by Hope Adams
Hattie tried not to flinch at Tabitha’s foul breath. She knew better than to walk away, so she smiled. Tabitha went on, “You could get them guards to do whatever you wanted . . . maybe even open the cell door.”
“Leave her alone, Tabitha,” said Dwyer, and Hattie was grateful. The danger had passed before Tabitha could force her to do anything dangerous. Even now, on the Rajah, she was a little grateful for Dwyer’s assistance, but she wondered whether Matron’s faith and fervor were a match for the Newgate Nannies.
After Miss Hayter left, Hattie found herself next to someone she’d barely noticed before. This woman was tall and slender, and wore a scarf over her hair. She decided to speak and sighed theatrically. “I daresay,” Hattie began, “that I’ve slept in worse places in my life, but I can’t think of many. What a hole this is! How’ll we keep it clean? I fear for my boy’s health.”
The woman nodded. “Yes,” she said. “It’s not the cleanest place I’ve ever seen.”
Hattie smiled. “My name’s Hattie Matthews. What’s yours?”
“Sarah Goodbourne.”
“Pleased to meet you, I’m sure,” said Hattie, and held out her hand. After a moment of hesitation, Sarah shook it.
“My bunk is over there,” Sarah added, and pointed to a mattress near the entrance to the living quarters. “I wish you a good night.”
“Good night,” Hattie said, determined to be friendly to everyone. And I’ll look after Bertie, she said to herself, and try to be as happy as I can.
She turned to where Bertie was sitting on his thin mattress, his legs dangling. “You’re a good boy, aren’t you, Bertie? But you must lie down now . . . It’s time to go to sleep.”
After she’d settled her son and pulled the scratchy blanket over his shoulders, Hattie climbed into her own bunk. Around her, the other women were settling for the night. The ship’s timbers, even while she was still at anchor, creaked and groaned.
In spite of her cheerful demeanor in the daylight hours, it was at night that Hattie started to remember things. Bad memories came to her, as they did, she supposed, to many of her companions. There were those who groaned aloud or muttered in their sleep while others found it hard to fall into slumber. Hattie tried to push away those thoughts with pleasant ones. Still, shadows from the past, conversations she’d rather not have remembered, danced through her head.
A house had ruined everything. Hattie knew (and no word from any doctor would shake her belief) that the sorrow of losing little Kitty, the youngest of Hattie’s siblings, had killed her mother. One day they’d visited someone at that house, and from that time, Ma had wasted away, until she was nothing more than a bag of bones with the light gone from her eyes. The terrible house still came to Hattie in nightmares.
I won’t think of it, Hattie told herself. I’ll forget it. She stared at the wooden planks above her head and turned her thoughts to the ship, the voyage and what she might gain from it. What would Van Diemen’s Land be like? Sunny and hot, she thought. Bright and new. Familiar dreams of that far country soothed her. The Rajah was moving and Hattie was trying to grow used to the constant motion of the waves beneath the ship. She glanced across the gloomy space. The lantern that hung from a beam threw a little light on the tiers of bodies covered with dark blankets. Hattie rose from her own bunk and stood up to kiss Bertie and said, “Nighttime, my angel. Off you go to sleep now.”
“When will we see the big sea, Ma?” Bertie sighed, as his eyes closed.
“Tomorrow,” said Hattie. “I promise.” He’d not been satisfied with the dark brown water that lapped around the hull: his mother had promised him blue water and waves. She returned to her own thin mattress and rested her head on the flat pillow, staring through the gloom at the knots and whorls in the timber above her head.
13
NOW
7 July 1841
Ninety-three days at sea
KEZIA
Kezia woke early. Her nights were filled with dreams that disappeared with the morning but left a shadow in her mind. She worried constantly about Hattie, and it was hard to reassure the women that they were safe, when she herself was filled with misgivings.
