‘My dear ladies, pitchforks and firebrands seem somewhat extreme. Personally, I believe in live and let live.’ The soft American drawl came from the doorway behind Adelaide.
She turned. Caleb Hunt leaned against the door jamb. He carried a stout staff and had somehow managed to shave and dress himself, donning an outrageously bright satin, diamond-pieced waistcoat. Dark brown hair, badly in need of a trim, curled around his lean face.
Leaving the Reverend Johnson and the two girls standing dumbfounded in the middle of the room, the matrons directed all their attention on Mr Hunt as he limped into the office space. Adelaide lifted the counter to let him through, and he took Mrs Russell by the hand, bowing over it.
‘Why, Mrs Russell, you look mighty fine this afternoon. I hope you have recovered from the rigours of your journey?’
‘What are you doing—’ Adelaide began but Mrs Russell cut across her, her hand fluttering to the high neckline of her dress.
‘Oh, Mr Hunt, yes, quite recovered. How good to see you have not been badly injured in yesterday’s mishap. Mildred, this is Mr Hunt, the charming American. Mr Hunt, my friend, Mrs Jervis.’
‘Ladies, if you have your mail, I have work to do and Mr Hunt needs to rest,’ Adelaide snapped.
As if to prove the truth of her words, Mr Hunt sank on to the bench.
The two women left with promises to Mr Hunt of dinner parties and afternoon tea, when he felt up to some genteel company.
‘Mr Hunt.’ The Reverend Johnson approached him, holding out his hand. ‘Let me shake your hand, sir. By all accounts you were lucky not to be more seriously injured. Allow me to introduce myself: Reverend Charles Johnson. I am the minister of the Church of England and you are most welcome to attend our Sunday worship. Of course, if that is not your preference …’
Mr Hunt reached up and shook Johnson’s hand. ‘Forgive me not rising. No offence, Reverend, but I have no preference. The good Lord and I parted ways many years ago.’
Johnson frowned. ‘I’m very sorry to hear that, perhaps we can talk …?’ Caleb’s narrowed lips answered that question and the clergyman turned back to Adelaide. ‘Now I have quite forgotten why I came in. Oh yes, a penny stamp, please, Mrs Greaves.’ He smiled at Adelaide. ‘Mrs Greaves is a stalwart of my congregation. She plays the organ every Sunday.’
Caleb Hunt quirked an eyebrow. ‘Does she indeed? Well, that is a fine thing, Mrs Greaves. And these lovely young ladies?’
Sissy started as if she had not expected to be addressed. She straightened, her chin jutting. ‘I’m Sissy and this is Jess,’ she said, adding, with a quick glance at the Reverend Johnson, ‘we’re dancers at Lil’s Place. We’ll come back later, Mrs Greaves. When you’re less busy.’ As she passed the Reverend, she stopped and looked the man in the eye. ‘Thank you for sticking up for us, Mr Johnson.’
The vicar doffed his hat and held the door open, following them out into the street.
Adelaide turned to her guest. ‘What are you doing out of bed?’
He held up his left hand. ‘I’m a bad patient, Mrs Greaves, but with respect, it was getting mighty warm out there.’
‘I didn’t think …’ Adelaide began. With the temperature outside climbing steadily to the century, she should have realised that the shed would become too hot for comfort.
She lifted the counter again and he followed her into the parlour, wincing at every step. Adelaide indicated the day bed she had purchased from the proprietor of The Empress hotel only a few months earlier. ‘You may find it a bit hard,’ she said, ‘but it will be cooler in here than the shed.’
Mr Hunt settled on the overstuffed piece of furniture, grimacing as he positioned his leg.
The parlour served as both drawing and dining room, with a round table covered in a velvet cloth and four matching chairs. Two well-used armchairs faced the empty fireplace. Adelaide and Netty sat there in the evening, talking about the day’s events, reading or doing the mending.
Caleb Hunt gestured at the bookshelf beside the mantelpiece. ‘Could I trouble you to lend me one of your books?’
Adelaide considered the titles. ‘I don’t know if my reading is to your taste,’ she said. ‘Dickens?’
‘It’s been a long while since I read anything other than a news sheet,’ he said. ‘Dickens is fine.’
