A Tattooed Heart (45 page)

Friday felt tears burn behind her eyes.

‘I thought I'd lost her forever, but when you came along I realised I hadn't. Be happy, my love. Be at peace.'

They hugged fiercely until Morley said, ‘For Christ's sake, you're only going to the bloody cells, not England.'

‘Time to get your things, Mrs Hislop,' Gould said.

Friday let go of Elizabeth and watched as the constable accompanied her upstairs to her room.

Morley remarked, ‘Is your boss a bit cracked in the head?'

‘What do you mean?' Friday glared at him.

‘Well, first we caught her talking to a dead person in the graveyard, and now she's flitting about and smiling away like she's off to a picnic. Does she not realise she'll be hung by the neck for what she's done?'

‘Constable Morley?' Aria said.

‘What?'

‘Fuck off.'

In the upstairs hallway, Gould said, ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Hislop, but I have to accompany you into your bedchamber.'

‘Good. You can hold my underdrawers, chemises and incontinence towels while I gather my medicines. Oh, and I'll probably throw in a couple of corsets, too, just in case.'

Gould's face turned its familiar shade of red. ‘How long will this take?'

‘Five minutes.'

‘I'll wait out here. Any longer, though, and I'll have to come in. And don't close the door.'

‘Thank you, Constable. You are most understanding.'

Elizabeth unlocked her door and, leaving it slightly ajar, went into her room. She took a moment to look around, savouring the sight of the floral wallpaper, the pair of silk-covered armchairs arranged before the fireplace, the matching rosewood bureaux, dressing table and clothespress, the satin comforter on the canopy bed and all her lovely bits and pieces, knowing she'd never see any of it ever again.

Then she opened a drawer and withdrew her pistol, checked that it was loaded, and raised it to her head.

She could never, ever go back to gaol, and Gil was waiting for her.

‘Goodbye, Friday. Goodbye everyone I love,' she whispered, and squeezed the trigger.

Downstairs Friday heard the bang, and knew instantly what Elizabeth had done. Slowly, she bent at the knees, wrapped her hands around her head and let out a wail of anguish.

‘Morley!' Gould shouted from the top of the stairs. ‘Morley, get up here!'

Friday felt Morley, then Aria and Jack rush past her. She lifted her head and followed them.

At the door to Elizabeth's room she shoved past Gould, whose face, for a change, was deathly white, and stared numbly at Elizabeth's body crumpled on the floor. Her eyes were open, her wig was askew, and at her temple a small, bloody hole in the exact centre of a depression revealed where the ball had entered.

Friday stamped her foot, just once, like a five-year-old. Then she looked at Aria and, her voice wobbling terribly, said, ‘I'm getting sick of this.'

Aria took her hand. ‘I know.'

Three days before Christmas, a seemingly endless convoy of empty carriages joined Elizabeth's funeral procession along George Street. They belonged to friends, business associates and clients, many risking social censure by daring to pay tribute to Sydney's most popular, wealthy and stylish madam.

Friday, Aria and Loulou had arranged the funeral. There were two mutes only at the head of the procession, the leading carriages were drawn by horses shining like obsidian and bedecked in black ostrich plumes, and Jack himself drove the glass-walled funeral carriage, in which Elizabeth's body lay in a rosewood coffin scattered with white roses. Her Siren employees and the girls from the brothel, Friday included, walked alongside wearing black from crown to toe, their grief genuine and unrestrained.

She was buried in Devonshire Street cemetery together with Gil's remains, which had been retrieved from Clarence Shand's grave two days previously by the police. There would be no further investigation into his alleged murder as the prime suspect was now deceased and the constabulary much embarrassed by the circumstances.

Two days later Friday, Aria, Jack, Jimmy Johnson, Ivy, Dr Lawrence Chandler, Biddy Doyle and Nora Barrett met in the private meeting room of the Siren's Arms to hear the reading of Elizabeth's will, as requested by her solicitor, Mr Castle.

Friday thought they were a bit of an odd group — Biddy Doyle and Nora? — but she knew Mrs H would have her reasons. She and Aria both wore full black, Jack, Jimmy and Dr Chandler wore black armbands, Ivy was in her grey work dress but wore a black
apron and house cap, Nora wore purple, and Biddy Doyle wore a fancy black shawl over a grey bodice and dark grey skirt. All in all, Friday decided, they were a miserable-looking lot.

