The Trader's Reward

by Anna Jacobs

  Would there be time for her to join in some group singing for the concert? Would Fergus mind her joining in?

  She was treading very carefully, still didn’t feel completely a member of the family.

  Since the weather was a bit rough the following day, the first auditions were held in the cabin passengers’ dining room, where there was a piano.

  Fergus swayed his way across the room, clutching pieces of furniture now and then.

  ‘I’m glad to see you’re coping with the rougher weather, Mr Deagan,’ Matron said. ‘How is Mrs Deagan?’

  ‘She’s doing well, doesn’t seem affected by the heavy seas.’

  ‘She mentioned that she enjoyed singing. Will she be coming to the auditions?’

  He looked at her in surprise. ‘Perhaps she was worried about someone looking after Niamh. I’ll fetch her later.’ He eyed the upright piano, which was fastened in place with strong ropes.

  ‘Why don’t you try it out, Mr Deagan?’ Matron suggested.

  Fergus opened the lid and ran his fingers across the keys, then couldn’t resist sitting down and playing a lively tune.

  Even the cabin passengers came to the doorway into the day lounge to see who was playing and some stayed to listen. ‘Do you know the words to this tune?’ Fergus asked Rémi.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘We’ll sing a verse or two, then. Ready?’ He played a brief introduction and started singing. Rémi joined in.

  They sang in unison at first, then, as Fergus realised the other man was secure in the tune, he began to sing in harmony.

  When the song ended, Rémi looked at Fergus in surprise. ‘You made even me sound good.’

  Fergus stood up. ‘You can hold the tune, but you’re right. You don’t have a strong enough voice for solos. I was pleased at how well our voices sound together. As long as we find some other decent singers, we should be all right.’ He saw a lady hesitating near the doorway. ‘Can I help you, ma’am?’

  She looked from him to Rémi, as if unsure who to address. ‘I wondered if … well, do you need another accompanist? I … have some music with me. Only, you were playing the piano just now, so perhaps you don’t need anyone else.’

  Fergus beamed at her. ‘It’d be grand to have another pianist.’ He nudged Rémi. ‘Don’t you think?’

  ‘Anything I can do, I will.’ She was still addressing Rémi mainly.

  ‘Mr Deagan is the person in charge,’ he said. ‘I’m just his assistant.’

  She looked from one to the other. ‘Oh. Well. I’m sure that’ll be all right.’

  But she sounded doubtful.

  Rémi winked at Fergus.

  Other people started turning up to audition.

  ‘If they’re gentry, act as if you’re in charge,’ Fergus whispered to Rémi. ‘I’ll do the same with the steerage passengers.’

  ‘That’s not fair to you.’

  ‘When was life ever fair? Besides, I don’t mind. What I care about is getting the music right. I can’t be doing with poor singers in a concert.’

  ‘Then we’ll call you the musical director. Trust me. If you have a title of some sort for the job, people will respect you more.’

  ‘All right.’ Fergus was finding it very interesting dealing with Rémi, who was like no gentleman he’d ever met before.

  Why not do it, though? he thought suddenly. Why not take a more important role, with a fancy title? He’d had years of standing back and letting the engineers take the credit, even when he’d been the one to sort out a mechanical problem.

  He wondered suddenly whether Bram had found new ways of looking at the world when he was sailing to Australia. Something must have changed his brother, who had not shown any ambitions to make money before, well, not that Fergus could remember.

  It shook you up, emigrating did, both physically and mentally.

  Cara went up on deck for a breath of fresh air and walked across to where a sign said, ‘Auditions’. She stopped to listen when she heard her husband singing from inside. It had to be him, with that Irish accent. And it didn’t surprise her that he was good, because even his speaking voice was pleasant to listen to.

  When she returned to the cabin, she asked Ma, ‘Why didn’t you tell me Fergus had such a beautiful voice?’

  ‘Was he singing again? I hoped he might.’

  Cara waited.

  Ma’s expression was sad. ‘He hasn’t done much singing for a good while, even before Eileen grew so weak at the end. He doesn’t sing when he’s unhappy. It’ll be lovely to hear him again. He has a good voice.’

