by Darry Fraser
The hum pulsed between them, more urgent as he’d stepped closer. She stood, not moving, wanting to turn, wanting to look at him.
He said, ‘I’m sorry. I’ve frightened you once again. I’ll not harm you, you know that, but you understand, I cannot allow you to see my face.’
That quiet, melodious voice. That accent. Was it part old country, part new?
‘Who are you?’ she asked, her words whispered on breath that beat out of her. ‘Not your name, if you choose, but who are you that you seek me out? And why?’
Silence for some moments confused her. She started to turn, but his reply stopped her.
‘’Tis a strange thing.’ His breath was warm on her nape, his mouth would be close. ‘Though I hardly know you, I seem to have a care for you. But there are secrets between us already, and I cannot put you in any more danger until those things are set to rights.’
Nell blinked at that. ‘Secrets? What sorts of secrets could I possibly have from you, a bush—’
‘Ah, yes, a bushranger. It gives me heart that you have not given me up to the troopers.’
The heat of his chest was on her back, and perhaps, a bold brush of his fingertips trailed down the backs of her arms. Her hands clasped, and she squeezed them to stop the shakes. ‘I don’t know who to give up, if I would ever.’
‘But my little kerchief would not hide much from an intelligent woman such as yourself.’
She shook her head in denial. ‘After the night at the empty house, I gave no thought then to talk to the troopers. Besides, they’d seemed less than interested the first time.’ That was the truth. Now she felt as if she was … identifying with him, allying herself with him—
‘It’s true,’ he commented. ‘They’d had a lot more to worry about then.’
Nell felt her nerve returning. ‘Are we to continue to meet this way, where you surprise me and I am left to defend myself?’
He laughed. ‘I wonder who needs defending.’
The flush of heat burned her cheeks and a quick retort escaped. ‘I seem driven to do things I have not been driven to do before,’ she said. ‘And it makes me uncomfortable.’
‘It makes me delighted. But I would hate to be the cause of discomfort for you.’ And from under the kerchief his lips crept softly on the curve of her neck.
‘You’re laughing at me,’ she cried faintly, every part of her attuned to his mouth, every nerve singing, waiting.
‘No, Nell.’ She felt the press of his mouth. ‘I’m not laughing.’
She saw her father dart out of the tent, straining to see over the top of the crowds of people around him. Inadvertently, she shrank, stopped herself, heard the man behind her move. Alfred remained where he was, glaring into the night, shading his eyes with his hand against the light of the lanterns. Nell was sure he was glaring right at her.
‘Just take one step back, and no one will be able to see you from over there. Are you being missed by a man curious as to your whereabouts?’
That unhurried drawl. That confidence … That part of her that couldn’t resist the temptation of him. She started to turn, couldn’t stop the girlish nonsense—
‘Don’t turn around,’ he ordered.
That stopped her. ‘I am long past doing what is bid of me.’
‘Is that so? Just don’t turn, Mrs Amberton.’
He wasn’t going to harm her, she knew, she felt it, as clear as if she was facing him. ‘How I hate that name.’
‘Be still and you won’t be seen.’ His voice was in her hair, his mouth close to her ear and the twirl of that girlish nonsense was back, strong and propelling.
Fighting down the thudding beat of her heart, she stood stock still, watched her father. Alfred moved further from the tent, and as he did his light would have dwindled. He stepped back towards the doorway and disappeared inside.
She let out a sigh of relief. ‘Don’t call me by that name. Ever. It’s Nell, and you know it.’ The shrubs rustled. The warm breeze danced along her cheeks, tendrils from her thick hair whisked over her face. She felt him slip what seemed like a few dry twigs into her hand, and then he withdrew. Suddenly she had the feeling he’d gone. ‘Are you still here?’
His voice floated back. ‘I’ll see you again.’
‘Nell!’ Flora was headed down to the shrubs. ‘I can just see you. What are you doing out here?’ She stalked the last few yards. ‘I’ve left Ma with Mr Worrell to come look for you.’ She stared hard at Nell. ‘Are you all right?’
Nell was sure the man was gone, and she wet her lips, waved away Flora’s concern. ‘Just needed some air,’ she said, puffing out her breath. ‘Not only is Enid in there, but my father as well as my stepmother. It suddenly became far too crowded.’ She slipped her arm through Flora’s. ‘Is Mr Worrell entertaining your mother?’
