by Lena Dowling
But at The Factory the hours spent mending prison clothes were the longest of her life. After the relief of finding out that Mr Biggs was to marry her, the worry he would change his mind continuously gnawed at her insides. It was all very well to agree to rescue her when she was stood right in front of him begging, but what about when he returned to his nice cosy home? She doubted he would want some rank convict for a wife after he had thought on it.
Every time a guard entered the room Colleen jumped. When, after two days, the prison matron reappeared, she was sure it was to tell her that Mr Biggs had called it off.
Colleen followed the warder expecting to be put back out with the third-classers, but instead the woman led her into a room no bigger than a cell. She thrust a brown paper package tied with string into Colleen’s hands, then, without another word left, locking the door behind her.
Inside the parcel was a bonnet, a matching day dress, petticoat, corset and chemise, a pair of stockings and a paper packet containing some hairpins. The bonnet was a little frayed at the edges and the matching calico gown had faded to a lighter colour than the bonnet, but the soft pale blue colour reminded Colleen of a clear sky softened by a summer haze. The dress might have been worn but it was the first respectable garment Colleen had owned in years.
The previous owner of the dress had been smaller in the bosom and shorter in height, but it had been skilfully let out, the hem and cuffs extended with a similar coloured fabric.
She kicked the discarded prison clothes together in the corner and slumped down on the only other thing in the room — a short bench fashioned from tree trunks, the rough board serving for a seat still having most of its bark attached.
Tugging down on the sleeves, she thought better of discarding the uniform and gathered the clothes up, wrapping them with brown paper and retying the string. Like Nellie said, she had to be thinking ahead now, thinking for the baby. The dress was a neat fit on her. It wouldn’t be long before her belly was bulging. The prison slops were much roomier and the only other clothes she had.
She sat down on the bench again and hugged the bundle to her chest. God how she wished Nellie were here. She was sure she was going to be wed. The matron wouldn’t have given her ‘outside’ clothes otherwise. Nellie should have been here to help her dress, and fix her hair, but instead, her cousin was locked up in that brothel being forced to do things no decent woman should have even had names for, let alone been providing day in day out.
It was so feckin’ unfair.
She jumped up and ran at the opposite wall, kicking at it until she stubbed her toe. It was only then that she noted scratchings etched into the stone; peering closer she made out names and dates.
She took out a hairpin and tucking the package under one arm added her own name. As she scratched out the final ‘E’ the door creaked open and Colleen hastily pushed the pin up into her hair under her bonnet, slipping the parcel behind her back.
The matron looked her up and down and sniffed. ‘You look good enough, for wearing a hand-me-down I suppose.’ She motioned for Colleen to give her the package, but Colleen made no move to give it over. ‘Can I keep them for work?’
The matron grabbed her by the arm and pulled her, pushing Colleen off balance. ‘Turn around. We’ll do it up tight shall we — give Mr Biggs some fun in getting you out of it.’ The old witch cackled as the fabric tightened over Colleen’s bust, squeezing the life out of her. ‘You’ve got a cheek, Malone. Go on then. Call it a wedding present. Give the parcel here now and you can pick it up before you leave.’
Colleen followed the matron into the part of The Factory used for a prison chapel. A minister with a pudgy circular face, a drooping nose and a pinched mouth stood in front of a carved table that was used for an altar. On the right, facing the altar, was a man, who from his solid stature she guessed was Mr Biggs, and beside him was another taller, leaner man. Lady Hunter stood side-on to the door as if she had been looking out for her. She smiled, gesturing forwards with her gloved hand.
Colleen walked between the rough benches that stood in for pews and as she came closer, her footsteps brought the shorter stockier man looking back at her over his shoulder.
She smiled at him.
Mr Biggs was as powerfully built as she remembered, with broad shoulders and arms like a pair of sturdy boughs. Today his head was clean shaven and on anyone else it might have made him come across as mean, but without any hair his high cheekbones and lovely eyes were what stood out the most, making him look rugged and friendly. He smiled back at her putting her at ease, but that was only for as long as it took the other man to turn around.
As soon as she clocked him, she froze.
He was not a stranger. She had seen him before — many times.
Colleen was nailed to the spot, too shocked to move any closer.
Sweet Jesus.
For a moment James Hunter’s eyes widened but in a split second the expression was gone.
He had recognised her though too, she was sure of it.
Mr Biggs turned, moving towards her catching her arm, giving her no choice but to come closer.
Walking rigid like a child’s stiff jointed toy, she made the few steps to the front of the room, standing with Mr Biggs, waiting for the axe that the executioner now had ready raised above her dreams to fall, shattering her future and sending her back to The Factory to work at the stones.
What had she been thinking? Of course her happiness couldn’t last.
She mentally gave herself a kick in the head for ever having been stupid enough to hope otherwise. She should have known nothing would come of this. Her? Colleen Malone married to someone respectable, kind and reasonable looking? Someone who would make a devoted father for her baby? Where was her brain? Nothing good ever happened to the Malones, and especially not to her and Nellie.
James Hunter would pipe up to have her sent back to prison and all of this would come to nothing.
