by Hope Adams
“I am sure you’re right, Miss Hayter. I bow to your knowledge of these women.”
A gust of wind buffeted them. Kezia said, “The weather will be so much warmer soon.”
“It will. You and your sewing companions will be as brown as nuts if you work out here on deck. The sunlight can be very strong.”
Kezia frowned. “What’s to be done, though? To sit in the convict quarters all day long would be . . . very uncomfortable. And it’s much easier, too, to sew in good light.”
“I can have the crew rig up an awning for you, to provide some shade.” He smiled at Kezia. “A spare sail or a sheet of canvas. I’ll attend to the matter at once.”
“That would be very kind,” she said, and smiled in return.
He made no move to leave her and instead said, “I would advise you to keep to the shade as much as possible. The sun can be blistering in this part of the world.”
“I will,” Kezia said. “Thank you. And I shall warn my women.”
“It would be a matter of deep regret to me if a face I so admire were as sunburned as any sailor’s by our journey’s end.” He bowed stiffly and strode away.
“Thank you,” said Kezia. He had said he admired her face. Had he? Could she be sure that that was what she’d heard? Perhaps she’d misunderstood. No one had ever said such a thing to her before. She went over his words and still wondered if she had been mistaken.
24
THEN
Cotton piece: white ground with sprays of black and white leaves widely spaced on the cloth. Each leaf bearing a pattern designed to make it appear like lace
April 1841
CLARA
I remember Hattie Matthews. I remember her from long ago. I didn’t recognize the name, at first. “Harriet Matthews” meant nothing to me. Even when she came forward, that first day, to join those of us who’d been chosen, I didn’t know her. For weeks I’ve sat near her without a thought, but today when I heard her story, what she said, and looked at that red hair, gathered at the nape of her neck and curling down to her shoulders, a memory returned to me. I know who she is now and, even worse, how we met. My heart’s almost stopped beating from the shock. What if she recognizes me? What if she says, out loud for all to hear: I know her. I know what she did.
I can feel myself trembling. I bite my lip hard to bring my feelings under control. I cannot flee. Where to go on a ship in the middle of the ocean? Should I turn to Miss Hayter and beg her to let me be excused from the small group of helpers? I worry about drawing attention—I have to pass unnoticed. I force myself to stay calm. The meeting between us lasted less than an hour and was many years ago. Maybe it’s a different Hattie Matthews. But that hair! I’m in no doubt. Stop worrying, I tell myself. I’m changed. You’re not what you were then. She won’t know you. She’ll have forgotten. She was no more than a young child . . . And, look, she hasn’t screamed out in horror yet, has she? But I can’t stop fretting. We’ve arranged ourselves into smaller groups and Hattie’s not one of my nearest companions. I must keep my distance, I tell myself. Keep my face turned away. I glance across at her. She’s talking to Emily and Lottie. They’re laughing. Even when they’re in a dreadful situation the young can find something to cheer them, if they have their friends around them.
As I sew, with my eyes turned down to my work, I repeat to myself that, with every day that passes, there’s less danger. We are putting a greater distance between ourselves and England, which has to be an advantage to me. I’ll deal with Hattie if I have to. I’ve dealt with difficult things before and this’ll be the same. She may never notice me.
Sarah asks to borrow Marion’s scissors. “Mine are below,” she says, and Marion passes her the scissors to cut a stray thread. “Thank you,” Sarah says, and Marion dips her head, making no answer. She is low in spirits since her miscarriage.
I distract myself by talking to Joan, who sits beside me.
“You’re quiet, Joan,” I say. “Is anything the matter?”
She shakes her head. “I can’t speak of it,” she says. I know that if I say nothing, the words will come.
She goes on sewing for a few more moments, then puts her work down on her lap and hides her face in her hands. When she looks up at last, her face is pale.
“I believe him when he speaks,” she says, and I know she means Isaac. “He says it makes no difference and that’s the worst of all. It makes a world of difference to me.”
