The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  ‘You have to do nothing but sit down. I’ll deal with the oaf.’

  ‘But Pa …’

  ‘I’ll take care of Papa. Rest easy.’

  He led her through the circle of wagons, carts and tents to the huge fire, then settled her onto a mound of sweet-smelling hay, near enough to enjoy the warmth but not too close. The strains of the band floated through the air. Someone pressed a pannikin into her hands and she cradled it, allowing the heat to seep into her numb fingers.

  ‘Drink this, you’ll feel better.’ A young woman, one of the troupe no doubt, though difficult to tell without her star-spangled finery, crouched down beside her and patted her shoulder. The steam from the warm drink coiled around her face and she inhaled, letting her mind drift for a moment.

  She took a sip and the fragrant brew burnt a path down her parched throat. When had she last eaten or drank for that matter? She couldn’t remember. The foul brew the teamster had offered had turned her stomach. This was different, clean and slightly flowery. Her eyes grew heavy as she sipped and gazed into the leaping flames. The tin-whistle band gave way to a softer kind of music, something with strings, a fiddle perhaps. Her eyelids fluttered and the pannikin dangled loosely in her fingers. Someone removed it and then strong arms lifted her.

  ‘Come, you need to sleep.’

  Sleep. First there was something else. Her eyes flashed open. ‘Where’s Pa?’

  Cradling her in his arms Sergey strode away from the fire. He was so warm, it had been a long time since anyone had held her tight. Somewhere in the back of her mind the thought she should be concerned swept over her but such a sweet lethargy had invaded every disjointed bone in her body she couldn’t move.

  ‘Papa is here.’ He turned his body and she squinted into the darkness. Pa’s coffin sat atop a table, next to the tent, the red cedar glinting in the shadows. Intact and safe. ‘You will be just inside.’ He ducked his head and stepped into a tent. A candle flickered on a crate beside a camp stretcher. He lowered her and pulled the blanket over her, smoothing her hair back from her forehead as though she were a child. ‘Sleep well. I’ll be close by if you need me.’

  Bright sunlight hit her and Catherine snapped her eyes open. Everything came flooding back. Last night. The wagon. Pa slipping towards the mud. The stench of rum. Warm arms cradling her. Then nothing.

  Pushing back the blanket she struggled from the pallet, her bare feet scrabbling in the soft dirt. Her boots. Where were her boots? Her jacket? Gone too. She pulled her hair back from her face. Her hat. Where was her hat? More to the point, her bag. She’d stowed it beneath the seat of the dray. Scrubbing her face she stood and took a good look around the tent. Like a bedchamber. A small table next to the pallet. A book, a candle. A simple chair. Her hat hanging jauntily on the back and her jacket neatly folded, her boots and bag beneath.

  She pushed her feet into her boots then dragged her fingers through her hair searching for any remaining pins. Finding none she twisted it into a knot and rammed her hat back onto her head.

  She licked her dry lips. She was thirsty, so thirsty. Then she remembered the tea last night. What was it? Had it contained some sleeping draught? She didn’t feel as though she’d taken anything. The thundering headache that had plagued her since her first visit to the circus had vanished, her mind was clear and she was more relaxed than she’d been in days.

  Pa. What had happened to Pa? Shrugging into her jacket she stuck her head out and there, on a table next to the tent, sat Pa’s coffin, the sun glinting on its brass handles while a young boy ran a polishing cloth over the red timber.

  ‘What are you doing?’ She bolted towards him, her hat falling into the dirt.

  ‘Morning, Miss.’ He threw a grin and huffed a breath onto the coffin, rubbing away as though his life depended on it. ‘Cleaning, Miss. There’s mud on it. Papa wouldn’t like to be dirty.’

  No, he wouldn’t, the most fastidious of men but how would this boy know?

  ‘Ah, you’re awake.’ Sergey’s strong voice rumbled through her. ‘I’ve brought you tea.’

  Not on his life. Not after last night. ‘No, thank you.’ The steam coiled up from the bone-china cup, so incongruous and fragile in his large brown hands. So out of place in this strange camp.

  ‘Come, you must be hungry and thirsty.’

  ‘Water. I’d like water.’

