3 Great Historical Novels

by Fay Weldon

  ‘He cannot break the law, and neither can we. Ryan’s papers may not be released until a magistrate’s signature testifies that the death was not a case of self-murder. I appealed against that decree, on the grounds of insufficient evidence. I expect Rhia’s pardon will have reached Sydney by now,’ he added, perhaps in an attempt to cheer her. ‘The mail clippers travel much faster than the passenger transports.’ He paused. ‘As to the other matter …’ he trailed off as if he’d had second thoughts about what he was going to say.

  ‘The other matter?’

  ‘How is your maid?’

  ‘She has calmed down. She has always been troubled.’

  ‘I am intrigued by her case and have posted a notice which is to be circulated to all the newspaper’s regional offices. I have suggested that, should a certain twenty-year-old forging racket in Manchester be dug up, it could warrant an inch or two in the national paper. That’s enough to have many a penny-a-liner looking through the piles of yellowed newsprint in basements.’

  Antonia sat with her hands clasped, willing herself to be soothed by the cool air and rarefied light in the nave. She was not soothed, she was anxious and confused. ‘Why should you care, Mr Dillon?’

  He looked surprised, then thoughtful. ‘I suppose I have an appetite for justice. It makes me an unpopular dinner guest. My brother was killed by lies. He died alone in an opium den in Canton. And now Laurence. People who don’t deserve to die. You must be careful not to reveal either what you know or what you suspect, Mrs Blake. I’m merely investigating a hunch. I have other hunches as well, but I’d prefer to keep these to myself for the moment. Tell me, when is Mr Fisher due to return from India?’

  ‘The Mathilda is expected in January.’

  ‘Later than you anticipated?’

  ‘Yes. They are detained in Calcutta.’ Antonia put her hand to her mouth. Perhaps they were detained because either Mathilda or Sea Witch was somewhere between Calcutta and Lintin Island! She looked at Mr Dillon. ‘Do you think we should tell Mr Montgomery? The clippers are jointly owned.’

  ‘Absolutely not. I insist, Mrs Blake, that this is not to be discussed with anyone.’

  Antonia shook her head. She still couldn’t believe it. ‘I shall pray for courage,’ she said.

  ‘If that will help, Mrs Blake, then that is what you must do.’

  Tweed

  Elizabeth Street, with its scenic view across Hyde Park, was not a part of town that Michael frequented. It was gentrified, inhabited by solicitors, physicians and clergymen, and held little interest for him. Elizabeth Street was the perfect address for someone he already disliked.

  Mr Reeve’s room was easily found. It was in a two-storey timber house with a sign on the gate that read Rooms available for respectable gentlemen. On the other side of the glass-panelled front door stretched a long, narrow corridor, along which were several closed doors. On a dresser was a row of letterboxes labelled neatly with room numbers and tenants’ names.

  The man looked a little startled when he opened the door to his unannounced visitor. He also looked as spineless as Albert had made him out to be. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and a rather shabby tweed waistcoat and breeches, but he had the air of someone who thought he was important. He was, at a glance, a man with aspirations.

  ‘Good evening,’ he said to Michael, with a discernible quaver. ‘I was not expecting a caller.’

  ‘My name’s Kelly. I’m an acquaintance of Rhia Mahoney. May I come in?’

  Mr Reeve looked like he might close the door in Michael’s face, so he took the precaution of placing a boot inside the doorframe. ‘I won’t take much of your time, I’ve only a question or two for you and then I’ll be on my way.’

  A flicker of fear lit the young man’s characterless face before it was disguised by a stiff, unnatural smile. ‘Of course, Mr Kelly. Come in.’

  The room was not large. It was furnished with a pine bed and a small table. On the table was an enormous book and half a glass of claret. There was a fire in the grate. Piled up on the floor, and on top of a portmanteau against the wall, were a great number of cigar boxes.

  Michael had no interest in putting this man at ease. He may as well just get to the point and see what happened. ‘I’ve reason to believe that you stole a portrait from the cabin of Laurence Blake.’

