‘How long has this man been your paramour? Before we met? Have I been your gull, your dupe, this whole time, a cover for your forbidden love?’
‘No, no. That is not true. Not at all!’ he protested. ‘Yes, I knew him before. In Melbourne. But when I fell in love with you, I tried to end our liaison. I told him I loved you, wanted to marry you. That he and I had no future. He became so distraught, I feared he may harm himself. I was too frightened to tell you my dreadful secret. I did not want to lose you.’
‘So instead you conducted this affair in our house? In our bed!’ Isobel was shouting. She clenched her fists and struck Charles repeatedly about the head. He put his hands up to shield his face but did not restrain the rain of blows. His punishment was deserved. ‘Mr Probius, indeed! You are nothing but a shameless liar! And to think how guilty I felt for the lie I told you. For love! Not for some unnatural lust!’ Isobel broke down at this point and wept helplessly. Charles did not comfort her. He hardly dared touch her.
‘Yes, yes, I confess it is an unnatural and abhorrent lust!’ he whimpered. ‘I promise you on my soul it will never happen again. I was weak but I can change. Please give me another chance. I could not bear for our love to be thrown away for such a meaningless transgression. I have sinned and I will seek repentance. For our love, Isobel, I will endure any punishment. But not the end of our marriage. Please let me save that!’
Charles’s pleading was so abject and heartfelt that, despite herself, she felt pity for him. She did not understand the nature of his desires but she wanted to believe that this perversion did not in fact cancel out or contradict his genuine feelings for her. Men drank and gambled and stole because they could not help themselves and such men found salvation.
‘I will remake the bed,’ said Charles, looking guiltily in that direction. ‘And I shall sleep in the studio tonight.’
Isobel sat alone in the parlour, turning over all the events of the last two years in her mind. Was she being punished for something she had done? Or was her punishment for a hereditary shame that must be expunged? That idea filled her with a vertiginous horror. At last she fell into a deep and mercifully dreamless sleep. She did not wake again until the maid shrieked when she found her in the parlour the next morning.
‘Oh, ma’am, I thought you was a ghost!’
When Charles came downstairs he had packed a bag and said he would spend a night or two at a boarding house nearby. ‘I do not want to stay here as a provocation to your anger and aggravation to your heartbreak. Perhaps Mrs Palmer could come and keep you company. When you are ready, I hope I can find some way to repair our marriage.’
‘What are you going to do?’
‘First, I am going to write a letter to Richard and put a stop to the whole thing. I will never see him again, I swear on my life.’
Charles had tears in his eyes as he closed the front door and walked away. Isobel washed and dressed in fresh clothes. She had no appetite so she left the house soon after her husband and set out on a walk along the bay past the Rose and Crown, the warehouses and shipyards, and Mr Punch’s hotel with its tower.
Despite Charles’s demonstrations of what appeared to be genuine remorse, Isobel’s heart was hollowed out by a sense of utter helplessness. Charles had been her rock, her refuge at a time when the comfortable world she had inhabited as a young woman was broken up and lost like so much storm-tossed wreckage. Any hope and self-esteem she had rescued from this catastrophe were attached to her love for Charles and his for her. If that love was founded on a lie, a delusion, what did she have left?
Nothing. Only pain and regret.
She normally found the salt air and the bright water a balm for her soul. The harbour view offered a largesse that dissolved all the troubles in her heart or at least diluted their pain. But today she found no such solace. She stood, a lone figure in her spring bonnet and cape, at the far end of the wharf, her eyes fixed on the dark green waters at her feet.
Isobel contemplated what the world would be like without her. Except for the child still unborn inside her, who else in her life would miss her? Her sisters, Anna and Grace? Hardly. Her aunt? While she professed some affection for her niece, Louisa Blunt had survived the death of her husband, George, and had three daughters of her own to cherish. dear Mrs Palmer? She would be broken-hearted but she would not grieve for long; given her poor health, her days were surely numbered. Her brother Joseph? He might have some regrets but he was not himself anymore, utterly changed by suffering into a self-obsessed and vengeful person she did not recognise. Her playmate Ballandella? Their friendship had ended years ago and she had no reason to think Ballandella would mourn her passing more than any other general acquaintance.
