Perhaps this stranger was one of the latter. But he surprised her by plucking a rose from a nearby bush and handing it to her. "The Aborigines say that flowers were created by the ancestors back in the Dreamtime, which was a long, long time ago. The ancestors were magical people, and everything they did or thought was transformed into something solid. It's said that every time an ancestor laughed, a flower was created. And because people laugh more in the springtime, that's why there are more flowers in springtime. That's what the blackfellah says anyway."
Jamie O'Brien's accent intrigued her. In this colony of immigrants from all over the British Empire, one heard a range of accents from the Queen's English to cockney, Irish and Scottish brogues, and the sometimes incomprehensible speech of the Welsh. But there was another accent, a newer one, which Hannah suspected was a hybrid of all the rest, and it was spoken by those few who were native to the continent. Hannah realized that her rescuer might not be a fortune hunter after all, newly arrived at these shores, but was in fact native born to Australia, a rarity in the colony.
The evening was suddenly suffused with a strange enchantment. The air was too warm. Summer nights in England were never this warm. Hannah's corset felt tight and uncomfortable, her legs were encumbered by the petticoats and crinoline. She thought of the nubile South Seas twins entertaining men in Miss Forchette's parlor, swaying in their grass skirts.
Her heart quickened beneath the stranger's nearness and bold scrutiny. He was no gentleman. Yet he seemed to fit in with the night, the ambience suited him. There was a wildness in the air, and in him.
"I must go," she whispered, finding her throat tight, the breath trapped in her chest. It was fear, she told herself. What else could it be?
He stared at her for a moment longer, and then the grin came back, carving creases in his craggy cheeks and jaw. Stepping away, he tipped his hat and said, "It was a pleasure meeting you, Miss Midwife. I sincerely hope we meet again."
Jamie O'Brien struck off on the path toward the house, and Hannah heard the coachman call, "Miss? Are you all right?"
And the enchantment was broken.
7
T
HERE SHE IS," IDA GILHOOLEY SAID TO HER HUSBAND SITTING next to her in the wagon. "There's Miss Conroy, going into the post office, just like her landlady said."
Walt Gilhooley spat a stream of tobacco juice onto the street which was muddy from a recent autumn rain. "I don't like this, Ida. I say we should leave well enough alone. If Miss Forchette were to find out—"
"I'm not afraid of that cow," Ida said, thrusting out her chin. In truth, the plump middle-aged Ida was terrified of Lulu Forchette, but Ida Gilhooley, chief cook at Lulu's house, was more afraid of what would happen if they didn't secretly fetch Hannah Conroy. If that poor girl were left to die, it would be on Ida's conscience, and she firmly believed in a God who punished sinners. Coming like this to get Hannah Conroy without Miss Forchette knowing might result in an unpleasant confrontation and even more unpleasant consequences, but it was preferable to eternal damnation. "I've got to go in and get her."
"All right," said Walt, who was Lulu Forchette's coachman and man-of-all-work, and who wished at that moment he were any place on earth than in front of Adelaide's Post Office, about to drag a lovely young lady into an ugly, and potentially dangerous, situation.
The central post office was a large brick building with Grecian columns at the main entrance, flanked by post boxes labeled: ADELAIDE, MELBOURNE, SYDNEY, and THE WORLD. The main hall was noisy as people came to send letters and collect mail, or stood writing at counters where inkwells were provided. A long counter staffed by postal workers saw lines of people, and beyond lay the great sorting center for letters, newspapers and parcels.
Hannah waited patiently in line, but she wasn't really expecting a letter from Neal Scott. After the HMS Borealis set sail on her year-long survey mission, she wasn't expected to make port where there was postal service. Still, Hannah held out hope that one of these days there would be another letter to add to the one she had received back in November, seven months ago. She had written to Neal about Dr. Davenport and how much she enjoyed working for him. Hannah had wanted to write more, in fact she wanted to write everyday as it made her feel closer to Neal, and connected to him, but she didn't want him to return to Perth to find an embarrassing mountain of letters awaiting him.
