by Darry Fraser
As you know, Mr Amberton died without a will and has many creditors. I cannot in all conscience, knowing of its provenance, claim this gold for his estate, nor surrender it to my husband’s many creditors when I am aware to whom the gold should rightfully be restored. Currently, the bags and contents are concealed, and safe.
I also beg your leave again to ask that this remain private between the writer and yourself as it is of a vexing and harrowing nature. I am not without opportunity to be gainfully employed, and therefore not unduly impoverished. Even if that were not so, I would gladly return this gold to its rightful owner, repaying the loan to that family, that being the family of Mrs Susan Amberton, neé Seymour.
Joseph dropped the letter in his lap and rubbed a hand over his mouth. Good Lord. Wonders would never cease. He continued reading.
My new place of residence is at Miss Flora Doyle’s Laundry on the digging fields at Ballarat. A letter will find me there, but I beg you maintain confidentiality and not trust this issue to the mail.
Yours faithfully, Nell Amberton (Mrs).
Joseph reread the letter. Could barely take in what he was reading. If it were true, and the woman’s sentiments genuine, he had scarce met someone of her ethics. He would be very interested in meeting this woman himself, to lay eyes on a truly honourable person.
How this would work according to the letter of the law, he had yet to learn. It might put him in a dubious situation. Perhaps he would need to consult a colleague for advice. Either way, if the woman was to be trusted, he believed Finn would recoup his father’s funds—or most of it.
He leaned back in his chair, stretched his legs under the table. Thought for some moments on the ramifications of the woman’s letter.
‘Joe, you’re deep in thought. Is it the Cooper problem?’ Matthew stood in the doorway, a pencil tucked behind his ear, his waistcoat open and his sleeves rolled up.
Joseph gave a short laugh. ‘No. I wish it were that problem. Here, read this. Tell me what you make of it.’ He pushed Mrs Amberton’s letter towards his cousin.
Matthew frowned as he sat opposite, reading. He whistled softly and kept reading. Glanced at Joseph and lifted his brows, only to return and read the letter again. ‘If I was a betting man,’ he said, eyes still on the single page, ‘I’d say Mr Seymour might see some of his inheritance, yet.’
‘My thoughts exactly. However, I now have a problem.’
‘Yes, I see that.’ Matthew took the pencil from behind his ear and tapped the letter with it. ‘Mr Seymour is your friend, and you are his solicitor. You are also the managing agent of the Amberton estate, such as it is.’
‘And now, thanks to Mrs Amberton’s letter, I am privy to a gold cache, the amount of which would surely come close to the loan amount owed by Amberton to the only survivor of the Seymour family, Finneas Seymour.’ Joseph pushed his chair away and stood. ‘I can’t un-see her letter.’ He faced the window, watched the carts and carriages on the street trail up and down the road.
‘But surely if Amberton made a forgery of the loan document, and it could be proven, the gold has effectively been stolen.’
Joseph turned around. The pencil was tucked back behind his cousin’s ear, and the dark brows rippled in a frown. ‘His is a very clever forgery, and hard to prove different now. His nephew’s real signature is as close to identical as you can get. Finn’s father’s dead, his sister is dead. And we know Amberton was handed the funds. Unless we find there’s a witness to coercion …’
‘An interesting situation,’ Matthew commented.
‘One we will think on,’ Joseph said.
‘You’re the legal mind, Joe, but it appears to me that Mrs Amberton would not be at odds with the law.’
‘We have to determine the rightful owner of that gold.’ Joseph mused for long moments while Matthew reread the letter. ‘Widow Amberton might well be left all the debts if it becomes known she is in possession of it. Her husband died intestate, so there are no papers of administration, or any papers at all that I’ve found. If anyone would have known about a will, aside from the widow, it would be the nephew, that what’s-his-name who came in last week.’
‘Lewis Wilshire,’ Matthew provided. ‘He’s an interesting character. He was odd as a younger person, but a reasonable man by all accounts these days.’
Joseph turned back to the window again. ‘Is he, now? He might not be if a bag of gold was found to be in his aunt’s possession, especially if it could ease his situation.’ He walked back to his desk and took a seat.
