Band of Gold

by Deborah Challinor

  Kitty nodded again.

  ‘Well, there was another one in October the following year at Castlemaine.’

  ‘That’s a lot of monsters,’ Amber remarked.

  ‘Read your book, dear.’

  ‘That started the Red Ribbon Rebellion. You know about that?’

  Kitty did.

  ‘Anyway, the whole thing ended in acrimony, the petition was turned down, and La Trobe blamed everything on what he decided were gold miners with no real grounds for protest, foreigners with anti-monarchical ideas, and secret associations of subversives.’ Eleanor gave a small smile. ‘I wouldn’t say that myself. What’s happening on the diggings is hardly revolutionary. It’s simply the beginnings of political consciousness, of an awareness of what constitutes the proper rights of a citizen.’

  Kitty blinked. ‘Really? That sounds like the rhetoric of a Chartist, Mrs Buckley.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose it does, doesn’t it?’

  That must sit well with Carl, Kitty reflected.

  ‘But after the Red Ribbon Rebellion, things quietened again, except that the police seemed to become even more obnoxious. Even though the licence fee went down, the system stayed more or less the same, and the diggers’ rights remained withheld. By early this year they seemed to have lost heart.’ Eleanor sat back, toying with a sugar cube, tapping at it until a corner broke off. ‘It was sad to see, really. Then Hotham arrived and stirred things up, James Scobie was murdered and we had that farce of a trial. And then there was the fire. And you must be aware of how restless everyone is about the Scobie inquiry?’

  At Hotham’s instigation a new trial had begun eight days earlier, and the diggers were fully expecting a verdict of justice for the murdered man. God help Hotham if there wasn’t one. On top of that, Thomas Fletcher, Andrew McIntyre and Henry Westerby had been arrested several days ago and charged with rioting and burning down the Eureka Hotel, which had further enraged the diggers.

  ‘So what’s next, do you think?’

  Eleanor shrugged elegantly. ‘The Bendigo diggers started up what they’ve called the Goldfields Reform League last month, so they’re organising again, and something might come from that. But I rather think that any significant change is more likely to be the result of something more spontaneous, some more…inflammatory event.’

  ‘Rian, my husband, was talking about the Bendigo League the other night. He was saying there should be something like that here. Perhaps there should, but I’d rather he left it to someone else to organise. He wouldn’t make the most diplomatic of politicians.’

  Eleanor’s eyebrows had risen in amusement. ‘Is your husband Rian Farrell? Captain Rian Farrell?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘It’s just that Carl told me an interesting story about someone named Captain Rian Farrell. At least I thought it was amusing. He was accidentally arrested instead of Thomas Farrell, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Yes, he was,’ Kitty replied, bristling slightly. ‘And actually, it wasn’t particularly amusing. Amber and I were very upset.’ Well, somewhat concerned. Rian had been arrested dozens of times, and had always somehow managed to wriggle or buy his way out of the more dire of the consequences.

  ‘And didn’t it turn into a brawl involving upwards of thirty men?’

  ‘I believe there were nine policemen versus Rian and his crew of seven.’

  Eleanor grinned and drank the last of her tea. ‘Your Rian sounds like a very interesting man, Mrs Farrell. I believe he and my brother Robert would get on very well. Perhaps one day they should meet? I have some shopping to do, but is there anything else you’d like to know before I go?’

  ‘I don’t think so, Mrs Buckley. It’s been very nice to meet you.’

  Eleanor reached for her bonnet. ‘I have to say it’s been very nice talking to you. We live in the town proper behind the Camp and, to be truthful, I don’t find conversation with the women there to be terribly stimulating. All they ever seem to talk about is who will be hosting the next dinner party. Carl and I are more or less on the bottom of the social ladder and we rarely get invited to anything, but he insists that we behave as though we should be. It’s very tiring. Excuse me, Amber, dear?’ Amber looked up from her book. ‘Have you read The Heir of Redclyffe by Charlotte Yonge yet? It’s really very good. I think you’d enjoy it. You can probably order it through one of the general stores.’

  When she’d gone, Kitty remarked, ‘You do know some interesting people, Flora. How did you meet Eleanor?’

  But Flora only smiled.

