Girl of Shadows (2 page)

After a year as an assigned servant to Adam and Esther Green, Sarah understood that Adam did genuinely care for his lovely, bad-tempered
wife; but she wasn’t sure if he loved her. Mind you, who was she to say what form love took? She’d never been in love, and didn’t care to be.

‘Oh dear,’ Adam said. ‘What is it this morning?’

Sarah shrugged and thought, You should know — you were the one she was shouting at last night. He’d shaved already. The pale skin on his face was smooth and she could smell the toilet water he always wore, lightly fragranced with a hint of sandalwood and lime. This morning his dark hair, which had grown really rather long and well past his collar, was not tied back.

‘Well, I expect I’ll find out in due course,’ he said.

Sarah nodded and went into Esther’s bedroom. The pisspot sat on the floor near the bed draped with a piece of cloth, which was doing nothing to contain the stink. She picked up the pot by the handle and carried it downstairs, one hand pinching her nose shut, hoping she wouldn’t meet Adam again. He knew Esther did this: it was embarrassing — for him and for Sarah. Obviously not for Esther, though, or she wouldn’t do it. Dirty cow.

Outside Sarah tipped the turd down the privy and rinsed the po in the overflow from the rain barrel, then washed her hands thoroughly with carbolic soap.

At breakfast she set a covered dish containing sausage and an egg each on the table, ladled the beautifully prepared porridge into three bowls, poured the tea, then sat down.

Esther glared at her; Sarah glared back. Adam concentrated on his porridge.

Sarah knew that if Esther had her way, she would be sent back to the Parramatta Female Factory without delay. Esther had convinced herself that she, Sarah, was lifting her leg for Adam. She wasn’t; she would never take such a pointless and unrewarding risk. Aside from having to endure Esther, she liked her assignment. Adam was a kind, intelligent and, at times, quite amusing boss, and she delighted in working with jewellery again. She was crafting her
own designs now, as she’d learnt to do during her apprenticeship, and they were selling well, and her jewels were bringing new customers into the shop and increasing Adam’s profits. Which was a good thing because she was still pilfering from him every chance she got.

And there was another reason she wanted to stay. When dear, precious Rachel had died six months before, Esther had deliberately denied her leave to visit Rachel’s body or attend her funeral. Poor little Rachel, whom Sarah, Friday and Harrie had tried so hard to protect and care for, and whose baby, Charlotte, they were now all working to support. That had really hurt, and had lodged in her like the broken-off barb of an arrow, festering ever since.

Now Sarah wanted revenge.

That afternoon Sarah knocked on the back door of the house where Harrie Clarke lived and worked, towards the Essex Street end of Gloucester Street on the Rocks. When no one came, after a few minutes she let herself in, which she’d done before; it just meant everyone was busy.

The ground floor of the building was divided into four separate rooms, two of them shops. One was the premises of Harrie’s boss, George Barrett, a tailor; another was his wife Nora’s, a sempstress who made rather nice dresses for women with a bit of money to throw around. A third room was a very crowded little store where the Barretts kept their bolts of cloth and vast collections of thread and assorted sewing paraphernalia. In the fourth, a small foyer into which the back door opened, also cluttered with baskets and bales, were the stairs that led to the living quarters above, a parlour and two bedrooms. Mr and Mrs Barrett and the latest baby shared one bedroom, while the three older Barrett children slept in the other. As usual, the kitchen and the privy were outside in the backyard.

At the very top of the stairs was Harrie’s attic room, which she’d made extremely cosy with the addition of rag rugs, drapes, cushions
and a coverlet all cleverly fashioned from scraps of fabric. Angus, poor Rachel’s odd-looking cat, also slept there, unknown to George Barrett who believed that at night he was outside chasing rats. Sarah would be envious of Harrie’s comfortable little nest if Harrie hadn’t plied her with all manner of handmade soft furnishings for her own room.

‘Hello!’ Sarah called up the stairs. ‘It’s Sarah Morgan. Is anyone home?’

Shrieking, ‘
Surprise!
’ a little flaxen-haired girl burst out of an enormous wicker basket.

Sarah almost had a heart attack. ‘Hannah! For God’s sake! Didn’t you hear me knocking?’

Hannah nodded. ‘I was hiding.’

‘You should answer the door when people knock, Hannah.’ Sarah did her best mean scowl. ‘It’s rude to just ignore people when they knock.’

