The Governor's House

by J. H. Fletcher

  ‘Tell me,’ Mungo said. ‘How is his pursuit of Miss Delamere going?’

  ‘Not well, according to my latest information. I understand Mr Switzer feels he can arrange a more advantageous match for his wife’s niece.’

  ‘And can he?’

  ‘I doubt it.’

  ‘Then it seems to me that Arthur has only one course open to him,’ Mungo said. ‘Get her with child as quickly as possible.’

  ‘Only one problem with that.’

  ‘Someone may have beaten him to it?’

  ‘Half a dozen at least, according to reports.’

  ‘Arthur being Arthur, I doubt that would trouble him unduly. As long as he could claim the credit.’

  ‘You may be right.’ Rupert downed his port. ‘Anyway, that is not our concern.’

  ‘But you will have a word with him about this problem of the gossip?’

  Rupert Ridgway looked stern. ‘I shall indeed. I cannot imagine what he is thinking of, seeking to embarrass the Governor’s House in such an unconscionable way. Sir Harry would be most disturbed if he knew about it.’

  ‘As long as you can kill the story at once there is no reason why he should.’

  ‘I don’t wish to be involved personally. Personal involvement might be misinterpreted. But I shall get someone to speak to the Courier’s editor about it.’

  ‘I don’t care who speaks to him as long as the story is dead.’

  FIFTY-TWO

  Alicia Delamere stood in front of her cheval mirror and turned sideways, the better to examine her profile.

  She was naked, a condition that would have horrified her aunt since Mrs Switzer had all her life been in denial about the human body and the activities related to it. Alicia did not share her aunt’s opinion. She did not think there was anything shameful about nudity and had always enjoyed the thrill of looking at herself. She had enjoyed others looking at it too. Rewarding flattery with sexual favours had seemed a small price to pay although she had never enjoyed the act much herself. It was a messy, uncomfortable and undignified business but it seemed men expected it. In any case it was of little consequence since in her experience it was usually over almost before it had begun.

  It seemed ridiculous that so trivial an activity could have such monstrous consequences but that was the way it was. She had missed twice and there could no longer be any doubt about it. She had no idea who the father was – there were several candidates, including two already married – but, given her fortune, she had no doubt that one or other of them would be only too happy to lead her to the altar. The question was which one to choose.

  Hector Gillespie was the one she fancied most. He was young and had a dashing way about him but had neither money nor a name and she knew her aunt and her moneybags husband would never agree. She was not sure Hector would agree either; she had heard rumours that he was pursuing a wealthy heiress, the daughter of a viscount, no less, and Alicia was realist enough to know she could not hope to compete at that level.

  George Dixon had money but was old, thirty-five at least, with breath like the Fleet ditch.

  There were one or two others but none suitable. This one was too fat, that one was never sober and had an unpleasantly officious mother, yet another had a braying laugh that drove her to distraction.

  Which left Arthur Dunstable. Arthur was far from her ideal man but would do at a pinch. It was not as though she intended to remain tethered to his side forever; she would get a ring on her finger but not through her nose. Mr Switzer did not approve of Arthur either but he was well bred, in blood if not in manner. Arthur Dunstable it would be.

  All that remained was to inform him what was expected of him and set the date. She might suggest he ask Hector Gillespie to be best man; that at least would be worth a laugh in what otherwise threatened to be a thoroughly dismal proceeding.

  ‘I see he’s finally got her, then.’

  Mungo was reading the Gazette while he drank his morning coffee.

  ‘Who has got whom?’ Catherine asked. Even at breakfast she tried to be careful of her grammar.

  Mungo read the item aloud. ‘A wedding has been announced between Arthur Dunstable Esquire, formerly of Porlock in the county of Somerset, and Miss Alicia Delamere –’

  ‘They say she is very wealthy,’ Catherine said. ‘Could have been yours, if you’d played your cards right. All that lovely rhino.’

  ‘All those lovely lovers.’

