The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  Bartholomew turned whippet quick, finger pointing. ‘Be quiet, Catherine.’ Then he rammed his outstretched finger into Sergey’s chest. ‘You seem to have forgotten a couple of things.’

  ‘Suppose you tell me.’ He swatted Waverley’s lily white hand aside. He’d forgotten nothing. Every detail, every piece of evidence was etched in his memory. There’d be no disappearing this time. He should have pulled the trigger while he had the opportunity. It would all be over by now and Waverley wouldn’t be trying to wheedle his way past the truth.

  ‘The first concerns that sister of yours and her little affliction. She’s stolen a sapphire ring that’s worth a fortune. Another pretty bauble she couldn’t keep her sticky fingers off, and she raided my desk. The desk of a well-respected businessman and member of Sydney society.’ In one well-practised movement Waverley spun the dubloon in the air, then slipped it back into his fob pocket.

  ‘Who happens to have spread badly forged promissory notes all over Hobart and Sydney and throughout the goldfields.’

  ‘I have collateral to cover those.’

  Catherine turned, her eyes suddenly alight. ‘You stole from those diggers. Took their gold in exchange for forged notes. Women and children have been left starving because of what you’ve done.’

  ‘Listen up. I have assets. Many of them. The past is just that— the past. This country is populated by people who’ve overcome their past.’

  ‘As well as plenty who didn’t,’ Sergey snapped. ‘You don’t understand, do you? It’s not about money. It’s about the dishonour you brought on my family. Nikolas’s name will be cleared.’

  ‘It won’t stand up in court. Who is the judge going to believe? The brother of a murderer, a trick rider and his light-fingered sister.’ Bartholomew’s lip curled. ‘Or a reputable Sydney businessman innocently caught up in a forged banknote scandal?’

  Sergey had lived too long with the trapped feeling, the rage, the hatred eating at him from the inside out. A red haze swarmed before his eyes.

  He didn’t remember making a fist.

  Blood erupted from Waverley’s nose, patterning his silver waistcoat.

  For a man his age De Silva’s grip was remarkably strong. Sergey didn’t fight it, although he couldn’t resist a smirk. He’d like to beat Waverley to a pulp. ‘That was for my light-fingered sister, the next one’ll be for Nikolas.’

  ‘Father Brown, would you be so kind as to remain here with Bartholomew.’ De Silva gave Sergey’s arm an adept twist and propelled him to the door. ‘Catherine, open the door and come with us.’

  With her eyes wide she gave Sergey one long searching look and walked from the room ahead of them, her silk dress whispering across the floor.

  ‘Don’t imagine you’ve won. No matter what happens I still hold a mortgage over this place. I am calling it in. Cottington Hill will be mine.’ Bartholomew’s voice faded as the door closed.

  De Silva thrust Sergey into the dining room and released his arm. ‘Stay here.’

  By the time he’d turned around De Silva had gone and Catherine stood with her back against the closed door, face bone-white, crumpled like a fallen angel.

  He had to talk to her, explain. The look on her face when she’d seen the ring had told him everything. She had no idea who Waverley was or what he was up to. He’d failed her as much as he’d failed Nikolas. Her intentions were noble, her concern for the tenants, the property and Tilly, and he’d mistaken them for lies, so blindsided by his version of the truth.

  He twirled the ring in his fingers, running the pad of his thumb over the smooth facets of the square-cut stone.

  ‘That was to be my betrothal ring.’

  ‘Valentina stole it. From Bartholomew’s house.’

  Her lovely eyes put the sapphire to shame as she gazed up at him. ‘Valentina truly stole this from Bartholomew’s house in Sydney?’

  She may as well have the truth, the whole ugly truth. Bartholomew was right—who would they believe?

  He owed her honesty now. He should have told her the truth right from the moment she’d returned from Bathurst, not jumped to conclusions based on his own warped view of the world. He was so enmeshed in the tangled web of lies Waverley had woven to protect his own life that he hadn’t thought clearly.

  ‘My sister is a thief and my brother hung for murder.’

  ‘And you?’ She arched an eyebrow at him.

  ‘I am not worthy of your consideration.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

  ‘Not until you know the truth, all of it.’

