by Darry Fraser
Georgie nodded, frowning at the memory. ‘She spoke of the plight of women fallen on hard times. But she seemed not an ideal—’
‘I want you to remember what she stood for.’
When the newspapers reported on the suffrage movement and the representatives for women in the country, Vida Goldstein and her friend, Annette Bear, Georgie read everything three times over. Even this wretch in Bendigo had her story in the papers. She had been very fierce. Very dirty, and she looked starved, but very fierce.
Georgie nodded again. ‘But to what purpose? Her road will never be mine.’ She clasped her other hand over her aunt’s. ‘I am not prepared to live like the woman in Bendigo. She had no family, no work. She was belittled by the police for her beliefs. She was totally independent … and destitute. That is not a path I will take.’ She released her aunt’s hands and wiped her palms down her dress. Then horrified, she looked up and tears fell unchecked. ‘You are not telling me—’
‘No, no, my dear.’ Jemimah lifted her shoulders and a sigh escaped her. ‘I meant I want you to choose your path wisely as you go on. Your fate is decided by the men in your life no matter what you think—or wish—of this new age coming.’ She thumbed away Georgie’s tears then put her hands to her hair, smoothing and tucking loose tendrils before clasping Georgie’s hands again. ‘Choose survival above all else, Georgina, by almost any means. You are so strong and proud, and tenacious … But choose survival. It will come disguised.’ Jemimah pressed her lips together and shook her head. ‘Then you can fight for your rights. It is a better way than having your independence.’
Georgie pressed her aunt’s hands again, but Jemimah’s face was inscrutable. ‘I think I understand. I think I do.’ She sat erect. ‘Am I really to be sent away?’ A chill seeped under her skin, shrank her belly.
‘We will secure a good position, I’m sure, perhaps even some further education for you.’ Jemimah stood up, her eyes bright. ‘Who knows, we might even find a family close by who could still support a governess, or a lady’s maid … ’
Georgie blinked.
Jemimah spread her hands. ‘If only your father had written an explanation.’
Numb, Georgie nodded. If only.
Georgie fled to her room, pulled off her shoes and threw herself on the bed. Both Dane and Jemimah had now said the family could no longer support her. How was she to make her own way when she wasn’t ready yet? Hadn’t Dane also said it was thanks to her stepfather’s indulgences? What on earth could that mean?
She slipped off the bed and groped for the box of Rupert’s letters, hidden under the tiny chest of drawers that held her underthings. She found it and lit the two lamps by her bed. She rummaged for his last letter and, re-reading it, found no clue to Dane’s inferences, though the letter was dated in August nearly fourteen months before. Rupert spoke of the latest hunt he’d attended, Georgie’s cousins’ recent marriages and a few new babies, and said he hoped she enjoyed the gifts he’d sent her, which she often wondered about but had never received. He signed it as he always did after wishing her well, as her ‘Papa Rupert’.
She conceded her life was hardly as happy as she wanted. She had asked Rupert in an earlier letter to call her back to England, but she hadn’t received an answer. He hadn’t even mentioned it. So she had resigned herself to the life at Jacaranda, until Conor Foley’s promise of a better future eventuated. The thought of the surely impending marriage to him kept her spirits up.
Conor.
Heavy footsteps shook the veranda. She stuffed all the letters back into their box and slid it under the drawers. She held her breath as the footsteps stopped. She dared not look towards the window of her room for fear Dane might just be peering in.
Moments passed. She stayed immobile, breath suspended.
But this would not do! She was not afraid.
She clambered to her feet. Her thudding heartbeat shook her hands but she reached the door and pulled it open. And there Dane stood, about to knock. She looked up, astounded, affronted.
He towered over her in the doorway, his blue eyes clear in the low light, his voice calm. ‘I’m sorry to intrude—’
‘I doubt that.’
His eyes closed, and his chest expanded with a large, silent inhale, then his eyes opened. ‘But I believe my mother has informed you of the family’s decision. I must tell you it is made with regret, but is unavoidable.’
