Wild Island

by Jennifer Livett

  I had assumed Miss Hayter would be a Quaker like Mrs Fry, but she was not, although she was devoutly religious. She was small, dark, pretty, and at twenty-four, much younger than I had expected. She blushed when Jane gave her good wishes on her engagement to Captain Charles Ferguson, Master of the Rajah. At that first meeting we accomplished only the formal request that the Governor be Patron of our Society and his wife Patroness, and the business of our name. After three hours of a discussion at once convoluted, pedantic, heated and inane, we voted to call ourselves ‘The Society in Aid of the Measures of Government for the Religious and General Instruction of the Female Convicts of Van Diemen’s Land’, a title which owed more to irritable exhaustion than consensus.

  At the second meeting a fortnight later, the membership had dwindled to four. We sat in a row like schoolgirls for an hour while Jane read aloud a draft of her report to Mrs Fry, plainly anticipating a chorus of approval at the end. Instead there was dismayed silence. Her harsh criticism of the convict women was particularly severe against those who returned to the Female Factory to bear illegitimate children. They must be separated from their babies immediately after the birth, in Jane’s view.

  The more we politely demurred, the more adamant she became. Maternal attachment, she argued—always supposing these women capable of feeling any such sentiment—must be sacrificed for the welfare of the child, whose future would best be ensured by removing it from the pernicious influence of the parent. We protested that this would make these children virtually orphans at birth. Jane nodded approvingly; the Orphan Asylum would raise and educate them properly. The meeting ended with dissatisfaction on all sides.

  As I was trying to leave quickly, Jane called to me. ‘Harriet! Could you spare a moment?’

  I had never felt less in sympathy with her than I did just then, but she was a friend, and tonight she looked . . . ‘forlorn’ was the word that came to mind. Dejected and lonely.

  ‘Your friends at Richmond, Harriet,’ she said when we were seated again. ‘What are they saying about this Coverdale Affair, as the newspapers call it? Do the locals really blame Sir John, or are Robert Murray and his cronies making a mountain out of a molehill again? Don’t be afraid to tell me the truth. I need to know.’

  Another awkward matter. I knew from Mrs Chesney that many at Richmond, formerly strong supporters of the Franklins, were angry about what they considered to be Sir John’s unjust treatment of their popular young doctor, John Coverdale. Coverdale had been the subject of a complaint, and there had been an enquiry, with a verdict that the doctor should be merely reprimanded. But the Governor had dismissed him, and the decision was deeply resented.

  Before I could answer, Jane added, ‘In reality it is neither mountain nor molehill, but a sign that Montagu is scheming again, plotting against us.’

  ‘What makes you think Montagu is behind it?’ I asked.

  She looked at me directly, and said, ‘You know my husband, Harriet—his dislike of paperwork. Montagu put the order for Coverdale’s dismissal in front of Sir John and recommended him to sign—and John did so, without knowing the full circumstances.’

  With his mind on matters more congenial to him, I thought. His new lighthouses, and his ideas for a naval base here, the Observatory . . .

  ‘And why shouldn’t he sign?’ Jane continued, ‘If his Colonial Secretary tells him to?’

  ‘But why would Montagu want Coverdale dismissed?’

  ‘Oh, Montagu doesn’t care about Coverdale. His aim is to disgrace us. To make my husband look a fool. I begin to believe he plans to bring about our dismissal—because he loathes us, or in the hope of claiming the Governorship himself. He kept quiet while Ross and Crozier were here, but now they’re gone, these attacks begin again.’

  ‘But there’s been a petition from Richmond?’ I said, ‘And Coverdale is reinstated?’

  ‘Sir John has ordered his reinstatement; Montagu refuses to comply. He accuses me of drawing up the petition, of inciting the Richmond people to protest—in order to give my husband an excuse for reversing a bad decision!’

  ‘Mrs Parry says Mr Aislabie has written to the Colonial Times admitting that it was he who got up the petition . . .’

  ‘Yes—but Robert Murray won’t publish it. I doubt any of the papers will. The Derwent Bank—Montagu is of course a Director with Swanston—holds the mortgages on all the newspapers in the island except Gilbert Robertson’s. . . .’

