The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

Mrs Duffen held her back, smoothed her hair from her face with her soft floury hands, hands that had chased away a million nightmares, soothed a thousand sorrows. ‘Tis for the best, he was suffering. You’ve brought him home?’

  Catherine lifted her head and saw two fat tears trickling down the pink cheeks she knew so well. No need to explain. ‘Yes, I’ve brought him home.’

  ‘Then we must make arrangements. Come now. Tears later. We have to do this for your Pa.’ Mrs Duffen sniffed and wiped her eyes with the corner of her apron.

  Catherine drew in a great shuddering breath. Later. Yes, later she’d properly mourn.

  ‘Sergey and Archie are bringing Pa in the wagon.’

  ‘Sergey?’

  Too hard to explain right now, though what she would have done if she’d arrived with the dreadful teamster she had no idea. At least Mrs Duffen and Archie didn’t have to see the ignominy Pa suffered on that awful road. ‘I’ll go and help.’

  ‘Bring him to the dining room. I’ll make ready.’

  She stood on the doorstep shading her eyes against the midday sun as she’d done hundreds of times before. Sergey jumped down and opened the gate into the home paddock and Archie drove the wagon through. Smoothing her damp palms down her trousers Catherine took a deep breath and walked down the steps to meet them. She’d done it. Pa was home. A wave of dizziness hit her and she reached out for the side of the wagon in an attempt to tether herself to this strange reality.

  From nowhere people arrived, the men who worked in the stables, the black fellas, the stockmen, the closest tenants and slowly, very slowly they lifted Pa from the back of the wagon, hoisted him high on their shoulders and made the long walk up the steps and into the house. Peeling her clenched fingers from the wagon she stumbled after them, forcing her feet to respond, blinded by the hot salty tears streaming down her face. Five more steps, four, three … darkness spiralled up to meet her.

  Catherine woke, rolled over and burrowed down into the soft mattress and shivered. Cold. She was cold, very cold. She pulled the quilt up around her and listened to the gentle murmurings of the house. The creak of the roof, the wind catching in the eaves, the twirl of dry eucalyptus leaves outside her window. Home. So good to be home.

  Home! She opened her eyes and sat bolt upright. The late afternoon sun slanted across her bed. What had happened? Her mind stirred, lumpy and congealed like stodgy porridge while she waded through the memories and shivered again. No wonder. She was dressed in nothing but her chemise and drawers. She threw back the cover and swung her legs out of bed. Twice. This had happened twice. First at the circus camp and now here. Here at home.

  She gazed around the room searching for her clothes but unlike the circus camp they’d gone. The room was pristine, as always. A pile of black clothes lay draped across the end of the bed. The smell of camphor snatched at her throat as she pulled on the blouse, her fingers fumbling at the tiny buttons on the hard scratchy silk, then she dragged on the skirt and fastened it. Heavens only knew where Mrs Duffen had managed to find mourning clothes. In the bottom of some long forgotten chest by the stink of them. Shoes? Forget shoes. She had to find Pa.

  The vision of the men carrying his coffin up the steps and through the front door filled her head and her eyes swam with tears. She brushed them away, threw open the door and bolted down the stairs. The house was quiet, quiet as a grave.

  The door to the dining room stood ajar and she stepped into the subdued light. Curtains drawn, chairs removed, candles flickering and in the centre of the room the table and Pa. His coffin.

  She ran her hands over the shiny wood. What she wouldn’t give for one more look at his face, one more kiss. She slipped her fingers under the lid to try to ease it off.

  ‘Leave it be.’

  She jumped and turned. Father Brown stood up from his place in the corner, closed his prayer book and walked towards her.

  ‘My child.’ He reached out his pale hands, palms upwards as though he could think of nothing more to say.

  ‘I want to see him. Just once more.’

  ‘No, my child. The time is past. He is with God.’

  Catherine let her hands fall into his. His long thin fingers squeezed her palms. ‘We’ll hold the funeral this evening and you must make arrangements to speak with Mr De Silva.’

  Arrangements? ‘Why must I speak with Mr De Silva?’

