A Tattooed Heart Page 18

  Chapter Nine

  Jonah Leary had arrived back in Sydney Town several weeks earlier, a passenger on the paddlesteamer Sophia Jane. He was staying in a pub where no one would recognise him — not that he was well known in this town, but it was essential that he kept his head down — and had spent his time surreptitiously following certain people about.

  Obviously, a lot had happened since he’d left Sydney at the start of the year. Barmy Harrie Clarke (or Downey, he supposed she was now), and her doctor husband had moved to a grand big house on Hunter Street and now there were three more kids, not just the baby — the Downey girl’s relatives from England. There was also another cove living with them, by the name of Matthew Cutler. He’d thought about approaching the old bugger who drove the carriage and looked after the gardens and such, but he had that stubborn air of loyalty about him, so was probably best avoided. Instead, Jonah had bribed the couple next door: the moment he’d produced his purse their mouths had opened. Greedy sods. Though it appeared Cutler might soon be moving out, if today’s events were any indication.

  Leo Dundas seemed as wily and flinty as ever. Jonah had watched him a few times over the last couple of days — from a distance because the bastard was so sharp — and wondered why he cared so much about the Clarke girl. Downey! Bloody Downey. He’d have to try to remember that. It was only a detail, but details mattered. Dundas probably wanted to shag her. There was a boy called Walter sharing his rooms now, which Jonah thought was pretty bloody strange. Dundas definitely didn’t seem like a Miss Molly, but sometimes you just didn’t know. Just the idea of it made Jonah feel like having a spew.

  The big red-headed whore, Friday Woolfe, was still on the scene — he could quite happily shag her — though he’d winkled out of a girl at the brothel on Argyle Street that she wasn’t spreading her legs any more. Apparently she was the house flagellant now, not something that appealed to him. He just couldn’t fathom those types who enjoyed getting flogged and humiliated. Bloody deviants. She had a room-mate now, too, one of those natives from New Zealand, an equally strapping and spectacular girl, though after tailing her for half a day he’d decided he’d do well to think long and hard before tangling with her. He suspected that underneath her fine clothes and polished manners she was mean.

  And the other girl, Sarah Green, was one to watch as well. Sneaky bitch. The lot of them except for Friday Woolfe’s new friend had hovered around the Harrie girl a year ago like flies on shit, and they still did, but evidently not so much now, probably because, amazingly, she seemed to have got her wits back. A year ago, he would have put money on her ending up in the lunatic asylum for good, she was that nervy and pathetic, but here she was swanning round the town, running a grand house and having a high old time.

  And keeping secrets about the whereabouts of his brother, Bennett.

  He doubted he’d be able to crack Leo Dundas — not a smart, hard-bitten old seadog who’d sailed the seven seas Christ knew how many times — but what about a girl who not so long ago was really not very well at all?

  Yes, he’d have a much better chance with Harrie Downey. Because obviously she loved kids, and now she was knee bloody deep in them.

  Aria slipped down the stairs of the Siren’s Arms and out onto Harrington Street into the bright, fine morning air. Friday had worked late last night and come to bed so weary they hadn’t even made love, so she’d left her to sleep in peace a while longer.

  It was almost nine o’clock and the rest of the town was awake, however. She was on her way to the chemist to purchase some good soap. She could tolerate several weeks without bathing — and in Aotearoa in times of siege and on raiding parties, she had — but she preferred to wash daily. In the Bay of Islands, often the only soap to be had was a harsh concoction of lye leached from wood ash boiled with fat, but here in Sydney she’d discovered in the stores a cornucopia of finely milled and deliciously scented treats: lavender, jasmine, chamomile, geranium, and her favourite, rose. It was very expensive but worth it, especially as she knew Friday enjoyed the pretty aromas as much as she did.

  After what she anticipated would be a very pleasant thirty minutes sniffing her way around the chemist, she then planned to visit a draper to select several lengths of fabric. Of necessity she’d left Aotearoa in quite a hurry, boarding the whaling ship with no more than the clothes she wore and a kete containing one good dress (as she had not wished to appear before Friday ship-soiled and looking like a drudge), her knives and a few personal bits and pieces. When Harrie had offered to make her some new gowns, she’d been delighted. She was particular about her appearance, some might even say vain, but the impact of a statuesque physique, good grooming and fine clothes could never be underestimated.

