The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  Past the spot where the circus had camped, where she’d spent those glorious days with Sergey, riding, learning their tricks, helping Minnie and May and where she’d finally decided to go with the circus. What had she ever hoped to achieve?

  The driver tipped his hat. ‘Right you are, Miss. Know the track and weather’s been dry, real dry in fact.’

  As they reached the crest of the hill she craned forward, longing for a sight of home. Showing a sense of compassion she wouldn’t have given him credit for the driver slowed, brought the wagon to a halt and sat back. She stood and breathed in the clean cool air, the hint of the river, the almond scent of the clusters of yellow blossoms on the wattle trees framing the view, the wide sweep of the river, unsullied and sparkling in the midday sun.

  So far removed from the squalor, dirt and dust of the Turon as to be the other side of the world. No hurriedly constructed tents and gunyas, no smoke, no thumping of the cradles and no jostling for a square foot of soil that might hold a pocketful of dreams. Just a pure, undisturbed vista of peace, and home.

  This was where she belonged. She should never have left; she should have fought Bartholomew from the beginning. Refused to marry him just the way she’d refused Sergey. Femme sole. Cottington was her life now. Then when that life was done she’d ensure Pa’s work continued, guided by someone who shared their beliefs and ideals. Not someone who’d sell the property on a whim.

  A touch of warmth settled on her fingers as she gripped the back of the seat. Becky’s small hand lay atop hers and her thin fingers squeezed her hand. ‘It’s so beautiful. Like a fairy tale.’

  She smiled at the freckled-faced girl, someone who understood, and then glanced at Tilly’s awestruck face.

  ‘When you came to our tent that night I believed my life was over. How wrong could I have been? It was just beginning. I don’t know how to thank you.’

  ‘Are we there?’ Jacky squirmed in his seat, bumping the baby’s head. ‘Are we there?’

  ‘Nearly, not much further.’ Running away solved nothing. ‘This will be your home now, Jacky. Do you think you would like to stay here?’

  ‘Where’s our hut goin’ to be?’

  ‘No huts, Jacky. We’ll see the house soon. This is just a small part of Cottington Hill.’

  His face rumpled then he frowned. ‘I can’t see no house. Where’s everyone else?’

  ‘Sit down, Jacky, and be patient.’ Tilly pulled him back onto the seat.

  The wagon lurched along the track, each familiar bump and rut easing the pool of tension that had colonised Catherine’s belly since she’d returned from the bank in Bathurst.

  A flurry of dust grew into a cloud. A horse, the rider bent low, racing for his life. How did she imagine Archie would miss their arrival? He missed nothing.

  Catherine stood and waved and in moments Archie ground to a halt ahead of the wagon. He leapt from the saddle, his bowlegs making short work of the last few yards.

  ‘You’re home.’ His terse greeting held none of its usual warmth.

  ‘Yes, I’m back.’ She jumped down and threw herself into his arms, into the scent of saddle soap, fresh air and hay. The scent of home.

  Instead of clasping her tight he shrugged her off. ‘What are you doing here? Your birthday you said. Not a day earlier or a day later. And where’s Bessie? ’

  They’d talk later, not in front of Tilly. He might ask about his money, about Sergey or Bartholomew, a hundred other things she didn’t have an answer to. ‘I’ve brought some friends with me.’ She turned. ‘This is Tilly and her children, Becky, Jacky and Pete, the baby, they’re coming to live at Cottington.’

  Archie slid his hands into his pockets and frowned. ‘They are, are they?’

  ‘Yes, Archie, they are.’

  A scowl slashed his face as though he’d misplaced something important.

  ‘I thought the Davis’s cottage would suit them. It’ll need a bit of cleaning up, a whitewash, not much more.’

  ‘Shame you didn’t bring Bessie home with you. Where is she?’

  Of course he’d be looking for Bessie. ‘She’s with the circus. She’ll be home soon.’ How she wished she were as certain as she sounded. Would Timmy do as he promised? Her skin prickled and she turned and looked over her shoulder. What she wouldn’t give to see Sergey riding over the hill with Bessie and Tsar. Ridiculous. That was the stuff of dreams, nothing that belonged to her. Dreams were for fools.

