3

THE SUN set in the distance to a haze of blue behind the church tower of St Giles in the Fields. The stench from the Thames oozed through the air, a sour odour coming from the floating prison hulks — anchored in water thick and grey and sluggish. Isabel imagined the land the prisoners were destined for — the prison on the other side of the world, but all she could visualise was a grey, damp, wet, overcrowded land full of decrepit buildings — a land of evil, depraved people, and the horror her mamma and brother must be living there.

Why are you crying, you fool? Crying ain’t going to get you nothing. Ain’t you learnt anything? She descended the steps two at a time, pushed away the gloom and counted the cracks in the cobbled road, trying to block out the cold and the stench of dishonesty bred in men. Sweeter smells from the crumpet shop mixed with the steam of pies, passing Isabel in fragrant pepper clouds.

“Who’s for a pipin’ hot mutton or eel pie,” an old man called, wheeling a barrow along the street. “Try the most delicious pies in London.”

Isabel turned into the rabbit warrens, a maze of streets, shadowed by tightly packed rows of three-storey tenanted buildings crumbling like biscuits. Rags and papers patched the broken windows from where clothes hung like rag dolls on protruding sticks. The street sellers’ bells and cries faded in the laughing, bickering, cursing, and fighting of young and old, many barefooted and dirty in clothes and body.

Dodging the broken cobbles in the road, Isabel passed the stink of the cesspits and stopped at a soap and candle sign bolted to a wall. She descended the dark and narrow staircase, careful not to slip on the slimy steps, away from the dusk twilight glow, closer to the stink of tallow and the scents of rose and lavender mingling in the damp air. Pa’s voice drifted from the basement. He’s talking to himself again.

She caught hold of the stair railing and tapped her fingers on the banister, trying to calm herself. She took a deep breath and stepped off the last step to enter the room. A greasy scum painted the walls, and soot blackened the ceiling. Smoke escaped and gushed through the chimney, and tallow melted in three large vats.

Pa draped a wick over a stick and repeatedly dipped the wick into the melted tallow. He frowned, and his eyes narrowed. “Elizabeth, you’ve been crying. What’s wrong? What happened?”

“I’m Isabel, I ain’t mother, and I found mamma’s letter to me.”

“What? What are you talking about?”

“I found the letter, Pa, and me friend read it to me. I went to find out how we can join her and Joshua. Mamma said if we travelled there she’d be set free into your custody, that the government will allow her to live with you.”

Pa paled. “I told you to let it be. The past is gone. That letter is from years ago.”

“The past ain’t gone anywhere. It lives inside me, eats away. She’s me mother. How dare you keep us apart.”

Pa scratched the back of his head. “There’s never been an opportunity for us to go to Botany Bay.”

“I’ll find a way. Until that letter, I’d thought she’d turned to dust in that horrid land.”

Pa turned his back and dipped another candle into the melted tallow. “I’m sorry I hid the letters. I just thought it best.”

“You’ll be glad then to discover I never found out anything. A friend told me to speak to a different man, but he got called away, and a disgusting thief wanted me to — to pay double the fee.”

Pa whacked a hanging candle, sending it flying across the room before it landed on top of a box of soap. His frail frame shrunk, and his voice lowered. “If you had come to me I would have told you they’re corrupt.”

“There’s someone coming down the stairwell.”

“That’ll be Mr Barrett.”

Isabel brushed a stray red hair from her forehead and straightened her white muslin dress. “We’ll talk about this later.”

Richard Barrett, a tall lean man of maybe five and thirty, stepped into the room. With his white collar high, touching his black side burns, he looked like a man who knew how to treat a lady. He gazed over her face, lingered on her neck, her breasts. He cleared his throat, straightened his coat, and stepped toward Isabel.

“Good afternoon, Miss McGuire. You look lovely today.”

A flush of heat swept over her, his roving stare and comment taking her by surprise. I ain’t looking anything lovely after crying and carrying on. She lowered her gaze and curtseyed. “You look well too, sir.” Devilish well.

Pa dragged the tallow fused wicks out of the vat, hung them to harden beside the other candles strung across the ceiling, and his grey eyes lit up. “Mr Barrett has come to collect another box of our soaps and candles.”

