An Uncommon Woman

by Nicole Alexander

  With a frown, the teller stepped sideways. ‘Next,’ he called.

  Edwina pivoted on a heel, the abruptness of the movement startling the two women who stood uncomfortably close. A large bosomed matron scowled at her. Edwina recognised the lady but couldn’t place her until someone called out a greeting and she answered to the name of Mrs Hilton. Edwina ignored the scathing look of condemnation as she bypassed the queue.

  ‘Miss Baker.’ The post mistress called from the other side of the room. ‘Your mail, dear.’ She slid a handful of letters across the bench. ‘The postal rider was late yesterday so he missed the delivery to Mrs Landry’s Inn.’ She leant confidentially across the smooth timber counter. ‘I never did think it likely a woman would do such a thing. Not out here. Don’t you listen to the gossipers.’

  Grateful for the warm words, Edwina moved to the end of the counter and proceeded to check the mail. There was a monthly account for food stores and kerosene and a telegram. She opened the letter as quickly as possible. The contents were brief.

  Instructions carried out. All monies invested. Please advise if further transactions required.

  The sender was noted as a Mr P. Harrow of Harrow Investments, Brisbane.

  Mason was right. Her father was investing in the stock market and heavily, according to the recent bank withdrawal. The significance of the notebook with its names and numbers now appeared clear.

  At the telegraph counter Edwina quickly wrote out a return cable.

  No further transactions required.

  She signed on her father’s behalf, paid the shilling fee and left the building. Once outside, she passed two men who were discussing something with great animation.

  ‘Heard it this morning,’ the first man said. ‘Disappeared sometime yesterday they say, for he didn’t return to the homestead nor was he at his hut. The coppers were sent word but as Fernleigh was a bit of a rover at times they told Charles to give it another day and then they’d send out a search party.’

  Edwina hovered near the two men, her chest beginning to pound.

  ‘Fernleigh’s been manager there for years,’ replied the second man. ‘He’s just as likely to have camped out and will be home in time for supper.’

  ‘Maybe,’ the first man said with thinly veiled scepticism. ‘But if he doesn’t, forty thousand acres is a lot of bush to search.’

  Edwina hurried away, a feeling of dread sitting in her stomach. There was nothing she could do except keep quiet on the subject and hope that Fernleigh was never found. She knew Davidson was responsible; seeing him at the Ridgeway boundary yesterday and then in the kitchen afterwards washing his hands only confirmed what she knew to be a certainty. Davidson had avenged their father.

  She wandered up and down the streets, keeping to the more residential areas and away from the morning shoppers. There was still over an hour to fill before she met with Han Lee and the minutes ticked by slowly as she strolled around the town, pausing in the shade of trees lining the street. Finally she headed towards Dogwood Creek and down to Chinaman’s Lagoon where water-lilies patterned the surface in shades of green and pink. Across the still water a horseman stood silently. Davidson. There was no need for acknowledgment and Edwina turned away and headed back towards the town.

  With no errands to run, no friends to visit and the couple of shillings she’d found in the brass tray in her father’s office saved for food and drink before the return journey home, the waiting nagged at Edwina. She began to question her proposed plan. What if she were wrong? What if the venture failed and they ended up poorer than when they’d begun? The thought of the Brisbane-based broker stymied such fears. Gave her hope and courage, for there was money, should things go awry. But deep in her stomach, Edwina knew it wouldn’t.

  At twelve noon Edwina approached the only place where she believed she may find someone willing to offer her sound advice. It was a risk to do such a thing and as her raised hand acknowledged a waiting Han Lee, she wondered anew at the audacity required, at the rashness of her decision that spurred this undertaking only two days into her father’s illness. But that was one of the reasons for the speed. She would forever worry when it fell to Aiden to manage their financial affairs and, on the other hand, if their father did fully recover, Edwina knew nothing would change. And things needed to change, at least for her.

  ‘I have what you asked for.’ Han Lee passed her a rolled map and a number of papers. ‘As for the quality of the land, I am very sorry, but I could find no-one able to provide information of this kind. Or at least no-one willing to share it with me.’

