by Darry Fraser
He’d build a fine table for the family out of a massive gum he’d fell. ‘I know just the one,’ he said, pointing through the window and across the yard back to the river.
‘An O’Rourke tradition?’ she asked.
‘Nothing like a big family table.’
They wandered along the hallway. Linley’s hand trailed the timbers of the walls, still smelling raw, waiting for more treatment. Out the front and onto the new verandah. The vista before her was the very earth on which she would build a new life with Ard. ‘This is wonderful, Ard. Toby will so love his life here. And I will, too.’ She looked across at the small forge hut. ‘What are those timbers for?’
‘They’re posts to hold up the grape vines.’ He pointed in an arc. ‘And there is where we’ll build the stables, and the other buildings we’ll need for a fledgling horse stud.’
‘Such a big task ahead, Ard.’
‘A lifetime’s worth.’
They waved to the others at his parents’ cottage. Eleanor held Toby up and waved him bodily at them.
‘I have something else to show you,’ Ard said and took her hand to tug her back into the hallway. ‘The kitchen.’
Linley slowed up. Time to confess her shortcoming. At least, one of many. ‘Ard, I’m not very good in the kitchen. CeeCee and I just plodded along. I hope you have no grand expectations …’
‘Not the kitchen itself, but this space over here.’
Linley followed his pointing finger to a nook with a window. And under the sill was a smooth wide plank of timber, beautifully grained and deep red in colour. It fitted the nook wall to wall then turned on the adjoining wall, held up by solid L-shaped brackets underneath. It was a benchtop. Under the bench was a fine-looking chair, simple and practical, a cushion in plain calico on the seat.
‘The plank is temporary until I can build something more permanent.’ Ard had his hands on her shoulders and guided her closer to the spot. ‘It’s specially for when you’re writing your letters.’ He opened the shuttered window. ‘Cool in the summer. Close to the stove in the winter.’
She stared at it, unable to speak for the moment, a tightness in her throat. She bit her lip. A space just for her, built into this house … Their home.
When you can’t resist him …
‘A fine inclusion,’ she managed. Her own space from which to carry on with her work, the work CeeCee had to relinquish. Tears threatened again, but she was already thinking that the inkwell would sit there, and how a tiny chest of drawers would fit under there.
Ard seemed hesitant again. ‘I don’t know what else you’d do at it, but I know you need a quiet space, and a bit of room. I understand there’s lots of letters, and things to organise.’ His voice trailed off.
He had no clue, she knew, but he’d done it for her. She turned to look at him. ‘Ard,’ she said softly.
He forged on. ‘James said CeeCee always had a lot of letter-writing to do. A lot of planning and … things.’
‘James was always very involved.’ Linley tilted her head a little.
Ard looked at his hands. ‘I’ll do whatever I can do. As well as keep this place going, I’ll do whatever you need help with.’ He closed his hands to fists, and opened them again. ‘But I need to get this place up and running for us, with the others, keep it all going so the family survives.’
His ideals, his honour …
She nodded. ‘The orchard, the vineyard, the horse stud.’
He stepped closer. ‘I’ll learn your work, too. We’ll be able to do it from here. You could still manage the houses in town for James and CeeCee.’ He looked up, his black eyes depthless, tense. ‘We could even go to Melbourne on occasion, if we had to.’
She flattened her hands on his chest. ‘In that case, it sounds like we’ll be very busy.’
‘Very busy.’ He bent and touched his lips to hers, her face framed in his hands.
Her heart seemed to miss a beat. Here he was, this man she had loved all her life, offering to share his life, to give her children, to care for her needs. To support her work.
When you go there of your own free will …
Linley broke away and turned back to the nook. Her finger glided along the timber bench, the glossy smooth finish polished with great care. ‘I love this plank, Ard. Don’t change it. I want to write many letters here, and do great things.’
She traced her hands over the back of the chair. Her gaze fell on the cushion, noticed its meticulous, decorative stitches, and she knew that Eleanor must have been aware of Ard’s intention.
A little sound escaped her. If hope and joy could be a sound, it was that tiny lyrical note that bubbled up. She spun around to him. ‘Ard. It’s perfect. It’s all perfect.’
