by Dilly Court
Stuffing her hand into her mouth, Eliza stifled a scream.
‘And you need not take my word for it. For here, in this very courtroom, is a young woman seduced and then abandoned by this libertine.’ Waving his arm, Enoch turned to point at Beattie Larkin, who rose from her seat, clutching her swollen belly.
‘It’s true, m’lud. He got me in the family way and then he scarpered.’ Raising her hanky to her face, Beattie glanced up and spotted Eliza. Her eyes narrowed and she let out a howl of rage. ‘And there she is. That’s the trollop that he left me for.’
‘No!’ Jumping to her feet, Eliza leaned over the railing. ‘It’s a pack of lies. None of it’s true. You got to believe me, milord. It’s all lies.’
Chapter Seven
Rain and more rain: cold downpours that drenched the land, turning the Arrow River into a roaring torrent and its steep banks into mud slides. Clouds of black sandflies tormented Bart’s flesh with stinging bites that itched relentlessly for days and almost drove him mad at night. The low ground that was neither river nor scrub was covered, knee-deep, with thick, primeval mud and it would have been easy to imagine prehistoric beasts roaming the bush. That’s what Eliza would have said, Bart thought, grinning to himself. She was keen on book learning, bless her little heart! He’d never had much time for that sort of thing himself, but he could picture her now, reading to him from the one and only book in her possession. With a lump in his throat, he remembered evenings in the sail loft when he had come home from work wet, dirty and tired. Eliza would have his meal ready for him, and after supper, while he enjoyed a pipe of baccy, she would read to him. For the most part he hadn’t paid much attention, but one story had stuck in his mind and it came back to him now. With her small face alight with enthusiasm, Eliza had told him about a humble woman from Dorset, a certain Mary Anning, who had discovered the bones of great monsters, millions of years old. Personally, he’d never been able to understand why anyone could get excited over a pile of old fossils, but Eliza had been interested in that sort of thing. She was a clever girl, that little sister of his. He wasn’t much of a praying man, but dear God, he thought, casting his eyes heavenwards: look after my Eliza. Keep her safe and well until I can go home.
Bart sighed, emptied rainwater from the brim of his oiled-canvas hat and then rammed it back on his head. Nothing could keep a fellow dry in this deluge, but at least the wide brim kept the water from his eyes. Even when the rain ceased, he would still be wet, soaked by the spray from the rushing waters of the Arrow as he panned the gravel for those tiny gold specks of dust, or hopefully a large nugget that would make his fortune. His limbs ached with cold and fatigue but Bart kept working with single-minded determination. Life here in the Otago goldfields was even harsher than he could have imagined, but he had one purpose and one purpose only: to make enough money to return home and give Eliza the life that she deserved. Only a few weeks ago, a man had waded into the river to rescue his dog which was in danger of being swept away and, in doing so, had stumbled across a gold nugget the size of a house brick. In an instant he was a rich man, and his life had been changed for ever.
Bart had heard these stories on the infrequent evenings when he had sat in the bar of the Provincial Hotel, listening to the seasoned prospectors telling of huge finds in the Shotover and Kawarau rivers: two hundred pounds of gold had been found in a matter of months. Just a bit of luck, that was all he needed to make it big and then he would return to London, a gentleman of fortune. Slapping at the sandflies with his hat, Bart heaved one foot out of the mud at a time, stamping his boots on the slime-covered rocks and watching with grim satisfaction as the cloying mass flaked into the waters, disintegrating and dispersing in the torrent. Trudging to firmer ground, he stopped and cocked his head, listening for sounds of Tate who had been panning the river a bit further downstream. They had made their claim upriver, at a safe distance from the other prospectors who were ready to come at a man with a shovel, a knife or a rock if he dared to trespass on their workings.
‘Tate.’ Bart paused, waiting for a reply. When there was none, he cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted again. ‘Tate, where are you?’
