by Téa Cooper
The black cockatoos had pride of place on the right of the window and on the other side the water mole. She stepped back and looked up. Ma and Pa’s room. She swallowed down the sudden surge of remorse. She’d neglected them, too caught up in her own misery. She hoped they’d understand. Tomorrow she’d go to the Devonshire Street cemetery with flowers.
Then her eyes lit on the painted sign stretching the width of the building and her heart stopped. The word Taxidermy had been painted over and in its place Curio and beneath it of Wonders. She took two steps back: The Curio Shop of Wonders. She’d thought Stefan mistaken when he’d first mentioned the name. A slow burning anger flushed through her. What right had Cordelia to change the name of Pa’s shop and take Ma’s name. Mrs Atterton. What rot! She pushed open the door and marched inside.
A crowd of women stood in the centre of the shop, presumably in front of Pa’s desk but she couldn’t see for the excited crowd gesticulating wildly, examining a series of muffs and stoles. One woman extracted herself from the crowd clasping a feather headpiece as though she’d snatched a prize. She stood before a mirror, removed her hat and pinned it in place, preening like an overexcited wagtail.
What in heaven’s name was going on? Della dropped her bag onto the floor and nudged it away from the door with her foot.
The wooden display cabinet that housed Pa’s butterfly collection had vanished and in its place stood a table piled high with tanned skins. She ran her fingers through the top skin, recognising the pelt of a wallaby, so like Tidda’s soft fur it made her heart wrench. Below it a series of possum skins stitched together to form a patchwork blanket. Wherever had Cordelia got hold of these? She’d seen one of the Darkinjung elders wearing a possum cloak but nothing as fancy as this one. She turned it over admiring the fine stitching. Not something Cordelia had worked; she had neither the patience nor the skill.
A hoot of laughter brought her head up with a snap. The woman at the mirror was now parading about wearing a ridiculous crown-like affair of yellow feathers resembling the plumage of an irate cockatoo.
The crowd parted and there was Cordelia. On her feet, staring at her with eyes as sharp as a paring knife and twice as deadly. ‘What are you doing here?’ She delivered the words in a flat matter-of-fact manner, the high colour on her usually pale cheekbones confirming her surprise.
‘Good afternoon, Aunt Cordelia.’
The women stopped their twittering and examined her with as much curiosity as they had the collection of furs and feathers.
Cordelia swept forwards. ‘The shop is now closed ladies. I shall reopen tomorrow at nine o’clock.’ She gestured to the door and all but one of the women filed out without a word. The remaining woman stayed planted by the desk. ‘The tonic. I want the tonic now.’ She thrust a small package wrapped in black cloth onto Pa’s desk and leant closer. Cordelia flashed her a quick look and lowered herself in the chair. She pulled open the desk drawer and extracted a bottle of Ma’s tonic and scooped up the package.
‘You said I would need three bottles.’
‘I have the others here, marked with your name. I’ll deliver them.’ Cordelia slammed the drawer shut and stood again, her eyes glued to the woman as she tucked the bottle into her voluminous muff and scuttled out of the door.
Cordelia looked nothing like the person Della remembered. With her hair piled fashionably on the top of her head and several strategically placed ringlets framing her thin face, she could have graced any of Sydney’s upper-class functions. She was dressed in a virulent green satin dress, more suited to the ballroom than a taxidermy shop, and draped across her shoulders lay a shawl of the finest silk with long knotted tassels.
Only her complexion remained the same. The two spots of colour on her cheekbones had faded leaving her skin white and almost translucent, and her eyes, framed by carefully arched brows, appeared luminous.
The two of them stood facing each other, the silence stretched as taut as an over-dried possum skin. Eventually Cordelia moved from behind the desk. Of similar height, they stared into each other’s eyes. She’d never seen such a look on her aunt’s face: murderous was the only way to describe it.
Cordelia’s long fingernail jabbed at her collarbone then she turned to the window, running her fingers through the silken tassels on her shawl. ‘This is unexpected. Where is Charity?’
‘Charity is staying at the Settlers Arms.’
‘And who’s paying for that?’
‘The Captain was kind enough to offer her his room. I said I would repay him.’
