Great Historical Novels (33 page)

‘Do you mean linseed and vinegar, Mrs Blake?’

‘No. My mother had a recipe for preserving English walnut. Beeswax, white wax, curd soap and turpentine. It softens the wood and protects it.’

Beth sighed and ladled a second large helping of porridge into her bowl. ‘Very well.’

Antonia smiled. Beth liked to have something to be long-suffering over. ‘The morning room needs dusting before our guest arrives, Juliette,’ she continued. ‘A goose’s wing should
reach into the lofty corners, and the velvet pile will need sweeping with the hard whisk brush.’ Juliette nodded but remained silent and hunched. At least she seemed less melancholy now that spring sunshine, rather than drizzle, glanced off the window panes. The exertion would do her good. Antonia suspected that her recurring infirmity was merely habitual gloom. The physician had described it in much the same way physicians tended to describe most feminine ailments. ‘A nervous disorder, Mrs Blake. Give her laudanum and keep the curtains drawn to prevent over-stimulation.’ As soon as he had gone, Antonia opened the curtains and windows wide. Juliette’s real ailment was her secret. Considering the turn she’d taken when Antonia said she wanted to visit Rhia, it must have something to do with her mother, who was in Millbank before she was transported. Rhia’s incarceration had merely tipped the balance. Either that, or Juliette knew something about Rhia’s arrest.

After breakfast Antonia went to Josiah’s office. She no longer needed to take deep, steadying breaths before entering. She thanked Josiah, silently and often, for his fastidious business acumen. She was now familiar with the last season’s consignments and accounts, and could model this season’s on them. There was only the matter of payment to the crew of
Mathilda
that she needed to discuss with Mr Montgomery, since it was not clear why certain of the Manx sailors had been paid more than others. She supposed there was some hierarchy of skill or experience that she knew nothing of. The mystery of why the
Mathilda
had not been signed out of the Calcutta dry dock remained unanswered. The document she had given Ryan had never been returned to her. But she must not think of that. She would never know the truth.

She had been corresponding with Mr Montgomery, as well
as with Mr Dillon, on the matter of Rhia’s repeal, which was partly why Jonathan Montgomery was calling this morning. The joint venture was a secondary reason for his visit. He was well connected, and seemed to have associates in the legal profession, perhaps even in the court. He was not convinced, though, that there had been a miscarriage of justice.

The doorknocker sounded, and made Antonia’s heart pound. She rose and straightened her skirts. Linen crushed all too easily when it was not blended with silk or wool. She walked the length of the hallway more slowly than she wanted to, her heart still thudding. She put her hand to the crucifix beneath her bodice.

‘Please bring us some coffee, Juliette dear,’ she called out as she passed the dining room where both girls were rubbing the table top with flannel.

Mr Montgomery was as immaculate as usual. His frockcoat was of some finely twilled wool, Italian no doubt, and his silk cravat was lemon yellow. He was as crisp as the spring sunshine, and entirely at ease. Antonia felt herself soften as she stepped aside to let him in. It had happened again. Without a thought or any warning, her body was yielding to him.

‘Good morning, Mr Montgomery. Are you well?’

‘Very well, Mrs Blake.’

‘Allow me to take your hat and cane.’

The morning room smelt of linseed and roses. Juliette had arranged several stems carefully in a blue bowl on the table. She was a thoughtful girl, in spite of her shortcomings. ‘You will be comfortable on the Chesterfield,’ she said. ‘Will you have coffee?’

He said that he would and flicked his coat-tails before he sat. His smile was warm and easy, his long legs gracefully crossed. Antonia perched on the edge of a straight-backed
chair and smoothed her skirt again. She cleared her throat. ‘Tell me, do you believe that Rhia Mahoney is innocent?’

He ran his fingers through his iron-grey hair thoughtfully. ‘I have spoken again to my maid, Hatty, and she insists that she saw Miss Mahoney with the silk. My wife says that she did not trust Miss Mahoney from the first. It is an impossible situation. I have spoken with the prosecutor, who says that the case against seemed irrefutable.’

‘But surely Hatty was mistaken – perhaps she was lying, covering for someone else? And then there is the mystery of the absent defence.’

