The Cartographer's Secret

by Téa Cooper

  ‘And on your way, Olivia, ask Mrs Hewitt to serve supper here. I’ve got work to do.’

  Which Evie, as well as everyone else, knew was Pa’s way of escaping Mama’s confinement. She could hardly blame him. The chances of the baby being born alive diminished with every passing day. The last time Doctor Glennie called he’d taken Pa aside. Evie didn’t need him to tell her, nor did Mama. Come what may she would have to deliver herself of the child and after the wretched losses of Evie’s two older brothers who hadn’t drawn more than a few blue-tinged breaths, Mama’s wait was an ongoing agony.

  Evie sank down on the edge of the bed, and cradled Mama’s frail hand.

  ‘I’m sorry. You must be strong.’

  A shiver traced her spine as she smoothed Mama’s dry skin. The endless string of stillbirths, miscarriages and misery had ravaged her face and stripped her mind and body of her vivacity. ‘There’s nothing to be sorry about.’

  ‘I haven’t long now.’

  ‘Everything will be fine, once the baby comes.’

  A fierce, fevered light shone in Mama’s dark eyes as she struggled higher in the bed. ‘No. You know as well as I. There will be no heir for your father, no brother for you.’

  How could Mama be certain this baby was a boy? Both Evie and Miriam had thrived. It was only Mama who harboured this mind-consuming belief that she’d failed because she couldn’t produce a son and heir for the mighty Maynard–Ludgrove alliance. ‘Perhaps we will have a sister. I would like that.’

  ‘He’s a boy. I know.’

  Only because Mrs Hewitt had come and dangled Mama’s wedding ring over her stomach, like some ancient water divining crone. It hung, then slowly spun—a circle for Miriam, the first daughter, from side to side for poor little William and James alone on the hillside, another circle for Evie and then they’d all held their breath as the ring paused before swinging like an exhausted pendulum.

  Mama’s face had paled as she accepted her fate. The baby was a boy and in her mind he would not survive. He would join William and James on the hillside beneath the cedar tree along with Mama’s brothers. The Ludgrove and Maynard families were not destined to produce the son and heir the vast properties demanded. ‘There will be another chance.’ Evie tried for a reassuring smile and failed miserably.

  ‘There will be no more. God knows I’ve tried. Tried for you and for your father. Joshua has already gone.’ Mama’s hands cradled her stomach. ‘My boys and I will be together soon.’

  The skin of Evie’s arms rose in a horrifying rash of goosebumps. She licked her lips, snatched a moment to force some words of comfort from her addled brain, and failed. She wouldn’t have another chance.

  Three

  Wollombi, 1911

  The sudden backfire sent Lettie rocketing forward. Head down, heart pounding, hands clutched tightly to the steering wheel, furious that even in the country, as far from the sea as she’d ever travelled, Thorne’s accident could still haunt her.

  She pulled off her gloves, untied her scarf, mopped the layer of perspiration from her face and exhaled slowly, bringing her thundering heartbeat under control.

  No need to check the motor. She’d babied it for the last few miles. It was a gift she’d made it this far. Releasing the hand brake, she coasted down the gentle incline towards a sign announcing she’d reached the town of Wollombi.

  Hardly a town, but several yards ahead there was a solid building emblazoned with the words Family Hotel and behind it a meandering creek surrounded by neatly fenced, well-tended paddocks and a large market garden. Easing out from behind the wheel she stretched her legs, peeled off her thick dustcoat and pushed up her sleeves.

  A straight flat stretch of track disappeared into a shimmering heat haze and to her right a slight incline led to some sort of a general store and a few other surprisingly substantial sandstone buildings. Not her destination but a necessary stop. Lizzie was going nowhere until she found her a drink. What were the chances of motor spirit in an out of the way place like this?

  Pushing her driving goggles up on top of her head, she strode up the hill.

  The faded door of the general store, though firmly closed, sported a scrawled sign reading Open. She turned the handle and entered the cool, dark interior.

  ‘Stinking out there. Close the door behind you.’ The words came from the depths of the shop but the owner of the gravelly tones remained invisible.

  She swung the door closed and waited while the shadows took shape and resolved into a long counter covered in an array of wilting vegetables and other knick-knacks.