  Something flickered behind her eyes, a shadow of doubt still hovered despite her words.

  ‘For the last five years, my need to hunt down the man responsible for Nikolas’s death has consumed me. I’d lost sight of all that is good, all that is honourable.’

  ‘You are the most honourable man I have ever known.’

  She didn’t know, couldn’t understand what he’d believed of her. He’d acted as judge and jury, everything he despised, and she was innocent, as innocent as Nikolas. ‘I thought you deliberately inveigled your way into the circus, that Waverley put you up to it because he knew I was onto him.’

  Her mouth dropped. ‘You thought I was working with Bartholomew, that I’d lied about Cottington and my marriage, my inheritance. Is that why Rudi sent Tilly and me away?

  ‘That’s about the sum of it.’

  ‘I did lie to you.’

  A stone lodged in his stomach. ‘You lied to me.’

  ‘Yes. Not about Bartholomew. I knew nothing of his past or his plans, and I’m certain Pa didn’t either. I lied to you about Tilly’s promissory notes. Mr Noakes refused to honour them. Told me they were forgeries. I couldn’t bear to see Tilly and the children suffer. I thought if she had money then Rudi would let her stay with the circus camp.’

  ‘So where did the money come from?’

  ‘I cashed them myself.’

  ‘Where are they?’

  ‘I still have them. Archie insisted I take some money with me when I left here to join you and the circus. He sewed it into the lining of my velvet riding jacket. I didn’t want Tilly to feel indebted, that she was taking charity.’

  Sergey groaned. ‘I presumed you were involved with Waverley, that you’d met him in Bathurst and got those forged notes cashed to keep us off his trail.’

  ‘You didn’t give me the opportunity to explain.’

  ‘Because I accused and sentenced you without thinking to discover the truth. I’m no better than the judge that sentenced Nikolas. No better than Waverley.’

  Somewhere in the past five years his pain at Nikolas’s death had diseased his soul and not once had he tried to find a cure other than revenge. It was time to change, for Catherine’s sake and for his own. ‘Can you forgive me?’

  ‘There is nothing to forgive. You’ve saved me, and all the people who call Cottington Hill home.’ Except that he hadn’t because hanging over her head was the reason she’d finally agreed to marry Bartholomew.

  Cottington Hill will be mine. Bartholomew’s last words rang in her ears.

  She lifted her head from Sergey’s shoulder. ‘It will break my heart to leave here.’ She couldn’t imagine a life without Cottington any more than she could bear the thought of losing Sergey.

  ‘There must be a way.’ He drew her into his arms, his familiar aroma surrounding her. The solid familiarity of his body made her want to bury her head in his broad chest and cry. A hicuppy sob sneaked between her lips.

  How long she stayed clasped in his arms she had no idea, the sun sank below the horizon and a pale twilight lit the room with a pink glow.

  Only when Archie’s grinning face appeared around the door did they pull apart. ‘They’ve carted Bartholomew off, Father Brown’s gone too. Magistrate Le Grice will want to talk to you. For the time being the bugger’s under lock and key where he belongs.’

  ‘That’s good, Archie. Thank you.’

  ‘Come on. What’s the matter
with you, girl? Before long you’ll be twenty-one. The property’s safe. All yours and all tied up. No need to marry that bumptious fool.’

  Archie had been right so often but not this time. ‘It doesn’t solve the problem of Cottington. Whether Bartholomew’s guilty or not he still holds a mortgage over the place. A mortgage we can’t pay. I haven’t managed to save Cottington Hill. What’s going to happen to everyone?’

  ‘Why don’t I go and get Mr De Silva. See what he’s got to say.’ Without waiting for her reply Archie bounced out of the room.

  ‘What’s he up to?’

  ‘I have no idea.’

  ‘Before Archie and De Silva come back I want you to know that right from the beginning when I asked you to come with us I had no idea it would lead to this.’

  ‘Believe me, if I had known of Bartholomew’s past I would have refused him outright. Pa would never have suggested the marriage. He was desperate, sick and worried for the future. Bartholomew preyed on him in his weakness.’