  I said what I could in the way of comfort, thinking all the time how frustrating it must be for her. If she were Governor, she would out-manoeuvre Montagu, but instead she could only watch and be loyally silent as her husband blundered on. When I reported the conversation to Gus, he thought Jane had good reason to be worried, and at the next meeting of the Ladies Committee, there was more evidence of this.

  I arrived late and most reluctantly for this third meeting, on the tenth of October—to find Jane alone in the room, pale, furious, melancholy.

  ‘Montagu has won,’ she said. ‘He and his cronies, Murray and the Macdowells. Swanston. I have been made to look an utter fool. Miss Hayter has withdrawn from the Committee and refuses to have any further dealings with female convicts. All on account of a vicious, contemptible attack in the press.’

  The newspapers had been flung on the table; two articles declaring it immoral for respectable women, especially unmarried ones, to associate with convict females. The other three women on the Committee had immediately resigned too. There was also an article in a London newspaper charging her with ‘petticoat government’ and interfering in matters of her husband’s office. The piece had been written by Murray and sent by him to London months ago.

  ‘To be vilified by the local press is one thing,’ Jane said, her voice unsteady. ‘I am accustomed to it—as much as one can ever be. But to be pilloried in London! The lies and distortions these colonial papers stoop to are not known there. Some will choose to believe their calumny.’

  She looked ill and I felt sorry for her. Her hair had begun to fall out again, as it had before when she was suffering with nerves. Marie had been able to dress it so that it hardly showed, but Marie had left to be married. She and her lieutenant were settling at the Huon on ten acres, which, Gus told me, Jane had given them on generous terms. The new maid, Stewart, was less skilful with hair, better with a needle.

  There was a lull of two weeks then, although the newspaper attacks on Jane did not stop. I was at the ‘Palace’ in early November working on a portrait of Tom, which Jane intended for his mother Isabella, when Sophy rushed in, furious. An hour before, she and Aunt had been at work in the anteroom when Nuncle came in, greatly agitated. Montagu had been with him for three hours complaining of Jane. He claimed she had made slanderous ‘insinuations’ about the Arthurites and Montagu—to Forster!

  ‘As though Aunt would speak to Forster about Montagu!’ Sophy cried. ‘Or about anything of importance! But Montagu is so plausible—and my uncle so little accustomed to dealing with barefaced liars—he does not know what to believe. He asked Aunt, “Have you said anything which could be so misconstrued?” and then to me, “And you, Miss? Have you been interfering? You had better tell me if you are in any doubt.”’

  Sophy paced about until Tom calmed her again.

  ‘And Aunt replied, “How can you ask us, John? What kind of fool must I be, to criticise Montagu to Forster? This is ridiculous. He wants to drive a wedge between us. How I wish you had called me in to answer him directly.”’

  Jane then wrote to Montagu without telling Sir John, denying all his accusations and strongly objecting to his method of tackling her husband behind her back. Montagu replied, not to Jane, but to Sir John. He had been monstrously insulted, called a liar. He would never again enter Government House while Lady Franklin was in residence, nor would he allow his wife to do so. He began a policy of working to the letter of his duty, making everything as awkward as possible for the Governor.

  He had previously been used to dealing with abo
ut half the paperwork himself, trivial matters which only wasted the Governor’s time. Now he did nothing: every scrap of paper, every change of time for a meeting, every most minor issue, was laid before Sir John. While feigning reticence, Montagu also made sure his rift with the Franklins was widely known. The Arthurite Van Diemen’s Chronicle redoubled its viciousness; the Arthurite MacDowells called a public meeting to discuss the Governor’s inadequacies; hecklers disturbed Franklin’s public speeches and jeered the Vice-Regal carriage.

  This year’s Regatta was postponed until February in the hope of better weather later in the summer. Rain had deluged the last two Decembers.

  ‘Thank Heavens! One less thing,’ cried Jane Franklin. ‘All I want now is peace and obscurity.’

  But the Horticultural Society Prizegiving was in late November. She had promised to judge the Best Potato Bed, the Best Small Garden, the Best Vegetable Plot, the Finest Compost. For a whole long hot day she must go about in the carriage admiring rhubarb, mangelwurzels, leeks, geraniums, mixed herbaceous borders; remembering names, accepting jam, posies, giant marrows. A retinue was essential: Sophy and Eleanor, Miss Williamson and myself.

