The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  ‘Off you go.’ He clicked his teeth and, without a second thought, Tsar high stepped down the gangplank onto the wharf.

  ‘Bloody show off.’

  He threw the deckhand a salute and continued to the end of the wharf. If nothing else, his little display should guarantee a few more filled seats once the show opened. Maitland was apparently only about six miles from Morpeth; they’d travel that far without blinking for a night’s entertainment.

  Beyond the town the gathering clouds held the promise of one of those sudden late evening storms. To hell with it, a bit of water never hurt anyone and providing everything had gone according to plan Rudi would have the camp set up, ready to roll the following night. Even without Valentina the show could go on, they’d performed together often enough. Perhaps with a bit of encouragement he could get Minnie and May onto horseback.

  Once he’d reached the street he stopped and dug around in his saddle bag, pulling out a handful of bills advertising the circus. All showed Valentina sitting astride her big bay horse with her cape spread like a mantle across the animal’s haunches. All spangle and sawdust but to the people who came to the show it was moonlight and magic. He tacked the first bill onto a tree on the side of the road in the centre of town.

  He rode on, putting up more bills, then turned back into town to find something to eat. Neither he nor Tsar had eaten since dawn in Newcastle and there was no hurry to reach Maitland, at least not before nightfall. Raising the big tent could wait until tomorrow.

  He tethered Tsar in the stables and threw a coin to the stable-boy. ‘Keep an eye on him, give him a feed. I’ll be back after I’ve grabbed a bite.’

  As he ducked under the lintel to enter the inn a crack of lightning lit the sky and the thunder clouds rolled. The storm would pass soon enough, disperse the mugginess of the day and once the clouds cleared the moon would be high. He’d sit it out and ask a few questions at the bar. There had to be a pawnshop in town; he might even go and check it out.

  Providing he stuck to the road he’d have no problems finding his way even if it were dark, after all there were few choices this far out of the city. Rudi’s map proved that.

  With a full belly he tacked the final bill to a tree on the outskirts of town and took the right-hand track towards Maitland.

  In the twilight the shadows of the trees loomed across the road and somewhere a mopoke owl hooted. A mob of grey kangaroos kept him company for a while, bounding alongside in time with Tsar’s even strides. Every once in a while they veered off the track, only to stop and graze for a moment and then catch up and continue. They made good company and the gentle ride under the rising full moon was a pleasant relief after the long steamer trip. It gave them both time to stretch their muscles and relax. Being out of the city away from the noise and packed humanity soothed his soul.

  As they crested a hill Tsar kicked up his heels and skirted a rut on the downhill slope of the track that was still carrying a stream of water from the earlier storm. He picked his way around the potholes and craters. The last thing Tsar needed was a buggered tendon or worse. Rain had churned the road into channels of slick mud and water ran deep, cutting gullies that could be a death trap for any wagon or dray.

  Sergey ducked to avoid an overhanging gum and peered down the hill into the shadows. A muffled cry followed by a torrent of curses that only a bullocky could muster punched through the mist. In the centre of the track a man fumbled, trying to heave something back onto his dray.

  As Sergey drew closer he picked out a second figure atop the dray, tugging and pulling at the box. He slowed, not wanting to spook the heavy horse twisted in the shafts, then slid to the ground.

  ‘Stand.’ He lifted his hand in the command Tsar knew and as he walked down the slope, the predicament became obvious. A wheel had caught in one of the ruts and the dray lurched on one side like a drunken sailor. Despite the teamster’s best efforts the large box on the back inched towards the mud.

  ‘Let me help.’

  ‘Buggered if I know what to do.’ The pockmarked, rum-reeking teamster turned and wedged his shoulder against the box, no, not a box, a coffin. No wonder they were fighting to keep it aboard. ‘Sure as shit don’t want it flying off and spilling the corpse all over the road. Knew I shouldn’t have taken the job.’

  ‘I paid you good money. Over the odds.’ An irate voice laced the air and a head appeared above the coffin, some young lad not strong enough to prevent its inextricable slide towards the ground. With an agonising groan it lurched, sending the teamster sprawling face first in the mud.

