1812
‘Not now, Mary, I am busy.’ Deep in thought, his face etched with a frown of concentration, Francis raked his fingers through his hair and gave a derogatory snort. ‘Doolan has reneged on our arrangement for the house in Lower Crescent and destroyed his copy of the contract. I cannot believe this is happening a second time.’
‘A second time?’
‘Indeed. It reminds me very much of when that scoundrel Fripp tried to pull out after my initial plans for the improvements to Manali. Doolan is threatening to employ that swindler, Kay.’
‘I thought the matter was resolved.’
‘It is not. As a result of the bankruptcy, he is within his rights to withdraw from the contract, but he still owes me two hundred and fifty pounds for the preliminary inspections and plans and is refusing to pay. Even if the contract cannot be found, a gentleman’s handshake is legally binding.’ He flapped a sheet of paper at her. ‘You should go and see the boys; Leah is at her wit’s end.’
Two hundred and fifty pounds outstanding! How could that be? What she couldn’t do with that—even half the amount would be a godsend. George had outgrown his clothes and poor William had never worn anything but his older brother’s cast-offs, not to mention the frayed cuffs of Francis’s threadbare coat and the soles of her own shoes worn through and then there were the outstanding wages she owed Leah, never mind Mudd. There was hardly anything left of the money she’d received after Manali had sold and James’s debts settled. Ever since the bailiffs had demanded the sale of Francis’s goods and furniture, they’d barely made ends meet, which didn’t seem to bother Francis one iota. The security of a position as a government architect would remedy the situation in a flash.
She tucked George and William into their beds, kissed them goodnight and dimmed the lamp then made her way down the stairs. A sliver of light still shone beneath the door to the dining room. She pushed it open.
Francis sat, hair standing on end and a jumbled array of papers spread out on the table in front of him. She tiptoed across the room and rested her hands on the back of his chair. ‘Francis?’
‘I’m busy.’
‘Francis, I have something very important to tell you.’
‘Not now. Have you any idea where my copy of Doolan’s contract is? Half my papers are missing. Did you clear the desk drawers before the bailiffs took the furniture?’
Mary eased around the table and reached for his hand. ‘Francis, please, this is far more important. Governor Macquarie is in search of a government architect.’ There, she’d said it.
‘The papers from my desk drawers—where are they?’
‘You told me not to touch them. I thought you would have dealt with the desk. Is the contract in your portfolio?’
The chair scraped across the floor, and he leapt to his feet. He snatched open his portfolio and scattered the contents over the table. ‘No, it is not.’ He flapped his long fingers at the profusion of plans, designs and drawings that lay in wild abandon. ‘I must find the Doolan contract. Solicitor Cooke said he’d see to the matter of the two hundred and fifty pounds. That he would annotate the front page. If it is in writing on my copy, then Doolan won’t have a leg to stand on.’
‘Let me help you tidy these, and perhaps we will find it here underneath some of the other papers. Is it possible Mr Cooke has it?’
‘Why would he have it? I believe it was at his instigation that Doolan destroyed his copy—the ridiculous clause allowed him to do so because of the bankruptcy. So much for a solicitor working in one’s best interests. Doolan may as well employ Cooke. The jumped-up, high-handed, officious little man. Who does he think he is, parading around in his uniform? The man’s retired. Have you ever seen Admiral Phillip strutting in his uniform other than on official occasions?’
‘It’s said the admiral is much recovered.’ Mary tried for a change of subject. ‘He and Mrs Phillip spent the summer in Clifton. I believe they’ve left now. His wife is such a delightful woman. I met them one afternoon, when they were promenading with Miss Chapman and Mrs Powell.’ Mary stacked a pile of papers and drummed her fingers on the table. ‘There’s nothing resembling a contract in this lot.’
Sucking air through his teeth, Francis pushed the pile away and pinned her with a quizzical gaze. ‘What were you saying about government architects?’
‘The governor of the Colony of New South Wales, Lachlan Macquarie, has requested an architect be sent out to superintend the erection of public buildings and they wondered if you would be interested in the position. It would be such a marvellous opportunity, a fresh start. We could travel as free settlers and …’ The words poured out of her mouth, filling the room with such a sense of promise her skin prickled.
‘And who exactly are “they”?’ He threaded his fingers together and perched his chin on his hands. ‘And how have you come by this scuttlebutt?’
‘I told you, Miss Bingle, the woman I met at the opening of the assembly rooms, invited me to call on her. She passed on the information. I intended to tell you as soon as I came home but you appeared busy, and I had to attend to the children. I am to let her know whether you would be interested in learning more about the position.’
