The Major nodded, pleased that Isobel recalled him sharing these juvenile scribblings with her in a moment of unguarded intimacy between father and daughter.
‘I loved that drawing you did of a soldier lying on the grass, propped up on his elbow reading a book. Still wearing his helmet. Such a telling picture! Snatching a few moments alone from the blood and smoke of battle. No one ever looked so glad to be lost in a book.’
The Major smiled ruefully. ‘That seems a very long time ago now. But drawing has always given me the greatest pleasure, even if my achievements are meagre.’
‘You are far too modest, Papa. But I know exactly what you mean,’ said Isobel. ‘Which brings me to a subject on which I seek your counsel. In my own modest artistic efforts, I have been favoured with a mentor. You may know him.’
‘Indeed! Who is he?’
‘Mr Charles Probius, the artist.’
‘Yes, I remember that name. I think he was engaged as a draughtsman at the colonial architect’s office for a while. Taught sketching to some of the younger civil and military officers,’ recalled her father. ‘Talented fellow. I have a copy of his lithographs Natives of New South Wales—portraits of native men and women. Quite beautiful.’
‘It was Mr Probius who introduced me to Mr Cooper and praised my work to him,’ said Isobel, a little encouraged by her father’s good opinion of her suitor. ‘He also purchased my sketch of the Botanic Gardens at the bazaar on New Year’s day. did Aunt Louisa tell you?’
‘She told me it had sold for a handsome sum, and highly praised your work.’
‘Has Aunt told you anything about him, Papa?’ inquired Isobel, her cheeks growing warm and her hands moist in nervous anticipation.
The Major looked his daughter full in the face, his own expression kindly but curious. ‘No, she has not. Is there something you wish to tell me about this gentleman, Isobel?’
Isobel could not hide her feelings. She blushed and a coy smile spread across her face. ‘How can I describe him, Papa? He is so courteous and kind, so attentive and sympathetic. I have good reasons to believe he admires me a great deal. And respects my talent.’
‘Has he told you as much?’
‘Yes. Yes, he has.’
‘And do you know what his intentions are? Has he proposed?’
‘No, not yet. But I think it is possible.’
‘Well, well,’ smiled the Major. ‘That is good news. I believe he is highly regarded and makes a good living as a portraitist, is that right?’
‘I imagine so. He has been the drawing master to Mrs Cooper and her children these last few years. He intends to seek a new position when they return to England.’
‘I see. So, tell me, Isobel, do you have feelings for this fellow?’
‘Oh, Papa!’ Tears welled in her eyes. Her emotions had crept up on her, taken her by surprise. ‘I do. We have not known each other long. But there is much I admire in him.’
‘Well, my dear, that is a very good start. But you seem…troubled.’
‘He has told me something that he believes should not—in fact cannot—be kept hidden.’ She took a deep breath. There was no retreating now. She must tell her father Mr Probius’s shameful secret. ‘He came to the colony as a convict. But he is now a free man.’
‘Ah, I see.’ The Major nodded. His face darkened. He sighed. It was obvious his mood had changed as suddenly as when a cloud passes in front of the sun. Isobel continued, flustered, but determined to make her case. ‘He knows what it means to bear shame. But he has served his sentence and been reprieved. I believe that he has truly repented for his past and redeemed himself in the eyes of the world. He—I—we both wish to have your blessing before our courtship goes any further. If that is possible.’
She realised how breathless she sounded. She studied her father’s face for signs of hope. ‘do you know the nature of his crime?’ asked the Major.
‘When he was a young man, he stole the contents of a woman’s purse.’
The Major nodded again, taking in this information. ‘did he say why?’
‘He was poor. Homeless and hungry. But he does not believe that excuses him.’
The Major thought in silence for a minute. He seemed pained, his face set in a grim scowl, his shoulders hunched as if a terrible weight oppressed them. He sighed several times and wrung his hands nervously. It seemed that there were too many burdens for him to bear all at once: Alice and her son, Grace’s wedding, his fight with the Governor. And now this.
