by Téa Cooper
Rudi groaned as the boot released and Valentina hit the ground with a bump. ‘Rudi’s having all sorts of problems with his leg. That’s why he’s been drinking so much. You’re meant to look after him.’
‘I don’t give a shit about his bleeding leg.’ He jabbed his finger into Rudi’s chest. ‘What gave you the right to put Catherine on the mail coach without telling me?’
‘My circus, I’ll do what the hell I like.’
‘Catherine’s my responsibility.’
‘Not when she’s putting Valentina in danger. Start thinking with your head. If she leads Waverley to us, then Valentina’s in the shit for stealing from his house.’
Sergey groaned. Valentina, always Valentina. ‘What about Nikolas? We set out to clear his name, my family’s name.’ And Catherine. He had to know. ‘I need to look at that map of yours. Where is it?’
Rudi flicked his finger over his shoulder. ‘On the table, over there. I’m not moving the circus again. We’re better off staying here. Not only that, we’re raking it in. We need to make the most of it while the gold lasts. Got to finance your wild goose chase somehow. The lass just complicated things.’
The lass? Not the lass. Catherine. His currency lass. She could be in all sorts of trouble—the mail coach carried gold, it ran the gauntlet of bushrangers on the passes over the Blue Mountains. Waverley couldn’t be trusted further than he could throw him. What, just what, if Rudi had made a mistake about Catherine and she knew nothing of Waverley and his filthy history?
Rudi let out a groan of relief as Valentina’s hands massaged his calf. ‘Anyway, how did you know I’d put her on the mail coach?’
‘Timmy.’
‘Cheeky bugger.’ Rudi struggled to stand up, batting Valentina’s hands away. ‘Get the little blighter. I want a word with him. Who’s the boss around here? I told him to keep his mouth shut.’
‘Don’t bother. I’ve already frightened the living daylights out of him. We have more important things to work out.’ Sergey flattened the map on the table. ‘How long do you reckon it will take the mail coach to get from Bathurst to Sydney?’
‘Should average about ten miles an hour if they change horses every twenty or thirty miles. The road’s pretty good, apparently.’ He spread out his fingers across the map. ‘About a hundred and twenty-five miles. They’d make it in twelve hours. You’ll never catch up with ’em.’
‘Then once they hit Sydney they’ll pick up the steamer …’
Valentina clutched at her stomach thinking about the steamer journey.
‘They’ll be back in Maitland in twelve hours.’
‘If that’s where they’re going.’
‘So you’re going to go after them? What’s the bloody point? What makes you think Waverley’s left the goldfields? Valentina, come and sit back down.’
Instinct, just instinct. And Catherine. Sergey waved Rudi’s complaints away. ‘Let me handle this.’
‘We haven’t got a problem. It’s simple. Waverley’s in the goldfields. I can feel it in my blood,’ Valentina said. ‘We call the constabulary, give them the ring and the dubloon and let them sort it out.’
‘It’s not as easy as that.’
‘Why ever not?’ Rudi’s face was growing red. ‘The man was transported for forgery, murder would make him a second offender. He’ll be behind bars before his feet touch the ground. Better still, he’ll swing’
‘What about Valentina?’ Sergey said.
‘What about me?’
‘You seem to have forgotten that you stole promissory notes and those bits of frippery from the study of a well-known Sydney identity.’
Rudi shook his head and let out an exasperated sigh. ‘You’re wasting your time on Catherine. She’s obviously done what she was sent to do.’
A sudden stillness came over Sergey and he shuddered. ‘What she was sent to do,’ he echoed. ‘We need to talk this through.’ He pushed the map to one side. ‘Let’s go back to the beginning. We know Waverley spends his time between Sydney and the goldfields. He’s calling himself Henry W. Bartholomew and as far as we know he’s made a stink load of cash out of the poor buggers here on the goldfields with his forged promissory notes. The murdering shit’s living the high life in Sydney on the proceeds of pawnshops and his robberies in Van Diemen’s Land while Nikolas paid the price. I need to find out what part Catherine’s played in all of this.’ There was only one way to do that. Ask her. What he should have done before Rudi jumped down her throat and forced her onto the mail coach.
