Fled: A Novel

by Meg Keneally

  ‘So we make sure that spark dies with the embers from last night’s fire, do we?’ said Jenny. ‘You wish me to imbibe this lesson, and you are letting our old playwright do the work.’

  ‘I wish no such thing,’ Aldred said. ‘Society frowning on something has never been, for me, a compelling enough reason not to do it. I simply thought you might like to see it performed. Given the circumstances under which you last heard the words, sitting in a theatre box in a fine dress with a full belly might be welcome. So I thought, anyway.’

  ‘But your wife?’

  ‘Is gravely ill, and will have me by her bedside.’

  This fragile, faceless creature. Someone who would never have survived in Sydney Cove. Someone who would never be asked to. The woman had one foot in this world and one in the next. Jenny didn’t know what manner of woman she was, and it did not matter. Many of those who did not know her had wished her dead. She did not intend to do the same to another.

  ‘I hope your wife recovers,’ she said.

  Richard frowned. ‘Thank you, my dear. A good woman, certainly. She has been ill for some time, and I would not have her die, if indeed she is on her way to the next world, without my being present. To do otherwise would shame her. I’ll be going back more frequently.’

  ‘That is very . . . kind of you,’ Jenny said. Actually, she thought it was the least he could do.

  But Richard clearly agreed. ‘The woman has an ocean of patience,’ he said. ‘I can assure you, I would hate to be married to me. I’ve tried to take care never to embarrass her. Sometimes, though, I have failed.’

  ‘You are not the worst of men, Richard.’

  ‘But I am a long way from the best of them. When I return, we might go to that play. Yes?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jenny. ‘I believe that would be quite . . . suitable.’

  The day Richard was expected back from Scotland, Jenny found a bag near the cottage’s front door. She felt a stab of panic. He has tired of me, she thought. There would never be a dreadful, wonderful proposition from him. She was being evicted, to somehow make her own way through London, perhaps working in a tavern where she could listen to tuneless renditions of the bawdy songs being sung about her throughout the city.

  Then Mrs Titchfield came down the corridor dressed for travel. ‘His lordship has decided that my sister in Bath needs to see me,’ she said. ‘How he could possibly know is beyond me, but I am not going to miss the opportunity.’ She leaned over and patted Jenny’s shoulder. ‘You are not the worst of them, Mrs Gwyn. A long way from it. That is why I say, guard yourself. His lordship is known, shall we say, for certain appetites . . .’

  Certainly, Richard – nearly twice her age, and probably closer to three times her girth – was not the sort of man Jenny could ever have seen herself yearning for. But his open, uncomplicated nature could not be further removed from the scheming and hiding and double-dealing of the penal colony, the hulk and the Charlotte. His admiration of her, she had to admit, was pleasing, and she thoroughly enjoyed his company. She appreciated the earnestness with which he asked her questions, the avidity with which he listened to the answers, so that during their talks, she was almost able to allow the ghosts of Charlotte and Emanuel to rest.

  Struggling into the yellow silk dress was difficult without Mrs Titchfield’s help. The thing was constructed better than the sails of many of the ships she had been on, and she had to twist the bodice strings around the bedpost and walk forward to tighten it.

  When she looked in the mirror, she thought that she had done a reasonable job – certainly better than she’d known how to do until Mrs Titchfield got a hold of her.

  So when the carriage rolled up, and Jenny walked outside at the sound of the wheels, she was gratified by Richard’s open-mouthed admiration. ‘It is no thanks to you,’ she said. ‘Despite the fact that you were kind enough to give me this dress, you then went and robbed me of my dresser.’

  She paused for a moment, and then laughed at the sheer ridiculousness of someone like her making such a comment. And Richard laughed with her.

  ‘Do you know, dear girl, I might come in for a snifter. If you have no objection, of course.’

  That night at the theatre, there had been the usual parade of voyeurs, whiskery men kissing her glove, women nodding to her briefly, some unashamedly staring. She always stared back.

  ‘Well, Richard, it is your house,’ she said.

