The Widow of Ballarat

by Darry Fraser

  Alfred pointed a finger at her. ‘Harsh words, daughter. I’m back to bein’ a man o’ means again after losing the run all those years ago.’ But he couldn’t quite hold her gaze.

  Nell didn’t bother reminding him that he’d been a poor manager of his means. It had been a fine squatter’s block near Buninyong until he’d drunk and gambled away his family’s livelihood.

  He stepped towards her, seemed a little unsure of himself. ‘Not needin’ to sell you off no more, Nellie.’ His features were a curious mixture of apology and pride, and something else. ‘Thought maybe you mighta been needin’ me,’ he said, and lifted a hand towards her, before withdrawing it. ‘Needin’ your old pa.’

  She didn’t even shake her head. ‘Goodbye, Pa.’ She heard the finality in her voice. She turned to go.

  ‘Wait, Nell.’ A hesitation. ‘Nellie.’

  Without looking back, she walked down the hill, the way she’d come, her father’s voice still calling. Well, perhaps if he came running after her, she’d stop, but he didn’t. Instead, she heard another voice calling.

  ‘Miss. Miss!’ A male voice, rough and wheezy, and from behind her. ‘It’s me, it’s Tillo.’

  She turned. ‘Mr Tillo.’

  ‘Tilsbury, miss. But they call me Tillo.’ He caught up with her, his chest heaving under his shirt. ‘I was lucky to see you there, just leavin’ old man Thomas, the cranky old git.’ He held out a folded bundle of fabric to her. ‘It were Miss Flora and Miz Josie asked me to give you this if I ever saw ye back this a-ways. Miss Flora said you might be back here the once.’

  Nell took the bundle. It was the lad’s shirt. Tears sprang suddenly, and her throat ached.

  ‘There’s a paper wrapped in it too,’ Tillo said, pointing at the colourful rag so finely, lovingly stitched. ‘There’s something writ on it, dunno what it says, but I’m thinking it’s a letter.’

  She pressed it to her chest and looked at Tillo. ‘You don’t read?’

  ‘Nah. Tried it once. Not for me.’

  ‘Thank you for this.’ When she realised he still stood there, she asked, ‘Do I need to pay you for this, Tillo?’

  ‘No, no.’ His hands came up in protest. ‘Thing is,’ he said, his voice gruff once again, ‘we could do with laundry tubs around here again, miss. Now that our Miss Flora’s gone, and all.’

  Nell wrinkled her nose, sniffed to stop the drip. ‘Perhaps you could help another person set up a laundry shop. There’s plenty could use the money. I have another job now.’

  ‘Aye, that might be all right, but yer sorely missed on the fields. Well, if you ever do come back, remember us poor diggers needin’ clean clothes once a week.’

  She smiled. ‘I will. Good day. And thank you again.’ As she walked away, she felt in the bundle for the letter. Sure enough, she found one page, folded in half, her name neatly written on the outside. She gazed at Flora’s stilted hand, To Miss N Thomas from Miss F Doyle. Opening it, she stood still as she read:

  Dear Nell,

  We have left with Mr Worrell for Bendigo, I think the date is February sixth. Ma is fine. She has a new shirt to sew now. If you come to Bendigo to visit, you will be able to find us care of Mr Worrell at Mr Campbell’s offices.

  I hope you are well.

  Your friend, Flora Doyle.

  There was a mark underneath, an ‘X’, and beside it in Flora’s hand was written Josie. Nell folded the letter back inside the lad’s shirt and hugged it close all the way home to Finn’s house. The tears on her face gathered a little dust as she walked.

  Forty-One

  Nell stood on the step to Finn’s store alongside him. He fumbled a little with the key, but the clunk of the lock signalled he’d opened the door.

  ‘It’s not quite how I want anyone to see it,’ he said. ‘I should have it cleared out, cleaned up first to make some space. I started when I got here this morning but found a few reasons to go to the stables instead.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘I’m glad you thought to go there.’

  Nell had visited the store but at no sign of life, she’d ventured to Steele and Sons and found Finn there, unloading stock. Together, she and Finn had walked back to the store.

  The doors swung wide and the masculine smells of leather, steel, iron and oil met her. On the threshold, locked-up heat and dust hit her first. The hot mustiness of it sailed by her as if it had been waiting to escape once the doors were opened.

