Mrs Stevens cooed over the wee creature. ‘Oh, what a beauty! Captain Hayes will be won over, mark my words.’ Everyone in Riverton knew about his desire for a son, it seemed.
To my amazement, Mrs Stevens was right. Bully came into my sunny little room, frowning and restless. ‘So it is a girl after all,’ he said, and then laid a hand on my hair where it tumbled on the pillow. ‘You look so tired. Was it very hard?’ And kissed me.
I was so astonished I could not speak. After weeks, months of his surly behaviour here he was, kind and gentle, even though I had not produced the son he so desired. Weak and full of emotion after the birth, I felt only grateful for his soft words. God knows I should have been suspicious. But then Bully could be so charming; sometimes he meant it, I suppose, and perhaps he did that day. Most often there was an ulterior, more sinister purpose behind his smiles and flatteries.
Certainly, when Mrs Stevens brought in the little baby, Bully seemed as entranced as I. He held her as gently as any woman would and searched her little face.
‘She is perfect,’ he said, smiling. ‘Just like her mother. She will be a pretty little performer, no doubt of it.’
I believed his kind words. Perhaps, that sunny hopeful day, in pretty peaceful Riverton, Bully believed them himself. He kissed me tenderly, rocked his little daughter and sang her a little tune.
I admit I cried exhausted tears to see him so loving. It is hard to believe, with Jack waiting in the wings, that I would be so weak. But how quickly we persuade ourselves that things will improve, if that is the easiest pathway.
For a fatal week or two I embraced Bully’s plans to go to Australia, seduced by the idea of a fresh performing career in Australia and a new company. And entranced by our new little daughter.
‘We will pick up my ship in Adelaide,’ said Bully, all boyish charm and enthusiasm. (I suppose his lady-friend down in the town had gone sour on him.) ‘Then we’ll head for Sydney. You will be top of the bill. And in a year or two, little Adelaida will perform with you.’
That was the first I knew of my daughter’s name. Bully had registered her that day without even consulting me.
How may I explain my foolish actions — even to myself? It would have been possible, I imagine, to bundle up little Adelaida, use one of my precious gold nuggets for a passage to the North Island, and leave Bully Hayes forever. He knew me only as Rosa Buckingham. But even if I changed my name, would he not search me out? Fear of that man was part of the reason that I stayed. I suppose I must admit, to my shame, that my love for dear Jack Lacey was not strong enough to overcome the powerful combination of fear and the ever present desire to be on stage. The true artiste is never without that drive — that need to be in front of an audience. It is like a powerful drug: both enchanting and, at times, deadly. For me, that need to perform has more than once overcome my natural good sense. This was one of those times.
Also, I remembered that Jack had changed his mind and married Rosetta, despite the protestations of love in my letters. Would he be ready and willing to adopt a baby born out of wedlock to a villain like Bully? I feared, too, that if Bully sought me out, Jack would be no match for his murderous rage.
And so we headed for Australia, boarding a schooner and leaving, as I discovered later from Mrs Stevens’s wounded letter, a mountain of unpaid debts behind us.
[Archivist’s Note: Lily’s journal skips a year at this point. We know from other sketchy accounts that she and Bully Hayes travelled around Australia, performing with George Buckingham, who had — surprisingly, given the incident of the ear — joined Hayes again. Was George attracted to Lily, the impersonator of his sister? Or drawn to Bully Hayes himself? Had Bully Hayes sought him out with revenge in mind? We cannot know. Lily’s journal sheds no light upon this mystery. E. de M.]
A FURTHER EXCERPT FROM THE JOURNAL OF SAMUEL LACEY
Recollections of Jack Lacey (4)
In search of Lily
Jack stands on the veranda of his pretty new house, looking out with pleasure at the clean fields and neat fences. The property has been well broken in and he has paid a top price for the labour. For a while he had thought of joining the volunteer soldiers recruited to fight against the native uprisings. Those soldiers have been promised land in return for their services. But Jack doesn’t fancy fighting. He will supply horses to the army, but not take sides in the upheaval.
Mind you, he thinks, I will happily fight for this little piece of heaven, if need be. I have paid good sovereigns for it.
