Holding him was the most amazing feeling, like I was full—overflowing with joy. I cherished him even more because I’d had to leave another baby boy behind. The loss of him and of my life as Emmeline was real and raw in the forefront of my thoughts. The thought of baby Ben made me hold Sebastian even tighter. The kid was going to get sick of me smothering him all the time. I wish I knew what had happened to Benjamin Sebastian Lovatt.
Why can’t I find out?
I took Seb with me to the spare room, grabbing his bouncer on the way. Parking him next to the desk, I fired up the computer.
How the hell would I do this?
I didn’t know the first thing about searching for a person born that long ago. I’d had trouble finding my keys every damn day since waking up—how was I supposed to do something like this?
Did I just type in his name?
At least I had his name, and his date and place of birth.
I typed in, how to find a person born in 1868. Google spat out heaps of suggestions about births, deaths, and marriage registries.
Of course.
With a little creativity and by following the strings, I found the record of his birth. But how did I track him from there?
“Oh, my God. I’m such an idiot.”
I had a friend who was a librarian. Why the hell hadn’t I asked her first?
I picked up my phone and dialled.
“Andy? You okay?”
“Hi, Ronnie. I’m fine, but I could use your help.”
“I don’t know how to change nappies.”
“Luckily, I do. This problem is more in your comfort zone.”
“What’s up?”
“Do you know how to search for someone who was born in the eighteen hundreds?”
“Do you have a name?”
“Name. Birthdate. Birthplace. I want to know where he went from there.”
“Ah, okay. Yep.”
“Yep?” I sat up straight, clutching the phone.
“Yep. Give me what you’ve got and I’ll get back to you.”
“Oh my God. You’re the best. Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.”
After spilling all the information I could remember in a rush, I ended the call, giddy with elation. I would never be able to hold him, but knowing what had happened to him would mean the world to me.
There was someone else I needed to know about. Sebastian Lovatt. As Emmeline, I had been told that they’d sent him away on a convict ship. To Australia!
I typed in, how to find a convict.
There was a website made for what I wanted. Convict.com.au.
Perfect.
He’d left in 1867.
There were two voyages in 1867. The Norwood and the Hougoumont. But the Norwood left in April, and we’d run away in July, so that wasn’t the one.
He must’ve sailed on the Hougoumont. The last convict ship to arrive in Australia.
I scrolled through the list of passengers. Oh, God. There he is.
Clicking on his name, another page opened with more details of his life.
Name. Aliases. Gender.
Birth. Occupation. Death.
My lips parted. He’d died on the 9th of March in 1883, aged thirty-three. What would have been his son’s fifteenth birthday.
I slapped a palm over my mouth, leaning back in my chair as I lost him all over again.
Oh, Sebastian.
I trembled, my stomach twisting like rope.
As content as I was, the wound left by the loss of Benjamin and Sebastian Lovatt would never heal. A waterfall of tears kept me company and drowned my sorrow.
The website didn’t say how he’d died.
The last bits of information were the details of his transportation and conviction.
Horse thief.
Twenty years.
Bastards.
I didn’t want to search for the earl. I only hoped he was rotting in hell.
Unwillingly, I pictured his face. Seeing it stabbed a sharp blade through my heart. The image warped into that of a young man. Jess’s killer. He stared at me with a crooked smile. I know that face. Where the fuck do I know it from?
I held the profile in place, an image on pause burning into the screen.
My eyes peeled open as my jaw dropped.
I lurched forward to punch in another search, this time going to my high school’s Facebook page. I clicked through the photos from when I was a student.
Seb started to cry, so I picked him up before resting him against my chest. “Shh, sh, sh. It’s okay.”
I kept clicking.
Whoa. Hang on. Go back.
There was an album of photos from a sausage sizzle fundraiser. In the background of one photo, a guy wielded a pair of tongs, cooking sausages on a barbie.
Fuck, that’s him.
He wore a high-vis, fluorescent yellow shirt, and a wide brim straw hat.
I made one more call.
“Hey, sis.”
“It’s the fucking groundsman.”
Andrea
Brisbane, Australia
20th of January, 2017
Ushering Ronnie in, I hurried back to a screaming Seb.
“What’s wrong with him?” She put her bag on a dining chair before tossing an envelope on the table.
“He’s waiting for his bottle.” I measured the scoops of formula and twisted the cap back on before shaking it up.
“Ah.” Lifting her chin, she moved towards the blanket where Sebastian squirmed and kicked in protest. “Are you starving?” She pulled up her skirt before kneeling down.
Seb stopped, turning his head.
“Oh, who is this strange person?” Tickling his belly before picking him up, she made a funny face.
“You can feed him.”
“Oh, no. I don’t know how.” She gritted her teeth, frantically shaking her head.
“It’s easy. Sit on the couch. Put him in the crook of your elbow.”
Her mouth twisted as she frowned, hesitating. Unleashing another scream, Seb convinced her to follow my instructions. I stacked a couple of cushions under her arm to support
