The Cartographer's Secret

by Téa Cooper

  Oxley lifted his nose to the breeze.

  ‘Vanity, I know.’ She stooped to pick a bunch of flowers, fastened them with a piece of grass and made her way up the hill to visit Mama, John, James and Joshua. Bailey’s talk of catching up with old mates had made her realise how neglectful she’d become as the weeks had passed.

  She laid the wildflowers at the foot of Mama’s headstone wishing she’d taken the time to care for the white roses Mama particularly liked. ‘I’ll spend some time tending your garden soon, I promise.’

  Skirting the path, she and Oxley sneaked around the back to the house hoping to avoid Olivia. They failed. She stood in the hallway, arms folded and a questioning look on her face. ‘Out!’ She glared at Oxley and pointed to the doorstep. ‘Did you catch Bailey?’

  ‘Yes, he said he’d be back in a month and it should give you time to chase up young Mr Ludgrove about the rest of the wages. Bailey’s nowhere near Pa’s age and I find it difficult to imagine Pa ever being young.’

  ‘He cut a fine figure in his youth. Everyone thought your mama had made the best catch. Mind you, she didn’t have to do much. It was never going to be otherwise. He’d only had eyes for her from the time she was still in pigtails. The Scotts’ girl, the redhead, hadn’t got a hope.’

  Pa’s journals told a different story but then who was she to judge?

  ‘If he hadn’t got such a bee in his bonnet things might have been very different.’

  Evie knew what would come next, another tirade about Leichhardt and the way he’d ruined Pa’s life. She too was entrapped, like a lizard in amber, able to think of little else. How could five men, two guides, twenty mules, fifty bullocks, seven horses and masses of gear disappear without trace?

  But it wouldn’t be without trace if someone found Leichhardt and Classen’s accounts. How she’d love the opportunity to talk to Andrew Hume. What a pity he’d died.

  And then everything went still and quiet but for the sound of Bailey’s voice as he’d said, Going to catch up with one of my father’s old mates. They worked together at Hall’s place at Dartbrook …

  Dartbrook! Wasn’t that where Andrew Hume had lived as a child before his parents moved to Maitland and he went off wandering? Wasn’t his father a stockman at the Dartbrook property?

  ‘Evie!’ Olivia’s fingers snapped in front of her face and her hands came down on her shoulders guiding her into the chair. ‘It’s all right. Sit quietly. It will pass. I’ve got you.’

  Cradled against Olivia’s breast as though still a child, Evie struggled for breath.

  ‘I knew this would happen, you’ve been behaving strangely ever since William left.’

  Evie wrenched away. ‘I’m not having a turn. I’m perfectly fine. I need to go and talk to Bailey.’ She leapt to her feet and pushed past Olivia, caught her ankle in her haste and groaned aloud.

  Olivia steadied her, a look of concern on her face. ‘Go upstairs and lie down.’

  ‘I don’t need to lie down. I need to talk to Bailey.’

  ‘Bailey’s left. A good hour ago. Are you slipping?’

  Slipping? ‘No, no I’m perfectly fine. I have to find some paperwork.’ She limped to the study and tried to close the door behind her but Oliva shadowed her footsteps.

  She pulled her drawing over the top of her notes, then piled some papers on top. Was it too much of a coincidence? ‘Do you know anyone called Hume?’

  Olivia frowned. ‘You need to rest.’

  ‘I don’t need to rest. Do you know anyone named Hume? Bailey said he was catching up with an old mate and I wondered if his name was Hume.’

  There must have been something in the tone of her voice because Olivia sat down in the chair and scratched her head. ‘Can’t say that I do. Why?’

  ‘Maitland way. Bailey said he was visiting a friend of his father who lived there. He was a drover, a stockman at the Halls’ place at Dartbrook.’

  ‘Well, Bailey’d know. Ask him.’

  But Bailey wasn’t here and wouldn’t be back for a month at least. And Andrew Hume had travelled from Sydney north on his final expedition and she’d found a report saying he’d given a talk in Maitland at the School of Arts on the 2nd of July just before he left on his final expedition. Surely he would have visited his parents, said goodbye. In the same situation she couldn’t imagine behaving any other way.

  Her gaze dived back to the papers in front of her then returned to Olivia. She had to speak to Bailey.

  ‘You’re still pale. I’ll go and make a cup of tea.’

