Ember Island

by Freeman, Kimberley

  She answered, in French, “Victor Hugo, sir. I often read his books to my grandfather when he was ill and preparing to die. I will treasure those memories forever.”

  Sterling Holt hid a smile. “Très bon,” he said. “Now, Latin and Greek?”

  “Both, sir.”

  “Will I need to test you on those too?”

  “You may do as you please, sir. I do not fear any test of reading either.”

  He leaned back in his chair, steepled his fingers. “No, I trust you.” He tilted his head to one side, considering her. “You have no references.”

  “I have never taught before and I was completely honest with you in that regard in my application letter. But I do love children and I do love learning. And I have a fair hand for embroidery. I would not let you down, sir.”

  “My daughter is . . . precocious.”

  “You must be proud.”

  “I want to let her grow. I do not want to crush her. Some of these other women . . . You do not strike me as a disciplinarian.”

  “I would be a friend to your daughter. A firm friend.”

  “Still . . . your lack of experience . . .” He trailed off, looking at the papers in front of him. “I have very qualified applicants here.”

  Tilly forced herself not to feel the full weight of despair. She was done with the high peaks and low troughs of her past. “As you see fit, sir.”

  “Tell me something, do you know anything at all about medieval history or literature?”

  “Certainly, sir, I’ve read Chaucer, Malory, some of the French Arthurian romances . . .”

  “But do you love them?”

  Tilly was taken aback by the question. “Love them?”

  “Nell, my daughter, is quite obsessed with the period.”

  Tilly smiled. “She sounds fascinating. Yes, I love them. I love many books, but I do have a soft space in my heart for Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”

  Tilly suspected she had said precisely the right thing because Sterling was now smiling at her openly, nodding. He stood and leaned across his desk to extend his hand. “Mademoiselle Lejeune, I am pleased to offer you this position.”

  Tilly, too surprised to remember to stand up, took his hand. Relief flooded through her. “Really?”

  “I think you and Nell will get along beautifully. I will be in touch by letter with details of the passage across to the island.”

  She stood, feeling light. “Thank you, thank you, sir. I will not let you down.”

  “I don’t expect you will. Now, I don’t know if the letter made it clear, but I am the superintendent of a large government facility on the island. There are very strict rules about security, I would urge you to observe them all fully and carefully, and insist that Nell does the same.”

  “What kind of facility?” Tilly asked.

  “It’s a high-security prison,” he replied, and his casual response was so out of balance with the cold chill it elicited in her that she almost gasped. She had been thinking of a hospital or a manufacturing plant or . . . anything but a prison.

  Even though she tried to hide her dread, he must have perceived her discomfort because he said, “Will that suit you?”

  “I . . . are there . . . murderers?”

  “Yes, of course. But you will be perfectly safe. The prisoners are under lock and key and we run a very tight ship. I wouldn’t have Nell on the island with me if I thought there was even the slightest chance of danger to her.”

  Tilly nodded. “Thank you for your reassurance. I gratefully accept your offer and I look forward to your letter.”

  Only out in the bright street, with the sea breeze streaming over her, she allowed herself a moment of horrified guilt. For Sterling Holt didn’t understand that it wasn’t the idea of prisoners escaping that bothered her; it was the idea that somehow she would end up in a prison herself. After all, she wasn’t so different from them.

  •

  Approaching Ember Island on the steamer was similar to her arrival on Guernsey, before all the horror had started. There was a bay, a boat, a trunk, and a heart full of misgivings. But in many ways it was also very different. Rather than gray skies and rain, today was bright and sunny. Indeed, she hadn’t seen a dull day since she’d arrived in Australia eight days ago. The colors of everything were different, brighter, reflecting back light until her eyes ached. She stood at the front of the upper deck, with her parasol up, and watched as the island drew closer. It was surrounded by bushy green trees that seemed to live right in the salt water. She could see an escarpment on the island, more trees, the peak of a roof.