But if she were to write another letter on this overcast autumn day in May, Hannah would tell Neal about her busy mornings with Dr. Davenport, how he was allowing her to do more and more, such as applying dressings and dispensing salves, how much she was learning from him, and how fond of him she had become. Dr. Davenport reminded her of her father. He was gentle with patients, respectful, didn't rush them. And his treatments were conservative. He wore clean clothes everyday and he even washed his hands. Hannah had assisted him at three childbirths and he had promised her that the next one, should it be without complications, would be hers entirely.
She might also tell Neal in her imaginary letter that, two weeks ago, she had marked the anniversary her father's passing, and her decision to leave England, by spending a day alone in the park. Sitting on a bench beneath a pepper tree, Hannah had opened her father's laboratory notes for the first time since the Caprica, and once again thought of his last words to her. He had spoken of a letter. But there was no letter among his notes, and she still could make no sense of the collection of scraps of paper, notes, receipts, equations, formulas, and entries in Greek and Latin. Perhaps when she was more educated she could unravel the mystery of her father's portfolio. And so, to that end, Hannah was borrowing from Dr. Davenport's impressive medical library. Although much of it was difficult reading, Hannah was determined to learn.
She would not tell Neal, however, in her imaginary letter to him, that she had been hired by a certain madam who lived outside of town. It was an unusual occupation to be sure, tending to the health issues of a bordello. Hannah had been summoned to Lulu's on a variety of problems: a fight between two girls resulting in one sticking the other in the eye with a hat pin; a brief spell of diarrhea for the whole household for which Hannah had prescribed ginger and rock salt; a sprained ankle; a kitchen scalding; a gentleman breaking his nose during vigorous sport with Ready Rita; and another crisis involving Miss Magenta and the belladonna.
Hannah didn't know how she was going to tell Neal about her association with the house of ill-repute. She wasn't even sure how she herself felt about it. Lulu Forchette's domain was a world unto itself. Although Hannah never visited the private rooms when they were in use, as she passed by closed doors she nonetheless heard the range of human emotion in the cries and sighs, yells and moans, weeping and laughter coming from the other side. Lulu's house troubled her, but the girls insisted, when asked, that they were happy there because otherwise they would be on the street.
"Sorry, miss," the postal clerk said. "No letters today."
Thanking him, Hannah stepped aside and worked her way back through the throng toward the main entrance. As was her habit, she paused at the wall of bills and notices.
The central post office was the nexus of the city's important news, with one wall devoted to government announcements and front page news. Here one could read about the latest ordinances, recent elections, new laws, rules and edicts. There were also police broadsheets—posters advertising rewards for wanted outlaws.
Hannah perused the police broadsheets in idle curiosity.
A fugitive named Jeremy Palmer of Warrington, Lancashire, "Did on the 18th Day of March in 1842, stab and kill his employer, Mr. McMasters of Billiluna Station. Palmer is aged twenty-three, average height, brown hair, is crippled with a clubfoot."
Another broadsheet advertised a reward of fifty pounds for the capture of a prisoner who had absconded from the Female House of Corrections in Hobart Town on the 19th of January: "Mary Jones alias Middleton. Sentenced to three years Penal Servitude. Age 38 years, height 5ft 2in, complexion swarthy, stout build, hair dark a
uburn, a scar on first finger on left hand."
When Hannah came to the next poster, one recently added, she stopped short and stared.
£50
REWARD
FOR THE CAPTURE OF ONE
JAMIE O'BRIEN
WANTED FOR CRIMES COMMITTED IN THE COLONIES AND
TERRITORIES, WHICH INCLUDE THEFT THROUGH FRAUD, TRICKS AND
CONFIDENCE GAMES.
HE IS ALSO WANTED IN NEW SOUTH WALES FOR IMPERSONATING
PERSONS OF AUTHORITY, FORGING GOVERNMENT DOCMENTS AND EVASION
OF THE LAW.
DESCRIPTION: O'BRIEN IS FIVE FEET TEN INCHES, SLIM BUILD, AGED THIRTY WITH DARK BLOND HAIR AND PALE BLUE EYES. O'BRIEN HAS SCARS ON HIS WRISTS AND ANKLES FROM IRON SHACKLES. O'BRIEN IS A CUNNING RACKETEER KNOWN LOCALLY AS A "SHARP" AND A "GYP ARTIST."
