“Are you comfortable, Nicola?” Frances grinned, having won the battle.
“Yes, thank you.” Nicola adjusted her brown skirts, and aware that Mr West would be looking at her back the entire way, she straightened her shoulders and held her chin up. He’d never be able to accuse her of having bad posture.
The September sun warmed them and soon Nicola relaxed a little as the slap of the oars became a soothing rhythm. This was her first chance to be away from the city, and she took the opportunity to study their surroundings. The water was a dark brackenish-green but clean and flowing. Along the sandy banks going past, she spotted spindly pale wildflowers and plants she’d never seen before. Sometimes, a dwelling would appear, complete with a fenced vegetable garden, but generally the bush remained virgin. With the city behind them, the smell in the air changed too. Gone was the sourness of people’s refuse and instead the sharp scents of eucalyptus and the softer tea tree retained their rightful place. Nevertheless, other softer scents vied for supremacy and it frustrated Nicola that she didn’t know what they were or where they came from. She hated to be ignorant and vowed to find books at the library to redeem this flaw. This country was her new home, she would find out about it all.
“Select a spot to stop, Frances,” her brother ordered from the rear of the boat.
Frances craned her neck, scanning both sides of the river. “Over to the right, Mr Coates. We’ll beach on that sandy area between those two large gum trees.”
“As you wish, Miss West.” Coates strained on the oars and he and Mr West guided the boat to the shallow edge of the river, thrusting the bottom onto the sandy soil.
After Mr Coates helped Frances and Nicola out onto the grass bank, he reached in for the wicker hamper and the red blanket sitting on top of it.
“Where shall we spread the picnic, Nicola? Frances asked, marching further into the bush.
Following, Nicola listened to the call of the native birds, one sounding like a whip cracking. Sunlight streamed through the gangling gum trees and she ducked under a thicker tree with small, thin green leaves.
“Under this tea-tree?” Mr West came up behind her and she spun around to gaze shyly at him.
Frances took the blanket and spread it out, covering the sparse dry grass. “This is as good a place as any.”
Nicola knelt on the blanket and helped Frances unpack the variety of food while Mr Coates took out his own meal and wandered down to the water to sit under another tree to eat.
“I hope you are hungry, Miss Douglas.” Mr West smiled, sitting down opposite her. “I asked my cook to include a good selection.”
“I’m sure we will be most spoilt.” Nicola kept her head down and concentrated on the handling of the food. Indeed, it seemed as though his cook had packed for an army. She laid out plates of game pie, boiled chicken, salads, bread, cheese and fruits.
“Open this, Nat, I’m parched.” Frances passed him a stone bottle and handed out cups.
He opened and sniffed the bottle. “This is cider, Fran. Cook must have mixed up the bottles. I asked for tea.”
“Never mind, we’ll cope.” Frances winked in a devil-may-care way.
“Cider, Miss Douglas?” He gazed at Nicola, his gaze intent. The bruising of his face and even the slight cut in his lip did nothing to distract from his attractive features.
“Thank you, Mr West.” She held out her cup for him to pour, praying her hand wouldn’t shake. Why did he have the ability to make her feel so…insignificant?
They ate in silence for a while, content to listen to the bird calls and then they spoke of small things, the bush around them, the passing of a small boat on the river. Every now and then they heard the rustle of some small animal in the undergrowth, but mainly the day’s warmth and the constant chorus of insects settled peacefully over them.
“Lord, I’m so sleepy.” Frances laughed, pushing her empty plate away and draining her cup of cider.
“That was a wonderful repast, Mr West. Thank you.” Nicola began tidying up the blanket, eager not to make eye contact with the disturbing man opposite. Throughout the meal she had listened to his voice, watched the way his hands moved and felt flushed from the experience. What on earth was wrong with her?
“Leave that, Nicola. We can do it later. Lie down and sleep, I’m going to.” Frances, totally at ease, stretched out and, using her arms as a pillow, closed her eyes.
“I don’t think I can…” She continued to stack the plates in the hamper.
“Oh Nat, take Nicola for a walk, will you. I’ll not rest while ever she’s clearing up like some kitchen maid.”
