She cast her eyes more widely and the nice feeling instantly disappeared; there, in the top row of the gallery, sat Bella Shand and Louisa Coutts. Bella, her face pale against the deep green of her high-necked gown, smiled unpleasantly, raised a hand and slowly ran a long-nailed finger across her throat. Normally Friday would have retaliated with a gesture of her own, but today she just couldn’t summon the energy. Let the bitch sit there and gloat. She held Bella’s gaze for no more than a second, then looked away.

  Below her sat the counsel for the prosecution. The Clerk of the Court had a small desk of his own, and in rows on either side were various folk, including police and scribes from the newspapers. Opposite, Bloodworth presided in his elevated perch. Today the jury bench was empty, indicating that no capital or very serious crimes were to be tried.

  The clerk stood and read out the charges, which were public nuisance, public drunkenness, violent and riotous behaviour, damage to property, assault of two women, and assault of a constable. Two women? Friday vaguely recalled having a go at Rowie Harris, but who had the other person been? She had no memory of biting the policeman, either. She must ask Molly what had happened to Rowie. Their business wasn’t finished.

  Counsel for the prosecution called the bitten policeman to the witness box. The constable from the Harrington Street watch house stepped up, his arm suspended in a sling and heavily bandaged from fingers to elbow.

  Someone — a woman — shouted from the gallery, ‘Charlatan! Shame!’

  The questioning began, and Friday lost interest. She had no idea whether the constable was lying or not. She did, however, notice when a nondescript person rose from a side bench and passed a note to the Clerk of the Court, then left the courtroom. The counsel stopped his questioning as the clerk handed the note to the magistrate.

  ‘You may continue,’ the magistrate said.

  The counsel did, even though it was obvious Bloodworth wasn’t listening, too busy cracking the seal on the note. After a moment he folded it and slipped the single sheet inside his robe.

  Two male witnesses from the Fortune of War were called, though, to Friday’s faint surprise, neither Rowie Harris nor the other woman she was supposed to have assaulted made an appearance.

  Finally, the magistrate said, ‘Friday Woolfe, do you have anything to say in your own defence?’

  ‘No.’

  A few badly stifled groans of dismay came from the gallery.

  There was a short, puzzled silence. Bloodworth said, ‘Nothing at all?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Could the truth be that you were grievously provoked by the two women you are alleged to have assaulted?’

  ‘I really can’t remember.’ Why didn’t the silly old shite just hurry up and sentence her?

  ‘Perhaps you feared for your life and it was a matter of self-defence?’

  ‘Look, I just don’t know. I was drunk!’

  ‘Hmm.’ Bloodworth glanced down at his notes. ‘Then in that case, I find the defendant not guilty.’

  The entire courtroom was utterly quiet for a moment, then the gallery burst into applause, though there was also a grumble of muttered confusion.

  Fully resigned to going back to the Factory or even gaol, Friday’s heart was halfway down to her boots before she realised what he’d said. Not guilty? That couldn’t be right. She glanced uncomprehendingly at the court staff constable.

  His face was impassive as he opened the gate to the dock, and gestured for her to present her manacled wrists. ‘You’re free to go.’ She stuck out her hands. He clicked the key into the lock and the manacles fell away. ‘Out that way, not through the front door,’ he ordered.

  Feeling extremely odd, she wandered off in the direction he’d indicated, down another corridor, and outside into the bright sunshine. Nearby was a gate — a guard opened it, and she was out onto George Street, free.

  Chapter Ten

  October 1831, Southern Ocean

  Malcolm Leary had been bored shitless for the past eight weeks, and was almost wishing he’d paid for a passage in steerage rather than a cabin all to himself. At least then he’d have the company of other men to help pass the time. He’d brought two books with him — Confessions of an English Opium-Eater by Thomas De Quincey, an inebriate, which had turned out to be bloody boring, and The Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner, written anonymously and which he’d thought would be about sex but was instead a whole lot of shite about religion, though there was an all right bit about a murder. He was a very slow and hesitant reader — and the first to admit it — but he was that bored he’d persevered and read them from cover to cover.

