by Vicky Adin
“I have a proposition to put to you.”
In all the time she’d known him, Philip had never made improper advances and, given her place in the household, she couldn’t consider such an advance now.
“Proposition? Ah, no. I don’t think it would be right for you to do that. Not right at all. Your mother wouldn’t approve and I’d lose my job.”
Philip laughed, a little too loudly. He looked about to see if anyone had heard him – but no one else was in the garden, or anyone at the window, that she could see.
He lowered his voice. “Not that sort of proposition – a business proposition.” Philip extended his arm against the tree near her head. “I just don’t know how I’m going to pull it off.” Again Brigid heard that defeated tone, but he soon brightened. “When I came out to the stables, I heard you talking to someone. Who was it?”
Brigid dropped her head as she coloured from her neck up. “You’ll think me foolish, maybe. But when I’m troubled, I talk to God. It helps me get my thoughts in order.”
“I supposed it might be something like that. Well, I’m not much good at that sort of thing. But would you mind if I talked to you instead, to put my mind in order?”
Brigid nodded mutely, wondering how much longer she could stay in the garden before she was missed indoors.
“Not here. Come with me.” He led the way into the cool, splintered light of the stables where the two carriage horses, Meg and another draught horse, and two riding horses were kept. Speaking softly to a couple of them, he stroked their muzzles as he passed.
He swept some straw off a bench seat fitted against the stable wall so they could both sit.
“Remember on the ship I said I’d take you around town to art galleries and museums and we could attend galas together? Well, I’ve still got plans for something like that.”
“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t think it’s possible. Not now I work for your mother. It wouldn’t be fitting.”
“That’s what everyone says, including my father, which is why I’m at a loose end. He won’t listen to me, and I don’t agree with him. Australia is a new country. It’s time to make our own rules and do things our way.”
Thoughts of Jamie filled her mind. He’d said the same thing: a new life, a new country, new ways. Maybe such a life was possible.
Animated now, Philip spoke quickly, trying to get all his ideas out in one go. “Your needlework skills are outstanding. I’ve never seen anything like it – and I’ve seen lots of lacework. I want you to work for me at Harrison Browne Drapers, but I need to build up a mystique about you first – an allure, like you have secrets that are only revealed through your lace designs, if anyone can decode them.
“I’d planned for a new tailoring and dressmaking department where we would sell made-to-measure gowns and accessories utilising your lace. Later we could expand, employ more staff, do napery and bed linens – ready-made items, rather than just selling goods for people to make their own. Your lace would be the drawcard.”
Brigid’s unrealised craving for such an opportunity began to course through her. She turned towards him, to be sure to catch every word.
“I’ve invented a history for you – either as a descendant of Irish aristocracy or of French descent. I even made up some pseudonyms for you: Lady Catherine Ravenscraft – combining your dark hair and craftsmanship – or possibly Madame Brigitte le Mercier, the French word for haberdasher.”
He raised his arm and swept his hand from left to right as if seeing a banner. “Can’t you see the headline in the papers?” He lowered his hand, dropped it between his knees and bent his head. “Unfortunately, my father has pooh-poohed the idea, and I don’t have the wherewithal to stand alone.”
Brigid listened, astounded by his lofty plans. A thread of hope had flickered within her as he’d put her dreams into words, but reality soon took over. The pretence he considered necessary sat uncomfortably with her. She remembered all the rows she’d overheard, and what Mrs B had said just an hour ago.
“They sound grand, and I wish you well with them. I truly do, but I don’t think it’s honest to ask me to pretend to be something other than what I am. I’m not rich, or famous, or important. You can’t cheat people like that. And I’d get found out. Sure as eggs is eggs, and it would be bad for you when that happened. If you build something on a bed of lies, it will fall down.”
Philip looked at her, disappointment etched on his face. “But don’t you find it a bit exciting? The thought of trying something original?”
“Aye, I do,” she reassured him, momentarily putting her hand over his. “It would be my dream to have a wee shop to sell my handcraft. But the likes of me don’t get chances like that. Anyway, if your father says nay, then it isn’t possible. Is it?”
Philip’s shoulders drooped. The months of wrangling with his father had taken its toll, and he was close to admitting defeat. The only bright spot in the whole scheme was Sam. He’d agreed to invest in the expansion if Philip’s father allowed him to use the Harrison Browne brand as a starting point. Once he’d built up a reputation and clientele, they could talk more about other branches elsewhere. Sam had given him hope. His father killed it.
“No, it isn’t,” he conceded. “Without the company name, I have no starting point. No money, no influence, and no credentials.”
“Brigid?” Mavis’s voice drifted to the pair who sat silently inside the stable not knowing what more to say to one another.
There seemed no way forward, but Brigid had not wanted to leave him alone while he looked so dejected.
“Where is that girl?” Mavis said, her voice coming closer. “Brigid.”
“I’d better go. Don’t look so glum. There’s an old Irish saying:
May the wings of the butterfly kiss the sun. And find your shoulder to light on.
To bring you luck, happiness and riches. Today, tomorrow and beyond.
Don’t despair, Master Philip. It takes time to build castles. I’m coming, Mavis.”
