A World Apart (32 page)

‘Enough.' Maynard turned towards his coach. ‘My thanks for your information. I must be off. Tell me, is there not some inn nearby where I could stay?'

‘Indeed, sir. The Lively Goat, not two miles from here.' She pointed again.

Agatha Thurber sat in the summerhouse, head down, her folded hands steepled under her chin, an untouched cup of tea beside her. She looked up as she heard the click of her mother's elegant shoes on the paved path.

‘There, there, my child.' Mrs Thurber took a seat, sipped at the cup poured by the maid in anticipation. ‘I said before, and I say it again. That bumped-up rake Harry De Havilland was simply not worthy of you. And now he's proved it beyond doubt. Botany Bay, for goodness sake. Why on earth would your fiancé — well almost — go to the ends of the earth?'

‘He didn't like me, Mother. Ever. I always suspected he was in love with Eliza Downing. Perhaps for years. And she a common peasant girl.'

‘Mmm.' Mrs Thurber took a long sip of her tea. ‘One wonders how she ever came by that intellect. By all accounts, she was extremely intelligent. Harry's father had employed her as a pacing horse for his children, as I recall.'

‘The more reason Harry might have — '

‘My dear child. Do you not attend to village gossip? The peasant wench was sent to gaol; perhaps even to Botany Bay. Some nonsense about her inciting De Havilland's workmen to revolt against their master. She is long gone from Mr Harry's life, my dear. Never to return, I'll warrant.' She drained her teacup, rang the small silver bell beside the tray. A maid appeared and took the teapot away refill it.

‘You know, my dear. This whole sorry situation has set me thinking. Perhaps you gave too good an account of yourself during your courting. You always seemed very…forthright with Harry De Havilland.' The maid arrived with a fresh teapot and filled her mistress's cup. Mrs Thurber took a sip. ‘I might suggest that next time you meet a young gentleman, you conduct yourself a little more demurely. Already I can picture you in London for next year's Season. I — ' She stopped as the maid returned, looking flustered, clutching a visiting card.

‘Excuse me madam, miss. But a gentleman has just drawn up outside. He gave me his card. Said he was an old friend of Mr Harry's.' Mrs Thurber's brow twitched. She took the card and read it aloud.

‘Viscount apparent Maynard Hailsham of Brierley Hall, Avesleigh. Perhaps a day's ride from these parts, is it not?' She directed the question to the still morose Agatha, who barely looked up as her mother spoke. ‘Show him in, Pawley. And fetch another cup and saucer, if you please.'

As soon as her eyes met Maynard's, Mrs Thurber smiled inwardly; an entirely different expression from her formal response to the newly arrived gentleman's low bow. The young man was pleasant — his head of wavy blond hair, his honest smile, his smart waistcoat, leggings and boots all conspired to foment rare positive feelings in Mrs Thurber's breast.

‘I was Harry De Havilland's comrade when we shared lectures at Oxford,' Maynard said, still smiling as he stood. ‘I came to Morton-Somersby visit him, but his servants told me he had lately taken ship for Botany Bay. I was completely at a loss. Why Botany Bay? Then they explained that he was acquainted with your family. So, having come all the way from Avesleigh, I ventured to call on you. Perhaps you can enlighten me?'

‘Please be seated, Sir Maynard.' Mrs Thurber gestured to a chair. ‘Indeed, we have much to discuss.' She beckoned the maid. ‘Another cake, Pawley. I sense we shall be here for some time.'

An hour later, Mrs Thurber, with increasing assistance from Agatha as the conversation progressed, had systematically destroyed Harry De Havilland's reputation. He had been a faithless, lying fortune hunter, a man not to be trusted on any account.

‘You have travelled far, Sir Maynard. Now you are disappointed that your friend — I use the term lightly — has disappeared. You must be very sad at heart. Particularly when you find your old comrade has feet of clay.' Her smile now bordered on the seductive. ‘We should be delighted if you found time to stay at Thurber Hall for a day or two. Rest your weary bones, and perchance heal your disappointment a little. Such discoveries as you have made this afternoon regarding your friend must have struck a deep blow to the heart of a man so honest and accommodating as you, Sir Maynard.'

