by Peter McAra
‘I was Harry De Havilland’s comrade when we shared lectures at Oxford,’ Maynard said, still smiling as he stood. ‘I came to Morton-Somersby visit him, but his servants told me he had lately taken ship for Botany Bay. I was completely at a loss. Why Botany Bay? Then they explained that he was acquainted with your family. So, having come all the way from Avesleigh, I ventured to call on you. Perhaps you can enlighten me?’
‘Please be seated, Sir Maynard.’ Mrs Thurber gestured to a chair. ‘Indeed, we have much to discuss.’ She beckoned the maid. ‘Another cake, Pawley. I sense we shall be here for some time.’
An hour later, Mrs Thurber, with increasing assistance from Agatha as the conversation progressed, had systematically destroyed Harry De Havilland’s reputation. He had been a faithless, lying fortune hunter, a man not to be trusted on any account.
‘You have travelled far, Sir Maynard. Now you are disappointed that your friend — I use the term lightly — has disappeared. You must be very sad at heart. Particularly when you find your old comrade has feet of clay.’ Her smile now bordered on the seductive. ‘We should be delighted if you found time to stay at Thurber Hall for a day or two. Rest your weary bones, and perchance heal your disappointment a little. Such discoveries as you have made this afternoon regarding your friend must have struck a deep blow to the heart of a man so honest and accommodating as you, Sir Maynard.’
‘Indeed, I accept with great pleasure.’ Maynard stood and bowed low again. ‘I must thank you, madam. You have indeed read my inner thoughts most accurately. Your offer touches my heart.’
‘Thank you, Sir Maynard.’ Mrs Thurber stood. ‘Excuse me. I must speak to the servants. Have them prepare your chambers.’ She turned to her daughter.
‘Agatha. Perhaps you could show Sir Maynard a little of our gardens. After you’ve finished your tea, of course. From what he’s told us of Brierley Hall, he must surely be a garden connoisseur of great sophistication.’
‘Really, madam. Brierley Hall’s gardens are not by any stretch as beautiful as yours. Why, I — ’
‘You are modest, sir. To complement your other delightful manners.’ She bent a knee. ‘But please excuse me. I have much to do.’
It was dusk when the young couple returned to the summerhouse hand in hand. An hour earlier, they’d shared their first kiss in a leafy grove hidden from the house. Then Agatha had led him to a seat, repeated that kiss several hundred times. Soon the pair progressed to the manifold other delights of the suddenly conceived new love which had emerged, phoenix-like, from the ashes of the old.
Over dinner that night Mrs Thurber, sensing the success of the meeting she’d engineered, asked Maynard, in fine detail, about his family, its origins, its history, its fortune. By bedtime, she was convinced that the match had been designed in Heaven.
Maynard stayed for another fortnight. The pair announced their betrothal the night before he left. Next morning, as if she were making a quilt, Mrs Thurber began to weave the most carefully wrought plans for her daughter’s wedding.
CHAPTER 36
Five months out from Southampton, Harry stood on the Lady Caroline’s deck with the other passengers as the ship entered Port Jackson. The rocky walls of Sydney Heads sheltered a deep, safe harbour, now abuzz with ships of all shapes and sizes. When his ship docked, he made his way to the customs house.
‘I seek a convict maid, name of Eliza Downing, sir,’ he said to the bewhiskered clerk behind the high counter. Can you help me?’
‘What ship brought her to these shores, sir?’
‘Why, I do not… Wait. The Swan, if I’m not mistaken.’
He recalled questioning the village people in the crowd outside the courthouse after he had unsuccessfully chased Eliza’s prison cart as it left Marley. Folk had told him she was to be taken to the hulks moored on the Thames, thence aboard the Swan when it returned from its latest voyage to Botany Bay.
‘As far as I’m aware, it departed the London docks perhaps two years ago.’
‘The Swan, sir?’ The clerk pushed aside the clutter littering his desk. ‘The Swan never reached Sydney Town. We can only guess as it were lost with all hands. Our last news of it were that it left The Cape after taking on victuals for the rest of the voyage. And that a good two years ago.’