  ‘They’d not have been a problem for long. You’d have soon chased them out the door.’

  ‘Fortunately we shall never know.’

  She watched him curiously as he leant back in his chair, turning the page of the Gazette.

  ‘Do you ever regret it?’

  ‘Regret what? I see they are forecasting a downturn in Victoria’s economy –’

  ‘Regret not grabbing Miss Delamere when you had the chance?’

  He laughed behind the pages of his newspaper. ‘You jest.’

  ‘No, Mungo. I mean it. Not just her money. She has a neat figure and a neat face –’

  ‘And a neat reputation that stretches all the way from Hobart Wharf to the Tower of London.’

  ‘But seriously –’

  Mungo put down his paper. ‘You are asking whether I regret not choosing Alicia Delamere over you?’

  ‘She’s educated, comes from a good family –’

  ‘You think I am demented? A fool? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, Mungo. It’s only that –’

  ‘Let me be very clear,’ he said. ‘I think you are the most beautiful woman I have ever seen. You are brave and intelligent and I love you. I have told you often that I believe the day will come when you decide to leave me but in the meantime you give me much joy.’ He stretched across the table and took her hand in his. ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘It’s only that –’

  ‘Do I make myself clear?’

  ‘Yes, Mungo, very clear. I see the wedding’s set for the end of next month. That is very soon, isn’t it? Such a rush, she’s got to be in the family way. Don’t you think?’

  ‘I have no views,’ he said. ‘No doubt we shall know in due course.’

  ‘That’ll spoil her figure for her.’

  Catherine smiled, drinking her chocolate and well aware of her own unspoilt waist. She thought with a wife like that Arthur Dunstable would soon be a laughing stock. How delightful. She told herself it could not have happened to a nicer man.

  FIFTY-THREE

  Four months after the governor’s reception three events occurred. Confirmation of Catherine’s pardon arrived from London. A huge sum of money was paid into the newly formed Hobart Savings Bank and credited to an account in Catherine’s name. And she received an unexpected letter.

  She read it in astonishment and with some trepidation. ‘What on earth does the governor want with me?’

  She would have been happier if she could have talked to Mungo about it but she would not be seeing him again before the end of the week. The governor had suggested they meet at ten fifteen the following morning; she asked Mr Moffatt to get out the carriage and at ten to ten she set out to drive the short distance to the Governor’s House. She had expected to be kept waiting and was, but since she was asked to wait in the private secretary’s office the delay was not the trial it might have been.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you again, Miss Haggard.’ Roger Mortimer gestured at two easy chairs facing a window framing an uphill view of the mountain. ‘Please sit down. May I offer you some tea? A cordial?’

  ‘Maybe tea.’

  He rang a bell standing on his desk where papers were arranged in neat piles. A flunky came.

  ‘Bring us some tea if you will.’

  The door closed. He came and sat beside her at the window and she again noticed his awkwardly swinging leg. He observed her eyes on it.

  ‘Dot and carry one,’ he said cheerfully. ‘The doctors say I’ll have to put up with it for life. A bit restricting for
dancing the mazurka, I’m afraid. But since Lady Black favours the cotillion that is not such a problem. Do you dance, Miss Haggard?’

  ‘I haven’t had much opportunity recently,’ Catherine said brightly. Not for the world would she admit she had never danced anything, had never even heard of the – what was it called? – mazurka.

  ‘We must do something about that,’ said Roger. ‘Sir Harry and Lady Black enjoy a measure of sociability. They have several balls on their calendar for the coming year. We must send you an invitation.’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ Catherine said uncertainly. She tried to imagine Mungo hopping around the dance floor and could not.

  ‘I used to enjoy the waltz. We thought it very dashing in my younger days. A bit of a change from the lancers! But I fear this leg of mine means those days are past.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Took a bullet during the assault on Canton in fifty-seven,’ he said. ‘At one time they thought I would lose the leg but fortunately that didn’t happen.’ He sounded very cheerful about it.

