by Téa Cooper
The big bed sat flush against one wall with a large cedar chest at its foot. A table served as a desk and piles of leather bound books and ledgers of different shapes and sizes covered every surface. Papers and documents spilled across the tabletop and polished timber boxes of various sizes balanced as makeshift bookends and additional surface space. Rolls and rolls of paper and notebooks sat propped and stacked in confused abandon in every corner.
A sagging bookshelf ran along one wall, each shelf littered with artifacts and objects d’art the like of which she had never seen. She picked out what looked like a charred aboriginal boomerang, a spear which on closer inspection proved to be the seed head of an enormous dried flower head and then she stretched out her hand and reached for a massive egg, blown and polished and covered in tiny ochre-colored dots. She dislodged it from its resting place and it rolled almost falling to the ground before she caught it at the edge of the shelf. Turning it carefully in her two hands she held it up to her nose, it smelled faintly of dust and something oily. A coiled lyrebird feather curled across a piece of flimsy layered bark colored with more strangely organized daubs of paint.
Putting the egg carefully back in place she moved to the cedar trunk at the end of the bed. Balanced on top of it were two smaller finely polished boxes. The corners were protected by beaten brass. A small metal key rested in the lock. She turned it cautiously and the lock opened smoothly. Nestled inside the faded red satin was a large timepiece. Frowning she picked it up and studied it. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. She carried it carefully to the window and turned it in the half-light. The faded letters on the face gave her the clue and she realized with a start that it was a compass. She rotated it slowly, her fingers tracing the scratched brass casing as she watched the needle swing from point to point.
With the compass cradled comfortably in her hand she moved restlessly around the room examining the maps and documents on the table and finally picked up one of the rolled-up cylinders of paper. She unfurled it carefully and laid it on top of the crumpled and faded patchwork quilt covering the bed. Using the compass as a paperweight she stretched it out and stared down at a hand drawn map. It showed details and accuracy far more involved than those in her father’s library. Small illustrations of fish illuminated the lines of the river, a detailed drawing of a leaf and seed pods and distinct rocky outcrops marked specific sites. She peered at the signature marked the bottom right hand corner then stepped back and looked around the room in bewilderment.
A larger box with a leather strap stood in the corner of the room. Struggling to balance its unexpected weight she eased open the brass clasp. Nestled inside she found a small telescope, tripod and what looked like a pendulum. She closed the box carefully and gasped as she dislodged a large worn leather pouch. The weight of it surprised her and she lifted it carefully. A length of chain with polished brass handles tumbled into her hand. She paused trying to make sense of the collection of instruments and tools. It was a strange hoard for convict bushranger.
Her mind raced as she struggled with the significance of the notebooks, maps and instruments. Were they bounty stolen on the road in some hold up? She picked up the compass from the bed flinching as the map rolled back up with a sudden snap breaking the silence of the room. Turning it in her hand she traced her fingers over the engraving on the back Thomas Roscomon 1835, London. The name didn’t ring a bell at first and then she realized Tom could well be the diminutive for Thomas.
She blinked slowly. This man, Captain Tom, the bushranger was no lightweight and unlikely to be a convicted felon unless he had stolen the hoard he kept locked in this treasure trove room. What had he said? He was here courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government. Surely the knowledge and skills to create maps such as these were wasted on the road. The instruments marked him as a surveyor or explorer, and surveyors were in short supply. He would have a lot to offer the colony and the government. What was he doing hiding out in this backwater? She’d dismissed him as an adventurer and an absconder, albeit a very attractive one, now it seemed he was nothing of the kind and she wasn’t sure she understood him at all, or the secrets he kept hidden.
****
Tom made his way down the steep stairs hoping Lily would give up her ridiculous hammering before someone took it into their head to investigate. He still wasn’t certain he’d done the right thing bringing her here, however, it felt safer to have her close at hand.
He approached the bar and resumed his position near Molly, and rested his elbows on the battered hardwood.
“What’re you doin’ wasting your time down here?” Molly asked with a throaty laugh. “You should be up there givin’ her what for.” She jerked her head in the direction of the stairs her faded curls bobbing around her florid face.
“There’s plenty of time for that, Moll. I’m expecting someone first.” He took the drink she handed him and he watched a couple of drovers downing mugs of beer, their muttered conversation inaudible and then out of the corner of his eye he caught a movement in the shadows at the far end of the bar.
In the pool of light cast by the lamp he noticed a hand lift a mug to a mouth hidden in the shadow of a hat pulled low. There was something odd about the movements, something that smacked of furtiveness. He leaned into the light. The features were indistinguishable below the dark hat. His curiosity was piqued and he slid along the bar, moving toward the pool of light. With a sudden jerk the remains of the drink were tossed back and the light fell on the face. Tom grinned easing further along the bar.
“Good evening. I’ve been expecting you.” His hushed tone registered and the man started and glanced sideways at him and slid his elbow along the bar.
Tom followed suit. “Have you got the money?” The silence lengthened. “George?”
An unfocused bloodshot gaze turned on him and Tom tensed, every nerve bristling.
