Now that she had read the field journal, Isobel was alarmed to find out that her father also justified this massacre, this ‘fate of the barbarians’ shot in the back as they ran away, with his assertion that this tribe had previously ‘commenced hostilities by attacking treacherously’. But that was not true! And Father knew it was not true. His own journal revealed that his men had shot a Barkindji woman in the legs and executed her in cold blood as she lay wounded on the riverbank.
Mr Davidson knew this too and had been determined to expose it. There is no kind way to put this, Isobel thought to herself in a welter of distress: her father had lied to the Governor and the Executive Council. And what’s more the Council had admonished the Major in the mildest terms for this massacre and suppressed all mention of it in his public report in the Sydney Gazette.
Her father’s previous admiration for the Aborigines had now turned to coldness and anger. It was obvious that he felt betrayed by the ‘treacherous’ behaviour of the Barkindji. As Isobel read on, she noticed that the Major now distinguished two types of blacks: the open-hearted and civil blacks who had lost their homelands to the white man and made peace with the invader; and the greedy, brutal, untrustworthy and aggressive natives who had yet to be dispossessed. But to Isobel’s mind, none of this excused her father’s lie about the two heinous acts of violence by white men against the Barkindji.
And then she had a thought that had never occurred to her before. She now wondered if her father’s adoption of Ballandella into his family was an act of redemption for these crimes. Or was it intended to demonstrate his faith, severely challenged but not yet relinquished, that the natives were not barbaric by nature and could be civilised? Whatever his motivations then, her father had now handed her the truth, perhaps as a posthumous act of contrition. But what was she supposed to do? Was she meant to seek forgiveness for her father?
As she sat in her chair in the parlour, the journal lying open in her lap, she looked out the window at the street beyond, bleached in the sunlight. Forgiveness was so hard. Isobel herself had hardened her heart against her cruel sisters but she still secretly hoped for their forgiveness and acceptance. Most difficult of all was finding the forgiveness in her own heart that would melt away the years of resentment she felt towards Anna and Grace. How else could the past be mended, her world made whole again?
Now that her own father sought to set the record straight, did he also hope to be forgiven? And who could give that absolution? Surely it had to be the Fishing Tribe, the Barkindji themselves. Maybe it was time to write to Ballandella again, to find out what she knew, to tell her the truth.
And, of course, there was the greatest obstacle to Isobel’s future happiness, barred by the hardness and distrust in her own heart. How would Isobel ever find that forgiveness?
For Charles.
Chapter 37
EXECUTION
JULY 1853
Before the month of July was concluded, the strain of maintaining the charade of Isobel and Charles’s marriage was taking a heavy toll. Isobel continued to have strange dreams, with visitations from Ballandella and her father and even Major Tranter, clutching his purple orchid and declaring his loyalty to her. Charles in his frozen rowboat never got any closer to Isobel in these dreams; in fact, she was sure he drifted further towards the horizon.
Isobel struggled with her own feelings of loyalty, desperate to restore the bliss of her marriage with Charles. She had thought about seeking advice or even just a sympathetic ear from Mrs Palmer or Catherine Cooper (now engaged to be married). Major Tranter had also offered her help, as had Mr Davidson. But she felt such shame about her husband’s perversion and her own pregnancy she could not bring herself to confide in any of them.
She was showing now, her belly swollen beneath her petticoats and crinolines with her baby due to arrive in only three weeks’ time, and so she remained confined to her bedroom. She wrote to Aunt Louisa and the fancywork circle to tell them she was unwell and in the care of Dr Finch, who in fact came to the house regularly for discreet visits to check on the health of mother and child. Charles was solicitous, of course, and expressed his tender and joyous anticipation of becoming a father. It was Isobel’s fondest hope that the birth of this child would prove the keystone in their future happiness, uniting Charles and Isobel in protectiveness of their son or daughter against the sordid opinions of the world.
‘Charles, do you still love me?’ asked Isobel.
‘I do. The question is: do you still love me?’
