by Fay Weldon
Margaret beckoned to Rhia from her hammock while the others were mending, reading from their Bibles, or checking each other for lice. She passed Rhia a flat, silk wallet, which she slipped into the pocket of her apron. This done, Margaret made a great show of a piece of valetine, a blue figured silk that she’d discovered in her sack. It was not large, perhaps half a yard squared, but it was a pretty find and they agreed that it was too fine a piece for a quilt and should be put aside for ‘later’, to make a purse or a reticule.
Rhia trod the leeward passageway timidly when it was time to return to her hutch. The sea was rising high and falling heavily, and the deck felt greasy beneath her boots. The moon was as full and luminous as a giant pearl behind the masts. She’d not noticed it waxing. She had stopped believing that the Queen of the Night gave a damn what happened to her. The best she and her moon lantern could do for Rhia now was to help her safely back to her cabin. The moonlight cast silver shadows on every cresting wave. As she turned away, one reared up like a horse on its back legs and showered her with icy water. She had not seen it coming and it shook her to the core. Manannán be damned.
Rhia took off her boots and practically crawled back to her cabin. When she closed the door she leaned against it and shut her eyes. When she opened them she was looking at a small white square on the floor. She picked it up and lit a taper. Laurence Blake, Photogenic Drawing, 64 Cloak Lane, the City of London. On the back were the words: Tonight, ten o’clock.
Rhia lay on her hammock and stared into the dense dark, determined to stay awake. She must keep her mind where her boots were, as Annie Kelly was fond of saying. If you let your mind wander into regrets, you would fall backwards, and if you let it loose on imaginings, it was hurtling forwards without you. What was there for her in the present? Only the hollow feeling that she had failed. Why else would she be here? A gentle tap on her door made Rhia sit up, disoriented. Was it already ten o’clock? She scrambled from the hammock to her feet, finding her cap. Her hair had grown a little, but washing it in a bucket of saltwater could not be enhancing it. She opened the door. It was Laurence.
They stood looking at each other. He stepped into her cabin and Rhia closed the door. In the dark, he embraced her as though it were the most natural thing in the world. His lips touched hers so lightly that she couldn’t be sure that he’d actually kissed her; that she was in the arms of someone who gave a damn what happened to her.
Rhia turned away to hide her confusion and to wipe her tears on her apron. She fumbled in her pocket for a taper and matches. Once the taper was lit, she felt awkward and self-conscious. There was only a yard of floor between them.
‘This is a long way from Cloak Lane,’ said Laurence.
‘It is,’ she agreed.
‘Antonia would approve of your new Quaker colours, but you’ve grown thin.’
‘The food is awful. Someone should complain. I miss Beth’s ginger loaf terribly.’ Laurence was looking at her with an expression she couldn’t decipher.
‘It’s very good timing that you should visit this evening,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve something to show you.’ She took the parchment from its wallet.
Laurence needed to take only one step to examine it more closely. She held the taper over it. To her, it looked like a piece of cartridge paper with a sheen like polished cotton.
Laurence looked perplexed. ‘Where on earth did you get a photogenic negative?’
‘I thought that was what it was.’
‘It looks as though it has already been exposed, though it is difficult to say for certain in this light.’
‘I can’t remember what that means.’
‘When a negative image has been “burnt” into the chemicals the parchment is treated with, it acquires a certain ghostly image, a little like a watermark.’
‘I hadn’t noticed.’
‘Your eye is not trained to see it. Where did you get this?’
Rhia told him what Margaret had told her, and he shook his head. His face looked eerie in the flickering candlelight. ‘This is extremely odd, Rhia.’ She liked hearing her name. She had been Mahoney for so long. ‘Did your friend Margaret say nothing else?’ he asked.
‘She knows something, but she won’t tell me what it is. She is supposed to be keeping a secret for Juliette.’
The creak of a deck timber outside made them both freeze. Rhia held her breath. In a moment there was a sound like a footfall, towards the aft stairwell.
She whispered, ‘Do you think someone saw you?’
Laurence shook his head. ‘I was careful. But I don’t want to make things worse for you.’
She shrugged. ‘How could things be worse? Tell me, quickly, how you come to be on board.’
‘Dillon told me the name of your ship, of course. I was fortunate that there was still a berth available – though there was a good chance of it, the transports are not popular passenger vessels. Besides, I told you I wanted to see Australia, the light has always drawn me. But I had a much more important reason to travel at such short notice.’ Laurence took her hand. She wanted him to comfort her, but she didn’t know to what degree. She had thought that she wanted Thomas, all those years ago and that desire came only with true love. It seemed unlikely, now, considering the nightly assignations between prisoners and crew.
Laurence squeezed her hand and let it go. ‘May I take the negative until tomorrow? I’d rather like to see it by daylight. I’ll have Albert return it.’
‘Of course.’
He kissed her again, and left.
Rhia lay in her hammock, awake, for a long time. Her uncertainty disturbed her. She had great affection for Laurence. He made her laugh and she felt safe. Perhaps this was enough?