Nicola froze and stared at Mr West, who smiled and tilted his head, again the challenge clear in his eyes.
“Well, Miss Douglas, shall we take a walk. Perhaps I can show you a little of the bush? Though I confess my knowledge of it is extremely lacking, to my shame.” He stood without waiting for her answer and held out his hand to assist her to her feet.
“Thank you, Mr West, I should like that,” she lied, trying to smile and failing miserably.
“Yes, go you two and leave me in peace. It’s my birthday after all.” Frances murmured.
Nicola stepped away from the blanket, putting enough space between her and Mr West so he wouldn’t offer his arm. Her boots crunched the dry undergrowth releasing a new scent of the dusty earth.
“Frances may have told you that I’ve been looking at properties in the country?”
“Yes, she did mention it once I believe.”
He nodded and ducked beneath a low branch. “I’ve been interested in some land near Camden. I thought to build a house there. On the few times I’ve visited I’ve asked the locals to teach me about the area. What grows there and so on. It is beautiful country out there. Macarthur picked well.”
Nicola stepped around a boulder and glanced at him, paying attention to what he had to say. It was the first time they actually shared a proper conversation. Although she had no idea who Macarthur was, she wanted to learn.
Mr West plucked a leaf from a low branch. “I have much to learn, but I do find it fascinating. It is a harsher country than England and it weeds out weak men easily.”
“What do you think you’ll farm there?”
“I haven’t quite made up my mind yet. Sheep is a popular choice, but I don’t think the acreage is enough to be truly successful in that venture. I thought perhaps to breed racehorses.”
“Racehorses. How interesting.”
“Yes, it is a burgeoning past time here, and a sport I think will grow handsomely.”
They crossed a shallow ditch and Nicola gathered up her skirts to avoid a prickly bush. “Will you spend your time between the city and country, Mr West?”
“Yes. Though I feel the country will steal my affections rather too effortlessly. I have no love for the city. Away from the harbour, the city soon resembles streets of any other city in the world. That is far from captivating.”
“Yet, it is in the bowels of the city that your sister works so hard.” Nicola slowed down to smell a pale lemon wildflower poking between two rocks, but found it had no scent.
“Frances is a unique woman and can survive without me being close by.”
“Do you think so?” Nicola looked up at him and their gazes locked. Her mouth went dry and she walked on. “I-I’ve found Frances to be formidable on the outside, but inside she is the same as any other woman and needs-”
“You think I don’t know my own sister?” He stopped walking and turned to her. “I assure you, Miss Douglas, my sister’s needs will always come first with me. She is all I have.”
“Then I hope when you marry, your future wife will also be Frances’s champion.” Heavens what possessed her to say that? Had one cup of cider addled her brains?
He raised one eyebrow, his expression sardonic. “My wife, should I ever consider marriage,” he whispered, “will be a woman of compassion, Miss Douglas. No other will tempt me.”
She stepped back, swallowi
ng hastily. “I’m pleased to hear it.” She cleared her throat and continued walking, feeling flushed and unsettled.
“See this yellow flowering bush, Miss Douglas?” He paused to snap off a small branch festooned with yellow blossoms in the shape of furry balls. “This is what they call a wattle. Beautiful, yes?” He handed it to her and their fingers briefly touched.
Nicola focused on the flowers, doing her best to ignore his closeness and the way it robbed her of breath. “I wish I had brought my sketch book.”
“You draw?” He looked surprised.
“Indeed, Mr West.” She raised her chin in defiance to her pounding pulse. “There is much you do not know about me.”
“Then perhaps I should remedy that?” He spoke softly, his words like a caress.
Flustered, she spun back the way they’d come. “I think we should return to Frances before we lose our way.” She stalked off and only just heard his mumbled words that he wouldn’t mind becoming lost with her.
Chapter Eight
Nicola walked into the study, a small room tucked behind the dining room, and closed the door on the women’s voices. They’d just returned from seeing Mrs Eldersley onto her England bound ship. Now, back home again, Nicola was truly faced with the knowledge that the whole house depended solely on her.