Charles looked at her strangely when she replied, ‘Of course, I do,’ as if her answer was too pat, too quick, too easy to lay before him, like some homely sampler.
One night in the last week of July, Charles arrived home for dinner nearly two hours late. The cook was beside herself trying to keep the meat from drying out and rescue the vegetables. Isobel heard the front door open and the manservant greeting his master. ‘Can I take your coat, sir? I see it has started raining.’
When Isobel entered the dining room, she could tell straight away that all was not well. Charles had been drinking. She smelled the sour fumes rolling off him and did not fail to notice the slow blink of his eyes and unsteadiness of his gait. Under his breath, he sang a martial song, an anthem of revolution, from his youth.
Ah! ça ira, ça ira, ça ira
Le peuple armé toujours se gardera
Le vrai d’avec le faux l’on connaîtra
Le citoyen pour le bien soutiendra
Ah! So fine! It will be, it will be!
A people armed will always keep themselves both safe and free!
We’ll know what’s right from wrong, and true from false, yay, verily!
Each citizen supports the good—for all humanity!
‘Charles?’ Isobel could not clearly read her husband’s mood, an unsettling mix of surliness and abandon. divested of his coat and hat, he stumbled towards the table and seated himself heavily in his usual chair.
‘So here I am, your faithful husband, having done his duty to earn his wife’s respect and love.’ He surveyed the plates of dried-out meat and charred vegetables that had been hurriedly served up. ‘And here is my reward. A modest meal prepared in my modest house.’ He clapped his hands imperiously. ‘Come, come, where is my wine?’
‘Please, Charles, I think…’ Isobel trailed off, hurt by his cruel words.
‘Oh no. Have I offended you, my dear?’ Charles grabbed the wine decanter from the manservant and clumsily spilled some into his glass. ‘Please forgive me.’ His mouth curled bitterly. ‘Oh, I forgot. You don’t do that, do you? Forgive.’
Isobel ran from the room.
‘Isobel! Come back! Come back here!’
She ran into the hallway where Charles’s weather-beaten cloak and plush riding jacket, stained with rain, hung on the hooks by the front door. Something caught her eye: an envelope stuffed into his jacket pocket. A warning tolled in her mind. do not! She was about to cross another line, which could only bring grief. She grabbed the envelope and ran to the parlour.
‘Isobel! Come back, will you?’ Charles shouted from the dining room.
Had she not learned her lesson? Was she determined to invite more trouble into her life? What could be here that would not be bad news? She ripped open the envelope and took out the letter. She was Truth’s warrior, fearless, reckless, unstoppable.
She read:
Charles, my Adonis, my Apollo,
My heart burns for you, my body hungers for yours, my lover, my love. Come away, come away, I beg you. What is the use of living a lie? You of all men, Charles, were not fated to be the prisoner of drudgery. Your marriage offers nothing but a life sentence of poverty, duty and pretence. You must be true to yourself, Charles! How else to be free?
I have booked our passage for Melbourne: the Condor, boarding ten o’clock, departs two o’clock, Friday week, Circular Quay. You have so many friends in Melbourne, the Paris of the south. Not like Sydney, this grubby temple to Mammon, thi
s marketplace for peddlers and politicians. We can start again just as you did before, Charles. New names, new faces. No one will find us. I count the minutes until we are together again.
R.
Isobel cried out, an inarticulate utterance of outrage and distress. Her husband had lied again. Richard was still in Sydney and they were still in contact with each other, maybe even in person. And now her husband was planning to desert her and his unborn child. Charles Probius, the man of honesty, was a fraud, a liar, a heartless monster!
He stood in the doorway, unsteady, red in the face. His eyes fell on the letter in her hand. ‘How dare you!’ he bellowed and lunged at her. ‘That is none of your business!’
She retreated, frightened but still angry. ‘Isn’t it? Are you going to leave me, Charles? Is that what you would do?’ she yelled at him. ‘Is that the kind of man you really are, Charles Probius? A coward and a liar?’
‘don’t you lecture me!’ he roared. ‘What do you know of real men?’
