The Best of Sisters

by Dilly Court

  Two hours later, clean-shaven, sober and well fed, Bart entered Mary Ann’s establishment, dragging his hat off his head and looking about nervously, half expecting to be forcibly ejected before he could speak up for himself.

  ‘So you’ve turned up again, eh?’ Mary Ann leaned across the bar, glowering at him.

  ‘Hear me out, lady,’ Bart said, twisting his hat in his hands. ‘I come to beg Daisy’s pardon and yours too, for behaving like a hooligan and a brute.’

  ‘Nicely said, mister, but you’re too late. She’s packed up and gone.’

  ‘Gone?’ If Mary Ann had hit him with a bar stool, Bart would not have been more shocked or knocked off balance. ‘No, she can’t have gone. We was engaged to be married.’

  ‘Seems to me she’s had a lucky escape then. Get on your way, fellow, or do I have to throw you out?’ Lifting up the hatch, Mary Ann strode out from behind the bar counter.

  Backing away, Bart held up his hands in a gesture of submission. ‘I’m going. Just tell me where to find my Daisy and I’ll never bother you no more.’

  ‘I’ll tell you, but it won’t do you no good. Daisy was leaving today anyway. She’s gone to Riverton to help Rosie Hayes look after her new baby.’

  Still slightly fuddled by last night’s excess of alcohol, Bart stared at Mary Ann as if she were speaking a foreign language. ‘Why would she do that? She never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘Maybe you never give her a chance,’ she said, curling her lip. ‘Maybe you was too interested in satisfying your carnal desires to care what Daisy thought or did. You’re all the same, you men.’

  ‘I got to find her. I got to get her back.’

  ‘Get a hold of yourself, fellah. You go chasing after Daisy now and she’ll spit in your eye. And I wouldn’t fancy your chances if Bully sees what you done to her. Now get out of here before I lose me temper. You’ve cost me a good worker and I’ll not forget that, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep out of me way from now on.’

  Although Bart’s first instinct was to set off for Riverton and bring Daisy back, forcibly if necessary, Mary Ann’s words had hit their mark. He had brought this situation about with his own ungovernable temper and, if he wanted to win Daisy, then he would have to prove to her that he had changed. During the long trek up the mountainside to his hut, moving slowly under the burden of provisions, Bart’s anger and fear at the thought of losing Daisy for ever slowly crystallised into a single-minded determination to make himself worthy of her. As he reached the hut, Bart stood for a moment, looking at the site with critical detachment. With Tate’s help he had picked this spot in a sheltered gully, just high enough above the Arrow to avoid being swept away when it was in full spate but close enough to allow easy access for the daily drudgery of panning for gold. Across the river, the Arrow Face rose steeply beneath its thick blanket of native bush. At his back, the foothills of the Crown Range climbed less steeply but to a greater height. This was not a bad place, Bart decided. Here he would build a stone cabin, with a chimney and a sturdy roof that would withstand the heavy snows of winter. He would make a home fit for Daisy, with a brass bed and a rocking chair so that she could sit by the fire in the dark evenings, and they could plan their future. He would tell Daisy about London and above all, he would tell her about Eliza and his ambition to return home a wealthy man. He would rescue Eliza from that old bugger Enoch, and he would see that his little sister married a man of standing, not a waterman or a stevedore, but a bloke with learning and a respectable trade or profession.

  Staring up into the clear azure sky, Bart took a deep breath of the crystal air and closed his eyes. ‘God, if you are up there, I swear I’ll mend me ways. I’ll not let my women down again, but I need your help, not for myself you understand, but for my Daisy and my Liza. Help me to help them, God. If you can spare a moment, that is.’

  Realising that he had spoken out loud as his voice reverberated across the gorge, coming back in a mocking echo, Bart grunted, feeling his cheeks redden even though there was nothing but an eagle soaring overhead who might have heard his mumbled prayer. He scurried into his hut and dragged the door across the entrance.