“What do you mean?” I ask her.
“He’s a married man,” she whispers, and uttering the words undoes her. Her hand forms a fist, which she drives into her mouth to stifle the sound between a shriek and a groan that has risen to her lips.
“Joan,” Miss Hayter says, for she has noticed her distress. “Would you like to withdraw for a while?”
“I’ll go with her,” I say, glad of the chance to leave the others.
“Come and find me, please, if Joan needs me,” says Miss Hayter, and I lead Joan away, like a small child. I know the others will be staring after us.
Joan and I go to stand at the stern, looking over the rail at the ocean disappearing behind us. The wake is like lines of lace on a darker fabric.
“Tell me about Isaac,” I say. “I won’t speak of it to anyone else.”
“Yes, I know that. You’re very careful with what you say, but still . . . I feel . . . Well, there was hope for a short while and now there’s none. He’s married. He’s a wife in Portsmouth. And three children from her.”
Because I don’t know how to answer, I put my arm around her. The only thing that surprises me about this news is that Joan hadn’t taken it into account from the beginning. It stood to reason that a man like Isaac Margrove wouldn’t have reached the age he is without entering into some sort of bond with a woman.
“Isaac is very well set up,” I tell her. “I suppose it’s to be expected.”
“I don’t expect lies,” she says, a touch of vigor entering her voice. “I don’t expect to be led down a garden path as if I was a silly young thing, not a grandmother.”
“Did Isaac lie to you? Tell you at any time he wasn’t married?”
“No, but . . .”
“But what?”
“He made me believe he loved me.”
I sigh. “Did he say it? Did he speak of the future?”
“No,” she admits.
I turn her to face me. “Joan, if he told you he is married, maybe it’s because he is growing more and more fond of you. Do you see? He could have lied. He could have deceived you, but he didn’t. Surely it’s best always to know the truth.”
“I would never have let him kiss me and lead me on, letting me think he loved me, if I’d known,” Joan whispers. “I’d not have spent so much time with him, telling him things I’ve not told anyone else.”
I say nothing. Can Joan not see that, out of her own mouth, she’d given Isaac good reason to hide the truth about his wife in Portsmouth? He’d judged her very well. Anyone could see that Joan’s morals were far stricter than those of most aboard a convict ship. And perhaps it’s possible that Isaac likes her more than he thought he would at first and acted accordingly. He might have strung her along till we reached Van Diemen’s Land.
“I’ll put all thoughts of him behind me,” she says at last. “He stopped me thinking about the rest, my children and grandchildren . . . That’s the truth of it.” She turns to me. “Do you believe me? When I speak?”
“I do,” I say. “You’re not a liar and, believe me, I’ve dealt with liars my whole life. I recognize a lie better than most.”
“I did it for her, you see. My daughter, Meg. They caught her with stolen things. Her husband, a brute called Peter, he was the real receiver, but he would’ve lost what work he had at the butcher’s, and then what would they have lived on? Meg takes in washing and that’s the best she can do with the children so small. She did
n’t want to let me do it, cried and tore her hair and grew sick, but still I couldn’t let her be sent to jail or away on a ship like this, so I said I’d do away with myself if she didn’t let me take the blame. Poor Meg, what could she do? I told her, ‘You can’t die. You can’t go to prison. You have to be here for the children.’ What I didn’t tell her was that she had to protect them from their horrible father but I think she knew my mind. Even shared my opinion. She kept quiet and I confessed, and they took me in front of the judge and here I am.”
What to say? “You will go back, you know. To England. After you’ve served your sentence.”
“I’ll be old. I’m already old. I feel so ill . . . so muddled. I can’t govern my thoughts, and they run all over my head and trouble me.”
I look at Joan. Her color’s high and, though it’s true that the weather is growing warmer, she oughtn’t to be quite so flushed. I put out my hand and touch her brow. It’s burning hot.
