THOUGH CAPTAIN BRANDE KNEW nothing of his wife’s loss, it gradually became apparent to him that she was not well.
The possibility might have occurred to him sooner, had he not been very much occupied with matters arising from his regiment’s campaign against Governor Macquarie. Almost every day, it seemed, he would regale Dorothea with a detailed account of some new development in this war of words. One evening he informed her that Captain Sanderson had determined to establish his innocence in the matter of certain scurrilous labels attached to the infamous caricature of Governor Macquarie. Ensign Bullivant, the man responsible for the caricature, had been prevailed upon to sign a letter, in which he attested that, to the best of his knowledge and belief, Captain Sanderson was not the author of these labels. But Ensign Bullivant was a broken reed. He soon accused his superior officer of taking him by surprise, and demanded that Captain Sanderson erase from his letter any expression of his beliefs regarding the captain’s innocence.
‘The little worm has written to His Excellency,’ Charles lamented, ‘and I shudder to think what he has said, for he went to John Wylde, to swear out a deposition.’
There were other incidents too, of a most petty nature, but Charles continued to relate the cut and thrust of his regiment’s campaign against Governor Macquarie in the most tedious and interminable detail, boring his wife almost to tears. She listened dully as he talked, picking at her dinner and offering no sympathetic observations. At last he broke off, and fixed her with an impatient look.
‘Are you not well, Mrs Brande?’ he inquired.
‘No,’ was her rejoinder.
‘Indeed? What ails you?’
‘I do not know.’ She was determined not to mention her miscarriage. ‘I wish I did.’
‘Perhaps you should consult Surgeon Forster,’ he advised, returning his attention to the pickled cabbage. ‘No doubt you are sickening for a cold.’
‘Even if I were, Surgeon Forster could not help me. He is never helpful. I have no faith in him.’ Taking a deep breath, Dorothea added: ‘I should like to consult Dr Redfern.’
Charles glanced up in surprise. He blinked. He frowned.
‘Nonsense,’ he said, dismissively.
But Dorothea would not be deterred.
‘I should like to consult Dr Redfern,’ she repeated.
‘Then you are sicker than I had supposed,’ said Charles, and chuckled at his own wit.
‘Dr Redfern is highly respected.’
‘By those lacking in self-respect.’
‘He has almost never lost a baby, Charles. Even Mrs Molle concedes that.’
Her husband narrowed his eyes at her, his fork poised in front of his mouth.
‘Are you expecting?’ he asked.
‘No.’
‘Then why all this talk of Dr Redfern?’
‘I want to see him.’
‘Why?’
‘Because he is a better doctor than Surgeon Forster!’
‘You are misinformed,’ said Charles coldly. ‘Redfern was nothing but a naval surgeon before he was tried for mutiny. He possesses no qualifications that Forster does not also possess.’
‘Nevertheless, I should like to consult him.’
‘Not with my permission, Mrs Brande,’ Charles replied, scowling, and Dorothea dropped her gaze. She was overcome by a sudden, almost irresistible urge to defy him. She thought him utterly unreasonable, though she understood his position. To accede to her request would be to lower himself in the regard of his closest comrades—a regard which, it now seemed to her, constituted the most important governing force in his life. After all his professed support of their exclusivity, would he turn around and allow his wife to consult an emancipated doctor? It was out of the question.
‘No one need know,’ she murmured.
‘I would know,’ he growled. ‘Do you think that I would permit my own wife to submit herself to the attentions of a depraved felon?’
‘But—’
‘No, Mrs Brande!’ He rose abruptly, his colour high. ‘No. I have given you my answer! It is final! Now kindly do not question my authority in this! Am I not the master in this house? Have you no respect for my judgement?’
Dorothea was silent. She felt guilty. She could not meet his eye.
‘Well?’ he demanded. ‘Answer me!’
‘You are very unfair,’ she whimpered.
‘Answer me, damn you!’
Dorothea looked up, indignant at being addressed thus.
‘I shall certainly not answer when you speak to me like that!’ she exclaimed. Whereupon Charles stormed from the room, slamming the door so hard that the entire house shook.
It was only one in a succession of painful disputes, but it marked a distinct change in their relations. Thereafter, Charles did not speak to his wife about the Regiment’s battle with Governor Macquarie. Sarcastically, he delivered himself of the opinion that such matters ‘clearly did not interest her’. And since he could think of little else but this sorry affair, he hardly spoke to her at all. For five evenings in succession, he would dine at the mess; on the sixth, he might return to his own dining room, but would glance at the Gazette, or a piece of correspondence, while he ate.
