by Téa Cooper
As she marched up the road Maisie appeared on the verandah outside the inn. ‘Roisin, Roisin!’ She waved her plump arms, calling to her to cross the road.
Ruan ground to a halt and turned back to her. ‘See, Mam, I’m right. Everyone knows.’
‘We don’t know, yet.’ She grabbed his hand tight. ‘And until we do we’re not taking any notice of this drivel.’
‘Carrick and his mate are in the lockup.’ Maisie called across the road, just as Roisin reached the courthouse.
‘Will you stop meddling, Maisie Kidd?’ She tossed her head and crossed the grass on the corner of the road.
Ruan sighed and pulled his hand away. ‘I told you, Mam. This is men’s business.’
‘If it’s men’s business then why did you come home first?’ Ruan’s eyes widened and she snapped her mouth closed. What had possessed her to say that? Bloody Carrick O’Connor. From the moment he had swept into her life Ruan had become, become … damn him. She grabbed hold of Ruan’s hand again, wanting her little boy back.
Lounging outside the courthouse, the two constables followed her progress, their legs propped up, enamelled mugs in their hands and supercilious satisfaction splattered all over their reddened faces. She’d put money on the fact they weren’t cradling tea in those mugs, and they accused the cutters of being desperate sots.
She marched up the courthouse steps. ‘I want to see Carrick O’Connor.’ No point in beating about the bush.
‘And what makes you think he’s here?’ Constable Brown raised one wild eyebrow and the corner of his lip in a smirk.
‘Jimmy told me,’ Ruan piped up.
‘Oh, did he indeed? I shall have to have words with my son. This is police business, not schoolyard chatter. Why should I let you see the prisoner? Not his next-of-kin, are you? Doxies aren’t allowed.’
Ruan took a step forward, his little fists clenched and his jaw tight.
The reason for the fight in the schoolyard suddenly became clear. It hadn’t only been Carrick Ruan was worried about, he had been protecting her. She could imagine the comments flying around behind hands. Elsie and Maisie right in the middle of it. Ever since Carrick had slept the night away in front of the fire. Never mind the other night. A mixture of pride and pain intertwined and tightened around her heart for her brave boy. ‘So is Carrick here?’ She slammed her hands onto her hips. If she had to wear the reputation, then she’d make the most of it.
Constable Brown took another swig of his drink and belched, leaving her in doubt about the contents of the tin mug.
‘He is. And the answer’s no. You can see him after he and his mate come up in front of the magistrate.’
‘And when’s that?’
‘Two o’clock tomorrow afternoon, if Mr Winchester is back from Sydney.’ A leer crossed his face and she clenched her fist as he ran an appraising eye up and down her body. ‘Before you and Jane get too busy, so you should be able to make the time.’ The red-faced, pockmarked constable let out a great bellow of laughter.
It wasn’t worth putting him straight and the information didn’t merit thanks. Obviously, the scandal about her and Jane was rife in the town. ‘Come along, Ruan.’ Keeping her head high, she stalked back down the steps. Ruan scampered after her, throwing half-formed questions revolving around doxies and Carrick, none of which she intended answering until they got home—if ever.
‘Mrs Ogilvie, might I have a word?’
Roisin stalled in her tracks, her blood icy as she turned. Dankworth! Gripping Ruan’s hand tight she swallowed and composed her face. The air grew thick and close and the sounds of the town retreated.
‘Mam, you’re hurting me.’
The pressure in her fingers registered and she relaxed. ‘You go, Ruan. Go now, straight home to Jane.’ She pushed him away. Thank God she’d had the foresight to ask Jane to stay at home. She might have guessed Dankworth would be involved somewhere.
‘Do what your mother says, boy.’
Ruan turned and gawked at Dankworth, confusion painted all over his face. He was going to argue, and he opened his mouth to speak.
‘Now, Ruan. Otherwise you won’t be able to see Carrick.’
He frowned, narrowed his eyes, then nodded and took off down the road. She waited until he had reached the corner and turned back. Now was her opportunity. She had every intention of standing up to this man. She’d waited too long. He was not having her son.
‘Mr Dankworth?’ said Constable Brown.
‘I would like a word.’ He cast a derogatory glance at the two constables, who stood like statues bathed in a sea of rum fumes.
