Samson lay in front of the fire, snoring gently. Suddenly he pricked his ears and listened. He jumped up and ran to the back door, barking loudly.
‘What is it, Samson?’ asked Charlotte, putting down her pencil. ‘Is someone there?’
A loud clang sounded from the rear yard. Mamma frowned, peering out the window into the heavy downpour.
‘Who in their right mind would be visiting in this dreadful weather?’ Mamma asked.
‘Perhaps it is Mrs Fisher?’ suggested Emily. Their well-meaning neighbour sometimes looked after the children when Mamma had to go to town on business and was prone to dropping in to see if everything was all right.
Mamma shook her head and straightened her heavy skirts.
The back door flew open, smashing against the wall. Mamma had not locked it yet for the evening. A stooped figure swathed in a saturated greatcoat stumbled into the corridor, leaving puddles of rainwater on the floor.
Samson growled, baring his fangs, the fur on the back of his neck standing on end. The children raced to stand beside their mother. The man grabbed the dog by the collar and hauled him outside, slamming the door. Samson barked furiously, his claws scratching frantically at the back door.
‘George?’ asked Mamma in disbelief.
‘Mr Barton?’ said Charlotte in disgust.
Mr Barton leered at them. Charlotte could smell the reek of him from where she stood – raw spirits, unwashed body, stale tobacco and foul breath. Since she had last seen him, he looked older – grey skin; lank, unkempt hair; his nose rosy with broken capillaries.
‘What’s for tea?’ demanded Mr Barton.
Mamma slipped her hand into her pocket. ‘There is nothing here for you. Would you please be so good as to leave us in peace?’
Mr Barton staggered down the hall towards them. He had obviously been drinking heavily.
‘Emily, take Louisa and go next door to fetch Mr Fisher and his son,’ Mamma whispered. ‘Hurry.’
Emily obediently grabbed Louisa by the hand and rushed towards the front door.
‘Stop, brat,’ called Mr Barton. ‘Don’t you go anywhere.’ Emily paused obediently, looking back, her hazel eyes round with fear. Charlotte could feel her heart thumping and her mouth become dry.
Mamma glared at Emily. Soundlessly she mouthed an urgent command: ‘Go. Now.’
Emily turned and ran, dragging Louisa by the hand. Mr Barton charged after her, shoving Mamma and Charlotte out of the way. Fortunately his reflexes were slow and his movements clumsy. Emily slammed the door shut in his face.
Mr Barton grabbed Mamma by the wrist and dragged her into the sitting room. Charlotte yelped. James backed away towards the fireplace.
‘I want food and I want money,’ Mr Barton demanded, spraying spittle as he slurred. ‘And I want it now.’
‘We have not had any money since you forced us out of Oldbury all those months ago,’ said Mamma indignantly. ‘We barely have any food either.’
Mr Barton scowled and twisted her wrist savagely, forcing Mamma down onto her knees. Mamma struggled futilely.
‘Don’t hurt her,’ Charlotte begged, grasping Mr Barton’s arm. ‘Let her go. Leave us alone.’
Mr Barton shoved Charlotte away so forcefully that she fell hard against an armchair. James darted forward, brandishing the fire poker as a weapon.
‘James, please put that down,’ insisted Mamma. ‘Mr Barton is leaving immediately.’
James paused, torn between obeying his mother and defending her. At last he dropped his hand, but not the poker.
‘Don’t tell me you have no money,’ scoffed Mr Barton, letting her wrist go. ‘Your mealy-mouthed first husband left you and the brats a fortune. Now give me some.’
Mamma stood up with difficulty, her shoulders sagging. ‘Look at us, George,’ she demanded, gesturing around the tiny sitting room and at her faded gown. ‘Do we look like we have money? Would we be living here, dressed like this, if we had a fortune? We are virtually starving.’
‘Empty your pocket,’ insisted Mr Barton.
Mamma glared at him but slipped her hand through the slit in the side of her skirt to the separate pocket she wore tied around her waist over her petticoats. Mamma pulled out a linen handkerchief, a set of three keys and a small brown pebble that she held out on the flat of her palm. There were no coins.
