by Téa Cooper
‘Not that I can see.’
Catherine dropped her head into her hands and massaged her pounding temples. It was too much, too difficult and she was tired, so very, very tired.
‘Unless …’ The tips of De Silva’s ears stained red and he looked almost ashamed.
‘Unless?’
‘There is only one solution, Catherine. Your father was correct, to save Cottington Hill you must marry Bartholomew.’
Twenty
Sergey woke at crack of dawn, sore and stiff after a night on the cold ground. He saddled the horses and walked them down to the inn where he should have spent last night. Not only did he need food, so did Tsar and Bessie. He couldn’t ask them to travel as many miles as they did yesterday without a decent feed.
‘What can I do you for?’ An apple-cheeked woman wiped her hands on her apron and grinned at him.
‘Any chance of a feed for my horses, and me?’
‘Reckon I can come up with something. Been this way before?’
‘Couple of months ago, with the circus.’
‘That’s it, thought I recognised you. They’re still talking about the show at Bylong and that pretty girl with the golden hair.’
Catherine’s very first performance. His appetite deserted him. ‘Take the horses round the back, shall I?’
She stuck a couple of fingers in her mouth and produced an ear-splitting whistle. An old man shuffled in. ‘See to the gentleman’s horses. They need a feed. Now what would you be liking?’
‘Tea’d be good, don’t worry about anything else.’
‘What a load of nonsense, strapping bloke like you. Sit yourself down, I’ll sort something out.’
Sergey stirred the embers of the fire and threw on another log, and then held his hands out over the flames. He was bloody freezing. If he didn’t hang around for too long waiting for something to eat, and with a bit of luck on his side, he’d make Bylong by tonight. It would be another hard day and he wouldn’t cover many miles. He’d come to the first of the climbs to cross the Great Dividing Range, then there was still Cox’s Gap and Murrumbo.
‘Here. Wrap your face around that.’ The woman plonked a plate of last night’s mutton stew in front of him, his stomach roiled. He had to eat.
‘Where’re you heading?’
‘Bylong.’
‘The circus finished in the goldfields, has it?’
He shook his head and chewed his way through a lump of gristle.
‘So what’re you doing going t’other way?’
He shoved another mouthful in to avoid answering her questions. What could he say? Chasing a woman who took me for a sucker. He wasn’t advertising that fact. He cleaned up the plate and dropped a couple of shillings on the bar. ‘See you next time.’
‘Bring that circus with you. Real pretty lass, that currency lass.’
By the time the sun dropped behind the hills he’d managed a whole miserable thirty miles. The shifting shale and loose rocks were a bloody nightmare.
As much of a nightmare as Noakes’s remark. It still burnt a hole in his brain. Bartholomew’s Hunter property. How could it be his property? When had that happened? There hadn’t been time for a wedding even if Bartholomew had met her in Sydney. It took three weeks for the banns to be called. Unless … unless she’d married the man before they left and lied to him.
She’d told him she’d never marry anyone. What had she said? Femme sole. If she was going to marry it wouldn’t be bloody Hal Waverley, Bartholomew or whatever name he was going under. Over his dead body.
When the small cluster of buildings that called themselves Bylong came into view he gave Tsar and Bessie their heads for the first time that day.
As he came closer to the inn he tossed up the choice of a campfire down by the river or a meal indoors. The grease still lined his mouth from breakfast and the thought of more comments about the Currency Lass were more than he could stand. Pretty she might be but she’d caught him well and truly.
A huge widow-maker overhanging the river fixed his decision. A ready supply of firewood, some half-decent feed for the horses on the river flats, and water. He unsaddled Bessie and Tsar and let them roam, knowing it was highly unlikely they’d go far. He gathered dead branches from around the tree and stacked them up, then collected a handful leaves and twigs and delved in his pocket for a packet of Congreves. The leaves caught and within a matter of moments the fire was up and running.
Tea in one hand and a lump of stale damper in the other, he settled down, back against the tree. In the moonlight Tsar’s white coat was easy to spot. He’d hobble the two horses before he slept, give them a chance to wander while they could. They had two bloody awful climbs ahead of them over the next couple of days.
