Dangerous Women

by Hope Adams

  The Franklins were expected in the early afternoon. The coverlet was wrapped in its sheet, ready to be spread on deck. When a knock came at the door, Kezia went to open it.

  “Ah, Isaac, thank you. Here it is. Shall I carry one end?”

  “I’ll manage, Miss, thank you kindly. I can carry it like this.” He put the bundle over his shoulder and looked back at Kezia. “Just like a carpet seller, in one of them bazaars in the east.”

  “Have you been to the east, Isaac?”

  “Oh, yes, Miss. I’ve been all over. China, North Africa. Patagonia. All over. But England’s best.”

  “Indeed, it is,” said Kezia. “But I’ve heard good things of Hobart.”

  “A fine place. A good place for these women, to be sure.”

  They’d reached a clear space on deck where the wood had been swept ready.

  “Where d’you want it, Miss?” he asked.

  Kezia had spent the last few days thinking about how best to show off the work. “Over there, please. Perhaps you’d help me to lay it out.”

  “My pleasure,” said Isaac.

  Kezia unwrapped the coverlet and they spread its colors over the deck.

  “Never thought it would be as fine as this, Miss. Not while you were making it. It’s a splendid piece of stuff, I reckon. A beauty.”

  “Thank you, Isaac. I’m pleased with it, too. Everyone has worked very hard to make it.”

  * * *

  * * *

  The women filed into the space Kezia had left for them. She noticed that Susan and Tabitha had found bits of lace to pin to their hair. Sarah had taken off her headscarf, plaited her long dark hair and twisted it into a complicated braid fixed at the nape of her neck. Every hand was clean. From the beginning, they’d not been allowed to work on the patchwork before washing thoroughly in a bucket of fresh seawater, and today was no exception.

  “Allow me to introduce you to the women who made the coverlet,” Kezia said to Lady Franklin, who was standing next to her husband. Sir John’s uniform was bright with gold frogging. Lady Franklin wore a fine hat, and as she looked out from under the brim she smiled in a general way at the needlewomen. Kezia felt suddenly protective of them. She knew they were poorly dressed, but all were clean and they had done their best to make themselves presentable. Even Lady Franklin would struggle to maintain her fine appearance in conditions like those in the convict quarters of the Rajah. Suddenly, though, Lady Franklin left her husband’s side and went up to the nearest person in the line. Kezia was pleased at her interest, and said, “This is Rose Manners.”

  “Delighted, I’m sure,” said Lady Franklin, and they passed from one woman to the next, Lady Franklin shaking each hand as Kezia introduced them. Everyone gave their version of a curtsy, and if some were no more than a bob, others were quite elaborate: a proper bending of the knee and a solemn lowering of the chin. When she came to the end of the line, Lady Franklin turned to them all and said, “You’re to be congratulated on your efforts with the coverlet. Excellent work, to be sure. Thank you for what you have done.”

  Kezia returned to her place, unsure of how she was feeling. Relieved and overwhelmed by the sight of the coverlet spread out for all to admire. Pride in the women and a kind of happy relief filled her heart. She said, “We’ll now sing you the hymn that has guided and sustained us through the voyage.”

  Remembering her own singing lessons, she turned her back on the Franklins, the captain, Mr. Donovan and Mr. Davies, and smiled at the women, noticing how terrified they seemed, as if they were being led toward some dreadful punishment. She raised her hand, gave the signal to begin and started to sing. The others joined in after a word or two, until the music grew to a respectable level. Hattie, Kezia thought, as the verses unrolled their perfect harmony of music and fine words. How I miss Hattie. And Emily’s voice was beautiful, in spite of her madness and her crime. Sarah was singing with more vigor. Joan, too . . . Kezia’s voice rose with the rest.

  When the hymn came to an end, everyone applauded and Kezia smiled with pleasure. How well the ceremony had gone! How perfectly the women had behaved! They filed away to the lower deck, good wishes following them, with cheers, too, from the sailors who’d heard them singing.

  “You’re to be congratulated, Miss Hayter,” said Lady Franklin. “You’ve done your work well. Those women are a credit to you, and I’m quite sure they’ll find a better life here in Hobart.”

