He went through his brother’s sea bag, and found a change of clothes, eleven pounds, four shillings and tuppence hidden in a rolled-up sock (which he pocketed), a comb, a razor and a strop, and a half-empty bottle of rum, then turned his attention to the room itself. There was nothing under the thin, damp mattress, or in it, and the battered chest of drawers was empty. There appeared to be no secret compartments in the walls, and although several of the floorboards were loose, none could be levered up. Just as he was leaving, it occurred to him to look under the chest of drawers, and there it was, a small cloth-bound ledger, the cover tacky with cobwebs, the first two dozen pages filled with his brother’s poorly formed and misspelt handwriting.

  He sat on the bed by the dirty window to read it. It was a diary of sorts and although most of the entries chronicled Malcolm’s clearly deathly boring voyage to New South Wales, it was the first few pages that caught his eye. Some cove in a pub on Dock Road back home in Liverpool had apparently told Malcolm that Bennett had been transported.

  Leary closed the ledger and tapped it on his knee thoughtfully. So Bennett was actually here. It wouldn’t be too hard to guess what his crime had been. It was odd that he hadn’t encountered him, but he wasn’t necessarily in Sydney Town, he supposed. He could well be in Van Diemen’s Land, or even on Norfolk Island. Obviously he should now be hunting down Bennett himself, rather than looking for a tattoo flayed off a dead man. He slid the ledger into his pocket.

  Back downstairs again, just to be sure, he asked the publican if there was a strong box for lodgers’ valuables.

  The publican laughed. ‘The types that stay here don’t have no valuables.’

  ‘Has anyone been in that room since me brother’s been gone?’

  ‘Not to my knowledge.’ The publican wiped the serving counter with a filthy rag. ‘There’s only the one key and Mr Leary had it.’

  ‘He didn’t have it,’ Leary said, but he was inclined to believe the man — the money, after all, had still been there. ‘Right. I’ve cleared out his things. I’ll be gone, then.’

  ‘Just you hold on. Your brother owed me a week’s rent.’

  Leary snarled, ‘Don’t tell me you didn’t charge him in advance.’ The publican glared at him. Leary stared unblinkingly back, his face frozen in an icy glower. Then his hand shot out and he grabbed the man’s shirt front and yanked him halfway across the bar. ‘I know you did, so don’t fuck with me.’

  The man nodded vigorously, then, in case that was the wrong response, shook his head for good measure. Leary let him go and his feet found the floorboards again. Tentatively, he rubbed the back of his neck where his collar had dug into his flesh. ‘My mistake.’

  ‘Yes, it was.’

  Outside in the sun and heat once again, Leary ambled the few yards down to the waterfront and hurled his brother’s bag into the sea.

  He hadn’t found what he was looking for yet, but that was all right. He’d just have to look harder.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Harrie had done an awful thing, but she’d had to, and it would be worth it. This morning she’d gone into James’s purse while he’d been in the privy and stolen three five-pound notes. It was a crime possibly worse than the one that had seen her transported to New South Wales, but she hadn’t been able to think of any other way to achieve her aim. She’d earned a little money since she’d been back at work, but some of that had gone into the Charlotte fund — which she supposed would all go towards paying Bella Shand, now that Charlotte was in the orphanage — and the rest she’d sent home to Robbie and Sophie and Anna. She couldn’t just ask James for the money, not after her performance the other day about not being his wife, and she knew he wouldn’t give it to her anyway, when he found out why she wanted it. And neither would Friday or Sarah. Or Leo. In fact, she suspected no one would, because they all thought they knew what was ‘best for her’. But they didn’t. Only she knew what she really needed.

  When James had come out of the privy she’d told him she had to go to Leo’s early, and left the cottage as quickly as possible before he could lecture her. He never missed a chance to go on about her working for Leo, and she couldn’t face it this morning, and anyway it would only slow her down. Also, she was frightened he would look in his purse and see that the money was gone. So she’d almost run up York Street, the ribbons on her bonnet flapping and her skirts catching around her ankles, to the stables on Market Street. She felt sick about behaving so sneakily and treating him like that, but he’d left her with no choice. And neither had the others.

  She’d thought about purchasing a seat on the Sydney to Parramatta stagecoach, which also delivered the mail, but discovered that it stopped and started endlessly and took nearly all day to get to Parramatta, and she needed to be back home by nightfall, so as to cause James the minimum of worry. In the end she hired a very expensive four-seat phaeton drawn by a two-in-hand. She felt as though she were being horribly irresponsible, and knew she could have saved money by hiring just a two-seater, but she had no idea how to drive a carriage herself, and in a two-seater she would have had to sit next to the driver, which she couldn’t tolerate. Not at the moment. This way she could sit by herself behind him, thinking her own thoughts in peace and preparing herself.

  As it turned out, she needn’t have bothered wasting the extra five pounds on the second bench seat, as the driver said barely a word to her during the entire trip, except to point out the location of the facilities when he stopped halfway at a coaching inn to water the horses. And she already knew where they were from previous trips. She bought herself a jar of lemonade, and cheese, pickles and a bread roll in the dining room, and picked at the bread while the driver disappeared into the bar. He must have knocked back a fair bit of ale, because he certainly reeked of it by the time the phaeton was brought around again. It had improved his mood, though, as when she asked him to raise the hood to keep the sun off, he obliged with something she almost recognised as a smile.

  When they reached Parramatta, they rattled across the bridge on Church Street and headed back in the direction from which they’d just come, this time following the northern bank of the river, to the Female Orphan School. She knew exactly how to get there even though she’d never been: she’d known since the day Charlotte was born and Rachel had died.

  The driver drew up on the carriageway outside the entrance to the forbidding-looking building, its small, high windows looking blankly out across the fields, and asked her how long she’d be. When she told him probably only about an hour, he complained that that wouldn’t give him time to go into town to the pub, but cracked his whip irately and headed back along the carriageway, almost knocking a man off his mount in the process, looking for somewhere to water the horses.

  Harrie stood outside the front door, taking deep, slow breaths, trying to calm herself.

  ‘Rachel?’ she whispered. ‘Are you here?’

  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.’