And Charles, her lover, her husband, her mentor? Yes, he would no doubt grieve for a time and probably be overwhelmed by guilt and self-pity. But with her death, Isobel would remove herself and her unwanted child from his life as the two obstacles to whatever relationship he enjoyed with Richard. Free-spirited Charles would soon make a new life for himself. The one person Isobel would truly regret hurting was her sister Alice. But she was far away and had a husband and son to devote her life to. She too would survive her grief.
Isobel stood, turning the opal dragonfly over and over in her hand, its stones as cold as ice despite their fire within. How many times had she rehearsed in her thoughts tossing it into the sea? If it was indeed the progenitor of her dreams then it had prefigured Charles’s divided love—the man in the frozen boat, rowing neither away nor towards her—and the conception of her child—the infant bundle in the tiny rowboat. Would she see herself in her next dream, a floating corpse, arms outspread, like her brother William? Was this her fate?
She imagined herself then, falling into the harbour. It would be so easy to do. Right now. Two, three steps. She saw herself descending into its emerald liquid depths, suspended for a moment, her dress inflated bell-like, her eyes looking up, mesmerised by the dazzle of green light above. It was so peaceful, so quiet, an elegiac vision of surrender. And then she saw herself sinking, watching the bright surface recede far above her and the crushing walls of water all about her growing darker and darker, the thudding of her heart louder and more insistent in her ears until she blacked out.
Angry thoughts intruded. I’ll show them!
This would be her revenge against Grace, Anna, Joseph, even her own parents, who cared so little they had abandoned her. She was tempted to leave a note that would expose all their secrets and cruel failings. Isobel’s death would create yet another scandal to plunge the family’s name deeper into disgrace. Having risked her own life and reputation to save her father’s, Isobel now chose to bring dishonour on them all for their heartlessness. She felt a grim satisfaction at that prospect. She would also punish Charles for his cold-hearted deceit; maybe she would let the strong light of public scrutiny flush out his grubby little secret. And her death would be an act of mercy as well. She would spare her poor child the indignity of being born into such a cursed family.
She broke down and wept. She wept for her own child self who had played so happily at Grangemouth with her friend Ballandella. She wept to recall her meeting with Fanny Macleay and the dragonfly by the ponds at Rosemount. She wept to remember her mother toasting her thirteenth birthday: ‘May your future bring you all the happiness you deserve, Isobel, my love!’ How had her life come to this dark place?
As she took a step forward to look down into the green water, she heard a voice shouting, ‘Stop! I beg you, stop!’
She halted, turned her head in the voice’s direction and saw a man running towards her, silhouetted against the morning sun. Who on earth was this? As the figure drew closer she recognised it as Major Ralph Tranter, jacket unbuttoned, flapping behind him as he ran. His face was a picture of distress, eyes ablaze, pale forehead and ashen cheeks. He held out his arms as if to restrain her. ‘Please, I beg you!’
‘Major Tranter…what is it?’ She was at a loss for words.
‘I…I thought you…you looked so terribly unhappy,’ he said, looking abashed now, not quite sure what to say. ‘I was frightened you were going to…’
‘Jump? In the water?’
‘I’m sorry if I misunderstood. It’s just that…’ The Major wrung his hands. ‘You see, I was having lunch over there and I…I saw you passing by and followed you a little way to greet you. But then you seemed so lost in thought standing here. And so I…I stopped and watched for a moment. You looked so terribly…please forgive me, Miss Macleod…’
‘Mrs Ludiger,’ corrected Isobel. With the palms of her hands, she wiped the tears from her face, still red raw from weeping. What a pathetic sight she must make!
