The Silk Thief (48 page)

Though he and his first wife, Emily, had been childless, his sister-in-law Beatrice and her husband had produced a great tribe of them, and Beatrice raised her children with a casual but loving hand. James had always thought that if he was ever lucky enough to have a family, he’d like to emulate Beatrice’s style, and now it looked like he could. But, really, in what other manner would Harrie mother children? She was such a gentle, kind person herself.

The child seemed to have settled in very well, given the upheaval to which she’d been subjected and the fact that she’d recently lost Janie Braine, the woman she’d believed to be her mother, not to mention Rosie, her ‘sister’. She was in reasonable health, though she had a severe rash, no doubt from wearing a wet napkin for too long, and flea bites. Nothing that couldn’t be remedied fairly easily, but still, it was distressing.

At six o’clock Daisy prepared a light supper, washed the dishes, then took herself and Charlotte off to bed, leaving Harrie and James alone in the parlour. James had a small glass of brandy, though he thought he’d probably had enough to drink today already, and Harrie was sipping a cup of tea. They were both nervous, acutely conscious of what was coming next.

‘It was a good day, wasn’t it?’ James said.

‘Perfect.’ Harrie smiled at him. ‘Charlotte enjoyed herself.’

‘But did you? It was your day.’

‘Oh, James, of course I did. It was everything I’d thought it would be.’

‘Does that mean you had thought about it? Before I proposed to you?’

Harrie felt her face redden. ‘I never expected that we’d marry. I never assumed anything.’

‘No, that isn’t what I meant.’ James swirled his brandy around in his glass, not meeting her gaze. ‘Harrie, I’d like to know …’ He stopped, then started again. ‘I need to know, would you have eventually married me anyway, if it hadn’t been for Charlotte? I suppose what I’m asking you is do you love me?’

Harrie said, ‘James, no matter what else has happened, it’s always been you.’

She put aside her cup and saucer and went and sat in his lap.

When Harrie awoke the next morning, for a disconcerting moment she didn’t know where she was. The sunlight slanting through the gap in the drapes was on the wrong side of the room, and the bed seemed strange. Then, with a jolt, she remembered — she was James’s wife now. At the same time she realised what the low ache between her legs must be: the after-effects of last night.

Making love with James had been extremely nice. She couldn’t compare it with her one other sexual encounter because she couldn’t remember that, for which she was grateful. James had been passionate yet gentle and considerate, and his body was lovely — strong and clean and manly. When she’d seen him naked she’d been so overwhelmed with jealousy at the thought of him with Rowie Harris that she’d had to ask. He’d got quite angry then, and called Rowie a poisonous little slattern, and she’d wondered if she might have spoiled everything, but the moment passed.

They’d not slept until well after midnight. She’d dreamt, then, of the London street where she’d lived all her life, of her mother, and of Rachel. She had thrown her wedding bouquet, and Rachel, wearing a white dress draped like a shroud and her silver hair falling to her waist, had caught it. She’d laughed in delighted triumph, but then the laughter had turned to shrieks of rage and Rachel’s beautiful features had disintegrated into a rotting, mouldering mask and she’d hurled the flowers back in Harrie’s face and accused her of letting her die in the Factory so she could steal Charlotte. Harrie had cried that it wasn’t true but no words would come out of her mouth, and Rachel had roared that she wanted Charlotte back, and Harrie had struggled to fight her way to the surface of the dream like a swimmer drowning in a sea of treacle. She’d lain half awake for a few minutes in the dark, sweating and panting, then slipped under again, grateful to find that this time Rachel hadn’t followed her.

Now, she half sat up and glanced across James’s sleeping form at the clock on his nightstand. A quarter to seven. James stirred and opened his eyes. Seeing her, he smiled and touched her cheek, clearly unaware that his sandy hair was sticking up all over the place.

‘Good morning, Mrs Downey.’

‘Hello, husband.’

‘Are you well?’

‘A little tender.’

James made an empathetic face. ‘Er, yes. So am I. It’s been quite a while.’ Turning slightly pink, he added, ‘I hope you, er, thought it was worth it.’

‘I did. I … it was lovely.’

Catching sight of the clock himself, he groaned and sat up. ‘Damn, I’m supposed to be at the surgery at eight.’

Harrie threw off the bedclothes. ‘And I need to get Charlotte ready. I’m taking her to work.’

James frowned. ‘Work?’

