‘Tolerably well,’ replied the handsome captain, equally at a loss as to how to steer the conversation safely. ‘I was saddened to hear of your loss. Your dear brother and mother.’
Isobel wondered what else he knew of the Macleods’ recent troubled history. despite her nervousness, she could not help studying his face for any signs of affection that lingered there. But what she feared most of all was that she might still harbour affections. She recalled the scene at the picnic at Lady Macquarie’s Chair that had been the prelude to their intimacy, his courtship rushing swiftly to a love letter and the ardent declaration of a purple orchid. She also recalled Alice’s fierce but failed advocacy for the match and felt a pang of great love for her older sister.
So what was the state of her heart now? Isobel knew an old pain resided there, lodged like a thorn. She was shocked at how sharply it ached, such sweet anguish. From one heartbeat to the next, Isobel realised she still longed for Captain Tranter.
‘I thank you for your kindness, sir,’ said Isobel, looking away to hide her emotion. She hoped that the catch in her throat would be interpreted as a sign of grief for her family members and not something else. A shadow passed across the captain’s face and then Isobel heard a voice calling out from across the faery-ringed garden.
‘darling, please come. I want you to meet Mr Probius. He’s a very clever artist.’
A woman stepped into the light. Her hair was elaborately coiffed, dyed violet ash-grey, and crowned with a turban of ribbons and feathers. Her bustled blue satin dress gleamed lustrously in the lamplights, and in her left hand she held a single pink rose. Isobel recognised at once Marie Antoinette, the dauphine and later Queen of France, from a painting by the celebrated portraitist Madame Vigée Le Brun.
The woman’s cheeks were highly rouged and her eyes an icy blue. Older than Isobel by several years, she was very striking: slim-waisted, poised, with a china-like complexion and a slender, soft-throated neck. But there was nothing fragile about this woman’s character, that much was obvious at once. In keeping with her regal impersonation, there was a haughty self-possession that Isobel knew to be the mark of an aristocrat, as well as that cool, honeyed insistence in the voice that spoke of unshakeable entitlement.
‘Come on, Ralph, my dear, I do insist.’
‘I—I’m—so…sorry…’ Ralph stuttered to Isobel, either repeating his last sentiment or apologising for this new intrusion. The woman crossed the lawn and approached the veranda. Isobel felt trapped like an insect in amber, unable to escape.
‘Aren’t you going to introduce me, darling? I don’t believe I have had the pleasure,’ she said, turning her ice-blue eyes on Isobel.
‘Of course. May I present Miss Isobel Macleod. An old friend,’ said Ralph. There was an odd pause between the utterance of Isobel’s name and ‘an old friend’ as Ralph decided how best to describe the woman he had once wanted to marry.
‘One of tonight’s debutantes. Congratulations,’ Marie Antoinette took Isobel’s hand warmly in hers, before adding: ‘I have heard so many interesting things about you.’
Isobel curtsied politely and with a playful, slightly tart smile replied, ‘Je suis honoré Votre Majesté!’ She then looked inquisitively at Ralph.
‘Ah yes, of course,’ he stammered, his face reddening a little. ‘Let me have the pleasure of introducing—my wife.’
Isobel’s heart bolted. His wife. Of course, how could she have been so foolish? Men do not hang around when an investment in love fails. They move on to new opportunities. Judging by everything about this woman, Ralph had reinvested wisely.
‘The Lady Charlotte Bathurst, before we were wed,’ continued Ralph. Yes, there was no argument. Isobel’s erstwhile suitor had invested his love very handsomely indeed. He had married a niece of the 3rd Earl Bathurst, Secretary of State for War and the Colonies. It seemed that Mr Cooper was forgiven his past sins by some of the loftiest social ranks, who were happy to drink his fizz, toast his health and support his charitable works.
‘The pleasure is all mine,’ said Isobel with a small curtsy, her head bowed in part to hide her astonishment. She must exit at once. ‘I’m sorry to rush away, but our hostess is expecting me. It was good to meet you again after all this time, Captain Tranter.’
‘Major Tranter now,’ prompted Charlotte, beaming with uxorial pride.
‘Indeed!’ Nothing like friends—or even better, family—in high office to ensure preferment, thought Isobel. ‘It has been an honour to meet you both.’
