‘Good God,’ Charles exclaimed crossly, when he came upon his wife weeping in the bedroom, ‘are you still fretting over that squawling brat? I tell you, it was as ugly as sin. The Lord preserve me from such a monstrous addition.’
‘How can you say that?’ Dorothea sobbed. ‘How can you …?’
‘I say it because it bears repeating. You should be grateful—’
‘Grateful?’
‘—that you have not whelped such a blight. Anything would be preferable, in my opinion.’ He was striving, in his clumsy way, to comfort Dorothea—but as she continued to shed tears he became offended. ‘Upon my word, Madam, I wonder at you. Mrs Bent may have five children, but she has lost her husband. Do you really compare your own plight unfavourably? A pretty compliment, I must say!’
‘I—I—I—’
‘You are behaving with unwarranted self-indulgence. You have your health, unlike Mrs Vale; you have your husband, unlike Mrs Bent; and you have your youth, unlike Mrs Molle. I fail to see why you should feel so ill used, in the circumstances.’
‘I have lost my children!’
‘But you will have more. What is to prevent you? Come now—this moping serves no purpose. Look alive, and bustle about. Hard work is the only solution to sorrow, or so my uncle is always telling me.’ Charles uttered a little bark of mirth. ‘Of course, he has not seen a colonial roadgang.’
‘I gave her my caps,’ Dorothea croaked.
‘What?’
‘My little caps. The ones I made—the ones I was keeping for—for—’
‘Oh Lord,’ said Charles, as Dorothea burst into fresh sobs. He was always unnerved by what he called her ‘vapours’, for he had little notion of how to deal with them. He complained that she had exhibited no such hysterical symptoms at Bideham, and wondered if she should refrain from reading Mrs Bent’s overwrought novels. When Dorothea pointed out that Bideham had offered green pastures, healthful summers, cultivated society, good servants, plentiful produce of every description and a merciful absence of convict gangs, marauding blacks and vulgar company, he tossed her observation aside. Mrs Molle, he said, had weathered far worse without succumbing to any nervous disorders. And Mrs Molle read nothing but housekeeping manuals and the Gazette.
‘I should like to examine any books that you might acquire from Mrs Bent, henceforth,’ he suggested. ‘I have been speaking to Forster about your general health, and Forster says that there are certain women of delicate habit, whose nervous systems are extremely sensible, and whose internal workings are very relaxed. He says that you may be such a one.’
‘I?’ Dorothea exclaimed. ‘But—’
‘He says that women of this description are prone to all kinds of extreme temperamental exhibitions: swoons, convulsions, chills, depressions, laughing and crying fits. They are susceptible to illness, and to the influence of inflammatory reading. What are you reading at present, Mrs Brande?’
Dorothea produced The Nocturnal Minstrel, by Eleanor Sleath. This tale centred on the beautiful widow Baroness Gertrude Fitzwalter, sole possessor of an ancient, gloomy castle situated among the wilds and mountains of her estate. Living with only her servants and vassals for company, she was being tantalised, at the novel’s commencement, by the enchanting—perhaps even supernatural—melody of a lute being played in the surrounding woods. Dorothea had only just discovered that the Baroness’s chief lady-in-waiting was of an untrustworthy character. She had also recently been informed that no one dared investigate the source of the eerie music, because reports of spectral visitants were accumulating.
Charles shook his head over this ‘arrant nonsense’.
‘My word, Mrs Brande, how can a woman of your breeding even countenance such rubbish?’ he queried. ‘I am surprised at you. No wonder you skulk in this house all the time, fancying yourself beset. No wonder you are forever prostrate with headaches, and moaning about the lack of good society. You keep no society, Madam! You spend your time reading and moping, instead of bustling about! You model yourself on the castle-bound heroines with whom you stuff your head!’
Dorothea tried to ask him how he thought that the house might have been managed—the meals ordered (and cooked), the mending done, the laundry supervised and the correspondence written—if she had not been on hand to attend to these things. But he seemed oblivious to the fact that her domestic duties kept her occupied for a good portion of each day. She tried to point out that she had been keeping indoors a lot, lately, simply to avoid the heat—but again, he would not listen.