  ‘You have responsibilities now. Not just to yourself but the house, the property and all of your tenants. The will must be read. Cottington Hill is not a small concern. Many people are dependent on you for both their security and their livelihood.’

  ‘I’m not ready.’ Tears scuffed her eyes and she bit down hard on her lip. ‘It is a huge responsibility.’

  ‘For that very reason you must speak with De Silva. He was your father’s right-hand man. He has a tight grasp on all matters relating to the property and keeps the most meticulous records.’

  As if it wasn’t bad enough to be standing here in front of Pa’s coffin she now had the responsibility for the many people who called Cottington Hill home. She let out a long slow sigh. ‘I’ll speak with Mr De Silva but first we must bury Pa.’

  Seven

  The sombre procession left the house and wound its way up the hill to the small knoll where Sergey stood. He could understand Catherine’s determination to bring her father home. This was where he belonged, here with his wife and his three sons who lay beneath the spreading cedar tree.

  But what of Catherine? When would she stop and take time to nurse her grief? Her family lay here—all of her family, though from the look of the procession she still had many around her who cherished her.

  He rested the shovel behind the low metal fence surrounding the tiny burial ground and stood to one side as the men eased the coffin through the gate. The role of gravedigger wasn’t one he’d ever imagined taking and he ought to leave. It wasn’t for a stranger to witness this most private of moments, but he couldn’t. Couldn’t leave until he was certain she was safe. More than anything he wanted to hold her and ease her pain, offer the comfort she so desperately needed.

  The minister led the way, no wailing, no prying glances from a curious crowd, just this simple, dignified walk to the graveside. As it should be. As it should have been for Nikolas but for a parcel of lies.

  Catherine stood, her isolation almost palpable, a ring of respect perhaps. A solitary figure swathed in black, her glorious hair covered and only the palest hint of her skin showing through the draped veil.

  They lowered the coffin into the soft earth while the minister intoned words, words that seemed to offer solace to those around as their lips moved in silent harmony. He’d long since lost his faith in God, any god. The justice system had seen to that.

  Then as the sun disappeared behind the hills she dropped a spray of fresh pink-green gum leaves onto the coffin and left with the other women. The men remained and filed past the grave, handfuls of earth clattering as they hit the coffin.

  A few more words from the minister and the procession wound its way back down the hill.

  ‘I’ve got this now.’ Old Archie reached behind the tree for the shovel, the black band on his arm standing out as a stark reminder of his task.

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘You’ve done enough. This is for me to finish. He was a good man. Taken before his time.’

  ‘Catherine loved him very much.’

  ‘Aye, that she did. We all did. He helped us make a life in this godforsaken country when we thought we had nothing.’ The old man bit back his words, then went on, ‘No idea what’s going to happen now.’

  ‘Now?’ Of course life would go on. ‘She’ll need you all the more.’

  ‘Humph.’ Archie dug the shovel into the fresh mound of dirt and scattered it across the coffin. ‘Depends what her intended has in store.’

  ‘Her intended?’

  ‘Old enough to be her father. Up to no good no matter what Mr Cottingham thought. He wouldn’t have entertained the
possibility in his heyday.’

  Catherine was to be married? Then where was the man? Why had he left her to fend for herself? To bring her father’s body back home alone? Why wasn’t he here supporting her, caring for her? ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘Told you. Her intended. Henry W. Bartholomew.’ He turned his head and spat into the dirt.

  ‘More to the point where is he?’

  ‘Swanning around in Sydney more n’ like. Counting his money. I’ve got to be getting on. The light’s fading.’

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘This is something I want to do. Alone. Time you were on your way.’

  Right. He’d outstayed his welcome, no matter what his intentions may be. ‘Please tell Catherine if she needs anything we’ll be in Maitland for some time. Send someone for me. You can’t miss the circus camp. Just on the outskirts of town.’

  The man bent to his task and the dirt scattered, their conversation over.

  Sergey made his way down the hill to the wagon. More than anything he wanted to see Catherine, speak with her before he left. The house was shuttered, dark, no lamps alight and the front door closed, the wreath of dark shiny leaves with its trailing black ribbons more forbidding than any lock. He couldn’t interrupt. He’d come back tomorrow, maybe the next day and enquire. She wouldn’t be receiving visitors, not for a long while; grief took its own time, sometimes never left. Maybe Archie would tell him how she fared.

