3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  The moon must almost be full, because a pale beam fell across the wooden cover of the washbasin and the shelf above it. In some of Mamo’s old stories, the moon was the lantern of the Queen of the Night, whose name varied from story to story, from Anu to Cerridwen, Rhiannon and Cailleach. Rhia thought of Antonia’s icons. Mary could also be Queen of the Night. The beam lit the shelf and the only reading material Rhia had seen in weeks, a Bible. She had barely noticed it and had not touched it. If the sighing shadows would not show themselves, then tonight, she decided, she would be Catholic. She reached for the moonlit holy book, before she could think better of it, and opened it randomly. The psalm she read made her close the book just as swiftly:

  119:37 Turn away mine eyes from beholding vanity and quicken thou me in thy way.

  There was no need to look for signs of spirit when they were pushed under your nose. She was not sure if she should feel comforted or reprimanded but for now at least she felt less alone. She slept until the morning bell.

  The wardswoman Miss Hayter let herself in to Rhia’s cell the next morning. Miss Hayter had shown her the unforgettable kindness of sitting with her on her first night, when Rhia was frightened and almost beside herself with loneliness and homesickness. She did not speak, but sat by the door with some sewing while Rhia sobbed herself to sleep in her hammock.

  Miss Hayter was bird-like, plain and quietly spoken but, more than any other warden, she engendered respect amongst the women. Perhaps it was because she was diminutive, so not physically threatening, or because she seemed genuinely concerned for their well-being, or because she appeared to be able to look right through you when she spoke to you. Everyone liked her and wanted to be liked by her, Rhia included.

  ‘You have a visitor, Mahoney.’

  Antonia! Rhia almost felt light-hearted as she pulled on her cap and tied her apron strings. Miss Hayter waited quietly, watching with her earnest expression. ‘I hear that you are a draughtswoman, Mahoney?’ she said.

  ‘I almost was.’

  ‘Perhaps your skill will be useful to you, when we sail.’

  ‘When we sail?’

  ‘Why yes, have you not been told?’

  ‘Told what?’ A shiver crept up Rhia’s spine.

  ‘The ward has been assigned to the next transport, the Rajah. It is to depart on April the fourth. I myself am to be the matron in charge.’

  Rhia opened her mouth, mutely. Miss Hayter was watching her. ‘It must seem sudden, but it does happen occasionally. There is a need for literate women in Australia, and particularly for women with a trade.’

  ‘London needs women with a trade too, Miss Hayter, and women who are literate.’

  The warden had the grace to look abashed.

  ‘What is today’s date?’ Rhia whispered.

  ‘It is March the twenty-sixth.’

  ‘Then I have less than two weeks left.’

  Miss Hayter nodded. ‘There is great opportunity in Sydney, and for one such as yourself—’ Rhia didn’t hear the rest. She didn’t want to hear praise for the colony, she could think only that two weeks wasn’t enough time for an appeal to be made. She was not to be saved.

  She followed Miss Hayter to the refectory where visitors had been shown. She looked for Antonia among the faces of the free. The people from outside were like brushstrokes of colour – a red scarf, a green hat, blue breeches.

  Antonia was not here.

  Then she saw Mr Dillon. She supposed he had visited a prison before because he seemed perfectly at ease. He had the good grace not to let his eyes stray to her prison uniform, nor to remark on her appearance. She recalled last night’s lesson with some difficulty. His eyes held hers.

  ‘Good morning, Miss Mahoney.’

  ‘Good morning, Mr Dillon.’ His face looked different. Though maybe she had never really examined it before. He was somewhere between the beginning and middle of his thirties, she thought, and had a light dusting of freckles on the pale skin of his nose, cheeks and forehead. His hair was as black as her own and tied back with a ribbon. His eyes were a mottle of mossy hazel, like a forest floor. He looked back at her, his eyebrows arched, and retrieved his pocket book from some hidden recess inside his long coat.

