Читать книгу An Unconventional Heiress - Paula Marshall - Страница 8

‘So the Langleys have left Government House, I hear,’ said Alan Kerr, who was eating a bachelor dinner with Tom Dilhorne in Tom’s home off Bridge Street.

‘Yes. The Governor not only found them a house, not far from yours, through his aides, of course, but he also had it furnished and managed to conjure up a housekeeper for them into the bargain.’

‘A housekeeper? However did he manage that? There’s a desperate shortage of such useful creatures in the colony.’

‘Indeed.’ Tom drank up his port before giving a short laugh. ‘Well, if I tell you that he supplied them with Corporal Hackett’s widow, you’ll gather that he did them no favour. On the other hand, she was probably the only woman available.’

‘Mrs Hackett!’ Alan nearly choked over his lamb. ‘Now that I should like to see. The thought of that high-nosed fine lady, trying to keep in order a woman who has created chaos in every kitchen and drawing room of those foolish enough to employ her, has quite made my day. You know that Major Menzies threw her out of his home after she had reduced the whole household to tears? Yes, any woman who can reduce Mrs Menzies to tears is well worth knowing.’

‘Now what should make you think that she’ll subdue Miss Langley?’

‘Come, come, Tom, you know that in the great houses in which Miss Langley lived all the real business of running a home was done behind the scenes so far as she was concerned. Here, she’s living in a little two-storey villa, on top of the kitchen, the cooking and the cleaning. Yes, I can only imagine how hard she’ll find it to cope with such a come-down in the world. I am still wondering what odd whim brought her here, so far from the comforts of her English life.’

It was useless to argue with him. He had taken against Sarah Langley from the first moment they had met, and God only knew if he would ever be able to change his mind about her. Tom was sure that his friend was misjudging her badly, that he was unaware of the dark shadow in which the poor creature was living. He also knew that the misjudgement arose from the circumstances of Alan’s own sad past, and he could do nothing about that.

Best to say nothing, then. After all, it was likely that the Langleys’ stay in the colony would be short, and then there would be nothing to provoke Alan Kerr into forgetting his better self, the self that had rescued Tom Dilhorne from the gutter, and was also fiercely maintaining the good health of Sydney by his tireless hard work.

When Sarah heard that not only had the Governor found and furnished a house for them, but had also appointed a housekeeper to look after it for her, she was overjoyed.

Her joy did not last long. Mrs Hackett was a woman with the build of a pugilist and an expression that was so sour that Sarah felt she probably only had to look at milk to make it turn. If her manner to Sarah was surly, her behaviour towards the servants, also provided by Government House, was downright cruel. Sarah remembered her introduction to them and to Mrs Hackett’s malevolence…

She had been seated at her portable writing desk, trying to finish a letter to her best friend and John’s sweetheart, Emily Hazeldean, when Mrs Hackett had come in to say that the servants had just arrived in a gig driven by one of the corporals with whom her late husband had served.

‘The servants has come, Mam, and most unsatisfactory they are.’

Sarah put down her pen. ‘Why, what is wrong with them, Mrs Hackett?’

‘Sluts,’ she said, balefully, ‘and trollops.’

‘You are speaking of the servants?’

‘Who else, Mam? They’re a convict and a convict’s daughter, and no better than they should be. They’re waiting in the kitchen for you to look at them. You said as how you would.’

She spoke as though Sarah had expressed a wish so outlandish that it scarcely needed to be discussed. Sarah was half-annoyed, half-amused by her insolence, reflecting that from her manner of speaking one might think that Mrs Hackett was the mistress and Sarah the servant!

Settling into her new home had, as Alan Kerr had supposed, taken up a great deal of her time and energy. John, of course, had left everything to her. Not only that, he had departed earlier that morning on yet another sketching expedition and had announced that he would not be back until late since he proposed to dine in the Officers’ Mess again. To make matters worse, she was unable to mend her quill pen since he had inconsiderately made off, without permission, with her only sharp knife, having been unable to find his own.

