A Tattooed Heart (27 page)

‘Hardly at all.' Leary fetched a bottle of whisky from a shelf and poured himself a generous glass.

‘Why can't her mother look after her?'

‘She's dying.'

‘Oh. I'm sorry to hear that.'

Leary eyed her. ‘You don't sound it.'

Iris patted Charlotte's back soothingly. ‘I am, though. Someone dying's never nice. What's wrong with her?'

‘Consumption.'

‘And Charlotte?' Iris asked. ‘Will you raise her?'

‘Well, she can't raise herself, can she?'

‘No, I mean, will you keep her? Most men on their own would put a child in the orphanage.'

‘Haven't decided yet,' Leary said, watching her carefully.

‘She's so pretty,' Iris said wistfully, and rubbed her cheek against the top of Charlotte's head. ‘I spose you're not on your own, though, are you? Not at the moment.'

Satisfied, Leary reached for his drink.

Elizabeth stood with her hands on her hips in a small windowless room next to the Siren's Arms' laundry, a space she referred to as the storeroom but which everyone else called the junk cupboard, staring at a completely unfamiliar trunk.

‘Jack!' she called. Then, much louder,
‘Jack!'

He appeared moments later, a cobweb in his hair. ‘All right, keep your wig on. I'm only in the cellar, not out at Parramatta.'

‘Where did this trunk come from?'

‘It's Molly's. You told me to pack up her things and put them in here after she drowned, in case someone turned up for them.'

It was, too. She'd forgotten all about it. She couldn't imagine why she'd ever said such a thing; the less left of that girl, the better.

‘Well, get rid of it. It's just taking up room.'

‘How?'

‘Oh, I don't know, Jack! Use your head. Take it down to the markets and flog it to a second-hand dealer.'

‘The whole trunkful?'

‘Why not? There's nothing valuable in it, is there?'

‘Not that I can remember — just clothes and women's stuff. Shall I open it?'

Elizabeth shuddered. ‘No, thank you. I don't want to see that little tart's tatty old bits and pieces.'

‘Can it wait till I've brought this barrel up?'

‘It can wait until the end of the week; just make sure you get around to it. I was thinking I might keep the spare laundry baskets in here.' Elizabeth looked at the watch on her chatelaine and scowled. ‘He's late.'

‘Who?'

‘I had a meeting arranged with someone at eleven, and he's not arrived.'

‘What does he look like?'

‘How should I know? I've not met him.'

‘Because there's a sour-looking cove sitting in the bar and Al says he keeps pulling out
his
watch.'

‘Oh, for God's sake.'

Elizabeth went through to the bar, where there was indeed a man sitting alone at a table, looking far from happy.

‘Captain Farrell?' Elizabeth asked.

‘Yes?'

‘Good morning, Captain. I'm Mrs Hislop.'

The captain stood and took her hand. ‘Good morning, Mrs Hislop. Very nice to meet you.' He remained standing, regarding her closely and giving her the distinct impression that he was waiting for something, like . . . an apology.

‘Can I help you?' she asked.

‘It's just that you're late. I hope nothing untoward has occurred.'

‘Nooo,' Elizabeth said slowly, ‘I'm not late. Why didn't you ask for me at the counter?' She indicated Al, who waved cheerily with his dishcloth.

‘What would be the point of that? How would the barman know who you are?'

‘Because I own the place. I'm the publican.'

Letting out a very controlled sigh, the captain resumed his seat. ‘Shall we start again? My instructions from Mrs Doyle this morning were to meet you in this bar at eleven o'clock sharp
to discuss a fee for an expedition to Newcastle. I'm afraid she didn't appraise me of the fact that you're the proprietor here. I do apologise.'

Elizabeth sat. ‘Possibly her idea of a joke. Or not. Who can tell with Biddy Doyle? Anyway, we're here now.'

‘Yes. Mrs Doyle tells me you're the passengers' agent.'

‘After a fashion.'

‘And am I correct in assuming that you will be personally underwriting their costs?'

‘You are.'

‘Are they not in a position to do so themselves?'

Elizabeth thought about the money the girls had in the bank, and the high likelihood of Bella Shand's next blackmail demand coming sooner rather than later, which was why she'd offered to pay the captain from her own purse.

