Because he didn’t want to replace Sarah.
She was an excellent jeweller but, more than that, he thought he might be in love with her.
Chapter Four
Wilting in the sun and swatting at flies, Harrie and Friday stood outside the tall wooden gates of Parramatta Female Factory.
‘Jesus, hurry up, will you?’ Friday muttered. ‘It’s bloody hot out here.’ She raised a fist and pounded on the wicket. ‘Visitors! Open up!’
Finally, the wicket swung open and the porter peered out. ‘Hold your horses.’
‘You hold yours, we’re bloody melting out here,’ Friday replied as she barged her way through.
‘Just as hot in here, you know,’ the porter grumbled, mopping his brow with an enormous celery-green handkerchief.
But Friday and Harrie had already set off towards the second set of gates in the inner wall. The portress, peeping through the slot in the wicket from the other side, opened it and let them in.
‘Ta, Glad,’ Friday said.
‘Thank you, Gladys,’ Harrie echoed.
Gladys asked, ‘How are yis?’
‘Good,’ Harrie replied. ‘Yourself?’
‘Can’t complain. Janie and the kids’ve been waiting for yis. Wait here an’ I’ll get ’em.’
‘Hold on.’ Friday surreptitiously passed Gladys a decent-sized block of tobacco. ‘Don’t smoke it all at once.’
‘Oooh, very nice.’ Gladys sniffed it appreciatively. ‘Ta.’
She hurried away across the yard and disappeared into the entrance of the three-storey dormitory building dominating the Factory compound; a few pale faces could be seen staring down from the windows. It was past midday so Sunday services and dinner would be over by now. Neither the matron, Mrs Ann Gordon, nor her assistant, Mrs Letitia Dick, were anywhere to be seen, which was fortunate as Friday and Harrie were smuggling in a large bag of contraband.
Gladys returned minutes later accompanied by Janie Braine carrying baby Charlotte on her hip and leading her daughter Rosie, a toddler, by the hand. Janie wore the regulation Factory skirt and blouse, plus a bright blue waistcoat, a red kerchief at her throat, black boots and a straw bonnet that made her large pink ears stick out even more than they normally did. Her light brown hair was pulled back in a tidy bun and her good eye was healthy and bright, though the left one, as usual, stared forwards sightlessly. Behind her trailed a tall and very solidly built girl.
Janie embraced Harrie and Friday and presented both babies for kisses.
‘Afternoon, Pearl,’ Friday said to the big girl.
Pearl nodded pleasantly.
Gladys said, ‘Visitors’ room’s empty.’
The group trudged across the yard and settled themselves in the airless visitors’ room, Charlotte on Harrie’s knee and Rosie on Friday’s, though Pearl stayed outside, sitting on the step, smoking her pipe.
‘Have they been well?’ Harrie asked. ‘Have you?’
‘We been good, haven’t we, chickens?’ Janie smiled fondly at the children. ‘Rosie fell down the other day,’ she said, indicating a scab on the toddler’s knee, ‘but she’ll mend.’
‘No coughs or nasty rashes, no runny bottoms?’ Harrie persisted.
‘For God’s sake, Harrie,’ Friday said, ‘Janie’s a grown woman. Don’t talk to her like she’s a child. Runny bottoms! It’s called the shits.’
‘No, none of that,’ Janie confirmed. ‘They been good. Well, Charlotte had a touch of the runs a week ago but it didn’t last long. Everyone did. Hospital’s full of folk with dysentery at the moment.’
Friday handed over the cloth bag packed with supplies: Janie opened it and looked inside.
‘Oooh, lovely. I’m nearly out of decent clouts.’
There was also clothing for the girls made by Harrie, and soap and skin cream, and the nipple salve and bottles of tonic Janie had asked for in her letter as she was still breast-feeding both children, plus playing cards and trinkets for trading, plenty of fresh and preserved food, and money. Most of the money was for Pearl, whom Janie paid to look out for her. After Harrie had left the Factory for good it hadn’t taken Janie long to realise she couldn’t watch over two babies and keep an eye on the contraband the others brought in for her. Without Pearl, who was extremely loyal providing she was paid on time, she’d be robbed in a minute.