Hannah blinked. Jamie O'Brien. Wasn't that the name of the stranger who had saved her from the dingo in Lulu's garden? She remembered the scars on his wrists, as his shirt sleeves had been rolled up. And now she understood the reason for the expectant look on his face when he had told her his name.
Hannah had wondered if she would see the mysterious stranger again. Every time she was called to Lulu Forchette's house, she had thought of the enchanted encounter in the rose garden. She had difficulty analyzing her curious attraction to O'Brien. It wasn't the same as her feelings for Neal. Jamie O'Brien was more like one of the strange wonders of Australia, like the kangaroos and kookaburras, the vast skies and breathtaking vistas. Hannah was becoming captivated by this land, and perhaps that was what it had been with O'Brien. He was born here. He was simply another unique aspect of this fascinating continent.
As she started to move away, Hannah recognized Ida Gilhooley, pushing through the crowd. "Miss Conroy! There you are! Your landlady said we'd find you here, miss. Can you come to the house? Alice is hurt bad."
"Alice! How?" Hannah followed Mrs. Gilhooley out the main entrance and down the steps toward the waiting wagon.
"She fell and hit her head. Miss Forchette didn't want to send for you, she said it was nothing and that we shouldn't bother you about such a small thing. But, miss, Alice is groaning and says she feels sick. So I told Her Nibs we got weevils in the flour. It was the only way me and Walt could come into town. She don't know we're fetching you for Alice. She'll raise hell when she finds out, but Alice is in a bad way and we just couldn't stand by any longer."
As Hannah climbed into the wagon, she looked at Ida and said, "What do you mean 'any longer'?"
Ida climbed in next to her, so that the three sat snugly on the bench while Walt snapped the reins. "It's terrible what that woman does to those girls," Ida said. "Keeps them as slaves, and mistreats them something awful."
Hannah looked at her in surprise. "I thought the girls were happy there."
"They're not," Ida said as her husband maneuvered the wagon into the busy traffic on King William Street. "Lulu goes out in her carriage and goes up and down the streets, looking for girls begging. She gets them as young as she can so she's sure they're virgins and don't have the French disease. Lulu seems kind at first, offering them a room and meals. And after a few days asks them to entertain a 'friend.' You know the rest."
Hannah felt her stomach tighten. Surely what Ida said wasn't true. "But the girls can leave any time they want."
"Lulu charges the girls for room and board. She keeps a ledger. They have to pay off their debt and Lulu sees to it that they can never save enough money to pay it off. Walt and I owe her, too. D'you think we'd work there willingly? Lulu tricked us like she tricks everybody. Our little farm suffered a drought and the bank was threatening to take it from us. Lulu offered us a loan, which we jumped at. A few months later, she called in the note. We couldn't pay so she took our farm and then made us work for her to pay it back. That's how she does it. She preys on people in trouble, pretends to be their rescuer and ends up getting free labor."
"And Alice?"
Walt suddenly said, "I'm not sure about this, Ida, going behind Lulu's back. There's no telling what that woman will do when she lets her temper loose."
"Keep going, Walt," Ida said firmly. "I've got a fond spot for Alice. She sings like an angel and I draw the line at—"
When Ida didn't finish her sentence, Hannah looked at her. "Draw the line at what, Mrs. Gilhooley?"
But Ida pressed her lips together and kept her eyes on the traffic ahead.
Feeling apprehensive, Hannah tried to settle into her place between Walt and Ida, as it would be at least a thirty minute ride out of town. She held firmly to her blue carpetbag, cradled in her lap. Molly Baker, a fellow resident at Mrs. Throckmorton's, had suggested Hannah trade the bag in for something more stylish, but Hannah would not part with it, even after she had treated herself to a new outfit. As it was May and winter was around the corner, Hannah had purchased the newest style of dress, one that came with a jacket bodice worn over a high-necked blouse and unbuttoned to reveal a waistcoat (which was false, because it was unthinkable for a lady to wear a real waistcoat). The sleeves were very wide with white lacy undersleeves, and the hem swept the wooden sidewalk in a festoon of scalloped ruffles. From her bonnet to her boots, Hannah's outfit was an array of autumn colors—russet, pecan, and bronze.
