As Haunui opened the door for the newly betrothed couple, the entire crew, gathered in the mess room, burst into a hearty round of ‘For They Are Jolly Good Fellows’.
Kitty shook her head: you couldn’t do anything on a ship without everyone knowing your business.
*
The Katipo arrived at Sydney Cove on the twenty-eighth day of August, received immediate clearance from a customs and excise officer as she wasn’t carrying a cargo, and dropped anchor. Everyone went ashore bar Gideon, who volunteered to take the first shift staying aboard to keep an eye on things.
Ropata disappeared immediately to send word to his wife, Leena, that he was in town. Their marriage had been a love match and he was resolutely faithful to her, despite the fact she’d refused to accompany him to sea, preferring to remain in New South Wales and raise their five children, the eldest of whom was now fourteen.
The rest of the crew headed off to the pub while Kitty, Rian, Amber, Tahi, Haunui and Mick tramped up steep Essex Lane, intersected by Harrington and Gloucester streets, then turned into Carahers Lane, a narrow street crowded with well-established little cottages and a row of two-storey sandstone tenements. Kitty and Tahi’s mother, Wai, had once rented one; their landlady, Biddy Doyle, resided next door.
Mick rapped on his mother’s gleaming, blue-painted front door, then opened it without waiting for a response. ‘Mam? It’s me. I’m home.’
‘Mick? Is that you?’
The owner of the voice soon materialised, a heavily built and rather large-bosomed woman with grey hair pulled back in a wispy bun. Her face was wrinkled and time-worn these days but she had Mick’s lively dark eyes. She looked like someone’s dear old grandmother, but Kitty knew that behind the shawl, the cotton house cap and her address in modest Carahers Lane she was as sharp as an embroidery needle and well known for her business acumen.
‘So it is!’ Biddy Doyle cried and enfolded Mick in a squashy embrace. ‘My boy! Are you well? Has he been well, Captain?’ she asked Rian. She always called him ‘Captain’, even though she’d known him for decades. ‘More to the point, has he been keeping out of trouble?’
Mick was forty-eight, and still an extremely handsome man. He’d never married, preferring to break the hearts of his more naive lovers and sorely try the patience of those with a little more wisdom in every port they visited. His mother despaired of him.
‘Lately he has, yes,’ Rian replied. ‘And how are you, Biddy?’
‘Me? Oh, I’m fine, so I am.’
‘Been adding to your property empire?’
‘All the time. Come in, all of you, I’ve just boiled the kettle.’
Inside, the house was far more comfortable than its plain exterior suggested. The front door opened onto a small hallway with an exit to the back yard at the far end and a stairway leading to the floor above. Biddy ushered them into a parlour-cum-kitchen. Against the rear wall was a fireplace into which had been set a very modern, black-painted iron stove, which, Kitty imagined, no doubt rendered the little house unbearably hot in summer. In fact it was rather stuffy now. The walls were papered with an attractive floral pattern and the red, brown and oxblood-coloured tile floor was laid with two lush carpets. Biddy’s furniture was rather nice, too, and there were framed pictures, little vases, figurines and knick-knacks everywhere.
‘You’ve not got the gas on yet?’ Kitty remarked, pointing at the brass and glass kerolier hanging from the ceiling.
‘Costs too much,’ Biddy replied as she spooned tea into the pot. ‘Only them with pots of money can afford to get the pipes connected.’
Well, that’s you, isn’t it? Kitty thought, amused.
Mick said, ‘Mam’s frightened of it. She thinks it’ll blow her house up.’
When the tea had been served, together with a freshly baked almond cake and a plate of gingernut biscuits, Kitty said, ‘Biddy, we’d like to ask you a favour, if we may.’
‘Of course, dear.’
‘Amber and Tahi are betrothed—’
Biddy’s hands flew in the air. ‘Oh, my dears! Congratulations! And a lovelier young couple I’ve not seen for many a year!’
‘Thank you, Mrs Doyle,’ Amber said.
‘Thank you,’ Tahi muttered, flushing scarlet.
‘Yes,’ Kitty went on, ‘but they’re in a bit of a rush. They’d like to be married as soon as possible.’
With a compassionate smile Biddy settled a hand over Amber’s. ‘Well, don’t you worry about it, love. There’s nothing to be ashamed of. It’s just nature taking her course, that’s all.’
