The Widow of Ballarat

by Darry Fraser

  Lewis nodded, his features grim. ‘Indeed, I have heard those whispers. Abominable.’

  ‘My thanks to you, sir, no enduring harm to her.’

  ‘I’m glad to have been of service.’ The band struck up again and for once, Lewis was desperate to be back there and dancing, even with his mother.

  ‘Even so, for you, a terrible thing, to have to take a life.’

  For a single split second, life halted for Lewis. Then rowdy laughter and foot stomping to the music thundered a pulse in his head. His temples ached. Surely this buffoon is not going to give me up to the traps … No, no—I saved his daughter. He wouldn’t. Would he?

  McNaught stopped the chafing and wiped his hands on his trousers. ‘Fact is, it broke her courtship. Says her courting lad has scorned her because of it.’

  Lewis blew out a long breath. ‘I’m sorry to hear that. She looks a good young woman, she deserves to … put that day behind her and seek happiness.’

  ‘That’s true enough. It’s all she talks about. The thing is, you see, she was to be marrying up. Her life would’ve been changing.’ He tugged on his waistcoat, as if it had become a little tight. ‘When the troopers rode up to our tents that night, they charged in on horseback, trampling my wife dead, shot my son and he’s still badly injured. My daughter, well, she ran and ran, she says. And then that trooper found her.’

  Lewis hung his head. His shoulders sagged a little as he listened.

  ‘And now, well, until now, I saw no hope of her being in her right mind again.’

  Lewis glanced at the older man. ‘I am truly sorry that you are all so burdened. It was indeed a terrible night. Especially so for your daughter, of course.’

  Mr McNaught straightened up. ‘I should keep her with me now my wife’s gone, and my son’s sick. She’s a good cook. A good housekeeper. She has her letters. But she’d fare better with a husband. Needs a husband to look after her, needs some children. She needs that more than I need to keep her. And she says there’s no other man now but the man who rescued her.’

  Icy prickles stung the backs of Lewis’s hands. Something akin to an unravelling began in his gut.

  McNaught went on, leaning in, his face earnest. ‘This gold rush has made times mad, it’s made men mad. I saw it at home, in California. I came here to—never mind. Lives are changed. Families abandoned. She needs a husband,’ he repeated. ‘Someone to have children with, to live a life with.’

  Lewis set his teeth. ‘Perhaps it would seem a better idea to go home to America, where much would be familiar.’

  ‘I can’t do that. Gold has not exactly leapt into my hands here.’

  So that was it. He couldn’t afford to feed and clothe her. Lewis stood straight. ‘Sir, I do not know your daughter.’ He thought of Flora, thought of a lie. ‘And I might already be engaged to another.’

  McNaught nodded, as if he couldn’t stop. Then his voice dropped. ‘I have been to where Annabel told me it happened.’ He eyed Lewis. ‘I’ve seen the body rotting there, almost unnoticeable, covered only by leaves that lift and settle in the wind.’ He smacked his lips together. ‘I want you to court my daughter with a view to marryin’ her.’

  Lewis felt wedged in some standstill moment of time, and the crushing pressure of it throbbed in his temples. He held up his hands. ‘I’m not sure that is the best—’

  ‘You have a bayonet wound in your left side, Mr Wilshire. You survived the unfortunate … incident, where another, one of the Queen’s men, no less, did not.’ The gap-toothed grin reappeared. Once again, the smile did not reach McNaught’s eyes.

  Shooting a look towards the entertainment tent, Lewis stepped closer. ‘Will she speak of it?’

  McNaught shook his head. ‘She is aware of the need for silence in this matter. She knows her good name would be tarnished if she was to speak of it to anyone but me. She’d be blamed—they’d say she lured him there in some way.’ The American dropped all pretence of good-natured negotiations. ‘You well know, sir, how the law works for women in these matters.’

  Lewis stared at McNaught, his mind working.

  The older man narrowed his eyes and continued. ‘I am sure you would be a gentleman, Mr Wilshire, for though she might be implicated if it came out, it would be you who’d hang for murder.’

  The gentleman in Lewis could barely reply. Instead, he said, ‘Self-defence would stand. There is talk the government will not prosecute miners.’

