Having spent much of her time at Marshall Mount on horseback, Jenny found that her initial saddle soreness had ceased to trouble her, but …
She sighed. Apart from infrequent visits to the Tempests’ property near Bathurst, she had become a typical city dweller, she thought wryly, venturing forth on social occasions more often by chaise or carriage than astride a William Stuart Long
horse. And no doubt in India it would be the same, since the climate precluded the indulgence by women-white women-in strenuous exercise, or prolonged exposure to the monsoon rains or, during the hot weather months, the fierce glare of the sun. Officers’ ladies, William had told her, remained for the most part in their cool, well-staffed bungalows, where they entertained in lavish style and occupied their spare time in such gentle pursuits as needlework, knitting for charity, and meeting each other over afternoon tea or at exclusively female luncheon parties.
Visits and calls were made in covered chairs, known as
doolies,
borne on the shoulders of native servants, or, if the occasion called for formality and the weather permitted it, by carriage, again with numerous native servants in attendance … and always in the cool of evening.
Looking out over Sydney’s beautiful, sunlit harbor as they neared her father’s house in Elizabeth Bay, Jenny repeated her sigh. There was a ship, evidently newly arrived from overseas, making for Circular Quay under head and topsails, with one of the port’s steam tugboats preparing to take her in tow. She was a three-master with white-painted ports, broad of beam and with an elaborate gilded figurehead, a crimson house flag fluttering from her lofty masthead, and a number of passengers crowding her upper deck.
William stifled an exclamation, studied her in pensive silence for several minutes, and then, with a jerk of his bridle-hand, he drew Jenny’s attention to the vessel, a slow, pleased smile spreading across his face.
“I fancy that is our ship, my love-La Hogue,
from Calcutta, unless I’m much
mistaken. If it is, she’s made port ahead of time … which means that we shall not have much longer here, so we had best start making our farewells.”
He sounded so pleased and eager that Jenny could find no words to answer him. Her throat tight, she nodded, and then, fearful that she might betray herself, she kicked her tired horse into a trot and hurried ahead of him, down the hill to her father’s house.
Unbidden, the memory of her dream returned and tears stung her eyes, but when her father came from the house to meet her, she resolutely blinked them back, and as William
THE GALLANT57
drew rein beside her, she managed a smile and slipped from her saddle and into Justin Broome’s warm and comforting embrace. If William was right, she told herself, and if the newly arrived vessel was indeed
La Hogue
from Calcutta, then there would be no time for tears. .
. .
“I wonder,” Kitty Cadogan observed thoughtfully, leaning back against the cushioned seat of the carriage and smoothing the folds of her shimmering taffeta skirt demurely about her
knees, “what he is like, this Crimean hero.
Does he, do you suppose, Pat, have the arrogant redcoat mentality we’ve always hated and rebelled against?”
“I presume you are referring to Colonel William De Lancey?” her brother Patrick responded. He settled himself beside her and nodded to the coachman to move off, a slim hand tugging irritably at his immaculate white tie.
“Infernally uncomfortable form of dress, this! I’d no idea that colonials went in for such formality.”
Kitty ignored the digression. “Yes, of course,” she confirmed, in answer to his question. “According to the invitation from Their Excellencies Sir William and Lady Denison, is it not to bid farewell to Colonel De Lancey and his wife, on their departure for India, that we are privileged to attend a soiree at Government House?” She added, her tone faintly derisive, “If Michael were here, would Their Excellencies have invited
him
to join in the farewells, do you imagine?”
“You would be wise to temper your rebel notions with discretion,” Patrick warned her wryly.
“And to keep a guard on your tongue, Kit!
Don’t forget, this evening’s celebrations are to mark the victory of Great Britain and her allies in the Crimea and the signing of a peace treaty with Russia. Which is an
occasion for rejoicing that no one can deny, not even the Irish, whose soldiers were there too. The Inmskilling Dragoons, the Connaught Rangers, the Green Horse … and that light cavalry charge was a damned fine thing, you know. Don’t decry it.”
“I’m not decrying it,” Kitty denied. “It’s only that …” She did not complete her sentence, but, with intuitive understanding, her brother put out his hand to clasp hers.