She said, ‘No, they're not,' and gave him a look she hoped would convey that any further discussion of that particular subject was none of his business, and therefore closed.

Evidently it did. He said, ‘I need to take into account the length of the voyage, and by that I mean how many days and nights we'll be away, as well as payment to my crew, and victualling and what have you, all of which costs, we need to acknowledge, are somewhat open-ended at this point. I suggest a starting point of five guineas to be paid in advance, with a further payment after the fact if necessary. Now, if I were taking four fat officers from the King's Own Regiment out for a joyride I'd set the fee a damn sight higher, if you'll pardon my language, but I understand that the life of a small child is at stake, so I'll be happy with what I've stated.'

‘I was also hoping you'd pay heed to their welfare.'

‘You mean safeguard them? That's a tall order, given the purpose of their expedition, and the fact that they're women. I'd have to add another five guineas if you're looking for a chaperone service.'

‘That's very generous of you, Captain Farrell.' Elizabeth took her purse from her skirt pocket. It
was
generous, too — she'd allowed for a minimum of twice that. Of course, if they were away for ages, that figure could soar. She handed over the money.

‘Thank you,' the captain said, slipping it inside his coat. ‘These . . . passengers. Is there anything I should know about them?'

Oh dear, Elizabeth thought, and it was all going so well. ‘I'm afraid I really don't know what you mean.'

‘I've actually met Miss Clarke, but —'

‘Mrs Downey, she is now.'

‘Yes, Mrs Downey. But I can't say I know her at all. She did seem to me to be rather quiet and shy. That is, she
was
quiet, until, er . . .'

‘Mick Doyle got her drunk?'

‘Quite. Are her colleagues cut from the same cloth? Because if they are, I really can't see them having the wherewithal to even track down where this fellow's hiding Mrs Downey's child, let alone the nerve to confront him. Biddy Doyle did suggest they're quite capable,' one eyebrow went up in an expression of faint disbelief, ‘but there's a big difference between a successful day's shopping at the market and going on a manhunt.'

You tosser, Elizabeth thought. He was a good-looking young man, Rian Farrell, with his blond hair, square jaw and watchful grey eyes, and was clearly well educated and, as captain of his own schooner, no doubt accustomed to being obeyed, but he was obviously woefully ignorant when it came to women. Smart ones, anyway. Well, he'd find out.

‘They
are
all capable, actually, in their own ways. Harrie's very determined, despite what you might have thought when she was with Mick Doyle. We all make mistakes, you know — even you, I expect, Captain. Sarah Green's extremely sharp and can run rings around most men I've met. Friday Woolfe is one of
the most loyal and generous people I know, and very, let's say, physically handy, and her friend, Aria, is smart
and
physically competent. Formidable, to say the least. I think you might be surprised.'

‘Well, we'll see. I trust Mrs Doyle passed on my list of requirements?'

‘She did. No fraternising with your crew, no drinking, and the girls must submit to your command.'

‘I'll accept nothing less, Mrs Hislop,' Rian said.

Elizabeth nodded emphatically and said, ‘Of course,' while thinking, good luck, son.

The first one wouldn't be a problem — Harrie and Sarah were both happily married and Friday and Aria weren't interested in sailors — but the rest most certainly would. Friday would probably be swattled before she even got on the ship, and as for expecting them to submit to his command, well, Captain Farrell was going to be very disappointed.

‘I'm very disappointed, however —'

‘What?' Elizabeth blinked, startled. Had he read her mind?

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘I'm sorry. Do carry on.'

‘I was about to say, I'm very disappointed by Mick's behaviour. I gather that Mrs Downey suffered in the extreme as a consequence of his actions.'

‘That's certainly true.'

‘I also realise that the event in question took place over a year ago now, but that's not the point. Mick's always been, well, cavalier regarding these matters. He can stay ashore this time, without pay. It would be unacceptable for Mrs Downey to be forced to sail with him.'

Elizabeth inclined her head in acknowledgment of the captain's kindness. ‘How refreshing. Thank you. It's usually the lass who gets blamed when it comes to such affairs.'

‘Yes, but not always fairly, Mrs Hislop. After all, it's the man who, er, well,' — the captain reddened slightly — ‘I'm sure you take my meaning.'

