Alice paused, then said, "Do you pray, miss?"
Hannah thought about this. She did not mind the question, but did not know how to respond. Prayer was something that had never come easy to Hannah. She thought of how her father would stand in the parlor of their small cottage, beginning his day in silence, his Irish Quaker feet planted firmly on the braided rug as he gathered his soul and his thoughts together before the first pink of the morning sun—before he knew what surprises or disappointments the day was going to hold. Hannah had always sensed about him, in that silence, as he stood tall and thoughtful, a brink of excitement, as though he were living in just that moment, as if no other moment was ever going to exist. Was that when he prayed? Was that when he walked in the Light? He never talked about it. The sun would crest through the trees, yellow rays would sneak into the parlor, and John Conroy would shake himself loose from the invisible hold of the Supernatural and begin his day.
Hannah had tried to emulate him. But all she could do, she had found, was just stand and be silent. It never went farther or higher or deeper than that. As always, standing in her bedroom before the bed was even made, still in her nightdress with her bare feet on the cold floor, she would try to travel where her father had traveled, send her eyes and ears on a spiritual journey as he did, but her thoughts inevitably would tug her in the direction of the kitchen and flood her mind with prosaic details: a curtain that needed mending, a lamp that needed a new glass chimney, a bill to be paid to the butcher, and would a letter arrive at last from the Lying-In Hospital?
"I do my best," Hannah said with a smile. "But I think God listens to us no matter how we phrase our words."
"I remember, before our farm burned down, on Sundays my father would open our big Bible to any page and read from it." Alice looked inward for a moment, then said, "I don't remember the voyage over. I was four when we left England. My parents had such high hopes here." Her voice caught.
"Alice," Hannah said gently. "Would you like to go to church?"
She shook her head. "I will just go for a walk."
"Why not go to the horse races at Chester Downs? I understand that city omnibuses will be departing hourly from Victoria Square."
"Perhaps," Alice said, and she left.
But horse races were not on her mind as she followed one of the main thoroughfares out of the city, joining many pedestrians who were out for a stroll, and open carriages going up and down the streets for the Sunday outings the citizens of Adelaide so loved.
Alice had a long walk ahead of her, but her injuries from Lulu's beating were nearly cleared up now, the pain was but a memory, and she felt strong as she followed the country lane past houses and gardens and sheep paddocks until the city was far behind and farms became so vast that houses were miles apart. Passing through dappled sunlight, waving to the occasional passersby in carriage or on horseback, Alice fought down her fears. When doubt crept in and she wondered if she were making a mistake, wondered if Lulu would trap her and keep her prisoner once again, Alice reminded herself of newly learned words: fairness, equality, justice. And they kept her resolve strong.
These were concepts Alice had never really known. Memories of her early life on the farm were vague. She had lost much of her recollection after the fire that left her family dead and herself disfigured. It was probably an ordinary life, possibly even a happy one. After that, all she had known were impatient Juvenile Care authorities who tried to place her in homes only to have her returned, followed by snappish employers who could not understand her fear of fire, and then finally the harsh streets where she slept in alleys and doorways and stayed alive by begging at back doors. After that, it was Lulu's house.
And then Hannah Conroy had entered Alice's life and things had changed. For the first time, Alice knew kindness and sympathy, and even a little hope. And so it was these that propelled her along the Kapunda Road where traffic had become almost non-existent as most folk were at Chester Downs for the horse races and outdoor fête.
As she neared the house, Alice saw how quiet it was in the morning sunlight, with no carriages or horses outside. As powerful as some of Lulu's customers were, she knew better than to keep her house open on Sundays. There were limits even to corruption. And so it was a day for the girls to rest, do mending, even pay visits into town under the watchful eye of Walt Gilhooley. On this particular Sunday, the girls and the house staff could not resist staying away from the horse races (although they would dress modestly and keep a low profile) and so the house would be silent. Lulu would not go, Alice knew, but would be in her parlor either snoring away in a nap, or eating sweets while counting her money.
