The Silk Thief (11 page)

And neither did she like the Englishman, John Sharkey, the last to be introduced. Barely glancing up from his tankard of ale, he was missing several teeth, had a scar that ran from his temple to his jaw and wore his red-brown hair raggedly short, a thick gold hoop in each ear and a sullen expression.

Harrie thought they looked a pack of absolute pirates.

‘Fancy a drink, my love?’ Mick asked.

‘I’m sorry, I don’t drink,’ Harrie said.

Mick was aghast. ‘Ah, you do so. Everyone drinks!’

Harrie shook her head. ‘Really, I don’t.’

Mick slid his arm around her waist. ‘My love, come on. Just a small one? What do you fancy?’

Not wanting to make a fuss by continuing to refuse, she gave in and asked for a glass of wine. It had rendered her extremely drunk last time, but at least she knew what it tasted like. And she could nurse one glass all evening.

‘Wine!’ Mick laughed. ‘You’ll be lucky to find that here.’

But off he went to see what he could do. Harrie sat on the bench next to Pierre, whom she thought seemed the least threatening of Mick’s mates.

‘You have known Mick long, Mademoiselle Clarke?’ he asked in a heavy French accent.

‘No, not really.’

‘Then run for your life while you still can,’ the one named Sharkey said, and roared with laughter.

Harrie ignored him. ‘Excuse me, but where exactly is Acadia? I’m not sure I’ve heard of it.’

‘Ah, well, that is because she is not really a place, not any more. She is …’ Pierre gripped his chin with his thumb and forefinger and stared at the ceiling, apparently searching for inspiration. Abruptly, he tapped his head. ‘In these days, she is something we carry in here. The bayou — now she is a real place. You have heard of Louisiana?’

‘Oh, in America?’

‘Oui! What an educated mademoiselle you must be!’

Mick returned and insinuated himself between her and Pierre. Harrie looked at the drink her gave her, a tumbler filled with amber liquid.

‘Is this wine?’

Mick shook his head. ‘Brandy. A good drop, though.’

Harrie sniffed it, and took a tentative sip. The liquid burnt her tongue and throat, but within seconds she felt a pleasant, calming warmth spread through her chest. She took a bigger drink — a gulp, in fact, hoping the alcohol would steady her nerves.

Twenty minutes later she noticed her glass was empty. Mick, who was being absolutely charming and very, very attentive to her, got her another one. When he returned with it, he slid his arm comfortably around her waist, gently but sensuously kneading the flesh over her hip. Everything he said was so funny, and she laughed at his witty comments until her eyes streamed. James wasn’t funny, she reflected between giggles. James was always so very serious. And James would never dare show his affection for her in public like this. But that was because James didn’t have any affection for her — he’d squandered it all on that slag Rowie Harris. Suddenly, Harrie’s excellent mood evaporated.

‘My love,’ Mick said, tapping her bottom lip with his finger. ‘Where’s that beautiful smile gone?’

‘I drank it,’ Harrie said, and held out her tumbler.

By the time she’d had four more glasses of brandy, everything was getting very disjointed. Someone said, ‘That’s enough, Mick.’ It might have been the one they called the captain but she wasn’t sure. The mean one, with the scar, kept leering at her and laughing. She really didn’t like him. And when Mick was getting her another drink Pierre offered to escort her home, but she didn’t want to go home, she was having a good time.

She was bursting for a wee, though. There must be a privy somewhere. She swivelled sideways on the bench and raised a leg to climb over it, stood, lifted the other leg, got tangled in her skirts and had a horrible, profoundly disconcerting moment as the floor hurtled up to meet her.

Mick and Pierre picked her up. Someone else cackled with laughter.

‘Fresh air,’ Harrie said as she swatted at her skirts.

‘It’s out the back,’ the one with the long plaits said. ‘Go with her, Mick.’

‘No!’ Harrie pushed him away.

And then she was outside in the cold. She staggered round and round past piles of barrels and crates, the pressure on her bladder worsening by the second, but couldn’t find anything that looked like a privy, so she lifted her skirts and squatted by a wall, almost weeping with relief. And after that she couldn’t find her way back into the pub. Finally, she followed an alleyway and found herself out on Gloucester Street near the St Patrick’s front door. A part of her knew she should just keep walking and go home, which was only just up the street, but she’d left her reticule and bonnet inside. And Mick was still there — Mick, who made her feel attractive and special and wanted. So she went back in, the noise and heat and smoke hitting her like a slap in the face.