‘Pfft. I don’t know who’s entertaining who. I don’t know what he wants. Good God, you’re shaking.’
Nell squeezed her arm. ‘I’m getting soft like you said.’ She would not tell anyone about the bushranger’s appearance. ‘And—it’s your company Mr Worrell wants, Flora.’
They wandered closer to the main tent. ‘No, it’s not,’ Flora stated. ‘It’s your company he wants. He asked where you were, said he needed another few words with you. When I couldn’t find you in there I came looking. I got worried when I saw your father checking outside as well.’ She stopped and peered at Nell. ‘I look after me own, Nell, and your pa’s dangerous for all of us. You’re still shakin’. Did your pa find you? Did something happen out here?’
Nell looked back towards the shrubbery only once, certain that her bushranger remained, hidden, guarding. ‘I am a bit shaky, it’s true. It’s not only my father, it’s all those people.’ She didn’t let her backwards glance linger. In the light approaching the tent, she opened her hand and saw the little twigs he had given her.
It was the same wattle she’d found at Amberton House, on the water barrel wall, and on the back step. Little puff balls of yellow, not brittle in her hands, but firm and fresh. It was his sign that he was looking out for her, silent, unseen and protective. He must live here in Ballarat. That was why he needed to ensure she never saw his face. Should that frighten her? It didn’t. She slipped the sprigs into her pocket. It was her sign for courage.
Inside the tent, the din hadn’t lessened. A voice boomed over the crowd and announced the band would begin. Nell’s feet sank in the loose dirt underfoot. How anyone could dance in this she didn’t know. Still, it wouldn’t be stately waltzes, she was sure, so it didn’t matter.
How much longer did she need to be here? How much longer did she need to be seen before she could slip away? Just knowing the bushranger had been here set her on edge. Why would he torment her with his presence? That thought made her shiver, but not with unease. It made her heart beat harder. It made her wish she could slip outside again and run back down to the shrubs.
Mr Worrell and Mrs Doyle stood in close conversation over by the far wall, on the opposite side to the band. Threatening whines from the violins became louder and then a hush descended, as the first tentative notes of ‘God Save The Queen’ sounded.
A few voices joined boisterously but dwindled away when the majority only half-heartedly began. People glanced at one another. Things were too raw, even today. Would we sing for Queen and country when so many of the Queen’s men had committed murder?
The band played on until it, too, ran out of notes to play. A murmur in the crowd grew until someone shouted, ‘Play something else, you dolts,’ and a lively jig was struck. A roar of approval went up and couples surged forward.
Bumped away from the dancers, Nell made her way to Mr Worrell, and Flora took her mother’s arm to go and watch the dancing. Josie’s happy beam and the jig of her hips brought a smile to Nell.
‘I think I will be away to my home, soon, Mr Worrell,’ she said, raising her voice. ‘Flora said you wished to speak to me?’
He bent to her ear. ‘Our subject,’ he began, and sh
e nodded. ‘We must devise a strategy.’
‘I have not given it extra thought, just yet.’ Nell felt the frown form, and her heart sank. The task would be nigh on impossible. ‘I hoped there might be a little more time—’
‘I’m sorry to say, not. We may have to resort to drastic measures to realise the preferred outcome.’
The jig was deafening but she didn’t want to shout. She looked up into his blue eyes. ‘I don’t know how to—to deliver it,’ she said as close to his ear as manners allowed.
‘Can you at least tell me in which vicinity it is?’
Nell’s heart was still beating a thud through her, now because of a different excitement. She looked away, looked across the bobbing bodies and the gleeful laughter, over at the overly enthusiastic and the subdued. Across the floor, she saw the man with his arm in a sling, talking to other men and laughing. His profile was a handsome one, his face etched, and the smile lines made grooves from cheek to chin.
He was a long way off, and on the edge of the dancing mob. Something about the way—
‘Mrs Amberton, can you tell me what it’s close to, at least? I could help, or I could find help if necessary.’
‘This seems a strange place to be talking of this.’ She wrung her hands, glancing back to find the man whose arm was in the sling, but he was hidden by the crowd. She stared back at Mr Worrell.
