by Darry Fraser
She pushed MacNamara on, checking the sky again, dismayed to see clouds threatening to block the moonlight. She tapped the horse lightly and he responded with a canter. She forgot the cold, though the breeze she and the horse made whipped at her cheeks. The road ahead was her salvation—the road to a better life.
At the turn-off, the end of the track to Jacaranda, she’d gone about four miles. Hardly far enough away to get lost. She turned onto the road as it angled back towards the river. Her stomach fluttered. I’ve done it. I’ve run away. I am independent!
Independent.
But she didn’t want to be destitute. That thought sobered her.
For now, she was safe until dawn. Joe would discover MacNamara missing and raise the alarm. No one would think to look in on her until well after breakfast; she was not in the habit of eating early. So she would be long gone and there wouldn’t be anyone to imagine which way she was headed. They’d never catch up with her.
Georgie patted MacNamara’s neck. Her stomach was still aflutter, more so at the thought of Dane MacHenry and her striking his face than anything else.
I wish I could remember what he looked like when I hit him. She wanted to laugh aloud. So she did.
She looked up into the moonlit sky, watching the clouds waft over it, and thought of Conor Foley. She would find her red-haired man and he would take her away from all her troubles and woes and she would live happily ever after.
Of course he would marry her. Of course he would.
Could she be a married woman and independent? Miss Goldstein had forsworn marriage to that very end, believing she could not fulfil her life’s work if she were married. But to be married to Conor Foley was just what Georgie wanted. She would be his wife, a grand, benevolent lady who would grace his society with her wit and her verve. She would be an intelligent conversationalist, a compassionate woman willing and able to help those who had not her privilege. She would have horses and manage the stables, and be quite the accomplished woman.
And when she wasn’t riding and managing, and being otherwise grandly accomplished, the river would call and she’d be sailing with Conor on her majestic Murray, in the peace and quiet, the ambient rhythm of its ancient life soothing her.
She would learn about his business and work with him to build it ever grander and more robust. His sister, Kate, would help her adjust to her new married life—
She hauled her thoughts to a stop. She’d barely given any mind to the marriage bed.
Well. It sounded a very tedious duty to be performed—she doubted if Conor indulged—and she thought only of the fine gowns, the stables and the horses he would buy her. Life would be good again. Georgina Calthorpe Foley and her new husband would visit Papa Rupert, and afterwards she would hold a great ball. Then she would go and work with the poor people, teaching the women—
The thud of galloping hooves startled her. She slowed MacNamara. She could see nothing behind her, it must be from up ahead. MacNamara surged forward and she let him have his head until they could see the other travellers.
Georgie pulled off the road, deep into the bush, hugging MacNamara’s neck to avoid being knocked from the saddle by a low branch. She dismounted, quieting the snorting horse, who stamped and pawed at the ground, still wound up by the ride. She shushed him more firmly and led him back closer to the road, to a place where she could see clearly.
Two riders were coming from the opposite direction and would surely have intercepted her and demanded to know her business. She held MacNamara’s head tightly, and listened, horrified, as the riders pulled up not far from her hideout. MacNamara shied, and she whispered to him softly, without urgency.
‘I don’t see no rider ’ere,’ one man said, peering about in the dark, his face lit by the moon. Georgie could see he wore a mask over it.
The other was insistent. ‘I saw a rider.’
‘He ain’t around now. But it looks as good a place as any to camp for the night. Must be nigh on midnight.’
‘I don’t like it. I saw someone riding around here, and I don’t like it. I say we keep going.’
Georgie thought that was a very good idea.
‘And I say you’re getting pushy. How could you tell where it was—bloody dark as soot around here before the clouds moved. I’m camping here the night.’
‘I ain’t.’
Good for you, Georgie thought. MacNamara was beginning to fidget again. Any small noise in the dead of night would give her away. She stood stock still, one hand firmly on the horse’s head, the other over her heart to still the thudding in her chest.
‘Aw, for Gawd’s sakes.’