  ‘That bugger better do right. Expected him to take care of things.’ Archie turned on his heel and jumped astride his horse.

  He was angry. Why? She climbed back onto the wagon next to the driver. ‘Follow the track, it winds down to the house. Thank you.’ Of all people, she’d expected Archie to be pleased to see her home, even if it was earlier than she’d promised.

  Tilly reached over the back of the seat and touched her arm. ‘Catherine, perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea. We can return with the wagon to Morpeth, or Maitland. I’m sure I could find work there.’ Her face had paled and she looked almost as bad as she had in the tent on the Turon.

  ‘Don’t be silly. Archie wasn’t expecting me. He doesn’t like surprises.’ In reality that was nothing but a platitude. He’d never greeted her in such a dismissive manner, not even in the days when she’d give him the slip and sneaked out riding alone. ‘We’ll be at the house soon.’ She forced a note of cheerfulness into her voice and grinned over her shoulder at Becky and Jacky, but it was really more a grimace.

  By the time they pulled up outside the house Jacky and Becky’s eyes were rounder than Mrs Duffen’s scones and they’d inched closer to their mother.

  ‘Who lives here?’

  ‘I do.’

  ‘Who else?’

  ‘You will too, until we find you a house of your own.’

  ‘Will we, Mam, will we?’

  ‘Wait and see, sweetheart. Wait and see what Miss Cottingham says.’

  Miss Cottingham let the words wash over her as her heart beat slowed. Up on the hill the new pink leaves of the cedar tree swayed in the breeze. ‘I’m home, Pa,’ she whispered. ‘I won’t run away again. I promise.’

  And she wouldn’t. No more running, no more hiding. In five weeks she’d put childhood behind her and take up her responsibilities. Femme sole. Without Bartholomew, without Sergey. Men changed, couldn’t be trusted.

  They clambered from the wagon and the driver handed down her saddlebags and Tilly’s paltry bundle of belongings before tipping his hat. ‘Be seeing you.’ He turned the wagon in the sweep of the driveway and trundled back up the hill. She was sorry to see him go. His was a friendly face amongst the painful memories. Perhaps if he’d driven her home with Pa’s coffin she wouldn’t have needed Sergey’s help and she’d never have left.

  The front door was closed. No sign of Mrs Duffen and no sign of Archie either. ‘Come with me.’ She grabbed Becky and Jacky by the hand and marched up the steps.

  The house might as well still be in mourning, although there were none of the trappings, no wreath on the door and no tightly closed drapes. She released Becky’s hand and pushed the heavy door, which swung open with its usual squeak and she stepped onto the familiar flagged floor.

  An unholy quiet greeted her.

  She gestured to a chair. ‘Wait here.’ Where was Mrs Duffen?

  ‘We’ll wait outside, Miss Cottingham.’

  ‘Catherine,’ she snapped. This was her home. She had every right to be here. Nothing could change that. ‘Sit down.’

  With a sigh Tilly sank into the high-back chair against the wall and settled the baby in her arms, Becky and Jacky arranged either side. Tilly’s family, her small family but family nonetheless. More than she had. Catherine marched down the hall.

  Mrs Duffen would be in the kitchen, probably gossiping to Archie if truth were known, who hadn’t thought the wagon would get to the house so quickly. Maybe Archie thought she’d show Tilly the Davis’s place first. That was it. That would account for their absence
.

  Her heels clattered on the floor and, as she passed Pa’s study, the low murmur of voices drifted out. Then she heard a rumble and someone cleared their throat. De Silva, of course he’d be in Pa’s study. How else could he manage the accounts without the ledgers?

  She brushed her hand over her windblown hair in an attempt to return it to some kind of order then pulled down her dusty jacket before stepping into the room.

  A warm fug and the smell of tobacco filled her gaping mouth. Her feet rooted to the spot and a chill crawled down her neck.

  ‘Catherine, my dear. How delightful.’ Bartholomew minced around Pa’s desk, both hands outstretched.

  Black spots danced in front of her eyes and she blinked them away.

  Bartholomew!

