‘There’s our Mission school, of course, but … my husband feels it would be preferable for Willie to be sent to his family at Home to be prepared for Eton.’
‘Can’t he be persuaded to leave it a little longer? Perhaps until Willie is eight or nine?’
‘Oh, Eliza, I’ve begged him, pleaded with him, but his mind is made up. It’s entirely selfishness on my part. I know it will be such an advantage for Willie, but the journey … it’s so long. So far. And he’ll be quite alone, my poor baby.’
‘When will he leave?’
‘When the Dido next puts in at Auckland.’
‘The Bishop is entirely selfish,’ declared Lucy, after Mrs Selwyn and her children had left us.
‘It does seem such a long voyage for—’
‘He is quite unconcerned for her welfare. Do you know, on their voyage out from Home, when their vessel reached Sydney he left Sarah with Willie, who was just a baby, and embarked alone on a brig for New Zealand?’
‘Perhaps he intended to prepare the way for her.’
‘Not at all. Ten days after he landed in the Bay of Islands, he set off on his first visitation tour, and when she and Willie arrived, she had no idea at all where he might be. It was six months before she saw him again.’
‘Six months!’
‘Yes, he had covered more than two thousand miles of terrain, at least a third of it on foot, and was so gaunt and worn she scarcely recognised him when he returned. If it hadn’t been for Lady Martin, she would have been utterly distraught. And destitute. But she never complains.’
‘She appears quite devoted to the Bishop.’
‘And to her boys. They are all she has to comfort her while he’s away. And now …’
We had been discussing Mrs Selwyn’s plight for several days when Lady Martin paid us an unexpected call.
‘I’ve come on a particularly difficult undertaking,’ she said, not at all her usual cheerful self.
Lucy looked alarmed. ‘I hope it’s not an outbreak at the hosp—’
‘No, it concerns the Selwyns. The Dido has arrived at the Bay of Islands and is expected here within a few days.’ She turned to me. ‘The Bishop is determined that Willie should be sent Home for his education.’
‘I know,’ I said, ‘but Mrs Selwyn was so greatly upset at the idea, I thought perhaps he might change his mind.’
She shook her head. ‘Never. When George Augustus’s mind is made up, he’s obdurate. It’s certain that Willie will leave with the Dido and then, poor, poor Sarah … We must do our utmost to ensure she’s not left alone here with only Johnny for company.’
‘But the Bishop …’
‘He’s setting off for the South Island very soon. She’ll be quite desperate at the loss of them both.’
‘Surely he’ll wait until she’s confined,’ said Lucy. ‘It’s only a matter of a month at most.’
‘I have the greatest respect for the Bishop’s honesty and his upholding of Christian principles, but I fear he doesn’t always look to the necessity to practise compassion in his domestic affairs. We’re happy to have Sarah and Johnny to stay with us at Taurarua, but in a month my husband has to go to New Plymouth on government business and I’m to accompany him.’
‘Then she must come here to us.’
‘Good. That’s what I was hoping you would suggest. Sarah says she’s so occupied by the prospect of losing Willie she can take no pleasure in this coming infant. She confided to me that she had actually prayed for the Dido to be lost before it reached Auckland. She was shocked at her own callousness.’
‘I’m not shocked,’ I said.
‘Nor I,’ said Lucy. ‘But, of course, even if that were to happen, the Bishop would simply find another vessel to convey Willie.’
Willie Selwyn had the natural excitement of any child at the prospect of a new experience, more particularly since he was too young to understand how permanent would be their parting. His mother could barely speak of it, while his father assured him constantly what an adventure it was going to be.
On the appointed hour of the Dido’s sailing, at the request of the Selwyns, the Governor, Lucy and I accompanied the family to the jetty.
‘For Willie’s sake, I mustn’t weep,’ said his mother, but her hands shook and her face was set.
The child’s trunk had been taken on board the night before and he clutched a model ship given him by the Martins who had farewelled him a day earlier. The ship’s chaplain, who had agreed to take him under his charge, stood with us at the quayside as we said our farewells.
