The Gentleman's Garden

by Catherine Jinks

  Dear Dr Wentworth, she wrote, you must pardon me for approaching you in this way, but I am quite at my wit’s end. Not an hour ago, Captain Brande and I were deprived of our assigned servant, Daniel Callaghan, who was arrested for being in the possession of a pocket watch and snuffbox stolen from the residence of Mr John Horsley. Exactly how he came by these items I am not, at present, able to inform you, but I do know that he is innocent of any wrongdoing. He has told me as much. Had he known that the objects were purloined, he would not have been keeping them in his pocket.

  Daniel has been in my employment for nearly four years, and not once, during that time, has he demonstrated anything but the most loyal, devoted, honest and willing service. I have found him utterly trustworthy. He is a man, I believe, of virtuous inclinations and high moral character. If he has been accused, he has been accused falsely. My distress at his being placed in such a regrettable situation has therefore been acute, and I am anxious that this dreadful mistake should be remedied as soon as possible. Can you assist me in this particular, Sir? Will you see to it that Daniel is released from gaol, at the very least? His guilt has not yet been established, and he is an entirely honourable man—I give you my undertaking that he will not attempt to abscond, if given his freedom.

  I would not be making this request of you if I did not believe you to be a fair and honourable man yourself. No doubt I have expressed myself badly—for I am ill acquainted with legal language—but I hope that I have made clear the strength of my feelings in this matter. To see an innocent man convicted of a crime would be unendurable. As an upright magistrate, you yourself would find such a prospect appalling, I am sure.

  Once again, I must entreat your forgiveness for my effrontery, and assure you of my most profound gratitude if you should discover it to be within your power to help me in any way.

  Dorothea signed her name to this request in the knowledge that she could not, at present, produce anything of a more rational or elegant nature. She was not entirely happy with its tone. Her distracted state of mind, she thought, was too evident in its clumsy construction. Nevertheless, she sealed it, and gave it to Emily, with the direction that it should be taken to the house of Dr D’Arcy Wentworth for his urgent perusal.

  She then sat down to wait.

  Her anxiety, at this point, was of the most severe kind. Shock was yielding ground to apprehension. She was tormented by thoughts of Daniel’s possible fate. Could a person be flogged for receiving stolen goods? Could a person be hanged for receiving stolen goods? She chastised herself for omitting to ask such questions of Dr Wentworth, when given the opportunity. She rose, and began to pace the floor.

  She refused to contemplate the prospect of Daniel’s enduring any form of corporal punishment. The notion was so horrible that she could not bring herself to give it any serious consideration. I shall certainly prevent that from happening, she decided—though she could not imagine how she might do so. Her more immediate concern was his imprisonment, and the effect that it might be producing. A gentle soul like Daniel would suffer unimaginably, confined among the worst of the colony’s criminals. Though large, he was not violent, and would naturally shrink from violent displays. She knew, now, that his abiding fearfulness was a product of past horrors. He was haunted by memories so black that they had cast a shadow over his entire life.

  Dorothea was desperate to preserve him from any further distress of this sort.

  Unable to busy herself with other matters while preoccupied with Daniel’s distress, she did nothing but wring her hands until Emily returned. The letter had been delivered, and a reply would be forthcoming. Nothing more could be done, at present. So Dorothea, with great strength of mind, turned her thoughts to the evening meal. With Daniel gone, Emily’s work would be doubled. She could not be expected to clean the house, fetch the water, deliver messages and take full responsibility for the preparation of her employers’ dinner. Her mistress, therefore, assumed certain duties relating to the cleaning and boiling of vegetables, the mixing of pastry, the stewing of beef and the straining of gravy.

  Not that she anticipated that she would be able to eat a thing until Daniel’s release. She was cooking only for her husband’s sake. She was afraid of him, now, because he had it in his power to use his influence against Daniel—though how exactly this might be accomplished, she was not certain. She understood very little about the law. She was ignorant of its forms and procedures. She had a notion that an accused man might be entitled to some form of legal representation, but did not know if this applied to convicts or not.

  When at last she received a reply from Dr Wentworth, shortly after three o’clock in the afternoon, she was somewhat enlightened.

