by Téa Cooper
‘Ah, you’d not be depriving a man of a bit of pleasure, would you?’
Pleasure? That wasn’t a word to be discussing right now. Not in front of Ruan, not in connection with this man. ‘Thank you Mr …’
‘Carrick, Carrick O’Connor at your service.’ He wiped a stained, roughened hand down his trousers then shook his head. ‘Maybe not. Cutter’s hands.’ He laughed and settled her into the chair. ‘And now for you, me lad.’
Before Roisin could speak, he swung Ruan onto the chair next to her. She turned aside, determined not to notice the muscles bunching in his arms, or the way his broad shoulders strained the seams of his stained shirt.
He pushed Ruan’s stool up to the table. ‘Maisie does a rare mutton stew.’
‘Are you going to have some?’ Ruan gazed up at the big man with a look suspiciously like adoration.
Oh, for goodness sake. The prospect of having to spend another moment in his company set her heart rate scampering. She’d never experienced anything quite like it before. It had to stop. ‘No, Ruan, the gentleman is busy with his friends. Now eat up and then it’s time to sleep.’
‘Your mam’s right. Eat up, won’t you?’ With a wink at Ruan he strode back to his cronies by the fire, picking up an oversized tankard from Maisie on his way.
‘Has Carrick eaten?’ Ruan asked.
‘I have no idea.’ Roisin pushed her spoon through the mutton stew in an attempt to set Ruan an example, but her appetite had vanished.
For a moment there he’d believed his sanity had deserted him. He rubbed at the cold fingers of fate still prickling the hairs on the back of his neck. When he’d first caught sight of them standing on the side of the road, it was as though the very angels had answered his prayers. Now, even in the half-light of the inn, he could see his mistake.
Where was she going and why? Meeting up with a husband or a lover? The child was hers, no doubt about that. He shared her eyes and she made no attempt to hide the fact he belonged to her. And why was she travelling alone?
He sneaked a glance at her over his shoulder. She reminded him of days gone by, hair somewhere between the spun gold of the sunshine and the pure new cedar in the forest after the first axe stroke. And those eyes, flaming emeralds heightened by the artifice of her outrageous green jacket, the colour of new leaves, love and home. Certainly not a widow. He hadn’t seen a woman dressed in a colour that bright since … since ever.
Tossing back the last of his drink, he dragged his attention to the timber cutters’ stories growing taller by the second as the free-flowing rum lubricated their imagination. Let them have their fun before they headed back to the forest for another bout of hard labour. The possibility of crossing the path of the delightful Miss … he didn’t even know her name. That wasn’t good enough.
‘Who’s for another, for the road?’ Clasping the eager, outstretched tankards, he made his way to the bar. ‘Fill ’em up, Maisie. There’s a girl.’ His gaze strayed to the table in the corner, where they sat, heads close. Her hair was shades darker than the strawberry blond of the boy’s.
‘She’s a sweet young thing, is she not?’
‘Aye. And you needn’t grin at me like that, you scheming old witch. I’m back to the forests tomorrow.’ Back where he wanted to be, in the company of men relying on strength, nothing more. He’d not have his heart ripped out again, though it couldn’t hurt to know her name. ‘Has the sweet young thing got a name?’
‘What would that be to you if you’re going back to your timber cutting?’
He shrugged his shoulders. ‘Just curious. The boy’s Ruan. That’s a good Irish name. Little red one.’
‘And she’s Roisin, another good Irish name.’ Maisie winked one of her I-told-you-so looks. ‘Though there’s not much poor Irish about her, dressed like that. That jacket would be worth as much as one of your cedar trees.’
‘I’d be doubting that.’ He picked up the drinks and made his way back. Full to the brim, the tankards slopped rum across the back of his hands and down his fingers. He plonked them onto the table and licked away the sticky mess. He’d be needing every drop tonight to keep the ghosts at bay. It didn’t do for the boss to be heard thrashing and screaming. His cutters were hard men and it took an even harder one to keep them in line, to make them pull together in the forest and keep them safe. Complain as they did, they were happy enough when they divided the profits; better than slaving for the bleeding government.
