CHAPTER 4

‘The time has come to put our cards on the table,’ said Mrs Bleeker, as she swung the tip of her folded umbrella at an impudent patch of grass in the road. Something heavy and painful rose in my chest.

We were walking back to Craig’s Hotel from the Ballarat orphanage, a carriage ride from the town. The little people were making charity appearances during their three weeks in Ballarat; they had met the orphans and had begun a short show, when Mrs Bleeker took my arm and quietly suggested the walk.

Still walking, she turned and stared at me gravely. ‘The General has asked me to talk to you about the infant.’

I thought of the row of the youngest orphans, in clean smocks, wet hair plastered to their skulls or yanked into tight braids. ‘Which one?’ I said. ‘The bold boy who shouted?’

‘Don’t be obtuse, Mary Ann.’

I could not mistake the direct gaze. ‘How did you know?’ The heavy thing in my chest sent tentacles up into my throat.

‘I did not come down with the last shower of rain. Your queasiness. And may I remind you that you fainted backstage in Melbourne. Yet you seem a strong, healthy girl. How far along are you now?’

I stared at the path, my face burning. I knew how long, give or take a few days, but was there any point in admitting it? Best get it over with. I hid my trembling hands in the folds of my skirt. ‘When we get back I will look at once for a cheap passage to Melbourne.’

‘Whatever are you talking about?’

‘I will forgo my wages. I have scarcely earned them yet. You have all been very kind but I cannot impose on you any longer.’

Mrs Bleeker scowled. Would she hit me with her umbrella? ‘You are not going anywhere, you foolish girl. The General wants you precisely the way you are. Precisely.’

‘I don’t understand.’

‘You must have noticed how much the General loves little ones.’ Her voice took on a persuasive tone. ‘Did you see his moist eyes at the orphanage? If there is one thing the General regrets, it is that he never had a childhood. He began with Mr Barnum when he was four years old; he had to learn to drink wine and smoke cigars. It has left him with a very soft spot for children, but he and Mrs Stratton have never been blessed.’ Mrs Bleeker sighed. ‘Lord knows, a hard fate …’ Her voice quavered, her mouth took on a drooping shape. Then she screwed her lips into a brisk line. ‘He will adopt the infant. A dream come true for him. And for you too.’

‘For me?’ This could not be right. There was never any chance of my dreams coming true.

But Mrs Bleeker spoke slowly, as if to a child. ‘The infant will grow up in his new house in Middleborough, Massachusetts. Do not let the General’s comicalities deceive you. He is very wealthy, wise and generous. No more perfect childhood could be imagined.’

The thing in my chest had lifted a little. ‘I still don’t understand. The General could have his pick of any child in that orphanage. Why me?’

Mrs Bleeker looked up at the eucalypts, which shivered in a rising breeze. ‘Call it his gratitude towards his rescuer.’

I wrapped my shawl tighter around my shoulders. ‘I never wished for gratitude. So … must I hand over the infant?’

Her eyes widened. ‘Lord, we are not barbarians. And they are so much attached to you. They wish you to come back to America with them at the end of the tour.’

The New World? The land of Indians and grizzly bears? Images from a child’s picture book whirled before me, but Mrs Bleeker bundled her umbrella under her arm and ticked off points on her fingers and I did my best to concentrate. ‘The dollar equivalent of thirty-five pounds a year, plus board and travel expenses. This is a raise on your salary as assistant wardrobe mistress, and exceptional pay for a nursemaid. When a little time has gone by, you can choose.’

The trees were slowly spinning. I hoped I was not going to faint again. This was far more astounding than Indians and grizzlies, and of all the words to issue from Mrs Bleeker’s pinched mouth, the most extraordinary was choose.

‘If you wish to remain in their employ, they will find you duties where you can be close to the infant and perhaps continue your care. If you wish to leave, the General will provide references and a very handsome settlement. You will have your pick of positions. And who knows, perhaps your pick …’ She clapped a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh, my dear, what am I saying? I know how devoted you are to the memory of poor Mr Carroll.’