He looked affronted. ‘I can assure you that all members of my household staff are of good character.’ He frowned. ‘As to the counsel, I simply do not know what to think. I have written to him myself but he has been on the Continent all winter.’

‘But Rhia’s good character and her family’s reputation must account for something!’

‘One would think so, but the family has fallen on hard times, which worked against her. Be assured that I am doing everything in my power to have her sentence repealed on the grounds of good character. Do not concern yourself unduly, Antonia.’

He had never used her first name before but he did it so naturally now – as if to suggest they were familiars, as if it was an established fact. He smiled kindly, but she thought she saw a flicker of doubt in his eyes. Perhaps he wondered if she was entirely sensible in believing Rhia Mahoney innocent.

‘Tell me more about your photogenic drawing,’ he said. ‘I confess that I’m a little mesmerised by it. I understand that it is still too soon to experiment with …’ He shook his head. ‘It still seems impossible that we have lost two of our company.’

Antonia bowed her head. There were creases in her linen
skirts, in spite of her care. She remembered the conversation at Christmas, about Josiah’s letter to Ryan Mahoney. It had presumably been a business concern. She pushed her shoulders down and straightened her back. ‘The portrait is on my mind,’ she said.

He was leaning towards her as though her every word mattered to him.

She felt her breath become shallow at his attention. ‘It needs only to be soaked in a salt solution and brushed with silver nitrate to make it light sensitive. I can show you the negative, if you would like.’

‘Yes, why not!’

Antonia bustled to Josiah’s office, relieved to be away from Jonathan Montgomery’s magnetism and excited to be discussing photogenic drawing with someone besides Juliette. She so missed Laurence, but Rhia needed him. She only hoped that that his feelings for her were not misguided.

She opened the lower drawer of the desk. It was empty. The wallet had been here last time she looked, but when was that? It must be months ago. Could she have moved it and forgotten? Surely not. She looked in the other drawers. Nothing. She must have left it somewhere else, or Juliette had tidied it away.

She looked into the dining room where Beth was now polishing alone, her cheeks crimson. ‘Where is Juliette, Beth?’

‘She’s taken one of her queer turns. I’ve made the coffee, though. It’s just brewing. Shall I fetch it for you?’

‘Never mind, Beth, I can get it myself.’ Beth looked relieved. She didn’t like serving
genteels
, it made her nervous.

Mr Montgomery was where she had left him. Antonia explained that she had misplaced the negative and he smiled and shrugged. She poured steaming coffee into two of her pretty Moroccan glasses. ‘The
Mathilda
has set sail?’ she asked.

He nodded. ‘Isaac and Francis left with the shipment yesterday. The remaining cotton is on its way to Manchester.’

‘Then we are agreed that we will try the wool and cotton blend first? I know that Ryan was impressed with the quality of Australian merino.’

‘The yarn is high quality, but the Parramatta cloth that is woven in the colony is still low grade.’

The conversation turned to business. Mr Montgomery suggested that they might try balzarine, a blend of half-cotton, half-worsted. The wool could be Australian merino. What did she think? Antonia agreed that it could. Australia was no longer merely an idea. By the summer, Rhia and Laurence would both be there, and the
Mathilda
would be in Calcutta. Without Josiah.

When her guest took his leave, Antonia went in search of Juliette. She found her in her room at the top of the house. ‘Is something the matter, Juliette?’

Juliette turned over in her narrow bed so that she was facing the wall. She didn’t speak. This silent gloom was at least preferable to the weeping gloom. Antonia closed the door quietly. She would ask about the negative later.

 28 April 1841

Rhia,

The negative contains a latent image, but it is impossible to know if it is intact without exposure. I have the necessary apparatus, but the process requires strong light. I’d best not expose it on the deck as I do my other images! There is sufficient light in the middle of the afternoon in my cabin. Of course we must have the permission of Margaret before we attempt a representation. Assure her that the process will not affect the negative, which can be used several times. Let’s bide our time. I will formulate a plan.

I saw Mr Wardell was patrolling the lower deck last night. Perhaps it was he who passed by your cabin?

