The Cedar Cutter

by Téa Cooper

  Carrick lurched at him, but the chains held him fast.

  Dankworth reached out and tore at Carrick’s shirt, ripping the sleeve open, baring his skin. And then he laughed. ‘Not only that, you’ll go to your grave carrying my mark. No better than an animal.’

  ‘May you rot in hell.’ Carrick swallowed his useless words, and then very deliberately turned his back on Dankworth. The door slammed shut, leaving only silence and a terrible emptiness in his very soul.

  Eighteen

  Roisin stumbled down the steps of the courthouse, squinting into the bright sunshine. Sun that had no business shining. Her heart sat as heavy and black as the motives of that awful man.

  His son or her lover? There was no choice. She wouldn’t hand over Ruan or Carrick. Dankworth could bluster all he liked about swearing in court that Ruan was his son. She’d not give in to him. And how could he offer Carrick’s freedom in exchange? How did he know who had killed the man in the forest? He wasn’t even there. He was in Sydney at the Governor’s Ball.

  ‘Roisin, you poor darling. Come here. Is it true? Carrick did it? How’s he faring?’

  Interfering old biddy. Elsie was happy enough to slander the cutters when it suited her and now she offered sympathy.

  ‘Not now, Elsie. Not now.’ Her voice caught and she ducked around the corner. She couldn’t cope with Elsie and her incessant questions and malicious tittle-tattle. Not now, not ever.

  She slammed her fist against the front door, then tried the handle. It was locked. She lifted her foot and kicked out. ‘Jane! Open the door.’ Now she was locked out of her own house and where was Ruan?

  After an eternity, the door opened a sliver and Jane’s face appeared. ‘Come in, come in. I’m sorry, I thought it was better to—’

  She forced her way in. ‘Where’s Ruan?’

  ‘He’s here. He’s safe in the kitchen with his treasure box. What happened? Is Slinger there? Are they all right?’

  Roisin staggered into the parlour and collapsed into the chair. Then the shaking began. Her teeth chattered and her shoulders heaved until the tears fell, great gulping sobs beyond her control.

  Jane’s arms wrapped around her, pulling her face against her hip. Holding her tight. ‘Let it out. Cry it out.’

  How could she cry it out? Her heart was breaking and she was scared, so scared. Scared for Ruan and, holy God, scared for Carrick. Dankworth was evil. The devil incarnate. Why was he so determined to involve Carrick? What had he ever done to the man? As her mind spun, the sobs subsided, calmed by Jane’s soothing pats.

  ‘Let me get you a cup of tea. Then tell me.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t want Ruan to hear. Not now. Not yet.’ How would she ever tell him that sadistic excuse for a man was his father? What would he say? What would he think?

  ‘I’ll make some tea and give Ruan some biscuits and a drink of milk. He’ll want to know about Carrick. He’ll have to wait. Wait for a while. Is Slinger there still?’

  Slinger. She hadn’t even spared a thought for Slinger. Poor Jane. Nor for that matter had Dankworth. ‘Slinger is in the lockup with Carrick. They’ll come up before the magistrate at two o’clock tomorrow if Winchester is back from Sydney.’

  Jane nodded, unable to mask the concern on her face. ‘Tea.’ She closed the door behind her.

  Roisin let out a long, slow breath and wiped her eyes. She had to think. There had to be a way around this. Why was Dankworth even interested in Carrick? How could he know about the murder in the forest?

  There was only one way: he must have been there. She sat up straight and stared out of the window, snatching at the elusive thoughts flitting through her mind. She had to think clearly. She stood up and threw off her shawl, pacing the floor. How could Dankworth give evidence against Carrick unless he knew something about the murder? Unless he had been there. His overseer, he’d said. Was he expecting Carrick and Slinger?

  The door opened. ‘Ruan’s fine. Busy with his slate. I told him everything would be all right and you’d talk to him after you had your tea.’ Jane put down the tray and offered her the cup.

  She wrapped her fingers around the warmth and shivered. She was cold, so very cold.

  ‘Now, tell me. Tell me everything.’

  ‘Carrick is accused of murder.’

  ‘And Slinger?’

  ‘Just Carrick, not Slinger. I think they’re keeping Slinger to give evidence.’