“Just be your own charming self,” he advised her gently. “And win their hearts and their cooperation. I must contrive to get to Norfolk Island somehow, Kit, and I’ve heard it rumored that one of the naval frigates is under orders to proceed there within the next week or two, to assist in the evacuation of the convicts. I told you that, didn’t I?”
“Yes, you told me. You said you thought it was Her Majesty’s ship
Galah,
whose commander is a certain Captain Broome-whom everyone calls Red Broome, from which I presume he must have red hair. Well, provided I am able to recognize him and obtain an introduction, I will do all in my power to win his cooperation.” Kitty smiled at him, her normal good humor at least partially restored. “But it is taking so
long
to find out anything, Pat!”
“We must be cautious, little sister. You know as well as I do that we cannot afford to take risks,”
Patrick reminded her.
“Oh, yes, I know,” Kitty conceded
unhappily. The long, idle weeks of their voyage out had tried her patience sorely, and it troubled her conscience that almost another three weeks had passed since they had disembarked in Sydney, with virtually nothing achieved.
They had rented a pleasant house some distance from the center of the city, on the South Head Road overlooking Double Bay; they had hired this carriage and, after some difficulty, engaged two indifferent house servants, but … Kitty glanced at her brother and then away, an anxious frown creasing her brow. Until they were able to ascertain Michael’s exact whereabouts, there was little they could do to aid him, and such inquiries as they were able to make had, so far, revealed only the fact that he had attempted to escape and, on being recaptured, had been sentenced to penal servitude on the dreaded William Stuart Long
Norfolk Island. The people of Sydney called it Island of the Damned, a terrible place of exile where … Kitty’s lower lip trembled. Where punishment was said to be only just short of death. And because she and Patrick dared not admit their relationship to him, they did not know whether their brother Michael was alive or dead. Or, if he had survived the appallingly harsh treatment meted out to the Norfolk Island prisoners, he might have been evacuated to one of the mainland jails.
“There’s the diary,” Patrick said, seeming to read her thoughts. “The diary the man O’Brien told us of-the one he hid in his cell and which is still there, in all probability, unless they’ve pulled down the prison buildings. I
have
to get to Norfolk Island, Kit, before the evacuation is completed. Someone there must know where Michael is.”
“Or if he’s dead,” Kitty put in
bitterly. “The letter O’Brien gave us was written two years ago.
Two years!
I-was She broke off, her voice choked. “If we had only known sooner-if we had known that he was going to be sent to Norfolk Island! Instead of believing Michael when he wrote that he was engaged as tutor to a wealthy landowner’s children and living in luxury!”
“We had no means of knowing, Kit. And we’ve been into this a hundred times. It will do no good to blame ourselves, truly it will not. We came out here as soon as we could after O’Brien brought us Michael’s last letter.” Patrick’s strong fingers tightened about hers. “God willing, we’ll not have come in vain. But you must not lose heart.”
“No,” Kitty agreed, her lower lip still visibly trembling. But she managed to give him a shaky, uncertain smile and, freeing her hand from his, tossed her dark head defiantly. “No, I’ll not lose heart. It is my patience that is wearing thin. And having to leave most of our inquiries to Mary O’Hara. She is a good, loyal soul, heaven knows, but she is not blessed with very much intelligence.”
“She does her best,” Patrick defended.
Their carriage joined a small procession of other vehicles heading in the same direction, and the coachman reined back his horses to the more leisurely pace of the phaeton immediately in front of them, as it turned into Macquarie Street.
Patrick leaned forward to take stock of its occupants and,
resuming his seat, flashed his sister a mischievous grin. “Why, Kit, look, will you-a captain of the Royal Navy with red hair, who, I take leave to surmise, is Red Broome, commander of the Galah,
with a beautiful wife beside him! And a fine-looking fellow with a beard, who appears to be unaccompanied … and who is feasting his eyes on you,
unless I’m much mistaken.”
“You are mistaken,” Kitty asserted. But she found herself peering round their coachman’s broad back and met the undoubtedly interested gaze of the man her brother had described as a fine-looking fellow.
