In her grieving mother’s shrouds, Winnie wore a mourning brooch woven from strands of Richard’s hair. But Isobel could not stop thinking of the opal dragonfly; it hovered in her mind, a malignant shadow over this unforeseen calamity. When only six months later Winnie was laid low with severe dysentery, Isobel heard the ominous thrum of the dragonfly again, its wings reverberating like a tocsin inside her head.
The room was still darkened when Isobel entered. She carried a bowl, a jug of warm water and a flannel. In the bed, Winifred lay half-dozing, clutching the coverlet. On the bedside chair was Isobel’s journal, splayed cover up. Isobel had sat here all night keeping vigil by the light of an oil lamp. In the bottom corner of some pages she had sketched her mother’s face in sweet repose. Thankfully her mama’s sleep had been peaceful. But the odour of sickness and memory of pain still clung to the room that had been her prison for the last three weeks.
Winnie’s eyes fluttered open. ‘Open the curtains a little, please.’
She was too ashamed for any of the servants to see her in this state. The Major visited regularly but had no stomach for the indignities of the sickroom, so it had fallen to her daughters to nurse her. It was no easy task. In the depths of delirium, she wept freely, confessing her fears for her family if she died and begging her husband (in his absence) to ‘be patient with the children and protect them from worry’.
Isobel parted the drapes. A shaft of sunlight relieved the chamber’s gloom. She also opened the window a touch to let in a waft of spring air and the familiar sounds of the garden and distant harbour. Isobel hoped these comforting reminders of the everyday world would revive her mother’s spirits. She refused to countenance the possibility of her mother’s death. She knew it was wrong but last night she had used her prayers to bargain with God that he may judge the Macleods worthy of more good fortune. Whatever her father’s or siblings’ sins may be (as well as her own), surely her mother’s goodness cancelled all the others out?
She poured warm water into the basin and washed her mother’s face and hands. Winnie flinched as Isobel offered her a sip of cool water from a tumbler, her lips parched and cracked. ‘Try to take some,’ Isobel murmured. Over the last week the abdominal pains had worsened. Winnie had lost more weight and her face was sharpened by hunger and anguish.
Dr Finch had visited again yesterday and prescribed an increased dose of Logwood decoction with a few raspberry leaves and drops of laudanum. ‘The bloody flux has her in its grip,’ he had told the Major, ‘but she is strong. I am confident she will make a full recovery.’
‘You slept soundly,’ chirped Isobel as cheerily as she could manage.
Winnie beckoned her to come closer. ‘Close the door,’ she whispered, as though someone might overhear them. ‘I have something I want to give you.’
Isobel hoped her mother was not delirious again. ‘What is it, Mama?’
‘I have something…I have…something.’ Winnie became insistent and a little agitated. She tried to pull back the coverlet and sit up but the effort defeated her. She appeared weaker, overcome with exhaustion.
‘Please rest, Mama,’ Isobel insisted gently. ‘I’ll get it.’
Winnie pointed to the cedar dresser. ‘The green box.’
Isobel did her mother’s bidding, closing the bedroom door and fetching Winnie’s favourite jewellery box from the dresser. It was embossed silver inlaid with malachite. Her mother caressed its lid for a moment, which seemed to calm her. She motioned for Isobel to sit beside her. ‘Listen, there is something very important I have to tell you. But you must promise me something first.’
‘What is it, Mama?’
‘You must promise me not to cry.’
Isobel nodded. Her face was still but her spirit was greatly vexed.
‘Last night I had a dream. A beautiful dream. You and I were having our picnic in the grotto down by the harbour. For your thirteenth birthday, remember?’
Isobel nodded again. She could feel her chest tighten and tears spring into her eyes. But she had promised. She would not cry.
‘Such a clear sky. And so many boats. And you with your cherry lollipops. And then across the bay I saw a light coming towards us. As bright as the sun. Brighter. And in this light I saw the most beautiful thing of all. An angel.’
A sob broke from Isobel’s mouth. ‘Oh, Mama, no.’
