The Gentleman's Garden

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘If you seek God’s help, you will not be abandoned,’ she said quickly. ‘God loves us all. Even sinners may turn to Him, if they are truly penitent, and He will save their souls.’

  ‘With assistance,’ said Daniel, and rose to his feet. Startled, Dorothea looked up at him. She may even have flinched, for he apologised—‘Yeer pardon, Ma’am’—before addressing her in a manner that, while grim and full of feeling, offered her no threat. ‘God may save my soul, but not without yeer assistance,’ he said. ‘I am safe, in this house—as safe as I can be. I know’t. I know what I owe ye, none better. If I could go to the church there, for yeer own sake, I would. Aye, just to please ye. But I cannot. Though I want to with all my heart, I cannot. Forgive me.’ His lips positively trembled. ‘Please,’ he said, ‘do not condemn me for’t. I’ll do anythin’ else. Anythin’ you ask o’ me, Ma’am.’

  Shocked, dismayed and moved despite herself, Dorothea searched for a suitable reply. At last she said: ‘I would not persecute a man because of his beliefs, Daniel.’

  ‘I know’t.’

  ‘I think that you are in error, but—but that you are also in earnest, and may come to realise how wrong you have been.’ She was upset, and angry about it. The confusion of her feelings was such that she seized passionately upon the one source of comfort in her life. I am with child, she thought. I am with child. I can be tranquil—I must be tranquil. For the child’s sake, I must turn away from the troubles threatening me, and embrace the peace that I shall make for myself.

  No more reading to convicts, she decided. No more quarrelling with Charles. The consequences are too unsettling. The child may suffer. I am not strong, and must husband my resources.

  ‘Thank you, Daniel. That will be all,’ she said.

  And, though heartsick at the prospect, she then occupied herself with the question of how best she might apologise to Captain Brande for her undutiful conduct.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  DOROTHEA DID NOT READ to Daniel the following Sunday, nor on the Sunday after that. She pleaded ill health with a self-conscious flush; by this time, however, her condition was common knowledge (Captain Sanderson, it appeared, had been unable to contain himself), and Daniel accepted her excuse without comment. Not that he would have rebuked her. Not that he could have, with justification. But for some reason she felt guilty, and more than once took to her bed of a Sunday morning, lest Daniel should think that she acted out of prejudice, or disapproval, or some obscure form of resentment. She did not want him to think ill of her. He troubled her, but not through any fault of his own. She strove to be pleasant, admiring his efforts in the garden and speaking courteously whenever she addressed him. The last thing she needed was a sullen or discontented manservant. She wanted a tranquil household, full of satisfied people. So she always approached him with a timid smile, and resolved not to think about him when he was not present—for dark imaginings seemed to accompany thoughts of Daniel Callaghan. A moment’s idle reflection on the extent of his religious schooling would lead inevitably to speculation about his childhood, his apprenticeship, his crime, his sentence, his scars, the General Hewitt, the burials at sea, the floggings, the haunted look in his eye and the lines on his face …

  Feeling her heart trip and her brow become damp, Dorothea would banish such musings. She told herself that they would profit no one. Certainly not her child, whom she felt to be obscurely threatened by them. As the weeks went by, she became more and more fiercely—almost fearfully—engaged in the protection of her unborn infant. She worked only in the morning and evening, taking care to rest during the heat of the day. She dosed herself with tonic, and walked carefully, always lowering herself into a chair rather than throwing herself upon it. She rarely set foot outside; having decided against attending church, she could not in good conscience pay any calls, and had to be satisfied with news gathered from those who visited her—Mrs Molle being the chief among them. Mrs Molle was sympathetic to Dorothea’s caution, and could find no fault with her decision to stay out of the sun. She agreed with Surgeon Forster’s diagnosis of Dorothea as a lady of ‘delicate habit’, whose constitution was not well adapted to childbirth. Dorothea, she said, must be careful not to over-exert herself, indulge in rich foods, or expose herself to the more trying conditions of a colonial existence.

  ‘Better safe than sorry,’ she declared one day, upon stopping by with a request concerning the Waterloo Subscription Fund. ‘Caution is to be commended in these circumstances. If you were to spend the next six months in bed, Mrs Brande, I would be the last to condemn you—though I do believe that you may benefit from the cooler weather, when it falls upon us. A brisk autumn day might invigorate you, as these languid summer ones never shall.’