  ‘Thank you, Han Lee.’

  ‘Are you very sure, Miss Edwina, that you wish to go in here?’ He gestured to the building they stood before, with its extensive verandahs and steeply pitched tiled gabled roof. There were a number of horses tethered under shady trees, three sulkies and an automobile. ‘I am not sure it is appropriate and I worry that –’

  ‘Don’t worry on my account, please. I will be fine.’ Edwina felt far from composed as she opened the gate.

  ‘I will wait for you.’

  The narrow path ended far too soon. Edwina hesitated before the door of the men-only domain and then, with the briefest of pauses, opened the door and walked inside the Guild.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  There was something about being anchored to a chair in the parlour for two days that intensified Hamilton’s senses. He’d refused to allow Aiden to relegate him to an invalid’s bed, and last night he’d come to understand the frailty of the human body, the consequences of which set him at the mercy of the unknown. In the hours when a man should be oblivious to the workings of the dark, Hamilton stayed awake, listening. Gone was the pleasurable warble of the evening birds, the quietening of the homestead, the deepening lull that formed a bridge to sleep.

  It was as if the house were a giant bellow sucking in and exhaling, the rooms creaking in complaint, the iron roof stretching and constricting overhead. The musty earth rose through the floorboards to waft about windows and doors, as the papery crinkle of leaves tumbled on the iron above. The window showed too many stars. It unsettled Hamilton, all that space. The unseeable slithering and crawling things. The unrecalled face of his attacker, out there, somewhere.

  Then in the grey hours before dawn, he saw Caroline sitting near the window painting the emu eggs. He’d called to her; however, it was Edwina who responded, arguing with her brother about who’d won at marbles.

  Now, in the daylight, Hamilton’s eyes were clear and focused. The fuzzy memories that claimed the long hours were gone and everything drew his attention in the dust-layered interior. A scuttling mouse in a corner and a ceiling-lodged spider adding to the weave of webs draping the room. The lizard that snapped up moths above the window and Edwina’s dog, the collie having taken up residence by his feet. Cracks and gaps in floors and walls now appeared particularly bad and he wondered at not noticing the repairs needed before. It was his hearing, however, that had come to the fore when his body would not. Hamilton knew there was a new girl in the kitchen who liked talking out loud and that the bad-tempered Scottish woman was no longer with them, long before Aiden told him.

  The girl he’d seen. Were it not for the scar he may not have known her. But the disfigurement, the youngness of age, the pot belly of a recent birth. Hamilton knew Constance from the creek. The killer of children. Knew what she’d done. Slept with a white man and been told to get rid of the paler-skinned child. Probably under Davidson’s orders, as she was now ensconced in his kitchen. It was their business, and he needed a decent cook. It was best to forget the stockman shouldn’t be hiding blacks on his land. Needs must.

  Known too was that Edwina’s trip to Ridgeway Station appeared to have been successful, not that Aiden was prepared to give his sister any kudos. The boy was too busy berating her. He must do something about that. What he didn’t know was where Edwina had gone to before first light. If his son did not sleep like a child he would have woken at the first
turn of the wheels and rushed to check on the commotion. Instead they were both left to ponder the reason for her trip. She was a busy girl, his Edwina.

  Hamilton sensed the approaching rider, long before anyone appeared. The grandfather clock heralded noon and in the midday quiet the dogs could be heard pulling on their chains, paws finding purchase in the dirt as they strained forwards. It wasn’t the baby lion, a snake or a goanna. There was no tentative growling or barking yet something disturbed them. Jed began the tedious moves of an old dog trying to stand. Hamilton waited and listened. Aiden usually whistled, made a noise of dismounting. Davidson. Well, the stockman made no damn sound at all.

  He heard the horse walking through the grass, the soft creak of oiled leather, a low whinny, then, the slight roll of the saddle as the rider dismounted and the quick tight flip of the reins on the hitching rail. Hamilton leveraged his body upright in the chair, wishing he could cross the short distance to the mantelpiece and take down the rifle. He would make it, but doubted strength would be left to handle the gun.