‘What? You cannot mean that — ’
‘As far as anyone on God’s earth knows, sir, everyone aboard the Swan be dead. She could have foundered anywhere between Cape Town and Sydney Town. Missing with all hands,’ he read from a tattered page he waved towards Harry. ‘The Roaring Forties, sir. Strong winds that blow from the west in the southern latitudes. The gales that run the easting from The Cape of Good Hope to Australia — sometimes they be driven by the Devil himself. Why, I remember when I were aboard the ship that brought me to New South Wales with my corps, we was kept below decks for a fortnight and more. It were — ’
‘But Eliza…she was always, she could always…’ Since Harry had first known Eliza, he recalled that every venture she had undertaken, she had completed successfully, effortlessly. Whenever she struck an obstacle, she harnessed her stellar intelligence to surmount it, whether it be a mathematical problem set by Harcourt, or climbing a tree in the Great Park.
Harry could not, must not, believe the man. He had sailed halfway round the world, spent most of his pitiful supply of money, to find the love of his life. Now to learn that she was dead... He wandered, dazed, to an inn at The Rocks, the seedy district at the northern edge of Sydney Town. Learning that it offered cheap accommodation, he took a room for the night, lay on the crudely made bed, and sighed his grief. In her infinite wisdom, Eliza would have found a way to come to terms with the disaster which had crashed over him like a giant wave. His heart simply would not let him believe she was dead. But how to find her? It would be easier to fly to the moon. Would that they might meet in the life to come.
Next morning Harry rose and headed towards Sydney Town, thinking as he walked. He knew well enough of the fortunes men had made in the virginal new land. The night before, as he had eaten the bowl of Irish stew served by the innkeeper’s wife, workmen sitting about him had talked of the booming industries across the countryside.
‘Why, a convict who’d done his time, name of Sean Kelly, rented a smithy at Cockle Bay from his wore-out old employer, and forged horseshoes,’ a workman seated beside Harry began, waving a mug of ale in his work-stained hand. ‘Then, as he learned the art, he took on contracts — made everything from cartwheels to ship’s anchors. Now,’ the man pointed across the harbour, ‘He lives a gentleman’s life in yonder mansion.’ He waved his mug towards a stately building perched on a grassy ridge above a beach. ‘And all that not five years since he served his time. If he’d stayed in Olde England, he’d have likely starved hisself into an early grave. We government men, we daily thank the constables what marched us away to the court, then aboard our transport.’ He drained his mug and thumped it onto the table. A wench appeared with a jug, refilled his mug, then held out a hand for his penny.
Harry groaned silently. He possessed none of the skills of the workmen who had made good in this land of opportunity. He knew that men of wealth were given thousands of acres of land, and a small army of convicts, if they undertook to provide the prisoners with the crudest roof over their heads, and enough food and water to keep them fit for work. But now, as his pitiful store of money dribbled away, Harry knew would not qualify to win even the most miserable perch or two of land. What should he do?
Over the next few days, Harry’s resolve hardened. He was useless for any trade except producing future gentlemen. Though lately become a pauper thanks to his father’s ill-planned investments, he now carried the title of viscount. Many a gently raised maid would yearn to marry a titled man of the realm, then produce a son who could preface his name with the word Sir. Back in England, Harry De Havilland must set to work to sell himself as a stud bull. And if the cow happened to be called Agatha Thurber, so be it. He began to stroll the wharve
s seeking a berth to Olde England. Soon enough, he encountered the Lady Caroline, spoke to the bo’sun.
‘Aye, Mr Harry, sir. We sets sail soon as we takes on our load of wool. A week, give or take a few days.’
Harry fished through his pockets to find the money for the least fare, paid the man, and strolled away. How would he occupy himself until the ship set sail?
A week after Harry’s ship had berthed, the Lady Constance cleared the heads and docked in Sydney Cove. Putting herself into Harry’s shoes, Eliza headed for the customs house, the first place he would have likely visited if he were searching for a female convict recently delivered into servitude.
‘May I ask if you have lately been visited by a gentleman seeking a convict maid, name of Eliza Downing?’ she asked the customs house clerk.
‘Eliza Downing?’ The clerk turned to look into the dark bowels of the little stone building. He raised his voice and called. ‘Eh, Sam. Eliza Downing, convict maid. Lately arrived. Do that name ring a bell for ye?’
