A Tattooed Heart

by Deborah Challinor

  Biddy said, ‘Well, if that’s the best you can do.’

  ‘It is. And there will be rules. No fraternising, no alcohol, no going above deck while we’re at sea, and the women will be strictly under my command. Will they be capable of adhering to those directions?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure they will,’ Biddy replied, her fingers crossed beneath her shawl. ‘’Tis a grand thing you’re doing here, Captain. That child and her mother will thank you from the bottom of their hearts.’

  ‘How much is the fee?’ Jon Sharkey growled.

  ‘That’s the captain’s business,’ Biddy snapped, ‘not yours.’ She stood and reached into her skirt pocket for her worn old silver-backed watch. Almost one o’clock in the morning — no wonder she was knackered. But Elizabeth Hislop would still be at work at that brothel of hers, counting her thousands, and she’d said she’d wait up. ‘I’ll talk to the girls’ agent now and arrange a meeting for tomorrow. Where will I find you?’

  ‘Let’s say in the Bird-in-Hand.’

  ‘Good. Thank you, Captain. You’ll not regret this.’

  ‘I think we will,’ Hawk said, after Biddy had gone.

  The voyage up from Sydney on the paddlesteamer had been fucking terrible. The weather was good and the other passengers no worse than usual, but the kid had been an absolute nightmare. Taking her from the house, it turned out, had been the easy part. All he’d had to do was follow them home from the market, wait a few minutes and she’d come out onto the verandah all by herself! So he’d popped up out of the bushes and waved the doll at her. The woman in the shop where he’d bought it said they were the latest thing for little girls, dolls with china heads, but he thought the shiny face and hard black hair piled up like gleaming dog turds was bloody grotesque. And the thing’s fancy clothes! What a waste of money.

  But it had really caught the kid’s eye. It’d been easy to lead her into the trees, grab his sea bag, then carry her down the street and hail a cab to King’s Wharf. She hadn’t minded the cab ride because she’d been playing with the doll, but by the time they’d boarded the William the Fourth she’d been getting pretty shitty, grizzling and crying for her mother. At one point the little cow had jabbed him in the eye and he’d thought the game might be up, especially when some great fat sow of a woman interfered and asked what was going on, but when he’d explained that the kid’s mother — his ‘sister’ — had just died and he was taking the girl to live with himself and his wife in Scone, she’d shut up and left them alone.

  Unfortunately, the kid hadn’t shut up, not for hours. She’d cried and cried and cried, reinforcing his belief that it was a mistake for a man ever to marry and produce offspring. Then she’d pissed herself and some other woman with kids of her own had cleaned her up and put her in a nappy. Christ, he’d have thought she’d be trained at her age. His sisters’ kids had been. Eventually she’d gone to sleep, only to wake up an hour out of Newcastle and start bawling again.

  They’d finally arrived just after nine o’clock, disembarked, and now he was looking forward to handing her over to Iris, even though the kid was sleeping again. Iris had better bloody well be home.

  Trudging up the gravel path, he was relieved to see lamplight flickering in the cottage window, but didn’t bother to knock before he opened the door. As far as he was concerned, while he slept here the house was as much his as it was hers.

  She was at the table, the lamp pulled close, sewing.

  ‘You’re back!’ she exclaimed. Then her mouth flapped open and shut, so she looked like a catfish. ‘Is that . . . Who’s that?’

  ‘My daughter. Her mother can’t look after her any more.’

  Iris stared. ‘I didn’t know you had a daughter.’

  ‘Well, you do now.’

  ‘But . . .’

  Leary could see her brain ticking over, trying to work out the chronology.

  ‘How old is she?’

  Shit. He’d known she was around two years old just after Christmas, so . . . ‘Two and a half.’

  ‘Does that mean you were seeing her mother when you were seeing me? At Parramatta?’

  ‘Probably does.’

  ‘Is that why you wouldn’t move in with me?’

  Leary sighed. He’d have to be careful if he wanted to stay in her good books, and he did. Someone had to look after the kid. ‘Look, Iris, I wouldn’t move in with her either, even after I found out about this one.’ He nodded down at Charlotte’s head. ‘I’m just not the type to settle down. If it’s any consolation, if I’d had to choose, it would have been you.’

