A Tattooed Heart (9 page)

She especially couldn't allow Friday to drink indiscriminately again. Yes, she knew she was sneaking more than she said she was — Friday was having herself on if she thought she could fool someone who'd lived for decades with an incurable inebriate like Gil Hislop, and watched a daughter walk the same disastrous path — but over the past few weeks her behaviour had improved quite noticeably.

Elizabeth wanted her to stay improved.

‘Is that bath
still
not full, Ivy?' Friday asked.

They'd eaten their bread and pie, finished the tea, and were now sitting on the bed watching Ivy cart in yet another two buckets of hot water.

Ivy gave Friday an uncharacteristically sour look. ‘These are the last two. It
is
quite a long way up here from the kitchen.' She emptied the buckets into the bath, which was set before a nicely burning fire, said, ‘There's fresh towels there on the chair,' and clattered her way out.

Friday stuck her hand in the bath water. ‘Ow. I hope this isn't too hot.'

‘I do not care,' Aria said, unlacing her boots and kicking them off. ‘Will you open my buttons?'

Friday obliged, undoing the long row at the back of Aria's dress, desperate to run her hands over the lovely brown skin as it was revealed. Instead, she planted a tiny kiss on her neck.

‘I have dreamt of this,' Aria said.

‘Oh, so have I.'

Aria turned. ‘But first I must bathe. I stink.'

She stripped off her dress and shift and crossed to the bath. Friday held her breath, amazed afresh at the absolute beauty of her muscled limbs and strong, rounded body. Stepping into the gently steaming water, Aria hissed at the heat, then sank slowly into a crouch as her skin became accustomed to the temperature.

‘I've got some lovely rose soap.'

‘Rose is my favourite.' Gingerly, Aria sat down, slopping water over the low end of the bathtub.

Friday fetched the soap, pushed up her sleeves and knelt on the floor. ‘Can I wash you?'

‘I would love you to wash me.'

Sloshing the soap about and working up a lather, Friday began with Aria's hands, massaging and rinsing with a washcloth then moving up her arms to her underarms and across her wide shoulders. Aria's head lay against the back of the bath and her eyes were closed. When Friday's soapy hands slid down to her breasts, stroking and caressing, her eyes opened.

‘That is very nice but this bath is ridiculous. It is too small.'

It was; her knees were up around her ribs. It was too small for Friday as well.

‘I'll hurry up, then,' Friday said.

Another quick lather up of the soap and she slid her hand between Aria's legs and began to rub. Aria gasped, her legs parted and water splashed across Friday and the floor. It didn't take her long at all. She planted one foot against the end of the bath, raised her buttocks, pulled Friday to her in an iron grip and worked against her hand until she cried out, her face buried in Friday's neck.

Panting slightly, she relaxed back into the much-depleted water. ‘We have made quite a mess.'

‘Yes. I should get out of these wet clothes.' Delighted with Aria, delighted with
everything
, Friday couldn't wait.

As she quickly undressed, tearing at buttons in her impatience, Aria stepped from the bath, her wet body gleaming in the firelight,
long strands of black hair sticking to her chest and back. She crossed the room, pulled Friday down onto the bed and lay behind her.

‘I have missed you,' she said. She lifted Friday's hair and nibbled the white skin at the nape of her neck. ‘The smell of you, the feel of you. It has been like dying of thirst.'

Friday couldn't think of anything half as poetic to say back, so she took Aria's hand and laid it on her cheek.

If her life didn't get any better than this, she'd die happy.

Friday poured two cups of tea, then carefully lifted the lace-edged cloth off the cake. She was such a fussy old mot, Mrs Wright, but she baked beautifully.

‘Ooh, that looks nice. What is it today?'

Lucian Meriwether said, ‘I believe it's a plum cake. The plums are preserved, but Mrs Wright put them up herself at the end of summer.'

Friday cut a generous slice, passed it to him with his tea, and sat down. ‘Are you warm enough? Would you like a rug?'

‘No, thank you, my dear. I'm still glowing very pleasantly from your ministrations. Also, to be tucked up by you would make me feel like your grandfather and, although I am certainly old enough, I would rather not be reminded of the fact.' Lucian gave her a shrewd look as he stirred sugar into his tea. ‘I must say, you're in a cheerful mood today. Have you something interesting to tell me?'