… there is no point of return.
She heard his laugh, his relief, his happiness. Felt his solid warmth, and his strong arms wrap around her.
Acknowledgements
What a year it’s been. Once again, my heartfelt gratitude to:
My readers. You’ve made this journey a wonderful thing.
Susi Parslow. Your ongoing staunch support and encouragement keeps me on the right track. Your red pen is invaluable, though I did notice your book-boyfriend Ard was hardly ever red penned.
Amy Andrews of WordWitchery.com.au, whose eye for right and wrong in a storyline is infallible.
Melody Berden. Your love of all things 19th-century Australian means we time travel constantly, and for hours and hours— researching, of course.
Trove. What would we do without Trove?
The Swan Hill Genealogical & Historical Society, the Swan Hill Pioneer Settlement, the Echuca Historical Society, and the Echuca Discovery Centre.
The Swan Hill Library and the Kerang Library for your warm reception.
Those members of the Romance Writers of Australia who have shown great comradeship.
My home community on Kangaroo Island—all those who supported me unconditionally, along with the booksellers and the library.
My friends who bear with a writing hermit for most of the year and still ask me to dinner.
My Harlequin Mira team, for great patience and guidance—Jo Mackay, Laurie Ormond, editors Dianne Blacklock and Kate James. To the book’s cover designer, Michelle Zaiter, who found the perfect Linley.
Cristina Lee for her input on the titles for both Daughter of the Murray and Where The Murray River Runs.
Hamish the Wonder-dog, for ensuring he walks me every day.
Not least, my sister and my brother and their families. It’s been a year of firsts without Mum, and she would be proud.
The mighty River Murray whose many stories are yet to be told.
One
1890—River Murray, Victoria
There was no escaping this day, no matter what she did.
A vibrant sun dawned over Mallee country and the bedroom lit up. ‘For goodness’ sake, Ruth. Keep the curtains shut.’ Georgie buried her face under the threadbare bedsheet.
‘Now, come along, Miss Georgie. You love the early morning.’ Plump Ruth bustled about. She drew back the other heavy curtain one-handed before she thumped a breakfast plate of bread and jam on the dresser beside Georgie’s bed.
Eucalyptus scented the shimmering heat and it drifted to Georgie even under the bedclothes. ‘If you’re going to tell me one more time that Mr Dane is coming home today, so help me, I’ll—’
‘You know Mr Dane comes home today.’
‘I know it, Ruth. You’ve told me a dozen times.’ Georgie pushed the sheet away. ‘I can’t stand the man and yet I’ve never met him. All I ever hear is Mr Dane this, Mr Dane that. Mr Dane, so handsome. Mr Dane—’ She sat up, yawned and flexed her back, flinging her arms above her head. Her fingers splayed then she relaxed bonelessly onto the pillow with a long exhale. She’d heard it all before. ‘The poor man has no clue he’s coming home to this.’
‘Oh, he’s not a poor man, miss. He’s a rich young gentleman now. And I remember him well when we was in t
he schoolyard; I was only a year younger. He was fine to look at an’ all, even back in them days.’
Georgie pulled a face. ‘If he looks anything like his father, I certainly can’t imagine you’d call him fine to look at.’
Ruth cast her a quick glance and swiped a hand over her untidy mousey brown hair. ‘No, miss. He doesn’t look like Mr Tom—’
A screech outside the room interrupted her: Elspeth wanting her hairbrush.
‘Oh God. My cousin intends to wake the dead this morning.’ Georgie swung her legs to the floor.
‘Miss Georgina, blaspheming. And where’s your nightdress?’ Ruth fussed about the bed like some hen pecking at corn kernels. Her backside wobbled under her dress as she bent to rummage through a pile of linen under the wash-stand.
‘It’s too hot for a nightdress, Ruth.’
‘Hardly, and you shouldn’t sleep like it.’ Ruth found the discarded nightdress on the floor and held it out.
Georgie tugged the worn shift from her and wriggled into it. She padded barefoot to sit on the stool in front of a plain timber table with a small mirror on it. A fresh bowl of hot water and a hard scrap of soap waited for her. ‘And why are you here, anyway? God knows we can’t pay you.’ Georgie rubbed her face with bare hands. ‘Bloody depression coming, says Uncle Tom.’
