Carry Me Home Page 2

  Evidence of Melbourne-town buzzed against her borrowed mourning veil and dress.

  “How many flies do you suppose we’ve swatted so far today?” She brushed her shoulder and picked at the faded folds of midnight silk, each flounce a painful reminder of the death she mourned each day.

  Her cabin neighbor, Widow McLachlan, turned Finella by the shoulders to face Hobson’s Bay. “Time to hide your grief away and take in this magnificent view. Look.” The Aurora nosed her way through the bay along a coastline of timbered hills. “We’re about to see the most splendid landing under southern skies.”

  The month old bruising in Finella’s heart reminded her today promised very little of anything splendid. Not with her beloved father dead and buried at sea. “How do you know? You’ve never been here before either.”

  Mrs. McLachlan winked. “I’ve grandchildren to kiss for the very first time. That certainly makes it splendid.”

  “Yes, and you get to do it in your finest traveling dress.” Finella eyed the older woman’s periwinkle jacket and charcoal polonaise. In her simple bustle, the dressmaker looked every bit the elegant traveler. For the last month, Finella had looked every bit the dowdy blackbird in someone else’s overly frilled skirt with crinoline hoop. And today, it swarmed with flies.

  The dressmaker unraveled the twisted ribbons on Finella’s bonnet, retied them and adjusted her veil. “Colonial customs may allow you to cast off mourning clothes sooner than you imagine. Your hem hardly drags now and the hoop wire’s mended as best as I could secure it.”

  “I never imagined I’d arrive fatherless and in the borrowed clothes of a woman almost twice my height, and three times my age. I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you.”

  “By promising you’ll not let grief mar this first meeting with your fiancé. Remember, this is your father’s gift to you. You have the chance to honor him in the life you build with Mr. Gleeson.”

  Tears invaded Finella’s vision and she busied herself with a fresh handkerchief. But nothing distorted the memory of her Father or his dying wish.

  Make me proud, daughter, even if you find Australia untamed. George Gleeson will provide for your desires. And the Almighty will supply whatever else you lack.

  Finella let the wind dab her wet eyelashes.

  Mrs. McLachlan slid in beside her. “Mr. Gleeson will be all tenderness when he hears about your father. You may look less than a bride about to meet her betrothed, but frocks and such will disappear when he gets a good look at your brown eyes and lashes. That’s what he’ll notice, if you let him.” She poked Finella gently with her elbow. “Once his eyes lock with yours, he’ll be lucky if his tongue remembers his own name.”

  Finella pressed her hands against her ribs and breathed as deeply as her corset and crinoline straps allowed. She longed for Mrs. McLachlan to be right.

  “Take a look at the future, Finella. One day your children will want to hear the story of the afternoon you sailed into their father’s world. Take it all in, my girl.”

  Passengers jostled beside her at the railings for their first glimpse of Melbourne and Finella gathered her billowing skirt to make room. In minutes, the excitement carried the dressmaker further away, swallowed in the search for a better view.

  She watched her go, glad for a moment to collect her thoughts. Isabelle McLachlan had cared for her since Father’s untimely death only days after they’d passed the Cape of Good Hope. The widow had forced her to eat, altered the mourning clothes, and prayed with her every evening. But soon they would part, and Finella would stand alone on the sunny side of the street her father had so longed to see.

  Her heart ruffled like a wind torn sail, held, yet ripped. She didn’t relish the task of meeting her fiancé without Father to make introductions. But George Gleeson was a good man. He’d already shown his heart in their letters and he deserved her best attention.

  Below, Queen’s Wharf shimmered with a mess of people, garbage, and old boilers. A train line ran the entire length and pulley trolleys ferried cargo. Beggars, merchants and everyone in between looked up, and crewmen prepared to throw their ropes ashore.

  “Please God. Let Mr. Gleeson be out there,” she whispered into the bay breeze. “And don’t let him notice my dress.”

  *

  “A hideous sight.”

  Finella jumped and stood upright. “Pardon?”

  The ship’s surgeon, Dr. Saville turned his back to the pier. “Everything down there. Contemptible and hideous. Rotting fish, tallow. Melbourne’s finest welcome.”

