A Woman Transported

By Sharon Robards

At the height of the convict transportation to Australia, an unseen boundary separates the poor from the rich. Isabel’s stunning beauty and strong will attract the attention of a wealthy man, but the upper classes have their own secrets, secrets entwined with hers. Daily, she has learned hard lessons on the mean streets of London, but they can’t teach her fast enough about the treachery of the wealthy. She must navigate both the gardens of the upper class and back alleys of the downtrodden in two continents. And she will, or die trying to find her mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Sharon Robards
• Release date: Apr 24, 2013
• ISBN: 9781301044405

Sharon Robards

I am an Australian author who lives two hundred kilometres north of Sydney, on the beautiful and rugged east coast of Australia, in a place called Port Stephens, a sanctuary for dolphins and a Mecca for tourists who come to see an annual migration of 6,000 whales each year.

Book preview

Other Books by Sharon Robards

Unforgiveable

Playing with Fire

Burnt by the Flame (released 1 February 2018)

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Australian Flavour – Traditional Australian Cuisine

A Woman Transported

by Sharon Robards

Copyright © 2013 Sharon Robards

All rights reserved.

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Cover model image - Regency © razzdazzstock/ Dreamstime LLC

Cover - Jail Cell Port Arthur © Timhesterphotography/ Dreamstime LLC

Cover - Departure of the Convict Ship © Photos.com

For John, the one constant man in my life.

PART I

SHADOW AND LIGHT

1

Sydney Town, November 1803

ELIZABETH McGUIRE swallowed bile and fought another retch. She squinted, blinded by the day’s brightness. She thought no painter’s palette could capture such brilliance of light reflecting off the ocean or the smirks on the faces of convicts and free standing in the crowds.

Susanna’s arm gripped her around the waist. Elizabeth, you need to calm down. Take deep breaths. This won’t do you nor Joshua any good. Think about your baby also.

How could they send us from a pit of coldness to this place? Elizabeth leaned against Susanna’s hip. How can they do this to me boy?

Sixteen-year-old Joshua, stripped to the waist, stood arms tied to embrace a tree. Elizabeth glowered at Captain Marcus Linton standing beside the tree, the brass buckles and buttons on his red coat gleaming in the sunlight.

Marcus should be tied like an animal.

You must stay silent, Susanna said.

Flaming hell, I will. Elizabeth flipped her red hair off her shoulders and shoved her way toward Joshua, squeezing between the mostly barefooted crowds, causing some to lose their straw hats.

Reverend Marsden, his beady eyes surrounded by blubber cheeks, stood in front of the crowd, flanked by soldiers. No need to go any further, the Reverend said.

You dare call yourself a man of the Lord. The fires of Hell will engulf you long before any of us. Let me go.

Two soldiers grabbed her arms. That’s near enough.

You let him loose, Elizabeth said. You have no evidence for what you’ve accused him of.

Marcus stepped toward her, hands on hips, his black curls tied behind his head in a queue. The ribbon holding his hair fluttered in the breeze. Loathing and scorn covered his face. You’re a convict felon, a prisoner of the Crown. Keep your mouth shut. He leaned his face close to hers and lowered his voice. I can ensure the lash rips out your son’s heart and it’s fed to the birds and his flesh to the pigs. If your son tells us where the other pikes are hidden, we’ll let him go.

Elizabeth shrugged an arm free and wiped her sleeve across her forehead to remove the sweat. He can’t tell you something he doesn’t know.

Mother, say no more, Joshua shouted.

Marcus glared at her. You should listen to your son.

She trembled and lowered her head, and every muscle in her jaw hardened. May God have no mercy on you. I won’t hesitate to slit your neck the first opportunity I get.

Marcus stepped in front of Joshua, cleared his throat and faced the crowd. Any further whisper of rebellion against the British government will ensure that conspirators will feel the noose cut off all this world has to offer. He pointed to a young man at the front of the crowd. Seamus O’Callaghan, step forward.

I beg of you, for the love of Mary, I can’t do it.

You’ll take the cat o’ nine tails and do it, or you’ll be shot and we’ll find someone else to take your place.

The soldiers standing around the crowd raised their muskets at Seamus. He lowered his head and stepped forward. A soldier standing near the buckets beside the tree handed him a whip made of nine pieces of cord, each knotted at intervals and ending in a bead of lead bulbs.