Harrie gazed fondly down at Charlotte, and flicked a fat, lazy fly off her arm. ‘She looks more and more like Rachel every day, doesn’t she?’
‘Thank God,’ Friday said grimly. ‘Imagine if she favoured her rotten bloody father.’
Charlotte’s hair had been the colour of wheat when she’d been born and had grown paler since, strands catching the sun and turning silver the way her mother’s had. Her eyes, however, had not lightened and were a very dark brown, clearly inherited from Gabriel Keegan, as Rachel’s eyes had been a startling cornflower blue. In her round baby face there were hints she may grow into a beauty, but this young such a prediction was too early to make with confidence. At least she no longer resembled the scrawny-necked little creature she’d been when born, though even then Harrie had thought she was beautiful.
Rosie was a sweet child but, based solely on the size and angle of her ears, it was clear who her mother was. She was happy and managing to thrive even in the misery and filthy conditions of the Factory, unlike most of the children there, many of whom died before their first birthday. But then they didn’t have the benefits that Friday, Harry and Sarah made sure Charlotte and Rosie received.
‘Lotta,’ Rosie said, laying a proprietary little hand on Charlotte’s chubby bare foot.
‘Yes! That’s Charlotte, isn’t it?’ Harrie said, delighted. ‘When did she start talking, Janie?’
‘Said her first proper word two weeks ago,’ Janie replied proudly.
‘Really? What was it?’
‘Bugger.’
Friday roared with laughter, startling Charlotte so her little hands flew out.
Janie laughed, too, when she heard about Sarah’s plan to haunt Esther Green, but shook her head reproachfully as Harrie told her about James Downey’s latest attempt to get her to talk to him.
‘You know, Harrie, you been playing this silly game for ages. Don’t you think it’s time you got off your high horse? He’ll get sick of it and find himself a lass who will talk to him, and warm his bed. Then you’ll be sorry.’
‘James isn’t like that,’ Harrie said stiffly.
Janie and Friday looked at each other and laughed. ‘He’s a man, isn’t he?’ Friday said. ‘’Course he is.’
‘You don’t understand what he did,’ Harrie insisted.
Janie said, ‘I do so, I were there, remember?’
‘Well, I can’t forgive him.’
‘You mean you won’t.’ Friday rolled her eyes.
Janie shrugged. ‘Suit yourself. But sure as eggs you’ll lose him. Some pretty little thing’ll come along and —’ She clicked her fingers. ‘Just like that he’ll be gone.’
Harrie said nothing. She ran her fingers over the silky softness of Charlotte’s hair and down her plump pink cheek. The thought had occurred to her, of course; James could well give up his pursuit of her, tired at last of her constant rebuttals, and find himself someone else. And then what would she do? But she could not bring herself to forgive him, she just couldn’t.
‘I don’t want him, anyway,’ she said.
Friday and Janie exchanged a knowing glance but remained silent. The remainder of the visit passed pleasantly, filled with gossip, Janie’s sharply witty character assassinations of her fellow Factory inmates, and the removal of a half-chewed piece of nougat from Rosie’s hair. But soon it was time to leave.
Outside the visitors’ room someone other than Pearl was waiting for them.
‘Look what the cat’s dragged in,’ Friday remarked.
‘Afternoon, Miss Harrie, Miss Friday,’ Matilda Bain said, giving a wobbly half-curtsy.
Matilda had been transported on the same
convict ship as Sarah, Rachel, Friday and Harrie, but at the age of seventy was too old to be assigned and had languished in the Factory ever since. She was frail, suffering from dementia related to tertiary syphilis, partially blind and missing most of her teeth. Today her sparse white hair, stained ochre in places by tobacco smoke, lifted in the slight breeze like liberated dandelion spoors and her ragged Factory slops hung crookedly off her skinny, bent frame, exposing one bruised and bony shoulder.
Friday rummaged in her reticule and handed her a good-sized bottle of gin. ‘Here you go.’
‘Thank you, Miss Friday. Much ’preciated.’
It was Friday’s atonement for shoving, shouting at and insulting Matilda on the voyage out from England. There had been no real reason for her behaviour other than she’d needed a punching bag, and whining, irritating old Matilda had been it. So every time Friday visited the Factory now she gave Matilda something. Neither had discussed the matter — that would be too embarrassing for both of them — but each knew exactly why Matilda was getting gifts when Friday came to see Janie and the children.
