The Girl In the Painting Read online

  TEA COOPER is an established Australian author of historical fiction. In a past life she was a teacher, a journalist and a farmer. These days she haunts museums and indulges her passion for storytelling. She is the bestselling author of several novels, including The Horse Thief, The Cedar Cutter, The Currency Lass, The Naturalist’s Daughter and The Woman in the Green Dress.

  www.teacooperauthor.com

  Also by Tea Cooper

  The Horse Thief

  The Cedar Cutter

  The Currency Lass

  The Naturalist’s Daughter

  The Woman in the Green Dress

  (Available in ebook)

  Matilda’s Freedom

  Lily’s Leap

  Forgotten Fragrance

  The Girl in the Painting

  Tea Cooper

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  Charles—this is as much your book as it is mine.

  Thank you.

  Contents

  Also by Tea Cooper

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Epilogue

  Historical Note

  Acknowledgements

  One

  Maitland Town, Australia, 1906

  The bell rang late. Not until after seven-eighteen. It didn’t bode well.

  Jane scrambled out of bed, clambered into her Sunday best and wrangled her hateful lisle stockings up above her knees. Sister Mary Ann wasn’t one for patience. ‘Before breakfast,’ she’d said.

  ‘What’re you galloping around for—you’re not going to miss out. It’s Sunday. Wine and wafers first.’ Lydia Lie-All-You-Like Lewis rolled over and buried her head under her pillow.

  ‘She wants me downstairs.’ Leaving her unmade bed, Jane clattered down the twenty-nine timber stairs to the exact spot where Sister Mary Ann stood waiting, her black habit flapping like a bedraggled crow.

  For the first time in living memory Jane had a clear conscience, although she’d known from the moment the bell rang the day wouldn’t go well. Three minutes and twenty-four seconds could make all the difference.

  Sister Mary Ann gestured to the bottle-green door across the landing. ‘Don’t speak until you’re spoken to and mind your manners.’

  Encouraged by a hefty shove between her shoulder blades, Jane catapulted into the room.

  A man sat at the desk, head bent, studying a piece of paper. Did don’t speak until you’re spoken to and mind your manners mean don’t move, don’t close the door? She hadn’t a clue. Wouldn’t it be manners to invite a girl in, especially after you’d demanded her presence before communion?

  He lifted his head, and eyes, deep and dark, drilled into her. ‘Come in! Come in! Don’t be hanging around like a hover-fly.’ The Irish brogue came as a bit of a surprise. He didn’t sound anywhere near as fierce as he looked.

  She ran her tongue over her lips and tried to speak but nothing wanted to come out. Not a single word. Jane was never stuck for words. Not ever. Not that she could remember. The thick carpet cushioned her feet as she took a step into the room and closed the door behind her.

  ‘Sit down.’ He pointed across the desk to the chair opposite, his unsettling gaze fixed on her. If she sat down she’d be lucky to be able to see over the top of the desk.

  Without raising her eyes from the tips of her boots she mumbled, ‘I’ll stand.’

  ‘Very well, Jane.’

  Holy heck! He knew her name. Who was he?

  ‘The name’s Michael, Michael Quinn.’

  Michael Quinn! She’d seen that name, seen it on the big polished board in the hallway along with the names of all the governors and other important people in town. He was nothing like she imagined. The creases around his eyes made it look like he did a lot of smiling and his voice held more than an echo of Ireland, a bit like Mrs O’Rourke in the laundry but deeper, richer.

  He stood and held out a hand about four times the size of hers.

  She gave her palm a surreptitious swipe and took it. ‘I’m Jane.’ He knew that, he’d called her by name. ‘Pleased to meet you.’

  ‘Would you be wanting to sit yourself down?’ He inclined his head towards the chair and fidgeted his hand.

  Oh, God! She loosened her fingers, let her hand drop from his then heaved herself up onto the chair.

  Once he’d stopped rubbing his squashed fingers he interlaced them under his clipped beard. Strange that, black hair and a beard the grey of the old pots in the scullery.