His breeding horses graze the river flats in front of the cottage. Beyond the river, hills rise sharply: Jack’s land, but bush-clad still. A fat pigeon flies out of those distant trees, beats its way across the valley and up to the tall totara behind the house, landing heavily on a branch which bends and sways with its weight. Another day Jack would step quietly inside for his gun and bring the bird down: he is fond of a roast pigeon — kereru, his stable-boy calls them. But today Jack’s mind is on other things.
He’s concerned about Lily. Her note, hastily scribbled by the look of it, said that she would come to join him shortly; that she had enough money put away to make the trip to Whanganui; that she would go to Doctor Ingram’s house and wait for him there. But that was months ago. Ten months and five days to be precise. Not a word since that single short note. Jack fears that the blackguard Bully Hayes has held her against her will; that she is being forced to perform unsuitable songs to rough mechanicals in unladylike public houses or theatres. He can imagine her standing on stage before rude audiences, hungry and cold, charming them with her sweet voice, while her despicable ‘husband’ rakes in the profits. The goldfields, he hears, are home to the most godless specimens of humanity, living in the roughest of circumstances. His Lily must be held as slave to master, or she would surely have managed to break free by now.
Jack takes a deep breath. Waiting here in safety is a coward’s choice. Rescue is called for and he is the only person in this wide world who can save her. Poor orphaned Lily must surely be waiting — praying — for his intervention.
He walks back inside. ‘Mattie! Mattie!’
His maid-of-all-work appears from the kitchen, wiping her floury hands on her apron. She’s a good, willing girl, who has been in his employ since he arrived on the farm.
‘Please prepare my travelling case, and lay out my good travelling suit.’
Mattie’s face falls. ‘You’re going away again, Sir? You were just down to Whanganui last week.’
Mattie has not learned to keep her opinions to herself as any good maid should, but servants are not easy to find, and Jack enjoys her company and her capable country ways, so suffers the lapses in good manners.
‘Mattie, I may be away a little longer this time. I will arrange for feed for the horses to be delivered, and will see that Matiu and Fred have their orders. Can you manage on your own?’
Mattie sighs. ‘Well, I can manage, Sir, Mr Lacey, but it won’t be fun here in this lonely place.’
‘You’ll have the stable-boy and stockman for company.’
‘Oh well, yes, Sir, if you say so.’ Mattie looks less than enthusiastic.
‘And you can ride Jess or use the dog-cart if you need to go into town.’
The maid smiles at this. She loves to ride.
‘Well then, Mr Lacey, I’ll pack your case. Will you wear the brown suit?’
‘I will, and please pack my Sunday shirt and tie and the gold cufflinks.’
Mattie gives him a sharp look at that. ‘May I ask what the purpose of this trip is, Sir?’
‘No you may not, Mattie,’ says Jack, but he says it with good humour and a wink. He watches her neat hurrying footsteps as she leaves him, then goes back outside again to talk to the men.
At Whanganui, Jack seeks out Bill Foley. The circus has been playing at Castlecliff for the last two weeks, with new acts and a much admired animal — an orang-u-tang [sic] from Borneo — which is amazingly human in its behaviour and appearance.
&n
bsp; The circus master is in the hippodrome rehearsing a new triple horse act. Jack leans on the rail in the shade of the canvas roof, watching as Mr Foley takes the horses patiently through the intricate steps, turning and wheeling them with a light flick of his whip. To one side a couple of lads jump around, clapping and shouting. Jack is surprised that Bill Foley allows it. On a practice slack wire, erected in a space among the seats, Tommy Bird leaps from feet to crotch to feet, to hands and back to crotch. Jack winces to see him hit the wire on such a sensitive part, but Master Bird seems impervious. Surely he is padded? He waves cheerily to Jack without breaking his rhythm.
At last Mr Foley brings the horses to a halt. He rewards each with a pat and a lump of something from his pocket, then motions to the lads to take them away. He’s been aware of Jack watching and now strolls across for a chat.
‘That one in the middle, the one with the dark flash, she’s one of yours, Jack. Fine intelligent filly.’
