Nanberry (20 page)

S
YDNEY
C
OVE
, A
PRIL
1795

Maria sat huddled on one of the chairs in the kitchen, still in her hat and coat, staring down at her hands. Rachel bent, and kissed her cheek.

‘Mama? Who that?' Andrew stared at Maria, wide-eyed.

‘I'm your mother's new servant.' Maria's voice was only a whisper.

‘She is Mama's friend. She will live with us now.' She took Maria's hat, then gently helped her out of her jacket. There was meat pudding, ready to heat again for their dinner, and the pot was near to boiling on the hob. She added wood to the fire, and pushed the pot above the flames.

Maria stirred. ‘I should do that.'

‘You should rest.'

Rachel plopped the pudding in its cloth into the boiling water, then added potatoes. There are stewed apples in the pantry too, she thought, sweetened with the honey Nanberry had brought
her. If only he was here, she thought, though Nanberry had no influence in the colony these days, now that Governor Phillip had left; no one bothered translating the native tongues any more. But his presence was a comfort. He could at least fight off a drunk who tried to force his way past the door or steal their potatoes.

She put Andrew on his chair, pushed him up to the table, and put the plates in front of them all. But even when Andrew began to spoon up his pudding Maria still sat, unseeing.

Rachel reached for the spoon and lifted it to Maria's mouth as she had fed Andrew till not so long ago. Maria's mouth opened and she swallowed. Andrew watched as Maria ate her meat pudding, the colour coming slowly back into her face. Rachel cleared the plates, then brought in the stewed apples. She was spooning it into bowls when Maria said, ‘They killed Jack. The natives. I found him in the cornfield with a spear sticking out of his chest.'

Rachel glanced at Andrew. But he was more interested in the apple, smearing it over his face as he gulped it down.

At last the tears were running down Maria's face. ‘I wouldn't go out with Jack that day. I was tired, so tired. I said he could pick the corn himself; I was staying home. And when he didn't come for his dinner I went to look for him …'

‘It wasn't your fault,' said Rachel helplessly. She hadn't even heard of an attack at Rose Hill. She heard no news at all, now the Surgeon had gone. The French might be invading and who would think to tell the woman who had once been housekeeper to the Surgeon?

‘The natives had stripped the crop, every cob of it. And there he was …'

‘Shh. It's all right now. You're here, you're safe.' She hesitated. ‘Perhaps you can sell the farm.'

‘Captain Patterson has given it to someone else.'

‘But he can't do that! You should have been able to sell the land and house at least —'

‘He can do whatever he likes,' said Maria wearily. ‘A woman can't own land, not without the Governor's special permit. And we have no Governor.' She stroked Andrew's cheek. ‘He has grown so much. Such a handsome boy.' She looked up at Rachel. ‘I will work hard.'

Rachel shook her head. ‘We will share what we have, and the work too. You can do sewing again. And when I am rich,' she tried to make Maria smile, ‘you shall make all my silk dresses.'

‘I can at least make Andrew's first pair of trousers. It … it is good to be back,' she said softly. ‘I was scared out there, even before the attacks. So much space, too many trees. Jack was a good man. But milking cows, stripping the cobs of corn … I'm too small to be a proper farmer's wife. I even missed the o'possum.'

‘He's not been seen since the Surgeon left.' No more o'possum droppings to sweep up each morning, no wet patches on the floor … ‘We'll do well,' she told Maria softly. ‘We will do very well.'

S
YDNEY
C
OVE
, F
EBRUARY
1796
TO
J
ANUARY
1797

February was the hardest month in the colony. A blanket of humid air sat about the town, sending the sweat dripping down her petticoats, sealing in the stench of sewage, cooking smoke and filthy clothes and bodies. But here was magic to sweep away a few of the smells …

Soap! Rachel stood in the tiny shop and cradled the precious stuff. At last there was enough fat to spare in the colony to make soap! No more straining the wood ashes for the lye that burnt her hands and wore the clothes to shreds too soon. Real soap!

She had left Andrew playing with Maria — he was at the age when he was into everything and, besides, there had been a fresh outbreak of typhus when the convicts from the
Marquis Cornwallis
arrived. It wasn't safe for a small child to come near crowds now. Thank goodness she had someone she trusted to leave him with, someone to talk to as they sat sewing in the
shade of the orchard, hoping for a breeze up from the harbour, watching Andrew chase the rooster, trying to get a tail feather.

Free rations were still given out in the storehouse up the hill, though now there were also government stores at Rose Hill — no, she corrected herself: Parramatta. Only convicts and government servants received rations these days. Convicts who had served their terms — like her — and become farmers or tradesmen or labourers either grew, made or hunted what they needed, or bought it at stores like this.

But the prices were far higher than most could afford. The Rum Corps had ruled that everything in the colony had to be sold either by the Corps or with their permit, under pain of the lash or serving in chains on the road gangs. Every farmer, soap-maker and sea captain had to sell his goods to the Corps at whatever small price the officers set. The Corps then resold the goods at ten or even fifty times the price.