“Joan,” I say, “you must go to Mr. Donovan and tell him you’re sick.”
“But I’m one of his helpers,” Joan says. “I have to be there for others.”
“You can’t help in this state. If you don’t go and find him, I’ll go myself.”
As I speak, Joan slumps down to the deck and sits there, her head hanging. “Maybe,” she says, “if I could lie down for a while, I’ll be better soon. And a cool drink.”
“Sit here,” I tell her. “I shall fetch Miss Hayter and Mr. Donovan.”
I go quickly to where the others are still at work on the sewing, relieved that Hattie has her back turned to me. “It’s Joan,” I say. “She’s not herself. I think she has a fever.” Was it a fever? Or could someone have given her a drug, such as the one I’d used to silence the real Sarah Goodbourne? Could one of the sailors . . . No, I told myself. She’s simply ill. Perhaps it’s something she ate.
Miss Hayter springs to her feet. “Rose,” she says, “go and find Mr. Donovan.” She has chosen her messenger wisely. Rose is the youngest of us and the prettiest. Mr. Donovan will be happier with bad news delivered by her than any of the rest of us. I find myself filled with apprehension. What if Joan is mortally sick? She has become the nearest thing I’ve had to a friend for many years and I’m frightened at even the slightest prospect of losing her.
25
THEN
Cotton piece: dark ground, patterned with blue-green flowers resembling chrysanthemums
April 1841
HATTIE
“Bertie? Where d’you think you’re going? Come here this minute. Come here . . . Are you listening to me?”
Bertie was making his way across the convict quarters, toward the companionway. Hattie stumbled out of her berth and went after him as quickly as she could.
“What d’you think you’re doing? Come back here. Now.” She spoke sharply.
“I want to go out there. To see the storm.”
“Wait!” Hattie said, and almost fell over as the whole ship seemed suddenly to rear out of the water and lurch to the left before crashing down again. Everyone screamed in unison. The ship was rolling so far from side to side that clothes, slop buckets, bundles of belongings and even benches were sent sliding toward one side of the space, then the other. From time to time there came the sickening lifting of the whole wooden frame of the Rajah, up and up until it seemed that the ship might be taking flight.
“What’s happening?” Phyllis screamed. She’d been deeply asleep and sat up in a rush only to see bodies, possessions and furniture being tossed all over the living quarters.
“Don’t be so stupid,” said Tabitha. “It’s a storm coming, you silly baggage.”
Hattie pulled on her skirt with trembling hands and wrapped her shawl around her. To Bertie, she said, “Why’d you want to see the storm?”
“Don’t like it here. Everyone’s screaming. Smells, too.”
Hattie looked down to where a slop bucket had turned over, spilling its contents on the planks. Every timber was creaking and groaning. No one was going to sleep while the storm was raging. And how long would that be? Bertie was right. The deck might be better. Hattie wanted it, too—to be anywhere but here. They would be tossed about and perhaps someone might see them and stop them, but she couldn’t bear the prospect of staying in the convict quarters. The deck had to be better than that. The noise of women wailing was so great that she had to lean down to speak directly into Bertie’s ear. “I’ll take you out there. But you’re not to go anywhere near the rail and if you don’t hold on to me every second, you’ll feel the back of my hand. Every second, mind. Promise?”
Bertie nodded. Hattie pushed against the door with all her might until at last it yielded and they came out onto the deck, then climbed the steps of the companionway. On the upper deck, they struggled to stay upright as the wind pressed them against a wooden partition.
Hattie clung to Bertie’s hand as if her life and his depended on it. Perhaps it was wrong of me to leave shelter, she thought. How can we be so wet already? Where can we hide from the rain out here? Bertie’s hand was slippery. She put one foot in front of the other, and for every small progress she made, the wind drove her back to where she’d come from. Around her, the air and wind and rain were like a black whirlpool, and in the whirlpool, men were sliding and shouting orders at one another, dealing with flapping canvas and tying up sails. No one was looking in her direction. The captain would be in the wheelhouse, guiding the ship.
