1811
Bristol, England
Francis’s bellow brought Mary running.
‘What is it?’ She skidded to a halt in the doorway.
‘The effrontery of the man.’ Francis whipped around, eyes blazing. ‘Joseph Kay requests the pleasure of our company to celebrate the opening of his—his—great achievement. An important era in the annals of fashion, if you please, in one of the most elegant and complete … did you hear that … complete, establishments for public entertainment.’
Mary sank into the nearest chair. For months no one had talked of anything else, and she’d expected an outburst from Francis at some stage. He still hadn’t got over the indignity of losing the commission for the internal fit-out of the Clifton Assembly Rooms, and the animosity between Francis and Kay had become legendary. An invitation was simply rubbing salt in the gaping wound of his pride.
‘Will we go?’ she asked. Truth be told she’d very much like to. ‘It was your design, no one can deny that, and Kay could hardly complete the interior without your inspiration and external construction. It’s a magnificent building. You should hold your head high and be justly proud. The interior will change over time, but the facade will stand for hundreds of years—testament to your vision.’ And she wasn’t biased. People stood in awe to admire the nineteen bays of dressed limestone, the central block flanked by recessed wings and six Ionic columns that rose two storeys from the basement, crowned with the largest triangular pediment Bristol had ever seen.
Francis turned from the window and brushed back his hair with an impatience that always made her smile. No matter how erratic his temper, given time she could talk him around. Besides, he should attend and be acknowledged. Not only that, she should also stand proudly by his side. Sour grapes were poor medicine. She bent down and retrieved the screwed-up ball of paper from the floor and smoothed it out. ‘It’s a few days after George and William’s christening.’ When, finally, they would be a real family, the boys taking Francis’s name, the past truly behind them.
It had been over two years since she and Francis had married, two years that had seen a complete change in their circumstances. In a gesture of defiance they had married on the very day the Greenway brothers’ bankruptcy was declared. Francis’s sister Mary and his brother John witnessed their marriage but no one else attended the ceremony.
When the vicar inscribed her maiden name, Moore, and wrote spinster of the parish on the register, she had leant forward to correct him, but Francis stilled her hand. ‘We want no memories of the past, your previous life. George and William have never been baptised. Let us arrange that and they, like you, will carry the Greenway name forever.’
And so Mary Fripp vanished into oblivion and Mary Moore, spinster of the parish, left the church as Mrs Francis Howard Greenway. Manali was sold, James’s debts were cleared, and Mary, George and William moved to Francis’s rented house at Ashton, just outside Bristol. Leah and Mudd went with them, and Mrs Rudge declared her working life over and retired to live with her daughter, much to Mary’s relief.
All Mary had to remind her of her past were a few of Papa’s books, her painting and drawing materials, and Mama’s small rose cameo dangling from a silver bail. However, since the settlement of the Greenway brothers’ bankruptcy charges and the subsequent sale of the business materials, Francis and his brothers were slowly trading out of their difficulties. Now she turned her face up to him and offered a loving smile. ‘The opening would be the perfect way to celebrate, to show the world that despite all we have endured the Greenways are here to stay.’
Mary surveyed the elegant rooms with the faux marble columns, mahogany couches, and green and orange velvet drapery. They were soon to be used as tearooms, for cards and dancing and, with the large folding doors thrown open, for ticketed assemblies. It was an extravagant and luxurious public venue for those who took their leisure in fashionable Clifton, and all who set foot in the place would admire the building Francis had created.
‘Mrs Greenway?’
Mary smiled down at the diminutive woman in a simple blue gown.
‘Is your husband present?’
‘Indeed he is.’ Her gaze roamed the crowd; she’d lost sight of Francis while admiring the soaring ceilings. She searched in vain for his green coat amongst the flourishing crowd.
‘Miss Bingle wondered if you could spare her a moment.’ She extended her hand to indicate two wingback chairs placed in front of one of the windows overlooking the Mall. The woman’s face was hidden but the top of her head, sporting a ruby red, feathered turban made her impossible to miss.
The name Bingle didn’t conjure any specific person, which was unusual; she had a good memory for both names and faces and in the last two years had made a point of cultivating the ladies of the town. ‘I’ll fetch Mr Greenway.’
‘Miss Bingle would prefer to speak to you alone.’
How very unexpected. With a final glance around for Francis she inclined her head and crossed the room, coming to a halt in front of the window.
The woman’s inquisitive gaze melted into a friendly smile. ‘Ah, Mrs Greenway. How delightful. Thank you for your time. Please take a seat.’ Her sharply featured face was handsome rather than pretty, with an aristocratic nose and piercing grey eyes. They were of a similar age, neither young nor old. Mary did not recognise her.
‘Thank you.’ Mary perched on the edge of the chair, hands in her lap, and raised her eyebrows. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I wondered if you would like to call on me, tomorrow afternoon.’
Oh dear. Another interminable round of chatter, ladies with their embroidery who were more concerned with the actions of others than their own—although she should accept for Francis’s sake. He liked her to cultivate people whose acquaintance might be beneficial and possibly lead to a commission. And, in all honesty, her curiosity was aroused.