‘Give us a tune, Slinger.’
‘Where’s your fiddle?’
‘Something from the old country. A taste of home.’
And so it all began again, the simple pattern of the last night free of the forest. Slinger caressed the old fiddle as a man would a woman. Perhaps it reminded him of someone he loved. Carrick had never asked. They’d cut together for years, from the days when they both wore the irons, and never asked questions. Rarely did a man tell of what went before. That was the realm of dreams, the land of what if and one day. So long as there was something to return to.
Slinger cut to a jig, fast, furious and snappy, making the men’s feet stamp and the floor reverberate. Carrick rested his back against the warm chimneybreast, his ears ringing with the raucous shouts of encouragement. The increasing beat of the music soared and filled the four walls of the inn.
If he ducked his head just so, he could see Roisin. A good Irish name, as Maisie said. Her foot tapped in time to the music, her face now flushed with the warmth and a decent dollop of Maisie’s stew. She wiped a trace of gravy from the lad’s face with her finger and gave him a loving smile. They’d be off before long, tucked up for the night, though they’d need plugs for their ears if the cutters’ shouting and carrying on took its usual path. Why was she travelling alone? There’d have to be a man waiting somewhere, a man with Irish blood if the child’s looks were anything to go by. Not all of that came from his mam. His eyes were as wide and green as hers, but his skin was so pale, as if it had never seen the light of day, never run under a summer sky. A washed-out imitation of his mother, and thin. The boy had no meat on his long, ribbon-like bones. He had the look of the Irish immigrants running from the Famine. But her voice—that was pure English, not a lilt of Irish in it.
She pushed back her chair and stood, encouraging the lad to leave. He didn’t want to go and glanced in Carrick’s direction. Carrick started to rise, then sank back against the heat of the chimney stones. The lad needed his sleep; even from across the room the blue bruises under his eyes stood out.
She scooped him into her arms and sat him on her hip. A low whistle skimmed across his lips. Holy Mary, Mother of God. With that tilt of her hip she was enough to turn a man away from his rum. Tall, very tall. He narrowed his eyes and took another slug of the sticky drink and the penny dropped. Cornstalk. She was a cornstalk, born and bred right here in Australia. Never seen the verdant grass of home. Not Irish. Poor lass didn’t know what she was missing.
Not that Ireland was worth seeing these days. The bloody English had seen to that with their laws and taxes. Bled the country dry. The irony in the fact so many Irish were making a place in Australia went some way to easing the pain. Beating the English at their game. They’d be a force to reckon with, given half a chance. Unruly, difficult to handle, struggling for independence for their homeland, even from across the seas. Seas he’d cross again soon enough. Scores he’d see settled.
Two
Silence wrapped the village, low as the mist hovering in the valley. Roisin shivered and pulled the blanket up over Ruan’s shoulders. It was much colder than she’d expected away from the coast and the whole of winter stretched out ahead of them. If their new home didn’t have a fireplace, they’d be in trouble.
After the thrill and furore of yesterday, the enormity of the task ahead sat heavily on Roisin’s shoulders. Not so Ruan. It had taken hours to get him to settle last night and now he looked as though he’d sleep the day through. She ran her hand over his forehead. Cool to the touch. His chest ros
e and fell in a steady rhythm with not a sign of the breathing sickness that had plagued him in Sydney, despite all the cold fresh air of the last few days.
Easing up from their bed, she tucked her shawl around him. Today was the beginning of their new life. She shook back her hair and the past, determined to dwell only on the promise of the future.
Armed with her letter, she felt her way along the dark corridor and pushed through into the taproom. The smell hit her with the force of a sledgehammer. Stale rum, sour beer, rancid sweat and the greasy overtones of last night’s stew. Had she eaten that? Her stomach roiled and she clamped her mouth closed.
‘You’ll be wanting some breakfast, then?’ Maisie eased upright, rubbing the small of her back and grimacing. ‘Bloody mess they leave, though I can’t complain. They pay their dues. Still ’n all I’m glad it’s over until next time.’
