Great Historical Novels (53 page)
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Authors: Fay Weldon
‘Which nice young man, Mrs Montgomery?’ Michael coaxed.
‘The naturalist. It was botany, wasn’t it?’ She looked at Isaac.
‘Yes, it was,’ he agreed.
‘Do you mean Mr Reeve?’ Rhia would not have described him in the same way.
‘Yes. He had been petitioning for our patronage for some time, and Jonathan, quite suddenly, decided to help him reach Australia. Now I understand why.’ Prunella drained her glass and set it on the table. She cast one last look at her husband. ‘What a pity you are not, at least, ashamed of yourself.’ She rose slowly and with a slight totter. ‘Come, Isabella, these gentlemen have business with your father.’
Prunella and Isabella left the room and Rhia caught Dillon’s eye. She raised an eyebrow and he nodded. It was time to call the constables. If she was going to say something it would have to be now. ‘It may have been your intent to ruin me, or maybe you had no intent but to get me out of your way, but what you have done is quite the opposite. I suppose, indirectly, you have done me a favour. I’ll soon be selling my own cloth in London.’
‘Don’t be a fool,’ he said. ‘You would never survive. The trade is a man’s domain.’
‘Of course. So that is why the Thames is full of filth and the skies are dark with sulphur and lime. I met several women on the
Rajah
with a head for commerce.’ (She thought better of mentioning Agnes’s proposed business.) ‘You’ll soon find out what it’s like to get to know people in prison. Most of them won’t be real criminals, like you. By the way, Mr Beckwith, you dropped a calling card at China Wharf. You should be more careful.’
Rhia turned her back without giving Beckwith another glance. She couldn’t stand to look at him.
On the drive, she signalled to the constables and went to wait in the carriage. She pulled her cloak together, and breathed
in the cold. The sky was patterned with cloud as delicate as mother of pearl. The air was still. If today were a cloth, it would be chambertine; a blend of linen and wool; the sturdy fibres that had woven themselves through her life.
Soon, one of the constables galloped past, up the road, tipping his black cap at her as he passed. No doubt he had gone to get the police wagon. When the door of the carriage opened, Rhia expected that it would be one of the men, but it was Isabella.
‘Do you mind if I sit with you?’ Isabella looked as though she’d matured in the space of an hour, in spite of the frill of chiffon beneath her fur.
‘Of course not.’ They sat in silence for a moment. Rhia wondered if she should say something placatory about what was going on in the house. She couldn’t think of anything. ‘That’s a pretty gown.’
Isabelle smiled weakly. ‘To be truthful, I’m fed up with pretty things. Papa likes me in them, but I would prefer something more sophisticated.’ She chewed on her lip. ‘It seems that he is in trouble.’
‘It does seem so.’
‘Will I be permitted to visit him in prison?’
‘I expect so. You did not marry, then?’
‘No. Papa said he was not good enough for me, but I know that it’s really because of money. It seems that Papa doesn’t have much after all. I shall take ballet classes, that will cheer me. Mama says I may.’ Isabelle looked at her hands. ‘I’m so sorry, Miss Mahoney, about what happened to you. You did not deserve it.’
The black police wagon passed as they conversed about the most frivolous things Rhia could think of, and then Isabella said she had better go and say goodbye to her father.
‘I hope you’ll visit us, Miss Mahoney?’
‘I’ll be going home soon, but I’ll be in London again, on business.’ On business. She liked the way that sounded.
Isabella left and the men arrived. Isaac stepped up onto his chaise and offered to drive Sid home. Michael said he thought he’d sit up on the hammercloth with the driver. Dillon climbed into the carriage with Rhia.
They sat side by side, almost touching. Dillon’s hand rested lightly on Rhia’s. His fingers traced slowly along her wrist. He turned to her and ran his thumb down her cheek and across her lips, leaning towards her until she felt his warm breath on her face and his lips pressing on hers. They were softer than she had imagined. His hands slid to her shoulders and down her arms as though he were undressing her. They rested on her waist, pressing against her hips. Everywhere he touched, her skin came to life. The depth of the sea, the radiance of the moon and the strength of heaven had got her here, and she would never forget how this inner lightness felt. Perhaps Antonia had been right after all about the inner light.
They had rearranged themselves by the time they arrived at Cloak Lane. Michael stepped down and coughed loudly before he opened the carriage door. He shook Dillon’s hand and said he hoped to see him in Ireland one day, then he left them alone beneath the carriage lamp.
Inside the circle of light, Dillon looked at Rhia quizzically.
‘Might I visit you in Ireland?’
‘You might,’ she said.
‘Then perhaps I shall,’ he replied.
‘You had damn well better,’ she said.
Michael Kelly sat on a pile of stones quarried from Belgard near Dublin; stones that were about to form part of the new Mahoney storehouse. He pulled out his tobacco tin and watched the scurrying activity of the quay. The never-ending rotation of commerce. Behind the row of red-brick stores was a tangle of masts and rigging; the sight that had once called him to adventure and the open sea. He breathed a sigh of completion. It was time to stay home now.
Not far off stood Dillon and Rhia. They’d been married in the summer, in Greystones chapel. It was a typical village wedding, everyone was welcome and there’d been a ceilidh on the green afterwards. Annie pulled him up to dance, and when he protested, Thomas and Fiona made him. So he danced with his wife and she looked as lovely in her yellow dress as she’d looked the day he first laid eyes on her.
