by Téa Cooper
What about Pa’s promise to her, their book on Leichhardt, her map? Was it some foolish sop to keep her occupied? And what was this new information about the Leichhardt relics? Were they the ones stolen from the man’s satchel? What of the notes written by Leichhardt and his brother-in-law? Surely Pa would have written and told her of something so significant. Had he any intention of returning home and writing their book?
She slammed down the stairs and burst through the front door, wiping away the foul taste of bile with the back of her hand, and began to sob.
What she truly wanted was for life to return to normal. For life to be the way it had been before Mama’s passing.
She skirted the stables and took the track leading up to Yellow Rock. Her thoughts coiled and swirled the faster she ran until she hadn’t a breath left. Dragging in a great gulp of air she slumped down under an old ironbark tree, its trunk rough against her heaving back. Her eyes stung, perspiration covered her face and her parched throat hardly allowed her to swallow.
She shielded her eyes against the glare of the rising sun. The property lay like a drawing below. The two solid dwellings, the farmhouse hardly more than a child’s plaything. The spacious flower gardens surrounded by ornamental trees and shrubs. Ma’s rose garden, the western slope and driveway edged with large shady trees. Neat fences running in straight rows, the raceway to the stables, the mares’ paddock, all wide enough to allow for Pa’s dog cart and for Olivia to manage the mares, move them from paddock to paddock on her own.
On her own.
The words hovered for a moment and a rush of heat suffused her face, her body responding before her mind. She wasn’t the only one affected by the news. Not only had Olivia lost her sister, Pa had deserted her too. Taking for granted that she could manage the farm, the two properties, the horses and the cattle. She wasn’t the only one who suffered by Pa’s absence.
Her breathing settled but not the rasping in her throat. She struggled to her feet and out from under the shade of the tree in search of water.
She’d once stumbled across Bailey and Olivia at the old cave under the overhang of the rock, where the walls were covered in ancient handprints; there was always water in the carved basin there, much like the one where the King-Parrots liked to drink.
She trailed back down the slope about a hundred yards, and there just off the track running around the swell of the hill, nestled in the shade of an overhanging rock, was an indentation in the sandstone where water gathered.
Rock ferns grew marking the spot and she squatted down and pushed them aside. Cupping her hands, she drank her fill, then splashed her face and dangled her wrists until her blood, and temper, cooled.
If Pa was going to be in Sydney longer than either he or she had anticipated then she should make use of the time. Olivia managed on her own and she would too. She would find out as much as she could from Pa’s notes of the story behind these Leichhardt relics. And then when Pa told her about the Skuthorpe man she’d have all the information at her fingertips.
Miriam had said nothing of the canister containing Leichhardt and Classen’s papers; she’d only mentioned a watch and other instruments. Surely the papers were more important, most important because they could well explain the fate of Leichhardt’s expedition.
Regretting her foolish flight, she dried her hands on her skirt and headed down the track to the house.
By the time Evie returned Olivia was back in the kitchen, a fresh pot of tea in front of her and a pile of papers covering the kitchen table.
‘I owe you an apology.’
Rubbing at her nose where a piece of burnt skin had lifted, Olivia raised her head. ‘I doubt it.’
‘Oh, but I do.’ Evie drew in a deep breath. ‘I went upstairs, into your bedroom while you were out with the horses, and read Miriam’s letter.’
Olivia’s palms flattened on the tabletop and she stared into her face for long seconds. There was nothing in her eyes to indicate anger. But then she’d never seen Olivia angry. Upset when Mama passed away, concerned for her if one of her attacks threatened, annoyed when Miriam trailed around after the young drovers, but never truly angry, not the way she had looked last night.
‘I should have told you straight away.’ Olivia reached for the teapot. ‘I wanted to save you pain. I know how much William means to you, how much you mean to William. This time …’ Her eyes skittered aside. ‘Everything will be for the best and besides I should be lonely without you.’
‘I think Pa knew he would be in Sydney longer than he said.’ The words sprang from her lips before she had time to process the thought, however she had no doubt she was correct. ‘Otherwise he wouldn’t have given me the saddlebag, or asked me to work on my maps for the book. I couldn’t have completed everything in a couple of weeks.’
