by Darry Fraser
Linley wasn’t surprised by that. ‘James is so very generous, isn’t he?’
CeeCee lifted her shoulders. ‘After all this time you can’t have missed that.’
‘I never really thought about it. He’s been around us so long, back and forth, that I hadn’t ever really taken too much notice.’
‘We will talk more of all of that after we settle. First, we need to get from the station to the house. I hope James remembered to telegraph for a carriage to pick us up.’
A carriage! Linley suddenly had too many questions to ask of her aunt. They’d never seemed to have much money. CeeCee had begun to teach Linley her letters at home before sending her to the Camp Hill school in Bendigo. Like other girls her age, she never had many dresses. They kept a sewing box at home of course, visited the markets and the stores and shopped frugally. They cooked, but laughed at their creations. Neither of them were proficient cooks.
James appeared regularly over the years for as long back as she could remember. He had not always stayed at their house, which of course was right and proper. But as she had grown up, Linley began to see it had only been for her benefit, her sensibilities. He probably stayed more times than she would ever know, and she knew of a great many times.
And now, a carriage was to be booked. How could CeeCee afford all this? A house in Bendigo and a house in Melbourne … goodness, the expense! A house in Echuca, and care for a niece for the last eighteen years or so, and … and—
‘Are you already married to James?’ she blurted.
CeeCee met her niece’s stare evenly. ‘I have not consented to be his wife.’
‘But you will, won’t you?’
‘Don’t sound so aghast, Linley. Perhaps I will, perhaps I won’t. James and I have a number of issues between us, most of all is my independence.’
‘What has independence got to do with becoming a married woman?’
‘Precisely. But Linley, don’t be obtuse.’ CeeCee shifted uncomfortably again. ‘You know my avid interest in the suffragist movement—’
‘But you are not a rampant suffragette!’
‘Suffragist, Linley. And you’re right, nothing rampant about it. But women must have a franchise, a vote.’ She sucked in a deep breath and paused before she continued. ‘Thanks to the new laws, while what I own before marriage belongs to me even if I marry, I am not allowed to work as a married woman. And work I must.’
‘But you don’t work now.’
‘Don’t I just? Not formally, you’re right, because society looks down upon the working woman. A husband should provide, et cetera, and if you have no husband …’
Linley closed her mouth. Of course, a husband should provide … Toby moved against her breast as if reminding her that Mary’s husband did no such thing. Well, a father should provide …
Her colour flared. Ard O’Rourke. This baby’s father. Though Ard did not know Toby existed.
What had she done by not telling him? Her letter was full of vitriol and scorn as she informed him only of Mary’s passing. She hadn’t told him he had a son. How would Ard have reacted had she told him? With derision? Disbelief?
No, not Ard. Of course he wouldn’t. He isn’t a horrible person.
Oh, what had she done by not telling him? Was it too late?
No. Not too late. She suddenly knew what she would do.
A little cry escaped.
‘What is it?’ CeeCee sat forward, a frown creasing her brow, deepened by the effort.
Linley swallowed down the sudden anxiety. ‘Aunty, the world is a very confusing place.’
CeeCee let out a relieved laugh. ‘Yes, Linley, it is, and mostly we all just bob along in it as best we can.’
Linley frowned and rocked the baby as he snuffled again. She gazed at the ring on her finger. ‘I know what to tell people of my … husband.’
‘Whatever it is, we need to tell the same story, so out with it.’
Linley swallowed. ‘We will tell people that he has gone to work in another colony.’
CeeCee’s brows rose. ‘So, you will not be a widow?’
She shook her head as she watched Ard O’Rourke’s son. ‘No. He will come for us. That is our story.’ As she looked up at her aunt, her heart beat a wild tattoo.
Ard was far away. He might not have even received her letter. And even if he had, why should she think or hope or believe—
‘Will he be Mr Seymour, this husband of yours?’ CeeCee prompted.
‘No. Um, Mister …’ Linley pretended to flounder for a name. ‘O’Rourke.’
