The first week of November had been a time of constant rain.
Even at midday it was dark, the London streets shining in the wet, the gutters torrents of water beneath a grey and unrelenting sky. Lights shone from the buildings on both sides of Cheap Lane and in the offices of Adkins and Partners the air was as dank as a funeral.
Ephraim Dark stared out of the rain-splattered window. Behind him the quills of the clerks squeaked as they bent over the ledgers.
‘If this keeps up the Thames will be coming to join us,’ Ephraim said to no one in particular.
At least that might inject some excitement into the day. He felt suffocated by the rain, the monotony of a daily life in which every hour had become a day, every day a week.
He had never imagined the making of money could be so tedious, or so difficult.
His brother-in-law’s assurances had proved wrong. The effects of the stock exchange crash of 1825 had not worn off when Ephraim joined Peterfield’s firm. People said the number of street beggars had doubled over the last twelve months. Many banks had collapsed; money was tight, investment opportunities few. The firm got by, thanks to the contacts Peterfield and his father had established over the years, but as the most junior member of the firm Ephraim received the smallest share: cheese parings in comparison with what he had been led to expect.
It irked him. Being bored out of his mind while making a fortune was one thing; being bored while making a pittance was a different matter altogether.
‘A fine kettle of fish,’ he told his wife.
But there was no point taking his troubles home; Veronica, so sharp-edged that even in her wedding gown she had looked like a torment of vipers, had bricked up her mind against the dangers of the world and the wickedness of the men who inhabited it. She liked the financial security of marriage but resented the obligations that came with it; she had never resisted her husband’s advances but a poker would have been more animated. Now six months pregnant Veronica was more unsympathetic than ever to troubles other than her own.
Ephraim, the soldier home from the wars and regretting the opportunities for adventure that now seemed lost for ever, found no refuge at work; not much at home, either. They hadn’t been married a year; how was it possible that every evening he should return to his narrow wife in his narrow house and a domesticity as dull as the London weather?
If every hour was a day and every day a week, Ephraim was coming rapidly to believe that a lifetime with Veronica would be a century at least. I am in a coffin, he thought. The lid is closing and I cannot breathe.
Walter Cartwright came to see him. Walter’s grandfather had pioneered one of the first steam mills but Walter himself had a military background. Peterfield had thought this would give him something in common with Ephraim so put the two men together in a private room in front of a blazing fire and left them to get on with it.
Walter Cartwright was unusual. At a time when most people were trying to raise cash by liquidating their investments, Walter was keen to invest more, preferably outside rainy England, and wanted Ephraim to tell him where to do it.
‘Somewhere the sun shines. The sun makes people optimistic and where there’s optimism there is wealth. Not Spanish-America though.’ Foolish investment in Spanish-America had been what had started the crash of ’25. ‘Maybe in the colonies?’
Ephraim stared at him thoughtfully. It was the first chink of light he had seen since joining the firm. ‘Have you considered Van Diemen’s Land?’
That was the start of it. He found others who were interested; others who might be interested; still others whom he judged might be persuaded to be interested.
Like all investors, they wanted maximum returns for minimal risk. At first many were dubious; they had heard Van Diemen’s Land was an island of demon-infested forests, with one foot in the darkness of the unknown and inhabited by criminals, savages and other undesirables.
Using his knowledge of the colony to his advantage, Ephraim was able to convince them that Van Diemen’s Land offered huge opportunities.
‘Partly because of its bad reputation,’ he said. ‘Timing is all-important in these cases. The men who reap the greatest rewards are always those who get in ahead of the mob.’
He had been in the City long enough to know the key phrases needed to fire the imagination of those with itchy fingers and money to burn: phrases like twenty per cent returns and minimal risk.
Ephraim believed his own stories, convinced that he, too, was destined to make his fortune in the distant colony.
I will make it my kingdom, he told himself, mine!
It was an intoxicating thought; perhaps the days of adventure were not past, after all.
