I trusted Mrs Brown and Hannaford. But I feared there could be no secrets in a community of a thousand souls packed into one small clearing in the forest. Most particularly when one of them was writing a book. An author was a dangerous acquaintance. When Tench and I encountered each other down by the bridge one afternoon and he stopped to speak to me, I smiled my blandest smile. Go carefully, I told myself.
– Well, Mrs M, how are your studies in astronomy progressing, he said. The labour it took me to arrange your lessons—I hope it has proved worthwhile?
Innocently, it seemed, but Tench was never innocent. Does he know?
He moved closer.
– I was at pains to persuade His Holiness, he murmured, as if telling me a secret. No easy matter, I assure you, but for your sake, my dearest lady, no task is too onerous.
His tone was solemn and went along with a yearning look. No, he did not know. He had stopped me at the bridge to quiz me about my lessons in astronomy, not with any suspicion, but to give himself the chance to act the lovesick swain. I thought of making some satiric remark—would he now kindly slay a dragon for me?—but changed my mind. Any response, no matter how mocking, would arrive at his ear as the next move in the dance of flirtation.
After the shock of Jack Boddice I had been a little cool with Captain Tench. But he was not a man to believe a woman could resist him, and I knew by the arch looks he gave me that he judged my coolness to be simply part of the game of advance and retreat. There had been no more tests. Tench had been all gallantry, all courtliness, all courtesy. But waiting for the next move in the game.
I would have liked to pay no more attention to him for the rest of the marines’ time in New South Wales, but I could not be too chilly, because I had come to see that I needed something from him: his silence. Perhaps he guessed nothing, but I could all too easily imagine him, in his book, describing Mrs Macarthur’s weekly visits to the observatory in such a way as to awake a certain reader’s suspicious attention. That might not happen until far into the future, but whenever it took place, the consequences for me would be dire. Captain Tench did not know it, but he had in his hand a tool that could bring down disaster on me. In some way or other I had to ensure that there would be no mention of me in his book.
– Mr Dawes and I have lately returned from an expedition into the interior, Mrs M, he said. And I assure you, without a gentleman of his superior skill in navigation, we would still be there! At night by the fire he was able to cast up our courses and work them by a traverse table to pinpoint our exact location: a most remarkable feat, which I will not fail to record in my little account of the colony.
Remarkable, but his tone and smile said entertaining. I could imagine how he would present poor Mr Dawes in that book of his: as a ridiculous instrument of tedious erudition.
But I saw my opportunity.
– Oh, Captain Tench, I cried, with what I hoped was playfulness. I see you will stop at nothing in search of the entertainment your readers hunger for!
– Indeed, my dear lady, you are correct as always, Tench said with a bow.
There was a brightness to his eye. I could see him thinking, Ah, she is coming around!
– But I must tell you, sir, I said, that some of us are shy of being mentioned in your pages. If I suspect that you are tucking away in your memory anything I tell you of my doings, to bring out later for your book, I will become sadly mute in your company!
I had worked to toss this remark off in the most unconcerned way, but he caught something in my tone.
– Even mute, madam, you would be a most delightful companion, gallant Tench said.
I could feel his entire intelligent attention on me.
– Ah, but I would rather be free to speak, I said. Could you not give me an undertaking to forgo any mention of me in your book?
– Why, my dear Mrs M, anyone would think you had something to hide, he said. A lover hidden behind a tree, perhaps!
And made a show of looking around, laughing, it was the best joke imaginable. But was still watching me.
Do not become earnest, I told myself, or he will catch a whiff of mystery. Too late I realised that in asking for his silence I had put into his hands the very weapon I feared. A great heat of panic rose into my chest.
The best defence against a teller of stories is dullness, but it was too late for that. Captain Tench would not believe I had become Mary Johnson so quickly.
I lowered my voice, speaking as if reluctantly.
– My dear sir, I said, I think you are aware of my position here as a woman. With so few of us, I fear any mention of one will sound like a shout. You know how you men love to—let us say—make mischief with the fairer sex.
That was a good attempt. Make mischief with the fairer sex. It brought us back to the ground Tench liked, where men and women sized each other up behind a screen of banter. I gave him a small warm smile, at the same time hoping my situation was not about to become more complicated by Mr Macarthur catching sight of us deep in private conversation.
The charmed suitor returned the smile, but I could see that the inquisitive author still had his nose to the wind.
– I am in your hands, my dear sir, I said, and spread my own in a gesture of helplessness that by chance brushed against his arm. I can only appeal to you as a gentleman.
The son of the dancing-master could not resist this.
– Oh, indeed, you have my word as a gentleman, Mrs M, he said, so fervent I feared he might go down on one knee. Instead he fumbled for my hand, touched my hip as he fumbled, grasped the hand at last, but awkwardly, catching my thumb. I drew my hand away. Here on the bridge we were as exposed as if on a stage. This was a dangerous game. He came close to murmur into my ear.
– My dearest lady, your helpless admirer will obey, he said. Not a mention, not a single mention of you will appear in my text. Upon my honour.
Not a single mention of you will appear in my text. I have his book here on the table, with its inscription: To my dear friend John Macarthur, with the greatest admiration and esteem. Captain Tench obeyed the letter of his vow, for I do not appear in the text. But he could not resist finding a loophole whose ingenuity is worthy of the esteemed John Macarthur himself: he includes me in a footnote. It is no more than a passing reference, nothing more than the fact that I was present at a certain dinner at Government House. In fact, a person in a questioning frame of mind might wonder why he bothered to name me at all, but I can imagine how he smiled to himself, composing that footnote.
There is no mention, anywhere in the book, of Mr Macarthur. My husband does not even rate a footnote. Which might have caused offence but for that fulsome inscription. In any case, if Tench calculated that Mr Macarthur would not bother to read the book, he was right.