Hester Waring's Marriage (3 page)

 

‘Dilhorne! Hey, Dilhorne, come here, damn you!'

Tom Dilhorne sauntering, apparently idly, along under the hot midday sun of a busy weekday—although nothing Tom did was ever genuinely idle—ignored the contemptuous cry behind him and strolled on.

The man who had called after him was Jack Cameron, Hester's recent tormentor, who was one of a group of of
ficers of the 73rd Highland Regiment, part of the garrison which guarded Sydney and its surrounding districts in New South Wales in 1812. Several of the officers laughed openly at his anger. It was not that they liked Dilhorne, but Jack was far from popular with his fellow officers.

Jack, aware of their barely concealed amusement, swore beneath his breath, started forward, caught Tom by the shoulder and tried to swing him around. This was a little difficult as he was shorter and slighter than Tom, who was one of the largest men in the colony.

‘Damme, Dilhorne. Can't you answer when a gentleman speaks to you?'

‘A gentleman, is it? So that's what you are,' muttered Tom, pulling away from the detaining hand, bending his head to look down at Jack from his greater height.

His barely masked insolence was not lost on Jack, who had missed Tom's exact words but had caught his intent. His dark face darkened even further. No damned ex-convict was going to speak to him in such a fashion.

‘Goddammit, you felon! If it ain't bad enough to be sent to the ends of the earth, but we have to endure the insolence of the rogues we're sent to guard as well!'

His eyes raked Tom's appearance dismissively. He added, after further looking him up and down as though he were something vile laid out for a gentleman to sneer at, ‘Even if you are tricked out to ape your betters these days, Dilhorne, you still look like the scum you are!'

Tom's face remained impassive under these insults.

‘You wished to speak to me?' he drawled. He managed, without trying, to sound vaguely menacing.

Jack exclaimed roughly, ‘They tell me that you have a hoss for sale. How much d'you want for it? And no tricking me, mind.'

‘Shouldn't dream of it,' murmured Tom, bright blue
eyes hard on Jack's black ones. ‘If I had one to sell, that is. Only, I ain't.' He brushed the dark blue shoulder of his fashionable coat where Jack had held it, almost absent-mindedly, but the hint of danger which always hung about him was in that, as in everything else he did.

His answer was a lie and the man opposite to him knew it was. True, Tom had had a horse for sale, but the moment Jack had enquired about it, Tom had withdrawn it from the market. He knew of Jack's reputation with dogs, horses and women, and had no intention of allowing his good black to be mistreated by such a creature. Would keep it rather.

Jack's anger mounted. ‘You know damned well you have a hoss for sale, Dilhorne. Ramsey here told me of it, didn't you, Ramsey?'

Captain Patrick Ramsey, who didn't know which of the two men he liked less, Jack or Dilhorne—the one being a cad and the other beneath a gentleman's consideration—shrugged his shoulders, and offered carelessly, ‘So I thought I heard.'

‘There, you see,' said Tom equably, ‘A rumour. I'm sorry you were deceived by it, Captain…Cameron…ain't it?'

‘You know damned well who I am,' roared the enraged Jack.

‘Seeing that we've not been introduced…' Tom began.

This outrageous statement amused all the officers but Jack. Tom thought that, with luck, he might begin to gibber if he baited him much more. The mere idea of a Highland officer and gentleman being introduced to such as Tom Dilhorne…

‘If that is all, Cameron—' Tom was now politeness itself ‘—you will allow me to take my leave.' His manner was so coolly courteous that it added fuel to Jack's anger.

‘Sir to me, Dilhorne,' he shrieked, only to find Tom bowing slightly to him and his fellow officers.

‘Good day to you, Captain Cameron, gentlemen.' And his bow encompassed the other officers before he turned to saunter away.

Jack began to follow him—only to be pulled back by Pat Ramsey.

‘No,' said Ramsey, sharply. ‘Dammit, Jack, why give him the opportunity to roast you? Whatever else, he has the wit of the devil. You should know that by now.'

‘Take your hands off me, Ramsey,' Jack snarled. ‘You know damn well that he has a hoss for sale. He's insulting me by refusing to sell it to me. You know that.'

‘It's his horse to do as he pleases with,' said Pat reasonably. ‘Why give him the pleasure of taking you down?'

‘Because these…Emancipists…and Dilhorne in particular, are getting too big for their boots since Macquarie became Governor here. Who'd have thought that he, of all people, would be sweet on felons? Push them up to be the equal of gentlemen. He'll be making magistrates of them yet. Dilhorne and that low creature, Will French—you'll see.'

‘Doing it too brown, Jack,' said Pat easily. He was always one of life's observers. ‘Not even Macquarie would make a magistrate of Dilhorne.'