He used his aunt’s name to engineer a meeting with William Huskisson, secretary of state for war and the colonies in Viscount Goderich’s government.
He spoke to him at length about the unparalleled opportunities that Van Diemen’s Land offered to men of spirit. Men like himself, familiar with the island and its challenges. He pointed out that development of the island’s economy would relieve the colonial office of the burden of paying for the colony’s administration; the secretary liked the sound of that but was sceptical because scepticism was expected of him.
‘And how, pray, will it do that?’
‘Sheep and land. A fleet of schooners for trade with the mainland and the islands, provided land for suitable ports can be made available. And timber, of course.’
‘Timber?’
‘The island is thickly forested.’
‘I have heard that whales may also supply a useful source of revenue,’ the minister said.
Ephraim pounced on the word. ‘Whales indeed,’ he said. ‘It would be a grave mistake to ignore them. But I put it to you, sir, that land and sheep are key. Vast acreages of well-watered grazing.’ It might have been a poem, the way he spoke. ‘A million sheep! More! No limit to the number the land can sustain!’
‘I understand there may be problems with the natives,’ the secretary said. But Ephraim saw he would welcome the idea, if it could be made to work.
Ephraim swept aside the problem. ‘Former convicts as shepherds. Worthwhile work that will restore them to an honest way of life. Armed guards to protect them, if necessary. If there aren’t enough of them we’ll bring in South Seas islanders. We can always pack them off home later.’
Simplicity in the universe of Ephraim Dark.
The minister had been too wary to commit himself but by the end of the meeting had agreed to send a dispatch to Sir George Arthur, lieutenant governor of Van Diemen’s Land, recommending he assess Ephraim’s proposals.
Ephraim was halfway to the door when the minister pointed his fastidious nostrils in his direction. ‘And who is to administer this project?’
‘I shall, sir.’
‘No, sir. On the ground.’
‘I see you have a limp. Will that inhibit you?’
‘Not in the least.’
Ephraim made his way to Bennett’s Coffee House to consider what he had just said.
Before the meeting he had not considered going back to Van Diemen’s Land but now the logic of his words struck him at once. Of course on the ground. And who but himself?
The almost forgotten taste of freedom.
Veronica wouldn’t like it but in a different environment she might become a different person. Someone whom he might come, however improbably, to love. Or perhaps she would refuse to go with him at all? Ephraim found himself considering that possibility with something close to equanimity.
Ephraim had another concern that had to be resolved before he could set sail into what he was confident would be an illustrious future. He needed money; without adequate funds none of his dreams could come to pass.
He formed a limited company with himself the only shareholder. With the help of a lawyer friend and a brochure packed with largely fictional information, he sold two hundred thousand pounds’ worth of debentures to investors who thought they knew a good thing when they saw one.
The lawyer was uneasy but Ephraim was unapologetic, convinced the debenture holders would reap a rich reward. What did it matter if the brochure was a trifle romantic? He was doing them all a favour! He brushed aside his friend’s doubts as easily as he had dismissed the minister’s question about marauding Aborigines.
‘They’ll thank me for it,’ he said. ‘I shall make them rich.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ the lawyer said.
‘I am right.’
Ephraim Dark, man of faith.
The government moved slowly, as governments do, and it was the end of 1829 before the concept was approved and Ephraim was in a position to finalise his plans.
These differed substantially from how he had originally envisaged them. On 14 February 1828 Veronica Dark had given birth to a son, a healthy boy whom they named Richard. Two days later, affronted by the agonies and indignities of giving birth, Veronica Dark had died.
On 17 February 1830, accompanied by his two-year-old son and a consignment of boots, which he had been told were in short supply in the colony, Ephraim Dark departed from London aboard the barque Dunblane.
His limp made getting about the boat tricky, especially in a seaway, but determination and a good sense of balance saw him through.
On 29 June 1830, 133 days after leaving London, Ephraim Dark and his son stepped ashore in Hobart Town.
‘I declare I am not prepared to put up with my niece’s nonsense any longer,’ snarled Barnsley Tregellas.