Balzarine
Antonia gazed into the dim recess where a row of sober grey and brown linen hung. As limp as my own humility, she thought. Once, rows of taffeta and silk organza whispered to her, cloths with names – Andalusian and Ariel. Once, her shawls were as fine as cobwebs, not dull and sturdy. She chose her newest linen, recalling the name the draper had given to the colour: London Smoke. Apt.
She made herself reflect, as she dressed, on the purpose of plainness. An unadorned costume was dismissive of fashion and of class. Without finery one was the equal of another, no matter how rich one’s purse. Josiah had even used the singular ‘thou’ rather than the plural ‘you’ that many Londoners found quaint and eccentric. He said the latter was a sign of flattery because ‘you’ was once used to address a superior, as a signifier of title and hierarchy. Antonia thought it a little outmoded, and could not bring herself to alter her speech. She was altered enough.
She smoothed her hair with a wooden comb and knotted it at the nape of her neck, then descended the stairs thoughtfully, her hand slipping over the polished banister. How could her anticipation of Mr Montgomery’s visit mingle so easily with her memories of Josiah? What if her ideology were no stronger than her impulses? Josiah had guided her to the inward. Every day without him was a test of her courage. Without him there were no gentle words of guidance, no eyes filled with kindness, no loving embrace.
The kitchen was reassuringly warm. Beth always lit the range at daylight. The porridge was already cooked and steaming on the table in its cast iron pot. It was the best porridge Antonia had ever tasted. She had watched Beth make it once – a knob of butter, a pinch of salt and a measure of cream made all the difference. Josiah professed to prefer plain food, so when he had praised Beth for her porridge, Antonia merely smiled.
The house was too quiet without Laurence and Rhia. She now made a habit of sharing the first meal of the day with Beth and Juliette, telling herself that she wanted to feel as their equal when in fact she was just lonely. She simply did not know how to reconcile the idea of equality with the fact that she was a mistress with domestic servants. Of course, she provided employment and the household was the closest thing Juliette had to a family. The tangled feelings of protectiveness and irritation were, no doubt, maternal. A
ntonia had not been given anyone else to watch over.
This morning, as usual, they discussed which household chores needed special attention, the first being the furniture. The dining table and carved-back chairs looked brittle and were in need of furniture paste. Beth looked perplexed.
‘Do you mean linseed and vinegar, Mrs Blake?’
‘No. My mother had a recipe for preserving English walnut. Beeswax, white wax, curd soap and turpentine. It softens the wood and protects it.’
Beth sighed and ladled a second large helping of porridge into her bowl. ‘Very well.’
Antonia smiled. Beth liked to have something to be long-suffering over. ‘The morning room needs dusting before our guest arrives, Juliette,’ she continued. ‘A goose’s wing should reach into the lofty corners, and the velvet pile will need sweeping with the hard whisk brush.’ Juliette nodded but remained silent and hunched. At least she seemed less melancholy now that spring sunshine, rather than drizzle, glanced off the window panes. The exertion would do her good. Antonia suspected that her recurring infirmity was merely habitual gloom. The physician had described it in much the same way physicians tended to describe most feminine ailments. ‘A nervous disorder, Mrs Blake. Give her laudanum and keep the curtains drawn to prevent over-stimulation.’ As soon as he had gone, Antonia opened the curtains and windows wide. Juliette’s real ailment was her secret. Considering the turn she’d taken when Antonia said she wanted to visit Rhia, it must have something to do with her mother, who was in Millbank before she was transported. Rhia’s incarceration had merely tipped the balance. Either that, or Juliette knew something about Rhia’s arrest.
After breakfast Antonia went to Josiah’s office. She no longer needed to take deep, steadying breaths before entering. She thanked Josiah, silently and often, for his fastidious business acumen. She was now familiar with the last season’s consignments and accounts, and could model this season’s on them. There was only the matter of payment to the crew of Mathilda that she needed to discuss with Mr Montgomery, since it was not clear why certain of the Manx sailors had been paid more than others. She supposed there was some hierarchy of skill or experience that she knew nothing of. The mystery of why the Mathilda had not been signed out of the Calcutta dry dock remained unanswered. The document she had given Ryan had never been returned to her. But she must not think of that. She would never know the truth.
She had been corresponding with Mr Montgomery, as well as with Mr Dillon, on the matter of Rhia’s repeal, which was partly why Jonathan Montgomery was calling this morning. The joint venture was a secondary reason for his visit. He was well connected, and seemed to have associates in the legal profession, perhaps even in the court. He was not convinced, though, that there had been a miscarriage of justice.
The doorknocker sounded, and made Antonia’s heart pound. She rose and straightened her skirts. Linen crushed all too easily when it was not blended with silk or wool. She walked the length of the hallway more slowly than she wanted to, her heart still thudding. She put her hand to the crucifix beneath her bodice.
‘Please bring us some coffee, Juliette dear,’ she called out as she passed the dining room where both girls were rubbing the table top with flannel.
