Thanks to Cromwell’s efforts I was able to persuade only three of the ladies to overcome their shyness and have their daguerreotypes taken, while even these required no little persuasion. I confess I found it disappointing that they were not wearing some splendid tribal costume (I had presumed they would), as their clothes were dreary indeed, being the sort of garments any poor whites might wear. Their long clay pipes added novelty to the scene, however—one could hardly have imagined a less ladylike habit—and as they took their places I encouraged them to hold these prominently upon their laps. I further suggested that Jablon should afterwards take separate poses of each female, so that as full a memorial as possible be preserved.
Having seen the matter almost to completion, I could not linger further, as I felt I had greatly neglected my duties as hostess: already I could hear voices sailing over the screen of potted plants, informing me that the Nativity drama had begun. I had no wish to seem ill-mannered by my absence, and so made my way about the screen of potted plants with some discretion. Glancing up, I saw that Mr. Phelps, the barrister, Mr. Carey, the harbourmaster, and Captain Dacre of the militia had just taken their places upon the stages—all looking most splendid, if a little hot, in their simple shepherds’ costumes—where they were being welcomed by Mr. Henderson of the Hobart Bank, who was our Joseph. I was taking my place at the back of the audience when I heard a curious crashing sound from behind me. This was followed almost at once by a sudden cry. Something about this exclamation suggested more than mere mishap, and so, greatly perturbed, I retraced my steps.
What a sad and terrible scene awaited me. The woman Mary lay still upon the ground, her friends gathered about her, their expressions suggesting only too well their great distress. Also crouched by her side was Dr. Potter, Mr. Wilson’s colleague. Seeing my questioning look, he gave a briefest shake of his head.
‘‘I believe her heart has failed.’’
Mr. Eldridge shook his head at this unhappiest circumstance, which he must have met all too often in recent years. I felt myself suddenly struck with the saddest reflections. How suddenly the hand of fate falls among us! How near, every instant, as we blindly go about our lives, lost in the comfort of routine, lurks the icy embrace of death! One instant this poor woman was stood among us, filled with life, the next she had been cruelly snatched away. My heart was quite breaking for the poor blacks, and I was a little sorry even for the hateful Cromwell as he sat beside his mother, uttering a kind of unbelieving moan, and repeatedly clutching at her arm, as if he believed he might yet call her awake once again.
Not that all present were filled with grief It may seem hard to credit, but even now, in the midst of such sorrow, there was one whose only thought was to complain, and even to throw blame upon the very poor creature who had been taken from us.
‘‘It is broken,’’ whined Jablon, examining his dreary apparatus, which I saw lay upon the ground near poor Mary. ‘‘She did it.’’
I could hardly credit his words. ‘‘How dare you say such a thing?’’
‘‘I saw her through the lens. She reached out to push it over, then pof, she fell.’’
‘‘Your remark is both preposterous and untrue,’’ I informed him curtly. Even then he showed no remorse, embroiling himself in study of his device. The aborigines began moaning to themselves in a most touching manner, though, a little to my surprise, they did not protest their grief noisily—in the manner of some Mediterranean people—but seemed somehow to close in upon themselves, their faces becoming sadly private. Nevertheless, it appeared their cries had caught the attention of the main gathering, as I became aware that the actors in the Nativity play had fallen silent, and curious faces were peering round the bushes. Among the first of these, I was glad to see, was dear Gerald. He nodded gravely as I explained what had occurred.
‘‘How dreadfully sad.’’
‘‘Please get the carriages now,’’ demanded the half-caste, abruptly returning to his former ill manners. ‘‘We must go back. We will take her with us.’’
Mr. Wilson’s surgeon colleague, who had covered Mary’s face with her shawl, got to his feet. ‘‘Surely it would be more correct for her to be taken to the hospital.’’
Gerald gave a nod. ‘‘I dare say she should.’’