It was early morning. The sky was clear with the morning star hanging in the eastern sky but the ground was white and he knew that beyond the warmth of the house the air would be sharp with frost.
‘Three years I’ve put up with her fads and fancies and a pretty penny it’s cost me. I’ll take no more of it, by God! Yesterday evening was the last straw.’
Mullett stood at his shoulder. He said nothing; with the pepper-tempered Tregellas that was often the wisest course.
Like his master, he stared down at the cove below the house, the small boats crossing and criss-crossing the harbour, others clustering around Dunblane, the barque that had come upriver on the flood tide two hours before. As he watched a wherry put out from the barque’s side, bringing the first of the passengers ashore.
‘More immigrants,’ Barnsley Dark said. ‘Just what a new colony needs, Mullett. Men to build, women to breed. Ain’t that right?’
‘So it is, sir,’ Mullett said.
Poor sods, he thought. Most of them won’t have a bean. Those that have won’t have it for long with the likes of Barnsley Tregellas waiting to fleece them.
Barnsley’s thoughts had returned to his niece.
‘You can’t say I haven’t done my best for her. I’ve taken her to functions; I’ve hosted dinner parties so she could meet eligible bachelors. Quite a few seemed keen enough but she turned up her nose at the lot of them. You’d think she was an heiress, the way she’s carried on! Well, she’s had her last chance. I’ll take no more of it, by God!’
The previous evening had indeed been the last straw.
Patrick Wishpole was a recent arrival from England: a graduate of Oxford University, no less, like Philip Snipe before him. With a rich father and a mother related to the Earl of Wight, Patrick was without doubt the most eligible bachelor in the colony. In normal circumstances it might have been hard to win such a man but Barnsley’s spies had told him that because of some trifling scandal over a servant girl Patrick’s parents were anxious to see him settled as quickly as possible. It had been a golden opportunity and a sensible girl would have leapt at it.
Barnsley had gone to a lot of trouble and expense to arrange things, with a string quartet and imported orchids on the table. He had spoken to Emma before the dinner, making it clear that he was running out of patience and pointing out the benefits she would obtain from such a marriage. And what had happened? More arrogant than the empress of Austria, she had looked down her nose at young Patrick from the moment he walked in and had ended by shouting at him during dinner, claiming he had tried to touch her under the table.
Well, of course he had, Barnsley thought. Every good-looking girl expected to put up with that sort of thing. It was pretty much taken for granted; he’d touched more than a few himself, over the years, and no one had complained. But there it was; she had made a fuss, Patrick’s parents had been affronted and the expensive party had been a fiasco.
Fortunately he still had one more string to his bow. Not the ideal choice – the Warburtons had no significant status in the community – but the way he was feeling he would have settled for the ferryman if there’d been no one else.
Thaddeus Warburton was the twenty-year-old son of one of the bank’s customers. Elegant as a lily, Thaddeus was still a better bet than the ferryman, for his father owned substantial tracts of land and was also a gambler. In Barnsley’s experience a gambler who owned land represented opportunity so he had long thought a closer connection with the Warburton family might be worth cultivating.
Thaddeus was at least presentable. In addition, Barnsley thought he was not in the least likely to try and touch Emma under the table; he doubted he had ever touched a girl in his life. With Barnsley in the position to offer Charles Warburton certain benefits by way of low interest loans he thought he might persuade him to see that marrying his son to the banker’s niece was a course worth pursuing.
She’ll marry him if I have to drag her to the altar myself, he thought.
Rather than the elaborate and expensive parties he had favoured in the past, Barnsley entertained Mr and Mrs Warburton and their son to dinner at his house with Emma the only other guest.
There were no imported orchids on this occasion but it was important to make a favourable impression so the food was both good and plentiful, the wine the best in the colony.
‘I had a dozen hogsheads imported from the Cape,’ Barnsley said as he urged his guest to a second and then a third glass. ‘I find it quite excellent.’
