by Fay Weldon
‘Would I! The thought of your ginger loaf is all that has kept me from despair, Beth.’
Broadcloth
Rhia woke in the afternoon in the bed with ivory curtains and arabesques. She dressed slowly in a gown that had been hanging in the wardrobe since the last time she was in this room. It was Japanese rose: a rich, deep pink with none of the hard lustre of mineral dye. The cloth caressed her, but she did not feel unworthy of it, now. She pinned her hair as best she could with only a hand glass, and then slipped her feet into slippers, as though she were dressing in someone else’s finery. She walked slowly down the wide, polished stairs. It was only hours since she had arrived in London for the second time. Another life had begun.
Voices drifted out from the morning room.
Michael was almost unrecognisable, standing against the mantelpiece dressed in a clean shirt and breeches. He’d shaved and oiled his hair. He was smoking and talking to Mr Dillon. Dillon’s back was to the door. He was warming his hands over the fire, his black hair reaching his shoulders. He turned as Rhia came in and bowed politely, and as he did Rhia became aware of the unsteadiness of her legs. It was nothing to do with him, only the swaying of the solid earth because her legs were still at sea.
‘It is good to see you back in London, Miss Mahoney.’
It is good to be here.’ She examined his face. She could see no trace of anger or accusation. She could think of nothing at all to say. It seemed that she no longer knew how to be polite. Some would argue that she never had.
Antonia coughed delicately. She was sitting on the Chesterfield with her needlework. For a moment it had seemed to Rhia that she was alone in the room with Dillon. Antonia smiled at her. ‘You look well in that colour. Now that we’re all here, I’ll help Beth with the tea. I‘ve accommodated Juliette and her mother in a guesthouse in Cornhill where they can continue their reunion privately.’
Antonia left for the kitchen, and Mr Dillon and Michael continued their conversation. Michael was saying he’d come to the conclusion there was no such thing as free trade, that everything had its cost. They had much in common, Rhia thought. They were both personally affronted by corruption, and their weapon of choice was a pen not a pistol (though Michael possessed another weapon besides – she’d seen its hilt sticking out of his boot).
She’d not yet dared to look at the photogenic drawing on the wall. The trees. She edged her gaze towards it cautiously. It looked different now. Maybe because it no longer had the power to frighten her: she had made her peace by facing her fear.
Antonia returned with a tea tray and they sat around the table, Mr Dillon opposite Rhia. She might not be frightened of shadows and spirits any more, but she was having trouble looking at him. It was merely something new to overcome. She looked him straight in the eye and thought she saw something she hadn’t seen before, something softer, a silent enquiry. It didn’t make her feel weak, like some paragon of femininity in a penny romance. Rather, she felt as though she were inhabiting her own skin for the very first time. Dillon looked away, leaving Rhia wondering if he was not indifferent to her after all.
He glanced around the table, though when his eyes met Rhia’s again they were guarded. ‘We know that Isaac Fisher and Ryan Mahoney were using the Mathilda to trade opium, and that she and her sister ship, Sea Witch, were engaged in a counterfeiting operation. Do you think it’s possible, Mr Kelly, that they were chartered by separate parties?’
‘Aye,’ Michael agreed, ‘most merchant ships are for hire when they are not otherwise engaged.’
‘So,’ Dillon pressed, ‘Mathilda left Lintin Island with a cargo of silver, and sailed into Pacific waters just east of Sydney Cove where the silver was to be transferred onto the Sea Witch, in return for a hull full of counterfeit coin?’
Michael nodded, and Dillon’s proposal settled silently. He looked at Rhia. ‘Will you tell Mrs Blake about the negative?’
Antonia looked at Rhia expectantly, and Rhia explained, as delicately as she could, how the negative came to be on the Rajah, how the portrait was made, and how it was then destroyed.
Antonia was shaking her head. ‘No wonder …’ She trailed off, no doubt thinking about Juliette’s peculiar behaviour. She took a sip of tea, looking at Dillon. ‘You knew, didn’t you, the day you came to visit – the day Juliette told us about her father?’
