ANNA’S OWN
140,500 words
A historical novel

by Sally Odgers

Copyright © by Sally Odgers
Second Issue, Aug. 2000, New Concepts Publishing
First Issue 1995 by Pan Macmillan Australia
ISBN 1-58608-143-8
Rocket Edition 1-58608-247-7
Cover Art by Eliza Black
New Concepts Publishing
Lake Park, GA 31636
www.newconceptspublishing.com

CHAPTER ONE.

Miss Verity, a vision in a very modish crinoline of powder blue, had finally departed for her evening party. There was a strung-up air about her which worried Anna, so she paused outside for a breath of air before returning to the servants’ quarters to while away the several hours before Miss Verity would return, full of chatter and comment, and needing Anna’s help to undress. It was an honour to be a lady’s maid, even to such a very young lady, but the responsibility bit deep.

"Girl." The voice came from the shadows outside the gate. It was a soft voice, and somehow lilting, but Anna backed away. Even in this fashionable quarter of London, respectable girls did not dare to linger alone in the darkness.

"Girl! - you there - Girl!" Surely the voice was familiar? But Anna backed hard against the door, poised for escape. Familiarity did not necessarily mean safety, as many a maid-servant had learnt to her cost. She hoped none of the other maids would hear. Envy of her position would sent them hotfoot to Mrs Drake to tell of Anna Bailey’s lewd association with an unseen Irishman.

"I’ve a note for Miss Sutton," said the man with a shade of impatience. "Will ye be giving it to her?"

Anna bit her lip, knowing she should do no such thing. This note was a clandestine thing, else why had it not been openly delivered to the front door, by daylight? Flowers and
notes and invitations arrived often for fashionable young ladies like Miss Verity Sutton - why not this one?

"Girl, you know me!" persisted the voice, its impatience growing. "’Tis Paddy Shea, O’Hara’s man."

Of course. That explained the familiarity of the voice. Anna had met Shea and his employer while out walking with Miss Verity. She had dropped primly and properly behind, deaf and blind as a well-trained servant must be, while Mr O’Hara paid respectful court to her mistress. She had noticed, while seeming to keep her gaze demurely on the ground, the lanky man-servant who held O’Hara’s horse. He had seemed taken with her, but she had not answered his pleasantries.

"I ought not," she whispered now.

"Sure, what harm can it be doing?" coaxed Shea.

Anna licked her lips. Cannot Mr O’Hara deliver his own letters?"

The man laughed softly. "You know better than that, acushla."

Anna recoiled. She did know better than that. And it was even more sure that she should not do what this man wanted. "Oh - very well then!" she snapped, blushing in the darkness. She held out her hand and the man dropped an audacious kiss in the palm before giving her the sealed note.

Furiously rubbing her hand on her apron, Anna retreated through the servants’ entrance. She wished she had never come out this evening. A soft laugh followed her, but she did not look back. Men! A murrain on the lot of them!

She dared not take the note directly to Miss Verity’s room, but neither could she leave it in the room she shared with Ellen and Sal. Ellen was a pry, and her sharp eyes would soon seek out the letter no matter where Anna concealed it. There was only one sure safe place. Blushing again, she tucked it into her bodice where it crackled distractingly between her small breasts for the rest of the evening.

Anna paced the floor.

"Sit down, do!" whined Sal. "Some of us ‘as to be up at cock-fart to lay the bloody fires."

"I must wait until Miss Verity is back," said Anna tactlessly.

"’ark at Miss La-de-dah!" jeered Ellen. Both Londoners, she and Sal tended to support one another against country-born Anna; the more so since Anna had risen to become personal maid to Miss Verity.

"’Oo does she think she is?" asked Sal largely. "’Oo’d’ve believed the country mouse ud get so ‘igh and mighty?"

Not Anna, that was for sure. To escape from the chafing of Ellen and Sal, she turned her mind back to her surprising elevation, a mere two months before. She remembered it all - for it was an event to be treasured and re-lived, over and over, as she lay in bed at night.

It had been one Monday morning ...

"Psst - Anna! Anna Bailey!"

Anna, scurrying downstairs to return morning trays to the kitchen, had paused three steps from the bottom. The whisper came again, hissing down the steep stairwell. "Anna, come here. I need you."

Anna blushed with helpless adoration. Mrs Drake would be scolding her for tardiness. Madam might hear of it and be displeased, but Anna couldn’t help it. If Miss Verity Sutton called, Anna Bailey was bound to answer, moth to Miss Verity’s flame. Even then, Miss Verity was her idol - the more so since she had put a stop to Mr Hubert’s nasty games. Mr Hubert was nineteen, a foppish, dilettante youth who wore tight striped trousers with a loudly checked waistcoat and who sported the hopeful beginnings of a moustache. He had hot brown eyes and hotter hands and a most unpleasant habit of pressing himself against any servant girl unlucky enough to be caught alone in his vicinity. He had cornered Anna more than once, but Miss Verity had caught him at it and dealt him such a ringing box on the side of his head that his ear had shone red as a pillar-box all day. He had avoided Anna thereafter.

Miss Verity, though, had taken to giving her a friendly smile and even addressing a few remarks to her when they happened to meet. Friendship between a lowly maid and the daughter of the house was not possible, but Anna, despised by the other maids and starved for companionship, was grateful for any small crumbs that came her way. So when Miss Verity called, Anna was bound to answer, though it cost her a scolding from the housekeeper.

Darting a glance over her shoulder, Anna had turned and hurried back up the servants’ stairs. Slippery, they were, steep and narrow, but Anna was used to that. She had been with the Suttons for a year, and before her first month of service was out, she could already dart up and down the servants’ stair with a heavy morning tray and never spill a drop. Anna was a country girl, fresh from the fields of Kent, and country girls were strong.

"You’re a lucky girl to be taken on here, Anna Bailey," Mrs Drake told her at the beginning. Mrs Drake had a deep, majestic voice and a bosom fit for a bolster. She was married to the butler and she ruled the below-stairs household with a rod of steel. Firm, just and inflexible, she took her duties as house-mother to the younger maids very seriously. "You’re a lucky girl, Anna Bailey, and don’t you forget it. Many a girl in your situation would give her right arm to be taken on in a big house like this. So don’t you cry no more. You work hard and do your best, be smart and polite to Madam and the master and you’ll have nothing to cry about."

Anna had been frozen with the strangeness of it all; fretting for the country where she had lived until her father had died. Her widowed mother had moved back to town, where she had married a red-necked publican with a gut that spilled over his trousers like one of his own kegs of ale. He had liked Anna, calling her a taking little puss and patting her on the bottom right there at the wedding supper. There and then Lily Biggins had decided that there was no room in her new life for a great daughter of thirteen.

"Time you was settled in a job, anyway, my girl," had said Lily, mopping spilled ale from her bosom.

"I could work here?" Anna had suggested, but her mother wouldn’t hear of it.

"No daughter of mine’s going to be slutting herself in a public house, catching all the eyes and the hands as well, no doubt! No, my girl, you’ll go where you’re told and be grateful. And you’ll drop your la-di-da ways before you go, if you know what’s good for you."

Hurt and shamed, Anna wouldn’t cry for her mother, but she could mourn the country cottage and the gentle father she had loved.

"Yes, Miss Verity?" Anna was breathless when she reached the top of the stairs, and not only from exertion.

"Ssh! In here." Miss Verity had backed into the shadows of the unused rear bedchamber and beckoned Anna to follow. With an air of elaborate secrecy, she peered left and right before closing the door and leaning herself behind it.

"Yes, Miss?" Anna tried to keep her face properly impassive, but Miss Verity’s gaiety was infectious. She was a girl full of little mysteries and secrets, and sometimes, for lack of a more suitable confidant, she shared them with Anna.

"Anna, I must tell someone, or I shall burst!" Miss Verity hugged herself, looking barely older than Anna for all the dignity of her seventeen years. "Anna, I saw Mr O’Hara again last night, and he stood up with me on two occasions! What do you say to that?"

"Did he indeed, Miss Verity?" said Anna.

"‘Did he indeed, Miss Verity?’" mimicked the other girl. "Is that all you can say, Anna?"

Anna smiled a little. "Miss Verity, if there is nothing further, I must take these trays downstairs. Mrs Drake will be ..."

Miss Verity waved this away. "I can handle Drakey, no fear of that. I have more news, and it is you it most concerns."

Anna stared. What news could possibly concern her? It could not be her dismissal - Miss Verity would not look pleased and excited for that.

"How you do gape when you are surprised, Anna! I declare- you’re such a child. Mary has left, had you not heard? The foolish girl got herself with child and Papa had to turn her off - have I shocked you?"

Anna felt her colour rising, but she shook her head faithfully. "No, Miss Verity."

"Of course, you are country bred," Miss Verity said judiciously. "Country girls learn of these things, do they not, from helping their mamas with small brothers?"

Anna had shaken her head. "I was the only child my mother had. I have seen calves birthed, though, and lambs on my grandfather’s farm."

"Really? Do they truly come from down there?" Modestly, Miss Verity dropped her voice and waved her hand in the direction of her lower limbs.

Anna nodded shyly. She knew this was a most improper conversation to be having with a young unmarried lady, but Miss Verity was the flame to her moth. If she asked then Anna was bound to answer, and besides, Stephen Bailey had told her often enough that Mother Nature need feel no shame nor veil her face.

"Truly?" Miss Verity’s eyes widened, and she laughed. "How - how unladylike! But that is not the subject I needed to speak of."

Anna was relieved to hear that. Who knew what else Miss Verity might have taken it into her head to question?

"Since Mary is leaving," pursued Miss Verity, "I will have need of a new maid." She moved restlessly away from the door. "A maid who will not be forever fluttering her eyelids at foolish Hubert." She shuddered. "Father Lane says we must love our brothers, but I confess I find it difficult to love Hubert. Perhaps he is my cross." She frowned for a little, musing.

"Yes Miss?" prompted Anna at last.

Miss Verity swung about and clapped her hands. "So, I am going to ask Mama if I may have you!"

Anna found herself speechless, now white, now red. "Well," Miss Verity prompted. "Do you not approve?"

Not approve! Anna was dazed with her good fortune. Surely it was too good to be true? And there was the rub. She felt it in her bones that this pleasure was not for her. "I am not a trained lady’s man, miss," she said hesitantly. "Lady’s maids are -" She waved a hand, trying to express the inexpressible.

Lady’s maids were privileged beings; creatures who elevated their noses at the other maids and who were far too grand to wear a uniform. Anna looked down at her decent black frock and apron. Both were of sheenless, bulky stuff; cut for a far larger frame than hers.

Miss Verity waved this objection aside. "What does it matter? I know what needs to be done, and I can tell you. It is easy, truly. All you need do is help me dress in the mornings, brush out my hair, ready me for my bed and be on hand for any assistance I may need during the day. And," she added meaningly, "escort me when I take my walks. Come, Anna, it would be fun! I am so pleased to be rid of that crow-faced Mary! Fancy! So prim and proper with her ‘Yes, Miss, no Miss, I cannot say I’m sure, Miss’, and the sly creature making up to Hubert all the while. Ugh! How she could do so! And see where it has got her - into trouble! And Hubert has been sent away - which would be all to the good, if it did not mean he would return and be more odious than ever." Miss Verity cogitated a while. "And she was ever ready enough to carry tales of me if I so much as smiled at a gentleman who wished me good day. But what do you say?"

Anna took in little of this gush of speech. Just one part of it shone clear above the rest; that Miss Verity wanted her, little Anna Bailey, to be her personal maid. "I would like that very much, Miss Verity," she said timidly.

"Wonderful!" Miss Verity clapped her hands again. "I shall go to Mama today. Now you run along, Anna. I would not like you to be scolded. You must tell Drakey it was I who kept you from your duties."

And that was just like Miss Verity too, Anna reflected indulgently as she bore away the tray. As if a humble maid could tell the housekeeper any such thing!

Anna tried not to put too much dependence on Miss Verity’s impulsive words, In some ways she felt herself wiser than her idol. Miss Verity did not know that some things could never happen, no matter how ardently one might wish they might. She did not understand the enormous difference in their stations. Anna understood. Miss Verity Sutton was a beautiful, wealthy young lady, who would presently be married to some suitable gentleman and go off to live in her own grand house at a fashionable address. Anna Bailey was a pretty wench whose country freshness would fade soon enough, and who could look forward to a lifetime of servitude and perhaps - if she were fortunate - to a footman for her husband and the survival of a few of her many babes. The gulf between the two of them was as wide as the River Thames, and could only widen. Yet what bliss to help Miss Verity, to brush her pretty hair, to be with her and listen to her charming voice!

But that way lay discontent, so Anna put it from her mind. She did this so successfully that Mrs Drake’s summons the next morning came as a shock. "Leave that now, Anna, and get yourself into a clean apron. Madam wishes to see you in the morning room. Well, hurry up, girl! Don’t stand gaping like an idiot. Straighten your collar and get that cap straight!" Seeing Anna frozen to the spot, Mrs Drake so far unbent as to straighten the wayward cap herself. She then gave Anna a brisk push in the direction of the door.

"W-what does she want me for?" faltered Anna.

"That is for Madam to tell you herself." Mrs Drake’s voice was austere. "You are a good girl, Anna, but you ask too many questions. Off with you now, and mind you watch them manners!"

As Anna scurried out, Mrs Drake allowed herself a small, satisfied smile. Naturally, Madam had sought her own advice on the matter before putting her proposition to Anna. Mrs Drake did not approve of girls getting ideas above their stations, but Anna Bailey was a good child, neat and obedient and nicely spoken; a cut above such as Ellen and Sal. Why should she not be given her chance to rise in the world? Mrs Drake had been pleased to tell Madam that she thought Anna might do very well.

Amelia Sutton was waiting for Anna in the morning room, a small wrinkle of concern between her neat brows. She was a good mistress, and strove to be a just one, but her duty did not extend to concerning herself personally with the fate of every last kitchen maid or skivvy. So long as her servants did their work adequately and behaved in a seemly manner, she was quite content to leave matters of general discipline, apportioning of duties and moral welfare in the capable hands of Mrs Drake. But this whim of Verity’s called for her personal attention. Amelia doubted very much that this country wench would do as a permanent replacement for the disgraced Mary, but the season had begun and good lady’s maids and dressers did not grow upon every bush. She had been sharing the services of her own Felice with her daughter since Mary’s tearful departure, but such a state of affairs was far from ideal and could not continue for long. Already Felice was sighing over the amount of extra work and raising her haughty brows over young Miss’s flighty ways. And Verity had been so very definite.

"I do not want a sour old dragon like Felice to look after me, Mama; she watches me like a gaoler and her corns will not allow her to walk more than one turn about the square. May I not have a nice young girl with whom I may converse? Indeed - I know the very one. Little Anna!"

"Anna?" Amelia had said vaguely.

"Anna Bailey, Mama. She is a country girl, very neat and quick. She scarcely says a word, but she seems intelligent." Verity had looked sideways at her mother, "Unfortunately, she seems to have taken Hubert in some dislike, Mama, and will not be left alone with him. But you’ll not hold that against her?"

At that, Amelia had given in. One could not keep on sending one’s own son away when his only real fault was being too ready to be led astray by wicked serving girls. "So long as you realise that the girl is strictly on trial, Verity. I would not have you giving her false notions of her own importance."

And now here was the girl herself, a pretty little mouse with soft brown hair waving forward under her cap and the wide, shy brown eyes of a doe. It was the eyes that convinced Amelia that the girl would do. Too many maids had sly eyes, knowing eyes, bold eyes, like Mary. If only the child were not quite so pretty ... but she would have John have a long talk with Hubert, when he returned from the country. "You do understand, Anna," she said carefully, "that it is a great opportunity for you to become Miss Verity’s personal maid - if only for a little time?"

The girl dropped her eyes. "Yes Madam, I understand."

"You realise it is a position of trust? You will not gossip of Miss Verity and her private affairs with the other maids?"

"Oh no, Madam. I would never do that."

"You will watch over Miss Verity when she walks out to take the air?"

"Yes, Madam."

"Of course, you have no experience ..."

"No, Madam, but ..."

"Yes, Anna?" Amelia leaned forward encouragingly.

"Madam, I used to arrange my granny’s hair after her hands swelled up with the gout. And I tied her shoe strings and hooked up her dresses and all, and fetched her shawls and - and - she said I had very gentle hands."

Amelia Sutton smiled. Go to Miss Verity’s room now, then, Anna. You will find her waiting for you there."

Miss Verity was waiting, and she gave a crow of delight as Anna tapped and came into the room. Anna smiled back indulgently. Miss Verity was such a child.

It was no sinecure, looking after Miss Verity. She could be finicky and hard to please. She could be wilful, and was inclined to sharp bursts of temper and sharper words. But she always apologised so charmingly for these faults that Anna’s adoration never wavered. It was a matter of pride with her that her young lady should always look her best, should never have to wait for an instant for any little service she might desire. And in return Miss Verity gave Anna a window into a life she could never experience for herself.

"Have you ever wondered, Anna, why you were born you and I, I?" she had said that evening as Anna readied her for her party.

"No, Miss Verity," Anna had murmured, securing the final petticoat around her mistress’s trim waist. It seemed that skirts were widening by the month, and by now Miss Verity was wearing eight petticoats to achieve the prescribed fullness. "It is just the way of things," added Anna. "Raise your arms, please, Miss Verity."

"But why?" Miss Verity raised her arms obediently. Then she leaned forward to survey their joint reflection in the pier glass against the wall. "Have you not wondered, Anna, why it is your lot to brush out my hair and not the other way about?" Her brows drew together and she added candidly; "I am sure it would chafe me exceedingly were our stations in life reversed."

"No, Miss Verity!" Anna had been alarmed, pausing as she reached across to pin on Miss Verity’s cameo brooch.

"I had not thought of it either, until I met you - and Robert," admitted Miss Verity.

"Robert?"

Miss Verity had smiled mockingly, very much the young lady of fashion once more. "‘Mr O’Hara’, to you, Anna. He is so - so - so much more of a person than are most of the gentlemen I meet. Mama disapproves of him and of his liberal notions, you know. I wonder if I shall see him tonight?" Her lips curved in a private little smile, as if she had not much doubt of the answer.

Anna knew it wasn’t right, that Miss Verity should talk to her so freely, but Miss Verity made her own rules for herself and others to play.

And now it had come to this.

Miss Verity looked flushed and sleepy when she came at last to her room that night. Silently, Anna laid aside her mistress’s gown, collected the voluminous petticoats and began to brush out the elaborate curls. The letter crackled reproachfully as she reached for the silver-backed brooch. She had decided not to deliver it after all.

Madam had called this a ‘position of trust’, which presumably meant that Madam and the master trusted Anna not to allow harm to come to Miss Verity. And Anna felt it in her bones that somehow, this letter meant harm.

"Did you have a pleasant evening, Miss Verity?" she asked quietly.

Miss Verity yawned. "Yes - no - I hardly know. Robert was not there." Her pretty mouth drooped. "I had so hoped to see him," she admitted in a small voice.

Slowly, Anna drew the letter from her bodice. The seal was warm, and thumb-soft from contact with her skin.

"What have you there?" asked Miss Verity. "Is it a love letter? Oh, Anna - have you an admirer, you sly creature?"

"No, Miss." Anna dropped her eyes. "It was delivered here for you."

"Oh!" The colour came and went in Miss Verity’s cheeks and she slid her thumb under the seal. "Anna - who delivered this?"

Anna was tempted to say that she did not know, to deny all knowledge of the note’s arrival, but she found herself blurting out the truth. ‘It was Mr O’Hara’s man, Miss Verity."

"I see." Miss Verity dropped her eyes and scanned the letter eagerly, then clasped it to her breast. "Anna - do any besides yourself know of this?" she demanded intensely. "Think - did any besides yourself see this delivered?"

"No, Miss," said Anna forebodingly.

"It is from Robert, of course!" said Miss Verity almost gaily, her eyes shining like twin sapphires. "He writes that he is calling upon Papa tomorrow, Anna, to ask for my hand in marriage."

"Oh, Miss Verity!" Anna felt a rush of relief. The letter was innocent after all. No gentleman planning mischief would call formally upon his victim’s father.

"Papa will not consent, of course," said Miss Verity decisively. "Poor Robert is a younger son, and Irish at that. But that will not matter, for Robert says that if Papa withholds his consent we shall be wed anyway."

"But how?" Anna’s forebodings flooded back.

"We shall elope, of course!" said Miss Verity almost gaily. "It will be most exciting. "And Anna - dear Anna - you must help us. Robert will hire a carriage and be waiting near the park at midnight on Friday."

Vainly, Anna tried to bring it home to Miss Verity how wrong and how wicked this course would be. But Miss Verity was adamant. Papa would have his opportunity to give his free consent; if he chose to withhold it, then he would have only himself to blame if it led to distressing consequences.

Miss Verity, in her way, was as stubborn as Anna’s mother, although neither would have been pleased with the comparison.

Anna lay awake for most of that night, bathed in a cold sweat of panic. Almost, she expected to find Miss Verity gone by morning. But morning came and Miss Verity lay sleeping like an angel when Anna came to ready her for the day. As the curtains were drawn aside to admit a rush of sunlight, she stretched and smiled blissfully. "Good morning, Anna - why so mournful? This is a happy day of my life! By this afternoon, I shall know my fate; a wedding of pomp and ceremony or a joining over the anvil at Gretna - ‘twill be most romantic."

Despite her words, Miss Verity was strung like a harp all morning, and after luncheon she rang her bell with unaccustomed vigour. "Anna - Anna - he has come! Just think, Anna - Robert is closeted with Papa at this very moment. Oh, Anna!" Anna’s hands were caught up in a cold, trembling clasp. She began to shake in sympathy and was still chill with apprehension much later when John Sutton summoned his daughter to the study for an interview. Falling to her knees, Anna prayed very earnestly that the master would allow his daughter to marry her Robert. If he did not, the train of disaster would be set in motion and would carry Anna with it. "Holy Mary, Mother of God, grant thy servant’s prayer," she begged. Surely the Blessed Virgin would have pity on a servant girl - for had she not been named for the Blessed Virgin’s own mother?

Within minutes, Anna knew her prayer had gone unheeded. Miss Verity’s voice rose in defiance, the master’s in anger, a door slammed and shortly afterwards Miss Verity herself flung into her bedchamber and threw herself face-down on her bed for a prolonged bout of weeping. Anna wrung her hands, and tears of helpless sympathy had begun to run down her cheeks when the door opened once more and Amelia Sutton came into the bedchamber. "Anna, you may leave," she said quietly, and Anna fled.

Later, much later, Anna was summoned to the morning room.

"Anna, I must be frank with you," Amelia said, the crease between her brows most pronounced. "Miss Verity has - has somehow contrived to form a most unfortunate attachment for a young man named Mr O’Hara. Mr O’Hara has asked leave to pay his addresses to Miss Verity, and Mr Sutton has, very properly, declined to give his permission. And now Miss Verity is - is upset."

Anna’s candid eyes widened at this understatement, and Amelia Sutton sighed. "Anna, it may well be that my daughter will try to contact Mr O’Hara, or that he will try to contact her. I cannot tell you strongly enough that this must not be allowed to occur.

"It may seem to you that we are being unnecessarily harsh with Miss Verity but believe me, we have her best interests at heart. She is a romantic child, and will no doubt coax herself into believing that she has been vastly wronged."

Another pause. "Well, Anna? Do you understand why I have told you all this? I think you are an intelligent girl so I will not treat you like a simpleton."

Anna nodded unhappily.

"But perhaps you knew all this already," said Amelia slowly. "I shall not ask you if that is so. But I am asking you, most sincerely, to come to me if you have even the slightest suspicion that Mr O’Hara is trying to contact Miss Verity. Should he deliver any notes or messages, you are to bring them straight to me. Is that clear?" She raised her brows at the sudden stubborn set of Anna’s mouth. "And Anna - no romantic nonsense, if you please. There is nothing in the least romantic about trying to make do on a younger son’s portion in some shabby genteel neighbourhood. If you will not promise me this for Miss Verity’s sake, perhaps you will have a thought for your own position? You are Miss Verity’s maid, but it is Mr Sutton and myself who are your employers, and for this reason you must answer to us.

"Should we have even the slightest doubt as to your loyalty in this matter, you will be turned off without a character. Is that clear?"

Anna blanched. "Yes, Madam."

Amelia relaxed. "There is no need to look so terrified, child. I have also informed Miss Verity of all this and the certain consequences of any wrong-doing. If she is as fond of you as she claims, then she will not lead you into error. Very well - you may go."

The Honourable John and Amelia Sutton were not cruel parents, and Verity received no punishment for her outburst. However, she herself elected not to attend that evening’s entertainment at the Opera.

"I am in mourning," she declared, and her mother sighed and left her for her engagement at the Opera was one of long standing and the convenience of her friends and their party could hardly be set aside at the whim of a wilful child.

When the Opera party had gone, Miss Verity yawned. "Anna - I shall undress myself tonight," she said. "You look so tired. Go to your bed."

"I am perfectly well, Miss Verity," said Anna anxiously.

"Good." Miss Verity eyed her narrowly. "Anna, my mother has threatened you with dismissal should you help me to contact Robert, is that not so?"

"Yes, Miss Verity."

"Then I shall not ask it of you," said Miss Verity decidedly. "Go to bed, Anna."

"But Miss Verity - "

"Go to bed, Anna!" said Miss Verity softly and dangerously. "That is an order, and you can also be turned off for disobedience, can you not?"

Woodenly, Anna turned and was making for the door when she was suddenly seized from behind. "Oh, I am the greatest beast in nature!" cried Miss Verity, hugging her wildly. "And you are the best friend I have ever had, Anna. So now - go to bed." Releasing Anna abruptly, she pushed her towards the door.

In the morning, she was gone.

CHAPTER TWO

At first, Anna couldn’t believe it. But then she found the note. It was addressed to her - the first letter she had ever received. Numbly, she broke the seal. An unpractised reader, it took her some time to puzzle out the contents.

Dear Anna ,

Altho’ Papa’s intolerance has driven me to take this step,
I wd have no blame attach to you. Therefore, I shall tell
you nothing of our plans, save that Robert and I shall
soon be made one flesh (as Father Lane has it!)

For fear my parents shd unjustly dismiss you, I leave you
a gift. Pawned or sold, it would bring you several guineas;
use it as you will. I hope to send for you once we are
settled in our new home. Thank you for your help.

Your Friend,

Miss V. Sutton (soon to be ‘Mrs O’Hara’!)

When Anna opened the accompanying packet, Miss Verity’s cameo brooch fell with a little thud onto the bare dressing table.

Bare.

Miss Verity had taken her silver-backed brushes, her ivory fan, and the framed text which had always stood on the little lace mat.

Numbly, Anna tucked the brooch into her bodice where the letter from Robert O’Hara had lain. (If only she had had the wit to withhold that letter! Then Mr O’Hara would have waited in vain for Miss Verity to join him!)

A sound from the landing outside made her start with guilt. The letter - Miss Verity’s letter. She must rid herself of the letter before ... Anna fled down the servants’ stair and thrust the letter into the heart of the kitchen fire.

"What are you about, my girl?" asked Mrs Drake.

Anna stammered, but the housekeeper put her aside. "You should be getting Miss Verity’s chocolate up to her, not warming yourself at the fire. Though I’ll not deny there’s a nip in the air. Here - " She thrust a tray towards Anna and clicked her tongue. "Run along. Such a to-do as we had yesterday I hope I never live to see again!"

Hollowly, Anna took the tray and mounted the stair. She tapped on the door of the room with a feeling of unreality, knowing it to be empty, praying that she had made some mistake, that Miss Verity would be there, stretching and yawning like a kitten. But there was no mistake. The room was empty, the bed barren, the silver-backed brushes gone from their places.

Anna set down the tray with a little thud, and her hand strayed to her bodice, where a smooth hard lump lay against her breast. Then she took a deep breath, turned and went back to the kitchen.

"Anna! I told you to take Miss Verityher chocolate!"

"I did that, Mrs Drake, faltered Anna, "but Miss Verity- she’s gone."

The housekeeper gaped like any scullery maid. "Gone? Gone where?"

Anna dropped her eyes. "Her brushes are missing, Mrs Drake. Her bed has not been ...".

"Mercy on us!" The housekeeper clutched at her bosom. Then she turned on Anna. "You wicked, deceitful girl! What do you know about this?"

"Nothing - nothing - she sent me to bed!" cried Anna.

Mrs Drake put her hands on her hips. "I’ll look for myself." Heavily, she climbed the stairs, thrusting Anna before her. For the third time, Anna entered Miss Verity ‘s bedchamber. Mrs Drake so far forgot herself as to sit heavily on the bed and revert to the accents of her uncultured girlhood. "Lawks-a-mussy! ‘ere’s a pretty go! You - Anna - look and see if any of ‘er gowns ‘as gorn."

Wordlessly, Anna did so, but the missing items of Miss Verity ‘s wardrobe told their own story. The India muslin, the watered taffeta, the ivory silk - all gone.

"At least she’s not been made away with," said the housekeeper.

"What shall we do?" asked Anna, frightened and guilty.

"Do?" said Mrs Drake. "I’ll tell you what we can do, my girl. We can tell Madam, and nobody else. She can decide what’s best."

Mrs Drake told only her mistress of Miss Verity’s flight. Anna told no-one. Yet somehow, even before luncheon, the whole household knew that the daughter of the family had gone - maybe eloped with that Irishman - and left her maid behind her.

A trembling, weeping Anna was questioned angrily by Amelia Sutton, gravely by her husband, but she could tell them nothing of any consequence.

"But do not imagine you have heard the last of this, my girl!" cried Mrs Sutton as shrilly as any scullery maid. "I warned you - I warned you! And yet you went behind our backs and colluded -"

"Come, Amelia, we cannot know that." John Sutton was trying to introduce a note of reason. "The girl says she knows nothing - leave it at that. What is of real importance is that we get our daughter back before she in compromised."

"She is compromised already!" spat Amelia. "The hussy! Going off without even her maid to lend her countenance!"

Her husband bade her to hold her tongue and strode away to begin discreet enquiries. "They may have gone to Gretna, the young fools," he said over his shoulder. "Keep calm, I beg of you, Amelia. Do you want this bruited all over town?"

The rest of the day didn’t bear thinking of. Mrs Sutton alternately moaned and railed, crying vengeance on her daughter’s seducer and vowing to send the girl to the country when she returned. Miss Veritydid not return, but Mr Hubert did, his peccadillo with Mary having been cast into insignificance by Miss Verity’s flight. He was inclined to be slyly satisfied with his sister’s disgrace, and went about with a contented smirk which made Anna, for one, long to slap his face.

John Sutton returned at noon the next day, with the news that the trail north had proved false. "The young scoundrel could have taken her anywhere!" he said privately to his wife. "Put it about, Amelia, that Verity has gone into the country for her health. People will suspect the truth, of course, but they can prove nothing."

His wife shot him a venomous look. "I lay this at your door, John. This is Hubert’s trouble all over again - although some wildness is acceptable - although not to be encouraged, of course - in a young man. Had you been sterner; a more concerned father -"

"Had I not been such a concerned father she would not have gone!" snapped John Sutton.

"Young O’Hara is not so bad a match- he has good breeding, at least. Had you not such inflated ideas of your own consequence ..."

"Irish!" cried Amelia. "Bog Irish - and a younger son at that! But of course you would defend him! You know you should have sent him about his business when he first appeared, before she had time to form an attachment to him!"

"Which she did beneath your very nose, my dear," reminded her husband, stung.

"That she did not! There is more to this affair than meets the eye, John, and I believe that girl Anna is at the root of it. She’s been running as go-between - bought off - you mark my words. That girl has been slyly feathering her nest. And I’ll have the truth from her if it’s the last thing I do!"

John Sutton refused to have any part of his wife’s scheme for extracting the truth from Anna, but in any case his assistance proved unnecessary. The maid Ellen also had her suspicions and made it her business to watch Anna’s movements. After forty-eight hours of diligent spying, she came to her mistress with the results.

"Ma’am, I ‘ate to ‘ave to tell you this -"

"What do you want, girl?" asked her employer irritably. "Cannot Mrs Drake see to your problems?"

"Ellen, Ma’am, me name is," said Ellen helpfully, "And I reckon you’d like best to ‘ave this kept ‘tween you an’ me."

That caught Amelia’s attention. Could this girl know something of Verity’s whereabouts? "Go on," she said.

"I sleep next to Anna, wot used to wait on Miss Verity . I reckon you ought’ know, Ma’am, that Anna must of prigged this ‘ere from Miss Verity ."

Amelia Sutton’s brows snapped together. "What is this about? I do not understand your cant."

"This, Ma’am." With guilty pride, Ellen held out a small package. "I found this in that Anna’s apron, Ma’am and I reckon she must of ..."

Amelia cut her short with a frown and a gesture. Why could not Mrs Drake have dealt with this piece of petty thievery? Holding out her hand, she took the package from Ellen and opened it. Out fell Verity’s cameo, a distinctive and beautiful piece of jewellery, the gift of her wealthy godmother. Amelia gasped with outrage, understanding Ellen’s triumph. "You say you found this brooch in Anna’s possession, Ellen?"

"In ‘er apron," nodded Ellen. "I thought as you ought to know."

Mrs Sutton nodded crisply. "That will do, Ellen. You may go. That will be all."

Deflated, Ellen retired to the kitchen where a red-eyed Anna was polishing silver under the direction of Mrs Drake. The girl looked so wan Ellen half wished she had held her peace, especially since it seemed there was no reward to be had for her information. It was too late for that now, however, and those as was thieves ought to be more careful where they hid their pickings.

"How do you explain this, Anna?" John Sutton looked sternly at the white-faced girl before him. "Come now," he said, not unkindly. "Miss Verity’s valuable brooch was found in your apron pocket. How did it get there? Did you perhaps find it on the floor and pick it up, meaning to return it when Miss Verity comes home?"

Anna realised dimly that the master was giving her the opportunity to explain it all away, but she was in too much awe of him to take it. Before Miss Verity ‘s departure, she had hardly noticed the master’s quiet comings and goings. He left all matters domestic to his wife and the housekeeper, but this case of apparent theft was too grave to be left in the hands of women, or even to Drake, the butler.

"Well, Anna? Was that what happened?" he prompted.

Anna licked her lips. "N-no, sir."

John Sutton sighed. Why must the girl be so stubborn? "You do realise that theft is a serious business, Anna? At the very least, it means you can be turned off without a character. At the most, it means you could be hanged." This was most unlikely, for a first offence, but it seemed to him that drastic measures were needed. Sutton watched sick terror come over the girl’s face. "Anna , I am asking you again. Where did you get this brooch?"

"M-miss Verity," faltered Anna .

Was the girl trying to bargain with him? "Yes? What about Miss Verity ? Do you know where she has gone?"

But Anna was shaking her head. "Miss Veritygave it to me, sir."

"Why would she do that? You have your wages."

"In case I was turned off, sir," whispered Anna.

"But why should you be turned off if you did not steal the brooch?"

"For helping Miss Verity , she said. She said you might turn me off if you thought I’d h-helped her go away with Mr O’Hara."

John Sutton was perplexed. Obviously, there was more to this than a simple case of theft. "And did you help Miss Veritygo away with Mr O’Hara?"

"N-not after Madam said I was not to!" blurted Anna. "But still Miss Verity said -"

"Yes, when did Miss Veritysay all this? When did she give you the brooch?"

"She left me a letter," said Anna miserably. "She said I was to have the brooch to sell in case I was turned off. That is the truth, sir, I swear it."

"A letter!" said Sutton. "Why did you not say so before? Where is this letter now?" For the first time, he began to feel more hopeful of his daughter’s return. A letter might contain solid evidence easily overlooked by an illiterate servant. Or was she illiterate? He realised that he knew very little about the girl concerned. She was merely one of the uniformed wraiths who flitted about her duties and made herself invisible when he entered a room. "How old are you, Anna?" he asked curiously.

She looked bewildered at the sudden change of subject. "F-fourteen, sir, last Michaelmas."

"And can you read?"

She nodded, half proudly . "My father was a schoolmaster back home, sir. He taught me my letters but I’ve not had a chance to practise much, since."

John Sutton nodded. That explained it. Schoolmasters and genteel dressmakers sometimes did teach their offspring their letters - much good it did to the children concerned. Abruptly, he lost interest in this girl, save as a possible link with his daughter. Servants were servants, some more educated than others, but all lacked the breeding and opportunity to better themselves. And hadn’t somebody of note said it well? ‘A little knowledge is a dangerous thing.’ "Where is this letter now?" he asked. "Show it to me."

"I burned it," said Anna.

The letter had thanked her for her ‘help’. She had seen at once that it could be used as evidence that she had helped Miss Verity escape. She could have been turned off for that, and so she had disposed of the letter. It had seemed sensible at the time. But theft! She saw now that in her haste to rid herself of Miss Verity’s tactless thanks, she had also disposed of the only proof of her innocence. Tears welled into her eyes. "I thought - I thought I would be blamed for Miss Verity’s ..." She stammered to a halt for the master was looking at her with a perplexed expression. "Are you going to put me in charge, sir?" she faltered.

"I don’t know quite what to do with you, Anna," said John Sutton. "Perhaps I should take this matter to the authorities immediately."

"But then, Miss Verity would tell you I didn’t take it, sir," whispered Anna, "if she were here."

"But she is not, and there is the rub. Have you really no idea of where she might be? Did this letter offer no clue?"

Falteringly, Anna repeated as much of the letter’s contents as she could and was dismissed.

"You are not to leave the house for any reason until Mrs Sutton and I should give you leave," said the master. "If you try to run away we shall take that as an admission of your guilt and call the watch. Do you understand?"

Flushing, Anna nodded.

"Then go about your business," said Sutton brusquely.

When Anna had bobbed a curtsy and departed, John Sutton sat musing for a long time. The girl had been so frightened it was difficult to know whether she spoke the truth or not. On the face of it, her tale was incredible, but John knew his daughter and her quirks. This was just the kind of foolhardy generosity of which she was capable. If Verity had given Anna the brooch, he would be doing her a grave injustice by summoning the police. Even if she were finally acquitted of theft her life would be ruined. She would never re-enter respectable employment and would eventually sink without trace into the stews. Her pretty freshness disfigured by dirt and disease, she would end her days as a petty thief or whore or worse, a creature to prey or be preyed upon and to die in some stinking room with less dignity than a stray dog ...

Peevishly, Sutton wondered why this notion should bother him so, His servants were well cared for, adequately fed and clothed. They had a half day once a month and were free of the responsibilities of rank or fashion - Holy Mary, what more did they require?

Resolutely, he put Anna Bailey and her problems from his mind. He had more important things to think about. Like how to find his daughter Verity and bring her home without fuss and scandal.

The chance to do so came eventually through one of his discreet local enquiries. A drunken coachman had boasted to his cronies in a public house of the fat pouch of guineas he had been paid by an Irish swell to wait around near the park at midnight, no questions asked, for a young lady to arrive. An elopement, he understood; it hadn’t looked like an abduction to him. (A tap of the nose and a sly smile brought forth a roar of appreciative laughter.) At any rate - the young lady had seemed willing - very willing - to be carried off. "A pretty piece she were, too, a filly any man would be glad to mount!"

The reward for this sally had been more coarse laughter , some ribald comments and a toast for the Irish swell and his audacity. It was generally agreed that the randy mick had better keep a close eye on his cods if the young lady’s father ever caught up with him. The story was a good one, and had been repeated more than once, and so had come to the attention of the father concerned.

The coachman, once he understood he was not to be put in charge, was quite amenable about accepting another pouch of guineas from the young lady’s pa in exchange for extra information. Another round of drinks for his cronies resulted, and the pouches of two Irish whores were fattened considerably that same night. The garrulous coachman, his performance as much softened by drink as was his tongue, boasted some more, not realising that O’Hara’s man Paddy Shea had been a favoured patron of both Colleen and Pegs. Afterwards, the two exchanged notes and, resenting what they saw as a betrayal of their countrymen, dropped a few words in the right ears. A week later the coachman awakened half naked in a ditch, his body bruised and broken, his money gone. His mind was also half gone, otherwise he might have accounted himself lucky to have awoken at all.

With John Sutton’s abrupt departure for Ireland, Anna’s position in his household became more perilous. Amelia could not abide the sight of her, and the other maids, knowing she was forbidden to so much as step outside the back door, were diligent in making sure she had no chance to do so. Despite Mrs Drake’s attempts to keep order, a dozen rumours flourished. The most bizarre of these was that Anna had stolen the brooch, but had been caught in the act by Miss Verity, She had then somehow contrived to murder her victim, perhaps with the connivance of a certain Irishman named Shea, and dispose of the body.

"There she stands, lookin’ like butter wouldn’t melt in ‘er blessed mouth!" proclaimed one of the footmen self righteously. He was stepping out with Ellen and had been well-primed by his paramour. "’f you ask me," he added darkly, "she’s a bad lot. Not a local, is she? Well, I mean ter say, ‘oo knows where she’s come from nor what she’s like?"

Even the servants who did not believe Anna guilty shunned her, feeling that any word of partisanship might find them tarred with the same brush. Mrs Drake might have helped scotch the rumours had she so desired, but Mrs Drake was mortified at having been, as she put it, right taken in by that Anna’s cozening ways. "And to think I recommended her to Madam!" she huffed to her husband. "Madam will never trust a word I say again!" And she set Anna to all the heaviest and most monotonous tasks she could contrive.

It was a doubly difficult time for Anna. Not only had she tumbled to the very bottom of the pecking order once more, but her brief time in Miss Verity’s service had taught her new ways of looking at life. Miss Verity had spoken to her almost like a friend, but now it seemed that no-one had a kind word for Anna, so she fretted and grew wan and more silent than ever.

One morning, she was on her hands and knees, cleaning the fireplace in Mr Hubert’s bedchamber, when she heard the door open stealthily behind her. Wooden-faced, she glanced up, expecting one of the other maids come to chivvy her, hoping to catch her out in an idle moment. She had her pride. Who-ever it was need not think she meant to be ingratiating. The veneer cracked a little as she recognised Mr Hubert. Far from ignoring her presence in the room as the master would have done in the same circumstances, he was watching her with an appreciative smirk.

Anna scrambled up, dashed some cinders from her apron and ,moved towards the door. Mrs Drake’s early training dinned in her mind.

‘If a member of the Family enters a room while you are making up the fire or dusting furniture, Anna, gather your things and leave quickly and quietly.’

‘The good servant is neither seen nor heard as she goes about her work.’

‘It is your responsibility to avoid the Family, not theirs to avoid you.’

Obeying these dictums, Anna headed for the door, but to escape from the room she had to pass close to Mr Hubert and Mr Hubert seemed in no hurry to let her go by. Indeed, he reached in front of her and closed the door, then leaned himself negligently against it.

Anna’s eyes rose in quick indignation. "Please, Mr Hubert, let me pass," she said in a low voice.

Mr Hubert smiled down at her. "Well, well, look who’s come back down in the world," he said insolently. "If it isn’t little Cinderella."

Anna blushed, recognising the reference to her sooty apron. Stephen Bailey had used such old romances to teach his child her letters. "Please, sir," she said again, "let me pass."

"Not so fast, Anna. It is Anna, is it not? Lately lady’s maid to my dear, good virtuous sister?"

"Yes, sir." Anna kept her eyes down to hide her unease and dislike.

"Why do you look at the floor?" he asked. "Is it in need of scrubbing?"

Her eyes flew up, and he smiled, almost kindly. "Much, much better. Come now, Cinderella, no need to be such a frightened mouse. I must admit I am curious, though."

"Sir?" Anna did not understand.

Mr Hubert put out a careless finger and tilted her chin. She glared up at him and he gave a low whistle and laughed. "Not so very much of a mouse after all, perhaps! Tell me, Cinderella, did you steal that gewgaw from my sister?"

"No sir, I did not," said Anna wearily. "Miss Verity gave it to me."

"Ah yes, with the famous letter that no-one else seems to have caught a glimpse of, let alone read. How very careless of you to burn evidence like that." Mr Hubert clicked his tongue like a reproving uncle, then his eyes sharpened. "Or do you always burn your letters?"

"Miss Verity will explain it all when she comes home," said Anna. So long as she held to that, they could not make her incriminate herself.

"Indeed." Mr Hubert swung the watch chain he affected. "So, my sister will explain all. When she comes home."

At his peculiar tone, Anna lifted her eyes to his face. "But what if she does not come home, Anna?" said Mr Hubert. "Have you thought about that?"

Anna felt the blood draining from her cheeks.

"After all," said her tormentor relentlessly, "she is married to the fellow by now. Or as bad as married. So what if my father does drag her home again and then finds she’s breeding? I cannot quite see our revered Mama doing with a bastard grandchild - and half-bred mick at that." He smiled slowly. "No, it’s my guess the old pater will have thought of that - he’s not such a slow-top, the old pater. Yes, and he’ll tell dear Verity she’s made her bed and can lie on it - with her Irish stud, of course. Dear sister Verity will soon have more to worry about than whether or not she really did give a pretty present to little Cinderella."

"Miss Verity said the brooch was for me," persisted Anna. It was all she had to cling to. Tell the truth and shame the devil and sup one day in Heaven. That was what Father Lane was wont to say. So surely the truth would save Anna Bailey now?

But Mr Hubert chuckled. He was enjoying his little game of cat and mouse. This little servant girl was a mouse worthy of his stalking; a mouse which sat on its haunches and faced the cat at bay. "Maybe she did, at that," he agreed. The mouse relaxed a trifle, so he turned the screw once more. "Why did she do that, Anna? Was it a sweetener to keep your mouth shut? A little Bijou given for services rendered? I could give you a little present too, if you liked." He looked at her speculatively. "What is it to be? Ribbons? Baubles? Anything you’ve a fancy for?"

Anna shook her head. She wanted nothing from Mr Hubert but his absence.

"Come now," said Mr Hubert, "be a sensible girl. Life’s no bed of roses for you right now, is it? That fat old biddy in the kitchen - isn’t she giving you misery? And those other sluts - I wager they’re none too fond of you. And do you know why? It’s because you put them all in the shade, Cinderella, even in that nightmare of a uniform. I expect my mama picked that out especially. Cannot have the maid-servants looking too pretty - not with impressionable lads around! They might be leading them astray! But I don’t agree with my mama. Put you in a fashionable rig-out like Verity’s and damn me if you wouldn’t pass for a lady, Cinderella. You’d have all the bloods panting after you. My word - we could play them for a merry dance too! So how about it, Cinderella? Care to throw your lot in with me?"

Anna stared at him, wondering if he had lost his wits. It sounded almost as if he were making her an offer!

"I do not understand you, Mr Hubert," she said, "and I wish you would let me go about my duties."

"Ah, but I have a duty for you right here!" he said softly. "I have had my eye on you right from the start, Cinderella. I’d have made a move before if Verity hadn’t warned me off. She slapped my face, the vixen."

Anna reddened, remembering the kinds of moves he had made. "Thank you, Mr Hubert," she said firmly, "but I want nothing from you."

"Ah, but I want something from you!" The hot look was in his eyes and she sensed that his idle teasing had turned to something more dangerous. She judged her distance to the door. "Let me pass, sir, if you please," she said quietly. "I need to do the fireplaces in the other bedchambers now."

"But you have not finished in this one," he said, leaning on the door.

Mutely, Anna turned and finished sweeping out the hearth. She tumbled the ashes into the ash-pail and rubbed up the metal surround. Then she wiped the fine ash dust from the mantel and flicked a duster over the alabaster lion which stood there. It was a handsome piece of statuary, but right now its lolling stance reminded her of Mr Hubert. "I have finished now," she said.

"But I have not," said Mr Hubert.

Unhurriedly, he turned the key in the door and pulled it free. "You lied when you said you wanted nothing from me, did you not, Cinderella?" he said.

"N-no."

"Ah, but you did. You want this key, don’t you, Cinderella?"

Anna nodded, her gaze fixed on the key.

"Take it then!" Mr Hubert extended the key, Anna reached for it, and Mr Hubert moved it away. His eyes widened, enjoying her predicament. Then he had a happy thought. "Say ‘please’?" he suggested.

Anna bit her lip. "Please, sir," she said.

"No, that isn’t good enough." He was taunting her openly now. "Say, ‘Please, dearest Hubert’."

Anna looked wildly around. She could scream, but there was no guarantee that anyone would hear her. And if they did, would she not be condemned as a slut, as well as a thief? No decent girl allowed herself to be found in a locked bedchamber with a young gentleman.

"Please, dearest Hubert," she muttered. If she were overheard, she would be dismissed for certain.

"Louder. Sound as if you mean it."

Agonised, Anna did as she was told and Mr Hubert lowered the hand with the key. Holding Anna’s gaze with his own, he slid it slowly into his waistcoat. Then, in the same movement, he brought his hand downwards. Her eyes, following that caressing motion, saw something else, something unbelievable. They widened with astonishment, and Mr Hubert gave a breathless laugh. "Not quite such an innocent after all, my dear! You want that key?"

She nodded dumbly.

"Then earn it. Give me your hand."

Anna started to put both hands behind her, but she was hampered by the ash bucket she still held. Later, she thought she should have swung it at him edge first, or rammed it against his shins, but at the time it didn’t occur to her. Social conditioning held and she could no more have raised a hand against Mr Hubert than she could have spat at the new young Queen of England. Mr Hubert removed the bucket and set it aside. Then he seized her wrists and drew them forward. He hauled her against him and held her pinned to his side with his left arm. Taking her right hand in his own, he deliberately drew it down to his distended crotch. Disgusted and horrified, Anna tried to curl her fingers away from the thing that was stirring there, but Mr Hubert was rubbing himself against her fist like a cat will rub against a friendly ankle. His eyes were half shut, his mouth half open, and he had a dreamy smile on his face.

Anna tried to drag her hand away, but Mr Hubert was strong. He turned her to face him and leaned over her, leaving her hand trapped between their two bodies. He began to slobber kisses onto her face, breathing heavily and pushing himself rhythmically against her. Then he partially released her to fumbled one-handedly at the waist band of his trousers. Anna thrust him away with all her strength, but her skirt caught under her shoe and she staggered. Mr Hubert laughed delightedly, and caught her against him again. His pupils were distended and he seemed in the grip of some mad excitement. "Come on Cinderella, you know what I want from you."

Her wrist brushed against bare flesh and she recoiled. "Let me go!" she rapped, revolted.

Mr Hubert clapped a hand across her mouth and shook her. "Not so foolish after all," he snorted, propelling her toward the un-made bed. "Lie down there."

The edge of the bedframe bit into her thighs and Anna struggled to stay upright. "I won’t."

Mr Hubert’s smile was ugly with excitement. "Yes you will, my fine bird! I’ve no great taste for force, but I’ll not see a pretty piece like you going to waste. You’ll be anyone’s after you leave here, so why not take it nice and easy from me on a nice soft bed? We might have a lot of fun before you go - afterwards too, if you like." He sniggered. "Unless you’re lodged in Newgate, naturally. I could hardly visit you there. But now I’ve a pretty present, just for you."

Thrusting her down with one hand, he fumbled at his waist again, opening his trousers more. Anna stared in disbelief at the thing that was revealed. Stiff, like Aaron’s rod in the Bible, yet horribly, obscenely, alive. A blind serpent, questing in her direction. She opened her mouth to scream, but Mr Hubert made a sort of shuffling pounce and bore her down onto the bed. Then he was biting at her lips and fumbling her skirts. She kicked and struggled, but with every kick her skirts rucked farther up her limbs. Her chemise was yanked and tweaked, hurting her waist and biting cruelly into her thighs and all the time that hot, hard, relentless thing was probing, probing, against her.

Cloth tore with a long, shirring sound, and Mr Hubert gave a mutter of triumph. He seemed to gather himself together for some great effort and then with a jerk and a grunt he lunged forward. His hand pressed over her mouth and her lip was cut against her own teeth, but at that moment it ceased to be important as a new, blinding pain assailed her. Anna was sure she was being ripped apart, her tender tissues forced and bruised as Mr Hubert thrust himself again and again inside her. She gurgled in agony, but suddenly he gave a final lunge, and uttered an obscene grunt of triumph. His activities ceased.