‘And now, Willie,’ said the chaplain, a little too heartily, ‘you promised to beat me at Ducks and Drakes, so we must get aboard and start our game.’ He turned to Mrs Selwyn. ‘I’ll take Willie directly to my cabin. I think it would be the kindest way …’
Unable to speak, she nodded her assent.
‘You’ll be quite the man when we see you again,’ said the Bishop, shaking hands with Willie. Mrs Selwyn made a choking sound, reached forward and clasped the child to her, kissing him repeatedly. ‘You must say goodbye to Johnny now,’ said his father. ‘And you’re to recite your catechism and say your prayers every day like a good Christian boy.’ He laid his hand on Willie’s head. ‘God keep you, my son.’
I recall how very small Willie seemed as, his hand clutching the chaplain’s, he skipped along the jetty away from us.
We stood silently watching as the ship made sail and moved out into the harbour. I saw that Lucy was weeping.
Suddenly, Johnny began to scream. ‘Dido, bring Willie back! Dido, come back!’
The Governor bent down and scooped him up. ‘Now, Johnny,’ he said, ‘hush for a moment and we’ll see what I have in my pocket.’
And, as Johnny gave another wail, he drew out his compass and moved it so that the needle swung about. Within several minutes, the little boy’s attention had been diverted.
No one spoke as we walked back to Government House to take tea, then Mrs Selwyn said in a lifeless voice, ‘I simply cannot bear it.’
Her husband placed an arm about her shoulders. ‘You must be strong. Willie is under the Lord’s protection and, very soon, you’ll have a new infant to occupy you.’
‘I don’t want a new infant,’ she said. ‘I want Willie.’
I never saw the child again, and it would be seven years before his parents were reunited with him in England.
Lucy and I had settled down to chat by the fire after supper when the Martins’ servant was admitted, bearing a message. Lucy read it, handed it to me, then began to weep.
As you know, the Bishop left for Melanesia yesterday and Sarah and Johnny are here with us in Taurarua. I regret to have to inform you that Sarah has been delivered of her infant early. It was a little boy but he was stillborn. She is in a very low state and the doctor fears for her life, too. Can I send Johnny to you while we attempt to nurse her back to health?
Johnny’s presence in the house instantly lifted our spirits. Lucy devised little pastimes and entertainments for him, sang to him and endlessly occupied herself with him. We took him in the trap to the Domain, played hide-and-seek in the Government House gardens, read to him and told him stories. For the month he stayed with us, I heard not one argument between Lucy and her husband, and the house seemed to have a new purpose. The Governor even acquired a pony, and he and Lucy took the child riding almost every morning. Then came the news we had all been secretly dreading.
‘Tomorrow, Sarah will come to take Johnny home,’ said Lucy. ‘The time has passed so quickly. It’s selfish, I know, but if only he could have been with us just a little longer …’
Sarah Selwyn, paler and more drawn than ever, was overjoyed to be reunited with her child. Clasping Johnny to her, she showered him with kisses. ‘I’ve missed him so much,’ she said.
‘He’s been nothing but a pleasure,’ said Lucy, and I saw how near she was to tears.
The Governor ruffled the child’s hair affectionately. ‘Now, Johnny,’ he
said, ‘you’re to be a good boy and to take the greatest care of your mama.’
Johnny leaned his face against his mother’s shoulder.
‘Here’s your little lamb,’ said Lucy. ‘You mustn’t leave him behind. Think how lonely he would be without you. And you must come back and see us very soon.’
As we waved them farewell, Lucy stood plucking at the fabric of her skirt, tears now coursing down her face.
The Governor put a gentle arm around her shoulders. ‘Come, Eliza,’ he said, ‘I’ve arranged for the horses to be saddled up, and you and I shall go for a ride together along the sands.’
And as he led her away, I thought of how, with his swinging compass, he had so deftly distracted Johnny from the pain of parting, and how it had taken the loss of the Selwyns’ little boy to turn him towards his wife again. They are in desperate want of a child, I thought.