Mr Barton whacked her hand, sending the items flying. The keys jangled to the ground and the pebble skittered across the floor, lodging under the sideboard.
Mr Barton swept his fist across the breakfast table in frustration, scattering Mamma’s carefully stacked sheets of paper and smashing the vase of flowers to the floor. The water puddled on the floor, ruining Charlotte’s sketch and threatening Mamma’s stories.
Charlotte fell to her hands and knees, scrabbling to pick up the strewn papers and place them out of harm’s way.
‘Get out, George,’ Mamma insisted, her voice tight with barely restrained anger. ‘There is nothing for you here.’
Suddenly, Mr Barton struck Mamma across the face violently. Charlotte jumped up, her fury bubbling over, and ran straight at Mr Barton. She drove into his belly with her forehead, sending him sprawling among the broken crystal and strewn flowers.
Mamma grabbed the fire poker from James and raised it, ready to let it fly if Mr Barton moved. Charlotte rolled out of the way.
The back door flew open for the second time and a black shadow streaked down the hall, followed by Emily, Louisa and two burly fishermen. A growling Samson leapt on Mr Barton’s chest, water dripping from his shaggy coat, his bared fangs pressed against Mr Barton’s nose.
‘I’m going,’ Mr Barton whimpered, covering his face with his arms. ‘Call the dog off. I’m going.’
Charlotte lay curled up against the skirting board, fear and anger churning inside her. James pulled Samson off the quivering Mr Barton, who was dragged out the back door by the two fishermen. Emily locked the door behind them. Mamma came to check on Charlotte.
‘Charlotte, dearest,’ whispered Mamma, lifting her up. ‘Are you all right?’
Mamma had a livid red mark on her face and her eye was puffing up.
Charlotte’s anger and fear were too great to contain. She shook off her mother’s arms.
‘Don’t touch me!’ Charlotte shouted. ‘It’s your fault. Why did you marry him? Why did you betray Papa’s memory by marrying that disgusting drunkard? How could you? None of this would have happened if you hadn’t married him.’
Charlotte collapsed back against the skirting board, sobbing.
‘We’d still be living at Oldbury,’ Charlotte murmured. ‘We’d still have our home.’
‘Charlotte, you mustn’t talk to Mamma like that,’ Emily implored. Charlotte looked up. Louisa was glaring at her. James looked disgusted. Mamma looked beaten.
Mamma hushed Emily with a wave of her hand. ‘Charlotte is right,’ she admitted. ‘If I had not married George Barton, none of this would have happened. One day I will try to explain . . . One day I hope you will understand . . . and forgive me.’
Mamma turned away and went to her bedroom, closing the door softly behind her.
Later, when Charlotte was sweeping up the broken crystal and spilled flowers, she found the small brown pebble under the sideboard. She rolled it between her own fingers, feeling the smoothness of the polished stone. The thought crossed her mind whether to throw it away, or keep it for herself.
She hesitated, then wrapped the pebble in the handkerchief with the set of keys and left it on the breakfast table, on top of the straightened pile of slightly damp writing paper. Mamma would find it later.
21
Examinations
Winter, 1841
The children had just returned from a lovely, long ramble along the beach, chatting to the fisher-wives and searching for shellfish. Samson
was wet and sandy from chasing sticks thrown into the tiny waves. Emily and James were towelling him down while Louisa and Charlotte were rinsing the mussels under the pump to make a stew for supper. Mamma was feeding kindling into the wood-fired stove, a smear of ash on her cheek.
A loud knocking sounded from the front door. Samson barked and stood guard.
‘Charlotte, would you mind answering that?’ asked Mamma, gesturing to her dishevelled appearance.
‘I wonder who it could be?’ Charlotte wiped her damp, sandy hands on her apron as she hurried down the hallway. They rarely had any formal visitors. If one of the neighbours dropped by they usually came to the back door in the kitchen.
She opened the door to find a well-dressed young man wearing grey trousers and a waistcoat, a black jacket and gold fob watch, his dark hair slicked back from his face. A shiny carriage waited in the dusty roadway, with four matched bay horses standing in their harnesses.
‘May I help you?’ asked Charlotte, holding Samson by the collar.