‘Yes. Well, I didn’t go yesterday because we got married, so I thought I’d go today instead. And if Charlotte comes with me, Daisy can get on with the laundry, which also didn’t get done yesterday. Leo won’t mind.’

James wasn’t just frowning now, he was outright scowling. ‘But I thought, I’d assumed, that once we were married, you’d stop.’

Harrie had never intended giving up her job, and in fact planned to take on even more work, with Nora. She couldn’t stay at home, even if she wanted to. She couldn’t expect James to support her siblings, and no doubt there’d be another blackmail demand soon.

‘Well, I’m sorry, James, but you’ve assumed wrongly. I have to work. I need to.’

‘Why?’

‘I need the money.’

‘What for?’

‘To send home to Robbie and Sophie and Anna. They depend on me.’

James got out of bed and pulled on his trousers. ‘I can give you money for that. How much do you need?’

‘No!’ Panic laced with dismay surged through Harrie as she thought of the lies she would constantly have to tell him, together with a bright anger at his assumption that he could fix everything. ‘You can’t just take control of me and tell me what to do.’

‘But you’re my wife now.’

‘Yes, but I’m not … I’m not like Emily. I’m not saying she was weak or silly, but I’m just not the same class of person she was. She was a lady of leisure. I’ve always worked.’

‘She wasn’t a lady of leisure. She was always running around organising things, serving on this board and that committee. It’s not so much … God.’ James sighed. ‘It’s not the fact that you work, Harrie, it’s what you do.’

‘For Leo?’

‘Yes. Tattooing tars in a poky little room beside the Sailors’ Grave pub, to be precise. It’s so, well, it’s beneath you.’

Said like that, Harrie supposed it did sound … common, though in her eyes her work was a form of art. It’s just that her art was applied to living skin, rather than canvas. And it wasn’t beneath her: she was common. She eyed James, waiting for him to go on, as no doubt he would.

‘I know how you feel about what you do, and Friday tells me you’re very good at it, but not everyone appreciates tattoos. You know as well as I do that it’s a specific sort of person who gets them.’

‘Like Friday?’

‘Er, yes, though I was thinking more of sailors and the like. And sailors don’t have a particularly good reputation, do they? And neither, by association, will you if you carry on with it.’

Harrie could see now where James’s argument was going. ‘And you’re worried that that will reflect on you?’

‘More on the practice, specifically. How can I expect my patients to heed my advice on cleanliness and sober habits if they think I condone my wife jabbing needles into dirty, smelly sailors? Anyway, it’s not safe. Look at this business with Jonah Leary.’

Harrie realised with a jolt of fear that he did have a point; what if Leary turned up at Leo’s while she had Charlotte there? ‘Is it just the tattooing you don’t approve of?’ she asked.

A knock came at the bedroom door, and Daisy called timidly, ‘Excuse me, sorry, it’s me.’

James slipped on his shirt. ‘Come in.’

Accompanied by the sound of grizzling whimpers in the background as she opened the door, Daisy said while staring fixedly at her boots, ‘Excuse me, Charlotte’s up. She wants Harrie.’

Harrie fetched her and brought her in. Charlotte’s face was flushed and she was being very clingy. ‘She feels very hot to me.’

James felt the child’s forehead and cheeks. ‘It’s a warm morning. Plenty of fluids today, I think. I’m not sure what you mean by “just” the tattooing.’

‘I do understand what you’re saying, you know,’ Harrie said. ‘Before I started on the needles, I drew flash for Leo. Those are the tattoo designs. Would I still be able to do that? He’s always paid me well for those.’

‘Could you do that from home?’

‘Well, I’d need to drop them off when they’re finished, but, yes, I could.’

James considered for a moment, then grinned. ‘I think that’s a reasonable compromise, Mrs Downey, don’t you?’

Relieved and pleased, Harrie smiled back. She’d raise the issue of working for Nora later — surely he couldn’t object to that? ‘Yes, I do. I’ll tell Leo today.’

Now that the possibility of Leary snatching Charlotte had once again been raised, Harrie saw sinister shadows lurking everywhere on the way down George Street. Her nerves weren’t helped by Charlotte herself, who insisted on being put down and allowed to walk — although, actually, she ran, in all directions, and quickly. Harrie had to go into the nearest draper and purchase a length of twine to tie around her middle, a trick she’d employed with Hannah Barrett, also an expert escapologist. Once Charlotte was forced to slow down, she went very slowly, examining everything she encountered — each stone, blade of grass, spider and lump of dog shit. Harrie doubted they’d reach Leo’s by dinnertime.