  Dear Mrs Brande, the letter read, I am very sorry indeed that you should have been inconvenienced in this way. Nevertheless, it went on, little could be done to correct a situation that had been the cause of so much distress, owing to the fact that Dr Wentworth himself had ordered a warrant of apprehension to be issued against Daniel Callaghan. Certain information, it was pointed out, had been presented to Dr Wentworth by the Chief Constable. Apparently, Callaghan had been implicated in a burglary case by one Thomas Hodges. According to Hodges, it was Callaghan who had informed Hodges that Mr John Horsley would be absent from his place of residence at the time of the theft. Callaghan, in other words, had been accused of plotting the crime.

  Whether or not Hodges can be believed is debatable, Dr Wentworth wrote. But Callaghan is a convicted thief, has been seen on several occasions in the company of Tom Hodges (without your permission, I gather), and was in possession of Mr Horsley’s gold watch. All this is evidence sufficient enough to warrant Callaghan’s appearance before the Sydney Bench.

  As a magistrate serving on this bench (along with Mr John Wylde, Colonel Molle, Mr Alexander Riley, Mr Simeon Lord and Mr John T. Campbell), Dr Wentworth would of course examine the case with great care and attention. Callaghan would receive a fair hearing from Dr Wentworth—especially in view of Mrs Brande’s testimony as to the excellence of his character. But in no other way, except in his capacity as a magistrate, could Dr Wentworth be of any assistance. He was desolated that he could not further oblige Mrs Brande, whose strength of feeling did her credit, and whose sensibility he had always admired. He had the honour to remain, &c, &c.

  Upon reading the letter, Dorothea immediately sat down and scribbled a reply. She reiterated her belief in Daniel’s innocence. She assured Dr Wentworth that she had been fully aware of Daniel’s meetings with Hodges, which had come about in consequence of the debt of gratitude that Daniel owed his friend. Daniel believes that Tom Hodges saved his life, she wrote. Why Hodges should now be determined to ruin the same life, I cannot imagine—but it is certain that he has lied, perhaps to save himself. If Daniel ever told him that Mr Horsley was dining with us, it would have been with the most innocent of intentions, I assure you. Daniel is incapable of guile.

  Dorothea went on to declare that she would not rest until Daniel was released from prison. How, in Dr Wentworth’s opinion, could this best be accomplished? By what means could his freedom be secured, at least until he should appear before the Sydney Bench? What course did Dr Wentworth recommend, with regard to attorneys, bail and matters of that description?

  Emily was still delivering this communication to Dr Wentworth when Charles returned home, and discovered his wife making up a pie.

  ‘Ah,’ he said, from the kitchen door. Dorothea looked up. Having noted his presence, she looked down again.

  The sight of his face was not one that gave her any pleasure.

  ‘Forgive me,’ he continued, clearing his throat. ‘I should not —I was at fault, earlier. I should not have used you so roughly.’

  Dorothea said nothing. She kept her gaze fixed on her busy, floury hands.

  ‘Where is Emily?’ her husband inquired, in tentative accents.

  ‘Out. She will be back soon.’

  ‘It is unfortunate that you should be so engaged.’ He
nodded at the pastry, whereupon Dorothea replied: ‘Yes. If Daniel were here, there would be no need for it.’

  ‘I shall make inquiries tomorrow about engaging a new manservant. As a temporary measure—until we leave.’

  ‘I do not want a new manservant.’ Dorothea spoke evenly, but pressed her pastry into the pie dish with unnecessary force. ‘I want Daniel.’

  There was a brief silence. When at last Charles spoke, his voice was muffled.

  ‘That is out of the question, as you know.’

  ‘As long as he is in gaol, it is out of the question. But he will not remain there for long. Daniel is innocent.’

  Having made this declaration, Dorothea braced herself for a loud response. Glancing up, she saw Charles redden. But he remained surprisingly calm.

  ‘Well—we shall soon see,’ he replied, after a pause.

  ‘You must tell Colonel Molle that Daniel has an excellent character, and that you do not believe him to be capable of wrongdoing.’

  ‘Colonel Molle?’ Charles frowned. ‘Why? What has he to do with it?’

