Daughter of the Murray

by Darry Fraser

  It was a girl.

  In two bounds, Dane was by her side. He gripped her wrist and she stood, resisting. ‘You damned fool. You could have killed me.’

  She faced him, her eyes flashing. ‘Don’t be a daft bugger. I wasn’t aiming for you.’

  His heart banged against his ribs, his breath caught as if his windpipe had closed. In those few moments, her face etched onto his memory. The shape of her chestnut brown eyes, and the proud set of her full mouth. Freckles spattered her nose. His gaze flickered lower, but the loose shirt hid the curves he expected to see.

  He tipped the hat from her head and she scowled at him. A heavy plait fell to her shoulders. It was as thick as rope, black and glossy with blue highlights that shimmered and weaved through it.

  ‘And keep your hands off me.’ She snatched her arm from his grip. Suspicion narrowed her eyes and her nose crinkled. She bent to Tom at the base of the tree. ‘Are you all right, Uncle Tom? What are you doing on the ground?’

  He nodded. ‘I’m all right,’ he said and struggled to his feet, pushing himself up against the tree trunk. ‘Dane, this is your step-cousin, Georgina Calthorpe. Georgina, this is my son, Dane James MacHenry.’

  The girl was clearly not about to be conciliatory. Dane finally dipped his head at her.

  She maintained her glare a second or two longer, then held out her hand.

  He gripped it. ‘You’re dressed as a stable lad.’

  ‘I am dressed for riding a horse,’ she spat.

  His grip was harder than it needed to be and he held it until he saw a faint gleam of contempt in her eyes. He let her remove her hand. She stared stonily at him then turned her back.

  He watched her every move as she marched to a patient Douglas, who was nipping tufts of dead grass, and bent to take up his reins. She touched a hand to her throat, scratching at dust, then wiped her face with the tail of her shirt. She mounted and turned the horse.

  Astride. Dane stared anew. He hadn’t noticed because he’d assumed she was a youth.

  Erect in the saddle, she walked the horse towards him. The riding quirt was in her hand and she slapped it gently on her leg, now almost under his nose.

  He stepped back as she pushed the horse further towards him. The breath of air from the slap of the quirt fanned his cheek.

  He grinned and grabbed her ankle.

  Enraged, she flicked the quirt close to his face and whipped Douglas around so tightly he reared, too close to Dane. ‘I’m going home, Uncle Tom,’ she shouted. She wheeled again and fled, the horse as anxious to move as she, and then they were gone, leaving a trail of dust and leaves in their wake.

  Dane wondered at her skill, for the quick sting of the riding quirt had barely touched his cheek.

  Georgie galloped all the way home, threw herself off Douglas’s back and, under protest from Joe, furiously rubbed the horse down, muttering all the while to herself.

  The devil will come.

  Georgie finished with the horse, marched back to the house, yelled for Ruth to help fill a bath and strode into her room. There she collapsed, shivering at what she had done.

  She’d nearly struck him with the riding quirt. Her rage had been reflexive—he should not have grabbed her ankle; the steely grip of his fingers had dug deep.

  She took a couple of breaths and ran out to help Ruth as she lumbered in with the bath then followed her out to lug buckets of warm water, one after the other, until the bath had just enough to sit in. Ruth took her leave.

  Georgie stripped down and climbed in, grateful they still had water close by. She scrubbed her face and neck, soaped her underarms and between her legs, and then sank into the warmth of the water, allowing it to soothe her nerves. She wished she drank rum … it seemed to help Uncle Tom sometimes.

  She stood and stepped out of the water, dried herself off and shivered again. The shiver, she knew, was not from the cold. Still his face would not leave her memory, burned there as much by her anger as by his. She sat at the little armoire, wrapped in her house gown, and tried to finger comb her hair, her brush still not returned to her. Knots entangled what was usually a cooperative mass. She willed herself to undo every snarly little one, but she gave up in frustration.

  Choosing her light blue dress, she slipped a chemise over her head and stepped into the dress without bothering with her corset. She pulled on an old pair of drawers and jiggled until she was comfortable. The unsettled feeling in the pit of her stomach and between her legs remained, but she resolved to be calm.

  Her stillness was short-lived. Elspeth burst into her room, a nervous Ruth behind her.