  ‘But with Mrs Titchfield not there, you see, it might feel . . .’

  She smiled at him, patting his hand. ‘Before I answer that, Richard, perhaps you’d better tell me what a snifter is.’

  When they got down from the carriage, Richard told the coachman he could go, and she caught a sidelong look from the man. He, clearly, was not going to assist Mrs Titchfield in preserving her reputation.

  ‘I assure you, Jenny, this isn’t as bad as it looks,’ said Richard, opening the door for her. ‘My lodgings are a few short streets away, but I was enjoying your company so much that I did not want to curtail the evening, especially as we had hardly a chance to talk.’

  So they went inside, where she learned that a snifter was a strangely shaped glass for the consumption of brandy, some of which happened to be hidden in a compartment beneath the window seat cushions.

  ‘Mrs T would probably throw it out if she found it,’ he said. ‘Terrible waste.’

  He offered Jenny some, but she declined. She had seen more than enough drunk women to know that once they got far enough, those who saw themselves as witty or attractive or alluring actually just looked messy. She shook her head to dislodge the image of Elenor exposing her breasts to the marines.

  ‘Now, madam,’ Richard said, slapping his palms on his thighs, a habit of his when the conversation was about to change course. ‘What are we to do with you?’

  The question could have meant anything. Probably it was deliberately ambiguous – Richard Aldred chose his words with care. If his meaning wasn’t clear, it was because he intended this. Perhaps he was opening a door through which she could choose to walk, or not.

  But his ill wife still hung in the air. And from what she had heard of Richard’s proclivities, she was reasonably certain the door would open again.

  ‘Well . . . I was hoping, Richard, for a rather large favour from you. In addition to the favours you’ve already done for me.’

  ‘If it is in my power . . .’

  ‘I was hoping, actually, that you could teach me to read.’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘A fine ambition, dear girl. I am, however, not the most patient of teachers, I fear. Perhaps we shall arrange a tutor for you?’

  ‘That would be wonderful, thank you,’ she said – a bit shocked, as she always was, when she heard herself speaking as Mrs Titchfield would, expressing gratitude or regret or concern in the voice of an officer’s wife rather than a felon. ‘I might,’ Jenny added, ‘be able to get a position that would support me, if I could read.’

  ‘Yes, although you don’t need letters to go into service.’

  ‘I’m not made for service, Richard.’

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ he said. ‘I’m sure you didn’t endure everything that you did to empty someone’s chamber pot. And of course, as I’ve told you, you’re welcome to stay in this cottage for as long as you wish. But I must confess, I have detected a certain . . . restlessness.’

  ‘You must think me terribly ungrateful,’ Jenny said. He was right, though. She had experienced a vast prison and a constricted freedom; she was desperate to find the unequivocal liberty that, so far, she had only found at sea. But the sea was closed to her. If she was a man, she could do as John Carney had done: sign on to a merchant ship or purchase a fishing vessel. As things stood, she needed to find another means of supporting herself.

  It was odd being back on the same slice of land as her mother, her sister. Being within a feasible journey of them. But would they welcome her? The thief. The convict, the bereaved mother, the famous fixture of newspa
pers that occasionally printed poems about her which would have made Helen blush. Jenny would rather imagine Constance and Dolly pining for her than face a reality in which they wished she had stayed lost.

  ‘I suppose,’ she told Richard, ‘if I could read, I might find work as a governess.’

  She would have responsibility for somebody else’s progeny. Children who would never have to die in stinking wet blackness. Uncomplicated, unsullied little beings. She felt suddenly desperate to be around them.

  But Richard gave a short bark of a laugh. ‘Very few women need to read. And to be honest, dear girl, no one would have you.’

  She felt anger starting to stir. ‘You must know some families. Surely you would be willing to tell them I’m not going to teach their children how to pickpocket.’

  ‘Of course you’re not. But, my dear, you are a felon, or have been. Nobody would employ you. Nobody would let you have charge of their children.’

  ‘So I am fit for nothing,’ she said, standing and beginning to pace. ‘Except to adorn your arm and help polish your image at the theatre. And to provide inspiration for songs in taverns.’