Matthew linked his hands behind his head. ‘I would say that if Mrs Amberton surrendered the gold to you here, then much of the problem would disappear. Not a learned deduction, mind you.’
Joseph nodded. ‘But I think you might be right. If I reason that the loan represents the greatest of the creditors, and Mr Wilshire is the suffering guarantor of that loan, I might be able to make a legal argument for returning it to the Seymour estate without it becoming part of the Amberton estate.’ He put a loose fist to his mouth. ‘But I am not a magistrate to make such a ruling.’
‘Would it need to go before a magistrate? Is it not a separate issue?’ Matthew held his right hand palm up. ‘On this hand, the loan to Amberton to be repaid to Seymour because the funds are in the widow’s hands and she has expressed a wish to return them.’ He opened his left hand palm up. ‘On this hand, Lewis repays the debts to the creditors of the estate by way of his mining license.’
Joseph tapped his mouth. ‘Perhaps. Justice might be at odds here.’
‘What is a logical solution?’ Matthew asked.
‘What is the legal solution?’ Joseph countered. ‘That is rhetorical for you, Matthew. I have to answer that one.’
Matthew sat up, his arms folded. ‘Lewis would not be in a position to repay the loan without the gold. His other creditors can all be paid off, most probably in the course of a few months to a year. At worst, two years after good finds on the fields. But not a five-thousand-pound loan. It’s a fortune. So I would say he’d be very happy to have that loan off his shoulders right now.’
‘We would have to have the gold assayed.’
‘We would. And by someone reputable. But how would we get it?’
Joseph pinched his nose, adjusted his spectacles over his ears. ‘There might be a way around this. After all, Mrs Amberton is the widow, and in possession of the gold. Nothing willed to her, or decreed in a dower situation, because there’s no real property—’
‘Dower? Do you mean dowry?’
‘Dower. An ancient law amended over centuries. After 1836, if my memory serves me correctly, a wife of a man who has property must have one third of real property awarded to her on his death, so she can continue to live in some small comfort. Often, it’s not enough. Anyway, it’s not the case here because we know there is no property,’ he mused. Joseph tapped the desk top, searching his memory. ‘I have a feeling Mrs Amberton should dispose of the gold as she wishes. Keep things separate, as you suggest.’ He stopped a moment and glanced at Matthew over his spectacles. ‘There might be a way around all of this, without need of the law, despite my seeing that letter. Are you willing to be a part of it?’
‘Of course. What is it? I’m up for adventure, danger.’ He rubbed his hands together.
‘Adventure, perhaps. And I’ve already inadvertently danced into danger, not noticing both Finn’s appointment and Lewis Wilshire’s appointment were back to back last week. I’m thankful neither one knew the other.’ Joseph Campbell looked at his cousin. ‘Just a little bending of the rules around the posts, so to speak. My plan is, that in the first instance, someone will have to go to see Mrs Amberton, care of …’ He looked at the letter under his hand on the desk. ‘Miss Flora Doyle’s Laundry, Ballarat.’
Twenty-Two
Ballarat
Nell had the distinct feeling she was being watched. A glance behind her as she hurried from Wilshire House to the diggings had caught a figure slipping back into the shadows
. It was behind the last timber house on the dusty track that led into the fields. The sun had only just begun to light the day, so it was hard to check for certain that someone was following her.
Picking up a little speed, feeling the sudden trickle of perspiration slide between her breasts, she prayed that the nuggets sewn into her skirt would not click-clack about, drawing attention. Thank heavens this was nearly the last delivery of the cache returning to the goldfields. The irony of it was not lost on her. Every day she’d brought back a few nuggets to the diggings camp to deposit into a tin in a hollow under her chamber pot. Exactly what she’d do with them from there was anyone’s guess. No word yet from Mr Campbell’s office. She could only hope that he hadn’t thought to put the troopers onto her and demand the gold for Andrew’s creditors. Surely he would see she was trying to do the right thing?
A shiver dashed through her, and the perspiration cooled. Despite all rationale, she knew she wasn’t safe from any quarter. To be caught with that amount of gold, and no way of proving it belonged to her, would be a hanging offense. At least she had been able to pay for a current license by using the button of gold. Only after a short argument with the merchant did she feel she got the correct exchange for it. But if anyone found that tin box …
One last glance over her shoulder. Nothing. In the fiery light of morning, she could see the last house now in the distance, and no man hovered nearby, nor hurried along behind her.