  While Kitty was having morning tea with Eleanor Buckley, Rian and the crew were slogging away on the Malakoff Lead. Just before dinner time, Tahi, squatting several hundred yards away atop a huge mullock heap keeping an eye out for police, shouted, ‘Coo-ee! Joe! Joe! Licence hunt!’ and ran towards the shaft, his bare feet kicking up small puffs of dust as he slid down the hill. All around him, diggers on nearby claims burst into feverish activity like disturbed ants in a nest, either disappearing down holes or departing altogether if they were not in possession of the required licence. Tahi vanished into a gully, and when his head popped up again Rian called, ‘How many?’

  ‘Three!’ Tahi breathlessly shouted back.

  Rian, fed up to the back teeth with being threatened at least twice a week by roving bands of bullies and extortionists calling themselves policemen, decided he was in the mood to cause as much trouble as he could. So while other men hid or scrabbled in pockets for crumpled and dog-eared licences, he stood with his arms crossed, waiting.

  Eventually the Joes made their way along the meandering line of claims until they reached him. To Rian’s grim satisfaction, he recognised Sergeant Coombes. His eyes narrowed, and Hawk, at Rian’s side, knew from experience what would inevitably happen next.

  Coombes scowled, grunted and stuck out his hand. ‘Licence.’

  ‘My miner’s licence, do you mean?’ Rian queried, as though he hadn’t quite comprehended the question.

  ‘Yes, your miner’s licence,’ Coombes replied impatiently.

  Rian patted the pockets in his trousers, his shirt, and his vest. Then he went back to his trouser pockets and dug around in them, the expression on his face becoming progressively more alarmed. He emptied them, stuffed everything back, said, ‘I know it’s here somewhere’, then returned to his shirt pockets. Nothing. ‘I left my jacket at home this morning,’ he explained. ‘It’s getting so warm of a day now.’ Behind him, the crew smirked. Rian called for his knapsack, but Coombes interrupted him.

  ‘No! Not good enough. You know the rules. You’ve to carry the licence on you.’

  To hell with you, Rian thought, remembering the fear on Amber’s face when Coombes and his accomplices had burst into Lilac Cottage. He scratched his head. ‘I know where it is!’ He removed his hat and upended it, feeling about the lining, but, it became obvious, to no avail. Grimly, he put his hat back on. ‘I’m afraid I don’t seem to have my licence on me, Sergeant Coombes. You’ll have to arrest me.’

  ‘I’m not arresting you, Farrell, I’m fining you. Five pounds.’

  ‘Another five pounds?’

  ‘Aye. Pay up.’

  Rian knew Coombes wanted to avoid taking him into town so he could keep the entire fine for himself, rather than just half, which was the unofficial arrangement if the case went up in front of the magistrate. Very deliberately, he said, ‘No, I don’t think so, Sergeant. I’d rather be arrested.’

  Coombes’s face grew thunderous as his patience ebbed. ‘I don’t need to arrest you. Unless you contest the fine or assault me or my men.’

  The assault option was very tempting, but could prove costly. ‘Then I contest the fine.’

  Shaking his head in disgust, Coombes arrested Rian and led him roughly over to the wagon, on which already sat six long-faced, licenceless diggers. His hands manacled, Rian climbed aboard and greeted his fellow miscreants with a terse nod.

  Hawk sighed, beckoned to Gideon and said quietly, ‘Start walking. Go to the
Camp and meet him there, just in case there is trouble.’

  Coombes and his men searched the remainder of the crew, continued along the Malakoff Lead, then headed back into town. The trip seemed to take ages, as Coombes stopped to bully other parties of diggers into producing their licences—or not—and loaded five more unfortunates onto the wagon. On the diggings, some refused to pay the fee to make a point; some simply couldn’t afford to. Most of these men were in the latter category; their clothing was no better than rags, they were thin to the point of emaciation, and defeat hung about them like the stink over an offal pit.

  At the Camp it was the same procedure: in through the gates, off the wagon, and in front of Magistrate d’Ewes.

  When it was Rian’s turn, d’Ewes looked up from his papers, sighed, and said, ‘Oh no, not you again.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘First licence offence?’ d’Ewes asked Coombes, who nodded unenthusiastically, clearly wishing he could say no. Repeated licence offences could attract a gaol sentence.

