Behind the Sun

by Deborah Challinor

  Our Heartfelt Love,

  Beatrice, Charles and the children

  Feeling oddly detached, as though he were watching someone who looked a lot like himself opening the morning post, he slit open the second letter; it was from his good friend Victor Handley, a surgeon with whom he’d served at sea. Victor had been invalided from the navy after badly breaking his leg, and was also a confidante of Emily.

  8th of June, 1829

  My Dear James,

  I sincerely hope you’ve read Beatrice’s letter first. If not, please put this letter down and do so right away.

  I’m so very sorry about Emily. I just do not know what to say to you that might help, except that, for the most part, she did not suffer unduly. It was the most ghastly and unexpected shock for us so I can not imagine what you must be feeling now.

  She nicked the base of her thumb in the garden and by the end of the day it had developed into a whitlow and she felt quite ill. She sent for me and I thought at first it might just be a type of diary fever, or perhaps heat sickness as she had such a high body temperature, then maybe even sudor anglicus because of the sweating. But by the third day it was clear the problem was septicaemia. I called in Hugh Rathbone and Theo Manning but the disease was too far advanced and she just went. She was not in pain, James, I swear. She just slipped away.

  At Beatrice’s suggestion I am staying at your house, to keep an eye on Tara and everything else until you return home. Also, I have been kicked out of my club again.

  You are going to have to keep your chin up, James, but I know you — you are far tougher than you think you are. I suggest you work on the way home. Find some sort of bug to study or something. Whatever you do, do not brood. I hesitate to say do not grieve, as you must do that, but do not brood.

  She was a wonderful girl, and you were lucky to have her as long as you did. Try to hold on to that.

  Your Very Good Friend,

  Victor

  James let Victor’s letter fall to his lap. The pain in his chest was monstrous and coupled with it was a great surge of guilt. For months now he hadn’t been able to remember the sound of Emily’s voice. He could recall her face, and her hair, and her mannerisms, but not her voice. Instead, in its place, was Harriet Clarke’s, entertaining him with stories of antics below deck on the Isla, and silly recollections of her family in London and, amusingly, her awful employer Mrs Lynch, steadily but surely buffing the sharpness off his own loneliness over the long weeks and months at sea, brightening his days.

  In his heart he had not been entirely true to Emily, and he knew it. Was this horrible grinding guilt the price he now had to pay?

  Sick to death of cleaning, Sarah leant on the counter flicking the feather duster listlessly across the smooth wooden surface. When the bell over the shop door chimed she opened her mouth to call for Adam, but shut it again when she recognised the customer.

  ‘Good morning, Mr Downey. How are you?’ Though she wasn’t sure she wanted an honest answer, because he looked like shite.

  His face was distinctly pasty and it appeared he hadn’t brushed his hair in days; in fact he looked ten years older than when she’d last seen him, little more than a month earlier.

  Mr Downey stared at her as though he couldn’t quite place her. Sarah wondered if he’d been on the jar.

  ‘It’s Sarah Morgan, from the Isla. Rachel Winter’s friend.’

  ‘Ah, yes, of course it is.’ He glanced around the store. ‘So this is where you’ve ended up?’

  Sarah waited for the inevitable comment regarding the wisdom of letting a convicted felon loose in a jeweller’s shop, but it wasn’t forthcoming. She watched Mr Downey’s face. He seemed to be struggling with something momentous; she could almost see the internal mechanisms of his head whirling about.

  ‘That’s right, Harrie said you’d trained as a jeweller,’ he said finally.

  Was that it? God, what was wrong with the man?

  ‘What can I do for you, sir?’ She wasn’t supposed to be serving in the shop yet — Esther had put her foot down about that, insisting Sarah couldn’t be trusted alone behind the counter — but this was only Mr Downey.

  ‘My wife passed away,’ he blurted. ‘In June. I only just received the news.’

  ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, Mr Downey.’ And actually, she was. Fancy, all that time on the Isla when he was running around trying to fix everyone else, his own wife was dying and he hadn’t known. ‘Please accept my condolences.’ No wonder he looked such a shambles.

  ‘Thank you.’ He gestured vaguely at a display cabinet. ‘What can you show me?’