‘Which Captain? I hope you haven’t made a fool of yourself.’ Cordelia’s eyes roamed her body, as if she could sense the change in her demeanour, pick the bloom in her cheeks.
‘Captain von Richter escorted me to Sydney.’
‘Captain von Richter?’
Della couldn’t put it off a moment longer. She’d discuss her trip later. Right now, she had to bring up the matter closest to her heart. The longer she left it, the more difficult it would become. ‘Why have you changed the name of Pa’s shop? Why are you using Ma’s name? Calling yourself Mrs Atterton? What are all these furs?’ Della picked up a brown muff and slid her fingers inside feeling the smooth silk lining. ‘This is wombat fur. Who made it?’
‘I have employed a little additional help. The shop is going from strength to strength. You should be well pleased. We’re catering to high society. And now you’re here you’re going to have to dress more appropriately, do something about the way you look. I can’t have all my hard work going to waste.’
Della ran her hand down her mud-splattered skirt. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’
‘You weren’t here.’
‘But you could have told me in one of your letters.’ She turned in a full circle searching for some of the specimens she had given Gus and Dobbin on their earlier trip. Her eyes lit on a display illuminated by a shaft of afternoon sunlight. Her heart stuttered as she stumbled towards the back of the room, her boots clattering on the timber floor.
In the centre stood a large grasstree and against it a range of hunting spears, throwers, clubs and axes. Pa’s cedar display cabinet now housed a series of woven baskets and bags, fibre nets and fishing traps, the bush string and grass stalks meticulously coiled, twined and looped; a slab of sandstone with a collection of handprints, so like the ones on the cave walls dotting the Darkinjung pathways, alongside a pair of grinding stones and a coolamon. Della swallowed the surge of bile rising in her mouth. ‘This is why I am here.’ She stabbed her finger against the glass cabinet. ‘Where did all of this come from?’
Cordelia’s laugh pealed. ‘You know as well as I do. Gus and Dobbin have been trading. Antipodean curios are the height of fashion—these artefacts, and of course the native furs and feathers. Why the Governor himself remarked upon—’
‘Cordelia stop!’ The blood pounded through Della’s temples and she rubbed at her eyes trying to still the vision of the gaping hole in Jarro’s shoulder and the memory of Dobbin’s musket hanging from the Captain’s saddle, every notch a tear in her heart. ‘Trading. Trading what, with whom?’
Cordelia gave a dismissive wave of her hand. ‘Gus arranges it all. The natives have a liking for rum, I believe, and flour and sugar. I pay Gus when he delivers. The rest is up to him.’
‘And you sell these?’ She lifted the lid to the display cabinet and took out a painted coolamon, holding it to her nose, inhaling the scent of grease and smoke. Imagining the women sharing the ripe apple-berries. ‘Do you know how Gus is getting these things? What he is doing?’
Cordelia shrugged and rearranged her shawl as it slipped down from one bony shoulder.
‘He is murdering the Darkinjung.’ There, she had said it. Not a moment’s hesitation in believing it was true. ‘Attacking their camps and shooting them, stealing their possessions.’
‘What a load of nonsense. And anyway, why should I concern myself? I haven’t seen you expressing any great angst over the animals and birds you s
ee fit to disembowel. How are the natives different?’
‘Cordelia, the Darkinjung are not animals, they are people. Flesh and blood like you and me. Gus and Dobbin are running them down and killing them.’
‘Nonsense. Why would they do that? They have no need. I shall discuss it with them as soon as they return. You’re tired and overwrought after your trip. Come upstairs.’
She wasn’t tired. If anything she felt rejuvenated, determined. ‘I’m not letting the matter rest. Captain von Richter witnessed one of the attacks. He intends to take the matter up with the Governor. And I will be supporting his evidence.’
In an instant Cordelia’s disposition changed, the defensive glint vanished from her eyes and she smiled. ‘You’re not thinking clearly, come and rest. We’ll talk later. A nice glass of lemonade is what you need.’ Her voice was as sickly sweet as bush honey.