  He frowned at her then a smile flickered across his lips. ‘I can get you water. The tea last night was only an infusion of chamomile. Is that what concerns you?’

  A flush flew to her cheeks. How could he know what she was thinking?

  ‘Nothing but exhaustion made you sleep last night. Don’t you trust me?’

  Her cheeks burned. No, she didn’t but if she didn’t why had she sent the wagon away? The events of the evening flashed back before her eyes. The dreadful teamster, the cavernous rut, Pa slipping. Hanging on for grim death, frightened she’d lose Pa in a quagmire miles from home and this man had come from nowhere like a knight on his white stallion to rescue her. It was the stuff of fairy tales.

  ‘I see you found your boots. Your hat is …’

  She looked down at her boots no longer caked in last night’s mud. ‘I know where my hat is.’ She pushed at her hair hanging like a curtain over her face. ‘I can’t find my hair pins.’

  ‘You have no need to hide here. You’re amongst friends.’ He stretched out his arm indicating a long trestle table alongside the remains of the fire. ‘Come and eat.’

  Her stomach growled in response as she walked across to the table. Heads lifted and her name drifted across the table. So many different voices, so many tones, all of them welcoming.

  ‘Catherine.’ Sergey held back a chair and she slipped into it. The woman on her right smiled and her choppy hair reminded her.

  ‘You brought me tea last night.’

  When she nodded her head her brown hair danced around her round face. ‘I’m surprised you remembered. You were so very tired.’

  ‘What was it?’ She couldn’t resist. Had to make certain Sergey had told her the truth yet hated doing it.

  ‘Chamomile to make you sleep.’

  A wave of embarrassment washed over her. ‘Thank you. It worked.’

  ‘You look much better this morning. Last night I thought you would drop where you stood. Sergey said you have had a difficult time. We are very sorry to hear about your father.’

  Catherine bowed her head. These were the first genuine words of condolence she’d received and from a stranger, yet the smiling faces around the table didn’t seem like strangers. ‘I’ll take Pa home today.’

  ‘Sergey has the wagon ready. He’ll accompany you.’

  She lifted her eyes and fell straight into Sergey’s gaze. He sat across the table, his chin resting in his hands as though she were the centre of his concern. The flush rose to her face again. ‘There is no need. I can manage alone. My man will return the wagon to you.’

  ‘You will not go alone.’ His voice brooked no argument and his words quashed her bravado. ‘It is not a journey to be made alone.’

  Six

  ‘It’s not much further. Once we crest the hill, you can see the house.’ There was a tinge of excitement in Catherine’s voice, or maybe just relief. He could well imagine how he’d feel returning home on the same mission. Something in his chest twisted and Nikolas’s face flashed before his eyes. Perhaps he should never have left Van Diemen’s Land, perhaps this was all a foolish quest. It made no matter. He wouldn’t rest until he’d served out the justice the courts had failed to provide. Maybe they should have stayed and fought the battle on home ground, not taken off to New South Wales on the strength of a rumour

  Was this Catherine’s home, where her heritage lay? Few in this damned country could claim that. The majority shipped to a dumping ground across the ocean, the furthest place from civilisation. Perhaps not the furthest. Van Diemen’s Land was even further south. ‘Were you born here?’

  ‘Yes. At Cottington
. Pa was one of the first landowners in the Hunter. After he’d served his sentence his family paid him off; he’d ruined their precious reputation, so he bought land and set up on his own. To breed cattle, provide food for the colony, which we still do.’ She waved her arm out, as if encompassing the river and acres of grazing land that were as neatly laid out like some formal parkland where fat black cattle dotted the paddocks, their coats gleaming. ‘He offered a haven to those who, like him, could never return to England.’

  ‘And the rest of your family. Your mother, your brothers and sisters.’

  She shook her head. ‘There is no one left now. I have no brothers or sisters. My mother died in childbirth.’

  Then who was she with at the circus in Sydney? He’d thought her father but surely that was not the case, that man had appeared horribly hale and hearty. He tossed a look back over his shoulder at the coffin and snapped his mouth closed.

  With her face alight she leant across him and pointed, her long hair whispering across his cheek as it caught in the breeze. ‘There, take that track.’

