Читать книгу An Unconventional Heiress - Paula Marshall - Страница 9

It was not the week-end, but the following week before Sarah could make one of the expeditions which she had promised herself. Sukie’s arm was healing nicely, but she was not yet ready to work again. Unfortunately their new girl justified Mrs Hackett’s daily complaints about her, but Sarah refused to send her back since there was no reason to believe that her replacement would be any better. Sarah, indeed, was beginning to think that they had been lucky to have Nellie and Sukie assigned to them, after she had listened to many of the other Sydney ladies moan about their own servants.

She had decided to walk towards the point, overlooking Cockle Bay, where she could draw the sea, the pines and the everlasting sky. She had hoped to have Carter with her, but John had taken him off into the bush early that morning to finish a picture which he had been painting for some time. Since she was not going very far from the edge of the town and was impatient to be off, she decided that she would be safe enough—and would be happier—on her own. Only Sukie could have gone with her and the heat of the day would have been too much for her in her weakened state.

She walked briskly down the unmade road outside their home, passing on the way a convict gang who were busy paving it. They were dressed in coarse canvas marked with a variety of arrows showing that it was drawn from Government stores. They stared boldly at her when she walked by them without an escort. One nudged another and their laughter followed her until she turned the corner.

The first time she had seen them she had been shocked, but familiarity bred contempt, and now she scarcely noted their presence. What did distress her were the aborigines she saw. They bore little resemblance either to the noble savage of Rousseau, or to the drawings in the folios that had so entranced John and herself. They sat about, half-naked, in the streets, occasionally clowning to entertain those few who might throw them money to buy the drink that degraded them further.

John had told her that they had met some in the bush who looked and behaved like the drawings they had seen back in England, and he could only conclude that it was living alongside their new European masters which had damaged them. What troubled her most was their apparent indifference to the life going on around them.

Nevertheless she walked merrily along, whistling quietly to herself, a low habit that she had learned from one of the grooms back home and had earned her reprimands from her father when she had indulged in it as a child. She wondered why she was doing it, and concluded that it was the result of a kind of mindless happiness brought on by the freedom of the trip that she was taking, the balmy weather and the chores which she had left behind.

She found a natural seat among the rocks on the cliff’s edge overlooking the sea, where the trees and bushes behind her offered her a little shade. She loosened the fichu around her neck, and since she was alone, she lifted her skirts to calf length in order to enjoy the breeze which came off the sea.

The scene before her came to life on the paper, and Sarah entered the almost trance-like state that accompanied her practice of the art she loved best in the world. So it was, she later understood, that she did not see or hear the arrival on this idyllic scene of what was to spoil it for her forever, so that she could never again pass it without a shudder.

Her first intimation of danger came with a foul smell accompanied by a low laugh. Startled, she half-turned to see that behind her had crept up a Caliban-like figure, half-naked, half-dressed like a scarecrow in a parody of a gentleman of fashion. He held a black bottle in his hand from which he drank as he staggered towards her. A final grotesque touch was a battered beaver hat which he wore on his filthy curls.

His pleasure on seeing her was unfeigned, but when he spoke his accent was so broad that it was almost impossible for Sarah to understand him. Of his intention, however, there was no doubt. He advanced on her, stopping once to call behind him, when, to her further dismay, another half-drunken, scantily clad figure emerged from the trees to leer at her.

Sarah rose and smoothed down her skirts, which seemed to be revealingly tight and scanty before these nightmare apparitions. So far the only sinister characters whom she had seen had been safely confined in irons, or under the escort of soldiers. She looked around her for help, but could see none.

‘I must go,’ she said, shakily, ‘I am expected back.’ Even to her own ears this sounded like a thin and unreal response, and so it seemed to Caliban who continued to stagger towards her.

‘Stay a while, my pretty. Jem and me can entertain you.’ His grin was wide and cruel.

‘No, no, I really must go.’

This parody of drawing-room conversation sounded ridiculous, even to Sarah, and, not surprisingly, had no effect on her tormentor who continued his steady advance on her, throwing away his bottle when he drew nearer. She could not back away from him since the cliff edge was behind her, and his companion had cut off her only other line of escape.

Finally he reached Sarah and caught her by the shoulders, swinging her round and throwing her towards Jem. ‘Let’s play, my pretty dear. Here, you have her, but you’re not to keep her, mind.’

She landed in Jem’s arms and when he caught her he kissed her full on the lips. The smell of gin on his foul breath was strong and his whiskered face scraped her soft cheek. Lost between fear and revulsion, choking, Sarah tore her face away. Her lips were already bleeding.

‘You’ll pay dearly for this,’ she cried, abandoning all pretence that she had any control over the dreadful situation in which she found herself.