Twenty-Three
Sydney, NSW, 1853
‘Ah! Captain von Richter. I thought you had forsaken us.’ Sladdin flapped from behind the desk, wringing his hands. ‘Allow me to take your greatcoat. You are just in time for our evening game.’
His mouth framed the word no and then he swallowed it. He’d almost forgotten over the last days, Bishop and his original reason for visiting the Hawkesbury. ‘Thank you. Yes. I would very much like a seat. Is there anyone attending I might know?’
‘Dr Philpott, you may have met him the other evening, the Governor’s physician, and his friends, Mr Robins and Mr Thompson.’
‘And Mr Skeffington, perhaps?’ That would be too convenient for words.
‘Mr Skeffington?’ Sladdin tipped his crow-like head to one side and frowned as though he couldn’t understand how he’d missed such a tasty morsel.
‘I believe he has interests in the Hawkesbury region. I was interested in speaking with him.’
‘Ah, very good, very good. I shall make some enquiries. I have a recollection of hearing that he had been unwell. Leave everything to me.’
Why did the man make a great mystery of everything? Couldn’t he speak simply? He shook his head and reached for the door. Sladdin beat him to it and flung it open with a flourish.
Green lamplight flickered against the wall and several tables were arranged around the room.
‘Captain Stefan von Richter.’ He gave a short formal bow and slid into an empty chair at the table in the corner where three men sat, the deck of cards in front of them and a bottle of brandy and glasses arranged in the centre of the table. The men half rose to introduce themselves.
‘Mr Robins.’ The bespectacled man glanced up then dealt four hands of cards.
‘Mr Thompson.’ The second man threw him a half-hearted smile.
The remaining man, long and lanky, stood and offered his hand. ‘Philpott. Physician.’
Perhaps one or all of them remembered Bishop, or knew of Skeffington.
‘Good evening, gentlemen.’ He reached for the bottle of brandy. ‘Can I interest anyone in a drink?’
‘Yes, yes indeed.’ Philpott picked up a glass and the other men followed suit. ‘To Lady Luck.’ They raised their glasses and drank.
Lady Luck indeed, but not on the cards. ‘Before we begin, gentlemen, I have to admit to an ulterior motive in my attendance.’ All three of them placed their cards face down on the green baize tabletop and lifted their gaze.
He had nothing to lose, they may as well know his reason. ‘It’s a long story and the reason for my visit to your fair shores.’
‘I believe Baron von Hügel has commissioned you act as his amanuensis.’ Philpott rearranged his cards, ensuring they were aligned.
Was nothing a secret in this town? ‘Indeed he has.’ He paused, waiting to see if any mention would be made of the opal. When nothing was said he continued. ‘I was also hoping to collect some specimens for the Baron, from a Mr Bishop. I visited him in the Hawkesbury. It seems a Mr Skeffington now has them in his safe keeping.’ He picked up his hand and cast an eye over the cards.
‘You have travelled all this way simply to collect some specimens. They must be most valuable if they couldn’t be shipped.’ When he didn’t reply the bespectacled man, Robins, lost interest and laid out his first bet.
‘That is not my sole reason. As Mr Philpott said I am also transcribing the Baron’s journals for publication.’
The man on his right topped up his glass and shot him a quizzical look. ‘And you had no luck with Bishop? Sad business. Wife killed not a mile from here. A kitchen fire that consumed the house. Lost all will to live, then upped and moved to the Hawkesbury. Rumour has it he’s sunk all his money in a mansion outside St Albans. Primrose Hill if I remember rightly. Named for his wife. Acquired the land with Robert Skeffington’s assistance.’
Stefan sat back and sipped at his drink. No need to ask questions, the brandy had loosened the men’s tongues.
‘Skeffington resides in Sydney.’ A large balding man brought his chair over to the table. ‘He doesn’t appear to be here this evening.’
‘No, he’s not.’ Philpott leant forward and spoke in a lowered tone. ‘I am not at liberty to discuss a patient, however he is somewhat indisposed.’
Stefan’s heart sank. ‘But he is presently in Sydney?’
‘Oh yes indeed. He is at home.’
‘And what a home it is.’ The balding man tossed back his brandy. ‘Lovely spot, one of the new residences at Potts Point.’
