‘Downstairs in the washhouse. Why?’

  ‘It’s not washing day. Is it?’

  ‘We’ve got behind. I’ve asked her to do a bit extra.’

  ‘That’ll keep her busy.’

  ‘It will, unfortunately,’ Nora said. ‘I wanted her to go to the market. Now I’ll have to go, and I’m that busy. Hannah, that’s Samuel’s bread, not yours!’

  George asked, ‘How long will you be?’

  ‘I don’t know, do I? As long as it takes.’

  ‘Who’s going to sit with Harrie? She’s mad, she shouldn’t be left alone.’

  ‘I will!’ Hannah declared.

  Nora said, ‘Sometimes you can be a real bastard, George.’

  ‘Bastard!’ Samuel said.

  ‘Just stating the facts.’

  ‘Are you volunteering?’ Nora asked.

  ‘Hardly,’ George said. ‘I’m not a nursemaid.’

  ‘She doesn’t need sitting with. Emma will keep an eye on her.’

  George eyed his second egg, decided he didn’t want it, drank his cup of tea in one go, and pushed his chair back from the table. ‘Will you take the kids with you? To the market?’

  ‘Just Lewis.’

  George nodded and stood. ‘Right then, I’m off.’

  As he clattered down the stairs to his shop, Abigail asked, ‘Mam, why is Da so grumpy lately? Is he worried about Harrie?’

  Nora pulled George’s plate across the table, dipped a spoon into the cooling egg and fed it to Lewis. ‘That’s right, dear.’

  ‘When will she get better?’

  ‘Soon, I hope.’

  ‘Why is she sick?’ Hannah asked. ‘Has she got the Black Death?’

  ‘No, love, she’s just very, very sad, and it’s made her ill.’

  ‘If she had a kitten, would she get better?’

  ‘She’s got Angus, remember?’

  ‘Oh, yeah, I forgot.’

  Nora said, ‘Don’t say “yeah”, love. Say “yes”. Now come on, all of you, finish up your breakfasts, we’ve got a busy day.’

  George waited until Nora and Lewis emerged from the alleyway beside the house and passed the window of his shop, plus an extra ten minutes in case she’d forgotten something and came back, then turned the sign on the door so it read CLOSED.

  Then he scooted through the house and out to the backyard. Abigail, Samuel and Hannah were playing some sort of game in a pile of sand, though Hannah seemed more interested in teasing the goat.

  ‘You lot keep away from the cesspit, do you hear me?’

  They waved, barely looking up.

  He found Emma in the washhouse, staring into the depths of the boiling copper.

  ‘Busy?’ he asked.

  She started. ‘Mr Barrett! You almost scared the life out of me.’

  ‘Sorry. Need anything?’

  She frowned. ‘Er, no thank you.’

  ‘Have you looked in on Harrie?’

  ‘I’m just about to.’

  ‘I’ll do that, if you like. I’m going up.’

  ‘Much obliged, Mr Barrett.’

  George went inside and up to Harrie’s attic room. He knocked. No answer.

  Cautiously, he opened the door. She was lying on her side, facing him. Her eyes were open but he didn’t think she could see him. That bloody cat of hers could, though. It was crouching on the end of the bed, giving him the evil eye.

  ‘Harrie? It’s Mr Barrett. George.’

  No response.

  ‘Harrie, I want you to get dressed. We’re going for a little ride.’

  Still nothing. Shit. Was he going to have to do it all himself? He stepped into the room and closed the door. Treading carefully in case she woke up and had another one of her noisy fits, he approached the bed and laid a hand on her shoulder.

  The cat launched itself at him, hissing and clawing at his wrist. George swung at it, knocking it to the floor. It disappeared under the bed. Sucking his wounded flesh as he got down on his knees, George could see it under there, poisonous teeth bared and fur puffed out. Little shite.

  He stood and prodded Harrie’s arm.

  She barely moved. For God’s sake. He peeled the bedclothes off, sat her up and swivelled her around so her bare feet were on the floor. Now what? He opened her bureau and found a shift, pulled a dress out of the clothes press, and looked around for her boots. Not stockings, though — trying to get stockings on her would be out of the question.

  He looked at her. Christ, this was going to be bloody impossible with her just sitting there like a lump of dough.