  ‘What can I do for you?’ A heavy-set man stepped out from behind the counter, his bushy eyebrows quivering as he took in the goggles perched onto the top of her head.

  ‘I’m after a can of motor spirit.’

  ‘That’d account for the extra pair of eyes then.’ He gave a sigh, which may well have been relief. ‘Where’s the motor?’

  ‘At the bottom of the hill. I thought I’d make it into town but I had to coast the last little bit.’

  He peered outside. Must have caught sight of Lizzie because he turned with a smile. ‘Get a few motors through here nowadays. Not usually driven by a woman though.’

  ‘So you carry motor spirit?’

  ‘Nah.’

  Her stomach sank. She couldn’t leave Lizzie skew-whiff on the side of the road in some out of the way town.

  ‘Where are you heading?’

  ‘The Ludgrove-Maynard properties.’

  ‘Yellow Rock?’ His eyebrows raised. ‘A good twenty miles. Go see Armstrong, at the forge.’ He flipped his thumb over his shoulders. ‘Just across the road. I’ll keep an eye on the motor. Not that you’ll have a problem. No one in town today. Too bloody humid. Armstrong’ll fix you up.’

  ‘Thank you, thank you very much.’

  ‘How’d you come by the motor?’ He scratched his head and studied her from head to toe.

  ‘It belongs to my brother.’ Belonged she mentally corrected, not wanting to get into the conversation that would ensue.

  ‘Ah! That’s more like it. Where’s he then?’

  ‘Sydney.’ No lie in that. And somehow she felt that if Great-Aunt Olivia hadn’t received Miriam’s letter she should be the first one to hear the news of his passing—from her, not from some shopkeeper in the local town.

  ‘You drove yourself?’

  ‘Plenty of practice. I had a good teacher.’ She slipped through the door before he could ask any more questions.

  Across the road a winding flagstone path edged with faded geraniums and the stench of cats led to a couple of slab buildings and a sign dangling from a branch announcing The Forge. Following the sound of hammering she wandered down the path and drew to a halt a good few feet from a blazing fire where a sweaty man in a leather apron hunched, belting the daylights out of a blazing horseshoe. He gave a final thump and lifted his head.

  ‘Mr Armstrong? I’m after some motor spirit. The man at the general store said you carried it.’

  He wiped his forehead on a filthy rag and tossed it aside. ‘Nat, can you see to that while I re-shoe your horse?’

  A lean muscular man stepped from the shadows, hat pulled low, dark hair curling at the collar of his faded shirt. ‘Where is it?’

  ‘Out there. Not here.’

  The man ambled to the back of the building, ducked his head beneath the lintel and disappeared.

  Lettie scampered after him.

  ‘How much do you want?’ he called over his shoulder.

  ‘I’ve got three two-gallon cans to refill.’

  Half hidden behind the makeshift bench, Nathaniel poked around and pulled out a few cans, most of them empty. Who the hell was she? There was something about the lilt in her voice, the way she tilted her head when she spoke, something familiar but he was damned if he could place her. ‘Nah! He’s only got one. Be another delivery on the Sydney dray tomorrow.’ He straightened up, snatched another look, didn’t want to appear to be staring.
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  ‘I’ll take that. Thanks.’ She rammed her hand into her pocket and brought out a wallet, more like a man’s than something a girl would carry, though the bug-eyed glasses rammed on the top of her head didn’t look much like something a girl would wear either.

  ‘Where are you heading?’

  ‘The Ludgrove-Maynard properties.’

  ‘Yellow Rock?’

  ‘Apparently.’

  ‘That’ll be two shillings and sixpence.’ Armstrong charged twice the going rate but she wasn’t in a position to argue.

  Without a second thought she pulled out a crisp pound note.

  He schooled his face. More than Armstrong had seen in a while. ‘Got anything smaller?’

  She answered with a smile, not much more than a crease at the corner of her mouth, followed by a raised eyebrow above large green-brown eyes smudged with shadows. ‘Keep the change and I’ll come and pick up some more on my way back.’

  Olivia would be in for a surprise, or maybe she was expecting a visitor, though he couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t have mentioned it. ‘You’re visiting. For long?’

  She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Would the Family Hotel have a room?’

