The two women alighted on George Street two blocks from Hyde Park, which pulsed with the shrill chirruping of cicadas in the summer heat. The thoroughfare resounded with the cheery racket of cabs, jaunting cars, phaetons and, further down towards the warehouses of Circular Quay, the slower traffic of bullock-drawn drays laden with wool. With amused curiosity, Isobel and Mrs Palmer watched the young bucks and Brummells in their felt toppers and silk vests, parading along George Street. At the Café Français, a favourite haunt of these swells and sprigs, smartly turned-out gents lounged at little marble tables, copies of Punch and The Times in their laps, playing chess or dominoes and sipping sherry cobblers and strawberry ices. The place was always busy and the atmosphere lively and gay.
On such days, Isobel’s estimation of her hometown rose considerably. There was much to admire. In her father’s study she had found a handsome book entitled Sydney in 1848, a gift to acknowledge the Major’s contributions to this proud maritime city. dedicated to His Excellency, the Governor, Sir Charles Augustus FitzRoy, and with copperplate engravings by Mr Joseph Fowles, its stated object was ‘to remove the erroneous and discreditable notions current in England concerning this City by exhibiting its spacious Gas-lit Streets, its Public Edifices, and its sumptuous Shops, which boldly claim a comparison with those of London itself.’ As she wandered down George Street with its bustling, awning-shaded emporia and taverns, its well-heeled throng of splendidly and soberly dressed citizens, and its distant glimpses of blue harbour, Isobel felt her heart lifted by such lofty sentiments. While she still longed to one day make her pilgrimage to majestic, golden London, that bright spinning governor regulating the engine of Empire, she could also feel pride in her hometown.
There was no denying that Sydney’s architects had furnished their city with many imposing and beautiful buildings. These were the sine qua nons of a civilised society, sandstone monuments to its prosperity and testaments to its faith in a future far-removed from its origins. With its elevated position commanding views of Sydney Cove stood the city’s crown jewel, Government House; this Gothic Revival spectacle of castellated towers and tall chimneys was the keystone in Sydney’s vaulting ambition to be an antipodean version of London. Stately houses graced Burdekin’s Terraces on Hyde Park and Horbury Terrace on Macquarie Street, each one as fine a row of dwellings as anything one could see in Mayfair or Kensington. On summer evenings, piano music drifted from the opulent drawing rooms and the laughter of white-gowned society women from the ironwork verandas.
Isobel truly admired all these architectural gems. But she also loved the open spaces of the city: the grassy expanse of Hyde Park, once a racecourse and cricket ground, now enjoyed by families for recreations from walking dogs to flying a kite; the shady, verdant domain and Botanic Gardens, where people picnicked while entertained by bands or strolled by the seawall, lulled by the spell of the harbour itself; and the headlands of Port Jackson, with bays and beaches where one could ramble over rocks, collect shells and chase seagulls. Most of all she loved the grandeur of the harbour itself, the hypnotic dazzle of its water light and ever-changing colours, the tonic of its salt air, the enchanting Kyrie of its tidal music.
Sydney’s main streets were now largely denuded of trees, replaced by an iron grove of gaslights. Anyone who had seen the town in its infancy would gasp at how the bush had been razed around Port Jackson. But for all its pretensions, Sydney was still hemmed in by the wildness of nature, thought Isobel; landscape still dominated every view, swallowed up every prospect. The Colonial Secretary, Mr Macleay, and her father as Surveyor-General had each in their own way tried to bring balance and order to this savage green chaos through their curating and collecting, and their surveying and mapping.
But, as Isobel knew, nature pushed back.
When drought sucked riverbeds dry and killed livestock and crops, as it had without mercy for the last ten years, there followed the dreaded scourge of fire. Terrifying conflagrations would erupt without warning on Woolloomooloo Hill, or charge up gullies near Glebe, or lay siege to the small township of St Leonards on the harbour’s north side. At times like these, Sydney felt very small and vulnerable. Summer also brought the ‘brickfielders’, those hot, dry winds out of the south and west that drove towering dust storms across the city, choking everything in its fine reddish powder. There were the sudden downpours of rain, monsoonal and deafening, that overwhelmed gutters and drains, turning streets and lanes into quagmires.