‘Yes, of course, Mrs Ludiger. I apologise for alarming you. I feel so foolish. There was just something about your…the way you were standing…’
‘I thank you for your solicitude, Major Tranter, I really do,’ said Isobel blushing deeply, still barely able to look him full in the face. It was true she had changed her mind about ending her life in the harbour but it was also true that the Major had perceived her despair. She was grateful if a little ashamed. ‘I still grieve for my father, Major Tranter. Still think about him every day. It is hard, I am sure you understand.’
The Major nodded vigorously. ‘Please forgive my outburst. And my idiotic behaviour. I wish you some relief in your deep sorrow. Time is a great healer, they say.’ He looked pained. ‘Though I know some afflictions may never be fully eased.’
Isobel was touched by her former suitor’s concern.
‘Please do not apologise, Major Tranter. Your outburst was motivated by the most generous and gentlemanly of feelings. And I thank you for it.’
‘Mrs Ludiger, if you should ever need my help, please let me know.’ He pulled a card from the inside of his jacket and handed it to her. ‘I am at your service, dear lady.’
Isobel smiled at him and the Major bowed in return and, without another word, turned on his heel and left. As he retreated, Isobel, in spite of herself, pondered how her life might have been different if she had married the chivalrous and kind-hearted Ralph Tranter.
The weeks that followed were among the hardest for Isobel to endure in her short life. She had suffered so many blows these past few years and yet it was this sinking below the waves of her last rock of salvation in a vast, friendless ocean that was the most bitter blow to bear. Rightly or wrongly, Isobel had counted on her marriage to Charles to save her. And now her mind teemed with doubts. Had this man ever loved her? How could she ever trust him again?
Charles returned after two days, repentant and full of sorrow. He swore that he still loved her and never wished to do her any harm. He told her that Richard had already left for Melbourne and that he, Charles, would never see or speak with him again. He acknowledged that he was a sinner, accursed with unnatural desires, and prayed God would cleanse him.
She could tell that Charles was truly afraid and she pitied him. While she had lived a protected life, hedged about by ignorance of the wider world, Isobel knew that Charles’s was a crime punishable by ostracism and social ruin, and possibly even death by hanging. Aunt Louisa, the source of so much information about the vices of the underclass, had told her about Lady Macquarie’s Chair. This scenic spot by the harbour, a short walk from the domain, had for a long time been notorious for ‘perverse liaisons’ between men. If arrested, such men could expect to be hanged if convicted of ‘unnatural acts’; there was no pity and much disgust and hatred for these ‘sods’ and ‘mollies’.
‘While such acts of depravity continue, this colony will never be free of its convict past,’ her aunt had declared. Everyone knew such relations were common among convict men; spyholes called ‘squints’ had even been cut into the walls at the Hyde Park Barracks so the guards could keep an eye on the inmates to prevent acts of degeneracy.
Charles would find no clemency in the court of public opinion for his ‘perversion’. His wife spoke words of forgiveness but there were no feelings to match them in her heart. She and Charles were like two drowning swimmers, clinging to each other in desperation, too frightened to loosen their grip. They both needed this marriage to survive.
Their only hope now was that Richard would keep the sordid affair secret and that they would somehow stumble on, acting out the charade of a happy marriage until perhaps, in time, the pretence would become reality again. Isobel told him she had no intention of killing or giving away their child and that they would have to weather the storm of disgrace of a conception out of wedlock when the time came. Charles said he was not intimidated by society’s prejudices. He vowed he would stand by her no matter what the consequences.
An uneasy reconciliation was achieved. But fine words were one thing; fine actions were another. despite her protestations of forgiveness, she found her husband’s touch repugnant and rejected his most tender shows of affection. Charles vacated the marriage bed and retreated to the chaise longue in the studio. There was no hiding these arrangements from their two servants and, fearful of their gossip, they invented the pretext of Charles falling ill.
Isobel struggled with her feelings of distrust and despond. Because her artistic efforts were so strongly associated with her teacher and mentor, Charles, she found no pleasure in picking up her pencils or brushes. Robbed of this diversion, she cast about for something else to preoccupy her mind so it would not dwell on thoughts of despair. Her eye alighted again on her father’s field journals.