  His clammy hands snatched at her bunched fists. ‘Come and sit down.’ His fingers squeezed and she tugged her hands away. ‘We weren’t expecting you.’

  Every instinct told her to run, run back to Sergey, the circus, except they didn’t want her, they’d sent her away. She flashed a look around the room, a shadow stood in the beam of light from the windows. Her mind spiralled as she grasped at the facts through the fog of days of unrelenting travel.

  ‘Catherine.’

  The air rushed into her lungs. ‘Mr De Silva.’ Thank heavens.

  She pulled out the chair in front of the desk and sat down, its familiar shape cradling her. How many times had she sat here and talked with Pa? Leant on the desk and returned his comforting smile. Bartholomew’s enquiring gaze flickered across her face from Pa’s chair. Dropping her arms she shuffled back and straightened her spine. Her vision cleared.

  ‘Welcome home.’

  Welcome home! How dare he? ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘Let me call Mrs Duffen and get you some refreshments.’

  Let him call Mrs Duffen? What right had he to call Mrs Duffen? What right had he to be sitting at Pa’s desk?

  ‘Perhaps you’d be kind enough to arrange some refreshments, De Silva.’ Bartholomew rocked back in the chair. What was Bartholomew doing in Pa’s study? Since when had he commanded Pa’s solicitor?

  De Silva turned walked to the door, intent on following Bartholomew’s instructions.

  No! She didn’t want him to leave. Didn’t want to be alone with Bartholomew. Not now. Not yet. Not while her head was rolling around like one of Minnie and May’s high-flying cartwheels. Not ever. ‘No. Nothing, thank you.’ She sat up straighter and sucked another breath into her starved lungs. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Bartholomew chuckled and his face contorted into a benign smile. ‘Making arrangements.’

  ‘What arrangements?’ The words fired out of her mouth like gunshot.

  ‘For the property, ensuring everything is as Reginald wished. De Silva and I are in total agreement. Don’t concern yourself, we have everything in hand.’ He bounced from the chair, stuffed his thumb and forefinger into the pocket of his garish waistcoat and strutted around the table until he stood with his back to the fire, rocking on his heels. ‘You must be tired. De Silva, call Mrs Duffen and Catherine can go upstairs and refresh herself. We’ll talk after luncheon.’

  Somehow she found herself on her feet standing by the door, next to De Silva.

  ‘Come, Catherine, everything will become clearer once you’re refreshed.’ He led her back to the hallway where Tilly waited, her children clasped close. Catherine had forgotten, forgotten all about them.

  ‘Who have we here?’ De Silva bent and ruffled Jacky’s hair then gave Becky an amiable smile. The first genuine expression she’d seen on his face since she arrived.

  ‘This is Tilly and her three children. They’ll be living at Cottington Hill.’

  De Silva cleared his throat. ‘I see. In that case we definitely need Mrs Duffen.’

  From the back of the house Mrs Duffen appeared, wiping her hands on her apron. No greeting, just a curt nod of recognition. Worse than Archie. ‘Come with me.’ She spoke directly to Tilly. ‘All of you now. Through there, under the stairs and out the back to the kitchen.’

  She shepherded them ahead of her, then stopped and turned. ‘I’ll send Susy up to your room with some warm water. You could do with a decent bath.’ She sniffed and scurried off without any words of comfort.

  Catherine’s knees turned to jelly and she swayed, her shoulder grazing the flocked wallpaper, the only thing holding her upright. De Silva’s hands guided her down onto the chair. ‘Catherine, you need to rest.’ His voice came from a long way away.

  ‘No. I can’t. What’s he doing here?’

  ‘Bartholomew has been here for some days. He brought certain matters to my attention.’ De Silva wrung his hands. ‘I’m afraid I may have failed Reginald, and you.’

  ‘Failed me? It is I who has failed you. I lied to you. Told you I was going to Sydney to arrange my marriage when I had no intention of doing so. I ran away.’ Her voice hitched on a sob.

  ‘That’s of little consequence now. I must speak with you, alone, before Bartholomew comes looking for me. Perhaps we could step into the dining room.’

  It was the very last thing she wanted to do, Mrs Duffen’s offer of a bath was far more enticing, but she had to know the reason for Bartholomew’s presence.

