by Téa Cooper
‘It’s so dingy.’
‘That’s because all the windows are boarded up.’
She took a few steps further into the room. ‘There are windows at the back.’
Kip’s hand came down on her arm. ‘How do you know?’
Her cheeks flushed. ‘I looked over the back gate. I had to give up when I grazed my shin. Glad, the woman next door, patched me up.’
He huffed out a laugh. ‘Hadn’t picked you for such an adventurer. That and your trip to Mogo.’
A trip that had proved worthwhile. ‘Come on then. I can see a glimmer of light at the end of the hall. Are you game?’
The timber boards creaked in complaint as they walked the length of the room. A short flight of stairs led them down to the back door.
‘This one’s boarded up, same as the front.’
‘And these back windows have shutters.’ She ran her hands down the timber until she found a clasp and unhooked it. Sunlight streamed in, disturbing the shaft of hovering dust motes and revealed a long timber desk pushed against one wall and a cracked and faded leather sofa. She turned slowly and her heart jumped into her mouth. Her scream erupted in the silence.
‘Oh my God!’
A striking, pure white kangaroo stood in one corner surveying her with a haughty look, a tuft of dried grass clasped in its front paws.
‘It’s okay, it’s not alive.’ Kip ambled up to it and ran his hands down the fur on its nose. ‘At least not anymore. I expect someone shot it as a trophy.’
She would swear the animal’s eyes followed her as she approached. She stood in front of it, nose to nose. ‘It’s been stuffed.’
‘Taxidermied, yes.’
She stuck her nose closer and inhaled. The same oniony smell of the workshop at Mogo, the smell she’d noticed when she first entered the building. ‘Can you smell it?’
‘What?’
‘Come closer and smell.’
Kip inhaled and his cheeks pouched then he let out a breath. ‘Pouf! It’s bloody disgusting, worse than a French dunny.’
‘Did you fight in France?’ Damn, she sounded surprised. Why should she be? Probably most of the able-bodied Australians went and fought so why should she think that Kip wouldn’t have? He didn’t answer her, just took a few steps back into the shadows, a closed look on his face.
A few moments later he reappeared and paced the length of the room, his forehead creased in a frown. ‘I can’t get the hang of the layout of this place. It looks like two levels from the front but it’s three at the back.’
‘I noticed that too.’
‘When you fell off the gate?’ His lips twitched and the frown slipped away giving her the distinct impression he was teasing. He kicked at the battered leather sofa and ran his hand along the old desk. ‘There’s a verandah at the back, that’s why the steps go down over there. Let’s see if we can get the back door open; apart from anything else it’ll give us some more light.’ He took the steps in two strides and shot the bolts on the back door then put his shoulder to the door. It didn’t budge. ‘Must be barred from the other side. Or else we need another key.’
Fleur stepped up alongside him and ran her hands over the timber of the door. ‘Even if it was, it shouldn’t stop it from opening. It opens inwards.’ She grabbed hold of the door knob.
Kip covered her hands with his. ‘Ready.’ He almost had his arms around her and for a split second she had to resist the temptation to lean back. The thought sent a bolt of surprise through her and she shot away, yanking on the door. It flew open, sending them both toppling.
She disentangled herself and took a good look at the light streaming in from the outside. The doorway was barred as the front door had been but the timbers were narrower and shafts of light slanted in, patterning the floorboards.
Kip jumped to his feet and offered his hand to help her up. ‘Sorry about that. I didn’t hurt you, did I?’
She brushed the dust from her skirt. ‘No harm done.’
‘Turn around, you’ve got something stuck in your hair.’ She rotated away from him and peered into the darkness trying to ignore the touch of his fingers in her hair.
‘Got it.’ He held a long timber splinter of wood over her shoulder but she hardly noticed. In front of her a steep flight of steps descended into the gloom and at the bottom another door, closed tight.
‘Look.’ With her arms outstretched and her palms flat against the walls on either side she edged into the gloom. She smoothed her hands over the door until she found the doorknob and above it the indentation of a lock. She tugged at the handle. ‘It’s locked as well.’