  ‘Would it?’ Iris’s face softened. She pushed back her chair and came across to look at Charlotte. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Charlotte.’

  ‘She’s very pretty. Lovely hair. She’s got your . . . Well, it’s hard to tell when they’re asleep. She must be so tired. Shall I take her?’

  Leary gladly handed her over. Charlotte whined, half woke, then settled her head on Iris’s shoulder and went back to sleep, exhausted. ‘She bloody performed all the way here.’

  ‘She would, she’s only little. How well does she know you?’

  ‘Hardly at all.’ Leary fetched a bottle of whisky from a shelf and poured himself a generous glass.

  ‘Why can’t her mother look after her?’

  ‘She’s dying.’

  ‘Oh. I’m sorry to hear that.’

  Leary eyed her. ‘You don’t sound it.’

  Iris patted Charlotte’s back soothingly. ‘I am, though. Someone dying’s never nice. What’s wrong with her?’

  ‘Consumption.’

  ‘And Charlotte?’ Iris asked. ‘Will you raise her?’

  ‘Well, she can’t raise herself, can she?’

  ‘No, I mean, will you keep her? Most men on their own would put a child in the orphanage.’

  ‘Haven’t decided yet,’ Leary said, watching her carefully.

  ‘She’s so pretty,’ Iris said wistfully, and rubbed her cheek against the top of Charlotte’s head. ‘I spose you’re not on your own, though, are you? Not at the moment.’

  Satisfied, Leary reached for his drink.

  Elizabeth stood with her hands on her hips in a small windowless room next to the Siren’s Arms’ laundry, a space she referred to as the storeroom but which everyone else called the junk cupboard, staring at a completely unfamiliar trunk.

  ‘Jack!’ she called. Then, much louder, ‘Jack!’

  He appeared moments later, a cobweb in his hair. ‘All right, keep your wig on. I’m only in the cellar, not out at Parramatta.’

  ‘Where did this trunk come from?’

  ‘It’s Molly’s. You told me to pack up her things and put them in here after she drowned, in case someone turned up for them.’

  It was, too. She’d forgotten all about it. She couldn’t imagine why she’d ever said such a thing; the less left of that girl, the better.

  ‘Well, get rid of it. It’s just taking up room.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know, Jack! Use your head. Take it down to the markets and flog it to a second-hand dealer.’

  ‘The whole trunkful?’

  ‘Why not? There’s nothing valuable in it, is there?’

  ‘Not that I can remember — just clothes and women’s stuff. Shall I open it?’

  Elizabeth shuddered. ‘No, thank you. I don’t want to see that little tart’s tatty old bits and pieces.’

  ‘Can it wait till I’ve brought this barrel up?’

  ‘It can wait until the end of the week; just make sure you get around to it. I was thinking I might keep the spare laundry baskets in here.’ Elizabeth looked at the watch on her chatelaine and scowled. ‘He’s late.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘I had a meeting arranged with someone at eleven, and he’s not arrived.’

  ‘What does he look like?’

  ‘How should I know? I’ve not met him.’

  ‘Because there’s a sour-looking cove sitting in the bar and Al says
he keeps pulling out his watch.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake.’

  Elizabeth went through to the bar, where there was indeed a man sitting alone at a table, looking far from happy.

  ‘Captain Farrell?’ Elizabeth asked.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Good morning, Captain. I’m Mrs Hislop.’

  The captain stood and took her hand. ‘Good morning, Mrs Hislop. Very nice to meet you.’ He remained standing, regarding her closely and giving her the distinct impression that he was waiting for something, like . . . an apology.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s just that you’re late. I hope nothing untoward has occurred.’

  ‘Nooo,’ Elizabeth said slowly, ‘I’m not late. Why didn’t you ask for me at the counter?’ She indicated Al, who waved cheerily with his dishcloth.

  ‘What would be the point of that? How would the barman know who you are?’

  ‘Because I own the place. I’m the publican.’