‘No.’ The grunt came from a man carrying a box of papers into the darkness.
‘Eh, Sam. Do you not recall a gentleman lately paying us a visit? Enquiring after said convict maid?’
‘No.’ The surly voice echoed from the gloom.
‘Sorry, ma’am. I thought perchance Sam might know. I been at work in the customs house at Coal River these past weeks. Sam took care of my work while I were away.’
‘Very well. Perhaps there is someone else I should ask. Could you guide me?’
‘No, ma’am. Your friend were a gentleman, were he not?’
‘Yes.’
‘We all be ‘umble working men here, ma’am. ‘Not as would know where a gentleman might go in Sydney Town. There be some fancy inns along George Street.’ He pointed. Begging your pardon, ma’am, perhaps you could ask there.’ He looked away, picked up a quill, dipped it into an inkwell.
Eliza exited the grey stone building and walked towards the town. The men of the customs house were right. A gentleman of Harry’s wealth would gravitate to the best available accommodation. She headed for George Street, enquiring at each likely establishment. She visited perhaps a dozen inns before she reached the cemetery that marked the end of the respectable portion of the town’s main street. Every clerk gave her the same reply. ‘Very sorry, ma’am. No one of that name.’
Once more, Eliza slid into Harry’s mind. When he had explored every one of the too few places where records of convict arrivals, placements, and deaths were to be found, he would opt to return to the staid security of the land of his birth. After all, he had been born with an asset many a gently born maiden would treasure — a title. The obvious place for Eliza to focus her search now would be the docks. There, she might learn when the Lady Caroline had docked, and what other vessels were due to set sail for England soon.
She set off for the cluster of ships at anchor and asked anyone who looked to be a source of reliable information if they knew of any ships about to set sail for England.
The hours passed frustratingly. She found seamen about to leave for every port from Auckland to New York — anywhere except England. Then, late in the afternoon, a lone fisherman, his line trailing in the water as he leaned against a dockside bollard, looked up when she asked.
‘Ah. The Lady Caroline. Docked here a week and more ago. She left this morning, headed for Southampton. That be her.’ He pointed. A mile down harbour from the wharf, a tall ship lay remote from the shore, apparently at anchor, its sails limp against the rigging.
‘That ship? Headed for Southampton?’
‘Aye, ma’am.’
‘But it’s…it’s anchored.’
‘Nay, ma’am. Becalmed. She left about noontime. On the tide. Then the wind dropped. She’ll likely sit there until the breeze springs up.’ He pointed again. ‘Those clouds. Bearing in from the west. It’s likely they’ll bring a breeze with them. And some rain, most likely.’
‘But how can I get to the ship?’
‘You cain’t, ma’am.’
‘What if I took a rowboat, a pinnace?’
‘Like as not, as soon as you left the wharf, the wind would spring up. Then the last you’d see of the Lady Caroline would be her topsails swelling in the wind.’
‘But I’m prepared to pay. A lot of money. For whatever will get me to the ship in time.’
‘You cain’t, ma’am. The good Lord ain’t yet made a ship as can sail with no wind.’
CHAPTER 37
Eliza’s resolution flared like a flame in a just-stoked boiler. ‘Not true, sir,’ she snapped. ‘Have you not heard of ships driven by steam engines?’
‘Aye, that I have, now you says so, ma’am.’ He laughed. ‘But they be no more than a joke. Specially round these parts. Why, the last steamship what visited Sydney Town, it…’ He hesitated, then stared towards the end of the long wharf. ‘There, ma’am. See that tall chimney? Black, with a wisp o’ smoke floating round the chimney top?’
‘Yes, I see it.’
‘That be the Cornish Maid,’ he said. ‘A laughing stock round the docks. No sails.’
‘Thank you, sir.’ Hitching her skirts, Eliza ran. She ran until her breath came in gasps. She slowed her pace, gathered her skirts higher about her legs, and ran again. Her feet began to hurt. The fashionable boots she’d bought in Dorchester were not made for gallivanting along the docks of Sydney Town.