King William Street was wide but not macadamized, so that mud was kicked up by dense traffic that consisted of wagons and carts, drays and buggies, open carriages and closed carriages, men on horseback, and even a sixteen-passenger omnibus drawn by four horses. But the wooden sidewalks made it possible for pedestrians to stroll comfortably past businesses and look in the windows of fish and chip shops, bakeries, banks, haberdashers, dry goods shops, tea houses, pubs, chemists, and dressmakers' salons. Up and down Adelaide's main north-south thoroughfare ranged a hodgepodge of architecture and design, with four-story red brick commercial buildings interspersed with small weatherboard cottages and even shacks.
When Hannah first arrived, she had been fascinated by the fact that Adelaide had been a planned city. She had assumed that all cities were like London, having sprouted long ago and then grown willy-nilly in every direction. But men had come to these plains with an actual plan, and had set about to creating a grid of wide, straight streets, with the city blocks marked off into lots, and a large square in the center, named for Queen Victoria, and four smaller planned parks planted with grass and trees. The nearby plains and foothills had since become a patchwork of wheat farms, vineyards and sheep runs. Nearer to the town were two flour mills, factories processing raw materials, a brewery, several distilleries, a candle manufacturer, and slaughter houses that emptied their refuse into the river.
The newness of Adelaide also amazed her. In Bayfield, the tavern was four centuries old. Here, the oldest pub had been built only twelve years ago. People had occupied Bayfield's region continuously back to prehistoric times. But Hannah had learned that when the first white settlers arrived in South Australia, the only inhabitants were handful of Aborigines who had since been re-settled elsewhere.
Finally Hannah and the Gilhooleys were out of the congestion and following a pleasant country lane, but the mood of the three in the wagon was far from joyful. Hannah noticed that Walt's face was set grimly, and Ida now clasped her gloved hands tightly. Neither had spoken a word in the half hour ride. And Hannah herself was anxious. In the past three months, she had become very fond of Lulu's chambermaid.
Whenever Hannah visited the house, she made a point of seeking Alice out, to exchange a few words with her and then ask her to sing a song—just in the kitchen for the cooking staff, because she knew how cripplingly shy Alice was, and knew that she never sang for anyone else, or in any other part of the house. Hannah saw how beautifully Alice blossomed when she sang for her small audience, how she closed her eyes that were the color of cornflowers, lifted her chin, and sent golden tones over the heads of her silent admirers. Hannah herself was moved each time by bittersweet emotion, as Alice's ballads reminded her of Bayfield and her father, their li
ttle cottage, and even her mother, who had died when Hannah was thirteen.
When Hannah had commented once to Alice how her voice moved others, Alice had shyly said, "I did not know before the fire that I had a voice. It was afterwards, when a neighbor was nursing me back to health. I was in such emotional and physical pain, that I would go for long walks in the countryside, away from people. One day I was listening to a songbird, and the sound so lifted my spirits that I opened my mouth and sent my own song up to the sky. I sang out my soul, and at once I felt the healing begin. Since then, I cannot stop singing. I think that if I were to be silenced, I would die."
Hannah thought it a shame that Alice could never sing professionally, that her amazing voice would never be shared with the rest of the world. But there was no venue for her. Her facial scars saw to that.
"Here we are," said Walt at last, as the familiar house came into view.
Ida Gilhooley took Hannah to a small room off the kitchen where Alice lay moaning on a pallet.
The girl was dressed only in undergarments—a white cotton shift over cotton drawers—and lay curled on her side, whimpering and shaking. Hannah saw a nasty gash in the scalp, the blood already blackening in Alice's yellow-blond hair. But there were also red welts all over her body, and small cuts. And one eye was purpling, an angry swelling of the lids.
Hannah knelt at her side and when she gently laid her hand on Alice's shoulder, the girl started. "Shh, it is only me, Miss Conroy. Can you tell me what happened?"
When Alice didn't reply, Hannah looked up at the others gathered around, but none would meet her eyes. "What happened here?"
One of the kitchen girls coughed and said, "She fell."
Noting the wound on her scalp, Hannah examined Alice's eyes, then asked if she still felt nauseated. But it appeared that the danger of concussion had passed. She made a closer examination of Alice's other injuries, confirming for herself that they had not been caused by a fall. Alice had been beaten. And among the bright red welts, Hannah saw yellow and green bruises, indicating they were days old.
This Golden Land Page 11
