The Trader's Reward Page 15

  ‘No, definitely not.’

  ‘But she needs a husband.’

  ‘You think she needs one. If she thinks she does, she’ll find her own, Bram. There’s plenty of choice here, after all.’

  ‘But Isabella, this man sounds perfect for her.’

  ‘You can’t possibly tell that from an advertisement. He may be a horrible person. He may be an adventurer, looking to prey on a woman with money.’

  ‘No, he isn’t. See?’ Bram read from the advertisement: ‘“… seeking intelligent companionship …”’

  Isabella rolled her eyes and said nothing.

  ‘You can’t deny she’s intelligent.’

  ‘She’s very intelligent. But we don’t know him at all. And even if we meet him, he could be lying about his family and situation. He may even have a wife back in England. That has been known.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Bram, leave it be! She’s over forty, old enough to manage her own life. You’re getting as bad as those maids of hers.’ Isabella signalled that she didn’t intend to say anything more on the subject by getting up and walking out of the room.

  Bram studied the advertisement again then sneaked off to his tiny, cramped office in the Bazaar and wrote a note to the gentleman in question without telling Isabella. He invited the advertiser to visit the Bazaar and introduce himself, explaining that he might be acquainted with a suitable lady, but the advertiser would understand that he wanted to check things out first.

  Women were scarce enough in the colony, heaven knew. Someone had told him there were ten men to every woman, partly because it was mainly men who settled new land, and partly because the thousands of convicts brought out to build roads, bridges and such amenities had been male.

  There had been a few bride ships organised by the government, in an attempt to bring more young women out to the colony. But they’d been mainly poorer women, some of them straight out of workhouses, a few too old and unfit for work.

  He shook his head. Only a lady as determined as Livia could have held out for so long against getting married again. He knew men had tried to court her.

  Whatever his wife said, he was determined to make the effort to help. Besides, trying to help Livia would take his mind off that damned ice works he’d invested in. The machinery still wasn’t working properly. He ought to have been making money from it, as well as providing a useful service to the town of Fremantle, and instead he was pouring money into keeping it going. Many a time, they could have sold far more ice than the place was making.

  In hot weather, they ran out long before the end of the day, and some days the machinery broke down and they didn’t produce any ice at all. So he was still making a loss. Not as big a loss as formerly – things had improved a little – but still a loss.

  He should close the place down.

  And yet, look how ice had cooled his small son down when Arlen had a fever. It had helped save the child’s life. Bram wanted to be sure ice would be available for other families whose children had fevers.

  He didn’t like to think of little ones suffering needlessly or dying for want of help. No, he didn’t like to think of that at all.

  Norman Tilsley only received two letters in response to his second advertisement for a wife in the Perth Gazette. He discarded one of them immediately, because the handwriting was ill-formed and the spelling poor. Anyway, the woman didn’t sound at all like a lady, not the sort of person a gentleman might wish to marry.

  He smacked his hand down on the table in annoyance. He wasn’t looking for a housekeeper but a wife, a lady who would be a companion for him. He had specified that in the advertisement.

  The second letter surprised him. It was from a gentleman, explaining that he knew a lady who might be of interest to the advertiser.

  That sounded more like it. The fact that a gentleman was writing on her behalf pleased him. He thought better of someone who had friends helping her and who was treading cautiously.

  Norman looked at the name again: B. Deagan, proprietor of Deagan’s Bazaar in Fremantle.

  The handwriting wasn’t elegant but the letter was written by a successful businessman. Norman had already visited the Bazaar and bought some oriental china there. If he remembered correctly, the owner was a thin, dark-haired man in his thirties.

  Irish, unfortunately. Was the lady Irish? That would have mattered in England. Did it matter here? Not as much, Norman decided, if at all. Well, as long as she was reasonably well educated and presentable, that was.

  He read the letter three times, thought about it for an hour, then wrote a reply, saying he’d be happy to visit the Bazaar and meet Mr Deagan in two days’ time at about two o’clock in the afternoon.