Kip was by her side in a moment. ‘Is it bolted like the other one?’ He stretched above her, arms held high. ‘Yes, there’s a bolt here. Hang on a moment.’ She stepped back up one of the steps to give him more room. He rattled and shook it for a moment and then there was a satisfying grate as it slid back. ‘There’s probably one at the bottom.’ He crouched down and slid the other bolt. ‘Now let’s see if it’s locked as well.’
The handle turned with barely a whisper and the heavy door opened with a groan of rusty hinges into a pitch-dark space full of stale air, dust and a bitter and pungent smell laced with damp, reminding her of the cellar where Ma kept the root vegetables in winter.
‘I can’t see a thing. Why didn’t we bring a torch, or at least some candles?’
‘I might be able to help there.’ Kip produced a box of safety matches from his trouser pocket. With a crack the flame ignited and in the sudden blaze of light Fleur snatched a glimpse of row after row of shelves wreathed in cobwebs before the flame guttered and died.
He lit another. Not four feet in front of her were piles of stacked furniture, chairs on top of a table, crates, a metal bedhead, boxes, all manner of odds and ends cluttered to the point of confusion. She stepped closer and froze. A giant spider, all hairy legs and bulging eyes, glared at her. Her scream filled the air and Kip grabbed her arm. The match spluttered and died.
‘Oh I’m sorry. Spiders! I can’t bear spiders.’ It was huge, like one of those giant tarantulas that lived in the jungle.
‘He won’t hurt you. Just a huntsman.’
‘A huntsman.’ Her voice quavered. A huntsman waiting to trap her.
‘It’s the redbacks you’ve got to take notice of. Much smaller, shiny black with a red stripe, or a funnel web, now they’re real nasty.’
‘Stop it!’ She pulled away and headed for the steps.
He gave a laugh. ‘We need to go back and get a lantern or some candles—this isn’t only dangerous, it’s foolish. Never mind the spiders. One false move with a match and everything would ignite in a second. My trench lantern’s back at the Lyttleton’s. I didn’t think because we left in such a hurry. We’ll need candles, lots of them. Come on.’
She bolted the back door and made her way to the front of the house, stopping to try and get some understanding of the layout. ‘There must be rooms upstairs too because from the street there’s two sets of windows.’
‘Makes sense.’ He slammed the front door and took the key from her and locked it tight. ‘Two storeys on this level and three at the back because of the slope of the land. We’ll find out when we come back. We need to take the timbers off all the windows, let in as much natural light as possible. Is it easy to get in from the back?’
‘There’s a locked gate. I couldn’t get over. We could ask Glad about the layout. The two places are probably similar.’ On second thoughts, she didn’t want to share their adventure with anyone else. ‘Let’s go back and get some candles.’
They bolted back to the Lyttleton’s, falling through the door and straight into Vera who grabbed Fleur by the arm and dragged her into the front office.
‘Fleur! Thank goodness you’re back. I was about to come and get you. I’ve found the file.’
Twenty-Five
Sydney, NSW, 1853
Della threw back the bed covers and stretched. She felt so much better after an entire nigh
t’s sleep untroubled by the dreams that had haunted her since her arrival in Sydney.
In many ways Cordelia’s changes were for the best. A constant stream of ladies visited the shop and it was hardly surprising Cordelia had changed the name because they were in no way interested in the specimens she had laboured over so meticulously. It was the cosy slippers made from kangaroo skins, the lizard and goanna-skin purses, theatre bags and slippers and all the other paraphernalia that held their attention.
At first she thought Cordelia had been responsible for the bulk of the creations but after a flick through the accounts ledgers she had come to realise that the work was entirely out-sourced. She splashed her face with some cold water and drew the brush through her hair, fastening it behind her ears with a feathered comb she had found in the shop, and went downstairs.
She hadn’t seen Cordelia since the night before when she’d appeared dressed to the nines because it was Wednesday night and she had to attend the parlour games at the Berkeley.
Hunter Street was already busy and two women waited outside the shop. Della flipped the sign on the door to open and unlocked the door. ‘Good morning.’ She stood back to let them into the shop.