A swift walk took her past a row of tents from where men emerged, adjusting trousers, doffing caps and cuffing the ears of dogs and children, but she kept her eyes on Flora’s laundry ahead. Despite chafed hands, torn and ragged cuticles, reddened forearms and aching back, her heart lifted in relief when she saw Flora emerge with her mother, and head towards the latrine.
How strange to suddenly feel safe in the throng of so many men, most of them gold diggers, and snarly dogs and screaming, bratty children, sons and daughters of the last of the convicts transported. Some were children of free settlers, or of Aboriginal traders, or of the many Chinamen that came from afar, or of people belonging to that faith other than Christianity, who prayed towards the east. But not often did she ever feel so unsettled as she had just those few minutes prior. Not even when she knew Andrew was going to—
Stop those thoughts.
The moment she arrived at the laundry fire pits, she opened her tent and quickly divested her hem of the dull nuggets. She held them only for a moment, warm in her hand, close to her heart. Then she dug out the soft sand under her pot, pried open the lid of the tin, and placed them carefully inside.
Replacing the lid, she wondered how heavy the tin would have become. Not stopping to check it, she scooped sand into place, sat the chamber pot back in position, and dragged her chair over it. It looked as every other tent looked. Habitable for sleeping, waking and working.
Outside, she brushed the clinging dust from her hands and went straight to stoke the embers Flora had let smoulder overnight. She dragged dense logs over and tossed the ones she could lift into the pits. Flora would help her roll in the heavier ones.
She turned to eye the mountain of washing. As she threw off the old sailcloth tarp covering it, stale sweat, tobacco, wood smoke and grease rose around her. She set to, sorting through it, and by the time Flora had returned with Josie, there were three massive piles ready for the tubs.
‘Good morning, Mrs Doyle. Morning, Flora.’
‘Morning, dearie. Who is that again, Flo?’
‘Nell Thomas. Come along, Ma, you’ve got the lad’s shirt to do and I’m about to get you some tea.’ Flora tried herding her mother into the larger tent alongside Nell’s.
‘I’ve a mind to sit outside today, Flora. I can do the lad’s shirt out here. I’m watching out fer yer, there’s been some skulking around here of late.’
Nell’s blood cooled.
Flora didn’t seem worried. ‘You will need your bonnet.’
The older woman took up a seat on a log a little way from the fire. She sat patiently as Flora retrieved her hat, fitted it on her head and tied the string under her chin. The lad’s shirt, a new colourful rag, was draped over her lap.
‘I’ll bring you the sewing kit directly, Ma.’
‘And some extra pins,’ her mother said, squinting in Nell’s direction. ‘That girl’s bloomers have dropped the hem.’
Flora looked across at Nell, who looked down.
‘And sure enough, they have, Ma. You’ll need to fix that.’ Flora shrugged as Nell protested. ‘She won’t give up until it’s done. Best change out of them and into my other pair.’ Flora ducked into her tent ahead of Nell and grabbed her mother’s sewing box.
Shrugging out of her own bloomers and into an identical but older pair of Flora’s, Nell thought hard about how she’d transport the last of the nuggets. She wouldn’t be able to unpick Josie’s handiwork on her bloomers without being found out, and certainly wouldn’t be able to hide a fallen hem on Flora’s.
Quickly back outside, she handed her bloomers to Josie and began the laundry work, stuffing the lightly soiled garments into the tubs first, thinking hard. Mrs Doyle sat humming as she began on Nell’s hem. Flora tugged and kicked at the second pile of clothes and linens.
‘Saturday next is the ball, Nell,’ Flora called over the crackle and spit of the fire taking hold.
‘What? Oh yes, it is,’ Nell said, snapping out of her what-ifs. ‘And then the day after, I’m here to stay. I’ll bring the last of my belongings, such as they are. Lewis said he’d drive the cart, but I’ve no need of it.’ Or would she? There were still many bars to retrieve from Amberton House. She dunked the dolly rod, frowning, and stirred the clothes, the fetid steam wafting up and over her.