  He bowed and dropped his valise, and shivers flew all the way from the planks at Finella’s feet to the frayed cuffs of her sleeves.

  Not him again.

  The sun reflected off the Soap and Candleworks factory roof, where its painted sign radiated in giant white letters. After weeks at sea, the sight of chimneys and gables held her interest. The rum-soaked doctor did not.

  “Dr. Saville.” She nodded in the direction of his scuffed shoes. “I expect you’re eager to get ashore.”

  “And wade through that swill-drenched pier? I think not. In a week I sail for Tahiti. Until then, I’m forced to seek lodging.”

  The journey had shown her enough of the ship’s doctor to dim her regard and fuel her disgust. Enough for her to abandon any good graces taught by Aunt Sarah. The sooner Finella bid him farewell, the better. “Well, Godspeed for your onward travels.” She skirted around his valise, but he tapped it with his boot. It slid under her hem and nailed the hoop at its base.

  “It’s a shame your father dragged you on a voyage to Australia. You’ll be wasted here on these rogues. What you deserve is a gentleman.” He came closer and caressed her cheek with the rim of his hat. “What do you say? I could take very good care of you.”

  Panic rose in her chest. She stepped back and searched the crowd where porters negotiated the placement of gangways and gates.

  “I’ve been watching you.” He leaned against the handrail and stole a greedy look. “You’re dainty, but the seasickness barely touched you. You’d make a first-rate wife on or off the sea. What do you say? We can settle anywhere you wish.” He shivered as if a cold wind slapped him. “Anywhere, but here.” His waxy mustache drooped under its own weight and brushed against his tongue.

  Finella’s throat filled with bile. She drew herself to full height. “You may think me dainty, sir, but I would sooner swim to shore than entertain a lifetime with you. Thankfully, my fiancé will be waiting for me to disembark.” Her voice trembled and her words sounded less confident than she’d intended.

  “I guess a respectable welcome will soften the blow.” He toyed with his hat. “Out there, Miss Mayfield, you’ll meet scoundrels you never imagined. Crooks, who’ve barely paid their debt to society before they disappear swifter than a pickpocket at work. Yesterday’s convicts are today’s businessmen and dirty constables.” He wiped a drop of spittle from the side of his mouth. “I may not have the polish you desire, but there’s even less on that shore, the one your father chose.”

  The speech was not a new one. Dr. Saville’s scant regard for convicts was well known and he loved nothing better than to scare the women passengers with his tales.

  Well, I won’t be one of them.

  Finella didn’t need to imagine. She knew well enough they were out there, somewhere. Scoundrels. And thieves. But Dr. Saville was not far removed from that category, either. She squared her shoulders.

  “You have no business questioning my father’s judgment. Perhaps if you’d executed your duties as doctor instead of stirring up panic, my father might still be alive today.”

  Dr. Saville’s eyes fixed on her like a seasoned surgeon locating a nerve. “Your father was not under the naive illusions of his daughter. Evil is carried by the next generation, Miss Mayfield. The emancipated convict’s blood is just as potent today as when he yanked the chain.”

  He stepped closer. “Only now, his children carry the brand. Mark my words. The blemish of the convict e
ra hasn’t faded and won’t anytime soon. Your father knew it. Why do you think he arranged your marriage himself? For stain-free grandchildren, that’s why.”

  Finella had heard enough. No one held the right to evoke her father’s memory. Or mention future children. Least of all this grubby-handed, inept physician. She bristled and aligned her chin as if Aunt Sarah herself propelled her to action.

  “Good day, Dr. Saville.” She kicked the side of his valise to remove it from under her hem.

  It refused to budge, and even a second, firmer kick failed to dislodge it. Under a flood of heat she kicked a third time, only to be rewarded by a wiry snap that pricked her calf.

  The leather case came to rest beside the doctor who intercepted it with his boot.

  Please God, I don’t care about the broken hoop or the case. I just want to get away.

  “Adapting already? I’m not surprised. Kicking and screaming is the native language here. You’re setting foot on dirty soil now, Miss. And when things look sweet, you’ll soon discover…the convict stain has spread.” He sneered and with mock gallantry stepped aside. “Only then it may be too late.”

