Harrie dropped her pencil and her hands crept up to cover her ears. ‘I can’t stop thinking about it.’ But she heard what Rachel said next anyway, because the words seemed to come from inside her own head.
‘Harrie, I died having Charlotte. Who was Charlotte’s father?’
‘Gabriel Keegan was.’
‘So he did kill me. See? An eye for an eye.’
‘But the thing in your brain … You were so sick. Your headaches and those terrible fits.’ Surely Rachel, even as she was now, couldn’t have forgotten all that?
‘It would have been all right if I hadn’t had to push Charlotte out. And who made me pregnant, Harrie? Who was Charlotte’s father?’
Slowly, Harrie’s hands came down. ‘Oh, Rachel. Do you really think so?’
A knock came at the door and Nora Barrett called from the other side, ‘Harrie? Are you all right?’
Harrie got off the bed and opened the door.
‘Is everything all right?’ Nora asked again, Lewis balanced on her hip. ‘I was feeding the baby and I thought I heard you talking.’
‘I couldn’t sleep,’ Harrie said. ‘I’ve been drawing.’ Then, to her absolute mortification, it occurred to her that Nora might think James was in her room. ‘There’s no one in here. You can look.’
‘Don’t be silly. I was worried you were having a nightmare. But if you’re sure you’re well?’
‘Yes, I am, thank you.’
Nora nodded doubtfully. ‘Well, I’ll see you in the morning, then.’
‘Good night.’ Harrie closed the door and turned back to the rocking chair, but Rachel had gone.
Chapter Eleven
Christmas Eve 1830, Sydney Town
Christmas Eve had fallen on a Friday, and many street stalls and shops had advertised they were remaining open for business even later than usual, hoping to cash in on the festive spirit. Everyone seemed to be abroad, the steep and narrow streets of the Rocks crowded with locals determined to enjoy themselves. The pubs were packed and noisy even though the sun had not yet set, windows and doors flung wide to catch the late afternoon breezes off the harbour, and shrieking children with filthy bare feet chased each other up and down alleyways and through dank courtyards.
Matthew had made it to the Bank of New South Wales on George Street just in time. He shot under the elegant archway framing the entrance portico just on closing and hurried up to the clerk, dumping his heavy satchel on the counter.
The clerk looked annoyed.
‘Good afternoon,’ Matthew said, slightly out of breath. ‘I’d like to open an account.’
The clerk made a point of withdrawing his watch from his pocket and examining it, but said, ‘Certainly, sir. Have we had the pleasure of your custom previously?’
‘You have.’
‘And with whom am I conversing?’
Pompous twit, Matthew thought. Surely ‘What’s your name?’ would do. ‘Matthew Cutler.’
As the clerk turned his back and flicked through a wooden box containing a series of cards, Matthew glanced over his shoulder at Friday, standing just outside the entrance, looking on.
‘Mr Matthew Geoffrey Raymond Cutler? Of Princes Street?’
‘Correct.’
‘I note you currently hold one bank account with us already.’
‘Yes, that’s right. And now I’d like another one.’ Matthew opened the satchel and drew out the pouch containing the Charlotte fund. ‘I think you’ll find two hundred and forty-one pounds, seven shillings and thruppence, all in English currency. I’ll need a receipt, thank you.’
The clerk looked deeply insulted. ‘We never receive monies without issuing a corresponding receipt.’
‘Good. Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I wonder if you could hurry up? I’m due at the governor’s soirée, and you know what he’s like when you turn up late.’ It wasn’t true, but Matthew felt like putting the man in his place.
‘Oh! Of course. I do beg your pardon.’
The clerk whizzed through the paperwork and handed Matthew his documents. ‘As you have Governor Darling’s ear, you might care to comment on what excellent service is to be had at the Bank of New South Wales. Have a wonderful evening, Mr Cutler.’
‘Thank you. I most certainly will.’
Outside, Friday said, ‘All organised?’
‘Yes.’ Matthew gave her the papers. ‘But I’m still not sure why Harrie couldn’t come. Is she avoiding me?’
‘No. She’s not feeling well.’
