Birdman's Wife

by Melissa Ashley

  My sketch complete, I brushed down the feathers with a cloth. To prevent ants from attacking the skin, I consigned the frogmouth’s body to an enormous bottle filled with preserving alcohol that we had prepared for such cases. It was kept under the table, out of the light, and I had to wrestle for a moment with the great lid stopping the cask. I laid the frogmouth atop the floating specimens, but he did not submerge. Not wishing to damage his fragile feathers, or sink my hands into the repulsive pool, I used a wooden paddle to push him into the sloppy liquid. The tawny frogmouth’s black claws slipped beneath the preserving fluid, the keg swallowing him up, and I was reminded of a ship’s passenger buried at sea.

  ‘I’m sorry about the frogmouth,’ I said, sitting out on the lamplit veranda later with John, doing my best to forget Henry’s tears upon learning of his pet’s death. ‘I have something to cheer us, though.’ I squeezed my husband’s hand. ‘We have received not one but two letters from London!’ I drew the envelopes from my pocket, where they had fairly burned a hole, and placed them on the table.

  ‘At last – tell me all the news!’ said John.

  I looked out at the eucalypts bordering the cottage, their leaves silvered in the moonlight, wondering how to explain my behaviour. ‘I haven’t opened them yet – I’ve been waiting all day to share them with you. To be honest, after all this time I was afraid there might be bad news, and I could not bear it alone. I just wish they were from Mother or Sarah. I know they would have written before now, but the letters must have been delayed.’

  ‘Come now, it will be good news, I’m sure. Although as it’s from Mr Prince I fear it may be mainly about the business. You know what he’s like. Let me read them to you.’ Picking up the first envelope and reaching for his pocket knife, John slit open the seal. ‘But then again, maybe we should wait until tomorrow,’ he said, teasingly, pretending to hide the letter in his jacket.

  I pinched his arm. ‘Please, just read it to me.’

  ‘Mr Baker is owed money for stuffing Mr J. Babcock’s beagle,’ John began, giving me a wry smile. ‘Funds remain outstanding for the preservation, mounting and casing of Mrs Eleanor Price’s scarlet macaw. Glass eyes in all sizes have been provided for Mr Natterer; three young gentlemen have been given instructions for applying arsenical soap, for which Mr Baker thought a fee of three shillings was appropriate …

  ‘Please stop,’ I interrupted. ‘I can see somebody hasn’t changed. You can go over Mr Prince’s lists in your own time. Has he written of the family?’

  On and on the letter droned. If I found Mr Prince impersonal in the flesh, it was nothing to the tone of his correspondence. Halfway down the final page, he began his account of the domestic goings on at Golden Square. Mr Mitchell was ill with influenza. Mother had been suffering from rheumatism.

  ‘Oh no!’ said John, turning white.

  ‘What – whatever is it?’ I surged forward.

  ‘It’s Louie,’ he replied, his eyes glistening.

  I clutched his arm, my heart virtually stopped. ‘Tell me!’

  ‘Our dear little girl is very ill,’ said John, raising a hand to dab at his eyes.

  ‘What – how ill? What sort of illness? I want Mr Prince’s exact words. You must not deny me!’

  ‘I avail myself of the opportunity,’ read John, ‘to say that we are all well, with the exception of poor little Miss Louisa who I am sorry to say is in a very delicate state, but will I hope do well under the unremitting attentions of our physician Dr Russell, and Mrs Coxen and Sarah.’

  ‘What does he mean by “a very delicate state”? I don’t understand.’

  ‘That is all he reveals,’ said John, scanning the letter again. ‘Wait, there’s a postscript from Cousin Sarah. She writes that everyone is well, but must confess that “our dear babe” is still very weakly. She and your mother want you to know they are doing everything they can to restore her strength, and the doctor is visiting daily so you are not to worry.’