ALBANY, 1835
Despite the kindness of the Spencers and my closeness to Lucy, I continued to long for Papa’s arrival. In these strange, inhospitable surroundings, so unlike Lyme, I dreamt of the day he would come to carry me back to our comfortable, familiar house and our garden with its towering mulberry tree. One morning, not long after our arrival at Strawberry Hill, I slipped away from Lucy, climbed the slope behind the cottage and stood craning for a sight of a ship bringing a letter from Papa, perhaps even carrying him aboard. Though in its form the great sweep of water below me resembled Lyme Bay, the southerly breeze was not a soft Dorset wind but carried a chill cold that cut against the sun. Here it was the north wind that brought the mild weather. No familiar smell of bladder-wrack and salt drifted up to me; I breathed in only dust and desolation. To find me, Papa would have to traverse the whole world. But, I told myself, has not Aunt promised he will come?
‘Fanny!’
I looked up to see Lucy scrambling up the hill towards me. ‘Where have you been? I’ve been looking for you everywhere.’ She flung herself down on the rough ground. ‘I loathe this place. I long to go home again.’
‘I know,’ I said. ‘There’s no school—’
‘And no society but our own—’
‘And no Cockmoil Square and—’
‘Oh, Fanny, do you remember the Christmas market by the fountain?’
By now we were both in tears, but then I was seized with a sudden idea.
‘You know my papa is coming to take me home with him?’
‘I heard Mama say so.’
‘Well, why don’t we take you back with us? We three could live in our house in Lyme. Just think, we’d be together all the time …’
‘We could go to the Cobb—’
‘And the Rooms—’
Lucy flung her arms around me and hugged me. ‘Oh, yes, Fanny. Please, please. Take me home with you. Do you swear it?’
‘I swear it.’
‘But for the moment, until your papa comes, it would be better to keep it our secret. We mustn’t breathe a word of it to anyone.’
‘The Captain Stirling has arrived in King George’s Sound,’ said Uncle, ‘and she’s brought mail from Home.’
We sat waiting around the dining table, Aunt, now enormously stout, on a wide padded stool at its foot. From the large oilskin mailbag, Uncle pulled out the packages of envelopes and read aloud the names of the recipients. At last, he held one out to me. ‘For you, Fanny.’
‘From Papa!’ I cried, looking at the familiar script. I seized the paper-knife, slit the envelope and unfolded the letter inside.
My Dearest Child,
I think that my own little girl will receive this on board the Buffalo or perhaps even in Australia, should the mails be slow. Lady Spencer has told me of your courage and tender care of your dearest mama and sister which is no less than I would expect of my own good daughter. Until we can be together again, she and Sir Richard have graciously offered you a home, an offer which, since there is no other relative to whom I can entrust your care, I have gratefully accepted. I know that in their charge you will receive the kindest and most loving attention and that your demeanour and conduct will always reflect the Christian virtues instilled in you by your dearest, lamented mama.
I have but to complete this tour of duty then I shall return to Lyme, deal with my effects and be bound for Albany where I shall be reunited with my darling child within a four or five month.
Be good and helpful to Lady Spencer and mindful of her great benevolence towards you. She tells me her girls already love you as a sister. I charge you now with the duty of your nightly prayers to that great Heavenly Father who guards and guides us all. Remember, dearest child, that you are my most treasured earthly possession and know that I pray for you daily as I most sincerely believe you do for Mama and your brother and sister, and for me.
May God protect and guide you always,
Your own most loving,
Papa.
So engrossed was I that it was some time before I sensed the change in the atmosphere about me. While the little boys chattered in their usual fashion, Aunt, holding a black-edged letter, dabbed at her eyes, and Uncle looked grave and solemn. I glanced at Lucy.
‘Mama has had sorrowful news,’ she whispered. ‘Her dear aunt has died.’
‘I am feeling very tired,’ said Aunt, ‘so I shall bid you all goodnight and take supper in my room.’
As soon as I could, I drew Lucy aside. ‘Papa will be here within a four or five month.’
She flung her arms about me. ‘Oh, Fanny! I’m so happy. I can stand any amount of misery here if I know I’m to return home to Lyme.’