For a few moments, his weight lay heavily upon her, pinning her to the mattress, but then he planted a fist on either side and lurched backwards off the bed, sliding his flesh from hers. The relief should have been incredible, but Anna hardly noticed.

Turning his back, Mr Hubert adjusted his clothing, leaving her shaking, half dazed and with an unutterable feeling of disgust.

"You may arise now, Cinderella," he said, offering a mocking hand. "And how did milady like her pretty present?"

Anna struck away the hand.

"Naughty girl," said Mr Hubert. "You have not said thank you to the kind gentleman for taking you to the ball. Or, should we say, for taking the ball to you?"

Anna staggered up, her ruined chemise sliding in a pool around her feet. Glancing down, she was sickened to see that it was spotted with blood. She looked wildly toward the door. Mr Hubert’s gaze followed hers and he gave a careless laugh. "Oho, the key, eh? I’m not sure that you’ve earned it, Cinderella, but I’m a man of my word and so I will sell it to you for the price of a kiss." Smiling, he came towards her, hands outstretched. "Come and kiss me, my sweet!" he said in languishing tones.

Some thread of control snapped in Anna. Whirling to the fireplace she seized the alabaster lion from the mantel and flung it at Mr Hubert’s head. Her aim was poor and the statuette went wide, but it did startle him and he took a pace backwards, pitching over the ash bucket.

Anna heard a dull crunch as Mr Hubert’s head met the carved edge of the mantel. Then he fell sprawling across the hearth and was still.

She stared, frozen, her hands against her mouth. Then she bent and groped sickly in the pocket of his waistcoat for the key. She managed to insert it only on the third attempt. Her hands shaking and slick with sweat, she threw open the door and found herself face to startled face with Ellen.

"Mrs Drake says when you’ve - owwwehhhh!" Ellen’s voice rose in a screech and she turned and rushed down the stairs crying out at the top of her lungs. "’ere! Come quick! That Anna, she’s gorn and killed Mr ‘ubert!"

CHAPTER THREE.

They believed Mr Hubert, of course.

He recovered consciousness within a few minutes and was already staggering and cursing his way to his feet when Amelia Sutton, accompanied by Drake, Mrs Drake, and two sturdy footmen, arrived. At the sight of her son’s bloody, wild-eyed face, Amelia Sutton fainted. Mrs Drake snatched up a hearth pan and bellowed for feathers which were duly fetched by an avid-eyed Ellen and burnt. The resulting acrid-smelling smoke was waved generously around the room until Mrs Drake seized the pan and thrust it under Amelia’s nose. Within minutes, a choking Amelia was being laid tenderly upon her bed, Mr Hubert had been helped to his and one of the footmen had been sent to summon a medical man.

Through it all, the other footman, Ellen’s intended, held the desperate attacker who had struck down Mr Hubert until someone should decide what was to be done with her. Mrs Drake at last awoke to the fact that she and Drake were the only people of authority present. "Mr Drake," she said, "what shall we do with this wicked girl?"

Drake’s mind worked slowly, but the footman, a sharp-faced young fellow called Henry Clift, suggested the coal cellar as a suitable place of detention.

"See to it," said Drake thankfully. Henry Clift saw to it, propelling Anna down the cellar steps with rough enthusiasm. "You’re for it now," he remarked, opening the cellar door with one hand and clasping her to him with the other. "What’d you ‘ave to go an’ do that for, eh?" (thrusting her through the door.) "You stupid git - you mighta known you’d be nabbed." He let her go and folded his arms across his liveried chest. His head shook from side to side, registering pity mixed with a liberal helping of scorn. "Priggin’ Miss Verity’s gaud wasn’t enough for you, eh? You gotta try for Mr ‘ubert’s watch as well? They’ll be ‘angin’ you for this, most likely."

"I didn’t steal anything," said Anna desperately. "Mr Hubert - he hurt me." Shuddering, she realised she had no words for the thing that had been done to her, and if she had had the words she could not have spoken them to the complacent Henry. Nor perhaps to anyone else - including her own mother - now that Grand Bailey was dead. This thought made her feel so alone that it almost swallowed the dread of what would happen to her now.

"’urt you, did he?" said Henry shrewdly. His eyes swept over Anna’s face and form.. "Can’t see no bruises, nor yet your duds ain’t ripped. Don’t look too ‘urt to me."

Anna touched her cut lip with her tongue. It felt hot and puffy, but her exploring fingers found no smear of blood.

"Mr ‘ubert’s the one with the broken ‘ead," continued Henry censoriously. "Mr ‘ubert’s the one what ‘as to be seen by the medical man."

"He cut my lip," said Anna, muffled with shame.

Henry stuck his thumbs in the waistband of his livery trousers, shooting his head forward like a cockerel to peer at Anna’s lip. "You must’ve cut up rough then," he remarked. "A man’s a man, when all’s said an’ done - even a toff with curls in ‘is ‘air. An’ Mr ‘ubert’s always been one for the wenches." His face creased in a grin. "I never ‘eard no complaints from Mary though - not unless she ‘eard ‘e’d been messin’ with someone else."

Anna turned away from him. It seemed that Henry did know what had befallen her - knew and didn’t care. She wondered sickly who else knew, or suspected, what she had suffered. The idea of her shame being known to others was almost worse than the memory of the experience itself.

Then a warm, wet blob emerged from her body and crawled stickily down her thigh.

Henry was locking the door behind him. He had left the lantern, and Anna shakily rolled up her skirt and apron. She expected to see blood; perhaps her monthly bleeding had come early. Instead, she saw a runnel of blood-flecked mucous, like snot.

Dropping her skirts, she turned and vomited into the corner.

***

Hours seemed to pass before anyone came to her, and then it was Mrs Drake, sweeping into the cellar with a heel of bread, a draught of ale and a rag in a bowl of cold water. "Here, clean yourself up, girl. You look a sight," she said.

Anna gazed at her dully. "I didn’t kill him," she said.

"No, lucky for you," said Mrs Drake. "What did you have to go hitting him over the head for?"

"I didn’t," said Anna. "Oh, I did try, but I missed."

"That isn’t what Mr Hubert says. He says he came to his bedchamber for his watch chain and found you tucking it away in your apron. He called you to account and you turned on him and heaved a statue at his head. He says."

There was a faint question in the housekeeper’s voice and Anna shook her head wearily. "He slipped and hit his head on the mantel when he f-fell over the ash pail." A shriek of laughter burst past her lips. "He g-got ashes all over his ... and he called me ‘Cinderella’!" The laughter shook her again, fierce as sobs, and then it really was sobs and Mrs Drake was slapping her briskly across the face with the wet rag.

"Don’t you go having the vapours, my girl - it won’t do a bit of good. Now, you clean yourself up and try to eat a bit of this before they come for you."

"Before they come for me?" echoed Anna stupidly, clutching her stinging cheek.

"Sir Robert’s men. The bobbies," said Mrs Drake.

"But - I cannot go with them! The master said I was not to leave this house on pain of dismissal!"

"The master is away," said Mrs Drake bleakly. "It’s what Madam says what counts, and Madam says she won’t have you in this house a day longer. Next thing we’ll all wake up murdered in our beds - throats slit from ear to ear, Madam says. Dismissal’s nothing compared with what you’ve got coming to you, my girl." Shaking her head, Mrs Drake stood over Anna while she dabbed at her face and hands and then, shivering with disgust, swabbed the stickiness from between her legs. "I need a fresh chemise," she told Mrs Drake bluntly, tearing away the tatters of the old one. The housekeeper’s face closed as if a shade had been drawn across her features. Lips compressed, she took the bowl and the tray away, locking the door behind her.

Anna saw no-one else until two men arrived in a hansom cab to take her away.

She was hustled up the cellar steps and out through the back way, keeping her head down but still catching glimpses of white, curious faces turned in her direction. Ellen looked stricken, Sal avid, and Henry Clift was shaking his head as if at the foolishness of womankind.

"I did not hit Mr Hubert," Anna told one of the men. "He fell."

"Of course he did, darlin’," he answered in fatherly tones. He patted her arm, his hand contriving to nudge against her breast.

The other bobby snorted. "A likely tale!"

"Odd, but after all these years I still can’t allus pick a wrong ‘un," remarked the fatherly man with a sigh. "This wench ‘ere - I mean to say - she looks like she might be anyone’s daughter."

"Anyone’s daughter is right," agreed the other, with irony.

The fatherly one gusted out his cheeks. "You just never can tell, can you Bert?"

"Gah! You’re too soft for this job, that’s what!" said Bert.

At the just minute, Mrs Drake swept out of the house with a shawl-wrapped bundle which she thrust at Anna.

"I’ll take that, beggin’ your pardon, Missus," said the fatherly one, essaying a weak joke. "Check it for files an’ such. You can’t be too careful, not with such a desprit criminal."

"It’s her clothes," said Mrs Drake shortly. "She might be needing them."

"She might," agreed the ironic Bert, but his tone implied that he thought it most unlikely.

"W-will I be hanged?" asked Anna miserably, as the job horses clopped out of the square.

Bert shrugged. "Dunno, miss."

His companion pulled out a paper. "’Official complaint - stealing; two counts. To whit - one brooch (cameo type) valued at such and such, one watch chain, (gold), valued at I dunno many more. Assault and attempted murder, with a blunt object, to whit, one alabaster lion, resulting in damage to the person of Mr Hubert Sutton, Number 15 Peel Square, Lunnon,’" he read mournfully. "Doesn’t look too good, Miss."

"No," said Anna faintly. She dropped into a sort of daze after that. It all seemed to be happening to someone else.

Later, she found herself in a crowded cell with several other women, all older, most of them brassy-looking females who reeked of disease and cheap spirits. A couple were broken-down old wrecks who muttered incessantly and plucked at their ragged shawls and scanty hair. Their eyes gleamed, watery and mad, between crusted eyelashes and the vermin moved sluggishly about their persons.

"Wotcha in for, ducks?" asked one of the women. She was an amiable looking creature with a plump, once-pretty face, fallen in for the lack of her teeth. The others called her ‘Doll’.

"They say I stole jewellery from my employers," said Anna.

"An’ I suppose you’re h’innocent?" jeered Doll.

"Miss Verity - she gave the brooch to me for my own after I brought her a letter from her sweetheart. And I never had the other at all."

Doll nodded sagely. "You might get off light then - if yer young lady can be brought to back y’ up."

"Miss Verity has run away to be married," muttered Anna. "And Mr Hubert fell and hit his head on the mantel. They’re saying I struck him down."

Doll looked at her pityingly. "Yer for it then, y’ poor little bugger," she said.

"They’ll hang me, won’t they."

"Nah - more likely send y’ to the colonies," said the knowledgeable Doll. "O’ course, if y’ was a man, y’d get a few years in the prig ‘ere, but they’re still short o’ women out there, they say. Lot’s o’ black ‘eathens, but not many white women, an’ a man likes what ‘e likes ... y’ know what I mean, ducks?"

Anna, with her new, painful perspective on what men liked, nodded.

"Cheer up, ducks," said Doll. "There’s worse things ‘appen at sea. Men keep yer warm, when all’s said an’ done." She sighed lugubriously. "My man won’t be keepin’ no-one warm no more though. I seen to that."

"How?" asked Anna, appalled.

Doll chuckled. "Wiv a knife, ducky. Warned ‘im, I did. ‘Catch yer cock where I oughtn’t to one more time, an’ I’ll ‘ave it off of you’, I said. An’ I did, too.

"Only thing is - shoulda cut ‘is throat while I were about it! The bugger ‘ad the boss man put me in charge. ‘Brawlin’ in a public place’, ‘e said. ‘twern’t the damage I did to ‘is you-know-what that copped me - were the blood on the floor an’ the resultin’ lack o’ custom. Didn’t look good to the punters. Ah well - I’m for the colony of New South Wales. There’s men there a’plenty, I reckon. Mebbe I shoulda emigrated when I ‘ad a chance!"

"Nah, Doll, yer be’ind the times," said one of the other women scornfully. "No-one gets sent to New South Wales no more. They got enough damned whores of their own. Put yer in the ‘ulks more likely, and there you’ll stay until yer rot." The woman hawked and spat. She had a dull red spot burning on each cheek and a clumsy brown bottle from which she constantly refreshed herself.

"Don’t yer take no notice of ‘er, ducky," whispered Doll. "She’s not long for this world an’ it’s soured her nature. Y’ gotta look forward in this life, that’s my motto - gerroff, y’ daft bugger! Go on - git!" This to a scarecrow who had sidled up to finger Anna’s shawl. Her own garment was grey with dirt and lice crawled sluggishly in her matted hair. Anna’s skin crept with horror. Her father had been a cleanly man, and she had never forgotten his distaste of vermin. Village lads who attended Stephen Bailey’s schoolhouse had their heads doused regularly with a noxious-smelling substance he had devised himself. The boys hated it, and perhaps for this reason they paid more attention to the state of their heads than did the scholars of other places. Cringing away, Anna wished impotently that her father were with her now.

"Don’ fret, ducky," said Doll kindly. "You’ll soon get used ter it."

Anna had cause to be grateful to the big woman over the next days and weeks. Amiable enough by nature, Doll could be a demon when roused, as her man had discovered. "Don’ y’ let no-one chouse y’ outa what’s yours," she instructed Anna. "An’ don’ speak so nice, neither - they’ll be all over yer like flies on a dead rat."

Anna would have had little food if it had not been for Doll. Gruel and watery stew and hunks of hard bread were provided twice daily, but several of the women would band together and take more than their share. Doll could shove with the best of them and in Anna’s defence, she did. She seemed to have appointed herself as Anna’s protector. At first Anna was too dazed and unhappy to query this, but after a while, she asked Doll why.

Doll shrugged plump shoulders. "Got a daughter meself," she said shortly. "Lizzie. ‘ad ‘er when I were thirteen - fourteen. Me old mum’s got ‘er now. I kept ‘er wiv me all this time, but me man, ‘e couldn’t keep ‘is wick to ‘isself and she couldn’t stop ‘im. I give Lizzie a cuff or two while I were at it - she were gangin’ up wiv ‘im against ‘er own ma!" She laughed suddenly. "Truth is, ducky, I didn’ want to be a granny a’fore I were thirty! So Lizzie’s wiv Ma, an’ I ‘ope Ma ‘as better luck larrupin’ some sense of decency into ‘er than she ‘ad wiv me!"

One day Anna ventured to explain to Doll what had happened on that last day with Mr Hubert. Doll was not overly sympathetic. "Didn’ knock yer round none, did ‘e?"

"No - he stuck his hand over my mouth though and made me cut my lip and - he hurt me. It made me bleed."

"First time, eh?" said Doll. "In a bit of a ‘urry, was ‘e? Figures if you was givin’ ‘im a ‘ard time. Get yer next un to take it slow - if yer can."

"Next one!" Anna shuddered.

Doll gave her a straight look. "Yeah, next ‘un. Someone’ll get ‘is end in yer agin before too much longer, so yer might ‘s well make up yer mind to it. ‘ts not so bad - when yer gets used to it. Most men’s pigs, ducky, but pigs is all right if yer ‘appen to like bacon. Or some’s like dawgs, see - treat ‘em nice an’ they’ll treat you nice. Slap ‘em down too often an’ they’ll turn an’ bite yer bum." She chuckled. "O’ course, there’s some as likes bein’ bit, but maybe yer not one of ‘em!"

Anna shuddered away. Whatever Doll said, she was determined that no man would ever again get close enough to do to her what Mr Hubert had done.

On the day of her trial, Doll advised Anna to tidy herself up. "How?" asked Anna, running her fingers through her stringy hair. She had wakened feeling queasy, as she often did nowadays, and was not in much of a state to consider her appearance.

Kindly, Doll soaked a bit of filthy rag in some water and swabbed at the grime and smudges on Anna’s face. "Dust off yer skirts a bit," she advised. "’an keep yer dress up ‘igh at the top an’ down low at the bottom. ‘t’s better if yer look respectable, though ‘ow they expect yer to look like a lady when they keep yer like a pig, I dunno. ‘ere, I’ll tie yer ‘air up for yer."

"But - what am I to do?" asked Anna.

Doll considered. "They’ll read out what yer charged wiv, then the big man’ll ‘ear the evidence an’ say what’s to be done wiv yer."

"Will I have to see Mr Hubert?"

"Shouldn’t think so," said Doll. "Nah. The nobs don’t usually stir ‘emselves overmuch. Just keep yer eyes down an’ say ‘yes, m’lord’ an’ ‘no, m’lord’. Act h’innocent. Y’ might even get off altogever if the beak likes yer. Now - yer feelin’ all right?"

"No," said Anna wanly. "I feel ill."

Doll looked at her sharply. "Been bleedin’ like normal, ‘ave yer?"

Anna thought about it. "There was blood when Mr Hubert ..."

"Nah, yer regulars. Been needin’ yer rags?"

Biting her lip, Anna shook her head. "No, not since ..."

"Gawd, yer got a bun in yer oven!" exclaimed Doll. "First time an’ all! Cheer up, ducks - yer can tell the beak that now; ‘e won’t ‘ang yer, not if yer swellin’."

Anna never remembered much of her trial. It was a brief affair, with the charges read out in dry legal voices. The fatherly bobby and his taciturn partner swore to the charges, various men in black nodded learnedly. An elderly person in pince-nez asked a question, which was answered amid much tutting from the gallery. A fat man put forward an opinion in a voice as plummy as Christmas pudding. Anna struggled with nausea, and heard little enough until she was prodded forward by the warder.

"Stand, Anna Bailey," said the judge in a bleating voice. He looked like a sheep, too, thought Anna hysterically. A scrawny old ram whose tupping days were gone, but who had mangy wool and insufficient flesh to interest a butcher. "Anna Bailey, you have heard the charges brought against you, namely that you did steal or attempt to steal on two occasions from your employer the Honourable John Sutton and his family, and that you did maliciously strike down Mr Hubert Sutton, son of the Honourable John, when he did attempt to apprehend you, grievously wounding him about the head and face.

"It has been brought forward that you are of no great age and that this is your first offence, but it is a very serious one. Your master has informed us that he has already given you the benefit of the doubt on one occasion, which chance you have recklessly thrown away by continuing with your evil ways. Do you understand these charges brought against you?"

Anna nodded, then, remembering Doll’s prompting, managed to whisper; "yes, m’lord."

"And have you anything to say in your defence before we pronounce sentence upon you?"

"Only that I did not do it, sir."

"You did not strike down Mr Hubert Sutton with a ..." The judge glanced down to consult a paper. "... with a marble statuette of a lion?"

"No sir, I did not."

"Yet this same statuette was found broken on the floor next to the victim. How do you account for that?"

"I - I threw it at Mr Hubert, sir, but it did not hit him. He stumbled over the ash bucket and fell against the mantel."

The judge nodded. "Then you stand convicted out of your own mouth. The Suttons took you in, clothed and fed you, gave you honest employment, paid you a generous wage, gave you every consideration, in fact, did they not?"

Anna bit her lip, hard.

"Were not you even offered the opportunity to better yourself by being appointed to wait on Miss Verity Sutton as her personal maid?"

Anna nodded.

"Yet you repay them by taking the opportunity to prey upon their good nature and to maliciously strike down the young son of the house when he attempted to remonstrate with you for your theft! Have you nothing to say in your defence?"

"No sir," said Anna. It was obvious that anything she did say would be twisted by this man to fit the charges as stated. She had thrown the statuette at Mr Hubert, and she had had the cameo in her possession. Dazedly, she wondered if perhaps they were right. Had there really been a letter from Miss Verity or had she so desperately needed a keepsake from her idol that she had dreamed up the whole?

"Can you tell me anything at all that might tell in your favour? Any reason why I should not deal with you to the full extent allowable by law? You seem an educated girl; you must have had some reason for what you did. Were you perhaps constrained by someone else to do these things? Perhaps by some man of whom you stood in fear?"

Anna closed her teeth harder upon her lip.

"You have nothing to say at all?"

"I am with child, sir."

The judge shook his head and sighed. "Then you would find it difficult to obtain another position in service, even if I were disposed to be so lenient as to let you go. I hereby sentence you to five years’ transportation to the penal colony of Van Diemen’s Land. There you will be assigned to some decent person in whose employment you will remain until your time is up. Thereafter, I expect you to make a place for yourself in the colonies."

"Yes sir," said Anna.

For a moment the judge looked almost kindly. "It is a point in your favour that you have apparently had some education. When you have served your sentence you will find opportunities for a decent life there among your peers and some respectable employment, perhaps as a nursemaid or governess."

The judge waited expectantly, but Anna had nothing more to say. With a gesture of impatience, he turned to the warder. "Next!"

"Come on then," urged the warder. "Move along." Anna moved, and was escorted to another cell to await the execution of her sentence.

During the weeks before she sailed for Van Diemen’s Land, Anna was very ill indeed. Her body rebelled against her pregnancy with constant nausea and vomiting, aggravated by poor food and the close confines of the cell. Bereft of Doll’s company, she shuddered away from her new companions. Many of them were long term prisoners, whose months or years of confinement had rendered them little more than savages. The days and nights were made horrific with the animal shrieks and cries of the other women. Anna felt so ill that she sometimes wondered if she would live to board the convict ship. Sometimes - she scarcely cared.

She became gaunt and grey, and spent most of her time slumped on a pallet in the corner. One day there was a great disturbance and Doll was ushered into her cell.

"Just visitin’, ducks!" she said airily. "Missed the long drop by this much, an’ got tipped in ‘ere instead." She spat. "Bloody beak. But where’s me nob friend? Where’s Anna?"

"Over there," said one of the women, with a cynical jerk of her head. "For what good she is to anyone!"

On seeing Anna’s condition, Doll made so much noise that a warder came and hammered on the cell door and sourly demanded an explanation. "You, is it?" she said to Doll. "Might’a guessed. Any more o’ this and you go back before his lordship. And he won’t go so easy on you next time!"

"This little girl’s just about dyin’ in ‘ere, that’s what’s up!" snapped Doll. "Ain’t y’ got eyes in yer bloody ‘ead?"

The warder called for a lounging guard to mind the gate while she had a dubious look at Anna. "I’m not a flamin’ nursemaid for the likes o’ you!" she muttered vindictively. "Get up, will you?"

"Eh, y’ bloody old bag, you get ‘er somethin’ to ‘elp ‘er or I’ll kick yer chin up past yer chops!" threatened Doll. "Want a dose o’ the plague on yer ‘ands, do yer?"

The warder hurried away, but after an interval, a medical man, a ship’s surgeon, was brought protestingly to examine Anna.

Dr Herbert Carstairs had once had a fashionable practice among the gentry, but his frequent drunkenness and increasing unreliability had robbed him of his patients and now he had to shift as best he could by patching up lashed convicts, setting broken bones and applying hot pitch to wounds. Half his patients died, but without his ministrations, it might have been three quarters.

"What ails you, girl?" he asked in a high-pitched, finicking voice. He looked at Anna with distaste, making no move to touch her. A snuff-scented handkerchief was clutched beneath his nose. "I see no sign of fever."

"She’s breedin’," said Doll flatly. "An’ she can’t keep nothin’ down."

"I see." Carstairs put away the cloth and turned angrily on the warder. "There is no contagion here, my good woman! Why was I called?"

The warder shot a venomous glance at Doll, who thumbed her nose and turned her attention on the unfortunate doctor. "Thought y’ medical men ‘ad a oath or some such to ‘elp them that’s ailin’?" she said. "An’ Anna - yer can’t ail much more than ‘er."

"Oh, be damned with you, woman!" said Carstairs. "How far along are you, girl?"

"Three months, far’s I can judge," said Doll.

Carstairs looked relieved. "She’ll pull out of it soon, then," he said. "Meanwhile, get some nourishing food into her." He tittered. "I used to recommend the sea air for ladies in this condition, but I suppose it would be hardly appropriate for this girl."

Doll glared at him, hands on hips. "Nourishin’ food? In this joint? That’s a good’n!"

Carstairs dusted his hands and signalled for the warder to open the door. "The girl has only herself to thank. If she had behaved herself, she would neither be in this condition nor in this place," he said.

"Pig! Nelly-bum!" screeched Doll. "Fat lot yer sort knows about behavin’ yerself, y’ bugger!"

Two stalwart female warders brought Anna broth twice a day after that, and stood guard while Doll spooned it between her lips. Perhaps it was the broth, or perhaps Carstairs had been correct in his callous diagnosis, but Anna did survive, and by the time the day of embarkation arrived, she was able to totter along the wharf to the ship. With her, she carried her shawl, the few clothes Mrs Drake had provided - and a great hug and a pot pot-pourri of salty advice from Doll.

The Eliza Kirk was a sturdy ship which had made the crossing to the colony of New South Wales on several occasions. Now it made less frequent voyages to the smaller colony of Van Diemen’s Land. bearing a diminishing number of convicts and carrying instead a payload of free settlers, stalwart souls who were willing. for the sake of a cheaper passage, to put up with the inconvenience and discomfort of travelling in the unseen company of convicts.

The Master, Captain Edward McLeod, was a decent enough man who was as pleased as not to be able to accommodate such colonists. Of course, a free settler demanded luxuries such as clean water, air and light and (at least at the beginning of the voyage) weevil-free food, but still it made a pleasant change to arrive at his destination with most of his passengers not only alive, but in reasonable health.

"Most of the puir wee wretches are in a sorry enough state before they set foot aboard," he explained to anyone who would listen. "I trust they get no worse on the Eliza Kirk. I have them fetched up on deck for an hour or so each morning and evening and have the surgeon attend to their ills to avoid the spread of contagion."

"Aye, a regular rest cure it is, laddie," said a fellow Scot wryly, "and more than the besoms are worth!"

At first, Anna was too weak to take advantage of Captain McLeod’s unusually enlightened attitude, but when they left harbour she soon found, to her surprise, that the motion of the ship was soothing. Many of her companions were not so lucky, and soon fully half of them were as ill as Anna had been in prison, although for a different reason. The cramped close quarters below deck made matters much worse, and so, after the first week of fair sailing, did the weather.

Rough seas in the Bay of Biscay caused some minor damage to the ship, and the ship’s surgeon, a man named Lewis, was kept busy tending to seasick passengers and the broken bones and abrasions of the crew. The ship pitched and yawed like an unbroken horse, and all but the most seasoned of the sailors feared for their safety. In the convict quarters, the air was sour with the stench of vomit and faeces. Even those immune to the movement of the ship were overcome, retching and choking and moaning their distress. When at last the hatch was opened and three sailors came to urge them up on deck, few were fit to stand. Nevertheless, up they came, to spend more hours of misery shivering in the cold salt air on the after-deck. A spare sail had been suspended to prevent them from jumping over the rail, so they could see little more than the deck and one another. In the meantime, resentful sailors sluiced the hold with salt water.

"And not a bloody skirt among ‘em’s in good enough shape to make it worth our while!" said one of them disgustedly.

On the morning after the storm, Surgeon Lewis and Captain McLeod came to the after-deck to look over the convicts. Shivering, the convicts looked back, some with curses and complaints, some stoically, and a few, like pretty Betsy Potter , was coyly inviting smiles.

"This is the girl I was speaking of, sir," said Lewis, indicating Anna.

Betsy pouted and turned away as McLeod looked closely at Anna. "Stand up, lassie."

Shivering, Anna scrambled to her feet and, since she could no longer fasten the waistband of her dress, tried to drape her shawl more modestly about her. "Yes, sir?" she said warily.

"Turn round, lassie; what is your name?" asked McLeod.

"Anna Bailey, sir."

McLeod folded his arms across his chest and nodded several times. It crossed Anna’s mind that he resembled nothing so much as a pigeon pecking up grain. A faint smile flickered and died; something McLeod noted with interest. "You were a lady’s maid?" he asked abruptly.

"Yes sir, for a little while," said Anna.

"Then if ye will come along with me, Anna Bailey, ye may be able to be of some service."

Led by Betsy Potter, some of the other women tittered at this, and Anna flushed.

"The rest of you may now return to your quarters," said Lewis.

"’alf your luck, girlie!" joked Betsy as she passed Anna.

"Well, and what seems to be the trouble?" asked the captain in a testy voice as the other women nodded and cast sly glances at Anna. Lewis said something in a low voice and McLeod looked disgusted. "Lassie, I am a married man and a grandfather," he said firmly. "My brother is an elder in the Kirk. Is that recommendation sufficient?"

"Yes, sir."

"And can ye say no more than that?"

Anna’s smile flickered once more. "Yes, sir," she said, and followed the captain and Lewis to the fore-deck. It was the first time she had been there in daylight, and her eyes widened at the sight of the breadth of the sea. McLeod gave her no chance to admire the view. "We have aboard a certain young lady, name of Miss Eleanor Parr, late of London, now voyaging to join her brother in the colony of New South Wales," he said. "It seems that Miss Parr’s maid elected to remain behind and look for another position, having no wish to leave England."

"I see," said Anna dryly. She had had no particular wish to leave England herself.

"I doubt very much that ye do," said the captain with equal dryness. "Miss Parr has been much exercised since we left port in assisting Surgeon Lewis in tending those who have been prostrated by seasickness. During the storm last night, Miss Parr was flung against a bulkhead and suffered an accident to her arm. She can no longer manage for herself, and is anxious not to be a burden on her fellow passengers. She has therefore requested Surgeon Lewis and myself to supply her with a temporary maid from the convict quota. Should Miss Parr deem ye to be suitable, ye will naturally receive no wages, but will enjoy the privileges of remaining above deck while we are at sea."

Anna’s eyes welled with tears and she gave a sob of thankfulness. "Oh sir! Thank you!" she cried.

"Do not ye be thanking me, lassie," said the captain hurriedly, stepping away, "thank Surgeon Lewis who informs me that ye seem a likely prospect for Miss Parr. I need hardly add that while in Miss Parr’s employ, ye will be carefully watched. Any attempt to take wrongful advantage of Miss Parr’s charity will be punished by instant return to the hold. There will be no second chances. Is that clear, lassie?"

"Yes, sir," said Anna for the last time. Greatly daring, she bobbed a tiny curtsy. Hiding a smile, the captain returned to the bridge and Lewis escorted Anna to Miss Parr’s quarters.

"This is very kind of you, sir," said Anna.

The surgeon looked at her sternly. "Not at all," he said brusquely. "I am simply doing a favour for a good lady who has lightened my own load considerably. That you will benefit also is completely beside the point." He tapped on the door of a tiny cabin.

"Come in," said a very precise voice.

Surgeon Lewis opened the door. "Here is the convict girl to wait on you, Marm," he said respectfully. "Name of Anna Bailey. I hope you will find her suitable."

"So indeed do I," said the precise voice. It did not sound hopeful.

"Go in then, girl," said the surgeon. "I’ve more important things to attend to than this. And see that you behave." He gave her an admonishing frown, and Anna was alone with her new mistress.

CHAPTER FOUR

Miss Eleanor Parr could scarcely have been more unlike Doll the convict in appearance nor in station, but the two women shared a form of practical kindness. At first sight, Miss Parr was not prepossessing. She was small and slight and pale, with one shoulder hunched and markedly higher than the other. On her prominent nose, she wore a pair of pince-nez, through which sharp eyes peered short-sightedly. She had smooth brown hair drawn back in a bun, and her dress, in contrast to the prevailing fashion, was narrow and grey and made up high at the throat. One arm was bandaged and held awkwardly in a sling, but her general air of prim neatness made Anna very much aware of her own unkept appearance. Not only was she as scruffy as a slum urchin, but she smelt, and was not surprised to see Miss Eleanor’s long nose twitch with distaste.

Hastily, she bobbed a curtsy. "Good morning, Madam, the captain says I am to wait on you during the voyage."

Miss Parr made a slight gesture of negation. "Do not bow to me, child. Unlike many in this unequal world, I hold that one should bow only to our Saviour."

Anna flushed. "I am sorry, Madam."

Eleanor Parr frowned. "I think we shall deal better if you address me as ‘Miss Parr’," she said. "Or perhaps ‘Miss Eleanor’ would be more appropriate. As you can see, I have been careless enough to damage my arm. It is a little painful and I cannot manage to hook up my dresses nor tidy my hair. You have some experience in attending to these matters, I believe?"

"Yes, Miss Eleanor," said Anna. "I was a lady’s maid back home."

"Good," said Miss Eleanor. "Let me look you over."

Anna lowered her eyes. Her expanding waistline made her feel ungainly, and in the confines of the cabin the stench of her clothes seemed almost visible.

"Turn around," said Miss Eleanor. "And again. Now lift aside your shawl. Good! I see we are much of a size. Go to my cabin trunk, Anna, and bring me the garments from the top layer."

Puzzled, Anna did so. Miss Parr gestured one-handedly for her to lay them on the narrow cot. "The serge skirt, I think, and the grey blouse. You will not object if the skirt is a little short. Many folk are of the opinion that it is a sin to show one’s lower limbs, but I find it difficult to agree with that; provided one’s motive is practicality and not provocation."

Anna stared. "Do you mean - do you wish me to put on these clothes, Miss Eleanor?"

"The ones you are wearing are hardly adequate," said Miss Eleanor. "They also appear to be rather ill-fitting. I feel sure they would benefit from a thorough cleansing, even in sea-water. Have you no others?"

"Not now, Miss," said Anna. "I had others when I first went to work at Peel Square, but I outgrew them. Since then I have had two uniforms. I suppose they still belong to Mrs Sutton, but she did not ask for them back."

"I should think not!" said Miss Eleanor with some amusement. "I wish to make some matters plain to you, Anna. I do not know what you may have done in your former life to bring you to this pass, nor do I wish to know. However, I will not countenance lying, theft, blasphemy, coarse language nor immorality of any kind. Is that clear?"

"Yes, Miss," said Anna.

"’Yes, Miss Eleanor’, if you please. You will also keep yourself as neat and as clean as possible, to which end I propose, as soon as my arm ceases to pain me, to crop your hair. You are not harbouring vermin, I trust?"

Bemused, Anna shook her head. She had at least been spared that.

"Good," said Miss Eleanor, "then we shall not need to take measures. Now, if you please, you will strip and wash yourself behind that screen, using water from the keg. You will then change into these clothes, souse your own in sea-water and return to assist me. By the way," she added as Anna turned to obey, "are you expecting a child?"

"Yes, Miss Eleanor."

"Then you will rest for an hour each afternoon. You will also join me in my daily constitutional around the decks. Thank you, Anna, I am sure we shall deal together extremely well."

Anna was less sure about that, but she soon found that Miss Eleanor had spoken nothing but the truth. Miss Eleanor was an outspoken person, firm but kind. She preferred a regimented life which Anna, perforce, shared. Their mornings began with a short reading from the Scriptures. When Miss Eleanor had ascertained that Anna was literate, she had her take her turn in reading the verses aloud. There would then be an animated discussion on the precise meaning of the day’s portion; something which it had never occurred to Anna to consider. She would then assist Miss Eleanor to wash and dress, would hang their bedding to air at the ocean port and wash spare linen in a fresh keg of sea-water provided daily by a grinning sailor. Miss Eleanor had ways of getting things done.

Breakfast would be eaten, and an hour’s constitutional taken around the decks, after which Miss Eleanor would call on several of the other passengers, and organise them into diligence or comfort. After the midday meal, Miss Eleanor would read aloud from some improving book, of which she appeared to have a great stock. She was a great talker, and conversed with Anna on a variety of subjects from politics (of which Anna knew nothing) to history and botany. She was insistent that Anna recall every one of the wild flowers and herbs which had grown wild about her grandfather’s farm in the country. On one occasion, Anna ventured to ask her why she had chosen to leave her home and sail to New South Wales.

"I have been caring for my mother for several years," replied Miss Eleanor composedly. "She has now passed on. My only remaining relative is my brother Jeremiah, who has taken up a selection in the colonies. He is unmarried, and I feel it is my duty to assist him in his endeavours. I intend also, as time permits, to establish a small school for the colonists’ children. No doubt they are being let grow up as ignorant as savages. I have some small skill in medical matters, and I feel sure the children (and their mothers) will benefit from my attention. Never fear, Anna, I shall find plenty to occupy me and interest me in New South Wales."

Anna had no doubt of that. "Will you not miss England though?" she asked.

Miss Eleanor waved her good hand. "Home is the place where one can best perform one’s work," she declared. "The good Lord has seen fit to endow me with a brain of more power than average, with an abundance of energy and with a face and a figure of little note. I shall therefore turn my talents to the welfare of the children born of those whose endowments are complementary."

Miss Eleanor’s broken arm mended slowly, but by the time Anna’s pregnancy was in its final month, she had pronounced herself cured. By now the Eliza Kirk had passed through the tropics and was on the last leg of the voyage south. Anna was very grateful that she had not had to spend those hot weeks under the decks with the other convicts. Sometimes, she found herself forgetting that she was a convict, and could almost convince herself that Miss Eleanor had employed her in London and had invited her to join her venture to the antipodes.

As the weeks sailed by, the Suttons, Mrs Drake and Doll began to seem unreal. London itself seemed unreal. The only reality was the Eliza Kirk as she ploughed indefatigably on towards the island continent called Australia. That and the burden which was daily making Anna more awkward and uncomfortable.

"Perhaps you should begin preparing some garments for the child," said Miss Eleanor one day.

Anna blinked at her. She had scarcely acknowledged that the swelling of her body was due to the growth of another human being. Her pregnancy had become a constant thing - she could barely recall how it felt not to be so burdened and could not imagine herself free of it. The child. Her child. Miss Eleanor had encouraged her to slit the waistbands of her new skirts to allow for comfort and propriety; now she provided some fine cloth to be made over into small garments.

"Have you a name in mind?" asked Miss Eleanor, squinting through her pince-nez as she threaded a needle.

"A name, Miss Eleanor?"

"For the child, Anna. Perhaps you wish to name it for its father - if it is a boy, of course."

Anna fought down a sudden surge of revulsion at the thought of Mr Hubert and shook her head. The child. Her child. His child.

"I see," said Miss Eleanor. "I thought perhaps you remembered the child’s father with affection. I see you do not."

"He forced me," said Anna. "He was Miss Verity’s brother, and Miss Verity made him keep his distance. After Miss Verity went away, he locked me in his room and forced me. I threw a statue at him and he fell and hit his head."

"Dear, oh dear!" said Miss Eleanor, rather inadequately, for her.

Anna clenched her teeth. "They said I attacked him."

"And so you are here."

"I am no whore!" said Anna, "and I am no thief. I am no murderer, but with Miss Verity gone, there was no-one to speak for me."

For the first time in months, she found herself weeping with outrage, while Miss Eleanor calmly threaded another needle. "Do you know," said Miss Eleanor, beginning to take minute stitches in a piece of soft cloth, "I rather think you are to be envied."

"Envied!" choked Anna.

"Oh yes indeed. Your conscience is, after all, clear - is it not? You know you have done no wrong, the Saviour knows you have done no wrong, and you are being granted a new life in a new land of opportunity. And a child, who will grow up far from a father who could only have been a poor example. Think, Anna. Had you remained in London, what would your life have been? You might have been a lady’s maid, or perhaps a general servant. You might even have risen to dresser, or cook-housekeeper! But in the colonies, all are equal. You have the opportunity to become whatever you wish, and your child after you."

"I am a convict," said Anna. "I am sentenced to five years of slavery."

"Then treat those five years as a good and useful apprenticeship," advised Miss Eleanor. "Learn whatever good things you may from your superiors, and shun the bad. And now, it is time for my visit to old Mrs Jamieson. I think she is not quite happy in the heat."

The subject was obviously closed, for Miss Eleanor put away her sewing and left the cabin.

Anna lay awkwardly where she was, propped against a hard pillow originally used to support Miss Eleanor’s arm. It was well enough for Miss Eleanor to speak of opportunity; she was making this voyage of her own will. She would have the support of a brother, and not the burden of a child. Heaving a long sigh, Anna drifted into a fitful sleep.

Her back pained her, and she could not get comfortable. She twisted herself about and turned, but the pain continued, grinding into her spine and surging in great waves around her loins. At last she gave up even the pretence of sleep and lay there moaning quietly, clenching her hands against the increasing pain. By the time Miss Eleanor returned, Anna’s face was filmed with sweat and running with tears.

Immediately, Miss Eleanor took charge. "Do not panic, Anna," she said firmly. "It is only the child. It will be some hours, I fear, before it is delivered, so you must rest as much as you are able between pains. I shall be with you. Presently, I shall loosen your clothing to make matters easier."

Miss Eleanor’s presence was some comfort for the first few hours, but after a time the pains became so fierce that Anna was aware of nothing else. Occasionally Miss Eleanor’s face swam into her vision, and firm cold hands - Miss Eleanor’s hands were always cold - wiped the sweat from her face or bathed her limbs. But for most of the time the nightmare continued uninterrupted. After a full eight hours had passed, Miss Eleanor found even her iron composure shaking. She had become fond of Anna over the past several months, but she told herself she would have felt equal sympathy for any person suffering such an extremity of pain. She found herself glancing reproachfully Heavenwards. "Lord, you know it is not my custom to question the wisdom of Your ways," she said rapidly, "but please, in Your mercy, lend this child Your fortitude and strength through her travail and deliver her from danger, Amen."

Then, as was her habit, she put aside emotion and began to consider practicalities.

As a young woman of good family, she had little first-hand experience of childbirth. She knew that the women of the lower classes sometimes died, either during the birth or of childbed fever soon afterwards. In her opinion many such deaths could have been avoided by simple attention to cleanliness and better health on the part of the mothers, but it now seemed to her that other factors could be at work. Perhaps in this case there was some obstruction to the child’s emergence? Miss Eleanor never shrank from doing her duty, but she was unskilled in this matter and feared to make Anna’s agony worse by unconsidered action. It was time to call in reinforcements.

She took the girl’s clenched hand in both of hers, noting that the palm was bloodied from the lacerations of Anna’s own nails. "Anna, I am going to consult with Surgeon Lewis," she said clearly. "I shall not be long." Hurriedly, she left the cabin and went in search of Lewis.

"Not much I can do for her," said Lewis, eyeing Miss Eleanor warily. "My advice is to ask the women down there." He jerked a thumb downwards. "There may well be some who are skilled in these matters. Some village midwifes have an extraordinary knack."

"Then find me such a woman," said Miss Eleanor crisply. "And see that she washes first."

Leaving the surgeon staring after her in some outrage, she returned to Anna.

"I think you will do better in bed, my dear," she said, but Anna gave no sign of comprehension. Locked in her agony, she had scarcely the strength to do more than moan. "Help is on its way," said Miss Eleanor, hoping devoutly that this was correct.

Within twenty minutes the surgeon, accompanied by two amused sailors, escorted two convict women to the cabin. Miss Eleanor looked them over doubtfully. "Wash," she commanded. "You have experience?"

The women shrugged. "Bless yer, I ‘ad six of me own," said one.

"My mother was a midwife in our village," said the other. "I helped her until she died. After that, I was left on my own. I could find no ..."

"Yes, I do not wish to hear your history," snapped Miss Eleanor. "Tend to Anna."

"Yer wants to sit ‘er up," advised the elder woman. "Get ‘er shift off first."

"I have done that," said Miss Eleanor.

"Right-ho. Up with yer, ducks!" The woman put her brawny arms around Anna and heaved her upright. The girl screamed. "Hold her - let’s ‘ave a look-see."

Miss Eleanor bit her lip. The woman seemed competent, but should Anna not be lying down? Then the reason came to mind. "Ah, you are using the force of gravity to assist with the birth."

The women exchanged glances and shook their heads. After a while Hannah, the elder, looked up. "She’s too small, I reckon," she said. "How old?"

Miss Eleanor spread her hands. "Fourteen - maybe fifteen by now."

"Could be worse," said Hannah, "but she’d’ve done better if she’d held off opening her legs for a year or so."

"She didn’t," said Miss Eleanor briefly. "She had them forcibly opened for her."

Hannah nodded sagely. "That’s what they all say. Got a bit of brandy on you, miss?"

"A medicinal supply, only," said Miss Eleanor.

"Give it here then."

Miss Eleanor brought out the bottle and the woman took a deep swig. She held it out to her companion who primmed her mouth and shook her head. "Give the rest to the girl."

Miss Eleanor was almost moved to object to that, but when Hannah suggested a blow to the head as an alternative form of anaesthesia, she gave in.

"Can’t do much with her thrashing about like that," observed Hannah.

Even after the brandy had been administered there seemed little they could do. Eventually, some time after midnight, when the three women were almost as sweaty and exhausted as Anna, the child was brought forth in a gush of blood and fluid. Hannah hefted it by the legs and whacked its minute behind. There was silence, so she whacked again. And again.

Hours later, Anna stirred and whimpered. It was dark, but Miss Eleanor was still there beside her. "Hush, my dear, you must rest," she said.

Anna licked dry, bruised lips. She ached all over and her head was thudding, but the grinding, tearing pain had subsided.

"I shall fetch you a drink," said Miss Eleanor. She lit a lamp and held a beaker of water to Anna’s lips, watching with something like dread as the cloudiness cleared from the girl’s eyes. She had hoped that Anna would sleep again, but she was now turning her head restlessly about. Miss Eleanor put aside the beaker and took Anna’s hand in hers. "The child did not live," she said quietly. "Anna, we did what we could, but it was not enough."

Anna’s lips parted. "Oh," she said, and turned her head away.

The child had never been real to her, but in its loss she felt a pang. So much unhappiness, so much pain, and for nothing.

"It was a boy," said Miss Eleanor, "and he never breathed at all. Anna - I hope I did not do wrong, but I baptised him all the same. I gave him the name of Edward, after Captain McLeod, who seems a decent man. Is that satisfactory?"

Anna nodded, and tears began to fall. It was no longer a burden she had shed, but a child named Edward, her little son, and she could weep for him and for herself.

"I will not tell you it was for the best," said Miss Eleanor. "Of that I have my doubts. I am sure you have the character to be a fine mother one day, Anna. And you will be. I am convinced of that." She sighed. "You have done what I have never done. You have had a child."

Anna was weak for days, but by the time the Eliza Kirk reached Botany Bay, the wonderfully deep and scenic harbour of the colony of New South Wales, she had almost recovered, and was beginning to entertain cautious hopes that Miss Eleanor might somehow contrive to keep her on as her maid. To be sure, she had been sentenced to serve her time in Van Diemen’s Land and not in New South Wales, but that was simply because the latter place was now a free colony and no longer accepted convicts. Surely that problem could be solved; and Anna had no doubt that Miss Eleanor was the one who could solve it. If she so wished. But would she?

Anna considered dropping hints and angling for information, but that was not Miss Eleanor’s way. Miss Eleanor preferred plain speaking, so Anna spoke plainly. "Miss Eleanor, when will you be leaving the ship?"

"Tomorrow, should all go well," said Miss Eleanor composedly. "My brother Jeremiah will meet me and take me through Sydney Town to his selection."

"What is to happen to me?"

Miss Eleanor did not pretend to misunderstand. Clasping her hands in her grey-clad lap she gave Anna a very straight look. "I have been giving that matter some very solemn consideration, Anna, believe me. I wish I could offer you a permanent position, but I have concluded that it would not be suitable."

Anna’s hopes plummeted. "I realise I have not been of much assistance to you for these past few weeks, Miss Eleanor," she said humbly, "but I will try to do better."

Miss Eleanor held up a hand. "No, Anna, that is not what I meant. You see, I shall have no need of a personal maid in the colony. I should have had no need of such a person on board had it not been for my wretched accident. Indeed, I would not ask any woman to join my brother’s household, least of all a girl of your type."

Anna froze. She had truly come to believe that Miss Eleanor cared nothing for her convict status. Now it seemed that she did. Because she was hurt, and had nothing to lose, she was more nearly insolent to Miss Eleanor than she had ever been before. "So all your fine words about equality in the colonies and making something of myself were just that, were they Miss? Just fine words?"

"Not at all," said Miss Eleanor composedly. "I meant only that you are young and very attractive, Anna, and my brother, dearly though I esteem him, is not a suitable person for you to know." She primmed her lips. "That is the reason he left England for the colonies in the first place. He is - though it pains me to tell you this - what used to be referred to as a ‘libertine’. You would never be safe from his proclivities and I - I admit this - would never be able to devote my full attention to the matters which concern me."

"That seems to me to be no bad thing," said Anna slowly. "If he is as good a person as you, I would be safer under his protection than alone."

"It would not do," said Miss Eleanor decidedly. "I cannot be responsible for my brother Jeremiah’s behaviour, yet I would feel responsible for your welfare. I fear I am too selfish to shoulder such responsibility at present, Anna. Also, I truly believe that you will do better if you are forced to make your own way in life. I am assured that you would very soon find yourself weary of my strong-mindedness!

"However, there is one thing I should and shall do for you; I shall write you a letter of recommendation for your future employer, whom I hope and pray will come to hold you in just such esteem as I have done."

Then why do you not keep me with you? wondered Anna bitterly. If Miss Verity could keep a carnally inclined brother away from Anna then surely Miss Eleanor could do likewise, and far more effectively, for she would not be running off to marry an unsuitable young man! She knew, however, that Miss Eleanor was adamant, and never doubted that her friend was doing what she truly believed to be the right thing for both of them.

Miss Eleanor left the ship the next morning, giving Anna a plain silver cross on a chain for a keepsake. "I have also supplied you with a letter explaining that I have given you this cross of my own free will," she added with a sharp twinkle. "Now God bless you,. Anna my dear, and keep you, but remember - you must be prepared to give Him all the assistance you can!"

With Miss Eleanor gone, Anna was once more relegated to the convicts’ quarters, but with the majority of the settlers leaving the ship at Botany Bay, Captain McLeod relaxed the rules still further and allowed the women to spend several more hours on deck each day. Kegs of sea-water were drawn for the women to wash their garments, and some of them even took the opportunity to wash themselves while allowing Hannah, who had a pair of shears, to neaten their tangled locks. Some of the sailors had taken paramours among the convicts and now, in these last few days before parting, the relationships became more open. McLeod shook his head, but being of a pragmatic though upright temperament, he accepted what he could not alter, even when one of the men announced his attention of leaving the ship to remain with his woman.

The convicts spent the last short stretch of the voyage in dread and anticipation. "It all depends on wot sort o’ place y’ get," said Betsy Potter , dipping her head energetically in the keg. "’ere, give us the soap, Anna - if milady isn’t too grand to ‘elp the likes o’ me!" Giving Anna a darkling look, she lathered her mane of hair twice over, then, amid cheers from her favourites among the sailors, leaned over the rail in her chemise and petticoat to let it dry. "If y’ get a good place, they say y’ can get to be a proper lady - if that’s what y’ wants. Know wot I mean?" She grinned and tossed her drying hair, using finger and thumb nail to remove a few stray nits from its yellow-coloured strands.

Anna nodded mutely, but some of the older women were not so optimistic. "It’s the female factory for us, you lack wit," said one of them sourly. "Whippings and whatever else they want to dish out. I mean - who’s to stop ‘em?"

"Don’t y’ lissen to ‘er, the old crow," said Betsy. "She don’t know nuffin. Nobody’s goin’ to whip Betsy Potter; Betsy Potter’s goin’ to go places now."

It was mid-morning when the Eliza Kirk finally sailed into the mouth of the Tamar River, passed the deserted settlement of York Town, and continued up-river to the thriving port of Launceston where Captain McLeod proposed to spend some weeks reprovisioning and performing routine maintenance work on his vessel before leaving once more for England. On the return voyage, he would carry a cargo of fine wool and such disaffected settlers and discharged convicts as wished to return to their old homes.

Several soldiers lounged along the docks, waiting to take charge of the disembarking convicts. Their eyes roamed greedily over the newcomers, reminding Anna of Mr Hubert and some of the guards at the prison. She shivered and clutched her bundle of belongings - mostly gifts from Miss Eleanor - more tightly to her breast, shrinking into her shawl and wishing her curly hair, cropped by Miss Eleanor, had been long enough to screen her face.

Other folk waited on the docks as well, and one brawny, brown-faced young man gave a great shout of Irish welcome and tossed his hat into the air. He was a fine, well-set-up fellow, with a thatch of chestnut-coloured hair, exuberant side whiskers, and a merry, unreliable face. Some of the convict women began to look more hopeful, and several of them smiled coquettishly at the Irishman as they were herded down the gangplank.