  Sarah fetched the keys from their hiding place in the secret drawer she’d recently discovered, opened the cabinet and brought out a tray of rings.

  ‘These are gentlemen’s styles, ready made. A nice solid engraved gold shank, and a quality faceted rock crystal and just the plain gold bezel.’ She turned the ring to show him the underside. ‘See, you open the back and put in a lock of your beloved’s hair, or a portrait if you prefer, then snap it shut.’

  ‘I don’t have a lock of her hair. Or a portrait.’

  Sarah showed him some styles that didn’t require the incorporation of a personal artefact, but he shook his head.

  ‘Perhaps you could try another jeweller,’ Sarah suggested. It wouldn’t do Adam Green any favours, but this was Mr Downey and he had been very kind to Rachel.

  ‘Really, I can’t be bothered. I only came in here because it’s just around the corner from my hotel. Could you not make something?’

  Sarah thought about it. ‘Do you want stones?’

  ‘Not particularly. Just something elegant and dignified. Like…my wife.’

  ‘And her name?’

  ‘Emily.’

  Thank God, Sarah thought — names like Ermintrude and Winifred are such a bugger to squeeze onto a ring.

  She reached beneath the counter for a pencil and a scrap of paper and began quickly to sketch. Adam appeared in the doorway between the workroom and the shop, but Sarah barely noticed him.

  A minute later she said, ‘Something along these lines, perhaps? A flat band in twenty-two-carat gold, with black enamel running around the middle here, except for Emily’s name set in gold on one side, and this pattern of forget-me-not flowers, engraved to make them stand out better, on the other. You could wear whichever side up you felt like at the time — her name or the flowers.’

  Mr Downey gazed at the sketch for so long Sarah convinced herself he didn’t care for it. Then he nodded. ‘I think Emily would have liked that. How long would it take to make?’

  Sarah glanced at Adam: eyes twinkling, he gave her a grin of such open admiration and encouragement that for a second she felt the floor shift beneath her feet.

  ‘We could have it finished by Friday,’ he said.

  ‘And your fee?’ James Downey asked.

  Adam named what Sarah thought was a very reasonable price, and he and Mr Downey shook hands before Adam disappeared back into the workroom, still smiling to himself.

  ‘You have a talent, Sarah,’ Mr Downey said as she measured his finger to ensure a correct fit. ‘Thank you.’

  As he was about to depart, Sarah, buoyed by Adam’s approval and awash with generosity, said, ‘Sir, if you don’t mind me saying, well, your clothes.’

  Mr Downey looked down at himself. ‘What about them?’

  He looked as though he’d slept in them for a week and there were stains on his waistcoat and mud on his trousers, but that wasn’t what Sarah meant. ‘Should you be in mourning costume, sir?’

  Mr Downey sighed, and the sound was laden with such misery and loneliness she felt genuinely sorry for him. It was a pity she wasn’t Harrie — she would have known what to say to make him feel better.

  ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I suppose I’d better find a tailor.’

  Eighteen

  Friday was annoyed and frustrated because Elizabeth Hislop really had started her off sweeping floors at the Siren’s Ar
ms — and wiping the long tables in the bar and stripping beds and replacing oil in the lamps and other deathly dull jobs.

  She soon discovered that all Mrs Hislop’s convict girls started off doing domestic work, including servicing the accommodation rooms upstairs, where a handful of the girls from the brothel boarded. After a month of careful observation Mrs Hislop knew who was likely to be receptive to the idea of working in the brothel, either as a domestic or an actual prostitute, and who would be best left to dust and polish in the hotel. However, a girl had left the brothel a few days before Friday had been collected from the Factory, and Mrs Hislop had been very taken with Friday’s looks and character, so, fairly confident of the nature of the girl she was dealing with, she’d been happy to discuss the matter openly then and there.

  ‘It’s only for a week,’ Mrs Hislop said when Friday complained. ‘I want you to get the feel of the Rocks. I want you to look around and see what kind of customer we cater to.’

  ‘What’s to see? There’s sailors, there’s the odd toff and there’s the respectable family men in the middle. I did them all in London. How different can they be here?’

  ‘It’s called, it’s called…’ Mrs Hislop made a face. ‘Bugger, there’s a word for it and I can’t think of it. Look, are you bored?’