‘It does a man no good,’ he said, ‘to see his wife mooning about in corners with a face as long as the voyage to England. It does him no good, and it does him no credit. You would oblige me, my dear, if you bestir yourself, and stop dwelling on your woes, and start counting your blessings. Because I’m one of ’em, in case you’ve forgot, and I should like to regard you in the same light—which I shan’t, if you continue so maudlin.’
Dorothea resented the injustice of Charles’s views, but not with any heat. She knew herself to be cheerless company, for the most part, and regretted it. Certainly, Charles was entitled to a happy wife. But if that was what he wanted above all else, why had he not married a woman of less sensibility? There had been a time when he had admired her literary tastes, the delicacy of her needlework and the tenderness of her feelings. Was it fair that he should now deplore what he had once admired? He was more apt to praise her darning than her embroidery, these days. When she responded to unforeseen and distressing circumstances with squeaks and flutters, he was more likely to snap at her than to comfort her. It seemed to her that he wanted her to become like Mrs Molle, while all the time condemning Mrs Molle for her ‘mannish’ and ‘domineering’ qualities.
Nevertheless, she could see nothing for it but to follow his instructions. She would abandon overwrought novels, dutifully attend the evening promenade in Hyde Park (which she had been wont to avoid, on account of the gawking mob that customarily gathered to watch the ‘quality’ parading about) and stop fretting—at least in her husband’s vicinity—about the problem of securing a new housemaid.
This last resolution was made easier by the fact that Peg, after much activity, at last found a woman to take her place. Rose Taylor was the seventeen-year-old, free-born daughter of one of Peg’s dearest friends. Rose had been working for a schoolmaster, and preferred to work for an officer. She had no outstanding domestic talents, but could sew, clean and cook with a respectable degree of efficiency. Because she was being courted, she wished to sleep under her parents’ roof, where the visits of an ardent stonemason would be accepted without remark. (She knew better than to pursue a romance on the premises of any employer.) It was her intention to marry, once the five-guinea fee had been saved, for she did not hold with the half-measures prevalent among so many of her family and acquaintances. She would have a proper husband, a proper house, a family of six children and a horse and cart.
‘I’ll not say how long I may be stayin’,’ she informed Dorothea, ‘but it will be six months, at least, and maybe longer, for I’ll not marry in a factory fashion, with neither plate nor beddin’ to me name.’ She lifted her chin. ‘But while I’m here, Missus, I’ll do good work—none better—for in this town I’m the busiest lass born free.’
Dorothea did not know quite what to make of Rose. She was pretty enough, though rather tall and very brown; she looked strong, and was certainly active, never once appearing to pause (let alone sit) when she was engaged in her duties. Her cooking was adequate, and under Dorothea’s tutelage, it improved. She was always punctual. Though she had learned some lazy habits in the area of dusting and polishing, Dorothea soon cured her of those, and while she had not the knack of appearing neatly groomed—her clothes generally looking as if they had been donned in the dark—she kept herself clean. She was not addicted to gossip. Nor was she morose. She was brisk, bright, capable, vigorous and perfectly adapted to colonial life, which was the only one she had ever known.
But she was also
extraordinarily opinionated. She did not shrink from airing her views, on any subject, as if they were worthy of attention. Moreover, she seemed utterly unaware that her services were required only under certain conditions, for she appeared to have no proper notion of humility or obedience. If Dorothea asked her to do something, she would do it (and do it well) only if she could be convinced that it was worth doing. Dorothea was constantly having to argue with her. Rose was very proud, for example, of having discovered a clever method of removing wax from the silver candlesticks, by melting the aforesaid wax in front of the fire. She saw this technique as preferable to using a knife (which it certainly was), and did not strive to conceal her annoyance when Dorothea took exception to it. Only when her mistress had explained to her that the hollow part of the candlesticks were filled with a composition that would melt if made too hot, did Rose finally concede the point, thenceforth employing boiling water and an old cloth whenever wax had to be removed.