  Dorothea agreed. She was a little discomposed by Mrs Molle’s visit, because Charles had only recently relayed to her a certain piece of gossip regarding Colonel Molle. It appeared that a doggerel verse, or pipe, had been discovered in the barracks yard, and that this pipe impugned the virtue, honour, wit and courage of Charles’s commanding officer. It accused him of being mercenary and faithless, feigning ‘with friendship’s warmth to glow’ while he plotted against the Governor. It dismissed his Egyptian medals as dross, sneered at ‘the feats he did, the enemies he slew’, laughed at his self-important mien and his graceless dancing, and attacked his bon mots as having been derived from the pages of carefully studied books—save for the occasional ‘quaint, lifeless pun/ Of all the mongrels, that to wit lay claim,/ The basest bred, that e’er profan’d the name!’

  It had finished by bidding the ‘dirty, grovelling Molle’ to burrow in his hole, like his namesake.

  Surprised that Charles had committed so much of the verse to memory—suspicious, in fact, that he appeared to derive some enjoyment from it—Dorothea had condemned the malicious production in decided terms. She had felt very strongly for Mrs Molle, knowing how the verse would be discussed avidly and exhaustively throughout New South Wales. She thought it a cowardly attack, and could not see how the Colonel had aroused such hatred in some quarters.

  But now, in Mrs Molle’s presence, she was not sure how to proceed. Should she blurt out her expressions of sympathy and support? Or should she ignore the entire subject, as being beneath the notice of a lady? Certainly Mrs Molle had not mentioned the pipe. Was she hoping, perhaps, that Dorothea was unaware of it, confined as she was to her house?

  Dorothea decided to follow Mrs Molle’s lead, and refrain from any reference to the unfortunate affair unless her friend should mention it.

  ‘How very draining the weather has been, lately,’ she therefore observed, in deference to Mrs Molle’s remark about languid summer days. ‘I find it so difficult to sleep on hot nights. There can be no relief. No refreshment. And the mosquitoes are abominable!’

  ‘The mosquitoes—and the flies,’ said Mrs Molle.

  ‘Oh! The flies. Do not speak to me about them! Can you wonder that I never go out?’

  She was interrupted by a knock at the front door. Rose, who was setting out the teacups, put down her tray and went to answer it; she returned a moment later with the news that Captain Sanderson was inquiring after Captain Brande. Of course, Captain Sanderson’s inquiry had been perfectly audible to Dorothea and her guest. Rose’s announcement had been a mere nod to the proprieties of a civilised existence. But then Captain Sanderson poked his head into the room, uninvited, and all pretence at respectable formality was at an end.

  ‘Mrs Brande,’ he said, with a bow so low and flourishing as to be almost ironic. ‘Mrs Molle! A very good afternoon to you both. In good health, I trust?’

  ‘Thank you,’ Dorothea replied coldly. Rising, she gave a stiff little bob. ‘I am well.’

  ‘A little fatigued by the heat, perhaps,’ Mrs Molle added, in more genial tones.

  ‘My word, yes! Shocking weather. Can it be that our gallant captain has been overcome?’ Seeing the ladies stare in bewilderment, Captain Sanderson spoke more plainly. ‘I come in search of
Captain Brande, with a pretty piece of news. Have you heard? Our chaplain has seized the Traveller.’

  Mrs Molle gasped. Dorothea said, ‘Captain Brande is at the barracks. He went this morning.’

  ‘What on earth do you mean, Captain?’ Mrs Molle exclaimed. ‘Mr Vale has seized the Traveller? What nonsense!’

  ‘I assure you,’ he replied. ‘I had it from Higgins, who had it from Gill, who had it from one of the Government boatmen.’ Captain Sanderson was sweating profusely in his scarlet wool. He seemed to fill the room. ‘Mr Vale has seized the Traveller as a lawful prize under the Navigation Laws. Because it is an American vessel.’

  ‘Captain Sanderson,’ Dorothea interrupted, ‘did you come from the barracks? Was my husband not there?’

  ‘Oh—ah—well, I thought him here, you see.’

  ‘But Captain,’ said Mrs Molle, ‘how can such an action be justified, now that the American war is over?’

