It seemed probable that Charles was still carousing with his friends. They were soldiers, after all, and they were celebrating a singular victory. If Dorothea should rouse Daniel, alert the barracks, and seek out the District Constable, how mortified she would feel in the event of Charles staggering home safely thereafter! How angry he would be, too. Unreasonably, he would blame her for bringing their private affairs to public notice.
But what if he should have been assaulted, and left for dead? What if some horrid accident should have befallen him—so horrid that his fellow officers had not, at present, the courage to apprise his widow of the terrible facts? Dorothea wrung her hands, wondering what she should do. If she were to do anything—anything at all—she must begin by rousing Daniel. And if she roused Daniel, he would know that Charles had not come home.
Rising, she began to pace the floor. Dawn had already trimmed the heavy drawing-room curtains with light. I shall wait until the sun is risen, she decided, and then I shall send Daniel to the barracks, with a message for Charles. A written message. I shall say only: take this note to Captain Brande at the barracks—as if I have been informed of his whereabouts. And if he is not there …
If he is not there, at least the alarm will have been raised.
She wrote the note, which was merely an inquiry. (Would her beloved spouse be home for breakfast?) Then she folded it, sealed it, and awaited the sunrise. It occurred to her that the day was going to be a hot one; she could feel the heat even now. With dismay, she remembered that mention had been made, at the ball, of certain military manoeuvres scheduled to take place in Hyde Park that morning. As an officer’s wife, she would be expected to attend these proceedings, which were to be held in honour of a signal and glorious victory. She would be expected to stand for an hour in the pitiless heat, flinching at the noise of gunfire and shading her eyes from the glare of sunlight on gold braid.
If she shirked her duty, Charles would be most put out. Moreover, any rumours abroad that she was increasing would be given further impetus.
She must make an appearance, despite her misgivings.
With the note in her hand, she went at last to find Daniel. He was lighting the kitchen fire, and looked surprised to see her. Standing well away from the heat of the flames, she gave him her instructions without meeting his eye. But as she left the kitchen, the sound of her name—spoken sharply—brought her up short. Jack Lynch was standing on the other side of the garden fence.
‘Mrs Brande!’ he repeated. ‘The Cap’n sent me, Ma’am. Wants a clean shirt an’ his brushes.’
‘Oh!’ Dorothea almost staggered where she stood. ‘Jack! But—’
‘Says he’ll see you at the feu de joie,’ Jack continued. ‘Says you should join Mrs Molle’s party.’ There was a pause, as Dorothea tried to collect her scattered wits. So Charles was alive! But where? And—and how could he be so unfeeling? ‘Ma’am,’ Jack went on, ‘I need that shirt, if you please. And them brushes.’
‘Yes, I … wait.’ In a daze, Dorothea turned—to find Daniel standing in the doorway behind her. She gave a little start. ‘Oh! Daniel. Do not … that is to say, give me the note, if you please. I shall not be sending it.’
‘Aye, Ma’am.’
‘And—yes. Carry on. Thank you.’
Captain Brande, it transpired, was attending to his morning toilet in the quarters of Captain Sanderson. This much Jack would vouchsafe without prompting, and Dorothea could not bring herself to ask more. She was not about to lower herself by making inquiries of a common servant—not when those inquiries concerned her husband’s activities and whereabouts. Now that she had recovered her composure, to some degree, she was able to stand by, icily aloof, as Jack Lynch collected his master’s shirt, stockings, brushes and hair oil.
She gave him not one word of greeting for her husband, because anger prevented her from speaking calmly. In silence she received Jack’s grateful thanks and jaunty salute. In silence she met his speculative gaze, and shut the front door upon his retreating back. Then she went and sat in the drawing room, where she remained unoccupied—staring out the window—until Rose appeared, to ask if her mistress would be requiring a full breakfast.
‘No,’ Dorothea replied. ‘But I shall drink a cup of tea.’
‘Just that?’
‘Just that. Let me unlock the caddy for you.’
‘Will you be goin’ to look at the sojers today, Missus? Only I ’eard the crier, on me way ’ere—’
‘Yes. I shall be attending the manoeuvres this morning.’
