Perhaps, too, my mother preferred that her domestic troubles not be aired in front of someone with a local practice.
In any event, Dr Hill rode straight out to Oldbury, where he proceeded to bleed, dose and poultice my stepfather into better health. It was his opinion that Barton’s complaint proceeded from a deranged stomach and an enlarged colon, which had almost the same effect as a stricture. Dr Hill warned my mother against the use of calomel pills, and advised unlimited doses of castor oil, with rhubarb and magnesium by way of a change.
He was a man of enormous authority, very tall and businesslike. Even my stepfather obeyed him without protest. Only Dr Hill could have persuaded my stepfather to endure a colocynth purgative. Indeed, Dr Hill inspired such trust that he was able to dispel some of George Barton’s fears concerning my mother’s intentions. I do not know exactly what passed between the two men. But I did overhear part of Dr Hill’s advice to my mother before he left Oldbury.
‘You must not blame yourself,’ he remarked. ‘I see no evidence that your husband ingested anything harmful. If he had, there would have far more vomiting, and perhaps a fever. I have told him this, and I believe that I may have convinced him. Even so, he remains in a peculiarly agitated state, Mrs Barton.’
‘Yes,’ my mother murmured.
‘I cannot pretend that I am ignorant of his predilection for strong drink,’ Dr Hill continued, very dryly. ‘I have told him that such intemperance will invariably result in poor health—and in grossly impaired mental faculties. Your husband is displaying early symptoms of melancholia, Mrs Barton, and will only grow more unhinged if he continues to indulge himself.’
My mother remained silent. What, after all, was there to say? She had married George Barton for better or worse; she had made her bed, and should expect to lie in it. The Reverend Vincent must have advised as much when she appealed to him for counsel.
This appeal was made within days of Barton’s accident. While my stepfather lay sleeping in his room, heavily dosed with laudanum, my mother took it upon herself to visit the parsonage at Sutton Forest. She must have been greatly shaken by the events leading up to Barton’s ‘accident’, or she would not have exposed herself to such a humbling experience. My mother, in effect, was forced to swallow her pride. For not one of our neighbours had supported her decision to wed, and the Reverend Vincent had been reluctant to perform the ceremony. As a result, she had held herself aloof for two long years.
But when at last she was driven to seek help, she was sadly disappointed. I know this, despite the fact that she never discussed with me the outcome (or even the purpose) of her consultation with John Vincent. I know it because she brought her children with her to the parsonage, fearful of what might happen if she left us at home. And though we were not invited into the Reverend’s study, I saw my mother’s face when she emerged from it. I also witnessed the curt manner in which she took her leave.
Looking back, I wonder if she asked him for his views on Divorce. Though the subject was not as widely discussed then as it is now, it was certainly not unheard of—even in the colonies. For Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, author of A Vindication of the Rights of Women, was the aunt of Mr Alexander Berry’s particular friend Edward Wollstonecraft. And Edward Wollstonecraft lived in Sydney with his sister Elizabeth.
Be that as it may, I have no reason to believe that our Reverend was in any way sympathetic to the cause of women seeking release from demented husbands. I doubt that anyone was, among our neighbours. There may even have been some secret delight that my mother, whose forthright and froward manner had not met with universal acceptance, should have been so suitably punished for her improper conduct. The incident at Belanglo had not been forgotten, you see. And when it became apparent that my mother was still riding out to visit her stations, unaccompanied save for two or three male convicts . . . well, you can imagine the talk.
Yes, it is true; my mother rode out to Budgong. She was able to do this because of my stepfather’s weakened state. It gave her the upper hand. For although his ankle had healed quickly, and Dr Hill had cured his costive attack, he spent some weeks recovering from both afflictions, hunched in a chair under a greasy chintz, alternatively dozing and reading newspapers. (While his energies might have been very much depleted in all other facets of life, his interest in the newspapers remained keen. Even at the time, I wondered if he was watching for news of John Lynch’s release from the Newcastle stockade.)