‘Don’t worry about breakfast. I couldn’t.’ Roisin edged towards the door, seeking some fresh air. ‘I have a letter. I need to find the Reverend Benson.’
‘He won’t be up and about just yet. Not judging by the state of him when he left here last night.’
‘I have to collect my key.’
‘Now what would you be wanting with a key?’
‘The key to my premises. I have an arrangement with Mr Martin. I’m to rent the house behind the General Store.’
‘Oh you are, are you?’
What was the matter with the woman? Sticking her nose in. Checking up. Wanting to know it all. It wouldn’t hurt to be a little more helpful. Roisin drew herself up to her full height. ‘I’d appreciate your assistance and then I’ll be on my way.’
‘With no breakfast.’
God no. No breakfast.
‘And what about your boy? He’ll be needing something.’
He could have one of the apples left in her bag until she had the key. Curiosity would get the better of her long before Ruan suffered from starvation.
‘And where would all your belongings be if you’re planning on staying here?’
For goodness sake. ‘My trunks will be delivered to Morpeth at a later date.’ No need to explain it was all part of the intricate plan she and Aunt Lil had devised to ensure her destination remained a secret. Until she wrote and told Aunt Lil she was settled, the rest of her belongings would remain in Sydney.
‘Well, then. Show us your letter. You’re in luck. I have the key.’ Like some ancient chatelaine, Maisie lifted the massive bunch of keys dangling around her waist and shuffled through them, tutting loudly. ‘Can’t be seeing a thing in there. Come outside.’ She elbowed her way through the door and stood in a patch of frail sunlight. ‘Right. Key to the girls’ house.’
‘Girls’ house?’
‘That’s what it’s been known as. Don’t be bothering yourself.’
She didn’t care what it was called. ‘I was told there was a house, and the parlour would suit my business.’
‘That there is. There’s rooms out the back that’ll make a fine place to live after a decent scrub and the parlour has a window onto the street, with glass even. You’d have noticed that when you arrived.’
Roisin shook her head. With the throngs of people lining the streets and all the noise and carry-on from Mr O’Connor and his loud-mouthed, bumptious cutters she’d hardly noticed anything. They’d passed a couple of fine houses on the outskirts of town, one belonging to the magistrate, according to the dray driver, and some small farm holdings; other than that she hadn’t seen much more.
‘No. Maybe not. Not yesterday with all the hullaballoo. Here it is.’ Maisie handed over a large ornate key.
Roisin clasped it in her palm, hefting the unexpected weight, and then traced the intricate swirls and patterns with her forefinger. The idea of the lock it belonged to and the prospects set her pulse racing.
‘Down the street, past the General Store. If you get as far as the millpond and the cemetery you’ve gone too far. We’ll be as good as neighbours. See the verandah of the General Store? It’s just the other side. Stick your head in and introduce yourself to old Elsie, that way she won’t attack you with her broomstick. She can be a bit territorial.’
Old Elsie sounded more like one of the dogs that guarded the Sydney Barracks than the local shop owner. It didn’t bode well.
‘If you follow the footpath past the store, you’ll see a narrow alley on your left, cut down through the timber gate and you’re there.’
‘I’ll go and wake Ruan and bring our bags down.’
‘Leave the wee mite sleeping. I’ll keep an eye on him. You go and check out your new home.’
Leave Ruan? It went against every fibre of her being. ‘No, thank you. I’ll wake him and …’
‘Off you go.’ Maisie’s hand landed firmly in the small of her back and propelled her across the road. ‘You’re not in the big city anymore. We take care of our own in Wollombi. You go and have a look-see and by the time you come back your boy’ll be up and breakfasted. I’ll make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble.’
She gulped back another refusal. Wasn’t that the very reason she’d fled Sydney? It was time to put the past behind them, just as Aunt Lil had said. The road outside was as quiet as anything, as though the chaos of yesterday was nothing more than the tendrils of another frantic dream. She’d run down the road and be back in no time.
‘Thank you. I won’t be a moment.’
