The Unmourned

by Meg Keneally

  ‘Now, Hannah, I can’t offer you any tea, I’m afraid. No one here to make it, you see. And I was never very good at it myself. That’s not where my talents lie. Teaching – that’s my forte. Don’t you agree? Whereas looking, listening – they, my dear friend, are clearly yours.’

  ‘And making tea, of course,’ said Hannah. ‘I could make some for you now, Mrs Nelson, should you feel the need of it.’

  Rebecca Nelson smiled again. She had been all smiles during their ride to the house. But this was a smile Hannah had never seen from her before. It was satisfied, slightly arrogant, and showed enough teeth on one side of Rebecca’s mouth to approach a snarl.

  ‘Do you know,’ said Rebecca, ‘I would so like a cup of tea, but I fear I’ll have to deny myself on this occasion. And as for the medicine, well, there is none, but we both know you don’t need it. Now, shall I tell you, Hannah, what I’ve always liked about you?’

  ‘Please do. It would be lovely to hear it.’

  ‘Since we met, I’ve been impressed by your practicality. Your diligence, the primary importance you attach to getting a job done. So rare, especially when one spends one’s days among convicts. Most of them would rather do as little as possible. It’s not that they see any benefit from their labour, after all.’

  ‘Well, I consider that a grand compliment,’ said Hannah. ‘I would consider it even grander were you to note that my practicality tends to come out at the same time as my compassion. One without the other is meaningless, in my view.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Compassion. You think I’m not familiar with the concept? What have I been showing those poor wretches at the Factory all this time? I didn’t want to go back there, you know. You can imagine, I’m sure. Last place I would put myself. But you know Mrs Bulmer … She’s not of a strong enough constitution to withstand the presence of so many depraved females. David urged me to step in for her … He’s always believed it’s too small a place here for Quakers to be at odds with the likes of Bulmer, and bad for business besides. I suggested I could help out at the orphan school or the hospital, but you might have noticed he is somewhat fastidious – he would hate the thought of me walking in the door with the malodorous air of the sick still clinging to my clothes.’

  Hannah was aware of a small pulse of sympathy, quickly smothered by her growing unease. To pass through those gates again, as a woman who had achieved a fragile freedom, to return to Church, who had taken so much and had the capacity, and no doubt the will, to take more. A certain amount of derangement was only to be expected.

  ‘Well, you certainly seem to have made a great difference to the women,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, I have. So have you, in your small way. But you know, of course, what single act of mine made the most difference.’

  Hannah felt suddenly desperate not to hear a confession from the woman, to stop her from saying the words that would likely signal Hannah’s own death. ‘Was it the reading classes? Or the sewing?’ A slight but treacherous tremor had entered her voice, and she felt a compounding alarm to hear it. I must not, she thought, allow this to rise up and choke me.

  ‘I’ve been so nice to you, and here you go insulting my intelligence,’ said Rebecca. ‘I suspect you have an accusation to make. One regarding a huge service I did for the Factory women.’

  Hannah nodded. ‘And yet you would do a great disservice to one of the women of the Factory, to Grace O’Leary. For she looks likely to hang for what you’ve done.’

  Mrs Nelson stood, walked behind Hannah’s chair, pushing her hands painfully down on Hannah’s shoulders as though trying to stop her floating away.

  ‘The pirate queen has done more than enough to provoke a hanging,’ she said, as a soft rain of her spittle flecked Hannah’s cheek. ‘And what could she do, were she to survive? Organise the occasional meaningless rebellion which gets no one’s attention? Have the women destroy their work, only to see it taken out of their pay, or their rations? Practicalities – why does no one ever see them? Which one of us is in a position to do the greatest good: the convict confined to the penitentiary, or the rich woman whose husband encourages philanthropy?’

  There was no point, thought Hannah now, in keeping up the tea-party demeanour, in pretending she had been brought here for nothing other than a pleasant conversation. ‘Your husband – does he know? That your name is Edwina Drake? That you were a convict?’