‘O’Rourke?’ CeeCee looked as if she were mulling it over. ‘Fine Irish name. I seem to remember an acquaintance of yours by the same name … Ard O’Rourke, wasn’t it? Though he moved away, I believe.’
‘Mm, yes, but a common enough surname. I think it’s a good story to tell.’ Linley fussed at the baby’s blanket. ‘I must register Toby’s birth.’
‘Much as I dislike to, we will go to the churches as soon as possible and ask if any of them will help. I know we have to register with the government, get a paper to fill in. Perhaps the church men will have something.’ CeeCee waved a hand in the air. ‘Failing that, I’ll write James and ask him to find out.’
Linley knew CeeCee did not like any clergy, remembering how the churches had abandoned Eliza, Linley’s mother, in her need. But to register Toby’s birth in Mary’s name and the name of his real father was the only way the baby could escape Gareth Wilkin’s clutches.
Linley would declare Toby’s real father on the register. What would that mean for Ard? She had no clue. But she would see it done. Past caring about the glow of society’s pleasure, she still wouldn’t deliberately hasten society’s ire.
She traced her finger along Toby’s face, moving the blanket away from his nose and mouth. A letter tucked into her under-clothes crinkled against her skin as she moved. Mary’s unopened letter. The one Linley had promised never to open unless something happened to Mary.
Now she felt too superstitious to open it. But she would. As soon as they were settled in Echuca, in CeeCee’s new house, she would. Whatever was in the letter, she would undertake, or do whatever else was necessary. She would.
Mary, from long-ago childhood, who’d done a bad thing and had come to Linley’s aunt for help …
Linley looked down at the sleeping settled baby in her arms. Not so bad, not such a bad thing, this beautiful baby.
Heat surged through Linley again. Nothing would harm this child. No sins would be visited on his head because of his two stupid parents. She would bring him up, she would fight for him, she would be his mother.
She felt the shift in the train’s momentum and looked out the window. Sure enough, the tree-lined river wove in and out of the vista. A few little buildings popped into view and all of a sudden Linley was aware she was about to take a new road.
Her eyes widened at that. Yes, she had CeeCee by her side, and James, of course. Without them, Linley herself would be destitute and as plainly on the street as the others she’d seen. If she had lived long enough.
She felt the press of Mary’s letter against her breast once more, and looked down at her sleeping baby.
Ard. Ard O’Rourke. If I ever find you again …
CeeCee closed her eyes. Her head throbbed dully now, more so if she moved too quickly. The train’s chug had bothered her at first. Now she was calmed by it.
So. O’Rourke. Linley would give the baby his surname.
Little doubt, then. Though the babe’s black hair and eye colour might change, Linley’s all-too-fierce blush had given the game away.
Ard O’Rourke has a son, and he is lying safe and content in my niece’s arms.
Sixteen
Bendigo
Ard was grateful for the cushioned seat at Constable Griffin’s desk at the police station. But he couldn’t sit up straight. His eyes were blurry, his speech was fuzzy, and each time he blinked the room spun.
James Anderson had waited with him.
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‘A blow to the head like that one you copped will keep you out of action for a while, son.’ Constable Griffin sat opposite Ard, tapping his forefinger on the record book open on his desk.
‘What the hell did he hit me with?’ Ard blinked again, then decided to keep his eyes shut.
‘Something heavy, that’s for sure.’ Griffin tapped again. ‘Now, why had you gone to Miss Seymour’s house?’
Ard pried an eye open and stared at Anderson, then back at the constable. ‘I was hoping to make an appointment to call on her.’
‘To call on her for what?’
‘To—to call on her.’
Griffin rolled his eyes. ‘You haven’t said how you know her.’
‘Known her for years. Knew her when we were kids. All growing up, going to Camp Hill school, same classes …’
‘You’re turning green again, boyo. I—’
‘Might be timely, constable, for me to take him either to the infirmary or to his home.’ Anderson sat forward, but kept his gaze on the policeman.
