Sisters of Freedom

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  PRAISE FOR MARY-ANNE O’CONNOR

  ‘Mary-Anne always weaves multiple layers to her tales, and here is no different. A cast of complex and truly compelling characters reels you in and takes you on an absolutely riveting adventure. I was completely sold on this story from the start.’

  —Better Reading on Where Fortune Lies

  ‘A wonderful tale of love, adventure and bushrangers in colonial Australia … gripping and compelling’

  —Canberra Times on Where Fortune Lies

  ‘A mix of history and escapism, and a strong sense of place, makes this novel an enjoyable read for lovers of Australian stories’

  —R.M. Williams Outback on Where Fortune Lies

  ‘… an epic, panoramic, historic tour-de-force … here is an author who knows how to craft an historical drama in prose as clear and cascading as an Irish mountain stream.’

  —Irish Scene on In A Great Southern Land

  ‘Wins over the reader with the clarity of her characters and a strong plot … beautiful, engaging storytelling.’

  —Daily Telegraph on In A Great Southern Land

  ‘… from oppression overseas to the gold rush and horror of the Eureka Stockade, [this] is historical escapism in epic, sweeping form.’

  —Sunday Telegraph on In A Great Southern Land

  ‘An epic, sweeping tale revolving around a clever, spirited woman and a fiery, charismatic Irishman. Dramatic, gripping and colourful, it’s historical fiction of a quality that will take you on a beguiling roller-coaster ride, skilfully written by an author inspired by her own family history.’

  —Better Reading on In A Great Southern Land

  ‘… vivid, authentic and historically well informed … In a Great Southern Land is another highly regarded novel from Mary-Anne O’Connor, a superior voice in Australian historical fiction.’

  —Mrs B’s Book Reviews on In A Great Southern Land

  ‘… vivid and enthralling War Flower is a roller-coaster of emotions. One minute it’ll have you laughing; the next you’ll be heartbroken. It’s that good.’

  —Good Reading Magazine on War Flower

  ‘O’Connor has written an insightful and well-researched novel that explores the lives of the young men who were conscripted into service as well as what life was like in the sixties for those left behind.’

  —Beauty and Lace on War Flower

  ‘The story has multiple stories within that wove together in what is an attention-grabbing story. Ms O’Connor’s third book is heartfelt and full of controversial moments.’

  —Talking Books on War Flower

  ‘As we reflect on the lasting impact of a war that occurred a hundred years ago, Mary-Anne O’Connor brings us a story celebrating the good that can spring from war—love, hope and courage. In the heart-warming and heart-wrenching Gallipoli Street, the lives of three families will be irrevocably altered … from one Great War to the next, family and faith provides the ultimate reminder of what it truly means to be human.’

  —Meredith Jaffe, The Hoopla, on Gallipoli Street

  ‘Through her sensitivity, beautiful writing and gift as a storyteller, O’Connor’s readers come to know and love her characters.’

  —The Weekly Times on Gallipoli Street

  ‘In Worth Fighting For, author Mary-Anne O’Connor has drawn on her family history to create the characters of this wartime romance, set in country NSW, the big smoke of Sydney as well as Darwin and New Guinea as the war in the Pacific rages.’

  —The Weekly Times on Worth Fighting For

  ‘Ultimately Worth Fighting For is a tale of love, of hanging on and holding out hope when all seems lost. A tale of enduring through hardship and learning to live with the nightmares; a tale of hope, of loss, of friendship, betrayal and resilience.’

  —Beauty and Lace on Worth Fighting For

  About the Author

  MARY-ANNE O’CONNOR has a combined arts education degree with specialities in environment, music and literature. She worked in marketing and lecturing and co-wrote/edited A Brush with Light and Secrets of the Brush with artist Kevin Best, her late father.

  Mary-Anne lives in a house overlooking her beloved bushland in northern Sydney with her husband Anthony, their two sons Jimmy and Jack, and their very spoilt dog Saxon. This is her sixth major novel. Her previous novels, Gallipoli Street, Worth Fighting For, War Flower, In a Great Southern Land and Where Fortune Lies have all been bestsellers.

  Also by Mary-Anne O’Connor

  Gallipoli Street

  Worth Fighting For

  War Flower

  In a Great Southern Land

  Where Fortune Lies

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Sisters of Freedom is a work of fiction and, although it has been based on some true events in history, artistic licence has been employed at times to ensure cohesion is maintained.

  For my gentle mother Dorn who epitomises the dignity of true feminism

  The best protection any woman can have … is courage.

  —Elizabeth Cady Stanton

  Contents

  Praise

  About the Author

  Also by Mary-Anne O’Connor

  Part One: To follow water

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Part Two: The life of Riley

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Part Three: Rule of thumb

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Part Four: Empty arms

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Part Five: The natural law

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Part One

  To follow water

  One

  The Three Sisters, Blue Mountains, New South Wales, 20 December 1901

  ‘Don’t look much like sisters to me.’

  Ten-year-old Eddie Bryant said it and the irony of the comment wasn’t lost on the trio of young women who gazed out at the Three Sisters that clear summer morning. The famous monolithic spears of rock before them were beautiful in their own crumbling, craggy way, yet different from one another indeed, despite being hewn from a singular giant cliff of sandstone.

