by Darry Fraser
Mrs Amberton’s gaze flickered. ‘You have been a gentleman to me today.’
Finn snorted. ‘I have not provided you your solution, but I would be damned either way, madam.’ He scuffed the dirt at his feet, aware of his profanity.
‘Please, no apology. That would indeed be ungentlemanly.’ Her smile was wan. ‘And as for him—’ She nodded towards the inert body on the far side of the coach. ‘I only wish it had happened earlier.’ She looked at Finn. ‘I would gladly have done it, had I the capability.’ She lifted her face towards him, her mouth set, her eyes darkened by the frown that twisted her brows. ‘He was a monster. I should thank you.’
‘But I did not do the deed. Both you and I should be thanking another.’ He put a hand to his hat and tugged it more firmly on his head.
She started, worry creasing her features. ‘Do you have to go?’
He barked a laugh. ‘I am a bushranger, Mrs Amberton. You might not be safe from me. And I would hang for this if the troopers arrive and find me still here.’
A beat later she asked, ‘Why did you want to kill him?’
Finn thought about his answer, thought about not answering her, aware that time was speeding along. This was not an afternoon tea party, even though his guest was becoming more intriguing with every minute. He said, ‘He murdered someone close to me. If not by one blow after another, then it was by degrees. I was away.’
Mrs Amberton seemed to sag. ‘He was a monster,’ she repeated, her voice a hoarse cry. ‘I hope you and yours are now safe.’
Her colour was fading, perhaps the shock of all this was taking over. Finn’s gaze roved over her. ‘And you? Will you be safe?’
A short breath, a quick shake of her head. ‘I will survive whatever comes next. I have up till now. Everything will be easy after life with him.’ She waved in the direction of the body then clasped her hands. ‘It must be. No matter what my situation is now.’
Before he could stop himself, he said, ‘I will see to it that you are safe when you are returned to your home. Sit in the coach and wait. The driver will be back soon.’ He indicated he would help her inside and took her proffered hand. It fit snugly in his, her clasp confident, like it belonged. Confounded by that, and everything about this encounter, he stepped back.
Steadying, she climbed into the carriage and turned to sit. ‘It is strange to thank a bushranger, but I do. For all.’ As she withdrew into the shadows, he heard her goodbye, a breath over a resolute voice.
As he turned from the coach, horses’ hooves beat in the distance, fading away. A rider, leaving from somewhere close.
Jesus Christ … had whoever killed Amberton remained, watching? The shock of it hit Finn in the guts. He backed up against his horse in a sudden confusion, a thick fog at the edge of his mind. His legs were unsteady. He reached around to grip the saddle, stepped a foot into the stirrup and swung up.
No tremors, no shakes. Not yet. Without a backwards glance, he urged the horse into a gallop, and tore north across the rough country into the harsh summer wind. The more distance he put between the coach, the woman, and possibly, the other rider, the better. His face burned behind the kerchief.
All he saw was her proud stare. Her alabaster skin, dotted with the smallest dusting of freckles, pale against dark blonde, furrowed eyebrows. Her wide generous mouth. She was beautiful to him, not just fair as he’d first thought.
Amberton’s widow. Beaten, but not broken by him. A strong woman who would now find herself, indeed, in dire circumstances. A strong, beautiful woman. Someone ready to do whatever it took to ensure her survival. Perhaps he should have, after all—
Take your mind out of your trousers, Seymour. And what the hell just happened?
Not just that the woman had nearly seduced him—he snorted at himself—but because he hadn’t murdered anyone. Someone else, with one crack shot, had killed Andrew Amberton stone dead.
Three
Finn woke slumped against a tree trunk. Horses’ hooves had snapped him out of sleep, and he palmed his eyes against the glaring midafternoon sunshine. He blinked up at Ben, who cantered into the clearing, reining in his mount. Neither rider nor horse looked like they’d been riding too hard.
‘I know from takin’ Mrs Amberton into town that you didn’t get yourself killed,’ Ben said and slid to the ground. He threw the reins over the tangled shrub where Finn’s horse was tied. He still wore his driver’s shirt of heavy cotton, sweat-stained at the armpits, sleeves rolled revealing tanned and wiry forearms. His trousers fit snug on his youthful frame. ‘And I can see the billy’s on.’
