The Gentleman's Garden

by Catherine Jinks

  ‘But your arm!’ Dorothea exclaimed, as Captain Brande mounted the front steps with a slow and heavy tread. ‘Is it broken?’

  ‘Of course it is!’ Charles retorted testily. ‘Would I be wearing this thing, if it were not?’

  ‘Do not be overanxious, Mrs Brande,’ Captain Sanderson interrupted. ‘A cracked bone will mend easily enough.’ Having helped Captain Brande into the drawing room, he lowered him onto the sofa and winked. ‘Though a sip of brandy would be of great comfort, I feel sure,’ he added.

  ‘But what happened?’ Dorothea was almost weeping with distress. ‘Who did this to him?’

  ‘A boy with a fowl,’ Captain Sanderson replied, and Captain Miller snorted.

  ‘A boy? With a fowl?’ Dorothea gasped. ‘Do you mean to say—’

  ‘I fell off my horse!’ Charles snapped. ‘That cursed boy startled it! Now where are the keys, Mrs Brande? I need a restorative.’

  ‘Doctor’s orders,’ Captain Sanderson agreed, whereupon Captain Miller snorted once again.

  ‘Surgeon Forster has seen you, then?’ Dorothea wanted to know, as she unlocked the tantalus. Captain Miller was asked to pour the brandy, since Dorothea’s hands were shaking too much to have granted her any facility in such a task (had she even wished to undertake it). ‘What are his orders? Should you be in bed, Charles?’

  ‘No! What do you take me for?’ Swallowing his restorative, Charles grimaced. ‘A knock like this is nothing. The merest nothing.’

  ‘An officer of His Majesty must take such blows in his stride, Mrs Brande,’ Captain Sanderson announced, in such gravely majestic accents that Captain Miller was again overcome by a fit of giggles, which he was obliged to suppress behind his hand. Charles, with a fierce look, instructed Captain Sanderson not to be ‘such a damned fool’—before begging his wife’s pardon for this intemperate language.

  ‘I am not myself,’ he complained. ‘Indeed I am not. Good God, my head aches like the devil.’

  ‘Did you strike your head?’ Dorothea exclaimed. ‘Oh Charles, you must go to bed at once! I shall darken the bedroom, and give you a saline wash.’

  ‘No, no …’

  ‘Be easy, Mrs Brande,’ said Captain Sanderson. ‘Say the word, and I shall have him on his back in no time.’

  ‘Be damned you will!’

  ‘Oh—oh no,’ Dorothea stammered. ‘Thank you, but—no. Really.’ She simply wanted Captain Sanderson to go, and to take Captain Miller with him. She was afraid that they would settle down with the brandy bottle, and not leave until it was empty.

  But her fears were unfounded. The two officers did leave, within half an hour of their arrival; they seemed eager to go. Charles observed bleakly that they were no doubt anxious to return to barracks, where they could discuss his condition freely, without risk of being overheard by him. Having witnessed at first hand his ignominy, they would naturally want to share their observations with their fellow officers.

  ‘Let ’em have their fun,’ he growled. ‘I’ll not prevent it.’

  ‘But Charles,’ said Dorothea, ‘why would anyone find your injury laughable?’

  ‘Because it is laughable!’ her husband replied. ‘I was winning, you see, and then that cursed child—he was chasing a deuced chicken, would you credit such a thing? They crossed my path, and my horse had not the sense to run over them.’

  Dorothea winced. He did not mean it, she felt sure.

  ‘I was convinced that Miller would rupture a vein, he was laughing so much. You would think that no one had ever taken a tumble before. At least Sanderson showed some restraint. He even had the sense to send a man after my horse.’

  ‘But Charles,’ said Dorothea, ‘what do you mean, you were winning? Winning what?’

  Charles mumbled something incomprehensible. Then he winced, and Dorothea became concerned with his discomfort and how it might be alleviated by the positioning of cushions, the ingestion of a soothing syrup, and the summoning of Surgeon Forster. Nursing her husband was a very absorbing pastime. During the next few days, although he insisted on visiting the mess on several occasions, Dorothea was kept busy satisfying his restless need for food, drink, medicine, amusement and an extra pair of hands. Jack Lynch was invaluable at this time. He supplied Captain Brande not only with his skilful tendance, but with someone upon whom Charles could vent his anger. Nevertheless, Jack Lynch was not present at night—and it was at night that Captain Brande, unable to find a comfortable position so as to ease the ache in his arm, became most troublesome. Dorothea slept very little during the first three nights after her husband’s mishap. She found that his constant moaning, and shifting, and calls for hot or cold compresses made her as wakeful as he.