‘Time is of the essence, Mrs Amberton.’ He glanced about then his gaze came back to her.
No one had heard, she was sure. ‘It’s impossible to get it back from where it is,’ she said, a little cry in her voice. ‘It’s too dangerous for others.’
‘I’ve been thinking on that. Tell me, was it you who moved it to where it is?’
She nodded, spied her father coming towards them.
‘Then,’ Mr Worrell said and bent close again, ‘could we not retrieve it the same way you delivered it?’
Yes. Yes—that was it. But now, Nell wanted to run. Her father, intent and angry, would cause a scene, and Dora was pushing and shoving in his footsteps. But Mr Worrell was right. She could extract it by delivering it in the same way she had brought it in, just not using her own clothes. It would mean enlisting Flora’s help, and most likely Josie’s too. ‘Yes,’ she said quickly. ‘Yes, we could. My father’s coming, so please just agree with me when I—’
He was upon them. ‘Daughter,’ he bellowed. ‘I will not have ye ignorin’ me and your stepmother.’
Nell narrowed a glance at him. ‘I was enjoying myself. I can do both.’ She saw Mr Worrell bite his lip.
‘And you, sir,’ Alfred belligerently addressed Mr Worrell, ‘have no business with my daughter.’
‘Matthew Worrell, sir. But I do have business with Mrs Amberton. And you are?’
‘Alfred Thomas.’
Mr Worrell gave a slight bow. ‘Sir. And a pleasure, Mrs Thomas, I presume,’ he said and directed another slight bow to Dora, who puffed up like a pigeon.
‘He does have business with me, Pa, and with Miss Doyle. He is a customer of our laundry.’
‘Our laundry now, is it?’ Alfred boomed. ‘What a come down. Settin’ up in someone else’s shop, taking payment like a slattern workin’ the fields. No longer pretending to be the lady he made ye.’
‘You mock me, but I served your purpose,’ Nell hissed. ‘You and your wife didn’t mind spending what I made for your laundry shop. The pay I earn now is mine.’
Dora glared open mouthed at Nell as Alfred said, ‘My good wife does laundry fer us because her husband kindly provides for her.’
Nell seethed at her father. ‘Provides for her on the money Andrew paid you for me.’
His good wife shut her mouth and turned to stare at him. Alfred blundered on. ‘Yer might be right, Nellie-girl, but dinna Andrew have the means, so you wouldn’a have to work? I think he did,’ he added slyly. He lowered his voice. ‘I know ye got his gold, daughter, and I’m owed, so no lyin’ to yer ol’ da.’
Dora’s affronted stare faltered.
Nell bristled. She turned her full attention to Mr Worrell. ‘As you have told me, Mr Worrell, you have many, many shirts and trousers in need of laundering. You must bring everything to me—to our laundry at your earliest convenience. We will see to it all.’
A little bewildered, Mr Worrell said, ‘I don’t have so many—’
‘And of course, you said you had your friend’s laundry as well. Shirts and trousers, and bed linens.’
Dora leaned in, an unusual, sweet look on her face. ‘Nell, it is not seemly to be doing business at a ball,’ she chided, then smiled at Mr Worrell. ‘Our daughter must be excused. She’s bereaved just recently, and very taken with her new-found proprietorship.’
Alfred scowled at his wife. ‘Her what?’
Nell caught Mr Worrell’s eye. ‘We are able to do this for you, but it will have to be delivered after lunch tomorrow.’ She nodded, encouraging him to nod with her.
‘Oh, but that’s on the Lord’s Day,’ Dora said, clearly put out but smiling again at Mr Worrell.
‘It’s only a delivery, Mama Dora,’ Nell said, grating against her own conciliatory tone.
Dora was stunned into silence at that. ‘Well,’ she finally said, but it was barely heard over the raucous din of the dance.
‘Of course, Mrs Amberton,’ Mr Worrell said. ‘Of course, I will bring my laundry. All of it. And all my friends’ laundry.’
‘Very good. Now, will you accompany me to find Mrs Doyle?’ Nell asked, and when Mr Worrell offered his arm, she took it, excusing herself from her father and her stepmother.
Finn was in the drinks tent talking to two men who puffed on fine-smelling cigars when Matthew found him and bent to his ear, beckoning him outside. After a nod and a shrug to his acquaintances, they waved him off good-naturedly and he stepped outside with Matthew.