‘Indeed, I accept with great pleasure.' Maynard stood and bowed low again. ‘I must thank you, madam. You have indeed read my inner thoughts most accurately. Your offer touches my heart.'

‘Thank you, Sir Maynard.' Mrs Thurber stood. ‘Excuse me. I must speak to the servants. Have them prepare your chambers.' She turned to her daughter.

‘Agatha. Perhaps you could show Sir Maynard a little of our gardens. After you've finished your tea, of course. From what he's told us of Brierley Hall, he must surely be a garden connoisseur of great sophistication.'

‘Really, madam. Brierley Hall's gardens are not by any stretch as beautiful as yours. Why, I — '

‘You are modest, sir. To complement your other delightful manners.' She bent a knee. ‘But please excuse me. I have much to do.'

It was dusk when the young couple returned to the summerhouse hand in hand. An hour earlier, they'd shared their first kiss in a leafy grove hidden from the house. Then Agatha had led him to a seat, repeated that kiss several hundred times. Soon the pair progressed to the manifold other delights of the suddenly conceived new love which had emerged, phoenix-like, from the ashes of the old.

Over dinner that night Mrs Thurber, sensing the success of the meeting she'd engineered, asked Maynard, in fine detail, about his family, its origins, its history, its fortune. By bedtime, she was convinced that the match had been designed in Heaven.

Maynard stayed for another fortnight. The pair announced their betrothal the night before he left. Next morning, as if she were making a quilt, Mrs Thurber began to weave the most carefully wrought plans for her daughter's wedding.

Five months out from Southampton, Harry stood on the
Lady Caroline's
deck with the other passengers as the ship entered Port Jackson. The rocky walls of Sydney Heads sheltered a deep, safe harbour, now abuzz with ships of all shapes and sizes. When his ship docked, he made his way to the customs house.

‘I seek a convict maid, name of Eliza Downing, sir,' he said to the bewhiskered clerk behind the high counter. Can you help me?'

‘What ship brought her to these shores, sir?'

‘Why, I do not… Wait. The
Swan
, if I'm not mistaken.'

He recalled questioning the village people in the crowd outside the courthouse after he had unsuccessfully chased Eliza's prison cart as it left Marley. Folk had told him she was to be taken to the hulks moored on the Thames, thence aboard the
Swan
when it returned from its latest voyage to Botany Bay.

‘As far as I'm aware, it departed the London docks perhaps two years ago.'

‘The
Swan
, sir?' The clerk pushed aside the clutter littering his desk. ‘The
Swan
never reached Sydney Town. We can only guess as it were lost with all hands. Our last news of it were that it left The Cape after taking on victuals for the rest of the voyage. And that a good two years ago.'

‘What? You cannot mean that — '

‘As far as anyone on God's earth knows, sir, everyone aboard the
Swan
be dead. She could have foundered anywhere between Cape Town and Sydney Town. Missing with all hands,' he read from a tattered page he waved towards Harry. ‘The Roaring Forties, sir. Strong winds that blow from the west in the southern latitudes. The gales that run the easting from The Cape of Good Hope to Australia — sometimes they be driven by the Devil himself. Why, I remember when I were aboard the ship that brought me to New South Wales with my corps, we was kept below decks for a fortnight and more. It were — '

‘But Eliza…she was always, she could always…' Since Harry had first known Eliza, he recalled that every venture she had undertaken, she had completed successfully, effortlessly. Whenever she struck an obstacle, she harnessed her stellar intelligence to surmount it, whether it be a mathematical problem set by Harcourt, or climbing a tree in the Great Park.

Harry could not, must not, believe the man. He had sailed halfway round the world, spent most of his pitiful supply of money, to find the love of his life. Now to learn that she was dead... He wandered, dazed, to an inn at The Rocks, the seedy district at the northern edge of Sydney Town. Learning that it offered cheap accommodation, he took a room for the night, lay on the crudely made bed, and sighed his grief. In her infinite wisdom, Eliza would have found a way to come to terms with the disaster which had crashed over him like a giant wave. His heart simply would not let him believe she was dead. But how to find her? It would be easier to fly to the moon. Would that they might meet in the life to come.

Next morning Harry rose and headed towards Sydney Town, thinking as he walked. He knew well enough of the fortunes men had made in the virginal new land. The night before, as he had eaten the bowl of Irish stew served by the innkeeper's wife, workmen sitting about him had talked of the booming industries across the countryside.