  ‘But yours was not a rebel act. It was a long way from the stockade.’ McNaught’s squint deepened. ‘My way is the better way.’

  Lewis closed his hands into fists. He heard the painful strains of the fiddles tuning, and raucous laughter—now seemingly aimed at him—belted his ears. Perfume of lavender and of roses assailed him as chattering ladies moved past. Tobacco plumes and the sweet beckoning whiff of rum tempted his senses. And the menace of McNaught, and the havoc he could wreak, devoured him.

  He stood, head bowed, breathing hard, thinking harder for some moments. He would not kill again. He would not kill McNaught over his threat. No need. Ludicrous—the man just wanted his daughter married. Be sensible, Lewis …

  While men jostled around him, back-slapping their mates, chortling at jokes, his mind cleared. He looked about for Annabel again. It might not be so bad. A pleasant-looking girl. She seemed to like him, was grateful to him. How bad could it be?

  He heard his mother’s voice. ‘We hope your discussion is finished,’ she said, standing alongside him. ‘The dance is to begin again.’ Her usually pinched face had a small smile, and expectation lit her eyes. She was looking at McNaught.

  The girl, Annabel, trailed along behind, delight on her features.

  Lewis took one long look at McNaught. Then he nodded to his mother, and gave a bow, merely a movement of his head towards Annabel, a small smile only at his mouth. ‘Your father has so kindly allowed me to court you, Miss McNaught, if it so pleases you.’

  He missed seeing the thrill in her eyes, the indulgent smile of his mother, and the relief on McNaught’s face. The only person he wanted to see now, tonight, was Nell Amberton, and he would find the gold she had hidden.

  Twenty-Eight

  Nell raised her voice. ‘It’s too crowded in here, Flora. I’m going outside. I might even return to the camp.’

  ‘Where’s our Mr Worrell?’ Josie asked, and bobbed her empty pannikin up and down over the jostling revellers heading for the dancing floor. ‘He put us here two dances ago.’

  ‘Don’t worry yourself, Ma,’ Flora answered. She turned to Nell and took her arm. ‘You can’t go home alone.’

  ‘It’s not that far and the moon’s out. Besides, there’d be others leaving. I’ll be safe enough.’

  ‘The fun’s just started,’ Josie said, nodding happily at everyone passing her by.

  ‘Nell, wait a while. We’ll come too, but I want me mam to have just a bit more time enjoying herself. Don’t go on your own.’

  Nell squeezed Flora’s hand. ‘I’ll wait,’ she said. ‘I’ll just be by the children’s tent, then, getting some air.’ A shiver rolled through her. She knew it wasn’t fear but anticipation. Still, she reasoned, the bushranger wouldn’t seek her out by the children’s tent and besides, he was probably gone.

  Well-dressed ladies passed her by and ducked into the tent, no doubt checking on infants and toddlers in the care of others. Talk was that the pay for the minders was good, and that those women fortunate enough to attend the ball were happy to pay to have an evening out, their children in safety close by, but not underfoot. It seemed a wonderful idea. As Nell sat outside the tent, around the side away from the main entrance, the squeals and giggles and chatter of little children had died down. The night had worn on, and the children would now be tucked up in their bedding baskets or boxes, sleeping until their parents retrieved them for home.

  She closed her eyes, her thoughts rushing at her. For one thing, her father was looking for Andrew’s gold. What had he said? Something about his �
�silence’. Whatever that might have meant. Andrew had certainly not confided in her about anything owing to her father but why would he?

  For another, Lewis and his mother believed Andrew had gold that was rightfully theirs, but she knew it wasn’t so. The gold belonged to Andrew’s first wife’s family, the Seymours. Nell’s mind wandered back to Susan’s funeral. As far as she was aware, there was only one Seymour family member left. Susan’s brother—

  ‘You’ve got that look on your face, again, Nell. You’ve gone off in your head somewhere.’ Flora pushed a cup of something into her hand. ‘Here, I found a pot of Mrs Lark’s fruit gin. It’s not bad considering what other stuff is hidden in pots around here. Ma says it’s real good.’ Josie nodded her head but didn’t have a cup in her hand.

  ‘You didn’t stay in there long. You don’t have to keep coming to look after me.’