‘I do, actually.' Friday grinned. ‘Aria's here. She came back!'

‘Ah. Your dusky love from across the Tasman. Well, I'm delighted for you. Will she be staying?'

‘I think so. I really hope so.'

‘Excellent. That'll cheer you up, won't it? I have to say from time to time you've been rather like a bear with a sore head. You must bring her to meet me. I'll look forward to it.'

‘What do you mean, a bear?' Friday asked, frowning. The only bear she'd ever seen was a poor, chained specimen in London, almost out of its mind with rage and despair. Oh.

‘And how are you progressing in your new role as the dominatrix of Argyle Street?'

‘Good, so far. We haven't even been open a week and already I'm really busy. I'll be getting massive shoulder muscles at this rate.'

‘Pace yourself, my dear. You don't want to ruin your beautiful feminine figure and end up looking like one of those lumpers on King's wharf.'

‘That's not likely, is it? Apart from the whipping, all I do is sit on my arse.'

Lucian grunted and speared a sliver of plum with his cake fork. ‘What else has been happening?'

‘Not much.' For a moment Friday watched the rain battering the leaves on the tree outside Lucian's study window. Bloody rain. She was sick of it. She couldn't tell him about her adventure in the Devonshire Street burial ground, and she really hadn't done much else lately. ‘Are people still talking about the fox paw Bella made at Clarence's funeral with all the mutes? Sarah said they would be.'

‘Faux pas,' Lucian corrected. ‘Yes, that has been noted in certain circles. I'd like to think that when I fall off my perch, you might be good enough to attend my graveside, Friday.'

She patted his bony old knee. ‘'Course I will. People'll talk, but,' she said and popped a forkful of cake into her mouth.

‘Let them. What will I care? I'll be dead.'

Friday snorted a laugh and choked. ‘Sorry. 'Scuse,' she croaked, and swigged her tea. ‘That's true. What about you? Heard any good gossip?'

Lucian screwed up his already wrinkled face, pretending it was a strain for him to dredge his mind for interesting news. ‘James Busby's expecting his vine cuttings from the Continent any day now.'

‘Good
gossip, I said.'

‘And they say the ship with all those bounty girls from Cork is due in port in a week or so.'

‘Just what we need, a few hundred more Irish whores.'

‘They're not whores, are they?' Lucian looked faintly shocked. ‘I read that they all have a trade of some sort.'

‘Lucian, whoring
is
a trade,' Friday said sweetly.

‘Oh, you know what I mean. I thought that they were all supposed to be dressmakers and properly trained servants and what have you.'

‘They might be, too, but they'll still get treated like whores when they get here. Next.'

Lucian tapped his false teeth. ‘Well, on Tuesday evening I went to a soirée at Mrs Southgate's house. Winifred Southgate, do you know her?'

‘I know a Raymond Southgate. He was a customer.'

‘Yes, he's the husband. It was quite a big do and I bumped into a few other people you might know. Eli Chattoway?'

Friday shuddered, nearly spilling the remains of her tea. ‘Disgusting old pig. Had an encounter with him once but never any professional dealings, thank Christ.'

‘Yes, he is a repulsive man. You'd think he'd be able to find a clean waistcoat before he left the house, wouldn't you? Anyway, he was in fine form, absolutely reeking of the cork as usual. Who else was there? Not the governor, which I believe irritated Mrs Southgate enormously.' Lucian smirked. ‘Lawrence Chandler was there, though, and looking very po-faced. You'd know him, wouldn't you? I don't think he cares much for the social scene, but he does rely quite heavily on private sponsorship for his charity work. Who else? Francis Rossi, Robert Campbell and two of his sons, and William Lithgow from the Legislative Council. Oh, yes, and Phillip Tregoweth and his dreadful wife, and Clement Bloodworth and
his
wife. Henrietta, her name is. Quite charming. She bent my ear for half an hour about a trip she and her great brood of children are taking home to England. She's a lot younger than Clement, you know. A
lot
younger. I believe she wants some
time away from him. I certainly would, if I were her. God only knows how she puts up with his, er, transgressions. Or why.'

‘Really?' Friday said, trying to hide her excitement. Lucian's love of gossip could be such a windfall sometimes. ‘When are they off?'

