1813
It wasn’t until the new year that Mary finally plucked up the courage to tell Mudd and Leah her plan. They sat stunned, their mouths gaping. Sensing the strange atmosphere, William let out a whimper and clambered onto Leah’s knee. She buried her face in his mop of curly hair.
‘You’re out of your mind.’ Mudd folded his arms and rocked back in the chair. ‘I won’t allow it. Your father would never forgive me.’
Mary cupped her chin in her hands and rested her elbows on the table. ‘Francis and I intended to travel to New South Wales when he was first offered the position, and Papa’s not here. I think he would understand and approve.’
‘I made him a promise to look out for you,’ Mudd said. ‘I’ve got more work than I can handle, my business is going well, I’ll take over the lease on the house. You and the boys can live here, at least until Mr Greenway gets himself to New South Wales and finds out what’s what.’ He walked around the table and rested his hands on Leah’s shoulders.
Leah lifted her face, her eyes bright. ‘Mudd’s asked me to marry him. I’ve said yes. I’ll be here to help you look after the children.’
Mary forced a smile and smoothed down her skirt, her thoughts of Leah accompanying her to New South Wales taking flight. ‘That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you both.’ She walked to the window and gazed out. Life in Ashton with Mudd and Leah for the next fourteen years didn’t bear thinking about. She was responsible for Francis’s incarceration—the least she could do was stand by his side. ‘I’ve asked Miss Bingle to arrange passage for me and the boys. My mind is made up.’ Without another word she climbed the stairs and threw herself down on the bed. Nothing, just nothing was going the way she’d hoped.
The days passed at a snail’s pace. Every morning Mary sat waiting for a note from Miss Bingle, but none was forthcoming. The purse to cover Francis’s expenses arrived regularly and Mudd dealt with the food hampers and additional payment for Francis’s cell, but she received no reply from him to her letters pleading to visit him. On one occasion she’d attempted to grease the turnkey’s palm herself only to be refused—the prisoner’s instructions were that he should not receive visitors. Despite Miss Bingle’s earlier assurances, it seemed as though Francis would remain in Newgate forever.
And then one morning when she’d all but given up, Mudd flew through the back door with a grin from ear to ear, sporting a familiar folded piece of paper. ‘Thought this might cheer you up.’ He handed her a letter. Heart in mouth, she tore it open with shaking hands, then raised her gaze to Mudd. ‘Do you know what it says?’
‘How would I? I didn’t open it.’
Her pulse thundered in her ears. What if something had happened to Francis? What if they had decided to rescind his reprieve? What if …
‘For goodness sake! Read it.’
Mary damped her lips, swallowed and peered down at the cramped handwriting. Not the usual summons to Bennett Street. She scanned the page, let out a moan and clenched her fist, screwing up the paper into a small ball. ‘He’s to be taken to the Captivity, one of the Portsmouth hulks, to await transportation.’
Mudd snatched the ball of paper from her hand and smoothed it out. He let out a dismissive grunt. ‘Did you read the rest of it?’
Mary shook her head. What was the point? In the back of her mind, she had come to the conclusion that the delay meant Francis would not be taken to one of the hulks, the notorious decommissioned naval vessels that littered the estuaries housing prisoners awaiting transportation. She couldn’t dwell on the stinking rat-infested abominations—not that she had ever seen them, but she’d overheard Mudd and Leah debating the likelihood of Francis surviving his time there. No amount of money would ease any convict’s lot—floating dungeons, Mudd called them. He reckoned that if a prisoner was lucky enough to survive the cramped, damp and dismal conditions below decks, the clanking chains and manacles and the daily manual labour, they invariably died of typhoid or some other foul disease.
‘She says he will then be transported on the General Hewett, leaving in August, and passage has been booked for you and the boys as free settlers. She apologises for the fact that your maid can’t travel with you …’ Mudd raised a quizzical eyebrow and shot a look at Leah.
‘It was simply a suggestion, before I knew you and Leah were to be married.’ Suddenly the weight she’d carried for so many months lifted. ‘I must see Francis and tell him myself. Will you take him a note?’ What was the point of that; he had ignored all her previous pleas. ‘No, better still I’ll go myself. Disguise myself so the turnkey doesn’t recognise me.’