The last couple of nights lying on whatever she could scrounge from the turnkeys for a pallet, she had actually dared to imagine that being married would change everything — a roof over her head, a place to call her own, a little one with someone to call ‘da’. She might even have been able to find a way to help get Nellie out of O’Shane’s. There was no hope of any of that now.
Tinker, tailor, soldier, sailor,
Rich man, poor man,
Beggar man, thief.
The stupid rhyme sailed into her head, then stuck.
At one time or another she had seen to all of them.
Every Tom, Dick, Harry and now, as it turned out, every feckin’ James in the colony.
Mr Biggs turned to her. ‘Colleen, may I introduce my friend and employer Mr James Hunter, and his wife Lady Hunter who have agreed to act as witnesses.’
It was several years since she had seen Lady Hunter’s husband — since he married, she guessed, looking at his wife, who was more of a similar type to Nellie and who had been his preference.
She was so shaken she almost forgot to dip her head and bob a curtsey in her ladyship’s direction. But why hadn’t James said anything?
She was going to be sick. She had felt like she might throw up on and off for a few days now, but this time it was more than a feeling. Her mouth watered and her stomach heaved. She looked around. There was nowhere suitable to hurl. She grasped for the tie on her bonnet. If it came to it, she would have to throw up in that.
She swallowed hard, somehow managing to still the sensation, then risked turning her head to the left just enough to make eye contact with James. He clenched his jaw, then shook his head, rapidly and barely perceptibly, from side to side in a way that might have been mistaken by anyone else for a shiver.
What sort of man would let their friend marry a whore, one he had used himself? A gentleman like James Hunter would surely say something, and as far the men who frequented O’Shane’s were concerned, James Hunter was about as close to a gentleman as it was possible to get. Unlike some of the oth
ers he had talked to her like she was a real person and conducted his business without any bizarre requests or tendency to cruelty.
Cautiously she let out a deep breath.
James’ attention was already back on the minister, eyes forward and expectant as if his only interest was in the parson getting on with the service.
Her pounding heart slowed; perhaps he wasn’t going to say anything after all? Maybe he would rather see his friend marry her than risk his wife finding out that he had once been a customer at O’Shane’s?
Despite James’ stare, the minister made a harrumphing noise giving Colleen a scathing look, starting at her ankles and finishing at her eyes where he stopped to glare at her.
‘I might have known you would be at the bottom of this, m’lady,’ the reverend said, finally tearing his eyes away from hers to speak to Lady Hunter, ‘I’ve always thought you were far too soft where the convict women are concerned.’
‘I would hardly have expected an alternate assessment from the man they call the “Thrashing Vicar”,’ Lady Hunter replied without missing a beat.
Colleen looked to James, waiting for him to pull her up for talking back to the minister, but instead he pressed his lips together, hard, but even so they were trembling a little as if he was trying not to laugh.
Colleen had heard of The Factory parson from the talk in the bar at O’Shane’s and felt the evidence of the brutal floggings Reverend Walters had ordered in the scars on the backs of some of her customers.
Not many men would have been brave enough to stand up to him, let alone a woman. She had never seen the vicar himself at O’Shane’s, although plenty other men of the cloth were no strangers to the place. A pity. Half an hour with one of the girls and the reverend’s frustrations might have melted away enough that he no longer needed to put them to work in cruelty.
The parson shot James a look that suggested he ought to better control his wife then wrenched open his prayer book and removed a ribbon marking the page.
‘Let’s get on, shall we.’
Colleen clasped her hands together against her stomach, hardly daring to draw another breath.
Mr Biggs looked as keyed up as her, pulling a handkerchief to dab at the perspiration dotted across his brow while the parson droned his way through his prayer book, speaking no faster than a snail might move across a leaf. She dearly wished the parson had a handle on him she could have used to crank him along.
When the time finally came for Mr Hunter to bring out the wedding ring, Colleen couldn’t hold in a gasp. It was a real one — not some pieces of threaded copper or something turned from a piece of wood, and when Mr Biggs took her hand in his to put it on they felt rough and reassuring.
The ring was made of silver and at first it was difficult to get on over her hot swollen knuckle, but with a final firm but gentle push it went onto her finger.
There was still the signing in the big chapel book to make it all official to come, but the ring was on so tight she doubted anyone would ever be able to prise it back off. She had never had anything so shiny on her before and her eyes took to it like a magpie as the sparkle of the silver kept drawing her gaze back down to it.
She risked a look up at Mr Biggs and he glanced back down at her, his features tightening in surprise for a second before his wonderful eyes came out to dance.
For a moment it was as if a fairy was trapped in the pit of her stomach tapping out a happy jig to a wedding song, then she caught herself. She was getting carried away. She wasn’t a real bride and Mr Biggs wasn’t a real groom. Mr Biggs didn’t want her and she didn’t want him — not like that.
He had felt sorry for her that was all, but sorry or not, Mr Biggs would be expecting to be compensated and she had a pretty good idea of how he would be wanting to take his recompense — in fact, she was counting on it.
Clasping one hand across her middle she reached up with the other to take the crook of Mr Biggs’ elbow.
But she had barely taken hold of Mr Biggs’ arm when the reverend slapped a leather-bound book down on the altar, making her jump.
