Colonial Daughter

by Heather Garside

  ‘Ah, yes,’ he drawled. ‘I think I heard a whisper of a romance. Full of gossip, are these people in Banana. I believe his name is Lloyd Kavanagh. An enterprising young chap, from all I can gather. Perhaps he thinks a wife like you will assist him on his way up. I must take a look at him before we leave.’

  ‘Before you leave. I shan’t be accompanying you.’ Louise’s words were bravely spoken, but her heart was a lead ball in her chest. Charles was so implacable; she knew there would be no moving him.

  ‘But yes, you shall be.’ Charles opened the wardrobe and grabbed the hanging garments, then threw them onto the bed.

  ‘But I can’t!’ She turned from him and sank down on top of her dresses, in desperation saying the only thing that was left to her now. ‘I can’t not marry him now.’

  ‘What are you saying?’ Charles loomed over her. He grasped her arm in his hard fingers, squeezing until it hurt. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve let him seduce you?’

  She trembled and swallowed, but then she nodded, her face averted. Suddenly she dared not look up at him. ‘He wants to marry me as soon as we can find a priest to do it.’

  ‘Well, well, well.’ That hateful drawling note was back in his voice, making her body quiver uncontrollably. ‘It seems this Kavanagh is even more enterprising than I thought. I’m becoming more anxious to meet him by the minute.’

  She jerked her head up, fear cramping her stomach. ‘What are you going to do? Please, Charles, it wasn’t his fault! At least, it was mine just as much. Just go away and forget all about us, please.’

  ‘You’re a little fool,’ he said contemptuously. ‘Don’t you know that men never marry what they’ve already had?’

  She flinched. ‘Speak for yourself. I know Lloyd is different.’

  ‘He’d marry you if I stayed to hold a gun at his head! Otherwise he’d do as he pleased. There are plenty who get away with it.’

  ‘You should know! What about that wretched servant girl you ruined? Don’t you ever think of her and the poor nameless child you fathered? Don’t you ever wonder if they starved in the gutter?’

  His eyes blazed and Louise shrank back, realising how close he was for an instant to striking her. ‘Pack your clothes,’ he ground out. ‘You’re not going to marry that bloody Irishman. You’re coming to England with me.’

  She stared at him hopelessly, trembling. ‘But what future can there be for me in England? What other man would want me now?’

  ‘They won’t know about it and you won’t tell them. Now hurry up!’

  He left the room, slamming the door behind him. Louise heard him striding down the hall and then his voice.

  ‘Ah, Miss Jamieson, is it? Perhaps you could assist my sister to pack?’

  The sobs came without warning, convulsing her body. She turned away as Mercy opened the door without knocking and entered, stung to shame by the curiosity and contempt in the girl’s eyes. In desperation Louise began bundling clothes into the portmanteau.

  ‘I can’t believe what you have done,’ Mercy said. ‘You’ve lied to us all, including Lloyd. He doesn’t know who you are, does he? With a brother like that, what are you doing here?’

  Louise said nothing, wiping her streaming eyes and nose on her sleeve.

  ‘Hasn’t Mother been through enough without this? You’ve picked a fine time to leave us, with the baby coming.’

  Again. Louise didn’t respond. She could have pointed out that she hadn’t picked the time of her leaving.

  But what was the point?

  Chapter Sixteen

  That night, locked by her brother in her bedroom at the Banana Hotel, Louise cried herself to sleep. She could hardly bring herself to believe that now she was to be dragged off to England. Her bid for freedom and the happy months in between had achieved her nothing but heartache. And what of Lloyd? Charles hadn’t allowed her to see him. She imagined the Jamiesons telling him what had transpired and cringed inwardly. Heaven knows she hadn’t wanted to hurt him and now he would learn her true identity in the most hurtful way possible. She would write to him once they arrived at Banyandah, but she wondered if he would ever forgive her. It was immaterial, she supposed, as she would probably never see him again.

  Charles was late in coming to her room in the morning. When he did so his boots were dusty and his breeches saddle-stained, as if he’d already been out on horseback. In her despondency it barely registered with her. But she did notice that Charles was no longer angry; in fact he appeared to be extraordinarily good-humoured.