  The food was all right, better than he’d ever got as a crewman, but the price he had to pay for eating it was the expectation that he’d dine at the captain’s table, which was a pain in the arse. The other cabin passengers didn’t seem to like him, and he knew why, too — they thought he was rough. Well, he was, and he didn’t care. If he wanted to pick his nose or eat off his knife or scratch his balls, he would. He was paying. Sometimes now, though, he took his meals in his cabin, but that only made him feel even more bored and isolated, so he made a point of dining with the rest of them at least three times a week, just to stop himself going mad.

  They were in the Southern Ocean now; the westerlies at this time of year had dropped into the high forties and the captain was holding the ship just above the forty-five degree line, so the weather wasn’t too vicious. You’d think it was end of days, though, the way the passengers — steerage and cabin — were bleating on. On a few occasions when the captain had dipped below forty-five and things had got a bit hectic, he’d offered to lend a hand on deck. He hadn’t even asked for a fee. The captain was running the crew shorthanded, cheap bastard, and hadn’t been in a position to say no. That had been marvellous, like the old days before he’d had to retire. He’d lost a fair amount of fettle since then, though, and gained a bit of extra weight. Too much time spent on his arse in Liverpool. By the time he’d come down from the rigging the second time he’d helped out, he was short of breath, dizzy and had a Godawful pain in his side, like you got if you ran for too long, but it went away after a while.

  By his estimations they should be off the coast of New South Wales in four or five weeks, depending on the wind. Not long to go now. And when they docked, the first thing he was going to do was buy himself as much rum as he could drink, then a woman, then find Jonah, and together they’d hunt down the foul Bennett.

  Friday, Hazel, Sophie, Lou, Vivien and Connie — in fact, the whole afternoon shift — sat in the parlour, staring at Elizabeth in shock.

  ‘Are they sure?’ Friday asked, her voice hoarse with dismay.

  Elizabeth blew her nose into a lace handkerchief. ‘I’m sorry, Friday, I really am. Someone on the shore said they’d seen her quite often in the bar here, and a constable came around asking. I went to the undertaker’s and identified her myself. I said she worked for me in the hotel.’

  ‘But how did she end up in the sea?’ Hazel wailed.

  ‘Apparently some articles of clothing were found on the end of King’s Wharf last Thursday. Boots and a skirt. Molly was only wearing her shift and bodice when she washed up. The constable thinks she went for a late-night swim. He wanted to know if she was fond of a drink. I … well, I had to tell him she was.’

  ‘She must have gone in on the way home from the Fortune of War,’ Friday said. ‘Jesus. Bloody hell.’

  Elizabeth gave her a pointed look. ‘Yes, it’s a shocking and very upsetting tragedy, but let it be a lesson to all of you.’

  Connie gasped. ‘She’ll be buried in a pauper’s grave! Oh, that’s awful! Or was she in a burial club?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter,’ Elizabeth said. ‘I’ve paid for a good cherrywood coffin with plate and ornaments, a hearse and one, two coachmen, bearers, an attendant, and a plot at Devonshire Street cemetery. She was Church of England, wasn’t she?’

  Everyone looked at one another.

  ‘Well, she is now,’ Elizabeth said.

  ‘No mutes?’ Vivien asked.

  ‘No mutes.’

  ‘That’s very generous of you,’ Lou remarked.

  Elizabeth said, ‘Yes, well, she did work for me. She deserves a decent send-off. And as she sadly won’t need her room any more, I’ve asked Jack to clear it out and put her things in the storeroom in case her family cares to collect them.’

  ‘She didn’t have a family here,’ Hazel said.

  ‘Well, perhaps a friend, then,’ Elizabeth said. ‘It wouldn’t be right to just throw them out, would it? Friday, can I see you in my office, please?’

  Friday followed her, and sat down as Elizabeth closed her office door. ‘Is this still about Molly?’

  ‘No, it isn’t. Have you not wondered how you were found not guilty the other day in court? That was quite an extraordinary verdict, you know.’

  ‘’Course I’ve wondered. I still can’t remember most of what I did that night, but I must have really gone to town.’

  ‘Clearly.’ Elizabeth opened a drawer in her desk and took out a letter. ‘This arrived this morning. It’s for you.’