  ‘In very much the same way he took advantage of Nikolas.’ Sergey ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. ‘My mother died giving birth to Nikolas. We thought he’d died too. I can remember the colour of his face, blue, and his lips an even inkier colour. Then I picked him up and he coughed, drew his first breath. Perhaps it was too late. He found everything difficult. Speaking, walking. He never rode a horse. When he got the job with Waverley as his nightwatchman in the pawnshop he was so proud of himself. At last he felt he was helping, earning money … I should have taken better care of him.’

  She ran a hand down his unshaven cheek, cupping his jaw, then stood on tiptoe and kissed him lightly on the lips, tasting his remorse. Perhaps if she’d taken better care of Pa … she shook the thought away.

  ‘They’re in here. Mr De Silva, we need your advice about something.’ Archie led De Silva into the room.

  ‘Catherine, it’s late. I really think you should consider taking some rest. It’s been a taxing day for all of us. Mrs Duffen has been kind enough to offer me a bed for the night.’ De Silva frowned. ‘What about you, young man?’

  ‘I’m going to Maitland. To keep an eye on Waverley, make sure he doesn’t talk his way out of anything. And the magistrate wants to talk to me.’

  Archie pushed himself forward. ‘This matter needs to be sorted out once and for all. No one’s going anywhere just yet.’

  ‘Really,’ said De Silva, ‘I think everything can wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘No. Listen up. I’ve kept me mouth for too long. Didn’t even tell Catherine because I didn’t know what to do. Bloody hard keeping me mouth shut when she got back.’

  With a long-suffering sigh De Silva pointed to the table. ‘Then perhaps we should all sit down. Catherine?’

  She’d be more than happy to sit down, her legs could hardly support her. Whether it was from relief, fear or simply Sergey’s comforting presence she had no idea.

  Archie didn’t wait for them to be seated. ‘Someone should’ve asked Bartholomew what he was doing down by the river.’

  What on earth was Archie talking about? She’d seen Bartholomew down at the river, the day she’d taken Tilly to the Davis’s place. A new home Tilly would never live in unless money could be found to pay the mortgage. ‘What does it matter what he was doing down by the river?’ Bartholomew had probably covered the whole place working out just how many gold licences he could sell once he’d moved the tenants on.

  ‘Is this relevant, Archie? Everyone is very tired.’

  ‘You be the judge of that, Mr De Silva.’ He reached into his pocket and scattered a handful of gold nuggets and flakes across the dining table. ‘He’s been chucking this about down at the river.’

  ‘Ah! The gold you were telling me about.’ Sergey leant over and picked up a largish nugget, tossing it in the palm of his calloused hand.

  ‘He’s been salting it, seeding it. Throwing it around like a man possessed down in the river flats. I seen him.’

  The day with Tilly. Archie’s strange disappearing act and then Bartholomew flying over the hill in Pa’s buggy. Wandering around throwing his arms in the air. She’d left quickly, hoping to avoid him.

  De Silva looked up. ‘You saw Bartholomew planting this down at the river?’

  ‘Yep, that’s right. Salting, that’s the word. It ain’t right. Been a few blokes accused of doing that. ’Gainst the law, I reckon.’

  ‘Why would he do that?’ Catherine massaged her temples, trying to soothe the pounding in her head.

  ‘A very good question, a very good question.’

  She tried to remember that day over breakfast when she’d agreed to marry Bartholomew. ‘He told me he’d commissioned a friend of his, a Mr Hargreaves, to do a survey because there was gold on the property.’

  ‘Have you seen a copy of this survey?’ De Silva asked, a frown of concentration on his forehead.

  Not that she could remember. The last few days had been such a blur. Come to think of it she hadn’t seen the wedding licence either.

  ‘Might be a good idea if someone checked Mr Cottingham’s desk. Bartholomew’s been spending a lot of time in the study.’

  ‘A good idea, Archie. I’ll go and do that right now.’ De Silva stood and reached for the door handle.

  ‘Before you go, I got a question. What’s this gold worth?’

  De Silva shrugged his shoulders.

  Archie turned to Sergey. ‘You’ve been to the goldfields, you ought to know.’