Still no answer: he cursed beneath his breath. Tate was a good mate, but he was bone idle when it came to the backbreaking work of panning for gold. At the beginning, they had agreed to share the cost of the bare necessities, such as food and kerosene, but Bart had to be quick to get the money off Tate before he headed for the gaming tables. Drink was not Tate’s besetting sin, but gambling was a fever in his blood and, once he had begun a card game, there was nothing that would get him from the table until the bitter end. Sometimes he won, but more often he lost. When he won, he bought drinks for everyone and lavished presents on his woman of the moment; when he lost, he returned to camp full of contrition, flat broke, but ready to start all over again. On these occasions, and there had been many during the four months they had been in Fox Camp, Bart had to curb his violent temper. Berating Tate verbally or flattening him with a punch might have made Bart feel better in the short term, but he was well aware that working together they had more chance of surviving and striking it rich than if trying to exist alone. Winter was already on its way and he had paid attention when the older miners spoke of terrible storms, ice, snow and the torrential waters of the Arrow that, in full spate, had claimed hundreds of lives.
He called again as he trudged up the gorge towards their canvas tent, but he did not really expect a reply. Tate had found a couple of raisin-sized nuggets last evening, just before dark, and although he had agreed to spend the money on fresh provisions, Bart did not hold out much hope. Tate, with his easy-going, cheerful charm, was a born liar and if he had a conscience, then he was able to put it aside when it suited him. As Bart followed the narrow path they had cut through the bush, the sun’s feeble rays slanted down, barely penetrating the gorge. It was April and already cold, particularly at night and early in the morning. As he entered the crude shelter, Bart found that it was barely drier inside than out. His clothes were sodden and he needed to get them off quickly before the chill entered his bones. Disease killed as many diggers as knife or shotgun wounds, and many died of pneumonia, typhoid, scarlet fever and measles, or were crippled by frostbite and rheumatism. Many simply died of starvation. With their store of flour and lard used up and only a spoonful of tea left in the battered tin, Bart could only hope that Tate had fulfilled his promise, and purchased fresh provisions before he took to the gaming tables.
With his teeth chattering, Bart stripped off his wet garments. His one change of clothing lay on the relatively dry patch of earth beneath his wooden cot. He put them on, shivering and cursing his numbed fingers that made the simplest task difficult. His empty belly growled with hunger. He had to tighten his belt a notch to prevent his trousers from falling down. He shrugged on his jacket, which, despite his weight loss, was tight across the shoulders. Hard physical work had developed his muscles until they were knotted and sinewy like the trunk of an aged tree. He tipped river water from his boots and slipped his bare feet back into them, grimacing at the feel of cold, wet leather. When he had enough money, the first thing he would buy would be a pair of good, tough boots. They would be new ones that fitted properly, not second-hand ones that rubbed his toes and heels into blisters that burst and turned into running sores. Ramming his hat on his head, Bart tucked his leather pouch into his belt and set off for Fox Camp.
First he would eat and then he would seek out Daisy; his Daisy, the girl he loved almost as much as he loved little Eliza. Daisy had been his one comfort in this hostile place. For some reason that Bart found impossible to explain, she had taken to him and had welcomed him into her arms and into her bed with never a mention of payment for her favours. She was warm, generous and beautiful and to Bart she seemed untouched and untainted by her sordid profession. He couldn’t wait to see her; to hold her and to lose himself in those precious intimate moments when she belonged to him, and him alone. He quickened
his pace, slithering and slipping on the rough ground as he followed the course of the river down to the flats and Fox Camp.
A line of packhorses waited patiently outside the general stores while men loaded them with supplies for the diggers in Macetown, a settlement some ten miles up the track. Even at this time of the day, a little after noon so Bart guessed by the angle of the pale sun peeping out from behind a cloud, the grog shanties, bars and pubs were full of drinkers. The sound of piano music, laughter and loud voices could be heard as the doors to the establishments opened and closed on a constant stream of men.
Suddenly Bart was more anxious to see Daisy than to eat. The mere thought of her made his heart beat faster and ignited a raging fire in his loins. He headed straight for the Provincial Hotel, but was forced to sidestep to avoid a bellman as he marched along the boardwalk, ringing his bell and extolling the merits of the Provincial Hotel at the top of his voice. On the far side of the street, another bellman had set up a rival action advertising the newly opened Prince of Wales Hotel. They were shouting each other down, bawling out their slogans and trading insults. Bart had a vague idea of the rivalry between the two establishments, but he was not interested in idle gossip. He had more important things on his mind. ‘Damn fools,’ he muttered to himself, hurrying towards the hotel. He was about to enter when the door burst open and he was almost bowled over by a tall, powerfully built man.