And then there was always the unpitying violence of the ocean that broke ships on reefs and rocks, like the hapless merchantman Edward Lombe at Middle Head or the schooner Governor Hunter off Port Stephens. These were reminders of the city’s isolation, of the fragility of its umbilical link to the Mother Country. There were other deadly threats from outside as well. An outbreak of typhus and scarlet fever from passengers on the Lady Macnaghten had led to the building of a quarantine station on North Head in the hope of stemming contamination from abroad. Poised between the vast hostile hinterland and the vaster hostile ocean, it sometimes seemed to Isobel that Sydney’s foothold on the eastern lip of the continent was more tentative than anyone liked to admit.
Apart from these cataclysmic dramas, there were subtler, more persistent corruptions eating away at the city’s foundations. The slow, quiet corrosion of iron and stone by salt water. The rising damp and blossoming rot molesting plaster and wood. The fetid stench of mangrove swamps and puke of overripe Moreton Bay figs splashed on pavements. The ammonia fume of seagull guano dissolving sandstone. Every household braced itself for seasonal invasions of mosquitos, spiders, crickets, cockroaches, beetles, possums and bogong moths. despite the daily exertions of dung boys and street sweepers, horse excrement perfumed every avenue with its sweetish stink, while the city’s dusty squares and backstreets ran with dogs, chooks, foraging pigs and goats.
And there were other sharper discordant strains in this city’s triumphal symphony. While its good citizens liked to imagine themselves living in a shining New Jerusalem, sustained by faith in God, law and the market, Sydney had not yet wiped clean the convict stain of its past. Two years earlier, the Female Factory had been closed at Parramatta. A huge public rally protesting the arrival of the convict ship Hashemy had put a final stop to the Colonial Office’s efforts at restarting transportation. Or so people hoped. But Hyde Park Barracks still disgorged its cargo of human misery every day to labour on public works. And the good citizens still quaked whenever there was a murder in the Rocks or a drunken gang broke windows in Wynyard Square or a bushranger attacked the gold escort from Bathurst.
And, much as it tried, Sydney could not turn a completely deaf ear to the echoes from the frontier, stories of theft, rape, murder and war. When Isobel was only three, a troop of mounted police had murdered hundreds of natives at Waterloo Creek in northern New South Wales on the same day that Sydneysiders flocked to watch a regatta on the harbour to celebrate Foundation day. Six months later, the massacre of twenty-eight unarmed natives (men, women and children) at Myall Creek had resulted in a scandalous trial and storm of outrage against Governor Gipps, who was accused of failing to protect settlers from ‘filthy, brutal cannibals’. despite this, seven men were charged with murder, convicted and hanged. Little Isobel and Ballandella were spared these nightmares as they rambled in the gardens at Grangemouth but they were well known to Ballandella’s mother and the tribes along the darling, the Murray and the Murrumbidgee.
On this perfect sunny, blue-sky day, however, Sydney appeared to Isobel as a city brimming with confidence and contentment. The voters had just elected a new Legislative Council made up of city folk who dared to imagine a brighter future for the colony, weaned off its fatal dependence on wool and convict labour. These men resented the rich squatters’ boast that Sydney owed all its prosperity to them alone and that, without their wise leadership and steady hand, the city would explode into a hell pit of violence and bloodshed.
Isobel’s mind was unclouded by worry as she and M
rs Palmer wandered among the happy crowd near the band pavilion in the Botanic Gardens. Men sweated a little in their bell-toppers and cravats and women shimmered under their parasols and lace collars and gloves. But all was merriment and fun! The band of the 77th played airs with a brisk, cheerful tempo that never failed to elevate the spirits and made the world seem a carefree carnival.
Isobel’s heart was so boosted by the gaiety of the music, the liveliness of the throng and loveliness of the sun-brightened park that she imagined she knew some of the friendly faces in the crowd, smiling sweetly even at strangers. Today she exulted in the gaze of this multitude, their eyes gleaming with love and kindness, pride and gladness. She had a new gown, new gloves and new ribbons in her hair. Why should she not be looked at?