The letter to Miss Emily Hazeldean would have to wait. Sarah set off for the tiny, stiflingly hot kitchen, sighing gently. What appeared to be two bundles of clothing stood waiting for her. The older and larger of the shapeless pair was introduced to her as Nellie Riley; the younger and smaller as Sukie Thwaites. They were both, it seems, untrained and their final roles as assistant cook and maid-of-all-work were to be decided in the future.

Sarah thought that she had never before seen such an unlikely pair. The Governor’s aide who had done all the hiring for them had explained that, due to the shortage of women in the colony, it would be difficult to find anyone who wished to be a servant at all, let alone anyone who was trained.

Both women were wearing coarse black-and-red print frocks, gaudy shawls and heavy, clog-like shoes. Their hair was pinned up inside large sun-bonnets, which they apparently wore indoors as well as out. At Mrs Hackett’s prompting they both curtsied and addressed Sarah as Mum. She was compelled to admit that Mrs Hackett had not misrepresented their unattractiveness.

She was also eager to inform Sarah of Nellie’s disreputable past.

‘This here girl was transported because she was a thief, and her brother with her. Best to keep an eye on the silver, Mam.’

What she did not say was that Nellie had supplemented her meagre income at the Female Factory, where convict women were sent on arrival, by selling herself to any man who had a penny or some little luxury to offer her.

‘If she don’t please, Mam, why, you’ve only to say so and we can send her back where she came from and ask for another gal to take her place.’

Sarah had sometimes been responsible for the hiring and firing of servants back in England, but she had never felt the kind of revulsion that she experienced when she contemplated returning this miserable piece of humanity to the Factory and its cruel discipline. Sukie, however, was a free agent, but as she was an Emancipist’s daughter Mrs Hackett made it plain that her feelings were not to be considered, either.

‘I hope that you will be happy here,’ Sarah said inadequately, aware of both the young women’s sullen resentment of her for her pampered appearance, as well as Mrs Hackett’s open contempt for what she thought of as Sarah’s softness. She suddenly remembered what Tom Dilhorne had warned her of in his shop and thought that it was the most sensible piece of advice she had been given since the Pomona had docked.

At least, back in England her life had been spent at some distance from that of her many servants, but here, in this tiny house, their presence would be close and confining. Never mind, she thought, I have my painting and drawing to occupy me, and when the weather is fine I shall be able to ride once John has found me a suitable horse—and perhaps a carriage.

One thing, at least, was to the good. Since setting up house she had been so busy that she had not had time to think about Dr Kerr, the Governor or Tom Dilhorne, or whether or not she ought to speak to Emancipists. Their luggage had to be unpacked, their meals overseen, and John’s comfort to be satisfied. He had no intention of looking after himself since in England he had never needed to; a highly trained staff had ministered to his every want. By contrast, in Sydney, all that they had in the way of servants were Mrs Hackett, two unwilling, untrained females and John’s man, Carter.

She returned to her writing desk and tried to continue her letter to Emily.

‘You would scarcely believe,’ she wrote, ‘how primitive we are here. All that distinguishes us from the Pomona is that the deck no longer heaves beneath our feet…’

She sneezed and looked around the tiny room. Dust was everywhere. Nellie Riley suddenly burst in, waving a feather mop and began to use it with great vigour—which only served to waft it around the room in a red cloud. This started Sarah sneezing again.

‘Sorry, Mum,’ said Nellie, looking anything but sorry. ‘Mrs Hackett was telling me to begin me duties by cleaning the room since it hadn’t been done for days.’

Her expression told Sarah, better than words, that the whole business of keeping clean was a complete waste of time so far as Nellie was concerned.

Sarah waved her pen at her. It was no longer fit to write with, but waving it somehow expressed her feelings.

‘Good God! Is it always like this? And where does the dust come from—and why is it red?’