  She ducked down Suffolk Lane, savouring the smell of hot new bread from a nearby bakehouse, and stood on the corner of George Street, waiting for a break in the traffic already streaming away from the Commissariat Stores and the wharves. The cove, she saw, was strewn with ships at anchor, and both King’s Wharf and Campbell’s were fully berthed. Spotting a gap between a cart and a man on horseback she picked up her skirts, strode across the rutted street, dodged a gig going the other way, then headed towards the chemist.

  A bell rang as she entered the shop, the closing door behind her shutting out the clamour of the street. She stood still and breathed in deeply through her nose. What a haven! Tucking her reticule beneath her arm she began a leisurely wander.

  A bespectacled oldish man appeared behind the counter. ‘May I be of assistance?’

  ‘I do not think so. I am looking and then I will be choosing.’

  ‘May I ask what it is you require? I may be able to help.’

  Oh, go away, little man, Aria thought. Why are you spoiling my fun? She approached the counter and stared down at him. The top of his balding head barely reached her shoulder. ‘Soap,’ she snapped.

  ‘Plain or fancy?’ he asked, then threw up his hands so suddenly that Aria started. ‘No! Don’t tell me; let me guess. You’re a fancy, aren’t you?’

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘A fancy. Fancy soap. I can always tell. Well, I have just the thing for you.’ He darted to the end of the counter, lifted the hatch and scooted through. ‘Come and look, they only arrived yesterday.’

  Curious now, Aria followed him to a table on which were artfully arranged baskets containing posies of dried flowers and herbs, aromatic sachets, pomanders, and a good variety of soaps, some wrapped and some not.

  ‘Do you have a favourite?’ he asked.

  ‘Rose.’

  ‘Oh, yes, mine too. But you must try this.’ He selected a wrapped soap, opened it (the seal was already broken so it obviously wasn’t the first time), and handed it to Aria.

  She held it to her nose. ‘It is . . . delicious! What is it?’

  ‘Honeysuckle. I imported it from England.’

  ‘I do not think I have smelt honeysuckle before.’

  ‘Marvellous, isn’t it?’

  ‘Possibly as nice as rose. I will take three cakes, thank you, and three cakes of your best rose.’

  The chemist looked vaguely uncomfortable. ‘Er, it is rather expensive.’

  ‘I expect that it is,’ Aria replied, thinking how fortunate it was that Friday had plenty of money.

  The soaps nestled safely in her reticule, Aria left the shop and walked along George Street towards the drapers’. Passing through the shadow of the southern end of the Commissariat Stores, she distinctly heard someone call her name. Stopping, she turned but saw no one she recognised. The voice — a man’s — came again and she took five or six steps into the narrow, shaded street between the Stores that was the lower reach of Essex Lane. Two boys were loitering halfway down, and at the far end she could see the edge of the cove and a handful of men working, but no one who might have called to her.

  She watched for a moment, then turned away — and yelped as someone yanked hard on her hair, jerking her head back. A large hand clamped over her
mouth then she lost her balance, her arms shooting up and her reticule falling, and she was being dragged backwards into the shadows.

  Her beautiful soaps!

  Fucking Hoata — she could smell him. Tensing her stomach muscles, she drove back with an elbow and a booted heel: the heel connected with a shin but the elbow was grabbed — by someone else, she thought. Paikea? She bit Hoata’s hand then, heaving mightily, bent at the waist, lifting him a few inches off his feet. He grunted in surprise but she’d seen his companion — not Paikea but Te Paenga himself.

  ‘You cowards!’ she hissed in Maori, dragging Hoata around. ‘Two warriors against one woman?’

  Down the laneway the two boys stared, fascinated, but when they realised Aria had spotted them they tore off.

  Te Paenga got a more secure grip on her arm. ‘Shut up, woman. The ship is waiting. We are leaving.’

  Hoata, a row of tooth marks on his palm, took her other arm and they marched her down an alleyway that cut through the Stores.

  ‘Have you been waiting two whole weeks to catch me by myself?’ Aria said. ‘You fools.’

  ‘Shut up,’ Te Paenga ordered, giving her arm a vicious twist, which hurt.

  ‘And all for nothing,’ Aria said.

  ‘No, not for nothing. You will be my bride.’

