Behind the Sun (35 page)

Harrie nodded miserably.

‘Not to my knowledge, she hasn’t,’ Mr Sharpe said. ‘I’ll check with the nurse. If she is expecting I’d be damned surprised if a fall like that doesn’t dislodge the foetus.’ He stood for several seconds, deep in thought. ‘However, if she remains pregnant, it presents the Board of Management with a quandary.’

Mr Downey said, ‘In what way, Mr Sharpe?’

‘Well, I was going to recommend transferring her to Liverpool Asylum.’

‘
No!
’ It was out of Harrie’s mouth before she could stop herself. She didn’t know what or where Liverpool Asylum was, but something about the way Mr Sharpe had phrased the words sounded horribly ominous.

‘I
beg
your pardon!’ Mr Sharpe was quick to reprimand her lapse.

Mr Downey said, ‘Liverpool is nowhere as grim as Bethlem, Harrie.’

‘But it
is
a mad house?’

‘It’s an
asylum
,’ Mr Sharpe said, ‘and, given the patient’s erratic and violent behaviour, she should be transferred there.’ He sighed, but not as though he were angry, Harrie thought, more as though he considered Rachel’s awful confluence of physical and mental conditions to be just another sad fact of life. ‘But she won’t be now, not while she requires medical care and not if she’s pregnant. They don’t have the facilities for lying-in. And if she stays here she won’t be eligible for assignment, which will be reflected in the Board’s financial returns to the colonial government.’ He shrugged. ‘Perhaps when her arm mends she can make straw bonnets.’

Harrie felt her hopes soar. ‘So she’ll have to stay at the Factory?’ Along with all the other women who seemed to have managed to make a home there. She wondered how
that
was reflected in the Board’s financial returns.

‘Only if she remains pregnant. Providing she
is
,’ Mr Sharpe said somewhat suspiciously. ‘I see no evidence of that. How far along is she, did you say?’

‘Thirteen weeks. Fourteen, perhaps.’

‘How can you be so sure?’

‘I looked after her when she had her…courses…’

Mr Sharpe moved around to the side of the bed, pushed up the sleeves of his coat, bent and palpated Rachel’s abdomen with extended fingers. She didn’t stir at all.

‘Yes, definitely expecting,’ he confirmed less than a minute later. ‘I would say approximately three months, perhaps a little more. I’ll have the nurse watch for spontaneous abortion.’

‘In the meantime, the laudanum?’ Mr Downey prompted.

‘For the head injury? Yes, I suppose we should reinstate it. What dose were you prescribing, Mr Downey?’

‘Six drachms in the first instance when her cephalalgia begins, and another four to six should the first dose not be effective and an episode seems imminent.’

‘An episode being one of these fits, as demonstrated yesterday?’

Mr Downey nodded.

‘And who administers the doses?’

‘Harrie does.’

‘Are you her guardian? A family member?’ Mr Sharpe asked Harrie.

‘I’m her sister,’ Harrie replied immediately.

Because she was. Her, Sarah and Friday. They all were.

Rachel was asleep, but she wasn’t. She was full of medicine again, and that was nice, but her mind was far away. She thought there might be people somewhere nearby, but she didn’t know who, and it didn’t matter.

Her arm hurt, but the pain felt a long way away, too.

She remembered flying, as clearly as though it had happened only a moment ago. Perhaps it had.

It had been wonderful. Her arms had lifted up from her sides and her feet had left the ground and over the balustrade she had gone, soaring and swooping and diving. And then it had ended, just like that, in blackness.

And no matter how hard she tried, she hadn’t been able to make it happen again.

But, oh, she wanted to.

Harrie, Friday and Sarah sat on the ground in the middle of the first-class yard the following afternoon after the midday meal, far enough away from everyone else to not be overheard. Still, they lowered their voices whenever others passed too closely — and quite a few did, curious to know what the friends of ‘the gawney girl’ were talking about.

Harrie was still very upset, unable to get the image of Rachel bound into a straightjacket out of her mind.

‘But she wasn’t, though, love, was she?’ Friday said. ‘So don’t keep on about it. You’re only torturing yourself.’

‘I know, but Mr Sharpe thought she was disturbed enough to need one,’ Harrie insisted.

Sarah, ever pragmatic, said, ‘Well, she is.’

‘And Mr Downey said whatever’s wrong with her head will probably only get worse, remember? And it
has
.’ Harrie was almost in tears again.