  Two hours later he wound his way along the track, skirting the mangled road where he’d found Catherine last night, past the signpost for Maitland. Despite the fact he’d made good time with the horses refreshed and no weight in the wagon, he’d missed both performances. Rudi would have a word or two to say.

  The campfire glowed and most of the troupe were clustered around the long trestle table, swapping stories and laughing over the inevitable game of cards. Nothing out of the ordinary.

  He unhitched the wagon and left the horses with Timmy then strolled across to Rudi’s tent. ‘How did the shows go?’

  ‘Bloody awful. What do you expect? No maître du cirque. No Princess Valentina. Hardly worth the effort.’

  ‘I’m sorry. It took more time than I expected. They had to bury him tonight. It had been too long.’

  Rudi sniffed and Sergey prayed he wouldn’t comment. He didn’t want to think of a body that had been in a coffin for almost a week. ‘So, no news of Valentina?’

  ‘She should have come on the steamer instead of putting on that pantomime about being frightened of water. She survived the trip from Van Diemen’s Land. Can’t see why she couldn’t manage the trip from Sydney.’

  ‘She had a bad time; you know as well as I do. Besides, she said she had some business in Sydney.’ Sergey had no intention of mentioning the details. Rudi had enough of a problem with her vast number of admirers, the constant stream of men, and women, hanging around outside the arena for a glimpse or a word after the show. Valentina seemed to revel in their attentions. ‘It should take her about a week providing she doesn’t decide to stop too often along the way. She’s unlikely to have come to any harm. Dan and Hawke will keep her out of trouble. Just the sight of them would be enough to keep most at bay.’

  ‘Hardly bloody surprising we didn’t have a full house tonight. Half of you off gallivanting.’

  ‘Tomorrow’ll be better.’ Quite honestly he didn’t really care. He delivered a half-hearted clap across Rudi’s shoulders, his mind drifting back to the shimmer of Catherine’s pale face behind the black veil.

  ‘Doubt it. Rumour has it most of the bloody town’s up and left, been hit by Yellow Fever.’

  So all Rudi’s whingeing wasn’t because he’d missed the show. ‘What do you mean, Yellow Fever?’

  ‘The bloody gold rush. You heard about it. I told you about the Hargreaves fellow.’

  ‘Surely you’re not saying they’ve packed up overnight and gone.’

  ‘Place called the Turon. Couple of hundred miles away. The towns around here have as good as emptied.’ He dribbled a handful of coins back into the tin. ‘Only solution I can see is to head that way too.’

  ‘Head out west?’

  ‘They’ll have money to burn. Apparently the whole place is teeming with people. More people, more shows, more money. Makes sense to me.’ Rudi spread the kangaroo-skin map out on the table. ‘Was talking to a bloke this evening. Two men, Lester and Raffael, their names are, found gold here.’ He stabbed at the map. ‘Place called Golden Point, on the Turon River.’

  Sergey twisted the lamp and pushed Rudi’s stubby fingers aside.

  ‘The diggers are pouring into the area along the Mudgee Road, through Capertee and along the Razorback Track, and up from Sydney. Sit down.’

  Sergey pulled up a stool and leant his elbows on the table. Once Rudi had an idea there’d be no stopping him.

  ‘We’ll go this way. Through from Singleton to Jerry’s Plains, then Merton, follow the Goulburn River to Bylong then Dabee and onto the Turon.’

  ‘It’ll take months.’

  ‘Nah. It won’t. If we stay in the valleys we’ll cover ten to fifteen miles a day with the wagons, you can scout ahead. Give that horse of yours some exercise. Doesn’t look as though the going’s too rough.’

  ‘You seem to have forgotten one thing.’

  Rudi raised his head and cocked an eyebrow. ‘What would that be?’

  ‘The reason we’re here in the first place.’ He wasn’t ready to leave. Not yet. He wanted to see Catherine settled and find out why her intended had left her in the lurch. Then there was the other matter. He pulled the pistol from under his jacket and ran his fingers over the embossed barrel. One day, one day soon. ‘You reckon he’d head out west?’

