Captive Wife, The (14 page)

Mrs Perceval Malcolm lives in an ample house on the plain beneath the foothills of the sheep station her husband has established at Parramatta. She is a shrewd woman who, following her recovery from the difficult business of providing heirs, has learnt to keep the most excellent account of all the ingoings and outgoings on the property. She sees herself as her husband's saviour, for though the man has money, he is not accustomed to using it wisely.

Those who meet Maude are surprised. They expect to find a large firm woman, with her hands firmly on her husband's purse strings (it has been rumoured that she once turned up at an auction and forbade her husband to bid another penny on sheep she considered inferior in quality). What they find is a small woman, not more than five foot one, with a smooth complexion that makes her age difficult to guess, dressed in flowing pale muslin gowns. She never goes out of doors without a hat and veil, so that there is about her an air of misty uncertainty, a fragility that is beguiling.

Her house is a long brick dwelling, built with convict labour. There are six rooms, an elegant central hall, a well-stocked cellar and a verandah. The main room is decorated in different shades of blue which Maude feels are cool and soothing in the harsh Australian climate. The garden is ordered in an English style; in spring, almond, apricot, pear and apple trees blossom while wistaria festoons the columns of the verandah. Roses bloom all summer and now, as the season progresses, dahlias and gladioli are making their appearance. A jacaranda tree is the only sign within the garden that the bush landscape was ever there, although the servants' quarters are down the path through an avenue of rustling blue gum trees that form a natural screen from the house.

These quarters consist of two-roomed cottages, each with a porch, one for the cook and one for the nanny, and a row of lean-tos containing hammocks beneath one long roof, for the gardeners. The farm labourers are far away, though once a week Maude rides side-saddle on a tall, sprightly roan along the fence-line of the paddock where they are quartered, just to satisfy herself that there is not mutiny in the air. The green lands are covered with fine grass; the farm is stocked with hogs, fifty head of cattle, more than a dozen horses and two thousand sheep. Percy has a dozen greyhounds for hunting and there is always a plentiful supply of wild ducks and kangaroo for the table.

Maude thinks of the house as her own, though of course it is hers and Percy's, but without her it would be all a disaster, as she once said in an unguarded moment when her husband talked of some new and flighty plan. Sometimes she cannot believe that he can be so undisciplined in his thinking, though she believes she is getting him in hand. His sister is a case in point; she does not know how many times she has had to stand over him when he has sat down to write to her.

‘You know I will not have that woman in my house ever again,' she has said more than once.

But exactly what was it that Adie had done, Percy blustered
the first time she said this. She only came to help. You were so ill at the time.

To which she had said in a cryptic way that nobody could find a thing in the cupboards after she left, and nothing would surprise her, and she cannot tell to this day whether she has all the silver Percy bought her on their marriage (though she has been known to tell people that her silver was her mother's, brought all the way from England). You know what those spinsters who go to stay with relatives are like, she had told him. They fill their trunks with the family jewels, because they think the world owes them a living.

Besides, as Herbert and Nathaniel grew up that woman would fill their heads with nonsense about travel and ancient ruins, when all they need is an understanding of farming and an appreciation of a gentleman's life in the colonies. Maude Malcolm has entertained governors at the house more than once. She was especially fond of Governor Darling, though she has heard that his successor Governor Bourke is a man not to be trusted and too liberal by far with the convict stock. She has yet to meet him but he has been described to her as a man with large dark eyes and full deep lips. The thought makes her skin crawl, she says to Percy over breakfast. As for sending gunboats to New Zealand on behalf of lawless ruffians, she cannot imagine what the world is coming to. She says this, on reading the newspapers that describe the infamous expedition to rescue the convict's wife.

‘But surely, Mrs Guard is not a convict,' Percy murmurs distractedly.

‘Are you not listening to a word I say?' Maude demands, pulling the bell for more tea.

