The Silk Thief (44 page)

‘And neither does Harrie, so leave her alone. I mean it. She hasn’t got a clue. You’re wasting your time.’

Leary stood. ‘Well, we’ll see about that.’ And he left, banging the door behind him.

‘What an arsehole,’ Serafina said. ‘Thank you very much, Leo. I can do without customers like that.’

Leo let out an enormous sigh. That hadn’t quite gone the way he’d wanted it to. ‘I’m sorry, love. I was hoping you’d be able to tell him exactly where his sodding bloody brother is, and get him off Harrie’s back. And mine.’

‘I can’t see everything, you know. I’m not that good. The brother is in Sydney, though. I did see that much.’

‘Well, let’s hope Leary buggers off for six months on a wild goose chase,’ Leo said. ‘Did you recognise what you saw? The business with the oranges and lemons?’

‘Pretty much. It was a map. Of London, and detailed, but a little blurred. I’ve been there myself, and so, probably, have you.’

‘Don’t tell me,’ Leo said, alarmed. ‘I don’t want to know.’ He hesitated. ‘Was there something else you didn’t tell him?’

Serafina nodded. ‘In the second spread, concerning his brother. They’re more or less for show, the cards, you know that, but they do tend to reveal some interesting things. Leary got the Magus, in conjunction with two other specific cards, which signifies a reversal pointing towards the Empress. Harrie’s friend, Friday Woolfe, got the same reading. Very unusual, and very odd. I can’t say I know what it means. And I can’t “see” what it means, either. I’ve never come across it before, and I’ve no idea what connection there might be between Leary and his brother, and Friday. If there is one at all.’ She rubbed her mouth thoughtfully and made a face. ‘And when I “saw” Leary’s brother, I didn’t, not really. I had a sense of him, but I couldn’t see his features at all, and often I can. It was almost as if he’s …’ She thought for a second. ‘I don’t know how to describe it, I really don’t.’

Leo scowled. It all sounded very strange. But it was Serafina’s field, not his, and the less he had to do with it the better, as far as he was concerned. ‘What sort of investment did Leary’s family make? Could you see?’

Serafina laughed. ‘Someone did a robbery. A big one. There’s quite a stash hidden away.’ Her brow furrowed slightly. ‘Or at least I think there is.’

Ah, Leo thought, so that’s what the maps mean. Bloody funny place to put them, though — tattooed onto actual people.

‘Be careful, Leo,’ Serafina said. ‘That Leary’s dangerous.’

‘Don’t fret, love.’ Leo stood and pushed his chair under the table.

‘And don’t bring him back. I won’t have him in my house again.’

‘Fair enough. I’d better go. He might be lurking outside, checking to see whether I come out or not. I told him we’re barely acquainted.’

Serafina raised her face for a kiss. ‘I mean it. You need to take care.’

And Leo took heed, because he knew she’d seen his future.

While Leo was escorting Jonah Leary to Essex Street, James was trudging home from work even later than usual. There had been a backlog of patients this afternoon, due to a thirteen-year-old girl giving birth in the surgery. Her mother had brought her in, seeking a diagnosis and cure for the large and painful ‘growth’ in the girl’s belly. Lawrence Chandler had taken one look at her, clutching her abdomen and howling her head off, understood the situation, and had barely got her skirts out of the way before the baby crowned. The mother, also belatedly realising what was going on, had laid into her daughter mid-delivery; Lawrence had shoved her out of the way, after which the mother had punched Lawrence, who had been forced to shout for James. When James had come running and hauled the mother out of the room, Lawrence had locked the door and finished delivering the baby. Unfortunately, the girl had torn due to her diminutive size and the speed of the baby’s exit, and the repair had taken Lawrence some time. James had seen as many of Lawrence’s patients as he could, but still, they hadn’t closed the surgery until after six-thirty.

As always, James hoped to be greeted by Harrie’s smiling face, though often he was disappointed. Sometimes she was relaxed and calm and approaching cheerful, but usually she wasn’t. Some days he wondered if she was ever going to get well, but he knew that what ailed her could take months, even years, to heal. Still, he was prepared to wait.