Another man, pink-faced and wearing a top hat which looked incongruous in the rough and ready surroundings, snatched it from his head and waved it vigorously. Old Mrs Jamieson, who had regretted every day of the long sea-voyage, picked up her skirts like a girl and hurried to the rail. "There is my son!" she told anyone who would listen. "Do you see him? There is my son Albert come to meet me!"

"Then you’d best not keep him waiting, Mother," said one of the sailors good-humouredly, and escorted her down to the dock where the pink-faced gentleman greeted her with a hug and a smile which lit his rather plain features into something like beauty. He then turned to draw forward a mousy young woman with a bundled baby, beaming as if presenting the Queen of England.

Farther away lingered a gaggle of other people. Some had clearly strolled in to see the sights, others to gape at the arriving convict women. Some planned to haggle for passage on the Eliza Kirk or to pick up news of England and the world. Still others had come to collect their assigned servants.

A pompous-looking man came up with a ledger from which he read names and other information, and it dawned on Anna that perhaps Betsy was right, and she might not be returning to prison after all. In a sense, the whole of Van Diemen’s Land was itself the prison. She stood among the other women, holding her bundle, achingly grateful to Miss Eleanor that at least she looked neat and respectable. They had all cleaned what they could during the last leg of the voyage, but there was little that could be done to refurbish their stained and ragged clothes. Some, like Betsy Potter, had used their ragged state as an excuse to crop the hems of their dresses to a most improper length.

"Edwin Hepple - two servant girls for rough works," read the pompous man. He looked around, then beckoned. "Come here, my man! We haven’t all day." Incredibly, it seemed that he was talking to Surgeon Lewis! "You look like a reasonable sort of fellow - can you give me some assistance here? Your name and rank, if you please?"

"Surgeon Lewis, of the Eliza Kirk," said the doctor coolly.

"Capital!" said the pompous one. "I’ve all these assignments to match up with warm bodies. Have you any recommendations, man? Are these women biddable? In good health?"

"Better than most," said Lewis. And they were, thanks mostly to his skill and the Captain’s humane attitude.

"Capital, capital. We have assignments for ten general servants, three nursemaids, sundry dairymaids and lady’s maids. Rough work for six, and so forth."

Disgustedly, Lewis bent his mind to the unfamiliar one of matching women with potential employers, knowing as he did so that the word ‘servant’ had a much broader application here in the colonies.

"There is a great shortage of healthy females in the colony at this present date," explained the official. "Young women are in heavy demand - particularly if they are presentable and mannered."

Within hours, most of the women had been selected by employers - although this was something of a euphemism for the real relationship between convict and settler. An assigned servant had few rights and in some cases was little more than a slave, to be beaten and used as the employer saw fit. As the official had implied, some of the employers had more on their minds than a capacity for work. The ebullient Irishman’s eye passed over the women to fall speculatively on Anna, and he raised an interrogative brow. She trembled, and shrank back into her shawl. The man gave a tiny shrug and his gaze swept on to settle upon Betsy Potter, the most comely of the women. He beckoned for her to come and stand beside him. "Ye’ll do for me, me darlin’!" he exclaimed, and seized the girl for a smacking kiss.

"Sir! Please wait your turn!" cried the official, but the Irishman winked and took his chosen one firmly by the arm. "Sure, me name is Pat McNamara of Shepherd Town. Anyone can tell ye where to find me should ye be so inclined!" he said, and was off.

Anna shivered. This reminded her uncomfortably of a cattle market, and she felt very much alone. Covertly, she glanced over the waiting crowd. Who would be her new owner? For that was what it amounted to. For five years she would belong to some settler, soul and body. To her dismay, there seemed to be very few women among the potential employers. Some of the men were great, rough-looking fellows, others had a veneer of respectability. All seemed to be appraising the women with knowing eyes. Were they all destined for forced whoredom?

Appealingly, she looked across to Surgeon Lewis, but he was in conversation with one of the men, a rugged-faced person of some thirty five years who held his hat clasped in one hand. As if he felt her gaze, the gentleman glanced up. Their eyes met. He studied her gravely for a moment, and then said something to Lewis. Lewis nodded, then looked surprised and beckoned to Anna. "Is this the girl you mean?"

The man looked pleased. "Yes, I think she might suffice, Surgeon. What is your name, girl?"

Anna gulped. "Anna Bailey, sir."

"How old are you, Anna? And are you in good health?"

"Yes sir. I am fifteen."

The man nodded again with some satisfaction. "Excellent! My name is Charles Colby, Anna. and my wife Jane is in need of a maid to help her with the children. Jane is a little pulled down after the fever, and has therefore charged me with the task of choosing her a girl of amiable nature, pleasant aspect and some intelligence." He smiled wryly as he pronounced this catalogue. "I fear she is left too much alone, and wishes for a companion. Well, Anna? Would you care to come with me?"

Anna glanced at Surgeon Lewis, who jerked her head impatiently in assent. It seemed she had no choice. She bobbed a tiny curtsy to the surgeon, then turned to Colby. "Yes, sir," she said, and fumbled in her bodice for the letter Miss Eleanor had given her.

"What’s this?" Colby quirked an eyebrow. "Scholarship as well?"

"This girl has lately been in the employ of a lady who left the ship at Sydney Town," said Lewis shortly. "I believe Miss Parr found her work and conduct entirely satisfactory, and has written a reference to that effect."

Colby quirked his brow again, and glanced down at the letter. "It seems that Miss Parr certainly found her satisfactory," he remarked. "Indeed, I am beginning to feel that I have found a paragon among maid-servants! Jane will be most pleased with me. Come along, Anna."

Anna glanced once more at the familiar scowl of Surgeon Lewis, then left the gaggle of women still standing on the wharf. She had made friends with none of them save Hannah the midwife, but vaguely she wished them well. Or would have done had she had thought to spare from her own position.

The conditions of Anna’s employment with the Colby family were not unduly harsh. She was to remain with the family for a period of five years and do as she was bid. Any wrong-doing would be severely punished, and if she proved incorrigible, she could be sent to the penitentiary at Port Arthur or Richmond where conditions were harsh indeed.

It was all very well to tell herself it would never come to that, but, as Anna had already discovered, try as she might to be good, it was not always possible to stay out of trouble. Should Charles Colby prove as lecherous as Hubert Sutton, or should his wife Jane prove overly exacting, ill-tempered or unjust, Anna would suffer.

The selection which Charles Colby had taken up was almost one hundred miles from Launceston, and it was a long and tedious journey, first by horse and cart and finally by bullock wagon over an unmade road. Colby had already put in a day in the township buying supplies, but he told Anna he had a number of other commissions to procure before turning the horses’ heads for his property - which, he informed her, was known as ‘Sherwood’. "A fancy of Jane’s," he explained as they left the docks. "Our selection is in a heavily wooded area, east of Emu Bay, and I fear Jane had romantic thoughts of outlaws!"

"Robin Hood?" suggested Anna.

"The very gentleman," said Charles Colby gravely. "I see you are a person of some information, Anna."

"My father used to tell me stories from the old romances, sir," said Anna pensively.

"And Jane will very likely tell you more until you beg for mercy. She would be most discomforted to meet a real bushranger, I fear, but the notion of the merrie men of the greenwood tree has quite taken possession of her fancy. And now, Anna, I think you may as well begin your employment by being of assistance to me. Jane has charged me to choose cloth to make garments for our children. I have little idea of what is needed, and fear the haberdasher will know this (when do tradesmen not know such things?) and try to persuade me to the most expensive and inappropriate materials."

Anna was startled to find tears in her eyes, but she wiped them away with the back of her hand. "I will try, sir," she said.

"No need to cry, Anna," said Colby, putting his hand briefly on her shoulder. "You will not find Jane a harsh mistress and in any case you cannot make a worse choice than I."

Anna flinched away from his touch. Apart from Miss Eleanor, a most undemonstrative person, and Doll, no-one had touched her in friendship since Miss Verity had given her that impulsive and dangerous hug, many months before. Miss Eleanor had deserted her, and so had Miss Verity, for all her profession of friendship. So, no matter how kindly this Jane Colby and her husband appeared, no matter what soft words they used to lull her, vowed Anna, she would never relax her guard, never make the mistake of trusting another person again. It could bring only painful betrayal.

CHAPTER FIVE.

It was several days later that Anna first saw the place which, whether she liked it or not, was to be her home for the next five years. Sherwood was certainly a very thickly wooded selection aside from the homestead area, which Charles Colby had painstakingly hacked out of the trees. "We call this ‘bush’ over here in the colonies," said Colby. "Those tall trees are what we call ‘gums’, the others are wattle and such - you won’t find your beech or your elm around here, although some have been planted down near the garrison towns. You’ll find that Jane has her little piece of England in her flower garden, however."

Anna stared, bemused. It was all so strange, so foreign. She had never thought how strange it would be. "Where are the black people?" she asked nervously. "The savages?"

Colby settled himself more comfortably on the dray. "Oh, they’re about," he said, "particularly along the coast. They stay clear of us mostly, although there have been a few incidents. Things are getting better - there are not so many bushrangers as there used to be."

"What is a bushranger?" asked Anna. She had heard him use the term before, but had been too diffident to ask for an explanation.

"What you might call a footpad or a highwayman," said Colby. "Some of them are much more savage than the natives, but never fear, there are few around here." He turned to look at her earnestly. "This place is safer than London in some ways, Anna. There are wild beasts, snakes and kangaroos, tigers and some little black creatures the size of terriers. They’re called devils around these parts, but they’re not dangerous - unless you happen to be a hen. Stay clear of the snakes, though - those are deadly."

"Tigers!" said Anna faintly.

"Not really. They are called that for convenience - I suppose because they have stripes. They are really more like to dogs than great cats, skinny, misshapen dogs, and timid; much more so than the devils. Here we are though - this is Sherwood land."

At first, Anna could detect no difference in the surrounding forest - or ‘bush’ as she must now learn to call it - but then they came up to a patch of stumps with fresh axe and saw-marks in them. Shortly after that, came a more obvious clearing containing a sturdy wooden house.

"One thing we do not lack in the colonies is timber," said Charles Colby with satisfaction. "Well, this is journey’s end, Anna, and here is Jane to welcome us."

Jane Colby was a small woman, like Miss Eleanor, but unlike Miss Eleanor, she radiated an air of placid serenity. Her clothes seemed very humble to Anna’s eyes after the gowns favoured by Miss Verity and Mrs Sutton. The skirts were full, but the fullness was not excessive, which was probably as well, thought Anna. Otherwise her new mistress might have resembled an over-stuffed tea-cosy. Unlike Miss Eleanor, Jane Colby seemed to have a liking for colours, green and cream with a frivolous little knot of yellow ribbon. Her hair was pinned up rather carelessly and she was a plain-looking person with plump cheeks, round grey eyes and a nose that resembled a button, yet when she came out of the cottage Charles Colby sprang down from the dray to scoop her up in his arms and swing her about, kissing her all the while.

Anna stared. Henry Clift had been inclined to steal kisses from Ellen on occasion, but Ellen had always ostentatiously pushed him away, telling him to ‘get along, do!’ And she had never seen a married couple - even her own parents - exchanging more than the mildest peck on the cheek.

"Did you bring - oh, I see you did!" said Jane Colby breathlessly as her husband put her down. She came towards Anna with her hands held out. "Welcome - oh, dear. I do not even know your name, but you look just as I had hoped you might. You are so very clever, Charles!" She had a sweet, lilting voice which sounded perpetually on the verge of laughter and her laugh, when it did come, invited laughter from others. Anna could not help smiling in return, and as Colby introduced his wife to her new servant girl, Anna’s carefully cultivated reservations fell away as the husk falls from a ripe chestnut.

Unlike Miss Eleanor, Jane Colby expressed a wish to know all about Anna’s life and experiences up until this point. Her husband shook his head at her in some amusement. "Come, my dear, perhaps Anna would prefer to keep some portions of her career to herself! I have here a letter of recommendation from a Miss Eleanor Parr who assures me that during their shipboard association she has found one Anna Bailey to be of good character, equable temper and of excellent understanding."

Jane clapped her hands in a way which might have appeared affectedly girlish but somehow did not. "How wonderful! But I am sure Anna will not object to telling us about herself. We will need to be comfortable together while she is with us, and cannot be so if there are great areas where we dare not venture. But how long is she to stay?"

Colby unfolded a paper from his waistcoat. "She is assigned to us for a period of five years, if we so wish."

Jane nodded cheerfully. "Then we must get to know one another. Come in Anna, and we shall have a glass of milk. Did Mr Colby tell you we have our own cow? It is necessary to consider such things at Sherwood; there are no suppliers or dairymen within a day’s journey. Our Bessie is a good creature, and provides for us amply. It will be one of your jobs to milk her. Have you done so before?"

"Yes, Madam," said Anna. "When I was young my grandfather had a cow. Am I to be a dairymaid, then?"

Jane Colby gave a rather rueful laugh. "Dairymaid, house maid, lady’s maid and nursemaid! I am afraid all these positions are to fall upon you, Anna - with my unskilled assistance. We had a housekeeper from Hobart Town but she could not endure the quiet and resented the lack of underlings to order, and so returned there a month ago. The children miss her sadly, and so do I, so I fear you will find us sadly informal and familiar. We are such a small household - myself, Charles and the children, and Joseph, who was used to be a pastry-cook in Suffolk and is now our cook, houseboy and yard hand." Jane Colby paused to catch her breath and Anna smiled slowly.

"It sounds very pleasant, Madam."

Jane Colby spoke nothing but the truth when she spoke of informality. Over the next months and years, Anna came to know every member of the household very well indeed. She saw the three Colby children grow from stout toddlers to lively imps who should, so their mother declared, have been dissipating their energies in the schoolroom.

"It is all very fine to declare that young Charles is able in the use of a hatchet and that Caroline compounds lump-free porridge," she said, "but aside from such talents they are sadly ignorant. I have tried to teach them their letters, but they will not attend me. They mind their father and Joseph, but Joseph claims to be no scholar and dear Charles is so busy about the selection. "Oh Caroline - pray do not do such things to little Robert! Come and I shall tell you the tale of bold Robin Hood and his sweetheart who lived in the greenwood of Sherwood."

"And then, perhaps, Miss Caroline," said Anna, "you would care to learn the way to write his name and hers and, if you are very clever, the names of those others in the story!"

Soon Jane had her daughter and younger son laughing at the antics of fat Friar Tuck and a lugubrious Little John as they fought for the favour of their outlaw master. Jane had a great gift for mimicry, and her husband often declared that, had she not been so respectable, she would have gone on the stage and worn furs and jewels in place of calico and wool.

After the story was done, Anna, as she had suggested, demonstrated the correct way to write the names of these heroes and a short report on their adventures which was to be perfected before Jane would agree to provide another instalment of the tale.

"It may be a novel fashion of teaching them their letters," laughed Jane a month later, "but Caroline and Robert are progressing well and as for young Charles - he is determined not to allow his juniors to overtake him in the schoolroom."

"My own father taught me from the old romances," said Anna pensively.

"And your mama to bake and brew?"

"My mother taught me little I care to remember," said Anna, and turned away. Jane’s laughter died, but she had the priceless gift of knowing when to leave sore subjects alone, and turned the conversation to the vexed question of how many brown eggs could be got from the hen-house to make a batter pudding for supper.

Life was not always placid at Sherwood. One day in early 1853, while Charles was away on one of his infrequent trips to Emu Bay, a small band of natives wandered into the clearing.

Jane called her children into the house, and had Joseph bolt the doors. "I know they are God’s creatures, just as are we," she said nervously, "but when they simply appear in such a fashion and stand there staring, my heart misgives me. Oh, why did Charles have to choose today to leave us alone?"

Anna held young Robert by the back of his shirt, for he showed signs of wishing to scramble up to the window ledge to peer at the strange visitors.

"Oh, what are they about?" gasped Jane. "I pray they do not spear poor Bessie and carry her away for their pot! Anna, do you think we should offer them a suet pudding instead?"

"Do they eat suet pudding, Ma’am?"

"Heavens, Anna, I do not know! I know they eat kangaroos and - and - well, things like that. What are they doing? Are they going away?"

"One of the women is coming closer," said Anna, who had an excellent view through a slit in the curtains. "She has a baby with her ..."

Jane relaxed. "A mother with a child cannot be all bad," she said. "Not that I mean to say they are bad, exactly, for I do not know them, but they are very strange, are they not, Anna?"

Anna nodded. They were very strange, but looking at their calm, heavy-browed faces, she felt that they looked more dignified than the supposedly civilized Christian women she had known in prison. The woman with the baby squatted suddenly and bent over Jane’s flowerbed. "Oh, what is she doing?" asked Jane.

Anna laughed. "Ma’am, I believe she is admiring your gillyflowers!"

"Oh!" Jane cautiously moved aside the curtain and opened the window a crack. "Yes, you may pick some," she said in a voice that quavered only a little. "I would like you to have them. Only - please leave us the cow."

The woman’s white teeth flashed once in her dark face. Unhurriedly, she rose to her feet, and returned to the rest of the group, who turned and melted silently back into the bush.

Jane let her breath go in a long sigh.

By the time Charles Colby returned, she had recovered sufficiently to give him a light-hearted account of the encounter. He looked grave, but said little. "I have heard it said that the natives are not dangerous unless one shows aggression," he said.

"We were quite safe then," said Jane.

Colby sighed. "Alas, who can say? For not everyone is as peace-loving as you, my dear. There are plenty who say we should rid the colony of the blacks."

"But surely - if they do no harm?"

Colby squeezed her hand. "I have a piece of news for you which I know will please you both greatly," he said, putting aside his grave mood. "Transportation to Van Diemen’s Land is ended."

"Thank God!" cried Jane.

"Yes, any who leave the old country from now on will do so of their own free will."

"No more unfortunates to come into exile!" said Jane. "Is that not a great thing, Anna?"

"Now, how may I answer that?" said Anna with a wry smile. "Had I not been brought here I would now be rotting in some dark cell in Newgate Prison. I might be mad, or ill, or even dead." A shadow crossed her face as she remembered the mad eyes of the older convicts, and the misery of the consumptive woman who had shared her cell. And Doll. Whatever had happened to Doll?

"Perhaps it is not so bad for you, Anna," agreed Jane, "but some poor wretches in the early days - ah, it was a living Hell. The journey here alone killed many."

"Yes, I have cause to be grateful," said Anna. "Captain McLeod was a good man, I think - and so, in his way, was Surgeon Lewis. I know Miss Eleanor admired them. I wonder how she does?"

"Your Miss Eleanor, from what you tell of her, is bound to be well," said Jane. "Perhaps you might send her a letter one day Anna, since you know something of her direction."

"Perhaps," said Anna, but she did not do so. At seventeen she felt herself to be a completely different person than the bewildered girl who had been shipped like a piece of cargo to Van Diemen’s Land.

Jane threaded a needle, for she was expecting another child and had declared the small dresses, worn by Charles, Caroline and Robert to be quite worn out. "Have you considered what you will do in the future, Anna? You will be leaving us in two years more."

Anna shook her head. "Might I not remain with you, Ma’am?"

"If you would like to do so, we would naturally be delighted," said Jane, "but you are young and pretty. Surely you wish to marry and have a family of your own? In truth there are few young men at Sherwood, unless you have a fancy for Joseph? Now do not look so dismayed; I was not seriously proposing the match!"

Anna laughed dutifully, but shook her head once more. "I shall never marry," she said, and shuddered as Mr Hubert’s face rose suddenly in her mind’s eye. She had not thought of him for two years but now, with a clearer understanding of what he had done to her, she could not avoid a feeling of shame. Why had she not screamed and struck him before he violated her instead of after? The punishment could not have been greater, and she would have been spared the pain, the shame and illness that had followed.

"I shall never marry," she said once more, so definitely that Jane was startled.

"Time enough to think of that, I suppose," she said gently, and returned to her hemstitching. "There was a time when I thought myself unlikely to wed, Anna. I was such a plain, dumpy little thing, you see, with none of what my mama called ‘countenance’. I had reached the age of twenty three with not a single offer to my name. I considered myself quite upon the shelf, I can tell you! But then my sister Emmie chanced to read an advertisement which had been placed in the news sheet by a young man who proposed leaving for a new life in the colonies and who thought it prudent to marry before he left. ‘Perhaps you should apply for the position, Jane!’ she said to me. It was a jest, you see, and I took it in good enough part but then I came to thinking - why not? There was little enough to hold me in England. My mama was kind, but I could see she was ashamed of her old maid daughter. She declared me quite a cuckoo in the nest! And so I wrote to the young man concerned, oh, I was quite shameless! I told him I had little to offer but good intentions and a loving heart, but he suggested that we should meet. We did so, and he declared that we suited excellently. Neither one of us had face nor fortune to recommend us, you see, but he had a smile that recommended itself to me." Jane smiled reminiscently. "He told me later that he had been engaged to a lady he had known from childhood, but that she had refused to countenance the thought of being a part of his great adventure, so he thought he might take a chance on a lady he knew not at all! And Anna, we have been so very happy, so you must never despair of finding a husband - or of a husband finding you."

"No, Ma’am," said Anna decidedly, "but I do not wish to marry."

"And you have no wish for me to be everlastingly prosing on about it, either," said Jane shrewdly. "Then we shall close this discussion by assuring you that you are welcome to continue in our employment for as long as you should wish to do so, but also, after your term is up, that you are equally free to go elsewhere."

Anna was quite satisfied to leave matters at that.

Shortly after Anna’s eighteenth birthday, Jane Colby turned to her husband at the breakfast table and said matter-of-factly; "Charles, when next you go to town, would you please bespeak Mrs Bellamy?"

Her husband looked troubled. "Is it that time already? Surely you still have some time to go?"

Jane moved uncomfortably. "So I understood, but I feel I should feel more secure knowing Mrs Bellamy to be within call."

"I need to see Captain Bellamy about a new consignment of timber soon," said Charles. "I shall see to it then." He grinned. "I believe the gold rush in the Port Phillip region is putting more money in our purses here in Van Diemen’s Land than it is in the purses of the miners themselves, Jane. There has never been such a demand for our timber."

"Will the supply hold out?" asked Jane anxiously.

Charles Colby waved his hand expansively. "Will the supply of sea sand run dry? Will there ever be a lack of kangaroos to gobble up your cabbages? Jane, there is more timber here about our own Sherwood than there ever was about her namesake in old Nottingham. And Captain Bellamy is happy to carry all we can provide."

After Charles had gone out, Anna cleared the crocks from the table. Jane smiled at her ruefully. "No doubt this timber boom is a great thing for us," she said, "but it keeps Charles so busy on the saw and axe all the day long. I hope he will not wear himself quite to a ravelling. Try, when you carry him his luncheon, if you cannot persuade him to rest a while with the other men."

Anna agreed, but she did not take Charles’ luncheon to him that day.

It was very shortly after the crocks had been washed in the detached kitchen and put away that Jane’s bell, rung with unaccustomed vigour, summoned Anna to the grandly named ‘drawing room’ in the main part of the house. Anna dried her hands and ran through. It was unlike Jane to summon her so brusquely.

"Ma’am?" she said questioningly. Jane raised a pale, damp face from the back of the settle. "Anna," she said, "I need your help." Her lips compressed suddenly. "Have one of the children run for Charles - I need Mrs Bellamy sooner even than I suspected."

"I shall go myself," said Anna, but Jane shook her head. "No - I need you. Send young Charles - and have Joseph take Caroline and Robert out - a picnic luncheon would please them." Anna, trying not to show her own uneasiness, did as Jane asked. Soon young Charles had hurried to fetch his father and the taciturn Joseph had agreed to take the younger children out. "Though what is to happen to the mutton I had prepared -" he mumbled.

"Put it back in the meat-safe," said Anna and Joseph did so, all the time muttering hard things about saucy wenches who spoke sharp to their betters. "And I dare swear

the butter will sour in the churn!" he added as a parting shot.

"I dare swear it will!" snapped Anna, for she and Joseph were not the best of friends.

Jane was lying back with her eyes closed when Anna returned to her. "Anna, you will have to help me to my bed," she said. "But first, please fetch as many old clean linens as you may find."

Anna ran, and then returned to support Jane to the bedchamber and help her remove her gown and drawers. "Heavens, child, do not look so terrified!" said Jane with a weak chuckle as she lay back against the feather pillow. "It is not such a ..." A pain seized her and she bit her lip. "...terrible thing," she said when the pain had ebbed away. "But I must try not to bite my lip this time - as I recall it pained me for a week or more when Robert was ... oh!" A gush of fluid flowed suddenly from her body, soaking the bed, and before Anna could move to clean it up Jane had reached out blindly with her hand. Anna moved to her side and held the hand.

"My back!" gasped Jane. "Oh, please, Anna - rub - "

Anna rubbed her back and comforted her as well as she could, but in her mind she was suddenly back in Miss Eleanor’s cabin on the Eliza Kirk, screaming uncontrollably for hour after hour - surely Jane’s husband must arrive with the midwife soon! But when Charles did come he was alone.

He kissed his wife and then drew Anna hastily out of the room. "Anna, I am going to fetch Mrs Bellamy now, but if we should be too late - Anna! Are you attending to me?" He reached out and shook her firmly by the shoulders. "Anna, if the child should come before we return, you must cut the cord. Do you understand? Cut the cord part way between Jane and the child and tie it tightly with strong thread. Wrap the babe in a shawl and then tend to Jane." He gave her another shake and then a reassuring smile. "Good girl - you’ll do. You won’t let anything happen to Jane, will you?"

"No sir," said Anna.

"Then go. I will be as quick as I can, but do not look for us much before nightfall."

A loud wail from the bedchamber sent Colby hotfoot for his horse, and Anna apprehensively back to her mistress.

"Oh, Anna - it is so quick this time!" gasped Jane. "I cannot - " Another contraction overcame her, rippling visibly across her distended abdomen. "There is no - dignity - left, is there?" demanded Jane, writhing. "Oooh - it is coming - Help me, Anna! hold me up -"

There seemed nothing for it: Anna scrambled onto the bed behind Jane and supported her shoulders. The veins stood out taut on Jane’s temples as she strained, crying out with the effort. "Now be ready -" she gasped. "Pillow!" Anna thrust pillows behind her and darted to the foot of the bed, arriving just in time to guide the newest Colby child into the world. The baby arrived with a slither and a gush and Anna could not help of thinking of the skinned hares her grandfather had used to bring home. But she brought herself to order and clutched the baby to her while she sought the correct place to cut the bluish, rope-like cord with her sewing scissors. She bound it with thread and the child gave a mewling cry and then began to yowl with what seemed to be indignation, for hands and feet were drawn up and the face turned alarmingly red.

Hurriedly, Anna snatched up a shawl and swathed the child in its folds before turning with some apprehension to Jane. To her astonishment Jane, although breathing hard, was pulling herself upright, her eyes fixed on the bundle. "Tell me before I die of suspense," she said, and it was once more her familiar, laughing tones. "Have we a son or another daughter?"

Anna investigated. "A son - I think," she said cautiously.

"You think! Then I hope you are more sure when your own turn comes!" laughed Jane. "But give him to me, Anna. Oh, is he not a sweet boy? And so impatient to be with us! I declare I feel I have been forty two rounds with a bare-knuckle champion!" She became so absorbed in the new child that she scarcely seemed to notice when one final spasm brought forth the birthing bag. Anna disposed of it in the privy, and then brought water from the range to bathe Jane and the baby. This done, she handed him back to his mother and the two settled down in evident contentment.

Jane smiled up at Anna. "Anna - thank you so much. You may not think him beautiful - I dare-say our Edward is as ugly as babes always are - but he is a thing of beauty to me. Mothers are foolish creatures, as you may find one day if ever you have a child - but what have I said?" Anna’s careful composure had vanished in a storm of tears.

Jane looked startled, and then tears came into her own eyes. "Anna, Anna, don’t!" she begged. "You will have me howling like a tempest - I am always a watering pot when I have a new babe!"

"’Edward’," sobbed Anna. "Edward is what Miss Eleanor called my baby on the ship!"

"Your baby?" said Jane blankly. "But, Anna, you were a child yourself - never say you had a baby!"

"He was born dead," cried Anna. "I never even s-saw him. I never knew - "

Jane carefully laid aside her new son and held out her arms to Anna. "Then you must have a share of this one," she said briskly. "For you were the first one to hold him in your arms."

By the time Charles Colby arrived with plump Mrs Bellamy riding pillion, Jane and her baby were asleep. Anna had cleaned away the soiled linens and put some of the precious stock of tea ready to brew for when Jane should wake. Charles Colby looked exhausted, but he brightened markedly when Anna informed him of his son’s safe birth.

Mrs Bellamy, evidently a dame of few words, demanded to be taken immediately to see her patients, returning to say that she was scarcely needed. "Mrs Colby and the babe appear to be in perfect health," she said. "He is a little small, but then his arrival was early. You seem to have managed well, girl," she added to Anna. "When your master told me Mrs Colby had only a convict girl to tend to her I feared you might have made off, but I see you have not."

"I told you she would not," said Charles impatiently. "I verily believe Anna would no more cause Jane distress than she would her own mother. Am I not right, Anna?"

"Yes, sir," said Anna, and turned defiantly to Mrs Bellamy. "Mrs Colby has been kinder to me than my own mother ever was, Ma’am."

"Hoity toity!" said Mrs Bellamy. "Hoity toity!"

Young Edward Colby thrived and grew, and by the time he was a year old he had Anna and Jane constantly on edge for fear of what he would do next. At two, he was chattering as fast as he could run, which was quite a feat. By now others apart from Charles Colby had taken up land near the Dial Range, and an infant settlement known as Perry Bay was beginning to grow. Charles added another room to the house at Sherwood, and soon Jane was delightedly announcing that they were to entertain visitors. "It is so long since we have had company, Anna!" she fluttered. "Joseph will be so pleased." Anna stared. She could not imagine the dour Joseph being pleased about anything. "You see he so seldom has a chance to show off!" explained Jane solemnly. "Charles does not care for rich meals and I dare not care for them." Ruefully, she looked down at her dumpy figure. "But now Joseph can fetch all his best receipts out of mothballs and astonish us." And so Joseph did, almost driving Anna distracted with his demands for more and more butter and cream. Bessie the cow had been joined at pasture by her daughters Patty and Pansy, but even so the three of them were hard put to produce the quantities of dairy goods that Joseph demanded. And that was not all. Loaf sugar and nutmegs must be grated, flour procured, and mutton hung for the required time. The guests came, stayed on for three appreciative days, and then went on their way.

"I think Joseph did too well, my dear," Jane confided to her husband. "Mrs Allen said she was considering making him an offer. And he is a free man - what is to stop him from accepting?"

Charles laughed. "I think not - especially since he is bound to have more chances to strut his accomplishments soon. Two more houses are to be built at Perry Bay this summer. I fear we may one day lose Anna, though."

Jane raised her eyebrows.

"As a mere female you may not have noticed," said Charles affectionately, "but our Anna has blossomed into a very attractive young woman. Not much like the starveling waif who came to us from the Eliza Kirk!"

Jane stared at him in mock outrage. "Charles! How dare you! You, who promised me most sincerely that you would never look at another woman if I did you the honour of accepting your hand!"

Charles laughed. "I do not set out to look," he explained, "but I cannot help seeing what is before my eyes. And I am not the only man who has noticed Anna. Surely you perceived that young Allen hardly took his eyes off her through the whole visit!"

Jane sighed. "That would not please his parents, I think," she said. "Mrs Allen informed me that her son is engaged to a very well-connected girl from Hobart Town."

"There are others though," said Charles. "Some of the lads who cart the timber are making excuses to come to the house and I have noticed that Bert Jones, at least, has developed an insatiable interest in cows - when Anna is milking them."

"Well, I’m sure I hope you are right," said Jane stoutly. "I should hate to lose Anna, but she is a dear girl and she loves the children - she should have others of her own."

"Others?" said Charles sharply, but Jane shook her head and turned the subject.

That summer was a special one for Anna. Her sentence was served and, like Joseph, she was free once more. Charles Colby made a small ceremony of handing her the papers which established her new status as a freedwoman of the colony. "Jane has instructed me to ask you whether you have any wish to return home to England, Anna," he said. "We would hate to lose you, but we are willing to pay your fare if you would like to go. Captain Bellamy’s Victoria is sailing in March - would you like to be on board?"

Anna stared. Such a thought had never occurred to her. To go home. To be in England again. To walk on paved streets and see the familiar English trees and the mild blue sky - to visit the home of her childhood and lay flowers on her father’s grave. To - to do what, precisely?

For the first time in five years Miss Eleanor’s words came back to her. ‘You have the opportunity to become whatever you wish ...’

Respectfully, she bobbed a curtsy. "No sir, thank you very much," she said. "I think I should prefer to remain here."

CHAPTER SIX

The summer was a hot one, but not unbearably so. Parts of Australia were said to be tropical, but Van Diemen’s Land was as temperate as England - although wild and drab and sparsely populated as England was not, and had not been in living memory. Christmas passed, the summery antipodean Christmas that Anna was beginning to accept now as inevitable, and New Year approached.

"Eighteen fifty six," said Jane. "And the colony to have a new name. ‘Tasmania’. A strange name, is it not?"

"It pertains to the Dutchman whose explorative work was prominent many years ago," said Charles.

"Do you know, Charles," mused Jane, "we have been here for a dozen years. Do you remember the New Year’s ball we attended in London, just before we left? It seemed the thing to do, did it not? A new year and a new life in a new colony. The beginning of a new family, too."

"There is to be a New Year’s dance at Perry House," said Charles. "Scarcely a ball by English reckoning, Jane, but still a party of a kind. I believe two of the locals have fiddles and Captain Bellamy’s wife is reckoned a great hand on her pianoforte - the Captain had it brought from England swaddled in flannel against the sea air. Perry tells me he has invited everyone in the district; it’s to be a house-warming for his grand new mansion. Shall we go?"

Jane demurred. She was expecting another baby in the autumn. "I cannot recall any ladies in my condition attending balls," she said ruefully.

"My dear, who will notice?"

"Only all the ladies," said Jane, "but I shall go. The old restrictions scarcely apply here."

"You’ll be danced off your feet, my dear," prophesied her husband, "and so will Anna."

"Anna?"

"Yes? Why not? As you say, the old social restrictions can scarcely matter here. Several of the most prosperous men in the district arrived under the broad arrow. I believe John Perry himself is the son of a convict."

"I doubt that Anna can dance," said Jane. "She was in service at thirteen, and has had no chance to learn since."

"Then we must teach her," said Charles.

Jane had a music box which, when wound, tinkled a pleasant waltz tune. To this unpromising accompaniment, Anna learnt to dance, under Jane’s thinly veiled pretext of ‘teaching the elder children’.

The Colby dray covered the six miles to Perry Bay in well under two hours. With the expansion of the timber sales to Port Phillip, the unmade road had become wide and smooth, and it was now possible for a dray or a wagon to proceed where riding horses or foot travel had once been the only possibility. The midwife would not need to ride pillion when she came to Sherwood in the autumn. Anna went to the dance, protesting against the notion until Jane told her blandly that she would be glad of her company. "For you know I am inclined to tire easily, just at present," she said. "Miss Murray can stay with the children." Miss Murray was a genteel, elderly governess whom Jane had recently hired to teach the elder children. "We must make you a gown," declared Jane. "Serge skirts are practical for working in the house, but would scarcely be appropriate at a dance. And Anna - when we arrive at the dance you will be introduced as ‘Miss Anna Bailey’. You must refer to me as ‘Mrs Colby’ or ‘Jane’, not ‘Ma’am.’" She sighed. "It is hardly a dazzling occasion for your come-out, but we are not in London now, and must contrive as we can. Now - a gown. I believe I have the very thing tucked away in my chest! I wore it in London, but I fear I have grown plump since then and it is hardly appropriate for one of my advancing years. Of course, it is not just in the current mode."

Anna protested that she would not be dancing, would not need anything other than her usual summer garments, but Jane was adamant. The gown was not to lie mouldering in the chest for a single day longer than it had already.

For the first time since childhood, Anna put on a dress which had not been chosen strictly for serviceability. It was a flounced gown in a soft, delicate green, designed in the manner of a decade before to be worn over many petticoats. The bodice was cut low off the shoulders showing a deep decolletage. "I wore long white gloves with this, and had flowers pinned to the skirt and shoulders," remembered Jane. "I thought I was very fine, and Mama was very disappointed when, after all the trouble she and the modiste had taken, I simply did not take. But then, how would I? I was no slender young thing even then, and these gowns were designed for ladies with hand-span waists. I believe the modern ones are even fuller below and tighter above."

Protesting, Anna put on the dress. It was too short, but Jane declared she could let in a band of colour above the lowest flounce. "It will overlap, and we can make rosettes of the same colour to trim the waist and bosom," she decided. "You will look quite the young lady of fashion, Anna."

Anna tugged at the neckline, which seemed indecently low.

"I think perhaps necklines have risen a trifle," said Jane with a twinkle. "According to the fashion journals Mama sent me last year. Shall we make a flounce up there as well?"

It was barely dusk when the Colbys and Anna arrived at Perry House. John Perry, the host, had laid out his new home on generous lines, and his fancy had departed from the neat square style of Georgian architecture and run riot with gables, iron lace, and huge lamps flanking the driveway.

"Quite Gothic!" remarked Jane. "No doubt he hopes to make this the grandest house in the north for years to come."

"He certainly has the biggest spread east of Circular Head," said Charles. "He plans to run sheep once the timber is removed, I understand."

"Ah, Circular Head!" exclaimed Jane. "That is a place I would love to visit. Think, Anna, the Head is said to be a vast rock rearing out of the ocean, and one may climb it if one is so disposed."

Charles looked at her affectionately. "Now Jane, have I not told you the wind at the top is set fair to tear you from the rock and send you to New South Wales?"

Jane looked thoughtful. "Perhaps I may be content to gaze upon it, then. But mark you, Charles, one day I wish to see it with my own eyes."

It was not the first time Anna had been to the fledgling community of Perry Bay, but she had not seen this house since it was half built. Its grandeur gave her the strange fancy that she might meet anyone inside - perhaps even Miss Verity. She shrank away as a manservant opened the door and ushered them into an enormous open hallway. What if the Perrys refused to receive her? Jane would be mortified. But when John Perry and his wife greeted their party she knew she had nothing to fear from them. John spoke with the flattened vowels of a second generation settler and his wife had a strong Scottish burr. She was a homely looking young woman with a down-to-earth manner, and she greeted Jane and Anna with impartial hospitality, sending off a maid servant with their wraps and urging them into the ballroom.

The dance was soon off to a good start. There were fifteen couples, comprising almost the entire adult population of Perry Bay as well as visitors from as far afield as Launceston to the east and Circular Head to the west. Making up the numbers was a smattering of grown sons and daughters of the settlers, itinerant workers and the officers from Captain Bellamy’s Victoria, which happened to be in port. The Captain himself sat, foursquare and bearded, in a low chair, marking time with the rhythm his wife pounded forth from the pianoforte. Beside her, two Irish fiddlers were scraping out a jig.

"Oh dear," said Jane, "I fear this is a little too lively for me."

"I knoo what ye mean, lassie!" said Mrs Perry, "but the musicians must play what they will! ‘tis easy enoo once ye have the way o’ it!" And taking her husband’s arm she set off down the floor, heel and toe.

Presently, the fiddlers laid aside their bows and Mrs Bellamy struck up an emphatic waltz. Jane brightened, and soon she and Charles were decorously circling.

Anna sat down on one of the seats which spanned the walls of the great room. She neither expected nor wished to dance; it was enough to be here, dressed like the quality, tasting some seasonal gaiety. Lessons with Jane and young Master Charles had scarcely prepared her for the festive reality of the scene before her. She turned away from the dazzling dancers to watch some new arrivals, a tall man and his comely wife. The pair looked curiously familiar, and Anna frowned, trying to think where she could have seen them before. It did not seem possible that she knew them; they were not among the visitors who now called regularly at Sherwood and she had certainly not met them on the few occasions she had accompanied Charles or Jane to buy provisions at the general store or to attend the rare services held in the new slab church at Perry Bay.

Now the waltz was ending, and the fiddlers, well refreshed with ale brought in from the Victoria Hotel, were taking up their positions once more and striking up what Anna recognised as another Irish jig.

"There’s a fine welcome for Patrick McNamara, me darlin’!" cried the tall newcomer, and seized his wife around the waist. Abruptly, Anna recognised him as the exuberant Irishman who had been on the dock to greet the Eliza Kirk. Yes, and he had not waited to be assigned a convict girl, but had passed over Anna and then seized the one he fancied right out of the ranks. And the Irishman’s wife, in her modish emerald gown, clustering curls and satin slippers, was none other than that same convict girl. Sleek and prosperous looking, but unmistakably the same woman. Betsy Potter. Pretty, rough-tongued Betsy with her bright hair and raucous laugh and high ambitions.

Anna asked herself why she should be so astonished. Years had passed since that time; why should Betsy Potter not have married? She had seemed to like the man well enough that first day, and he had obviously been entirely taken with her. Anna smiled a little. She had been so horrified when it had seemed that the Irishman might have chosen her. How lucky she had been, how very lucky, that it had been the Colbys who had taken her indentures and not a woman-hungry colonial like Patrick McNamara! For she had no doubt he was a dangerous man, for all his loud and obvious charm. She did not envy Betsy one whit.

She came out of her daydream with a little jump, aware that she was being addressed. Startled, she looked up. "I beg your pardon, sir?"

The man who had approached her swept a low bow which would have been more appropriate had she been a member of the nobility. "Have I the honour of addressing a fellow exile from the fair land of Erin?" he asked in a marked and not unpleasing brogue. "I see you are wearing the green."

"I am English, sir," said Anna, giving him a repulsive glance.

The man sighed. "Never mind, me beauty," he said. "I’ll not hold that accident of birth against you. Will you not dance with me anyway?"

"I do not dance, sir," said Anna.

"Sure and you do!" said the man persuasively. He was a clean-shaven redhead with a brush of coppery hair and vivid blue eyes, the shade of a tropical sky.

"I do not dance," she repeated.

The eyes lit with an engaging grin. "Jack, me boy, something tells me this lady does mislike your looks."

"She mislikes your reputation, more like, Mad Jack!" called a sandy-headed fellow who had been watching from the sidelines. He was lounging with a friend, whom he now nudged in the ribs. "Sure, you’re right to be wary, darlin’," he said to Anna; "- why not trip the measure with me instead?"

"Maybe she’s hanging out for an introduction," said the friend sagely. "Ladies are like that, I hear tell - though I’m not in the petticoat line meself."

"Then introduce me!" begged the red-headed Irishman of the company at large. "Sure, I can hardly do the favour for meself!"

Anna shrank back in her chair, wishing Jane would come to her rescue. She disliked being the centre of attention, certain that the neckline of Jane’s remodelled gown was too low, even with the extra flounce. Surreptitiously, she tugged it upwards,

The Irishman’s companions were loudly vowing that they had never set eyes on him before, that they knew him well and wanted no part of introducing him to a virtuous lady. Anna realised that they were a little drunk, and wondered if the red-head were as well.

Drunk or not, he was clearly becoming exasperated with the antics of his friends. Anna wished he would go away. The fiddlers stopped playing, and she relaxed. Surely now the importunate red-head would give in and leave, or Jane would return. Then, with another bow in her direction, the man did leave, quite suddenly. Anna smiled a relieved welcome as Jane approached, leaning somewhat breathlessly on her husband’s arm and looking flushed and almost girlish.

"I believe Mrs Perry has provided some refreshments in the next room," said Charles. "Would you care for a glass of lemonade, Jane? And for you, Anna?"

Jane nodded gratefully, and Anna smiled again. To be served instead of serving others - how strange! It reminded her of something Miss Verity had once said.

‘Have you not wondered, Anna, why it is your lot to brush my hair and not the other way about?’

She put away the memory, and became aware that Jane was reliving memories of her own. "Oh, Anna, I had forgotten what fun it all could be! Of course the balls I attended when I was young were not precisely fun; I was so often a wallflower, you see, and it was so mortifying when the hostesses would try to prevail upon bored young men to dance with me! But do you not ...?"

Anna shook her head firmly. "Indeed, I do not wish to dance," she said. "I am enjoying the music and the colour and oh, Ma’am - I have just seen one of the girls who came from England with me on the Eliza Kirk! Should I greet her, do you think?"

Jane considered. "I begin to see why the social conventions of England cannot apply here!" she said. "This situation would hardly arise in London, would it?"

"No," agreed Anna ruefully. "Fellow cell-mates might possibly meet again in the stews there, or in the poor-house, but hardly at a social occasion such as this."

"Here is Charles," said Jane with some relief. "Perhaps he has some notion!" Charles Colby was approaching, but so, to Anna’s dismay, was the red-headed Irishman, and he had brought a companion; the tall Irishman who had arrived with Betsy Potter.

The red-head strode up to Anna and executed another of his bows. "Pat, me boy, this lady is too respectable to dance with me without a proper introduction. Ladies, this is Pat McNamara who has known me for these two years past and who may, if he is feeling charitable, speak for me and perform the introduction."

The tall man looked down at Anna without recognition. "Sure but I can at that - Ma’am, this is Mad Jack Kelly, late of County Kildare. A rapscallion to be sure, but he means no harm. Jack, me boy, this is - " A look of astonishment came over his handsome face. "Begorra! I cannot tell ye the lady’s name for we’ve not been introduced either! Although I bethink me I know this lady’s husband." And he bowed slightly to Jane.

Jane looked perplexed, but then smiled suddenly. "Perhaps I may be of some assistance," she said. "I am Mrs Charles Colby and my companion is Miss Bailey. I believe she is already slightly acquainted with Mr McNamara’s wife, is that not so, Anna?"

"I believe so," said Anna demurely,

"Indeed?" McNamara’s eyebrows rose. "Perhaps ye knew me Betsy back in the old country, Miss Bailey?"

Anna swallowed. "We sailed together on the Eliza Kirk, sir," she said. "She may not remember me."

Understanding came into McNamara’s eyes. "I have no doubt she will remember ye," he said with amusement. "Betsy never forgets another pretty face. But ye must have been a mere child at that time ..." He considered, visibly, then snapped his fingers and slapped his thigh. "I have it! A child in a dark stuff dress, huddled into a shawl and not so much as a kind look for poor Pat - cut to the quick I was, if I recall me! Will ye not abate the hurt by dancing with me now?"

"Now, Pat -" said Kelly warningly.

The music was striking up again, and Jane turned to Kelly and said demurely; "I am sure Miss Bailey will be pleased to dance with you now, Mr Kelly."

Anna was not pleased, but there seemed nothing for it. To refuse would be to shame Jane, and amuse McNamara, so she rose to her feet and gingerly accepted Kelly’s arm. "I must warn you I am not a practised dancer, Mr Kelly," she said.

"Sure, neither am I," said her partner amiably. "I am more at home with meself on the goldfields than the dance floor, as me companions - the spalpeens! - could be telling you. But how did you come to be knowing Pat McNamara?"

"I do not know Mr McNamara," corrected Anna. "I am an old acquaintance of his wife." She hoped there would be no more questions, for she needed all her concentration to keep her feet in the dance. She had a good natural sense of rhythm, and months of running up and down London stairs carrying heavy trays had given her excellent balance and made her light on her feet, but her awareness of Kelly’s grasp kept coming between her and the music.

Mr Hubert Sutton, the bobby who had taken her in charge, warders in prison - these were the men who had taken hold of her in the past, and none of them had had any regard for her comfort. To them she had been an object to be manipulated, confined, hustled along, bullied - used. The memories kept on surfacing, and with every unwelcome one of them she found herself stumbling.

"Sure, we’re about as good at this as one another," remarked her partner cheerfully. It was the first time he had spoken since the dance had begun and it was a lie; he was a much better dancer than she.

"I have never had the chance to learn," she said stiffly, and then raised her eyes to his face. "I arrived here as a convict some years ago, Mr Kelly, and have passed my sentence in the service of Mr and Mrs Colby. They have both been extremely kind to me - more kind than I deserve - but - I can never forget what I am and what I have been."

Kelly murmured soothingly, but she thought she felt him stiffen slightly as a game dog might stiffen as it catches a scent across the marshes. "You’ve had no chance to be joining the Government House set then," he said. "You came over from London, Miss Bailey? You do not sound to me like a Londoner."

"I was born in the country," said Anna, "but I was in service in London when I was put in prison."

"No doubt you stole a loaf of bread," said Kelly cheerfully, "so poorly were you paid. Or was it a dozen of milady’s lace-trimmed handkerchiefs that took your fancy? Sure, you must have been a very child at the time."

"I was fourteen. They said I stole a watch and a cameo brooch," said Anna tersely, "and caused the son of the house to break his head."

It crossed her mind that this was surely a most unusual dance-floor conversation, and she half expected Kelly to return her to her place immediately. Minor theft; the work of desperation or the impulse of a moment, was one thing, but battery of a member of society was another, and who could be expected to condone such violence or to associate with the one who had perpetrated it?

Mad Jack Kelly could, apparently, for he never missed a beat. "Are you sure it was his head you caused him to break and not his heart?"

"Quite sure," said Anna. "I am no thief, Mr Kelly, nor even have been, and I did not strike Mr Hubert. However, I did attempt to offer him violence. I threw a stone lion at his head, but I missed. The real damage was done by the ash bucket and the edge of the mantel."

Kelly laughed. "You’ve a fiery spirit then, me girl! Had the man offered you so rare an insult?"

Anna blushed hotly. "In the manner of speaking," she said faintly. It had not been a fiery spirit which had caused her to strike out at Mr Hubert, but sheer terror and desperation.

Jack Kelly seemed not to object to her unfortunate history, for even when the music stopped and he could quite properly have returned her to her seat by Jane, he did not do so. Anna tugged experimentally at her arm, but he did not relax his grip. "If I was to be returning you to your friend now, Miss Bailey, be sure those other audacious friends of mine will be cutting in. You cannot refuse to dance with them now that you have accepted me - and why should they benefit from me own discerning eye?"

Anna gave him an uneasy look.

"Sure, don’t be looking so perturbed, Miss Bailey! I’m only being me usual most charming self! And what harm could I be doing you, even did I intend it, in this place? Sure, a step out of me place here and I’d have a dozen Irishmen on me tail howling for me blood - Pat McNamara not the least among them!"

"Mr Kelly, why did your friend call you ‘Mad Jack’?" asked Anna abruptly.

Kelly laughed. "Sure and it’s a name left over from me misspent boyhood, Miss Bailey. I’ll not be denying me youth was not passed overmuch in virtuous living, but I’ve offered no harm to any man nor woman and there’s many a respected gentleman who can not in truth say that. Shall we dance again?"

Somewhat to Jane’s alarm, Mad Jack Kelly monopolised Anna for the rest of the evening, leading her out for dance after dance and escorting her to supper at the end.

"I think your protege has made something of a conquest there, Jane," said her husband with some amusement.

"I know, and it worries me. In my young days it was not done to stand up with the same partner more than once in an evening - unless one was affianced to him. I would not like the young men to get the impression that Anna is a flirt - or worse."

"No man on Earth could get the impression our Anna is a flirt," said Charles dryly. "Her innocence is beyond question."

Jane, knowing more of Anna’s past than she had seen fit to reveal to her husband, looked troubled. "What kind of a man is Mr Kelly?"

"I’ve heard nothing ill of him," said Charles, "but beyond that I know little as we’ve met infrequently. I feel sure he will now be at some pains to remedy that circumstance."

Indeed, Charles proved right in his assurance, for when it came time to take their leave Jack Kelly returned Anna to Charles and Jane and asked permission to call on them the following day on a matter of business.

"That young man’s business has more to do with Anna than with any timber sales," said Charles privately to Jane while Anna was putting on her wrap.

"Oh dear," said Jane, uncharacteristically uncertain. As they mounted the dray, she asked Anna whether she had enjoyed her first social event.

"It was very pleasant, thank you Ma’am, but a little alarming," said Anna primly.

"And now, like Cinderella in Mr Perrault’s tale, we must return to our rags and our kitchen," said Jane, in gentle warning.