  ‘Now, Jane, how old are you?’

  Not so bad, she could manage that. ‘I’ve been here for nine years, three months, one hour, and twenty-three minutes. Maybe twenty-seven, the breakfast bell was close to three-and-a-half minutes late.’ And in all that time no one had claimed her. ‘See, that was the day I was dropped off, on the doorstep like, in the dead of night.’ Three thousand, three hundred and seventy-eight days ago. ‘November the first. It was a Sunday. I was two weeks old.’ Not that she could remember. Sister Mary Ann had told her in the end, after a deal of prodding and poking, though how she knew was anyone’s guess.

  Jane always dreamt that one day Florence Nightingale would glide through the dormitory door, light in hand, and spirit her away, the child of her heart she’d been forced to relinquish while she went off saving people.

  ‘So you’ve been here ever since?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Why was he asking that? Sister Mary Ann could’ve answered those questions. She’d got everything about every one of the foundlings written in that big leather book of hers, the one with the brass key that she kept dangling from the chain around her waist, same as the one to the cupboard under the stairs.

  ‘And you have no idea who your mother or father may be?’

  Her heart gave a little leap. Was he going to tell her Miss Nightingale had come to claim her? Rubbish. That wasn’t going to happen. Not to her. Not even a new family. Last time someone had tried they’d sent her back, claimed she talked too much. They’d taken Emmaline instead. It was because of her name. She knew it was. Jane, plain Jane. Couldn’t Sister Mary Ann have done any better?

  ‘Jane?’

  And Piper, what kind of a surname was that? She had no intention of taking up the bagpipes. Nasty squealing things made from sheep’s innards fiddled with by men in skirts.

  ‘Your mother, or father. You’ve no idea?’

  ‘No, sir. None at all.’ She sat up a little straighter.

  ‘Your aptitude with numbers must have come from somewhere.’

  Aptitude. What was that? Good or bad? ‘I don’t know nothing about my aptitude, sir.’

  ‘My mistake. Let me try again.’ He picked up the sheaf of papers from the desk and flicked through them. The sun glinted on the stained-glass window behind him. So many delicious shapes and such perfect symmetry: six diamonds, four rhombi, sixty-two perfect small green squares and an equal number of rectangles …

  ‘Jane!’

  The patterns blurred. ‘Yes, sir.’r />
  Mr Quinn tapped the top paper. ‘This evaluation you completed. Who were you sitting next to?’

  It wasn’t an evaluation. It was a test, plain and simple, like they did at the end of every year, so Sister Mary Ann could tell who’d done their lessons right and could go to the next class. ‘Emmaline, sir. I always sit … no sat—she’s gone now, gone to her new family—next to Emmaline. She comes before me in the alphabet see, sir.’

  Jane never could understand that, why there was no one whose name began with F, G, H or I. Whatever happened to all the Florences, Glorias, Harriets and Irises? Maybe they didn’t give names like that to girls dumped on doorsteps in the dead of night.

  The frown lines on Mr Quinn’s forehead wriggled up and down as he flicked through the papers. ‘Can’t be that. Who sits on the other side?’

  ‘No one, sir. Sister Mary Ann makes me sit next to the wall, says I’d talk the hind leg off a donkey so it’s the safest place.’ She clamped her hand over her mouth. Not the right thing to say, not at all. Not in polite company, and sure as eggs Mr Quinn was polite company, with his neatly folded cravat and high winged collar.

  He made an impolite snort and his lips curled, a smile perhaps. ‘Is this work all your own?’

  Now he thought she was a hoaxer! ‘I’m no cheat, sir.’ She clamped her back teeth, not a good thing. She mustn’t get angry, not like she did when those people had taken her home for tea. That hadn’t ended well—it had for Emmaline though.

  ‘I’m not suggesting you are, Jane. I’m trying to decide if this is all your own work. You haven’t made a single error. I’ve never seen a set of results like these. You should be very proud of yourself.’

