Captive Wife, The (6 page)

But I don't know how much I will forget. Or what I will remember.

You do what you must.

‘Well, ma'am, I didn't expect to see you here,' says Mr Spyer in his timid little chirp. He sits behind the counter, his curly black hair trying to make its escape from beneath his skull cap. I always found him the friendlier of the partners, though an anxious man. Mr Cohen was more on the make, eager to please the administrators and military people. More than once, I wondered if he did not like the people of the Rocks shopping in his store, as if they gave off a bad odour that might affect his more elegant clientele. One thing for us to work for him, another to serve us. Many are surprised that convicts and their families have money in their purses. There is work for all who want it, and sealers and whalers bring money into the port that those on military rations can only dream about, for all their airs and graces, especially now their rackets on the poor have been stopped. Not that I will be buying much today, and Mr Spyer senses that as soon as he sets eyes on me.

He shakes his head in a mournful way, knowing I've come down in the world. Of course he reads the newspapers. He offers
his regrets for all that has befallen me, and speaks of his relief that I and my children at least,
at least
, dear Mrs Guard, have been spared. All the same, he is holding back.

I tell him what I have come for: perhaps a marked down toy for John, a doll of some kind or another, or perhaps a little bracelet for Louisa, who won't know whether it's Christmas or not. It is not just her age I'm thinking about, for some days she looks so pale and weak I wonder if I'll ever get the roses back in her cheeks. She was a bonny girl, gaining weight, before we were stranded on a rocky shore. A girl of my own is what I always wanted, and I might as well be dead as lose her, yet I saw her treated rough and trampled on, and that is not an easy thing for a mother to get over.

Mr Spyer shakes his head again, a refusal in his eyes.

‘What is the matter?' I ask. ‘Are you afraid Mr Cohen will catch you giving discounts?'

‘It is not that,' he mutters, and I swear that he blushes. Then I know what it is: I am an embarrassment to him. And yet his eyes hold their old sympathetic kindness which has always drawn me to him. ‘People are saying how remarkably brave you are.'

‘It
is
Mr Cohen, isn't it?' I ask. For there was a man who wanted to go up in the world. And too serious for his own good.

When he doesn't answer, I remind him with as much dignity as I can muster, of the times he has helped out poor souls down on their luck, which at the moment I certainly am, but the words die in my throat. ‘It is not as if I am asking for money,' I say.

He gives me a quizzical look.

I lower my eyes and slip from my finger the ring that Jacky Guard gave me when I left Australia that first time. It has not left me, not even when I lived in the bush.

Of course, the toys were an excuse. I did want them, but I want money even more.

Mr Spyer looks long and hard at the ring.

‘I can lend you a little,' he says, ‘but I do not want the ring.'
He reaches into the drawer where he keep the money and extracts five pounds.

‘You must take the ring,' I say, and my eyes are hot with tears and wounded pride.

‘No,' he says. ‘That will do you no good at all, to be seen around Sydney without your ring. What would your husband say? Now, please choose a toy or two for the little ones.'

‘I'll pay you back,' I say. I am in two minds as to whether to leave there and then. But I hear a rustle of taffeta behind me and a woman comes towards me, a puzzled frown on her face. She is a woman close to fifty.

‘Why, it's Betsy Deaves,' the woman says.

Nobody has called me that since I worked here at Spyer and Cohen's, for that is what I was known in those days. Momentarily, I think she must be one of the customers, but there is something more familiar than that about her, and then it comes back to me. My teacher at the Ragged School.

Before I can say her name, Mr Spyer says, too heartily, ‘Well, yes, fancy you remembering our Betsy, Miss Malcolm.' He has snatched a wooden horse with wheels out of a tub, a cheap pull-along toy, and thrusts it into my hands. ‘From me, Betsy.'

I take the toy, for I would be cutting off my nose to spite my face if I were to turn it down, and place it in my bag. All the while, I consider the woman before me. She looks in better shape than when I last saw her, her portly thighs well strapped in. Her skin is clear and rosy, even if folded a little round the chin. And her hair, which I used to think the colour of mouse fur, straggling out of its bun, is caught up now and coiled around her head in a fashionable way. Altogether, she looks like a woman who pays attention to her looks.

‘Thank you so much,' I say, endeavouring to recover my wits, ‘but most people call me Mrs Guard these days.'

Miss Malcolm's hand flies to her mouth. ‘Oh my goodness Betsy, you are not her, not
the
Mrs Guard?'

I inform my old teacher that I am indeed Mrs Guard.

‘I did not recognise the name,' she says.

