Her attention was caught by a flock of birds, some sort of parrots. Noisily they argued over perches in a nearby tree. Their plumage was a vivid green and several shades of blue, the brightest colors she'd ever seen. The tree was strange; its branches spread wide and high, its trunk shedding its bark. There was a stark sort of beauty in its gangly shape; quite unlike the oak, poplars, and elms of England.
Taking a few deep breaths Isabella turned slowly, her face to the sun, feeling slightly light-headed. What heaven after the confining horror of the ship. This English gent who'd gone to try and fetch Dougal couldn't be all bad to have agreed to her demand.
Hold on, Bella, she cautioned. Don't go getting all soppy at this late stage. He's an Englishman. No doubt he'll have you warming his bed in short time. Likely he'll want Dougal there too. She'd heard plenty of tales on board about the loathsome acts some of the gentry tried to force the maids and lads in their service to perform for them. Of course—that was probably why he'd agreed so readily to fetch Dougal.
A thought hit her then: he'd left her here alone. She didn't have to dally like that stupid monkey. What was there to stop her making off? Glancing about, she prepared to make a run for it.
But then she chided herself. Don't be a fool, Bella. Where would you go, and what would you do? The crew had told tales of the wild endless jungle beyond the town and how a person could die of thirst in the desert that went on forever beyond the limits of the colony. Of course she could lose herself in the maze of streets here on this hill but there was little doubt what life would have in store for her if she did. No doubt her English master would delight in dishing out his punishment once he found her; which she was positive he would, with his connections to the Governor.
Might as well wait and see if the Englishman kept his word and brought Dougal back. At least Dougal would watch out for her. She and Dougal could run off together once they had the lie of the land worked out. She'd have more chance of survival with her faithful friend beside her.
A row of filthy prisoners shuffled by in a line, their odd clothing bearing a pattern of arrows. Their ankle shackles clanked and Isabella shuddered when she caught sight of raw and festering skin beneath the fetters. A few of them called out obscenely to her and the guard in charge of them wielded his weapon and shouted an order to keep moving.
Isabella swallowed as she watched until they were out of sight. Then she looked down at her own legs. At least she wasn't shackled like those poor wretches. And not locked up in some filthy cell as she'd been for months back home. Shuddering, she brushed a hand over her eyes. Nightmares still haunted her of that cell and her fellow inmates. Once the sun set her fears came back to torment her, and probably always would. The stink, the heat, then the intense cold; the fear when she'd begun to bleed and the woman beside her had yelled for the guard who'd leered at her blood-soaked skirts. If not for a kindly nun who came to offer comfort to the women awaiting transportation she would be dead now.
The heat made her sleepy. She yawned. They'd been up since the crack of dawn staring anxiously at the shore, she and Gracie whispering their hopes and fears of what would happen to them in this god awful colony the sailors had painted such horrendous pictures about. So far it hadn't turned out anywhere near as terrible as they'd expected. What was Gracie doing now? Had she fared any better or worse?
There was a flap at the back of the wagon that could be let down, but it was much too high for her to climb up there so, after giving it a bit of thought, she clambered up the front using one of the smaller wheels. She sat on the bench. All at once she felt sick, weary, and scared out of her wits. Supposing this Tiger Carstairs was as evil as most of the other gentry she'd ever come in contact with.
Twisting her fingers together to stop their trembling she looked straight ahead, ignoring the ribald shouts from a group of marines ambling by. They were obviously on their way to a tavern she could see on a corner of one of the streets nearby, a din emanating from inside its smoky depths.
A lot of time seemed to pass. Others from the prison ship came up the hill and were driven away by their new owners. Some gave her strange looks when they saw she still sat there, alone. Gracie wasn't among them and she worried over her friend.
When one of the other members of their mess came along with a stern-looking man wearing a reverend's collar Isabella called, "Did you see what happened to Gracie, Ethel?"
"The old devil walked away with her new master. I think he's a nob," Ethel shouted back before being hustled onto a cart.
Eventually just the one wagon remained.