  Jane’s shoulders dropped and a tight smile crossed her lips. ‘Mr Winchester is a fair man.’

  ‘Dankworth must have been there.’

  Jane’s smile vanished. ‘Dankworth. Ruan’s father. Lady Alice’s—’

  ‘Yes. Dankworth.’

  ‘How could he be? He’s supposed to be in Sydney at the Governor’s Ball, with Lady Alice and the Winchesters.’

  ‘Well, he’s back. And that’s not all. He gave me an ultimatum. He said I have to choose between Ruan and Carrick.’

  ‘I don’t understand. What has Carrick to do with Ruan?’

  ‘And that’s what I don’t understand either.’ Roisin sipped at the scalding tea. None of it made any sense. Unless Dankworth had seen Carrick with Ruan and thought he was trying to take him. It was the only thing that made sense. She had to go and see the Winchesters. If she could speak with Mr Winchester, explain that it was her fight, her fight with Dankworth. Tell him Carrick was an innocent bystander, that he had nothing to do with her argument with Dankworth, and then at least there would be no question of choosing between her son and her lover. They were two totally unrelated events.

  ‘Tomorrow I’m going to see Mrs Winchester and her husband. It’s the only thing I can do.’

  Convinced her heartbeat could be heard throughout the house, Roisin paced the luxurious jewel-coloured carpet in front of the fire at the magistrate’s house, trying to settle her nerves. When the door flew open and Grace Winchester swept in, her determination deserted her.

  ‘Ma’am.’ She dropped a brief curtsy. Even if Mrs Winchester couldn’t hear her thundering heart, the rise and fall of her chest must surely be visible. She had to appear calm and rational.

  ‘Mrs Ogilvie. Roisin. I’m so happy to see you. I was intending to call upon you. We only returned from Sydney this morning. My dress was a coup, an absolute coup. I was the belle of the ball. I danced with the Governor, and his wife asked for the name of my dressmaker. I told her. Be prepared. She will call upon you.’

  Unlikely. Not once Mrs Winchester heard the whole sorry tale of lies and deceit. It would be beyond her understanding. Even in Wollombi, her husband managed to shelter her from anything remotely unpleasant. Mrs Winchester inhabited a different world. Whatever had possessed her to think she could influence Carrick’s case? ‘I have come to ask for your help.’

  ‘Why, of course. How can I help? Is it your son? Children often succumb to illnesses.’

  Illness. If only it were that simple. Her life and this horrid, horrid mess, all of her own making because she’d run away, hiding behind a parcel of lies instead of standing and fighting her battles. ‘It’s about Carrick O’Connor.’

  ‘The cedar cutter.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  ‘I was under the impression you intended to steer clear of him after the accusations regarding your business. Rumours spread like wildfire and it would be a shame to let …’ She raised a perfect eyebrow and tipped her head to one side. ‘How shall I put it? A misalliance jeopardise the future of your business and that of your son.’

  Roisin chose to ignore the reference to Carrick and their relationship. That was more than she could deal with. There would be no relationship unless she could make Grace Winchester understand that the evidence against him was tainted, and tainted because of her actions. It was no fault of Carrick’s. She should be standing trial, not him. ‘Ruan is very well, thank you. He loves school. Mr Blackmore says he has a fine mind and his interests are well above expectation for his age.’

  Why was she talking such no
nsense, putting off the inevitable? Now. She must say it now. A man’s life lay in the balance. Not any man. The man she loved. And love him she did, she had no doubt about that.

  ‘I have not come here to talk about Ruan, ma’am, although it concerns him.’

  The tone in her voice must have alerted Mrs Winchester because she turned from the window and gazed intently into her eyes, then nodded slowly. ‘Come and sit down.’ She gestured to the padded window seat and sat waiting while Roisin crossed the room. ‘Now tell me.’

  ‘I have not been truthful in my dealings with the people of Wollombi. My past is not as I portrayed it. I have lied.’ There she’d said it.

  Mrs Winchester smiled gently and patted her knee. ‘We none of us dwell on matters in the past that we choose to forget.’

  ‘When the past comes back to haunt me and an innocent man stands to suffer I can’t remain silent.’