She thought nothing of passing comments in the presence of guests. Once, without being invited to do so, she apologised to Mrs Molle for the condition of her teacakes, which were a little dry. (This in the middle of a conversation about Princess Charlotte.) Once, upon opening the door to Mrs Bent, she did not attempt to suppress her cries of admiration at the sight of the infant lying in the arms of Mrs Bent’s nursemaid. Mrs Bent later remarked that, although gratifying, Rose’s remarks would have been ‘rather unexpected’ coming from an old family retainer, let alone a sprig of a housemaid.
‘But they are odd creatures, these Currency girls,’ Mrs Bent sighed. ‘More virtuous than their parents, I am sure (could they be less so?), and far less given to drink, I am told, but so familiar. As if they had something to be proud of, which of course they do not.’
‘Rose is not intentionally impertinent,’ Dorothea replied. ‘In many ways she is quite unexceptionable. It is simply this tendency she has to speak without thinking—and to argue.’
‘You must be firm with her, my dear.’
‘I try to be. Indeed I do.’
‘You must not allow yourself to be drawn into a debate. Such weakness is fatal. If she starts to object, simply ignore her. Or fetch Captain Brande. Certainly fetch Captain Brande, if she disobeys you.’
‘She does not disobey me. She questions me.’
‘Then fetch Captain Brande.’
Dorothea, however, would not have contemplated turning to her husband for help. He was already dissatisfied with Rose’s cooking (having been spoiled by Peg’s), and once or twice had snapped at the housemaid in a manner that Rose—to judge from her mantling flush—had found difficult to tolerate. Dorothea sensed that, should Charles be exposed to the full force of Rose’s irrepressible self-conceit, he would probably give her a good dressing down. Whereupon Rose, being stiff-necked, would be lost to them forever.
So Dorothea made every effort to keep the two apart. She acted as intermediary when her husband complained about the cooking (‘For a full wage, I expect my meat to be properly seasoned!’) and on one occasion even lied to him on Rose’s behalf. This lie was the unfortunate but inevitable consequence of Charles’s unreliable temper, and the circumstances of the case were as follows. Upon emptying the bedroom chamberpot one morning, Rose dropped and smashed it. To her credit, she did not attempt to offer any kind of excuse. Instead she promised to pay for a replacement out of her own wages—before Dorothea could even make the same suggestion. Happily, Charles was out at the time, but there could be no question that the mishap would soon be discovered. For he employed this particular vessel at least twice a day.
Dorothea soon found herself with Rose and Daniel, contemplating the shards of flowery china that lay on the back steps. She was upset because the shattered article had come from Bideham, and anything from Bideham was precious to her, no matter what its purpose. She remarked that the steps would have to be cleaned with soda and vinegar, and perhaps some chloride of lime. She wondered aloud where she would find a replacement. In Pitt Street, perhaps?
‘It is too bad,’ she said. ‘Indeed it is. I have seen none as pretty, here—certainly not for sale.’
‘I’m very sorry.’ Rose was genuinely crestfallen. No doubt, having such a high opinion of herself, she could not bear to be found wanting. ‘I’m so very sorry, Missus.’
‘Captain Brande will find out about this. It cannot be prevented,’ Dorothea continued. ‘Oh dear. Oh dear. He will not be pleased.’
‘Could it be that I dropped grease on the stairs?’ Daniel said softly, and the two women looked at him, dumbfounded. ‘That being the case, Ma’am, ’twould be more my fault than Rose’s,’ he went on. ‘Though not terrible remiss of either, since I was goin’ to fetch a cloth when she fell.’
Dorothea was shocked. By rights, she should have snubbed Daniel with a very sharp word indeed. But she could appreciate the sense of his proposal, which had been—when she considered it—very carefully phrased. She stared at him. She stared at Rose, who had reddened. She asked herself if she really wanted to lie to her husband for the sake of her servants—she had done it once before, with disastrous results—and then decided wearily that if he persisted in causing an uproar every time his staff displeased him, then he must endure the consequences. It never seemed to occur to him that Dorothea might find his violent and noisy reprimands almost as distressing as the servants did. It never seemed to occur to him that she might be tired of his outbursts.