He was in civilian dress-a tall,
broad-shouldered man with a neatly trimmed beard, who was seated with his back to the coachman’s box, facing his two companions. She quickly averted her gaze, conscious of her own heightened color, and Patrick’s grin widened in affectionate mockery.
“He’ll seek you out, Kit,” he prophesied.
“You see if he doesn’t. And that might well be the stroke of luck that’s been eluding us. If the Galah
is about to sail for Norfolk Island, what better than the chance to make the acquaintance of her captain without appearing to have any motive for doing so? Don’t be riding on your high horse now … if there’s to be dancing, you’ll want a better partner than myself, in any case.”
Perhaps she would, Kitty was forced to concede. Her twin was accomplished in virtually every social grace save dancing, for which, as she knew to her cost, he appeared temperamentally unsuited, moving clumsily and possessing no ear for music.
“That is the plain truth, Pat my dear,“8she agreed. “But all the same, it will be for the bearded gentleman to make the first move, for I shall not.”
Joined by others from neighboring streets, the procession
of
carriages slowed to walking pace, and when, some twenty minutes later, Kitty and her brother alighted in front of the ornate Gothic pile that was the official residence of the governor of the state of New South Wales, the occupants of the phaeton were nowhere in sight. Having deposited her cloak, Kitty took her brother’s proffered arm and they mounted a short flight of richly carpeted stairs, leading to what she deduced was the ballroom, at the entrance to which Sir William and Lady Denison were waiting to receive their guests.
William Stuart Long
Immediately ahead of them in the slowly advancing line were two scarlet-robed prelates of the Catholic Church, flanked by their chaplains, and beside her Kitty felt Patrick suddenly stiffen and draw in his breath sharply as a liveried footman, positioned by the balustrade, announced the churchmen’s names in stentorian tones.
“The Most Reverend Dr. Polding, archbishop of Sydney, Your Excellencies, and the Right Reverend Robert Willson, bishop of Hobart, with the Reverend Father John Joseph Therry
and-was
Patrick whispered excitedly, “Now that is
a stroke of luck, Kit-Bishop Willson is largely responsible for the British government’s decision to close Norfolk Island as a penal settlement! You remember what Captain Thomas told us about the treatment meted out to-what was his name?
The man who was dismissed from the Anglican chaplaincy … the Reverend Rogers?”
Kitty remembered and her lovely mouth tightened. Chaplain Rogers had been summarily dismissed from the prison service because he had made repeated reports of the excessive severity of the commandant of Norfolk Island, and the only man who had listened to him had been, ironically, one not of his Anglican persuasion but the Roman Catholic Bishop Willson, who … Kitty caught her brother’s excitement. Who was standing only a few paces from them at this moment, being received with unconcealed coldness by the governor, who bowed but did not shake the aging bishop’s hand.
Captain Wilfred Thomas, of the 40th Regiment, whom they had met during the Spartan’s
brief stay in the port of Melbourne, had told them, with a certain wry amusement, that Sir William Denison-at that time governor of Tasmania-had engaged in numerous acrimonious exchanges with Bishop Willson on the subject of Norfolk Island. Wilfred Thomas had not known, of course, the reason for her and Patrick’s interest in the penal settlement, and they had been at pains to disguise it, so they had not learned as much as they might otherwise have done. But, Kitty reflected, they had learned enough concerning Commandant Price to cause them renewed anxiety on Michael’s behalf. The civil commandant had ruled the convicts
with a rod of iron, and Governor Denison, ignoring the strictures of both Bishop Willson and Chaplain Rogers, had given his support and approval to Price’s administration. HeThe viceregal footman was looking at them inquiringly, and Patrick gave their names.
“Lady Kitty Cadogan-the Honorable
Patrick Cadogan!” the man announced, and as they moved forward, Patrick said softly, “I’m going to have a word with Bishop Willson, Kit.
Carry on without me, will you?”
Kitty nodded her assent. Governor
Denison, a stiff, solemn-faced man in an immaculate full-dress uniform, unbent sufficiently to give her a wintry smile and bid her welcome to the colony of New South Wales.
His hand, when she shook it, felt cold and unexpectedly limp, but his greeting seemed friendly enough, and Lady Denison’s was even more so. Both, as nearly as she could judge, were in their fifties, the governor a few years older than his wife.