  A well-dressed, elderly man joined her, gripping the railing in front of him as they bobbed over a wave. “Ember Island,” he said.

  “Yes,” she replied. “That’s where I’m stopping. You?”

  “I’m the visiting surgeon on all of these islands. Dr. Groom.”

  “I am most pleased to meet you,” she said, extending her hand. “I am Chantelle Lejeune, the new governess for the superintendent’s daughter.”

  “Nell?” His mouth turned down in a frown. “Good luck.”

  “Superintendent Holt did warn me that she is precocious.”

  “Uncontrollable would be a better word.”

  Tilly decided to reserve judgment on Nell until they met. But she was starting to worry: what if the child pushed her so far that she lost her temper? She could never ever lose her temper again.

  “Nevertheless,” Dr. Groom continued, “I am not stopping on Ember Island today. I am traveling on to the leprosorium on another island.”

  “A leprosorium?”

  “For lepers. To keep them apart from the community. Moreton Bay is where all the colony’s outcasts finish their journeys, my dear.”

  The island was drawing closer now and she could clearly see the jetty, a crooked pin stretching out into the water. She could also see a tall chimney, puffing smoke, and numerous brick buildings. “Do you know why it’s called Ember Island?” she asked him.

  “They say that when Matthew Flinders came through here and discovered this area, he named all the islands Green Island. Green Island one, Green Island two, and so on . . . But this one was on fire at the time. A raging bushfire and he wrote in his diary that from a distance it looked like an ember glowing in the dark sea.”

  Fire. The thought of it made her stomach turn to ice.

  Dr. Groom remained, asking her idle questions about her journey from England and how she had come to be a governess, and she had all her lies ready and they slid off her tongue as easily as the truth.

  “Well, I’d best let you go and fetch your belongings,” Dr. Groom said as the steamer pulled in at the jetty. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you and I know I will see you again, Miss Lejeune. Or may I call you Chantelle?” he asked.

  “Tilly,” she said on impulse. It wasn’t such a stretch, after all, to imagine Tilly was a short form of Chantelle. “Everyone calls me Tilly.”

  It took several minutes to bring the steamer to a complete stop. Men ran about on the jetty and on the deck, tying thick ropes to bollards and shouting instructions at each other. Tilly fetched her trunk from below the deck and then waited patiently for instruction. The air was warm and damp, and tiny nipping sandflies gathered on the exposed skin between her gloves and sleeves. She flicked them away idly. A purser came to help her with her trunk and she followed him down the gangway and onto the jetty.

  “What’s that?” she said to the purser, pointing to what looked like a fenced square in the water. Thick metal poles protruded above the waves.

  “That is the warders’ swimming pool, ma’am,” the purser said, over his shoulder. He walked very fast and she had to hurry to keep up with him.

  “Why do they need a swimming pool?” she asked. “Can’t they swim in the sea?”

  “No, ma’am. There are too many sharks.”

  Sharks. The thought filled her with dread. All those teeth. “Are there many sharks?”

  “Oh, yes, t
he island’s surrounded by them. The blood and unwanted offal from the slaughterhouse all gets thrown in the water to encourage them.” He gave a cruel chuckle over his shoulder. “Discourages escapees.”

  Tilly marveled that a place could at once be so beautiful—sunshine and blue skies and shady trees—and so hostile. Saltwater forests and murderers and bushrangers and sharks and even the sandflies, who had left red welts on her wrists. It struck her very plainly that she would have to develop a hardness she didn’t already have. Or else she would be on the receiving end of many cruel chuckles.

  Sterling Holt was waiting for her at the end of the jetty, with a horse and an open carriage ready. The purser loaded up her trunk as Sterling greeted her.

  “Miss Lejeune.”

  “Superintendent Holt. You should probably call me Tilly.”

  “Very well, Tilly.” He didn’t offer his first name to her and she found herself a little disappointed. He simply nodded once, then offered her his arm so she could climb up into the carriage, then climbed in beside her and urged the horse forward.