  ‘Stiff. And I need the money.’

  ‘You’re not in debt already?’

  Friday shook her head. ‘A sick friend, in the Factory. Me and my mates, we’re paying her way. You know how things work out there.’

  Mrs Hislop regarded her. ‘Well, if you’re really champing at the bit I’ll start you on Friday. When was the last time you worked?’

  ‘On the town? The ship, but that all got shut down mid-voyage so not for about four months.’

  ‘And you don’t have the pox or the clap? Crabs?’

  ‘The first two, not as far as I know. I’ve got crabs.’

  Mrs Hislop waved her hand airily. ‘Bit of per chloride of mercury and chloride of ammonium on the bush will fix that. Stings, though. I have a doctor check my girls regularly. If you’re sick and looking rough, you’re not to work until you’re right again. My customers pay for healthy, attractive girls and I wouldn’t offer them anything less. I run a class establishment. The bicarbonate of soda worked a treat on your teeth.’

  ‘Came up nice and white, didn’t they?’

  Mrs Hislop opened the watch dangling from the crowded silver chatelaine around her solid waist. ‘I’ve got time. Come on, I’ll take you over there now.’

  Lucky Sarah isn’t here, Friday thought — she’d have that whole thing off you in two seconds flat and you wouldn’t even notice until you went to look at the time again.

  She followed Mrs Hislop out to the yard behind the hotel, waggling her fingers at Jimmy Johnson, only twelve years old and already a convict. He was rubbing down a customer’s horse before he led it into the stables, where he also slept, and gave her a cheeky grin.

  Mrs Hislop crossed the yard, dodging piles of horseshit buzzing with flies, and stopped at a tall gate in the wooden fence that formed one boundary. Unlocking it with a key from her chatelaine she ushered Friday through and locked the gate again behind them. The cobbled alleyway beyond it was so narrow Mrs Hislop’s skirts brushed both sides of the high brick walls, and at the far end it turned sharply and opened onto another yard, this one much smaller and clearly belonging to someone’s house.

  The Siren’s Arms was on Harrington Street near Argyle Street and, while it was very obviously a pub with its big entrance doors and sign displaying a naked woman with long, ridiculously luxuriant hair sitting on a rock, presumably luring sailors to their deaths with her singing, this house was a tidy sandstone affair with multiple chimneys and sparkling windows, the latter prettily draped against prying eyes. From the street the two businesses appeared wholly unconnected but customers with a key to the gate at the hotel end of the alleyway could enter the house with the utmost discretion.

  Inside the house the furnishings were not excessively luxurious or ostentatious, but they did create an atmosphere that was very comfortable and inviting. Downstairs were a large parlour where the girls gathered, a smaller room for customers who preferred a higher degree of anonymity, Mrs Hislop’s office, and a small kitchen accessible from the back porch. Upstairs were the eight individual rooms where the girls worked, remodelled apparently from the house’s four original bedrooms, and a large cupboard used for linen storage. Each room contained a brass bed made up with good linen, an armchair, a bedside cupboard with a jug and bowl, and a dressing chest on which sat an inexpensive carriage clock.

  ‘What do you think?’ Mrs Hislop asked, back downstairs again.

  ‘Looks very nice, but I have to say I don’t know my arse from my elbow when it comes to whorehouses. I’m one for the streets myself. Have been for years.’

  ‘Why is that?’ Mrs Hislop sounded genuinely interested.

  Friday met her gaze and held it. ‘I have my reasons.’

  ‘I’m sure you have. I won’t pry. But it is safer working in a house. My house, at least.’

  ‘I can take care of myself.’

  ‘Yes, well, no doubt you can, but I think, in your current situation, you’re far better off working for me. If you’re nabbed on the streets you’ll be —’

  ‘Straight back to the Factory. I know. Where is everyone today? The girls, I mean.’

  ‘It’s their day off. We never work on Mondays, and I give every girl one other day off each week. You need your breaks.’ Mrs Hislop opened the front door and they stepped out into Argyle Street.

  As they walked around to the Siren’s Arms, only three doors along on Harrington Street, Friday said, ‘I’d like to find out where my friends are.’

  ‘Do you have addresses?’