  Rebecca cocked her head to the side, looking at Hannah as though the altered view might produce a revelation.

  ‘However did you come by my surname?’

  ‘Doesn’t matter. You have your secrets, a great many of them, and you must allow me mine. As to my question … Your husband seems to prefer to do good works from afar. I doubt he’d have you if he knew.’

  ‘No. I thought my hair might be an impediment – many detest red where they would prefer to see gold. He never seemed to mind, though. But you saw how concerned he was about thievery, how upset he was at the idea of convicts in the house.’

  ‘Yet he has had one here for years.’

  ‘Yes. And were he ever to be acquainted with that fact, you are right – I would never be allowed in this house again.’

  Chapter 31

  Red had been a curse on Edwina for as long as she could remember.

  Her hair had always been viewed with suspicion. An unnatural colour and surely, to the superstitious, an indication of what went on in the head it sprouted from.

  She detested the names. Witch. Devil child. From classmates, from playmates, and sometimes from their parents too.

  So she was grateful that the family who employed her as a governess liked their servants to wear cloth caps at all times. And she became adept at scraping her hair back until her whole skull ached, so that no blood-strand could escape. She had spent more than she could afford on a fine-toothed ivory comb for the purpose.

  Who knew where the comb was now. It certainly hadn’t accompanied her to New South Wales or the Female Factory, where she had instead kept an eye out for large splinters of wood and used her fingernails to gouge grooves into them until the pads of her fingers bled. She used the finished article to tame her hair.

  Nonetheless, she could never stuff every strand into her white cloth cap. She suspected she was the only one among the convicts who would have happily submitted to a punitive haircut.

  The old superintendent, an ineffectual man named Donne, had never remarked on her hair, nor on any other part of her person. She was a name on a manifest, someone he intended to parade before the next man seeking a wife. It was the only way to stop her eating provisions and taking up space.

  But the treacherous red that sprang out from her cap prevented her being selected. Then the colonial authorities decided that Donne was not getting sufficient return from these women whom they fed and clothed, and they brought in a new man, one rumoured to have a disciplinarian bent.

  Of course, it turned out that Church’s approach to discipline was somewhat unorthodox. And he noticed her hair. He told her it meant she was dirty, that it betrayed lust, which he was able to satisfy. He would ask her to let it down, and twist a section of it around his wrist before forcing her down onto the grass behind the Third Class penitentiary at the point of an awl.

  But even Church couldn’t argue with the passage of time, and when enough of it had passed, her ticket of leave arrived. Before she walked through the Factory gates, she stopped to make sure that all of her hair was contained within her cap.

  She was now able to afford the best of bonnets, lined with gathered cloth which enabled her to conceal everything above her hairline. So perhaps it would not be such a risk to return to the Factory – not that she could have demurred after her husband beamingly informed her she had the opportunity to do God’s work and advance the Nelson name in a single stroke. The staff must surely be different, and many of the women too. She certainly was, and if there were any still there who had shared cells or work-tables or stale bread with her, they would be unlikely to conne
ct the well-groomed woman in the plain but costly dress with the half-starved convict – provided she could keep her hair hidden.

  She had not expected Church to still be there – most functionaries here lasted a scant few years until the governor changed – hardly worth learning their names.

  But his brutality was translating into sufficient efficiency to keep the authorities happy, and as long as the women weren’t draining money from the colonial coffers and could be tucked away at the bend in the river and forgotten about, those in power were reluctant to make any changes.

  There would have been so many women since her. The chances of Church recognising her seemed slim.

  And he didn’t. Not until the day she was late, thanks to Nemesis and an argument he’d had with one of the parlour drapes. She detested tardiness, and had jammed her bonnet onto her head in a rush. Her bun sat uncomfortably all morning, pressing against the back of her neck, and she could tell – there was no pain in her temples, as there generally was when her hair was tightly scraped back – it was in danger of unravelling.

