by Darry Fraser
She would be safe at the homestead, albeit at the mercy of his mother’s wrath.
He would be back from Melbourne soon after if he rode hard and finished his business with the solicitor quickly. And after that he would return to Jacaranda and deal with her.
Fourteen
‘What?’ Dane shot forward in his seat and stared at the solicitor.
‘That’s correct, Mr MacHenry. Jacaranda was signed over some time ago to a, ah—a Mr Conor Foley.’ Mortimer P Tawse peered at Dane over his spectacles. ‘Obviously, you didn’t know.’
Dane slumped back into his chair. ‘Obviously.’
Mr Tawse stood up, his lanky frame unwinding from the chair. ‘Here,’ he said, offering a splash of pale green liquid in a glass to Dane, before pouring himself an equally generous shot. ‘A fine absinthe. Brought it back with me on my last visit to the old country.’ He glided back into his chair and took a sip from his glass. ‘Guaranteed to fix almost everything.’
Absinthe. Dear God. All he needed. Dane sat his drink on Mr Tawse’s desk, his arms resting on his knees. ‘Why? Why did my father lie to me—what good would that do?’
‘I can see you’re clearly shaken by the, uh, turn of events.’
‘I am. I’ve ridden long and hard to get here hoping I could turn things around, only to find it was a useless waste of time.’ Dane wiped his palms over his dusty trousers. ‘I apologise again for my untidiness. I’ve had no time for bathing.’
‘No matter. As for your father, it is pride, I suspect, Mr MacHenry. Nevertheless, I’m afraid he has sent you on a wild goose chase. Perhaps he had hoped by sending you here with a document stipulating another interested party he might stave off the inevitable. However, I assure you, everything is in order with the paperwork and the contract of sale.’ He leaned over the desk to tap the bound papers and continued, ‘I received notice from Mr Foley’s solicitors some time ago regarding the situation and although the whole affair was conducted in, shall we say, an eccentric manner, it nevertheless holds as a legal document. By and large, your father, in effect, sold his property to Mr Foley and there are signed witnesses to that.’
Dane changed his mind and took a mouthful of absinthe. ‘My father sent me here with this—this—’ he shook the wad of papers, ‘—useless rubbish, hoping I could contest what’s-his-name becoming the owner of the property.’
Mr Tawse spread his long, bony hands. ‘It would seem so, but to no avail, as I’m sure you now understand. The property legally belongs to somebody else. All the necessary financial commitments were also met by the purchaser. Your father knows he has no comeback, regrettably for him. It is far too late in the day for him to be hoping to regain his ownership.’
Dane scowled. ‘These papers state I am a partner in the family business. It was sold without my consultation.’
Mr Tawse cleared his throat. ‘I’m very sorry, Mr MacHenry, but those papers are dated incorrectly, for a start.’
‘Well, fix them.’
Mr Tawse’s sympathetic look hardened visibly. His long fingers drummed the desk. ‘That I cannot do, sir. Perhaps another solicitor would assist, but neither I nor any of my partners would. In any case, it would do you no good. The fraud would be uncovered immediately. There were witnesses to the game who have signed sworn declarations—’
‘What game?’
‘Oh, come now, young fellow. You must know of the game.’ Mr Tawse sighed loudly. He left his glass on the desk and smoothed his pate. He sniffed. ‘Am I now to believe you don’t know the circumstances of this peculiar sale was via a game of cards? Poker, to be exact.’
Dane sat stunned for another second or two. He simply shook his head.
‘Mr MacHenry. This is very awkward.’ Mr Tawse steepled his fingers and rested them on his nose. He sighed again. ‘But I venture I could handle your father’s vengeance if he chose to exact it. Tell me first what you have been led to believe.’
Dane spread his hands. ‘That my uncle in England was squandering money, given to him by my parents, getting himself in debt. My father blamed him and his problems. I have since learned the opposite is the truth. And now this.’ He swallowed the remainder of his drink in one gulp. ‘A game of cards, you say?’ He remembered his own game of cards.