  ‘Only names. Sarah went to some cove called Adam Green, a jeweller here in town somewhere. And Harrie went to someone called Overton, a grocer.’

  ‘Harry? That’s a funny name for a girl.’

  ‘Harriet.’

  ‘Oh. Well, I don’t know of Adam Green, but most of your jewellers will be up around George and Pitt streets. There’s plenty of them. And if you mean Henry Overton, I’ve known him for years. He’s in Cumberland Street, just up Argyle Street here: it’s the first cross street but you turn left.’

  Friday’s heart leapt. ‘Really?’ She pointed excitedly. ‘Just up here?’

  Mrs Hislop nodded. ‘In fact, I’m getting a bit low on my special tea. It’s called souchong.’ She handed Friday some coins. ‘Henry knows which one I like, anyway. And tell him Bette sends her love, but only if his wife isn’t listening.’

  Friday was off up the street almost before she’d finished speaking. Mrs Hislop watched her go, shaking her head. But she was smiling; she knew what it was like to be separated from your friends after all that time in gaol and then on the ship out. She’d experienced it herself almost seventeen years earlier. Of course, things had been rather different then, though she herself hadn’t changed much over the intervening years. She was older, fatter and definitely richer, but she liked to think she could still remember how it was to be a lass.

  Almost trotting as she rounded the corner from Argyle into Cumberland Street, and puffing because of the hill, Friday barrelled straight into someone.

  ‘I beg your pardon,’ the man said, stooping to retrieve his hat. Then, when he looked at her properly, recognition sparked in his eyes and he took a precautionary step back.

  ‘You’re that cove,’ she said.

  ‘Yes. You had a go at me, that night on the ship.’

  Friday recalled belting him rather viciously across the head and felt her cheeks turn very slightly pink. ‘Well, I thought it was you that had hurt her. Sorry. What was your name again?’ She’d forgotten it.

  ‘Cutler. Matthew Cutler.’ He offered his hand and, after a second’s hesitation, Friday shook it.

  ‘I didn’t think your sort lived on the Rocks.’

  ‘I’m boar
ding with a family on Princes Street. It’s quite smart actually.’ He said this with an exaggerated plum in his mouth, which made Friday laugh. ‘Er, the other girl with you, the pretty one, Harriet Clarke. You don’t happen to know where she is, do you?’

  Friday thought about it for a moment. ‘Write down where you live and I’ll ask her if she wants you to know, how’s that? If she does, she can write to you.’

  He hesitated.

  ‘Don’t worry, we won’t come and do your house over.’

  ‘I wasn’t thinking that.’ Mr Cutler looked offended. ‘I was thinking I don’t have anything to write on. No cards or anything. You’ll have to remember it instead.’ He recited the address and Friday did her best to commit it to memory. ‘And the little blonde girl, how’s she getting on?’

  Friday scowled. ‘She’s still out at the Female Factory. She can’t work.’

  ‘Because of…what Keegan did?’

  ‘Yes. Also…’ She held her hand out in front of her belly.

  A barely disguised expression of revulsion passed across Matthew Cutler’s face.

  ‘Don’t you dare blame her!’ Friday warned.

  ‘Oh God, I don’t!’

  ‘Good. Do you see him at all?’ She made the question sound casual.

  ‘Occasionally. Around here now and then, and my office isn’t far from his.’

  ‘Do you talk to him?’

  ‘Never.’ The word was almost spat out.

  ‘Does he go in the pubs?’

  ‘Around here he does, and no doubt the brothels.’ Mr Cutler’s face reddened, probably recalling what Friday did for a living.

  ‘No doubt,’ she agreed. ‘Nice talking to you, Mr Cutler.’

  ‘And you, Miss Woolfe. It’s Friday, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Don’t forget to mention me to Miss Clarke, will you?’

  ‘I won’t.’

  She waited until he’d crossed the street and turned a corner before she hurried off along Cumberland Street. Fancy that. Did Harrie have a suitor? Had she even noticed on the ship? Probably not — Harrie was so modest and unsure of herself she thought she was invisible. Mind you, lately she’d come out of her shell a fair bit. The more Rachel needed their help, the stronger Harrie seemed to become, which was good for everyone, really, Harrie included.