The colony's new Governor, Mr Hunter, was powerless against so many officers. His authority came from halfway across the world, with no one to enforce it. So the officers of the Rum Corps grew richer still and it was more dangerous than ever to live in the colony.

Rachel was careful, only ever going out in the mornings when most soldiers would still be sleeping off the rum from the night before. Maria never went into the streets at all, though she was happier now. Yesterday Rachel had even heard her singing a song to Andrew.

And it had been a good morning — a meeting with Mrs Johnson about a home for the orphaned children. Somehow in the past year Rachel had become part of what passed for reputable society in the colony — a regular churchgoer with good manners and careful ways, respectable enough to drink Indian tea with the Reverend's wife and admire the new glass in the church windows.

And now soap! It had been expensive, but worth it. And there was little else to spend money on. Surgeon White still found ways to send sea chests to them on almost every ship, filled with cloth and sugar and even once a small box of tea. She headed towards the door, the soap in her reticule, brushing past a man in a top hat. He lifted it politely as he stepped out of her way.

It was Mr Moore.

Rachel gave a startled curtsey. Mr Moore lifted his hat again and bowed. He was dressed more formally than he had been before, in new-looking dark trousers and a dark coat, as well as the top hat. She was just about to speak when a young woman in a bonnet that certainly hadn't been made in the colony raised her gloved hand to signal him, over at the counter where she was examining a bolt of flannel cloth.

‘If you will excuse me, Mistress Turner.' Mr Moore bowed again, then headed over to the young woman.

Rachel forced herself out of the store, her face burning. It's just the heat, she told herself. She should have brought a parasol to shade herself from the sun.

She had waited for weeks for Mr Moore to call again, after his astonishing rescue of Maria. But there had been no sign of him, either at their house or around the streets of the small colony. She supposed his ship had sailed again.

And now he was back, with a wife perhaps, or at least walking out with a woman younger and better dressed than her.

She tried to laugh at herself. What had she expected? That his impulsive speech so many years before had really been a promise?

And what if it had been? She had told him she wouldn't be any man's sea-wife. But what had she been to Surgeon White? He must know about that now. What man would take on another's child?

Well, plenty, she admitted, especially when the woman had a good house and income from her former lover. But not one she'd want. Not a man like Mr Moore, well-dressed and not a convict.

She glanced back, in case he and his lady friend had come out of the shop. But there was no sign of them.

She sighed and walked back up the hill. A crowd had gathered. Someone was being tied to the stake near Government House. Probably some poor fool who had sworn at his master — you got fifty lashes with the cat-o'-nine-tails for that, and 150 for taking a day off. That was enough to cripple or even kill you unless the flogger allowed you to take your punishment over a few weeks.

She heard the high-pitched song of the lash as the flogger swung it through the air, the first scream from the man at the stake. The crowd cheered. Floggings were the chief entertainment in Sydney Town, apart from getting drunk, and watching hangings. There'd be blood on the ground tomorrow.

It was a good thing she hadn't brought Andrew with her today. Rachel hurried down the dusty lane to home.

Mr Moore was on her doorstep five weeks later.

If I'd known I would have put on a clean apron, she thought, glancing down at the carrot stains from Andrew's dinner. She'd have put on her best cap too, the one Maria had trimmed with real lace …

Behind her came the stamp of the hornpipe in the kitchen. Nanberry was back from his latest voyage, bringing her a bolt of blue cloth from the Cape that Maria had pounced upon with joy, planning the dresses she'd make for them both, and a carved elephant for Andrew. Nanberry had already been out bush for a week, returning with more honey and a fish so large she'd had to
give half of it away. He'd sharpened the knives (Big Lon ground down half the blades if it was left to him), mended the broken shutter, shown Andrew how to swim and even persuaded Maria to join them in a picnic at the beach. Now he was dancing to amuse young Andrew, the child shrieking with joy every time Nanberry clapped his hands and turned around. She could hear Maria's laughter too.

It was so good to hear Maria laugh again.

‘Mr Moore! May I help you?' He might need to see a surgeon, she thought suddenly. That would be why he was here. ‘Surgeon White no longer lives here,' she added, ‘but if you go to the hospital …'

‘I have no need of a doctor.' He bowed. He wore the same dark suit as he had in the shop, and the same top hat. He didn't look like a sailor now. ‘Good morning, Mistress Turner.'

She gave a small polite curtsey. She hesitated. ‘Would you care to come in?'

The neighbours would talk if they saw her chatting with a man on her doorstep. It would be more discreet if he came inside. Maria and Nanberry were here, so she was chaperoned. Not that many would care in this colony of whores and convicts. But there were a few, like Mrs Johnson, whose opinion she valued. She put her chin up. And her own …

She took his hat and hung it on the peg next to Nanberry's, then led him into the parlour. It was the room that had been the Surgeon's study and still smelt a little of the spirit he'd used to preserve his specimens. But she and Maria had made cushions for the hard-backed chairs and Nanberry had made a frame for one of Maria's embroideries on the wall. It was too hot for a fire, so she had arranged a bottle of roses in the hearth.