  ‘Your wife must have been worried.’

  ‘Never had one of those so the problem didn’t arise.’

  Which was what Catherine had been fishing to find out.

  ‘Finished my military career, of course. I’m a desk wallah nowadays.’

  ‘Do you miss it?’

  ‘No point weeping over these things, Miss Haggard. You have to move on – that’s my motto.’

  ‘Why does the governor want to see me?’

  ‘You were saying the other evening how you thought more should be done to help the poor. I mentioned it to him and he was in full agreement. I suspect he wants to ask you what you had in mind.’

  ‘Heavens,’ Catherine said. ‘I had nothing particular in mind. I just think something should be done, if possible.’

  ‘Sir Harry agrees with you. He has one or two thoughts but I’d better leave him to tell you about them.’

  Their tea arrived. Catherine sipped decorously while she wondered what she had let herself in for. She should have known better than say such a thing. Society held more snares than she could have guessed.

  They chatted about this and that and Catherine had a pleasantly warm feeling about Roger Mortimer. He was very different from Mungo Jackson: you couldn’t see him as a pirate with a knife between his teeth, but she thought he would prove a good friend.

  A knock on the door. A footman entered. ‘The governor will see Miss Haggard now.’

  She looked at Roger uncertainly. ‘Are you coming with me?’

  ‘I think I’d better,’ he said. ‘He may want me to do something for him.’

  The governor’s office was large and grand, with a series of tall windows overlooking the grounds. The desk behind which he was sitting was also large and grand. By contrast, Sir Harry Black was small and not grand at all; the ginger beard flowing down his chest was the most impressive thing about him. His head, by contrast, was almost bald. Something about his manner put Catherine in mind of the terrier that old Matthew Bunting had used for ratting, back in Porlock, but unlike the dog the governor had a friendly smile that made up for the rest.

  ‘I am grateful to you for sparing me a little of your time, Miss Haggard.’

  Catherine gave him a guarded smile; it had not occurred to her she had any option about what she had taken as a summons. Another lesson: the things people said to be polite were not always what they meant.

  ‘I understand you were saying to Mr Mortimer that you would like to see something done for the less fortunate members of our society. What did you have in mind?’

  ‘I had nothing in mind, Your Excellency. How could I? I don’t know noth– I don’t know anything about these things.’

  ‘Do you believe the government should support them financially?’

  ‘Seems to me that would tend to make people lazy, wouldn’t it? I doubt the government could afford it, anyway.’

  ‘You are in the right of it there, Miss Haggard. But if not that, what?’ He stared at her closely: the terrier had the rat and was not about to let it go. ‘What can we – the government – do to allay poverty?’

  ‘You’d need to find some way to put them to work. Somewhere they can earn a wage, make them independent.’

  ‘And so reduce crime?’

  ‘For many of them. Most people only steal because they’ve got no choice.’

  ‘Not all.’

  ‘There are bad apples in any tub.’

  He looked at her. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Catherine coloured. ‘It’s a saying I learnt as a child. There are always bad apples, same as there are always bad people, but people are like apples – most of them are sound, given the chance.’

  ‘That has been your experience, has it?’

  Catherine set her jaw at him. ‘That it has, sir.’

  ‘I was not criticising you, Miss Haggard. You have experience, through no fault of your own, and that gives you useful insights into these matters. In fact I like your thinking. But who would finance this employment? If the government – as you rightly say – cannot?’

  Catherine was feeling more and more trapped, more and more desperate. ‘As I said, I know nothing about these things –’

  ‘Are you saying the wealthy members of our community should become involved? Finance businesses that provide employment and at the same time offer the prospect of a return to the investor?’

  ‘I suppose the money has to come from somewhere. But I am not sure those who can afford it would want to get involved in trade. Not directly involved, anyway.’

  ‘Once again I think you are right, Miss Haggard. But would you feel the same? About having your name associated with trade?’