She handed him Great Expectations and settled the cushions behind his back. As she turned to return to the shop, he caught her wrist.
‘I heard what those two delightful ladies had to say,’ he said. ‘I commend you for standing up to them.’
‘Thank you. As you may have gathered, not everyone in this town shares that sentiment. They are good girls really and they could do a lot worse than Lil White’s establishment.’
She glanced down at her wrist, still circled by his long, fine-boned fingers. It was not the hand of a miner or a soldier, come to that.
Mumbling an excuse about returning to her duties, Adelaide extricated her hand and hurried back into the post office, rubbing her wrist. He hadn’t hurt her but the place where he had touched her burned like fire.
Seven
19 December 1871
‘Penrose!’ Caleb looked up from The Goldfields and Mineral Districts of Victoria with a wave of genuine pleasure at seeing the Cornish engineer.
‘Doing some study?’
‘Young Dan picked this up from the library at the Mechanics’ Institute,’ Caleb shut the book and studied the cover. ‘I’m afraid it mostly has the effect of putting me to sleep.’
‘If you’ve only ever done alluvial prospecting,’ Penrose said, ‘you are going to find hard-rock mining difficult work. You need to understand the lie of the reef, and that’s only after you’ve found it.’
Caleb laid the book on the table beside him. ‘I haven’t even seen the claim and Bowen says it will be another week before I can walk properly, let alone ride a horse.’
Penrose looked around the neat parlour. ‘Mrs Greaves looking after you?’ he asked.
Caleb lowered his voice. ‘I am being overwhelmed with feminine attention. You’ve no idea how good it is to see you. The Russell and Jervis women have been daily visitors and I swear Netty Redley is force-feeding me.’
The only female who seemed to treat him with indifference was his hostess, Adelaide Greaves. She remained polite and efficient but once satisfied he wanted for nothing, she seemed to have nothing further to say to him.
‘I had to go down to Port Albert,’ Penrose said, drawing up a chair. ‘Problem with unloading the new stamper. You told me that your man, Hannigan, was coming by ship. Which ship?’
‘The Ella,’ Caleb said. ‘Has it docked in Port Albert yet?’
‘Yes,’ Penrose said slowly. ‘Knowing you are still laid up, I thought I would make enquiries while I was at the Port. My foreman was aboard the Ella from Melbourne with the stamper. He says Hannigan left the ship in Geelong, with all his cargo. He’d been talking about trying his luck on the western goldfields, and when the ship had to pull in to Geelong for repairs, Hannigan left.’
‘What?’ Caleb half-rose in fury, before subsiding with a curse. ‘What?’ he repeated, furiously rubbing his injury.
‘How much did you have invested in the equipment?’
‘Pretty much everything,’ Caleb said, and added, through gritted teeth, ‘I should have shot the bastard when I had the chance.’
‘Who do you plan to shoot?’
Both men looked around at the sound of Mrs Greaves’s voice. Penrose jumped to his feet.
‘That bloody Irishman, Hannigan,’ Caleb said.
‘Don’t swear,’ Mrs Greaves admonished. ‘What’s he done?’
‘Double-crossed me, ma’am.’
‘Well, more fool you for trusting him,’ she said. ‘How are you, Mr Penrose?’
‘I just called in with the bad news for my friend, Hunt,’ Penrose said. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I have to get up to the mine. Sorry to be the bearer of bad tidings.’ He paused at the door and glanced
back. ‘I’m curious to see this claim of yours, Hunt. Would you mind if I came with you when you’re up to the ride to Pretty Sally?’
Caleb, sunk in murderous thoughts of Hannigan, took a moment to reply. ‘I’d be pleased if you did, Penrose. I’d value your advice, for what it’s worth, given I no longer have the equipment to do anything with it, or the money to replace it.’
Penrose shrugged. ‘Let’s see what it has to offer first.’
As the door closed behind him, Mrs Greaves sat down at the table and picked up a stocking from the basket of mending.
‘Where are the western goldfields?’ Caleb asked.
Mrs Greaves considered his question. ‘Anywhere west of Melbourne,’ she said. ‘Ballarat is the big one. One of the first places they found gold, I believe. Why do you ask?’