She was too weary to wonder why Anna looked suddenly stricken.

Anna hoped and expected that Jack Kelly’s inexplicable interest in her would be quashed when he saw her in her everyday role of general maid servant. Her sensible grey dress and long white apron were much less becoming that the pale green confection she had worn to the dance. With a wry smile, she thought that Jane had been quite right to term her a ‘Cinderella’. Kind Jane could never know that the very name of Mr Perrault’s romance heroine brought back cruel memories of Mr Hubert.

When Kelly arrived at the house on the afternoon after the dance, she answered the door with a bob and a murmured; "This way, if you please sir," as if he were a total stranger. To her indignation, Kelly transferred his hat to his left hand and offered his right to her with a slight bow. "I trust I find you well, and not too much fatigued after the dance, Miss Bailey?"

Suspecting that he was laughing at her from behind those brilliant blue eyes, Anna gave him a cold look and hastily removed herself to the kitchen where Joseph was grumbling over the dearth of butter. "Gallivantin’ off yesterday, and the stuff in the larder turned rancid by morning! How’s a man to bake when there’s no good butter?"

Within ten minutes, Jane was ringing her bell for tea to be brought, and Anna was trying to pacify Joseph by demonstrating that the butter was still, in fact, perfectly wholesome, and would not turn rancid on his scones. "Stop your blather and take the tea in to Mrs Jane," said Joseph sourly.

Seldom had Anna been so reluctant to carry in a tea tray, but there was nothing she could do about it. Convict she was no longer, but a servant she was, and a servant could be dismissed for disobedience. Keeping her eyes down, she set the tray on the occasional table beside Jane, put out the cups with barely a rattle, and turned on her heel to retreat.

"Bring in another cup if you would, Anna," said Jane casually. "Mr Kelly has asked that you take tea with us as usual. I have told him we are informal here and will not stand upon ceremony." And there was another gentle warning. "Is Miss Murray in the house?"

"She took the children for a walk, Ma’am," said Anna. "Had I not better help Joseph in the kitchen? He is bothered about the butter."

"Joseph is always bothering about the butter, and he cordially dislikes being helped," said Jane with a smile. She turned to Kelly and added; "Joseph is our cook, Mr Kelly. He prefers ingredients to people. He has been free to leave our service for some years now, but really, neither Charles nor I have had the temerity to suggest it to him."

Anna fetched a cup and sat down on the settle, conscious that though Kelly conversed politely with Jane and Charles, his eyes strayed often to her. When she glanced at him she found that he, too, looked quite different today. His garments had a rubbed, well-worn appearance and, when she dared to look more closely, it was obvious that his collar was slightly frayed.

"What brings you to these parts, Mr Kelly?" asked Jane.

"Adventure, Ma’am," said Kelly. "I left Ireland some years ago and have been moving around since. I did a bit of surveying around Port Jackson, and tried me hand at the goldfields at Castlemaine with Doolan and Riley. We had some success there, sold up our claim at a profit and moved on. I’ve a fancy to take up a selection here in Tasmania and it is on that subject that I wish your husband’s advice."

"There is still land in plenty to be had inland from here," said Charles. "It is very thickly wooded, however."

"There’s advantage to be had from that," said Kelly eagerly. "I’m needing timber for another project of mine, and could clear the land later if I’d a mind, or sell at a profit when the settlement is larger."

"What other project is that, Mr Kelly?" asked Jane.

"Sure, I’ve a fancy to sail a boat of me own around the island. Me friends Doolan and Riley are with me in this."

"That should bring sufficient adventure for any man," said Jane with a grimace. "I am no friend of the sea."

Kelly turned to Charles Colby. "The land you mention, is it far from this place?"

"Not so far as the crow flies," said Charles, "but there are no roads and it’s a slow journey on foot or on horseback."

"Then I’d best put matters in train as quickly as possible," said Kelly, "for we mean to be off in the spring."

"So soon?" murmured Jane. "And what do you intend doing upon your return?"

"Now Jane," reproved Charles. "Our guest may not wish to answer that."

"Sure, I’ve no objection," said Jack Kelly easily. "Upon me return, Ma’am, I’ve a mind to become a settled being - at least for a while. The roving life’s a great one for a youngster, but a man can tire of impermanence." His words were directed to Jane, but his eyes, as he spoke, were on Anna.

"And if that was not a declaration of intent I declare I have never heard one!" said Jane when he had gone.

And perhaps it was, although Mad Jack Kelly’s words had surprised himself as much as any of them.

That visit was just the first of many made by Jack Kelly to Sherwood. On the second occasion, he arrived on a Sunday and asked Jane’s permission to take Anna walking.

"I have no objection and I’m sure Anna has not," said Jane mendaciously. "It is such a very pleasant day for a stroll."

Walking was not the entire sum of Jack Kelly’s intentions, but before she rang the bell for Anna Jane detained him with a hand on his arm. "Mr Kelly, you are no doubt aware that Anna is as much a friend to us as a maid servant," she said quietly. "She has been with us for some years and we are very fond of her. We also feel a certain responsibility for her welfare and happiness."

Jack’s eyes met hers in rueful appreciation. This lady was not the cultured innocent she appeared. "Quite so, Ma’am," he said dryly. "I can assure you that Miss Bailey will take no harm from me."

"I believe you," said Jane with a smile. "But I warn you, Mr Kelly, that you may well find Anna more difficult to convince."

"Then I’ve your permission to walk out with her?"

"You have my permission to invite her to walk out with you," corrected Jane. "It is entirely up to Anna herself whether she chooses to accept."

CHAPTER SEVEN.

Doolan and Riley were amused at their friend’s pursuit of the servant girl he had monopolised at the dance. They were even more amused at the obvious chagrin of the Victoria Hotel barmaid whom Jack had been bedding, on occasion, since the three of them had arrived in Perry Bay. Playing cards without him in the evenings they laughed and joked and laid bets as to how long this start of Mad Jack’s would endure.

"Until the darlin’ obligingly opens her legs," said Doolan, but Riley was not so sure.

"Nah, nah, Mad Jack’s not such a spalpeen as all that. He’ll keep the girl in train until we leave an’ then give her a handsome present to ease the pain of the partin’."

"He oughta keep clear of that sort," said the barmaid sourly. "She’ll be swellin’ next, and before you know it your fine man will be caught in her toils an’ never get loose. ‘e’ll wake up one day and find ‘imself a married man, and that’ll be the end of Mad Jack the rover, you mark my words."

Doolan laughed loudly, slapping his knee and opining that the divil himself was more likely to take a girl to wife than Mad Jack Kelly, tiddler in the offing or none. And so, no harm would be done. So Kelly was able to pursue his new interest in relative peace.

No simpleton, he very soon realised that Anna was not to be won over with compliments and flirtatious remarks. Soft words and kisses would send her running like a hare before hounds, so Mad Jack set out to please his lady by more devious means - by making her laugh. Suspecting quite rightly that her life so far had not been overly full of humour, he set out to remedy that by telling her outrageous stories, mostly against himself, of his adventures.

"Sure, I escaped that one situation just barely with me pants intact," he said solemnly. "And that reminds me of the time when I was left with not even that much dignity to me name! There were Chinese on the diggings, you see, oh by the hundred, and plenty of paddies besides. Chinamen are great workers and some of me countrymen were less than impressed at the success they were having and they got to making life a touch difficult for the Chinese ... Well, one dark night - there’s just a slit of moonlight like a lady’s smile - I wake to hear a mighty bang like God’s own thunderclap. ‘ Here’s trouble brewing,’ I say to myself - Mick and Sean being away at the other side of the goldfields at the time, I can’t say it to them. ‘Chinamen are fighting back with their gunpowder,’ I say, ‘and it’s God’s own truth, Jack Kelly is an Irishman and will not be having gentle treatment at their hands.’ I hear the sounds again, Miss Bailey, and it appears to me like a hundred Celestials marching in time. ‘You’ve had it now, Jack lad,’ I tell meself, and I scoot out of the tent and run quicker’n Dooley’s donkey, quite forgetting me sense of dignity. I hide out in a digging until sunrise and wake to see Celestial faces peering over at me and talking in their own tongue. I think me last hour has come, and commend meself to glory, but they help me out and give me a pair of trousers - an ill fit they are, but never let it be said Jack Kelly is an ungrateful spalpeen."

Kelly paused and folded his arms.

"Then what happened?" asked Anna, diverted in spite of herself.

"I ask about and Mick and Sean tell me what caused me nocturnal alarm," said Kelly. "You’ll not be laughing at me now, Anna?"

"No," said Anna.

"Sure, you’re laughing already. Well then, it was a big old horse, spooked by something in the night, kicking out at a shadow perhaps, and clanging his iron heels against an iron cook pot belonging to Black Seamus the cook, who’s that day moved to our bit of the diggings. That was ‘God’s own thunderclap’, and sure it scared the horse himself, for he went barging off around the diggings and that was my ‘hundred Celestials’! And for that," added Kelly gravely, "I abandoned me courage and me dignity and me pants as well. Sure, there was nothing left for a shamed man to do. I packed up Sean and Mick and we left the diggings under cover of God’s merciful darkness."

Anna’s mouth twitched despite herself at the ridiculous picture he conjured up.

"There," said Kelly with an air of injury, "you’re laughing indeed."

These tales and more like them came thick and fast in Kelly’s soft brogue. Anna suspected their substance often owed more to imagination that to reality, but she liked what they revealed of the mind behind them, and she liked the changing expressions on his tanned face as he piled extravagance upon extravagance. Best of all, she liked his manners. He treated her with the same easy courtesy he showed Jane.

This was not lost on Jane, who watched proceedings develop with warm but unvoiced approval. It looked to her as if Kelly did indeed intend to settle down.

One day in the early autumn, Kelly arrived just as Anna was stripping the last of the milk from old Bessie. He looked down at her bent head, pressed against the cow’s flank. He looked at the swell of her bosom beneath the white apron and suddenly, he made up his mind. He would have spoken to her, but she suddenly became aware of his presence, and looked up to find him leaning on the rail, his expression unguarded.

He waited for some answering signal, but to his surprise Anna recoiled. "Mr Colby is in the house, Mr Kelly."

"It is yourself I’ve come to see," he said impatiently. "Anna, me darlin’, I’ve been thinking - and I’ve discovered in meself a yen to become a married man." And so he had, this very moment, born of the summer warmth and a sudden rush of desire for the elusive girl before him.

Anna stared at him incredulously.

"Well, what do you say?" he asked, smiling. "You cannot claim to be struck all of a heap at me declaration - have we not been walking out these past three months and more? So come darlin’, what’s it to be?"

Anna got slowly and ungracefully to her feet. "No, Mr Kelly, I cannot marry you," she said, picking up the bucket of milk. "I can never marry at all."

He raised a hand to detain her, the matter becoming quite imperative as she retreated. "Sure, the Colbys will be having no objection!" he said urgently.

"But I have," she said.

"Anna, me darlin’, you don’t mean it -"

"I won’t marry you," she said.

She turned and walked away without another word. Kelly stared after her for a moment, then his face darkened with an angry rush of blood. He dashed his hat to the ground and went back to his horse, angry, offended and more disappointed that he could have imagined.

In the past, a rejection of any kind had sent Jack Kelly cheerfully away to pursue the next goal, whether it be woman, task or adventure. Not that he had suffered many rejections from women - most of the ladies on whom he smiled had smiled back most willingly, attracted to his blue eyes and air of reckless charm. So why should Anna Bailey be any different?

But different she was, he had to admit; and in more ways than this one. Jack Kelly had known many women over the years. He had met many with more beauty or riper charms. He had enjoyed their favours and had parted from them without great regret on either side, but never had he taken such an immediate fancy to any as he had taken to the Colby servant girl.

At the New Year dance, he had thought at first that she was a lady, perhaps the young sister or daughter of the woman with whom she had arrived. Her initial reluctance to dance with him he had put down at first to gauche shyness, particularly when he had discovered how inept she was at performing the steps. He might have returned her to her seat after that one turn had she been the green lady he had thought her, but McNamara, married man or no, would have been only too willing to take his place and besides; her confession on the dance floor had intrigued him. She was a convict, sentenced for theft and assault. How could a girl of her stripe have gained the obvious championship of a woman like Jane Colby?

His visit the next day had been made in an attempt to discover her secret, and by the time he had realised that the secret lay with Jane Colby’s grace and attitude rather than with her maid, it had been too late for Mad Jack Kelly. He had become wholly enamoured of Anna Bailey; so much so that he had even been prepared to spend some weeks in coaxing her to respond to his presence with pleasure rather than unease.

His friends Doolan and Riley would have considered him mad to waste so much time on an unappreciative woman, so he stalled them with talk of waiting for better seasoned wood before embarking on their sailing venture. When they began to press him for information, he retired with them to the selection he had taken up and the three of them felled some suitable trees. The other two had still argued for an earlier departure, but Jack had been able to put them off with one thing or another and finally they had departed without him to Launceston, having extracted the promise that on their return the timber would be ready for the boat, should they still be keen to make the voyage. They had thought him mad and had said so, and had speculated widely and coarsely on what Mad Jack was planning, but they had agreed, finally, to leave him in peace.

"Get it out of your system, man, whatever it is!" they had recommended, and Jack had intended to do as they suggested.

And now he had a new problem.

Having been celibate for a record period of three months - feeling that it wasn’t quite the thing to be taking his pleasure with one woman while he was courting another - he found the strain beginning to tell. He needed a woman, but it was quite obvious that he could not take Anna Bailey in his usual light-hearted fashion. Not with Jane Colby acting as a benevolent but watchful duenna. Almost, he had decided to give up and look elsewhere for his sport, but it was Anna Bailey he wanted and at last, believing he had every chance of success, he had come to her with an honest proposal.

And she had turned him down.

Having too much pride to stay and press her for an explanation, Jack rode back to the Victoria Hotel. That night he got drunk with the newly returned Riley and Doolan, and, for the first time in three months, took Jessie the barmaid to his bed. Within an hour, the girl was asleep, smugly convinced that the handsome Irishman had finally got that uppity Colby maid out of his system and would once more be available for her own enjoyment.

Jack, however, lay awake, listening to the raucous sounds rising from the bar-room below, and slowly and reluctantly feeling the alcohol leaching out of his system. He had one girl in his bed, but another firmly lodged in his mind and he felt very badly done by indeed. Why, in the holy name of the Virgin, had this had to happen to him?

Anna was also crying out against fate, but she shed her tears and savoured her bitter reflections alone.

Jane, now in the later stages of pregnancy, saw Jack Kelly arrive and then ride away in a swirl of dust and indignation. Later, she noted her maid’s reddened eyes, but kept her own council. Then, as a week crawled by and the Irishman did not reappear, she decided to take the matter in hand. "Anna, is something the matter?" she asked as they sat sewing.

"Nothing of consequence, Ma’am," said Anna.

"I see." Jane plied her needle for a few more minutes. Then she said; "Mr Kelly has not visited us for some time."

"He asked me to marry him, Ma’am," said Anna, "and I refused."

Jane took a long breath. "I am very sorry to hear that, Anna. Did you find that you could not return his regard?"

"Ma’am, don’t torment me," said Anna stiffly. "You know I can never marry. Mr Hubert saw to that when I was fourteen."

Jane frowned. "Anna, you continually surprise me," she said. "I suppose I can understand your concern, but I am sure even Father Malley would agree that no shadow of blame attaches to you. You were molested by a cruel and selfish young man who attacked you in a way he would not have dared attack a girl of his own social class. Why should his action hold you back from agreeing to marry a decent gentleman who loves you?"

Anna did not answer.

"What reason did you give him for your refusal?" asked Jane.

"None. I could not tell him."

"He knows how you arrived in the colony," said Jane.

"Yes, but this is different." Anna turned to her appealingly. "Can you not see that it is?"

"How can you be so certain of that?" argued Jane. "No doubt he now believes you simply do not care for him. It was wrong of you to send him away like that, Anna, wrong for both of you."

"But what if I were to tell him, and then found he scorned me for it? It may not be fair, but since when has there been any justice that way between men and women?"

"If he scorns you for it then you’ll be well rid of him and no worse off," said Jane decidedly, and hoped it was true.

Anna sighed and plied her needle once more. "But I told him ‘no’," she said. "I told him I would never marry."

"And now I suppose the wretched man has too much pride to come round asking you again. But never mind," said Jane cheerfully. "I am sure something can be contrived to bring the pair of you about."

As usual, Jane was proved to be correct. Charles Colby drove into Perry Bay three days later to fetch Mrs Bellamy to Jane, and when he returned, Jack Kelly was riding behind the dray. Charles escorted Mrs Bellamy into the house and then sent Anna to collect a wholly fictitious piece of baggage from the dray. Further than that, he told his romantic wife, he refused to interfere. "If the two of them cannot settle their differences by our efforts, then they must make shift to settle them by their own," said Charles.

Jane gave a chuckle which ended in a surprised squeak of pain, and Charles was driven out of the room by a bustling Mrs Bellamy.

Jack nodded unsmilingly as Anna approached the dray. "Good afternoon, Miss Bailey."

Anna felt her heart give a huge, uneven thump beneath her apron. "Mr Kelly, I - I wish to apologise for what I said to you last week. It was wrong of me to speak so curtly."

Jack gave a lop-sided smile. "I admit it was a sad blow to me pride, Anna. I had thought you liked me well enough, but if you cannot come to it, you can’t. Never let it be said Jack Kelly cannot be brought to see the plain truth when it wags its ugly tail in his face."

"I do like you well enough, and more," said Anna, eyes on the rough grass of the yard.

Jack turned to her eagerly, catching at her hands. "You’ll marry me after all? Is that what you’re saying, Anna me darlin’?"

Anna nodded, gently removing her hands from his clasp. "I will marry you, Mr Kelly, if you are still of the same mind once you have heard the rest of what I have to say." She took a deep, unsteady breath. "I am not the innocent you think, Mr Kelly. I - I have had a child."

Jack stared at her in perplexity. One of the reasons he had never pressed his attentions on her was because he had believed her a complete innocent. To find that the girl was not only experienced, but had actually given birth to a child - that was a surprise indeed. And quite a blow. But she looked more than ever like a frightened doe, and so he schooled his face to remain blank and let her continue, taking up a piece of harness to occupy his hands.

"He was born on the Eliza Kirk before I reached Van Diemen’s Land," said Anna in a low voice. "He never lived at all, although Miss Eleanor baptised him for me. I never saw him, I never held him, but now can you see why I did not accept your proposal?" Tears gathered in her eyes, whether for herself and her uncertain future or for the long-gone baby boy she did not know.

Jack put aside the harness. "I see," he said. And so he did. He saw that he had been wasting his time, playing the gentleman with Anna. He had no need to marry her at all - she should have been his for the taking. But if he told her so, she would retreat from him again. She might agree to become his mistress, but the hurt would never lift from her eyes again.

"Walk with me, Anna, and we’ll see if we cannot come to some agreement," he said. "You are not married already?"

"No," said Anna.

"This child’s father - he was your lover in England?"

"The child’s father was Mr Hubert Sutton, the son of my employer," said Anna. "He forced himself on me and after - afterwards, he tried to make me buy my freedom of his bedchamber with a kiss. I would not, so I threw a marble lion at his head and he fell against the mantel. After that day I never saw him again, for they took me in charge and accused me of trying to kill him."

Jack said nothing. Anna, risking a glance in his direction, surprised such a blaze of anger on his face that she drew away.

"And for that they transported you?" said Jack softly. "A child of - how old? Fifteen years?"

"I was fourteen," said Anna. "I am past twenty now."

"It is as well for your Mr Hubert that he is away across the ocean," said Jack. "Sure, and I’d do more than throw a lion at the spalpeen’s head if I could but lay me hands to him! I’d thrash him about the streets of London like the miserable cur he is!"

He would marry her, he decided, and be damned to it. She was a good girl and a warm one and could not fail to show her gratitude - and if ever he caught up with that so-called English gentleman, he’d ..."

"Have you never lain with a girl, Mr Kelly?" Anna’s diffident words interrupted his thoughts.

"What?" Recalling the barmaid, whose favours he had enjoyed again the night before, and whose arms awaited him upon his return to the Victoria, Jack’s cheeks grew almost as red as his hair. "Never with one who declared herself unwilling!" he managed at last.

"I see." Anna seemed not entirely pleased.

Gingerly, Jack offered her his arm and they walked on.

"Well?" said Anna, breaking a long and uncomfortable silence. "If you find you wish to withdraw your proposal, I shall quite understand."

"Sure, that was not what I was thinking on!" protested Jack. "I was wondering - if another man - a proper Irishman like meself, for example - were to ask you for a kiss, would you feel constrained to brain the upstart with the nearest piece of ornamental marble?"

The tension broke and Anna smiled at last. Jack bent to kiss her and discovered that in this activity, at least, she was a complete innocent. Which gave him an even lower opinion of the manners and morals of young Mr Hubert Sutton.

Having won Anna’s consent to his proposal, Jack was not disposed to wait long for the wedding.

"But I must stay with Mrs Colby until her new babe is born and she has quite regained her strength," said Anna firmly, when he made his wishes plain. She set her chin when he argued, and would not be moved from that, an attitude which Jack found as exasperating as it was incomprehensible. For surely it was usually the young lady who desired a wedding with all the trappings, while the proposed bridegroom dragged his heels as he approached the spectre of the church door? This view he put to Pat McNamara when that gentleman arrived at the Victoria Hotel.

"To be sure, Mad Jack, ye have what is generally the right of it," said McNamara thoughtfully. "Is it perhaps that the lady is a dacent young woman who requires a more solid man as her husband? To be sure, if I was not wed to Betsy I’d be inclined to throw me lure in Miss Anna’s direction myself and cut ye out."

"But you are a married man," said Jack pointedly.

McNamara sighed deeply. "Indeed and I am."

Exasperated, Jack withdrew to his selection on the flank of the Dial Range and spent long hours clearing and cutting more timber and marking out the foundations for a modest cottage. After all, a man with a wife to consider could not decently continue to reside in an hotel with Doolan and Riley - let alone the importunate Jessie. Also, a man with a wife must have a trade or some form of steady income.

A hand-to-mouth existence living on the profits he had made on the goldfields was

good enough for ‘Mad Jack’, but ‘John Kelly, Esq’ must now find a way to make his land, which he had intended to leave fairly undeveloped to re-sell at a profit later, into a paying proposition.

Before leaving Perry Bay for the selection, he talked at length with Captain Bellamy and sent word to Patrick McNamara, who might have been an outspoken villain, but who was having marked success with the management of his own selection in the east. It was something of a novelty for Jack to be planning so far ahead; since leaving Ireland at a youthful age he had wandered the world in the company of Doolan and Riley, seldom spending more than a few months in any one place or situation. But now he was to have a wife, and suddenly he saw a chance to put his formidable energies to work while he waited to marry his Anna. Make his selection a paying proposition? Yes indeed! Mad Jack Kelly would have the richest selection in the north of Tasmania.

Anna dared not object to his long absences, for her future husband had told her stringently that if he had to wait so long for her to marry him he could not and would not spend too much time in her company. His curtness bewildered Anna, but she felt that she had no right to protest, so instead she threw herself into preparations for her new life, sewing and contriving and - with Jane’s able assistance - prevailing upon the sour-faced Joseph to impart his skill at baking to her so that she would be a fit wife in that department, at least.

Jane was delighted and relieved that the barrier of Anna’s lost virginity had proved to be a phantom, and Anna did not choose to tell her that doubts remained. Jack Kelly might seem satisfied with his bargain, but what of herself? Mr Hubert’s attack had hurt her in body and soul - could she ever bring herself to take a man - even her husband - to her bed, knowing what was to follow? She had felt a rush of relief when Jack had kissed her; it had been nothing like Mr Hubert’s slobbering, but he had gone away so soon. What if it hurt when they came together on their wedding night? What if she screamed and bled? Almost, she was tempted to tell him that she had changed her mind and withdraw her consent to his proposal. But what then?

To live on as maid and friend to the Colbys for the rest of her life had once been the sum of her ambition, but a glimpse of wider horizons had made her restless. She was at best an outsider in the Colby family, dear though its members had become to her.

"That man leaves her too much alone," said Jane severely, cradling her new little daughter as she spoke. "He comes here so rarely and when he does deign to arrive he spends more time conversing with you than alone with Anna. Why, we see more of Mr McNamara than of Mr Kelly, and he must have thrice the distance to ride!"

"Pat McNamara is a man of property, Jane, who has business at Perry Bay, and his rides are along made roads," reminded Charles, but Jane was not appeased.

"It’s been near to six months, Charles. They’re to be married in one more, yet I doubt that they’ve exchanged more than a kiss or two, and those of the kind which would bring no blush to the cheek of a maiden aunt."

"Jane, you astound me!" said her husband. "Is this the same virtuous lady who told me it was her duty to watch over the moral welfare of her staff?"

"Moral! Where is the moral if Anna frets herself to flinders while her intended goes and takes his pleasure elsewhere?" snapped Jane. "You’ll not be telling me a young man of Mr Kelly’s stamp is spending all his nights alone! I simply hope we have done the right thing in encouraging this connection."

But here Jane did Jack Kelly an injustice. There were no other women in his life now. Like most Irishmen Jack was a Roman Catholic and though his faith sat lightly on him it had its moments of surging to the fore. Fornication was a sin which troubled him very little, but to lie with other women while betrothed to Anna seemed to him to be perilously close to adultery. Besides, he had lost his taste for other women - his two nights with Jessie the barmaid had proved that.

Jack thought about Anna, dreamed of Anna and longed for Anna to a degree that half disgusted him and wholly frightened him. He had been a footloose adventurer for so many years and now he found himself somehow committed to taking a wife and settling in a home. It would have been more to his mind and taste to have descended on Sherwood one day, tossed her up into his saddle, and swept her off for parts unknown, but since that was obviously impossible, he took out his frustrations by working all day and half the nights at Kelly’s Castle. By his standards and those of his contemporaries, Jack Kelly was behaving very well indeed. It was a pity such virtue was not rewarded by any glow of contentment.

The wedding of Anna Bailey and Jack Kelly was a simple affair. It took place at Sherwood on a warm spring day towards the end of 1856. Jane sewed Anna’s wedding dress herself, and Charles Colby declared himself honoured to stand in place of the bride’s father and give her away. The ceremony was performed by Father Malley during one of his infrequent jaunts along the coastal strip between Launceston and Emu Bay. He had no objection to marrying an ex-convict maid servant to an Irish adventurer - and was quite gratified to discover that one or more baptisms were not required with the wedding. Like most priests in this ex-penal colony, the old Father had found it politic - and, indeed, only merciful - to relax some of the standards expected by the Church at home in Ireland. Human nature was weak, and the Good Lord must know that, for it was He who had deemed it so since the beginning.

The wedding breakfast was convivial, with even dour Joseph managing a gloomy look of satisfaction when complimented on his baking skills. Miss Murray condescended to drink a glass of wine, and, just as the small gathering was on the point of breaking up, Patrick McNamara arrived in a smart new jinker and declared himself cut to the quick that his old friend Mad Jack had not asked him to stand up as groomsman and demanded satisfaction.

"The only satisfaction you’ll get, me fine buck, is a left to the jaw," said Jack happily and McNamara obligingly rolled up his sleeves.

"Now, gentlemen," said Jane mildly, "cannot you put aside your goings on even for today? Mr McNamara, you are welcome to stay to dinner since you have come so far, but I really feel it is time to bid farewell to our bride and groom. They have a long ride ahead of them."

"To be sure they have," said McNamara boisterously, "and I’m sure I speak the truth when I say there’s not a man among us doesn’t envy Mad Jack his ... lady. Come, Mrs Kelly, as the groom’s only dacent friend in this fair land I claim the privilege of a kiss!" Without waiting for permission, he passed an arm around Anna’s waist and gave her a surprisingly gentle kiss on the cheek. "And if Mad Jack is such a spalpeen as to cause ye grief, then it’s to Pat McNamara he’ll be answering in this world before coming before the higher court in the next!" he said. "Remember that, if it please ye."

Jack’s fists clenched indignantly, but Charles Colby, at an appealing glance from his wife, intervened and soon Jane was hugging Anna, Jack was shaking hands with everyone and the newly married Kellys were on their way.

It seemed a long way from Sherwood to her new home. As the horses plodded through the scrub Anna began to have a better understanding of Jack’s reasons for visiting Sherwood so infrequently during the past six months. She was tired, and Jack, too seemed rather pale and disinclined to conversation. The only sound not made by the horses came from a dozen indignant hens confined to baskets strapped to the pack-horse’s back; a practical and much appreciated wedding gift from Jane.

The sun was well down when they entered a clearing at the top of a rise. "This is it, Anna me darlin’," said Jack. His voice came so unexpectedly through the gloom that Anna jumped nervously. "There’s a bit of a yard around the back for the horses," said Jack, "and a coop for Mrs Colby’s chickens. I’ll show you the place tomorrow; sure the sun has beaten us tonight." He cleared his throat. "The place will not always be like this, Anna, I promise. Give us a year or maybe three and we’ll have a dirt road and a spread to rival Sherwood - but for now I’ve been spending most of the hours God gave clearing the hill away to the east and setting in the fruit trees."

Anna slid stiffly from the horse and looked around her in the dusk. The strangeness of the occasion was still upon her, but she had suddenly realised that she might not be the only one with apprehensions. "It seems a good enough place to me already," she said softly.

The cottage was modest, compared with Sherwood, with one large room and a lean-to privy at the rear. Jack had obtained sufficient stone to build a fireplace and chimney, and had left a generous pile of kindling ready split for a fire.

"There’s a good stream not far away for our water," he said, "and plenty of game for the pot. Sure, we’ll not be starving, Anna me darlin’. The furnishings are just raw wood - there was no good way to carry beds and such through the bush - I had me enough trouble carting the timbers for the house."

"Jack," said Anna, and her husband’s name seemed strange on her tongue. "It looks well enough and more than well enough to me. Shall we see to supper?"

It was a simple meal, for both were weary. Afterwards, they sat by the hearth on a rough settle Jack had made and covered with cured kangaroo hides. Anna listened to the flickering of the fire and the strange call of some night-bird beyond the clearing.

"Charles Colby has promised to sell me a cow," said Jack. "And a dog out of his cocker bitch - would you be liking a dog, Anna?"

Anna agreed quietly that a dog would be very well, especially one from the Colby Nell, but Jack’s gaze, lit brightly in the glow of the fire, was on her face. His expression was much as it had been on the day in Colbys’ dairy yard, and this time there was to be no retreat.

Suddenly, she was unable to bear the suspense a moment longer. Other brides might approach their wedding nights in the fear of the unknown - Anna’s fear was known indeed; she had relived it for years in a hundred nightmares. "I am tired now," she said. "Shall we go to bed?"

Jack agreed, turning away to busy himself making the fire safe for the night. "I have been sleeping over there," he said, indicating the far corner. "The mattress is of dried ferns and wattle but the sheets are real linen; I had them from Captain Bellamy. I’ll take a turn outside, Anna, make sure the horses are settled."

As soon as he had gone out, taking one of the lamps to light his way, Anna undressed. She had a new nightgown from Jane which covered her as securely as any garment she had ever owned, but still she felt half naked as she slid timidly between the fine linen sheets. The bed was large, but Anna lay stiffly on the extreme edge.

The fire flickered lower, and the remaining lamp burned yellow, reflecting in the widening pupils of Anna’s brown eyes. She lay for an age, but too soon the door creaked on hide hinges and Jack came in.

He turned out his lamp and hung it on a hook, then turned and did the same for the other. "No sense in wasting fuel," he said.

The fire flickered lower still. Anna kept her eyes on the flames until they burned and teared with the strain of it, but in the shadows beyond the bed she could sense Jack moving, rustling, stripping off his breeches and laying aside his shirt. "You can look now, me darlin’," he said suddenly, and Anna turned startled eyes to find him decently clad in a flannel nightshirt. Bending down, he turned back the sheet and climbed into the bed beside her. "Mrs Kelly," he said solemnly, "I have a serious question to put to you."

Anna eyed him doubtfully.

"Have you, or have you not, concealed somewhere about that fetching nightgown, a marble lion?"

"N-no," she said, dismayed to find her voice unsteady. The laughter was back in his voice and it was as if the whole uneasy half year of their betrothal had been dissolved away.

Jack sighed. "Then come here," he said, and pulled her across the cold expanse of linen into his arms. Their faces came together in the half dark and they kissed. Then Jack rolled himself on top of her with a kind of desperation. He was not a small man, but Anna scarcely noticed his weight. He had his hands in her hair, and then on her body, but unlike Mr Hubert’s hands they soothed and gentled, even in their eagerness.

Almost before she had time for fear, Jack brought their bodies together. Some quick thrusts, a momentary discomfort, and then it was over. Her husband rolled away. Anna lay beside him feeling nothing but surprise. So much apprehension, so much dread - for that! But Jack had turned away from her. Was he somehow disgusted? Had she done something wrong? Had he - horrible thought - had he felt the spectre of Mr Hubert just as it finally died for her?

Hesitantly, she put her hand on his shoulder, and to her complete astonishment he groaned. "Of all the addle-pated, green-headed, spalpeens! Sorry, Anna me darlin’. I’d made up me mind to go slow, to be patient, to let you be tonight if you wanted - and now I’ve been and had at you like a dog at a bone."

Anna moved cautiously. No pain, no shame. For the first time in her life she felt tenderness for a grown man. And then she laughed.

"Sure, there you go, laughing a man to scorn," said Jack.

"No, no!" gasped Anna. "I was just remembering Doll! Doll told me - the next time I had a man - I was to make him go slow if I could!"

Jack sat up. "And who the divil is Doll?" he demanded.

"Doll was a lady I knew once," said Anna demurely. "We shared a cell, and I think - I’m sure - she saved my life."

"Then I owe the lady me thanks," said Jack. "But what was Doll’s crime against society? Was she a whore?"

"She was - oh Jack, she caught her man with her daughter and she - she - cut a piece off him with a knife."

"Bleeding Lord Jesus!"

"She didn’t kill him," said Anna, "and she was put in charge because the innkeeper objected to the disturbance."

Jack began to laugh softly. "I hardly dare ask you, Anna me darlin’, but what else did your friend Doll have to say about men?"

"Merely that they have their uses - if you like bacon, and that some of them bite," said Anna primly.

Jack stripped off his nightshirt and lay down again, putting his arms around her. "Take it slow, I believe you said milady?" he whispered in her ear, and proceeded to take it as slowly as he could.

To the end of her life, Anna blessed the day she had met Jack Kelly. For the first time since childhood she loved and was loved by a man. In Jack’s arms she discovered a closeness she had never believed existed and even the inevitable stickiness of the aftermath was no sickening pollution but a pleasant reminder of the night before.

The Kellys’ days were busy as well, for Jack, having conceived his grand plan for planting the hillside with fruit trees, found himself hard put to protect them from the local wildlife. The possums, soft, furry squirrel-like animals with round, startled eyes and incongruously discordant voices, seemed determined to harvest the bark and leaves of the young trees without ever allowing them the chance to come to fruition.

"Sure, the soil is so fertile here, Anna darlin’, the trees should jump up like kangaroos if we could but keep those hairy little spalpeens at bay," said Jack resignedly

"Fruit would be nice," said Anna. "I could make preserves, but why so many trees?"

"There are but fifty yet, me darlin’," said Jack proudly. "Next year, if things go well for us, there will be more than that - I see five hundred trees or more - apples and pears fit for old Eden."

"But Jack, what in the world would we do with all the fruit?"

"Sell it to rich folk at the Bay, or even in Launceston!" said Jack promptly. "Ship to Castlemaine to hearten the diggers! The poor men get sick fair to death of salt meat and sour bread, and a bit of fruit would have ‘em praising it above the gold! Anna me darlin’, this is a new country. Within twenty years - fifteen - Perry Bay will be a great town to rival Dublin! More folk are coming from the old country, high-ups and nobs as well as the likes of you and me. We’ve all the world before us, Anna me love. We’ve timber enough to build a city and fifty ships to ply her trade. The prospectors will be finding gold here next, and more will come, Chinamen and all. Oh, it’ll come! And people need to eat, Anna, a colony must learn to feed itself, the sooner the better. Apples are good fruit and store well, and aside from Pat McNamara, few have hit on the notion of growing more than a tree or so for their own tables. Gold may have been our beginning, Anna, but by God there’s more to be had in God’s own fruit from Eden."

Anna was enchanted by Jack’s glowing vision, and willingly helped with the back-breaking task of keeping scrub back from choking the youthful trees and carrying water to those at the top of the slope. Meanwhile, Jack cleared more land.

Canadians from nearby Penguin Creek had brought their own method of ring-barking trees to the colony, and many settlers were barking the tall trees and leaving them to die. The dead wood could then be burnt to make way for pasture or livestock.

Like Charles Colby, Jack favoured the more laborious but less wasteful method of axing the living trees and leaving the wood to cure. The money got from this timber would, Jack hoped, keep them in moderate comfort until the orchard began to fruit. He was proud of his foresight in this matter; let Sean Riley and Michael Doolan call him ‘Mad Jack’ Kelly now!

But he saw little enough of his old friends Riley and Doolan; he was too much in love with Anna and his new plans to spare a lot of thought for them.

It was during the hot summer after their marriage that Anna became aware that she was pregnant. This time her bouts of nausea were not so extreme, but during the sultry nights her old fears rose to haunt her. When her lost son had been born, the attentions of two experienced midwifes and Miss Eleanor had not saved him and had barely preserved her own life. How was she to give birth here at Kelly’s Castle, so far from the ministrations of Mrs Bellamy? Jack was a man skilled in many and various fields, but had he ever helped birth a baby? Somehow Anna doubted it, and hesitated to ask him.

Outwardly, Jack greeted her news with the quick pride and boundless optimism that was such an attractive part of his nature. "Sure, did I not tell you the colony would grow?" he said. "And this will be no sad exile from the old country, but a colony lad born and bred. He’ll have your sweet eyes, Anna me darlin’, but Lord save us if he’s cursed with his father’s fiery thatch!"

Anna could not help smiling at his extravagance and indeed, she felt much better this time than she had during her first pregnancy. For now she was not in a stinking, overcrowded cell, nor even a rolling, creaking ship, but in her own hillside cottage, breathing what was surely the purest air on Earth.

Jack had found time to plant the potatoes beloved of Irishmen everywhere, and already their green tops were beginning to wither. He had brought sacks of other vegetables from Perry Bay on the pack horse and Jane’s hens were generous with their eggs. Sometimes Jack shot a kangaroo, sometimes he rode to Perry Bay and fetched mutton and, on one occasion, some slips of raspberry canes which Anna planted hopefully in the fertile soil.

During his trips away he often saw Doolan and Riley, but found himself deliberately avoiding their company. Mad Jack Kelly seemed far away and long ago - he was a family man now, with a wife and a coming child.

As the summer waned, Charles Colby rode to the cottage, ostensibly to deliver the promised cow, who was promptly named ‘Bridie’, but really to glean news of Anna for his anxious wife. "For I’ll never forgive myself if Mr Kelly is mistreating her in any way," said Jane. "If you can, speak with her alone, Charles, and give her this letter from me."

Fortunately for Jane’s peace of mind, Charles was able to report that the Kellys seemed very contented. "Anna is in perfect bloom, my dear," he said soothingly, "and asks me to tell you she is to have a child in the spring."

Jane sighed, very relieved. Short of visiting Anna herself, she could not hope for better news, and Jane, herself once more pregnant at the age of thirty seven, had more sense than to undertake a ride across uncleared country, even if her husband would have countenanced any such thing.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Anna’s happiness that year was doubly marred by the child. After dreading its advent for the first few weeks she had warmed to the idea. As Jack patiently reminded her, she was over twenty years old now, no longer a frightened, half-starved child. Why should not her baby arrive safely as Jane’s last two children had done? And Jack, after a feeling of slight inner panic at the thought of his approaching extra responsibility, had become in fact as proud as he had seemed.

It was therefore a bitter blow to both of them when one night Anna found drops of blood on her chemise. By morning, their hopes had slipped away in a gush of blood and unidentifiable tissue.

Anna wept for hours. "Miss Eleanor baptised the other baby," she sobbed through her pain and disappointment, but Jack, more shaken than he had ever been, could not even tell her if this lost one had been a boy or a girl. "There was no way to be telling, Anna me darlin’ - no way to be telling at all. Sure, it was no proper babe at all, but one of the Lord’s mistakes."

Grimly, he buried the small mass in the ground and went to comfort Anna, fearing suddenly that he might lose her too. To his relief the bleeding stopped eventually, and within two weeks of the occurrence there was nothing left to indicate that Anna had been pregnant at all.

The year wore on, and soon the loss was just another memory to be closed away. Anna waited each month with fear and hope inextricably mixed, but for the present it seemed there would be no more pregnancies.

As Jack had predicted, other land was taken up between Kelly’s Castle and the sea, and soon they had a neighbour less than a half hour’s ride away; a taciturn Welshman named Thomas Afton, who had named his spread Tegwen. He was not, said Jack, a conversational man, but at least he was better than nothing.

Jack stacked some of the cured timber he had stored near the boundary into a hired dray and made several trips into Perry Bay where he sold it to Captain Bellamy and stayed the night at the Victoria Hotel before returning the dray to its owner and making the long ride home. On one of these trips, he met his old friends Doolan and Riley, who were back at the hotel from one of their jaunts. They were delighted to see him, and insisted that he spend the evening with them in the bar, drinking and swapping news.

"Just like old times, eh, Mad Jack?" said Doolan contentedly, but Jack found something missing from their camaraderie. His friends spoke of an overland tramp to the west, where prospectors had recently found tin, and of a fresh venture to Castlemaine. They spoke of willing women and bets made and lost, horses changing hands after dubious card games and a terrible brush Doolan had had with food poisoning at the hands of Black Seamus the goldfields cook. The restlessness began to rise in Jack’s blood at these reminders of their freedom, but he resolutely damped it down and retired early to bed.

Jessie the barmaid cast a speculative glance in his direction, but he shook his head at her in smiling reproof and clumped up the stairs towards the lumpy, but still familiar, old bed.

Doolan laughed and beckoned to Jessie. "Come here, me darlin’ - sure, ‘tis no use you wastin’ a thought on Mad Jack now. His pretty wife has him on a short leash and knows when to pull it tight."

Jack closed his ears to their banter. He had escaped their unsettling company, but he could not escape from his unsettling thoughts. He wished he had brought Anna with him to chase the uneasiness away, then thought of her in the bar room of the smoky old Victoria and shook his head. It was no place for his Anna.

The next morning, he rose early and left the hotel while Doolan and Riley were still asleep. He purchased supplies and called at the Colbys’ to collect a half-grown pup from Charles’ spaniel bitch. Jane was agog for news, and much saddened when she heard of Anna’s miscarriage. "To think she went through that hell in prison and brought a child to term, only to lose one in the clean air of her own home," she said with a sigh. "Well, it happens that way sometimes, Mr Kelly - perhaps more often than we know. But when Anna is with child again, you must strive to keep her from overtaxing her strength."

Although he nodded courteously, Jack found himself resenting Jane’s advice. "Sure, Ma’am, I’ve not been misusing me wife!" he protested. "Anna is well and happy enough with me as she’d be the first to tell you!"

‘I did not mean to imply that you were in any way at fault, Mr Kelly," said Jane, "but I have no doubt you are working hard yourself, and Anna is not one to sit by with folded hands and watch you labour."

Jack returned to Kelly’s Castle somewhat ruffled in spirit, but his resentment died as Anna’s eager face appeared at the door of the cottage. "Jack, the heifer has dropped her calf and it is a fine little bull!" she said. "It is suckling well, and I have seen to the watering - but I am so pleased to see you home again. Have you brought the pup? Did it walk all the way, or were you obliged to take it up before you in the saddle?"

There was a woman! Capable of dealing well alone, yet undeniably pleased to see him back. Jack embraced her, feeling guilty. He could have returned the night before had he really wanted. "Sure, I’m a brute to leave you," he said ruefully, "but I have indeed brought the pup. Here he is, and none the worse for his journey although I admit he did see fit to piddle down the side of me saddle."

"Well, you had to deliver the timber to Captain Bellamy," said Anna fairly. "But perhaps I might come with you, the next time. I would like to see the Colbys again." She looked a little wistful. "I have no need to avoid long rides at present, and even Joseph’s sour face would make a welcome diversion."

That night, long after Anna was sleeping in his arms, Jack gave thought to the future. A healthy child would be born to them eventually, of that he had no doubt. Perhaps there would be two - or three - or even more in time to come. He looked through the phantom veil of years to a time when Mad Jack Kelly would be a settled man indeed. With his wife’s body warm against his, he shivered.

By the next spring, Anna was pregnant again. At the same time, the first planting of young trees had put forth sweet pink and white blossom.

"Unlike you, me darlin’, they’ll not be setting fruit this year," said Jack when Anna exclaimed over their beauty, but he gazed with satisfaction at this evidence of future fecundity. Anna bent to pat the dog, which they had named Rory. She smiled at Jack’s affectionate teasing, but she was in dread lest she should lose this child also.

As the months passed, however, it seemed that this time all would be well. Her body began to swell, her belly rounding out between the twin blades of her hip bones, but to her secret satisfaction Jack seemed to find her just as attractive as ever.

"You’re a beautiful woman, Mrs Kelly," he said one night as she brushed her hair by the fire, "but one thing perplexes me; why do you bother to wear that nightgown? Do I not keep you warm enough without it?"

"I don’t like to look at myself as I am now," Anna admitted.

"Sure, you’re a mite too thin for the taste of some," said Jack solemnly, "but me, I’ve always favoured a woman I could span with me two - what the divil?"

Outside, Rory had suddenly begun to bark; not the hopeless, dutiful yaps he gave when treeing one of the thieving possums, but a volley of ferocious sound.

"It must be a tiger; you know how he hates them," said Anna, wishing Jack had not been interrupted just then. In this extravagant mood he was likely to remove her nightgown himself and kiss and caress every inch of her from fingertips to toes; a shocking proceeding if considered objectively, but one which made her breasts, already swollen and blue-traced with pregnancy, tingle with desire. Jack, whether following Doll’s reported advice or acting on his own inclinations, was a generous lover and one who liked to take his time.

The dog barked, again and again.

"Best see for meself what the commotion is," said Jack. "Stay here, Anna - and put on a skirt and shoes, there’s a darlin’."

Abruptly afraid, Anna did as he told her, fumbling with fingers gone numb at laces and hooks.

The animals which roamed the area were not dangerous to men, and the aborigines tended to stay along the coast. What worried Jack were the occasional tales of the depredations of bushrangers, some of them almost gentlemanly in their concern for the welfare of ladies, others hard-bitten criminals escaped from the high security penitentiary at Port Arthur and Eaglehawk Neck in the south east.

Port Arthur had never been much used for freshly arrived convicts - most of these had been put to work in the colony in the same way - although not always in such pleasant circumstances - as Anna. Port Arthur’s species of hell was mostly reserved for the habitual offenders who continued their lawless ways in the new land. The penitentiary itself was cut off from the rest of Tasmania by a narrow isthmus - Eaglehawk Neck - which was guarded by savage dogs, but some of these desperate men would brave the sea and risk being dashed against the rocks or drowned to by-pass the dogs and escape. Occasionally, one would somehow survive in the bush by preying on lonely homesteads like Kelly’s Castle. Half starved and half crazed, these bushrangers were no respecters of men, property, laws - or women. If it was one of these, Anna hoped he would take what he wanted and leave, for if it came to a fight, Jack’s instructions were stark and clear; Anna was to steal out the back way and run to the nearest neighbour, leaving her husband to defend the cottage. Jack was determined that his wife should never again suffer the horror of rape.

Clutching a shawl ready in her hands, Anna strained to hear what went on beyond the door. Perhaps Jack was wrong to be alarmed. Perhaps it was only a stray tiger or one of the belligerent little devils after the hens. A full grown devil would never attack a man, but its vice-like jaws, coupled with a quarrelsome nature and pigheaded determination, meant that it would sometimes kill a dog - was Rory all right?

But it was no devil out there, nor tiger either. Anna could hear voices now, incredibly raised in song. After an interval Jack opened the door and put his face, lit with an amazing mixture of pleasure and chagrin, around it. "Anna, me darlin’, it seems we have guests!" he said in a voice which matched his expression.

Anna put aside her shawl and folded her arms across her body, feeling absurdly self-conscious. She had seen no-one but Jack for some months, and more importantly - since her pregnancy, no-one but Jack had seen her. The sudden thought that it might be Patrick McNamara visiting from the east crossed her mind, but Jack was already ushering in two sandy-headed men, vaguely familiar, and of much smaller stature than McNamara.

"’tis Mick and Sean, the spalpeens," said Jack. "Sure, they’ve the wit of God’s own big toe to be out in the bush at this hour. If they’d not the divil’s own luck on their sides they could have gone over a cliff in the dark and the black divils would be squabblin’ over their bones."

The two Irishmen were mildly drunk, and declared that, having returned from their westward trek, they had felt the sudden overpowering urge to visit their old compatriot Mad Jack in his new home. "Sure, ‘tis not the same since you’ve turned respectable on us, Mad Jack," said Mick Doolan mournfully. "Not the same at all. Sean here, is good enough but he’s not the man you were, Jack, in a fight or out of one." His eyes passed over Anna with something akin to dislike - which was strange, since she had barely made his acquaintance.

"And what have you two been about?" asked Jack. The two were eager enough to tell, and while they spun hair-raising tales of their adventures, Anna fetched tea and a damper she had made in the dutch oven.

Stories of caches of bones clad in tattered shreds of cloth, of giant, snow-topped peaks and hazardous sojourns in the camps of blacks passed over her head. Unlike Jack, it seemed that Doolan and Riley were always the heroes of their own tales - and some of those tales sickened her. Anna sighed. These two were Jack’s friends and countrymen, and she knew she should give them a warm welcome for his sake, but still they seemed an uncouth and noisy interruption to her peace.

The tea was drunk, the damper consumed, more wood piled on the fire. The two visiting Irishmen lit their pipes without troubling to ask permission, and soon Anna began to feel faint from the smoke and their constant burble of speech. She stepped out of the cottage for some fresh air, but the Irishmen soon followed, having felt a call of nature which they attended to with great cheer and ribald remarks behind the cottage.

From the sounds they made, Anna concluded that they were having a contest to see which of them could urinate the farthest up the slab walls, and she was pleased that Jack was not with them. She hoped they would leave after that, but they trooped back into the main room, laughing and calling upon Jack to share a bottle of hoarded whisky. Presently, Jack came out to Anna with a comical expression of dismay on his face. "Anna, me darlin’, it appears to me they’re set to dig in for the night," he said, putting an arm around her shoulder. The whisky had flushed his face, and for a moment he seemed a stranger. His arm lay heavily on her and his hand was possessive on her breast.

"But where in the world shall we put them?" she asked, stepping back from the rank smell and the strangeness. "Not in the main room - I couldn’t stand it - and besides, they might use the fireplace as a privy."

"The divil they will!" exploded Jack. "But what with their snorin’ like a sty of Kildare swine and their fighting their battles over again in the night, we’d never get a wink all night. They must make shift in the new room."

"There are spiders in there," whispered Anna. "They come out of the wood at night."

"Good," said Jack solemnly. "Then the spalpeens may pay for their lodging with eight-legged nightmares and with luck it will speed them on their way come mornin’."

The new room, as yet only half built, was directly through the wall from the corner where Jack and Anna slept, and when the obstreperous guests were finally settled, they were out of sight, if not of earshot and mind. Anna slowly relaxed.

Jack leaned over to kiss her hopefully, but she rolled away, repelled by the whisky smell and uneasily aware of the proximity of the pair on the other side of the slab wall.

The Irishmen stayed on for four long days. After that first night they drank abstemiously and were at pains to be polite to Anna - too polite, it seemed. It gave them the air of a pair of sly schoolboys, currying favour with the master’s wife. Their manner made her uneasy. She disliked the way their combined gaze would dwell on her as she went about her work, not with lust, which would have been good grounds for complaint and which would have roused Jack to fury, but with a kind of calculation. It was almost a distrust as if, she thought angrily, she were an intruder in her own cottage.