‘Not us, missy.’ Jem grinned. ‘What makes you think that you will tell anyone, dearie?’

He loosened his grip, pushing her a little away from him so that he might pull at her hair which had fallen, loose, about her shoulders.

‘A right pretty doxy for us, eh, Charlie?’

He ran his eyes over her while she struggled to free herself after he had caught her again, secure in the knowledge that she could not escape him. Nevertheless, lost in a torment of fear and shame, she kicked his shins, broke away from him, and tried to run towards Sydney. Was it really possible that she was going to be attacked, ravished and killed on this barbarous coast so far from home and friends?

‘Oh, God,’ she cried. ‘Help me! Help me!’

Jem, laughing, allowed her to run a few steps towards the town before he caught her again, around the waist. He gripped her by her streaming hair and kissed her brutally, one hand roving over her body. ‘Stay still, my dearie. Old Jem’ll pleasure you right enough, after Charlie has had a go at you first. Here, Charlie, you have her again, but not for good, mind,’ and he threw her back to his mate with such force that Sarah lost her balance and landed in the dirt.

Charlie pulled her to her feet. She pushed him back, panting, ‘My brother is rich. He’ll reward you well if you take me home.’

‘Take you home? Now, why should we do that? Your filthy money’s no use to us in the bush. No, me duck. You can pleasure us here and now, and then the fish can have you.’

He pulled her to him: his intention was unmistakable. Sarah tried to fight him off, but in vain, and with Jem cheering him on, he began to bear her to the ground, shouting, ‘Oh, I likes a lass of spirit!’

It was hopeless: death and dishonour now seemed inevitable and a great sob burst from Sarah’s throat…

Doctor Alan Kerr had been visiting a shanty in The Rocks where a ragged Emancipist, who had been dividing his time between honest work and thieving, needed treatment for a leg broken in an attempt to burgle one of the poorer grog shops that existed only to serve such outcasts from society as he was. He had been part of a gang that had dragged him home rather than leave him for the watch to find lest he inform on them.

Alan had a good idea of how the fellow’s injury had come about, but he set his leg, left him some laudanum and took as payment a bottle of the grog, which the gang had liberated after the accident. After that he decided to ride home, having been on duty since sun-up when he had been called out to assist in a difficult birth.

He was travelling along the cliff path towards Sydney when, on nearing Cockle Bay, he heard the sound of shouting voices and laughter. He turned a corner to see before him two men and a struggling woman whom they were undoubtedly attacking. He had no doubt about what was happening—or was about to happen.

He swore to himself, spurred his horse, and charged at the men.

Jem and Charlie were so intent on their pleasure that they were not aware that a man on horseback was arriving until it was too late for them to take any evasive action.

Sarah suddenly found herself sprawled on her back, abandoned involuntarily when the oncoming rider’s whip descended on Charlie’s head to the cry of, ‘Let go of her, damn you!’

For a moment the watching Jem was stunned into immobility, and then, with an incomprehensible shout, he fled back down the path by which he had come. Charlie, however, although half-stunned, sprang forward and, shouting abuse, tried to pull the rider from his horse, but was prevented by another blow from Alan’s whip which sent him, unconscious, to the ground on the very spot where Sarah had lain a moment earlier.

She had scrambled away, pulling her dress down, and vainly trying to pin up her fallen hair. She turned to her rescuer, panting at him, ‘Thank God, thank God that you arrived in time. They meant…they meant…’ She ran out of breath.

‘I know what they meant,’ said Alan Kerr grimly, shocked that it was Sarah Langley whom he had rescued in this outlandish spot. What the devil did she think that she was doing here, and alone?

For the first time Sarah grasped that it was Dr Kerr, of all people, who was her saviour; trembling and fearing to fall, she stretched out her hands to him, only to hear him say brusquely after he had dismounted from his horse, ‘Pull yourself together, Miss Langley. You are quite safe now.’

The knowledge that it was Dr Kerr who had found her in this condition and had rescued her from dishonour and death increased her misery, rather than lessen it. Whatever would he think of her now?

Mute and still shaking, she picked up her fichu and tried to fasten it around her neck, something which her trembling hands found difficult. Alan walked over to where the half-conscious Charlie lay and, pulling him to his feet, began slapping him into awareness.

Numbly, she watched while Alan, shaken himself by what he had seen when he had come upon her desperate struggle, finally brought Charlie to his senses and methodically began to beat him with his whip, punctuating the blows with the statement that this would have to serve as punishment since he had no intention of exposing Miss Langley to the shame of a trial in which her ordeal at his hands would have been revealed.

