious that Dorothea should not rub shoulders with them, in the crush. To do so, he said, would be to court contagion.
Dorothea was therefore accustomed to seeing the Governor only at a distance. Studying him at close range, she decided that he was not looking well. His colour was poor, yellowish in some spots and livid in others. The lines on his face were deeply drawn, and his eyes were tired. He was a little hoarse, she thought, with the result that his accent seemed thicker than ever. But he had not lost his ramrod bearing or his paternal manner, which held for Dorothea a great deal of charm. No doubt the Governor was misguided in his opinions. Charles had often accused him of being ‘soft’. But softness was almost pleasing in someone otherwise so stiff and formal, who was frequently curt and gruff, and who could not (if popular reports were correct) abide any form of opposition. Furthermore, His Excellency was a doting father. Not a soul could gainsay it. The man might have poisoned Mr Ellis Bent’s final months on earth—for such was Mrs Bent’s opinion—but no one so devoted to his little boy could be all bad. That, at least, was Dorothea’s secretly held view.
She was beginning to doubt that Charles nursed within his bosom many fatherly instincts, and she was therefore inclined to look with increased favour on those who did.
Charles did not remain at Dorothea’s side throughout the ball. Perhaps, had she danced, he would have been more attentive—for he dearly loved to dance. But Dorothea was concerned about the health of her unborn child. She felt that dancing might have a deleterious effect on it. So Charles was unable to persuade her to stand up with him, and became quite put out as a consequence. He grumbled, and frowned, and wandered away, at last, to address Captain Miller. But the music was gay and full of spirit, the air rang with laughter, and tripping footsteps marked time in an irresistible rhythm. When Dorothea next saw Charles, he was dancing with Captain Piper’s daughter, Mrs Thrupp. Dorothea was much surprised. Mrs Thrupp had been born out of wedlock, and her grandparents on her mother’s side had both been convicts. Had Charles forgotten his prejudices to such an extent that he was willing to dance with the bastard granddaughter of emancipists? Evidently he had.
It appeared that social niceties were fast giving way to dizzy jubilation in the ballroom.
Dorothea sat out every dance beside Mrs Vale. She was content to watch th
e performance of her husband and his fellow officers as the lines formed and reformed. Though fond of quadrilles, she was not so fond of them as to put her unborn baby at risk. The thought of her precious, secret burden made her happy enough. Without the slightest pang she was able to decline invitation after invitation to stand up with some of the most important gentlemen in the colony (for the supply of genteel ladies was limited), explaining modestly that she was in a state of health not admitting of any undue exertion.
Most of the applicants accepted her excuse with a bow and a murmur. Captain Gill was characteristically polite, expressing his sorrow and regret that she should be so sadly circumstanced. Captain Wallis observed that her absence from the floor had ‘left it without one of its brightest ornaments’. (She suspected that he might have been overindulging in spiritous liquors.) Dr Harris, surprising her very much with his request, hoped—in answer to her refusal—that her ‘roses would soon be blooming again’. Only Captain Sanderson offended her. He approached her in a rather alarming state, his face brick-red and his clothes somewhat dishevelled, to request that she ‘take a turn’ with an old friend. When she replied that her health did not permit her to dance, he nodded, and winked, and remarked that he must blame her husband for it, he supposed.
‘What do you mean?’ she said, much startled. But he only winked again, and offered her his best hopes for the future, leaving her in no doubt—as he walked away—that he was aware of her condition.
Clearly, Charles must have told him about it.
‘What an odd sort of man Captain Sanderson is,’ said Mrs Vale, in accents of displeasure—for he had roundly ignored her during his exchange with her companion. ‘I must confess that I cannot like his manner. No doubt he is a valuable addition to the corps, but I cannot like his manner. It is not to my taste.’
‘Nor to mine,’ Dorothea agreed. She was shocked and offended, not to say astonished. That Charles should have revealed her carefully guarded secret to another was bad enough —but that Captain Sanderson should have been so favoured was intolerable. Why, she had warned Charles not to speak of her good fortune, at least until the evidence was impossible to overlook! Soon everyone would know. Her condition would be discussed. There would be vulgar speculation.
No doubt Dorothea, with her unfortunate history, would be a prime subject for such impertinence. And Charles had left her utterly exposed to it. Had he no consideration for her feelings? Was he so lacking in regard for her that he would break his word without a qualm? Dorothea looked about, but could not see him. He had disappeared into the throng. For a while she waited, her heart quickening at the approach of every scarlet uniform. Then at last she asked Mrs Vale if they might take ‘a refreshing turn around the room’.
‘In this sad crush?’ Mrs Vale said doubtfully, raising her voice a little so as to be heard against the rising clamour. ‘You must excuse me, Mrs Brande, but I cannot see that there would be any refreshment in so doing.’
‘Perhaps you would like me to fetch you a little ratafia, Mrs Brande?’ inquired the Reverend Mr Vale, who had joined his wife. ‘Or a piece of fruit?’
‘No. Thank you.’
‘This ball was mismanaged,’ said Mrs Vale fretfully. ‘There are too many people for the size of the room. Why ever was the committee prevailed upon to invite such a crowd, when only half of it comprises anyone of the least gentility?’
‘It is very stuffy,’ Dorothea conceded. The night, in fact, was exceedingly warm, and innumerable candles made the ballroom even hotter. Dorothea realised that she was perspiring inside her cream satin. She could smell tobacco smoke, but could not trace the smell to its source. Her head was beginning to ache, and her eyes to smart. She felt a flutter of anxiety deep within her.
‘I must find my husband,’ she suddenly declared. ‘I must find Captain Brande.’