  ‘Harrie, wake up, will you?’

  Except she wasn’t exactly asleep. It was uncanny and deeply disconcerting and the hairs on his arms were all standing up. Holding his breath in case something terrible happened, he slapped her gently across the face. Twice.

  She blinked, and seemed briefly to focus.

  ‘Harrie, we’re going out. You need to get dressed, all right?’

  Nothing. Leaning over her, George eased the nightdress out from under her bum, then lifted it off over her head. Underneath she was naked, and he tried not to look at her. Yes, he had an eye for the ladies, but Harrie didn’t fall into that category, and he wasn’t a rat who’d take advantage of her while she was so ill. He couldn’t help noticing, though, that she was as skinny as the handle on a yard broom, and that her full bust and rounded hips had almost disappeared. He felt a brief but genuine pang of sorrow for the bright, cheerful girl she’d once been.

  He put the shift on her, then followed with the dress, a much trickier proposition. Eventually he got it over her head and eased her arms into the sleeves, then helped her to stand up. When she let out a loud burp, he nearly had a heart attack. Could you still burp when you were in a trance? Obviously you could. After his heart had slowed down he spent what felt like hours fucking about trying to do up all the buttons, gave up and left half of them undone, slipped her boots on her feet, tied the laces, and draped a shawl around her shoulders.

  Worried now that Emma would appear, he took Harrie’s arm and guided her down the stairs to his shop, where he collected his satchel, then outside onto the street. Tucking his arm into hers as though they were out for a leisurely stroll, he walked her to the stables up on Cambridge Street and, sweating profusely now but resolute, paid over the odds to hire a horse and gig with the minimum of fuss. Where they were going was far too far to travel on foot.

  It took them much of the day to get there, but, to George’s relief, Harrie slept most of the way. Or, at least, he assumed she’d slept. After an hour of sitting on the seat next to him, staring blankly ahead, she’d curled up and put her hands over her ears. He’d checked a few times and once her eyes had been open, and twice they hadn’t. She hadn’t said a single word to him, though she’d muttered on and off as though she’d been talking to someone, which had been quite off-putting.

  When he’d stopped for his dinner he’d been worried, not that she might run away, but that she might just wander off, so he’d taken his plate of food and tankard of ale outside and eaten it in view of the gig. She hadn’t wanted anything to eat or drink. Well, she’d not responded when he’d offered. And neither had she responded to his question about her need to use the inn’s privy, which he’d regretted later when she’d peed on herself and the gig’s seat.

  The sun was beginning to slide down the sky by the time they reached their destination. By then, Harrie was truly, deeply asleep. George had to shake her quite hard to wake her. When he helped her down from the gig she fell over — he’d forgotten she hadn’t been off the seat all day and he looked around, worried anyone watching would think he’d pushed her. He picked her up and half walked, half carried her through the gates.

  The building was disappointingly ordinary, given that it had once been a courthouse — he’d been expecting something much more grand. In fact, it was little more than a two-storey oblong box with a chimney at each end and windows on both levels. He hoped he was at the right place. Propping Harrie up with one arm, he banged on the door.

  It was opened by a cove wearing navy-blue moleskin trousers, an unbleached cotton shirt and a brown waistcoat.

  ‘Is this the Liverpool lunatic asylum?’ George asked.

  ‘’Tis.’

  ‘I’ve got a new patient for you.’

  ‘You’ll be wanting to speak to Mr Plunkett, then. He’s the superintendent. He does the admitting.’

  ‘Well, can you fetch him?’

  ‘Hold on.’

  ‘Can I bring her in? We’re tired. We’ve travelled out from Sydney.’

  The man shrugged, opened the door wider, then walked off.

  George sat himself and Harrie down on a pair of hard wooden chairs in a moderately spacious foyer. Presently a second man appeared, carrying a clipboard and dressed, far more elegantly than the first, in pale trousers, a well-cut coat and waistcoat and polished boots. He offered a neatly manicured hand.

  ‘Good afternoon. I’m Thomas Plunkett. I’m the superintendent here. I’m told you’ve brought us a new patient?’

  George stood, wiped his palm on his crumpled jacket, and shook Thomas Plunkett’s cool, dry hand. ‘Yes, this is Harriet Clarke. She’s … not well.’