‘I entrusted a man called Hannigan with the equipment I needed for my mine. Apparently he’s absconded with it.’
‘Ah. If you’re going after Hannigan, you’ll have a hard job finding him.’
‘Not sure I have much choice,’ Caleb said.
She set her darning down and looked at him. ‘You wouldn’t really kill him, would you?’
Caleb did not feel in the mood to make any such undertakings. If Hannigan had walked through the door that second, he would gladly have drawn his Colt—if it hadn’t been secured in his chest. ‘I don’t care about Hannigan. I just want my equipment back,’ he said.
‘Then report it to the police. It’s theft.’
‘Are you always this sensible?’
‘I’ll send Danny for Sergeant Maidment. You can make a police report,’ she said.
‘For what it’s worth,’ Caleb said with a sigh.
She cocked her head and considered him for a long moment. ‘Actually, Maidment is a good police officer,’ she said. ‘Takes his job seriously. I think you’ll like him.’
She rose and picked up the book from the table beside Caleb.
‘Are you sure you want to turn your hand to this, Mr Hunt? It’s hard and mostly unrewarding.’
‘Not much else I can do, Mrs Greaves. As you might say, the good Lord in his wisdom has set my foot on this path.’
She set the book back on the table. ‘You told Reverend Johnson that you and God had parted ways.’
‘That we have, but he is a useful scapegoat when needed.’
Her lips curved into a smile, and her brown eyes sparkled. It occurred to him for the first time in their acquaintance that, in different clothes and a softer hairstyle, Adelaide Greaves would be quite a beauty. Whoever her seafaring husband had been, surely ten years was long enough to mourn him?
But Caleb knew from long experience that it didn’t do to offend God-fearing folk such as Adelaide Greaves and he’d said enough. He carefully swung his feet to the floor and reached for his stick. ‘I’ve been meaning to talk with you, Mrs Greaves. I feel I have imposed on you long enough. As I’m now relatively ambulatory, it is time I found some alternative accommodation.’
Mrs Greaves placed her hands on her hips. ‘Nonsense. You’re not an imposition. Besides, do you have the money to pay for a hotel? It is only days to Christmas and the town is full of homesick miners.’ She raised a hand as he opened his mouth to object. ‘I’ll hear no more about it. Now, let me send for Maidment, and if you want to go chasing after Hannigan, it can wait until the new year when you are fit and well, and not before.’
‘In that case, at least allow me to pay for board and lodging. It can’t be easy for you, supporting a child by yourself.’
A slight colour darkened her high cheek bones, and for a moment he thought she would refuse, but she gave a curt nod of her head. ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt. I would be obliged. Can you afford six shillings a week?’
Caleb smiled. ‘Hannigan’s defection has not left me completely out of pocket, Mrs Greaves. Six shillings it is.’
From the post office came the tinkle of the bell. Adelaide Greaves gave him a quick, sharp inclination of the head and turned back to her responsibilities.
As the door to the post office closed with a decisive thump, Caleb lay back against the cushions and amused himself with thinking about the hundred different ways he would deal with Hannigan if their paths ever crossed again.
Eight
24 December 1871
Adelaide stood on the back step regarding her small flock of domestic fowl. The two roosters strutted among the hens, cockscombs up and chests proud, ignorant of the fate that awaited one of them: Christmas dinner. She generally left the distasteful task to Netty but Netty was fully occupied with baking.
‘Come on, my fine feathered friend,’ she said to Cholmondeley, the largest of the two roosters, who reminded her of her father’s butler, a pompous man with fading red hair. She knew it was always a mistake to give animals a name.
Cholmondeley strutted across to her outstretched hand. In the kitchen, Netty dropped a pan. The metallic crash startled the bird and he retreated to his hens, flapping his wings and protesting.
Adelaide straightened and considered her next move, hands on her hips. Her gaze met Mr Hunt’s, who sat on the bench outside Mick’s shed, whittling, and they both turned to look at the indignant Cholmondeley, who watched her suspiciously with one beady eye.
‘Can I assist you with something?’ Mr Hunt asked.
‘I am trying to catch that rooster while Danny is out. The wretched bird is to be our Christmas dinner but I’m not very fond of dispatching animals, and Danny views them all as personal friends.’
