by Meg Keneally
‘My ticket of leave? On what possible charge?’
‘I will think of something, I assure you. Maligning a free citizen, maybe. For the moment, I remind you that the only chance you have of keeping your situation – and your freedom – is to make your amends and leave.’
It stalled Monsarrat’s thoughts for a moment – the prospect of losing his freedom. And even if the superintendent was unable to come up with an appropriate charge, if he lost his position with Eveleigh, he’d lose along with any hope of the respect he had so hoped to earn from the McAllisters, the Nelsons, the permanently free.
But he quashed the thought as it transited his mind. And for an instant he felt something close to elation. He did not, he realised, particularly care for the good opinion of those who viewed Parramatta as a pie to be shared between a few, with a bonded workforce that didn’t require payment.
‘Sir … I shall politely decline your request. I’m well aware of what this may cost me. However, I beg you to come with me to the Nelson household. A courtesy visit, if you will. You may satisfy yourself that my accusations are the ravings of a madman, and I will happily hand you my ticket of leave and present myself the following morning to the overseer of whichever work gang you nominate. You will be shot of me. Surely a brief visit to an elegant household is a small price to pay for that?’
Daly stood. ‘Very well then, Monsarrat. If this is how you choose to end your freedom, I will accompany you. The road to Windsor is in a terrible state – I understand from Reverend Bulmer that you are well acquainted with it. As someone who has travelled it before, it would be a great benefit to have you on the work gang there.’
‘Now, I can see a few problems with that,’ said Hannah.
‘Can you indeed?’ said Rebecca, a benign smile on her face.
‘Mr Monsarrat will miss me, for a start.’
‘He will find another housekeeper soon enough. They have no more interest in differences between servants than they do in the difference between one leaf and another. And I intend to put it about that you were seen leaving Parramatta with a bundle of your employer’s property under your arm.’
‘Yes. Well. Then there’s St John’s cemetery. It’s a resting place for Protestants, isn’t it? Surely the earth would revolt if a Catholic was placed in it.’
‘I suppose we’ll have to see. Another factor that makes me sorry I’ll miss it – it would be an entertaining spectacle, I’m sure.’
‘Perhaps. But the other problem, you see, is that I’m not dead.’
‘As to that … I don’t want to spoil my surprise, but I would love, dear Hannah, to see how well you look in my necklace. Please put it on.’
Hannah did as she was told. The woman had gone quite mad, far worse than Lizzie. There was no point provoking her until Hannah knew her intentions and was able to formulate a plan.
The necklace was surprisingly heavy. Hannah had no idea if it was a property of this particular piece of jewellery, or if all precious stones had so much weight to them. She had no basis for comparison. Cold, too – the chill seeped from the stones into her skin, seemed to spread to her shoulders, doing its mistress’s bidding, immobilising her.
Mrs Nelson regarded Hannah silently for several moments. ‘I always wear it with a gown, of course. It does really need a fine dress to set it off. I doubt it’s ever been near such coarse fabric before. Must be a shock for the poor thing. But it does bring out the blue of your eyes.’
‘Thank you,’ said Hannah. ‘It’s been a long time since my eyes were the object of attention.’
‘My pleasure. Now, you’ve seen our study?’
‘Yes. I didn’t go in though. I had an idea Mr Nelson wouldn’t welcome it.’
‘I daresay you’re right about that. He doesn’t even allow me in there most of the time. Fortunate, then, that he is gone so much of the day. It has enabled me to become very well acquainted with his correspondence. What shipments are expected when, that sort of thing. I was able to plan my visits to the warehouse quite well. Preparedness is so important, don’t you agree?’
‘Of course, Mrs Nelson. You’ve always been impeccably prepared.’
‘Indeed. And, as you know, my husband’s not a very trusting man. If he had his way, he would not employ former convicts. Of course, it’s all you can get when it comes to domestic staff so he’s had to put up with the notion of having them in the house. But he has taken certain precautions.’
