Fortune's Son

by Jennifer Scoullar

  He stood up, clutching his stomach as a spasm ripped through him. Better have a strong black coffee or two before heading into the office for the assayer’s evaluation. With any luck it would confirm the Colonel’s preliminary report and he’d be drinking champagne by lunchtime.

  As his driver dropped him off, Edward caught the glimpse of a familiar figure walking away down Macquarie Street.

  ‘Fanny?’ He ran after her. ‘Fanny, stop!’

  She increased her speed.

  Edward reached her, spun her round by the arm. Had he made a mistake? On first sight, this demure, smartly dressed young woman bore little resemblance to the scantily-clad little strumpet who’d once pranced around his rented Lillie Street rooms. Her shining ebony hair was fastened in an elegant chignon. She wore a high lace collar, a stylish pleated blouse and a satin skirt, which flared from hip to ground.

  But when they locked eyes he knew. ‘Whatever happened to you?’

  She wrenched her arm away. ‘A gentleman, that’s what happened. A proper gentleman, this time.’

  ‘Where did you go, Fanny?’

  ‘None of your bloody business, and it’s Francine now.’

  ‘Where are you off to?’

  ‘If you must know, I’m going to work.’

  He stifled a laugh.

  Fanny thumped Edward hard enough to make him wince. A smart dress and pretty sun bonnet hadn’t weakened her right arm. ‘Don’t s’pose you think I can do a respectable job. All she’s good for is opening her legs, is that it?’ Her eyes blazed with resentment. ‘I’m training to be a nurse, like Florence Nightingale. Matron says I’m right clever, she does.’

  What had happened to his brazen coquette? Edward was flabbergasted. ‘A gentleman, you say. What gentleman?’

  She delivered one last punch, adjusted her hat and turned her back.

  As Edward watched her hurry down the street, he was hit by a sharp pang of loss. He could understand a rival stealing Fanny away. She was a rare beauty, after all, but any man who could afford Fanny could surely afford to keep her. Why send her off to be a nurse? That wasn’t where her talents lay.

  No matter. Probably best that Fanny was out of the way, though he’d still like to thrash the man who’d robbed him.

  Edward continued on to his office. As soon as he’d hung up his coat and hat, George Bentley, his senior mining engineer, tapped him on the shoulder. He held up his valise with a flourish and grinned. ‘The assessment report. It’s a good read.’

  Good was an understatement. This was better than he could have dreamed of. Gem-quality diamonds had been found in profusion at the site, along with garnets and zircons. The author was wildly enthusiastic. His report concluded that the proposed one hundred thousand shares of stock were easily worth fifty pounds each.

  ‘What do you think?’ asked Edward. ‘What’s your advice?’

  ‘The consulting engineer has staked out the adjoining hundred acres himself,’ said George.

  Edward cheered. ‘That says it all, right?’

  ‘Perhaps, but I do have one concern . . .’ George hesitated, as if he couldn’t find the words.

  ‘For God’s sake, man, spit it out.’

  ‘The proposed mine is on land that belonged to a farming family. The husband recently came home from the Boer War, a hero apparently. Awarded the Victoria Cross for retrieving wounded soldiers under fire. He also came back a cripple, unable to work his farm.’ George lowered his voice. ‘It’s rumoured the Colonel paid him a pittance, barely what the land was worth as mongrel sheep country. I fear there’ll be a backlash when the details hit the press.’

  ‘That’s nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Perhaps you could talk to Buchanan,’ said George. ‘If the two of you, as co-directors, were to make recompense, it could avoid a public outcry.’ He sat down on the desk and slipped his spectacles further down his nose. ‘I confess I’m uncomfortable about how this man has been dealt with. Aren’t you?’

  ‘Hell, George, this is business. I’m not about to make waves.’ Edward called in his assistant. ‘Make an appointment with my bank manager. Tell him it’s urgent.’

  ‘Hold on, Ed. This report is good, maybe too good. We need our own geologists to take a look before we move.’

  ‘There’s no time. I only have a few days.’

  George looked unconvinced, disapproving even. ‘You asked for my advice, Ed.’

