Esther extended a shaking finger towards Sarah. ‘She’s following you and it’s your fault and I want you out of this house!’
Adam had another go. He rose, moved around the table and laid a placating hand on Esther’s arm. ‘Esther, please, you’re getting hysterical.’
She stood herself and slapped him. ‘And you’re drunk, so shut up!’ Throwing her napkin on the table, she rushed out of the dining room.
They all heard her mount the stairs, a crash as she slammed her bedroom door, and her footsteps on the floor above. Then nothing.
Adam rubbed his stinging cheek. Gellar tut-tutted and helped himself to more wine.
‘Would anyone care for broccoli or julienned carrots?’ Sarah enquired.
Adam sat hunched over his workbench, rubbing his temples with his fingertips, a tumbler and an empty jug nearby. Sarah felt sorry for him; he seldom drank much and as a consequence of last night’s overindulgence was suffering the horrors. Also, Esther had shouted at him over breakfast, and it was a warm day, the temperature in the workshop already unpleasantly high.
‘Would you like some more lemonade?’
He sighed biliously and eased back his shoulders, shifting on his stool. ‘Yes, I would, thank you, Sarah. Is Esther about?’
‘Gone out,’ Sarah replied.
She thought he was relieved. She certainly was, though Esther’s filthy mood hadn’t been helped by Sarah rising particularly early this morning to remove the porridge saucepan from the kitchen and leave it balanced incongruously on a tree-stump in the backyard. Not after last night’s talk of ghosts and odd happenings.
She went out to the cool safe in the kitchen and poured some more lemonade. The house was so nice and peaceful without Esther. She was constantly stirring up agitation, although last night, when Sarah had fully expected a row between her and Adam, there’d been nothing. Adam had stayed up drinking with Gellar until all hours while she’d been stuck in the kitchen washing plates and pots until her hands had turned into prunes, but there hadn’t been a peep out of Esther. When Gellar had finally staggered off into the night Sarah had braced herself for war, but Esther stayed shut in her room while Adam had crashed off to bed in his own chamber, bouncing off the walls and mumbling to himself like the village idiot. It was no wonder he felt poorly this morning.
She returned to the workshop and set the lemonade jug down on the workbench. With an eye on the shop in case a customer came in she perched on her own stool and watched what Adam was doing, which was filing into a bezel the grooves where claws would sit to secure a ring’s central stone — in this case a large and rare pink topaz. He really was a very skilled jeweller, even if this morning his hands were shaking rather badly.
As he’d explained to Sarah when she’d first arrived, he’d had the workbench custom made, but she’d seen the like often enough in England and had worked at one herself for several years. This one had fittings and recesses for two craftsmen and when she’d finally been allowed to sit down at one she’d truly felt as though she’d come home.
The bench itself measured six feet long, two and a half deep and three high. On the side at which she and Adam worked were two curved recesses cut out to a depth of eleven inches and a width of twenty. Draped beneath each void was a pigskin to catch dropped gems and to prevent burns from hot metal. At the farthest extent of each recess was a drawer for small implements and a pigskin pouch to hold larger tools such as saws and files, to the left a rack for pliers, and above the drawer a tapered boxwood peg against which to work.
On the right of each recess — as Sarah and Adam were both right-handed — sat an oriental-style bronze oil lamp with a wick affixed to the spout. When the lamp was lit, a mouth-operated blowpipe was used to feed extra oxygen into the flame, increasing the heat, and the flame applied to whatever required soldering, the solder and flux to form the joint having been applied beforehand. It was a very fiddly and sweaty business, but a skill mastered by any jeweller worthy of the title. At one end of the bench was fixed an engraver’s ball, with an accompanying padded case of the burins used to engrave jewellery, and to shape and carve gold and silver, and to assist with the setting of stones.
The bench was situated so that Adam and Sarah faced an unusually large window as they worked, overlooking part of the backyard. The window had been made and fitted by glaziers specially, its mullions solid iron to deter burglars, which Sarah thought poignantly amusing as the thief was already on the wrong side of it. At night or on badly overcast days they worked under the light of half a dozen Sinumbra oil lamps, which cast no shadow, burning in them only the best sperm oil so smoke didn’t pollute the air and irritate eyes.
