by Téa Cooper
Sucking in a breath, she took another two steps towards him. Her heart was thundering like a drum, she had no idea why. The darkness, the swirling smoke, the heavy cloud of perfumed incense made her feel distinctly queasy and more than a little scared. She placed the paper in his hand and waited, her fingers curled around the beads of the suanpan as though they could offer some protection.
‘It says suanpan yours.’ He screwed up the piece of paper and tossed it down on the ground.
With a cry Elizabeth bent and picked it up, stuffed it into the pocket of her skirt.
‘Go!’ He pointed a long finger at the door. ‘Go!’
Not waiting to be told a third time, Elizabeth fled through the crowd waiting to be served and outside into the soothing sunshine.
Once her breathing settled, she went back to the warehouse and checked to make sure there was nothing she’d missed. Then she went out the back to the kitchen and collected up the teapot, the two cups and the tin of jasmine tea, and the blue and white ginger pot. She packed them into one of the woven bamboo boxes that held the kitchen supplies, attached the heavy chain to the door, locked up and made her way home.
The banging and crashing coming from the front room told her Michael had arrived home, so she hurried upstairs and buried the bamboo box beneath her petticoats where she was certain he wouldn’t find it, then ran downstairs.
She barged into the room and slammed her hands onto her hips. ‘What have you done?’
Michael pulled himself to his feet and looked sideways at her. ‘Done? I’m packing up. The Li brothers have signed the deeds; the warehouse is theirs. We’ve got two days to be out of the cottage before Bayer’s brother takes over.’
‘That’s not what I’m talking about, as you very well know.’ All her pent-up emotion and anger bubbled to the surface and she took two steps towards him and slammed the flat of her hand against his chest. ‘I hate you!’
His large hand wrapped around her wrist and forced her hand down to her side. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘Jing’s gone. Gone to Bathurst. You sent him away.’
‘I did no such thing.’
‘I spoke to Mr Li. He told me.’
‘I’ll put money on the fact he didn’t tell you I’d sent Jing away because I didn’t.’
She rocked back on her heels. ‘Well, who did?’
‘Come and sit down and we’ll sort this out.’
‘I don’t want to sit down, and stop talking to me as though I am a half-witted nincompoop.’
‘Oh that’s the last thing I think you are, me little …’
‘Don’t call me that!’ She spat the words at him, spun on her heel and presented her back. ‘I’m not your darling.’
Outside the window the poppies nodded their stupid heads against the blue cornflowers, the same blue as her ginger pot. She clamped her lips tight. She would not cry. Crying was for girls and she was no longer a girl. She was a woman. A woman with a heart in grave danger of breaking.
‘Why has Jing gone?’ Her voice hitched on a painful note and she bit down on her lip, relishing the coppery taste of her blood.
Michael let out a long-suffering sigh and the chair groaned in sympathy as he lowered himself. ‘The Li brothers decided it was for the best.’
‘Why? Why would they do that?’
‘Elizabeth, me … It’s for the best. He’s gone. Not coming back. By the time we reach Sydney he’ll be on the high seas, heading home.’
Unable to control her scream of despair, Elizabeth flew up the stairs and burrowed under her eiderdown.
Twenty-One
Maitland Town, 1913
Jane rammed a piece of bacon between two crusts and rushed for the back door.
Bessie blocked her path. ‘Where are you going in such a hurry?’
‘To the auction rooms.’
‘Without breakfast?’
She waved the doorstep sandwich. ‘I’ll have a cup of tea when I’m there.’
‘Who is going to keep Miss Elizabeth company? Mr Quinn’s in Sydney again.’
‘She doesn’t want company. She’s still in bed, I checked on my way downstairs. Her door is closed.’
Elizabeth spent more and more time in her room, and when she wasn’t, she sat outside on the verandah staring into space.
‘I think Dr Lethbridge is coming again today,’ said Jane. ‘It might be a good idea to mention what’s going on.’
‘Not my place.’
