The Currency Lass

by Téa Cooper

  ‘How much longer are you going to keep me waiting?’

  ‘I’m coming.’

  She ran out underneath the arches, Archie linked his hands and she jumped astride Bessie. ‘No saddle?’

  ‘You don’t need one.’

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Up to the top paddock. It’s about time you showed me some of these tricks you learnt. I’m sick of asking.’

  She hadn’t thought that Archie would be interested in what she’d learnt.

  Recent rain had washed the air clean and the scent of the bush was sweet and fresh. They cleared the first of the three fences and when Archie pulled ahead of her the tension dissolved and she breathed in a lungful of the crisp air. Shifting her weight she urged Bessie on and drew to a slithering halt next to Archie on the top of the hill.

  ‘Right. This should do nicely.’

  ‘What do you want me to show you?’

  ‘The Currency Lass. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.’

  And who she’d been trying to forget.

  Catherine walked Bessie around in a circle, marking the area just like she had in Bylong when she’d performed outside the ramshackle inn, then led her into a canter around and around.

  ‘All right. So you can canter in a circle, I know that.’

  What if she’d forgotten everything Sergey taught her? What if it none of it was real, just a dream, and she couldn’t perform any of the tricks?

  For heaven’s sake, she sounded like a regular little miss. Minnie and May would be disgusted. Of course she could remember. She’d never forget, nor would Bessie. Not if she lived to be a hundred would those halcyon days slip from her memory.

  She barely had to move or think. Bessie read her mind. She knew what to do.

  Catherine loosened the reins and guided her into the centre of the space then clamped her legs. Bessie reared just as she always had at the start of the performance. And took control.

  Three laps around the ring.

  Hoof beats thundered and she closed her eyes, imagining Tsar cantering alongside, the two horses in perfect harmony. Archie knew her so well. She shouldn’t have stopped riding. It was better to remember.

  Then the feather-light touch of his fingers on her shoulders as he leapt from Tsar to Bessie. His weight behind her, the salty tang of his sweat, the warmth of his body as she rested, cradled between his muscled thighs.

  She was on her feet, arms outstretched, his strong arms steadying her.

  Flying, flying like a bird.

  ‘You haven’t forgotten.’

  ‘How could I?’ she murmured and slipped down into Sergey’s arms.

  The End

  Historical Note

  The Currency Lass is a jigsaw of fact and fiction held together with a serious dose of imagination.

  In 1851 Henry Burton’s National Circus travelled overland from Sydney to Maitland and, with the announcement that gold had been discovered near Bathurst, made the journey to the diggings with packhorses. After more than a year in the goldfields, they returned to Sydney, becoming the first travelling circus in Australia. Circus Point in Sofala was thus named.

  If you would like to know more, Mark St Leon’s book Circus – The Australian Story is a wonderful, comprehensive history and I thoroughly recommend it.

  The route Rudi’s Circus took to the Turon relies on a copy of an 1842 map The South Eastern Portion of Australia compiled from the Colonial Surveys from details furnished by Exploratory Expeditions, published on 2 June 1842, by J. Arrowsmith of 10 Soho Square, London. It is available online.

  Sergey’s brother Nikolas’s story is based in reality – at that time people hung on the flimsiest of evidence – and as far as I can ascertain, in reality, the perpetrator was never brought to justice. Henry W. Bartholomew is pure fiction, however, many forgers served their sentence in the colonies. Some made good, most notably Francis Howard Greenway, an English-born architect who was responsible for buildings such as St James Church and Hyde Park Barracks in Sydney; others did not.

  The property Cottington Hill does not exist. It is modelled on Merton, the first European settlement in the Denman district, located east of the present Denman Township on the opposite side of the Hunter River. Merton was the name given by William Ogilvie to his original land grant of 2,000 acres received in 1825 on his arrival in New South Wales from England.

  On 27 July 1833 the Sydney Gazette reported that ‘The Pultney Hotel in Bent Street is being fitted up in a most splendid style.’ It became the preferred meeting place for the Agricultural and Horticultural Society and was still trading in 1889.