Alice paused at the back door to take in a breath and square her shoulders. She had come because she knew that the letters to Dr. Davenport and Mrs. Throckmorton would not be the end of it. Lulu would not rest until Hannah Conroy was destroyed utterly. Hannah had wanted to confront Lulu about the letters, but Alice had talked her out of it. Lulu would not stop in her vendetta against Hannah, and Hannah trying to appeal to Lulu might only make things worse. Alice had said, "Lulu will drop it in time, miss, just forget about it," and Hannah had taken her advice.
No one knew Lulu's background, where she came from, who her folks were. It was doubtful even that Lulu Forchette was her real name. Alice had heard that the deadliest snakes in the world were found in Australia, but she would vow that none held a candle to the cold and ruthless Lulu. It was impossible to believe that a genuine human heart beat beneath that fleshy bosom. Lulu's girls weren't allowed to have babies. If Lulu's pennyroyal tea didn't do the trick, then Dr. Young was summoned with his sharp instruments. Girls died. Lulu didn't care. There were plenty more in the streets, with more arriving from England each day.
Alice didn't bother to knock. She found Lulu sprawled on her chaise, her henna-red hair loose about her plump shoulders, the hem of her expensive silk and lace dressing gown trailing on the rich Turkey carpet. Her head was back, her rouged mouth opened in a soft snore. On a small table beside the chaise lay the remnants of Lulu's usual breakfast: fried eggs and potatoes, beefsteak and sausage, buttered toast and hot chocolate.
Alice cleared her throat and Lulu's eyes were instantly open. They narrowed when they saw who stood there. "Come crawling back have you?"
"I've come to ask you to leave Miss Conroy alone."
Lulu snorted. "Not bloody likely. She put you up to this?"
"She has done you no harm—"
"No harm! That self-righteous cow has stirred discontent among my girls. Three asked to be let go, another tried to run off. Miss High and Mighty needs to be taught a lesson. Five more letters go out tonight, to some very influential people."
Alice glanced at Lulu's cluttered desk where, lying on top of ledgers and bills, five sealed envelopes lay. "I will stay with you if you do not post those letters."
Lulu laughed. "What do I want you for, ugly thing?"
"I will sing for your customers."
The fat madam gave this some thought, then said, "It won't change my mind. Miss High and Mighty needs to be taught a lesson."
"I feel sorry for you," Alice said quietly.
Lulu's nostrils flared. "Don't know what you're feeling so superior about. How far do you think you'll get in life with that face of yours that scares children? You had a good thing here. You were hidden. Ungrateful cow. I took you in."
"Yes you did. And you forced me to work eighteen hours a day. You made me sleep on the floor. You starved me. You treated me worse than someone treats a dog. I made a mistake coming here. I thought I could appeal to your sense of mercy. But I was wrong." Alice reached the desk in three strides, grabbed the five envelopes and toward the door.
"No you don't," Lulu grunted as she hauled herself to her feet, steadying her great bulk with the cane, and tried to block the way. But Alice was quick. She darted around Lulu and was out the door.
Lulu lumbered after her, shouting at her to stop. But Alice kept going, down the main hallway and into the
kitchen.
"Go ahead, take the bloody letters," Lulu said as she came into the kitchen, "I'll just write more."
Alice stopped. Lulu was right. Stealing the letters was a futile act. Alice turned and looked up at the large woman who towered over her with malevolence in her eye, the deadly walking stick in her hand. Slender, small-boned Alice realized she had to find some way to stand up to her. As she looked around the deserted kitchen, cluttered with pots and pans, meat cleavers and milk jugs, her eye fell upon the kitchen table where she saw a red and white cardboard box with writing on it: Stowe's Noiseless Matches. Positively Will Light A Flame Anywhere.
The box was decorated with bright red flames.
And suddenly Alice's ears were filled with the roar of a raging fire. She looked at the fireplace, and although it was cold and dark, Alice saw flames leaping before her eyes. She was confused. Was she remembering the recent nightmare, or the real fire of long ago? When she heard a woman's high pitched scream, she couldn't tell if it was herself in the nightmare, or her mother on that fateful night.
