The Postmistress

by Alison Stuart

  ‘It’s a fine set of instruments you have here,’ Bowen said. ‘I’ve not seen their like.’

  Caleb set the saw back in the box where it nestled snuggly in its velvet-lined bed. ‘My father gave them to me when I graduated,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t have predicted how much use they’d have in the years that followed.’

  He slumped onto a bench and buried his head in his hands as the noise and fury, the blood and screams of battle and its aftermath flooded his memory.

  Bowen’s hand rested on his shoulder. ‘We all have our secrets, Hunt, and now we know yours. The doctor who doesn’t want to be a doctor.’

  Caleb lowered his hands and willed the demons to return to their places. ‘I’ll have a swig of your flask if you’ve got anything left, Bowen,’ he said.

  The doctor handed a battered silver flask to him and he took a swallow, letting the rough liquor burn the back of his throat.

  ‘Now whose hand is shaking?’ Bowen observed.

  Caleb held out his right hand and gave a snort of ironic laughter. ‘I haven’t practiced since the war.’ Caleb drained the dregs from Bowen’s flask. ‘You’ve been an army surgeon, Bowen. You understand?’

  Bowen sat down beside him and took the flask back, shaking the last drops onto the floor. ‘Trouble was, I didn’t know any other trade, but the memories came and I drank to forget. Then I came to Australia to forget but the memories and the drink followed me.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘I’m not much of a doctor, Hunt, but until now I’ve been all that this town has and despite this—’ he held up the flask, ‘—I think I’ve saved more souls than I’ve lost. You did well today.’ He paused and studied Caleb with bright eyes. ‘You’ve a skill I never had.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An instinct for doctoring. You can deny it all you like, but that’s a calling that will keep nagging at your heels. Forget this bloody gold mine. The town needs more than just me.’

  This time Caleb laughed as he shook his head. ‘I’m never going back to medicine, Bowen. I swore that the day I walked out of Elmira Prison. Haven’t thought about it for seven years, and I’m sure as hell not going to start thinking about it now.’

  Bowen shrugged and pocketed his empty flask. ‘If that’s the way it is, Hunt, it’s a waste. Now let’s finish up here and see to Geordie.’

  The two men set about clearing the room, sending the detritus to the boiler to burn. By the time they had finished, the shadows were long. In the town the picnic festivities had concluded and the good ladies were cleaning up the debris. The more jovial had moved to the pubs but no one, it seemed, patronised the Australis Hotel. Unlike other hostelries in town, it bore an air of neglect, the unpainted boards silvered and covered in moss in places. A rank smell of stale beer and overcooked cabbage issued from the open door.

  Caleb glanced at Bowen as they passed. ‘You permitted this arrangement?’

  ‘Without an alternative, what choice did I have? There are not so many accidents at the mine and most survive.’

  ‘But not the last one.’

  A shadow crossed the doctor’s eyes. ‘No, not the last one, but I don’t think even the best of hospitals could’ve saved him. There’s a new hospital in Sale, a good day’s coach ride from Shady Creek. When he’s strong enough let’s see about that option.’

  They reached the Britannia Hotel and the path that led to a small weatherboard cottage halfway up the hill.

  Bowen stopped and pointed at the neat little cottage. ‘That’s the doctor’s house, kindly provided by the burghers of this town. I’ll leave you here, Hunt. You are more than capable of seeing to your patient.’

  ‘He’s not my patient.’

  Bowen’s mouth quirked into a smile. ‘Oh, but I think he is.’ He patted Caleb’s shoulder. ‘We’ll talk tomorrow.’

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ Caleb said, but the little doctor had already turned away.

  Caleb watched him climb the path, his Gladstone bag bumping against his leg.

  ‘Nothing to talk about,’ he repeated under his breath.

  Fourteen

  Adelaide sat at the kitchen table, a full cup of tea cooling in front of her. She looked at the unedifying liquid and up at the clock on the mantelpiece. It showed nearly eleven, but she had no desire to go to bed. Her mind still reeled from the day’s events and despite the knowledge she had to work on the morrow, she knew sleep would not come easily.