‘But I was
hiding
!’

‘Well, go and hide somewhere else. But first, tell me where Harrie is.’

‘Upstairs with Mam and the baby. Lewis-spewus, that’s his new name,’ Hannah said, giggling wildly.

‘Just go on up, Sarah,’ Sarah heard George Barrett’s disembodied voice say from the depths of his shop. George himself appeared a moment later. ‘My apologies, I was busy with a customer. The things people expect you to do with a yard and a half of plain cloth and six buttons!’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘And I thought I told you not to play down here, missy?’ he said to Hannah, who stared at him defiantly, then scampered off up the stairs when he raised a warning hand to her.

George Barrett was of medium height, potbellied, dark-haired and pleasant-faced. Today mottled skin pouched beneath his eyes, testimony to the poor sleeping habits of his most recently arrived child, now almost two months old.

‘Harrie’s with the missus,’ he went on. ‘The babe had his worst night yet. Up, down, up, down. They’re both exhausted, not to mention yours truly.’

Sarah nodded and sidled towards the stairs. She didn’t particularly like George Barrett, though he’d never done anything specific to warrant her antipathy, and she most certainly didn’t have any advice to offer regarding fractious infants.

She found Harrie in the parlour nursing the cause of all the trouble; a grizzly little bundle with a livid pink face and wispy hair the colour of treacle. From the doorway she said, ‘I suppose this means you can’t come out now?’

Harrie looked up. ‘Good afternoon to you, too, Sarah.’

‘Well, can you?’

‘Mrs Barrett’s just getting dressed. She and Lewis had a difficult night.’

‘I heard.’

Nora Barrett appeared from the bedroom, trailed across the parlour floor and sank onto the sofa. She was still attired in her nightgown and a pale yellow cotton robe, the sash knotted loosely over the squashy mound of her post-confinement belly. From an untidy bun strands of blonde and grey hair fell across colourless, drawn cheeks, and the shadows beneath her eyes rivalled her husband’s.

‘I really can’t be bothered struggling into my clothes,’ she declared. ‘Pass him here, Harrie. Go on, go out and have some fun.’

‘Are you sure?’

Nora nodded. ‘Go on. It’s your afternoon off. There’s no sense all of us being slaves to the little tyrant.’

Hannah ran into the parlour wearing one of her mother’s bonnets. ‘Can I come out with you, Harrie?’

‘No,’ her mother said. ‘Certainly not. And take that off, it’s not yours. Where are Abigail and Sam?’

‘Sam’s having a nap,’ Harrie replied, ‘which is what you should be doing, Hannah, and Abbie’s next door with her friend.’

‘Sam’s napping ’cos he’s a baby. I’m not a baby, I’m five,’ Hannah said, and stamped her grubby bare foot.

Nora said, ‘He isn’t, he’s three, but he still gets tired and so do you. Go and have your nap, Hannah. I’ll not tell you again.’

Hannah glared at her mother for as long as she dared, then spun on her heel and stomped off into the children’s bedroom.

‘Little madam,’ Nora muttered.

Harrie stood. ‘Are you sure you don’t need me this afternoon?’

Nora, her head bent over Lewis as she exposed a blue-veined breast for him, waved vaguely. ‘I’m sure. Don’t be late, though, will you?’

Outside, Sarah said, ‘God knows why anyone would want to have one child, never mind four. That poor woman looks like she’s been through a mangle.’

Harrie adjusted her bonnet. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Children can be very rewarding.’

‘Not as rewarding as uninterrupted sleep, peace and quiet, a tidy house, and money in your purse.’

Harrie didn’t respond: Sarah was frequently snide about the subject of children, but she was very good with baby Charlotte and Rosie whenever they went out to the Female Factory at Parramatta. Which had been quite often, lately. Thank God Esther Green had finally consented to allow Sarah more time off: until Mr Green had put his foot down and insisted his wife be a little more lenient, Harrie had been so worried Sarah would lose her temper and do something she would seriously regret.

They set off south along Gloucester Street, turned into Charlotte Place, then followed George Street until they came to their favourite tea shop. Unfortunately, it wasn’t their original favourite tea shop — at which, several months ago, they’d been told their patronage was no longer appreciated because of complaints from customers about Friday’s language — but the cakes and selection of teas available at this one were almost as inviting.

