A Tattooed Heart (19 page)

Hannah nodded so vigorously her plaits flew.

‘God, you're game,' Nora said. ‘But thanks, I could do with a bit of peace and quiet. Well, as much as I'm allowed with Sam and Lewis.'

‘I'll drop her back afterwards. The house is on Clarence Street near the barracks so you're more or less on the way home. James is coming for a look, too, providing he can get away from the surgery.'

Nora licked the end of a piece of thread, flattened it between two fingers and expertly threaded the finest of needles. ‘Is it not working out, then, Matthew lodging with you?'

‘Oh, no, it is. It's lovely having him and the kids think he's wonderful. Even Robbie likes him, and I was starting to think Robbie didn't like anyone except Walter and that Jimmy Johnson from the Siren. No, I just think he thinks it's time he bought somewhere of his own.'

‘Making himself a little love nest, do you think?' Nora asked slyly.

Harrie smirked. ‘Fingers crossed. He has been seeing quite a bit of Lucy and she's been to ours for supper four or five times.' Her face fell slightly. ‘Though the other night when I happened to say something about this wedding dress we're working on, she did say she didn't think it was for her. I said, “Do you mean a pale apricot wedding gown, or marriage?” And she said, “Marriage. A husband.” I said, “Really? They're not a bad idea, you know. I've got a lovely one.” And she said, “But if that's all I wanted out of life I could have stayed in Clapham. I want to make something of myself. And I don't want to be owned.”'

‘Oh dear,' Nora said.

‘I suppose she's got a point,' Harrie added. ‘I'm owned, aren't I? My husband's my master.'

‘Oh, rubbish. Do you feel owned?'

‘No.'

‘Well, there you go.'

Hannah said, ‘I like Matthew. I'll marry him.'

Nora put five or six tiny, almost invisible stitches into a seam. ‘Stop flapping your ears, missy. You've got your work cut out for you, then, haven't you?'

‘I have?' Harrie said.

Nora said, ‘Yes, if you're going to make this match work.'

Harrie thought about that for a few moments, made a face, then said, ‘Come on, girls, grab your capes, we need to get going or we'll be late.'

‘You're the one who's been talking,' Hannah said.

Nora reached out and yanked her plait. ‘What did you just promise? To behave, remember? Don't be so rude.'

It took them just under twenty minutes to walk from Nora's house on Gloucester Street to the Clarence Street address Matthew had given Harrie. It had rained on and off for the past week, transforming the roads to churned up channels of mud and dung, with fewer footways the farther they travelled from George Street, and naturally Hannah had to fall into almost every puddle, but eventually they arrived.

Standing outside the little house, Matthew saw them coming and waved. She'd brought the girls: that was nice. And Hannah. That was all right — he actually quite liked Hannah, trying though she could be. He checked his watch. The solicitor acting for the vendor was supposed to be here by now. And so was James.

He hadn't, however, asked along the one person he had really wanted to look at the property, and that was Lucy. He'd thought very hard about it but had decided not to, in case she thought he
wanted her to live in it with him, which he did. But he'd prefer to introduce her to the idea more subtly and romantically than that, and preferably together with a proposal of marriage. Anyway, she was busy teaching during the day and couldn't get away.

She'd settled in at Gertrude Armitage's Finishing Academy for Girls, but he knew she wasn't particularly enjoying her work there, extremely grateful though she was to Eloise Chandler for prevailing upon Mrs Armitage to employ her. She taught drawing and painting, music (Lucy played the pianoforte and the guitar — was there anything she couldn't do?), and writing (as in the correct manner of formulating letters, not how to write an actual novel or anything as adventurous as that). No Euclid, not even any arithmetic. Girls who attended Mrs Armitage's Finishing Academy for Girls would not be expected to keep track of finances in their own households. There would be a housekeeper to do that, or their husbands would. Another schoolmistress taught French and supervised the reading of a very small selection of Classic literature (purely to be used for dinner-party conversation), while still another instructed the girls, twenty-three in all, in flower arranging and various forms of needlework.

Lucy had confided to him one day: ‘I'm so pleased I didn't get stuck with the flowers. I certainly won't be offering lessons on what to do with half a dozen chrysanthemums and a handful of asparagus fern when I open my school. I have suggested to Mrs Armitage that she at least let me introduce basic Latin to some of the brighter girls. She's thinking about it. Latin can come in handy for so many things, you know.'

Like what? Matthew had wanted to ask, but hadn't in case it made him look ignorant. Lucy was bored, he realised, but she seemed happy enough. She was also tutoring Sophie, Anna and Robbie privately, as Harrie didn't feel they were ready to attend school yet. She did seem to be enjoying that, though good luck to her with Robbie. He was a surly little beggar, if clearly bright, and
didn't take at all kindly to any sort of authority. James definitely had his hands full there.