‘No,’ Sarah said firmly, aware that Harrie was winding herself into a tizzy, ‘he said we’ll have to wait and see.’

‘Who will look after her when we’ve gone?’ Harrie went on. ‘She’ll be all alone and frightened. And what about when she gets bigger? She could…she could kill herself
and
the baby.’

Friday tamped tobacco into her pipe, to hell with the Factory rules. ‘What about Janie?’

‘Janie
can
’
t
.’ Harrie was losing her temper now. ‘She’s got two babies of her own. She can’t go running around after Rachel all the time. And it wouldn’t be fair to ask it of her.’

‘Won’t they keep her in the hospital?’ Sarah asked.

Harrie shook her head. ‘They’ve two to a bed and mattresses on the floor as it is. As soon as she’s settled down she’ll be back here with us. It’s a horrible place anyway.’

‘What did you tell her family?’

‘Just that she can’t write herself because she’s broken her arm and that apart from that she’s doing well. But surely they’ll be wondering why they’ve
never
had a letter in her own hand? I certainly can’t tell them what’s really happened, can I?’

Friday breathed jets of smoke out though her nostrils like a small, fiery-haired dragon. ‘I’ve been thinking. One of us will have to come back. Or not go out on assignment at all.’

Sarah looked at her. ‘Get a job here, you mean?’

‘Yes!’ Harrie almost leapt to her feet in excitement. ‘Me! I could work in the hospital! I’ve got a recommendation from Mr Downey to say I’m good at it. He gave it to me on the ship.’

‘Did he?’ Sarah said. ‘You didn’t tell us that.’

Friday looked thoughtful. ‘We’d need money to grease a few palms, but we’ve got enough.’

‘We have now,’ Sarah said, ‘but from what I hear we’d have to keep on greasing. One bung isn’t going to be enough. And what about when the baby comes? Rachel will need decent food for her milk and what have you. You’ve seen how hard it is in here for mothers and babies. We’ll need good money coming in to afford that.’

‘So? We’ll just have to go out and make some,’ Friday declared.

Sarah looked at her. ‘Well, at the moment, you’re sitting on the fastest way to do that.’

Friday shrugged. ‘Fine with me.’

‘Good. Then this is what we’ll do. You’ll stay here, Harrie, and look after her. Friday, you and I will make as much money as we can get our hands on. I’ll do what I can but it might take me a while to get up to speed.’

‘What do you mean?’ Harrie asked suspiciously. ‘How are you going to make money?’

Sarah winked and tapped the side of her nose.

‘Oh,
Sarah
! In fact,
both
of you!’ Harrie shook her head in complete frustration, her excitement at staying behind to look
after Rachel ebbing at the thought of the trouble they could get themselves into. ‘You’re both…
really
bloody well irresponsible, do you know that? You’ll get caught and end up in the penitentiary, and how will that help Rachel? You might even be sent to Norfolk Island or…or
hanged
!’

‘Well, have you got a better idea?’ Sarah said.

‘No.’

‘Because we’ll never save enough money while we’re on assignment.’

‘I know that!’

‘So can I finish what I was saying, then? We use the money to care for Rachel and the baby when it comes, for as long as we need to. And as soon as we can get them out of here, we will. We can apply to be their legal guardians or something.’

‘We won’t be allowed,’ Harrie said. ‘Not convicts.’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t looked into it. Let me finish. When you become a sought-after dressmaker, Harrie, you can help with the money then. For now, we’ll just have to find it the best way we know how. Any way, because we need it. Are we agreed on that? All of it? Is it a pact?’

Friday said yes immediately and, a moment later, so did Harrie.

Harrie stood nervously before Mrs Gordon’s desk, waiting for her to finish writing. Finally she did, slotting her pen into its holder and rolling a blotter over the page.

She looked up. ‘Yes?’

Harrie’s mouth suddenly felt completely bereft of spit. She cleared her throat, making a noise like one of the raucous birds that woke everyone at the crack of dawn. She’d had to wait three days for this appointment and now she was here she was terrified.

‘Thank you for seeing me, Mrs Gordon,’ she began croakily. ‘It’s about my friend Rachel Winter. She’s very poorly.’

‘I am aware of that.’

