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Authors: Hanna Martine
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announced, “it’s off to the Factory.”
Elizabeth scraped together what little was left of her pride and raised her chin. It did not matter that none of these horrible creatures wanted her. The most worthy of men had wanted her once—and he would again, if her life had any purpose—and that was all that mattered.
At that moment she could have sworn she saw Moore’s face in a plume of distant chimney smoke. Porcelain skin, square jaw, that lock of brown hair tinged with faint silver persistently falling across his brow. He smiled at her, from wherever he was, and told her that he’d been wrong to dismiss her. Told her to continue her search, and they’d be together once again. Someday.
“I’ll take her.”
A man with rounded shoulders, concave belly, and legs the width of twigs ambled to the front of the crate. At first glance she guessed him around fifty years of age, but closer scrutiny revealed a smooth face behind the uneven beard. He wasn’t much older than five and twenty. She was taller than him by a head.
The soldier gave her a little push and she toppled from the crate, into the arms of the man who’d claimed her. She tried to recoil but he had a firm grip on her hand. Where would she go even if she could escape?
The man grinned up at her. At least he had a full set of teeth. He pulled her out of the harbor and into the town proper. They wove in and out of stone buildings that looked like they had just been cut from the nearby cliffs, and leaning wooden structures that must have been around since Captain Cook. The entire place smelled of poverty—an odor she remembered well.
“Where are you taking me?” she finally demanded.
“Over there.” His accent sounded northern. Yorkshire, maybe?
Under a tree stood a small church, the complete opposite of the grand stone-and-glass structures in England. Made of wood and devoid of any decoration save an unpainted cross above the door, the church looked as plain and crude as the rest of this dreadful place. They had to queue up to enter. She recognized the other people in line as her shipmates and the men who’d claimed them. No one looked anyone else in the eye. No one spoke. Unease stole all her words.
There, in the little church that smelled of newly chopped wood and wax candles, and barely an hour after stepping foot on New South Wales, Elizabeth was married. She remembered nothing about the ceremony except her husband’s name: Thomas Kingsford.
They exited the church into a scene like something out of one of the brothels in London’s Seven Dials. Newly married couples sprinkled the area. Elizabeth could see the hem of one woman’s skirt sticking out from behind a wagon wheel, another’s half hidden by a bush. Grunting men rocked between their legs. Elizabeth looked away, heat rising in her face.
Moore had never done that to her, even though she’d begged and once offered herself to him naked. But he’d always just smiled that beautiful smile and kissed her cheek and told her he would never dream of sullying her before they were properly married. He’d promised to propose as soon as they located what they’d been searching for ever since he’d saved her from the London streets many years ago. He’d promised.
But then he’d sent her away, before his quarry could be found. So she was still a maid.
She’d told that story to another convicted pickpocket in Newgate, and the other woman had sneered and spat and said that Moore had only been using Elizabeth all these years. But Elizabeth refused to believe that. Refused.
Thomas eyed the couples. Then her. His lips hung open and he breathed heavily, but he did not approach her. He kept his hands shoved in his pockets, though if his eyes were fingers her dress would’ve already been in a heap on the ground.
“What did you do?” he asked as they slid next to each other on the slanted bench of his wagon. She sucked on her lips and said nothing.
“Was a convict myself.” His voice
Elizabeth scraped together what little was left of her pride and raised her chin. It did not matter that none of these horrible creatures wanted her. The most worthy of men had wanted her once—and he would again, if her life had any purpose—and that was all that mattered.
At that moment she could have sworn she saw Moore’s face in a plume of distant chimney smoke. Porcelain skin, square jaw, that lock of brown hair tinged with faint silver persistently falling across his brow. He smiled at her, from wherever he was, and told her that he’d been wrong to dismiss her. Told her to continue her search, and they’d be together once again. Someday.
“I’ll take her.”
A man with rounded shoulders, concave belly, and legs the width of twigs ambled to the front of the crate. At first glance she guessed him around fifty years of age, but closer scrutiny revealed a smooth face behind the uneven beard. He wasn’t much older than five and twenty. She was taller than him by a head.
The soldier gave her a little push and she toppled from the crate, into the arms of the man who’d claimed her. She tried to recoil but he had a firm grip on her hand. Where would she go even if she could escape?
The man grinned up at her. At least he had a full set of teeth. He pulled her out of the harbor and into the town proper. They wove in and out of stone buildings that looked like they had just been cut from the nearby cliffs, and leaning wooden structures that must have been around since Captain Cook. The entire place smelled of poverty—an odor she remembered well.
“Where are you taking me?” she finally demanded.
“Over there.” His accent sounded northern. Yorkshire, maybe?
Under a tree stood a small church, the complete opposite of the grand stone-and-glass structures in England. Made of wood and devoid of any decoration save an unpainted cross above the door, the church looked as plain and crude as the rest of this dreadful place. They had to queue up to enter. She recognized the other people in line as her shipmates and the men who’d claimed them. No one looked anyone else in the eye. No one spoke. Unease stole all her words.
There, in the little church that smelled of newly chopped wood and wax candles, and barely an hour after stepping foot on New South Wales, Elizabeth was married. She remembered nothing about the ceremony except her husband’s name: Thomas Kingsford.
They exited the church into a scene like something out of one of the brothels in London’s Seven Dials. Newly married couples sprinkled the area. Elizabeth could see the hem of one woman’s skirt sticking out from behind a wagon wheel, another’s half hidden by a bush. Grunting men rocked between their legs. Elizabeth looked away, heat rising in her face.
Moore had never done that to her, even though she’d begged and once offered herself to him naked. But he’d always just smiled that beautiful smile and kissed her cheek and told her he would never dream of sullying her before they were properly married. He’d promised to propose as soon as they located what they’d been searching for ever since he’d saved her from the London streets many years ago. He’d promised.
But then he’d sent her away, before his quarry could be found. So she was still a maid.
She’d told that story to another convicted pickpocket in Newgate, and the other woman had sneered and spat and said that Moore had only been using Elizabeth all these years. But Elizabeth refused to believe that. Refused.
Thomas eyed the couples. Then her. His lips hung open and he breathed heavily, but he did not approach her. He kept his hands shoved in his pockets, though if his eyes were fingers her dress would’ve already been in a heap on the ground.
“What did you do?” he asked as they slid next to each other on the slanted bench of his wagon. She sucked on her lips and said nothing.
“Was a convict myself.” His voice
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