She’d never looked better, though, than she had the day he got home. What a sweet day it had been. He’d left Rhia to take the carriage up the headland, and walked along the shale. Thomas was at the loom, and Annie was spinning, just as he’d imagined it for years. He walked right in, and they both looked at him, stunned, as though a stranger had walked into their parlour. Annie dropped her distaff to the floor. He’d never seen her do that, she was always so careful with her yarn. Then she was in his arms. They didn’t sleep the first night. How
could they? There was too much remembering to do. Remembering of each other. She didn’t ask him if he’d stayed true, but if she’d been in any doubt of his love then he’d proved it that night and on many nights since.
Standing beside Rhia and Dillon were Bridget and Connor Mahoney. Connor still had his stick but he stood straighter these days. He didn’t take much interest in the trade any more, but he didn’t need to; not with Brigit and Rhia in the house. They were watching as the foundation stones were laid in the place where the ruined linen storehouse had been. Rhia had taken her old red cloak to the dyers quarter and now it was purple, and her hair was grown long again. They’d done well. They had a clipper at sea and another that should be leaving Sydney by now, and one about to depart Dublin for London. Antonia had found them plenty of English and continental buyers. She and Isaac were business partners now, and Michael wouldn’t be surprised if they soon became more than that.
He had received a letter from Dan in Sydney, saying why didn’t he send his cloth back to them, since good quality woven was still rare in the colony. Rhia was now insisting that she accompany the first shipment; though Michael could see her husband didn’t think much of the idea. That wouldn’t make any difference to her, though. She did as she pleased and Dillon seemed to like that about her. That was uncommon in a man, Michael was prepared to admit it.
Michael wouldn’t be going back to Australia. Even coming to Dublin for a spell was too long to be away from home these days. Annie was waiting for him now, just as she’d done for all those years.
Rhia was looking towards St Patrick’s, and Michael thought he saw her incline her head respectfully, but he couldn’t be sure.
I was very fortunate to view the Rajah Quilt at the National Gallery of Australia in Canberra, where it has been housed since it was discovered in an attic in Scotland in 1987. This was made possible by the good will of the Head of Conservation at the National Gallery, Deborah Ward, who also took the time to answer my questions about this historical textile, made on the transport
Rajah
in 1841. The Rajah Quilt is the only known surviving convict quilt. Stitched into its intricate design are the dreams and sorrows of but a few of the thousands of women who were transported to Australia during the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries.
The Silver Thread
is based very loosely on what is known about the voyage of the
Rajah
and the making of the quilt, and I have taken liberties. Not least amongst these, the fact that the
Rajah
sailed into Hobart rather than Sydney, and that, to the best of my knowledge, no murder took place on that voyage! There is also the matter of the London and North Western Railway, and of certain publications that were not quite in circulation at the time.
I consulted many sources in researching the factual aspect of this novel, but chief amongst these was Robert Hughes’
The Fatal Shore
and
Leviathan
by John Birmingham. My work was made easier by the effort of these authors. Any errors or inaccuracies are firmly my own.
As always, there are people without whose understanding
and support I simply couldn’t have done. Thank you, firstly, Nick and Saoirse for allowing me to disappear occasionally, and Ali and Mike for Rose Cottage and a well-timed whisky or two. Thank you Bryon and Philippa for helping, and to Ngaire Macleod.
I’m grateful to colleagues, friends and fellow writers at Bath Spa University, including Richard Kerridge, Tricia Wastvedt and Tracy Brain, and for the solidarity of Brett Hardman, Suellen Dainty, Jenny McVeigh, Angela Lett, and Jack Woolf. Thank you, also, to the Babcary writers; Guy de Beaujeu, Shannon Slater and Wendy Teasdill.
I owe much to the patience and continuing support of Monika Boese and Siv Bublitz at Ullstein, and to Kirtsy Dunseath for her interest. The perception of Richenda Todd and Susan Opie was extremely helpful and much appreciated.
Huge thanks to Anthony Cheetham, Nic Cheetham and Mathilda Imlah at Head of Zeus, and particularly to Laura Palmer for her insight and hard work.
I am most of all grateful to my agent, Kate Hordern, whom I can’t thank enough for her tireless industry, good sense and big heart. Her input, and her belief in this novel, was a great strength throughout.
Dublin, 1840:
Rhia Mahoney watches in despair as her father’s linen warehouse goes up in flames. Her family is ruined. Her imagined future, full of pattern and colour, plum brocades and beetle-green taffeta, crumbles to ashes.
Seeking work in dismal London, Rhia’s life is changed beyond all imagination when her uncle, a shipping merchant, commits suicide. Rhia cannot – will not – believe he would take his own life, but before she can investigate, she is arrested for a crime she did not commit, and forced to board a prison ship bound for New South Wales.
The voyage seems endless. To ease the boredom, the women sew scraps of cloth into a quilt to send to London. And with every stitch, Rhia binds herself to a fateful journey that will not end in Australia…
Weaving death, love and adventure into a vivid tale of the world at the height of Empire,
The Silver Thread
is a superbly told Victorian murder mystery set during the great age of sail.
Kylie Fitzpatrick is a graduate of the MA in Creative Writing at Bath Spa University, and tutors on the Creative Writing degree course there. Her previous two historical novels have been published in ten languages.