‘I'm sure I don't know why I'm here,' Biddy said, echoing Friday's thoughts as she helped herself to a buttered pikelet. ‘I hardly knew Mrs Hislop.'

‘I only knew her from that business with Harrie,' Nora said. ‘Did you have any other dealings with her?'

‘Well, when the girls went up to Newcastle to fetch Harrie's little one back, but that's it.'

‘I don't know why I'm here, either,' Ivy said, her cheeks reddening. ‘I think someone's made a mistake.'

Biddy dabbed at the corner of her mouth, her little finger up in the air. ‘Oh, I doubt that, dear.'

Mr Castle arrived, drank a cup of tea, wolfed down four pikelets and a scone, and settled himself at a small table. Then, retrieving a sheaf of folded papers tied with ribbon from his portmanteau and arranging his spectacles halfway down his nose, he cleared his throat.

‘I'm sure you all know why you've been asked to attend today. It is with the greatest regret that I execute this duty, as Elizabeth Hislop was a fine, compassionate and generous woman and her untimely passing has been most tragic and unfortunate.'

Ivy sniffed loudly and blew her nose.

Friday felt for her; poor Ivy cried about everything. Mind you, she felt like crying herself. Again.

‘And I should advise you that it isn't really necessary for me to reveal the contents of Mrs Hislop's will in quite so formal a fashion as this,' Mr Castle continued. ‘I could, in fact, have consulted each of you individually. However, professionally this is a very busy time of year for me, so please forgive my somewhat selfish timesaving measures.' He tugged open the ribbon on the papers and pressed them flat. ‘May I therefore proceed?'

No one said he couldn't, so off he went. ‘I will now read the last will and testament of the late Mrs Elizabeth Mercy Hislop of Harrington Street, The Rocks, Sydney Town.'

‘Mercy?
' Friday whispered to Aria.

‘Shush.'

‘To Ivy Mitchell I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds —
'

A gasp from Ivy.

‘— To be used to engage a tutor part-time for private lessons to further her education.'

Sobs now, and more nose-trumpeting.

‘To Jimmy Johnson I bequeath the sum of one hundred pounds, also to be used to engage a tutor part-time for private lessons to further his education. I assign Jack Wilton as executor of this sum, in Jimmy's interests.'

‘That's so you can't spend it on women and dice,' Jack said in a loud whisper to a grinning Jimmy.

‘To Jack Wilton I bequeath the sum of two hundred pounds, plus ownership of all my equine stock, and stipulate that Siren Holdings Ltd, and Gilbert Holdings Ltd, lease said stock from Jack Wilton on a regular, long-term basis.'

Mr Castle looked over his spectacles. ‘Which one is Mr Wilton? You? This means that you now own Mrs Hislop's eight horses, and that the hotel and brothel will be hiring them from you. You are now in possession of your own business, Mr Wilton.'

Jack was speechless.

Typical Mrs H, Friday thought. Jack had always wanted to be his own boss, though he'd never grizzled about working for Elizabeth.

Returning to the will, Mr Castle read on. ‘
To Mrs Biddy Doyle, I bequeath sole interest in my recently established company Rocks Holdings Ltd, which owns two adjacent properties in Caraher's Lane, plus the sum of three hundred pounds —
'

Biddy choked on her scone.

‘Do you need more tea?' Nora asked.

Scarlet-faced, Biddy waved her away.

‘—
Three hundred pounds,
' Mr Castle repeated, ‘
to be used in her endeavours to purchase further properties in the Rocks area as a means of supporting her family as a property owner and landlady.
'

‘Holy
Mary!'
Biddy exclaimed. ‘I don't know what I've done to deserve that, I truly don't!'

‘Newcastle,' Aria said as though Biddy would know what that meant, and she did.

‘To Mrs Nora Barrett I also bequeath the sum of three hundred pounds, to be used in her endeavours to grow her business as a dressmaker, but not, under any circumstances, to be used, borrowed, or borrowed against in any manner whatsoever by her husband, George Barrett.'

Nora burst into tears.

Good for you, Mrs H, Friday thought.

Mr Castle paused. ‘May I trouble someone to pour me another tea, please? This is rather thirsty work.'

Ivy leapt up and fetched him a cup, setting it before him on the little table.