As memories began to flash rapid-fire behind her eyes—yellow and gold flames, heat, sheer terror, her nails torn from scraping at the door to get out, Alice heard herself say in a quiet voice, "But the worst thing you did was lock me in the cellar in total darkness with nothing but matches and a lamp."
"Had to be done," Lulu snapped. "What good is a chambermaid who can't light lamps and candles, who screams at the sight of a fireplace? I did it for your own good. And it worked, didn't it?"
The days and nights locked in the cellar, starved, terrified of the dark, while she screamed and begged to be let out. With Lulu on the other side saying, "Light the lamp and I'll let you out."
"Yes," Alice said. "It worked. I am no longer afraid of fire." She picked up the cardboard box, pulled out a match and struck the phosphorus head on the side of the box.
"What are you doing?" Lulu said.
Alice held the flame before her eyes. "Showing you how well you got me rid of my fears. I came to ask you to stop writing poisonous letters about Miss Conroy. I reckon the best way is to burn them."
"What—"
Before Lulu could react, Alice set fire to the envelopes, and then tossed the burning paper down so that it landed on the hem of Lulu's expensive silk gown. As Lulu quickly bent to snuff the flames, crying, "Look what you did, idiot!" Alice struck another match and tossed it onto the voluminous silk that floated around Lulu's fat legs.
"Stop it, you little bitch!" Another match and more silk took flame. Lulu started screaming, as she smacked her thighs and stamped her feet. "Throw some water on me!"
But Alice just stood there as the flames rose and engulfed Lulu's body, and the air filled with the stench of burning silk and the sound of crackling and snapping.
"Help me!" the madam shrieked, her red hair standing out as she turned into a column of fire, her arms held out, flapping like the wings of Satan's angels. Lulu stumbled toward Alice, who fell back a step, unable to tear her eyes away from the look of horror on a face that started to blacken and char, with a strange, keening sound coming from the gaping mouth. As bits of lace and flesh floated down to the flagstone floor, Lulu dropped to her knees. She was no longer recognizable.
Alice spun about and was out the door, slamming it behind herself and locking it from the outside. As she heard Lulu Forchette screaming for help, Alice whispered, "You had to be stopped. I could not let you hurt Miss Conroy or anyone else any more. And you are wrong. I will get on in the world. I will cover my ugliness with cosmetics because now I know that actresses wear cosmetics and actresses are respectable. And if I can, I will learn to sing for other people because the girls at Mrs. Throckmorton's boarding house showed me that I can." As she watched smoke roll out from under the door while the unearthly screaming continued, Alice murmured, "I pray that God forgives you," and then she left.
By the time Alice was heading back down the tree-lined road toward Adelaide—with kookaburras laughing in overhead branches, and sheep bleating in nearby paddocks, and the blue winter sky filling with puffy white clouds and the choreographed flights of cockatoos—as Alice tread the red earth of South Australia and felt new strength invade her limbs and spine, she lifted her chin and drew in the wind, to fill her lungs with fresh hope and courage for a new future, while far behind her on the road, behind the gum trees, a high pitched wail of agony rose to the sky and then, gradually, died.
10
I
T WAS AUGUST, THE DEAD OF WINTER, AND A COLD RAIN LASHED the streets of Adelaide. As Hannah and Alice made their way through the downpour, struggling with wet capes and umbrellas, they began to question the wisdom of venturing out on such a day. But they had no choice. They were desperate.
Hannah and Alice hadn't twopence between them, they were behind in their hotel rent, and neither had even the remotest prospects of employment. It was this desperation that had driven them out into the winter rain that turned Adelaide's streets into rivers of mud. A new store had just opened, and from what Hannah and Alice had heard, it might offer opportunities.
Alice was going there in the hope that Kirkland's Emporium sold cosmetics, while Hannah planned to introduce herself to the proprietor, giving him her calling card and telling him what she had said to the various town chemists: "If you will let your customers know about my midwifery service, I shall tell my patients about your wonderful shop." So far, she had gotten only one referral through a chemist—an emergency delivery at one of the hotels—and although mother and baby had done just fine, the family had only been in town for a few days before continuing on to Melbourne. Hardly the start of a practice.
