by Téa Cooper
Jesus Christ! He’d done it again. Talked his way out of it. Surely not. ‘Short bloke, balding, wearing a blood-splattered silver waistcoat.’ And with any luck a broken nose if his punch had landed square.
‘Oh! You mean Mr Bartholomew.’
Right, of course. ‘Yes, Mr Bartholomew.’ He spat the words through his clenched teeth. Bartholomew wouldn’t be the only one with a broken nose if these two fools didn’t stop mucking him about.
‘Not here.’
‘Where then?’
‘Magistrate Le Grice wanted a quiet word with him.’
Sergey stood his ground. ‘Where would I find Magistrate Le Grice?”
‘Not sure we should be giving away information like that.’
That did it. He reached out, grabbed the idiot by the lapels of his officious blue jacket and lifted him to eye level. ‘Where?’
‘Down the road. First left. Next to the Albion Inn.’
He was out of the door and back on Tsar before the bloke’s feet hit the ground. Bloody Waverley, he could talk his way out of an adder’s nest.
The Albion Inn was as quiet as charity in the goldfields and only one light burnt in the window of the house next door. Not bothering to tether Tsar he flung up the steps and hammered on the door.
‘Waverley. Show yourself.’ He threw a kick at the shiny black door. ‘Bartholomew!’
As he lifted his foot again the door swung open. A tall man with ferocious white eyebrows peered down his hooked nose at him. ‘Can I help you?’
‘I want to speak to Bartholomew.’
‘Petrov, is it? De Silva said I should expect you.’
Sergey grunted and pulled his jacket straight. He must look like a madman, he was behaving like one too. He’d never get to Waverley unless he took control of himself. ‘I beg your pardon. I would like to speak with Mr Bartholomew. I called at the lock-up and they told me I’d find him here.’
‘That’s more like it.’ Le Grice winked at him. ‘Come in. We’re just having a nightcap.’
The hairs on the back of his neck rose, every instinct he possessed told him he was wasting his time. What hope did he have against the likes of Bartholomew with the law behind him? He’d said no one would believe the son of a blacksmith, a trick rider. He almost called it quits until Catherine’s tear-stained face flashed before his eyes. He’d let Nikolas down. He wouldn’t do it again, not to her. Not to anyone.
‘Thank you.’ He stepped over the doorstep and followed Le Grice down the hallway into a room lined with overflowing bookshelves. A lamp on the desk threw a strange green tinge over the room. Bartholomew was sitting low in a leather chair in front of a small fire.
‘Can I get you a drink? Brandy?’
‘No. No, thank you.’ He needed to keep his head clear and he couldn’t remember when he’d last eaten, or drunk anything for that matter.
Le Grice gestured to the pair of winged leather chairs in front of the fire.
‘I’ll stand.’
‘As you will.’ The magistrate took the chair on the left of the fire, crossed his legs and looked up at him. ‘You wanted to speak to Bartholomew?’
Yes, yes he did although now the moment had come he wasn’t quite sure how to go about it. De Silva had said he doubted the legality of Archie’s scheme and here he was about to propose it in front of a magistrate. Well, he’d find out soon enough who was the ass.
‘I have a proposition to put to Mr Bartholomew.’
The body in the chair stirred, the slightest sign of interest. Perhaps he’d belted the bloke so hard he’d rendered him insensible.
‘Go ahead, young man, go ahead.’
‘Mr Bartholomew holds a mortgage over Cottington Hill that he has threatened to call in if Catherine Cottingham doesn’t marry him. She would like the opportunity to pay said mortgage out.’ Still Bartholomew didn’t react, didn’t even lift his head.
‘Does she have the funds to cover that mortgage?’
‘Yes, yes she does.’ This was ridiculous. Give him a raucous audience and a horse beneath him any day. He might as well be a schoolboy standing up to recite his lesson.
‘Bartholomew.’ Le Grice leant forward and rested his hand on the arm of the chair. ‘Will you accept payment for the mortgage papers you hold?’
A grunt sounded from the chair, whether it was agreement or complaint Sergey had no idea.
Le Grice turned to him. ‘How do you intend to pay this sum?’