Seamus raised the cat above his head and hesitated. You can’t kill us all.

Put your fingers through the lash and bloody strike, Marcus shouted.

Pray, I beg of you. Elizabeth struggled against the guards’ grip on her arms. Joshua doesn’t know where any pikes are hidden.

Marcus pointed at Seamus. The muskets are aimed to fire.

Shoot me, Seamus said.

If we have to we’ll shoot every one of you disobedient fools. Marcus smirked and fixed his gaze on Seamus’s wife, Susanna, who stood behind their young son. Fling the lash or you’ll ensure your whore is left alone in this land of desperate men and your son is placed in the orphanage.

Flog the Irish devils, a man shouted. They’d be as guilty as each other.

Shut your mouth, Elizabeth screamed.

The darkest fear shaded Susanna’s face. To the back of the people, go Jeremy. She pushed her son into the solemn crowd behind her while the crowd on the other side jeered. Her voice wavered while she pleaded with Seamus, It’s better to be a coward for a minute than dead the rest of your life.

Seamus paled, stared at Joshua, and raised the cat. May the angels protect you.

The cat whistled toward Joshua’s white back and with the first strike, it was as if lightning struck Elizabeth and an inferno tore through her body. Great scarlet lumps arose and spread on Joshua’s flesh the same instant. The muscles in his arms quivered, his shoulders slumped against the tree, and he gasped between strikes, holding in his pain.

Elizabeth sagged in the soldiers’ arms. She stared at the trees unable to bear the sight of her flesh and blood, her heart, suffering.

A low and distinctive hiccupping chuckle came from a tree. An adult brown and white kookaburra perched on a branch, threw back its head and broke out in raucous, mocking laughter, as if the scenes below were the most humorous sight. Instantaneously, hundreds of birds joined the crowd in a laughing chorus.

Hold her up, Marcus barked. Make sure she watches each lash strike.

Seamus raised the cat, flung it forward, and looked away. The cat’s tails struck Joshua again. A new stream of bloody welts appeared, glistering against the white of her son’s back. The grip on Elizabeth’s arms tightened.

The cat struck again and again, taking her son apart piece by piece. Flesh and skin flew off the cat and into her face. Sickly lumps caught in her throat and she convulsed, spewing until she couldn’t anymore. I beg of you, she gasped, stop before you kill him.

She closed her eyes, each strike sounding like it struck raw beef, while half the crowd laughed.

Then the doctor called out. Halt! Pull down his breeches. The next hits on his buttocks. The whip cracked again and again. Now on his thighs.

When the final count stopped at fifty, she dared not open her eyes. The birds no longer laughed. He’s dead. Elizabeth took several deep breaths. A quivering mesh of blood and skin covered Joshua’s back. Two soldiers raised buckets and threw salt water over Joshua’s back, prompting the most horrendous scream.

Elizabeth tried to struggle away from the soldiers. Let me go to him, for mercy’s sake.

Release her, but shoot her if she goes to him, Marcus said. He’ll be taken to the hospital, then placed in irons.

Seamus threw the dripping cat on the ground and stepped toward the silent side of the crowd and into Susanna’s arms.

The grip on Elizabeth’s arms released. She wiped her tears on the sleeve of her dress.

Untie him. Marcus stepped toward her. If he finds trouble again, it will be the noose, and I’ll ensure you watch every second of your son choke to death in chains.

She spat in his face. To hell with you, this land and everything in it.

2

Ten Years Later

London, October 1814

A PIECE of the ceiling’s plaster fell, plonked on the floor, and Isabel McGuire half-expected the rotting building to collapse. She tapped her nails on the top of the desk to keep her temper in check and glared at the bacon-fed Home Office official. Ain’t you a disgusting sod.

The official’s nose flared in disgust. How dare you question my authority.

I ain’t questioning your authority, sir, just your morals.

All conversation in the room halted from the queue waiting in line at the door.

The official leaned his elbows on the desk and placed his clasped hands under his chin. He sneered at her and spoke, his tone pitying. I’ve told you how we do business here.

Your associate was just about to give me the information.