He nodded. ‘Forgive me, but I saw no point in telling you. It would only have made things awkward between you and your maid.’
Antonia looked confused. ‘But the negative has not been destroyed?’ She was looking at Rhia almost pleadingly.
‘It has been lost. Probably destroyed. I’m so sorry, Antonia.’
Antonia shook her head, bewildered.
‘I think I’d like to see something of this photogenic drawing,’ Michael remarked. ‘I can’t get the measure of it.’ He was trying to soften the blow, Rhia thought, and she liked him all the better for it.
‘Then you shall,’ Antonia assured him.
‘But first,’ he said, ‘I should tell you about the evening I visited the botanist Mr Reeve, and about Mick the Fence who got arrested for counterfeiting.’
By the time they left Sydney, Michael said, more than a dozen arrests had been made, including the captain of the Sea Witch. The captain said he didn’t know anything except that an agent in Calcutta chartered the clipper and that whomever paid for the charter would not easily be traced. ‘There are plenty of merchants who do not wish to be associated with the opium trade,’ Michael said. ‘Twenty thousand pounds’ worth of counterfeit silver guineas was returned to the governor’s office, from whence the coin was stolen in the first place. It’ll probably be sold as alloy and used to line another few buildings with cedar,’ he observed drily. ‘Hard to know who’s the bigger crook, the coiner or the government of New South Wales.’
‘No ringmaster was named?’ Dillon asked.
Michael shook his head. ‘Aye. And it wouldn’t surprise me if Mick himself doesn’t know his master’s name. There’s bound to be an in-between to protect the boss. Besides, Mick the Fence will never talk: he’s a professional and it would be bad for business. All he said on the matter was that, seeing as there was a silver shortage, he and his men were doing the Crown a service in supplying freshly minted coins.’
Antonia was tapping her fingers on the table in an agitated rhythm. ‘I simply find it inconceivable that Isaac is trading in opium, let alone in counterfeit. Yes, I do know that Quaker ships carried slaves, so there’s no need to remind me of it, but this … I can hardly believe that I could have misjudged his character so wildly, and for so long. Thank God Josiah did not live to see this day.’
‘I think we must give Isaac the opportunity to defend himself,’ interjected Dillon.
‘Yes, we must,’ she agreed. ‘I shall invite him to do so.’
‘Montgomery and Beckwith should also be here,’ said Dillon.
‘Very well,’ said Antonia. ‘And you and Mr Kelly, of course.’
‘I would have it no other way,’ he replied.
‘Nor I,’ added Michael. ‘There was a letter, wasn’t there, Mrs Blake, written by your husband?’
‘There was,’ she agreed, ‘Mr Dillon has located it.’
Michael frowned to hear that Ryan Mahoney’s solicitor would not release the letter until a magistrate ruled that the death was not self-murder. ‘Is that so?’ he said quietly. ‘Well, perhaps you could leave that one to me.’
Antonia stood up. ‘Mr Kelly, would you still like to see a demonstration of photogenic drawing?’
‘I would.’
They left the room. Rhia was certain that Antonia had deliberately left her alone with Mr Dillon. The silence increased, with nothing but the hiss of wood sap from the fire to interrupt it. Rhia stole a glance, wondering if he cared as little as he seemed to that they were sitting opposite each other with nothing to say. He seemed preoccupied.
‘I have a feeling,’ he said finally, ‘that Mrs Blake’s maid m
ay have been the key all along.’
‘Then you believe that one of the men in the portrait is a murderer?’
‘I have no doubt of it. I’ve been waiting for some archive newsprint on forging rackets operating around Manchester at the time of Mr Green’s murder.’
‘And?’
‘And I’ve received my response, but let’s keep that between us for now.’
‘Then you think John Hannam is connected to the Sydney counterfeiting?’
‘I think there’s a decent chance of it, yes.’
They lapsed into silence again. Rhia let her eyes rest somewhere safe; on his coat. ‘Are you wearing English broadcloth?’ she asked. He laughed, and she felt the stiffness in her shoulders ease.
‘I believe it is Welsh, like your name. When I was young the people in my village believed that Rhiannon appeared to her followers riding a white horse.’