‘Would you like a pikelet, sir?'

‘No, thank you, dear.'

He slurped noisily, then continued.
‘To Dr Lawrence Chandler, I bequeath the sum of one thousand pounds to go towards his charitable work for the benefit of prostitutes, to be spent in any way he sees fit.'

‘I say,' Lawrence said, smiling hugely. ‘That will be of the most enormous assistance. Good old Elizabeth!'

‘Now,' Mr Castle announced, ‘I arrive at the slightly more complicated bequests.
I bequeath to Miss Friday Woolfe all of my jewellery.
' He glanced up over his spectacles. ‘Actually, no, that wasn't particularly complicated, was it? Here we are.
I bequeath all of
my remaining funds, and ownership of my remaining businesses — Siren Holdings Ltd, and Gilbert Holdings Ltd — and remaining associated properties on Harrington Street and Argyle Street, to Miss Aria Moehanga Te Kainga-mataa, to hold in Trust for Miss Friday Woolfe, until Miss Woolfe has either served the entirety of her fourteen-year sentence, or been granted a conditional or an absolute pardon, after which, by law, she may operate a business.'

Friday gaped first at Mr Castle, then at Aria. ‘Did you know about this?'

Everyone turned to look.

‘Yes.'

‘And you didn't tell me?'

‘It was not time,' Aria said simply. ‘And it was not your business, until now.'

‘Not my
business?'

‘No. She wanted it to be a secret.'

A horrible thought suddenly occurred to Friday. ‘Did she know she was going to die?'

Aria gave the question serious thought, as she did most things. ‘I do not think so. But I believe she wanted to be prepared. She already had a will and she wished to change it, in your favour. You will have to talk to Mr Castle about that.'

Mr Castle made a production of clearing his throat. ‘May I continue?'

Aria grandly waved him on.

‘Thank you.
Transfer of the funds, businesses and properties to Miss Woolfe is conditional upon Miss Woolfe remaining permanently abstinent from alcohol.'

‘Ha!' Friday exclaimed. ‘I knew it!'

‘Be quiet,' Aria said.

‘While the funds, businesses and properties are held in Trust, Miss Te Kainga-mataa will operate the businesses, with advice and support from Miss Woolfe. All convicts currently assigned to
me at the time of my death, including Miss Friday Woolfe, will have their papers transferred to Miss Te Kainga-mataa.'
Mr Castle added, ‘There is a list here of which current employees are bonded convicts, but that is for the eyes of Miss Te Kainga-mataa and Miss Woolfe only. The disbursement of funds referred to in the will should be straightforward and will hopefully occur within the next fortnight. My clerk will be in touch. Are there any questions?'

It seemed there weren't.

‘I'm off to buy the biggest bunch of flowers I can afford to lay on that sainted woman's grave, so I am,' Biddy said.

Nora nodded vehemently. ‘I'll come with you.'

‘And then I'm for grabbing yesterday's
Gazette
and having a bloody good look at the house auctions.'

Aria and Friday thanked Mr Castle, who shook their hands and bustled off, leaving them standing in the meeting room of the hotel they now owned.

Friday wandered across to Mrs H's office and sat in her chair, gazed around the room for a while, fiddled with her pen holder, rummaged around in the desk drawers, stared for a long time at a black shawl left draped over the back of an armchair, and eyed for almost as long the bottle of brandy sitting on the shelf.

Above her the floorboards creaked and she wondered who was working in that room. She thought it might be Esmerelda.

How had things ended up like this?

It was so quiet in here now. Mrs H had been a small woman, if a smidgen round, but in life her voice and character had filled the room.

From a drawer she took the gold ring with the pink stone and tiny pearls she'd thought was Molly's, and put it on her little finger. Mrs H had drowned Molly, to protect
her
. She'd looked after her, tolerated her rotten behaviour, and cared about her even when she'd been so bloody awful that hardly anyone else had.

And now the will.

Because of Mrs H, she'd gone from living hand-to-mouth and walking the streets to inheriting two very lucrative businesses and approximately one hundred and seventeen thousand pounds, an utterly phenomenal and almost unimaginable amount of money.

And she'd give up all of it to have Elizabeth back.

She put her head down on the desk and wept. Bitterly.