‘You’re not going alone.’
‘Mudd, I am, and that is an end to it.’
Two evenings later Mudd drew to a halt outside the walls of the old town. Mary slipped from the carriage, hoping to disappear into the darkness before he had the opportunity to upbraid her yet again. When she’d told Leah of her plan to get past the turnkey she’d broken into fits of giggles, clapped her hands together and shot off up the stairs, but Mudd was less impressed—much less impressed—and stormed off.
A few moments later Leah had reappeared with an armful of crimson silk and handfuls of other bits and pieces. ‘I’ve got just the thing for you to wear. Where’s Mudd gone?’
Leah scooped everything from the kitchen table.
‘He had a job to do. Won’t be back for a couple of hours.’
A pungent odour of dust, sour perfume and something far more unsavoury filled the kitchen as Leah shook out the material and laid it carefully on the table.
Mary’s breath escaped in a puff of amazement as she arranged the skirt and the miniscule bodice before tightened the lacing to create a cinched waist. ‘Where on earth did you get it? I’ll look like a harlot.’
‘That’s the general idea. Guaranteed to get you past the turnkey in exchange for …’
‘For what?’ Mary snapped.
‘Something better than ale.’ She caressed the dirty silk and rearranged the bodice, which would undoubtably reveal a vast amount of bosom.
‘Francis will think I’ve taken to the streets.’
‘He might like it.’ Leah threw her an exaggerated pout. ‘I’ll give you a few pointers.’
Still smiling at the memory of Leah’s pantomimed instructions, Mary sashayed across the filthy street leading to the Cat and Wheel.
Her first mistake. A series of whistles and catcalls greeted her approach.
With a quick glance over her shoulder, she slipped into the shadows of the gaol walls and eased her way to the wicket, bunched her fist and rapped with as much force as she could muster. The Judas window opened, and the crumpled face of the turnkey peered out at her.
‘Visitor for Mr Greenway,’ she trilled, hoping he couldn’t hear her pounding heart.
‘And who might you be?’ A cloud of fetid breath wafted between the bars.
‘Kitty, Kitty Fisher.’ Where did that come from? She adjusted her decolletage and thrust forward—Leah would be impressed— then batted her eyelashes and pouted. ‘He requested my services.’
The wicket creaked open and two gnarled hands reached for her shoulders and dragged her over the threshold.
Mary wrenched aside. Not a chance. Not a hope in hell. ‘’ands orf.’ She slid a flask of brandy out from under her cloak. ‘Like a quick tipple to warm the cockles of your heart?’ The cork popped, the turnkey’s eyes lit up and he licked his flaccid lips.
His hand rose to snatch the flask, then dropped. ‘You first.’
Mary lifted it to her lips, heart thumping. Leah had carefully wiped the top after she’d added the laudanum but warned that she shouldn’t let the spiked liquid touch her lips. She raised the bottle, tipped back her head and twirled around. Her cloak flew open, and the dress billowed out. The turnkey groaned and reached for her again. She thrust the flask towards him, and he knocked back the contents in one slug.
Now what? Leah had said the mixture should work in a matter of minutes.
With a lecherous leer he tossed the flask aside, grasped her breasts and lunged forward. Teeth gritted, she stayed put, trying to master her uncontrollable shudders as his clammy hands roamed her skin.
Suddenly his body went limp, his knees buckled and his splayed fingers worked their way down her skirt until his knees hit the flagstones with a resounding crunch and he came to rest in a puddle at her feet.
Sucking in a deep breath, she thrust out her foot and nudged him aside. He groaned and rolled over, his mouth gaping. God! Was he dead? It hadn’t occurred to her to question the amount of laudanum Leah had added to the brandy, trusting that she knew the dosage. Her eyes darted around the small, fetid space. She had to get out; there’d be no commuted sentence for her if she was caught standing over a corpse.