‘Well, it’s allus hot, if that’s what you mean, but it’s not allus as dusty as this. It’s them bricks.’

‘Them bricks?’ asked Sarah faintly.

‘And the wind. Why, Mum, when the winds’ southerly the dust from the brick-fields blows across the town. It’s the Governor’s fault.’

This remarkable demonstration of the Governor’s climatic powers intrigued Sarah. ‘The Governor’s fault?’

‘Aye, Mum, cos he’s a-building of the barracks and the hospital and they need bricks from the fields. Are ye comfortable, Mum? Can I get you anything?’

Convict she might be, but there was a frankness about Nellie’s speech that interested Sarah, who was used to the servility of home. There was almost a contempt in the manner in which convicts and Emancipists alike spoke to the respectable. She knew now why Mrs Middleton had fumed to her about the speech and behaviour of the servants and shopkeepers in Sydney.

She sighed. The letter to Emily must wait. She walked to the window and looked out at the swirling red dust and the brazen sun. On the verandah opposite, not one, but two cockatoos, restless in their cages, squawked their displeasure at the world. She sympathised with them.

It was a relief when there was a knock at the door and Mrs Hackett came in with a letter for her. It was from Mrs Menzies, inviting her to a soirée at the weekend.

Later, looking back on this time, Sarah thought that her first weeks in Sydney passed like a dream. There was so much to arrange, so much to do that in the past had always been done for her. Fortunately for her peace of mind she had not encountered Dr Kerr again. He had been called, Tom Dilhorne told her, to treat a fever which was raging in Paramatta. His absence brought on such an access of high spirits that John feared that the fever had reached Sydney, or so he chose to quiz her, not knowing the true cause.

Sarah had been so busy herself that she scarcely found time to paint, although this had been the excuse she had given for undertaking this journey with John. Her father had encouraged her to develop her talent, but unlike John she had many duties that took up her time. First she had been her father’s hostess, her mother having died at her birth, and then, after her father’s death, she had performed the same function for her brother.

Coming to Sydney had seemed an opportunity to develop her skills since she thought that she would surely have more time to spend on herself. What she had not foreseen was that the primitive nature of life in New South Wales would create even more demands on her.

‘I would never have believed it,’ she told Lucy Middleton when they were upstairs in the Menzies’s bedroom, inspecting themselves in a long mirror before going downstairs to enjoy the pleasures of a typical Sydney soirée. ‘I spent this morning supervising the wash while Mrs Hackett went to the market to buy provisions. She had left Nellie in charge of it, but as you might guess her attitude to cleanliness is best expressed in the old adage, “what the eye can’t see the heart can’t grieve over.” She actually said to me, “I don’t know why we bother, Mum, it will only have to be done again next week. All this dusting and scrubbing don’t seem natural to me.”’

Lucy adjusted a curl. ‘I really can’t understand why you bother with her, Sarah. Why don’t you just send her back to the Female Factory?’

Sarah gave a sigh. She knew very well that Mrs Hackett would have preferred to send Nellie back to the factory soon after she had arrived in the hope that she might receive someone more suitable in return. She, on the other hand, found that although she could endure the idea of women whom she did not know being cooped up in prison, it was unthinkable that Nellie, whom she now knew, should be sent back there.

It was her free spirit, which Mrs Hackett could not crush, that Sarah found admirable, with the result that she had ended up being the laundress herself in order to ensure that Mrs Hackett’s complaints could not be seen to be justified and Nellie’s removal determined on. She found it impossible to try to explain this to Lucy, particularly since she found herself out of sympathy with the rest of the colonial ladies whom she had met. Their preoccupation with precedence, which she had thought to be peculiar to Mrs Middleton, turned out to be common to them all. Being a member of the highest society in England, she found little to choose between all those beneath her in rank.

So she changed the subject of Nellie and Mrs Hackett and commented on Sydney’s fixation with precedence and propriety instead.

