When his wife Emily had died in England the previous year, and he had decided to retire from the navy and settle in New South Wales rather than return to his home in London, he’d taken a position as a general practitioner in Lawrence Chandler’s medical practice. The position had initially been as an employee, but when Lawrence had offered him a partnership in May he’d accepted.
Lawrence was senior to James by twenty-four years and, at the age of fifty-five, was thinking more and more about retiring himself. He was quiet, mild-mannered, very decent and rather proper, and it had been quite a shock to James when he’d discovered that for the past thirteen years Lawrence had happily accepted as patients the prostitutes from the brothel where Harrie’s friend Friday Woolfe now illegally worked.
He’d received yet another shock when he’d expressed his disapproval regarding this arrangement, and Lawrence had bluntly told him not to be hypocritical as most of the brothel’s patrons were gentlemen just like him, and that no true Christian or humanitarian could deny medical assistance to the women employed there. Which had given James something to think about.
Matthew sat down at the table and took a sip of his claret. ‘Still waiting? God, I’m starving.’
The dining room was very full this evening and they’d ordered almost half an hour earlier. James could feel his stomach rumbling. ‘Can’t be far away.’
He and Matthew Cutler, whom he’d first encountered on the voyage out from England on the Isla last year, had been meeting every fortnight for supper at the Australian for the past four months. He liked Matthew, and had done from the outset. He was an intelligent and cheerful young man of twenty-six with a bright future in the Office of the Colonial Architect, and of the two single gentlemen to have paid their passage aboard the Isla, he had been far and away the most personable. Of course, the other had been Gabriel Keegan.
‘I only hope the mutton’s not too … muttony,’ Matthew said. ‘It can be, sometimes.’
‘Send it back, if it is,’ James replied. ‘Order the beef.’
Matthew shook his head. ‘I’ll still be sitting here at midnight.’
Their suppers finally arrived and Matthew pronounced his mutton thoroughly acceptable. To accompany it they ordered more claret.
‘I spoke with Harrie this afternoon,’ James said, raising his hand and, behind it, prising a morsel of meat from his teeth with an ivory toothpick.
‘Did you?’ Matthew kept his eyes on his plate. He always felt deeply uncomfortable when James talked about Harrie, having never summoned the nerve to confess that he had himself entertained thoughts of marrying her. And still would, given the tiniest chance. Though that was clearly out of the question now, with James so besotted with her and, even more unfortunately, his choice of Matthew as his confessor. Actually, it had been out of the question before: Harrie Clarke barely even knew he existed. And there was also the matter of his mother at home in England, who would rather die than allow her precious youngest son to marry a convict girl. Of course, he could have just done it, making it impossible for his mother to object. But it was too late now anyway, so he’d resigned himself to having to listen to James go on and on about Harrie once a fortnight across the supper table.
‘Yes,’ James said, placing the toothpick on his plate. ‘Like a half-starved cur, I followed her all the way from George Street market to her house on Gloucester Street, then I frightened the life out of her just as she was opening her door.’
Matthew kept quiet: he knew James was annoyed with himself.
‘Then I made a fool of myself,’ James went on. ‘An even bigger fool of myself, by attempting to speak to her, just before her employer told me I should leave.’
‘Did he? That was rather rude.’
‘It was Mrs Barrett. Actually, she didn’t, not exactly. But I left anyway.’ James sighed and dropped his napkin on the table. ‘I’m at my wits’ end, Matthew, I really am. It’s been almost seven months and she still won’t talk to me. And neither will her friends. God, she really is the most extraordinarily bloody-minded person.’
To be honest, Matthew wasn’t sure if he’d be talking to James yet either, if he were Harrie. Although he liked James enormously, in Matthew’s opinion what he’d done had been pretty awful. James was a man of science, it was true, and he supposed that went some way towards mitigating his behaviour, but still, to just wade in and hack up a girl’s corpse like that. Especially that poor girl, after everything that had already happened to her. It really was almost unforgivable.
‘And to round off the afternoon perfectly,’ James said, ‘do you know who I saw loitering on the corner of Bridge and George streets on my way back home?’