  An uneasy silence had settled over the town. Unlike many of the other mines that comprised the goldfields, the proximity of the Maiden’s Creek mine to the town made the incident personal. An injury to one of their own affected the whole town deeply.

  Netty, at Caleb’s insistence, had gone to bed and Caleb sat with the injured man. Adelaide glanced out the open back door to where the light from a lantern spilled from Mick’s shed. She got up and made fresh tea, then carried two pannikins down the path to the shed.

  Caleb sat on a hard wooden chair, his feet stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles. He wore his waistcoat unbuttoned and a clean shirt, open at the neck. He leaned back, arms behind his head, and for a moment she thought he must be asleep but he jerked upright at her gentle knock.

  ‘I brought you tea,’ she said. She handed him the pannikin.

  A smile quirked the corners of his mouth. ‘You know how much I do love a good cup of tea,’ he said.

  ‘It’s hot and wet. Be grateful. How is he?’

  Caleb shrugged. ‘I’ve dosed him with laudanum. He’ll probably sleep till morning.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’ll sit with him tonight. Tomorrow is another day.’ When she didn’t move, he said, ‘Are you going to ask me for an explanation?’

  ‘We all have our secrets, Caleb.’

  He gave a hollow laugh. ‘Hardly a secret, now.’

  ‘No.’ She leaned against the wall and took a sip of her tea. ‘Very well, I am curious. What you did today … You are an extraordinary doctor, Caleb.’

  He shook his head. ‘No. I’m not. I was a doctor in Charlottesville before the war.’ He paused. ‘And a field surgeon during the war. I became very good at amputating limbs. That doesn’t make me extraordinary.’

  She frowned. ‘But didn’t you say you were a Quaker? Surely the Quakers do not believe in conflict?’

  He let out a long exhalation of breath. ‘I said my father was a Quaker. Not me. I am afraid the day I walked off the farm to take up a scholarship to study medicine was the day I renounced my father’s beliefs.’

  ‘I see. What did your father have to say about that?’

  ‘He forgave me,’ Caleb said, his voice raw with emotion. ‘Again and again, he forgave me for the decisions I made in life.’ He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. He looked down at the floor as he said, ‘He was a better man than I will ever be.’

  In the silence that followed he stood, abandoning his mug of tea, and stepped past her into the clear night.

  Leaving her tea on the table, Adelaide joined him and they stood side by side, looking up at the stars as they had done on Christmas Day.

  ‘I think your father would have been proud of you tonight,’ Adelaide said at last.

  ‘I was a prisoner for the last fifteen months of the war,’ he said. ‘I had spent three years hacking off broken limbs and pulling Minié balls from the bodies of boys barely old enough to shave, and I thought I had seen the worst one human being can do to another. Then came Elmira. No food, no water, too many bodies crammed in together. It bred disease like nothing I had seen, and worst of all, there was nothing I could do. I had no means to ameliorate the suffering. That was when I swore to God that I would never practice as a doctor again.’

  She turned to him, seeing his profile in the dim light of the lantern. His eyes were lost in dark shadows but the pain radiated from him like a physical force. She reached up and touched his face, the tips of her fingers grazing his unshaven cheek. He caught her hand and held it fast, turning her to face him.

&nbs
p; His forefinger slid along the line of her jaw, and she froze. Even her breath seemed to have stopped in her throat as Caleb traced a line of fire over her skin that made her quiver beneath his touch. He cupped the curve of her head, his thumbs caressing the soft flesh beneath her jaw, drawing her towards him.

  Adelaide closed her eyes, mesmerised by his touch. Her body ached for more, like a starving man being shown a banquet. She breathed in the scent of Caleb, the faint sandalwood overlaid with carbolic and the exertion of the day. Something forgotten stirred within her and she recognised it as desire. That long suppressed hunger for the touch of a man.

  It had never been like this with Richard.

  Caleb’s breath brushed her hair and he lowered his head. ‘My Adelaide,’ he whispered.

  At the first touch of his lips on hers, she sagged in his grip. He pulled away but she straightened and this time their lips touched with resolve.