  “Thank you,” said Kezia. “I’ve grown fond of them and I’ll miss them. But the work of their hands abides.”

  She thought of everything that had happened, everything that was not in the coverlet. Every feeling and emotion, the laughter and tears. The patches remained as silent witness to so much that could be recalled only in the thoughts of the women who had made it. Others will have to guess at such things, Kezia thought, but I will remember every day of this voyage when I look at it. Every day and all that has happened.

  * * *

  * * *

  The Franklins had gone ashore, and Charles and Kezia were alone in his cabin. “I am delighted that Lady Franklin so admired the coverlet,” she said. “I was proud of the women.”

  “Quite rightly. And, yes, the Franklins were pleased with the work.” He was gazing out of the window and spoke over his shoulder to Kezia, but then turned to her. “Kezia, will you sit for a moment? I must ask you something.”

  “Of course.” Kezia went to sit in one of the chairs that had been arranged for the guests. Charles took another and sat facing her, though he stared hard at the floor.

  “This voyage,” he began, then paused and started again. “I’ve never known a voyage like this, Kezia. Not in all my time at sea.”

  “I have—” Kezia stopped. She’d been on the point of saying she’d enjoyed it, but was that true? Were there not many times when she was despairing, angry, sad and desperately homesick? After a long moment, she said, “I’ve learned a great deal on the Rajah, and much of it was hard for me, but I don’t regret any of it. I’ll always be proud of what the women have made.” She couldn’t say that Charles’s presence on the ship had transformed the journey from a penance to a daily pleasure. And the kisses they had exchanged . . . about those, she could also say nothing, though they were in her mind. “Our walks on deck together . . . I enjoyed those very much,” she said at last.

  Charles leaned forward, took one of her hands and held it between both of his. Kezia was aware of his warmth spreading into her fingers and she felt herself blushing. He looked directly at her for some time and Kezia was the first to turn away her eyes. From their first meeting, his gaze had been both kind and honest. “Kezia, dearest Kezia. The thought of sailing back to England on this ship without you, not long after we dock in Hobart, leaving you behind here while I move to the other side of the world, well, it pains me more than I can say. I can’t imagine not seeing you every day.”

  This so expressed what Kezia was feeling that she stared back at him, unable to answer.

  “I’ve tried to convey my feelings to you and perhaps you may have guessed at my intentions but I never . . . I should have spoken sooner. Will you be my wife? Will you marry me, Kezia? It would make me very happy.”

  Kezia closed her eyes, suddenly dizzy. All her expectations, all her feelings had been thrown into tumult by his words and she found she could not speak.

  He’s asked me to marry him, she thought. He’s asked me to be his wife. Kezia Ferguson.

  51

  NOW

  “An unlined . . . coverlet of plain and printed cottons, it features a central panel of white cotton appliquéd with sprigs of flowers and smaller birds, encircled by four large printed cotton birds. The panel is contained within several printed borders of dress cottons pieced in geometric designs . . . The outermost border has a design of appliquéd cottons and an inscription finely worked in silk yarn.”

  19 Jul
y 1841

  One hundred and five days at sea

  CLARA

  The living quarters, normally scattered with clothing, belongings, bits of dropped food and half-finished pieces of knitting, are cleaner and tidier than they’ve ever been. No longer a place of imprisonment, the space is like a dockside warehouse, piled with bundles, everyone ready to be called up to the deck to disembark. We’re anxious and hiding our fear of what we’ll find on land. Some are solemn, sad to leave friends. No one, I think, likes to part from those they know.

  Becky and Lily are sitting together, with two very small bundles beside them. Becky’s head is bowed, as usual, and she looks pale. Lily does her best. She’s not talkative or very cheerful, but she’s earnestly whispering in Becky’s ear and Becky, for once, is listening. Something like a smile comes to her lips and then it’s gone. Perhaps I imagined it.

  “Becky,” I say, “I hope you’re looking forward to your new life here.”

  She nods unenthusiastically. I want, suddenly, to make her think of the future as full of possibilities. “You can be anything you like now,” I go on. “And, Lily, will you . . .” I don’t know how to say, Are you going to look after her? Are the two of you comfortable enough with one another to stay together if you can?