‘A book you say.’ Olivia raised her eyebrows in question.
By way of apology Evie told Olivia what Pa had said. He hadn’t told her not to talk about it. It was more her own self-importance that had prevented her from telling Olivia. ‘He’s planning to write a book about Leichhardt—three volumes, in fact. He’s asked me to collate his papers and draw the maps.’
Olivia’s lips twitched and she gave a sniff. ‘That’s a big job. You might be right. Take your cup of tea into the study and spend some time there. I’ll call you when food’s ready.’
Evie turned to leave and remembered the part of Miriam’s letter she’d forgotten in her selfish tirade ‘Do you know anything more about this Skuthorpe man Miriam mentioned?’
‘Not a clue. I thought after all this time they’d give up. What’s special about a few relics belonging to some failed explorer? Nothing for you to worry about, my sweet girl.’
‘I’m not a child you know.’ Even though she’d behaved like a spoilt infant—it wouldn’t happen again.
Olivia pulled back the chair, reached for Evie’s hand and patted it.
She wouldn’t be fobbed off with any more platitudes. ‘Tell me. I have a right to know if it affects me.’
‘Yes. You do,’ Olivia admitted with a sigh. ‘Our breeding business is not, hasn’t been for some time, as successful as it was in the past. Money’s tight. Many more people have good stock now and although ours is the best sometimes money wins out. William is looking to expand into other areas. He dedicated so much of the family money to this ridiculous obsession he has with Leichhardt, amends must be made. Edward Rawlings has contacts in the racing world, a different type of business. William needs to be in Sydney.’
Olivia’s shuttered face signalled the end of the conversation. Evie took it as her dismissal, swallowing the urge to challenge her unusual remarks.
‘Before you go … This came from Sydney. The Bushman’s Bible, put it with the others in the study.’
Eleven
Yellow Rock, 1911
More cattle and stockmen with their horses and dogs arrived as the day wore on, the campfire grew bigger and someone opened a keg of rum, at least that was what Peg reported, when she sent Lettie down to the camp to join in the fun.
Oxley stuck firmly by her side as she wandered across the paddock surrounded by squealing children and a deal of backslapping as old friends caught up with each other. As the sun sank someone lit a small fire out of fresh gum leaves and grass. Everyone gathered around in a circle and one of the drovers played a series of haunting notes on a hollow branch while white smoke billowed through the twilight.
With the moon riding high above Yellow Rock and the smell of roasting meat and rum mingling with the scent of the gum trees the smaller fire was abandoned in favour of the bonfire and someone stuck a well-loved fiddle under their chin and the dancing began.
Olivia hiked up her skirt, flashed a comely pair of ankles and dragged Lettie into the fray, taught her jigs and reels making her lungs heave and her face burn. A far cry from the sedate waltzes and the starched shirts she’d encountered in Sydney.
It wasn’t until the musicians took a rest that Olivia’s dusty sk
irt stopped flaring and she accepted a tin mug and thrust another into Lettie’s hand.
The fumes burnt Lettie’s nostrils and she handed it back, her gorge rising. ‘I couldn’t. I’ll track down a glass of Peg’s lemonade when I’ve got my breath back.’ Moving from the roaring fire she found a convenient spot away from the dancing and settled down. A cool breath of air touched her cheek and the plaintive strains of the fiddle melded with the murmur of voices.
Oxley let out a bark of relief and rushed to her side and flopped down. She ran her fingers through his rough wiry coat, pleased for his company as everyone stood around catching their breath, chatting and sharing a drink. A star-studded sky far brighter than she’d ever seen in Sydney lit the camp, the Milky Way an untidy splattering of paint sweeping the indigo darkness.
A loud laugh broke her contemplation and she spotted Olivia talking to a tall, rangy fellow brushing his hair back from his face before replacing his battered hat. The flash of his dark eyes, the red shirt and wide smile stirred her memory—the man from the blacksmith’s in Wollombi.