Tawse nodded. ‘Well. At this point it seems your father was, er, inebriated, and challenged Mr Foley to a sort of duel with poker instead of swords, or pistols, thankfully. The practice was once the paddle-steamer—the Lady Mitchell, I believe—docked at Jacaranda, a card game would be organised. Mr Foley was quite a regular visitor.’
Dane frowned. ‘You know a lot about the business at Jacaranda.’
‘It was my business until the contract of sale settled. Yours also, Mr MacHenry.’
Dane swallowed the rebuke. He had gone his merry way with his life. He had sent money for Jacaranda and the family and expected it was well looked after with his father at the helm. And why should he have thought otherwise? There was no indication in these last four years things were not well. There had been only that last letter.
‘Surely this Foley could be approached—?’
‘He must have wanted the property very much, Mr MacHenry. And no—’ Tawse held up his hand as Dane started forward. ‘There was no impropriety at the game, if that’s what you’re thinking. But where material wealth is concerned there are always more businessmen than gentlemen, Mr MacHenry.’
Dane waited as Mr Tawse refilled his own glass. ‘Is that all?’ he asked.
‘It is all I know.’
‘So this Conor Foley owns Jacaranda?’
‘Yes.’
Dane stood abruptly and extended his hand. ‘Thank you, Mr Tawse, for your hospitality and your honesty. I apologise for my manners.’
‘I understand. But there really is nothing I can do. Nor can you, for that matter.’ He stood and shook Dane’s hand.
Dane headed for the door then turned back to Mr Tawse. ‘Do I owe your office, Mr Tawse?’
‘For today, no. I am happy to have spoken with you. And as for the previously unpaid debts, they have all been cleared by Mr Foley.’
Dane’s jaw clenched. ‘I see. I’m grateful to you. Thank you.’ He left the Collins Street office quietly seething, the alcohol burning in his belly.
Astride MacNamara and tugging Douglas along behind, he made a weary journey over the Punt Road Bridge to the Cawley residence in South Yarra.
By the time he arrived, the fire in his belly had cooled. The imposing white stucco house, with pillars at the front portal, a second storey and a tower room, stood in timeless welcome to him. The gardens were lush with lawn and shrubbery clearly thriving in the early Melbourne spring.
One of the groundsmen, Ben, greeted him and as Dane dismounted, took the reins of the horses. He shouted for Mr Johnson, the butler, who appeared at the front door of the house to usher Dane inside and deliver him to the Cawleys’ drawing room.
Amid the flurry of activity surrounding him and the look of horror on Angeline’s face at his appearance, he managed a weak grin. ‘I apologise, Angeline. I am in a filthy state, one to match my mood.’
He vigorously shook John Cawley’s hand then bowed over Angeline’s, though she protested again at his dirty garb.
‘You will get to a bath this instant, Dane MacHenry. Do not sit on any of my chairs before you smell sweeter and look more like the man I know.’ Angeline raised her arm to point him in the right direction.
John Cawley spoke up. ‘My dear, Johnson will already be preparing a bath for Dane.’ He clapped Dane on each shoulder. ‘So happy to see you, my boy. Two years is too long.’
Dane nodded at John and then at Angeline then wearily took the stairs to his room.
When he got there, staff had laid out fresh clothes and a deep bath was being prepared, already half full with hot water. He wasted no time stripping down and stepping in. Johnson came through the door with two men lugging more tubs. They poured the water in, just hot enough to bear.
Johnson hovered. ‘A back brush, Mr Dane,’ he said and handed over the long-handled brush. ‘The soap is here, and the towel’s on the chair.’
‘Thank you, Mr Johnson.’ Dane always addressed the butler the same way.
‘Just Johnson, sir.’ Johnson always corrected him.
They nodded at each other, and Johnson left the room.
Dane sank into the heat and thought of nothing but the luxury of being back in this elegant home. He scrubbed the dirt of travel from his body.
He couldn’t think straight on the loss of Jacaranda. He would put it from his mind until he could speak to John.
Georgina. He couldn’t think straight on her either and found his bathing harder to achieve. He wanted to sink under the water and languish there in the guilt of leaving her. His physical reaction to the memory of her legs under the horse blanket and the brush of her breast as he changed her shirt didn’t help. He banished her from his mind and then easily finished his ablutions.
