I could hardly believe that Mr Macarthur did not see what was happening. Could he not tell how bliss-softened I was when I returned from my lessons? But he understood only the animal aspect of relations between the sexes, and so could not recognise that tenderness in another.
In Mr Macarthur’s eyes, as in Tench’s, Mr Dawes was a clever buffoon, an awkward machine of mathematics. The stars, and a place to view them from, were all he appeared to need. To have so few wants was contemptible. He had no ambition, did not delight in scheming, took no pleasure in besting a rival. In the eyes of Mr Macarthur, those lacks made Mr Dawes hardly a man at all.
In the beginning the orrery had been a good pretext, essential for the lessons but too difficult to transport. When botany was added to astronomy, Mr Dawes’ headland was the best place to examine the delicate plants that had been trampled out of existence closer to the settlement. The pretexts were accepted, and Mr Macarthur made no difficulty about me visiting the observatory every week. I let him assume that Hannaford and Mrs Brown were with me there, and he did not show enough interest for any outright lies to be necessary.
Still, on the rare occasions when my husband enquired after the weekly lessons, I wondered if there was a recognition that he was not aware of behind the questions. I made sure I shared only the driest husk of the riches I was being given.
– Such an interesting fact, Mr Macarthur, I would begin, I wonder if you know that those plants which produce a pod like a bean are of the family called Papilionaceae, so called because the flower resembles a butterfly or papilio?
Mr Macarthur never found it necessary to be instructed beyond a single sentence. He always found a reason to leave the room, or become engrossed in a book, and that was the end of botany or astronomy for another week.