Taking advantage of his slow recovery, my mother went and hired a governess. Her name was Miss Rudd. Governesses of high calibre were not widely available in New South Wales then. The Throsbys, on losing Miss McRae in 1840, paid for the passage of her replacement, whom they hired in England. My mother had not the resources for that. So she was obliged to advertise in Sydney, and to take what she could get. The result was Miss Rudd.
Miss Rudd was not young. She was between thirty and forty, and had come to New South Wales with the intention of establishing her own Ladies’ Academy. Alas; there was already an overabundance of such private institutions in town. They would open and shut like so many daisies, each struggling to attract the small number of respectable girls then living in New South Wales. Faced with such heavy competition, only the strongest survived—and Miss Rudd was not strong. Perhaps her years of hard work as a governess had undermined an already fragile constitution.
She was tall and thin, with a soft little voice and a refined manner. Though not particularly handsome, she had an inoffensive, colourless sort of face, set off by a small but beautifully selected wardrobe. Miss Rudd took great care of her clothes, which were all of the best quality. She was a needlewoman of superb skill. She also spoke French, and could play, and draw, and manage a set of household accounts.
All this was mentioned in her application, which happened to be the only acceptable one that my mother received. Not mentioned, however, were Miss Rudd’s various peculiarities. She had a delicate appetite, and a nervous disposition. Her demeanour was immensely retiring and timid. Yet for all that, I would not have called her humble. It only gradually became apparent that she nursed an unassailable self-regard, predicated on the fact of her own refinement. She viewed herself as a genuine lady. Few others, in her opinion, could even begin to appreciate the extent of her good breeding. Certainly there were few who could emulate it. Miss Rudd believed that true refinement was the loftiest goal of a good education.
In this, as in many other things, she and my mother were at odds.
My mother had a low opinion of Ladies’ Academies. She particularly disliked those in which the acquisition of ‘accomplish ments’ overrode all other considerations. In her view, too many governesses shared the same fault; I must admit that I laughed when I first read Myra, for it could have been my mother speaking through my sister’s pen: ‘By the aid of the governess . . . she had learnt to strum horribly on the piano and do wool work, and crochet, and to dance, and know the fashions, and a great many other wonderful things, which made her, at least in some eyes, quite a lady.’
I would not accuse Miss Rudd of being this deficient, but it is true that she saw no great advantage in studying botany, geography or astronomy. Instead, she placed enormous emphasis on posture— the placement of the arms, the carriage of the head—and on ‘correct pronunciation’, for she was horrified by colonial vowels. To her way of thinking, exercise should always be taken in a sedate manner, and occupations should reflect a delicacy of mind.
What she made of my mother’s habits, I cannot imagine. My mother often had to raise her voice. Her walks were not dignified perambulations along well-worn avenues but scrambles across rocky outcrops and plunges into dense, pristine tangles of brush. The rides that she took were energetic. Her constant companions were coarse, low-born men, whose turns of phrase she occasionally echoed. And she did not put a great deal of thought or effort into her mode of dress. Owing to the demands of her busy life, which took her into piggeries and stockyards, she favoured old, loose clothes, and somet
imes forgot to change from morning to afternoon gowns.
All this was very alarming to Miss Rudd. Even in Sydney, she had not met with such behaviour. And my mother did not improve matters by grilling the poor woman about her teaching methods, and the content of her lessons. I have no doubt that this was generally done in private, but its effects could sometimes be witnessed at the dining table.
‘So you are got to the Spanish Armada?’ my mother might say.
‘Excellent. And can you tell me where Spain is to be found, James?’
‘It is to be found in Europe, Mama.’
‘Yes, but where in Europe?’
where ‘Uh . . .’ A wild plunge. ‘In France, Mama?’
‘I think it is time to consult our Atlas, do not you, Miss Rudd?’