Miss Bingle leant forward in her chair, eyes narrowing. ‘I have a message for you.’
An invitation was one thing, a message completely different. Mary squeezed her interlaced fingers tight; another commission would benefit Francis immeasurably.
‘We are in Bath at the moment—a break to take the waters and catch up with friends before we return home to Taunton.’
Mind made up, Mary drew in a sharp breath. Taunton was becoming quite the spot for country retreats. A fact she should mention to Francis. ‘That would be most kind. Where will I find you?’
‘Bennett Street, number nineteen, a short walk from the Royal Crescent. Four o’clock?’
‘I look forward to seeing you.’
The moment Miss Bingle rose from her chair, the woman in the blue gown reappeared. Together they left, making no attempt to bid farewell to any of the other guests.
It wasn’t until she and Francis returned home, and they sat with a nightcap, that Mary broached the subject of her strange encounter. ‘I received an invitation today.’
Francis lifted his head from his pile of papers. ‘Indeed.’ His tone made it obvious that he had no interest in her statement. ‘I am of the opinion symmetry is essential both inside and outside a building. Kay seems to have managed to ignore that principle.’
She peered over his shoulder at the piece of paper in front of him. He had redesigned the interior of the assembly rooms, adding additional columns and removing many of the couches and paintings.
‘Frippery simply detracts from the intrinsic design. If I …’
‘I have been asked to visit Bath tomorrow,’ she interrupted, knowing full well Francis’s musings would lead to a storm of recriminations and a sleepless night. ‘A Miss Bingle. Do you know the name? They have a house in Taunton and are visiting Bath for a short break.’
His head came up and his eyes narrowed. ‘Did she wish to speak to me?’
‘She said she had a message.’
He let out a derogatory snort. ‘But didn’t deliver it.’
‘I thought that a little strange too, and she left immediately after we spoke. You were nowhere to be seen.’
‘I was offered the singular pleasure of a tour of the remainder of the building.’ His lip curled; the disappointment of the lost opportunity still rankled. ‘The south wing and the apartments in the centre of the building will provide accommodation. The north will be a private house for our esteemed proprietor, and needless to say the hotel will be named for him. The Auriol, no less.’ He lounged back in the chair and tossed back the remnants of his glass of port in one gulp. ‘Will you go and see this Miss Bingle?’
‘Yes, I think I will. I cannot imagine what message she might have but you never know, it could be beneficial. Word of mouth is without doubt the best way to foster business.’
Mary arrived at Bennett Street on the dot of four. After a sleepless night she still hadn’t managed to come up with a reason why Miss Bingle had asked her to call, nothing that made sense. Quite why she hadn’t demanded more information before she agreed to the visit, she had no idea. Why couldn’t Miss Bingle have passed said message directly to her at the assembly rooms?
The carriage drew to a halt and Mudd jumped down to assist her. ‘I’m not expecting to be very long. Please wait here.’
A neatly dressed young girl opened the door almost the moment she knocked and, before she had the chance to give her name, she was ushered inside and led into a small parlour at the front of the house. ‘Mrs Greenway is here, ma’am.’
Miss Bingle had obviously watched her arrival from the window. She smiled and gestured to two chairs and a small table in front of a cheery fire.
‘Come and sit down. Can I offer you any refreshments? A cup of tea perhaps?’
Mary resisted the urge to decline and demand she get straight to the point. ‘Thank you. It’s quite chilly this afternoon despite the sun.’
While Miss Bingle poured, Mary gazed around the cosy room. A large oil painting of a ship under full sail, battling a rough grey sea, hung above a small desk that stood against one wall. There was not a piece of paper or letter on the desk, just the pristine leather insert and a pair of silver inkpots. Other smaller paintings hung around the room, largely of a maritime theme, a strange choice for a woman. Tucked in one corner was a wheeled chair with a wicker seat and a blanket neatly folded over the backrest.
‘Milk, lemon?’
Mary dragged her attention back to her hostess. ‘No, thank you.’ She took the fine porcelain cup and saucer and balanced them on her lap. ‘I have to admit I am quite intrigued by your invitation. A message, you said?’ A little rude but the thought of small talk simply made her more impatient.
Miss Bingle held the handle of her teacup between her finger and thumb and took a sip, her gaze never leaving Mary’s face. She swallowed and gave a small sigh of pleasure. ‘My friends believe the message may be of some interest to you.’
Shifting forward on the chair, Mary placed her tea on the table, ready to receive a piece of paper containing the message. None was forthcoming. ‘You have a letter for me?’
‘Oh no, a verbal message, and I must ask for your discretion.’ Her eyes hardened over the rim of her cup.
Stranger and stranger. Mary made a vain attempt to mask the frown of confusion creasing her forehead and nodded. ‘Of course.’
‘I have it on very good authority that there is a position available for an experienced architect. We wondered if Mr Greenway might be interested.’
