Band of Gold

by Deborah Challinor

  ‘There are some surprisingly nice stores at Ballarat,’ Mrs Harcourt remarked suddenly. ‘A much better range of goods than you would expect of such a, well, such an uncouth settlement. Except for the town proper, of course, and the Camp.’ At Kitty’s raised eyebrows, she added, ‘Where the constabulary and government officials are emplaced. But I must warn you, my dear, that there are not very many women on the diggings themselves. Thousands of men, but far fewer women.’ She screwed up her face unbecomingly. ‘And the Celestials, of course—one should always steer clear of their camp.’

  ‘Why?’ Kitty asked.

  ‘Because, well, they’re not like us, are they? They’re immoral. They’re Chinamen.’

  Rian frowned—the Katipo had docked at Canton, Shanghai and Ningbo many times over the past few years, and they had never had anything but very cordial relations with the Chinese they’d dealt with.

  ‘And are there many churches?’ Simon asked.

  ‘Well, not churches as such,’ Mrs Harcourt replied, smoothing out whatever it was she was knitting and checking for dropped stitches. ‘But there are certainly quite a few church services. The Anglicans and the Presbyterians have visiting clergy, not every Sunday I might add, but the Methodists and the Catholics are certainly well represented. The Catholics in particular, because of all the Irish. Are you a churchgoing man yourself, Mr Bullock?’

  ‘Not if I can avoid it,’ Simon replied, to Mrs Harcourt’s faint shock.

  ‘Well, you won’t be alone there,’ Mr Harcourt said. ‘They can be a godless bunch on the diggings, especially with the liquor in them.’

  ‘You can talk, Mr Harcourt,’ his wife said sharply. ‘You’re partial to a drop of liquor yourself.’

  ‘Yes, but never on a Sunday, Mrs Harcourt, and well you know it.’

  Kitty and Rian exchanged amused glances while Simon carefully examined his fingernails. It could be a very long trip.

  Kitty’s backside was completely numb, her belly rumbled cavernously, her neck and back were sore from the lurching of the coach over ruts and potholes, and boredom had driven her almost to distraction. They had been travelling for nearly four hours now, and still had another five or six to go before they reached Ballarat. They had overtaken the rest of the crew on the wagon a long time ago, Amber waving madly out of the coach window and the crew waving back. They all looked very cold, and Kitty didn’t envy them their long, and much slower, journey.

  They had also overtaken numerous wagons—one on its side in a ditch and another mired axle-deep in mud, bullocks floundering and the bullocky shouting and swearing—and men pushing wheelbarrows stacked with supplies, others walking with nothing more than a swag or potato sack over their shoulders, and the occasional dray with a family balanced atop what appeared to be an entire house-lot of goods. And dogs—almost every traveller appeared to be accompanied by a dog. The traffic went both ways, and, though it did not constitute what Kitty knew to be a ‘rush’, it was certainly busy.

  Mr and Mrs Harcourt had chattered constantly for the first three hours but had fallen silent almost an hour ago, as if they only had a certain number of words at their disposal each day and didn’t want to use them up.

  There had been a very brief stop at Melton, just enough time to stretch their legs and use the distinctly noisome facilities at the hotel there, and the next stop would be Bacchus Marsh, where at least there would be a hot meal. Amber was happy straining her eyes reading a copy of Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley’s awful book Frankenstein, Rian was asleep, and Simon was slowly being crushed by the combined bulks of the Harcourts. It hadn’t grown any warmer outside, but the coach was slowly filling again with the warm fug of six confined bodies.

  Kitty lifted the window cover and peered out—still nothing but grey hills rising out of marshlands, eucalypts, scrub, a few sheep and leaden skies.

  Rian snorted and woke himself, blinking and stretching. He checked his watch and groaned quietly. ‘God, not even halfway there.’

  ‘Bacchus Marsh can’t be far away, surely,’ Kitty said, with an edge of desperation. Travel by road was so tedious compared with the Katipo’s speedy flight across the ocean waves, leaving mile upon mile in her wake.

  They lapsed into another long silence as the coach juddered and lurched along the muddy road. In the confined space Kitty awkwardly crossed her legs, then uncrossed them, remembering a long-ago warning from her mother that crossing your legs gave you bad veins.

