Charlotte smiled at Emily in thanks.
‘I’ll come with you, Charlotte,’ offered James.
‘Thank you, James, but it might be best if you stay here,’ Charlotte suggested.
‘We need you to be the brave knight Sir Lancelot to vanquish Malevolence,’ Emily reminded him.
James picked up two apple tree branches that had fallen to the ground. ‘Quick, Louisa – you climb into your tower,’ he ordered, handing Emily one of the branches. Louisa obediently scrambled up the trunk of the apple tree, her daisy crown slightly askew and her wings lopsided.
‘En garde, foul witch,’ James declared, raising his weapon in salute. ‘I am here to rescue fair Princess Titania.’
Emily grinned, threw off her bonnet and adopted a fencing pose, brandishing her branch.
‘Prepare to die an ignoble death, you insolent mortal,’ retorted Emily. ‘No man can defeat the supernatural power of Malevolence.’
The witch and the knight began fighting, James with his left arm tucked behind his back, Emily with her skirts hitched up in one hand. It looked like Malevolence had the upper hand as Sir Lancelot was beaten back under the strength of her attack.
‘Save me, Sir Lancelot,’ squealed Louisa, her legs dangling from the branch above. ‘You can’t let the witch win.’
Charlotte grinned then raced downhill towards the back of the house.
Outside the stable, Charlotte was surprised to see a team of bullocks harnessed to a dray with John the bullock driver standing at their heads. The dray usually took the wool and wheat to the markets in Sydney and returned with sacks of supplies to last for months. Sometimes it transported sacks of grain and vegetables to market in Berrima or the surrounding towns. This time, the dray was being loaded with furniture – Oldbury furniture. The long, red cedar table was up-ended on the dray bed and wrapped in blankets. The dining room chairs were lashed on top. The elegant sideboard was set in the middle of the courtyard, beside Mamma’s favourite armchair.
A loud shouting came from the back verandah. Charlotte started, then ducked out of sight inside the stable. She peered through a crack in the stable wall. Through it she could see Mr Barton coercing two farm labourers who were struggling to remove Mamma’s large oak desk from the office.
‘He bad man,’ came a whisper from the stall beside her. Charlotte peered around to find Charley lying in the straw.
‘Charley, he’s stealing all our furniture!’ whispered Charlotte.
‘Yes, missus gone to town.’
‘Can you help me, please, Charley?’ asked Charlotte. ‘I have to ride to town to find my mother. If Mr Barton sees me he’ll be furious.’
Charley thought carefully. He also knew what a terrible temper Mr Barton had when he was crossed. ‘Yes, Miss Charlotte. What can we do?’
Charlotte paused. ‘Could you help me catch Ophelia and saddle her up?’
Charley sprang to his feet. ‘We need grain,’ he suggested, taking down a halter and lead.
Charlotte filled a bucket with some grain and the two slipped out the back. It took precious minutes to coax Ophelia into being caught and still more time to saddle her up. Charley pulled the girth firmly.
Charlotte peered through the spy-hole in the stable wall. The cedar sideboard, desk and armchair had been lashed to the dray and draped with blankets. The two men were now struggling through the back door under the weight of the sofa from the drawing room.
‘Thank you so much, Charley,’ said Charlotte. ‘I am very grateful. If anyone asks, tell them I went for a ride up to Gingenbullen. Could you please tell my sisters and brother not to go near the house for anything, and perhaps take them some food. Tell Bridget I asked you to fetch some.’
Charley nodded and flashed a wide smile, bright white in his dark face.
‘Don’t worry, Miss Charlotte,’ said Charley. ‘I look after them.’
Charlotte led Ophelia to the fence and used a rail to help her mount into the side-saddle. Charlotte paused beside the stable, watching the proceedings anxiously.
It’s important that he doesn’t know that I know, thought Charlotte. I’ll creep away silently, then ride like the wind to Berrima to find Mamma.
The men went back inside to fetch more furniture. The bullocks twitched and fretted, swishing away flies with their tails. The sun beat down on the laden dray. Charlotte urged Ophelia forward into a walk. The horse pranced and cavorted nervously, sensing Charlotte’s anxiety. Charlotte skirted around the house, avoiding the formal gardens in front that could be seen from the drawing and dining room windows.