Sarah, now huddled on a rock, her portfolio in her hands, said faintly, ‘Pray stop, Dr Kerr, I cannot bear this. After all, you did prevent the worst.’

On hearing this, Alan gave her attacker one last blow before he threw down his whip, and turned his attention to Sarah. Charlie, relieved that he was not to be hauled before the beak and then summarily hanged, ran off towards the bush, lest worse befall him.

The anger and fear that he might have been too late, which Alan Kerr had experienced when he found her being assaulted, now spilled out over Sarah herself.

‘Oh, you may say stop now, Miss Langley, now that you have been rescued, but what, in God’s name, prevailed on you to go running around the wilderness exposing yourself to the riff-raff of The Rocks?’ His angry gaze swept over her. ‘And in the most provocative clothing, too. Have you no common sense? Where is your brother—or his man—who ought to be here guarding you?’

Whatever happened she must not cry! She would not, must not, give him that satisfaction. She might owe him everything, but she did not need to be so addressed. In her misery and distress she forgot that while she might have thanked God for her delivery she had not properly thanked Alan. More than that, she had no idea that relief at her narrow escape was fuelling his anger.

‘I forgot,’ she said, lifting her head proudly, ‘I forgot that I was not at home in England, but was in this barbarous country. I shall not forget again.’

She turned away, to pick up her scattered painting materials: it was almost as though she were dismissing him.

Alan barked at her back, ‘Good God, madam, you surely don’t expect me to leave you here to find your own way home after this? Come, let me help you up on to my horse immediately. You must overcome your dislike for me long enough to allow me to see you safely back home. The two whom I have driven away are not the only ones around here who prey on helpless women.’

Sarah felt as though she were living in a dream—or rather in a nightmare. In an almost trance-like state she allowed him to help her up into the big grey’s saddle so that he could lead his horse to the Langleys’ home. Slowly, she began to recover from the mental paralysis caused by the attack, becoming sadly aware of her dirt-streaked face and torn and grimy clothing.

Luckily they met few people on the way back but, to her horror, when they neared her home she saw that John was outside, remonstrating with Mrs Hackett who stood, stiff with righteous anger, at the front door.

He ran to meet them, saying, ‘Thank God that you are safe. I have just learned from Mrs Hackett that you went out on your own, without any attendant. Whatever could have possessed you to do such a thing?’

He took a harder look at her. ‘Good God, Sarah, is it possible that you have been attacked?’

Before Sarah could speak Alan answered him. ‘Yes. I am happy to inform you she has come to no harm, but her common sense ought to have told her that she should not have gone wandering around the cliffs above Cockle Bay. She appears to be stupidly unaware that she now no longer lives among the tame peasantry of the Hampshire countryside. Fortunately I came upon them before the rogues who were attacking her had done more than give her a severe fright.’

His voice was dryer and harsher than Sarah had ever heard it before. He speaks as though I were asking to be attacked, she thought resentfully. The tears, which never seemed to be far away in Dr Kerr’s presence, were threatening to fall—but she would not let them, never.

John Langley was reassured by Alan’s calm authority. ‘You are not hurt then, my dear.’ It was more of a statement than a question. He turned to Alan again. ‘Do I understand that I have to thank you for saving Sarah from physical assault—or worse?’

This time Sarah forestalled Alan. ‘You are correct, John. I owe him my life—and my honour—and I have not even thanked him properly yet. If you will let me down, I will do so.’

What an absurd figure I must cut, she thought when she finally stood on firm ground again. She turned her dirty face towards Dr Kerr.

‘I know that you think me an idiotish creature who goes cavorting idly around the countryside, a fine lady who should not even visit New South Wales, and deserves to be attacked for her folly. But I owe you more than I can ever thank you for.’ To her horror she was so near to tears that her voice faltered.

‘No more of that,’ she said, regaining her self-control. ‘Perhaps, one day, we might meet and speak without quarrelling. And now, I must go in and try to mend my ruined self.’

She bowed to Dr Kerr and walked slowly into the house, bedraggled but gallant, with her head high and her gait steady.

Alan, listening to John Langley’s thanks, looked after her. He did not insult Sarah’s brother by saying that he had done nothing, nor did he seek to exaggerate his rescue of her.

He heard John out in silence and then said gravely, ‘I must inform you that I think that your sister may feel that, because of the antagonism which lies between us, I was overly harsh in my treatment of her after the attack. I was harsh at first out of the shock of discovering that it was she who was being attacked.

‘I must also inform you that I have treated many women who have been assaulted thus and I have invariably found that to be too sympathetic may drive them into hysteria and later into despair. It may seem cruel, but it is the right—and the only—thing to do in these cases since there is no medicine which might help them. It pains me to have to be so hard but needs must, I fear. Fortunately your sister possesses a resilient character which responds to firm treatment. I hope that I did not come on too strong with her, but she rallied rapidly and showed no signs of falling into the vapours.’

