Mystic Mountains

by Tricia McGill

  "Called me skinny," Isabella muttered.

  The woman lifted a hand in a welcoming wave, and her master returned it with a small salute as the horse stopped in front of the gate. He jumped down then went round the back and undid the catches holding the flap in place.

  "Come on," he ordered, holding out his arms.

  Isabella allowed him to lift her to the ground and that same strange sensation shot through her as his hands rested briefly at her waist. Taking the hat from her head he tossed it into the back of the wagon, then turned to address the woman.

  "Well, Thelma, here's your helper." Isabella bridled as he ran his eyes insolently over her from head to toe. "You'll have a hard job on your hands, I think. Not only is she a bag of bones, and lousy, she's got a tongue as sharp as one of your kitchen knives. To get her I convinced old Gregson I had certain favors due from the Governor, but I'm beginning to wonder if I should have bothered."

  He gave Isabella a look that made the hairs on the back of her neck bristle. Her lips quivered, but she'd be damned if she'd let him see that his cruel words upset her.

  Instead she turned her attention to this Thelma. Isabella had presumed it was Carstairs' wife who wanted a new maid, but this woman looked old enough to be his mother. Surely she wasn't married to him? Still, perhaps that was the way things were out here in the colony where women of the upper class were scarce. But this woman didn't have the bearing of the wife of a man of quality.

  Looking hard at Isabella she gave Dougal a terse nod, saying, "Aye, an' what about the young man? You didn't say you were after fetching two back with you."

  "The lad's a freeman, Thelma; crewed his way over. Seems he's keen to work with the sheep. Isn't that right, Dougal?" He ushered Isabella through the gate.

  "Aye, that's right," Dougal agreed, smiling.

  "Let's get inside, then. You wait half a minute, Dougal, and I'll show you where to settle the gelding and yourself. This is Isabella, Thelma. Or is it Bella? You never told me which it was to be." He raised his brows.

  "My friends call me Bella," Isabella said, feeling confused again.

  "Well, I reckon I'll never be termed that, seeing as I'm an Englishman." He gave Thelma an odd look. "But as it's less of a mouthful, Bella it'll be. The lad's Dougal. The girl wanted him along. In fact insisted she would only give us the benefit of her company if her lover came with the package."

  Isabella glared at him. Why did he insist on calling Dougal that? The man was definitely intent on embarrassing her. Dougal gasped and her cheeks flamed anew.

  The arrogant so-and-so left her standing there with Thelma and went back through the gate, closing it after him, saying, "Come Dougal, I'll show you where to go, and you can wash up. And you’ll be needing some better clothes than what you have on. Where's Gillie, Thelma? This lad's a dab hand with sheep, so's I've been told. He'll be a help at lambing time with the ewes."

  "He's moving some of the flock. Put one of those flea brained new men in charge of them it seems and he let them wander. He certainly will appreciate a man who knows his sheep. Come, girl, we'll get you some decent clothes too, and I expect you can't wait to bathe.pushing her gently towards the front door of the cottage.

  Isabella returned Dougal's smile with a shaky one of her own as he drove the wagon away.

  Inside, the house wasn't what Isabella had expected. The floor of the large kitchen, which ran the width of the house, was of unpolished boards, with mats of woven rushes scattered about. A rectangular table on sturdy carved legs, covered by an embroidered linen cloth set cornerwise, sat beneath two of the four windows overlooking the garden, with six rung-backed chairs tucked round its sides. Pretty curtains flapped in the hot breeze blowing through the windows. Two high-backed chairs with carved armrests flanked the fireplace, where a stove the likes of which Isabella had never seen sat alongside the grate. Commonplace and unmatched crockery lined the dresser filling the wall space between two doors at the back of the room.

  "I thought Mr. Carstairs was a nob," Isabella blurted, then bit her bottom lip.

  Thelma put a hand over her mouth, chuckling. "Bless me girl, what gave you that idea?"

  "I thought only the nobs were allowed to pick and choose their slaves. He said he had permission from the Governor's office to take who he liked."

  "Slaves? Goodness me, you're not a slave." Crossing her arms over her flat chest Thelma said in a kindly tone, "You're a kitchen help now, that's what you are."