‘You might recall that on the ship out I was assistant to the surgeon superintendent, Mr Downey. He gave me a letter of recommendation because I was so good at it.’ Harrie spoke as quickly as her dry mouth would allow in case Mrs Gordon cut her off. She reached inside her jacket for the letter. ‘I was hoping that I could stay here and care for Rachel. I can also —’

But Mrs Gordon did cut her off. ‘I’m sorry, Harriet. I do understand your concerns for your friend, but you’ve just been assigned. To…’ she consulted a ledger on her desk ‘…a Mr and Mrs Overton in Sydney Town. You’ll be leaving in approximately a week’s time. There has also been interest expressed in your associate Sarah Morgan.’

The disappointment was so crushing Harrie felt as though a barrow of bricks had been dumped on her chest. She could barely breathe and her eyes welled with hot tears. ‘And Friday?’

‘Friday Woolfe has not yet been assigned.’

Hope flared in Harrie’s heart. ‘Could Friday stay?’

Mrs Gordon frowned. ‘Certainly not. That girl is a troublemaker and we have enough trouble here as it is.’

Sarah sat in the first-class dining room, tight-lipped, legs crossed, one foot swinging agitatedly. There were bars on the ground-floor windows of the dormitory building and it felt like being in Newgate again, but at least the sky and the late afternoon sun were visible through these ones.

She and the three women waiting with her had been put forward by Mrs Gordon for a specific assigned position, but apparently the employer wanted to interview them before he made his decision. There was a bet on in the dormitory that he was looking for a wife, and if he was, he could stick it up his arse as far as Sarah was concerned. She’d rather break rocks in third class for a year.

Mrs Gordon strode in, the nails in the heels of her shoes ringing on the paved floor. She was accompanied by a man dressed head to toe in black except for a white shirt with an unfashionably short collar, whose tread in his polished black boots was silent. Sarah and the other women stood, as they had been told to do.

‘This is Mr Green,’ Mrs Gordon said. ‘Line up, please.’

Sarah shuffled into the short line, gaze directed at the floor, aware her face was as sour as a lemon and not caring.

Mr Green spoke. ‘Good afternoon. I have requested an interview as I am looking for a specific set of capabilities.’

His voice wasn’t deep and it wasn’t high. It was just a voice, an
English one with a hint of an accent Sarah recognised. She thought he might be somewhere in his late twenties — certainly older than her anyway. He was perhaps five feet six inches tall, slender, wore his tar-black hair long and tied back, which was a bit old-fashioned of him, and had dark, contemplative eyes and pale skin, as though he spent too much time indoors. He was quite attractive really, but she still wasn’t marrying him. For the first time in ages, though, she felt conscious of the scar on her face, which annoyed her. This wouldn’t do.

He extended his arms like some sort of illusionist. ‘What are these on my hands?’

Fingers, Sarah thought.

Two of the girls said ‘rings’, and the third answered, ‘A sapphire and pearl ring, one with a red stone, and a monkey ring set with a diamond?’

It suddenly occurred to Sarah that he was quite possibly a jeweller and she was instantly plunged into the most appalling emotional turmoil. It had never even entered her mind that while serving her sentence in New South Wales she might return to the craft she loved. But what about Rachel? She couldn’t abandon her just because some cove had waved a couple of rings in her face. But if he chose her and she refused to go with him, she would be relegated to second class. It could be months before she was eligible for assignment again, time she could have used outside the Factory walls making money.

Of course, she wasn’t
just
a jeweller, she was a thief, too. A very good one.

She asked, ‘May I have a closer look, sir?’

Mr Green slid off all three rings and passed them to her. Mrs Gordon made a move as though to prevent such a foolhardy action, as if she thought Sarah would somehow make the rings disappear — swallow them, perhaps? — but he raised his hand in a blocking motion.

Sarah turned the rings over and inspected them closely. ‘These two are eighteen-carat gold, though this one I think is twenty-two. The one with the engraving on the shank is a cabochon garnet, foiled with a closed back, and it looks like quite an old mount. Thirty or forty years, perhaps?
This
one is a rose-cut sapphire surrounded by seed pearls and it’s raised on prongs so it’s a recent piece.’ She glanced up at Mr Green; smiling slightly, he appeared to be enjoying himself.

One of the girls swore disappointedly under her breath.

‘And the monkey ring?’ Mr Green asked.

‘A genuine diamond, but the ring’s ugly.’

‘You don’t think it’s just good paste?’

Sarah squinted. ‘Good paste wouldn’t have a slight flaw in it, see here, down near the culet? You must have skinny fingers: these are ladies’ rings. Except for the monkey ring, that would be for a man’s little finger. No self-respecting lady would wear that.’

Mr Green burrowed in his jacket pocket. ‘What do make of this, then?’

