The Postmistress

by Alison Stuart

  ‘I know the man’s weakness but I always liked him. Is it wrong to feel relieved that you found a legitimate cause for Bowen’s death?’

  Caleb took a swig of the whiskey. The malt burned his throat and he remembered he hadn’t eaten since breakfast. ‘I didn’t know him well but to send him to his grave as a sad alcoholic seems unfair to a man who had once, and could still be when the occasion warranted it, a good doctor,’ he said.

  Russell nodded. ‘Maidment is going to instigate inquiries in Melbourne. We’ll see if we can find his murderer. A robbery gone wrong, no doubt, but someone will swing for it. We’ll see him decently interred tomorrow. I’ll ensure that we take up a collection back at Maiden’s Creek for a proper headstone so he won’t be forgotten, and I’ll write to his sister. Oh, by the way, when we went through his belongings, we found this. It’s addressed to you.’

  He fished an envelope out of his pocket. Caleb turned it over in his hands and held it up to the light coming from the parlour window. Bowen had scrawled his name and punctuated it with an exclamation mark.

  He broke the seal and unfolded two sheets of paper. The first was a short note from Bowen himself and for a moment the words blurred as Caleb read:

  Hunt, you are too good a doctor to waste your life running from your vocation. I put your case to the Registrar of Medical Practitioners and he has provisionally approved your registration, pending evidence from you of your qualification from America. Have a glass of whiskey for me but don’t make a habit of it. Bowen.

  The second sheet was a letter from the registrar confirming Caleb’s provisional registration. He handed it to Russell, who scanned the paper.

  ‘I thought he went to Melbourne to finalise his report on the smallpox case?’ Russell handed him back the paper. ‘We can’t have the town without a doctor. Job’s yours, Hunt.’

  Caleb drained his glass. ‘I don’t have a choice, do I?’

  ‘No. You don’t have a choice, at least for now. The town’s growing. We need more than one doctor.’

  Caleb stowed the envelope in the pocket of his waistcoat. ‘Is this the right time to mention that the town needs a hospital?’

  Russell laughed. ‘We are painfully aware of that fact, but we need to raise the money, and to do that we need the mines to start producing viable gold.’

  ‘They’re not?’

  Russell shrugged. ‘Not in big enough quantities to justify the labour that’s going into them. Gold fever is just that, Hunt—a fever. Those who have it are convinced the mother lode is in the next strike of the pick.’ He cast Caleb a quizzical look. ‘How’s your mine?’

  ‘Claim,’ Caleb said. ‘Not a mine, and frankly, I’ve been a little distracted since I returned to Maiden’s Creek. Can’t see when I’m ever going to get to give it some proper attention.’

  ‘If you need any help with investors and the like, come and see me.’

  Silence descended as Mrs Gulliver brought out a meal. The warm, purple night wrapped around them, silencing the raucous parrots that roosted in the old gums beside the creek. The circle of days would continue, despite the violent death of the man now lying in the hastily constructed wooden box who would be buried in the morning.

  Twenty-One

  Maiden’s Creek

  4 February 1872

  A bright hot sun rose above the line of hills that flanked the valley, already baking the hard earth of Maiden’s Creek’s main street. The very air crackled with the heat and the congregations in the churches sweltered through long sermons. Rumours of Bowen’s death were circulating and after the Sunday service at St Thomas’s, Adelaide, who had taken the telegram from the Buneep constable, found herself accosted by curious townspeople wanting to know what, if anything, she knew. They went away disappointed.

  Late in the afternoon, Adelaide heard the familiar cry of ‘Coach!’ that heralded the arrival of the Shady Creek coach. Netty came hurrying through from the house and the two women stepped onto the verandah. A larger crowd than usual had begun to gather outside The Empress, all turned towards the road into town, where the carriage made its careful way down the treacherous slope of Little John’s Sleigh Ride.

  Netty left Adelaide and crossed the road to join the silent crowd as Amos turned his horses into the main street, bringing them to a halt outside the hotel. Men doffed their hats as if the coach carried Bowen’s body, instead of the young Italian couple who almost fell from the carriage the moment it stopped to be enveloped into a large, noisy crowd of friends and relations. The third passenger took his time to disembark, waiting for Amos to pull down the steps.