He added, a little wryly, ‘On the contrary, she was so busy being angry with me that she had less time to refine on what had so nearly happened to her—which, all things considered was, medically, a good thing.’

John grasped him by the hand. ‘Yes, she is a strong-willed creature, that I will allow. And you, you took no hurt yourself, I trust?’

‘None, but I must warn you that your sister may show some adverse reactions to her unfortunate experience. You must watch her carefully and send for me if her spirits seem unduly low.’

He refused John’s offer of a glass of sherry. ‘No, I will not come in, thank you, Langley. Make sure that your sister has a proper escort in future. Send your man Carter round to my surgery and I will give him a cordial that will help her to sleep.’

He brushed aside any further thanks. John watched him ride away and could only think that it was a pity that the man was an Emancipist—he deserved better—and that Sarah had taken him in such dislike. He understood why Governor Macquarie respected Kerr, not only as a doctor, but as a man. There were many worse back in England who had not suffered transportation and he resolved to find out what misfortune had brought him to Sydney.

Sarah lay in bed, covered only by a thin sheet, her brain and body both burning. John had come in a moment ago with a glass containing a cordial that Dr Kerr had sent to soothe her. There had not yet been time for it to work, only for the sickly taste to add further to her bodily discomfort. But this was as nothing to her mental agony.

Mixed up with her memories of the afternoon, and her encounters with Alan Kerr, were those of her last six months before she had left England. It was as though they had been a prologue to all that had happened to her since she had set foot in New South Wales. Prominent among them were her recollections of Charles Villiers, of whom she had resolutely refused to think ever since she had left England. The attack, however, had broken down the barriers she had erected and she sank into a reverie in which the dreadful present gave way to the hurtful past.

She had met Charles at a dinner given by their neighbours in Hampshire. Their daughter, Emily, her best friend, had arranged for her to sit by him. ‘I’m sure that you are going to like him,’ she had said earlier. He turned out to be charming as well as handsome. From the crown of his neat fair head to the heels of his well-polished shoes he was all that a gentleman should be, turned out à point, but not overdone: Brummell himself would have approved of him. He was well read. His conversation was just the right mixture of chaff and sense, and his attention to Sarah was flattering without being fulsome. What was better than best was that he seemed to be as taken by Sarah as she was by him.

Although he was old Lord Amborough’s nephew and heir he made no secret of his relative poverty. Amborough had little beside his shabby mansion and some bare acres to leave him, but Charles had a minor sinecure in the Foreign Office, and an income from his late mother’s estate which, while not large, was sufficient to keep him in reasonable comfort. None of this added up to wealth. His modesty about himself and his prospects was not the least of his charms. John liked him, too, which completed Sarah’s pleasure.

For several months Sarah and Charles contrived to be together as much as possible, so no one was surprised when, one bright spring day, he proposed to her and was eagerly accepted. The only fly in the ointment was an overheard comment about Charles having hooked his heiress at last, but Sarah put that down to the jealousy of a disappointed suitor.

All that happy summer they enjoyed themselves while the lawyers began their legal dance over the marriage settlement, but bit by bit, as time went on, the pleasure in his company that Sarah had originally felt slowly diminished. Charles, she found, did not entirely approve of her painting. He hinted that when she became Lady Amborough there would be more important things for her to do. Exactly what they would be, he never said.

Her high spirits, which had seemed so charming to Charles before they were betrothed, did not seem quite so attractive when they conflicted with his somewhat conventional view of life. He expected her to agree with all he said, without any discussion—which he called argument and disliked.

Perhaps none of this would have mattered had not John and Sarah’s lawyers insisted on protecting Sarah’s rights quite so energetically when drawing up the marriage settlement. Charles’s financial situation turned out to be rather poorer than he had claimed: he had not been entirely frank with either his own, or Sarah’s, advisers and Sarah’s own wealth was such that her lawyers felt bound to protect her. Charles made his resentment plain, casting a further cloud over her happiness.

Matters might yet have been mended, but at this juncture they found themselves staying with a distant cousin of Charles at a house party in Norfolk. Sarah was never to forget that week. She found Charles’s cousin inimical, the other guests boring, the house cold and draughty and the food deplorable. To make matters worse, she contracted a heavy cold and was confined to her bed with a high temperature, leaving Charles to his own devices.

One of the guests was a rather plain young woman named Caroline Wharton. She had attached herself to Sarah and was fond of making comments, which Sarah realised afterwards were unpleasantly barbed.