It was not so bad during the day, for the two men quite willingly helped Jack about his work, releasing Anna to do some much-needed sewing for herself and the coming child. She should have been grateful to them, for with their help Jack finished the final wall of the new room and began to raise a new and stronger fence to contain the heifer and her fast-growing calf. Work went merrily on, but Anna noticed how the conversation died and became stilted when she came up to bring them food or drink.

On the third day, Jack had to go to Perry Bay for some much-needed supplies. Anna had hoped to go too on this occasion, driving the horse in a sturdy dray Jack had purchased, but it was Doolan and Riley who accompanied him, leaving their own two horses penned up at Kelly’s Castle for Anna to tend.

"You’ll be all right on your own, me darlin’?" said Jack, but his attention was already half on something Mick Doolan was saying.

"I shall be all right," said Anna with a snap. "When have I not been? Will Mr Doolan and Mr Riley be here for supper tonight?"

Jack gave no answer, and she supposed he had not heard. That was just as well, for she was certain that at all her years at Sherwood with the Colbys she had never heard Jane so blatantly inviting a guest to leave. What would Jane have done in such a circumstance? Anna had no idea, but she knew it would never have arisen, at Sherwood. If any guest should slight Jane or cause her to suffer the smallest degree of discomfort, Charles Colby would have seen him gone within the hour. But an Irish adventurer was not an English gentleman, and Jack was not Charles Colby.

Crossly, Anna went out to feed the hens, actually pushing Rory when he came up to her to be comforted in the absence of his lord and master.

It was almost dark when the party returned - dark enough for Anna to have begun to fear they had met with an accident. The mutton she had cooked was overdone and dry, but the men scarcely seemed to notice. They were deep in conversation, their Irish brogues blending so well, that she could hardly tell who was speaking at any given moment. She longed suddenly, with all her heart, for the sound of a crisp English voice.

Anna plonked cups of tea and syrup dumplings before the men, and then sat on the settle and watched. She was very tired, but she could not go to her bed while the men remained in the room. Even when they finally retired, she knew she would sleep poorly. I might as well be a servant again, she thought ruefully as Mick Doolan’s boisterous laugh rang out. Her head was nodding forward and Doolan was laughing again. She wished he would be quiet. She wished they would all be quiet, and go away. Even Jack. Especially Jack.

"A fine hostess to fall asleep in the sight of her guests, me darlin’," said Doolan, and lifted her in his arms. Anna stiffened in outrage at his familiarity. She opened her eyes - to find herself glaring at Jack. His vivid blue eyes were alight with laughter and affection, but Anna was too shaken to smile back, for with every day his friends delayed their departure, Jack seemed to be slipping away from her. The three men were so alike, they knew one another so well - how could they not feel that she was an intruder?

"It’s all right, me darlin’, I’ve broken it to them they’re to be on their way come morning," said Jack, and laid her down on their bed. Remorsefully, she reached out to him, but he shook his head and stepped back, saying he was off to check the traps he had laid out for the marauding possums among the young trees. And of course the Irishmen went with him.

They did take their leave in the morning, and Anna was relieved. Now she had Jack to herself again. She would never deny him the reliving of the good times past with his old friends, but they were in his past.

She was his present and future, she and the child and Kelly’s Castle.

For a few days, life seemed back to normal. Anna basked in having Jack’s full attention once more, and if he seemed a little quieter than usual she could only suppose he was all but talked out for a while. Then one evening, as they made themselves ready for bed, Jack turned to Anna with an air of resolution. "Anna, me darlin’, I’ll be leaving you for a week or two soon," he said.

"Why?" asked Anna warily. "Have you to go east, to talk with Mr McNamara?’ For Jack had often expressed his intention of going to town to prepare the way for the sales of his orchard produce.

He shook his head. "No, it isn’t that, Anna. It’s me voyage around Tasmania. The boat is ready for her launching."

Anna stared at him blankly. "But - I thought you had given away that idea. You meant to be gone before our wedding, but you never did go after all."

"I had other things on me mind then," said Jack deliberately. "Like the winning of me girl; and the making of a home for her to come to. But now -"

"Now the girl is won and the home is made," said Anna mechanically. "And the girl, moreover, is not the shape she was."

It was a sultry evening and mosquitoes hummed outside. A possum yarred from the big eucalypt Jack had left standing behind to shade the cottage, and Rory answered its challenge with staccato yaps.

"How long have you been planning this?"

Jack shrugged, his eyes unreadable. "Since before ever I met you, me darlin’. Sure, and you knew that from the start."

Angrily, Anna mimicked his brogue. "Sure an’ I did not!" she snapped. "More likely it was those drunken friends of yours put it back into your head. They’d do anything to get you away from me."

Jack was silent.

"Well?" she said sharply. "Do you deny that they’ll be making this voyage with you? And that I will not?"

"Sure, it’s to be just as we planned it two years ago," said Jack, growing angry in his turn, "and it’s come to a pretty pass when a man must be asking permission from his wife to keep a promise made to two life-long friends."

"And it’s come to a pretty pass when a husband leaves his wife on the whim of two uninvited and unwelcome guests!"

"Anna," said Jack, more quietly, "you know I’ve always been a roving man. You must admit it now - you knew the man I’d been. Sure, you always used to beg to hear tales of me exploits - have you not asked me again and again for the tale of how I lost me pants at the diggings?"

"Tales are just that," said Anna. "Tales."

"And you know I’ve not been leaving you before."

His almost wheedling tone annoyed Anna more than his temper had done. It was not worthy of a man like her husband to seek to soften her in this fashion. "Then a roving man should not marry," she said curtly. "And if he does come to it - and if you care to remember it was you who proposed to me - then he should be sure he can keep from company that seeks to make him discontented."

"I’ll seek the company I choose!" said Jack. "And I’ll not have it said about the colony that Mad Jack Kelly lives under the cat’s foot!"

"And who’d dare to be saying that? Your life-long friends would surely not do you such a terrible turn! If they would, they’re not the sort of friends you should be wanting. And is it them you want to impress with your masterful freedom, or is it yourself?"

Jack stared at her. Was this his Anna? The servant girl whose shame he had ignored when he chose to wed her?

"Mr McNamara would never treat his wife so!" cried Anna, her doe-like charm quite distorted with rage. "But then - he is a gentleman. Nor would Mr Colby, who is a gentleman also - and English!"

Jack took her by the shoulders. "I - am - not - Charles - Colby," he said, giving her a smart shake with every word. "I - am - not - an - English gentleman. The Irish have - red blood - in their veins - not - weak milk - and they - stand - no nonsense - from - their women! As you would - find - if you ever - knew - McNamara - as - I do!" Breathing hard, he glared into her stricken face, then slowly dropped his hands to his sides, the anger fading to bleakness. "And now I’ve offered you violence, Anna, which I swore I’d never come to. But sure, you drove me to it."

Tears might have swayed him, but Anna refused to shed them.

A reminder of her condition might have kept him from this crazy voyage - this time.

But she knew that the restlessness would bubble up again and again if it were forcibly contained now. It must have been there all along, the restlessness, and perhaps it was difficult for a wandering man to settle and stay in one place. So she took a deep breath and tried to smile. "No Jack, it’s all right. You did not hurt me and you are right - you have to go. You have stayed here with me a long time now - it cannot have been much of an adventure for a man like you to be everlastingly watering trees and fighting possums for the possession of a square inch of bark - not after losing your pants on the goldfields and staving off a dozen raging Chinamen with a shovel. I won’t ask you to stay."

"You’ll not be alone, Anna," said Jack after a while. In victory, he was shamefaced and half inclined to tell he wouldn’t go. He put an arm around her, but she flinched away at his touch. That stiffened his resolve. "I’m getting a girl to work for you - you’ll need help when the child is born."

Anna stared, quite diverted. "A maid!" she gasped. "Me, with a maid!"

Jack nodded proudly. "Yes, Mrs Kelly is to have a maid. She will be company for you as well as help - just as you were for Mrs Colby. I’ll not be gone long, me darlin’, and I’d not leave you at all at this time but that after next year it will be more difficult for me to get away. The fruit will be setting, and we might have another child as well."

"I see," said Anna. "Then go, if you must, but don’t expect me to welcome future visitations from Mr Doolan and Mr Riley. They may wish to take you next to Timbuktu, and that I could not countenance."

Jack gave a slight smile. "Anna, they did wish me to join with them in their next prospecting venture in the west, and in their revisiting of Castlemaine."

She tensed. "And what did you say?"

"I said I was a man of property now, and was not to be lured into such cock-brained schemes. Poor souls - they have not a wife to render their homes comfortable to them."

And so she was content.

Jack left two weeks later, first installing a severe-looking maid in the new room. Anna’s heart sank when she saw this person. She might not have welcomed a heedless young beauty who might have tempted the master of the house when his wife grew too cumbersome for bed-games, but she would have preferred some biddable child or comfortable, motherly body to this.

"What is your name?" she asked, trying to sound composed.

The maid dropped a straight-backed curtsy. Just as if she had not ridden a swaying dray for several hours. "O’Halloran, Ma’am."

"O’Halloran," said Anna faintly. Lord! Was there no end to the Irish infestation of this benighted colony? "Have you not another name, O’Halloran?"

The maid looked doubtful. "I was christened Ruby, Ma’am."

"Then that is what I shall call you. And, if you please, Ruby, call me ‘Mrs Kelly’ and not ‘Ma’am’."

"Just as you say, Ma’am," responded O’Halloran.

Anna looked at her sharply, but could detect no insolence in the maid’s expression. Perhaps the woman was a little feeble-witted, although she did not have that appearance. Her small dark eyes were sharp enough, and her features firmly defined without the blurring Anna associated with the simpletons. "’Mrs Kelly’," she repeated, and held the woman’s gaze until she nodded.

O’Halloran proved to be anything but feeble-witted. Indeed, she soon displayed a finely-honed intelligence as well as the faint inbuilt air of superiority common to high class parlour maids or lady’s maids in the grand London establishments. Such women often enunciated their words more clearly than their employers could do, and had no conscience about using their superior stock of knowledge and intelligence to make provincial visitors and lesser servants feel that they were of no account.

Knowing the type well (for Amelia Sutton’s dresser Felice had been a perfect example), Anna realised that if O’Halloran once perceived that she had the upper hand she would not hesitate to use it, and any hope she might have entertained of gaining an amiable companion died instantly.

"Ruby," she said firmly on the second morning, "I have asked you to address me as ‘Mrs Kelly’. Please remember this and do so at all times."

"Yes, Mrs Kelly," said O’Halloran. "Whatever you say. Mrs Kelly."

Their eyes met, and Anna fancied she saw scorn in the maid’s. No, O’Halloran was certainly not going to be a friend. Anna would have liked to dismiss the maid on the spot, but Jack had employed her and to reject his choice would not be politic at this stage. Things were bad enough between them as it was. Also, the woman seemed capable in her work and had done nothing to merit dismissal. Anna, having been a servant herself, was determined not to fall into the habit of compensating for her remembered inadequacy by mistreating her own maid, but nor did she intend to go to the other extreme. Jane Colby, while offering friendship and practical affection to Anna and Miss Murray, and heroic tolerance to Joseph, had never overstepped the boundaries, and Anna planned to model her own future dealings with servants on Jane’s. It was only now, eye to eye with the supercilious-looking O’Halloran, that Anna realised how much she had longed for a companion who could also be a friend.

If O’Halloran is still here when the child is born, she thought, rather wildly, I’ll not dare make a sound though I die in childbed.

O’Halloran was not intrusive, but her presence served to preserve the rift between Anna and Jack. Looking back at the matter in later years, Anna understood why this should have happened. Her resentment at Jack’s connivance with his old friends had begun the process, then Jack’s own dread of breaking the news of his voyage had continued it. They had made their peace after a fashion, but the wariness remained and O’Halloran’s advent had prevented any real reconciliation and return to their old intimacy.

Until he left, Anna and Jack exchanged nothing more than polite words and a decorous kiss on the cheek. Their closeness, their shared delight in their secret life together, their much-discussed plans for the improvement of their own private kingdom - all had faded away as if they had never been.

Jack had settled with their nearest neighbour to ride by twice a week to make sure all was well at Kelly’s Castle, and he had given Anna instructions for dealing with any conceivable emergency. If a beast became ill, she was to isolate it at once, if a tree was diseased it was to be doused in oil and burnt.

"A blight at this stage would ruin us," he explained. "Better to sacrifice one tree than risk the entire plantation."

"I understand," said Anna, meekly as any agent. Inside she was crying.

If a bushranger or escaped criminal arrived, she was to alert O’Halloran, bolt the cottage and escape by any means possible.

"Keep yourself and the child safe, Anna me darlin’, and I’ll be well content," said Jack the day he left. "And never forget, me darlin’, that I love you."

"I love you too," said Anna through stiff lips, but it was too late now. He kissed her, holding her lightly because of the child, kissed her again and swung onto his horse. Anna summoned a smile and waved as cheerfully as she could. Jack waved back, catching at her heart with his old reckless smile. "Don’t you be worrying, me darlin’, I’ll be back like a bad penny though the divil himself seeks to bar me way!" he promised.

"I’ll hold you to that, Jack Kelly," said Anna as he rode away. She did not fear the devil - why should he come for a good man like Jack? - but she did fear the influence of his life-long friends. Even as his horse vanished through the trees she fancied she could see his domestic cares tumbling visibly from his shoulders. Jack Kelly, landowner, orchardist, husband and prospective father, rode away from Kelly’s Castle that morning, but Anna had no doubt it would be Mad Jack the Lad, Irish adventurer, who would embark at Perry Bay.

She wished she could have cried, washing away her frustrations and fears in a healing flood, but O’Halloran was near, and O’Halloran must not be allowed to sense any weakness. Anna composed her face, put aside her shawl (for the morning was growing warm), and went back into the cottage. "Ruby," she said, "are you well-versed in the care and training of apple trees?"

"No, Mrs Kelly," said O’Halloran with evident disapproval. "That I am not."

Anna allowed herself a faintly malicious smile. "Well, Ruby," she said with a certain relish, "today you shall begin to learn!"

CHAPTER NINE.

Summer set in with a long dry spell, and Anna, determined that Jack would return to find his fruit trees in good heart, spent two hours each day carrying water from the creek. O’Halloran, disapproval written in large letters across her face, assisted her. The maid was visibly disgusted by the fat leeches which lurked in the undergrowth by the creek. "Bloodsoocking little beasts," she muttered. "I hate them!" It was only in such moments of stress that O’Halloran betrayed her origins. She was not Irish as her unlamented husband had been, but a Lancastrian.

"Hitch up your skirts," said Anna without much sympathy. O’Halloran’s face lengthened still more.

She was equally unimpressed by Anna’s methods of dealing with household tasks, and could sometimes be heard muttering resentfully as she did what she termed ‘the rough’ or milked the cow. Anna found herself taking an unholy delight in the situation. O’Halloran could not hand in her notice because, until Jack returned, there would be no transport to take her back to Perry Bay.

Thomas Afton, the neighbour, came up the hill from Tegwen twice a week as Jack had arranged. He was a phlegmatic man, who had been transported many years before and who had stayed on when freed and since made good. "You all right there, Mrs Kelly?" he would bawl from half way up the hill. Single, and not over-fond of women, he never came nearer to Kelly’s Castle than he need.

"Quite all right, Mr Afton," Anna would call back in reply. "Would you care for a cup of tea?"

Afton’s reply never varied. "No, thanking you all the same, Mrs Kelly." A short pause would ensue. Then - "Well, if it’s all right you’re being,. I’ll be off on my way then."

"I wonder what he would do if we were not all right?" Anna said to O’Halloran. She didn’t expect a reply, which was just as well, for she didn’t get one.

As the days lengthened and the heat grew, Anna suggested that O’Halloran might prefer to put on a lighter garment than the black dress she always wore. O’Halloran looked shocked at the very notion. "Black’s what’s proper for a person in my poosition, if you’ll forgive the familiarity, Mrs Kelly," she said.

"When I was in service I wore grey at times," said Anna. She knew it was of no use to try to hide her background and origin from O’Halloran.

The maid’s long face lengthened still more. "Black’s what’s proper for a widow woman to wear, even in this benighted colony," she said reprovingly.

Anna was taken aback. "Are you a widow then, Ruby? I’m sorry about that."

"Can’t say as I am, Mrs Kelly," said O’Halloran. "I joost wish he’d had the decency to pass on before we left London. Died of a fever just outside Hobart Town, he did, the wastrel."

Anna felt an odd stirring of fellow feeling. So O’Halloran was another unwilling immigrant! Perhaps that accounted for her surly ways. Perhaps it also accounted for Jack’s action in hiring her.

Anna put away the thought of Jack. He had been gone for over a week, and she dreamed of him every night. Sometimes she had visions of his carousing in Hobart Town with his feckless friends, and perhaps attracting the attentions of the local loose women. At others, she saw him clinging desperately to an upturned boat, and being carried inexorably closer and closer to dragon-jawed rocks. Anna hated both dreams impartially, and sought to banish them by lying awake, but a combination of pregnancy, added responsibility and sheer hard physical work made her sleepy despite herself.

Ten days after Jack had ridden away, Rory began to bark. Anna was carrying water at the time, and she put down her buckets and gathered her skirts in some confusion. Could it be Jack come home to her so soon? Or was it a bushranger, or even Tom Afton visiting out of turn?

The cottage was in sight, but she was confident that she and O’Halloran were hidden among the trees. O’Halloran’s black and her own dark green gown made excellent camouflage. "Ruby, can you see who’s there?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.

"No, Mrs Kelly."

"You might if you bestirred yourself to look," said Anna ungraciously. "Walk down towards the house and keep out of sight. If you see any person who looks to you to be undesirable, stay well back and we’ll wait for him to take his leave. It might seem the coward’s part, but those were Mr Kelly’s instructions."

O’Halloran looked stubborn, but her training overcame her disobliging nature and she set off towards the house. Shortly, she was back. "It’s a woman, Mrs Kelly. No better than she ought to be, if you’re wanting my opinion." Her face pinched up. "Well into middle age, she is, and wearing a bonnet fit for one of they fashion journals. And sooch a colour, too."

"Pink?" asked Anna disbelievingly.

"Bright pink," said the maid. "You’re never thinking you might know this person, Mrs Kelly?"

"Oh, I do hope so!" said Anna. "Bring the buckets, Ruby, and come down to the house." She picked up her own skirts and made her way down the hill, as quickly as her ungainly form allowed, to meet Jane Colby. "Ma’am!" she cried. "Oh, it is so good to see you - but where is the master? Is all well at Sherwood?"

Jane straightened the outrageous ribbons of her capote hat. "Anna," she said smilingly, "how very good it is to see you again my dear. Charles has some business to discuss with Mr Afton, who smokes such a vile pipe that I was forced to prevail upon Joseph’s good nature to escort me the rest of the way so that I might visit with you." A definite twinkle lit her eyes at this tribute to Joseph’s mythical good nature. "Where should he put the horse, Anna?"

"We have a yard around the back," said Anna cheerfully. "Jack has our horses away just at present, so Joseph could make use of that - but come in, Ma’am, and have a cup of tea."

"First, let me look at you," said Jane, tilting her head so that she might see better. "Well, Anna, marriage seems to agree with you - when is the babe to arrive?"

"To tell the truth, I don’t quite know," said Anna. "It’s rather easy to lose track of the time up here, Ma’am."

Jane looked her over again. "Not more than a few weeks if I’m a judge," she said. "You look very well, Anna, positively a’bloom! But you should not be standing out here in this hot sun."

"Don’t worry about me, Ma’am," said Anna. "I am perfectly well this time. But do come in, and Ruby will get us a cup of tea. And Ma’am, don’t regard it if Ruby seems a little out of sorts - it’s just her nature to be that way."

"In short - a feminine counterpart of our good Joseph," said Jane, following Anna to the door. Once inside, she looked about the cottage with evident approval. "Did Mr Kelly make these chairs?"

"Yes, Ma’am. He was apprenticed to a carpenter back home in Ireland for a while."

Jane laughed. "Your husband is a man of many parts."

"Yes, Ma’am, he is," said Anna, and a shadow crossed her face at the thought of how they had parted. She turned away to put the kettle on the hearth, but Jane had noticed her withdrawal. "Anna," she said persuasively, "do you think you could bring yourself to call me ‘Jane’?"

"I could never do that, Ma’am!"

"Then I must call you ‘Mrs Kelly’," said Jane determinedly.

Anna smiled. "I might perhaps call you ‘Mrs Jane’ as Joseph does," she ventured.

"That will do excellently," said Jane. "Then that is settled."

"And here comes Ruby at last," said Anna. "Ruby, make the tea for Mrs Colby and then you may go back out and offer a cup to Joseph."

O’Halloran’s face darkened. She considered herself socially a cut above a groom.

"Joseph is a pastry-cook by trade," said Anna, "and a very good one. You may take your own tea with him if you would be so good. It occurs to me that you and he may deal excellently together."

"Oh dear," said Jane as O’Halloran swept out with the tea-tray. "Is she that bad a creature?"

"Indeed, Mrs Jane," said Anna solemnly, "sometimes I think she is worse. But then she is a widow-woman and one must make allowances for that."

Jane stayed for two hours, bringing Anna up to date with all the doings of the Colby family and the wider news of Perry Bay. "We see Mr Kelly occasionally," she said, "but when are we to have the pleasure of a visit from you?"

"Perhaps, after the baby is born I might have Jack bring me down," said Anna. "If it would not be presuming -"

"Nonsense!" said Jane. "After Charles, I count you as quite my oldest friend in this colony, Anna. We have shared so much, have we not? When Edward was born you were the greatest comfort imaginable. When do you expect Mr Kelly home?"

Anna looked down at her clasped hands. "I do not know, precisely," she said, "Perhaps in another week, perhaps a little longer."

"He is away from home then?" asked Jane. "I had thought him to be at work around the selection."

"No, he is away on an exploratory venture just at present," said Anna. "It is the first time he has been gone more than a day since we married." Perversely, she felt she must defend Jack.

"Leaving you alone at such a time with no other company than that sour-faced Ruby?"

"We manage very well," said Anna, still nettled on Jack’s behalf and on her own as well. Did Mrs Jane think her an incompetent?

Jane considered. "You must come and stay with me at Sherwood," she said firmly. "No, I’ll brook no arguments on this head, Anna. Collect your traps and come along."

By the time Anna had convinced her friend that she had no intention nor wish to leave Kelly’s Castle at that time, it was well past time for Jane to be gone. An unpleasantly hot, dry wind was blowing over the bush, and Jane tied her hat on with a decisive tug. "I wish you would change your mind on this, Anna," she said reproachfully. "I shan’t have an hour’s peace thinking of you alone up here."

"I have Ruby," reminded Anna.

"Ah yes, you have Ruby. But I would hate to have to depend on my comfort from a woman who looks as sour as she does."

"Ruby is strong and healthy and a good worker," said Anna. "She does not care a fig for me personally, but she carries water for two hours without stopping to tend the trees, and milks the cow as well."

"I am pleased to hear she has something to recommend her, besides the most forbidding visage this side of John o’ Groats," said Jane with a sniff.

"Mrs Jane," grumbled Joseph, "if we don’t leave soon, the ‘orses won’t be able to see and the master’ll be in a rare bate. I never claimed to be no sort of ‘orseman."

"What nonsense, Joseph," said Jane indulgently. "You know full well we must all turn our hands to a variety of ploughs in this colony."

It seemed very lonely when Jane had gone. Anna was tired, but she knew the cow was still to be milked and a meal produced. And she had no doubt that O’Halloran would be in a bad mood after having had Joseph’s morose company foisted upon her for the best part of the afternoon. She sighed, wishing that Jack might return. "I hope Mrs Colby’s Joseph was not too uncivil to you, Ruby," she said as the maid came in with a bucket of milk. Jane’s words had reminded her of how much she depended on O’Halloran’s good offices.

"Not to say uncivil, Mrs Kelly," said O’Halloran , her grim aspect softening a fraction. "I might even go so far as to say it was a treat to talk to someone who knows how to express himself like a sensible man."

Wonders, reflected Anna with some amusement, never ceased. O’Halloran was full of surprises.

The dry wind continued to scour over Kelly’s Castle for the next week. The young trees seemed to shrivel before its breath, but the pestering flies thrived and swarmed in ever greater numbers. As Anna emptied a bucket of water around a thirsty plant, the wind whisked droplets away before they ever reached the ground. Her back ached from bracing herself against the buffets, and O’Halloran, crow-like skirts blown away from skinny ankles and bunioned feet, looked more forbidding than ever.

The hens’ tail feathers blew up over their backs and soon they retired to the shelter of their coop, sulked, and went off their lay. The carrots in the garden wilted, the lettuces turned brown about the edges, and curls of bark ripped loose from the gum trees and skiffled ceaselessly across the cleared ground.

One night a branch blew from the big eucalypt and landed across the fence which Jack had put up to confine the heifer Bridie and her calf. The top rail cracked in two, and the heifer scrambled over and headed triumphantly into the bush.

In the morning, O’Halloran reported the loss to Anna. "She’s been gone a while, Mrs Kelly - the calf’s bawling."

"The calf bawls if she so much as moves out of its sight," said Anna tartly. "He’s so big - he should be weaned and salted down for the winter."

O’Halloran sniffed. "I never claimed to be skilled in tasks of that nature," she said.

"Never mind - I am," said Anna. "Joseph taught me when I was in service with Mrs Jane."

O’Halloran’s face cleared. Despite the brevity of their acquaintance, she obviously approved of Joseph as she approved of nobody else. "I’ll be off to look for the cow then, Mrs Kelly," she said.

"No, no, we’ll both go," said Anna wearily. "She cannot have gone far, the pest. Perhaps Rory will help."

Rory was delighted to be released from his chain, and hunted back and forth like a trained tracker, but it soon became distressingly obvious that he was tracking animals other than cows. He was sworn at by three possums and snapped at by a devil he had unwisely disturbed in its den, after which he retired to wallow in the creek.

The two women searched for hours, but the thick bush which still covered much of Kelly’s Castle made the terrain difficult to traverse, and almost impossible to cover with any accuracy. "She could be within yards of us and we’d not see her," sighed Anna, sinking down on a vast fallen tree and wiping her forehead with the skirt of her apron.

"You ought to go back to the house and rest, Mrs Kelly," said !O’Halloran accusingly.

"Nonsense," said Anna. "We must find that cow. Ruby, I wonder if she could have gone downhill to Mr Afton’s property?"

"He’d have returned her by this if that were so," said O’Halloran. "You go back to the house, Mrs Kelly. I’ll be finding the spalpeen."

"Ruby!" exclaimed Anna, laughing. "What language!"

"I was forgetting myself," said O’Halloran. "I beg your pardon, Mrs Kelly - that dratted man of mine was not over choice in soom of his expressions."

"Ruby, why not call me ‘Mrs Anna’?" said Anna suddenly. "It’s ridiculous to be on such formal terms when we’re alone up here. I’m sure your birth is every bit as good as mine - if not better."

"I could never do that, Ma’am," said O’Halloran. "It joost would not be fitting."

Anna mopped her face again and swatted at a biting fly. Her back was aching and her ankles hurt and O’Halloran was a stiff-rumped wretch. Perhaps she would return to the house after all. She rose from her seat and began to push through the unyielding scrub. Her foot slid on a greasy patch and a buzz of flies rose up on the breath of a strong smell of dung. "She’s been here, anyway," said Anna.

They found the cow a few yards farther on, her tail whipping in the wind, her flanks liberally spattered with dung, her eyes wild. She bellowed mournfully when she saw them and tossed her head.

"What’s wrong with her?" asked O’Halloran, looking dubiously at the usually docile creature. "Has she roon mad?"

"I expect she’s bulling," said Anna resignedly.

O’Halloran looked a question.

"Bulling. In need of the attentions of a bull."

"Aren’t we all," said O’Halloran glumly. Before Anna could do more than gape at her, the maid had picked up a switch of tea-tree and was urging the heifer back toward the cottage.

When they arrived, Tom Afton was hovering uneasily in the yard. "You all right up there, Mrs Kelly?" he asked as Anna approached.

"Yes thank you, Mr Afton. A branch came down on our fence in the night and the cow escaped."

"Trees are coming down all over," grunted Afton. "If it’s all right you’re being I’ll be off then."

Anna held up her hand to detain him. "I wonder if we could borrow a bull?" she said. "Do you have one, Mr Afton?"

Afton rasped his chin with a thumb and nodded, looking everywhere but at Anna. "You’ll ‘ave to bring her down to him though. He’s not a one for driving. Put a rope on her."

"We’ll come this afternoon," said Anna wearily. "Can we offer you something in exchange for his services, Mr Afton? We have a hatching of chickens, or -"

"A bit of bread’d go down all right if you got some," said Afton. "Indeed to goodness, a man gets sick of damper."

"Shall we close the bargain?" said Anna. She held out her hand, but Afton backed off.

"I’ll be away off then," he said, and departed.

O’Halloran put up some lunch and shortly afterwards, the two of them set off again, leading the heifer on a make-shift rope. "At least it’s all the way downhill," said O’Halloran.

"Yes," panted Anna, "but don’t forget we’ve still to come home again."

O’Halloran groaned.

The heifer was to stay two days with Afton’s bull, and to Anna’s enormous relief the man gallantly offered them a lift back up the hill to Kelly’s Castle. "Don’t like the look of that there," he said ruminatively, jerking a thumb to the west where a smudge of smoke crawled up about the horizon.

"It’s a long way from here," said Anna.

"That’s not to say another can’t start up close to home. You want to be careful with that chimney of yours. One spark and she’ll be away."

"We are," assured Anna.

"The idea!" said O’Halloran under her breath.

It was not their chimney which brought disaster upon Kelly’s Castle, but a whisky bottle abandoned by Afton’s convict labourer who had gone into the bush to refresh himself during a long, hot afternoon’s work. The master was away taking the Irishman’s wife back to her cottage, so why should he not have a rest? There was no water nearby, but he pulled out a bottle of whisky and gulped down the contents before hiding the remains judiciously at the butt of a tree.

After an hour, the sun began to slant through the trees and he got reluctantly to his feet and went back to work.

The sun’s heat intensified, striking through the glass as if through a prism and sending a concentrated ray of heat into a curl of bark.

After a while, the bark curl began to wisp with smoke. It singed and blackened, and might have gone out had not a buffet of wind sent the flame sideways into a tuft of fallen leaves.

The oil of the eucalypt flared and fizzled, the flames gulped greedily and began to spread along the branch. The fire was soon well away, as burning twigs blew like paper to brush against crisp leaves and bark and to start new spot fires of their own. The labourer saw the disaster but not its cause, and having a strong regard for his own skin and safety, he fled back towards the cleared ground.

When Thomas Afton returned from Kelly’s Castle, he was horrified to see the bush-clad fringe of his own land well alight and his labourer staring like a nodcock.

Fire. What every settler in this heavily wooded area most dreaded. Not only could fire destroy life, livestock and property. The timber itself, on which many a settler depended for his living, could be consumed in a matter of hours. And these southern trees burned with such alien ferocity, flaring and exploding like huge, oil-soaked torches. The result was not neatly cleared ground, but a graveyard of blackened trunks and jagged branches, rimmed with charcoal, the leaves and bark burned away. Such timber might regenerate, but it would take years and the blackened scarring which remained was never popular with buyers.

Afton thanked God the wind was blowing in from the north; at least the fire would be driven away from the major part of his property. Beyond this strip was only the Dial Range - and the Irishman’s selection. Wherever the fire finished up, nobody but Jack Kelly and a few thousand wild creatures would be inconvenienced. He could do nothing about it anyway; he could only hope the Irishman’s pregnant wife and that sour-faced maid would smell the smoke and get themselves down to the lush bush round the creek. They’d be eaten alive by leeches, but anything was better than burning - even St Paul the apostle had admitted that.

Afton made sure the Kelly cow was still safely ensconced with his bull. She was a fine beast, and he might get her from Kelly at a very advantageous price if the fire destroyed his property ...

Thomas Afton crossed his fingers and glanced apprehensively at the sky. If the Lord had divined that thought and happened to be in His Old Testament mood, He might just allow the wind to change and have Afton’s property wiped out instead. To salve his conscience, he fetched his rifle from the dray and fired several warning shots into the air. The sounds cracked around the hills, echoing back to Afton, and he nodded. There was nothing else he could have done; by now the rough track between Tegwen and Kelly’s Castle would be burning.

Anna was sleeping when the snap of the rifle echoed around the hills. O’Halloran, dourly carrying water to the bereft bull calf, paused to look around. She sniffed, and peered at the sky. Single gunshots could mean a kangaroo dinner for someone, but so many together might mean danger - a beast run mad, a criminal on the rampage -

O’Halloran’s skirts whipped about her ankles, her apron flapped like a sheet and her bonnet tugged at its moorings. "Dratted wind," muttered O’Halloran, her eyes on the horizon. This benighted colony was no good to man nor beast, and if that crazy man of hers had not spent all their savings to bring them here, she’d be back at sea before a cat could lick her ear, heading for the dales.

The sky to the north was grey and overcast - not what you’d expect after such a fine hot day. But it was not cloud - it was smoke.

"Fire!" cried O’Halloran, frightening the calf and bringing Rory up yelping from his nap. She put down the bucket and ran to the house. "Mrs Kelly - Ma’am! There’s a fire coomin’!"

"I saw it," murmured Anna, drugged with sleep. "Mr Afton pointed it out."

"This is anoother one!" gasped O’Halloran. "And it’s coomin’ oop the hill!"

Still only half believing it, Anna got up and put on her shoes. She went outside and looked down the hill. O’Halloran was right, and the way this wind was blowing, the fire would reach them in far too short a time.

"We’ll be burned to death," said O’Halloran.

"Not if we get down into the creek," said Anna mechanically. In her mind she was planning, planning. The hens could be cooped and carried to the creek - or would they be better loosed to fend for themselves? No, the evening was coming on and the hens would be likely to go to roost somewhere instead of saving themselves. Hens were not intelligent. The calf could be urged into the creek as well - thank goodness the heifer was with Mr Afton. But the fire was coming from that direction - Tom Afton might not even have made it safely back to Tegwen!

"The apple trees," said Anna aloud. "We must save them if we can. And then the cottage - Ruby, fetch all the buckets you can find. Get the pans and the blankets - anything that can be made to hold water. I’m going to soak the cottage."

For an hour the women toiled, carting bucket after bucket of water, splashing it about in a wide arc about the cottage, converting the dry summer soil to a clayey mud. Anna soaked the blankets and hung them over walls, but the hot dry wind dried them as they hung.

Afterwards, they did their best for the young fruit trees, shrouding the branches of those in the outer rows with wet cloth - petticoats, aprons, linen, everything they could find that might serve to cut the ferocity of the fire.

Darkness seemed to be coming with terrible speed. It was not natural dark but a flood of smoke spreading in a giant stain over the sky - surely a rehearsal for Doomsday. Soon they could see the fire itself, a line of winking lights which grew to tongues and then to galloping manes of fire. Horribly, the fire spread more quickly through the tree tops than over the ground, borne by the wind and leaping from branch to branch like flaming agile imps. Anna saw them as children of Hell, - but she shook the fancy away and laboured on.

The fire came closer, and she and O’Halloran armed themselves with wet sugar-bags and beat out every spot fire they could reach. Some roosted terribly in the trees, burning up through the branches like gigantic candles, pieces of flame ripping away in the wind to sail off and breed more fires of their own. The smoke whipped past, stinging and burning on its own, and soon Anna and O’Halloran could barely see one another through their red, black-rimmed eyes.

"More water!" gasped Anna. "Run, Ruby - I cannot."

O’Halloran ran, to return with two buckets of muddy water. One of these she dumped over Anna. "No - the cottage - for the cottage!" choked Anna.

"Booger the cottage!" said O’Halloran. Then she was away and Anna was dipping her sugar-bag in the other bucket, striking at the little runs of flame with a smoking, blackened weapon.

The smoke swirled and blended with steam where the water fell, and the fire seemed to poise and hold its breath on the brink of the mud-bowl they had created.

"We’re holding it!" gasped Anna, coughing until she almost retched.

But O’Halloran wailed and pointed a finger upwards, where a burning branch had fallen on the roof. With a heave of her skinny arms, she sent an arc of water to put it out. "Better go, Mrs Kelly," she rasped. "It’ll coot us off from the water and we can’t do a bit of good if we’re burnt like toast." She grasped Anna’s wrist and hauled her bodily away from the cottage. They slipped and slithered in the mud, down the hill to the gully where the creek threaded through the ferns. The coop of hens clucked uneasily, Rory howled and the calf had broken free and headed for the scrub. "Best get in it, Mrs Kelly," said O’Halloran, and dragged Anna, still resisting, into the water.

The last of the sunset was drowned in the terrible light of the fire, and O’Halloran’s flat voice was muffled by the pounding of blood in Anna’s ears and the voice of the fire itself, roaring, shuddering and fizzling excitedly as it devoured each new tree. The creek was coated with flakes of ash and half-burnt twigs and as the wall of fire drew nearer, wildlife began to boil from the surrounding bush to plunge into the water. Kangaroos and wallabies raced by, some singed and half mad with pain. Birds, buffeted and tossed by the terrible wind, sailed like the flakes of ash which was all that was left of some of their brethren. Devils and possums, stupefied by the smoke and barely half awake, died by the dozen, and by the creek lay the smoking remains of a tiger. The creatures were scavengers and no-one had a good word to say for them, but Anna would have wept for this one had she not been too busy weeping for herself.

And then the fire raged on, driven by the wind to new fields of endeavour. O’Halloran raised her head.

"Well, Mrs Kelly, we’re still alive," she said.

"Damn it to Hell, Ruby, is that all you can say!" shrieked Anna and laughed. The laugh became a howl which bubbled on until she was shrieking again. O’Halloran located her with one hand, then brought the other round in a curve to slap Anna’s face. "Now let’s get you out of the wet before you catch your dethercold," she said.

"Dethercold - we could have been roasted!" sobbed Anna, but her hysterics had died away.

"Coom on," said O’Halloran, and lumbered out of the creek. To her mortification, Anna was too weak to climb out by herself, so O’Halloran seized her by the wrists and pulled. They stumbled over the smoking undergrowth towards the cottage. There was little light left in the wake of the fire, but there seemed to be a darker shape where the cottage used to be. They limped on, their shoes lost, their feet blistered and streaming blood from cuts and the punctures of leeches. O’Halloran gave a hissing gasp as she put her heel on a glowing coal, but she continued to support Anna with her wiry strength.

"How old are you, Ruby?" asked Anna.

"Thirty eight, Mrs Kelly, if it’s any of your business."

Anna laughed. "I’m about twenty two, but right now I feel about a hundred."

The cottage was still standing, although parts of the walls seemed to be smouldering under the remains of the blankets. O’Halloran opened the door and peered into the blackness. "Joost get the lantern out, Mrs Kelly - " She did so, and to Anna’s horrified amusement, lit the lantern with the glowing end of a piece of wood. "I’ll get the fire stoked oop - if there’s anything left to burn on it," she said and Anna choked with a resurgence of hysteria.

Inside, the sour smell of blackened wood hung in the air. The blankets had been stripped from the beds, but apart from that, the cottage looked almost normal. "I suppose we’ll have to go and make sure it’s out," said Anna, so they moved gingerly around with the lantern, stamping on ash and prying up logs which might shelter smouldering coals.

"Can’t do mooch else till morning," observed O’Halloran. "Better get soom sleep."

It seemed impossible, but Anna stripped off her ruined clothes put on her nightgown and lay down. Next door in the new room, she heard O’Halloran rustling about, settling for the night. Half an hour later, she gasped with shock as a lean pale figure loomed over her. O’Halloran turned up the lamp. "If you start getting pains in the night, Mrs Kelly, joost call for me," she said.

"You know about things like that?" asked Anna.

"Not from personal experience, Mrs Kelly," said O’Halloran, "boot if you need me I’m here. Joost thought I’d tell you that."

"Thank you Ruby, that’s a great comfort," said Anna.

O’Halloran turned down the lantern. "You’re welcome, Mrs Anna," she said.

The morning came too early, with horrifying dreams dissolving into yet more horrifying reality. Anna dragged herself up and wrapped a shawl, a flimsy thing she had made for the child, around her shoulders. She could smell the rankness in the air, and hear the ominous quiet. No birds were singing today. The wind still tugged about the hillside, but there were no leaves to rustle and no loose bark to skiffle along the ground.

"God," said Anna aloud. "Why did you do this?"

"He did not," said O’Halloran’s sepulchral voice. "It was Old Nick had a hand in this, if you ask me."

"Have you been outside?" asked Anna.

The maid nodded. "It’s bad, Mrs Kelly."

"I know," said Anna. Her feet throbbed and smarted, but she went to the door and looked out. There was no freshness of gum, no warm scent of honey from the bush. Tears came into Anna’s eyes and she tried to blink them back. It was impossible, for they spilled over and ran down her scorched cheeks.

The gully lay blackened and desolate, with sad mounds of fur and singed feathers to show where wild creatures had been overcome by the smoke or terrible heat. The garden was a trampled ruin, the cottage blackened and seared along two walls. The great gum tree stood like a blinded giant and the apple trees were shrivelled and black, some of them bound in tatters of linen like skeletons clothed in rags.

"They look like gibbets," said Anna.

She looked about again. There was no comfort. Anna walked across the yard, the wind trying to rip her filmy shawl from her shoulders. Anna let it go, holding one end so that it flapped like a banner. "Take it then!" she shrieked to the uncaring wind. "Bloody take it! You’ve taken everything else!" She let go and the shawl swirled away. "But you’ll not beat me," said Anna to the sky. "You’ll never beat me. Jack will come back and we’ll start again - you’ll see. You’ll see." She turned back to the cottage where O’Halloran was watching her with frightened eyes. "It’s all right, Ruby," said Anna clearly. "I’ve not run mad. Now - what do you think we should do first?"

O’Halloran pursed her lips. "Get the hens out of the wet?"

"Yes," said Anna with relief. "We’ll get the hens out of the wet. And then we’ll go and find Rory - if he hasn’t already come to find us!"

CHAPTER TEN.

Later that day, Charles Colby arrived on horseback, accompanied by a scowling Joseph. He looked appalled as he took in the devastation, but by then Anna had taken herself in hand and was able to greet him with some pretence of composure. "Ruby and I are all right, and so are most of the livestock," she said. "The trees were right in the path of the fire, but perhaps some of them may survive. So you see, sir, there is no need to worry about us; we shall do."

Charles took her hand in his and smiled down at her ruefully. "Why did I never notice the iron in you before, young Anna?" he asked. "Most women would have been half dead with shock and wailing to be taken away from here by now."

"Not Mrs Jane," said Anna, and blushed. "Sir - she asked me to call her that when she visited here!"

"I’ve no doubt she did, Anna."

"And Ruby - Ruby has been the iron one," said Anna. "Without Ruby I’d have been in a bad case indeed."

"I can see Ruby is an estimable character!" said Charles. "Now - Jane sends to tell you that you and Ruby are most welcome to come home to us until your husband returns from his wandering and decides what to do about all this." Charles’ eyes swept around the blackened countryside once more, but he was glad he had censored Jane’s actual words when Anna shook her head decidedly. "No, sir, I think we should stay here. The cottage is not burned and most of the stores are all right. But Bridie cow is with Mr Afton - I would be grateful if you would ask him to keep her for a while. He is all right, I trust?"

Charles nodded, his face veiled. "His property was barely singed," he said in a dry voice.

"Also, I would be pleased if you would tell Jack when he arrives that we have survived. It may spare him a bad few hours," said Anna.

Charles reflected that a ‘bad few hours’ might do Jack Kelly no harm, but he nodded anyway. "Jane also said that if you proved stubborn - her words, not mine - I was to assure you that we offer any help of any kind that you need, from food and clothes to Joseph’s services until your husband returns."

Anna stared. "But Joseph is a cook!" she exclaimed. "He would never demean himself to doing yard work for me!"

"Joseph is many things," said Charles quite gently. "Not all of which he cares to advertise. He is quite prepared to stay on with you now if you would like him to do so. I confess I wish you would agree; if only to preserve me from Jane’s certain wrath if I return without rendering you any practical assistance."

Anna thought about that. "I think we might be glad of another pair of hands," she said at last, "if you can spare him, and if he doesn’t object."

"Capital!" said Charles. "Joseph has some ironmongery and will make repairs to your fence - the cottage area seems to have escaped the worst of it?"

"We wet it down before the fire came," said Anna.

Charles raised her scratched and blistered hand and kissed her fingers. "Anna Bailey, I salute you," he said, and rode away.

It was only when she was left alone by the cottage that Anna realised that her former master had not used her married name.

She was a little wary of spending the next several days in the combined company of O’Halloran and Joseph, but to her relief the two agreed very well together, just as they had at first meeting. The assignment of sleeping quarters brought a slight perplexity, but Anna solved it by making up another bed next to hers in the main room for O’Halloran and leaving Joseph to occupy the new room. It was as well it was summer, for unburnt coverlets were very few.

This arrangement did not endure for very long, however, for within a week O’Halloran had come to Anna and respectfully requested leave to move in with Joseph. "I’ve always been a decent woman, I’m sure, Mrs Kelly," she said stiffly, "but I hate to see a good man going to waste."

Anna tried not to smile. "Don’t you think perhaps it was Joseph’s place to tell me this?" she asked tentatively.

"Lord sakes Mrs Kelly, Joseph knows noothing yet!" said O’Halloran. "I joost thought I’d move in tonight and let him argue tomorrow - if he’s still of a mind to, that is."

"Well - I don’t know, Ruby," said Anna. "What if he doesn’t want you? Or takes offence? He’s a very straight-laced creature."

"He’ll want me right enoogh," said O’Halloran. "I’ve been a married woman and I know well enoogh how to please a man."

Evidently O’Halloran did know how to please Joseph, for after a shocked roar at around ten o’clock when Joseph found his bed already occupied, there was no other disturbance all night. Anna lay in the darkness, thankful that the connecting door was fast shut, and tried to choke down her laughter. Then she realised it was tears she was choking back and sensibly decided to go to sleep. She thought that perhaps O’Halloran had the rights of it - but she did wonder what Jane would say if she knew.

She awakened early next morning to hysterical barks from Rory and the familiar movements of her unborn child, rolling lazily like a seal in its warm environment. The terror and exertion of the bushfire seemed to have done it no harm at all. Anna was heaving herself up on her elbows before lumbering out of bed when the door burst open and her husband strode into the room. It was as if the sun had come out.

"Sure, and what’s all this?" said a beloved voice. "A man turns his back for five minutes and what does his wife have to do but burn half a mountain to teach him a lesson!" Then he was down on his knees and she was up on hers and they were embracing and then falling sideways to lie clasped together, with Jack’s head on Anna’s breast. "What if that maid comes in?" hissed Jack, rubbing a bristly cheek against her.

Anna chuckled. "Ruby has her own fish to fry," she whispered.

"Ruby?"

"O’Halloran. The maid. She’s bedded down with Colby’s Joseph."

Jack’s eyebrows nearly disappeared into his bright hair. "O’Halloran? The maid I hired? And Joseph? Colbys’ Joseph?"

"The very same," said Anna.

"Mrs Kelly, me darlin’, are you running a bawdy house here?"

"Not at all," said Anna. She sat up and pushed back her ragged hair regretfully. One of Joseph’s unsung talents had proved to be barbering and he had agreed to cut the burnt lengths out of her hair. "Jack - the trees are burned, and most of the timber," she said. "We did our best, but the wind was so strong that Ruby and I had to get into the creek."

Jack sobered. "Sure, I know that, Anna me darlin’. Colby met me off Launceston wharf and drove me to Sherwood. And a rare tongue-lashin’ did I get from his lady wife for leaving you alone. Sure, I didn’t know a fire would come, but to hear that shrew pitch in you’d think I’d planned the lighting of it meself!"

"Oh," said Anna. She was not sure how she felt about that. Jane was her pattern card and she admired her greatly, but what right had she to pitch into Jack? "Even had you been here, there was nothing you could have done," she said. "The fire started down the hill near Tegwen, but the wind was behind it."

"You seem to have managed as well as any man among them, and that’s God’s own truth," said Jack. "Oh, I love you, Anna me darlin’ - but are you quite sure all’s secure with them in there?" He gently touched her healing cheek.

"It will be if you move the settle against the door," said Anna practically.

Jack did so, returning swiftly to Anna, and stripping as he came. He looked down at Anna’s swollen body with an almost awed expression. A ripple passed over the tautness as the child moved within.

"Sure now - it won’t be harming you or the child?" he said, putting his palm flat to feel the movement.

"No, I’m sure it won’t," said Anna.

"But what do you have in there?" asked Jack. "A pugilist perhaps?"

Anna laughed. "It feels like a jumping kangaroo," she said.

At first Jack was strangely diffident, for her pregnancy had become much more evident in the weeks he had been away. The child’s movement distracted him a little, but soon he forgot his caution and allowed his desires to have their way.

"Slowly," whispered Anna, invoking a private joke between them.

"I can’t," groaned Jack, and Anna’s last doubt was erased. Jack had not been taking his pleasure elsewhere.

Anna met O’Halloran out in the rebuilt horse yard an hour or so later. "My husband is back," said Anna, coming straight to the point.

O’Halloran nodded dourly. "You’ll be pleased aboot that, Mrs Kelly." Not the slightest vestige of a leer accompanied this statement so Anna was able to look her maid straight in the face and agree.

O’Halloran must have read something else in her eyes for she said: "The new sleeping arrangements fit us joost fine. Now I’ll go and make us a coop of tea."

Jack watched O’Halloran and Joseph with fascinated eyes, but he said nothing except that he was grateful to them both for their support of Anna, and would be pleased if Joseph could stay on for a while. Any other man might have been greatly crushed to find his property burned and his plans in limbo, but Jack Kelly wasted no time in railing at fate. Almost before the sweat had dried from his horse he had set about putting Kelly’s Castle to rights. When young green grass began to grow up in the wake of the fire, he went down to Thomas Afton’s to reclaim the cow. On his return he reported to Anna with mingled laughter and rage that "the spalpeen had the indecency to try to charge me boarding fees - and him enjoying the milk of her for these past weeks!" But not even that piece of effrontery could quench Jack Kelly for long.

For a while, Anna’s delight in her husband’s company was enough, but as the time for her confinement drew nearer she began to worry about the future. Jack had never said much about their financial situation: the makeshift furniture in the cottage was more a reflection of isolation and primitive transport than of poverty. But with much capital sunk in the fruit tree venture, and three quarters of the young trees dead, how were they to survive? Jack could shoot kangaroos, but they could not live entirely on those - especially when the child was born. The timber which should have cushioned them until the orchard became productive was gone as well, and who knew what Jack might have spent on his exploratory voyage?

One night the burden of ignorance became too heavy and Anna asked Jack what was to be done. "Have we the money to employ Ruby much longer?" she asked.

"Don’t you be wearying your head about that, Anna me darlin’," said Jack cheerfully. ‘Sure, we’ve a nugget or so left in the claim."

"But don’t you see - I must weary my head!" said Anna. "I must make plans."

Jack smiled at her and shook his head. ‘Sure, that’s me own department, darlin’, and not for you."

"But are you making plans?" persisted Anna. She hated to be sharp with Jack, but even more she hated to wait unprepared for whatever blows fate might deliver.

"Be easy on that head, Anna me darlin’," said Jack. "I’ve a little venture in mind to bring in all we need and more." He kissed Anna exuberantly, but she turned her face away, unappeased.

"Tell me about it," she said. "I need to know."

Jack sighed, and humoured her. "I’m going prospecting again," he said. "Over to the west there’s land that’s yet to see the imprint of a white man’s foot. Who knows what lies under the earth? All the gold of Solomon and more!"

"But - when are you leaving?" asked Anna. A great stone seemed to be sinking in her chest. Jack was going away - again. "I suppose Mr Riley and Mr Doolan are to be with you in this?" she said.

