by Sonya Heaney
Peter took her condition in with a swift glance. When the road smoothed enough to allow it, he reached across to grip her hand, each squeeze of reassurance bringing her back from a precipice she hardly understood.
Eventually, as they rocked and rolled along, the worst of it receded.
‘I’m really all right now,’ she decided, though she’d like to be indoors somewhere sooner rather than later. They were crawling along at the laziest pace imaginable. Had she any shoes available, Elizabeth would have suggested they walk the rest of the way to wherever it was they were going.
The trail forked and Peter didn’t hesitate as he took her left along a road she knew of but had never travelled down, navigating the route with the expertise of a man who’d been there a time or two before. The entire landscape was covered with a scattering of fallen foliage, the ruts in the dirt brimming with water.
‘We spend so long wishing for rain, and then this happens and I can’t remember why that was,’ Elizabeth said, giving their surroundings an offended look. She was on the verge of showing exactly how miserable and cross she was, but it would be disingenuous to do so with the man who’d slid halfway down a muddy incline in order to retrieve her from the brink of certain death.
He adjusted his hold on the reins and then pressed against her with his arm. The pony snorted in what Elizabeth chose to believe was agreement, and plodded on in its slightly jerky gait.
‘It will be good for the drought. We were running a little low on water,’ Peter said when he straightened again.
‘The land needed to be watered, not drowned. The next time anyone in church thinks to ask for rain, I’m going to have someone in the legal profession look at the wording of their prayers first. We’ll all have to be more specific.’
She looked up to the Heavens and earned one big droplet directly in her eye for her efforts.
And then, just as everything seemed to be working out better than expected, they reached the top of a knoll and found the road flooded badly enough it wouldn’t be safe or sane to attempt to pass. Peter drew the vehicle to a stop.
‘Oh,’ she said, soaked and miserable, but she tried to rally. ‘Perhaps we should try and return to town.’
Town was a long journey back the way they’d come, and now they were so close to home it was the last thing she wanted to attempt. Yes, the worst of the storm had blown off in the direction of the mountains, and the clouds above them were definitely lighter than they’d been an hour ago, but honestly …
‘Don’t worry yet,’ he told her. ‘See that mark there, running along the embankment? It’s already begun to recede.’
He was right. A line of debris formed a stripe across the top of the bank, higher up than the level of the water. Having done its damage, the Murrumbidgee had finally decided to behave.
‘I suppose that’s something to be thankful for.’
‘Oh, good,’ Peter said then, perking up and looking happier than he ought to. She glanced askew to see what precisely was good about any aspect of their situation. Raindrops dripped off the ends of his dark hair as he pointed to a place off to the side, and it was only then that she saw the hut nestled in a small clearing amongst the eucalyptus trees.
He turned them down the old, overgrown road that led to the place, drawing them to a stop right at the door.
‘Go inside while I take care of the animal. The place shouldn’t be locked, and I shan’t be long.’
‘Are you certain?’ she asked, and the question earned her a knowing smile—Elizabeth felt justified in her suspicion.
‘Trust me.’
She supposed she’d have to. As soon as she’d hopped down from the gig, one of his hands steadying her descent, he was gone off to do as he said.
Elizabeth stepped up to the door, wondered if she should knock, and felt distinctly like an intruder. With one glance back over her shoulder to see Peter leading the pony and vehicle towards a crooked old shed, she rapped once on the door in warning and then let herself in. There was, after all, only so much time a woman could spend out in the rain.
She knew immediately the place was unoccupied but hadn’t been left to rot, unloved, as so many others in the region had been since bushrangers were driven out. More prosperous residents chose larger, newer, and more comfortable residences close to town. In this empty place there was really only one room, though someone had constructed half a wall between the bed and the door to provide a modicum of privacy.
Elizabeth relaxed with relief to see the place wasn’t the dangerously rundown hovel she’d suspected it would be. ‘Trust me …’
She hadn’t brought gloves with her when she’d set out, she had no hat, and by then her boots had spent so long marinating in the mud she assumed they were beyond saving. It all left her feeling exposed in a way she’d never been before, but they were well past the point of decorum—she and Peter, surely. There’d not been much time to worry about manners or humiliation when they’d been fighting against the river’s currents, skirts swirling and arms and legs akimbo.
Now, though, in the loud silence of an empty hut and surrounded by a downpour to raise the dead, things felt different.
She rushed to remove her stockings, and then looked at them bunched in her hands for a moment, horrendously self-conscious. What should she do with them? Hide them? Burn them? She bunched them more tightly and stuffed them under the table, sending an apology out to whomever would discover the things in the future.
When Peter returned a few minutes later, arms loaded, he took note of her studying the sparse decorations on the wall as he struggled through the doorway, bumping against the musty collection of papers and books. Elizabeth turned her attention his way. Her eyes fixed on the pile of firewood he’d produced from Heaven only knew where, and he grinned at the disbelief on her face.
‘It’s dry,’ he assured her. ‘Mostly. I’ll get the fire going and then you can show your profound gratitude for my ability to plan ahead.’