But this time, instead of scurrying off across the yard, Matilda turned to Harrie.
‘I got something to tell you, Miss Harrie.’
Joggling Charlotte up and down to make her giggle, Harrie raised her eyebrows. ‘What’s that, Matilda?’
‘I seen her,’ Matilda said.
Harrie stopped joggling. The hairs on her arms rose and her skin broke out in goose bumps, because she knew: she knew without Matilda having to say a single word more.
‘Who?’ Friday demanded.
‘That young lass Rachel. Standing by winder where she used to wait, watching them bats go by.’ A fly landed on Matilda’s nostril; she didn’t seem to notice.
Janie, seeing the look on Harrie’s face, took Charlotte from her and said, ‘You’re mad, Matilda. Rachel’s gone, remember?’
Matilda shook her head vehemently; the fly hung on. ‘I got up to use bucket and there she were, plain as day.’
‘You must have been dreaming,’ Friday said, and turned to Harrie. ‘Like you have, eh?’
Harrie nodded, but she knew Matilda hadn’t been dreaming.
‘James?’ Lawrence Chandler called out as James passed his office door. ‘Do you have a minute? I’d like a word.’
James, bag in hand, was about to leave for the night but he did have a minute, several in fact: no one was waiting for him at home and all he had to look forward to were two pork chops he would more than likely carbonise over his fire.
‘Sit down,’ Lawrence said, indicating the chair beside his desk.
James sat, his bag on the floor at his feet, hat balanced on top.
‘Whisky?’ Lawrence offered.
‘Just a small one, thank you.’
Lawrence poured two drinks from the cut-crystal decanter on his desk. ‘I had a patient in here today, someone I’ve known in a professional capacity for some years. A very kind-hearted woman.’
James nodded politely.
‘She currently has working for her a girl who, for medical reasons, is no longer able to continue in her present capacity and is therefore looking for more suitable employment. Apart from this one particular matter concerning her health, which is not generally limiting, she is a fit young woman.’ Lawrence pulled at his greying beard as if deep in thought. ‘How are you getting on at home, James?’
‘At home?’
‘Yes. With your meals and housework and what have you?’
James suspected he knew where this was heading. ‘I believe I’m managing.’
‘Are you? Is that why you’ve come to work in the same coat with egg on its sleeve every day this week?’
James grasped his sleeve and twisted it; there was indeed egg on it — quite old egg.
‘I really do think it’s time you got someone in to look after you,’ Lawrence said. ‘No, don’t start on about wagging tongues. Virtually every bachelor with means in this town has a domestic servant of some sort.’
‘Yes, and they’re all gossiped about,’ James protested. On the rare occasions he attended social events it seemed that gossiping was all people damned well did.
‘Are they? I don’t listen to gossip myself. If that really is what’s troubling you, James, I think you’re probably fairly safe. There are far more interesting people than you in this town to talk about.’ Lawrence took a sip of his whisky. ‘It has also occurred to me that something else may be bothering you. I realise you’re still in mourning for a wife whom I do understand was deeply beloved to you, and forgive me for being blunt, James, but could it be that you’re allowing your memory of her to prevent you from having a female servant in your house? And, in effect, dictate that you must eat appallingly prepared meals and go about looking like some grubby alms-hunter, for that matter? You need nourishing food, and at the very least clean clothes.’
James rubbed at the dried smear of egg on his arm.
‘Am I correct in understanding your period of full mourning has come to an end? Yes? Will you be going on to half-mourning?’
James had thought about it, but had decided a year had been long enough. To be honest he felt an absolute hypocrite chasing Harrie Clarke around the streets dressed head to toe in widower’s weeds.
‘No, I think not.’
‘Good man. Then I can see no excuse for you to continue to deny yourself, and it sounds to me as though Elizabeth has just the girl you need.’
An unpleasant suspicion stole over James. ‘Elizabeth who?’
‘Elizabeth Hislop.’
‘Lawrence! I can’t have a prostitute in my house!’
‘James, this is a marvellous opportunity for you both.’ Lawrence leant forwards in his chair to emphasise his point. ‘The girl will be placed in decent and wholesome employment, and you’ll get a perfectly adequate servant. Where’s your Christian charity, man?’