  ‘More than good. He has a beautiful voice.’

  Ma nodded, then asked, ‘Didn’t you say you liked singing?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Then why don’t you go and audition with the others? I’ll look after Niamh for you.’

  ‘I feel guilty imposing on you and … I’m not sure Fergus will want me there.’

  ‘Why ever not? I know Fergus. What he’ll care about is whether you can sing or not and he won’t pretend about that.’ She smiled reminiscently. ‘He can’t bear it when someone joins in who can’t hold a tune. He twitches with pain.’

  They both smiled.

  Fergus looked up, relieved that the plump gentleman had stopped making the droning noises he called music. ‘Thank you, sir. I’m afraid your voice won’t fit in.’

  The man looked at him in affront. ‘Won’t fit in? But I was a member of the church choir for many years.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But this isn’t a church choir. This is a concert. We need different – um – types of voices.’

  As he went out, the rebuffed man bumped into a lady and was so angry, he didn’t stop to apologise.

  It took Fergus a minute or two to realise that it was his wife who’d been bumped into. He went straight across to her. ‘Is everything all right?’

  ‘Yes. I just wondered if I could do an audition for the concert. I’ve done a bit of singing in the church choir.’

  He frowned.

  ‘Not if you don’t want me to,’ she said hurriedly.

  ‘No, no. It’s not that. It’s just … well, I won’t have you or anyone singing unless they have a good voice. You won’t get special treatment because you’re my wife.’

  ‘I don’t want special treatment.’

  ‘Come and sing to us, then.’ In a low voice he added, ‘Rémi, you haven’t met my wife. We’ve not been married long, so we’re still getting to know one another.’

  Rémi smiled at Cara. ‘I’m pleased to meet you, Mrs Deagan. You’ll find him a stern taskmaster when it comes to music.’

  ‘What would you like to sing?’ Fergus asked.

  ‘Do you know “The Gypsy Girl’s Dream”? I don’t have any music.’

  ‘I know the tune. What key? Sing me how you’d start.’ He listened intently. ‘Ah. You’re a contralto, then.’

  ‘More or less. I can sing a bit higher if necessary.’ He struck a chord, then gave her the opening note.

  She began singing, ‘I dreamt that I dwelled in marble halls …’ Her voice wobbled a little with nervousness, but it was a pretty voice, pleasant and tuneful, and as she relaxed, it grew steadier. He soon began to smile and nod in time to her singing.

  When she’d sung two verses, he stopped playing. ‘You’re good. I think you’d fit well into our chorus.’

  ‘I prefer singing in groups, I must admit. I get too nervous on my own.’

  ‘You’ve nothing to be nervous for. We’re starting rehearsals tomorrow—’ The ship lurched to one side as if nudging him. He frowned. ‘Well, if the weather doesn’t prevent us, that is.’

  ‘I’ll look forward to it. I’d better get back to Niamh now.’

  When she left, Fergus looked at Rémi and for some reason found it easy to confide in him. ‘I should have known she liked singing, shouldn’t I? We married for … convenience. I’ve taken so much from her and she asks so little of me.’

  ‘Convenience is as good a reason as any,’ Rém
i said quietly. ‘I’ve seen a lot of so-called love matches fail miserably.’

  ‘You’ve never married?’

  ‘No. I’ve never been in a position to support a wife. I spent years paying off my parents’ debts. That’s done now.’ He laughed suddenly. ‘Who knows what’ll happen to me in Australia? I may even meet a lady to marry.’

  Fergus nodded, but it was clear from the way he spoke that Rémi wasn’t really expecting to marry.

  As he listened to the last two singers, Fergus continued to feel guilty for not finding out more about Cara. He must make more effort from now on.

  She often seemed rather tentative, as if afraid of upsetting anyone. Well, from what she’d said about her father, she’d spent her whole life being wary of what she said and did.

  He should have thought how it’d be for her, should have managed the situation better. He hadn’t been thinking clearly for a while after Eileen’s death. That must change now.

  12

  Norman Tilsley took the ferry down the Swan River to Fremantle on the Tuesday, as arranged. When he got there, he studied Deagan’s Bazaar from the bottom of the slope, letting two ladies walk past him towards it, chatting animatedly. He was feeling nervous, which was unusual for him.