We continued to walk in silence, Mrs Bleeker swinging her umbrella at the dust, while I tried to think. All that came into my mind were pictures: the bench and the thin darned sheet in the mean house by the Yarra Yarra; and then Charlie and Lavinia bending over a tiny cradle with nothing to be seen inside but a soft curve of blankets. Behind me a small door opened and light flooded into the room. I turned my back on the little couple and the cradle, walked towards the New World.

Mrs Bleeker’s voice cut into my pictures. ‘Well? What do you say?’

‘I don’t know what to say. Never, in my wildest dreams …’

‘You can trust the General’s word. He is an upright gentleman. And his anticipation of this happy event will take away his bad humours and his eccentricities. You cannot believe how much he longs for an heir.’

‘And Mrs Stratton? Does she long too?’

Mrs Bleeker’s voice softened. ‘She is a woman.’

I am a woman too, but not a rich, married woman who can have whatever she longs for. I forced down the unexpected stab that leaped from beneath my heart and remembered what my father had said: The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.

‘Feeling queasy again?’ said Mrs Bleeker. ‘I have medicine in my basket.’

‘No need.’ I attempted a brisker walk, tried to think of the cradle, but all that came was a picture of a parcel in my lap, bright with curls of silver ribbon. What was inside the parcel? Nothing. That was the gift. The Lord was taking away the burden I had thought immoveable. I would bend down to go through that little door into that bright New World, with a clear conscience, since the infant would grow up in the most loving home that could be imagined. Then I would straighten my back and look up, and coming towards me … My heart gave a great thump and I was light, ready to float above the trees.

‘Are you sure you are well, Mary Ann? I had expected you to be glad.’

‘Oh, I am much, much more than just glad. The dear, kind, generous …’ I blushed at the thought of the momentary stab from beneath my heart. Now I wanted to kiss the hand of the radiant Queen of Beauty.

‘Hold my umbrella.’ Mrs Bleeker bent to the basket on her arm, pulled out a square of pink cotton, wiped her brow and fanned herself. ‘Of course,’ she murmured, ‘there is one condition.’

‘There is?’

‘The General must first consider the infant suitable.’

Healthy? Without blemish? ‘That only God can decide,’ I said.

‘Quite. But the General already seems certain he will find the infant suitable. He has great faith in you.’

‘I must make sure I do not disappoint him.’

She nodded, folded the cotton, pushed it back into her basket. ‘I nearly forgot. Some things for you.’ She drew out a small brown bottle and a pair of black kid gloves, rubbed shiny at the fingertips. ‘This is Dr Foote’s Magnetic Elixir, a boon for all kinds of female complaints, including queasiness. Take a sip whenever you need it. And the gloves should fit you. I have unpicked the stitches along the seams between the fingers, below the knuckles.’

I thanked her, put the bottle into my pocket and pulled on the gloves. They covered the thimble callouses and the burns from the iron and a spilled kettle. If I kept my fingers together, I had ladies’ hands.

‘These are the first gloves I have ever been able to wear,’ I said. She gave me a small smile and I returned it. ‘What will happen next?’ I asked.

‘We continue the tour. You continue your duties, health permitting, until your confinement. But don’t go bothering the General and Mrs Stratton about it. Any questions, come to me.’ She held out her hand as if to shake on a deal or to clasp in friendship. Just in time, I realised what the gesture meant and handed back the umbrella.

I watched her beaky profile as we walked on. My gloves were snug, and the sun was breaking through the cloud ahead of us, lighting up the wire on the fencepost at the top of the next hill. The outlying tents of the mining settlement came into view, white and festive.

‘I do not deserve such fortune,’ I said. ‘But I will take it.’

Mrs Bleeker allowed herself a larger smile. ‘If I thought you were the sort of girl who cared for such things, I would tell you about the made-to-measure gloves you can buy in New York.’

