‘Would that be Dr James Downey?’
‘It would.’
‘The surgeon who was on Friday’s transport?’
‘Do you know him?’ Elizabeth was surprised.
‘No, but she’s mentioned him. He’s her friend Harrie’s beau, isn’t he?’
‘I gather that’s a touchy subject. And don’t you go getting any ideas in that direction, miss.’
‘I won’t! Thank you so much, Mrs H. I’m that grateful!’
Elizabeth waved away the thanks. ‘Yes, well, mind you do a good job. You’re there on my recommendation, remember.’
‘I’ll do a wonderful job, I promise,’ Rowie said. ‘It’s perfect.’
Harrie gaped at Friday in appalled disbelief.
‘You’ll swallow a fly if you’re not careful,’ Friday remarked.
‘And he’s taken her on? A prostitute?’
Friday nodded. ‘Well, she’s not now. She’s a maid of all work.’
‘But why?’ Harrie demanded. ‘Why would he employ a servant now, when he’s been perfectly happy by himself for a whole year?’
‘How should I know? Maybe he’s sick of eating in the pub and sleeping in filthy linen.’
Harrie continued to stare at Friday; in a single minute, disbelief had progressed to dismay, then jealousy and now anger. ‘Was this your idea?’
‘’Course not. It was Mrs H’s.’
‘But why James?’ He’d done this on purpose, Harrie knew he had, just to spite her for refusing to speak to him.
‘I suppose because he works with Chandler and Chandler is Mrs H’s doctor, and Mrs H has been keeping an eye out for another job for Rowie, seeing as she can’t work in the brothel any more. And James didn’t have a servant and needed one.’
‘Sounds a likely story,’ Harrie said, her lip curling.
Friday laughed. ‘That’s because it is.’
Harrie switched back to feeling jealous. ‘What does she look like?’
Friday hesitated, then sighed. Even though Harrie’s reaction was quite funny because she’d been swearing black and blue for months she wanted nothing to do with James Downey, she knew the news had upset her, and this was only going to make it worse. ‘She’s pretty. Black hair, grey eyes. Quite a nice figure, I suppose.’
Harrie immediately compared that to her own mouse-brown hair, ordinary brown eyes and rounded shape, and felt a surge of resentment so sour she could taste it. And she hadn’t even met this Rowie Harris.
‘And she’s been there a week?’
‘Give or take.’
‘Have you been to visit her?’ Harrie demanded. ‘What does James think of her? How does he behave around her?’
A long moment passed during which Friday and Harrie stared at each other. Slowly, Harrie’s hands came up to cover her ears, something that only happened when she was under considerable duress. She forced herself to lower them again.
Friday said, ‘Harrie, stop it. Will you listen to yourself? No, I haven’t been to see her. It’s just a job she’s got. Christ, he probably barely says good morning to her. You know how boring and proper he is.’
Actually, Harrie didn’t. What she knew was that he was kind and clever, amusing, courteous and generous. And she had thought he was considerate, until he’d done what he had to Rachel. If it hadn’t been for that, it might have been her cooking James’s meals and laundering his linen and sweeping his floors — and yes, perhaps even sharing his bed. But now, it seemed, it was some tuppenny-uprighter called Rowie.
She sat very still, aware Friday was watching her, and all the worry and anger and guilt and fear she’d felt since Rachel had died converged into a cold ball of dread just below her breastbone. Everything around her became very bright and she thought for a moment she was falling, though she knew she wasn’t. Her hands felt suddenly icy, her lips numb, and her heart thumped furiously. The sensation was terrifying and she understood with dreadful clarity that if she didn’t move, if she didn’t haul herself out of the pit of despair and confusion into which she knew herself to be sliding she would be lost.
She had to do something, and she knew what it was. James could have his other woman; it didn’t matter, because she had an admirer, too.
She touched Friday’s knee. ‘Thanks for coming to tell me.’
Friday nodded. ‘Will you be all right? You don’t look very happy.’
‘It was just a shock. As you say, he probably doesn’t even notice her.’
‘Probably,’ Friday agreed. ‘But it might be time to stop ignoring him, eh?’