  We were running late that morning. Sophy had lost a shoe. We waited in the carriage. It was found; we were away. A hundred yards outside the gates there was a disturbance. A small woman with a child in her arms, shouting at the open carriage, trying to stop it, calling and waving as it left her behind.

  ‘Oh stop, please stop!’ I cried. It was Jane Fludde, with Thea. I was out before the carriage halted, ignoring the cries of Jane and Sophy, waving the driver on, turning to run back. As the horses pulled away again, I thought I heard Sophy say, ‘Well, honestly . . . !’

  Fludde’s face like stone. Trying to find me. St John. Thea must go into the Orphan School. Today. She, Fludde, had tried to argue. He was adamant. Whereupon she had run from the house with Thea. ‘But why, why?’ Because she was a child of sin.

  He opened the door himself. An angel of death. Thin, hollow-eyed, saintly.

  ‘Ah, Harriet. I have been expecting you.’ Calmly.

  He led me into his study. Fludde and Thea went to the parlour.

  ‘Why?’ I asked.

  ‘Because she is no child of mine, but McLeod’s bastard.’ Righteousness disguising a perfect revenge. Did he know it, or not? He gave a smile before adding, ‘I thought you and my wife were such friends, Harriet. I made sure she would have told you.’

  He could not say their names. A perfect day outside, excellent for viewing marrows and posies. I opened my mouth to say, but Louisa did tell me, and begin the long argument, but before I could start, he cried in triumph, ‘So she was ashamed, or she would have told you. She never showed any sign of remorse to me, no flicker of guilt. Corrupted to the core. It will be no use to argue with me, Harriet. I have thought and prayed and made up my mind. I shall go to India again, where I shall soon die. No English constitution survives long in that climate. In this reduced state I shall not last. The child shall become Mr Ewing’s ward.’

  He smiled at me, his face beautiful, kindly. ‘I thought at first of taking her with me to India to die beside me, but this is the better solution. She is a child of this colony. Her fate shall follow its fortunes.’

  My mind was filled with a violent hot wind, burning but not consumed, beyond fear, fury, beyond pain, searching.

  ‘How do you know,’ I said, ‘that Thea is McLeod’s child?’ Merely enquiring. As calm as he.

  He smiled. ‘Louisa told me so herself. She told McLeod at the ball.’

  ‘What did McLeod say? Did he confirm it?’

  The smile faded. ‘No. But why should he?’

  ‘Louisa was angry with you these last months. She would have said anything to hurt you.’

  He looked at me, acknowledging the truth of it.

  ‘Louisa never showed any sign of guilt or remorse to you,’ I said slowly, musing, as it were, ‘nor to me. She did not tell me McLeod was the father—and yet she did talk about other intimate matters. Your marriage, for instance . . .’ I paused, watching St John’s face. Blank, but a slight flicker. I added, ‘McLeod does not acknowledge the child—and this sudden claim came out when Louisa was very bitter against you. Are you very certain Thea is not your child?’

  ‘Yes,’ he said, adding, ‘The child has ginger hair. She resembles McLeod.’

  I made a movement as though I would rise and leave, saying, ‘Am I wrong in thinking—Louisa said—your sister Mary has auburn hair?’

  He did not reply, stared into an imaginary distance.

  ‘If Thea was your own child,’ I said, ‘would you wish her to go to the Orphanage? Is Ewing the best guardian you can imagine? Gus and I would . . .’

  For a terrible moment I thought I had overplayed my hand. Cursed myself, cursed St John, willed him to fall dead at my feet.

  ‘Bergman? You?’ He was astonished.

  ‘I cannot bear children of my own, St John.’ I did rise now, forced myself to move towards the door. Nina would have been proud of me. Casually, I continued, ‘And Fludde, of course, Fludde could come to us as nursemaid still.’

