The Goldminer's Sister

by Alison Stuart

  ‘This’ll fetch me a few shillings,’ he said, turning it over in his dirty hands.

  Eliza lunged for the locket but he swung it just out of her reach.

  ‘It’s all I have left,’ she whispered, too stricken to stop the shaming tears that started in her eyes.

  ‘You should’ve been nicer to me,’ Jennings said. He gripped her chin between a grimy thumb and forefinger and tilted her face up, pressing the muzzle of his weapon to her throat. ‘We could ’ave some fun with this one. Give me a kiss, and I might give you back your pretty.’ He licked his thick lips in anticipation.

  Time stood still. Conscious only of the smashing of her heart against her chest and the vile stink of the man, Eliza was momentarily paralysed. Then, as Jennings leaned into her, she brought her knee up swiftly, connecting with his crotch.

  Jennings’s eyes bulged. ‘You little bitch,’ he wheezed, releasing his grip on her.

  She stumbled back against the log and caught off balance, she fell backward over it. As she lay winded, gasping for breath, she was conscious of the sickening thud of fist on bone. A cry of pain and the crack of a weapon discharging brought the world back into focus.

  She pulled herself to her knees and cowered behind the shelter of the log, trying to get her eyes to focus. Alec stood over Jennings, who was on the ground, blood pouring from his nose, his thick black beard shining with it.

  ‘Shoot him! Shoot the bastard,’ Jennings wheezed.

  The three thugs glanced at each other, the whites of their eyes bright over their scarves.

  ‘Damned if I’m going to be hanged for rape or murder,’ one of the men said. ‘I’m off.’

  Jennings rolled onto his side and pulled himself up. He staggered like a drunken man, but the attention of his comrades had been diverted by the dull thud of hooves coming down the track.

  Eliza could feel the vibration beneath her knees as the horse rounded the bend in the road, sweating and lathered.

  The rider, his identity also concealed behind a scarf, yelled, ‘Someone’s coming.’

  Jennings lunged at Alec but he stepped back, swinging his fists as two of the others approached him. Eliza cried a warning but too late for him to avoid the third man, who pressed his revolver between Alec’s shoulder blades. Alec let his hands drop. The other two pinioned his arms.

  Jerking his head at the new arrival, Jennings gave a curt order to fetch the horses before turning his attention back to Alec.

  He wiped his nose with his sleeve, then slammed his fist into Alec’s stomach. Alec went down on his knees, gasping for breath as Jennings took a revolver from one of his comrades. He checked the chamber before giving a snort of disgust and reversing the weapon, he brought the revolver down just behind Alec’s ear with a sickening crack. The men released him and Alec toppled forward onto the damp earth.

  Jennings turned to Eliza, who cowered behind the log. He raised a finger. ‘Don’t think I’ve forgotten you, pretty lady. Your turn’ll come.’

  He strode over to Sam and Nobby and untied their reins, giving them each a firm slap on the rump. The horses needed no further encouragement and started at a gallop in the direction of Maiden’s Creek and the safety of Sones’s stables.

  The newcomer had returned leading four horses and the men swung into the saddles, setting out at a gallop back in the direction of Maiden’s Creek, leaving the contents of Eliza’s bag strewn across the muddy track and Alec lying motionless on the side of the road, bright blood matting his dark hair.

  Eliza scrambled over the log and fell to her knees beside the unconscious man, turning him over. Blood streamed across his face to mingle with mud, forming a grotesque mask. She had no experience of wounds and for all she could tell, Alec could be dead. Only the flutter of a pulse under her fingers gave Eliza the hope that he lived.

  She knelt beside him feeling utterly helpless. Never having been blessed with a strong stomach, the world wavered and danced but she would be no use to Alec if she fainted. She took a steadying breath and forced her queasy senses into submission and cast around for something to use as a bandage. Grabbing one of her abandoned petticoats, she balled it up, pressed it to the bloody wound on Alec’s head.

  ‘Don’t die. Please don’t die,’ she murmured to him. ‘Come back to me, Alec. I need you.’

  She looked up at the sound of a woman singing and the jingle of a harness. A cart pulled by a single horse came around the bend. The driver, a woman, wore male garb, her hair tied back from her face in a loose knot at the nape of her neck. She stopped the cart and handed the reins to a stocky man sitting beside her before reaching for a rifle and levelling it at Eliza.

