by Meg Keneally
‘One must mind who one stares at, Mr Monsarrat. It is disconcerting for some to be the object of your attention.’
‘I try not to stare at all, Mr Lethbridge. This was an aberration.’
‘Ah, but it seems you’ve been doing nothing but staring, in one way or another. And some of those in power do not like it.’
‘I answer to the supreme earthly power in the colony, Mr Lethbridge.’
‘But you know – a man of your intellect – that the governor is not the only power here. Particularly when the colony is being ruled by a name and an outline into which a man is yet to step. Hard for such a figment to govern with any authority, especially when the Holy Trinity is arrayed against him.’
‘The Holy Trinity?’
‘Yes, Mr Monsarrat. Church, courts and commerce. When those forces are in alignment, empires fall.’
‘Although you’re not suggesting that this one is about to, surely,’ said Monsarrat.
‘Not at all, Mr Monsarrat. I am simply observing. And now I must go, before the Holy Trinity notices my continued presence. If you’ll excuse me.’
Monsarrat knew to whom Lethbridge was referring. Church, courts and commerce could be found in one man. Reverend Horace Bulmer. And standing with Bulmer, having to raise his chin slightly so that they could continue their whispered conversation, was the man who embodied two out of three aspects of that trio. Socrates McAllister. Gentleman farmer, magistrate and purveyor of sly grog.
While people like Sophia craved the attention of those on McAllister’s social stratum, Monsarrat would have been delighted to escape his notice. It seemed, though, that he was not to get his wish, because as Monsarrat watched, Bulmer’s and McAllister’s eyes turned to him.
He probably should have left at that moment, but fearing drawing further attention to himself by a quick escape he froze, and then it was too late because McAllister had clapped his hand companionably on Bulmer’s shoulder in a jovial farewell and started towards Monsarrat. He started talking before he stopped walking. A busy man, clearly, unwilling to waste time, particularly on a man such as Monsarrat.
‘And how is Eveleigh’s errand boy?’
Monsarrat inclined his head in what he hoped was a bow respectful enough not to cause offence, but not too obsequious. He was confident McAllister was the kind of man who delighted in spotting weakness in others.
‘At your service, Mr McAllister.’
‘You remember me, then.’
‘Of course, Mr McAllister, as I do all men who have influence in this place.’
‘You’re still sniffing around the Female Factory, I hear.’
‘Mr Eveleigh sends me there to attend to certain administrative duties, yes.’
‘What’s more interesting, Mr Monsarrat, is that I hear you recently acquired a taste for rum?’
‘I rarely indulge, sir, but occasionally one succumbs to temptation.’
‘But surely a chap such as you would be more comfortable at the Freemason’s Arms or the Caledonia? Not at some shebeen. Dangerous people go to places like that, you know.’
‘Yes, I’m aware, sir, and thank you for your concern. I assure you that my future indulgences, rare though they will no doubt be, will occur at one of the establishments you mentioned.’
‘Ah, that is good to hear, Mr Monsarrat. And I’m told that you have something of an interest in business.’
‘In so far as I have an interest in anything which bears on the functioning of the colony, yes.’
‘Well, it seems to me that the business taking up your time of late centres on the supply of drink to various establishments. I must warn you that such business can be hazardous. So I’ve heard, anyway.’
‘Thank you, sir, I will bear your warning in mind.’
‘Wise fellow. It would turn your hair white, Mr Monsarrat, to hear some of the tales which come before the bench – the most deplorable acts of violence visited on the unwary who stray into some of the less salubrious establishments. I would hate to see a rarefied man such as yourself subjected to such treatment. Best confine your drinking to the established public houses. Or, better yet, don’t drink at all. It can be very bad for the health, you know.’
Chapter 19
Hannah was sorely tempted to visit Lizzie without Rebecca’s permission but she did not want to lose Rebecca’s trust, nor access to the Factory and its inhabitants.