‘Yes, she did. And a purple cloak.’
Dillon looked at her with the same softness she’d seen before, then he turned to the fire. ‘Michael tells me you and he have a common interest in Australian wool?’
‘Our first shipment should arrive in Dublin shortly.’
‘And do you intend to be there to meet it, Miss Mahoney?’
‘I do.’
‘Then London is not the place for you, after all?’
It was the question she had asked herself that morning, as they sailed past spires and steeples and beneath London Bridge. The sight of the city had made her ache for Greystones. Only one more expanse of water, the Irish Sea, now separated her from home. She shrugged. She longed for the shale and the hills, and to see her mother, and even her father, but she was not sure that she’d want to stay. ‘There was a time when I wanted nothing more than to see London and to travel to foreign lands, and now I have, though not in the way I imagined,’ she added, laughing. ‘I’m more settled, but that isn’t to say I would be content to pass the remainder of my days in an Irish village.’
‘You might find that the solution lies in your work, Miss Mahoney. I have always found it so. You are an artist, but you seem to also enjoy the liveliness of the trade.’
He had noticed something about her that she had hardly known herself. Before she could think better of it, she was telling him of her desire to return home with a profession.
‘Desire is one vehicle for the truth,’ he mused with a half smile.
She looked at him with mock-horror. ‘But you are encouraging a woman to have a profession!’
Dillon wasn’t smiling any more, he was looking at her; into her, with intense earnest. ‘You’ve already had the courage to defy convention,’ he said, ‘I liked it in you from the first, and I know that Laurence was in awe of that quality in you. He was very fond of you, as you must know.’ His voice faltered and he stood up and walked to the fire, half turning away from her. Rhia took the opportunity to inspect every line of his profile – his straight nose and long forehead, the colour of his skin, the black hair. He suddenly seemed so familiar a friend, yet she hardly knew him.
‘I can’t pretend that I had no knowledge of Mr Blake’s feelings,’ she said carefully, ‘but my sentiments were not … in accord with his.’
‘I had wondered.’ He hesitated. ‘Laurence was my friend, and I would not say this if he—’
‘If he were alive?’
‘Yes.’
‘What? What would you not say?’
‘That I loved you from the first.’
Quilt
Beth tapped lightly on the bedroom door and entered with a basketful of kindling as Antonia was sealing the envelopes ready for the butcher’s boy. He was swifter than the morning post, and always happy to earn a farthing or two extra.
‘Lovely fresh morning, madam.’
‘It is, Beth. Have our guests risen?’
‘Oh Mr Kelly’s been up since dawn – says it’s always been that way with him. He hasn’t had any breakfast though, just wanted a pot of tea.’
‘And Rhia?’
‘I heard her moving about as I passed by. I’ll just build your fire before I put on the porridge.’
‘Never mind, Beth, you’ve enough to do with Juliette away. I can dress without the fire.’ She gave Beth the envelopes for the boy; one for Isaac and one for Jonathan Montgomery.
Antonia washed her face in lemon water, dressed in her worsted and pinned her hair. Both guests were in the morning room when she arrived, sitting at the table by the front window, which was laid for breakfast. Michael stood when she entered.
‘Good morning, Mrs Blake.’
‘And to you both,’ she said. ‘I hope you slept well?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Michael. He didn’t look as though he’d slept well. How odd and unfamiliar this must all be to him. To be in London after years as a prisoner, to know that he was so close to seeing his wife and son. He must have wanted to sail straight to Dublin from Sydney. But as Mr Dillon had said, they had business in common, and Michael Kelly didn’t strike her as the kind of man that would leave business unfinished.
‘I didn’t sleep a wink,’ said Rhia. ‘Probably because the floor wasn’t moving.’
Or perhaps because of Mr Dillon, Antonia thought. She sat and Rhia poured her coffee. They spoke of wool. She thought it an excellent venture and said so. ‘In fact,’ she added, ‘should you require an agent in London, I would be delighted to join you.’
Beth cleared their bowls and Michael complimented her, saying that her porridge had to be the best he’d ever tasted, even though he’d not had any in years.
