by Darry Fraser
Daughter of the Murray
DARRY FRASER
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
About Darry Fraser
Darry Fraser was born in Victoria, Australia and spent part of her childhood around her beloved River Murray. Her novel, Daughter of the Murray, is set there. She is the author of several works of romantic and women’s fiction. Her books are heart warming and at times funny and reflect her love of a good story. Darry currently lives, works and writes on an island off the coast of South Australia. Visit her website www.darryfraser.com or drop her a line at [email protected]. She’d love to hear from you.
Good things come to those who keep trying.
To Dane and Georgina — we made it! Sorry it took so long.
Contents
About Darry Fraser
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-One
Twenty-Two
Twenty-Three
Twenty-Four
Twenty-Five
Twenty-Six
Twenty-Seven
Twenty-Eight
Twenty-Nine
Thirty
Thirty-One
Thirty-Two
Thirty-Three
Thirty-Four
Acknowledgements
One
1890—River Murray, Victoria
There was no escaping this day, no matter what she did.
A vibrant sun dawned over Mallee country and the bedroom lit up. ‘For goodness’ sake, Ruth. Keep the curtains shut.’ Georgie buried her face under the threadbare bedsheet.
‘Now, come along, Miss Georgie. You love the early morning.’ Plump Ruth bustled about. She drew back the other heavy curtain one-handed before she thumped a breakfast plate of bread and jam on the dresser beside Georgie’s bed.
Eucalyptus scented the shimmering heat and it drifted to Georgie even under the bedclothes. ‘If you’re going to tell me one more time that Mr Dane is coming home today, so help me, I’ll—’
‘You know Mr Dane comes home today.’
‘I know it, Ruth. You’ve told me a dozen times.’ Georgie pushed the sheet away. ‘I can’t stand the man and yet I’ve never met him. All I ever hear is Mr Dane this, Mr Dane that. Mr Dane, so handsome. Mr Dane—’ She sat up, yawned and flexed her back, flinging her arms above her head. Her fingers splayed then she relaxed bonelessly onto the pillow with a long exhale. She’d heard it all before. ‘The poor man has no clue he’s coming home to this.’
‘Oh, he’s not a poor man, miss. He’s a rich young gentleman now. And I remember him well when we was in the schoolyard; I was only a year younger. He was fine to look at an’ all, even back in them days.’
Georgie pulled a face. ‘If he looks anything like his father, I certainly can’t imagine you’d call him fine to look at.’
Ruth cast her a quick glance and swiped a hand over her untidy mousey brown hair. ‘No, miss. He doesn’t look like Mr Tom—’
A screech outside the room interrupted her: Elspeth wanting her hairbrush.
‘Oh God. My cousin intends to wake the dead this morning.’ Georgie swung her legs to the floor.
‘Miss Georgina, blaspheming. And where’s your nightdress?’ Ruth fussed about the bed like some hen pecking at corn kernels. Her backside wobbled under her dress as she bent to rummage through a pile of linen under the wash-stand.
‘It’s too hot for a nightdress, Ruth.’
‘Hardly, and you shouldn’t sleep like it.’ Ruth found the discarded nightdress on the floor and held it out.
Georgie tugged the worn shift from her and wriggled into it. She padded barefoot to sit on the stool in front of a plain timber table with a small mirror on it. A fresh bowl of hot water and a hard scrap of soap waited for her. ‘And why are you here, anyway? God knows we can’t pay you.’ Georgie rubbed her face with bare hands. ‘Bloody depression coming, says Uncle Tom.’
‘You shouldn’t speak of that either, Miss Georgie. Mr Tom will pay—’
‘Don’t talk foolishly, Ruth. The whole district knows he’ll drink it away before any bloody depression gets here.’
‘The devil will come get you with talk like that, that’s a fact.’ Ruth huffed and puffed as she blew hair out of her eyes. ‘And what if Miss Jem was to hear you say that?’
‘The devil is welcome,’ Georgie said and Ruth crossed herself. ‘And my Aunt Jemimah won’t hear of it. All she cares about is her son coming home.’