He had to leave. Now you have to deal with me. He licked his lips and leered at her as if readying to devour a meal. I’ve told you the problem can easily be resolved. He leaned over the desk and moved his face near hers. The heat escaping his mouth hit the cold air, creating steam, and putrid breath spurted from his lips as he whispered just loud enough for her to hear. Listen to me again. I’ll overlook you not able to pay the full fee. If you humour me, I promise to give you the information. I only require you to… well, I’ve just told you how I desire to be pleasured, and that’s the best I can do.

You ugly beast. Oh, that ain’t right, and you know it ain’t. I ain’t meeting you anywhere.

His face turned redder than the deepest coloured beetroot, and he waved his hands about. Move on, move on. I have others to see.

Isabel leaned toward him. I ain’t leaving until you give me back me money or I find out how I can be reunited with me mother and brother who were transported to Botany Bay.

Out! He slammed his fist on the desk. One more word from you and I’ll have you arrested for defaming my good character in front of all these fine people. He shuffled the papers on the desk, picked up his quill, and lowered his head, pretending to study the documents. Are you a simpleton? he asked, his voice little more than a breath. I’ll warn you only once more. Either be mute and leave or I’ll ensure Newgate prison becomes your new home for trying to bribe me. His eyes narrowed and held a glint of warning. I’ll have nothing to do with a whore. I’ve taken no money from you.

Isabel thought she’d choke from holding in curses. She pointed her trembling finger at the crowd waiting in line. Some jiggled from foot to foot to keep warm on the broken floor boards. Others stood stiff and warmed hands in their pockets. They all know you’re talking nothing but bull. All these people are me witness. They’ve seen what you’ve done, saw you take me money, and unless they’re all deaf, they heard you too.

The official stood and smoothed his coat over his rounded stomach, hitched his collar to his ears, then raised his hands and waved the crowd toward him. Come forward those who wish to defend this deceitful whore. Come forward if you dare. I believe I have many of your applications to be reunited with family members in front of me.

Isabel faced the sudden quiet. Averted eyes stared at booted or bare feet, at the ceiling, or toward the frosted windows. A heat despite the draught in the room caused her skin to tingle. She struggled to stop her voice from wavering, shut her eyes, and counted to three before she dared look at him again for fear she’d slam her fists on his chest. You ain’t getting away with this. You surely ain’t. I’ll find the information with or without your help.

He sat behind the desk, leaned back in the chair, and placed his hands behind his head. You know where to meet me.

She fought the madness stirring in her mind and wondered if she had the strength to pick up the desk and throw it at him, but a hungry cramp cut across her stomach. I’ll— I’ll report you to the police at Bow Street.

He raised his brow and laughed. Do you think they’ll believe a word you say, whore?

There ain’t no way you’re going to be able to bring him to his bearings, make him see reason. Well, ain’t you guts and garbage, you disgusting sod, your soul will be lost forever. She pushed through the crowd, whose faces and voices blurred together, and ran from the building.

3

THE SUN set in the distance to a haze of blue behind the church tower of St Giles in the Fields. The stench from the Thames oozed through the air, a sour odour coming from the floating prison hulks — anchored in water thick and grey and sluggish. Isabel imagined the land the prisoners were destined for — the prison on the other side of the world, but all she could visualise was a grey, damp, wet, overcrowded land full of decrepit buildings — a land of evil, depraved people, and the horror her mamma and brother must be living there.

Why are you crying, you fool? Crying ain’t going to get you nothing. Ain’t you learnt anything? She descended the steps two at a time, pushed away the gloom and counted the cracks in the cobbled road, trying to block out the cold and the stench of dishonesty bred in men. Sweeter smells from the crumpet shop mixed with the steam of pies, passing Isabel in fragrant pepper clouds.

Who’s for a pipin’ hot mutton or eel pie, an old man called, wheeling a barrow along the street. Try the most delicious pies in London.

Isabel turned into the rabbit warrens, a maze of streets, shadowed by tightly packed rows of three-storey tenanted buildings crumbling like biscuits. Rags and papers patched the broken windows from where clothes hung like rag dolls on protruding sticks. The street sellers’ bells and cries faded in the laughing, bickering, cursing, and fighting of young and old, many barefooted and dirty in clothes and body.

Dodging the broken cobbles in the road, Isabel passed the stink of the cesspits and stopped at a soap and candle sign bolted to a wall. She descended the dark and narrow staircase, careful not to slip on the slimy steps, away from the dusk twilight glow, closer to the stink of tallow and the scents of rose and lavender mingling in the damp air. Pa’s voice drifted from the basement. He’s talking to himself again.