Haunui let out a laugh, spraying almond cake crumbs across the table. ‘She’s not expecting a little one. Not yet, anyway. That’s why we want them to hurry up and get married, eh?’
‘Then you’re probably being very sensible,’ Biddy said, helping herself to a gingernut. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘We’re on our way to China,’ Rian said, ‘on a matter of some urgency, so we can only stop a week or thereabouts here. I want Amber to be married in a church rather than a registry office, so we need to have the banns published, secure the church, organise a venue for the breakfast—’
‘Have a dress made,’ Kitty interrupted, ‘and do all those other things necessary for a wedding that my husband doesn’t have a clue about, all in the space of seven or eight days. Can you please help us?’
Chewing on her biscuit Biddy thought for a minute, then swallowed. ‘Holy Mary, that’s a tall order. Your sister’s a dressmaker, isn’t she, Captain?’
‘She is and I’m sure she’ll help.’
‘Well, I can do a bit, and I’d be happy to. But you can’t publish the banns because these two lovely young folk aren’t resident in the parish of Sydney. You have to live here to do that.’
Amber said, ‘Shite!’
‘Language, dear,’ Kitty warned.
‘But Ma, what are we going to do?’
‘Don’t worry, love,’ Biddy went on, ‘you can be married by licence. It’s costly but permission to marry is granted a lot faster. And it’s considered to be more prestigious, and it’s private.’
‘That’ll do, then,’ Rian said.
Biddy nodded. ‘Good. As I said I’m happy to help, but I know who’d be far better placed with venues and pulling strings and the like.’
Kitty’s heart quickened. ‘Who?’
‘Friday Woolfe and her friends. Do you know them?’
‘I don’t, no. Do you, Rian?’ Kitty asked.
Rian’s eyes had closed, and he wore an odd, pained expression. ‘Oh, God, not them.’
‘You do know them?’
Biddy laughed gaily. ‘From a long time ago, he does. Have you not told your lovely wife about your Newcastle adventure, Captain?’
‘Why would I?’ Rian opened his eyes. ‘It was a bloody disaster. And it was thirty years ago.’
‘What adventure?’ Amber demanded.
‘Yes, what adventure?’ Kitty echoed. Why had he never mentioned it?
Waving a hand wearily, Rian said, ‘Oh, you tell them, Biddy.’
‘In 1833 – or was it 1832? I forget now – Friday Woolfe and some friends of hers chartered the Katipo to take them up to Newcastle. One of them – Harrie Downey, her name is – had a baby girl abducted by a mad Englishman named Leary, and they followed him there to get her back.’ She grinned at Rian, who rolled his eyes. ‘What I heard was that the women locked the captain here and his crew in the mess room of the Katipo and stole the ship’s boats – ha! – and they rowed themselves ashore. They found the little girl and rescued her, but had to run for their lives when Leary chased them, and sadly Friday was shot in the head. But they got away from Newcastle all right, so they did.’
‘But you implied this Friday Woolfe’s still alive today,’ Kitty said.
‘I did and she is. Her head must be made of maple wood. Anyway, so Harrie got her daughter back, and that was the important thing. Such a lovely lass, Harrie. Wouldn’t hurt a fly.’
While his mother had been speaking, Mick had slumped farther and farther down in his seat, his face reddening.
‘What’s the matter? Kitty asked him
‘Nothing.’
‘Nothing!’ Biddy exclaimed. ‘What that poor girl went through!’
‘Jesus, Ma, can you not let it lie? It was years ago! It’s done with!’
‘If it’s done with, why are you sitting there with a face like a beetroot?’
Kitty glanced at Rian for an explanation, but instead he said, ‘We don’t need that lot, Biddy, surely? Can’t you find us a breakfast venue and a church?’
‘Oh, don’t be so gutless. Friday has a venue and the ears of all the right people, so she can probably get the marriage licence pushed through, and possibly even a church and an officiant, knowing her.’
‘How?’ Kitty asked. ‘Is she the governor’s wife or something?’
Mick blew tea out through his nose.
‘Well, hardly, dear,’ Biddy said. ‘She’s the madam of Sydney’s most exclusive brothel. She specialised, herself, in . . .’ she paused, taking in the curious Amber ‘some rather particular tastes, but she’s just the proprietor now. Not to mention filthy rich.’
