The Silk Thief (40 page)

While Sarah worked in the kitchen, Adam wandered happily around the garden in his shirtsleeves with scissors and a folding saw, picking roses, dahlias and, Sarah’s favourite, freesias, for the table. How anyone could have a traditional Christmas while it was so bloody hot, he told Sarah, he didn’t know. How he could have one at all when he was Jewish, she didn’t know. Before their guests arrived, she gave him a beautifully cut and exquisitely tailored coat in black kerseymere with silk lapels, and he gave her a rivière of small but perfectly graded sapphires to match the earrings he’d gifted her on their wedding day.

At the Barrett house the children were up early, in particular Hannah, who was thumping around in the parlour at a quarter past five, though an irate Nora told her to get back into bed and not get out again until at least seven. At eight the whole family went along to morning service at St Philip’s Church, then returned home to prepare for Christmas dinner, which Nora was cooking with Tilly’s help. Nora had forgiven George — barely — even though his selfish behaviour had robbed both her and the children of Harrie’s company and the important role she’d had in the family. Harrie, she hoped, would work with her again soon, but now that she was assigned to James Downey, the children wouldn’t see her anywhere near as often as they’d like. Especially Hannah, who had cried and cried for her and still suggested they visit her several times a day.

Nora knew there’d been more to George dumping Harrie at Liverpool asylum than him simply wanting a servant who wasn’t mentally unstable, and when she’d threatened to leave him, he’d looked terrified, as though he’d really believed her. Which was silly: she could never leave, not if it meant losing her children. But he’d refused to admit what had been upsetting him, no matter how hard she’d tried to winkle it out of him. He was an idiot sometimes, and bad-tempered and selfish, but the children loved him and in his own way he loved them. She could do a lot worse.

Leo spent Christmas morning in bed with Serafina Fortune in her little house on Essex Street. In between episodes of very satisfying sex, Serafina listened patiently to Leo talking about how much he missed Walter and how he hoped he was all right, and how worried he was about Harrie. Serafina, who knew a few things about Harrie, assured him that she would be, eventually, and told him not to worry. She admired the diamond, emerald, amethyst, ruby, sapphire and topaz ‘dearest’ ring he’d given her for Christmas, tilting her hand so it sparkled becomingly in the lamplight, told him again how much she liked it, then rolled onto her belly to expose the Japanese tattoo extending from her shoulders down her very shapely back, over her buttocks and to her knees. It had taken Leo over a year to complete, and he was particularly proud of it. She gave him a stunning piece of scrimshaw — whaling scenes depicted on a flawless sperm whale tooth capped with silver.

Matthew had invited his fiancée, Sally Minto, to Christmas dinner at the home of the Vincents’, the family with whom he boarded, but she’d declined, terrified she’d commit some awful gaffe such as use the wrong knife. Sally was an assigned convict and the Vincents were well-to-do free settlers; she’d be far more comfortable with supper that evening at the table of her employers, who were bakers and ex-convicts, she said, where it wouldn’t matter if she spilt her peas. Matthew could appreciate her point of view, but wondered, and not for the first time, whether in marrying her, he was condemning himself to a life of drinking grog, eating muffins and pickled eggs from street vendors, and singing along to a fiddle and tin whistle in the pub of a night. It was deeply uncharitable of him, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself.

Finally he’d suggested that they go to the Australian for their Christmas dinner, though Sally nervously confessed she found even a smart hotel intimidating, but in the end she’d agreed. Nothing had gone wrong — well, he’d knocked over the bottle of port he’d bought to plug the gaps in their rather stilted conversation — and she’d acquitted herself admirably, he thought, looking very pretty if slightly plump in her best dress. She must be taste-testing a few too many of the macaroons they made at the bakery. He gave her a Norwich shawl, similar to the one James had bought for Harrie, and she presented him with a book by James Fenimore Cooper he hadn’t read yet called
The Water-Witch
, which he thought was a really thoughtful gift. She said she’d gone into the bookseller’s on George Street and asked what was the latest thing from England or America, and James Fenimore Cooper had been recommended. But she’d had to rush off from dinner early, to be at work in time to open for folk who wanted their Christmas meat and loaves cooked, leaving him to sit in the Australian with another bottle of port to drink all by himself. Which he did.

