The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  ‘I feel as though I’m missing some part of a puzzle.’ Catherine fiddled with the sleeve of her nightgown.

  ‘Don’t you fret about it now. Things’ll look different in the morning. Mr Cottingham was doing his best for you. Making sure you’d be settled once he’d gone.’

  That was a possibility, even a probability and she’d be more inclined to believe it if Bartholomew hadn’t been so dismissive of Cottington Hill and its importance to Pa. It was his life’s work.

  ‘Be nice for Mr Cottingham to know you’d be settled, that his grandchildren would grow up around the place he worked his whole life for. It’s up to us all to keep the place going in his memory. Sort of a living tribute like.’

  Then why tie her up to someone like Bartholomew? ‘Bartholomew doesn’t like the country, he says he’s a city dweller.’ A cold hand clasped at her chest. ‘What happens if I married him and he sold Cottington Hill?’

  ‘He wouldn’t do a thing like that.’

  Somehow she wasn’t so sure.

  ‘Why would he bother? Archie reckons he’s got more money than he knows what to do with.’

  Eight

  After days locked inside with the curtains drawn and the pall of silence hanging over the house Catherine was ready to scream. She stretched, stood up and drew the curtains aside to look out at the bright blue sky. Autumn, her favourite time of the year and she’d been inside for too long. She needed air, fresh air, her brain felt as though it was filled with dirty fleece.

  She took the stairs two at a time and threw open the door to her bedchamber, stripping off her heavy black skirt as she went. Within moments she’d shed her mourning clothes, tucked her working shirt into the band of her breeches and slipped her dark blue velvet riding jacket over the top. She pulled on her boots and clattered down the stairs.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going?’

  ‘Out to the stables to see Archie.’ She raised one eyebrow at Mrs Duffen, knowing full well she’d never set foot in the stirrup without eating. ‘Then I’m going to have something to eat and go and see Mr De Silva. Father Brown said he’d call but he’s been nowhere near the place.’

  ‘Out of respect for you, I dare say.’ Mrs Duffen huffed. ‘And what’s happened to your mourning clothes?’

  ‘None of them are suitable for riding and I can’t use Pa’s buggy. Not yet.’ She wiped away a threatening tear.

  ‘I suppose a bit of fresh air will do you good. I’ll send one of the girls to tell Archie. You come into the kitchen. I’ve got some nice soup on the stove and bacon sandwiches.’

  Catherine’s stomach rumbled in response, a sure sign she, at least, was back in the land of the living. Pa wouldn’t want her to mourn forever and he wouldn’t want Cottington to go to rack and ruin either. She had to get to the bottom of this business about marriage and Bartholomew. ‘I’m going to ride out along the boundary, down by the river and then make a big sweep back and check on the cattle before I go into Maitland.’

  ‘I suppose you’re going alone, are you?’

  She always rode the property alone, had done since the first day she’d managed to dodge Archie. ‘I’ll be back well before dark.’

  ‘You make sure you are.’

  With the wind in her hair she pushed Bessie into a canter up the slope, putting the devil and her misery behind her. Once she’d cleared the first fence, her blood started pumping again and the lethargy of the past two weeks fell away as she galloped down to the river and along the track to the eastern boundary.

  She hadn’t set foot outside the house since Pa’s funeral, since she’d returned home. Bartholomew couldn’t be too concerned about her leaving Sydney, otherwise he’d have followed her or sent a message. Perhaps he was angry because she’d thwarted his meticulous funeral arrangements. In all honesty she had a bit of a guilty conscience about rejecting his efforts so callously. Nevertheless, his silence was strange behaviour for a man who professed to have her best interests at heart, a man Pa thought would be the perfect husband.

  Bessie cleared the next fence without missing a step and Catherine’s spirits soared. Bartholomew had no more interest in marrying her than she had in marrying him. Perhaps it was simply something Pa had dreamed up; some way he thought she’d be safe and happy. He’d said as much that last evening.