  ‘I have word from your mother. I advised her to send any return correspondence to my address. I promised that I would honour its privacy and bring it safely to you. I have fulfilled both promises.’ He passed the letter, hidden beneath his hand, across the table towards her and Rhia kept her eyes on his face.

  ‘Is anyone watching?’ she whispered as her hand touched his. He cast his eyes about the room and shook his head. He withdrew his hand and Rhia slipped her mother’s letter into her apron pocket. A look of co-conspiracy passed between them. ‘We are good at this,’ she said. He nodded, but his smile quickly disappeared.

  ‘I’ll come straight to the point. I’ve set in motion an appeal to the crown, but it is a lengthy process and could take months. In my opinion, you were targeted to look guilty of this crime, and I’m in the throes of convincing Mr Montgomery of the fact. He says that his wife is certain that you stole the cloth and that you took the key to the storeroom.’

  ‘But I did not! Mrs Montgomery gave the key to Isabella.’

  ‘Prunella Montgomery is not a reliable witness,’ Dillon agreed, but the Crown is not interested in that. Your defence was not present at the court, which is an abomination and a matter I’ve still not been able to get to the bottom of. Mrs Blake engaged one of the best counsels in London, but he will not receive me, nor answer my letters. Mrs Blake herself was going to visit you today, because we’ve not been allowed to see you before now, but apparently her maid has taken a fit of some kind.’ He shook his head. ‘It would appear that the maid doesn’t want Mrs Blake to see you. At any rate, she will come next time.’

  Rhia bent her head. ‘Then Juliette will have her way and I will not see her. I have been assigned to a transport that sails to New South Wales on April the fourth. So you see, there is no hope.’

  Dillon looked shocked, and then angry. But when he spoke his voice was low and even. ‘That is very soon indeed, Miss Mahoney, but there is always hope.’

  Rhia stared at her hands, noticing that her fingertips were scoured red from needlework and cold.

  ‘There is something else,’ he said quietly. ‘I wish that I didn’t have to be the one to tell you it.’

  What could be worse than this?

  ‘It concerns the death of your uncle.’

  Rhia tensed. ‘Please be direct, Mr Dillon.’

  ‘Very well. I don’t believe Ryan Mahoney’s death was accidental.’

  ‘Then you think he took his own life after all?’

  ‘No. I believe he was murdered.’

  The bell clanged but Rhia didn’t stand.

  Mr Dillon stood and bowed as though they were in a drawing room and he was her guest. He said something about Laurence Blake certainly being back in London before the Rajah sailed, and something about her belongings being delivered to Millbank, and then he was gone.

  She was alone.

  II

  Silver

  Behind Me – dips Eternity –

  Before me – Immortality –

  Myself – the Term between –

  Death but the drift of Eastern Gray,

  Dissolving into Dawn away,

  Before the West begin –

  ’Tis Miracle before Me – then –

  ’Tis Miracle behind – between –

  A Crescent in the Sea –

  With Midnight to the North of Her –

  And Midnight to the South of Her –

  And Maelstrom – in the Sky

  Emily Dickinson

  4 April 1841

  A murmur rippled along the procession of rowing boats. The Rajah was little more than a dark triangle in the mist, but it was as chilling a sight as a prison van emerging from a London fog. Each creak of the oars brought it closer.

  The form of a barque took sh
ape.

  The rhythm of the dipping oars gave way to the collision of steely waves against timbers. Above was the mournful cry of gulls. A hush descended as the boats neared the towering hull of the transport.

  Further away, through the salty mist, was something even worse, something that made the transport seem like a paper sailing boat by comparison: a dark battalion of leviathans anchored a league away by great chains, each link the size of a carriage wheel.

  Hulks.

  Finally, something to be grateful for – better to be sent into the unknown than to end up on a prison hulk. A chorus of Hail Marys caught on the wind to be whipped away.

  One by one, the rowing boats pulled in to the Rajah’s shadow. A rope ladder appeared over the ship’s railings, lowered down for the wardens and prisoners to scale the creaking hull to the deck. One by one each woman took her turn and ascended the swinging rope lattice with instructions shouted from above not to look down.