They stood in the middle of the room beneath a sign that read Furs cleaned and renovated and gazed around the room.
‘May I help you?’
‘It’s Mrs Atterton we wish to see.’
‘I’m afraid Mrs Atterton is unavailable at present. Can I help you? I’m her niece, Della Atterton.’
The older of the two women stared down at a piece of paper in her hand. ‘I am to speak with Mrs Cordelia Atterton and no one else.’
‘Then in that case, I’m afraid I can’t be of assistance. Perhaps you could call back tomorrow.’
With a toss of her head and some mutterings, the woman swept out of the shop along with her companion, the jangling bell marking their displeasure.
Della shrugged off their rudeness. Nothing was going to spoil her day. The sun was shining and the lethargy that had plagued her had vanished. Without a doubt, the trip had exhausted her. She simply hadn’t realised it. She picked up the feather duster sitting in the corner by the desk and flicked it across the surface, releasing a cloud of dust. Fresh air! The shop needed fresh air. She propped open the door then returned to her dusting.
The back corner of the room was in relative darkness. She gave the collection a cursory swipe with the feather duster then ran her hand down the length of the spear propped on the dried grasstree. She couldn’t imagine any of the men parting with their hunting spears, or the women their coolamons for that matter. She lifted the lid of the display cabinet and took one out, running her hands over the smooth timber. Hours of work had gone into the painted designs and the intricate carving. It made her blood boil. If she had her way she’d return every single item to its rightful owner.
As she placed the wooden bowl back in the case her knuckle rasped. A jagged lump of rock rolled across the inside of the case and came to rest in one corner. She picked it up and carried it to the window.
It was the strangest thing. Rough against her fingers until she turned it over. Where the outside coating had chipped away, a blinding flash of colour shone. She twisted it in the sunlight producing a play of colour more startling than any rainbow. Whatever was it? Nothing she’d ever seen before. Somehow it didn’t belong with the Darkinjung pieces.
When the bell rang, she slipped the rock back into the cabinet and turned.
‘G’day Miss Della.’
‘Bert! What are you doing here?’
‘On the Capt’n’s business, and come to see you, of course,’ he added with a twisted grin. ‘Fact is he thought you might like a bit of fresh air. Said you’d been peaky.’
‘I’m well. Just a bit tired after the trip. I’m looking after the shop.’
‘Doesn’t look like you’ve got much business.’ He wandered around running his fingers over a pile of carriage rugs. ‘Cor, it’s soft, isn’t it? What’s that made of?’
‘I believe it’s native bear.’ She smoothed her hand across the pale grey fur. ‘Can I interest you in a carriage rug, sir.’
His spontaneous laugh made her realise how much she enjoyed his lively chatter.
‘Nope. But I might be able to interest you in something. Come and have a look.’ He grabbed her hand and towed her to the window. Drawn up outside the shop sat a magnificent carriage and pair. A dusty urchin who might well have been Bert in a former life stood jiggling from one bare foot to the other, overawed by the responsibility.
‘Capt’n’s taking a trip to Potts Point. Said I should hire a carriage, thought you might like a spin in the fresh air.’
His words sent a series of sparks through her veins and her cheeks and brow began to glow. It was exactly what she’d like. She cast a quick look around the shop. ‘How long will we be?’
‘An hour. Two at most. Capt’n’s going to call on some Skeffington bloke, said it’d only be for a few minutes and if you didn’t mind waiting in the carriage while he did that we could come back through the Botanic Gardens and stop at Mrs Macquarie’s chair and take the air.’
She couldn’t think of anything she’d rather do and there was no one waiting to come into the shop. Cordelia would be back soon and besides, if the two rude women were anything to go by there was little she could do. ‘I’ll be right there. I just need to get something warm. I won’t be long.’ Lifting her skirt she bolted up the stairs.
What did one wear for a carriage ride with a man like Stefan? Gloves and a cloak perhaps. Nothing she had would be appropriate. She opened the cupboard where Cordelia kept her clothes. Surely she’d have a cloak that would do. And she could hardly mind if she didn’t know. A cloud of musty dust billowed out as she opened the door, making her nose prickle.