  Eliza flinched, raising her hands. ‘Please, we need your help. My friend is hurt and our horses have been turned away by the men who attacked us. Can you take us back into Maiden’s Creek?’

  The woman lowered her weapon and glanced at the man beside her who shrugged.

  ‘Que vous est-il arrivé?’

  A woman holding a rifle and speaking French was almost more than Eliza could deal with. She spoke French fluently but not here, not now.

  ‘We were held up by bushrangers,’ she said.

  The woman jumped down from the cart and hurried forward. She moved with the litheness of an athlete, her stride long and easy in her corduroy trousers and long boots. She knelt beside Alec and pulled the petticoat away from the wound. With long, strong fingers, she probed around the wound, nodding to herself.

  ‘I don’t think his skull is cracked,’ she said in accented English. ‘But head wounds bleed a lot.’ She picked up the petticoat and thrust it at Eliza. ‘Make yourself useful and tear it up properly. Henri,’ she said to her companion, ‘water.’

  The man nodded and jumped down from the cart holding a water flask.

  ‘Will he be all right?’ Eliza asked as she handed over the torn remnants of her petticoat.

  ‘Who am I to say? He needs a doctor,’ came the curt reply. ‘Now, wet one of those cloths and let’s try and stop the bleeding.’ She looked up at Eliza. ‘Tiens, are you going to faint, girl?’

  ‘No,’ Eliza said with more confidence than she felt.

  The Frenchwoman dabbed at the wound with the cloth and wiped the worst of the blood and mud from Alec’s face before padding the wound and binding it with the rough bandage.

  She gave a grunt and sat back on her heels. ‘I think he’ll have an almighty lump and a headache for a day or two.’

  Beneath the woman’s hands, Alec stirred and groaned and relief rushed through Eliza.

  His first words were unintelligible and Eliza took them to be profane. The other woman just laughed.

  ‘You lie still, cheri,’ she said, pushing him back as he tried to sit up.

  Alec grimaced, his fingers exploring the crude bandaging. ‘Who the hell are you?’

  ‘I am Marcelline Guichard, and this is my assistant, Henry Cook,’ She pronounced his name in the French style as Henri. ‘I think it fortunate we happened on you, n’est ce pas?’

  Eliza nodded. ‘You scared the bushrangers away.’

  ‘How many were there?’

  ‘Five,’ Eliza said.

  The woman’s eyes widened. ‘Five. Mon dieu. I am not sure Henri and I would be much match for five ruffians.’ She rose to her feet, wiping her hands on her trousers. ‘Now we must get your friend some proper medical attention. How far to Maiden’s Creek?’

  ‘We were about two hours out when we were accosted by the gang,’ Eliza replied.

  ‘We will put your friend here in the back of the wagon and you may sit with him. Henri, clear some room.’

  Henry moved boxes, spades, mattocks and other digging equipment to make enough space to allow Alec to lie down, creating a rough bed of some empty burlap sacks. Between them they managed to get Alec off the ground and into the back of the cart, with his feet hanging over the edge. Eliza gathered up her scattered possessions and stuffed them into her bag. She climbed into the cart and took Alec’s head on
her lap to minimise the jolting and, with Marcelline Guichard once more on the reins with the silent Henry beside her, they set off.

  The Frenchwoman looked over her shoulder. ‘You should try and keep him awake,’ she said. ‘It is not good to let him lapse into inconscience again.’

  Eliza looked down at Alec’s pale and blood-streaked face. His eyes were closed, but the regular rise and fall of his chest indicated he still lived.

  ‘Alec?’

  ‘I can hear you,’ he said. ‘I’m just resting my eyes.’

  Eliza blew out a breath. ‘Thank you for your kindness, Madame Guichard. What brings you to Maiden’s Creek?’

  ‘I have a contract to construct a water race to the Antioch Mine.’

  Eliza twisted to get a better look at the woman. ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Marcelline Guichard shrugged. ‘It is what I do. My husband was an engineer but since he died I have taken on his contracts.’

  ‘Antioch is the new mine north of Blue Sailor,’ Alec murmured. ‘Good promise. Your reputation precedes you, madame.’

