The Cartographer's Secret

by Téa Cooper

  She pushed aside the last of the egg, masked a sniff and plastered a conciliatory smile on her face.

  ‘There’s something more we must discuss.’ Pa unhooked his cane from the tabletop, eased upright. ‘When you’ve finished your breakfast, come to my study.’ And with that he pivoted on his heel and left.

  Evie toyed with the remains of her breakfast, risked Mrs Hewitt’s wrath by leaving the mess, and scuttled down the hallway. Some indiscretion, something serious enough to merit a personal lecture. The days of storytelling and gentle reminiscences had disappeared with Mama’s passing; she’d hardly spoken to Pa in the past few weeks. Perhaps he wanted to give her map back. She hadn’t dared ask.

  As always, Pa’s study door was closed. She knocked then pushed it wide, the smell of the warm sweet whisky Pa liked to drink stronger than usual. Twisting her damp hands behind her back she contemplated a reprimand.

  ‘Close the door, and sit down.’ He gestured to the chair across from him.

  She eased around in front of the desk and hovered, her stomach performing a series of neat cartwheels.

  ‘Sit.’ His voice carried a slight tone of amusement. ‘It’s a bit of a mess, isn’t it?’

  She perched on the edge of the chair unsure how to respond, her gaze wandering from the neatly framed collection of maps to the mounds of paperwork and journals littering his desk.

  ‘I have something for you.’

  She dragged her attention to his face, saw a shadow of the familiar twinkle in his eyes and exhaled. He knew exactly the effect this room had on her, the treasure house of all the stories he’d told over the years. Stories that had papered her childhood and still held her captive. He lifted a large package from his lap and laid it on the desk.

  A wisp of breeze, warm and dry, from the open door behind her grazed her neck and she reached out, then dropped her hand back into her lap.

  ‘Go ahead. Open it.’

  The wrapping snatched against her paint-stained fingers and a tingle of apprehension lifted the hair on her scalp as she pulled at the knot, working the leather thong until it came free. She slipped it from beneath the package before coiling it to save for another use.

  Unwrapping the hessian, she laid bare a leather saddlebag with two buckles at the front and two straps at the back, its rounded edges stamped with a decorative border and brass studs attaching the straps to the bag, as soft to the touch as a pair of kidskin gloves. ‘For me?’

  ‘Aren’t you going to look inside?’

  She elbowed aside a stack of papers and undid the buckles. Her breath caught. Inside she found a collection of paintbrushes and wood-encased graphite pencils each housed tightly in its own small pocket

  ‘Look further. There’s ink and watercolours, a place for your sketchbook and a matching notebook. I had the pencils sent from England. The best in the world, Cumberland Graphite.’

  ‘It’s beautiful.’ The soft calfskin slid smooth against her palms. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And here—’ he leant forward and turned the saddlebag over, ‘—the Ludgrove-Maynard brand. Should you ever lose it the brand will be recognised and it will be returned.’

  ‘I would never lose it.’ From her earliest years, Pa had provided her with drawing paper, paints and inks. And now this. A new set of tools, the most beautiful gift she’d ever received.

  ‘I want you to do something for me while I’m away in Sydney.’

  His words diluted the pleasure his gift had brought—she’d forgotten his announcement in the dining room. He often visited Sydney but rarely stayed for more than a week; arranging Miriam’s wedding would surely take much longer. ‘How long will you be away?’ She couldn’t bear the thought. Both Mama and Pa gone.

  ‘A few weeks, maybe a month or two. I need you here to look after Oxley. He’d be lonely if we all left.’ His concerned gaze brought a rush of heat to her cheeks. Such selfish thoughts. She might not be invited to Sydney but he cared enough to soften what he knew would be a blow with his thoughtful gift. ‘I have a plan, and I need your help.’

  ‘Of course.’ She slid forward in the chair, sitting tall, determined not to miss a single word.

  ‘Last time I was in Sydney I met with Mr Du Faur. We are of the opinion that it is extremely unlikely there will ever be a full and conclusive explanation of Leichhardt’s fate.’