The moment she stepped into the light of the fire Nathaniel spotted her, remembered her face, recognised her. It would be difficult not to, she’d stayed in his mind from their first meeting. Dark hair unusual with her green-gold eyes, a mixture of feisty confidence tinged with that little-girl-lost look. A total contrast and one he couldn’t fathom. So, she’d made it as far as Yellow Rock and in the flickering light he couldn’t tell if she’d settled. Family, she’d said, and sure enough Olivia had her in the fray but then there’d be nothing that would keep Olivia away from a shindig.
Even at her age Olivia still turned a pretty ankle and loved nothing more than a dance. According to Denman, she’d been quite a one in her younger years though she’d never married. There’d been talk at one stage of a disappointment, a lost love, but Nathaniel had never seen or heard evidence of such.
His gaze roamed the circle around the fire searching for Letitia again. All the Broke girls were there in force, chasing the drovers; there’d be some shenanigans tonight unless he was mistaken. News travelled fast. He hadn’t known the drovers would be in, hadn’t intended to camp the night in the paddock under Yellow Rock but he’d seen the herd run through Wollombi, felt the need for company. Pretty much as the locals had done.
It was good to see the place lit up, and truth be told her name had sparked his interest when she’d turned up in Wollombi. Rawlings. She had to be related. Edward Rawlings was well known around Randwick; he’d come across him more than once delivering horses.
The plaintive notes of the fiddle slowed the dancing and he found her. Back resting against one of the wagons and her arms folded protectively across her body as though frightened to let go. He pulled off his hat and stepped in front of her. ‘Everyone’s talking about Olivia’s long-lost niece.’
‘Yes.’ A frown flitted across her forehead then the corner of her mouth lifted. ‘I remember. You helped with the motor spirit in Wollombi.’
‘Nathaniel Poole.’ Feeling like a gangling boy, he fiddled with the brim of his hat. ‘You got that motor of yours here, no problems?’
She tilted her chin. ‘A Model T Ford—the best motor in Australia.’
‘Don’t see many around these parts.’
‘It’s the way of the future. There are over four thousand cars in Sydney now, never mind almost as many motorcycles.’
‘Sydney’s not my cup of tea. Like it better out in the open country where you can breathe.’ The only thing he owned was the air that he breathed. This girl, woman in fact—he ran an appreciative gaze from the top of her wavy hair to the tip of her expensive boots—was so far out of his league as to make it ridiculous.
‘Have you never visited Sydney?’ The frown drifted back, her head tipped to one side, a curtain of hair falling across the side of her face.
His fingers itched to brush the curls aside. ‘Now and again, running horses down to Sydney.’ Sometimes taking the back roads, other times sticking to the stock route, giving him a chance to learn the country and a sense of freedom. Just the way he liked it. No ties, backwards and forwards between Scone, Windsor and Randwick, sometimes further afield, putting his head down in a different place most nights. ‘Cattle are slow. I prefer shifting horses.’ And a fair enough way to earn a quid, and allow him to choose how he spent it. He’d settle soon, had picked out the spot he fancied, one he and Denman could call their own, up Dartbrook way where the grazing was good. ‘You got here without any problems.’
She turned to him, the light of the fire illuminating her delicate cheekbones. ‘Yes. Thank you.’
‘No trouble with the creeks?’
‘No, none at all. Your directions were perfect.’
‘And that motor of yours ran all right? Had enough motor spirit?’
‘Lizzie’s fine.’
‘Lizzie?’
‘Tin Lizzie. My brother’s name for the motor. His car in fact. She does a good fifty miles to the gallon.’
He ran his hand through Oxley’s fur, shifting from one foot to the other. Never short of a word, he suddenly found himself tongue-tied. Then the music fired up and saved him. ‘Would you like to dance, Letitia?’
Her arms rose defensively across her body again. ‘No, thank you. I don’t.’
‘Everyone dances.’ He offered his hand, sensing the tension deep inside her, wanting to see her smile again. ‘Besides I saw you with Olivia. Bet she taught you a trick or two. This one’s nice and slow, a waltz.’ Wasn’t that what they did in society? He’d got some picture in his head of swirling skirts and cavernous ballrooms. No idea where it came from. Only dances he knew happened around a campfire or if it was real smart in the woolshed on one of the bigger properties. She was ballroom material without a doubt with her fine wrists, long thin fingers and skin as delicate as one of Olivia’s china tea cups.