  Then, without warning, a dreadful smell began to permeate the interior of the coach. Pierre’s highly spiced bouillabaisse had a lot to answer for in the confines of the Katipo’s mess-room, but this was appalling. Kitty looked accusingly at Rian, who made a don’t-look-at-me face. Then she glanced across at their travelling companions: Mrs Harcourt was studiously bent over her knitting while Mr Harcourt stared fixedly at a point just above Kitty’s head.

  Simon surreptitiously flapped the cover over his window.

  Then, ten minutes later, it happened again.

  Amber giggled.

  ‘Shush,’ Kitty reprimanded her, noting that Simon had slid so far down inside his coat that only his eyes were visible.

  Rian had his eyes closed, his face set in a very odd expression. Kitty couldn’t decide whether he was grimacing or trying not to laugh. She breathed through her mouth, but not too deeply—God only knew what they were inhaling.

  Almost immediately, another even more sulphurous wave assaulted them, and this time Mr Harcourt had the grace to mumble, ‘Beg pardon.’

  Amber erupted into laughter, closely followed by Rian, who quickly rolled up his window cover and exclaimed, ‘My God, man—have a heart!’

  Without a word Mrs Harcourt reached into her bag, withdrew a bottle of milky white liquid and handed it to her husband.

  Mr Harcourt took a generous swig, wiped his mouth and stifled a burp. ‘Thank you, my dear. Tripe and onions,’ he said, as though this excused his behaviour. It certainly explained it.

  Kitty allowed an interval of ten minutes to pass, then enquired politely, ‘Are you and Mrs Harcourt travelling all the way to Ballarat, Mr Harcourt?’

  Rian and Amber succumbed to a fresh outbreak of giggles; Kitty gave them a very pointed look.

  Ignoring them, Mrs Harcourt replied, ‘Just to Bacchus Marsh, my dear. We’re visiting my sister and her husband. They have a hotel there.’

  Kitty held in check a sigh of relief and, soon after, they reached Bacchus Marsh. But as the coach slowed, Mr Harcourt released one final nauseating, and very audible, manifestation of his intestinal complaint. The coach stopped and Amber hurled open the door and staggered off laughing hysterically, followed by a grinning Rian.

  Kitty glanced apologetically at the Harcourts and shook her head. It was Rian’s fault, the lack of respect and propriety their daughter frequently exhibited. And Pierre’s. And possibly Mick’s, as well. She wondered not for the first time whether Amber should be enrolled at some sort of girls’ school where she would learn manners and the sort of refinement befitting a young lady. But Kitty knew in her heart that she could never do that to her precious daughter, and knew, too, that Rian wanted Amber near him. As a result she could not help but be party to the crew’s escapades, not to mention their occasional smuggling operations. Rian justified this by insisting that, although Amber might not be able to play the piano, or plan a dinner party, she was learning how the world worked, and how to negotiate all the things that life would throw in her path, and Kitty had to agree. Amber could cook, though—Pierre had seen to that.

  After a very good hot meal at Flanagan’s Border Inn and a change of horses, and having bid a heartfelt farewell to Mr and Mrs Harcourt, Kitty, Rian, Amber and Simon set off again, this time with only one travelling companion.

  Warily, Kitty studied the woman from beneath her eyelashes. She was extremely striking, with dark red hair—hennaed, Kitty was sure—arranged not in the currently fashionable centre-part flanked by sweeps of hair secured in a chignon, but in the long
ringlets popular some years ago. She wore no bonnet, but had simply raised the hood of her heavy velvet indigo blue cape, and her dress of burgundy brocade hugged the impressive contours of her body. Kitty felt positively dowdy in her practical travelling dress and black cape, and had an overwhelming desire to throw her own loathed bonnet out of the window.

  The woman’s skin was powdered to the colour of milk, and her languid eyes, an arresting moss green, were outlined with a hint of kohl. Her jaw was strong and her rouged cheekbones high, and her lips painted a rose pink. Judging by the lines bracketing her mouth and at her eyes, Kitty guessed she was somewhere in her early forties. Not a classical beauty, but definitely a woman to turn heads: Rian’s had been turned in her direction since they had set off again.

  They stopped at Ballan, just short of halfway between Bacchus Marsh and Ballarat, at three-thirty that afternoon.

  ‘I suspect she might be a whore, don’t you?’ he remarked as they stood stamping their feet while the horses were changed yet again. The driver had disappeared into the Ballan Hotel, followed by the mysterious woman.