On his palm sat a bracelet of black-lacquered metal, its links of flowers and leaves as intricate as any fine lacework, and just as ethereal.

‘Berlin iron,’ Sarah said immediately. She’d seen lots of it in London. It was very popular as mourning jewellery. ‘Quite possibly Horovice.’

‘Manufactured in…?’

‘Bohemia.’

Mr Green’s smile widened and he turned to the matron. ‘This one will do very well, thank you, Mrs Gordon.’

‘Just a minute,’ Sarah said, handing back the rings. ‘Tell me what the job is first.’

‘Sarah Morgan!’ Mrs Gordon exclaimed. ‘You will accept this assignment regardless of what your duties might be!’

‘I require someone to assist me with my jewellery business and,
it seems, by the greatest good fortune, I have found that person,’ Mr Green said. ‘Also my wife needs domestic help. We have not yet been blessed with children, so there will be no nursery duties involved.’

Sarah felt immensely relieved: at least he wouldn’t be getting any ideas about marriage applications. There was still the matter of unwanted sexual advances — she’d heard plenty of stories about that sort of thing during the ten days they’d been at the Factory — but she was confident she could deal with that if or when she had to. He wasn’t a particularly big man, nowhere near as solid and muscled as Tom Ratcliffe had been.

Mrs Gordon nodded in approval. Sarah had been gifted with a plum position.

‘When will you collect her, Mr Green? You will recall that you forfeit your bond if she doesn’t leave the Factory within fourteen days.’

‘I had planned on taking her back with me today. Now, in fact.’

‘No!’ At the thought of not even saying goodbye to the others all the blood seemed to drain from Sarah’s head and she thought for a second she might faint. ‘No, please, I can’t just go. I have friends here.’

She stared at Mr Green, silently imploring him to exhibit some compassion; to her profound relief she saw it in his eyes and in the way his expression softened just a fraction.

‘Very well. I will be back at nine tomorrow morning. Will that suit you, Mrs Gordon?’

‘Yes. I’ll ensure she is ready,’ Mrs Gordon replied, though her tone implied she considered his generosity to be thoroughly unnecessary.

And it was, from his perspective, Sarah thought, and felt grateful, though she would never admit as much to her new employer.

Leaving Friday, Harrie and especially Rachel had been a terrible wrench, but Sarah knew it wouldn’t be forever. Rachel was out
of the hospital now and Mr Downey had made sure Harrie had plenty of laudanum to give her whenever she needed it. Despite Sarah’s opinion of him he had turned out to be quite a decent cove after all, though she still wasn’t sure she trusted him totally.

Rachel’s arm remained splinted and would stay that way for some weeks. Harrie would be leaving the Factory soon, but Friday hadn’t been assigned yet, and Rachel would be all right until she was. She had already established both the contacts to smuggle in the contraband to ease harsh Factory life — proper soap, towelling, extra food, decent boots, a pile liniment for Rachel’s poor bum — and the tough reputation to discourage other inmates from stealing it all. She also had the patience to stand at the dormitory window for several hours every evening with Rachel while she watched for the bats with which she’d become utterly obsessed. Janie Braine was also on hand to help, when she wasn’t tending to her two infants.

And when Friday did go, well, there was a plan in place to manage that — provided Harrie could pull it off. Sarah thought she could, and would, because Rachel’s welfare was at stake, though what was required went so against Harrie’s nature that it would be great fun to be a fly on the wall in Harrie’s employers’ house just to watch it all unravel. As long as she didn’t overdo it. And when it did unravel, Harrie would be on her way back to the Factory.

It all seemed rather random: if you misbehaved on assignment and were sent back to the Factory, often you were put into second class on probation and would have to earn your way back to first class — unless you’d done something criminal, of course; then you went into the third-class penitentiary. But not always; some women returned from assignment went straight into first class again. Perhaps it depended on what your ex-employer had to say about you when you were sent back. But if you were expecting, or had children under the age of four, or were ill — in other words clearly not suitable for assignment — you were also categorised as
first class, the group from which those eligible for assignment were drawn! Sarah suspected the classification system might have more to do with the moral judgments of those who managed the Factory, and perhaps appeasing guilty consciences, than anything else.

Now, she sat in Mr Green’s gig, as far across the seat from him as possible so she wouldn’t have to touch him. She’d said not a single word for the last half-hour and neither had he. The gig was in a slight state of disrepair and the leather seat torn, with bits of horse hair poking through the hole. Sarah pulled on a piece and a large tuft came out. Alarmed, she glanced at Mr Green.