Today they were celebrating the passing of the first twelve months of their sentences as transported convicts. Harrie and Sarah now had six years left to serve, and Friday thirteen. Providing their behaviour was deemed ‘good’, they might apply to receive tickets of leave sooner than that and move independently into the community, at least partially free of the system that bonded them to masters and mistresses, working as servants for little more than food and board.

But the occasion today would also be tainted with a sadness that was still very raw. When they’d arrived in New South Wales after six months together in London’s Newgate Gaol and almost four at sea, their number had been four. They had been as close as sisters, as much a family as it was possible to be without sharing blood. Now they were only three.

Friday, already seated at a table, waved.

‘That’s a very nice dress,’ Harrie said as she pulled out a chair.

It was, and not the sort of thing Friday Woolfe usually favoured. Of glazed camlet in smoky blue and black stripes with black piping, the waist sat snugly and the neckline, for a change, displayed no hint of cleavage. The bodice, however, was very fitted thanks to cleverly placed darts, and in pleasing contrast to the fullness of the upper sleeves. The accompanying hat, a wide-brimmed straw, was devoid of the artificial flora and fauna that normally cluttered Friday’s headwear. Instead, a black satin band held a simple fan of black ostrich feathers pinned with a jet brooch. The overall effect, especially against Friday’s rich copper hair and pale skin, was one of well-tailored style.

‘You don’t think it’s too plain?’ she asked.

‘No.’ Sarah sat down. ‘It’s quite clever actually. Smart, but still shows off what you’ve got.’

‘Mrs H is taking me in hand,’ Friday grumbled, referring to the madam of the brothel where she worked. ‘Apparently I dress like a tart.’

‘Well, you do,’ Sarah said.

‘But I
am
a tart.’

‘You don’t look like one today,’ Harrie said admiringly. ‘You look like a proper lady.’

Friday snorted.

‘You do!’ Harrie insisted. ‘Who made it?’

‘Mrs H’s dressmaker.’

‘I could make you a couple more in that style, if you like,’ Harrie offered. ‘You’d only have to pay for the fabric and trims.’

Sarah made a disbelieving noise. ‘Aren’t you too busy running around after the Barretts to be sewing dresses for friends?’

‘I could find the time. I miss sewing. I’ve barely done any since Lewis arrived, I’ve been that busy.’

‘Didn’t I just say that?’ Sarah snapped.

Friday tut-tutted. ‘You’re grumpy today. What’s the matter?’

‘Nothing.’

The waitress arrived: the girls ordered tea and a selection of cakes and pastries. When she’d departed Friday and Harrie stared intently at Sarah, silently bullying her into confessing what was on her mind.

She sighed heavily. ‘I had that dream again. The hanging one.’

Friday made a sympathetic face. She, too, had been suffering nightmares, except in hers Gabriel Keegan came back from the grave, stinking and slimy and ruptured with his guts spilling out everywhere, and chased her through the streets of the Rocks, shouting at her to give him back his money. Why he wanted money, she couldn’t fathom: she, Sarah and Harrie had kicked him to death, yes, but they’d never robbed him. She also couldn’t understand why she was dreaming about him; she’d hated the cove when he was alive and, though she still felt a little uneasy about what they’d done, she had no regrets. If anything, she’d expected to be having Sarah’s nightmares about the gallows — which, after all, was the awful black shadow looming over them. Lucky Harrie. Usually the most susceptible to guilt, it seemed she only had to put
up with Rachel floating in and out of her dreams. Though now that she thought about it, even perpetually good-natured Harrie had been subdued and … distracted lately.

No one said anything for a minute.

‘You haven’t heard, then?’ Harrie asked at last. ‘From Bella?’

Friday shook her head.

‘God,’ Sarah said under her breath. ‘It’s driving me bloody mad, waiting.’

The waitress arrived with their order. She set down a two-tiered plate stand on which were arranged cakes and scones, poured three cups of tea, and asked, ‘Will there be anything else?’

Harrie said, ‘No, thank you.’

When the girl had gone Friday said, ‘Don’t think about it. She’ll be biding her time, having the time of her life, thinking about us sweating.’

‘It’s not so bad during the day,’ Sarah explained. ‘It’s at night when I’m asleep. I don’t seem to be able to keep hold of what happens to my thoughts.’

‘Could you not take a sleeping draught?’ Harrie suggested.

Sarah shook her head. ‘I might sleep too long in the morning. Esther would love that. It’d give her another reason to make my life a misery.
God
I hate that woman.’