  He sighed as he looked round his little parlour afterwards. For all his efforts, the room looked unfinished, somehow not a real home. A wife made one’s life so much easier and pleasanter. And in return one looked after and cared for her. It was a good bargain. His first marriage had been like that.

  After Harriet’s death, Norman had felt so lonely he’d come out to Australia to join his younger son. Only he’d been disappointed to find that Robert had settled out in the middle of nowhere, in ‘the bush’ as they called it here. His son’s homestead was several hundred miles to the north of Perth, with no neighbours closer than five miles away. You had to take a ship to the tiny town of Geraldton to get there from Perth.

  The area had proved a huge disappointment. It wasn’t at all like the English countryside. There were no cosy villages, no interesting ruins or buildings to visit, no pleasant walks along leafy lanes, no chance-met people to chat to, just unending bush, in which you could easily get lost. And even though there was plenty of space in which to ride, you’d mostly be riding on your own.

  The wildlife was just as disappointing, the occasional kangaroo or small animal. Birds, of course, but much of the birdsong was raucous and croaky. And you might see exotic sights like flocks of cockatoos or parrots, but they shrieked like damned banshees.

  It was hot in the summer, too. Unpleasantly so. And there were many flies and other insects, not to mention spiders and snakes whose bites were poisonous.

  It didn’t take Norman long to decide that he couldn’t face living in such an isolated place. After a few weeks, he returned to Perth and debated returning to England. But his older son (whose wife was a shrew) and his daughter (who thought only of her husband and children) had made such a fuss about the stupidity of their father in coming to Australia, that he was reluctant to give in so easily.

  He found himself a house to rent in Guildford, to the east of Perth, a smaller dwelling than he was used to, because though he wasn’t short of money, it was the only one available. At least it had a pleasant view of the Swan River in the distance, and there were enough rooms for a single gentleman to live in comfort and house his younger son’s family when they visited the capital.

  But he remained lonely. Horribly lonely. He missed his wife all over again, even though she’d died five years ago and he’d grown accustomed to being a widower. They’d been happy together. Harriet had been an admirable woman, who had always found it far easier to make new friends than he had. Women usually did, in his experience.

  He’d done the only thing he could think of in advertising for the wife he needed, if he was to stay here. So it was definitely worth taking a chance now and going to meet this Mr Deagan.

  And possibly meeting the lady in question, as well.

  He went to peer into the mirror. He’d have to spruce himself up a bit before he met them, though. His hair needed trimming and he had to find a better laundress, one who could iron his shirts properly.

  Matron came across the deck to join the Deagans’ family group soon after breakfast the following morning. ‘The weather’s still a bit brisk, but I’d like to start some of the classes as soon as possible, so I wonder if you could spare the time to go through the sewing equipment with me, Mrs Deagan? A group of charitable ladies in Southampton make sur
e most of our ships carry suitable material and sewing equipment. It’s such a help.’

  Cara turned to look at Ma, who seemed to have forgotten her slight queasiness and was smiling fondly at her little granddaughter. ‘Would you mind looking after Niamh for a while?’

  Ma held her arms out at once. ‘I’d love to.’

  Matron took Cara down to the stores and showed her some bolts of material. ‘Could you use these for your class? What do you think the women could make from them?’

  Cara studied the material, which was a cheap cotton print. ‘How about aprons? Just simple ones that tie round the waist, not pinafores. That will teach the women to cut out, hem, gather and put on a flat pocket.’

  ‘Good idea.’ Matron took some packets out of a big cardboard box. ‘These contain scissors, papers of pins, needles and thread. We like to give the women a set of sewing implements each.’

  Cara felt happy about her new task. ‘I know they have machines for sewing nowadays, but since most sewing is still done by hand, it’s an important skill for a woman.’

  ‘We’ve got a sewing machine on board, actually, but we won’t use it for these classes. Well, how often are the women likely to see one in Australia? Or India? We’ll just use the machine for mending bed linen. They’re good for sewing straight seams, but not as good at more complicated sewing tasks.’