She was standing outside Henrietta’s rooms and toying with the idea of leaving, as it seemed nothing more useful could be accomplished, when Rebecca walked through the gate with a man Hannah didn’t recognise. His clothes were not as meticulously maintained as Mr Monsarrat’s, but they were clean and well made, his cravat passably tied – and Hannah considered herself an authority on such matters.
‘Just the one!’ said Rebecca, when she saw Hannah. ‘I told you, did I not, Mr Rohan? Here she is, at her post. Mrs Mulrooney, may I present Mr Rohan, the Factory’s newly appointed superintendent.’
Rohan bowed slightly.
‘Mrs Mulrooney has been my right arm, Mr Rohan, she truly has. I swear to you, with her assistance I can help you out of your present predicament, at least until you get the matter of a matron resolved. Shall we go in?’
Without waiting for an answer, Rebecca was already opening the door of the superintendent’s quarters, urging them all inside. Once there, she clapped her hands again and exclaimed over the tidiness, the lack of dust, the fresh smell of soap and the windows thrown open to catch the breeze.
Hannah moved to the hearth and put on a pot of tea, before realising that the leaves were currently being conveyed to Sydney as part of Henrietta Church’s possessions.
‘Not at all,’ said Rebecca, in response to Hannah’s apology. ‘We’ve far more important things on our mind than tea, have we not, Mr Rohan?’
‘Indeed,’ he said.
‘Mr Rohan, you see, has his own house in town, Mrs Mulrooney. He has no need of lodging in the matron’s quarters, as of course he is not married to the matron, unlike the previous fellow.’
‘No, my wife has no interest in being the matron here,’ said Rohan. ‘Nor has she the qualifications, to be honest. I have a candidate on her way on a ship from Van Diemen’s Land, but the wind must be against them for she hasn’t arrived yet. In the meantime, I believe this establishment has been without a matron – or a functioning one – for quite some time.’
His eyes darted between the two women, and Hannah was astonished he was including her in the discussion. But with his next statement, it became apparent why.
‘Mrs Nelson has been telling me of the work you and she have been doing with the women. I understand your employer is on the governor’s staff, so he will appreciate the need to restore order here as soon as possible. I intend to write to him and request he release you to continue to assist Mrs Nelson until such time as the ship from Van Diemen’s Land arrives.’
Hannah said nothing. Several questions pushed their way past each other to be first to her lips, but they would have to wait. Because she had no wish to prematurely pierce the thin membrane surrounding this moment with words. Having her work recognised by an offer of employment, however temporary, was beyond gratifying. And, of course, it would put her in the ideal position to continue her investigations. She had no doubt that Monsarrat would instantly accede to Rohan’s request, even if it meant making his own tea for a time.
‘Is that agreeable to you, Mrs Mulrooney?’
Again, a strange sense of dislocation – being asked whether a course of action was agreeable. Such a thing had rarely happened, at least not during her time in New South Wales.
‘Of course, Mr Rohan. I would be delighted to be of service.’
She should, really, have stopped there. Expressed her delight at the opportunity to serve, and then served in silence. But if she remained invisible, she would make no progress. It was a risky moment, and Hannah’s response to risks had always been to take more of them.
‘If I may make so bold,�
�� she said, feeling a moral necessity, which didn’t stop the first few words coming out in a croak, ‘as to venture an opinion. I was wondering about the treatment of some of the women whose wits are not fully together. Some more company for them, perhaps, may be beneficial.’
Rebecca Nelson frowned. ‘Bear in mind, Mr Rohan, Mrs Mulrooney has no qualifications in the matter,’ she said. ‘We simply speak from our observations, and I am sure the lady from Van Diemen’s Land will make her own arrangements once she arrives. We will endeavour to do our best to keep things functioning as they have been – perhaps a little better – but of course it is not our place to make any irreversible changes to the functioning of this establishment.’
When she finished speaking, she turned to Hannah and pointedly raised her eyebrows.