He again asked if she was all right; she again said she was. It still wasn’t quite true, but she felt a lot better now there was a roof above them. Peter brushed vigorously at the debris clinging to his waistcoat and it suddenly seemed uproariously funny he still wore it. Elizabeth pressed her hand to her mouth—hard.
He glanced back at her and then knelt on the ground, going about the business of starting the fire.
‘Whose house is this?’ She’d never even known it was there.
‘Now? Nobody’s. Well … that’s not quite true. It’s quite likely it’s mine. It was just given to me, more or less. My grandparents lived here once, and possibly my mother, too, for a time.’
Gradually, the details of the place began to seep into her consciousness. The nicks in the wood of the walls. The scent of timber, stronger than usual that day, she was sure. The careless stitching of the sampler on the wall.
‘I’d hoped …’ Peter turned rueful. ‘I suppose I hoped I’d come here one day and find all the answers to questions I’ve had for years. It was a bit silly of me.’
Elizabeth tried to sound positive.
‘You have your grandfather now.’
Ruefulness turned to exasperation. The kindling was already half gone and Peter added a log to the fire.
‘Such as he is.’
‘Such as he is,’ she agreed faintly. The walls seemed to be closing in around them, pulling them nearer to each other in increments.
A tiny part of her anxiety melted away. She blamed it on the casual way he went about his work. He appeared so relaxed there, crouched on the earthy floor, more handsome in his dishevelment than she was, and had she not felt like a drowned rat right then she might have enjoyed the situation.
Against all odds he built a snapping, sparking fire and then rose, eyes drifting to a place somewhere behind her. Elizabeth returned her attention to the sampler, reaching out cautiously, using a gentle touch to shift it into alignment. It would not stay as she put it.
‘It’s no use. Nothing in t
his little house will behave as it should. Believe me, I’ve tried to straighten the thing in the past, but the whole building is on such a lean. Believe me,’ he assured her a second time as she gave it another try for good measure.
She didn’t dare touch the sampler again; the thing was likely to drop right off its nail. Instead, she leaned closer, making out the initials sewn into the corner, jagged and lopsided as they were.
‘C.T.?’ she asked, but didn’t immediately receive a response. The firelight danced around them.
‘My mother’s name was Charity. Such a good Christian name.’
‘It stands for Charity Towner?’
‘It’s only a guess. I doubt I’ll ever know for certain.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘You’ve nothing to apologise for.’ He hands went to the fastenings of his waistcoat, his movements precise.
He continued to undress, apparently too distracted to realise how inappropriate it was. Elizabeth wondered if she should remind him where he was and whom he was with, but that naughty side of herself she had only just discovered kept her quiet. Soon—soon she’d stop him.
Maybe …
Elizabeth forced herself to stop watching, eyes drifting to the table, to the fire, and then back to the embroidered lettering. And then, somehow and despite her better judgement, her eyes drifted back to Peter.
‘It seems the person who stitched it didn’t seem especially pleased about the task.’
‘And if there’s one clue that piece is my mother’s, I remember she always did hate to sew.’
He was out of the garment now, and she watched him move a chair closer to the hearth and spread the waistcoat out over the back of it. His hands had reached the hem of his shirt when he finally caught himself and froze. Wide eyes snapped to her and he stammered, clearly mortified.
‘I apologise. I wasn’t thinking. I’ll just—’ he reached for the waistcoat again, and she stepped up and reached out a hand to stop him.
His eyes were very, very dark as they met hers. Luminous, too, somehow.
Even though she trembled, Elizabeth forced lightness into her tone.
‘You might as well leave it off. If it’s woollen it’ll be hopelessly waterlogged now.’
He watched her in a way she didn’t know if she trusted. Elizabeth fiddled with the mess of her hair, and noticed his attention shift. More self-conscious than before, she scrambled for a more suitable topic, thoughts drifting back across their extraordinary afternoon and settling back in the town.
‘In a way it’s a good thing we’re so isolated. There are a few people in town who’d be more than mortified to find us like this.’
It was true. If they were to have the respect of the sticklers of Barracks Flat society they’d be expected to tackle that flooded road back to Endmoor—fully dressed—and die trying.
‘Not all of them, though. Miss Hall, for example. That little woman,’ Elizabeth demonstrated with her hands. ‘She’d congratulate us for our common sense.’
‘I take it she isn’t really a relation of the Ben Hall, the bushranger.’
‘It’s a story she loves to tease people with, but no. Everyone humours her but we all know it’s just a fantasy on her part.’
Peter took up the rusted poker from the side of the hearth and gave the fire a few unnecessary stabs.
‘She mentioned a place to me. Bungendore,’ he offered, sounding the word out carefully. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘People—your people—have moved further and further out over the years. Perhaps some of them are out that way,’ Elizabeth replied quietly, mesmerised by the collection of colours in the embers. He murmured something unintelligible in response.
‘I wonder why she does it. Talks of bushrangers, I mean.’
Oh, he had to ask that. Elizabeth took a breath and made herself face him directly.
‘I’m told that decades ago she took a fancy to a Ngunnawal man from around here. He’d been given the name Hall by the missionaries; I’ve no idea what it was before that.’
