Page 30 of Lizzie’s Spirit

From: The Female Orphanage, New South Wales

Dearest Jane—

In my last letter, I told Mama how I was appointed matron of the female orphanage.

Can you imagine your little sister in such a role?

I can barely credit it myself! Yes! I’m in paid work—what a scandal this would cause in Meryton.

But ‘tis something I must do; for to return to you in England, I must get together my fare, which may go as high as two hundred and fifty pounds—what a sum!

I fear it will take some years to accumulate.

But there’s other news: I’m to establish a school—yes, a school for girls!

A dear, sweet man, Mr. Andrew Thompson, is bequeathing monies for such a purpose, and I shall be in charge.

No! Not as Schoolmistress, but as Warden; the Patroness will be the governor’s wife, Mrs. Macquarie.

(The correct word for ‘female warden’ is ‘wardeness’, but that is so awkward—so a warden I shall be!) Together with Mr. Darcy, we’ve begun planning: we’ll advertise for qualified persons as teachers and fit out a house Mr. Thompson owns here in Sydney with schoolrooms and the like.

We shall teach scripting, arithmetic, history, geography, astronomy, agriculture, housekeeping (reluctantly, embroidery!)—oh!

all of those subjects dear Papa and Mama taught me.

What fun! What accomplished girls they shall be.

But, dear sister, oh, how I wish I could curl up in bed with you as we did at Longbourn and talk about the day; that was one of my greatest pleasures.

Whilst I’m kept active with the orphanage and planning for the school, my evenings, I confess, have become a sore trial.

I seem to be much in society, with dinners and even some balls, which are mostly aboard visiting vessels, for there is space enough on the quarterdeck for dancing, with the band serenading from the poop.

You may envy me, but in truth, ofttimes I wish I did not attend.

But ‘tis a duty. I’m a public figure: matron of the orphanage, and many of the merchants and settlers are patrons, giving generously to the institution; I must flatter them, particularly their wives, to whom I offer those little delicate compliments that are always acceptable to ladies.

Do not laugh, dear sister! Yes, this is I, impertinent Elizabeth, she of caustic wit and misplaced humour, now making sweet nothings, surprising myself by possessing a talent for flattering with delicacy.

I must confess that, though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible. Jane, you must laugh at such absurdity!

If it were not enough, I’m in much demand as midwife.

Why is this so? Because the midwife at the hospital, Mrs. Sims, is not at all careful with her hygiene, which I’m sure is important to the health of both the new babe and mother.

This feeling is not science, but I’ve always feared the dangers of dirt, miasma, and squalor.

And how can an infant thrive in the hospital, filled with the consumptive, the venereal, the dysenteric, and the scorbutic?

Soap and clean water are essential—I instruct the girls at the orphanage to wash themselves every day: their hands, their faces, and their private parts.

Every month we have a grand hair washing!

But I digress. Most times, the women visit me at the orphanage, where there is set up a dispensary.

But when their labour begins, I must visit them in their homes.

Sgt. Monogan accompanies me, so you can be assured of my adherence to propriety!

Oh, such homes: the women of the 73rd still live in tents, many convict houses are wattle and daub, and some are brick and stone but of just two or three rooms shared with others.

To give privacy to a mother during her travail is extremely vexing.

And when a babe is born dead, or dies shortly thereafter, or the mother dies from bleeding that cannot be stopped, or a multitude of other causes, my faith in a loving God is sorely tried.

See, blots cover the page! Writing these words has caused my tears to flow.

Wretched world—to be safe once again in the bosom of my family!

Mr. Darcy tells me I always appear so capable, so much in command of myself—no, I’m not!

It’s such a falsehood! Can you not hear my beating heart, such flutterings as would put Mama to shame, such tremblings when I discipline an intractable orphan, possibly older than I?

All here believe me come out—but they are all for London and think me now nineteen at least, even reached my majority.

Ha! You know my birthday is the same as that of His Majesty, King George.

I celebrated both his and my anniversary in the Bay of Biscay by giving little Henry and Beth an extra hug and telling them a story of a duckling who grew to become a beautiful swan.

Oh, to be that duckling! But, my sweet Jane, a duck I shall remain.

Through the windowpane, I can see it has begun to rain; now the streets will turn from dust to mud. Ugh! Just now, Harshita tells me Lt. Ludin has come; his wife is in labour. I must away to the camp.

Your loving sister—Elizabeth

***

“Miss Bennet, are you exhibiting this evening?” Captain Antill came up to her as she sat in the parlour of Major and Mrs. Cockburne, who had recently arrived from a post in Gibraltar.

“No, sir, my finger is sprained, which, though not serious, is sufficient to prevent my performing.” The injury had occurred during an attempt to turn Mrs. Lutin’s babe in the womb, but of that Elizabeth would not tell.

“But it would not prevent you from dancing. See, the band has commenced playing a reel. Would you stand up with me?”

In truth, Elizabeth was rather weary and hoped her disinclination to perform would be sufficient to excuse her participating in the other entertainments.

But ‘twas not to be. There were present many officers of both the 73rd and 102nd, so she would not be without beaus for the evening.

Captain Antill was exceptionally attentive; it appeared her consequence had risen in the world.

Of course, apart from the occasional visitor, she was the only unmarried gentlewoman in the colony, and her connections to Mr. Gardiner and Madeira had become common knowledge. Reluctantly, she took to the floor.

“I admire your stamina to trip it on the light fantastic toe , ma'am, but you appear flushed. Perhaps you should sit out a set. Let us take in some air.” The captain took her arm, and they moved together to the French doors and stepped outside. As they passed onto the balcony, three young officers who were smoking cigars stubbed them out and made to return to the well-lit interior. One, of the same rank as Captain Antill, scanned Elizabeth’s figure appreciatively.

“After you, Captain,” he said, but there was a certain nuance to his voice with which Elizabeth was not comfortable.

With no moon, the night was dark; only a few lanterns illuminated the space—no one else was on the balcony.

A servant came up to them with two glasses of refreshment.

Taking one, the captain passed the other to Elizabeth and stepped a little closer to her.

The servant retreated, closing the doors as he left.

Elizabeth was indeed overheated and was tempted to take a large draught.

But, as was now her habit, she took just a sip of the drink.

There was a hint of mint and lemon, which would indeed be refreshing, but also a raw aftertaste of spirits, which she did not care for.

Startled, she noticed they were alone. Captain Antill approached excessively close; he placed his arm around her waist, drawing her to him, preventing her from moving away.

She felt like a bandicoot caught in the gaze of a hunting dog.

Carefully placing her glass on a nearby table, she raised her eyes to his face and smiled demurely, a coyness about her demeanour.

“You must excuse me, Captain, I’m indeed flushed and must briefly retire. I’ll return momentarily.”

Elizabeth left the balcony, walking quickly to the vestibule, where she retrieved her pelisse. Sgt. Monagan appeared at her side and escorted her outside for the short walk to the orphanage. He had the kindness to ignore her tears and the heightened colour of her cheeks.

The next morning she avoided the walk along Sydney Cove, and it took several days before she had the courage to resume her rambles in the park and to Bennelong Point.

She felt all the perverseness of her meeting with Captain Antill—she had thought he admired her for her company, yet his eagerness to provide spirituous refreshment, to move to the balcony, and to step outside with her with no others present showed his intentions were base, rather than gentlemanly.

She was humiliated, no less so than if she had, indeed, been compromised.

“I, who prided myself on my discernment,” she cried, her confidence in herself diminished.

Until this moment, she hardly knew herself.

Yet, she would endure. All is not lost .

She would save the fare for her passage and return to Longbourn—it could not come sooner.

***