She trailed her fingers across the accounts books piled on the corner of the desk. Could she manage the responsibility of caring for these women, of spending Mr Belfroy’s money wisely?
Pulling out the top drawer, she took out her sketchbook and opened it to where the yellow wattle blossom lay pressed between the pages. She lightly touched the small delicate balls, remembering Nathaniel West and, as always, her chest constricted. In the three days since the picnic, she’d heard nothing from either him or Frances. Today she should have gone to the soup kitchen, but seeing Mrs Eldersley safely aboard took priority. Would he have been there at the warehouse?
A knock on the door had her snapping shut the sketchbook. She tucked it away and at the same time closed her mind on Nathaniel West. She had a job to do and that didn’t give her space to think of him. “Come in.”
Meg entered carrying a tea tray. “I need to speak to you about that girl you hired yesterday. What’s her name, Hannah?”
Nicola sighed and rubbed her forehead. “What has she done now?” She sat at the desk, intent on balancing the account books before showing them to Mr Belfroy.
“Arguing with the new cook and she has broken another plate.” Meg grumbled, pouring out the tea. “The way she’s going, we’ll all be eating straight out of the cooking pots, for we’ll not have a solid piece of porcelain left.”
“She’s new and Cook frightens her silly.”
“Cook frightens us all, but we don’t go around dropping plates all day.”
“I’ll talk to her.” She sipped her tea and sighed, it was refreshing and exactly what she needed.
Abruptly, a scream rent the air. Nicola stood, spilling her tea over her desk. “What was that?”
Meg placed her cup on the tray. “Likely Miss Golding has disturbed a mouse again. I’ll go and find out. She is a useless-”
The study door was flung open so violently it hit the wall and bounced back, nearly clouting Miss Nugent as she raced in, her eyes wide and her face a ghastly grey-white. “Miss Douglas!”
“Whatever is the matter?” A cold shiver ran down Nicola’s back.
“You must come quickly,” Miss Nugent gasped. “It’s Miss Downing.” She grabbed Nicola’s hand and pulled her from the room. Nicola lifted her skirts high and rushed after her.
On the stairs, Miss Burstall stood, her wide-eyed expression one of shock. “Justice is what I call it. She had no other choice.”
They ignored her and continued up and into Miss Downing’s room. There, Nicola skidded to a stop and Meg bumped into her. For a frozen second she simply stared at the sight greeting her. Emily Downing, still dressed in her outdoors clothes, hung from a rope tied to the roof beam, below her, a tipped over stool. Miss McIntyre was crying, heroically trying to support Emily’s weight away from the rope around her neck.
Nicola blinked and then the room erupted into chaos. She rushed forward to help Miss McIntyre lift Emily up and loosen the rope’s strangle hold. “Meg, get a knife quickly. Hurry!” Straining, she glanced at Miss Nugent. “Run for the doctor!”
“I canna hold her any longer, Miss Douglas,” Miss McIntyre sobbed, her accent thick in her distress.
“Wait.” Nicola yanked up her skirts and climbed onto the bed. With strength she didn’t know she owned, she heaved Emily higher. “Don’t let go, Miss McIntyre, I beg you!”
Meg returned with two sharp knives. Behind her, came the cook and the new maid, who began screaming hysterically. Meg climbed up beside Nicola, as did the cook and together they frantically sawed at the rope until they cried out because their muscles burned in their arms.
Miss McIntyre’s sobbing became wails as her strength gave out. Finally, the remaining strands of thick hemp snapped and Nicola lost her grip. Emily and Miss McIntyre fell hard onto the floor.
Nicola scurried to Emily’s side, but moaned deep in her throat when she realised the unnatural position of Emily’s head. Her neck was clearly broken. Gently, hesitantly, she lifted Emily’s head and straightened her neck. She looked down at the parted coat and carefully placed her shaking hand over the swollen stomach. Grief welled at the tragic loss.
“Nicola.” Meg touched her arm. “The police are here.”
Frowning, she rose to her feet. “The police?”