  Kitty blew on her hands. ‘A bit long in the tooth, don’t you think?’

  ‘I’ve seen plenty older. But not so well preserved, I have to admit. I still wouldn’t touch her with a ten-foot bargepole, though.’

  ‘You stared at her long enough,’ Kitty said teasingly.

  ‘So did you. But she is quite mesmerising, isn’t she?’

  Kitty nodded. ‘And we could be wrong. She could just be the wife of some well-to-do prospector who likes to wear a lot of rouge and lip paint.’

  Rian looked alarmed. ‘The prospector?’

  ‘No, the woman,’ Kitty said, smiling.

  ‘Well, if she is, she’s either mute or very retiring. She hasn’t said a bloody word since we left Bacchus Marsh.’

  ‘I wouldn’t think she’s the retiring type—not with that amount of face paint.’

  But the woman turned out to be neither mute nor shy. Her name was Lily Pearce, she said, leaning forward after they set off again and offering her hand to both Kitty and Rian, who in turn introduced themselves, then to Simon, who took it very gingerly.

  ‘I own a business at Ballarat.’ Her voice was low and seductive, her accent revealing a trace of East London. ‘On the diggings of course, not up near the Camp,’ she added, smiling enigmatically to herself.

  Kitty said, ‘That sounds very enterprising of you. And your husband helps you run this business?’

  Lily Pearce gave a tinkling laugh. ‘Oh, no, I’m not married, Mrs Farrell. Never have been, and never plan to be.’ She turned her attention to Rian. ‘Is Ballarat your destination, Captain Farrell, or Bendigo?’

  ‘Ballarat.’

  ‘Ah, I see. New chums.’ Her eyebrows were raised in amusement.

  Kitty felt her hackles twitch in response to the woman’s apparent condescension. ‘I’m sorry—new chums?’

  ‘Yes, it’s what the diggers call newcomers to Australia and the goldfields. Are you newcomers?’ Again she directed her question at Rian.

  He stared at her for a slightly unfriendly moment. Perhaps, Kitty thought, he has also sensed something vaguely disagreeable about Miss Pearce. ‘Actually, no. We trade at Australian ports frequently.’

  ‘Oh, a sea captain. And now you’re going to make your fortune on the diggings?’

  Rian held her gaze a little longer than was necessary. ‘Who can tell? Other people obviously have.’

  Touché, Kitty thought.

  Miss Pearce smiled slightly. ‘And who is this enchanting child?’ she asked, inclining her head towards Amber.

  ‘Our daughter,’ Rian and Kitty replied simultaneously.

  Miss Pearce looked from Rian’s fair skin to Kitty’s, then to Amber’s caramel-coloured complexion, her face giving nothing away. ‘You’re a very pretty girl, aren’t you?’ she said. She tilted her head to one side. ‘How old are you, dear?’

  ‘I’m fourteen,’ Amber replied.

  ‘Mmm, very nice,’ Miss Pearce said, somewhat speculatively. ‘You will need to keep an eye on her, Captain. A pretty young face is a welcome sight on any goldfield.’

  Kitty stared at her. ‘What was it that you said you sold, Miss Pearce?’ she asked, her voice as cold as the weather.

  ‘I don’t think I did, Mrs Farrell.’

  Kitty slipped her hand into Amber’s. They rode in silence after that.

  Dusk was approaching when the coach began to rattle past clusters of small buildings, most of them hardly more than shanties. Both sides of the road revealed evidence of mining in the piles of dirt and the shadowed pits and dips, the ravaged land dotted with small tents and lean-tos, and strange sail-like structures thrusting upwards into the gloom. Half a mile on, a hotel with glazed sash-windows and a fancy lamp over the door appeared out of the dusk. Soon, the shanties were replaced by more substantial and permanent-looking buildings, and Kitty saw that interspersed with a number of well-built houses were stores, a boarding house, offices and various business premises. But still the diggings were evident, encroaching almost upon the rear of the buildings on both sides of the road.

  The coach came to a halt outside a solid two-storeyed establishment, its signage proclaiming that it was Bath’s Hotel. Miss Lily Pearce stretched elegantly, then gathered her cape around her.

