A Tattooed Heart (34 page)

FW, SG, HD

Turning the wax over the taper until it was soft, Harrie sealed the letter in the middle. ‘Will we deliver it, or will we pay a boy?'

‘A boy,' Friday said. ‘Those dogs give me the shits. Though I might go with him to the gate.'

Harrie added an extra seal at each end.

‘That's that, then,' Sarah said.

Lucy Christian jammed another gladioli spear into a vase and stifled a sigh. She
had
been stuck with flower arranging: Miss Vance, the usual tutor, had pricked her finger on an early rose thorn and was now, very unfortunately, gravely ill with sepsis in the Macquarie Street infirmary.

‘See how I've placed the tallest bloom in the middle, girls?' she said. ‘That will give you a good starting point, and your arrangement a pleasing symmetry.' She frowned. ‘No, Grace, not out to the side. Your vase is bound to topple.'

‘It won't, Miss Christian. I'm putting lots of pebbles in the bottom.'

This was followed by a clatter, a splash of water and a ripple of giggles around the craft room.

‘Never mind, dear. Mop it up with your apron.'

The less intellectually gifted students attending Gertrude Armitage's Finishing Academy for Girls focused on the craft-oriented subjects, such as embroidery, painting, table craft, singing or playing a musical instrument, while the smarter ones polished their writing skills, read the latest literature (providing it was appropriate, of course — nothing racy allowed for the daughters of Sydney's well-to-do), and wrote poetry and music. To Lucy, it was all mind-numbingly dull. There wasn't a book on mathematics in sight, never mind Euclid, and every time she tried to sneak in a hint of Latin, Mrs Armitage, who'd decided against it, told her politely but firmly to pull in her horns. Why would her girls have use for such an archaic language in these modern times?

So, day after day, Lucy came home from work burdened with the sense that she was sending girls into the world armed with no skills other than how to warble the latest songs, embroider pillowslips, paint and write insipid poems, none of which would help them should they become widowed, or their husbands fall on financial hard times, or their babies die, or some other disaster befall them. Or even, God help them, should they simply become bored and want to do something meaningful with their lives.

The Acacia Boarding Establishment for Ladies was getting on her damned nerves, too. She was sure there were a couple of prostitutes renting the rooms above hers. Not that she minded what they did for a living, and they didn't bring their work home, but they came in at one or two every morning, clacking about in their noisy, high-heeled boots and waking her up. She'd complained to Mrs Lovett, the proprietress, who'd sworn black and blue they were respectable ladies who paid their board regularly, but no respectable lady worked that late at night. Lucy just wished they'd remove their footwear at the front door when they came home.

Also, she was lonely. She knew she was welcome at the home of Harrie and James Downey, but after the dreadful kidnap business they'd probably prefer time together as a family, though she still visited for her lessons with Sophie and Anna. She'd given up on Robbie, by mutual agreement all round. And while she liked her students, even the stupid ones, she couldn't confide in them.

There was Matthew, of course. She saw him frequently, but had found herself lately going to some lengths to suppress her feelings for him, and she knew why. She had declared to all and sundry that she didn't want to marry, and she hadn't wanted to, but that was before she'd got to know Matthew. She believed she was falling in love with him and would be happy to marry him. But if she were to, and she suspected he would be more than amenable to the possibility, she would have to give up her dream of
ever running her own school. No man would tolerate a wife who owned her own business. Oh, it was perfectly acceptable in the labouring classes. Nora Barrett, for instance; she had her business as a sempstress and her husband didn't seem to mind at all. And Sarah Green worked side by side with her husband. On the other hand, Sarah was a bonded convict, so that was a little different. It was
all
a little different, here in New South Wales.

But Matthew was very clearly more than labouring class: he was an educated professional with money in the bank and, now, his own house. He wouldn't want a wife who worked.
He
would want a woman who stayed at home and cooked his meals, starched his shirts, swept his hearth and raised his children. There was nothing wrong with children, but she wanted her school first. Was that too much to ask?

Grace's vase fell over again, and this time it broke.

‘Grace, what did I tell you?'