She caught hold of the stair railing and tapped her fingers on the banister, trying to calm herself. She took a deep breath and stepped off the last step to enter the room. A greasy scum painted the walls, and soot blackened the ceiling. Smoke escaped and gushed through the chimney, and tallow melted in three large vats.

Pa draped a wick over a stick and repeatedly dipped the wick into the melted tallow. He frowned, and his eyes narrowed. Elizabeth, you’ve been crying. What’s wrong? What happened?

I’m Isabel, I ain’t mother, and I found mamma’s letter to me.

What? What are you talking about?

I found the letter, Pa, and me friend read it to me. I went to find out how we can join her and Joshua. Mamma said if we travelled there she’d be set free into your custody, that the government will allow her to live with you.

Pa paled. I told you to let it be. The past is gone. That letter is from years ago.

The past ain’t gone anywhere. It lives inside me, eats away. She’s me mother. How dare you keep us apart.

Pa scratched the back of his head. There’s never been an opportunity for us to go to Botany Bay.

I’ll find a way. Until that letter, I’d thought she’d turned to dust in that horrid land.

Pa turned his back and dipped another candle into the melted tallow. I’m sorry I hid the letters. I just thought it best.

You’ll be glad then to discover I never found out anything. A friend told me to speak to a different man, but he got called away, and a disgusting thief wanted me to — to pay double the fee.

Pa whacked a hanging candle, sending it flying across the room before it landed on top of a box of soap. His frail frame shrunk, and his voice lowered. If you had come to me I would have told you they’re corrupt.

There’s someone coming down the stairwell.

That’ll be Mr Barrett.

Isabel brushed a stray red hair from her forehead and straightened her white muslin dress. We’ll talk about this later.

Richard Barrett, a tall lean man of maybe five and thirty, stepped into the room. With his white collar high, touching his black side burns, he looked like a man who knew how to treat a lady. He gazed over her face, lingered on her neck, her breasts. He cleared his throat, straightened his coat, and stepped toward Isabel.

Good afternoon, Miss McGuire. You look lovely today.

A flush of heat swept over her, his roving stare and comment taking her by surprise. I ain’t looking anything lovely after crying and carrying on. She lowered her gaze and curtseyed. You look well too, sir. Devilish well.

Pa dragged the tallow fused wicks out of the vat, hung them to harden beside the other candles strung across the ceiling, and his grey eyes lit up. Mr Barrett has come to collect another box of our soaps and candles.

Ain’t that kind of you. Isabel adjusted the comb holding her braided bun. What will you do with so many?

I’m going to ship them to Sydney Town.

Mr Barrett is a merchant. Has a mansion, Barrett House, at Shooter’s Hill with magnificent views over London and the Thames. Pa wiped his hands on his apron. I thought I told you that before.

You’re losing your head. You ain’t told me where he lived. Isabel made her way between the boxes full of soaps and candles toward a doorway. She bent over behind boxes and coaxed the soiled part of her stockings into her shoes, to give the appearance they were clean. It just slipped me mind.

Where you going? Pa took an unsteady step toward Isabel, his hands holding onto the boxes to stop himself from falling.

I’m going to work. She grabbed her coat off the table, knocking Pa’s Bible on the floor.

Since when do you work of a night?

Oh, Pa.

Are you telling me I’m going mad? You never said anything about going to work tonight. What work you doing of a night?

Embarrassment warmed her face for Pa’s lack of memory. She lowered her voice. Now ain’t the time for this. I’m sure you want to discuss business with Mr Barrett. She put the cloak on. If you don’t shut the doors, everything in there will end up as bad as in here. Me coat stinks of tallow.

What type of work you doing, child?

Isabel knelt, picked up the Bible and placed it on the table. The hosier lowered me pay. I need to do extra hours to gain the same money as before. I might as well not be working there for all it’s worth. I’ve found a job at the tavern.

I told you to keep away from the hosier’s business. That an apprenticeship with them wasn’t a good idea. The material and wool merchants building the large knitting looms are thieves.

Pa, I’m sure Mr Barrett ain’t come to hear our problems.

On the contrary, Miss McGuire, I’m interested. Perhaps I can help.