"Sure, it’s to be a joint venture," said Jack easily. "Lone prospecting’s a game for fools, and let no man living call Mad Jack Kelly for a fool. Ah, Anna me darlin’ - you know I’d not be leaving you if the fire had not taken the trees!"

Anna wondered, but did not dare to ask, when this latest venture had been planned. Had Jack indeed thought of it only since learning of the fire? And if so, when had he discussed it with Riley and Doolan? Was it his idea - or theirs?

"What of me?" she asked, her voice quivering. "What am I to do while you’re gone?"

"Whatever seems best to you!" said Jack largely. "Come with me, me darlin’, if you will, and sure you might pick up a nugget or two of your own!"

"And what of the child? And this place here?"

"Sure, you can stay if you prefer," said Jack smoothly. "I’ll not be long gone, and when our fortune’s made I’ll never need leave you again."

Anna lay down. "I see," she said.

Jack put his arm around her, settling her against his side. "Ah, now you’re displeased with me, Anna, but sure I’m only thinking what’s best for you and the child."

"I know," said Anna. She abruptly lost interest in the conversation and the future as the vague discomfort she had been putting down to unease about the future suddenly intensified into a spreading pain. Jack felt her stiffen and felt a spasm of unease himself. Surely Anna was not going to be unreasonable - he was but doing what he could to secure the future for them both. He told himself that the fact that the prospecting venture was very much to his own taste was beside the point. Tasmania was such a wonderful place - old as nature but young as a virgin bride. Her native people had hunted and gathered her living bounty, but they’d made not the slightest effort to reap the riches which lay under the ground. It was left to diligent newcomers such as himself to do that. And what riches there might be! "Easy, me darlin’," Jack said to Anna. "Why not love me now and let tomorrow wait and see?"

Anna relaxed and he heard her give a strangely exasperated laugh. "I think the night will be busy enough - at least for me," she said. "It’s the child."

At this Jack sat up with a jerk, all thoughts of prospecting and riches cleared from his mind. He rolled out of bed and began searching for his clothes. "Jack - Jack - where are you going?" cried Anna. Surely he was not leaving her already!

"Sure, I’m riding for the midwife!" he said in astonishment.

The contraction had receded, so Anna sat up again. "Jack, there is no use in riding off in the dark - you might have an accident and then where would we be?"

"But you’ll be needing her!" said Jack.

"It will wait till morning," said Anna. She shuddered, and the shudder had nothing to do with cold. She was remembering the hours of unrelenting pain she had suffered to bear her dead son.

Jane Colby’s babies arrived in a handful of hours - Anna’s first labour had been a different matter. After tonight, she thought superstitiously, Jack’s vision of the future might include her less than ever, for she might be cold in her grave, with her dead child beside her.

Jack seemed doubtful about staying, but the night was dark and Anna was determined - he pulled on moleskins and shirt then sat down beside her and took her hand. "Never worry, Anna me darlin’ - I’m here," he said.

Anna tried to take some comfort in that, but what could Jack do, after all? Miss Eleanor and two experienced women had been of little help before.

Shortly the pain came again, a niggling, warning pressure which she knew was a mere fraction of what was to come. Anna lay clenched in its grip and thought longingly of peace and rest and sleeping in Jack’s arms. As the contractions gathered force and speed, she gripped his hands like a drowning woman and ceased to think at all.

Jack winced as her nails bit into his palms, but he did not withdraw his hands. He was alarmed by now - how could he ever have thought to leave Anna in this state while he rode to Perry Bay? During a lull he put his arms around her, trying to hold her against him, but the contraction came again and it was like fighting a river in spate. "Oh Anna me darlin’," he said, "don’t be leaving me now."

Anna whimpered a little, and then raised her head and stared into the dimness behind him. With a sudden morbid fear of whom - or what - she saw, Jack turned his head.

No wraith nor spectre of death could have looked grimmer than the figure he beheld. "Mr Kelly, what do you think you’re at?" asked O’Halloran, her lips almost disappearing with disapproval. "Get yourself out of here, rouse oop Joseph and stir the fire in the oother room."

So Jack was banished, and glad of it. The cries and moans which Anna had tried to bite down began to ring out in earnest, and Jack, sweating, was tempted to cover his ears. Instead, he went to the yard and took a bottle of whisky from his saddle bag. He brought it into the new room and shared it with Colby’s Joseph. "Sure, ‘tis women’s work in there," he said with a nervous glance toward the connecting door, and Joseph dourly agreed.

It was three hours later, just as the sun was rising, that O’Halloran’s severe face, framed in a pie-frill nightcap, appeared around that door. At the expression on her grim visage Jack felt the blood draining from his own cheeks.

"You ought to be ashamed of yourself, Mr Kelly," said O’Halloran, eyeing the empty bottle. "Taking the drink while your poor wife bears your child!"

"By God, and I am, I am." muttered Jack. "But sure, I couldn’t stand it! Is she - "

"Mrs Kelly has a daughter, no thanks to you," said O’Halloran, and disappeared.

"Sure, that woman of yours has a tongue like rusty iron," said Jack, torn between resentment and relief.

"Aye," said Joseph sadly. "It might ha’ been better put."

They named the baby Mary Ruby Jane, for Jack’s mother, the amateur midwife and the lady of Sherwood.

"Holy Mother of God!" said Jack, awed, when Anna announced her choice. "With women like those at the back of her, she’ll never be lacking for words! But what of your own mother, Anna me darlin’? Should we not honour her?"

Anna shook her head. "Mrs Jane and Ruby have been more to me than she ever was. And will be more to Mary as well - won’t they, my sweeting?"

A week after small Mary’s birth, Jack and Joseph went down to Sherwood, Jack to pass on the glad news and undertake a private errand of his own, and Joseph to return to work for the Colbys.

"You’ll miss him, Ruby," said Anna.

"I will," said O’Halloran with a sniff. "But now the master’s back for good there’s noothing to keep him here." There was a faint question in her voice which Anna did not choose to answer. Jack had not spoken again of his planned venture, being greatly enamoured of his new daughter and full of extravagant praise for Anna. "Though sure and to be told by the hired help that I’m not to lie with me own wife at present is a little hard on the stomach!" he complained.

Anna smiled at him over the baby’s downy head. Mary had hair like the fuzz on a baby chick - no fiery thatch for her. Anna was rather sorry, but Jack professed to be glad. "Sure and a bush like this is no use to a little wench," he said. "But Anna me darlin’, give me a hint - when can I love you again?"

Anna smiled but shook her head at him. She knew she loved him dearly still, but her feeling for the child was so new and so fierce that she needed time to find a proper balance. So she was quite content for Jack to go to Sherwood - she could spend long hours dreaming as the baby fed and O’Halloran tramped around attending to her work.

Jack was away for two days, and when he returned he was accompanied by a wholly unexpected visitor - Father Malley.

"What in the world - " said Anna, blushing and embarrassed.

"Never mind the proprieties, me child," said the priest kindly, seating himself at the bedside. "Sure these old eyes have seen more and worse sights than a mother nursing her child. Did not the Blessed Virgin nurse our Lord in just such a manner?"

Nevertheless, Anna hastily covered herself with a shawl.

"I’ve brought the father to baptise our Mary, Anna me darlin’," said Jack. Bending down, he detached the baby from Anna’s breast.

Mary gave a yowl and turned alarmingly red.

"That wee one has a good pair o’ lungs about her, to be sure," said Father Malley. He reached out and gathered the child in his arms.

Anna was always uneasy when Jack held his daughter, but she could see that Father Malley was an old hand at the game. He supported Mary’s head against his arm in the prescribed fashion. His wrinkled old face shone with beatitude as he looked down at the furious infant. "And may the good Lord grant ye always such wonderful health and may His light shine forever on ye," he said.

The words were unfamiliar to Anna, but she knew a blessing when she heard one and smiled at the kind old man.

Raising his voice above Mary’s protests, Father Malley said: "Child, this man o’ yours called to tell me of the little one to be baptised into the true faith - have ye the name selected?"

Jack answered for her, and so Anna lay on her bed and listened dreamily as Mary Ruby Jane Kelly was taken to the bosom of the Holy Mother Church. She then restored her to her own. Mary ceased to bawl, gave a satisfied burp, and was soon suckling peacefully.

"And now I won’t say no to a drop o’ tay before I go," said Father Malley.

The ‘drop o’ tay’ was flavoured with some further drops of fine Irish whisky, so it was a ruddy-faced and beaming priest who rode away to his temporary lodgings in Perry Bay.

Jack escorted the father part of the way before turning back to Kelly’s Castle. A little sheepishly, he handed Anna a soft, bulky parcel from his saddle-bag. "Sure if I didn’t forget it entirely!" he said remorsefully. "Mrs Colby gave me this gown for our Mary to wear at her baptism."

Anna held up the exquisitely hemstitched robe and the embroidery danced and wavered before her eyes. Jane must have worked for hours on this to make it so fine.

"I’m that sorry, Anna me darlin’!" said Jack.

Anna dried her eyes on the sleeve of her nightgown and smiled up at him. He might have forgotten the gown, but he had brought the priest and his smile held all the warmth of a hearthfire - and all its danger too. "I love you, Jack Kelly," she said.

Jack departed for the west with more reluctance than he had expected to feel. The green was coming back miraculously to Kelly’s Castle after the fire, and soon the cow and hens no longer had to range far afield to find their food. Anna’s strength returned with the grass and the long autumn days remained warm far into April.

It was almost a honeymoon period for Anna and Jack, for small Mary slept a great deal and O’Halloran’s presence was no longer the irritant it had been. This time when Jack left, Anna, feeling his honest reluctance, was able to see him go with a lighter heart. He had been gone barely two months when she realised with some dismay that she was pregnant once again.

O’Halloran put her hands on her hips and looked grim when she heard the news. "It was always my oonderstanding, Mrs Kelly, that a soockling child kept a woman free from danger."

Anna sipped tea to try to calm her uneasy stomach. She gave O’Halloran a wry look. "Perhaps, Ruby, your understanding doesn’t take a man like my Jack into account!"

Jack was away for nearly six months. Anna bore it because she had to, and found it more possible in consequence. Jack was her lover, her delight and her friend, yet for practical purposes, she depended more upon O’Halloran and the infrequent visits of Joseph, who came ostensibly to make sure all was well and contrived to stay on and spend a night or two with O’Halloran.

"Why don’t you two marry?" Anna asked one day when Joseph had ridden away. "You’re fond of one another, you respect one another, and there are no impediments."

"We would, Mrs Kelly, but you’d not do without me and Joseph is set on staying with the Colbys," said O’Halloran without resentment.

"Oh, Ruby - I’d not thought of that. You’re right, unfortunately - I can’t do without you now, but perhaps when Jack comes back we can work something out."

O’Halloran shrugged. "You’ll have the oother babe by then, Mrs Kelly, and this bad child will be on the move - won’t you my Mary? - and what would you do without me then?"

Anna was silent. O’Halloran’s words were only too true, yet Jane Colby had released her maid to Jack with grace and affection. How could Anna do less for O’Halloran?

Jack returned in the spring, a thin bearded stranger with the restlessness gone from his eyes. Mary cried and screamed at the sight of her father and Jack’s bewilderment was pitiful to see, but Anna smoothed his chagrin.

He was a little taken aback to find her already swelling with their next child, and rather silent on the subject of his venture. "Sure, we’ve enough for the next while, Anna me darlin’," he said one December day when she pressed the question. "But mining’s a hard life for a family man."

He put his hands behind his head and lay back, idly watching Mary crawl over a mat on the floor. Then he sat up and lifted the child in the air, laughing up into her outraged face. A long strand of dribble plopped into his eye.

"Begorra, if the little spalpeen doesn’t spit like a cobra!" he said.

Mary grinned at him, displaying a row of quartz-white teeth. Anna smiled on them both, basking in her own good fortune. A loving husband, an entrancing daughter and Jack admittedly tired of mining! The future looked good.

"Will you plant more trees in autumn?" she asked. There were a few tiny green apples on the survivors of the fire.

To her surprise Jack shook his head. "No, Anna me darlin’. Sure a place like this is altogether too wild - if a fire comes we could lose it all again. And I fear the possums will take far more than their share. The fight’s too hard, so I’ve a fancy to try farming in more settled parts."

Alarm bells rang in Anna’s head. "Jack, how long have you been thinking of this?"

"Sure, since I met with Pat McNamara when I went to the east!"

"Oh Jack!" said Anna, torn between exasperation and laughter. "When was

that?"

"Sure, Mick and Sean and I went to Launceston for assay, and put up the night at Shepherd Town where Pat has land."

Anna digested this. So Jack had not spent all his six months away in the western wilds. He had gone south east to Launceston - and how close had he passed to Kelly’s Castle on the way? "What of me?" she asked again.

"Sure, you’ll be coming with me!" said Jack in astonishment. "Anna, Anna me darlin’ - you did not think I’d be leaving you again?"

Anna’s eyes filled with tears of shame. She had thought just that.

"I’ll be going down to Shepherd Town to make a few arrangements," said Jack. "Why not come with me, Anna me darlin’?"

But this Anna would not do. With the new baby no more than weeks away she could not face such a journey. "Go, Jack, and then come back for me," she said. "Or send word and I’ll travel with Ruby when the babe is safely born."

"Sure, you do be having a poor opinion of me, don’t you Anna me darlin’?" said Jack mournfully. "As if I’d leave you to make the journey alone with two young babes!"

Anna did not wish to leave Kelly’s Castle. As it recovered from the fire it showed signs of becoming again the haven where she had spent her first enchanted days as Jack’s wife, where she had borne and loved small Mary, discovered the worth of O’Halloran and watched the odd romance flower between her maid and Jane’s cook. Not only that, but it was the place where she had come to value her self.

Life had driven Anna Bailey this way and that, but at Kelly’s Castle Anna Kelly had driven life.

Then something happened which changed all that in a few violent hours.

When the fire came, they had had some warning, had made provision for livestock and kept the cottage safe.

When Amos Hawkins came, there was no warning, and this time they could do nothing. Anna would never know the whole story, but Hawkins had escaped some weeks before from the penitentiary, leaving a guard dog dead and a soldier badly injured. He had planned to walk north to the coast and somehow cross the strait, but like many before and after him he had underestimated the ferocity of the country. By the time he stumbled on Kelly’s Castle, the once brawny convict was emaciated, riddled with scurvy, and half mad.

Rory’s vociferous alarm was cut short by a curse and a thud as Hawkins struck him down with the butt of a stolen rifle. This sound was succeeded by the reverberation of a shot.

Anna and O’Halloran, who had been airing Mary before the sun should get too fierce, returned to the cottage in haste to the sight of a silent, bloodied dog, a dying cow, and a ragged scarecrow figure which snarled and menaced them with the rifle.

"Get in with Mary," said Anna between stiff lips. She thrust O’Halloran behind the cottage and turned to the terrible man, her heart thudding with the slow, violent beat of terror. "Why have you shot our cow?" she asked as reasonably as she was able. "We would have given you food, you know - what is it that you want?"

The man spat out some foul language and advanced, waving the rifle in Anna’s face. She retreated, but with a sudden pounce and snatch he had her crushed against him with an arm around her throat. He began to rant in her ear, telling her in graphic words what would happen to her if she dared to scream for help.

"Now, if you don’t want yourself and that load in your belly strewn out in the dirt for the devils to fight over, you’ll call your man out, quiet like," he finished. His voice was hoarse with starvation, and spittle sprayed from his lips, but his accent was genteel. This wreck had once been an educated man, but now sores about his lips oozed pus and his hands were clawed and bloody.

"Jack is not here," choked Anna, terrified.

"Then he’s a fool, you hear me? A bloody fool!" He squeezed her closer with a bony but still wiry arm and brought a knife around to menace her breast. "If I cut you here will blood flow? Or will it be something else?"

Tears started from Anna’s eyes. "Let me go," she said as well as she could. "You can have food, anything you need."

"And have you run screaming to the neighbours! Ah! No chance of that, you fool. Where’s your nursemaid?" A prick with the knife tip made her gasp.

"Ruby’s in the cottage with my daughter."

"Then you’d better pray she does nothing foolish. You hear?"

"She won’t," gasped Anna. "And I won’t run. Surely you can see I cannot? So why not just let me go?"

"You’d not turn in a convict - do you think I’m such a fool as to believe such lying words?" His arm began to tremble with the effort of holding Anna. Swearing, he thrust the knife into his tattered belt and gripped the shaking arm with his other hand, the rifle jutting at an angle. The clenched knuckles thrust at Anna’s chin, but the tremors increased until she thought the man would fall. Instead, he loosed an almost animal howl of rage at his own weakness, and sought to change his grip. His fingers, covered with scrapes and weeping sores, brushed against her throat, and Miss Eleanor’s silver cross was dragged into view on its heavy chain. Whether the sight of it maddened him more or whether it was simply a weapon to be used against her Anna never understood, but he drew it slowly tight.

"I was once a convict myself," whispered Anna without much hope.

The man seemed too far gone to hear, but his grip slackened a little in surprise. Anna could not twist away - her fear for the child was crippling and she was too cumbersome to move easily, yet she hoped she might have won some time.

"Then you’ve felt the lash and the wondrous mercy of the law?" he mocked. "You’ve screamed with pain and had them still go on and on? The blood flows and you beg to die, but no! they never let you. You’ve had dogs set on you and chains rubbing your legs raw and worked till you dropped and then been kicked and dragged up by those very chains and made to work still more and dragged - the dogs -" The man’s obsessive words began to scramble and pile upon themselves, and Anna felt herself slipping down. The chain tightened around her neck and she fought to stay conscious. "We’ve food inside, but you must - not - harm ..." her dilated eyes widened still more as O’Halloran’s lanky figure emerged from the cottage with a bundle in her hands.

The maid placed it on the ground and backed away. "Take that, you creature, and leave us in peace!" she said sourly. "Can’t you see the woman is with child?"

The man hissed with laughter, a chilling sound. "Get back inside, you ugly crow, or I’ll shoot you like the scavenger you are."

O’Halloran remained where she was. "Let me tend to Mrs Kelly."

"Now! Or by God I’ll tend to her - my way." The man twisted his fingers in the chain, tightening it cruelly. Anna choked, and clawed at her neck, but the chain was buried in the flesh and she could not get purchase. She choked again, gasping for air, and felt herself slipping into the dark.

There was a cry as O’Halloran retreated. "I’m backing oop - let her go!"

The man dragged the chain around his victim’s throat, cutting deeply into skin and flesh, bringing the blood. Then he thrust her away from him, to fall sprawling onto the dusty ground.

Anna gasped with gratitude, then cried out as she felt the unmistakable onset of labour. "It’s too early!" she sobbed, but the convict ignored her. Still holding the rifle like the weapon it was, he advanced on the bundle of food, fairly slavering at the sight of damper and salted beef from the slaughtered cow’s last calf. Grabbing up the damper in one hand he crammed it to his mouth, then gestured at O’Halloran with the rifle. "Inside, woman, and get me rope! And if you try to bar the door against me I’ll shoot your mistress in the belly and then I’ll shoot you."

Venomously, O’Halloran obeyed, and within half an hour he was gone, leaving Anna battling ever-stronger contractions, Mary screaming with terror, and a furious O’Halloran tied hand and foot in the cottage. "You bastard! You slimy booger!" Anna heard her yelling above Mary’s cries. "At least let me attend to Mrs Kelly, damn you! Damn you!" But the man was gone, carrying the bundle, his rifle and choice pieces cut from the butchered cow.

Anna could see the sad remains, and beyond these, the stiffening figure of Rory. Her hands were bound behind her, so she could not even blot the tears from her eyes nor stem the sluggish streams of blood that trickled from her neck. Eventually O’Halloran, gritting her teeth and swearing more than she had ever done in her life before, managed to edge her way painfully out of the cottage to Anna’s side, but there she stuck, trying her best to comfort Anna until three hours later when they were found by a ghastly-faced Joseph. And by then O’Halloran’s wrists were raw and bloody from her struggles and Anna’s gown was as reddened as poor Bridie’s hide.

***

Two days later Jack Kelly returned to find disaster had come once more to Kelly’s Castle while he was away. He also found himself to be the father of a second daughter. They called her Margaret May.

CHAPTER ELEVEN.

Kelly’s Castle was poisoned for Anna after that. The fire at least had been an elemental thing, raging with mindless greed. The incident with Hawkins was something else - something sickening in its bestiality. What could have been done to the man to reduce him to such a level of brutality? Or had the brutality always been there and had it perhaps brought him to Tasmania in the first place?

Her new home, Jack told her, was to be near Shepherd Town, a flourishing settlement some eighty miles to the south east of Perry Bay. "The land is flatter there and much of it is cleared already," said Jack. "Sure, you’ll have neighbours in plain sight at Shepherd Town, Anna me darlin’, and no-one will dare to molest you. I know I’d never be easy in me mind to be leaving you here again." His handsome face darkened. "When I think on that divil’s son and what he did to you - sure if the man were not dead already I’d be killing him meself!"

Anna had heard of the death of the man Hawkins with mixed feelings. Truly he had shown her nothing but cruelty, but still his despairing words returned again and again to haunt her. At least his death had been a quick one and certain - Tom Afton’s man had shot him as he fled across the stockyard after an abortive attempt to steal a horse. So the man was gone, and any chance he might ever have had of redeeming himself in the new land had died with him. And his malevolent ghost seemed to haunt Kelly’s Castle as surely as the scar of the chain marked his victim’s neck.

Treated with dressings and salve sent by Mrs Bellamy, the bloody circuit had healed, but the wound had been deep and ragged, and Anna would always have the scar. She put away Miss Eleanor’s cross with sorrow - the second such gift to bring her to disaster.

O’Halloran did not accompany the Kellys to Shepherd Town. She was very willing to do so, but to Anna’s dismay Jack had decreed they could no longer afford to employ her. "Sure, Anna me darlin’, life will be easier for you in town, but as for the cash - it’s taken all me ready and then some to set us up with some land down there, even with Pat McNamara so generous in taking the mortgage. Even with what I get for this place it won’t be enough - cleared land it is, and that fertile you can grow babes in it, they say!"

So O’Halloran was given her notice. To Anna’s relief she took it with equanimity, although she confessed that she would miss the children. "What will you do, Ruby?" asked Anna anxiously. O’Halloran might not have liked her very much, but she had been staunch in her support when it mattered and Anna had come to esteem her as highly as she esteemed Jane Colby - although for different reasons.

O’Halloran folded her hands piously. "Never you fret about me, Mrs Kelly," she said. "Joseph has been after me to make an honest man of him this long time and now I’m going to take him at his word."

Anna smiled tremulously. "Oh, Ruby!" she said. "I’m so happy for you! For both of you, for it’s Joseph who’s getting the bargain."

O’Halloran nodded. "Joseph says Mrs Jane can be doing with help in the house - if you would care to write me a recommendation I’d take it reet kindly."

Anna was delighted to do so, and was even able to attend O’Halloran’s wedding before she left. Jane was enchanted with the fitting conclusion to Joseph’s romance, and insisted that Anna and the little girls should stay with her for some days before they finally left for the east. "I hope you’ll be happy, Anna," she said, "and I do so wish you’d let us replace the cow -"

"No, Mrs Jane," said Anna. "You’ve been more than kind in giving Ruby a place. I felt badly about turning her off when she’s been so staunch for me, but Jack says we have to be careful at first and we won’t be nearly so lonely there at Shepherd Town."

Jane studied the young woman before her. Anna’s years at Kelly’s Castle had changed her little. Perhaps her face was thinner, perhaps her eyes held a new maturity under the well-worn bonnet, but apart from a discolouration on the burned cheek and the ragged scar at her throat she was still a comely woman. "You’ll write, won’t you Anna?" she said. "Let me know by the post when you have other children, and whatever happens, remember you always have friends here."

The two women embraced, and Charles Colby shook hands with Jack. O’Halloran came stalking out to give Mary a last hug before lifting her into the wagon to sit by Jack. At Anna’s side small Maggie stirred and screamed suddenly in her basket. She was an unrestful baby, and sometimes Anna wondered if the trauma at her birth had somehow affected her character.

"Well then, Anna me darlin’, here we go!" said Jack, and he shook up the reins. "To fortune and the new life, and may the luck of the Irish attend us!"

"To fortune and the new life," agreed Anna quietly.

Sherwood and Jane dwindled away behind them, Perry Bay was lost in a curve in the road, and they were truly on their way. Anna, trying to pacify the screaming Maggie, wished she felt more confident - not only about the long journey ahead, but about the future.

Shepherd Town was a thriving inland community built on the banks of the River Limerick. The streets were laid out in neat rows, for the flatness of the land made it possible to create an orderly town which looked, despite the lack of thatch, much like an English village.

The fertile ground was green with grass grown of English seed which vied with the sparser, duller green of local breeds. In some areas late straw was stooked to dry, and Anna saw workmen pitching stooks onto the wagons and carting them to great open-sided barns.

Outside the town, cows grazed and grew fat, vegetables thrived in the virgin soil, and already English trees of considerable height and girth were shading the river. It all looked much more prosperous and civilized than Perry Bay and Anna’s spirits lifted.

"Where will we be living, Jack?" she asked eagerly. "Is it one of the houses in town?"

Jack’s eyes flickered in a way she was coming to know too well. Jack never lied, but he had a habit of leaving too much unsaid. "As to that, Anna me darlin’, the place is a little way out of town," he said. "The fact is, we’ll be needing to spend a month or two with Pat McNamara and his family first."

"You mean there isn’t a house at all," said Anna flatly.

"Not fit to live in yet, me darlin’, but sure, with Pat’s help sure it’ll be no time at all before we’ve a handsome place to call our own. But look there, over to the right of you."

Obediently, Anna turned to look at a beautiful house. Set in an established garden, shrouded in wisteria and other vines, it was obviously a much older building than any of the others. Despite her weariness, Anna could not help admiring the beautiful proportions and clean classical lines. The outbuildings, including bakery, dairy and stables, were designed in harmony with the main house, and gleamed with whitewash.

"Who lives there?" she asked. "Is it the squire?"

"In the manner of speaking," said Jack. "It’s called ‘Shepherd’s Rest’." He pointed to the wide white gates with his driving whip. "The local big house it is - bigger by far than Pat’s, which causes Pat’s lady wife some little consternation, or so I’m told.

"Anna me darlin’, how would you like to live in the likes of that?"

"I did, once," said Anna so dryly that he looked at her in surprise. "I was in service in just such a place in Peel Square."

"Anna me darlin’, I’m thinking you’d be mistress, not the maid! Think on it - for there’s nothing too grand for the likes of me lovely wife!"

Anna smiled at him with great affection. It could never happen, but let Jack have his dreams.

Shepherd’s Rest was on the eastern outskirts of the town. Around and beyond it lay the cultivated acres of its substantial property. The land had a groomed, cared-for look that spoke of tradition and certainty: surely the Shepherd’s (whoever they might be) were of the old English gentry.

Jack turned the horses and drove back slowly through the town. "Where are we going?" asked Anna in bewilderment.

"Sure, Pat McNamara lives back up here a way," said Jack. "I wanted to show you first the big house, me darlin’, but now we’re off to Pat’s."

Anna, with Mary asleep against her and a fretting Maggie supported in her aching arms, reflected that Jack had meant well - but then he always did ...

"Does Mr McNamara’s place have a name?" she asked, as much in an effort to keep awake as because she really wanted to know.

"Sure and it does - and what else would he be calling it but Dublin Downs?"

"What else indeed," said Anna sleepily, although she couldn’t really see the connection. McNamara was not from Dublin - or was he?

When they arrived at Dublin Downs, a fine, sprawling house set amid flourishing orchard trees, Pat McNamara gave them a loud Irish welcome, grasping Jack by the hand and paying Anna fulsome compliments. "Sure, Mrs Kelly, it’s younger ye’re lookin’ now than on your wedding day!" he exclaimed. "And ye the mother of two lovely daughters! Come here, me lovely -" (This to Mary) "Give your old Uncle Pat a kiss!"

Anna blushed; Pat McNamara always made her feel a little uneasy, but if Jack did not object to his open admiration, it was hardly her place to slap him down. And he was their host - and creditor also. So she smiled diffidently and let him take Mary down from the high seat, thankful that her stay with the Colbys had turned her into quite a sociable child.

McNamara’s welcome might have been sincere, for he was a hospitable man, but his wife Betsy seemed somewhat less enchanted to have house guests, particularly when these guests included an old acquaintance from her convict days, a fretful baby and a lively toddling Mary. Anna had been full of pride when Jane had pronounced little Mary to be wonderfully forward for her age in the matter of walking, but now she wished with all her heart that the child would sit like a pudding and be still. Betsy’s own children Shamus and Roderick were stolid lads of six and four, who seemed to have missed out on their mother’s beauty and their father’s charm, and since they were much in the care of a convict nursemaid, Anna saw almost as little of them as Betsy did - which was very little indeed. Betsy McNamara was as comely as ever, but in the course of her social rise from convict maid servant to wife of a well-to-do landowner and businessman, she had lost her pert insouciance. The blankness left behind was etched in her face, for it seemed she had no reserves to replace it.

In an effort to leave behind the Cockney accents of Betsy Potter, Betsy McNamara had trained herself to speak with exaggerated gentility. Not so her husband - the brogue of his boyhood was good enough for him and from worshipping the ground on which her handsome husband trod, Betsy had grown, over the successive years, to view him with bare toleration. This Anna divined with ease: what McNamara himself thought of the matter she did not know. Perhaps he had never noticed, for even the best of men could be marvellously obtuse when they chose.

Anna saw a great deal of Betsy, for their husbands spent many evenings at the Limerick Inn, where Pat held the mortgage and was therefore an honoured guest. The women spent the difficult hours alone together, trying to find some unexceptional subject of conversation to fill the silence. Anna discovered within a day of their arrival that Betsy had somehow excised her first nineteen years from her memory.

When Anna made a reference to the Eliza Kirk and Captain McLeod, Betsy’s eyes shuttered and she turned away, yawning behind her hand. "A little close in here, is it not?" she murmured. "I declare I begin to feel positively faint. Perhaps I should send for Rose to raise the sash." This from a woman who had sweltered below decks and shivered above for more hours than God sent in a day, and had still managed to retain sufficient spirit to exchange familiarities with the younger sailors!

But Anna realised it was not the same woman after all - nine years of determined memory purge had seen to that. Anna’s appearance must have seemed like an unwelcome phantom of a half-forgotten nightmare to Betsy McNamara.

"You must excuse me, Mrs Kelly," Betsy said the next morning. "I have arranged to attend some other ladies at Shepherd’s Rest ... my husband’s position brings much responsibility which I cannot bring myself to shrug away. I am sure you understand." Taking up her parasol she departed in a swish of flounced skirts - her crinoline so wide that she could barely get it through the door. She was gone for some hours, but by the time her husband and Jack had returned from their business in town, Betsy was back, frowning prettily over her embroidery frame in the drawing room while Anna stitched a torn hem on Mary’s bed-gown.

"A charming picture of industry!" said McNamara, and kissed Betsy’s averted cheek in greeting. He smiled at Anna, and again she could detect no hint of hurt in his face. If she had turned from Jack in such a fashion - but that she had never done, saving only in the painful two weeks before he had left on his voyage with Doolan and Riley. It had taken much time and patience to mend that rift, and she was determined that there should never be another like it if she could prevent it.

"Men are such children," Betsy said to Anna, adjusting her huge sleeves after the men had gone out. "They think nothing of the damage they do to one’s appearance with their rough ways - not to speak of the way they expect one to everlastingly grateful for their condescension in marrying one in the first place."

"Mr McNamara seems fond of you," protested Anna, but Betsy gave her a cold look, clamped her lips and said no more.

During the two months or more they spent at Dublin Downs Anna had cause to feel quite sorry for Pat McNamara. He was such an open, high-spirited man, more ready to laugh than to rail at misfortune. It seemed a shame that he should be mated to such a cold, unfeeling woman; for that was what Betsy had become. It was not even as if Betsy were satisfied with her life; she was for ever sighing over her husband’s lack of gentility, and, it seemed, unable to do her guests even the courtesy of staying awake toward the end of the day. Night after night Betsy retired to her chamber at an early hour, and often she rose very late in the morning, pleading a headache or some trifling indisposition and calling for her tonic, a brown brew put up by the local apothecary, to be fetched before she would leave her bed. A long way indeed from the buxom convict girl who had flirted so cheerfully on the wharf nine years before! It would serve the foolish woman right, thought Anna, if McNamara had responded to some of the veiled invitations flung his way by the maid servants Betsy used so hardly.

But perhaps that was uncharitable, she thought. Perhaps McNamara had done such things in the past, and it had been his actions which had soured Betsy so. That would explain much; including McNamara’s own uncomplaining acceptance of the situation. Perhaps, thought Anna darkly, the man knows he has no right to complain.

It was an uncomfortable period for Anna, despite the luxury of the furnishings and the huge softness of the goose-feather bed. It would have been wonderful, she thought wistfully, to have shared that bed with Jack if they could only have had time to themselves. But after hours of lively conversation and free whisky with Pat McNamara (gathering contacts, Anna me darlin’!), Jack was too tired to do more than fall asleep, leaving Anna twitching with unfulfilled desires beside him. It was one thing to spend celibate months when her husband was away, but to have him there yet not there beside her in unbelievably luxurious surroundings, was another matter.

"Jack," she said softly one night. "Have I lost my appeal for you?" She put her hand to her scarred throat. "Does the sight of this sicken you as it does me?"

"Anna me darlin’ , sure you’re the most beautiful woman in the whole colony," said Jack largely. He kissed her and began to stroke her back in the manner she had missed, but after a little his caressing fingers slowed, his head slipped sideways and she realised he was asleep.

"You’re a blasted spalpeen, Jack Kelly, and that’s God’s own truth!" said Anna aloud. Then she smiled. Time enough for loving when they had their own home. Right now another pregnancy could be awkward, so perhaps it was as well Jack was not his usual lusty self.

***

The property Jack had purchased had belonged to an Englishman who had lately been recalled to Sussex and had been desperate to sell before he left. It had been cleared, but the fencing was primitive and the house ill-built right on the edge of the land. Little attempt had been made to make the ground productive, but there were five moderately well-grown fruit trees behind the house. Jack had arranged to have the existing structure pulled down and rebuilt, with extra rooms to allow for his growing family, and Anna was pleased to see that he had had enough foresight to preserve the trees.

"This is not forever, Anna me darlin’," he said when they finally moved into the bare, half completed dwelling in June. "Sure and I’ll build you a place like Shepherd’s Rest just as soon as maybe."

Anna smiled and agreed, too relieved to be away from Betsy’s company and the uncomfortable atmosphere of Dublin Downs to recall that Jack had said much the same thing that first night at Kelly’s Castle. Especially, she was pleased to have Maggie away from the McNamaras’ - the child remained fretful and difficult to pacify and she knew the constant grizzling had chafed on Betsy’s nerves.

Mary was beginning to talk a little, and her first sentence consisted of the parroted words "’Maggie c’yin’ ‘gen.’"

"Too true, my Mary!" said Anna with a laugh. "Tell me - when is she not?" For even in sleep Maggie snuffled and whined like a cross little animal.

In the autumn Jack planted out several acres with fruit trees, bought with the aid of a loan from Pat McNamara. The big Irishman had never been anything but generous to the Kellys, but still Anna did not entirely trust him. How had the man become so prosperous? Why had he so much influence in the community? He seldom seemed to do much work, and yet he dressed in clothes of excellent tailoring, and clad his wife in the first stare of fashion - not that Betsy seemed to think the more of him for that.

"Sure, Pat’s got a way with him," agreed Jack when she made tactful mention of her doubts. "You might say he was born to a talent for being in the right place at the right time - and knowing when to leave that place. If there were a one lone leprechaun in this whole land be sure that Pat would be the one to find it."

It might have been the luck of the Irish as Jack insisted, but if so, Anna wished some of the magic would fall upon them. A one lone leprechaun and a pot of gold would have meant a lot to the Kellys. It would be years before the young trees would become wholly productive, so Jack took to spending several days a week working for neighbouring landowners, including Pat McNamara. Anna suspected that much of his time with Pat was spent drinking whisky and yarning rather than at manual labour, but she knew Jack was working extremely hard all the same. He seemed always tired, with a bone-aching tiredness which no night’s sleep could alleviate entirely.

After a year, their own property had advanced but a very little, and Anna was forced to wonder if Jack was in further difficulties financially. He was looking older, and lined, and there was a flurry of grey in his red hair. The backs of his hands were becoming knotted and blotched with exposure to the sun, with greyish, flaking patches which seemed not to respond to all her applications of lard and sugar. Sunny-haired Mary was his darling and delight, and Anna could not help occasional stirrings of most ignoble jealousy when she saw their closeness. It was Mary whom Jack hugged and kissed and fussed over when he came home, bone weary and aching, from a hard day’s labour in some other man’s hay field.

At rising two, Maggie was a very different character, and Jack had less to say to her.

"She was born angry," Anna said despairingly one day when Maggie had thrown tantrum after tantrum and finally screamed herself to sleep. Jack merely grunted, and Anna wished impotently for O’Halloran or Jane Colby or any other woman who might have shared her concern and given her some sane, bracing company. With Mary too young and Jack too tired for conversation, she had fallen into the way of talking to herself and she knew that was unhealthy. It even frightened her when she recalled some of the women with whom she had shared a cell; so many of them had chattered incessantly to themselves, while seeming completely deaf to the words of others.

Anna had made few acquaintances in Shepherd Town; not only was she unpractised at small-talk after her long period of isolation at Kelly’s Castle, but she felt herself at an ambivalent level socially. Ex-convict, ex-servant, wife of a land-owner who seemed more like a labourer for most of the time.

The only visitor she had over the next few months was Pat McNamara, who arrived one day when Jack was away. She was startled to see him, but McNamara’s manner was completely beyond reproach. He met her in the fowl yard and tipped his hat as he asked after her health and that of the children, particularly ‘Mistress Mary’ with whom he had established a warm, avuncular bond.

"We are well enough," Anna told him.

She would not be short with him for Jack’s sake, but the big, broad Irishman with his well-kept hands and finely made clothes made her uneasy. What did he want?

McNamara strolled beside her and looked over her hens with a knowledgeable eye, remarking that they looked a little old for prime table birds. "I’ve a fine young cockerel if ye’d care to have the housing of him, Mrs Kelly," he said off-handly. "He’d make a tidy Christmas dinner, or ye could put him with the hens - cannot have them going off their lay for lack of the attentions of a good cock."

"Thank you Mr McNamara," said Anna. "When should Jack come to collect him?"

"Sure, we need not trouble Jack, Mrs Kelly; I’ll bring the creature round to ye meself," said McNamara readily. He tipped his hat once more, smiled his genial smile and mounted his fine cob.

Anna still could not trust him but she had to admit that he seemed well disposed, and had said and done nothing to which the most genteel inhabitant of Shepherd Town could take exception. Or had he? That remark about the cockerel, for example ...

Later she told Jack of the visit, and Jack frowned and said he’d fetch the cockerel himself. "I’ve a need to be seeing Pat on another matter entirely," he said, and Anna smiled and agreed that it would be most agreeable to have the bird as soon as possible.

The cockerel was fetched and, since Anna had sufficient hens, was duly marked down for the table. Jack said nothing of his business with McNamara, and Anna wondered if perhaps there had been none and whether it had been merely a fabrication to keep McNamara away from their home. But Maggie was so fractious and Jack so weary that for the next several days she thought no more about it.

"Is everything all right, Jack?" she asked one night. She had dragged in the tub and was laboriously filling it with water which she had heated on the big fuel stove. "Come and wash yourself," she invited as Jack did not reply. "You must be tired."

She thought he might refuse, but without comment Jack stripped off his dusty, sweat-stained clothes and lowered himself carefully into the tub. Once he would have tumbled her in too, skirts and all, but now he merely looked up at her with shadowed eyes. "Sure, you’re a pearl among women, Anna me darlin’," he said.

"I’m after knowin’ that," said Anna bobbing a playful curtsy. "Sure, and have I not the shiningest jewel among men for me crown?"

Jack barely smiled. "Sit by me, Anna," he said, but instead she took up a bar of rough soap and began to lather his back. The skin there was pallid, a startling contrast to the deep russet brown of his forearms and neck, and the curling hairs on his chest were darker than those on his head. With a little shock Anna saw that these too were sprinkled with grey.

"How old are you, Jack?" she asked curiously. She had never asked him that before.

Jack’s heavy eyes widened a little and glinted up at her. "And why would you be asking that, Anna me darlin’? There’s plenty of good years in me yet!"

"Of course," said Anna. She ran her soapy hands deliberately around his ribs and let them drift down to his lap. Jack leaned back, eyeing her quizzically.

"The children are sleeping," she said, soaping her way up and down his bent legs, "and I am getting splashed." She rose, undid her gown and slipped it off, to stand before him in her petticoat. The scar was livid across her throat, and after three pregnancies her breasts sagged a little, but she knew her skin was as creamy as ever and her hair was still doe-brown.

Jack was watching her, his eyes strangely sad, but after a few moments Anna was delighted to see something of his old sparkle welling up. Modestly, he took a piece of flannel and draped it over his crotch. "You wouldn’t by chance be trying to seduce me, Anna me darlin’?" he said. "And here’s me thinking I had a virtuous woman for me wife!"

"Perhaps I am," said Anna composedly. It hadn’t started out that way, but if he were willing, why not?

Jack hauled himself up in a flurry of suds and poured a dipper of clean water over his chest. Anna followed it up with more across his shoulders and then Jack stepped, dripping, out of the tub.

"And what about you, Mrs Kelly?" he asked. "Shall I be dropping you in?"

"I had a wash-down earlier," she said quickly, and Jack’s smile deepened. He rubbed himself dry and divested Anna of her petticoat.

"What about your supper?" she asked, with an air of faint guilt.

"The divil fly away with me supper," said Jack.

The loving was slow and thorough, and afterwards Anna curled against Jack and put her head on his chest, listening idly as his heartbeat slowed. She felt him stroking her hair, running the soft strands through his fingers, over and over again. "I wonder if I’ve caught another child tonight," she said softly.

Jack’s stroking hand paused for a moment. "It’s been a while."

"Perhaps it will be a boy next time," said Anna. "A boy with your red hair. I’d like to give you a son, Jack - he’d grow up to help you on the selection."

The word sounded oddly unspecific, but it was all she could say; the property had no other name but ‘Jack Kelly’s Place’. "By the way - " she ventured. "Isn’t it time we gave it a name? Would you care to name it ‘Kelly’s Castle’ after the other?"

Jack sighed. "There will never be any castle for us, Anna me darlin’. I know that now."

She felt pity for his defeated tone, but she said stoutly; "I know that too, Mad Jack. I’ve always known. But a cottage will do very well for me if I can share it with you and our children. I wonder if we have planted our son tonight? A red-haired spalpeen of a lad like his father?"

"For sure, we have!" said Jack.

But they hadn’t; they’d planted another daughter.

While Anna waited for the weeks to confirm her pregnancy, she made some plans. Jack was still half-killing himself working other men’s land, so why should she not work too? Perhaps she might earn enough for another cow; she sorely missed the bounty of poor murdered Bridie.

She could not go into service, for Jack would be offended and besides, Maggie was too difficult a child to trust in other people’s houses. Her sewing skills were no better than ordinary, and though she had a light touch with baking she knew she could not be a live-in cook. Indeed, she had few assets to her name but a certain determination to remove the sadness from Jack’s face, her meagre stock of clothes and her hens. To these birds, she turned her attention. Some of the flock was made up of the aging survivors of the pullets bestowed on her by Jane Colby as a wedding gift, but the majority embraced their more youthful descendants. The handsome cockerel which Pat McNamara had given her and which Anna had planned as a Christmas dinner could now be reprieved for more lasting purposes. She liked his looks, and if the hens did also - Anna took up a pen and made some figures in her careful script on the back page of her Bible, the only book she possessed which had paper to spare.

If she hatched two settings of fertile eggs, and half of them brought forth pullets, she could plan for thirty laying hens within eight months. That would yield two dozen eggs per day in season, or should that be a dozen and a half? Some fertile settings would need to be held over to replenish the stock and extra grain had to be taken into consideration if she was to keep them on the lay. Perhaps she could cut the time by buying chicks or pullets -

Anna, strangely excited, could hardly wait to tell Jack of her plans, but his reaction was not encouraging. "My wife setting herself up as a poultry-woman! Bleeding Lord Jesus - what next?"

"Nonsense," Anna told him crisply. "I need occupation and selling eggs would bring me into the way of making more acquaintances in town. I have the cock from Mr McNamara and our hens are well enough supplied with greenstuff. A bushel of grain can be had for the same cost as one dozen eggs, or half of a day’s lay - so may I do it?"

Jack drew a finger down her cheek. "If you’re set on it I suppose you may as well."

Anna kissed him. "You’ll not regret this, Jack."

"And I hope you’ll not regret it, either, me darlin’," said Jack.

By the time their third daughter was born, Anna’s poultry yard had grown considerably to number forty hens and ten young cockerels, kept for fattening for the table. Many of the townspeople kept a few hens for their own use, but the birds came from Anna Kelly oven-ready, plump and fresh and cleanly plucked. The McNamara cockerel strutted and posed in the yard, and Anna called him ‘Luck’. "For you’ve been a fine piece of luck to me, and but for a piece of luck of your own you’d have been digested long ago," she told the prideful bird.

Pat McNamara came to call and laughed aloud at the cockerel’s pretensions. "Could ye perhaps be using a hive of bees, Mrs Kelly?" he asked with his genial smile. "Sure, I had one fetched to Betsy when she said she’d a fancy for compounding honey and beeswax soap, but indeed she was none too pleased to have it."

Anna smiled with genuine pleasure. "Oh, thank you Mr McNamara! Indeed I would like to have it."

"It shall be fetched to ye this day," said McNamara. He tilted his head and looked appraisingly at Anna. "Sure, but it’s a real pleasure to see your smiling face of a morning," he said, "but could ye not be calling me Pat? We’ve been acquainted these ten years past - in a fashion." His face took on a wistful expression which surprised her; McNamara was not a man accustomed to plead.

"I think not, Mr McNamara," said Anna a little primly, "but thank you for the offer of the hive - I shall be sure to put it to good use."

"No doubt ye’ll be doing that, Mrs Kelly," said McNamara.

In early December, Anna traded half a dozen young cockerels with Lawson, the wheelwright of Shepherd Town, for a rickety handcart which Jack found time to strengthen and improve. With redheaded baby Bridget on her back, Maggie grumbling in the cart and Mary skipping behind it, Anna began making her rounds of Shepherd Town twice a week.

As well as a hive and a flourishing fowl yard, she established a small but productive garden, growing whatever she could to stretch the family budget. The climate was temperate, but frosts could come early or late and some vegetables simply would not thrive. The five apple trees appeared to benefit from regular watering and an application of rotten fowl manure about the roots, and in summer Anna carefully preserved the fruit as she had once learned from Joseph. Jack loved sweet things, and she was pleased to be able to offer him something so much to his taste when she put up his dinner-pail each morning.

On one occasion a local woman who had come to pay her for some eggs bought some of the preserves too, and after that Anna often added a jar or two to her load of eggs. Breast feathers from the table birds also found a welcome among those whose quilts required plumpening. By keeping careful accounts and using common sense, Anna managed to teach herself the rudiments of economics. It was surprisingly simple, she discovered. If she kept track of prices and was thrifty with the grain she could make quite a good profit most months. For the first time in years she thought of her gentle father, Stephen Bailey. She felt that he would have been proud of the use to which she was putting her limited scholarship.

Every spare coin she earned was hoarded in a large earthenware crock. She kept a running tally of the eggs and table birds ordered and sold, ticked off broody hens and their settings, and meticulously isolated ill birds and recorded any deaths. By keeping their coops cleanly and providing fresh, untainted food and drinking water, she managed to keep most of the hens in excellent health. Keeping them vermin-free was another preoccupation; chicken lice made unwelcome additions to a feather pillow.

The black devils were less populous around Shepherd Town than they had been at Kelly’s Castle, or even Sherwood, perhaps because there was much less shelter for their lairs. Nevertheless, Anna lost five birds to their appetites in the first season. After that, she took the trouble to round them up and shut them in their coops for the night. Even when heavy with baby Bridget she was able to capture them by waiting until dusk when they went to roost, and then plucking them from the apple trees like so many pieces of feathered fruit. Mary helped with squeals of delight.

By the time Bridget was able to walk, Anna had saved enough to buy herself a cow from Pat McNamara.

"Not the finest in me herd," said McNamara judiciously, "but nor is she being the worst."

What made it an even better bargain from Anna’s point of view was the fact that the cow had a heifer calf at foot which McNamara had thrown in on the deal.

"Sure, Mrs Kelly, I’ve not the heart to be separating mother and daughter so soon," he said. "Will ye not be calling me Pat now?"

"No, Mr McNamara, I will not," said Anna. "Unless that is to be a condition to the deal?", but this time she spoke without uneasiness for she had learned that - when dealing with her, at least - the Irishman was a man of his word. McNamara gave her a grave good day and went on his way, and within a matter of days Strawberry had ceased to low for her lost companions and was producing fine quantities of fresh milk and butter for the table. Anna sent to Jane Colby for a method of putting up cheese and Jane obliged with a simple method of Joseph’s which she buried in a long and gossipy letter.

Anna had become so absorbed in her own concerns that she hardly noticed Jack’s growing silence. With the hens to care for, trees to water, the cow to milk and the children to be kept clad and combed, it was often late in the evening before she could spare the time for contemplation. Jack was still working for other landowners, and Anna began to wonder when he would finally be able to spare the time to develop their own property. One night, when the children were sleeping and she was sitting down to the darning, she asked him.

Jack rubbed his eyes wearily. "To tell the truth, Anna me darlin’, that time’s a good way off yet."

"But you work so hard!" said Anna blankly. "And we are by no means extravagant. Surely it will be soon!"

"Anna, me darlin’, you may not have heard, but Pat McNamara is in some small way short of cash. One or two of his ventures have not been going so famously of late, and his wife has a name for being spendthrift."

"What has that to do with us?" asked Anna sharply. She had certainly never suspected McNamara of being anything but the wealthy landowner he appeared.

Jack spread his hands. "Pat is speaking of calling in the mortgage."

"What!"

"Sure, Anna me darlin’, the poor man has no choice. It’s over generous he’s been to more than one in Shepherd Town."

"And can we pay it off?" asked Anna.

Jack’s eyes wavered. "Had I not stood surety for me friends we’d have had no great difficulty."

She knew what was coming, but she had to ask it anyway. "What friends, Jack? Surety for what?"

"Mick Doolan and Sean Riley. They were through last year, if you recall. Just after Bridget came."

Anna nodded, remembering the occasion. Knowing her to be tired with the new child, Jack had entertained his friends royally at the Limerick Hotel, and for the first time in their lives together, she had had to strip and put him to bed. Jack was a moderate drinker, but with Riley and Doolan he seemed to see a need to match them glass for glass.

"They were in a slight despond," said Jack. "Seeing a grand new venture and without having the ready to take advantage of it."

"I see," said Anna quietly. "Although we owe money to Mr McNamara, you still must back your friends. It seems to me, Jack, that Mr McNamara is not the only man who is over-generous."

"Sure, a man who turns his back on his friends is no man at all," said Jack simply.

"But what about your family?" said Anna, with bitterness in her soul. "Did you not turn your back on Mary and Maggie and Bridget and me?"

:"You’re me life, Anna me darlin’, you and the little ones," said Jack, "but I saw a chance to help out Sean and Mick and it was only to put us one year back. Pat said he’d hold the interest to what it was."

Anna turned on him, her eyes glassy with anger. "And now the great Mr McNamara will wait no longer for his money. Jack, he offered it to us, did he not?"

"Things are different now," said Jack bleakly.

"Then is there any chance Mr Doolan and Mr Riley might pay back the loan?"

"Sure, it was no loan I made them, Anna - it was a gift of good faith!"

"Then what are we to do?"

Jack looked depressed. "I can work just harder, Anna me darlin’. Never fear - it will all come out in the wash."

"We could sell the cow," said Anna. She had put away her anger for the moment. "And Jack - I have egg money put away. It is a very reasonable sum by now. Would Mr McNamara take that on account?"

