THE LETTER HERETOFORE TRANSCRIBED was addressed to Mrs Margaret Goodwin of The Old Parsonage, Bideham, Devonshire, and was taken to the postmaster’s house, where it was placed in an open bag destined to be transmitted under seal to Portsmouth. Dorothea Brande did not herself entrust the letter to the postmaster’s assistant. Instead she gave it to her servant, Daniel Callaghan, together with the requisite threepenny postal charge—for she was not in the habit of frequenting that area known as ‘the Rocks’, where the postmaster’s house was unfortunately to be discovered. She had been warned against the Rocks. She had been advised by her husband that it was a place of resort for a very bad description of persons. ‘There is no cause for you to venture lower than Prince Street, if you find yourself north of Charlotte Place,’ he had told her. ‘Do not be tempted farther afield. There is nothing to see below Prince Street, except Gallows Hill, and the gaol, and the dockyard, and any number of vile drinking dens. It is no place for a lady.’
Thus cautioned, Dorothea had felt no desire to stray beyond St Philip’s church—or indeed beyond the confines of her own home. It was her unvoiced opinion that Sydney Cove itself was no place for a lady. It frightened her and irritated her senses; the very light was harsh and abrasive. Plagued by headaches that she attributed to the incessant glare, Dorothea wanted outside venetian blinds, such as those adorning the house of Mrs Bent. But on being informed that they would cost upwards of thirty pounds, Charles had refused to countenance so expensive a purchase. Already, he said, they were practically living beyond their means. His mess bill, owing to the price of spirits in the colony, was of monstrous proportions. Scarlet cloth was in the range of five guineas a yard, and oilmen’s stores were horribly dear. Dorothea would have to wait until, by some stroke of good fortune, he might secure himself a civil or military appointment. Since the departure of the 73rd Regiment, several positions had fallen vacant; he had it on good authority that Captain Cameron, as Engineer and Artillery Officer, had been pocketing (in addition to his regular pay) a further ninety pounds a year.
‘If an appointment of that kind should fall to me,’ he had announced, ‘then perhaps our income would support venetian blinds, and a swing glass, and a plate warmer. But at present you must be satisfied with what we have.’
Which was little enough. Small as it was—a mere four rooms, with detached kitchen—the house seemed almost empty. Dorothea’s footfall would echo on bare, scrubbed-wood floors, there being no carpet or rush matting to soften her tread. Funds had been spent on crude necessities: on fenders and fire irons, roasting jack, dripping pan, boilers, linen press, clothes horse. No comforts of this sort had been supplied by the landlord—a man, like so many other men in the colony, whose elevation had come about through trade, and who, being in possession of a mill, an hotel, and sundry other businesses, could spare little thought for the needs of his tenants. The furnishings of his ‘furnished’ house were meagre; they comprised a very large and dilapidated tent bedstead, a double flapped dining table with six cane-bottomed chairs, a kitchen stove, a stone sink and one shabby sofa. The high, white rooms were innocent of all those luxuries without which a truly civilised existence may not be attempted. Captain Brande and his lady had even been obliged to purchase new bellropes, the previous tenant having borne away those in his possession upon departing the colony.
And the mystery of it was, as Captain Brande had once been driven to remark in Dorothea’s presence, that the selfsame tenant—an officer in the 73rd—had left behind him at least two illegitimate children. It seemed rather hard that a man so liberal in one respect should be so ungenerous in another.
Dorothea had done her best to soften the starkness of her new home. Certain wedding gifts, including a portable writing desk, an elegant basin stand and a pair of silver candlesticks, were prominently displayed, so that they might testify to the taste and breeding of her past connections. The desk had been lovingly bestowed on her by her sister, Margaret. The basin stand had been the kind offering of Charles’s uncle, the Reverend Henry Brande. And the candlesticks, like much of the fine linen that shamed the battered bedstead on which she now slept, had come to Dorothea courtesy of the Shortlands, upon whose goodwill her sister’s happiness—and indeed, her own—had for some time been founded.
The Shortlands were distant cousins of Dorothea’s brother-in-law, Mr George Goodwin. Though of elevated rank, Sir Robert Shortland and his lady had distinguished their less exalted cousin (who was a lawyer of modest means) with the most welcome attentions, admitting him into their domestic circle and appointing him Sir Robert’s factor and agent. A house had been procured for Mr Goodwin at the very gates of Bideham Park. Ladies had been introduced to him whose manifold attractions, it was hoped, would tempt him into matrimony. But when Mr Goodwin did make his choice, his heart had led him somewhat astray. He had married, not one of the Shortlands’ candidates, but the daughter of a clergyman—a Miss Margaret Hollins, of Ashcombe Parsonage.
Her father, the Reverend John Hollins, was the son of Lieutenant William Hollins, of the 121st Regiment of Foot, and the grandson of a well-to-do merchant who had retired to Wiltshire. Lieutenant William had received a very small share of the family fortune. Nevertheless, together with his pay, this share had been enough to furnish his four offspring each with a small competence. John’s came to two hundred pounds a year; on it he had married, while still a curate, the sister of another clergyman. Their daughter Margaret had been seventeen when her mother died; their younger child, Dorothea, only twelve.
