Page 56 of Lizzie’s Spirit

My dearest, darling William—

What a fool I am, believing myself so capable, so in command.

But it’s all a lie! Here am I, sitting at our little writing table, staring across Sydney Cove, my eyes blurred with tears.

How much I rely on your company and conversation of an evening.

When at Longbourn—is it almost four years ago?

—there, my sisters, my mother, and my father would take me in their arms and, before retiring, hug me and kiss me goodnight.

Such a simple thing we take for granted.

On the Hindostan, little Henry and Beth were my comfort, and here, in the colony, I had you, my darling.

When you left, it was a week shy of one thousand days since we were married.

And all that time you were by my side; every night I fell asleep in your arms. But now you are gone.

Bumper, seeing your half of the bed empty—as my heart is—took advantage of it and slept next to me.

Indeed, it’s a comfort to have him there.

You may be confused as to why I write this letter.

Well, ‘tis not really a letter—more of a journal of my doings until I, too, depart for England and we’re reunited.

Last night, the day you left on the Swiftsure, I sat in our parlour looking out at the flickering lights of the fires of the Eora.

The place felt so empty; there was no one with whom I could talk of my day, to enjoy that companionable conversation where we spoke of the happenings and the people we met, the troubles and joys of living in our town.

I could not even take up my guitar and sing songs of sorrow and loss, for such would make my tears flow even more strongly.

Sitting here, writing as I am now, I speak directly to you.

You listen to my discourse—always polite, whether I speak of trivialities and nothings, or the menus for our next dinner, or serious matters concerning the orphanage or the women of the regiment.

Your dark eyes shine with good humour as you let me talk, and then, afterwards, you move closer, put your book aside, take me in your arms, and I snuggle into your warm embrace.

Bumper has come and laid his head against my leg.

If I close my eyes, I can pretend it’s you.

So, this journal shall record my doings and such as I attend to those matters that will allow our orderly retreat from New South Wales.

I can scarcely believe it—that we’re leaving.

That I’ve been here for three years and so much has changed.

I fled England—a young, impetuous girl. Now married to a lieutenant governor.

Owning estates at Boondi and Minto. With rank as matron and warden of the orphanage and school.

I cannot deny that this great country, Australia, is a land of opportunity.

Oh, William, I must believe you are well, that the Swiftsure lives up to its name. That it carries you swiftly and surely to England.

Of what have I accomplished since you left? I scarcely know myself because the little girl inside me, of whom I’ve spoken before, often curls up and refuses to accept you are gone away. Abisti, non peristi— you are gone but not perished.

Yes, Sgt. Monogan and Harshita have agreed to be the caretakers of Boondi.

He had never visited there until he accompanied me to farewell you on the Swiftsure—he fell in love with it, just as you and I did.

I explained we wished to preserve it as unspoiled as possible, but any could visit the roaring surf of the beach and climb the rocks of the headlands.

But he alone could live there, and we left sufficient monies for him to build a cottage for his family.

Being light and easy to work, while not rich, the soil is suitable for potatoes and other root crops.

Boondi is a close distance to Sydney, so there’s a ready market for his produce.

My dearest, it was so hard to walk away from that lovely place.

There were tears in my eyes when I visited, most likely for the last time.

It was where you proposed to me, and, silly me, before your address I thought you were going to censure me—for my impudence and impropriety.

Instead, you made me the happiest woman in the world.

In the week following your departure, I visited St. Andrews to take my leave of Mr. and Mrs. Ward.

Yes, we had decided I need not go, but for me it was the right thing to do—to thank them for their industry, to climb Bunbury Curran Hill and take the view across the plains to Port Jackson to the east and the Blue Mountains to the west, to secure a memory of that place as dear to me as that of Oakham Mount.

Sgt. Monogan and Cpl. Boyce accompanied me.

I’m very much aware that with you gone, I’m a woman without protection.

Indeed, on the road from Sydney to Parramatta, four very rough fellows spilled from the bushes wielding knives and axes, demanding we stop.

“ Stop, for the likes of you?” I confronted them, though in truth my heart was beating furiously. “Sergeant, Corporal! Dismount. Fix bayonets!”

Oh, what a thrill to lead a company of such men.

Without hesitation, they dismounted, giving their reins to me which I held loosely in my left hand.

With my right, I drew my little Queen Anne pistol that you insisted I carry.

Confronted by three armed persons, two of whom were soldiers who clearly knew how to fight with bayonets, the ruffians fled.

Hah! They had no spine. At Parramatta, the captain at the barracks sent out a troop to secure the road.

You are correct, dear William, we should have turned about and galloped away, for we were mounted and they were not.

But I was, at that time, so angry. Angry at an uncaring God who let Frederick die so tragically; angry at our being uprooted, torn from a land we had made our own.

Thus, when the poor miscreants appeared, I took my anger out on them.

See! Your impetuous Lizzie is still there—she was only hidden by a veneer of gentility and decorum.

Can you see my tears and hear my sobs? I’m so selfish—being Lizzie Darcy is not enough! You’ve spoilt me—not with silk stockings or kidskin gloves but with your being near, your sitting with me in our parlour, your walking out with me to Bennelong Point, our riding together on the South Head Road.

February has been dragging on, each day seemingly more tedious than the last. No more great adventures riding the Parramatta Road.

Without you, I seem more of a puppet than a real person—merely a mechanical machine like Maillardet's automaton.

No ships have arrived—so I cannot even gain comfort from planning my journey to England.

Something wonderful has happened! I was visiting the regiment when a message came from the clerk at the post office that a Captain Coxon was looking for Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

How long since I’ve been called that? Of course, I thought he carried a letter for me, perhaps gone astray but now finally delivered.

In town, I discovered he was the captain of a newly arrived ship, the Grosvenor, a fine-looking vessel, very similar to an East Indiaman of about eight hundred tons.

The clerk directed me to Mr. Campbell’s house at Dawes Point, where Captain Coxon was staying with Campbell’s nephew.

It was, indeed, a letter from my Uncle Gardiner; but why it was addressed to Miss Bennet rather than Mrs. Darcy, I do not know?

Indeed, good news from Meryton. But the most astonishing thing—my uncle had chartered the Grosvenor! He included the manifest and asked me to consult with Captain Coxon about the disposition of the cargo.

This consisted of all those items needed in the settlement.

I cannot list them all, but all manner of ironware, tools, knives, glass and earthenware, cottons, muslins, corduroy, Irish linen, sewing silks, threads, tapes, and ribbons.

There’s so much more—we could clothe and furnish the whole colony with just the one cargo.

These were all placed under my charge, for Mr. Gardiner had written he was shipping these by my instruction.

Also, the ship had called at Madeira and loaded many pipes of wine.

Much of the cargo I assigned to Mr. Simeon Lord, and the remainder to Mr. Stephen Campbell’s warehouse.

You should have seen the latter’s face when I told him.

His eyes widened; he stared at me much as he had done at our first dinner so many years ago.

Had it been proper, I do believe he would have hugged me.

His commission will be substantial, for the cargo is worth many thousands.

Of course, I had him and Mr. Lord sign the documents you had prepared—our interests and those of Mr. Gardiner are well protected.

Captain Coxon is a distinguished man in his forties.

A former captain of the East India Company, he anticipated the breaking of their monopoly on trade with India, having contacts within the Board of Control.

Together, Uncle Gardiner and he were determined to be the first to land their cargoes in London.

So, dearest William, we’re off to Bombay and thence to England!

Hurrah! With the increased opportunity for profits from the India trade, no ships will return from Sydney by rounding Cape Horn.

So via India and the Cape of Good Hope, I must go.