by Téa Cooper
‘It’s my own work.’
Mrs Winchester turned to the window. ‘I’ve seen enough.’
Disappointment curdling in her stomach, Roisin moved to the door. If she could have interested Mrs Winchester the other women in the district would have flocked to her. Such dreams, but it was not to be. She closed her eyes for a moment and composed her face while she reached for the door handle.
‘If you have time now I’d like you to take my measurements.’
Roisin’s heart stuttered to a halt and she spun around. The first lady of Wollombi stood smiling and nodding her head. ‘Did you think I was unimpressed? On the contrary, I’m thrilled you have decided to bring your business to us. Such a wonderful addition to our small community. The town is on the up and up and we need people with your skills to entice the settlers from Sydney. How else will the town thrive?’
The laugh caught in Roisin’s throat and she coughed. ‘It would be my pleasure.’ She reached for her tape measure from around her neck, resisting the temptation to crow aloud. ‘If you’d be so kind as to remove your pelisse, the measurements will be more accurate.’
Oh how she wanted to ask what Mrs Winchester would like made. A blouse, a nightgown? Surely not a corset! She hung the eggshell-blue pelisse on the hat stand, then stretched the tape across Mrs Winchester’s shoulders and down to her waist, jotting the measurements onto the back of one of her designs.
Mrs Winchester turned her head. ‘I have some broadsheets from Sydney depicting the latest French designs. I’d like you to cast your eye over them and tell me what you think would be suitable and if you would be able to replicate them.’
This was most certainly not a dismissal. The lady had something specific in mind. Roisin gulped back a spark of elation and schooled her voice just as Aunt Lil would have expected. ‘I’m able to source most materials in Sydney. I have some contacts, if you tell me what colours and weights you’re interested in.’ How she’d pay she’d no idea. Perhaps Aunt Lil would arrange for them to be shipped to Morpeth and then maybe Carrick would be coming through and could collect the packages. Alternatively, she could arrange to collect them herself. Her mind galloped while her fingers toyed with the tape measure. Ruan would love a day out. It had been so long since they had taken a trip anywhere. ‘Mrs Winchester, I’m so grateful for your custom. I won’t let you down.’
‘Well that’s to be seen. Now, tell me, when is a suitable time to call again?’
‘Whenever suits you.’ The middle of the night. Now. Tomorrow. As soon as possible.
‘In that case we will make it next week. At the same time?’
So long to wait. ‘It would be my pleasure.’
Roisin held out the blue woollen pelisse, barely able to suppress the emotion billowing in her chest, as Mrs Winchester slipped her arms into her coat and buttoned it.
‘Until next week, Mrs Ogilvie.’
‘Indeed. Thank you.’ Waiting while Mrs Winchester negotiated the narrow alley, she clutched her skirt tightly in her fingers. Then she shut the door with a firm click and rested her back against the timber.
It took a few long moments for her breathing to calm and then she peered out of the window just to make sure she’d truly not been dreaming, before letting out a huge whoop.
‘Ruan!’ Oh! He was at school. Elsie! She’d go and tell Elsie. She had to tell someone. She bolted down the alley, around the corner and skittered to a halt.
Elsie stood waiting in the front of the General Store. ‘Well, what happened?’ She grabbed Roisin’s arm and dragged her inside, then patted the stool next to the malodorous basket of onions.
‘She’s coming back.’
‘Coming back? What for? Didn’t she like what she saw?’
‘She’s coming back because she did like what she saw. She’s bringing some pictures, fashion papers. She wants to know if I can copy them.’
‘Copy them? Why would she want that? Isn’t your own work good enough?’
Roisin laughed. Elsie had become such a staunch supporter; however, she didn’t understand the fickle nature of ladies and their needs. ‘Elsie, everything is wonderful. That’s exactly what I wanted her to do.’ She rubbed at her temples before pulling the pins from her hair and letting her long, loose curls tumble down. ‘The only headache I’m going to have is sourcing the materials. I can write to my aunt and she’ll buy them and send them to Morpeth, but the problem is—how am I going to get them from there?’
