A Wicked Deception

by Tanner, Margaret

  Strolling over to the carved front door she banged the brass knocker and waited, tapping the toe of her shoe on the mat. Within seconds a young maid answered. Curiosity clear on her face, she glanced at Melanie without speaking.

  “Would you tell Mr. Guilford that Miss O’Dea wishes to see him?” She stifled a giggle at what Michael would make of this, as they had never been formal with each other before. She couldn’t wait to meet up with him again after so long. Would he look different? Would he be surprised at the changes in her? Think her pretty?

  “Come this way.”

  She followed the maid up a tiled hallway that led into the drawing room. Scattered Persian rugs covered the polished floor boards. Even the grand piano reposed in the same place as before.

  Sitting on one of the lovely carved chairs, she sank into the rich, velvet upholstery.

  “Good morning, Melanie, what brings you here?”

  She stood up on hearing the aristocratic English voice and almost rushed over to him, but stopped herself at the last minute. This stiff-backed, frozen-faced man wasn’t the Michael she remembered.

  “You haven’t been over to see us yet.” Her accusation tumbled out of its own volition.

  “Oh?” Physically he appeared the same as before, tall and slimly built with wavy brown hair. His deep blue, almost violet eyes, once warm and vibrant, now appeared cold, remote. Fine cord breeches clung to his muscled thighs. Black knee high boots had a mirror shine. He wore a blue cut-away coat with large buttons and looked what he was, a fine English gentleman.

  “James said you snubbed him in town.”

  “I don’t recall having done so.” His voice sounded clipped, almost hostile.

  There would be no welcome for her here. Sadness washed over her. He had changed beyond recognition. The friendly Michael of years ago no longer existed.

  “Would you care for some tea?” he asked stiltedly.

  “No, thank you. James said you’d changed. Aren’t we good enough for you now?”

  He took a step towards her. “Melanie, I.....”

  “There you are, Michael.” A young woman swept into the room. Going straight up to him, she linked her arm through his in a possessive gesture.

  “Priscilla, meet Melanie O’Dea, one of our neighbors. Melanie, this is Lady Priscilla Harrington from England.”

  “How do you do.” Melanie pinned a smile on her frozen lips. So this haughty, slim young woman dressed in blue velvet was the lady James and Robbie had mentioned. Midnight black hair, brushed away from her face, formed ringlets about her shoulders, and her grey eyes held no warmth whatsoever.

  A fully flounced skirt, standing out stiffly from her small waist, served to emphasize her arrogant, supreme confidence. The wide sleeves of her jacket, with white embroidered under-sleeves, was the latest in fashion. In contrast Melanie felt shabby even though she wore one of her best outfits.

  “Will you be partaking of tea before you leave?” Priscilla asked with barely concealed animosity, already acting as mistress of the house.

  “No, thank you. I just called in for a moment to welcome Michael home, pleased to meet you, Lady Priscilla.” Melanie felt tempted to give an exaggerated curtsy, or tell this snobbish woman what she really thought of her ungracious behavior. “Goodbye.” With her head held high she marched out of the room, half expecting Michael to call her back.

  He didn’t.

  On the long, lonely ride home, the perfume from the gum trees wafted on the breeze, birds twittered and gaudy parrots made a splash against the dirty winter sky. Melanie’s shoulders slumped, her hand trembled on the reins and she blinked back tears because her once close friendship with Michael had ended. Why would he align himself with a possessive, arrogant woman like Priscilla? Money. How awful to think her childhood hero had turned in to such a cold-blooded mercenary person. Feeling too unsettled to return home to an empty homestead, she rode over to the diggings to visit Robbie and his father.

  Breasting a hill, she reined in her mount and surveyed the camp. In the distance it sprawled out like a giant canvas city, the mullock heaps giving it the appearance of a huge cemetery, crisscrossed by numerous freshly dug graves.