  ‘I take it you are referring to the cedar cutter. I believe he is in the lockup accused of murder. Surely you don’t intend to take responsibility for his actions.’

  ‘Carrick O’Connor is innocent, of that I am certain.’

  ‘How can you be? Were you in the forest? Did you see the murder committed?’

  ‘No.’ She shook her head slowly.

  ‘Then how can you know he is innocent? And if he is, who is responsible?’

  ‘I believe Mr Dankworth might be able to answer that question.’

  ‘Gideon? The murdered man was acting on his behalf, protecting his land, his investment.’

  ‘Mr Dankworth is Ruan’s father.’ There. It was done. The sound of her hammering heart and the blood pumping through her body reverberated inside her head. ‘I’m not a widow as I claimed. Gideon Dankworth took advantage of me when I was fourteen. Ruan is the result. When he discovered Ruan’s existence he demanded I surrender him. I refused, changed my name and fled Sydney.’ She let her lashes fall, dreading the censor that would follow.

  ‘And that is how you came to Wollombi?’

  She nodded, letting her hands cover her face, wanting only to hide from the scrutiny. Mrs Winchester’s gaze seared her skin and then her fingers reached out, cool and dry and lifted her hands. Why would she believe her?

  ‘I think you’d better start from the beginning, my dear, because I can’t at the moment see why, even if Gideon was Ruan’s father, it has anything to do with the cedar cutter being imprisoned for murder.’

  ‘Dankworth told me I must choose between my lover and my son.’ Her shoulders shook and she gulped back a sob. She couldn’t choose, wouldn’t, and shouldn’t have to. It was all so wrong, so very wrong. ‘I believe he thinks Carrick is attempting to keep Ruan from him, prevent him from claiming Ruan.’

  ‘If Ruan is Gideon’s son, the man has every right to him.’

  Roisin’s heart sank. What a mistake. Of course Mrs Winchester would support Dankworth. They were the landed gentry, reputable members of society, friends for heaven’s sake. How to make her understand?

  ‘I was born in Sydney. My mother was a prostitute. I was brought up in a brothel. When I was old enough I was apprenticed to Madam de Lolle in Sydney, sewing for the girls, making corsets, undergarments, unmentionables. Men like to see women in pretty things.’

  ‘A fact you have used to your advantage so very well,’ Mrs Winchester remarked dryly. ‘I should have put two and two together. Madame de Lolle calls herself a milliner; however, her real business is in corsetry, attractive corsetry, shall we say?’

  ‘Dankworth was a frequent visitor to the brothel and I caught his eye. One evening when my mam and I were walking home, he attacked my mother and raped me. If it weren’t for Ruan he wouldn’t even remember. He had no interest in me. He didn’t even know I was pregnant.’ Or that his blows that night had caused Mam to die. ‘Only when he bumped into me on the street several years later did he recognise Ruan as his child. I don’t understand. He is married. He has a wife. Lady Alice will give him children. Why does he want my son?’ Try as she might to maintain her composure, the tears poured down her face. She rummaged in her reticule for a handkerchief.

  ‘My dear you are distraught.’ Mrs Winchester gave her shoulder an absentminded pat.

  Roisin opened her eyes and screwed her handkerchief into a tight ball. She’d see this through. She had to.

  ‘Just think what Gideon and Lady Alice could do for Ruan.’ Mrs Winchester cocked her head to one side and smoothed the velvet of her skirt. ‘Would it be the worst thing that could happen? Why, Lady Alice is heir to her father’s fortune. One day Ruan might inherit that fortune. Think of what this could do for the boy. What the Dankworths can do for Ruan.’

  No! The word screamed and barrelled around her head. She’d wasted her time. Whatever had possessed her to think that Grace Winchester would be interested in the fate of the village dressmaker’s son, or for that matter a cedar cutter?

  ‘I suggest you go home, my dear and let matters run their course. I shall speak with Gideon on your behalf and I’m sure we can arrange something that would enable you to spend time with Ruan. Go home now. Nothing is as bad as you think. Rest assured Mr Winchester will deal with the cedar cutter in a fair and honest manner when his case comes up.’

  Mrs Winchester rose to her feet and through a veil of tears, Roisin recognised her dismissal. Numb with fear and pain she stumbled to the door.