‘You see, Sarah,’ said Lucy while she was rearranging the flowers in Sarah’s hair, ‘you’re so grand yourself that you don’t understand the differences that lie between a clerk in the Government offices and one of the shopkeepers. What’s worse, you’re so sure of yourself that you can afford to talk to Tom Dilhorne and Will French, even though they’re Emancipists—and do the wash, as well. You don’t fear that you’re lowering yourself, as Mama does. And it’s no good saying Pish and Tush to me, either, that’s the truth.’

‘I like it when you scold me,’ said Sarah. ‘It’s like being scolded by a kitten. No one else, apart from John, ever reprimands me.’ Which wasn’t strictly true, because Tom Dilhorne had said something similar to her the other day.

‘Oh, you may laugh,’ replied Lucy, ‘but you know that you wouldn’t marry any of them. Only one of your own kind.’

She stopped and looked thoughtfully at Sarah. ‘I don’t know, though. There’s a wildness about you sometimes. Look at the way you spoke to Dr Kerr in Hyde Park.’

‘Oh, Dr Kerr.’ Sarah shrugged. ‘Let us not speak of Dr Kerr. Forgive me, Lucy, for saying this, but you amaze me sometimes—you look as though you haven’t an idea in your head—and then…’ and she shrugged again.

‘I know—that’s what Mama and the men think, that I’m stupid. It’s better that way, Sarah. You don’t annoy them—and you can always get what you want if they believe that you’re just a dear little kitten.’

Sarah nodded. ‘I know who is going to make a good marriage, thinking like that, Lucy. That is, if you don’t meet someone devastatingly handsome, and quite worthless, and fall head over heels in love with him. I don’t advise you to do that.’

Her tone was so bitter that Lucy looked at her curiously—but said nothing.

‘Come on, my love,’ Sarah said at last, slipping her hand round Lucy’s waist. ‘Downstairs with you so that we can try to find these paragons whom we ought to marry.’

They met Pat Ramsey in the little hall. Lucy moved away, probably to try to find Frank Wright, leaving Sarah to entertain Pat again.

‘Your servant, Miss Langley. No Emancipists here to amuse you tonight, hey?’

Sarah was annoyed to discover that her friendship with Tom was the subject of gossip, but she refused to betray her feelings.

‘I’m sure, Captain Ramsey, that Mrs Menzies’s guest list is composed of only the best in Sydney society.’

He roasted her gently. ‘Ah, but what is the best, Miss Langley? The latest on dit, from Colonel O’Connell, no less, is that the Governor is thinking of making magistrates of some of the Emancipists. Imagine Dilhorne and Kerr as magistrates, what could be more respectable than that? O’Connell is nearly having apoplexy at the very thought. Now you, I suppose, would approve of at least one of my two names, if not the other.’

Sarah refused to be drawn. ‘Tedious stuff, Captain Ramsey—and why should you suppose any such thing? For all you know, I might be willing to support one of the aborigines as a magistrate. It might be what the colony deserves.’

Pat gave a shout of laughter that penetrated into the Menzies’s drawing room and turned heads there. ‘Oh, Miss Langley, you quiz me cruelly. You make me realise that Sydney’s gain is London’s loss. Come, take my arm—my stay tonight will be longer than usual for your sake alone, I promise you.’

She took his arm, but her smile for him was cold. ‘For my sake, Captain Ramsey? Pray do not put yourself out for my sake.’

He bowed to her again before they entered to make their salutations to the Major and his wife. ‘If not for you, Miss Langley, then for no one.’

Sarah forbore to tell him how much such idle badinage bored her. She had heard sufficient of it from Charles to sicken her of it forever, but she supposed that it was the usual way in which men spoke to women, and she must endure it or earn the title of a shrew.