So the deal was done. Now I look back on that day and am astonished at myself. Why was I so humble and obliging? Why did I not stamp my foot, demand to know precisely what would become of me and my child? Why did I not insist on contracts and lawyers, hold out for the best possible arrangement? But I was so grateful to be housed and fed and given purpose and future. Above all, to be spared disgrace and destitution. And I had so little power — or so I thought.

I was lighthearted, nervous, full of questions back at Craig’s Hotel, as I sorted out costumes and props with Mrs Bleeker, but she seemed too distracted to reply.

Later, I came across Charlie studying himself in the big looking glass, adjusting his cravat, and I ventured to thank him for his astounding generosity. He never took his eyes off his own face, and we both watched him blush almost purple.

‘Do not speak of it,’ he murmured, waving me away, and his voice made me think this was no modest disclaimer. This was a command.

‘I am honoured,’ I said to Lavinia as I pinned up her hair, ‘to be chosen … you are so kind …’

‘Not at all,’ she said, ‘but really, this will not do, I must teach you how to plait in a chignon’. Then she produced a silk bag containing a nest of coiled hair identical to her own, and I was soon lost in her instructions for twisting ropes around high-backed combs and padding knots as her hair grew more and more voluminous.

Was the subject of adoption considered too indelicate, or was everyone just too busy? Certainly I myself had almost no time to think about it. While the troupe performed at the Mechanics’ Institute in the evening, I sprayed seltzer water onto Minnie’s tonsils, helped the ladies change their costumes, mended a coat, swept up the dung dropped by one of the miniature ponies as it wandered unheeded about the rooms, put out a fire when a lamp fell over, hunted down a fine new blue cup and saucer for Mr Bleeker and poured his tea. I heard a drumbeat, shrill singing, roars of laughter and applause, and the tantalising tinkle and crash of the piano; but all I saw was people running on and off the stage.

I did sneak another look at that tall pianist with the red hair. His name was Franz Richardson, I had discovered. This time he played with his eyes open, squinting at the sheet music, fumbling and pausing as he turned the pages. It was not incompetence, I divined: it was a kind of magnificent rage at being forced to play such inane jauntiness. He made me so curious. I wanted to get closer to him, but Mrs Bleeker called me away to fasten yet another row of buttons.

Sometimes I wondered if the relentless demands made of me would become too much to bear given I was already so constantly indisposed. But in truth, I was glad to be busy. I believed that hard work would be my salvation, and the Lord was taking away my burden.

It was hard work I had turned to when I thought I could save my mother and father. I do believe I came close to succeeding. But in the end, no one could have saved them.

What should I say about my parents? That they were virtuous, and kind to me. I remember my mother lifting me to the white towers of horse-chestnut blooms in the rectory garden. Laughing, chasing me round the sundial. My father did not run or laugh or lift me up; he was a grey pillar of a man, but sometimes he would smile and lay his hand on my head in such a gentle way. Together they went out, baskets over their arms, to give to the poor. But that was why they fell sick.

It happened so fast. One night I lay in bed listening to the bells — they tolled all the time in London the year I turned eleven. The doctor, Cook, Molly the maid and Mrs Utley the housekeeper had all gone. The door opened slowly. Mother stood by my bed, her arms folded around her stomach. Her hair, usually coiled tight, hung in damp wisps around her neck.

‘I want you to see to Father. Now.’

This was a house where I did what I was told. If I wanted to play outside among the fallen horse-chestnut leaves instead of sewing my sampler, Mother would say I’d get dirty. Father would say that wanting was the sin of covetousness. I should do what God wanted. So I took the candle to my parents’ bedroom, and when I opened the forbidden door, the sweet odour almost choked me. The room was crisscrossed with lines, and on them hung sheets and towels soaked in perfumed water. Candles glowed hazily through the white veils. I pushed through the maze of wet cloth to the bed, where a darker smell rose. Father lay on his back, grey chest hair bristling from the neck of his nightshirt, muttering.

‘Father?’

He watched the ceiling with a preoccupied frown, as if he had detected sin or peeling plasterwork. When I put my hand over his, it felt like the snails in the garden after rain. I took down a hanging towel, wiped his brow. I pushed up the sleeve of his nightshirt and wiped his arm and he moaned.