Against the walls of the workshop were a bench on which sat the rolling-mill for rolling out sheets of precious metal, a draw-bench for drawing down gold and silver wire from those sheets, and a table on which were arrayed various, less frequently used, tools. Also in the room were the safe — whose lock Sarah had picked during her third week with the Greens — where the metals and gems were kept and the most expensive pieces were stored at night, and a small charcoal furnace to heat alloys of gold and silver and form them into ingots for rolling or drawing.
On days when the furnace was operating the room was unbearably hot, especially in summer when the house’s ground floor was stifling anyway, but when opened the windows admitted hordes of mosquitoes and other insects, not to mention the stink from the Tank Stream just beyond Adam’s back fence. To date he hadn’t found a fabric fine yet robust enough to stretch over the window frame that would exclude pests but still admit light and any breeze, so they sat at their workbench and suffered, sweat pouring down their faces, wiping their damp hands every few minutes. But Sarah was once again doing what she loved, so the discomfort was something she was more than willing to tolerate.
Adam had chosen her to work for him because of her skills as a jeweller, but initially she’d been limited to housework until she’d demonstrated her trustworthiness. Esther had protested against Sarah serving in the shop, believing she would steal the stock, which of course she did, but Adam reasoned that if he already trusted her in the workshop, he might as well trust her to serve behind the counter as well. Now she and Adam shared the duty, Esther only rarely consenting to help when business was very brisk.
For Sarah, stealing from Adam Green had at first been like stealing from anyone else — easy and completely unencumbered by the complication of guilt. But as the months passed and Adam had shown her increasing respect, allowed her more privileges, and stoutly defended her against his wife’s endless harassment, she’d grown steadily more uncomfortable. She couldn’t stop her pilfering, however, as she had no other means of contributing to Charlotte’s welfare. Rachel had gone, but now there was Charlotte, seven months old. She relied on them completely for that money to pay for her care and it cost a fortune because of the corruption in the Female Factory, even with wily, tough Janie Braine as her foster mother.
There were other considerations, too. If Sarah stopped stealing from Adam and didn’t put anything into the fund, Friday would be the sole contributor. Sarah loved Friday and would do anything for her, but she couldn’t bear that prospect. It would alter the balance of power among the three of them in a way that could harm their friendship. Friday, being the generous soul she was, wouldn’t mind, but Sarah certainly would. She, Sarah, frequently told Harrie it was of no concern that Harrie wasn’t in a position to put money into the fund, and it wasn’t, because Harrie gave so much in other ways, but it was a different matter when it came to herself. Also, of the three of them, Sarah knew she had the skills and intellectual ability most suited to generating money, and it would drive her to distraction if she couldn’t use either to contribute to the fund. Finally, the idea of not being able to honour her commitment to their vow to take care of Charlotte was something she could not — and would not — live with. It smacked of the mercenary, disloyal and dishonourable behaviour so typical of Tom Ratcliffe, the boss of the cr
ew in which she had worked in London, and whom she had loathed. The last she’d heard he was rotting on a prison hulk in the Thames, and a bloody good job, too. Her belief that men could not be trusted had only been reinforced by Ratcliffe’s double-crossing ways, and her resolution to maintain her own version of honourable behaviour was further entrenched as a result.
So she continued to steal from Adam, though growing increasingly ill at ease with her conscience as time passed. Occasionally she picked pockets on the street but this rarely netted more than a few pounds; it took time to set up a potentially lucrative mark and she hardly ever had that luxury, even after Adam ordered Esther to allow her more freedom.
‘How long have you known Jared Gellar?’ she asked, hoping Adam wouldn’t tell her it was none of her business, which it wasn’t.
He didn’t look up, intent on what he was doing. ‘Why do you want to know?’
Because he gave me the shits, Sarah thought. ‘You seem to be good friends,’ she replied.