  ‘Good Lord,’ I said, beginning to cry. ‘Can they not tell us exactly what ails her and what they’re doing for our little girl to make her better? How could this happen?’

  John squeezed my hand. ‘I’m sure she will pull through or has recovered already,’ he said. ‘She has the Gould family constitution. Eliza, I’m as worried as you are but we need to bear in mind that this letter was written months ago and the other is more recent. Before we both fret any more let’s see what news it brings.’

  ‘Yes, yes, you’re right – but hurry …

  Mr Prince’s second letter was dated two months later. As John tore open the envelope, I felt ill, now truly terrified of what it might contain. I reached my hand out to hold his arm for support and saw how my fingers trembled.

  ‘Are you ready?’ asked John gently.

  ‘Quickly! I can’t bear it.’ I could not think until I knew the news. The whole world teetered on its contents.

  John read on: ‘We are all well here except little Miss Louisa, who continues very delicate but has greatly improved during the last few days. Mr Russell and Mrs Coxen are anxiously attentive to her and are confident she will yet do well. Mrs Coxen says to tell you that your little babe is on the road to recovery.’

  ‘That is a relief,’ I said. I let out my breath, my eyes full of tears, and looked over at John. ‘What is it?’ I said, noting immediately the strange look in his eyes.

  ‘That is all,’ he said.

  ‘It’s not all, is it? I can tell from the look on your face. Are you lying to me?’ I almost shouted. ‘What is it? What are you hiding?’

  ‘I read everything.’

  ‘You most certainly did not.’

  ‘I did, Eliza, I did,’ said John, looking away, stricken.

  Before I could think, I reached out and snatched the letter. John did not resist. He simply stared at the night sky, worry and defeat etched into every corner of his features.

  Suddenly I needed to be alone. I could not bear to face him. I had to learn for myself what had upset him so.

  I walked inside to the kitchen, lighting the lamp and setting it on the worktable, my heart beating so quickly I could hardly breathe. Steeling myself, I unfolded Mr Prince’s second letter, frantically scanning his neat script for whatever had struck John.

  We are all well here except little Miss Louisa who continues very delicate and for whom I had feared the worst, but she has greatly improved during the last few days. Mr Russell and Mrs Coxen are anxiously attentive to her and I hope she will yet do well.

  Clenching my teeth, I made myself read on. Mr Prince had made another entry, two weeks later.

  Miss Louisa continues so delicate that Mr Russell has recommended her being sent into the country, which will be done as soon as he considers the season sufficiently advanced to produce a favourable result. You must not imagine that there is any cause for alarm now, though at one time Dr Russell confessed that he feared she had diphtheria and did not think it possible she could survive.

  Horrified, I threw the letter onto the table. My baby had been close to death! And I had not been by her side. I ran to my bedroom, feverishly rummaging under the wardrobe for my travelling valise. I tore open the side pocket, ripping off a button, and pulled out the portraits I had made on my last night in London. I found my sketch of Louisa and returned to the kitchen table. Louisa, asleep in her cot, lay on her side. I had drawn a profile of her sweet face, her pale eyebrows; long, dark eyelashes; the delicate curve of her nose; a curl of hair over her ears; her plump lips slightly parted. Her arm had fallen across her chest. I sharpened my pencil and began a new sketch, copying the rough lines I had drawn onto a fresh piece of paper. My early impression prompted me to recall the finer details of my daughter’s features, and I set to filling them in, shading and building up tone.

  Mr Prince had written his first letter on the day we had driven to The Queen’s Domain to undertake our first bird-trapping forage. At the same time Mother, Sarah and Mr and Mrs Prince had been keeping vigil at Louisa’
s bedside, fearing she would not live.