  She had been distributing religious tracts to the Third Class women, at the request of Charlotte Bulmer, who was resting at home that day. Her work done, she quickly backed into a shaded corner to remove her bonnet and put her hair to rights. And when she stepped back into the sunshine, she saw Church staring at her.

  He crossed the yard, took her elbow in as gentlemanly a manner as he could manage, and whispered, ‘How lovely to see you again! And how far you’ve risen. Perhaps I should meet your husband, speak to him. He may find what I have to say on the subject of our past acquaintance interesting.’

  Hannah faced Rebecca across a table weighted down by the silver and porcelain that had made her husband’s fortune.

  ‘Of course, theft was easier this time than when I was a governess. The chances of me being suspected was negligible – after all, I was in effect stealing from myself,’ said Rebecca.

  ‘And what did Church do with the items?’

  ‘I haven’t the faintest idea. I imagine a few of them adorn drawing rooms in Parramatta. I doubt he would have left the town with them – the constables at the toll roads would have posed too much of a risk.’

  ‘And you really think he would have carried out his threat? Told your husband?’

  ‘Oh yes. I think he would have enjoyed it. I had the sense he was waiting for me to get sick of our arrangement, to tell him I wouldn’t steal anymore, wouldn’t bring him silver and porcelain and silk. There was no chance of that, of course.’

  ‘But then something changed.’

  ‘Yes. He was getting bored of the arrangement. Not bored of the money it brought him, but I think he actually wanted to see me cast out by my husband, tried and convicted for theft, placed back under his control. So he changed our agreement. Shifted the terms to ones he knew would be unacceptable to me.’

  ‘I’m assuming he wanted …’

  ‘Me to submit to him again, yes. “To revisit our acquaintance” was the way he put it. He gave me a day to consider the proposition and informed me that any refusal would see him calling on my husband immediately.’

  ‘What did you decide?’

  Rebecca Nelson snorted. ‘Really, Hannah, need you even ask? He gave me his ultimatum the day he died.’

  ‘And you’ll let someone else die too now.’

  Rebecca inclined her head again, looking regretful, but politely so, as though she were declining an invitation.

  ‘Yes, I’m afraid so. Grace tried her best, I know, to help the girls, but she hasn’t done what I have been able to for the women at the Factory. She couldn’t intercede with the superintendent on their behalf – do you know, he was going to cut rations? On his first week? I talked him out of it so they don’t know it but they have me to thank for that.’

  ‘Very kind of you. I promise to do everything I can for them once you … leave.’

  ‘Where would I be leaving to?’

  ‘Well, that’s the biggest question of all, isn’t it?’ said Hannah. ‘Theft and murder – once the sentence is carried out, who knows where you’ll end up? It’s a question that can’t be answered in this life.’

  ‘Wherever it is, I do hope you’ll greet me when I arrive.’

  Hannah Mulrooney felt the rising fear begin to fog her thoughts and clench her stomach.

  ‘Now,’ said Rebecca. ‘I have a gift for you.’

  ‘Very kind, but unnecessary.’

  ‘It is, though. And I am the one who decides what’s necessary and what isn’t, not a former convict.’

  Rebecca’s denial of her own convict past, and her deliberate, almost ritualistic movements as she extracted a flat velvet box from the sideboard and placed it on the table, frightened Hannah more than anything she had yet experienced in this place.

  ‘Well? Open it! I do hope you like it,’ Rebecca said, as though this was indeed a gift given out of friendship, and she was excited to see Hannah’s response, hear her fulsome thanks.

  Hannah did as she was told. And she did very much like what she saw – or would have under different circumstances. It was a necklace of the deepest-blue sapphires, surrounded by little diamonds and converging on a larger, teardrop-shaped sapphire, which had its own moat of sparkling white stones.

  ‘Well, I must say it’s lovely. But I couldn’t possibly accept it, kind as you are. It must have cost more than I’ve ever earned as a housekeeper, more than I could ever hope to earn.’