  “Yes,” says Lily. “We’ll try to keep together, won’t we, Becky?”

  “That’s good,” I say. “We must take care of one another. Look up, Becky. Promise me you won’t look down.”

  Lily and Becky both start laughing. “That’s proper daft, Sarah,” Lily says. “What if there’s steps? Or mud puddles to keep our feet out of? A person’s got to look down sometimes.”

  “Puddles and steps,” I say. “But look up for most things. Or at least straight ahead. Don’t turn your eyes to the ground, Becky. Promise me.”

  Becky stands up and looks straight at me. “I will, Sarah,” she says. And before I know what’s happening, she’s embracing me. “I won’t forget what you did for me, Sarah. God go with you.”

  “And with you, dear Becky,” I say, and go to find my own bundle of possessions. When I find them, there’s so little that I wonder for a moment if I ought to leave them on the ship. Nothing I value is in that bundle, except my scissors, which will remind me of so much.

  When I told Mr. Donovan I was a milliner, that first day aboard the Rajah, I was lying. But I may make it true. I have a fanciful dream of setting up in a small shop, and the fine ladies of Hobart and even Lady Franklin coming to me and letting me provide them with beautiful bonnets. The words we sang so often come back to me: Who sweeps a room as for thy laws, makes that and th’ action fine. I’ll try to make my actions fine, according to man’s laws, whatever I do in Van Diemen’s Land.

  * * *

  * * *

  Miss Hayter is standing next to the gangplank, saying good-bye to each of us as we leave the ship.

  “Sarah,” she begins, and can’t say another word. She comes very close to me and puts a hand on each of my arms. We’re both trembling. “Thank you,” she says.

  “Thank you, Miss Hayter,” I say, for the last time, and then I walk down the gangplank to the shore. I turn to look at the Rajah as I walk away.

  There’s Isaac and William, and I can see Jack and many others, folding the sails, fastening them to the masts. Mr. Donovan’s there, waving at us as we’re led away. Mr. Davies has his cabin trunk at his side, and a crowd from his congregation has come aboard to welcome him home. Truth is, there’s only two people I’ll miss and think of in this new land. The first is, and always will be, Edmund. The second is Miss Hayter. I owe her my life. I’ve no time for prayers, but if I did, I’d pray to see her again in a different circumstance. She’s standing close to the captain, leaning toward him, and they’re smiling. I think they will spend the rest of their lives together and they’ll be happy.

  I look up at the Rajah. She’s carried us halfway across the globe and her tall, slender masts are graceful against the blue of the sky. Birds have settled in the rigging. She’s brought me to a new life here, and on this welcoming shore, I’ll be a new person. I will be Sarah Goodbourne.

  HISTORICAL NOTE

  In April 1817, the social reformer Elizabeth Fry headed a committee of twelve ladies whose aim was to improve the conditions for women prisoners, first in Newgate and then in other prisons. A year later their work was extended to include women convicts being transported to Australia. A chance encounter with Captain, later Admiral, Young gave Fry the idea that patchwork was useful both as a means of employment during the sea voyages and a way of teaching the art of sewing. From that time each convict was given a bag containing a Bible, two aprons, a cap, two pounds weight of patchwork pieces and various sewing notions.

  The barque Rajah sailed from London in April 1841 with one hundred and eighty female convicts on board. They had all been convicted of crimes that merited transportation and were being sent to Van Diemen’s Land, present-day Tasmania. Also on board were ten children; a Royal Navy surgeon, James Donovan, MD; and a small number of passengers including a returning clergyman, the Reverend Roland Davies; and twenty-three-year-old Kezia Hayter, who was described as “a female of superior attainments” in the Annual Report of the Ladies’ Society for 1842. Kezia was given free passage on the understanding that she should devote her voyage to the care and improvement of the prisoners. Between April and July 1841 she oversaw the making of a large patchwork coverlet, known as the Rajah Quilt, which is now in the collection of the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra. Kezia Hayter was first cousin to John and George Hayter and niece of Charles Hayter, who were all painters at the royal court, and it is likely that the coverlet’s frame design was hers.