Isabel stood straight and looked Mr Barrett in the eyes — large brown eyes, scrutinising eyes. That’s kind of you, sir, but I ain’t needing any help. I’ll be fine.

Richard Barrett put his hand to his chin and studied her. I’m sure you will.

Pa frowned, didn’t appear to hear what Richard Barrett said. So, girl, what are you doing with the wool merchants when I told you to keep away from them?

Isabel sighed and wanted to run from the room. I wanted to learn what they know, then one day open me own shop. Now, in one day, they can make triple the stockings and scarves that take a week to make on a smaller frame.

Mr Barrett stepped forward. That is progress. The aim of all good businessmen is to cut costs and produce more for less. The only benefit for their workers, as you have already mentioned, is working night and day for unsustainable wages. The only people who will benefit from such enterprises are the owners of the mass-producing machines. Unfortunately, Miss McGuire, women don’t run businesses.

Bite your tongue. What do you care what he thinks? Isabel gathered her coat tight around her, brushed down the lapels, and folded the worn cuffs to her wrists, thinking how sleepy her coat must look to Mr Barrett. Sir, I’m late. I need to go.

I only meant…, Richard began.

I know what you meant. There ain’t any need to apologise.

Richard laughed. I hope I haven’t offended you.

Isabel held his gaze. I’m just having a horrid day, Mr Barrett. You ain’t offended me. She walked through the boxes to the stairs, his words rolling around in her mind. His type uses your kind. Keep going.

Isabel, come back here, Pa called. I have something to tell you.

Pa, we’ll have to talk later tonight.

Ah, you’re just like your mother. Another candle slammed into a wall. You won’t give a man an opportunity to get his side of the story out.

She bit back the urge to tell him that ain’t fair, she didn’t know her mamma, and with a sunken heart, she knew Pa probably wouldn’t recollect anything she said now by the time she returned home.

Pa, I’ll be back soon.

Ah, me Isabel, Pa said to Richard. Do you know me child helps me make all these candles and soaps when she isn’t working?

Isabel’s hand gripped the railing, and she smiled. I love you, Pa. She climbed the stairs toward the darkening sky, reached the top landing, and stepped onto the street, hoping she wouldn’t run into Henry.

4

TRIPPING ON a broken cobble, near the candle sign, Isabel collided with an old woman. The woman dropped her stick and fought for balance on needle-thin legs. Be the devil to you if I fall. The woman struggled to grab onto Isabel, and her hand knocked the comb from Isabel’s head.

Sorry missus. Isabel held the woman’s arms to stop her falling. I’m truly sorry.

I should put me knuckles into you.

That ain’t polite. I said sorry.

Get me stick.

Isabel turned to fetch the stick and stepped on the comb, snapping it in two. Oh, that ain’t fair, it really ain’t. It’d been pretty, held her hair up neatly, and now her plaits dangled over her shoulders. She bent to pick up the pieces of the comb, and the scent of tobacco whiffed past. She almost bumped heads as her hand touched a piece of the comb at the same time as a man’s tanned hand.

I see you’re not having much luck, miss. His hand brushed against hers to pick up the pieces of comb, then handed them to her. His words had a strange and pleasant accent. He almost sounded English, but the manner in which he spoke his words sounded like nothing she’d heard before. She raised her gaze. He stood a foot taller than her, a bulky and strong looking man. A wide brimmed hat hid his face and covered his shoulder length sun streaked brown hair. His clothes weren’t grubby but rather crisp in appearance.

Isabel took the comb from his hand and stood fiddling with the pieces. He picked up the woman’s stick, and when he stood and faced Isabel, the whiteness of his linen shirt glowed against the smooth tanned skin of his clean-shaven face. A deep shade of indigo filled his eyes, nearly as black as darkness. Here stood a devilish handsome young man indeed, but not an Englishman.

I’ve had a horrid day, Isabel said.

You going to give me back me stick? the old woman asked.

He handed the woman the stick, not taking his eyes off Isabel. The old woman hobbled a few steps, pointing the stick in the gutter to stir the rubbish.

Thank you for your trouble, Isabel said. That was kind.

It’s probably the old woman’s only protection.

If you stay here much longer, you’ll need protection. It’ll get dark, and the lads here will tear up your clothes.

