Beyond The Blue Mountains - Plaidy Jean (читать книги бесплатно полностью без регистрации сокращений .txt) 📗

Carolan said: “Give me your glass, Esther.” She took it, flashed a warning glance at Esther, smiled at Margery.

“There!” said Margery.

“Drink that up, you sly little cat! And don’t think you deceive me for a minute with your praying to God.”

Carolan wanted to comfort Margery, poor Margery to whom youth meant a good deal because love went with it.

Esther took the glass with trembling fingers. Her nerve had been broken in Newgate; temporarily she was lulled into a certain security, but she could be jerked out of it in a second. Here in the Masterman kitchen she could do the work allotted to her, the convict garb did not hurt her because she was meek of heart and she was innocent; she took on a good deal of Carolan’s work, and enjoyed doing it, for she felt she owed to Carolan a debt which she would never, never repay as long as she lived. She said her prayers each night, before she slept the sleep of a quiet conscience. But embedded in her mind was the memory of the agony she had endured in Newgate, when those women surrounded her, stripped her of her clothes, and did to her what she preferred to forget and never could as long as she lived. Sometimes she would awake in the night, screaming, because she had dreamed that that ring of hideously cruel faces was closing in on her. Then Carolan, strangely gentle, unlike herself, would lean over to her bed, take her hand, waken her.

“It’s all right, Esther. It’s all right. You’re not there now. You’re here … It’s all right here, Esther.” What she owed Carolan she could never repay, and what joy it was to do the hardest tasks for her! In it was the glory of the hair-shirt, of the stony pilgrimage, of hardship and suffering. And now, with Margery’s hard eyes on her, saying “Drink that up!” she caught again that spirit of Newgate, the tyranny of the strong over the weak, the hatred of the impious for the pious. And Carolan, her protector, was urging her with her eyes to sip, to feign to drink. Carolan, her eyes alert, Carolan grown wiser, sensing danger.

“You too, me love!” Margery’s eyes caressed the face of the girl beside her. It was pleasant to turn back to memory. Might be me own young daughter, thought Margery. Like her to be! We’d get on. Only, if she was my daughter I wouldn’t have had her so haughty. Fun it would have been to listen to a daughter’s romances, rather than suffer the uncertain glory of romancing oneself.

“Fill up,” said Carolan.

“Come, Jin! Come on. Poll! Come on, James,” cried Margery. The bottle was empty before she had done. She lay lolling back in her chair.

Carolan twirled the gin in her glass. The effect of it was strange. It made her want to cry, cry for Haredon and its comforts, cry for Everard. For Marcus? She was not sure which. The lamp flickered up suddenly. The oil was running low. Jin folded her hands on the table and glanced at James; James fidgeted and started to talk to Margery, who laughed heartily over nothing and pathetically tried to reassure herself that that slut, Jin, wasn’t there. Poll was crying softly for her baby. Esther had drunk too much gin; it gave her a look of fever; Carolan thought her very beautiful tonight.

Margery said suddenly: “Shut up, snivelling. Poll! Why, what Mr. Masterman would say if he was to come down here I couldn’t think. And what of her bath? Good gracious me, look at the time. She’ll retire at eleven, if the others don’t. Doctor Martin’s orders if you please. And a hot bath she wants, before getting to bed. It’s a wonder to me she don’t catch her death. Jin! What are you thinking of? Get up, you lazy slut! Get her cans of hot water. There’ll be trouble in a minute. Why, it only wants five minutes to eleven!”

Jin drained her glass. From under her sullen brows she watched Margery. She was a little afraid of her. Jin’s stay in prison and again on board the prison ship had taught her the folly of flouting authority. Margery had not used the whip yet, but she might for some offences. Jin did not like the thought of the whip. She had often shuddered at the sight of the triangle in the yard. She had seen one of the men convicts whipped; she had run away, but she had heard the sound of the whip swishing through the air, and the sickening thud of its fall; she had heard the agonized screaming of male voices. No, no. There was not one of them in the basement kitchen who would dare to flout authority completely.

Jin stood up. She clutched the table. She swayed. Margery was beside her, gripping her shoulders, breathing gin fumes over her dark face.

“Ye’re drunk, me lady! Drunk!” She caught the girl’s ear and pinched it hard. She laughed almost with relief. If Jin was drunk, that would account for her boldness. Drink and love! she reasoned. If you were under the influence of either you couldn’t be taken too much to task for what you did. She pushed Jin back into her chair.

Carolan said: “Shall I take up the cans of hot water?”

Margery nodded, and fell into the chair next to James.

“Let me do it,” said Esther.

“They are heavy, Carolan. And you know how you hate carrying things!”

“No!” said Carolan.

“You have had too much gin. I can see you have, Esther, so it is no use saying you have not!”

“Ha ha!” cried Margery.

“These praying people! Just show them a gin bottle, and they are as bad as the rest. Look sharp with the cans, me Jove. I don’t want complaints.”

A queer excitement filled Carolan. She had seized on the opportunity of getting upstairs. She wanted to be caught up in the excitement of the party. She longed to go to a party, to wear a beautiful dress. But first of all it would be necessary to have a bath. She grimaced at her hands; they were grimy and beneath the nails were black rims that it was impossible to eliminate.

She filled the cans. Esther came to her.

“Are you sure, Carolan?”

“Oh, go to bed, Esther! I am absolutely sure.”

When she carried the cans through the kitchen, Jin and Esther and Poll had already gone into the bedroom. Cautiously, for the cans were heavy, Carolan mounted the back staircase.

On the first floor of the house was the suite occupied by Mr. and Mrs. Masterman. She had seen it once when she went to help Jin clean up. This was the first time she had been allowed to roam about the house by herself, for newly acquired convicts were rarely allowed upstairs alone. It was the unwritten law of the establishment, and was a sensible enough rule, she had to remind herself. A Sydney servant would very likely be a desperate creature. She smiled, thinking of Mr. Masterman. She supposed he had a dossier of them all. They would all be neatly labelled; for example, “Carolan Haredon, thief.

Outside the suite of rooms she paused. Mrs. Masterman’s room was at the end of the corridor, and between it and Mr. Masterman’s there was a smaller room where they made their toilets. The house had been planned with care. There were doors connecting the two larger rooms with the toilet-room, and that itself had yet another, opening on to the corridor. Mr. Masterman had planned the house, Margery said. One had to admire his methods.

Carolan set down the cans outside the door of this toilet-room, and knocked. There was no answer, so she went in. It was a fairly large room, for all the rooms in the house were large. There was a hip-bath in the corner, and a long mirror. There were several cupboards. On a table near the mirror were cosmetics and bottles of perfume. It was pleasant merely to be in such a place.

But she must not stand about, letting the water get cold, or she would not be allowed to come up here again. She went across to Mrs. Masterman’s door, and knocked.

She heard a sigh, then a very weary voice said: “Come in.”

Mrs. Masterman was in bed. The blue frock lay on the floor, and beside it the silver slippers. Mrs. Masterman’s thin fair hair was spread out on the pillows. She looked very tired.