Authors: Deborah Challinor
The Silk Thief (53 page)
One book I couldn’t have done without is
Mau Moko: the world of Maori tattoo
(Penguin, 2007), by Ngahuia Te Awekotuku with Linda Waimarie Nikora. This award-winning study is, in my opinion, the definitive work on Maori tattoo, and was invaluable to me, in particular regarding issues surrounding upoko tuhi.
I also revisited
Illness in Colonial Australia
(Australian Scholarly Publishing, 2011), by FB Smith, and Frank Bongiorno’s
The Sex Lives of Australians: a history
(Black Inc., 2012) — another award-winning book — for information on self- and assisted abortion. In the days when attempts at contraception regularly failed, abortion was frequently a last resort for women wishing to terminate a pregnancy. It was a dangerous and illegal practice, which, without resort to penicillin to treat infections, often had horrific consequences.
As always, thank you to publisher Anna Valdinger at HarperCollins Australia for remaining constantly enthusiastic about this series, and to publishing director Shona Martyn, and the team at HarperCollins in general. Thanks again also to freelance editor Kate O’Donnell — another great editing job, and some excellent ideas for the next book. My agent, Clare Forster, also deserves thanks for her sterling efforts and encouragement.
More thanks are due to my writing group Hunter Romance Writers for their endless support; my friend and colleague Ngahuia Te Awekotuku for further advice on moko; Mary and Bridget Nicholls again for the continuing lend of Clifford; and, as always, my husband Aaron, for never-ending tolerance, understanding and good cooking.
BOOK FOUR
Deborah Challinor
1832: Convict girls Friday Woolfe, Sarah Morgan and Harriet Clarke have been serving their sentences in Sydney Town for three years. For much of that time they have lived in fear of sinister and formidable Bella Jackson, who continues to blackmail them for a terrible crime.
Each of them has begun to make a life for herself, but when Harrie’s adopted child, Charlotte, is abducted and taken to Newcastle, the girls must risk their very freedom to save her.
But is Friday up to the task? Will her desperate battle with her own vices drive her to fail not only herself, but those she loves and all who love her?
In this final volume of a saga about four convict girls transported halfway around the world, friends and family reunite but cherished loved ones are lost, and an utterly shocking secret is revealed.
Read on for a sneak peek at
A Tattooed Heart
…
July 1832, Sydney Town
Friday Woolfe, Sarah Green and Harrie Downey were about to cross George Street when the funeral procession approached on its way to Devonshire Street cemetery, stopping traffic, demanding attention and respect from all. It was an extremely grand affair, but then it would be: Clarence Shand had been a very wealthy man.
Leading the cortege were six grim-faced mutes walking two abreast, the brisk winter wind snatching at trailing hatbands and the black crepe draping their tall staffs. Then came the hearse, a jet-lacquered vehicle enclosed by costly plate glass etched with gold, and drawn by four gleaming horses as dark as night and bedecked with ostrich plumes. The widow, Mrs Bella Shand, sat alone and resplendent in black bombazine and a veiled hat in the mourning coach following the hearse.
‘It’s not fair,’ Friday said bitterly from the footway. ‘It should be bloody Bella in that coffin, not faggoty old Clarence. And look at all those mutes. They’d have cost a fortune.’
As well as the half-dozen mutes leading the procession, ten more walked alongside the hearse and Bella Shand’s coach, bedecked in black cloaks, hats, sashes and gloves, all provided by the undertaker. Contrary to their job description, these mutes weren’t without voice — they wailed and howled, demonstrating their grief for Clarence Shand, a man whom, in all likelihood, they’d never met.
Sarah said, ‘Adam heard he died of a heart attack.’
Friday snorted. ‘I bet bloody Bella poisoned him.’
‘No, it was a heart attack,’ Harrie said. ‘James was saying last night he knows the doctor who signed the death certificate.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Apparently he died at Bella’s brothel. With a boy.’
Sarah laughed. ‘Whoops. That’s a bit embarrassing.’
‘Only if it gets out,’ Harrie said.
‘Well, it has, hasn’t it?’ Friday smirked. ‘We know.’
Sarah said, ‘It won’t get out. Bella knows who to pay off and she can certainly afford to now. Christ, look at all these carriages.’