‘Good morning, miss.’ The young man spoke with a strong English accent. He took off his hat and smiled. ‘My name is Edward Corry. Am I addressing Miss Charlotte Atkinson?’
Charlotte tucked a stray curl behind her ear and wished she’d thought to take off her apron.
‘Yes, Mr Corry,’ Charlotte replied.
‘I’m one of the solicitors handling the court case for the executors of your father’s estate,’ Mr Corry explained, his chest swelling. ‘I have orders from the courts, as we previously advised Mrs Barton, and have been requested to escort you this afternoon to Mrs Harvey’s School for Young Ladies at Liverpool.’
Charlotte hurriedly stepped backwards into the hallway, instinctively letting go of Samson’s collar. Sampson barked, darting forward onto the stone verandah.
‘Perhaps you could fetch your hat and gloves?’ asked Mr Corry. ‘You will only need to take a few things today. Your mother can send on any further luggage.’
Charlotte stood firm against the wall. Thoughts churned through her mind. Nausea churned in her belly. She thought she might vomit.
‘May I come in?’ asked Mr Corry, stepping forward.
‘No,’ Charlotte said clearly. Samson whined.
‘I beg your pardon?’ the man said, the smile wiped from his face.
Charlotte pulled herself tall, searching for courage. ‘No, you may not come in,’ she replied. ‘No, I will not fetch my hat and gloves. I will not be going to Mrs Harvey’s school. I will not leave my family.’
‘Now, now,’ blustered Mr Corry. ‘You have no choice, young lady. The court has decided that it is in your best interests to go to school. There is no point fighting it. You need to be educated as befits your position in society. Now be so good as to fetch your belongings. I do not like to leave the horses standing long.’
Samson growled menacingly, his hackles raised.
‘I am being educated as befits my position in society,’ retorted Charlotte, twisting her apron between her fingers. ‘I am being educated far better than most girls in the colony – and probably better than most girls in England.’
‘Charlotte, is everything all right?’ Mamma hurried down the hall, frowning. She had taken off her dirty apron and tucked her hair back under her cap. She still had a grey streak of ash on her cheek.
The solicitor looked her up and down, smiling in a superior way at the small woman in her dowdy gown and the girl with her sandy apron.
‘Mrs Barton, I am Edward Corry, a solicitor for James Norton. I have come to escort Miss Charlotte Elizabeth Atkinson to Mrs Harvey’s School for Young Ladies, where she will be boarded, as directed by the court.’
‘I told him I won’t go,’ said Charlotte defiantly, her cheeks flushed.
Mamma smiled at Charlotte. ‘Of course not, my dearest.’
Mamma turned to the young lawyer and said sweetly, ‘Thank you for your concern, Mr Corry. However, as you can see, my daughter does not wish to go away to be boarded at school. She is being educated and cared for perfectly well at home.’
‘You must obey the court orders, Mrs Barton,’ insisted Mr Corry, his face pale and damp. ‘The court has decreed that you are not fit to care for the children. She will be much better off with Mrs Harvey.’
‘I doubt that very much,’ Mamma retorted, her head held high. ‘Now, if you will excuse us, we have work to do.’
‘But . . .’ Mr Corry stammered on the verandah, his gloved hands gripping his hat tightly.
Mamma leant forward and grasped Samson firmly by the collar, hauling him backwards. ‘You might want to leave before my dog becomes aggressive. He has a nasty bite, and I find I am not strong enough to hold him when he becomes vicious.’ Samson obliged, growling fiercely and baring his white fangs. Mr Corry stepped back hurriedly and Mamma slammed the door shut. Mr Corry banged furiously on the other side.
Mamma held Charlotte’s trembling body tightly. ‘Everything will be all right, my love,’ she promised, her voice wavering. ‘You did well, Charlotte. I am proud of you.’
Mamma drove the buckboard outside the sandstone courthouse, the bay mare skittering in the traces. A blue sky arched overhead. The sun shone warm, glittering off the shiny cobbles.
Charlotte and Emily sat beside her on the front seat, their backs ramrod straight, while James and Louisa sat in the back. Each of them had been combed, scrubbed, starched and spruced as close to perfection as their mother could get.