  A great timber bench ran along the right-hand side, spanning the length of the place, and piled high on every inch of it sat timber boxes full of axes, shovels, picks, mallets, pans and sieves. Behind it were shelves stuffed with trousers and shirts, hats and underclothing.

  There was no clear avenue to navigate anywhere.

  Finn wove his way to the back of the shop and thrust open the doors there. Light flooded in, illuminating all the way through the place back to where Nell stood in the doorway.

  She swung her gaze to the left. She imagined the bales of canvas would be tents from the wholesaler, stacked one on top of the other. Puddling cradles, barrows, buckets, winches, all thrust haphazardly into piles on the floor. Rope, bags, tarpaulins, sails …

  It all stretched before her. She took a breath. ‘There is so much merchandise in here. The place is stuffed full to bursting,’ she said, calling over stacks of camp stools as Finn made his way back.

  At her side again, slapping off the dust and cobwebs, he said, ‘Truth be known, I haven’t wanted to face it. I’ve gone to Melbourne with Ben buying so I don’t have to stand in here and hear the echo of my father’s voice. Or to realise how ill he might have been. There’s a lot of stock hoarded here.’ He fiddled with the large key then set it on the counter. ‘Ben’s right to be frustrated. It should be sold off.’ He gazed around. ‘I’d forgotten just how much there was.’

  The oppressive heat of the closed environment seeped out, the open doorway not enough. ‘Finn, the air in here is so close.’

  ‘Wait.’ He climbed onto flat stacks of canvas on the long timber counter, reached over and pulled a dangling rope. High overhead, a window creaked open. ‘I’ll get all of these, that’ll help.’

  One by one the windows opened as Finn picked his way along the bench, tugging on the ropes on the wall. Nell felt the stagnant air move upwards.

  Silent, the heavy, dumb stock sat waiting for her response, as if anticipating something from her. She took a few steps further into the shop then wandered where she could. She gazed upon some things that gave no clue as to their purpose.

  ‘You’ll learn what’s what,’ Finn said, dropping off the bench and coming to stand behind her.

  ‘Will I?’ She turned to him. ‘And you will be gone most of the month, each month, while I stand here and sell this on?’

  He looked around as if seeing it for the first time. ‘I might not need to go so often. There’s plenty of useful stock in here, now that I take it in.’

  ‘You sound as if your heart’s not in it, Finn.’

  ‘It has to be. It’s a livelihood. We’ve got the gold back, I know, but I intend for us to save some for the future. All this good fortune could change overnight.’ He opened his hands as if it was in the lap of the gods. ‘And it’s not as bad now I’m in the store again. I’ve pushed aside being here for long enough.’

  Nell noticed a narrow flight of stairs. ‘What’s up there?’

  Finn followed her gaze. ‘My parents’ quarters. They lived here for a while. Not long, as it turned out.’

  ‘Is there anything left up there?’

  ‘Mostly what my father had with him after Ma passed on. We don’t need to go there.’

  Nell thought there was a lot more unsaid on that subject, but let it go. ‘If you want to shift some of this, we have to throw open the doors to the public.’ She swivelled, hands on hips. ‘Let’s put your shingle out and we’ll see what walks in the door. Or rather, what walks out the door.’ She swished her skirt about her ankles. ‘I should have worn the bloomers.’

&nbs
p; Finn ducked his head. ‘You’re the woman I love, a lady merchant you’ll be for a time, and a wife who works. Are bloomers really what you want to wear here?’

  The woman I love. Out loud, just like that. Her chest tingled all the way through, and she recognised the happy in it. She took a moment, amazed, then snapped back to the present. Bloomers, yes. She eyed the bench he’d stood on, and the mountain of stuff surrounding her.

  ‘Bloomers are practical,’ she said, pointing at a heavy timber ladder leaning against the far wall.

  ‘So is a lad up the ladder, under your orders,’ Finn reasoned. ‘Or Ben. He’s only too happy to start on this and earn from the extra work. He’s bringing the empty cart around for another load to go to the diggings.’

  ‘Bloomers are practical,’ she repeated. ‘Any woman who wears them knows it. I will have to wear comfortable work clothes.’ Was he trying to dissuade her? Surely not. He certainly wasn’t ordering her but … She stared at him, a little startled.

  ‘We know wagging tongues can be cruel, Nell. Bloomers are new to the fields, to Ballarat.’