Whereupon Miss Rudd would smile thinly, and pick at her coddled egg, while my mother explained that if James ever joined the Royal Navy (as was his stated intention, back then) he would have to learn exactly where Spain was, lest he run his ship aground on it.
Poor Miss Rudd. Even at the time, I thought her a feeble specimen. And I obeyed her only when I chose to, setting a very bad example to my brother and sisters. It annoyed me, you see, that Miss Rudd should denigrate so many of the skills that I had mastered in my years on a working farm. ‘Oh, my dear,’ she would say, when informed that a good dairy cow can be identified by prominent milk veins on its udder, ‘this is hardly a suitable topic for young ladies wishing to shine in the drawing rooms of Sydney.’
In my defence, I should add that I never teased Miss Rudd, nor intruded upon her privacy, nor reported any of her little errors to Mama. I positively admired her beautiful embroidery, which I strove (in vain) to imitate. And I did my best to protect her from George Barton.
Not that Barton perceived Miss Rudd as dangerous. No one could, upon observing her in person; she was such a very diffident soul. When she first arrived, he was still an invalid, confined to a couple of rooms and disinclined to communicate with anyone—let alone the governess whose appointment he had opposed so vehemently. No doubt he viewed her presence as a direct challenge to his authority, and was black-humoured in consequence, scowling and brooding for days. Then he began to gain strength. And though he could not yet, in his weakness, directly attack my mother, he could discomfort Miss Rudd, using methods that had long ago ceased to alarm Mama.
He began by offending Miss Rudd’s overwrought sensibilities. Having dined in his room for some weeks, he suddenly started to appear at the table, where he would discourse on manure, or his recent costiveness, or the castration of male pigs. When my mother was present, she was usually able to turn the conversation. But thanks to her countless duties, she was not always present for an entire meal. And when that occurred, my stepfather was given free rein to torment Miss Rudd with all kinds of distasteful remarks. His appearance also seemed designed to offend her, for he dressed himself without regard for the time of day or the dictates of common decency. He would shuffle about with the skirts of his dressing-gown flapping around his white, hairy legs, or his shirt hanging open to expose a wide expanse of wiry pelt across his chest.
If poor Miss Rudd ever protested about this to my mother, she may have been received with impatience. My mother had endured much worse from George Barton. She may have seen his behaviour towards Miss Rudd as generally harmless, and advised her governess to ignore him. I do not know. All I know is that my mother finally felt secure enough to make her long-anticipated trip to Budgong.
She would be gone for a week, she told us. In her absence, we (her children) were to mind Miss Rudd, while George Barton was to manage any emergencies that might arise on the farm. Privately, she may have had a quiet word with Bridget or Robert. She may have instructed one of them to communicate with Benjamin Carter—Captain Nicholson’s overseer—in the event of a crisis. Certainly she said something of the sort to me. ‘Remember that Mr Carter is within easy reach,’ she advised. ‘I would not have him troubled for any minor concern, because he is a busy man with many dependants. But he is also a reliable, upright farmer, who will know exactly what must be done.’
Having delivered her instructions, my mother left. I shall pass over the misery attendant upon her departure; you may imagine how reluctant I was to see her go. She promised that she would return in about a week, and that she would bring back an interesting array of specimens for us. Then she rode off into the sunrise, with many a lingering backward glance. Perhaps she was worried that Miss Rudd would be unequal to the task set her.
It was a justifiable concern.
Poor Miss Rudd! She had been given custody of my mother’s keys, and the responsibility weighed far too heavily. I doubt not that she dreamed about those keys. They figured always in her consciousness, even when she was taking a lesson; her hand would wander down to them repeatedly, as if she were afraid that they might be lost. Her manner became even more nervous, and her dealings with the servants even more fraught with difficulty. For the servants, though they did not always like my mother, afforded her some deference—if only because she had a temper. Miss Rudd they simply despised. This was evident to me in the way they drawled when addressing her, and in the way that Bridget would need yet another pinch of saffron or cup of rice from the storeroom at least ten times a day.
