A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  Friday, Aria and Loulou had arranged the funeral. There were two mutes only at the head of the procession, the leading carriages were drawn by horses shining like obsidian and bedecked in black ostrich plumes, and Jack himself drove the glass-walled funeral carriage, in which Elizabeth’s body lay in a rosewood coffin scattered with white roses. Her Siren employees and the girls from the brothel, Friday included, walked alongside wearing black from crown to toe, their grief genuine and unrestrained.

  She was buried in Devonshire Street cemetery together with Gil’s remains, which had been retrieved from Clarence Shand’s grave two days previously by the police. There would be no further investigation into his alleged murder as the prime suspect was now deceased and the constabulary much embarrassed by the circumstances.

  Two days later Friday, Aria, Jack, Jimmy Johnson, Ivy, Dr Lawrence Chandler, Biddy Doyle and Nora Barrett met in the private meeting room of the Siren’s Arms to hear the reading of Elizabeth’s will, as requested by her solicitor, Mr Castle.

  Friday thought they were a bit of an odd group — Biddy Doyle and Nora? — but she knew Mrs H would have her reasons. She and Aria both wore full black, Jack, Jimmy and Dr Chandler wore black armbands, Ivy was in her grey work dress but wore a black apron and house cap, Nora wore purple, and Biddy Doyle wore a fancy black shawl over a grey bodice and dark grey skirt. All in all, Friday decided, they were a miserable-looking lot.

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know why I’m here,’ Biddy said, echoing Friday’s thoughts as she helped herself to a buttered pikelet. ‘I hardly knew Mrs Hislop.’

  ‘I only knew her from that business with Harrie,’ Nora said. ‘Did you have any other dealings with her?’

  ‘Well, when the girls went up to Newcastle to fetch Harrie’s little one back, but that’s it.’

  ‘I don’t know why I’m here, either,’ Ivy said, her cheeks reddening. ‘I think someone’s made a mistake.’

  Biddy dabbed at the corner of her mouth, her little finger up in the air. ‘Oh, I doubt that, dear.’

  Mr Castle arrived, drank a cup of tea, wolfed down four pikelets and a scone, and settled himself at a small table. Then, retrieving a sheaf of folded papers tied with ribbon from his portmanteau and arranging his spectacles halfway down his nose, he cleared his throat.

  ‘I’m sure you all know why you’ve been asked to attend today. It is with the greatest regret that I execute this duty, as Elizabeth Hislop was a fine, compassionate and generous woman and her untimely passing has been most tragic and unfortunate.’

  Ivy sniffed loudly and blew her nose.

  Friday felt for her; poor Ivy cried about everything. Mind you, she felt like crying herself. Again.

  ‘And I should advise you that it isn’t really necessary for me to reveal the contents of Mrs Hislop’s will in quite so formal a fashion as this,’ Mr Castle continued. ‘I could, in fact, have consulted each of you individually. However, professionally this is a very busy time of year for me, so please forgive my somewhat selfish timesaving measures.’ He tugged open the ribbon on the papers and pressed them flat. ‘May I therefore proceed?’

  No one said he couldn’t, so off he went. ‘I will now read the last will and testament of the late Mrs Elizabeth Mercy Hislop of Harrington Street, The Rocks, Sydney Town.’

  ‘Mercy?’ Friday whispered to Aria.

  ‘Shush.’

  ‘To Ivy Mitchell I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds —’

  A gasp from Ivy.

  ‘— To be used to engage a tutor part-time for private lessons to further her education.’

  Sobs now, and more nose-trumpeting.

  ‘To Jimmy Johnson I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds, also to be used to engage a tutor part-time for private lessons to further his education. I assign Jack Wilton as executor of this sum, in Jimmy’s interests.’

  ‘That’s so you can’t spend it on women and dice,’ Jack said in a loud whisper to a grinning Jimmy.

  ‘To Jack Wilton I bequeath the sum of two hundred pounds, plus ownership of all my equine stock, and stipulate that Siren Holdings Ltd, and Gilbert Holdings Ltd, lease said stock from Jack Wilton on a regular, long-term basis.’

  Mr Castle looked over his spectacles. ‘Which one is Mr Wilton? You? This means that you now own Mrs Hislop’s eight horses, and that the hotel and brothel will be hiring them from you. You are now in possession of your own business, Mr Wilton.’