‘If that’s your only problem then that’s easy fixed. My Alfie goes to Morpeth twice a week to collect the mail and stores for the shop. You know he does, he brought your letter, remember? We’ll tie it in.’
‘I could ask Carrick next time he’s in town.’
‘No need for you to be doing that. My Alfie can do it.’ Elsie huffed and pursed her lips. ‘And he’s a darn sight more reliable and quicker. You wouldn’t want to be trusting anything to those damn cutters and their filthy bullock dray.’
‘He helped me with my trunks and that didn’t cause a problem.’
‘That was before. You’re in business now and you’ve got patronage. A reputation to keep up. You can’t be seen with the likes of cedar cutters.’ She waggled a grubby onion-flavoured finger under Roisin’s nose. ‘Now Mrs Winchester’s called, you’re going to have all the high and mighties flooding in. They won’t want to be left out. You mark my words.’
With a jingle of the shop bell and a flurry of cold air, the door flew open. Elsie jumped to her feet, guilt written all over her face, then subsided onto the stool when Maisie closed the door behind her.
‘It’s all right. The lady and her carriage has left town. Now, tell me what happened. Mr Winchester was down at the courthouse and I overheard Mrs W telling him about her wonderful find and how lucky Wollombi was. You’re putting us on the map, Roisin. Make them toffee-nosed la-di-dah Sydney folks stand up and take notice. Why, Mrs Winchester even took a cup of tea at the inn. I had to dust off me best china. Good job those ne’er-do-well cutters weren’t in town lowering the tone.’ She gasped a breath and collapsed onto a stool. ‘So tell me all about it.’
‘There’s not a lot to tell that you don’t already know.’ A giggle slipped from Roisin’s lips. It was simply too good to be true. ‘Mrs Winchester’s coming back next week with some pictures. She wants to know if I can copy them and make suggestions for colours and styles I think will suit her.’ She clasped her hands to her chest, her heart almost ready to explode.
As the last of the giant stand of cedars fell beneath the cutters’ axes the days became longer. It was time to call it quits. All that remained was King Polai and one question. Should he take it alone or share his nest egg with Slinger? Carrick stared into the dying embers of the fire. ‘Tomorrow will see the last of the cutting. The bullocky’ll be back and we’ll be out of here.’
Slinger nodded. ‘I’ll miss the forest. I like the hush.’
‘You’re right. I like to stand at the end of a day’s work when the saws are stilled and listen to nothing. Nothing but the stirring of the breeze. Once the sun has set even the animals are quiet.’
‘Except for the howls of the dingoes. Never forget the dingoes.’ Slinger scratched at a festering bite on his arm. ‘Mind you the little biters are a bloody nuisance. The boys are going north, up Bellinger way. They say the trees are big there, bigger than here.’
Perhaps, if the rumours were true. Carrick doubted they’d find anything bigger than King Polai. The last one. His pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The last figures from Brinkworth in Sydney confirmed his reckonings. It was time to return to Ireland. Make good the agony he’d left behind and raise a stone for Liam and his Brigid. They deserved that. Even after all the years the need burned deep, made worse every time Roisin and the lad tugged at him. A living reminder of how he’d failed. He’d put it right. The bastard would pay. He closed his eyes and let the rum work its magic.
A house built by his own hands. The red cedar walls shining in the lam
plight, reflecting Roisin’s hair as she bent her head over her sewing. The gentle breathing of the lad while he slept, dreaming of treasures. King Polai would provide that. A fitting end to his life in the forest. Maybe he’d leave the cedar for Roisin and if he didn’t come back, she could build a house, a house of her own where she and the lad could thrive. A house no landlord could take away. And if he did return, then they’d build it together.
He jumped to his feet, scattering the sparks from the fire. Slinger blinked lazily at him. ‘What’s got your goat? Settle, man. For once there’s nothing to do.’
That sealed it. ‘Slinger can you keep yer gob shut?’ He studied the man sprawled at his feet. Although his eyes were blurred from the rum, Carrick knew him and knew him as the finest cutter. Together they’d bring King Polai down faster than he could alone and he’d be one step closer to making an end of it, one step closer to a life worth living.
‘Reckon.’
‘Want to make some big money? Might mean you never have to cut again.’