  ‘The fine for not producing a miner’s licence when required is five pounds,’ d’Ewes said to Rian.

  Rian let almost half a minute go by. ‘But I have a licence.’

  Magistrate d’Ewes closed his eyes. When he opened them again, he settled his gaze on Sergeant Coombes. He looked pained. ‘Sergeant?’

  The colour had drained from Coombes’s normally florid face and he had pressed his lips together until they’d turned white. He forced them apart. ‘He couldn’t produce one earlier, sir.’

  Rian withdrew his licence from his trouser pocket and displayed it so d’Ewes could see it.

  ‘You can’t have carried out your search very efficiently, Sergeant,’ d’Ewes remarked, sounding almost amused.

  The blood flooded back into Coombes’s face.

  ‘Get him out of my sight, Sergeant,’ d’Ewes continued, and waved his hand in dismissal. ‘Damned troublemaker. And be a bit more diligent next time. I haven’t got time for this sort of tomfoolery.’

  Tight-lipped again, Coombes saluted and herded Rian out of the room. Outside, he whirled and shoved Rian against the wall of the building, twisting a handful of shirt in his fist. A small chorus of hoots and jeers arose from the line of diggers waiting to go in before the magistrate, and out of the corner of his eye Rian saw Gideon watching from the Camp gates.

  ‘You made a fool of me in there, Farrell,’ Coombes breathed, his bad teeth tainting his breath.

  Rian returned the shove and stepped away, mindful that he wasn’t armed. ‘You made a fool of yourself, Coombes. Perhaps that’ll teach you for frightening women and young girls.’

  Coombes spat, barely missing Rian’s boot. ‘I’ll be watching you. One foot out of line and I’ll have you.’

  Chapter Ten

  Acouple of days later Kitty was hanging wet sheets outside Lilac Cottage, hoping they would dry in the warm air before the wind arrived, bringing the detested dust with it, when Maureen emerged from the shanty next door. For some minutes she stood by the door, watching Kitty wrestling with the linen. Kitty waved, and eventually Maureen came over. ‘Would you be wantin’ some help?’

  ‘Yes, thanks, Maureen, if you don’t mind,’ Kitty replied, and handed her the end of a sheet. Together they slung it over the length of rope that Rian had stretched between the cottage and the privy, pegged it securely, and hoisted the laden line higher with a notched eucalyptus pole.

  ‘I hope the dust don’t come up,’ Maureen remarked.

  ‘So do I—I really don’t feel like washing it all again.’

  ‘You wouldn’t, no.’ The sheets were all hung now, but Maureen continued to stand there, nervously winding a corner of her apron around one rough, red finger.

  Kitty looked at her, and Maureen glanced back, then dropped her gaze, blushing fiercely.

  ‘Is there something amiss, Maureen?’ Kitty picked up the empty washing basket.

  ‘Sure there isn’t! Nothin’ at all!’ Maureen swallowed, then nodded reluctantly, a strand of hair falling across her face. ‘Well, happen there could be.’

  Kitty eyed her uneasily. ‘What’s wrong, Maureen?’

  Maureen let out a resigned sigh. ‘There’s no easy way to say this, Kitty, but I think you should know. Not that I believe it meself, so I don’t.’ She rolled her eyes to reinforce the ridiculousness of what was coming next. ‘Here it is. Colleen O’Hara, she as is married to Patrick’s syndicate partner Liam O’Hara? She said to me the other day that your Rian has been seen at the house of that Lily Pearce. At her actual, you know, house of work. At least twice. I told her not to spread such filthy lies. Gossipin’ skivvy.’ She fell silent for a moment, then added, ‘I’m sorry. I thought you should know.’

  The pulse of blood surging through Kitty’s ears had all but drowned out Maureen’s last words, but she understood that her intent had not been malicious, and that she was genuinely insulted and concerned by the gossip. Kitty heard herself thanking Maureen, then saying that she must put her washing basket away. She felt her heart thump wildly as she walked back to the cottage, closed the door behind her, and slowly sat down at the table. Bodie hopped off the daybed and ducked beneath Kitty’s skirts, weaving between her ankles, then sharpening her claws on the toe of one boot.