  ‘It’s not a question of what you’re fit for,’ Aldred said, sounding frustrated. ‘It’s a question of how people see you. And the reality is, seven years’ transportation for a violent crime is going to colour people’s views. Not to mention the fact that half of London believes . . . well, you did mention those songs.’

  ‘You could do something about that, at least. You could deny it. Make it clear that we’re not . . . acquainted in that way.’

  ‘I don’t see much point in it, though,’ Richard said. ‘I’ve never been much of a denier, even of my worst excesses. If I started now, people might wonder why.’

  ‘So your reputation remains intact, while mine keeps me imprisoned.’

  Richard stood a little unsteadily, as several snifters had passed his lips. ‘You are upset, and that’s understandable. It’s probably best if I wander off home now, leave you to rest.’

  ‘I have had enough rest to last me a lifetime! I want to be free. And you sit there, tipping drinks down your throat and lecturing me on my reputation!’ She swept a hand in an arc, knocking the glass out of his hand so that it shattered on the floor.

  He looked at his empty hand. When he spoke his voice was calm, and flatter than she’d ever heard it. ‘And you are free. But you will never be free of your past, Jenny, never. You need to make peace with that – and with your family – or you will never have any peace at all.’

  He took his cane, his coat and his hat, bowed stiffly and formally, and made for the door.

  CHAPTER 36

  It was, as far as Jenny could remember, the first night she had ever spent by herself. She wandered up the stairs into her room, wondering if she should lock the door – indeed, where the key was, for Mrs Titchfield had never entrusted her with one.

  Jenny hunted half-heartedly in the parlour sideboard and in the kitchen for a key, but gave up. She was tired, and she felt slightly nauseated at the fact that the man she thought was her friend, the man who had been her saviour, felt she wasn’t good enough to be a governess, and that she had knocked the drink out of his hand. It seemed ridiculous to quibble, now that she had a full belly, that this wasn’t the sort of freedom she had been looking for.

  In the end, she just went to bed. If somebody was going to break into the house, she thought, let them. In her current mood, she would have liked to see them try. But she did take the poker upstairs and put it in the bed beside her.

  Someone did break in: the cat, perhaps sensing Mrs Titchfield’s absence. Jenny was dimly aware of him as she drifted off – jumping up on the window ledge, walking slowly over to the bed, turning round three times in a ritual only he understood.

  When Jenny next woke, there was a heavier weight on the bed. A man’s weight.

  She sat straight up, grasping at the poker, hoisting it back so it would have a decent amount of heft when it connected with the head of whoever had joined her.

  ‘For God’s sake, dear girl. Once in a night is quite enough.’

  She couldn’t see Richard clearly, but she could hear him slurring. Even when drunk, staggeringly so, he never slurred.

  She put the poker down, leaned forward and squinted in the low moonlight.

  Something black glistened down the side of his face. She knew, though, that it wasn’t really black. The substance – trickling down from his forehead, coating his cheek and dripping onto his pearl-coloured waistcoat – would be bright red in daylight.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ she said, ‘what happened to you?’

  ‘Well, He had nothing to do with it, certainly,’ said Richard. And, when she didn’t react: ‘Do forgive me. Bad humour is something I only resort to in extremis.’

  She hauled herself from under the covers and crawled towards where he was sitting. The cat, curled up as far from these noisome creatures as he could possibly get, looked up quickly, then decided it was none of his business.

  ‘For the love of God,’ she said as she got closer. ‘That’s a deep gash, that is.’

  ‘I must say, I’m feeling slightly unwell.’

  ‘Do you want me to bathe it, there?’

  ‘If you like. Yes, that would be nice. Always surprises me, how sticky blood gets. Dreadful feeling. Cloying.’

  She raced to the pump in the backyard, not bothering with her robe, flying as her white nightdress billowed behind her. By the time she got back, Richard had lain down next to the poker. She picked it up, stirred the embers in the fireplace, before starting to clean his wound.