‘I was never Betsy Deaves,' I say. ‘Don't you remember, I did not take my stepfather's name?'

‘Neither you did,' she says. ‘But you were Betsy.'

‘And now I am Betty,' I say impatiently, for all this seems trivial. I show her the ring on my finger, the one that only a moment before I had tried to pawn to Mr Spyer, the gold band with its curving rim, studded with seed pearls. ‘I told you the day I left school that I was going to get married to a whaler.'

‘You were always a forward girl,' she says in a sharp tone.

This is a bad turn in the conversation for I have often thought of Miss Malcolm in the years since our paths last crossed, and more kindly than she might have expected. She believed in the gods, something I've had reason to ponder over. She had an ear for magic. I am about to say something to improve her opinion of me, but nothing comes out. She too can read a newspaper, better than most. She will have formed her own opinion of me, and I imagine she will see me as having brought it all upon myself.

I can't explain what happens then, but I find myself weeping, and the next thing I am being led away from the store by Miss Malcolm, before Mr Spyer's astonished gaze.

Of course the whole affair of Betty Guard and her rescue has been talked about in every salon in the town. Government House is not immune to speculation as to whether the rescued captive is a true heroine, or a woman no better than she should be. Only two nights earlier, Miss Malcolm had dined with the Governor and his guests when it was the subject on every tongue.

‘It does seem that something went on, wouldn't you say, something out of the ordinary?' This from Mrs Deas Thomson who is married to Clerk of the Council, and is also the daughter of the Governor. ‘Is Mrs Guard telling us the whole truth about what happened during her captivity?'

She puts these shocking questions to the assembled party while red wine is being poured to accompany the meat course. The crystal glitters under the chandeliers, like a small river of flame that makes Adie Malcolm remember candles snaking their way through the great churches of Italy. She closes her eyes and
for a moment she is under the high dome of the Duomo. This was a passing illusion for, despite the exalted company, the fine table settings and the undoubtedly superior furnishings, Government House in Sydney is little more than a rambling shack, draughty in winter and overheated in summer. Each new Governor has demanded in vain that a new one be built. None of this really matters to the governess: she is enchanted to be sitting between Mr Deas Thomson and Mr William Barrett Marshall, the surgeon who had been on board the
Alligator
, the ship that had led the expedition to rescue Betty Guard and her children from the cannibals of New Zealand. Anne Deas Thomson had been a friend of Emmeline Roddick and she remains true to her promise that she would continue to include Miss Malcolm in social gatherings when her patroness was with them no longer. Since Mrs Deas Thomson's mother died within months of Governor Bourke's arrival in the colony, she is now her father's official hostess — and the most powerful woman in Sydney. Miss Malcolm considers her hostess a woman without affectation, very merry and bright, and a wonderful singer, which makes her popular with both the ladies and gentlemen, even when she says quite outrageous things. Right now, it is clear from the expressions on the faces of some of the ladies, such as young Mrs Bowman, that the topic raised is not comfortable dinner conversation.

Miss Malcolm reminds herself that Mrs Bowman comes from a grazier's family, like her dear brother Percy's, where the emancipation of convicts is considered abominable (whether Percy has come to this by his own deductions or those of his wife Maude, his sister is unable to discern, but Percy was a boy who did not believe in harming snails). The view will prevail that Betty Guard would have been best left where she was.

All the same, she is surprised that Mrs Deas Thomson has raised the topic of Mrs Guard in this manner, for it is her father, the Governor, who has been so sympathetic to Mr Guard and the fate of his family. Perhaps Mrs Deas Thomson is not entirely at
ease with what has taken place and wishes to signal her concern.

‘Well,' Mrs Bowman begins, with a nervous clearing of her throat, ‘it has been said that she was wearing the very best of the New Zealanders' clothes, a feather mat, and her hair down and all over the place.'

‘Surely you're not suggesting she took to their ways?' says one of the gentlemen present. He is a fellowman of Gerald Roddick, the lately widowed husband of Emmeline, who is not present tonight, though from time to time he and Miss Malcolm do end up in each other's company in society, by accident rather than design. She wishes he was here, for if called on to give her views she might say something out of turn. The delicate matter of Mrs Guard has been raised in their household, and the lieutenant has been surprisingly dismissive of the captive wife, despite his enthusiasm for the rescue mission. Not that he had gone on it, for his health was indifferent at the time the expedition left. But he has heard a great deal about it from his comrades who retrieved the unfortunate family.