‘Why, a convict who'd done his time, name of Sean Kelly, rented a smithy at Cockle Bay from his wore-out old employer, and forged horseshoes,' a workman seated beside Harry began, waving a mug of ale in his work-stained hand. ‘Then, as he learned the art, he took on contracts — made everything from cartwheels to ship's anchors. Now,' the man pointed across the harbour, ‘He lives a gentleman's life in yonder mansion.' He waved his mug towards a stately building perched on a grassy ridge above a beach. ‘And all that not five years since he served his time. If he'd stayed in Olde England, he'd have likely starved hisself into an early grave. We government men, we daily thank the constables what marched us away to the court, then aboard our transport.' He drained his mug and thumped it onto the table. A wench appeared with a jug, refilled his mug, then held out a hand for his penny.

Harry groaned silently. He possessed none of the skills of the workmen who had made good in this land of opportunity. He knew that men of wealth were given thousands of acres of land, and a small army of convicts, if they undertook to provide the prisoners with the crudest roof over their heads, and enough food and water to keep them fit for work. But now, as his pitiful store of money dribbled away, Harry knew would not qualify to win even the most miserable perch or two of land. What should he do?

Over the next few days, Harry's resolve hardened. He was useless for any trade except producing future gentlemen. Though lately become a pauper thanks to his father's ill-planned investments, he now carried the title of viscount. Many a gently raised maid would yearn to marry a titled man of the realm, then produce a son who could preface his name with the word Sir. Back in England, Harry De Havilland must set to work to sell himself as a stud bull. And if the cow happened to be called Agatha Thurber, so be it. He began to stroll the wharves seeking a berth to Olde England. Soon enough, he encountered the
Lady Caroline
, spoke to the bo'sun.

‘Aye, Mr Harry, sir. We sets sail soon as we takes on our load of wool. A week, give or take a few days.'

Harry fished through his pockets to find the money for the least fare, paid the man, and strolled away. How would he occupy himself until the ship set sail?

A week after Harry's ship had berthed, the
Lady Constance
cleared the heads and docked in Sydney Cove. Putting herself into Harry's shoes, Eliza headed for the customs house, the first place he would have likely visited if he were searching for a female convict recently delivered into servitude.

‘May I ask if you have lately been visited by a gentleman seeking a convict maid, name of Eliza Downing?' she asked the customs house clerk.

‘Eliza Downing?' The clerk turned to look into the dark bowels of the little stone building. He raised his voice and called. ‘Eh, Sam. Eliza Downing, convict maid. Lately arrived. Do that name ring a bell for ye?'

‘No.' The grunt came from a man carrying a box of papers into the darkness.

‘Eh, Sam. Do you not recall a gentleman lately paying us a visit? Enquiring after said convict maid?'

‘No.' The surly voice echoed from the gloom.

‘Sorry, ma'am. I thought perchance Sam might know. I been at work in the customs house at Coal River these past weeks. Sam took care of my work while I were away.'

‘Very well. Perhaps there is someone else I should ask. Could you guide me?'

‘No, ma'am. Your friend were a gentleman, were he not?'

‘Yes.'

‘We all be ‘umble working men here, ma'am. ‘Not as would know where a gentleman might go in Sydney Town. There be some fancy inns along George Street.' He pointed. Begging your pardon, ma'am, perhaps you could ask there.' He looked away, picked up a quill, dipped it into an inkwell.

Eliza exited the grey stone building and walked towards the town. The men of the customs house were right. A gentleman of Harry's wealth would gravitate to the best available accommodation. She headed for George Street, enquiring at each likely establishment. She visited perhaps a dozen inns before she reached the cemetery that marked the end of the respectable portion of the town's main street. Every clerk gave her the same reply. ‘Very sorry, ma'am. No one of that name.'

Once more, Eliza slid into Harry's mind. When he had explored every one of the too few places where records of convict arrivals, placements, and deaths were to be found, he would opt to return to the staid security of the land of his birth. After all, he had been born with an asset many a gently born maiden would treasure — a title. The obvious place for Eliza to focus her search now would be the docks. There, she might learn when the
Lady Caroline
had docked, and what other vessels were due to set sail for England soon.