January 1833, Sydney Town

The weather on Lucy and Matthew's wedding day was perfect, if somewhat warm. They were married at half past ten in the morning at St James's Anglican church on King Street, the interior of the church offering a welcome respite from the heat already building outside.

Lucy wore a gown of shot silk that gleamed duck-egg blue and gold, fashioned in a simple but expertly cut style that hugged her torso, waist and arms, but flared over her hips from a series of tiny, full pleats. The modest neckline was decorated with a small frill, as were the basque waistline and the cuffs of the sleeves. Fifty-six buttons closed the gown at the back, and the hem was embroidered with a twelve-inch floral border in gold silk thread. In her blonde hair, twisted and rolled into a simple knot (she said she couldn't be bothered with ringlets flopping all over the place), she'd tucked a single, perfect iris to match the small bouquet she carried, and on her left ring finger sat the garnet and pearl ring Sarah had made for her.

Matthew nearly fainted when he glanced over his shoulder to see her advancing towards him up the central passageway of the church on Isaac Longbone's arm. Behind her came Sophie and Anna, their faces pasty with nerves.

‘You've done well, old boy,' James, his best man, said. ‘She looks absolutely lovely.'

‘My God, doesn't she look gorgeous?' Friday whispered to Harrie from their pew in the nave. ‘Nora's done a lovely job of that frock. Those poor girls, though. Anna looks like she's about to whip the cat.'

‘Angus!' Charlotte shouted. ‘Miaow!'

‘Shush, sweetie, we have to be quiet in here.'

Lucy had reached Matthew now, and they stood gazing up at the reverend teetering in his pulpit, a ridiculously high edifice soaring at least ten feet above the congregation. The man had already begun some lengthy pontification.

‘What a stupid arrangement,' Aria muttered. ‘What is he doing way up there, like an opossum in a tree?'

Sitting farther along the pew with Sarah, Adam heard and started to laugh and though he managed to stifle it, the pew shook so violently he set Sarah off and she let out an almighty snort.

‘Piggies, Mama!'

This made Friday giggle helplessly, which spread to Robbie and Walter who slid down in the pew, faces hidden behind their hands.

‘Stop it, all of you!' Harrie hissed.

Standing before the chancel, James turned, eyebrows raised. Harrie gave him a cheery little wave.

The reverend had the bit between his teeth now. Friday dug around in her reticule, found a tiny pair of silver scissors and attacked her fingernails. Charlotte fell asleep. Glancing up after ten or so minutes, Friday saw that Lucy and Matthew were wilting visibly, Isaac was yanking at the collar of his new, stiffly starched shirt as though it were strangling him, and the girls looked like they really needed to sit down. Finally, the reverend shut up and disappeared for a few moments to descend from his perch, and at last approached Lucy and Matthew.

A stirring and murmur of interest passed through the congregation. Clearly Charlotte hadn't been the only one to nod off.

‘Dearly beloved,' he began, ‘we are gathered together here in the sight of God, and in the face of this congregation, to join together this man and this woman in holy matrimony; which is an honourable estate, instituted of God in the time of man's innocency . . .'

As he droned on, Aria tapped Friday's arm. ‘Is “innocency” a proper word?'

‘Dunno. Ask James. Or Lucy, maybe.'

It was all a bit boring, and exactly the same words used at Sarah and Adam's, and Harrie and James's, wedding ceremonies, and Friday drifted off again, though she perked up when Matthew, then Lucy, said ‘I will'.

When the reverend then asked, ‘Who giveth this woman to be married to this man?' and nothing happened, and it transpired that Isaac had gone to sleep on his feet and had to be prodded awake by James, everyone roared.

Then Matthew slipped the wedding ring onto Lucy's finger and they knelt, Matthew's knees cracking like ice on a frozen lake, and the reverend declared them to be man and wife in the name of the Father, the Son and the Holy Ghost. Following were several psalms, a couple of prayers, and a lesson in which Lucy was instructed to submit herself to her husband's will in all matters (‘Good luck with that, Matthew,' Friday whispered to Aria), then they were walking out of the church into the hot, bright sun.

On Sunday, two days after the wedding, Harrie, Sarah, Friday and Aria sat on Harrie's back verandah eating slightly stale iced madeira cake for breakfast, and watching Charlotte gallop around the trampled and rapidly browning lawn after Angus. Lucy had given the little girl her iris bouquet, and she'd decided Angus
would look pretty with it tied around his furry neck. Angus felt otherwise.