Isabella rested an arm on the iron rail at the back of the seat and put her head on it. Despite all the hustle and bustle going on around her, her eyelids began to droop.
Chapter Three
"Bella!"
Isabella opened her eyes with a jerk. She'd slumped down onto the wooden bench of the wagon. Sitting upright, she felt dizzy with relief when she saw Dougal.
The Scot, one of the few people in this world she trusted, walked at the side of her new owner, waving his brawny arms above his head and grinning from ear to ear.
The contrast between the two men was striking—one so dark and plain, the other so fair and handsome. Waving, Isabella stood up unsteadily.
"Oh Dougal—is it really you?" It was too good to be true. The Englishman had actually kept his word.
"Yes, it's really me." As he reached the side of the wagon Dougal beamed up at her, his face red. "Isn't it grand, Bella? Mr. Carstairs here persuaded the Captain to let me go. I'm gonna work for him too. So the pair of us can be together." His eyes were filled with innocent awe as he turned to the taller man.
"Yes, Dougal, just grand." Isabella cast a quick glance at the Englishman. His even white teeth were showing in a mocking smile.
"Don't you think you owe me a word of gratitude . . . what is it? Isabella, or shall I call you Bella?"
"Seeing as I'm your property I'd say you can call me what you like." Isabella folded her arms across her chest. All right, so he'd brought her friend for her, but she wasn't about to bow and scrape to him. Besides, there must be a selfish reason for his seemingly generous act; no Englishman would put himself out for another's benefit, certainly not for an Irish convict. But she muttered, "Thank you."
Her new owner made a noncommittal sound in his throat.
Tiger had met with a little trouble securing the Scot. The master of the 'Friendship' had put up a short fight, but in the end had lost the battle. The lad had earned his passage over, and was a free man. He only hoped his right-hand man Gillie appreciated a shepherd to help around the place. The boy looked to be well able to handle heavy work, and there was always plenty to do about the farm.
"How old are you, Dougal?" he asked, deciding to ignore the little chit. She would come round or he would send her packing. Once she heard tales of the women's factory at Parramatta she would treat him with more respect. It was Thelma who would decide in the long run whether she stayed or went. His housekeeper needed a helpmate, not a belligerent shirker.
"Nineteen, sir." The lad touched his forelock and Tiger shook his head when the wench scowled at him, obviously thinking Dougal shouldn't show subservience to an Englishman. "Same as Bella here." He gave the little tartar a fond smile. Good God, the boy was besotted.
"Is that so? I wouldn't have thought her to be older than twelve or thirteen by her actions. Perhaps she'll look more of a woman when she's got a bit more flesh on her bones." Tiger grinned at the scowl on her face, resisting an urge to test her plumpness, or lack of it, by pinching her bottom. He was enjoying himself. She brought out the devil in him. "Up you get, Dougal. Let's get home. Can you drive a rig, lad?"
"Oh yes, sir, I can do anything I set me mind to." Dougal was grinning like a boy who'd just been handed a gift as he climbed onto the front of the wagon, releasing the reins from where they'd been tied around the brake handle.
"Get over the back, girl," Tiger ordered, climbing up beside Isabella. "You'll
be more comfortable back there instead of rattling away up the front here." In one swift movement he circled her waist with his strong hands and deposited her in the well of the wagon.
Isabella plopped herself onto a sack of grain, her cheeks flaming and her insides fluttering. Refusing to look at him she stared instead at the tree where the birds were still squawking. His hands had felt like a brand, burning her even through her clothes, and her cheek still tingled where he'd pressed it against the rough material of his sweat-dampened shirt. He had a smell about him that was like no other; somehow all man, emphasizing his masculinity and strength.
"Like I said, a bag of bones," the arrogant swine scoffed. "Thelma will have her work cut out filling you up and out. I hope you're not consumptive. Are you?" he queried, giving her a swift once-over before joining her in the back and seating himself on another bulging sack.