  Mr Reeve was clearly afraid now. He began sweating in spite of the chill in the building. These timber frames were built for long, hot summers rather than short cold winters. He hid his fear reasonably well with arrogance. ‘What business is it of yours?’

  Michael took a step closer to where the man was standing with his back to the fire. He was not planning on losing his temper, but there was no harm in showing that he had one. ‘The thing is, I’ve made it my business to protect the interests of the Mahoneys. They’re friends. But that notion probably isn’t familiar to you. Now, why don’t you go and get that portrait, so I can have a look at it?’

  Something in his tone seemed to strike a chord. Reeve cast one last resentful look at Michael before he went to the table and removed a stiff piece of parchment from one of the back leaves of the book. He returned slowly, keeping the image against his chest. Michael held out his hand, but the botanist was staring at him, his eyes darting around with a look of wild indecision. Michael stepped closer, within striking distance. He felt his fist clench, that reflex. He unclenched it. ‘I’ll only say this once. Hand it over, or I’ll have it my way.’

  With a final grimace, Reeve held out the parchment, but just as Michael thought he would relinquish it, he threw it into the fire. It turned the flames blue and green and then it was only a twist of ash. The last expression on the botanist’s face, before Michael’s fist connected with his jaw, was of smug complicity. The blow sent him sprawling backwards onto the floor. Michael didn’t look at him again. He left the room, closing the door quietly behind him.

  As he walked along the edge of Hyde Park, he cursed with frustration for allowing it to happen. Then, with some effort, put the incident firmly from his mind. No point in ruining an otherwise fine evening. He noticed how the pearly crescent of the moon hung behind the row of seedling Norfolk pines. He noticed how neatly the flowerbeds were dug where the rose bushes had been planted, incongruously, amongst ferns and spiky native shrubs. As if you could tame this land. He’d only returned from the bush with Jarrah that morning, and he was looking forward to a draught of stout and a meal that didn’t still have its fur on.

  Should he tell Calvin about the missing sailor first, or about an unconscious botanist lying in a bachelor room on Elizabeth Street? Either way it was time to give the Port Authority an update. Calvin would either be at the White Horse on Pitt Street or with a lady friend. The establishment Calvin preferred wasn’t called a brothel; it was a Gentleman’s Club, and the prostitutes were a cut above Maggie’s girls. Even Maggie would admit it. They were cleaner, better dressed and more discreet. They were also more expensive.

  It was early yet. Cal was probably still at the tavern.

  The White Horse was where the wigs and uniforms of Sydney took their drink, and there wasn’t a dusty boot or a dirty fingernail in sight. Sure enough, Cal was settled in a snug with an ale and a broadsheet. Michael got himself a jar and sat down opposite him. ‘Evening, Calvin.’

  ‘Michael.’

  ‘It’s a shame to disturb you when you’re off duty.’

  ‘I’m never off duty.’

  Michael nodded. It was true. He told the policeman about the remote squatter’s hut where they’d found evidence of a camp, and how Jarrah pointed out the flattened kikuyu grass and the tracks in the dust; signs that a drover had come through with a herd of cattle. Jarrah probably could have told Michael how many cattle exactly, had he wanted to know. Calvin’s man had camped in the hut for a few nights and then, when opportunity called, had gone off with an overlander. Chances were he wouldn’t get anywhere near as far as the northern plains before he realised droving was no life for a sailor. He’
d be back, and Calvin would be waiting for him.

  ‘That isn’t all,’ Michael said, when he’d completed his report and taken a long draught. ‘I wonder if you’d make some enquiries about a passenger on the Rajah for me.’

  ‘The transport the Mahoney woman came in on? Would this have anything to do with the death I told you about on that transport?’

  ‘Aye. I might just be going quietly doolally, but I’ve got a hunch there’s a connection between the Quaker who died in Bombay, the murder on the Rajah, and Rhia Mahoney.’

  ‘I hope you aren’t going to tell me she’s in on it, Michael.’

  ‘Not a chance.’

  ‘That’s good, because she’s been pardoned.’

  ‘Jesus. What? Are you sure?’

  ‘Sure I’m sure. I was at the governor’s office today handing over all my paperwork and I saw her name on the list.’