MacNamara threw his head in the air, and Georgie held her breath, giving him a good yank with bridle. He baulked and she began to pray.
‘Whassat?’
‘Orright, orright, no need to try and spook me—let’s just go and—’
The sound of more hooves reached her ears. She waited, almost too afraid to breathe, her hand holding the reins tightly. She squeezed on them, willing MacNamara to remain silent.
‘Quick—in the bushes.’ They scarpered off the road to the other side.
Thankful, Georgie heard them crashing through the scrub to a point further along the way. She released her stranglehold on the reins and shook her hands to force the blood back into her stiff fingers.
If I had a brain, I would mount and ride away as fast as I could.
‘Bail up, mate!’ the men yelled in unison at the other person on the road, walking their horses back into view, blocking the approaching rider’s access.
MacNamara lost his calm, and wheeled about in the bush. Georgie shushed him again and swung up into the saddle, keeping low to his neck, holding his mane.
‘Out of my way, scum,’ the new rider growled as his mount danced in a circle, eager to depart.
Georgie’s arm jerked as MacNamara’s head swung up. She shushed him, low to his ear, sure he’d hear her heart hammering.
‘I said to bail up, mate. Stop moving and get off yer ’orse.’
‘Out of my way, you fools, I’ve no time to dally tonight.’
That voice!
‘Dally, is it, ya poncey bugger.’
MacNamara strained against her grip. She held him tighter than before, but the men were hedging back her way, their trio of horses dancing and pawing the ground. She wished the wind would spring up and hide the noise her horse was intent on making.
A gun went off with a startling roar.
MacNamara shrieked, reared, then bolted out of the scrub and onto the road right at the men. Georgie flattened herself against his neck, clinging with hands and elbows and knees.
The first two riders wheeled about, and one lost control of his horse. It reared, screaming in terror, and threw its rider, before bucking, pig-rooting and squealing off into the bush. The man landed with a thump and a bounce and lay in a heap.
The other man threw himself upon the newcomer, knocking him off his horse.
MacNamara was now face to face with Douglas. And when Georgie squinted into the melee at the men grappling on the ground, she recognised Dane MacHenry, fighting for his life.
Georgie lurched over MacNamara’s neck and grabbed Douglas’s reins, kicking MacNamara hard. They leapt around the men, and tore along the road. Though her arm felt like it was tugged out of its socket, she dared not let go of Douglas. They galloped and galloped and galloped, until spent. They slowed and she finally felt able to pull to a complete stop.
Mortified, knowing she was in deep trouble, she dismounted. Her legs wobbled and she sank to the ground at the horses’ feet. MacNamara bent his head low and blurted and huffed his breath over her. Both he and Douglas were lathered with sweat, quivering from the run, and she wished she had a rag to wipe them down.
Breathing hard, Georgie framed her head with her hands. Oh bugger, bugger, bugger. She covered her mouth with a shaking hand, thinking fast. It was Dane MacHenry back there, perhaps after her. And now probably lying dead on the road. And there were
two others out there, too. They could return at any time. She tilted her head, held her breath and listened carefully.
Nothing.
The night air was still. All she could hear was the horses’ breathing. She let go of her own breath and slapped her forehead, rocking a little back and forth.
I should do the right thing.
What is the right thing?
I should go back and find Dane MacHenry. But I would walk straight into more trouble, either by finding him and taking the consequences, or by finding the thieves. Which would be worse?
Think, girl. Think. He could be lying there dead—in which case my going back there wouldn’t make any difference.
Yes, but he might only be hurt.
But I could fall into the hands of the thieves. Worse—I could be attacked by either party.
Georgie stood up and paced. Nerves drove her legs with such energy the wobbles had disappeared. She rubbed her face, pushing the sticky, sweaty tendrils of her hair aside, wiping her hands on the legs of her pants to dry them. She clasped and unclasped her hands.
What was that?