  Next thing she was standing, leaning across the desk. There it was in black and white. 100%. ‘Ha! I thought it was easy.’ She’d told Sister Mary Ann, and got her knuckles rapped for her trouble. ‘Sister Mary Ann says pride comes before a fall.’

  ‘Well, you haven’t fallen. No one else has achieved such a remarkable score. Not even in the senior class. Congratulations!’

  She sat back down on the chair, on the edge this time so her toes reached the floor, and gave Mr Quinn her biggest smile. ‘I like numbers, sir. See, they don’t lie, sir. Not like people. There’s only right or wrong, no in-betweens.’

  ‘An excellent summary. You and my sister would get along just fine. Perhaps you’d like to meet her, come to tea.’

  His sister! She’d heard about Miss Quinn, and it wouldn’t be fine. ‘Oh. No, thank you, sir. I’m not good at tea. See, I spill things and I can’t keep me mouth shut. I talk too much. I can’t help it. I have all these ideas rushing around in my head and they fall out, like Wallaman Falls.’

  ‘Wallaman Falls?’

  ‘The highest permanent single-drop waterfall in Australia. Almost a thousand feet.’ Surely he knew that. ‘It’s in Queensland.’

  He made that funny snorting sound again so Jane sat on her hands and shut her mouth.

  ‘There are four scholarships available at the girls’ school here in Maitland and my sister and I would like to offer you one.’

  ‘I’m already at school, here at the orphanage. I’ve got two more years then I start me apprenticeship so I can find a job.’ Get away, begin her real life, away from the nuns and their flapping black robes and plaster faces.

  ‘I understand, but what we are proposing is St Joseph’s Girls School to complete your education. After that you’d be able to find worthwhile employment, perhaps as a governess or even a teacher at the school.’

  The thought didn’t fill her with a huge rush of excitement, although it sounded better than working in the laundry and the piles of mending she never got through. Sewing buttons was fine, she’d worked that out, four nice little symmetrical holes, but darning!

  ‘So what do you think of that idea?’ Mr Quinn’s eyes twinkled at her from the other side of the desk.

  ‘I don’t want to be a governess, or a teacher. I wouldn’t be any good at that.’

  That made him frown. She’d done it again, spoken her mind. He’d offered her an escape and she’d as good as spat in his eye.

  ‘You’re young yet.’

  ‘I’ll be ten in eight months, twelve days, twenty-two hours and …’ she glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece, ‘and twenty-three minutes.’ Providing Sister Mary Ann had told her the truth. ‘All the girls begin their apprenticeships when they’re twelve.’

  ‘Jane, this isn’t going to be an apprenticeship. This’ll be all about furthering your education—history, geography, literature, the classics.’

  ‘What about arithmetic? That’s what I like, but there ain’t no apprenticeships for arithmetic.’

  He grabbed at his chin and gave his beard a scratch; it made a rasping sound, a bit like the antechinus in the roof above the dormitory. ‘There are jobs that involve arithmetic.’

  A jolt ran right the way up her spine and made her scalp prickle. Lice or excitement? She wasn’t sure. What jobs? Working in a bank maybe, counting other people’s money. Nobody would give her a job like that, not after the muddle about Bertha’s sixpence. She hadn’t taken it, she’d found it on the floor and didn’t know who it belonged to. She’d handed it over the minute Sister Mary Ann had told her it had gone missing. ‘What sort of jobs?’

  ‘I mentioned my sister, do you remember?’

  ‘You said we could have tea. Trouble is I’m not good at tea.’ She slumped back in the chair. Would it be rude to ask again about jobs that involved arithmetic?

  ‘My sister is the accountant for our business.’

  ‘Accountant?’ It wasn’t often people used words she didn’t know but he’d come up with two. Aptitude and now accountant. Strange that both should start with the first letter of the alphabet. What was an accountant? Sister Mary Ann often said on no account … Perhaps he meant she’d put her foot in it. Lost this scholarship before she’d even discovered what it was about.