Mr Hunt regarded the rooster. ‘And very tasty he looks too. I tell you what, Mrs Greaves, if you can catch him, I’ll deal with him,’ he said.
Relief flooded her. ‘Thank you. I’ll set some water to heat while you do what needs to be done,’ she said.
Amid furious clucking from the hens, she cornered the rooster and saying a silent apology to the bird, she delivered him to the hands of his executioner. There was one short, sharp squawk as she turned her back, and when she returned, Mr Hunt stood washing his hands in the old pan she kept by the back door. The late king of the coop lay on the stump, limp and headless, while his harem hid under the nearest bush.
‘Thank you,’ she said.
‘It seems a small repayment for your hospitality, Mrs Greaves. I’d not have taken you for having such a tender heart.’ He sat down on the back step with his leg stretched out and rubbed his thigh with a grimace.
Adelaide sat beside him. ‘I was not born to face the realities of the food on my table, Mr Hunt.’
‘Unlike me,’ he said.
‘You?’
‘A farm boy, born and raised.’ He clenched and unclenched his fingers, rubbing the back of each hand as if they were still stained with the fowl’s blood. It seemed an odd gesture from a man inured to bloodshed by war.
As if aware of her scrutiny, he stilled his hands and studied her for a long moment. ‘No customers today?’ he asked.
‘I closed the post office at lunch.’
‘How did you come to be the Maiden’s Creek postmistress?’
‘Luck. When I arrived in Melbourne, I knew I had to find work and I took a position in the General Post Office in Melbourne. They were looking for people to learn the telegraph and I volunteered.’ She paused. ‘When they advertised the position in Maiden’s Creek, I put in my application.’
‘But you’re a woman?’
‘How observant, and you are right, they did not want a woman for the role, but I was by far the best candidate so they had no choice but to offer it to me. Very few people are trained in the telegraph and fewer still are willing to take a role in a town such as this. My turn to ask you a question. Did you leave the farm because of the war?’
‘No. I won a scholarship to university and I made good my escape long before the war of northern aggression.’
Adelaide had never heard it referred to as that and as if to answer her unspoken thoughts, he added, ‘I am being ironic. The South brought the war upon itself.’
&
nbsp; ‘Do you miss the farm?’ she asked.
Mr Hunt leaned forward and scratched his chin. ‘I do. There is something honest in that connection with the land. It is about creation, not this …’ He waved a hand at the blighted landscape about them, stripped of trees to feed the hungry boilers. ‘This is destruction. This is the rape of the earth.’
‘And yet you want to be part of it?’
‘I am tired of a hand-to-mouth existence. If there is the remotest possibility of making enough from this claim of mine, then I would like to find a farm and settle to the land again. I think my father would approve.’ He ran a hand through his hair. ‘I have lost track of the days. How can it be Christmas already?’ He looked up at the sun, high and bright above the tops of the hills. ‘In Virginia, it would be snowing. Do you ever get used to the seasons being back to front?’
‘I miss England at Christmas time. I miss the cold walk to church, the yule log on the fire. Although we didn’t always get snow at Christmas,’ Adelaide said. ‘Too near the sea.’
‘Where was home in England?’
‘Home?’ Adelaide could not disguise her bitterness. ‘I lived near Liverpool in the north of England. A grand mausoleum, a tribute to my father. I never think of it as home.’
His grey eyes were fixed unwaveringly on her face and she found her own sliding away. It was pleasant sitting in the shade in the easy company of this man. She had no wish to hurry back to a hot kitchen and a bad-tempered Netty, but they had much to do.
‘I have to go.’ She rose and straightened her apron. ‘I will retrieve poor Cholmondeley and see to his plucking.’ She paused, conscious that one formality had been left unconcluded. She felt a twinge of guilt that up until now, at his suggestion, Mr Hunt had taken his meals in the kitchen, leaving the family to dine in private. ‘I would be pleased if you would join us for our Christmas dinner.’
He smiled with what looked like genuine pleasure. ‘Thank you, Mrs Greaves. I would be honoured. It has been a long, long time since I partook of a proper Christmas feast.’ He waved a hand at his accommodation. ‘The good Lord and I, resident in a stable.’
The Postmistress Page 6