Margaret’s birth, therefore, was respectable—though her fortune, at two thousand pounds, was hardly that. The Shortlands might have been forgiven by the world at large if they had taken offence at Mr Goodwin’s choice. But their principles were high, and their hearts generous. They had acknowledged the steadiness of Margaret’s character, the sweetness of her temper, and the superiority of her understanding. They had welcomed her gladly into their home, where she had become as much a favourite as her husband. Moreover, upon the death of Reverend Hollins, they had been equally charitable to Dorothea. From the age of eighteen, Dorothea had become intimately acquainted with the Shortlands. She had enjoyed the fruits of their garden, sampled the contents of their library and ranged freely about their grounds. She had been indulged, consulted and admired. Plucked from the gloom and solitude of her father’s house, she had been placed in a world of tranquil pleasures: picturesque views, cheerful gatherings, varied intercourse.
And now? Now she was all but confined to four rooms, from whose windows she could discern nothing but raw earth, a blistered paling fence, and a dirt yard in which only the strangest, spikiest, most unforgiving plants seemed to flourish. The vegetation of New South Wales filled Dorothea with dismay. She could see nothing in it to admire, though she had more than once heard Mrs O’Connell praise the beauty of a certain red flower, which to Dorothea’s eyes looked almost malevolent in its fiercely jagged composition. But Mrs O’Connell was a lady of very sharp and decided views, who seemed to delight in shocking respectable people with her daring garments and contrary positions.
Dorothea did not know quite what to make of her.
Indeed, the society of New South Wales as a whole was not suited to the taste of a lady accustomed to cultured opinions elegantly expressed. Aside from Mrs Bent, who freely indulged in what she described as ‘novels of fashionable nonsense’, few in the colony appeared very much given to reading for improvement. Books rarely formed the subject of any great degree of discourse in polite society, save when associated, in some fashion, with a local scandal. It was only through a recent letter to the Sydney Gazette and New South Wales Advertiser, for instance, that Dorothea had learned of the existence of a lending library at Parramatta, about fifteen miles from Sydney Cove. The letter had mentioned various ‘liberal donations of books made by pious and charitable persons’ for the use and benefit of the public; among the contents of the collection (as Dorothea subsequently discovered) were six sermons on original sin, twelve on the torments of hell, and an Encyclopaedia Britannica. But the same letter had cast some doubt on the intentions of the Reverend Mr Samuel Marsden, in whose custody the books had been placed. The public had been instructed to warn friends who might be arriving in the colony to bring their own literature. For the contents of Mr Marsden’s library, it was claimed, did not appear to be circulating.
In reply, another correspondent had defended Mr Marsden. There had followed a heated debate in the pages of the Gazette, which had in turn become the topic of much spirited conversation among the ladies and gentlemen of the colony. Only then had Dorothea found herself discussing books at any length, because, as a result of the aspersions cast on Mr Marsden, there was a fleeting but fairly general interest in the question of who might have borrowed books from him.
The Reverend and Mrs Cowper had. Mrs Bent had. Even so, little was said about the contents of the books borrowed. Mrs Bent had remarked that Lindley Murray’s English Grammar had been of no use at all to her son Ellis Henry, despite Mr Marsden’s assurances. And from there the conversation had turned to the vexed question of children’s education in New South Wales—the merits of local schools, the risk of hiring convict tutors—leaving Dorothea once again dissatisfied with the tone of Sydney society.
Nevertheless, it was the only society now open to her. Pacing the exposed floor of her drawing room, she wondered if she could bring herself to entertain guests without a sideboard. (Where would the wines be poured?) Then she saw, through the still intact drawing-room window, that Daniel Callaghan was approaching the house, and she quickly sat down. She had no wish to be seen prowling like a caged animal. Hurriedly she picked up her tambour frame and began to stitch; during the long voyage to New South Wales she had started to make a receiving cloth. It was her intention that, when completed, the cloth would present a perfect view of the Old Parsonage (her sister’s home), complete with rose garden, kitchen garden, shrubbery, poultry house and venerable oak tree. Piecing it together would, she hoped, do something to stifle the pangs of homesickness that affected her with an almost physical torment.
Presently she heard the sound of Daniel’s footsteps in the hallway, followed by a soft tap on her door. She told him to enter.
‘I’ve been and delivered yeer letter, Ma’am,’ he announced, looming suddenly into the room. He was very tall, for a man of such undistinguished lineage. ‘Mr Nichols said to tell ye it’ll be leavin’ within the week.’
