by Téa Cooper
The fire in the kitchen roared and when the heat permeated Roisin’s frozen bones, she took the mug of tea Jane offered.
‘I’m anxious Carrick will do something stupid and get into trouble again. He’s likely to kill Dankworth and then he’ll be back behind bars, and no amount of treasures from Old Pella will save him.’
‘You’re making problems where there are none. Slinger’s with him. They’ll get Ruan back.’
‘Slinger! He’s more trouble than he’s worth.’ Her lips snapped shut. Her words sounded harsh, but she had no patience for niceties.
‘Slinger won’t let any harm come to Carrick. He owes him.’
‘Owes him? What for?’ Most times Slinger caused more problems than he solved. She forced herself onto her feet. Her sense of justice had gone out of the window. He’d taken her to the Winchesters’, done the very best for her. There must be some good in the man if Jane was standing up for him.
‘Carrick saved his life years ago in the mines and ended up doing a spell in solitary for him. That’s how they became friends.’
Why didn’t she know this? ‘Carrick hasn’t told me much about his life. He didn’t even tell me the name of the man in Ireland. If he’d done that, told me it was Dankworth, none of this would have happened.’
‘Oh, tush. Stop now. You can’t keep searching for someone to blame.’
‘I feel so helpless. I need to do something instead of sitting here waiting. It’s the waiting that’s killing me. I’ve made so many mistakes.’
‘You’ve done the best you could for Ruan and look …’ Jane waved her hand around. ‘Look at this house and the business you’ve built up.’
‘None of it will be worth anything if I lose Ruan.’
‘You are not going to lose Ruan. Carrick and Slinger will find him. I know it.’
How she wished she could be so certain. She drew in a few steadying breaths. Jane was right, this hopeless complaining wouldn’t help anyone. ‘I’m sorry, Jane. You must be anxious. Worried for Slinger.’
The pretty pink blush rose to Jane’s face again, the same as it always did when anyone mentioned Slinger’s name. ‘I am, though I know he’ll be back. He made me a promise and I intend to make sure he keeps it.’
‘He did, did he?’
‘Aye, he did. He’s giving away the cutting. He wants us to settle here in Wollombi so I can still help you.’
Roisin couldn’t even think beyond this moment, never mind the future. ‘That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for you.’ She took Jane’s hand and squeezed it tight. It was the best she could do; she couldn’t imagine being happy again.
‘The cutters believe in their own justice. Slinger and Carrick will sort it all out.’
That’s what concerned her. ‘Having seen Mr Winchester release Carrick so quickly, I think I’d rather place my faith in the law.’
‘Lot of good that would do, waiting for the law to catch up with Dankworth.’
‘Winchester did the right thing. He took notice of the stopper, said he’d talk to the old man if he can find him. Where is Old Pella? I don’t remember seeing him yesterday.’
‘He’ll be around somewhere.’
‘He better be if Winchester wants to talk to him.’
The back door swung open and Roisin leapt to her feet, her heart pounding and her palms sweaty.
The old man unravelled his possum cloak and dropped it on the floor, stretching out his gnarled hands towards the fire.
‘Winchester man came down to the brook to see Old Pella. Told him my story. He let Carrick go and find the boy. He’s coming this way.’
Roisin frowned at Jane and lifted her shoulders. ‘Carrick. He’s coming this way?’ Her heart picked up a beat, throbbing deep in her chest.
‘Your treasure back soon.’
‘You want some tea, Old Pella?’ Jane laced a mug with sugar and pushed it across the table.
‘Not today. Old Pella gotta go find Billy Boy.’ He snatched a piece of yesterday’s damper from the table and shuffled out, taking his stinking possum cloak with him.
‘I hope he’s right.’ The first ray of real hope began to burn deep inside Roisin. ‘I thought for a while I was going mad. After Dankworth first turned up I could feel someone watching. I thought maybe it was Old Pella, or that I was seeing shadows when there were none. Now I know it was Dankworth. He was watching. Watching Ruan, and me, and watching Carrick. Carrick posed a threat to Dankworth’s plans and he decided the easiest thing would be to get rid of him.’
‘Why not just shoot him, then? He shot his overseer.’
‘Because then he’d run the risk of being accused. This way Carrick was the scapegoat. He’d got away with it in Ireland and he thought he’d do the same again. The man’s mad. He thinks he can do whatever he likes. I feel so sorry for Lady Alice. She was so brave, going against him. It was almost as though she was relieved to get it off her chest. Her success at the ball restored her confidence so much. I can’t imagine what her life must have been like with Dankworth.’
Jane shivered and reached her hands out to the fire. ‘I don’t like to think of being watched. And I don’t like to think of any woman with a man who throws his weight around. I had enough of that with Mick. Let’s forget about the past and remember what Old Pella said. Carrick and Slinger are getting back with Ruan.’
‘You’re right, and I might be hungry.’ Roisin reached across the table and broke a hunk of damper from the little Old Pella had left and dunked it in her tea.