There was another tumbler of brandy on the table, waiting for her.

And then it was just her and Mick outside and she could barely stand up. He was kissing her and his mouth was soft and lovely but a bit beery and he smelt of fresh sweat. He said he loved her. His hands on her skin were so very warm, a cat was yowling somewhere, and her skirts were in the way and there was a quick, sharp pain. And then she was being sick, and sprawled on the stairs at home, and Nora Barrett was in her nightdress telling her to get up to her room right now.

And then, while she was on her knees over the po being sick a second time, Rachel came, sitting in her favourite spot in the chair beneath the eaves, rocking slowly, her luminous eyes filled with empathy and love. And everything was all right.

While Harrie had been getting drunk at the St Patrick’s Inn with Mick Doyle, James Downey was having dinner at the Australian Hotel with Matthew Cutler. Having become friends on the
Isla
during the voyage out from England in 1829, they’d been meeting there more or less every fortnight since. They rarely saw each other beyond the confines of the Australian, though Sarah and Adam Green’s wedding had been one such occasion. At thirty-two James was barely five years older than Matthew, but, in Matthew’s opinion, he behaved as though the difference were closer to twenty years, insisting he was too busy with his work as a doctor to attend most social events or entertainments. Not that Matthew made regular appearances on Sydney’s social circuit himself: he was only a junior in the office of the Colonial Architect and as such not likely to be invited to the town’s smarter soirees. Lately, though, he’d been out and about more, squiring Sally Minto.

‘Not popped the question yet?’ James enquired bluntly as he pushed his plate away.

‘Sally? No, not yet.’ Matthew stifled a sigh. James asked the same thing almost every time they had dinner together and it was beginning to get on his nerves. He always knew what would come next.

‘What’s stopping you?’

‘The time’s not been right.’ Sally Minto was a nice girl — sweet and attractive and fun (usually) — but for Matthew, the time to ask her could only ever be when there was not a shred of doubt left in his mind about Harrie Clarke’s availability.

‘You said that in May. And last month.’

Matthew dabbed at his mouth with a napkin. ‘No, I didn’t.’

‘Yes, you did.’

‘You’ve been irritable all night, James. What’s wrong?’

James poured himself a third glass of red wine, which was out of character. Matthew frowned.

‘Several things, actually, if you must know. My servant has disappeared, God only knows where, and moments after I made that somewhat inconvenient and irritating discovery, Harrie arrived at my house accusing me of something of which I have no knowledge, because she wouldn’t actually tell me what my crime is supposed to be. Then she slapped my face and hared off down the street!’

‘Really?’ Matthew didn’t think that sounded like Harrie at all. She was normally such a gentle sort of girl.

‘Yes, really.’

‘Well, did you hare off after her?’

‘No, I did not.’

‘Why the hell not?’ Matthew asked.

James stared at him as though he were mad. ‘Because … well, I’m a doctor. It’s not the sort of thing one should be seen doing, is it, running down the street after a girl?’

‘Have you been around to the Barretts’ to see her since?’

‘No. She struck me, Matthew.’

‘She might have thought she had good reason.’ And Matthew knew exactly how to find out what it was — he’d ask Friday the next time she gave him money to be put into the girls’ bank account, which he’d opened under his name. They couldn’t open one because women weren’t allowed them.

‘What good reason?’ James asked. ‘What have I done?’

‘Well, you’d know if you’d bothered to run after her, wouldn’t you?’ Matthew pushed his own plate aside. ‘And why didn’t you tell me all this when we sat down?’

‘I don’t know. It’s not the done thing, is it, pouring out one’s woes before the soup course has even been served?’

‘Do you know, James, you’re one of the most stubborn people I’ve ever met. Go and sort it out. And I don’t know why I’m saying this. I should be delighted Harrie’s slapped your face. Go on, go and talk to her.’

James’s expression was grim. ‘No. Not this time. I’ve decided I do have limits. And anyway, Matthew, I’m not sure it’s any of your business.’

