Harrie staggered to her feet. ‘So even though he didn’t kill Rachel, he’d murdered another girl?’ Her eyes were huge and she was trembling. ‘He really was a killer?’

  ‘You useless, selfish, drunken bloody bitch!’ Sarah shouted. ‘You could have saved Harrie from today. She nearly bloody drowned, Friday! Charlotte nearly drowned!’

  Then Sarah hit her, a full punch in the face with a closed fist. Friday fell back on the grass, shocked wordless.

  ‘Fuck off,’ Sarah said, looming over her. ‘Go on. Go and drink yourself stupid somewhere else. We don’t want to see you any more.’

  Friday tried to get up, stood on her hem and fell over again. Finding her feet, she trudged across to the picnic rug, one hand over her bleary, throbbing eye, collected her boots and walked away.

  James had spent the afternoon with Matthew, then had supper with him at the Australian. Matthew had been out of sorts since Sally Minto had spurned him, and Harrie supposed James might be feeling the smallest bit guilty because he was married now. Anyway, she knew he was going to be late, so there had been more than enough time for her, Daisy and Charlotte to get home that afternoon, clean themselves up, rinse their clothes in the copper and hang them on the line. Entire dresses weren’t usually washed, they were normally just sponged, but James wouldn’t know that and was unlikely to remark on gowns flapping in the backyard if he looked out the window tomorrow morning. She could never, ever tell him what she’d done.

  Charlotte and Daisy had been asleep for hours — poor Charlotte had been exhausted and Daisy not much better. She was bone-tired herself, but had remained up after they’d retired so she could sit quietly for an hour in the armchair, waiting for Rachel. But Rachel hadn’t come. Had Sarah been right? Harrie wondered. Had she only ever been a figment conjured by her sick and chaotic mind?

  Harrie didn’t think so.

  By the time James finally did arrive home, she was in bed herself.

  Sliding under the sheet beside her, he said, ‘I thought you’d be asleep by now, after your day in the sun.’

  Harrie shook her head. ‘How was your supper?’

  ‘Same as usual. The gravy was too salty.’

  ‘And Matthew?’

  ‘He’ll survive. He’s lonely, though. We really must find him a nice girl. How was your picnic?’

  ‘It was nice. The Domain’s very pretty. Sarah and Friday had a fight.’

  James’s eyebrows went up. ‘Anything in particular?’

  ‘Friday told us something she should have told us a little while ago.’

  ‘Anything that matters? Do I need to know?’

  ‘It did matter, but no, you don’t.’

  ‘Did it upset you?’

  Harrie examined the end of her plait. After a moment she said, ‘It did at first, yes. A lot. But now, I’m pleased she told us.’

  ‘Have you forgiven her?’

  ‘I didn’t feel like it, but I have. Of course I have. How could I not forgive Friday?’

  ‘Good girl.’ James patted her leg. ‘You don’t want to fall out, the three of you. Not after everything you’ve been through together.’

  ‘No. And James?’

  ‘Mmm?’

  ‘I really think I’m getting better. I really do.’

  James took her hand and kissed it.

  ‘I really do. And I think everything’s going to be all right,’ Harrie said, and when she looked at her husband she saw the beginnings of tears in his eyes.

  Sarah and Adam were halfway up the stairs on their way to bed when someone hammered on their back door.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Adam said. ‘At this hour?’

  Sarah took the lamp off him. ‘I’ll get it.’

  She made her way downstairs and through the dining room. Leaving the chain on, she opened the door, raised the lamp and peered out. A dishevelled figure sat on the porch steps, reeking of tobacco smoke and alcohol.

  Friday peered up at her through one eye, the other swollen shut.

  ‘Please don’t hate me, Sarah. I can’t do this by myself.’

  Sarah stared at her for a long moment, sighed, then slipped off the chain, opened the door and held out her hand.

  Author’s Notes

  The snippets of poem I’ve quoted at the beginning of parts one, two and three of this story are from John Keats’s ‘Ode to Melancholy’, written in 1819.