  "You don't have to try and be nice to me. I'm a slave, no matter what you may call me. That English pig picked me out, and I had no say in the matter."

  "Now you listen here, girl!" Thelma wagged a finger, turning such a look of disdain on her that Isabella cringed away as if struck. "Tiger's a gent in every sense of the word. He isn't a nob by birth, but he's the finest man who ever walked this earth. So get that into your head. I don't know what an English gent did to you that made you hate them so, but never—d'you hear me?—never, ever, call him a pig while you're working alongside me, or I'll send you off back with the whores you shared the ship with. An' how would you like to be packed off to the factory at Parramatta, eh?"

  Isabella bent her head, more to hide the stubbornness she knew was clear in her eyes than anything else. She'd heard talk about the female factory on the ship; the crew loved to tell tales of the awful fate that awaited the women who went there. English this Tiger Carstairs might be, but Isabella was no fool. If this woman expected her to lick his boots so she could remain here, then that's what she would do. Her pride had been sorely tested in the past months, and she was prepared to grovel if that's what it took to have a clean bed to sleep in and food in her belly.

  "Now, Bella my girl, you can sleep in here." Thelma's voice was kindly again as she ushered Isabella across the kitchen. "Dougal will most likely sleep in the stable. Is he really your lover? He don't look like he's even found out what to do with his men's parts yet." Her lips twitched with the makings of a smile.

  Suddenly Isabella knew she had no wish to lie to this woman. "No." She pulled a face, a laugh bursting forth. "But Mr. Carstairs, he got that idea in his head, and I wasn't about to argue with him. Dougal and me became good friends on the ship. Him and Gracie are the only real friends I ever had. She's a real tough one, is Gracie. I don't know what I'd have done without them two. I was lucky to get Gracie as a messmate. She was in charge of our group of six. It was her idea to cut my hair." Isabella fingered her rat's tails wistfully. Once her hair had fallen to her waist, had been her ma's pride and joy. "Gracie reckoned it'd be better all round if I looked ugly and like a boy. Those men on the ship look on all the con women as whores, whether they are or not."

  "Wise woman, this Gracie. I'll find out where she's gone so's you can see her. Your hair will grow, don't fret. You'll never have to cut it again. As long as Tiger is your master, you'll have nothing or no one to fear. Now, here's your room." Thelma opened a door in the corner and gestured for Isabella to enter.

  The room held a low narrow bed with a small square cupboard beside it. Another embroidered cloth dangled over the edges of the cupboard and a china water jug and bowl sat on it.

  "Here's some clean clothes. Good job Tiger didn't come home with someone built like a barge, or they wouldn't have fit, eh?" Thelma glanced over Isabella and chuckled as she lifted a curtain across a corner to reveal pegs knocked into the wall with garments hanging on them.

  Perhaps that's why he picked me, Isabella thought, to fit into the clothes he already had waiting here. She could think of no other explanation. It certainly wasn't for her beauty. And once he'd had a taste of her sharp tongue it was a wonder he hadn't let her go with that Malloy. When she thought of how fate had stepped in she felt ill. Someone up there must be watching over her. Tiger Carstairs wasn't so bad, for an Englishman, even though his tongue matched her own in sharpness. This Thelma seemed to think he was some sort of paragon anyway.

  "What you got in your bundle then? Did you manage to bring any of y
our own things with you, girl?" she asked, eyeing Isabella's parcel.

  Isabella unwrapped her meager possessions. "I kept the dress I wore when I went up for trial. It's not much, but at least it's mine." Holding up the threadbare garment she bit her lip as she looked at the sorry rag. It was pathetically thin. The bloodstains had been washed out by one of the nuns.

  "They made us wear these." With disgust Isabella touched the skirt of the regulation garment that had been handed to her on boarding the ship. There wasn't much difference between it and her own dress.

  "We'll burn those smelly old things then, eh?" Thelma turned her nose up. "There's plenty of water. No need to heat it up, it'll be warm enough coming straight out of the barrel. Come on, I'll help you wash your hair and then fetch you a fresh jug so's you can wash the rest of the grime off. You can throw the dirty water out of the window. There's a bucket there. It'll do for the vegetables. Well, what d'you think?" Crossing her thin arms again she tapped her elbows.

