The Silk Thief (39 page)

She waited, reaching out with all her senses, looking for the tiniest sign, but there was nothing. Well, then, she’d just have to do this herself. She knocked and when no one came, she went in.

Stopping a girl in a blue uniform, she asked to see the superintendent and was taken to meet matron, who introduced herself as Mrs Duff. Harrie didn’t like her on principle.

‘And you are …?’ Mrs Duff asked.

‘Harriet Clarke.’

‘Delighted to meet you, Mrs Clarke.’

Harrie didn’t bother to correct her. And even though fear of the matron’s potential response was making her dry-mouthed and dizzy, she might as well come right out and say it. ‘I’m here about Charlotte Winter. I’d like to know what it would take for me to adopt her.’

Mrs Duff’s eyebrows went up. ‘She’s a popular little girl, isn’t she?’

‘Yes, I understand my friends Sarah Green and Friday Woolfe have been out to visit.’

‘Indeed. Unfortunately, Miss Woolfe is no longer welcome here. She has proved to be somewhat of a disruptive influence. But that isn’t what I meant. I was alluding to the fact that Mrs Green has already made enquiries into the possibility of adopting Charlotte herself.’

A poison-tipped dagger plunged straight into Harrie’s heart, and she couldn’t stop herself from crying out.

Mrs Duff half rose from her chair. ‘Mrs Clarke, are you all right?’

With one hand pressed over her mouth, Harrie weakly waved away the matron’s concerns with the other. ‘I’m sorry,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s just that … no, I’m fine, thank you.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘Yes, thank you.’

How
could
Sarah? Harrie thought. How could
they
? They knew how much she wanted Charlotte. Had they waited until she was really ill, thinking she wouldn’t know? But why? She couldn’t understand it. Why would they be that cruel to her?

‘Mrs Green was to attempt to locate Charlotte’s father, Lucas Carew,’ Mrs Duff said. ‘However, I’m not sure how far she’s progressed regarding that matter. She and Miss Woolfe were out here the other day, and Mrs Green didn’t mention it.’

‘Lucas Carew?’ Harrie stared at her. Lucas Carew wasn’t Charlotte’s father.

‘Yes. It is Mr Carew’s name entered on Charlotte’s birth certificate.’

Harrie had never seen a birth certificate for Charlotte. Janie must have had it. But for the purposes of adoption, wasn’t it irrelevant who Charlotte’s father had been? ‘Why does the father have to be located?’ she asked.

‘Providing he’s still living, he must be given the opportunity to forfeit all paternal rights to his daughter. I did advise your friends of this.’

‘What if he isn’t living?’

‘Then we’d need to see a death certificate.’

Harrie drew in a deep breath, her belly churning. ‘Mrs Duff, I should tell you that Charlotte’s mother, Rachel Winter, was a very close friend of mine. I was present when she died, when Charlotte was born, and I’m very experienced at caring for children. I can provide references. What if I’d like to adopt Charlotte?’

For a fleeting second, Harrie could hardly believe she was saying such things, that she was competing with Sarah and that the prize was Charlotte. She was suddenly filled with shame, and a surge of self-disgust so bitter and sharp she thought she might be sick. But a moment later it had gone, and all she could think of was Charlotte’s pale, silky-soft skin and the smell of her hair.

‘That would depend, Mrs Clarke, in the first instance, on any response from Charlotte’s father, and in the second, who Reverend Duff and myself consider to be most suitable as guardians — Mr and Mrs Green, or you and your husband.’

Harrie felt herself collapse like a failed soufflé: all of her — her shoulders, her ribs, her hopes, her spirit and her future.

‘May I see her?’ she whispered. Then, to her mortification, she started to cry. She dug around in her reticule for a handkerchief, but couldn’t find one.

Mrs Duff studied her for a moment, then opened a drawer in her desk and passed her a handkerchief with perfect creases ironed into it, stood and tugged on the bell-pull behind her chair. When a girl appeared, Mrs Duff said, ‘Will you kindly bring Charlotte Winter down from the nursery?’

The next few minutes were the longest Harrie could remember. When Charlotte arrived in the girl’s arms, pink-faced and sweaty as though she’d just woken, and wearing a plain white smock and a little cotton bonnet, it was all Harrie could do not to snatch her away and sprint for the door. The moment Charlotte saw Harrie she stretched out her chubby little arms, cried, ‘Hawwie!’ and started to bawl.

‘I do hope that child isn’t developing a speech impediment,’ Mrs Duff said.