  Evie didn’t want a cup of tea. She wanted some peace and quiet to get her jumbled thoughts in order. ‘I’ll be there in a moment.’

  That moment turned into an hour and more as she worked her way through the pile of papers again and found something she’d missed yesterday. A letter and a photograph of four men. She flipped it over and read the words on the back: Andrew Hume (far right) about to leave Sydney with members of his second expedition in search of Classen, 1874. The face of the man, his long beard and bowler hat, told her nothing, nor did the man next to him in a military-styled jacket, or the other two, sporting knee-high boots and waistcoats, and the six horses with their packs bulging.

  Unable to resist she pulled out her map and sketched them just outside Maitland and wrote the word Hume and turned to the letter. It was from Du Faur telling of his trip to meet Hume because the men he’d left Sydney with had become disillusioned when he’d disappeared for a couple of days. They’d withdrawn from the expedition and Du Faur had recruited another man named O’Hea and the expedition went ahead. Where did Hume go in those two days?

  And that made up her mind. She hadn’t got a month to wait until Bailey returned because she needed to talk to Andrew Hume’s father and ask what happened when his son visited Maitland and if he knew why he had disappeared for two days.

  Supposing, just supposing the canister with Leichhardt and Classen’s writings hadn’t been stolen along with the other relics and Andrew Hume had kept them as some form of insurance. Wouldn’t he have left them with someone he trusted while he went off into the desert? Who better than his parents?

  Thirteen

  Yellow Rock, 1911

  Lettie jerked upright and blinked the room into focus. She’d lain for hours listening to the muted sounds of the drovers’ party, reliving the firm touch of Nathaniel’s warm hands and the comforting sound of his voice as he’d told her the story of Lizard Rock foremost in her mind, until eventually sleep got the better of her. Now the sky had lightened and the same strange bird call echoed in the silence of the grey dawn.

  A tray bearing a small pot of tea stood on the bedside table. She swung out of bed and poured a cup, sipping slowly as she studied the empty paddock through the glass. Already the promise of another hot humid day threatened. No sign of the drovers and their cattle, only the looming shadow of Yellow Rock.

  A surge of energy raced through her and she pulled her nightgown over her head and reached for her blouse; instead she found a soft white dress lying across the back of the chair. She shook it out and held it up to the light. Cool and fine, the muslin billowed in the breeze from the window. Lifting it to her shoulders she held it against her body—a perfect fit and much cooler than her skirt and blouse, which had vanished. Peg must have brought her tea and taken away her clothes that reeked of smoke and sweat after the fire and dancing last night.

  She slipped the dress over her head and pulled on the pair of black stockings and buttoned her boots. Her reflection in the glass startled her, breaking her dream of last night.

  A dream so vivid, she couldn’t believe she’d woken, a yearning so intense that when she touched her chest she expected to find her heart bruised. Someone was calling her name; she couldn’t see her face but the voice was as familiar as her own.

  The hot sun beat down, Oxley’s panting breath, the wind blowing his ears back like pennants in the breeze. She stood at the top of the rock, a panoramic view laid out before her right to the s
parkling sea; the river, its serpentine laziness cutting its way through verdant green pastures. Unimportant and insignificant, she stood, gazing across the golden gorges and hazy violet hillsides leading to the distant horizon. Balanced on the lip of the precipice the air flooded over her and stopped her breath. She took a step back, her spine prickling. Her reflection shimmered and faded.

  Her heart beat fast against her ribcage and the hairs quivered on her skin. Ridiculous! She hadn’t been up there. Nothing but her imagination working overtime after Nathaniel’s story and Olivia’s strangely evasive responses to her questions. The unfulfilled promise of yesterday, interrupted by the arrival of the stockmen.

  Tomorrow Olivia had said, and tomorrow had arrived.

  Lettie found Peg in the kitchen stirring a huge pot over the stove. ‘Ah, you’re awake. Did you sleep well?’

  ‘Eventually. There’s a bird that calls before it’s even light. It’s a strange repetitive sound, a sort of wurro-wurro sound and then another bird answers, keek-keek. It woke me.’ Peg would think she was some strange city dweller who’d never heard a bird call.

