‘Just look at her! She can sew and clean, can’t you, lovey? And she’s a right good cook. She can sow yer barley and shuck yer corn, as well as keep you warm at nights.’
‘She ain’t big enough to keep a man warm!’ The man next to Rachel gave a gap-toothed grin, as though it was the wittiest thing he’d ever said. Which she supposed it might have been.
Maria stared blankly at the crowd. Her eyes were empty.
‘Ah, the little ones have more fire in them. You take it from one who knows.’ The auctioneer gave a wink. ‘Whatever you pays for her you’ll make back again. She could cook for a whole tavern. You could hire her out by day and have her back each night. Or hire her out all night too! Now, who’ll start the bidding? You, sir?’
‘Threepence!’
The auctioneer snorted. Maria made no sign that she had even heard.
‘One pint o’ rum!’
‘One pint! Do I have two?’
‘Two pints!’ It was a young man with beefy arms and a rough tattoo of a mermaid on his forearm.
‘I’m offered two. Who’ll make it three? Oh, for a taste of this young lady’s pie. She’ll scrub for you, cook for you, never mind the rest of it —’
‘Ten shillings!’ Rachel had to yell over the noise. It was all she had. But she couldn’t let Maria be sold like this. If only the Surgeon was here, she thought. He would never let this happen. But there was no one to help her now.
‘Ten shillings! Now that’s more like it.’ The auctioneer nodded to her. Rachel flushed, lowering her head, clutching Andrew to her. It was dangerous to be noticed, but impossible not to help.
She glanced up again. Maria peered around, showing the first signs of life. Rachel held up her hand briefly so she could see it. Maria bit her lip, hope washing across her face.
‘Ten shillings and sixpence!’
It was from a soldier, his red coat stained with sweat under the arms. He must have decided Maria could be sold for more, if someone was bidding that much for her.
Rachel tried to calculate. She could sell her spare dresses. ‘Twelve shillings.’
‘Twelve and sixpence.’
The soldier leered at her. All at once Rachel realised what he was doing.
He was determined to beat her bid. He had no intention of paying any money. He could bid any sum he wanted to. No one could force a member of the Rum Corps to pay their debts.
And there was no way she could bid more.
Maria knew it. Rachel saw her shoulders droop, and the same blank look descend on her face. Maria had another six years to serve. She was so small, so thin. If a man worked her hard could she last that long? There was no surety he would even let her go when her time was served. Many women were kept bound as long as the man they served wanted them. The courts were run by the Rum Corps too. Impossible to expect justice there, especially for a woman.
‘A guinea!’ It was a new voice, vaguely familiar. Rachel peered across the crowd. She knew that face! It was the ship’s carpenter she had met years before, after church. What was his name again? Mr Moore. She flushed. He had seemed such a good man. Now he was bidding for a woman, like all the others.
‘Ten guineas!’ the soldier bid again, his grin even wider. He lifted a stone jug from the ground and took a swig. The crowd roared with laughter, aware of the joke now. Ten guineas was an enormous sum, months of wages. Ten guineas for a woman like this — impossible, incredible. He may as well have bid a hundred pounds.
Rachel looked across at Mr Moore again. He frowned, staring at Maria on the cart.
‘Well, sir? Another bid?’
Mr Moore shook his head.
‘Sold then, to the officer over there.’
The crowd cheered. The auctioneer shoved Maria over to the edge of the cart. The soldier elbowed his way forward and lifted Maria down like a sack of potatoes. ‘There’s nothing to her! I want me money back!’
The crowd shouted with laughter again. There would be no money paid, no money given back. It was a joke, a joke for all of them.
Except for Maria, thought Rachel. She tried to think what to do. One of the surgeons at the hospital might help her. They might even be able to get Maria assigned to someone else. Mrs Macarthur, maybe. If she told Mrs Macarthur how good Maria was with her needle she might want her as a maid. She’d be safe there, at least …
There was no sign of Maria now, nor of the soldier or Mr Moore. The crowd was too thick. Nor was there any point pleading with the soldier, not drunk as he was.
