There was blood, certainly, but very little. And from this she derived some hope.
‘The doctor,’ she gasped, as Charles reappeared. ‘Fetch the doctor.’
‘Forster is coming. I have sent Daniel for him,’ Charles replied. He approached her, and took her hand. His lips were trembling.
‘What shall I do?’ she groaned. ‘What shall I do?’
‘You—you must be strong,’ he stammered. ‘Forster will help you.’
‘It hurts so much. Why does it hurt so much?’
‘My poor Thea.’
An eternity seemed to pass. Dorothea writhed and groaned, and wept, and chewed her bolster, and gripped her husband’s hand until he grimaced. But he did not protest. He stayed with her, sitting on the bed, stroking her hair and offering her what comfort he could. Dorothea begged his forgiveness (‘Our baby!’ she wailed. ‘Our baby!’) and he told her not to be foolish. Forster was coming, Forster would put things right, they were not on a ship this time, at the mercy of Surgeon Hughes. ‘But why?’ she moaned. ‘Why? I was ill on the ship! I have not been ill!’ To this, he made no response. But he clenched his jaw, and looked around desperately, and said: ‘Where has Daniel got to, damn him? I told him to return immediately.’
When Surgeon Forster at last arrived, he informed Captain Brande that Daniel had been dispatched to bring the regimental midwife, Mrs Thornton. A leathery, impatient man of about forty, Surgeon Forster was brisk and to the point. He dismissed Captain Brande, felt Dorothea’s pulse, asked her what the duration of her pregnancy might be (the answer was approximately eight weeks) and, using his fob watch, timed the gaps between her pains. He then inquired as to the condition of her intestines (relaxed, with loose stools?), questioned her as to her recent diet, wanted to know if she had lately suffered a fall, a shock or an energetic ride, and finally declared, in grave tones, that while a little laudanum might ease the pain, he had no choice, in this instance, but to allow nature to take its course.
‘The good Lord will dispose,’ he said. ‘There is nothing more that I can do, Mrs Brande. Your prayers are as good as mine.’
Dorothea covered her mouth to stifle the sobs. Surgeon Forster summoned Captain Brande back into the room, and asked him if there were any smelling salts to hand. Martha, who was hovering at the door in a befuddled and unkempt state, was instructed to bring a basin, spare linen and one-third of a cup of water, which Surgeon Forster used to prepare a laudanum solution for Dorothea’s relief.
It was at about this time—and certainly not long after Mrs Thornton’s arrival—that the bleeding began in earnest. Dorothea felt it before she saw it, and almost fainted away. As if in response to a signal, Surgeon Forster declared that he would go. He announced that Mrs Thornton was better placed to take charge now, but that if there should be an onset of fever, then he should be called back, because in that event Dorothea would have to be bled. Mrs Thornton, for her part, clicked her tongue, shook her head, and chased the gentlemen from the room. She was one of the sergeant’s wives—a large, sturdy, middle-aged woman—whose voice, with its Yorkshire burr, was surprisingly gentle. It gave Dorothea some comfort, as she rolled around, to hear ‘There, there, poor dear’ and ‘Hush, now, hush’ and other murmurings more suited to a mother than a midwife.
Then the effects of the laudanum took hold, and Dorothea lost all awareness of time. She was vaguely conscious of Mrs Thornton and Martha working away with sheets and sponges. As the pain diminished, she even dozed off briefly, waking to the sound of someone pounding on the front door. At regular intervals, she felt Mrs Thornton’s hand on her brow, and heard shuffling footsteps. Doors creaked. People whispered. But gradually the activity around her subsided—or perhaps she simply fell asleep. In any event, she suddenly realised that the room was brightening, and it occurred to her that a new day had dawned. Being tired and distraught, she failed to understand, at first, that it was the day upon which all her hopes had been extinguished.
She saw Mrs Thornton dozing on a chair. In a hoarse voice, she pronounced the midwife’s name—whereupon Mrs Thornton started, and opened her eyes, and blinked. ‘So,’ she said. ‘Awake, now?’
‘I should like some tea,’ Dorothea whispered.
‘Good. Good.’ The midwife beamed. ‘Tea tha shall have, this instant. Is there aught else tha might fancy?’