‘Very wise. You can’t trust anybody, it seems.’
‘True, sadly. One of the precautions he took was investing in an exceptionally good lock for his study door. Had the windows painted shut, too. Madness, I feel. In this heat, you know. It would send me quite demented if I was unable to open a window. But he doesn’t seem to mind. So, really, I doubt there are many more secure rooms in the entire colony.’
‘A comforting thought.’
‘David finds it so. Of course, he won’t have to worry about one particular former convict. By this time tomorrow I shall be far away from here.’
‘How on earth will you manage? What will you do for money?’
‘Well, I didn’t give Mr Church everything I took from the warehouse. I have quite a nice little store myself, or had – it’s all been sold, of course. The money, would you believe, is under the seat of the trap – you were sitting on it! More money than you could ever dream of, Hannah, and it was under your posterior – is that not delightful?’
‘I find it hard to think of few things more delightful.’
‘I knew you’d appreciate the irony. So I should be quite adequately set up for a while. I can always get another governess position, I suppose, but I fully intend to find a rich man to marry before that becomes necessary.’
‘And the fact that you are already married won’t concern you?’
‘Why should it? The clergy – the sensible ones, not the Bulmers – have always turned a blind eye to that sort of thing. And I will have a new story by then, of course. I’ll probably become a widow. But allow me to assure you, if you don’t already know, that there are a great many married men and women who have living, breathing husbands and wives in Dublin or Cork or Leicester or London.’
‘Yes. I’m aware of that.’
‘So if you were to ask David in a day or so, he would say he was unmarried – he’ll be a widower by nightfall. Why should I not say the same thing? Really, I was quite happy here, but I think I’m going to enjoy this. The adventure of becoming someone else. I’ve had practice; it should go a little more smoothly. Now, do you know, Hannah, you’re to be greatly honoured today.’
‘I am?’
‘Why yes! You’re going to be the first woman to be invited into David Nelson’s study!’
Hannah opened her mouth, closed it again. Any voice that came out now would be shredded by fear and not worth attempting.
Rebecca grasped Hannah’s arm and eased her forward. The curtains in the study were drawn, the room was dark with a metallic smell from overheated dust. Everything looked neat. Hannah didn’t know where the correspondence Rebecca had spoken of was stored, but David Nelson was clearly not the sort to leave documents on his desk. In that, he and Mr Monsarrat were alike.
‘Now, why don’t you sit in that lovely chair? You can pretend you’re a rich woman writing orders to your servants. Sending requests to dressmakers, devising the menu for a ball. It’ll be such fun! Until, of course … But a very pleasant way to live out your last moments.’
Mrs Nelson stopped, looking at the ceiling in thought. ‘You know, I must be more precise with language. More than moments, actually.’
‘I am glad to hear it,’ Hannah said, her voice a dying rustle.
‘Yes, probably minutes. For as long as it takes the house to catch.’
‘The house to catch what?’
‘To catch fire, of course. I am afraid, Mrs Mulrooney, that that skin of yours – so good for a woman your age – is going to have to go to waste. We’re the same height, and when you
r blackened bones are found with my necklace resting on them, everyone will assume you’re me.’
Chapter 33
Daly was moving infernally slowly, casting his eyes over anyone they encountered as though trying to ascertain at a glance whether they were up to no good. Monsarrat had to restrain himself several times from urging the man to greater speed. But he feared the police superintendent would abandon the exercise entirely if he brought any further pressure to bear.
‘I don’t know what you expect to find at the Nelson house, Monsarrat,’ Daly said at one point. ‘But I can assure you I expect a scene of domestic tranquility, which is likely to be the last such scene you are privileged to witness for quite some time.’
Monsarrat, in truth, didn’t know what he expected to find either. And he was caught, now, between hoping that he had misinterpreted the situation, and praying he hadn’t. The former situation might leave Mrs Mulrooney without an employer, but the latter might leave her without a life.