  ‘Ask Mr Moore,’ Captain Sanderson replied. ‘I hear that he is advising our reverend friend.’

  There was a pause, and Dorothea realised that she had neglected to invite the captain to sit down. She did so, of course (she could hardly do otherwise, now that he was in the room) and Mrs Molle sank gratefully back into her own chair. But Captain Sanderson replied that he could not stay, for all that he would have wished to. Captain Brande had to be found, and now that he thought about it, the good captain was almost certainly at the hospital, undertaking a mission of mercy. He had mentioned something to that effect, earlier in the day. Captain Sanderson was a blockhead to have forgotten it.

  ‘He has a sergeant laid up there with some frightful ailment—it’s done for him, as far as I can see,’ Captain Sanderson declared, ‘and of course Brande has taken it to heart, like the good fellow he is.’

  ‘Indeed?’ said Mrs Molle. ‘Which sergeant would that be, Captain? I cannot recollect—’

  ‘Sergeant Pyke, Ma’am. Capital soldier.’

  ‘Sergeant Pyke? How unfortunate. Is he married?’

  ‘Aye. But his wife is in England.’

  ‘Then I shall undertake to visit him with comforts,’ said Mrs Molle briskly. ‘I should have been informed of his condition—I wonder that Surgeon Forster did not tell me.’

  Captain Sanderson gave a crooked smile, and backed up a step. ‘Well, now,’ he said, ‘I’ll not speak for Forster, but I’ll warrant he had his reasons. At your service, Ma’am. Mrs Brande.’ He bowed, and all but winked at Dorothea. ‘I rejoice to have found you in such glowing health. My apologies for interrupting your tea. Good day to you, ladies.’

  ‘Well!’ said Mrs Molle, after he had withdrawn. ‘What an extraordinary thing. The Reverend Mr Vale! A man of such delicate health—I would not have expected it.’

  ‘No,’ said Dorothea.

  ‘I spoke to Mrs Vale, yesterday, and she never once mentioned such a possibility. I wonder if she knew?’ Mrs Molle pondered, her cup in her hand. ‘I would be very surprised if she did, though it occurs to me that Mr Jeffery Bent expressed his doubts, not long ago, about the legality of allowing an American ship to discharge its cargo here. I wonder—could Mr Moore have shared those doubts?’

  ‘It is possible, I suppose,’ said Dorothea.

  ‘But what could have prompted Mr Vale, of all people, to have acted on such advice? Can he be hoping to retain a portion of the cargo? I daresay that would provide a motive, for he makes no secret of his, er, straitened circumstances.’ Finishing her tea, Mrs Molle set her cup down. ‘I do wonder, though, if His Excellency will allow such an action to be taken,’ she continued. ‘You will notice, Mrs Brande, that the seizure was accomplished during the Governor’s absence. I fear that, when he returns from the interior, he will not be pleased. The question is: who is legally in the right?’

  Dorothea could not express an opinion. She was probably not expected to. But she did ask Mrs Molle if she was correct in her understanding of one important fact.

  ‘If the seizure is legal,’ she inquired, ‘will Mr Vale gain possession of the ship and its cargo?’

  ‘I have no idea. One would assume something of the kind, or why even make the attempt?’ Mrs Molle rose to take her leave. ‘It occurs to me,’ she added, ‘that the Colonel may be applied to in His Excellency’s absence. I had best be on hand, for that reason. Who knows what might transpire?’ She bade Dorothea goodbye in a somewhat abrupt manner, and positively scampered from the house in her eagerness to become better acquainted with the facts of the case.

  Dorothea, for her part, sat alone for a while, musing. It seemed incredible to her that the Vales might become rich. In one stroke, Mr Vale might well have set his family forever beyond the reach of vulgar want. And it was not by means of an inheritance, or talent, or even good fortune that he had done so. He had simply seized an opportunity that had been open to every free man in New South Wales.

  Dorothea considered her own situation, and how greatly she was in need of a nursery, a nursemaid and countless other little luxuries that many people in England would have regarded as necessities. She wondered why it had not occurred to Charles that the American ship might be taken. He was an officer—surely he was sufficiently educated in military matters? If he had acted swiftly enough, it might have been Dorothea facing the prospect of a life of ease.

  But when he returned home, that evening, it soon became apparent that Mr Vale’s undertaking was by no means assured of success.