  ‘Well, it was lovely travelling with you all.’ Her gaze lingered on Rian. ‘I hope to see you again, Captain Farrell. I’m sure our paths will cross, aren’t you?’

  Then she opened the door and was gone.

  Simon retrieved his hat from the luggage rack. ‘She was certainly a piece of work, wasn’t she?’

  ‘Didn’t you like her, Ma?’ Amber asked.

  ‘No, actually, I didn’t,’ Kitty replied tersely, gathering her things.

  ‘Ma?’

  ‘What, love?’

  ‘I didn’t like her either. She made me feel…strange.’

  ‘Well, you’re not strange, sweetheart,’ Rian said, pulling Amber close and giving her a quick hug. ‘You’re just right.’ But over her head, his eyes met Kitty’s, his face expressing both offence and anger.

  ‘Well, she’s gone now,’ Kitty said, ‘and let’s hope our paths don’t cross again.’

  She stepped down from the coach and onto the verandah of Bath’s Hotel, where they intended to lodge for the night. While the coachman passed down their luggage to Simon and Rian, she wandered along the boards until she came to a gap between buildings, and paused to look south across the Ballarat basin.

  Spread before her in the middle distance were hundreds of fires, the smoke rising upwards and mingling with the settling mist, the flickering flames throwing countless tents and rough little shelters into jagged relief. There was barely a tree left standing, and the ground illuminated by the fires looked as pockmarked as though from a fierce and sustained artillery barrage. On the cold night air came the howls and barks of dozens of dogs, the lonely, mournful lowing of bullocks, and the smells of smoke and sour earth, mouldering canvas and human refuse.

  It seemed to Kitty that she was staring straight into Hell.

  Chapter Three

  Kitty poked an experimental foot from beneath the bedclothes, then braved the chill to cross to the window. She rubbed a circle of condensation off the glass. The view was certainly a little less daunting than it had been the night before, but the scene was still one of organised chaos.

  ‘Is there a frost?’ Rian asked.

  Kitty nodded. ‘Quite a heavy one. I hope our new house isn’t down there in the basin.’

  ‘Actually, I think it might be,’ Rian muttered, then groaned as he heaved himself out of bed. The frame was relatively sturdy, but the mattress left a lot to be desired. He glanced at the heap of blankets on the vacant mattress on the floor. ‘Where’s Amber?’

  ‘Gone downstairs to wait for the wagon. She’s worried that Bodie might have frozen to death overnight.’

  Rian snorted as he reached for his trouser
s. ‘I doubt it. Not while Pierre’s still breathing.’

  Kitty turned away from the window. ‘They won’t be here until after midday, though, will they?’

  ‘Not if they stopped overnight at Bacchus Marsh.’

  ‘Well, I’m starving. Shall we go and have breakfast?’

  Rian slid his hand over Kitty’s hip, the silk of her chemise sliding under his fingers. The skin on his naked chest was goose-bumped, and she set her palm against his hard, flat stomach.

  ‘I’m starving, too,’ he said, ‘but not for food.’ He nuzzled her neck, and she pushed him away, laughing. ‘Can you think of nothing else?’

  ‘Not really,’ he replied cheerfully. ‘But I suppose, if I absolutely have to, I can think about what we’re going to do today.’

  ‘We’re going gold mining, aren’t we?’ Kitty said as she stepped into her dress, wriggled her arms into the sleeves and turned her back. ‘Can you do me up?’

  Rian deftly fastened her buttons. ‘No mining today. There’s a lot we have to do before that.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘We need to have a look at this house of ours. And the claim, and pay off the bloke who’s been minding it. And when the others arrive we’ll need to unload all the gear.’ He turned her around and kissed her nose. ‘And then we’ll have to buy ourselves a licence. Apparently you have to repeatedly pay the government to break your own back digging out enough gold to make a living.’

  ‘To make a living? I thought you said this claim is a guaranteed winner?’

  ‘It is a winner. Or will be, according to Mrs Murphy. She said Mr Murphy had a nose for it.’

  ‘A nose? Good God,’ Kitty said. ‘Is that what happened to her husband—he died from a broken back?’

  ‘No, I gathered it might have been a heart attack.’

  Kitty poked him in the chest. ‘But you’re not going to have a heart attack, are you?’

  ‘Hardly.’ Rian flexed his muscles and struck a pose. ‘Look at me, I’m as fit as a fiddle.’