Harrie slept badly that night. At four o’clock, well before the sun had even begun to rise, she got up, lit the lamp and sat on her bed to compose a note. After three attempts, finally happy with what she’d written, she folded the single sheet of paper and sealed it with wax, then hid it in her drawer.
She washed, dressed and went downstairs early to tackle a pile of ironing before she started breakfast, her nerves jangling and her determination to carry out her plan coursing through her veins so vigorously she almost tore one of Abigail’s shifts with the point of the iron. As the early morning sun crept across the parlour floor, the Barretts appeared one by one, George first, attired for work, then the older children still in their nightclothes.
Having finished the ironing and folded it into neat piles, Harrie prepared and served breakfast, waited until George had dawdled frustratingly over his cup of tea and pipe and gone downstairs, shooed the children off to get dressed, then carried the dirty breakfast things down to the kitchen and washed them.
Finally, she knocked on Nora’s open bedroom door and popped her head around: Nora was reclining on the bed nursing Lewis.
‘Do you mind if I go out for half an hour, Mrs Barrett?’
Nora frowned and adjusted Lewis’s position on her breast. ‘Must you, Harrie? Samuel needs his bath and Hannah could do with a good wash as well. I don’t know what she was doing yesterday but she’s rather whiffy. And we’ve that cloak to finish for Mrs Cowley, don’t forget.’
‘I won’t be long, I promise. Perhaps not even half an hour.’
Nora checked the clock on the mantel. ‘Oh, well, all right, then. But please don’t be long.’
‘I won’t, I really won’t.’
Now Harrie felt guilty on top of everything else. She ran up the stairs to her room, ripped off her apron, jammed her bonnet on her head and snatched the note from the drawer.
Minutes later she was hurrying north along Gloucester Street, walking so quickly she almost turned her ankle in a pothole. It wasn’t until she passed the delicious smell of fresh bread drifting from the open door of a bakehouse that she realised she hadn’t eaten any breakfast herself, and farther along the stink from a slaughter yard behind a butcher’s, combined with the lack of food and the state of her nerves, nearly made her vomit.
She turned left at Argyle and toiled up the hill to Princes Street where she stopped, patted her pocket to make sure the letter was still there, and thought for a moment. Friday had passed on the address last year and she’d never forgotten it, but would he still be living here?
The houses at the northern end of Princes Street were elegant and very comfortable. Not grand, not by London standards, and not small mansions like the residences at the Bunker’s Hill end of Cumberland Street, but very nice all the same. They were detached or semi-detached, and one- or two-storey with several chimneys each, plenty of windows, verandahs and low picket fences, and some had lovely, luscious gardens. This far up the hill they escaped the worst of the smells emanating from the jammed-together little houses, lanes, closed-in yards, privies, cesspits and open drains down nearer the water.
These homes were owned mainly by artisans, well-to-do merchants and slightly lesser professionals such as solicitors and surveyors, many of whom insisted they resided in Millers Point, not the Rocks. And possibly they did as from the tallest of the Princes Street residences a view could be had of not only Sydney Cove and South Head, but also glimpses
of Darling Harbour to the west and the rolling, scrub-cloaked hills beyond.
Nice people would live here, Harrie decided. Husbands who worked hard and honestly for their money, of which they would have a comfortable amount, but not in a job where they got sweaty or their hands dirty, and they would have nice, kind wives who donated their time to worthy causes and their children would be polite and wipe their bottoms properly and not pick their noses. She knew if she looked closely there would be cats sunning themselves in the gardens, and probably even a well-trained dog or two on chains in backyards — beloved family pets, not the feral sort that terrorised people as they went about their business in town. There might be a goat, too, for milk, and chickens for fresh breakfast eggs.
She sighed without even realising it; she would love to live in a house like one of these. Determination driving her forwards, she followed the line of smartly painted fences along the street in the direction of Dawes Battery, looking for the right address. It was embarrassing enough handing a note to a servant; it would be awful if she delivered it to the wrong house.