‘He is your cousin, Miss Georgie, he’s family and—’
‘He’s not my family, Ruth. He’s my step-cousin.’ Georgie pulled her hair back from her face. ‘Now, would you please do my hair for me?’ Her thick dark hair was only ever plaited, and that was how she preferred it. ‘You do it so well.’
‘Miss, I’m not to dilly-dally here. With Mr Dane coming, Miss Jem and Miss Elspeth want their hair attended to, and yours being so simple you can do it yourself, they said that I—’
‘Bloody Mr Dane has been coming for nigh on the four years I’ve been here and I haven’t seen hide nor hair of him yet. What makes today so bloody different?’
‘Oh, and gutter talk. The devil will come, missy, right here, to the good Queen’s colony of Victoria. You make no mistake.’ Ruth shook her forefinger and bustled out.
Georgie smiled into the mirror. The devil will come … To our River Murray landing, no less. What rubbish. I’m sure the devil has better work to do. Some said God had forgotten the Australian colonies years ago, the devil even earlier. She dragged the brush through her hair in long strokes, bringing back the gleam after its tousling on the pillow.
Bloody Mr Dane will get a shock when he arrives.
From the furtive whispers and heated arguments in the dead of night when no one thought she could hear, Georgie would wager bloody Mr Dane, the mighty son and heir, knew little of what had befallen Jacaranda since he’d been gone.
Even Georgie’s stepfather, her Papa Rupert in England, hadn’t believed her. She’d confided her suspicions by letter but he’d not answered them. To the contrary, he’d chided her for her lack of charity, implied her imagination was still quite rich and that she should try to be more tolerant of the family’s ways.
There’d been nothing but silence from England since, and that had been well over a year ago.
She was nearing twenty-two … so old and unmarried still. And with no prospects of a good life ahead of her if she remained with the MacHenrys, she reasoned it was her right to fend for herself. When Uncle Tom slurred and slurped his way into rum-addled unconsciousness, she’d ease a few coins from his pockets and secrete them away to a cache under a floorboard in her room. She hadn’t scraped together nearly enough to pursue her chance at life, though.
If only Uncle Tom had taken her up on her offer to handle the books for him. At least that would be something she could do. She was good at sums; she preferred them to needle work and cooking. But he remained adamant to the point of belligerence that she would not attempt such a thing, ‘being a woman and all’. Tom’s books were under lock and key. A key he never left around.
However, there was Conor Foley. Her Conor Foley.
She smiled as she thought of him. Only three weeks ago, his riverboat, the Lady Mitchell, had docked at the landing on the MacHenrys’ property to deliver the goods Jemimah had ordered from the city. Cono
r brought the much anticipated newspapers from Swan Hill that Georgie read line by line, hungry for the world outside.
Conor Foley.
His soft Irish brogue, the gleam in his eyes, the deep auburn hair, the broad shoulders. A man who towered over most men, weighty and solid. He was much older than the tiresome boys of the neighbouring homesteads, well past his thirties; he had been to war in South Africa.
Conor Foley offered her a new life with just a glance of mystery and intrigue.
Ruth burst back into the room. She grabbed the hairbrush in Georgie’s hand, apologising as she did so.
‘What are you doing?’ Georgie held fast to the brush.
‘Please, Miss Georgina. There’s such a commotion today. Miss Elspeth’s misplaced her brush. Please let me have the brush. What with Mr Dane returning … He’s been away far too long, wouldn’t you say?’ Ruth had her firm grip over Georgie’s hand on the brush.
Georgie wrenched the hairbrush free. ‘Since I have never met him,’ she said sternly, ‘his absence has hardly bothered me. But his homecoming is sorely testing my very good manners.’ She thrust the brush into Ruth’s hand, sending the woman back a pace or two.
Clutching the brush to her chest, Ruth disappeared as loudly as she had arrived, muttering something that sounded distinctly like ‘Good manners, my arse. You’ll get yours, my girl.’
Georgie sighed long and hard, then set about plaiting her hair.