  Not that they could help it. The prancing ocean demanded an audience. It might rise up and coil a wave around an unwary ankle. Someone froze midway and was first cajoled and then ordered to keep climbing until finally, tearfully, she crawled up and over the banister at the top.

  The rowing boats were eventually empty, and every woman – whether by mettle or by coercion – had reached the deck.

  Hemp

  Nelly was still fiercely whispering her Hail Marys as the last of the women assembled on the main deck. Rhia counted each prayer as though it were a rosary bead, until she lost count. There was no chance of freedom now. She looked at the sky, the same sky that stretched above Cloak Lane and Greystones, yet not the same at all. This low, leaden sky was the ceiling of another prison.

  In silhouette against it were three masts. Rhia counted the sails. It was something to do. There were six, she thought, though she couldn’t be sure because they were furled. She didn’t yet want to inspect the rest of the vessel that would carry her away to another world. To the Otherworld. Men hung from the rigging of each mast like monkeys from a tree. She lowered her gaze quickly. They were making her dizzy.

  There were too many sailors to keep track of, scurrying about like barefooted clerks. At first, they appeared to be too busy to have noticed the one hundred and fifty women standing on the lilting deck, but close scrutiny revealed this was not the case. The women were each being assessed expertly and craftily. Every time Rhia caught a seaman’s eye, it darted away as if his gaze had landed on her by accident rather than by design. The seamen were a motley bunch – some willowy, others brawny, some smooth and youthful, others weathered kegs.

  Rhia counted eight penitentiary officers and wardens, all women, standing in a huddle, being addressed by someone who might have been a ship’s officer. He was dressed for the town, and although Miss Hayter had mentioned that there were a small number of civilian passenger berths on the Rajah, this man seemed to be someone more significant to the ship. He had an air of authority as starched as his sober brown coat. Miss Hayter was listening to him compliantly, as though he were her superior.

  Rhia wanted to bend double against the gnawing anxiety, but she pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her apron and focused on keeping her legs rigid against the tilting of the deck. She tried to locate Margaret amongst the women. Her frizz of orange hair was usually easy to spot. She was behind the swarthy Agnes, almost obscured by the sheer volume of Nora. Before Rhia could catch her eye, the huddle of officers and wardens dispersed and the prisoners were arranged into a queue and directed across the main deck and up a short flight of stairs to a smaller, elevated deck which someone called the quarterdeck.

  The quarterdeck looked over the rest of the ship, the perfect place to observe the deck below. Rhia had run out of things to count. She took in details, focusing on the minutiae of woodwork and brass, from the banisters, railings and instruments, to the wide oak timbers of the decking. Everything shone and smelt of linseed and wax. It was hard to believe that this gleaming vessel was in the charge of men: the ship was as clean and polished as if an army of maids lived on it.

  The penitentiary officers and Miss Hayter flanked the rows of women. One of the wardens was reading what looked to be a roll, and kept glancing up to scan their faces. At the opposite end of the deck was a small cluster of men, a few of them in seafaring costume. The most elderly was a sour-faced clergyman. He was talking to the gentleman in the brown coat. Perhaps the latter was some kind of representative of the courts – he had the dour air of the prosecutor who had sentenced Rhia. The captain was easily identified by his battered and old-fashioned tricorne hat and by the braided epaulettes on his coat. He had the same ruddy complexion and wispy greying curls as the Greystones baker, and for this Rhia liked him immediately. The tall, stern-looking man beside him must be the ship’s surgeon with his pale hands and aura of calm authority. Two young boys in blue serge doublets and ragged breeches stood a short distance away, casting furtive glances at the women. Presumably the officer’s servants.

  Several barefoot seamen started lugging hemp sacks up the stairs. Many were foreign-looking, their skin anything from pitch black to pale olive. A few had shaven heads and many had tattoos on their forearms and wore only canvas breeches held up with a piece of rope. Rhia was not alone in taking an interest. The other women swivelled their heads to get a better view, whispering bawdy comments to each other, some even risking a laugh. There were half-naked men on the Rajah. Things were looking up.

