We Will Make Mischief Together Read online

  I turned my best Ms Sinnet glare on him. "Must I explain a woman's problems to you, brother dear?" I replied, and had the immense satisfaction of seeing him blanch as the reference penetrated even his thick skull.

  I left on that small victory, but would have run as soon as I was out of the room if I felt I could have done so without stumbling on the stairs.

  My white lie was not so badly timed that the servants who could count would suspect a deception, and so an unusually sympathetic Evelyn and an even more nervous Millicent undressed me and put me in night clothes and tucked me into bed and generally fussed over me.

  I insisted they leave the light on. I would, I said, read for a little to settle my mind.

  I did read—I could not afford to go to sleep. Not now. I no longer had the luxury of trying to be the dutiful daughter and wait to be married off.

  That always fragile façade had now been destroyed. Katharine, whether by intent or accident, however long ago the train had been set in motion, had not given me a choice. No matter how long her message had taken to reach me, I could waste no time in following it back to its source.

  Staying would mean certain death even if my body kept on living.

  I settled down grimly to pass the time until I could be certain the household—meaning Hugh, who would surely make further orders to the servants concerning me—had retired.

  After nearly an hour had passed, I heard footsteps on the other side of the door, and a sound reminiscent of a chair being placed in the hallway.

  So, my distrustful brother had mounted a guard.

  My mouth, of its own accord, twisted into a terrible smile. So, dear brother, if you wish to wage war, so be it. You have no idea what I am truly capable of.

  I waited further, but the only sound was of a body sitting in a chair that creaked faintly. I slipped from between the sheets again and ghosted my way to the door. Several minutes of listening did not enlighten me as to who was on the other side—or how many—but it seemed to be only one. The doors in this house were too thick for any sound so quiet as breathing to pass through. It was a fact I was about to rely upon.

  As silently as I could, I slipped a wooden wedge underneath the door, pushing it gently as far as it would go without moving the door. The lock would be too noisy, so this was the best that I could—silently—do. The carpet would serve to brace it.

  Then I tiptoed over to my large blanket chest. I carefully lifted out its contents, one by one, as quietly as a mouse, until I could, with my heart in my mouth, lift up a false bottom.

  Underneath was a long coil of light rope and a leather satchel I had originally, in a fit of pique, stolen from Hugh many years before.

  I pulled on a robe—the night was cold still, the heat of summer not yet asserting itself after the surprising cold of winter—then slipped the satchel over my shoulder.

  I picked up a pair of riding boots and carried them to the twin doors that opened onto my balcony.

  The architect of my father's sprawling English monster of a house had given the rooms individual balconies, from which, as a girl, I had dreamed of Romeo. And from which, as an older girl, I had begun my deviances. Back then, father's arrogant belief in the weakness and meekness of his daughter had shielded me as much as my own care and meticulous planning. Now, I could only hope that Hugh's self-confident idiocy would shield me as effectively.

  I opened the twin doors softly, holding my breath as I released each latch and thanking the foresight and practice that had kept me, with the convenient excuse of being ladylike, decrying squeaking hinges and noisy furniture. The hatches released easily and smoothly, and the doors swung open silently. Without a backward glance, I stepped out and closed the doors behind me.

  The stonework was young (the house was barely older than me) and had good clean edges. I could once have climbed down the two floors to the ground—and back up again, too!—but that had been too many years ago, and I did not trust myself to do it now.

  I tied my rope to the top railing, my fingers remembering faultlessly the sailor's bowline knot. Then, after quickly but carefully scanning the house and the ground beneath me, I paid out the rope until, as it touched the ground, I felt it go slack. I barely had a yard left and offered up a prayer to the patron saint of wayward girls as I carefully let it down until the rope was hanging entirely from the knot.

  The servants would still be awake, but their quarters were at the back of the house. There was still light from my brother's rooms, just visible from mine, but I could tell from here that he had his windows shut and curtains drawn.