‘May I ask the nature of this specimen Skeffington has in his safe keeping?’ Philpott peered from under his shaggy eyebrows with an intelligent gaze.
Stefan cast a cursory glance at his cards then laid them down: an ace, ten, king, queen and jack. ‘A winning hand, I believe, gentlemen. Gutten Abend.’
Stefan finished his favoured breakfast and peered down into the street looking for Bert. He could do with the rascal’s company but he had other matters to attend to. First and foremost, to secure a meeting with the Governor and then a trip to Potts Point to see if he could track down Skeffington. He pulled on his jacket and took the stairs two at a time.
The obsequious Sladdin met him wringing his hands in the ridiculous manner he had. ‘How can I help you this morning?’
‘In no way at all, thank you, Herr Sladdin. I am out for a walk.’
The weather was delightful. A fine breeze and a clear blue sky. The country did have a lot to recommend it. Not least the beautiful women. He now regretted not arranging a further meeting with Della. Already he missed her lively conversation and pleasing company, never mind her glorious smile and sparkling eyes. The sooner he secured an appointment with the Governor the sooner he would have an excuse to seek her out. He had no doubt she would corroborate his evidence. He picked up his pace. Yes, he would call at Government House and then he would go to the Curio Shop and visit the lovely Della. Perhaps suggest an afternoon walk.
Hearing footsteps, he glanced over his shoulder and grinned. Bert had taken slightly longer than he’d anticipated. A good three minutes. He’d almost reached the Domain.
‘Morning, Capt’n.’ Bert bounced alongside him.
‘No barrow today, Bert?’ He ruffled the lad’s orange hair which was sticking out at all angles, putting him in mind of one of the great apes of the Malay Archipelago.
‘Nope. Got a job later this afternoon. Thought you’d want to know about Miss Della.’
‘Is something the matter?’
‘Seems she had a bit of a run-in with her aunt when she arrived but things have settled down. That shop certainly does some business. Not sure what all those women want with them furs and feathers though.’
‘It’s called fashion. Something mere mortals like us have no understanding of.’
‘Some men do. That creep Sladdin called in this morning. Had a word with Cordelia he did, then slithered away.’
Stefan’s lips twitched. He would have described Sladdin more as a discontented raven but the reptilian analogy fitted well. ‘I’m sure I shall find out. I intend to call on the Governor’s sec
retary and make an appointment to see Sir Charles, then visit Miss Della and suggest a walk.’
Bert gave a couple of skips and caught up. ‘I’m looking forward to seeing her again. I kind of got used to havin’ her around.’
‘Sorry Bert. That wasn’t an invitation.’ Whatever made him say that? There was no reason why Bert shouldn’t come along.
Bert’s face fell to his highly polished boots. ‘You got nothing for me, then?’
‘Not this morning. Why don’t you drop by tomorrow morning and we’ll have a chat?’
‘Right you are Capt’n. See yer tomorrow.’ He scuffed off, shoulders drooping.
Sometimes a man had to put matters of the heart before a young boy’s sensibilities.
He strode through the gates into the gardens of Government House. Curiosity got the better of him and he followed the paved footpath down some steps to the water. A goodly number of trees had been planted but their spindly shape gave no pleasure, the sandstone soil not deep enough for them to prosper. There was not a sign of any of the delightful native trees that flourished across the water. The entire garden had the look of neglect although it had been laid out with some taste. What he wouldn’t give for the opportunity to make some suggestions—a walkway framed by the giant lilies would make a remarkable Antipodean statement. So foolish of these settlers not to embrace the beauty nature had bestowed upon them. The Baron was right. They would never recreate an English park here no matter how many deciduous trees they planted.
Leaving his thoughts behind he ran up the steps and arrived at the main door invigorated and full of promise. Once the Governor heard of the enormous injustice that had been perpetrated on the New Hollanders he would undoubtedly send out the redcoats and bring Gus and Dobbin to justice. With their muskets as evidence and Della’s additional testimony the matter would be resolved in an instant.
He gave one short, sharp rap on the door.
It swung open and a butler who would have done Victoria proud stood in front of him. ‘May I help you, sir.’