‘Your observations are welcome, of course,’ said Mr Rohan, ‘as they are my primary source of information until I have the opportunity to make my own. As you say, the new matron will have her own idea on the matters at hand. But I see no harm in a little more company for the afflicted, if you think it may be of use.’
‘We’ll just be delighted to keep things running along happily,’ Rebecca said, as though discussing a garden party rather than a penal establishment. ‘Mr Rohan, it would be a terrible thing to make too many changes. There’s no telling how things would unravel from there.’
But there was one change Rebecca was going to make. Hannah had no idea how Rebecca had managed it, but managed it she had.
She was going to get some women out of the Factory.
One afternoon, over tea, Rebecca had told Hannah of her plans.
‘They are so stupid, some of them, are they not? Those who set the policies as to how these women should be treated. They claim they want to rehabilitate them, make them good colonial citizens when their sentence expires. But all they do is create future whores, beggars, and corpses.’
Hannah was surprised to hear Mrs Nelson speak so bluntly. She usually stayed on the right side of propriety.
‘Honestly, Hannah. They show them this place. They show them the town – the squalid parts of it, in any case. They show them men like Robert Church. And then they expect them to aspire, to behave, in the hopes of inheriting something better when their freedom comes. Yet they’ve been shown there is nothing worth inheriting, that freedom will just be another form of slavery, but without any certainty of rations.’
‘I suppose many of them would rather starve in freedom than in confinement, though,’ said Hannah.
‘Maybe, although in my experience if you’re starving or brutalised, or worse, whether you have a ticket of leave in your pocket or not doesn’t make much difference.’
‘In your experience?’
Rebecca Nelson had told Hannah something of her story. She was a governess when she moved here with her father, who had inconsiderately died a week after their arrival. Rebecca had secured another position as governess to the widowed David Nelson’s children, and had made herself so indispensable he had married her. Hannah was sure Rebecca had faced some difficulties, particularly after her father’s death. But she didn’t believe those difficulties had extended to starvation and brutality.
‘My experience listening to the stories of these women,’ Rebecca said.
‘And what would you show them, if you could? What would you have them aspire to? Would you spin them some kind of fantasy to keep them quiet, well-behaved? Because that is an abuse in itself.’
Rebecca looked at Hannah, eyebrows raised, head slightly down like a beast about to charge. ‘I will thank you, Mrs Mulrooney, not to accuse me of perpetrating a cruelty on these women.’
‘I meant no offence, Mrs Nelson,’ Hannah said. ‘But you know me to be a plain speaker, and I did imagine it is something you value, so I am speaking plainly when I say that it is difficult to aspire to something which does not exist. Lying to these girls will not help them, not in the long run.’
‘No, it won’t. And that’s not what I propose to do. I’m sorry for getting cross, Mrs Mulrooney, especially as I’ll need your help in bringing my plan to fruition.’
‘And your plan is?’
‘Well. We’ve been doing what we can to give them at least something of what they’ll need when they walk under that ridiculous clock for the last time. Sewing, housekeeping, cooking. Letters, most importantly. But what we need to do now, I feel, is to show them where the industrious application of these skills might lead.’
‘And where might it lead?’
‘Why, into a situation such as yours – domestic service, a fine roof over one’s head, certainty of food, protection from molestation, all of these wonderful things. They may even find themselves living under a distinguished roof. A roof such as that of my husband.’
‘You want to bring them home?’
‘Only for a little while, of course. An afternoon here and there. My husband is something of an aesthete – we have a great many paintings about the place. It will do the women good to see that humans can express themselves in ways other than through lust or violence. And in keeping with that, I thought we’d make a sewing circle: proper sewing – embroidery. Imagine sitting in a pleasant room for an afternoon with needle and thread for no other purpose than to make something beautiful. I don’t know what you think, Hannah, but I think that could be the making of some of them.’
It was certainly an interesting idea.