‘Thou art become cruel to me.’

‘No, Father.’

‘I cry unto thee, and thou dost not hear me.’

He was not talking to me. He was talking to the Lord. I unbuttoned his nightshirt and rubbed the towel over his chest. I had never seen so much of his skin, was surprised at how soft it was. Father had seemed made of marble.

When the candles had burned down and Father had fallen into an uneasy sleep, I crept back to my bedroom. Mother lay across the bed, also asleep, with a sour smell under her cheek, and I realised she had vomited. Should I clean the coverlet? But that would mean waking Mother, so I curled up on the floor and waited for dawn.

I was so sure I could save them.

In the next two days, I whisked from one bed to the other, fetched water, poured it between flaking lips, washed snail skin, cleaned off vomit and watery faeces, washed and wrung bedclothes and towels, shovelled coal into the kitchen stove, heated water on the hob, hung the wet sheets in front of the stove. When they were half dry, I wrapped some around Father and Mother and hung the rest in the bedrooms, soaked in eau de Cologne. I stood at the sink in the scullery, scrubbing my hands with soapy water until they stung. Father muttered. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away. Mother never said a coherent word. Gradually the foul odours stopped rising, and the snail skin dried out. Surely by now they must be getting better.

I don’t remember exactly when Mrs Utley came back. I do recall watching, dull and light-headed, as she turned away from me and heaved with sobs and hard-won breaths.

I was thinking of my parents one evening as I sat alone in a pool of candlelight in the parlour of the Craig’s Hotel suite, long after the Ballarat urchins who patrolled the street in the hope of glimpsing the little people had given up and left. I squinted at a rip in Charlie’s tiny shirt in my lap. The collar had a faint sweetness: eau de Cologne. I held it to my face and shivered, Father’s voice scratched in my ears. The Lord giveth, the Lord taketh away.

I took deep breaths as I continued my stitching. I would work hard, and this time all would be well, for nothing could be so bad again. I smiled to myself, and my needle twinkled as it healed the wound in Charlie’s sleeve.

A clink of glasses and the clearing of a male throat came from the balcony overlooking Lydiard Street. So not everyone was in bed after all. It was a calm and unseasonably warm night, and the window was wide open, though a large davenport blocked my view — and, I realised, hid me from whoever had moved onto the balcony. Should I declare myself?

Instead, I blew out the candle. A match flared, and I heard a glug of port from a decanter, a trickle of tea, and murmurs: one drawling, the other high. Sylvester Bleeker and Charlie, having a gentlemen’s confab.

They were talking about a proposed meeting with a certain Ballarat doctor. ‘Quite the collector,’ said Mr Bleeker. ‘His fame has spread.’

‘I don’t think I’ll come with you. I have never cared for the genus collector,’ said Charlie. ‘If he sees me, he might whip out a giant butterfly net.’ Mr Bleeker laughed. A pause; then Charlie spoke quietly. I could not catch the words.

Mr Bleeker spoke louder: ‘Nonsense, General. Tonight’s show was full of all your wonderful vim and vigour.’

Again, Charlie’s reply was inaudible, and I prepared to leave; but as I was packing my sewing basket, Charlie’s voice rose: ‘Lavinia tells me our Mary Ann is still indisposed.’

I froze.

‘I’m sorry to hear it. She’s already such a favourite with the ladies …’ Mr Bleeker’s voice dropped away.

Father used to say: Listeners never hear any good of themselves. And yet I strained to hear.

Charlie’s reply was clearer: ‘She is only a little indisposed. It is a good sign, what we should expect at this stage. Tell me, what do you think of my plan?’

I leaned forward. Surely there was only one plan Charlie could be talking about.

‘You sure it’s a good idea?’ said Mr Bleeker. ‘We don’t need an infant for business these days.’

‘This is not for business. This is for quite another purpose.’ The chair creaked again, the glow of a cigar lit the room. Charlie’s voice, lower but also closer: ‘May I speak in confidence? Man to man?’

‘Of course, my dear fellow.’