He handed her a quill.
‘You can sign here, with an X, Malone.’
Colleen threw back her shoulders, heaved out her bosom and looked directly into his beady black eyes. ‘I’ll be writing me full name thank you, Reverend. I know me letters.’
Then, with as much dignity as she could muster, she fanned a hand across her chest, and leaned in to sign her name.
When she had finished, she stepped back to let Mr Biggs do the same. Something soft and fine pressed into her hands. She looked down. Lady Hunter had passed her a silky wrap, edged with gold thread.
‘A wedding gift, Colleen, to remember the day.’
It was the finest bit of cloth and her ladyship was giving it to her for keeps? Without a thought, she pulled Lady Hunter to her in a hug as if the air was nippy and her cousin Nell had given her the loan of a moth-eaten shawl. Then, horrified at having gotten carried away mauling a real lady, she tried to let go, but Lady Hunter held on tight, hugging her right back.
‘It can be devilishly hard to get clothes out here, but a lovely wrap can dress up something plain or hide a bit of wear,’ Lady Hunter whispered.
Chapter 5
When Samuel’s new wife signed the book recording their marriage, several loose spirals of chestnut coloured hair escaped her bonnet and bounced enticingly on her shoulders. Without her mob-cap, and in a half reasonable dress, Colleen was far more pleasantly featured that he had first supposed. The flattering bonnet accentuated her skin, a flawless off-white contrasting with the blush of her cheeks that all but glowed.
It was the sort of radiance Amelia had only ever taken on when she was pregnant.
Damn it to hell.
He cursed himself for the idle thought. He would not allow the tragedies of his past to contaminate his future. Coming to Australia was about starting anew, not going backwards.
But the fact of the matter was that Colleen was not entirely what he had been expecting. She was quite different to the woman who had grasped his hand out in the prison yard. If it hadn’t been for her eyes being the same warm hazelnut brown of the woman who had implored him, he might have accused the warden of perpetrating a switch.
Nevertheless, he reasoned, he was seeing her at her best in a dress, that despite being quite worn, was a quality garment — one that when it was new would have been far beyond his means to purchase.
On the farm Colleen would be expected to work and for that she would need to wear serviceable clothes covered by an apron and mob-cap. Items which now that he had had the opportunity to see her without them, he could attest did not suit her.
He decided — on reflection there was no cause for concern and nothing to prevent him signing and thereby making the marriage official.
Samuel took the quill from Colleen, signed his own name on the register and then handed it to James who did likewise, followed by the others. Another wedding party had gathered at the rear of the room and Mrs Watts stepped out from behind the group with a package for Colleen, ushering them towards the door.
Samuel was grateful not to have to linger. Without pressing business, The Factory was not a place to tarry.
Samuel and James returned to the farm on horseback, trailing behind the ladies who travelled together in the Hunter’s phaeton; Lady Hunter at the reins.
The women leaned in to chatter to one another, throwing conspiratorial glances back over their shoulders’ as if they were talking about their menfolk.
Given the vast social gulf that lay between the two women, it was pleasing that Colleen had the wit to be able to make conversation with Lady Hunter, but nevertheless, the looks passing between the women unnerved him. Goodness only knew what strategy her ladyship might be thinking to hatch next, and more specifically, what unrealistic expectations she might be raising with his new wife. Thea and James’ marriage had been a love match. His and Colleen’s situation could not have been more differen
t.
The ladies put their heads together again and there were more audible feminine giggles above the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the rattling of the impractical carriage as it scarcely cleared the rutted track that that comprised the only road back to Hunter Downs. Colleen’s laugh had the cadence of a flute, somehow capturing the lilt of her Irish accent in the sound of it, soaring above Thea’s voice every time Colleen turned her head.
Samuel jammed his heels into his horse, overtaking the phaeton at a gallop.
Not to be outdone, James followed, matching Samuel’s pace, reining in his superior horse so that they arrived back at Hunter Downs together.
By the time Lady Hunter returned the phaeton to the barn, he and James had already unsaddled their own mounts, ready to help the women down.
Samuel proffered his hand to Colleen while James took Lady Hunter’s arm. His new wife’s palm was soft and warm as kid beneath his roughened hands, the mere touch of it taking him barrelling backwards in time, until struck by a jab of pain, his thinking came to rights.
While Tom, the Hunter’s farm labourer, unhitched the horses, the couples exchanged pleasantries until Lady Hunter grasped James’ arm, tugging him towards the house.
‘My congratulations again, to you both. We’ll celebrate your nuptials properly soon of course, Samuel, but I’m sure you’re anxious to get your new bride settled in, so for the time being we will leave you,’ Lady Hunter said, raising an eyebrow in a manner that left him under no illusion as to what she thought she and James were ‘leaving’ them to do.
James likewise closed one eye in a wink.
Samuel cleared his throat. ‘Quite.’
He steered Colleen across the yard. ‘It’s not much,’ Samuel said after he had led Colleen into the cottage.
While the cabin was modest, he hoped his new wife would be pleased with her new home. The cabin was clean and tidy and provided all the basic accommodations that they would require.