Impatient with having to be modest, especially now she was alone, she hoisted the nightgown off. Once naked again, she washed in a hurry, and dried with the threadbare towel. The drought meant deep, long baths were rare, so a quick but thorough wash with a flannel and basin had to do.
She stood in front of her wardrobe, an open box built of river gum. It contained hand-me-downs from neighbouring ladies. Georgie hadn’t received new clothes for years, even though she had requested some in her last two letters to England. She’d grown out of the last set of clothes her stepfather had sent from England and they’d been altered long ago for the much smaller Elspeth.
Hands on hips, Georgie stared at the four dresses. A bleached day dress, one light blue dress, one dark blue and a faded pink one. None of them suited her today. No, today was a good day for a long ride along the banks of her beloved river. She needed to escape the madness of today.
She knelt by her bed, flipped up the thin, lumpy mattress and dragged out a pair of men’s trousers, an old shirt and a checked piece of cloth. She took the cloth, a piece of wide fabric torn from an old bed sheet destined for the horses for rubdowns, and wound it around her chest to flatten her breasts. The shirt went on over the top, the trousers pulled up over bare legs and arse, drawn around her waist by a slim leather rope she had borrowed from the tack room. She faced the little mirror again, coiled her long, black plait atop her head and stabbed some pins into it to hold it there.
Then she reached for her flat-heeled riding boots, the only thing she had left from England. They were the colour of burnt caramel, laced to mid-calf, the leather supple and soft after years of loving care. She pulled them on, tied each lace firmly, let the pants drape over them and stood tall.
She grabbed the thick slice of bread left by Ruth, shoved it into a small calico bag then picked up a hat lying under her bed. She sidled out the door to the veranda. A quick look to the left, then the right, and she marched across the dusty yard to the stables. Nobody would be bothering her this morning, all too busy awaiting his lordship’s arrival.
Joe, the stocky, barrel-chested contract stableman, and Watti, an Aboriginal man with a shock of wiry grey hair, were in the stall with the black stallion, MacNamara. Joe crooned as he swept the brush powerfully over the horse’s flank and back. The horse swung his head to stare at Georgie, but waited patiently as his groomsman prepared him for the day. Watti polished the big saddle as it hung over the rail.
Georgie leaned on the stable doorway. She watched Joe as he whispered in MacNamara’s ear, rubbed his nose and plied him with soft Irish compliments, the lilting murmur music to her ears. Joe ran his hands over a glossy flank, down to a fetlock and back, and the horse stood nodding his proud head. Joe would camp in the stalls on the days he spent at Jacaranda, for MacNamara was a prized possession, and Tom MacHenry dared not neglect him.
MacNamara stood sixteen hands. Georgie could just see over his withers. He was eight years old now, past the silly stage, and he had responded well to her training. She’d fed him and groomed him as a younger horse, cleaned and oiled his saddle, looked after his teeth and, when he got too big for her to look after his hooves, Joe had been called in to keep the horse in top condition. She loved the horse. Joe knew it, the horse knew it.
Joe was also the one who made sure Dane MacHenry himself would foot the bill for MacNamara’s upkeep, and for the other two horses: Douglas, a gentle roan, and Brandy, a chestnut. Left to Tom, the horses wouldn’t survive. Georgie knew that well enough.
She pushed off the doorway and walked into Joe’s line of sight, reaching up to scratch MacNamara’s forelock. ‘Morning, Joe. Morning, Watti.’
Watti mumbled something as he nodded, his dusty black face sombre, eyes averted.
Joe lifted his chin at her. ‘Morning, Miss Georgina. In your ridin’ clobber today, I see.’
‘I thought to take myself away from all the gormless softheads for a while.’
Joe snorted a laugh.
‘Is Mac ready?’ Her hands ran down the horse’s neck and slid across the muscled chest. How she loved that sleek, hard body and its power. Mac was a dream to ride, obedient to her lightest command. They would tear through the paddocks together, whatever the weather, and end up exhausted and exhilarated.
‘Mr Dane’s coming home and Mr Tom wants the horse ready for him. Sorry, miss. Not MacNamara today.’ Joe kept his gaze on the horse. ‘Mr Dane comes straight to the stables when he comes home. Wouldn’t be too good if Mac were gone with you.’