There were other reasons she was determined to be happy. Life was not nearly so grim as Isobel had feared ten days ago when her dear brothers left them. She had the fancy-dress ball to look forward to at Juniper Hall and the thrilling anticipation of her coming out. And there had been other news to lift her spirits. Only yesterday the Finches had sent an invitation to Rosemount for Isobel and her sisters to join them and the Bradleys at the weekend for a picnic at Watsons Bay. They would also be joined by officers from the visiting vessel HMS Neptune, anchored in darling Harbour. At last it seemed the drought of social isolation was broken. Their confidence in their friends, while greatly tested, had ultimately been justified.
It was also possible, Isobel hoped, that her sins, if not forgotten, had been forgiven.
Chapter 15
THE LETTER FROM ALICE
There was still no word from Faulconstone of Aunt Louisa’s plans but Isobel was calmly resigned to her fate. In more optimistic moments she had even decided that her exile from Rosemount was tolerable, if neither lengthy nor permanent, and would afford her time to consider her future. She had the ball to look forward to as well and a brave new world to explore once she was out in society. How could she not be excited and hopeful?
But the Major’s peace of mind was still greatly perturbed. He had just spent most of a trying week filling out the questionnaire sent to him by the Governor, scrutinising his conduct of the Surveyor-General’s department and management of its budget down to the last draughting pencil. The Governor would forward this report to the Executive Council and the Major now waited to see if the matter would proceed to an official investigation.
That evening the Major entered the dining room at half eight. At Grace’s insistence, a formal dinner was served at least twice a week with a full table setting, including the family’s crystal epergne piled high with quinces, grapes, pomegranates, custard apples, clusters of aster, boronia and maidenhair, and, at its apex, that most highly prized rarity, an unripened pineapple with its explosive green crown. The silverware and crockery appeared liturgical in the glow of eight virginal candles and the hushed, well-rehearsed ritual of the eight-course dinner took on the air of a sacrament. ‘Why should we be deprived of pleasure just because our friends desert us?’ Grace had argued, turning dinner into an act of protest against the family’s social disgrace. They all hoped that the Finches’ invite to Watsons Bay that weekend spelled the end of this sentence and that soon their friends would return to the Major’s table.
‘Sydney looked so beautiful today,’ ventured Isobel, wanting to break the silence that had persisted to the second course. ‘I have never seen so many ships at the quay. A flotilla! It must be the gold bringing them here in such numbers. Mrs Palmer and I had a lovely walk along the wharves counting all the vessels and identifying their flags.’
‘did your fitting go well?’ asked Grace. ‘Have you picked out your new gloves?’
The Major looked up from his meal. ‘You do realise that if this inquiry goes against me we will be reduced to surviving on half pay? If we are lucky.’ He dabbed at his chin with his napkin and tossed it onto the table. ‘I find the calls on my purse are endless.’
‘What is the matter, Papa?’ asked Anna. ‘You seem exceptionally out of sorts.’
The Major wrung his hands, as if debating with himself and then seemed to come to a decision. ‘I have had a letter from Alice,’ he announced. ‘I can share with you the good news that she has a healthy baby boy, Xavier John Angus.’
‘But that is wonderful!’ exclaimed Isobel. How overjoyed Winnie would have been to hear such news, she thought. A baby boy. The sisters clasped each other and got up to embrace their father with tears of joy. The Major had a grandson and an heir. But how could this be an occasion for her father’s moodiness? Isobel soon had her answer.
The Major motioned for them to resume their seats. ‘Yes, yes, this is wonderful news, I agree. But my joy is diminished by the far greater and more sombre part of her letter.’ The Major sighed and wiped his face. ‘Alice’s letter reveals that the Baron and his family are not the rich aristocrats they pretended to be when he was here in Australia, telling the world of his fortune and grand plans.’ Isobel had been privy to much of the Baron’s confident talk as a man of great ambition and abilities.