Stabbing a thumb at the small campfire, Finn said, ‘Help yourself.’
Large flies came from nowhere in the still air and buzzed a lazy hum. Ben squatted at the fire, and dipped a tin pannikin into the billy suspended over low flames and glowing coals.
He sat his backside in the dirt, landed the cup by his side and flicked off his hat. ‘That was certainly some morning’s work.’ A quick scrub of his head relieved the itch of sweat in his coal black hair. He returned the hat to its place shading him from the searing sun. Blowing into the cup before slurping a mouthful, his eyes downcast, he said, ‘I counted five shots before I took off proper for town.’
Finn, his back against the log he’d slept by, spread his hands over bent knees. ‘I wasn’t expecting the woman.’
Ben threw down another mouthful. ‘But you didn’t shoot her.’
Finn rubbed his nose. ‘I took two shots. And warning shots at that. I didn’t shoot anyone as it turned out.’ He checked his memory again. ‘And Amberton only took two.’
‘Eh?’
‘Did you see anyone else?’ Finn asked.
Ben stared at him. ‘Not a bloody soul.’ He shook his head. ‘Not till I got back closer to town and got to the troopers.’ He cupped the hot pannikin and tapped his fingers against its heat.
‘Amberton, dead, by the other shot. Not mine. I know not mine. I nearly got myself killed because of these damned shakes.’ Finn held his hand up in front of his face. Steady. The surge of excitement, of danger, or whatever-the-hell else afflicted him, was gone.
Ben’s eyes widened. ‘Did his wife shoot him then? She told the troopers that some bushranger killed her husband. I reckoned that was you. Other than that, she hardly said a word.’
Finn shook his head. ‘Someone behind me shot him.’
‘Revolver?’
Getting to his haunches, Finn reached across to snatch his pannikin from the dirt. He dusted it off on his shirt and dipped it into the dark billy tea. ‘I would’ve heard if someone was close behind me. And Amberton, or the woman, would have seen someone.’ He shook his head. ‘Rifle, I reckon. Crack shot to the heart. And over my bloody shoulder.’ He checked his free hand for the shakes again. Nothing.
Ben whistled low, between his teeth. ‘Shite, mate.’ He scratched an ear, a frown creasing between his brows. ‘Would have to be a good shot.’
Silent, Finn nodded. Thoughts stampeded through his head again, none of which slowed enough for him to catch them. A shot over his shoulder …
As Ben slurped his hot tea, his frown deepened. ‘And no one else knew we’d be there?’
Corralling his thoughts, Finn tried to piece together the hours prior to their ambush of Andrew Amberton. He swiped at a low, insistent blowfly. ‘Not from me.’
‘Me neither.’ Ben loaded up his pannikin again, his fingers tapping once more at the heat from the cup. ‘Amberton must have told someone. He’d already booked me to drive the coach out and then, bugger me, the diggers decide to have a riot. Nearly bollocked up the whole thing.’ He looked up. ‘He had gold on board too, and he sure had a big mouth. Someone else must have known. Did you get any of it?’
Finn shook his head again. ‘Not the purpose of the exercise. How much was there?’
‘Don’t know. Amberton stowed it in the coach before we started out. When I got back there with the troopers, his missus was shaking my gun at everybody, real nervo
us. Troopers got a bit twitchy then. The horses played up. There was a few mad yells, all that nonsense, and then we all calmed down when she recognised me and she let go of the gun. She had me move the bags when we loaded the body—might have been a fortune in there, the bags were heavy enough. And the troopers didn’t have a clue. Too busy bein’ scared of bein’ shot by some bushranger.’
Finn rubbed his mouth, mulled it over. ‘Where was Amberton going and what was he doing with all that gold? Did you hear anything about it—where it came from?’
‘Out of his mines, maybe. All he said when he paid me was that he wanted to go to Bendigo.’ Ben shrugged. ‘Amberton was lucky getting the gold that far. The troopers are crawling all over the place, locking it down. Maybe whoever shot Amberton wanted the gold.’
Finn tasted the bile in his mouth. ‘Then they’d have had to kill me to get it. And kill his wife.’ Sweet Christ, had he left the woman there at the mercy of another? Surely not. No, no. He’d heard someone ride away. ‘So, the troopers cooperated when you got back to town?’