As for Dorothea, she would look at him and think: you were not there. You were not there for me when I lost my child. It mattered little, somehow, that her own omission had caused him to be absent. After all, she had neglected to summon him. She had never even informed him of her loss. It was unreasonable to blame him, and she knew it, and felt guilty for doing it. Yet at the same time she was secretly resentful—even angry. Guilt and anger filled her heart. The estrangement between them was, she realised, largely a product of her own undutiful conduct. On the other hand, she could not help deploring her husband’s quick temper, his boorishness, his lack of sensibility. Her despair was such that she was beyond tears. She had wept herself dry, and could do nothing but brood. Over and over again, she would review her situation. This was her marriage. She was bound to it, by sacramental authority. Could its dead embers be revived? She had begun to entertain grave doubts that such a thing was possible. She had begun to think that her marriage had entered into an endless and irrevocable winter.
It seemed to her that Charles now regarded her with something not unlike resentment. He exhibited no interest in her accomplishments or activities. He displayed a kind of weary impatience when she came to him for advice on domestic matters. He did nothing but snap, and sneer, and fix her with suspicious looks. The more she brooded, the more he sulked. Her lack of interest in regimental affairs seemed to have offended him profoundly.
Nevertheless, he continued to demand his conjugal rights. This was the circumstance that Dorothea found most puzzling (and most lacerating to her sensibilities). She could not understand how, after calling her ‘Madam Mope’, and leaving her alone after dinner, he could reach for her in the marital bed. Of course, he was generally somewhat intoxicated when this occurred—but even so, his feelings were difficult to comprehend. Dorothea did not want to believe the worst. She did not want to believe that he forced his attentions upon her simply because they were not, at this time, very welcome.
She preferred to ignore the matter entirely, turning her thoughts away from each episode with grim determination. While she had the courage to reflect on his discourteous remarks, and her own culpability, and even the bleak prospect of their future together, she could not bear to dwell on those incidents that took place in their bedroom after dark.
Yet for all this, she continued to carry out her duties as expected. Guilt compelled her to do so. The more her husband repelled her, the more assiduously she attended to his wants. The house had never been so beautifully managed. The staff had never been so obliging or inoffensive. As for the garden, it flourished. Dorothea was always able to derive at least some satisfaction from contemplating its progress. Even in the depths of winter, it presented a pleasing appearance.
Daniel’s tireless attention had, quite literally, begun to bear fruit.
Often Dorothea would wander from the garden to the kitchen to the drawing room, noting the peaceful sense of order that prevailed in each, and wonder why her domestic arrangements were now so much more healthy and tranquil than her marriage. Had she devoted too much time to her home, and not enough to her husband? Certainly she had come to prefer the company of her servants—a shameful circumstance that she could hardly bear to acknowledge. Yet it was so. While the contemplation of Charles aroused in her all kinds of turbulent emotions (none of them sympathetic), she was always calmed by the sight of Emily patiently shelling peas. Nor did Daniel disturb her quite as Charles did—though she could not help regarding him with dismay. The memory of her most recent loss was, to some degree, a mortifying one. Though Daniel had exhibited the most irreproachable behaviour throughout her ordeal, Dorothea was troubled when she remembered what he had seen, and what she had said. She had been stripped of all dignity. He had witnessed her in that condition. She could not be easy when she thought of it, and in the days that followed her experience she would often blush when she spoke to him, frightened that he might attempt to impose on her in some way. Not that he would use his knowledge to his own advantage—she knew him too well to believe any such thing. He was a good man, she had decided. A man who, though he had fallen from grace, was not for this reason irredeemable.
But she was fearful, at first, that he might address her with an inappropriate degree of intimacy. Her night of blood and pain and shadows had forged a certain bond between them. She knew that, and regretted it. She was confused by it. How was she to conduct herself, in the circumstances? No doubt she ought to have adopted a very cold and haughty demeanour, so that Daniel might be taught that he could not presume. She had not the heart, however, to treat him with such contempt. He had behaved so well. He had earned her trust.
Nevertheless, she remained unsettled in his presence—she did not know why. And she became more conscious of that presence. She became more alert to his movements. She always knew where he was, at any time of the day or night.
Which was more than she could say about her husband.
It was towards the end of July that her misery finally drove her to address Charles on the subject of their estrangement. They were preparing for bed, and his consumption of alcoholic beverages had been moderate. Watching him drag on his woollen socks—socks that she had knitted for him—Dorothea was moved to voice her concerns. With a pounding heart, she remarked desperately: ‘Do you think that our situation will improve, once we leave these shores?’
Charles cast her an impatient glance. ‘What?’ he said. ‘What do you mean?’
Dorothea swallowed. ‘I—I mean our relations with each other.’ Seeing him look away, she blinked back tears. ‘We are not comfortable,’ she quavered. ‘You know that. It is so … hideous.’
‘It would be less hideous, Madam, if you would put off your sullen airs and behave with proper consideration towards me,’ Charles retorted.
‘But—’
‘No.’ He held up his hand. ‘I will not listen to a catalogue of unreasonable complaints. If you wish to apologise and make amends, very well. But I am not interested in your morbid fancies or your silly accusations. Frankly, Madam, I am tired of them. Until you are restored to a sensible frame of mind, I have nothing to say to you.’
Then he lay down, and turned his back on Dorothea.
She could not bring herself to speak to him again that night.