  ‘Well I’ll be damned. This just gets curiouser all the time. I don’t suppose there’s a chance you could get your hands on that document; speed things up a little?’

  ‘Of course I can, Michael. There’s no point wearing a hat like a toy soldier if you can’t bend the rules a little now and then.’ He lifted his glass. ‘Cheers. Here’s to freeing the bloody Irish.’

  Michael grinned and lifted his own. ‘Aye. Cheers.’

  Alpaca

  Rhia didn’t recognise the man in the visitor’s cell. She supposed he was shopping for a wife. The lines etched into his face and the Parramatta shirting placed him as a convict, or an ex-convict.

  When he smiled she knew him instantly.

  ‘You’ve grown up,’ Michael Kelly said, ‘though you looked better with your hair.’ The sight of Michael Kelly, here at the ends of the earth, was a joy as fathomless as all of the oceans she had crossed, something beyond all the months of fear and loneliness. She reached across the table and took his hands in hers. Michael’s hands were rough and sunburnt brown, and he gripped her as if she might try and get away.

  As if she would.

  She held back her tears, and she could see that he was doing the same.

  ‘I’ve something for you.’ He reached into a pocket inside his waistcoat and laid a thick, brown envelope on the table. Rhia picked it up, her hands shaking so much that she wondered if she could even open it. She turned it over. The wax seal was scarlet. She peered at it, trying to make out the insignia.

  ‘That is the seal of the Governor of New South Wales,’ said Michael quietly. This meant nothing to Rhia. She looked to the superintendent, who stood with her arms crossed and her eyebrows raised.

  ‘Now, we don’t see one of them often,’ the superintendent grunted, but her voice had a less aggressive quality. Usually the woman talked in a low growl, as though she was some kind of sheep hound. Now she just shrugged. ‘You’d better open it, hadn’t you, Mahoney?’

  Rhia broke the seal. The document was brief, only a few lines. It made her crumple. Michael made no attempt to interfere with her messy weeping except to give her his handkerchief and tell her it was clean. The superintendent remained silent, in spite of the noise.

  ‘I hope those are happy tears,’ Michael said when she quietened enough for him to get a word in.

  Rhia laughed and the sound startled her. When had she last laughed? She looked at the single page in front of her, at the one sentence that mattered: This ticket of leave is granted to the prisoner of Her Majesty, Rhiannon Mahoney. There was a date, 4 October 1841, that meant nothing to her – could be tomorrow, or long weeks ago, she had lost track. She blinked and straightened her back, feeling freedom surge up her spine and into her limbs.

  ‘But why are you delivering my pardon, Mr Kelly?’ There were any number of things she could have asked him. Why he was still in Australia, how he knew where to find her, what on earth she should do now. She was full of questions, but too light-headed to care much about answers.

  ‘Let’s just say I know someone.’

  Rhia was trying to comprehend what the document in her hands actually meant. ‘Then whoever committed the crime I was accused of has confessed?’

  Michael laughed mirthlessly. ‘What a fine thing, to hear that someone still expects the best from people, even after spending the better half of a year in the company of prisoners.’

  ‘I’ve spent the better part of a year in very good company, and I’ve learnt a thing or two.’ Neither of these things had occurred to Rhia before this moment, and she suddenly felt like weeping all over again.

  ‘I can see that, but we’re taking up the good superintendent’s valuable time. I don’t expect you’ve much in the way of goods and chattels?’

  ‘A trunk in the lock-up.’

  ‘A trunk! You’re travelling in style then. There’s a barge departing Parramatta at sunset that will have us in Sydney just after sun-up tomorrow.’

  The first leg of her journey towards freedom. It must be a dream.

  Taking her leave from the female factory took little time. In the cold spinning room, Jane was immediately tearful and Georgina pretended to be happy for her. Rhia had not expected to feel any sadness in leaving, but these women had become like family, and suddenly, they no longer had anything in common, and they all knew it. They probably thought she would forget them. As if she would.