  By the time the dray reached Wollombi the sun had dropped behind the hills. Roisin slid down and made her way home. Before she’d even reached the door it flew open and Ruan tumbled out. The breath returned to her lungs and she hugged him tight, more for her benefit than his.

  He squirmed out of her arms. ‘Mam, they let Slinger go.’

  She knelt down and gazed into his eyes, absorbing the first good news she’d heard in days. She squeezed his hands tight. ‘And Carrick?’ She knew the answer. If Carrick were free then he’d be here right now, proving it was all a horrible mistake.

  ‘Jane says they’re going to decide about Carrick another day. And Slinger’s going to stick around. I need to go and see Carrick.’

  It was too much for a six-year-old boy to manage. He simply didn’t understand Carrick’s predicament. He couldn’t call in and see Carrick whenever he felt like it. She had to speak to Jane, find out what had happened. Mrs Winchester wouldn’t offer any assistance; in fact, she’d made matters worse by asking her.

  For heaven’s sake, Mrs Winchester believed Ruan should be with Dankworth. She threw a glance around the little house, tossing up the possibility of packing their bags and fleeing—where? Sydney? Dankworth would find her there. She had very little money left and Aunt Lil was too far away to help. Besides, she’d decided she’d fight Dankworth and she couldn’t do that if she ran away. She must squash Dankworth’s ridiculous idea once and for all. And perhaps in doing that she could help Carrick.

  ‘Come and sit down, Roisin, you’re all tuckered out. I’ve the billy on the boil.’

  Jane led her like an invalid down the hallway. She was incapable of rational thought or reason, numb with disbelief. After Jane settled her in a chair and tucked her shawl around her shoulders, she stoked the fire and took the cups down from the mantelpiece. Ruan sat at the table, questions plastered all over his face. Jane must have told him to wait. He slid his treasure box closer, slipped the brass key into the lock and lifted the lid. Such a good boy, playing quietly and giving her time to recover, time to think, to make decisions. She couldn’t hand him over to anyone, least of all Dankworth. How she wished she could talk to Carrick.

  Jane placed the teacup in front of her and she wrapped her hands around it, allowing the warmth to seep into her frozen fingers. The steam coiled around her face and she inhaled it, closing her eyes and letting her thoughts drift for a moment.

  ‘Look, Mam.’

  She opened her eyes and smiled at Ruan. ‘What is it, my darling? Something new for your treasure box?’ Oh, God, if Dankworth took him would he be allowed this simple pleasure, or the freed
om to run barefoot by the brook, or throw a line for a fish? A sob caught in her throat. She tried to imagine him dressed in clothes like a gentleman. A starched shirt frilled at the neck, his unruly hair tamed, plastered to his head.

  ‘Old Pella gave it to me.’

  She lifted her heavy head. Between his forefinger and thumb Ruan held a cork. ‘I think it’s from a bottle. Old Pella said to show you.’

  ‘It’s lovely, darling.’ She sipped at her tea; it traced a path down her parched throat, bringing some sense of reality back to her crumpled body.

  ‘You’re not looking at it, Mam.’

  She lowered the cup. ‘I am, my darling, I am.’ She placed the cup on the table and held out her hand, palm up.

  Ruan dropped the cork into her hand. She gazed down at it. This was much more than a cork. It was a stopper, some sort of silver-topped lid, well worn. For no apparent reason her pulse began to race. No reason she could place until she lifted it between her fingers to the light.

  This stopper was from a flask, not an old bottle, for the top was silver. She ran her finger over it, tracing the raised crest. And her heart stopped.

  She let out a cry. The stopper fell to the floor.

  ‘Mam! Be careful. You’ll break it. It’s a treasure.’

  She dropped to her knees, scrabbling beneath the table, groping for the stopper. Her fingers wrapped around it and she lifted it close to her face, squinting in the half-light beneath the tablecloth. She ran her fingers over the top. Crawling on her hands and knees she heaved herself up, her head throbbing.

  ‘Ruan, where did you get this?’

  ‘I told you. Old Pella.’ Yes, he had. And she hadn’t taken any notice. ‘He said I had to show it to you. Can I have it back?’

  ‘No. No, you can’t.’