‘Then you should eat a proper breakfast. An egg would serve.’
‘No, thank you,’ said Dorothea firmly. ‘I shall need you to help me dress, though.’
Her anger had subsided—the flames had burned down—leaving an empty, blackened space in one corner of her heart. The fatigue of the night had begun to affect her; even Rose’s cup of tea (being far too weak) was not enspiriting. She sipped it quietly, as Rose busied herself in the bedroom, attacking mattresses with a vigour that her mistress would normally have found commendable. Now she just stared blankly, her mind on other matters.
The crimson spencer jacket, she decided, over her white muslin skirt. A morning gown would not be suitable to the occasion. It would be too informal. But how would she bear the heat in a spencer jacket? Even with a parasol, she might very well be overcome. And if she did succumb, what then? Acute discomfort. Public humiliation. So far from home, she would doubtless have to seek refuge in some neighbouring house, with all the disagreeableness that must necessarily attend such an expedient.
She thought: I shall not go.
Why risk the safety of her unborn child? Why suffer to please a husband who was not intent on pleasing her? If he could be absent, then so could she. With a grunt, she bestirred herself, and penned another note—this time addressing herself to Mrs Molle. She begged Mrs Molle’s pardon, but confessed that she was too indisposed to accompany her to the feu de joie that day, in light of the weather. Then she called to Rose.
‘Rose,’ she said, ‘please take this note to Daniel. Tell him that it is to go at once to Mrs Molle.’
Rose, in her distressingly disrespectful way, nodded instead of curtsying—but Dorothea was too fatigued to scold her for it.
‘I shall not be going out today, after all,’ she continued. ‘It is far too hot. No doubt I shall hear the guns, and that will be enough for me.’
She did hear the guns—at least, she heard the grand salute fired by the battery at Dawes Point, which was to precede the feu de joie. Lifting her gaze from her tambour—feeling the floor shudder slightly beneath her feet—she offered up a silent prayer for the souls of those slain in battle. Then she returned to her broderie perse. She was adding a rose bed to her receiving cloth by stitching together pieces of flowered chintz. The effect, she thought, was very pretty.
She had completed the rose bed, as well as part of a hedgerow, when Charles returned home at two o’clock. He marched through the front door, wheeled about, and saw her sitting on the sofa.
Their eyes locked.
‘So,’ he said. He looked a trifle dusty, and his face was gleaming with perspiration. As she remained silent, he made for the tantalus with a heavy, jingling tread.
‘Am I to understand it that you did not, in fact, turn out for the salute?’ he inquired.
‘I could not,’ Dorothea replied coolly.
‘You could not?’
‘I could not feel justified in exposing my child to the risk of such an excursion.’
Having delivered herself of this remark, she began to stitch, industriously, while Charles busied himself with the tantalus. He had taken to examining it carefully, at regular intervals, since Martha had interfered with it.
‘You feel that there would have been a risk,’ he said, ‘associated with sitting in a covered chaise—’
‘—in a stuffy covered chaise in the heat of the day? Unquestionably,’ Dorothea interrupted. She kept her gaze fixed on her work.
‘You know how anxious I am about the health of this child,’ she stated. ‘I intend to run no risks whatsoever. I do not intend to exert myself unless absolutely necessary, and I intend to avoid even stepping outside on hot days such as this one.’
‘I see.’ There was a hint of a sneer in Charles’s voice. ‘So if tomorrow’s weather is as fair as today’s, nothing will persuade you to attend divine worship?’
He believed that he had called her bluff. She knew it. And she took great delight in startling him with a quiet, ‘Nothing.’
‘You will not go to church?’ he exclaimed.
‘No.’
‘There will be psalms of praise and thanksgiving. I heard Cowper say so.’
‘Then there will also be a great crush, and I shall be better off here,’ she replied, snipping at a thread. ‘My absence,’ she added, with emphasis, ‘is hardly likely to excite much comment.’
In the silence that followed, Dorothea could hear Charles breathing. She wondered if he was going to make any reference to his own recent absence—to his own whereabouts during the night. No doubt their thoughts were running in the same direction. But he refrained, whether from arrogance or cowardice she did not know.