‘Then there’s no porridge in Sydney?’ Beth looked scandalised.
‘Oats are fed to horses in Sydney, and people eat toast because wheat is cheap.’ Michael stood up and put on his broad-brimmed hat. ‘I’ve some business this morning, Mrs Blake, and then I’ll be meeting Dillon somewhere called the Red Lion. Thank you again for your hospitality.’
‘But you’ll come back here, Mr Kelly?’
‘Aye, of course.’
Rhia told Michael where the Red Lion was, and he took his leave.
Antonia looked at her once-lodger. It was not only that she was without her lovely long hair, she was changed in a way that was hard to define. ‘We’ve not really had time to speak, have we?’ she said. ‘I simply cannot begin to imagine …’ She faltered. ‘I have prayed for you,’ she said. It was inadequate. Anything would be.
Rhia looked down at her hands. ‘Well then it was your prayers as well as your money that brought me home.’
‘What do you mean?’ It was an odd thing to say.
‘I found the money you put in my purse. Without it I would never have been able to pay for my passage, or buy the merino.’
‘But I didn’t put any money in your purse, though I saw it in your portmanteau when I packed your things.’ They were both silent, considering this. Rhia looked confused. ‘Then who?’
‘It could only have been Mr Dillon,’ Antonia said. ‘It was he who collected your trunk and brought it to Millbank. If I’d thought of it I would certainly have stowed some money for you, but I was so shocked.’
‘Of course. And I didn’t expect it. But I can hardly believe that Mr Dillon … it was so generous.’
‘He thinks very highly of you,’ said Antonia. Anyone could see it. ‘I cannot imagine how you’ve kept body and soul together,’ she added.
Rhia smiled. ‘Through the stories my grandmother used to tell me. It was she who named me.’
‘I see,’ Antonia said, although she didn’t.
‘Rhiannon was cursed and falsely accused and exiled. She was only released from the curse by her own suffering and by the help of Manannán, god of the sea.’
It seemed an apt fairytale, Antonia thought. No different, in some ways, to the Christian stories of magic potions and the dead returning to life. She didn’t know what to say, so she changed the subject. ‘There is something you must see.’
The quilt was in the camphor wood chest against the wall. An
tonia brought it back to the table.
Rhia eyed the bundle of patchwork warily, as though Margaret who asked that it be presented to you, and it was she who composed and embroidered the dedication.’
Antonia spread the quilt across the back of the Chesterfield, which it could easily have covered twice, and examined Margaret’s cross-stitch.
To the Ladies of the Convict Ship Committee. This quilt worked by the convicts of the ship Rajah during their voyage is presented as a testimony of the gratitude with which they remember their exertions for their welfare while in England and during their passage and also as proof that they have not neglected the Ladies kind admonitions of being industrious. June 1841.
Antonia leaned closer. The central panel, stitched with the dedication, was unyielding. Something was fortifying the pocket between the stitching and its lining. She had noticed it before, and suspected that the embroidery card had been left in. Rhia noticed it as well. Behind the dedication, instead of plain linen, was a square of blue valetine silk.
‘Margaret’s favourite piece of cloth,’ Rhia said. ‘I recognise it. She said she was going to keep it and make it into a purse. They looked at each other and Antonia wondered if they were having the same thought. Along one edge of the valetine, the stitching was tacked rather than sewn prettily and neatly as it was on the other three sides.
Antonia fetched her embroidery scissors and, her hands unsteady, snipped the loose stitching away. In the pocket was a stiff piece of parchment. Another disappointment would be too much.
‘My hands are shaking, Rhia, you do it,’ she said.
‘It is the negative,’ said Rhia. ‘I recognise it.’
‘There is no guarantee that it will still make a representation,’ said Antonia. Her heart was thumping. ‘The sun is strong this morning. The kitchen would be best, at this hour.’
She hurried from the room to find her apparatus. She didn’t know what she was more afraid of: seeing Josiah’s face again or that Isaac might be identified as a killer. Rhia followed her upstairs to the studio and then back to the kitchen. They did not speak. They were both preoccupied with the urgency of the undertaking.
