The Gentleman's Garden

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘My dear Mrs Brande, need there be a reason?’ Mrs Molle stooped to examine the potatoes. ‘These are coming along nicely. You should commence sowing strawberries very soon. I shall give you some of mine.’

  ‘But these children,’ Dorothea pressed, ‘why are they not prevented from doing such things? Are their parents incapable?’

  ‘Lazy,’ Mrs Molle replied. ‘Lazy, immoral and ill bred. My dear Mrs Brande, what would you expect? They are felons.’

  Dorothea was left much troubled by Mrs Molle’s remarks concerning the ‘urchins’ and their conduct; she did not like to contemplate vicious behaviour in young children. It seemed incredible to her that any parents—even those of a low description—should allow their offspring to adopt foul language, and pursue activities dangerous to both their physical and moral health. How often had she read of children in the colony falling off wharves and drowning? Falling into fires and burning? It seemed to her that some people were altogether too lackadaisical in their supervision of the children with whom they had been blessed.

  After Mrs Molle had departed, Dorothea fretted for a while about the strange dispensations of God—who deprived her of her own babies while showering infants on those too careless to raise them properly—before turning, with resolution, to Mrs Macquarie’s book. It was a very fine book. With perfect taste, and great elegance of expression, it discussed all manner of gardens—large and small, formal and picturesque, English and continental—offering advice on everything from avenues to waterfalls. Naturally, Dorothea sighed over the plates depicting the carefully designed parks and pasturages of England’s noblest families. Of no use to her were Mr Wells’s remarks on hahas, lakes and glass-houses. But she soon came upon a chapter dealing with cottage and villa gardens, which she found enthralling. The engravings, in particular, were a source of great interest to her.

  After studying them for a long time, she went to the kitchen, where she found Daniel methodically cleaning the silver.

  ‘Ah, Daniel,’ she said, and glanced about. ‘Where is Martha?’

  ‘In bed, Ma’am,’ he replied, rising to his feet. ‘She’s feelin’ poorly.’

  ‘Again?’

  ‘So she says.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Dorothea surveyed the hearth, the floor and the kitchen table. Nothing about them offended her greatly; the floor was swept, the treacle pudding was boiling over the fire (it required at least another two hours’ boiling, in Dorothea’s estimation), and the table bore a neat arrangement of chopped turnip, sweet herbs, shredded celery, pork broth, puree of peas—all the requirements for pea soup. The cold beef was ready to be served.

  ‘Hmm,’ Dorothea repeated. Although highly displeased, she was aware that her dinner was not yet threatened by Martha’s absence. Furthermore, she was eager to share her new-found knowledge with Daniel, who would surely be as profoundly impressed by it as she was.

  ‘Look,’ she said, placing The Gentleman’s Garden onto the table in front of him. ‘This is what I should like, Daniel. This is a design very much suited to my garden. Simple, you see, but refined. Simplicity is essential. It says here: I do not advocate intricate plans on a small scale, as they only entail extra labour without an equivalent return. There is some sense in that. Mr Wells also recommends that a small garden should have small beds.’

  It is a common mistake to make one large bed, usually in the form of a circle or oblong square. It may be easy enough to plant a large bed, beginning from the middle and working outward; but when the plants come to grow, it is impossible to tend them properly without risk of injury. Accordingly, for any central space, let the ground be divided, so that access to all the plants is freely open.

  Dorothea pondered the wisdom of this remark for a moment before proceeding. ‘Mr Wells appears to prefer the picturesque to the formal,’ she continued. ‘He regards formal gardens as neither modern nor in the English mode. He describes straight, sharp angles as being very objectionable, and harsh to the eye. He recommends that all walks, beds and borders be curved for that reason.’ Cocking her head to one side, Dorothea studied the engraving before her. ‘I think that we can accommodate him, in this case,’ she went on. ‘He advises that if a small garden is surrounded by open fencing, the best arrangement is a flower border running around three of its sides—but if a wall or close fence encloses it, then walks must replace the flower borders. Fortunately, our fencing is open, or we would be obliged to offend Mr Wells with straight walks.’

  Realising suddenly that she was speaking without regard for her audience—in effect, almost thinking aloud—Dorothea flushed, and looked at Daniel. He was staring intently at the book. He put his fingers to his mouth.