  ‘Are you coming out for breakfast, or are you still sulking?’

  ‘I shall join you,’ she retorted stiffly. It was no use protesting and making a fuss that might be overheard. She may as well resign herself to her fate with as much dignity as was left to her. She’d always known there was no swaying Charles.

  He’d allowed her nothing more than a brief goodbye to the Jamieson family yesterday and a stiff apology which hadn’t been well accepted. Who could blame them? Someday, perhaps, she may be able to make amends to them. Mrs Jamieson had handed her a cheque for her wages, which Charles had promptly taken and handed back.

  ‘Keep your money, Mrs Jamieson. We have no need of it, I can assure you.’

  She’d gone with Charles without further protest, unwilling to suffer the degradation of another scene. It was bad enough to think the children had witnessed as much as they had. She’d become so fond of them and they of her. She’d hugged the girls and little Maurice, but she hated to think of the confusion they must be experiencing now.

  Breakfast was a hurried affair, with Charles anxious to be on his way. There were few people in the street to see them leave when he handed her into the Banyandah buggy, but those present stared at her curiously. Charles began to whistle as they set out on the rutted, pot-holed coach road and turned to smile at her in the old, charming way she remembered well.

  ‘Cheer up, dear girl! It would never have done to have married that fellow, you know. You’d be nothing but a household drudge inside five years, with as many brats swarming at your feet.’ He idly took one of her hands and removed the glove from it. ‘You’re already on the way to it, by the look of this. Did that Jamieson woman set you to scrubbing the floors? I thought you were supposed to be a governess.’

  ‘I was a governess!’ she snapped, snatching her hand away. ‘But Mrs Jamieson has been away and Mercy needed help with the cooking and housekeeping.’

  ‘Is Mercy that little sharp-faced urchin? She looks as if she’s been in the sun too long.’

  Louise flinched at his derisive tone. ‘Some people have to work for a living.’

  He smiled. ‘But you don’t have to, do you, Louise?’

  She turned away from him, refusing to rise to his bait.

  After a long silence she said coldly, ‘I thought you would have been in England long since, Charles. Why didn’t you sail without me?’

  He looked at her, his expression incredulous. ‘Did you really think I would leave, not knowing where you were or what had happened to you? By heavens, you’ve led me a merry chase.’ He laughed without humour. ‘When I arrived at the Barclays’ last year to find you gone, I spent days in the saddle, making inquiries. The Barclays were in a terrible state. I think they’ve long since decided you were probably murdered, or raped, or both. Somehow I never thought so, though. We Ashfords know how to look after ourselves. Not,’ his mouth twisted, ‘that you’ve been doing such a good job of it lately.’

  She was silent and after a moment he continued, ‘I suppose you’ve guessed it was the hawker who finally set me onto you. He was in the Gainsford district when you disappeared. I remember asking him if he’d seen you. He recognised you the other day and sent word to me when he reached Banana. He succeeded in dunning me for two quid, the cunning little bastard.’

  ‘Charles, I may be a fallen woman, but no-one of my recent acquaintance has subjected me to that sort of language.’

  ‘If you had married that Kavanagh chap, you woul
d soon have grown accustomed to it, no doubt. And to being beaten every day, most likely.’

  She laughed scornfully. ‘I’m sure your wife–should any girl ever be deluded enough to marry you–would be in more danger of being beaten. Lloyd is not a violent person.’

  ‘Meaning that I am?’ Her implication seemed merely to amuse him. ‘Then hadn’t you better watch your tongue?’

  She barely heard him. Talking of Lloyd had caused a fresh wave of desolation to wash over, making her drop her head into her hands. ‘Oh, God, Charles, why did you bother? Why didn’t you give up on me long ago?’

  Charles lightly flicked his long buggy whip across the backs of the pair of horses. ‘Why? Because I was determined to find you. Do you think I could have greeted our dear parents with the news I’d left you behind here, living in God knows what penury? You might have been starving for all I knew.’

  Louise snorted. ‘Our “dear parents” have never overly concerned themselves with either of us. You know that as well as I do.’