The cortege was still passing, though now it consisted of approximately twenty carriages occupied only by drivers, as it was not the fashion for the wealthy and upper classes to attend funerals in person. To send one’s empty vehicle was considered tribute enough.
It was Sarah’s turn to smirk. ‘Poor Clarence,’ she went on. ‘She’s really let him down and I bet she doesn’t even realise it.’
Friday frowned. ‘How?’
‘Well, all these carriages mean Sydney’s rich folk are paying Clarence their respects, which I suppose is nice for Clarence, but she’s lowered the tone by hiring all these mutes. No truly classy funeral would have this many. Two, maybe, but this is just vulgar. Her pedigree is showing.’
‘Eh?’
‘You know, her roots. You can tell where she really comes from. The bottom of the heap.’
‘Oh.’ Friday thought about that for a moment. Ever since they’d had the misfortune to know her, Bella had had money, and, these days especially, she spent a lot of it on her appearance and surrounding herself with expensive things. Friday had almost forgotten she belonged to a criminal underclass not renown for elegance or style. ‘I suppose. Silly bitch. Well, I’m going to the burial ground. I want to see where Clarence gets planted.’
‘You mean you want to gloat at Bella,’ Sarah said.
‘Doubt it. She won’t give a shite about Clarence going belly up. More chink for her.’
‘Well, keep out of sight. If she sees you, it’ll only remind her she hasn’t put the screws on us lately.’ Sarah took her watch from her pocket. ‘Christ, I need to get back to work. Adam’ll be wondering where I am. I said I was only coming out for an hour.’
The last empty carriage went past, the crowd dispersed and the stalled traffic began to move once more.
‘I need to go, too,’ Harrie said. ‘Charlotte threw an almighty tantrum when I left the house without her. She’ll think I’ve abandoned her.’
‘I thought she was growing out of that?’ Sarah said.
‘She has. We’re into the terrible twos, now.’
‘Rather you than me,’ Sarah said with heartfelt sincerity.
Harrie smiled. ‘Oh, I think it’s quite sweet, really.’
‘Only you’d think a shrieking, spitting, bad-tempered little troll was sweet.’
‘She’s not a troll.’
‘She is sometimes.’
‘Right, you lot, I’m off,’ Friday declared.
‘Well, be careful,’ Sarah said again. ‘Hide behind a tree or something.’
Walking away, Friday flapped a dismissive hand. There weren’t any trees in Devonshire Street cemetery, well, no big ones, but there were a few just beyond the wall. She’d loiter there.
Tagging along behind the slow-moving funeral procession, she was glad she was wearing her comfortable black boots. It was quite a walk up George Street to the burial ground — past the Haymarket and nearly as far as Ultimo. Also, it was a windy day and going down the long hill on the south side a sharp breeze picking up the brickworks’ red dust, constant except during all but the heaviest of rains, seemed to be blowing most of it into her face. She wrapped her shawl around her mouth and nose and yanked the brim of her hat down low. As always, the cattle market gave off an eye-watering stink and dung clogged the road outside its pens and paddocks, but she trudged on, ignoring the temptations of the Old Black Swan, the Dog and Duck and the Wheat Sheaf hotels. The odour changed to the sharper tang of horse and bullock shit mixed with hay as she passed the carter’s barracks on the corner and turned onto Devonshire Street, and she ducked through a lychgate and into the cemetery itself, forgetting about hiding beneath the trees.
A long row of carriages sat parked along the cemetery wall, their drivers smoking pipes, chatting to one another or sneaking sips from hip flasks. After Clarence Shand had been buried, they would return to their masters and mistresses and report that etiquette and propriety had been suitably observed. The mutes had disappeared, probably into nearby hotels.
The hearse, Friday noted, was empty. As it started to rain, she crept through a field of headstones and flat ledger stones towards a small knot of people in the distance. Choosing a particularly tall headstone, she ducked down behind it. There was a fresh chip missing from the sandstone — someone had been a bit clumsy with the grass scythe. Peering out, she saw to her surprise that Clarence was about to be lowered into a grave in the Roman Catholic section of the cemetery. Fancy that. Only Bella stood at the graveside, her live-in companions Becky Hoddle and Louisa Coutts hovering some feet away, looking suitably sober and also wearing black.
The priest was speaking, waving his hand theatrically over the coffin as the gravediggers lowered it jerkily into the yawning hole. There was a faint splash as it landed in a puddle left by the previous evening’s downpour.
