Like my husband, Tench clung by his fingernails to the status of gentleman thanks to his officer’s rank, a good-enough education, and gallant manners, when rumour had it that he was the son of a dancing-master. Only he, it seemed, in this place of meanness and malice, remained a friend of all. Even Mr Macarthur had a good word for him. I thought of him as some fluid insinuating creature, a ferret or an otter, with his delight in his own sinuous being, and the way he could twist and flow out of anything. Something in me rose to the quicksilver quality in Tench: sly, quick with innuendo, every look and utterance lingering and teasing. In his company I felt myself to be large of spirit, amusing, warmly alive along every vein.
On the afternoon of our first Christmas Eve in New South Wales, with Worgan hammering away at the piano with such effect that two people in the corner by the fireplace could converse in private, I laughed freely, frankly, pleasurably, at some witty bit of nonsense Tench had come out with. Our eyes met, his very brown, full of warmth and fun, and I allowed myself to wonder what it would be like to be with him, woman to his man.
He was not handsome, his face too narrow, his chin with its black beard-shadow too weak, his eyes too close together. But the flicker and dash of his spirit drew me. With someone like him, I knew, I would be a different woman: less cautious, less conscious of every word and gesture, more reckless, more inclined simply to enjoy each moment.
Tench caught the unguarded glance. I saw the same question in his eye. What would it be like?
I was rehearsing some repartee for Tench’s banter, but Mr Worgan was all at once beside us, somewhat flushed. He touched me on the elbow and when, interrupted in mid-word, I glanced at him—with irritation, it must be said—I saw that he was meeting my gaze in an insistent way.
– Mrs Macarthur, he said, may I call on you to turn the pages for me? Captain Collins has requested Lovers’ Garland, and I fear I will not do it justice without an assistant.
Dolt that I was, I must have looked put out, but thank the Lord I was alert enough to see his eyes move, and I saw what he was warning me of: Mr Macarthur watching me with Tench.
– I would be delighted, Mr Worgan, I exclaimed, left Tench discourteously without a word, and stood beside the piano to turn Mr Worgan’s pages—which he could perfectly well do by himself—and then allowed him to show off my accomplishments by sitting at the instrument and picking my way through Foote’s Minuet.
For the rest of the afternoon I made sure the roomful of men was between me and Captain Tench. Still, I remained conscious of him, knew exactly where in the room he was standing, and knew that he was equally aware of me.