  The Merriweather sisters perusing them were much the same, so unalike no-one ever assumed them to be related, yet it could never be argued that they weren’t derived from the same firm rock of their parents. In fact, argument was one of the unifying traits that proved their common parentage; ‘healthy debate’ their mother, Harriet, termed it. But the impassioned conversation that sparked endlessly between them all often drove their quiet father Albert to smoke his pipe in the garden.

  Brown-haired Agatha, Aggie, was the eldest, and a more pleasant countenance would be hard to find, as her father had once remarked. Some thought her open features reflected a meek or compliant disposition, a misconception swiftly rectified in most cases.

  Middle sister Frances stood beside her, tall and robust with long
blonde hair that she characteristically plaited into a thick rope that swung about as she strode through life. Frankie often shrugged away compliments about its bright golden sheen, deeming it her only nod to beauty, but the others disagreed.

  Ivy was the last, redheaded like her mother, and a world of colour next to Aggie, who was dressed in her usual practical grey. Ivy wore a bright green dress coupled with an orange hat, an outfit that would scream disaster on anyone else but she somehow managed to carry it off, as always. Besides, as her sisters well knew, Ivy didn’t care about convention and enjoyed clashing bright tones together. ‘God has coloured me brightly so I may as well join the party,’ she’d often say.

  Yet, as flamboyantly dressed as she was, she could also be a dreamy soul, and the natural monuments before them entranced her as she stared across the great valley. The Three Sisters were gold, brown and red hued too, she noted, pleased with the similarity, their myriad shades compressed into thousands of layers of time, weathering away. She supposed one day she and her siblings would weather away too before disintegrating back into the earth, then she shook such sombre musings away. It was far too lovely a day for such melancholy.

  ‘Would you like to see the rainforest?’ Frankie asked their young charge. It was a welcome diversion and Eddie grinned and ran ahead with the other children as the sisters followed, glad to be given the chance to be by themselves and chat. Not that it would be easy. It was no mean feat trying to talk and walk when Frankie set the pace.

  ‘Slow down, Frankie,’ Ivy soon complained, holding on to her hat. Why her sister needed to march along like a determined soldier she’d never understand.

  ‘Nonsense. A good brisk walk is just what the doctor ordered – it’s excellent for the constitution,’ Frankie said over her shoulder.

  ‘Women’s suffrage is what’s good for the Constitution,’ Aggie returned.

  ‘Too true,’ Frankie agreed as Aggie almost tripped over a rock in her haste to keep up. ‘Watch out,’ she added cheerfully.

  ‘What’s that doing lying there?’ Aggie grumbled, glancing back at the rock in a confused way.

  ‘Think of it as a metaphor for overcoming obstacles in your path,’ Frankie told her.

  ‘We’ll fall for sure at this pace,’ Ivy complained, panting behind. ‘Why do you have to walk so ridiculously fast all the time?’

  ‘Not my fault you’re as slow as a wet week. Look alive,’ Frankie declared as she bounced along, her long plait swinging, ‘there’s adventures to be had and plans to be made.’

  ‘Ankles to be broken and knees to be grazed, more like,’ Aggie said. ‘Slow down Frankie, for pity’s sake.’

  ‘Oh, quit your belly-aching,’ Frankie said taking in a deep breath and letting it out with a whoosh. ‘So invigorating up here in the mountain air, isn’t it? Gives one a wonderful sense of clear-headedness.’

  ‘Pig-headedness, more like,’ Aggie muttered and Ivy giggled.

  ‘Nothing wrong with that. If every woman was a little more pig-headed we’d have secured the vote years ago,’ Frankie said.

  ‘I tell you who is pig-headed is that Father Brown—’ Aggie was interrupted as Frankie came to a sudden halt and pointed across her into the bushes.

  ‘Hold your horses – is that … a lyrebird?’ Sure enough one went scuttling through the undergrowth. ‘After it!’

  She was off at a run, skirts held high, and the children came racing back after her as Aggie tried to stop the commotion, following more carefully and calling out warnings.

  ‘There’ll be snakes in there. Get back on the path! Frankie! Frankie, come back here right now.’

  Ivy found herself alone and grinning. Frankie was so tomboyish and impulsive compared to Aggie who was very much the elder sister, often cast in the role of parent when the three of them were together. She showed great responsibility in her volunteer role at the local orphanage with the Sisters of Mercy too and she’d been married to Robert Stapleton for three years. At twenty-one years old, Aggie was as reliable as her grey day dress and sturdy walking boots conveyed.

  A loud screech followed by a splash sounded and Frankie could be heard blustering. ‘Blast and double blast.’ Children’s laughter echoed too and Ivy could well imagine the scene as Aggie’s admonishment rang clear.

  ‘Serves you right for running across such a slippery log. Honestly, of all the silly … careful now and grab my hand. Don’t pull too … ah … ah … argh!’