  That gave me—if my estimates were correct, and please God let them be—maybe half an hour to catch Bill still in his workshop. That would be enough time.

  I quickly pulled on my riding boots and a pair of leather gloves before throwing first one leg over the railing and then the other, feeling a sudden giddy rush of joy at remembered moonlight adventures that threatened to make me laugh out loud but which I managed to restrict to a tight-lipped smile.

  For a second, as I lowered myself past the edge of the balcony, I cursed my nightdress, but I had nothing more suitable in my room, and nudity would be too daring even for me—and presented besides its own risks.

  After a moment of threatened entanglement, I was free of my bedroom, hanging from a rope gripped tightly in my two hands and between my thighs and ankles.

  Halfway down, I was already cursing myself for two years of not maintaining some secret form of exercise. My hands were trembling, my arms burning, and I was desperately afraid I would not be able to hold on all the way down. At one point I forgot the trick of holding a rope between my feet, and nearly fell, having to cling tightly with just my hands while my heart and lungs settled.

  Stupid, stupid! Two years at home and I had turned into a soft girl again!

  Anger at myself gave me enough strength to continue, quickly, sliding the rope between my boots and passing my hands down one by one until finally, with a little too much noise, I was on the ground.

  I nearly kissed it. I did kneel on the gravel, shaking too hard from the exertion to stand up, ignoring the pain in my knees as I tried to relax and dissipate the pains in my cramping hands and shoulders.

  I had once been up and down the stonework twice in a night. If that girl could see me now!

  But I had limited time. I drove myself to my feet and set off, holding my robe and nightdress off the ground and running softly through the garden at the base of the walls, throwing a mental apology at the gardener as I did so.

  I was cursing my lack of fitness, as well, before I rounded the corner of the house, reached the grass and could run more easily beside the gravel drive towards the workshop.

  I had to stop, when I reached it, to lean against the wall while I caught my breath.

  I was finally straightening up when the small door at the side of the huge building opened and Alex, stumbling from a push in the back, came out, followed by Bill with keys in hand.

  "Bill," I said from the shadows.

  He turned quickly. I saw the confusion on his face as, for a second, he got caught between recognising my voice, and me using a name no member of the family would ever use.

  It did not take him long to realise what was happening. It never had.

  "Fran," he said, softly.

  Alex, who was still gaping in shock, brightened up and his mouth opened before Bill, as quickly as a snake, slapped him over the back of the head.

  "Shush, boy," Bill said evenly. "Come in, Milady."

  "None of that, please, Bill," I said as he turned to go back inside the workshop, pulling Alex after him. "You've been too good to me."

  He said nothing as he turned on the electric lights—a small, quiet, self-regulated steam generator replacing the large daytime engine—and turned to get a good look at me as I stepped in out of the shadows.

  I saw him take in the manner of my dress and the mud on my knees and boots, and nod, once. "What was in that box that came for you,
girl?"

  "A message from an old friend," I said slowly, feeling a flood of relief that he had stopped treating me as a lady of the house and gone back to treating me like the brat who had pestered him for knowledge.

  "Must have been some friend," he said, still looking speculatively at me.

  I stayed silent.

  "You mean to leave us, then."

  It was not a question.

  "I must. Father is coming back tomorrow."

  "The hell you say."

  "Hugh claims a message arrived this morning. I believe he was lying about the time, but not about the contents."

  Bill spat sideways. "He was lying about the time, at that. A courier turned up yesterday afternoon, with a message from his nibs. I haven't seen the young Lordship that happy since the old one left for London. So that was it, eh?"

  I wanted, with a clarity of purpose that had eluded me this past year, to punish Hugh in a way he could not ignore nor forget. But I could not afford the luxury of doing anything more direct than running away under his watch.

  "Bill," I said, purposefully moving my mind on from thoughts of petty familial vengeance, "I will be needing my sack."

