Dangerous Women
Page 1
BERKLEY
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Copyright © 2021 by Adèle Geras
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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Adams, Hope, 1944– author.
Title: Dangerous women / Hope Adams.
Description: New York : Berkley, [2021] | Includes bibliographical references.
Identifiers: LCCN 2020032010 (print) | LCCN 2020032011 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593099575 (hardcover) | ISBN 9780593099599 (ebook)
Subjects: GSAFD: Mystery fiction. | Sea stories.
Classification: LCC PR6057.E66 D36 2021 (print) | LCC PR6057.E66 (ebook) | DDC 823/.914—dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032010
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2020032011
Jacket images: sea by Paul Fleet / Shutterstock Images; sky by gyn9037 / Shutterstock Images; ship by Infinity Images / Alamy Stock Photo; roses by Maria Taglienti-Molinari / Getty Images
Jacket design by Lisa Amoroso
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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This book is dedicated to the real women who made the Rajah Quilt. The work of their hands abides.
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Historical Note
Bibliography
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This quilt worked by the Convicts of the Ship Rajah during their voyage to van Diemen’s Land is presented as a testimony of the gratitude with which they remember their exertions for their welfare while in England and during their passage and also as a proof that they have not neglected the Ladies kind admonitions of being industrious.
Cross-stitch inscription on the Rajah Quilt, collection of the National Gallery of Australia, Canberra
I believe I may venture to say, there never was a more abandon’d set of wretches collected in one place . . .
Excerpt of letter from Ralph Clark, an officer on board the transportation ship Friendship in the First Fleet, to Australia
I wish I didn’t know, she thought. I wish I’d never found out. I wish I could be the person I was this morning, before we sat down to our stitching.
The sea moving past the ship was almost black in the fading light. Where the Rajah was now, in the middle of the Southern Ocean, there was only a short time between sunset and darkness. She leaned over to look more closely at the water. It rushed past the hull, curling up into small waves, which slid away to lose themselves in larger waves or long swells of water. For a long time she’d been afraid of it, walking along with her eyes fixed on the planks of the deck, seeing the ocean only when it couldn’t be helped, catching sight of it from the corner of her eye. Now, after many weeks at sea, she’d grown used to it, was in awe of it and loved it, albeit warily.
She’d fallen into the habit of going to the rail when the stitching work was finished. She liked to stand there for a few minutes, alone, trying to see what lay beyond the line of the horizon, breathing in the wide water and the high sky that seemed to go on and on till you grew dizzy staring up at it. Now the only thought in her head was what she’d learned. Every feeling in her heart was muddled, and the fear that had overcome her since she’d found out—discovered by noticing a gesture for the first time—wouldn’t go away. There had been a shadow before, near the coil of rope, and she peered behind her now to see if anyone was there, looking at her. She saw nothing. But what was that noise? She held her breath, though the only sound was the familiar groaning of ropes in the rigging. Then she felt a change in the air around her, became aware of someone coming up beside her, and turned, ready to tell whoever it was to go and leave her alone.
Pain took away her words. She reached out, but as soon as it sliced into her clothes, as soon as it pierced her skin and reached her flesh, the blade was gone and whoever had held it had disappeared, too, and there was nothing left but an agony of white, shining pain, and her own hands suddenly scarlet and wet as she clutched them around herself.
The knife, the knife has killed me, she thought, and a sound filled the whole of her head and poured out of her mouth in a torrent of screaming.
1
NOW
5 July 1841
Ninety-one days at sea
A knife . . . is it true? Who’s got a knife?
Hide. I must hide . . . Oh, my blessed saints, help us . . . Is there blood?
Where is it? Is it here? Someone’s got a knife . . .
Who’s got it now? Where is it?
They’ll cut our throats . . .
The women’s voices twisted into one another, rising and falling in the gathering darkness of the cabin. The lanterns had not yet been lit and the light from the small windows was fading. The women who weren’t shrieking were wailing and clinging to each other, and even though no one said the words, and no one dared to ask, one question hung in the fetid air: Is she dead?
Those who’d been on deck when it happened sat together, trembling and white-faced, some still holding their baskets of scraps and sewing. The three women known as the Newgate Nannies shifted and settled on the cabin’s longest bench, gathering their garments around them, like three birds of prey folding their wings. Behind them, the sleeping berths rose up, and the dark corners of the convicts’ quarters seemed gloo
mier than ever. The Rajah rolled a little in the swell, her timbers creaking with the motion of the waves.