  The Female Orphan School at Parramatta was a real place, but Matron Duff and her husband are fictional. Reverend Charles Wilton and his wife Elizabeth were the actual superintendent and matron at the time, though they resigned in December 1831 and were replaced by Lieutenant Alexander Martin of the Royal Navy and his wife Sarah.

  In August 1801, Governor Philip King, concerned about Sydney’s numerous neglected, abandoned or orphaned children, opened the town’s first female orphan school in a two-storey waterfront house on George Street, purchased from Captain William Kent for 1,539 pounds, seventeen shillings and thruppence, and initially accommodating thirty-one girls aged between seven and fourteen. King blamed the girls’ destitution squarely on their convict parents, and while not all convict women were as compassionate as Harrie, Sarah, Rachel and Friday, many, of course, were, but found themselves trapped in a cycle of poverty and servitude that rendered them incapable of caring for their children.

  The girls were taught to sew and spin, and some to read and write, though in 1812 Governor Bligh gave evidence to the British Select Committee on Transportation implying that education was not a priority at the orphanage, and that it had become little more than a training school for domestic servants and a clothing factory.

  The orphanage was initially run by a committee of worthies appointed by the governor, including Reverend Samuel Marsden and other clergy, surgeons, and government officials and their wives. In March 1826, the management, care and superintendence of the Female Orphan School, and the Male Orphan School that opened later, became the responsibility of the Clergy and School Lands Corporation, and from 1833 they continued under the control of the Colonial Secretary.

  Almost from the outset it was clear that the George Street premise was too small, and plans were made to build a much bigger and more grand institution at Arthur’s Hill, Parramatta. This opened in 1818 when a hundred girls (ages five to eight only) moved in on 30 June, leaving the George Street property to become Sydney’s first Male Orphan School. When girls turned thirteen, they were found positions as apprenticed servants in ‘good homes’. A bit like kittens and puppies. If a girl married and had behaved extremely well during her apprenticeship, she received a cow as a dowry.

  Religious instruction was essential to the girls’ training, they were seldom allowed out of the orphanage, and parents who did want contact with their daughters were forbidden access.

  By 1829, the orphanage was home to one hundred and fifty-two girls (fifty-two over the limit), including Indigenous children from the Blacktown Aboriginal Settlement, and the admission age had been lowered to two. In 1823 the Male Orphan School relocated to Liverpool, then again in 1850 to the Parramatta Female Orphan School facility, where the boys’ school amalgamated with the girls’ school to form the Protestant Orphan School. The school closed in 1886 and reopened two years later as Rydalmere Psychiatric Hospital under the control of the Department of Lunacy. The original Female Orphan School building had fallen into disrepair by the 1960s but was restored and is now part of the Parramatta campus of the University of Western Sydney.

  Speaking of lunacy, Harrie was lucky to go mad during an era of enlightenment as far as treatment of the mentally ill was concerned. Until the latter decades of the eighteenth century, management of the insane was, on the whole, barbaric. The mentally ill were scorned and ridiculed, and hidden away in filthy, dark asylums, where they were isolated and constrained with manacles and chains, whipped, let of their blood, shocked and starved, as portrayed in many depictions of the London lunatic asylum Bethlem (Bedlam).

  Towards the end of the eighteenth century, a movement emerged in Europe that focused on a more ‘moral’ and holistic approach to the treatment of the mentally ill. This included the banning of chains (though not straitjackets), and the concepts that the mentally ill would respond better if they had access to fresh air, sunlight and meaningful activities. Most importantly, moral treatment embraced the idea that many people suffering mental illness could actually recover.

  While in theory this movement was a vast improvement on what had come before, in practice being a patient in a mental asylum in the nineteenth century still would have been rather dire, whether the asylum was state-run or private. The Liverpool Lunatic Asylum, where Harrie is dumped by George Barrett, was managed by the state, and staffed mainly by convicts, who had little or no training regarding how to manage mental patients, which is why I only left her there for a day or two.

  A note on distances: it was pretty well impossible to find out how long it would take to drive a cart or ride on horseback from Sydney to Liverpool in 1831, so I had to make a bit of an educated guess.