Dressed in a fine white cotton shirt and dark breeches and waistband, he returned to the elegant morning room where tea was being served on silver service. He smiled to himself. His troubles never seemed heavy in this house. He wished his mother had been brought to these magnificent heights, but it was not to be. And now, never to be. Certainly not by his father.
‘I can see by those dark circles under your eyes, and the fact that you have lost weight, not to mention a slight sprinkle of silver at your temples, that you have had a hard time of it these last couple of years.’ Angeline Cawley waited until he sat. ‘Now, tell us everything.’
So he told his story. He wasn’t after pity or assistance, just an understanding ear and the friendship he knew would be there.
‘That is just a terrible thing about your old home. We will think on that later.’ Angeline’s dark eyes flicked to her husband then back to the young man. ‘We have never questioned your family life, Dane, although we would have enjoyed meeting your parents and to have them visit.’ She straightened her skirts and took a refill for her cup of tea.
Dane stared at the level of tea in his own cup.
‘Angeline,’ John Cawley said, ‘leave the boy be.’
‘I have despaired of ever meeting your mother, and often wonder if she knows anything of us. I doubt it.’
‘My dear Angeline,’ Dane said quietly. ‘If you glare at me any harder I will turn inside out. My mother does know of you. But her circumstances—’
‘Your youth has disappeared behind a handsome mature face.’ She studied him. ‘I like the age on you. Are you being straight as a die, Dane MacHenry?’
‘Ange, what sort of question is that?’ John Cawley asked.
‘Methinks there’s more to this story, Dane.’
Dane smiled. ‘How on earth can you divine anything else from this unfortunate tale, Angeline?’
‘Call it a mother’s intuition.’
John looked at his wife. ‘I fear one of your revelations coming on.’
‘I did detect the presence of a young woman somewhere in this terrible story, didn’t I?’
‘Of course you detect a young woman, just look at the lad. He’s probably got more than one young woman on a string.’
Dane remained silent. He had told the entire story, only leaving out his very ungallant treatment of Georgina; that was expressly to save himself from Angeline’s chiding. He didn’t think he’d given Georgina any more attention in his story than was necessary.
‘This girl,’ Angeline prompted.
‘Woman, is nothing of the man’s business sacred?’
‘Not in my house, John Cawley. And I know enough about this young man to have the right to ask. Now,’ she addressed Dane again, ‘is this girl a terrible burden on your conscience, or is she merely a thorn in your side? I am of the sudden belief—aided by your silence on the matter—that she is somewhat more important to you than you would have us believe.’
Dane knew, as did Reuben, that very little escaped Angeline’s notice. ‘She is unmarried, and very, very attractive. And I was alone with her on many an occasion.’ He looked at his cup again, then drained its contents.
‘Dane,’ Angeline cried.
‘My dear. Do not pry so.’
‘John, please, no exasperation. He is like my own son to me and I treat him accordingly.’
‘Angeline, I behaved in a most gentlemanly way towards her. Mostly. How could I not?’ He spread his hands innocently.
‘Mostly?’ She eyed him again. ‘Now tell me the truth, young man.’
John harrumphed into his tea.
Angeline straightened in her chair. ‘All of it.’
Georgina Calthorpe. He related everything, but neglected to mention he’d entertained ideas of marriage; Angeline would have made immediate wedding plans for him, with or without a bride present. And there was the unhappy situation of Georgina being returned to Jacaranda.
By telling the tale to Angeline, his heart had begun to lighten again. He wanted to see Georgina before too much time had lapsed.
‘And what was her name again, dear?’ Angeline asked.
‘Georgina Calthorpe,’ Dane replied, and his thoughts drifted.
John spoke up. ‘My dear, now we’ve heard the gossip, we need to hear about the Captain’s Cabin and how to sort something out to help his family. The man needs an injection of funds.’
Fifteen
Conor Foley watched as Georgina sighed in her sleep. She shook her head feebly and he placed his hand on her forehead.