She stopped, her heartbeat thumping in her throat. She checked the horses. They were undisturbed. She took a couple of deep breaths. Take control of yourself, fool, you must think properly. She tied Douglas’s reins to the branch of a fallen log, tied MacNamara’s around the low limb of a tree. In the moonlight she noticed Douglas had a pack on his back. She stared at it, then listened again for riders.
Nothing.
Douglas stood still as she untied the bundle from behind his saddle. A bed roll, a small bag of personal belongings, and a purse of gold coins, heavy and jingling in her hands.
Had her luck turned? She rummaged some more through the small bag, found some papers, which, in a generous snatch of light, she could see were addressed to a firm of solicitors in Melbourne. There was also a leather wallet. She opened the wallet and held it up to catch more light, but it was impossible to make out its contents.
Georgie replaced everything where she’d found it—everything except the bag of coins. There must have been ten old sovereigns in it, certainly a fortune. She would take one and secrete it with the rest of her cache in her bag on MacNamara. If he ever found her, he would not miss just one, she was sure … She shifted a little with that thought. I’ll only take one … perhaps two …
She threw herself onto MacNamara and, with a hefty crack on Douglas’s hide, sent him back the way they’d just come. Hopefully he would find his way to the homestead or, with any luck, to Dane MacHenry. She couldn’t think about that, or him. But at least the riderless horse would be a sure sign someone was in need of help.
She turned MacNamara around and brought him to a canter. She wouldn’t go much further tonight, her horse was tired and she was exhausted. She still had a long way to go, but Conor would be at Echuca, and that’s where she intended to be.
She moved along, telling herself they would stop here, then there, then just a bit further on until finally, weary and bedraggled, she pulled MacNamara off to the side of the road, dismounted and unsaddled him. She tethered him to a shrub and curled up to sleep, his blanket over her and her head on the saddle.
Five
Dane MacHenry struggled onto his haunches.
‘Sweet Christ.’ Balancing with one hand on the ground, he fingered a lump the size of a duck’s egg on his head, before sliding to his arse.
He craned his head to check the night sky. The moon was bright now, with no cloud drifting over it, no sign of rain. The Milky Way lit a path across the dark cloak of night, but its ethereal stillness meant nothing to him. There was no way to tell how much time had passed.
He’d been riding—firstly, to get to Melbourne as early as he could to speak with the family’s solicitors. And secondly, because Elspeth had alerted the family that the troublesome Georgina was nowhere to be seen. A floorboard in her room had been removed and her bed was in disarray.
He’d sprinted to the stables, and a quick glance in MacNamara’s empty stall was all the confirmation he’d needed. She’d flown the coop.
He’d cursed and ranted as he saddled Douglas, grabbed his packed kit bags and strapped them on. He took off at a gallop, determined to track her down. When he caught her he’d carry on to Melbourne, as planned. She might be a handful to cope with during the business dealings, but he’d manage.
Then two thieving bastards jumped him. They were nowhere to be seen now, and neither was his horse. What had happened? Another rider had approached …
It had been MacNamara he saw in the dim light, the horse panicked by his gunshot. It was her.
‘I’ll be damned.’ He stood up, tested his steadiness, dusted himself off. No other lumps, he decided, as his thumping head settled. His sight was clear, no dizziness. Good. He looked skywards again to get his bearings, turned around and headed in the direction he had originally taken.
I’ll make for the river and flag down a vessel. Georgina will surely head for Swan Hill, I’d lay gold on it. I’ll find her and when I do …
He trudged on into the dawn, and sat wearily on the river bank in a little clearing. Any vessel going either way would be seen from his vantage point, and even if he fell asleep, he’d hear something coming.
Some hours later, with the sun already high and the air warm, he woke. His mouth tasted sour. Dirt had coated his skin and sweat had dried under his arms, he could smell it. His stomach growled, but there was nothing he could do about it for the moment. He’d gone without food before today, and a couple of hours more wouldn’t hurt him. A boat would be able to supply him with some jerky or biscuits. He knew he wouldn’t have to wait long, for the river was busy with trade boats.
