The talented mrs greenwa.., p.23
The Talented Mrs Greenway, page 23
Lachlan hung his head.
‘Don’t worry, we’ll explain. I expect you and Frankie were so busy you didn’t notice how far you’d run. Come along.’
As she strode out along the sand the woman’s cries ceased. Skirt hitched, untamed copper-coloured curls flying, she ran towards them.
When they met, she snatched the boy into her arms. Tears streaked her pale cheeks. ‘My darling boy, I thought I’d lost you. Thank you, thank you so much for finding him.’
‘I don’t think he was truly lost. My boy, Frankie …’ she ruffled his shiny hair, ‘… was playing on the sand and their paths crossed. They were having a fine time.’
‘This is Lachlan. He knows better than to run from me.’ She placed a proprietorial hand on his shoulder. ‘Lachlan Macquarie. I am Elizabeth Macquarie, the governor’s wife.’
Pale winter-blue eyes pinned Mary with a direct gaze. She smiled and held out her hand. Take that, Mr Bent. ‘Mary Greenway, my husband is …’
‘Oh, good heavens! Are you the architect’s wife?’
She’d never thought of herself like that. ‘Francis Greenway is my husband, yes.’
‘And your son, named for his father, as is Lachlan. Are they not a joy and a trial, these boys.’
‘Indeed, they are. We call Francis Frankie to differentiate between him and his father.
‘And Lachlan is Lachie, for the same reason. Is Frankie your only child?’
Mary laughed, the picture of the hubbub that always filled the rambling house foremost in her mind. She’d imagined once they’d moved into the larger premises life would have become more settled, but they had simply expanded to fill the space. ‘He has two older brothers—George and William—so I am familiar with boys’ antics.’
A shadow flickered across Mrs Macquarie’s face. ‘Three boys.’
‘And a girl, Caroline, she’s nine months old.’
‘How very, very lucky you are. I have not been so favoured.’ She drew in a deep breath and her face brightened. ‘Lachie is very special to me; he is our only child. We lost our daughter, Jane, when she was only two and a half months old.’ Her voice hitched. ‘Lachie is all we have.’ She squeezed Lachlan’s hand then proceeded to smother him in kisses, something he didn’t appreciate one little bit.
‘Perhaps the boys could play a little longer. They were having such fun. It is lovely for Frankie to have the company of someone his own age. His brothers are several years older than he is.’
‘Why not. It’s early yet. Will you walk with me? There’s a spot on the point where I like to sit. The view is very fine.’ She let Lachlan’s hand drop, and without pausing for breath he and Frankie took off. ‘We could talk while the boys amuse themselves under our watchful eyes. Something which would make me much happier.’
Obviously the governor’s wife didn’t suffer from the same social inhibitions as the gentlemen of the High Court. ‘Let me fetch my basket. I was hoping to find the fisher women down here.’
‘At first, I thought there was no rhyme or reason to the days they chose but lately I’ve noticed it depends on the wind. They seem to know when the fish are running. My husband is very keen to encourage the natives. He presented a proper boat to them some time back, hoping to ease their toil, as their own canoes are such frail little things.’
Frail little craft that seemed quite suited for their purpose. Mary buttoned her lips and collected her basket while Mrs Macquarie held tightly onto the two boys. Then they set off along the path until they reached a large sandstone outcrop.
‘Here we are.’ Mrs Macquarie came to a halt and spread her arms. ‘My favourite spot in the colony. Can I offer you some refreshments?’
The shallow cave was a perfect height and shape to sit. There were sumptuous pillows and cushions and a jug of what looked remarkably like a fruit cordial covered with a lace doily, a glass waiting, and an open book—obviously Mrs Macquarie had dropped it in her frantic search for her son. She delved into a hamper and produced a second glass and raised her eyebrows. ‘I like to be prepared.’
‘That would be lovely, thank you. I am thirsty.’
Once they were settled on the cushions with drinks in their hands Mrs Macquarie let out a long slow breath. ‘I believe you arrived on the Broxbournebury; you had excellent company. Our Chief Justice, Mr Bent, the Reverend Vale, Sir John Jamison, and Sarah Blades and her three children to name but a few.’
