About the Author
MARY-ANNE O’CONNOR has a combined arts education degree with specialities in environment, music and literature. She works in marketing and co-wrote/edited A Brush with Light and Secrets of the Brush with Kevin Best.
Mary-Anne lives in a house overlooking her beloved bushland in northern Sydney with her husband Anthony, their two sons Jimmy and Jack, and their very spoilt dog Saxon. This is her fourth major novel. Her previous novels, Gallipoli Street (2015), Worth Fighting For (2016) and War Flower (2017), have all been bestsellers.
Also by Mary-Anne O’Connor
Gallipoli Street
Worth Fighting For
War Flower
In a Great Southern Land
Mary-Anne
O’CONNOR
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
AUTHOR’S NOTE
In a Great Southern Land is a work of fiction and, although it has been based on true events in history, artistic licence has been employed at times to ensure cohesion is maintained.
For my husband Anthony, always kind.
Few, and taken by surprise,
Oh! the mist that hid the skies —
And the steel in diggers’ eyes —
Sunday morning in December long ago;
And they grapple and they strike —
With the pick-handle and pike —
Twenty minutes freed Australia at Eureka long ago.
— ‘Australia’s Forgotten Flag’, Henry Lawson
Contents
About the Author
Also by Mary-Anne O’Connor
Author’s Note
The Letter
One
Two
Three
Four
The Price of an Apple
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Fever
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Eureka
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
Thirty-Five
Thirty-Six
By Any Other Name
Thirty-Seven
Thirty-Eight
Thirty-Nine
Forty
Forty-One
Forty-Two
Forty-Three
Forty-Four
Forty-Five
Forty-Six
Forty-Seven
Forty-Eight
Forty-Nine
Fifty
With Respect
Acknowledgements
The Letter
One
Killaloe, County Clare, Ireland, April 1851
Playing games, whether for opportunity, mischief or seduction, was a pastime Kieran Clancy should have quit long ago. But ‘should’ was a word he seldom obeyed.
‘Check.’
Maeve O’Shannassey frowned at her cornered king.
‘However did you manage that?’ she muttered, perplexed. Her pretty face suited consternation. Hell, she looked delectable no matter what she was feeling, and Kieran further warmed to the contest at hand.
‘You’ll find I have many hidden talents, Miss Maeve, games of chase being one of my specialities,’ Kieran told her.
‘And yet I continue to outrun you, Mr Kieran,’ she replied, rather brazenly for her, before moving her queen to block his knight. ‘Check, I believe.’
Kieran barely glanced at the table, raising his eyebrows instead and leaning in close to take the queen. ‘You may well run, fair maid, but you cannot hide.’ The words were spoken in her ear and he could smell her hair, still damp from the outdoors and sweet with the honey-scented soap she favoured. He held the breath in to savour it, momentarily intoxicated, before adding ‘checkmate’.
Maeve stood in a rush, almost knocking over the board, and Kieran cursed himself for breaking one of his own rules in life: appear bold but never cocky.
‘T…tea?’ she suggested, her earlier confidence gone.
Kieran sighed as she made a swift exit to the kitchen where her mother was ostensibly baking but really keeping guard over her daughter. Leaning back against the French settee, he reflected that Maeve was proving far more difficult to court than any of the local girls he’d been interested in over the years. That was probably part of the attraction – but not all of it.
The rain pelted hard against the pane and Kieran looked out, glad to be away from the fields for a change. Green and lush the farmlands near Killaloe may be, but when the wet set in it lost much of its appeal, turning soggy and grey. He studied the parlour window itself instead. Aside from the luxury of glass, it was framed by polished oak and had lace curtains, a step far above most other homes in the area, and the fine furniture and thick carpets herein further emphasised how remote the chances were that he, Kieran Clancy, a poor Irish farmer, stood any real chances with this girl.
Listening to Mrs O’Shannassey’s lofty tones drift through the door he knew he should just leave. But of course, he wouldn’t.
Kieran stood to pace the room and plot instead. It was simply a matter of evening the scales somehow, offering more than other suitors, more than material wealth and all the trappings her family prized.
Such as? he asked himself.
Well, he could work on his charm; she seemed to enjoy some of his more humorous witticisms and compliments. Hopefully that might lead to delicious stolen moments of shared desire. Noting the nervous knot twisting in his gut at the thought, he acknowledged he could well end up giving her his heart. Then he paused to look across towards town to where Mr O’Shannassey would be working today and he knew that, even if that were enough for Maeve, it would never be enough for her father.
The man was quite a success story, and it wasn’t just the impressive house that bespoke the fact. He had a thriving business at his new store, which sold everything from silk stockings to imported perfumes, but by far the greatest attraction to the locals were the apothecary vials that lined the counter, a curious assortment of concoctions, handmade, mostly, by Mr O’Shannassey himself. It seemed people couldn’t get enough of the often ill-tasting liquids that promised cures for maladies from ear infections to rheumatism.