  It was not easy building a cabin large enough for a man and wife to live together and Bart was unskilled, although getting better with practice. In the day he waded in the river, panning for gold, or if the weather was too inclement then he began tunnelling into the mountainside. He had noted how other miners did their work, digging a little each day and shoring up their work with timbers, but it was a slow process and he found only minute amounts of gold. In the summer evenings, after a supper of damper or porridge and tea, with the occasional treat of a bit of boiled bacon, Bart set about gathering rocks and extending his hut, starting first with a chimney. His first attempt collapsed in a particularly bad storm, but he began again next day, learning from his mistakes in construction, and by the end of the summer he had succeeded in making a working chimney. By mid-autumn, he had completed the outer shell of his cabin, and before the onset of winter he had saved enough money to buy timber and to hire a packhorse to bring it up the gorge, thus enabling him to construct a sturdy roof.

  During all this time, Bart had continued to find small amounts of gold, either dust or tiny nuggets little bigger than a grain of rice, but having saved his hoard he raised enough cash to keep him in food during the worst of the winter storms. In the times when it was too dangerous to work in the swollen waters of the Arrow, he worked on the inside of his cabin, pounding the dirt floor until it was hard and dry as cement. He used planks left over from the roof to make a bed big enough for both him and Daisy. The brass bed would have to wait until later. Not for a minute had Bart allowed himself to think that this might all have been in vain. For almost a year, he had clung to the belief that Daisy truly loved him and that all he had to do was to prove to her that he had changed. Every stone in this cabin, every plank and every shingle was a testament to his love for her; once she had seen the home he had built, she would know that he was sincere and she would marry him.

  Bart had intended to wait until spring but now the cabin was finished he knew he could wait no longer and he must set off to find Daisy and bring her home. Packing a few things in a canvas bag, he set off for Arrowtown, his boots crunching on the thick frosting of snow. Although he had hoarded his money, buying only the barest necessities, he had invested in a pair of good, if second-hand, boots and a waxed linen coat lined with felt to keep out the intense cold. He arrived in Arrowtown in the early afternoon, and went straight to the refurbished Prince of Wales Hotel where he ordered a steak dinner and a pint of beer.

  ‘Haven’t seen you in here before, mate,’ the barman said, drawing a pint from a barrel and handing it to Bart.

  ‘That’s because I ain’t been in here for a while,’ Bart said, not particularly wanting to chat for he was out of the way of conversing with people, but he needed information and where better to get it than in Bully’s former place of residence. ‘I knew the chap what used to own this place.’

  Wiping spilt beer from the counter, the barman gave Bart an appraising glance. ‘Friend of Bully’s was you?’

  ‘Not exactly, but I did know him and his wife. I heard they’d gone to live in Riverton.’

  ‘You’re behind the times, mate. The word is that they left there to join Rosie’s brother, Conrad, in Carey’s Bay near Port Chalmers. Are you thinking of paying them a visit?’

  ‘None of your business,’ Bart said, picking up his glass and moving away from the bar to a table. He could hear the barman muttering something uncomplimentary under his breath, but he didn’t care. He would have his dinner and then he would set off, walking to Port Chalmers. He’d done it once before, and he could do it again.

  It was not a pleasant journey. Bart soon decided that only a fool or a man desperately in love would have undertaken such a long and arduous trek in the middle of winter, but he refused to be beaten by the weather, frostbite or sheer physical exhaustion. The jo
urney took him almost twice as long as it had when he and Tate first walked to Fox Camp, and it was the nearing the end of August by the time Bart reached Port Chalmers. Exhausted and with little money left, Bart found a cheap lodging house near the harbour. It was late in the evening, and after a supper of mutton stew, his first hot meal in a month, Bart fell onto the mattress allocated him in a room shared by several other fellow travellers. He sank into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  Next morning, filled with hope and determination, he found his way to the public baths, and set about getting clean and tidy. When he found Daisy he wanted to make a good impression. By midday, Bart was clean-shaven, bathed and had managed to get his underclothes and shirt laundered and, if not dry, at least not soaking wet as they had been on some of the rainier days of his long journey. With hope in his heart, he set off to find the offices of the local newspaper. Enquiring at the front desk, he was uncomfortably aware of a change in the man’s expression when he enquired about the Hayes family. ‘You’re a stranger in these parts then, mister?’