Was there anyone in the colony Mrs Macquarie didn’t know? Less said the better perhaps. ‘I kept mostly to my cabin though Mr Bent was very kind.’ Mr Bent and his wine, chocolate and oranges had done more to bolster her courage than anything else on the terrifying voyage. It was a shame he’d wiped away his good deeds earlier with one sweep of his gloved hand.
‘He spoke very highly of you. Sadly, his time here is proving difficult, swayed I believe by his brother’s expectations. Rumour had it he believed a knighthood might be in the offing.’
Which might go some way to explaining his toffee-nosed attitude when they’d met.
‘And now you are living in George Street in the assistant surgeon’s old residence?’
‘Yes, Dr Redfern kindly vacated the premises just before Caroline’s birth. There are repairs to be done but it is more comfortable and larger than the little cottage we had originally. Much more comfortable than many, I fear.’
‘The trials and tribulations of our life here in the colony. Government House is a shambles. When it rains, we have a veritable torrent of water through the back of the house and every surface becomes covered in mildew, in winter the August winds seem to find every gap in the walls. I’m hopeful we might have a new residence soon. I believe my husband intends to speak to Mr Greenway about the possibilities. Before his arrival we managed some repairs and an extra room or two in between the construction of the church of St Philip and the new wharf. There is so much that needs to be done.’ Her mouth pulled down at the corners and she let out a long sigh.
Mary couldn’t curb her smile. She’d hazard a guess that Mrs Macquarie’s life was very different to hers, very different to most women in the colony, surrounded as she must be by servants accommodating her every whim.
‘Do you take an interest in your husband’s work? I find myself constantly drawn into Lachlan’s affairs.’
Mary’s hand strayed towards her basket, about to show Mrs Macquarie the drawing she’d been working on earlier, but then she snatched it back. ‘I can admit to an interest in architecture, but I rarely do more than offer an opinion.’ Possibly better not to admit too much interest in Francis’s work—after all, she had no role in Mrs Macquarie’s eyes other than that of a convict’s wife. ‘I do the occasional drawing.’ She swallowed the lump in her throat. One day she would.
Mrs Macquarie glanced over her shoulder. ‘I frequently find myself acting as secretary, writing letters, particularly those to England.’ She raised an eyebrow and peered intently at Mary’s sketchpad poking up out of her basket.
‘Just some foolish doodling, I find it calms my mind.’ Mary tucked her sketchpad deeper into the basket. ‘In fact, I was being a little maudlin, remembering the past.’ There was no way she was going to get out of the corner she’d backed herself into. ‘My father was very involved in the design of the house I lived in as a child.’ No need to mention James. Her life with him seemed like a distant dream—a nightmare she wouldn’t wish on any woman. ‘It’s simply a sketch of my home in England. I first met Mr Greenway when he came to suggest some additions.’
‘May I see?’ Without waiting for an answer Mrs Macquarie helped herself, a tiny frown marring her forehead as she leafed through the pages until she came to Mary’s original drawing of Manali with the portico. ‘This is delightful. It is exactly what we need at Government House in Parramatta, the building is as flat and bland as cold custard. I have been working on some repairs and renovations for several years. We sought inspiration from a lovely book of designs by Gyfford, and my husband’s aide-decamp Captain Watts has been a great help to me.’
So Mrs Reibey was correct about Mrs Macquarie’s interest in architecture.
‘Would you ask Mr Greenway if he could draw up some plans for a portico?’
‘It would be my pleasure.’ However, she doubted he’d have to work overlong on it because she had already drawn up the plans and elevations when Francis had first lent her Chambers’s book and they were neatly tucked in her folio in the sea chest.
‘You must miss your home. My childhood home in Scotland holds so many memories for me. We used a similar design for the Female Orphan School at Parramatta and laid the foundation stone several years ago but sadly progress has been slow, and we still haven’t managed to move the children. Perhaps Mr Greenway could …’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘I must speak to Macquarie again. I would very much like to see the poor girls away from the pernicious influence of the town.’