Isobel hurried inside. She refused to shed a tear for this man’s sake. But she choked on the bitterness of his betrayal and was enraged, knowing full well that her rage was wholly immoderate and unreasonable. Major Tranter owed her nothing; her own mother had seen to that. Even so, she felt the liberating force of her anger, felt its molten heat course through her body. This white-hot rage had been building in her for weeks, ever since the duel. Rage at all the people who sat in judgement on her.
As she re-entered the ballroom, she glanced over her shoulder one last time. Marie Antoinette had tucked her arm through that of her husband’s and led him away.
Chapter 19
THE ARTIST
Back inside the house, Isobel was overcome with dizziness. She made her way to a chair in the corner and sat down. The room and the people and the music whirled about her, indifferent to her panic. She closed her eyes, letting her heart settle and her breathing calm. The last thing she wanted was to make a scene. She sat here for what seemed a long time, ten minutes or more, she could not be sure. To dissuade anyone from approaching, she closed her eyes and fanned herself vigorously as if overwhelmed by the closeness of the room.
‘Can I help you, mademoiselle?’
A male voice, not one she recognised. She opened her eyes again and looked up in surprise. What kind of man addressed a woman to whom he had not been introduced?
‘Forgive my impertinence but you appear to be unwell.’
A tall gent stood before her. His face was striking: finely boned and aristocratic with full lips and a high forehead. There was an ennobling air of defiance and resolve evident in the set of his brows and the searching gaze of his dark eyes. ‘My name is Probius. Charles Probius.’
‘I am Miss Isobel Macleod,’ she replied.
‘Yes, I know. I have had the pleasure of meeting your father once or twice.’
‘I apologise for alarming you. I was feeling a little faint.’
‘Well, if I may be so bold, fresh air may help. Can I escort you to the veranda?’
‘Why, thank you,’ she replied a little hesitantly. No doubt this was the same Mr Probius to whom Lady Bathurst wanted to introduce her husband a little while ago. With luck Major Tranter and his wife had withdrawn indoors and she would not have to suffer the indignity of another conversation with them. But then again, if he was still in the garden it was perhaps no tragedy that he should see her with this solicitous man.
Out on the veranda, the air was sweetly scented by the flowering shrubs along the perimeter wall. It was now past midnight and the full moon was high in the sky, its milky light draining from the garden like a thawing sea of blue ice.
‘You are an artist, I believe, sir.’
Mr Probius wore a wide-collared brown frock coat with a large, loosely tied linen cravat high at his throat over a white calico shirt. The outfit was of antique fashion and had the well-used roughness of working clothes. ‘I am dressed as Monsieur Jacques-Louis David, if that is what you are asking. don’t tell anyone, though, or they would be outraged!’
Probius smiled. Isobel laughed.
This was indeed provocative! David—the heroic painter and chronicler of the French Revolution and later of the tyrant Napoleon himself. Not a figure much admired in British or for that matter colonial circles. Her own father, like so many veterans, hated all things French. Part of the Major’s pride in map-making and surveying was based on his conviction that Britain must, at all costs, claim and occupy the entire c
ontinent to ensure the prosperity and stability of the Australian colonies. This was the best defence against French adventurists like La Perouse, Freycinet and d’Urville, sniffing about for somewhere France could gain a foothold. His daughter had inherited her father’s distrust of the French despite the fact she admired aspects of French culture—painting, science, music, dancing—and had a respectable grasp of the language.
‘But you are an artist now, I mean,’ Isobel hastened to clarify. ‘That is to say, it is your real profession, not your assumed one.’
‘Yes, I have been known to dabble in that field,’ he replied. ‘I am the drawing master for Mrs Cooper and her tribe of children.’
‘I know your fine work, Mr Probius,’ said Isobel. ‘It is an honour to meet you.’
