Abigail's Quest

by Lois Mason

  Rob was baffled by her mirth; he could have coped with woman’s tears, but laughter out of context was a mystery.

  “What is it, Abby?” he asked concernedly, although his heart lifted to see her smiling at last.

  “Everything! This room ... look at it!” she laughed almost hysterically.

  The massive mahogany four-poster bed had sparked her laughter. There it stood, incongruously squat and majestic with its bulky turned posts and heavy crimson velvet side-drapes in the middle of shabbiness. To think that that woman had transported this enormous bed all this way to have it demoted to use by any come-by-chance sleeper!

  Rob laughed too, a deep, throaty laugh that ran a quiver down Abigail’s spine as he hugged her. A hug of pure delight. With her defences unguarded, Abigail saw a flash of truth in the moment, as they shared mirth like the first trickling waterfall on a ferny slope sparkling after rain.

  But her guard was up again, too soon for her husband.

  “You had best bring in our baggage before any of those street urchins clap eyes on it,” she said pulling away from him.

  Mrs. McNamara’s voice was proof that walls in this flimsy building were no barrier to sound. “Mother of God! Ye blitherin’ idiot! Here! Give it to me!” she heaped a volley of oaths in tones far from the hospitable ones reserved for guests. The next minute she poked her head around the bedroom door, and with a charming smile asked Abigail, “Would ye like a cuppa tea to warm the cockles of your ’eart?”

  Trying desperately to keep a straight face, Abigail replied that there was nothing she’d like better.

  Life was so transparent here! No secrets could be concealed in this whipped-up boarding house. She would be safe enough tonight, there was little doubt. With no fear of it not being heard, one cry would bring the whole street running!

  Rob came back with their bags. There was even a high, oak wardrobe in the room, decorated with an inlaid design in the Dutch manner, and she set to in shaking out the creases of her few dresses and hung them in it. She could not bring herself to the wifely duties of doing the same for her husband’s clothes.

  “Abigail, dearest, have your cup of tea. I’ll be back shortly,” he said to her.

  To join the throngs at the saloon, she thought bitterly. She nodded farewell to his back as he hastened through the packing-case door. ‘Tartan Old Scotch’ and ‘Beefeater Finest Gin’ ironically adorned it in this house of temperance.

  Mrs. McNamara proudly brought in the tea on a pewter tray festooned with her precious Coalport teaset. Coalport she reserved for ladies; gentlemen were given willow-pattern, of which she had an abundant supply. Again Abigail was struck with the incongruity of everything—of a tough, matronly woman clinging tenaciously to the niceties of life out in this rough, wild place. Whilst thousands might come and go through the Gully, she knew Mrs. McNamara would endure.

  Perched on the edge of the large bed, she sipped the cheap tea, then laid her cup and saucer back on the tray and placed it on the small fretwork whatnot in the corner of the room.

  She must have dozed a while because it seemed no time before her husband burst through that door again, with a glow in his cheeks and a shrewd, twisted smile on his lips.

  He had been to the saloon, she was sure. But when his head bent over and his lips pecked her cheek there was not a smidgen of liquor aroma on his breath.

  “Well, Abby!” he said triumphantly, “we can go to the Dunstan from here, tomorrow! But there may be a hitch.”

  “And what is that, pray?” she asked anxiously.

  “Tell me first. Can you sit a horse?”

  “Can I ride?” she exclaimed. “I, who have been riding almost since I could walk! Aye, I can sit a horse most ably.”

  “Then there’s no problem. Except for that...” He cast his eyes over her hoops, which she had slipped off before she reclined on the bed. For modesty’s sake she had intended putting the contraption in the wardrobe, but Rob had returned quicker than she had expected.

  Blushing in confusion she got up and tossed them into the depths of the wardrobe. “That solves your problem. I shall go without tomorrow,” she muttered.