  Adelaide saw no more than the man’s shadowy figure as he stepped onto the boardwalk on the far side of the coach. He appeared to adjust his hat and his head moved from left to right, taking in his surroundings. An imperious voice demanded, ‘My box, man. Now.’

  For a heart-stopping moment, time stood still.

  Surely not?

  Unable to move, Adelaide stared at the coach, still surrounded by anxious townspeople clamouring for confirmation of Dr Bowen’s death, but their voices were dimmed by the hammering of her heart.

  Netty, standing by the horses’ heads feeding carrots to Mac, looked up as the man spoke again. This time his words did not carry across the road. The carrots Netty held in her outstretched hand fell to the ground. Her horrified gaze went from the man who had just spoken to Adelaide.

  Adelaide covered her mouth with her hands to stop herself crying out as Netty came flying across the road, all thoughts of Amos forgotten. She took Adelaide by the forearms and almost shook her in her excitement.

  ‘It’s—’ she began

  ‘No!’ Mindful of the people around her, the word came out as a fierce whisper.

  Richard Barnwell had drowned in a shipwreck ten years ago. Everything she had done had been in the belief that he had died. He could not be standing in the main street of Maiden’s Creek.

  ‘I’m telling you, it is. A little older and heavier, but it’s him. He looked straight at me but he didn’t recognise me. How could I forget? How could you forget?’

  ‘I haven’t forgotten.’

  Netty’s eyes gleamed with excitement. ‘Shall I fetch him for you?’

  Adelaide thrust her friend through the door and slammed it shut, turning the key in the lock. She leaned against its reassuring solidity, her heart hammering beneath her stays.

  Netty stared at her. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Not now, Netty, not like this. I need time to think.’

  Netty frowned and put her hands on her hips. ‘I don’t understand. You should be pleased.’

  ‘I don’t know what I’m feeling,’ Adelaide pressed her hand to her heart. ‘I don’t feel anything.’

  ‘You can’t hide. He’ll find you soon enough. Even if he is asking for Adelaide Lewis, you’re the only Adelaide in this town and people will point him to the post office. I don’t understand. Don’t you want to see him?’

  Adelaide clasped her friend’s hand. ‘Netty, darling Netty, I know you mean well, but this is a shock. Ten years is a long, long time. I’m not the same person. If he is looking for a giddy seventeen-year-old willing to fall at his feet, then he is going to be sorely disappointed.’

  ‘If he truly loves you—’ Netty began but Adelaide gave a snort of laughter. ‘Why do you laugh?’ Netty sounded hurt. ‘He must love you still to cross the world to find you.’

  ‘There is that,’ Adelaide conceded. ‘But I’ve changed.’

  ‘And if he’d come six months ago it would be different, would it?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A certain handsome American doctor hadn’t come into your life then, had he? I’m no fool, Adelaide. There’s something between you and Caleb.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve known him barely three months. How long has Amos been courting you?’

  ‘That’s different,’ Netty said. ‘Caleb’s different.’

  ‘What am I going to do?’

  �
��At least let me go and see where he’s lodging. When you’re ready, you can face him on your own terms.’

  Adelaide drew a long, steadying breath and unlocked the door to let Netty out. ‘Find out what you can but don’t let him see you. We can’t rely on him not recognising you a second time.’

  ‘I won’t. I’ll ask Amos what he knows.’

  Peering around the door, Adelaide watched Netty cross the road, affecting a studious casualness.

  Alone in the empty post office, Adelaide slid down the door, reaching for the locket that she had worn every day for the past ten years. But now it lay folded in a handkerchief in her top drawer, where she had placed it the day Caleb had kissed her and told her he wished to pay court to her.

  She should be thrilled. The man she thought she had loved, the man she had thought dead for ten years—the father of her child—had come to find her.

  Why was her first instinct to flee?

  5 February 1872

  Adelaide passed a sleepless night, her mind churning with imagined conversations with this ghost from her past.

  She couldn’t hide. The post office had to be opened and at some point during the day he would walk through the door. She set herself to work but every time the bell over the door tinkled, she started.