There were times when Pat felt a grudging admiration for the man. Until recently Dilhorne had worn the clothes of an ex-felon. These clothes, loose black or grey trousers and jacket, battered felt hat and a red-and-white spotted neckerchief, were almost a uniform and it was doubtless their lack which had enraged Jack. He resented the sight of an ex-felon losing his outward and visible brand and pretending to be a gentleman by wearing a gentleman's
clothes. Only trouble was, rumour said that Dilhorne had made himself the richest man in the colony.

Pat shrugged. That was Dilhorne's business, not his. Stupid of Jack to let the man rile him so, but then, Jack had always been a hot-headed fool unable to control his temper.

To placate Jack he said lightly, ‘How about a drink? Wash away the taste of this place a little. Forget we're here when we're in the mess. Imagine we're back home.'

‘You're right. At least once we're there we don't have to talk to scum such as Dilhorne and his kind. My dream is to see that impudent dog writhing beneath the lash again before we leave Sydney.'

He called back to the others, ‘Come on, let's go in out of the damned sun and pretend that we're anywhere but here, being insulted by felons!'

 

Tom emerged from his livery stable driving his gig. He looked up and down the road and watched the officers disappearing in the direction of the Barracks. Well, at least they were not there to see the direction in which
he
was travelling. That would merely have served to give Cameron another attack of the dismals so severe it might have caused him an apoplexy.

He laughed to himself, flicked his whip lightly on his horse's flanks and drove in the direction of Government House to visit Governor Macquarie. Passing a chain gang, he raised his whip in reply to a hoarse cry of ‘Mornin', Tom,' from one of them, saluting them more courteously than he had done Jack Cameron.

He had been such a labourer once himself, and, if chance now saw him rich, well-dressed and behind a prime
piece of horseflesh, he did not allow that to make him forget what he had once been.

Fleetingly, and for no reason at all, he found himself thinking of Hester Waring and the School Board which was meeting on the morrow. He wondered briefly how she was faring before the world of business claimed him again.

H
ester Waring was painfully trying to make ends meet in the last few days before the School Board met to decide her fate.

Mrs Cooke, taking pity on her, had agreed to Hester's request that she help her in her little business as a sempstress. She was supplementing her late husband's tiny pension by making shirts, dresses and underclothing for men and women, and she was beginning to acquire more orders than she could cope with.

Once she understood that Miss Waring's request for employment was serious, she passed on the less fine work, and also instructed her in the more elaborate sewing. What Hester earned was enough to pay the rent for her room and leave enough over to shield her from total ruin.

Mrs Cooke was beginning to worry about her lodger, who resolutely refused to accept any form of charity from her. She would have been even more distressed if she had known what was beginning to happen to Hester in the false euphoria that near starvation was bringing on.

Ever since reaching Sydney, Hester had acquired an internal voice which said irreverent and dreadful things to her and informed her of people's real motives rather than
their spoken ones. Lately it had developed the unpleasant habit of using the most unsuitable language which it had apparently picked up from Fred Waring when he was in drink, or in the grog shop from which Hester had often rescued him.

Hester herself never used such language aloud, did not know where the cynical knowledge about her fellows came from and was alternately amused and appalled by her Mentor, as she came to call the voice: it so often advised her what to do. At first she tried to suppress it, but (correctly) came to understand that, far from driving her mad, it was saving her sanity.

Her Mentor was now nastily informing her that if she could not pay her rent or her bills, even Mrs Cooke's kindness would have its limits. No, her only salvation was the School Board meeting and she would think of that and not beyond it.

Even so it might not be wise, she thought, to arrive at the interview in a state of near collapse, so she accepted Mrs Cooke's offer of tea on the evening before it: it would be churlish to refuse everything. She happily ate a large slice of fruit cake, having been slyly informed by Mrs Cooke that she had made it a few days ago and Hester would do her a favour by eating it.

 

Nevertheless, she woke the next morning feeling sick with fear. She broke her fast with a piece of dry bread and some butter which Mrs Cooke had given her on the pretext that it was going off and shouldn't be wasted.

‘Surely, Miss Waring, you could find a use for it,' she said. She knew how important this post was to Hester, and she handed her a tankard of ale, saying, ‘You really ought to have a little something inside to warm you, Miss Waring, before you go.'

Perhaps the ale was a mistake. True, it had warmed Hester at first, but had also served to increase the strange state of light-headed giddiness which seemed to have overpowered her lately. Hester was not informed enough to know that she was suffering from near starvation and was beginning to display many of its symptoms.

She could not but own, as she examined herself in her cracked looking-glass, that even her best dress was dismal enough and hardly served to improve an already dragged-down appearance. Nevertheless, she did what she could to try to give the impression of eager liveliness which she thought might impress the Board.