‘Bessie, please.’ She turned on her most angelic smile, the one that always earned her an extra slice of cake. ‘I’ve got so much to do. The last of the auctions is today and we have to set up for Mrs Penter’s exhibition.’
Any excuse to leave the house. Since Elizabeth’s turn, her episodes of vagueness and apparent detachment had multiplied from an hour here or there to days when she didn’t leave the security of her room. It made Jane uncomfortable. Timothy and the distraction of the impending exhibition were a godsend.
‘Oh! We do, do we?’
‘Of course Mr Penter will be helping. It’s his mother’s exhibition and he knows how she likes her work presented.’
‘You watch yourself, young lady. There’s enough gossip going on about this family without you adding more woes.’
‘Gossip? What gossip?’
‘Never you mind. Off you go, and I’ll pass the message on to Dr Lethbridge. You can explain your absence to Mr Quinn when he gets home.’
Jane slithered out of the door and pulled it closed behind her. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Michael for days. When he was home he was locked in his study, and the rest of the time he was in Sydney doing whatever it was he did. She’d run the last two auctions almost single-handed because John was busy with deliveries; standing up in front of the crowd with a gavel in her hand was not anything she planned to do again in a hurry.
A crowd greeted her at the auction house. Not the usual drop-ins checking the upcoming sale goods, but people huddled in groups chatting, or so it seemed.
It wasn’t until she reached the bottom of the stairs that the buzz of conversation halted and all faces turned towards her. The silence was positively strange, like the time years earlier when she’d walked into the dining room in her nightgown when Michael and Elizabeth had guests for dinner. Jane glanced down at her shirt and blouse and straightened her tie. Nothing seemed amiss.
John must have sensed her confusion because he left his position at the front of the room and came over to her. ‘Morning, Miss Jane. We didn’t know if you were coming.’
The bell over the door tinkled as a group of women left. No bags in their hands, no carefully wrapped packages. Most peculiar.
‘I’m here for the auction.’
‘Is Miss Quinn feeling better today?’
His voice rose to a boom and the faces turned again.
For goodness sake, did everyone in the town need an update on Elizabeth’s health?
‘What’s going on, John?’ Jane hissed the words, hoping they wouldn’t carry.
‘Nothing for you to worry about, Miss Jane. A few people enquiring after Miss Quinn. They haven’t seen her out and about so they’re a bit worried.’
More like Mrs Witherspoon and her cronies dining out at Elizabeth’s expense.
‘She’s perfectly well. I’m here for the last auction and then I’ll begin setting up the exhibition. Mr Penter will be along soon …’ She let her words drift away. Something about the inquisitive looks on people’s faces told her she’d said something wrong. ‘We may as well start since there’s such a crowd, John. Are you ready?’
Her words seemed to flick some sort of switch and the rumble of conversation picked up again. A few more people crowded in the door and it was as though the atmosphere had magically been wiped clean.
‘Gotta go and get the ledgers and the cash bags,’ said John.
‘I’ll come with you.’ Perhaps if she could get him alone for a minute he might tell her truthfully what was going on.
; He stepped into his little cubby hole of an office and swung open the safe to remove the cash bags. Michael had always insisted John deposit the money in the bank every afternoon, said if it was known around town, no one would bother breaking into the premises. He’d been right. They’d never had a break-in, although it might have more to do with John’s six-foot frame and wide shoulders. In a previous life he’d been a coalminer. Elizabeth had offered him a job when he and his wife moved into town so their children could attend school. He had worked his way up to manager of the auction house, but he still had a room out the back, and with his broad shoulders and bull neck he made a formidable night watchman, even though his stature contrasted sharply with his passive nature.
Jane closed the door behind her and rested her shoulders against the frosted glass panel. ‘John, tell me the truth. What was everyone talking about?’
‘Miss Quinn’s turn. Told you.’
‘There’s more to it than that, isn’t there?’ she persisted. ‘What specifically about Miss Quinn’s turn?’