  ‘I’ve never used one, though my mother’s friend has a Bradbury, the Belgravia, it’s called.’

  ‘I’ve heard nothing but good of them. Shall we start the sewing class tomorrow afternoon, Mrs Deagan?’ The ship chose that moment to heave them sideways and Matron frowned. ‘Weather permitting, of course.’

  ‘I’d love to.’

  Cara walked back to join the others, feeling better than she had for a long time. As long as Niamh didn’t suffer, Cara would be glad to be done with breast feeding, glad to lead a more normal life and meet people again.

  She stopped when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman on the forward deck who reminded her of someone she knew, a man she hoped never to see again. She looked again, but he’d gone. She was imagining things.

  When she rejoined her family, she found Ma getting Mal to tickle Niamh’s chin. The baby was laughing each time he touched her. Mal was laughing too. Sean was standing a short distance away, scowling at both Niamh and his brother.

  Poor boy, thought Cara. He looked so unhappy sometimes.

  Fergus came up beside her, asking quietly, ‘What am I going to do with that lad?’

  ‘Be patient, I suppose. Getting angry won’t make him any happier about the situation. We’ll have to hope time will soften his attitude.’

  They were starting to chat comfortably now. She was sorry when Matron interrupted then, asking Fergus to come and talk to a gentleman who was interested in helping him with the glee club and concert.

  Cara watched her husband walk away, his dark hair blowing in the wind, his expression alert and happy. She was glad he didn’t wear a moustache or the long side-whiskers now popular with a lot of men. She liked to see his face, watch his lips curve into a near smile when he was hiding amusement at something.

  In England, when he went out of the house, he’d worn a bowler hat, which she preferred to her father’s top hat. It looked so much more modern. But Fergus’s linen was shabby, so she thought she might start to make a shirt or two for him, ones with a soft turned-down collar, instead of a stiff upright collar, though. That style was more modern too.

  If only she could work out what to do about Sean!

  The boy would have to learn that life didn’t always give you what you wanted, or what you expected. Whoever you were.

  Fergus studied the gentleman as he and Matron approached him. He had a pleasant expression and didn’t seem at all patronising in the way he was studying them. You could recognise a poor attitude almost immediately.

  ‘This is Mr Newland,’ Matron said. ‘Mr Deagan.’

  When Fergus offered his hand, it was grasped immediately and shaken vigorously.

  ‘Delighted to meet you. I’ve noticed you and your family on deck. It’s good to see that some families are happy together.’

  This made Fergus wonder what Mr Newland’s family was like. But his companion was right about one thing, Fergus decided. He was happy with Cara, found he enjoyed her company greatly, found her appealing as a woman. ‘You don’t have relatives travelling with you?’

  ‘No. I’m on my own. Shall we sit down?’

  Fergus cocked his head and studied the man, who was tall, with a bony body, dusty brown hair going thin on top, and grey eyes with a very direct look to them. Newland smiled at him. ‘Let’s get one thing straight. You will be in charge because I’ve never run a glee club or put on a concert in my life.’ He followed Deagan’s gaze towards one group of cabin passengers who were staring at Fergus in disapproval of him invading their territory. ‘Unfortunately, things will probably go better if you have a cabin passenger involved in the organisation. I hope you don’t mind me being frank about this?’

  ‘I don’t mind at all, Mr Newland,’ Fergus said. ‘You can be as frank as you please, because I prefer to know where I stand with people. They’ll feel better to see one of their own keeping an eye on me.’ He lowered his voice and said with mock horror, ‘To make matters worse, I’m Irish.’

  Both men chuckled and Matron stared at them in surprise. This sort of frank conversation and joking at things that normally upset people was the last way she’d expected them to behave. Still, they seemed to get on well, and that was the main thing. ‘I’ll leave you gentlemen to talk and make plans. As soon as you’re ready, we can spread the word about wanting to find singers and hold auditions.’

  Fergus watched her walk away then turned back to Mr Newland. ‘Are you a singer?’