  Isabella swallowed the great lump in her throat. "It's just grand," she whispered, fighting to hold back tears. Through the long months at sea she'd feared what lay at journey's end. The worst nightmare was someone like Malloy using her body, then discarding her. The best dream had been of being taken into the Governor's residence as a housemaid, or even a scullery skivvy. Never in her wildest dreams did she expect to end up with a room to call her own, and a kindly woman like this to watch over her.

  She fought the tears, but they won.

  "Now then, stop that." Thelma put an arm about her shoulders and squeezed gently. "No doubt you think you've landed in a pit of hell, but soon you'll come to know that you've fallen on your feet. Tiger's the finest master any of us could have. Was the best day of our lives when he brought me an' Gillie here. Picked us up at the wharf same as you, he did."

  "He did? You mean . . . you're a con?" Isabella sniffed back the tears and wiped a fist across her eyes.

  "Ex, deary. Anyway, time to talk later. Get yourself spruced up. Come on, we'll get them rags off, and get you scrubbed."

  Isabella smiled. It wasn't exactly the tub she'd dreamed of, but the promised fresh water, and as much of it as she needed, sounded like heaven to her.

  Chapter Four

  Tiger followed the line of the fence. Ye gods, he'd gone into town to fetch back kitchen help for Thelma and come back with a wench who promised to be more strife than she was worth, and a shepherd who doubtless didn't have a clue where sheep were concerned. Ah well, time would tell if either of them proved worth the trouble.

  "Hop down, lad. This is the stable," Tiger said when the gelding stopped beside the outbuilding sharing the roofline of the house. "Gillie and Thelma's room is alongside there." He pointed to the window in the back wall of the house. "One of your jobs will be to look after this one." Tiger smoothed a palm over the gelding's neck.

  The lad eagerly jumped down and together they went inside the stable. Tiger loved its smell of straw, warm horseflesh and leather. A couple of small birds flew over their heads with a flurry of wings, and out the door.

  "Old Satan here is my saddle horse; you'll take care of him too." Tiger went over to the bay whinnying from one of the two stalls, and fondled its nose. "Do you know anything about horses, Dougal?"

  "Well, I used to help the rag and bone man." There was something pitiable about the lad's eagerness. "I was about five when me Da took us to England, and I missed the animals. I followed this old hawker about for a while begging him to let me ride his pony. He got fed up with me and sent me packing in the end. The poor old pony was on its last legs anyway." His shrug spoke volumes.

  "Right lad, I'll show you how to get the pony out of the rig, then later I'll teach you how to harness up and how to saddle old Satan. One thing I demand, lad, is that you treat the animals with kindness. There's no act of cruelty allowed on my property. Is that clear?"

  "Yes, sir." He nodded twice. "One lesson I've learned is that men may treat their fellow man as if they're worthless, but if you show an animal kindness they'll return it in kind."

  "Well said." Tiger slapped him on the back. "We'll get on fine. Now let's get the pony settled."

  Once the gelding was in its stall Tiger showed Dougal where and how to stow the wagon. "You can sleep in here." Tiger pointed to a section of the stable partitioned off from the stall where the gelding was munching grain happily. "'Tis not the best on offer, but at least it has a door and is weather tight to keep out the rain. Most nights you'll not want the door shut anyway. After the time on the ship 'tis my belief you'll be wanting to be out in the open as much as possible. Is that right?"

  "Aye sir, that's the truth." Dougal grinned.

  "There's not room in the house for another." Tiger frowned as he rubbed his nape. "There's just a small room for the girl. Is the wench always so fractious?"

  Dougal chewed on the inside of his mouth. "Bella's a fine woman, Mr. Carstairs. She's been through hell an' back."

  "I dare say. She's had to put up with many a struggle, eh? And there's an Englishman at the back of all her problems, by the sound of it."

  The Scot pulled a wry face, shaking his head. "It's a fact, sir, she hates all the gentry. She never told me exactly why, though."

  "No, I reckon she's got hurts locked up inside her that will take a while to find their way out. She don't know it yet, Dougal, but her problems are over."