His legs were so long that even when she tucked her own beneath her Isabella still had to hold herself erect and stiff to stop her knees hitting his. "No I am not. Skinny I may be, and who wouldn't be after eating the pigs leavings we got on the ship, but I'm as fit as that horse there."
She glared at him and shifted uncomfortably. Why did she have the distinct impression he was stretching his legs out on purpose to intimidate her with his height?
"Aye," Tiger muttered. Lord, what had he gotten himself into with this tart bundle? The lad looked strong enough; he'd be useful. Now he'd seen the two of them together it was clear they'd never been lovers; probably never even thought about it. Well, perhaps the lad had thought about it, but the girl looked on him with nothing other than friendship in her eyes. The lad was awkward and shy about her, and clearly worshipped her. Poor fool.
"This area around the wharf has a bad reputation. I recommend you keep clear of it. This district is full of grog shops, gambling dens and brothels," Tiger told them as the wagon rolled and creaked away from the noisy streets of the waterfront. "For many men torn away from homes and families rum is their only diversion. Then there are the whalers and other seamen who arrive with their pockets full of money after several months at sea."
"It stinks worse than the ship on a hot day." Isabella pinched her nose.
Tiger laughed. "Aye. 'Tis said the stench is carried out to sea on a clear night."
"Have they no fresh water at hand?" Isabella asked as they made their way past a row of tumbledown cottages and a water cart trundled by, drawn by a tired old pony.
"Some are lucky and have a well in their yard, but most rely on the cart."
They came onto a wider road. "This here is our main thoroughfare, George Street. Turn left at Hunter Street, Dougal, 'tis marked. That building on the right down there is the Bank of New South Wales, opened just last year." He pointed to a grand building as they turned the corner into Hunter Street.
"We can go past Hyde Park then straight down Elizabeth Street. Here, put this on, it's blowing a brickfielder today." He handed Isabella a hat similar to the one he wore. "It'll do 'til we get home and Thelma finds you a bonnet."
"Brickfielder?" she asked, setting the hat on her itchy head and holding it tight when a gust of wind nearly whipped it away.
"Aye, 'tis what they call the north-westerlies that send the dust from the brickfields at the back of town to cover us with grime." He brushed at his sleeve where grit had settled.
At the top end of a great stretch of parkland he pointed to another splendid building. "And that is the courthouse. Keep out of trouble and you'll not end up there in front of the magistrate."
Isabella gave him another glare, which seemed to amuse him. "I have no wish to see another magistrate as long as I live," she said, and his smile vanished.
She craned to look at the cottages; some neatly painted and fenced, with flowers growing in abundance in their gardens. Here and there splendid double storied houses stood out from their neighbors.
"They're very grand." She pointed to one where a vine with vibrant orange colored blossoms trailed over the upper balcony. Somehow she'd expected to see nothing but huts and hovels.
"They are," he agreed. "These houses have taken the place of the slab huts which once housed our convict population. Governor Macquarie has done great work for the growing population in his time here."
Isabella was astounded. He was holding a civil conversation with her as if she was one of his acquaintances instead of a convict. It took some getting used to after the long months of being treated no better than one of the rats scuttling about the ship. It was almost as if he was treating her as an equal. No member of the gentry had ever spoken to her in such a way and it felt very strange.
"I'd like to get acres across the Blue Mountains and settle at Bathurst," he continued as if she knew what he was talking about. "I will soon. Land grants have just been given to ten men, half of them born here and half emancipists. Soon I'll be joining them." He was talking more to himself now, a light of purpose shining from those unusual eyes.
Isabella felt sure he'd have no trouble getting whatever he wanted out of life. He was arrogant and sure enough of himself to achieve whatever he went after.
"Blue Mountains?" she dared to ask. He made them sound like some mystical place. "Are they really blue?"
"Aye, sort of." He grinned, further astonishing her. "'Tis the haze lingering over them that caused men to call them that. They are over yonder, west of here." He jabbed a finger over his shoulder.