He spoke at last. ‘I have already embraced the son of an emancipist as my future son-in-law. And so, I suppose you think it is only fair I should do the same for an emancipist.’ The Major took his daughter’s hand in his. He looked at her intently for a moment and then let his gaze settle on the middle distance, somewhere in the dappled shade of the forest.
‘I wish I could give you my blessing, Isobel. But I cannot.’
Isobel whimpered in shock. Tears spilled from her eyes.
‘Please, hear me out, I entreat you. Our family has endured such unrelenting public humiliation these last few months. I wear some responsibility for this, of course. I am happy to admit it. The duel was ill-advised and has given rise to vile gossip. People we thought of as friends have deserted us. And it has done nothing to help your prospects, Isobel. I fear for your future. To make matters worse, your poor sister, Alice, has been appallingly deceived and as good as abandoned by her husband. You can hardly blame me for being protective of you, my dear. Men—some unscrupulous men—will tell lies to convince women of their fitness as husbands and to steal their family names. If only I had listened to your mother.’
The Major’s face was ashen. His right hand shook. Isobel could hardly bear to see her father in such torment. As a little girl, she had been in the habit of looking up at his tall, immovable frame, and standing in the shadow of his broad chest and square shoulders. He was a colossus then, untroubled by doubt or fear, impregnable, supremely confident in himself and the future. Now he appeared more diminished than ever, a tremulous old man.
‘I swore to Winnie that I would look after you all. But what am I to do? I have no idea what will happen to Anna now that Grace is to be married. Who will care for her? I can only hope that Joseph will come to his senses under William’s influence and stop behaving so scandalously. And you, my youngest, my sweet but headstrong daughter, how am I to take care of you?’
‘Oh, Papa,’ Isobel moaned, her heart breaking.
‘You deserve a husband who commands the respect of all society. Only in that assurance can you feel protected. Only in that can you know that your children are safe. A reputation is a fragile thing, easily broken, almost impossible to repair. This man, Probius, may feel he has repaid his debt. He may be a good man, a kind man, a well-meaning man. But how do others view him? I do not know. He may be a very fine artist, even a successful one, but is this enough to save his reputation, to make him a worthy husband and father?’ He looked at Isobel and spread his hands. ‘I do not know.’
The Major then took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped his brow. The sun came dappled through the trees but still his forehead glistened with perspiration.
‘That is why I cannot risk my daughter’s future in his hands unless I am reassured that he is a respectable man. do you think I am being unfair? Why should I let Grace marry into Robert Cooper’s family, you ask, but not approve this possible union with Mr Probius? Grace’s betrothed is the son of an emancipist, don’t you see? He does not bear any blame for his father’s crimes. Augustus was born innocent, washed clean of his father’s sin. He has remained virtuous, hard-working, respected all his life. Yes, there will be those who shun him, tar him with his father’s crimes, insist on an inherited shame. But no one can justifiably point an accusing finger at Augustus for anything he has done, suspect him of any vice, distrust his character or have doubts about his own past. He is not and never was a convict. That, my dear, is the difference.’ Isobel stared into her lap whe
re her hands were folded. She whispered, ‘I…I think…I love him, Papa.’
The Major’s face softened. He placed a hand on Isobel’s shoulder. ‘And I love you, my dear. I do not wish to be cruel or tyrannical. I only want to protect you.’
Isobel could not look at her father. ‘Please, Papa. Give him a chance. I beg you. Meet him, talk to him. You have much in common. You will like him. I am sure of it.’
‘I leave for England in four days. There is much I have to do before I go. And there is your sister’s wedding to attend to. I would need to know more about this man before I could give you my blessing. There is no time now. Our family has been the subject of so much vicious scrutiny and gossip of late, how can I risk your reputation any further?’
‘Perhaps you could meet with him when you return? And you could inquire about his reputation with anyone—even when you are abroad—to find the reassurance that you need. Aunt Louisa and the ladies of the Benevolent Society hold him in very high esteem.’ Poor Isobel was clutching at straws. If she could just keep the door of fear and prejudice in her father’s mind chinked open long enough, perhaps there was some hope of saving Mr Probius.