  His fingers tangled in her hair as he drew her closer. She pressed against him, every nerve in her body tingling. In the back of her mind, a small voice shrieked a warning. But she pushed her conscience away.

  She wanted this man, wanted to take him to her bed—

  ‘Mama!’

  A shriek from the house cut through the fog of her desire like a lightning bolt. She stumbled away from Caleb, grasping for the wall of the shed to steady herself.

  ‘Danny—nightmare. He gets nightmares,’ she said, hardly able to get the words out.

  Caleb stood quite still, a shadow in the faint light. ‘You’d better go then, Adelaide,’ he said, his voice husky. He coughed. ‘Probably for the best.’

  She took a steadying breath and strode towards the back door, letting it open and shut behind her with a soft thump. She stumbled to the table, leaning heavily on the reassuring solidity of the well-scrubbed wood.

  ‘For the best,’ she repeated to herself. ‘What were you thinking?’

  But she recognised the thoughts that had passed through her mind as Caleb had held her, the wanton desire to be held and to be loved in every possible way. Whatever happened tomorrow, her life had just turned onto an uncertain path. One she had avoided for ten years.

  Caleb sank down on the bench outside the shed and buried his head in his hands.

  What have I done?

  What had Bowen said? ‘An instinct for doctoring, Hunt. You can deny it all you like but that’s a calling that will keep nagging at your heels.’

  In one day, he had undone the carefully constructed facade he had built around himself. All the hard work he had put into sending his training and his experience into a dark corner, to deny his calling, and it had taken one injured man to bring it all back.

  And then there was Adelaide.

  Was he going mad? A woman he had known a few weeks had turned his world upside down.

  And she had wanted him, willed him to kiss her, to touch her … It had been a long, long time since anyone had come to him with such desire. For just a few moments he had lost all sense of himself. It was as if she had dissolved into his very being.

  Thank God they had been interrupted.

  He shook his head, trying to clear it of these conflicting and unwanted emotions. He looked at the house. The kitchen lay in darkness but a faint thread of light escaped the curtains in Adelaide’s bedroom.

  The incident with Adelaide had been a reaction to the day’s events, nothing more. They had been thrown together in a tense situation. That had been all, but would she see it that way?

  Caleb returned to his vigil beside the injured man, and as he sat watching Geordie’s restless sleep, he made a decision. He couldn’t stay in Maiden’s Creek. He had allowed himself to be drawn into the affairs of this little town and had started to care about the people he met, something he had avoided for the last seven years; when he’d started to feel that loss of control, he had simply moved on. If he stayed now, he would never regain that independence. He needed space and time to think through how to avoid the threads of familiarity that were even now circling his heart.

  As another hot day dawned, Adelaide stood at the kitchen table humming as she cut into a fresh loaf of bread. The back door was open and she could hear Netty’s voice coming from Mick’s shed. She smiled and touched her lips as if the memory of that stolen kiss still lingered. What would she say to Caleb when he came in for breakfast? Would he look at her as he had last night, with hunger in his eyes? The thought sent a pleasurable tingle down her spine.

  Netty returned to the kitchen, shutting the door behind her and setting a tray down on the table. ‘Was that you singing?’ she asked.

  Adelaide smiled. ‘Is it a crime to sing?’

  ‘It is when you do it,’ Netty said.

  Adelaide opened her mouth to protest but had to admit the truth of that statement. She loved music, had once played the piano with consummate skill, but she could not hold a note.

  ‘How’s Geordie?’

  Netty sat down and buttered a slice of bread. ‘No fever. That’s a mercy. And he ate a good breakfast, but he’s in a deal of pain.’

  Adelaide glanced at the back door. ‘Is Caleb still sitting with him? Will he join us for breakfast?’

  Netty set the half-eaten bread down on her plate. ‘He’s gone,’ she said. ‘Woke me at first light and told me to fetch Bowen for the care of the man.’

  Adelaide stared at her. ‘Gone?’

  Netty fumbled in the pocket of her apron. ‘He said to give you this,’

  Adelaide took the folded paper and rose. ‘I—’ she began, but the betraying tears were already welling in her throat.