The other reason Matthew had decided not to show Lucy the house was he'd only seen it from the outside, and while its sandstone walls and shingle roof looked reasonably sound, it might be an utter shambles within. It was to be auctioned next week ‘upon the ground' — in other words, on site — but he thought it prudent to have a look inside before he even considered making a bid. The house — a cottage, really — wasn't on Sydney's most illustrious of streets, but it could have been a lot worse.

‘Sorry we're late,' Harrie said. ‘Are we? Where's James?'

‘Not here yet. No, I tell a lie, there he is.'

James waved from across the road, then a dapper little man appeared from the opposite direction, picking his way through the mud.

‘That must be Mr Cowley,' Matthew said. ‘The solicitor.'

‘Mooo,' Hannah said.

‘Mooooo,' Charlotte echoed. Sophie and Anna giggled.

‘That's enough,' Harrie warned.

‘Sorry I'm late,' James said, pecking Harrie on the cheek. ‘And I can't stay long, I'm afraid. We're quite busy at the surgery.'

‘We can't either, actually,' Harrie said. ‘Charlotte's very overdue for a nap. She wouldn't go down at Nora's.'

Mr Cowley approached, there were handshakes all round, and a large key was produced.

‘Er, may I ask, where is the owner?' Matthew said.

‘Oh, I'm sorry.' Mr Cowley looked mildly startled. ‘I thought you were aware, this house is part of a deceased estate.'

‘What does that mean?' Hannah blurted.

‘Hannah, dear, please keep quiet,' James said. ‘This is a conversation for grown-ups.'

Matthew bent down to her. ‘It means that the person who owned it died.'

‘Really! Where?' Hannah's eyes were huge. ‘Inside? Are they still there?'

Harrie took her hand. ‘Hannah, love, can you just be quiet for a while? Please? This is important to Matthew. Come on, be a quiet little mouse, there's a good girl.'

And because she liked Matthew, Hannah crossed her wrists in front of her nose to make mouse whiskers, waggled her fingers, and shut up.

Unlocking the door, Mr Cowley stepped aside so they could all troop in.

Immediately, Hannah declared, ‘Smells like shit.'

Mr Cowley said testily, ‘Perhaps the little girl can wait outside?'

Matthew said, ‘No, she stays with us.' It was all right for people who cared about Hannah to comment on her unruly behaviour, but not strangers.

‘It is a little whiffy, though, isn't it?' James remarked. ‘I wonder if that's seepage from the cesspit?'

‘Unlikely.' Mr Cowley shook his head until his top hat slipped. He adjusted it. ‘The cesspit is right at the back of the property. I'd say more likely bad air from the doors and windows being closed for months.'

‘Well, open the damn things, then,' Harrie snapped. Clearly she hadn't taken to the solicitor either.

Matthew glanced at James and saw that he was trying to hide a smile as Mr Cowley strode about throwing open windows, and the only other door in the house, which led out onto a good-sized rear yard.

It didn't take them long to inspect the property, which wasn't exactly palatial, but Matthew quite liked what he saw. There were two rooms fit for bedchambers with decent-sized glazed windows (with all but one pane intact), a sizeable parlour with a big hearth, one other tiny room suitable for storage, and a rather rancid privy at the end of the yard.

‘That will have to be moved and a new pit dug,' James observed, his handkerchief over his nose.

‘But the rest isn't too bad, is it?' Harrie said, back inside again. ‘It could do with a good clean and fresh whitewash on the walls, but when you get some furniture in and carpets down it could really be quite cosy. I'll make you some drapes and bits and pieces and you won't recognise it.'

‘Harrie!' Sophie called from a bedroom. ‘We've just seen a rat!'

Ignoring her, Matthew said, ‘Except I don't really have any furniture.'

‘Then go shopping.' Harrie glanced around for Charlotte, and found her busy — and safe — poking a stick into a hole in the wall. ‘I'll come with you if you like.'

Alarmed, Matthew shot a glance at James, who shrugged, amused.

Mr Cowley beamed. ‘And you'll have noticed that the fireplace is already set up for cooking, with the sway and hooks and what have you. All you need is a tripod or a camp oven.'

Matthew hadn't noticed, and wouldn't know what to do with a camp oven anyway. He'd never cooked himself a meal in his life. ‘Well, I'm definitely interested. Do you know if anyone else will be bidding?'

‘At this point I believe there are two other interested parties.'

‘And is there a reserve?'