She splashed across the rivulet, the water rising to her horse’s knees, and forced her way through a hedge and onto the carriageway. Once there, she risked a slow trot, heading north-west, hoping the hoof beats could not be heard back at the house.
Around the bend the dirt track stretched before her, bordered by thick hedgerows. Charlotte kicked her heel into Ophelia’s sides and the mare broke into a canter. Charlotte leant forward, urging her to gallop faster. The driveway to Oldbury curved then straightened, flanked by a formal avenue of elms and poplars. Ophelia stretched her neck, enjoying the gallop, her hooves kicking up clods of red earth.
At the end, Charlotte turned right onto the main South Road. She had never ridden this way by herself before. This part of the road, just a couple of miles from Berrima village, was a common haunt of highwaymen and bushrangers. To the left was Mereworth Estate, owned by her father’s brother, Uncle John Atkinson. Mereworth was now home to the Three Legs of Man Inn, which was frequented by the local labourers, Berrima soldiers and infamous bushrangers – and, of course, Mr Barton. It had more than once been implicated in a local murder or robbery, just like Oldbury itself.
A labourer on Mereworth called out to her, but Charlotte ignored him and galloped on. When Ophelia tired, Charlotte let her slow into a trot, then after a few minutes kicked her back into a steady canter. Within half an hour Charlotte was cantering across the sandstone bridge and down the rutted main road of dusty Berrima.
She slowed Ophelia into a trot as they entered the rectangle of the village green, which was surrounded by inns and houses built of sandstone and red brick. Outside the Victoria Inn, Charlotte recognised a brickmaker named James Welling. He usually worked at Oldbury but Mr Barton had set him to work building a couple of cottages on land that he had recently purchased in Berrima.
‘Mr Welling, have you seen my mother?’ asked Charlotte. ‘I need to find her as a matter of urgency.’
The brickmaker shook his head. ‘No, but you might try the store near the Surveyor General Inn. She often has business there,’ he suggested, gesturing further north with his hand.
Charlotte called out her thanks as she cantered up the street. Near the store, Charlotte recognised her mother’s bay mare, with its distinctive white blaze, tied to the hitching post. Charlotte tethered Ophelia beside her and ran inside the store. It was crowded with ladies poring over ribbon and feathers, men testing harnesses and small children jostling over the sweets display.
‘Excuse me, Mrs Mason, have you seen my mother by any chance?’ asked Charlotte of a woman whom she recognised.
Mrs Mason peered down her nose at Charlotte. ‘Your mother?’ said Mrs Mason, looking as though she had accidently sucked on a slice of lemon. ‘I believe I saw Mrs Barton walking to the courthouse.’
Mrs Mason looked Charlotte up and down with a disapproving glare before continuing. ‘You should know better than to ride into town with no hat or bonnet on your head, with your hair hanging down your back like a complete hoyden.’ She sniffed. ‘There is never a reason why a lady should be in an unseemly haste. You are not all alone? I am surprised your mother let you leave the house like that. But then, perhaps she does not realise how young ladies are expected to conduct themselves. My daughters would never –’
‘Thank you, ma’am,’ replie
d Charlotte, backing away. ‘I’m sorry but I need to go. My mother is expecting me urgently.’
‘Well,’ complained Mrs Mason. ‘Such rudeness. But what would you expect with a mother like that?’
Charlotte turned and ran out of the store towards the courthouse a few doors up. Mamma was there, wearing her best clothes for town: grey gloves, cream silk shawl and a dark-blue bonnet.
‘Mamma, Mamma,’ Charlotte called desperately. ‘I need you to come home.’
‘Dearest, what’s wrong?’ demanded Mamma, her voice rising in panic. ‘Has something happened to Louisa or James? Is Emily all right? Don’t tell me one of them has been thrown from a horse? And why have you ridden for me? Why didn’t you send Mr Ash or one of the men?’
‘Don’t fret,’ Charlotte said. ‘Everyone is fine, Mamma. It’s the furniture. Mr Barton is emptying the house of all the finest furniture and packing it on a dray.’