Hannah was driven by another need as well. She wanted to move out of the hotel, which was public and noisy, and so terribly impermanent. She had never known such rootlessness. Her dream of owning a little cottage of her own grew each day, and if Kirkland's selection of commercially made medicines—and home health books, was as impressive as Hannah had heard, then this could be the start she needed.
"Here we are!" she said breathlessly when they reached the emporium. They closed their umbrellas and hurried through the front doors to join the few other citizens whose curiosity about the new store was greater than their aversion to rain.
"My goodness," Alice whispered, her blue eyes going wide at the immense size of the store, the rows of aisles, the endless counters, and the stacks of shelves along all the walls. "A person could get lost in here, miss!"
"Let's divide up, Alice. You look for cosmetics and I shall search for the public board." Kirkland's boasted a large notice board, like the one in the post office, where people were free to post advertisements and messages. Hannah had come to look at employment notices, and to leave her calling card, as she had on other public boards around town. Now that Lulu Forchette was no longer a threat, Hannah was actively seeking ways to earn a living.
Following the news of Lulu Forchette's bizarre death—she had been found burned to death in her kitchen—Adelaide had been abuzz with rumors about what sort of house Miss Forchette had run. Colonial officials from the Lieutenant Governor to the Post Master had expressed shock and outrage that such an establishment had been plying illicit trade so close to the fair city of Adelaide, and had called Lulu's death a judgment from God.
What became of the girls, Hannah did not know. Ready Rita and Easy Sal found her at the Torrens Hotel one day in June. They had shown up in capes and bonnets, and carrying valises. They had not come to ask for her help, but to thank her for her kindness when she visited the house. They were on their way to Sydney, they said, in the hopes of finding better employment. They told Hannah and Alice that when they all returned to the house after a day at the races, no one had shed a tear over the grisly discovery. Miss Magenta had fainted at her mother's funeral and died a short time later of a belladonna overdose. Lulu's other daughters had had to forfeit the house due to back taxes, and all the girls had packed up their belongings and scattered. The Gilhooleys,
they said, had found positions on a large sheep station and were happy. Hannah said good-bye and wished them well, saying she would miss them, and meaning it.
Dr. Davenport was gone, too.
When Hannah had discovered that the Concerned Citizen letters were forgeries, back in May when Mrs. Throckmorton had evicted her, she had sent a note to him, explaining that he no longer had anything to fear. She had received a letter in return, in which Dr. Davenport explained that he was closing his practice and sailing back to England to marry a cousin who was recently widowed and left with five children. He wished Hannah well, and said he would always remember their three months' association with fondness. She kept his statuette of Hygeia beside her bed.
Also on her bedside table was Neal's photograph in a pewter frame. She still had not heard news of the Borealis or the fate of the Merriwethers at the Aboriginal mission, even though she had sent follow-up letters. And now she was worried about Neal, wondering if there was some way she could go back to Perth and look for him herself.
For the moment, however, earning a living took priority, and as Hannah searched for the public notice board, she surveyed Kirkland's in awe. She had never been inside such a large establishment, and was amazed at the variety of merchandise crammed onto shelves, covering display counters and hanging from the walls. A sign on the main counter said, "We have everything. And if we don't have it, we can get it." Neatly piled next to it were imported newspapers: the London Times, Punch, the Illustrated London News, and the Quarterly Review.
There were displays of ladies' handkerchiefs and gloves, handbags and muffs, bolts of calico, cotton and silk in a surprising variety of colors, and a stack of men's work trousers proudly identified as "Kentucky Jeans From America." A glass confectioner's case was stocked with marzipan, peanut brittle, cubes of thickened treacle, called "toffee," and Yorkshire pennies—little shiny black licorice buttons. Shelves were stocked with Charles Dickens' Oliver Twist, Pickwick Papers and A Christmas Carol, the books of Jane Austen, William Makepeace Thackeray, and Sir Walter Scott. Tennyson, Keats and Byron, the Collected Works of Shakespeare, and a sign saying "All the way from America" pointed to Melville and Richard Henry Dana.
This Golden Land Page 14