‘I do, Captain Farrell. I admit I'm surprised you hold such a view, after your comment about shopping not being the same as a manhunt.'

‘Oh, that still stands, because it isn't, is it?'

‘Well, of course it isn't.' Elizabeth leant forwards. ‘And I'll tell you something for nothing, Captain. These girls know that perfectly well.'

Friday heaved her travel bag over her shoulder and winced as it made a telltale clinking sound.

Halfway out the door, Aria stopped, turned and demanded, ‘What is that in your bag?'

‘Nothing. Lemonade. Ivy made it for us.'

Aria fixed her with a long, hard stare. ‘Mrs Hislop said that there is to be no drinking on the ship.'

‘I know. Don't worry.'

‘Show me.'

Sighing theatrically, Friday set the bag down on the bed, opened the ties at the neck and rummaged around till she felt one of the bottles. Pulling it out, she said, ‘See? Lemonade.' With gin in it.

‘Do I need to taste it?' Aria asked.

‘Only if you don't think you can trust me. You don't, do you?'

‘Not when it comes to alcohol.'

Friday thrust the bottle at her. ‘Go on, try it. Make me feel like I'm back in gaol. I don't care.'

Aria eyed the bottle, then looked away. ‘Come on, we do not want the ship to sail without us.'

Friday shoved the bottle back in her bag and hurried after her, feeling uncomfortably ashamed. There was no victory in lying to Aria, only a guilty sort of relief at yet again getting what
she needed. It wasn't even what she wanted any more — she'd gone beyond that some time ago, though it had taken a while to admit it, even to herself. She really had tried to go without and, despite her claims to everyone that she could stop drinking whenever she wanted to, she'd been appalled when she'd discovered she couldn't. She had to have alcohol now just to feel normal, and the thought of dragging herself through her days sober — without even a drop of gin in her body — was utterly terrifying. She really didn't think she had the guts, the strength, or the desire to do it.

So now her days were divided into different tasks, the priority being getting enough gin to stay pleasantly muzzy, if not outright drunk, followed by trying to keep Aria happy, followed by going to work. And now Leary had taken Charlotte and they had to get her back and it was all getting to be too much. She felt like those entertainers you saw on the street who tossed three or four wooden balls at the same time, going really high and fast, except more had been added, and she felt constantly on the verge of dropping them, and when she did — and she knew she would — they'd smash everywhere. Which ball would she lose forever? Aria? Charlotte? Her friends? Elizabeth? Her job?

All of them?

Harrie left her note for James on their bed, where he'd see it when he came home from the surgery — after he'd finished having a fit when he'd discovered she'd gone, that was. It read:

My Dearest James,

I've gone to fetch Charlotte. Please do not worry — Friday, Sarah and Aria are with me. And please do not come after us. We've chartered a schooner and crew to take us up to Newcastle. We should be back in a few days, a week at most.

We made a promise to Rachel that we'd keep Charlotte safe. That means us, not you and Leo and Matthew. I'm sorry, James, but we have to do this ourselves.

Please look after Sophie and Anna for me, but let Robbie think he is.

All my love always,

Harrie

She said goodbye to the children, and Daisy and Elsa, and asked Isaac to drive the carriage to the corner of Hunter and George streets to wait for Sarah, who came trotting down the road, bag over her shoulder, at ten minutes past eleven.

‘Poor Adam,' she said as she climbed into the carriage. ‘I feel such a shite. I told him I was going to the bog. He'll think I've fallen down it.'

‘Did you leave him a note?'

‘Of course I did.'

Suddenly alarmed, Harrie said, ‘You didn't say what wharf we're leaving from, did you? He might follow you.'

‘Do I look stupid?'

‘You never look stupid.'

‘God, I hope I don't get seasick,' Sarah said. ‘Friday will.'

Harrie bit her lip. ‘I'm not looking forward to the ship either.'

‘But you don't get ill at sea.'

‘No, it's not that.' Harrie felt a flush creeping up her neck and across her face. ‘It's, um . . .'

Sarah twigged. ‘Oh. Is it Mick Doyle?'

Relieved that Sarah had guessed, Harrie nodded. ‘What will I say to him?'

‘Nothing. Mrs Hislop said he won't be aboard. Remember?'

