I was still waiting for a letter from my father about his release and the sale of our house. There was little now that money could do for me. After the board’s decision, the Suttons were refusing to take Arabella into the nursery. I wouldn’t have expected them to – they were Christian, law-abiding people and I had to accept that – but the thought sometimes entered my head that I might simply take her and run away, as I’d dreamed of doing in the past. I had not the first idea of how to go about it, though, or whether I had the necessary skills. When I was sitting alone in my room one evening – Miriam was over the road at the Black Horse; I supposed her to be discussing her plight with Ma Dwyer – I read an article in the Hobart newspaper about five convicts who’d escaped from the male prison near by. A small wooden boat had been stolen from the harbour at around the same time the men had disappeared, and police believed they were rowing themselves to New South Wales and then to Asia. The reporter said it was a common route for escaping prisoners to take, though a difficult and treacherous journey which few finished alive.
I folded the newspaper and put it under my bed with my old diary, so I could return to it now and then, as a prayer or a message of inspiration. My suspicion was that the escaped unfortunates took the route they did because they had no money. I thought that perhaps if my father could send me a plentiful sum, I might be able to pay my way for me and Arabella to catch a returning ship one night.
I decided to keep the idea at the front of my mind and see if I might develop the courage to do it. The penalty for being caught would be severe, but I was growing used to being in trouble by now.
Wednesday, 16th June, 1841
Mrs M interviewed the new nanny today. I watched from the schoolroom window as she arrived and departed – a tall, thin woman, about forty. Later Mrs M told me her family has lived in the village for generations and that she’s worked for the same people these past eighteen years. Now their children are older, the family has dismissed her. I pity her. To be dismissed so easily after such long service. But I cannot help wishing she would find a situation far away from here.
My spirits are too depressed to write this evening.
Friday, 18th June, 1841
Spirits still depressed.
Monday, 21st June, 1841
Better. A lovely day alone with the children. I’ve decided to make the most of the time we have left together. Today’s warm weather meant we could take our morning lessons out of doors. Mrs M has agreed that this is acceptable, as long as we are studying, and I’m sure it does Charles more good than being cooped up in that dingy schoolroom where we cannot even open a window.
Ever since putting the children to bed this evening I’ve been feeling strangely anxious about them, and have paid several visits to their bedrooms to check they are still breathing &c. Mrs M would think me hysterical, but I cannot help being fearful of someone coming in and taking them away.
Charles was sleeping fitfully, so I’ve brought both children out of their rooms and into my bed. It is a tight fit, but I feel now that I have developed a mother’s instinct where these two children are concerned, and can sense any threat to them, however slight it may be.
The current threat I’m sensing must be the new nanny. We (Charles and I) are not happy about her imminent arrival.
Tuesday, 22nd June, 1841
Mrs M came up to the schoolroom today and informed us all that nanny would be starting on Thursday – the day after tomorrow! Charles, bless his heart, said he did not want a nanny, he was happy with me. Mrs M merely pursed her lips at this sentiment.
Charles later told me that he will never love the nanny as much as me, and I cannot help being pleased at this. Mrs M, absent from her children almost all the time, seems to have no idea what is right for them, and the new nanny has barely glanced at them yet. It will always be me who knows them best.
Thursday, 24th June, 1841
Another warm and sunny day, so I took the children out for a picnic lunch. Mrs M seemed not to mind.
Charles has caught the sun somewhat. He is looking rather sunburned.
Friday, 25th June, 1841
The new nanny arrived today. Her name is Louisa. Mrs M brought her up to the top floor, taking Isabella from me straight away and disappearing with her into the nursery. I’m sure that if they have their way, I will be having nothing to do with the baby from now until she turns five. I shall let Louisa settle in for a while, then set about resolving this issue.
Charles is still sunburned. It looks slightly worse today.
Reverend Sutton was leading a service for the convict mothers and their babies in the hall, so the nursery was quiet. I found Mrs Sutton resting on a chair in the yard before lunch, so I went and stood by her, knowing that Miriam was away cleaning the dormitories and not in the kitchen, where she might have overheard us.
I wasn’t sure how far advanced her pregnancy was, though we all believed it to be between four and five months. She was putting on a little weight, but there were no other outward signs. She’d told me she’d refused to have the baby killed and, while I admired her principles, I knew it was going to bring her a great deal of trouble. Her wild Gypsy’s heart would render her incapable of the true and steady devotion to another person that motherhood requires.
I paused by Mrs Sutton’s chair and asked, ‘What is to be done about Miriam and the child?’ I didn’t know if it would be allowed a place in the nursery. I often found myself imagining what it would be like to be charged with the care of Miriam’s baby. Certainly, I would care for it as tenderly as if it had been my own. I’d even worked out that when it was two and due to be sent to the orphanage, my yellow ticket would be granted, and perhaps I would be able to adopt it. There were always babies that were adopted out to settlers.
Mrs Sutton shook her head, looking worried and afraid. ‘I do not know, Rose,’ she said. ‘I feel quite sorry for her sometimes, but then I speak to my husband and he insists that we cannot help her because of the shame it would bring to us as a family. He says the child cannot be John’s, though John himself hasn’t said as much. There are times when I would like to do what I can to help keep Miriam from Cascades, but then I speak to my husband and I start to see his viewpoint. Miriam is a convict, after all. This fact is not to be overlooked.’
‘What do you think? Do you think the child is John’s?’
‘I …’ Her voice trailed off, and I could not tell quite what she thought.
‘I do not think it is,’ I said. ‘You know Miriam is good friends with Ma Dwyer, and that she has regularly visited the Black Horse …’
Mrs Sutton nodded. I could see my message was being absorbed, without my needing to say anything more about it.
Afterwards, I wrote to my father and stated the amount of money that I required.