And with a swish of her skirt she was gone.
11
Consequences
Townsville
20th June 1887
“Are you James O’Brien?”
Jamie hoped his face would not betray him. The sight of the police constable had set his insides churning. “Aye, I am. What of it?” He continued loading the ice onto the wagon, certain any nervousness would be covered by physical exertion.
“I need to ask you some questions.” The constable removed his notebook and pencil from his pocket.
“Oh aye? What about?” Jamie turned and headed back into the store for another block. Nearly two months had passed since the day he, Sally and Maggie had taken the trip into the hills. There’d been no talk that he’d heard of in that time, but he couldn’t trust that someone hadn’t seen something – but what, and who?
“Do you know a Miss Margaret O’Neill?” the man called after him.
Jamie swayed under the weight of the block of ice. He rested it against the side of the wagon and looked at the constable. “What’s it to you?”
Should he admit to knowing her?
“It seems she’s gone missing.”
Now that was an odd thing to say. Maggie was no more missing than he was. She was still with Sally at the hotel. Mrs Emily was being ever so helpful.
“Missing?” he echoed, as he lifted the ice into place and got another.
“Yes, missing.” The man trotted after him, obviously getting irritated. “Do you have to repeat everything I say?”
Jamie found it difficult to talk with the weight of the ice. “I’m just making sure I understand what it is that you’re asking me, officer,” replied Jamie as smoothly as he could.
“Do you know anything about her whereabouts?”
“Why?”
“Just answer the question.” The man turned red in the face and shifted his weight from foot to foot.
“Not unless you tell me why you want to know. Where she
is is her business, is it not?” He hoped he was right.
“Not when we’ve had a report.”
“Report about what?” He was stalling for time, and he knew it. So did the prickly copper.
“This is getting us nowhere. If you don’t answer me I shall have to take you down to the station where you will be forced to speak to the sergeant.”
“Don’t go actin’ like a cur chewing a wasp over a little t’ing now. I’m only asking so I know how best to help. Now, is there anything wrong with that, I ask ye?”
By this time, the constable was behaving exactly as Jamie had described and almost spluttered with indignation. “You are supposed to be helping the police with their enquiries. Not helping someone escape the law.”
“Is that what she’s doing? Escaping the law?” Jamie grinned. He knew he’d gained the upper hand. This little pipsqueak knew nothing.
The constable admitted, “Well, no, not exactly. But we do need to find her.”
“Aye. Well, tell me why and I’ll see if I know anything. Otherwise, can ye let me go about my business? I’ve deliveries to do.”
Huffing and puffing, the constable stepped in front of Jamie, blocking his way. “We believe something untoward may have happened to her,” he said in a voice barely above a whisper. “It’s come to our attention that Michael O’Neill may have left the area since he’s not shown up for work for several weeks. Or been home either, it seems. The place is deserted. About the same time, neighbours reported seeing Miss O’Neill being helped into a buggy by a woman and drunken man. She hasn’t been seen since. There is concern Mr O’Neill has taken her. Now, do you or do you not know anything about these incidents that can help with our enquiries?”
Jamie breathed in and out slowly. Their trick had worked.
“Don’t care about the O’Neill man, but Maggie was sick. Miss Sally from Queens Hotel asked me to help take her there to get better – and I wasn’t drunk. As far as I know she’s still there safe and well. Along with the girls.”
“Girls? What girls?”
“Laura and Jane, of course. Her nieces. They look after each other. Thick as thieves they are, the three of them – oh, pardon me. I meant no offence.”
The man scribbled notes in his book and put it back into his pocket. “Thank you. You have been most helpful after all. I shall check on their welfare. Good-day.”
Jamie climbed onto the wagon and clicked the reins to get the bullocks moving. He was shaking through and through and was glad of something to do with his hands. He needed to get a message to Sally, but he felt certain the police had nothing other than a missing person. And in this country a man could please himself when and where he went.
A few hours later he called into the pub to drop off the ice as usual. Sally came out as soon as he pulled the wagon to a stop.
“I got your message. Don’t worry, Maggie and the girls are fine. Emily wouldn’t let the constable speak to the girls at all. They were too scared anyway. Poor things. Their eyes were nearly bulging from their heads. Maggie was working in the kitchen, and Emily insisted on being with her so he wouldn’t interrupt her work for too long. I told him the same as you did. I asked you to help me bring Maggie here because she was sick. Emily backed me up.”
Jamie hugged Sally and swung her around, relief surging through him. He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead. “You are an angel, Sally Forsythe. Now let me unload this ice and you can tell me what else was said.”
After Jamie had installed the block into the icebox, they talked in lowered voices in the cool room.
“Maggie hardly said a thing – but then she hasn’t for weeks. When asked a question, if she could answer with a nod or a shake of her head, she did. She admitted she and her brother had had a fight; she had no memory of anything else that happened that day, and she had no idea where her brother was now.”
Jamie held Sally’s upper arm, anxious again. “And did he believe her?”
