CONDEMNED TO THE COLONIES

Chapter IV: Rubbing Shoulders With The Rich

CHRISTMAS, 1823

“Thank you for a most excellent Christmas dinner.” Maria placed her spoon and fork side-by-side in her bowl and dabbed her lips with a damask napkin. “And I simply adore your beautiful Wedgwood pearl ware. I haven't seen a dinner set so magnificent since leaving England.”

Seated beside his wife, James Metcalf finished his dessert and studied the tableware. Before the bowls were whisked away by an attentive waiter, he appraised their pale bluish tint and fine workmanship. Wedgwood! He shook his head in disapproval. Such opulence here in the colonies, while so many starve. Today I’ve seen everything.

“What do you think, James?” Maria turned her attention towards him.

“Best meal I've had in a long time.” James kept his voice even, hiding his displeasure. Unsure why he and his wife had been invited to this gathering, he didn’t wish to appear impolite or upset the local gentry upon whom their livelihood depended. One thing was certain. He and Maria hadn’t seen food or wine of such quality since they’d arrived in Van Diemen’s Land. How different to our first two Christmases in the colonies. Barely enough food to go around. The only gifts, those we made from scrap timber and left over pieces of material. “It's almost impossible to believe such sumptuous fare is available here in this remote outpost of the Empire.”

Their hostess, Maria Lord dippedher head in a barely perceptible nod, then returned her attention to the woman on her right.

Snooty bitch! James turned his head. His eyes met those of John Rockcliffe, seated opposite. James had worked for John for the past nine months, but he didn’t like the man. He sighed and contemplated the meal they’d just consumed.

The festivities had commenced with beef consommé served by convict waiters wearing tan breeches, white shirts and red waistcoats. Following the soup course, they’d been served roast kangaroo, larded with bacon and stuffed with veal. James and John had ridden into the bush not far from town the day before and bagged the marsupial. The pig and vealer had been raised on their host’s property. Peas, carrots and roast potatoes complimented the meat, the vegetables coming from Edward Lord’s farm, located to the north of town.

During the settlement’s early years, Lord had been instrumental in ensuring Hobart Town prospered. As reward for his services, Lord Bathurst, the Secretary of State, had granted the merchant three thousand acres, encompassing some of the richest farming land on the island. He had used this to increase his wealth.

James wiped his mouth with his napkin and returned to contemplating their meal. Dessert had consisted of sweet suet pudding, topped with lashings of cream and brandy sauce. The sound of cutlery striking glass pulled him from his reverie.

“Thanks must go to our host, Edward Lord.” John Rockcliffe raised his glass. The imported French claret caught the afternoon sunlight, sending splashes of crimson across pale lemon walls. “Such culinary delights are not to be wasted on the common folk, those without social standing. I propose a toast to my friend, the richest merchant in Van Diemen's Land.”

The other guests raised their drinks, flames from fifteen candles reflecting in the glasses. Despite the December heat and the abundant daylight filtering into the room, three silver candelabra resided in strategic places on the white, linen tablecloth. The candles burned, more for effect than necessity.

“Edward Lord,” the assemblage chorused. As one, they drank.

At the head of the table, Lord raised a hand in an imperious gesture, halting the praise. His smile was that of a self-centred man, a man who knew the power he wielded and revelled in. As custom dictated on such salubrious occasions, he wore dark-coloured pantaloons and a brief, blue cut-away coat revealing a yellow, brocade waistcoat. Knotted beneath his chin was a cream-coloured cravat. The other men were dressed in similar style.

“Thank you, my friends.” Slouched in a high-backed chair, Lord raised his glass, drank and swallowed. His piercing eyes studied each guest in turn, lingering on everyone, except his wife, seated at the opposite end of the table.

James glanced in her direction.

An olive-skinned beauty with a high forehead, Maria Lord’s dark hair was pulled tight in a bun. Her burgundy dress was cut low in the front, only its mauve frill maintaining her modesty. Several ostrich feathers, dyed mauve, rose from the back of her head. A similar-coloured silk ribbon held these in place, its ends trailing over one shoulder and down her back. She wore no jewellery other than large, pearl earrings. She alone hadn't saluted her husband.

“I've invited you here to outline a most important plan,” continued Lord, his enthusiasm undeterred by his wife's apparent indifference. “And, no, I'm not speaking about rum or tobacco.”

Dry chuckles greeted this comment. Everyone knew much of Lord's early fortune had been made trading illegally in these banned products. Even James, relative newcomer to the colony, had heard the rumours.

“There's a little favour I wish from you.” Lord paused, holding each man's eyes for a second before adding, “I ask for your cooperation because I know that, like me, you have the best interests of the colony at heart.”

James glanced around the table. The men, all wealthy farmers or merchants, were accompanied by their wives. Dressed in garments that wouldn't have been out of place at Buckingham Palace, their faces showed no signs of surprise, their expressions denoting rapt attention. Where do Maria and I fit into this gathering?

He and his wife weren’t rich. Their clothes were those they'd brought with them from England two years ago. Everyone else wore the latest fashions, freshly arrived by clipper from London. James felt out of place in his older-style, fuller coat and shorter breeches fastened just below the knee. At least Maria had found something in one of her trunks, an evening dress she hadn't worn during their time in the colony.

Again, James’ gaze rested on Lord's wife. Like all women of her station, Mrs. Lord wore heavy makeup, accentuating her eyes and mouth. She held her nose aloft, as she'd done throughout the meal, her expression much like she'd bitten into something distasteful. He guessed she didn't approve of his presence at her table, for she hadn't spoken to him or his wife, other than when directly addressed.

A gentle nudge in the ribs from his wife drew his attention away from Mrs. Lord, and he focused on their host.

“I see by your expressions you wish to hear more.” Lord pushed back his chair and stood. All eyes followed. “And now is as good time as any. I have it on good authority that….”

“Edward.” Maria Lord had also risen, her down-turned mouth and furrowed forehead denoting utmost boredom. Heads turned in her direction. “Although the business you wish to discuss is most likely highly entertaining and stimulating to your male friends, I think you and the other gentlemen should excuse yourselves and withdraw to the parlour. There you may discuss your affairs in comfort and privacy.”

Lord raised his hands, a half smile curling the corners of his thin mouth.

“My apologies, my dear. How remiss of me. Gentlemen…,” He pushed aside his chair and stepped from the table, “…let us do as my charming wife suggests and adjourn to the parlour. There we may partake of cigars and a smooth cognac that arrived by ship only a few days ago.”

“Come ladies.” Mrs. Lord pointed to a doorway on the other side of the room. “While the men discuss their precious business, let us look in on our children in the kitchen. See how they've enjoyed their Christmas dinner.”

One by one, the men offered their excuses and followed their host from the room.