He did glance at her then. ‘Six or seven years.’
‘Is he in the trade?’
‘No, originally he was a book-keeper. Owns a schooner now and has moved into imports. He also buys up ailing businesses just before they go bankrupt, then injects his own money and resurrects them.’
‘He is doing well then, for one of us.’
Adam reached for his flat-nosed pliers. ‘He’s not a convict. He immigrated here about eight years ago.’
‘Is that when you met him?’
‘A year later, perhaps. Why the interest?’
‘He did rather get the royal treatment last night. I just wondered why.’
Sighing, Adam said, ‘Jared Gellar is very wealthy. Esther thinks my business could benefit from an injection of his cash. Which really isn’t your affair, Sarah.’
She knew then it was time to let the subject drop. ‘I couldn’t help noticing she wasn’t very happy this morning.’
‘No, she wasn’t.’ Adam put down the pliers, removed his magnifying spectacles, pushed his stool back and turned to face her. ‘Sarah, what exactly did she overhear you and Harrie talking about? This business about a ghost?’
‘Did she not mention it to you?’ Sarah said innocently.
‘Yes, she did, and she seems very distressed by it. I want to know exactly what was said.’
‘Well, Harrie was here one day and we were talking about the dreams we’ve both been having, about Rachel. Our friend who died.’ Sarah felt awkward lying to his face. It was uncomfortably like stealing from him. ‘Mrs Green must have overheard us.’
‘Yes, but what did you say about her?’
‘Mrs Green?’
‘No, Rachel.’
‘Oh. Well, we said that in our dreams Rachel told us she’s all alone out at the cemetery, at St John’s. And just that we had the impression she was angry at us. That’s all.’
‘And this is all true? You’ve both been having the same dreams?’
Sarah nodded, willing herself not to look away from him.
Adam’s dark brows went up. ‘How bizarre. Well, Esther’s got it into her head that there actually is a ghost, that the spirit of your friend is here and causing mischief.’ He reached for a cloth, wiped his pale, sweating forehead and poured himself a tumbler of lemonade. ‘She’s always had an unhealthy interest in the supernatural. She thought the last house we lived in was haunted, too. This won’t do her nerves any good at all.’
Dearie me, Sarah thought, that’s terrible news.
Adam sipped his drink. ‘She told me you planned to consult a cleric. Did you?’
What? Then Sarah remembered her remark to Harrie about accompanying her to church: she’d actually gone on a picnic with Friday to Hyde Park. ‘Yes, we did, the priest at Harrie’s church. He told us to pray.’
‘I think Esther was hoping he might come here.’ Adam swept his hair back off his face. He looked tired and a bit defeated. ‘What do you think, Sarah? Has the spirit of your friend really come back?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. I’ve never encountered a real ghost before.’
‘No, neither have I,’ Adam admitted. ‘I’m not at all convinced there are such things. And if there are, I’m reasonably confident the only place they’re residing around here is in Esther’s mind.’
‘I’m sad to hear that,’ Sarah replied.
Adam gave her a sceptical look.
Hurriedly, Sarah said, ‘Last night she said she wanted me gone.’
‘I know. However, you’re assigned to me, not Esther. My signature is required on any documents pertaining to your return to the Factory, not Esther’s, and I have no intention of sending you back. You’re far too valuable to me.’
Equal measures of relief, gratitude and self-reproach washed over Sarah. ‘Thank you.’
The relief was at least partly due to Adam’s admission that he didn’t think ghosts existed. If he did, she would have to rethink her plan regarding Esther’s haunting: it would be too much, even for her, to scare Adam silly as well as rob him blind. She had considerable respect for him, although obviously not enough to keep her hands off his property. She appreciated his intelligence and kindness, his sense of humour and his skill as a jeweller. He was attractive, too, though whenever she caught herself appraising him physically she put an immediate stop to it. Any thoughts in that direction could only lead to danger, trouble and, ultimately, misery — hers.