‘If she’s not in Bathurst she’ll be at Bartholomew’s home in Sydney.’ Something he’d rather not dwell on. ‘Or heading back to the Hunter by steamer. I reckon with two horses I can be in Sydney not long after the mail coach.’
‘Two horses? Oh. I see. So not only are you going to leave me without my star attraction, you’re taking the best horses too.’
‘Valentina’s your star attraction and you’ve got Dan and Hawke back.’
‘Here we go again.’ Rudi groaned. ‘Where are you going to get a second horse from?’
‘Easy. Catherine left Bessie.’ What better excuse than to turn up with her horse? She’d hardly complain about that. She’d cop it from Archie when he found she’d left Bessie behind. ‘That’ll give me a second horse and you can’t complain because Bessie doesn’t belong to you. Nor does Tsar for that matter.’
‘Easy, easy. You’ve got quite a problem there. You need to think long and hard where your priorities lie. You set out to track Waverley down and it looks like you might have done it, with a bit of help from your big sister. Now you want to turn tail and chase after some bit of skirt you tumbled across.’
‘A bit of skirt that happens to lead us straight to Waverley’s alter ego. No wonder we couldn’t find Waverley. Can’t you get it through your thick head? Hal Waverley doesn’t exist any more. He’s reinvented himself as Henry W. Bartholomew.’
‘Rat’s still a rat no matter what he calls himself.’
And that was exactly what was bothering him. A rat that he didn’t want anywhere near Catherine. ‘Any other smart remarks you’d like to make?’
‘Think that about covers it.’
‘Then I’ll be leaving you to Hal Waverley. I’m going to track down Bartholomew. We’ll see who’s right.’ Sergey spun around and barged out of the tent, dragging with him the load of guilt that had plagued him since he’d jumped to the conclusion that Catherine was doing Bartholomew’s bidding.
Men stopped in their tracks and heads turned as Sergey flew across the Macquarie River and cantered down the main street of Bathurst, the two horses stepping in perfect unison.
The forged promissory notes from Hobart as good as burnt a hole in his pocket and his eyes flicked from one side of the street to the other searching for a sign, anything to tell him where he’d find The Union Bank of Australia.
While he tied the horses to the hitching post a carrot-topped urchin sidled up. ‘Want me to look after the horses? Cost you a penny. Leave ’em alone and someone will nick ’em.’
Sergey scanned the street, a group of men hovered outside a dilapidated shanty, eying the horses over their half-empty flagons. Carrot-top was right and he liked the rascally glint in his eyes. He delved into his pocket and reefed out a penny and flicked it through the air.
The lad snatched it, stuck it between his teeth, bit down and then pocketed it. ‘Right you are.’
‘If everything is just as I leave it there’ll be another one when I come out.’
The lad winked, wrapped his grubby fingers tightly around the reins and placed himself, legs astride, firmly between Bessie and Tsar.
‘Has the Sydney mail coach left?’ There was a chance that Catherine might still be in Bathurst.
‘Yep. Left early. Full to the gunnels with a bunch of women and kids. Be halfway there by now.’
No such luck, though the coach wouldn’t be halfway there, not yet. With a terse nod Sergey strode across the road and headed for the impressiv
e two-storey building on the corner. The moment he reached the door it swung open.
‘Good morning.’ A young dandy sporting a black frock coat peered at him. ‘How may I help you?’
‘I am here to see the manager.’ What had Catherine said his name was? ‘Mr Noakes.’
‘You have an appointment?’
‘Now. Mr Noakes. Off you go, boy.’ Sergey took several steps and planted himself right in the middle of the room.
‘Your name, sir?’
That was more like it. ‘Petrov. Mr Petrov.’
The dandy backed away and minced through a door below a large clock.
The minute hand crawled its way to the hour while Sergey fidgeted with the promissory notes in his pocket.
After an eternity a thin skeleton of a man eased through the door. ‘How may I help you?’
‘Mr Noakes?’
‘Yes.’
‘A moment of your time.’ Sergey fanned out the promissory notes and Noakes’s eyebrows rose.
‘Thank you, Tobias.’ The dandy scuttled off behind one of the desks and Noakes led the way into a small office. ‘Have a seat.’ He gestured to a fragile looking chair.
