Captive Wife, The (28 page)

Governor Bourke gives his dinner party this evening at the Parramatta residence. Jacky and I are his extra guests. Earlier in the day, Ivy Kentish and I have been shopping, as if we are old friends.

The shops are far better here than in Sydney, announced Ivy gaily, as we floated from one establishment to another, several boxes in our arms.

I don't know what I'll use for money, I said as we set out. Besides I have fancy dresses at home.

Well, you haven't got time to go and get them today, and besides, you want to be up with the times when you step out this evening, Ivy said.

She assured me that the money was all taken care of; she had smiled charmingly at Percy Malcolm as she and her husband took their leave after a late breakfast. Breakfast had been an elaborate affair, taken on the Malcolms' lawn under umbrellas, all of us — Percy and Maude, and their sons Herbert and Nathaniel, who seemed pleased to be the centre of their mother's attention for
once; Adie; Lieutenant Roddick who had ridden forth again in the early morning; Jacky and me, and the Kentishes.

Percy slipped me an envelope, Ivy said. He said it was for you and me.

Really? But what for?

Why, because he knows how badly his wife has behaved. It is for treats, he said when he gave it to me, meaning not a word to a soul about what has happened here. He knew you wouldn't take it.

It is Adie to whom he should be giving envelopes, I said hotly.

Oh, I think somehow she will get a large envelope. Wouldn't you say? His own sister.

Jacky had wanted to leave right away, after I had agreed to go back to the Rocks, but I wanted to go back to Malcolm Downs once more, to take proper leave of Adie. And from there, one invitation flowed into another, and it seemed that if we did not stay to breakfast it would be considered rude, just when things were being mended all round. Besides, I was feeling, if not exactly carefree, at least as if I might enjoy my life again.

Why is the Governor inviting us to dinner this evening? I ask Ivy, as we retire to the inn to unload our boxes. (Ivy has some of her own, though she had brought a portmanteau the previous day, for since the wreck of the
Waterloo
she never travels anywhere without a complete change of clothes.)

Well, says Ivy, smoothing the pleats in her day dress. It's true, there is to be a court of inquiry in England, about the
Harriet
affair.

Is that what they're calling it?

Indeed. The inquiry may not be convened straight away but I think Governor Bourke will want you to be seen in the very best light.

You mean he will not want to have sent two ships to war on account of a currency lass with no manners?

Ivy is only momentarily abashed. I've always thought of you as rather clever, she says.

But not clever enough for the Governor?

You have a big heart, Betty. Look what you did for Robert and me in New Zealand. Don't give it a thought.

My Granny would call it making a silk purse out of a sow's ear, I say.

All the same, when I enter the dining room, it is not the first time I have had all eyes upon me, only now I feel more at ease than when I stepped aboard the
Alligator
. Looking around, I see familiar faces. I am wearing a dark blue dress with a wasp waist and a huge skirt, leg o'mutton sleeves, a ruched bodice and a wide neckline that skims the sleek tops of my breasts, where a gold chain nestles. Long and graceful waterfalls of rubies hang from my ears. My hair is piled high, exposing the length of my throat. I carry a fan. The Governor steps forward and offers me his arm.

‘Mrs Guard, thank you
so
much for coming. I have placed you beside me at table this evening, and we will have a good talk about everything.'

We don't talk about everything, of course. I talk about the races that are on in town, and where the best fruit can be bought at the markets, and tell him a little about our house at Port Underwood in New Zealand, and how I had endeavoured to start a garden there. I sense that I am saying exactly what he wants to hear.

A Frenchman who says he is an artist attends the dinner too. He speaks rather loudly, and with enthusiasm for everything, with little pattered asides in the French language. I must paint you, he says, I really must, your silhouette is magnificent. His name is Thierry, and nothing will do but that I sit for him this week, as he leaves for Paris in a month. I look first to see whether the Governor is approving of this idea, and then at Jacky.

The Governor smacks his hand on the table and says: ‘But you must Thierry, you cannot let such a charming inspiration go to waste.'

It is on the tip of my tongue to say that I will soon go to waist if Thierry does not attend to the matter, but I close my lips on such an indelicate comment. Glancing at Jacky, I see he is nodding his head, looking somewhat bewildered. I think, with a tingle of my old spite, that he should be getting used to me being the centre of attention.