  Charles shrugged. ‘I’ve always been happy to go my own road without interference from them. I thought you felt the same way.’ He turned to smile at her. ‘But you’re my favourite sister. I care what happens to you and I don’t believe they’re as indifferent as you suggest.’

  ‘If you really cared for my happiness, you would allow me to stay and marry Lloyd.’

  Charles, however, was obviously tiring of the argument. ‘One day you’ll thank me for getting you out of this mess.’

  ‘Do you really think so? It may please you to pretend you’re fond of me, but it’s only for as long as it suits you. You’ve never cared for anyone but yourself.’

  He laughed harshly. ‘Don’t try to tell me you’re any different, Louise.’

  ‘I believe I am different. This past year has shown me that.’

  ‘Pray enlighten me.’

  She tilted her chin. ‘I’ve learnt riding roughshod over others isn’t the only way to succeed. I’ve seen how it is to be a member of a happy, united family and I believe that’s more important than position and money. We Ashfords may be able to trace our ancestors back to William the Conqueror, but does that make us better people when all is said and done?’

  ‘You’re talking rot,’ Charles sneered. ‘Of course it does. Acting as governess to all those brats has turned your brain. And you’re a hypocrite, besides. Didn’t you ride roughshod over the Barclays when it suited you?’

  ‘I’m sorry for that. I realize now just how badly I behaved.’

  ‘Such humility. Perhaps you would have suited your Irishman after all.’

  ‘He’s not an Irishman. He’s an Australian.’ Just talking about him was a comfort. She hugged the words to her, like a child with a favourite toy. Whatever happened she had her memories and no-one would be able to take them from her.

  ‘What difference does it make?’ Charles sounded bored. ‘Not to worry–a few months of the good life in England will have you forgetting all these small-time selectors to whom you’ve become so partial.’

  Louise bowed her head, refusing to reply. She would never forget Lloyd – how could she? Perhaps the pain would ease in time, but right now the hollow, yearning ache threatened to consume her.

  ~*~

  Charles started to whistle again, refusing to allow Louise to spoil his good mood. She’d snap out of her doldrums soon enough. He was still congratulating himself on the way he’d handled Kavanagh.

  Charles had been taught boxing in his college days and it had been surprisingly easy. There would be no interference from that quarter, no danger that the upstart might attempt to pursue Louise. Louise had made it possible by virtue of her deceit.

  Early that morning Charles had hired a saddle-horse from the hotel-keeper and ridden out to Kavanagh’s place, while Louise slept. The sun was rising above the tops of the gum trees when he forded the river and turned right towards Kavanagh’s homestead.

  Guided by the unmistakable sound of an axe splitting wood, he found Kavanagh working at the woodheap behind his shack. The hard physical work showed off his sister’s lover to advantage, accentuating the strong shoulders and muscular thighs braced sturdily against the swing of the axe. Charles sat his horse unobserved and watched for a moment, taking in the primitive shack and the rough dress of the man before him. He imagined the fellow and Louise in bed together and his anger built.

  ~*~

  Lloyd looked up, startled, at the horseman’s approach. He set down his axe and wiped his sweaty face with his sleeve. Still mopping his face, he advanced towards the man, squinting a little into the rising sun. It wasn’t every day a well-dressed silver tail came riding up to his homestead, but he hid his surprise and greeted the stranger with his usual friendly civility.

  ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Are you Kavanagh?’

  Lloyd nodded. The visitor said nothing, looking him over leisurely and then he leaned forward on his horse’s neck, lifting a lock of mane in his long fingers and smoothing it to the other side. At last he smiled, a pleasant, friendly smile that somehow made Lloyd’s gut tighten with apprehension.

  ‘So you’re the bastard who’s been having a go at my sister.’

  Lloyd stared at him, speechless, the blood draining from his face. Shock turned to dismay, mingled with recognition. So this was Louise’s brother. Wasn’t he supposed to be in England? But how did he know that he and Louise had–

  Now was the time to tell him he wanted to marry Louise, but instinct told him to be silent. Somehow he didn’t think that information would mollify this debonair stranger who looked so much like Louise and who was yet so different. So alien.

