‘How’ve they been to handle?’ the Bauhinia Downs man asked.
Kavanagh gave a short laugh. ‘They’re all right now. For a start they were a bit touchy, though. They rushed on us the first night and we lost a couple, but a few days on the road soon settles them down.’ He glanced at Louise, smiling. ‘Have you seen a cattle-rush, Miss Forrest?’
‘No. I’m not sure I wish to, either. Are you certain they won’t rush again?’
‘You can never be sure of that, ‘specially with young cattle. I just hope they don’t, since we’re so shorthanded.’
There was an awkward silence for a moment. Richards and young Divine averted their eyes, obviously wondering how she would handle a stampede and Louise felt they were wishing her elsewhere. Kavanagh continued his conversation with the Bauhinia Downs man, his manner in contrast relaxed and easy. She was grateful that he didn’t appear to share their misogyny.
~*~
At the stockyards Kavanagh dismounted to open the gate. He stood beside it to count the cattle as they surged to freedom, while Louise and the other men remained on horseback to contain them. The cattle were a good, even line of Shorthorn steers and heifers, reds and roans with the occasional white. Considering the season and the distance they’d already travelled, they were in remarkably good condition. Despite his youth it appeared this young cattleman was a capable drover–for Louise had listened to the men’s talk enough to be aware of the common mistake of hurrying stock and walking the flesh off them.
The cattle responded obediently to the steadying horsemen and were soon travelling eastwards, striding out at this early hour. The packhorses and the half-dozen spare mounts trotted ahead of the herd, their heads turned to home. Kavanagh had informed Louise that two of the saddle horses would now be available for her use. This was fortunate, as it was Shadow’s third day under saddle and he was in need of a rest.
Louise, directed to stay at the rear of the herd, held her horse in check. The animals required no pushing at this stage. She’d always possessed a lively, though frustrated interest in stock and in the management of Banyandah. As a child she’d hung on every word of her father’s stockmen, listening avidly whenever her father and Charles so forgot themselves as to mention station affairs in the hearing of their womenfolk. In consequence she’d acquired knowledge out of proportion to her practical experience and she was glad of it now as she set about proving her ability to Kavanagh.
When they halted for their ‘dinner camp’, as the men referred to their lunchtime meal, he gave her a look that she hoped was approving.
‘You weren’t lying.’ He’d taken food and eating utensils from one of the pack-saddles and now they waited for the billy to boil while the lad watched the mob. Richards had left them sometime earlier, but most of the cattle were content to rest in the shade, requiring little supervision on Cecil Divine’s part. ‘You must have handled stock before.’ He gave her a bold grin. ‘I’ll tell you, when I saw you this morning in that fancy riding habit you had me worried. But you’re making out all right. Don’t push ‘em, though. We’ll have to let ‘em feed along this afternoon.’
Louise smiled sardonically. ‘Whatever you say, sir. I’m grateful to have your approval.’
He gave her a sideways, amused glance as he took food from an old flour bag and began to prepare their meal. She watched with interest as he cut thick slabs of cold damper and sliced a piece of dark, slimy-looking corned beef. She suppressed a shudder but resolved not to complain. After all, what had she expected? Droving fare was plain at the best of times and this man was obviously used to rough living.
It was blessedly cool here, under the shade of a sprawling bauhinia tree. Louise had already noticed that it was in bloom and now she picked one of the bright red flowers from a lower branch, curiously turning it in her fingers. Under other circumstances she’d have pressed the flower in a book, but reminding herself that she wasn’t here to study nature, she cast it aside and returned her attention to her companion. Kavanagh seemed content for the moment to be quiet, but his silence was an easy one, unlike Divine’s constraint.
If the food was unappealing, she was agreeably surprised at the improvement in Kavanagh’s appearance today. He almost looked presentable. He’d obviously washed last night, exchanging the dirty clothes for clean ones and he’d also shaved, leaving only the side-whiskers that extended to the line of his jaw. His features without the stubble were surprisingly attractive–thin, brown and strong, with a light dusting of freckles.