Once she was dressed, she took up her embroidery and tried to concentrate on it. She had fallen into the habit as the days became cooler, and it was a time she used to enjoy. The light was better in the early morning and it was almost comfortable to sit on her bunk and take up her silks. The tiny black neatly worked words were done. It was only a few days ago that she’d embroidered “June 1841” on the fabric. Now, as she added a few stitches to the border, her first thoughts were of Hattie and she could not sit calmly. There was a woman on this ship, a woman who, in all likelihood, might be driven to harm someone else. She could even, Kezia thought, as a new chill of foreboding came over her, seek to harm me. She put her work carefully away. Part of her wanted never to leave her own safe berth. She felt less uneasy when she was alone, and this distressed her.
Since the inquiry into the crime had begun, Kezia found herself quaking inwardly at any strange sound. The familiar creak of the rigging, the noises of the crew, the shouts and bangings common to life at sea had the power to shock her, to make her glance behind her more than she used to. I am fearful of someone else, she thought. Perhaps it had been one of the sailors, after all. How thorough had their questioning been? She could not help suspecting, though, that whoever had knifed poor Hattie was among the women in the convict quarters. Whenever she went down to see them, Kezia found herself looking carefully about her. We will discover who it is, she told herself, trying to find the courage she encouraged in others, but until we do, they’re all frightened and so am I. The only person who isn’t nervous is the one who stabbed Hattie. If only, Kezia thought, I could find a woman who isn’t looking over her shoulder.
She sighed. She would have to leave her cabin. As she made her way to the hospital, Kezia was grateful that the Rajah had such an excellent surgeon superintendent. Thus far, the health of the women on the voyage had been good and he’d had nothing more complicated to deal with than sore eyes and constipation. Now, though, Hattie’s condition was taking up much of his time. He never left her side, apart from his attendance at the inquiry, but he always left Joan in charge when he was absent, with strict orders to call him from the proceedings if there was any change in Hattie’s condition.
In the hospital, Joan was sitting beside Hattie’s bed and Mr. Donovan was at his log.
“Good morning to you, Miss Hayter,” he said, smiling. “Did you pass a peaceful night?”
“Not very peaceful, I’m afraid,” Kezia answered. “I am as concerned for Hattie as you must be.”
Mr. Donovan nodded. “There is no change,” he said, then stood up and came closer to Kezia. “Joan has been sitting devotedly beside poor Hattie’s bed all night, but I’m afraid she’s showing no signs of improvement.”
Kezia moved to stand beside Joan.
“She’s like a ghost, Miss,” Joan said, and her voice was full of weariness. “I lean forward sometimes, just to make sure she’s still with us, God help her. Her breath is so faint . . .” She sniffed and wiped her eyes with a corner of her apron. “Mr. Donovan’s a marvel. Always smiling, always talking to Hattie as if she’s in her right mind. Don’t know why he does that, when she can’t hear him or answer.”
Mr. Donovan said, “Because we don’t know if she can hear us. That’s what I’ve told you all along, Joan, and it’s true. Some part of her may hear everything. That’s why I talk to her. And why I tell you to sing to her, Joan.”
“And I have, Miss. I’ve sung every song I know. The ones I sang to my babies . . . That was the worst thing of all. There I am, singing Hattie songs I’ve not sung in many years and I’m blubbing as good as any baby as I do it. Wiping my eyes and blubbing.”
“That meant I had two women to look after, Miss Hayter—Hattie and Joan.”
&nb
sp; Kezia could tell that Mr. Donovan was trying to be hearty and cheerful, to change the mood around Hattie’s bed, but Joan was still as pale as ever and Hattie did not move. She took Joan’s hand and said, “Let us go out on deck. The sun is shining a little and work will distract you from your sorrow.”
Joan stood up and leaned over to kiss Hattie’s brow. “Poor thing,” she murmured. “Poor young thing.”
Kezia waited till Joan was almost out of the hospital, then bent to whisper in Hattie’s ear, “God will have care of you. If you can hear this, Hattie, be comforted. We are working to find who did this to you, my dear.” Turning to Mr. Donovan, she said, “Thank you, sir, for your kindness. And for your good heart in these matters.”