  ‘I shall use this design to make my own,’ Dorothea explained to him. ‘I shall draw up a plan, and we shall work from that.’ Still he made no remark. ‘Do you understand, Daniel?’

  He hesitated. Then he murmured, ‘Is this a garden, Ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, it is. I told you.’

  ‘And this …’ His finger hovered over the engraving. ‘This is a part of’t?’

  ‘That is the shrubbery. Number three—the shrubbery.’

  ‘And that?’

  She glanced at him again, struck by a sudden thought. ‘Can you not read, Daniel?’ she asked, already knowing the answer.

  ‘That I cannot, Ma’am.’

  ‘I see. Well …’ She took a deep breath, sat down, and with a motion of her hand indicated that Daniel should seat himself, also. This he did awkwardly, almost cautiously, his long frame folding up in an angular fashion, like a hinged Field Standard. ‘Look,’ said Dorothea, pointing. ‘That is the letter “b”. Here it is again, “b”, and beside it, the word “herbs”. So this plot must be dedicated to herbs.’ Peering at Daniel, Dorothea saw him nod, and was satisfied. She explained to him the rest of the design, reading occasionally from the text below it. She read:

  If there is room for a grass plot, well and good, but a lawn can be too small to be effective … Nothing can be more gracefully elegant than the simple yet tasteful arrangement of this garden … The limes and elder trees in the shrubbery, with the laburnums in the centre of the garden, give it a refreshing shade of green that is seldom surpassed in any large and elaborately ornamented garden …

  Daniel listened, and nodded, and seemed very much struck by the thoroughness of Mr Wells’s treatment of the subject. But he said nothing. Only when Dorothea had finished, and had turned to him, asking him if he had any comments to make, did he voice an opinion.

  ‘Aye,’ he said quietly, ‘’twill be a fine spread.’

  ‘There is a chapter on paths,’ Dorothea pointed out. ‘On the construction of paths. I will acquaint you with its contents when the time comes.’

  ‘Aye, Ma’am.’ He rubbed his cheek. ‘Yeer pardon, Ma’am—’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Is there a portion that speaks o’ the artificial manure, by a mercy?’

  Dorothea was thrown off balance. ‘I—I’m not sure.’ She began to turn the pages. ‘Perhaps …’

  ‘For it has been exercisin’ me mind at all hours, so it has. The artificial manure …’ Dorothea heard a trace of expression in his voice, and looked up in astonishment. For the first time, she saw a faint smile on his face. ‘Yeer pardon, Ma’am, but I’ve been askin’ meself, would the artificial manure be sweeter than the real stuff?’

  He spoke so gently that it was impossible to take offence. Slightly confused, Dorothea looked away, and consulted the book for an answer. In doing so, she discovered that ‘bone rubbish’ from freshly slaughtered animals, if crushed or reduced to ash, could be used to fertilise soil; that the hop farmers of Kent had been known to employ chopped-up rags to enrich their fields; and that pig dung possessed ‘odorous properties noxious to most of the cultivated crops’.

  ‘However cleanly fed the pigs might be,’ Dorothea read aloud, ‘their manure should be thoroughly fermented with salt and gypsum until its noxious properties are corrected, which will be read
ily ascertained by the change of smell. Oh dear,’ she added, ‘I cannot think how that is to be accomplished.’

  ‘We’ll not be needin’ to. I’ll sally out no more for the pig dung—just for what the cows and the horses have left behind,’ said Daniel. Whereupon Dorothea found herself impelled, almost against her will, to ask if he had encountered any trouble while accomplishing ‘the task that he had set himself’. (She could not think how to phrase the question more delicately.) ‘Mrs Molle tells me that you are pursued by wicked children,’ she remarked, her gaze fixed firmly on Mr Wells’s work. ‘She tells me that they taunt you. Is it true, Daniel?’

  There was a short silence.

  ‘Ah, well,’ he sighed at last. ‘They’re only children.’

  ‘But why do they do it?’

  Another silence followed, so lengthy that Dorothea looked up and saw the rueful smile on Daniel’s face as he rubbed the tabletop with his hand. Catching her eye, he hastened to provide an explanation.

  ‘Any man who spends his time shovellin’ dung into a bag,’ he said, ‘must always have the children laughin’.’

  ‘But they have no business laughing at you!’ Dorothea protested. ‘You should make them go away, Daniel.’