‘Truly, Mr Foley. She’ll be all right now,’ the nurse said kindly to him. She was a slender woman, plain but pleasant in her demeanour. She smiled.
Foley looked up at the nurse. ‘It’s been nearly a week, Mrs Jenkins.’
‘Mr Foley. Those bad bruises and bumps would have sent a weaker lass off for a month or more. We administered the drops early enough to keep her comfortable and now we have to wait and see. Your fiancée, sir, she’s—’
‘Yes, yes, but when will she wake up?’
‘It’s a wonder that sort of fall didn’t kill her. Now, you must leave the room, sir. You are entirely too agitated. Come along.’ She held her hand out for him to rise from his bedside vigil and leave the room.
Foley muttered and growled all the way downstairs.
His Melbourne home in Hawthorn, a two-storey, five-bedroom mansion, had been occupied by his widowed sister Kate Hannaford for these past six or seven years and she had kept it beautifully, refitting the place to her taste. The gardens were especially beautiful as Kate had worked in them herself, overseeing the caretakers and his small band of gardeners. She favoured natives for the climate so the gum trees were not removed, and saplings were planted. Small exotic shrubs dotted the planter beds and rows of herbs ordered the stately elegance of roses. So it was Kate who had met him at the door when he’d burst into the place with the bedraggled body of a sick girl in his arms.
The shock of seeing Georgina carefully tucked up in a bunk on his boat, Ranald Finn’s Lady Goodnight, had taken its toll. She held much for his future.
He’d hired a nurse, widowed Mrs Jenkins, to travel with him, and as he’d been too impatient to wait for the next morning’s train, he hired a coach and driver.
Mrs Jenkins had loudly protested his plan.
‘Mr Foley! I assure you your charge is well enough under the circumstances for train travel, but she doesn’t need any nonsense bouncing about in a rackety old cart that calls itself a carriage.’
Foley had raged until he booked passage on the train to Melbourne that afternoon.
On their arrival at his house in Melbourne close to midnight, Kate had taken over with a tired but efficient Mrs Jenkins in tow. Foley had stormed around to his own doctor’s rooms to drag the man out of his bed. The doctor had been less than impressed and insisted he would visit at first light on the morrow.
In the morning, Kate had thought it wise that the nurse working with Conor’s doctor examine the girl for any injury tha
t may not be apparent. She was relieved, for her brother’s sake, that the examination cleared any lingering doubts about the girl’s health. Georgie had not been assaulted in any way.
The doctor declared there was nothing more to do. ‘Perhaps you have been a little heavy handed with the laudanum drops, but she seems comfortable enough. She’ll wake soon. And no more of that drug, if you please, Mr Foley. And for yourself, keep calm.’
Foley was banished from the sick room and Kate took to monitoring the bathing of the young woman, dressing her hair and clothing her. At first he had raged around the house, his anger directed at the MacHenrys, blaming them for whatever had befallen Georgina.
‘For heaven’s sake, Conor, you’re ranting and raving like a mad thing over these MacHenry people. You’re sending me into a nervous state and could most likely hasten your own demise,’ Kate complained. ‘Be still.’
‘’Twas not only for Georgina, Kate. Ensuring her safety meant I had to forgo the purchase of my new boat in Echuca. The builder required payment on the day agreed and I had to let the deal fall through. It’ll be some months before I can secure another good boat.’
Kate looked her brawny brother up and down. ‘I see that love for her has not changed your love for your money and your boats.’
‘The boat was important, but more so is Georgina.’
‘As it should be, Conor. I am pleased to see you are at least shame-faced.’
Foley looked away.
With each passing day, his temper grew worse as Georgina’s health grew stronger. ‘What on earth is keeping her from waking up?’ he shouted.
‘Really, Conor,’ Kate admonished. ‘Anyone would think the poor girl was sleeping just to aggravate you. For heaven’s sake, the doctor said it could take quite a long time—be patient, please.’ She dropped her needlepoint to her lap in exasperation. ‘I have heard the drug is not as innocent as we have been led to believe. She could sleep for a while longer yet.’
Foley, who stood by the mantelpiece, a rum in his hand, shook his big head. ‘I know, I know.’