Mary nodded in agreement, although she most definitely was not going to become involved in the orphanage, particularly as the odious Samuel Marsden was said to be supervising the construction. Francis had been on the receiving end of one of his tongue lashings not long ago. As the only Church of England cleric in the colony and magistrate to boot he was very much a champion of the exclusives and had little time for anyone tainted by a convict past. She doubted the children under his care had an easy life.
In an attempt to change the subject, Mary took back her sketchpad and turned to the drawing she’d made while Frankie was playing, of the house on the rise overlooking the cove. ‘I transplanted my original home to the rise behind us, with a few additions.’
Mrs Macquarie studied it for many moments, then lifted her face and beamed. ‘Why it is glorious, such whimsical splendour. A building like this would be perfectly fitting as the governor’s house.’ Her finger traced the soaring dome cupola. ‘This is most interesting.’
‘My father had a fascination for the buildings of the Mughal emperors. He spent many years in India.’
‘And this, what is this?’ She indicated towards the two drawings Mary had made after her visit to Thornbury Castle.
‘Nothing but more scribblings, a place called Thornbury Castle. Mr Greenway was asked to suggest repairs after it fell into disrepair.’
‘Mr Greenway is a very lucky man. I have no doubt you are invaluable to him … I hadn’t realised …’
How had she allowed this to happen? No one realised, and it was better it stayed that way. ‘I was simply taken by the solidity of the building, the sense of permanence, and I particularly liked the gatehouse.’ She flipped to the quaint little building she’d drawn and redrawn numerous times.
‘Permanence and solidity. That is exactly what we need to create in the colony. These commodious and castellated buildings are perfect.’ Mrs Macquarie swept her hand up over her head and around to encompass the vista towards the ocean then, behind her, the treed slope and the somewhat shambolic house where she lived. ‘May I show the governor your designs?’
Mary’s stomach sank. No! She most definitely could not. Whatever would the governor think? That Francis relied on a woman, albeit his wife, to fulfil his role as civil architect? She shuddered. His reputation would be in tatters. He could lose his position and then where would they be? She swallowed, drew in a breath, and took back the sketchpad. ‘I couldn’t bear to think of you showing my paltry scribblings to the governor. Perhaps he could speak with Mr Greenway and ask him to produce some designs which would be worthy of your attention. I would hate to intrude on Mr Greenway’s position; he is a proud man and I owe him more than I can ever repay.’ Whatever had let those words fly free? A change of subject was needed. ‘I’d like to draw a picture of Lachlan and Frankie playing on the sand, would you mind?’
‘I’d be delighted. I shan’t disturb you. I shall take a wander and keep a closer eye on them.’
Relieved she had escaped such a close call, Mary leafed through the pages at the back where she kept her portraits: George and William as little boys, Francis standing, arms crossed, a proud tilt to his head, outside the Clifton Assembly Rooms. Not that he’d posed for the portrait; she’d done it from memory, wanting to mark the occasion of its completion—something he would never agree to after his run-in with Joseph Kay, and on the back the sketch of Arthur Phillip that she’d completed on the voyage out while musing on his role in Francis’s trial and incarceration. She smoothed the drawing of George and William and turned it over. Maybe she could ask Bill if he could find her some more paper— Francis would be in need too.
A laugh drifted in on the breeze: the boys, hunkered down in the sandy soil burrowing with all their might, searching for buried treasure or digging to China under Mrs Macquarie’s watchful gaze. Mary picked up her pencil.
As always time slipped away and when she next lifted her head the sun had dipped behind the trees and a chill wind blew from the water.
‘You’re very talented.’
She jumped; she hadn’t heard Mrs Macquarie return. ‘It’s just a sketch.’
‘May I have a closer look?’
Mary tipped the page towards Elizabeth. ‘I’ll find some time one evening to fill out the details.’
‘If I may be so bold I would very much like a portrait of Lachie, to send to my family, to my dear niece. You share a name—she is Mary, Mary Mclaine.’ Mrs Macquarie’s voice hitched, and she ducked her head in a vain attempt to hide the tears pooling in her eyes.