They were now much nearer to Van Diemen’s Land than to England. The sea had been as flat as a sheet of glass for the last two weeks but had grown choppy around dawn. By sunset birds had appeared, wheeling in free spirals around the masts, their black shapes standing out against the pale sky. July in these latitudes meant winter, and there was often a chill in the air.
“She was probably asking for it,” said a harsh voice, sharp with spite.
“Shut your filthy mouth,” said another woman, with a pockmarked face—the one who took care of the children aboard. “Say another word, you fat bitch, and I’ll bash your teeth so far into your head you’ll be farting them out through your arsehole.”
Someone stood up as angry murmurs turned to shouts, and another hissed, “Quiet, the lot of you. They’re coming.”
They heard the men before they saw them. Their voices rang loud in the darkness, their feet stamping heavily on the steps of the companionway. The women stared at these strange creatures as though they were more than human: taller, stronger, calmer. The captain and the Reverend Mr. Davies, accompanied by three sailors, faced the huddled bodies of the women, like a human wall. The matron, Miss Kezia Hayter, was with them. She wore a blue knitted shawl around her shoulders, and her pale face was unsmiling. Her hair, usually so well arranged, was disheveled and her eyes were full of sadness.
As they waited for the captain to speak, some women cried; others clamped their lips together and tightened their jaws, eyes wary, daring others to blame them. There were those also who longed for matters to be as they were before, in the harmony they’d found briefly before the screams began. Before they’d seen Hattie Matthews lying there, her hair like red-gold autumn leaves scattered on the deck. Before everything was torn apart.
The Rajah moves swiftly before a sharp breeze. Her sails show pale against the night sky and black waves catch the light from lanterns on board ship, showing gold edges as they run alongside the hull.
2
THEN
Dress cotton: dark ground with pattern of small white lines resembling tacking stitches, creating the effect of snow falling in the dark
London, April 1841
KEZIA
The women in the small boat stared out to where the Rajah stood at anchor. Even stepping into the tiny vessel had filled them with dread of the unaccustomed rocking and the nearness of the water to where they were sitting. Now they were stiff with fear at the prospect of the coming voyage. But the Rajah! How did a vessel with such high wooden sides and such tall masts continue floating on the surface of the water? How would they climb up to the deck? The questions they did not dare to ask filled them with wonder and terror.
Kezia Hayter felt her own tremor of apprehension, though not at the unpredictable movement of the little boat they were in. She’d made this short journey many times in the past two weeks as they’d brought groups of women aboard the ship. No, she thought. It’s not the boat. But this will be the last I see of London.
There was much she was eager to leave, that was true, but the expanse of the unknown now stretched in front of her. What if that which lay ahead was worse than all she was seeking to escape? What if she changed things, or even mended them? She looked up at the small white clouds dotted about the blue sky above them, pushed along by a breeze strong enough to blow their shawls into their faces.
The women around her huddled together for the short boat ride from Woolwich Dock to where the Rajah was moored. On the dock, life went on: hardly anyone had looked at the women, used as they were to prisoners being transported from this place. Men ran about the quay, carrying huge sacks of cargo. There were skinny children, barefoot by the riverside. Everyone seemed to be on their way somewhere, hurrying. Running and calling to one another. Kezia couldn’t help but stare at the Rajah, floating stately and serene in the distance. What a splendid sight a ship was, she thought, and this one would be even lovelier once they’d set sail, once the sails were unfurled and blooming, like so many flowers, from every mast. The thought calmed her.
“Now, ladies, be of good cheer,” said a tall, sandy-haired man, sitting near the prow of the boat. Kezia had met him during one of her earlier trips aboard. He had, in a cheerful tone and with a smile, introduced himself as “James Donovan, the surgeon superintendent on the Rajah, appointed by the same ladies who chose you.”
Now he was smiling at the women.
“This is a very short journey. Less than half an hour, I assure you. We’ll soon be aboard and you’ll be settled into your quarters, leaving behind the dark and chill of London for the sunshine of the other side of the world. Think of the creatures you’ll find there. Animals and birds that are both strange and beautiful. A multitude of interesting insects. Don’t despair. Take Miss Hayter here as your example.” He indicated Kezia. “Does she seem to you in the least discomfited? Worried? No, she is as calm as a summer sea, and she’ll be helping and guiding you on this voyage. You’re very fortunate.”