The assembled guests chattered and gossiped for a short time before the main event of the evening—which was a short concert—began, and Sarah found herself being compelled to listen to a great deal of the kind of fustian which Pat had been serving up to her. Not only that, much of the gossip was again about the Emancipists and their goings-on. It seemed that one of Sydney’s select gentlemen’s clubs—if not the most select—had actually asked Tom Dilhorne to become a member. Worse than that, he had actually accepted their invitation. It became the evening’s major topic of conversation.

‘I don’t believe it’, ‘It can’t be true’ and ‘Whatever next!’ were only a few of the comments that flew round the room. ‘They’ve only invited him because they want to get a finger in his financial pies,’ said one knowledgeable old fellow who worked at Government House.

‘Ah, but you haven’t heard the best part of the story—which also happens to be true,’ said Frank Wright. ‘You remember Fred Waring?’

Heads nodded. Yes, everyone remembered Fred Waring, the drunken remittance man of good family who had been sacked from his poor post as a Government clerk for drunkenness and incompetence.

‘It seems that when Fred turned up and found Dilhorne present by invitation of the committee he made a great scene and said that if Dilhorne, who was nothing but a rascally Emancipist, had been admitted as a member, he would resign and leave immediately. The chairman told him that it was his choice since Dilhorne was staying, so Waring walked out.’

‘There’s not a decent house in Sydney that will receive him,’ Sarah heard one stout matron say. ‘And now he’s not even got the club to attend. Is his daughter here tonight?’

Frank Wright looked around. ‘I don’t think so. Only the Middletons receive her these days and not very often, I believe.’

‘Do you know his daughter?’ Sarah whispered to Lucy who was, as usual, being squired by Frank.

‘Who? Oh, you mean little Hester Waring. Not that she’s so very little, but she’s a poor shy creature, about my age, quite plain. They say that Fred ill treats her. Mama and Papa came across them, by chance, the other night when they were returning home after visiting Colonel O’Connell. He was quite drunk. Hester was trying to help him along and he was cursing her. Now Mama says that she won’t have her in the house, either. She could be setting a bad example for me to follow. Oh, look, Mama is signalling to me that the concert is about to begin and I am the first performer.’

Poor Hester Waring, indeed, thought Sarah, and then forgot her. Lucy was opening the evening’s bill of fare by singing two old Scots ballads, after which Captain Parker was to delight the audience with some folk songs.

‘He has a pleasant baritone voice,’ Lucy had told Sarah. The next turn was to be Sarah’s: she was to play a short piano piece and then sing some of the songs that had been all the fashion when she had left London.

All in all, once the gossip about the Emancipists had been disposed of, it had been one of the more pleasant evenings that Sarah had spent since setting foot in Sydney. She was flattered by the young officers, and deferred to by most of the matrons and their husbands, even if they did deplore her taste for talking to such undesirables as Tom Dilhorne and Will French. Besides, her brother was a fine figure of a man, and filthy rich, too. Who knows, given a bit of luck he might even decide to take one of their daughters for a wife before he returned home again.

Of course, Sarah soon found that this sense of well-being was too good to last long. Two days after the party she was sitting in the drawing room, readying herself to do some painting, when she heard violent screaming coming from the kitchen.

She put down her unopened portfolio and ran to discover what in the world could be the matter. Before she reached the door, Nellie flung it open.

‘Oh, Mum, it’s poor Sukie, that old bitch Hackett was downright careless with the kettle and managed to pour boiling water all down Sukie’s arm. It’s in a right mess.’

Sarah pushed past the distraught girl into the kitchen to find that she was speaking no less than the truth. Sukie, now sobbing gently, was seated in a Windsor chair while Mrs Hackett, ignoring the scarlet ruin of her forearm, and making no attempt to care for it, was berating her at the top of her voice.

‘You careless fool,’ she was roaring, ‘do you never look where you’re going? Now you won’t be fit to work for a least a week. I’ve a good mind to turn you off immediately.’

Sukie’s sobs redoubled and Nellie shrieked, ‘It weren’t her fault. ’Twas yours, you old cow.’