Her heart gave a little jump. How perfectly wonderful, but why not approach Francis directly? ‘I’m sure Mr Greenway would be delighted to discuss the matter.’
‘We thought it might be better to seek your advice first.’
Whatever was she talking about? Francis would make his own decision. He frequently asked her opinion on a design, even requested she sketch her ideas on occasion, but he was very particular about meeting clients and discussing their requirements himself. She shook her head. The whole trip was a total waste of time. Why hadn’t Miss Bingle asked to speak to Francis when they’d met yesterday? He would take it as an affront if she relayed the message. ‘I’m not sure I quite understand. Mr Greenway always makes his own decision about commissions.’
‘Ah, yes. Men make all the decisions, do they not, but in this case, as it would affect you and your two young boys, we thought it better to approach you first.’ She pressed her fingertips together and brought them to her lips, her curious grey gaze making Mary’s skin prickle. ‘Once the front door is closed on the world a woman often has the final say, don’t you think?’
Miss Bingle might well be correct, but it wasn’t anything Mary would admit to. In the two years of their marriage, she had learnt Francis’s erratic disposition demanded careful managing, but she wouldn’t change her situation for the world. Not only did she love her husband, she adored the partnership they had formed, the opportunity to hone her skills and the hours they spent discussing architectural designs.
‘More tea, my dear?’ Miss Bingle didn’t wait for a response but simply filled Mary’s cup with the pale liquid.
Already the visit had lasted longer than she expected, and how did Miss Bingle know about George and William? Had she mentioned them when they’d first met? She didn’t think so. ‘What exactly is the message you would like me to convey to Mr Greenway?’
‘We don’t want you to convey any message until you have had time to mull on the offer.’
Mary pressed the back of her hand to her damp forehead to ease the ache. The wretched woman was being so obtuse. ‘Perhaps if you told me a little more.’ She tried and failed to keep the impatience out of her voice.
Miss Bingle leant towards her and murmured, ‘Macquarie is urgently in need of a government architect.’
A government position. A tickle of anticipation traced Mary’s skin. Would that mean a move to London? All government matters were dealt with in the capital. Francis would be thrilled, particularly if he found himself working alongside his mentor, Nash. Who was this man? What position did he hold? ‘I’m not sure I know of Mr Macquarie.’
‘Lachlan Macquarie. The governor of the Colony of New South Wales.’
‘The penal colony?’ The delicate cup rattled in the saucer. ‘Why would a penal colony be in need of an architect?’ She knew nothing of New South Wales except that it was the dumping ground for the worst type of prisoners, the home of pickpockets and cutthroats. A picture of ragged, starving men shackled in leg irons danced before her eyes.
‘Times are changing, and the colony is outgrowing its doleful function. Many of the convicts choose to remain once they have served their sentence and received their pardon, and free settlers are taking up the challenge of a new life. With land grants and convict labour they establish themselves with the greatest of ease.’
Miss Bingle must have heard tell of Francis’s financial woes. It was a commonly held belief that a charge of bankruptcy resulted in debtors’ prison but that wasn’t always the case—not if alternative arrangements could be made with the creditors. Francis and his brothers had fortunately escaped the horrors of a stint in Newgate, the foul medieval gaol in the centre of Bristol. ‘Mr Greenway has committed no crime. He has been granted a certificate of bankruptcy and released from his debts. He and his brothers are seeking work and repaying their creditors.’
Miss Bingle didn’t respond for a moment, then she nodded. ‘Governor Macquarie has requested a government architect be sent to the colony to plan and superintend the erection of public buildings. He has high hopes that one day Sydney Town may become an elegant and well-appointed city. We believe Mr Greenway might be interested in the position, as a free settler.’ She emphasised the words free settler. ‘Many well-to-do families are making the move. They say opportunities abound and, interestingly, that the sun always shines.’
Mary’s mind spiralled. A thousand questions batted like moths seeking the light. So many, many questions, but also possibilities if Francis was prepared to accept such a position. A curl of excitement stabbed at her breast—a chance, a new start, away from the clouds of mistrust and disappointment Francis’s bankruptcy and her own financial straits had caused, a chance of regaining everything the past had stolen from them. ‘Who should I tell Mr Greenway to contact?’
Miss Bingle cleared her throat. ‘If you would be so kind as to convey Mr Greenway’s answer to me, I will relay it to the relevant parties.’ She rose. ‘I give you good day, Mrs Greenway. I would appreciate it if you only discussed this matter with Mr Greenway. The position has not as yet been made public. Thank you for your time. I look forward to our next meeting.’
Moments later Mary found herself standing on the doorstep, the door firmly shut behind her. Mudd spotted her and drew the carriage alongside. By the time she had settled, Miss Bingle was hurrying from the house, down the street in the direction of the large semi-circle of townhouses aptly named the Circus.
It wasn’t until they left behind the crowded streets and reached the open road that her mind returned to Miss Bingle’s exact words—her use of the word we. Who was she representing? Surely not the governor of the Colony of New South Wales.