Ticket To Botany Bay

By ELLIE ATKINSON

From the author of "Ravenswood Hall" we follow Grace Beale who is falsely accused of a crime and is transported to Australia for a minimum of 12 years. During a harrowing journey to Botany Bay, where she is at the mercy of the prison guards, she arrives in the penal colony and is moved to the Female facto

• Language: English
• Publisher: Free Spirit
• Release date: Nov 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9789395193399

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Ticket to Botany Bay

The Grace Beale Series

Volume 2

E. Atkinson

All Rights Reserved

Published By

Free Spirit

Poets Choice & Free Spirit LLC

TICKET TO BOTANY BAY

Copyright © 2022 E. Atkinson

Written by E. Atkinson

First Edition November 2022

Cover Designed by Koni Deraz, Germany

Book Designed by Laura Antonioli, England

Edited by Ruth Frost, Australia & Kaneez Zehra, India

Cover and Author Photo By Christiaan Kirkness

christiaankirkness.wixsite.com/my-site

@christiaan_tassie

ISBN: 978-93-95193-39-9

Price: $25

BCID: 393-16748628

Use it here - www.bookcrossing.com

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

Table of Contents

Publisher Page

PART 1

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

PART 2

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

PART 3

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Tweny-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

References

About the Author

To Debs and Ruth – my original editors,

couldn’t have done it without you.

PART 1

Chapter One

S old, to the gentleman in the blue frock coat! The auctioneer banged his gavel on the desk. A small round of applause rippled around the room.

Grace felt her cheeks flame, she felt like she was the focus for all eyes in the room. Standing at the very back, she still felt hot all over, looking at her naked form rendered in oils, placed on an easel next to the auctioneer’s lectern.

With a large top hat, a young-ish man stood up and, carrying his number, walked over to the room’s fringes to talk with one of the waiting porters. As Grace watched, the painting was lifted down off the easel and carried over to one of the staff who began wrapping it up for the buyer.

Grace moved swiftly down the room, skirting around the other buyers and hangers-on to get a better view of the man who had bought Edgar’s painting. He was tall, with broad shoulders and blonde hair that reached his collar. Grace tried to position herself to overhear the delivery instructions the man was giving to the auction house porter. She managed to edge around a particularly portly gentleman with an enormous nose pocked with veins until she was within earshot.

Welmingham Hall, Woodham Market, the man instructed the porter, who touched an invisible forelock to the man and turning away gave the address to his colleague.

The buyer turned in Grace’s direction, and as he passed, he flicked an arrogant glance in her direction. She got an impression of cold blue eyes, above a straight nose and a small, thin-lipped mouth.

Grace remembered her Ma often saying, the eyes are the windows to the soul, Grace always thought it was the mouth, you could tell a lot about a person by their mouth. The man who had just walked past gave her the impression of arrogance and cruelty.

Grace stood there, not knowing what to do. Edgar’s sudden death a few weeks ago meant that no one was left to inherit Ravenswood Hall and its lands, so the lawyers had taken over and decided to liquidate: today’s auction was the result of that decision. The Hall and surrounds had been bought by a Lord of the realm based in London, to be used as a country home, which meant at least the tenants would be able to continue farming their parcels of land, but Edgar’s personal effects were being sold off. Edgar had not left a will, so the proceeds from the sale were to go to charity, which left Grace fuming, fists clenched as she watched her portrait being wrapped in brown paper and string and shunted off to Mr. What’s-His-Name.

Well, la-di-da, she muttered to herself whilst considering what to do next. A thought occurred to her, maybe the buyer might want a local village girl to clean or polish, peel potatoes, or whatever. She stood, deep in thought, chewing her thumbnail. She caught herself doing it, remembering how Edgar used to chastise her for her nail biting. The bittersweet memory brought tears to her eyes, while she stopped assaulting her nail.

The painting had been wrapped and bound. She watched the large, flat brown parcel being removed from the room, presumably to a waiting pony and trap that would deliver it to the purchaser.