‘Shall I make some more?’
‘No, Jane you’ve done enough. More than enough, I don’t know what I’d do without you.’
‘I’m going to make some soup. They’ll be hungry when they get home.’
If. She couldn’t get past the if. And she couldn’t stay inside the house. A giant fist had a squeezing grip on her heart. She picked up the chair. ‘I’m going to sit outside.’ Sit at the end of the alley, where she could see the road.
Settled in a frail patch of moonlight outside the General Store, Roisin sat and shivered. Almost twelve hours had passed since Carrick and Slinger had ridden down the road in a flurry of dust, more since Dankworth had taken Ruan. The courthouse was locked tight, and there was no sign of Maisie, Elsie or the cutters. Only a brooding silence, as though the whole town was holding its breath behind closed doors, waiting.
Roisin couldn’t take her eyes off the road winding over the hill and disappearing into the moonlit line of trees. She’d never travelled that way, never needed to. Carrick had brought her trunks, Alfie Sullivan drove it twice a week bringing the mail and supplies, the bullock drays took their loads along it, whereas she had no idea what lay around the corner. The air was stiller than the grave. Not even a breath of wind in the trees. She squinted into the darkness, seeing clouds of dust, hearing the drum of hooves where there were none. Or were there?
She shaded her eyes, the muscles in her stomach clutched in an even tighter ball, and she pushed back the chair. She couldn’t bear it, couldn’t sit a moment longer. Moving to the centre of the road she started walking.
The blood buzzed in her head as she took one step after another, one foot then the next. The cloud of dust billowed, grew larger. Blood throbbed through her body, vibrating up from the soles of her feet to meet the tangled knot in her stomach. Her feet took on a life of their own, pushing her forward as she ran, ran down the road, past the cemetery, over the rise and down towards the millpond. And then her heart stopped.
Dust swirled in the silvery light and the drumming increased. She opened her mouth to call but no sound came out, her mouth was dry, her throat tight. Through the haze a horse appeared, its hooves beating out the tattoo in her heart.
‘Mam!’
Her legs turned to jelly and she sank to the road.
His hand reached for the nape of her neck and drew her close, his soft cheek against hers. ‘I’m home. Don’t cry.’
Ruan’s fingers wiped the tears, tears she didn’t know she was
shedding. ‘Carrick rescued me. I’m home. Slinger threw me and we galloped nearly all the way.’
Then Carrick’s arms wrapped round her, taking her weight, lifting her to her feet. She buried her face in his chest, with its cedar scent, musky and alive; the hard, fast beat of his heart against her cheek.
‘We’re here now. It’s over.’ His voice smooth and deep, potent as the rum he favoured, soothed. ‘Come, let’s go home.’
She didn’t want explanations, didn’t want to know what had happened. He and Ruan were here. That was enough.
Then he was kissing her, kissing her mouth. She clung to him as if they might drown if they did not hold onto each other. He became still, so very still, then his lips moved below hers and she felt him smile.
Ruan tugged at her hand. ‘Come on, Mam. I need my treasure box. And I’m ravenous, real hungry.’ He towed her along the road and Carrick fell into step beside her, leading the horse, his arm tight around her shoulders. The three of them moving side by side, step by step. Warmth replaced the cold stone of fear that had been lodged for so long in her chest and she smiled up at the man who held her heart in the palm of his strong, calloused hands.
‘I told you that day after the Woodchop yer lad’s as safe as houses with me. Did you not believe me?’
As they rounded the bend at the millpond the town came into view. It was no longer sleeping, and the street was full. Elsie and Maisie, the cutters, the Blackmores, Mr Winchester, everyone was crowded in a group in front of the inn, waving and calling. Then Jane appeared, her hair streaming and legs flying as she ran towards them.
‘Carrick?’
‘Yes, my love.’
‘Where’s Slinger?’ Why wasn’t he here? She hadn’t even asked. She was so overwhelmed, she hadn’t spared a thought.
‘Don’t be worrying yourself, he’ll be along soon. He’s just tidying up the ends. Slinger’s a lucky man.’ He winked at her. ‘But I’ve got the luck of the Irish and I’ve got you.’ He raised her hand and kissed it.
‘Jane will want to know where he is.’
‘Aye.’
He didn’t want to speak to Jane. Didn’t want to have to lie. Slinger was fine. He had to be. He’d waited, waited for over an hour outside Morpeth, and when Slinger hadn’t appeared, he’d left as he’d promised, to bring back the lad. Slinger’s words still niggled. Cutter’s justice.
Jane slithered to a halt in front of them. ‘Where’s Slinger?’
‘He’ll be back in a day or two. Got some unfinished business.’ He looked away, up the road, hoping against hope Slinger would appear. Finally he summoned the courage to turn to Jane.
Tears pooled in her eyes and her lips quivered. ‘He’s all right? Not hurt?’
‘He’s fine.’ At least he hoped to God he was.