‘Please don’t be sad, my sweet. I know this is hard. But don’t you see? This is a sign of God’s mercy. And His love. He is preparing me for what is to come.’
Isobel could not speak. She looked down, two tears dropping into her lap. Winnie stroked her daughter’s solemn face. She then opened the lid of her jewellery box and closed her hand around something hidden inside. Then Winnie opened her hand. There in her palm lay the opal dragonfly. ‘I want to give this to you, my love. As a memento. A reminder of a mother’s love. So you will think of me when I am gone.’ Isobel could contain her tears no longer. She clasped her mother’s hands and sobbed like a child. ‘There, there, my little Izzie. You will not be alone. You have your sisters and brothers, and your father to protect you. And you will have me to watch over you. Listen.’
Isobel wiped the tears from her face and looked at her mother.
‘I want to give you this but…I am afraid to do so. There is something…I have such strange dreams,’ she said, looking through Isobel as if at a phantom hovering just past her shoulder. ‘Terrible dreams, some of them. Unimaginable. And then there are others of such beauty that you would weep to see them. They show me…I do not understand what they show me. Or where they come from. They began when your father gave me this gift.’
Winnie sighed deeply, her face in a spasm of doubt.
‘I wish I knew what to do. I believe this…’ She held the dragonfly up to the sunlight that poured in at the window. Its effulgence fixed Isobel’s eye—so beautiful, so mysterious. ‘I believe it is a special gift, you see,’ said Winnie, ‘A powerful gift. But only for one who has a pure heart. It would be fatal for a heart filled with bitterness or anger…’
Winnie’s eyes closed for a moment as if to shut out a vision of horror. She opened them again and smiled at her daughter, but bravely now as if fighting against a surge of pain, a torment. She spoke with a desperate urgency. ‘But you must promise me something, Isobel. This is to be kept safe by you. No one else. Not your father. Not your sisters. Grace, especially. I know how much she has her heart set on it. She must never have it.’
What was the terrible secret of this brooch that Winnie could not name? Isobel noticed her mother’s attention wander and her face and hands become agitated. Had the delirium returned or had it never left?
‘If this powerful gift should ever cause you—or anyone you love—pain or suffering, then throw it away! Promise me you will do this. Cast it into the sea, bury it somewhere secret. Promise me that.’
Winnie’s eyes darted about in bewilderment, her breathing now sharp and rapid. She seemed gripped by a terrible panic, her thoughts increasingly addled and distressful to her. ‘Maybe this is what I should have done. Maybe I should do it now. Oh, please, Isobel my love, destroy it, do what I could not do…’
‘Please don’t upset yourself, Mama,’ said Isobel, having no idea what it was she should promise to assuage her mother’s fears. ‘Please calm yourself.’
Winnie closed her eyes again and slipped back into her half-sleeping, half-waking limbo. Isobel held the opal dragonfly in her hand. Was it her mother’s love token to Isobel as it had been the Major’s to his wife? If it did possess some strange power, how would she ever know? Her mother seemed torn between two convictions: that the opal dragonfly was a gift that would help her daughter and a curse that might bring her harm.
Isobel kissed her mother’s face.
‘I will do as you ask,’ she said, hoping that when the time came she would know the right path to choose. ‘Sleep, now, Mama. Sleep.’
ISOBEL
SEPTEMBER 1851 TO JULY 1853
Chapter
10
A MATTER OF HONOUR
27 SEPTEMBER 1851 TO OCTOBER 1851
A carriage bore Papa’s inert body back to Rosemount. Dr Finch had staunched the wound in his neck but the Major had still lost a great deal of blood. The doctor stayed for several hours, administering leeches and poultices, grinding powders to assuage the Major’s pain and the onset of his fever. He was laid out in a camp bed made up in the library as Dr Finch advised against taking him upstairs. ‘He is too weak. Best keep him down here.’
Isobel returned from the duel with Lieutenant Manning. When she had run onto the duelling ground between the Major and his adversary, the group of men all about had exploded with rage, screaming a torrent of the vilest abuse at her: ‘What is the meaning of this outrage?’ ‘The girl is plainly a lunatic!’ ‘Brazen hussy!’ ‘She-devil!’ The cruel words rained down like physical blows until Lieutenant Manning stepped in and wrapped his cloak about the shivering, weeping young woman who lay prostrate in the mud.