As she stood, downcast, watching its departure, a soft cough at her elbow brought her back into the room. She turned to the ugliest man she had ever seen standing behind her, swaying gently from left to right with his hands clasped behind his back. Something stirred in her memory, she knew she had seen this man before, but she couldn’t remember where.

The man smiled at her puzzled frown and, as if divining her thoughts, said, you were very young when I consulted your mother about my . . . afflictions. He smiled gently, waiting for her memory to catch up.

This it did, oh, I remember yew, yew came to me Ma to ask her help for your – she stopped abruptly, not knowing how to continue. My skin complaint, he finished for her.

Aye, that be it, your, um, skin complaint.

They stood regarding each other for a few moments.

May I ask, Mademoiselle, what brings you here today?

She had never been addressed thus and warmed by the look in his eyes, she admitted, I jest wanted to see who bought my – that is to say, the painting of the naked lady, she finished lamely.

Ah, well, I may be able to assist with that, he smiled kindly at her. His name is Sebastian Digby-Morton, and he dwells at Welmingham Hall.

Grace digested this bit of information. So, he be a toff then? she inquired.

A toff? Oh, you mean a member of the local gentry, yes, I believe he is a . . . toff. Her new acquaintance fixed her with a twinkle in his large, protuberant eyes.

The reason you are asking, dear girl, I assume, is to ascertain the whereabouts of the painting?

Grace loved how this little man spoke, his voice was deep and melodious. The language he used was lovely, it reminded her of Edgar.

Aye, tha’ be it, I wondered where it be taken. She nodded her assent.

Well, I believe it is on its way to Welmingham Hall, but then you already knew that didn’t you? He tilted his head on one side, regarding her with an amused expression on his pock-marked face.

Grace felt her face growing hot, he had rumbled her, and no mistake.

Whilst she fumbled for a reply, her companion smiled, and taking pity on her, said, I know the head housekeeper of Welmingham Hall, they are always looking for new staff. Would you like me to mention that you are seeking a position due to the death of your previous employer?

The mention of your previous employer made Grace feel wretched. She bowed her head before this strange little man could see the tears that filled her eyes.

I knew him as well, the soft, deep voice said.

Her head snapped up at that. Yew did? How? she demanded.

I delivered his art supplies to Ravenswood, and whilst there, we spent a few enjoyable moments discussing art, paints and, ahem, your portrait, my dear.

She stood, looking at him whilst deciding how to react to that fact. So, yew are Mr. Standish, Edgar mentioned yew ’ad been to see ’im. Yew saw the picture afore it went up for sale? she inquired.

Oh yes, my dear, in his studio at Ravenswood. He was thinking of selling it, but I believe he decided to keep it in the end. He looked at Grace with a question in his eyes.

Yes, yes, ’e decided not to sell, she murmured, remembering the argument they had had before he fell ill for the last and fatal time.

Well, then, Mr. Standish replied, seeming at a loss what to say next.

Grace took pity on him, I thank yew, Sir, for your kind words and talkin’ to me about Edgar, made me feel like he were ’ere again. She looked down at the floor as she spoke, her last memory of him looking after her, open-mouthed after she had threatened to remove his private parts if he even thought about selling the painting. Despite her grief, she smiled at the look on Edgar’s face.

Mr. Standish looked at the top of her head. He truly felt for the girl, she had fallen in love with the young man and was grieving his passing. However, he was a pragmatic man, his appearance dictated so, and he believed in moving on.

Well, my dear, as I mentioned before, I know the housekeeper of Welmingham Hall, so shall I put in a good word for you? He waited for Grace to respond.

She thought quickly, it would be an excellent way to gain access to the property and therefore the painting, so she replied, Yes, thank yew, Sir.

Not a problem, my dear. May I have your address so I may write to you once I receive a reply?

Grace gave Mr. Standish her details, and they parted company.

As she walked out of the auction rooms, she could feel men’s eyes upon her, it had always been so since she was a little girl, and her Ma had cautioned her against men and their ways, Yew've a pretty face, Dearie, an’ no mistake, men will tek advantage of yew, if yew’re not careful. Well, Edgar had taken advantage, she supposed, but it had been different with him, he had never made her feel cheap or dirty in any way. She missed him, and sometimes she couldn’t believe he was dead and gone. If she could somehow get close to the painting, she would feel better, she just knew it.