It didn’t hurt, perhaps, that he had so desperate a clientele. Most had suffered these past few years and ill-health was commonplace. Overworked by English landlords and robbed of much of their crops by Queen Victoria, the final straw for many in the village came when the potato crops had failed a few years previously. Starvation had led to disease; consumption, cholera and smallpox. In the end many lives had been taken, including those of Kieran’s own mother and father. Where were Mr O’Shannassey’s ‘miracle cures’ then?
Kieran shoved his hands deep into his pockets, pushing resentment and grief away. It wasn’t the man’s fault that Ireland suffered so. Perhaps some of his remedies even worked, although Kieran placed far more faith in his sister Eileen’s tonics. Still, he supposed O’Shannassey was giving people hope and that was a gift in itself, even if, on their meagre wages, they could ill afford it.
Money. Kieran sighed at the enormity of the word, acknowledging that the odds against him were stacked high in this particular game. Maeve might
well fall for Kieran’s romantic overtures but her parents would require a man of means, especially if he had any chance of actually marrying her.
Unless his brother Liam could pull off what he had planned.
Maeve returned then and that last glimmering thought evaporated as Kieran turned to watch her move, her creamy skin pushing against her dress as she bent to pour the tea.
‘Milk?’ she asked.
‘Please.’
Kieran returned to the settee and he was pleased when Maeve sat beside him, slightly closer than before. Near enough for him to see the flecks of green in her otherwise brown eyes and smell that hair once more. He closed his own eyes momentarily, memorising the scent, his determination to win her returning with force.
‘Are you feeling poorly?’ Maeve asked.
‘Not with you around,’ he told her. Her lovely face flushed and it gave him a heady rush that he could affect her so. A small tip of the scales.
‘Perhaps I should fetch you one of father’s tonics.’
Kieran smiled at her. ‘I’m perfectly fine, I promise.’ He was tempted to add that he doubted her father had invented a cure for desire but that was, of course, a flirtation too far.
Maeve looked to her tea and circled her spoon about her cup demurely. ‘Father’s had some rather wonderful news actually: Lord Whitely has agreed to fund mass production of some of his inventions.’
Kieran swallowed his distaste with his tea at the mention of Lord Whitely’s name. Long how he’d ached to tell the owner of their small farm to stick his power over the tenanting Clancy family up his pompous Cambridge arse.
‘Is that so?’ Kieran said, feigning what he hoped was a mixture of mild curiosity and politeness.
‘Yes, there’s a factory in Kilrush that will start producing them next month.’
‘Truly?’ Kieran said, trying to maintain his composure, but all he could envisage were those scales dipping dramatically back against him.
Maeve nodded, her face alight with excitement. ‘Lord Whitely has invited us to dine at the family estate this Sunday to celebrate the partnership. His son is returning to Killaloe.’
Those scales weren’t only dipping now; they were set to fall over. He’d heard from Eileen that Maeve’s mother was distantly related to an earl, rendering her just passably genteel, and, even though it was slightly beneath a gentleman to work in commerce, this fact also seemed forgiven of O’Shannassey now. Such social elevation meant any hope Kieran had with Maeve was fast disappearing. Whitely’s rich but unattractive son was known to be looking for a wife and he would surely take an interest in her. And Maeve’s parents would never choose the tenant over the lord for their daughter; an aristocratic Englishman would win such a battle without contest.
Kieran had little choice but to seize this rare opportunity to win her affections, right now, while he still had any possible hope.
‘Sounds grand,’ he said, opting for nonchalance and changing the subject. ‘Another game of chess?’
‘I do believe you are a better chess player than I, Master Kieran,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I should challenge you to a game of cards instead. My cousins taught me well as a child and I don’t mind telling you I could fair whip you at whist.’
Bold but never cocky, he reminded himself.
‘I’m sure you could fair whip me at many games Miss Maeve.’
He was rewarded with another blush. ‘Really, Master Kieran, you shouldn’t say such things…’ She looked to the open kitchen door and he took advantage of her momentary distraction, taking her hand before she could stop him.
‘Maeve, I…’ He’d been about to declare his feelings but instead he took one look at her shocked face and parted lips and found himself kissing her, a sudden, heated event that took them both by surprise. Passion flooded through him as he poured all that yearning for her into the moment, before pausing to read her expression, knowing her first reaction to him was crucial. Kiss me back, he pleaded silently, and his heart leapt as she swayed towards him, but they were interrupted by a distant voice.
‘Kieran! Kieran, where are you?’
He would have done his best to ignore it but Maeve had pulled away, startled, and Kieran took a deep breath, cursing his brother Liam for his unbelievably confounded timing.
‘Excuse me,’ he said, sending her what he hoped was his most irresistible smile before standing and walking over to open the front door.
‘Here,’ he called, stepping out and bracing himself against the unwelcoming day. The rain was still falling and he pulled his coat over his neck, wishing he’d grabbed his cap. Liam turned and spied him, letting out a whoop of excitement as he ran down the cobblestone road, nearly losing his footing as he skidded to a halt.