Mamma’s hand flew to her mouth; then she frowned fiercely. ‘That man will be the death of me. I was just on my way to visit Mr Chalkley about the impounded goods. Perhaps he will be able to help us.’
Fortunately it only took a few minutes to find the chief constable in his office at the gaolhouse. After Mamma had explained the situation, he agreed to escort them back to Oldbury, together with two of his constables. They all rode at a gallop, and at every bend Charlotte expected to see the bullock dray, dragging away their belongings.
The five horses eventually thundered up the carriageway and around the back of the house, where the two labourers and the bullock driver were lashing down a canvas tarpaulin over the furniture. Mr Barton came out the back door brandishing a loaded pistol. A moment later, Emily, James and Louisa charged down from the orchard to see what the commotion was.
Mr Barton stared at Mamma, then at Charlotte, and a look of fury washed across his face. Then he took in the three mounted constables with their own pistols drawn.
‘Good morning, Mrs Barton, my dear,’ said Mr Barton, replacing his own weapon in his belt. ‘How are you this morning? Good morning, officers.’
‘What are you doing?’ demanded Mamma, sitting ramrod straight in the saddle, pointing with her riding crop. ‘Why is all the furniture packed on a dray?’
Mr Barton flashed a glance at the constables. ‘Don’t you remember, my dear?’ asked Mr Barton. ‘We discussed this. I am having the furniture removed to Sydney . . . for storage.’
‘We did not discuss this and I do not wish our furniture removed to Sydney for storage,’ Mamma contradicted. Mr Barton scowled.
‘You are not planning on selling this load of furniture, I hope, Mr Barton?’ asked Mr Chalkley. ‘The furniture is part of the estate of the late James Atkinson, and therefore was bequeathed to his four children. If you were to sell the furniture, that would be a felony.’
Mr Barton glared at Mamma and Charlotte again, still mounted on their horses. Mr Chalkley indicated to his two constables to dismount.
‘No,’ Mr Barton replied. ‘I beg your pardon. It must have slipped my mind to mention it to my wife. But as the estate is soon to be let, we will not be requiring this quantity of furniture. We will move into one of my new cottages in Berrima, where our needs will be much simpler.’
Mamma frowned. Charlotte’s heart sank. The thought of living in a little cottage in the village with Mr Barton was intolerable.
‘I wish we could help you, ma’am,’ said Mr Chalkley. ‘But if the furniture is just being moved, we can’t stop him.’
Mamma paused before dismounting. She was tiny compared to the tall, brawny bullock driver and the other men. ‘Thank you, Mr Chalkley,’ replied Mamma. ‘I appreciate your kindness, but my husband is correct. If we are to move from our home, we will not require such a quantity of grand furniture.’
Mr Barton smirked with satisfaction. Charlotte’s eyes filled with bitter tears. How can Mamma give in like this? How can she let Mr Barton triumph?
Mamma turned to one of the labourers. ‘Samuel, I will need you to ride for Sydney at once with a message for my lawyers,’ she ordered sternly. ‘I will write them a letter directing them to organise storage for the furniture in a suitable warehouse until further notice from myself. Once you have delivered the letter and received your instructions, you are to ride back to Brickfield Hill and await the dray so you can direct them to the warehouse.’
Mr Barton started forward, his face red with fury. ‘Now just a moment . . .’
Mamma ignored him, turning to the bullock driver and the other labourer. ‘John, you are to take this load as swiftly as possible to meet Samuel at Brickfield Hill and ensure it is stored safely in the designated warehouse. Paddy will accompany you as a guard.’
The three men glanced at Mr Barton for confirmation.
‘That’s unnecessary, my dear,’ interrupted Mr Barton, his face sweating. ‘I’ll go to Sydney and organise the furniture.’
‘Thank you, that is very kind, Mr Barton,’ Mamma said sweetly. ‘However, my lawyers would be more than happy to ensure that my children’s inheritance is secure. I would not wish to put you to any trouble.’
Mr Chalkley grinned to himself at the exchange.
‘Perhaps we could be of assistance, ma’am?’ suggested Mr Chalkley to Mamma. ‘My two constables would be happy to escort the dray as far as Nattai to see it safely on its way.’
‘Thank you, Mr Chalkley. That would be most kind of you. I would hate anything untoward to happen to the dray on the journey.’