Mr. Standish was as good as his word. Within a few days, Grace received a letter asking her to present herself to a Mrs. Jones at Welmingham Hall the very next Monday morning.

Grace had an interview with the ubiquitous Mrs. Jones, and passed her a letter of reference from Thomas Crabbe, Edgar’s housekeeper.

Mrs. Jones appeared satisfied with both Grace and the letter of recommendation. She informed her she could start the very next day doing cleaning and menial chores around the hall.

The following morning Grace presented herself at Welmingham Hall. She met with Mrs. Jones again, who outlined her duties, showed her the equipment she was to use, and then informed her which floor she was to start on.

She was to be known as a tweeny, that is, a maid who cleaned between the stairs. It was mainly dusting and sweeping and mopping landings and cleaning banisters, skirting boards, and the like. Her other duties (if required) were to assist the senior housemaid in making beds, tidying rooms and so forth.

Due to her duties’ nature, Grace wasn’t sure if she would have access to any of the rooms where her portrait might be hanging. However, luck or fate was on her side. In the first week, she was called by the housemaid to assist in the making up of beds in one of the guest bedrooms as some friends of Digby-Morton’s were coming to stay.

We’ll start in ’ere, the housemaid, Nancy, informed Grace.

Allus I need yew to do, is help me put sheets on yon beds and do the corners nice an’ neat, the rest I can manage meself.

Grace nodded and followed Nancy into the room, clutching a pile of fresh linen, which she deposited onto the bed.

As she straightened, she looked up and there it was, staring her in the face, the picture that Edgar had painted.

Nancy followed Grace’s gaze, Bloody lewd stuff if yew asks me, what ’e wants with that ’anging on the wall I darn’t know, I wouldn’t want t’sleep in ’ere with that lookin’ down on me. She made a mouth like a cat’s bottom, turned away and started unfolding the linen.

Grace stood, rooted to the spot, unable to take her eyes away from the painting.

Yew gonna jest stand there and gawp, or yew gonna give me a hand? Nancy demanded.

Grace snapped back into the present and started making up the bed, her mind whirling with how she would get the painting off the wall. That she was going to destroy it, she hadn’t yet decided until that moment, but having seen it hanging on the wall for all and sundry to stare at, she was determined that she would take it down and deface it.

Several weeks passed, and she went about her duties, working hard and staying out of trouble. All would have gone well if it hadn’t been for one fly in the ointment – Sebastian Digby-Morton himself.

One morning as she was cleaning one of the landings leading from the lower floor, he came bounding up the stairs from the dining room where he had been breakfasting with his wife, an insipid and pale woman who never seemed to speak.

As he took the stairs two at a time, his eyes fell upon Grace. He had noticed her a few weeks ago, he made a point of noticing any new maids and had liked what he had seen immediately. Blonde hair, unusual face, stunning eyes, and a curvaceous figure, a little like the painting he had bought some weeks back.

He slowed as he neared Grace, she was down on her hands and knees dusting between the banisters, which provided Digby-Morton with a prime view of the tops of her creamy breasts, gently wobbling in time with her movements.

Grace became aware of his feet, clad in shiny leather calf-high boots inches from her hands. She sat back on her heels and looked up at him.

Digby-Morton looked down on her upturned face, yes, very nice indeed, and a bit of spark to her too, if he wasn’t mistaken, not like that lily-livered creature he married.

So, you will be the new maid, hm? he said rather unnecessarily.

Yes, Sir, Grace nodded slowly. She did not like the look of him at all, he made her flesh crawl, although he would appeal to some women, she supposed.

Well, work hard and keep Mrs. Jones happy, and who knows where you will end up, Digby-Morton drawled as his eyes undressed her.

Grace suppressed the urge to snatch up a duster and cover her cleavage. Instead, she merely smiled and nodded, adding a Yes, Sir.

Well, carry on, he said and reluctantly continued up the stairs.