So it is arranged that I will sit for Thierry the following day. I would like to leave some image in place of myself. I have nothing of Louisa but a lock of her hair. And if I am to have a picture done, it would be nice if it was while I still had a figure. I have yet to turn twenty-one and I am expecting my third child.

For a brief month or so, before my condition becomes apparent, I have a flurry of social life in Sydney. I am all the rage at fancy parties. I do want you to meet the delightful Mrs Guard, hostesses say. I have had more than one toast proposed to me. The picture that Thierry paints is much admired. On these rounds, I meet Gerald Roddick, but avoid him. I don't think it my business to enquire of him after my friend Adie Malcolm. I half expect to see her on these rounds, for now that I am in such favour, there is no reason for her to be dismissed from Sydney society.

Of course, this whirl cannot last, for Jacky and I have no money, and I am nothing more than a pretender from the Rocks. As I grow stout, I withdraw from these gatherings. I imagine people asking each other, have you seen that Mrs Guard lately? But soon they will get over it and move on to other wonders.

One or another of the sea captains obliges Jacky with work at sea, and he is away on and off for several months. When he leaves, I live again with my mother. It is not that I fall out with Charlotte. I simply don't want to live at Cambridge Street any more. There is only young John and me now, not enough to make much difference to my mother and John Deaves's living arrangements. My sister Sophia has gone into service at a large
house at Vaucluse, which is flash territory indeed. She has a day off every week but she comes to visit only on the last of these each month. The three Deaves boys are growing up: the oldest one is already working as a carpenter; the others go to the Ragged School.

‘You are thinking of going back to New Zealand, aren't you?' my mother asks me one morning. She seems gentler than in the past. For one thing, she dotes on young John, and he has taken to her well, though still there are moments when he does not listen to what I have to say to him. I have set myself the task of getting to know my mother better. I believe I understand her more than I did for, among other things, chosen or not, my life holds a wildness about it, as hers did when she was young.

We have spent the early morning toiling over the bubbling copper, boiling up the linen, rinsing and bluing it, ready for the clothesline. I have noticed how she takes a pride in clean clothes, even though it takes all of Monday to iron and press the laundry, and many blisters from the iron as she takes it from the stove. Harriott and John Deaves do not seem the happiest couple at the Rocks, for they have lost their spark, but on Sundays, when the family walks out, they are among the best dressed in the neighbourhood. Through this alone my mother has gained some authority as ‘a good woman'. Now we have stopped to rest, or at least I have, for it is close to my time, and I have done as much as I can for the moment.

‘I will have to see what Jacky thinks,' I say.

‘You still have land over there?' she prods.

I tell her yes, for I have been turning over in my mind the land at Cloudy Bay, in particular shining little Kakapo Bay, where until just last year I had a home. There is nothing to be done until I give birth, but I have been wondering whether Jacky will consider a return. I expect to have word on whether it is safe to go back when he comes home from his travels.

Jacky tells me there are great shifts occurring among the Taranaki Maoris. Hundreds are going to live in the Chatham Islands, which lie far beyond New Zealand. Many have already left. I do not ask about Oaoiti. It is best that I do not know. He tells me, too, of another bout of fighting around Cook Strait. But many more sealers and whalers have arrived, and it sounds as if the stakes are becoming more even. Te Rauparaha is said to have tired of war.

Meanwhile, the rules for the court of inquiry in Britain are being set. What will they want to know, I ask Jacky.

As he explains to me, they will ask whether Busby should have been consulted before the expedition set out (something he cannot answer), whether a ransom should have been offered for us and whether the interpreters had the skills to translate what was being said to them. (‘Of course they did not,' Jacky said when he told me this). Then there is the question of whether the soldiers had the authority to burn the three pa.

But more important to us, the question is being asked
whether Jacky planned to murder Maoris, as the surgeon Barrett Marshall claimed when he returned to England.

This last is the one question that makes me truly anxious. Jacky has done many things but, so far as I can see, what he set out to do was get us back.

I think it better if we leave here, I said to Jacky. Sooner or later, the Governor's officials will come looking for you. Who knows, they may not all remain your friends.