Eliza was the only servant who offered Miss Rudd even a modicum of respect. It was partly, I think, because Eliza was in a position to appreciate our governess’s skill with a needle, and partly because she admired Miss Rudd’s clothes, and air of gentility. To Eliza, Miss Rudd was a true lady. I am sure that our nurse envisioned English drawing rooms as the natural setting for innumerable young women whose occupations were restricted to reading tracts, playing the piano, embroidering antimacassars, and painting screens. In such an environment, Miss Rudd would have been perfectly at home.
‘There now,’ Eliza would say with satisfaction, on observing the state of Miss Rudd’s room, ‘you’d hardly know that the bed had been slept in.’
I wish I could record that my siblings and I offered Miss Rudd the same degree of reverence, but we did not. Neither did George Barton. Watching my mother ride off with James Barnett seemed to sour his mood. Whereas it had been sullen and lethargic, only lightly irrigated by drink, it swiftly turned more dark and troublous. The morning porter and bedtime gin became the start and finish of a daily journey through our cellar, which yielded up dram after dram of rum, glass after glass of wine. When not sousing himself in his room, my stepfather would emerge for brief tours of inspection which invariably finished in a torrent of abuse, since the work at that time was not being done with any degree of thoroughness. How could it have been otherwise? Our servants were being left practically to their own devices, and many of them had little knowledge of husbandry.
Though the decline of Oldbury had already begun, it first became obvious towards the end of 1838.
I remember how swiftly the empty bottles accumulated during this memorable week. Louisa described the scene well enough in Debatable Ground: the bottles ‘ranged in the fire-places, beneath the side tables, in every accessible spot, labelled hollands, cognac, stout and trebble X’. I believe that they might have been left about in such a shameless manner to discompose Miss Rudd, who was certainly very shocked to see them. She was no less shocked by George Barton’s language when he berated the servants. More than once, I witnessed tears welling in her eyes at the sound of his raised voice, because he was always very free with his ‘lags’ and ‘buggers’ and ‘croppies’. Such crude epithets seemed to cause Miss Rudd an almost physical pain.
I was more accustomed to them, but still I did not like what I heard. Moreover, I was beginning to recognise that Miss Rudd was the object of my stepfather’s concentrated ire. He would take exception to the meals she ordered. If she asked that a fire be lit, he would immediately countermand the request. Wherever she sat, he would soon begin to smoke nearby. Sometimes he would invade our lessons, causing all of us to lose concentration and fumble at our ta
sks. Then he would take pleasure in accusing Miss Rudd of failing to earn her keep. ‘Not that there’s a deal of wit to sharpen, in this brood,’ he once remarked. ‘For they’re all of ’em fools, and the victims of mismanagement.’
As the week slowly passed, he devised ever more vicious torments for Miss Rudd. Her workbox disappeared; he blamed the ‘damnable thieves in our employ’. He caused her to be moved from one bedroom to another, for no other reason than to inflict upon her a great deal of fuss and trouble. Of an evening, he would tell her to read aloud, not sermons or essays or histories, but the newspaper accounts of murder trials. While so engaged, she would be forced to endure some kind of childish harassment; he might knock out a ceaseless tattoo on her chair leg with his boot, for instance, or blow clouds of smoke into her face. It was as if he wanted to see how far he could push her. Would she, or would she not, lash out?
As it happened, she did not. Once or twice she asked him, in a trembling voice, to please desist. (God knows what it must have cost her.) Whereupon he simply smiled and did something else repellent, such as spitting or breaking wind. Under treatment such as this, Miss Rudd soon began to crumble. She had no defences whatsoever. I wonder if she was physically capable of raising her voice; certainly she could no more have challenged him than she could have cut off his head. I quickly noticed the change in her. She kept more to her own room. Her conversation became less coherent, as if her thoughts were always somewhere else. Even her grooming suffered. She would lose her gloves, or forget to fasten her buttons.
The Dark Mountain Page 16