‘I’m curious, Jack. That’s why I’ve agreed to meet this accountant fellow. But I shan’t part with any money, you may be sure of that.’ As they rode back into York, Ralph outlined what had happened.
‘Is he your father? Did you find out?’
‘He didn’t respond too much when I said I was looking for relatives. But she did. Mrs West.’
‘Mrs West? Was that the woman at the house? She came down the stairs and was going towards the door when she saw me,’ Jack said. ‘Then she turned round and went into the room where you and Scott were.’
‘She said she was passing the house and decided to call,’ Ralph grinned. ‘I thought I hadn’t heard the doorbell.’
‘West!’ Jack considered. ‘Wasn’t that the name of the witness at your mother’s trial?’
‘Of course it was! It hadn’t ocurred to me. And he called her Dolly which is short for Dorothy. Mrs Dorothy West!’
‘It’s a strange house,’ Jack said thoughtfully. ‘It had bad feeling there. I could sense it. There has been a great deal of unhappiness within those walls.’
Ralph glanced at his friend. He knew better than to scoff. Jack was very sensitive to atmosphere. He nodded. ‘It wasn’t a welcoming house.’
‘No,’ Jack said softly. ‘There was a smell of death there.’
Henderson was a small man, thin, and nervous as a cat as he ushered Ralph into his office and bade him be seated. He looked apprehensively at Jack who stood immobile and glassy-eyed inside the door where he had followed them.
‘It’s all right,’ Ralph assured Henderson. ‘He goes everywhere with me.’
‘But – er, in private discussion?’
Ralph nodded, ‘He won’t understand what we’re talking about.’
‘Ah.’ Henderson shuffled about on his desk to find the paper he wanted and then, with another quick nervous glance at Jack, said, ‘I understand from Mr Scott’s letter that you are thinking of starting up in the confectionery trade and might be needing financial advice.’
‘No,’ Ralph said calmly. ‘I never said I needed financial advice. Mr Scott suggested that I came to see you, that you were the man who could advise me on the
possibility
of starting in business, but not here – in Australia.’
Henderson became more nervous and agitated and glanced down at the letter in his hand. ‘But, erm, Mr Scott suggests that you should gain experience here, perhaps by buying
a shop or small factory – there are several on the market at the moment, erm, he, Mr Scott that is, knows the owners personally and I could,’ he pushed his glasses up his nose, ‘I could arrange it for you.’
He glanced again at Jack and then at Ralph. ‘He – er, we will of course need to have your financial credibility ascertained before we could proceed with any transaction.’
He’s sweating, Ralph noticed. Why is he so nervous? ‘Have you known Mr Scott for long?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Yes, yes,’ Henderson stammered. ‘Thirty years or more. We started up in business together when we were young men.’
‘So you have shared his troubles?’ Ralph said softly.
‘His troubles?’ Henderson looked up directly at Ralph, an alarmed expression on his face.
‘His wife? I understand she died rather tragically.’
‘Oh, yes, yes. He told you did he? Yes, poor lady. She fell into the Ouse; she was dead when they got her out.’
‘Oh! Then there must have been another Mrs Scott?’ Ralph, startled, glanced at Jack whose expression never changed.
Henderson put his hand to his chin and worried his fingers through his sparse beard. ‘I thought you meant –. He told you of the other, did he? That poor lady died in her bed. She hadn’t been well for a week or two, a stomach
upset, I believe. She had some kind of violent fit, the doctor said. It was unfortunate that Mr Scott was out that evening or she might have been saved.’ He gazed vaguely across the room. ‘She might have been. There was only Mrs West in the house and she was downstairs and never heard anything untoward.’
Ralph swallowed. It’s not him then. Scott is not my father. A feeling of relief swept over him. ‘I think I might be having second thoughts about this confectionery business,’ he said, ‘and I don’t quite know how long I will be staying in York. My primary aim, Mr Henderson, is to look for relatives.’
Henderson seemed to relax as he spoke, but then said with a catch in his voice, ‘Mr Scott will be very disappointed, very disappointed, but still – if you have changed your mind, and of course it would take a deal of money to set up.’
‘It’s not the money,’ Ralph said vaguely. ‘But I really must concentrate on trying to locate my father.’