‘Did you say “laundry”?’ Finn said, adjusting the wide swathe of cloth serving as a sling for his errant arm. They walked away from others talking in groups here and there outside.
‘Yes, and lots of it.’
‘I don’t know that I have lots of it. Nevertheless, laundry it is, which you will deliver, I take it.’ He remembered how, when he had delivered tools to Mr Francis, Matthew had gone in the opposite direction towards a laundry site. ‘I noted your path on the fields earlier today.’
‘I’m afraid my lawyer cousin would be disappointed in me, compromising the situation as I have. I am no detective policeman, nor trained in the fine art of subtlety and discretion. It wouldn’t be difficult to deduce Mrs Amberton’s new residence now.’ Matthew did indeed look unhappy with himself.
‘I can assure you,’ Finn said, clapping Matthew on the shoulder, ‘that I will be on my best behaviour and promise not to jeopardise the plan. I have noticed her here at the ball and have diligently restrained myself from going to her.’ Finneas Seymour had restrained himself. The bushranger had not.
Matthew snorted and nodded. ‘My thanks.’ Then with a grave look on his face, he said, ‘And let us hope that whatever plan is afoot, the cost of clean shirts and trousers does not take up most of your inheritance.’
Finn laughed. ‘Let us hope.’
Twenty-Seven
The band’s lively jig seemed to go on forever, certainly in Lewis’s head. Finally, it came to a halt, and sweaty folk forged off the dancing area.
‘… Papa, who saved me from that horrible trooper, and a terrible fate after the stockade.’ The young woman was still beaming at him.
Her father seemed inordinately happy to have laid his eyes on him. ‘Sir, I am indebted to you.’ The older man gave a slight formal bow. ‘May I introduce myself? Rufus McNaught.’ The man’s accent sounded American.
Lewis nodded, blank for a moment.
Enid shook his arm. ‘Son,’ she said into his ear, prompting a response, and nodding at him encouragingly.
‘I am Lewis Wilshire. May I present my mother, Mrs Wilshire.’ More slight bows.
‘Mrs Wilshire,
’ McNaught said. He bowed a little lower towards Enid, and smiled.
Lewis watched the flush bloom across his mother’s face and a smile begin. Her eyes never left McNaught. Good lord. Astounding.
McNaught turned to the young woman who was still smiling widely. ‘And my daughter, Miss Annabel McNaught.’
Lewis took her proffered gloved hand and let it drop. ‘Miss McNaught, delighted.’
She curtsied. ‘Mr Wilshire.’ She did the same to Enid. ‘Mrs Wilshire,’ she said, but she barely took her eyes off Lewis. Hers was a softer accent, but it brought no less ringing to his ears than her father’s twang.
Rufus McNaught stood as tall as Lewis. His sandy greying hair was slicked down on his head, and the darker beard was bushy on his jaw. When he smiled, the gap-toothed grin didn’t quite reach his eyes.
McNaught said, ‘Begging the ladies’ pardon, but there is something private I need to speak of, Mr Wilshire.’
Dear God, first Flora with Matthew Worrell. What is coming at me now?
Enid beamed at him and fanned herself. Then she smiled at Annabel. ‘We should get some air, Miss McNaught,’ his mother said. ‘Perhaps some lemonade.’
Lewis stared at her. His usually staid mother seemed to be all of a gush. He watched as they stepped around other revellers and headed outside. Annabel took one last look over her shoulder at him.
His gut shrank. His senses were on high alert, but flight was impossible.
Mr McNaught waved Lewis ahead of him. Outside the tent, watching as the women entered the refreshment tent, the older man drew Lewis to one side.
‘My daughter has spoken of little else since that terrible night.’ He chafed his hands in front of him. ‘I have often wondered who her rescuer might have been, and here you are. Right here, at the ball.’
Lewis’s face burned. ‘It was indeed a terrible night at the stockade, and after. What I stumbled upon, well, no decent man should have to witness, no woman to endure.’ He looked at his feet in the dim light, ignored the jostling of others as they charged for the drinks tent.
McNaught was bumped and bumped again. ‘There have been many such acts of that particular vileness towards womenfolk, that night, before, and after.’