‘Is he not dancing?’ inquired Mrs Vale. ‘I was sure that I saw him dancing.’ She blinked as Dorothea rose, abruptly. ‘Pray, Mrs Brande, do not attempt to cross the room alone. You are pale—I am sure you are ill. You must be accompanied.’
‘Of course you must,’ said the Reverend, extending his arm. But Mrs Vale had already called to Lieutenant Watts.
‘Lieutenant! Will you kindly attend Mrs Brande? She is ill, and wants to find her husband.’
‘With pleasure,’ the lieutenant replied. So it was that Dorothea suddenly found herself on the arm of the Governor’s aide-de-camp, without the least wanting to be there. Not that she could see anything objectionable about Lieutenant Watts, who was the mildest of men. But she knew that he was a source of irritation to Charles, and it was Charles whom she was seeking.
‘Would you like to remain here, Mrs Brande,’ the lieutenant queried, ‘while I fetch your husband?’
‘No. Thank you, I—’ Dorothea felt almost faint. ‘I should like to step outside. I should like some air.’
‘Of course.’ He conducted her out of the room with some difficulty, for the close press of bodies impeded progress. At last, however, they emerged onto the verandah, where lanterns illuminated a far less frantic scene. There were people taking the air out here, but far fewer than were crowded into the ballroom. Dorothea saw Charles at once. He was one of a number of officers gathered around a post, and he was laughing. To her chagrin, she realised that he was standing beside Captain Sanderson.
‘What the deuce—?’ said Captain Sanderson, upon sighting Lieutenant Watts. ‘Oh! Mrs Brande.’ He bowed with a flourish.
‘Mrs Brande is unwell, Sir,’ Lieutenant Watts remarked, addressing Captain Brande. But Captain Sanderson interjected, asking the lieutenant if it was true that he had designed a dove and pigeon house for the Governor’s wife, at Parramatta. Lieutenant Watts turned his placid face towards Captain Sanderson, and replied that it was.
‘A good one?’ Captain Sanderson wanted to know.
‘I believe it has met with Mrs Macquarie’s satisfaction, Sir.’
‘Excellent! Well done!’ A suggestive leer spread across Captain Sanderson’s sweating visage. ‘So would you design me a little cock and hen house for my own use, Lieutenant?’
The entire gathering laughed, with the exception of Dorothea and Lieutenant Watts. Dorothea had no idea what the Captain was talking about, though it was clearly a distasteful reference, since Charles and one or two of the others remonstrated with him, even as they laughed. There was no shift of expression in the lieutenant’s wide-set eyes. With a mild look, and in a pleasant tone, he replied: ‘I had thought that the establishment on Harrington Street, near the Three Jolly Sailors, served you well enough in that capacity, Sir.’
There was another roar of laughter.
‘Charles—’ Dorothea began, putting her hand to her head, and apologies broke out on all sides. Lieutenant Watts surrendered her arm to Captain Brande, who excused himself before leading her to a less populated stretch of the verandah. He asked her what the matter was. Her—um—condition, perhaps? He had begged her to stay at home, if she was feeling at all seedy. He had warned her that the ball would be trying to her nerves …
‘You told him,’ Dorothea interrupted.
‘What?’
‘You told Captain Sanderson. You told him. About my condition. When I expressly asked you not to tell anyone.’
Charles had the grace to look guilty. It had slipped out, he said. His pride was such that he had been bursting with the news, and it had slipped out. But he hastened to assure Dorothea that Captain Sanderson would not betray a confidence.
‘Perhaps he would not—but you did!’ Dorothea exclaimed. She was becoming increasingly upset. ‘How could you? Did you not give me your word?’
‘No, in fact. I don’t believe I—’
‘But I asked you, Charles! I specifically requested that you not tell anyone!’
‘Thea.’ He glanced over his shoulder. ‘This is hardly the time or the place.’
‘Very well, then. Take me home.’ She was on the verge of tears. ‘It is too warm. I feel ill.’
<
br /> ‘If you feel ill,’ he replied, ‘I cannot take you home. How can you ride, if you feel ill? You must have a carriage.’
‘But I want to go now!’
‘Let me arrange something.’
‘Charles—’
‘Come. We shall consult Mrs Molle.’
The tone of the evening was already beginning to trouble those of a genteel character. It was becoming rather too noisy, and liquor was being rather too freely imbibed. The Governor was making preparations to depart. The band was no longer playing. Mrs Molle was therefore quite content to take her leave, and accompany Dorothea home; a party was organised for Mrs Molle’s carriage, consisting of the Vales, Mrs Molle and Dorothea. Colonel Molle was to ride alongside, but Captain Brande said that he would ‘follow along shortly’. Certain officers had been detailed to see to it that the regimental colours be removed from the ballroom in a respectful manner, and that the celebration generally be concluded—‘rolled up’, as he put it—in a fashion that did not insult the memory of those glorious dead who had fallen in England’s defence. Charles was among the officers so detailed.
‘If I should be unaccountably delayed,’ he told Dorothea, ‘do not wait up for me, I implore you. Not that I shall be delayed, at least for more than half an hour. Just a word or two, here and there, and I shall be away. Be easy, my dear. I shall soon be with you.’
Dorothea could smell brandy on his breath, and was suspicious of his earnest assurances. Sure enough, he failed to return home before she fell asleep—a circumstance that did not wholly surprise her.
But she did not in the least expect him to be absent the entire night.
CHAPTER TWENTY
DOROTHEA SLEPT BADLY, WAKING at regular intervals. By four o’clock she was so anxious that she was unable to doze off again; the candle was guttering, in any case, and she had to light another. After rising to accomplish this task, she dressed as best she could. Then she sat in the drawing room to think.
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