  Her frisson of excitement fizzled and spluttered. Du Faur, fellow of the Royal Geographical Society, was one of the few men, along with Pa, who’d believed the mystery of Leichhardt’s disappearance would one day be solved. ‘What of the telescope?’ Pa had told her all about it. Inscribed L.L.D.H.D. 1845, it had been found in the desert.

  ‘Battered and broken but possibly authentic.’

  ‘And the other relics, the missing ones?’

  ‘Lost. Perhaps stolen as suggested. I’m sure you remember the details.’

  She nodded. A man had returned from the interior with a satchel he claimed contained a hunting watch, a telescope, quadrant and thermometer, and a cannister containing papers belonging to Leichhardt and a member of his party, his brother-in-law August Classen, but when he opened the satchel in Sydney everything had vanished except for the telescope and some blank sheets of paper, pencils and ink powder. ‘What do you think happened to them?’

  ‘Many members of the Geographical Society thought his tale a ruse but Du Faur and I thought otherwise. The poor man had been ill aboard ship from Brisbane, someone could have stolen them while he slept which was why we supported his further trip into the interior.

  ‘Sadly he and one of his companions perished within a matter of weeks. We have been over the story a hundred times. Interviewed the sole remaining survivor, a Mr Lewis Thompson, and finally the matter has been brought to a close.’

  Would the mystery of Leichhardt’s disappearance never be solved? It had consumed Pa for more than a quarter of a century and its tendrils threatened to ensnare her. Evie lifted her gaze to offer some sympathy and found his lips pursed and his fingers drumming on the desktop.

  ‘What is it?’

  He sat back with his arms folded, eyes sparkling and the first smile she had seen since Mama’s passing lighting his face. ‘I have decided the time has come to publish an account of Leichhardt’s achievements, lauding him rather than dwelling on his disappearance. The first history of Leichhardt ever written. And I need your help.’

  ‘Anything, of course. Anything.’

  ‘The time has come to collate my notes and make them available to the world. I intend to start at the beginning, from the moment I first met Leichhardt. I am the only person who has consistent and long-term records of all matters relating to his travels in Australia. Leichhardt’s letters to me, my own journals—’ he brought his fist down on the table accentuating each item, ‘—newspapers and articles, Du Faur’s notes and reports from the Geographical Society.’ He rested his large hands over hers on top of the saddlebag. ‘I want you to produce a series of maps showing the path Leichhardt trod from the moment he arrived in the Hunter until his last communication from Roma, in Queensland. We will divide the book into three volumes—the first will cover the Hunter, the second his trip to Port Essington, I have access to his surviving notes, and members of that party are willing to include their observations, and the third his plans for his final expedition to cross the country from east to west. Leichhardt’s disappearance is one of the country’s great mysteries. We owe it to the world to tell the full story and applaud his achievements. It will be the greatest tribute.’

  The enormity of his idea blossomed, filling every crevice of her mind and he wanted her help, wanted her to work with him. She could already see the first of the maps in her mind’s eye. Her map, the view from Yellow Rock, the vast Hunter Valley from the ocean to the plains, Mount Royal in the Barrington Tops and Glendon, Razorback and Ravensworth, Cockfighter’s Creek and the mighty Hunter River. With her new saddlebag, she would have all the tools she needed at her fingertips. ‘We must start immediately.�
�� Her shoulders sank, for they couldn’t, could they? Because Pa was due to leave for Sydney with Miriam. ‘Can you not postpone the trip to Sydney? Cut it short even?’

  ‘Unfortunately not, and if we are to make a head start—’

  Her heart thrilled at his use of the word we.

  ‘—I must have all the facts at my fingertips. While I’m in Sydney I’d like you to go through my field notes, journals and letters, organise them into groups relevant to each book. Begin with the Hunter. Complete your map, you’ll find all the coordinates in my journals, extend it and mark every piece of information no matter how insignificant. Remember everything I have taught you. Accuracy is paramount.’ He tapped the saddlebag, making her heart swell at the honour he was bestowing. His private thoughts and words, his journals, his most treasured possessions, meticulous and carefully recorded, his personal letters from Leichhardt …

  ‘Anything you think might be relevant. I also have this.’ He lifted a shabby piece of paper from the desk. ‘This is a map Leichhardt made, originally of the Glendon property. He expanded it and sent it to me when I was recovering from my accident.’