He laughed. I’m lost, miss. I’m trying to find the beer brewery vat. I’m expected at a big dinner tonight.

It’s at the end of the road. You can see it from here. It’s taller than anything else, and they’ll already be piling in there now.

Is the foreigner bothering you? Henry Jenkins, the best-dressed lad in the street, stepped out of the doorway of his house on the other side of the road.

Oh, no. I ain’t never going to escape him. Henry’s deep sunken eyes glared at her, then his cunning stare turned on the foreigner.

No, he ain’t. Isabel said. You mind your business and shut your clapper.

The foreigner folded his arms across his chest and raised his eyebrow. You talking about me, lad?

I don’t see another person talking to the lass, Henry said. Who are you? You ain’t from around ’ere.

You let him be. He ain’t doing you no harm, Isabel said. He only picked up me comb.

Henry glared at Isabel. Ain’t you got somewhere to go?

I’ll tell you what, boy, the foreigner put his hands on his hips, if you want to take me on now, feel free.

I just asked a question. Henry squared his shoulders.

I see it this way, the foreigner leaned his face close to Henry’s, I’m not troubling you, neither is the young lady, and I see no reason why you should trouble us. What about we come to an agreement?

What would that be?

You show respect to the lady, otherwise I’m happy to give your thick brick skull a bit of a slap. You understand me?

’Oly ’ell, who do you think you’re fucking threatening? Henry leaned against the wall. If I see you near the lass again I’ll give your arse a dressing, then cut your throat.

Let me tell you, your threats don’t scare me. If I had more time I’d sort you out and floor you now. He turned to Isabel. Thank you for the directions.

The foreigner walked away, his steps silent for such a big man, his back and shoulders straight, his head held high. He stopped after several feet, turned and glanced at Isabel. She held her breath. I’ll just die if he walks back to me. Instead he disappeared in the crowds. He’ll be lucky to get to the brewery without a woman dragging him into their bed.

Isabel glared at Henry. I ain’t your property.

I disagree. You used me when you didn’t ’ave a job, teased me and been cockish for months, to get what you want.

I ain’t heard you complaining.

Henry sneered. You’ll be ’ankering for me soon and come running back, and when you do, you’ll pay me in full.

I found out you ain’t only rolling drunks when they leave the whores, but you’re a whore’s cock pimp. It goes against the grain with me. You’ll end up in jail again, and I ain’t having no part of it.

’Ow do you know that?

Your brother bragged about it the other night in the tavern.

That’s none of your business. He spat into the gutter and wandered toward his building. I’d think carefully, remember which side your bread is buttered on, sweet one, or you might ’ave more to worry about than your broken comb.

You’re dicked in the head. I ain’t changing me mind.

Did you ’ear me? he called.

I ain’t deaf, and I need to go. Ted is going to want me throat.

5

ISABEL RAN along the street, past a family sitting outside a building drinking gin in the gutters. The sweet maker’s family of five shared their lodgings in one room, a horde of ten people in the back, and a group of Irish pipers on the top.

The sweet maker’s wife, Charlotte, her belly swollen from housing the life inside, looked about to burst. She stood at the entrance of her building, holding a crying and naked toddler, a wisp of a boy on her hip. How did you go at the Home Office? Charlotte asked. Did you speak to the man I told you about?

I started to, but he got called away, and I was left with a disgusting sod. Isabel stepped into the gutter to cross the street but stopped when Charlotte put the toddler on the ground and marched to her approaching husband.

You’ve been at the whores again. Charlotte pounded her fists on her husband’s chest. I can smell her on you.

Get inside, now. He gripped her wrists. The whole street don’t need to ’ear our business.

And what if I don’t?

The sweet maker’s ruddy complexion turned redder. He leaned his face near Charlotte’s and whispered. She put her head down, picked up her screaming son and when she turned to walk inside, a blackened bruise swelled on the side of her forehead — looked like she’d crashed into a pole a day or so ago. He’s banged her.

Charlotte, will you be all right? Isabel called.

Charlotte nodded, lowered her head and stepped into the building, her husband close behind.

Isabel stepped around a crowd, scavenging through a barrow of used clothes and shoes. A penny a piece, the seller called. No need to be cold. Just a penny a piece. They’ll all be gone soon. Now’s your only chance.