Andrew began to whimper, afraid of all the noise. She soothed him automatically, patting his back as she held him against her shoulder. She began to walk away, back towards the house, planning her next move …
‘Mistress Turner!’
She looked back. Mr Moore strode down the road, carrying a ragged bundle under one arm. The other hand held Maria’s. He let the hand go as Rachel ran to her, hugged her. ‘I was so afraid for you! I’m sorry, so sorry, I had no idea. I offered all I could …’
Maria said nothing, but clung to her, Andrew squashed between them. He struggled to get down. Rachel lowered him, his hand held tight in hers, then looked at Mr Moore. She had forgotten how big he was, his shoulders straining at his jacket. ‘Sir …’ She didn’t know what else to say. How did he come to have Maria here, when the soldier outbid him?
His lips narrowed. ‘The ruffian back there was glad enough to take a guinea once he’d had his fun.’
‘So you bought her?’
‘A man does not buy another life, Mistress Turner. All men are equal in the sight of God. But it seems your friend has been assigned to me now, yes.’ He bowed, first to Rachel and then to Maria. ‘I think it best if she stays with you.’
She had to thank him, but still she could find no words. Maria was shaking as though she would collapse at any moment. Andrew fidgeted, pulling at her hand, eager for his dinner. And any moment the crowd might find them here and gather for further fun.
She curtseyed quickly, then put her arm around Maria. She bent to pick up Andrew, but Mr Moore had already picked him up. She waited for the boy to put out his arms to her, but instead he laughed as Mr Moore hoisted him onto his broad shoulders. ‘I will see you to your door.’
She curtseyed again, as best she could while still holding Maria. The way to their house had never seemed so long. She took the key from the pocket of her apron, and unlocked the door — the Surgeon had paid for a lock the year before — and ushered Maria inside.
Should she ask him in? She flushed. Would he require … payment … for his favour? But he had already lifted Andrew down.
‘Thank you —’ she began.
He bowed. ‘I am glad I could be of service.’
She hurried in to Maria as he strode back up the street.
Chapter 52
RACHEL
SYDNEY COVE, APRIL 1795
Maria sat huddled on one of the chairs in the kitchen, still in her hat and coat, staring down at her hands. Rachel bent, and kissed her cheek.
‘Mama? Who that?’ Andrew stared at Maria, wide-eyed.
‘I’m your mother’s new servant.’ Maria’s voice was only a whisper.
‘She is Mama’s friend. She will live with us now.’ She took Maria’s hat, then gently helped her out of her jacket. There was meat pudding, ready to heat again for their dinner, and the pot was near to boiling on the hob. She added wood to the fire, and pushed the pot above the flames.
Maria stirred. ‘I should do that.’
‘You should rest.’
Rachel plopped the pudding in its cloth into the boiling water, then added potatoes. There are stewed apples in the pantry too, she thought, sweetened with the honey Nanberry had brought her. If only he was here, she thought, though Nanberry had no influence in the colony these days, now that Governor Phillip had left; no one bothered translating the native tongues any more. But his presence was a comfort. He could at least fight off a drunk who tried to force his way past the door or steal their potat
oes.
She put Andrew on his chair, pushed him up to the table, and put the plates in front of them all. But even when Andrew began to spoon up his pudding Maria still sat, unseeing.
Rachel reached for the spoon and lifted it to Maria’s mouth as she had fed Andrew till not so long ago. Maria’s mouth opened and she swallowed. Andrew watched as Maria ate her meat pudding, the colour coming slowly back into her face. Rachel cleared the plates, then brought in the stewed apples. She was spooning it into bowls when Maria said, ‘They killed Jack. The natives. I found him in the cornfield with a spear sticking out of his chest.’
Rachel glanced at Andrew. But he was more interested in the apple, smearing it over his face as he gulped it down.
At last the tears were running down Maria’s face. ‘I wouldn’t go out with Jack that day. I was tired, so tired. I said he could pick the corn himself; I was staying home. And when he didn’t come for his dinner I went to look for him …’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ said Rachel helplessly. She hadn’t even heard of an attack at Rose Hill. She heard no news at all, now the Surgeon had gone. The French might be invading and who would think to tell the woman who had once been housekeeper to the Surgeon?