‘Very well.’ She kept her eyes on her work, because she was not easy in Daniel’s presence. Not only was he an Irishman, he was also a thief. Charles had informed her that Daniel Callaghan was a convicted and admitted thief, but had dismissed her protests against allowing him to enter her house. ‘You’ll not find many servants here who are not Government men,’ he had declared. ‘Daniel will be dressed and victualled from the Government stores, so he will cost us almost nothing to keep. And if he misbehaves, we shall have him flogged.’ The Brandes had therefore purchased, for Daniel’s use, a blanket and a hammock (which was hung in the kitchen). The fact that he did not spend his nights under the same roof as the Brandes was some small comfort. So was the fact that Dorothea’s tea chest, tantalus, needlework box, linen press and writing desk could all be securely locked. She went about jingling keys like a housekeeper. ‘It must be so, I assure you,’ Mrs Bent had sighed, at their last meeting. ‘I used to be careless of such things, until Mr Bent’s desk was robbed by one of our staff.’ Convicted forgers, she had claimed, were often genteel persons, who made good servants—but they were in great demand as government clerks. Therefore the respectable householder was forced to make do with thieves and rick-burners.
‘Some say that thieves have the knowledge to protect a house from other thieves,’ Mrs Bent had concluded, ‘but I have never found it so. On the contrary, they are more likely to band together to commit their crimes.’ Such advice, though well meant, only caused Dorothea further dismay.
With her gaze fixed firmly on a fragment of appliquéd rose, Dorothea instructed Daniel to ask Sarah if she required wood, or water. Otherwise, he could clean the lamps. He had already demonstrated that he could clean lamps without being supervised; in most other household tasks (with a few, very simple exceptions), he was utterly inexperienced. Sarah had been obliged to show him how to clean the silver, how to lay a breakfast table, how to wash ivory-handled knives. He was slow, Sarah said, but willing. She seemed undaunted by the prospect of having to acquaint an untutored Irishman with the customs of a genteel household. In fact, her demeanour had remained constantly cheerful since her departure from England, despite the trials of the voyage and the difficulties inherent in a colonial existence.
She had been one of Margaret’s maids—a doughty Devonshire girl off a Shortland farm. Dorothea had assigned to her a hammock in the little room where the soap, the candles and the linen press were now stored; with unfailing good humour she served the Brandes as cook, housemaid and (occasionally) lady’s maid. Captain Brande’s own servant, Private Jack Lynch, was not often to be found on the premises, for he slept at the barracks, and was required to attend his master at regular intervals throughout the day. So it was upon Sarah Wells that Dorothea chiefly relied, as she struggled to make a home for herself and her husband on this alien shore.
Sarah did not seem at all cast down by the change in her circumstances. Although shopping at the Sydney markets must have been quite distressing to the sensibilities of a country-bred girl, Sarah repeatedly assured her mistress that she liked the ‘bustle’ of it all. When emery paper, soda and spirits of turpentine proved almost impossible to procure, Sarah insisted that emery paper was hardly necessary, if sufficient ‘elbow grease’ was employed and that, in the absence of soda, wooden floors could be cleaned quite efficiently by the application of a mixture of soft soap, ash, sand and table beer. Even more remarkably, Sarah was quite prepared to share her kitchen with a convicted thief. Her conduct towards Daniel was unexceptionable. Dorothea had not once been troubled by any altercations, complaints or sullen remarks of the kind that can so often disrupt the tranquillity of a household where servants are feuding. While Daniel and Jack Lynch were clearly not on good terms, Sarah was happy to work with both.
Sitting in her drawing room, alone once again, Dorothea allowed her thoughts to dwell fondly on Sarah. She was a treasure. A blessing. She was the shield that protected Dorothea from many of the more repulsive aspects of life at Sydney Cove. Moreover, she was an embodiment of Bideham and all its cherished beauties; her Devonshire vowels caressed the ears of her mistress, and the sight of her round, freckled face, which closely resembled those possessed by so many of the Shortlands’ staff and tenants (for Sarah’s family was large, and hardworking), gave Dorothea much comfort. Occasionally, Dorothea even found herself discussing Bideham with Sarah, recalling events and people with whom they were both acquainted. She tried to stop herself from doing this, because she knew that if she made a habit of indulging herself in such a way, even Sarah might come to take advantage of her position. But it was difficult to resist the urge. No one else in the colony had any familiarity with Ashcombe, or Bideham Park, or the country thereabouts. Not even Charles was well acquainted with that part of Devonshire. And he certainly had not frequented the Old Parsonage as often as Sarah had. Why, Sarah had been entrusted with the dusting of Dorothea’s room there!
No—only Sarah could fully appreciate the extent of her mistress’s loss. And as she surveyed her own attempt to recreate Margaret’s roses, Dorothea thought: What would I do without Sarah? I am so grateful to Margaret for recommending her to me. I am so grateful to George for providing the little reward that, together with a few, gentle words on the subject of duty and experience, encouraged the girl to accompany me all this way. With Sarah in the house, we shall not be too uncomfortable.
Then Sarah herself knocked at the door, and declared—in the most cheerful of tones—that she wished to hand in her notice.