At Sarah and Adam’s, no one was left sitting alone. By the time everyone found a seat, the table was laden with food. Ruthie Cole, as usual, had brought more than just puddings, and there was barely enough room for everything. The floral centrepiece — initially attempted by Adam then rescued by Harrie — had been moved to the sideboard, leaving the table gleaming with silver candlesticks, cutlery, the best cruet set, and two drinking glasses each. Sarah’s roast beef had turned out beautifully, which was gratifying as occasionally her meat dishes were prone to quite spectacular failure. Friday hadn’t arrived, but Sarah expected she wouldn’t be far away. Unless she’d gone out last night and got mashed, in which case she might not turn up at all.

As Adam stood to carve the roast, Sarah glanced at Harrie, wondering if she, too, was recalling the scene the previous April when it had been Jared Gellar doing exactly the same thing, usurping Adam’s place in the house while Adam languished at Port Macquarie. Gellar had got meat juice on his white trousers, and had made some idiotic remark about Sarah laundering them. Harrie gave her a sad little smile, so yes, she must be. Bernard and Ruthie had been there that night, too, and Friday, and they’d all gone to great lengths to scare the crap out of Gellar by convincing him that Rachel’s ghost was haunting the house. Harrie had ‘summoned’ her, and had done an extraordinary job of acting as though she really were talking to an invisible ghostly presence.

Adam announced, ‘Plates, please,’ and served the sliced beef.

The vegetables were passed around next, then Ruthie’s spring tart, followed by the meat sauce, and James went around with the wine pretending to be a waiter, except that Harrie said she would rather have lemonade.

Then Bernard stood to make a toast. Raising his glass in a chubby hand, he said, ‘Here’s to folk we’re really quite happy aren’t with us any more.’

Sarah laughed. So he was remembering, too.

Then James said solemnly, ‘And here’s to those we wish still were.’ He gazed down at Harrie. ‘Rachel Winter, and Janie Braine and her daughter Rosie.’

He looked sad, and Sarah suspected he might also have wanted to say, and my late wife, Emily, but hadn’t, because of Harrie. Which was very thoughtful of him.

Then it was Adam’s turn. ‘And here’s to the coming year. May it be a lot less eventful than this one was.’

They all went, ‘Hear, hear!’ and drank.

And then they ate. Sarah was already feeling stuffed as she brought the puddings to the table, but had some raspberry caudle pie — which was delicious — and two sugar plums anyway, and then felt positively bilious. Clearly, so did everyone else, except perhaps for Harrie, who only pecked at her food. She spied both Adam and James surreptitiously undoing the buttons on their trousers, and Bernard, whose belly bulged over his waistband at the best of times, let out a belch so hearty it almost extinguished the candles.

‘I wish Friday was here,’ Harrie said.

Sarah said, ‘So do I.’

Blotting his mouth with a napkin, James asked, ‘Where is she?’

‘Probably in bed with the horrors,’ Sarah said. ‘They don’t work late on Christmas Eve. No doubt she went out. I might just pop down and see if I can rouse her. I could do with a quick walk. I’m stuffed. Do you mind?’ she asked Adam as she pushed back her chair.

‘You won’t be long, will you?’

‘Shouldn’t think so.’

He rose and pecked her on the cheek. ‘Just don’t expect any sugar plums to be left when you get back.’

Sarah grabbed her reticule. ‘Couldn’t manage them if they were. I’ll be back soon, I promise. Come on, girl,’ she said to Clifford, who was hiding under the table gobbling a lump of plum pudding Bernard had deliberately dropped to her. Candied peel, which she’d spat out, and crumbs were scattered all over the floor. ‘Oh, no, who gave her that?’

Silence.

Then Ruthie said, ‘Oh dear, that had rather a lot of prunes in it.’

Sarah dragged Clifford out and scooped her up. She blinked, custard stuck on her snout. ‘She can’t have cakey things. Sugar makes her even more bad-tempered. And that’s got brandy in it. Where’s her lead, Adam?’

Clifford barked and snapped at passers-by all the way down George Street, so Sarah left her tied up in the shade of the Siren’s Arms stables.

Inside, she met Elizabeth Hislop on the stairs. ‘Is that your dog making all that noise?’

‘Yes, sorry. She’s a bit over-excited. Someone gave her plum pudding.’

‘Oh dear. I hope it hasn’t eaten the sixpence.’

Sarah hadn’t considered that. ‘Is Friday in?’

Elizabeth sighed. ‘She’s in her room, sleeping off last night. I despair of her, I really do.’

‘She was supposed to be having Christmas dinner with us. I was hoping I might get her out of bed.’

