Wild Island (54 page)

They could raise the rent, I said, or I would lend them money—but they had a horror of borrowing and believed the bad times would not end soon. It was former conversations with Jane Franklin that made me think of buying the cottage myself. Anna could then stay where she was comfortable and Old Mr Coombes could continue to garden both plots. Gus approved. We would live in his house after we married, but it was hardly big enough for us and Durrell and Billy Knox, Gus's new apprentice—and the land it stood on was tiny. Ada's cottage had half an acre, which meant that in the future we might add rooms and live there.

We were married on the fifth of April. I went to Government House beforehand, somewhat apprehensively, to tell Sophy the news. Her moral scruples were puritanical. Gus had once had a convict mistress; he might be Jewish; I was a widow: any one of these circumstances might bring her strong disapproval. And besides, she had once made reference to our remaining bosom friends when we returned to England—perhaps even living together—and although I had laughed away the comment and she had never repeated it, I suspected it might linger in her mind.

It was the first time I had been to the ‘Palace' uninvited; I had always taken care not to presume on the friendship. The footman
would have sent me straight upstairs but I said I would wait in the morning room. When Sophy came in I said I hoped for her good wishes. She took the invitation, turned her back on me and walked away to the window. After a moment she let the note fall unopened to the ground and turned back, and from the look on her face I knew there would be a scene. By the time she spoke, I was expecting almost anything except what she did say.

‘Why does Mr Therry come so often to see you?'

‘He comes to see Anna, who has returned unwell, as you know. She asked to see a priest. She was educated in a convent. Father Therry is a good, spiritual sort of man.'

Too late I remembered she did not care for the word ‘spiritual'. The look on her face now was familiar; righteous indignation girded for battle.

‘A “spiritual sort of man”?' Her voice was contemptuous. ‘Then why is he such an enemy to my uncle? He publicly accuses Nuncle of holding back a thousand pounds intended for the building of the Roman Church—when it is Mr Therry's own fault that the money cannot be used. He does not supply the documents London requires.'

‘But Mr Therry has written to the newspapers saying Sir John is not to blame.'

She ignored this. ‘And that vile newspaperman, Mr Gilbert Robinson. He is Bergman's friend too. I wonder at
you
though, Harriet, at this betrayal from
you
. You have had ample opportunity—through the charity of my aunt—of seeing how the vicious population of this place seizes any opportunity to slander our family. But one should not expect gratitude, I suppose.'

I knew her words were childish, meant to hurt because she was hurt, but this was painful and unjust, and I grew agitated. Sophy and Jane had been good to me, but I had given faithful service too, and borne much. Before I could speak, not trusting myself to choose from the flood of words welling up in me, she cried urgently, ‘Why are you doing this, Harriet? Because you are afraid of being poor? But this
is not worth it. You will have to bear his touch, his hands . . .' She made a strangled sound.

‘I love him.'

Again she ignored me. ‘Disloyalty is your besetting sin. A second marriage is also a kind of disloyalty, is it not? Which is why there must always be some disgust attached to the idea of a widow marrying again. Aunt will be disappointed in you.' Her young face was filled with cold dislike, but I could see she was not yet finished, only waiting to begin again.

I hesitated, but if I stayed I would say something unforgivable. I turned and walked out. She called something after me but I did not stop.

St John Wallace married us at St George's Church. It was to have been a small ceremony, but Mrs Parry brought her daughter Marion and the four great-grandchildren whose portraits I had painted, and Booth, Lizzie and Amelia came to town with the Lempriere family. I wore silver-grey silk and Louisa sewed white silk roses for my hair, and I remembered Jane and Rochester's marriage on the
Adastra
.

Boyes gave me away. Booth was best man. Old Mr Coombes made me a posy of late roses and sweet peas that smelled like heaven. He stayed with Anna at the cottage while we were at the Church; the service would have been too exhausting for her. We collected them in the carriage afterwards and went to Bess Chesney's; she had insisted on giving us a wedding breakfast. Anna was quiet, smiling—pleased with the outing, but weak, having difficulty in moving. She kept forgetting what the occasion was all about.

Rising to propose the loyal toast, Boyes told us the
Duncan
was just in, carrying London newspapers from last December. They announced the birth of the Princess Royal, Her Majesty's first child. We drank the health of mother and infant, reported to be doing well; but there would be no Brevet or Promotion on this occasion, the baby not being a Prince of Wales.

Bess Chesney shed tears when we left and Nellie wept too, although she and Anna were coming home in the carriage with us. We had decided to postpone our wedding journey until spring, when we would go down to Gus's little hut on the river at the Huon for a week or two. In the meantime there was all the pleasure in the world in waking every morning in each other's arms.

Gus's cottage, being small and fastidiously well kept by Durrell, needed no attention from me. I was working on portraits for two or three families, but also spent several hours each day and some evenings at Minto Lane helping Mrs T and Nellie, since Anna could not be left alone. She was cheerful and in no pain, but daily weaker.