  When he entered the long wooden building, he stopped to check what the Bazaar looked like inside and was pleased with the accuracy of his memory.

  It was a very commodious building, only one storey in height, divided into the main selling area near the door, a middle area where stalls were rented out to other sellers – hence the term ‘bazaar’ he supposed, instead of ‘shop’ – and at the rear, if he remembered correctly, there was an area where second-hand but high-quality furniture, clothing and other items were sold. That part was separated from the middle area by carved wooden screens which looked oriental in design.

  He saw Bram Deagan before the owner of the Bazaar saw him. A spry fellow, of medium height only, with dark hair, a bright smile and a cheerful demeanour, chatting to a customer.

  Norman recognised Mrs Deagan too. She was in the silks area to the right of the main door, showing lengths of material to a young lady accompanied by an older woman who looked like her mother. The owner’s wife had glorious auburn hair, dressed simply but elegantly in a high chignon. She had a charming smile.

  He saw Deagan glance towards the door, notice him and raise one eyebrow as if to ask whether he was the expected visitor, so Norman inclined his head.

  With a murmured apology to the customer, Deagan made his way across the wooden floor. ‘Mr Tilsley?’

  ‘I am, sir. And you’re Mr Deagan. You won’t remember me, but I’ve been here before and bought a few items.’

  ‘I hope they gave you satisfaction.’

  ‘They did.’ He looked round. ‘Um … is there somewhere we can talk more privately?’

  ‘Why don’t we go for a stroll round the town centre? It’s a pleasant enough day, not too hot, thank goodness. February can be so trying when we get a hot spell.’

  They set off and Norman wondered what to say, how to approach this delicate matter.

  Deagan was the first to break the silence by saying bluntly, ‘Your advertisement said you were looking for a wife.’

  ‘Ahem. Yes. I’m a widower. It’s been over five years now. I don’t enjoy living on my own.’

  Once started, he found it easy to explain his situation. Indeed, Deagan was easy to chat to, not overwhelming him with comments and interruptions, but asking the occasional question when he wished for more details.

  Deagan stopped moving suddenly. ‘Well, well. Fate seems to be on our side. This is the lady I was wondering about.’

  He stopped to greet her. ‘My dear Livia, how delightful to see you. May I introduce a new acquaintance of mine, Mr Norman Tilsley? Mr Tilsley, this is my friend Mrs Southerham.’

  She inclined her head. ‘Are you new to the colony, Mr Tilsley?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am. I came out to join my son, only to find him living in the bush beyond Geraldton. It was too isolated for my taste, so I came back to Perth and found myself a house in Guildford.’

  ‘I hope you settle in quickly, then, and make friends.’ She turned back to Bram. ‘I’d like to stay and chat, but I’ve arranged to take tea with a friend and collect a book she’s promised to lend me, and I’m late already.’

  ‘Another time, then, Livia my dear.’

  Both gentlemen raised their hats and stood to watch her hurrying along the street.

  ‘She loves reading,’ Bram said quietly. ‘She’s a widow of a few years. Her husband came here with consumption, hoping the warmer weather would help, but sadly, he didn’t improve.’

  ‘She seems very pleasant.’

  ‘She is. Perhaps you would visit us one Sunday at home and take tea with myself and my wife? I could arrange to invite Livia at the same time.’

  ‘Is she seeking another husband?’

  ‘Well, no … So I would only introduce you as a new acquaintance and you could see how the friendship developed.’ He waved one hand dismissively. ‘These things happen, or else they don’t, I always find. It’s no use forcing anything.’

  Norman looked in the direction Mrs Southerham had taken. She wasn’t a beauty, that was certain, but she was definitely a lady. She was thin and brisk to the point of brusqueness. His wife had been plump and comfortable. He didn’t think Mrs Southerham would be as comfortable to live with, but if she was fond of reading, she couldn’t be a stupid woman.

  He saw Mr Deagan looking at him, head on one side, waiting. ‘That would be very kind of you. I should like to get to know her – and you – better.’