  ‘Yes it did cost rather a lot as a matter of fact. A wedding gift from David, you know. I professed myself delighted with it, and of course I was. I only wear it on the very best of occasions, of course. Dinner at Government House, that sort of thing. Will the new man entertain much, do you think? I’ve heard he’s not intending to reside in Parramatta like dear old Brisbane did.’

  ‘I wouldn’t have an inkling of the intentions of the new governor,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Well, no matter. I won’t be able to wear this necklace anyway. For soon it will have been charred beyond repair. And I’ll be dead, so there will be no invitations to dinner for me anyway.’

  Despite everything, Hannah felt another surge of concern for the woman. ‘Now don’t be doing anything stupid like walking into the river or taking a knife to yourself. That’s not the way, truly.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve no intention of doing anything like that. I won’t be dead, not really. Everybody will just think I am. They will mourn the beautiful lady who gave her life for the betterment of her less fortunate sisters. I would so love to hear the eulogies. Maybe the Chronicle will report on them, do you think? Then I can read about how much I am missed.’

  ‘I find it hard to see how you can have a funeral if you’re not there to be buried,’ said Hannah.

  ‘Oh, Hannah. They won’t be burying my ashes. They’ll be burying yours.’

  Chapter 32

  Alarmed by Hannah’s absence and the note from Henson, Monsarrat was tempted to march up to the Nelson house, knock on the door and demand to see Hannah Mulrooney. He knew that was unlikely to succeed.

  There was still a slim possibility that Rebecca was innocent and had simply collected Hannah for another day of good works at the Female Factory. Even as he tried to convince himself of the plausibility of that, Monsarrat discounted it. She must have been taken to the Nelson house, and he did not want to imagine what might be occurring there.

  But storming the place as a one-man army would simply result in his removal from anything to do with the Factory and its inhabitants. It seemed that his only choice was to confirm Ezekiel Daly’s worst suspicions about ex-convicts by appearing before the man in disarray.

  There was no one at the front of the police building. No way of finding someone to help him but to run through to the offices. So that, he thought grimly, is what he would have to do. Breaching the sanctity of an office during the work day was something that did not come naturally to him, but letting Hannah Mulrooney suffer was the most unnatural thing of al
l.

  A few moments later, without even consciously instructing his feet to move, the force of his shoulder had slammed the door of the police superintendent’s office flat against the wall.

  Ezekiel Daly jumped to his feet as Monsarrat entered the room, accidentally kicking his chair to the floor behind him as he did so.

  ‘What the blazes is the meaning of this, Monsarrat?’ he yelled, looking at Monsarrat while his hand felt on his desk for a pistol.

  ‘I am sorry, sir. However, I have reason to believe that the life of my housekeeper is in imminent danger, and I was hoping for police assistance in changing that.’

  ‘Your housekeeper? Danger from whom?’

  ‘Rebecca Nelson, sir. I am certain she killed Robert Church. With this.’

  He put the awl, wrapped in a cloth, on the desk. Daly showed no inclination to touch it.

  ‘I also suspect she abducted my housekeeper this morning. I cannot guess what her intentions are, but I fear the worst.’

  The superintendent made to sit down again, remembering just in time that his chair was no longer upright. He righted it with exaggerated care, and eased himself down into it.

  ‘Monsarrat, if your housekeeper is with Mrs Nelson, I have no doubt that she is perfectly safe and probably having a whale of a time being plied with scones – that woman does have a fondness for former convicts.’

  ‘Because she was one, sir. I have the proof of it. She is Edwina Drake. She came here per Nemesis.’

  ‘This is a fantasy, Monsarrat. If you were the only one to be harmed by it, I would leave you to it. But you are seeking to besmirch the reputation of a fine woman, all to exculpate a convict who is a known troublemaker. I will not have it. Your housekeeper, if she is fortunate enough to be with Mrs Nelson, is perfectly safe. And now I will give you the opportunity to apologise and leave. I suggest you take it, for if you don’t I will be reporting this behaviour to Mr Eveleigh. And I will ensure that you lose your ticket of leave.’