  Peg let out something resembling a laugh. ‘You’ve got it down pat. The wurro-wurro is the male koel marking his territory. The keek-keek is the female accepting his invitation. They make a filthy noise at the beginning of the season. Perhaps you can tell ’em to bugger off. I hate the things. The fig trees attract them. Nasty piece of work the female is too. She lays her egg in someone else’s nest, leaves it and moves on. The chicks hatch and kick all the other birds out of the nest.’

  ‘A cuckoo? I’ve never heard one before.’

  ‘Australia’s answer to the cuckoo.’

  ‘I didn’t hear the drovers leave.’

  ‘Up and away at first light, same as always. Olivia said she’ll meet you over at the main house when you’re ready. She’s out with Nathaniel sorting the shipment of horses to Sydney. Like some breakfast?’

  Lettie’s heart gave an unexpected thud. For some reason she had imagined Nathaniel would have left at first light with the drovers. ‘No, I’m not hungry. I’ll go straight over.’

  ‘She’ll be at the house before long. Oxley’ll keep you company, he’s taken a shine to you. Don’t forget your hat, it’s in the hall. It’s going to be hot today.’

  Without replying Lettie grabbed the old cabbage palm hat from the stand, shook her hair loose and rammed it onto her head then bolted, her booted feet thudding on the path and Oxley skittering in excitement at the promise of a walk.

  She skidded to a halt, breath hitching, a stitch in her side. No sound of voices, nothing other than her ragged breath, the door firmly closed and yards empty. ‘Aunt Olivia?’ Her call bounced back at her echoing against the walls. ‘Aunt Olivia?’ She rounded the corner of the building. ‘Nathaniel!’

  What did sorting a shipment of horses entail? She imagined paperwork, the sort Pater littered across his desktop. Perhaps not. Maybe preparing horses to travel to Sydney, saddles and bridles and other paraphernalia. Lifting her skirt she raced around the back of the stables to the empty paddocks.

  Nothing.

  Two heartbeats later she stood staring down the drive at Nathaniel’s retreating back, her vision blurred by the cloud of dust whipped up by the horses’ hooves. ‘Cooee, Nathaniel!’ Her cry echoed but Nathaniel gave no indication that he’d heard.

  When he reached the road he turned and lifted his hat in salute. And despite the distance their eyes met and a lopsided grin flickered across his face, making her heart skip a beat before he disappeared in a cloud of dust.

  Dragging in great gulps of air Lettie slumped against the fence, a confusion of emotions swirling in her stomach. In the smoky air last night she’d imagined the first tangible wisps of friendship warming her skin yet he hadn’t even taken the time to bid her farewell.

  A waft of breeze snagged the loose tendrils of her hair, above her Yellow Rock loomed, the light and shadows dancing across his knowing eye and overhead the wedge-tailed eagles kept watch.

  Fragments of her dream slipped before her eyes, the wind whipping her skirt, blowing her hair, and then Nathaniel’s face in the light of the fire as he’d swirled her around and around to the frantic music of the fiddle. He’d been the last person she’d expected to see with the drovers but his company, his stories and his quiet good humour had made her realise how isolated she’d become since Thorne died.

  Unlike her arrival at the house the big double doors stood open and a shaft of sunlight welcomed her. Oxley flopped down across the doorway with a vexed sigh, following some unwritten rule and she stepped over him to the wide cedar staircase curving upwards.

  The scent of beeswax and lavender filled the air. The house might be unlived in but it was lovingly tended. She trailed her fingers across the timber-panelled walls, her gaze drawn to a set of exquisitely painted birds framed in matching gold leaf, worthy of a place in any Sydney gallery. She lifted her hand to the glass almost expecting to feel the smooth green feathers of the King-Parrot, then turned to the next, the palest grey and pink. Major Mitchell, the title informed her. ‘Magnificent.’ Far better than any of her efforts.

  A door upstairs banged. ‘Aunt Olivia?’ she called as she took the stairs. Beneath her palm the banister slid, smooth as silk, worn by generations. Wavering patterns danced against the pale green walls. ‘Aunt Olivia?’

  The staircase creaked and she spun around. ‘Hello,’ her voice quavered, overwrought and embarrassed by the possibility of being caught uninvited. She peered over the banister. The silence returned and, unable to resist, she moved on.