‘Home,’ Ard croaked. All he wanted was his rawhide pallet and darkness.
Griffin tut-tutted. ‘We haven’t seen Sam Taylor yet.’
Anderson stood up. ‘Constable, if you need a guarantee for Ard O’Rourke, I’ll deposit it.’ He moved his chair back another few feet. ‘Now, let me get the man home. As for Mr Taylor, I’m sure your men will find him in due course.’
Griffin nodded. ‘They will. And I don’t want O’Rourke going anywhere—’
‘If he could walk, constable, that might be an issue.’
‘—until we can get some sense out of him.’
‘My guarantee, I said.’ Anderson stalked around to Ard, gripped his elbow and encouraged him to stand. ‘Up you get.’
‘Sign off when you leave,’ Griffin said.
Ard stood, and once steady on his feet, he followed Anderson out to the front desk.
At the carriage, Ard lost whatever was left in his stomach. Heaving exhausted him, and sweat popped out on his forehead.
As he leaned over the wheel, Anderson patted his back. ‘Hospital.’
‘Mr Anderson, I just want to go home. To sleep.’
He kept his hand on Ard’s shoulder. ‘After a visit to the hospital. If it’s what I think it is, you can’t stay on your own tonight.’
Ard groaned and swallowed down another surge. Anderson helped him up into the carriage, leapt up to the driver’s seat then turned the horse for L Street.
James waited patiently at the telegraph office while the short, bespectacled operator sifted through a few telegrams.
‘Ah yes, here it is.’ Ink-stained fingers held out a crisp fold of paper.
James took it and unfolded it quickly. Arrived safe sound. In situ. Do not worry. CCS.
James’ shoulders relaxed. CeeCee and Linley, with the baby, had found their new home and were settled. He thought for a moment. They’d need money. He’d wire funds into an account CeeCee could withdraw from in Echuca, make the necessary arrangements with the bank here.
First, he would see to Ard O’Rourke. Then he would find a birth registration form. Perhaps there was one at the hospital. There usually was. All the other times he’d needed to register the births of the women in his care, the form was either at the hospital or at the church. After that, the bank.
Then he would pay a visit to Gareth Wilkin.
‘I’m feeling good, Mr Anderson. I can get home all right.’ Ard felt better than he had in the last day or two. A few days lying flat on his back in the hospital had done the world of good. His head was no longer giddy when he moved, and his stomach had settled. He swung his legs to the floor, and waited on the bed for a bit longer before standing.
‘It’s James, and it’s no trouble. Save your strength a bit longer.’
Ard would be glad of the ride home. He needed to get back out there and get water on to the orchard. God knows how long it had been since Liam was there. He should perhaps check at the telegraph office for a reply from his uncle, but he reasoned it would still be too early. Leave that for another day or two. Or three.
‘Thank you.’ He pulled on his strides, tucked his shirt—which had become a nightshirt—into his pants, shrugged into the waistcoat and buttoned up. He nodded at James again. ‘Ready when you are.’
On the road, incessant flies buzzed around. Ard and James were brushing them out of mouth and nose all morning. Ard remembered plenty of hot November days and the flies never sleeping in the sunlight.
‘Straight up this road, past the old diggings,’ he directed, swatting anew. ‘You can drop me at the gate. Not far after that.’
‘Do you have a horse to get yourself around the place?’
‘Only for the fields. I want to get one for myself but they’re expensive.’ Ard stared ahead, the dusty road as familiar to him as the lines on his hands. Only a mile or so, now. Suddenly it meant everything to get back there and check the trees, the water trough, to set fixings for the fire …
He puffed out a breath, his heartbeat wild for a few seconds.
James glanced sideways. ‘Still sore?’
‘Only an ache here and there. Head’s all right.’ He sat quiet a moment. ‘Why you helping me?’
‘Because you know Linley. And she is very important to her aunt. To both of us.’
‘And how is it you know Miss Seymour? Miss CeeCee?’