‘It would be my pleasure.’ Mary reached out and touched her shoulder. It hadn’t occurred to her to imagine the governor’s wife would be less than happy with her situation. ‘Frankie and I must be leaving. I have indulged myself far too long. Caroline will be wanting to be fed and I have no doubt George and William are running riot; they detest their lessons.’
Mrs Macquarie rose from her embroidered cushions and held out her hand. ‘I have so enjoyed our chat. Can we not meet again? Perhaps when your drawing of Lachie is complete. I’m sure the boys would love to play. Send me a note when you are ready, and please call me Elizabeth, and I will call you Mary. We shall be friends. We have so much in common.’
Mary inclined her head. ‘It would be my pleasure.’ Quite when or if she would ever be ready depended very much on Francis’s response to her encounter, or perhaps she simply wouldn’t tell him. She should take a lesson from Mr Bent’s attitude. She didn’t need to make a name for herself, or Francis, by breaching the social boundaries of Sydney Town.
Mary held tightly to Frankie’s hand as they made their way down George Street. Despite the crippling heat the pubs became busier as Christmas approached, with bodies spewing out onto the street, staggering men, and boisterous banter. It was much later than she intended but she’d been so caught up with her meeting with Elizabeth she hadn’t noticed the sun sinking. Poor Hannah had been alone with Caroline, George and William all afternoon. The boys were becoming more and more of a handful and if Francis got home their antics would send him into a flat spin.
She pushed open the gate and ushered Frankie up the path to the open door. The house was unnaturally quiet, never a good sign.
She was greeted by the sight of George and William sitting on the doorstep, both their faces pale and the streak of tears down their dirty cheeks. ‘Boys! Whatever has happened?’
William buried his head in his lap.
‘George, what have the two of you done?’
‘Nothing!’ George bounded to his feet. ‘Hannah sent us away. Said we shouldn’t see it.’
It was like squeezing blood from sandstone. ‘See what?’
A howl from William took her attention.
‘There, there. It’ll be all right.’
William shook his head. ‘There’s blood, blood everywhere. I don’t like that man.’
‘What man? Has something happened to Hannah?’
‘It’s Papa. The man horsewhipped him.’
Her stomach churned. ‘Horsewhipped? Don’t be ridiculous.’ Even the worst convicts weren’t horsewhipped—flogged, and horribly so with a cat-o’-nine-tails, but not horsewhipped—and besides, how would William know what it meant to be horsewhipped? ‘Stay here and look after your brother.’ She dumped Frankie down, closed the door behind her and bolted to the kitchen.
Francis sat on a stool, stripped to the waist, blood dripping from his head and a long snaking welt running from his shoulder, across his back all the way down to his waist. ‘Whatever has happened?’
When he lifted his head the look of anguish on his face seared her heart.
‘Looks like he’s caught the wrong end of a horsewhip to me.’
Mary spun around. ‘Bill! What happened?’
‘Found him in the narrow lane between the markets, where the old fellow who keeps my spot throws his blanket. Thought Mr Greenway’d had too much and needed a hand home, but he’s not drunk. Needs his wife and family around him at a time like this. The military think they’re God’s gift.’
She snatched the cloth from Hannah and made a hopeless job of dabbing at Francis’s battered skin.
‘Leave me be.’ He pushed her hand aside. ‘I’m going to have him charged with assault.’
‘Who?’ She shot a look at Bill, making himself at home, lounging against the back door. ‘Why are you still here?’ she hissed.
‘Thought I might be able to help but I’ll be off now. Let me know if you need anything.’ He tugged the brim of his hat and slipped out into the darkness.
Mary crouched down and peered into Francis’s ravaged face. ‘Who did this?’
‘Sanderson.’ His lip curled, as though the taste of the man’s name on his tongue was more than he could bear.
Captain Sanderson! As dreadful as Francis’s injuries were, she had to dissuade him. No one would pay any attention to a ticket-of-leave fellow, civil architect or not, against a member of the military. Not just any member either, he was also the Worshipful Master of Captain Piper’s Masonic lodge.
She dabbed at the wound on his shoulder. ‘I’m sure it is just a nasty misunderstanding.’ She of all people knew how easily Francis could snap, and heavens only knew how he might have retaliated.