  ‘Favourably, I hope. I am very good at what I do. And what about you, cherie?’

  ‘Eliza Penrose,’ Eliza said. ‘I am—I was a teacher at the school. I am on my way to Melbourne.’

  ‘And your handsome friend?’

  ‘Alec McLeod. He is the mine superintendent at Maiden’s Creek Mine. He was escorting me to Shady Creek.’

  Marcelline Guichard nodded. ‘We were not warned that the Maiden’s Creek goldfield could be so dangerous. Seems we must be on our guard, Henri, non?’

  ‘I think it is as safe as anywhere. We were just unlucky.’

  But Eliza knew that luck had nothing to do with the attack. They had been expected and the ‘bushrangers’ knew exactly what they were looking for.

  ‘Alec?’ She bent over him, her lips brushing his mud-smeared forehead. His eyes fluttered open and he managed a watery smile.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  ‘What for?’

  She thought about what might have happened if he hadn’t intervened, and shivered. What did they call it? A fate worse than death?

  ‘Don’t you remember?’

  He closed his eyes, grimacing as he gave the slightest of nods. ‘Of course I do. I’m a poor escort. We walked into a trap. They wanted the plans and they knew we had them.’

  ‘Tehan?’

  Alec looked up at her. ‘Jennings is Tehan’s man so I think we can assume he is the one behind it.’ The cart hit a rock and bounced and he grimaced. ‘If I see that black-bearded bastard again …’ He huffed a breath and closed his eyes.

  Eliza shook his shoulder gently. ‘You have to stay awake, Alec.’

  ‘Do I? I just want to sleep.’

  She bent over and kissed him again—this time on the mouth.

  A smile curved his lips. ‘Do that again.’

  She obliged. He raised his hand and she took it, twining her fingers with his. ‘What are we going to do?’ she whispered.

  But if he heard her he gave no answer.

  Twenty

  Sones had raised the alarm when the two horses returned to the livery stables without their riders and Sergeant Maidment and one of his constables met Marcelline Guichard’s wagon an hour outside Maiden’s Creek. Eliza briefly related the story of the hold-up and identified Jennings as the ringleader. Maidment despatched his constable to search for Jennings and accompanied the cart back into Maiden’s Creek, where a crowd of curious onlookers who had heard the story of the two riderless horses turned out to greet them.

  A stretcher was produced and Alec was carried, protesting that he could walk, up to his cottage. The Frenchwoman and her companion departed to find rooms at one of the hostelries and Alec was put to bed with his head bound neatly and orders from Dr Sims that he should be watched for nausea, vomiting and disorientation.

  As the evening drew in, Ian knelt by the fireplace in Alec’s small bedroom, stoking the flames into life. It did little to warm the bedroom and Eliza pulled the blankets higher over Alec. He stirred and muttered but did not wake. She curled into a chair brought from the living room.

  Charles Cowper came hurrying down from the mine, enquiring after Alec and insisting Eliza return home with him. She had refused, adamant that she remain with Alec until she was certain he was out of danger. She said nothing more to her uncle although she strongly suspected that he had been behind the hold-up. Robbery was one thing but the thought of what might have happened if it hadn’t been for Alec’s actions and the fortuitous arrival of Marcelline Guichard made her blood run cold.

  Eliza sipped the mug of black tea Ian had made and watched the younger man’s deft actions. Apart from the occasional mannerism, physically the brothers were not much alike, Ian was fine boned, slight and light haired while Alec was tall, broad shouldered and brown haired.

  As if conscious of her scrutiny, Ian turned to her. ‘Are you sure you want to stay, Miss Penrose? I’ll watch him.’

  She glanced at the man in the bed. ‘I will stay. You need your rest and I owe him my life.’ And so much more.

  Ian stood and looked down at his brother. ‘That’s what he does,’ he said. ‘If he could save the whole world, he would, but this is a hard life and sometimes people die. He could not save Catriona or the bairn and he’s never forgiven himself. Has he told you about his wife?’

  ‘He told me she died in childbirth.’

  Ian nodded. ‘The winter of sixty-nine …’ Words seemed to fail him as his face screwed up in anguish. ‘Alec was away in Glasgow when Catriona’s time came. I sent for the midwife but she couldn’t be found. Catriona’d been in labour nearly twenty-four hours by the time he got home and the doctor arrived too late.’