  Steamers were the fastest and most popular method of transport to the Hunter at this time and their cargoes were many and varied, however, I don’t know whether they transported a circus. A mail coach did run between Sofala and Bathurst and Sydney daily.

  I must admit to tweaking the timeline here and there to fit the story and I take full responsibility for any errors.

  Acknowledgements

  First and foremost I must acknowledge the people of Wollombi who so generously share their knowledge and offer their unfailing support and encouragement. I love this writing journey and your company makes it all the richer. Most especially Chief Researcher #1 who unravels my plot knots and has more patience than any man I have ever met, and Chief Historian who every Friday asks, ‘What have you got for me this week?’ Thank you both, your friendship and assistance mean the world to me.

  And then there’s the business end of things – this is my third book with Harlequin and from the first every one of the team has been there to guide me, this time Julia Knapman has played ‘ringmaster’. Thank you. And to Sue Brockhoff – special thanks for helping me address my bucket list!

  I was lucky enough to have Bernadette Foley as my editor on The Currency Lass. Thank you, for your patience and guidance. It’s been a pleasure and a privilege to work with you, and I’m thrilled you bonded with Sergey!

  Finally to my critique partners Sarah Barrie, Ann B Harrison and Charles who bear the brunt of my mad panics and crises of confidence – The Currency Lass is your book as much as it is mine. Words cannot express how much I appreciate the fact that you are always there for me.

  Turn over for a sneak peek.

  The

  CEDAR

  CUTTER

  by

  TEA COOPER

  OUT NOW

  harlequinbooks.com.au

  One

  The road widened from a track to a well-worn thoroughfare and the chill afternoon air blended with the rank odour of civilisation, signalling the end of their long journey. The dray swayed past carts laden with goods and vendors hawking their wares. Women dressed in their Sunday best picked and pored over ribbons and gewgaws, everything from sweet baked delights to rabbit-skin hats, and layered beneath it all was the pungent scent of freshly cut timber.

  Drawn by the spectacle, the driver eased to a halt and stood, shading his eyes from the sun. A mighty roar rose up, drowning out the catcalls and cheers, and the crowd stopped and turned, their fevered excitement palpable as they elbowed and jostled their way to a front-row spot.

  Curiosity and her son’s wriggling body won out and Roisin dragged herself to her feet. Beyond the walls of the inn a seething crowd blanketed the bright stretch of grass, heads craning to catch a glimpse. Silence fell and the sea of bodies parted.

  Balanced on the shoulders of two enormous giants, a man sat brandishing an axe above his head, acknowledging the roar of adulation with a cocky grin before brushing aside the shock of damp black curls clinging around his lean, raw-boned face.

  ‘As if I couldn’t guess. Carrick’s done it again.’ The dray driver raised his clenched fist in a salute. ‘Good on him.’

  ‘What is it? What has he done?’ Roisin deposited the squirming body of her son back onto the seat with a thump.

  ‘Won. Won again. Champion.’

  ‘What’s he won?’ Something very noteworthy and highly
prized, judging by the reaction of the crowd and the look akin to worship on the dray driver’s face.

  ‘Won the Woodchop. Best cedar cutter in the district, probably the country.’

  ‘Cedar cutter?’ Roisin turned away from the dirty champion clad in a stained, sleeveless vest and thigh-hugging moleskins.

  ‘Good God, woman! Don’t you know nuffink? Where you been all your life?’

  ‘Sydney.’ She straightened her shoulders and lifted her nose. Sydney was hardly beyond the black stump. It was the largest and most advanced city in the country.

  ‘Right.’ The driver gave a dismissive snort. ‘City girl born and bred. I’d forgotten.’ He hawked his displeasure into the dirt before edging the dray through the press of people. ‘Town’s on the up and up now the convict gangs have moved on. You won’t find the likes of Sydney here. Much as the new settlers pretend otherwise.’ He eased alongside another wagon. ‘Get your belongings off here and I’ll move on. Can’t block the road. The show’s as good as over.’

  The procession of men bore the cedar cutter closer, the slanting sunlight dancing on his sweat-soaked skin, and when he turned his muscles rippled like water over sand. The resounding cheers rent the air, then all sound receded as he fixed her with an intense stare and the strangest shiver tiptoed down her spine.