‘Your father?’ Henderson raised his eyebrows. ‘How is it you have lost your father?’
‘I have spent all of my life in Australia, Mr Henderson. My mother gave birth to me on a ship, a convict ship, and I have discovered recently that she came from York and that there is the strong possibility that my father still lives here.’
He broke off abruptly as he saw Henderson’s face change colour and his hand clutch at his
collar. He rose to his feet. ‘Are you unwell, Mr Henderson? Shall I get you some water?’
Jack moved swiftly towards the desk and, standing behind Henderson, gently bent his head and shoulders towards the desk. ‘Breathe deeply sir,’ he said softly. ‘Relax. Don’t be alarmed.’
‘Thank you, thank you.’ Henderson lifted his head after a moment. ‘I’m all right, really.’ His colour was returning but he wore a frightened expression. ‘Just a sudden turn. I have them from time to time.’
‘Then I trust you have seen a doctor?’ Ralph asked and as Henderson shook his head, advised, ‘it would be a precaution, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so.’
Henderson cleared his throat. ‘Yes, yes, indeed. Mr Hawkins, may I ask you a personal question? Where is your mother now? Did she survive the journey?’
‘No sir, she did not. She died on board ship. I was adopted.’ I must write to Ma and Da, he thought. I have sent them only brief correspondence since arriving in England. Ma will want to know what is happening and if I have found news of my mother’s family. I must write and tell her of this stalemate, and of the relief to know that the man I thought was my father, is not. That probably, somewhere in this city is another man with the same name, and as far as I am concerned he can stay anonymous.
‘And was she tried at York County Court?’
‘She was, sir.’ I’m sick of this palaver, he thought. I want to get out of here and go back to Holderness. Suddenly he missed the open spaces, which, though considerably less in size than Australia, gave him the feeling of home.
‘On what charge, may I ask?’
‘On attempted murder, Mr Henderson.’ Ralph stood up to go, to finish the discussion. He would leave the whole issue. He knew now who his real parents were, they were Meg and Joe Hawkins who had brought him up, had lavished love and care and discipline upon him as if he was their own. ‘She had apparently attempted to kill her husband. Perhaps he deserved it, I don’t know.’
Henderson stayed at his desk. He seemed to have lost his nervousness and had a calm resigned expression on his face. ‘Please sit down, Mr Hawkins. I have something to tell you.’ He looked into the distance, but it was as if he wasn’t seeing his surroundings and was elsewhere. Then his gaze returned to Ralph.
‘I may be starting all kinds of repercussions,’ he said softly. ‘But that can’t be helped. I have lived with a troubled conscience for so many years and here may be my chance to gain peace of mind.’
Ralph stared at him. ‘I don’t understand, Mr Henderson.’ He sat down again as he was bid. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I once had a client, a widow who came to me for advice. She had been left an inheritance by
her late husband and wished to start up in a small business. I introduced her to someone I knew, Mr Thacker, a very sound gentleman, who was then in the confectionery business. On his advice she bought a shop and ran it very successfully. It just so happened that Thacker knew Edward Scott, and I don’t know how or why, but Mr Scott and the widow were introduced. They subsequently married, Mr Hawkins, but things went wrong. There was violence within the marriage and Mrs Scott was accused of attempted murder. She was transported even though she was with child and had other children to consider.
‘Mr Hawkins,’ he said softly. ‘I may be doing you a disservice by telling you this, but I do believe that Edward Scott is probably your father.’
THE DAYS WERE
cooler now in the hills above Sydney. Autumn had arrived and with it softer weather and rain which cooled the land.
Meg sat on the veranda with Ralph’s latest letter which had been sent many weeks before. It was brief and written in haste and didn’t tell her all she wished to know. Ralph had said that he was going to York again to look for details of Rose Elizabeth Scott. He was careful to call her by her full name and not refer to her as his mother, and for that Meg was grateful. He’ll come to know he belongs to me, she thought, as she gazed down at the hundreds of ships in the harbour. There was a regatta taking place at the weekend and Sydney was swarming with visitors from the outlying districts.