  “I trust you had a comfortable journey over,” he said.

  “Yes, thank you. I met Dr. Groom.”

  “What luck. He’s a good ally to have.”

  She didn’t tell him the doctor had described his daughter as uncontrollable.

  The carriage left the paved run-up to the jetty and began to rattle over uneven ground. He raised his voice a little to be heard over the wheels. “Let me point out a few of the buildings on the island. We are not simply a prison: we are a set of thriving businesses.” He lifted his right hand momentarily, then brought it back to the reins. “There’s the lime kiln; you would have seen that chimney from the boat. The large building to the west of it is the sugar mill. Coming up here on your right are the workshops. We keep our prisoners very busy: bootmaking, tailoring, tinsmithing, even bookbinding.”

  Many people were moving around between the buildings, but she couldn’t immediately distinguish between warders and prisoners. Then she realized that the men in blue uniforms were well kept, stood up taller. The men in white overalls were rather more stooped, tired, unwashed.

  “How many prisoners do you have here?” Tilly asked.

  “Two hundred and forty-six men and eight women. The female prisoners have their own cell at the southern end of the stockade. There’s the bakery and, over there, is the smith.” He kept pointing out buildings, but Tilly couldn’t get the idea of those eight women out of her mind. She wanted to ask him what each one had done.

  “And that building over there is the stockade. That’s where the prisoners eat, sleep, and live their lives when they aren’t working. There is no need for you to go there.”

  “Understood.”

  “Now,” he said, as they clattered up the road, “it’s time for you to meet Nell.”

  As they drew up towards the escarpment, Tilly looked back and could see the wide fields of sugarcane, the cattle dotted about, and beyond that the great gray-green sea that separated them from the mainland, which was a hazy blue blur in the distance.

  They crested the hill and the road flattened out. She could see the house now, a sprawling brick and wood dwelling surrounded by wide wooden verandahs and, in front of it, a magnificent flowering garden.

  “The garden!” she gasped. Since arriving in Australia she had seen only straggling bush and the occasional brave front garden with parched roses and impatiens. But this was a true English garden with wide stretches of lawn bordered by low hedges and colored flowers, a stone sundial, and a beautiful white statue of a Grecian woman with an urn on her shoulder.

  “Yes, it’s quite something, isn’t it?” he said.

  Roses and violets and petunias and peonies, daisies and lavender and columbine and crocuses, shaped boxwood and flowering dogwood, and borders of purple and pink hydrangea. Glorious colors and smells in profusion. Tilly found herself laughing. “And this is your garden?”

  “I don’t spend much time in it. I’m mostly in my office.” He pulled the horse to a halt, his face turned away to the garden. “But Nell likes it out here.”

  “Is there any chance that . . . I could do some gardening? I have always loved it. It soothes me.”

  He turned back, a little frown on his lips. “Hm. Well, let me think about that. You see, one of the prisoners tends this garden. She’s very good and it keeps her busy and that is good for her.”

  “A prisoner? In the garden?”

  “You’re not to worry. She won’t offend again and we know that. But while she is here serving her time, I’d like her to make the best of her situation and she’s out there most days, being busy and productive. That’s the best thing for prisoners like her.” He climbed down and came around to help Tilly.

  “How do you know she won’t . . . offend again?” Tilly asked cautiously as she stepped down from the carriage.

  But Sterling didn’t answer her properly. He just said again, “You’re not to worry,” and she sensed that these things weren’t for her to know. It was likely that, in his eyes, Tilly was part of the inside world of the household, working not for him but for his daughter. Why would he talk to her about the affairs of men?

  “I’ll send somebody to fetch your trunk,” he said, gesturing to the front stairs. “Let’s introduce you to Nell.”

  Then they were inside. The position of the house up high, the dark brick, and the many large open windows and wooden verandahs, meant that it was cool inside. The floorboards were bare except for rugs and runners. The walls were hung with paintings and brass sconces with candles in them. Sterling indicated a long, padded bench under the front window in the entrance hall and told her to wait. Tilly sat down, pulled off her gloves, and waited while he moved further into the house.