‘Yes, but what if he is?'

‘He won't be.'

‘But what if the captain changes his mind and he
is
, and he says something to me?'

Sarah's normally slightly sharp features softened, and she took Harrie's hand. ‘Love, I hate to say this, but if he is, he might not even remember you. Have you thought of that?'

On the one hand the notion that she'd spent more than a year trying to forget the events and repercussions of a single disastrous night, while the boy himself had probably forgotten her immediately, was profoundly embarrassing, but on the other, it was a mercy. If he didn't remember her, she could go about her business without fretting over what he might be thinking about their shameful time together. The alternative was unbearable: the thought of him leering at her, reliving every humiliating and possibly even disgusting moment, was horrible. But if he couldn't recall her . . . Instantly, she felt a dash of the tension that had been building inside her over the last few days ease away.

‘No, I hadn't, actually,' she said, and burst into tears.

‘Oh, for God's sake, Harrie, he isn't worth crying about! Not after all this time!'

Harrie waved a hand, trying to gain some control so she could speak. Finally she said, ‘It's not him.' And it wasn't, really. ‘I don't care about
him
. It's Charlotte.' And off she went again.

Sarah pulled her into a hug. Harrie sank against her, relishing the comfort of her slender little frame and the familiar smell of her perfume — which, she suddenly realised, was the same one that Adam wore: sandalwood and lime. They were turning into each other, Sarah and Adam.

‘Why can't I be calm, like you?' she asked.

‘Because it's not my child Leary's stolen,' Sarah said, giving her a handkerchief. ‘Well, not as much as she is yours. And anyway, I've always been more hard-hearted than you.'

Harrie blew her nose loudly. ‘You're not hard-hearted. I keep wondering whether he's feeding her properly. And what about her
drawers? She's probably wetting her pants. And she'll be terrified and crying all the time and won't be getting any cuddles.
He
won't be cuddling her. At least I hope not.' She shuddered. ‘I couldn't
bear
that.'

Sarah gave her a squeeze. ‘Try not to worry. Silly thing to say, I know, but try. We'll be there by eight or nine o'clock tonight and we can start looking straight away.'

‘But how big's Newcastle? We could be looking for days. And what if we're wrong? What if he's taken her somewhere else altogether?'

‘We're not wrong.'

‘I saw that. You crossed your fingers.'

‘I did not. And Leo said Newcastle's not big at all. Hardly anyone lives there.'

‘Did you tell him we're going after Charlotte? Sarah!'

‘No, I didn't, though I did say I thought we should, just after she was taken. He tried to talk me out of it, so I let him think he had. He didn't want us to, because he didn't think you could manage. He was worried for you.'

‘I'm not made of glass, you know.'

‘Not now you're not, though you were last year. I think now you're made of steel.'

Harrie said, ‘I am when it comes to Charlotte.'

The
Katipo
was a three-masted fore-and-aft schooner, one hundred and thirty feet in length and currently sitting reasonably high in the water as she wasn't carrying cargo. Her sleek wooden hull was painted black with a blood-red stripe running just below the bulwark; her jib-boom was long and lethal-looking, pointing out into the cove like a stiletto. The schooner's figurehead, tucked beneath the base of her bowsprit, was the head and torso of a woman with bright yellow hair and a well-developed chest.

‘Big tits,' Friday remarked. Even bigger than hers.

‘They're all like that,' Sarah said.

Aria said, ‘No, they are not. I have seen plenty with men on the front, and once a horse with a long horn. But the best are the women with the fish tails.'

‘Where would you get to see lots of ships?' Sarah asked.

‘Kororareka. All the whalers.'

They were standing on King's Wharf, watching Captain Farrell's crew prepare the schooner. The tide was on the turn and there was a fair off-shore wind — according to the captain — so the
Katipo
would be warped out a short distance until the breeze filled her sails, and they'd be off.

Whatever happened, Friday wished the crew would hurry up. She was worried that someone would appear and stop them. James, Adam, Leo; it would only take one to come along and ruin it all, though she supposed that if worse came to worst she could just shove whoever it was off the wharf into the water and they could all jump on the ship and sail away. She kept looking over her shoulder back towards George Street, but so far they were getting away with it.