  She reached out her hand and took the flimsy piece of paper with reverence. Strange to hold something that belonged to Leichhardt. According to Pa, Leichhardt’s extensive notes contained some of the best maps and most detailed information on the wildlife, vegetation and geology ever gathered.

  ‘Once Miriam is married, we will begin in earnest. Meanwhile go through all my papers. Perhaps you might find something that I have overlooked.’

  Pa’s words sent shivers down her spine and she resolved to write everything down, and the maps—her maps would be the best, the most accurate and intricate ever produced.

  Her skin heated at the prospect and suddenly her envy of her older sister vanished. Let Miriam enjoy Pa’s undivided attention for the time being.

  Evie had no interest in Miriam’s girlish pursuits, in marriage or Sydney society. She’d rather spend her time at Yellow Rock collating Pa’s notes and papers, creating the book that would record the full and true story of Ludwig Leichhardt, the Prince of Explorers.

  Five

  Yellow Rock, 1911

  Somehow Lettie felt Thorne’s presence closer than she’d done since his passing. As though he sat beside her revelling in the speed and the tantalising scent of adventure. Not another vehicle in sight. The rolling green hills, high sky and lightly forested slopes creating the kind of landscape he’d promised. Everything they’d imagined, vast rugged tracts of land ripe for exploring.

  The humidity brought out the scent of the eucalyptus and a hint of something sweeter along the well-defined track winding its way beside the brook. The first crossing proved nothing more than a watery dip lined with pebbles and shale, the second a little deeper, barely enough to cause a splash. A few houses dotted the clearings adjacent to the brook, small holdings more than like, basking under a brilliant blue sky. No sign of the promised storm.

  The third culvert spanned a much wider section of the creek, and the still, deep water tempted her to pull up and take a break but the sun was already sinking towards the hills and the shadows lengthening.

  Before long she rounded a sweeping bend and found herself in a thickly wooded section where the overhanging trees created a damp, dappled tunnel. The track became muddy and the wash-away from previous storms had left potholes and a steep drop off into the next crossing. She edged down the slope and through the water and by the time she’d reached the other side ominous clouds hovered above the hills and the light had begun to fade.

  She pulled off her goggles and coasted along the track, impatient to reach her destination. To her right the range rose in a massive wall in front of the blue-grey clouds. For a moment she hesitated, debated turning back. She’d covered more than half the distance. A bright flash of lightning slashing down through the clouds made up her mind. She opened the throttle and forged on.

  The remainder of the track proved more than acceptable and the final crossing hardly a concern. With a grin of accomplishment, she gazed up at the massive golden landform towering above the valley floor, pitted with channels where the rain had swept down over the centuries forming sinuous hollows.

  If the man’s directions were good she should be almost there. She shifted into top gear, the eddying wind whipping her hair back from her face, and a curl of anticipation, perhaps excitement, twisted her stomach.

  Gripping the wheel, she swung into the driveway and slowed to a crawl. Tall straight trees, their trunks mottled and spotted, arched above her forming a dank tunnel and Miriam’s words rang in her ears: Be firm. Don’t stand any nonsense.

  Large thunderclouds loomed above a two-storey sandstone house surrounded by acres of long grass, swaying and shifting like an inland sea. She drew in a fortifying breath. ‘Let’s go and brave the bunyip in her lair.’

  The shadows beneath an ancient angophora offered some shelter from the increasing rain and without further thought she drew to a halt and struck out towards the large house. Built of irregular sandstone in blocks of every imaginable hue, it sat square and squat despite its two storeys. A verandah shaded the front of the house and behind it the cliff face towered, throwing long shadows.