  ‘Oi! I’m talking to you.’

  Roisin blinked as the raucous parade swarmed on its way and the cedar cutter disappeared in a sea of jubilation.

  ‘I said stay there while I get your bags down.’ The driver climbed out into the hurrying throng that wavered this way and that, a tide swelling, rising and falling. ‘There you are.’ He reached out his hand and she balanced on the wheel before scrambling down and landing with a thud on the dusty road.

  Stretching up, he grabbed Ruan then deposited him and their bags beside her amidst the swirling chaos. With a wave of his hand he drew away, leaving her perched on the side of the road, Ruan’s hand clasped firmly and two carpetbags languishing at her feet.

  Her stomach turned three neat summersaults then righted itself. In the safety of Sydney Aunt Lil’s plan had seemed like such a good idea. Put the past behind her, make an end of the fear, the constant over-the-shoulder glances, and strike out on her own. A new life—all she thought she wanted and all she knew Ruan needed.

  The enormity of her decision sat as heavy as her carpetbags. Snatching a breath of the sticky, fetid air, she pulled Ruan closer, more for her own comfort than his. Now the whole prospect seemed the most foolish idea. If only she’d taken time to think it through instead of packing her bags and fleeing. It was too late for recriminations. She must find a room for the night then tomorrow … tomorrow she’d take the next step.

  Ruan squirmed from her grip, jiggling with pent-up energy, and dodged into the road.

  ‘Stop!’ One of the bags crashed against her shin as she grabbed at his arm and searched the crowd. No one offered any assistance; they were far too busy going about their business, making their way home. Perhaps if she took Ruan inside the inn she could leave him there and come back for the bags, maybe find someone to help.

  ‘You’re hurting me,’ Ruan moaned, as she made an instant decision, left the bags and dragged him across the road.

  ‘Hurry up.’ Holding her chin high, she marched the poor child towards the sign proudly proclaiming the Harp of Erin. It might be unseemly, a woman alone entering a place like this, but she had no option. She shouldered open the door and stepped over the threshold into the dim interior. Dust motes hung in the thin shafts of light illuminating the sultry gazes and appreciative stares of the gang of sweaty, half-dressed men lounging around the fire.

  The woman behind the bar wiped her hands on a filthy apron and looked her up and down. ‘What can I do you for you, love?’ Her wrinkled face creased into the semblance of something that could have been a smile.

  ‘A room for the night, if you please. For myself and my son.’

  Her son, Ruan, dangled from her hand, twirling around, his eyes as round as buttons as he took in the packed room.

  ‘Ruan, stay right beside me, here.’ She stamped on the floor to emphasise the spot.

  ‘Just for the one night will it be, love?’

  ‘Yes, that’s all.’ It wouldn’t even be one night except for the fact they’d been travelling for longer than she could remember and they needed food and sleep.

  ‘Come on Davy’s dray, did you? From St Albans?’

  The stares and the woman’s questions set Roisin’s teeth on edge. ‘Ruan, stay still.’ She sucked in a deep breath of rum-drenched air and willed herself to relax.

  After hours of bumping along the rutted road, the boy had ants in his pants. Roisin could understand his impatience, every one of her bones seemed dislocated by the buffeting they’d received. The dray had rattled and banged all the way from St Albans, falling into every single one of the potholes lining the road. What she wouldn’t give for a cup of tea.

  ‘Only got one left, it’s round the back. Got a few people in town. The Woodchop, you know.’

  ‘I’ll take it.’ She didn’t care how small the room was or where as long as it was dry and they could find something to eat. If the wretched driver hadn’t taken so long gawking at the crowds she’d have been inside ages ago and with her bags. Who knew how many light-fingered, dubious characters lurked in the shadows. There were enough in the cramped room of the inn to populate Hyde Park Barracks.

  She glanced over her shoulder. ‘Ruan?’

  ‘The man’s got our bags.’

  Roisin whipped around. The man in question, the woodcutter with the broad grin, had both her bags balanced on his shoulders, as though they weighed no more than a flimsy bolt of silk.