Chapter Five

August 1831, Sydney Town

A little over three weeks later Harrie lay in bed. The sky through her attic window had turned faintly pink and the first of the morning’s birds had begun their sweet, and not so sweet, calls, sending Angus the cat’s ears into fits of twitching. These days, the sound filled her with a deep, grinding dread. It was almost six o’clock: the Barretts would be awake soon and she should be getting their breakfast on the table. She told herself she must get up, but just couldn’t, as though her arms and legs were completely disconnected from the rest of her. She lay rigid, a tear trickling from her left eye down her temple and into her hair.

Angus yawned, stretched, jumped off the bed and scratched at the door. He’d wee on the rug again if she didn’t let him out.

Harrie closed her eyes. On the count of five, she’d make a massive effort, roll over and sit up.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five.

Oh God.

One. Two. Three. Four. Five! And at last she was up. She sat with her legs hanging over the side of the bed, staring at her bare feet. They looked thin and white, like strange little sea creatures. Like someone else’s feet.

Angus scratched again.

She stood, grasped the nightstand as a wave of dizziness washed over her, then opened the door. His sleek tail flicked across her bare ankle as he trotted out onto the landing.

And then the sick feeling welled up, followed by a mouthful of spit and a sharp pressure under her diaphragm. She tucked her hair behind her ears and reached under the bed for the po, just in time to catch the rush of vomit. She rinsed out her mouth with water, spat into the po and emptied it all out the window onto the roof. Bird breakfast.

She peered into her looking glass. She didn’t look any different, except for the shadows under her eyes. She was, though. Normally very regular, this month her courses were a week late. She was expecting.

But she’d known that even before she’d missed. She’d been nine years old when her mother had fallen with her stepbrother Robbie — and even older when her stepsisters Sophie and Anna had arrived — so she was more than familiar with the signs of pregnancy. Her mother had been sick very early too — almost from the day she’d caught.

And though she couldn’t remember everything that had happened that night at the St Patrick’s Inn and on the way home, she was pretty sure she knew what she’d let Mick Doyle do to her. She’d been sore down there and had bled a little the next morning, and, well, she could remember what he’d felt like. She thought she could remember something else, too.

He’d never called her by her given name. He’d never called her Harrie.

James did. James had been calling her Harrie for a long time.

But perhaps she’d just forgotten what Mick had called her. She’d been very drunk. Again. How she’d behaved disgusted her, but she expected no better of herself, not any more. And now she would pay the same price as all the other girls who did what she’d done.

A gentle knock came. ‘Harrie? Are you up?’

Harrie opened the door to see Nora Barrett holding Lewis. In his sleeping gown and cap — as was Nora — he was wriggling and waving his arms and looked grumpy and dribbly, his face red, the result of teething.

‘I won’t be a minute. I’m just getting dressed,’ Harrie said.

Nora wrinkled her nose. ‘Have you been ill?’

Harrie nodded. ‘I must have eaten something yesterday.’

‘Do you need another hour in bed? I’m up now, I can get the breakfast.’

‘No, really, I’m all right. Thank you. Did you want something?’

Harrie felt profoundly guilty. Although Nora had given her an earwigging the morning after she’d come home drunk, she’d not told Mr Barrett and hadn’t mentioned it since, which Harrie thought was extremely decent of her, given that it was the second time she’d arrived home drunk and covered in sick. And now here she was, demonstrating her gratitude by getting pregnant to a man she barely knew, like a common tart.

‘I can’t find the laudanum,’ Nora said. ‘I need it for Lewis’s gums.’

‘I put it in the blue and white willow jar on the mantel. I found Hannah helping herself the other day.’

Lewis started to grizzle and Nora joggled him. ‘Harrie?’

‘Yes?’

‘There’s nothing you want to tell me, is there?’

For a second Harrie was very tempted to confess her awful predicament, but embarrassment and shame overwhelmed her and she shook her head.

‘Hello, dear.’ Biddy Doyle wiped her hands on her apron and called over her shoulder, ‘Put the kettle on, Maureen, there’s a good lass!’

‘Not on my account, thank you, Mrs Doyle,’ Harrie said. ‘I can’t stop. I was just wondering whether Mick was home.’

‘Mick? Sorry, love, he’s gone back to sea.’

‘Has he? When, exactly?’ In an odd way Harrie felt relieved: at least that explained why he hadn’t made any effort to see her since the night at the pub. On the other hand it meant she couldn’t expect any help from him. But what sort of help had she thought she might get?