Sergey pulled Archie’s pouch from his pocket. ‘In gold.’ He dropped the pouch into Le Grice’s outstretched hand.
The chair squeaked and Bartholomew’s swollen face looked up. Chances were Le Grice would have him on an assault charge from the look of Waverley’s face. Sergey didn’t reckon he’d packed such a punch.
‘Where did that come from?’
God he wanted to lie. Just say the goldfields, pretend it was his, anything to see it through. ‘Cottington Hill.’
‘That’s my …’ Waverley’s voice petered out and he subsided into the chair. ‘I’ll take it as payment.’
He was going to let it go. It couldn’t be that easy.
‘That seems to have resolved your issue, Mr Petrov.’ Le Grice smiled up at him, his eyebrows dancing above his twinkling eyes. They’d discussed it. He’d put more than a gold nugget on it.
‘It’s solved Miss Cottington’s issue. I have other matters that need to be dealt with.’
‘Yes. I am aware of those. Father Brown has just left. There are certain items that will be required. Do you have them?’
Sergey nodded, unable to speak, his throat tight. Could he trust this man? Could he trust the law?
Le Grice second-guessed him. ‘I’ll issue a receipt and draw up a letter for Mr Bartholomew to sign relinquishing his claim to Cottington Hill.’ He moved around behind his desk, pulled out a wad of paper from the drawer and lifted his pen from the inkstand. ‘I understand your reluctance, Mr Petrov. Your dealings with the law in the past have been less than successful. I assure you I wish to see nothing more than this matter concluded. Please trust me.’
Trust. So much easier and less painful simply to rely on himself. If he still had the pistol he could solve the problem in an instant.
‘Mr Petrov?’
Sergey pulled out the wedding licence and dropped it onto the table. The same swirls and patterns Bartholomew favoured, another forgery without a doubt. His fingers brushed the ring. All the evidence he had left to prove Waverley’s guilt. If he handed it over, even if he had some receipt for it, the proof of Waverley’s involvement in Toombes’s death would be lost.
‘Father Brown has given me the promissory notes, both from Sydney and Hobart. Is there anything else?’
‘De Silva couldn’t find any sign of the report from Hargreaves.’
‘That appears to have been a figment of someone’s imagination.’ He threw another look at Waverley still slumped in the chair. ‘Nothing else?’
In one quick movement Sergey pulled the ring out of his pocket and dropped it onto the desk, then snatched back his hand before he could change his mind. ‘You’ll find the Spanish dubloon in Waverley’s waistcoat pocket. He doesn’t like to be without it. Some sort of talisman.’
‘Ah, he didn’t mention that.’ Le Grice rose from the desk and stood in front of Bartholomew, his hand outstretched. ‘The dubloon, if you please.’
With a low moan Bartholomew reached into his fob pocket and produced the bent coin. He turned it over once and brought it to his lips, then dropped it into Le Grice’s palm.
‘Thank you. This matter will come before the courts and I intend to ensure justice is done.’ Le Grice returned to the desk, turned the two papers over, pressed them against the blotter and then carried them and the pen back to Waverley.
He struggled to sit up, then scratched some flourish at the bottom of both sheets of paper.
Sergey had no idea whether it was Waverley’s signature. Who the hell would know? If the man could forge promiss
ory notes and get away with it, a signature, anyone’s signature, would be a snap.
Le Grice added his signature to both documents, folded them in half and held them out. ‘Now I think we should call it a night, don’t you?’
And walk away. Leave Waverley free. If he couldn’t have him dead he at least wanted the bastard behind bars. Le Grice was asking for a bit too much trust. ‘What’s going to happen to him?’ Sergey turned to take one last look at the heap of a man sunk in the chair by the fire. It was only then he noticed the cuffs around Waverley’s wrists and ankles. Perhaps Magistrate St John Le Grice wasn’t such a fool.
Before Le Grice had the opportunity to respond a sharp rap sounded on the door. ‘That’ll be the constables come to take Mr Bartholomew to the lock-up for the night.’ He opened the door and the constables barged past and hauled Bartholomew to his feet.
