Forgotten Fragrance (25 page)

Christian stuffed the rigging knife back into his pocket. Nothing in his life had been harder or had pained him so much. He would have taken fifty hull splinters not to cause the disappointment and anguish etched on Charlotte's face but he had no alternative.

Pacing backwards and forwards along the deck he picked out the city landmarks. New buildings had sprung up above the jumbled mess of The Rocks. Big sandstone buildings several storeys high and tall church spires dotted the landscape. Prosperity filled the air. The future lay in Sydney. In a matter of months Charlotte would be free. Even if she refused to marry Marcus she had only weeks of her sentence to serve and then she would have her ticket-of-leave and could start afresh. Her whole life lay before her. A million opportunities beckoned. As a free woman with money behind her — and she would have money once she realised the value of the Angel — she could take up a land grant, start a business, marry and have a family. He skidded to a halt and gave one of the crates a resounding kick.

The thought of Charlotte married to Marcus or any other man turned his blood to ice but he couldn't tie her to the taint of his blood.
A murderer's blood.
She deserved more, so much more. All the plans they'd made as they sat huddled amongst the tombs in the freezing crypt of St Martin's. Everything Charlotte deserved, only not together.

Even if James Harrington had not murdered Elizabeth he carried a life sentence, a sentence for manslaughter and now he had murdered again. He could erase the Dutchman's curse and see it for the malicious taunt it had always been but it didn't wipe the slate clean. There would always be the knowledge his knife had sent Henk to his death. Charlotte had paid the price for her involvement last time. This time he would not allow her to be accused of aiding and abetting anyone. She needed to be safe and if it meant she had to go with Marcus and he had to break his promises, then so be it.

Except for his last promise. He would ensure Mina and the girls returned to the Loyalty Islands. He owed it to them and he owed it to Charlotte. Beyond that lay the ocean or a prison sentence.

He eased his shoulders, stretching the rough linen across the scars on his back, shrugged and strode to the whaleboat creaking and swinging on the davits. ‘Bristol.' His voice sounded down the deck drowning out the squawking gulls and clanking anchor chains. ‘Lower the boat, we have passengers to go ashore.' He had no intention of dragging out the inevitable. Charlotte and Marcus must leave.

Once they went ashore nothing stood between Sydney and the Loyalty Islands. The crew would kick up hell's delight because they were getting no shore time. They could save it for another day. Besides, they would have more money in their pocket at the end of it all. He gave a derisive snort.

It would take less than a day to up anchor and sail around to Mosman Bay, unload the cargo and take on water, supplies and some trading goods. A hold full of sandalwood traded for tea should set the ledger straight.

With a determined nod to Bristol he secured the ropes. ‘Windy. Go and tell Mr Wainwright and Miss Charlotte it is time for them to disembark.'

‘
And
Miss Charlotte?' Windy's eyebrows disappeared into his tousled fringe.

‘That's what I said. Now get to it.'

‘You sure it's what you want to do?' Cookie peered down at the whaleboat as it bobbed against the hull of the
Zephyrus
.

‘Of course I am sure it is what I want to do. Don't question me. In case you've forgotten again, I am the bloody Captain and I call the shots. I thought we'd finally established that.'

‘Seems to me —'

‘It's not your business, Cookie. The passengers are going ashore. We are going to complete the remainder of our contract. Sail over to Mosman Bay, unload and take those blackbirds home. Any questions?'

The harbour sparkled under the clear spring sky. A gentle breeze ruffled Charlotte's hair teasing with promise, promises she no longer believed. The beauty of her surroundings served only to accentuate the darkness in her heart, her broken heart. She no longer cared whether Marcus threw her overboard, incarcerated her in the Women's Factory or sent her back to Van Diemen's Land. The belief she'd cherished for so long had soured. Jamie didn't want her. Her treasured dream had sustained her for so long and now it proved to be nothing more than a figment of her childish imagination. How wrong could she be? The connection between them and the bond they shared nothing but a falsehood.

It cannot be!
Jamie wouldn't use those words. They were Christian's words.