He stripped and washed in the river, dunking his shirt. He dried off under the morning sun then pulled on the damp shirt and dirty breeches and settled back on the bank.
He watched the water of the mighty river. A fish flopped somewhere in the middle of the wide expanse, and a kookaburra called in the distance. Peaceful.
How life had changed, how the wheels of fortune turned.
I should have returned more often.
Ten years earlier he’d left Jacaranda to find his way in the world. In his first few years he’d earned money on the boats, and sent much of it home when he could. Then he followed more work to Melbourne. There, he literally fell over Reuben Cawley one murky night near a tavern. Reuben had run foul of a group of thugs and Dane had come to his rescue, taking the badly beaten Reuben to his family’s home. Dane subsequently found himself with very rich benefactors because of his good deed. And under the guiding hand of Reuben’s father, John, and his mother, Angeline, Dane’s business acumen grew.
But he was misplaced, he told Reuben. Nonsense, Reuben had bellowed good-naturedly before going out and buying another hotel in Sydney. A brothel, in fact, still operating as such until Dane won it over a game of cards and set himself the task of cleaning it up. He renamed it the Captain’s Cabin. And a brothel it was no more.
Dane lived at the Cabin, and his visits to Jacaranda had been delayed, year by year, as the business required extra care. But the recent letter from his father had forced him to return.
And here I am, sitting on the bank of a river, sleeping in the dirt and chasing a piece of baggage on my way to a solicitor’s office, hoping to forestall a foreclosure. Perhaps this could be another turn in the eventful path to my fortune.
He chuckled. Perhaps fortune’s not likely.
He waited only another hour before a paddleboat came into view, steaming around the bend upriver.
He clambered aboard, grateful to the crewman who rowed ashore to fetch him. It was Mr King, captain of the fine boat Gem, who was gracious enough to take him on board. Captain King knew of the MacHenrys of Jacaranda, and a promissory note as payment for passage was accepted. Dane asked to disembark at Swan Hill, where he would buy passage of some form or other, somehow, to Echuca. From there he would head for Melbourne, with or without his sto
len belongings, and with or without the girl, Georgina.
She awoke with a start—someone’s hairy nose was on her face, blurting hot air and snot.
Bleary-eyed, Georgie focused on MacNamara standing over her, his loosened reins dangling in the dirt. But it was the sight of Douglas that shocked her, his head down, breath creating little puffs of steam in the air.
She groaned. ‘Douglas, what are you doing back here?’ She reached up to touch his face. ‘You naughty horse.’ He nodded his big head at her, as if very pleased with himself. She stood and brushed herself down.
What a terribly untidy individual. Her breeches had holes in the knees and grass stains and shit on them. Her usually neatly tied hair was a tangled mess, half out of its ribbon and hanging loosely about her shoulders. She shrugged. She was in no position to run away with her best hairbrush and luggage, meagre as it was, nor could she afford the luxury of time to undertake the necessary ablutions.
Dismayed the other horse had seen fit to follow her and not return to Dane MacHenry, she stood looking at Douglas as he fed on a clump of grass closer to the road. She would just have to take the two horses to Swan Hill and think of something to do with Douglas there. Surely someone would take him back to Jacaranda?
Her stomach growled. She bent and hunted in her little bag for breakfast and chewed on some still tender beef and the thick slices of crisply stale bread. The apples she fed to the horses, and the cake she would keep for later. The meal would still her hunger pangs for a short time, but she would need to find water to slake her thirst.
Overhead, the brilliant sun reminded her that more tardiness would be a mistake. She saddled MacNamara, tied Douglas’s reins to the saddle and mounted wearily, not looking forward to another day’s ride.
She wasn’t far out of Swan Hill. It normally only took Uncle Tom five or so hours to ride there from the homestead, so by her calculations she was almost there. She would be very glad to arrive and, with her new found wealth, she would outfit herself properly. She dimly recalled that perhaps it was against the law for a woman to dress in a man’s clothes, however convenient they were. Then she would purchase a coach seat to Echuca.