  The sound of her second sister falling into the creek had Ivy laughing hard and Frankie could be heard swearing well before they eventually reappeared, muddy, wet and with a gang of excited boys and girls at their heels.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, stop using that language in front of them,’ Aggie exclaimed, wiping mud from her hem in disgust as they landed back on the path and the children ran on ahead once more.

  ‘Oh, blast isn’t a swearword.’

  ‘Bugger is,’ Eddie pointed out, turning back with a gap-toothed grin, and Frankie looked a bit guilty as Aggie wrung her skirt and the water dripped onto the ground.

  ‘It’s quite rare to see a lyrebird,’ Frankie said, a distinct pout forming as Aggie fumed.

  ‘My favourite boots soaking wet and now mud stains all over my good new dress …’

  ‘Quite a story to tell at least,’ Ivy said, trying to break the tension and not make it worse by laughing as Aggie wiped her face on her sleeve, unwittingly smearing mud across her cheek. ‘At least you can say you had that adventure Frankie promised.’

  ‘I’ve more than enough adventures on my hands as it is, dealing with that fool of a man Father Brown,’ Aggie said, pulling a handkerchief from her bag and attempting to clean herself up as Frankie emptied and banged her boots.

  ‘You really shouldn’t call a priest a fool,’ Ivy said, a little scandalised. If it had come from Frankie she wouldn’t have commented but Aggie was usually more respectful.

  ‘I don’t care who he is – the man’s a fool. Besides, he doesn’t deserve to call himself a priest, there isn’t a compassionate bone in his body. Gave me a severe telling off again this week for trying to intervene when anyone … with half a heart would see … ugh,’ she interspersed her tirade with swift swipes at the muddy cloth, ‘it was the only Christian thing to do.’

  ‘Another poor woman in trouble then?’ Frankie asked as she relaced her boots and shook out her plait.

  ‘Child, more like. Not yet fifteen and some man attacked her down by the railway. How can he expect me to leave a girl in her condition out on the street when there’s a clean bed inside the orphanage? And at Christmas time too. I’ll never understand it.’

  Ivy shook her head, sorry for the girl, as Aggie continued.

  ‘I gave her my milk money but that would hardly last a day – she’ll probably end up having the baby in the bush or in gaol. No-one should go have to go through that,’ she added, a catch in her voice now. ‘Least of all a helpless, tiny newborn.’

  ‘Why would anyone want to have a baby in gaol?’ Ivy asked, horrified.

  ‘Better than starving on the streets; half the women in city prisons are pregnant on arrival, committing crimes just to get in,’ Frankie said, angry now too, and she twisted her hair back roughly. ‘Three meals a day and a bed to give birth in is a fate better than that. Look at that poor wretch Maggie Heffernan.’

  Ivy had heard the basics of the awful story but had so far avoided any discussion as to why the woman was arrested for drowning her newborn in the Yarra River. Fortunately Aggie didn’t pursue the diversion.

  ‘It’s a disgusting state of affairs,’ Aggie declared with a sniff as she shoved her soiled handkerchief away. ‘A poor woman has no rights in this country and a wealthy one not many more. There’s change coming, mark my words.’

  She sounded exactly like Frankie’s writing when she got all fired up, especially when she penned pieces for popular feminist bulletins such as The Dawn and The Woman’s Sphere, which Aggie revered. Such passionate declarations were mad
e by her sisters with religious fervour but Ivy found the whole ‘Cause’ argument over injustice and women’s rights, or lack of them, depressing. It was just altogether too big and too sad to deal with.

  ‘Anyway, it’s a lovely day up here in mountains,’ she ventured, changing the subject. ‘Let’s not let a little mud and thoughts of a horrid man spoil things; those children haven’t got much to smile about and this outing is all about giving them a Christmas treat, remember?’

  Aggie sighed. ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right, but I just can’t stop thinking about that poor wee baby, and the girl herself, walking away with her almost empty bag; skin and bone save her round tummy. Julia, her name was.’

  ‘Pretty name,’ Ivy said.

  ‘Ugly fate,’ Frankie added darkly.

  ‘Someone will take her in, I’m sure of it,’ Ivy reassured Aggie as brightly as she could as they set back off.

  Aggie gave her a wary glance. ‘I know you like to believe the best, Ivy, but careful you don’t just stick your head in the sand and expect problems to go away or be someone else’s responsibility. We won’t get anywhere collectively unless we take action as individuals.’

  Ivy felt a bit put out at being lectured but she didn’t respond, wanting to end the conversation. She chose to lag behind instead as Frankie strode on and Aggie tried to keep up, nagging her to slow her pace lest another incident occur.

  It soon became peaceful without her sisters and Ivy stared up at the treetops and drew the fresh alpine air deep into her lungs as Frankie had done before, pushing thoughts of unwed teenage girls and prison cells far from her mind. It wasn’t sticking one’s head in the sand exactly, just one’s face in the sunshine. She lowered her gaze and found herself smiling at the sight of her sisters up ahead, mud-splattered skirts flapping as they gathered up children and laughed. Sometimes the problems of the world had to be faced, she supposed, but other times, like right now in a beautiful rainforest? In Ivy’s opinion they were best ignored.