  ‘I am,’ Bart agreed, ‘but I am a friend of the family.’

  ‘Then I’m afraid it’s bad news I have to give you, my friend. There was a tragic accident at sea just a couple of weeks ago. Captain Hayes managed to save himself, but his wife and baby were drowned, along with one of Mrs Hayes’s brothers and the nursemaid, whose name escapes me at present. Are you all right, mate?’

  Unable to speak for the choking sensation in his throat, Bart stumbled from the building and only saved himself from falling by clinging to a lamppost. As he swayed on his feet like a drunken man, passers-by crossed the street to avoid him. If he had taken care of Daisy she would still be alive. It was his fault that she had drowned; he had killed her as surely as if he had pointed a pistol at her beautiful head. Stumbling along the street, Bart had no idea what he was going to do, but he needed to get to Carey’s Bay and to see the house where she had been living with the Hayes family. He had no idea what he would do when he got there; he was simply following his instinct like a migrating bird.

  It was late afternoon and the winter night was closing in on the Otago Peninsula by the time he arrived outside the gates of the Buckinghams’ house. Carey’s Bay was a small community and it had not been difficult to gain directions from the townsfolk. Standing in the street, Bart looked up at the building, lost in the desolation of his thoughts as he tried to imagine Daisy’s last days spent in this place. The sound of hooves on the road behind him made Bart move aside as a man drew his horse to a halt and dismounted, casually flinging the reins over the picket fence. He cast Bart a curious look. ‘Can I help you, sir?’ The man was well dressed and spoke in a beautifully modulated voice, as if he were an actor addressing an audience.

  ‘I don’t think so.’ Shaking his head, Bart vaguely remembered seeing him at the Provincial Hotel in Arrowtown. If this man was a member of the Buckingham family, then he must say something; make some appropriate remark. Out of practice at dealing with people, Bart cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir.’

  ‘You knew my sister?’

  ‘I met her once or twice in Arrowtown. I was going to marry Daisy, the maid what was drowned alongside Mrs Hayes and her baby.’

  Buckingham paused, staring at Bart. ‘You’ve been misinformed, sir. It was Mary Crowley who sadly passed away. Daisy is our parlour maid and I’m glad to say she’s alive and well and in the house as we speak.’

  For the second time that day, Bart felt the world spin about his head as if he were about to faint, and he clutched the fence for support. ‘Daisy’s alive?’

  ‘Come with me.’ Placing his hand beneath Bart’s arm, Buckingham led him through the gate and up the path to the house where he rapped on the door.

  It opened and Daisy stood in doorway holding a kerosene lamp. With her pale golden hair shining like a halo, she looked to Bart like an angel from heaven. For a moment she stared at him, wide-eyed and with her lips moving silently in shock.

  Buckingham pushed Bart forward. ‘I think you know this fellow, Daisy.’

  ‘Bart!’ Daisy’s voice broke on a sob as he swept her up in his arms.

  ‘Well, it seems that good has come out of bad,’ Buckingham said, relieving Daisy of the lamp before it fell to the ground and was smashed. ‘I’ll hang up my own coat and hat then, shall I, Daisy?’

  Bart and Daisy were married in Port Chalmers two days later, with Conrad Buckingham giving the bride away and Betsey, the cook, and Jakes, the handyman, as witnesses. Conrad paid for the hire of a bullock cart to take them back to Arrowtown, insisting that it was his wedding present to the newly married couple. As soon as the brief ceremony ended, Bart and Daisy set off for home. If the journey was arduous and beset by flooded roads, wheels sinking in mud up to the axles and even a late snowstorm or two, Bart was oblivious of everything except the delight of having Daisy all to himself. Nights spent curled up with his bride on the hard boards of the cart, with rain beating a tattoo on the tarpaulin overhead, were as blissful to him as sleeping in a featherbed in the grandest hotel he could imagine. Daisy was everything that he remembered and even more: he was a man deeply in love and, for once in his life, Bart was totally happy. When they arrived in Arrowtown, they left the bullock cart to be rehired for the return trip to Port Chalmers, and set off on foot for the cabin.