  ‘Killing two birds with one stone,’ Rudi said. ‘We’ve drawn a blank in Sydney. We need to go where there’s people, where there’s money to be made. Not just for the circus. Storekeepers and the like. It’s right up his alley. He won’t be able to resist. Give it a few more days, see if things pick up then I’ll call a tent pole muster. Put it to everyone. Discuss it.’ Rudi rolled the map back up and slipped a leather thong around it.

  ‘What about Valentina?’ They ought to give her a bit more time. He wanted time to check the local area and, more to the point, sort out the strange affinity he felt with Catherine.

  ‘If Valentina doesn’t arrive we’ll tell everyone where we’re heading and she can catch up. Good for publicity.’

  ‘Let’s see. We’ll talk more about it tomorrow.’ Sergey pushed back the stool and walked out of the tent.

  Silence enveloped the house, as heavy as her heart. From nowhere Mrs Duffen had conjured delicious refreshments, plied the mourners and at long last everyone had left. Catherine pulled off her veil and loosened the high collar of her dress. More than anything she wanted to be rid of it. The social trappings of death were nothing Pa would expect. She’d mourn him in her own way.

  As Pa’s time had drawn closer he’d begun to talk more of Ma, reliving the old days when their future lay before them full of promise, and now—she looked out the window at the shadow of the tree and the moon hanging full and ripe over their graves as if to light Pa’s way. They’d be together now, together with their sons. The three babies who’d died without drawing breath, the last carrying Ma to heaven with him.

  ‘No one expects you to do anything, Catherine, but mourn. Take time. Your father spoke to me of your impending marriage and I have to admit I disagree. A suitable mourning period should be observed.’

  Father Brown’s words had shed the only ray of sunshine on the whole horrible chain of events. It was a difficult decision to go against Pa’s wishes and he’d obviously discussed it at length with Father Brown over their weekly chess games. Hearing the minister’s words she was thankful she hadn’t agreed to Bartholomew’s proposal and no one, no one could make her marry against her will.

  And why? Pa wouldn’t force her into a marriage she didn’t agree to. He’d never forced her into any
thing in his life, no matter how badly he wanted to see her settled. She shook her head. Nothing made any sense.

  Pulling the chair closer to the window she stared out into the darkness. She had no doubt Pa would have left everything, the property, the business and the contents of the house to her. He’d always said he would. Then why this wish to see her married? Why push her into a marriage he knew she didn’t want? It was so unlike him, so out of character.

  ‘Are you still up, missy?’ Mrs Duffen stuck her head around the door. ‘It’s time you got some rest. Let me give you a hand with those buttons, you’ll never manage them on your own.’

  More from habit than anything else Catherine did as bid and stood, her back turned, so Mrs Duffen could unbutton her dress, her mind still churning. ‘Mrs Duffen?’

  ‘Stand still now.’

  ‘How well did Pa know Bartholomew?’

  ‘Think they met pretty regularly in Sydney, at that hotel where your Pa had rooms. I only saw him here once, a while back. When you went to visit those folks in Singleton. Archie says he’s a pigheaded man full of his own self-importance. Kicked up a treat in the stables. Something about not riding and wanting to use Mr Cottingham’s buggy.’

  ‘Pa wanted me to marry him.’

  ‘Could do a lot worse. Heard tell he’s worth a pretty penny or two.’

  ‘I don’t want to marry him. I don’t even like the man.’

  ‘Marriages ain’t just about liking, or loving for that matter, not where there’s money concerned. It’s time for you to grow up and think hard before you refuse him. ’Specially if it’s what Mr Cottingham wanted.’

  Catherine stepped out of her dress. ‘It doesn’t make sense. Pa always said he wanted me to continue his work here and Bartholomew told me we’d live in Sydney. Said I never needed to return. He’ll take control of everything on the property. I won’t have any say in the matter.’

  Mrs Duffen slipped the nightgown over Catherine’s head. ‘Sit down now and I’ll deal with your hair. It doesn’t look like it’s seen a brush for days.’