  Friday froze. Oh God, she thought, not another bloody demand from Bella Shand. Not now. ‘Who’s it from?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’m not in the habit of opening correspondence that isn’t addressed to me. But I am wondering if it might have something to do with the magistrate’s decision.’

  Friday took the letter. Her name was written on the front in a large, flowery hand; on the back were the words, From an Avid Admirer. She broke the seal, opened the single sheet and read.

  My Most Charming Miss Woolfe

  I have had the greatest of pleasures to be a Client of yours several times. I was in the Gallery on Thursday to witness your most Unfortunate appearance in Court. It almost broke my Heart seeing you in the Dock, manacled like a jewelled Butterfly pinned to a piece of card.

  As I simply could not bear the Notion of your fine, strapping, indeed wondrous, Personage languishing in some filthy, dark Gaol cell for months — if not years! — I made Clement Bloodworth an offer I knew His Crooked Worship would not be able to refuse. And he did not. My Heart soared when you were declared Not Guilty!

  But may I suggest that one Good Deed very often leads to another? I would be delighted if, one day soon, you would consider visiting me at my Home. I will be in touch when the time is right.

  Your Most Fervent Admirer

  L

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Friday said.

  ‘What?’

  Friday passed the letter to Elizabeth, who quickly read it.

  ‘It could be worse, you know,’ she said. ‘God knows how much he bribed Bloodworth. Those weren’t exactly petty misdemeanours. It would have taken a lot to get him to so blatantly declare you not guilty.’

  ‘Yes, but what am I going to have to do to pay him back? He could be a complete lunatic! And at his house!’

  ‘Don’t be silly. Take Jack. He can wait outside. And Friday, really, anything must be better than time spent in gaol or breaking rocks at the Factory? Be reasonable. It’s a small price to pay, surely?’

  ‘Easy for you to say.’

  ‘No, it isn’t easy for me to say. But I don’t think you realise how bloody lightly you’re getting off. People die in that gaol down the street. And they’re hanged for not much more than what you did,’ Elizabeth said, and burst into tears.

  Friday didn’t know what to say.

  When Harrie returned home from her morning session with Leo, she found she’d also received a letter. Nora told her she’d paid for it, and had left it on her bed.

  Harrie hurried up to her attic room, sat in the rocking chair under the eaves, and picked at the seal, already cracked. The wax was cheap and came away easily. She knew who the letter was from and was desperately looking forward to reading it. It was only one page.

  9 July 1831

  Our Deer Sister Harrie,

  I have very bad News. Our poor Mother has Died. She Died on the Secend day of July. We could not aford to Bury her, so she is in a Paupers grave. I am sorry, Harrie. We had to find somwhere else to live. Now we have a room in St Giles with two other famlies. Anna is helping Robbie with his barow at Covent Garden, and I am taking in extra sewing. With luck, we will keep out of the Workhouse. The money you send is a big help. We miss you, Harrie.

  All Our Love,

  Sophie and Robbie and Anna

  Her mouth open in a silent cry of anguish, Harrie slowly slumped forwards until her forehead touched her knees. Her lungs had locked closed and the pain in her chest was monstrous. Finally she managed to draw in a reedy, whistling breath.

  ‘Rachel!’ she gasped. ‘Oh, Rachel, help me!’

  Presently, a small, cold hand began to stroke her hair.

  Harrie was inconsolable. When Nora discovered what had happened, she sent Abigail to fetch Friday. But it didn’t matter what Friday, or Sarah, or Leo, said or did, Harrie wouldn’t come out of her room for three days. George told Nora he was of a bloody good mind to send Harrie back to the Factory and replace her altogether — with someone reliable and not prone to fits of barminess. Nora told him that would be over her dead body: George stomped off to the pub in a foul mood. Friday told Matthew on the way to the bank about Harrie’s news, and Matthew passed it on to James. Forgetting that he had limits and was no longer of a mind to pursue her, James went straight around to the Barretts’, demanding to see Harrie, but, at Harrie’s instruction, Nora reluctantly sent him away.

