I studied him as he spoke. Slightly over medium height, he presented a pleasing aspect, his eyes hazel and intelligent, his brown side-whiskers curling at either side of a rugged, genial face. Though his general comportment was that of a man used to commanding, he lacked the Governor’s authoritarian manner.
‘May I escort you into dinner?’ he asked.
‘Certainly.’
A tall dark-haired lady approached us, smiling at me warmly. ‘I’m Sarah Selwyn,’ she said. ‘Eliza has spoken often of you, Miss Thompson. I’m so pleased to make your acquaintance. Now, you must meet my husband.’
Bishop Selwyn was an austere man, an impression reinforced by his clerical garb. He inclined his head towards me and said how much he was looking forward to seeing me in his congregation on the following Sunday. ‘The Governor and his lady are stalwarts of our church,’ he said, ‘and when representatives of Her Majesty are seen at services, it becomes quite the thing for folk who wish to be fashionable. And they’re most generous, too, in their support of our Mission work. They personally pay for the upkeep of a number of our Maori scholars, and the Governor has even been gracious enough to preach to the natives in their own tongue.’
I feared he might have gone on for longer, but I was rescued by Lucy. ‘And here are General and Miss Pitt,’ she cried, ‘and Mr and Mrs Rough, and the Wynyards. There now, Fanny, all of fashionable Auckland society has assembled for you.’
Lieutenant Cowan appeared at my side again. ‘You can see,’ he said, ‘that most of the guests are young. The majority of the settler population here is under the age of forty, which is why it’s such a lively place. Even the rather sombre bishop is the youngest ever appointed. And that man there, engaged in conversation with the Governor, is Sir William Martin — only thirty-nine years old but already appointed Chief Justice. And here is his wife.’ He bowed. ‘Lady Martin.’
‘I’m hoping,’ said Lady Martin, ‘that before too long you might call on me, Miss Thompson. I should like to show you my garden.’
‘Ah, beware, Miss Thompson,’ warned her husband, joining us with an expression of mock-seriousness. ‘My wife is a regular Tartar when it comes to her garden. You won’t escape our boundaries without an entire tour of her parade-ground. All the flowers and bushes will be drawn up for your inspection, the trees will be at attention and—’
‘Stop it,’ cried his wife, ‘or you’ll put her off entirely.’
There seemed such an agreeable accord between them, a shared good humour and amity, that I found myself eagerly accepting her invitation.
Lieutenant Cowan offered his arm to lead me into dinner. ‘And I am hoping,’ he said quietly, ‘that before too long, you’ll allow me to call on you again, Miss Thompson.’
Occupied with Lucy in decorating the drawing room and the dining room with boughs and branches for the evening’s celebration, I had had no occasion to witness any of the preparations in the kitchen, so I was greatly surprised by the munificence of the dinner.
‘Good gracious!’ cried Lady Martin as we stood gazing at the spread before us. ‘You’ve exceeded yourself, Mrs Grey.’
The long table, set with candles for whose bases Lucy and I had fashioned small floral garlands, now sported at one end a huge ham, surrounded by bowls of various Indian chutneys, a jar of gentleman’s relish and a dish of English mustard, and at the other, a loin of veal beside which sat serving dishes of vegetables.
‘Including the native kumara!’ observed Mrs Selwyn.
‘A particular favourite of mine,’ said Mr Rough. ‘And roast potatoes. What a feast indeed.’
Between the ham and the veal quivered the most astonishing quartet — a chaud-froid of fish and three different meat aspic jellies.
‘Bravo!’ called Lieutenant Cowan, and we all clapped in appreciation.
Lucy stood modestly but the flush in her cheeks betrayed her pleasure.
‘And now,’ said the Governor, pulling out a chair for her, ‘come, my dear, let us be seated and attempt to do justice to such a magnificent repast.’
After dinner, the ladies withdrew to the drawing room while the gentlemen went to smoke on the veranda. We were chatting agreeably together when General Pitt appeared in the doorway.