  ‘More fool me.’ He felt his temper rise. ‘Get out, George. Get out of my sight.

  Edward slumped back in his chair, weak with anticipation. He was about to make an unimaginable amount of money. If his father could only see him now.

  CHAPTER 62

  Belle lay down on the old four-poster bed she’d slept in as a girl, listening to a scrabbling in the roof. Papa said the name Coomalong meant plenty of possums, and that hadn’t changed. The room had changed, though, thanks to her mother’s fondness for updating the décor. Pretty oil lamps replaced with electric ones. Dust-collecting damask drapes replaced with airy curtains of linen and lace to let in the light. Despite these changes, it was still the easiest thing in the world to imagine herself back in the carefree days of childhood.

  A painted sunset faded in the window. Strange to be here alone, to be anywhere alone. Thirty-three years old, and she’d barely spent a night by herself in her life. Here in her old home, there wasn’t even a servant. She liked it, fending for herself. The time to think. The time to remember who she was. In some ways, this was the happiest she’d been since Luke had died.

  Except for the children. Eddie would never let them go. It would be Christmas soon, and she couldn’t allow her feelings to ruin their happiness. She would return to Eddie, try for the umpteenth time to make it work, honour the promise she’d made to her mother – but not yet. She needed this time alone to regroup and gather strength.

  Belle snuggled fully clothed into the embrace of the old feather mattress. Perhaps she’d rest here for a while. Not sleep. She didn’t want to sleep. In the fortnight since she’d left Eddie, her sleep had been haunted by ghosts: Mama and Papa. Sasha and Bear. Luke – a recurring dream of them making that long-wished-for journey to Tiger Pass together. Of finding tigers thriving in their hidden valley. Luke forever nineteen, in the full vigour and bloom of youth.

  She should get up and light the fire, but instead she pulled up the counterpane. She wanted to rest a little longer. Rest, but not visit that land of dreams where her loved ones lived. Each waking was like losing them all over again. As she closed her eyes and drifted into sleep, Luke held out his hand.

  When Belle woke, the sun streamed in the window. After days of snatching snippets of sleep here and there, she’d enjoyed a full, refreshing twelve hours and, for once, the shock of waking didn’t come with such a heavy dose of grief.

  She might be furious with Eddie, but she had to thank him for one thing. That Sunday at the zoo had been an epiphany. Mothering, painting, teaching – these things were important, satisfying, but there was something else she needed to fulfil her life.

  Taking up the conservation fight where her father had left off, that’s what really mattered. And that fight would begin with Binburra. The precious land that Papa had spent a lifetime restoring and protecting was in the hands of a mining tycoon. Why was she waiting in the wings? If Eddie wouldn’t or couldn’t fix this, she would. Time to tackle the problem head on. She would go to the Colonel and state her case. He couldn’t possibly be more pigheaded than Eddie. She’d take the train to Binburra today and reclaim her birthright.

  ‘Sorry, the rest are out,’ said the man at Hills End Livery. ‘This jinker’s all I’ve got.’

  Belle frowned. Paint flaked from the dilapidated little cart; its gnawed leather seat a nest for rats, the spokes of its wheels more rust than steel. The too-large harness hung on the old pony’s skinny frame down to his knees. Belle stroked his soft nose. He closed his eyes and went to sleep.

  ‘Have you any saddle horses for hire?’
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br />   ‘Only Rebel, miss.’ He pointed to a ribby chestnut gelding, pacing restlessly around the yard. ‘But he’s green broke, a little wild.’ The man stepped close and Belle could smell rum on his breath. ‘Truth is, miss, I won him in a card game after he bucked three blokes off in a row. No good for a lady such as yourself.’

  ‘He’ll do. Tack him up please.’

  The livery man scratched his head. ‘I’ll have to catch him first.’

  After much shouting and swearing, he cornered the chestnut and wrestled him into the stable. When they emerged, a ridiculous little side-saddle was perched on the horse’s back, looking like the proverbial pimple on a pumpkin. ‘Put a regular stock saddle on him,’ said Belle. ‘And show me where I can stow my case and change.’