‘Indeed,’ Mr Warburton said. ‘Truly excellent.’
After the meal Barnsley got rid of the two ladies and the boy on the excuse that he and Mr Warburton had business to discuss.
Over the port they got down to it.
Barnsley had excellent sources of information and knew more about his guest’s affairs than Mr Warburton might have wished. He knew that his guest owned ten thousand acres of prime land in the midlands, as well as several properties on the Derwent River waterfront. He knew too that Warburton had run up gaming debts of over a thousand guineas, debts that had been taken up secretly by Barnsley’s own Tregellas Bank. He knew the boy Thaddeus was a feckless fool whom his father would willingly marry off to any woman rash or desperate enough to have him.
Mr Warburton did not know – did not know yet – that his host now owned him body and soul. Barnsley Tregellas was not a man who believed in the forgiveness of debts but that was a matter for another day.
He poured Charles Warburton a glass of port.
‘I understand you are thinking of going into whaling?’
‘Who told you that?’
Barnsley shrugged. ‘One hears these things.’
‘What is your opinion?’
‘As you may know, I have a small whaling fleet of my own. It’s profitable enough, provided you own your own vessels.’
‘You recommend ownership rather than leasing?’
‘Absolutely. As it happens I may be able to help you. The bank has a sturdy little whaler on its books right now.’
‘But at what price?’
A shark’s grin as Barnsley topped up his guest’s glass. ‘I am sure we can sort something out.’ He sat back in his chair. ‘Now… What are we going to do about my niece and your son?’
The following morning Emma was sitting in a rattan armchair staring out at the creek when her uncle informed her of the arrangement he had made with Mr Warburton. For a moment she was too amazed to say anything but then horror unlocked her tongue.
‘You’ve done what?’
Barnsley had faced bushrangers without flinching; Emma was likely to prove a more formidable opponent but nothing he could not handle. Calmly he repeated what he had just told her.
‘Mr Warburton has asked for your hand in marriage to his son and I have given my consent.’
‘Without speaking to me first?’
‘I am convinced he will make you an excellent husband, my dear.’
‘This is 1830, Uncle, not the Middle Ages. Are you seriously telling me I have no say in deciding my future life?’
Barnsley walked to the window and stood looking down at the river flowing beneath the trees at the bottom of the slope. The window was open and from the scrubland beyond Emma could hear the inane whooping of a kookaburra bird. Her uncle’s back was turned but his squared shoulders offered no hope of compromise. Finally he turned to face her again.
‘In law you are in fact still a child. But of course I would never compel you to do anything against your wishes.’
Emma eyed him suspiciously. ‘You mean that?’
His smile was warm. ‘Am I such an ogre? I would never dream of such a thing. But I do have two questions.’
‘Which are?’
‘I was wondering where you were planning to live when you leave this house? And on what?’
Warm smile; cold eyes. Emma had ignored her uncle’s wishes for so long that for a minute she couldn’t believe that he would throw her out if she denied him now. She protested; when that didn’t work she tried to cajole him with sweet words. They didn’t work either.
‘Do not waste your breath,’ he said. ‘I have been patient too long. The matter is settled.’
It was so like the melodramas they had enjoyed in what passed for the cultural scene in Hobart Town that Emma might have laughed but this was no laughing matter; she saw that her uncle meant exactly what he had said.
Yet still she protested. ‘I shall be twenty-one in October. An adult. I shall be able to make up my own mind.’
‘By October you will be a married woman.’
Blood congealed in her cheeks. Without funds she was helpless. Fighting tears she went to her room. She looked despairingly out of the window as though hoping that there salvation might be found, but saw only nightmare.
I waited so long, knowing there was no hope, hoping all the same. He promised but did not come, but I told myself he had been delayed, that he would find his way after all. Find his way to the island. Find his way to my arms.
Even after hope was used up I continued to wait, out of habit. Continued to hope, out of despair.
But now?