There had never been a man in her life, not in the romantic sense, and while she didn’t object to the idea, she knew the reality would be altogether different, without doubt fraught with difficulty and disappointment, and inevitably tainted by those brutal girlhood memories she seemed incapable of erasing — always there, like bloodstains on a snow-white cloth. She was plain, already set in her ways, viciously independent, mistrustful and generally sour-natured; all attributes she knew men did not find appealing. Also, she was an extremely competent dip, screwsman and cracksman — again not attractive qualities in a potential mate. And as she had no intention of changing any of those things, that was that. It was much safer to stay the way she was.
‘I’d like Esther to see a doctor about her nerves,’ Adam confided. ‘But she won’t. I’m sure you’ve noticed she can be quite irrational at times. And … I think she’s getting worse.’
Sarah stared at her hands. It was quite useful hearing about Esther’s precarious state of mind, but embarrassing as well.
‘Does she have any lady friends?’
‘She has friends she meets when she goes out, to take tea with and what have you.’
‘Why doesn’t anyone come here in the evenings?’ Since Sarah had been assigned to the Greens, Jared Gellar had been the first visitor they’d entertained at home.
‘We used to have supper parties. But, well, now we don’t.’
The bell over the shop door rang.
‘I’ll get that,’ Sarah said.
Relieved, Adam turned back to his work. He wiped his hands on his cloth and put his spectacles back on. Talking to Sarah was the highlight of his day, every day, but he did wish she wouldn’t ask so many difficult questions. Other people might consider her overly curious, impertinent even, but he saw her for what she really was; a girl with a shrewdly intelligent and deeply enquiring mind.
The reason he and Esther no longer hosted social functions at their home was that two and a half years earlier he’d had a brief affair with the wife of an associate after they’d met at one of Esther’s suppers. Esther’s rationale since then had been that if no women came into the house, he wouldn’t be tempted. It had been the beginning of why she disliked Sarah so much and wanted him to send her back to the Factory — though since then antipathy had certainly grown between the two women, and now there was this ghost business. But there had been no jewellers among the male convicts at Hyde Park Barracks for some time — he had specifically enquired — and anyway Esther needed someone to help her with the housework, given that she refused to lift a hand to do anythin
g at all except cook.
He’d had the affair for purely selfish reasons. Esther was a beautiful woman and he loved her. Or, more truthfully, he loved the memory of the woman she’d been when he’d first met her. Now he cared about how she felt and for her welfare, but that essential spark of passion that drives lovers to be together had died well before his affair, extinguished by Esther’s ever-increasing demands on him to make more money. He’d felt belittled by her, and her apparent inability to stop spending what he did make created a never-ending treadmill about which she constantly chastised him, withholding sex as punishment when he flagged and maintaining stony silences and foul moods for weeks on end.
So when pretty Cynthia had offered the promise of a few stolen hours of uncomplicated fun and sexual relief, he’d accepted. He hadn’t loved her, and she’d been a little noodle-headed and quite possibly fairly annoying in large doses, but she’d had lovely breasts, smooth white skin and the most deliciously perfumed quim, and he had enjoyed himself. But she’d told a friend, who had told someone else and Esther had found out. Whether or not Cynthia’s husband had ever realised, Adam never knew; he’d seen the man often enough since with no unpleasantness.
There had been very unpleasant repercussions with Esther, however. While many women might have looked the other way, she hadn’t, and he hadn’t expected her to. There certainly had been no sexual relations whatsoever since, and no let-up in her drive to ruin him; he was beginning to view her spending as an obsession if not an actual form of sickness. The fact that she was also ruining herself seemed not to deter her at all. So he’d done the only thing he could do and that was to work harder and make more money, which ironically was what Esther had wanted in the first place. And to do that he’d had to take on an appropriately trained assistant, who was Sarah, another constant irritation to Esther. To appease her he’d agreed to go to Hyde Park Barracks whenever a new shipment of convicts arrived, on the off chance one might be a jeweller, but whenever that occurred he would simply wander down to the Rocks and have a cup of tea somewhere for an hour or so, come home and say there wasn’t anyone.
Girl of Shadows Page 6