‘Yes, sir. Right away, sir.’ Constable Brown held open the door to the courthouse and stood back.
‘A little privacy would be ideal. After you, Mrs Ogilvie.’
She cast one last glance down the street to ensure Ruan had gone home. He had. Maisie, however, stood on the verandah of the inn, her mouth gaping open. The scandalmongers would have a field day. So what? She didn’t care.
It was cold inside the courthouse; she drew her shawl tight around her shoulders. How she wished she’d worn her green jacket. It made her feel courageous.
What did Dankworth want? Ruan, she knew that, but obviously he wasn’t here to snatch the boy away. He’d sent Ruan home. Told him to go. She’d known from the beginning Dankworth would be back, though she hadn’t expected him quite so soon. She had to stand up to him. Tell him no. She wouldn’t hand over her son, not for anything or anyone.
He couldn’t prove Ruan was his son and she wouldn’t be intimidated. Some people might say she was mad or selfish or stupid even. Dankworth could provide for the boy, offer him chances and opportunities beyond her ability. At what price? The very thought of the life Ruan would lead turned her stomach.
Dankworth gestured to the chair in front of the desk and then circled the desk, running his long, bony fingers across the embossed leather surface. It was obviously Winchester’s desk. Maybe the magistrate would help her, if she went to see Mrs Winchester and pleaded her case. Surely a woman would understand she couldn’t lose her child.
He drew back the chair behind the desk and sat, legs stretched out in front of him, showcasing his highly polished black boots and his cane, tapping against them, beating the familiar, tedious tattoo.
‘My dear.’ His affected drawl made her skin crawl. ‘I was rather hoping I would have the opportunity to be properly introduced to my son, but perhaps now is not the place or the occasion. He’s a handsome little chap. Takes after his father.’
‘He is not your son.’ It was a pathetic attempt, but she couldn’t help herself.
His ominous laugh echoed in the small courtroom. ‘Apart from the fact he is the spitting image of me, I am capable of adding up time as well as the next man.’ He rolled the cane in his hands between his legs. ‘Let me see. The boy must be about to celebrate his seventh birthday. He’s well grown. I’ll give you that. He can’t have lacked for sustenance.’
Seeing Dankworth sitting there, so at ease, so in control, didn’t intimidate her, it toughened her resolve. ‘No thanks to you.’ The words were out before she could stop them. She clamped her teeth together.
He gave a throaty chuckle. ‘So you acknowledge then that I have a responsibility to the boy. It is one I intend to fulfil. With the utmost diligence.’
‘You’re not having him.’ She clenched her teeth, trapping the anger inside her, using it to sustain her. ‘Nothing on God’s earth would force me to hand him over to you. Over my dead body.’
‘What about the dead body of your lover?’
Her head shot up. Her lover? She narrowed her eyes. The man was as slippery as an eel.
‘Come, come, my dear don’t be so coy. Everyone, even the good constable, knows Carrick O’Connor is your lover and I’ll not have that murdering Irish insurgent anywhere near my son.’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ How did he know whether Carrick had been near Ruan or not? Dankworth had only be
en in town on the day he had picked up Lady Alice’s corset, and Carrick had been out of town. When would he have seen them together? The local nosey parkers must have spread their stories far and wide.
‘My dear.’ The sleazy smile on his pale face made her knees tremble.
She clenched her hands into fists, her nails puncturing her palms. His odour—tobacco and brandy and the underlying sour stink of unwashed skin—caught in her throat, choking her.
‘You hold his life in the palm of your hand.’ He spread his fingers, the skin as white as milk, with nary a mark or blemish. Not like Carrick’s hands, brown and scarred, rough and calloused, yet so comforting.
Why? How? The man was toying with her. ‘Speak plainly. Why is Carrick in the lockup and what has it to do with you?’
‘I am summoned to give evidence.’ His oily, smooth voice sent a ripple of fear over her skin.
‘Evidence?’ Good God, she was sounding like a parrot. She clamped her lips tightly together. Let the man talk. Murder! How could Carrick have committed murder? Who? Slinger was with him. What had they done?
Dankworth tipped his head back, squinting out of the window at the dazzling blue winter sky. ‘It’s a beautiful day, is it not?’