Jack smiles. ‘Yes, I recognise her. You’ve done wonders. Is she performing already?’
‘Another week or two and she will. She’s steady in rehearsal but shies when the audience cheers or claps. I should have had you making a noise along with the lads.’
Jack laughs. ‘So that was intentional!’
‘Oh yes. Like getting the soldiers’ mounts accustomed to gunfire. It’s all in the training. All in the patience.’
Jack likes this flamboyant, lively man: would be ready to settle down for a good discussion of horseflesh and training methods, but he is on fire now to get going.
‘Bill,’ he says, ‘I want to get down to Dunedin quickly. You know the coastal ships. Which do you recommend?’
The circus master slaps his whip against his boot with a crack. ‘Jack Lacey, you are not off to the gold diggings, are you? I thought you had more sense.’
Jack feels a flush rise. ‘No, no, no. Horse-breeding’s my livelihood. But I’m after Lily. I think she’s in trouble.’
Bill Foley frowns. ‘Well, that is only more sensible by a slight margin. Our Miss Tournear ran off with that Captain Hayes, I hear. He’s a cheat and a swindler. Leaves a line of unpaid debts behind him in the wake of his unseaworthy boats.’ He twirls the tips of his moustache. ‘She has ruined her reputation in my book, Jack. I’d advise to give damaged goods like her a wide berth.’
Jack coughs to hide his dismay. ‘Now, now, Sir. She’s young. She’s vulnerable. That wretched man can be charming, and she fell.’
Bill Foley laughs out loud. ‘That woman may be young, yes, but she’s as tough as a boot, and resourceful. And talented. She can look after herself. She will have gone to Hayes willingly and with her eyes open, more fool her.’
‘No, Bill.’ Jack’s earnest eyes plead for understanding. ‘She sees the error of her ways and wants to come to me. To settle down. You know what a wonderful person she is. She’ll make a lovely wife.’
Bill Foley shrugs, puts his hands in his pockets and does a funny little clown’s jig around Jack. ‘To market to market to buy a nice wife; home again home again, run for your life!’ He laughs at his own joke and Jack’s embarrassment. ‘Well lad, good luck to you. Take the Waimarina down to Wellington, she’s leaving today. Native owned, but a good clean ship, well run, cheap fare. Then take your pick from Wellington. The fools with gold in their eyes are still heading south in droves. Is she in Dunedin, then? Maria heard the Arrow.’
Jack admits that he doesn’t know. Her only letter suggested she had left the gold diggings for a place called Riverton. Bill Foley knows the town — he’s played the whole country north and south. ‘Buy a good horse in Dunedin,’ he advises. ‘Doctor Shadrach Jones will see you right. His horse bazaar will interest you. You might even find your Lily there!’
Jack is intrigued, but the circus master is walking away. There is Maria, radiantly pregnant, calling him to his midday meal. It’s all very well, thinks Jack, calling Lily ‘damaged goods’. What about his Maria? Isn’t she just the same? Wasn’t Mr William Foley happy to call her wife and have children by her? Why should a circus master be free to take a fallen woman as wife, but he, Jack Lacey, horse-breeder, be frowned upon?
Jack sighs. He knows he must accept wider disapproval if Lily is to live with him. Decent society will frown upon them both if they know that Lily, a travelling singer and actress, has run away from a husband. No matter whether she was properly married or not. He’s hoping that Lily’s knack of changing her name and appearing on stage in the guise of other performers will muddy the trail, will allow her to appear among the farming community as a dignified married woman. Mrs Jack Lacey.
Wiremu Jenkins, master of the Waimarina, is a fountain of information on all matters trading and seafaring. He owns two ships, captains this one, and has his whanau run the other up the coast to New Plymouth. It’s a bright, windy day sailing down to Wellington and the brig travels at a good pace. They drop anchor upriver at Foxton to take aboard a load of flax and wool and then weave their way out among trading vessels of all shapes and sizes to run straight run down to Wellington. Captain Jenkins suggests Jack buy a stock of anything going cheap in Wellington to take and sell at a profit down in Dunedin.