‘Yes, although my client has stipulated a not unreasonable figure, given that the plot is a third of an acre in the centre of town and the cottage, as you can see yourself, is solidly built.'

James said, ‘I thought you said your client was dead?'

Shrieking and giggling, Hannah charged out into the parlour.

‘Right, that's enough,' Harrie exclaimed. ‘Sophie! Anna! Out here right now!' When they appeared, she ordered, ‘You two take her outside now. And do not wander off, please. We'll only be a few minutes.'

Charlotte started to grizzle as the girls disappeared out the door, but Harrie shushed her.

‘Your client?' James reminded Mr Cowley.

‘He is deceased, but he's survived by a sister in England. The cottage was left to her and she's instructed me to sell.'

‘So it's been empty for ages?' Matthew asked. No wonder it smelt bad. He edged towards the door.

‘Yes, but it's only recently become available for sale. I'll just close these windows. You can't be too careful.'

Outside, Matthew shook the solicitor's hand and said, ‘Well, thank you for showing me the property, Mr Cowley. I'll definitely be at the auction next Friday. What time did you say?'

‘I didn't. Midday. Good day to you.'

He didn't bother to say goodbye to Hannah.

As everyone else also headed off — Matthew back to his office, James to the surgery, and Harrie and the girls to take Hannah back to Gloucester Street — no one noticed a figure emerge from the shadow of the barracks wall on the other side of the road.

Jonah Leary had arrived back in Sydney Town several weeks earlier, a passenger on the paddlesteamer
Sophia Jane
. He was staying in a pub where no one would recognise him — not that he was well known in this town, but it was essential that he kept his head down — and had spent his time surreptitiously following certain people about.

Obviously, a lot had happened since he'd left Sydney at the start of the year. Barmy Harrie Clarke (or Downey, he supposed she was now), and her doctor husband had moved to a grand big house on Hunter Street and now there were three more kids, not just the baby — the Downey girl's relatives from England. There was also another cove living with them, by the name of Matthew Cutler. He'd thought about approaching the old bugger who drove the carriage and looked after the gardens and such, but he had that stubborn air of loyalty about him, so was probably best avoided. Instead, Jonah had bribed the couple next door: the moment he'd produced his purse their mouths had opened. Greedy sods. Though it appeared Cutler might soon be moving out, if today's events were any indication.

Leo Dundas seemed as wily and flinty as ever. Jonah had watched him a few times over the last couple of days — from a distance because the bastard was so sharp — and wondered why
he cared so much about the Clarke girl. Downey! Bloody Downey. He'd have to try to remember that. It was only a detail, but details mattered. Dundas probably wanted to shag her. There was a boy called Walter sharing his rooms now, which Jonah thought was pretty bloody strange. Dundas definitely didn't seem like a Miss Molly, but sometimes you just didn't know. Just the idea of it made Jonah feel like having a spew.

The big red-headed whore, Friday Woolfe, was still on the scene — he could quite happily shag
her
— though he'd winkled out of a girl at the brothel on Argyle Street that she wasn't spreading her legs any more. Apparently she was the house flagellant now, not something that appealed to him. He just couldn't fathom those types who enjoyed getting flogged and humiliated. Bloody deviants. She had a room-mate now, too, one of those natives from New Zealand, an equally strapping and spectacular girl, though after tailing her for half a day he'd decided he'd do well to think long and hard before tangling with her. He suspected that underneath her fine clothes and polished manners she was mean.

And the other girl, Sarah Green, was one to watch as well. Sneaky bitch. The lot of them except for Friday Woolfe's new friend had hovered around the Harrie girl a year ago like flies on shit, and they still did, but evidently not so much now, probably because, amazingly, she seemed to have got her wits back. A year ago, he would have put money on her ending up in the lunatic asylum for good, she was that nervy and pathetic, but here she was swanning round the town, running a grand house and having a high old time.

And keeping secrets about the whereabouts of his brother, Bennett.

He doubted he'd be able to crack Leo Dundas — not a smart, hard-bitten old seadog who'd sailed the seven seas Christ knew how many times — but what about a girl who not so long ago was really not very well at all?

Yes, he'd have a much better chance with Harrie Downey. Because obviously she loved kids, and now she was knee bloody deep in them.

Aria slipped down the stairs of the Siren's Arms and out onto Harrington Street into the bright, fine morning air. Friday had worked late last night and come to bed so weary they hadn't even made love, so she'd left her to sleep in peace a while longer.