Hattie glanced down at Bertie and saw that he was gawping at the storm, his mouth open and his whole face awestruck. She followed his gaze and watched the water coming nearer and nearer as the Rajah slid onto her port side and the rail seemed only inches from the waves. She pulled Bertie closer to her with one hand and, with the other, clung with every bit of her strength to a rope tied to the partition.
One of the crew, someone she’d never seen before, appeared beside her, shouting into her ear. “You can’t be here, Miss,” he said. “We’re battening down the hatches. No one allowed on deck. How’d you get out?” He picked Bertie up and the child clasped him round the neck, both hands tight. The man pried Hattie’s hand off the rope and pulled her along the deck to a small space out of the worst of the storm. He shouted, over the noise of the waves: “Stay here for now. Don’t you move.” He took Bertie off his back and handed him to Hattie, who pulled him close and pushed his wet hair off his forehead.
As the ship plunged into mountains of water, over and over again, then started the long climb up and up, Hattie’s eyes closed. How long had they been shut when the voices woke her? The worst of the tempest had passed. The Rajah had returned to her normal rhythm, back and forth on a much gentler swell. The rain had stopped, though the deck was still wet and shining in the first light visible just above the horizon to the east. Someone was speaking just behind her, and Hattie froze. Who else had come up on deck? Had they seen her? It wouldn’t matter if they had. She’d not done anything wrong, not really, and though it was understood that the women kept to their quarters after dark, the captain hadn’t given an order that Hattie had heard. She leaned close with her ear almost against the wood of the crates, trying to overhear the conversation. Anyone would, she told herself. It’s only natural to want to know.
“I can’t tell her. Not yet,” said a voice, speaking quietly.
“You must. I’m not having her go anywhere near you. Not ever again.”
Hattie recognized Rose’s voice. Who was she with? Who was the other person not wanting to tell? Tell what? At that moment, two women walked round to her side of the crates, but they were so absorbed in one another that they didn’t see Hattie and Bertie in their dark clothes against the dark wood. Once they’d passed her, Hattie leaned forward to look after them. They stood at the head of the companionway, with their arms around one another. They were kissing, not in the friendly way that two women might kiss good-bye, but lost in one another. Ha
ttie understood then that Becky Finch was the person who had to be told, the person whose happiness Rose Manners had ended during the storm. Izzy and Rose were lovers now. That much was as clear as the daylight spreading across the pale sky.
She was absorbing this new knowledge when she became aware of someone behind her and turned swiftly, still holding Bertie in her arms. She saw no one, but someone was looking at her. She’d felt the cold crawling of her flesh, the discomfort in her bones that you only feel when eyes are upon you. She’d have sworn to that. Hattie peered into the gloom and wondered if she should search more carefully behind bulkheads, crates and coils of rope lying on the deck, but she didn’t dare to do that for fear of what she might find. She hugged Bertie even more tightly and went down into the stench of the lower deck.
26
NOW
8 July 1841
Ninety-four days at sea
Because the women were so worried about Hattie, because they wanted more than anything to know what was happening, both in the inquiry and in the hospital, where Hattie lay, they were often distracted, not attending to their stitching with much concentration. It was fortunate that the work was almost done. Some had stopped stitching entirely and were stroking the work in front of them, admiring it.
Lottie was supervising them today but she wasn’t as strict as Miss Hayter. She said, “It’s a properly pretty bit of stuff we’ve made here, and no mistake, but no excuse not to be working.” But Joan was with them now, not tending Hattie, so their attention wandered from the work, and the questions she faced were endless.
“Does Bertie speak to her?” Alice wanted to know. “Can she hear him?”
Joan shook her head. “I think she hears nothing. She says a word from time to time but no one’s made sense of them.”