‘It’s arrived. We got it!’ he panted. ‘It’s ours, Kieran. All ours!’
Kieran’s annoyance with his brother evaporated as he stared back, barely believing the news as he took the outstretched letter from Liam’s hands and read it under his coat to shield it from the rain. But there it was, in black and white.
‘Land,’ Kieran breathed and they looked to one another in a moment of pure joy before embracing right there in the street.
‘We have land,’ Kieran cried as they danced about now, drenched by the rain but uncaring as passers-by stopped to watch, sensibly beneath umbrellas.
‘Land, Mrs Flannery, land, Mr Leary,’ Liam yelled to their neighbours who were smiling with them.
‘It came then, lads?’ Mr Leary said.
‘Aye, it came.’ Kieran patted the letter, now safely in his inside pocket, barely able to hold back his tears.
‘You’re lucky you’ve got such a way with words there, Liam,’ Mr Leary observed. ‘They don’t give it away like they used to, from what I hear.’
‘We’ll have to pay some money off over time, but it’s nothing we won’t be able to handle,’ Liam told him, still beaming.
‘So they’re providing free passage for you to cross the ocean then they’ll just hand it over,’ Mrs Flannery said, shaking her head in wonderment. ‘Imagine that.’
Rainwater poured down upon Kieran as he looked at those old, familiar faces, lined by grief and hardship as so many of the locals were, yet finding it within themselves to rejoice in their neighbour’s good fortune. He tried to take in the enormity of what this could mean. He wasn’t the only one to leave; the Irish were emigrating in droves, forced to seek whatever work they could find in foreign cities or, worse still, taking to the crowded poorhouses – a wretched existence indeed. But this…this was something else altogether. This was opportunity. A fresh start in a new game. A chance.
‘The great southern land,’ Liam said, looking at him, then laughing at his own incredible words. ‘I’m still trying to believe it.’
‘Aye, you can believe it alright,’ Kieran said, grinning at his brother before spying Maeve as she stood at her parents’ door. ‘We’re going, the whole lot of us,’ he said, more meaningfully now, ‘as a family.’ He let the emphasis rest on that last word and Maeve sent him a tremulous smile, the scales tipping back with force.
‘Your father’d be well proud, lads – and your good mother too, God rest her soul,’ Mr Leary said and Kieran felt the tears well and fall now. ‘Never forget your roots though, boys. You’re Irish first and foremost – make no mistake.’
He watched as Maeve dipped her gaze and closed the door and wondered if her father had a vial that could alter the loyalty to Ireland that ran through all their veins. It had brought them nothing but heartache so what use was it in the end?
‘Not for much longer, Mr Leary,’ Kieran told him, ‘we’ll be Australians. Free men…on Clancy land. Clancy owned.’
Far away from the weight of English oppression, no longer mere Irish pawns, pinned in their corner of the chessboard.
The dark clouds rumbled above and Kieran bared his face to the lashing sky, letting the wonderful news wash through and consume him.
‘Checkmate,’ he told the rain.
Eileen Murphy was dancing. Not just a waltz or even a quadrille, this was a fully impassioned, whirling Irish jig. But why not? It wasn’t every day you found out your prayers had been answered and you were moving hemispheres with your entire family to New Holland, or ‘Australia’ as people now called it. Not as a convict like so many other poor souls from her country, but as free men and women to own land and build homes, with a legacy to pass down to their children. She had three already, Thomas, James and Matthew; her husband Rory often boasted he wanted a dozen sons named after all twelve apostles by the time they were done. Eileen wasn’t too sure about that. A little girl named Mary would be nice too.
Rory picked her up in his burly arms and twirled her high and she laughed with rare abandon. Life had been harsh living as a tenant all these years, bowing and kowtowing to Lord Whitely and his horrible family like they were some kind of undeserving gods. Then there were these recent, cruellest years when there’d been barely enough to eat. She still blamed her parents’ deaths from the pox on the widespread starvation, no matter what anyone said. They’d been so weakened none of her cures could save them, despite nursing them both around the clock.
But that terrible grief was behind them now, thanks to Liam’s cleverness with words, and they had their ma and da to thank for that. The English didn’t allow the poor Irish masses an education but their parents had schooled them anyway, passing down a family tradition of teaching each generation to read and write.
‘Knowledge is power,’ her father often used to say. ‘You don’t know what you don’t know until you learn.’
That adage had always confused Eileen somewhat but Liam, in particular, had taken the concept on and was always burying his head in whatever books he could find. Unfortunately they were rare commodities but the newspapers came to town once a fortnight and Liam would pore over every word before penning versions of what he read himself. His writing had consequently flourished. And now her youngest brother had used this skill to its utmost advantage, convincing the powers-that-be that a country on the other side of the world needed their farming skills and non-criminal selves. They’d even been granted free passage!
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