Harrie had in fact told Friday she didn’t want to see Matthew. She felt deeply ashamed now of taking advantage of him, and was extremely embarrassed about getting drunk and vomiting on him.
In Friday’s opinion, the sooner Matthew forgot about Harrie and found himself another girl, the better.
Matthew said, ‘I know she and James have … settled their differences. James told me.’ Friday was striding along the street, dodging potholes and piles of horseshit, and he almost had to trot to keep up. ‘And, well, I’m happy for them. Really, I am. So you can tell me if she is avoiding me.’
‘You talk a lot, don’t you?’ Friday said. ‘She’s not avoiding you. She really isn’t well.’ She halted suddenly and Matthew only just stopped himself from barrelling into her. ‘Maybe you don’t know Harrie well enough to realise it, but there’s something wrong with her. And I’m only telling you this because obviously you care about her. That business in the park? The swearing and everything?’
‘She told you?’
‘What she could remember, she did.’
‘God, I feel dreadful about that.’
‘Not your fault.’ Friday gave him a look. ‘Well, not entirely. Anyway, that’s not Harrie at all. She’d never’ve done that in her right mind. And she never drinks. She’s right out of kilter and me and Sarah are very worried.’
‘What can I do to help?’
‘You already have, opening that bank account. That’s one less thing for her to fret about. And you’re still happy to do our banking once a week?’
Matthew nodded. ‘Though I’m not sure I understand where all the money will be coming from.’
‘You don’t need to.’
‘Well, if there’s anything else I can do, please tell me,’ Matthew said. ‘She might have chosen James, but I can still be her friend.’
Friday said thoughtfully, ‘You know, to start with I thought you were pretty useless, but you’re not really, are you? You’re quite nice.’ She pecked him on the cheek, making him blush. ‘Well, I’m off to work. Mrs H is closing early tonight. Says cullies should be with their families on Christmas Eve, not out trawling brothels. Ha!’
She waved goodbye and hurried off down the street. Matthew wandered along until he came to a stationer’s. He needed to buy some writing paper. He hadn’t written to his mother for a fortnight and he must, or she would automatically assume the lack of correspondence was the result of him being struck down by a fatal disease, murdered by ne’er-do-wells, or eaten by natives or dingoes.
What was it, he wondered, that was so distressing Harrie?
‘How are you bearing up?’ Adam asked.
Sarah glanced at him and, though she made an effort not to, she smirked.
‘Will you stop that?’ Adam said wearily. It had been funny to start with, but now he just felt sick with nerves.
‘Sorry, Grandpa.’
It was all right for her. Apparently in London she’d been accustomed to going about in various costumes in the course of executing her scams, but he certainly wasn’t. All he’d ever done on the wrong side of the law had been to purchase the odd piece of stolen jewellery. Well, quite a lot of pieces of stolen jewellery, and loose stones, and once even two gold ingots, if truth were told. And some gold and silver plate, and on one memorable occasion a stunningly engraved, solid silver altar suite consisting of a chalice with paten, flagon, ciborium and monstrance stolen from a Catholic church up north, though he’d had that melted down fairly quickly. But he’d
not done anything illegal at all in Australia until Esther had run off, and he’d never been involved in anything like this before, anywhere.
Sarah had gone out and bought a horsehair wig, the sort old men still favoured, to be accompanied by a fake beard, moustache and muttonchops that looked as though they’d been fashioned from the hair of an elderly white goat. The glue with which she’d stuck the damn things to his face was itching like hell, but he had to admit he barely recognised himself in the looking glass. His rather heavy eyebrows were black, the same as his real hair, but by the time Sarah had rubbed into them the white starch powder she’d purchased for the wig, together with just the lightest dusting over his already pale skin, he looked a good thirty-five years older than his true age, which was thirty.
He’d hired an unliveried gig for the evening, one with a folding hood, which was currently up to hide them from the glances of curious folk on the street, and there were hundreds of those tonight.
‘Could we have picked a worse evening?’ he grumbled to Sarah as they made their way along narrow and potholed Cumberland Street, the horse stopping endlessly to let folk wander across the road. ‘Look at all these people.’