The half-caste was, as ever, determined to make himself difficult. ‘‘She is ours. Give her to us.’’
‘‘Do not worry yourself’’ Mr. Eldridge told him, casting a reassuring glance towards Gerald. ‘‘I am sure she shall be returned to you soon enough.’’ Despite the man’s tainted reputation, I must say that I had found him most helpful.
Ignoring Cromwell, I made every effort to persuade the true blacks to remain a while, so we might endeavour to offer them what comfort we could in their distress, but it was to no avail, and they showed great impatience to leave this sad scene. Reluctantly I called the carriages to be brought, and in a moment their little party was being hurried away. Glancing at their table, cakes still unfinished, tea not yet drunk, it was impossible not to be filled with the most tender and affecting feelings.
The fact remained, however, that the larger gathering was far from finished. The Nativity play was resumed, receiving warm applause, and, despite this terrible event that had occurred, our guests soldiered bravely on with their chatter and eating. I did so myself feeling certain that poor Mary—who had seemed a most spirited creature—would have wished nothing else. It was some time before our last visitor took his leave, and I am pleased to recount that, poor Mary aside, the party was not without success. I was kept so busy, indeed, that I was quite unable to apprise myself of what arrangements had been made with her regard.
‘‘We put her in the storeroom,’’ explained the housekeeper, Mrs. Murray. ‘‘We took her round the garden, so no one saw.’’
It seemed a sensible choice, being both spacious and cool. ‘‘The hospital has been informed?’’
‘‘A cart is expected this evening.’’
It was then that there occurred to me a thought. ‘‘Is Monsieur Jablon still here?’’
Mrs. Murray thought she had seen him by the blacks’ tea table, and thus I found him, still fiddling with his device. I endeavoured to cast aside his earlier shameful behaviour, considering that this might merely have been the consequence of his distress that the machine had become damaged.
‘‘Is it usable?’’ I asked.
He merely shrugged. I led him back to the storeroom. If Mary had shown a shyness towards having her likeness taken, I had no doubt that, once she had seen portraits of her friends, she would have quite insisted upon having one made also of herself It seemed nothing less than my duty to try and create some enduring memorial to this most unfortunate creature, who had been so swiftly taken from us: to capture this grand old lady, even at this instant of her being taken from this world. Why, in a terrible way this seemed a remembrance all the more sadly pertinent, seeing as death was creeping ever closer to each last member of her most unhappy race.
‘‘I will try,’’ Monsieur Jablon agreed, ‘‘though I cannot say if it will work.’’
One of the legs of the device had been snapped but he was able to prop it up with a sack of potatoes, and soon he was busying himself with the rituals of his calling: opening the doors wide to admit sufficient light, then fiddling with various sealed containers and pieces of glass, and vanishing beneath the curtain of material. In the meantime I called two of the gardeners to arrange poor Mary into a sitting posture, which I suggested should be done by leaning her against an unseen box of apples. As soon as they attempted this, however, a new difficulty became apparent.
‘‘There’s no moving her,’’ the head gardener insisted. ‘‘She’s hard like a board.’’
Almost at the same moment there emerged from the mysterious box a host of Gallic curses. ‘‘It is quite broken,’’ Jablon declared grimly as he emerged to the world once more.
It was, I confess, a great disappointment to me, most of all because I
could not help but feel I had failed poor dear Mary.
Mrs. Emily Seaton
DECEMBER 1857
I WAS SURPRISED to hear Nicholas’ step in the hallway. He was not due back from the hospital until the evening.
‘‘I can only stay a moment, Emily,’’ he explained, a little breathless. ‘‘The fact is I have a great favour to ask. You recall the doctor we met at the party at Government House? The one who I knew as a student? Potter?’’ He broke into a smile. Then again, Nicholas always delighted in recalling his years of learning in London: his friends and the many pranks—some more than a little mischievous—that they would play on one another. ‘‘He called at the hospital this morning and said how much he wanted to meet us again. The difficulty is that he’s going away very shortly, and so I thought it was only right I should ask if he would come and dine with us this evening. It seemed such a shame if he should depart without us having a chance to talk, and remember old times.’’ A nervous look came into Nicholas’ eyes. ‘‘I know that gives you hardly any time to prepare.’’