They went on in silence and soon left the town behind. The spaces between houses grew more distant. Cattle and sheep grazed in the large unfenced areas. They were going out to the desert the crew had warned them about. Isabella began to feel frightened again; she'd been lulled into a false sense of security by his chat. Now they were going into the unknown, where all sorts of odd creatures lived, and escaped murderers and robbers roamed, along with the strange black men who'd inhabited this land long before the white men came here.
Isabella had only known the squalid confined streets of the slums where she'd lived, but from the ship as it went around the shores of England she'd seen little patches of land divided by stone walls and hedgerows. Everything here was so much bigger, and so much browner. There was an unearthly quiet out here that sent shivers up her back, and always the wind blew, sending dust flying and clumps of grass and leaves whirling about.
"My place is about eight miles out of town, on the way to Botany Bay," her owner said, and Isabella jumped. He was doing it again; acting as if she knew what he was talking about.
"Botany Bay?"
"Aye."
"I hate the sea. I never wish to see it again."
"I can understand that. I'm a landlubber too. I felt the same after all those months at sea." Isabella felt like shouting that at least he hadn't had to spend all those months cooped up below decks in cramped, stinking quarters with a load of thieves and whores. "We don't live near the sea, so there's naught to fear, you'll not see it again unless you go back to the wharf."
"Thank the Lord." She pointed to a cluster of weird looking grasses that caught her eye. Each had a single stem sticking out of the top like a spear. "Those plants are very odd."
"Aye, the plants you'll see here are like none you've ever come across before. Those trees over there are blackwood, those eucalyptus, those wattles." He pointed to each as they passed.
Isabella began to feel very sleepy and her eyelids drifted down. She blinked a few times, but in the end couldn't fight the drowsiness.
Tiger watched as she dozed. What an obstinate little chit. Even though obviously bone-weary she looked as if she fought sleep, still clutching the hat even as her head lolled. Every now and then she gave a startled sigh as they went over a rut in the road. Just the sight of him annoyed her no end. What had some obscure member of the English gentry done to make her hate them so?
"Turn in here, Dougal," he ordered, and she opened her eyes with a jerk. Tiger hid a grin as she straightened the grubby rags about her knees like a prim madam at a tea party.
Al
though Dougal had been handling the reins efficiently until now, he made such a hard go of maneuvering the wagon through the narrow gap that it was clear he'd been bluffing. Tiger admired a man, or woman, who had enough gumption to bluff their way out of any situation. Hadn't he done it himself, more times than he could count?
"Stop, I'll open the gate." He vaulted over the side, unhitched the gate, and then waited until the wagon passed through before climbing aboard again.
The path wound through a stand of the great trees that seemed to be growing everywhere, then as they crested a small hill a house nestled in a small valley came into view.
"My home." There was a distinct note of pride in Tiger's voice.
Isabella hadn't known what to expect, but the house came as a pleasant surprise. It had a wide chimney at the end nearest them. The house was built of bricks, and bigger that she'd expected. She'd thought it might be a dwelling of bark and weatherboard similar to some of the isolated farms they'd passed on the road. A verandah along three sides, festooned with a clinging vine, cast shade over the four windows at the front.
A dozen or so chickens scratched about in the dirt outside the fence. The fowls scattered as two black and white dogs came galloping to meet the wagon, their barks insistent and their long tails wagging. Isabella couldn't hold back a smile for the dogs looked so familiar and ordinary when she'd been expecting those peculiar kangaroos they'd seen on the way here.
A few hogs snuffled about in a small yard, and some geese and other large fowl she didn't recognize busily poked about in the dust of another yard.
The ship's crew had been wrong; this was no untamed desert. Isabella said a silent prayer of thanks.
As the wagon rumbled towards a small gate in the fence around the house a woman came out of the front door. Isabella guessed her to be in her forties. Wisps of greying hair peeped from beneath the white mobcap topping a face that, although unsmiling, appeared friendly and inquisitive. She wiped frail-looking hands on the coarse apron swathing her slight frame. She looked as if the strong wind would likely blow her over.
Mystic Mountains Page 3