‘I’ll stand. This won’t take a moment. I’d like to redeem these promissory notes.’
Noakes pulled out a pair of wire-framed glasses and hooked them over his ears then reached out and took the notes. He tutted and ran his finger around his high starched collar. ‘I’m afraid I’m unable to honour these.’
Sergey narrowed his eyes. ‘Why?’ He stabbed at the notes on the desk. ‘We promise to pay the bearer on demand the sum of one pound. I’m the bearer and these are issued against The Union Bank of Australia. It’s here in black and white.’
‘We have been conducting an investigation into the validity of various notes for several weeks and until that is complete …’
Several weeks? He’d happily paid up when Catherine had presented Tilly’s notes. ‘You honoured similar notes only yesterday.’
‘Ah, you’d be referring to Miss Cottington?’
Too right he was.
Noakes opened a desk drawer and pulled out another promissory note. ‘You’ll notice here.’ His finger circled the ornate spirals framing the words ‘Union Bank’. ‘There is an inconsistency in the design. We believe these are forgeries as were those Miss Cottington presented and we refused to honour them as well.’
Sergey turned the two notes to face him and squinted at the swirls and patterns. The man was right. There was a minute but significant difference. He forced himself down into the chair and stretched out his legs. Relax. He had to relax. Catherine had told him the notes had been honoured. Why would she do that? Only one reason, Waverley had got to her and given her cash to cover up his forgeries.
Noakes peered down at the words on his promissory notes. ‘Issued Hobart Town 1846’. ‘May I ask where you got these? They were issued in Hobart some time ago. A significant time ago.’
‘From a man by the name of Henry W. Bartholomew, in Sydney.’
Noakes let out a bark of laughter. ‘Unlikely. Bartholomew is a highly respected man in Sydney business circles, with the most noteworthy credentials. Why, I know him personally and have had the pleasure of dining at his Sydney house.’
And so had Valentina. ‘His house would be in Macquarie Street?’ Just to make sure she hadn’t got it wrong. He hadn’t got it wrong.
‘Indeed.’ Noakes offered a patronising smile. ‘Mr Bartholomew wouldn’t be involved with forged promissory notes. He has much bigger fish to fry. Particularly now gold has been discovered on his Hunter property. I spoke to him not a week ago before he left.’
‘What Hunter property?’ Sergey ground the words out through his clenched teeth.
‘Cottington Hill. Hargreaves has appraised the property, Bartholomew told me himself. He has returned to the Hunter to initiate the sale of claims and supervise the issue of licences.’
She’d lied!
The chair clattered as it fell to the floor. Bartholomew’s property. Cottington Hill. How could it be Bartholomew’s property? Not unless she’d already married him, which could only have happened before they’d left for the Turon.
Catherine’s bemused face filled his vision and the cold hand returned and clamped tight in his chest. He snatched at the promissory notes and stuffed them back into his pocket. Enough of this nonsense. He had to get to Maitland. Waverley was there. Catherine could wait.
‘Mr Petrov, please.’
The slam of the office door echoed in the cavernous bank foyer and eyes followed him as he stumbled out onto the street. Forget Sydney. If Waverley was in the Hunter, that’s where Catherine would be heading, back home to her husband. He’d have Waverley once and for all, and that pillar of Sydney society, Henry W. Bartholomew, could go down with him.
The bedraggled urchin, true to his word, stood solid between Tsar and Bessie. ‘Here.’ He flicked another penny at him. ‘Good lad. Can you do something else for me?’
The lad grinned. ‘If you’ve got more of those pennies.’
‘I have more than that.’ Sergey pulled out a half sovereign and the urchin’s eyes bulged. It was probably more money than he’d seen in his lifetime. ‘This is yours.’
A grin bigger than the bloody Union Bank spread across the lad’s face.
‘Reckon you can get yourself to the Turon, quick smart?’
‘No problems. Steal a ride on the back of the mail coach. I do it all the time. Me Pa’s there.’
‘Right. You know Circus Point.’
The urchin’s eyes widened and he cracked another huge smile. ‘I knew I’d seen these horses afore. You’re from the circus.’