To Kezia, he whispered, “Miss Hayter, I’m sure you’ll join me in my hope that this journey to the other side of the globe will be as agreeable as possible for all of us.”
“Yes, sir,” said Kezia. “I shall try to make it so.” Now that she was boarding for the last time, she realized there could be no return from the decision she had made. She tried to imagine the weeks ahead. Would she miss her old life, her old home, even though there was much she was happy to leave? Would she be able to hide her homesickness? Or any sickness she might feel from the motion of such a large ship? She was determined to be strong for the women, who were often victims, she thought, in spite of their behavior.
Her companions were convicts from the prison at Millbank, women who’d fallen into petty crime through association with criminal men, or had been put to work as thieves by brutal husbands or fathers. Transportation was the punishment laid down by law, transportation to Van Diemen’s Land on the other side of the world. Kezia was pleased to see one woman she knew by name. Joan Macdonald: a familiar face. Joan was older than most of the others, unsteadier as she sat opposite Kezia. Her hair was streaked with gray, her brow a little wrinkled, and she was picking at the fabric of her skirt. She wore spectacles and the lenses made her eyes seem larger than normal. Kezia watched as Joan stared at the planks of the small boat they were in, ignoring the landmarks they were passing.
“Joan Macdonald, I believe,” said Kezia. “It’s good to see you.”
“Thank you, Miss,” said Joan, smiling faintly.
The ship, as they approached her, towered over their own tiny craft. Masts rose up from the deck, like tall trees with thin black branches; the sails lay furled, like huge leaves ready to open. When I leave this boat, and climb the ladder to the deck, she thought, it will be the first step on a long journey. The beginning of something I cannot change.
As the women were helped aboard the Rajah, several sailors leaned over the rails, leering at them. They shouted obscenities, which Kezia tried to ignore, lowering her head and deliberately not catching the eye of any.
“Ooh, fancy women this trip, I see,” one said, grabbing at the arm of a younger woman. “You’re a pretty baggage. We’ll be well cared for on this voyage, lads.”
“Room in my hammock for that one,” said another.
“Keep a civil tongue in your heads, men, or I’ll report you to Captain Ferguson,” said Mr. Donovan, standing behind them. He spoke in an icy voice, and the men swung round, their faces filled with a mixture of resentment and resignation.
Kezia marveled at how speedily the sailors dispersed and the lewd remarks ceased. On some of the boardings in the previous weeks, they’d gone on for far longer. Her voice was soft, and even if she could have spoken in Mr. Donovan’s stern manner, she was sure the sailors would have paid no attention to her. Kezia knew better than to expect such
men to obey a woman. Women were often overlooked or belittled, and thinking about it stirred a familiar indignation in her.
“Come, ladies,” said Mr. Donovan. “Follow me, and I will take you to the lower deck. This is the companionway to your quarters.” He smiled. “A companionway is the name for a staircase on board ship.” He led the way to a short ladder and Kezia went down first, more comfortable and accustomed to it now than the first time she’d done it two weeks ago.
Kezia had always thought of Hell as a place of leaping fire and demons with pitchforks, but the first time she’d entered a prison, she’d changed her mind. The damp, squalid cells in Millbank Prison, where women cried out and uttered obscene words, where there was no bright color, only gray and brown and black, that had seemed a new kind of Hell, the opposite of everything that was pleasant and good. The sunshine, when it found a way through the high, grimy windows, had cast no more than a pale glimmer on floors filthy with dropped food, spilled slop buckets and rat droppings. What light there was illuminated tear-streaked cheeks, lank hair and eyes full of grief.
The quarters on the Rajah were a different kind of prison. The cabin was small enough for a person to walk from end to end in less than a minute. Only a dim light filtered in from the deck. She still could not imagine how so many women—almost two hundred—would survive in such a place for two months. At least on land, the prisoners knew that a city lay outside their walls. Even in the jail, there were corridors, more cells and a yard: an enormous building filled with bustle and noise. Once they were at sea, there would be only themselves. No visitors. Nothing but miles of water and more water, the fear of capsizing, the rocking motion of the Rajah and merciless storms. And all happening in a place where there were only flimsy bunks to sleep on and dirty floors below. Perhaps not quite as filthy as other prison cells she’d seen, but still. She’d worked with those who had been first to board to clean every inch.