‘Hold on, fellow.’ The man’s voice rang out in a deep baritone laced with a strong American accent. ‘You must have worked up a darn good thirst to be in such a hurry.’
‘I beg your pardon, guv,’ Bart said, steadying himself against the wall. He was not in a mood to pick a fight, and even if he were so inclined, this bearded man with his fine head of auburn hair had a leonine appearance. He looked like a formidable opponent.
‘An Englishman, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘From London.’ Encouraged, Bart held out his hand. ‘Bart Bragg.’
‘Captain William Hayes. I own the Prince of Wales Hotel across the road. You should drink there, sir. It’s a much superior hotel to the old Provincial here, and we have first-class entertainments every night. It would be my pleasure to buy you a drink, if you would like to come and see for yourself.’
‘I thank you kindly, guv. Maybe I will.’
‘Good day to you then, sir.’ With a slight inclination of his head, Hayes strolled across the street, lighting a cigar.
Bart hesitated, watching Hayes until he disappeared into the hotel on the opposite side of the road. Although it seemed churlish to ignore the invitation to follow him, he was more eager to find Daisy than to care much whether or not he offended anyone, even an important-looking cove like Captain Hayes. Daisy spotted him as soon as Bart entered the bar, and she came towards him smiling and swaying her hips. He felt his heart lurch against his ribs, and his mouth went dry at the sight of her; she looked good enough to eat. Her blue dress exactly matched her eyes and it was cut low to expose an appetising swell of white breasts.
‘I didn’t know you was acquainted with Bully Hayes,’ Daisy said, wrapping her arms around Bart’s neck and kissing him on the mouth. ‘I’d steer clear of him, Bartie. They say as how he was a pirate and a slaver. He’s trouble.’
‘Never mind him. It’s you I come to see, Daisy.’ Holding her close, he could feel her heart beating against his chest. Her lips tasted sweeter than cherries and the scent of her was making him dizzy. ‘Let’s go to your place.’
She pulled away from him, pinching his cheek with a mischievous sparkle in her eyes. ‘Ain’t you going to buy a girl a drink first?’
He knew she was teasing, but the allusion to her way of living drove a shaft of jealousy straight into his heart. ‘Don’t talk like that. I can’t stand it.’
Daisy’s eyes clouded and her mouth drooped at the corners. ‘Don’t be mean, Bartie.’
Hating himself, Bart brushed her lips with butterfly kisses until they curved into the smile that sent his senses spiralling. ‘Let’s go.’ He heard his voice come out thick with desire, but he could wait no longer. He took her by the hand and strode out onto the street, pulling her behind him.
‘Not so fast, you’ll have me over.’ Daisy stopped, refusing to move.
‘That was me intention, girl.’ Bart scooped her up in his arms and carried her down the street towards her lodgings, much to the amusement and ribald comments from the passers-by. As soon as they were inside Daisy’s room, Bart kicked the door shut. He set her on her feet, pressing her against the wall and devouring her lips with kisses. He loved her, and he wanted her as he had never wanted any woman in his life. Fear, frustration, anger and desire whirled around in his head, blotting out everything except his need to take her then and there against the wall like a common prostitute. Except that she was not a common prostitute, she was Daisy, the young woman he loved with a passion that he could never have imagined. When he was done and his desperate need temporarily sated, Bart buried his face in her neck, ashamed and contrite.
‘I’m sorry, Daisy. I never meant to be disrespectful and rough with you.’
She held him tight, rocking him like a baby. ‘You wasn’t either of them, love. You’re my man, Bart. I know as how you’d never do me harm.’
He raised his head and looked into her eyes. Tears sparkled on the tips of her long lashes but she was smiling.
‘My God, I love you, Daisy. I don’t want no other man to lay a hand on you ever again. I wants you to be mine for ever.’ He lifted her off her feet, crossed the floor in two strides and set her down gently on the bed.