  He nodded again, just the once, not even looking resigned as he turned towards the back of the workshop. Two years he had kept that bag secret for me, and if I asked for it now there really was no chance of my will failing. I would be leaving tonight.

  Bill disappeared behind the huge engine that powered the house electrically and mechanically during daylight hours. I had never asked to see his secret safe, even though I was sure I could find it given half an hour.

  After five minutes, he returned, carrying a round sailcloth bag the shape, but much greater than, the ditty bags carried by sailors. I had made it in haste one night and had only seen it once since.

  I could still barely believe it had made its way here from Sydney. I had put my faith in people who had not let me down.

  With shaking fingers, I untied the knot holding closed the drawstring and pulled open the bag, revealing a long and tightly-wrapped oilcloth bundle.

  Bill helped me pull out the oilcloth, and I did not let myself breathe normally until we unrolled it on the workshop's concrete floor and revealed its contents, apparently undamaged by time or damp.

  "Best you get dressed in the bathroom," Bill said. "I'll help you carry this."

  My clothes were still clean enough to wear and, although they smelled of the patchouli that was now so much dust, the leaves and the tightly wrapped oilcloth had protected the fabric from moths. They had all been clean and dry, and there was no mildew either—a minor miracle.

  They were shades of brown and cream—unfashionably so—and much sturdier than anything I had in my approved wardrobe. The under-petticoat (practically a blouse) was coarse linen and, although clean, bore a couple of dark oil stains that I had worn as badges. The corset over it was thick and tough leather, made as much for protecting the waist and bosom as for supporting or shaping them. The dark brown skirt was scandalously short—up to mid-calf—and was simple, single-layered and also strong. I had a jacket, too—thick and sturdy but cut only to just below my hips so it looked fashionable. Underneath it all I had a pair of stockings thick enough to serve as trousers.

  Once more I almost cried when I picked up the corset. It was not just a present from Katharine—it was her creation. I could almost smell her on it.

  When she had presented the first version to me, beaming with pride after finding a corsetiere and a leathersmith who were prepared to work together with her, she had taken me completely by surprise. I had, at the time, no idea she had been even so much as thinking about it. I could almost smell her on it now.

  Katharine had always been the boyish one. In our entire boarding school, she was the boyish one—the tomboy, the one who distracted attention from those, like me, who tended to unladylike physicality but were not yet brave enough to defy society openly. She flaunted her wilfulness in teachers' faces and, after each punishment, began again. She had always hated corsets, taking quickly to wearing men's clothes on our night-time excursions and strapping her breasts tightly to hide them as soon as they began to emerge.

  But she had designed a corset as a present to me, and then saw the second version, made with my suggestions, become a uniform among women engineers, and even bluestockings, across Sydney.

  It had loops and clasps on the sides, above the hips, where men would have a belt, and a pocket for a fob watch. It was moulded to minimise the bust without hiding it completely—difficult for me, I had been forced to accept—but cut high over the waist to let us bend easily when wearing it. And it closed at the front not with a busk and tiny hooks that were difficult to close, but with a series of leather straps and buckles, the two halves overlapping.

  The lacing at the back gave us both trouble. We knew there needed to be changes, that it needed to be easier and more reliable, but my father's men had interrupted my ability to contribute to development. Although Katharine was good at design, I had always been better at detail. We had never been able to finish it and nor, to the best of my knowledge, had anybody else seen the need.

  I couldn't touch it without thinking of everything else left unfinished.

  I had to bury my face in the leather to muffle deep, choking breaths so Bill would not hear me. The smell of the leather reminded me of Katharine during our adventures—the one willing to lead and take risks. It gave me my strength back, as she had always given me strength. I had to find her.

  I put the corset on quickly, settling it into place with the ease of long practice, overlapping the front and closing the straps then tightening the laces by habit, not thought.