‘It's not my fault, Miss Christian,' Grace said, kicking wet and broken gladioli spears across the floor. ‘I don't even like flowers. I don't even like this
school
. I'd rather be out riding my horse.'

‘Well, why don't you speak to your mother and father about that?'

‘Because I'm supposed to be learning to be a
lady.'

That was the trouble with these Currency girls and boys, Lucy thought. Their parents were trying to raise them to be junior English swells, but they weren't. They were something quite different, something altogether new.

She laboured on until everyone had something approximating a floral arrangement, though most wouldn't have looked out of place in Grace's horse's hay bag, then ended the class, the last of the day, thank God. She collected her reticule, cape and hat, and set off for George Street. She was meeting Matthew later; he had a surprise for her, he'd said, though she had no idea what it might be.

She glanced towards the west. The sun was low and the shadows drawing out, but it was still full daylight. Matthew wouldn't finish work until after five, so she might as well do a little shopping. Mrs Lovett prepared an evening meal every night as part of her tenants' board, but Lucy wasn't overly fond of mutton and cabbage. In fact, even the smell of it now made her feel queasy. It was much more fun, and a far more satisfying culinary experience, to go out with Matthew, and when she didn't do that, she preferred to dine in her room on cheese — which was shockingly expensive, so she only treated herself to a sliver — bread and smoked sausage from the butcher on the corner. She couldn't eat cheese and sausage for supper forever, of course, but for now it would do. At least she had a job, and a teaching job at that, and could actually afford to buy food. She must remind herself to be more grateful with her lot.

She bought another minuscule wedge of Cheshire (made in Australia, as the imported cheeses were just too costly), a cob loaf, a yard of towelling for new sanitary rags, and a tin of tooth powder. Not very exciting purchases, but all essential. At twenty minutes past five, she headed for Matthew's house on Clarence Street.

He was already there, waiting in the doorway, beaming.

‘There you are! I thought you might not come.'

‘Why wouldn't I?' She pecked him on the cheek.

He took her parcels from her, popped them on the table, grabbed her hand, and said, ‘Come and see.'

She followed him through the house, which he was slowly but surely decorating, and really rather nicely, too, and out the back door to the expansive yard.

‘Look!' he said, pointing.

Lucy couldn't discern anything except the new privy, which she'd already seen, and in fact used. ‘I'm sorry, Matthew, what?'

‘The pegs. In the ground!'

Oh, yes; four pegs marking out an enormous oblong, halfway between the privy and the house. ‘Oh, I see them.'

‘Well, what do you think?'

‘Very nice.'

Matthew gave a squeaky and nervous-sounding laugh. ‘You don't understand what they're for, do you?'

‘I'm afraid I don't, no.'

This time he took both her hands. For some reason his were shaking. ‘Do you promise you won't run away or say no automatically or otherwise have some sort of negative and really disappointing reaction? Because I'll . . .' He stopped. ‘No, I won't say that. It'll only . . . No, I won't say that either.'

‘Matthew! What
are
you going on about?'

He took a deep breath. ‘It's the beginnings of your new school.'

What? ‘My school?'

‘Yes. I thought, well . . .' And it all came out in a rush. ‘I thought we could get married because I love you, Lucy, I really do, and we could build your school right here and all you'd have to do is walk out the back door in the mornings to go to work. I can afford to pay for the building work, just, and I've been to the bank and I can get a loan to pay for the furnishings and other costs, though it would mean I'd have to be your business partner if you don't mind that, but I could be a silent partner and I really would be silent, I promise. You'd make all the decisions and run everything exactly how you want to. Please say yes.'

Lucy felt like someone had slapped her in the face. ‘But . . . how can I teach and run a school while I'm being your wife? Who'll look after the house and make your suppers?'

‘We'll get a housegirl. Everyone else has one.'

‘I don't want any babies,' she blurted. ‘I won't have time.'

‘Then we'll wait until you do. And if one comes along anyway, we'll get a nurse.'

He really had thought it all out.

Knowing she was being too blunt and was testing him cruelly — but she
had
to know — she blurted, ‘Do I have to marry you to get the school?'