She had crossed a line by reading her husband’s private mail. And now, licensed by her indiscretion and by his own tongue loosened with wine and the accumulated misery and anger of the last few weeks, Charles crossed a line as well. His lips curled into a snarl, reminding Isobel of her sister’s madness.
‘What do you know of the real world, my Lady dragonfly? Living in your lovely fortress of privilege on Woolloomooloo Hill. Your family—ha! Playing at being aristocrats while pretending to be friends of the deserving poor and the dispossessed native. So genteel, so pious, so proud. While your whole pretty world is built on the sweat and pain and misery of real men and women. Servants, convicts, soldiers, murdered blacks.’
He lunged again and fell against the chiffonier. Two porcelain figures reeled and crashed to the floor, exploding. ‘Come, Isobel, my love! You want to know the truth?’
Isobel did not want to hear the truth, not from the mouth of this foul, drunken man. This was not her Charles, her devoted husband, this was someone else who had assumed his face and spoke with his voice. A demon. He was mad like Anna, his mind consumed by delusion. Or was she the deluded one?
‘Behold the mighty Macleods, so steeped in dishonour and disgrace, mocked and reviled by everyone. And all looking for a way out. Especially you, strange little Isobel. How easy you were to hook on my line, so proud and eager to be praised that you swallowed my flattery all in one bite. Twenty-five pounds for a painting at a ladies’ charity bazaar!’ He slammed his fist on the table like a gavel and laughed. ‘Such a small deposit on a rich girl’s inheritance!’ His mood darkened again. ‘But it turns out I tricked myself. I was the self-deluded fool after all. duped by the Macleods’ grand estate and fancy house! And by you as well, Isobel, lying to me about your father’s blessing of our courtship!’
Isobel backed away as Charles drew closer, his face distorted into an expression of such hateful rage that she thought she would surely die at his hands tonight.
‘Well, it’s time you knew the whole truth, Isobel my dear! Your father never changed his mind! He never gave me his blessing! did you really think he would? Major Angus Macleod? We met as I said in the gardens at Rosemount. And we talked, yes, like two civilised gentlemen, two men of education and taste. But he did not bless our union! He would not unstiffen that proud neck and allow his precious daughter to share the bed and the shame of a lowly emancipist!’
Isobel’s head swam in stultified horror and disbelief. She simply could not credit what she was hearing. Her father had not blessed their marriage? Charles had lied to her and to Aunt Louisa? Was that possible? Charles had gambled everything on one monstrous deception when the Major died, so the truth could never be revealed that he did not wish Isobel to marry Charles Probius. ‘I have repaid your lie with one of my own, dear Isobel!’ Charles lunged again and this time he caught Isobel by the elbow. ‘But I am afraid there is no future here for me! One kiss before I go, my sweet. Just one!’
He toppled then, catching his foot on the table leg and dragging defenceless Isobel with him. She screamed and her face glanced against the table edge as she fell. As her body collided with the floor, she thought of her baby, not herself. Her hands involuntarily hugged her belly to protect her child. She tasted blood at the corner of her mouth. Her cheek had split where it fetched the sharp corner of the table. It now bled freely.
Charles’s body lay sprawled on the carpet. With a grunt, he rolled over and looked at his wife. His face paled. The spirit of madness seemed to flee his eyes.
‘What have I done? What have I said? I am losing my mind!’ he cried. ‘Please, Isobel, please forgive me. I don’t know who I am, what I am saying! I did not mean a word of it!’
He reached out to touch her and she flinched. Forgiveness had been difficult before; it was impossible now. He could not unsay the dreadful things that had been said. Their life together was no more than a charade, a play, a tragic farce.
They both then heard the pounding at the door and the voice beyond, demanding entry. ‘Probius! Probius! Open up! Open up or I shall break down this door!’
Ignoring his master’s orders to the contrary, the manservant opened the door. There in the doorway, his face half-lit by the lamp above, stood the figure of Major Tranter. Behind him, the rain fell in steady sheets. ‘Probius! You will answer to me, sir. For your treachery. For dishonouring one of the finest women in the colony.’