Sarah banged a fist on the table.

‘Be quiet, all of you. Whose fault it was is of no account, Mrs Hackett. May I also remind you that it is I who turn off servants in this house, not you. At the moment Sukie’s welfare is all that matters. Allow me to look at your arm, Sukie. No, don’t wince, I shan’t touch it.’

Mrs Hackett opened her mouth to defend herself, but Sarah banged the table again, raising her own voice this time. ‘Be silent, Mrs Hackett, while I examine Sukie’s arm.’

This served to quell the housekeeper, but her malevolent glare was now for the mistress and not the maid. Sarah took no notice of her, particularly when she discovered that Sukie’s arm was so badly scalded that she needed the assistance of a doctor.

She looked up at Nellie. ‘Is Carter at home—or did he go out with Mr John?’

‘At home, Mum—doing some carpentry in the shed at the back.’

‘Good, go and tell him what has happened and ask him to run round to Dr Kerr and see if he is able to visit us immediately. I understand that he has returned from Paramatta.’

‘Yes, Mum,’ and Nellie lumbered off to find Carter, who, she told herself fiercely, wouldn’t be best pleased to hear that the old bitch had hurt the girl he had been sparking at recently. Divested of her weird clothing and attired in one of Sarah’s old cotton dresses, Sukie had begun to blossom—until this latest mishap had occurred.

‘Make yourself useful, Mrs Hackett,’ Sarah said sharply, ‘and brew us some tea. Drinking it might help poor Sukie to feel a little better.’

She had never felt herself to be so helpless before. She had not the slightest notion of how to treat the dreadful burn, which was beginning to weep gently, so that when the kitchen door opened and Alan Kerr, followed by Carter, came in, carrying his bag, she sprang to her feet to greet him.

‘Oh, I am so happy to learn that Carter found you so quickly. Poor Sukie really does need some instant attention. There has been an accident in the kitchen, and as a result boiling water was poured over her forearm.’

Alan Kerr stared at the little scene. At Sarah, who had now seated herself at the kitchen table, her cup of tea before her, at Nellie, holding a cup for Sukie to drink from, and at Mrs Hackett, standing belligerent, arms akimbo, before the kitchen range, glaring her dislike at everyone, including him.

He put his bag down and pulled up a kitchen chair so that he was able to sit by poor Sukie and inspect her arm most carefully before deciding how to treat it. Even so, he still found time to notice that Miss Sarah Langley seemed to be in much finer fettle than usual. She finished drinking her tea before rising and coming over to watch him treat Sukie.

I refuse to stand here helpless, thought Sarah firmly. Mrs Hackett is apparently useless in an emergency, and Nellie would doubtless be little better. I’m sure that he would welcome some assistance, even from me.

‘Doctor Kerr,’ she ventured, ‘if there is anything I may do to help you, pray tell me.’

‘Indeed, I will,’ he said, without looking up. ‘I usually have a young assistant with me, but he is out tending a poor old lady who does not need medical care but whom a little nursing will benefit. If you will pick up my bag, put it on the table and open it, you will find inside it a large blue bottle, some scraps of cotton wadding, bandages, and a pair of scissors. Hand me the bottle and the cotton, and have the bandages and the scissors ready to pass to me when I ask for them.’

Sukie gave a groan on hearing the word scissors. Doctor Kerr said kindly to her while he poured something from the bottle on to the cotton. ‘Don’t be frightened, Sukie, I don’t propose to cut you with the scissors, only some of the wadding and the right length of bandage.’

He worked patiently on in silence, Sukie occasionally moaning a little. After a moment Mrs Hackett snorted. Sarah looked across at her and said, as pleasantly as she could, ‘I would be grateful, Mrs Hackett, if you would put a kettle on to boil again. I don’t think that Dr Kerr will need any hot water in his treatment of Sukie, but I’m sure that he would be grateful for a cup of tea when he has finished.’