‘Yes, the Twyckenhams may have a country seat in Hertfordshire and townhouses in London and Bath. But it turns out that, over the last few years, the Twyckenhams, father and son, have made many poor—some would say reckless—investments, a disaster that has been compounded with ill-considered loans and usurious letters of credit.’
The three Macleod sisters stared at their father, dumbstruck. The Major’s face was drained to a frightful whiteness. ‘The Baron and his father have now been dragged to court by their creditors. The manor and townhouses are swallowed up in an abyss of debt and this distinguished family does not have two pennies to rub together.’ The Major’s voice faltered. ‘Which leaves the young would-be-Baron facing a long stretch in debtors’ prison. And Alice and her new baby facing penury and destitution.’
A sob broke from Grace’s throat. Anna began rocking back and forth, whimpering. Isobel watched her poor father struggle against tears. ‘What will happen now?’ she asked.
‘Nothing will happen unless I send them the five thousand pounds they ask for to settle a fraction of their debts and keep her feckless husband out of Newgate,’ said the Major. A muscle twitched in his cheek. ‘He is no gentleman to make his wife write to her father begging—begging!—for money. We have all been grossly deceived. The man is no better than a liar and a thief. My daughter’s honour has been traduced and our trust betrayed.’
‘dear God, this cannot be true,’ mumbled Grace.
‘Your dear mother had her suspicions,’ the Major cried. ‘If only I had listened. She wanted to delay the wedding until she could find out more about this so-called Baron Crawley and his family. But she knew how much Alice would be humiliated. And she did not want to interfere again in an affair of this kind, especially after the matter with that young captain.’
Grace and Isobel exchanged looks. To think that Winnie might have saved Alice had it not been for the tangled affair of Captain Tranter. That was too bitter an irony! Isobel recalled her mother’s face the day of Alice’s wedding, her eyes scrutinising the groom with the intensity of an inquisitor. What had she known to make her so worried?
‘Well, I’ll be damned if I bail that blackguard out of prison,’ the Major shouted, slamming his fist on the table. ‘The man has made a mockery of everything sacred: your sister’s devotion, his marriage, his duty. And now there is a child that bears his name and face and shall also bear his ignominy!’
‘But what about Alice?’ implored Grace. ‘You cannot abandon her.’
‘I will do no such thing. I shall pay for her passage back to Australia. She is a victim of fraud and desertion. He has no hold over her. Let him rot in Newgate for all I care!’
‘Oh, this is beyond endurance,’ wailed Anna, ‘Our sister will come back a deserted mother. Imagine the scorn and calumny! Imagine the disgrace! As if we have not suffered enough these last few weeks.’
‘Silence!’ roared the Major. ‘Enough of your end
less self-pity.’ He stood up, his face bright red. His right hand shook uncontrollably. ‘Is the esteem of rich families all you hold dear? I am ashamed to be your father, all of you. My foolish, selfish daughters!’
Papa appeared on the point of collapse. Isobel was frightened. She bowed her head, her heart full with unbearable shame and sadness.
The Major stumbled from the room, leaving his daughters to their weeping.
Chapter 16
WATSONS BAY
NOVEMBER 1851
Saturday morning dawned hot and bright, with gusting winds that rattled Isobel’s windowpanes in their sills. The original plans for a picnic had been greatly improved with the offer of luncheon at the Marine Hotel at Watsons Bay. Everyone prayed that the wind would die down to a cooling zephyr. Isobel was excited but also nervous about her first appearance in society since the disgrace of the duel. Her rehabilitation now lay in the hands of the Misses Finch and Bradley but she was confident of their historic love for her and felt no shame.
Five cabs arrived at eight o’clock. Isobel travelled with Emily and Florence Finch while their sister Beatrice accompanied Anna and Grace. They were to be joined en route by the Bradleys, Emma, Hannah and Alexandra. Mothers and assorted aunts were in attendance as chaperones, Mrs Palmer acting as Isobel’s. Their special guests, six officers from HMS Neptune, were to meet them at the hotel.
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