  She slowed to check the herd of fat black cattle grazing on the flats down by the river. In the spring they’d bring them up into the home paddocks for calving. She lifted her face to the high, high sky. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t marry Bartholomew and live in Sydney no matter that it was Pa’s dying wish. In the last few weeks his mind had been befuddled by the laudanum, otherwise he’d never have entertained such an idea. He wouldn’t want her to give away her life. He certainly wouldn’t want her to forgo everything he’d spent the last thirty years working for.

  The ground flew beneath Bessie’s feet. Giving the mare her head Catherine let her mind empty. The rhythmic thud of the hooves on the winding track thrummed through her body, releasing the kinks and knots in her muscles as she became one with the horse she knew better than any person.

  When she finally pulled back on the reins and slowed she’d passed well beyond Cottington’s boundaries. The Maitland road curved below her and in the distance, on the rise outside the town, she could see the cluster of circus tents.

  Without further thought she urged Bessie down the hill. She owed Sergey her thanks; without him she’d never have managed to get Pa home and, like De Silva, he’d vanished into thin air. No doubt in deference to her mourning.

  Strains of the discordant band drifted in the air, otherwise the campsite appeared deserted. What day was it? What time? Afternoon. Did the circus put on an afternoon performance? In Sydney the shows were in the evening, late, at eight or nine o’clock. Perhaps away from the city it was different. She slid from the saddle and tethered Bessie to a tree on the outskirts of the camp, then threaded her way between the tents. The trestle table sat close to the fire but only embers burnt in the pit, the weather far too warm to merit a blazing fire during the day.

  No one was around. There must be an afternoon performance. It would account for the noise of the invisible band.

  Ducking through the circle of tents she made her way to the ring.

  Yes!

  She was right.

  Instead of entering through the ticket booth, she slipped under the canvas and eased her way behind the timber seats and climbed up the tiered rows.

  Sergey sat on his horse overlooking the ring. He’d be asking for members of the audience to come forward. The familiar ripple of attraction traced her skin. Although lean, he was powerfully built with broad shoulders and muscular thighs. More to the point he had an air about him, something that hinted at tightly controlled strength and purpose, almost predatory. She swallowed a laugh. How many women would lose their heart to the maître du cirque today? It probably depended on Tsar’s mood more than anything else.

  Perching high in the top seats, the scene was unbelievable, an eagle’s view of the whole proceedings. Was it better than the intimacy of the expensive boxes level with the ring? Obviously those were the favourites. Bartholomew wouldn’t deign to sit in any but the best and most expensive seats. Alone, she could do as she pleased.

  Settled up at the back she gazed around the big tent. The audience, such as it was, sat clustered around the ring. The tent was almost empty. A handful of seats were filled at the front and the usual gaggle of children pushed and shoved their way to the pit at the edge of the ring, but unlike the suffocatingly crowded Sydney show, row after row of seats remained empty.

  Tsar reared and Sergey waved his hand high above his head, acknowledging the applause. A second horse ran free into the ring and, with an almost imperceptible hand signal, he brought it alongside Tsar. Then with a quick jump and a flick of his legs he stood. One foot on the back of either horse, bridles loosely looped in one hand as the two animals cantered in tandem around and around.

&nb
sp; The afternoon sun slanted through the opening in the canvas, highlighting his dark skin and his muscles bunching and rippling as the horses kept time. Magical. She imagined he was just like the Roman chariot riders. Then he dropped the reins, stood tall for a moment before crouching and performing a neat somersault to land on the outside of the ring. The two horses kept pace circling the arena. When they passed him for the second time he leapt back astride Tsar, jumped to his feet and once again performed his Roman gladiator trick.

  A loud and thoroughly unladylike cheer escaped from her mouth and his head came up. When his eyes met hers a lopsided grin flickered across his face, making her heart skip a beat. He lifted his hand in salute, as though he’d recognised her, before performing another somersault and landing back astride the galloping horse.

  Standing on tiptoe, she gasped for breath as he slipped first to one side and then to the other of the horse, his feet barely skimming the ground. He released the second horse and it peeled off, leaving him standing astride Tsar’s back, his clasped hands raised in triumph and a smile splitting his handsome face, a smile that seemed only for her.