  The first door stood ajar and she peeped inside. Two matching windows overlooking the garden. Two silver-backed brushes side by side on a small dressing table beneath an oval mirror, a pair of black satin ribbons coiled ready for use. Not a crease marred the neatly folded quilt or the white lace pillowcases. A bunch of wildflowers much like those that grew in front of the house sat on the bedside table in a glass vase. A pair of buttoned boots tucked under a small chair where a white cotton dress, identical to the one she wore, lay draped as though waiting for the owner to slip it over her head.

  Lettie tiptoed across the room convinced she’d stepped back into the past. There was no doubt in her mind this was Evie’s room. A battered rag doll sat propped on the shelf, a lamp with a fluted glass shade, a leather-bound journal on the bedside table. She reached for it, the cover soft and worn beneath her fingertips.

  William Ludgrove—Early Travels with Ludwig Leichhardt 1842 A rush of guilt heated her skin. Grandfather’s journal. Ludwig Leichhardt? The name plucked some distant memory, of schoolrooms and dusty textbooks … What had Olivia said? She’d asked if Miriam had told her of William’s interest in exploration. Closing the book, she placed it carefully back on the bedside table. There was so much she didn’t know, so much she didn’t understand.

  The faintest scent, peppery like boronia flowers overlaid with a hint of citrus, wafted in the air and she knew she wasn’t alone. At any moment Evie would step through the door, fresh from the bathroom, slip the dress over her head, button her boots and head downstairs, which was where Lettie ought to have stayed until Olivia had come for her but for her insatiable curiosity.

  A dainty desk stood beneath one of the windows. Lettie perched on the edge of the matching chair, her hands framing the sketch Olivia had shown her yesterday, the picture of Evie sitting in a field of wildflowers, her heart-shaped face turned to the rock.

  A step behind her made her leap to her feet, the chair toppled as she turned.

  Olivia stood, framed in the doorway.

  The woman of yesterday, down at the drovers’ camp, with her pink cheeks, hitched skirt and rollicking humour, had vanished. Today Olivia would have put Miriam to shame. Her somewhat dated steel grey dress, almost severe save for a single strand of pearls, accentuated her austere presence. The expression on her face, a mixture of pleasure and something close to agony, made Lettie’s cheeks flush.

 
She tried to speak but her voice lay lost in the past. She recognised the look in Olivia’s eyes, the torment. Grief. More than loneliness; a deep abiding hollow that could never be filled. Lettie saw it every time she looked in the mirror. Had done since Thorne had gone.

  Olivia righted the chair then lifted the dress and draped it reverently on the end of the bed.

  Lettie dropped her head. ‘I’m sorry.’ She swallowed, her voice high-pitched and unnatural. ‘You made me jump. I—’ she cleared her throat ‘—came upstairs looking for you. Peg said—’

  ‘I would meet you here.’ Olivia came and stood beside her. ‘Don’t be embarrassed. A normal curiosity. I had planned to explain things differently. I didn’t want you jumping to conclusions.’ She took her arm and led her to the bed, sat down then patted the spot beside her. ‘It’s a lovely room, isn’t it? One of the nicest in the house. Shall I show you the others?’

  Tell me about Evie! The words screamed inside Lettie’s head. Every tantalising morsel Olivia dropped had her craving more.

  ‘Seeing you here, dressed like that …’

  Lettie looked down at the white dress she’d found beside her bed. ‘I thought I’d be cooler. It was on the chair in my room when I awoke.’

  ‘It fits perfectly. Evie was a little younger than you. How old are you, my dear?’

  Lettie licked her lips, her throat dry. Yesterday Olivia had seemed rational and sensible, and Miriam appeared to be the culprit of the unknown story; now she wasn’t sure. ‘Much older I suspect. I’m twenty-five.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘He was twenty-nine when he died. Six months ago.’ Lettie dropped to her knees, took Olivia’s gnarled work-worn hand in hers. ‘What happened to Evie?’

  Olivia lifted her shoulders then exhaled. ‘I don’t know. I just don’t know.’ Her soft, weary voice wavered. ‘If you’d like to come into Evie’s bedroom again you don’t have to ask. I sometimes sit in here, I find it peaceful. Closer to Evie, as if she’s still with me, just outside somewhere with her sketchbook and will be back for afternoon tea in the orchard. That was another one of her favourite places, her outdoor dining room she called it, beneath the citrus trees. The perfume of their blossom reminds me of her, she’s with me still. She knows you’re here.’ Olivia walked to the doorway and waited, hand on the doorknob.