‘Very well, I promise to meet him on my return. But until then, I cannot give my blessing. You will both have to wait, do you understand? If he does love you and wants to do what is best for you both, he will understand the reasons why.’
Isobel smiled at her father through her tears. She felt there was a small shred of hope for her to hang on to. ‘I will tell him this. I promise.’ She felt like the little girl who, following her failed ‘expedition’ to Rushcutters Bay, had stood in the Major’s study and sworn an oath on the family Bible to ‘never do anything like that ever again’.
The Major nodded. A change of mood came over him then and he spoke in a low, hushed voice, almost as if making a confession. ‘I admit that we can all make mistakes. What man can honestly look back on his life and say he is blameless? That would be an act of supreme arrogance. We are sometimes a victim of circumstances or the plaything of low and base impulses. We commit sins and wish to only be given the chance to atone for them.’
The Major looked again at his daughter. ‘All my life I have tried to do what I thought was right. But I too am not without regrets. I too have made mistakes. Terrible mistakes.’ He held his daughter’s hand with a touching paternal tenderness. His right hand still trembled.
‘I miss you, Papa. Please write to me often. I will count the days until you are home safely again.’ She knew there was nothing more she could say to change her father’s mind. It was enough for now that he might meet Charles when he returned. Father and daughter sat for a while, her hand in his, watching a flock of rosellas tumble overhead as if in celebration of the ever-present possibility that life is full of promise and joy, despite all the odds.
The wedding day arrived. Grace was radiant in her white silk gown with scalloped flounces, a blue sash and a tulle veil with a coronet of bluebells. Her bridesmaids wore white muslin sashed in blue silk, with bonnets trimmed in blue velvet ribbons and posies of lily of the valley. The bridal party included three of the Misses Finch and Bradley but Isobel could not begrudge Grace that. St James’ was filled to capacity with friends and family. Aunt Louisa and Mrs Palmer sat in the front pew, alternately smiling and crying, while Anna sat two places along, her face a thundercloud at not having been chosen as the matron of honour, that position having gone to one of Augustus’s sisters.
Augustus wore a fine yellow silk waistcoat and a well-cut dark green frock coat. His moonish face glowed with contentment. On the few occasions that Isobel had met him she found Augustus to be a dry, punctilious fellow despite the sybaritic cast of his face and fleshiness of his form. But it was obvious Grace was in a rapture that looked very much like love. She had never appeared more animated or carefree, having shed the carapace of pain and disappointment that had grown around her soul as protection against life’s inevitable blows.
Isobel had suffered a great deal under Grace’s tyranny but today she was disposed to forgive her a little. She knew that Grace had for a long time felt taken for granted by both her parents: the neglected middle sister, living in the shadow of the accomplished and beautiful Alice, eclipsed by the novelty of talented Isobel, made the guardian of her troubled sister Anna and even held responsible for her imperfections. Her failure to inherit the opal dragonfly from her mother perfectly symbolised the cause of Grace’s self-pity. Everyone knew how much Grace loved jewellery, took an expert pleasure in it, knew the names of the most famous cutters, designers and houses and had made no secret of her passion for her mother’s brooch. At Winnie’s funeral, Grace stood dry-eyed, her body clenched in rage against her dead mother. This was proof again of life’s unfairness: even though it was Grace who took Winnie’s place and kept Rosemount running smoothly, it was Isobel who was the favoured object of her mother’s affections and her father’s indulgence. But for today, at least, all this acrimonious history was put aside.
Even so, little did Grace know that on her wedding day, Isobel stood in the front pew of the church with Winnie’s opal dragonfly hanging like a pendant on a fine silver chain beneath her blouse. Isobel could feel the weight of it close to her heart and the stone cold against her bare skin. She had her own reasons for this subterfuge.
After the doleful scene with her father in the forest at Rosemount, it had taken a supreme act of will for Isobel to conceal her distress. But as soon as she found refuge in the privacy of her room back at Faulconstone, she had poured out all the bitter heartache and rage her father’s betrayal had stirred up in her. Her screams of anguish and the cataract of her weeping, though muffled by pillows, had continued unabated for a long time.