  Her mouth dried and she sank down, her legs weak and her mind racing. What she wouldn’t give to learn tricks like that. She could ride, and ride well, she had Archie to thank for that, but these kinds of acrobatics were beyond her wildest imagination. Far more thrilling than Princess Valentina and her regal display on her dancing horse or the tricks Tsar performed counting ladies and making wildly inappropriate suggestions about his master’s heart.

  Rudi appeared, cracked his whip in the air and before she could blink Sergey had disappeared and the girls with their cropped hair and spangled suits cavorted into the ring.

  With a flourish the band reappeared followed by the juggler tossing firesticks high in the air, sending those closest to the ring back up into the seats, their eyes wide and their mouths hanging open.

  So much of this she’d missed in Sydney, so overcome by the stunning equestrian tricks Sergey had performed.

  A drum roll sounded and the glittering girls arranged themselves in puzzling contortions while six muscled acrobats spiralled head over heels into the ring, their breathtaking speed making her head spin.

  ‘I would have provided you with a front-row seat free of charge if you’d asked.’

  Sergey’s voice sent a flood of colour rushing to her cheeks.

  Sitting astride Tsar it was difficult to decide where his looselimbed frame ended and the white horse began. Dressed in tight breeches he might have been a satyr, his oiled chest gleaming in the sunlight.

  She straightened her shirt and pulled her hair back.

  ‘I’m sorry.’ She pushed her hand into her pocket, searching for some coins to pay her way but it came out empty. How ridiculous. ‘I haven’t brought any money.’ Her face heated to a furnace as she clambered down from the top of the gallery and jumped to the ground.

  Somehow he was standing next to her, the salty tang of sweat on his skin enveloping her. He raised his hand and pushed back the mass of hair that had fallen across her face.

  ‘I’ve lost my hat.’ It must have fallen off when she’d jumped up to cheer Sergey on.

  ‘Leave it. I’ll send one of the grooms to find it. Come and join me for some tea and tell me how you are.’

  Had she time? It would take her at least an hour to get home and she hadn’t intended to come this far, never mind watching Sergey’s performance. ‘I shouldn’t have stopped. I’m on my way to Maitland. If I’m late Mrs Duffen will be concerned and insist Archie sends out a search party.’

  The smile drifted from his face and he gazed up at the skyline. ‘It’s early yet.’

  And she owed him her thanks for all his help with Pa. ‘Just one cup of tea and then I must go.’

  ‘Timmy, Zac.’ His deep voice cut across the straggle of people leaving the tent and the young boy who she’d last seen polishing Pa’s coffin slipped to Sergey’s side and handed him a shirt. ‘Take Tsar for me, and see if you can find Miss Cottingham’s hat. She dropped it from the gods.’

  ‘The gods? What gods?’

  ‘The seats you were sitting in. High up with the gods.’

  A laugh rippled through her and before she could stop it a smile spread across her face, her first since Pa died.

  ‘Where’s your horse?’

  ‘I tied her to a tree over there.’ She pointed beyond the circle of tents.

  ‘Timmy, get Zac to see to Miss Cottingham’s horse.’ The boy darted off through the audience dribbling out of the enclosure. ‘Come this way, around the back of the tents. It’s easier.’ He led her through a maze of flapping canvas and ropes. ‘Now tell me. Are you well?’ He rested his hand on her arm and turned her to face him.

  ‘I … yes … yes, I am.’ She felt more alive than she had since she returned from Sydney. ‘I wanted to thank you for everything you did for me, and Pa.’

  ‘It was nothing. I’m pleased to have helped.’ He held back a chair and invited her to sit at the long trestle table, his warm breath fanning the back of her neck as she sank into the chair he held.

  He sat next to her and reached for a piece of stretched ’roo skin lying on the table between them.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘A map. Rudi’s planning on moving the circus again.’ He slid the map to one side to make way for the pot of tea and two cups that one of the boys brought over.

  ‘You’re leaving?’ Her voice caught and she swallowed back the plaintive hitch. ‘I thought you’d stay longer.’ She didn’t want them to leave yet, wanted to see more of the circus and learn more about their amazing horsemanship.