Jack laughed suddenly. "No, Anna me darlin’ - you keep your egg money and buy yourself a bonnet. We’ll come about in time."

Despite Anna’s intentions, she was hard put to speak civilly to him after that.

Relations between the two of them were still strained when Anna received a letter through the post. It was from Jane Colby, who would be travelling to Launceston and who said she hoped to break her journey at Shepherd Town.

Your old friend Ruby is to travel with me,
said Jane in her letter.
I have never ceased to be grateful to you for
Bequeathing me such a treasure. And to think
I once had only hard words for her!
Joseph has changed amazingly since his
marriage, and has become all that is amiable.
Ruby claims he needed nothing but the love
of a good woman, and she has surely given
him that.
We mean to put up at the local inn which I

am assured offers every comfort for travellers, but
I would very much like to spend some time with you
on the Friday while Charles rests the horses in town.
And so, my dear Anna, I look forward to
visiting your selection and seeing your progress and
that of your family.
ever your affectionate friend

Jane Colby.

CHAPTER TWELVE.

Anna was determined to receive Jane with as much grace as she was able. She refurbished the children’s garments as well as she could, turned the collar on her own and tried to take attention away from the paucity of the furnishings with flowers. Jane would be eating midday dinner with them before going on to the Limerick. At least, Anna reflected, she would be able to put up a good dinner. But in the back room of her mind, Anna could not forget Jack’s problems.

Why had he made that ‘gift’ to his friends Doolan and Riley? It seemed such a foolish thing to have done and Jack was not a foolish man. Impulsive, perhaps, which Anna was not, and that was partly why she loved him so well - he had brought colour and laughter to her life.

He had not taken her seriously when she offered her savings, but by now Anna was blaming herself for that. She had never discussed the details of her little business with Jack. She now had a substantial sum put away - nearly enough for a second cow or six fine wool sheep. It was far too little to cover the debt owed to McNamara, but surely it would help.

Anna wished she could approach McNamara herself. The man seemed to have a liking for her, and he was never one to stand upon convention. Yet she knew it wouldn’t do. Jack would be both angered and humiliated if she did any such thing, and besides - who knew what McNamara might choose to make of it?

She put the thought away and concentrated on preparations for Jane’s visit, rolling up her sleeves and turning back her skirts to give the kitchen a good scouring. Jane would never notice if she neglected this, but Anna knew O’Halloran would.

She was scrubbing down the table when someone rapped on the door.

"Drat!" she murmured, drying her hands on her apron, and went to see who it was. She expected a customer, perhaps with an urgent request for eggs or a quart of sweet cream, but it was Pat McNamara standing on the step with his hat in his hand.

"Top o’ the morning to ye, Mrs Kelly!" he said.

Anna nodded curtly. "Jack is away working," she said.

The man nodded, smiling at her as if he had never so much as heard the word ‘foreclosure’.

"It’s your sweet self I’ve come to see, Mrs Kelly," he said.

Anna stiffened at his tone. "How may I help you, Mr McNamara?"

"Sure, ‘tis more a case of how I may help ye, Mrs Kelly, should I be so inclined."

"I see," said Anna.

"Then may I come in?" asked McNamara. "I’d as soon not be conducting me business on the door-sill."

"Come in and sit down," said Anna. "May I offer you a cup of tea Mr McNamara?"

"Sure, I’d not be saying no, Anna."

Anna opened her mouth to object to his familiar use of her name, but then - he called Jack, ‘Jack’ and perhaps it was fitting for him to leave his ‘Mrs Kelly’ behind on the doorstep. Her indecision in this matter was not lost on Pat McNamara, who sat down on a settle and watched with a smile as she lifted the kettle from the hob and wet down the tea. It should have made her uncomfortable, but there was nothing sly about his manner; it seemed that he thought he had a perfect right to sit at ease in her kitchen.

The two younger children were sleeping at the rear of the house, but Mary was playing a game of ‘washing the crocks’, a task she did with perfect seriousness and considerable skill.

"Sure, ye’ve a colleen to be proud of in that one, Anna," said McNamara, and smiled at Mary’s curiosity. "Come, me beauty - never say ye’ve had the ingratitude to forget old Pat? Sure, ye ate at me table for a great while and I thought we were friends for life!" The words stung Anna, but his tone was beyond reproach and Mary smiled.

"Mary, go out and see that Strawberry is close by for milking," said Anna, with something of a snap. Mary climbed down from the upturned tub on which she was standing and hurried out, putting on her sun-bonnet as she went.

"A honey of a child," said McNamara with evident approval. "A child after me own heart. Anna, I’d be a better man if I’d a one like your Mistress Mary to call me own." He sighed, then became business-like once more. "Is this Strawberry cow the same ye had from me?"

"Yes indeed," said Anna. "And she’s a finer cow than you claimed. But you know that already, Mr McNamara."

McNamara nodded, well pleased. "And the calf?" he persisted. "Is it in good heart?"

"The best." Anna set the tea cups on the table.

"And have ye yet that cockerel I gave ye, I wonder?"

"I have," said Anna and sat down opposite McNamara. "And now suppose you state your business, Mr McNamara. For I know and you know you’ve not come to drink tea and talk of cows."

He shook his head mournfully. "Anna, me beauty, ye’ve changed."

"So have we all, Mr McNamara.

"Shall I be plain with ye?" he asked, serious for once.

"I wish you would be," returned Anna.

"Then listen. When I saw ye at the Perry dance and it was said ye’d come on the same ship as me wife Betsy, I thought, Begorra, Pat lad, ye’ve gone to the right ship an’ picked yourself the wrong lady off it."

Anna opened her mouth to object, but he held his hand up to forestall her. "I always thought so, the times I met with ye at Colbys’ place - sure, did ye not think it odd I should find meself there on so many occasions?"

"Servant girls are not paid to think, Mr McNamara," said Anna, intrigued in spite of her doubts.

"Then when ye came with Mad Jack to live in Shepherd Town I was certain of it," continued McNamara. "Sure, Mad Jack was always a lucky rascal, and he doesn’t deserve ye at all, Anna."

Colour flared in Anna’s cheeks at the insult to Jack. "Mr McNamara," she said, "I think it would be best if you were to leave now. Consider our business concluded."

Her reaction amused McNamara. "Be easy now, Anna, I’m not about to offer ye any discourtesy."

Anna thought he already had, but with the man’s habitual extravagance of speech it was difficult to be sure.

"I hear ye’ve made quite a business for yourself, of late," he said, reverting to the non-particular.

Anna nodded warily.

"There’s plenty say ye’re a better businessman than your husband. Indeed ye have changed from the shy little girl at that dance."

"Jack is a gentleman," said Anna. "He honours his agreements and he helps his friends. That is his only downfall - if any is so stone-hearted as to call it that."

"Jack Kelly is a lucky divil to have a wife like yourself," said McNamara. "Ye would do a great deal to save him embarrassment, wouldn’t ye Anna?"

"Of course I would," said Anna, stiffly. "But I’ve yet to see Jack embarrassed. We both work hard for the same ends and if others choose to make life more difficult than it needs to be, the embarrassment should be theirs."

"And ‘tis shame I feel that me own obligations make it necessary to press an Irishman for money," mused McNamara. "I’ve cudgelled me brains day and night for a way out of it. I can compound with me creditors, right enough, but it’s them that owe me money cause me the most grief. Then I woke me up this morning and I thought, sure Pat lad, why not strike a bargain with Anna? She’s a fine business head on her and maybe between the two of ye ye can come up with some arrangement that will have ye seeing the way clear to turning aside a piece of the debt ..."

Anna folded her hands on the table. In some slight way she was enjoying herself. Since parting from O’Halloran she had lacked a good sparring partner. "Mr McNamara, I’m afraid you must speak plainer than that," she said. "If you are asking me to pay off some part of the debt I will readily do so, with Jack’s permission, of course. My business, as you are kind enough to style it, has been quite successful in its own small way."

McNamara tried another tack. "Does it not occur to ye your man’s pride might be in some way injured if he knew what ye were doing?"

Anna raised her brows. "Oh, Jack is never proud about money, Mr McNamara," she said, not quite truthfully. "If he were, he would never have offered to help those sorry friends of his last spring."

"So ye know about that," said McNamara. "I wondered if ye did."

"Of course I do," said Anna.

"And could ye do nothing to stop his rank foolishness? Much as it pains me to speak ill of me countrymen, I have to say I don’t hold Doolan and Riley in great esteem."

"It is not for me to order my husband’s business," said Anna, with a slight emphasis on the word.

"Indeed. The old country system of barter has much to recommend it," said the Irishman, setting down his empty cup. "A load of peat here, a donkey there, a bushel of praties to the landlord."

"That sounds more like goodwill gifting to me," said Anna, intrigued.

"Ah yes, but ye see gifts can be offered and accepted, and then a little time goes by and the one who had the gift finds himself in the happy position of being able to offer some small service back to the giver. Sure, it’s a right neighbourly way to go about it."

"I see!" said Anna with a smile. "Then what may I offer you, Mr McNamara - as a small goodwill gift? Would you care for a pound of good butter? Apple preserve? Or perhaps a fine young cockerel to replace the one I had from you?"

McNamara looked reproachful. "Sure, there’s a gift a lady can give and never feel the lack of," he said.

"That’s very true," said Anna, "yet that gift may well be pledged to someone else’s exclusive use - in which case a gentleman would never accept it."

McNamara stood up. "Then I’d best be taking me leave, had I not, Mrs Kelly?"

"I think it might be as well," said Anna, and she opened the door. "Goodbye, Mr McNamara."

The Irishman smiled at her with all his considerable charm and offered his hand. "Sure, Mrs Kelly, ye’re a divil of a woman," he said.

"And you, Mr McNamara," said Anna, "are a divil of a man."

"Are we friends then, Anna?" McNamara had not relinquished her hand, and now he looked down at her earnestly.

"I don’t quite know," said Anna doubtfully.

"I mean, may I sit in your kitchen sometimes and - oh, to the divil with it!" said McNamara, and was gone.

The day before Jane was to arrive in Shepherd Town, Anna killed and dressed one of the young cockerels, and set it to roast in the oven. Cold fowl would be quite acceptable in this weather, if it were surrounded by fresh vegetables. Too bad McNamara had not brought a flitch of bacon as a gift instead of his doubtful proposition!

With locally milled flour and fresh butter from the larder she made a pastry crust to Joseph’s recipe and spiced a pan of apples from the trees behind the house, flavouring it with honey from her hive. She had a new baking of bread and some of her preserves and a jug of the apple cordial she had been experimenting with that summer. The first crop had come off the trees Jack had planted, but it had been too scanty to be worth the harvesting, and so Anna had taken it for their own use.

Just before midday on Friday, Jane arrived, driven in a hired buggy by O’Halloran. Anna was waiting to welcome them, flushed with the heat of the oven and delight in seeing her friends again. Any slight doubts she might have had about their relative social statures were easily dissolved. Jane Colby had no snobbery in her make-up and O’Halloran had never been a subservient woman. There was no trace of embarrassment in the manner of either when Anna invited them to sit down and served them with tea.

"You’re looking thinner, Mrs Anna," O’Halloran said sternly and Anna laughed and said yes, perhaps she was.

"I do wish that the same could be said of me," sighed Jane, but Anna looked at the sweet round face above the frivolous pin-tucked collar and shook her head, almost choking with pleasure at seeing them again.

Jane’s serenity shone out of her like an aura, and there was something different about O’Halloran ... "Ruby, you’re wearing colours!" she exclaimed.

O’Halloran smoothed her lavender travelling dress. "Joseph does not care for me in black, and no more does Mrs Jane," she said.

"I never cared for you in black either," teased Anna. "But much notice you took of that."

"I was a widow-woman then, Mrs Kelly," said O’Halloran reprovingly. "Now I am a wife. However, I still wear my boots that Mr Kelly had doon oop for me after the fire." She put out a stoutly shod foot for inspection. "Joseph has re-heeled them on his last," explained O’Halloran proudly. "They’ll do me many anoother winter."

The luncheon was a success. Jack had not come home, for he was working that day at Shepherd’s Rest, where all labourers were given substantial meals in the shearers’ quarters. Anna could not help feeling relieved, for she knew Jane had not altogether approved of Jack since the fire at Kelly’s Castle and would approve still less if she knew at what a stand they had arrived. Anna was determined to keep it from her, so she said merely that Jack was working away from home that day and let Jane put on that whatever interpretation she cared.

It crossed her mind that her interlude with Pat McNamara might have made things worse for Jack, if she misread the man, but she failed to see what else she could have done. To sell herself to McNamara to save Jack the debt would have been a stark betrayal of her wedding vows and principles.

The children were thrilled to have lady visitors, and kept popping their heads through the door to gape at Jane’s pink ribbons and O’Halloran’s boots. "Have you no nursemaid, Anna?" asked Jane in some surprise, as Bridget crept over and reared up to peer at her. "Come up to Mrs Jane, my love - oh Anna, this child is the very living image of you!"

Anna shook her head, and wondered at Jane’s blindness. Bridget had Jack’s colouring, not hers. "No, I prefer to look after them myself," she said with dignity. "I have had plenty of practice and Mary is very capable with the little ones. But if they are troubling you, Mrs Jane, I can put them in the other room."

"Anna, come down from that high rope," chided Jane with a smile. "You know I meant nothing of the sort!"

Mary tugged at her mother’s apron. "Yes, Mary? What is it?" said Anna, still slightly short.

"Maggie wants to know if we are going out with the eggy cart today," said the child. "I told her I would ... what, Mamma?" Anna had frowned her to silence. Mary looked disappointed, but held her tongue.

"Anna, I am going to be insufferably curious and ask just what the child meant," said Jane. "Tell me, before I expire of curiosity, just what is an ‘eggy cart’?"

Anna gave an embarrassed laugh. "I have gone into business as a poultry woman, Mrs Jane," she said. "Our hens lay well, and we have far more produce than we can use, so I sell some few dozen eggs here and there in town. Not everyone keeps poultry."

"Mamma sells preserve, and butter too," said Mary helpfully. "Ladies like Mamma’s butter. It comes out of Strawberry cow."

Unexpectedly, Jane smiled. "I always knew you had a good head on your shoulders, Anna!" she cried. "So you are now a lady of business! Have you made your fortune?"

"Not yet, Mrs Jane," Anna said cautiously. "I do good business, however."

Jane crinkled her forehead. "And do you sell the cordial we had for luncheon? That was a most refreshing drink. Where did you find the receipt? I’m sure Joseph makes nothing like it."

"I thought of it myself," said Anna. "It seemed wasteful not to use the apples from the big trees, and Jack likes it. He calls it ‘Anna’s Ale’. It is not intoxicating, of course."

"None the worse for that!" declared Jane. "I am sure I don’t know when I’ve ever enjoyed something so much. And your baking, Anna - that pastry was the equal of Joseph’s best!"

"I was taught by a master," said Anna, smiling at O’Halloran. "Has Joseph taught you any good secrets, Ruby?"

O’Halloran snorted. "Two or three, maybe," she said, "but noon I’d care to share around in coompany. Not being connected with baking."

Politely ignoring this, Jane leaned back against the hard-backed settle. "The local gentry cannot have tasted your baking, Anna, or they’d not buy butter and eggs from you - they’d buy the goods themselves - and beat a path to your door for the privilege of doing so!"

Jane’s remark was casual, but when she and O’Halloran drove away to the hotel, Anna was afire with a new idea. As she went mechanically about her work she turned it over and wondered that she had never seen the possibilities before. She could not be a cook and live in an employer’s household, but why should she not offer her services for local gentry or for travellers who might appreciate a daintier meal than could be had at the Limerick Hotel?

She meant to speak of it to Jack as soon as he returned, but Jack was full of some news of his own. "Anna me darlin’, I’ve met with Pat and we’ve thrashed the matter out. We’re to have more time to pay and he’ll have me services free a day each week."

"I see!" said Anna, mentally winded. "How - how kind of Mr McNamara!"

"Indeed it is - I told you he was a reasonable man! Oh, the divil of a gentleman our Pat can be, if he so chooses!" He gave her an exultant hug and Anna laughed. "Sure, don’t you be thinking Pat a gentleman now, Anna me darlin’?"

"I think perhaps he is," she said.

Anna’s new business grew naturally enough out of her old one. At first, she merely added baked goods and bottles of Anna’s Ale to her hand cart, but soon she was taking orders for several dozen pies weekly. She found she had to buy in more butter, realised the foolishness of this, and bought another cow instead, dealing with McNamara without the slightest hint of embarrassment. The trees Jack had planted were bearing a little less lightly now, but he had little time to spend on them and besides, the weight of fruit so far produced would scarcely have paid the costs of transporting it to Launceston or the coast. Again, Anna picked most of the apples herself, with willing help from Mary, hindrance from Bridget and open opposition from Maggie. The three girls were growing up to be curiously un-alike. Mary had Anna’s doe-brown eyes teamed with sunny hair of her own, and a sweet and helpful nature which reminded Anna of her own long-dead schoolmaster father.

Maggie was thin and cranky, with lint-fair hair and a constant pout which spoiled the set of her mouth.

Bridget, the youngest, and the only one to inherit Jack’s colouring, was very like him, with speedwell eyes and a crown of flaming hair. Anna loved her fiercely because of it, and so found herself being harder on Bridget than on the other two.

From selling pies on her egg cart, Anna began setting it up as a fixed stall through the hottest summer days, offering glasses of Anna’s Ale from a great deep churn. Jack was very proud of her, declaring her trim figure and lovely face as much a magnet as the coldly refreshing drinks she sold. Once his pride allowed him to accept money earned by his wife, he began paying off the mortgage in larger stages, and with typical generosity gave all the credit to Anna. "Sure I’ve been all kinds of a fool, Anna me darlin’," he said one day. "Working all the hours the good Lord sends for the likes of Shepherd and Payne, looking for a far-off pot o’ gold and missing the one that’s right there under me nose!"

Anna’s pot of gold had been bought with a great deal of hard work, but somehow she did not mind the labour. It was so very satisfactory to earn the trust and reliance of her customers and lift the lines of unhappiness from Jack’s face. Cooking was a respectable trade, and, with the creation of Anna’s Ale, she had discovered in herself a flair for the unusual, for combining tested recipes with unexpected seasonings. Gradually, the orders for single items began to swell until Anna found herself catering for whole house parties. Sometimes she went to cook in the customers’ own kitchens, but most of her work was carried out in the bare house in front of the apple trees.

Jack put in a new and larger range, and used his carpentry skills to provide her with a huge table and the extra benches she needed to take the finished goods. The bareness of the house became an asset as more and more space was needed. She began to think optimistically of taking on a girl to help her with the extra work. She would have bespoken O’Halloran, but O’Halloran was married to Joseph and besides, she would never poach from Jane.

One day, while straining a batch of Anna’s Ale, Anna was overtaken by nausea and dizziness. She put down the churn and sank onto the settle, breathing deeply. Perspiration prickled out on her upper lip and she felt light-headed and ill. It should not have come as any shock, but it did. More than two years after Bridget’s birth she was once again pregnant.

Anna thought of the long months ahead, of the sickness and faintness, of the increasing bulk and loss of mobility, of the pain of labour and the drag of wakeful nights. Then she remembered the pride Jack had in her, the delight he still found in her body.

Now the mortgage was near to being paid off, perhaps Jack would develop their own property. If the orchard were to be successful, she could do less baking, and settle for renewed motherhood without any scruple.

Perhaps this child would be a son.

Five months later, Anna was standing on the doorstep of the great house called Shepherd’s Rest. Jack had worked sometimes for Sam Shepherd and reckoned him a good enough master, but Anna had never met the man. She had not met his wife Joan, either, but that was nothing over which to exclaim.

Though the McNamaras were wealthy landowners, their social standing was on a par with that of prosperous tradesmen. The Shepherd’s were English gentry, with all the standing those words implied. Besides this, Joan Shepherd went about in society no more than Anna, and their reasons were somewhat similar. Neither fitted exactly into any social groove.

Anna was an ex-convict who was now a pastry-cook. Moreover, she was married to an Irish landowner who worked more often than not as a labourer for others.

Joan Shepherd was a gently bred girl with a delicate constitution. Her natural element might have been Hobart Town and the parties at Government House, but her health was so uncertain that it was deemed better she should live retired - especially since the birth of her daughter Agnes two years before.

Even when Anna received a large order to cater a ball to be held at Shepherd’s Rest she had not dealt with the lady of the house, but with the housekeeper, a plump, elderly woman who looked a little like a cottage loaf. The order was the largest she had ever accepted, and Anna had rolled up her sleeves, thankful that her morning sickness had now abated and that she had two strong girls to help with the general work. But then, on the very eve of the party, the shocking news had flown through Shepherd Town.

Joan Shepherd had a fever, was failing, was fading, was dead.

She was buried three days later in the family plot at the Shepherd Town graveyard, and shortly afterwards a fine new monument was erected.

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF
JOAN AGNES SHEPHERD, 1840 - 1863
BELOVED WIFE OF SAMUEL SHEPHERD,
MOTHER OF AGNES
FORMERLY OF "ELLERSBIE", ENGLAND
DEARLY MISSED
THE LORD GIVETH AND THE LORD TAKETH AWAY.

Anna had noted that the dead woman was some years younger than she, and tried to feel all due sorrow. But under it all was the uncomfortable feeling of annoyance. Why could not the poor wretched woman have postponed her fever for a week more? For despite all the good-will with which Anna and her business were viewed in Shepherd Town, there were many who felt it would be the most blatantly foolish temptation of providence to buy any part of such ill-fated baking. Even the Misses Pitt, two cultivated and elderly sisters who had recently opened their front parlour as a dame school in the township, expressed themselves unwilling to partake of such food, and so Anna had been faced with the unsavoury prospect of seeing the greater part of her goods being fed to a local butcher’s swine.

Now, some weeks after the funeral, a message had come from the bereaved Samuel Shepherd inviting Mrs Anna Kelly to visit him on a matter of business. Anna put on a suitably sober gown, and bidding the two maids Tessie and Emma to watch the children and attend to any customers, she set off to walk the mile or so to Shepherd’s Rest. As an afterthought, she had Bridget fetched to accompany her, not through any sense of favouritism, but merely because the energetic three-year-old was only too likely to upset the rising dough.

The front door knocker was tied up with black crepe, so Anna tapped on the tradesmen’s entrance and was admitted by a haughty butler who reminded her of John Sutton’s Drake. "I am Mrs Kelly," she told the butler. "Mr Shepherd asked me to call."

The butler’s fish-like eye passed over her and he bowed very slightly, indicating that she was to seat herself in an upright chair. Anna thought this highly irregular, but it was not her affair. She was glad enough to take the weight from her puffing ankles.

Anna’s ankles always swelled in pregnancy.

"I shall not be a great while, Madam," said the butler. His voice was extremely deep, but evidently his cod-like exterior concealed a kind heart, for he brought a foot-stool and placed it in front of her.

Gratefully, Anna put her feet up, and Bridget scrambled onto her vanishing lap. "Big," she remarked, gazing around the hallway. Jack vowed that Bridget was as sharp as a cut-throat razor, but she was, as yet, a child of very few words.

After a pause, a maid appeared and ushered Anna into a book-panelled room which was surely a study. Anna stared around, as awed as Bridget. Not since her time with Miss Eleanor had she seen so many handsome books gathered together. How her father would have loved this place!

And how her mother would have despised it.

She started a little as a man rose from a deep black-upholstered armchair and came towards her, offering his hand. His clothes were black as well, and he had blended perfectly with the chair, which was why she had failed to see him at once.

Anna took his hand, and bobbed a curtsy which was sadly unsteady.

"Good morning, Mrs Kelly," said her host gravely. "I apologise for putting you to the trouble of coming here but at present I do not go about."

Anna murmured appropriately. The master of Shepherd’s Rest was younger than she had expected, despite the youth of his dead wife. She had seen him occasionally in the church, but his pew was so far in advance of the one where she sat with Mary and Bridget that it might as well have been in another building. So now she took this opportunity to study his face.

He was not a handsome man, but he had blunt, honest features. He looked reliable, but not slow-witted, and she judged him to be some years younger than Jack. Perhaps no more than her own age of twenty six. Perhaps even a little less. And his wife, who had been younger still, was dead and just weeks buried.

Shamed colour rushed into Anna’s face. "Sir, my husband and I would very much like to offer our - our - " She tried for words and Bridget, sticking her thumb in her mouth as she did when uncertain, looked up with Jack’s blue eyes.

"Sad man," she remarked. Anna wished very much that she had not brought her daughter, but Samuel Shepherd seem unconcerned.

"And how old are you, my maid?" he asked.

"Sir, this is our daughter Bridget, but I’m afraid she is not accustomed to strangers," began Anna, but Bridget removed her thumb and examined her curled hand. After a moment she solemnly unfolded three fingers and held them up.

"So Bridget is three years old," said Shepherd, looking to Anna for confirmation. "That is a very old age to be!"

Bridget nodded complacently.

"Remarkable!" said Shepherd. "My daughter Agnes is a year younger than you, Miss Bridget, but she is a frail little thing like her mother. I wish she had your sturdy looks!" He smiled sadly, and then turned his attention to Anna. "Mrs Kelly, it has come to my notice that my - my wife’s unfortunate passing has caused you some financial distress. I wish to settle your bill today, and apologise for being remiss. If you would care to present it?"

Anna blinked at him. "But sir, you never took delivery of the goods!"

Shepherd smiled tightly. "That is beside the point, Mrs Kelly. If you would be so kind?"

He offered Anna some handsome writing implements, but she waved them away in confusion. "No, sir, I don’t want paying. It - it wouldn’t seem right."

Samuel Shepherd looked at her in some puzzlement. "I wish you would reconsider, Mrs Kelly. I have no wish to embarrass you, but I do understand your husband’s situation."

Anna raised her eyes. "Jack’s situation?"

"Forgive me for speaking of it, Mrs Kelly, but for a man to feel constrained to lease out his land and remove his family to the wilds, he must be in straits indeed." Shepherd shook his head. "Please - don’t let false pride stand in your way of accepting what is rightfully yours -"

Anna shook her head once more. "Mr Shepherd, I do not want your money, but should you ever have future orders for me, or if you would care to recommend my services to acquaintances, I would be most grateful."

It was clumsily put, but Shepherd seemed to understand. "As you wish," he said quietly. "I shall certainly recommend you, Mrs Kelly." He paused and smiled at her. "You are not Irish, are you?"

Anna bobbed another curtsy. "Sure an’ is me name not Kelly?" She straightened, aghast at her rudeness. She sometimes put on a brogue to amuse Jack, but to do so before a stranger - and a recently bereaved stranger! But Shepherd was laughing. "What was your name before you married Mad Jack, Mrs Kelly?"

"It was Anna Bailey, sir," she murmured. "My family came from Kent."

"I was born in Kent," said Shepherd pensively. "But Bailey? I do not seem to know the name."

And why should you, indeed? thought Anna as she took her leave. The Baileys were respectable at best: the Shepherd’s, unless she was much mistaken, were sprung from the wealthy gentry. Samuel Shepherd’s face had settled back into the sad lines, but he smiled at her kindly and said: "Mrs Kelly, I have heard much about your baking and I hope to taste some before you leave for the east. Also, if there is ever any favour I can do you -" He left the words dangling, but Anna had never asked favours of anyone, not even Jane Colby. How much less would she approach Samuel Shepherd?

And "before you leave for the east"? What did he mean by that?

Bridget replaced her thumb in her mouth and tugged at Anna’s skirt with her other hand. "Home," she said.

"Yes, home," said Anna. And all the way there she tried to push away the fear that she knew exactly what Samuel Shepherd had meant by that.

On the long road home from Shepherd’s Rest, Anna was somewhat surprised to meet Betsy McNamara. She had seen very little of the woman since the early days at Shepherd Town when they had been forced to reside under the same roof, and now she was shocked at the change in Betsy’s appearance. Her usually gleaming hair was dull and draggled, slipping down from its careful knot, her gown was dusty and dagged about the hem. Her cheeks were deeply flushed and her eyes, when she turned them to Anna, were as glassy as a china doll’s, and she stumbled and all but collapsed.

Anna stared. What could be the matter with Betsy? A fever, perhaps, such as had carried off poor Joan Shepherd? Anna knew she should offer the woman assistance, but she hesitated. If Betsy were ill with a fever, should she run the risk of having the illness transmitted to Bridget - or even to herself? Anna did not delude herself that she was invincible, and she knew very well that her family would be in a sad case without her. But something about Betsy’s posture and demeanour was tugging at her memory, taking her back many years to a filthy hole of a cell. She had seen other women with this glassy-eyed appearance, and it had not always been caused by fever.

"Wait here," she told Bridget, lifting the child and seating her on the edge of an empty horse-trough outside Lawson the wheelwright’s emporium. "I need to see to the lady." She stepped carefully into the road, but before she could cross, the Dublin Downs carriage rolled by. The groom brought the horses to a smooth halt and Patrick McNamara himself climbed down into the roadway and hurried to the assistance of his wife.

"Come here, Betsy lass, let’s be having ye," he said, taking her arm. There was a world of weariness in his voice, and when Betsy pettishly shook his hand away, he bent to half lift her.

Anna coughed. "May I be of any assistance, Mr McNamara? It seems that Mrs McNamara is not quite well."

McNamara looked up as if surprised to see her standing there. "No, no, Mrs Kelly. It’s just that Betsy here has a touch of the sun. She would be coming out without her bonnet. Come, me love, let’s be having ye in the carriage and home for a cup of tea. That will be setting ye up." He lifted the unresisting woman into the carriage, where a stout maid servant received her and made her comfortable against the cushions. He then turned to Anna. "I wish I could be offering to take ye up in the carriage, Mrs Kelly, for it’s a hot day for walking, especially for a lady with child. Unfortunately I’m thinking I should have Betsy away home."

"Thank you, Mr McNamara, I am quite well," said Anna. "I hope Mrs McNamara is soon feeling better. Perhaps a cool drink and a wet cloth ..."

McNamara sighed. "I fear me it would need more than that to right what ails me poor wife, Mrs Kelly, but thanking ye kindly for the notion." He swung himself up beside the groom and the carriage spun away. Thoughtfully, Anna returned to Bridget, who was still sitting obediently on the trough.

"Poor lady, Mamma?" she asked.

"Poor lady indeed, Bridget," said Anna, and trudged on towards home.

Having had oblique warning from Sam Shepherd, it came as no particular shock to Anna to learn that Jack had decided to leave the property at Shepherd Town and try his luck at the newly discovered tin mines at Scott’s Tier in the far east.

Even with her greatest effort Anna could not keep the chill from her voice when he finally told her. "Haven’t you had enough back-breaking work these last three years, Jack?" she said. "Raising roofs, mending barns, lifting potatoes, ploughing land and now it’s to be mining - if you want so much to work hard, why not do it on our own land? It’s too much for me to handle on my own."

"But Anna, me darlin’ - it’s not the mining I’ll be at meself!" said Jack. "I’ve plans to open an inn there on the tier. There’s men by the hundred and as yet no place but canvas town for the weary to rest their bones and refresh themselves."

Anna took a deep breath. Objectively, she could see that Jack would make an excellent innkeeper, friendly and honest and ever ready with a quip or a tall tale. He knew the privations and wants of miners first-hand from his experience on the goldfields and was equally at home with colonials, Irish and Chinese. Yes, it would be a very good occupation - for Jack. But for herself? For the little girls? "What is the land like, at this Scott’s Tier?" she asked evenly. "And where is the nearest settlement?"

"It is wild country enough, but not so very far from Scottsdale and St Helens at George’s Bay," said Jack.

"I see," said Anna. "And how long will you be gone this time?"

"You’re to be coming too, Anna me darlin’," said Jack in surprise. "Sure, Pat McNamara knows a man well placed to lease this land, or buy if he so chooses."

Anna put her hands to her head. She was weary, her back ached, and she wished Jack would not spring these changes on her so late at night. But then, when else was there to do it? They worked by daylight and then there were always the children ... The children.

Anna sat up straighter, feeling her heavy womb as a burden. This child seemed to be growing apace. "Mary will be of an age for schooling soon," she said. "I had thought of sending her to the Misses Pitt at Willow Hall. I doubt there’ll be a dame school at Scott’s Tier."

"Sure, I thought you’d teach the little ones their letters, Anna me darlin’!" said Jack. "You’ve more skill at figuring than many a dried-up scholar."

Anna sighed. "I could, of course, but I want them to learn far more than I could ever teach them. The Misses Pitt are ladies. And besides, Maggie will not mind me now. She may do better with a stranger. Why not stay and tend this land yourself? It belongs to us."

Jack shook his head ruefully. "Anna, me darlin’, the land is not in me blood. This place - this Shepherd Town - is run by gentry like Sam Shepherd and his like. Look at the names they’re pleased to be giving their houses! Shepherd’s Rest. Willow Hall. Oakhurst Place. I’m thinking I might as well have kept to the old country! If we stay here we’ll never be more than poor farmers, grubbing at the edges of the town. The place was settled in its layers before ever we came at all."

And that, thought Anna, was the real heart of the matter. Jack was a man who loved the challenge of new lands and new adventures. Yet he was also a companionable man, who liked to be among other men. Shepherd Town was just too calm - too civilized - for him.

She looked ahead to life as it would be in a hotel at the tin fields. Jack would work exceedingly hard, it was true, and would settle into place with the other men like a hand into a glove. But she, with children to bear and to care for and with no congenial company beyond the time Jack could spare for her, she would fit like a foot in a glove, which would be no fit at all. "If I come with you to Scott’s Tier," she said slowly (and it was the first time she had admitted aloud that there was any question that she would not), what am I to do about my business?"

"Sure, there’ll be plenty of baking and such in the Pot o’ Gold Inn," said Jack easily. "Your pies are the wonders of the district, Anna, so why not let ‘em be the wonders of the east as well?"

"And I’ll serve Anna’s Ale to the miners, I suppose?"

Jack gave her a reproachful look for her sarcasm.

"Then listen," said Anna. "I have a different plan. I am planning to open our front room as an eating house for ladies and gentlemen. Lease the farm if you wish, but give me help with this. Take orders, serve food, make people feel welcome when they come. Play the host, which is what you’d do at your Pot o’ Gold."

Jack looked at her with dawning anger. "So I’m to be a servant in me own wife’s kitchen, am I? Tied to your apron strings indeed? Bowing and scraping like a penny ha’penny clerk! Sure, the kitchen and a teashop’s no place for the likes of me!"

"And a public house in a tin mine is no place for the likes of me, or for the likes of our daughters either," said Anna.

Jack jumped up and strode about the room, jarring his hip on a bench corner and swearing under his breath. He stared bleakly out of the window to where the Southern Cross shone cold and remote in the sky. After a while he came back and looked sadly at Anna.

"So it’s come to this has it, Anna me darlin’?" he said in a voice from which all the anger had been leached. "You’ll truly not come with me?"

"No, Jack, I truly won’t," said Anna. She was quaking inside, and there were months of pain before her, but perhaps beyond that again there was peace. "Perhaps if this child were not coming, perhaps if Mary and the others had been boys - if I had not my business to keep us fed and me from too much thinking - perhaps then it would be different. But it is not."

Jack gave a frustrated laugh and turned away. "Well, Anna me beauty, you put me in a spot indeed," he said. "For I’ve given me word already and I can’t back out with honour."

"I know that," said Anna steadily. "And I’m not asking you to back out."

Jack turned to face her, fists clenched impotently. "Then what shall we be doing, me darlin’? Sure, I’ll not have it said Jack Kelly deserted a wife and left his family!"

"You won’t be deserting us, Jack," said Anna patiently. "I shall be deserting you. But you see - if I come with you now - how long until you move on again? And again? Can you honestly say that the Pot o’ Gold will be at the end of the road as well as the rainbow for you?"

Jack shook his head. "How well you know me, Anna. You know I can’t promise that."

"Then go," said Anna wearily. "Leave us the house and Strawberry’s field and lease the rest to someone who will keep it in heart. Then go and have your adventure. We’ll be here when you come back. And then you can go again, somewhere else, and know we’ll still be waiting." She kept her voice steady, but tears were wavering in her eyes.

Jack must have seen them, for he knelt suddenly beside her and buried his face in her breast. "Oh, Anna, Anna me darlin’ - you must think it a sad day when you married Mad Jack Kelly."

Anna stroked his hair. "Never that, me darlin’," she said. "I’ll never be thinkin’ that."

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Jack left Shepherd Town for the Tier at the end of 1863. "It’s not forever, Anna me darlin’," he said as he prepared for his long journey. "I’ll be back often enough to see how you do, and one of these fine days I’ll have me pot o’ gold for real and I’ll come riding home quicker than Dooley’s donkey and never leave you again."

Anna smiled at him with real affection. "I shall look forward to that, Jack," she said. "And until you do, you must be sure to send me word of how you go on at the Tier. Perhaps one day when things are not so rough there I shall join you after all..."

Jack took her hands in his. "They’ve been good years, have they not, Anna?"

Anna thought back over the past seven years. Of Kelly’s Castle, and the children, of love and laughter and hard work. "They have, Jack."

"And there are many more for us ahead, Anna - and they’ll be better yet!"

Anna bit her lip. If only he would go - go - go and be gone. She loved him so much and yet - these past three weeks, knowing he would go and yet seeing him every day, had been among the most difficult of her marriage.

Jack kissed her. "I’ll be back to see me son - and do you know, Anna me darlin’? Maybe I’ll be so taken with the little sprig I’ll not be able to bring meself to go away." He swung up onto his horse, but still he hovered, still he was apparently unable to make the next move to a parting which they both knew was likely to be final. Anna saw this, saw that she must be the strong one.

She smiled up at him and backed away. "Goodbye, Jack," she said briskly. "You have a long journey today and I must go and see to the dough, or else it will be over-risen."

"I’ll be going, then," said Jack, and he went.

Anna watched him out of sight, her face impassive, her eyes filmed with tears. Then Maggie’s querulous voice rose from the house, and little Bridget squealed in the manner of one who has just had her hair tugged. Anna lifted her shoulders in a shrug, absently dusted her hands down her apron and strode away to the kitchen to see to what sort of pottage the maids had reduced the dough. Jack was gone, so more than ever now she must hold up her reputation as the finest baker and pastry-cook in Shepherd Town. Maggie and Bridget and their squabbles could be safely left in the hands of six-year-old Mary. What she would do and how she would manage when the new baby came, she neither knew nor cared to consider.

The new baby, when it came, proved to be twins; first a boy, a bald-headed, bawling, furious scrap who reminded Anna uncomfortably of his sister Margaret, and later, a girl, smaller by far and curiously docile from the hour of her birth. Anna named the girl Jane, and had her baptised immediately by Father O’Donahue, the priest from the new bluestone church of St Michael and All Angels, for she feared her docility stemmed from some defect of health. However, the baby thrived well enough at first.

As for the boy; he was to be known as John Stephen - there could be only one name for Jack Kelly’s long awaited son. Within days, the children had become ‘Janie’ and ‘Jack’ to everyone; it caused little confusion, for Anna was the only one of the household to call her husband by his given name; he was ‘Pappa’ or ‘Dadda’ to the girls and ‘The Master’ or ‘Mr Kelly’ to Emma and Tessie. The birth was a hard one, complicated by the twisting of the cord about Janie’s neck, but Anna was up and about once more as quickly as possible; much too quickly in the eyes of Polly Threadbo, the local midwife.

"If you start bleeding, Mrs Kelly, you’re likely to bleed to death and then where will you be?" she demanded rhetorically.

"At peace," said Anna wryly. She had little enough peace just now, what with Maggie’s habit of attacking Bridget at every opportunity and baby Jack’s constant cries for attention. Jane continued a quiet baby, apparently lacking the will to do anything other than lie sleeping in her crib. This might have worried Anna, but with Jack as fractious as ever she had little room left for any feeling but gratitude that Janie was not another of the same.

Mrs Threadbo snorted, and opined that she might come to that sooner than she wanted, but Anna was only too aware of the responsibility which lay upon her shoulders; she now had five children to keep clean and fed as well as a horde of customers whose exacting standards must be met with dignity and good humour. And soon the front room must be opened as a tearoom if she were not to lose the impetus of her plan, and she must see about enroling Mary with the Misses Pitt. She knew she could little spare the child and her willing assistance with the little ones, but neither could she keep her forever at home.

During the spring of 1864, some six months after the birth of the twins, Jack Kelly rode back to Shepherd Town. The little girls gave him a rapturous welcome, Anna a slightly cooler one. Her heart had lurched with joy at the sight of him, but she knew she must be strong. If she gave into her emotions she would spend his whole visit weeping, and that would give him a distaste for any further homecomings.

Jack stayed for over a week, beaming with delight over his son’s lusty screams and kicks and hugging Mary and Bridget at every opportunity. "He’s a fine lad, Anna, a fine Irish sprig," said Jack proudly. "And what lungs! Sure and he’s the loudest babe I ever heard!"

"You’d not be so proud if you spent the night trying to soothe him to sleep," said Anna, but Jack had always been a good hand with the children, and now he quieted his son with apparent ease. Anna, tired of the demanding company of small children, was content to sit with him in the evenings and hear him spin tales of life at the Pot o’ Gold.

"Sure, I think you have the right of it not to come east just yet, Anna me darlin’," said Jack ruefully. "The miners are not over-choice in some of their talk and as for the women ..."

"What women?" asked Anna. One of her objections to the inn at the Tier had been the lack of women.

Jack laughed, a shade uneasily. "Sure, the women are what you’d expect to find flocking to a minefield. But there’s a man there you would be liking, Anna me darlin’."

"Oh? Another Irishman, I expect?"

"No, no, Hoo Sum’s a Chinaman, but for all that I’m thinking he’s the best good fellow who ever walked God’s green hills. You know, he acts as midwife when the women give birth - and he’s that skilful, he almost never loses a child. He’s a fine hand at doctoring horses, too, and miners when they have a falling out with Jaws Magee. Now there’s a fellow best avoided, and an Irishman too, to me shame."

Anna smiled. Hoo Sum sounded like a man she’d like to know, but even his presence was not enough to tempt her to pack up the children and follow Jack to the east. Not yet.

As the time passed, Anna tried to stifle the small hope that Jack might have come home to stay, and it seemed that she was right to do so, for after ten days he rode off again. This time Anna restrained her tears at his departure; he had come, he had gone, and that, from now on, was life.

There was much to do over the year that followed; so much that Anna scarcely found the time to mourn over Jack’s absence. He returned twice more, at roughly six-monthly intervals, each time professing delight at the increasing size and forwardness of little Jack, chiding Mary for becoming a ‘young lady’ in his absence, pretending to burn his fingers on Bridget’s fiery curls. With Maggie and baby Jane, he could evoke little response, and so, being Jack, preferred to leave them entirely to Anna.

Jane’s lack of progress was beginning to prey upon Anna’s mind, for when Jack was sitting up, crawling and lustily beating a spoon against an old cook-pot, his twin still lay swaddled in her crib. Her cries, when they came, were the mewling complaints of a small animal, not the demanding masculine roars of young Jack. Anna tried to broach the subject with their father once, but he simply opined that it was natural for a small colleen to be quieter than a lad. Had not Mary been a peaceful babe? Apparently, thought Anna wryly, he had forgotten that he had spent much of Mary’s babyhood away from home.

Jack did profess some interest in the growth of Kelly’s Cakes, as Anna called her bakery business, but she found, when she tried to ask his advice as to the acquisition of furnishings for the mooted tearoom, his only response was that she must do as she thought fit. By the time of his next visit, late in 1865, she ceased to mention her worries about Janie or the business unless he did so first. They had little enough time together without a constant discourse on vexing questions.

"I’ll be back by March, Anna me darlin’," he said when he left her that December, and Anna, as always, smiled and agreed. She could see that inn-keeping suited Jack - he looked fit and cheerful; more like the Jack she recalled from their earliest days at Kelly’s Castle. Whilst she - Anna surveyed herself dispassionately in the looking glass she had taken in part-payment for the wedding-spread Mrs Thomas Jonas of Oakhurst Place had ordered for her daughter. Her hair was still brown, her eyes clear, but there was a network of tiny lines about them and about her lips as well. Her body, always slender, was now almost gaunt except for the roundness still remaining from repeated pregnancies. But then - how could she expect to look like a carefree girl? She was near thirty now - and where had the years of her twenties gone? In bearing babes, tending hens and cutting her coat to fit her cloth - again, and again, and again.

As soon as Jack left, Anna enroled Mary with the Misses Pitt. She knew that if she considered the matter too long she would likely find herself keeping Mary for one more year, and then one more, until the child would be half-grown and as ignorant of book-learning as a bakery cat. Anna knew she would never have the time to teach the child her letters; she was not patient and besides, was Mary to have no other companionship than that of her trying brother and sisters?

The move proved to be a good one, for Mary loved learning and could soon puzzle out simple words and perform easy feats of arithmetic. Miss Pitt and Miss Lilian declared themselves so pleased with the child’s swift progress that they offered to take her younger sister as well instead of waiting until the next year as they had originally advised.

"Margaret is a little difficult," Anna warned them, "not at all the same child as Mary," but Miss Pitt, the elder, said firmly that a difficult child was often a child lacking in occupation, and that little Margaret would soon enough gain confidence and pleasure in a task well done.

Anna thought rather wanly of the things Maggie had found to occupy her that day; tormenting Bridget until she squealed with rage, slapping Jack and slamming the oven door, to the utter ruin of three puddings within. Putting aside her conscience, she thanked Miss Pitt for her indulgence, and sat up late that night to sew Maggie a pinafore so that she might be sent to school with Mary.

At the end of the week, a rather thoughtful Miss Pitt admitted that Margaret was proving a little more of a challenge than they had expected, but she still held to the stout opinion that the child would soon settle down to follow her sister’s shining example and become a model scholar. Anna had doubts, but kept them to herself. Of what use was it to admit she could not manage her own child? The Misses Pitt could scarcely make a poorer task of it than she. Perhaps Maggie would come to enjoy the challenge of scholarship.

Unfortunately, Maggie did not, and instead of bending her undoubtedly lively brain to the tasks of reading, writing and figuring, she bent it instead to a variety of tricks aimed at keeping herself safe at home from her lessons. One day she had the headache, on another her pinafore was not to be found, and her boots could not be buttoned. One day she sat by the stove and swore she’d a fever, and another day she had the cough and a pain - a pain which vanished mysteriously when a piece of hard toffee was left close to hand. Through it all, Anna insisted she must attend; bootless, pinafore-less, sore head or no. If Maggie sat down and refused to walk to school, then Mary and Tessie the maid must take an arm each and frog-march her to Willow Hall. It was the only way Anna knew to deal with Maggie.

As Anna had half-expected, Jack did not return with the autumn, and it was at that time, during the sweating, fly-ridden week at the end of March, that an epidemic of fever struck Shepherd Town. No-one knew where it had come from, nor who had brought it. The heat was blamed, and some pointed the finger at an itinerant hawker and his family, who had arrived in town and left again, abruptly, in the night. However it came, the fever was a bad one, the worst infection to pass through the district in many years.

At first, it was hoped the trouble would be isolated, and the pompous medical man, Dr Hunter, pontificated that he expected the worst effects to be confined to the children of poorer families. Anna thought later that they should have known this need not be so; had not Sam Shepherd’s wife Joan died of just such a pestilence two years before? Then news came that two of the Jonas children of Oakhurst Place had sickened and died, and others, a few of them pupils of the Misses Pitt, were also ill. Anna wondered if she should remove Mary and Maggie from the school, but the Jonas girls had not been pupils and so it was obvious the danger of contagion was general.

Anna, struggling over her accounts, wondering if the increased custom she had from Sam Shepherd’s good offices would bring in enough to warrant bespeaking the local carpenter to make her round tables and bentwood chairs for the tearoom, hoped for the best and continued to send the children to their lessons each day.

It was Maggie, ever disobliging, who first contracted the fever, and Anna, to her shame, did not realise the child was truly ill. One morning Maggie would not eat her breakfast bowl of bread and milk. She skimped her washing, and would not put on her pinafore, saying she did not wish to go to the school today.

Maggie was for ever whining, and her sallow cheeks and dull pale hair never held the glow of health which characterised Mary’s and Bridget’s brighter colouring, so Anna firmly told the grizzling child to cease malingering and get herself along to school with Mary. Jack had made a disgraceful mess of his crib, and would have to be cleansed from neck to sole, while Janie, usually so quiet, was fretting in the heat. The cream had turned in the thunderous atmosphere and the combined troubles so delayed Anna that she had not time to put up dinner-pails for Mary and Maggie to take to school.

"Go ahead to school," she told Mary, raising her voice above Jack’s yells. "I shall send Tessie along at break-time with your luncheons." She quieted Jack with a treacle tart and turned her attention to the brewing of a new cauldron of Anna’s Ale, but the task was scarcely half completed when a messenger came from the Misses Pitt.

"Mrs Kelly?" said the child, half frightened, half excited to be the bearer of bad tidings.

"Yes?" said Anna. She narrowed her eyes, gauging the correct proportion of raisins to be put in the ale when bottled. A child might well bring a message, asking for a baking of tarts or a tray of buns, but this was Tommy Higgings the tinker’s son. Joe Higgings was a shiftless, violent man who spent as much time inside the local lock-up as out of it, and young Tommy, though an engaging enough scamp, was more likely to be cadging a cake for himself than bringing in an order from his harassed mother.

"Miss Pitt says will you come and take away your girl Margaret at once," panted Tommy, "for she’ll not have her in the school in the state she’s in today."

Anna’s first emotion was anger, intense, blinding anger with Maggie. She had the headache herself, Janie was out of sorts and Jack was now stealing the raisins out of the barrel fast enough to sicken himself. Tessie was whining that she had the toothache coming on and must go to the tooth-drawer - and now Maggie must be troubling the Misses Pitt. She frowned at Tommy, half-hearing a commotion which must surely be the carpenter arriving to take stock of the space in which the newly-ordered tables and chairs must fit. Anna had given him the measurements, but Jem Standish was not a man to trust the word of a woman - and a man-less woman at that.

"Chew on a clove to ease the pain," she told Tessie with scant sympathy, "and tell Mr Standish I shall attend him in a moment." She turned to Tommy. "Tell the Misses Pitt I shall come to collect Margaret as soon as I have finished my work here. Until then, bid them put her in the corner or have her stand outside the door so that she cannot disrupt the other scholars."

"But Mrs - she’s ailing!" said the child. "Burning ‘ot, Miss says, and ravin’. Jist like our Joey was before ‘e snuffed it."

Anna stiffened. Was this some new prank of Maggie’s, or was the child truly ill? "I’ll come," she decided. "Here’s a cake for you Tommy - please run ahead and tell Miss Pitt I shall come directly. Tessie, have Mr Standish wait for me, Emma, tend the children until I come back."

Untying her apron, she covered the barrel of Anna’s Ale against the dust, washed her hands and hurried out.

The road to Willow Hall was dusty, and Anna picked her way around the body of a dog left in the street. If people would but remove their stinking rubbish from the roadside, she thought distastefully, the township would be a much more pleasant place in hot weather. As she hurried, she found herself longing for the green, fresh-scented air of Kelly’s Castle; almost, she could find it in herself to wish she could return to its isolation. But that was a vain dream, even if Jack should tire of inn-keeping, Kelly’s Castle had been sold long ago to finance the new orchard, now leased out to a local farmer named Slater with an option for him to buy in three years. It did not pay as much as Jack had hoped, for the house and garden had been set aside for Anna’s continued use. Perhaps when young Jack was grown they might redeem the land - if it had not been sold - but that was foolish speculation; for now she must reach the Misses Pitt’s and find out what, if anything beyond her usual tempers, ailed Maggie.

The day was hot, and her hurry, combined with the fact that she had had no time for breakfast that morning, made Anna feel faint. When the black mist began to crowd in from the edges of her vision, she blinked it away, but it persisted. She hurried on, finding her way as much by memory as by sight, and was only vaguely aware when a jinker halted beside her and a familiar voice called her name.

"Anna - whatever are ye about, to be running in this heat? Is the bakery on fire?"