  ‘Well, have you anything to say for yourself?’ Charles was still smiling, but the pleasantness was an illusion, fast disappearing. ‘Louise says you intend to marry her. Is that so?’

  Lloyd swallowed and nodded. ‘We would have been married by now but for circumstances.’

  ‘So meanwhile it’s been a case of have your fun while you wait, is that right?’

  Guilt and the beginnings of anger made the heat rush back to his cheeks. ‘What do you know about it?’

  ‘Louise told me.’ Charles casually felt in his coat pocket and withdrew an envelope, tossing it to Lloyd. ‘She sent you this.’ He paused and raised a sardonic eyebrow. ‘You do read, I presume?’

  Lloyd ignored the taunt, catching the envelope and opening it with suddenly unsteady fingers. The white page within was inscribed with a stylish, flowing script which looked like Louise’s, but he’d only seen it once or twice. As he slowly read it, talons of dread and disbelief clawed at innards.

  ‘My dear Lloyd,’ the note said.

  ‘I apologise for leaving you like this without explaining in person. I have been deceiving you, as you will see. But you must realize that I could never have married you. I’m sorry I allowed you to entertain that hope. I’m going with my brother Charles and shall sail to England on the first available ship. It is doubtful if we shall meet again and probably as well that we should not. Perhaps it will amuse you to discover that I am not Lucy Forrest, but Louise Ashford, the daughter of Harry Ashford formerly of Banyandah.

  ‘Regretfully yours,

  ‘Louise Ashford.’

  When he reached the reference to her name and saw the signature he started. He stared at it for a moment, dazed and barely comprehending.

  ‘Louise Ashford?’ he repeated, incredulous.

  ‘That is correct.’ Charles was grinning down at him, clearly enjoying it all. ‘I’m Charles Ashford. And it doesn’t do to play around with the Ashford women, you know.’

  Lloyd hardly heard him. He was still staring down at the letter, his brain whirling. ‘She didn’t write this.’

  Charles’s face hardened and he straightened in the saddle. ‘Oh yes, she did. She has been rather leading you down the garden path, old chap. Not to worry, she gave me the devil of a time too, trying to find her. She’s an inconsiderate little hussy.’

/>   Lloyd looked at him levelly, though his heart was beating a death march in his chest. ‘I still don’t believe she wrote it.’

  Charles laughed at him. ‘What makes you so sure of her? Why didn’t she tell you who she really was, if she planned to marry you?’ He swung lithely out of the saddle and dropped the reins. ‘Before I go...’

  He turned towards him and then moved so suddenly, Lloyd didn’t see it coming. His fist smashed into Lloyd’s face with a force that rocked him partially off his feet. An equally vicious left followed swiftly, driving into the belly. Given no chance to retaliate, Lloyd doubled up and sank to the ground, moaning. An elegant, highly polished riding boot caught him in the groin, driving him backwards. He screamed in agony, rolling swiftly to his side and drawing up his body in an effort to protect himself. He began to dry-retch, shock and pain making him violently nauseous.

  Charles stood over him, his eyes glinting dangerously. ‘I’ll leave it at that. I’d hate to spoil a good-looking chap like you for the ladies. I don’t care who you screw, so long as it’s not my sister. Just don’t bother coming after her.’

  He caught his horse, which had shied away at this sudden eruption of violence and now stood snorting. Through a red-rimmed haze Lloyd watched him mount up, ruthlessly controlling the frightened animal, and ride away without a backward glance.

  Lloyd moved his tortured body, his moans giving way to a string of profanities as he struggled to a sitting position. Burying his head in his arms, he let wracking sobs of grief and humiliation shake his frame. But he didn’t cry for long–he hadn’t done so since his tenth birthday when his father had beaten his mother and him in a drunken rage. He wouldn’t continue to abase himself over a woman so fickle and deceitful.

  When at last the pain had eased enough to allow him to rise, his eyes were dry. He staggered to the woodheap and sat on an uncut log, holding his bleeding face in his hands. It was unbelievable, but it had to be true. That had undoubtedly been Louise’s brother, for the likeness was unmistakable. And he’d behaved just like an Ashford, after all.