Scatterheart

by Lili Wilkinson

  She looked around the rooms, opening the empty drawers and cupboards. A porter came in and delivered their bags.

  Hannah sat down in a brown velvet armchair, then stood up again. What was she supposed to do? It was worse than James’s house. At least there Hannah could walk about the property.

  She got up and went to the window. A large ship was anchored near the wharf. Hannah wondered if it was another convict transport. Two young women were strolling down the street below her, chatting animatedly, arms linked. Even from three storeys up, Hannah could tell that they were not ladies of Quality – their bonnets were obviously home-made, their voices broad and uncultured. They were probably native-born children of ex-convicts. Currency lasses, James called them, his words usually accompanied by a sneer. Vulgarity descends, James said. It’s in their blood. Hannah didn’t think these girls looked particularly like criminals.

  One of them said something in a hushed voice, and the other burst out laughing. Hannah felt a sharp stab of jealousy. She had never really had any friends of her own age in London. Only Thomas Behr. Then Long Meg and Molly on the Derby Ram. She wondered where Molly was now.

  There was a soft tap on the door, and a young woman wearing a maid’s cap entered. She bobbed a curtsey.

  ‘Evening, madam,’ she said. Her voice had the same strange broadness as the girls on the street. ‘Lieutenant Belforte sent me up to help you change.’

  Hannah nodded, and the girl bent over the cases, opening them and unpacking them into drawers and shelves. She pulled out Hannah’s pink muslin dress.

  ‘This is a fine gown,’ she said. ‘Shall you wear it to dinner tonight?’

  Hannah shrugged. ‘I suppose so,’ she said.

  The girl smoothed the dress, and hung it up to air. Hannah looked at the girl with interest. Her skin was honey-coloured from the sun, her hair a flaxy yellow. Freckles dusted her nose and cheeks, and her eyes sparkled blue. She looked strong and healthy. Hannah knew that she was supposed to find sun-browned skin vulgar – dark like a savage – but on this girl it looked beautiful. The maid saw Hannah looking, and Hannah blushed.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘It’s just … Have you always lived in Sydney?’

  The girl nodded. ‘My papa is a merchant. He imports fabric from London and Paris for the exclusives.’

  Hannah frowned. ‘Exclusives?’

  The girl looked embarrassed. ‘Yes, madam. Exclusives. Sterlings. Like yourself. Free-settlers.’

  ‘I see,’ said Hannah. ‘So your father was a convict?’

  The girl nodded. ‘And my mama. Third fleet.’

  ‘Then you’re a currency lass,’ said Hannah.

  ‘We prefer “natives”,’ said the girl, a note of pride creeping into her voice.

  ‘But I thought natives were – the savages.’

  ‘Oh no, madam!’ said the girl, looking scandalized. ‘We are native-born. Our parents are emancipists. The free-settlers are the exclusives. The savages are blackies, or murkies, or boongs.’

  Hannah was confused. The girl ushered Hannah into the dressing room, and expertly began to remove her travelling-dress. Hannah felt vaguely embarrassed – this girl was so pretty and confident – and Hannah was just a convict. Shouldn’t she be waiting on the girl?

  ‘Is this your first time to Sydney Town, madam?’ asked the girl, selecting a clean corselette from the trunk.

  ‘Yes,’ said Hannah. ‘Except for when – when I arrived.’

  ‘It’s a beautiful city, isn’t it?’

  Hannah thought of the stench of the market, the men in cages, the scrawny, filthy children.

  The girl laced Hannah’s corselet like an expert, and held out a petticoat for Hannah to step into.

  ‘I think it must be the most beautiful city in the world,’ she said, oblivious to Hannah’s demurring.

  Hannah thought it was hardly a city. She could probably walk from one side to the other in an hour. ‘But you’ve never been anywhere else,’ she said.

  ‘I don’t need to, madam.’

  ‘Really? You don’t want to go to London one day?’

  The girl made a face. ‘London, madam? Not a chance. Papa says it is always dark and dirty, and that the sun never shines.’

  She gestured out a window at the ocean. The sun was sinking behind Sydney Town, turning the yellow houses gold and pink. The ocean sparkled blue and white, deepening into a rich indigo as it stretched out to the darkening horizon. Grey-green hills sloped down to the water, tangled and wild. Hannah blinked. It was beautiful. She remembered the wonder she had felt as the Derby Ram had sailed into the harbour. Perhaps it was the most beautiful city in the world.