’Ere it comes, Mrs Dixon, holding a pot, yelled from a window above.

Isabel couldn’t dodge the guts in time. The muck splattered on the cobbles and splashed over her boots. For Lordsake! She glared at the lump of a woman. You should be more careful.

We can’t sleep in it.

It ain’t no good on me. Now I’ll stink like everything else here. What am I to do to fix me shoes?

Mrs Dixon shook more muck from the pot. I don’t have a pair, lass, and you know what? I’d like to know ’ow you can afford them. You work in the side alley? Your mother did. She was like a bat, stepped into the gutters at dusk, just to pay for a measure of gin while you starved.

A rock lay in the gutter. Isabel considered throwing it at Mrs Dixon, until a mouse climbed over it.

You’re as nasty as rats, Isabel said. You ain’t nothing but a bracket-faced woman. Nobody likes you. You’re a catgut scraper, and you stink.

Mrs Dixon threw the rest of the muck from the pot, catching the handle on the rotting window frame. The pot tumbled out of her hands, clunked beside a beggar sleeping on the steps. He stirred and tugged his robe around his stick figure. He smiled as if a gift fell from the Lord, and his bony fingers snatched the pot.

Lost your pot, missus. Isabel put her hands on her hips. You ain’t as clever as you thought.

Mrs Dixon leaned out of the window so far, a foot more would’ve caused her to fall. I’d watch your ’ead the next time you walk past. She shook her fist and disappeared inside.

Isabel’s hands covered her head. She dashed under Mrs Dixon’s window and past the last building, backing onto large blocks of land making up the brewhouse yard. Several porter vats holding beer stretched toward the sky. A solid brick wall surrounded the largest vat, reaching so high it dwarfed every building around it.

Hundreds of people queued at the vat door, following a trail of people inside. Isabel searched the crowd for the man who’d picked up the woman’s stick.

What’s going on ’ere? A man grabbed her arm. He wore a bundle of rags, no shirt, dressed hardly decent, his skin exposed through the holes in his jacket and trousers.

A big dinner. The owner is trying to outdo his competitor who had a hundred people at his vat opening. There’s more barrels of beer in that vat than anywhere else in London.

He licked his lips. Wouldn’t you love to get at all that beer?

Isabel smiled. I’m sure plenty will try.

She crossed the road and stepped into the tavern. The odour of unwashed bodies, stale tobacco, sour beer, and mutton stew from the kitchen above, mixed in the haze of smoke. Pa’s sweet smelling soaps told her more existed in the world than the horrid smell of St Giles Parish. Somewhere there must be a place where the air didn’t stuff her nose like the rookery.

The tavern owner, Ted, threw his grubby rag on the bar. The red in his freckled face matched his scruffy hair, and at the age of six and thirty, he had no lines and wrinkles. You honour us with your presence, do you?

It ain’t going to happen again.

I’ll tell you what, you have a job because you begged. But I have a living to make. If you’re late again, you ain’t got a job. You got that, lass? He threw the apron at her. Now work.

Isabel snatched the apron. Can I have your rag? It ain’t good for nothing now, only for the rag and bone man. I have muck on me shoes.

Aye, take it.

She stepped behind the bar, took off her coat, tied the apron around her dress, knelt, and wiped the disgusting stuff off her shoes. She stood and threw the rag into the bin.

Mrs Dixon’s husband, a big-eared fellow, banged his empty tankard on the counter. Isabel considered telling him to mind his manners, to have some patience.

What you having? Isabel asked.

He leaned over the bar and whispered, What you giving?

She smiled. If you get too cheeky, I’ll give you Adam’s ale.

You give me water, I’ll be throwing you over me knee. His dirty hand crept toward her cleavage. I’m sure you get disgusting in the dark.

She leaned in close. I take it all off, I do.

A man roared laughing. You trying to kill him, miss?

Isabel took in the sound of the words, the strange accent, and slowly pulled away from Mr Dixon. The man who picked up the woman’s stick, the foreigner with the deepest of indigo coloured eyes, stood there holding his hat by his side. Ain’t you just wanting to die? I thought you were going to the brewery, sir.

That I am, but I was in a line up when I — I saw you come in here… I hope I didn’t cause any problem for you with that fellow back in the street.

That’s just Henry. Ain’t no need to worry about him.

The line should be shorter now. He