‘I hoped he’d come back. He told me he would.’
‘He’ll be back, of that I promise you. Give him a day or two.’
It broke his heart to utter the words as she turned away into Elsie’s waiting arms. It was no longer his story to tell. Besides, he didn’t know the ending.
‘Carrick?’
He buried his face in Roisin’s golden-red hair, drew in her scent. ‘It’s over now.’ He framed her face with his hands. Her eyes, shadowed yet steady, gazed up at him and in that moment everything changed. Revenge couldn’t fill the hole in his heart, only Roisin and Ruan could do that.
The desire for vengeance that had fuelled his very existence, sustained him for so long, leached away, replaced by hope and the future, a future with her and Ruan. ‘You mean everything to me. Everything.’
The love he had for Roisin was stronger than all the ghosts in Ireland. Better to honour Liam and Brigid’s memory by giving up the misery, the recriminations and reprisals. Roisin had healed his need for blood, his need to strike back. He fingered the brand on his shoulder—that was Liam and Brigid’s memorial, ever with him, not some cold granite lump on a grassy hillside he could no longer see. Time to move from the shadows into the light—the light that was Roisin, Ruan and their love.
‘You are my home now, you and the lad. I want you so much I can scarcely draw breath. Will you have me?’
Her lips met his and clung, all the sweeter now he’d stepped into the light of her eyes and left the darkness behind.
Epilogue
THE MAITLAND MERCURY WEDNESDAY 14th
AUGUST 1855
FATALITY ABOARD THE SS MAITLAND.
[BY TELEGRAPH.]
(FROM OUR WOLLOMBI CORRESPONDENT.)
As the steamer Maitland, which left Morpeth at 3.00 yesterday afternoon, was coming round Nobbys, one of the passengers, Mr GD Dankworth, a man of 31 years of age, was opening the gangway doors, when the vessel gave a lurch and he fell overboard. The engines were at once stopped and a boat lowered to search for him, but no trace of the poor fellow could be found. It is feared that he was struck by one of the paddle wheels, and sank immediately. His travelling companion raised the alarm and only three minutes elapsed from the time of his falling overboard to the lowering of the boat. It is believed the deceased was involved in an altercation on the wharf before boarding and may have become disorientated.
Mr Dankworth has been several years in the colony, and was a well-known Sydney figure and landowner in the Yarramalong. Great regret is felt at his death. He is survived by his wife, Lady Alice. Sadly, the Dankworths were not blessed with children.
[It will be seen by our telegrams that the body of the unfortunate man was found in Newcastle harbour on Sunday, and a verdict of found drowned was returned at the inquest held upon it.]
Historical Note
The Cedar Cutter began with photograph in my local Museum—three larrikins admiring a massive, felled cedar tree. Throw in an obituary I stumbled across on TROVE and the village of Wollombi in the Hunter Valley, the place I am lucky enough to call home, and this story started taking shape. The name ‘Wollombi’ is derived from the Aboriginal meaning ‘meeting place’. The traditional owners are believed to be the Darkinjung, Awabakal and Wanaruah people although many others travelled hundreds of miles to visit Mount Yengo, a place of huge cultural and ceremonial significance connected to the Dreamtime story of the creation of the Earth. In 1833, after the completion of the Great Northern Road, plans for the village of Wollombi appeared in the NSW Government Gazette and by the mid nineteenth century Wollombi had become a thriving European community. Yarramalong is an Aboriginal word meaning ‘the place of cedar’. The valley is now part of the Central Coast region of New South Wales. Timber cutters driving bullock drays from Wollombi and Maitland logged the area until it was permanently settled in 1856.
Competitive Woodchop competitions began in Tasmania, and quickly became a popular sport throughout Australia making an appearance at the Sydney Royal Easter Show in 1899. Every October, down on the banks of the Wollombi Brook, behind the Tavern, the Wollombi Woodchop is held. It is a more recent event so I have to admit to tweaking the timeline there, and in a few other places, to fit the fictional story. I take full responsibility for any errors.
Acknowledgements
Massive thanks are due to so many people…
Sue Brockhoff, Annabel Blay, Laurie Ormond and the entire team at Harlequin Australia. It is a pleasure and a privilege to work with you all. Also to my editor Alex Nahlous for her patient and insightful editing.
My wonderful critique partners Eva Scott, Ann B Harrison, Sarah Barrie and Joanna Lloyd who are there for me every step of the way. They listen to my mad ideas, read my dodgy plots and plans and without them my stories would never reach a conclusion.
And last but not least, thanks to the Wollombi locals, most especially ‘wardrobe consultant’ Lynda Marsh, Wollombi’s own historian, Carl Hoipo, and Charles—I still can’t make sense of those topographical maps!
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First Published 2016
ISBN 9781489211569
The Cedar Cutter
© 2016 by Tea Cooper
Australian Copyright 2016
New Zealand Copyright 2016
Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilisation of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the permission of the publisher.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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