  On the fourth day, Harrie came out of her room and resumed her duties both with the Barretts and Leo, but wouldn’t — or couldn’t — smile, and barely spoke. Hannah, normally such a troublemaker, almost turned herself inside out acting the goat in an effort to make her laugh, but nothing worked, leaving Hannah in tears. Harrie was also very distant, and made uncharacteristic mistakes in the house — burning the supper, putting things away in the wrong place (a leg of mutton in the linen cupboard instead of the meat safe), forgetting why she’d gone down to the kitchen — and, most disturbing of all, answered questions no one had asked. And she was barely eating. Nora was beside herself. Harrie had been behaving oddly before, but her unhinged conduct was reaching new levels.

  Sarah and Friday decided that a trip out to the Factory to see Janie and the children would cheer her up. At the very least, they hoped the change of scenery might do something to jolt her out of her strange state. But she refused to go, saying she couldn’t face the journey, which was completely out of character. Usually she was desperate to visit Charlotte, Janie and Rosie.

  Friday and Sarah went anyway. Elizabeth lent Friday her carriage once again, and early on Sunday morning she and Sarah set out for Parramatta. The weather was good, warm but not too hot, though clouds to the far west suggested there might be rain later in the day. In a basket on the seat was the usual stash of contraband for Janie, including the two pretty, lace-trimmed cotton shifts Harrie had made for her after their last visit.

  The trip out was uneventful, except for the usual stops to water the horses. Even Clifford behaved, sleeping most of the way. By the time they arrived at Parramatta it really was quite warm. Jack drew the carriage to a halt outside the Factory gates. Squinting in the sun, Sarah climbed down, Clifford under her arm, set her on the ground and attached a lead to her collar. Clifford hated her lead and shook her head violently, making the exercise as difficult as possible.

  ‘Stop that,’ Sarah said. ‘It’s for your own good.’ Though it wasn’t: it was for the good of everyone who came within five feet of her.

  Cursing, she finally succeeded, looped the lead over her wrist and crossed to the gates in the high outer wall. The porter opened the wicket as soon as she banged on it, which was unusual.

  Peering at her, he said, ‘Not a good day for visitin’.’

  ‘Why not? It’s Sunday.’

  He shook his head, making his bristly jowls wobble. ‘Got sickness here. Come back another day.’

  ‘What sort of sickness?’

  ‘The bloody flux.’

  Sarah swore.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Friday asked, just in time to hear her.

  ‘There’s dysentery in the Factory,’ Sarah explained.

  Friday heaved out a sigh of frustration. ‘Well, I’m going in. I want to see Janie. I didn’t come all this way for nothing.’

  The porter shrugged. ‘Be it on your own heads.’

  ‘Tell Jack to wait,’ Sarah said. ‘In case we can’t stay.’

  Friday returned to the carriage and said to Jack in the driver’s seat, ‘The porter says there’s flux in the Factory and not to go in. Bugger him, but can you wait fifteen minutes, just in case?’

  Jack said, ‘Rather you than me.’ He draped the reins over the footboard, planted his boot on them, and dug around in his pocket for his pipe fixings.

  The porter let Friday and Sarah through the wicket, forgetting, or perhaps too distracted, to demand payment for ignoring their contraband. They were halfway to the inner gates when Clifford suddenly lay down, her nose on her front paws.

  Sarah gave the lead a gentle tug. ‘Get up, girl.’

  Clifford wouldn’t budge.

  Sarah pulled harder. Clifford slid along the ground, her back legs trailing in the dirt. Friday laughed.

  Sarah didn’t. ‘Come on, you hairy little sluggard. Oh, for God’s sake.’ She grabbed Clifford, jammed her under her arm, marched across to the inner gates, and knocked loudly.

  Gladys the portress flipped open the viewing slot, peeped through, and immediately burst into noisy tears. Friday and Sarah looked at each other, mystified. The cover on the slot flapped shut, and the door within the gate opened wide.

  ‘Oh, me dears!’ Gladys cried, her eyes red and swollen. ‘The calamity of it! It’s a blight, it surely is.’

  ‘What is?’ Friday asked, panic flaring. ‘Glad? What’s a blight?’