George’s hand slipped to the waistband of his trousers. “Mr. Dungarven sent a message.”
The butt of a pistol showed in the dim light. Tom swallowed his need to draw his own and prayed the overseer wouldn’t be fool enough brandish a weapon inside the packed inn.
“What’s the message?” He forced an even tone into his voice.
“He won’t pay a penny of the ransom until the horses are delivered to Sydney.” George tilted his chin and looked at him. Tom fought the overpowering urge to bury his fist into the flaccid lips that curled in what might pass as a triumphant smile. He cradled the clenched knuckles of his right hand rubbing them slowly with his left hand and restrained the impulse.
“What about his daughter?” Tom asked stiffly.
George rattled his mug on the bar. “Another one, over here.” Molly took her time to stroll to the counter, flicking a filthy rag against her equally dirty apron.
“Is there something you’d like?” She paused and turned. “Tom?”
“Not him. Me.” George banged his empty glass down and the bar rattled
“Oh.” Molly looked him up and down with a derogatory stare. “What’ll it be?”
“Rum.”
“Won’t be long.” Molly sauntered away throwing a wink at Tom over her shoulder.
Leaning back on the bar, Tom stared directly into the watery bloodshot eyes of Dungarven’s overseer. “I’ll ask you again. What about his daughter?”
“His daughter?” The stubby fingers drummed on the bar. “Oh yes. The filly goes with the horses too, and don’t forget the stallion.”
George pushed his hands against the bar and stood up shakily. “Where’s that bloody drink, Molly?”
Tom’s hand slid to his waistband and caressed the pistol hidden beneath his jacket as George rummaged in his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper. “Here’s the address in Sydney.” He passed the folded scrap across the bar. “The horses need to be there by next week.” He dropped it on the bar, and slapped it twice with his gnarled hand.
Tom’s temper snapped. He reached across and grabbed the stained collar of th
e overseer’s coat and pulled him close, the rank odor of the unwashed body turned his stomach. “Get out of here and get out now.” He gave him an almighty push and George stumbled across the floor recovering his balance only when he cannoned into the burly body of an accommodating drover.
“Go on, get out.” The venom in Tom’s voice stilled the entire room and the drover opened the door and gave George a final push then slammed the door behind him.
The hard timber pushed into Tom’s spine as he leaned back against the bar and let his breathing settle.
“You’re well shot of that one. Here.” Molly slid the glass toward him. “It’s on the house.” He turned and accepted the brandy, the rough spirit burning a path down his throat as he tossed it back in one swift swallow.
“Now what?” Molly asked.
He shrugged. A bloody good question.
It seemed Lily was right. Her father didn’t have the money or if he had, he wasn’t going to part with it until the horses were delivered to Sydney. He rubbed his hands across his eyes. He needed to talk to Lily. However before he did, he needed to think. It seemed he was involved in more than he’d bargained for when he’d first pulled his gun on Wollombi road a week ago.
****
A scuffling noise interrupted Lily’s musing and she turned toward the door. So Mr. Thomas Roscomon had returned. Good. She had some questions for him. It was time he came clean about exactly who he was and what he was up to. Hopefully he’d also have an answer from her father.
“Tom?” She’d reached the door, her hand ready to open it before she remembered he had locked it from the outside. Chewing her lip she waited, listening for the rattle of the key in the lock.
Instead an earsplitting crack of timber shattered the silence and she leaped back only a second before the door flew open. She stepped further back as the door was flung wide, narrowly missing her. The fine hairs on the back of her neck bristled against her shirt collar in the ensuing silence. A beam of light from the hallway slanted across the floorboards and the hum of voices from the bar permeated the room.
“George.” The word escaped her open lips in a rush of air as her eyes widened in surprise. She stepped back feeling the edge of the bed hit the back of her knees and sank down. “George?”
The mocking look on his face and the menacing way he towered over her sent a rush of foreboding through her. What was he doing up here? Ignoring the surge of bile in her throat, she pushed herself up.
“Well, my lady.” A sneer curled his lip. “I guess your father cares more his horses than he does for you, which makes you fair game for the likes of me” He took a step closer. Lily jumped to her feet. The iron bed frame pressed against the back of her knees blocking any escape.
“He’s still my father and you’re still in his employ.” She breathed slowly trying to still the sense of panic swirling through her.
“He doesn’t think you’re as valuable as his ’orses. He won’t care if I steal a little kiss.”
“He’ll flay you alive if you so much as touch me. And Tom will, too, if he finds you're in here.”
“Oh, Tom is it now. He’s got to catch me first and I don’t see him lurking around here to protect you.” He pantomimed a searching glance around the room and through the open door to the stairs. “He’s too busy drowning his sorrows.” The conversations from the bar downstairs hummed in the background as he wiped his filthy sleeve across his mouth licking his lips in preparation for his anticipated kiss. “There’s not much he can do after I’ve taken what I came for.”