  ‘He is a magistrate, is he not? On the Sydney Bench?’ As her husband’s eyes narrowed, Dorothea hastened to explain herself. (Should he ever learn that she had written to Dr D’Arcy Wentworth, her life would not be worth living.) ‘Mrs Molle told me so,’ she said—and it was not exactly a lie. Mrs Molle had spoken often, and with pride, of her husband’s various appointments.

  Charles grunted. ‘The Old Man was a magistrate,’ he conceded, ‘but will not be a magistrate for very much longer. Erskine was sworn in as Lieutenant Governor, today. I believe that he is bound to take the Old Man’s place on the Sydney Bench.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dorothea.

  ‘In any event, I have no intention of bringing this sordid matter to the Colonel’s attention. Why should I?’

  Dorothea stared at him. He was a little sunburned across the nose and cheeks. His hair was tousled, but fell naturally into sweeping, romantic shapes. His eyes were intensely blue.

  She regarded him as she might have regarded a stranger.

  ‘It is not a sordid matter,’ she said quietly. ‘It is a matter of the very gravest importance.’

  Charles’s colour flared again, but he gave an unconvincing little laugh.

  ‘My dear,’ he replied, ‘if you had more with which to occupy yourself, you would not be so concerned about a common thief.’

  ‘I am concerned about justice, Charles. Are not you?’ She really wanted to know. She peered at him anxiously. She searched his face. ‘Can you not—surely you must see the truth? In your heart? Surely, after all these years, you must have some appreciation of the man who has served you so faithfully?’ As the muscles of his jaw worked, she added, with a catch in her voice: ‘You must know, Charles. You must know that he merits our protection. Why do you withhold it? Why are you so unreasonable?’

  No reply was forthcoming. Instead, Charles turned on his heel, and strode out the door.

  Dorothea did not attempt to pursue him.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  DOROTHEA SPENT A PERFECTLY wretched evening in her husband’s company. She was terrified that Dr Wentworth’s next communication would arrive, and cause Charles to lose his temper. Then, upon the hour growing too late to admit of such a possibility, her anxiety about Dr Wentworth’s letter was displaced by her anxiety about Daniel. She was sick with worry. It was fortunate indeed that Charles seemed disinclined to talk, because Dorothea could not have conversed in a coherent manner. She was made almost frantic by the thought of Daniel enduring a night in gaol. She wanted to plead with her husband—to shout at him—to insist upon his cooperation. But breathing deeply, she reminded herself that she had determined to accompany this man to India. If their association was to continue, they must not have occasion to offer each other any unforgiveable insults.

  She hardly slept that night. In the morning, she contained herself until her husband had taken his leave, grateful that their shortage of staff allowed her to escape into the kitchen at regular intervals during breakfast. Then, while Emily occupied herself with the broom and the bed linen, Dorothea sought distraction among the cooking pots. She derived a certain satisfaction from chopping carrots with a large, sharp knife. And as long as she refrained from glancing into the corner where Daniel’s possessions still lay, she was able to keep her nerves steady.

  They received a punishing blow, however, when Dr Wentworth’s letter arrived.

  The tone of this communication was waspish, to say the least. Dr Wentworth apologised to Mrs Brande for not replying sooner, but he was very much occupied, at present, with matters relating to a General Court Martial that was to be assembled that morning—was Mrs Brande, perhaps, unaware of these circumstances? Colonel Molle had brought certain charges against Dr Wentworth—had Mrs Brande not heard? Naturally, Dr Wentworth felt obliged to defend himself against these charges with due vigour, and could perhaps be excused for being so negligent a correspondent.

  As to freeing Callaghan from gaol, Dr Wentworth wrote, if he is innocent, as you say, then the most effective means by which this might be accomplished is a speedy trial. I shall therefore make arrangements that his case be heard with all expedition.

  Dr Wentworth added that, while convict defendants did not, as a rule, obtain legal representation for cases heard before an inferior Court of Criminal Jurisdiction, they were encouraged to speak in their own defence, and to carry out a close and careful cross-examination of witnesses.