‘That would be your opinion, Joseph O’Grady.’
Joe inclined his head. ‘It would be that.’
Georgie inhaled with a low hiss. That blasted Dane MacHenry again. ‘Comes straight to the stables, does he? Since when, in the last four years?’
Joe studied her. ‘Believe me, Miss Georgie, it wouldn’t be worth the trouble.’ He returned to his brush work. ‘Besides, miss, I doubt you’d want to see Mrs Jemimah out of sorts over it.’
Georgie shot a glance at Joe. ‘No, of course I wouldn’t. I know Aunt Jem is looking forward to his return.’ She tapped her foot. ‘Then it looks like I’ll have to take Brandy.’
Joe dipped his head and kicked the dirt with his boot. ‘Miss Elspeth wants to ride Brandy today.’ Georgie lovingly looked after Brandy, Elspeth’s mount, too.
Georgie’s eyes widened. ‘Elspeth? How extraordinary. That poor horse.’ She paused. ‘Do you think the donkey would be available, Joe, or is he also engaged to ride with the rest of his kin?’
‘If we had a donkey.’ Joe gave her a smile. ‘Douglas here is rarin’ for a good run, miss. He’s in good form and no one to ride him. Take Douglas. He’s a good boy.’ Joe tethered MacNamara and unlatched the next stall door. He stepped inside and ran his hand over the muzzle of the roan. ‘He’s a good boy,’ he repeated to the horse.
‘He is at that.’ She loved Douglas too, he just wasn’t MacNamara. But her mood lifted. ‘All right. I’ll saddle him up, but not with one of those stupid women’s things.’
Joe threw a blanket over Douglas’s back. He knew better than to assist further, so he watched Georgie heft the saddle onto Douglas. As she tightened the girth, she muttered.
He cupped a hand to his ear. ‘What’s that? Did I miss some of your colourful language?’
She stepped into the stirrup and threw herself astride the horse, then beamed at him. ‘I said, let the blasted devil come for his horse. But not a word of that to anyone, Joseph O’Grady.’
‘’Pon my Celtic soul, as usual, miss.’
She gee
-upped Douglas into the yard, stooped gracefully to unlatch the gate and swung it open. Joe would latch it behind her.
Two
Dane MacHenry gripped the seat of the rough cart, his knuckles white, as his father drove, bouncing over a track pocked with large holes. They rounded the corner and there was Jacaranda, sprawled a hundred yards ahead.
My family home … Good sweet Jesus, the place is a mess.
What had happened to the proud young Murray pines that flanked the road into the property? He’d planted them at the same time his father had added on to the house to give Elspeth her own room. Only a straggly few remained.
They bounced through the gate … or what had been the gate as Dane remembered it, now only broken timbers, left to rot where they’d fallen. The entrance archway had disappeared, no trace of it left. He eyed the sign: Jacaranda. It lay flat on the baked earth just inside the boundary fence, which may as well have been non-existent.
And the house. When he stared at the veranda, the sagging roof gave him a jolt, though the timbers and stones of the walls looked sturdy enough. As they drew closer he saw the window frames were crumbling, eaten away, and in some the glass—so very carefully tended by his mother—was missing: there were boards covering a window on the far left.
All this in just over four years?
‘Jesus, Pa. What the hell’s happened here?’
Tom shook his head, grim and frowning. ‘Much to talk about.’
Dane stared at him. It didn’t seem long ago that his father was a great bear of a man. He’d had a thatch of coarse, dark blond hair, shaggy eyebrows and a quick grin, even in times of trouble. His big hands were capable of anything, from cradling a newborn lamb to thwacking a log with his axe.
The man Dane sat beside now was a shadow of the man he remembered. The hair had receded, thinned, greyed. The lines on his face were more than just age; they were worry and perhaps ill-health. It was his father’s eyes that disturbed Dane the most: wild eyes, bloodshot and furtive, like that of a cornered cur.
The cart jumped and banged its way to the house. The neglect of the family property showed years of disregard, not just a few lax months.