She’d been living in his house for a little over seven weeks now. Technically he was her master, and he felt deeply uncomfortable about the dynamic that created between them, but apparently he was the only one who did. Harrie seemed quite happy to ignore his legal status in their relationship, going off to tattoo for Leo Dundas whenever she felt like it, when in theory she should be working in a domestic capacity at home. He was the one, however, who’d suggested she find herself something to occupy her mind, though he hadn’t meant tattooing hairy sailors, and he genuinely didn’t want her to feel in a position of servitude towards him. Lately, though, she’d begun to do a bit of housework and prepare meals, and a damned good cook she was, too. He suspected she was taking on some of the domestic duties around the house because she felt guilty — he knew she constantly felt guilty about something or other, and he wished she wouldn’t — and he wondered if she was also bored, which must surely be a good sign.

He’d been very, very careful not make any advances towards her, apart from a hug or two and that single but delicious kiss on her lips on Christmas Day, and it was killing him. He’d loved her constantly and passionately for more than three years, no matter how she’d looked or where her mind had taken her, but now that her figure was filling out again and the roses had returned to her cheeks, he was in agony living in her presence, every day watching the way her body moved and smelling her scent and her hair. In his somewhat sweaty dreams she acquiesced — very happily — to his advances, and their physical union was as exciting and as satisfying as he’d always imagined it would be. But in the light of day he would never pressure, or even expect, her to sleep with him while they remained unmarried. Though she’d turned down his first proposal — admittedly made on the spur of the moment but heartfelt all the same — he understood why. She was still ill, and possibly she hadn’t quite forgiven him for what had happened after Rachel Winter died. But he was prepared to make many more proposals. As many as necessary, in fact, until she said yes.

He opened the front door and was greeted by the smell of something very tasty cooking. A pie? He hoped so. He loved homemade pies, and Harrie was very good at them. Harrie herself was standing at the bench at the back of the room, sleeves rolled to her elbows, looking out the window, washing something in the basin. The table had been laid for supper; Angus was sitting on the end of it, his backside on the white tablecloth, cleaning his face with a paw.

James dropped his bag and closed the door. Harrie turned, and saw him and Angus at the same time.

‘Shoo!’ she said, flicking water at the cat.

Angus glanced at her, blinked slowly, then strolled across the table, hopped down onto a chair then the floor, and meandered across to James’s armchair, where he made himself comfortable.

James stifled a sigh. Angus was moulting, and if he tried to unseat him, the cat would ensure — deliberately, he suspected — that he ended the manoeuvre covered in black and white fur. He removed his coat and took the other chair instead.

‘How was your day?’ he asked Harrie.

She looked tired. Tired, distracted and apprehensive. She pulled a chair out from the table and sat down, facing him.

Without preamble she said, ‘I have to tell you something.’

By the time she’d finished, he was cursing himself for not noticing that she’d been even more distressed than usual over the past week or so, but most of all for not putting his foot down about her working in that damned tattoo shop. If he had, this couldn’t have happened. He felt sick with fury at the thought of Harrie being actually physically threatened and was appalled by the events she’d described. And also, to his regret, a bit disappointed, as he’d quite liked Leo Dundas.

‘Why didn’t you tell me when it first started?’

‘Because you would have told me I couldn’t work for Leo any more.’

‘What difference would that have made? I made it clear I didn’t want you to work for him, and you did anyway.’

Harrie looked down at her hands.

‘So what’s the real reason?’ he prompted.

‘I don’t know. I think … I think it didn’t really matter when it was just Leo and me. I don’t think I cared. But now he’s threatened Charlotte, and it does matter. He walked straight into the orphanage and managed to find out all about her.’ Harrie’s hands clenched. ‘What’s to stop him from doing that again and just walking out with her?’

‘Well, it damned well matters to me, you getting dragged into something as dangerous as this. This Jonah Leary sounds like a madman. And what’s Leo Dundas doing about it? It’s his fault you’re involved.’

‘It is not Leo’s fault. And he’s doing as much as he can to get rid of him. It was Leo who said I had to tell you.’

Surprised, James looked at her. ‘Was it?’

‘He said you might be able to help.’

Though his heart was beating wildly, James took a few moments to brush a clump of fur off his trousers. He had her now, if he wanted her. And he most certainly did. But would she hate him if he did it this way? He wanted her to give him her love freely, not to agree to marry him under duress. But what if she never did agree, and he missed out? Wouldn’t this way be better than not at all?