Lifting her skirts she took off down the street, past the church and the courthouse. When she reached the shadow the awning of the General Store threw across the flagstone footpath, she slowed before pushing open the door.
The air was rife with the smell of onions, their skins crackling like tissue paper as an apple-faced woman with flyaway, greying hair bustled around sorting them into bins.
‘Good morning.’
The woman’s shrewd eyes scanned her from top to toe, making Roisin smooth her skirt and straighten her collar. ‘I’m the new tenant of the house and shop at the back. Maisie said I should introduce myself.’ She held up the key to prove her point.
‘You are, are you?’ The woman dropped the last remaining onions into the barrel and thumped her hands onto her ample hips. ‘I won’t be standing for no competition, I’m telling you.’
Roisin sketched a look around the well-stocked store. ‘I don’t think we will be in competition. I intend to open a dressmaking business. More likely I’ll improve your business buying my supplies here.’
The woman’s head snapped up. ‘So you’ll not be setting up a general store?’
Roisin shook her head and offered a tentative smile.
The light returned to the woman’s eyes and she wiped her hands down her apron, and then stuck out her hand. ‘Name’s Elsie.’ When Roisin took her hand she pumped it up and down like a recalcitrant water pump. ‘Come on, then, I’ll show you through.’
‘My name’s Roisin, Roisin Ogilvie.’ There, the second time she’d used Aunt Lil’s name and it wasn’t difficult.
‘Pleased to meet you, Roisin. We don’t stand on ceremony here.’ Elsie led her out of the door back into the street. ‘See this alley here? Your place is just at the end. Bit narrow. It opens up once you get inside the gate. Or you can use the entrance around the back and come in by the brook.’
Before they’d made it as far as the garden gate, Ruan’s voice, ten times louder than she’d ever heard it before, echoed down the street. ‘Wait for us!’ Perched on the woodcutter’s broad shoulders, he threw her a cocky grin and waved like a mad thing.
Her stomach turned over and her knees sagged. ‘Get down from there before you fall.’ She shouldn’t have left him with Maisie, she should have woken him up. What was the man doing with him?
‘Now that’s no way to greet a jockey in training.’ Carrick O’Connor’s voice boomed out as big as the rest of him. Huge. He swung Ruan over his head and deposited him at her feet.
Would nothing turn out the way she expected? Maisie said she’d keep Ruan out of trouble and here he
was careering down the street balanced on the wretched cutter’s shoulders.
She drew herself to her full height and glared up at him. ‘Thank you, Mr O’Connor. Ruan, come here.’ Grabbing Ruan’s hand, she pulled him close to her skirts.
Whatever was happening? Maisie promised to keep an eye on him, not hand him over to the first person that crossed his path. And anyway what was O’Connor doing here? Hadn’t Maisie said the timber cutters would be leaving for their camp at first light? The whole idea of leaving Sydney was to keep Ruan safe, not to expose him to strangers who picked him up and carried him around without a second thought.
The cheeky wretch winked at her as though he could read her thoughts. ‘Fear not. Yer lad’s as safe as houses. We’ll be leaving soon.’ He turned on his heel and strode back down the street to the inn.
The corners of Ruan’s mouth tipped down in disappointment as his newfound friend disappeared. ‘Bye, Carrick.’
O’Connor turned and grinned over his shoulder. ‘Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, me little mate.’
That brought the smile to Ruan’s face again. ‘He’s gone to get our bags, I bet.’
‘Come with me. I’ve got the key to our new house.’ With any luck it would divert Ruan’s attention. She didn’t like the way O’Connor had taken possession of him, treated him like long-lost family.
She towed Ruan behind her down the narrow alley to a timber gate hanging crooked on its hinges.
Elsie pattered behind, huffing and puffing. ‘Been a while since the last lot left and they didn’t spend too much time on house keepin’, I can tell you.’
Roisin lifted the gate, propped it open and stepped into the overgrown garden. Wild grass almost as high as Ruan’s head edged the path, and pull as he might she refused to let go of his hand. ‘Stay with me.’ This wasn’t like the city. There’d be snakes lurking in grass that long and heavens knew what beyond the door.