  The superintendent glanced at Harrie. ‘It’s very nice to meet you, Mr Clarke. I’m sorry about your wife.’

  ‘Oh, no, my name’s George Barrett,’ George said quickly. ‘Harrie’s my servant. We got her from the Factory.’

  ‘Ah. A bonded convict?’

  ‘That’s right.’ George opened his satchel. ‘These are her assignment papers.’

  ‘Thank you.’ The superintendent wrote down a few details and gave the papers back. ‘Keep these. You’ll need them. So the government will be paying?’

  ‘Er, yes.’

  ‘And what seems to be the problem?’

  ‘Well, she’s mad. Demented.’

  ‘Mad in what way, Mr Barrett?’

  ‘She won’t speak to anyone, she won’t eat, she won’t get out of bed, she has these terrible screaming fits, and she talks to herself. And, er, she’s incontinent.’

  Mr Plunkett wrinkled his nose. ‘Yes, I’d noted that. Screaming fits, you say? She seems quiet and really rather docile at the moment.’

  ‘Well, yes, at the moment,’ George admitted.

  ‘Do you know of any possible reason for her indisposition?’

  ‘She’s had a lot of bad news lately. But that doesn’t excuse the fact that my wife and I need a servant who can perform her duties, and Harrie can’t. Not any more.’

  ‘Mmm,’ Mr Plunkett said. ‘Melancholia, perhaps, with a touch of mania. I’m not the medical expert, of course. Well, we’ll admit her, and Dr Ashton can examine her in the morning and make a full diagnosis. Will you want her back if she can be cured? She may be here some time.’

  ‘No. I’ll get another girl.’

  ‘In that case a letter will be sent to you, which you should take to the Factory with her assignment papers, to prove that she’s been unsuitable. That should clear the way for you to obtain a replacement in a timely fashion.’

  ‘Very good.’ George put on his hat. ‘I’ll leave you to it, then.’

  ‘No,’ Harrie said, her voice eerily flat.

  Startled, the two men looked at her.

  The superintendent turned to George. ‘I thought you just informed me that she couldn’t speak?’

  ‘She doesn’t, most of the time.’ George gripped Harrie’s hand and pulled her up off the chair. ‘Come on, Harrie. You need to go with Mr Plunkett.’

  Thomas Plunkett beckoned to someone standing in the shadows — an attendant, who trotted across the foyer and took hold of Harrie’s other arm.

  ‘No!’ Harrie cried, and let loose a wild howl.

  George dropped her hand as though it were on fire, and made a dash for the door, Harrie’s shrieks ringing in his ears. He glanced behind him just once, to see her being dragged across the floor, struggling and kicking, her skirts up around her thighs, and then, thank God, he was outside.

  He sat in the gig, his head down, breathing deeply. That had been more unpleasant than he’d expected. But he’d had to do it. He had to get rid of Harrie. It was the only way to stop Nora paying Emma’s wages. He knew she was because the money she kept hidden in the linen cupboard was going down each week by exactly the amount Emma was receiving. It wasn’t right — Nora was his wife, and that money was his. It was Leo bloody Dundas who wanted Harrie to work the extra hours in his tattoo shop, so Dundas should be paying to replace her. And there’d been no point to having it out with Nora because she just would’ve run rings around him, or completely ignored him, like she always did.

  But it was worse than that, much worse. George spat over the side of the gig, the thought, as usual, filling his mouth with bile. Dundas — with his muscular bloody arms and flat belly and flashy gold teeth — had been around at his house seeing Nora when he wasn’t home. He knew because the nosy old mot next door had come into the shop one day full of glee and told him. Nora and Dundas! God, the thought was killing him! He couldn’t bear it if he lost her. And if Harrie were gone, there’d be no connection with Dundas any more. To hell with the piddly retainer he was paying so she could draw her pictures — forfeiting that was nothing compared to the prospect of losing Nora. So Harrie had had to go.

  Which was a shame in a lot of ways because she was great with the kids, and Nora thought the sun shone out of her arse, but she was sick and she really should be in the asylum. Perhaps he’d done her a favour.

  He sat up. Yes, he had, actually. Now that he thought about it, he had done the right thing.

  He flicked the reins and headed off to find a pub with decent food and a comfortable bed for the night.