‘I fail to see your regret.’ She backed up a few steps to better glare at him.
His dipped his head. ‘The decision has been made, nonetheless. There might yet be another solution but for now, there are more pressing matters. I cannot do everything—’
‘More pressing matters?’ Her mouth fell open.
Dane held up both hands. ‘You have a roof over your head here at least until I return from urgent business in Melbourne. I hope that will be next week.’
‘And then?’ Georgie huffed.
He stared at her, his gaze seeming to rove over her face. He clasped his hands behind his back. ‘There is discussion that you and a chaperone will accompany me to Sydney to find suitable—’
‘I don’t want to go anywhere with you. I’d rather be sent back to my father’s home before—’
‘There isn’t one, as far as I’m aware.’
‘There is. My father’s home in England.’
He shook his head. ‘There isn’t. He doesn’t have one now, it seems.’
‘Of course he has a home, Calthorpe Manor in Somerset.’ Scorn fired her blood, and her breath came in bursts as she glared at him. ‘Just because he hasn’t written for a while, nor sent my funds, doesn’t mean to say he’s deserted—’
‘I would say he has deserted you. And left this family struggling to survive.’ He pursed his lips before he spoke again. ‘I can only do so much with what I earn and I will have to support my parents and my sister until the situation eases, if at all. I do regret not being able to offer you the same—’
‘Oh, of course! I am sorry I seem to have been such a burden to your family.’ She heard the shrillness in her voice and took two deep breaths. ‘But I know Rupert sent an allowance for me. I know it! And we all lived high on it here, as I remember. But lately we have seen little but your father’s drinking and—’
Dane’s hands came to his sides, clenching and unclenching. ‘It is a man’s business to do what he wishes. I venture my father’s drinking might be the direct result of your father’s failure in his responsibilities.’
‘How so? Tom takes to the bottle rather than work his way out of the woes of his own making?’ Georgie scowled at him and stood taller. ‘That is the weakest bloody excuse so far.’
He took a sudden step forward and she scuttled back. ‘How so, indeed,’ he growled. ‘A weak bloody excuse, is it, miss? You sound very much the adventuress.’
Georgie’s mouth flew open. She knew enough common talk to know he didn’t mean she’d been on a voyage of discovery. In a blind rage, she crashed her open hand against his face.
He staggered under the blow.
She reeled back, aware the pain in her hand must be nothing compared to the pain in his face, and stepped around him and ran out the door, absolute terror pumping in her veins.
Four
Georgie didn’t know how far she’d run.
Her heartbeat thudded in her ears, and her right hand was ablaze … had she broken bones in it?
I hit him. Oh dear God … I struck him hard on the face. The earth should swallow me up and never spit me forth again.
Barefoot, she pounded over the powdery red dirt of the house paddock, not knowing if he’d followed her, not knowing if he could catch her—
God knows, he could murder me—
The low rumble of his voice echoed in her head. You sound very much the adventuress. He thought her a wild woman, or worse, a woman of the night.
The stable loomed in the dark. She steered clear of it. Beyond, she could just make out the paddock fence and ran towards it, cla
mbering up, gulping great draughts of air. A nail on the top rail caught her stupid dress. The fabric rent as she tugged viciously and finally tumbled over, landing on her feet. She kept running, cursing Dane MacHenry as she went, the dust kicking up behind her and stinging the backs of her legs. She tripped and fell, landing arse first on the baked earth, cooler now in the moonlit night. Her body jarred so hard her teeth hurt.
Georgie struggled up again, cursing, and perspiration snaked from her neck down her back.
I should have gone to the stable, I should take MacNamara …
She fell back to her knees, exhausted. Take MacNamara. That was the solution. She had her measly few coins saved from Uncle Tom’s gambling, her boys’ riding outfit … And she would find her love, Conor Foley. She should go back and take MacNamara. She imagined she could even hear MacNamara’s thudding hooves carrying her away.
Wobbling to her feet, she dusted herself off and gulped air into sore lungs. Her throat stung with each breath. It was a wonderful idea. Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier?