There were crow’s feet at the corners of his green eyes, a legacy of the Queensland sun along with the freckles on his nose. The lines seemed premature in one so young, but added character and charm to a smile that was quick and engaging. She supposed he would set hearts fluttering amongst girls of a certain class.
She gave herself a mental shake, wondering why she was even looking at him. Strapping he may be, in his striped Crimean shirt and stockman’s moleskins, but the gulf that separated them was wider than she could begin to imagine. He wasn’t the sort of company she was accustomed to keeping. She would do well to remember that.
In spite of this resolution she found by the end of the meal that they were talking companionably, mostly about cattle and horses. Divine, who had left the resting cattle to eat with them, stared sullenly into his pannikin and uttered not a single word, returning to his vigil as soon as he’d finished his meal. As he rode off Louise commented on the condition of the herd and Kavanagh nodded, taking a pipe from his pocket and tamping tobacco into the bowl.
‘They were better than I expected, seeing how dry it is around Springsure. And I’ve nursed them along pretty well.’ He held a burning stick from the fire to his pipe and puffed vigorously, looking at her through narrowed eyes. ‘Talking of Springsure, who were you governess for there?’
The question took Louise off balance. She paused a moment to gather her wits before improvising hastily. ‘A Mr and Mrs Jones. Do you know them?’
‘What’s his first name?’
‘George.’ Heavens, these names were imaginative.
‘No, don’t think I’ve met him. Where do they live?’
‘In the main street.’ This had to be safe enough, since there had to be a main street, although she knew nothing of Springsure. ‘Next to the hotel.’
He looked askance at her. ‘There’s three hotels, you know.’
His tone was indulgent, as if he thought her a little stupid. She flushed, stung into recklessness. ‘I’m talking about the Grand,’ she retorted defiantly. With any luck there could be a Grand Hotel–there seemed to be one in almost every town in the colony. If not, that was just too bad. Who did he think he was, asking so many questions?
He was staring at her with a strange expression on his face. ‘There are three hotels in Springsure,’ he repeated softly. ‘The Commercial, the Springsure and the Shearer’s Arms.’ He paused, watching her keenly as he drew on his pipe. ‘I don’t think you’ve ever been there in your life!’
She turned away in confusion, aware of her high colour. She said nothing and after a moment he asked deliberately, ‘Where the hell did you come from, then?’
‘Gainsford,’ she retorted, with some dignity. ‘Not that it’s any of your business.’ Thank God the boy had returned to the cattle. Suddenly it had occurred to her that Kavanagh was likely to know the Greenwoods at Banana, since he lived in the same district. He may as well be told the same story as they, which was only part of the truth after all. ‘I was acting as governess for the Barclay family, of Sherborne. Have you heard of James Barclay?’
He nodded, regarding her with lively curiosity. ‘What’s the idea of this yarn about Springsure, then? And why on earth didn’t you go back through Westwood? Surely James Barclay’s not the sort of bloke to let a girl go traipsing about by herself with bugger-all idea of where she’s even going?’ He stopped and cleared his throat. ‘I beg your pardon. Excuse the language.’
His interrogation, coupled with that unpleasa
nt word, was becoming offensive. His lack of respect was mortifying, but she was a fool to have encouraged him in the first instance. ‘I would prefer not to discuss this, Mr Kavanagh. I asked you to escort me to Banana. That is all you need to know.’
He stared at her, his expression challenging. It appeared he wasn’t easily intimidated. ‘Did they throw you out, or something?’
She glared at him, heat rising to her cheeks. ‘No, they did not! For your information, the Barclays weren’t aware that I was leaving.’
On reflection, that information would have been better kept to herself. Kavanagh looked at her suspiciously, his eyes very keen and hard. Perhaps he suspected her of being caught out in some misdemeanour, such as stealing–which wasn’t so very far from the truth–or...
His eyes dropped to her stomach, so fleetingly she could almost have imagined it. But it was enough to make her remember the maid who’d left Banyandah after becoming entangled with Charles.
She jumped to her feet, all burning humiliation, and gathered the remains of her meal. Some of the cattle were drifting off to graze, which gave her a good excuse not to linger. Kavanagh began to pack the food and Louise went to her horse, looking about for a possible mounting block. Then she realized he was there beside her, holding out his hand for her foot. She wanted to brush him away, but there was no suitable log or stump in sight, so she was forced to subject herself to his touch.