Matthew shook his head.
‘That damned scoundrel Amos Furniss, that’s who.’
Later that night, well after the bats had set forth and the moon had risen high in a cloud-tattered sky, Nora Barrett and Harrie sat in the parlour. After a day of colic Lewis had finally gone down, the older children were also in bed and Nora was enjoying a rare hour of peace and quiet.
‘You know, Harrie,’ she said through a mouthful of pins, ‘most girls in your position would leap at the chance to be courted by the likes of Dr Downey. A doctor, Harrie, and a navy captain to boot.’
‘He’s not courting me, he’s plaguing me.’
Nora removed the pins. ‘Hark at you! A convict girl with six years to serve of a seven-year sentence, complaining because a gentleman’s taken a fancy to you!’
‘It isn’t as though I can’t take my pick, though, is it?’ Harrie replied.
Which was true. The number of men in the colony of New South Wales, convicts and otherwise, so vastly outnumbered females that women really could choose with whom they took up, no matter their status.
‘Don’t be so ungrateful, Harrie. That’s not like you. And you’re so disrespectful to him. You want to be careful there.’
Harrie said nothing.
‘Granted he doesn’t quite have the looks to set a girl’s heart racing, but that’s a good fair head of hair on him and his eyes are kind. He’s tall, too, and I’ll bet there’s more under that mourning suit than meets the eye.’
Harrie bristled: actually, James did set her heart racing. Still.
‘And he obviously thinks a lot of you,’ Nora went on, putting in the last pin. ‘Otherwise he would’ve given up by now. He’d marry you, too. Not like my George — we were common-law for ten years and I’d had Abigail and Hannah before I could convince him to make it official. And don’t forget, people will always sneer: you’ll be a convict whore for life if you remain a spinster.’
‘I’m not a whore!’
‘Doesn’t matter, love, you’re still tainted.’ Nora held up the inside-out bodice. ‘Does this placket look straight? I haven’t marked where the buttons are going yet.’
‘Perfect,’ Harrie said quickly, glad Nora had changed the subject.
‘Good. I have to have it all tacked together by tomorrow dinnertime. She’s coming in for a fitting.’
Noting Nora’s tired, red eyes and the myriad needle pricks marking her swollen fingers, Harrie set down her embroidery frame. ‘Mrs Barrett, I know this is none of my business, but do you not think you’re trying to do too much? With Lewis and everything?’
Nora draped the bodice over the arm of the chair beside her and sighed. ‘Well, yes, but what choice do I have? George in his wisdom has decided I’m to keep up my side of the business. But he’s right, really. We need the money. That’s why we employed you, to look after the children.’
I’m not employed, Harrie thought — I’m assigned. If I were employed I’d be receiving a wage. ‘You’ll have to sit up most of the night to get that dress tacked together in time,’ she said.
‘I know. But I have to be awake anyway to feed Lewis, so I might as well.’ Nora reached for a sleeve. ‘You get off, though, Harrie.’
‘Are you sure?’
Nora nodded. ‘Just leave your lamp here, would you?’
Harrie obliged, and lit a candle to guide her way upstairs. She washed quickly in her bowl, brushed out her hair and undressed. Then she climbed into bed, using her feet to shunt a complaining Angus to one side of the mattress.
She re-read a scrawled and misspelt letter from Janie Braine detailing Rosie’s and baby Charlotte’s latest little milestones, and listing what they needed the next time anyone planned to visit at the Parramatta Female Factory, then extinguished the bedside lamp and lay down. Thinking she would be awake for ages, her head was that full of thoughts, she fell asleep almost immediately, but woke again several hours before dawn with a crawling, prickling sensation that told her she wasn’t alone.
Slowly, her stomach feeling fluttery and her heart beating a little faster, she sat up and peered into a dense blackness that had gathered around the little rocking chair in the corner of her attic room.
‘Rachel? Is that you?’