  Aria lost her footing on slippery cobbles as they hurried around the side of a building and Hoata righted her. ‘But not your virgin bride,’ she taunted. ‘It is too late for that.’

  ‘Pah!’ Te Paenga’s free hand flew up in a dismissive gesture. ‘I do not care what intimacies you have shared with women. That does not matter.’

  A pair of sailors went by, looking on in alarm, and Hoata and Te Paenga gave them such bellicose glares they couldn’t move away fast enough.

  ‘I am not speaking of women,’ Aria said. ‘I am not a virgin in any sense of the word.’

  Te Paenga looked at her sharply. ‘What do you mean?’

  Aria thrust out her chin at Hoata. ‘Ask him. He knows.’

  Jerking to a halt, Te Paenga demanded of Hoata, ‘What? What do you know?’

  ‘Tell him, Hoata,’ Aria said. ‘Tell him how we lay together and you took my maidenhood.’

  ‘What?’ Te Paenga roared.

  Hoata gasped, his eyes popping in alarm. ‘We did not!’

  Aria laid her head against his shoulder. ‘Do not pretend, my love. It is time to finally tell the truth.’

  Appalled, Hoata dropped her arm as though it were on fire and leapt away from her. ‘She is lying! I have not touched her!’

  ‘Oh, my handsome warrior,’ Aria cried, ‘you must not try to protect me!’

  With an incoherent bellow of rage, Te Paenga lunged at Hoata, grabbing his topknot in one hand and punching his face with the other. As they overbalanced and crashed into a wall, struggling and kicking, Aria snatched up her skirts and ran. She ran down onto the waterfront with her long hair streaming behind her like a shining black banner, past King’s Wharf and perhaps the ship waiting to take her away, past all the curious faces whizzing by in a blur, across George Street, and back up onto Harrington to the safety of the Siren’s Arms.

  Inside, she sat at the bottom of the stairs, getting her breath back. Then, after a while, she started to giggle. Poor, arrogant Hoata, with whom she would never have slept in a thousand years.

  ‘Are you all right, Miss Aria?’ Ivy asked on her way past.

  ‘Yes, thank you, Ivy. I am very well.’

  ‘Can I get you anything?’

  ‘No, thank you. I am just resting.’

  After a few minutes Aria felt recovered enough to go upstairs, and discovered that Friday was awake, sitting up in bed and drinking tea.

  ‘I woke up and you weren’t here,’ she said. ‘I missed you. Where have you been?’

  ‘I thought you might like some extra sleep. I went to buy some soap.’

  ‘Ooh, did you get rose?’

  ‘I did not get anything,’ Aria said. ‘I forgot to take my purse.’

  ‘Well, you’re a noodle, aren’t you? See anything interesting out?’

  ‘No. Nothing at all.’

  The weather was lovely, fine and warm with a gentle breeze blowing, as Matthew hurried up Charlotte Place and swung past St Philip’s Church towards Clarence Street, almost trotting in his haste. He would thoroughly kick himself if he was late and the auction had already started. Or worse, finished.

  Approaching the cottage he noted that Mr Cowley had arrived, and so had at least twenty others. He hoped like hell they weren’t all planning to bid. To his relief he saw that proceedings hadn’t yet begun, though two men were busy lifting a portable lectern off a cart, across the front of which was painted in gold lettering Prentiss and Dickson Auctioneers. Busy conversing with two gentlemen, Mr Cowley spotted him and touched the brim of his top hat in acknowledgment.

  James arrived, puffing slightly. ‘Sorry I’m late. Good day for it.’

  ‘I suppose,’ Matthew replied, feeling really quite nervous now. ‘Thanks for coming. Harrie busy?’

  ‘She’s always busy these days, but she said she’d be here if she could.’ James’s eyebrows went up. ‘Looks like someone else had the same idea.’ He waved.

  Matthew followed his gaze, and sighed.

  Friday and Aria were striding along Clarence Street in full sail. Aria, as always, was tastefully and impeccably dressed in a beautifully tailored gown, but Friday was in one of her spectacularly loud dresses and her enormous hydrangea hat.

  ‘Matthew!’ she shouted, waving madly. ‘Hoi! Matthew!’ She and Aria crossed the street. ‘How’s things? Not every day you buy a house, is it?’