‘Coco!' she said one day, looking at splendid Aristo, Mrs T's bird. ‘Maman's parrot was Coco. Coquette. Cocky, cock, prick. “
Qui est là? Je m'appelle Coco
.” Poor Coco died when Coulibri burned—on the railing—screeching—when they set fire to the house.
Coulibri
means “Hummingbird” you know, Harriet. A tall house—white—bigger than an
ajoupa—
green jalousies—the verandah all broken. Vines growing through the ceiling of Maman's chamber and balcony.'

She paused so long I thought this unusual flow had come to an end, but then she began again.

‘In the boiling-house no sugar, only cane-trash and rats and the
duppy
—the ghost, a spirit from
obeah
. When the fire came Maman took Pierre, my little brother—but he died as they ran. Christophine holds to me—we run with Sass Thomas and Despa, his mother. The rest all gone.' Another long pause. ‘Mr Mason—did he burn?' She frowned. ‘Ah, he always burned . . .' followed by a burst of salacious French.

‘He was like the Old One himself, Beelzebub. Mr Samedi. Cruel for white flesh, black flesh. Hands under the chin, under the skirt, thick wet lips. Come here, little Anna, little daughter. Annette, Marionette. Come here, girl. Christophine said, “I will kill him.” But she is afraid for her soul. If she kill him she will burn in hell.'

Her eyes had closed, I thought she was asleep, but after a minute she murmured, ‘Coco, coquette, cocky, cock, Antoinette, marionette . . .'.

I had written to Mrs Fairfax many times with no reply, most recently to tell her of our marriage. Before this could possibly have reached England, I received a puzzling letter from her. She was leaving Brighton-on-Sea. Jane and Rochester had invited her to return to ‘Ferndean' and she preferred the country. She looked forward to seeing me when I returned, and hoped she could count on my discretion now as in the past. She begged I would say nothing to Mr Rochester or Jane of what had occurred. She had only ever done what she believed to be for the best. What Rowland had asked her to do.

28

BOOTH, SITTING IN CHURCH AT PORT ARTHUR ON THE FIRST
Sunday in May, grew drowsy. The sermon murmured on. Lizzie, close against his side in her new green merino, was emitting the soporific warmth of a small roosting hen. His own clothes too, were new and warm, bought while they were in Hobart for Bergman's wedding three weeks before. Civvies now. Coat, waistcoat, linen, cravat, bought from the sale of his commission. After twenty-five years in uniform he felt odd in them, like an actor playing a gentleman.

Strange words from the pulpit brought his mind back to the sermon:
Mene mene tekel upharsin
. He had loved those words as a child for their very strangeness. ‘Thou hast been weighed in the balances and found wanting, and therefore shall thy kingdom be taken from thee'. If he had been so inclined he might find that ominous. Tomorrow he was to appear in Hobart before another committee, for reasons he had not yet been told.

The weighing of good and bad deeds after death had been vivid to him as a child. He'd pictured a small pair of scales like his father's, with a brass pan hanging at each side on fine gold chains. Good deeds would be in one pan like a heap of diamonds; bad deeds blackly fused together like a lump of coal on the other. The balance would waver—drop remorselessly to left or right. These days he preferred
Bergman's idea: the Creator of the universe must be a joyful Mind, an inventor who loved His creation and would understand an honest mistake. But then again, it would not be God doing the weighing-up at tomorrow's committee but Mr John Montagu, a less forgiving article altogether.

The Colonial Secretary had returned two months ago and had been alarmingly quiet since. Still, whatever it was this time, Booth felt he had nothing to fear. What he had accomplished in the last six months would speak for itself. The Ralph's Bay Railway and Saltwater River Probation Station finished; three more stations under way; a new barracks at Port Arthur; a dormitory at Point Puer; foundations for the flour mill; a huge crop of wheat and vegetables. They'd worked like demons, he, his officers and the men. Murderers, forgers, thieves, incorrigibles; he was proud of them all.

As he and Lizzie walked back down the hill after Church, they saw the
Vansittart
sail in to pick him up, and later, under an autumn sky as cloudless blue as a Dutchman's trousers, he leaned against its rail, feeling the joyful energy of the cutter flying before the breeze, and thought again about Montagu—whose mood was far from joyful, apparently. He'd returned empty-handed. No Lieutenant Governorship, not even a position closer to England. And Jessie Montagu had discovered a week after they returned that she was expecting another child, which could hardly be welcome news.

The
True Colonist
wrote (and how it would infuriate Montagu, their printing it!) that his two years away had cost all the four thousand pounds raised from the sale of the contents of ‘Stowell'. He'd paid nothing off the loan from Arthur, they added, except monthly interest, which was in arrears. He must still have four thousand from the sale of the house itself, but this must be used to buy and equip a new residence, at effectively half the value of what he'd owned before. In the meantime the Montagus were living with the Forsters at ‘Wyvenhoe', which would not improve the Colonial Secretary's temper. And it would not be just the meals! ‘Stowell' was only a stone's throw from