Crouching on the sparse grass as rainwater trickled irritatingly down her neck, Friday wondered why, really, she’d come. She quite often wasn’t very good at working out why she did things. She wanted, she supposed, to see Bella show some sort of feeling, and preferably for it to be grief or pain. God knew she inflicted enough pain on other people. Just once, it would be so satisfying to see her keen, or cry, or even just be sorry about something. But her veil was still lowered, and for all Friday knew she could be grinning her head off. She probably was. Her marriage to Clarence Shand had been one of convenience so she’d hardly be heartbroken at his passing. Also, she was fantastically wealthy now and, according to gossip, Clarence had recently ‘bought’ her a ticket of leave, which meant she could do more or less as she pleased.
It wasn’t fair. Bella Shand was a nasty, evil, blackmailing bitch who didn’t deserve any of it, and Friday hated her guts.
The wind changed and she caught the priest’s final petition: ‘May his soul and the souls of all the faithful departed through the mercy of God rest in peace.’
Bella took a shovel and unceremoniously dumped a heap of soil onto the coffin, then turned to Louisa for a handkerchief to wipe her black gloves. The priest crooked his elbow, which Bella ignored, and they headed back to the lychgate, Becky and Louisa trailing behind.
Friday crouched even lower as they passed quite near her hiding place, and almost had a heart attack when the priest said: ‘One moment, if you please, Mrs Shand.’
They stopped.
‘I realise that Mr Shand’s passing was sudden and must be a terrible shock for you, but have you given any thought to some sort of headstone? I can recommend several good stonemasons.’
Bella finally lifted her veil and tucked it into the band of her hat, revealing perfectly dry, kohl-rimmed eyes. ‘No. That is not something I’ve had the time to consider.’
‘May I suggest, then, that you choose something behoving of your husband’s prowess as a businessman and his standing in the community?’ The priest made a sweeping gesture with his arm. ‘Why not leave these parsimonious little headstones to the Quakers, the Presbyterians and the Wesleyans? It would be a fine thing, I believe, to memorialise your husband’s passing, and at the same time celebrate the glory of the Catholic faith, by commissioning something at least a little grand. Something that will perhaps reflect your status now as Mr Shand’s widow, and a very wealthy woman in your own right. After all, we can’t let ourselves be outdone by the Anglicans, can we?’
You cunning article, Friday thought, shifting slightly to ease the nipping cramp in her calf.
‘Is that so, Father?’ Bella said, her voice taking on an irritated edge that the priest possibly didn’t know her well enough to recognise. ‘And what would you consider appropriate?’
‘A sculpted monument, perhaps. Or a finely carved chest tomb?’
‘Perhaps. I’ll think about it.’
They moved away then, much to Friday’s relief — her leg was killing her. She could stretch but didn’t dare move until Bella, Louisa and Becky had been driven away in their hired carriages.
A chest tomb? You could pack twenty dead Clarences into one of those. Then she remembered that the corpse usually went in the ground, leaving the tomb above it empty.
And that gave her an idea.
Harrie went straight home after she left Sarah and Friday. She was due at the Barrett household at two o’clock to assist Nora with a gown she was sewing, but she wanted to make sure Charlotte had had her dinner and a proper sleep before they went. Home was now on Bent Street as James had bought a much larger house in April and rented out the cottage. Harrie thought the new place was far too big, but James had insisted.
It had five bedrooms, for a start. The house was lovely, but why on earth did they need five bedrooms? She and James had one, and Daisy Miller, their housegirl who slept with Charlotte, had another, which left three more for Daisy to dust and sweep every day for no reason. And there were also a parlour and a sitting room, a shelf-lined study for James, a dining room, a kitchen directly attached to the rear of the house, a laundry with a huge copper, a storeroom, plenty of cupboards, a cellar, and a small carriage house with adjacent stables. A wide verandah ran along the front of the house, down one side and halfway round the back, from which you could glimpse Sydney Cove. The view was even better from the bedrooms upstairs. The wife of the shipbuilder from whom James had bought the property had clearly put time and effort into the garden, and Harrie was looking forward to spring when the bulbs, shrubs and trees flowered. Angus the cat also appreciated the big garden. Judging by what he was leaving on the verandah, the yield of mice, spiders and lizards was much more bountiful than at the York Street property.