  ‘Well, you know, I’ll only get it if my bid’s the highest,’ Matthew said glumly. Friday smelt as though she’d been on the gin all morning.

  ‘I bet it will be. I mean, you’re not bothered by rats, cockroaches and spiders the size of cats, are you?’ Friday said at the top of her voice, causing heads to turn.

  Matthew winced as Aria fixed Friday with a warning glare. Just then, a man in a smart black coat, lavishly embroidered waistcoat and black silk top hat approached the lectern and struck it theatrically with a gavel. The chatter died away and everyone turned in his direction.

  The auctioneer cleared his throat and boomed, ‘Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen of Sydney, and a very cordial welcome to today’s auction of this sturdy, four-room sandstone and shingle cottage on, as you can see with your own eyes, a cleared, fenced and partially cultivated plot amounting to a very generous one third of an acre situated in the absolute heart of this fair town.’ He leant forwards, one elbow on the lectern, as if about to share a confidence. ‘Now, I do need to advise that the vendor has set a reserve on the property, and I have to say, it is not the lowest of reserves I’ve seen in recent times. However, I’m sure that the winning bidder will have no hesitation whatsoever delving deep into his purse to secure such a fine freehold asset for himself.’ Suddenly, he threw up his hands, palms out, drawing a few tiny gasps of consternation from the crowd. ‘Yes, I know, you could very well be saying to yourselves, “Mr Dickson, why should I risk paying over the odds for this sweet cottage —” and let’s face it, ladies and gentlemen, it most certainly will make one of you a very charming new home “— when Governor Bourke is practically giving away plots of land?”’

  For God’s sake, Matthew thought, growing more and more nervous by the second, bloody well get on with it, will you?

  He saw but barely noticed Harrie and Charlotte joining the back of the crowd.

  ‘Well, ladies and gentlemen of Sydney,’ Mr Dickson blarneyed on, ‘I’ll tell you. Those plots of land are almost as far away as the Blue Mountains, or they’re miles up the Hunter Valley, or in places you and I have never even heard of! That’s why they’re being practically given away! And do you think they’ve been cleared? No, they have not. Do you think they come with a nice little sandstone cottage? No, they do not. And that’s why this very tidy little property
behind me — only minutes from emporiums, banks, hotels, parks, the harbour and all the marvellous trappings of civilisation — has a reserve. Think about that, ladies and gentlemen. Now, do I hear an opening bid?’

  ‘Ten pounds!’ Friday shouted.

  Glowering at her, Mr Dickson declared snottily, ‘I’m afraid you’re rather wide of the mark, madam.’

  ‘Friday, shut up!’ Matthew hissed. ‘You’re not buying it, I am!’

  ‘Sorry. Got carried away.’

  Really quite annoyed, Matthew snapped, ‘Got drunk, you mean. Aria, can you keep her quiet?’

  ‘Probably not.’ But Aria grasped Friday’s arm and, spotting Harrie, led her to the edge of the crowd.

  No bids were forthcoming.

  ‘Come on, ladies and gentlemen,’ Mr Dickson encouraged. ‘Don’t let this marvellous opportunity slip through your fingers.’

  ‘What do I do?’ Matthew asked James.

  ‘Make a bid, I suppose.’

  Mr Cowley appeared at Matthew’s elbow. ‘I suggest you open the bidding, Mr Cutler. They’re all just waiting for someone to start.’

  All? How many other bidders are there? Apprehension surged through Matthew like a high tide before a storm. Suddenly, buying this house had become the most important thing in the world.

  ‘Fifty pounds!’ he blurted.

  One of Mr Dickson’s heavy eyebrows went up. ‘Fifty, I have fifty. Any advance on fifty?’

  Someone bid fifty-five. Matthew bid sixty. A new bidder came in with sixty-five. Matthew bid seventy.

  ‘Steady on,’ James said. ‘Can you afford it?’

  Matthew nodded. ‘I want it.’

  Mr Dickson beamed. ‘Marvellous news, ladies and gentlemen, the reserve has now been met. This charming property is now for sale.’

  A counter bid at seventy-five.

  ‘I have seventy-five, ladies and gentlemen, do I hear eighty?’

  Matthew raised his hand.

  ‘Ker-ist!’

  Matthew wished Friday would just bugger off.