  Letting out a very controlled sigh, the captain resumed his seat. ‘Shall we start again? My instructions from Mrs Doyle this morning were to meet you in this bar at eleven o’clock sharp to discuss a fee for an expedition to Newcastle. I’m afraid she didn’t appraise me of the fact that you’re the proprietor here. I do apologise.’

  Elizabeth sat. ‘Possibly her idea of a joke. Or not. Who can tell with Biddy Doyle? Anyway, we’re here now.’

  ‘Yes. Mrs Doyle tells me you’re the passengers’ agent.’

  ‘After a fashion.’

  ‘And am I correct in assuming that you will be personally underwriting their costs?’

  ‘You are.’

  ‘Are they not in a position to do so themselves?’

  Elizabeth thought about the money the girls had in the bank, and the high likelihood of Bella Shand’s next blackmail demand coming sooner rather than later, which was why she’d offered to pay the captain from her own purse.

  She said, ‘No, they’re not,’ and gave him a look she hoped would convey that any further discussion of that particular subject was none of his business, and therefore closed.

  Evidently it did. He said, ‘I need to take into account the length of the voyage, and by that I mean how many days and nights we’ll be away, as well as payment to my crew, and victualling and what have you, all of which costs, we need to acknowledge, are somewhat open-ended at this point. I suggest a starting point of five guineas to be paid in advance, with a further payment after the fact if necessary. Now, if I were taking four fat officers from the King’s Own Regiment out for a joyride I’d set the fee a damn sight higher, if you’ll pardon my language, but I understand that the life of a small child is at stake, so I’ll be happy with what I’ve stated.’

  ‘I was also hoping you’d pay heed to their welfare.’

  ‘You mean safeguard them? That’s a tall order, given the purpose of their expedition, and the fact that they’re women. I’d have to add another five guineas if you’re looking for a chaperone service.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you, Captain Farrell.’ Elizabeth took her purse from her skirt pocket. It was generous, too — she’d allowed for a minimum of twice that. Of course, if they were away for ages, that figure could soar. She handed over the money.

  ‘Thank you,’ the captain said, slipping it inside his coat. ‘These . . . passengers. Is there anything I should know about them?’

  Oh dear, Elizabeth thought, and it was all going so well. ‘I’m afraid I really don’t know what you mean.’

  ‘I’ve actually met Miss Clarke, but —’

  ‘Mrs Downey, she is now.’

  ‘Yes, Mrs Downey. But I can’t say I know her at all. She did seem to me to be rather quiet and shy. That is, she was quiet, until, er . . .’

  ‘Mick Doyle got her drunk?’

  ‘Quite. Are her colleagues cut from the same cloth? Because if they are, I really can’t see them having the wherewithal to even track down where this fellow’s hiding Mrs Downey’s child, let alone the nerve to confront him. Biddy Doyle did suggest they’re quite capable,’ one eyebrow went up in an expression of faint disbelief, ‘but there’s a big difference between a successful day’s shopping at the market and going on a manhunt.’

  You tosser, Elizabeth thought. He was a good-looking young man, Rian Farrell, with his blond hair, square jaw and watchful grey eyes, and was clearly well educated and, as captain of his own schooner, no doubt accustomed to being obeyed, but he was obviously woefully ignorant when it came to women. Smart ones, anyway. Well, he’d find out.

  ‘They are all capable, actually, in their own ways. Harrie’s very determined, despite what you might have thought when she was with Mick Doyle. We all make mistakes, you know — even you, I expect, Captain. Sarah Green’s extremely sharp and can run rings around most men I’ve met. Friday Woolfe is one of the most loyal and generous people I know, and very, let’s say, physically handy, and her friend, Aria, is smart and physically competent. Formidable, to say the least. I think you might be surprised.’

  ‘Well, we’ll see. I trust Mrs Doyle passed on my list of requirements?’

  ‘She did. No fraternising with your crew, no drinking, and the girls must submit to your command.’

  ‘I’ll accept nothing less, Mrs Hislop,’ Rian said.

  Elizabeth nodded emphatically and said, ‘Of course,’ while thinking, good luck, son.

  The first one wouldn’t be a problem — Harrie and Sarah were both happily married and Friday and Aria weren’t interested in sailors — but the rest most certainly would. Friday would probably be swattled before she even got on the ship, and as for expecting them to submit to his command, well, Captain Farrell was going to be very disappointed.