“It doesn’t help anyone to be gloomy, I’ve found . . . Good day to you, Miss Hayter.”
* * *
* * *
No one was smiling when Kezia and Joan sat down and began to thread their needles. The women were unusually silent. They had their heads bowed to their work. No one asked to borrow scissors. No one squealed when they pricked themselves. They stitched doggedly, their shawls gathered about them against the chill of the morning. Perhaps it was their solemnity that made Kezia say what she did. She remembered what Mr. Donovan had just said and perhaps she, too, had a duty to lift everyone’s spirits. An air of gloom and anxiety had dominated their sessions since Hattie’s stabbing.
“I met the Queen once,” she said.
“You never! Queen Victoria?”
Tabitha was the first but others soon added their cries of disbelief. “You didn’t. How could you? You’re joking with us, Miss.” A chorus of voices, and laughter to go with the words. They didn’t believe her, that was clear.
Well, Kezia thought, it’s stopped them thinking about Hattie, if nothing else. She went on sewing as she said, “It’s true. I met her in Buckingham Palace.”
“You’ve been in it?” That was Rose. “Must’ve been in your dreams, Miss. That’s when you’ve been in there!”
“No.” Kezia looked at her. “In my real life. Three years ago.”
“Go on, then, Miss, tell us about it,” said Izzy. “We could do with a good story. A fairy tale.” She cackled.
Rose patted her arm. “Put a cork in it, Izzy. She won’t tell us if you don’t listen.”
“My cousin,” said Kezia, “is George Hayter. Have you heard his name?” No one spoke, so she went on. “He’s a court painter. He was asked to paint the Queen, and I was living in his household at that time. He asked me to go with him. To help him. Of course, I was very curious to see Buckingham Palace.”
“What’s it like, Miss?” Ann wanted to know.
“The ceilings are extremely high. The corridors are very long and have red carpets and much gilding everywhere. And so many lights! Splendid lights. Crystal chandeliers.”
“Must be armies of servants dusting them all,” said Joan. “I wouldn’t like it. Living in a palace like that.”
“Lucky, then,” said Tabitha, “that it won’t ever happen to you.”
“Go on, Miss,” said Emily. “What happened when you got there?”
“Well, Cousin George set up his easel and I helped him choose the paints he needed. When the Queen came in, I was astonished to see how small she is. She’s shorter than I am, and we’re almost the same age. She’s very pretty and she wore such a lovely white dress. Satin trimmed with gold lace. She was also wearing a crown, but when she went to sit on the throne, Cousin George told her she might take it off because he wouldn’t be painting that part of the picture today, so she removed it and said, ‘I’m very grateful, sir. It’s rather heavy, I fear.’” The women were staring at her with their mouths open, wanting more. She sighed and said, “I’m afraid that those were almost the only words I heard the Queen speak. I watched her sitting there as my cousin painted, wondering what she was thinking about, because she has many affairs of state to occupy her. Then, when it was over, she thanked him and left the room.”
“That’s wonderful, Miss. Imagine!” said Emily. “Such a famous lady and you’ve seen her. In Buckingham Palace, too. You must think of that day so often. I would, if I’d met the Queen.”
“I do think of it. But what I remember most was the painting. Watching my cousin making such a perfect likeness of the Queen from colored paste laid on a palette was like seeing magic happening.” Kezia did not add that it had made her want to create something beautiful herself, much less that she was engaged now in doing precisely that. No one would have believed her. The women, she noticed, were whispering now.
“What are you saying, Ann?” she asked.
“I only said how good it was to forget about it. It’s hard to put it out of your head, Miss. There’s someone here who’s ready to kill.”
The wind sighing through the ship’s masts was the only sound to be heard. A cloud crossing the sun made sudden shadows fall on the women, darkening the morning.
“Well,” said Kezia, “let us sing a hymn to put such thoughts out of our minds.”
They sang, but Kezia knew they were not attending to the words and were singing less heartily than on other days. Every mind was somewhere else.