He says that my behaviour can be excessive, she thought, but his own is no less so. And his temper gets worse by the month.
‘Very well,’ she said. ‘I shall inform Captain Brande that the article was destroyed owing to an unfortunate—er—series of events which could not have been foreseen. No doubt, with that in mind, Captain Brande will be satisfied with your offer to reimburse us, Rose.’ She was correct in her assumption. Captain Brande was indeed satisfied, though he did allow himself the luxury of a brief rant about clumsy convicts (which caused Dorothea some apprehension) before he abruptly subsided—his eye having been caught by an item in the Gazette. Subsequently, he made no further reference to the incident. It was Dorothea who pondered it, and fretted over it, and asked herself if she had behaved unwisely. Would Rose take advantage of her lenient conduct? Would she answer back more? And Daniel—what had Daniel’s motive been? Could he possibly be nursing a tendresse for the young housemaid? The possibility irritated her. She had been warned repeatedly that dire consequences will always follow, when servants in the same house develop a particular liking for each other. She had no wish to see it happen in her house.
At last she was driven to make some careful inquiries of Daniel, one summer afternoon when they were surveying the garden together. She asked him how he thought Rose was settling in. He replied that she seemed busy enough. She asked him if he found Rose an amiable companion. He replied that she worked well, and spoke pleasantly. She asked him why he had shouldered part of the blame for the shattered … er … crock.
‘It might have been called a generous act,’ she remarked, studying him closely. ‘That is to say, you might not have mentioned your … um … mistake. What prompted you to speak, Daniel?’
He turned his impassive gaze on her, looking down from his great height. It occurred to her that he was a good deal less gaunt than he had been.
‘Why,’ he said, ‘I was hopin’ to save ye from losin’ yeer housemaid, Ma’am.’
And that, despite Dorothea’s further promptings, was all he would confess to.
New South Wales
December 21st, 1815
My dearest Margaret,
I am sending you this quick note because I have wonderful news! (You must guess what it is.) As a consequence, I have resolved to complete my receiving cloth, for all that I have become quite superstitious about touching it. I wish the weather were not so warm. Heat of this sort can be debilitating at the best of times, and for someone in a delicate state it must be avoided at all costs. For the moment, however, I am quite well.
So is Charles. He is pleased, of course, but not as pleased as I.
I have told no one but you, dear Margaret. It is to be hoped that, when next I write, the news will continue good. I pray every morning and every night, and remain
your loving sister,
Dorothea Brande
CHAPTER NINETEEN
ON THURSDAY, JANUARY THE SEVENTEENTH, 1816, news reached Sydney of the defeat of Napoleon Bonaparte at the battle of Waterloo.
Though victory had been won six months previously, the colonists were overjoyed. Bells rang. Criers drew large crowds. The military barracks became the scene of the most frenzied activity, as dispatches were pored over, toasts were drunk, and preparations for a celebratory ball were undertaken. The ball was to be held that very evening, at the hospital. The Governor was to preside, and the regimental band was to play. Every artist in the colony (of which there were pitifully few) had to be pressed into service, so that the room selected might be suitably adorned with insignia and mottoes. A supper was to be served, much of it supplied by the regimental wives, who spent the day frantically glazing hams or baking cakes under Mrs Molle’s direction.
Dorothea had been enjoined to provide sandwiches. She did so with the utmost goodwill, happily boiling eggs, slicing cheese and mixing mustard. Rose worked beside her in very high spirits, chattering about the wicked frogs, and the noble Duke of Wellington, and how proud she was to be English this day. Dorothea, while not as loquacious, was equally as excited. She laughed occasionally, and hummed to herself—rousing, patriotic songs—and was not in the least offended when Daniel failed to exhibit any particular symptoms of delight. He acknowledged that the world was well rid of Bonaparte, but remained otherwise unmoved. And although Dorothea felt it a pity that he should be so Irish, her feelings were too elevated to allow for petty resentments. She simply decreed that two fowls should be bought for dinner—one to feed the Brandes, one to feed Rose and Daniel. Whereupon Daniel smiled, and Rose clapped her hands, and everyone was well satisfied.
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