  I sat back to examine the new portrait, holding it under the light of the lamp. It was ready. I began to mix colours, so that I might breathe life into it. As I applied the first stroke of my brush, Mr Prince’s words began to repeat, We had thought the worst, plaguing my thoughts and stabbing at my heart. Trying to calm myself, I reasoned that in all likelihood Louisa had fully recovered by now. She must have. Surely a letter was winging its way towards us, bringing news of her miraculous good health. I had to believe that – I could not give in to that other possibility. Mixing a deep blue for Louisa’s irises, I realised that all I had left was the resource of hope. I shaped my daughter’s nostrils and, as her face came to life, I began to feel deep inside that she would survive. If I were to make a fair life for myself in the colonies, to make all this sacrifice worthwhile, I had to believe that. First, though, I needed to surrender to the pain I felt, letting it sweep over me in great gusts so that I could let go of it. When my sadness was spent, I left the painting on the table to dry, collected my materials and set my brushes to soak. I stepped outside into the moonlit garden and vowed to myself that until I received further news – good news – this was the extent of weakness and fear I would allow myself to feel.

  Exhausted, I fell into a heavy sleep, waking in the morning to find my thoughts stilled by an unexpected peace. As light stitched the line of the horizon, I recalled the deep faith I had felt that Louisa would pull through. I would not allow myself to succumb to the horrors of the previous night. It was as if this crisis had granted me a strength and sense of purpose I had never felt before. I was no longer that insecure young girl who feared what lay behind the door in Bruton Street. Whatever challenges lay ahead, I was ready to face them.

  For several days after the letters, John kept to himself, sleeping late and working alone in the shed. All too often, he dealt with his concerns by retreating into himself, unwilling to show weakness or share his burden, even with me. My own pain was tinged with a quiet anger. Though I knew it was unjust of me, that John was as pained by Louisa’s illness as I was, I could not forget that he was the cause of my distance from my youngest children, and I made little effort to soothe him. Slowly we came to an uneasy truce before he began planning his next expedition, this one to the Liverpool Plains. John had anticipated the trip as one of the highlights of our visit to Australia, eager to collect and examine more examples of the various species that Charles and Stephen had shipped from the region. Originally I was to set up base at Stephen’s farm, accompanying John on the overland trip, but because of the late stage of my pregnancy the long distances and poor roads were too dangerous to risk.

  Learning of my plight, Lady Franklin invited me to stay in the guest quarters at Government House to wait out my confinement. I felt thoroughly spoiled as she set Henry, Mary and me up in plush bedrooms with a small sitting room to ourselves. As well as every possible comfort, we had excellent company, occasional entertainment and delicious fresh meals cooked for us. Most important, while my husband was jostled halfway across New South Wales, I would be the first to receive news from Golden Square.

  Ever since we had learned our baby was ill, each morning I had made a ritual of taking out my portrait of Louisa, brushing her tiny lips with mine and willing her to get better. I imagined her giggling in her cot, taking her first tottering steps, and being floated on a river of love and attention from everyone around her.

  A week before the baby was due, John wrote that he had been held up in Sydney on business after his expedition to the Liverpool Plains and he would likely be delayed returning to Hobarton. He assured me he would make every effort not to miss our child’s birth. If this circumstance eventuated – and he dearly hoped it would not – he would beg on his knees for my forgiveness. And I would do my best not to protest, I decided.

  Thankfully, John made it home in time for his son’s entry into the world. Even more thankfully, Franklin Tasman’s birth was my easiest yet. As if the heavens had conspired in my favour, a week after Franklin’s arrival we received a bundle of letters from London. Not just from Mr Prince, but at last from Mother and Sarah, confirming that Louisa had returned home from her country respite and that my darling, although frail, was no longer ailing.

  ‘Confound it!’ I muttered, as three bright drops of blood splashed onto the lace bodice of the nightgown I had been attempting to mend. ‘Mary, can you ring for Lady Franklin’s maid?’ I brought my thumb to my lips and sucked hard. ‘I do so despise darning.’

  A knock sounded on the door and in walked Lady Franklin. ‘You don’t need the surgeon, do you?’ she asked.

  ‘I am quite recovered,’ I said, with a wry smile. ‘I can be dangerous with a needle.’