  From the corner of her eye she sensed movement. She removed her gloves, the palms of her hands sticky with perspiration, and flexed her tensed fingers. A gleam of light shone briefly in one of the upstairs windows and she mounted the verandah, her heart thumping. But for the looming rock she’d have doubted she was in the right place. A deserted, desolate air hung merging with the cloying humidity.

  If only she’d bothered to ask Miriam for more details. The longstanding family feud was a matter of history. As children, she and Thorne would threaten each other with excommunication to Great-Aunt Olivia, and then run for cover if Miriam heard the name pass their lips. How could anyone avoid speaking to a family member for decades? Thorne’s plans to visit had fired her imagination, a rite of passage he’d said.

  Ramming her hands deep into her pockets she approached the doors. Low clouds barely visible against the darkening sky scudded above the house almost obliterating the two matching chimneys. The place appeared deserted, no sense of another person, no visible movement inside the house, the original flicker of light extinguished. Perhaps behind one of the shuttered windows Great-Aunt Olivia waited, watching her every move, ready to lure her into her world.

  A small bell hung to one side of the doors, a rusty chain dangling. Chiding herself for her foolish fantasies Lettie rang the bell. The sound, surprisingly loud, echoed and faded and the chain slowly stopped swinging.

  At last she heard footsteps approaching. A heavy dragging sound of bolts being pulled sent her leaping off the verandah. Resisting the urge to scramble back to the motor, she held her ground. With a grind of wood against sandstone the doors swung open.

  A woman in a faded cotton frock, heavy boots and well-worn apron stood, arms akimbo, silhouetted against the dark interior.

  Lettie took a couple of steps closer. ‘I’m looking for Miss Maynard, Olivia Maynard.’

  The woman reached to the doorjamb for support, swaying slightly. ‘And who might you be?’ With her head tipped to one side she eyed Lettie for a long moment, leaving her in no doubt her presence was an imposition.

  ‘My name’s Letitia Rawlings.’

  Something resembling a spasm of despair crossed the woman’s face and she dropped her gaze. ‘Nobody here. What do you want?’

  An overwhelming sense of disappointment drowned Lettie’s trepidation. ‘I’d like to speak with Miss Maynard. I’ve motored up from Sydney.’ And she had no idea what had possessed her to embark on such a ludicrous adventure. Why hadn’t she stopped at the hotel in Wollombi and waited until the morning? Despite the stifling humidity an icy trickle traced her skin.

  ‘Better come over to the farm, the main house is closed up.’ The woman’s pinched tense mouth belied her invitation. She slammed and bolted the doors l
eaving Lettie scuffing her feet until she reappeared from the back of the house. With a twist of her head she indicated the path then trudged off towards an area full of fruit trees encompassed by trailing, mildewed grapevines.

  Still doubting the wisdom of her actions Lettie followed her through a small timber gate dangling on rusty hinges, the air redolent with the pungent fragrance of overripe citrus. They skirted a lichen-covered table and single chair beneath a sprawling lemon tree and a series of beehives further along the path but it wasn’t until they reached the far side of the orchard that Lettie spotted a second house, smaller, single storey, a stunted replica of the first.

  ‘Maynard Farm.’ The woman answered her unasked question and led the way between a series of fenced paddocks. ‘Where the horses are bred.’

  Lettie stopped in her tracks. Originally Grandfather’s business had revolved around horse shipments. Walers for the Indian army then after he died Pater had turned to racehorses. ‘Have you always lived here?’

  ‘Worked here all my life. For the Ludgroves … and the Maynards,’ she added almost as an afterthought.

  A rumble of thunder shook the ground.

  ‘Then you know Olivia Maynard.’

  ‘I do.’ She led the way around the back of the house, stepped up onto the back verandah and in a well-practised move, cocked her hip against the door. Unlike the big house, it swung open with barely a complaint. ‘You better come in.’

  Before she had time to falter Lettie stepped into the cool, dark interior and stood hovering.

  ‘Close the door behind you. Keep the humidity at bay.’

  The kitchen, dominated by a huge scrubbed timber table and blackened range, felt homely. Away from the brooding presence of the main house Lettie’s resolve strengthened.