“Yes, two constables. Miss Burstall went for them.” Meg’s tone matched the anger on her face. “She was lucky enough to find two of them walking in the next street.”
Nicola turned to the door only to find Miss Burstall leading in the two constables. Revulsion at the triumph on the other woman’s face turned Nicola’s stomach. She greeted the men and then asked for everyone to leave, except Meg. With Meg’s support she managed to answer the constable’s questions and give a dignified account of Emily’s life. However, when Doctor Armitage arrived, she gladly left the men to their work and headed downstairs to wait in the sitting room.
“Where’s that cold-hearted witch, Burstall?” Meg demanded of the others the minute she entered the room.
“Don’t, Meg. Not now.” Nicola took Meg’s hand to calm her. “I’ll speak with Miss Burstall later.”
“She has to go, Nicola.”
“She will, believe me. That woman will be gone from this house before nightfall.” On shaky legs, Nicola crossed the room and sat by the unlit fireplace. Miss McIntyre reclined opposite on the sofa, looking exhausted her red freckles standing out on her pale face, while Miss Nugent passed around cups of tea with hands that shook so badly each cup was only half full. Of Miss Golding there was no sign and Nicola hoped she’d gone to bed. Her shattered nervous disposition would be too much for Nicola to bear at that moment.
The next few hours brought utter sadness to the house as the undertaker came and took Emily’s body away. The constables left, as did Doctor Armitage while Nicola made the funeral arrangements. Mr Belfroy arrived, his face shadowed with haunting memories of his own recent loss. He sat silently near Nicola, content to let her and Meg deal with the unfortunate business.
When the uneaten evening meal had been cleared away, Nicola left the dining room, talking to Meg. The front door opened and Miss Burstall entered the house. She hesitated on seeing Nicola and Meg.
“Miss Burstall.” Nicola raised her eyebrows, giving the other woman one of her most superior glares. “You will pack your belongings and leave this house within the hour.”
Miss Burstall’s top lip curled with contempt. “Gladly, Miss Douglas. The idea of staying another moment within these walls upsets me greatly.” She brushed passed them and had taken three stairs when Meg stepped forward.
“May your conscience trouble you for the rest of your life, Burstall.”
Faltering ever s
o slightly, Miss Burstall’s hand tightened on the banister and she looked down at them with a small smile. “My conscience is quite clear, Meg Robinson. Is yours? You may have delighted in sharing a house with the likes of Emily Downing, but myself, I have higher standards that you can never hope to achieve.”
“I’d rather be dead than like you, you dried up old prune. You wouldn’t know compassion and sympathy if you tried. I dread to think what kind of children you produce in your role as a governess. Their poor parents have no notion of whom they are hiring.”
Burstall took another step. “I can say the same for you, too, Miss Robinson.”
Nicola stepped forward, hoping that what they all thought wasn’t true. “Did you have anything to do with Emily’s decision to take her own life?”
“She made the choice, I didn’t force her.”
Frustration flared in Nicola’s chest. “Explain yourself.”
“Let me just say that if Emily Downing found the need to end her life I did nothing to prevent her. After all, what kind of future would she and her bastard have had?” Straight backed, she continued on to her room.
“Why you hateful, mean-faced witch!” Meg yelled and rushed forward.
“No, Meg.” Nicola barely managed to hold Meg still, for her spit-fire friend was intent on scratching Miss Burstall’s eyes out and she was half tempted to let her.
Later, with the sun descending behind distant ranges, Nicola lit the lamps and drew the curtains, shutting the world out. The women had eaten a light supper and then retired to their rooms, leaving her and Mr Belfroy alone. She had ordered the fire to be lit, its cheery blaze comforting.
“No matter how hard I try, it still happens…” Mr Belfroy murmured, staring into the golden flames.
“What happens?” Nicola sighed, flexing her aching shoulders.
“They still die. Good young women still fill the churchyard no matter what I do.”
“Oh, Mr Belfroy, you mustn’t blame yourself. You cannot save them all. You do so much as it is.”
“Not enough, Miss Douglas. Not enough.”
Anne Brear Page 8