Marcus' prattle rippled over her as she stared back at the
Zephyrus
determined to imprint on her memory the sleek lines of the ship and the man who had given her so much…and with three words snatched it all away.

‘I have a mind to arrange rooms for us at the Royal Hotel until I can organise my affairs, then we can find something more permanent.' Marcus smiled benignly at her, all signs of his crazed persona and her refusal hidden somewhere behind the façade of his black frock coat and paisley waistcoat.

What was he talking about? Had he not heard her when she said she would not marry him?

‘It will give you an opportunity to think over my offer in the cold hard light of day, away from the distractions and romance of shipboard life.' She resisted the temptation to slap his smug face. ‘And besides, at this short notice I cannot arrange suitable domestic help to replace you.'

Charlotte's shoulders sank. What did it matter? She didn't care. Let Marcus organise everything. The only life she wanted lay at the bottom of the ocean.
Zephyrus
and Christian would sail out of Sydney Heads without her.

Bowing her head in acceptance she pulled her cloak tighter around her as the shoreline approached. The great three-storied sandstone warehouses framing the Quay bore down on her, bringing to mind the bleak walls of Hobart Gaol. A few hours ago she'd stood on the deck of the
Zephyrus
and marvelled at the sights of Sydney. Now they made her shudder. The stark white windmills perched above the town were like evil skeletons waiting to pounce and crush the rush of bodies lining the wharves. The city heaved with a sense of restlessness that reminded her of the fetid claustrophobia below decks. She wanted to be away from this bustling ugliness back on the ocean with Christian where she belonged.

‘There you go, Sir.' Bristol eased the boat alongside the wharf and threw the bowline to a waiting urchin. ‘Miss Charlotte, step ashore. I'll unload the baggage while Mr Wainwright calls a barrow boy.'

Charlotte climbed up onto the wharf. A flock of seagulls circled overhead screeching and diving in search of scraps. She gazed upwards and the breeze blew her hair back off her face; she sneaked one final look at the
Zephyrus
swinging at anchor, the golden stripe on her jet black hull glinting on the sun-streaked water. She traced the line of the mainmast up to the cobalt sky and her heart stopped.

Balanced atop of the mast, arms outstretched, swaying with the swell of the tide, hung Jamie. Jamie as he'd perched on the spire of St Martin's like a bird preparing for flight. In her mind's eye she could see the smile on his face and his eyes crinkling with laughter, daring her, egging her on. It was all too much.

Lifting her skirts she broke and ran. Ran as she hadn't run since the Bobbies had chased her down the London streets, pushing and dodging her way through the crowds, impervious to the shouts of abuse and heaving shoulders blocking her path. Ran as if reality chased her to hell.

Along the quayside, up and up the steep street away from the water, leaping over piles of steaming horse manure. Ducking and weaving past the rows of shops, their windows winking in the afternoon light. Her cloak flew from her shoulders still she didn't stop. Her feet slithered and slipped on the dirty footpaths as she splashed through puddles and dodged horses and carts and drays stacked with timber. Ever upward until every breath in her body was spent and she collapsed on a black and white tiled entryway above a set of slate steps.

Not only a lack of air hindered her progress, heavy wooden doors blocked her path. She craned her neck around the porch. The verdigris of the copper-clad spire pierced the sky. With the blood still pounding in her ears and her chest heaving, she levered herself up and pushed open the doors into the cool still silence of the church. Rows of pews stood like soldiers on parade and the dusty smell of prayer books and candles seeped into her blood bringing a familiar sense of peace and safety.

Charlotte edged her way along the back wall, searching the spacious interior knowing she would find stairs, stairs like the ones at St Martin's, leading to the spire and from there a clear view out over the city to the harbour.

Blowing out a long breath her lips twisted when she spotted a winding set of stone steps tucked into the back corner of the church. With a quick glance over her shoulder she eased through the narrow doorway. Light streamed down through a large, stained-glass window catching the last rays of the afternoon sun; the coloured light blazed like jewels guiding her upwards.

Without another thought she pounded to the top and peered through the window out over the city. The busy harbour flickered and glimmered. Minute ships and boats rode at anchor and the wharf pulsated like an ants' nest. Frantically she scanned the blue-green water, searching for the trim lines of the black hull and the mainmast, so high it reached the clouds. She found nothing as beautiful as the
Zephyrus
, and no sign of Jamie.