  Nora and Agnes were in the kitchen garden with a dozen or so others, in their thick brown aprons, breaking the hard earth as penance for their unbreakable spirits. Nora straightened up when she saw Rhia. She stood still, resting on her spade, in defiance of the warden at the other end of the patch. ‘Didn’t I tell you, Mahoney, that it wouldn’t be for ever? You’ve got our blessing, hasn’t she, Agnes?’ Agnes nodded, but she wasn’t brave enough to stop digging. ‘We always knew you weren’t a thief,’ she said, with her sly grin.

  ‘Well thanks for nothing, then,’ said Rhia with a small laugh. She wouldn’t cry. She hadn’t ever dared to cry in front of Nora and she wasn’t about to start now.

  ‘Give my love to damp and dreary London and don’t forget us,’ was all Nora had time to say before the warden bore down on them, scowling at Rhia and giving Nora a shove in the ribs to get her back to work. Nora winked at her and went back to digging and humming to herself cheerfully, making the warden stew all the more.

  In the sleeping quarters, Rhia collected her red book from beneath her bedroll and walked, without a backward look, from the last place in which she would ever dream of freedom.

  In the superintendent’s office, where she had to sign something, she listened inattentively to passionless words of caution and advice. The world was full of temptation and sin and Rhia was being given a second chance. She turned away while the superintendent was still sermonising, and walked out the door.

  Michael collected her at the gates in a cart that had her trunk tied with a rope in the back. They drove through Parramatta on a wide dusty road with bungalows either side and horses tethered to verandahs. The town had the vaguely desolate air of a place that was waiting to be noticed, or to be called home.

  ‘There’s an inn this side of town where you can bathe and change,’ Michael said after they’d gone a mile or two in silence. ‘I don’t expect you’ll be wanting to wear that fine uniform any longer than necessary.’

  ‘No, I don’t,’ Rhia agreed. The thought of taking off the coarse cloth and never putting it on again made her want to dance a jig. There was so much to say and, at the same time, nothing. There was plenty of time for talking.

  The inn was whitewashed stone, low and long, with a neat drive and a canopy of tall, purple flowering trees behind.

  ‘Jacaranda,’ Michael said, smiling at her wide-eyed gaze. ‘That’s what the Originals called them. First sign that summer’s on the way. I sure won’t be missing the summers here. I’ll tip my hat to the damp and the cold and the fog from now until the end of my days.’

  ‘It’s a long time you’ve been here.’

  ‘Aye, it’s a long time.’

  If the innkeeper’s wife though
t it unusual that someone with a shorn head and convict’s clothes should want a room for the afternoon, she didn’t show it, not after Michael had paid her. She bustled around in a spartan room with a fireplace, bare floorboards and an iron bed that felt to Rhia like a queen’s chamber. She put a copper hipbath by the fire and poured in kettle after kettle until it was full of warm water, then threw in a handful of eucalypt leaves and left Rhia to bathe.

  The bath was large enough to sit in with her knees pulled up. The warm water slipped over her limbs like silk. She still couldn’t believe that she had woken this morning in prison and was now bathing in scented water. She didn’t step out of it until the water was cold and her teeth chattering.

  She lay on the bed, simply, indulgently, because she could. It was not a soft bed, but it smelt of sunlight and linen. Her trunk sat in the middle of the floor. She hardly dared to open it, dress in something that was not the colour of dirt, pretend to be someone that she knew she would never be again.

  She edged towards the trunk slowly and lifted the lid. Before, when there was no chance of wearing the clothes that lay within, it had been safe to look. She removed the gown that lay closest to the top, her green alpaca. She was a stranger to every detail of freedom, and suddenly the idea of being faced with a choice scared her. She rummaged around for a shawl, stockings and boots, hardly caring if they matched, hardly remembering that, once, the minutiae was meticulously chosen and coordinated. She dressed slowly, half remembering, half forgetting the downy feel of a cashmere petticoat against her legs, silk stockings sliding through her fingers, the soft leather of calfskin.

  She could hear Michael Kelly outside, presumably talking to the innkeeper on the verandah. The hallway was timber from floor to ceiling and ran the length of the building. Halfway along it stood a mirrored dresser. She could not remember the last time she had seen her own face. It was in another life. She knew she should walk past the glass without looking.