Perhaps it was the heat, but it did seem to Monsarrat that Daly’s stride was shortening, his pace slowing, with each passing minute. Then the man stopped altogether, before breaking into a run.
And when Monsarrat followed the superintendent’s gaze, he began to run too – towards the slight rise where the Nelson household commanded views of the town, and from where, now, a column of smoke rose into the air.
It didn’t take long, not nearly as long as she had hoped.
The hot, dry air did nothing to contain the flames, and the wind stoked them until, within minutes, wisps of smoke began curling under the study door. Hannah had tried rattling and pulling at the door, of course. A sturdy little lock, just as Rebecca had promised.
She checked that the windows were indeed painted shut. When she drew aside the heavy green drapes, she saw Rebecca Nelson. The woman was several paces away from the house. She held a flaming branch, which she was using to set light to piles of kindling placed at intervals around the house.
She looked up, saw Hannah and smiled. An approving smile: good, you’re wearing the gift I gave you.
I’m not going to die with this cursed thing on my throat, Hannah thought. So, making sure Rebecca could see her, she took the necklace off, held it up, and then very deliberately threw it on the floor.
Rebecca’s face clouded, her brows drew together like a petulant child’s and she glared at Hannah, clearly offended that such a present should be tossed aside so casually, probably angry that it would not be found close enough to the ashes to allow a definite link to be made between the necklace and the body.
But it won’t be, will it, Hannah said to herself. You’ve no intention of dying today, surely? You’ve survived far worse. Fine words, of course. But what, she asked herself, do you expect me to do about it?
Rebecca had turned on her heel and walked off, setting light to the kindling as she went, and probably thinking that would be the last she would see of the Irishwoman.
Maybe, Hannah thought, the heat was making the lock slightly more malleable? When she reached her hand out to it, however, she snatched it back immediately. It was much too hot to touch and when she placed her palm against the timbers of the door, they too were radiating heat.
The floor. It would buy her a few more breaths, hopefully enough to think of something to do.
But the fire had no intention of waiting for Hannah to gather her wits. As she dropped to the ground to avoid the worst of the smoke and crawled towards the window, dragging herself up on the sill to look out, the flames had already closed ranks and consumed the careful topiary and minutely tended flowers. A shame, she thought. Some poor gardener had worked day after day on those, and in an instant they were ashes.
As you will be soon, if you don’t think of something.
The noise was already beginning to build, a roar gathering in the throat of the fire; the door was beginning to blacken. Yet, thought Hannah, would you not think, with all of that lovely vegetation and newly laid kindling out there waiting to be consumed, the flames would have marched right up to the window by now?
She closed her eyes. Pictured herself walking from the kitchen, where she’d been sent to get the water for Helen. The cup, brought to the pump, to the dripstone. And the pump leaking dreadfully, causing a small rivulet of water to sneak around the side of the house towards the outer wall of the study … And now, in her mind, she came back through the house, past the study. She recalled glancing in, seeing David Nelson, staring at that bronze dog … The bronze dog that even now sat on the desk, waiting to be melted.
You won’t melt today, she said to it. You might not look quite as pretty when I am finished with you, though. She picked it up, hefted it. It was even heavier than she had anticipated, but not too heavy – and almost but not quite too hot to touch – to propel it towards the window, whose frames were now blistering.
The house was fully alight by the time Monsarrat and Daly got near to it, breaching a bank of smoke which instantly turned the bright day into dusk.
The men pushed on through the unnatural nightfall, through the embers which studded the gloom and which, once or twice, settled on Monsarrat’s cheek and would have burrowed in if he had not brushed them away.
He was blinking fiercely now, the heat burning his eyes as he got close enough to see the state of the place. One side of the building sagged: its weakened timbers had collapsed under their own weight. The rumble from the burning house was echoed suddenly by a low, vibrating boom from a nearby eucalyptus. Its sap had vaporised, expanding in the heat, pushing outwards until the tree could no longer hold it, sending large splinters of wood twirling through the air. One of these found a home in the upper arm of the superintendent, who had matched Monsarrat step for step through the smoke. Daly plucked it out as though brushing some dust off his jacket.