  ‘Where do you think you’re going with those?’ She took a couple of measured steps towards him, schooling the scowl on her face, hoping it would be enough to stall him in his tracks.

  ‘Depends where you’d be liking them.’ His intense blue eyes twinkled at her from under black-winged brows as he tossed the mess of curls off his forehead.

  A man had no right to hair that beautiful. A man had no right to her bags, either. ‘Just put them down here, thank you.’

  One eyebrow quirked and the corner of his mouth twisted into a slow mocking grin that would have done the devil proud.

  ‘The lady’d probably like them in her room—out the back.’ The woman tipped her head in the direction of a closed door behind the bar.

  ‘Right you are.’

  ‘Just a moment I …’

  Unable to do anything but gape, she stood stock-still as his broad shoulders edged through the doorway into the dark recesses of the inn and disappeared. Scrambling to follow, she nudged Ruan in front of her, intent on keeping their possessions in sight.

  ‘Woah! Not so fast, Missus. That’ll be a shilling each for the bed and same again for a bowl of my very best Irish stew. And as much tea and damper as you can handle.’

  ‘Oh yes, of course.’ She rummaged in the small drawstring reticule hung around her wrist while Ruan vanished through the door after the man. ‘Ruan, wait for me. You’ll get lost.’ She slid the coins across the bar.

  ‘He’ll be right. Carrick knows his way around the place.’

  ‘Carrick? The woodcutter?’

  ‘Carrick, the ’andsome bloke you couldn’t take your eyes off, carrying those bags of yours.’

  ‘Oh, Carrick,’ she stammered, batting down the flush scalding her cheeks. Something about the man, even in his sweat-stained clothes stirred a heated confusion in her. ‘Ruan, come back here.’ Her brain seethed. How could she find a man like that even remotely attractive? Most likely he was some ticket of leaver employed at the inn when he wasn’t showing off with an axe.

  ‘Off you go, and don’t worry. Your little boy won’t come to any harm unless Carrick sits him down and starts recounting his far-fetched yarns. He’s got the gift of the gab, that scoundrel.’

  ‘Yarns,’ Roisin echoed. She spun aro
und, managing to catch her foot in the hem of her travelling skirt, before scuttling after Ruan’s retreating back. The lack of light hit her the moment she passed under the timber lintel into the passageway. ‘Ruan!’

  ‘Down here, Mam.’

  Following the sound of Ruan’s high-pitched giggle and a burst of deeper laughter, she edged her way through the half-open door and stopped dead. ‘Excuse me!’

  ‘Just testing the bed.’ Carrick slammed the palms of his big hands down on the coverlet, making Ruan bounce in the cloud of ensuing dust.

  More shrieks of laughter from Ruan reverberated around the crowded room and Roisin smothered a sneeze, then groped in the pocket of her jacket for a handkerchief.

  ‘’Tis a very fine colour on you. Brings out the green in your eyes. Emerald like the green grass of home, enough to tweak a poor man’s heartstrings.’

  ‘Come along, Ruan. Now.’ Roisin grasped at her son’s hand. As much as she longed to, she didn’t dare make eye contact with the owner of the dulcet tones. Not again. What man noticed the colour of a woman’s clothes? Even more, appreciated the fact she’d chosen the colour because it was an exact match to her eyes. It served her right, payment for a foolish moment of vanity.

  ‘That will be all, thank you.’

  In a flash the cutter was on his feet. His lopsided grin made a mockery of her cold words and his wretched eyes sparkled with amusement. ‘The pleasure’s mine, ma’am.’ He tugged his forelock and winked at Ruan, before striding through the door, whistling some tune that reminded her of swirling skirts and madcap dancing.

  ‘Get off that bed. I need to put the bags there. Where are they?’

  Ruan struggled off the mattress and landed on the floor with a bump. ‘Carrick put them down over there so they’d be out of the way.’ He pointed into the back corner of the room where both bags sat in a forlorn heap.

  ‘I hope you said thank you to Mr … Carrick.’

  ‘Yes. And he said mates didn’t thank each other.’ Ruan gave a delighted jump. ‘I’m going to like it here.’