  As she stood there, watching her husband’s every move, without the bolstered effect of the crinoline hoops her green chintz dropped forlornly about her boyish hips. Rob found this all the more enticing than the mysteries of the unnaturally buoyant skirt.

  He caught her up in his arms and plonked her firmly beside him on the edge of the four-poster. Despite her fears of the man, that tingling sensation in Abigail’s spine would not disappear. She could not deny that the masterful way he manoeuvred and ordered their doings made him all the more painfully attractive. Through her unfortunate circumstances he had become her lodestar. But what the future outcome of his actions might be, in the light of that baffling letter, was what was so unnerving.

  His unsettling eyes once again held her in thrall as he eagerly unfolded his plans. “I have procured the use of two horses for us; a certain Mr. Ned Fogg who will be our guide, and who will bring a pack horse for the baggage and tents.”

  “Tents?”

  “Aye. There’s little in the way of accommodation between here and the Lower Township at the Dunstan. We will have to camp overnight, for our journey will take about three days. ’Tis to be hoped the weather holds fair.”

  Abigail agreed silently. There could be nothing worse than making camp in the rain, let alone riding in it. The thought held little appeal.

  “Oh! I’m forgetting. There is one other problem.”

  Rob looked at her tentatively. “I was unable to obtain a side-saddle. Could you ... Do you think ’tis possible for you to ride astride?”

  Abigail laughed as memories of her escapades with James and Billy riding Papa’s horses bareback flooded back. What would her husband have made her had he seen her then?

  “Aye!” she answered. “You need have no fears on that account.”

  They would be off tomorrow! At least her husband was not a procrastinator. And with a guide tagging along she would have no fears for her safety. If the Lower Township was anything like Weatherstone’s Gully with its flimsy buildings, she need not concern herself unduly when she was alone with him. There would always be someone within crying distance. Walls were not solid enough to muffle a sound.

  They would find Papa soon. And in the meantime she was able to console herself that her fears of Rob were now allayed by the circumstances in which they found themselves.

  By the time they had dined in Mrs. McNamara’s dining-room—if one could call a motley assortment of benches and tables, and a scrim-lined partition a dining-room—whale-oil lamps were lit. Back in their room, after the rabbit stew, roast potatoes and kumara and Spotted Dog pudding, Rob proposed an evening stroll. Abigail hastily retrieved her hoops from the wardrobe and pulled them up under her skirt.

  Her husband could have been any one of the miners who jostled and milled about them. His dress of moleskin trousers, red flannel shirt and sash, a bandanna at his neck, and broad-brimmed felt hat, was practically uniform for the digger.

  The town now, with its hundreds of lamps and lanterns illuminating faces and groups, and hiding the garish, cheap buildings, was almost a fairytale fun-fair, romantic and exciting, cast in a soft glow of flickering lights.

  Rob steered Abigail rapidly past the drinking saloons, shooting galleries, dancing halls, and gambling tents, where the number of men outside, the pall of smoke, and the coarse shouting and jeering floating out from these seedy places, attested to their popularity.

  Arm-in-arm, they walked to what could be termed the quieter sections of the town, where row upon row of small calico tents were pitched on the slopes of the hills. Here too silence was not a feature in the pleasant, summer evening. Brawling poured from the saloons and wrestling establishments, spilled out to the edges of the dwellings; mothers chided wayward children; arguments and altercations, all were intermingled and audible.

  Even if the flies of the tents
were not tied back, one still knew of the affairs behind their calico walls by the shadows thrown up on them. Eating, washing, putting bairns to bed, playing cards, were all silhouettes dancing on the sides of the dwellings.

  Then a more pleasant sound greeted them as they strolled further down the row of tents. A concertina started up and the rollicking, familiar song increased in volume as more and more voices joined in. It was a stirring moment.

  “A bold fusilier was marching down through

  Rochester

  Bound for the wars in the Low Country...”