  At last, however, the pain subsided. And it was at about this time, during a visit from Mrs Molle, that Dorothea learned the truth about Charles’s injury.

  She discovered, from Mrs Molle, that it had been sustained during a race in Hyde Park. Captain Brande and Captain Sanderson had been racing their horses.

  ‘A race? In Hyde Park?’ Dorothea said. ‘But why would they be racing horses in Hyde Park?’

  ‘I have no notion,’ Mrs Molle replied.

  ‘Had they nothing more useful to do with their time? Why were they not employed in their duties?’

  ‘The duties of most young officers do not appear to me to be very onerous,’ said Mrs Molle, with a half-smile. ‘But that is a matter I leave to the Colonel.’

  ‘I had thought that Charles must have been engaged in an exercise. In some kind of drill,’ Dorothea murmured, much perplexed. ‘To be injured in the course of one’s duty—there is nothing shameful in that.’

  ‘No,’ Mrs Molle agreed.

  ‘But a race in Hyde Park …’ Dorothea shook her head. ‘It seems very foolish,’ she concluded, fretfully. ‘I wonder at him, indeed I do.’ She did more than wonder; she marvelled. Was Charles so keen to earn the approbation of his fellow officers (no matter how unpraiseworthy they might be) that he would risk his neck in the process? It seemed to argue a want of character. Moreover, Dorothea regarded as insulting the fact that Charles had neglected to tell her the truth about his accident. In consequence, she had been shocked into making certain unwise remarks to Mrs Molle. But when accused of failing her in this particular, Charles defended himself vigorously.

  ‘I made no secret of the circumstances,’ he declared.

  ‘You did, Charles. You did not mention a race.’

  ‘I did, indeed.’

  ‘You did not.’

  ‘I beg your pardon, Madam, but I told you that I was winning! What other conclusion could a woman of any sense have drawn?’

  Dorothea flushed. After sleeping so poorly, she was not herself in a very good temper.

  ‘I cannot understand it,’ she said. ‘Why would you do such a foolish thing?’

  ‘Excuse me, Mrs Brande—’

  ‘Little wonder that you made a spectacle of yourself!’

  ‘I’ll thank you, Madam, to keep a civil tongue in your head!’

  ‘It seems to me that Captain Sanderson has had a very bad influence on you! You would not have done such a stupid thing before his arrival!’

  They were sitting at the dining table, opposite each other, and for an instant Dorothea was afraid that Charles would strike her. But the moment passed, almost before she was aware of it. Charles contented himself with merely lurching to his feet—so abruptly that his chair fell to the floor—and slamming his open palm down onto the tabletop.

  ‘You,’ he said, through his teeth, ‘are one of the most tiresome women of my acquaintance.’

  And he went off to the mess, leaving Dorothea to finish her meal alone.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHARLES RETURNED HOME VERY late that night. Dorothea had been long abed (though wakeful) when she heard the sound of someone knocking at the front door. Having left a candle burning, she was able to rise quickly; she went into the corridor, and demanded, in an apprehensive squeak, the identity of the perso
n seeking admittance.

  ‘Jack Lynch,’ came the reply.

  ‘Jack?’

  ‘With the master.’

  As Dorothea fumbled with the latch, she heard another voice—Charles’s voice—forming a series of incomprehensible grunts and sibilants. When she opened the door, she saw why his tongue was moving with clumsy incoherence.

  He was so drunk as to be incapable of standing upright.

  ‘Mind,’ said Jack, lurching past her. He was supporting Captain Brande with one arm. ‘Yer pardon, Ma’am, but where should I …?’

  ‘Th-there.’ Dorothea pointed to the bedroom. Seeing Jack hesitate, she realised that the bedroom was dark, and quickly went ahead of him, lighting the way.

  Charles began to mumble something about a ‘pot’.