James chucked the horse some more and the pace picked up. ‘Ah. Miss Cecilia Celeste Seymour.’ He looked ahead, a small smile on his face. ‘Now, that is a story. Miss CeeCee was in the courthouse in Bendigo one day when my father came, a visiting magistrate.’
Ard’s brows rose. Son of a magistrate. He shifted on the seat. Magistrates, policemen and the law were suspicious bedfellows at times. ‘Miss CeeCee was in court?’
James nodded. ‘She was. I’d just walked in to take up my job as a clerk when I heard my father, using his sternest voice, berating some poor individual about the proper protocols for court. I turned to see who the poor man was, only to find a very feminine person with a very outraged voice arguing back.’
Ard glanced at James. ‘Miss Seymour, arguing with a magistrate?’
‘Correct. I know you don’t find it hard to believe.’ He gave a grin.
‘Arguing about what?’
‘As it turns out, about how the law treats womankind. CeeCee had followed some poor beggarly woman into court. She’d been dragged from gaol pending a hearing as to her behaviour in the street weeks before.’
Ard guessed at the behaviour. ‘She was working on the street.’
James lifted his shoulders. ‘I don’t make assumptions any longer. In the work CeeCee and I do, I have seen such great anomalies in the law’s treatment of females that I refuse to let the law cloud my judgment.’ He turned and looked at Ard. ‘If you follow me.’
‘And Miss CeeCee and your father?’
‘My father shut her down, citing contempt, and ordered that she be escorted from the room. He also ordered his clerk—that was me—to sit with her in the corridor outside and await his further instructions.’ James gee-upped past the old diggings. ‘I introduced myself to a very prickly woman, who was still berating the legal system for its imperfections.’
‘How long ago?’
‘Twenty years. Perhaps a little longer. And she’s still berating the system.’ James slowed near a gate attached to a post by a rope. ‘Is this it?’
‘Next one, maybe a mile along.’ Ard pointed further down the road.
The horse and carriage resumed a steady pace.
‘You said about the work you and Miss CeeCee do. I didn’t know she worked. I thought she was a lady who brought up her niece, that she had some means of her own.’
‘She is, she does, and her niece is the reason for her passion and her ire. More like, truth to tell, the treatment CeeCee’s sister Eliza received at the hands of her husband.’
Ard glanced at James who’d fallen silent as he negotiated the last
mile before the turn-off. ‘Eliza. Linley never mentioned her mother by name.’
James’ mouth was a grim line. ‘She was beaten and close to death at the hands of her husband when Linley was only a baby. CeeCee took in her sister and the baby, only to have her sister die of her injuries some months later.’
Ard stared out into the brown and wasted paddocks, then back to James. ‘And the husband?’
‘He was apprehended. Not dealt with properly in my opinion, and CeeCee’s, of course. When he was released, he went to where CeeCee lived and threatened her. Then he disappeared. Never heard of again.’ James clicked the reins. ‘CeeCee badly missed her sister, felt she hadn’t ever done enough. So she declared it her business to defend the rights of women who have been beaten and left destitute by their husbands or their families, or by the law.’
Ard shifted uncomfortably. ‘A few men beat their wives, I know.’
James glanced over, a wry twist on his mouth. ‘There’s a line of thought that asserts it’s a man’s right. But by the laws of Great Britain, it is not. I heard one man in Melbourne was not dealt with properly until after he’d beaten his wife on twelve separate occasions.’
‘Twelve?’ Ard’s father had never laid a finger on his mother. His father might not survive it if he ever tried. Not that he would.
James continued, nodding. ‘We condemn it, but have no success deterring it because we turn a blind eye to it,’ he scoffed. ‘A woman-beater is a coward. What does that make the rest of us ignoring that it happens? And it rarely receives the punishment the crime deserves.’
Ard had given it no thought before now. What was the fate of those women who befell a heavy hand, or lost their place in their home?
‘Unless the women have sympathetic families,’ said James, ‘they are very nearly always condemned to the streets on a perpetual wheel of misfortune. Most often returned after their time in gaol to the men who put them out in the first place.’