The Widow of Ballarat

by Darry Fraser

  ‘And after tonight, no more pretending for you. You’ll be free of the Wilshires, and the Amberton estate, such as it is.’ Flora walked to the crates as well. ‘You could have knocked me over with a feather when you told me the news, that there’s nothing of it, that it was all lies.’

  Nell dropped her pile onto the first crate and pulled a shirt free, shaking it hard. ‘Not free of his name, though. I wonder if I can call myself Nell Thomas again.’

  ‘Don’t see why not.’

  ‘Not sure I want the Thomas name either, but it is my name.’ She folded the shirt and picked up another. ‘And what will I wear to this wonderful ball? I know,’ she said holding out a huge men’s shirt. ‘I will wear my nice black blouse and my nice black skirt to keep Enid from grumbling.’

  ‘Why should you care that she grumbles?’

  Nell wiggled her eyebrows. ‘I don’t so much, but if she’s grumbling at me, she’s paying attention to me and I’d rather do without that. What will you wear?’

  ‘I have an old dress of Ma’s. It’s a bit faded, more a pale green now than a dark green, but we worked it to fit, so it will do. Ma just wants her clean skirt, her blouse and a shawl. She can do my hair.’

  Nell touched her laundry cap. ‘I’ll have to do my own. I won’t be fussing.’

  ‘I’m not fussing,’ Flora said, quickly.

  Laughing, Nell wagged a finger. ‘Are you not? After that nice Mr Worrell came by again today, I’d have thought you’d take extra mind of your hair.’

  Flora blushed to her roots. ‘Bosh, Nell Thomas.’

  Mr Worrell had indeed come by just after sunrise. From a distance, Nell had seen him alight a cart driven by another man. They’d proceeded to fill a barrow with all manner of implements pulled from the cart. Then after a long look up the hill, the other man pushed it off in the opposite direction.

  Matthew had come towards the laundry and once again, poor Flora had been somewhat dumbstruck. He informed them, and Josie, that he would be attending the ball this evening. He asked if they would also be attending and Nell had answered for them, that yes, they would. To which he replied, ‘Then I await this evening with the greatest anticipation.’ And he’d smiled warmly at Flora, the dimple in his left cheek rakish under the dark shadow on his jaw.

  Josie had chortled from within the tent and promised him a jig, which he had accepted, delightedly. Flora had scolded her mother half-heartedly, and her burning blush at the time had taken some time to subside.

  Mr Worrell lingered only a short while, made light conversation with Nell—who was the only one answering him—and when the other man with the barrow far down the hill whistled and waved a hand, he bowed slightly to both and made his departure.

  ‘Not a word about it,’ Flora had warned Nell, who hid a smile.

  In the low light of early evening, Finn stood at his dresser, his hand gripping the elbow of his right arm. Damn the thing. He shuddered as the tremor took him. He backed up and sat heavily on his bed, doubling over to squeeze the blasted thing still. His insides clenched and the pain of it bit deep into his gut, breath knocked out of him. And now his right leg shook, shuddered uncontrollably, his foot banging on the floorboards.

  It will pass, it will pass.

  He fixed his gaze on the wall opposite. On his coat as it hung on the back of the door. On the chair by his reading light. He breathed in deeply and held on. It seemed to work, this concentrating on something other than himself, but he wondered about his strength of will, and how much longer he could defend himself when these attacks occurred.

  Then his chest relaxed, the pain in his gut diminished and with each deep throb of his pulse it leached out of him. Releasing his elbow, his right hand fell into his lap. He waited a beat, waited to see if a second grip would attack, and let go of the breath he’d sucked in.

  Flexing his right hand, making a fist and releasing it, shaking it out, he stood up and faced the mirror again, his heart thumping, his blood racing.

  What had been in his head just now when it attacked? Nothing. He’d had his eye on his collar as he began to wind his necktie. So there were no thoughts of war, or skirmishes on foreign soil, of bloodied rivulets pouring into the hollow in the ground he’d occupied. No guttural Russian voices yelling as shots went off over his head …

  And deliberately bringing these memories to mind now didn’t affect him either. What was it?