Just as she felt she must stop to catch her breath, or faint, a wisp of lazy smoke wafting from the black funnel appeared from behind a building not a couple of hundred yards away. She staggered to the spot, her legs hurting terribly. A gangplank led to the deck of the small, tidy iron ship. She ran down the gangplank and called, gasping to recover her breath.
‘Halloo. Is anyone aboard?’
‘Aye.’ A white-bearded man, his tattered clothes stained with oil, his hands black, poked his head up through a manhole.
‘Want to earn yourself fifty pounds, sir?’ she gasped.
‘Fifty pounds?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, then. I might indeed. But what — ?’
‘Get me to that ship.’ She pointed. The Lady Caroline still lay becalmed exactly where she had sat a few minutes earlier.
‘What ship? Oh. The Lady Caroline.’ The man laughed. ‘She be bound for Southampton. It’ll be a good long time afore anyone sees her again.’
‘Do you want to earn fifty pounds?’
‘Yes. Indeed I do, ma’am. But — ’
‘Get me to that ship. Here. Here’s twenty five. The rest when we get there.’ She fished in the pouch she drew from her skirt pocket, then held out her closed hand. When he opened his own, she dropped the coins into it. For a moment, he looked surprised. She watched his face as it slowly registered the unlikely fact. A golden-haired young gentlewoman, well dressed in the fashion of the moment, had a small fortune on her person, and that if he acted with due despatch, he could earn fifty pounds.
‘The name’s Moss, ma’am. Isaac Moss, master of the Cornish Maid. Glad to be of service.’
‘I’m Eliza…Downing. And I must make that ship before the wind takes her away.’
‘Aye aye, madam. I’ll see to boiler. We could weigh anchor in, oh, five minutes.’ He disappeared down the manhole. She heard muffled shouts, the sounds of coal being shovelled, a hiss of steam. Then a string of noises followed, of metal clinking on metal, of the crash of coal landing in a grate. A boy appeared from another manhole and stood by the bollard, his hand on the rope holding the ship to the wharf.
Then came an ear-piercing toot on the whistle. Eliza looked up to see a jet of white steam squirting from a vertical pipe above her head. Black smoke began to belch from the funnel. Another man appeared and applied himself to the winch that would raise the anchor. Soon that anchor, dripping with mud, came into view. Another deafening blast came from the whistle.
‘Cast off.’ She looked up to see Captain Moss standing on the tiny bridge, calling to the boy at the bollard.
The boy loosened the rope attached to the bollard, flicked it free. She heard the clanking of gears, the hiss of steam. Then the ship moved, so suddenly that Eliza had to clutch the rail to save herself from falling. The surge of power as the captain engaged the steam engine had been strong enough to shift a hundred tons of iron as if it were a toy. In moments, the ship turned at right angles to the wharf and headed towards the Lady Caroline.
She looked up at the captain as he spun the wheel. It must be interesting to drive a steamship. There would have to be a means of steering the ship to a chosen compass bearing, a way of regulating its speed, a way of knowing the pressure of steam in the boiler. She would love to stand beside the captain as he managed the complicated task of navigating his ship to its goal. And with a desperate woman beside him, urging him on, he might squeeze a morsel more steam from the labouring boilers. But then he would hardly welcome a woman standing close to him, distracting him, as he concentrated on his exacting work. Wait! She was paying for this exercise. Paying handsomely. She was entitled to do as she wished. She walked to the flimsy ladder leading to the bridge, hauled herself up, and stood by the captain.
‘I should like to watch. If you don’t mind,’ she said. The man turned, looked into her face, eyes wide. She wondered if there might be some superstition against having a woman on a ship’s bridge. Sailors were notorious for their superstitions, especially those concerning women.
‘Why the Devil — ?’ He stopped. Doubtless the prospect of more money had brought forth his civil side. ‘But of course, ma’am. Should I fetch you a chair?’
‘No, thank you. I’ll see the better if I stand.’
He fixed his eyes on the way ahead. Eliza would stand silently beside him and watch. Questions might distract him. She turned to look back towards the wharf. To her surprise, it already seemed a long way off. The ship carved a foamy wake as it sped down the harbour. A string of waves from the wake splashed against the rocky breakwater. The ship must be making a speed of four or five knots an hour.