  I knew he had a soft spot for Fludde. He approved of her reticence, her stoicism. But nevertheless, it seemed he was going to let me leave. He sat silent, unmoving. My mind searched for delay. I looked at him, noticing the first grey hairs in his side-whiskers; they only made him look wiser, more distinguished. Behind his head were chintz curtains Louisa had chosen, beneath his feet the India carpet she had bought in Kolcutta, badly worn at one corner, which we had decided to put under the desk. Smiling, my mind in a red rage, I decided that if he said nothing further I would simply go to Fludde on my way out, seize Thea and take her. Gus would disapprove but he would understand and help me. The veins in my neck throbbed. I felt ill. I reached the door of the study, turned and said mildly, ‘You will let us know, St John, before you sail?’

  ‘Wait, Harriet. You really believe she would have . . . That she tried to deceive me . . . That Thea is truly . . .’

  And it was done. By a mild smile and a great lie, I secured Thea and Fludde to myself and Gus. There was much more to endure, of course: two weeks of ghastly fear that St John might renege on the promise I exacted then—but in the end it was done. Gus, after his first astonishment, took no persuading. ‘How the devil did you manage Wallace?’ was all he said at first. When I explained he shook his head at me, smiled, and said he must speak privately to McLeod—who would only say he was about to marry Mrs Henderson, whom he had been courting. She was childless and preferred to remain so.

  Gus also stipulated that St John must allow us to adopt Thea legally, which, to my distress, delayed matters further until the documents could be drawn up. I was in an agony of apprehension until the ink was dried on the last line and St John Wallace on his way to England, where he would farewell his sisters before leaving for India. But long before then, it was as though he were already far from this colony in his mind, gone forward to the fatal task he had set himself. He signed the papers almost absentmindedly, kissed Thea and bade her be a good girl, telling her they would meet again in a better place.

  During those harrowing weeks of waiting until Thea was finally ours, my mind was wholly occupied with her, with St John, Fludde, the progress of the legal papers, and my gratitude to Gus, who calmly brought it all to fruition. I had no feelings left to spare for anything beyond. And yet when I look back, the ‘Barrow Letter’ remains for me the perhaps the strangest episode of those months—all the more because it carried echoes of Louisa’s life.

  Henslowe, Sir John’s secretary, who told us about it, believed Montagu was behind this too, but I cannot be sure. The Colonial Secretary’s malignant influence seemed everywhere at that time, and some crimes of which he was innocent may have been added to his score.

  It came in late November, a glowing sunny morning: not quite summer. There were patches of high wispy cloud and the promise of a warm day. Henslowe took the private mail into the sma
ll breakfast room and put it beside the Governor, who looked up from his plate and set down his knife. He pushed aside the top items and pulled out the fattest. Jane was not yet downstairs.

  ‘Ah, from John Barrow. A good start to the day,’ Sir John said to Sophy, who was sitting beside him.

  The packet was unusually bulky, Henslowe said. Sir John leaned it against the silver cruet set in front of him while he finished his meal. And then, Henslowe continued, Miss Cracroft put down her teacup and picked up the letter—which was odd, startling. She would not, as a rule, touch Sir John’s correspondence—and the next thing she had risen from her chair and was walking rapidly to the door, taking the letter with her.

  Sir John had meanwhile turned away towards Mrs Wilson, who had just brought a fresh pot of coffee to the table. When he turned back, the letter was gone.

  ‘Henslowe . . . ?’

  ‘I believe Miss Cracroft took it upstairs, sir,’ said Henslowe, only just recovering from the shock of seeing it happen.

  Sir John hesitated, looking displeased, put down his cup, rose and went out. Mrs Wilson looked at Henslowe but he would not meet her gaze. She picked up the cold coffee-pot—it was a good thing it was empty, Henslowe said—left the room and had begun to cross the hall when she froze and dropped the pot, because a bloodcurdling noise had come from upstairs, a terrible roar like that of an animal in pain.

  It came again, a great bellow this time, which must be Sir John because there was no one else it could be, although Henslowe had never heard anything like it before. He ran out of the dining-room and started up the stairs but stopped abruptly near the top when both he and Mrs Wilson distinctly heard Sir John shout, ‘How dare you, madam! How dare you! You have ruined me with my oldest friend. And as for you, miss . . . Go away from me! Get out of my sight. I cannot bear to look at you. Go to your room. I shall speak to you later.’