I want to know about my own town, she mused. Has Hull changed, I wonder? Are there steamships on ’Humber where once there was sail? Does the market still bustle the way it did? Do they still have soup kitchens for poor folks
beside ’King Billy statue? All her memories flooded back, but they were mostly painful ones. Have they pulled down the house of correction where Emily and I met? I don’t suppose Emily goes into Hull much, it will be painful for her too.
She thought often of Joe’s sister in her grand house in Holderness. Emily had written of it many times when she had first married Philip Linton and taken up residence there. She had sent lavish descriptions of the house and detailed the layout of the rooms and the colour of curtains and carpets and from this, Meg, who had had no knowledge of design or style, fashioned her own home at Creek Farm on the plan of Elmswell Manor. She had asked Emily’s advice on the type of material to be used for drapes and hangings, knowing that heavy velvets and brocades would not be suitable for the climate of Australia as they were in the north of England. Emily had suggested muslin and chiffon for the summer and heavier cottons for the winter, and Chinese rugs scattered about the polished wood floors, and not to buy horsehair furniture on any account for it tickled so.
That the house and its furnishings were a success, she knew, for Lucinda Boyle had exclaimed in delight on her very first visit. ‘How elegant,’ she had said. ‘So like an English country house, and yet with colonial touches which makes it just right for this continent. How very clever you are, Meg.’
And Meg had smiled and thanked her and not told her, until she knew her better, that it was Emily, her dearest friend, who had advised her.
She poured herself a glass of ale and sat sipping it, enjoying its cool aromatic flavour. As she rocked on her chair she wished that Daisy would come over to keep her company. Peggy had gone off to join some friends to watch the sailing, and Joe had gone down into Sydney to negotiate the sale of wool and visit the bank. Although she could have gone with him and whilst he attended to his business could have strolled in the scented arbours of the tropical Botanical Gardens and listened to the regimental band which played beneath the jacaranda trees, she had decided against it. Joe liked to call in at a tavern, smoke a pipe of tobacco and drink a tankard or two of ale and listen to the gossip of settlers and farmers, and she didn’t want him to feel he had to rush to collect her.
Joe was happy in Australia. He had found his niche and was known as a successful man. Many in Sydney tipped their hats to him, though there were others amongst the Free Colonists who would ignore him and name him an Emancipist. This view, contrarily, gave Joe immense satisfaction; he knew that he had survived and succeeeded against all odds, whereas people such as Captain Boyle, who thought himself so superior and could join the best clubs in Sydney, could barely afford to keep his wife and daughter in ribbons.
I miss Mrs Boyle, Meg mused as she rocked. I miss her company. I wish, though, that she didn’t have to hide our friendship from her husband. What a dreadful man he is; if she only knew him as others do, I swear she would never come back from England. Her own experience with Captain Boyle from when she was on the convict ship, coupled with the rumours which both her white and Aborigine servants told her, increased her dislike of the man constantly.
She narrowed her eyes; someone was riding up the drive towards the house. She drew in a sharp breath. The servants had all gone off for an afternoon sleep, there were only a couple of the very young Aborigine children there and they were playing on the grass at the back of the house. She wasn’t a nervous woman though she kept a pistol hidden, which she knew how to use, and a whip was always propped up against the veranda wall for the occasional wild dingo which might approach the house.
But there was something abut this figure riding up the hill towards her which unsettled her and brought back memories of more than twenty years ago, when Ralph was just a baby and she was here with Emily. He sits with the same posture, she thought, and she leaned forward better to see; it’s as if he isn’t comfortable on horseback.
She gasped. He’s wearing uniform. It’s him! She put her hand to her throat. What does he
want? Has he found out about Mrs Boyle? Does he know about Ralph admiring his daughter?
But there was something more about him which disturbed her because she was alone. In her past she had been an experienced woman in the ways and desires of men, and she knew without a shadow of doubt that Captain Boyle, and it was he who was now approaching the house, had lusted after her when she was a convict woman in chains, and did still, for she saw it in his eyes whenever they should chance to pass in the streets of Sydney, even though she was now a respectable farmer’s wife.
Captain Boyle grunted as he dismounted, then straightened his jacket and took off his hat. ‘G’afternoon, Mrs Hawkins.’
Meg inclined her head. ‘We’ve not seen you up here in a lot of years, Captain Boyle. Is something amiss?’