  ‘Maybe. Thought you were going to Yellow Rock. Plenty of room there. The old lady’ll love a bit of company.’

  ‘You know the Ludgrove family?’

  ‘Everyone knows everyone around here. I do a bit of work there now and again.’ More than a bit now Olivia was getting on, but she was determined not to give up the horses. The cattle had all gone though the drovers still called in on their way north. She couldn’t know the family well if she was calling Olivia a Ludgrove. She was Maynard through and through and would take a horse whip to anyone who tried to tell otherwise. ‘Where’s the motor? I’ll give you a hand.’

  ‘Down at the bottom of the hill. I ran out at the top of the crest and coasted into town.’

  ‘Right you are.’ He hefted the can. ‘We can go out this way.’

  A whistle slipped out between his lips when he set eyes on the motor. As sleek as the girl standing in front of him. He’d always maintained a horse was all he needed but he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to take a ride. He dumped the can down and stood in front of the car running his hand over the glossy green paintwork, brushing the road dust away. ‘I thought motors only came in black.’

  When he lifted his head, she was watching, lips tilted in another of those half smiles. ‘Mostly they do. It’s my brother’s car. It was custom-built in Victoria. He helped, and chose the paint colour. It’s the only green one in Australia.’

  And it matched her eyes perfectly.

  ‘I need to fill her up.’ She held out her hand.

  The can would be much too heavy for her. ‘Let me.’ The motor spirit would have to go in under the front, that’s where the engine was kept, wasn’t it? He reached across and unclipped the bonnet. A mass of gleaming tubes and cylinders and all manner of bits and pieces greeted him along with the smell of oil and grease. The tank had to be there somewhere. He lifted the can.

  ‘It’s under here.’ She swung open the driver’s door and lifted the seat.

  ‘Ah!’ Heat rose to his face. ‘Right you are.’ He closed the bonnet. ‘Pretty engine.’

  ‘A front-mounted 177-cubic-inch inline four-cylinder engine, which produces twenty horsepower for a top speed of forty-five miles per hour.’

  She might as well have been speaking double-dutch for all he knew.

  ‘I’m right out of spirit, the can should fit easily.’

  He fitted the funnel she held out, tipped the spirit in and replaced the lid. Not too difficult. Maybe he could get the hang of these things. ‘Will that see you to Yellow Rock?’

  ‘I’ll be good for about fifty miles.’

  ‘Nowhere near that far. Know the way?’

  She pointed down the road to the bridge. ‘That way.’

  ‘You’ll cross Cunneens Bridge about two hundred yards down, after that the track gets a bit rougher. Make sure you follow the brook, there are seven crossings. Rain wasn’t too bad—you shouldn’t have a problem but don’t hang around. There’s a storm coming and the water rises fast. Once you ford the last crossing follow the track and Yellow Rock’s on your right. You’ll see the drive, can’t miss it.’

  ‘Thank you.’ She pulled the goggles down, covering her eyes, and worked her fingers into her leather gloves.

  ‘My pleasure.’ He opened the door and glanced down at the three pedals on the floor and some sort of brake. Couldn’t be too complicated; he’d seen enough of them getting around on the Sydney roads. ‘Are you ready to go?’

  ‘It’s not quite that simple. There’s a couple of things I need to do first.’ She leant across and fiddled with two levers hanging off the side of the steering wheel, then walked around to the front and grabbed hold of a bent piece of pipe poking out from the car. That was it. He’d seen blokes in Sydney winding their motors up. ‘Let me do that for you, Miss …’

  She stepped back with a smile. ‘Rawlings. Letitia Rawlings.’

  His head came up with a snap. ‘You related to Olivia?’ That would account for the familiarity in her looks and mannerisms. Denman always maintained Olivia had been a looker in her early days; if Miss Rawlings was an example of the family breeding it would be easy to understand.

  ‘She’s my great-aunt.’

  ‘And you’ve come from Sydney.’

  ‘Yes.’

  He gave the pipe a swing.

  Nothing happened.

  ‘You need to …’

  He wiped his arm across his forehead, gave another mighty swing. Not much more happened, though he wasn’t sure what to expect. Perhaps it wasn’t as easy as it looked, and it was bloody hard work. Not something you’d imagine a slip of a woman handling.