‘Nothing too heavy for dinner, I trust?’ he asked, sauntering over to the window. His sword dangled at his side.
‘Cold boiled chicken and salad. Vegetable soup.’
‘That was deuced hot work, you know. Tiring, too. Went off well, however—pity you missed it.’
Dorothea did not reply.
‘I think I might lay my head down, for an hour,’ he went on, yawning. ‘I’m fairly wrung out, after all these festivities. Too much pace for a fellow like me.’
Still Dorothea said nothing.
‘Where is Jack? I told him to meet me here.’ Charles swung around to face his wife. ‘Is he out in the kitchen, do you know? Have you seen him?’
Dorothea paused, her needle suspended. She looked up. ‘Not since this morning,’ she rejoined—and that was enough to drive Charles from the room. Was he ashamed, perhaps? Even if he was, he clearly had no intention of apologising for his conduct, although he was unusually pleasant at dinner. He did not even complain about the overabundance of salt in the soup. After dinner, moreover, he offered to read aloud from Middleton’s Life of Cicero, though he fell asleep while so engaged.
And the next morning, not one word of reproach passed his lips concerning Dorothea’s decision to remain at home during the Sunday service.
Dorothea, for her part, felt bereft. She could hardly speak, for fear of blurting out bitter recriminations and inciting a quarrel; she and her husband indulged in spasmodic exchanges of idle chat, while they avoided each other’s eyes. The awkwardness of her situation was terrible. She wanted to demand an explanation, an apology, a promise of reform, yet she feared to make such a demand in case it sparked some unprecedented outburst. She knew that he was waiting for her to reproach him. She knew that he would defend himself with an impassioned tirade—prepared, no doubt, with Captain Sanderson’s assistance. She knew, moreover, that his position was not indefensible, and that her own sense of humiliation was perhaps not entirely just.
So she was relieved when he went off to St Philip’s, with Jack and Rose Taylor in tow. For an hour, at least, she would be able to breathe more freely—to seek the Lord’s guidance on bended knee—without breaking the fragile and wordless entente that existed between herself and her husband. But this state of affairs could not endure. It was poisonous. It was insupportable. Her nerves would never stand it.
She wondered if she was being unreasonable in believing herself badly used. Her husband was an officer. England had won a great battle. He had been detained—no more—and if he had neglected to warn her of his intentions, well, was that not a minor trespass? Perhaps he was right. Perhaps she was, indeed, of an hysterical disposition, inclined to imagine slights and magnify trivialities.
In desperation she opened her Bible, and began to read: ‘And the sons of Pharez were: of Hezron, the family of the Hezronites; of Hamul, the family of the Hamulites.’ No—this was not what she sought. Perhaps the Psalms would offer comfort, or the Epistles.
Then something occurred to her.
Picking up her Bible, she went to the kitchen, where Daniel was sitting alone and unoccupied. He appeared to be listening to the church bells, but rose as Dorothea entered, wiping his sweaty hands on his shirt. Already the kitchen was stifling.
‘Oh dear,’ said Dorothea. ‘This cannot be healthy.’
‘Ma’am?’
‘The heat. Must the fire be lit? What is boiling on the hob, there?’
‘The puddin’, Ma’am.’
‘Ah.’
‘’Tis of no consequence. I am well enough.’
Dorothea was doubtful, but could offer no solution—except that which had brought her to him.
‘I am unable to attend church today, Daniel, because my health is … um … a little delicate, at present, and I wondered if you would care to join me in a scripture reading?’ Dorothea felt herself growing a little flustered as Daniel regarded her. Surely there could be no objection? ‘That is to say, I would read aloud from the Bible,’ she went on, ‘and you would listen, and by this means we would worship together, and occupy ourselves in a decent and proper manner while prevented from attending church.’ She cleared her throat, feeling very warm. ‘Would you like that, Daniel?’
He nodded. ‘That I would, Ma’am.’
‘Good.’ It occurred to her that she should have turned her attention to his spiritual predicament long ago. How pleasing it would be if, by her example, she persuaded him to abandon his popish practices and set him on the right path. ‘We shall not stay here,’ she added. ‘It is far too hot. You may join me in the drawing room as soon as ever you like.’