‘The natives had stripped the crop, every cob of it. And there he was …’
‘Shh. It’s all right now. You’re here, you’re safe.’ She hesitated. ‘Perhaps you can sell the farm.’
‘Captain Patterson has given it to someone else.’
‘But he can’t do that! You should have been able to sell the land and house at least —’
‘He can do whatever he likes,’ said Maria wearily. ‘A woman can’t own land, not without the Governor’s special permit. And we have no Governor.’ She stroked Andrew’s cheek. ‘He has grown so much. Such a handsome boy.’ She looked up at Rachel. ‘I will work hard.’
Rachel shook her head. ‘We will share what we have, and the work too. You can do sewing again. And when I am rich,’ she tried to make Maria smile, ‘you shall make all my silk dresses.’
‘I can at least make Andrew’s first pair of trousers. It … it is good to be back,’ she said softly. ‘I was scared out there, even before the attacks. So much space, too many trees. Jack was a good man. But milking cows, stripping the cobs of corn … I’m too small to be a proper farmer’s wife. I even missed the o’possum.’
‘He’s not been seen since the Surgeon left.’ No more o’possum droppings to sweep up each morning, no wet patches on the floor … ‘We’ll do well,’ she told Maria softly. ‘We will do very well.’
Chapter 53
RACHEL
SYDNEY COVE, FEBRUARY 1796 TO JANUARY 1797
February was the hardest month in the colony. A blanket of humid air sat about the town, sending the sweat dripping down her petticoats, sealing in the stench of sewage, cooking smoke and filthy clothes and bodies. But here was magic to sweep away a few of the smells …
Soap! Rachel stood in the tiny shop and cradled the precious stuff. At last there was enough fat to spare in the colony to make soap! No more straining the wood ashes for the lye that burnt her hands and wore the clothes to shreds too soon. Real soap!
She had left Andrew playing with Maria — he was at the age when he was into everything and, besides, there had been a fresh outbreak of typhus when the convicts from the Marquis Cornwallis arrived. It wasn’t safe for a small child to come near crowds now. Thank goodness she had someone she trusted to leave him with, someone to talk to as they sat sewing in the shade of the orchard, hoping for a breeze up from the harbour, watching Andrew chase the rooster, trying to get a tail feather.
Free rations were still given out in the storehouse up the hill, though now there were also government stores at Rose Hill — no, she corrected herself: Parramatta. Only convicts and government servants received rations these days. Convicts who had served their terms — like her — and become farmers or tradesmen or labourers either grew, made or hunted what they needed, or bought it at stores like this.
But the prices were far higher than most could afford. The Rum Corps had ruled that everything in the colony had to be sold either by the Corps or with their permit, under pain of the lash or serving in chains on the road gangs. Every farmer, soap-maker and sea captain had to sell his goods to the Corps at whatever small price the officers set. The Corps then resold the goods at ten or even fifty times the price.
The colony’s new Governor, Mr Hunter, was powerless against so many officers. His authority came from halfway across the world, with no one to enforce it. So the officers of the Rum Corps grew richer still and it was more dangerous than ever to live in the colony.
Rachel was careful, only ever going out in the mornings when most soldiers would still be sleeping off the rum from the night before. Maria never went into the streets at all, though she was happier now. Yesterday Rachel had even heard her singing a song to Andrew.
And it had been a good morning — a meeting with Mrs Johnson about a home for the orphaned children. Somehow in the past year Rachel had become part of what passed for reputable society in the colony — a regular churchgoer with good manners and careful ways, respectable enough to drink Indian tea with the Reverend’s wife and admire the new glass in the church windows.
And now soap! It had been expensive, but worth it. And there was little else to spend money on. Surgeon White still found ways to send sea chests to them on almost every ship, filled with cloth and sugar and even once a small box of tea. She headed towards the door, the soap in her reticule, brushing past a man in a top hat. He lifted it politely as he stepped out of her way.
It was Mr Moore.