It was indeed. Mr Probius was an accomplished painter in great demand as a portraitist, especially of prominent society ladies and gentlemen, and his commissioned works hung in many of the finest houses in the colony. Like his distinguished colleagues Messrs Martens, Earle and Prout, Mr Probius was adaptable as to subject, producing picturesque landscapes of Sydney, its harbour and its elegant villas, as well as many popular images of her exotic fauna, flora and natives. But his portraits remained his bestselling work and included some of Sydney’s most famous and notorious figures: fire-breathing radical the Reverend Dr John Dunmore Lang; the libertarian newspaperman Edward Smith Hall; the doomed German explorer Ludwig Leichhardt; and the convicted murderer John Knatchbull. Isobel had also seen a set of his lithographs entitled The Natives of New South Wales, which Father kept in his study. These were some of the most sympathetic portraits of the indigenes she had ever seen, capturing not just their dignified humanity but their individual personalities. Her father had also shown her Probius’s fetching portrait of old Ricketty dick, the cripple who sat by New South Head Road and begged for ‘tolls’. Isobel was unapologetically envious of his sensitivity and skills.
‘Well, I am very flattered that you think so, Miss Macleod,’ said the artist with a small bow of his head, acknowledging her compliment. ‘But I have a confession to make.’
Isobel looked at him with even keener interest. ‘Yes?’
‘First you must solemnly swear that you will not take offence’—he put his right hand over his heart—‘for I swear that none is intended.’ Her interlocutor had an air of such sincerity that Isobel tried not to be alarmed by the prospect of a ‘confession’. There was a smile of wry, self-deprecating humour on this man’s face that punctured any suggestion of arrogance or impertinence.
‘I am intrigued, sir’—Isobel placed her hand on her heart—‘and swear as you ask.’
‘Well, the truth is I have been interested to meet you, Miss Isobel Macleod, ever since I first heard your name. Is that very forward of me?’
‘I am sure there are those who would say it is. But I am prepared to reserve judgement. What have you heard that you find so interesting?’
Isobel was surprised at her own equanimity, even though she felt a pronounced and not unpleasant flutter in her breast. The artist studied her with warm curiosity. ‘I am given to understand that you are a most unusual young woman, Miss Macleod. People whom I trust inform me that you have a passionate interest in natural history.’
His eyes lingered on the necklet at her throat, her mother’s gift that featured a row of small silver scarabs, their horns and legs interlocked. She had already noted the carved handle of his elegant cane fashioned into the beak and head of a brightly coloured parrot.
‘I am also reliably informed that you possess an excellent eye and hand for sketching. I am familiar with your father’s fine work, of course. Such a superb draughtsman. Has he encouraged your talent in this direction?’
Isobel remembered now that Mr Probius had worked for a while as a draughtsman in the department of Public Works, preparing plans for some of Sydney’s loveliest buildings. It was probable that was where he had become acquainted with the Major’s maps and drawings.
‘I do sketch, sir, and am fond of natural subjects. Father has been very indulgent of my hobby,’ said Isobel. ‘But I am a most unaccomplished artist, I’m afraid, and have no hope or ambition for advancement.’
‘Because you are a woman?’ asked Probius with startling candour.
‘Yes,’ Isobel blushed. ‘Of course.’
‘Maybe you would allow me to see some of your sketches one day?’
Isobel laughed and her blush deepened. ‘Oh, sir, now you are in danger of embarrassing me. I do not think…’
‘That they are good enough, Miss Macleod? Pish,’ chided the artist gently, ‘I would be honoured if you were to let me be the judge of that.’
No man had ever asked to see her work. She was at a loss for words.
‘dear Miss Macleod, I hope you do not think me flippant. I fully acknowledge that there are no easy paths for a woman artist. Indeed not. The common prejudice is dead against them. It is held that drawing and painting are merely ornamental skills for women.’
Mr Probius sighed. Isobel nodded, acknowledging the bitter truth of this view.
‘But you and I both know there are exceptions. Some women, with uncommon strength of character and will, as well as prodigious talent, have managed against all the odds to become artists. Mentors can help too, of course.’
‘So I believe.’
‘At the risk of presumption, Miss Macleod, I have a feeling that you could be one of those women. Could I be right?’
Isobel was astonished at this disarming frankness. On such a short acquaintance, this man had tugged at the veil hiding her most forbidden passion. ‘Why would you say that, sir?’
‘When I was teaching and studying in Paris many years ago, I had the good fortune to meet an artist by the name of Rosa Bonheur. Her father was a painter and had nurtured her precocious talent from adolescence.’