My letter secure beneath my pillow, I fell into a deep sleep and woke feeling more contented than I had for many months.
‘Mama is asking for you, Fanny,’ said Gussie, next morning.
I knocked on Aunt’s door and tiptoed in. She lay on her bed, her feet elevated on an embroidered cushion.
‘Come and kiss me, Fanny, and sit here beside me. Now, dear child, although I wish it otherwise, I must speak with you on a sad and serious topic.’
‘If I have offended, Aunt, I’m sure I’m very sorry.’
‘You have not offended at all. You’re a good, obedient child.’
I was relieved at this. ‘My papa, in his letter, charges me to be so.’
She looked grave. ‘It is of your dear papa that I wish to speak.’ She hesitated. ‘You saw last night I … that is … Uncle … and I received a letter which bore most distressing tidings?’
I nodded. ‘I’m sorry that your aunt …’
‘Fanny, my dear, I must tell you the … the subject of this saddest of news. This letter is from the Admiralty. It informs us—’ She stopped for a moment. ‘It regrets to inform us … that your dearest, dearest papa has been lost in the Bay of Biscay.’ She placed her arm about my shoulders. ‘I’m so very, very sorry, Fanny.’
‘But, Aunt,’ I said, ‘that cannot be. Here is Papa’s letter. He says he is coming to Albany. He arrives within a four or five month.’
‘Fanny,’ she said gently, ‘show me your letter. What date does it bear?’
‘The twentieth of July. So he cannot …’
She held out the black-edged letter. ‘And here, you see, is the date on this letter. The eighth of August. Fanny, dearest girl, I am more sorry than I can express … Look, here is the Admiralty stamp. I’m afraid it is quite certain that your brave papa perished with all hands on the Monarch. She was holed on a rock and sank very quickly.’
I was quite unable to comprehend what Aunt was telling me. ‘But where is Papa now?’
‘Why … where … where he would most desire to be, where all sailors wish to lie. In the bosom of the ocean.’
I recalled how Papa and I, walking on the beach at Lyme, once saw a ghastly, bloated thing floating off the breakwater.
‘Is it a log, Papa?’ I asked.
And Papa had said gravely, ‘Somehow, my child, I think it is not.’ And then, as we drew closer and could see the skirt ballooning about the swollen legs, he said
sharply, ‘Turn away, Fanny. At once.’
‘But Fanny dear,’ said Aunt, ‘you know Papa’s soul is with God, in Heaven.’
‘Then he has gone to join Mama and William and Baby Louisa,’ I cried. ‘And they have left me behind.’
I became an automaton. Unable to respond to any overtures of kindness, I ate as one in a stupor and did exactly as I was bidden. One afternoon I was going through the motions of my daily tasks when Lucy came to find me. ‘Mama is at her time,’ she said.
I looked at her blankly and carried on with my sewing.
‘Come,’ she said. ‘Put that aside. You and I must to take the little boys for a walk and when we return it will all be over and our new brother or sister will be here.’
Summoned to Aunt’s room, I entered slowly, my head down, my shoulders bowed.
‘Sit here, Fanny,’ said Aunt, ‘and hold your new brother.’
I looked up in astonishment. ‘I?’
‘Gussie has told me that you favour the name William, and Uncle and I are agreed it is a fine choice. He is to be William Albany and, as you have named him, you must be the first to meet him.’
I sat by the bed and let Helen lower William into my arms. Gazing at his crescent fingernails and the slight curves of his tiny eyebrows, I put my finger against his hand and he seized it in his fist.
‘You see,’ said Aunt. ‘He loves you already.’
AUCKLAND, 1847
With Johnny’s departure, relations between Lucy and her husband again became strained. She withdrew to her room for long periods and showed no interest in my suggested expeditions or even in riding with me. I had hoped that when the Governor left for the south she might recover her spirits a little but, despite all my attempts to coax her from her low humour, she remained confined to her bed. I was on the point of seeking advice from Lady Martin when the Governor returned unexpectedly.
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