Percy is holding a note in his hand, his eyes blank, his gaze as if locked on some space behind her ear. She glances over her shoulder as if half expecting to see dust on the china cabinet. ‘What have you got there?' she demands, for nobody will have gone to collect the post this early in the morning.

‘A message brought from Sydney. It was delivered while
you were dressing. Did you not hear the horse?'

‘Well then, is it good news or bad?'

‘It depends on how you see it. My sister is on her way for a visit.'

‘On her way? Percy, this cannot be.' When she sees he is serious, she uses what she hopes is a suitably firm voice. ‘You must put a stop to it. She is nothing but a troublemaker.' Maude gets to her feet in a state of agitation, beginning to clear dishes, before remembering that she is no longer the serving woman she was in England.

‘She is already on her way, on the river ferry. The messenger came on ahead.'

‘Outrageous. How dare she come uninvited?'

‘It seems she has nowhere to go. Lieutenant Roddick has asked her to leave.' Percy looks despairingly at the letter, as if willing it not to be true. ‘I cannot keep this from you, Maude,' he says. ‘It seems that she has been visited at the house by Mrs Guard. Roddick has asked my sister to desist in her invitations to her, but she will not keep away from the woman. The lieutenant is concerned for the welfare of his children.' Percy says this all in a rush, for he knows that in a moment she will snatch the letter from his hand, and he must be seen to have told her before she finds out for herself.

‘This is disgraceful,' Maude says, after a pause that seems never-ending. In one of the rapidly growing poplar trees at the edge of the garden, a kookaburra shouts with laughter. A young man with a manacle round his leg limps past with another bucket of water from the river to pour on the garden. Maude puts her hands to her ears. ‘We shall be ruined. I have a party of ladies coming to visit this afternoon.'

‘It will give them something to talk about,' Percy says daringly. Her look confirms that he has gone too far. ‘I cannot send her away. If it is disgrace you are considering, then you will only make it worse if she is at large on the streets of Sydney with nowhere to go.'

‘What do you suggest that we do?' she asks, her expression signifying a momentary defeat.

‘Make a room ready for her. I'll explain to her that you have guests and that it would be better for all of us to discuss her difficulty after their visit. Let's make her as comfortable as we can, and perhaps she will listen to reason.'

‘I have a better idea,' says Maude. ‘Let's clear the nanny's quarters, and give her the cottage to herself. I'm sure she would rather be alone at a time like this.'

‘And what will you do with nanny?'

‘Why, I've been thinking for some time that it would be better for her to sleep closer to the children. Herbert is really too active for me to manage on my own in the evenings, I'm sure you've noticed. It will work out well,' she says smoothly, patting her softly greying hair. Now she rises purposefully, unable to resist the urge to organise all that needs to be done. Adeline (Maude refuses to call her Adie) will be here within the hour, and Maude will have everything in order before her arrival. This way, she can be whisked immediately to the cottage down the lane.

But it as not as easy as that. She should have known better, Maude tells herself bitterly, in days to come. Adeline arrives, drawn round the mouth, her eyes red from weeping behind the swathed veil of her hat. There is more to this than meets the eye, Maude thinks, but she cannot put her finger on what it is.

Percy goes to the cottage and remains closeted with his sister. When he returns to the house he tells Maude he has nothing more to tell her than what she already knows. Adie has befriended Mrs Guard, an old school pupil of hers who has thrown herself upon her mercy. But, he insists, there is nothing more to be known of the
Harriet
affair than there is already. The Governor may yet be embarrassed by his actions in dispatching the military convoy to New Zealand, but if that is the case, his sister is none the wiser as to the reasons than when she first met Mrs Guard in
the markets. She is, he says, quite distraught at the loss of her employer's favour.

‘Ah,' says Maude. ‘So that's what it's all about.'

‘What is what all about?'

Maude has observed that Percy's light blue eyes have faded this last year or so. His face is tanned like a razor strop and as shiny, his mouth appears sharp and hard beneath his moustache, but his eyes give him away. He is, thinks his wife, like an old man already, though he is barely fifty. ‘Why,' she says, ‘she's in love with Lieutenant Roddick.'