  Was it his faceless attacker, come back to finish the job? Fernleigh? Saliva pooled in his mouth. Aiden was out checking on Han Lee’s team and Davidson appeared to have gone walkabout.

  It was a man. Tall and broad. Hamilton caught sight of a cream shirt and open waistcoat as the veranda was crossed. Not Fernleigh then. Someone else. Then the knock came. Once. Twice.

  He summoned his strength, pushed the chamber pot under the chair. ‘Come. In.’

  Footsteps. Loud. Assured. Hamilton saw the boots first and then the man.

  ‘Charles Ridgeway, Mr Baker. I hope I’m not disturbing you?’

  What the hell was he doing here?

  The lad waited awkwardly in the doorway. ‘I heard of your troubles. I was sorry to hear of your accident.’

  Was he? Maybe the man was here to confirm what Hamilton wondered, that Fernleigh was responsible for the attack. Maybe he knew nothing about it. Maybe it wasn’t Fernleigh, but who else? ‘Rum,’ said Hamilton, pointing towards his study. He’d expected the worst and instead was faced with the unexpected. ‘Cupboard.’

  Ridgeway glanced about the room, clearly missing nothing, and then went to the study. Hamilton heard him rummaging about, returning with a decanter and single glass. The young man poured him a measure, then as an after-thought added another good dollop.

  Hamilton accepted the glass with difficulty and grunted at a chair. Ridgeway sat the rum on a table, filling the worn horsehair chair opposite with his ropey strength.

  ‘I wanted you to know, Mr Baker, that the debt has been repaid. In full.’

  Guilty then, the boy felt guilty at having been prompted by a woman to fulfil his contractual obligations. Edwina had done well. ‘And?’

  Ridgeway sat back in the chair, the hat perched on a knee. ‘And that I’m sorry for any ill-will between us. You really aren’t going to make this easy for me, are you?’

  Hamilton took a sip of the rum. Maybe he did have the energy to take down the rifle.

  ‘I didn’t know the mess my uncle made of my affairs. He was in control of the estate while I was away. I trusted him implicitly.’

  Why would Ridgeway consider him even mildly interested in his affairs? A person would never get anywhere in the world if they weighed up the contract from the other person’s viewpoint. And one soft response could easily lead to problems with other clients.

  ‘You rather threw me arriving as you did last Monday,’ continued Ridgeway, breaking the quiet. ‘I have to say I was surprised by your –’

  Hamilton held up a palm signalling for silence. ‘Not interested. Luke Gordon?’ he said with effort.

  ‘News travels quickly,’ Ridgeway said wryly. ‘Let’s just say that, as you are obviously aware, I won’t be needing to sell the property, in fact, I’m expanding. I’m sure that’s not something you or Peter Worth wanted to hear? However, your debt has been paid.’

  He spoke politely enough, but Hamilton saw through the veiled words. Ridgeway was finding it difficult to retain the patina of civility, but if the boy hoped for a response he would be disappointed. What interest was any of this when all his plans were dust and it was thanks to this upstart lounging opposite? He didn’t want to have anything to do with Charles Ridgeway, let alone have the boy sitting under his roof paying a courtesy call, a visit that was unneeded and unwanted. Hamilton hated him then. A young man yet to reach his prime. A boy really, only in his mid-twenties. Born of money and name. Bestowed with the chanciest of gifts – ability. God, yes he hated him. Hated his vigour, the sense of entitlement. Hamilton stared at him, long and hard, unblinking, silent. The boy twiddled a hat between his fingers as if uncomfortable. Good, Hamilton thought, slurping at the rum.

  ‘The second reason for my visit,’ Ridgeway began, twirling his hat again, ‘is to ask for your permission to court your daughter Edwina.’

  The glass dropped to the floor and Hamilton coughed violently. He brushed Charles Ridgeway aside when he came to his aid, and the boy picked up the glass, cradling it.

  ‘Can I get you anything, Mr Baker? Are you alright?’

  Hamilton composed himself. What had happened at the station yesterday?

  Ridgeway sat the tumbler on the table. ‘Water?’