The flicker of light from the oil lamp glanced off the flask lying on the flagstones where the turnkey had fallen. She scooped it up. Take the evidence. Leave nothing. Leah’s instructions again.
A shuddering snore broke the silence. The turnkey’s chest rose and fell, and another snore filled the small space. Her breath whooshed out between her lips, and she smiled.
Moments later, with a swish of her dirty skirts, she slipped through the door and up the winding stone steps and along the passageway. The fourth door on the right. She counted each one then bent down and wriggled the first bolt free.
Not a sound came from the cell as Mary struggled with the second and third bolt and eased the door open. With his back to her, Francis slouched, paintbrush in one hand, studying an unfinished painting. It showed a disparate group of prisoners in the day room, some well-dressed, others barefooted, playing cards, smoking, eating and drinking. There were children in rags, even a cat. It was nothing like the scene that had greeted her the first time she’d visited.
‘Francis.’ His name caught in her throat, and all she wanted to do was throw herself into the security of his arms. How she longed for his comforting embrace.
He turned slowly, eyes vacant and staring, then frowned. ‘Mary?’
‘Oh, Francis!’ She threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him, resting her head on his shoulder. ‘I have missed you so much.’
He pulled away, held her at arm’s length. Her cloak fell open and his eyes widened. ‘What is all this? Why are you dressed that way?’ He sketched a wave over her bosom, his shaking hand stalling a mere inch above her skin.
‘It was the only way I could get in to see you. The turnkey refused me admittance, said you didn’t want visitors. I have news, so much news. I have seen Miss Bingle and …’ The words poured out of her mouth in a torrent. ‘You will be taken to the Captivity, a hulk at Portsmouth, to await transportation on the General Hewett, leaving in August.’ She paused, gathering strength. He had to agree. ‘And passage has been booked on the same ship for me and the boys, as free settlers. We will be coming with you.’
Mary reached out, took his hands, and squeezed them. ‘I will follow you to the ends of the earth, my love.’
He threaded his fingers through her hair and drew her lips to his then rocked back on his heels. His gaze fixed somewhere between her chin and her cinched waist. After a moment or two he stepped closer, backing her against the wall. She lifted her hand and caressed his cheek. Their eyes caught. The passion that had always been between them sparked. He didn’t break her gaze as his hands encircled her waist, drawing her close against him. She closed her eyes, her hair swished against the back of her neck and the curl of excitement peaked as his lips dropped to her bosom.
Francis propped his head on his elbow and traced the curve of her cheek. ‘Although I have reservations about subjecting you and the boys to the rigours of a voyage, I have to say I am thrilled to know that you will be accompanying me. The new start we promised ourselves, and if luck is on our side and Macquarie is prepared to accept a somewhat tarnished government architect, I might still make good.’
Mary snuggled closer, letting his words wash over her as her mind darted back to Mudd’s observation before they’d first visited the gaol with provisions for Francis. She’d been convinced there was no possibility of Francis getting the position as government architect once he was sentenced. Mudd hadn’t agreed. What had he said? That matters might be falling into place—for some. ‘Oh my!’
Francis dropped a kiss onto her forehead. ‘What is it, my love?’
‘I think you may be right. All is not lost. You will make good. I’m certain of it.’
‘The other prisoners reckon if I can earn a ticket-of-leave, and start to make my own way, it shouldn’t be too bad. I will have to take my portfolio; if I let Macquarie see what I have to offer he can hardly refuse.’ He ran his finger down her neck. ‘I rather like this outfit. Where did you find it?’
‘Leah,’ Mary murmured. ‘Something she found in the markets and couldn’t resist.’
‘I wonder what Mudd thinks of it.’
‘He may well have seen it; he has asked Leah to marry him. They intend to take over the house at Ashton. He is making a good living with Papa’s carriage.’ And she had left him sitting outside the gaol twiddling his thumbs waiting for her. He’d be frantic. ‘Francis, I have to go. The turnkey …’ She paused. No need for Francis to know about the laudanum. She struggled to her feet, righted her dress, and wrapped her cloak around her shoulders. ‘I will come and see you again before you are sent to the hulks. Not long now, my love.’