Harrie took Charlotte off the girl and hugged her to her chest, pressing the child’s cheek into her own neck and murmuring against the top of her head. Charlotte stopped crying immediately, though Harrie had started again. She walked slowly around Mrs Duff’s office, joggling Charlotte very gently and rubbing her back. Charlotte started up a tuneless humming, apparently content now, her eyes open, one hand gripping Harrie’s collar, the other arm flopping bonelessly.

‘Is she happy here?’ Harrie asked, her voice cracking. She took Charlotte’s bonnet off and smoothed her hair.

‘I believe she’s settling,’ Mrs Duff said. ‘There are other children here just a little older than she is. She’s a bright child. When there are opportunities to join in she does.’

‘Is she eating?’

‘Better than she would have in the Factory. What does your husband do, Mrs Clarke?’

Harrie took a deep breath and forced herself to say it. ‘I’m not married.’

‘Ah. Then I’m afraid we couldn’t possibly consider allowing you to adopt Charlotte. You do understand we have a responsibility to the children under our care here?’

Harrie nodded, unable to speak.

Mrs Duff tactfully busied herself with some papers for the next five minutes while Harrie wandered around cuddling Charlotte, but eventually she announced it was time for the baby to go upstairs. When Harrie gave Charlotte back, she felt as though she were tearing off the deepest of scabs.

She asked Mrs Duff where her driver might have taken the horses for water — the river — said thank you, and saw herself to the door.

Outside, the sunshine almost blinded her. She hadn’t realised how gloomy it had been indoors. If only it was that easy to walk away from her own darkness.

As she trudged down the carriageway towards the river, a figure on horseback emerged from a stand of trees on the far side of the lawn, and trotted towards the orphanage.

Harrie hurried along York Street, stumbling and tripping, so tired she could barely pick up her feet, but going as fast as possible in the hope she’d get home before James. He usually arrived back from the surgery at around six o’clock and she thought, with luck, she might just beat him.

She staggered up the gravel path to the cottage, put her key in the door and pushed it open.

Sitting in the parlour, staring at her grim-faced, were James, Matthew, Friday, Sarah, Leo and Nora. And Angus.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ James exclaimed, springing to his feet.

Harrie’s heart sank so low she felt like she was falling down a hole. ‘Out.’

‘Out where?’

Harrie could see by his face he was angry, but he seemed frightened above all else. She knew this would happen. ‘Parramatta. The orphanage. I had to see Charlotte. I had to.’

‘By yourself?’

She nodded.

‘For God’s sake, Harrie!’

James took two strides forwards, stopped, raised his hands to his head in voiceless frustration and relief, then grabbed her in a ferocious hug, squashing her face against his shoulder.

Friday, Sarah and Nora looked on approvingly, Leo examined the ceiling, and Matthew stared at his hands.

Then, just as quickly, James let her go, perhaps remembering he had an audience. He pecked her on the cheek and stood back, his hands gripping her upper arms.

‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you,’ James said. ‘All day, all of us.’

‘I’m sorry.’

Leo said, ‘You didn’t come to work this morning, lass. I was worried so I closed the shop and went to your man’s surgery and had a talk.’

‘We had a good idea where you might have gone, though,’ Friday said. ‘Didn’t we, Sarah?’

Sarah nodded. ‘Didn’t stop us walking round the cove and checking all the beaches and under the wharves,’ she said crossly.

‘I’m
sorry
,’ Harrie said again.

Nora left her seat, took Harrie’s hand and led her back to the table. ‘Sit down, love. I’ll make another pot of tea.’

James sat, too. ‘Matthew took a day off work to help us look, and so did Mrs Barrett. We’ve been up and down George Street, all round the Rocks, in the market sheds, to Hyde Park twice, everywhere.’

Exhausted, bitterly disappointed about Charlotte, and overwhelmed with guilt at having put everyone out, Harrie gave way to bad temper. ‘Well, what for? Friday just said she knew where I’d gone. You didn’t need to send out a search party. Why not just wait until I came home?’

‘We were worried, Harrie,’ Matthew said. ‘You haven’t been yourself.’

‘Haven’t I? Then who have I been?’

‘Christ knows,’ Friday muttered.

James said, ‘That’s enough. She’s been very ill.’

‘But I’m not ill now, am I?’ Harrie pointed an accusing finger. ‘I’m getting better and I know what you’ve been up to, Sarah Green.’

Sarah looked startled. ‘What?’

‘Don’t pretend you don’t know,’ Harrie said. Was she going to lie about it, even now? ‘Mrs Duff told me.’