He breathed in deeply through his mouth then exhaled through his nose in an inadequate attempt to calm his nerves. ‘I
can
help, Harrie. If you consent to marry me, I can adopt Charlotte. I’ll be her father. We’ll bring her here and she’ll be safe.’

Harrie’s face lit up and just for a second all the long, long months of pain and fear and confusion fell away. Then she burst into tears. James hoped they were tears of happiness, but soon saw that they weren’t.

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Her real father,’ Harrie sobbed, wiping tears off her cheeks with the heel of her palm. ‘Lucas Carew, I mean, on her birth certificate. How will we prove he’s dead?’

James moved to stand behind her, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, not daring to do more. ‘I’ll think of something. Don’t worry.’

They stayed like that for a while.

Eventually, Harrie said, ‘Yes. I will marry you,’ and lowered her head so her cheek rested on his hand.

It was a start, James thought. It was enough.

After Harrie had gone to bed, James sat down at the writing desk in his room and wrote a long letter to his late wife’s sister, Beatrice Penfold, who lived in London. He told Beatrice that he was marrying again, that his intended, Harrie, was a convict, and he thought Beatrice would like her. And that Emily would have, too. He also mentioned that he and Harrie were adopting a child, but he hoped there would be plenty of children of their own in time.

He also asked an enormous favour of Beatrice. To help her accomplish what he wanted, he included in his letter a signed permission for Beatrice’s husband to access James’s account at the London branch of the Bank of England. He also suggested she contact his old navy friend Victor Handley, whom he knew would be more than capable of executing what could possibly be the less than savoury, perhaps even dangerous, aspects of the task.

It would all take a while, but in the end it would be worth it. He hoped.

Cursing, Matthew slipped and slid in the gravel, on his way down the hill to visit Sally Minto. The sun had set half an hour earlier and the sky was filled with chittering, squeaking bats, roiling around the fig trees near the quarries on the slopes rising above Windmill Street. He hoped he wouldn’t get shat on — bat shit was terribly corrosive and he was wearing his best clothes.

Last night, for the first time ever, James had paid him a visit at his lodgings on Princes Street. Initially, Matthew had thought something awful — something else awful — had happened to Harrie, but James, being the decent sort he was, had come to tell him in person that she had finally accepted his proposal of marriage. Which, actually, had been pretty bad news, as far as Matthew was concerned, because it meant there was no hope left for him. But they were meant to be together, Harrie and James, and there wasn’t a lot else to be said about it.

So now he was on his way to ask Sally for her hand. He’d prevaricated and prevaricated, but there was no reason now for them not to marry — except for that tiny but vastly irritating voice in his head that kept asking him whether Sally really was the right girl for him. He conceded that perhaps she wasn’t, not quite, but he was lonely and he wanted a wife, and he most certainly needed someone in his bed. She was physically attractive, reasonably bright, a good cook, and he was fond of her, even if she hadn’t let him sleep with her despite his increasingly persistent advances. He was permanently employed at the Office of the Colonial Architect, had money in the bank now and could afford to buy his own house if he wanted to, and wasn’t entirely unattractive (and he had a lion tattoo on his arm), and was therefore a bit of a catch, even if he did say so himself. They would both gain from the marriage.

Arriving at the Lavertys’ bakery at the northern end of Kent Street, below the looming hill on which perched Fort Phillip, Matthew went around to the back of the building. Clamping his handkerchief over his mouth and nose against the Godawful stink of the cesspit in the yard, he knocked on the door. The Laverty family, and Sally, lived in the two-storey house attached to the rear of the bakery, itself a one-storey building organised around a massive, domed oven that baked dozens and dozens of loaves at any one time. The heat during the summer was appalling, and it leached into the house despite the double brick wall separating dwelling from bakehouse. Matthew knew he’d be sweating within minutes of entering.

Mrs Laverty came to the door. ‘Oh. Good evening, Mr Cutler.’

‘Good evening, Mrs Laverty. Warm, isn’t it?’

‘Very.’

Matthew smiled nervously. Lately, he’d detected a faint air of disapproval emanating from Mrs Laverty, though he wasn’t convinced it was directed specifically at him. Or perhaps it was — maybe she’d guessed he would eventually propose to Sally, and didn’t want to lose her. She was assigned to them, after all. God, that was something he hadn’t thought of. What if his application to marry Sally was turned down by the governor?