your eternally loving sister,
Dorothea Brande
CHAPTER TEN
IN MARCH, CHARLES DECREED that he and Dorothea should invite some of their friends to dine with them one evening. A date was decided upon, invitations were issued, and Dorothea found herself confronted by the daunting task of entertaining ten guests in four very small rooms.
Fortunately, Mrs Molle was only too happy to offer a little discreet assistance.
‘My dear Mrs Brande, I beg you will not concern yourself,’ she remarked, upon Dorothea’s confessing to her that she had not a sufficiency of chairs to seat twelve. ‘How many chairs are you in possession of? Six? Then I shall supply the other six. Now—what else will you require? If you are to seat twelve, then you will need four servants, in addition to the cook. I would suggest that you make use of my cook for the evening—your own girl being not, perhaps, trained to such a task—and one of Mrs Bent’s servants: I believe her cook to be thoroughly reliable, and he will not, of course, be needed at home. In fact you may find it expedient to employ Mrs Bent’s John as your cook, and my Henry as an extra man—John being by far the more skilled of the two.’ In the face of Dorothea’s objections, Mrs Molle was adamant; it would not inconvenience her in the least, she insisted, and as for Mrs Bent—why, she had already raised the subject with Mrs Bent. ‘I had a premonition that you might require additional staff,’ she concluded, ‘so I took it upon myself to make inquiries of Mrs Bent. You really must not fret, Mrs Brande. In circumstances such as these, we must learn to cast aside certain formalities, and share our advantages.’
It was therefore arranged that Mrs Bent’s cook, John Harvey, should take charge of Dorothea’s kitchen on March the tenth, and that Mrs Molle’s cook should serve at table. Dorothea was then obliged to plan the bill of fare. After discussing the matter with Charles and Mrs Molle, she decided that sorrel and potato soup would be followed by fricasseed fowl, sweetbreads with white sauce and green peas, salt tongue, stewed oysters, roast loin of beef with a summer salad, custards, plum pudding, peaches, strawberries and cream cheese. While not, perhaps, the most elegant repast, this succession of dishes was nonetheless a good, solid, unexceptionable array, which would cause no offence to even the most delicate appetites. Dorothea’s one concern was that John Harvey might not be equipped to prepare it, but her misgivings were laid to rest after she had interviewed him, some three days before the dinner was to be served. When he came to her house and inspected her kitchen, she discovered that he was a brisk, nuggety little man with a wide experience of cookery, and that he was quite familiar with every dish under consideration.
He told Dorothea that for fricassee of fowl (he pronounced it ‘frik-case’) he always took care, when the joints were soaking, to change the water three times in the hour, so as to achieve a very white meat; that he always threw a few, extremely thin slices of bread into a sorrel and potato soup; and that he knew several ways of cooking plum pudding, one without eggs, one economical, and one with blanched almonds.
Dorothea was very pleased with him.
She was beginning to feel a little less fearful at the prospect of playing hostess, and a little more excited by it. Even so, she left nothing to chance. Repeatedly, as the meal drew near, she lectured her servants on the correct way of dressing the table, conveying the courses, and serving the wine. She showed them the manner in which the white cloth must be removed before dessert, and had the laundress starch and iron this cloth on the day. She bought extra wax candles, obtained flowers from Mrs Bent, and had Daniel polish the silver until it gleamed with a rare brilliance. She also turned her attention to her own wardrobe, which, though meagre, was enhanced by the purchase of some new lace. Finally, she ensured that the house was spotlessly clean by driving Martha into every corner with mop, brush and broom, by ordering Daniel to wash the windows, and by mixing, with her own hands, a polish that she insisted Jack apply to all the furniture. (He was not very happy about that.) So vigorous were her efforts, indeed, that by the afternoon of March the tenth, she was utterly exhausted.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, upon surveying her drawn face in the glass, ‘how very bad my colour is.’
‘Nonsense,’ Charles replied. ‘You look ravishing as always.’ Since he was adjusting his stock, and was perforce obliged to stand with his chin raised, he could not even spare her a glance before passing judgement. Consequently, she discounted his remark.