  Then Tilly heard her. A girl’s voice, but deeper than expected. She said, “But I am occupied at the moment,” with defiant force.

  Sterling’s voice, too quiet to hear any words, but stern and forceful.

  Tilly braced herself. Nell didn’t want to meet her. Nell didn’t want her here at all, by the sounds of it.

  Sterling emerged, the girl behind him. She was tiny, slender, with white skin and her father’s clear blue eyes. A mop of unruly brown curls and a mouth turned almost upside down with disapproval.

  Tilly stood. She decided that it was important not to offer the first smile. If Nell wasn’t friendly, then Tilly wouldn’t force it.

  “Miss Lejeune, this is my daughter, Eleanor. I call her Nell.”

  “You may not call me Nell,” Nell said to Tilly.

  “Be respectful, Nell,” Sterling cautioned.

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Eleanor,” Tilly said.

  “Why are you Miss Lejeune and not Mademoiselle Lejeune? Why do you have an English accent? I thought you would be French.”

  “Enough!” Sterling snapped. “Nell, Miss Lejeune is your governess and you will treat her with the respect that is due to her. Now. I have spent long enough away from my desk. Nell, I would like you to show Miss Lejeune around the rest of the house and, in particular, show her to her own room and bathroom. Miss Lejeune, you will ordinarily eat with Nell and me. You have missed lunch, but supper is at six. I won’t be joining you this evening as I have a meeting, I do apologize.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “If you are hungry in the meantime, see if you can find the cook or the housekeeper. Try the kitchen, the laundry, or anywhere in the east wing. We don’t stand on ceremony here. We are a long way from society, so we don’t have a bell to ring for tea or any such method. If you need something, find somebody to help you. My office is through there. I’m best left undisturbed.” With that, he gave Nell another cautionary glare, and went off through the door to his office. It closed quietly behind him, leaving Tilly alone with Nell.

  They looked at each other. Neither of them smiled. Seconds ticked past. But then Tilly began to see the ridiculous side of the situation. Both of them trying so hard not to be the first t
o make any kind of concession to politeness and warmth. Here she was, a grown woman, competing with a child. Laughter became trapped behind her lips and it became increasingly hard to hold back her smile. Nell caught it and she, too, struggled to contain her laughter.

  So Tilly let it go. She tilted back her head and laughed out loud, and Nell did the same. Then Nell reached for Tilly’s hand and said, “Come, let me show you the house.”

  “Thank you, Eleanor,” Tilly replied, taking her hand.

  “Nell.”

  “Tilly.”

  Hand in hand they moved down the hallway. “Just remember this: the wing to the west is the wing that is best. That’s where my room, Papa’s room, and your room will be. And the library too, of course, which is where Papa wants our lessons to be. Papa has his own bathroom, but you will share with me. The east wing is where the servants are, where things are stored, and where the kitchen and laundry and lamp room are. I’ll fetch you at suppertime to show you the dining room, but it’s next to Papa’s office. He finishes work at six.” Nell opened the door to a small room with books on every wall, a huge gleaming table set up in the middle. “My classroom.” She dived onto a wooden cat, about the size of her two fists and painted white, that sat on the desk next to her papers. “And this is Pangur Ban. I’ve had him since I was four.”

  “He’s very handsome.”

  “He comes everywhere with me. He watches me when I write.”

  Tilly glanced around. “Your father has a lot of books.”

  “Papa is not much interested in books. He likes facts and figures much better. These are all mine. I don’t ask for toys. Pangur is all I need. I ask for books.” She approached one of the shelves and ran her fingers lovingly over the spines. “What is your favorite book?” she asked.

  “I love many books. Your father told me you are partial to Arthurian romance. Is that so?”

  “I’m mad for it. Anything from the medieval period.”

  “I’m very fond of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight,” Tilly said, remembering that it was this admission that secured her the job.