  ‘Fuck me. You didn’t pay me enough for this drubbing.’ The teamster scrambled onto his knees, shaking his head like a wet dog.

  Sergey leapt forward and took the weight of the coffin, his two palms pressed flat against the side. Two coffins in one day. Hopefully it wasn’t an omen. ‘Right, pull from your side, use the handles.’

  The lad tugged and heaved and the teamster came behind him and gave a God-almighty shove and with a timber-splitting groan the coffin regained its place on the bed of the dray.

  ‘Right. Got some rope? Should’ve tied it on in the first place.’ Sergey looked at the panting teamster.

  ‘Ought to be heavy enough to stay put. If it wasn’t for the blasted ruts in the road …’

  ‘We’ll take the weight. You …’ the young man on the dray called out.

  His face was shadowed by a large brimmed hat and Sergey would put money on there being no sign of a beard on the lad and the breadth of his shoulders was way off manhood.

  A coil of rope slithered over the top and snaked down the side of the dray; at least the lad seemed to have half a brain in his head, unlike the blustering, spooked teamster who still wasn’t happy touching the coffin.

  ‘Slip the rope through the handles and secure it. You stay where you are …’

  The lad disappeared, hopefully anchoring the ropes on the other side of the dray.

  ‘Now tighten the ropes.’

  The teamster followed his instructions and fastened two relatively secure knots.

  ‘Right, take the strain and I’ll go round the other side and secure the ropes,’ Sergey said. ‘That should keep it on the bed.’ He stuck his foot into the spokes of the wheel and sprang up, then edged around the coffin and jumped down the other side.

  The boy had fastened off one rope good and tight and was in the throes of threading the other through the ornate brass handles. ‘Good lad.’ It was no pauper’s coffin, maybe it was the same one he had seen being unloaded from the steamer. What the hell was it doing on the back of this broken-down excuse for a hearse? People with money liked to bury their dead with a good deal of pomp and ceremony. In Sydney he’d seen processions stretched the whole length of the street as they wound their way to the cemetery.

  Once he’d secured the rope he stood back to check the angle of the dray.

  The lad’s face shone pale, almost translucent in the moonlight. ‘Thank you for your help.’ He tipped back his wide-brimmed hat and wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. ‘I doubt we could have managed on our own.’ The movement knocked his hat to the ground, releasing a tumble of hair that cascaded down over his, not his—definitely not his— shoulders.

  Sergey bent to pick the hat up, more to give him a moment to school his face. His mouth was no doubt hanging open. He—no, she—was dressed in stockman’s breeches tucked into worn leather boots. A long jacket over the soft cotton shirt buttoned to the neck provided a modicum of decency but there was no hiding her curves nor her lush wide mouth. His face split into a grin and he straightened up.

  ‘My apologies, Miss.’ He held out the hat but her hands were occupied twisting the long rope of hair into some kind of knot at the base of her neck, her very thin, fine neck. How had he imagined she was a boy? There was absolutely nothing manly about the figure in front of him, with her arms lifted and her long fingers tucking and twisting her thick strands of hair.

  With one hand holding her
knot of hair, she took the hat from him and rammed it down onto her head, sending a pang of disappointment shafting through him. She dusted off her hands, in no way bothered about being caught dressed as a labourer. ‘Now we have to find a way of getting this wagon out of the rut without dislodging Pa.’

  Pa? He looked over his shoulder; no one there except the half-drunken sot of a teamster. Then the penny dropped. That was her father in the coffin. Most women in his experience would be a sniffling mess ballooned in the overblown fashions dictated by the paraphernalia of mourning, not breeches.

  ‘Have you any suggestions? I had to coerce the teamster in the first place. He has some spiritual fear of touching a coffin, I think.’

  Or was gobsmacked by this young woman.

  She stepped past him, leaving a tantalising whiff of rose petals totally at odds with the stormy night air, and rounded the wagon, hands on hips as she surveyed the damage. ‘We’re going to have to find something to use as a lever to get the wheel out. Perhaps it would be better to take Pa off.’