‘A Ngunnawal man?’ Peter reacted to that as though the words were a physical force.
Elizabeth took the poker from him and gave the log a good prod. The metal wobbled in her hand, the handle was loosened from years of use and neglect. The fire did not react well to her abuse; sparks flew up as the log rolled over, glowing.
‘Yes, that’s what I’ve been told. I’ve heard nobody was especially happy about it.’ It was something she didn’t want to share. Not then, and not with him.
‘And what became of that fancy of hers?’ he asked evenly, after a significant pause.
‘By the time the infamous, other Ben Hall was bailing up hotels and raiding towns, Ada’s—Miss Hall’s—Ben had succumbed to smallpox. He died before he could leave for the north with the rest of his people.’
‘Why does she use his name?’
Elizabeth took her time returning the poker to its spot. She didn’t want to share the rest of it.
‘I suppose it was the closest she could come to being his wife.’
Above them the sky dumped such a huge load of water on the roof it nearly rattled the walls. They both looked up at the ceiling, anticipating the inevitable, but it never came.
‘I can’t believe nothing has leaked yet.’
Peter made a sound of agreement. ‘I’m pretty surprised about that myself.’
A remnant of a shiver struck her then. Peter noticed and knelt to add another log, momentarily breaking whatever odd sensation was passing between them.
‘Here, come closer.’ He grunted his approval as she did. ‘There’s nothing dry here for you to dress in, but at least stand over here by the fire.’
She stepped in a puddle as soon as she moved.
‘My clothes are dripping everywhere.’
The flames cast shadows across his face as he studied her. ‘So they are.’
Something about it all felt inevitable. The timing was dreadful, but a lot of things were dreadful right then. She couldn’t control the weather, but there was one thing she could decide for herself.
‘Peter.’ She bit her lip. He’d either say yes or no.
‘Yes?’
She couldn’t believe her boldness, and she rehearsed the line twice in her head before she managed to voice it.
‘Will you help me out of this gown?’
Chapter 20
‘I’m not sure you want me to do that.’
It had been over Christmastime that Peter admitted to himself whatever had been growing between the two of them was more than friendship. And it had been upon his return to the countryside that he’d decided it was best ignored.
Ignorance was easier, however, when the other person involved wasn’t standing there asking him to strip her. It might have been a good time to ask if she’d hit her head in the past hour, if she was in her right mind, but there wasn’t a way to do so without causing enormous offence.
There she stood, looking hopeful—and sane—wide eyes fixed on him, as if her request was normal. Good God.
Hadn’t she any idea what images she’d just put in his head?
Did she have any recollection of what she’d already been through that day?
He took too long to respond.
‘Shocking of me to ask, wasn’t it?’ Her bravery faltered and then collapsed entirely; she focused determinedly back on the fire. Whatever mad bout of bravery had driven her to ask in the first place dissipated, and Peter hated himself for being the cause of her humiliation.
He felt pained. ‘What if you spend a few minutes drying out the front of your gown and then turn and dry the back?’
As plans went, it was a pretty stupid one, but what in the world did she think was going to happen if that dress came off? He thought she’d spent the summer months reading scandalous books. Had she no idea?
Elizabeth shook her head and dripped more of the Murrumbidgee onto the floor.
‘I’m not a rotisserie. And I’m quite serious th
at I’d rather not spend the next few hours wearing this.’ She looked so earnest, and so oblivious. It was dark in the little house, and when she found the courage to look at him again, her eyes were a deeper shade of brown.
Peter silently admitted he’d known how the two of them would end up from the moment they saw the road home was still unpassable. He could—and should—have let his grandfather return her to town instead, no matter how long it took. Vernon Towner might have a passion for shifty behaviour when it came to things of the four-legged or two-wheeled variety, but an instinct told Peter he could trust the man with Elizabeth.
The fire snapped and sizzled as stray raindrops worked their way into the crooked chimney. Its poor construction meant the cottage filled with more smoke than it should, and that the two of them would probably return to the homestead sporting an unfortunate reek.
He knew they could sit and wait for the storm to lose its power in companionable, well-behaved silence. He also knew he was lying to himself.
‘Think about what you’re asking. Please.’
She made a sound that matched the frustration on her face.
‘I feel so ignorant sometimes, about things other women my age know. Other times I feel like a child. I don’t want to be that woman anymore, Mr Rowe, and I think that if you weren’t so determined to be chivalrous you’d admit you don’t want me to be, either.’
Noticing details others might overlook was a characteristic of an artist, he supposed, but for once he wished she was less observant.
She smiled a little. ‘Don’t suggest I’m not in my right mind. I’m cold and a little grimy, which I’m quite sure is to be expected under the circumstances, but that near disaster back at the river made things clearer for me.’
Near disaster wasn’t what Peter would have called it.
‘Elizabeth … are you sure?’ he asked and she nodded, not looking away this time.
‘I am sure.’
She didn’t move as he approached, only doing so when he took her shoulders in his hands and turned her so he had her back. Peter found he was the one trembling then, but she stood straight and obedient and much like a soldier on parade, and it was so very, very Elizabeth of her that some of his guilt ebbed.