James squirmed, recalling having employed similar tactics himself not so long ago. ‘It’s out of the question. What would my patients say?’
‘Why would they say anything? Why would they need to know of your domestic arrangements at all?’
‘Because things get around. This is a small town, Lawrence. It’s hardly London.’
‘But who’s to know where she worked before she came to you? It’s my understanding that Elizabeth Hislop operates a very discreet business.’
Thinking of Friday Woolfe, James wondered about that. He took a large gulp of his whisky, feeling very much cornered. ‘Well, can she even cook?’
‘Elizabeth says she can. She’s also lent a very competent hand in the hotel laundry.’
‘Then why can’t she stay on in Mrs Hislop’s employ?’
Lawrence frowned, his wiry brows meeting in the middle. ‘Elizabeth doesn’t require another cook or laundress. I’m sad to say she needs a girl with a different set of skills.’
James felt himself blush. ‘Oh God, Lawrence, I don’t know. Is she a convict?’
‘I understand she has a ticket of leave. And a family she supports in England. So she desperately needs employment.’
James sighed deeply. ‘What exactly is ailing her?’
Lawrence finished his whisky. ‘I have examined her and my diagnosis is excessive menstrual bleeding caused possibly by a tumour, though I found no evidence of one. No metritis, either, or lues venerea. Elizabeth has always been very meticulous about that.’
‘Is there mania associated with the episodes of bleeding?’ James asked, envisioning a lunatic servant running riot through his cottage.
‘No, just pain requiring rest, and an inability to perform her, er, intimate duties, according to Elizabeth.’
James thought he could possibly tolerate that. ‘What treatment have you prescribed?’
‘Tonic for blood loss, laudanum for discomfort and light domestic duties during heavy bleeding. I’ve asked her to come back and see me in two months’ time. I’m not convinced she isn’t harbouring a tumour of some sort, though a
s I said I saw no evidence.’
‘Well, I suppose I could at least interview her,’ James said reluctantly. If the poor girl was suffering women’s problems she’d hardly be likely to hurl herself at him. ‘What’s her name?’
Lawrence looked delighted. ‘Good man, James! Her name is Rowena Harris.’
‘Sit down, Rowie,’ Elizabeth Hislop said.
Reluctantly, Rowie perched on the edge of the chair beside Mrs H’s desk, knees together, spine bent, rocking slightly. She’d cut herself peeling potatoes in the hotel kitchen; a rose of blood was slowly blossoming through the strip of muslin she’d wrapped around her finger. But Elizabeth knew that wasn’t the reason for her despondency; she was expecting to be told she would shortly be without employment altogether.
‘Do you need another bandage for that?’ Elizabeth asked. ‘It looks nasty.’
‘I’ll be all right.’
Elizabeth sat down herself. ‘I have some good news, though I do regret having to let you go. You do know that, don’t you?’
Rowie nodded, refusing to meet Elizabeth’s eyes, her own gaze darting about the room. In fact she looked more than despondent, she looked desperate, and Elizabeth wondered why. ‘I like it here. I’m very good at what I do.’
‘I know you are, but I just can’t afford to pay someone who isn’t pulling her weight. And I realise it’s not your fault, but I do have the business to consider. Now, I understand you have family in England who rely on you for financial support? Is that right?’
Rowie nodded again, and looked as though she might burst into tears. ‘I don’t know what they’ll do without the money. Can’t I please stay?’
‘It wouldn’t work, dear. It isn’t working.’
‘The kitchen, then? Can’t I work there? Or even the laundry?’ Rowie was sounding panicked now.
‘No, Rowie. I don’t need anyone in the kitchen or the laundry.’
‘But —’
‘I said no,’ Elizabeth replied sharply. ‘But I’ve spoken to Dr Chandler, who you saw about your troubles the other day, and he’s very kindly arranged alternative employment for you. The position is with Dr Downey, the other doctor at the surgery, as his live-in domestic servant.’ She paused, relieved to see a smile transforming Rowie’s features. ‘It will be the usual, cooking, cleaning and what have you. Dr Downey is fairly new to Sydney, and recently widowed. Are you interested?’
Girl of Shadows Page 7