Two years later
Mary stood at the window, five-month-old baby Agnes pressed to her shoulder as the setting sun painted the sky a fiery red. Fate had decreed that Agnes would be their last child. Seven children, all fit and healthy, and every one a delight—such a far cry from the heir and the spare she’d once felt so obligated to produce.
From the second floor of the old laboratory she had a bird’seye view, illuminated by the pin-prick lights on the masts of the anchored ships. George Street, now so different from the stinking, refuse-ridden haunt of cutthroats and footpads that had greeted her when she first stepped ashore almost ten years earlier. Paved and guttered, fronted by two- and three-storey warehouses, glassfronted shops and homes, where strings of carriages and gigs barrelled along at remarkable speed. Hundreds of new public and private buildings flanked a harbour that bustled day and night with the ever-increasing trade.
Not only Sydney Town thrived. The colony now boasted dozens of roads and bridges, not least Cox’s route over the Blue Mountains, and new townships along the Hawkesbury and Nepean rivers prospered. The Greenways could hold their heads high, no matter what the odious Mr Bigge had written in his report about palaces for horses, extravagant ornamental features and Gothic follies; there were churches, courthouses, hospitals, granaries and stores that would stand testimony to their efforts for years to come.
Macquarie had taken the fledgling colony, kicking and screaming more often than not, from a rum-infested den of iniquity to a vital and vibrant country. Mary’s lips curved in a smile. There had been no official statement but Macquarie’s new name for the colony had caught the attention of all the emancipists who missed him so, and the word Australia was on everyone’s lips.
Thomas Brisbane had seen fit to dispense with Francis’s services just two weeks after the Macquaries left which, in hindsight, wasn’t a bad thing. Francis had plenty of private work and they were permitted to remain in the house on the corner of Argyle and George Streets—the perfect spot to run a business, right in the middle of the commercial district, as Francis had pointed out when Mary and the boys had first arrived. The only downside was that they no longer received rations from government stores. They managed well enough from Francis’s private work and Bill had fingers in more pies than she’d ever dreamt. Hannah, who had finally married her beau, still came every day, frequently armed with offerings of fish. The garden flourished, producing an array of vegetables, and the orchard blossomed. Even Mr Bent’s orange trees delivered a healthy crop but, as always, a little more money wouldn’t go astray.
It was a coincidental meeting that opened the door to the future.
Mary had taken a walk, not along the foreshore as she had on so many previous occasions when she met Elizabeth but along the path from Fort Macquarie, through the Domain. The thrill of seeing the buildings that had once lived only in her imagination never waned but her footsteps led her to her favourite—the government stables.
Sixteen battlemented towers punctuated the quadrangular stable block, square mullioned windows set in the main walls and between the towers large Gothic windows—all perfectly symmetrical, the brilliant white walls piercing against the azure sky. A quiver traced her skin; no matter what the future held, this building would stand testament to her vision.
She’d turned back into George Street and come to a halt outside the Bank of New South Wales. Initially established in Macquarie Street, it had moved to new premises two years earlier.
As she assessed the central recessed arcade, so similar to the facade of Liverpool Hospital that Francis had completed earlier in the year, a voice called her name. ‘Mrs Greenway, isn’t it?’
‘Mrs Reibey.’ Mary smiled down at the diminutive one-time horse thief, now pillar of Sydney society. ‘How lovely to see you.’
‘Are you admiring your husband’s handiwork? He’s done a remarkable job. Only in Sydney Town could a public house belonging to a member of the Rum Corps become the home of the country’s first bank.’
‘I’m taking a tour, following my town map …’ Mary bit her lip and swallowed the remainder of her sentence. She hadn’t spoken to anyone, not even Francis, of the folio of drawings she’d burnt the day the Macquaries left. ‘There have been so many changes. You must notice them more than anyone; you’ve been here since the beginning.’
‘I think we should all be proud of what Sydney has become. Your children must be growing. Are you sending the boys back to England for their schooling?’