The scream built slowly in her throat and she gulped it back. Nothing made any sense. She couldn’t argue with the man if she didn’t understand what he was talking about.
‘Much brighter than it is in the forest. There’s little light once you’re deep beneath the trees. Difficult to see and difficult to know who is there and who is not.’
A cool, calm stillness descended on Roisin as a flurry of goosebumps trickled across her flesh. She ran the soft, silky fringe of her shawl through her fingers and waited, waited for him to continue, the knot tightening in the pit of her stomach.
‘Of course, to be caught standing over the body of your victim is incriminating to say the least. Especially when three constables witnessed it.’ He gave a dismissive snort as though he should hardly be bothering himself with such a trivial matter. ‘Once a criminal always a criminal. His reputation does precede him.’
‘Carrick has never murdered anyone. He has his Certificate of Freedom. He’s an honest, upright man. He was transported to Australia for political crimes, not murder.’
‘Immaterial, my dear, immaterial. He will hang.’
Her temper snapped. This man would not manipulate her. ‘Not if I have anything to do with it.’
‘And that is exactly why we are having this little conversation. You have it within your power to prevent this travesty of justice.’
The man was mad.
‘The evidence I have against Mr O’Connor will see him hang. You have the power to prevent that happening.’
She leapt out of the chair; it clattered to the floor behind her. He would not toy with her. ‘Speak your mind. I’ll not listen to this nonsense.’
‘Sit down, my dear.’ With a laconic wave he indicated to the chair. ‘We must deal with this in a civilised fashion.’
She ignored him, rested the palms of her hands flat on the desk and stared deep into his eyes. ‘What do you want?’ The tension knotted in her gut, a silken thread wound tight, gathering all her fear into a solid lump low in her belly.
‘My son or your lover.’
Carrick drifted up through the swirling fug of his dreams and shifted to ease the weight of the chains. His brand burned as though it was seared into him yesterday. It was the dreams, always the dreams, the screams, flames and voices … Voices. Not screams. Roisin’s voice, low and deep. This was no dream. She was here. Panic lacing her voice. He stumbled to the Judas door and pressed his face against the bars.
Ice spread through his veins. He rubbed at his eyes, blinked, slammed against the rusty bars, grazing the skin of his face. The stinkin’ murdering agent! Gideon Dankworth. Here. Flesh and sodding blood. Not in Ireland. Right here. Lolling in a chair, shiny black boots, cane tapping. The patterned green of Roisin’s shawl stabbed at the corner of his vision. He twisted, craning his head to see.
A slow smirk spread across Dankworth’s face. ‘My son or your lover.’
His son.
Carrick lurched against the door and sucked in a breath. Her lover? A load of stuff and nonsense. She’d no lover and if she did, he’d tear the bastard limb from limb. There was only one lover for Roisin and he was that man. My son or your lover? Ruan. Gideon Dankworth’s son. A lie. All lies. Roisin would have told him if Dankworth was Ruan’s father.
His heart started pounding like a bloody anvil. Why hadn’t she told him? Lying bastard! This had to be some ridiculous plot to further his own aim. Not this time. He’d not catch him this time. He wasn’t some wet-behind-the-ears fool now. Not like in Ireland. Sucked into Dankworth’s devious plot to see the insurgents rounded up, accused of the fire he’d started. Accused of the destruction of property, insurgency then murders he’d not committed. He’d have him. If it was the last thing he did.
He grabbed at the bars, rattling hard. ‘Come ’ere you murderin’ bastard!’
A door slammed and silence fell.
For the first time since he’d left Ireland he didn’t know which way his path lay. His plans were shot. He’d reached a fork in the road. One way led back to Dankworth, his past, the other to Roisin and Ruan. And straight ahead? That didn’t bear thinking about.
Dankworth’s voice hadn’t changed, the cutglass accent, the lazy drawl. He’d recognised it down on the bank of the brook with the lad, he just hadn’t believed it. He closed his eyes, seeing again the pale eyes sparking, the taunting glare when he’d lifted the torch to the thatch. The sadistic pleasure flickering as Dankworth sank the white-hot end of his cane into Carrick’s shoulder. He’d never forget those eyes. They’d haunted his dreams for too long. Long after the pain from the brand. Pale eyes. Bone white. The orbs shimmering with a fierce intensity. Like a blind man.