The creak and jingle of a carriage rattling along the road made her turn, and when she did her heart leapt so violently that for a second her breath snagged painfully in her chest. Bella Jackson! The midnight-blue curricle and those black horses were unmistakable. Then the air burst out of Harrie’s lungs accompanied by a terrified squeak and she looked around wildly for somewhere to hide. She snatched up her skirts, darted through the nearest gate, kicked it shut behind her and ducked behind an oleander bush.
The driver of the curricle, which Harrie now saw was empty, executed a turn and came to a halt before the very front yard in which she was hiding, the horses snorting and stamping impatiently. Heart racing madly, she pushed herself further into the bush, praying her feet weren’t visible below the foliage.
The front door of the house opened and out came Bella Jackson and another woman.
Bella looked subtly different and it took a moment for Harrie to realise why: her style of dress had changed. Gone were the expensive and well-made but rather garish skirts and bodices she’d worn on the Isla. Today her outfit consisted of an elegant, summery day dress with a pattern of — Harrie had to squint to make this out — purple irises and red lilies against a lemon background, with a bodice perfectly fitted to Bella’s thin torso and modest bust, puffed sleeves and a gathered skirt with a frilled hem. Her wide-brimmed straw hat was trimmed with artificial irises and lilies exactly the same shades as those on her dress, and she wore a yellow silk scarf at her throat, the ends of which trailed down her back. Her strong, striking face looked, as usual, heavily made up and the dark curls beneath the hat gleamed.
Even while jammed in an oleander bush sweating with terror, Harrie felt envious. Bella Jackson was an evil, evil woman, and a bonded convict, and here she was swanning about Sydney Town virtually free, wearing beautiful clothes no doubt paid for by her new rich husband. She noted with satisfaction, however, that Bella’s scarf lent the outfit a slightly common air.
The other woman — pleasant-looking, smartly dressed and somewhere in her forties — said, ‘Thank you so much, Mrs Shand. I’m so sorry my husband couldn’t be here today, but I know he’ll be delighted when he returns. It’s been a pleasure to do business with you.’
Harrie stifled a gasp. But Bella Jackson was a whoremonger! Was this woman condoning her husband’s infidelity? Or, even worse, facilitating it?
Bella replied graciously, ‘The pleasure has been all mine, Mrs Clayton. And I’m sure Dr Clayton will be satisfied. As you know, I procure only the very highest quality. Thank you for the tea and cake. Most delicious. I’ll be in contact when the time comes.’
They smiled, exchanged limp handshakes, the woman went inside again and Bella walked down the little path, opened the gate and passed through, closed it behind her, and climbed into her curricle. And just sat there.
Harrie grimaced and closed her eyes.
‘You can come out now,’ Bella said loudly, ‘you cowering little squirrel.’
Harrie stayed where she was, face on fire, blood pounding in her head, so frightened she thought she might be sick.
A moment later the driver cracked his whip and the curricle clattered off.
Harrie waited until the sound had faded completely, then, branch by branch, disentangled herself from the oleander and crept out of Mrs Clayton’s yard. Bloody, bloody hell. She lived in complete terror of encountering the rotten woman, she really did, but why did it have to be today? And would seeing Harrie remind Bella of what she knew about them? Of course it would. Would there be a demand soon? Or would it be the police knocking on the Barretts’ door early one morning?
God, she couldn’t bear this! Her mind felt so tormented and jagged and … brittle. Once again her hands suddenly felt like ice, she couldn’t feel her mouth, and the sensation of falling swept over her. Her arms flew out, but she was fine, it was only in her head. Then she bent over, hands on knees, and vomited. Not much came up and it wrenched at her belly, but she felt better. She spat, wiped her mouth on the hem of her skirt and started walking again.
The house called ‘Swansea’ was fourth from the end, one of the last houses on Princes Street. It was two-storey, with three dormer windows, three chimneys and a verandah. Harrie went around the back and knocked on the door.
When Matthew Cutler himself opened it she wanted to weep. It was so unfair; in a proper house the servant always answered the door!
‘Harriet!’ he exclaimed: the first word he’d ever spoken to her.