‘Told you what?’

‘Harrie, love —’ Nora began, but Harrie ignored her.

‘You tried to get Charlotte!’ she said. ‘You told her you wanted to adopt her! Well, you can’t. She’s mine! Do you hear me? Mine.’

Shocked, everyone stared at her.

Seeing their dismayed and saddened faces, Harrie realised she’d lost control. Horrified, she put her hand over her mouth.

Gently, Friday said, ‘But, Harrie, you wanted Sarah to have Charlotte, remember? You had a go at her when she said she didn’t think she could.’

Harrie nodded, though to be honest she couldn’t remember whether she’d said that or not.

Sarah said, ‘Harrie, listen to me. We did ask Mrs Duff about it the first time we were there, the day we found out Janie and Rosie had died, and I did talk to Adam about whether we might adopt her, but he said no.’ She paused, let out a wobbly sigh, then said, ‘And I feel bloody awful about that because I’m glad. I could have wiped her bum and fed her and cuddled her and all that, but I’m not the one who should be her mother. You are, Harrie, even if you are barmy. Of all of us, you’ve always been the mother.’

‘But I can’t have her!’ Harrie wailed. ‘I’m not …’

She didn’t finish. Everyone was deliberately not looking at James, trying to spare his feelings. She couldn’t face him, either. She couldn’t face any of them. He was her master, she was living under his roof, he’d asked her to marry him, and she’d refused him.

She’d ruined everything.

Christmas Day 1831, Sydney Town

On Christmas morning James and Harrie walked over to St James’s Church in King Street for the ten o’clock service, the first Harrie had attended in months. Being a Sunday, Sydney’s churches were all packed. After they returned home Harrie made eggnog, not particularly nice in the summer heat, and James plied her with embarrassingly expensive gifts, fully aware he was attempting to buy his way to her heart, but beyond caring. He gave her a gorgeous silk and wool Norwich shawl, a solid silver filigree nosegay holder and luxury rose-scented soap. She gave him a Christmas cake she’d baked a few weeks earlier, with ingredients he’d paid for. He also gave her a kiss on the lips — relatively chaste, but still, the closest he’d come to making an outright physical advance. And she let him, because she didn’t have the energy to stop him. Also, she wanted him to, because despite her refusal to accept his proposal of marriage, she loved him. As well, he hadn’t mentioned the money absent from his purse, and she felt guilty. She hoped he hadn’t noticed, but suspected he had, and had chosen to ignore it. Typical James.

Friday, who’d taken advantage of Mrs Hislop’s traditional early closing of the brothel the previous night to go out and get horribly drunk, dragged herself out of bed in a terrible state at eleven o’clock. She’d been sick on her pillow, which she couldn’t remember doing so she must have been asleep — lucky she hadn’t drowned in it. There was spew on the sheets, and on her, and in her hair, and she’d still been dressed but her purse was empty, though she’d gone out with nearly ten pounds. Christ knows what had happened to it. She couldn’t have spent it all on drink. Could she? She looked at the clock and realised she was meant to be at Sarah’s and Adam’s for Christmas dinner at half past one, and couldn’t face it. There’d be too much noise and she couldn’t bear the thought of food. Shuffling downstairs, holding her pounding head, she perched on the bog for fifteen minutes, shitting out of one end and vomiting into a bucket from the other. How many times had she sat in here like this? She cleaned herself up and plodded back to her room. Feeling vile, unloved and desperately lonely, she undressed and went back to sleep.

Elizabeth Hislop, as had been her habit for the past six years, locked herself in her office for the morning with an iced Madeira cake and half a bottle of premium whisky, and wept bitterly as she remembered the love of her life, whose dry and brittle bones lay barely yards beneath her feet.

Sarah and Adam woke reasonably early. Sarah needed to ready the meat for roasting — beef, not the usual mutton — in time to get it into the camp oven over the fire, make dough for several loaves of bread for the second oven, and prepare the vegetables. She’d thought about sending her dough up to the bakehouse, but so, probably, had everyone else, along with their Christmas roasts, and had decided she was more likely to get everything onto the table on time if she did it all herself. Bernard and Ruthie Cole, and Harrie and James, and Friday would also be coming for dinner, and Ruthie was bringing the plum pudding and custard, sugar plums, and something she called a raspberry caudle pie. Harrie was bringing shortbread and crystallised fruit for afterwards, and James the Christmas ‘spirit’. Being thoughtful, he’d already checked with Sarah regarding what meat she planned to serve. Nobody knew what Friday intended to contribute.