Sarah licked her finger and touched it lightly against the flat iron: there’d be hell to pay if she singed Esther’s best white damask tablecloth. No instant blister on her skin; the temperature was right. She wrapped an extra rag around the handle and ran the iron over the fabric until every tiny crease had been obliterated and the heavy cloth slid smoothly beneath her hands.
Some friend of Adam’s was coming to supper; he must be worth impressing as Esther had been in the kitchen since morning cooking all sorts of complicated dishes. Adam didn’t seem overly excited, though. He’d been in his workshop and the shop as usual, and had just received an earful from Esther for spilling sticky lemonade down the lapel of his good frock coat.
Sarah carefully carried the tablecloth through to the dining room and spread it over the table, then laid three place settings including enough different plates to sink a ship, four glasses per person for the wines, and a great clattering heap of silver she’d spent hours polishing. In the centre of the table she placed a silver and cut-glass epergne, now filled to bursting with rather a lot of rosemary and a lavish assortment of cut flowers Esther had sent her up the street to fetch from the market this morning. Then there were the ivory napkin rings and starched napkins that had taken ages to fold properly, and the fancy cruet set, the salts and all the other fripperies Esther had trotted out. Sarah thought it was absurd: what was wrong with a plate, a knife and fork and a mug? You’d think the new king was coming for supper.
Finally, everything was ready. Adam and Esther were both upstairs, Adam changing his coat and Esther dressing in her finery, when Sarah heard a loud rapping on the shop door. Wiping her hands on her apron as she hurried through from the dining room, she eased back the heavy bolt and opened it.
Before her stood a gentleman wearing a blue cutaway coat with fashionable raised shoulders, rolled collar and gilt buttons, a mint-green silk waistcoat over a white shirt with a pointed collar and a precisely tied cravat, pale trousers fastened over the instep of his gleaming boots, and a beaver felt top hat, which he didn’t bother taking off to her. Good God, what a dandy. A heavy gold watch chain with a bloodstone fob peeked from beneath the waistcoat. Mmm, tempting, Sarah thought. He clutched a bouquet of flowers in one hand, a bottle in the other.
‘Good evening, sir,’ Sarah said.
‘Evening. Jared Gellar. I believe I’m expected?’
He had a pleasing voice, though Sarah couldn’t see his face clearly beneath the brim of his hat.
‘Yes.’ She stood back to let him in, then led him through to the parlour. While he wandered about having a good look at Esther’s pricey furniture and bits and pieces, she turned up the wall lamps so she could see him properly. ‘Mr Green shouldn’t be long.’
Jared Gellar’s face matched his voice — attractive. His dark features were regular and strong, his eyes shrewdly intelligent and, now he’d finally removed his hat, she saw his hair was a deep, glossy brown and curly enough to make most women jealous. He wore it in the slightly unruly style that she thought was effeminate, but which was all the rage among the wealthier classes.
‘Jared, my good fellow!’ Adam exclaimed, rushing into the parlour as though he’d been told to hurry up and get downstairs. ‘Delighted you could come tonight!’
Sarah looked at him; she’d never heard him call anyone his ‘good fellow’ before and it didn’t suit him. Adam wasn’t one for toff banter; in fact he was dismissive of those who were, so why was he doing it now?
Gellar swept across the room and presented his bottle. ‘Not much. Just off the ship but I hear it was a good year.’
Adam glanced at the label. ‘Very nice. Thank you, Jared.’
Esther arrived then, pausing in the doorway so the two men would have ample opportunity to notice her.
She wore an extremely expensive gown in cream muslin with a full skirt, billowing sleeves, exquisite green and maroon floral embroidery at hem and elbow, elaborate shirring across the bodice, and a vandyke collar in satin silk that dipped to a deep point below her tiny waist. She’d pinned up her luxuriant blonde hair with an assortment of jewelled clips and looked, Sarah had to admit, not too bad.
‘Mrs Green, may I say you are utterly charming!’ Gellar said, and presented her with his bouquet of flowers. ‘Please, do accept these unworthy blooms as a small token of my esteem.’
‘Mr Gellar, how lovely! Thank you!’ Esther simpered, and gave Sarah the impatient hand-flicking gesture that meant she was to go away and get on with whatever she was supposed to be doing.