‘Lettie, come along. Don’t be shy,’ Olivia called as she swirled past, her girlish laugh belying every one of her seventy years. More of a polka than a waltz but then that was Olivia, always at a gallop for as long as he could remember.
Letitia took a couple of tentative steps towards the dancers and in a fit of outright wishful thinking he took her hand. When her fingers tightened around his he led her from the security of the wagon towards the fire and before she could change her mind he slipped his hand to her waist. Light as a spring breeze she came into his arms.
He started to move, more shuffled his feet in the dirt, the connection between his brain and his body well and truly severed by her closeness, took a step back, then forward. Wasn’t that the way?
Her body shook, he stopped short, lurched back. ‘Did I tread on your foot?’
‘No, no.’ She jiggled from one side to another. ‘I’m fine.’ Her mouth quivered and then she laughed.
Whatever had possessed him? He couldn’t dance, not slow like this, not with a lady in his arms. The music picked up. Saved by a fiddle. Who’d have thought?
Taking a leaf out of Olivia’s book he spun Letitia once, galloped her off through the throng, faster and faster. Her shrieks of laughter filling his ears, ringing in the smoky air. Round and around until the bodies blurred and his head went dizzy.
‘Stop! Stop!’
He ground to a halt. What now? She slumped against him, then pulled away, bent double, a mixture of snatched breaths and explosive giggles. ‘Come and sit down.’
‘I’m so out of breath. I need a drink.’ She put her hands on her knees and leant over sucking in great gasps of air.
A drink? There was rum, the sweet, oaky flavour permeated the air. Surely she wouldn’t want rotgut. ‘Rum?’
She straightened up, her smile wider than the Hunter, then pulled her hair back from her face and twisted it in some kind of knot leaving tendrils framing her face. ‘I’d like water, not rum.’
‘That I can do.’ He led her away from the fire to a nice quiet spot below the rock and settled her down on the grass. ‘Sit here, I’ll be b
ack in a moment. Oxley’ll keep you company.’ Happy the dog would take care of her, he raced off.
When he returned he found her perched on a fallen log, one arm slung around Oxley’s shoulders and her eyes fixed on the rock.
‘Thank you.’ She took the water bag and upended it, dribbles of water trickling from the corner of her mouth, then sighed and wiped them away with the back of her hand. ‘It’s so quiet here after the noise around the fire. It’s as though the rock swallows all sound.’
‘Heard the story of Lizard Rock?
‘Olivia calls it Yellow Rock, so did the man in the general store, not Lizard Rock.’
‘Different people, different names. You can see his shape better in the moonlight. The old fellas, the Wonnarua People, say that’s the head of the lizard. And his body runs along the ridge-line, and that arch up there, that’s his eye. See his two front legs stretched out, with the tail making up the ridges running towards Wollombi? Sometimes he gets restless and kicks down a flurry of stones, a bit of a landslide. Some say he created all the valleys and the mountains between the ocean and here.’
She gave a little shiver.
‘Cold?’
‘No. You’re right, he is watching.’
‘Just another of the old stories, country’s full of them.’
‘Tell me.’ She wrapped her hands around her knees and fixed her gaze on him.
‘The old fellas say Lizard made his way across the land from the coast eating everything in his path, all the animals. He kept on eating and eating and growing bigger and bigger until one day he ate Kangaroo.’
‘I’ve never eaten a kangaroo.’
‘It’s good tucker. Saved a lot of the early settlers from starvation.’
She tilted her head, the moonlight bathing her in a pale halo. ‘And what happened to the lizard when he ate the kangaroo? Are you going to tell me something I’d rather not know?’
Not if he could help it. He’d be happy if she stayed right where she was studying him with those unfathomable eyes. He drew in a steadying breath. ‘Understandably Kangaroo wasn’t very happy about being eaten. He started to jump up and down inside Lizard’s stomach making him feel real sick.’