‘I’ve been sent as an emissary, ladies,’ he said. ‘We gentlemen request the pleasure of a little musical entertainment. It seems Lieutenant Cowan is a passable tenor and the Governor and I will cover the baritone parts, if you, Mrs Rough, can be prevailed upon to supply the piano accompaniment and you other ladies will offer soprano and contralto.’
‘But the piano is so dreadfully out of tune,’ said Lucy.
‘All pianos in New Zealand are out of tune,’ said the general. ‘It’s the weather. There is a fortune to be made here for an experienced accordeur. For now, we shall just have to tune our voices to the instrument we have.’
Pressed by Lucy, I agreed to sing a duet with Lieutenant Cowan of ‘Home, Sweet Home’. Miss Pitt offered a ballad, ‘Sleeping, I Dreamed of Love’, then Mrs Wynyard, Lucy and I were persuaded to lead everyone in ‘Auld Lang Syne’.
‘And finally,’ said Lieutenant Cowan, ‘with your permission, Governor, I ask leave to dedicate this next piece to the ladies present.’ And, having conferred in a whisper with Mrs Rough, he sang an affecting rendition of ‘Believe Me If All Those Endearing Young Charms’.
‘What an entirely splendid evening,’ said Lucy when, finally, we waved goodnight to the last of the guests. ‘I hope you enjoyed yourself, Fanny.’
‘I don’t recall ever having had a happier time.’
The Governor placed an arm around Lucy’s waist and drew her slightly towards him. ‘A great success, my dear. Indeed, I might even call it a triumph.’
LYME REGIS, 1833
In winter, as the mulberry’s foliage fell, I was forced to crouch in the innermost recesses of my hiding place to try to conceal myself. The biting cold of February made the mixing of my potions almost impossible but I had devised several spoken spells which, to ensure their efficacy, had to be chanted in a whisper inside my magic cavern. One in particular I favoured:
Baby and I,
Were baked in a pie,
The pastry was terrible hot.
We had nothing to pay
To the baker that day,
And so we crept out of the pot.
Recited under my breath, within the tracery of frost-covered branches, it flew away in misty puffs, each one a shield against uncertainty and danger.
I was unleashing my charm after church one Sunday when Joseph passed, his arms laden with logs. From the kitchen doorway, Martha called to him. ‘Stir thyself, now. Master comes home tomorrow.’
I craned as far forward as I dared, the icy ground stinging through my boots. I longed to go indoors to the warmth of the fire, but I could not risk revealing myself until I had heard more.
‘Master? Home? Th’art sure?’
‘Was Mistress told me.’
Joseph sighed. ‘I canna white the front steps in such weather. ’Tis too cold.’
‘Tha must. Master is particular, like all them naval men. Set thee to now or there be trouble tomorrow, ’tis certain. And lay the path here with cinders.’
Joseph disappeared, grumbling.
I slipped out of the tree and shuddered my way inside. The front steps to be whitened! Usually we entered the house through the side gate and the garden path that led to the kitchen and the back parlour. The front door, set above two steps that gave onto the cobbled footpath, was reserved for guests and special occasions.
Ellen took off my boots and I warmed my feet at the kitchen grate.
‘Ye’re to go up to ye mither directly,’ she said, as she buttoned on my indoor shoes.
Mama sat before the drawing-room fire, holding a letter. As I entered, she rose and clasped me in her arms. ‘Fanny, dearest, the most wonderful news. Papa is coming home! He has already left on the stage from Portsmouth. No school for you tomorrow. We must spend the day pr
eparing ourselves.’
We woke next morning to snow. I longed to play outside in the soft white powder but was forbidden to stir from the house. After breakfast, Ellen dressed me in a clean shift, my lace pantaloons and two calico petticoats, then my best woollen frock, stockings and buckled kid shoes. Taking a bowl of water, she damped my ringlets, curled them about her fingers, and tied my head in a cloth till they should dry. I was obliged to eat my midday meal at the kitchen table, covered in a large sheet to guard against possible spillage. And afterwards I sat beside the back-parlour fire and dressed and redressed my doll, Marie, in her French finery. In every room, log fires roared, and from the kitchen came the smell of meat roasting on the grate. Though the snow muffled sounds, at every hushed noise from the street I started and peered anxiously towards the window. Papa’s return was, after all, almost entirely of my doing. Though Mama had said that Heaven had regarded my nightly prayers with favour, I knew very well it was only my magical incantations that had brought him safely home to us.