Their worn boots had been polished with linseed oil until they gleamed in the sunlight. Charlotte could feel the cold stone cobbles through her worn soles as she stepped down. Her white dress had been soaked, boiled and scrubbed, dried in the sun to bleach, then ironed and starched to stiff respectability. Her petticoats, stockings and gloves had been darned, and her old hat trimmed with a scrap of blue ribbon that Mamma had rescued from one of her own gowns.
All the girls had slept with rags knotted in their hair. Torn from sugar bags, these rags created perfect ringlets, although Charlotte was sure hers would go wayward before much longer.
James had his usually unruly hair slicked down into submission with oil. He was wearing his Sunday best, although Charlotte realised as he clambered down from the buckboard that a wide expanse of wrist showed below his coat sleeves, and his trousers no longer covered the tops of his boots.
Mamma was also dressed in her best gown, with a faded blue shawl around her shoulders. Even though it was tightly laced, the bodice of her gown seemed far too big for her, as though it was Mamma herself who was shrinking.
‘Now remember,’ warned Mamma, ‘you must all have absolutely perfect manners. Charlotte, no matter what he says, do not lose your temper.’
‘I don’t lose my temper,’ Charlotte retorted, her cheeks warming.
Mamma smiled. ‘Do not worry, dearest. It will be harder for me to hold my temper than you.’
‘Will he ask very hard questions, Mamma?’ asked Louisa.
‘Yes, he may, poppet,’ Mamma replied, leaning down to look into Louisa’s eyes. ‘However, I have full faith that you will all answer the questions to his satisfaction.’
Charlotte felt a stab of fear in her belly. Today was the day that the Master-in-Equity had decreed that the Atkinson children should each be examined in person, without their mother, to see how well they had been educated. Charlotte was worried, particularly about her arithmetic.
There had been times when Mamma was busy writing petitions to the court or visiting the lawyers’ offices, when she had hurried through her exercises so she could read a book, or sketch, or play with her siblings instead. Now she wished that she had been more diligent.
‘Mamma, will you be there with us?’ Emily asked, her voice quavering.
‘I will be out in the vestibule,’ Mamma assured her, straightening the bow on Emily’s straw bonnet.
As the eldest, Cha
rlotte was the first to be examined. She was shown into a large chamber lined with hundreds of red leather-bound books with gilt lettering. A jowly old man swathed in a black robe sat at his chair behind a huge mahogany desk, a curled powdered wig upon his head. Charlotte curtseyed nervously.
‘Please, take a seat, Miss Charlotte,’ invited the Master-in-Equity, indicating the chair opposite him. ‘Do you understand that today I am going to ask you a great many questions about your learning to ascertain your level of education to date?’
Charlotte nodded, her mouth dry. She pressed her knees together and clasped her hands in her lap. What if I answer incorrectly? she thought. My whole future depends on this examination. If I don’t impress him, I’ll be taken away from my family. Dear God, please don’t let me fail.
‘Do not be anxious,’ he said kindly. ‘I understand that until now you have been educated at home by your mother? Could you tell me what you learn?’
Charlotte swallowed and took a deep breath. She licked her lips. ‘We study English composition, grammar, arithmetic, English history, natural sciences, geography, drawing, music . . .’ Charlotte paused, trying to think.
‘Languages?’ asked the Master, writing notes on a sheet of paper.
Charlotte nodded. ‘French, Italian and German.’
‘Buongiorno,’ the Master greeted her in Italian. ‘Come sta?’
‘Grazie, signor, sto bene,’ replied Charlotte, thanking him and saying she was well.
The Master asked her a few more questions in Italian, then in French and German. Charlotte was able to converse in all three languages with little hesitation.
‘You said you learn natural science?’ asked the Master, switching back to English. ‘What exactly do you learn?’
Charlotte sat up straighter. ‘We study geology, anthropology, botany, zoology, palaeontology, conchology –’
‘Conchology?’ interrupted the Master.
‘Yes, the study of shells,’ replied Charlotte. ‘We collect shells at Bondi Beach and the beaches around Double Bay, then we identify them and learn about the creatures who inhabit them.’
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