  Catherine laughed outright before she could stop herself. ‘Beg your pardon, sir.’

  ‘You find the idea amusing?’

  ‘Sir, I was a convict. That’s all behind me now, thank the good Lord, but I have no problem with being involved in trade. The only thing is…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  The governor sat and stared at her for what seemed a long time.

  ‘There is a man I would like you to meet. If you are truly interested in helping people find work and in making what I believe might be a good profit at the same time, I believe he has a proposal that could be of interest to you.’ The governor’s eyes switched to Roger. ‘Mr Mortimer, I shall leave you to arrange it.’

  When she was back in Roger’s office Catherine looked at him questioningly. ‘What was all that about?’

  ‘There’s a man who’s been prospecting over on the west coast and thinks he’s found tin.’

  ‘I know nothing about tin.’

  ‘Nobody’s expecting you to. He claims it’s a rich find but he needs capital to develop it properly. To put it in simple terms, it’s your money he’s looking for, not your expertise.’

  Catherine puffed her cheeks and blew out slowly. ‘They say a fool and his money are soon parted. I wouldn’t like anyone to think that of me.’

  ‘I don’t think –’

  ‘I’ll listen to what he has to say and make up my own mind about him. Maybe you could arrange for him to come and see me at Aberystwyth. You could bring him yourself, if you’re free.’ She shot him a sideways glance. ‘I would like that.’

  What’s wrong with that? she asked herself rebelliously as Mr Moffatt drove her home. No harm in having a friend. A kookaburra cackled from a tree as they passed.

  That’s right, she thought. Laugh at me. But I’ll show you. She took deep breaths of the sun-spangled air. I’ll show the world.

  FIFTY-FOUR

  It was a week later. Mungo had been, as agreed. He had spent two nights, they had made love three times and he had gone away again. She had not mentioned the governor’s suggestion. At the moment there was nothing to tell; when there was she would tell him.

  Two days after his departure Roger Mortimer arrived
outside Aberystwyth’s front door, bringing another man with him. He was tall and big-shouldered with a weather-worn face and a grizzled beard that hung halfway to his waist. Their boots clumped as they climbed the steps to the veranda.

  Mr Moffatt admitted them. Catherine had decided to play the part of the wealthy lady and see where it took her. She offered them refreshment which they both declined.

  ‘Chocolate for one, then, Mr Moffatt. If you please.’

  ‘Certainly, miss.’

  But his eyes smiled; he always knew when Catherine was putting on an act.

  Catherine and Roger chatted casually while waiting for the chocolate to arrive but she kept her eye on the man Roger Mortimer had introduced as Theophilus Jones. He was diffident, almost inarticulate. It would take time and effort to bring him to the point when she might expect meaningful answers to her questions. She thought this a good sign. If he had been hoping to squeeze money out of a fool he would have been more obviously loaded with words. Therefore she did not try to hurry things along but waited, while her eyes studied him. His hands – big, with huge, broad-based fingers – were covered in scars. He was also nervous, clearing his throat repeatedly and finding it hard to sit still in his chair.

  The chocolate came. Mr Moffatt poured her a cup and withdrew. Catherine sipped, smiling pleasantly, and at length, judging that the prospector was close to exploding, turned to him and spoke in a deliberately languid voice. ‘So, Mr Jones, what do you have to tell me?’

  A finger eased a frayed collar. Once again he coughed. ‘I bin a prospector all my life. It’s what I do, see. I bin working over the west coast and I come up with tin traces.’

  ‘I think we would need more than traces, Mr Jones.’

  ‘Ma’am, excuse me if I don’t explain clearly. The traces are a sign of substantial deposits not far away. I was on the banks of a stream, panning what we call wash, a mixture of sand and anything else the water brings down. I found some tin traces in the dish but it was getting dark and it didn’t seem like much. But next morning, in the light, I checked the dish with my lens and found the fragments was all angular in shape. Angular, miss!’