  Jack was speechless.

  Typical Mrs H, Friday thought. Jack had always wanted to be his own boss, though he’d never grizzled about working for Elizabeth.

  Returning to the will, Mr Castle read on. ‘To Mrs Biddy Doyle, I bequeath sole interest in my recently established company Rocks Holdings Ltd, which owns two adjacent properties in Caraher’s Lane, plus the sum of three hundred pounds —’

  Biddy choked on her scone.

  ‘Do you need more tea?’ Nora asked.

  Scarlet-faced, Biddy waved her away.

  ‘— Three hundred pounds,’ Mr Castle repeated, ‘to be used in her endeavours to purchase further properties in the Rocks area as a means of supporting her family as a property owner and landlady.’

  ‘Holy Mary!’ Biddy exclaimed. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve that, I truly don’t!’

  ‘Newcastle,’ Aria said as though Biddy would know what that meant, and she did.

  ‘To Mrs Nora Barrett I also bequeath the sum of three hundred pounds, to be used in her endeavours to grow her business as a dressmaker, but not, under any circumstances, to be used, borrowed, or borrowed against in any manner whatsoever by her husband, George Barrett.’

  Nora burst into tears.

  Good for you, Mrs H, Friday thought.

  Mr Castle paused. ‘May I trouble someone to pour me another tea, please? This is rather thirsty work.’

  Ivy leapt up and fetched him a cup, setting it before him on the little table.

  ‘Would you like a pikelet, sir?’

  ‘No, thank you, dear.’

  He slurped noisily, then continued. ‘To Dr Lawrence Chandler, I bequeath the sum of one thousand pounds to go towards his charitable work for the benefit of prostitutes, to be spent in any way he sees fit.’

  ‘I say,’ Lawrence said, smiling hugely. ‘That will be of the most enormous assistance. Good old Elizabeth!’

  ‘Now,’ Mr Castle announced, ‘I arrive at the slightly more complicated bequests. I bequeath to Miss Friday Woolfe all of my jewellery.’ He glanced up over his spectacles. ‘Actually, no, that wasn’t particularly complicated, was it? Here we are. I bequeath all of my remaining funds, and ownership of my remaining businesses — Siren Holdings Ltd, and Gilbert Holdings Ltd — and remaining associated properties on Harrington Street and Argyle Street, to Miss Aria Moehanga Te Kainga-mataa, to hold in Trust for Miss Friday Woolfe, until Miss Woolfe has either served the entirety of her fourteen-year sentence, or been granted a conditional or an absolute pardon, after which, by law, she may operate a business.’

  Friday gaped first at Mr Castle, then at Aria. ‘Did you know about this?’

  Everyone turned to look.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you didn’t tell me?’

  ‘It was not time,’ Aria said simply. ‘And it was not your business, until now.’

  ‘Not my business?’

  ‘No. She wanted it to be a secret.’

  A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Friday. ‘Did she know she was going to die?’

  Aria gave the question serious thought, as she did most things. ‘I do not think so. But I believe she wanted to be prepared. She already had a will and she wished to change it, in your favour. You will have to talk to Mr Castle about that.’

  Mr Castle made a production of clearing his throat. ‘May I continue?’

  Aria grandly waved him on.

  ‘Thank you. Transfer of the funds, businesses and properties to Miss Woolfe is conditional upon Miss Woolfe remaining permanently abstinent from alcohol.’
>
  ‘Ha!’ Friday exclaimed. ‘I knew it!’

  ‘Be quiet,’ Aria said.

  ‘While the funds, businesses and properties are held in Trust, Miss Te Kainga-mataa will operate the businesses, with advice and support from Miss Woolfe. All convicts currently assigned to me at the time of my death, including Miss Friday Woolfe, will have their papers transferred to Miss Te Kainga-mataa.’ Mr Castle added, ‘There is a list here of which current employees are bonded convicts, but that is for the eyes of Miss Te Kainga-mataa and Miss Woolfe only. The disbursement of funds referred to in the will should be straightforward and will hopefully occur within the next fortnight. My clerk will be in touch. Are there any questions?’

  It seemed there weren’t.