MacNamara’s thudding hooves kept coming.
Horse and rider bore down on her as if she were prey under a monstrous eagle’s claws. She shrieked, rooted to the spot.
The rider snatched her from the ground and another huge tear appeared in her dress. He wrenched her across the bare back of MacNamara, grabbed her backside by the pants she wore underneath her poor dress, flicked the reins and galloped off.
Dane MacHenry.
She squawked and raged. Her grip on MacNamara’s mane was fierce for fear she’d slide right out from Dane’s grasp and be bounced on the ground to die under the horse’s hooves.
Each mistimed jolt of her body sickened her roiling guts further and her head split with a pounding ache. She clung to the horse, not knowing how much longer she would last.
Then Dane reeled the horse to a halt, slid off and dragged her with him.
Georgie heard MacNamara stomp and huff and dance on the spot as Dane hauled her up the veranda steps by her forearm. Even as she yelled her protests, Dane pushed her inside her room. He swung her around, gripped her other arm as well and shook her. He glared, blue eyes flashing under black brows, his jaw clenching as she tried to tug herself free.
He tossed her from his grip, his breath ragged and unsteady, and she stumbled back, landing on the floor.
‘And stay there.’ He stabbed a finger at her, swiped a lock of hair from his forehead then leaned over her, a red, angry bruise clearly visible under his left eye.
She stared at it wide-eyed. I did that … I did that. Her hand hurt like the devil all over again, and so did her backside. Her stomach churned. She turned her face, expecting an attack, retribution …
He straightened up, arms by his side, fingers curling. He advanced a step.
She scrambled further back and fell hard against the wall. Shaking, she closed the larger of the tears in her dress. She discovered a piece was missing, vaguely attributing it to the fence she’d clambered over. The fabric was dirty, smudged with horse shit and grass stains … What must she look like?
‘This is one of my few dresses and you’ve ruined it,’ she shouted at him.
Dane MacHenry stood, blinking at her then staring her down, his chest rising and falling, eyes rimmed with red in the dim light. ‘Never, ever, raise your hand to me again.’ He turned and stalked out of the room.
His every movement, his every footfall on the veranda, every squeak of his boots, echoed in her head. Her heart beat so loudly she was sure he would hear it.
When she dared to look up, relief came in too much of a rush. She gulped air again, then crawled to her bed and hauled herself onto it, clutching the pillow, shaking.
It took a few moments, but once she was calm, she sat up and sniffed loudly, swiping a hand over her nose. ‘Bugger,’ she muttered.
I will get MacNamara, and take myself away. I don’t need anyone to send me. Not again. I will find Conor, and I will write to Papa Rupert.
She struck a match and held it to the candle in her room then drew the curtains closed. She plucked the boys’ clothes once again from their hiding place under her mattress, shrugged out of the ruined dress and, with clumsy hands, climbed into the breeches and shirt.
Georgie was calm and not calm at the same time. Her plan was flimsy, but her heart determined. She would take control of her future. She wouldn’t have any future if she remained at Jacaranda—or worse, if she were dragged to wherever and back with Mr bloody Dane MacHenry.
She tried to plait her hair but could not do it any more than she could fly to the moon. It just would not go. Stuffing it all under the hat, she had to suffice with stabbing pins into it. Using a shawl tied with a knot as a carry bag, she packed some underthings and the remaining blue dress then pressed her face to the window in the least obvious place to peer into the night.
Her hand was on the door latch before she remembered the coins she had scrounged. She squatted on the floor and clawed at the loose board. There in the dirt under her room was a small cache, wrapped in a man’s handkerchief. She slipped it carefully into the carry bag and pulled the bag onto her shoulder.
Back to the window, then the door. It sounded enormously loud as she opened it and she held her breath, praying no one had heard. Her heart leapt into her throat as she took a step onto the veranda with her booted foot. The other foot followed, and then she bolted for the stable.