  He was thoughtful as the ferry chugged back up the river to Perth. He retrieved his horse from the livery stables there and trotted slowly home, leaving it at a small livery stable at the end of his street.

  He wondered if today’s journey had been worth it. Mrs Southerham was pleasant enough, but he’d been captivated by Harriet the first time he met her. Ah, he’d been young, then, and so had she. You couldn’t expect the same reaction as you grew older. He had no doubt that he was less appealing these days to the gentler sex, though at least he hadn’t developed a paunch as some men did in their later years.

  How did older people get to know one another? he wondered suddenly, feeling woefully ignorant of how to court a lady of about what … forty or so? Perhaps Mrs Southerham was older, perhaps younger. It was hard to tell a woman’s age sometimes.

  But he did like Mr Deagan. What a charming man, speaking well of everyone they met, clearly well liked. If nothing else, he might get a friend out of this.

  That would be something very worthwhile in the desert of his loneliness.

  To the disappointment of everyone involved, rehearsals for the concert were unable to be held the next day because the weather had taken a turn for the worse and a storm was brewing fast. The decks were cleared of passengers, who were instructed to stay below in safety, and keep out of the sailors’ way.

  Soon the ship was rolling to and fro, and people began to be sick.

  Ma took to her bunk, grimly determined not to succumb this time, but Pa watched his wife’s face turn a greenish white and quickly fetched the slop bucket from the stand near the door.

  Mal was the next to fall sick and only just made it to the bucket, after which Fergus saw to his needs.

  Little Niamh was crying in a fretful, unhappy way, and refusing to suck the bottle, so Cara could only sit on the bunk and cuddle her close, rocking her slightly. Her milk had dried up entirely now. Thank goodness for Mellin’s Food!

  Sean sat opposite her on the lower of the boys’ bunks. He wasn’t scowling now, but had his arms wrapped round himself. She guessed he was trying hard not to be sick.

  Fergus, who was cuddling Mal on the top bunk, glanced a couple of times in Sean’s direction, jerking his head and nodding encouragement to her to help him. She blinked her eyes to show her understanding.

  When she saw Sean pressing
one hand to his mouth and heaving, she set Niamh down for a minute and passed him the unused chamber pot.

  After the boy had finished being sick, she thrust the baby into his arms. ‘Hold your sister while I go and empty this. The smell of vomit will make us all feel worse.’ She hesitated, looking at him. ‘Or do you think you’ll need it again soon?’

  He shook his head and stared down at the white-faced, wailing baby. ‘Is she seasick too?’

  ‘I think so.’

  ‘Why aren’t you and Da seasick?’

  ‘I don’t know. I feel a bit uncomfortable today, I must admit, but I’m rarely sick. I’m just lucky, I suppose.’ She took the pot and vanished along the corridor to the heads, glad to find one free, so she could empty the mess into it and rinse it out with sea water.

  When she returned to the cabin, she checked Sean, glad to see that he had a bit more colour in his cheeks. He was cuddling Niamh and the baby was dozing, so she didn’t disturb them, putting one finger to her lips and pointing to his little sister. To her relief, he realised she wanted to let Niamh sleep and nodded, keeping hold of the baby.

  Cara handed the emptied chamber pot to Ma, who was still retching from time to time, and went to empty the slop bucket.

  Afterwards she sat down on her bunk, not offering to take the baby back from her stepson.

  Sean was studying Niamh, unaware that he in his turn was being studied. The baby was cuddled against him, dozing fitfully, her dark lashes lying against her soft cheeks. He didn’t look at Cara as he asked, ‘How does something so small grow up into a person? She weighs so little!’

  ‘It’s like a miracle, isn’t it? One day she’ll be waist high, tagging along behind you pestering to play with you. And you’ll probably say no.’

  ‘Is that what you did? Do you have an older brother?’

  ‘Yes.’ Only Edward had never wanted to play with his sisters. Once he grew up and started work, he’d become as disapproving of her as her father, especially when she turned down a suitor who was a friend of his.

  Her brother hadn’t offered to help her in any way when she was in trouble, and had actually turned aside if she passed him in the corridor at home, with a sour expression on his face.