Grace’s body had reached its own conclusions before her brain caught up, she felt the hairs on her forearms ripple with revulsion. She couldn’t put a finger on it, but she knew without any doubt that he was a cruel man who delighted in inflicting pain upon others. This instinct was to prove very sound as she was dusting in the same room following the departure of his guests.

She had left the door open, to allow the room to air whilst she cleaned, and as she was humming away, she heard a man’s heavy tread in the corridor. The footsteps stopped outside the door, and a hand pushed it fully open.

The Master of the house stood there smiling unpleasantly at Grace. She bobbed a quick curtsey and waited for him to speak.

Well, now, if it isn’t the new maid, he drawled, sauntering across the room to stand before the painting. His eyes flicked to the picture, then back at Grace.

His eyes roved over her body, undressing her, before he grabbed one of her wrists and pushed her backwards until the small of her back was jammed up against the bureau.

Sebastian shoved his hand down the front of Grace’s bodice and grabbed a breast. Without thinking, she slapped him across the face with her free hand.

You bitch, he snarled, grabbing her hair and yanking her head back, forcing his mouth down on hers, biting at her lips. Grace felt his tongue thrusting down her throat, and she brought her knee up and gave him a good hit in the balls.

Digby-Morton staggered backwards, taking a handful of Grace’s hair with him. He lunged at her, but she managed to side step him and as she did so, he fell against the wall, and the force knocked the picture off, where it crashed to the floor.

As Grace stared in mounting horror at Digby-Morton, there came the sound of running. The door was thrown open, and one of the footmen stood in the doorway, taking in the scene. Before Grace could react, Digby-Morton turned to the servant and said, Get the constable, I caught this trollop trying to steal that painting, and when I accosted her, she hit me, damn her!

The man stood rooted to the spot, looking from his Master to Grace and back again. Don’t just bloody stand there, Man, get the constable! Digby-Morton roared at the hapless servant. Without being asked again, the man spun on his heel and raced from the room.

Grace was left staring at her employer as he righted the painting and began rearranging his clothing.

I did no such thing! she cried, yew forced yaself on me.

And who’s going to believe you, hm? Certainly not the constable or the local magistrate, it will be my word against yours, sweetheart. Digby-Morton smiled maliciously at Grace. He came slowly across the room to bend down and chuck her under the chin.

You should have accepted my advances, m’dear, instead, it’ll be off to Newgate with you.

Well, I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb! she rejoined and with that slapped him full across the face again.

You do that one more time, and I swear I will end you, snarled Sebastian hitting her across the face with the back of his hand. Grace fell to the floor, her ears ringing and her cheek stinging.

As Grace lay on the floor, she heard the pounding of running footsteps, and the door burst open to admit the manservant again, out of breath, The constable has been sent for m’lord, he gasped.

Good, snapped Digby-Morton. Get some rope and tie this cat up, she has claws, he panted.

The man left the room once more to search for some suitable rope.

With a bit of luck, it won’t be just your wrists we’re tying up, dear heart, they may put a noose around your neck as well. With that, Digby-Morton laughed and walked over to the bureau, where he poured himself a large glass of brandy.

Grace pushed herself slowly upright: she hated this man with every fibre of her being, and for an insane moment, seriously considered murdering him with the poker that sat on the right side of the fireplace. As if divining her thoughts, Digby-Morton shook his head, not if you know what is good for you, m’dear, and continued to sip his brandy.

After a few more moments, the footman returned with a length of rope. Between him and Digby-Morton, they bound Grace’s hands behind her back and deposited her into one of the chairs to wait for the authorities to arrive, which they did after nearly an hour.

Digby-Morton stated his case, and Grace was not permitted to speak during the interview. The constable touched his hat to Digby-Morton and said, Well, Sir, an’ I am right sorry yew hev been put through this ’ere experience, but it would seem the lass is a danger to yew and your family. We will be removing her to the local constabulary where she can sit tight for the night whilst we contact the magistrate.

Excellent, take her away, she can cool her heels in a cell for a few hours. Let me know when she is to go before the magistrate, and I will present myself. Digby-Morton bowed to the constable, who touched his hat and unceremoniously dragged Grace away.