Mid-stride, she remembered her stomach. She made a stealthy, fraught-with-nerves visit to the kitchen pantry, and groped around for bread—stale, but edible. She grabbed some apples, a chunk of Aunt Jem’s fruit cake and some cold beef. It would have to do. She stuffed whatever she could into the tied-up shawl, wiped her hands on her breeches and headed back to the stables.
Beloved MacNamara whinnied as she approached. He was warm and dry, and had a blanket over him. He nuzzled her hand and she whispered to him that he must be quiet, else they would be discovered. She let the bag slide from her arm, threw her hat on it and groped for MacNamara’s saddle.
She almost tripped over it, not expecting it to be on the ground. Dane must have left it there, for Joe certainly would not. Poor form, Bloody MacHenry.
As her eyes adjusted to the night, she reached for the bridle and halter, fumbling as she fitted them to the horse. MacNamara snorted at her rough efforts and she struggled to keep from screaming with frustration. The saddle seemed heavier than she remembered, but she hauled it over his great back, securing the girth. All the time she spoke in whispers, hoping to soothe him. It was clear he knew something was afoot.
She fixed the little bag of clothing and her hat to the saddle. Crooning softly to MacNamara, gently rubbing his nose, Georgie walked him as quietly as she could out of the stable. This was no time for a stallion’s shenanigans, as Joe would say.
Douglas shuffled in his stall, but that was the only sound she heard.
Georgie and MacNamara padded past the house and the dilapidated shrubbery and onto the treacherous home track. For every step she took, she expected a tap on her shoulder. Her heart hammered, and sweat popped out on her brow. They plodded carefully around the potholes, dodging what they could. Every sound of the night—a chorus of cicadas, the snap of a twig, leaves rustling in a thin breeze—sent a shudder of terror to her stomach. A wallaby bounced in front of them and nearly brought her undone; her yelp had MacNamara dancing and snorting. She shushed him as best she could and pressed on.
The night was clear, and the stars of the Milky Way bright and twinkling. She only glanced up from time to time, wary of where she stepped. The crisp September night air had Georgie wishing she’d grabbed one of the coats from the stable and perhaps the canvas sleeping mat that hung on the wall.
Too late, she thought. Can’t go back. Won’t go back—I’ll just keep riding until I find Conor.
She was nearing the driveway gates, so she stopped MacNamara and hauled herself into the saddle, feeling very comfortable on his back. He wanted to run the
n, but even if he thought he could see in the dark, she much preferred to see where she was going; she held him back.
Georgie rounded the parched old eucalypt that marked the boundary gate. Here she knew she was well out of ear’s reach of the homestead. She turned MacNamara east along the track that would join the main road.
It was familiar ground and her mind wandered.
She was anxious about her Papa Rupert, and the things Dane MacHenry had said about him, things about indulgences and burdens. It was as though Dane was talking of somebody else. She would not believe it. She should have brought Rupert’s letters, to re-read them, to study them for any clues she might have missed.
Shaking her head, she determined not to worry about that now; it would sort itself out as time went on. She need never see the MacHenrys again, and would be spared the fate Dane MacHenry intended for her.
‘So there, take that, you uncouth lout,’ she said aloud. MacNamara lifted his head at her voice. In that moment, Georgie felt as fearless as she had ever been. She was about to make her own life, though when she thought of Jemimah, a stab in her chest kept her honest.
Bloody Dane MacHenry.
How unlike Dane and Elspeth were, so different in looks and personality—surely an unfortunate mistake of Mother Nature? Elspeth was just plain, and very much like her father in looks, with her mother’s colouring. And Dane, well, he was strikingly—
She closed down the thought. Not ladylike at all.
But I could be.
Aunt Jem had instilled ladylike behaviour befitting young unmarried women in both Georgie and Elspeth, and as long as they both behaved politely in company, day-to-day misdemeanours were overlooked.
Aunt Jem. She was nothing like her two sisters in England, who’d shunned Georgie when Rupert had first taken her to England after her mother had died. Jem, to whom Georgie had been sent, was more like her brother Rupert. He was so particular about niceties and etiquette and protocol and manners.