‘Towards the end of the month, I think she said. Why?'

Friday shrugged. ‘Just wondered. More cake?'

Lucian patted his considerable belly. ‘Not for me. I was told recently by my physician to watch my weight. Apparently it helps with the gout. I'm not giving up my port, though. A man has to have some pleasures in life. Apart from you, of course, my dear.'

‘Why don't you come and have a look at our new flogging room?' Friday suggested. ‘It's very smart, and discreet.'

Looking suddenly despondent, and really quite elderly, Lucian said, ‘Have you grown tired of visiting me at home?'

‘Not at all,' Friday said truthfully. ‘I just thought it'd be something different for you.'

‘I'd rather we kept things the way they are. I very much look forward to your weekly visits, especially our afternoon teas and our little chats.' Lucian laid a liver-spotted hand on Friday's arm. ‘You bring a lot of joy to this old man, you know.'

Unaccountably, Friday felt tears stinging her eyes. ‘Then I'll keep coming,' she said.

‘I'm fed up with this miserable weather,' Sarah said, jabbing viciously at the dining-room fire with a poker. ‘I didn't get transported to New South Wales just to freeze to death. I could have stayed in London and done that.'

‘If we were still in London,' Harrie said, amused, ‘you'd think this weather was balmy, for winter. You've gone soft.'

‘I have not! That's the second time you've said that.'

‘I didn't say it last time, Friday did.'

Friday said, ‘I didn't
exactly
say that.'

‘Well, don't, either of you. I haven't gone soft.' Sarah plonked herself back down on her seat. ‘Sorry, Aria. I'm not usually this grumpy.'

‘Yes, you are,' Friday said. ‘Something's the matter, though, isn't it?'

Sarah turned her teacup around in its saucer three times before she at last replied. ‘I'm bored. Adam's lovely, the business is going well, and I'm bored.'

Friday smiled slyly. ‘Well, this'll perk you up. My cully Lucian Meriwether told me the other day that Henrietta Bloodworth — that's Clement's poor missus — is off home to England with the kids.'

Sarah's face lit up. ‘When?'

‘Later this month. Don't know exactly when, but it should be easy enough to find out. I'll just pay some little guttersnipe a shilling a week to hang around outside the house and find out.'

Delighted, Sarah said, ‘So if the house is nearly empty, I can finally have a go at getting that bloody letter!'

‘The servants, though,' Harrie said. ‘And Mr —'

Aria kicked out under the table and let loose a torrent of what sounded like very vicious invective in Maori. Clifford shot out and stood facing her, head down, ears flat, legs spread, growling menacingly.

‘It bit me!' Aria exclaimed, outraged. ‘It bit my boot!'

Snatching Clifford up by the scruff of the neck she marched to the door, opened it and threw the wriggling, furiously barking dog out. Wiping her hands on her skirt, Aria sat down again, and looked around. ‘What? What is wrong?'

Sarah glanced at Friday. ‘You tell her.'

‘Um, you can't do that, Aria. Clifford's special to us.'

‘Why?'

‘She belonged to a very good friend of ours. You'll get used to her.'

‘I do not want to get used to her.'

Friday had a flash of brilliance. She wanted Aria to at least tolerate Clifford, because these days Sarah adored the hairy little troll and frowned on people who didn't like her, which was just about everyone. It was desperately important to Friday that Sarah and Aria became friends. The notion of them not getting on was unthinkable. There would never be another bond like the one she, Sarah, Harrie and Rachel had once shared, but she could hope for something approaching that. She didn't have to worry about Harrie, of course, who got on with most folk and had liked Aria the moment she'd met her at Leo's.

‘I think you might want to at least put up with her,' she said. ‘Clifford's master, Walter, was the one who killed Amos Furniss, and Clifford helped him do it. She had blood all over her face that night, didn't she?'

Harrie nodded vigorously.

Aria crossed to the door again and opened it. Clifford was sitting on the mat, looking deeply disgruntled. ‘I apologise, dog. Also, I thank you for contributing to the death of the man who so insulted the mana of my family.'

Sarah and Harrie exchanged deeply puzzled glances.

Giving Aria a wide berth, Clifford trotted inside, her nose in the air and the hairs on the ends of her ears wafting gently, and collapsed in her basket beside the fire.