  ‘I’m off to buy the biggest bunch of flowers I can afford to lay on that sainted woman’s grave, so I am,’ Biddy said.

  Nora nodded vehemently. ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘And then I’m for grabbing yesterday’s Gazette and having a bloody good look at the house auctions.’

  Aria and Friday thanked Mr Castle, who shook their hands and bustled off, leaving them standing in the meeting room of the hotel they now owned.

  Friday wandered across to Mrs H’s office and sat in her chair, gazed around the room for a while, fiddled with her pen holder, rummaged around in the desk drawers, stared for a long time at a black shawl left draped over the back of an armchair, and eyed for almost as long the bottle of brandy sitting on the shelf.

  Above her the floorboards creaked and she wondered who was working in that room. She thought it might be Esmerelda.

  How had things ended up like this?

  It was so quiet in here now. Mrs H had been a small woman, if a smidgen round, but in life her voice and character had filled the room.

  From a drawer she took the gold ring with the pink stone and tiny pearls she’d thought was Molly’s, and put it on her little finger. Mrs H had drowned Molly, to protect her. She’d looked after her, tolerated her rotten behaviour, and cared about her even when she’d been so bloody awful that hardly anyone else had.

  And now the will.

  Because of Mrs H, she’d gone from living hand-to-mouth and walking the streets to inheriting two very lucrative businesses and approximately one hundred and seventeen thousand pounds, an utterly phenomenal and almost unimaginable amount of money.

  And she’d give up all of it to have Elizabeth back.

  She put her head down on the desk and wept. Bitterly.

  Chapter Nineteen

  January 1833, Sydney Town

  The weather on Lucy and Matthew’s wedding day was perfect, if somewhat warm. They were married at half past ten in the morning at St James’s Anglican church on King Street, the interior of the church offering a welcome respite from the heat already building outside.

  Lucy wore a gown of shot silk that gleamed duck-egg blue and gold, fashioned in a simple but expertly cut style that hugged her torso, waist and arms, but flared over her hips from a series of tiny, full pleats. The modest neckline was decorated with a small frill, as were the basque waistline and the cuffs of the sleeves. Fifty-six buttons closed the gown at the back, and the hem was embroidered with a twelve-inch floral border in gold silk thread. In her blonde hair, twisted and rolled into a simple knot (she said she couldn’t be bothered with ringlets flopping all over the place), she’d tucked a single, perfect iris to match the small bouquet she carried, and on her left ring finger sat the garnet and pearl ring Sarah had made for her.

  Matthew nearly fainted when he glanced over his shoulder to see her advancing towards him up the central passageway of the church on Isaac Longbone’s arm. Behind her came Sophie and Anna, their faces pasty with nerves.

  ‘You’ve done well, old boy,’ James, his best man, said. ‘She looks absolutely lovely.’

  ‘My God, doesn’t she look gorgeous?’ Friday whispered to Harrie from their pew in the nave. ‘Nora’s done a lovely job of that frock. Those poor girls, though. Anna looks like she’s about to whip the cat.’

  ‘Angus!’ Charlotte shouted. ‘Miaow!’

  ‘Shush, sweetie, we have to be quiet in here.’

  Lucy had reached Matthew now, and they stood gazing up at the reverend teetering in his pulpit, a ridiculously high edifice soaring at least ten feet above the congregation. The man had already begun some lengthy pontification.

  ‘What a stupid arrangement,’ Aria muttered. ‘What is he doing way up there, like an opossum in a tree?’

  Sitting farther along the pew with Sarah, Adam heard and started to laugh and though he managed to stifle it, the pew shook so violently he set Sarah off and she let out an almighty snort.

  ‘Piggies, Mama!’

  This made Friday giggle helplessly, which spread to Robbie and Walter who slid down in the pew, faces hidden behind their hands.

  ‘Stop it, all of you!’ Harrie hissed.

  Standing before the chancel, James turned, eyebrows raised. Harrie gave him a cheery little wave.

  The reverend had the bit between his teeth now. Friday dug around in her reticule, found a tiny pair of silver scissors and attacked her fingernails. Charlotte fell asleep. Glancing up after ten or so minutes, Friday saw that Lucy and Matthew were wilting visibly, Isaac was yanking at the collar of his new, stiffly starched shirt as though it were strangling him, and the girls looked like they really needed to sit down. Finally, the reverend shut up and disappeared for a few moments to descend from his perch, and at last approached Lucy and Matthew.

