The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  Her breath caught.

  Oiled skin gleamed dark as mahogany under the lights, one man astride a pure white stallion. Her skin rose in an embarrassing rush of bumps and she pulled at her sleeves, her palms damp under her gloves.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen …’

  The crowd broke into a fevered applause punctuated by whistles and cheers from the seats behind them.

  The man sat, not a muscle moving, right hand raised in salute and the bridle loose in the fingers of his left, until the crowd calmed. ‘Welcome to Rudi’s Equestrian Circus.’ His knees clenched and, like a conquering hero, his horse reared tall and statuesque.

  ‘Is that Rudi?’

  ‘No. That is the maître du cirque. Rudi is rarely seen. I believe he had some sort of accident, which prevents him from riding. It is Princess Valentina we have come to see.’ Bartholomew clutched at the rail in front of him and leant forward in anticipation.

  The band picked up again and the ring filled once more with a confusing cornucopia of ropewalking, tumbling, acrobatics and juggling.

  To a long drum roll and wild applause a woman appeared. Clad in a sky-blue cape trimmed with white fur she posed in various attitudes as her horse circled the ring at a smart canter.

  And overseeing it all the maître du cirque, astride his pristine white stallion, barely moving, legs clad in tight white breeches and his muscled chest bare.

  ‘The chap is renowned for his death-defying horsemanship.’

  Unable to drag her eyes away from the magnificent man, even for a moment, Catherine managed a brief nod and, as if to prove Bartholomew’s words, his horse reared again and then broke into a canter. His body swirled faster than she could follow, legs slicing like scythes through a paddock of wheat. A blur above, beneath, astride the horse while it galloped around and around.

  Then two more horses entered the ring, no bridles, no saddles. They circled like dancers at a ball, mesmerising, twisting and turning in the smallest space, and then the maître du cirque leapt up, one foot on each of the two horses. Princess Valentina vaulted from her horse onto his until she stood, arms outstretched, on his shoulders.

  Catherine had never seen anything like it. For a moment she imagined herself balancing astride his broad shoulders, circling the ring. Her heartbeat soared and her throat tightened until she could hardly gasp a breath. The horses came to a standstill, pawing the ground. Princess Valentina released her flowing cape; it swirled in the air and settled in the middle of the ring, a splash of cornflower blue against the packed dirt. She leapt to the ground, her lithe body clad in white breeches and tight blue chemise.

  With a strangled gasp Bartholomew jumped to his feet, drumming the palms of his hands on the wooden rail encasing their seats. The sound mixed with the pounding hoof beats reverberated beneath her rib cage, then the band struck up. The insistent rhythm on the taut pigskin drum thrummed in her head while the fiddle vibrated through her fizzling blood.

  A tin-whistle fanfare emptied the ring and the flares dimmed once more, leaving only the heart-stoppingly handsome stallion and his master. The horse leapt onto the stage and walked, legs lifting high, hooves clattering along the entire length.

  A low moan slipped between her lips as he came to a halt only a matter of feet in front of her. Her reflection flared back at her in the horse’s eyes. She could count every one of the thick black eyelashes surrounding the glowing orbs. Its whiskery nostrils twitched, taking in the scent of her.

  Then the maître du cirque swung his long leg over the horse’s neck and landed lightly on his feet. He removed the bridle from his horse and walked up half a dozen or more steps onto a podium in the centre of the ring while the animal stood arrogantly viewing the captive audience.

  The horseman’s chest expanded as he breathed in, every one of his ribs flaring. ‘I would like some volunteers.’

  The urchins crowded on the ground leapt up, tumbling over each other in their enthusiasm.

  He raised his hand. ‘I require a number of ladies and perhaps a handful of gentlemen to accompany them.’

  The children sank back down with disgruntled moans and amidst much tittering, excitement and encouragement five ladies stood in the adjoining boxes and were escorted into the ring to great applause.

  ‘One more to make an equal number.’ His eyes pinned Catherine, turning her throat dry and making her heart hammer.

  Bartholomew nudged her. ‘Go on, my dear. I think he would like your help.’