  He pushed back into the seat, forcing down the desire to bury his face in the long strands that danced in the morning sun. Such a colour, the colour of sunshine, the colour of gold, of the land. Bathed in a beauty that took his breath away. Very much like the girl herself.

  At the top of the hill a house came into view, the sandstone warm and welcoming, flanked by a massive tree spreading its branches and casting a pool of shade.

  ‘Home.’ Catherine breathed the word more as a sigh than conscious speech and the tension left her body in a visible cloud.

  ‘You have people here to help you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course. Mrs Duffen and Archie, then the last few ticket-of-leavers, and the black fellas we employ.’ Her face broke into a soft smile. ‘Though Archie and Mrs Duffen are hardly servants, more like family. Then there are the tenants who farm the land.’

  So she wasn’t as alone as he’d imagined.

  ‘Oh, but they won’t know about Pa.’ She lowered her lashes for a moment. ‘I dread telling them all.’ It was back, the heavy tension, the weight of responsibility bowing her shoulders. He had the strangest compulsion to ease her sorrow, save her from this moment. There was nothing he could do but stand beside her until she had no need of him.

  By the time they’d covered another mile he’d picked out the sound of vibrating hooves. A horse and rider came into view, spraying clods of earth as it galloped up the steep incline.

  ‘That’s Archie. He’ll have seen us. He has some kind of sixth sense, always knows what everyone is doing and he never misses anyone who approaches.’ She stood up and waved both hands above her head in a salute and the approaching horse slowed. ‘Can you stop here, please. I want to tell Archie about Pa first. He’ll be upset.’ She sprang from the wagon and strode down the track, back ramrod straight and head held high.

  Sitting back, Sergey waited. The man slid from the saddle and Catherine started to run until she threw herself into his arms.

  After a moment or two she pulled away and together they walked towards the wagon. Sergey encouraged the horses slowly down the track to meet them.

  The dusty bow-legged man stood no taller than Catherine’s shoulder. He lifted his hat as Sergey brought the wagon to a halt. ‘Good day to you.’ His eyes darted to their precious cargo and he dropped the reins of his horse and walked to the back of the wagon. His palms flattened and ran the length of the coffin while tears tracked down his seamed face. He stood for a moment longer then lifted his head. ‘Tis a sad day. May he rest in peace.’

  ‘He will now he’s home, Archie. I had to bring him back.’

  ‘Of course. Why ever would you think otherwise? His land. His life. His home. He’ll rest peacefully alongside Mrs Cottingham. It’s where he belongs.’

  Catherine hung her head, her golden hair failing to cover her tears. When she spoke her voice shook. Gone was the woman who had held it all together. Her mission complete, she could now mourn. Sergey understood that. And envied her for it. One day he hoped for the same release.

  ‘Archie, will you ride with Pa and Sergey? I must go ahead and tell Mrs Duffen and everyone else.’

  The old man nodded and clambered up into the wagon.

  Catherine leapt into the saddle and, without appearing to give Archie’s horse any guidance, she took off at a gallop, headed for the house.

  A low whistle sneaked between Sergey’s lips.

  ‘Yes, she can ride, that girl. Hands as light as air. Taught her meself almost before she could walk.’ A look of pride etched Archie’s face. ‘Should have been a boy. Might have solved a lot of problems. Mind if I take it from here? The track’s a bit tricky.’ He reached out and took the reins that lay on the seat beside him. ‘She says I’m to thank you, thank you for bringing her home safe.’ He cleared his throat and studied the way ahead with a fierce concentration even though he must have travelled it a million times. ‘Mr Cottingham, he’s happy now he’s home.’ With that he clicked his tongue and the circus horses responded as though they’d known him all their lives.

  ‘Nice horses you’ve got here, especially the one tethered.’ He flicked his eyes at Tsar ambling beside the wagon. ‘Good breeding, some Arab. Where did you get hold of him?’

  ‘It’s a long story.’

  ‘We’ve got a long ride, half an hour or so at least, unless of course you want to push off now and come back tomorrow for the dray.’