  A stirring and murmur of interest passed through the congregation. Clearly Charlotte hadn’t been the only one to nod off.

  ‘Dearly beloved,’ he began, ‘we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man’s innocency . . .’

  As he droned on, Aria tapped Friday’s arm. ‘Is “innocency” a proper word?’

  ‘Dunno. Ask James. Or Lucy, maybe.’

  It was all a bit boring, and exactly the same words used at Sarah and Adam’s, and Harrie and James’s, wedding ceremonies, and Friday drifted off again, though she perked up when Matthew, then Lucy, said ‘I will’.

  When the reverend then asked, ‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?’ and nothing happened, and it transpired that Isaac had gone to sleep on his feet and had to be prodded awake by James, everyone roared.

  Then Matthew slipped the wedding ring onto Lucy’s finger and they knelt, Matthew’s knees cracking like ice on a frozen lake, and the reverend declared them to be man and wife in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Following were several psalms, a couple of prayers, and a lesson in which Lucy was instructed to submit herself to her husband’s will in all matters (‘Good luck with that, Matthew,’ Friday whispered to Aria), then they were walking out of the church into the hot, bright sun.

  On Sunday, two days after the wedding, Harrie, Sarah, Friday and Aria sat on Harrie’s back verandah eating slightly stale iced madeira cake for breakfast, and watching Charlotte gallop around the trampled and rapidly browning lawn after Angus. Lucy had given the little girl her iris bouquet, and she’d decided Angus would look pretty with it tied around his furry neck. Angus felt otherwise.

  Harrie and James had hosted the wedding breakfast in their garden, as their gift to Lucy and Matthew — plus a full Coalport porcelain dinner service in a ‘Japan’ pattern, because Harrie knew Lucy would adore it and she hadn’t been able to resist buying it. They’d hired tables, chairs and servingware, and the girls from the kitchen at the Siren’s Arms to prepare the food, and James had also paid for the liquid refreshments. While the adults sat down to eat beneath canvas awnings draped with yards and yards of fluttering bleached muslin, the children had charged around the garden and among the trees in bare feet, ignoring warnings about snakes and spiders, having a wonderful time. Hannah, of course, had fallen down a bank
, got covered in dirt and needed a dress of Anna’s to wear.

  The speeches had gone on for a good forty-five minutes, and were mostly at Matthew’s expense, though he’d laughed as heartily as everyone else. Watching him, Harrie had thought she’d never seen him happier. Lucy, too, had seemed radiant, and looked utterly beautiful. When no one showed any sign of leaving by one o’clock, and Harrie had spotted poor Matthew surreptitiously eyeing his watch for the fifth time, she’d intervened.

  Standing, she’d tapped loudly against her glass with a pudding spoon. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me, everyone!’

  Gradually the chatter had died down and heads had turned her way.

  ‘Thank you. Now, I know we’re all having a lovely time, but I think we should spare a thought for Mr and Mrs Cutler. They’ve had a long day and it must be just about time for them to go home and have what I’m sure will be a very well-deserved and much-anticipated lie-down.’

  A wave of mortified silence had ensued and it was then that she’d realised she should probably have stuck with just the one sherry.

  But Friday had rescued her. She’d leapt up, raised her glass of lemonade, and declared, ‘Exactly! Here’s to a pair of very knackered newlyweds! Come on, you two, off you go. Jack’ll take you home. We’ll bring all your lovely gifts around later. Three cheers for Lucy and Matthew! Hip, hip, hooray!’

  And everyone had hoorayed their heads off and the shrivellingly embarrassing moment had passed, though James had teased her mercilessly about it later.

  The day had been lovely, and Harrie was delighted that she and James had been able to make such a major contribution. Matthew deserved a perfect wedding day, and he definitely deserved Lucy.

  Mind you, they’d all be eating leftovers for the next week.

  ‘I wish Mrs H could have seen Lucy,’ Friday said. ‘She would have loved that dress.’

  ‘Rachel would have loved it, too,’ Harrie said. ‘It was a proper princess dress, wasn’t it?’

  ‘And Janie,’ Sarah added.