Mr Rohan had given Rebecca permission to select ten of the best-behaved First Class women, and today they were to be escorted to the Nelson household to perch themselves on the fine furnishings in order to stitch birds, flowers and butterflies into existence.
That afternoon it fell to Hannah to lead the selected women around a few curves of the river to the Nelson home. There were guards with them too, of course. It had been made clear to each of the women that any attempt at escape would fail, and would mean a revocation of their privileges. Each of them was accustomed to the superior rations of the First Class convict, and the better clothes and treatment. And now this – an afternoon in a fine house. It seemed unlikely anyone would attempt to run, particularly when they had no idea what they would be running to.
There were two women in particular to whom Hannah’s eyes were drawn as they walked. Bronagh and Peggy, their names were, and while they weren’t sisters, they could have been. Hannah often saw them together crossing the drying ground or at lunch in the dining hall. Their accents told her they were from a long way south of Wexford, and at first she’d wondered if their fathers could have been in the treacherous North Cork militia – Catholics doing the work of the Crown by killing croppies during the rebellion. But they sometimes greeted each other with a phrase Hannah had not heard in decades. Not whispered, but said quickly enough so it was disguised in the general babble, sinking into the pool of noise around them so only a trained ear could sieve it out. And Hannah’s ear was trained, at least when it came to this particular phrase. The United Irishmen’s battle cry. Erin go bragh. Ireland forever.
Perhaps not militiamen’s daughters, then.
For the present, though, they seemed anything but revolutionary. Peggy, who had fair hair and unmarked skin, was walking beside one of the guards, giggling when he reached out to squeeze her waist. Bronagh was smiling indulgently, as though she were chaperoning a well-behaved couple on a walk along the river. These two seemed especially unlikely to try to escape their afternoon excursion.
But they were slowing the group’s progress and Rebecca would be waiting for them, Hannah knew, having begged off the journey so that she could make the house ready. Her husband would be there, too. David Nelson had decided that it was acceptable to deal with his business matters at home for the afternoon, while ten convict souls, corrupted but not irredeemable, sat nearby.
‘He is a devout man, truly, and a believer in redemption. I think, though, that he would prefer the redemption not take place in our parlour,’ Rebecca had told Hannah.
So the women, as it turned out, we
re not to ply their needles under the gaze of some of David Nelson’s finer artworks.
‘I wanted to bring them into the house,’ Rebecca had told Hannah the previous day. ‘But my husband forbade it. He said there was no necessity for the women to know what we had, or where we had it. So it will be the verandah for us today.’
It was the grandest house Hannah had seen since she had padded through the empty rooms of the magistrate’s home near Enniscorthy. She had never quite understood the British obsession with taming nature, expressed in their gardens through minutely measured flower beds and precisely trimmed hedges. That obsession was in evidence here, with spherical hedges lining the walkway up to the house and plants rising at exactly the same height from the beds next to the verandah.
But some plants had been allowed the freedom to run, to climb through the earth so that their roots broke the soil here and there, loops in which a shoe could easily be caught. And here and there gum trees stood, no pattern to their location, clearly growing where they themselves had decided to, without any influence from the Nelsons.
Passionfruit vines threaded through the lattice at the side of the verandah, not artfully arranged, as they might have been elsewhere, but making their own path through the slats of wood. There had been passionfruit vines at Port Macquarie, and Hannah felt a debilitating but mercifully brief stab of melancholy as she thought of another verandah on which she had sat talking to a young woman, who should still be alive.
The day was warm but the smothering cloak of humidity Hannah remembered when she had been a convict here had not yet made itself apparent – it would probably be another few months before they had to contend with it. Because of the heat, and the anaemic breeze which periodically managed to make its way up the hill from the river, the verandah was actually the best place to be.
Rebecca was wearing a simple muslin gown that fitted her precisely, unlike the dresses of her visitors, which hung on their frames and were mostly a little too short. She was seated in front of a table with twelve sewing frames on it, as well as a tin full of pencil stubs, and skeins of indecently bright thread.