  Frowning at his reflection, he shook his head. What set it off? What kept it ambushing him night and day for no reason? He checked his hands once again. Turned them over, watched how steady they were. Not a beat, not a shake or tremor. Nothing. Perhaps it wasn’t from the fighting at all. Perhaps he did have some malaise in his brain.

  He rubbed his face in both hands, wiped the sheen of sweat on his trousers. A man would be mad to go into company tonight. He stared at his face in the mirror then squeezed his eyes shut, opened them, loosened his jaw. He wouldn’t give in to this affliction he knew he’d contracted in the Ottoman city of Köstence—for he’d had no such affliction before the skirmishes there—and would now just have to bear the tremors, wherever he was. If some folk found themselves unable to be near him, so be it. He’d always tried to hide the severity of the attacks, as much for himself as for others.

  It was the sudden onset that confounded him. No warning most times. And sometimes, like the time on the road with Ben, a false alarm.

  He shook off the frustration and straightened up to his full height. Checking his collar and necktie once more, he glared at his reflection. Moody eyes returned the glare. He was not feeble-minded. He would have been carted away as an imbecile if so, but this thing vexed him sorely.

  Bear the tremors he would, and he would do what he could to lessen the impact they had on his companions for this evening, if they were to occur. He reached into the top drawer of his dresser and brought out a large square of dark broadcloth. He deftly folded and knotted it, then fit the thing over his shoulder, sliding his right arm into a firm sling over his shirt and waistcoat. He slipped his left arm into his tailcoat and shrugged it on over the sling. If he buttoned it across his middle, the sling would keep his errant arm snug against him.

  Ready to leave, he pulled open his door and saw that Matthew waited for him in the hallway. Faint strains of instruments preparing an assault reached his ears. ‘I think I can hear the orchestra warming up. A short walk, no more, Matthew.’

  If Matthew thought anything of his attire, he kept it to himself. He winced. ‘Orchestra, did you say?’

  They stepped outside, and the night sky was lit with a cloudless Milky Way.

  The good folk of Ballarat had come out in their finest for The Subscription Ball To Aid The Unfortunates Who Have Suffered.

  Nell stood at the entrance to the main tent. The gentleman who studied her ticket waved her inside with a cheery, ‘Enjoy the evening, Mrs Amberton.’

  Lewis stepped in alongside her, his mother on his arm. ‘I see we are just in time. There are still places to sit if needs.’ He glanced at Enid. ‘Come along, Mama. Stop dragging your heels. If any old biddies say a word to you about being here, you just let me know who they are.’

  Enid, keeping her head low, glanced here and there, checking the responses to their arrival. No one had as much as raised an eyebrow that Nell could see.

  ‘I know perfectly well you’d have broken your neck to be here,’ Lewis said. ‘And here we are, so stop fretting. After all, dear Uncle Andrew did supply us with tickets.’

  Enid pinched his arm. ‘And remember that, my boy.’

  ‘Oh, I do,’ Lewis said and dropped his head to speak to her. ‘So chin up. You and Nell are not the only ones that I can see in a little mourning dress.’

  It was true. Dotted here and there were ladies who had chosen to attend, and they’d worn black, either in full or in part. There was some tut-tutting, or open whispers of shock, but that soon gave way. Gentlemen were not required to change their attire at all, but in deference, some had bla
ck gloves tucked, or shoved, into top pockets.

  Enid straightened her shoulders. ‘All right. Just for this one ball,’ she said and craned her neck. ‘Fanny Jones and Elsie Cartwright said they’d be in the refreshment tent. I can’t see them here, so I’ll look there before I come back to join you.’

  ‘Of course, Mama.’

  Enid flicked a glance at Nell. ‘The child-minding tent is out that way.’ She pointed outside and to the right. ‘They are expecting you.’ She walked off before Nell could answer.

  ‘My mother is still in her happy mood. It seems this is as good as it gets these days.’

  Nell watched as a black-clad Enid moved around clusters of women in their fancy clothes. Their fashionable off-the-shoulder dresses were in all manner of colours in bright contrast. Even Enid’s severe hairstyle set her apart from the other women, but nary a glance was given in her direction as she left the tent. She hadn’t been noticed.