  *

  “Is that ya sweetheart?”

  “My… what?” Shadrach stuffed the sepia photograph into his breast pocket. “No.” He’d not noticed the beggar woman spying over his shoulder. Where had she come from?

  Afternoon sunshine bounced off the water and splashed onto the pier, creasing the hopeful corners of her eyes where weariness refused to hide.

  “ ’Course she is.” She elbowed him in the arm. “I can tell from the way ya lookin’ at her. Ya must have taken that envelope out of ya pocket a dozen times already. Don’t blame ya though. She’s a fancy one.”

  Shadrach leaned away but the beggar shuffled closer. She had more gums than teeth and her hair was as oily as the stained shawl hanging from her shoulders. For an instant he remembered a similar frayed shawl his mother once wore and pushed that thought away with the same haste he did the photograph.

  “I could helps ya look for her if ya want. A pretty one like that shouldn’t be hard to find. Wouldn’t want her to get lost or anythin’.”

  Holding out a dirty hand she nodded in expectation of payment. Her fingernails were blacker than any he’d ever seen on a woman and the smell of fish guts wafted from her clothing. In this, she was nothing like his mother.

  He stepped back. “I don’t need help, thank you.”

  Her outstretched hand didn’t waver. Nor did the pleading in her eyes.

  “Here, then.” From a paper cone he dropped three musk lozenges into her hand and crumpled the rest into his pocket for Molly. The beggar rewarded him with a radiant smile.

  “Bless ya for that. I do love me a bon-bon from time to time. I’ll shout out a cooee if I sees ya girlie.” She jiggled the confections like coins in her fist. Hunched over yet nimble, she hopped away like a sparrow and blended into the crowd.

  Against his better judgment, he’d lost half the morning in the careful study of the good reverend and his daughter. He’d seen a few beauties in his twenty-four years, and it took much of his discipline to look away when this girl, with the dark ringlets and large eyes stared back at him from the portrait. As if she knew his heart, Miss Mayfield looked directly at the photographer’s lens, out from the card and right through him.

  But she wasn’t his to look at, no matter how much he wanted to. The photograph could burn a hole in his pocket for all he cared. He wouldn’t look again.

  Gulls screeched and hovered over a barrow of skipjack and a young boy zigzagged his catch out of their reach and across to the fish market.

  “Oi,” he yelled. “No pinching me fish.”

  The sun felt good on Shadrach’s back, but promenading wasn’t for him. Neither was waiting. Not with George waiting for him to deliver. A sick feeling pooled in his stomach. If the Mayfields didn’t appear soon, they’d miss the last steamer out and be forced to stay in Melbourne overnight. That was not an option.

  He’d not alarm them with the urgency of George’s condition, but Shadrach would escort them to Phillip Island by sunset even if he had to bundle them on in a blind hurry himself. Nothing short of Biblical plague or pestilence would stand between him and his promise.

  He scanned the crowd, again. So far, no traveler matched the likeness of Rev. Mayfield. Many sported the same walrus-style moustache the preacher favored but none with the clerical collar he’d seen in the photograph.

  Shadrach heard the beggar woman yell before he saw her.

  “Don’t have a conniption, miss. I haven’t a notion to harm ya, I promise. Ya just needs ta follow.” She waved at Shadrach and picked her way across the train tracks.

  “Found her.” She sucked the confection in her mouth. “Didn’t think I would be so quick, did ya? Looks nothin’ like the photograph, but it’s her, I’m sure of it. Those eyes.” She sniffed. “I’m good at findin’ things. Have ta if I’m gonna feed me grandkids.”

  “Where is she then?” Shadrach looked for Miss Mayfield.

  “Right there.” The beggar pointed to a shuffling woman, head bent over the tracks. “Came down a back gangway, with all them toff passengers from the fancy cabins. Walking slow, swishing her skirts, slow and steady.”

  “That’s not her.” Shadrach looked at the figure in black. “I’m looking for a young lady. That one’s…” He stared at the figure in black.

  She’d stopped right in the middle of the train track to tug at her dress. A horse-drawn trolley clattered down the line. Its bell clanged a furious warning, and passengers scampered around her to get out of the way.