‘No,’ Dorothea replied. Her thoughts were slippery, and hard to grasp. ‘Where is Charles?’ she inquired.
‘At Mrs Molle’s house,’ said the midwife. ‘She has taken him in, poor gentleman, at this sad time.’
‘My—my baby—’
‘Is gone, Mrs Brande, God bless’t. That sorry, ah am.’
Dorothea turned her face to the wall. She closed her eyes on welling tears.
‘But there’ll be many another,’ Mrs Thornton declared bracingly. ‘Ah can see’t in thy face.’
Dorothea began to sob.
‘Now, now,’ said Mrs Thornton. ‘Let me order the tea.’
By the time she had returned, Dorothea was in full mourning for her lost child. She wept quietly, for she had no strength left with which to demonstrate in a more passionate manner the grief that was in her heart. Her expectations, frail and half-formed, dissolved away. Her desolation at the pitifulness of that unlived existence was intolerable. She felt it so strongly that she could hardly breathe.
Mrs Thornton plumped up her pillow, gave her a handkerchief, and told her that the tea was almost ready.
‘And here it coomes!’ she exclaimed, upon Martha’s entering with a tray. ‘Set it down here, there’s a good lass. No, there’s nowt else we need, here. Off with thee.’ She poured Dorothea a cup, which she ‘strengthened’ with sugar; Dorothea sat for a while, staring blankly at it—at her hands clasped around it—before Mrs Thornton, with a gentle movement, nudged it towards her lips. ‘That’s right,’ said the midwife, comfortably. ‘There’s nowt like a cup of tea, eh? Drink it down.’
Dorothea drank. She refused the bread and butter that Mrs Thornton tried to press on her. Then she lay back, and covered her face, and gave herself up to her misery.
Not until much later did Charles return with Mrs Molle. At that point, Mrs Thornton was dismissed—or so Dorothea subsequently discovered. She herself was initially quite unconscious of all these comings and goings. She knew only that Charles was back, and she reached for him, and he held her.
‘The baby!’ she sobbed. ‘The baby!’
‘I am so very sorry, my dear.’
‘It’s gone!’
‘I know.’
‘My poor baby!’
He was all dressed up in his uniform—which must have been removed from its press during the night—and she soaked its scarlet breast with her tears. Nobly, however, he made no remonstrance. Only when she had exhausted herself, and fallen back onto the pillows, did she see him dab at the damp patch, furtively, with his handkerchief.
‘Oh Charles,’ she sighed. ‘Your coat …’
‘It is of no consequence,’ he said.
‘Forgive me.’
‘My dear, think nothing of it.’ He asked her if she felt well enough to eat, and she replied that she did not. He then declared that Surgeon Forster seemed quite satisfied with her progress; that she must rest, and grow strong, if she were to please her devoted husband; that if she preferred it, he would stay in the house rather than attend the morning parade, but that Mrs Molle had come to look after her, so there would be someone to attend her if he did go, in which case he would only be absent for an hour or thereabouts …
‘Oh, of course you must go,’ said Dorothea, faintly.
‘Not if you wish me to remain.’
‘No, no.’ To keep him at her side, in that stuffy, unwholesome room, was an action that she could not contemplate. Confinement of such a nature would constitute a very great hardship for someone of his restless temperament—though he was gallantly willing to make the sacrifice—and she could not bear to shoulder such a burden of guilt at a time when
her heart was breaking. There would be no comfort in hearing him suppress a sigh, or shift in his seat. Therefore she urged him to go, to attend to his duties, and return to her when she was fit to be seen.
‘Mrs Molle is here,’ he reiterated, ‘and she has Martha well in hand. That lazy creature would not get out of bed until I booted her out of it. But we can rely on Mrs Molle to make her work.’