When they finally did, at a quarter to eleven, Charlotte wanted to do a wee. Harrie had been working very hard to get her to use the pot again, so Leo had to be prevailed upon to fetch his, so as not to disrupt her training.

‘What’s wrong with the lass’s nappy?’ he grumbled. ‘It’s what they’re for, isn’t it?’

‘I can tell you’ve never washed four dozen stinky clouts,’ Harrie said.

‘Why would I? How was the wedding night?’

‘None of your business.’

Leo grinned and tamped tobacco into his pipe. ‘It was a good do. I enjoyed myself. So did Serafina. I suppose you’re here to hand in your notice?’

‘I am, actually. I’m really sorry. How did you know?’

‘I imagine fellows like your James aren’t too keen on the missus working, never mind working in a job like this. Am I right?’

‘Something like that.’ Harrie peeped into the other room; Charlotte was off the pot and wandering around. She hoped it was only a wee she’d done. ‘Hang on a minute.’

Yes, a small one. Harrie emptied the pot out the window, put Charlotte’s nappy back on her and carried her into the tattoo room.

‘It’s just the tattooing he objects to. He’s happy for me to carry on doing the flash. Is that all right with you?’

‘Can’t say I’m not disappointed, with you having such a good eye. How do you feel about it?’

‘Well, if it makes him happy. He’s a good man.’

‘Happy,’ Charlotte said, clapping her hands.

‘Aye, he is that,’ Leo agreed. ‘And worth keeping happy, I’d say. As for the flash, the more you can draw the better. Which reminds me; now that I’m not being forced to pay that magsman George Barrett a retainer, I think it’s about time you had a pay rise. Would an extra guinea per series suit you?’

‘Oh! That’s a lot. Are you sure?’ Harrie was delighted. ‘Thank you very much.’

Leo waved away her thanks. ‘Friday’ll be disappointed. She’s got plans for something new on her leg now the phoenix is finished, and wanted you to do it. Still, can’t be helped. Perhaps you could draw something new for her.’

‘I’ll talk to her, shall I?’

Leo nodded, and amazed Charlotte by sucking on his pipe and puffing smoke from the side of his mouth. ‘I heard something the other day, about Jonah Leary. I’ve been keeping an eye on him. I didn’t mention it yesterday because, well, it wasn’t the day for it, but a mate told a mate who told me he’s gone to Van Diemen’s Land.’

‘Looking for his brother?’

‘Must be.’

‘For how long, I wonder?’

‘Well, there’s thousands of convicts down that way, so it could be months. Let’s hope so.’

Enormously relieved to hear that Leary was no longer in Sydney, on the way home Harrie still couldn’t shake off the unnerving sensation that she and Charlotte were being followed. But every time she turned to look, all she caught from the corner of her eye was the barest glimpse of long, silver-blonde hair.

Chapter Sixteen

February 1832, Sydney Town

Sarah and Adam were just about to sit down to supper when someone knocked on the back door. Growling and barking, Clifford darted across the dining room, poised to pounce.

‘Pretend we’re not home,’ Sarah said, buttering a slice of bread.

Adam got up from the table, his napkin still tucked into the open neck of his shirt.

‘Only me,’ Friday announced as he opened the door.

Disappointed, Clifford retreated to her basket. Friday was a frequent visitor and had long ago stopped being terrified of her.

‘Have you eaten?’ Sarah asked. ‘We’re just having supper.’

‘Not hungry, thanks.’ Friday pulled out a chair. ‘Wouldn’t mind a drink, though. What have you got?’

‘Tea.’

‘Anything else?’

Sarah rolled her eyes. ‘Red wine and brandy. No gin.’

‘Brandy’d be good. Ta.’

As Sarah went out to the parlour to fetch it, Friday asked Adam, ‘How’s life in the jewellery business?’

‘Good. Plenty of money to be made if you’re selling what people want, and we are. How’s life in the prostitution business?’

Friday made a disparaging face. ‘Plenty of money to be made if you’re selling what people want, and I do.’

Adam laughed and speared a round of cucumber with his fork. ‘Sounds like you need a change of profession.’

‘You could be right.’

Sarah plonked the brandy decanter on the table and sat down. ‘Don’t drink it all, please. It wasn’t cheap, that one. What are you talking about?’

‘I think Friday’s fed up with her job,’ Adam remarked.