‘I look ill,’ she said. ‘How ill I look! My complexion so sallow. No brilliance. This pomade seems to be doing it no good at all.’
‘Your concern is unfounded, my dear.’
‘Perhaps I should try Gowland’s lotion.’
‘Gowland’s? I was under the impression that Gowland’s lotion was for the treatment of eruptive diseases.’
‘No doubt they will come,’ said Dorothea, gloomily. What had befallen her lilies and roses? She had—yes, she positively had dark circles under her eyes. Fleetingly, she considered the possibility of mixing up a rouge (Margaret had once showed her how) before remembering that, even had there been carmine in the house, Charles would not have stood for such artificial enhancement.
‘Where is Martha?’ she said irritably. ‘Why does she not come?’
‘Ring again,’ her husband advised her.
‘Perhaps she was waylaid—’
‘Ring again, I tell you.’ He was now applying oil to his hair, studying himself intently in the glass. He looked magnificent. ‘There is no time to waste. Our guests will be arriving soon.’
But Dorothea had no opportunity to ring again. For at that moment someone knocked on the door, and when Charles said ‘Enter!’, Daniel’s face appeared. His expression boded ill. It was fixed—blank—in a way that Dorothea had come to recognise as the outward form of an acute, but concealed, apprehension.
‘What is it?’ she inquired. ‘Where is Martha?’
‘Ah …’ He hesitated. ‘Could I speak t’ye, Ma’am?’
‘Speak,’ snapped Charles.
Daniel swallowed. ‘Sir … Ma’am …’ he began, then stopped. Dorothea rose. She knew that Daniel did not want Charles’s wrath visited upon his head, though by what means this knowledge had been conveyed to her, she was unsure. (Through the medium of Daniel’s eyes, perhaps?) In the circumstances, however, she could understand and applaud his desire for a peaceful resolution.
Should Charles give way to a fit of temper, her own nerves would not recover quickly.
‘I will come,’ she announced, forestalling her husband’s objections. ‘My dear, it is no doubt a domestic crisis occasioned by the presence of strange staff.’
‘But—’
‘I shall return in an instant. Please do not trouble yourself.’ She thought, as she left the bedroom, that if John Harvey had burned the pudding, she would expire on the spot.
But the news was worse than that.
‘Ma’am,’ said Daniel softly, upon stepping outside. ‘Wait. Not in there, if it please ye.’
Dorothea, who had been heading for the kitchen, paused, and looked at him in surprise.
‘ ’Tis Martha,’ he continued, running his fingers through his neatly combed hair.
‘What do you mean?’ Dorothea demanded. ‘Where is she?’
‘Here.’ He beckoned. She followed. They went around the kitchen, to the back of it, where the buckets were kept, and the hoe, and a broken basket, and an earthenware vessel filled with lye and ashes. Here Martha lay, with her eyes closed, dirty and bedraggled in the fading light.
Dorothea gasped at the sight of her.
‘Is she breathing? She is breathing. Daniel, she is breathing!’
‘Aye, but—’
‘She must have fainted.’ Dorothea began to wring her hands. ‘Oh dear! Oh dear! Why must she be taken ill now? Today, of all days!’
‘Ma’am—’
‘We must send for Surgeon Forster. Daniel—’
‘Wait.’ He raised his own hand, and such was her astonishment that
she fell silent. ‘Wait,’ he said, pointing. ‘Ma’am, only look. There’s no call for the doctor.’
Peering down at Martha’s supine form, Dorothea noticed that the housemaid was cradling something in her arms—a black glass bottle.
She put her hand over her mouth.
‘That’d be the rum, Ma’am, I’m thinkin’,’ Daniel said, in a low voice. ‘Sure, and you can smell it on her.’
‘But …’ Dorothea almost staggered where she stood. ‘But how—where—how did she come by it?’
Daniel shrugged.
‘Daniel, you must know!’