  ‘We intended to but, as you saw, the audience is not here and the takings aren’t what Rudi hoped for.’

  ‘This was just an afternoon show, surely in the evening?’

  ‘That’s what we expected, however, it’s clear there are not enough people left in the town to fill the big tent every afternoon and evening.’

  After all, the circus, as much fun and carefree as it seemed, was a business like any other. That she understood. It was no different from the accounts ledgers Pa had insisted she come to grips with. ‘Where are all the people? Maitland’s a busy town. Thousands of people live here and in the surrounding area.’

  ‘So we thought. We didn’t know the discovery of gold would empty the town.’

  ‘Gold?’ They’d found gold? Where and why didn’t she know? Stuck in Sydney with Bartholomew, then locked up in the house and out of touch with all that had happened. ‘Here in the Hunter?’

  ‘No. A place called the Turon.’ He pointed on the map again. ‘It’s here.’

  She followed the curve of the coast, inland along the Hunter River and across to the west. ‘Not far from Bathurst, beyond the Blue Mountains. And you’re going in search of gold now?’

  His big rumbling laugh made her face flush.

  ‘No—well, in a way, yes. We won’t be searching for gold. A big audience is our gold dust.’

  ‘Oh, I see, of course.’ Again that sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. ‘When will you leave?’

  ‘That’s what Rudi and I have been discussing. We’re still waiting for Valentina.’

  Princess Valentina. So caught up in Sergey’s performance she’d forgotten all about the equestrienne who had so captivated Bartholomew. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘She travelled the Great North Road rather than come by steamer to Morpeth as we did. We expect her any day now.’ He shrugged as though Valentina’s failure to appear was beyond his comprehension. ‘Without a decent audience we lose money paying for the camp licence.’

  This was all far more complicated than she realised. ‘Without Princess Valentina the show is not complete. Is that also why the takings are down?’

  He nodded. ‘Valentina, and the gold. She’ll arrive soon, of that I have no doubt. Maybe we’ll give her a few more days. If she’s any longer we’ll need to prepare some new acts, something Rudi and I didn’t anti
cipate when she left on her wild adventure.’

  ‘Can’t you do that on the road? On the way to … what is this place called?’ She looked down on the map and traced the scribbled circle.

  ‘The Turon. Moving the circus is a time-consuming business, there’s five wagons and three drays, never mind the twenty or so horses and the troupe. Travelling leaves little opportunity for anything else.’

  He pushed his chair back from the table and stretched out his long legs, folded his arms and stared into her eyes. ‘Enough of this circus talk. I want to know about you.’

  She blew her hair from her face, she must look like some banshee with it falling all over the place. She really had to find her hat. Combing her fingers through the tangles she pulled it back.

  ‘Why are you always trying to hide your hair? It’s beautiful. The colour of sunshine.’

  The colour of sunshine! Her face was about to become the colour of one of Mrs Duffen’s beets. This man’s compliments were so different from the flesh-creeping nausea of Bartholomew’s. She tugged the peplum flair of her jacket down over her hips, wishing she’d worn something a little more attractive.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Nothing.’ At least nothing she would share because she wasn’t sure she understood her own thoughts. ‘Today’s the first day I’ve ventured out of the house. I left it too long. I thought perhaps I’d forgotten how to breathe.’ Or how to dress.

  ‘So you have escaped and run off to visit the circus.’ His lips tilted up in a grin and one eyebrow lifted. ‘I’m glad you did.’

  ‘So am I.’ She smiled back at him as the truth of her words hit her. Not only this man who’d rescued her during her darkest hour, she’d wanted to see every one of the circus troupe who’d been so kind to her. Timmy slapped her hat down on the table as if to prove her point. ‘Thank you, Timmy.’

  ‘You staying? Want me to unsaddle your horse?’

  ‘I should be going.’ She put her hands flat on the table to ease herself to her feet, a strange reluctance making her stumble. ‘I must ride to Maitland and see the family solicitor. We have to discuss my father’s will.’