At the mention of Lewis’s name, Flora stopped her attack on the pile of dirty laundry. ‘He still wants me to go with him to the ball.’
‘Do you want to go, Flora?’
‘She doesn’t,’ said Mrs Doyle, her eyes on her flashing needle. ‘But I do. So the good boy is taking me instead.’
Flora flicked a glance at Nell, a short laugh escaping. ‘He’s not taking either of us, I told him. But I said that I’d be there, after all, taking Ma. She really wants to go. We can walk there.’
Josie nodded sagely, her needle and thread working fast over Nell’s hem. ‘That we can.’
Flora stood still, her hands on her hips. ‘I’d be very pleased of your company there, Nell. I don’t want it said that he and I are steppin’ out again together.’
‘I’ll be there. He’s told me I’m expected. And I don’t mind so much, as long as I’m not falling over my feet, or his mother. They’ve another tent set up for child-minding and I’ve a mind to hide in there. Me being in my black weeds, it will suit. I’ve no interest in drawing any more attention to myself by dancing and laughing and having fun at a ball. I might be useless to you.’
‘God forbid you have fun,’ Flora said. ‘You’re not letting Mrs Enid and the gossiping old biddies get to you now, are you?’
‘I don’t want them fawning all over me as a grieving widow, either.’ Nell cast a glance about their camp and across to others close by and lowered her voice. ‘I don’t regret Andrew’s passing. But I do miss smiling again and laughing and dancing.’
Flora got back to work, casting her rod into the tubs, dragging the clothes back and forth. ‘And what better place than a Subscription Ball to find some nice company to put that smile on your face?’
Nell gave a wistful smile, her thoughts on a pair of green eyes, and rusty coloured eyebrows. ‘Nice? On these fields? I don’t know.’
‘You’ll know,’ Flora said. ‘I might not have my sights set on anyone now, but I know they’re not all like Andrew Amberton.’
Josie cut in. ‘I’d have took that sort of company down the crick and drowned it afore it grew up.’
Flora barked a laugh. ‘Ma,’ she scolded. ‘Nell, there’s twenty thousand men here, they say. Bound to be someone.’
‘T
ruth be known,’ Josie commented again, eyes still on her needle. ‘In twenty thousand, nary a one, I’ll wager.’
Nell laughed at that. ‘I’ve got this job, now. I’ve got my own wage, Flora. Why would I give that up?’
Flora straightened, frowned and pointed a finger. ‘No one said you’d give anything up. But company might be nice.’ Then her face creased again in a broad smile and she continued with the washing.
Indeed, company would be nice, but it would always come at a price. Since the coach ride, Nell knew the hold-up had gone by and had been barely noticed as a crime. The fact that a bushranger had supposedly shot and killed her husband and was probably long gone, meant that the authorities could put it to one side. No matter that Nell had told the police that the bushranger hadn’t shot Andrew. Rather than investigate, it was too convenient to lay the murder at the feet of some mysterious ruffian who would never be found.
Lewis hadn’t made too much of it, either. Putting it down to his aversion for his uncle, she believed he was relieved to see him gone. The only one not happy about Andrew’s demise was Enid, and the authorities were not taking any notice of her.
Nell shook her thoughts away from the family. After this ball and moving the last of her meagre possessions from the Wilshire’s house to her tent, she would not have need to go near them again. She would work on how to retrieve the bars from under the well.
Her head over the tubs, the rod pulling slowly through the water, the sharp lye in her nostrils, she missed seeing a figure approach.
‘Help ye?’ Nell heard Flora say.
Looking up, she saw a dark-haired man, perhaps her age but hard to tell, staring at Flora. He had his hat in his hands, wore a fine shirt in pale blue, waistcoat open, his brown trousers falling over good boots, dusty but well cared for. A coat hung loosely over one arm. His blue eyes were intense, and the frown as he stared deepened. A mole sat above a dimple in his left cheek.
Flora huffed a tendril of hair off her face, then tucked it back under her cap. ‘If you have laundry for us, it’s one pound a tub. Pick up, neatly folded, day after tomorrow.’