Despite the hour he was still wearing his nightclothes and a robe belted at the waist, a woollen scarf around his neck and leather slippers. His eyes were bleary and his nose bright pink, his sandy hair stuck up at the back, and he had a scabbed-over canker in one corner of his mouth. He looked awful.
‘The Vincents aren’t home. And neither’s Dolly, our girl. Just me. I’m indisposed with an early summer ague,’ he wittered on apologetically.
Wishing she could disappear into a hole in the ground, Harrie knew if she didn’t do it now, she never would. She thrust her note at him.
‘For me?’
She nodded.
He opened and read it, and a grin spread across his face, cracking the canker on his mouth. He winced and dabbed at it with a finger.
‘Thank you very much, Harrie. May I call you Harrie? Or would you prefer Miss Clarke?’
‘Harrie, please.’ What did it matter?
‘I’m truly honoured. I would love to attend afternoon tea with you next Saturday. Thank you.’
Harrie finally allowed herself to relax slightly. ‘Thank you, Mr Cutler.’
Matthew waved his hand dismissively. ‘Oh, please, it’s Matthew, if I’m to call you Harrie.’
‘Thank you, Matthew,’ Harrie said.
They were quiet for a minute. Uncomfortably so.
‘You’ve some sort of stick in your hair,’ Matthew said. ‘Under your brim.’
Harrie felt around for it, found it and pulled it out.
‘And pardon me for saying so, but have you recently been unwell?’ Matthew pointed to a dribble of vomit on Harrie’s front.
She rubbed at it with her sleeve, her face burning.
‘Would you like something to drink?’ Matthew asked.
‘No, thank you. I have to go back to work. I’m in service on Gloucester Street.’
‘Yes, I know where you are,’ Matthew said, then winced again in case it occurred to Harrie to ask how he knew that. James had told him, of course. ‘Well, until Saturday, then? I’ll call for you if I may?’
Harrie nodded. ‘Thank you.’
As she hurried off, Matthew gently closed the door. What a tremendous shock; what a wonderful, marvellous surprise! God, what was James going to say? Should he tell him? And would this hideous sore on his mouth be healed by Saturday?
Two minutes along Princes Street Harrie started to giggle. Lord, that had been a shambles; her covered in vomit and him
full of snot and with that awful sore on his face!
And then her giggles turned into hiccups and she began to cry.
Chapter Five
James leant back so Rowie could set his breakfast plate on the table. Today she’d prepared scrambled eggs — pale yellow and fluffy and with a sprinkle of chives, just the way he liked them — accompanied by toasted bread and slices of black pudding; a far cry from the rubbery, incinerated fare he’d been consuming before she’d arrived.
This morning, having risen from a bed made up with recently laundered and lavender-scented linen, he would be setting out for the surgery wearing a pristine shirt starched and ironed only yesterday and a coat bearing not a trace of egg, leaving behind him a cottage that would be cleaned, swept, polished and dusted to within an inch of its life, and returning home this evening to be served another filling and beautifully cooked meal.
He had to admit that in the beginning he’d been very wary of taking on Rowie Harris, particularly with regard to her previous vocation, but she’d turned out to be a Godsend. He didn’t know how she did it but no longer were there cockroaches running roughshod through his pantry or giant spiders squatting in his clothes press, and of late he’d not seen a single skink or lizard darting across his parlour floor.
Ironically, however, it had been he who had upset her during their initial interview, and he cringed at the thought of what he would have missed, had she declined the position. She possessed a ticket of leave, which meant that although she was still legally a convict she was entitled to live and work as a private individual. After a certain period of time, providing she behaved, she would be in a position to apply for a conditional pardon. In his opinion she had been risking her very future working in Elizabeth Hislop’s brothel, and he’d told her so in no uncertain terms. It was at that point she had tearfully informed him of the destitute family members she financially supported in England, explaining that her position with Mrs Hislop had been the most expedient way of earning the income she so desperately needed. However, she’d said, if he couldn’t reconcile himself with her employment record she would understand, and take her recipes for Yorkshire and Devonshire pies, lamb cutlets, beefsteak and oyster pudding, apple charlotte and pear tart somewhere else.
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