  ‘It was Ma. Said you needed company in the fresh air.’ Flora had hold of Josie who nodded at Nell, at Flora, and with a big smile to anyone who passed by.

  ‘I see. Your ma said?’

  Flora surveyed the comings and goings of the folk wandering from tent to tent. ‘All right. So it was me. I’m worried, and there’s more and more a feeling in there I’m not happy with. But what ails ye?’

  ‘Too crowded by far, like I said. But I was thinking of the Seymours. I was wondering why my father forced me to Susan’s funeral. We’d barely known her, or the family. She would bring the family laundry to our tubs, is all. I did know her mother, Mrs Celeste. She was a kind woman. Never met the father, or the brother.’

  ‘True enough about Mrs Celeste. She wrote to that Caroline Chisholm about us emigrant women and children here on the goldfields, wanted to set up a school for us. Never came to anything. No subscribers for it, they said. At least we got the church schools now.’ Flora looked at Nell, a frown creasing her brow. ‘Why you wondering about the funeral? It’s long past.’

  Nell sighed and looked at her chafed hands, the skin dry and chapped from the laundry. ‘Andrew had known me at our tubs, visiting my father, so he said. They must have made some sort of deal and it came into effect when poor Susan was barely cold in her grave.’ She shuddered, wondered if her dead husband’s dreadful claws would always remain in her.

  ‘Wouldn’a put it past either of them,’ Flora muttered. ‘But why do you think that?’

  ‘Andrew made for Pa as the first sod was shovelled back over Susan’s coffin.’

  Flora snorted. ‘I should cross me heart against that sort of evil. But why think of it now? You’re supposed be to be having some fun.’

  ‘Aye, lass, fun.’ Josie jigged alongside as the band struck another tune.

  Nell crinkled her nose, shook her head. ‘Something about that day. I watched from a distance, felt I was intruding. There was only one Seymour, the brother back from a war somewhere. Their father had died while he was absent, and the son’s grief was terrible. His whole body shuddered as if in some sort of fit, the poor man, and—’ She stopped herself.

  Wait. He was here! He was at the dance. It was he who Mr Worrell had been talking to, the man who she’d first thought might have been Peter Lalor until she saw his profile. She thought she’d recognised him—she had seen him before. So, perhaps not just his grief had created the terrible shakes, but a war wound, which meant his injured arm had to be encased in the large sling he wore tonight.

  Flora, alarmed, glanced left and right around them. ‘What is it?’

  Nell straightened. ‘I have to find Mr Worrell, to have him introduce me to Mr Seymour. He’s here. I’ve seen him.’ That way she could assure Susan’s brother herself that she would deliver what was rightfully his as soon as she could. Best to put all that bad Andrew business out of her life as quickly as possible. Best to keep the gold as far from her father as possible.

  ‘Why do that? It won’t be a good—’

  Josie nudged in between them. ‘Well, sure. The lad will be happy to see us back in there,’ she said, heading for the dance tent and pulling Flora along with her. ‘I’ll be glad of another jig with all them folk.’

  Flora put out her hand as Josie tugged her by. ‘Nell?’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  Nell strained on her tiptoes to see if Mr Seymour was still inside the tent. Jostled and bumped by the crowds, staggered into by two drunks, frowned at by the ladies into whom she was pushed, she made her way to where she could see Mr Worrell.

  Tobacco smoke, spilled ale and rum wafted around her in a stench and she longed for the outdoors again. Josie was dragging Flora through the throng ahead of her then struck out to the left, pulling her daughter alongside and disappearing behind bobbing heads and jigging bodies.

  Nell lost sight of them and tried to follow. And then she came upon Lewis, who was staring down her father. She tried to backtrack, but was bumped hard by someone barrelling through behind her, and she got shoved into Lewis’s back. He spun around, eyes watering as he rubbed his side. He stared at her, his breathing laboured.

  ‘Nell,’ he said, loud enough for her to hear. ‘Your father believes you have something of mine.’ Colour flooded his face and his brows furrowed low. ‘And I want it.’

  Alfred Thomas was equally enraged. He poked a finger at Nell. ‘This needs to be dealt with away from all this bloody din,’ he grated, the rum on his breath a sickly blast onto her face.

  Nell stepped back, pressing hard against the bodies behind her. She thrust her way through the crowd.