  He followed her into the patch of moonlight. She was right. The wheel would have to be levered up and out of the trench. He couldn’t leave her to fend for herself. And if the teamster wouldn’t help with the coffin they’d just have to manage as best they could.

  The man belched and snapped back into action. ‘Can help there. Board along the seat, used it a dozen times. Get it.’

  She straightened up and turned, her gaze fixed on Tsar grazing at the side of the road. ‘Oh!’ Her voice took on a much higher pitch. How he could’ve mistaken her for a lad he had no idea. She stepped closer and stared into his face. ‘You’re the horseman from the circus.’

  His heart kicked to a stop, then started again in some ridiculous unsynchronised rhythm. Gathering his senses he swept her a bow. ‘Sergey Petrov, maître du cirque, at your service.’

  ‘I attended the circus in Sydney. You were magnificent.’ She cleared her throat and a flush of colour visible even in the moonlight, stole to her cheeks. ‘It was magnificent.’

  The girl from the box, the girl Tsar embarrassed. He’d missed her golden hair in the darkness.

  ‘I didn’t recognise you,’ she said.

  Hardly any more surprising than him not recognising her. The last time she’d seen him he’d been naked from the waist up, catapulting around the ring, reliving Rudi’s fantasy involving Russian Cossacks and kidnapped princesses.

  Five

  Catherine brought her hands up to her flaming face, thankful for the shadowy moonlight, though it probably wasn’t much use. She couldn’t take her eyes off his chest, noticing the way his shirt strained over the muscles. And she’d said he was magnificent. Whatever had possessed her?

  ‘I didn’t recognise you either. My apologies.’

  He had more reason not to and she’d behaved like a trollop with her free and easy behaviour, her hair falling down. Although he hadn’t made any remark about her clothes, a small token in his favour. Most men would have shrieked in horror, even the teamster had given her a few sideways glances when she’d ducked into the inn and reappeared in her working clothes. Now, stuck on the road in the middle of the night, she was pleased she’d had the foresight to stuff them into her bag and change when she’d arrived in Morpeth.

  She and Pa often rode home—oh Pa. Her throat tightened. She couldn’t think about him now. No more tears. Not until she had him home, safe and sound.

  ‘Right! This should do the trick.’ The teamster elbowed Sergey out of the way and bent down on one knee, loosening the dirt around the wheel.

  Sergey grabbed hold of the end of the backboard and held it straight, easing it into the sloppy mud. With a lot of shuffling and grunting they slipped the board under the wheel. ‘If you can take the horse’s bridle and lead him forwards when I give the word,’ Sergey said, ‘we’ll push from behind.’

  For the first time since Pa’s death someone was offering valuable and useful assistance. Oh, he’d looked so impressive on that wonderful white horse.

  ‘Oi, that’s you, lady,’ the teamster bellowed at her over his shoulder.

  She jumped. Concentrate, she had to concentrate. This was Pa, she had to get him home and here she was dreaming about bare-chested horsemen.

  ‘Wash your mouth out or you’ll have me to deal with. Miss, could you please …’

  ‘Catherine, Catherine Cottingham and yes, I can do that.’ She took off around to the front of the wagon and ran her hand down the horse’s nose, crooning softly, soothing.

  The belligerent teamster gave another bellow. ‘Get a move on.

  ’ ‘Button it. I’m not telling you again.’ Sergey growled, his head close to the teamster as they wiggled the backboard into place. ‘Now.’

  ‘Come on, boy.’ She tugged on the bridle. ‘Come on, you can do it.’ The dray moved maybe an inch. She mustn’t stop, if she did it would roll back perhaps deeper than before and heaven knows what damage she could do to the two men with their hands under the wheel. ‘Come on, boy.’ She tugged again and the dray lurched. She threw a look over her shoulder, keeping the pressure on the harness. With a shudder and a squelch, the dray inched out of the rut and righted.

  The teamster leapt back in the seat before she had a chance to slow the horse. ‘You’ll have to jump up. Not risking stopping now we’re moving. Think you can do that?’

  She turned and stepped to the side of the road. Warm hands clasped her firmly around her waist and she was placed as carefully as a wrapped package on the seat beside the teamster.