Anna peered up at the angular brown face of Patrick McNamara. His usually merry expression was clouded with concern. She knew her own face was as pale as her collar and that her upper lip and forehead beaded with sweat. She must present a desperate sight for McNamara to look like that! "I’m going to the Misses Pitt to fetch my daughter, Mr McNamara," she said. "I’ve had word that she’s been taken ill."

The Irishman looked down at her. "In such a hurry? Come, I’ll take ye up with me, for me way lies past Willow Hall."

Anna thanked him, and, with the last of her strength, clambered up beside him. She had not ridden in a jinker for some time, and she closed her eyes gratefully. The breeze of the movement as McNamara clucked up the horses, she fancied, was just the same as that breeze that must come from a huge fan wafted by savages in the dark continent. Or from swaying palms in the tropics ...

"Is something amiss with Mistress Mary?" asked McNamara.

Anna collected her thoughts and shook her head. "Not - not Mary, Maggie," she managed. "Young Tommy Higgings came to say she was ill."

Her doubts must have been reflected in her voice, for McNamara flicked her a glance. "She may have eaten something that did not agree with her," he said. "Children are forever abusing their interiors."

"No -" gulped Anna - "the child said she has a fever - Maggie’s not fond of her lessons, but still there is fever about the town -"

"Then we’d best be as quick as can be," said McNamara, shaking up the horses again. "And if she’s ailing indeed, I shall bespeak Dr Hunter."

"If you would be so good," said Anna.

She was vaguely aware that several of the good citizens of Shepherd Town were gazing at them curiously - Patrick McNamara of Dublin Downs out driving with a woman not his wife - a woman whose husband spent most of his time away from his family. But needs must where the devil drove; if there was bad news for Kelly’s Cakes those same good citizens would hear of it soon enough. And what a case - or even a rumour - of fever would do to her business ... dear Lord, it did not bear considering.

Anna gave a dry sob of fright, for she knew the success of her baking was as ephemeral as a reputation at midnight and money from Jack came irregularly, when it came at all. Which is your own doing, woman, she thought savagely. You had to make such a grand to-do about being fit to mind your family yourself. Much good is independence if it leaves your children starving and yourself in the poor-house!

Not that it would come to that - the Benevolent Society would step in, but at what cost to her pride and, what was almost worse, to Jack’s?

McNamara reached over and patted her shoulder and she jumped violently.

"Begorra, but ye’re as thin as a rail, Anna!" he said with obvious concern. "It’s yourself’ll be taking the fever if ye’ll not be taking care."

"I am perfectly well, Mr McNamara," said Anna stiffly. "And I am forgetting my manners; how is Mrs McNamara? I’ve not seen her at St Michael’s for some time."

McNamara’s face darkened. "Betsy is as well as she ever is being, these days," he said briefly. "She had a rare falling-out with Mrs O’Hannigan and swore never to darken the door again while that woman continued to stitch idolatrous designs on the new altar cloth."

"I see," said Anna. It was difficult to feel an interest in altar cloths just then - idolatrous designs or not. And now they had reached the white house called Willow Hall from which the Misses Pitt ran their school. Miss Lilian was on the porch, fairly wringing her hands with anxiety as she waited for Anna to arrive.

McNamara stopped the horses, and climbed down to assist his passenger. He gave the reins and a penny to a passing urchin, and ushered Anna across the road.

"I can manage," said Anna faintly. She felt the blood rising in her cheeks at the expression on Miss Lilian’s pink-cheeked face to see her so escorted. "Mr McNamara kindly offered to take me up on my way here," she explained, "and I agreed, since Tommy said you wished me to make haste."

"Yes indeed," said Miss Lilian. "Indeed." Her short-sighted eyes somehow managed to look vague and sly at the same time, or was that Anna’s own conscience colouring her impressions? It had been a guilty pleasure to ride in a jinker beside a man who treated her with concern.

"Then where is Margaret?" she asked sharply. "I trust you have not had me brought here for a trifle?"

"No - no," said Miss Lilian. "Sister has had Margaret lay herself down in the air-porch at the back. She is very flushed and overheated, and Sister has had her drink an aperient, but I fear the child is not co-operating as she might."

Of course not, thought Anna. Maggie never did co-operate.

"We must ask you to remove her from the school at once," said Miss Lilian. "We cannot risk contagion to the other scholars."

"Have no fear, ye old biddy," muttered McNamara, and then said, aloud; "I shall take the child home meself and then ye’ll be rid of her."

Again, Anna could not refuse his help; if she sent him away how was she to carry Maggie? A wisp of a child she might be, but Anna knew to her cost how heavily even little Jack and Janie could weigh if she carried them any distance. She nodded gratefully to McNamara and followed Miss Lilian around the back of the house.

Maggie lay on a low couch out in the air-porch, watched over by an anxious Mary. "Mamma, Maggie is really bad this time, and not pretending," she said, and Anna saw with a glance that it was so. Maggie’s fretful face was irregularly blotched with fever and she moaned and tossed on the couch, despite the comparative coolness of the air-porch. Anna, her stomach turning over with guilt, hurried to Maggie and touched her hot cheek.

"Maggie?" she said. "It’s Mamma here, come to take you home in Mr McNamara’s jinker." She felt foolish speaking so before McNamara and Miss Lilian, but what else was she to say?

Maggie tossed her head away restlessly, flailing out with an arm and striking Anna across the breast. Her breath came hard and fast, and her skin was painfully dry, her lips cracking already. Occasionally, she gave a harsh, hacking cough.

Anna felt a spasm of panic. She had seen fevers before, but this one looked infinitely more dangerous than the usual childhood colds. She could feel the heat radiating from Maggie’s skin and almost see the child burning up before her. McNamara’s hand touched her shoulder again.

"Mrs Kelly, stand aside. I’ll be lifting the child into the jinker. The sooner ye have her at home, the sooner ye can tend to her ills."

"The contagion -" said Anna, between stiff lips. "You cannot risk it."

"Is it not said the McNamaras are the stoutest men ye can find this side of the Irish Sea or t’other?" said McNamara. Putting Anna gently aside, he bent down and lifted Maggie from the couch. "Begorra, she’s in a fever and no mistake," he said. "Ye can deal with the school ma’am, Mrs Kelly. I’ll have the child into the jinker."

Anna did not have to deal long with the Misses Pitt - the good ladies were only too pleased to see her, and her two daughters, off the premises. "Naturally," said Miss Pitt in her stately fashion, "we shall be pleased to welcome Mary back - and Margaret also, once we can be assured by our medical man that it is safe to do so."

"Thank you," said Anna faintly and insincerely, and, taking Mary by the hand, she hurried after McNamara.

During the drive back to Kelly’s Cakes, Anna held Maggie in her lap, with Mary sitting anxiously beside her. McNamara said little, scowling uncharacteristically as he negotiated the worst ruts in the road to avoid jolting the sick child. Waving aside Anna’s protests, he carried Maggie into the cottage and deposited her on the truckle bed she usually shared with Mary. "I’ll be sending the medical man to ye, Anna," he said, still scowling. "And now - what will ye be doing about the other children?"

"Oh dear," said Anna.

"I wish I could make ye the offer of having them at Dublin Downs," said McNamara, "but as matters stand at present..."

Anna roused herself. "No, Mr McNamara, you have done more than enough. You have your own children to think of, and Mrs McNamara."

McNamara nodded gratefully. "I have that, Anna. But if ye need anything other I can offer - it not bringing harm to anyone else - ye know ye need only send word and Pat McNamara will be on your doorstep quicker than Dooley’s donkey can wag an ear."

Anna gave a painful laugh. "Jack says that," she said, and then turned away before the tears began. McNamara hovered on the door sill for a moment, turning his hat in his big, capable hands. He jammed it on his head with what almost amounted to fury and went back to unhitch the horses, pausing to tell Jem Standish that it would be well for him to come back another day.

Doctor Hunter, when he came, was short and to the point. The child had contracted the virulent fever which was epidemic at present, and must be cooled lest she take febrile convulsions. However, she must not be allowed to take a chill, or inflammation of the lungs was a grave possibility; he did not hold with laudanum for children, but the patient might be sponged down with cool or tepid vinegar or spirits and water. "Avoid excesses, Mother," he said sternly to Anna, "and give her nothing but milk-and-water or a little beef tea - are you able to make beef tea?"

Anna murmured that she was. "If she grows worse -" she said faintly.

"Mother," said the doctor, "rest you assured she will grow worse - much worse. There is only one good thing to say of this morbidity - it is quickly over."

"She will recover soon?" begged Anna.

"Aye - or die," said the doctor, and went away, his brisk, unfeeling, professional mask firmly in place. However, he did send his boy around later, bearing a large bottle of tonic with instructions that the other children of the afflicted family were to be dosed with it regularly, feeling that if it did no good it could surely do no harm.

That was the beginning of a very bad time for Anna. Never had she yearned for Jack’s presence so much; he knew little enough about nursing, but at least he would have shared her concern. She had sent off Emma, whose mother had young babies at home, and Tessie, always the less obliging of the two maids, either could not or would not work effectively alone. Apart from the constant nursing required by the invalid, there were also the other children to be tended; and that before the outside tasks could be encompassed. Tessie was capable enough with Bridget and Mary but what of the others? Anna was almost driven to wringing her hands in Miss Lilian Pitt’s manner; if she sat with Maggie, who was to keep young Jack from mischief? Who was to tend Janie, still distressingly backward in comprehension as well as performance? Who was to milk the cows and see to the baking and do the hundred and one other tasks required?

Naturally, she had closed Kelly’s Cakes for a period, but the family had still to be fed and the cow Strawberry and her companions Cherry and Blossom to be milked. The apples must be harvested and the butter made before the cream spoiled in the pantry. The bed linen must be boiled and hung to bleach in the sunlight, and the invalid’s bed-gowns constantly replaced. Anna found within herself reserves of strength she had never known she had, tending Maggie, sleeping in snatches and waking to build up the stove to heat more beef tea or warm vinegar for the constant bathing recommended by the doctor. During the long hours of the night she fought her guilt at having not believed Maggie when she had said she felt ill; had her callous action made the child worse than she need have been?

Little cross-grained Maggie - Maggie to whom she had never been able to warm, whom Jack had almost ignored, whom Bridget dreaded and Mary tried in vain to calm - Maggie might easily die.

On the third day, McNamara drove once more to Kelly’s Cakes, this time with a large and rather uncouth-looking fellow beside him. This person he introduced as Timothy of no last name and no fixed address. "He’s a little slow in his wits, ye understand, but a good worker," said McNamara. "He’s been a sea-cook, a groom and a coachman, but niver the same since he took a blow to the head at sea. He’s a good hand with stock, or so I’m told, and pleased to work for his keep and a bed. Ye’d be doing him a favour if ye were to give him some occupation."

It was all Anna could do not to sob her gratitude, but she straightened her shoulders and thanked McNamara quietly. "So I’m beholden to you again?" she said, but he turned it off with a joke and went away, assuring her that Timothy had no fear of fever and was well known to be as stout as an ox. "Ox-like in more ways than one, Anna, so ye’ve no need to fear for your virtue - at least so far as Timothy is concerned," he said, and was away.

After Timothy came, life was a little easier, but it was not until the next night that the fever broke at last, and by the next morning Maggie, wasted and mummy-like with dehydration, opened sensible eyes and began to whine for something to eat.

Anna gave her what she asked, and then fell into an exhausted asleep, only to be woken by a miserable-looking Tessie. "Ma’am, I think you should see to Miss Mary," she said. "She don’t look none too good to me."

"No, God!" whispered Anna, but when she saw her eldest daughter she knew there was no use denying the truth - Mary had taken the fever from her sister. And so it was all to do again.

Mary’s attack seemed lodged in her chest and throat, and she coughed and coughed until she could speak only in a croaking whisper and Anna despaired. The child rallied at last, but before she could do more than be propped in her bed, young Jack’s cheeks were displaying the dreadful dull flush. Janie, too, was heated, but she at least was quiet, while Jack threw himself about in delirium. He had always been a noisy child, and now his hoarse cries and coughs rang through the cottage constantly, causing even phlegmatic Timothy to make the sign of the cross when he heard it in the night.

Anna had had Mary gargle with sage tea and vinegar, and with salted water to ease her throat and wash away the mucus, but the twins were too young for such measures, and surely their little bodies would not stand the conflagration of the fever which had proved so hard on their elder sisters. Mary herself lay in bed with tears of weakness on her cheeks. She wanted to help with the twins, but it was more than she could do to dress herself at present. Her brush with death had not sweetened Maggie’s temper any, either - her fever was gone but she was querulously demanding and pinched and kicked at Bridget as if resenting her sister’s continued health.

Anna, so exhausted that she could no longer think of undressing or even brushing her own hair, could only pray that Bridget, at least, would be spared the infection. It was far too late to send the child away, even had there been anyone who would have taken her. Anna longed for the company of another responsible human being, for Jack or Jane Colby or even O’Halloran, but she knew a message would never reach Jack in time and as for Mrs Jane and O’Halloran - she could never ask them to risk the health of Miss Caroline and the others by taking Bridget in at Sherwood, even could she spare the time to escort the child to the coach. As it was, the only person from ‘outside’ whom she ever saw was Patrick McNamara, who insisted on fetching supplies of vinegar, soda and foodstuffs to the stricken household. Anna would not let him approach too near, but had not the resolution to forbid him to come. She was, however, able to turn aside his offer to summon Jack from Scott’s Tier; of what use would it be? By the time a messenger had been and returned, Jack would be too late; the children would be recovered and he would have been disturbed from his work for nothing.

So McNamara could only curse the unfeeling fate which had delivered Anna into the keeping of Jack Kelly instead of his own and then go home to face a fretful and demanding wife who alternately insisted that Dublin Downs be kept in a state of siege until the fever should have abated, and then that Patrick must be sure to go into town to collect her ‘tonic’ from the Limerick Hotel.

"You know how weak my heart is, what palpitations I suffer," she would say, coughing a little and patting her breastbone with two fingers. "The doctor recommends I take a little stout for the building up of good blood."

McNamara sighed, for it seemed the doctor also recommended a little port-wine ‘for healthy appetite’ and a little whisky and lemon ‘for my cough’ - not to speak of a little brandy, to be taken with milk ‘for sound and restful repose’. He was a drinking man himself, but to see the demon so slyly claiming his once-vivacious wife was almost enough to make a man take the pledge. Yet he knew it was of no use to refuse Betsy her ‘medicine’; if he did not fetch it to her she would find other, less reputable ways of obtaining it.

Young Jack’s bout with the fever almost broke Anna, for her days and nights spent nursing Maggie and Mary had quite worn her out. If she had anything for which to be thankful during that cruel time, it was that Janie’s illness seemed less marked than her brother’s. Jack burned and shivered, crying and crimson-faced with the attendant rash. Janie was paler, cooler and quiet, with a mere peppering of red spots across her tiny chest and cheeks, so Anna was able to leave her crib by Mary’s bed for much of the time so that the child could have some measure of peace from her brother’s paroxysms. Jack howled and thrashed as Anna tried to give him draughts of the milk-and-water recommended by the doctor, splashing more of the liquid over her apron than was got down his swollen and pus-flecked throat.

After a time, Mary asked that Janie be put in bed beside her; "I can give her sips of milk, Mamma," she explained. "For she is not half the trouble of Jack. Anna agreed, for she was at the end of her wits and it could scarcely harm Mary to tend Janie if she remained in her bed. She lifted Janie from the crib, hugging the little body to her breast. Janie was backward, sadly so, but she was a sweet child and Anna loved her tenderly. If only she had not been twin to Jack - but Jack was coughing again, almost black-faced with the effort, and so Anna slid Janie in beside Mary and hurried back to her son. Even as she reached him he strained and convulsed in the crib, jerking and croaking incoherently, milk-and-water mixed with mucus spewing from his mouth. With a sob, Anna snatched him up, tilting him so that he should not choke on his own vomit, shaking him in an effort to break through the terrible convulsion. If he died, if Jack’s only son died - she had saved Maggie and Mary, surely she could do the same for little Jack?

Bridget was crying desolately in the corner of the kitchen. The child spent much of her time thus, for she was still well, and between convalescents and fever-patients Anna had no time to spare for a child who was merely afraid and hungry. She would make it up to Bridget later, she told herself, but for now she had nothing left to give.

"Mamma, I’m hungry," sobbed Bridget, sensing that she had her mother’s fleeting attention.

"Then get yourself some bread," said Anna, "or go to Tessie."

"Tessie is lying down. She has the ‘ralgia..."

"When has she not!" snapped Anna.

"And Mary says, Mamma, will you come ..."

"When I can!" snapped Anna. "Now get some bread and go to your bed." Just then, Jack convulsed again, and she turned her attention to him.

The change came, as it was wont to do in fever cases, in the night. Jack’s crimson, contorted face relaxed abruptly, and beads of easing, saving sweat oozed out of his body. Anna fed him some spoonfuls of milk-and-water and he gulped them eagerly, straining for more and pouting when she denied him. Soon, he slipped into a natural sleep. Anna rose shakily from her seat beside the crib and stretched cramped limbs. Jack was saved. Unless there was a relapse, Jack was saved. She ached as if she had been beaten, and was light-headed with hunger and fatigue, but Jack would mend and soon she would be able to sleep. But first, she must see to Maggie and Mary, who would doubtless be needing beef tea or milk pudding, should Tessie have remembered to prepare some. But perhaps they were asleep and could be left until morning.

Anna took a lantern and turned it down before creeping into the room where Maggie, Mary and Bridget had their beds. Maggie and Bridget, since the one was convalescent and the other healthy, shared one truckle, Mary and Janie the other. Anna saw that the two nearest the doorway were indeed sleeping, tears not yet dry on Bridget’s cheeks. She must make time for the child now Jack was out of danger. Raising her lantern she saw from the gleam of eyes that Mary had woken. Poor child, she would be pleased to know of her brother’s recovery.

"Little Jack is better," said Anna softly. "Can I fetch you something, Mary? Have you a pain in your throat?"

"No, Mamma," said Mary in the hoarse voice which had afflicted her since she had fallen ill. "But Janie is not well - oh, she is asleep now." She pulled the quilt over her little sister.

Janie did not stir and Anna, with a cold stab of premonition, turned up the lamp. One look was enough, but for Mary’s sake she forced herself not to give way. "I shall take Janie to my bed with me, Mary, for you need to rest. Turn out the lamp when I have gone."

Setting the lamp on the low table, Anna bent and lifted Janie away from Mary, holding the child against her shoulder, supporting the limp head with one gentle hand. She turned away, and saw the light dimming as Mary obediently turned out the lamp. "Goodnight, Mamma," said the child in her new, hoarse voice.

"Goodnight, my Mary," said Anna, and closed the door. Mary was a sensible child, but Anna had already decided she must never know small Janie had died while Mary slept beside her.

"The fever was too much strain for the child’s heart," said the doctor, when he came the next day to examine the pathetic little body.

"She seemed so much less ill that Jack," said Anna. She was still dazed, still stunned, and only grateful to McNamara for taking a message to the doctor. She could scarcely feel grief as yet; it seemed that the past weeks had wrung her dry of any emotion.

The doctor looked wise. "It is a well known fact, Mother, that those who have the strength to fight the infection often do so with the most noise. A weakly child like this one ..."

"Janie," interrupted Anna. She was determined that Janie, in death, would have the dignity she had not often been accorded in life.

"A weakly child like this one," repeated the doctor, "is unlikely to grow up. Her death at this time has saved you much time and distress at a later date." He eyed Anna sternly. "Come, now Mother - count yourself fortunate to have saved three of them - would you rather it had been the boy?"

"What of Bridget?" asked Anna. "Will she be ill next?"

The doctor followed her to the kitchen where he peered at the red-headed child who stared gravely back. "It appears this one has some degree of immunity," he pronounced. "But now, you must look to yourself, Mother. Take this tonic daily until you feel more the thing. Have you made arrangements for the interment?"

The doctor thrust a brown bottle at Anna, and went away, outwardly calm, inwardly distressed. The death of a child was a common enough occurrence, and he had spoken the truth when he told the Kelly woman that she had been lucky to save three, but he still did not feel altogether easy about the elder girls; one of them appeared to have suffered injury to her throat which might prove intractable and the other, the original patient, looked to be a little about in her wits.

Jack, when he arrived in Shepherd Town in June, was distressed to hear of the death of his small daughter, although he had never known her well. "And where did you be burying the poor mite, Anna me darlin’?" he asked. "In the middle of the churchyard with a fine monument to her head?"

Anna wondered how Jack thought she could afford such an extravagance. The farmer who had leased the farm had decided to buy, but the money owing, little enough, had gone to Jack. "No," she said a little shortly, "I had them lay her in the corner by the door, where the roses are planted. I put her in the christening robe Mrs Jane had made for Mary and wrapped her in my wedding shawl."

Jack stirred uneasily. "Sure, she must have looked a picture, the little angel," he said.

"She looked like a tired old woman," said Anna baldly. "And she was two years old, Jack - two years old. If I’d not been so occupied with Jack perhaps I could have saved her."

"Sure, it’s a terrible time you’ve been having altogether, Anna me darlin’," he said. "And I wish I’d been here to support you through it. Why did you not send for me?"

"Mr McNamara offered to send you a message," said Anna tiredly, "but it would have reached you too late. You cannot be dropping everything at an inn and leaving it to run itself."

"That’s true," said Jack, still shaken, and aware he had done just that three months before when Riley and Doolan had suggested a new enterprise. "But I would have done it, I would have come, Anna, if you had only sent me word."

"I know," said Anna.

Jack was silent for a few moments, staring into the fire. "The fellow you have working for you," he said, "where did you come by him? He’s an insolent fellow, didn’t speak when I greeted him."

Anna laughed with an effort. "Oh, Timothy never speaks, Jack, but he’s a good worker for all that. Mr McNamara found him for me; said the man had suffered a misfortune and would be glad of a situation and a place to sleep. He’s happy enough to bed down in the barn. We do need a man about the place, if only for protection, and Mr McNamara gave him good character."

"It seems to me that me old friend Pat has been very busy on me wife’s behalf," growled Jack.

"Indeed he has," said Anna warmly. "We could not have had a better friend. Everyone else feared to come near us when we had the fever, but Mr McNamara called by and did whatever he was able."

Jack bent to flick some dried mud from his breeches. "So am I to stand reproved by that, Anna me darlin’?" he wanted to know. "That Pat was here and I was not?"

"Jack," said Anna patiently, "I said when we parted, it is of my own choice and my own fault. If I had come with you to the Tier I might not have lost Janie, but perhaps - perhaps the other girls would have been in danger." She blinked, and a tear ran down her cheek. "My poor Janie was slow," she said. "She would never have been able to live a full life. Perhaps the Lord in His mercy saw that, and took her now to save her grief later. She did not suffer greatly and the doctor is of the opinion her heart was defective anyway."

Jack looked relieved, and Anna, still crying out inside, was glad she had repeated the doctor’s words. If you could not see such tragedies as happening for the best, what hope had you of avoiding the blasphemy of doubting the right of God’s ultimate purpose?

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

It took a long time for Kelly’s Cakes to recover from the blow dealt to its reputation by the fever. For some while suspicion even centred on the Kelly well as the possible source of the fever. Had not Mrs Jonas, whose young daughters had been among the first to succumb, had Anna Kelly do the baking for her eldest’s wedding spread? Did not Anna Kelly use water from that well in her pastries and in that apple flavoured brew she concocted? And the Kelly children themselves had been afflicted, that was well known, for had not one of them died of the infection? Then the girl Emma Shippon, who had been Mrs Kelly’s maid, had undoubtedly brought the disease home from the Kelly place to her own family, for had not her father been stricken three days later, although the girl herself had been spared?

There were those who opined that Will Shippon’s illness had more to do with the doxy he’d been meeting down at the Limerick than with any fever, but the rumours persisted.

Anna knew what was being said, but was powerless to prevent it; such tales were easy enough to ‘prove’ when folk were coursing about for scapegoats, but very difficult to refute.

By Late June, when Jack had gone back to the Tier, it seemed that Mary and Maggie were as well as they would get, so Anna sent them back to the Misses Pitt. The children were greeted with some reserve, and Anna would have given much to have taken them away and never to have darkened the ladies’ door again, but she was determined that Mary, at least, should have a chance to pursue her studies and the Misses Pitt’s establishment seemed to be the only option. Dear Mary, with her sunny nature and ruined voice, Mary deserved the best, and Anna knew she could never afford to keep her at a ladies’ college in Launceston.

"Mary and Margaret are quite free of infection, Miss Pitt," she said steadily. "Mary’s voice is still a little hoarse, but Dr Hunter assures me that there is no danger to others in associating with her."

Reluctantly, Miss Pitt agreed to receive the girls, but Anna was unsurprised to learn later from Mary that the couch on which Maggie had been laid had been burned and that the pupils who had not been affected themselves turned the cold shoulder to herself and her sister. "They call me a crow, Mamma," said Mary sadly, "for they say I speak like a horrid old bird. And they say our well is dirty, and that Maggie and I are dirty because we wash in the water from it. Lizzie Lawson had the fever too, but they do not say that of her."

Lizzie Lawson’s father was Lawson the wheelwright, a huge man with muscles as tough as ironbark and a temper to match. Anna could well believe the children of Shepherd Town would not care to insult Lizzie.

"Never mind, Mary," she said briskly. "You and Maggie know the water is wholesome, and in time the foolish rattle-tongues will find someone else to harry."

Anna gave much thought to the matter. Not only was the gossip hurting Mary and Maggie, but it was doing great harm to the fortunes of Kelly’s Cakes. She wished she could consult Jane Colby, who always had such good sense, as to what she should do. If she returned to baking and brewing as usual, and the goods piled up unsold, she would soon be in a poor way, but if she did not, and then an order came in, she would be in no way able to fill it. Something must be done to salvage the reputation of Kelly’s Cakes - and soon. Having no-one else with whom to discuss the situation, she was at last driven to consult McNamara.

The Irishman had remained in the habit of calling at the Kelly place every so often to ask how they did. Anna always received him in the front yard, where all could see, and McNamara never dismounted from his horse or left his jinker. Occasionally he brought one of his sons, now sullen youngsters of fourteen and twelve, along with him. Anna appreciated his consideration of the proprieties, but, shortly after Mary and Maggie had returned to school, she took a deep breath and invited McNamara into the cottage.

He remained mounted for a moment, absently steadying the restless movements of his bay cob and looking down at her with an unreadable expression. "Is there a problem I could be helping ye with, Mrs Kelly?" he asked with the punctilious courtesy he always displayed in public.

"I hope so, Mr McNamara," said Anna quietly. She beckoned to Timothy, who came eagerly forward to take possession of the bay. Timothy was good with animals, but he viewed Strawberry and her companions with bare tolerance; a fine horse was much more to his taste and had he had his wits and his tongue, he would have told Mrs Anna so.

McNamara dismounted and handed it over without demur, then followed Anna into the cottage.

"A cup of tea, Mr McNamara?" offered Anna.

"I wouldn’t be saying no to it," said McNamara. He sat down by the scrubbed table and watched Anna lifting the heavy kettle from the stove. She was far too thin, he thought. Her shoulders showed like blades through the dark stuff of her dress, and her collar hung loosely about the scarred throat. He thought of Betsy’s opulent curves, of the softening of her thighs and belly through inactivity and the effects of alcohol. "Have ye news from Jack?" he asked.

She turned round, obviously startled at the question. "Not since he returned to the Tier, Mr McNamara. But then, I hardly expected it. He is kept very busy there, I understand."

"So inn-keeping is still to his liking?"

"I believe so."

"He should never have left ye, Anna," said McNamara. "It was a feckless thing to be doing."

Anna poured tea into two cups and sat down at the table. "Mr McNamara," she said reprovingly, "I did not invite you into the house to discuss Jack’s business. I’ll not have you traduce him in such a way, either. It was by my choice and mine alone that I did not follow Jack to the Tier and if I have regretted that it is my own problem, and between Jack and myself."

Her pale cheeks had flushed a little with this earnest speech and McNamara noted with approval that her dull eyes had brightened. He did not like to see Anna Kelly worn and beaten.

"Sure now, I’d not traduce a man in his own house," he agreed. "But if ye did not invite me here to speak of Jack’s problems ... how may I serve ye?"

Anna looked at him thoughtfully. The situation reminded her a little of that other time Pat McNamara had taken tea in her kitchen. On that occasion he had proposed a bargain such as no gentleman should have conceived and which no lady would have accepted, but it had not destroyed the ease she always felt in his company. As he sat at the other side of the table she saw that he was smiling, and wondered if he remembered it too. "Mr McNamara," she said slowly, "you have always been a good friend to Jack and to the rest of us as well, so I would like to ask your advice."

"Advice, is it?" murmured McNamara. "Then I’m at your service, Anna, as always, in any fashion ye care to name."

"Since the fever," said Anna with an effort, "our family has been the subject of gossip and certain remarks from ill-mannered tongues."

"Then ye’ll not be improving matters by asking meself into your parlour," said McNamara.

Anna frowned at him. "This is no time for levity, Mr McNamara. I have not been traduced personally. It is simply that there is a wild story being put about that our well was the source of the disease."

"That it was not," said McNamara definitely. "Sure - do ye not water the livestock from that same well?"

"Yes," said Anna.

"And has any one of them shown the least touch of sickness?"

"No. And neither have I, nor Bridget, nor Tessie, nor Timothy. But the fact remains that Maggie and Mary and Jack and - and Janie did sicken, and Janie died."

"And which children sickened before them?" asked McNamara. "Did not two of the Higgings children fall ill?"

Anna bit her lip. The Higgings children were wild and half-starved and their father spent so much of his time in the town lock-up it was a local puzzle that he had managed to beget so many during his brief periods at home.

"Were there not also one or two who attended the old biddies’ schoolhouse?" pursued McNamara. "So why are ye not pointing the finger to their well as the source of the trouble?"

"People do not," said Anna.

"To be sure they will not," said McNamara, "while ever old Jonas Pitt lords it over the gentry as a friend of Sam Shepherd. No, Anna, it’s not your well being at fault, but your circumstance. To put it bluntly, while ye’ve no man to protect your interests, ye’re seen as fair game by any ill-natured biddy that takes a mind to make mischief. Biddies - especially those without a man of their own - choose to see ye as a threat, for ye’ve had a man and let him go."

Anna eyed him with disfavour. "Then what would you advise me to do, Mr McNamara?"

McNamara smiled at her and reached out across the table to take her hand. "Anna, me love, ye know ye have only to speak the word and Pat’s your man."

"No, Mr McNamara," said Anna, firmly disengaging her fingers from his clasp. "You’re Betsy’s man - that is, Mrs McNamara’s and you should be ashamed of yourself."

McNamara rubbed his jaw and eyed her warily. "I am, I am, Anna. I’m ashamed of meself that I did be choosing the wrong girl off the Eliza Kirk."

Anna thought of herself as she had been in those days, unhappy, uncertain, and still suffering shock from rape and the death of her baby. "Mr McNamara," she said quite gently, "I doubt you’d have had much joy of me then. I had no use for any man for years - except for Mr Colby, who was forever and ever Mrs Jane’s. If it had not been for his example, I doubt I’d ever have accepted Jack ... but to business, please. Do you see no way of stilling the gossip and regaining my custom? For if it’s all at an end, I shall have no alternative but to pack up and go to Jack after all."

"That might be for the best, Anna," said McNamara.

"Perhaps," said Anna. "But I hate to let all my hard work slip away on the tongues of evil gossips."

"Then I believe your best form of defence is attack," said McNamara. "If ye can be seen to be trading as normal, making a good market for your baking, then that will be speaking for itself."

"The chance would be a fine thing," said Anna.

"Indeed. What ye need is a goodly order - a wedding spread, a banquet - I’d give it to ye in a moment, but Betsy is not quite well just now and does not receive or pay calls."

Anna nodded sympathetically. The polite fiction that Betsy McNamara was temporarily indisposed must be upheld.

"’tis not her fault, Anna," McNamara said suddenly. "’tis me own, for putting the poor girl in the situation I did. If I’d been content with a cottage and not taken her to Dublin Downs now - she’d not have felt obliged to be the grand lady, and would not have been needing a tonic to bolster up her nerves." He cleared his throat. "But on to the problem ye have. Have ye perhaps thought to ask Sam Shepherd - but no, he’s anither man like meself, with no wife to order banquets. Now I’ve a grand notion! The coaches come through Shepherd Town and pull in at the Limerick to bait the horses and refresh the gentlemen. What if ye were to go ahead and open up the tearoom you were considering? I’d undertake to have a word or two in the ear of the coachmen and sure, after a few coach-loads of ladies had eaten your baking without ill coming of it, the local biddies would soon be putting their tongues between their teeth!"

"It could ruin me, if it failed," said Anna.

"Yes, me beauty, but it could be the making of ye if it succeeds! Take on some smart girls to wait on the customers, dress them nice, and ye might find yourself serving gentlemen as well! Aside from meself, I mean, and Sam if he can but bring himself out of his hermit ways."

Anna thought hard for a few minutes and then she looked up and matched McNamara’s hopeful smile with her own. "I shall do it, Mr McNamara. If it sends me to the wall I shall sell up and go to Jack, but I’ll give the divil a run for his money first!"

Anna threw herself into the rebuilding of Kelly’s Cakes with feverish enthusiasm. If she worked all hours, worked until she was almost dropping, she had less time to mourn baby Janie, less time to ponder her own fault in the child’s passing.

Accordingly, she cleared the front room of the debris which had accumulated since the fever epidemic and bespoke Jem Standish again. "Five round tables and sufficient bentwood chairs to render them comfortable seating for upwards of a dozen patrons," she said. "I wish these to be delivered before the spring is too much advanced."

Jem Standish scratched his beard. "Don’t mean to be rude, Mrs Kelly, but when do you expect Jack home next?"

Anna looked at him serenely. "I expect Jack home when he arrives," she said. "And you can be sure he’ll not be pleased to hear of it if you refuse to do this work."

"There is the matter of payment," said Standish. "I heard tell you was closing the cake shop, not making it bigger."

"Then you heard wrong," said Anna. "But this is not to be only a cake shop any longer, Mr Standish, but a tearoom of the highest order."

"If you say so, Mrs Kelly," said Standish. Grudgingly, he removed the gauge from his tool bag and began taking measurements. Anna’s confidence must have transmitted itself to him, for at midday he accepted a rabbit and onion pasty from her kitchen without noticeable hesitation. Nor did he refuse when she offered another. "You’ll be serving them things to the gentry, Ma’am?" he asked, dusting pastry crumbs from his paunch.

"I had in mind daintier offerings of cream cakes and the like," said Anna. "But if you think gentlemen would prefer something more substantial, I should be pleased to accept your advice."

Standish nodded smugly. "That’s right, Mrs Kelly, you take a man’s advice and you won’t go far wrong."

Jem Standish was not the only gentleman whose advice Anna sought during the busy weeks that followed. She soon discovered that tradesmen were not so reluctant to wait for their payment if they could be sure of a hearty meal on the job, and by the time the summer of 1866 had fairly come the new teahouse was almost ready to open.

"What will ye be calling it, Anna?" asked McNamara.

Anna brushed a wisp of hair back from her eyes. She was elbow-deep in flour and had a dab of butter on her cheek, but McNamara thought he had seldom seen a fairer sight. "I had thought of calling it Kelly’s," she said. "Does that meet with your approval, Mr McNamara?"

"Come now Anna, ye’ve no need to be flattering old Pat the way ye flatter those other poor fellows," said McNamara with some amusement.

"I know," said Anna composedly. "But the thing is, Mr McNamara, do you think Jack would approve?"

"He’d be a hard-headed spalpeen if he did not," said McNamara. "But Anna - why not make use of your own name in this?"

"Bailey?" said Anna uncertainly.

"No, no, your own name. And there’s a thought indeed," said McNamara. "Ye could go a lot farther and fare a lot worse than calling it Anna’s Own."

"Anna’s Own," said Anna, tasting the name. "Anna’s Own. Yes, I like that, Mr McNamara and I shall be taking your advice. Anna’s Own it shall be."

McNamara knew she was manipulating him, knew she was flattering him as she did the other people whose good offices she needed if her tearooms were to succeed, but he was content for it to be so. Anna Kelly would have none of him as a lover, but if she could be brought to think of him as a friend who knew what might come of it in the misty future? "Anna," he said, "I wish ..."

But Anna had turned away from him, away from the stove, and was gazing wide-eyed at the window as if beholding a holy vision.

"What the divil?" said McNamara urgently, but Anna had blotted him out as if he no longer existed. She was hurrying - almost running - to the door to gaze away up the road to where a travel-stained black gelding plodded with a weary red-headed man astride. Then there was a glad shriek of "Dadda - DADDA!" from the back yard and the youngest remaining Kelly daughter, little Bridget, tore through the gate with her pinafore half off and her bootlaces flapping. And her mother was hurrying almost as fast, although she did not scream aloud.

McNamara stood in the doorway and watched the reunion of Mad Jack Kelly and his wife with weary eyes. Then he gathered up his hat, reclaimed his bay cob from the gaping Timothy and trotted back towards Dublin Downs where he stabled the bay and went quietly into the house and upstairs to see his wife. But Betsy, who had been laid down upon her bed with a headache and palpitations when he had gone out, had apparently recovered, for her maid curtsied and said Ma’am was away to drink tea with Mrs Jonas and her sister, who was visiting from Launceston. That may have been so, but McNamara hoped Betsy drank only tea, and returned before it was dark. Otherwise, he would be forced to humiliate himself and her by going to search her out and bring her home.

Jack Kelly had dreaded this homecoming more than any other since he had set out for the Pot o’ Gold at Scott’s Tier three years before. His last visit had been fraught with pain and sorrow after little Janie died - all the more so for he had been unable to feel it as he knew he ought. But what was a man to do when presented with a mewling, backward daughter who was twin to a fine, lusty boy? Surely he could be forgiven if he left the little colleen to her mother’s care while he forged a bond with the lad? The fact that John Stephen was red-haired had afforded Jack some secret satisfaction; he’d put his mark on this one and no mistake. As for the girl, little Jane, she might well grow up to be the spit image of Anna ... but then, her very name reminded him of Jane Colby, whose sharp words he had never forgotten or really forgiven. If he’d been consulted, he’d have suggested another name, Jessie, or Martha or Rosie. But Anna had explained that the child had needed to be baptised immediately, and he had seen no reason to doubt her ... And then the child, born in his absence, must needs die in it also, so he never had had the chance to become acquainted. What was there to say but thank God it was not the boy who had been taken, and hope the babe had gone to a better place?

Yes, it had been a sorry home-coming, and Anna had looked worn almost to death, red-eyed and lustreless, and thin as a rail, so he’d almost feared to bed her lest she snapped in two. She had seemed too tired to respond, and it came to him that she might fear to bear and perhaps lose another child. Well, Mad Jack was not such a spalpeen as to wish such a burden on a woman when he’d not be around to uphold her, so he’d held himself in check, and ridden away sooner than he might otherwise have done. Perhaps next time Jessie the barmaid turned her eyes in his direction he’d not put her aside. He had been rather flattered (as what man would not have been?) when Jessie arrived at Scott’s Tier, having left the Victoria to seek employment at the Pot o’ Gold. It would have taken a blinder man than Jack Kelly to realise the motive behind her move, and if his wife should have lost her desire for bed-games he could hardly be held to his vows ...

Well and good, and life at the Pot o’ Gold suited him to perfection, but a man could hardly allow his only son to grow up a stranger, and he still found himself thinking of Anna with a wistful, sorrowful longing, so once more he was riding west to Shepherd Town. And Anna was there to meet him, the old, vital Anna, Anna as she had been before the birth of the twins. She was again the Anna who had been so excited over the setting up of her little egg business, before that blasted Colby woman had persuaded her to expand it into cakes and preserves and given her notions of independence.

"Anna me darlin’!" he cried with genuine delight, and swung down from his horse to clasp her in his arms. Flame-topped Bridget was capering about like a ragamuffin puppy, so Jack spared an arm to hoist her into the saddle where she squeaked with startled pain as the leathers pinched her knees through the black wool stockings, but still clung on gamely.

Leading the horse with one hand, Jack tucked his wife’s arm through the other and smiled down at her with affection. "Where’s me son though? Where’s me boy Jack?"

Anna smiled back. "Jack is at home with Mary and Maggie - oh, and Mr McNamara has come to call."

Jack beamed. "I’ll be seeing Pat later - just now I want to make the acquaintance of me son -" He looked up and beamed at Bridget’s solemn face. "And marvel at me beautiful girls."

It was the early months of 1867, and Betsy McNamara was displeased with life. Summer was waning, and the nights beginning to be cold. Yet Patrick, for some reason, had proved uncommonly cruel and hard-hearted when she asked him to fetch her a little more of her tonic from the Limerick. The doctor had been to her two days before - for her cough, because the cool nights had given her a chill on the chest - and he had been worried about her condition. He had spoken gravely to Patrick outside the bedchamber (no doubt prescribing another bottle of her tonic) and then Patrick had come in, sat down on the bed (rather over-familiar of him, although they were wed) and taken her hand. It came to her that Patrick had not been to her bed for many months, and she failed to see why he should wish to join her now when she felt so frail. She had shrugged him away, not pettishly, but in a manner meant to hint, ever so gently, that a lady in ill-health was not to be crowded in such a manner. Patrick, however, usually the most indulgent of husbands, had persisted.

"No, Patrick, I do not feel up to it," she had said, but Patrick had been firm; harsh, almost. And it had not been her favours he had been asking, but her attention, something she found it much less agreeable to give.

"Betsy, ye must be listening to me." Patrick had sounded unusually solemn.

"Patrick, how often must I tell you - the word is ‘you’, not ‘ye’. Thus; ‘you’."

"Niver mind me brogue now, Betsy ..."

"And Patrick, could you not address me as ‘Elizabeth’?" she had enquired. "It is, after all, my baptismal name."

Patrick had sighed, and taken her wrist in a sharp, almost hurtful grip. "Enough of that, Betsy! Ye’ll listen to me now or by God I’ll have ye locked in your chamber! Now then. Ye must see that ye cannot be continuing on the road ye’re taking?"

Patrick had sounded almost pleading, which was odd, as she was not planning any journeys. "What are you saying, Patrick? I do not perfectly understand you."

"There’s to be no more stout for ye, Betsy, that’s what I’m saying. No more brandy, no more spirits of any kind. No more port-wine. Do ye understand?"

"But why may I not have my tonic, Patrick? Surely the doctor has explained it to you. Ladies of my delicate constitution need to be supported by certain restoratives when the weather is inclement."

"Sure and the doctor has explained it to me, Betsy me love. So now I’m trying to explain it to ye. There’s to be no more tonic - and let’s speak plain here, and call the divil’s own by its true name. No more strong drink for ye."

Patrick had released her then, and risen to leave her, but she had snatched at his arm in her turn. "But - what when the chill descends to my chest, Patrick?"

"Then ye must weather the chill as the rest of us mortals do, with flannel and a good fire in the hearth."

"But in my state of health -"

"Betsy," he had said slowly, and almost angrily, "there is nothing wrong with your state of health, except it is half-pickled in whisky. If ye had some true worries, like Anna Kelly now - sure, it would be the making of ye."

"Anna Kelly?" she’d said in amazement. "And what has Anna Kelly to say about anything?"

"I suppose ye’ve not heard, but Anna Kelly has lost a child to the fever last year. The same disease has ruined her eldest daughter’s voice - little Mary, do you not recall what a sweet blackbird of a thing she was? Her man is away at Scott’s Tier eleven months of each year and she has four surviving children to support and a business to run; a business which has been made almost impossible for her by the ill-tongued gossips who infest this town. That Betsy, is what Anna Kelly has to say about anything. If anyone has the right to be knocking back the ‘tonic’ to drown her woes, would ye not say it is she? Yet she supports it all with niver a word of complaint."

"Oh - women of her stamp - the mongrel breed -" Betsy had muttered, but Patrick had turned to her, blazing with wrath. For a moment she had truly thought he might strike her; a thought which filled her with a strange, half-remembered thrill. But he had stayed his hand, said curtly that she was not to take any liquor without his express consent and left the bedchamber.

Betsy had wept for a little over his harsh words, then comforted herself by thinking that, after all, Patrick would soon forget his cruel strictures; men had blessedly easy to wheedle out of their little notions. Patrick, however, had not forgotten. Indeed, he had been so far lost to decency as to hire a woman, a fat floozy with arms like bolsters, and the accent of the lower classes, whose function, so the creature had the sauce to tell her, was to keep her, Elizabeth McNamara, away from strong drink. She was to be allowed one small wineglassful of sherry a day, and no more. "An’ don’ you be tryin’ any little tricks on me, luv," said the floozy comfortably, "’cos Lord luv ya, Jen Griffith’s up to every rig an’ row!"

Well, so Patrick thought he had the upper hand, did he? Betsy narrowed her eyes in a way completely foreign to the Elizabeth McNamara known in Shepherd Town, but which would have been easily recognised by the old cell-mates of Betsy Potter. Someone was going to pay dearly for this humiliation, and it would not be Betsy. It would be that woman who had stolen her husband’s admiration. It would be Anna Kelly.

The first step was to make the Creature who had taken her in charge believe her docile and acquiescent, and, if possible, the wronged victim of a domestic tyrant. So Betsy, who had never believed in Hellfire and had not the slightest interest in the Hereafter, began her campaign by pleading with the Creature (a heretical protestant) to allow her the comfort of attending Sunday Mass at St Michael’s. "Indeed, Mrs Griffith, surely you cannot believe I would become intoxicated on the Holy Host?" she said reproachfully. And the Creature, whose conscience, such as it was, would not allow her to set foot in a Papist church, reluctantly agreed.

For the first two Sundays, Betsy was careful to be meek and devout as the Holy Virgin herself on her way to Mass, and equally mild afterwards, exchanging greetings with ladies of her acquaintance, shaking the hand of Father O’Donahue, confessing that she had been a little troubled by her chest, but that now she was much improved. After Mass, she returned in the carriage to Dublin Downs and devoted herself to such amusements as seemed suitable for the Lord’s day. Patrick, no churchman himself, approved, and by the third week, she considered the Creature to be sufficiently lulled to render her revenge possible.

On the first Sunday, she had noted with disfavour, her quarry had been accompanied to Mass by her husband, red-haired Jack Kelly. By the next week, Kelly was absent, presumably having had enough of that woman’s hypocritical company and fled to the safety of his eastern mountain inn and, no doubt, less chilly embraces. During the third Mass, refreshed by a bottle of gin she had bribed the knife boy to fetch her that morning, Betsy contrived to sit in a pew from which she could gain an uninterrupted view of her quarry. That woman sat there meek as a nun, slight and thin in her dark stuff dress and modest shawl, her three daughters and one son ranged along the pew beside her. And if anyone could believe that woman virtuous when she had borne two red-heads, one yellow and one mousy-head, thought Betsy venomously, they must be touched in the brain. For had not the woman borne a bastard on the ship? Aye, and had she not cozened her way into the good graces of the spinster woman on the ship, and been petted and nurse-maided halfway round the world while Betsy herself had stifled in the hold? And now was she not cozening Betsy’s own husband? One could scarcely blame the men, thought Betsy, stifling a hiccup behind gloved fingertips, not when cozening women like that woman came cozening along ... ah, it was a good word, ‘cozening’, a good, descriptive, cozening word. Another hiccup forced its way to her lips, and Betsy gave a tiny giggle. Eyes swivelled in her direction before turning politely away, which made Betsy giggle once more. The respectable folk of Shepherd Town had a shock coming; one they would enjoy to the full.

But she was not here to laugh, but to teach that woman that Betsy McNamara was not to be mocked. Betsy folded her hands demurely in her lap and composed herself to listen to the sermon.

Anna was on her way out of the church, privately thanking God and the Virgin that Maggie and Jack had not chosen to misbehave themselves. Mary and Bridget, at least, could be relied upon to be still, but the other two agreed as well as raw timber and silk, snagging and snarling almost without pause. Maggie could not cease pinching at Bridget, either, so it was a work of strategy worthy of the Iron Duke to seat the four so that the warring parties were distant from one another but not from herself. Even upon leaving the church, order must be kept, so that Maggie left first, under Mary’s care, then Bridget and finally, held firmly by the hand, young Jack. Even now, so long after Janie’s death, Anna found her other hand feeling strangely empty; inexplicably so for she had never led Janie by the hand. Perhaps it was the special prayer she always addressed to the Holy Virgin, a mother like herself, which reminded her of the lost one. Deep in her reflections, Anna scarcely noticed at first when a hand plucked at her shawl.

"Leave off, Bridget," she said absently. "You shall have ..."

"You - I’m talking to you, Anna Bailey."

Mouth rounded in astonishment, Anna turned about, for surely, with Jack gone, there was no-one in Shepherd Town who knew her by that name. Or wait - McNamara knew, and had she not once told Samuel Shepherd? But it was neither McNamara’s brogue nor Samuel Shepherd’s cultured voice which had addressed her. "You - Anna sluttin’ Bailey - looking like butter wouldn’t melt in your bloody mouf! I’m talkin’ to you!"

The accent had slipped from genteel at the beginning of the speech to coarse Cockney at the end and Anna found herself standing face to face with Betsy McNamara.

"Good morning, Mrs McNamara," she said quietly, and offered her hand.

Betsy struck it away. "You keep yer bloody good-mornin’s to yerself!" she snarled, her face twisting. "Ho yes, I know all about you Anna Bailey, cozenin’ up to my man - and poor old Pat, ‘e’s led by ‘is prick just like the rest o’ them! But you don’t fool me, Anna Bailey. You don’t fool Betsy. I was wiv yer on the ship, remember? The good ship Eliza bloody Kirk. I was down in the soddin’ stews with the rest o’ the girls but you - you were up wiv lady muck - the ‘old wasn’t good enough for Anna bloody Bailey. And ‘ose bed were you warmin’? The ‘igh an’ mighty Captain? Or that stuck-up doctor? Or was it the old maid you were took in by?"

Vulgarities flowed from Betsy’s lips like bile from a sewer, and the ladies and gentlemen of the congregation were frozen with horror. Only Father O’Donahue seemed to retain possession of his senses. He took Betsy by the arm. "Now, now, my child -"

Betsy shook him off. "I’m not yer bloody child, you old nelly-bum!" she hissed, and clutched again at Anna. "So what are you after now, Anna Bailey? Is it me man you want? Old Pat? Or do you reckon you’ve got ‘im already? I know, don’t you fink I don’t - you’ve got ‘im twisted round your little finger - in and out your bloody tearoom - tearoom! Whorehouse more like. Poor old Pat - no wonder ‘e’s got no strength left for his lawful wedded wife. ‘e’s not laid a finger on me for monfs and well I know whose blame it is!" She broke into maudlin sobs, but eluded the priest once more to give Anna a vicious clawing scratch across the face. The effort unbalanced her so much that she fell backwards over a low fence in a flurry of petticoats and stockings.

It would have been comical, thought Anna later on, as she mopped her oozing cheek, if it had not been so ugly. But as it was all she could do was gather her dignity and her children and return to the cottage and Anna’s Own, leaving the rest of the congregation to buzz with surmise and send an excited youth to fetch Patrick McNamara to deal with the sobbing Betsy.

Late that evening, when Betsy was lying in an exhausted sleep, watched over by an angry and penitent Jen Griffiths, McNamara rode round to Anna’s Own. It was raining heavily, so he gave his horse and his dripping hat to Timothy to mind and hurried across the yard to rap importunately on the door.

Anna was in two minds about opening the door to anyone at this hour, so she called softly through the jamb, demanding the caller’s identity.

"’tis me, Anna, Pat McNamara!"

Anna flushed angrily. "Well go away, Mr McNamara. You and yours have caused me enough harm today."

sure that Pat McNamara’s best would be very good indeed. "I could," she said, "I think I could. Pat. Pat."

McNamara sighed. "Now I can be dying a happy man."

"Not for a long time yet, me love!" said Anna anxiously.

McNamara’s caressing hands stilled in astonishment. "What was that ye did be saying?"

Anna smiled. "Pat McNamara is me love," she said softly, and found to her delight that it was so.