I found it impossible to feel angry with Nicholas. ‘‘Don’t you worry. I shall manage somehow.’’
His hesitancy remained. ‘‘I rather hoped you might persuade Cook to try her best. I would so like to give a proper impression. The fact is Potter’s become quite an eminent fellow.’’
The man had chosen an awkward time to arrive, certainly: Christmas being almost upon us, housekeeping money was short. I had no intention, however, of permitting our guest to think us paupers. ‘‘It will not be easy,’’ I told him, so my efforts would not be taken too much for granted, ‘‘but I will see what can be done.’’
His face quite lit up at my words. Nicholas always has a delightful transparency about his expressions. ‘‘I’ll go and tell Dobbs to give the carriage a thorough clean. I thought I might bring him from his lodgings myself so I can give him a little tour of the town, and perhaps point out a few places of interest. He may find himself surprised to discover we are more sophisticated than he supposes.’’
I was happy enough to set about the preparations, rushed though these were. The children had to look their best, naturally, which entailed a good deal of trouble, with complaints as to hair combing and threats of tears when something pinched. Matters were not helped by Nicholas being late, as the delay caused them to become restless, and all the while my attention was distracted by the need to keep an eye on Cook, who, if left to herself can be more than a little erratic in her methods. Little Frances managed to dip her sleeve in the applesauce—though fortunately it wiped off cleanly enough—while Toby nearly caused a disaster, pushing Louisa so she almost tripped up Cook just as she was carrying the baked fish from the oven, and this at the very moment when I could hear the carriage drawing up outside. There was barely time to scold him, then to propel them all into the parlour and arrange them in something like a neat line, while Cook flung off her fish-stained apron, straightened her cap and ran to the door.
Nicholas quite beamed as he led Dr. Potter into the room. I must confess, however, that I found myself feeling rather less warm towards our guest. Even at the gathering at Government House I had noticed he was possessed by a curious reticence, while this seemed now more evident, making his cheerful greetings appear all a little forced. Even his compliments seemed somehow too generous, as, in that curious stifled voice of his, he praised by turns first the children, then myself next the parlour and furnishings, and finally, once the children had been sent to bed and we took our places at dinner, every item of food that appeared before him, even including Cook’s souffle' that had risen so disappointingly. If I found this a little excessive, still I was pleased enough to see its effect upon Nicholas, who quite delighted in every word.
Conversation soon turned to student days, as I supposed it must, and all manner of curious nicknames were bandied back and forth. Much of what was said meant little to me, and yet I could not help but notice that, though they clearly had acquaintances in common, the two of them seemed not to have known one another as well as I had supposed, there being as much questioning—which lodgings, which lecturers, which friends—as remembrance. This did not seem to reduce the pleasure each found in their recollections, however, and the evening proved a great success, at least until Dr. Potter caused the mood to be suddenly altered.
‘‘D’you remember old Edwards?’’ he asked. ‘‘The ogre?’’
Nicholas laughed, falling into a creaky voice that I supposed must be an impersonation of the man. ‘‘That is not an answer, that is a disgrace to the name of Hippocrates.’’
Potter broke into a mighty guffaw, though there was something about his laugh—as with so much else about the man—that seemed not entirely sincere. ‘‘I saw him not long before we left London. I’m sure he mentioned your name, and how able you had been.’’
Nicholas’ eyes quite lit up.
‘‘He’ll have been surprised you abandoned us, and slipped away from London. Nor would he be the only one.’’