  ‘I’m very disappointed, however —’

  ‘What?’ Elizabeth blinked, startled. Had he read her mind?

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘I’m sorry. Do carry on.’

  ‘I was about to say, I’m very disappointed by Mick’s behaviour. I gather that Mrs Downey suffered in the extreme as a consequence of his actions.’

  ‘That’s certainly true.’

  ‘I also realise that the event in question took place over a year ago now, but that’s not the point. Mick’s always been, well, cavalier regarding these matters. He can stay ashore this time, without pay. It would be unacceptable for Mrs Downey to be forced to sail with him.’

  Elizabeth inclined her head in acknowledgment of the captain’s kindness. ‘How refreshing. Thank you. It’s usually the lass who gets blamed when it comes to such affairs.’

  ‘Yes, but not always fairly, Mrs Hislop. After all, it’s the man who, er, well,’ — the captain reddened slightly — ‘I’m sure you take my meaning.’

  ‘I do, Captain Farrell. I admit I’m surprised you hold such a view, after your comment about shopping not being the same as a manhunt.’

  ‘Oh, that still stands, because it isn’t, is it?’

  ‘Well, of course it isn’t.’ Elizabeth leant forwards. ‘And I’ll tell you something for nothing, Captain. These girls know that perfectly well.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Friday heaved her travel bag over her shoulder and winced as it made a telltale clinking sound.

  Halfway out the door, Aria stopped, turned and demanded, ‘What is that in your bag?’

  ‘Nothing. Lemonade. Ivy made it for us.’

  Aria fixed her with a long, hard stare. ‘Mrs Hislop said that there is to be no drinking on the ship.’

  ‘I know. Don’t worry.’

  ‘Show me.’

  Sighing theatrically, Friday set the bag down on the bed, opened the ties at the neck and rummaged around till she felt one of the bottles. Pulling it out, she said, ‘See? Lemonade.’ With gin in it.

  ‘Do I need to taste it?’ Aria asked.

  ‘Only if you don’t think you can trust me. You don’t, do you?’

  ‘Not when it comes to alcohol.’

  Friday thrust
the bottle at her. ‘Go on, try it. Make me feel like I’m back in gaol. I don’t care.’

  Aria eyed the bottle, then looked away. ‘Come on, we do not want the ship to sail without us.’

  Friday shoved the bottle back in her bag and hurried after her, feeling uncomfortably ashamed. There was no victory in lying to Aria, only a guilty sort of relief at yet again getting what she needed. It wasn’t even what she wanted any more — she’d gone beyond that some time ago, though it had taken a while to admit it, even to herself. She really had tried to go without and, despite her claims to everyone that she could stop drinking whenever she wanted to, she’d been appalled when she’d discovered she couldn’t. She had to have alcohol now just to feel normal, and the thought of dragging herself through her days sober — without even a drop of gin in her body — was utterly terrifying. She really didn’t think she had the guts, the strength, or the desire to do it.

  So now her days were divided into different tasks, the priority being getting enough gin to stay pleasantly muzzy, if not outright drunk, followed by trying to keep Aria happy, followed by going to work. And now Leary had taken Charlotte and they had to get her back and it was all getting to be too much. She felt like those entertainers you saw on the street who tossed three or four wooden balls at the same time, going really high and fast, except more had been added, and she felt constantly on the verge of dropping them, and when she did — and she knew she would — they’d smash everywhere. Which ball would she lose forever? Aria? Charlotte? Her friends? Elizabeth? Her job?

  All of them?

  Harrie left her note for James on their bed, where he’d see it when he came home from the surgery — after he’d finished having a fit when he’d discovered she’d gone, that was. It read:

  My Dearest James,

  I’ve gone to fetch Charlotte. Please do not worry — Friday, Sarah and Aria are with me. And please do not come after us. We’ve chartered a schooner and crew to take us up to Newcastle. We should be back in a few days, a week at most.

  We made a promise to Rachel that we’d keep Charlotte safe. That means us, not you and Leo and Matthew. I’m sorry, James, but we have to do this ourselves.