  ‘Morning, missus,’ Amos Burrell said, dumping the mailbags on the counter, sending the neat rack of inked stamps flying. He stooped to pick up the fallen stamps, which he set back in their rack. ‘Didn’t mean to startle you.’

  ‘Not at all. I was … deep in concentration,’ Adelaide said. ‘What’s the news from Shady Creek?’

  Amos shrugged. ‘Not sure I can add anything. Old Bowen’s dead—passed away on the Melbourne coach. Quite a shock to the other passengers, I can tell you.’

  ‘When will Russell and the others be back?’

  ‘Dunno. When I left last night, Caleb was … um … trying to find out what killed the old fellow.’ He raised a questioning eyebrow at Adelaide, who nodded. ‘I guess they may be back later today, but I couldn’t say for sure. You suppose Caleb will be the new doc?’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly say,’ Adelaide responded.

  Amos’s glance slid to the door to the residence.

  ‘Netty’s in the kitchen.’ Adelaide said, unbuckling the first bag.

  ‘Thanks, missus.’

  ‘Amos.’ Adelaide stopped him before he reached the door.

  He turned back. ‘Yes, missus?’

  ‘What can you tell me about one of the passengers you brought in today?’

  ‘The Eyeties?’

  ‘No, the other one.’

  Amos’s lip curled. ‘Oh, ’im. Mr ’igh and mighty. Flew into a rage when I insisted we stop at the Thompson for the night. Wouldn’t tip me for my trouble. Said it was because the coach was late. That was ’ardly my fault. We couldn’t leave Shady Creek till Mr Russell said so.’

  ‘Did he say why he was coming to Maiden’s Creek?’

  Amos shrugged. ‘Just said ’e ’ad urgent business. Did ask me if I knew a Miss Lewis. Said I’d never ’eard of ’er. You ever ’eard of a Miss Lewis?’

  Adelaide looked down at the ledger she had been working on. ‘Thank you, Amos. Ask Netty to bring me a cup of tea when she has a moment.’

  Amos clumped out of the post office and she watched his head pass by the window on the path leading to her home. She had no doubt he would ask Netty to marry him soon. They’d been courting for three years and Netty deserved her happiness. She’d been loyal to Adelaide for too long.

  From her counter Adelaide had a good view of The Empress hotel, where Richard had taken the best room, and as she worked, she found herself continually glancing up in the expectation of seeing him emerge. She had no intention of being caught unawares. He appeared just before lunch, incongruously clad in a fawn linen suit and a neat bowler hat. He looked up and down the street before crossing the road, heading straight to the post office.

  Adelaide fought the instinct to turn and run. She took a deep breath then stilled, glad of the solid wooden counter that stood between her and the world.

  The bell above the door rang and Richard entered, doffing his hat.

  ‘Good afternoon, my good woman,’ he said. ‘I was told you may be the person to ask—’ He stopped, staring at her. ‘Good God! Adelaide?’

  For a long, long moment, they stood looking at each other across a gulf of ten years and a lifetime of hard experience.

  Now she found herself face to face with him, Adelaide dredged up the courage to view him dispassionately.

  Richard Barnwell, the love of her young life, had been eight years her senior when he had chosen her from the crowd of simpering debutantes at her coming out ball. They had danced together three times that night. He had trodden on her new blue satin dancing slippers and torn the lace on her hem, but he had made her laugh, made her feel special and, at seventeen, with no experience of men beyond the narrow world of her father, she had fallen hopelessly, foolishly in love with this blond-haired hero of every Walter Scott novel she had read made real.

  Her Ivanhoe would be in his mid-thirties now. The years had thickened his torso and lessened his hair. He now wore a neat, waxed moustache and there were lines at the corners of his eyes and mouth.

  She wondered what he saw: a thin, angular woman with her once glossy curls of dark hair, drawn severely back in an uncompromising bun at the nape of her neck, only relieved by the few stray locks she now allowed to soften her face.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Barnwell. What is it I can help you with?’

  ‘Adelaide.’ Richard smiled and held out his hand. ‘Come out from behind that desk.’