‘Good night, Mr Petrov. If I need any more information where can I contact you?’
‘Cottington. Cottington Hill.’
The door closed.
Catherine would be overjoyed to know that Archie’s plan had succeeded. There would be nothing standing in her way. Before long she would attain her majority and Cottington Hill would be hers.
Femme sole.
A woman alone.
He gave a low whistle and Tsar appeared around the corner.
Good job the animal could be trusted not to roam. Good job he wasn’t still in the goldfields, someone would have nabbed Tsar by now.
The horse ambled towards him, flicked his ears and bunted him in the chest. Poor animal deserved a feed. Come to think of it, so did he. The sign on the Albion Inn squeaked in the wind. Probably too late but worth a try and tomorrow he’d head back to Cottington and give Catherine the news she was praying for. Then he’d return to the goldfields. Rudi and Valentina needed to hear what had happened from him, no one else. He hammered on the door and after a few moments it swung open.
‘It’s a bit bleeding late. What d’you want?’
Great reception. Le Grice had managed better than that. ‘Bed for the night, stable and feed for my horse.’
Tsar stuck his head over Sergey’s shoulder and eyeballed the bedraggled innkeeper.
‘Bloody hell. I recognise him. You’re from the circus. Come in, come in.’
Tsar bunted his shoulder, nudging him forward.
‘Not the horse. Take him round the back. I’ll get someone to see to him.’
He slept better than he’d done in a long while. No dreams, no images of Nikolas dangling from the gibbet, nothing but a peaceful rest. With a belly full of porridge and cream he resisted the temptation to check on Waverley and headed back to Cottington and Catherine. It was time he learnt to trust.
Tsar knew the path as well as he did and Sergey gave him his head, letting the horse pick the pace and the route until they crested the hill overlooking the house, which stood bathed in the warming glow of spring sunshine.
With a whinny Tsar kicked up his heels and took off across the paddock, away from the house towards the cedar tree. Sergey tugged the reins to no avail; the animal had a mind of his own as he cleared the last gate and came to a halt beside the metal fence surrounding the graveyard.
And there she was, crouched down, spreading the flannel flowers that had been her wedding posy across the graves.
Catherine lifted her tear-stained face to his and gave him a forlorn smile, then with a cry leapt to her feet and tangled her arms around his neck.
‘Why the tears, my love?’
‘I don’t know. Relief I think.
He lowered his face to hers. The barest meeting of lips. His hand cupped her jaw and their lips met again, sending heat streaking through him like a wildfire.
Much, much later she drew back. ‘Did you see Bartholomew?’
He nodded, not wanting to speak about the man, sully this precious moment. He reached into his back pocket and brought out the two documents Le Grice had given him.
A frown crossed her face. ‘What are they?’
‘This is a receipt for Tilly’s promissory notes, and the ones from Hobart and the ring’ He folded the paper and stuffed it back into his pocket. ‘And this is for you.’
She unfolded the thick paper, her eyes racing across the sheet until a heartbreaking smile broke out over her beautiful face. ‘It’s a receipt for full payment of the mortgage. He took Archie’s gold? That means …’ She clutched the paper tightly to her chest.
He knew only too well what it meant. It meant Cottington was free of debt and Catherine was free of Bartholomew. That wasn’t all. Now there was nothing to stop Cottington Hill becoming her husband and her lover. His job was done.
‘I have to go and tell Archie. He’ll be thrilled. It’s the best birthday present I could have. Thank you.’ She bestowed a radiant smile upon him, brighter than any gold and worth more too.
‘Now I must leave.’
‘Leave?’ Her eyes widened and her smile vanished.
‘I have to return to the circus. Tell Rudi and Valentina our search is over.’
‘But I … I love you.’
‘And I you, Catherine. Tainted as it is, you have my heart, always. But first I must see this through.’
‘You’ll return?’
‘Then I shall return, trust me.’
Epilogue
March 15th, 1852
‘Why are you looking so down in the mouth? Cottington’s all yours. The new stud bull’s doing his business. De Silva’s gloating about our bottom line.’ Archie checked the last of Bessie’s hooves and straightened up, pinning her with an inquisitive stare. ‘Can’t see what else you could be wanting unless you’ve changed your mind somewhere along the line.’