  ‘An accountant is a person whose job it is to keep or inspect financial records.’

  ‘Like a bookkeeper you mean?’ Now that wouldn’t be a bad idea. But she’d never seen a girl who kept the books. The well-named Mr Noseworthy, who was about a hundred in the shade, and came once a month to sit in Sister Mary Ann’s cubbyhole and made it smell of sweat and ink, called himself a bookkeeper.

  ‘Not the same. Some of their duties overlap and you’d need to have an excellent grasp of bookkeeping before you could call yourself an accountant. An accountant’s job is broader; they analyse figures and offer business and financial advice.’

  Offer advice? Who’d take the advice of a girl like her, a foundling?

  ‘I think it would be a good idea if you talked with my sister.’

  The tinkle of the bell on his desk brought Jane up short. Two seconds later Sister Mary Ann stuck her bulbous nose around the door; odds on she’d been listening to every word. ‘Come along, Jane. We can’t be wasting anymore of Mr Quinn’s time.’

  ‘On the contrary, Sister Mary Ann, Jane and I have been having a delightful discussion, which we wish to continue tomorrow afternoon at my home. Would you be so good as to ensure she is delivered to the house at 4 pm sharp. I shall escort her back here afterwards.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Sister Mary Ann performed a series of head bobs which she must have learnt from the apostlebirds in the park over the road.

  ‘Off you go, Jane. Elizabeth and I will look forward to seeing you tomorrow afternoon.’

  Jane opened her mouth but no words seemed to want to come out.

  ‘You know my sister, I’m sure.’

  Holy heck! Of course, she did.

  Everyone knew Miss Elizabeth Quinn.

  Two

  Birkenhead, England, 1862

  ‘Ó’Cuinn. Michael.’ The clerk studied the sheath of papers in his hand then hoicked a globule of spit towards the rail. It missed, landing with a plop on the deck. ‘Where’s your sister?’

  A small hand crept into his palm and she turned
her face up, leant against his legs.

  The mismatched group of people—men, women, children—standing behind him pushed closer, impatient to present their papers and secure a berth.

  ‘Get a bloody move on. Answer the question.’

  He stared up at the mast. The crowd behind him rumbled. ‘She’s here.’

  The clerk scribbled a series of unintelligible marks on their papers and glared down.

  ‘Got you down for the single men’s accommodation.’ He flicked his thumb over his shoulder, down towards the bowels of the ship. ‘No berth for her down there. Says here she’s in the family accommodation with Nuala Ó’Cuinn.’

  ‘That’s me aunty. She died six months ago. I told them in the office.’ A bloke behind him gave a shove, releasing the festering coil of anger deep in Michael’s gut. ‘We’ve been on the manifest for months, down for family accommodation.’ He stabbed at the papers. ‘Says so right there. You sort it out, you’re the one pushing your weight around, keeping everyone waiting.’

  ‘Remarks like that ain’t going to get you anything special. No single men in family accommodation. How old are you?’

  ‘Fifteen.’

  ‘Over fourteen. Too old for family accommodation.’

  Michael drew in a slow breath. Jesus, Mary and Joseph! What was a man supposed to do? It couldn’t be the first time a brother and sister had emigrated to bloody Australia.

  A stout woman who barely reached his shoulder pushed forward. ‘I’ll take the little angel with me.’

  ‘Who are you?’ The clerk rolled his eyes and leant on his elbow.

  ‘Mrs Cameron. Mrs William Cameron. Full fare-paying passenger.’ She thrust her ticket at him, smiled down. ‘You’re a pretty little thing, ain’t you, with them big blue eyes and lovely curls. Lucky you didn’t get your brother’s black looks.’

  What was a man to do? The woman looked kindly enough.

  ‘I’ll get her settled with me. Be good to have some company. What’s your name, poppet?’

  Michael reached down and hitched the mop-headed little bundle of bones against his shoulder. ‘Elizabeth. Her name’s Elizabeth.’