  A large ginger cat pushed open the door and sauntered in. It regarded Eliza with unblinking green eyes before jumping onto the end of the bed, where it settled in a neat ball, one eye still fixed on Eliza. She leaned over and scratched it behind the ear in that special place that only people who love cats know. The cat rewarded her with a low purr.

  ‘Who’s this?’

  ‘Windlass,’ he replied. ‘Alec found him not long after we arrived. Some children were tormenting him and he nothing more than a tiny kitten. Alec can’t abide cruelty. He’s been with us ever since, but he’s Alec’s cat.’ He paused. ‘He’d never let me pet him that way.’

  Windlass had turned up his chin to be scritched along the jaw, his eyes closed, and his rumbling purr filling the room.

  ‘I’ll throw him out,’ Ian said.

  ‘No, leave him,’ Eliza said. ‘I’ll be pleased of the company.’

  The young man frowned and cleared his throat.

  ‘Are you worried that people will talk if I stay?’ Eliza said. ‘Well, they can talk all they like. Go to bed, Ian, I’ll wake you if I need your help.’

  Ian opened his mouth as if to protest and shook his head. ‘I’ll relieve you in an hour or so. I am grateful you are here, Miss Penrose.’

  ‘Call me Eliza.’

  A smile caught at the corners of his mouth. ‘Eliza.’

  Despite the fire, cold draughts blew through the floorboards and around the doorframe. Ian stoked the fire and set more wood beside it then left the room returning a few minutes later with extra blankets.

  He crossed to the door and looked back at her. ‘You will wake me?’

  ‘I promise.’

  Eliza pulled the blankets around her, grateful for the thoughtful gesture. Despite the hard chair, the strain of the day caught up with her and she dozed, waking to the cold and realising the fire had died down to bare embers. Forcing her stiff limbs to move, she bent over the fireplace to reignite the flames.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’

  She straightened. Alec was sitting, his night shirt sliding off one shoulder and the hair that had escaped the doctor’s bandage sticking straight up.

  ‘Fixing the fire,’ she said.

  ‘Do you know how much firewood
costs?’

  A sharp retort stuck on her tongue and she started to laugh.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘You are,’ she said. ‘You survive an encounter with bushrangers and your only thought is the cost of firewood. How’s your head?’

  He gingerly felt around the lump beneath the bandaging. ‘Sore.’

  ‘The doctor says you could have concussion so if you find yourself feeling tired or slurring your speech—’

  ‘I know what concussion is. Have they caught the bastards yet?’

  ‘Sergeant Maidment and his men are looking for them. He said he’ll come in the morning when you are a little recovered.’

  She returned to her chair by the bed. Alec moved his legs and Windlass raised his head to issue a chirrup of protest.

  ‘You know you’re not allowed on my bed,’ Alec murmured, but his hand reached for the cat, stirring his fur with his fingers. Windlass shifted, snuggling closer and allowing Alec to lay a hand on his head.

  Eliza poured a glass of water and gave it to Alec.

  ‘Why are you here? Where’s Ian?’

  ‘Ian’s in bed and someone has to sit with you to make sure you live through the night.’

  ‘That’s a bit dramatic.’

  She shrugged. ‘The doctor says cracks to the skull are not to be treated lightly.’

  Alec winced. ‘It does hurt something fierce, but you should go home. A single woman spending the night in a house of men is not likely to be viewed well by the town gossips.’

  ‘As I told Ian, I don’t give a fig for the town gossips, besides which my uncle’s house is not my home,’ she said. ‘If he set those ruffians on us today then he is no better than them. A home is somewhere safe, somewhere you are loved.’

  Alec’s eyes, dark pools in the light of the single candle, were fixed on her. ‘Aye,’ he said, ‘when you lose that, there is nothing.’

  The pain and yearning on his face told his story. His gaze flicked to his desk and Eliza picked up the leather-bound travelling photograph frame.

  ‘May I?’

  He shrugged and she held the image to the light. Through the cracked glass she could see that Catriona McLeod had probably never been a beauty but even in the cold formality of the photographer’s studio, a sense of fun and life radiated from her. Behind her, a younger Alec—clean shaven, his hair neatly combed—stood, one hand on her shoulder, exuding pride.