  ‘Jest set it down there,’ Jack advised. ‘The candle, Ma’am … there.’ In the dimness, his face was inscrutable. ‘I’ll see to this.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘I’ll see to it, Ma’am. Best leave it to me.’ His voice was firm, but kind, and Dorothea was too shocked to take offence. She retreated into the moonlit drawing room, where her numb disbelief gradually gave way to a sense of mortification. She could hear Charles croaking and honking across the corridor. She could hear Jack Lynch’s reassuring murmur. Never had she seen her husband in such a state. Had it affected his arm? Had he fallen, and disturbed the splint? She could not comprehend how any gentleman, how any officer, could disgrace himself in such a way—and before a common private! It was Jack’s presence that troubled Dorothea most of all. When he finally emerged from the bedroom, and approached her with the candle, Dorothea could hardly bring herself to look into his pock-marked face.

  ‘I put the Captain to bed,’ he remarked. ‘Will you be needin’ me further, Ma’am?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘Then I’ll be gettin’ back to barracks.’ He stood regarding her for a moment, his long eyes as black as pitch in the shadows. Dorothea sensed that he was enjoying himself to some degree, though he did not show it by any flicker of expression or turn of phrase. Perhaps his feelings were suggested by his easy posture—so different from his parade-ground stance.

  ‘Thank you, Jack,’ she said faintly.

  He turned, and left. Dorothea shut the door behind him before braving the bedroom, where her husband was groaning softly in a nest of blankets. He was wearing a nightshirt, but no nightcap. His eyes were closed.

  As Dorothea timidly advanced, they opened suddenly. With a yelp of alarm he threw himself sideways, and vomited onto the floor.

  Dorothea retreated.

  ‘Ah … ah …’ She could hear him moaning—retching and moaning. The sound made her own stomach turn. She stumbled back into the corridor, tears welling in her eyes, and propped herself against a wall. It was too much. It was too awful. But she knew that she could not stay where she was forever.

  Presently, when the sound of harsh snoring reached her ears, she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve, sniffed vigorously, and went off to the kitchen.

  She was hoping that Daniel would be asleep. She was hoping that he would be so deeply, so profoundly asleep that she would not wake him in her quest for a bucket of water. While she had no wish to clean up her husband’s unspeakable mess herself, she thought it a preferable outcome to that which would inevitably follow if she shirked the task. For she could not endure the thought of having two of her staff—not one, but two—witness the depths to which Charles could sink, given sufficient encouragement.

  She was quite sure that Captain Sanderson was to blame. Captain Sanderson was a notoriously heavy drinker. His abilities in the field of intemperance had been much remarked upon by Captain Brande.

  Captain Sanderson, she decided, was leading Charles astray. And Charles could not seem to prevent it.

  The kitchen door creaked as she pushed it open. Holding her breath, she slipped into the richly scented shadows, which were only faintly illumined by the glowing embers in the hearth. Copper gleamed. Grease glistened. Ranks of bottles stood to attention on a window sill.

  Dorothea squealed.

  ‘Oh!’ she cried. ‘Oh …’ She put her hand to her heart. ‘What are you doing?’

  Daniel looked at her in slowly dawning astonishment. He had been sitting on a stool, in the dark, with his head in his hands. He rose clumsily.

  ‘Ma’am,’ he said.

  ‘What—what are you doing, sitting there? You should be asleep!’

  ‘I was awakened, Ma’am.’ He sounded confused. ‘’Twas a bad dream.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘They trouble me …’ he began, but trailed off, and seemed almost to shake himself. ‘Is somethin’ amiss?’ he continued, more sharply. ‘Can I help ye?’

  Dorothea was tempted to say ‘no’. If she were to take water and a cloth—two cloths—back to the bedroom, Daniel would be none the wiser. She said: ‘I need water in a bucket. And some rags.’

  ‘Rags?’ he echoed, staring.

  ‘Now, if you please!’

  ‘Aye, Ma’am.’ He retrieved a pail, which he filled from a brimming pitcher. Then he fetched a couple of dishcloths.

  ‘Give them to me,’ said Dorothea.

  ‘Ma’am?’

  ‘Give them to me!’

  Silently, he offered them up. Dorothea could feel him watching her as she tucked them under one arm and tried to lift the pail.

  ‘Will ye be carryin’ the bucket, also?’ he asked softly.

  ‘I shall.’