My breasts were tingling, they gave off a high-pitched vibration. No, it was a mosquito whining around my nose. I did not wave it away, sat utterly still.

‘What do you know of the Coming Man, Mr B? What do you know of the Moment of Generation?’

‘As much as any non-medical man, I guess.’

‘There is more to that moment than most men would guess.’ A pause, a shift in the cigar glow, then one hissed word: ‘Electricity.’

Had I misheard?

‘Beg pardon, General?’

Louder: ‘Electricity is the catalyst. I am speaking of something other than the vulgar method of congress …’

‘Ah.’ Mr Bleeker sounded uneasy.

‘All that is needed,’ Charlie continued, ‘is close proximity between a healthy mature male and female. There is no need even for touch. The male must be an individual of uncommon magnetism. There must also be an extraordinary excitement, and a great deal of water. And — alakazam! — a new life is formed.’

A spluttering, as if Mr Bleeker’s tea had misdirected itself. What had I learned at school about electricity? Something about using a comb to make one’s hair stand on end. Whatever did this have to do with the adoption?

‘I will explain,’ Charlie said. ‘Every human being can generate electrical charges. Forgive my frankness, Mr B, but I must speak of male and female generative organs. They produce acidic solutions and alkaline liquids, and together, in water, they make quite a soda.’ More spluttering from Mr Bleeker. ‘Cicero, Napoleon, the great men of history — they are all uncommonly magnetic, electric. By an effort of mind, they can sometimes retain their electricity, and at other times discharge it through their spermatozoa, with the power of a cannon ball.’

He sounded very excited. A muffled exclamation from Mr Bleeker.

‘Involuntary discharge is also possible, under the influence of a great shock to the nervous system,’ Charlie went on.

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about, General.’ What a relief that I was not the only one. ‘I’ve never heard of such a thing. Are you telling me you jumped into the Yarra Yarra on purpose?’

Charlie laughed. ‘No, but accidents can have fortunate consequences.’ His voice dropped, and I crept to the davenport, peered over the top. For a moment, I saw nothing but a faint glow from the stars, and then a match flared: Charlie was relighting his cigar. His face, florid by daylight, was transformed into a Chinese lantern. His voice rose again: ‘It is a rare occurrence with great men of destiny. As to where we might find such a man, that is not for me to say. But we have our woman, Mr B. Our Mary Ann is a treasure, Vin says. We will take good care of her. She saved my life, after all. She is an excellent —’ His head turned towards the street and a breath of wind carried away his next word. Vestal? Vessel?

‘So,’ said Mr Bleeker, ‘this, ah, Coming Man won’t be like the others? I don’t want to go through all that again.’

‘Dismiss them from your mind, Mr B. What is it the Good Book says? They are not worthy to touch the hem of his garment.’

Mr Bleeker grunted, waved an arm as if to swat a mosquito. They talked on of other matters as I crept to the door.

Our woman? Our Mary Ann? I had heard good of myself, and it was more puzzling and disturbing than a complaint. Outside the door, I put down my basket. My stitching on the tiny shirt looked clumsy and fragile. I clasped my hands over my navel. Who exactly was this General I had wrested from the river? What was it that he was so convinced had happened in the water?

There was little sleep for me that night. My head was buzzing with the mysterious conversation I had overheard but, no matter how I turned it back and forth, I could make no more sense of it.

Very early the next morning, before most people were awake, I was sitting out in the hotel courtyard cleaning the ladies’ boots when a tock, tock of hooves made me lift my head. Three men were leading horses across the yard towards the stables; the third man was much shorter than the others, his left leg had a slight limp, and his horse, a stolid bay with a white blaze, towered over him.