  She hesitated and, with the greatest reluctance, lifted the counter. She stood out of his reach, her arms wrapped tightly around her body. Her eyes remained on his outstretched hand but she found herself unable to touch him. If she took his hand, maybe he would disappear again? Vanish from her life just as he had done ten years ago.

  ‘Addy …’ His voice cracked.

  In a high, tight voice, she found the carefully chosen words she had rehearsed in the dead of night vanished. ‘You’re dead!’ were the only words that came out.

  He shook his head, running a hand through his hair, tousling it and bringing back the man she remembered, the man she had loved.

  ‘Where do I start? Is there somewhere we can talk?’ He cast a meaningful glance at the door to the residence.

  The bell on the door tinkled, making them both start as Mrs Jervis bustled in. She stood looking from one to the other, her eyes bright with curiosity. The tension in the room positively crackled.

  ‘Good afternoon, Mrs Jervis,’ Adelaide said, returning to her place behind the counter.

  ‘Are you serving this gentleman?’ the bank manager’s wife enquired.

  ‘No,’ Adelaide replied. ‘He is waiting on me to finish sorting the mail.’

  ‘Is there anything for me?’ Mrs Jervis asked.

  Adelaide indicated the mailbags. ‘As you can see, I have barely started. Come back in the afternoon.’

  Not one to depart without some tidbit of gossip to impart to Mrs Russell, the lady held out her hand.

  ‘Welcome to Maiden’s Creek, Mr …?’

  Richard smiled and took her hand. ‘Barnwell,’ he said.

  ‘It is good to see a gentleman of evident quality. Are you just passing through?’

  Richard shot Adelaide a quick glance. ‘No, I have some business to conclude.’

  ‘Well, if you are wishing advice, my husband, Mr Jervis, is manager of the Bank of Victoria and would be delighted to assist you.’

  ‘Thank you, madam. I shall bear that in mind.’

  With a sniff and a last, lingering glance at Richard, the little woman left the post office, shutting the door behind her with a thump that set the bell jangling.

  Safe behind her counter, Adelaide looked up at Richard, her composure regained.

  ‘I can’t talk now,’ she said. ‘My job comes fi
rst. I close the post office at five. Come then.’

  Richard’s gaze swept the room, coming back to rest on her face. ‘You shouldn’t be doing this.’

  ‘And what should I be doing?’ she snapped. ‘Sitting in a fancy drawing room, dispensing tea and cucumber sandwiches? That’s not how my life turned out, Richard.’

  ‘Adelaide—’

  The door jangled again.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Barnwell, we will talk about this matter later,’ Adelaide said, her tone crisp and professional. Fixing a smile on her face, she greeted her new customer.

  When Adelaide closed the post office, she found Richard already installed in her parlour, inspecting her bookshelf, with Netty hovering in the door to the kitchen. A pot of tea and slices of Netty’s latest cake were laid out on the table.

  The two women exchanged glances and Netty returned to the kitchen, removing her apron. At Adelaide’s request she had collected Danny from school and sent him on an errand to the Chinese gardens. Adelaide did not want Danny to meet this stranger—yet.

  Richard turned to face her, a slow smile lifting the corners of his mouth. Her heart jerked. She had forgotten his smile.

  She indicated for Richard to sit at the table and, as if she were hosting him in her father’s well-appointed drawing room, poured him tea and served him cake. The familiar domestic movements calmed her and only when she held the tea cup in her hand did she raise her eyes to his once more.

  ‘What do we say to each other, Richard?’ she asked. ‘Where do we start?’

  His answer surprised her. ‘Why did you run away?’

  ‘Because …’ She took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘When the news came that your ship had been lost, I was carrying your child. I thought you were dead. You know my father, you know what would have become of me if I had stayed.’

  Richard set his tea down on the table. The cup rattled in the saucer, slopping liquid. His nervousness gave her courage. ‘Addy, why didn’t you tell me about the baby?’

  ‘I didn’t know. Not before you sailed.’ Anger bubbled in her chest as she remembered the shock of finding that she was with child. ‘I was innocent of these matters, Richard. No one thought to tell me that what we—what we did could have such consequences, and by the time I realised, you had gone.’