All except that monstrous ogre, Dilhorne, damn him—nothing which she did would impress
him
. Hester's Mentor seemed even more disastrously vulgar and outspoken than ever this morning. It was greatly at odds with her downtrodden and demure appearance. Oh, boo to all geese! she thought as she stepped out into one of Sydney's few light drizzles with only a shawl to protect her.

The rain scarcely improved her appearance. Her hair became stuck to her face and attempts to dry it with an inadequate pocket-handkerchief didn't help much.

Jardine, the Board's clerk, raised his eyes to heaven when she came in through the back door, as instructed. He wondered why the girl hadn't taken a little more trouble over her toilette. Besides she didn't look strong enough to do anything at all which required exertion. Even caring for small children seemed beyond her.

‘Ah, Miss Waring. Early, I see. Good, good, punctuality is everything,' he said smoothly, carefully concealing his dismay. A kind man, he wished that he had offered her some advice. He knew that she was poor, but even Jardine did not know of the depths into which Fred Waring's
daughter had sunk, and how little use his advice would have been since Hester had no means of carrying it out.

He courteously bowed her into an ante-room panelled in cedar. The Board's offices were part of a building given over to minor Government departments and the ante-room was sufficiently large and well appointed to allow Hester to wait in comfort. She saw none of the Board's members. They were obviously using another door. Probably the big one with a huge brass ring in the middle which opened into George Street.

Despite Jardine's approving comment, she soon concluded that being early was a mistake, for once Jardine had taken himself away, murmuring kindly, ‘My best wishes for your success go with you, Miss Waring,' she had far too much time to agonise over what was about to happen.

She had just reached the point when she thought that her application was so hopeless that she might as well go home and spare herself humiliation, when Jardine put his head around the door and said that the Board was now in session and would see her.

She found herself in a big room with an oak table facing the door. The Board sat along one side of it. Godfrey Burrell as Chairman was in the middle. There was one empty seat which she quickly realised, on looking around, was the odious Dilhorne's. He had not come after all! She felt so giddy with joy at this reprieve that she hardly heard Jardine ask her for her name.

As though they don't know me already! For she was well aware that all of Sydney knew drunken Fred Waring's unfortunate daughter.

She had just managed to stammer it out and Jardine was writing it down, after Godfrey Burrell had solemnly said,
‘The clerk will duly note that in the book,' when a door behind the Board opened, and a man came in.

Hester did not immediately recognise him. The newcomer was a picture of sartorial elegance. It was not only his beautifully cut suit—Hester remembered seeing such in the Warings' better days—but he wore an embroidered waistcoat of a magnificence which she had seldom seen before. Pinky-mauve Chinese peonies rioted delicately across it. Its silver buttons were set with minute diamonds: yes, diamonds, her dazzled eyes told her, and he was carrying a beaver hat in the new style, and an ebony cane topped by a Chinese idol carved from ivory.

He sat down and said in an elegant drawl, ‘Your pardon, Miss Waring, fellow Board members and Mr Jardine, but I was detained by the Governor, who asked me to send you his apologies for keeping me. But the matter discussed was urgent.'

It was only when he turned his brilliant blue eyes full on her that Hester realised that this stunning vision, who was also the Governor's friend, was her father's ogre, Tom Dilhorne!

She was so overset by this that she lost track of everything and sat, a picture of confusion, her mouth slightly open. It struck her that the reason she had seen so little of him in Sydney's streets recently was not that he was missing from them, but that she had been looking for someone entirely unlike the man he now was.

Tom, looking down on at her from his seat next to the Chairman, was seized with an enormous pity. If this was the best that she could do for such an important occasion, then she must be at an even lower ebb than Jardine had privately informed him. He also thought that he knew why she had gone such a hectic red, and then an ugly white when he came in, and he damned the dead Fred Waring,
something which he was to do with increasing frequency in the coming months.

Dismally aware that her performance, never very brilliant, was rapidly deteriorating into incoherence, Hester pulled back her shoulders and tried to recover herself. Godfrey Burrell asked her, foolishly, she thought, ‘And pray, Miss Waring, what are your scholastic attainments— I mean, in the more serious areas of learning?'

As though, she thought disdainfully, I am going to be teaching the little ones Caesar and Livy, but her answer was polite. ‘I was taught by my brother's tutor and I have a tolerable command of Latin and some Greek.'

This statement, coolly made, seemed to impress all the Board except the ogre, who leaned forward and asked, ‘So you think that a knowledge of the classics will be useful to the youth of Sydney, Miss Waring?'