  Everyone surely recognised the outfit now. The last time I had worn it, it had already become the uniform for those women risking ridicule or assault by daring to get our hands dirty on the new machines. I had worn it proudly despite the risks of public scorn and righteous male anger. Finding a life that felt like mine had far outweighed those risks, and found me unexpected friends among bluestockings and those women beginning to call themselves suffragettes.

  Unfortunately I had underestimated my father, who was not among those who welcomed or even tolerated this claim for self-determination, and when he sent men for me, the law took his side.

  My one consolation had been that his view of female intelligence had been so poor, and his belief in my submitting to his will so assured, that I found it easy to circumvent his rule and keep my rooms and my secret hiding places.

  Even that would have been no consolation at all if Bill, the estate's engineer since before I had been born, had not been my ally from childhood.

  I folded the oilskin as small as I could make it and put it at the bottom of the bag, then arranged the rest of my meagre belongings on top—my sewing kit, a mismatched assortment of tools wrapped in another piece of oilskin, my nightdress and robe (wrapped around the bottle, with its slip of paper back inside, to protect it), some jewellery (most of which could be easily sold), some cosmetics, a full purse that had been waiting for two years (father could not conceive of a woman handling money!) and other oddments.

  I closed the bag, but did not secure it yet, and carried it back out to where Bill was waiting for me.

  Bill had been busy.

  "Do you have a dark lantern, girl?"

  I felt immediately foolish and short-sighted. "No."

  "Water? Food?"

  "I hardly had time," I began, trying to defend myself, when Alex dashed in, out of breath, carrying a small cloth sack.

  His eyes went wide when he saw me in my unexpected, unladylike clothes. Bill cuffed him, I believe more by habit than to prevent him speaking, and took the sack. He glanced inside, nodded approvingly, and passed it to me.

  "Bread and cheese," he said, "and a couple of apples." With his other hand, he passed me a wide and flat metal bottle, stoppered with a cork. "Water. You've spent your time in cities, girl, and this estate is fertile and wet now, but
this country will kill you with thirst. Drink it and refill it whenever you get the chance."

  I did not know how to express my gratitude to him. I had to settle with, "Thank you," which sounded entirely inadequate to my ears. I forced myself instead to concentrate on why I was doing this. "Where did that crate come from?"

  "From the Customs station in Ipswich. Sailed up from Sydney. Everything is opened by Customs, so that may be where your little box was added, or it may have come from Darling Harbour or the factory. They have a new factory down south building light steam engines, you see. Your brother ordered a brand new car, and that means we need enough spare parts to build another one."

  He moved over to a filing cabinet, pulled open a drawer and retrieved a leather folder. Dear Bill. Always so organised and careful.

  He retrieved a sheet of paper and handed it to me. "That's the bill of goods, stamped by Customs. You can tell them I sent you; they might believe you." He paused, for a second. "Tell the men who work there—not the pen-pushers, the men—that I haven't forgotten the hand I owe them, and I could do with some more spending money next time I have to visit town. But I don't think you'll have trouble charming it out of them either way, girl."

  "Th-thank you," I managed, feeling my cheeks beginning to grow hot but pulling myself together with difficulty. "I shall be going to Ipswich, then."

  "How?"

  I was dumbfounded he had asked. "I believe I can find my way back to the station."

  He shook his head. "The train runs once a day, has too many guards and, even if you hid, the train would be stopped as soon as you were discovered missing." Then he gave me a knowing look. "You can drive a steam car, can't you, girl." Again, it was not a question.

  "I have driven a couple," I admitted, but at a loss. Surely he did not mean our coach?

  Alex, who had been cowed into silence by Bill's manner, burst out laughing and Bill absent-mindedly cuffed him again.

  I finally realised and started laughing myself. The thought of running away from home in one of Hugh's own toys suddenly seemed like the sweetest vengeance possible.

  "You want everyone to hear us?" Bill asked, but without rancour. I knew that only some of the servants might possibly hear any of our laughter outside this workshop, but I sobered up quickly regardless. The laughter of a woman might be investigated when the laughter of the engineer would not.