  She relaxed. ‘New, and sensible. Nobody will mind on my account, Finn. And I don’t care if they do. Sensible folk will see I am hardworking in my husband’s business and have been saved from the dreaded laundry tubs. And Ben is welcome to go up the ladders, I have no care for that.’ She stepped close and wrapped her arms around his waist, touching his nose with hers. ‘We have to move with the times, start this new life properly.’ She looked up at him.

  He gave a mock frown. ‘You mean I have to move with the times?’

  ‘Yes, my handsome bushranger. You do.’

  Ben was happy as a lark as he drove four cartloads from the store to the fields that week. After days of sorting, cleaning, and oiling, it was once again a busy, well-utilised shop. Stock was now at a manageable level and Finn had taken to counter sales himself. That meant only one more drive to Melbourne before the winter respite. They would next revisit the wholesalers once the rains had subsided to allow a safe return journey.

  The upstairs area of the store had been left alone. Nell had made no comment as Finn had strung a thick rope over the stairway. ‘A task for another time’ he’d said. She went about her busy day. Clientele was growing, and Finn had promised he would build a footpath along the width of the shop if the winter was kind.

  She’d made good sales that amazed and delighted her. Old acquaintances from the fields were surprised to see her there, and a few told her how her father was faring. Very well, by all accounts. She shrugged at that. Her father would soon hear of her whereabouts, if he hadn’t already. And what was there to worry about if he did visit? Not a thing.

  But the couple who appeared in the store one morning after Finn had gone to the diggings nearly took her breath away.

  Lewis had a young, dark-haired woman by his side, her arm in his, her smile wide. ‘Good day, Nell,’ he said. ‘I’m very happy to see you.’ He gazed around. ‘This looks a very fine store now.’

  Stunned into silence, Nell noticed first the pink scar that cut into his right eyebrow. Other than that, he seemed just as usual—the confident charm and the pleasant demeanour. Did he not see the mockery of his visit? The effrontery? This, the man who had burned her tent to the ground and threatened Flora and Josie.

  Before she could speak, he held his arm out a little, indicating the woman at his side. He said, ‘May I introduce my fiancée, Miss Annabel McNaught. Annabel, my aunt, Mrs Nell Amberton.’

  Nell covered her chagrin and extended her hand. ‘Miss McNaught, a pleasure.’

  ‘And to meet you, Mrs Amberton.’ Annabel bobbed a little as she briefly took Nell’s hand. Her American accent was a soft burr, and she sounded as pleasant as she looked.

  ‘I go by the name of Mrs Seymour, now,’ Nell said, and straightened up. She returned Lewis’s own surprised stare. ‘Mrs Finneas Seymour.’

  ‘Oh. My mother has mentioned nothing of any banns in the newspaper—’

  ‘No banns.’ She was short with him. None of his business. She and Finn had agreed to be married in Melbourne as soon as somewhere suitable could be arranged. Without all the to-do. Until then, she would carry Finn’s name as she saw fit.

  Annabel’s glance darted about, but she kept her smile wide. Nell’s heart tugged. Perhaps the girl was uncomfortable in the company of a woman so recently widowed, one who’d attached herself to another well inside the mourning period.

  But the younger woman wanted to chat, and her girlish delight was disconcerting. ‘And, well, you would have seen our banns, wouldn’t you, Mrs Seymour? And my father’s and Mrs Wilshire’s?’ Annabel asked excitedly. ‘We will all be married only weeks apart, sometime next month.’

  Nell hadn’t read a newspaper in ages. She turned to Lewis. ‘Is Enid to be married as well?’

  He shrugged a little and made a face. ‘As it turns out, to Annabel’s father.’ Lewis patted his fiancée’s arm. ‘Annabel, I was mistaken. There are no items in here that would remotely interest you. Perhaps if you visit your choice of store along the way and I’ll catch you up there.’

  It seemed Annabel was happy to make an escape from the boxes of digging implements and the shelves of male clothing and working tools. She said to Nell, ‘I should like to make your acquaintance again, Mrs Seymour. Perhaps later when you are not visiting your husband’s store. If you’ll excuse me, I do have errands I must attend.’

  Nell kept the smile. When she was not visiting her husband’s store. ‘Of course, Miss McNaught. Another time.’ What hope did women have to be independent when most of their kind were not only governed by men under the law, but also by their own complicity?

