to be on the be st of terms with an English representative of the Crown should have been amazing; but then Miles had popped up in a land on the opposite side of the world, a colony that often was forgotten and neglected by its English parent.
Few of the guests even noticed Nan and Tom, although the young and buxom Elizabeth Hannaby, the major’s wife, offered a polite nod. She was as round as a wine vat and almost as large. The major, with his military carriage, had a strutting outthrust of the chest.
Nan had to slow her pace. To delay her progress, she paused often to comment to a bemused Tom. “Dear, isn’t that a Romney above the sideboard?”
His gaze followed hers. “A what?”
She smiled indulgently. “Never mind, dearest.” Rum flowed freely, and the laughter and talk were loud, as if to drive away the massive silence that surrounded the tiny cluster of people clinging to the edge of the continent. Drinking was one of the few pleasures available and blotted out the terrible isolation lurking on the perimeters of each person’s mind.
Ahead of her, one young couple appeared as ill at ease and out of place as she. While the female guests wore court dresses, though outdated in the hooped style, this woman had on a dingy, dull-brown dress, the folds of which her hands arranged and rearranged. Only her red hair saved her from fading into the wall.
Experience prompted Nan to classify the woman as a former convict. In the woman’s countenance, Nan recognized the fear and anguish that awe of her surroundings did not conceal.
The husband appeared much older, and though not as uncomfortable with their surroundings as his diminutive wife, a faint compression of his lips suggested mild disapproval.
“Impressive gathering, isn’t it?” she said to the couple.
They looked as startled as Tom, because these were people neither he nor she knew and certainly not Exclusionist aristocrats. “Oh, yes,” the elfish-looking woman said, obvious pleasure brightening her freckled face. “H’it’s ever so splendid.”
Nan wasn’t misled by the young woman’s speech, which identified her as being from the Billingsgate fish market area. The lively intelligence in the woman’s brown eyes elicited Nan’s respect.
“The new governor should be suitably impressed,” Tom commented.
“If only he can do something to remedy the mistreatment of the convicts,” the man said. His guileless eyes scanned the assembled guests. “Prohibiting the devilish trading of rum would help the colonists, also. Their addiction to liquor promises trouble of the greatest magnitude.”
“Prohibiting the sale of female convicts would make a difference,” his wife added. “What we ’ave now is little more than outright prostitution.”
Recalling the ignominy of standing before would-be purchasers, Nan might have agreed. She also remembered that had it not been for Tom’s purchase of her, she would by now be slaving in the fields.
“My name is Rose Wilmot,” the young woman said, her smile shy. “And this ’ere is my husband, William. The Reverend William Wilmot.”
Nan thought she should have guessed the man’s occupation. Yet the way his eyes crinkled suggested at least a modicum of compassion and humor that set him apart from her father.
She performed the introduction for her and Tom but was cut short when the colony’s judge advocate rose. He was to administer the oath of office to the man who would become the captain-general and governor in chief of the colony of New South Wales.
Captain William Bligh was a short, stocky man. In his face could be read determination and courage. His florid complexion, however, betrayed either a drinker, Nan decided, or a rash man subject to fits of rage.
In a firm, unwavering voice, he repeated the oath, as all his predecessors had done before him. “I swear to preserve the Protestant succession, prevent dangers from popish recusants, and observe the laws relating to trade and plantations.
Few of the guests even noticed Nan and Tom, although the young and buxom Elizabeth Hannaby, the major’s wife, offered a polite nod. She was as round as a wine vat and almost as large. The major, with his military carriage, had a strutting outthrust of the chest.
Nan had to slow her pace. To delay her progress, she paused often to comment to a bemused Tom. “Dear, isn’t that a Romney above the sideboard?”
His gaze followed hers. “A what?”
She smiled indulgently. “Never mind, dearest.” Rum flowed freely, and the laughter and talk were loud, as if to drive away the massive silence that surrounded the tiny cluster of people clinging to the edge of the continent. Drinking was one of the few pleasures available and blotted out the terrible isolation lurking on the perimeters of each person’s mind.
Ahead of her, one young couple appeared as ill at ease and out of place as she. While the female guests wore court dresses, though outdated in the hooped style, this woman had on a dingy, dull-brown dress, the folds of which her hands arranged and rearranged. Only her red hair saved her from fading into the wall.
Experience prompted Nan to classify the woman as a former convict. In the woman’s countenance, Nan recognized the fear and anguish that awe of her surroundings did not conceal.
The husband appeared much older, and though not as uncomfortable with their surroundings as his diminutive wife, a faint compression of his lips suggested mild disapproval.
“Impressive gathering, isn’t it?” she said to the couple.
They looked as startled as Tom, because these were people neither he nor she knew and certainly not Exclusionist aristocrats. “Oh, yes,” the elfish-looking woman said, obvious pleasure brightening her freckled face. “H’it’s ever so splendid.”
Nan wasn’t misled by the young woman’s speech, which identified her as being from the Billingsgate fish market area. The lively intelligence in the woman’s brown eyes elicited Nan’s respect.
“The new governor should be suitably impressed,” Tom commented.
“If only he can do something to remedy the mistreatment of the convicts,” the man said. His guileless eyes scanned the assembled guests. “Prohibiting the devilish trading of rum would help the colonists, also. Their addiction to liquor promises trouble of the greatest magnitude.”
“Prohibiting the sale of female convicts would make a difference,” his wife added. “What we ’ave now is little more than outright prostitution.”
Recalling the ignominy of standing before would-be purchasers, Nan might have agreed. She also remembered that had it not been for Tom’s purchase of her, she would by now be slaving in the fields.
“My name is Rose Wilmot,” the young woman said, her smile shy. “And this ’ere is my husband, William. The Reverend William Wilmot.”
Nan thought she should have guessed the man’s occupation. Yet the way his eyes crinkled suggested at least a modicum of compassion and humor that set him apart from her father.
She performed the introduction for her and Tom but was cut short when the colony’s judge advocate rose. He was to administer the oath of office to the man who would become the captain-general and governor in chief of the colony of New South Wales.
Captain William Bligh was a short, stocky man. In his face could be read determination and courage. His florid complexion, however, betrayed either a drinker, Nan decided, or a rash man subject to fits of rage.
In a firm, unwavering voice, he repeated the oath, as all his predecessors had done before him. “I swear to preserve the Protestant succession, prevent dangers from popish recusants, and observe the laws relating to trade and plantations.
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