“It’s as I feared. Everyone’s working, and I can’t find anyone to watch Jacob, so I have to bring him with me. No one wants a mum with a babe in her arms,” she told me with a heavy sigh one evening while we sat playing cribbage. I had taught her a few card games, and it helped pass the time as the days grew longer and night came on sooner. “But there’s more to it. One lady told me she’d hire me to do the laundry, but I couldn’t expect to be paid the same as the others.”
“Why’s that?”
Sarah kept her eyes on her cards. “Because I’m black. She saw Jacob’s curls and she guessed. She said my people had been slaves not long ago and shouldn’t expect the same pay as others.”
“Oh, Sarah, I’m so sorry. She’s an ignorant fool. Miss Hardcastle told me the other day that Governor Douglas’s heritage is part black. I hoped there would be more tolerance here. Have you heard back from your father about sending money for another ticket to Barkerville?”
“He’s promised to send it soon. I just hope it comes in time for the first spring coaches.”
We both sat in silence. Above us, Jacob’s laundered nappies hung on a clothesline to dry, looking rather like neat rows of white surrender flags.
A cool dampness descended over the town as winter arrived. Day after day went by with no hint of sun, as low clouds clung to the landscape, trapping moisture near the ground. Looking out the windows in the tearoom, one would not guess that a string of islands lay in the distance, as the mist rarely left them. My wool clothing acted like a wick, drawing in the wetness and holding it next to my body. Everything felt soggy, and my skin was chronically chafed. By mid-November, the rain was a constant, just as it had been in England. A small part of me had hoped to somehow escape that weather.
One particularly soggy day, I stopped at the Royal Mail office on my way home in hopes of a letter from Wiggles. The mail clipper ship had just come in, and to my delight, the postmaster handed me two envelopes. I practically snatched them from his hand and raced home to read them.
Throwing myself on my cot, I ripped the seal on first letter. I knew the script instantly. Wiggles.
October 30, 1862
Dear Charlotte,
No words can express my sadness over the passing of Harriet. My concern now is for you. I am consoled in my knowledge of your character. I know you to be stalwart and robust. As a child, you were not easily pushed off any task or course you had set for yourself. I remember you as a twelve-year-old, when you were determined to read five novels over Christmas break. I’m sure you must have stayed up very late every night, but you did it.
I encourage you not to lose sight of your future. You have the opportunity to choose your own path and to live a full and complete life, something that so few women have the opportunity to do. Try not to be disheartened. Press on through this dark time.
I paused, relishing her words. They were like a gift, a loving embrace from afar.
Charles came to see me last week. At first I wasn’t entirely sure why. He told me of his wedding to Mary Sledge, which was apparently a grand affair at St. Paul’s. When he asked after you, the real purpose for his visit became clear. He requested your address and mentioned that he needed you to return any monies that Harriet had at the time of her death. I thought of ignoring his request, but he wouldn’t take no for an answer. At least you have the necklace to help you as you make a way for yourself.
Write me soon with your news. I cherish letters from you.
Hortense Wiggins
P.S. I went around to Harriet’s bank as you asked. See the enclosed letter.
I hugged Wiggles’s letter to my chest just as I would have her, if she were with me now, and digested all that she had written. I felt guilt about the necklace, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her that it had been stolen. As for Charles, he would be disappointed. There was no money to send. What little was left of Harriet’s money from the voyage had been spent long ago on accommodation. I had searched her things for the money she had taken from Charles but hadn’t found it. I had thought that maybe she had deposited it in her bank in England. If she had socked money away for my dowry, there was no way I would give it to Charles. I truly felt it was mine to keep, my father’s legacy. Charles, no doubt, would feel otherwise.
Tucked into Wiggles’s envelope was another sheet of paper, a one-page formal letter from Hari’s bank. The funds in Mrs. Baldwin’s account, it said, were insufficient to cover the cost of sending a bank draft from England to Victoria. I was to send further instructions. They recommended I donate the small sum to a favourite charity in my late sister’s name.
I crumpled the paper in my hand. It seemed nothing would go my way. Had Charles found out about the bank account and beaten me to it? As Hari’s former husband he might have persuaded the bank manager that the funds were his. I would likely never know the answer. I sagged under the weight of this new information.
My earnings at the tea shop