‘Please sit down, Mr Moore. I'll fetch tea.' She hoped there was some tea left. And that Nanberry hadn't eaten all the hearth cakes.

No, there were still some on the plate on the kitchen table, rich with currants and candied lemon peel. The Surgeon had sent the currants and lemon peel too. She emptied the dregs of sarsaparilla flowers, the Surgeon's favourite of the native herbs, from the teapot into the slops bucket. She then began hunting for the tea caddy.

Nanberry looked up, a giggling Andrew in his arms. ‘Who is here?'

Rachel found she was blushing. ‘Mr Thomas Moore. He's the man who rescued Maria. He's a ship's carpenter. I met him at church.' She didn't say it had been over three years earlier.

‘He's a good man. I'll make the tea,' said Maria firmly. She had already heard the tale of how Mr Moore and Rachel had first met.

‘Please, come and join us —'

‘I think it's you he wants to see,' said Maria quietly. ‘Nanberry and I will watch Andrew. You go into the parlour and sit down.'

Rachel nodded, flustered.

‘You call me if he gives trouble,' muttered Nanberry.

She smiled at that, thinking of the big hunting spear in his room, up on the wall out of Andrew's reach. Nanberry was so young, and so protective. But he
would
protect her too, not that she thought she needed help with Mr Moore. She straightened her cap again as she went into the parlour.

Mr Moore looked too big for the chair, his hands thick and red after the Surgeon's long fingers, which were white from being scrubbed so often every day. He stood as she came in and sat only after she was seated.

‘You'll be wondering why I'm here, Mistress Turner.'

‘To ask how Maria is, perhaps?'

‘I'm here to court you,' he said simply.

She stared. Whatever she had expected, it wasn't this. ‘I beg your pardon?' she asked faintly.

‘To court you. I think you know what that means. We sit and talk over a cup of your tea. We take a walk each afternoon. And at the end of it all, if we suit — and I think we will — I ask you to marry me. My intentions are honourable, Mistress Turner.'

He smiled, but she could tell there was tension there too. ‘You said when we met that day that you would be no man's sea-wife. So here I am. I waited till I had all that I promised you. I've a shore job now — I'm a colonial carpenter, with a good brick house in three acres of orchard and garden up at the top of the Tank Stream. I've applied for a land grant too —'

‘Sir, I'm sorry.' She had to stop his catalogue of assets. ‘Why?'

‘Why do I want to marry you?'

She nodded, though there were other questions too.

He considered. ‘I saw you walking up that road and thought: That's the woman I want to marry.'

‘That's all it took? One look at a pretty face?' At least she hoped she had been pretty, hoped she was still pretty now.

He smiled at that. ‘You're beautiful,' he said. ‘But it were more than that. I saw you stop to give something to children who had nothing — and you gave it with a smile, not the pursed lips of duty.

‘You looked like a miracle, Mistress Turner. There was Sydney Town filled with red-faced drabs in dirty petticoats. There was you, all clean and shiny-haired, your skirts mended even if they were no fine lady's clothes. I thought: Here's a lass who is kind, who can work, who is proud of who she is and what she can be.'

‘Mr Moore …' He knew nothing of her, she thought. Not about her years with Surgeon White, that Andrew was her son, not a child she had been looking after …

But before she could say anything else Maria appeared, holding a tray with the pot and cups and a jug of milk and the sugar bowl, with Nanberry behind holding the plate of hearth cakes.

‘Mr Moore, you must remember my friend, Mrs Jackson, who you rescued so nobly. This is my … my foster son, Nanberry White.' She had never used the term before, but it was true, she thought. Nanberry was her foster son now as much as he had been the Surgeon's.

Mr Moore stood up again. He bowed to Maria. ‘I'm right glad to see you looking so well, Mrs Jackson.'

Maria curtseyed. ‘If I am, it's thanks to you, sir.'

‘It were my privilege. And Mr White.' He bowed again to Nanberry. Rachel was glad to see him polite to a man with dark skin. ‘I hear your foster father was a good man. The Captain of the
Brilliant
spoke well of you too.'

Nanberry bowed in return, with the perfect formality he could assume when he liked. Mr Moore looked back at Rachel. ‘And your son, Mistress Turner? I would very much like to see him again too.'

So he must know that Andrew was the Surgeon's son. Must know that she and the Surgeon had never been married; that she had given the Surgeon what she had told Mr Moore she would give no man without a ring.

She felt her knees tremble. She sat, quickly, as he pulled a small carved boat from his pocket. ‘I made this myself, Mistress Turner. I hope your son likes it.'

He smiled, aware of her shock. ‘There are no children's toys for sale yet in the colony. But there will be one day. One day I reckon you'll be able to buy anything here in Sydney Town that you can in London.'