‘Gentlemen, gentlemen, please! This is Sir Angus’s youngest daughter,’ implored the young officer. ‘She is obviously quite overcome.’
Dr Finch knelt at the Major’s side, urgently attending to his wounds. ‘The girl is in shock,’ he told the lieutenant. ‘Give her these salts and take her back to Rosemount at once. We will follow shortly.’
Mr Davidson, his head now bandaged by his own physician, came forward. ‘I hope this concludes the matter. Can I assume that honour has been satisfied?’
‘I think you can,’ replied Lieutenant Manning.
Mr Davidson turned to leave. He looked back at Isobel, still on the ground, her clothes spattered, her hair in disarray, her face red raw with weeping. ‘Miss Macleod, I don’t care what any of these gentlemen may think,’ he said pointing at the circle of onlookers. ‘I believe what you did today was courageous. I apologise that you had to witness this. And I wish your father a speedy recovery.’ With that, he doffed his damaged bell-topper and walked away with his seconds and other associates towards the paperbark grove.
Isobel’s reception at the house was as unpleasant as she might have feared. She had hurried upstairs on her return and changed into her normal clothes, but not before Grace had seen her in the driveway alighting from a carriage with Lieutenant Manning. Meanwhile the officer explained to Grace and Anna the circumstances of their unexpected arrival. When the lieutenant had withdrawn and while Dr Finch attended their father in the library, Grace and Anna summoned Isobel to speak with them in the drawing room.
‘You will no doubt be gratified to learn that I have dismissed James this morning for the part he has played in the humiliation of our family,’ Grace began. ‘He is packing his bags as we speak. I understand that Sarah was complicit in this travesty and chooses to go with him. They shall have no references from me or Papa.’
Isobel’s face flushed red. She knew Grace had done this to wound her but she did not feel any guilt on this score. Yes, she had ordered James to prepare her a horse but he had volunteered to accompany her to the duelling ground. And she also knew that he and Sarah had no need of references as they sought their fortune at Bathurst. She wished them well.
‘As for your part in this disgraceful affair, I am at a loss for words,’ Grace continued. ‘The lieutenant has described your behaviour to me in some detail. I cannot imagine what our dear mother would have made of such a performance! She would be astonished that she had raised a daughter with so little modesty, propriety and respect for her betters.’
Isobel’s face burned with shame but also anger at her sister’s calculated unkindness. To speculate about her mother’s disappointment in her: that was low, exceedingly low.
‘Is Father so childish, in your view, that he cannot conduct his own affairs?’ cried Anna, pacing in front of the mantelpiece. ‘You’ve made him the laughing stock of the colony. And us.’
Isobel stared at her feet. She tightened her jaw in defiance. She had endured so much these last few years. She would surely endure this. Her sisters were such hypocrites. They did not love her father as she did. How could they begin to understand?
‘And dressed in your brother’s clothes! What were you thinking?’ Grace looked up at the ceiling as though beseeching God to bear witness to her suffering, ‘As if this family did not have enough troubles, you heap dishonour on our heads with your unnatural…your impious wilfulness! To make such a display of yourself is…is…’ Grace struggled for the right words. ‘It is perverse and fanatical.’
‘Perverse and fanatical!’ echoed Anna, still pacing like a nervous cat.
Grace’s face was now bright red. She had abandoned her usual superior hectoring tone and was clearly in the throes of a rage. ‘do you regard the privileges of your family’s position and of your own education and prospects as worthless? Is that why you are happy to throw them away so lightly?’
Isobel said nothing.
‘And what about us, your siblings?’ Grace continued. ‘do you give tuppence for our position in the world? did you stop for one moment to consider the damage your preposterous pantomime would inflict on us? Our name will be mocked in every drawing room, in every house, in every important family in the colony.’
Isobel still said nothing.
‘What did you hope to achieve?’ Grace shouted. ‘To save your father? Is that what you imagined? When in fact it appears that you have achieved exactly the opposite!’