  Another note, this one on Christmas: the one the characters celebrate is a little more modern than it should be in the 1830s. Then, people were probably still giving gifts on the traditional New Year’s Eve — and only small ones, like sweets and trinkets — and not sitting down to a lavish Christmas dinner. That didn’t really come into fashion until Victorian times, i.e. after 1837. But that didn’t work for the story, so I tweaked it a little.

  Bibliography

  The more I write in this series, the fewer books I need to buy. Which is a shame, really, because I like hunting down and purchasing books. I bought a few, though. Bedlam: London and its mad (Simon and Schuster, 2008), by Catherine Arnold, was particularly useful when it came to the description, diagnosis and treatment of Harrie’s mental health issues. I also found a beautiful copy of Terence Lane and Jessie Serle’s Australians at Home: a documentary history of Australian domestic interiors from 1788 to 1914 (OUP, 1990) in a Newcastle second-hand bookshop for much less than the $912 for which I saw it advertised on Amazon. Entries in this inspired Biddy Doyle’s house, and it will come in very handy for A Tattooed Heart, in which there is more house-breaking to be done. Thanks, Indigo Books!

  Victorian Pharmacy: rediscovering forgotten remedies and recipes (Pavilion, 2010), by Jane Eastoe, was useful, as were Millers Point: the urban village (Halstead Press, 2007), by Shirley Fitzgerald and Christopher Keating (Sally Minto, of course, lives at Millers Point), and True Blue: 150 years of service and sacrifice of the NSW Police Force (HarperCollins, 2012), by Patrick Lindsay. This is the first history of the NSW Police I’ve come across, it weighs a ton and I had to cart it all the way home from Sydney on the train. But I can’t complain because I got it for free.

  One book I couldn’t have done without is Mau Moko: the world of Maori tattoo (Penguin, 2007), by Ngahuia Te Awekotuku with Linda Waimarie Nikora. This award-winning study is, in my opinion, the definitive work on Maori tattoo, and was invaluable to me, in particular regarding issues surrounding upoko tuhi.

  I also revisited Illness in Colonial Australia (Australian Scholarly Publishing, 2011), by FB Smith, and Frank Bongiorno’s The Sex Lives of Australians: a history (Black Inc., 2012) — another award-winning book — for information on self- and assisted abortion. In the days when attempts at contraception regularly failed, abortion was frequently a last resort for women wishing to terminate a pregnancy. It was a dangerous and illegal practice, which, without resort to penicillin to treat infections, often had horrific consequences.

  Acknowledgements

  As always, thank you to publisher Anna Valdinger at HarperCollins Australia for remaining constantly enthusiastic about this series, and to publishing director Shona Martyn, and the team at HarperCollins in general. Thanks again also to freelance editor Kate O’Donnell — another great editing job, and some excellent ideas for the next book. My agent, Clare Forster, also deserves thanks for her sterling efforts and encouragement.

  More thanks are due to my writing group Hunter Romance Writers for their endless support; my friend and colleague Ngahuia Te Awekotuku for further advice on moko; Mary and Bridget Nicholls again for the continuing lend of Clifford; and, as always, my husband Aaron, for never-ending tolerance, understanding and good cooking.

  Excerpt from A Tattooed Heart

  BOOK FOUR

  Deborah Challinor

  1832: Convict girls Friday Woolfe, Sarah Morgan and Harriet Clarke have been serving their sentences in Sydney Town for three years. For much of that time they have lived in fear of sinister and formidable Bella Jackson, who continues to blackmail them for a terrible crime.

  Each of them has begun to make a life for herself, but when Harrie’s adopted child, Charlotte, is abducted and taken to Newcastle, the girls must risk their very freedom to save her.

  But is Friday up to the task? Will her desperate battle with her own vices drive her to fail not only herself, but those she loves and all who love her?

  In this final volume of a saga about four convict girls transported halfway around the world, friends and family reunite but cherished loved ones are lost, and an utterly shocking secret is revealed.

  Read on for a sneak peek at A Tattooed Heart …

  July 1832, Sydney Town

  Friday Woolfe, Sarah Green and Harrie Downey were about to cross George Street when the funeral procession approached on its way to Devonshire Street cemetery, stopping traffic, demanding attention and respect from all. It was an extremely grand affair, but then it would be: Clarence Shand had been a very wealthy man.