  Her pulse swooped and she dropped her gaze, trying to catch a breath. ‘No, no. I couldn’t.’ Why on earth had Bartholomew chosen such conspicuous seats? A flare illuminated their box and every one in the sea of faces craned to look at her.

  Bartholomew jumped up and held out his hand to help her rise, his movement knocking her hat from her head. In an instant the horseman leapt from the podium and stood in front of their box. He swung open a small door and swept an outrageous bow, his fingers trailing so low they brushed the hem of her skirt.

  How she wished the ground would open up and swallow her. Heat rose to her face when the audience began drumming their feet. With the thunderous noise filling her ears she lifted her hand. His warm brown fingers clasped hers and he brought them to within an inch of his lips before leading her to the arena where the other men and women stood in a line, their faces wreathed in smiles and no sign of the ghastly embarrassment that made Catherine’s skin prickle and her blood burn.

  The white stallion hovered above her on the platform and in one precise movement the maître leapt up beside his horse. He held up his hand and silenced the crowd. ‘Tell me, Tsar, how many ladies are here in front of you?’

  As quick as an errant thought the horse struck the stage six times with his hoof. The crowd cheered and clapped and the men standing in a group to one side nodded their heads knowingly.

  ‘How many of these ladies are wearing hats?’

  The woman standing next to Catherine released her hatpins and snatched her hat from her head, holding it behind her back.

  In an instant the answer came. Four hoof-knocks.

  Despite her embarrassment a smile tugged at Catherine’s mouth; the display was impressive but she had no doubt training and patience could provide such a result. Her horse, Bessie, had taught herself to unlatch the bolt on the stable door and if caught had the audacity to rebolt it from the outside. Nevertheless, the crowd was impressed and so was she. It was a wonderful performance and she wouldn’t have missed it for the world.

  The maître raised his hand once more. ‘And how many of these women have captured my heart?’

  Silence tumbled in the space between them and their eyes locked. Her heart crashed against her ribs as she licked her dried lips.

  One solitary thud echoed on the wooden platform and the stallion took a step closer, fanning her face with a cloud of warm breath.

  The other five women tittered and turned to return to their seats. Colour flared in her face. Oh but she wanted to leave, rush back to the safety of the cushioned seats in the box.

  ‘Thank you, ladies.’ He bowed to the group, his hand almost sweeping the floor again. ‘And gentlemen.’ Once more applause broke out, followed by ear-splitting whistles. She turned to flee.

  He clasped her arm, holding her captive, and his dark eyes scanned her face as though he wanted to read every one of the secrets locked in her heart. ‘Forgive me. I would not have embarrassed you for all the world. Tsar has never responded thus. Believe me.’ When their palms touched a breathlessness seized her, making her legs almost buckle.

  She tugged away, blood thundering in her ears, and as good as leapt the barrier in her haste to leave the ring.

  ‘Capital, capital, my dear.’ Bartholomew swung open the door of the box and she staggered inside and sank down.

  The remainder of the performance passed in a blur of heated confusion and thundering heartbeats while she tried to drag her errant thoughts under control.

  ‘And so the show is over.’ Bart
holomew’s beaming face drifted into focus. ‘Do tell me you enjoyed the circus as much as I did. Princess Valentina is a joy to behold, is she not? I have attended every one of her Sydney performances.’

  She managed to curve her lips into a semblance of a smile and gave a nod, her heart hammering so loud Bartholomew must be able to hear it.

  He clapped his pudgy hands. ‘Come. I can see that the spectacle has unnerved you. I, myself, had exactly the same response after my first visit.’

  She doubted that, doubted it very strongly.

  ‘What you need are some refreshments. We will commandeer one of the carriages for the trip back and then I have a little surprise planned. Come, my dear.’

  He lifted her hand and tucked it into the crook of his arm and led her out across the empty arena, through the raised tent flap to a waiting carriage.

  Never had she been so relieved to step into the privacy of a carriage. Her ears still rang from the discordant notes of the mismatched band and the ribald calls of the audience. The smell of the sawdust ring and the overpowering warmth and odour of so many bodies closely packed together clogged her nostrils.