  ‘Take my arm, Nell. Don’t go to the children just yet.’ Lewis led her further into the tent. Already crowded, the huge tent’s canvas sides billowed gently in the light breeze from outside and all the more, no doubt, from the hot air inside. Rows of benches suitable as seats had been set up around what would be the dance floor, and the outer walls of the room were kept free of encumbrances.

  Nell gazed openly at the fashions of the day. Hairstyles with artful ringlets dropped over ears. Slim intricate little plaits looped up into hair parted from the centre and pulled to the back of the head, wound and secured with pins. Older ladies still wore the chignon, and some ladies of varying ages just kept a strongly pinned bun at the back of their head. Nell had tried to copy the more modern style, sweeping the hair low over her ears and taking it up in an elaborate winding of tresses pinned and secured with narrow combs at the back. Hopeless! She wasn’t able to coax her hair into anything complicated and succeeded only in pinning thick plaits in a roll over her ears. Always a bane, her unruly hair was no better behaved because she was attending a ball, but she was past caring too much. The plaits proved too heavy for the fine pins she had, and her hair combs were nowhere to be seen at Enid’s house. She wondered if all her remaining possessions there had been tossed into the streets. She had pulled it out of the plaits, drawn it as neatly as she could over her ears and wound it at the back of her head. The fine pins were all employed in keeping the bun secure.

  And the gentlemen. Lewis certainly looked very fine in his high collar and necktie; it befitted a man of means. His tailcoat was darkest grey, his dress shirt white, matching his tie, and his trousers were black. His shoes, the dancing pumps that were favoured over boots for formal wear, were spotlessly polished. He looked a country gentleman. He guided her over to where other equally well-dressed groups of men and women had congregated. Nell felt an unease; these were not people of her station. Clearly, they were well-to-do traders and their wives, or some were perhaps high officials of some government department.

  Lewis must have sensed her discomfort. ‘Hold your head high, Nell. Should you not have been in your widow’s outfit, your gown for this evening would have rivalled some of these ladies’ gowns here tonight. For the sake of appearances, I would have made sure of it.’

  She doubted it, but kept her countenance. She smiled back at women who smiled at her and dipped her head in polite greeting. At times a gentle, brief squeeze of a hand on hers would commiserate with her widowhood. Other times a brief flicker of acknowledgement before a back was turned. Some folk kept to the ritual of a mourning period and disapproved of her half-hearted apparel. Or perhaps Nell was just not of their ilk. Or worse, they thought her husband had been less than befitting their ranks.

  Oh, to be free of this rubbish.

  She could see Mr Worrell talking to a man who had his back to her. The right sleeve of the man’s tailcoat was empty, as if perhaps he had lost an arm. She thought briefly of the news of Peter Lalor losing an arm but dismissed it. He would not be well enough to be back on his feet, and besides, he was still a hunted man, so it was unlikely he’d be here tonight. When Mr Worrell’s friend turned sideways, she could see that his arm was in a broad sling under his coat.

  Not Lalor at all. Of course not. Back before the riot, he was known to have a beard, and he had a full, roundish face. This gentleman was clean shaven except for long sideburns, and he certainly did not have a round face.

  Her memory sharpened. Something about him …

  Mr Worrell’s head bobbed into her line of sight, but he wasn’t looking at her. He was busy answering his friend, a little distractedly, in conversation, every so often checking the door. Perhaps he was looking for Flora.

  ‘Our orchestra,’ Lewis commented drily and nodded towards a motley group wielding violins and trumpets. A gentleman, already unsteady on his feet, tried to concentrate on a drum and his sticks.

  ‘Surely not,’ she said, and hoped that a proper orchestra of strings and woodwind would eventuate. Music and dancing had been part of her earlier life and the sophisticated strains of an orchestra brought her great delight. Nell and her mother had once sat on a hill and listened from afar to a visiting quartet performing in the town.

  She released Lewis’s arm, and as the growing crowd pushed inward, the air closed in around her. Voices rose to be heard above the chatter. Cries of welcome erupted every couple of seconds. Overly exuberant laughter of men and women seemed to be forced, as if it could disguise the unease on the fields. If they laughed long and hard, relief would follow. It swirled about her, and with each turn of her head, her nerves grated and her ears rang.