It was almost nine o'clock and the rest of the town was awake, however. She was on her way to the chemist to purchase some good soap. She could tolerate several weeks without bathing — and in Aotearoa in times of siege and on raiding parties, she had — but she preferred to wash daily. In the Bay of Islands, often the only soap to be had was a harsh concoction of lye leached from wood ash boiled with fat, but here in Sydney she'd discovered in the stores a cornucopia of finely milled and deliciously scented treats: lavender, jasmine, chamomile, geranium, and her favourite, rose. It was very expensive but worth it, especially as she knew Friday enjoyed the pretty aromas as much as she did.

After what she anticipated would be a very pleasant thirty minutes sniffing her way around the chemist, she then planned to visit a draper to select several lengths of fabric. Of necessity she'd left Aotearoa in quite a hurry, boarding the whaling ship with no more than the clothes she wore and a kete containing one good dress (as she had not wished to appear before Friday ship-soiled and looking like a drudge), her knives and a few personal bits and pieces. When Harrie had offered to make her some new gowns, she'd been delighted. She was particular about her appearance, some might even say vain, but the impact of a statuesque physique, good grooming and fine clothes could never be underestimated.

She ducked down Suffolk Lane, savouring the smell of hot new bread from a nearby bakehouse, and stood on the corner of George Street, waiting for a break in the traffic already streaming
away from the Commissariat Stores and the wharves. The cove, she saw, was strewn with ships at anchor, and both King's Wharf and Campbell's were fully berthed. Spotting a gap between a cart and a man on horseback she picked up her skirts, strode across the rutted street, dodged a gig going the other way, then headed towards the chemist.

A bell rang as she entered the shop, the closing door behind her shutting out the clamour of the street. She stood still and breathed in deeply through her nose. What a haven! Tucking her reticule beneath her arm she began a leisurely wander.

A bespectacled oldish man appeared behind the counter. ‘May I be of assistance?'

‘I do not think so. I am looking and then I will be choosing.'

‘May I ask what it is you require? I may be able to help.'

Oh, go away, little man, Aria thought. Why are you spoiling my fun? She approached the counter and stared down at him. The top of his balding head barely reached her shoulder. ‘Soap,' she snapped.

‘Plain or fancy?' he asked, then threw up his hands so suddenly that Aria started. ‘No! Don't tell me; let me guess. You're a fancy, aren't you?'

‘I beg your pardon?'

‘A fancy. Fancy soap. I can always tell.
Well
, I have just the thing for you.' He darted to the end of the counter, lifted the hatch and scooted through. ‘Come and look, they only arrived yesterday.'

Curious now, Aria followed him to a table on which were artfully arranged baskets containing posies of dried flowers and herbs, aromatic sachets, pomanders, and a good variety of soaps, some wrapped and some not.

‘Do you have a favourite?' he asked.

‘Rose.'

‘Oh, yes, mine too. But you must try this.' He selected a wrapped soap, opened it (the seal was already broken so it obviously wasn't the first time), and handed it to Aria.

She held it to her nose. ‘It is . . . delicious! What is it?'

‘Honeysuckle. I imported it from England.'

‘I do not think I have smelt honeysuckle before.'

‘Marvellous, isn't it?'

‘Possibly as nice as rose. I will take three cakes, thank you, and three cakes of your best rose.'

The chemist looked vaguely uncomfortable. ‘Er, it is rather expensive.'

‘I expect that it is,' Aria replied, thinking how fortunate it was that Friday had plenty of money.

The soaps nestled safely in her reticule, Aria left the shop and walked along George Street towards the drapers'. Passing through the shadow of the southern end of the Commissariat Stores, she distinctly heard someone call her name. Stopping, she turned but saw no one she recognised. The voice — a man's — came again and she took five or six steps into the narrow, shaded street between the Stores that was the lower reach of Essex Lane. Two boys were loitering halfway down, and at the far end she could see the edge of the cove and a handful of men working, but no one who might have called to her.

She watched for a moment, then turned away — and yelped as someone yanked hard on her hair, jerking her head back. A large hand clamped over her mouth then she lost her balance, her arms shooting up and her reticule falling, and she was being dragged backwards into the shadows.

Her beautiful soaps!

Fucking Hoata — she could smell him. Tensing her stomach muscles, she drove back with an elbow and a booted heel: the heel connected with a shin but the elbow was grabbed — by someone else, she thought. Paikea? She bit Hoata's hand then, heaving mightily, bent at the waist, lifting him a few inches off his feet. He grunted in surprise but she'd seen his companion — not Paikea but Te Paenga himself.

‘You cowards!' she hissed in Maori, dragging Hoata around. ‘Two warriors against one woman?'

Down the laneway the two boys stared, fascinated, but when they realised Aria had spotted them they tore off.