‘That I do not,’ he said firmly. ‘She has her beef and tea and sugar. She runs errands. There are houses aplenty would sell her the spirits.’
Dorothea’s hands were on her temples. She was frantic.
‘What shall I do?’ she whispered. ‘Our guests will arrive soon. Martha was going to wait at table.’
‘Not this night,’ said Daniel. He spoke thoughtfully. ‘No, nor any other, if I’ve the measure o’ this.’ As Dorothea turned to him, wide-eyed and staring, he added: ‘I’ve a notion that Martha’s troubles are not in her health, Ma’am, but in the bottle you see.’
‘Oh, no!’
‘I—I had a suspicion of’t, but never saw her take a drop, not one.’
‘You should have said!’
‘Ma’am.’ He spread his hands. ‘’Twas suspicion only.’
‘What am I to do?’ Dorothea squeaked. She could not seem to think clearly. ‘There must be four to wait at table!’
‘Is there no other man ye might find? In another house?’
‘What? I—perhaps. Yes, perhaps. But—’
‘I’ll put her in her bed, Ma’am. Then I’ll go to Mrs Molle.’
‘But—’
‘Shall I tell Mrs Molle that Martha is ill with the headache? ’Twould be no falsehood. And there’s no one but us to say otherwise.’
‘Yes. Yes.’ The fog in Dorothea’s own head was beginning to clear. ‘Yes, tell her that. Ask her if she can recommend a good servant. Apologise to her, Daniel—do not omit my apology.’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘I had—I had better return, now.’ Looking at him, she wondered if anything more need be said. She was almost weeping with mortification as it was, and had no desire to suffer further indignity. But should Daniel mention Martha’s true state to Charles at any time during the evening, there would be hell to pay. ‘Something must be done about Martha,’ she went on. ‘Certainly, something must be done. At present, however, nothing useful can be attempted.’
‘No, Ma’am.’
‘If—if we should tell anyone the truth, this evening, it would cause great consternation, and—and confusion. And the night would be ruined. Do you understand, Daniel?’
‘Aye, Ma’am.’ His voice was as solemn as his face. His gaze sought hers, and held it. ‘That I do.’
‘Very well.’ She instructed him to wait until she had returned to her husband, before carrying Martha indoors. It was her intention that Charles should be kept busy and happy until the guests arrived, that he should not become aware of Martha’s absence at least until dinner was served, and that the other servants should also remain ignorant for as long as possible. ‘It is very hard,’ she murmured, with a trembling lip, ‘that I must resort to such deception. I shall never forgive Martha, never. It is inexcusable.’
Daniel said nothing.
‘If I were to throw her into the street, just as she is, it would be no more than she deserves!’ Dorothea continued brokenly. But she knew that such recriminations were fruitless. Furthermore, she knew that she must calm herself—and quickly—lest her feverish flush and puckered brow arouse her husband’s suspicions.
So she blinked, and took a deep breath, and went back to the bedroom.
What followed was perhaps a more fortunate conjunction of circumstances than might reasonably have been expected, given the smallness of the house and the uncertainty of Captain Brande’s temper. Captains Thompson and Miller arrived early, thereby preventing Captain Brande from invading the kitchen for the purpose of inspecting it (as had been his intention). Then, when the two officers sampled his madeira, they were so loud in its praise, and so envious of his ‘damnable luck’ in acquiring it, that he was delighted. Nothing could have gratified him more. The conversation flowed, and with such ease and spirit that it barely faltered when Dorothea left the room. She went to seek out Daniel, but he had not returned. Jack Lynch, who had been persuaded to shell peas, was so sharp on the subject that Dorothea was forced to reveal the news of Martha’s ‘illness’, which was received with barely concealed dismay. But before John Harvey could throw down his stewpot and lament his ill fortune (as he had half a mind to do, Dorothea suspected; she could see it in his eye), Daniel stumbled in, breathing heavily, and announced that Mrs Molle had ‘taken the matter in hand’.