  ‘I will visit the children’s tent now, Lewis,’ she said over the rising din.

  Lewis was almost upon the group of people he had been moving towards. ‘Very well, and if you see Miss Flora before I do, please come and get me so I might talk with her.’

  Nell nodded, moved past him, heading for the doorway. It hadn’t seemed such a great distance getting to the middle of the tent-room as it seemed getting back outside again, and with people stopping her to offer their condolences, or to pass the time of day, it took ages to escape the escalating din of the big tent.

  Thankfully she had remained polite to all. She congratulated herself.

  Outside, as the sun lowered for the evening, the air had cooled a little. At least in the open there was plenty of it to breathe, she thought, as she moved smartly between the two tents, arriving at the door to the child-minding tent.

  Giggling and squalling met her ears at the same time. As she looked inside, young children in their best dress pantaloons and dresses played around cots and cradles that held swaddled babes. The din of a different pitch was just as loud in here as the other tent and Nell wondered how she was going to escape all of it.

  If only Flora would arrive soon, then at least she’d have a companion to chat with. Before she was snapped up to mind this child or that, she retreated quickly and headed back to watch at the entrance of the main tent. There she was sure to see Flora and her mother as they approached.

  Lewis availed himself of a rum and stood with men he knew from the fields. One—Robert Gregg, a robust man of middle age—offered his condolences over Andrew’s death.

  ‘Late in the show, Lewis, however, I should offer my commiserations on the death of your uncle.’

  Lewis, his features now melancholy, turned to Gregg. ‘Thank you, Mr Gregg. It was a sudden turn of events.’

  ‘Yes, I understand. One wouldn’t think that bushrangers still operated hereabouts.’

  Lewis lifted a shoulder. ‘Who’s to say? With the massacre at the stockade, my uncle’s death could have been perpetrated by any number of ruffians. No one has been brought to account for it.’

  Gregg twisted the end of his dark beard, rubbing the spindly tufts of hair into a knot. ‘Terrible thing. And bags of his gold gone, too, I suppose. Makes it difficult to settle the estate. And I beg your pardon for saying it, but I’m heartily glad I’m not one of his creditors. How goes it for you, Lewis, with all
that on your head?’

  Lewis’s rum slopped in his hand. Bags of gold? ‘Difficult,’ he croaked. ‘To say the least. Where did you hear of the bags of gold?’

  What did my mother ask of Nell ages ago?

  Shrugging, Gregg thought a moment. ‘Not long after his marriage to the Seymour girl. He came out for a card game, just me and m’ son, and a little rum loosened him up. Said he’d taken it off her old man by way of a loan.’ Mr Gregg peered at Lewis. ‘Shouldn’t I have mentioned it? Still a secret, is it? I suppose so. You don’t want that sort of information out, but if bushrangers stole it …’

  Lewis nodded absently. The man blathered on and Lewis nodded again, hoping he appeared to be paying attention. What had Nell said about it that day? She had, in fact, denied there was gold. He tried to remember his mother’s query of Nell.

  His mother. Had she known there was gold—is that why she’d asked Nell to return any? Couldn’t be so. She’d have said. She’d have moved heaven and earth to find it and relieve their financial burdens.

  What had Nell answered when his mother had questioned her? Ah, yes.

  Andrew left me no gold.

  So, what bags of gold was Gregg spruiking about? Lewis scoffed. Perhaps it was part of the same pack of lies Andrew had told over the years, part of the scurrilous legend he’d created for himself. His madness had known no bounds. Bags of gold, indeed. He’d have spent it, not kept it hidden. But it didn’t sit well.

  Lewis laughed to himself. He was right to have pulled the trigger, but even dead, Andrew was still playing with his mind. Lewis had waited a while hidden in the scrub after he’d shot Andrew. He didn’t recall any bags at the scene, but they could very well have been inside the coach.

  Nell certainly had not said any such bags had been stolen. Therefore, if there really was gold, Nell could very well still have it.