* * *
* * *
Kezia saw Charles walking toward her as she made her way back to her cabin. How strange it is, she thought, that when he appears, I am cheered and comforted. She felt as though a weight had been lifted from her. They’d started taking walks along the deck together on one of the early days of the voyage, and she looked forward with pleasure to those occasions.
“I’ve come to meet you,” Charles said. “Being master of this ship takes up almost none of my time and leaves me with many hours to wonder how I can contrive a meeting.”
Kezia smiled at his jest. He took her hand and tucked it into the crook of his elbow. Kezia curled her fingers into the fabric of his jacket. How comforting it was to be walking thus, so close to someone, so . . . She cast about for words to express her feelings. She felt warmed by Charles’s concern and attention. His care for her.
“You’ve been a long time at the stitching today,” he said.
“Yes,” Kezia answered. “They’re all restless and frightened. The mood among the women is . . . Well, they’re anxious, as I am.”
“There’s no need for that. You may be sure that I’ll protect you against anything.”
“I’m grateful, Charles, but you don’t know—none of us knows—whether we may all be in danger. The women are finding it hard to sleep. They’re so fearful.”
“Of course they are,” Charles said. “I’m worried, too, but also quite sure that we’ll discover the culprit soon. The idea of a possible murderer on the ship is appalling.”
They walked the deck in silence for a few minutes and stopped at the rail. She shivered. “Surely we must go down for the interrogations now,” she said.
“Proceedings,” he corrected her. “That’s what Mr. Davies calls what we’re doing. He referred yesterday at dinner to ‘tomorrow’s proceedings.’”
“He has good penmanship,” she said. “‘The proceedings’ will look well on paper at least. It’s fortunate that his opinions will not be recorded there.”
“But you’re worried, I can see.”
“I’m feeling . . . Well, I know that my concern is selfish and trivial in the circumstances . . . All our efforts are turned to finding the truth of Hattie’s attack and that makes it hard for—” Kezia stopped abruptly.
“Hard for what?”
“I almost dare not say,” she answered, “but we have—they have—worked so hard on the patchwork coverlet, and I’m very anxious, now, that we may not finish it in time. I am torn between worry for Hattie, and watching the women in case one gives away anything that might lead us to an answer. And then, every moment when I’m not with you and the others is taken up with stitching. It would be the saddes
t thing if the coverlet were not finished. When I return to my cabin at night, many thoughts fly around my mind and make it hard to sleep.” She did not say that thinking of him gave her respite, but it was true.
“You may be excused from the proceedings, if you wish, you know,” he said gently.
“No, no!” she said. “I must be there to help the three of you speak to my women.” Kezia wondered whether she should tell him how she feared what Mr. Davies might say to them if she were not there to stand up for them. She was well aware of his views, and if she was not there, how much more unforgiving would he be? She decided to keep silent for now, but said instead, “I fear for the women in my absence. Of how they might be coerced in some way. I must be there.”
They stood close together by the rail, each staring down into the water as it slipped past the Rajah’s hull. Kezia was aware of Charles’s presence beside her: she felt a current flowing between them. Above, the sky was bleached almost white and there were only a few clouds to be seen. The sea, its great weight and depth (to which Kezia had never quite grown accustomed), moved below them slowly and heavily, and it came to her that the Rajah was like an insect perched on the back of an enormous, constantly turning creature that lived and breathed as they did.
“We should go below,” Charles said.
Kezia moved away with a sigh. “Tabitha Brown is not like Marion Williams,” she said. “She may be capable of violence, I fear. I caught her, one day, pulling another woman’s hair for no good reason that I could see. I led her away from where the others were sitting, and after a while she calmed down, but she does have a temper and I’d wager she’d know where to lay her hands on a knife.”
“There are knives in the galley. My men have knives. They need them for their work. And if one of the women has been—how shall I put it?—a little too friendly with a sailor, why, it’s the work of a moment for her to slip a knife into her clothes.”