  ‘Not so fast, daughter.’

  Wrenching out of the grip and at the merest glimpse of Mr Worrell over by the far side of the tent, she shot towards him. He was with Mr Seymour, thank goodness, and she doggedly forced her way forward.

  Over the hum and zither of the fiddles, she heard the roared command of her father.

  ‘Nellie Thomas, stop!’

  She ducked her head, buried herself in the throng, pushing and shoving. Hoping not only to reach Mr Worrell, but to get out of here, to disappear and leave this place. To get rid of that gold, by any means, and into the hands of any man who would help her remove it from her tent, regardless of her reputation.

  Mr Worrell caught her eye as she burst onto the periphery of the dancers. Mr Seymour, his back to her and gripping his own arm, slipped past them, and through the main door.

  Flora and Josie were in view as Nell desperately struggled to break free of the crowd and reach them. Josie charged out of Flora’s grip, flung herself past Nell and into the dancing, jigging mass. Flora yelled at her mother but held outstretched arms for Nell who pitched forward into them. Mr Worrell charged past, following Josie, elbowing his way behind her.

  Flora propelled Nell behind her. ‘Run, Nell. Hide somewhere. Come to the camp tomorrow, not tonight.’ She thrust away into the crowd.

  Hide? Where?

  Staring for a moment, Nell saw her father burst out of the horde and stagger to the floor, clutching his groin, gasping for breath.

  ‘Nell, wait!’ Lewis roared over the crowd, bursting through before tripping over the prone Alfred Thomas. He landed heavily in a cloud of dust among the stamping, dancing feet. He let out a yell, gripped his side and rolled on the dirt floor.

  Guffaws and whistles met her ears as dancers and onlookers pointed and laughed.

  Dora came from nowhere to pull at Alfred, trying to get him to his feet.

  Enid thrust herself through the crowd and dropped by Lewis’s side.

  Josie emerged, huffing and puffing, arms akimbo as she fended off the crowding mob. Flora followed behind and grabbed one of her mother’s out-flung hands. She tugged her away from the swearing men on the ground and disappeared, Mr Worrell on their heels.

  Nell took one look at Lewis struggling to stand with Enid’s help, and her father still clutching himself, shaking Dora off. Then she propelled out the main door as fast as her feet could take her.

  Twenty-Nine

  Nell dashed past the children’s tent. Can’t hide in there. She kept going, down
to the shrubs where she’d wandered earlier in the night, giving no thought to the bushranger. All she thought of was escaping her father, and by the looks of things, Lewis as well. After what he’d said to her, clearly her father had already had words with Lewis about the gold.

  What to do now? Where to go? She’d fled but had no plan as to where to house herself tonight. Flora had said not to go to the tents, but wouldn’t that be safest, where she would be with others if needs arose? Then again, she needed somewhere her father wouldn’t find her.

  Running into the darkened night, away from the many lamps surrounding the tents, she headed for the township. She wouldn’t be far now from Amberton House, but a stitch in her side was beginning to pinch. She didn’t want to slow down but had to. She had to.

  Making out a hitching rail outside a lone timber dwelling, she slowed down and leaned against it to catch her breath. She looked around. Ducked away from the rail to lean against the house.

  Where am I? Where am I?

  Amberton House. She should go there. Lewis wouldn’t think to go there, would he? He’d never think of checking there, surely. There was no longer any furniture, nor any of her possessions still there.

  There were the few rough cast gold bars still in the barrel wall … She could fashion a sack out of something, find anything to carry four or five bars … How heavy would that be? Too heavy.

  Deep breaths. Steady yourself.

  She’d have to sleep without bed linens if she stayed at that house. So? She’d done that before when the house was full of furniture, thanks to her husband. She could do it again. Then, creep back to the tents tomorrow and face … what? And how to get the gold out for Mr Worrell and Mr Seymour?

  Yes, yes, sewn into their clothes, but how much time would she have before either her father or Lewis Wilshire caught up with her? Not to mention the danger in which she’d put Flora and Mrs Doyle.

  Think on that later. Later. She drew in deep breaths and let them out. Slid to the ground and sat awhile, taking the time until her heart rate slowed. She looked about again, couldn’t see any life in the street, couldn’t hear anything except the faint strains of the music from the ball.