Te Paenga got a more secure grip on her arm. ‘Shut up, woman. The ship is waiting. We are leaving.'

Hoata, a row of tooth marks on his palm, took her other arm and they marched her down an alleyway that cut through the Stores.

‘Have you been waiting two whole weeks to catch me by myself?' Aria said. ‘You fools.'

‘Shut
up,
' Te Paenga ordered, giving her arm a vicious twist, which hurt.

‘And all for nothing,' Aria said.

‘No, not for nothing. You
will
be my bride.'

Aria lost her footing on slippery cobbles as they hurried around the side of a building and Hoata righted her. ‘But not your
virgin
bride,' she taunted. ‘It is too late for that.'

‘Pah!' Te Paenga's free hand flew up in a dismissive gesture. ‘I do not care what intimacies you have shared with women. That does not matter.'

A pair of sailors went by, looking on in alarm, and Hoata and Te Paenga gave them such bellicose glares they couldn't move away fast enough.

‘I am not speaking of women,' Aria said. ‘I am not a virgin in
any
sense of the word.'

Te Paenga looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?'

Aria thrust out her chin at Hoata. ‘Ask him. He knows.'

Jerking to a halt, Te Paenga demanded of Hoata, ‘What? What do you know?'

‘Tell him, Hoata,' Aria said. ‘Tell him how we lay together and you took my maidenhood.'

‘What?'
Te Paenga roared.

Hoata gasped, his eyes popping in alarm. ‘We did not!'

Aria laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Do not pretend, my love. It is time to finally tell the truth.'

Appalled, Hoata dropped her arm as though it were on fire and leapt away from her. ‘She is lying! I have not touched her!'

‘Oh, my handsome warrior,' Aria cried, ‘you must not try to protect me!'

With an incoherent bellow of rage, Te Paenga lunged at Hoata, grabbing his topknot in one hand and punching his face with the other. As they overbalanced and crashed into a wall, struggling and kicking, Aria snatched up her skirts and ran. She ran down onto the waterfront with her long hair streaming behind her like a shining black banner, past King's Wharf and perhaps the ship waiting to take her away, past all the curious faces whizzing by in a blur, across George Street, and back up onto Harrington to the safety of the Siren's Arms.

Inside, she sat at the bottom of the stairs, getting her breath back. Then, after a while, she started to giggle. Poor, arrogant Hoata, with whom she would never have slept in a thousand years.

‘Are you all right, Miss Aria?' Ivy asked on her way past.

‘Yes, thank you, Ivy. I am very well.'

‘Can I get you anything?'

‘No, thank you. I am just resting.'

After a few minutes Aria felt recovered enough to go upstairs, and discovered that Friday was awake, sitting up in bed and drinking tea.

‘I woke up and you weren't here,' she said. ‘I missed you. Where have you been?'

‘I thought you might like some extra sleep. I went to buy some soap.'

‘Ooh, did you get rose?'

‘I did not get anything,' Aria said. ‘I forgot to take my purse.'

‘Well, you're a noodle, aren't you? See anything interesting out?'

‘No. Nothing at all.'

The weather was lovely, fine and warm with a gentle breeze blowing, as Matthew hurried up Charlotte Place and swung past St Philip's Church towards Clarence Street, almost trotting in his haste. He would thoroughly kick himself if he was late and the auction had already started. Or worse, finished.

Approaching the cottage he noted that Mr Cowley had arrived, and so had at least twenty others. He hoped like hell they weren't all planning to bid. To his relief he saw that proceedings hadn't yet begun, though two men were busy lifting a portable lectern off a cart, across the front of which was painted in gold lettering
Prentiss and Dickson Auctioneers
. Busy conversing with two gentlemen, Mr Cowley spotted him and touched the brim of his top hat in acknowledgment.

James arrived, puffing slightly. ‘Sorry I'm late. Good day for it.'

‘I suppose,' Matthew replied, feeling really quite nervous now. ‘Thanks for coming. Harrie busy?'

‘She's always busy these days, but she said she'd be here if she could.' James's eyebrows went up. ‘Looks like someone else had the same idea.' He waved.

Matthew followed his gaze, and sighed.

Friday and Aria were striding along Clarence Street in full sail. Aria, as always, was tastefully and impeccably dressed in a beautifully tailored gown, but Friday was in one of her spectacularly loud dresses and her enormous hydrangea hat.

‘Matthew!' she shouted, waving madly. ‘Hoi! Matthew!' She and Aria crossed the street. ‘How's things? Not every day you buy a house, is it?'

‘Well, you know, I'll only get it if my bid's the highest,' Matthew said glumly. Friday smelt as though she'd been on the gin all morning.