His face didn't just fall, it collapsed. But he rallied quickly. ‘No, you don't. I'll build it for you anyway.'

Warmth and a fluttery lightness flooded her chest: it was what she'd needed to hear. ‘Then, yes, Matthew, I'll marry you. Thank you.'

‘You will? Really?' Matthew looked utterly astonished. ‘Bloody hell!'

She snorted with laughter, inadvertently firing a remarkably elastic thread of snot out of her nose, which rebounded and stuck to her nostril. In horror she clapped a hand over it, her face aflame. ‘Oh God, I'm so sorry.'

Matthew laughed and laughed, got out his hanky, pulled her hand away and wiped her nose. ‘Oh, don't worry about it. You're a schoolmistress, you must be used to snotty noses.'

‘But not my own! And not in front of my fiancé!'

‘Your fiancé.' Matthew grinned. ‘I like that.'

Bored and annoyed at having been relegated to the enquiries counter yet again, Police Constable Benjamin Woodcock was tidying the drawer below the grille for something to do when he found the letter he'd stuffed in there over a week earlier. Some raddled old hag had brought it in for the attention of Police Superintendent Rossi, claiming it was evidence of a murder and demanding payment for it — five pounds, if he remembered rightly. Something ridiculous, anyway. He'd told her remuneration
might
be forthcoming if it turned out there actually was a body in this Mrs Elizabeth Hislop's cellar, but not until then, and she'd said she didn't want remuneration, she wanted payment, the stupid cow. In any case, Captain Rossi had been on leave, so he'd stuck the letter in the drawer and forgotten about it.

Captain Rossi was still away, so, just in case there was something to the letter even though it was over a year old, he took it through to Assistant Police Magistrate Bloodworth.

‘Looks like it's been written by an imbecile,' Bloodworth said, turning the letter over, then reading it a second time. ‘D'you think it's genuine?'

‘I don't know, sir.'

‘Ever been in the Siren's Arms?'

‘I have, actually, sir. Not a bad pub.'

‘Why does Elizabeth Hislop's name ring a bell?'

‘I don't know, sir.'

‘Well, go and find out.'

Constable Woodcock did, and was back in half an hour. ‘Her husband, Gilbert Hislop, disappeared just before Christmas seven years ago, before my time, sir. He was a sea captain, and due to sail out. The ship had to leave with a replacement captain at the helm. Hislop's friend, William Butler, reported him missing, but his wife never did. Officers spoke to her at the Siren's Arms, and she confirmed he'd vanished. Said she had no idea where. William Butler was of the opinion the wife had something to do with the disappearance, but nothing was ever proven.'

‘Mmm.' Bloodworth stroked his fat cheek thoughtfully. ‘Perhaps we'd better go and have a look. Send Senior Constable Durrant, will you?'

Jack barged straight into Elizabeth's office without knocking. ‘The police are next door. You'd better come.'

Poised over her ledger, pen in hand, Elizabeth stared at him, alarmed. ‘At the pub? Why?'

‘Dunno but they want to talk to you.'

Her heart pounding, Elizabeth put aside her pen, wiped a splodge of ink off her finger and pushed back her chair. At least
they hadn't come to the brothel, so please God they weren't here about that. ‘How many?'

‘Three. Grab your hat and shawl. I said you'd popped up the street.'

Jamming her hat on her head, she followed Jack down the alleyway to the Siren's Arms. At the tall gate, Jack paused and peeped through the hole above the latch. Ivy was waiting on the steps of the pub's back entrance, and gave a nervous little wave.

‘We're clear,' Jack said and opened the gate.

‘Where are they?' Elizabeth asked.

‘In the public bar.'

‘Drinking my beer, I suppose.'

‘Durrant isn't.'

Elizabeth relaxed very slightly. She knew Senior Constable Durrant: he was honest, polite and reasonably fair — unusual qualities for a Sydney peeler — but, unfortunately, he was also determined and lived by the letter of the law.

His colleagues
were
drinking her beer, but at least Al the barman had given them the cheap stuff.