Miss Malcolm had been scandalised, reduced almost to tears, when she read the newspaper accounts. That poor woman, she had said repeatedly. To which the lieutenant had simply replied that it was a good thing to teach the New Zealanders a thing or two, and if a few of them had been shot it would remind them that British people were to be respected. Not a word about Mrs Guard.

Without thinking, Miss Malcolm exclaims to the assembled guests, ‘Surely not. Not a brown man with a white woman.'

A sudden hush falls around the table, and at once she knows she has spoken so far out of turn that she may never recover her position. Such lewd thoughts are not common to her, but even as she speaks she knows others have thought the same, by the way they glance at each other and away, and down at their plates. ‘I mean,' she hurries on, ‘she would have had no choice. If it were true at all. If, well, if anything untoward had happened.' She wishes she could stop herself from talking.

‘I agree,' says Mrs Deas Thomson evenly, as a waiter delivers portions of roast lamb, carved and ready for serving, on a huge platter. ‘Sad as it is, the evidence suggests that some white men will mix with dark-skinned women. But it would be against the natural inclination of brown or black men to associate with white women. Pass the vegetables and do begin or the food will get cold. I think someone should consider starting a collection for this family as they have had the greatest misfortune.'

The Governor has been deep in conversation with Mr Bowman, who is both a surgeon and a grazier, trying to convince him that if democracy is truly to exist in the colony, emancipated convicts should be entitled to serve on juries. His face is rather flushed as if the exertion of convincing the younger man is almost too much for him. ‘Perhaps,' says the Governor, anxious for diversion, ‘we should ask Mr Barrett Marshall for his opinion, since he was present during the rescue. Sir, what do you make of the matter? Surely, you can tell us how much Captain Guard has suffered?'

‘Sir, John Guard is naught but a murderer.' The surgeon's face is very pale. A line of sweat beads his upper lip as he spits these words. ‘You will know that there was a massacre of Maoris on the beach, after the boy, the last hostage, was retaken.'

‘I see,' says Governor Bourke. He reaches for his napkin and wipes his face, then folds it very carefully, placing it beside his plate, though his dinner is hardly touched.

‘Mr Barrett Marshall, is it possible that you have been led astray by the natives of New Zealand?'

‘I beg your pardon? I have been led astray?' The surgeon chooses his words with care, but the implication is there, that it is the other man who is at odds with truth.

Bourke's face darkens with dislike. ‘It happens, you know. Several missionaries have met their downfall in New Zealand. It's a seductive place for some men.'

‘What exactly is your point, sir?' The surgeon has earnest brown eyes. When Miss Malcolm had first been introduced to
him, she had thought him charming, even a trifle impish, but now she believes she detects a certain coldness about him.

But the Governor will not be drawn as the discussion threatens to spiral still further out of control. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,' he says, raising his glass, ‘a toast to the successful completion of the 50th's mission, and the restoration of Mr Guard's family to him, safe and well.'

The surgeon does not raise his glass, a fact that is noticed by most present, the men in particular, but goes unremarked. As the dinner is resumed, Miss Malcolm realises that if she does not talk to Barrett Marshall, nobody else will. Even Mrs Deas Thomson is looking chastened.

‘The poor man must surely have been out of his mind,' she says tentatively.

‘He was out of his mind with rage and jealousy. He would have murdered the chief who kept her safe, had he not been stopped. But plenty of others were killed on the same account.' The surgeon keeps his voice low and insistently soft, as if to make his points without being overheard.

‘By Captain Guard himself?'

The surgeon shrugs his shoulders and looks weary, as if all of this is academic.

‘I have met Captain Guard. Here, at this table,' says Miss Malcolm. ‘While his wife was still being held captive.'

‘Well, then, surely you understand what I am talking about.'

‘He looked merely sad. And he had little to say for himself.'

‘Well, I would have imagined you a good judge of character,' says Barrett Marshall. ‘Surely you saw him for what he was.'

‘If what you say is true, shouldn't he be brought to justice?'

‘It was his men,' says Barrett Marshall, with a sudden unease. ‘It was his men who shot the Maoris. Guard was back on board the ship.'

‘Then how can you say that it was him?'

‘They sought revenge on his behalf. His brother was among the murderers.'

‘You seem very sure in your judgments.'

‘The military were no better. They burnt and pillaged the homes of those humble savages. Not for nothing is the 50th Regiment known as the Dirty Half Hundred.'

‘Oh really sir, I must object — your language is unseemly.'

‘You're familiar with the works of Erasmus?' asks the surgeon, for they have discussed Miss Malcolm's classical interests over the fish soup and found common ground.

‘A little, yes,' says Miss Malcolm, aware that they are beginning to attract attention from others at the table.