  He had, he told her, been walking back to his lodgings. There had, as she knew, been brandy and sherry and whiskey, and before that, at the theatre, uncountable glasses of champagne. So perhaps he’d been somewhat unsteady. Unsteady enough to tempt two thieves. One of them knocked him to the ground and slashed him with a stick; the other yanked at his pocket watch. He swung his cane, and they ran off.

  ‘We will look for them tomorrow,’ Jenny said. ‘Get your watch back. I know how these things work. It’s time that my expertise was of use to you, rather than the other way around.’

  ‘No, I won’t have you involved in all that again, not even for a good cause. They may or may not be caught – and if they are, they may end up in Botany Bay. But you and I, we will not be the ones doing the catching. We don’t know their circumstances. They could be thugs, louts, ignorant boys out for what they can get. Or they could be starving, or have a sick family.’

  ‘Every lag says they have a sick family, or that they are starving,’ said Jenny.

  ‘More often than not I’m sure they are. You were, were you not? No, I won’t punish someone for doing what they need to do to avoid dying.’

  He hauled himself upwards as she finished cleaning his wound and began dabbing it dry.

  ‘I don’t know if Mrs Titchfield has any bandages,’ she said.

  ‘Not needed, the bleeding stopped – I left a fair bit of it on the cobblestones. I was thinking, you know, as I was walking.’

  ‘Always good to be able to do both at once.’

  ‘Now, don’t be cheeky, dear girl, I’m not quite in the mood for it. But I was, as it happens, thinking about you. You are not happy here, yet you won’t go to Cornwall.’

  ‘I don’t know what I would find. Whether my mother is there, alive. Whether my sister is married, has children. Whether they would want to see me. Being in London – you are right, it doesn’t suit me. But I have lost a husband and two children, and I would rather hold my family safe and alive in my mind than find out my losses have doubled. Or that my family no longer consider me one of their number.’

  Richard nodded slowly. ‘But, as it happens, I know people.’

  ‘Yes, you paraded me in front of half of them.’

  ‘Oh, at least half. Some of them, you see, might make inquiries. Find out how your family is faring. Perhaps even find out whether they would be delighted to find you at
their doorstep.’

  The enormity of it was crushing: the possibility of finding her family and losing them in a single exhalation. The alternative, though . . . Being suspended in a grey sameness punctuated by occasional outings. Being stared at, examined. Almost worse, the inevitable day when people would no longer stare.

  ‘Yes, all right. Yes.’

  ‘Good girl. Now, if you have no objection, I would rather like to lie down again.’

  ‘Of course.’ She got up and made for the door, wondering if she could clean Mrs Titchfield’s room well enough that the woman wouldn’t notice it had been slept in.

  ‘I didn’t, Jenny, say anything about lying down alone.’

  The slur had gone from his voice, now. It was thick, heavy with intent.

  This man who listened to her, who had spoken for her. Who had secured her freedom – not his fault that this particular brand of freedom wasn’t for her – and who seemed to be on the verge of securing it again.

  An ugly man with beautiful eyes capable of seeing past a violent robbery, an elaborate deception, an escape.

  It felt, actually, almost inevitable. As though by bringing the act into existence, she was redressing the imbalance in the world.

  Yes, she thought. I have no objection to lying down with you. None at all.

  Richard lived at the cottage for three days, only leaving on the day Mrs Titchfield was expected back. He continued to drop in to the cottage over the next few days. He was very correct with Jenny, far more than he had been. He would, loudly and in Mrs Titchfield’s hearing, claim the reason for his visits was to update Jenny on his search for news of Penmor.

  In the event, though, news of Penmor found him.

  It came in the shape of Alan Nance, a glazier who had trailed Richard to his club, and who paced in the street outside the cottage as Richard spoke to Jenny about him.

  ‘I’ve never heard the name,’ she said.

  ‘Yes, Mr Nance said you wouldn’t know him. He lives in Penmor now, but he was in Menabilly during your childhood. Nevertheless, he claims to know your mother, your sister, your neighbours – and a great deal about you.’