  ‘That I do, Ma’am. But they’re like the flies, so they are—flap at them as you will, they’ll always be comin’ back.’

  ‘It is very wrong.’

  ‘Ah, no.’

  ‘It is. You should report them to the constable.’ Seeing him drop his head, as if to hide his expression, Dorothea added: ‘I shall report them to the constable.’

  ‘Ah, no.’ The smile was wiped off Daniel’s face. He turned towards her in a sudden access of barely concealed alarm. ‘No, Ma’am, do not, not on my account. ‘ ’Twould be of no use, no use at all.’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Their words cannot hurt me. No words can. Pay’t no mind, Ma’am. There are worse things, far worse.’

  The feeling in his voice unnerved Dorothea, who did not want to know exactly what he meant by this remark. So she cleared her throat, and turned her attention to the book in front of her, and was about to begin reading aloud once more from Mr Wells’s chapter on ‘Principles of Good Taste in the Arrangement of Small Gardens’ when she suddenly heard her husband’s voice outside, and caught her breath.

  ‘Good God!’ she exclaimed. ‘Can that be—is it so late?’ Rising, she went to the door, where she encountered Captain Brande. He was looking dusty and out of sorts; having returned home for his dinner, he wanted to know when it would be ready, and why the table had not been laid. Dorothea had no answers to give him.

  ‘I—I—’ she stammered.

  ‘Where is Martha?’ he demanded, peering into the gloom of the kitchen and favouring Daniel with a suspicious glare.

  ‘Martha is indisposed,’ Dorothea replied, ‘but I was just going to rouse her.’

  ‘Indisposed? She is always indisposed.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘D’you mean to say,’ he exclaimed incredulously, as the full import of this news suddenly impressed itself upon him, ‘that she is in bed?’

  ‘Yes—’

  ‘By God, I’ll give her bed.’ He turned and marched back towards the house, with Dorothea at his heels. She urged him, breathlessly, not to be too hard on Martha.

  ‘I should have wakened her some time ago,’ Dorothea confessed. ‘Charles? I was diverted from my duties. Mrs Molle brought a book.’ She nearly collided with him as he stopped, abruptly, at the door of Martha’s room, and pushed it open. ‘A book from Mrs Macquarie—’

  ‘Get up, you lazy slattern!’ Charles roared. From behind him, Dorothea could see Martha lurch up from her bed, dazed in the dying light, her covers falling onto the floor and her hair falling into her face. ‘What is the meaning of this, damn you?’

  ‘Oh—oh,’ Martha gasped. ‘I’m comin’ … I’m comin’, Sir.’

  ‘Where is my dinner? Get out of there! Out!’ He aimed a kick at her as she passed, but his foot failed to connect with her hindquarters. Dorothea winced. ‘I want my dinner within the hour, or you shall answer for it!’ he shouted after the maid, and strode away to unlock the tantalus.

  Dorothea followed him.

  ‘Forgive me,’ she said, ‘I was in error. Charles? I am so very sorry.’

  And she was. It seemed to her a shameful thing that she had allowed herself to be so … so waylaid. She had been in error, utterly in error, to permit the allurements of a book (however excellent) to outweigh the needs of her husband. Her conduct, she felt, had been questionable, not only because she had neglected her duties, but because this neglect had resulted in a quite unnecessarily lengthy conversation with a servant—an assigned servant.

  A Government man.

  I was stupid, she thought. So stupid. No good will come of consorting in such a way with servants. They will only take advantage, and I shall be faced with more trouble than I am encumbered with already.

  She made a resolution that she would not, from that time forth, put her garden before her husband’s appetite.

  New South Wales

  February 6th, 1815

  My dearest Margaret,

  You must forgive me for not writing sooner. The truth of the matter is that we have been in poor health, since last I wrote. My own indisposition, a trifling cold, was not to any great degree debilitating, but Charles has been afflicted by a putrid sore throat for three weeks, and is only now beginning to show signs of improvement. I fear that he may have a weak constitution; all the honey and vinegar in the world did him no good at all, and Surgeon Forster’s remedy was slow to take effect. At present, though the pain has subsided, poor Charles is much troubled by hoarseness, and I am quite at a loss. I do recall, however, that Lady Shortland’s housekeeper had in her possession a receipt for a preparation that did much to ease Sir Robert’s misery, when he lost his voice three winters ago. It is my recollection that the mixture was one of water and sweet spirits of nitre, but I cannot remember the exact quantities required of each. Will you kindly make inquiries, my dear Margaret, and convey the results to me in your next letter? If Charles’s problem ever recurs, I should be grateful for the use of this concoction.