  Rob threw back his head and Abigail heard his vibrant, clear tones ringing out in unison with hundreds of others. After that came ‘The Wild Colonial Boy’, then an Irish voice called out, ‘On the Banks of the Condamine’, and a fiddle struck up the tune. Many a woman sitting around the lignite fires with her man dabbed at her eyes as the home-country songs brought back memories.

  Rob still sang along with the men as they turned and headed back the way they had come. Some of the men who had been on the Bendigo goldfields were now chanting:

  “Drive on my lads, heigho, wash on my lads, heigho,

  For who can lead the life that we jolly puddlers do?”

  and the echo of the chorus followed them as they approached the cruder parts of the town again. The street became intolerable as the rowdier element pushed and jostled. Over their din came the strains of a violin, and a pounding piano belting out a toe-tapping polka from ‘The Trocadero Dance Parlour’. Gin and whisky-laden breath passed over Abigail as one after another whiskered, unkempt face pushed by.

  It was a great relief to turn off the central street, away from the steamy, stale, smoke-laden atmosphere, down the alley back to their accommodation. As they approached Mrs. McNamara’s door, Rob turned curtly to Abigail.

  “You’ll be safe from here. Go straight in. I shall be away a short while. I have to find Ned Fogg to finalize arrangements.”

  He was off in a flash. Spurned for the moment by her enigmatic husband, Abigail felt almost resentful. It was always man’s business to organize! She would dearly love to be out there arranging her own life for the next few days. Reluctantly resigned, she knew she had to accept her lot.

  With nothing to do but wait for his return, her mind dwelled morbidly on those intriguing words in his letter. Boredom made her thoughts all the more grotesque and when Rob appeared, she jumped nervously.

  “Here we are!” he called. “Two sturdy saddlebags for our horses tomorrow,” then he was worried by the look on his wife’s face. “Abby! What in thunderation is the matter? What is troubling your pretty little head, my love? If ’tis worrying about your father...”

  “Nay,” she quivered, “ ’twas that shooting.” She must not reveal her true thoughts.

  “Naught but some larrikins trying out their firearms,” he assured her. “ ’Tis bothersome to see these eyes disturbed. Now here’s something to take your mind from the commotion. I am sorry, but ’twill be impossible to take your carpet bags and my portmanteau by horseback. Clothes will have to be packed in these.” He pointed to the leather saddlebags.

  “I doubt that everything will pack into those,” she said.

  “Aye. I’m afraid we can only take what is essential. I’m sorry, Abby, but ’tis the best I could manage.” He looked genuinely concerned and much of her nervousness dissipated. Surely a heartless murderer would not feel concern for his victim? “I’ll arrange to have the clothes we cannot take, and our baggage sent to Dunedin. I doubt we’ll be by this way again. Once we reach the Dunstan, our journey back is by a more direct route. Mr. Fogg will bring the horses, and we can catch a coach. I shall have our things sent to the coach office for us to collect later.”

  “Very well,” she nodded bleakly.

  “You start with your things while I collect our tent and bedding. Won’t be long!” he darted out again.

  Some of her clothing would have to remain behind, she could see that. Voluminous skirts required too much space. There were no regrets in eliminating the brown travelling dress, it was impossible to repair and was only a hateful reminder of an odious episode. But its jacket was still good since it had been left on her bed that afternoon, and it would not take up too much room. That left her green chintz, the pink taffeta, and her dark blue tarlatan. The chintz, being most practical, she would wear for riding, with the red merino cape for warmth. Pack one shawl, throw out the tartan. The blue or pink?

  The pink was definitely too frivolous for such a trip. She added it to the pile of discards and carefully folded the tarlatan dress and placed it in the saddlebag. Then she considered her bonnets. Not one would fit inside the leather bag. The pink straw and the brown joined her dresses. The olive silk she would wear tomorrow.

  There was room for the rest of her garments in the saddlebags but there was no place for her hoops in the bags that would go back to Dunedin. She couldn’t ride astride in them, so there was only one solution. Fashion would have to be abandoned for practicality until they reached the coastal town again. She stepped out of them and tossed them into Mrs. McNamara’s wardrobe, smiling to think what the landlady would make of her find if she bothered to check the cupboard’s cavernous depths.