  ‘I wanted to bring you this personally – it’s from your husband,’ she said, handing me a sealed envelope.

  ‘I wonder what it is now. Do you have a moment to sit with me so I may share the news with you?’ These days I could not help but feel a small prickle of anxiety when opening correspondence.

  ‘For you, my dear, anything.’

  John had joined an expedition led by Captain Charles Sturt to explore the Mallee scrub north of the settlement at Adelaide. He had undertaken so many field expeditions in the past year that I had grown accustomed to his incessant travelling. Thankfully I had plenty to keep me occupied in his absence. At three months, Franklin was a cheery, boisterous infant and, for the first time since Henry was a baby, I permitted myself the indulgence of being a mother and nurse.

  I tore open the envelope, scanning John’s near indecipherable writing. Upon reading the contents I shook my head, and then gave a huge sigh of relief.

  ‘What is it?’ asked Lady Franklin, looking concerned.

  ‘Oh, my dear friend,’ I said, ‘just give me a moment.’ I took a deep breath to compose myself before going on. ‘John writes to tell me that Captain Sturt’s party came close to perishing two weeks ago.’

  ‘Good Lord – is he quite well? Where is he? Read on!’

  Still slightly dazed, I began to read John’s letter to her: ‘Our party became lost and then disoriented in the scrubs. The landscape was more hostile than we expected and prepared for – dry and unbearably hot – and on the third day, many miles from the Adelaide settlement we had set out from, we ran out of water and could not find a new source. Our party tried all the traditional avenues for raising water: digging deep in the earth under salt brush trees, collecting morning dew, but nothing sufficed. The men began to despair. On the second night without water, I began entertaining fears we might not make it back to civilisation.’

  I paused for a moment, savouring the following paragraph for myself. John had written that as he lay under the cold light of the moon that night, he attempted to compose an image of my face. But he couldn’t unite the parts into a satisfying whole. This bothered him immensely and he promised himself that if he survived his ordeal, upon returning home he would take my face in his hands and drink in my dear features.

  I put the letter down and bowed my head, imagining for a moment returning to London without him. I sniffed, blinking away tears.

  ‘What happened, my dear?’ asked Lady Franklin gently.

  Unable to put my thoughts into words, I continued reading out John’s letter: ‘Just when we thought all was lost, on the third day our native tracker came back from a walk with a bulging water bag. We were saved!’ I looked back up at my hostess and carefully folded the pages before slipping them back into the envelope. ‘And then he has the gall to confess that the experience did not deter his collecting ambitions one iota. Not only that, he saw fit to argue with Captain Sturt that the party continue with its original plan.’

  ‘I, for one, can attest to the sort of fight your husband must have put up. I do not envy Sturt!’ said Lady Franklin.

  I smiled ruefully. ‘I’m hardly surprised. I can just see him, putting forward the case for his birds. Unfortunately for John, it seems he met his match. Captain Sturt o
rdered his men to return to Adelaide, and the party was broken up until better provisioning could be found. Despite his explorations being cut short, John admits that he enjoyed the adventure.’

  ‘Think of the tales he’ll have to share with my husband over port and cigars,’ said Lady Franklin mischievously. ‘Oh, to be able to eavesdrop as they polish up their extraordinary heroism!’

  ‘Indeed, John claims to have thought deeply upon our project’s wider significance. He spent the last evening of the trip marvelling about the composition of angels’ wings. Did they resemble birds’ wings? Were they feathered, or made of some unearthly substance?’

  ‘At least he didn’t lose his sense of adventure or his wonderful imagination,’ said Lady Franklin, smiling, determined to lighten my mood.

  ‘You are right,’ I said. ‘Thank goodness he’s safe. I have much to be grateful for.’ I gripped Lady Franklin’s arm. ‘What would I do without you?’

  ‘I do my best,’ she said, taking my hand tenderly in hers.