‘That's preposterous,' he splutters.

‘Pre-
pos
-terous, is it?' She laughs, a guffaw far removed from refinement.

Days stretch into weeks. Percy lurks around the lane when he thinks Maude is not looking, hovering anxiously between his wife and sister. They do not discuss the visitor at the end of the garden. Maude arranges the meals with the cook and has them sent down the path three times a day.

Eventually, a letter is delivered to the post office, addressed to Adie. The seal is that of Lieutenant Roddick.

‘Ha,' says Maude, holding it up to the light. ‘Is it money?'

‘My dear wife, I beg of you,' says Percy.

‘Money to pay off her wages, do you think? Or perhaps he's feeling guilty about something. Now there's a thought, Percy, your sister may not be as virtuous as you make her out.'

‘It may simply be a letter between friends.'

‘I think I'll deliver it to your sister myself,' says Maude.

‘That would be very unkind,' Percy says stiffly.

‘Well, are you likely to tell me its contents?' says his wife, using the silver butter dish to hold the letter firmly on the tablecloth. Not until she has extracted a promise from him, is she willing to release the missive. He wonders at the steeliness of such milky fingers, the backs of her hands threaded with a blue lace of veins, the way they hold a horse in check, and how he
once saw her crack the neck of a chicken, not long after they came to the farm.

Adie sits in the cottage like one dispossessed. She had arrived with a large portmanteau of clothes, though she said some of her belongings were still at Roddick's house. Whatever she has brought with her, it is clearly not enough, for every bit of the room where she sits is festooned with her private garments, her stays and petticoats (Percy cannot help but notice that they are fine white lawn) drying out of sight of the passing servants.

‘I hope it is good news,' Percy says, awkwardly handing her the letter.

Adie turns it over, studying the seal. ‘Maude's been playing with it, to see if she can open it, hasn't she? Are you going to let me read it in peace?'

When he doesn't move, she says, ‘You're afraid of her, aren't you?'

‘No,' he says, ‘but I am not as strong as either of you. I never imagined myself between two women with equal will.'

Adie sighs then. ‘You're mistaken,' she says, drawing the letter from its envelope. ‘I have less resolve than I gave myself credit for.' She gestures around the cottage. It is furnished with an iron bed, covered with a patchwork quilt, a small table, a wash bowl and jug and the two raw cane chairs they sit in. She returns her reluctant gaze to the letter. Then a flash of delight illuminates her face, such as Percy has not seen on her face for years. Not since she first saw Michelangelo's
David
in Florence on their first Mediterranean tour. It must have been twenty years ago. Long before all this. Before Australia.

‘Lieutenant Roddick wants me to return,' she says. ‘The children are missing me. I knew they would, of course. Mathilde will manage, but Austen, well that's another matter. He is the kind of child who pines.'

‘You'll go then,' says Percy, more a statement than a question, hoping to hide the eagerness in his voice.

But she hears it. She has always read him too well. That is at
the heart of his problems these days, the inability to have a secret inner life. He didn't know he needed one, until it was too late, for it had never troubled him that Adie knew him through and through.

‘Not just yet,' she says. The lively expression has vanished, leaving her face a mask.

‘But why?' he says.

‘It's not enough. That he should use the children as an excuse.'

‘So really, you are hoping that he will ask you to go back?'

Immediately, he wishes he had put this another way, as he sees her rising colour. It is one thing to expose his own thoughts to his sister; he does not want to know more about her than he would wish. He cannot bear to think of what she wants, and must surely be unattainable.

‘Don't misunderstand me,' says Adie, ‘it's simply beneath my dignity to be summoned like a servant. I was his wife's friend, you know. Her very best friend in the world, who closed the lids of her lovely eyes that one last time.' She gulps, trying to hide sudden tears that slide down her cheeks. ‘It is the bright light here,' she says, ‘it is affecting me, the same as it does you. My eyes cannot bear so much light.'