Ben scoffed. ‘Scared of their own shadows, but a bit of convincin’ with a couple of small nuggets and two of ’em finally came back with me.’
Finn waited. ‘And?’
‘And the coach was right where we left it, with my gun in Mrs Amberton’s hands, aimed out the window. She prob’ly wouldn’a hit anything two foot in front of her.’
‘Wouldn’t be so sure of that,’ Finn said. ‘She saw no one else?’
‘I expect she would’a said so if she had.’ Ben frowned, recalling. ‘She was shaken up a bit, is all, she reckoned. She had to sit up in the driver’s seat with me when we needed to put the body in the back. And then we came back to town. Took the body to the camp hospital, and after, troopers said I could go home.’ Ben looked over and Finn met his gaze. ‘Wouldn’t worry. He’s one of fifty or more, they reckon, dead or dying.’ He kicked the dirt at his feet, his mouth a grim line. ‘No official count yet, but they’re sayin’ about thirty diggers dead, five troopers, so far. And there’s at least one woman dead, and other women and kids shot at and stabbed too. There’s plenty of men been shot bad still in hiding. Some trampled. Dead bodies have been hacked by troopers, the bastards.’ Scuffing a boot heel back and forth, he flicked a glance at Finn. ‘Amberton will be forgotten soon enough, his killer not even looked for. They’ve more important people to look for. Lalor’s still not found. Heard someone say the Catholic priest hid him till they whisked him away someplace.’
Finn grunted at that. He commiserated with the diggers, and their spokesman Peter Lalor, in their fight for better rights, for freedom from oppression and freedom from the crippling gold-mining fee. It was a poll tax, raising money only for the government coffers—if it got to the coffers. Corruption was rife, and the miners had had enough. But Finn’s fight was elsewhere. ‘You know what happened to Amberton’s wife?’
‘Troopers said I could take her to her house in Ballarat town. Off-loaded the bags, carried ’em inside for her.’ Ben aimed the dregs of his tea into the dirt. ‘Don’t worry about his wife, mate,’ he continued. ‘If anything, she looked calmer than the rest of us. Didn’t even want me to go get family. I thought she’d be screaming her head off. After all, some dashed bushranger chappie had just murdered her old man.’ He laughed a little at his feigned accent, his grin wide. ‘Just wasn’t you or me.’
Finn’s gut settled. He wiped a hand over his mouth again, thought of those calculating eyes. Those bleak eyes. Proud, blue eyes. You have been a gentleman to me.
‘You’re sounding different.’ Ben saluted him with his cup. ‘Somethin’ else happen at the coach?’
‘Aye. But don’t know what.’ Finn thought of that moment of clarity, that point at which he no longer wanted to be a dead man.
He exhaled. Don’t even think about her, Seymour. But he did think about her. The town would be in lockdown, its occupants fearful of the troopers, or of more uprisings. It would be a dangerous place for a woman on her own.
Forget about it. Forget about her.
But his mouth was away with him. ‘So, Ben,’ he said. ‘Just for my information, for tying up loose ends …’ A finger rubbed a sweaty brow. ‘Which house in Ballarat did you take her to?’
Four
Nell sat rigid in the kitchen room of Amberton House. The late-afternoon sunshine poured in the open back door, casting a long illuminating glow over her hands as they rested on the small table. She flexed her fingers, testing them, noting they’d finally stopped shaking. Earlier, her heart had been racing, as if expecting an attack … someone jumping out at her, or Andrew waking from the dead. But the feeling of impending doom had receded, and her pulse had returned to normal.
She closed her eyes and thought back to being alongside Mr Steele on the coach-driver’s hard bench. She’d gripped the rail alongside, holding on grimly as the vehicle pitched and swayed its way back into Ballarat at less frantic a pace than earlier in the day. It had meant she could hear her dead husband’s bulk as it rolled on the floor inside the coach.
Was it only this morning she’d been on a wild ride out of this town with a madman for a husband? Her hands shook again. She clasped them, squeezed tight. Her neck hurt, her shoulders were tight, and pain tore up the back of her head. Breathing deeply, she tried dropping her shoulders, sitting straighter. Her heartbeat thudded in her ears.