  Rob had not yet returned, and to occupy herself she decided to tackle his portmanteau.

  He certainly travelled light! For all its size, the leather case was only half-packed. No choice was necessary for him. All he had would pack tightly into the other saddlebag.

  She transferred his trousers and two shirts, and then started on his underwear. For one so rough it was odd that his undergarments were as fine as they were. Instead of the usual calico they were fashioned from the finest linens. Could he have stolen them? She felt uneasy, then picked up a nightshirt.

  A flash of scarlet and yellow embroidery caught her eye. She held the garment closer to the lamplight. The embroidered motif was some sort of crest; a broadwinged bird rose from a forest of flames and beneath the small device were the words: Recte Faciendo Neminem Timeas. Two bold initials ‘R. S.’ worked in padded blue silk were below. Then the vestment was his. But why did a man of his ilk possess a crested nightshirt? It was all very puzzling. Had he been a soldier of rank? Was this some sort of regimental insignia?

  She folded the garment tightly and pushed it down into the bag, then placed two pairs of his unmentionables on top. As she lifted the last bit of clothing, a merino undervest, from his bag, she froze. Underneath it lay a small Colt pocket pistol.

  Then she told herself that her fears were nonsense. She knew that lots of men carried guns for protection these days. Bushrangers and robbers were more than rumours—she had experienced them at first hand herself. Just the same, the cold, hard metal was a shock.

  As she was wondering what to do about it, Rob came back into the room. His eyes were inscrutable. “So, you’ve unpacked my bag too,” he commented as he deposited two large calico rolls on the floor near the wardrobe.

  “What shall I do with this?” She pointed to the weapon.

  “Leave it out. Here, give it to me,” and as she handed it over quipped, “Never trust a lady with a gun!”

  “I thought ’twas a man,” she replied pointedly.

  He laughed. “You can trust me at any rate! What would we be if a wife cannot trust her husband? It might be useful should we meet any of O’Malley’s gang on our journey.”

  But could she trust him? She wished she could be so sure, but those horrible doubts would not go away.

  He thrust the gun under a pillow, thus claiming his territory in the massive bed.

  “Did you have to leave much behind?” he asked Abigail.

  “In the wardrobe.” She nodded her head towards it. He opened the door and looked inside.

  “All that?” he asked.

  “Aye.” She looked upset. He reached over and laid his hand on her shoulder offering some comfort. Although clothes were only necessities for him, he sensed what the fripperies must mean to his wife. “Never m
ind, little love. I shall make it up to you when ’tis all over. We’ll buy new dresses and lace caps then.” Would he? All the same, nothing could replace Mama’s own handiwork and her painstaking stitches.

  She nodded and self-consciously started to prepare for the night. Her husband’s gaze burned into her as she changed into her nightdress and made her ablutions at the marble-topped washstand. She climbed into bed and pulled the covers high up around her neck.

  “You need not be afraid, my love,” Rob whispered gently, “no harm shall come to you.”

  He followed suit in preparing to retire but she was too embarrassed to watch.

  She soon felt his strong arms about her. Her light brown eyes were large, helpless pools in the soft lamplight. He pulled her to him and her breath quickened.

  His kiss was too gentle. “Goodnight, my sweet. Sleep well,” he whispered. Then he turned from her and put out the whale-oil lamp. She heard him shifting down into a comfortable position in the thick horsehair mattress with his back to her.

  This treatment left her even more bewildered than that turbulent episode of the morning. There was much to learn of men, she thought. And how little she knew! Too much mystery surrounded hers, and she dared not seek it out until Papa was found.

  Goblins of thoughts whirled in her head as she exhaustedly succumbed to sleep. But not before the first heavy drops of rain drummed noisily on the tin roof above.

  Rain ... If it was wet tomorrow, they were in for a wretched time.