Isobel looked up, amazed. What fresh nightmare was this? What did Ralph Tranter know of her shameful secrets? Why was he here to defend her? She feared that he too had been drinking. She could hear it in the slight slurring of his words, and the uneven volume of his voice, strident and shrill and too loud, even for speaking over the din of the rainfall. despite this, Isobel thought that she should be pleased to see him, her rescuer. She needed help, certainly. Her husband had clearly lost his mind and was a danger to her and himself.
‘Come, sir, I have someone here who will be your second,’ shouted the Major.
What? Isobel’s thoughts raced in a panic. A second? dear God, let it not be true! Was the Major here to challenge her husband to a duel? Was it possible that history was to repeat itself in such a horrendous way? It was not to be borne. Isobel rose from the parlour floor and hurried to where the Major stood in the hall, his cloak pooling water at his feet.
‘Good heavens!’ cried the soldier on seeing her wounded cheek, now dripping blood. ‘Has he dared to strike a woman? And such a woman as you, my dear Isobel!’
‘No, no,’ protested Isobel, ‘It was an accident, I swear. He meant me no harm. You must calm down, Ralph. If you bear me any loyalty at all, you must desist, I beg you. There is no need for you to challenge anyone.’
‘I knew you would defend him, Isobel, my love,’ declared the Major. There, he had said it. He had confessed his love for her, this woman he had always desired, had never stopped desiring. He had been a fool to think he could trade such sweet ardour for a loveless and respectable marriage. He was not ashamed to confess his love.
Isobel blanched. This was both her worst fear and, at one time long ago, her fondest hope, confirmed in two simple words: ‘my love’. Oh, how many times she had heard those words abused of late. She shook her head, unable to find her own words to express her alarm.
The Major saw the distress he had caused and did his best to restrain his torrent of feeling. ‘do not be afraid, Miss Macleod,’ he said, clearly rejecting her married name. ‘I am here to defend your honour,’ he reassured her. ‘I do this out of the respect that is your due, Madam, and not only for the love I bear you.’
The figure of Charles appeared in the hallway. He stared blankly at the soldier. ‘Who are you to dare address my wife in this way? In my own home? Get out!’
This outburst provoked an equally violent reaction from the young soldier. Tranter removed his pistol from its holster and pointed it straight at Charles’s head. ‘By orders of the Governor in Council, you are under arrest, charged with the crimes of buggery and assaulti
ng a woman. You will hang, you filthy scoundrel, which is unfortunate as I would prefer to have the privilege of blowing your brains out myself!’
The soldier surged forward and seized the now trembling Charles by the collar, half-choking him as he pulled and pushed him through the front door. All the while Isobel desperately entreated her ex-suitor to release her husband. ‘Stop, Ralph, I beg you, stop!’
In an awkward shuffling dance, the two men, locked together in a rough embrace, and the wretched woman, pleading for her husband’s liberty, emerged onto the street. Here, the rain fell in an unceasing drizzle. Less than four yards away there was parked a coach with two soldiers in uniform, standing as if on guard, at the nearest door.
‘Come, sir, it is time to answer for your crimes,’ shouted the Major as he pushed the miserable artist into the street. With a sharp shove, Charles fell to his knees.
‘I thought you were arresting me. I must speak with my lawyer!’ he protested.
‘We shall settle this matter as gentlemen first,’ said Tranter, pulling a second pistol from under his cloak. ‘Though no sodomite and wife-beater deserves that name!’
‘Why do you call me these names? I am nothing of the sort!’ Charles was weeping now, his tears indistinguishable from the rain that wet his face and smeared his untidy blond locks to his pate. He was a pathetic, bedraggled sight. Isobel’s heart was filled with pity though she knew she should hate him for his monstrous duplicity.
‘Perhaps this will remind you!’ said Tranter. The two soldiers by the coach, no doubt the Major’s subordinates, obediently opened the cab’s door. One of them leaned in and bodily tugged a man, crouching in the darkness within, out onto the street.
The Opal Dragonfly Page 42