You are safe. Order your thoughts. Calm yourself.
She couldn’t. Looking for distraction, she gazed around the bleak interior of the room. She’d never thought of the house as hers, though now for all intents and purposes, it was. Andrew was dead. Dead, dead, dead. So, until a court took the house away from her, it was hers. For all its fine-sounding name—Amberton House—it was just a normal-sized cottage built of timber. And it held no happy memories.
Leaning forward, her elbows on the table, trembling fingers steepled and tapping on her mouth, she eyed her crumpled and torn clothes in a pile by the stove. On her return, the moment she’d found herself alone, she’d hurried to the bedroom, tossed the dusty bonnet to one side, peeled everything else off in a fumbling, tearing hurry—filthy dress, blood-stained at the hem, torn chemise, underwear. She’d stepped into clean underclothes, grabbed a faded housedress and had shrugged it over the top. She’d slipped her feet back into her laced boots, the only things kept of this morning’s foray.
What would her hair look like? Fingers flew to her head and she twisted loose strands back from her face. Hard to manage with skill when her hands quivered so much.
And now—what was it, six o’clock perhaps? She was back here, a widow, and in another precarious position. Still, nobody but the coach driver and those two stupid drunks who passed as troopers knew she was back. She had time to think, to chart a way forward. Calmer now, her breathing was easier. Her head had stopped thumping once the tight band across her shoulders had loosened up.
No one would bother her today. The troopers were not interested in dealing with bereaved relatives, and the paperwork—if any—for another dead body. There’d been panic in their eyes at the camp hospital. The first stop had been to deliver the body, and, apprehensive of reprisals by surviving miners, the troopers had escorted the coach no further. They’d dragged her husband’s body out of the coach and dropped it to the ground. Then they’d ridden off leaving Ben to do the rest.
Nell had clambered down from the driver’s seat, unaided, forgotten, and climbed into the cabin of the coach. She’d torn off another part of her ragged chemise and dropped it over the dark pool of blood underfoot. Though much of it had seeped through the floor timbers, she was glad to cover it from sight. Then shaking incessantly, she’d kept herself well hidden from the pandemonium that was the hospital tent. The wounded had to be hauled from where they’d been found in the dirt to the relative safety under the medical canvas. There’d been pitiful calls for help on the bloodied stretchers of the injured, and the dying. There were many, many casualties.
Ben had co
me back, it seemed only moments later, with men to help him load Andrew’s body onto a stretcher. They’d been directed to bypass the medical tent and go directly to the morgue tent. When he returned to his coach, Ben had driven her back to Amberton House, deposited her and her possessions—the bags—and left.
That had been hours and hours ago. No visits from anyone, no other disturbances. At least her incessant shaking, which had been powerful at first but was now only intermittent, would not be witnessed by anyone else.
Calm, and with a steady heart rate, she studied her emotions. Did she feel anything but revulsion for Andrew? No. Did she feel anything for his death? Relief. His demise was nothing but a blessing and that was all encompassing. Heady, even.
He had no power, now. He was gone forever. Someone had shot him, and it wasn’t that bushranger. Someone else had hated him. And now she would waste no more time on Andrew. Not one moment more. Though she had been a wife for only three months, she’d administer her affairs until the law stopped her. And surely it would, because a married woman had no rights over her husband’s financial estate.
Her thoughts turned to her immediate future. Who else knew of the gold bars and nuggets now in her possession? Her gaze darted to the bulky canvas bags alongside her discarded clothes and bonnet. Someone from the Amberton family would claim it, she was sure, even though that amount of gold certainly wasn’t from Andrew’s hard labour—because there hadn’t been any. Andrew hadn’t laboured—he made others slave for the wealth he had enjoyed.
Still tapping her lips, she knew the gold was tainted simply by way of it having been in Andrew’s possession. She should hide it, use it to survive if she had to. She shifted uneasily. That wouldn’t be right. Even if she did feel right about it, she couldn’t spend it; trying to make any exchanges would arouse suspicion, especially from his family, and the law would soon find her. She would most likely go to jail for having it while not being able to prove it was hers, or even Andrew’s for that matter. And there was so much of it. Best to leave it hidden for a while, especially from Enid and Lewis, until she planned a way forward.