‘That is the Board's decision, not mine, Mr Dilhorne,' she retorted. ‘Should they wish me to ground them in
amo
,
amas
, so be it!'

This show of spirit appeared to amuse the monster. ‘And figuring, Miss Waring? How do you stand on figuring?'

‘I can calculate a percentage as well as any, Mr Dilhorne.'

‘Ah, you would make a useful addition to my counting-house, then, Miss Waring,' he returned smoothly. ‘Some of my clerks seem a little unsure about percentages.'

‘I thought that I was being hired to teach small children, not your clerks,' was Hester's mutinous—and spirited—response to this sally.

‘Indeed, but one likes to learn of competence, wherever one finds it, Miss Waring.'

This exchange of discourtesies would have gone on longer had not Godfrey Burrell glared at them both and in the tone of one calling the meeting to order announced
repressively, ‘About small children, Miss Waring, I hope that you believe in the old maxim, “Spare the rod and spoil the child”.'

Before she could stop herself, Hester, whose face had become increasingly animated as she sparred with the ogre, came out with what she immediately knew was the wrong answer. ‘Indeed, I do not believe in the rod, Mr Burrell. I am of the opinion that more is achieved by affection than by severity.'

For some reason which she could not understand, the damnable Dilhorne seemed to find this answer amusing—if the smile he gave her was any indication of his true thoughts. God sink him—a favourite oath of her father's—and his fine clothes, too, was her Mentor's nasty reaction.

In an effort to mend fences which now seemed broken beyond belief, if Robert Jardine's expression was anything to go by, she added, ‘But, of course, I should hope to be able to control the children with, or without, the rod.'

Tom would have liked to say bravo to this display of spirit; etiquette demanded that he restrain himself, but it could not prevent him from inwardly noting that there was a great deal more to Miss Waring than her unpromising exterior would allow.

The interview continued. Hester felt that she was hardly covering herself with glory. She was again rude to Godfrey Burrell when he announced patronisingly that he did not expect the girls to be brought along at the same pace as the boys. She next reprimanded the infernal Dilhorne when he asked a perfectly reasonable question about methods of teaching a group of children of different ages and accomplishments.

She was painfully aware that her manner veered between the spiritlessly servile and the unpleasantly rude—the latter whenever she caught Tom Dilhorne's sardonic
blue eyes on her. After she had made her unlucky statement about sparing the rod, it was plain that the majority were not happy about her ability to control children, either.

The ogre had thrown his sandy head back and was contemplating the ceiling. She hoped he liked it. He suddenly dropped his head, saw her staring at him and for one dreadful moment she thought that he was about to wink at her. She must be going mad! She put her trembling hands together, and as she did so Tom winced at the sight, so red raw were they.

The interview was at last drawing to an end and she feared by Jardine's expression, the amusement of the ogre—what could he be smiling at?—and the nature of the Board's response to her later answers, that she had thrown away her one chance of avoiding starvation.

What was worse, she also feared that if they did not end the interview soon she would faint before them all. The pangs of hunger, which had grown very strong of late, were beginning to trouble her so much that they were almost unbearable.

Hester would have been greatly surprised to know that there was one member of the Board who was well aware of what was wrong with her, and that was the man whom she so bitterly resented. He was cloaking his pity, which he instinctively knew she would fiercely reject, beneath a mask of amused indifference.

Besides, it would not do to let his fellow Board members know of his sympathy. He must push them gently towards hiring her if he were to take them with him. He had no doubt of her competence: it shone through her weariness and misery.

Presently it was over. Hester, her heart hovering somewhere above her shabby shoes, rose and bowed before leaving the Board to their deliberations. Tom had one last
memory of her at the end of the interview. She was sitting forlornly before them, head bowed, red hands in her lap. If he had never seen quiet desperation before, he saw it then. He listened to his fellow Board members talking and it was plain that they did not know what was wrong with Hester.

Burrell's comment was that he found Miss Waring's manner unpleasant.

‘No common sense,' said Fitzgerald sharply. ‘She'd not even be able to control small children. And a plain piece, too,' he added.

Tom, while agreeing with him about Hester's looks, was not quite sure what they had to do with schoolteaching. Some, he knew, might consider her plainness an advantage.

‘She's starving,' he offered bluntly. ‘That's why she's so plain and skinny and has such a bad colour.'

They stared at him. But Tom had seen hunger and its consequences in his London days and he recognised them in Hester. The sticklike arms, the hollow cheeks and throat, with the bones sharp against the skin, the face all eyes, and the eyes dull and sunk into the head, the sallow complexion and the lustreless hair. By her appearance she had not enjoyed a good meal for years. His dislike for his fellows, always great, grew. Well fed, hard drinkers all, they would not know a starving creature if it dropped dead before them.