  ‘But what do you do here?’ said Hannah, thinking of her constant boredom. ‘In London, there are always parties and picnics and balls–’

  She stopped herself. What was she talking about? She had never been to a ball or a party. She had been just as bored in London, except when she had had her lessons with Thomas.

  The girl laughed. ‘We have all those things too,’ she said. ‘And we also go horse-riding and hunting and fishing. But we spend most of our time at the beach.’

  ‘The beach?’ Hannah had never been to Brighton, but had heard that the sea air was excessively good for the lungs.

  The girl sighed, her eyes dreamy. ‘I do love the beach,’ she said. ‘The water is often very cold, but once you get in it’s beautiful.’

  ‘You swim? In public?’

  The girl managed to look embarrassed and defiant at the same time. ‘Of course you exclusives don’t do it, madam.’

  Hannah blushed.

  ‘But madam, it is the best feeling in the world! The water is so cold and fresh, and it swirls around you like champagne. It’s like you’re as light as a feather. It’s like flying.’

  Hannah smiled. It did sound nice.

  ‘And then afterwards the sand is so warm from the sun. It’s like heaven.’

  Hannah raised her arms as the girl lowered the pink muslin dress over her head. She did up the buttons with deft fingers, and then bade Hannah sit at the dressing-table while she did something about Hannah’s hair.

  Hannah looked in the mirror and saw her messy crop of short hair.

  ‘It’s very fashionable in London at the moment,’ she said, blushing.

  The door to the suite opened and James stood in the doorway.

  ‘Are you ready?’ he said, without a glance at the maid. ‘We are dining with the Gormans.’

  ‘Who?’ said Hannah. The maid bobbed a curtsey as she left the room. James made no attempt to move from the open door, so she had to squeeze past him. He stared openly at her cleavage.

  ‘The Gormans. A very well-respected family from Castle Hill.’

  Hannah rose reluctantly from her dressing-table. James came and took her arm. He smelled of whiskey and cigars.

  As they passed through the hotel lounge, they met a stout, ginger-haired man of middle age.

  ‘Good evening, lieutenant,’ said the man.

  ‘Dr Redfern,’ said James. ‘This is Hannah, whom I told you about before.’

  The man bowed. ‘Lovely to meet you,’ he said.

  ‘Dr Redfern is Assistant Surgeon to the colony,’ James told Hannah. ‘He delivered Governor Macquarie’s first son earlier this year.’

  Hannah bobbed a rather stiff curtsey, remembering her last encounter with a doctor. There was an uncomfortable pause, and Dr Redfern raised his eyebrows at James.

  ‘Ah,’ said James, patting his coat pockets rather theatrically. ‘I’ve left my snuffbox upstairs.’

  The doctor smiled. ‘I’ll look after her until you get back.’

  James nodded and left.

  ‘The lieutenant tells me you have been ill,’ said Dr Redfern.

  ‘No,’ said Hannah. ‘I’m not sick.’

  He nodded. ‘This is a harsh country,’ he said. ‘It is difficult for delicate women to thrive here.’

  Hannah tried to smile. She thought of the hotel
maid that had dressed her. She certainly seemed as if she were thriving.

  ‘You know, Lieutenant Belforte wants nothing more than your happiness,’ said Dr Redfern. ‘And of course, he is very eager for you to bear him a son.’

  Hannah felt suddenly dizzy. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘So that’s what all this is about.’

  ‘How old are you?’ asked the doctor.

  ‘Fifteen,’ said Hannah.

  ‘A little young yet, for childbirth,’ he said. ‘But it will come sooner than you expect.’

  ‘Not if I have anything to do with it,’ said Hannah darkly.

  Dr Redfern considered her, his head tilted on one side. ‘You’re not happy here,’ he observed.

  Hannah shrugged. ‘No. But I’m not sure if I could be happy anywhere.’

  ‘You don’t love Lieutenant Belforte.’ It wasn’t a question.

  ‘No,’ said Hannah. ‘I never will.’

  ‘Then why are you here with him?’

  Hannah smiled bitterly. ‘I’m not sure I have a choice.’

  ‘You could have waited out your sentence,’ said the doctor. ‘Gone back to London.’

  ‘There’s nothing for me there,’ said Hannah. ‘I have no family left. No friends. Nothing.’

  Dr Redfern bit his lip. ‘Have you told Lieutenant Belforte how you feel?’