‘If you have a bit of ready money about you, you’ll do well,’ he says, his dark eyes crinkling in his leathery old face as he and Jack lean over the rail, the wind raking their hair and clothes. The Waimarina heels steeply as she cuts through the swell. ‘You say you’re a horseman. Buy up some cheap pack saddles and bridles. Take ’em with you as deck cargo.’ He glances up at the foresails and shouts an order back to his crew. ‘Tell you what,’ he continues thoughtfully, ‘we could go partners. I’ll put in the same money as you; you do the buying and selling, and I’ll settle for forty per cent of the profit. You reckon?’
Jack laughs. ‘You drive a hard bargain, Captain.’
Wiremu nods. ‘Ae, all our whanau does good business. The gold rush is the best business, but it won’t last. Make hay, is the saying.’
‘Thirty-five per cent,’ says Jack.
The old Maori offers his hand. ‘We’ll both do well on that. A word of advice, friend. There’s a smart feller down in Dunedin. Sells horses to diggers. Go to him. Name of Jones.’
‘Shadrach Jones?’
‘Ae, that’s the one. Finger in every pie. Medical doctor too, I hear. Entertainment business, horses, hotels. Very smart man.’
Entertainment: Jack takes note. Shadrach Jones will be the man to tell him where Lily is.
SCENE: Dunedin
Doctor Shadrach Jones
Jack has paid a carter to bring his stock of saddlery up through the town of Dunedin to the Provincial Hotel. Wind-blown rain soaks his good coat and runs down into his boots. The carter hunched on the seat next to him offers Jack an old sack, which Jack receives gratefully, slinging it over his shoulders and head. He wishes he’d brought his working clothes: the road is muddy, dirt lies heaped on street corners, and people run here and there while the rain makes a misery of everything. Dunedin may be a wealthy, booming town but Jack sees little sign of prosperity. Surely Lily is not here.
Princes Street, up which the carter is attempting to make his way, is crowded with a group of rowdy men, shouting and shoving to get close to a man standing on a barrel who seems to be organising them. Some of the men lead pack-horses, some push hand-carts; all are laden with shovels, pick-axes, sacks of provisions. Many of them seem to be Chinese, a sight which intrigues Jack, who has not come across Orientals before. All are drenched, but nevertheless seem in high spirits. The man on the barrel shouts again and the cavalcade begins, haphazardly, to move, amid much cheering, kissing of sweethearts and whipping of horses.
‘The next overland trek to the diggings,’ explains the carter. ‘Fools, I say. The best is past for Gabriels and the Arrow. Hokitika’s where they should be aiming. Hup! Hup!’ He urges his plodding horse through the mêlée and on into Stafford Street, which is calmer but equally muddy, equally littered. There is the Provincial Hotel, s
tanding like a prince in a pigsty among the hovels, shacks and grubby general stores. The Provincial — prop. S. Jones — is three storeyed; its windows are generous, a neat row of dormers protruding from the roof. Above the front porch stands an enormous lamp and to one side of the entrance a notice in a window announces the offices of Cobb and Co. In fact, a Cobb and Co. coach stands outside, and four fresh horses are being hitched into their traces. Fine strong horses, Jack notices with approval. This S. Jones clearly does good business.
The carter leads his horse to the rear of the establishment where Jack has asked him to unload, hoping the wares will suit Mr Jones. Jack himself goes firmly up the front steps into the warmth and order of the hotel. No one is at the desk, but he follows the sounds of hammering and sawing. Here, in a large side room — obviously a theatre of some sort — he finds two workmen and a short, plump fellow overseeing them.
‘I’m looking for a Doctor Jones,’ says Jack, trying to look his best but fearing the wet and muddy trip up from the wharf has spoiled his appearance.
‘Well, that’s me, indeed, and at your service,’ says Shadrach Jones. He scarcely comes up to Jack’s shoulder, but exudes such energy and goodwill that his presence fills the room. ‘Is it an ailment brings you, or are you after accommodation?’ Jones smooths his brightly checked waistcoat, rolls his sleeves back down, rubs a hand through his wildly curling brown hair. ‘You have caught me at my renovations, but come in, good man, and let’s get you dry.’
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