Chapter 4

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Chapter 4 Sydney, 1882 Clement’s fingers itched to adjust the starched collar that circled his neck like a manacle. He held them firmly in check, gripping the head of his maple and ivory cane, strangling the carved elephant hand-piece and grinding the opposing tip into the floor with all the strength of his frustration and irritation. One day off the ship that had posited him and his father in this abysmal outpost and he missed the isolation of being at sea already; still had his sea legs. Every now and then he had to catch himself mid-lurch as if solid ground had transformed itself into the swell of the ocean, as if Poseidon loathed to lose even one soul from his watery clutch. Business was business, and his often occurred in grimy boltholes. An open window let in the smell that lingered around dock areas. An aromatic tinge of sheep and tar, and a pleasant view of the quay. Boats thumped against each other and the jetties they were tied to as soft fat waves rolled from sea to shore. Even here the sea called him. He had the urge to strip himself of shirt and collar, and answer. His toes squirmed to the desirous sensation of sand and saltwater on his feet. Business came first. Pleasure later. His father’s factor in Sydney, a portly man, appeared from an inner sanctum, pumped up like an ageing cockerel, hiding his fluster and confusion as he rolled down his shirt sleeves and adjusted his cravat. Clement’s skin felt raw and hot from the layers of clothing he was forced to endure in this warm, dry climate. The least the factor could do was be prepared. ‘Did you not receive my note that I’d be calling at this time?’ Clement’s words came clipped and mean. He caught a glimpse of an old, poorly inked tattoo on the man’s forearm just before the cuffs came down to hang loose around his wrists. ‘My apologies, your Lordship. Time got away from me. We’ve had a dashed time building a case against a former man of some position. He diddled the books at the museum of all places …’ The man stopped fussing with his clothes, one step away from Clement, and held out a meaty paw of a hand. ‘I’m George Boseman. You’re Lord Benedict, I presume?’ ‘My father, Lord Benedict, is resting from the voyage this afternoon. I’m Clement Benedict, authorised to undertake all business on my father’s behalf.’ Clement touched his hand to Boseman’s and was enveloped in two pincer-like clumps. He rode it out and, once free of the grip, pulled his kerchief from his pocket to wipe the man’s sweat from his skin. ‘You’re aware of our requirements? Do you have a report?’ ‘Of course. Of course. I’ve had eyes out everywhere and have narrowed down a list of women who match your description. A more specific description would have produced more exact results. But you work with what you’ve got, what? Come into my office. We’ll take some refreshment while I report.’ ‘We have no better description,’ Clement replied. Boseman’s office was overstuffed and airless. His window remained closed, the glass clean so he could see out. Clement caught a glimpse of ships’ masts bobbing away to the tune of the water below. He took the glass of pale liquor offered and sat down on the hard chair reserved for clients. ‘Hearsay is all we’ve been able to glean,’ he continued. ‘We’ve had people searching in America and Canada as well with no luck. It seems most likely the woman came here.’ Boseman was nodding, his cheeks reddening. ‘That may be. No woman with the surname MacKinnon and hailing from Strathaird arrived in Port Jackson during the period specified. So we widened the search to anyone at all from that area and found several. A steady stream, in fact. One must wonder if there are any Scots left in their homeland! A sorry business that is, but good for us here in the colonies …’ ‘I didn’t come all this way to converse on the topic of clearances, or British politics. Get on with it, man!’ Boseman returned to his report. ‘Right then. Many of the emigrants are untraceable. They often moved on from Port Jackson within days of landing, and in all directions. We’ve done what we can and narrowed the list down to three possibilities. One of those is someone I happen to know. A canny businesswoman. Rosalie Campbell travelled with her aunt and uncle in 1852, all of whom hail from Broadford on Skye.’ Clement noticed a gleam of perspiration on Boseman’s forehead. It dripped a track through the gutters of skin to his beady eyes. ‘How well do you know this woman?’ ‘Quite well. A canny businesswoman, as I said. She married James Ponsonby and the two took over the Garden Arms Hotel and Travellers Rest. Did quite well with the business. Mr Ponsonby passed away last year. I expect his widow will soon sell the hotel and retire to a quieter life.’ Clement’s stomach lurched a little as Boseman described the first woman. Canny … ‘In my experience, clever women are not necessarily apt for the quiet life.’ ‘She is clever indeed, cunning. Very good at predicting political and economic changes and, of course, knows all the right people. But still, a woman, with a family to look to. She’ll come around.’ ‘You sound envious. Are your personal views colouring your report, sir?’ Boseman’s face reddened as he rubbed the back of his neck. ‘Her background fits your description, Mr Benedict, so any feelings on my part are coincidental. Her aunt fits the bill as well. She currently resides in the far north of the state on an isolated property. One other I’ve been able to trace: a Mrs Elsa Ricci, formerly Adam, born in Portree, Skye.’ ‘Where is this woman now?’ ‘She lives with her husband south of here near Botany Bay. They have a small holding near the Aboriginal settlement at La Parouse. I can arrange for a carriage and a guide if you’d like to make the trip.’ ‘And Mrs Ponsonby is in the city?’ Boseman nodded. ‘The hotel is on Macquarie Street.’ ‘Very well. Portree is some distance north of Broadford and our evidence thus far leads to Sydney rather than any regional areas so I’ll not concern myself with either Mrs Ricci or Mrs Ponsonby’s aunt for now. Mrs Ponsonby herself, though, yes, she does fit the bill, as you say. The woman I’m looking for would have to be clever …’ Clement had the unusual sensation of his chest expanding, yet not enough breath to fill it. He left the shady businessman to his subversive dealings and returned to the narrow street with its bustle of sailors and traders, and relaxed; more buoyant now, with the scent of brine in his nostrils, than he’d felt since making land aboard the Orontes. ‘Perhaps not such a dismal locale after all.’ Plans were finally coming together, and all of a sudden the warmth and the noise and the smells were as welcome today as they’d been anywhere else on his travels.
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