  ‘There’s no point. And anyway, he doesn’t want to hear about the problems of a convict.’

  ‘I see,’ said Dr Redfern. His forehead was creased with concerned lines.

  ‘I’m sorry to waste your time,’ said Hannah. ‘But I think I’m a lost cause.’

  The doctor hesitated, then reached into a pocket. ‘Here is my card,’ he said, handing over a white rectangle of paper. ‘If you ever need anything,’ he said. ‘Anything at all. Even just to talk.’

  Hannah took it dubiously.

  Dr Redfern seemed to hesitate for a moment. ‘You do know that I’m a convict too, don’t you?’

  Hannah looked up. ‘You?’

  ‘Yes,’ said the doctor. ‘At least I was.’

  Hannah stared at him. He seemed so gentlemanly. And he was so well-respected in the colony.

  James came back into the room. Hannah wondered if he knew that Dr Redfern was a convict.

  The dining room was furnished with dark mahogany tables and chairs, with oil-lamps burning on the walls and candles on the tables. The Gormans were already seated. Mr Gorman was a thin, grey-haired man with a monocle. He wore an old-fashioned but well-tailored jacket and breeches. Mrs Gorman was a brash woman dressed in a loud orange taffeta gown, with a large matching turban. Hannah disliked them both immediately.

  James bowed as they approached the table. ‘Mr and Mrs Gorman, I’d like to present my wife, Hannah.’

  Hannah froze, and stared at James. His wife?

  ‘Behave yourself,’ muttered James, as he pushed her forward to shake hands with Mrs Gorman.

  ‘Mrs Belforte, how do you do?’ said Mrs Gorman. Her hand was clammy, putting Hannah in mind of Mr Harris in London. She smiled woodenly, her jaws aching, and sat down.

  The dinner was interminable. Mrs Gorman drank heavily, speaking only of the latest London fashions, and of the poor quality of servants in the colony. Once or twice, Hannah tried to turn their conversation towards literature, or art, but Mrs Gorman would not be drawn in.

  Hannah could not say or do anything right. Over the first course of dried cod, Hannah mentioned her surprise at the lack of fresh fish available in the colony.

  ‘We are almost surrounded by water,’ she said. ‘Yet I have had nothing but dried herring and smoked salmon since I got here!’

  Mr and Mrs Gorman exchanged glances. Hannah looked at James, who had pursed his lips in disapproval.

  ‘Did I say something wrong?’ said Hannah.

  James tried to smile, but the smile was so forced that it turned into a sneer. ‘Dearest,’ he said. ‘Only the convicts eat native fish. We don’t want to be like them, do we?’

  Mr Gorman cleared his throat. ‘Nothing like a good English fish, is what I say. Nothing like it in the world.’

  ‘Indeed,’ agreed Mrs Gorman.

  Hannah glared at her, thinking she looked like a fat, pink pig in an orange dress. There was an uncomfortable pause.

  ‘Have you heard any progress on the new road through the mountains?’ Mr Gorman asked James.

  James shrugged. ‘It is continuing on schedule,’ he said. ‘Governor Macquarie expects that it will be complete by the middle of next year.’

  ‘I should be terrified to travel through those mountains,’ declared Mrs Gorman. ‘Full of murkies and wild animals.’

  ‘Nonsense, Mary,’ said Mr Gorman. ‘The road will be quite safe.’

  Mrs Gorman shook her head as she motioned for the waiter to refill her glass. ‘Not at all, my dear,’ she said. ‘Haven’t you heard about the wild man?’

  Mr Gorman snorted.

  ‘I’m sure it’s of no great matter,’ said James, with a strange glance at Hannah.

  ‘It’s true!’ protested Mrs Gorman. ‘Why, they say that officer is hiding in the mountains, living like a murky. You know, the one who murdered–’

  ‘Mrs Gorman, how do you find the roast lamb?’ interrupted James, his expression cold and furious.

  Hannah stared at him. Had Mrs Gorman been talking about Thomas? Her heart was pounding. Mrs Gorman hadn’t noticed James’s abrupt tone, and was bemoaning the lack of any real mustard.

  ‘I believe you,’ said Hannah suddenly. Everyone turned to look at her. James’s face was black with anger.

  ‘I believe you, Mrs Gorman,’ Hannah repeated. ‘About the wild man in the mountains. Tell me more about him.’

  ‘This is hardly appropriate, Hannah,’ said James.