The crew kept staring, though, and every time they did the captain shouted at them. Hadn't they seen women before? Mind you, she kept gawking at
them
. What a bloody strange-looking lot. She'd seen some exotic tars in her time, but Captain Farrell seemed to have sailed round the world collecting the most extraordinary sailors he could find.

Finally, the sails had been unfurled and hoisted, and the ship's little rowboat launched carrying the anchor. The captain beckoned them aboard. One by one they trooped up the gangway.

‘Welcome aboard the
Katipo,'
Captain Farrell said, though his expression wasn't particularly friendly.

Still the crew stared. A little man trotted across the deck and saluted them.

‘Bonjour, mademoiselles,' he said, smiling hugely and revealing several gold teeth. ‘Welcome to this most beautiful schooner on the oceans. I am Pierre and I am le chef.'

Friday couldn't take her eyes off him. She and Aria towered over him — he wasn't much over five feet and as skinny as one of Sarah's skeleton keys, but wiry and sinewy. Faintly brown-skinned, he wore a sharply pointed little beard, severely waxed moustache and a long black plait down his back, and had kind, merry brown eyes. Also, he reeked of lavender.

‘And Mademoiselle Harrie, it is such pleasure to see you again!' Pierre grasped Harrie's hand and kissed it with a flourish. ‘Welcome, welcome.'

‘Do you remember me?' she asked, looking shaken.

‘Never would Pierre Babineaux forget a lady with such charm, chérie. We will find your daughter, no?'

‘That's what we're here for,' Friday said, answering for Harrie. Then, to save beating about the bush, she blurted, ‘Is Mick Doyle here?'

Captain Farrell said, ‘No. I did advise Mrs Hislop that he wouldn't be sailing with us. Did she not tell you?'

‘The captain, he agrees Mick is the arsehole,' Pierre chattered on, ‘so he has been stood down to spare the hurts of the mademoiselle.'

‘She did say,' Friday said. ‘Just making sure.'

‘Told you it'd be all right.' Sarah gave a relieved-looking Harrie a gentle prod with her elbow.

Aria said to Pierre, ‘You look like a monkey.'

The crew laughed, evidently highly entertained. The ship gave a lurch and the girls all staggered.

Squinting up at her, his hand raised against the midday sun, Pierre replied, ‘And you, mademoiselle, Pierre is believing would make even Marie Laveau reach for her most potent gris-gris.'

The crew laughed even harder.

Scowling, Aria asked Friday, ‘Who is this Marie Laveau?'

‘Dunno.'

‘I do not think I like you, little man,' Aria said.

The ship lurched again. The captain ordered, ‘Hawk, take the women below. Gideon and Te Kanene, you man the capstan; Pierre, you see to the rigging. Sharkey'll join you when we pick up the anchor.'

The men scattered.

As they followed Hawk across the deck, Friday noted that it was very tidy, the planks beautifully oiled, the brass gleaming and all the ropes coiled and tucked out of the way. She didn't know much about ships (only the men who sailed them), but the captain clearly cared about his schooner. There was a small rowboat suspended to one side of the quarterdeck, swaying gently, and a pulley arrangement opposite where the other one obviously hung when not in use. Three hatches, currently closed, broke the smoothness of the deck and a low door sat open beneath the poop deck. Hawk ducked his head and disappeared through it.

‘Remind you of anything?' Sarah said glumly as she stooped to follow him.

It did: endless, very unpleasant days and nights at sea on the
Isla
when they were transported from England — Christ, how many years back? Three? Three and a half?

Below, in the cabin, the light was dim and she could smell salt, damp wood and the smoky reek of burnt whale oil. They were in a space that looked like a communal mess room, almost completely filled by a table flanked by benches. Directly above that was a latticed skylight. On each side of the room opened two doorways covered by rough curtains, and at the end opposite the entrance a doorway led to a tiny galley, next to another room with a proper door on it, which was shut. Probably the captain's cabin, Friday thought.

God, it really did stink down here. She felt sick already.

Hawk indicated two of the curtained areas. ‘You four will share these two berths. We should arrive at Newcastle at around eight tonight, but we may have to stand off before we enter the harbour mouth, depending on the tide. Captain Farrell thought you might prefer privacy during the voyage. There will not be much room, but . . .' He shrugged.