She fled to Lady Arthur, wife of the lieutenant governor. They had been acquaintances, then friends, ever since their introduction by Mrs Stephen, the lady Emma had met on the Admiral Cockburn back in 1826.
‘You must help me,’ Emma said.
But Lady Arthur, belly petulant with her ninth, could not.
‘My dear, you are under age. Your uncle was appointed your legal guardian when you first arrived in the colony. The law says you must obey him.’
‘My guardian is Mr Naismith in Norfolk.’
‘The governor felt that Mr Naismith was too far away to be of practical assistance. Whereas Mr Tregellas is rich and influential and on the spot. You must see it makes sense for him to have taken Mr Naismith’s place.’
‘Even though he wishes me to marry a man I despise?’
‘There is nothing I or anyone else can do about that. That is the law.’
She would run away.
But run where?
It cannot be legal. Underage or not, I will not believe I can be forced to marry someone I do not wish to marry.
But Uncle Barnsley had other ideas. ‘Your wedding has been arranged, the banns read. The announcement will be appearing in the Hobart Town Courier next Friday. Invitations have already been dispatched. You will marry Thaddeus Warburton next Saturday at eleven o’clock of the forenoon. The reception will be held in the Assembly Rooms. If you refuse to go ahead with the wedding you will shame the Warburtons, you will shame me and you will shame yourself. Do that and you will leave me no alternative but to wash my hands of you. You will leave this house and never receive another penny from me. Choose.’
What can I do? In bitter hard reality, what can I do?
Emma woke to the pealing of bells. Wedding bells. Her wedding bells.
Mind and body fought the sound, arms and legs lashing the bedding in frenzy, until she realised it existed only in her imagination, that the ceremony was scheduled not for that day but for seven days’ time.
Panting, she lay still. Until that moment she had never known how cold the body could become when the heart stopped beating. The hiatus between one beat and the next lasted no more than a second but that second encompassed all the terrors of the world.
The wedding… Mrs Thaddeus Warburton…
She could not tie herself – for life! – to such a man. She had been indifferent to him initially – how could you have feelings about a man as charismatic as a pair of old socks? – but Barnsley’s insistence on the marriage had changed her feelings from indifference to hatred.
She wondered if she would have the courage to kill Thaddeus Warburton on her wedding night. She wondered how it would feel to hang.
She beat her head against the passing hours.
Ephraim was in a good mood. He had spent an hour with Sir George Arthur, explaining his ideas about how the colony might be developed, and found a receptive audience. The prospects were good with every promise of becoming better.
Below the house a point of land jutted into the river. Later that night he walked to the end of the point and stood with the water lapping at his feet. The moon was bright and he stood tall in the night’s chequerboard of darkness and silver and breathed deeply, drawing into his lungs the scent and mystery of the invisible land flowing away to the north. He could taste the unknown, the promises that were too huge to comprehend.
In the time since they’d arrived he’d made good progress: he’d sold his consignment of boots at a good profit; he’d had several lengthy discussions with Governor Arthur about the parcels of land that he would need both for his own estate and for the ports that would be required to service the fleet of trading vessels he planned to acquire; he’d met many influential people.
With the moon-bright river in front of him he spoke to the night and to the mysterious land beyond. ‘You and I will do great things together,’ he said.
He would build an empire and a dynasty. Excitement prickled his skin as he remembered the skirmish that had left him with a permanent limp. At the time it had seemed a catastrophe yet now he saw that it had opened the door to the future that beckoned so seductively.
One thing he lacked. Ambition might demand a dynasty but a dynasty needed a woman, a wife, a mother. Ambition might demand fulfilment but fulfilment, how well he knew it, demanded love. Without love he suspected fulfilment was impossible. Marriage to Veronica had proved that. He would never regret having married her because of the son they had made together but Veronica had not been happy. She had not been fulfilled. Neither had he.