“He did,” Sally reassured him. “Especially when I told him the girls had come running to me for help, and when I got there I found her unconscious on the floor, burning up with fever. I never mentioned O’Neill, and the copper didn’t ask me if I’d seen him. I got to tell you though, Jamie, I’m worried about your Maggie.”
Jamie nodded. Maggie had become increasingly withdrawn as the weeks passed. She never spoke of anything that happened that day. She worked stolidly in the kitchen in exchange for their bed and board, and a whole day could pass without her speaking. Some days she just got up and walked out the door, and didn’t return for hours. When she did, she didn’t seem able to tell them where she’d been.
The girls continued to go to school as usual and regained some of their youthful exuberance, but even they couldn’t seem to bring Maggie out of her shell. Jamie couldn’t either.
They’d sit together on the back porch, or go for short walks, since her strength had left her, but she hardly spoke even then.
He did all the talking, full of ideas for the future. Where they would live, him and Maggie and the girls all together, and how happy they would be. “Imagine it, Maggie. Would you like that, aye?”
She nodded. “Aye. ’Twould be nice for the girls,” was all she said, her voice flat and distant. Often she would sit staring off into space, never once letting on what was in her thoughts, never mind how much prodding Jamie did.
He wasn’t sure why she was so weakened. She’d not had the fever like they were telling everyone, but only Sally and he knew that, and maybe the girls, if they understood it all. The fight had taken it out of her, and she had taken days to recover. The bruises turned many shades of blue, purple and yellow before she could walk properly again.
The story they’d told Emily McKendrick was as close to the truth as they dared yet still remain credible. She had believed them. She knew Michael O’Neill was a violent bully, and was prepared to shelter the woman and the girls, if only to get them away from him for as long as was needed.
Jamie sighed. “Aye. You’re right to be worried, I think, Sally. I had hoped Maggie would regain her spirits and we could marry, but time’s passing and little’s changed. Maybe I should get her away from here. What do you think? Should we go see Brigid?”
At the mention of Brigid’s name, Sally felt a load lift off her shoulders. How strange. On the ship, she’d considered herself the stronger of the two, but Brigid had a way with her that might bring Maggie out of her apathy. “Aye, Jamie. I think you might be right there. Brigid could be the answer to your prayers.”
* * *
Townsville
17th July 1887
Sunday was Sally’s least favourite day of the week. The bar was closed, and not being much of a churchgoer like the others, she spent the day idly wasting away the hours. A walk through the Queens Gardens among the palms, figs and frangipani in the cooler months after the unbearable heat of summer often filled a pleasant hour or so. She found it refreshing.
On this particular Sunday, she’d intended to write to Brigid, but found the task laborious, and she wasn’t quite sure what she would say anyway. She’d failed to come up with anything definite in the six months she’d promised Brigid it would take; Jamie was in trouble and needed help, but she couldn’t bring herself to write about that sequence of events; and she was fretting about Mr Carruthers, who had not let up. Despite the fact she had deliberately let him win a few card games to restore his standing with his colleagues, his advances towards Sally had become more pressing. She’d bluffed, cajoled and hinted, all to little avail. A walk would be a reprieve.
The distant crunch of shoes on the shingle path went unnoticed until they were nearly upon her. A fleeting thought – men walking, not ladies – and a man appeared on either side of her.
Her startled gasp was cut short when one of the men linked his arm through hers and muttered, “Keep your mouth shut or you’ll get this in your side.” A sharp pinprick pierced her dress midway down her ribs.
The other man raised his Der
by hat briefly. “Good day to you, Miss Forsythe. If you would care to accompany us, there is someone who wishes to speak with you.”
“What if I don’t want to go with you?” Her voice faltered, belying her haughty look and body language. The knife – at least she assumed it was a knife; she hadn’t dared look – pressed harder against her skin.
“I think you will. Let’s take things nice and easy, shall we?”
Sally agreed.
“Wise decision. We shall continue to the end of the path and pick up the carriage waiting for us.” His voice was cordial as he clasped his hands behind his back and began to promenade. He looked casually around as if he was simply enjoying the fresh air and scenery with two friends, but she heeded his instruction.
“Where are you taking me?”
“I told you, someone wants to speak with you.” His tone didn’t change. Anyone observing from a distance, but unable to discern his words, would not have taken any notice of the trio enjoying a Sunday walk.
“Which someone? And why the need for these means?”
“It seems you’ve been less than co-operative. Stop asking questions and do as you are told.”
They boarded the barouche – the man with the knife sat beside her, while the other man sat opposite, wearing a smug smile – and the driver set off at a steady clip towards the slopes of Castle Hill. They travelled in silence until the vehicle turned onto a long lane bounded by an avenue of trees. The circular driveway led to a grand, single-level house with shaded verandahs, latticework and several sets of steps, set in the middle of a large expanse of lawn. It spoke of money and power.
She knew immediately who had summoned her.
They alighted and the man who had spoken escorted her up one set of steps, through the French doors, open to the fresh air, and into an elegant library.
She decided to go on the attack. “What is the meaning of this, Mr Carruthers? I’m not partial to being kidnapped and brought here against my will. I wish to leave. Please instruct your man to take me back to the hotel immediately.”