  "Thank the Lord." Shuffling his feet Dougal cuffed at his nose awkwardly. "She probably won't do it, sir, so I'd like to thank you for taking us on. You won't ever regret it, I promise."

  "That's all I ask." Tiger gripped one of his shoulders. "What made you want to seek a new life in the colony, man?"

  Studying his feet, Dougal said, "I just wanted a bit of food in me belly, and reckoned it sounded better over here than back home. An' there was little back there to hold me." His eyes held a wealth of sadness.

  "That's what most of us are after. Well, lad, if you work hard around here you'll get a decent meal inside you. Be fair with me, and I'll treat you right. I've got no time for people who don't appreciate what's done for them." Tiger glanced thoughtfully towards the front of the house. That little chit in there had a few lessons to learn along those lines.

  "I'll work hard for you, sir. You'll never regret letting me come to work for you."

  Tiger grinned. "I hope not. An' you can call me Tiger. Everyone does. We don't stand on ceremony here. Only the convict hands are expected to show a bit of respect by using my full name."

  "Thank you ... Tiger. And this'll do me just fine." The lad rubbed his hands together as he glanced about. "After the filth of the poky little ship's cabin I shared below decks with a dozen others this is the next best thing to a fine hostelry."

  "Gillie'll see about giving you some clean clothes when he comes along shortly. You'll find water in the barrel behind the stable here. We men bathe there. One of your jobs will be to fetch water from the dam when the barrel is empty after weeks of no rain. Wash your hair and body, lad, and once you have the stink of the ship off you, you'll be feeling up to scratch. How did your father come to be in England, by the way?"

  "Me Da left Scotland when I was just a little 'un, as I said. He went south looking for work, an' ended up dying of starvation. He gave all the food he found to his family. My three little brothers died of the consumption." Dougal lifted his broad shoulders in a helpless shrug.

  "That's a sorry tale, Dougal. And what of your Ma? Did you leave her behind?" Tiger felt so much sympathy for him, knowing the pain of leaving all that was familiar in England.

  The Scot looked about furtively, and for a moment Tiger thought he wouldn't answer. But then he blurted, "She went on the streets, didn't she? I hated her for a while, but then I grew up." His mouth turned down at the corners in a small grimace. "'Twas one way to keep herself from dying in the gutter. At least she would have had something to eat most days. I dunno how she ended up. She went off with this bloke about three months after Da died, an' I neve
r saw her again, did I?"

  Tiger gave him a small pat on the shoulder. What could he say? No doubt she would be dead of the pox by now. He sighed, then brightened as his right-hand man strode towards them, his unlit clay pipe sticking out of his mouth.

  "Ah, here's Gillie now. He's a man of few words, as you'll find out, and happiest working with his sheep and dogs. He's as straight as an arrow in flight. Do right by him and you'll find a friend for life, Dougal. Especially if you care for the sheep."

  Gillie was about forty-five as far as Tiger could fathom, and as thin as a man could get without being invisible, but his strength was of the wiry kind that required little sustenance to keep it stoked. He waved his pipe at them, showing no surprise to see Dougal there.

  "Gillie, we've got ourselves a shepherd," Tiger said, and Gillie nodded once. "Give the lad a shirt, a pair of trousers, and a pair of boots. Then burn the things he has on. We have convicts and men with tickets of leave working on our land, Dougal. They live in quarters yonder and look after themselves with their own rations. But none are very good shepherds, so Gillie here will appreciate your help. Right, I'll leave you to Gillie."

  "Thanks, Mr…er, Tiger," Dougal called after him.

  Tiger gave a nod then strode towards the front of the house, knowing he'd left Dougal in good hands. The lad would do well. But lord knows what the wench inside would turn out like. Only time would tell if he'd made a serious misjudgment.

  "Well, Thelma, how's she scrubbed up?" he asked, entering the kitchen and pulling out one of the rung-backed chairs. Straddling it, he rested his forearms along its curved back.

  Thelma clicked her tongue. Shaking her head she folded her thin arms across her chest. "Poor mite, she's still in there scrubbing as if water's just been invented. I got rid of the lice from her head, I hope. She'll do."