  Why was the woman dawdling?

  “Ya better move lady or I’ll plow you over,” the red-faced driver yelled across the wharf.

  Could the beggar woman be right? Was this Miss Mayfield?

  The eyes he’d tried not to admire all morning looked up at him, wide and tearstained. Shadrach’s heart galloped. Her ringlets were tucked away and she was all but swallowed in a wide black dress.

  But it was Miss Mayfield. And she was thoroughly fixed to the iron track.

  3

  Finella yanked at the miserable hoop wire. Of all the places to snag, it chose a railway line along Melbourne’s busy pier.

  “Lady, did ya hear?” The driver bellowed over the roar of his horse and trolley.

  Finella tugged again. The wire bent back but refused to let go and perspiration trickled into the hollow of her neck. Surely this wasn’t happening. Not now.

  “Come on…” The clang of the bell filled her ears with such a din, she could hardly hear herself. “Move!” She let out another grunt and rattled the wire, but silk gloves were not made for emergencies.

  Two large hands pushed hers aside and snapped the coil.

  Before she could identify the owner, the same strong hands hoisted her off the line, and deposited her on the other side in a vice-like grip.

  Her feet touched the boards, and a wave of dizziness collected her in a blind surge. She closed her eyes. It felt as if the pier swayed underfoot, and she grabbed for whatever held her upright.

  Her fingers tightened around the upper arms of a coarse coat, and she opened her eyes to see a man’s collarless white shirt, open at the neck and black woolen waistcoat.

  She lessened her grip. His remained fixed.

  “Interesting way to step off a ship.” His low voice wrapped around her. Before she could properly raise her head, a grinning woman nudged her shoulder. Her musky breath hardly covered the stink of her hair.

  “That was close.” The woman chuckled and chewed at the same time.

  Finella closed her eyes again and tried to gain her equilibrium. Not only was the pier moving, but a throbbing pain in her calf signaled more than a broken dress hoop.

  “Told ya to follow. Lucky for you, ya boy decided to meet ya halfway.”

  She looked up at the man. Surely this was not Mr. Gleeson? Taller than her father had described him, with wide shoulders an
d a sun-touched face, he looked nothing like any preacher she’d seen. His shirt looked clean, but the stitching was frayed and unlike most men she knew, he was clean-shaven. Eyes a deeper shade than sapphires stared at her.

  “You’re not hurt are you, miss?” His hands let go but those eyes held on.

  “No, I’m fine. Thank you.” She glanced at the trolley track, and rubbed her shoulder. “Was that you back there?”

  The beggar-woman chuckled. “Sprinted in like a trooper. Surprised ya both didn’t end up under the cart.” She chewed the side of her nail while she talked but pulled her finger out of her mouth when the man frowned at her.

  “Well, I’m off then. I see ya both too shy for lovebird cooin’ with me around.”

  Finella’s head throbbed. What was the woman babbling about?

  “Got ya’self a real hero here, miss.”

  The beggar pocketed a coin offered by the man and awarded them both a little curtsy. “May ya’ days together be many and blessed.”

  Blessed? Finella shook her head. “I think there’s been a mistake. I thought you were taking me to my fiancé. I thought you knew where I could find Mr. Gleeson. Mr. George Gleeson?”

  “What’dya mean, luv? Ya boy’s right here.” The beggar woman gave the man a playful jab. “Been makin’ eyes at ya photograph all mornin’.”

  The man shook his head. “Thank you. You’re free to go.” He forced his words through gritted teeth and Finella spied a hint of red in his cheeks. He lowered his voice. “Your help’s appreciated. Your tongue is not.”

  With a mischievous wink the beggar took her leave.

  “My apologies, miss. You are… Miss Finella Mayfield?” The tall stranger continued.

  “I am.”

  An annoying slow blush crept into her own cheeks.

  Surely this was not Mr. Gleeson? He towered over her with a head of black hair, a tad overgrown. For a brief second Finella thought she might have liked Mr. Gleeson to look like this. Blue-eyed, broad shouldered. Brash. In the same instant, she shook the wicked thought away.