Kitty felt a very unwelcome stab of – not quite jealousy, but certainly discomfort. ‘Did you know that?’ she asked Rian.
‘I had heard she was running a place on Argyle Street these days. She was only, er, employed there when I met her. When we took them to Newcastle,’ he quickly clarified.
‘She’s been the madam there for years,’ Biddy said. ‘Elizabeth Hislop left everything to her when she died, bless the poor woman’s soul, and that wasn’t long after your little adventure. So go and talk to her. Go on. Tell her I sent you. She does owe you, if I recall.’
‘Why?’ Kitty asked. Then more persistently, ‘Why does she owe you?’
Biddy explained, ‘Because if the captain hadn’t been where he was in Newcastle to pick up Friday and her friends when they were running from Jonah Leary, she would very likely have died.’
‘But I’ve not even spoken to her since then,’ Rian said, ‘nor seen her. None of them. Why would I? She was a nightmare to deal with. They all were. And that friend of hers, the princess, Aria, she and I hardly parted on the best of terms.’
‘Well, you’d better mind your manners because she’s still around.’ Biddy pointed a teaspoon at Rian. ‘Look, do you want your lass to have a nice wedding or not?’
‘Of course I do.’
‘Then go and see Friday.’
Rian let out the most enormous sigh.
*
By the time Kitty, Rian and Amber walked into Friday Woolfe’s hotel – the Siren’s Arms – on Harrington Street the following day, Kitty was absolutely bursting to meet her. By now she knew everything about her that Rian knew, which admittedly wasn’t very much, including the fact that her brothel was just around the corner on Argyle Street, and that Mick had been excluded from the legendary Newcastle rescue mission because he’d taken advantage of Friday’s friend Harrie Downey, with dreadful repercussions.
The hotel itself was a pleasant surprise. Kitty had been expecting a dingy haunt sailors might patronise but it was rather more refined than that, with highly polished floorboards, marine paintings on the walls, intricately knotted ropes draped artfully about and a pair of brightly painted ship’s figureheads flanking the well-stocked bar. It still smelt like a pub, though.
‘Morning, ladies, sir. What can I get you?’ asked a man polishing a row of glass tankards.
Well, nothing at nine o’clock in the morning, thank you, Kitty thought.
Rian said, ‘We’ve an appointment with Friday Woolfe.’
The man gestured with a tankard. ‘Through there, down the hallway, door on the right. She shouldn’t be long. But then again, she might. If she is, ring the bell and I’ll get someone to bring tea.’
Kitty didn’t think that boded well.
They followed his instructions and found themselves in what appeared to be a private room, furnished with a sofa and several armchairs arranged around a narrow fireplace in which someone had recently banked a nice little fire. The gas was definitely on here, as a small gasolier hung from the ceiling rose and two gas brackets were mounted on the wall, all lit and emitting a slightly peculiar smell. They made themselves comfortable and waited. And waited and waited.
Eventually, Kitty asked, ‘What time are we seeing Enya?’
‘I said eleven in my note,’ Rian replied.
‘I wonder how rich Mrs Woolfe really is?’ Amber said.
‘Disgustingly,’ a voice said. ‘And it’s Miss Woolfe, not Mrs.’
Into the room swept two tall and utterly startling-looking women at whom Kitty could not help but stare. For some reason she’d half-expected them to be young, as they would have been when Rian first met them, but they were middle-aged, perhaps in their early fifties. Nevertheless they were strikingly attractive and, as she gazed at them, reminded Kitty of something. After a few moments she realised what: a couple of parrots. The Maori woman in her dark dress looked like a black cockatoo with sleek, shiny feathers, and Friday Woolfe like nothing so much as a rosella in her gaudy gown with her brightly coloured hair.
Her skirt and bodice were a vivid aqua colour with purple and indigo accents, and her wild mass of wavy hair an improbably rich, deep red. Kitty suspected that an awful lot of henna paste was used in Friday Woolfe’s toilette. Her face was lined around the mouth and eyes, and she had the very fair skin that generally didn’t weather well under the southern sun. She was, however, very tall, and well rounded, her breasts and hips substantial though her waist was still neat, and the extra padding saved her from appearing excessively aged. She was a natural beauty, but the most remarkable thing about her were her tattoos. The sleeves of her bodice ended just below her elbows, revealing multi-coloured ink completely covering her arms to her wrists, and out of her neckline, which wasn’t immodestly low, flapped the wings of a bird. Kitty had seen plenty of tattoos before on sailors, but very few on women, and certainly not in this quantity. They were shocking, yet also beautiful. Against Miss Woolfe’s coloured skin lay softly gleaming gold, and lots of it: around her wrists and throat, on her fingers, and dangling from her ears.