‘It’s the best time, a busy night,’ Sarah said. ‘Folk everywhere means we won’t be remembered. And it’ll be dark soon, with cloudy skies and the moon in the first quarter. A burglar’s moon, it’s called — just enough light to see by, but dark enough to hide in the shadows. Couldn’t ask for better conditions for a night out thieving.’
Earlier he’d been that worried about something going wrong he’d come close to losing his nerve and telling her she wasn’t to go ahead with it. But then she’d come prancing down from her room wearing a pair of boy’s black trousers stretched taut across her beautiful shapely backside and revealing several inches of bare calf, a dark shirt with the sleeves removed showing off her lovely naked arms, little black lace-up boots, and her sleek hair in a long plait hanging down her back.
Christ almighty, he hadn’t known where to look! He’d developed an erection immediately and had to put one of Esther’s appliquéd cushions over it. Sarah, though, had wandered casually around the house as though she wore such outlandish costumes every day, apparently not even noticing his discomfort. Fortunately. He’d had to endure it for a whole hour. If she stood with her back to him he was treated to the majestic vision of her rounded buttocks flaring beneath her hips; if she was in profile he got the curve of her bum and the lines of her taut thighs; and if she faced him directly he could clearly see where the fabric of the trousers followed the very feminine contours of her body at the juncture of her legs. He’d barely been able to contain himself, and felt no less physically frustrated now despite his nerves, the only difference being that his balls ached.
At last they neared the home of Mr and Mrs Phillip Tregoweth, the horse’s iron-shod hooves crunching in the sparse gravel littering the unpaved street, which here, at the end of Cumberland, opened out into a wide cul-de-sac. Perched on the pinnacle of Bunker’s Hill the house was quite grand, and commanded a view of Sydney Cove, the town and the Domain; in fact, of the entire harbour and the Parramatta River as it snaked inland. It was also, from a burglar’s point of view, somewhat exposed, and flanked by slightly smaller though still very elegant homes. A house on the other side of the street featured an ostentatious pond and statue in its garden — and two large brindle dogs staring menacingly through the fence.
‘That must be Bella’s house,’ Sarah remarked.
‘Who’s Bella?’ Adam asked.
Appalled at herself for such an unthinking slip, Sarah darted a look at him. ‘Someone Friday’s boss knows.’ She’d said nothing at all about Bella Jackson to Adam, too afraid he may possibly connect her stealing from him with what he might know of Bella’s nasty business practices, and inadvertently half guess the blackmail part of her secret.
The Tregoweths’ house was a long, cream-coloured bungalow with a verandah on all sides, its two wings bisected by a looming and somewhat incongruous two-storey pavilion featuring ornamental rectangular columns and a gable. Like several of the neighbouring properties, the Tregoweths’ house was surrounded by an iron fence, interrupted by a carriage gate and a hand gate, both at present closed. In the back garden stood an ancient fig, currently boiling with hundreds of bats, chattering, squawking and bitching at one another as they prepared to set out for the night in search of food.
‘Off you go,’ Sarah said to Adam.
He felt his buttocks clench with nervous anticipation, but handed her the reins and climbed down from the gig; there wasn’t time to waste. Feeling his fake moustache to make sure it was on straight, he went through the hand gate, approached the front door and tugged on the bell pull.
Eventually, the door was opened by a girl wearing a grey dress, a white apron and a lace house cap.
‘Evening,’ she said.
‘Good evening,’ he replied, doing his best to sound like a sixty-five-year-old man. ‘I’d like to speak with Mr Phillip Tregoweth, if you please.’
‘Sorry, sir, he’s gone to the governor’s ball.’
‘Oh dear. And must I assume Mrs Tregoweth has accompanied him?’
The girl nodded.
‘Nobody home at all?’
‘Just me and Mrs Bunyard, but she’s going over to her friend’s for the night. It’s Christmas Eve, you know.’
‘Mrs Bunyard?’
‘The cook.’
‘Ah. But you’ve not been given the night off?’
The girl’s bottom lip came out. ‘No, I haven’t.’
‘Oh. What a shame.’ Adam turned away. Then he said, ‘You don’t know when they expect to return home, do you?’