Blind! Old Pella’s Blind Bunyip.
It hadn’t been the Paterson cutters. Dankworth had got to Old Pella. That’s why he’d stayed. Stayed to watch over Roisin and the lad. While Carrick had been busy in the forest chasing his dreams. Why hadn’t she told him? The lad couldn’t be Dankworth’s. Nothing so foul could produce such a treasure.
What was Dankworth doing here, in Australia? He belonged in Ireland. He could still see Dankworth’s sardonic grin and hear the jubilant rap of his cane when the judge had sentenced him. Sent for seven years, to places beyond the sea. They’d escorted him from the courtroom in chains while Dankworth, flanked by his army of sycophants and redcoats, had grinned in pleasure. Now he looked more like a Sydney dandy—a politician, one of the English upper-class nobs who thought they ruled the world. He clearly couldn’t crawl to the top of the heap in Ireland, so he’d come to Australia to lord it over everyone with cheap land grants and squatter’s rights.
Land grants!
He dragged on his chains and moved closer to the barred window and let fly a harsh bark of disdain. ‘Dankworth, you murderin’ coward!’
Let him get his hands on the miserable worm. See those inhuman eyes show fear. It’d be worth hanging to know he’d rid the world of the godforsaken sadist. Let Brigid and Liam rest in peace. And Roisin—holy hell. Roisin. Ruan was Dankworth’s son. The man had more than one debt to pay and he, Carrick O’Connor, would be calling it in, come hell or high water. ‘Get back here, you halfwit!’
There were footsteps along the verandah; he clambered on to the hinged plank and pressed his face against the barred window. What he’d not give to get at the man.
‘You can’t prove anything.’ Roisin’s voice carried a high-pitched note; panic, fear. If the mongrel laid a hand on her … He tugged at his chains.
‘It’d be obvious to anyone with half a brain.’
‘And you’ll be able to prove that in a court of law, will you, with the baptismal records and the like?’ A note of defiance laced her voice now. Good on her.
‘I don’t need records.’
; ‘That’s just as well, because there aren’t any.’
‘I have my position in society, my connections. Who is going to take the word of a common whore?’
‘I’m not a whore.’
‘You’ll have difficulty proving that, my dear.’ The laconic drawl curled through the bars. ‘Your reputation precedes you. There are many in town who will concur. Everyone knows you entertain the cutters. You and that other little tart.’
The tip-tap of heels signalled Roisin’s departure. Not deigning to respond.
If Dankworth as much as touched her, touched his lad, he’d rip him limb from limb. He rattled the bars. A futile, meaningless action.
‘Come back, you English pig!’
Not this time. Dankworth wouldn’t touch Roisin, not while he had breath left in his body. He’d taken his family once; he’d not be doing it again. He banged his fists on the door.
It swung open.
Carrick lunged and fell, his nose grazing the toe of Dankworth’s shiny boot.
‘Where you belong. Grovelling. About time you accepted your place in life.’
Carrick swung aside and leapt to his feet, scarcely missing Dankworth’s foot as it kicked out. ‘You filthy murderer.’
‘You’ll have difficulty proving that in a court of law.’
‘You were there at the tree before the constables.’
‘Indeed I was. On my land as I had every right to be. Left my overseer to mark the boundaries, asked the constables to come and authenticate those boundaries and what did we find? You and your filthy cedar-cutting mate, standing over the poor man’s body.’
‘I’ll have you if it’s the last thing I do.’
Dankworth stepped closer. So close Carrick could smell him, smell the privilege. It didn’t mask the stench of his lies.
‘You killed an innocent woman and her child, and now you’re adding another to your tally. Not this time.’
‘You think you’re going to get your own back by taking my son? Think again, you Irish scum. He’s mine and I’ll have him. No one in Ireland will care who bore the boy.’ He rubbed his hands together, a dry, rasping sound that made Carrick want to wring his scrawny neck. ‘He doesn’t belong with you, you Irish peasant. Do you imagine I would let you touch my son? Say your prayers, tomorrow you’ll be sentenced.’