‘Well, Monsarrat,’ he called above the fire. ‘I hold out little hope for anyone inside. I am sorry.’
His voice was odd now, an unnatural rasp, lacking any moisture to give it depth or resonance.
‘Little hope, you said, sir,’ Monsarrat yelled back. His own voice sounded no better, and the scalding air he breathed made his throat feel blistered and his lungs labour under its weight. ‘Little hope. Not none.’
He ran to the side, skirting the perimeter of the worst of the blaze, looking for a way in, a way out, any weakness in the fire’s armour which might help him.
What he found was Grogan.
The man was striding purposefully, seeming unaffected by the ember-strewn air, as though he was expecting Monsarrat. As though he was coming to meet him.
Odd to see Grogan here, walking towards him as though he was starting up the road to collect Hannah. And this was, Monsarrat thought, the man who had collected Hannah, brought her here, where he very much feared she remained.
Grogan was saying something, but the scream of flames and the now-regular pop of the trees were drowning it out. Then he got close enough to hear.
‘Stay away! Mrs Nelson’s orders – no quarrel with you. Go back, or I am bound to stop you.’
‘I couldn’t care less about Mrs Nelson’s orders!’
Monsarrat stepped to the side, gathering pace as quickly as he could, trying to run around the man. Grogan was bigger, though, and had anticipated resistance. He sped up too, and more quickly than Monsarrat. He propelled himself towards the clerk, drawing back his fist as he ran, and then shooting it forwards to connect with Monsarrat’s jaw.
The blow threw back Monsarrat’s head and knocked him down. For a moment he could see small fragments of blue above the smoke. His teeth jammed together, snipping off a small part of the side of his tongue, and his mouth filled with blood, which ran down his chin when he opened his mouth to speak.
It was a futile gesture – there was nothing to say. The words with which he customarily constructed his barricade against the world were useless against this man who was now bearing down on him, having availed himself of a smouldering branch which, Monsarrat suspected
, was being aimed at his head.
It never got there.
From his prone position, Monsarrat couldn’t see exactly how fast Daly was running, if such a thing were possible, requiring as it would great gulps of air, which would take more than they gave as they clogged the throat with ashes. But Daly must’ve built a reasonable amount of speed because he knocked this human bullock off his feet, when the bigger man was braced with one stout leg on either side of Monsarrat’s torso, raising the glowing branch while sparks dripped down from it onto his shirt, which had once been white but never would be again.
He must have hit his head when he fell backwards. At any rate he felt no urgency to stand, to run, to do anything except realise in wonder that the man who had threatened to remove his freedom, who’d wanted him back on the work gangs, was rolling on top of Grogan and driving his knee down on Grogan’s arm, making the driver’s fingers reflexively release the branch in protest.
He’s done that before, thought Monsarrat idly, weakly swabbing his slick forehead with the back of his hand and wondering if there was any part of him not covered in a film of moist grime. Not something I would have thought to do, or known how, he thought. He turned his head, peeling his cheek away from the dirt, to see if he could spot any more patches of blue through the smoke.
He fixed on one, and decided it was a nice sight to drift off to. If only that voice would stop barking at him.
‘Get up, man! For God’s sake, get up! I don’t know how long I can hold this brute!’
Monsarrat had just enough energy to look for the source of the voice. Why on earth does he want me to get up? he wondered.
‘Monsarrat, if you don’t get up, I will hit you with this stick myself! If there is any hope for your housekeeper, it is quickly diminishing. Get to your feet!’
And then Monsarrat remembered where he was, and why.
After that, it was the work of a moment to make his legs bend, to get his brain to control the mechanics sufficiently to bring him to his feet. He did, however, feel somewhat concerned about leaving Daly to wrestle with a man almost twice his weight.