He smiled wryly. ‘Don’t pull too much out; the whole thing might collapse.’

Sarah felt too silly to say anything then, but a few minutes later asked, ‘Where are we going?’

He looked at her, his expression of belated realisation almost comical. ‘I do apologise. I haven’t said, have I? Sydney Town. My wife, Esther, and I live in George Street. Our house is above our shop, opposite the military barracks.’ He gave the reins a flick. ‘I’m impressed with your knowledge. Whom were you apprenticed to? It was in London, I assume? You must have come quite close to completing your apprenticeship.’

‘I did complete it. Then I lost my job.’

Mr Green nodded gravely. ‘You stole from your employer.’

‘No, the jeweller’s son and I had a disagreement. I was let go. I’ve been pursuing other opportunities since then.’

‘Such as picking pockets?’

‘Yes, that’s right.’ Well, if he was going to state it outright like that, so was she.

‘I was transported myself,’ Mr Green said. ‘For receiving. But that was a while ago now. I have a conditional pardon. My wife is also an emancipist. And my name isn’t actually “Green”, it’s “Greenstein” — Adam Eli Nathaniel Greenstein.’

Sarah gave an inward sigh. Another bloody smouse.

‘You may call me Adam as we are to work together,’ Mr Green went on, ‘but preferably not within earshot of Esther. There is a slight age difference between us and I’m afraid she’s viewed every servant we’ve had as some sort of threat to her position as mistress of the house.’

Sarah immediately imagined Esther Green as wrinkled and balding with half her teeth missing. She must have amassed some wealth, for Adam Green to have married her: with his looks he could have had his pick. It could pose a problem, having a jealous wife watching every little move she made.

She was silent for some time, unwilling, as always, to make friendly overtures. However, she couldn’t resist asking, ‘Were they all jewellers, your previous servants?’ Not that that was likely.

‘No, that would have been too good to be true. Though here
we
are, two qualified jewellers, both transported for our crimes. But one had been employed in a jeweller’s salon. And that other girl I saw yesterday had a vague idea of what she was looking at.’

‘Worked for a fence, probably. Or in a pawnshop.’

‘Possibly.’

They felt silent again and little else was said for the remainder of the trip into Sydney Town, except when Adam pointed out the odd landmark of note. He seemed almost as reticent and as unwilling to encourage familiarity as Sarah, which suited her.

They’d crossed the Parramatta River by punt soon after they’d begun their journey then lost sight of it, but now, hours later, wide stretches of water were again visible to her left. Part of the great inlet, she suspected, that formed the tidal river’s mouth.

‘That’s Ultimo House,’ Adam said, pointing to a moderately grand two-storey house off in the distance. ‘It belongs to John Harris and was designed by Francis Greenway, the same architect who designed the Female Factory. He was also a convict.’

Uninterested, Sarah didn’t respond.

A little farther on, as they approached the town proper, he pointed out a steam mill on the harbour’s edge, apparently owned by someone named John Dickson. Sarah barely gave the brick buildings and tall puffing chimney a glance; she’d seen enough industrial buildings in England to last a lifetime.

The streets were busier than she’d expected, bustling with people and animals — dogs apparently running wild, pigs, geese and chickens, and goats, the latter in particular. They were everywhere. It hadn’t really occurred to her that New South Wales wasn’t
just
a penal colony, that folk were emigrating here of their own free will and that those who had been transported and served their sentences were now living lives as free citizens. She’d been too busy worrying about Rachel and Harrie and Friday to take the time to properly consider opportunities that might be available. This was a real town. Just look at the traffic. There were plenty travelling on foot, but, more interestingly, there were just as many on horseback and riding in fancy carriages — and that meant there was money here. If you knew how to get your hands on it.

Adam pointed out a large bare plot on the corner of Bathurst and George streets where, he said, a cathedral would soon be built, and the graveyard next to it, then Park and Market streets bordering a covered marketplace, and King Street, all neatly bisecting George Street, which ran north down to Sydney Cove.

‘Why are you telling me all this?’ she asked.

‘Because I’ll need you to run errands for me. That quite grand building on the right is the police office and that, of course, is the military barracks.’

The barracks was massive, plonked right in the middle of what appeared to be Sydney’s prime commercial precinct and surrounded by a stone wall ten feet high with only a single gate that Sarah could see. It looked as ugly and forbidding as the Factory. At the base of the wall, on the ground, sat a group of black-skinned people.