  Belle emerged from the shed dressed in denim trousers. She tucked her blouse in and, on an impulse, let down her hair. It fell free of its ribbons and pins, and she pushed it back behind her ears, feeling like a girl again.

  The livery man held the prancing horse still while she mounted. Then they were off under a blazing summer sky. After a few exuberant pigroots, she held tight to a fistful of tangled mane and gave her horse his head. Rebel was a dream ride, as captivated to be heading out of town as she was. He snatched at the reins, stretched his neck and settled into a rhythmic, pounding canter. Belle drew in the pure mountain air. Not a soul knew where she was or where she was going – an overwhelming liberation. She stood in her stirrups and yelled to the watching trees. ‘I’m back!’

  Hobart’s stuffy streets seemed a world away. How long had it been since she’d ridden like this?

  The noonday sun beat down. By the time they reached Binburra’s rutted driveway, Rebel was soaked in sweat, but keen as ever. He tackled the steep driveway at a canter and she reined him in. ‘Pace yourself, boy,’ she whispered. ‘It’s a long way back.’

  She rode through the oh-so-familiar front gate, dismounted and put Rebel in the front yard. He took long, greedy draughts from the trough. Belle wished she could do the same, but the water was a little too green. Her throat was tight and dry from dust and apprehension. Nerves were getting the better of her now. She hadn’t thought this through. Far better to have arrived in a smart buggy drawn by a matched pair, or even a motor car. To have been dressed like a lady. Instead, she’d arrived on a skinny, scruffy horse, looking like a hobo.

  Speaking of matched pairs, the two dapple-grey carriage horses dozing in the shade looked strangely familiar. Belle moved closer and gave a cry of surprise. No wonder. They were her own horses, Martini and Sultan. So the mysterious Colonel had bought them too. Did he covet everything she owned?

  He’d been in possession of Binburra for several weeks now, and she’d been worried that clearing might have started in the overgrown paddocks. It was a relief to see nothing had changed, apart from a line of newly planted seedlings along the fence line. Blue gums. She nodded approval. They could stay.

  Belle unsaddled Rebel and turned him loose in the paddock. Having to catch him again and tack him up could prove a good delaying tactic if she needed extra time to argue her case. She washed her face in the trough, damped down her hair and combed it roughly with her fingers. That would have to do. Time to tackle the Colonel.

  Belle marched to the verandah in case he was watching through an upstairs window, hoping she looked more determined than she felt. She’d imagined such a famous man would travel with an entire entourage. Yet there was nobody around, no car, and only her two horses in the paddock. Maybe he wasn’t here at all?

  She resented having to knock on her own front door, but knock she did, expecting some butler or other to open it. No response. She turned the handle and pushed open the door. The hall was empty. She wiped her boots and went inside.

  Belle had underestimated the gut-wrenching heartache of being here again, the first time since her parents died. Nothing had changed. The John Gould prints on the wall. The butterfly tapestry by the stairs. If she went to the library – she felt her feet already taking her there – Papa would be standing at his desk cataloguing spiders or combing through the latest American Museum Journal.

  Belle opened the door. She’d left the library tidy, yet the books and pamphlets strewn over the table were some of Papa’s favourites. Honeyeaters of Australia. Tasmanian Ferns. Belle picked up a guide to forest fungi. How extraordinary. Was the Colonel a naturalist? It seemed improbable, but it was more likely than Papa’s ghost haunting the library.

  Belle explored downstairs. The parlour was a mess, with dirty plates on the sideboard, a pair of men’s argyle socks on the floor, and an empty beer bottle at the bar. In the kitchen, a box of groceries sat on the bench. Eggs, bread, half a round of cheese with a wedge cut out. Apples spilling from a hessian bag. She poured herself a glass of water from the big willow-pattern jug, as she’d done a hundred times before. Nothing had been put away, and a trail of ants led from an opened tin of raspberry jam to the window. She smiled, imagining how horrified Mama would be. Didn’t this man have servants?

  The ring of axe on timber sounded from somewhere close by. She hurried out the back door and down to the woodshed. A man with his shirt off was chopping timber, facing away from her towards the encroaching forest, cleaving logs with great strokes of his blade. It was highly inappropriate for her to be here like this, alone with a half-naked man, but what choice did she have? In any case, nobody was here to see. Nobody except the man himself.