‘George has a position with the harbourmaster, and William continues to work with his father. I taught them both at home and I’ve recently enrolled Charles in the Cape School here in Sydney.’
And that was the moment everything had changed.
She’d licked her lips, taken a deep breath and shared her dream. ‘I intend to start my own school. Most of the schools in town are run by the churches and the tutors are all men. I want something different for my own daughters and all the other young girls in the colony. A real education, not one that revolves around the feminine arts—embroidery, painting, music and flower arranging. They should learn mathematics, geography and science …’
‘… and architecture perhaps?’ Mrs Reibey echoed Elizabeth’s words and raised a quizzical eyebrow. ‘Fine sentiments but you must attract students whose families can pay fees or, like all businesses, you will fail.’
‘I don’t intend a school for only the wealthy free settlers. I intend a mix of emancipist and exclusives.’
‘Do you indeed. What an admirable notion. Then you will need financial backing, start-up funds. Perhaps you’d like to come inside?’ She held open the door to the bank and led Mary into a large office on the right-hand side.
Two hours later Mary flew out onto the street, her feet barely touching the ground. When Mrs Reibey had taken her into the office she had demanded a full rundown of all her plans, the premises, the tutors she would employ and, most importantly, how she would attract students. Mary’s answers, thoroughly unprepared, but which she thought showed merit, had not brought the response she’d hoped for and Mary discovered to her horror that, even though Mrs Reibey was one of the bank’s shareholders, she was not permitted a bank account, nor could she, as a mere woman, borrow money. What poppycock! However, Mrs Reibey had a solution. All Mary needed was someone to provide private backing, and Mrs Reibey offered to be that someone.
‘Mary, Mary.’ Francis’s voice drifted up the stairs. ‘Are you up there?’
‘I am. I’ll be down in a moment.’ In the fading light she cast one more look around the room. The walls were whitewashed and bright, thanks to some hard work on the part of George and William, supervised by Bill, who had somehow managed to source two long trestle tables and benches that ran the length of the old laboratory; not a hint of cowpox vaccine or any medical paraphernalia remained, and at the front of the room was a large cedar table with an etched plaque that read Mrs Greenway. Mary hefted Agnes higher up her shoulder, closed the door behind her and made her way carefully down the steep flight of stairs. Francis sat in a leather carver, his booted feet propped on another large table. He peered over the top of the newspaper and grinned. ‘All ready for tomorrow?’
‘I am.’ She walked slowly around the room trailing her fingers along the bookshelves, not all full yet but holding a vast number of donated books that Mrs Reibey had somehow managed to acquire—covering every subject from anatomy to astronomy— and in pride of place the pattern books Elizabeth had given her, alongside Chambers’s treatise, Lady Wilbraham’s diaries and Papa’s set of the plans of the Mughal palaces of Delhi, Agra and Faizabad. ‘Bill says he’ll drop the slates, nibs and ink in tomorrow along with the copybooks. He must have scoured the countryside. I have no idea how much I owe him.’
‘Ask Aggie. I’m sure she’ll have a handle on the finances. I noticed she had a ledger entitled “Mrs Greenway’s Academy for Young Ladies” and you will be charging seven guineas a term.’
‘Aggie is a godsend, as is her uncle. I bless the day I first came across Bill in the markets.’
‘Well, tomorrow is the day. How many students are you expecting?’
Mary swallowed the flutter of trepidation. She had advertised, but she suspected the majority had contacted her through word of mouth—Mrs Reibey’s mouth, unless she was mistaken. ‘Eleven, twelve if I count Caroline.’ But most pleasing of all were the three girls from the orphanage recommended by Mrs Hoskings. The remainder could best be described as a delightful mix of emancipists and exclusives. ‘I have to admit that I am a tad nervous.’
Francis tucked the newspaper under his arm and picked up the lamp. ‘I cannot imagine why. Your accomplishments more than qualify you for the task.’