  ‘The ship has been arrested,’ Charles revealed, as they dined off a rather dubious ragout. ‘Vale and Moore went to Bent’s house with all the correct papers, and he issued a warrant. But the Old Man refuses to convene an Admiralty Court, to see the thing through.’

  ‘Why?’ asked Dorothea.

  ‘Why? Because he is a coward, and knows that the Governor will have his hide if he does so.’ Charles, on his own admission, had been scouring Sydney for information all afternoon, and spoke with authority. ‘It was a brave attempt,’ he said, ‘but I doubt its success. Not without official support.’

  ‘Surely, though, if the ship is here illegally …?’

  ‘That I cannot judge. They tell me she carries goods consigned to a Sydney merchant, and that she was cleared in Canton by the East India Company.’ Charles shrugged, then laughed. ‘To think of little Vale, carrying out such a piece of impudence! But then a man might risk a great deal for a schooner-load of tea and sugar.’

  ‘You think Mr Vale is running a risk?’ Dorothea inquired, whereupon her husband exclaimed: ‘Lord, yes! Wait until the Governor returns—then you will see some action. Vale is a military chaplain, remember. I doubt not that he will be court-martialled for this, and that Moore will lose his appointment. Ah, well …’ Charles pushed his plate away with a grimace. ‘I cannot pretend that Vale would be any great loss to the Regiment. He turns my stomach, that fellow.’

  With a sigh, Dorothea conceded that Mr Vale could indeed be a little trying. At the same time, she relinquished any lingering resentment that she may have nursed against Charles, for failing to act decisively in regards to the Traveller. It was clear that such an attempt would not have been in their best interests.

  ‘I thought that Sanderson was spinning one of his tales when first he told me,’ Charles admitted, declining with one raised hand a proffered dish of blancmange. ‘He likes to catch a fellow out, with his absurdities. Imagine my surprise, when I discovered it to be true! Miller was the same. We were both chaffing Sanderson for coming it a little too strong.’

  ‘Oh!’ said Dorothea. ‘Was Captain Miller at the hospital?’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘At the hospital. When Captain Sanderson found you.’ Looking at her husband’s blank face, Dorothea swallowed a tiny misgiving. ‘He said that you were at the hospital, visiting Sergeant Pyke—’

  ‘Oh! Yes.’ Charles wiped his mouth, and pushed back his chair as he flourished his napkin. ‘Trust Sanderson to get it wrong. Pyke was in hospital with a fever, some time ago, but he is on his feet, now. No, I wa
s in the stables all along.’

  ‘Then why did Captain Sanderson—?’

  ‘Scatter-brained fellow. He was thinking of Schaw, no doubt. Schaw spends half his time at the military hospital, prosing over the men there. Wages of sin, you know, since half of ’em are in for—’ He stopped suddenly, and coloured. ‘Well, gout, and so forth,’ he continued quickly. ‘Over-indulgence. Thank you, Private, just one more glass, if you please.’

  ‘But Charles, will you have nothing more?’ said Dorothea, as Jack obliged. ‘This blancmange is really excellent. I believe that Rose has the knack of it, now.’

  ‘Sorry, my dear, but her last attempt put me off the filthy stuff for life. In any event, I only have time for a quick tipple, and then I must be on my way. Lodge meeting, you know.’

  ‘Lodge meeting?’ Dorothea protested. ‘Charles, must you go out again?’

  ‘Our Right Worshipful will flay me if I do not, my dear.’

  ‘But it is only the Lodge. You have not been home these three evenings past. I am not comfortable here alone.’ Dorothea was haunted by the fear that she might lose her child during one of her husband’s many absences. ‘Why should you go? Can you not offer your excuses? Say that I am ill, if you must.’

  ‘And miss my chance to hear what Bent has to tell us? If anyone knows the full story of this Traveller business, it is our brave Mr Bent. I shall have it all out of him in a trice, and then you will profit from my pertinacity.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Thea, I dare not linger too long in your company, just now.’ He laid a hand on hers, stooping to look into her eyes. His own were glinting, for he was in a somewhat wayward and boisterous mood. ‘You know our situation, my dear. It is trying enough to sleep beside you—to lie so close, without being able to exchange as much as a caress—I might as well be on a rack! Would you torment me further, with one of our quiet evenings? You would not be so cruel.’