‘You shouldn’t speak of that either, Miss Georgie. Mr Tom will pay—’
‘Don’t talk foolishly, Ruth. The whole district knows he’ll drink it away before any bloody depression gets here.’
‘The devil will come get you with talk like that, that’s a fact.’ Ruth huffed and puffed as she blew hair out of her eyes. ‘And what if Miss Jem was to hear you say that?’
‘The devil is welcome,’ Georgie said and Ruth crossed herself. ‘And my Aunt Jemimah won’t hear of it. All she cares about is her son coming home.’
‘He is your cousin, Miss Georgie, he’s family and—’
‘He’s not my family, Ruth. He’s my step-cousin.’ Georgie pulled her hair back from her face. ‘Now, would you please do my hair for me?’ Her thick dark hair was only ever plaited, and that was how she preferred it. ‘You do it so well.’
‘Miss, I’m not to dilly-dally here. With Mr Dane coming, Miss Jem and Miss Elspeth want their hair attended to, and yours being so simple you can do it yourself, they said that I—’
‘Bloody Mr Dane has been coming for nigh on the four years I’ve been here and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him yet. What makes today so bloody different?’
‘Oh, and gutter talk. The devil will come, missy, right here, to the good Queen’s colony of Victoria. You make no mistake.’ Ruth shook her forefinger and bustled out.
Georgie smiled into the mirror. The devil will come … To our River Murray landing, no less. What rubbish. I’m sure the devil has better work to do. Some said God had forgotten the Australian colonies years ago, the devil even earlier. She dragged the brush through her hair in long strokes, bringing back the gleam after its tousling on the pillow.
Bloody Mr Dane will get a shock when he arrives.
From the furtive whispers and heated arguments in the dead of night when no one thought she could hear, Georgie would wager bloody Mr Dane, the mighty son and heir, knew little of what had befallen Jacaranda since he’d been gone.
Even Georgie’s stepfather, her Papa Rupert in England, hadn’t believed her. She’d confided her suspicions by letter but he’d not answered them. To the contrary, he’d chided her for her lack of charity, implied her imagination was still quite rich and that she should try to be more tolerant of the family’s ways.
There’d been nothing but silence from England since, and that had been well over a year ago.
She was nearing twenty-two … so old and unmarried still. And with no prospects of a good life ahead of her if she remained with the MacHenrys, she reasoned it was her right to fend for herself. When Uncle Tom slurred and slurped his way into rum-addled unconsciousness, she’d ease a few coins from his pockets and secrete them away to a cache under a floorboard in her room. She hadn’t scraped together nearly enough to pursue her chance at life, though.
If only Uncle Tom had taken her up on her offer to handle the books for him. At least that would be something she could do. She was good at sums; she preferred them to needle work and cooking. But he remained adamant to the point of belligerence that she would not attempt such a thing, ‘being a woman and all’. Tom’s books were under lock and key. A key he never left around.
However, there was Conor Foley. Her Conor Foley.
She smiled as she thought of him. Only three weeks ago, his riverboat, the Lady Mitchell, had docked at the landing on the MacHenrys’ property to deliver the goods Jemimah had ordered from the city. Conor brought the much anticipated newspapers from Swan Hill that Georgie read line by line, hungry for the world outside.
Conor Foley.
His soft Irish brogue, the gleam in his eyes, the deep auburn hair, the broad shoulders. A man who towered over most men, weighty and solid. He was much older than the tiresome boys of the neighbouring homesteads, well past his thirties; he had been to war in South Africa.
Conor Foley offered her a new life with just a glance of mystery and intrigue.
Ruth burst back into the room. She grabbed the hairbrush in Georgie’s hand, apologising as she did so.
‘What are you doing?’ Georgie held fast to the brush.
‘Please, Miss Georgina. There’s such a commotion today. Miss Elspeth’s misplaced her brush. Please let me have the brush. What with Mr Dane returning … He’s been away far too long, wouldn’t you say?’ Ruth had her firm grip over Georgie’s hand on the brush.