  Georgie spun around, prepared for bad news. ‘What is it, Elspeth, what’s the matter?’

  ‘I saw you ride off sitting with your legs open on that horse,’ Elspeth shouted, as though she’d been shot in the foot.

  Georgie, relieved, rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, that. Don’t be bloody tiresome. So what?’

  Elspeth gasped. ‘I’m telling Ma.’ She flung herself out of the room as quickly as she’d come in with Ruth in tow once again, throwing her hands in the air.

  Georgie knew then that trouble could not be avoided. The last time Aunt Jem had seen her riding astride, she had ordered Georgie to her room for three days. And if Elspeth told her of Georgie’s language, the confinement would surely be longer.

  Then there was the altercation with Dane.

  Her heart thudded again. She stamped her foot. ‘Oh, bloody, bloody, bloody,’ she said aloud, though not too loudly. She dared not say any of her favourite profanities just in case she could be heard.

  Josephine, a servant from her stepfather’s house in England, was to thank for the language education. Georgie spent more time sneaking around downstairs with Josephine and learning from the stablemen—their talk as well as their horsemanship—than she did upstairs.

  She hurled a thin bar of soap at the wall and flopped on her bed.

  By late afternoon and with no shrill demand from Aunt Jem to present and explain herself, Georgie emerged cautiously from her room, via the veranda door, to take a short, dignified walk to the big gardens at the back of the house. There, by the remnants of the orange orchard, was a large swinging garden bench. She took a seat. An involuntary bubble of laughter found its way to her lips as she replayed the scene with Dane and the riding quirt again.

  And then there would be dinner. Oh dear. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would have to face him at the dinner table. Well, she would have to cross that bridge when she came to it. She was determined to deny her action if he were so ungentlemanly as to bring it up, though she doubted he was a gentleman, the way he looked at her.

  She sat there until nearly dusk, admitting to herself she was a little wary of returning to the house in case she accidentally met Dane without anyone else nearby. But she knew she’d have to go in soon.

  Sliding off the swing, Georgie turned to face the house. The sight of a figure just ahead startled her and she cried aloud and stepped back.

  ‘There you are.’ Dane dipped from the waist only a little. ‘I believe we’re expecting you at dinner.’

  ‘Oh.’ He was so close. So close she could see the pores of his skin, the tufts of beard stubble where his razor had missed its mark. The hairs on her neck prickled, and a peculiar heat flushed her face. ‘I … I’ll be along in a moment.’ She stood her ground, hoping he wouldn’t approach any closer.

  ‘You’ll be along right now.’ He stood taller, then indicated she should walk back towards the house. ‘We don’t wait on you.’ It was softly spoken, the words barely audible, but his eyes glinted as a frown furrowed his brow.

  Heat bloomed in her chest. ‘I did not mean—’

  ‘You are here only because my parents are sympathetic to your plight. Do not make a mistake and continue to take it for granted.’

  ‘Don’t mistake me for a servant,’ she bit back.

  ‘You should be no more than that.’

  She chilled at the unspoken threat. ‘What ut
ter nonsense.’ Georgie marched three paces towards the house before he caught up with her.

  ‘Let me escort you to your room, where you can freshen yourself.’

  ‘I have no need—’

  Dane took her elbow and strode with her to the veranda, steering her towards her room. He dropped his hold and shouldered the door open, letting it crash against the inside wall. He glanced at the room in the low glow of dusk. ‘Hardly a palace for our resident princess.’ He scrutinised her as she stood shaking. ‘Is that fear or rage?’

  ‘You’re not balanced in the head,’ she snapped. ‘Why should it be fear? I’m not some timid ninny.’

  He shrugged. ‘Rage, then.’ He stepped closer.

  Her stomach dropped away but she willed herself to stare back at those blue and depthless eyes. So fierce. So fierce … but why?

  She dropped her gaze and focused on his chest, the black hair wispy and curling out from the opening of his shirt.

  ‘There is much to discuss at dinner.’ His breath was cool on her face. ‘All thanks to your stepfather’s indulgences.’

  ‘What has happened—?’ Her voice caught. Fear clutched her throat. She stared into intense blue eyes and tears welled up at the mention of her stepfather. He was so far away.