Having decided her unborn child must live, Isobel began to muster the courage to face the future, no matter how trying. If she was to continue the family line, whatever the cost, she calculated that she owed this child the truth. It seemed to be what her father wanted too, or why else would he have delivered these journals and Mr Davidson’s damning letter into her hands? I leave this true record in your hands. You will know what to do.
The other, more mysterious impulse that drew her back to these journals was the intimacy they afforded her with her absent father. She had rehearsed in her head all the reasons to hate him for his legacy of shame. And yet she still loved and mourned him. These journals gave her a remarkably candid view of her father’s character: his strengths and failings, his courage and generosity, his wonder and delight, his loathing and fear. They read like a confession, showed her his heart. He had submitted himself to her judgement. Surely that was the ultimate act of self-sacrifice, of trust. Even love.
With a father’s undying love…
She opened the journal for his third expedition, his push to explore the lower darling River where it joined with the Murray. This was the journey on which he had discovered Ballandella and her mother, and found such well-watered grazing land that he called it Australia Felix.
At first the party travelled through country occupied by white farmers. The Major observed the sorry results of settlement: whole districts depopulated of blacks through disease and extermination, the survivors now scattered as refugees in strangers’ country.
The Major had employed a Wiradjuri guide, Piper, and found the natives to be civil and useful for much of his journey along the Lachlan River down to the Murrumbidgee; maybe they had heard of the Major’s fearsome reputation. But now the party approached the same darling River country where the convicts from the second expedition had murdered a mother from the Fishing Tribe, the Barkindji.
The Barkindji began to follow the expedition in large numbers, carrying spears. By the last week of May, the Major was convinced that they intended to attack either in force or to pick off his men one by one. He split his party in two, keeping some convicts with the wagons and sending a second group to lie in wait, hidden in the bush.
One of this ‘ambuscade’, the convict Mr King, defied the Major’s orders to wait for an attack on the main party and opened fire on a group of Barkindji men coming up behind. This triggered a wild spree of shooting as natives then tried to escape, swimming across the river. Major Macleod and his men at the wagons ran down to the riverbank a
nd joined in the shooting. Seven natives were killed including their chief, King Peter.
Isobel was taken aback at her father’s lack of any guilt when he wrote: ‘Much as I regretted the necessity for firing upon these savages and little as the men might have been justifiable under other circumstances for firing upon any body of men without orders, I could not blame my men much on this occasion; for the result was the permanent deliverance of the party from imminent danger. Such was the fate of the barbarians who, a year before, had commenced hostilities by attacking treacherously a small body of strangers. I gave to the little hill which witnessed this overthrow of our enemies…the name of Mount Dispersion.’
Such an unsullied name, thought Isobel, untainted by blood or death.
Far from regretting the encounter, her father seemed to welcome this provocation by the Barkindji as he had feared his own sympathy for the blacks might have endangered his men. He had written: ‘I was indeed satisfied that this collision had been brought about in the most providential manner; for it was probable that, from my regard for the aborigines, I might otherwise have postponed giving orders to fire longer than might have been consistent with the safety of my men.’
Isobel was in no doubt that the deaths of seven natives were only a few drops of blood in the great ocean of bloodshed that accompanied the conquest of the hinterland by white settlers. Even so, the killings should have been avoided and had been in direct defiance of the Governor’s orders. She remembered what Anna had told her: how the language of the Major’s report of this incident to the Governor was criticised for not being regretful enough. The Major’s heart had been hardened against these ‘treacherous savages’.
Isobel knew all this already. What she did not know until she read this field journal was that a passage had been removed from the Council’s official report and her father’s published account. It described how his men had chased away the Barkindji warriors, ‘pursuing and shooting as many as they could’. The convicts had not just fired to disperse the initial attack; they had chased the blacks and killed as many as possible. Her father’s direct involvement in this shooting spree was not clear from either of his accounts.
The Opal Dragonfly Page 41