She turned away from his penetrating gaze, colour flooding her cheeks. ‘It’s not so much that I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think I knew my mind.’
‘I wouldn’t be worrying too much about your mind. It’s your heart you’ve got a problem with.’
She knew that well enough. Had she made it so obvious to everyone? Sergey had been gone six months. Six months! The circus could have travelled to the western most reaches of the country in that time, possibly even back again. He said he’d be back once he’d told Valentina and Rudi. It couldn’t be anything to do with Bartholomew because Mr Le Grice had made a special trip out to Cottington with De Silva to tell her that Bartholomew had been sentenced for forgery and sent to Port Arthur’s new facility, The Second Prison, because it wasn’t his first offence. He was stuck there until he came up for sentencing about Toombes’s murder. It didn’t bear thinking about.
‘Give away this mad idea of femme sole. Let your heart rule your head for once in your sweet life.’
‘What are you suggesting, Archie, that I take a lover?’ There was only one lover she wanted and as much as she wanted to trust Sergey she was beginning to doubt his parting words.
Archie’s face turned puce, then purple. ‘I’m certainly not suggesting that, my girl.’ He shot a look up the hill to the cedar tree. ‘Your Ma and Pa’d have me guts for garters if they thought I was giving you advice like that.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘He’s a good man. I know horses and I know men. Maybe you should just be patient.’
Not her strong point at the best of times, though she believed she’d been doing a pretty good job. Six months was too long to stay patient.
You have my heart. I shall return, trust me.
The words were etched on her very soul, nevermind her shrivelled heart.
‘What you need is a bit of exercise. I thought we might go out for a ride. You’ve been taking this femme sole thing a bit too seriously, locked in the study day after day, poring over those ledgers.’
She couldn’t bear to ride, couldn’t bear to take Bessie out and remember those carefree days on the road, the sheer exhilaration and the sense of freedom. ‘I don’t seem to be in the mood for riding any more, Archie. I’ve got too much to do.’ She turned, her foot catc
hing the hem of her new skirt. For goodness sake, she couldn’t spend her time riding around just for the hell of it. She had a property to run, tenants to listen to and accounts to deal with. She had a meeting later that morning with the ladies’ committee who had some plan to raise money for a hospital. Pa’s buggy was more suited to her new role. ‘I’ll take Bessie out tomorrow or maybe the next day. I can’t ride like this.’ She flicked at her navy blue serge skirt encasing the ridiculous hooped petticoat.
‘Here. Catch.’
The bundle of rags Archie threw at her twirled in the air and landed in her hands, making her nose twitch in the flurry of chaff and dust. ‘What’s this?’ The bundle fell to the ground and a lump caught in her throat. Her white breeches, a bit the worse for wear, and the soft leather boots with the fringing.
‘Archie, I can’t wear these. What happens if someone sees me.’
‘The Currency Lass didn’t have any problem cavorting around in them.’
‘That was different, and besides I wore the golden cape over the top.’ Until she stood on Bessie’s back and threw it off with an outrageous flourish so she could stand on Sergey’s shoulders. She let out her trapped sigh. It all seemed so long ago, a fairy tale almost. The Currency Lass. Currency was about the only word that stuck—her life revolved around money and accounts these days.
‘Get in the tack room and get changed.’
‘Archie!’
‘Do what you’re told. I’ll be waiting outside.’
Habit more than anything sent her into the tack room. She shook out the breeches and with them the smell of the circus, the flares, the sawdust and the horses.
Her heart hitched as she kicked off her shoes and lifted her skirt, pulling the breeches on underneath, the soft material gentle against her skin. Next, the boots. She’d forgotten what they felt like. Her fingers fumbled as she undid her petticoat and skirt and stepped out of the hateful hoops. Then she tucked her blouse into the waistband of the breeches.
Her old cabbage-palm hat still hung on the peg behind the door. She pulled out her hairpins, shook her head and decided against the hat. A coil of excitement unfurled in her stomach. Perhaps Archie was right. She’d been closeted in the house for far too long.