  Of course Edwina was a beauty and with his name and contacts Ridgeway clearly believed he could marry who he wanted. He was mistaken. Hamilton knew what Ridgeway thought. What he saw. That Hamilton would be grateful for such a union. That it was a fine match for the daughter of a money-lender, living on a pear-ravaged property, in a creaking house, with a namby-pamby for a son.

  The boy towered over him, finally backing away to take up his seat.

  It was a marriage to rank with Peter Worth’s offspring, perhaps surpass it, considering the lad was clearly friends with the Gordons. And wasn’t this what Hamilton aspired to? A well-placed union for his lovely daughter. The radiance of a good match shining on father and son, an acquisition of respectability, not possible with money.

  Ridgeway waited patiently for a response. Hamilton knew he wouldn’t push his case. There was too much pride involved, as well as a level of expectation. No doubt the boy would think him grateful for the offer.

  ‘Mr Baker?’ said Ridgeway.

  Hamilton thought of the friendship that may have been forged with Peter Worth and then he considered the neighbouring property. For in the end, all transactions came down to the return. All that acreage. With its fair share of prickly pear. Charles Ridgeway was undoubtedly worth a reasonable amount, but now he was beholden to the Gordons and they would want their pound of flesh. Which meant, quite simply, that Hamilton was worth more than the landed stockman who currently waited for a response.

  He could be reasonable, grateful, magnanimous, if he chose, but Hamilton didn’t choose. Even if he didn’t despise the man he’d hardly subject Edwina to another weed-infested block. In its day it had been a fine property with its sprawling ridges and rich soils, its thousands of sheep. Not now. It had been left to decay in the hands of an imbecile while the roaming irresponsible heir chased cows in blackfella country. No, his daughter could do far better.

  ‘Mr Baker, sir, I asked you –’

  ‘No,’ answered Hamilton with more satisfaction than any deal had ever given, pleased by Ridgeway’s reaction, a slightly open mouth.

  ‘Do you mind telling me why not?’

  Hamilton stuttered. ‘I may appear poor,’ he rose painfully slowly, a breathlessness matching each move of his body, ‘but I’ve more money than you,’ he gasped, planting his feet firmly on the floor.

  ‘Maybe,’ replied Ridgeway, sitting the hat on his head. ‘However, we both know money hasn’t got anything to do with your decision. You’re a man who doesn’t like not getting his own way.’

  Gritting his teeth, Hamilton placed one foot in front of the other until he reached the hearth. Here he leant on the mantelpiece. ‘Get out.’

  Charles stood, his face hard. ‘I think the decis
ion falls to Edwina, sir. I only came here out of courtesy.’

  ‘Get out,’ repeated Hamilton.

  ‘With pleasure.’ He strode out of the room. The door slammed.

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  ‘You can’t come in here, miss, it’s not allowed.’ A young man rushed out from behind the desk, blocking the entrance foyer. ‘I have to ask you to leave immediately.’

  Behind him the occupants of the dimly lit room ceased talking to stare in Edwina’s direction.

  ‘I just wanted to speak to someone. To ask their advice,’ she said politely, unaware her presence would cause quite such a fuss. ‘I certainly don’t mean to disturb anyone.’

  Men moved from the long polished bar in order to gain a better view of the intruder. Edwina noted the electric lights hanging from the ceiling in the adjoining room and the pale gold of the painted walls.

  ‘But you are disturbing, miss,’ said the attendant curtly. ‘This is the Guild. It’s for men only. Women aren’t allowed. Please, you must leave. Now.’

  The gentlemen in the adjoining room began talking animatedly.

  ‘But surely an exception can be made? I simply want some advice. Business advice,’ Edwina pleaded. ‘My father’s a member here, Hamilton Baker.’ She glanced at the portraits lining the vestibule, hollow-cheeked men with withering eyes. ‘He suffered an attack of the palsy last Thursday.’

  ‘I wonder then he did not send his son?’

  The reproach came from a grey-haired man. With the interruption the attendant was distracted and Edwina stepped past him, walking quickly down the two stairs, the narrow entrance hall opening up into a large, oblong room hazy with cigarette and pipe smoke and at least fifteen men.