Affectionately,

Laurence 

30 April 1841

You would not know from Mr Reeve’s drawings that
Matricaria recutita
and
Chicorium intybus
are strains of camomile and chicory. I am starting to think that I should offer to do the drawings myself. Would he be insulted? Do I care? He has been uncharacteristically quiet lately, and I feel him watching me more and more. He is becoming brazen and will occasionally ask me something that is not related to our work, something of Dublin or the trade. Any lingering courtesy or respect for me is long gone but I, too, take more liberties with politeness now. I asked him something about a Jamaican tobacco leaf and I could hardly believe it when his reply was that my uncle’s death must have been unnerving. How much does he know about me? I put the Jamaican tobacco leaf away slowly, taking as much time over it as I could. I kept my attention on the patterns in the leaf, trying to gather my wits. I thought
Nicotiana tabacum
is a more melodic name than
tobacco
. Mr Reeve is hoping that he might discover wild tobacco, you see, or a relative to it, in Australia. If the weed were suitable to the soil and climate of the colony, it would be a significant discovery. It would also be lucrative. He is equally enthusiastic about the mercenary and the botanical. It is not entirely what I would expect from a naturalist, but Mr Reeve is also a social climber. I can tell by the way he boasts about the important people he knows in London. It means nothing to me, I have not heard of any of them. He is foolish and impressionable. As for the commercial merits of the tobacco plant, I remember that you used the solution of tobacco leaves soaked in water as an
insect repellent one wet summer, when the mosquitoes were insatiable. According to the stories circulating below, there are insects in Australia that are larger and more poisonous than those in the jungles of the South Americas. The place sounds more lethal with every new thing I learn.

I had to answer Mr Reeve so I told him that, yes, my uncle’s death
was
unnerving. I felt like saying that the rosehip he’d drawn was almost unrecognisable. Such a simple thing to render, yet he manages to make it ugly and clumsy.

He said that it must be painful to speak of it, and that he had lost a family member himself recently, and that it was an unexpected death, like my uncle’s. I couldn’t keep pretending. I asked how he knew about Ryan. ‘I am not at liberty to say,’ he said airily, but he still looked at me as if I might divulge some confidence. He wants me to trust him and like him, yet he has no idea how to be likeable.

I decided that I was under no obligation to answer his questions and told him that the leaves of the rosehip were wrong. He sighed heavily, as though he was disappointed in me, and put his spectacles back on, saying he was at my disposal, should I need to talk! He is the last person in whom I would confide. He is becoming bold and nosy. However, I enjoy the cataloguing work. It is interesting, and it is the only contact I have with any form of artistry. It is like a long draught of cool water when I am parched with thirst.

I have not unfolded the chintz again, nor picked up the precious pencil that Mr Dillon gave me after my trial. I don’t have the heart to draw and my ink is running low.

Now there is daylight beneath my door. Another day.

Gabardine

Albert was waiting in the cranny ’tween decks, looking at the main deck through the scuttle. It was his lookout post. ‘Mornin’ Mahoney. I’ve a message from your fancy man. Says he’s got a plan to get you away from the weed tomorrow.’ That was Albert’s nickname for the botanist. ‘Think one of them will wed you?’

Rhia rolled her eyes. ‘I’m not the type men wed. I wasn’t before, so it’s even less likely that I would be now, wouldn’t you think?’

‘Wouldn’t be so sure. Quickest way to freedom in Sydney. You’ll see,’ said Albert. ‘Besides, you’re not half bad-looking.’

Rhia laughed and ruffled his hair, which surprised them both.

Below, Margaret was sitting on the edge of her hammock, her feet dangling. She looked awful, but she smiled when Rhia appeared. She had made it as far as this twice in the past week, but as soon as she put her feet on the floor and stood up, it all went bad. Everyone was watching. The mess united in few things, but everyone wanted Margaret back on her feet. She kept the peace and was relentlessly cheerful.

As usual, Jane and Georgina weren’t talking. From their hissing exchange at breakfast, it was now clear that they had both been bedding the sailor they’d had the disagreement about. Roughly half the women were now with seamen. Danger
and disobedience broke the monotony and it was what they were used to anyway. Mr Wardell, in his signature brown gabardine, couldn’t be everywhere at once, so the odds for getting away with it weren’t bad.