It was mid-afternoon before Mama sent for me. She sat in her customary chair in the drawing room, but looked so unlike my real mama I stopped in the doorway and did not dare venture in. Her face had been powdered white, with red circles on either cheek, and her hair was caught up on her head from whence it fell in ringlets to match my own. On one cheek was a small black dot I had never seen before, and her blue silk gown, open above its lacing, displayed her powdered chest. Huge leg-of-mutton sleeves covered her arms and, as she stood up to embrace me, I noticed the small bulge of the bustle under the back of her gown. I knew she wished me to tell her how pretty she looked, but so great was my discomfiture at the change in her, I could not find the proper words.
‘Why, Mama, you look … you look …’
‘Come here, Fanny, and let me see you. Yes. You will do very well.’
There was a muffled clattering on the cobbles below the window. Mama caught my hand. ‘It’s Papa. I’m certain of it. He’s here.’
Minutes later, a tall man strode into the room. I eyed him without recognition but it was surely Papa, for Mama ran immediately to him and clasped her arms about his neck. In return, he put his arms around her and drew her to him. Embarrassed by this display, I gazed into the flames of the fire till they should disentangle from each other and notice me where I sat.
For some time I remained forgotten until Mama, breaking from his embrace, cried, ‘Fanny! Come here, child, and kiss your dearest papa.’
As I approached the strange man, I was aware of a familiar odour of tobacco mixed with the sharpness of earth, of … grass … of what exactly? I turned a little away from the strength of his smell as he bent down and grazed my cheek with rough lips.
‘See how she has grown,’ said Mama.
‘Indeed she has.’
‘And now, Ernest,’ said Mama, ‘you must be hungry, and Martha has prepared a roast for our supper. I thought tonight we should all dine together.’
‘With the child?’
‘Why, yes.’
‘I’m not in favour of children dining with their elders but, if it is your wish, Charlotte, for tonight only she may dine with us and we shall give thanks together for my safe return.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Mama.
I did not like my papa. I did not like his heavy smell, his booming voice, the way he commanded all of Mama’s time. Why had I so foolishly prayed to Heaven to send him back to us? Now, at every opportunity, I pressed myself into the mulberry tree, hissing magic spells and mixing noxious potions for his departure.
And Papa did not like me. ‘You indulge her, Charlotte,’ I heard him say to Mama as I stood with my ear pressed to the drawing-room door.
‘You must be patient, Ernest. She’s not yet used to you.’
‘She should have a governess.’
‘I don’t wish to have any governess living in the house with us. They can be so very interfering. And Fanny is learning well in her dame’s classes.’
‘Perhaps she should be sent away to school.’
I slipped off to my bedroom where Ellen, not Mama, put me to bed and heard my prayers. It was late when I was woken by the noise of a door shutting. I knew it would be Papa. Although he occupied a bedroom of his own on the other side of Mama’s, it seemed that on most nights he preferred to sleep in her room. I felt the unfairness of this keenly. If I, her beloved child, was not permitted to sleep in her bed, why should Papa be granted such a privilege?
Now, as strange noises emanated from her room, I became alarmed. Suppose Papa was being unkind to her, speaking to her as curtly as he did to me? I climbed out of bed and, cold in the night air, took up my sentinel’s position against her door jamb.
I must have fallen asleep, for I was woken by a blow on my back, and tumbled to the floor as Mama’s door opened.
‘What the devil …?’ shouted a voice.
Fully awake, I stared in fright at the dim outline of two large legs and a figure towering over me.
‘What is it?’ came Mama’s voice. ‘Wait, I’m lighting a candle.’
‘It’s that blasted child.’ His voice rose to a roar. ‘What is she doing here, spying on us?’