“Ain’t that kind of you.” Isabel adjusted the comb holding her braided bun. “What will you do with so many?”

“I’m going to ship them to Sydney Town.”

“Mr Barrett is a merchant. Has a mansion, Barrett House, at Shooter’s Hill with magnificent views over London and the Thames.” Pa wiped his hands on his apron. “I thought I told you that before.”

You’re losing your head. You ain’t told me where he lived. Isabel made her way between the boxes full of soaps and candles toward a doorway. She bent over behind boxes and coaxed the soiled part of her stockings into her shoes, to give the appearance they were clean. “It just slipped me mind.”

“Where you going?” Pa took an unsteady step toward Isabel, his hands holding onto the boxes to stop himself from falling.

“I’m going to work.” She grabbed her coat off the table, knocking Pa’s Bible on the floor.

“Since when do you work of a night?”

“Oh, Pa.”

“Are you telling me I’m going mad? You never said anything about going to work tonight. What work you doing of a night?”

Embarrassment warmed her face for Pa’s lack of memory. She lowered her voice. “Now ain’t the time for this. I’m sure you want to discuss business with Mr Barrett.” She put the cloak on. “If you don’t shut the doors, everything in there will end up as bad as in here. Me coat stinks of tallow.”

“What type of work you doing, child?”

Isabel knelt, picked up the Bible and placed it on the table. “The hosier lowered me pay. I need to do extra hours to gain the same money as before. I might as well not be working there for all it’s worth. I’ve found a job at the tavern.”

“I told you to keep away from the hosier’s business. That an apprenticeship with them wasn’t a good idea. The material and wool merchants building the large knitting looms are thieves.”

“Pa, I’m sure Mr Barrett ain’t come to hear our problems.”

“On the contrary, Miss McGuire, I’m interested. Perhaps I can help.”

Isabel stood straight and looked Mr Barrett in the eyes — large brown eyes, scrutinising eyes. “That’s kind of you, sir, but I ain’t needing any help. I’ll be fine.”

Richard Barrett put his hand to his chin and studied her. “I’m sure you will.”

Pa frowned, didn’t appear to hear what Richard Barrett said. “So, girl, what are you doing with the wool merchants when I told you to keep away from them?”

Isabel sighed and wanted to run from the room. “I wanted to learn what they know, then one day open me own shop. Now, in one day, they can make triple the stockings and scarves that take a week to make on a smaller frame.”

Mr Barrett stepped forward. “That is progress. The aim of all good businessmen is to cut costs and produce more for less. The only benefit for their workers, as you have already mentioned, is working night and day for unsustainable wages. The only people who will benefit from such enterprises are the owners of the mass-producing machines. Unfortunately, Miss McGuire, women don’t run businesses.”

Bite your tongue. What do you care what he thinks? Isabel gathered her coat tight around her, brushed down the lapels, and folded the worn cuffs to her wrists, thinking how sleepy her coat must look to Mr Barrett. “Sir, I’m late. I need to go.”

“I only meant…,” Richard began.

“I know what you meant. There ain’t any need to apologise.”

Richard laughed. “I hope I haven’t offended you.”

Isabel held his gaze. “I’m just having a horrid day, Mr Barrett. You ain’t offended me.” She walked through the boxes to the stairs, his words rolling around in her mind. His type uses your kind. Keep going.

“Isabel, come back here,” Pa called. “I have something to tell you.”

“Pa, we’ll have to talk later tonight.”

“Ah, you’re just like your mother.” Another candle slammed into a wall. “You won’t give a man an opportunity to get his side of the story out.”

She bit back the urge to tell him that ain’t fair, she didn’t know her mamma, and with a sunken heart, she knew Pa probably wouldn’t recollect anything she said now by the time she returned home.

“Pa, I’ll be back soon.”

“Ah, me Isabel,” Pa said to Richard. “Do you know me child helps me make all these candles and soaps when she isn’t working?”

Isabel’s hand gripped the railing, and she smiled. I love you, Pa. She climbed the stairs toward the darkening sky, reached the top landing, and stepped onto the street, hoping she wouldn’t run into Henry.