Mr Montgomery was as immaculate as usual. His frockcoat was of some finely twilled wool, Italian no doubt, and his silk cravat was lemon yellow. He was as crisp as the spring sunshine, and entirely at ease. Antonia felt herself soften as she stepped aside to let him in. It had happened again. Without a thought or any warning, her body was yielding to him.
‘Good morning, Mr Montgomery. Are you well?’
‘Very well, Mrs Blake.’
‘Allow me to take your hat and cane.’
The morning room smelt of linseed and roses. Juliette had arranged several stems carefully in a blue bowl on the table. She was a thoughtful girl, in spite of her shortcomings. ‘You will be comfortable on the Chesterfield,’ she said. ‘Will you have coffee?’
He said that he would and flicked his coat-tails before he sat. His smile was warm and easy, his long legs gracefully crossed. Antonia perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair and smoothed her skirt again. She cleared her throat. ‘Tell me, do you believe that Rhia Mahoney is innocent?’
He ran his fingers through his iron-grey hair thoughtfully. ‘I have spoken again to my maid, Hatty, and she insists that she saw Miss Mahoney with the silk. My wife says that she did not trust Miss Mahoney from the first. It is an impossible situation. I have spoken with the prosecutor, who says that the case against seemed irrefutable.’
‘But surely Hatty was mistaken – perhaps she was lying, covering for someone else? And then there is the mystery of the absent defence.’
He looked affronted. ‘I can assure you that all members of my household staff are of good character.’ He frowned. ‘As to the counsel, I simply do not know what to think. I have written to him myself but he has been on the Continent all winter.’
‘But Rhia’s good character and her family’s reputation must account for something!’
‘One would think so, but the family has fallen on hard times, which worked against her. Be assured that I am doing everything in my power to have her sentence repealed on the grounds of good character. Do not concern yourself unduly, Antonia.’
He had never used her first name before but he did it so naturally now – as if to suggest they were familiars, as if it was an established fact. He smiled kindly, but she thought she saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Perhaps he wondered if she was entirely sensible in believing Rhia Mahoney innocent.
‘Tell me more about your photogenic drawing,’ he said. ‘I confess that I’m a little mesmerised by it. I understand that it is still too soon to experiment with …’ He shook his head. ‘It still seems impossible that we have lost two of our company.’
Antonia bowed her head. There were creases in her linen skirts, in spite of her care. She remembered the conversation at Christmas, about Josiah’s letter to Ryan Mahoney. It had presumably been a business concern. She pushed her shoulders down and straightened her back. ‘The portrait is on my mind,’ she said.
He was leaning towards her as though her every word mattered to him.
She felt her breath become shallow at his attention. ‘It needs only to be soaked in a salt solution and brushed with silver nitrate to make it light sensitive. I can show you the negative, if you would like.’
‘Yes, why not!’
Antonia bustled to Josiah’s office, relieved to be away from Jonathan Montgomery’s magnetism and excited to be discussing photogenic drawing with someone besides Juliette. She so missed Laurence, but Rhia needed him. She only hoped that that his feelings for her were not misguided.
She opened the lower drawer of the desk. It was empty. The wallet had been here last time she looked, but when was that? It must be months ago. Could she have moved it and forgotten? Surely not. She looked in the other drawers. Nothing. She must have left it somewhere else, or Juliette had tidied it away.
She looked into the dining room where Beth was now polishing alone, her cheeks crimson. ‘Where is Juliette, Beth?’
‘She’s taken one of her queer turns. I’ve made the coffee, though. It’s just brewing. Shall I fetch it for you?’
‘Never mind, Beth, I can get it myself.’ Beth looked relieved. She didn’t like serving genteels, it made her nervous.
Mr Montgomery was where she had left him. Antonia explained that she had misplaced the negative and he smiled and shrugged. She poured steaming coffee into two of her pretty Moroccan glasses. ‘The Mathilda has set sail?’ she asked.
He nodded. ‘Isaac and Francis left with the shipment yesterday. The remaining cotton is on its way to Manchester.’
‘Then we are agreed that we will try the wool and cotton blend first? I know that Ryan was impressed with the quality of Australian merino.’
‘The yarn is high quality, but the Parramatta cloth that is woven in the colony is still low grade.’
When her guest took his leave, Antonia went in search of Juliette. She found her in her room at the top of the house. ‘Is something the matter, Juliette?’
Juliette turned over in her narrow bed so that she was facing the wall. She didn’t speak. This silent gloom was at least preferable to the weeping gloom. Antonia closed the door quietly. She would ask about the negative later.
28 April 1841
Rhia,
The negative contains a latent image, but it is impossible to know if it is intact without exposure. I have the necessary apparatus, but the process requires strong light. I’d best not expose it on the deck as I do my other images! There is sufficient light in the middle of the afternoon in my cabin. Of course we must have the permission of Margaret before we attempt a representation. Assure her that the process will not affect the negative, which can be used several times. Let’s bide our time. I will formulate a plan.