  Annabel retreated with a smile and a wave, swishing outside, a light scent of rose following her. As the younger woman disappeared, Nell turned her glare on Lewis, her voice muted with outrage. ‘You come in here behind the skirt of your fiancée?’

  His hands shot in the air, and he lowered his head. ‘An opportunity to get in the door. I came to apologise, Nell. To beg forgiveness.’

  As she crushed the fabric of her pinafore in her hands, her voice scraped low and hoarse. ‘You burned my tent with the intention of forcing me to hand over something that was not mine to give.’

  He shook his head. ‘A moment of madness,’ he offered quietly. ‘I’m sorry for it.’

  ‘A moment?’ Nell queried derisively. ‘You threatened Flora and Mrs Doyle.’

  His head came up. ‘Where are they? How is Flora?’

  ‘I will not tell you anything of Flora, Lewis.’

  He rubbed his scarred eye, shifted his weight, and clasped his hands in front of him. ‘I was ashamed at my own behaviour, even as soon as I walked away from your campsite that night. I fully deserved that slingshot.’ He nodded at her surprise. ‘Oh, yes, I knew it was a slingshot, and whose. They told me two hard-flung stones had brought me down. Could be no one else but Mrs Doyle.’ He kept his head bowed. ‘I had breached all my own boundaries, which are wide, I admit, but I had descended into a despair, if you will.’

  Nell had nothing to say to that. She had known despair too well to lend her voice.

  He went on. ‘Something came over me at the ball. My life seemed to be slipping away, not only Andrew’s total debacle, and the huge debt he left, but the sudden prospect of marriage and an insistent future father-in-law.’ He waved a hand and went on. ‘The thought of supporting a wife without means, my mother’s life destitute … I snapped. I became—’ He stopped. ‘I am not my uncle.’ He looked at her. ‘You of all people should know I would never become my uncle.’ At her infuriated silence, he continued. ‘All my life I’d watched that madness. What I portrayed the night of the ball was different, borne of another desperation.’

  ‘It is the same thing,’ she cried, vehemently. ‘It is still violence.’

  ‘For what it might be worth, I have vowed never to raise my hand in anger again.’ He looked out the door where Annabel had gone.

  �
�You must ensure it, Lewis. Your uncle’s demons defiled all he knew.’

  ‘I know it.’ He looked at her, a frown gathering his brows, a strange light in his eyes. ‘He was dealt with, properly, finally.’

  Nell saw something else there in his gaze, a coldness, and not for the first time, she wondered who, deep down inside, Lewis really was.

  Finn came through the front door, a burlap bag over his shoulder. ‘Good afternoon,’ he said to Lewis’s back. ‘I hope my wife has seen to—’ He stopped at the look on Nell’s face and turned to face his customer. ‘Nell?’

  ‘This is Mr Lewis Wilshire, Finn,’ she said, keeping her voice low. ‘Lewis, this is my husband, Mr Finneas Seymour.’

  Finn stared.

  Lewis straightened and, recognising Finn, looked stupefied. He glanced at Nell, and back again. ‘Mr Seymour, I must beg your pardon. I hadn’t realised that you were now Nell’s—my aunt’s husband. I had not recalled, when Nell spoke of you earlier, that Finneas is your Christian name and that you are—were my Aunt Susan’s brother.’

  Nell’s glance flicked to Finn. Her stomach rolled, and a queasy bile rose in her throat.

  ‘Mr Wilshire. Your business, sir?’ Finn looked calm. Nell knew he was not. She could feel the burn of his rage humming between them. He dropped the bag to the floor.

  Lewis regained some of his composure ‘To see my aunt. To inform her of my impending marriage.’ He sounded formal and stony.

  Finn cast a glance at Nell then addressed Lewis. ‘I don’t know if social mores any longer require that you still call my wife your aunt,’ he said flatly. ‘I should say not, after all that’s occurred.’ His shoulder hitched, small tremors threatened. ‘And as far as I am concerned, you, sir, are no longer any relation of mine.’

  Lewis stiffened. His face had blanched. ‘As you wish.’

  Nell held her breath as Finn stepped closer. ‘Your uncle was the unlawful cause of my sister’s death, and, I’m sure, that of her unborn child.’ A muscle worked in his jaw as he seemed to clamp down on more words. Between his teeth, he said, ‘I wanted to kill him.’