  In the privacy of her bedroom, she sat on her bed, turning the paper over in her hands, afraid of what it might say. Then, taking a deep breath, she unfolded it and stared, without seeing, at the hasty, impatient letters scrawled in pencil.

  My dear Mrs Greaves …

  Her heart fell. She hadn’t been Mrs Greaves last night. She had been Adelaide, his Adelaide.

  My dear Mrs Greaves,

  Please forgive my unfortunate behaviour last night. It was unworthy of me and a slight on you. I have no words to thank you for your kindness and friendship of the last weeks, at a time when I needed both. However, the time has come for me to move onto my claim at Shenandoah Creek and see what, if anything, can be found there. As for Mr Holdway, Maiden’s Creek has a competent doctor and there should be no further need for any interference from me.

  My very best regards and thanks to young Danny and Miss Redley.

  Caleb

  She let her hand fall and the paper fluttered to the ground as Netty stuck her head around the door.

  ‘So, where’s he gone?’

  ‘Up to his claim at Pretty Sally.’ The unshed tears stuffed her nose and her words came out muffled with her disappointment—her grief—at his abandonment.

  Netty entered the room, shutting the door behind her. She sat down beside Adelaide on the bed. ‘That’s not far. It’s not like he’s hightailed it to Sydney. Don’t fret for him.’

  ‘I’m not fretting. Just something in my eye.’

  Netty frowned. ‘I know you too well, Adelaide,’ she said and put an arm around Adelaide’s waist, drawing her into her embrace.

  Adelaide rested her shoulder on Netty’s dependable shoulder as she had done all those years ago and, through her tears, related the bare details of their unexpected tryst.

  Netty snorted. ‘Men! He’ll be back.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’ Adelaide thrust the cold, hard little note at her friend.

  Netty read it and shrugged. ‘I’ve eyes in my head. I’ve seen the way you look at each other when you think the other can’t see,’ she said. ‘He just needs time to sort his thoughts out, I wager. You mark my words.’

  Fifteen

  8 January 1872

  Adelaide nearly missed the path that led to Shenandoah Creek. She slithered down the winding track, arriving at a clearing beside the creek hot and breathless. She paused to catch her breath, scannin
g the mine working for any sign of Caleb. The flap of a canvas tent had been tied back, revealing that it had been pitched hard against what looked to be a rough mine adit.

  She crouched down and held her hand over the embers of the fire. They were still warm and a billy hung from a metal spike over the fire pit, but of the man himself she could see no evidence.

  She stood up and looked up and down stream. If he’d gone prospecting further along the creek, he could be gone all day.

  Adelaide scrabbled up the steep, rocky slope beside the adit to see if she could find a vantage point to get a better view of the creek. Balancing precariously, she put her hands to her mouth. ‘Cooee!’

  The bushman’s summons echoed through the valley, causing a flock of birds to rise, startled and indignant, into the air.

  She called again and this time she saw movement about a hundred yards down the creek. Caleb must have been working the gold pan but now he stood, searching the hills for the source of the call. She waved her hat and he raised his hand in acknowledgement. He stooped and threw his shirt over one shoulder as he turned for the encampment.

  Adelaide slithered down the slope and sat on the log beside the campfire to wait for him. He came into view, still limping from his recent injury. He could never be described as a big man, not like Amos Burrell, but his height gave a lie to his strength and well-defined muscles rippled beneath the sun-darkened skin. A whitened, puckered scar marred the definition of his left bicep, a legacy, she supposed, of the American conflict.

  He pulled the shirt over his head as he approached her and ran a hand through his dusty hair. ‘Adelaide, what brings you out here?’

  Adelaide crossed one trousered leg over the other, swinging her booted foot.

  ‘I am a postmistress and I am delivering your mail.’ She unbuckled her satchel and held out the letter from Alfred Bowen.

  He took it without looking at it. With his other hand he made an extravagant gesture from the crown of her favourite wide-brimmed felt hat to the toe of her riding boots. ‘And this fetching ensemble?’