  The winter snows melted, sending icy water tumbling down the mountainsides and swelling the Arrow River into a foaming torrent, scouring the riverbed with dislodged rocks and gravel. As he climbed out of bed, Bart was careful not to disturb Daisy, but he could not resist dropping the lightest of kisses on her slightly parted lips and on her swollen belly. He covered her tenderly with the eiderdown that he had purchased with the last of his money. Nothing was too good for Daisy; she must be cared for and cosseted during the months to come while their baby grew in her womb. Bart couldn’t help smiling at the thought of his son, or maybe it would be a girl, a perfect blend of Daisy and Eliza for him to love and cherish. It was cold in the cabin, the fire having died down to ashes in the night, and Bart dressed quickly, pulling on his boots and tying the laces. He would fetch water and then light the fire, so that the room was warm for Daisy when she awakened. He would have tea brewed so that she had something to ease the morning sickness that had been bothering her lately. As he plucked his jacket from the back of the chair, a folded sheet of paper fell to the floor. He retrieved it and put the letter he had written to Eliza on the table: it had taken days to compose. Daisy had helped him put his feelings into words and had corrected his poor spelling. In it he had told Eliza about their life, about the child they were expecting and how he was certain that his luck was about to change. Soon they would be rich and he would bring his wife and baby home to England. All would be well; he knew it in his bones.

  Shrugging on his jacket, Bart picked up his hat and, jamming it on his head, he let himself quietly out of the cabin. Half blinded by the brilliance of the early morning sunshine, he collected the wooden bucket that he used for toting water from the river and set off down the bank, slipping and sliding on the mud. The sound of the rushing torrent filled his ears and the spray sparkled in the sunlight, forming rainbows across the water.

  The river was in full spate and, as Bart made his way to the edge, he paused for a moment, his breath taken away by the power and beauty of nature. Then, just as the rainbow pierced the surface of the water, Bart saw something gleaming on the riverbed. Blinking hard, he thought at first it was simply a trick of the light, a refraction of sunbeams on wet gravel. His heart seemed to miss a beat and then it began to race; he was not sure whether the pounding in his ears was the drumming of his own pulse or the roaring tumult of the river. Wading into the icy waters Bart felt the powerful surge of the current beating against his legs as it swept everything in its path; he knew what he was doing was dangerous but he was not going to give up this, his first real chance of riches. Moving in and out of his vision beneath the swirling mass of gravel and water w
as the largest gold nugget that he had ever seen. Plunging down beneath the torrent, Bart’s fingers clawed at the gold as he attempted to prise it from the mud that held it fast. When his lungs were close to bursting, he came up for air, shaking the water from his hair and eyes. Then he dived down again digging frantically, oblivious of the pain from his cut fingers and torn nails. Coming up once again, he filled his lungs with air and then lunged with all his strength; the lump of gold, twice as big as his fist, came away in his hands just as a wall of water hit him in the back, knocking him off his feet. Bart kicked out, but his boots were full of water and his sodden clothes weighed him down. The river was hurling him from rock to rock, taking him up to the surface like a cork and then sucking him down into its green depths. Above him, Bart could see daylight and he clutched his gold to his chest. He could see Eliza and Daisy smiling down at him through the ripples. He had not let them down after all. He was a rich man.

  Chapter Eleven

  As Eliza turned the key in the lock, she paused before opening the chandlery door and looked up at the name above the shop front. Illuminated by the first tentative rays of morning sunlight, the weathered gold letters seemed to wink at her, starting her day on a cheery note. E. Bragg, Ship Chandler. Once that title had belonged to Enoch, and the store had been a terrible place, but during the last six years she had made it her own. It had not been easy, and there had been many times when Eliza had felt like giving up; none more so than in the dark days after she had learned of Bart’s death. It had seemed to her then that cruel fate had robbed her of all those she loved most in the world. In the initial shock of bereavement, she had been tempted to hurl herself into the Thames, seeking relief from the swirling waters that would blot out grief and reunite her with Bart and her dad. But, in the depths of her despair, when even the love of her adopted family and Davy could not reach her, Eliza had discovered something in her deepest self: a core of stubbornness and the will to survive. Bart would not have wanted her to give in; she would keep going for his sake and for the sake of his child.