  ‘It’ll fire in a moment. It’s because she ran out of motor spirit.’ She bent down and fiddled with something tucked below the bonnet. ‘There, that should help prime it. Let me have a go. Stand aside. They have a habit of kicking back.’ Her shoulder muscles tightened and she set her feet square before giving the metal bar an almighty swing with her left hand. The engine spluttered and sprang to life. ‘Thank you for your help.’ She reached for her dustcoat, wiped her hands and slid in behind the wheel.

  Moments later, with nothing more than a wave she headed over Cunneens Bridge into the arms of the incoming storm.

  Four

  Yellow Rock, 1880

  Evie lurched upright, the distinctive haunting cry of the koel rising in pitch and intensity. It never ceased to shock her. She burrowed under the quilt knowing the ruckus would continue until the breeding male reclaimed his territory, attracted his mate and she’d laid her eggs in another’s nest.

  A heavy lethargy suffused her limbs, as though she was floating through the spring mist that rolled across the paddocks, a blissful state between sleeping and waking.

  Until reality came crashing back, pulling her into a dawn she didn’t want to inhabit. She scrubbed at her face, forced her eyelids open bringing with the daylight the dismal memory of the past weeks.

  She turned to the portrait she’d sketched less than a year ago. Mama tending her beloved roses, her cheeks pink from the warm glow of the sun, her body slim as a girl’s. Now she lay beneath the earth, her casket alongside those of her sons, united in death as they’d never been in life.

  Pa, a haggard remnant of the man he’d been, Miriam, red-eyed and strangely silent as though all her brash opinions had flown to the heavens accompanying Mama and Joshua’s souls. Only Aunt Olivia seemed to hold the family together, though perhaps she found solace in the constant orders she issued. Not one funeral, but two. Pa would never have the son he yearned for, he’d lost his wife and she her mother. The familiar prick of tears scratched behind her eyes as she struggled out of bed and shrugged into her clothes.

  The reek of naphthalene from the taffeta dress she’d worn since Mama’s passing hovered in a malodorous cloud above her head a
s she ran downstairs to find Pa, Miriam and Olivia deep in discussion over the remnants of breakfast.

  The conversation halted when she entered the room. She slipped into her customary seat next to Pa, averting her eyes from Mama’s empty chair. Mrs Hewitt laid a plate in front of her, a pile of scrambled eggs and some slices of ham and glared at Miriam and Olivia, both of them splotchy-faced as they shifted their cutlery around their plates. After a few moments of tortured silence, they left the room, their breakfast abandoned.

  Pa cleared his throat, pushed his untouched plate away. ‘I realise it’s unexpected, however I have no option. Miriam and I will be travelling to Sydney. A suitor has made an offer. I thought to postpone the wedding until after a longer period of mourning but I find that is not possible.’

  Evie’s fork clattered against the plate and the egg in her mouth turned to paste. ‘Why ever not?’ There’d been talk of suitors before Mama’s passing but none Miriam deemed acceptable. Where had this urgent Sydney suitor come from?

  ‘Matters of the heart move in mysterious ways.’

  Rubbish! She’d never heard such nonsense pass Pa’s lips.

  ‘My mind is made up. Miriam and I will travel to Sydney this week to prepare for the wedding.’

  Some childish voice in Evie’s head wanted to shout What about me? She’d lost Mama, and now Pa and Miriam would leave too.

  No need to ask the question. Pa knew her well enough. ‘You will stay here with Olivia. She will take care of you as she has always done. Once the dates are finalised and everything organised I’ll let you know the details.’

  Evie chewed at a forkful of egg, more to give herself time to digest this odd information than any desire for sustenance. It was such a contradiction. Pa always said he wanted Miriam to marry into one of the local families. Why suddenly up and rush to Sydney? And if Miriam had got her own way and was going to Sydney why was she sporting such red eyes? She knew her older sister well enough. She had bigger plans than living in the Hunter for the rest of her life. She should be bursting with excitement. She’d spoken of nothing but Sydney since she’d returned from Mrs M’Ghie’s Educational Establishment, a boarding school for young ladies, one Evie had managed to escape due to Pa’s cosseting concerns for her health.