  ‘I can hold a tune, but my voice isn’t good enough for me to be comfortable singing solo. I’m a baritone. And you?’

  ‘I’ve sung solo a time or two. In concerts at church or at the railway works. I’m a tenor.’

  ‘You must have a good voice to sing solo. I don’t suppose you can play the piano as well? I have to confess I’ve no skill whatsoever there.’

  ‘I play by ear. If I hear a tune, I can play it, but I can’t read music.’

  ‘You must be very talented. What did you do for a living?’

  ‘Engineer’s assistant at the Swindon Railway Works. My family all grew up working on the land, but I prefer dealing with machinery.’ And he was good at it, too. He knew that he wasn’t fooling himself about that.

  ‘Sounds as if you’re going to be a lot more use in Australia than I am. I haven’t the faintest idea what I’ll be doing there. I trained as a lawyer many years ago, but then became a clerk in my uncle’s business, for family reasons, but I didn’t enjoy that at all. Adding up columns of figures and writing letters to customers is tedious stuff.’ He produced a notebook and a pencil stub in an extender and grinned. ‘Please consider me your clerk.’

  Fergus studied the pencil extender. He’d seen these before. ‘Doesn’t the pencil fall out of that thing?’

  ‘Sometimes. But it helps me use up the last inch or two. Pencils are too expensive to waste, and you can use them anywhere, unlike pens. Now, Mr Deagan, what shall we do first?’

  ‘I’d sooner you called me Fergus.’

  ‘And I’m Rémi.’ Fergus nodded. But his attention was still on the pencil extender. ‘I could make you something better than that.’

  Rémi studied it. ‘Could you? That’d be very helpful.’

  ‘If you have a spare pencil stub, I’ll ask the steward whether they have any offcuts of softwood on the ship. They’re bound to have something. I’ll not need much. Someone mentioned a ship’s carpenter. Maybe he’d let me use a couple of his tools. Mine are all packed up.’

  Rémi fumbled in his pocket and produced another stub holder. ‘Experiment with this. I’d be very grateful if you can do better. Now, shall we return to the concert?’

  ‘W
hat? Oh, yes, sorry – I get easily distracted when there’s something mechanical to fix. We’ll need to hold auditions first. I’m not having people getting into the choir or the concert unless they really can sing. It makes me wince to hear someone who’s tone deaf spoiling a good song.’

  Rémi scribbled something down.

  Fergus thought for a moment, then continued, ‘We should find Matron and ask about the piano and a place for rehearsals.’

  ‘I can do that, if you like’

  When they separated, having made a list several items long, Fergus felt surprised by how comfortable he’d felt with Rémi.

  Mr Kieran was friendly, but there was a line you never crossed with him. Rémi, however, treated him as an equal and unless Fergus was much mistaken, he’d just made a friend. And one going to Western Australia, too.

  Cara watched Fergus fiddle with something in his pocket. As he answered a question from Sean, he pulled out a pencil stub and extender, and began to study them.

  Sean stopped trying to get his father’s attention and went over to kick his right foot against a wooden structure at one side of the deck, doing it over and over again.

  ‘Will you look at that boy, ruining good shoes?’ Ma went across to stop him.

  Fergus smiled at his wife. ‘What was it you asked? I’m listening properly now.’

  She touched the pencil stub extender with her fingertip. ‘I just wondered where you had got that from. I used to do sketches of my sister or our pet animals, or the birds in the garden. I couldn’t bring any sketching materials with me when I left home. Or even any of my sketches. My father has probably thrown them all away.’

  ‘I’ll get you some pencils and sketching materials one day.’ Then Fergus’s expression grew vague again and he murmured, ‘I wonder if I were to …’

  She watched him start turning the little gadget round and round in his hands.

  There was so much to discover about her husband. She hadn’t yet heard him sing, but if he’d been singing in concerts, he must have a decent voice.

  She loved singing, but hadn’t sung for nearly a year, not even when she was on her own. She hadn’t wanted to.