John huffed and puffed for a moment then threw himself down in the swivel chair. ‘I’m not one to go with gossip …’
‘But …?’
‘Miss Quinn’s turn reminded people of the past. Of when the pair of them first came to town.’
‘What’s so special about that?’ It was years earlier. Forty years, and goodness only knows how many months and days. They arrived from Hill End, bought the inn, started the auction house. There was nothing new in that.
‘Bit strange brother and sister living together for so long and neither of them, harrumph, getting married like.’
‘Getting married? Why would they do that? They’re brother and sister, and the best of friends.’
They never seemed to argue like Major and Mrs Witherspoon, or Bessie and her beleaguered husband. Why, she’d seen Bessie clock the poor man over the head with a saucepan once when he’d dropped the coal scuttle all over her clean floor.
‘Not something I like to discuss with a young lass.’ John’s skin took on a sort of purple tinge, as though he’d caught his breath and couldn’t sort it out.
‘I think you better tell me.’ She wasn’t going to have gossip spread around about Elizabeth, especially not because she’d got overheated and had a bit of a turn. Although the whole episode, and her behaviour since, was most peculiar.
‘Might be better if you talked to Mrs Cohen.’
Jane had no intention of talking to the dispatch clerk. She couldn’t stand the simpering ninny who spent her entire time pandering to Michael’s every whim.
‘I’m talking to you, John. Come on. Otherwise I won’t pass on any more tips for the races.’
Her words hit him right where it mattered—his hand reached for his breast pocket. He always brought the form guide for her to have a look at before race day. It was all easy, logical. The winner could be picked a mile off if she took a moment or two to study it. As for betting, he’d offered numerous times to place a bet for her but she’d never bothered; knowing she was correct was enough.
‘This is going to have to be between you and me,’ said John. ‘I don’t want no one knowing about this conversation.’
‘Come on, you know I can keep a secret.’ She raised one eyebrow and smiled into his eyes. It was one of Elizabeth’s traits. Asking a question without doing so.
It worked.
‘Thing is, some people say there’s more to Mr Quinn than meets the eye. Irish, they always have the gift of the gab, that’s what made him a good auctioneer. Can make you believe you can do or be anything you want to be.’
True enough. He’d done that for her the very first day she’d met him.
‘Thing is, there’s lots of people saying that’s what he did. Turned up here with a fistful of money, bought the old inn for a song, turned it into one of the most profitable businesses in the area. Built a fine house for Miss Quinn, but like I said, neither of them married. Kept themselves to themselves they have.’
‘How can you say that?’ Most of the people employed in the auction house had a background like hers and John’s, from the orphanage or down on their luck. Elizabeth stepped in and did all she could to get them settled. Then there was Michael’s work for the Labor party—it benefitted hundreds of people. He’d fought long and hard to see better working hours and conditions introduced, supported the minimum wage and half-day trading on Saturdays.
‘Haven’t you ever wondered, miss?’
‘Wondered what, John?’
‘Why Mr Quinn would take you into his home, why you and no one else?’
Not so much Michael, more Elizabeth. They’d taken Lucy in too, but Jane knew what he was getting at. They treated her differently.
‘Because I topped the arithmetic exam, everyone knows that, they sent me to school and evening classes so I could work for them, take over from Miss Quinn.’
‘Why would they want that?’
‘Because I’m good with numbers and because …’ Jane plonked down into the chair in the corner, her heart beating twenty to the dozen. ‘What are you saying?’
John cleared his throat. ‘Have you never questioned where you came from? Who your mother was? Your father?’
Of course she had. At the orphanage it was a constant topic of conversation, not only for her but for everyone. Where they came from and why they were unwanted. She’d almost given up worrying about it, except for the strange slip-up with Timothy. There didn’t seem to be any logical explanation for that. Somewhere she had a mother, and a father, and if they didn’t want her, so be it. She’d worried about it when she was young, but if no one had come forward by now it was unlikely it would happen.