  You need not fear, Dr Wentworth concluded, that Callaghan will be in any way disadvantaged when he appears before the Sydney Bench. I will ensure that my fellow magistrates are fully acquainted with your feelings on the matter. But you should remain open, Mrs Brande, to the possibility that your kind heart has led you astray. If your hopes are too high, your disappointment—if it comes—will be far more profound.

  Having delivered himself of this chilling piece of advice, Dr Wentworth had finished his letter with the usual salutations, and with a signature that, in its irregular appearance, bore testimony to his disturbed state of mind.

  Dorothea stared at it blankly.

  ‘Ma’am?’ said Emily, who had been hovering at her side since the dismissal of Dr Wentworth’s messenger. ‘Pardon me—Ma’am?’

  ‘What?’ Dorothea spoke sharply. She put her hand to her brow. Was this grudging note the only assurance that was to be granted her? ‘What is it?’

  ‘Ma’am, d’you think—could we give Daniel ’is cloes?’

  ‘His what?’

  ‘’Is jacket, Ma’am. ’Is—’is property, like.’

  ‘Oh!’ Dorothea looked at the girl with slowly dawning comprehension. Daniel’s clothes—of course. The thought of restoring them to their owner had never even crossed her mind. ‘Are you asking if they could be taken to the gaol?’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am. Could they?’

  ‘I—I am not sure.’ Dorothea contemplated the possibility of approaching the gaol herself, before shrinking from the prospect with a barely concealed shudder. No. It was out of the question.

  But what if Daniel should require his jacket? His stockings?

  ‘Take them,’ she said impulsively. ‘Take them yourself, and tell him—tell him—’ Tell him what? Dorothea swallowed. ‘Tell him that I shall not rest until he is out of there,’ she quavered. ‘Tell him that he will soon be freed.’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Wait. You should take money.’ Dorothea hurried into her bed chamber, where she retrieved a little fifteen-pence coin—the dump from a Spanish silver dollar. She gave it to Emily. ‘If you have to bribe your way in, do it,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’

  ‘Tell Daniel that he must not despair. Tell him to be of good courage, and all will be well. Ask him if he requires anything more. Hurry, now. Go. As quick as you can.’

  Emily went. Dorothea, abandoning her beef tongue, repaired to the drawing room, where she sat down and wrote letters. She wrote le
tters to Mr Wylde, Mr Riley, Mr Lord, Mr Campbell, Colonel Molle and Colonel Erskine. She praised Daniel’s character, and insisted on his blamelessness. She flattered the magistrates, and appealed to their sense of justice. She reminded them that God was all-seeing.

  By the time she had written these letters, rewritten them, copied them out, sealed them and addressed them, Emily had returned.

  ‘Well?’ Dorothea demanded. Upon hearing her maidservant’s step outside, she had rushed to admit the girl into the house. ‘Did you see him?’

  ‘No, Ma’am.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘They took the cloes, and the money, and they turned me away.’

  ‘But this is monstrous!’

  ‘He was an ugly feller,’ Emily conceded. ‘The feller that took it all. I told ’im what you told me, Ma’am, and ’e came back with a message. From Daniel, like.’

  ‘What message?’

  Emily closed her eyes, as if searching her memory. Then she began to recite the brief communication that had been offered her.

  ‘I was to tell you,’ she said slowly, ‘as ’ow Daniel would never ’ave betrayed your trust, not for no one or nothing, and ’ow you wasn’t to concern yourself, God bless you, because ’e was well and ’ad no complaints.’ Emily opened her eyes. ‘That’s all, Ma’am,’ she finished.

  Dorothea swallowed. It was some time before she could speak again.

  ‘Did he—did he receive his clothes?’

  ‘Yes, Ma’am.’ The girl’s tone was doubtful. ‘Leastways, that’s what yon feller said.’

  ‘I have another errand for you, Emily.’ Dorothea propelled her maidservant into the drawing room, where she filled the girl’s hands with sheets of paper, folded and sealed. ‘You must deliver these letters. This one is to go to Mr Wylde, this one to Mr Riley, this one to Mr Lord …’ She explained where each letter was directed, and sent Emily off with a pat and a word of praise. Then she sat down in the kitchen to collect herself.