Emma still commanded his heart but Emma was lost. She would have married long ago and by now would have a family of her own. He had been careful not to enquire after her for fear of what he might learn. Married; dead; moved away; indifferent. He feared indifference most of all. As long as he didn’t know what had happened to her, dreams remained possible. In his dreams he would find her. They would be happy. In his dreams. Reality was different. Reality was as cold as the ice on Mount Wellington in winter.
Now he stood on the riverbank. His breast swelled as he thought of the vast acreages that would be his – his! – of sheep in their thousands, of fleeces waiting to be converted into gold.
He turned and limped back up the hill. Something small sprinted across his path, making him jump. He kicked out at it with his good foot, wanting to remind the whatever-it-was of its place in the scheme of things, but missed. The creature bustled on as though it owned the hill and everything on it. Amused by its confidence Ephraim took off his hat as though to a property owner and went on up the hill to the house.
Back in London Secretary Huskisson had spoken of whaling so at their next meeting Ephraim mentioned it to Sir George Arthur.
‘You should speak to an expert if you are planning to get into that game,’ Sir George said. ‘I would suggest Barnsley Tregellas of the Tregellas Bank. He’ll put you in the picture.’
Ephraim supposed it made sense. He had avoided Barnsley Tregellas for fear of learning something he would rather not know but perhaps it was time to reconsider.
‘I shall follow your advice,’ he said.
Sunday. Disturbed sleep. By this time next week I shall be married. Nightmares tore the breath from Emma’s body.
Monday. No nightmares but no sleep either.
Tuesday. A voice crying. No, no… Fleeing panic-stricken down dark avenues, seeking escape.
Wednesday. Emma woke during the night, her body a lather of sweat. She spoke aloud to the silent room. ‘I cannot do it. God knows what will become of me but I cannot, will not do it.’ To go ahead with her uncle’s plans would be to surrender everything she held dear, her life and hopes… She remembered Arthur Naismith and how courage had helped her defeat him and the countess.
Let courage aid me now, she thought. I will not do it.
Thursday. The bells of all the clocks were chiming as she walked purposefully down the hill into the town.
Ephraim had sent his housekeeper to the bank to make an appointment on his behalf and the following morning at eleven o’clock he was ushered into Barnsley’s private office.
Pleasantries ensued. A glass of Madeira was offered and accepted. Eventually they got around to the reason for Ephraim’s visit.
‘Whaling,’ Ephraim said.
‘Indeed.’ Barnsley joined his fingertips judiciously. ‘And what about it?’
‘I understand there is good money to be made, so I thought it might be a worthwhile investment. But would welcome advice from an expert.’
‘I am a banker. Why should you imagine I am an expert in whaling?’
‘Because Sir George Arthur recommended I speak to you.’
There was a noise in the outside office. Barnsley looked up sharply. ‘Perhaps you will excuse me a moment –’
Too late. The office door was flung open and a young woman, shaking off the protesting hands of one of Barnsley’s clerks, came bursting into the room. And stopped. And stared.
Ephraim had turned to seek the source of the interruption. He too stopped. He, too, stared.
‘Emma?’
‘Ephraim?’
After three years.
‘Emma,’ Barnsley said, angry but trying to hide it, ‘I am with a customer.’ He slipped on a smile like a frayed coat as he turned to Ephraim. ‘You must forgive my niece. She is getting married in two days’ time so is easily distracted.’
Their eyes were eating each other but Barnsley’s words pierced Ephraim’s understanding.
‘You are getting married?’ he said.
Emma with the bold expression he remembered so well, bringing a pang to his heart. ‘That was the plan,’ she said.
‘Plans can be changed,’ Ephraim said.
‘And bridegrooms.’
‘Now wait a minute,’ Barnsley said. ‘The banns have been read.’
‘But a special licence can be obtained,’ Emma said.
Bells, sunlight.
‘Do you, Ephraim?’
‘Do you, Emma?’
The yielding folds of her flesh; the imperiousness of his. Now all was summer, in their faces and their hearts. Mount Wellington’s ice menaced no longer.
‘Thank you for you.’
Fulfilment, joy and love.