‘Good luck,’ Elizabeth said as she continued down the stairs.

Sarah knocked on Friday’s door. When there was no response she pushed, found the door open and went in. The drapes were drawn, the room, stiflingly hot, reeked, and clothes were strewn all over the floor.

‘Friday, wake up.’

The lump in the bed stirred and mumbled. All Sarah could see was a mass of copper hair sticking out from beneath the sheet. The pillow was on the floor, a disgusting, lumpy, brownish-yellow stain across it, beside a tray on which sat a pair of teapots. There was an empty teacup on the nightstand, next to a flask of gin with its cork out. She bent to feel the teapots. Both were almost empty, but still faintly warm. At least she’d had something to drink.

‘Friday, it’s Sarah. Wake up!’

‘Go away.’

‘No. Wake up.’

‘No.’

Sarah grasped the sheet and yanked it off. Friday was naked, curled on her side. Her hand flew up to hide her eyes.

‘Bugger off.’

‘No. It’s Christmas, Friday. You were supposed to come to my house.’

‘Shut that bloody dog up.’

‘I’ll bring her in here if you don’t get up,’ Sarah threatened.

‘I can’t. I’m sick.’

‘You mean you’ve got the horrors. Now sit up, come on.’

‘I can’t. My head hurts.’

‘Have you got any laudanum?’

Friday waved an arm vaguely in the direction of the dressing table. Sarah looked in the drawer, found the bottle and twisted the cork out of the neck, producing a sharp, high-pitched squeak that made Friday flinch and hunch her shoulders. She raised her hand to receive the bottle, but Sarah withheld it.

‘Not until you sit up.’

‘Fuck’s sake,’ Friday muttered as she crawled laboriously up the bed and turned over, her back against the bedhead. ‘Where’s my pillow?’

‘You’ve spewed on it.’ Sarah fetched her the cushion from the dressing table chair, and gave her the laudanum. Friday took several sips, and chased them with a long swallow of gin. And then another. Then she pulled the sheet up over herself.

‘And your hair looks like rats are living in it,’ Sarah added.

Friday sighed, but said nothing.

‘Honestly, Friday, what are you doing?’ Sarah asked, her hands on her hips. ‘This is killing you. And if it doesn’t, it might as well, because in a couple of years your looks’ll be gone, and so will all your money.’

‘I don’t care.’

‘Yes, you do.’

‘I don’t.’

Sarah opened the window, leant out and shouted, ‘Clifford! Shut up!’ She turned back to Friday. ‘You do care. Is it because of Aria?’

Friday said nothing. She took another swig of gin.

Sarah said, ‘Look, I know it is.’

‘I really loved her,’ Friday said at last. ‘I
really
loved her. I do love her. And every time I think about not seeing her ever again, I feel like dying.’

Sarah thought that sounded a bit dramatic, but when she considered the awful, yearning desperation she’d felt when she’d imagined Adam never coming back from Port Macquarie, perhaps it wasn’t.

‘Well, maybe this’ll cheer you up,’ she said, passing her Aria’s cloth-wrapped package from her reticule.

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t know, do I? It’s not for me, it’s for you. It’s from Aria.’

Her mouth open so that she resembled a startled, pasty-faced fish, Friday looked from the parcel, to Sarah, and back again to the parcel. ‘Did she send it by post?’

‘No, she left it with me before she went back to New Zealand.’

‘With you?’

‘Yes,’ Sarah said with exaggerated patience. ‘She asked me to give it to you, today. From her. But you didn’t turn up, did you?’

Friday turned the parcel over in her hands. It was oblong and wrapped in a very fine cream linen handkerchief, and secured with a length of lilac satin ribbon. She squeezed gently — whatever was inside was flattish, and mostly hard.

‘Are you going to open it, or just play with it?’ Sarah asked. A thought occurred to her. ‘Do you want some privacy?’

‘No. Stay.’

Friday pulled on the satin ribbon and the bow unravelled. She put the ribbon aside — to save, Sarah suspected — and unfolded the linen. Inside was a sealed letter, and a very beautiful hair comb made of ivory or bone, Sarah couldn’t tell which without a closer look, decorated with intricate carving and inset with a disc of purple-blue abalone shell. With it were two feathers about eight inches long, glossy black tinged with green, with white tips.

‘This is her comb,’ Friday said, pressing it against her lips and blinking hard. ‘She was wearing it the first time I saw her.’

‘What do the feathers mean?’