‘They who deem it a trifling loss and injury when the poor and low are robbed, afflicted, banished, burnt out, oppressed, or put to death,' Mr Barrett Marshall quotes, in his persistent voice, ‘do in truth accuse Jesus Christ — the wisdom of the Father — of folly, for shedding his blood to save such wretches as these.'

‘I see,' says Miss Malcolm, who fears she may have a sliver of mutton bone stuck in her throat. She covers her mouth with her napkin, hoping not to attract attention. Mr Barrett Marshall is observing her intently. ‘I wouldn't have thought, from what Lieutenant Roddick has said …' But what the lieutenant had said goes unuttered, for Miss Malcolm thinks she is choking to death, the prickle in her throat grown to the size of a spear.

‘You're in trouble; let me take you to the drawing room. Don't panic, Miss Malcolm, just breathe quietly through your nose and follow me. I'll take care of you.'

The walk past the astonished faces of the assembled dinner party guests seems the longest Miss Malcolm has ever made. She remembers the children she has banished from her classes in years past, and feels very much as they must have — in as much as she can feel anything except the burning pain when she tries to swallow.

In the empty drawing room, the surgeon instructs her to lie back on a chaise longue beautifully covered with surf-green velvet, a tender and caressing colour which Miss Malcolm thinks she might shortly be sick on.

‘Please open your mouth,' says Mr Barrett Marshall. ‘You must be very calm. If I have to send for my instruments, then it becomes a matter of life and death that you remain composed so that your air passages remain open.' He peers into her mouth, and gives a triumphant little cry. ‘Why Miss Malcolm, all is well.' He reaches inside her mouth and grasps an object within, pulling it away. ‘See,' he says, holding the filament of bone to the lit candelabra, ‘it was stuck between your back teeth. Not a problem after all.'

Miss Malcolm lies back for a moment longer, in a state of confusion at the nearness of the man leaning over her. He does not draw away as quickly as she would have expected. Her hand flutters to her breast. He must be twenty years younger than she is.

‘All is well,' she is able to murmur at last.

‘Indeed.' The surgeon's white hand clasps hers for an instant, and then he withdraws it, sitting up straighter.

‘What must you think of me? I cannot go back into that room,' says Adie Malcolm. Her voice is husky and does not sound as if it belongs to her.

‘The soup was ample,' the surgeon says. ‘I am happy to sit here while we recover ourselves. Besides, I do not think the gentlemen at dinner are very pleased with me.'

‘You really believe Captain Guard is as bad as you described him in there?'

‘My dear lady, I tell you solemnly, that man has blood on his hands. He was a common felon. A man who has done very well for himself in these parts, even though he's crying poverty now. Have you not heard how, when he was on a sealing expedition, he abandoned two men to die on the Auckland Islands in the Antarctic winter without provisions? One of them survived to tell his story. Now if that is not murder, what is?'

‘Perhaps he had his reasons.'

‘Reasons. There are always reasons for Guard. He is a violent man. Doesn't what I have just said persuade you of that?'

‘It's hard to know what to believe,' Miss Malcolm says. Her head is swimming. ‘There's a growing view that convicts have rights too. The Governor is of that opinion.'

The surgeon lowers his eyes. His fingers look round and spongy. She shudders inwardly, that they have entered her mouth, as if she has tasted soft dough. The unkind cut about the lieutenant's regiment returns to her. ‘It was you who quoted Erasmus to me: are we not all wretches in the eyes of God?'

‘I shall find a servant to bring some brandy,' he says, ‘and then I think I will leave.' She understands the subject is closed between them.

‘Tell me then,' Miss Malcolm says, after some time has passed and they have drinks in their hands, ‘what then do you make of the woman, Mrs Guard?' She feels as if she owes her life to the surgeon, despite his stubbornness and the unattractive hands, and that she should make amends. Nor is she certain of her ground, which seems to shift even as they speak. Here is a man who professes to love the poor and wretched, and yet speaks so badly of others, especially of convicts.

And the truth is, she is constantly torn between one point of view and another. She would like to extend Christian charity but her expectations are so often failed when she encounters what she thinks of as the convict class (she has only to consider the lieutenant's cook and her surly rule in the kitchen). In her heart, she understands there is little point in asking the lieutenant in whose house she lives what he believes to be for the best. His target is always of the moment, chosen by his superiors. One day it will be the convicts (and soldiers have little use for them, for what are they but a natural enemy, the reason for the soldiers' existence in Sydney); the next day it will be the Maoris across the Tasman; another day it could be the Aboriginals.