As he hoisted her into the saddle he asked, ‘How’d you come by the horse, then? That’s Barclay’s brand on the near shoulder, isn’t it? 6JB?’
‘I bought him,’ she said shortly, wishing she could swing into the saddle like a man. ‘I paid ten pounds for him, which is rather more than he’s worth.’
‘From Barclay? Why would he sell you a horse if he wasn’t a party to you leaving in such a hurry?’
She settled her right leg around the horn of the saddle and arranged the skirt of her habit before turning to face him, looking down at him with all the arrogance she could muster. She resented these impertinent questions and it irked her that under normal circumstances he, a mere stockman, wouldn’t have dared to cross examine her so. ‘Would you believe that Mr Barclay had no idea he was selling him?’ she asked coldly.
There was a pause while he comprehended that. Then he burst out laughing. ‘By Jove, that’s rich. Looks like I’d better keep a good eye on my gear when you leave, or I might be missing half of it.’ The greenish eyes were alight with mischief. ‘Was it your light fingers got you into trouble with the Barclays, then?’
How dare he make fun of her! Hot blood rushed to her head, overriding discretion.
‘Unless you apologise for those remarks, Mr Kavanagh, I’ll leave you here and now and hope to God you lose every single head of these damned cattle in the scrub.’
He started and sobered instantly, taken aback probably as much by the ferocity of her response as by her language. It was hardly the standard vocabulary of a young lady. As her anger cooled–which it always did very quickly once she’d vented it–she began to wish she’d spoken more temperately. One of these days she would learn to guard her tongue.
He touched his hat. ‘I’m sorry, Miss Forrest. It’s none of me business how you came by the horse, or why you left the Barclays. Forget I ever asked you.’
It wasn’t the most gracious apology she’d ever received, but he sounded sincere. In the circumstances she hardly knew how to respond, so she said nothing, merely inclining her head slightly before turning her horse away.
On reflection she was pleased that she hadn’t seemed to forgive him too easily. He was far too impudent and it would pay to keep him at a distance in future.
~*~
They travelled the herd about ten miles that day, mostly through brigalow scrub which accentuated how shorthanded they were. It was difficult to keep the mob together when it was impossible to see all of it at the one time, while a beast could lurk in a thick clump of scrub and be unseen by a rider passing a few feet away. However young, half-grown cattle lacked the independence of mature animals and a couple of times an overlooked beast came trotting up behind the mob, anxious to rejoin its mates.
As they neared the waterhole in Zamia Creek where they would make the night camp, Kavanagh asked his two assistants to help him ‘string’ the herd out, so he could count them. Louise was very surprised to learn the tally he arrived at was identical to what he’d counted out of the yards that morning.
The waterhole was a fair-sized one and was surrounded by hundreds of cattle tracks and scattered piles of dung. Yet it was now deserted by all but an emu crouching at the water’s edge, dipping its long neck to drink, and a mob of whiptail wallabies which swiftly fled their presence. Louise watched them bounding away, balancing effortlessly on their long tails as they cleared fallen timber and veered nimbly through the brigalow.
After watering the cattle they held them on an open creek flat, settling them for the night. Louise stayed with the cattle while Kavanagh and Divine went off to set up camp. She watched from a distance as Kavanagh unloaded the packhorses while Divine, as horse-tailer, hobbled all the horses out to graze, with the exception of one, which he saddled. She knew that would be the night-horse, kept in readiness for the first watch. Kavanagh busied himself with the cooking, and presently called her in to eat while Divine went on first night watch.
Dinner was delicious–damper, still hot from the camp-oven, spread with dripping and treacle–an appetising contrast to the bitterly salty meat they’d eaten at lunchtime.
Divine went off on first night-watch, leaving Louise sitting with Kavanagh by the fire. The silence stretched between them. At last sheer boredom tempted Louise to break it.
‘I’m beginning to realize how shorthanded we are, Mr Kavanagh. Five hundred cattle and a mob of horses is a handful for three in this sort of timber. Why haven’t you another man?’