Georgie wrenched the hairbrush free. ‘Since I have never met him,’ she said sternly, ‘his absence has hardly bothered me. But his homecoming is sorely testing my very good manners.’ She thrust the brush into Ruth’s hand, sending the woman back a pace or two.
Clutching the brush to her chest, Ruth disappeared as loudly as she had arrived, muttering something that sounded distinctly like ‘Good manners, my arse. You’ll get yours, my girl.’
Georgie sighed long and hard, then set about plaiting her hair.
Impatient with having to be modest, especially now she was alone, she hoisted the nightgown off. Once naked again, she washed in a hurry, and dried with the threadbare towel. The drought meant deep, long baths were rare, so a quick but thor-ough wash with a flannel and basin had to do.
She stood in front of her wardrobe, an open box built of river gum. It contained hand-me-downs from neighbouring ladies. Georgie hadn’t received new clothes for years, even though she had requested some in her last two letters to England. She’d grown out of the last set of clothes her stepfather had sent from England and they’d been altered long ago for the much smaller Elspeth.
Hands on hips, Georgie stared at the four dresses. A bleached day dress, one light blue dress, one dark blue and a faded pink one. None of them suited her today. No, today was a good day for a long ride along the banks of her beloved river. She needed to escape the madness of today.
She knelt by her bed, flipped up the thin, lumpy mattress and dragged out a pair of men’s trousers, an old shirt and a checked piece of cloth. She took the cloth, a piece of wide fabric torn from an old bed sheet destined for the horses for rubdowns, and wound it around her chest to flatten her breasts. The shirt went on over the top, the trousers pulled up over bare legs and arse, drawn around her waist by a slim leather rope she had borrowed from the tack room. She faced the little mirror again, coiled her long, black plait atop her head and stabbed some pins into it to hold it there.
Then she reached for her flat-heeled riding boots, the only thing she had left from England. They were the colour of burnt caramel, laced to mid-calf, the leather supple and soft after years of loving care. She pulled them on, tied each lace firmly, let the pants drape over them and stood tall.
She grabbed the thick slice of bread left by Ruth, shoved it into a small calico
bag then picked up a hat lying under her bed. She sidled out the door to the veranda. A quick look to the left, then the right, and she marched across the dusty yard to the stables. Nobody would be bothering her this morning, all too busy awaiting his lordship’s arrival.
Joe, the stocky, barrel-chested contract stableman, and Watti, an Aboriginal man with a shock of wiry grey hair, were in the stall with the black stallion, MacNamara. Joe crooned as he swept the brush powerfully over the horse’s flank and back. The horse swung his head to stare at Georgie, but waited patiently as his groomsman prepared him for the day. Watti polished the big saddle as it hung over the rail.
Georgie leaned on the stable doorway. She watched Joe as he whispered in MacNamara’s ear, rubbed his nose and plied him with soft Irish compliments, the lilting murmur music to her ears. Joe ran his hands over a glossy flank, down to a fetlock and back, and the horse stood nodding his proud head. Joe would camp in the stalls on the days he spent at Jacaranda, for MacNamara was a prized possession, and Tom MacHenry dared not neglect him.
MacNamara stood sixteen hands. Georgie could just see over his withers. He was eight years old now, past the silly stage, and he had responded well to her training. She’d fed him and groomed him as a younger horse, cleaned and oiled his saddle, looked after his teeth and, when he got too big for her to look after his hooves, Joe had been called in to keep the horse in top condition. She loved the horse. Joe knew it, the horse knew it.
Joe was also the one who made sure Dane MacHenry himself would foot the bill for MacNamara’s upkeep, and for the other two horses: Douglas, a gentle roan, and Brandy, a chestnut. Left to Tom, the horses wouldn’t survive. Georgie knew that well enough.
She pushed off the doorway and walked into Joe’s line of sight, reaching up to scratch MacNamara’s forelock. ‘Morning, Joe. Morning, Watti.’
Watti mumbled something as he nodded, his dusty black face sombre, eyes averted.
Joe lifted his chin at her. ‘Morning, Miss Georgina. In your ridin’ clobber today, I see.’