She slid the clothes along until she found a dark blue cloak, the hood trimmed with brownish grey fur. It might look a little like evening wear, but it wasn’t inappropriate for a ride in a carriage as smart as the one Bert had waiting outside.
She slipped the cloak over her shoulders, pulled up the hood and pushed her hands inside the matching muff and ran back down the stairs. Bert had vanished from the shop so she locked the door, slipped the key into its hidey-hole and stepped out onto the footpath.
Bert handed her up into the open carriage, flicked a coin to the urchin and picked up the reins. They took off at a smart pace down the road and rounded the corner into Bent Street.
Standing outside the Berkeley Hotel was Captain Stefan von Richter. His long boots gleaming and the shiny buttons on his jacket accentuating the golden shimmer in his hair. Blood surged beneath her skin, sending her heart into a frantic patter.
It wasn’t until they drew up that she noticed he was pacing up and down restlessly, totally out of character. She’d never seen him anything but self-assured. He stopped his agitated striding to pull out his pocket watch and snap it shut again.
‘Here we are Capt’n.’
At the sound of Bert’s voice he turned. A smile leapt to his face. ‘Della, I was afraid you might still be unwell.’
‘No, I’m much better this morning. I had an excellent night’s sleep. I wasn’t sure where we were going and how I should dress.’ Her breathless laugh sounded ridiculous.
‘I can’t imagine any situation in which you would not look beautiful. Astride a horse, digging musket balls from young men’s shoulders or here in Sydney taking a carriage ride.’ With a grin that showed his teeth, a bright contrast to his sun-browned skin, he stepped up into the carriage and sat down next to her. She caught his scent, a mixture of leather and earthy smells and something she thought might be ambergris.
‘We’re heading for Potts Point. I have some business to attend to …’
‘Bert told me.’
‘And your aunt can do without you for an hour or two?’
‘I haven’t seen her today. She left last night, said she had appointments.’
‘Why didn’t you c
all for me? You shouldn’t be left alone.’
‘You seem to forget that I have lived in Hunter Street almost all my life. Ma and Pa came here when I was still a babe in arms. And besides, Cordelia has employed a woman to come every morning to keep the place tidy. If I had a problem I could call on her.’
He grunted some sort of acknowledgement and leant forward to give Bert directions.
They skirted the Botanic Gardens and took the road along the wharves, slowing to a walk to accommodate the hustle and bustle. Once they were out of the chaos, the buildings diminished and the road widened. She might have lived all her life in Sydney but she’d never taken a carriage ride or even visited this part of town. The wind tugged at her hair and she inhaled the fresh air blowing in from the ocean, free of any of the Tank Stream odours. It was almost like being back in the Hawkesbury.
A driveway led to an impressive stone house overlooking the ocean. Bert slowed the carriage and eased to a halt.
‘Good chap. I’ll walk the rest of the way. You entertain Miss Della with stories of your misspent youth.’ With a laugh, Stefan jumped down from the carriage and strode down the drive; despite favouring one leg his long, lean frame covered the distance in no time.
‘Wanna walk or just sit here?’
‘I’m quite happy here, thank you, Bert. Why don’t you come and join me, there’s a wonderful view.’ Out across the harbour the ships were under full sail as they left Sydney for all parts of the world.
‘Whole world out there waiting to be discovered.’ Bert echoed her thoughts. ‘Don’t fancy it meself. Enough country here to keep me happy. What about you?’
‘I’ve never considered it but now, when I see those ships and think of all the places the Captain must have seen, I sometimes wonder …’
‘He seems determined to track this man down. But then he’s like that. Honourable. Wants to do the right thing.’
What on earth was Bert talking about? ‘I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you mean.’
‘This Skeffington bloke. ’Fore we met up with Gus and Dobbin we called in on this other bloke. Bishop his name was. Apparently, some professor had sent him a specimen he’d found. The Capt’n was to collect it but Bishop got rid of it to this Skeffington. Not sure why anyone would get so excited about a lump of rock, mind you. Gold maybe.’