  Their appreciation quietened down as their little matron moved amongst the rows, pausing to have a quiet word with Nelly who was more distressed than usual. She was the youngest of the women, only seventeen and, Rhia had recently learned, pregnant. Miss Hayter was holding her hand and whispering to her reassuringly. The matron was just as strict and uncompromising as any of the other wardens, but she was rarely harsh. She had about her the solitary, vaguely disappointed air of a spinster, though her age was difficult to judge. More than thirty but less than fifty, Rhia thought. She was plain, in a drab, restrained sort of way, but not plug-ugly like many of the other guards. She wondered if it was requisite that female wardens be mannish and curt, or if they were made so by their profession. Presumably the wardens on the Rajah were migrating to Australia. None of them, besides Miss Hayter, looked familiar to Rhia. Perhaps they thought they had a better chance of finding a husband in the colonies where, by all accounts, there was a desperate shortage of females.

  Miss Hayter stopped beside Rhia. ‘Come and see me after you’ve been assigned your belongings, Mahoney.’

  A glimmer of hope, but Rhia regretted the temptation of optimism instantly. It was too late for salvation. She nodded and turned her head away. She looked at a growing mound of hemp sacks. They probably contained their new uniforms. Still cut of coarse cloth, no doubt. She didn’t care to speculate on what other provisions the Quakers deemed necessary for a sea journey that might last anywhere from three to six months.

  As soon as all of the sacks had been delivered to the deck, Miss Hayter clapped her hands. ‘Collect a bag as I call your name and you will be shown below.’

  Rhia waited. The women in her row collected their new belongings and disappeared down the back stairs, each hauling a sack behind. She supposed the stairs led to the lower decks. Nora glared at her as she passed, followed closely by a scowling Agnes. Agnes was always a step behind Nora, and in fawning agreement with her on every matter from the optimum consistency for gruel to the correct number of stitches per yard of linsey. Rhia dropped her head. Not looking Nora in the eye was the best form of protection. Someone brushed past, elbowing her. Rhia looked up quickly. It was Margaret, who winked. It was a small gesture, but a welcome sign of solidarity.

  Rhia approached Miss Hayter. She willed herself not to hope. To think of nothing. Not to expect a thing.

  ‘Ah, Mahoney.’ Miss Hayter looked pleased about something. ‘You are to be assigned to private service for the voyage. There is a botanist travelling to Sydney who has requested a se
rvant. Your name was put forward.’

  Rhia didn’t know what to say. She had not expected this.

  ‘You must see it as a blessing, Mahoney,’ Miss Hayter assured her. ‘You’ll have a servant’s cabin rather than sleeping in steerage with the other women.’ The matron lowered her voice. ‘It has not escaped our attention that you’re unpopular. Confinement often stirs up resentment. It will be better for all if you have separate quarters.’

  Rhia wasn’t sure about this. She suspected that it was a mixed blessing, but for now she was relieved. But what sort of servant did a botanist require? Was she to be his maid? Was it Miss Hayter who had put her name forward?

  ‘You can collect your things, now,’ said the matron briskly. ‘Your sack will have your name on it. By the way, I put something into it before we left Millbank, a package that was delivered along with your portmanteau. The gentleman said that Mrs Blake thought you’d like to have it on the voyage.’ Miss Hayter looked at her sternly for a moment. ‘I don’t usually allow this kind of thing, Mahoney, but since you’ll have private quarters I see no harm in it.’ She looked across the quarterdeck to where the two officer’s servants were loitering. ‘One of the boys will show you the way.’

  Rhia collected her sack, as instructed, and the younger of the two boys approached her with a cocky swagger. He looked ten or eleven, with smooth brown skin and chestnut curls streaked by the sun. ‘I’m the midshipman on this tub, but you can call me Albert if you like,’ he said and mock-bowed.

  Albert was irritatingly cheerful and she couldn’t see what he had to be so pleased about.

  ‘Pleased to meet you,’ she said warily.

  ‘You don’t look too pleased. A lady, are ye?’