‘I knows you mean it, Bart,’ Daisy whispered, pulling him down beside her. ‘But it ain’t possible. A girl’s got to live.’
‘Not like that.’ He stared into her eyes, drowning in their blue depths. He had not the words to tell her just how much he loved her; he could only express himself in one way. He kissed her slowly, teasing her lips until they opened with a sigh, running his hand down her neck to the swell of her breasts, cupping them and kissing them until she moaned with pleasure. He took her again, slowly this time, savouring every moment, his eyes intent on her face and his soul delighting in her ecstatic sighs as he drove her to a climax. Spent and happy, Bart held her in his arms and she lay with her head on his shoulder. It seemed to him that they were lost in time and space; the only two people in the world. ‘I love you, Daisy,’ he whispered, twisting a lock of her hair around his finger and marvelling at its silky softness. ‘I want us to be together always, girl. I want to marry you, if you’ll have me.’ He felt her body stiffen and she turned her head away. Cold fingers of fear clutched at Bart’s heart. ‘Daisy me love. Say something.’
She snapped to a sitting position and swung her legs off the bed. ‘It ain’t possible, Bart.’
‘What?’ Unable to believe what she had just said, he sat up slowly, staring at her hunched shoulders. ‘Why not? I loves you and I want to take care of you and keep you safe.’
She gave him a long, pitying look. ‘It don’t work like that out here. I’m a whore and that’s how I make me living. Don’t pretend I’m something that I’m not, Bart. We’ll both get hurt if you do.’
‘Don’t say that.’ He slipped his arm around her shoulders. ‘You’re not a whore, you’re a wonderful, warm person and I loves you with all me heart. Leave all this behind, Daisy. Come away with me and we’ll manage somehow.’
She shook her head, brushing angry tears from her eyes. ‘You live in a dream world. Where would we go? How would we live? Can you imagine us living in a prospector’s hut on damper and a bit of bacon every now and again? You haven’t lived through a bad winter here. You don’t know what it’s like.’
‘I don’t care. I’ll build a stone cabin with a chimney and a fireplace. I’ll pan for gold and I’ll dig a mine. We’ll be rich one day, Daisy. You and me, together.’
She rose to her feet, shaking out her crumpled skirts. She smiled down at him as she buttoned her bodice. ‘It’s a lovely drea
m, my dear. But it ain’t real. Now, I got work to do.’
He sprang to his feet, grabbing her by the shoulders and shaking her so that her blonde curls tumbled about her face. ‘I won’t have you sell yourself. I won’t stand for it. D’you hear me?’
Daisy gave him a cold look. ‘The whole of Fox Camp can hear you. Let me go, Bart. Let me go this instant.’
‘No. I’ll never let you go. I tell you I loves you, Daisy, and I’ll kill any man what lays his hands on you.’
Her eyes were blue ice as she met his anguished stare. ‘You’re hurting me. Let me go.’
He had not meant to hurt her. Once again he had allowed his evil temper to take hold. Bart dropped his arms to his sides, shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry. I wouldn’t harm a hair off your head, but I meant what I said. I wants you to give up this filthy business. I’ll not stand by and let them bastards have their way with you.’
Daisy’s eyes narrowed and her soft cheeks hardened into a stubborn jaw. ‘Don’t you dare talk to me like that. You can’t tell me what to do, Bart Bragg. No one tells me what I can and can’t do. If you don’t like things the way they are then you can get out. Get out now.’
Bart stared at her dumbly, unable to put his deepest feelings into words. She was so heartbreakingly beautiful, so available and yet so unattainable. Her tumbled curls shone like a halo around her head. She was his angel – coarse men might have corrupted her body, but in her heart and soul he knew she was as untouched and innocent as his Eliza. He was lost in a maze of conflicting emotions. He couldn’t lose her, but neither could he bear the thought of other men having her. Anger, frustration and fear welled up inside Bart, threatening to choke the life from him. He seized the one and only chair in the room and smashed it on the ground. Daisy screamed and backed away from him, her eyes wide with fear.