  Leading the cortege were six grim-faced mutes walking two abreast, the brisk winter wind snatching at trailing hatbands and the black crepe draping their tall staffs. Then came the hearse, a jet-lacquered vehicle enclosed by costly plate glass etched with gold, and drawn by four gleaming horses as dark as night and bedecked with ostrich plumes. The widow, Mrs Bella Shand, sat alone and resplendent in black bombazine and a veiled hat in the mourning coach following the hearse.

  ‘It’s not fair,’ Friday said bitterly from the footway. ‘It should be bloody Bella in that coffin, not faggoty old Clarence. And look at all those mutes. They’d have cost a fortune.’

  As well as the half-dozen mutes leading the procession, ten more walked alongside the hearse and Bella Shand’s coach, bedecked in black cloaks, hats, sashes and gloves, all provided by the undertaker. Contrary to their job description, these mutes weren’t without voice — they wailed and howled, demonstrating their grief for Clarence Shand, a man whom, in all likelihood, they’d never met.

  Sarah said, ‘Adam heard he died of a heart attack.’

  Friday snorted. ‘I bet bloody Bella poisoned him.’

  ‘No, it was a heart attack,’ Harrie said. ‘James was saying last night he knows the doctor who signed the death certificate.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Apparently he died at Bella’s brothel. With a boy.’

  Sarah laughed. ‘Whoops. That’s a bit embarrassing.’

  ‘Only if it gets out,’ Harrie said.

  ‘Well, it has, hasn’t it?’ Friday smirked. ‘We know.’

  Sarah said, ‘It won’t get out. Bella knows who to pay off and she can certainly afford to now. Christ, look at all these carriages.’

  The cortege was still passing, though now it consisted of approximately twenty carriages occupied only by drivers, as it was not the fashion for the wealthy and upper classes to attend funerals in person. To send one’s empty vehicle was considered tribute enough.

  It was Sarah’s turn to smirk. ‘Poor Clarence,’ she went on. ‘She’s really let him down and I bet she doesn’t even realise it.’

  Friday frowned. ‘How?’

  ‘Well, all these carriages mean Sydney’s rich folk are paying Clarence their respects, which I suppose is nice for Clarence, but she’s lowered the tone by hiring all these mutes. No truly classy funeral would have this many. Two, maybe, but this is just vulgar. Her pedigree is showing.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘You know, her roots. You can tell where she really comes from. The bottom of the heap.’

  ‘Oh.’ Friday thought about that for a moment. Ever since they’d had the misfortune to know her, Bella had had money, and, these days especially, she spent a lot of it on her appearance and surrounding herself with expensive things. Friday had almost forgotten she belonged to a criminal underclass not renown for elegance or style. ‘I suppose. Silly bitch. Well, I’m going to the burial ground. I want to see where Clarence gets planted.’

  ‘You mean you want to gloat at Bella,’ Sarah said.

  ‘Doubt it. She won’t give a shite about Clarence going belly up. More chink for her.’

  ‘Well, keep out of sight. If she sees you, it’ll only remind her she hasn’t put the screws on us lately.’ Sarah took her watch from her pocket. ‘Christ, I need to get back to work. Adam’ll be wondering where I am. I said I was only coming out for an hour.’

  The last empty carriage went past, the crowd dispersed and the stalled traffic began to move once more.

  ‘I need to go, too,’ Harrie said. ‘Charlotte threw an almighty tantrum when I left the house without her. She’ll think I’ve abandoned her.’

  ‘I thought she was growing out of that?’ Sarah said.

  ‘She has. We’re into the terrible twos, now.’

  ‘Rather you than me,’ Sarah said with heartfelt sincerity.

  Harrie smiled. ‘Oh, I think it’s quite sweet, really.’

  ‘Only you’d think a shrieking, spitting, bad-tempered little troll was sweet.’

  ‘She’s not a troll.’

  ‘She is sometimes.’

  ‘Right, you lot, I’m off,’ Friday declared.

  ‘Well, be careful,’ Sarah said again. ‘Hide behind a tree or something.’