Harrie and James had hosted the wedding breakfast in their garden, as their gift to Lucy and Matthew — plus a full Coalport porcelain dinner service in a ‘Japan' pattern, because Harrie knew Lucy would adore it and she hadn't been able to resist buying it. They'd hired tables, chairs and servingware, and the girls from the kitchen at the Siren's Arms to prepare the food, and James had also paid for the liquid refreshments. While the adults sat down to eat beneath canvas awnings draped with yards and yards of fluttering bleached muslin, the children had charged around the garden and among the trees in bare feet, ignoring warnings about snakes and spiders, having a wonderful time. Hannah, of course, had fallen down a bank, got covered in dirt and needed a dress of Anna's to wear.

The speeches had gone on for a good forty-five minutes, and were mostly at Matthew's expense, though he'd laughed as heartily as everyone else. Watching him, Harrie had thought she'd never seen him happier. Lucy, too, had seemed radiant, and looked utterly beautiful. When no one showed any sign of leaving by one o'clock, and Harrie had spotted poor Matthew surreptitiously eyeing his watch for the fifth time, she'd intervened.

Standing, she'd tapped loudly against her glass with a pudding spoon. ‘Excuse me. Excuse me, everyone!'

Gradually the chatter had died down and heads had turned her way.

‘Thank you. Now, I know we're all having a lovely time, but I think we should spare a thought for Mr and Mrs Cutler. They've had a long day and it must be just about time for them to go home and have what I'm sure will be a very well-deserved and much-anticipated lie-down.'

A wave of mortified silence had ensued and it was then that she'd realised she should probably have stuck with just the one sherry.

But Friday had rescued her. She'd leapt up, raised her glass of lemonade, and declared, ‘Exactly! Here's to a pair of very knackered newlyweds! Come on, you two, off you go. Jack'll take you home. We'll bring all your lovely gifts around later. Three cheers for Lucy and Matthew! Hip, hip, hooray!'

And everyone had hoorayed their heads off and the shrivellingly embarrassing moment had passed, though James had teased her mercilessly about it later.

The day had been lovely, and Harrie was delighted that she and James had been able to make such a major contribution. Matthew deserved a perfect wedding day, and he definitely deserved Lucy.

Mind you, they'd all be eating leftovers for the next week.

‘I wish Mrs H could have seen Lucy,' Friday said. ‘She would have loved that dress.'

‘Rachel would have loved it, too,' Harrie said. ‘It was a proper princess dress, wasn't it?'

‘And Janie,' Sarah added.

Friday laughed. ‘And Bella, the poor old mot.'

They were silent for a long, reflective moment. Inside the house, upstairs, they could hear Sophie shouting at Anna. The sooner Lucy opened her school the better, Harrie thought.

Then Sarah said, ‘We've lost a lot, haven't we?'

‘We have,' Harrie agreed. ‘But, well, I don't have to say it, do I?'

She didn't. Though they'd lost people they'd loved, they'd gained far more than they'd ever dreamt they would.

‘Would you give it all up to have them back?' Friday asked. ‘I think I would, you know. Except for Bella, maybe. But not you, Aria. I wouldn't give you up.'

‘I know.' Aria kissed Friday's cheek. ‘And I will never relinquish you. Not for the whole of the world.'

‘I'd give all this up,' Harrie said, waving vaguely at the garden, ‘especially if we could have Rachel back. And Janie. But I couldn't
go without James or the children. And I'd definitely have trouble giving up Charlotte, even if it was back to Rachel.'

‘And I couldn't give up Adam,' Sarah said.

Friday broke off a piece of cake but didn't eat it. ‘It's funny, isn't it? When I ended up in Newgate that last time, all I really gave a shit about was money. But then I met you lot, and now I've got more money than I know what to do with —'

‘Not yet, you have not,' Aria interrupted.

‘Well, in a few years, then. But now all I care about is the people I love.' She paused, then added, ‘And the people I've lost.'

‘Perhaps you've finally grown up,' Sarah remarked.

Friday made a face. ‘Don't be such a smartarse.'

‘I'm not. I'm just saying.'

‘Where's Charlotte?' Harrie asked, a note of panic in her voice. ‘Charlotte? Charlotte!'