The shadows lengthened and still Charlotte peered through the coloured glass until the sun dropped, the air cooled, and the strip of purple faded beneath the storm clouds. Giving up all hope of ever seeing Jamie or the
Zephyrus
again she sank to the ground exhausted.

‘She did what, Bristol?'

‘She ran.' Bristol wiped the sweat from his forehead and pushed the sleeves of his shirt up above his elbows. ‘Cor! You should've seen him, Capt'n. Mr Wainwright, sir. He set up a merry dance. Called the Water Police. Told ‘em she'd escaped. Said she was a bonded convict. Gave her description ‘n all. They took off at a fair old gallop. She's headed back to the Women's Factory, sure as eggs is eggs.'

Christian's shoulders dropped and he let out a great guffaw of laughter. He'd picked Charlotte out on the wharf from the mainmast then he'd lost sight of her in the crowds when they'd upped anchor and made for Mosman Bay. He wasn't the only one.

Oh Lottie, what have you done this time?

So the headstrong urchin he'd known in London hadn't disappeared. Running was something he'd taught her long ago, how to dodge and duck and weave and become invisible in a crowded street. The only sure-fire way to keep one step ahead of trouble.

Run until you lose them. Find somewhere safe until the hue and cry dies down.

Obviously Charlotte hadn't forgotten the lesson. But where would she go? She didn't know Sydney and she had no one to run to. The thought of her alone on the streets filled him with dread; the foreshore was a hot bed of vice and corruption. ‘Bristol, you oversee the remainder of this cargo drop. I want those blackbirds kept out of sight. The sooner we're out of here the better. I'll be back soon.'

‘Aye, aye, sir.' Bristol shot him a look implying his captain might be up to no good.

The man was probably right but he wasn't about to share his thoughts. Instead he clapped Bristol on the back. ‘I have some unfinished business.'

‘Too right you have,' Cookie shot back at him, appearing from behind the mainmast. ‘Get back there and sort this mess out like you should have done in the first place.' The old man chucked the rope ladder over the side of the ship into the boat. ‘And I'd steer clear of God-bothering idiots if I were you,' he finished with an ear-splitting bray of laughter.

‘I might not be able to avoid them,' Christian returned, unable to suppress the delight in his voice. ‘If she's gone where I think she has she'll be right in the middle of them. Get this ship unloaded and keep the blackbirds below decks. I've got enough trouble on my hands without having to worry about any more women running away.'

‘She's no woman, sir. Miss Charlotte's a lady.'

Christian swung down the rope ladder and into the boat ignoring Cookie's taunts. A smile cracked his face and laughter bubbled on his lips. He had to hand it to Lottie, she'd never taken anything sitting down. Now it was time to bail her out. Sydney was no place for an escaped convict with a sentence hanging over her head, never mind a possible murder charge. Add in Marcus Wainwright spurned and it would be a picture to behold. Wrapping his hands around the oars Christian headed for the Quay.

The wind had dropped with the sun however the row across from Mosman Bay tested every one of his still-bruised muscles. He pulled the boat up near the Tank Stream and stepped ashore.

With a nod of thanks to the Australian Gas Light Company and their numerous streetlights Christian studied the scene. Robert Campbell's warehouses dominated the waterfront and from there the mess of buildings aptly named The Rocks clung to the steep cliff face. George Street ran up the hill away from the foreshore and the sailors' taverns to the more prosperous parts of town.

As Christian tilted his head back and looked up at the ever-growing city his gaze lit on the copper-clad spire dominating the new sandstone buildings. A broad grin slashed his face. He'd put money on it.

Where else do you hide when the whole world is chasing you?

When Charlotte woke darkness had fallen. Not pitch dark as the hold of the ship had been because the lights from the street threw strange patterns and shadows around the tiny turret. Out on the harbour distorted silhouettes bobbed in the inky black water. She found it impossible to make out the individual ships and besides, the
Zephyrus
wasn't among them. She'd made sure of it before she fell asleep.