‘You serious?’
Carrick nodded and sank down onto the ground. ‘I’ve got one more job to do. One more tree.’
‘Boys won’t be happy about that. They’re ready to go.’
‘Not the boys. Just you and me.’
The rum left Slinger’s eyes in an instant, his muscles tightened and he sat hugging his knees to his chest, rocking towards the last of the fire. ‘Tell me.’
‘Old Pella showed me. He calls it King Polai, King of the Cedars.’
‘Not more of your native nonsense.’ The tension leached from Slinger’s body as he reached for the rum bottle again.
‘Not ten miles from here. Deep, deep in the valley. It’s got to be two hundred feet.’ He threw another log into the fire, watched the sparks rise and ignite Slinger’s interest once more.
‘How do you know? How did you find it?’
‘Old Pella spotted it that first spring when the tips of the new leaves were pink. You can see them from miles away.’
‘He’s having a piece of you.’
‘He’s not. I’ve seen it with me own eyes. He took me there before I put the team together, before I brought the team into the Yarramalong.’
‘And you’ve kept it to yourself? All this time?’
Carrick nodded, he had no guilt about that. It was never part of the deal he’d struck with the cutters. They signed on for as long as it took to clear a stand, he paid them a decent wage and next time they could stay or go. Only there was no next time now. Just King Polai. But Slinger, Slinger was different. They’d shared too much, far back to the days of the labouring gangs and the mines, back before they’d been picked for the cutters crew. Slinger deserved the chance. He was his mate.
‘Why should I help you?’
‘I’m not asking for your help. I’m offering you a share. It’s the last tree I’ll cut. We’ll take the boys back to Morpeth, send them on their way. Wish them well. Pay off the bullocky and go in. Just you and me and a couple of horses.’
‘Think you can find it again?’
‘I can find it.’ He could. The memory was etched in his mind as deeply as the bastard’s brand on his shoulder.
‘And after?’
‘We’ll cut it. Bring in the bullocky. Once the tree is down it doesn’t matter who knows. There’s nothing else around there worth taking. The rest is small stuff. I reckon we can do it in a week or two.’
‘Strange. You’d think where there was one there’d be many.’
‘It’s deep in the valley. Fed by a single shaft of sunlight. The rest are spindly, the cedar moth got to them.’
‘And what’ll you be doing then?’
‘Then I’m back to Ireland. I’ve got business to finish.’
‘Oh it’s business now, is it?’
‘Yeah, mine. Not yours. I’m asking if you want in on the tree, not the rest of me life.’ Carrick stood, wanting to distance himself from Slinger. He’d share the tree, not the pain in his heart. Never had. Never would. ‘Make up your mind.’
Slinger grunted then grinned and stuck out his hand. Carrick grasped it and hauled him to his feet. ‘It’s a done deal, then.’ He slapped the big man’s shoulder and they shook on it, the rough, calloused grasp of a man he’d trust with his life. Then he breathed a sigh. He’d sleep well and tomorrow he’d start making good the mess he’d left behind in Ireland.
The days passed in a flurry of preparation as Roisin scrubbed and dusted the parlour until it sparkled. She rummaged through her trunk and took out her sewing tools, box of cottons and silks, every piece of material and lace, edgings, ribbons and tassels she’d brought with her, even some of the scraps. Three more days until Mrs Winchester returned.
When the moment finally arrived it almost took her by surprise. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, Ruan had been particularly fractious, not wanting to go to school, mumbling something about having to go down to the brook and emu eggs. She simply hadn’t the time, so she’d bundled him out of the door with strict instructions to come straight home from school at dinnertime and not wait for her.
She changed into one of her voile blouses and attempted to tame her hair into what she hoped resembled a tight chignon. The knock on the door made her jump. Taking one last peep in the mirror, she patted a few stray strands of hair into place, and sucking in a steadying breath made her way to the front door.
‘Good morning, Mrs Ogilvie.’
‘Good morning, Mrs Winchester.’
The magistrate’s wife swept into the parlour, followed by another woman, thin and somewhat peaked, her drab olive-green pelisse buttoned high and her bonnet covering all except her pointy nose.