The woman tossed her head, but did as she was bid. Alan Kerr, on hearing this little interchange, smiled to himself, remembering his conversation with Tom Dilhorne. Well, he was seeing Miss Sarah Langley in action against Mrs Hackett and it was quite plain who was the victor. Miss Langley was not going to be driven to tears by the old battle-axe. Not only that, when he said, somewhat peremptorily, ‘Bandages!’, she was prompt to hand them over, and then the scissors, after another brusque command.

Finally he had finished. Sukie’s poor arm had been carefully dressed and her pain relieved a little in consequence. Mrs Hackett needed yet another order from Sarah: this time to make the tea, and offer Dr Kerr some biscuits, which she did with an ill grace. While he waited he held Sukie’s hand and tried to comfort her.

‘It looks worse than it is,’ he said, ‘but it is a very nasty scald and you are not to use that arm until I have seen you again in a few days’ time. I am leaving Miss Langley a small bottle of laudanum for you to take a few drops at night so that the pain does not prevent you from sleeping. I’m sure she will see the necessity for you to rest until the arm is healed.’

‘Indeed,’ said Sarah, and then sternly to her housekeeper, ‘You heard that, Mrs Hackett—Sukie is to rest until Dr Kerr says that she is fit to work again.’

‘Doubtless you’ll send her back home for them to look after her,’ Mrs Hackett bit back.

‘No.’ Sarah’s voice was as cold as it was firm. ‘She sustained her injury here, and here she will be looked after—be in no doubt of that.’

Alan Kerr nearly choked over his cup of tea at the sight and sound of Miss Sarah Langley treating the town dragon to the same dismissive manner that she had employed with him. His feelings for her were growing into a strange blend of admiration and dislike—mixed with something else which he tried to thrust to the back of his mind. It would never do for him to begin to feel anything like lust—yes, that was what it must be, lust—for a woman so far above him in station.

Sarah was also seeing a new side to him. His care and consideration for Sukie had been exemplary. He had insisted that she be given another cup of tea—‘with plenty of sugar, mind’—and before he left had given Sarah and Mrs Hackett instructions about what to do if the pain increased, or a fever developed.

‘You are to send for me at once, at any hour of the day or night, if you are worried about her condition,’ he ended, immediately before leaving them.

‘Well,’ said Mrs Hackett when the door shut behind him, ‘I’m glad to see the back of him. It’s a great pity that decent people have to depend for their doctoring on an Emancipist.’

‘That will be quite enough,’ said Sarah, tired of the woman’s unpleasantness. ‘He dealt with poor Sukie’s scald most efficiently and that is all that matters, not what label he has been given. Nellie, you must look after Sukie while I make arrangements for a temporary servant to take her place. If she feels faint, help her up to bed. If she can’t walk, then Carter will be able to carry her.’

She was surprising even herself, she thought. If she had been at home, back in England, she would never even have known that a servant had been scalded, let alone have helped with her treatment and then been responsible for replacing her!

Not only that, but she was daily performing tasks that other people had done for her. She was beginning to find pleasure in doing them and also that she had an unsuspected talent for organising the work of the house. One drawback, however, was that all these new duties were preventing her from having the time to paint the strange scenery that lay all around her.

After Sukie’s replacement has arrived, she promised herself, she would try to remedy that by persuading Lucy to go with her on some afternoon excursions to the more picturesque parts of Sydney. It would be pleasant to spend an afternoon without having Mrs Hackett constantly troubling her with some problem which she should have been able to solve herself.

Suddenly life in Sydney seemed more bearable to her—and why should that be? Who would have thought that handing the surly Dr Kerr bandages and scissors, and looking after Sukie and Nellie’s welfare in the face of Mrs Hackett’s unspoken antagonism, would make her feel so fulfilled?

Stranger still, who would have thought that she would find herself defending Dr Kerr from Mrs Hackett’s unpleasant attempts to demean him?