  This is a very well-documented voyage. We have the Surgeon’s log and the Captain’s log. We have the convicts’ names and a record of the crimes for which they were being transported. Prior to the Rajah’s voyage Kezia Hayter had been at Millbank Penitentiary for ten months and had worked with Elizabeth Fry and others on the Ladies’ Committee to improve prisoners’ lives. Documentary evidence shows that Captain Charles Ferguson, master of the Rajah, and Kezia Hayter fell in love during the voyage and were engaged to be married before the ship reached Hobart.

  This novel is a fictional account of the voyage and I hope that I have used the historical background respectfully. It has been suggested that upward of twenty convicts worked on the coverlet but I have chosen to name only eighteen. We also know that one woman died before the Rajah arrived in Hobart, but the events in my story are entirely a product of my imagination and in no way related to this death. In addition, I have given my convict characters invented names because descendants of the real women who made the Rajah Quilt still live in Australia and more especially in Tasmania.

  BIBLIOGRAPHY

  Bell, Robert, The Rajah Quilt, The National Gallery of Australia, 2015

  Cowley, Trudy and Snowden, Diane, Patchwork Prisoners: The Rajah Quilt and the women who made it, Research Tasmania, 2013

  Ferguson, Carolyn, “A Female of Superior Attainments,” Textile Perspectives 43, Summer 2007

  ——“A Study of Quakers, Convicts and Quilts,” Quilt Studies 8, 2007

  ——“Rule of Thumb or Rule of Eye,” Textile Perspectives 46, Winter 2008

  ——“As wise as Serpents and as Harmless as Doves,” Blanket Statements, AQSG, Spring 2010

  Fry, K. and Cresswell, R. E., A Memoir of the Life of Elizabeth Fry Edited by Two of Her Daughters, vol. 1, 1847

  Gero, Annette, “Quilts and Their Makers in Nineteenth Century Australia,” The Quilt Digest 58, 1987

  Pitman, Emma R., Elizabeth Fry, 1884

  Prichard, Sue (ed.), Quilts 1700–2010: Hidden Histories, Untold Stories, V&A Publishing, 2010

  Rolphe, Margaret, “The Convict Ship,” Down Under Quilts, June 1990

  INTERNET SOURCES

  https://www.femaleconvicts.org.au/docs/ships/
Rajah1841_SJ.pdf

  https://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/details/record?catid=5038909&catln=6

  https://www.femaleconvicts.org.au

  http://freepages.rootsweb.com/~dferguson/genealogy/Capt.Ferguson/CKFerguson.htm

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  I first saw the Rajah Quilt at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London in 2009. I’ve wanted to write about it ever since. For most of that time, Sophie Hannah has been encouraging me, discussing the book, helping me with plot quandaries, reading numerous versions and bits of versions and I owe her an enormous debt of gratitude. Jenny Geras has constantly supported and encouraged me, too, and has given me much good advice, both practical and editorial.

  Very special thanks to my friend Carolyn Ferguson, who knows everything about nineteenth-century textiles and the Rajah Quilt in particular. I’ve been very reliant on her tireless research and eagle eye for detail.

  Thank you to Lizelle de Jager and Jeremy Michell, MA, of the Royal Museums, Greenwich, who were helpful about nautical matters.

  I am grateful to the Conservation Department of the National Gallery of Australia for the sight of photographs of the many fabrics from the quilt.

  I feel extremely fortunate to have Nelle Andrew of Rachel Mills Literary as my agent and Jillian Taylor of Michael Joseph as my editor in the UK. They and my USA editor, Amanda Bergeron of Berkley, have worked tremendously hard on my behalf, and I’m very grateful to them all. Thanks, also, to copy editor extraordinaire Hazel Orme.

  My early readers Laura Cecil, Ann Pilling, Sally Prue and Linda Sargent have been stalwart supporters for years, and it’s been a comfort to have their friendship along the way, as well as their comments and advice. And thanks, too, to Francesca Hornak, and the “Gladstone Girls”: Linda Newbery, Celia Rees, Helena Pielichaty, Julia Jarman, Yvonne Coppard, Cindy Jeffries and Penny Dolan, who have been constantly encouraging.