A loud, explosive and derogatory guffaw filled the room. ‘Why would we be interested in a position fifteen thousand miles away from all that is civilised? The place is nothing more than a penitentiary!’
‘Miss Bingle said there were hundreds of people …’ a slight exaggeration but the idea filled her with such enthusiasm, ‘… travelling to New South Wales as free settlers, and opportunities abound.’
‘And if, just if, the position appealed, how do you imagine we could fund it? We would need money for the passage, money for accommodation.’ He shook his head. ‘Go to bed, Mary. I have more important matters to attend to.’
The bankruptcy had stripped Francis both mentally and physically. Gone was the inspirational genius who had so moved her when they had first met—it seemed almost a lifetime ago. There had to be some way she could overcome Francis’s negative thoughts.
When Mary awoke Francis’s side of the bed remained undisturbed, but she was hardly surprised; he frequently snatched an hour or two in the chair by the fire if he was working. She found Leah already in the kitchen, deep in porridge and sticky little fingers.
‘Boys!’ She dropped a kiss on each of their heads. ‘Leah, do you know where Mr Greenway is?’
‘He left about an hour ago, ma’am. Said he had business to attend to.’
Still chasing Doolan and the missing contract, no doubt. Perhaps he’d gone to see Olive and John. They’d remained at Limekiln Street, although the premises had been cleared in the same way the house had, and the contents of the workshop sold to help pay their outstanding debts.
Nibbling on a piece of dry toasted bread, Mary wandered into the dining room where the usual mess of papers littered the table along with an empty bottle of port, several sticky rings on the table and a dirty glass. She threw back the curtains, revelling in a pale, watery, winter sun, and shivered. There must be something she could do.
Mary spread the portfolio out on the table and searched through the papers for Francis’s plans and elevations, drawings she’d become as familiar with as her own: the planned restoration to Thornbury Castle, the extensions to Manali, Prince of Wales Crescent and Royal York Terrace … so much talent and vision, all of which sadly had come to nothing. Much to her amazement her own suggestions were noted and pinned to Francis’s original plans.
If nothing else the glorious facade of the Clifton Hotel and Assembly Rooms, the market hall at Carmarthen and the repairs to St James at Mangotsfield were solid testimony to Francis’s ability. She smoothed the creases and laid the plans, one at a time, inside his worn leather portfolio.
A somewhat screwed-up, flimsy piece of paper caught her eye. Not the usual cartridge paper Francis preferred, it looked as though it had been torn from a notebook or journal, and was covered in Francis’s looping scrawl, a random and largely illegible scrawl interspersed with tiny drawings, a sweaty thumb print blurring the letters in places. She turned it over—34 LOWER CRESCENT, CLIFTON was written across the top in capital letters and underneath was the facade of one of the terraces, and below that a floor plan. Without a doubt it was a set of preliminary working drawings for Doolan’s house. Francis often sought her opinion while he sat after supper sketching—his way of thinking, he always said—but she’d never seen these before.
Stretching her shoulders, she placed it in the portfolio and pushed to her feet. The day had turned gloomy and from the look of the darkening clouds, rain threatened. She pulled her robe tighter against the chill. Leah hadn’t lit the fire, which was hardly surprising when she had the demands of two small children to deal with, demands Mary assisted with most mornings and here she was still in her nightclothes. With a shake of her head, she bent and collected the papers littering the floor then dropped to her hands and knees to retrieve a couple of pieces from under the table …
Contract between Colonel Richard Doolan and Francis Howard Greenway for the …
Pain blossomed as her head crashed against the underside of the table. Raising her hand, she gingerly threaded her fingers beneath her hair. No blood but an incessant thump. She crawled out from under the table, the contract clutched tightly in one hand. How had Francis missed it last night—how had she?
Easing into the chair, she spread the paper before her. It was without a doubt a copy of the contract between Francis and Doolan. Nothing looked unusual. The first page carried only the title and a date—January 1809. Six months after James died and just two months before the Bristol Gazette had announced the first notice of bankruptcy. She flicked the page over; again, nothing unusual but for a clause that work should be commenced within three months of signature. Francis’s and Doolan’s signatures and the sum of thirteen hundred guineas being full and final payment to be received within three months of completion. But there was no mention of the two hundred and fifty pounds for preliminary drawings. Why hadn’t Mr Cooke annotated the contract as Francis had asked?
She rubbed at the lump on the back of her head. Had it been just a gentlemen’s agreement, a handshake? What a load of poppycock! A clause about payment should have been included in the contract, as Francis had requested, and the payment should be made. After all, Francis had worked on the preliminary drawings—the proof was tucked in his portfolio—but obviously he hadn’t presented them because he was tied up with the bankruptcy proceedings and prevented from commencing new work until the certificate was granted.