  ‘Be at the table in ten minutes.’ He stepped towards the door. ‘And I haven’t forgotten the incident this afternoon.’

  Georgina didn’t watch him go. She sagged against the wall, sucking in a breath the moment the door clicked shut behind him.

  Three

  My God. What an absolute little actress. She acts as if she doesn’t have any idea what I’m talking about. A neat trick with the tears. A brat. But quite the loveliest brat I’ve ever seen.

  He strode down the lengthy veranda to the dining room.

  Dinner was a strained affair. Elspeth slurped her food, Jemimah’s eyes were red, Tom gazed owlishly at his food and Georgina merely sat with her head high, totally ignoring her plate.

  Exasperated, Dane leaned forward. ‘What has gotten into everybody this evening? I come home and look how I’m greeted.’

  His mother lay her hand on his arm. ‘Your father and I have some worries, as you know, and Elspeth … ’

  Dane looked at his sister. She had her mother’s colouring, pale creamy skin and sun-lightened wavy blonde hair, which she had styled to emulate Jemimah’s. Elspeth was tall like her mother, but still had a certain childish pudge about her, which had the look of his father’s side. She had yet to learn Jemimah’s calm and grace.

  Jemimah followed his gaze and looked at Elspeth, whose elbows rested on the table, a fork suspended halfway between her open mouth and her dinner plate. There was mess on the tablecloth where she’d spilled some of her meal. ‘Oh my dear,’ she said to her daughter. ‘Try to be a bit more careful.’

  Elspeth reddened and stood up. Her bottom lip quivered, a splash of gravy under it. ‘I couldn’t help it. I was—’

  Dane pushed his plate away. He rested his hands on the table. ‘Ma, they are my worries, too. We have some grave problems to sort out.’

  Jemimah looked askance at her son. Then she stared at Tom, who wouldn’t meet her eyes. She sucked in her cheeks. ‘Elspeth, pick up your dinner. You will finish it in the kitchen.’

  ‘What?’ Elspeth stared at her mother.

  Tom slapped an open palm loudly on the table. Everyone jumped. ‘Do as you’re told.’

  Elspeth burst into tears and fled from of the room. Georgina glanced at Jemimah.

  Tom edged forward. ‘Dane, I don’t think this is the time to—’

  Jemimah spoke hastily to her niece. ‘Georgina, you are excused from the table. You’re to meet me in the parlour. Now.’

  Georgina shot out of her chair. Jemimah followed her, telling her husband and son she would be back when the mood and manners at the dinner table improved.

  ‘What a good dinner,’ Tom remarked drily, and pushed his plate away. ‘Dane, I have to ask you not to involve—’

  ‘That girl knows she’s involved in all of this.’

  Tom shook his head. ‘We will have to deal with that as a separate issue.’ He chewed his lips, tried to steady his shaking hands, and looked towards the cupboard housing the rum. ‘The first task is to send you to our solicitors. Take a paper stating your ownership of Jacaranda. At least that will give me some time to—’

  ‘Is that all it would take?’

  Tom shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But I have to do something.’

  Dane shifted in his seat. ‘I’m not sure how that would work. If I was to inherit this place, and if it is under insoluble debt, I don’t know that I can stop the banks with a solicitor’s paper.’ He glanced at his father. ‘I hope there are no bank notes over Jacaranda guaranteeing Rupert’s debts.’

  Tom frowned, hesitated. ‘None.’

  ‘Good. Ma mustn’t send any more money to him. And Georgina must leave here.’

  ‘That’s what your mother is talking to her about, now. But I can’t remove her, I’ve no money to send her away.’

  Dane watched him for a moment. This was all out of balance. ‘I can’t fully grasp what has happened in these last four years—I’m surprised you didn’t call for me earlier.’ Tom only thinned his lips. ‘But as for Georgina, I can to take her to Sydney after I return from Melbourne.’

  Tom gave him a startled look.

  ‘With a chaperone, of course, Pa.’

  ‘To a brothel?’

  ‘It’s not a brothel now, I told you.’

  Tom snorted. ‘It might as well be. Even if I am a weak bugger where money and drink is involved, I will not see Jemimah’s niece at some tavern, trotting along behind you.’