Lily’s heart raced when he took a step closer. “Don’t you come near me.” She edged her way around the bed her fingers itching to reach one of the heavy brass instruments she knew lay on the table. Her eyes flicked toward them. If she could just reach one before he got his grimy hands on her…
“Since your father doesn’t care about you, there’s no need for Tom to keep you safe anymore. Perhaps he’ll even take his turn.” A gleam of anticipation shone in his piggy little eyes. “Or maybe he already has. Is that why he’s got you tucked up here in ’is room waiting for him?”
The mopoke owl hooted in the darkness outside, the mournful sound reverberating down her spine and for the first time Lily tasted real fear when the glint in his eye turned to pure lust. Her stomach roiled and she darted for the table. A sudden rush of air swept past her as he lurched toward her
He missed. She grasped the first object her fingers touched and raised it as his hands came down on hers trapping her arms She twisted and it dropped to the floor with a crash and the heavy brass casing scored the timber floorboards. She raised her hand and raked her fingernails down his cheek. The rough stubble of his cheek caught and he cursed as she drew blood.
“You little bitch!” His spittle splattered her face “You’re asking for it now. You like a bit of rough, do you?” He grunted as he turned her and pushed her backward. She overbalanced onto the bed and he fell on top of her. She kicked and flayed but her movements only seemed to encourage him and he held her down by her hair with one hand and fumbled at her breeches with the other.
Panting with exertion, she lay still and when he raised himself on one arm she grabbed her last chance. She flipped over and pulled her knees up to her chest and lashed out with her feet. The look on his face as he slithered unceremoniously off the side of the bed almost made her laugh until the hard barrel of his pistol pushed against the soft swell of her breast. Fear skittered through her blood like ice.
An angry breath hissed from between his clenched teeth. “Stay there. I’ve still got a job to do for your father.” He prodded her again with his pistol. Closing her eyes and clamping her teeth tightly together, she slowly raised the palm of her hand and with a control she didn’t feel calmly pushed the pistol aside.
“Stay there. Move back up the bed.” He waved the pistol in the air and she pulled her legs up onto the bed and shuffled back until the iron headboard pushed against her backbone.
His fingers bit deeply into her flesh as he clasped her wrist and she looked down for a moment as he pulled a piece of rope tight around her bruised skin. A second piece followed and she sat stunned, incapable of speech as he tightened the restraints.
“Don’t try anything,” he spat. She almost gagged as she sank back watching bemused as he slid the pistol into his waistband before moving across to the table scattering maps and papers onto the floor as he rummaged through boxes and books. An eternity passed until she realized he was searching for something, something specific.
“What are you doing?” The quaver in her voice infuriated her.
“What does it look like?” He squinted down at the table and she heard a grunt of satisfaction. “Looking for something.” He dug through the remaining papers and pulled a series of tattered paper rolls toward him before his hands finally closed on one. He ran a stubby finger over the red seal that held a faded piece of ribbon in place. He carried it to the door and peered more closely at the seal in the lamplight then grunted and shoved it firmly into his coat pocket.
Frustrated by her inability to move, Lily pulled against the bed head squirming furiously as she tried to loosen the ropes around her wrists. His fist hit her cheekbone with a sickening thud. She didn’t see it coming. Her mouth dried and she shook as he hovered over her. Waves of pain slashed through her head and she bit her lip to stop the trembling.
“You’ll keep,” he said giving her one last derisive look before he bolted through the door.
A strangled gasp escaped from her chest and she contemplated the luxury of hysterics. Her head fell to her chest as she allowed the pain from her cheek to course through her.
****
Tom tossed back the last of the brandy and nodded to Molly before he left the bar. His initial rage had subsided, but he still couldn’t fathom why Dungarven had no interest in the safety of his daughter. His message had made no specific mention of her. It was as though she was one of the horses or he had disowned her. He ran his fingers over th
e stubble on his chin as he slowly climbed the stairs back to his room. All he wanted was a decent night’s sleep but he knew he wouldn’t be getting one until he’d told Lily about her father’s response and made a decision about his next move.
As he stepped onto the top stair the change in the light registered and he tensed. Moving quietly and carefully, he avoided the creaking timber joints and fumbled in his pocket for the key. How in God’s name had she got the door open? In three quick strides he was in the room. Lily lay slumped against the bed head, her burnished curls falling forward over her face. His stomach sank when he realized her arms were tied behind her.
“Lily.”
She lifted her head slowly and he groaned. There wasn’t a vestige of color in her face, except for the angry red welt across her cheek; it was as if the life had been drained out of her. He slid his arms around her fragile shoulders and relief filled him when he felt the warmth of her body through his cotton shirt.
“What happened?”
Her moan reverberated against his chest and her eyes flickered open, full of confusion and fear.
“It’s alright. I’m here now. Let me untie you.”
He cursed under his breath as he tried to loosen the ropes from her wrists and finally lowered her arms to her lap. He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her shivering body, cradling her against him and rubbing her chaffed wrists in an attempt to restore the blood flow.
“Are you alright?”
Her head nodded against his chest. “It was George.” He leaned closer. Her words were muffled against his chest. “I thought it was you. He broke down the door and…”
His anger swelled as he rocked her against him, the thought of the opportunity he had wasted when George had left the bar filled him with rage. The desire to flatten the flaccid nose of the overseer against the back of his addled brain filled him.