There was no need for her to worry about Charlotte wandering around unguarded now that Jonah Leary was locked up in George Street gaol awaiting trial, but she was finding it a hard habit to break.

‘Here, Mama!' Charlotte emerged from the shrubbery, with twigs in her hair, the iris bouquet hanging around her own neck, and three parallel scratches on her fat little forearm. ‘Angus mean to Lotta.'

Harrie trotted down the steps and picked her up. ‘Yes, he was, wasn't he?' She kissed the scratches. ‘But perhaps he didn't want to wear the bouquet.'

‘Mean Angus.'

Daisy appeared on the verandah. ‘Miss Harrie, there's a gentleman at the door asking for you. Sort of.'

Harrie stifled a sigh. Daisy was an excellent housegirl, and absolutely wonderful with Charlotte, but really not very good at communicating on a social level. Especially with men. The result, she supposed, of being raised in an orphanage full of girls.

‘What do you mean “sort of”?'

Daisy looked uncomfortable. ‘I don't really know. And he's got a funny hand.'

‘Funny in what way?'

‘It's not there.'

Harrie handed Charlotte to her. ‘I'll go and speak to him. Did he give you his name?'

‘Um, I think he said it was . . . Lucas Carew?'

Captain Lucas Carew sat in the parlour, staring guardedly back at them. He was a handsome man, Harrie thought, with a wonderful physique, and she could see why Rachel had been so enamoured of him. His left hand was missing from just above the wrist, a jarring defect compared to his otherwise very fine looks. He seemed ill at ease — but not as ill at ease, she expected, as they were.

‘Shall I start at the beginning?' he suggested. ‘I find that's usually the most sensible course of action.'

‘Good idea,' Friday said. ‘Start at the bit where you abandoned Rachel in London, alone and with no money.'

‘Pardon me?'

Sarah raised a hand, palm up. ‘Hang on a minute. Before we get into all that, I want to know how you found us.'

Lucas Carew sipped from his teacup, then said, ‘If you don't mind, I'd rather tell my story in chronological order. It could get somewhat complicated, otherwise.'

Sarah blinked at him, then nodded.

‘Has Rachel told you of our elopement to London while I was on leave?'

They all nodded, including Aria, who'd heard the story several times.

‘As you might also know, then, I had to return to barracks for what I thought would be a period of three weeks. I then planned to go back to London and marry Rachel. But while in barracks
I received sudden orders to rejoin the rest of my regiment, the 31st Huntingdonshire, in India. I requested a postponement, I paid bribes, I begged, but to no avail. Three days later I was on a transport to the East. I wrote to Rachel frequently, to the lodging house in London and to her mother and father, but I've never received a single reply.' He leant forwards and rubbed his hand over his face. ‘I was at my wits' end, I really was. You're right,' he said to Friday. ‘She must think I abandoned her, and the notion still stabs me in my heart.'

Harrie, Sarah and Friday glanced at one another: he was talking about Rachel as though she were still alive.

‘That money you gave the landlady to pay for Rachel's board?' Friday said. ‘Well, the bitch said she'd never received it, and accused poor Rachel of pawning her shitty old sheets and she ended up getting transported for it.'

‘I know. I know. After I lost my hand eighteen months ago I was honourably discharged from the regiment, spent a year recovering, then threw myself into finding out what had happened to her. I learnt she'd been transported here on the
Isla
in 1829, so decided to come out myself and look for her. Mrs Downey, I believe you wrote to her mother and father several years ago under the name of Clarke?'

‘Yes, I did,' Harrie said. ‘I was Harrie Clarke before I married. I wrote to them when we were in the Female Factory at Parramatta. I knew Rachel wouldn't. I just wanted them to know she was safe, and I asked them to write back to her but they never did.'

‘Yes, I visited the father's farm at Guildford. They showed me the letter.' Lucas Carew made a face. ‘Well, when I say “show” I mean Mr Winter hurled it at me as he chased me off with a pitchfork. When I arrived in Sydney I went into shop after shop asking after you, as Harrie isn't a common name for a woman, until a grocer told me he knew you and that your married name is Downey. It was relatively easy to find you after that.' Lucas put
down his cup and saucer. ‘I plan to ask Rachel to marry me, but I must know, she isn't already married to someone else, is she?'