  She turned to thank Sergey but he had gone. Twisting the other way, her breath caught as in one perfect, fluid movement he catapulted astride his big white horse and drew alongside the wagon.

  The teamster kept his eyes firmly on the road ahead, letting out an irritated growl.

  ‘Thank you for your help.’

  ‘It was my pleasure. Where are you heading?’

  ‘Home.’

  ‘May I ask where that is?’

  ‘West of Maitland. About ten miles.’

  ‘Not tonight, in this weather. You’ll be travelling half the night and your clothes are wringing wet.’

  Her breath skipped a beat at the memory of his hands around her waist when he lifted her into the wagon. Through the wet fabric of her shirt he must have been able to feel every one of her ribs. The entire conversation, no the entire series of events, had a surreal quality. The sheer size of his horse made him tower above the wagon and she had to hold her hat hard on her head and crane her neck to talk to him.

  ‘I’ve no alternative. I must get my father home.’ She couldn’t say ‘Pa’s body’. Not yet. ‘Besides, the wagon must be back in Morpeth for the morning.’

  As she spoke a flash of lightning lit the sky, then a resounding crack and drops as big as pennies started to fall.

  ‘Not much bloody chance of that at this rate. You’ll be up for double the fee and recompense for missed deliveries,’ the teamster said, unimpressed with the way his evening had panned out.

  ‘You will be compensated for your time and any inconvenience you may suffer. I explained that before you took the job.’

  ‘May I make a suggestion?’ Sergey’s voice cut through her mounting hysteria. ‘The circus is camped outside Maitland. Rest the night there and in the morning I’ll take you and your father home. We have wagons.’

  She had a feeling he wanted to say ‘better wagons’. He was probably right and she doubted they’d make it home by sunrise in this broken-down old cart. She’d made a bad calculation. Although she’d ridden this way a hundred times it had been on horseback, not in a dilapidated dray after a torrential downpour.

  ‘I can promise you a warm fire and a comfortable bed for the night.’

  The teamster’s great guffaw startled the horses. ‘Nice try, mate. Nice try.’

  Sergey rose in the stirrups to glare down at the teamster. ‘I should call you out for that.’ He dared the teamster to utter another word.

  ‘No
skin off my nose,’ the obnoxious man spluttered. ‘Just make up your bloody mind and give me the money. Maitland turn-off’s up the road.’

  The dray lurched and Catherine turned in the seat, reaching behind to check on Pa. The prospect of dry clothes and something warm to drink was more than enticing. Could Pa wait? Would a few hours make any difference?

  ‘Thank you. I must get Pa home.’ Her throat tightened and she closed her eyes, willing back the tears as a wave of unutterable exhaustion swept over her. If she could stay brave for a little longer. Damn it. The temptation was too great. ‘I would like to rest if you’re sure it would be no trouble.’

  Sergey nodded and without a word of command the great white horse leapt forward and disappeared into the darkness.

  ‘So we turning off here, then?’

  ‘Yes. The camp must be just ahead.’ She pointed to the sign hanging crookedly on a tree. Maitland Town 2 miles. ‘Take this turn.’

  The teamster bent and lifted the flagon from under the seat, took a long hard slug, smacked his lips and flicked his whip. The horse turned its head and shot him an evil look then carried on at the same pace, head down, ears back. Poor thing was as tired as she was. Hopefully there’d be a comfortable stable and some feed for him eventually tonight. He deserved it.

  When they rounded the bend the rain stopped as suddenly as it had started and a blaze of light penetrated the misty darkness. Flames from a roaring fire leapt up into the sky, dancing to the discordant notes of the tin-whistle band she remembered from her trip to the circus. Was that only five days ago? It seemed like a lifetime.

  The teamster ground to a halt and those same warm hands reached out and lifted her down from the wagon, settling her gently on the ground. For a moment she wanted nothing more than to rest her head on Sergey’s broad chest and forget everything.

  It wasn’t to be.

  ‘You’re safe now. Come and sit down by the fire.’

  ‘I have to …’ She struggled out of his embrace.