‘Hey, boss.’
Startled he sprang to his feet, hadn’t heard the black fella approach.
‘Share your fire?’
‘Sure.’ Not that he really wanted company, but there was plenty of wood. Why bother lighting another?
Squatting down the man lifted the lid on the billy, then foraged in his pocket and came up with a pannikin. ‘Got sugar, boss?’
‘Nope, sorry. Just tea and a bit of damper if you want it.’ Sergey held out the last piece of the damper.
The man grinned, showing a mouthful of nothing.
‘It’s pretty dry, might have to dunk it in the tea.’
‘She’ll do, boss. Thanks.’ He sat down so close to the fire he was in danger of frying. ‘Where you heading?’
‘Maitland.’
‘Not like them others. Not searching for gold?’
Not gold; justice and the truth were worth more to him.
‘Gold’s for fools. Know a fella, shepherd for a big boss, found a huge nugget.’ He held his hands apart. ‘Traded it for a flock of sheep and a hut. A man can eat sheep. Can’t eat gold.’ He laughed and downed the rest of his tea then turned to the river.
‘Nice horses. Should only take a couple-a-days.’
‘Bit more than that. Know the road, travelled it a while back. Got Cox’s Gap and Murrumbo to deal with, then a couple of days to Maitland after that.’
‘Got more tea, boss?’ He knocked the lid off the billy and ambled down to the river for water.
Sergey reached into his saddlebag and brought out the twist of tea he’d picked up in Bathurst. Some, not much. Another brew then he’d be drinking water long before he made it to Cottington Hill.
The man fiddled with the fire and settled the billy, threw in a gum leaf or two and stuck out his hand for the tea. He untwisted the paper and peered at the tealeaves. ‘Plenty, here boss. Old Ben’ll trade the tea. You in hurry?’
‘Yeah, I’m in a hurry.’ Couldn’t wait to leave. He’d be travelling all night if it weren’t for resting the horses.
‘Try this then.’ He tossed a pinch of tea into the billy then dusted off his hands and smoothed a clear patch in the dirt next to the fire. ‘We’re here.’ He marked a cross in the dirt. ‘Up over there’s them gaps the white fellas use.’
Sergey tossed aside the pannikin and knelt next to the old man as he drew more lines in the dirt with the tip of his twisted finger.
‘This here, that’s Cox’s Creek, follow that, drops into Widdin Valley. Keep the sun this side at first light.’ He waved his right arm in the air. ‘No need for climbing up and down.’
Why the hell hadn’t they done that on the way here? So much for Rudi’s bloody map.
‘Tracks no good for wagons. Walkin’ like me or with them horses you’ll be fine. This here.’ He stabbed his finger into the dirt. ‘Pullumunbra.’
Jerry’s Plains. Bloody hell.
‘Fair exchange for tea, boss?
‘Fair exchange. Thanks.’ More than fair. It’d knock at least a day, if not two off his journey, he could be in Maitland day after tomorrow. Two days closer to Waverley. To Catherine? He’d couldn’t think about her now, couldn’t bear to believe she and that murdering coward were in any way involved.
&nb
sp; ‘Better get some shut-eye then.’ He unrolled the canvas from the back of the saddlebags and spread it out next to the fire then whistled to Tsar and Bessie. Once he had them hobbled he crawled beneath the piece of canvas and pulled it up over his head.
‘Sleep tight, boss. You got long day tomorrow.’
When Sergey woke the sun was struggling to breach the horizon and the old man’s snores filled the misty air. He pulled the twist of tea from his saddlebag and left it next to him, the least he could do. Seventy miles to Jerry’s Plains from memory. It’d be pushing the horses. He led them down to the river for a drink and sluiced his face, then saddled up and keeping the sun on his right he struck out, praying the old man knew what he was talking about.
‘Good morning, my dear. May I say how well rested you look.’
Catherine gritted her teeth and tried to concentrate on the array of food Mrs Duffen had spread out for breakfast. Not the usual simple fare. It was a veritable feast. Eggs, sausages, kidneys and bacon, thick slices of homemade bread, a selection of jams and marmalades. No doubt Mrs Duffen believed Bartholomew did have a heart and the quickest route was via his stomach.