Mr Chalkley turned to the labourers. ‘I must remind you that if anything were to happen to the belongings of the Atkinson children, it would also be a felony, and I would have to pursue the culprits with the full extent of the law.’
The labourers shuffled and squirmed, glancing between Mr Barton, Mamma and Mr Chalkley.
‘Yes, sir,’ replied John the bullock driver. ‘We understand.’
Mamma smiled. ‘Samuel, would you be so good as to unsaddle our horses and saddle up a fresh one for yourself while I compose a letter to the laywers?’
‘Yes ma’am,’ agreed Samuel, taking both horses by the reins.
Mamma turned to the two bullockies and gave them their final instructions. ‘Farewell and take care.’
John and Paddy turned the big team of bullocks in the confined space with some difficulty and set off on the road to Berrima with much whip-cracking and yelling, accompanied by the three constables.
Charlotte followed Mamma inside, where she scribbled off a note to the lawyers on the kitchen table and saw to it that the message was safely on its way with Samuel.
9
Decision
Charlotte, Emily, James and Louisa wandered around the echoing rooms of the forlorn house. Louisa began to sob. Emily and Charlotte did their best to comfort her, but their eyes were brimming too. James kicked a stool that had been knocked over.
The dining and breakfast rooms were empty; only Mamma’s paintings were left on the wall. The drawing room held nothing but Mr Barton’s favourite armchair and a small side table with a decanter of rum. The schoolroom was untouched but the study was ransacked – the desk and chair gone, papers all over the floor, many of Papa’s books taken.
The children heard Mr Barton coming up from the cellar, carrying a small flagon of rum. He yelled at Bridget to bring him a glass and retreated to the drawing room. The children, each one lost in his or her thoughts, hid in the schoolroom – the only downstairs room that seemed normal.
Soon they heard Mamma and Bridget next door in the study, tidying up the shambles.
‘Let’s play a game,’ suggested Emily, trying to cheer them up. ‘We could play knuckles?’ James looked at Emily witheringly. ‘Or toy soldiers?’
Not even this could tempt James to play. Louisa cuddled up next to Emily, thumb in mouth, twirling a ringlet around one finger.
Charlotte strode up
and down the room, thinking. What is going to happen? Are we really going to leave our beautiful home and move into a little cottage in Berrima with Mr Barton? How could we bear it!
Through the closed double doors, Charlotte heard a crash and loud swearing from the drawing room next door, then the sound of Mr Barton staggering out into the entrance hall. A glass smashed on the floor.
Loud shouting came from the study. Bridget screamed. There was another loud crash.
Charlotte ran into the passage, followed by the other children and Samson, who was barking loudly. The study door was flung open. Bridget cowered against the bookshelves, her hands over her head.
Mamma was sprawled on the floor, her face smeared with crimson from her bleeding nose. Mr Barton stood over her screaming, his eyes bloodshot and spit flying from his mouth.
‘You think you can make a fool of me, you insolent woman?’ he bellowed. ‘I won’t be made a fool by you or that pack of brats!’
He struck Mamma again, sending her reeling. Charlotte flew across the room like a dart and sprang on her stepfather’s back, her arms around his neck.
‘Leave her alone,’ yelled Charlotte, her rage bubbling over. ‘Don’t hurt her, you monster.’
Mr Barton swung around, throwing Charlotte off like a discarded cloak. Charlotte thudded into the bookcases, knocking the wind from her.
Mamma leapt to her feet, her face alight with horror.
Mr Barton pulled Charlotte to her feet and shook her like a limp rag doll. ‘Don’t speak to me like that, girlie,’ he hissed. ‘I’ll do whatever I wish to your mother. And I’ll do whatever I wish to you. I’m the master of this house, and don’t you forget it!’
‘Put her down,’ ordered Mamma.
‘You’re not my master,’ retorted Charlotte, her face flushing with anger. ‘You’re just a pathetic bully.’
Mr Barton’s eyes bulged and he grabbed Charlotte by the throat and slammed her against the wall. Charlotte kicked and struggled, but her strength was no match for him. He dangled her by the throat, her feet no longer touching the floor.
The River Charm Page 8