  Dane raised his brows. Where money and drink is involved … ‘If you are indeed a weak bugger, she might be better off.’

  ‘Don’t smart mouth me, boy.’

  ‘I’ll see she’s well looked after. I could even find her work as a governess there. That can wait a week or so. The more pressing matter is my going to Melbourne. I can ride tonight if we draft something quickly.’

  ‘Tonight? Yes, of course,’ Tom conceded. ‘The sooner the better. It’ll be hard on you, lad.’

  Dane nodded. ‘Not anything compared to losing the place. Let’s get to it. And Pa, we’ll forgo the rum, I think.’

  Georgie sat, clasping her shaking hands in her lap, and waited for Jemimah to speak.

  Jemimah sat opposite, sighed and raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘My dear, this is a very hard conversation for me to have with you.’

  Georgie’s heart pounded and her ears hurt with it. ‘Aunt Jem—’

  ‘Oh, I know about the riding astride. Elspeth could not wait to inform me.’ Jemimah looked down at her own hands. ‘That’s not what I need to talk about … although you know I don’t approve of that, no matter that a new age is coming.’

  Georgie dropped her chin and sighed inwardly. It was her aunt’s favourite saying of late.

  ‘Your Uncle Tom and I have had to make some hard decisions for ourselves. Considering as best we could the heavy burden of the homestead, the loss of income because of the drought and, of course, an economic depression certainly coming … ’

  Georgie sat motionless. What is this?

  ‘ … we are going to have to send you away for a period of time.’ Jemimah looked across at her and frowned. ‘We are yet to decide where, and to whom, but we find we can no longer support—’

  ‘My Papa Rupert supports me,’ Georgie cried, but then a chokehold gripped her throat and words would not come.

  Jemimah shook her head. ‘Not for a long time, Georgie. I don’t know what has happened to him, he doesn’t answer my letters. I don’t believe you’ve had any from him in the last year or so either.’

  Georgie stared wide-eyed at Jemimah. ‘That cannot be so,’ she forced out. ‘How could he not—’

  ‘Tom has had to send him funds so he could avoid debtor’s prison … ’

  Georgie shook her head.
‘No—I don’t believe that!’

  ‘ … and we are now at the very last of our own reserves, pitiful though they were to begin with.’

  Georgie’s chin puckered. Speech had retreated. Her heartbeat pounded against her throat.

  ‘We have to prevail upon Dane to support us, and Elspeth, until we can find her a position, of course, but for you, I’m afraid we cannot ask him—’

  Breath blurted out of Georgie. ‘Where am I to go?’

  Now Jemimah shook her head. She blinked rapidly. ‘It would only be for a short time, my dear, I’m sure. I could not ever—’

  ‘Aunt Jem.’ Georgie’s eyes filled with unshed tears.

  ‘I am so sorry. We will have to make arrangements soon. It breaks my heart, Georgie … ’

  Georgie leapt to her feet. ‘Aunt Jem, I don’t want to leave you. Not you, not the one person who took me in—no, no. I am not ready. I am not ready!’

  ‘Please do not be so agitated. Sit down a moment more.’ Jemimah waited until Georgie sat again. ‘You remember some time back when you and I travelled to Bendigo?’

  Georgie frowned at the twist in the conversation. ‘Yes. Some years ago now … not long after I arrived. Mr O’Rourke, I think was his name, had just visited.’

  Jemimah closed her eyes a moment. ‘Yes. Mr O’Rourke.’ She studied her hands. ‘I had not thought you’d remember that.’

  Georgie recalled a great deal, especially the shouting between Tom and Jemimah after the man had left. The next thing she knew, she and Jemimah were on a coach south to Bendigo. A nineteen-year-old Georgie had noted restrained relations between her aunt and uncle. Perhaps Jemimah had needed some sort of respite. Of the man O’Rourke, Georgina’s only glimpse of him was memorable. Tall and dark haired, with a serious face and a low, melodious voice. She heard nothing of any conversation.

  Jemimah had taken Georgie to her mother’s home there, the one she’d left with Papa Rupert as a very young child after her mother had died. ‘You remember, when we got to Bendigo, we had the occasion to see a woman in the street, talking to anyone who would listen? Louisa someone, a poor bedraggled-looking person. You listened avidly. So did I.’