  The experience had assaulted every one of her senses. She blinked back a few tears, though why her eyes should burn so she had no idea. Letting her eyelids fall she relived the image of the maître du cirque astride his stallion, his bronzed skin gleaming in the limelight.

  When she snapped her eyes open she found Bartholomew peering at her with a look of concern etched on his face. ‘My dear, you’re exhausted. Fear not. A little refreshment will revive you once we return to your hotel, and we’ll call in on your father and tell him of our wonderful experience.’

  His comment hit her like a sledgehammer. She hadn’t given a thought to Pa in the past hours. ‘How long have we been gone?’

  ‘The time has flown. It is late. Well past midnight.’

  Pa’s laudanum would have worn off and he’d need her. She read to him most nights to help take his mind off the pain before he took his second dose. A flush of guilt swept through her. ‘Are we nearly there?’ Surely they must be; it had taken only a matter of moments to walk and the carriage ride had lasted an eternity.

  ‘Almost, my dear. Almost. The driver’s taken a longer route because of the number of people on the streets after the performance.’

  Beyond the window the swirling tide of people still lined the streets and a cold hand clasped at her throat. ‘I must see Pa. As soon as we return.’

  ‘Of course, of course. He is a lucky man to have such an attentive daughter. Your beautiful mother was just the same.’

  ‘You knew my mother?’

  ‘Sadly, no. I have been told she was quite the belle of the town, in high demand.’

  Catherine raised her eyebrows, a side of her mother she knew nothing of. Pa liked to tell the story of how they’d met at the horse races in Hyde Park and Ma had swept him off his feet. Within a matter of weeks they married and she moved to the Hunter. Since then his only trips to Sydney had involved the meetings of the Royal Agricultural Society at The Pulteney Hotel. It was where he’d met Bartholomew.

  The carriage drew to a halt and the door opened.

  ‘Here we are. You go and tell your father of our evening and I’ll arrange for refreshments to be sent to your rooms.’ He bowed his head over her hand and lifted it to his lips, bringing the memory of the maître du cirque’s warm grip flooding back.

  ‘Do you know the name of the horseman?’

  ‘Sergey Petrov, I believe.’

  ‘Goodnight, Mr Bartholomew, and thank you.’

  Sergey. She mouthed the word as she mounted the stairs, seeing nothing except the horseman’s statuesque bearing as he sat astride his magnificent stallion.

  ‘I’m home.’ No, not home. ‘I’m back.’

  The rooms were bathed in the greenish tinge of one lamp and the door to his bedchamber was closed. She knocked gently and twisted the handle. The air was stale and warm and a solitary candle flickered on the bedside table, bathing him in a muted glow. She stepped closer.

  And her heart stopped.

  Pa lay on his back, his head to one side, eyes wide and staring. A strangled cry caught in her throat.

  No. It was not possible.

  His forehead was cool, almost cold to the touch and when she lifted his hand a sigh shuddered from his body. For a moment her spirits lifted and then cold certainty descended upon her.

  ‘Pa.’ She shook him.

  His head lolled.

  She pulled back the linen sheet and bent down, resting her cheek against his chest then her palm, willing his heart to beat beneath her aching hand. ‘Pa.’

  On the bedside table a bottle of laudanum lay, the stopper pulled. She stood it up, feeling for a damp patch on the cloth.

  Nothing.

  Surely he hadn’t taken a whole bottle. She staggered and groped for the table, her foot catching the upturned glass at her feet.

  ‘Pa.’ Her screech echoed and her heart shattered.

  Two

  Once the crowds dispersed and the hustle and bustle came to an end, a glorious peace descended on the circus camp. Everyone wound down and took time to relax before they headed off to bed.

  ‘There you go, Timmy, thanks.’ Sergey handed the reins of his horse to the young groom and slipped on the shirt he offered. ‘He deserves a good feed. They both do.’

  ‘Nice show tonight.’ A second groom, Zac, took Valentina’s horse and they disappeared behind the circle of tents to the stables at the back of the hotel. The horses were in good hands. They had to be, for without them Rudi’s Equestrian Circus wouldn’t exist.