John moved to her side and rested his large hand on her shoulder. ‘Better it comes from me than one of those old crows out there.’ He straightened up, dragged in a breath. ‘Some say Mr Quinn’s your father.’ His words came out in a rush.
It took her a moment to them to sink in. ‘My father?’ And then the picture of Timothy’s father at the gallery in Sydney popped into her mind. What had he said? … you and your daughter … Michael hadn’t corrected him.
‘If that was the case, why wouldn’t he have told me?’ She couldn’t control the tremble in her voice.
‘Maybe he’s intending to and hasn’t got around to it. The answer to his telegram only arrived a while ago.’
‘What telegram?’
‘The one from England.’
‘I’m sure if it was anything important he would have told me.’ And anyway, even if it was true, Michael had jet black hair, or so Elizabeth said, before it went pewter-grey, and eyes as black as the night. She’d got stuck with mousey hair and eyes the colour of dirty dishwater. What could a telegram from England have to do with her? She was born in Australia. She was, wasn’t she? ‘The facts don’t stack up.’ She stood up and smoothed down her skirt, much more in control of the situation now she’d considered the probability. ‘What has my parentage got to do with Miss Quinn taking a turn?’ The whole town had gone crazy. Nothing better to do than invent ludicrous rubbish.
‘I’m sorry, Miss Jane. I didn’t mean to cause no offence.’
‘It’s not your fault, John, and thank you for telling me. I’m not going to take any notice. Mr Penter will be here soon and we have an auction to run.’
She pinned her hat back in place, effectively ending the conversation, and walked onto the auction floor with sufficient aplomb to make Elizabeth proud.
Jane kept her head down and recorded every one of the prices with meticulous care while John ran through the lots. In little more than an hour the sale was over and the money collected, keeping her far too busy to say more than a brief ‘good morning’ to any of the townsfolk or dwell on John’s strange words. Once the crowds cleared she packed up the ledger, took the stairs two at a time before anyone could interrupt, and pushed open the door to Michael’s office, John’s words echoing in her ears.
The familiar smell wafted—tobacco and
the musky sweet aroma of malt whiskey. She stepped inside and closed the door.
Unlike his study at home Michael’s desk was perfectly clean. She dropped down into the chair and ran her hands along the worn timber armrests, swivelling from side to side.
Could Michael be her father? The thought had her rattled. If he was, who was her mother? Not Elizabeth. Apart from the fact she was Michael’s sister, she and Jane had nothing in common either. Elizabeth was tall, statuesque and always impeccably turned out. Jane was short, mousey and plain, just like her name.
The drawer on the right-hand side of Michael’s desk squeaked as Jane opened it. A mass of broken pen nibs and blunt pencils rattled and rolled. She shut it with a disparaging sigh, not knowing what she was searching for. The drawer below revealed nothing of any significance. Turning to the left-hand side she repeated the process. A pile of unused paper and a couple of new notepads.
Resting her elbows on the desk, she dropped her head into her hands. Michael had spent a couple of hours in here the week before, clattering and banging away. What could he have been doing? She had to be missing something. But what? Had this telegram John spoke about anything to do with it? She pushed back the chair and paced around the room, coming to a halt in front of the fireplace. Above it hung a painting of the Cutty Sark under full sail. She ran her finger over the timber frame, tipped it from the wall.
Michael was so predictable.
Stretching up onto her toes, she lifted it off the wall and placed it carefully on the floor. Recessed into the wall was a small safe. She turned the lock and heard the tumbler mechanism click, then tried to pull it open. It held fast.
Jane’s heartbeat quickened; she had no idea what she expected to find in the safe. They say everybody has a secret. Was she Michael’s?
She paced the length of the room. For all Michael’s ability with people, he was a simple man. The combination couldn’t be difficult to fathom. But what would he have used? His date of birth? Too simple even for Michael. More likely Elizabeth’s birth date.
‘One eight, one one …’ Jane paused then gave the tumbler the final turn to five seven. With a satisfying clunk the door swung open.
