An Unconventional Heiress

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter Four

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

‘No, no, I really must go.’

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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