So Sarah went out to the kitchen to prepare to serve the first course. When she heard the silver hand bell ring in the dining room, she carried in the tureen containing Esther’s mock turtle soup. After that came the chicken pie, then the vol-au-vent of pears, then the curried beef.
It was during the game course, as Sarah was serving the stuffed roasted goose breasts, that it all started to unravel.
Adam, on his seventh glass of wine and peering intently at the epergne, said, ‘Esther, why is there a rosemary bush on the table?’
Esther smiled tightly. ‘I’m not sure there is, dear.’
‘Yes. There is. I’m looking at it.’ Adam pointed with his fork. ‘See?’
‘Oh, in the epergne?’ Esther said, as though she hadn’t realised what he’d meant. ‘I often use rosemary in floral arrangements. You know that.’
‘But there’s almost an entire bush jammed in there,’ Adam insisted.
Esther’s laugh was brittle. ‘Hardly, dear. A few sprigs, perhaps.’
‘A few sprigs?’ Adam echoed. ‘Is there any left in the garden?’
Sarah stifled a smirk and placed Esther’s roasted goose breast on her plate: this could be entertaining, especially as tonight Adam had imbibed far more alcohol than was usual for him.
‘I think it looks absolutely charming,’ Gellar said. ‘Very festive.’
Smarmy bugger, Sarah thought.
Adam rather theatrically struck the back of the hand holding his fork against his forehead, causing a piece of curried beef caught on a tine to fly off over his shoulder. ‘God, I’ve just realised. This is to do with the ghost business, isn’t it?’ He reached clumsily across the table and took Esther’s hand in his free one. ‘Darling, there’s nothing to worry about, really there isn’t.’
Esther snatched her hand away, colour shooting up her neck and face, and fixed him with a glare. ‘Adam, not now!’
‘Why not? Jared’s a good friend.’ Adam turned to Gellar and said a fraction sharply, ‘Aren’t you, Jared, old fellow?’
‘Of course! At least, I’ve always hoped so,’ Gellar boomed. He, too, had been knocking back the wine and his nose had gone quite red.
As Sarah bent to serve his goose, she felt for several terrifying seconds what she thought was an enormous spider crawling up her bare leg. She squeaked and jerked away from the table, but when Gellar smirked up at her she realised it had been his hand on the back of her knee. Gritting her teeth behind her smile, she set the food on his plate, managing rather satisfyingly to drip blobs of dark gravy on the sh
oulder of his coat.
‘Adam, I’d rather we didn’t discuss the matter this evening,’ Esther said extremely frostily.
But Adam had apparently gone selectively deaf. ‘You see, Jared,’ he explained, leaning back in his chair so Sarah could get at his plate, ‘Esther believes our home is at risk of intrusion from a ghostly presence.’
Sarah stole a quick glance at his face. What had Esther been saying to him? Whatever it was, from his casual tone it didn’t sound as though he’d taken it too seriously.
‘Really?’ Gellar looked from Adam to Esther and back again. ‘That is alarming! How terrifying!’
‘It is, especially for Esther,’ Adam agreed. He waved his hand around vaguely. ‘Hence the rosemary and the amulets and the mezuzah all over the place. They ward off evil, you know. Esther has a very strong belief in the spirit world.’
‘As I do myself,’ Gellar said unexpectedly. ‘In England I was once forced to sell a house I owned due to the fact it was haunted.’
‘Is that right?’ Adam reached for more wine.
‘Yes, and it took months because everyone local knew. I ended up having to sell to someone from Cornwall.’
Esther suddenly burst out in a shrill voice, ‘It’s your fault!’
Sarah, in the act of removing the lid from the vegetable dish, felt her heart almost stop. ‘Mine?’ she said, as water from the lid dripped onto the tablecloth.
‘Yes! That girl you knew, the one who died — I overheard you and that Harrie Clarke talking about her and now odd things are happening and I can sense something evil, here in this house. She’s come back, the dead girl, I know she has!’
‘Esther —’ Adam attempted to stand but couldn’t quite manage it.
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