  He could do that, that’s why he’d brought Tsar. But he didn’t want to. Couldn’t leave without saying goodbye to Catherine, making sure she was home safe and sound. ‘I’ll see the job through.’

  ‘Thought you might.’ Archie threw him a sideways glance. ‘She’s a bonny lass, is she not?’

  Sergey nodded in agreement. He had the distinct impression there was little he’d get past this man, why lie?

  ‘So tell me about the horse.’

  ‘Tsar. His name is Tsar.’

  ‘What kind of a name’s that?’

  ‘A Russian name.’

  ‘Russian you say. Didn’t they fight with us against that French bastard? You Russian, are you?’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  ‘Long story? You’re not saying much. Try me with the horse first.’

  So the man did have Catherine’s best interests at heart. That made him feel good. She needed people behind her. ‘Tsar is a circus horse. I’m a circus rider.’

  ‘Circus? What the bloody hell’s that?’

  ‘Well, here’s your chance to find out. We’re camped outside Maitland. Come along. We’ll be doing two shows a day. One at two in the afternoon and one at eight at night. Just tell them Sergey said to give you a seat.’

  ‘And the horse. Looks like it’s got good breeding.’ He shot another look over his shoulder. ‘From India perhaps or Valparaiso?’

  He sure as hell knew his horses. ‘You got it in one. India. Friend of mine bought the circus lock stock and barrel in Van Diemen’s Land. We brought it over to New South Wales.’ Perhaps on a wild goose chase but he didn’t need to know that part of the story. ‘Mate of mine, Rudi. Used to be a horse breaker. He took my brother, sister and me in after our parents died. He had an accident, broke both his legs.’

  ‘That’s no good. Can’t ride if you’ve screwed your legs.’

  ‘He’ll never ride again. The circus has given him a new lease of life. My sister and I are equestrians, trick riders. He taught us everything we know. Tsar was part of the deal, along with a dozen other horses. All trained to perform.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  Damn the man was too fast. Sergey shot a look at him. Maybe not so old. Wrinkled like a bloody walnut but his mind was as sharp as a tack. ‘Just Valentina and I ride. My brother never had the chance.’ About as far away from a horse as anyone could get. Poor bugger.

  ‘This stallion of yours. You ever stand him at stud?’

  ‘No. Why? Should I?’

  ‘You could
make a lot of money with an animal like that. Great conformation, lovely head. Found the patch of colour on him yet?’

  ‘No colour, he’s white.’

  ‘Pretty rare. Everyone reckons there’s a spot of colour somewhere.’

  There wasn’t. He’d stake his life on it.

  ‘Bet he can move.’

  ‘Like the wind. That’s not all he can do. You’ll see for yourself when you come to the circus.’

  ‘The circus. Got a few things to sort out before I can take any time off. Catherine’s going to need a hand getting through the next few weeks. Did I say thank you for all your help?’

  ‘Yes, you did and thanks aren’t necessary. It’s the least I could do.’

  This wasn’t something she’d ever thought she’d have to do. In fact, everything since she and Pa had left for Sydney had dissolved into her worst nightmare. She slipped from the saddle and threw the bridle over the fence post. She wouldn’t cry, not now. Not until she’d told Mrs Duffen the sorry tale and sent Archie out to call on Father Brown.

  They’d bury Pa and then she’d take the time to mourn. Telling Archie and Mrs Duffen about Bartholomew’s overbearing attempt to have Pa buried in Sydney would only upset them. As for his wretched marriage proposal—she couldn’t think about it right now. Didn’t want to think of it ever again.

  She walked straight through to the kitchen at the back, her boots clattering on the polished floors interrupting the brooding silence. It was as though the house knew about Pa and it sat holding its breath until everything settled. She pushed open the kitchen door, inhaling the familiar scent of her childhood. Baking and jam, safety and love, and collapsed into Mrs Duffen’s outstretched arms. Despite her best intentions sobs wracked her body, great gulping uncontrollable sobs, every one of them set free now she was home.

  ‘There there, dearie. There’s nothing so bad we can’t …’

  ‘It’s Pa.’

  Mrs Duffen’s arms tightened around her and she nodded into her shoulder. ‘We knew it was coming. He’s at peace now.’

  ‘But not so soon.’