In the flicker of the candle, I saw the coarse hair that covered his legs, and was engulfed by a rank odour from under his nightshirt. Peering up beneath it, I discerned some kind of abominable mass hanging at the top of his thighs. He seized me roughly and hauled me upright. ‘In the morning, girl, I shall whip you soundly.’
Mama rushed to us and pulled me to her. ‘Leave her, Ernest, I beg you.’
Shuddering from fright and cold, I began to weep.
‘Of course your own papa won’t whip you. He merely spoke in fright after you caused him to stumble.’
‘Indeed I did not. She must learn her place. I am her father. She must obey me.’
Glaring at Papa, Mama enclosed me in her arms. ‘I remind you, Ernest, you are not on the quarter-deck now.’
From the stairs at the end of the corridor, Martha appeared in her shift, her hair hanging in a plait.
‘Take the child and put her to bed,’ ordered Papa.
‘Go back to your room, Martha,’ said Mama. ‘I shall put Fanny to bed myself.’
I do not know what may have passed between them, but it was Mama, not Ellen, who woke me in the morning and who sat with me as Ellen dressed me. ‘We are to forget all about last night’s events,’ she said, ‘but you must promise me, Fanny, that you will not leave your bed so again.’
I ate my breakfast and midday meal with only Ellen for company. ‘They mistress be a-walking with they master,’ she said, ‘and I be sent by Martha for they joint for they dinner tonight. Ye be they good girl now and play quiet indoors with ye doll. And keep ye pinafore clean.’ She looked at me intently. ‘No call to be upsetting they master.’
Bored with my own society, I wandered upstairs and slipped into Mama’s room, where I fingered her china ornaments and tried out her hairbrush before laying my head against her pillow to catch the scent of her. It occurred to me then to peep quickly into Papa’s room. His door stood ajar. I pushed it open and stepped inside. His large bed was covered by a plain white counterpane with none of the pretty embroidered butterflies and flowers that decorated Mama’s. Against one wall stood his iron trunk, against another a plain deal chair over which was draped his nightshirt. Though there was no sign of his pipe, the air was tinged with tobacco smoke. Disappointed at the ordinariness of his room, I was turning to leave when I saw upon the window-sill an elegant brass spyglass. I had seen pictures of such an object but had never encountered a real one. I went over to the window. Feeling the weight of the metal, I brought the glass slowly to my right eye, screwed up my left as I had seen in my picture book, then looked at the distant Cobb.
For a moment, all I saw was a blur, then I began to discern the faces of men, women and horses, even dogs, all brought so close they might have been inhabiting our garden. Opening the window further, I trained the glass toward
s St Michael’s churchyard. Sheep and gravestones sprang towards me.
I was watching the grazing sheep when there came a shout from behind me. I jumped back from the window and, in doing so, dropped the spyglass. As I bent to retrieve it, Papa seized my wrist.
‘Leave it be!’ he bellowed. ‘How dare you enter my room and help yourself to my possessions?’
I tried to speak, to explain that I had merely been trying out the glass, not stealing it, but fright held me speechless and I stood mute, shaking, his grip on my wrist so tight that I feared he might snap it.
‘You, Miss,’ he cried, ‘have been petted and indulged by your mama. It’s time you learnt the ways of the world.’
‘I—’
He shook me. ‘Be quiet. Do you hear me?’
In a quandary now as to whether to be silent or answer him, I nodded.
‘You have been permitted too much liberty and—’
‘Ernest.’ Mama stood, flushed, in the doorway.
I tried to pull away from Papa and run to her, but he jerked me back. ‘Your mama cannot intercede for you this time.’ He turned to her. ‘I’ve caught the child in the very act of stealing.’
Mama looked at him in astonishment. ‘Stealing … what?’
Papa brandished the spyglass he had retrieved from the floor. ‘My glass. My most treasured—’
Mama’s voice was very quiet. ‘But why would Fanny need to steal a spyglass, my dear? It is hardly the normal accoutrement of an eight-year-old girl.’
With relief, I found I could speak again. ‘I didn’t steal it, Mama. I wanted only … to look through it … to see …’
Papa glared at me.
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