The girl shrugged. ‘Probably not late. No doubt her’ll get one of her bad heads and have to come home early.’
‘Oh well. At least their driver will be pleased.’
‘He’s got the night off, too. Mr Tregoweth took the curricle. Fancies his driving skills.’ She gave a tiny snort of derision.
‘Does he? How extraordinary.’ Adam raised his hat and had a horrible, bum-clenching moment when he thought his wig might have come off. ‘Good evening, then. And Merry Christmas!’
‘Merry Christmas to you, too, sir,’ the girl said, and shut the door.
Climbing back into the gig, Adam swore.
‘What?’ Sarah asked.
‘There’s one servant in the house tonight, a girl. I think she’s a bit cross about not getting the night off. When Mrs Tregoweth wakes up tomorrow and finds her jewellery gone, the finger could very well be pointed at her.’
‘Bugger,’ Sarah said.
Adam wheeled the horse around and they trotted off back towards the southern and less salubrious end of Cumberland Street, then turned. It was fully dark now, and even more folk had ventured out.
‘Stop,’ Sarah ordered. ‘This will do.’
She undid the clasp at the neck of her cloak and let it pool around her on the seat of the gig. She was wearing a boy’s jacket and across her body she’d slung her burglary satchel, containing Congreves matches and a candle, her skeleton keys and safe-cracking tools, lemon and menthol lozenges to stave off inconvenient coughing fits, and crystallised fruit for sustenance in case she found herself caught inside the house for any length of time. Some house-breakers carried dried meat but, really, what a stupid thing to have on you when so many people kept dogs! It had been nearly two years since she’d done anything on this scale and while she wasn’t exactly nervous, she was fervently hoping she hadn’t lost her edge.
‘Right,’ she said, shoving a cap on her head and tucking her plait under it. ‘I’m off. Wish me luck.’
Adam cupped a hand behind her neck, pulled her to him and kissed her, their lips meeting furrily through his drooping moustache.
Sarah giggled. He swore and ripped off the fake facial hair, blinking rapidly at the smarting pain, and pushed her back against the seat, kissing her properly, his tongue gently pressing against her m
outh until her lips parted.
It went very well for several seconds more, then Sarah grunted, ‘Hmmph!’ and whacked him across the ear.
He pulled away. ‘Oh God, Sarah, I didn’t mean to do that, either.’
‘Bloody funny sort of accident.’
Both were profoundly glad for the mantle of darkness hiding skin flushed red with embarrassment and arousal.
‘Christ. Look, I’m really sorry.’
Sarah couldn’t meet his eye. ‘I’ve got to go.’
‘Please, Sarah. Be careful.’
‘I will. Stop fussing.’
‘I’ll be waiting.’
Sarah jumped down from the gig. For a second she was there but the next she’d blended into the shadows, invisible.
Adam leant out but couldn’t see her anywhere — not on the street, not in the nearby alleyway, not among the crowd.
Would he ever kiss her again?
Sarah trotted down Essex Street then along Gloucester, keeping her head down, just a boy on his way somewhere on Christmas Eve.
He’d kissed her twice now, and she’d behaved outwardly as if nothing had happened, but both times her belly had done slow, lazy flips and she’d felt as though she were spinning and swooping and falling. Into what, though, she didn’t know, and that was the danger. She hadn’t wanted to get out of the gig; she’d wanted to stay pressed against the seat, feeling the warmth of his skin, the pressure of his urgency, and inhaling his faint sandalwood, lime and fresh-sweat smell. But then the old disgust and fear had roared up from deep inside her like a spew of filth from a cesspit, choking her and filling her with spiky rage, and she’d hit out.
But she couldn’t think about that now, and pushed it to the back of her mind. She had a job to do, and couldn’t allow anything — not even Adam — to disrupt her concentration.
She followed Gloucester most of the way north, confident she’d become invisible among the crowds, then climbed up to Cumberland Street using the little paths and rocky steps worn into the hill over the past forty years. On Cumberland she ducked across a vacant lot and came out higher up on Princes Street, where three mangy dogs skulked along behind her until she hurled rocks at them and scared them off, then she came down again through the undergrowth, behind the Tregoweths’ house.
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