  ‘You get them every time with that counting stuff.’ Valentina slipped her hand through his arm. ‘How do you get him to do it?’

  ‘Tsar can count. I’ve told you that before.’

  ‘Rubbish. You pull on his mane, stamp your foot, blink or something.’

  ‘Believe me, I don’t. He made a mistake tonight. He’s supposed to count all the ladies, not just one.’ Sergey hadn’t the time or the inclination to dally with one woman, any woman. He couldn’t. He had no idea what the future held. Five years of fruitless searching gave a man a lot of time to think, a lot of time to learn where his priorities lay.

  ‘Maybe Tsar knows more than you think. You couldn’t take your eyes from her.’

  ‘From who?’ As if he didn’t know the answer, and Valentina was right, she’d caught his attention. Not that he’d admit it to anyone, except perhaps his big sister. It was her hair, when her hat had fallen off. He’d never seen anything like it, the colour of sunshine, and eyes as blue as a summer sky. One of the Australians they liked to call cornstalks. Her family must have been amongst some of the first settlers, although her father had the look of London about him with that ridiculous top hat and flamboyant waistcoat.

  ‘The woman with the hair.’ Valentina tossed her own back from her face, black as the night sky, same as his.

  ‘Unusual colouring, that’s all. Took me by surprise. Now come on, Rudi’s waiting, wants a word.’ Sergey picked up the pace and crossed the camp to the largest of the tents grouped around the flickering fire pit. Inside the lamplight shone, throwing Rudi’s silhouette against the canvas, hunched over the table, his perpetual bottle of rum at his elbow.

  ‘Do you think Rudi’s any better?’ Valentina tugged on Sergey’s arm to slow him down and lowered her voice. ‘He seems to be drinking a lot more. That’s what he does when he’s in pain.’

  ‘He’s never out of pain. Won’t ever be. Lucky he can still manage to put one foot in front of the other.’

  ‘It breaks his heart not to ride anymore.’

  There was no doubt about that. Hard enough for any man but for a man with Cossack blood it was as good as a death sentence. The accident had robbed Rudi of his will to live and it was only when the opportunity to buy the circus had come up that he’d found a new way to use his skills. ‘We’re lucky he found an alternative, and he’s got you.�
��

  ‘Me?’ Valentina arched a winged eyebrow at him.

  ‘His protégée.’

  ‘And you’re not?’

  ‘He lives his dreams through us now.’ A strange thought for a man who was only ten years older than he was. If it hadn’t been for Rudi, he wouldn’t have had the chance to become a horseman. He’d have ended up like his father, hidden behind a scorching fire heaving irons, a blacksmith. ‘Come on. Let’s not keep him waiting.’

  When they walked into the tent Rudi lifted his head, gave a quick grunt and returned to tallying the final monies in his ledger before shutting the tin box with a satisfied bang.

  ‘Another successful evening?’

  ‘Down a bit on the last couple of weeks, but good enough.’

  ‘So we’re back on the road?’ Sergey brought two stools to the other side of the table and helped himself to some rum. ‘Valentina?’

  She shook her head and sat down, arranging her brilliant blue cape around her shoulders as though she were still the centre of attention.

  ‘There’s no point staying in Sydney any longer. One more show tomorrow night before we head off.’ Rudi tapped at the table where a roll of animal skin lay. ‘Time to try new pastures.’

  ‘What’s the plan?’ One more show would suit Sergey down to the ground. The sooner they got out of the city, the happier he’d be. The claustrophobic atmosphere and seething mass of people made him long for some wide-open spaces and uninterrupted sky. Besides, he’d exhausted every avenue in Sydney.

  ‘I thought we might head inland. Lots of settlers in the Hunter with money to spend on a night at the circus.’ Rudi unfurled the animal skin and laid it on the table, smoothing it flat with his two big paws.

  ‘What’ve you got there?’

  ‘What does it look like? A map.’

  Sergey frowned and leant closer. Maps were hard, if not impossible, to come by. Rudi had pulled strings. ‘Where did you get it?’

  ‘Reinvested some of the profits. Picked it up from a bloke who works in the Government Survey Office.’