Rachel gave a startled curtsey. Mr Moore lifted his hat again and bowed. He was dressed more formally than he had been before, in new-looking dark trousers and a dark coat, as well as the top hat. She was just about to speak when a young woman in a bonnet that certainly hadn’t been made in the colony raised her gloved hand to signal him, over at the counter where she was examining a bolt of flannel cloth.
‘If you will excuse me, Mistress Turner.’ Mr Moore bowed again, then headed over to the young woman.
Rachel forced herself out of the store, her face burning. It’s just the heat, she told herself. She should have brought a parasol to shade herself from the sun.
She had waited for weeks for Mr Moore to call again, after his astonishing rescue of Maria. But there had been no sign of him, either at their house or around the streets of the small colony. She supposed his ship had sailed again.
And now he was back, with a wife perhaps, or at least walking out with a woman younger and better dressed than her.
She tried to laugh at herself. What had she expected? That his impulsive speech so many years before had really been a promise?
And what if it had been? She had told him she wouldn’t be any man’s sea-wife. But what had she been to Surgeon White? He must know about that now. What man would take on another’s child?
Well, plenty, she admitted, especially when the woman had a good house and income from her former lover. But not one she’d want. Not a man like Mr Moore, well-dressed and not a convict.
She glanced back, in case he and his lady friend had come out of the shop. But there was no sign of them.
She sighed and walked back up the hill. A crowd had gathered. Someone was being tied to the stake near Government House. Probably some poor fool who had sworn at his master — you got fifty lashes with the cat-o’-nine-tails for that, and 150 for taking a day off. That was enough to cripple or even kill you unless the flogger allowed you to take your punishment over a few weeks.
She heard the high-pitched song of the lash as the flogger swung it through the air, the first scream from the man at the stake. The crowd cheered. Floggings were the chief entertainment in Sydney Town, apart from getting drunk, and watching hangings. There’d be blood on the ground tomorrow.
It was a good thing she hadn’t brought Andrew with her today. Rachel hurried down the dusty lane
to home.
Mr Moore was on her doorstep five weeks later.
If I’d known I would have put on a clean apron, she thought, glancing down at the carrot stains from Andrew’s dinner. She’d have put on her best cap too, the one Maria had trimmed with real lace …
Behind her came the stamp of the hornpipe in the kitchen. Nanberry was back from his latest voyage, bringing her a bolt of blue cloth from the Cape that Maria had pounced upon with joy, planning the dresses she’d make for them both, and a carved elephant for Andrew. Nanberry had already been out bush for a week, returning with more honey and a fish so large she’d had to give half of it away. He’d sharpened the knives (Big Lon ground down half the blades if it was left to him), mended the broken shutter, shown Andrew how to swim and even persuaded Maria to join them in a picnic at the beach. Now he was dancing to amuse young Andrew, the child shrieking with joy every time Nanberry clapped his hands and turned around. She could hear Maria’s laughter too.
It was so good to hear Maria laugh again.
‘Mr Moore! May I help you?’ He might need to see a surgeon, she thought suddenly. That would be why he was here. ‘Surgeon White no longer lives here,’ she added, ‘but if you go to the hospital …’
‘I have no need of a doctor.’ He bowed. He wore the same dark suit as he had in the shop, and the same top hat. He didn’t look like a sailor now. ‘Good morning, Mistress Turner.’
She gave a small polite curtsey. She hesitated. ‘Would you care to come in?’
The neighbours would talk if they saw her chatting with a man on her doorstep. It would be more discreet if he came inside. Maria and Nanberry were here, so she was chaperoned. Not that many would care in this colony of whores and convicts. But there were a few, like Mrs Johnson, whose opinion she valued. She put her chin up. And her own …
She took his hat and hung it on the peg next to Nanberry’s, then led him into the parlour. It was the room that had been the Surgeon’s study and still smelt a little of the spirit he’d used to preserve his specimens. But she and Maria had made cushions for the hard-backed chairs and Nanberry had made a frame for one of Maria’s embroideries on the wall. It was too hot for a fire, so she had arranged a bottle of roses in the hearth.
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