Isobel looked up. What on earth did Grace mean by that?
‘Charging like a bedlam inmate into the middle of a gentlemen’s duel. No wonder Papa was distracted. No wonder he turned to look at you and made himself an easy target. No wonder he misfired and did not strike his opponent. You did not save Papa with your foolishness, Isobel. No, it is thanks to your foolishness that you may well have killed him!’
Isobel cried out as if struck. ‘That is a lie. And you are wicked for saying so!’
She ran from the drawing room and up the staircase to her room where she lay on her bed and wept copiously, angry at her sisters’ cruelty but also fearful that there could be some truth to their accusations. Was she really to blame for what had happened? She did not know. She prayed with all her heart that Papa would not die and leave her alone in the world.
That night the Major fell into a coma. Dr Finch was summoned again and he, in turn, called on a colleague, Dr Marsden. There seemed little they could do apart from examine the patient every few hours, checking his pupils, pulse, reflexes and breathing, and attending to his dressings. Dr Marsden was overheard speaking low to his fellow physician: ‘If all functions of sense disappear, he may only have four or five days left. But we must not despair until the pupils cease to contract. With any return of sensibility our hopes rise.’
On this occasion, Sir Angus cheated death. But he still took three nights and much of a fourth day to recover his wits sufficiently to sit up in bed and ask for a lamb chop. His full rehabilitation would take at least another three weeks of bed rest and gentle exercise. His right hand shook for some time after that, possibly from nerve damage or as a residue of the shock. Dr Finch came by daily to provide soothing medications and words of encouragement.
Grace did her best to quarantine her father from any enervating stimuli. Unfortunately, it took less than a week before the Major received a letter of outrage on his behalf at the puffed-up indignation and satirical barbs of the newspapermen. The Empire scoffed at ‘the fiery old soldier and frothing senator popping at each other with a barbarism unutterably grotesque’, chastising them both for setting a bad example to the lower orders. ‘If our lawmakers get their hats bored by pistol balls in such encounters, who shall chastise the brutish pugilist for putting himself in the way of black eyes and bloody nose?’ A satirist at Bell’s Life even wrote a poem about the contest of arms:
A MATTER OF HONOUR
They met!—’twas in the bush,
And each thought—Heaven knows what;
And each cheek wore a flush—
Fo
r each one was a slow shot.
One wore an Albert hat
His rival wore a helmet
They both were somewhat fat
And as such, they were well met.
They raised their murd’rous tools
The signal then was given,
To see which of the fools
Sent t’other fool to heaven.
Behold! A queer ‘youth’ dashed
To interrupt the slaughter
‘Old Blazes’ was abashed
The ‘lad’ was his own daughter!
The world may think them right,
For neither killed their brother
But, surely, they’ll ne’er fight
Such daring duel another!
The Major did not see the humour of this doggerel. Nor did Isobel. To have her father so publicly lampooned as a doddering coward and fool was intolerable. She struggled to forgive Papa for exposing himself—and her—to such ridicule. Grace and Anna’s scorn was also roused to a new pitch, largely directed at ‘the devils of the press’ but also finding a nearer target in their ‘reckless’ sister. They adopted a brave public face of laughing off the journalists’ mockery but in their hearts the shame smouldered for a long time. ‘Once fallen, forever socially dead’ was the well-worn phrase that haunted Isobel and her sisters.
On the third day of her ordeal of wondering if father would be taken from her, Isobel received a letter. Grace was still advertising for new help (in the absence of Sarah and James) so it was left to the scullery maid, Jane, to fetch the two o’clock mail and bring it to her mistress. It was close to dusk when Grace summoned Isobel to the drawing room.
‘There is a letter here from William. Addressed to you,’ she said frostily, holding the envelope between thumb and forefinger. ‘I assume you have written him about the duel.’ Isobel nodded almost imperceptibly, unsure whether she was obliged to betray such a confidence. ‘Given your recent history, I would be justified in exercising extreme vigilance over your communications.’ Grace’s eyes glittered, relishing her authority.
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