It was not until late afternoon that Dorothea finally spoke to her housemaid. By then, she had been refreshed by a long sleep, and fortified by servings of Mrs Molle’s beef broth and milk pudding, and a very little claret mixed with water. She had been wrung dry of tears, and was able to sit up in bed, unassisted. Charles had been in and out all day, once bearing messages of sympathy from his fellow officers, once bringing a ‘pleasant, strengthening drink’ from Mrs Vale, which was composed of lemon, cinnamon, pearl barley and treacle. Mrs Bent had paid a brief visit of condolence, without asking to be admitted into Dorothea’s presence. Surgeon Forster had appeared again, to check Dorothea’s pulse and feel her brow. Mrs Molle, like a good angel, had spent a large portion of her time attending to all those little matters (such as the sweetening of air and the disposal of dirty laundry) that are the inevitable consequences of a lying-in of any description. As for Martha, she had been at Mrs Molle’s beck and call, and while Dorothea had caught the odd glimpse of her now and then, the housemaid had been far too busy to pause in her efforts for the purpose of inquiring after her mistress’s health.
Towards dusk, however, Martha did creep into the bedroom and station herself by Dorothea’s bed.
‘Why, Martha,’ Dorothea said feebly.
‘Mum.’ The housemaid looked dreadful; her skin was pasty, her eyes were bloodshot, her cap was askew. ‘Mrs Molle says, would you be wantin’ a coddled egg?’
‘No thank you, Martha.’
‘Or some bread and butter?’
Dorothea shook her head, closing her eyes. But she soon became aware that Martha had not moved. There had been no sound of footsteps.
‘What is it?’ she asked, opening her eyes again. ‘I want nothing, Martha.’
‘Please, Mum—’
‘What?’
Martha’s mouth began to flap, as if she wanted to speak but could not find the strength of purpose. She blinked rapidly, as if blinking back tears. At last she stammered out, ‘I—I’m that sorry, Mum! The baby! Oh Lor’!’, before stumbling from the room with a suppressed sob.
Dorothea refused even to speculate on the cause of this odd behaviour. She was far too tired, and far, far too unhappy.
New South Wales
August 23rd, 1814
My dearest Margaret,
I have received your letter, and wept tears over it. How I miss you all! How sorry I was to learn of Mr Henry Brande’s indisposition! Though he may have improved with the summer, I recommend a liniment that I had from Mrs Molle, who swears by it as a cure for rheumatism: namely, soap liniment half an ounce, liquid ammonia one drachm, tincture of opium two drachms, apply night and morning. As I recall, our father used to employ an embrocation of liquid ammonia, soap liniment and spirits of turpentine, but I am unsure as to the comparative quantities required. In any event, it is my recollection that this mixture was not overly effective, for as you know, he suffered dreadfully to the very end of his life.
I regret most deeply the fact that I was not on hand to help you with your Entertainment. I do hope that you were not too much burdened by the need to produce sponge cake, custards, sandwiches, candied ginger &c with only Hannah’s assistance. It astonishes me that you were able to squeeze a card table into the front parlour and yet leave room for a quadrille of sixteen, but I suppose I am grown accustomed to the small size of our own rooms here. I am sure that Harriette furnished you with many wonderful puzzles, enigmas and charades for the round table; I have enclosed another for her collection, which I had from Captain Wallis. It is:
My first cannot expensive be
My second’s part of you and me
A London parish is my whole,
And now goodbye, my good old soul.
The answer, of course, is Cheapside.
Please thank Lady Shortland for her generous gift of ‘little things’, as she called them. Her informant was perfectly correct; there is a great shortage of such articles in the colony, and I am now, I feel quite sure, more advantageously placed even than Mrs Macquarie in my possession of so many bodkins, shoe-roses, sheets of writing paper, fine nibs, darning needles, and bottles of spermaceti, isinglass and gum benjamin. Thank you also, my dearest Margaret, for the muslin and dried plums. It is the prettiest muslin I have ever seen. I shall cherish it all the more, knowing that my darling Harriette is wearing it also.
I was so sorry to learn about Ebenezer Healey—he was a good old man, however, and I am sure that he is at peace now. Has Dorcas married yet? I know that she was only prevented from doing so by the necessity of nursing her father. If she does marry John Beck, I suppose they will take over her father’s cottage, and the field by the watermeadows. It has occurred to me lately, as I reflect on all the walks around Bideham and Ashcombe, that I only twice took a turn down the path by the watermeadows. Only twice, in my whole life! How extraordinary it seems, that I should have wasted so many opportunities. But undoubtedly I believed that I would spend all the years of my existence becoming intimately acquainted with every lark, hive and hedgerow in that dear country. (How mistaken we can be in our assumptions!)
