seaport had been greatly reduced.
Elizabeth continued to gaze out over the ocean in the direction of Scotland, her face moody, her eyes hazy, due to her own private sadness. A week earlier she had suffered her third miscarriage in the two years she had been in New South Wales, and each time the loss made her think of the baby daughter she had buried in Scotland … her sweet little Jane …
‘Missus Macquarie, milady ma’am … begging your pardon…’
Elizabeth looked away from the blue waters of the ocean to see the Head Gardener standing with his hat in his hands and an apologetic look on his face. He was an ex-convict who had served his time but now he had been placed in charge of fifty convicts, mostly Irish, who had shown a natural aptitude for gardening and so were employed at Government House.
‘May I speak to you, milady?’ he asked nervously, seeing her moody expression. The free settlers of the Colony may have judged the Governor’s wife as being vivacious and charming, but to the convict gardeners who worked in the grounds of Government House, her manner was always a mixture of nice but no-nonsense.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Well, milady, the Governor is away at Parramatta so I can’t apply to him …’ said the gardener, glancing back at the small group of the other gardeners who were watching and egging him on.
‘Apply to him for what?’
‘Some time off, milady. You see, tomorrow is March the seventeenth, the feast of Saint Patrick, and some of us Irish were wondering if you would agree to give us the morning off … so we could spend some time in holy prayer … honouring the patron saint of our homeland.’
Elizabeth gave the gardener a small cynical smile. She doubted that time for prayer was the real reason they wanted the morning off. Most of them probably wanted to have the opportunity to spend the morning lying in bed sleeping long and late, before setting off for a tipple at one of the grog shops.
‘All the other governors gave us the morning off on Saint Patrick’s Day, milady,’ the gardener added, and Elizabeth doubted that very much too.
‘Even Governor Bligh?’ she asked.
The gardener took a startled step back, knowing she had caught him out in his lie. The entire settlement knew how much Governor Bligh had hated the Irish, the Scots, the Welsh, and just about anybody else who wasn’t English. And lying to the Governor’s wife could get him a few whips of the lash, if not worse.
‘Very well,’ Elizabeth said suddenly, rising to her feet. ‘The Irish convicts may have tomorrow morning off from all work, but mind – ’ she warned sternly, ‘every single one of you must be back at work in the rear garden of Government House by three o’clock, is that understood?’
‘Oh, aye, milady, oh, yes indeed, three o’clock and not a minute after …’ The gardener couldn’t believe his luck, his face rapturous with surprise and delight as he bowed his thanks to Elizabeth at least ten times before turning and rushing back to his pals to tell them the good news.
As she strolled back to the house Elizabeth watched the group of men almost dancing with delight and laughing as the gardener gave them the news – laughing like excited children at Christmas – and the sight warmed her out of her earlier melancholy.
It was time to stop moping and regain her optimism, her belief in life. She would get pregnant again and she would have her baby, one day, alive and well; but now it was time to help the Irish convicts in her service to celebrate their precious St Patrick’s Day.
*
At five minutes to three o’clock the following afternoon, refreshed from sleeping late in bed and buoyed up by their tipple in the grog shop, the Irish gardeners, true to their word, returned to the rear garden of Government House and were shocked into a stunned silence of disbelief.
Rows of long tables had been laid out laden with plates of steaming Irish stew, loaves of Irish-style soda bread,
Elizabeth continued to gaze out over the ocean in the direction of Scotland, her face moody, her eyes hazy, due to her own private sadness. A week earlier she had suffered her third miscarriage in the two years she had been in New South Wales, and each time the loss made her think of the baby daughter she had buried in Scotland … her sweet little Jane …
‘Missus Macquarie, milady ma’am … begging your pardon…’
Elizabeth looked away from the blue waters of the ocean to see the Head Gardener standing with his hat in his hands and an apologetic look on his face. He was an ex-convict who had served his time but now he had been placed in charge of fifty convicts, mostly Irish, who had shown a natural aptitude for gardening and so were employed at Government House.
‘May I speak to you, milady?’ he asked nervously, seeing her moody expression. The free settlers of the Colony may have judged the Governor’s wife as being vivacious and charming, but to the convict gardeners who worked in the grounds of Government House, her manner was always a mixture of nice but no-nonsense.
‘Well?’ she asked.
‘Well, milady, the Governor is away at Parramatta so I can’t apply to him …’ said the gardener, glancing back at the small group of the other gardeners who were watching and egging him on.
‘Apply to him for what?’
‘Some time off, milady. You see, tomorrow is March the seventeenth, the feast of Saint Patrick, and some of us Irish were wondering if you would agree to give us the morning off … so we could spend some time in holy prayer … honouring the patron saint of our homeland.’
Elizabeth gave the gardener a small cynical smile. She doubted that time for prayer was the real reason they wanted the morning off. Most of them probably wanted to have the opportunity to spend the morning lying in bed sleeping long and late, before setting off for a tipple at one of the grog shops.
‘All the other governors gave us the morning off on Saint Patrick’s Day, milady,’ the gardener added, and Elizabeth doubted that very much too.
‘Even Governor Bligh?’ she asked.
The gardener took a startled step back, knowing she had caught him out in his lie. The entire settlement knew how much Governor Bligh had hated the Irish, the Scots, the Welsh, and just about anybody else who wasn’t English. And lying to the Governor’s wife could get him a few whips of the lash, if not worse.
‘Very well,’ Elizabeth said suddenly, rising to her feet. ‘The Irish convicts may have tomorrow morning off from all work, but mind – ’ she warned sternly, ‘every single one of you must be back at work in the rear garden of Government House by three o’clock, is that understood?’
‘Oh, aye, milady, oh, yes indeed, three o’clock and not a minute after …’ The gardener couldn’t believe his luck, his face rapturous with surprise and delight as he bowed his thanks to Elizabeth at least ten times before turning and rushing back to his pals to tell them the good news.
As she strolled back to the house Elizabeth watched the group of men almost dancing with delight and laughing as the gardener gave them the news – laughing like excited children at Christmas – and the sight warmed her out of her earlier melancholy.
It was time to stop moping and regain her optimism, her belief in life. She would get pregnant again and she would have her baby, one day, alive and well; but now it was time to help the Irish convicts in her service to celebrate their precious St Patrick’s Day.
*
At five minutes to three o’clock the following afternoon, refreshed from sleeping late in bed and buoyed up by their tipple in the grog shop, the Irish gardeners, true to their word, returned to the rear garden of Government House and were shocked into a stunned silence of disbelief.
Rows of long tables had been laid out laden with plates of steaming Irish stew, loaves of Irish-style soda bread,
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