She’d wondered if Kavanagh was harbouring a grudge at her earlier outburst, but now he grinned, looking vaguely embarrassed.
‘I did, at the start. Trouble was, he couldn’t stomach taking orders from someone younger than he was and we ended up having words. That was the finish of him. He reckoned he was going off to join the Palmer River gold rush. I wish him luck, because he’ll need it up there, amongst the cannibal blacks and the Chinamen.’ His tone was dry. ‘I would have been better off keeping me mouth shut, because useless or not he was better than no-one. It’s the Irish temper–gets me into trouble.’
She had to smile. He was likeable when he turned his sense of humour against himself. Certainly it was preferable to having him direct it against her. ‘So you’re Irish? I suppose Kavanagh’s an Irish name.’
‘Yes, it is. But I’m only half Irish. Me mother was Welsh. Me first name–Lloyd–is Welsh.’
Irish and Welsh–to Louise, with generations of unadulterated English breeding behind her, the combination sounded exotic. Not that he looked exotic, at all. He was certainly not dark as she imagined the Welsh to be.
‘I’m afraid my heritage is comparatively boring,’ she offered. ‘My parents are both English.’
‘Do they live here in Queensland?’
‘They used to. My father has property near Rockhampton, but early in the year they travelled to England to visit my grandfather before he died. Now my father has inherited the family estate in Devon and won’t be returning.’
He looked curious. ‘Why didn’t you go with them?’
She shrugged. ‘I love Australia. England sounds so forbidding and...stifling.’
‘But isn’t this a bit of a comedown for someone like you? The way you talk and the way you dress–you seem like a swell. Were you born here?’
‘Yes, I was.’ She smiled, deciding not to take offence at his terminology. ‘Can’t you tell? My mother says my accent is so colonial.’
He seemed to find that amusing. ‘No. I couldn’t tell. To me you sound like a Pommy through and through.’
‘How strange, when I can’t detect either th
e Irish or the Welsh in your speech.’ In this pioneering country where British and Irish immigrants were barely outnumbered by the native-born, his broad Australian accent was conspicuous.
‘Oh, that’s not surprising. Both Ma and Dad were born in New South Wales. Me grandparents came out from the Old Country. Me Dad’s parents were what you might call “Assisted Immigrants”.’ He cleared his throat. ‘Assisted by the law.’
She stared at him nervously. ‘Convicts, do you mean?’
He gave a callous-sounding laugh. ‘Yeah. Grandpa and Grandma Kavanagh were both transported for stealing and I won’t pretend they were victims of circumstance. They were a rough and ready old pair. Grandma and Grandpa Griffiths came out of their own free will. Grandma Griffiths was a respectable servant girl and she was the only one worth very much.’ He scratched his jaw thoughtfully. ‘Well, I’m not sure about Grandpa G. He was supposed to be a decent cove, but he died before I was born.’
He stood up, dusting the dirt from the seat of his trousers. Abruptly he changed the subject. ‘You can go on the next night watch. You’d better get as much sleep as you can. Divine’ll wake you up when he comes in. Sing to the cattle, let ‘em know you’re about. There’s nothing more likely to spook ‘em than have someone sneak up on ‘em.’
He dumped his swag on the opposite side of the campfire and set about unrolling it. Louise eyed him warily. There were plenty of convict descendants in the Colonies, but she’d never before heard anyone freely admit to being one of them. Was he trying to shock her? Most people were ashamed of such ancestry, trying to cover it up at all costs; particularly if they had risen to a position of importance in their community. Those of poor origins had a chance to succeed in Australia as they never could in Britain. If Lloyd Kavanagh had already established himself as a grazier at his age, he must be among those who had the ability to prosper.
That didn’t guarantee his respectability. Nighttime made her vulnerable and his earlier impudence had unsettled her.
But in other respects, he had behaved as a gentleman. So far he’d respected her privacy and had made it easy for her when it could have been difficult. Surely she was safe with him? Just in case she took out the revolver and loaded it, then placed it next to her pillow within easy reach.
Colonial Daughter Page 4