I am pleased that dear little Richard has successfully cut his first tooth—indeed, by now he will have cut many more, and I hope that their appearance has been just as well managed as was the appearance of the first. He must be enjoying all the summer fruits at this time, and acquainting himself with every dangerous tool in the garden. How I wish that you could have had the miniatures completed! I have hung your own and George’s in the drawing room, but the group is not complete without portraits of the children. I hope that they may come with your next letter.
I think of you without cease, for I have no happy expectations with which to occupy myself. My hopes, you see, have again been dashed. Charles is well, however, and sends his love. He has been very good. I am now reading ‘Castle Rackrent’, but am not much delighted with it, though Mrs Bent recommended it to me. The sermons here give me no solace. (If Mr Cowper preaches, it will always be one of Barnes’s sermons; there is no variety.) The servants are troublesome. The colony is raked by an unhealthy wind. I rarely go out, finding nothing that recommends itself to me in the entire length and breadth of Sydney Cove.
My prayers are with you constantly. Give my regards to Sir Robert and Lady Shortland. Kiss the little ones. And believe me to be
your loving sister,
Dorothea Brande
CHAPTER SEVEN
IT WAS MRS MOLLE who preserved Dorothea from the more painful consequences of profound despondency. Had the matter of domestic arrangements been left to Dorothea during the first two weeks after her loss, nothing would have been accomplished; meals would have been insufficient and inadequately cooked, linen would not have been aired, floors would have been left dirty and mattresses left unturned—for Martha could not be relied on to bustle about unless closely supervised, and Dorothea, who found herself utterly deficient in strength and spirits, could not interest herself in such trifling concerns. She spent her days sitting on her sofa, wrapped in shawls, and languidly turning the pages of one of Mrs Bent’s books or periodicals. The latter, being always several years old, gave her some comfort. She enjoyed musing over snippets of news, or illustrations of fashionable dress, that she had once exclaimed at in Bideham.
It was therefore left to Mrs Molle (who was of a nature framed for command) to ensure that Dorothea was not left to recover in a comfortless house. She did this by having a few ‘strong words’ with Martha, and by putting at Dorothea’s disposal her own redoubtable nursemaid, Anne Ezzey. There could be no doubt that Anne’s brisk and cheerful presence was good for Doroth
ea. The nursemaid—who had mastered every domestic art—was forever beating bolsters and cushions, throwing open windows, whisking brooms about, and hurrying through doors with trays of tea and teacakes. Mrs Molle, too, was a frequent and invigorating guest in Dorothea’s drawing room. She often brought her children (ignoring Dorothea’s tearful looks), together with the latest gossip, and various gifts of preserved fruits, beef tea, acid drops, Hungary water, buttered apples and mint vinegar. Mrs Bent and Mrs Cowper occasionally joined her, offering always Mrs Vale’s apologies: the Reverend’s wife, it appeared, was generally too ill to pay social calls.
Under the sympathetic influence of these ladies, and the bombardment of Anne Ezzey’s attentions, Dorothea recovered her spirits somewhat. Her husband’s expectations worked on her, too. Charles—whom adversity always left angry, rather than glum—could not understand her state of mind. He was helpless before it, and, consequently, much troubled. His concern made him irritable and impatient. There would be no improvement in his temper, Dorothea realised, until there was an improvement in her own. So it was that, with an heroic effort, she returned to her customary duties. And she was just beginning to feel reasonably tranquil again, secure in the knowledge that the house was being properly run, when Governor Macquarie made an announcement which, for a brief period, threatened her own comfort as seriously as it ruffled her husband’s temper.
It was Charles who transmitted the news. He arrived home on September the third in a towering rage; without stopping to consider the politeness of his conduct, he burst into the kitchen, where Dorothea was acquainting Martha with the proper way of boiling vegetables (for perhaps the third time), and began to rant about the Governor’s ‘pernicious actions’. Dorothea quickly conducted him into the drawing room, where he was less likely to be overheard.
She tried to soothe him with a glass of wine, but failed.
‘That tyrannous, pot-headed old martinet,’ he spluttered, ‘has deprived us of our right to service!’
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