That is what we have decided upon, to leave Sydney and return to Kakapo Bay. I told Jacky I would like us to farm our land some day.

At first he said I'd been spending too much time with fancy folk.

I've seen that land can produce a living, I told him. Then I confessed how I was not so keen on whaling.

But that is
my
living, he protested.

I told him of the nightmare that follows me, the cow whale separated from her calf. Supposing, I said to him, that the whale has two calves, and one goes in one direction and the other is taken by the tide in the opposite way?

He was quiet for a while. I don't blame you for what happened at Taranaki.

And that, I think, must be an end to it.

We could build a new house at Kakapo Bay, I say, further up the hill with a view to the sea, and a verandah, and rooms for each of our children, and a dining room that is set apart from the kitchen.

I received two strange proposals of marriage before I returned to New Zealand. The first was from Charley. He sat on the steps of my mother's house, one afternoon.

I will make you happier than Jacky ever can, he said when he was putting his case.

But I'm the wife of Jacky, I said, and you betray him by asking me this.

I don't think you are his wife, he said, not as far as the law is concerned.

It will happen, I said, though I am not sure myself.

I know what happened at Taranaki, he said. I was there, and it doesn't matter to me.

I will be all right, I told him. I remembered how much I had once liked Charley, but my views of him had changed. There was no point in raising the way he had made Oaoiti ridiculous in the eyes of other men, but it had told me something about the way he did things and I did not like it.

He will leave you, Charley said, if you do not have a wedding.

Oh I said, turning my ring on my finger, I think I am married enough. Jacky and I were married for life. No going back now.

Then there's nothing here for me, Charley said. I cannot bear to see you throw your life away on my brother.

When he told me that he was going back to England, I thought it for the best. Charley has never belonged here. He left while Jacky was at sea. I think we may never hear from him again.

The second proposal came after the birth of Thomas, my second son. He was born with an ease that surprised me, as if I was getting the knack of having babies. I didn't have a long lying in, and my figure shrank back to near its normal size in a matter of weeks.

I had been thinking for some time of going to see Adie, to check that all was well with her. So I swaddled Thomas up, and carried him through the Rocks and up town. Sydney was changing fast, with more buildings and shops taking the place of the markets.

When I arrived, I found the garden at Lieutenant Roddick's house overgrown and in disarray, as if nobody had tended it in a long time. I was looking at this in some surprise when the door was opened to my knock by Hettie, the cook I had always disliked.

She has gone, said Hettie, in a flat unfriendly voice.

But where?

Bound for England.

And where are the children?

With a great show of reluctance, the cook said, There is a letter here for you.

May I come in? I said, for the day was growing hot, and I had planned to stay awhile and rest within the shade of the house.

She sat me in the dusty parlour, and produced an envelope from behind the silverware, on a tea trolley. It was meant to be delivered to you a while ago, she said with indifference.

While she fetched me a glass of water, I opened the letter and read it.

I laid the letter down, and as I did, I heard a sound in the passage. I looked up to see Gerald Roddick standing in the doorway, dishevelled and bloodshot of eye. Mrs Guard, he cried, staggering forward. You have come for your letter at last.

Did you keep it here on purpose? I asked, as coolly as I could.

I could not think how else I might see you again.

On the chaise longue where I had laid him, Thomas had begun to cry. I gathered him up in his shawl and stood, ready to leave.

The lieutenant offered me his hand then, begging me to stay with him, offering me the world. But looking at his haggard face, and knowing the company he kept, I could not imagine a world I wanted less, even had his proposition not been so ridiculous. I thought then how strongly I wanted to leave Sydney, and how much of my life might still be fulfilled if I were to go to New Zealand again.

The night before we left, the family gathered for what I knew would be the last time at Cambridge Street. This house would now be Charlotte's, for which I was pleased enough, for few would buy a house among the sandstone Rocks of Sydney, and it was best that she had a roof over her head. My mother and John were there, and Sophia and the boys. We ate dinner together and sang some of the old songs we knew. My sister sang in a sweet voice I did not know she possessed:

And that, too, sure and true, was the sound of Granny's voice as I first remember her. It helped me feel less afraid of the distance between us all and the place I had come to think of as my home.