  ‘Ma’am—yeer pardon, but—’

  ‘Go to sleep!’ she snapped. She was so ashamed of herself that she had to speak curtly, lest she burst into tears. Turning her face from Daniel, she staggered through the door, bent almost double. The water was extraordinarily heavy. She was forced to set it down at frequent intervals—once just outside the kitchen, once halfway between the kitchen and the house, and twice inside the house. Upon reaching the back step she looked over her shoulder, and saw a dim silhouette hovering at the kitchen door.

  It disappeared when she instructed it (for the second time) to go to sleep.

  But she was not to be left in peace to accomplish her task. No sooner had she settled herself by her marital bed, beside her husband’s foul deposit, than the sodden dishcloth was plucked from her hand. Daniel, it appeared, had used the noise of Captain Brande’s penetrating snores to conceal the noise of his own approach.

  He apologised, very softly, for having disobeyed her orders.

  ‘’Tis not fit for ye,’ he whispered. ‘’Tis not, indeed.’

  She opened her mouth. No sound emerged.

  ‘Ma’am, will ye let me do it? Please?’ Without touching her, he somehow propelled her from the room. She found herself on the sofa, waiting in the dark. She had no handkerchief. Her nose was running.

  She sniffed, and sniffed again, and hid her face in her hands. I cannot cry, she decided. I will not cry. Not now. By firmly refusing to think about anything—least of all her current predicament—she was able to exert some self control.

  Daniel’s big, dark shape was suddenly discernible in the corridor, straining only slightly to support the weight of a full bucket. Every detail of his appearance was lost in shadow.

  ‘Will that be all, Ma’am?’ he asked quietly.

  ‘Yes.’ Dorothea was acutely conscious of how unsteady her voice was. ‘Thank you.’

  He hesitated. Then he said: ‘A drop or two o’ the rosewater—’

  ‘Yes. Thank you. I shall.’

  He nodded. Dorothea waited until she heard the back door close before she went to it and drew the latch, groping around in the darkness. Then she returned to the bedroom, where she was able to change her nightgown—and sprinkle rosewater across the bedroom floor—without rousing her husband. Despite his snores, he slept quite soundly. He twitched, and groaned, and made other sounds associated with a disturbed digestion, but he never once woke. Dorothea lay rigid beside him until the watch cried three. After that she dozed fitfu
lly until sunrise.

  She was awake and dressed, and sitting on the drawing-room sofa wrapped in a woollen shawl, when Daniel came to light the fire. With no maid sleeping in the house, and nothing but a latch on the back door, Dorothea had been forced to give Daniel a key to the front door so that he might admit himself of a morning. He was therefore half inside the room, struggling with his cinderpail and brushbox, before he noticed Dorothea.

  He gasped, and dropped a brush.

  ‘Has Peg come?’ she asked him, without meeting his eye.

  ‘Aye. That she has,’ was his murmured response.

  ‘Then I shall speak to her about breakfast.’ Dorothea knew that breakfast would have to be served late if Captain Brande was to be accommodated. For herself, she had no appetite. The thought of food revolted her. The thought of Peg Whiting also revolted her. Peg Whiting’s cheerfulness was hardly to be endured on such a morning; it was an offence to her own fragility. But to stay in the drawing room while Daniel built a fire was unthinkable. What if he should take advantage? What if he should say something—something impertinent?

  No. Even as the possibility crossed her mind, she dismissed it. Daniel would say nothing intentionally impertinent. If he spoke at all, it would undoubtedly be to offer assistance—practical assistance—and the look accompanying his offer would contain nothing but sympathy.

  He would not understand that any expression of sympathy would be an impertinence in itself.

  So Dorothea went to the kitchen, and spoke to Peg. They discussed lard, pewter, vinegar and hashed veal en blanquette. They agreed that the bread needed freshening in a gentle oven before it could be consumed. Hearing a bell ring, Dorothea realised that Charles must be conscious, and at least partly ambulant; she returned to the house just in time to admit Jack Lynch, who had arrived from the barracks impeccably groomed. There was a jauntiness about him that sickened Dorothea. It was an affront to her after such a night. But she said nothing. Wordlessly, she allowed him to attend her husband, who requested—through Jack—only a tisane for breakfast. Then she put on a bonnet, and escaped from the house.