‘Yep. I need you to go to the circus and ask for Rudi. Tell him I gave you a half sovereign and said to give you another’
‘Another? That’s, that’s … lots.’
‘When you tell him Sergey’s gone back to Maitland. That’s where Hal is. Now tell me what you’re going to say.’
‘Sergey’s gone back to Maitland. That’s where Hal is.’
‘Good lad. Tell him to give you and your Pa front-row seats, too.’ He tousled the lad’s flyaway hair. ‘Off you go.’
The question was which way? The route he knew or follow the mail coach and run the risk of the Hunter River Steam Navigation Company jacking up about carrying his horses, locking them in some crate below decks? Sod that. The way he knew. It would take five, maybe six days with the two good horses. No wagons to hold him up, only Murrumbo and Cox’s Gaps. Then Bylong and the well-worn track to Merton and Jerry’s Plains. The same way the circus caravan had travelled. Same way he’d ridden with Catherine when the winter sun shone and the Currency Lass had made him forget the injustices of the world.
There was no doubt now that she’d duped him with her lies and tales of an arranged marriage. He’d been blindsided by a pretty woman. No man in their right mind would allow their intended wife to run away with a circus. God, what a fool he’d been.
Sergey grabbed the horses and, in a flurry of dust, bolted down the street, stopping only to buy supplies at the first store he came to. Bread, a leg of mutton, tea and some hard cheese, but no rum. He wouldn’t be going anywhere near Rudi’s poison until he’d sorted Waverley out. He needed to keep his wits about him.
With the saddlebags settled on Bessie he swung up onto Tsar’s back. The mail coaches changed horses every twenty miles; he’d cut it back, maybe ten, fifteen miles before he gave Tsar a rest.
By nightfall he’d covered around fifty-five miles, flogged the horses almost to death, skirted the crowds heading west and still he couldn’t get Catherine out of his mind. What had she hoped to achieve? Shunning the inn at Dabee, he found a spot on the banks of the river, hobbled the horses and collapsed under a tree without bothering to eat.
Nineteen
Another perfect winter day, with an endless blue sky and not a cloud in sight but Catherine couldn’t take her eyes off the road. Neither Becky and Jacky’s excited
shrieks, nor Pete’s contented gurgling eased her pain. The road held too many memories.
All she could see was Pa’s coffin. As if that wasn’t bad enough, when they rounded the bend and took the steep slope down to the Maitland turn-off it was Sergey who filled her thoughts. The way he’d appeared out of the mist on that dark night and taken control, sorted everything out, invited her back to the circus and made what was possibly the worst day of her life tolerable.
How she missed him, ached to see him, run her fingers over the stubble-covered line of his jaw, trace the pale scar slashing across the ridge of his cheekbone. Now she wished she’d dug in her heels, argued with Rudi, demanded to see Sergey instead of getting on that mail coach like some child sent home for misbehaving at a birthday party.
She shot a look at Tilly under her lashes. So happy and content, her children clustered around her, beaming smiles on their faces while all she had was a ball of misery lodged in the pit of her stomach. They’d enjoyed every moment of the long journey, the heart-stopping race in the mail coach to Sydney, then the overnight trip on the steamer and the dawn breakfast of flathead and tea in Newcastle before they’d docked in Morpeth. She’d spent the entire time mulling over her actions.
Would it have made a difference if she’d told the truth about Tilly’s promissory notes? And why, when Rudi had demanded they leave, hadn’t Sergey spoken up? She’d believed they were friends, more. Imagined one day they might be lovers. How she yearned for him, not the Sergey who’d greeted her when she’d returned from Bathurst but the man she’d come to know on the trip to the Turon, the man, heaven forbid, she’d come to love. But he’d made it clear, abundantly clear, that he didn’t trust her, and without trust there could be no love.
Perhaps she should get the wagon driver to turn into Maitland and she’d go and see Mr De Silva, tell him she was home. As the thought drifted through her mind the baby set to wailing. No. She’d send Archie first thing tomorrow morning and ask De Silva to come to Cottington.
The wagon lurched up the steep incline and she tapped the driver on the shoulder. ‘As long as we haven’t had rain lately you can turn off about half a mile ahead and go onto the property around the back.’