The Maori woman was also well built, and even taller than Friday Woolfe. She wore the chin and lip moko you often saw on New Zealand women, and her slanted, fiercely intelligent eyes beneath beautifully arched brows were set wide apart, the pupils as black as olives in oil. Few age lines marred her handsome features, and in her otherwise coal black hair – undyed, Kitty guessed – a wide silver streak swept back from her right temple. She was dressed from head to foot in a costume of expertly cut black taffeta (taffeta in the daytime!), as if in mourning, though her jewellery was of gold and greenstone, not jet.
Rian rose, apparently compelled by good manners – and perhaps an element of discomposure? Kitty wondered – but she remained seated despite an awful urge to jump up in the presence of such magnificence. It wouldn’t do to lose her dignity, or the upper hand.
‘Captain Farrell,’ the Maori woman said. ‘After all this time we meet again.’
‘We do,’ Rian replied. ‘Miss, er . . .’
‘Aria Te Kainga-Mataa.’
Going red, Rian said, ‘Yes. Miss Te Kainga-Mataa, Miss Woolfe, this is my wife, Mrs Kitty Farrell, and our daughter, Amber.’
Aria’s eyes narrowed as she inspected Amber. ‘You are Maori.’
Amber said, ‘I know.’
Trying not to stare now at the women, Kitty could see that Aria wanted to know more, but also that she wasn’t going to ask. But she didn’t have to.
Amber went on. ‘My mother was Ngati Whatua and my father was Pakeha. Neither could care for me. Ma and Pa took me in when I was small.’
‘Ah.’
Friday rubbed her hands together briskly, the jewels in her rings glinting in the gaslight. ‘Well, I’d say it’s nice to see you again, Captain, but I don
’t know if it is yet. Let’s face it, it wasn’t that much fun last time, was it? Biddy said you need a favour but she didn’t tell us what sort, did she,’ she added to Aria, ‘the shit-stirring old trout.’
Aria’s eyebrows merely went up, as though such machinations were to be expected from Biddy Doyle.
‘Well, pardon me, but what happened last time was hardly my fault, was it?’ Rian replied. ‘And it was you who came to me for help then.’
‘That’s true.’ Friday sat down in an armchair, causing the front of her crinoline hoop to flip up and reveal the hems of several petticoats, a pair of heavily tattooed shins, and the fact that she was wearing scruffy old black boots. ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake!’
Amber burst into smothered giggles.
Lurching grumpily to her feet, Friday flicked up the crinoline from the rear and collapsed again, whereby her skirt settled in a more seemly fashion with a graceful billow. ‘You’re not wearing a hoop?’ she asked Kitty. ‘Bloody smart of you, I reckon. Pain in the arse.’
Aria sat on the sofa beside Amber. Kitty noted that her hoop didn’t flip up.
‘Anyway,’ Friday went on, ‘Biddy says it’s time to repay our debt. So, what can we do for you?’
Rian said, ‘Amber needs to marry, and in a hurry.’
Both women glanced at Amber’s middle.
‘No, our daughter is not in a predicament.’ Kitty tried her best not to snap. Why did people always think the worst?
‘We need the marriage licence pushed through as quickly as possible,’ Rian said, ‘a church and an officiant, a decent venue for the wedding breakfast, and caterers for about twenty guests.’
‘Is there a fiancé?’ Aria asked. ‘Or do you need one of those, too?’
‘Of course there’s a damn fiancé. He’s a crewman on my ship.’
Friday made a face. ‘You poor little thing. Aren’t they all a bit long in the tooth by now?’
‘The boy in question is twenty-three,’ Rian said stiffly.
‘What are you staring at, sweetie?’ Friday asked Amber.
‘I’m looking for where you got shot. I can’t see a scar.’
‘Amber!’ Kitty was horrified. ‘Don’t be so rude!’
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