Isobel had heard about Mr Probius spending time in Paris; there were even rumours of his being associated with radicals in the uprising there in 1830, but they were probably no more than hearsay. He continued, ‘Rosa’s chief subject was animals, which she painted exquisitely: horses, cattle, dogs, lions, elk. She was so determined to learn more about animal anatomy that she even disguised herself as a man to gain admittance to the Paris abattoirs.’
Isobel blushed. ‘Is that why you are telling me her story, Mr Probius? Because you know what I did at the duel?’ She looked defiantly into the artist’s face for any trace of mockery or contempt. There was none. Instead she saw a steady gaze of what she could only hope was respect. It was not a look she was very familiar with from men.
Charles Probius smiled. ‘Let me digress a moment. As you may have guessed, Probius is not my birth name. I was born Charles Ludiger, but I took my assumed surname from a Latin word, probus, meaning honest and good. Pretentious, perhaps, but I wanted people to know that I took these values seriously.’
Isobel had never heard anything like this; she was transfixed. He was so strange, this man, so different from most men she had met. ‘I tell you this because I hope you will take what I say seriously. I mention Rosa Bonheur’s dressing as a man because, just like you, it shows that she was willing to take great risks for something she loved.’
Isobel felt tears of happiness spring to her eyes. Here was the first person to see clearly what she had tried to do for her father.
‘Rosa also painted a large canvas of a wild horse fair held just outside Paris. No women were ever allowed at this event. So again, she disguised herself in male clothes to attend the market twice a week to make sketches. She did this for nearly eighteen months.’ Isobel was enchanted by the spark of genuine admiration for Rosa that she saw in Mr Probius’s eyes. ‘I believe you may have the same kind of courage and independent spirit that is needed to become a professional artist. If you would indulge me one visit to see your work, I could tell you more.’
At this point they were interrupted by Mrs Cooper, who tapped Isobel lightly on the shoulder. ‘I see you have met ou
r brilliant drawing master. He has promised to do my portrait soon, isn’t that right, Mr Probius?’
‘Indeed, I have,’ assented the artist.
‘I’m sorry to call you away, Miss Macleod, but your aunt is quite tired. Her coachman is standing by to take you both home. I believe your sisters have already departed.’
‘I must hurry then.’ Isobel took Mrs Cooper’s hand and pressed it warmly. ‘I cannot thank you enough for such a wonderful evening. You have been so kind and thoughtful. And please thank Catherine and Mr Cooper as well.’
She turned to the drawing master. ‘It has been good to meet you, Mr Probius. I hope we may have the opportunity to continue our discussion at some future date.’
Isobel hurried across the garden, through the enchanted circles of light and out into the street where her aunt’s coach waited to take her back to Rosemount.
Chapter 20
GOOD WORKS
DECEMBER 1851
Little happened to improve the general mood at Rosemount. There had been no letters from abroad in the last mail, and with the next ship not due until February, the sisters were left to ponder the fate of Alice and her child now the Baron was presumably imprisoned. Nor would they have any word from their brothers, as their journey to India would take at least six months. A silence seemed to engulf all three but Isobel resolved to remain optimistic.
At last the day arrived for Isobel’s transfer to her new home at Faulconstone. Her farewell was a hurried and tearful affair, at least on Isobel’s part, and somewhat strained on the part of her sisters and exhausted father. A wagon had been sent ahead to collect all Isobel’s belongings, followed by Aunt Louisa’s brougham to collect Isobel herself. In less than an hour, the deed was done.
The frangipani in the front garden at Faulconstone was in full bloom. In the bright sunshine, this lovely tree with its profusion of waxy ornate flowers and peachy scent lent the grim façade of the house an air of gaiety. Aunt Louisa welcomed her niece in the front hall and took her on an inspection of the property, starting in the drawing room. Faulconstone was a solid Regency villa, built by Louisa’s late husband, George. Its stuccoed walls, French windows and ironwork balconies were pleasing to the eye, but overall the design favoured a minimum of classical detailing and a sparseness of decoration. In Isobel’s unspoken view, the elegance of the interiors was spoiled by the gloomy Jacobean furniture.
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