How could Papa be so heartless? She could not believe it possible. She had even confessed her love for Charles Probius and her father had withheld his consent. The unfairness of her situation was unbearable. Grace was to be married to the son of a vulgar, uneducated gin distiller from Stepney, grown rich from peddling ‘mother’s ruin’, the curse of the working class, while posing as a hero of the same, and convicted for receiving three thousand pounds’ worth of stolen goods to be sold, no doubt, on the black market. Whereas Isobel had declared her love for a refined, cultured and talented man, an artist highly esteemed by the colony’s richest families. His crime had been born out of hunger and despair, not greed, and he had been convicted for purloining the contents of a woman’s purse worth—at Isobel’s best guess—fifty pounds. Where was the justice in that? What nice distinctions Father had made between the permanently stained ex-convict and the blameless, untainted son of a convict!
Feeling more alone now than ever before, Isobel had taken the opal dragonfly from its secret place and held it in her hands. She spoke, as if in prayer, to her dead mother. ‘Oh, Mama, what have I done to deserve this? I have always been obedient, always respectful of your guidance, never questioned your judgement, even when it broke my young heart. But this! From my father who plunged me and this family into disgrace with his French pistols and wounded pride! Oh, Mama, you would have been scared to death and so ashamed! Please, Mama, show me what to do. Let the dragonfly open my eyes to my future!’
She stopped then, realising she was speaking utter nonsense. Had she been driven insane? She did not know. But clasping the brooch in her hand, she felt comforted nonetheless, as if her mother had heard her plea. Whatever the truth, she decided then and there to wear the dragonfly at Grace’s wedding. It seemed fitting: an act of brazen defiance against her father and sister, a silent protest against Papa’s approval of Grace’s marriage and Grace’s selfish joy in it. Who was the favoured daughter now? Isobel thought bitterly.
She had not yet given her answer to Charles as she had promised at their meeting at Faulconstone. She was so afraid that if she told him the truth, it would spell the end of their friendship before it had barely had a chance to take root. Whether out of forlorn hope or injured dignity, it was probable that Charles would
make a quick and gracious exit—just as Major Tranter had before him. And where would that leave disgraced Isobel then? Condemned to a life as a lonely spinster, as unloved and unhinged as her wretched sister Anna. So for now, she resolved to say nothing to Charles. Nothing at all.
Over the last two days, Isobel had kept her counsel and did her best to appear happy for Grace and to help with the nuptials. It was a painful pantomime, as it no doubt also was for miserable Anna. Aunt Louisa helped Grace prepare her trousseau of linen and plate while Father bestowed a generous dowry, a vote of confidence in the couple’s bright future. Isobel was not familiar with the terms of her father’s will but she assumed that with the death of her brother Richard, the banishment of Joseph and even possibly the new crisis with Alice, Father had made adjustments. The fate of Rosemount was a matter for conjecture among the siblings as Father had not yet made public how he intended to dispose of it on his death.
Isobel felt sick at heart as she watched the wedding ceremony. That could be her at the altar, veiled and serene, by Charles Probius’s side if only her father would relent. She glanced along the pew to where the Major sat, dressed in his most expensive blue frock coat and lilac waistcoat. He appeared to be in a state of unassailable bliss. No doubt, in his eyes these nuptials were a triumph and godsend. In this hallowed marital contract he had found a haven for Grace and was about to rescue dear Alice from her desecrated one.
The wedding breakfast was a sumptuous banquet, laid out on tables on the lawn at Rosemount in defiance of the summer winds. The speeches were mercifully short and heartwarmingly affectionate and the whole company cheered and raised their glasses many times to wish the happy couple a propitious, fertile and prosperous future. The day was blessed in every way. There was still laughter and music and dancing on the lawn when the first star appeared in the evening sky over the harbour.
Chapter 25
SECRETS
FEBRUARY 1852
The Opal Dragonfly Page 25