‘She’s sent to Mrs Cowper for a man,’ Daniel said, ‘and will not have ye fret, Ma’am—I was to give ye those very words.’
‘Did she say anything else?’
‘She said I was to hurry back.’
At which point Dorothea realised that nothing more could be accomplished for the time being. So she returned to the drawing room, where she suffered in silence until Mrs Molle’s arrival. It was a great test of character to remain smiling in her chair, when her one desire was to be in the kitchen, rescuing her arrangements. But at last Mrs Molle came, and delivered her from her misery. Although attended by the Vales, and of course by her husband, Mrs Molle was able to exchange a few private words with Dorothea on the threshold of the dining room.
‘Have no fear,’ she said kindly. ‘Mrs Cowper’s generosity knows no bounds.’
‘Then—?’
‘We are late for that very reason. We brought her man with us—a sturdy young fellow. I sent him through to the kitchen.’
‘Oh, Mrs Molle.’ Dorothea almost wept. ‘How can I ever repay you?’
‘Nonsense, Mrs Brande. It was for my comfort as much as yours, please remember. Inadequate service will always result in cold food, and cold food is a punishment to the digestion.’
The evening was therefore saved—although Dorothea, exhausted by her efforts, did occasionally wonder if it had been worth saving. Captains Thompson and Miller were unrefined company, at their best solely when discussing military tactics such as the ideal thickness of a fighting line. (An admirable topic, but not one to win a lady’s heart.) The Reverend and Mrs Vale were at their most plaintive, moaning constantly about colonial prices, colonial weather, and colonial insects. Mr Bent, though polite, was obviously unwell, and could neither eat nor converse without a great expenditure of effort—much to his wife’s distress. Her distracted air, and the attention that she paid to every tremor crossing his countenance, prevented her from conversing as freely and wittily as was her custom. The ponderous structure of Colonel Molle’s sentences affected the flow of every conversation in which he partook, much as an iron ball will affect the gait of a convict, and while Mr Jeffery Bent was as vigorous as ever in his remarks, they were of a nature that the Colonel appeared to find unwise, if not objectionable, because he repeatedly and clumsily tried to change the subject when Mr Jeffery Bent’s censure of Governor Macquarie became too heated.
Dorothea herself had nothing of worth to contribute, for she was too anxious to say much. She was too busy watching every entrance and exit, as the courses were conveyed to the table. She was too concerned that her husband would notice the presence of two—not one, but two—strange footmen. Fortunately, Captain Brande was so passionately preoccupied with a discussion of the Rules and Regulations for the Formations, Field Exercise and Movements of His Majesty’s Forces that he barely took heed of the food set in front of him, let alone the men who put it there. He was in a very genial mood. His sweet, boyish smile illuminated the entire company. Dorothea even began to hope, when the ladies withdrew, that the worst of the evening was over—that with the table now clea
red, Charles would have no opportunity to note that Martha was absent.
Naturally, Mrs Molle refrained from broaching the subject of Martha’s illness even over coffee, lest she embarrass Dorothea in front of Mrs Vale. But towards the end of the evening, before taking her leave, Mrs Molle accompanied Dorothea to the kitchen in order that that she might ‘collect her staff’, and it was then that she aired her views on sickly servants.
‘Take her to a doctor, Mrs Brande,’ she advised, ‘and if that comes to nothing, get rid of her. However charitable one might wish to be, one cannot support an invalid on one’s staff.’
Dorothea said nothing. The prospect of her next interview with Martha filled her with gloom; she had decided to put it off until the morning. Meanwhile, she thanked all the servants who had been present, distributing among them small packets of tea. She said goodbye to her guests, grateful that they were leaving. She undressed without assistance, and offered up a prayer of thanks that Charles was too happily inebriated to wonder why Martha was not brushing Dorothea’s hair that night.
‘A very successful evening,’ he beamed, still smelling strongly of spiritous liquors. ‘Do you agree, Mrs Brande?’
‘Yes indeed,’ Dorothea replied.
‘Miller is an amusing fellow. You do not like him, I know—’
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