  De Silva held open the dining-room door and ushered her inside, closing it quietly behind him. What she wouldn’t give for a moment to gather her senses.

  Clearing his throat De Silva paced the carpet in front of the fireplace. She hadn’t even the energy to ask him to continue; for a few glorious moments she envisaged her arrival home without the overshadowing presence of Bartholomew. He tainted everything.

  She shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts.

  ‘I’m afraid I’ve made a grave error.’ De Silva’s voice was sombre. ‘I’ll quite understand if you see fit to dispense with my services.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because I have failed you, and your father, God rest his soul. He saw fit to place his trust in me.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mr De Silva, I’m very tired and I don’t seem to be able to follow your line of thinking. I’m responsible for my foolish actions. My only excuse is that I hoped to escape marriage. I simply complicated matters. I shall speak with Bartholomew after I have rested and tell him, as I should have done in the first place, that I can’t marry him.’ She couldn’t have married him several months ago. But now after Sergey, after the touch of his lips on hers, after he’d told her he loved her, nothing on God’s earth could convince her she should marry Bartholomew.

  De Silva came to a halt in front of her. ‘I’ll admit I was disappointed when I discovered you hadn’t seen fit to confide in me. However, Archie told me of your plan and I applaud your courage.’

  Archie had told him. Had he also told De Silva about the money he had given her, the money she had given to Tilly in exchange for forged promissory notes? Such a tortuous mess of half-truths. No wonder Archie was cross with her. He’d probably got it in the neck from De Silva, nevermind Mrs Duffen.

  ‘Initially I was under the impression you’d returned to Sydney to arrange your impending marriage to Bartholomew, as you told me in your letter. It wasn’t until two weeks later that I made enquiries with the Mannings and discovered you weren’t there. Archie finally told me what had come to pass.’

  All she wanted to do was crawl into the corner and curl up. The disappointment etched on De Silva’s face was more than she could bear.

  ‘I hoped you could trust me.’

  ‘I do trust you …’ she faltered. But she hadn’t trusted him. She’d only trusted Archie, and now the man who’d always been her staunchest supporter couldn’t even look her in the face.

  What a mess she was in, all because she’d failed to face to her responsibilities. She’d behaved like an irresponsible child and now she was forced to rush home with her tail between her legs.

  Problems couldn’t be solved by running away. She took a deep breath, striving to fight off
the feeling of confusion and disappointment. She had to take control of her life, had to stop relying on other people. The responsibility for Cottington was hers alone.

  ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake. I thought that if I disappeared until my birthday I could return and … my inheritance… Femme sole.’ She gulped back the sobs tangling in her throat. ‘That Pa’s dream would continue. I still don’t understand why he wanted me to marry Bartholomew. More to the point, why is Bartholomew here?’

  ‘Perhaps you’d allow me to explain the situation as it now stands.’

  She’d like nothing more than that because at this precise moment she had no idea what was going on.

  ‘It is my error I can’t countenance.’

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  De Silva pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her. ‘I told you of the loan your father had taken out when he purchased the additional land.’

  She nodded. It was during the depression, he’d bought the land from the neighbours who’d stood to lose everything. Yes, she remembered.

  ‘The interest rate has significantly increased.’

  ‘Then we will pay the increased amount until the debt is cleared.’

  De Silva shook his head. ‘We are unable to service that loan and Bartholomew has called it in.’

  ‘Bartholomew? Did Pa borrow money from Bartholomew?’

  ‘Not in the first instance. It appears Bartholomew purchased the mortgage over Cottington Hill.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘It means that if we don’t pay the outstanding monies and the increased repayments, Cottington Hill will pass to Bartholomew by default. He would be within his rights calling in the loan.’

  ‘Is there no way we can repay that money?’

  ‘Not without selling off a substantial amount of the land, if we can find a purchaser. It might be possible to keep the house and a few acres.’

  ‘No.’ Absolutely not. If any part of the property were sold it would impinge on the tenant farmers who lived there. They’d lose their homes, their farms, all they and Pa had worked for. ‘Is there no alternative?’