‘May I present my dear friend, Lady Alice.’
Lady Alice. Roisin stumbled a half-hearted curtsy, more of a crooked bob, in fact. She gestured to the chair by the fire. ‘Please sit down.’ One, only one chair. Why had it never crossed her mind that she might have more than one customer at a time? ‘Let me fetch another chair.’
‘It’s not necessary, Roisin. Why don’t you sit down, Alice?’
Lady Alice. Roisin swallowed a squeal and schooled the grin threatening to spill all over her face. ‘May I get you some refreshment? A cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you, Mrs Ogilvie. We have much to discuss. These are the ladies’ fashion papers I promised.’ She toyed with the tasselled drawstring on her embroidered reticule then eased it open and withdrew a sheaf of papers, which she spread on the table.
Roisin blinked once, then again. The latest illustrated papers of fashion, not a reprint from one of the Sydney newspapers—the actual papers. She clapped her hand over her mouth to prevent it running away with her. Illustration after illustration of the most beautiful evening gowns she’d ever seen. The sleeves were much smaller, a narrower and more practical silhouette, the necklines lower. How could she remember all of this? The latest fashions. Was there a date? How new were they? It only took a matter of weeks for ships to reach Australia now. The headline read, Gagelin-Opigez et Cite Paris. Exquisite shawls and wraps complemented the dresses. ‘These are unbelievable. Works of art.’ The hushed, reverent tone of her voice startled her.
‘Mr Worth. A young Englishman who is making something of a name for himself in Paris. His use of fabrics and exquisite tailoring is causing quite a stir. Can you make me a dress like this, Roisin?’ She stabbed at a particularly elegant evening dress covered with white embroidery and silk lace. It represented hours and hours of work even with her sewing machine.
‘It’s beautiful.’ Orange silk and white lace, spider-web fine, accentuating the waist and fall of the skirt.
‘Can you copy it? Something similar?’
‘I could.’ Yes, she could if she could get hold of some suitable fabric and yards of lace. ‘What colour did you have in mind?’
‘I have brought a small piece with me. My driver could deliver the bolt. I acquired it in Sydney.’
Roisin fingered the rose-coloured piece of si
lk, her mind swirling as she studied the design, the low scoop neck, the short sleeves. Mrs Winchester had the figure to carry it off. A fine waist and broad shoulders for her narrow frame; however, she’d need a heavily boned corset to set it off to perfection.
When she looked up Mrs Winchester was standing at the window staring out to the street. ‘I’d need the dress completed by next month for the Governor’s Ball. Is that possible?’
A month, just a month. Could she do it? Of course she could, even if she had to sit up all night, every night.
A large sigh from the depths of the chair by the fire broke into her musings. ‘Lady Alice?’ She blinked. She’d ignored the woman, forgotten all about her. Been so taken with Mrs Winchester’s request she’d daydreamed and overlooked a customer. ‘Can I help you with anything?’
‘No. Sadly, no.’ Lady Alice’s thin, humourless face lifted and disappointed eyes met hers, eyes that seemed as though they’d searched for something for so long their brightness had waned.
She’d taken off her bonnet and she sat picking at the ribbons as it rested in her lap. ‘I have a dress for the ball. Besides, I could never hope to emulate Grace.’ She gave a small derogatory laugh. ‘I don’t have the …’ She sketched a wave in front of her chest. ‘The necessary benefits to carry off something so, so revealing.’
For the first time Roisin studied the woman. Next to Mrs Winchester’s sparkling assurance, Lady Alice appeared very dowdy, though there was nothing wrong with the quality and cut of her pelisse. It was the colour. The olive green of her walking-out coat was such a poor choice for her pallid skin and hazel eyes. If she introduced some additional colour through ribbon or even trimmings on her bonnet, her complexion would bloom. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a little bit of artifice. She offered a small smile. ‘That is not an insurmountable problem if you would allow me to make some suggestions.’
Lady Alice curled her lips in a polite, somewhat distant smile and pleated the dull ribbons on her bonnet, making no effort to respond. Roisin turned back to Mrs Winchester. ‘You would also need certain undergarments to set this dress off to perfection.’