  ‘Oh, don’t be so stuffy, lieutenant,’ said Mrs Gorman. She turned to Hannah.

  ‘They say he fell in love with a convict woman and murdered a superior officer who caught them … you know.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said James.

  ‘I think it’s terribly romantic,’ Mrs Gorman sighed.

  ‘I said enough,’ James repeated. ‘Mrs Gorman, a respectable woman like yourself should know better than to listen to vulgar gossip.’

  Mrs Gorman looked startled, and shut her mouth with a snap. Mr Gorman busied himself with a tureen of green beans. James turned to Hannah.

  ‘That officer was hanged for his offences,’ he said. ‘Only convicts are saying otherwise, and who would believe them?’

  Hannah swallowed. Was he lying to her again? Could Thomas be alive?

  ‘Perhaps I should believe it, then,’ she said slowly. ‘After all, James, I am a convict.’

  She turned to Mr and Mrs Gorman. Mrs Gorman’s mouth had dropped open again in surprise.

  ‘Didn’t my husband mention that?’ said Hannah, feigning surprise. ‘Dear me.’

  James said nothing, but Hannah could see his skin had turned mottled-red, and veins stood out in his neck.

  A waiter appeared to remove the second course. Bowls of fruit and sweetmeats were placed in front of them. Nobody spoke. Hannah stood up, tossing her napkin onto the table.

  ‘I’m afraid I have a headache,’ she said. ‘I beg you to excuse me.’

  James didn’t return to their suite until very late. Hannah was sitting by the window, looking out at the few burning yellow lights of Sydney Town and the surrounding black abyss. Stars twinkled overhead, but there was still no Great Bear. He closed the door behind him and stood staring at Hannah.

  ‘You will learn to respect me,’ he said. His voice was slurred, and he swayed on his feet.

  ‘I don’t see why I should,’ she said. ‘After all, I’m a filthy, vulgar convict. And it’s not like we’re married.’

  ‘We are,’ he said. ‘You are my wife.’

  Hannah felt bitterness flood through her. ‘Am I?’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t remember our wedding day. Was my gown beautiful? Who performed the ceremony? Did my fat
her walk me down the aisle?’

  ‘Things work differently here,’ he said.

  ‘Not that differently,’ she replied. ‘I would never consent to be your wife.’

  James laughed. ‘What did you think you were doing when you picked up my handkerchief at the factory?’

  She stared at him, thunderstruck.

  He sighed. ‘I’m tired of fighting with you, Hannah. I just want you to be happy.’

  Hannah frowned. ‘No, you don’t. You want me to fit your idea of a perfect wife. You don’t care how I feel. I’m just an acquisition to you, like a new horse or a set of cufflinks. Your ticket to Quality.’

  James pulled off his necktie with a savage yank.

  ‘I’ve been very patient with you, Hannah,’ said James, his lips a thin line. ‘But I won’t wait much longer. You humiliated me tonight. Mr and Mrs Gorman are good people.’

  Hannah screwed up her face. ‘They are everything that is hateful,’ she said. ‘They are shallow and heartless and selfish. You think convicts are vulgar? The Gormans are a study in vulgar.’

  ‘They are people of Quality,’ said James.

  ‘If being a person of Quality means being like them,’ said Hannah, ‘then I am glad to be a convict.’

  James stepped towards her and grabbed her wrist.

  ‘You are not a convict,’ he said, his lips white with anger. ‘You didn’t commit a crime. You are a young lady of Quality, so act like it.’

  ‘I didn’t steal anything,’ said Hannah, ‘But I let my father sack a servant because she made the cup rattle in its saucer. I was hurtful and cruel to the one man who has ever truly loved me. And I killed Dr Ullathorne.’ She shrugged. ‘I’ve committed crimes,’ she said. ‘And I am happy to pay my penance.’

  ‘What penance?’ said James, his voice rising. ‘You have everything. You have pretty dresses and a big house with lots of servants. You have a handsome husband. You have money. What is your penance?’

  ‘You,’ said Hannah. ‘Having to spend the rest of my life with you is my penance.’

  He hit her, hard. Hannah went reeling back and crashed into the sideboard. She put a hand to her cheek, and winced in pain.

  ‘Is this how you think men of Quality behave?’ she asked softly.

  James left early the next morning, after instructing Hannah that she was not to leave the hotel. Hannah dressed slowly, and made her way down to the lounge for breakfast.