‘Should I comb my hair, Ma’am?’
‘Yes. I think that would be … respectful.’
‘Then I’ll be along with ye presently.’
Dorothea, in fact, had barely settled onto the sofa—and selected a suitable extract—when he appeared carrying a stool, which he positioned some distance away from her. He had washed his face and hands, combed his hair, and donned his jacket. Upon being invited to sit down, he did so, his gaze modestly fixed on the floor.
‘Is there—is there anything in particular that you would like to hear?’ Dorothea inquired hesitantly. ‘I had thought perhaps a Psalm, followed by one of the Epistles, and an extract from the Gospels, but if you have a preference …’
‘No, Ma’am, that I have not,’ he said. So Dorothea commenced with Psalm 113 (‘He maketh the barren woman to keep house, and to be a joyful mother of children’), proceeded to the General Epistle of St James, and then, in a flash of inspiration, began to read from the Book of Daniel. Not being familiar with this portion of the Old Testament—knowing only that his name was ‘out o’ the Bible’ and that his namesake had spent time in a lion’s den—Daniel was highly gratified by Dorothea’s choice. He listened intently as she narrated the prophet’s adventures: the escape from Nebuchadnezzar’s slaughter, the interpretation of Belshazzar’s vision, the imprisonment in the lion’s den. She had reached the point at which the prophet emerges unscathed (‘My God hath sent his angel, and hath shut the lions’ mouths, that they have not hurt me’) when the bells of St Philip’s began to peal, signalling the end of the Sunday morning service.
‘Oh dear,’ she said, breaking off. ‘I believe that we must finish, now, for Captain Brande will be home soon.’
Daniel looked bewildered. ‘But—is that all?’ he asked. ‘Is there no more?’
‘There is more, yes. A great deal more. Too much to finish today.’
‘Aye, but—’tis a grand tale, Ma’am, and with the finest words—he knoweth what is in the darkness, and the light dwelleth with him. Sure, and that’s like music …’
Seeing the disappointment on his face, Dorothea was tempted to comfort him with an assurance that they would, indeed, finish th
e Book of Daniel upon the following Sunday. But she held back. To make any such promise would alert him to the fact that she was not expecting an improvement in her health—and that, in turn, might cause him to wonder.
‘If you were to attend church, Daniel,’ she said gently, ‘you would hear the Scriptures read, and by a better reader than I.’
‘Ah, no.’ He shook his head. ‘Ye have the way of’t, Ma’am.’
‘Indeed I have not. Not as the Reverend Cowper has.’
‘I had rather it read to me, sweetly and softly, than bellowed at me in rough company,’ said Daniel, whereupon Dorothea blushed. Though his tone was not familiar, his choice of words was unnerving. It reminded her of the difference in their respective stations, and the fact that he was a very large convict, alone with her in the house.
‘So you would receive God’s Word only on your own terms?’ she said sharply. ‘I find that disappointing, Daniel. I had thought better of you.’ As he paled, she went on. ‘I think you should go to church. What harm do you fear? That you might hear the truth, and be saved?’
He turned his eyes to the floor, and remained silent. Every limb had tensed. It suddenly occurred to Dorothea that he was afraid—or at least anxious—and she was torn. She both deplored his fear and pitied him for it; though offended, she was also troubled. On the one hand, she thought: fear an avenging God, not me. What cause have I given you to fear me? On the other hand, she thought it an intolerable thing, to see so big and strong a man reduced to such a state of alarm. It argued a weak character.
‘I am disturbed that you should turn away from Christ,’ she continued, in a more sympathetic voice. ‘I wonder what comfort you can derive from your situation, without Him? Do you pray, Daniel? Are you not concerned about your immortal soul?’
He glanced up, at that. ‘Aye,’ he growled. ‘All the time.’ And he fixed Dorothea with a most curious look—intent and watchful. ‘I have seen men lose their souls,’ he said quietly. ‘To keep my own is all that I can wish for, here.’
Dorothea swallowed. She sensed dark shadows encroaching upon the conversation, and they filled her with dread. The Stain, she thought. I shall not regard it. I shall not. There is a child in my womb.
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