Catherine had spent the night tossing and turning, mulling over De Silva’s words and, as much as she loathed the prospect, she’d come to the conclusion that she had no choice.
She ladled some porridge into a bowl and sat down at the far end of the table, as far from Bartholomew as she could get.
Overnight De Silva’s words had worked their way into her befuddled consciousness and in all honesty she could no longer see a way out. Matters were worse than before. Reject Bartholomew’s offer of marriage and he would foreclose. Marry him and as before, she’d have no say in Cottington’s fate, unless she found a way to get him to do her biding. A cold shudder whisked over her skin. It didn’t bear thinking about.
If she could convince him that the property was worth keeping, that it was at best a viable business proposition, he might not sell. He didn’t need to live here. That would be a godsend. Bartholomew could stay in Sydney and she could continue her life at Cottington. Chance would be a fine thing.
‘Thank you, I’m feeling better.’ She spooned a small amount of porridge into her mouth where it sat like flour paste.
‘In that case I’ll tell you my exciting news. I have no doubt you will be thrilled. Look at it as my wedding present to you.’
She forced the congealed lump down her throat. ‘Wedding present?’ She choked out the words.
Bartholomew bounced to his feet, thrust his pudgy fingers into the pocket of his waistcoat, a particularly lurid floral print today, then frowned as though he’d lost something. Shaking his head he turned with a flourish, spreading his arms wide. ‘I have obtained a special marriage licence and spoken to Father Brown. We shall be married forthwith, if not sooner. The day after tomorrow!’
Defeated, her lips formed her acceptance then froze. Only five weeks until her birthday. One last try. ‘I do not wish to marry.’
A look of tedium spread across his face. ‘Not that old chestnut again, Catherine. De Silva told me you had come to your senses.’
‘I’ll be twenty-one in a matter of weeks.’
‘Until then De Silva is the trustee and executor of your father’s will, ask him to appraise you of the conditions of the mortgage.’
‘He has. I shall get another loan. Pay out the mortgage.’ Was that possible? Why hadn’t she thought to ask De Silva?
‘Pah! Who would throw good money after bad?’ He walked across the room and came to rest beside her, bringing with him the lingering aroma of last night’s brandy and the sautéed kidneys and bacon he’d consumed for breakfast. ‘Admit it. You have no option.’
‘What will happen to Cottington Hill? It’s home to many, many people. And all of Pa’s plans? All of Pa’s work?’
She flinched as his sweaty hands came down on her shoulders and his fetid breath fanned her neck. ‘My dear, I have absolutely no intention of selling Cottington Hill. Take my word for it. Reginald intended this marriage should go ahead and by God it will.’
He’d pulled the final card. Pa intended she should marry Bartholomew.
‘In your absence I saw fit to employ the not inconspicuous talents of Mr Edward Hargreaves and he assures me that gold is present on the property.’
The spoon clattered into her plate. ‘Gold at Cottington Hill?’ A picture of the ravaged land along the Turon River and the chaos a gold discovery spawned sprang into her mind. Her home would be destroyed. ‘There’s no gold here.’
‘My thoughts exactly so I decided I should investigate the matter and look!’ Like a magician his hand flew back to his pocket and reappeared, palm up. There, nestled between the pale pink folds of flesh, sat a gold nugget, not huge but an ounce at least. ‘There is a fortune waiting to be unearthed.’
‘What will that mean?’ More to the point how would that affect the future? The place would be overrun, destroyed. So much for her wild ideas about convincing him to allow her to manage the property while he remained in Sydney.
‘My dear, you must still be tired. Don’t you understand? Claims can be sold. Licences issued. Due to the proximity to Sydney, diggers will flock here.’
‘And …’
‘And Cottington Hill will flourish.’
‘Flourish, you say?’ A faint flicker of hope spluttered in the back of her mind, igniting the possibility of paying off the mortgage. How long had the diggers stayed at Ophir? Not long. They’d all followed the tantalising trail to the Turon. Rumour had it that many had already left and moved onto the next field. Perhaps, just perhaps …
‘Once we’re married I shall put everything in motion.’