It was Rodnia Nutt, the Commodore’s elder brother, without his coachman’s wig and blue plush. He was whistling a tune. As the first two men and their horses disappeared into the stables, Rodnia came abreast of me. Without any warning, his horse suddenly reared up on its hind legs with a furious neigh and began to plunge down on him, as if to shatter his head with its hooves. I jumped up, letting the boots, brush and polish fall from my bench, and made to grab at the horse’s bridle, but it was too high above me, so I lunged at Rodnia, knocking off his hat, pushing him out of the way of the falling hooves. As we both rolled onto the gravel, he gave a long hissing whistle. Had I knocked the wind from him? Slowly we got to our feet, brushing ourselves down. The bay stood silent, docile. Where was its fury? Something, probably blood, was trickling down my leg from my knee. Rodnia picked up my shawl, handed it to me, and I wrapped it around myself as if it were a cloak of invisibility.

‘You all right, ma’am? The bab’s not hurt?’ said Rodnia anxiously.

For a moment I was baffled. Then a hot wave, something between shame and relief, swept me, and I staggered back to the bench where I had been sitting and almost fell onto it. Rodnia jammed his hat back over his mop of brown curls, hitched the horse to the bench leg and sat beside me.

‘God’s teeth, you’re hurt. I’ll fetch Mrs B —’

‘No, I am fine, just a little shaken.’

He stared at me, and I was not sure whether I should feel threatened or comforted. His brows had ferocity, but his brown eyes and gruff voice were gentle, like a wild animal that chose to be tamed. In his livery as the little people’s coachman, driving the walnut coach round and round Melbourne and Ballarat every day to drum up business for the shows, he had seemed a puffed-up piece of sky. Sometimes Charlie and George and the ladies would sit inside the coach, waving like kings and queens, but Rodnia would sit stiff on his perch, ignoring cheers and jeers alike. Now, in his stained leather vest and dung-encrusted boots, he seemed unaccountably larger. And yet he stood no taller than my armpit.

The two men who had led horses into the stable came out the door and stared curiously towards us. Rodnia stared back, gave a quick jerk of his head, and the men touched their caps, walked away.

‘You look all in,’ he said. ‘They should treat you better, you being the goose and all.’

‘What did you say?’

‘No offence.’ He smiled. ‘I meant you’re the goose that lays the golden egg, ’tis your good fortune. The General was longing for a son and heir, and then along you came to rescue him. The bab’ll have a fine home.’

So he knew. All the troupe must know. Did they also know of Charlie’s strange talk of electrical discharges? Was I the only one left in the dark? I rested against the rough wall behind the bench. The ladies’ little boots lay in the dust in front of me, but I made no attempt to pick them up.

‘Don’t you worry, ma’am.’ He was calm, a little amused. ‘They’ll hang on to you like billy-o, keep you in clover. Ain’t that so, Zep?’ The horse snickered. ‘Let me introduce you. Missus Carroll, Master Zep, the Wild Horse of Tartary — though he don’t look too wild at the moment.’ The horse nudged his shoulder and he scratched its nose. ‘Me and Zep’ve been pals for a long time. He used to belong to a Hungarian with tremendous moustachios. Zoltan juggled balls and swords on horseback.’

‘A circus horse?’

‘And very well trained. It was my job to seize Zoltan butt-naked — well, in a body costume — bind him to Zep here, give him a whack on the rump — Zep, not the Hungarian — and send him galloping round the ring. The girls shrieked, they loved it so.’

I stared at Rodnia’s sturdy build and stubbled jaw. A damp warmth came off him, sweeter than the horse smell.

‘Old Zep’s a wise beast. Watch.’ He let out a whistle, and the horse reared on its hind legs; he whistled again, and it dropped and stood still.

‘Oh, I see … So you were not in danger after all. Mr Nutt, I feel very foolish.’

‘Rodnia, please. And you’re far from foolish, ma’am. What you did was very brave. You’re a dandy rescuer.’

I shook my head, smiling. The hotel door opened, and Ned Davis emerged in his shirtsleeves, blinking and scratching his groin, his unpomaded black hair flopping loose over his forehead. He gave us a hard stare, keeping his head turned towards us as he walked by.

‘I must go,’ I said. ‘The ladies will be waking soon.’

‘Come see me when you have a mo,’ said Rodnia. ‘I’ll be about. I’ll teach you how to make Zep wild.’