  Belle drew nearer, admiring his powerful build. Cords of muscle rippled beneath a dark tan and sheen of sweat. Could this possibly be the Colonel himself? He still hadn’t seen her. Good, she would have the element of surprise.

  Suddenly Belle stopped short, her heart stilled in her chest. No, it couldn’t be. The man’s back was crisscrossed with a pattern of raised scars. A pattern she knew by heart: every weal, every angle, every silvery stripe.

  She barely dared say the name, her breath all gummed up in her throat.

  ‘Luke?’

  He spun around at the sound of her voice.

  Belle’s legs went weak, and she retreated a few steps. Older, of course, with a full moustache and beard that mostly hid his face. Fairer hair. But there was no mistaking the eyes, or the recognition they held. Luke’s eyes. Luke’s beautiful brown eyes, which she’d thought were closed forever.

  This must be some kind of vision, some sort of waking dream, but whatever it was, she’d take it. She wanted him to speak, wanted to hear his dear voice again.

  ‘Belle.’

  Ah, there it was. She laughed in delight, and moved forward one halting step at a time, until she was within arm’s length. Then closer again. He seemed so real, she could feel his breath. She reached out her hand and touched a flesh and blood man.

  Confusion engulfed her and Belle staggered back. He had her, and in an instant she was in the circle of his arms. Solid, warm, living arms. A miracle was happening, right here in her own life.

  She touched his face, delirious with joy. ‘It’s really you?’

  ‘It’s really me.’

  Luke picked her up and carried her to the house. He took her into the cool parlour, laid her on the chaise longue, stroked her tangled hair. ‘You haven’t changed, Belle.’

  ‘Haven’t changed?’ She laughed aloud. ‘If you only knew.’ A cloud of concern crossed his face. Her fingertips touched his cheek. ‘The past doesn’t matter,’ she said. ‘All that matters is that somehow, some way, we’ve found each other again.’

  He kissed the tip of her nose, then her eyelids, then her mouth. She responded like it was the first time, drinking in the sweetness, sure she’d soon wake from this magical encounter. Belle closed her eyes, but when she opened them, there he was, large as life. She would never stop smiling.

  ‘I’ve got a million questions. Where have you been all this time? I thought you were dead. My poor Luke, I grieved so much for you. What about the Colonel? Where is he? Do you work for him?’

  Luke knelt beside her and took both he
r hands in his. He looked so serious. Why wasn’t he as happy as she was?

  ‘Listen to me.’ He licked his lips, and a pulse started in his cheek. Whatever it was, he was struggling to get it out. ‘Colonel Buchanan is right here, Belle. I am the Colonel.’

  At first it didn’t register. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I am Colonel Lucas Buchanan. I’m the one who bought Binburra. I bought it for you.’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Bear died in the cave collapse, but I survived. You were pregnant, Belle, and Edward seemed to love you. What could I offer? A murderer on the run, facing the gallows . . .’

  A swift intake of breath. The impossible truth was starting to dawn. For a long time neither of them spoke.

  ‘I had to stay dead, Belle, disappear. I did it for you . . . so you could live your life in peace and forget my name.’

  ‘Forget your name?’ Her own voice sounded bitter and hollow in her ears, as her happiness leaked away. ‘Are you mad? Your name has haunted me for sixteen years, my constant companion. I have called it in the dead of night, murmured it by our waterfall, cursed it when I could find no pleasure or comfort in the arms of my husband. And now I find the man I’ve mourned all this time is alive and well and masquerading as a stranger? You may be able to forget your name, Luke. I have not found it so easy.’

  Tears filled his eyes. ‘I thought you could be happy with Edward, you and our son.’

  ‘Happy? Your death ruined me. So many years of grieving. Years of days when I could feel no joy, and nights when I closed my eyes and could see nothing but your poor broken body. Just last year my father searched, dug through the rockfall to bury you properly, to help banish that dreadful image from my mind. He didn’t find you – of course not. You were off making your fortune while I was dying of grief.’

  Luke put his hands to his ears. ‘Stop it, Belle. I can’t bear it.’