  What with my own sufferings, and those of Charles and Jack Lynch—who was briefly afflicted by the same cold as that which tormented me—I have begun to feel as if I more properly belong on the staff of the new hospital, since I spend all my time mixing doses of medicine to force down reluctant throats. It seems to me very hard that we must suffer so during the summer months, at a time when one naturally hopes to recover one’s strength after the depredations of winter. Perhaps we are all still attuned to the English seasons.

  On the subject of the new hospital, you should know that it is now almost complete—and that the new courts within it are complete—but that Mr Jeffery Bent refuses to make use of them. He will not open the Supreme Court until the arrival of Mr Frederick Garling, one of two solicitors who have been sent from England to improve the administration of justice in this colony. The other solicitor, Mr William Moore, arrived a few days ago. According to Mrs Bent, Governor Macquarie would have her brother-in-law make use of the services of two other ‘attornies’ until Mr Garling comes, but since these ‘attornies’ are in fact former attornies, convicted and transported for crimes committed in England, Mr Jeffery Bent, quite rightly, refuses to countenance their appearance in his court. (Unless, he says, they are to appear as defendants!) The rumour is that Mr Garling has been taken by pirates, so I do not know how the matter is to be resolved. Mr Ellis Bent confesses that the two convict attornies have been permitted to practise in the court of civil jurisdiction for several years, owing to a dearth of more respectable law agents hereabouts, but he says also that they were never allowed to consider themselves as being admitted as attornies of the court, and that they were always warned that their permission to act as agents would be withdrawn upon the appearance of more suitable candidates.

  He said al
l of this during a dinner that we attended at his house, not long ago, and I should tell you that Charles and I have enjoyed no other social engagements in the last month, at least, owing to illness. But of course we have not been the only sufferers. Poor Mrs Bent is quite frantic about her husband. He has been very ill, with dropsy of the chest, and cannot now either stand or move about freely. That, of course, is why he has recently taken to remaining seated when Governor Macquarie enters the church on Sundays. We are all accustomed to stand on these occasions; the Governor in Chief, as representative of His Majesty, merits nothing less. But it seems strangely petty and vindictive that the Governor should take such exception to Mr Bent’s remaining seated, when poor Mr Bent is so ill. Mrs Bent insists that the Governor now views Mr Bent as an enemy, because the two have disagreed over certain port regulations (do not, I beg you, ask me to elucidate—I am quite at a loss when it comes to port regulations), so of course His Excellency regards Mr Bent’s failure to stand as an act of defiance. But I do not believe that Mr Bent is capable of an act of defiance. He is so very polite and soft-spoken, not to say sickly. Poor Mrs Bent—I do feel for her. Charles informs me that she and her husband are much oppressed, at this time, by concerns about money, and have been forced to sell various land grants. I only hope that their dispute with Governor Macquarie will not impoverish them still further.

  Charles also says that the whole affair of the convict attornies is yet another example of how indulgent the Governor can be towards convicts and former convicts. Only last month, the road over the mountains was completed, and every convict who worked on it was granted his freedom as a result. Charles finds this fact deplorable. He says that muscular strength is not the equivalent of moral strength, and that in any case a job of work is a job of work, not deserving of any particular reward. As you may imagine, his temper has been sorely tried by his virtual inability to speak at all, so episodes of this nature irritate him more than they are accustomed to.

  I find it difficult to believe that we have been in New South Wales for a year. At times I feel that I must be dreaming, and will soon wake up in my little room at the Parsonage, with blackbirds singing outside my window. The heat here is oppressive, just now. No matter how vile your winter might be, I would gladly endure it in place of this summer. My one comfort is the state of my vegetable plot, which is coming along beautifully, and already providing us with very good onions, peas, carrots, potatoes and celery—though nothing as fine as the produce of your own garden, my dearest sister. Oh, if I were only with you now! I close my eyes and picture your dear face, and long for you, and for the home that I cherish more tenderly than I ever have before. Kiss George for me, and Harriette, and Emily and John and Catherine and Richard, and believe me to be