‘Then you wouldn’t sell Cottington Hill?’
‘Sell! Why would I sell? I am sitting on a goldmine.’ He laughed uproariously.
Could she trust him? It made little difference, she had no choice. The sooner it was over and done, the better.
‘Then we will be married the day after tomorrow.’ The words croaked out, thick with reluctance.
Her decision seemed to please everyone, except Archie. She hadn’t seen hide nor hair of him since his less than effusive welcome.
When she told Mrs Duffen that she’d accepted Bartholomew the old woman’s face broke into a grin and she pulled Catherine into the hug she’d hoped for when she arrived home. ‘I knew you’d come around. It’s what Mr Cottingham wanted. He knew best, that’s what I told Archie. Gave him a good drubbing when I found out he’d gone along with your silly game. He’s irresponsible, that man, irresponsible. Anyway, enough of that. Least said soonest mended. I’ve everything planned.’ She held Catherine away from her and ran a critical eye over her body. ‘You’ve lost a bit of weight while you’ve been galavanting. Just as well. I brought down your mother’s wedding dress. I was in a quandary about whether you’d fit but I think it’ll be perfect.’
Catherine swallowed down the lump in her throat. Perhaps Pa would approve, maybe he was standing up there somewhere with Ma and she wouldn’t see the use of her dress in a loveless marriage as a travesty of justice.
For the greater good. The phrase bounced around in her head as Mrs Duffen led her upstairs with Tilly, Becky and Jacky bouncing behind her, all three of them very excited.
‘I found one of your old Sunday best dresses. The white one with the bright blue sash and little flowers. It fits young Becky a treat. She’ll scrub up lovely.’ Mrs Duffen ran her hand over the little girl’s squeaky clean hair.
‘What colour flowers will I carry?’ Becky asked.
‘Have we time to make a cake?’
‘What do boys wear?’
The steady stream of questions drifted around her, punctuated by Mrs Duffen’s incessant babbling.
‘Father Brown’s all ready. Made a few noises about calling the banns but Mr Bartholomew has everything in order. He’s got a special licence. Saw it with me own eyes. Pretty as a picture. All them swirls and pretty patterns.’
‘Now come along, Tilly, you take those children down into the kitchen and find them a bit of that sponge cake you made. Catherine and I have a wedding dress to organise.’
Once Tilly had shepherded Becky and Jacky out of the room Mrs Duffen spun Catherine around and started picking at the buttons down the back of her dress. ‘We’ll take this off and slip on your Ma’s dress. Make sure it fits. Then I have to get downstairs and into the kitchen.
‘Mr Bartholomew said he doesn’t want a big do but there’ll be lots of people wanting to wish you well. Can’t send them away without a full belly and a slice of cake in their pocket. Jolly good job you turned up with Tilly, she’s a godsend, and that little baby. It’s good to have a baby in the house again. Been too long.
‘With any luck there’ll be more soon.’ A pain shot through her as Mrs Duffen’s elbow dug into her ribs.
Oh God! Marrying Bartholomew to save Cottington Hill was one thing. What if he wanted … she shook the thought away. Later. She’d deal with that later.
With a whisper of silk the dress slid over her head and settled on her hips. Mrs Duffen fussed and fiddled and then stood back, tears in her eyes. ‘You look a picture. So like your mother.’ She dashed her hand across her face and led Catherine to the mirror.
The colour of her hair took her by surprise. The days on the road, camping with the circus had bleached it almost the same colour as the silver satin. She tugged at the low neckline and tried to pull it up.
Mrs Duffen slapped her hand away. ‘That’s the way it’s supposed to be.’ She fluffed up the puffed sleeves and tightened the buttons at the back. ‘You could do with one of those corsets you never wear.’
‘It’s fine. It’ll do. Just help me out of it.’ She turned from the mirror in disgust. ‘I promised Tilly and the children that I’d take them to see Davis’s old cottage. Where are my riding breeches?’