  ‘Depends who’s buying. Last I heard about four pounds an ounce. Depends on the quality.’

  What had all of this to do with her? Somehow Catherine couldn’t summon any enthusiasm or interest.

  A satisfied grin stretched across Archie’s face. ‘I’m not too good with them big numbers, Mr De Silva, out of my league, but I’ve picked up a hell of a lot of the stuff Bartholomew’s been throwing about.’ He hefted the bulging leather pouch in his hand, similar to the one that held the money he’d sewn into her jacket. ‘I’d say this is my gold, Miss Cottingham’s in fact. Found on her property. I’d hazard a guess it might cover that mortgage. If not, there’s more where that came from.’ He plonked the pouch down on the table. ‘Be my pleasure to see the place clear and free of debt. Be happy to hand it over, as a gift like. Is there somewhere you’d like me to make my mark?’

  Catherine’s stared at him. Was she understanding Archie correctly?

  De Silva coughed and his face flushed first red then almost puce. ‘What you’re suggesting, Archie, isn’t technically legal. That gold belongs to Bartholomew.’

  ‘Rubbish.’ Catherine’s throat tightened as if she were about to burst into tears. ‘No, it doesn’t. It belongs to all those poor diggers Bartholomew scammed with his forged promissory notes. Ask Tilly, she’ll tell you.’ She covered her face with her hands.

  ‘It’s time I left. I want to make sure Le Grice has all the facts.’ Sergey moved towards the door.

  ‘You better take this then.’ Archie slid the pouch across the table. ‘See what you can do with it.’

  ‘Wait, let me see if I can find this report from Hargreaves and the wedding licence,’ De Silva said as he and Archie left the room. Would this never end?

  The next thing she knew Sergey’s warm hands covered hers and lowered them from her face. ‘Catherine, in another time and another place I would never leave your side but I owe it to my brother, to my family, to see Waverley brought to justice. Until that happens I can’t rest.’ He brushed his lips over the back of her hands.

  She didn’t want him to leave. He gave her strength, made her brave. ‘Stay, please stay.’

  ‘I can’t. I have to see this through. I’ll return as soon as I know Waverley is behind bars.’

  He’d had to go, couldn’t wait a moment longer or he wouldn’t have the will. Everything driving him forward had been taken, gone with Waverley to the lock-up.

  Archie’s plan was a stroke of genius. It would leave Catherine free of d
ebt and give her Cottington Hill—all she wanted, all she needed. And he intended to make sure that happened. This time he would be the one with the proposition for Waverley.

  If he could talk him into relinquishing the mortgage papers in exchange for the gold, Waverley wouldn’t get done for salting. He still wouldn’t have a leg to stand on when he came up for trial for the forged promissory notes and the sapphire ring and dubloon would link him to Toombes’s murder. The man wanted to do a deal—Sergey had one for him.

  Tsar was less than enthusiastic when he led him out of the stable. He threw Bessie a look as much as to ask whether he could stay.

  ‘I’m sorry, old mate, this isn’t quite over yet.’ He waited for Tsar to accept the bit, then slipped the bridle over his ears and turned to the saddle. He couldn’t call it over until Waverley stood in the dock sentenced for Toombes’s murder and Nikolas’s name was cleared. Sergey swung himself into the saddle and took the short cut up the hill to pick up the track to Maitland. With luck he’d be there just after dark.

  Finding the lock-up didn’t prove difficult. It housed the only light burning in the main street. Through the window he could see two constables sitting at a table, mugs of something in front of them. No sign of the magistrate, no sign of Waverley. His stomach churned. He’d intended to go with them but they’d had Waverley out of Cottington before he’d even known they’d arrived. One look at Catherine’s heartbroken face and he’d known who was more important.

  He dismounted and tied Tsar to the hitching post, took the steps onto the verandah two at a time and pushed open the door. The larger of the two constables looked up from the array of playing cards in front of him. Patience. Exactly what he needed in a large dose.

  ‘I want to see Waverley.’

  ‘Waverley.’ He turned to his mate. ‘Know anyone by the name of Waverley?’ The other constable scratched his pockmarked face and pushed back his chair, stretching out his legs. ‘Nope. No one by that name.’