  Kitty felt sick. She thought back to all the sly, suggestive little comments Lily Pearce had made to her about Rian, to the moonlight dance when she had snatched Rian away, and, most stomach-lurching of all, to the night she had heard him, full of brandy and anger over Amber’s abduction, quietly letting himself out of the cottage.

  Slowly she twisted the thin band of gold on her wedding finger, then rested her elbows on the table and covered her face with her hands. A large fly buzzed somnolently against a window pane, and outside a bullock in harness rattled past. Then, unbidden, into her mind crept an image of Rian coming in dirty and exhausted from a day’s work on the claim and collapsing into the rocking chair, only a few feet from where she sat now. They would exchange pleasantries, and she would mention, in a casual way, what Maureen O’Riley had told her the O’Hara woman had said. Rian’s face would go still—he might even have the grace to look ashamed or embarrassed—and he would admit that yes, he had been with Lily Pearce. That lust had driven him to lie between her pale legs and plough into her and drip sweat on her and spill himself all over her. And in just a few horrific seconds Kitty’s life would be irredeemably shattered and she would fly at him and punch him and rake his face with her fingernails and—

  She sat up and said aloud, ‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Shifting her skirts, she scooped up Bodie, plonked her on the table and said to her, ‘He just wouldn’t do that. I know he wouldn’t.’ And, as simply as that, she knew that he wouldn’t.

  Bodie licked a paw and washed her greying face, an action which suggested a distinct lack of interest in Kitty’s domestic affairs. Then she stood, presented her bum, and jumped off the table.

  Kitty remained sitting a while longer, but when she did rise, her knees felt wobbly and the beat of her heart hadn’t quite returned to normal. Maureen’s news had given her a fright, and she was even more alarmed that she had allowed herself to imagine it might even be true. She felt annoyed with, and ashamed of, herself. Rian would never betray her, especially not with someone as awful as Lily Pearce. But she did need to talk to him about it, especially if his movements around the town were becoming the subject of common gossip. It wouldn’t bother him, and gossip didn’t unduly concern her, but there was Amber to think of.

  She busied herself letting down the hem of one of Amber’s dresses—she’d grown what seemed to be at least an inch in height in the past few months—until she heard Rian and the others arriving on the cart. Putting in the last small, neat stitches, she tied a knot in the thread and cut it, then slipped the needle back into its mother-of-pearl case.

  Letting a swirl of warm, humid air into the cottage with him, Rian banged the dust off his hat, wafting it all over the room. He kissed Kitt
y hello, collapsed in the rocking chair, bent to untie his laces and toed his boots off.

  ‘God, what a day! Where’s Amber? How was yours?’ His face was streaked with dust, and it had caked at the corners of his mouth and eyes, which were red and irritated.

  ‘At the Chinese camp with Bao. Mr Wong’s bringing her back later.’ Kitty frowned at the small piles of dust trickling off Rian’s boots onto the freshly swept floor, then gave a mental shrug of resignation.

  She rose from her chair and set a bucket of water near Rian, then fetched him a facecloth and a towel. He scooped up a handful of water, rinsed it vigorously around his mouth, then spat into the fire. Kitty dipped the cloth into the bucket, wrung it out, then began dabbing at the dust around Rian’s eyes. It had mixed with tears coaxed forth by the afternoon winds and formed tiny crusts.

  ‘Damn dust,’ he grumbled. ‘People are going blind.’

  ‘They say the winds will die down soon,’ Kitty murmured. Dabbing carefully but efficiently, she wondered how to broach the matter of Colleen O’Hara’s gossip. Rian’s eyes, only inches away, stared deeply into hers.

  ‘What?’ he asked.

  Her hand stilled. ‘What do you mean, “what”?’

  ‘You’re getting ready to say something. I can tell.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  His mouth flickered in a half-smile. ‘Come on, Mrs Farrell, out with it.’

  She wiped the last smudge of dust from the corner of his eye with a little more force than was really necessary.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Sorry.’ Kitty handed the cloth to Rian and settled back on her haunches, watching as he removed his shirt. Agitated though she was, she noticed she was still managing to feel aroused by the sight of his muscled arms and chest, and the trail of dark gold hair that ran down his flat belly and disappeared beneath the waistband of his dusty trousers.

  ‘Is this the good soap?’ he asked, sniffing the bar she’d set next to the bucket.