A surge of rage swept through her. The money would make all the difference to their hand-to-mouth existence. Then the pounding in her ears stopped and the world went still. The money might well pay their way to New South Wales—to a new life, the position and recognition Francis deserved. The prospect made her giddy.
Her pulse quickened and her palms grew clammy. Picking up her nib pen, she studied the front of the contract, chewing her lip. A plan began to form in her mind; there was something she could do. After all, if Doolan had destroyed his copy of the contract, who was to say an addendum hadn’t been added by Mr Cooke to Francis’s copy?
Francis didn’t deserve to be treated in this high-handed fashion.
Sweat broke out on her forehead and a breath whistled between her lips, breaking the heavy silence. Doolan did in fact owe Francis the money; the preliminary plans proved it. Dipping the nib into the inkwell, she wrote in the perfect copperplate Papa had insisted upon:
Colonel Doolan to pay Mr Greenway £250 in addition to the 1300 guineas for finishing the house.
She leant back in the chair and studied her addition. Her penmanship matched the rest of the contract. There. It was done. Francis could take it to Doolan and demand payment. Then she would explain her plan for their new life to him—he wouldn’t refuse if they had the funds to cover the trip, and they could always come home if the position wasn’t to his liking. She would return to Miss Bingle and tell her they had discussed the offer, as suggested, that she’d spoken to Francis, and they would be travelling to New South Wales as free settlers where Francis would present his portfolio to Governor Macquarie. Who could knock back the proof of such genius? He would be offered the position of government architect in a heartbeat. Government Architect to the Colony of New South Wales. It had a certain ring.
‘Ma’am, ma’am. Come quick, little George …’ Leah’s panicked voice broke through her reverie. She snatched up the pen; a final signature was needed.
M
Her hand stilled and her blood turned to ice. What was she doing? A small squeak slipped between her lips. She’d almost written Mary Greenway. Swallowing the lump in her throat, she attached the letter ‘r’ and then wrote Cooke.
Mr Cooke
Perfect, just perfect. Mr Cooke was bound to support the claim rather than admit he hadn’t followed Francis’s instructions. The matter would be resolved, and the outstanding debt paid. ‘Coming, Leah.’ She scooped up the contract, tucked it in her waistband and raced into the kitchen where chaos reigned. William sat beneath the table howling like a banshee, a trickle of blood running from the top of his forehead down the side of his face, and Leah was on her hands and knees trying to reach George, who was brandishing a wooden rolling pin.
‘Stop it this moment!’ She scooped up William. ‘George! Put that down. Leah, take the rolling pin away from him.’
George darted across the room and hid himself in the corner behind the door while Mary turned her attention to poor little William. A cloth and some warm water revealed the extent of his injury and as his sobs diminished, she turned her attention to George who had curled up into a small ball and lay quaking as Leah loomed over him, hands on hips. ‘Now, what happened?’
‘I’m sorry, it’s all my fault. I gave William some dough to play with and when I turned my back …’ She threw her hands up. ‘They’re becoming quite a handful.’
Leah was right. With only fifteen months between them, the two boys were in constant competition. ‘Come over here, George, and apologise to your brother.’ She dabbed at the small cut on William’s head, which had already stopped bleeding, and although he had a large round bruise blossoming on his temple, she doubted George had inflicted any serious damage.
‘Sorry.’ George lisped his apology and patted his brother on the head, causing another scream from William.
‘Look, William,’ she said, lifting his hand to her head. ‘Mama has a bump, too.’
Two sets of sticky fingers poked and prodded at her head and then George wiped the wet cloth across her head, sending a trickle of water down her cheek.
‘All fixed now.’ She settled William on the floor with his dough and broke off a piece for George. ‘You play here quietly.’ She scooped up the rolling pin and handed it to Leah. ‘I think we both deserve a cup of tea.’
‘I’m so sorry. Look at your poor head.’
Ignoring the pounding, Mary smiled. ‘Nothing a cup of tea won’t fix.’
By the time Francis returned with a huge grin on his face peace was once more restored and the identical eggs sported by Mary and William were rapidly turning a delicious shade of bluish-purple.
Francis gathered William into his arms, turned him upside down and spun around. Much squealing ensued, and some concern about William’s injury, but no harm was done and when Francis finally tired of the game Mary could hardly contain herself. It was the perfect time to tell him of her plan. She hadn’t seen him so buoyant in a long time.
‘Francis, I must speak with you. Leah, can you manage the children?’
‘Their dinner is all prepared.’ She jiggled William on her ample hip.
Francis threw an arm around Mary’s shoulder and pulled her close. ‘And I have news for you. Wonderful news! Come, I think it deserves a small sherry. Leave William here.’