  Nora knew even before she was properly awake that George still hadn’t come home. It wasn’t the first time, of course, but on those previous occasions Harrie hadn’t also been missing. She knew he’d taken her — Hannah had seen them. She’d crept up the stairs behind her father and hidden behind the sofa (thank God for her sneaky little ways) and watched him lead her down from her attic room; then she had hung out the window and seen them going up the street. To hire a carriage to drive out to the Factory? But why hadn’t he come home last night? The return trip to Parramatta was long, she knew, and could be arduous, depending on the weather, but it was certainly achievable in one day. So where the hell was he?

  Wherever it was, when he eventually did come home she was going to absolutely kill him.

  Without looking at the clock, she knew it was barely past dawn. She got out of bed, dressed quickly, washed her face, dragged a brush through her hair and went out to the parlour to stoke the fire for the kettle. The kids would be awake soon — she would trot around to the Siren’s Arms then.

  ‘Well, where the fuck is he, then?’ Friday demanded.

  ‘How the hell should I know?’

  ‘He’s your bloody husband.’

  ‘Not for much bloody longer,’ Nora said through gritted teeth.

  ‘Christ!’ Friday ran her hands through her hair, and swore again as her fingers caught in the knots.

  ‘I did have one horrible thought,’ Nora said. She’d had an unpleasant hour or so pondering this. ‘He could have taken her to the asylum.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus.’ Friday was horrified. ‘That would just … that would kill her!’ She reached under the bed and felt around for the bottle of gin stashed there, and took a long swig. ‘But why there? Why not the Factory?’

  ‘I don’t know, but it’s the only reason I can think of for him not coming home last night. It’s a longer trip because of the distance and the bad road. Do you have to do that? It’s not even eight o’clock yet.’

  Friday ignored her. ‘So what are we going to do? How the hell do you get someone out of a place like that?’

  ‘I really don’t know. If that’s where she actually is. As soon as my noble husband turns up, I’ll find out and I’ll let you know.’

  ‘You’d better,’ Friday said, stifling a burp.

  Nora lost her temper. ‘Look, you, don’t you go ordering me around.’

  ‘Well, she’s my friend.’

  ‘She’s my friend, too,’ Nora shot back, ‘and my responsibility. Which is why I’d rather be out looking for her than sitting around getting swattled. And belching and farting like a pig.’

  Friday banged her gin bottle on the nightstand. ‘You’ve got no bloody idea, have you? My friend drowned the other day, someone I … cared about a lot’s left me, Janie and Rosie are dead and Charlotte’s in that poxy orphanage, and I’ve been worried sick about Harrie and a whole lot of other things. You just don’t know.’

  ‘Oh, boo hoo. Life isn’t easy for anyone, girl. Now pull yourself together. Harrie needs you.’

  Stung, Friday said, ‘And how do we know your stupid, selfish bloody husband hasn’t murdered her? Eh? Have you thought of that?’

  ‘He hasn’t because he doesn’t have the balls. I know him. Now get up, get dressed and go and tell Sarah what’s happened.’

  Friday glared at her, but as soon as Nora had gone she burst into tears. This was all just too much. She wanted nothing more than to drink herself senseless, pass out and hope that when she came to, someone else had fixed everything. But it never worked like that, and she knew it.

  James opened the door, his hat on and his doctor’s bag in his hand. He looked startled and more than a little alarmed to see them. ‘Oh. Hello. I’m just on my way to the surgery.’

  ‘Harrie’s missing,’ Sarah said without preamble. ‘We think George Barrett’s taken her either to the Factory or to Liverpool asylum.’

  He stared at them. ‘Harrie? To the asylum? But … why?’

  ‘Because she’s gone completely unhinged,’ Friday said. ‘Barking. And George wants to get rid of her.’

  James dropped his bag. It contained a heavy pharmaceutical text, a bottle of brandy and an assortment of medical implements, and landed on the ground with a loud bang. Both Friday and Sarah jumped.

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘Yesterday. You have to help us, James. Please,’ Sarah implored. ‘We have to get her back.’

  ‘I had no idea she’d deteriorated so much.’ A suspicious frown creased James’s face. ‘Or has she? I wouldn’t put it past George Barrett to get rid of her just to avoid the burden of her care.’