Why could he not have simply kept quiet? Nicholas had been so enjoying himself and now a sad look came into his eyes. He rarely spoke of the months following the completion of his studies but I knew they had been painful ones. To others, who had family money and connections on their side, it would have been no great disaster that a position had not been found, as they could have established a practice of their own, but poor Nicholas had no such advantages and had struggled even to complete his training. To take a post as surgeon aboard a transport ship had been all but forced upon him. In the event, of course, matters had ended well enough, but still the subject was hurtful. I threw our guest a cool look.
He seemed oblivious. ‘‘You were wise enough to go, mind. After all, if you had remained in London how ever would you have met the delightful Emily?’’ He scrutinized his fish and carefully picked out a tiny bone. ‘‘But if you returned now I’m sure you would not be allowed to escape so easily.’’
Nicholas regarded him thoughtfully. ‘‘You think so?’’
‘‘I know so. We were thrown upon the world at a most difficult time. Why, if you ever thought of coming back I’d be only too happy to help you myself’’ He then turned to myself ‘‘What d’you say, Mrs. Seaton? How would you like to be a London doctor’s wife?’’
I was beginning to tire of the sound of his voice. ‘‘In truth, Dr. Potter, I am most content as I am. This is my home.’’
‘‘Quite so, quite so.’’ He laughed, clapping his hands in brief applause, though hardly had he done so when he began to regale us with a lengthy account of London, and how it had changed—or rather improved—since Nicholas’ student days. We were told of new theatre plays, of new shops, restaurants and railway stations, of parks where the fashionable would walk, and race meetings where they would gamble. Most of all we were told of the many grand people Dr. Potter was acquainted with, from actors and doctors and members of Parliament even to minor members of the royal family. All the while I could see Nicholas listening entranced. I felt myself increasingly uneasy. I had not the slightest wish to go to London. All of a sudden this man Potter, who I had never liked, and who was eating our food, was threatening to create a division between us—a distance—when there had been none before.
I was, altogether, more than ready when Cook carried away the dessert bowls and our guest finally showed a willingness to leave. ‘‘Mrs. Seaton, I am indebted to you for a most delightful evening.’’
‘‘I’ll drive you back to your lodgings,’’ Nicholas offered.
‘‘You will have to get up early tomorrow,’’ I reminded him, having no wish to see him spend more time with the man. ‘‘Perhaps I should call Dobbs,’’
‘‘Dobbs will be fast asleep by now. Besides, we may talk a little more on the way.’’
Dr. Potter seemed greatly pleased by the offer. ‘‘Are you sure? That would be so very kind.’’
I did not linger but retired directly. I know it was no more than a quarter of an
hour’s journey to Potter’s lodgings, which were close to the harbour, and so, lying abed trying to catch sleep—my mind astir with dismal thoughts of domestic upheaval and ships lost in storms—I was surprised to see nearly an hour had passed, though Nicholas had not returned. Surprise quickly became alarm, and soon I could not rid my mind of thoughts of the horse, which could be skittish, rearing up and hurling the little carriage upon its side, leaving poor Nicholas lying forgotten by some nighttime wayside. As further moments passed, and still he did not appear, I became troubled by new fears. I did not trust this man Potter. What if he had sought to persuade Nicholas into some terrible foolishness; some attempt to revisit the excesses of student times? Nearby the harbour were several taverns of lowest reputation, where violence and drunkenness were commonplace. There was worse, too. I had seen the women who waited in doorways, even in daylight hours, dressed in their coarse finery, their cheap lace and stockings, hoping to prey upon good men. Nicholas would never so much as glance at such females, I told myself and yet it was hard not to be troubled, especially having seen the awe with which he regarded Potter.
I was, altogether, more than a little pleased when I finally heard a horse drawing up outside the house. Such relief was short-lived, however, as there followed not the friendly sound of a key in the lock, but a loud knocking. Hurrying down, I reached the door before Cook and found a rough-looking fellow stood waiting.
‘‘Mrs. Seaton? I have a note for you.’’
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