Chapter Two

Grace stood in the dock. She looked up at the magistrate. He was dressed in magisterial robes of scarlet and ermine with piercing eyes on either side of a beak-like nose and sported a long curly wig.

An insane part of Grace wanted to giggle at his ridiculous appearance, but a part of her brain not immediately concerned with the proceedings warned her to be quiet and keep a solemn face, her situation was dire.

She stood this morning accused of attempted theft. With a hangdog countenance and an ingratiating turn of phrase, Digby-Morton gave the magistrate the full sorry, sordid story of how he had employed Grace in good faith and been an exemplary Master only to have had his good nature betrayed by her duplicitous actions and cunning.

Grace repressed the urge to roll her eyes as she listened to Digby-Morton’s litany of his virtues and her vices. Dear God, would the man not give it a rest?

Even the judge started to look bored after half an hour of Digby-Morton’s droning on, and some of the court officials had begun to do the nod around the room.

After what seemed like an interminable time, Digby-Morton’s monologue came to an end, and an expectant hush descended upon the courtroom as the jury prepared to withdraw to deliberate on the crimes and deliver a verdict.

At that juncture, the magistrate rose and announced a break for luncheon whilst the jury considered the case.

Grace was fortunate, a local lawyer, very young, was representing her but keen to prove himself in one of his first cases being heard by the Quarter Sessions court. She had to thank Mr. Standish for that. He had heard via Mrs. Jones of the charges brought against Grace, and the good man had immediately enlisted the services of young Mr. Earnest at his own cost.

Grace understood that if the Quarter Sessions could not come to a decision, her case would be escalated to the Court of Assizes, which would not be sitting in the area until the end of summer. She hoped for a stay of the sentence as every day that passed was a day that her legal representative could build a case in her defence.

Grace’s hopes were not realised, the jury returned a verdict very quickly (too quickly as Mr. Standish later said, fuming over the perfidy of the jury and the magistrate), and the court was in session after barely two hours.

The senior magistrate (there were always two at a Quarter Sessions court) prepared to hear the verdict.

The foreman of the jury stood, looking suitably grave.

The magistrate fixed him with a gimlet eye and asked, Are you unanimous in your decision?

We are m’lud, the foreman replied, a ruddy-cheeked farmer, dressed in his best plaid suit with matching gaiters.

Well, then, on the charge of theft, how do you find the defendant?

Guilty m’lud, the foreman stated.

Grace bowed her head, here it comes, she thought.

The beak-nosed senior magistrate turned to her with a most unpleasant look upon his face.

Grace Beale, he began, a noticeable sneer in his voice, you have been found guilty of theft, and this is usually treated as a capital offence, however, due to your youth and the current circumstances in our country’s prisons, this court sentences you to transportation, for a minimum of seven years. You will be taken to Newgate goal, there to await transfer to one of the prison hulks moored at Portsmouth.

The magistrate banged his gavel upon the desk and ordered in the following case.

The next few moments were a blur to Grace. She was aware of someone shouting in the courtroom, stating it was a travesty of justice, she heard Mr. Ernest protesting the verdict, she listened to the crowd in the room talking and laughing, heard the court officer bid her be quiet as she was removed from the courtroom. Still, all she could feel was the cold steel around her wrists as she was dragged from the court and bundled into a waiting hansom.

In this vehicle, she was returned to the police station, where she spent a few hours before being bundled into the back of another carriage. This time a metal cage with no windows drawn by two horses. The latter bumped and groaned along dirt roads until they reached what Grace presumed was a turnpike stop, as she heard the horses being changed while the men could descend from the vehicle to exchange a few words.

Matters after that were somewhat confused. After a short while, Grace was taken from the metal compartment to be loaded into another vehicle with no windows, but this time (she believed) pulled by four horses with two men, one the driver, and another riding upon the rear. This time they departed at a gallop – bound she assumed for London.

Grace must have slept during her journey, bumping and jolting along. The sheer stress of the trial and lack of sleep in the local goal had worn her out. Despite herself, she had snatched some much needed rest.

She could not tell whether it was day