  She shivered at this somber thought, huddling closer into her shawl. Maybe it had been foolish riding over here alone. Some of the miners were released convicts while others had been lawyers or schoolteachers. Newly arrived immigrants from many foreign lands and desperate people from the city had traveled to Ballarat, all hoping to make a rich gold strike.

  Impossible for such a mixed bunch to live together so closely in normal circumstances, even more amazing, they could do so in such primitive surroundings. Robbie said a comradeship had developed amongst the diggers, forged amidst hardship and hope.

  “Joe!” The code word spread from digger to digger. The police were coming on a license hunt. Men scattered in all directions, although a few resolute or desperate souls kept on working.

  Four mounted police troopers appeared, rough looking men. She gasped in shock when one trooper knocked over a miner who panned for gold. Another chased after some other unfortunate digger and rode him into the ground.

  A third digger, bleeding from a head wound, stumbled along in front of a trooper, who every now and again prodded him with a stick. They chained him to a tree. Such brutality was totally unjustified, obviously a ploy to incite violence and give the authorities an excuse to bring in the English army redcoats.

  Anger overcame her fear of being arrested or attacked by the troopers. Stupid to get involved, but she urged her mount forward anyway. “Can’t you stop this brutality?” she asked the officer who appeared to be in charge.

  Close up, he seemed quite young. His white trousers looked clean, his navy jacket neatly pressed, and his black boots shone with polish. He rode a large black thoroughbred with fire in its eye.

  “The men are just having some fun, Miss. This is my first digger hunt,” he enthused.

  “You could stop it. Please.”

  “All right.” The officer spoke to his men. “You’ve had your fun, round them up. Don’t let this kind of thing upset you, Miss, the men get a little carried away sometimes. You’re not from the diggings, are you?” He smiled, showing even white teeth.

  “No.”

  “May I have your name, Miss?” He nudged his horse forward.

  “Melanie O’Dea.”

  “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss O’Dea.” He leaned closer. “Tom Ogilvy at your

  service.”

  “You’re an American?”

  “Yes, late of West Point, and veteran of the Mexican war.” He flashed a boyish smile.

  “What’s a West Point man doing in the mounted police?”

  “I have to make a living somehow.” In contrast to his smile, his lips turning down at the corners gave him a petulant look. “Couldn’t see myself as a miner, so this was the best I could get. When a man is desperate enough, he takes any kind of job.”

  “Oh, are you desperate? You don’t look poor.”

  He stared intently at her for a moment, before letting his gaze drift towards the troopers who had started dragging their prisoners away.

  “Your mount isn’t police issue.” She gazed at the impressive stallion.

  “Used to be a race horse,” he boasted. “I intend putting him to stud later on, but I have to get some money first. I want to buy several good mares. When I build my stock up, I hope to supply the military with mounts. The army always needs well bred horses. I learned that from my service in the Mexican war.”

  He must have noticed her blank expression.

  “Surely you’ve heard of the Mexican war out here, 1846 to 1848?” he asked incredulously.

  “No, we haven’t. You don’t look old enough to have fought in a war.”

  “Take it from me, Miss O’Dea, I’m older than I look.”

  “Melanie.”

  She swiveled her head on hearing Robbie’s voice, and her heart gave an excited skip as it always did on
seeing him. “I came over to visit you, dirty as you are.” She smiled, noticing the mud splatters on his shirt and pants.

  “Well, here I am.” He scowled fiercely. “Why are you talking to the police?”

  “Robbie, meet Mr. Ogilvy. He went to West Point in America.” She smiled at both men. “This is Robbie Pritchard.”

  “Call me Tom, you too, Miss O’Dea,” he invited.

  Robbie mumbled a greeting before turning his back on the American. To make up for his rudeness, she favored Tom with an extra friendly smile.

  “Goodbye, Miss O’Dea.”

  “Nice to have met you Tom.” She waved goodbye as he rode away. “Robbie, how’s your father?”

  “Seems a bit better today, ought to rest more, though, but try telling him, stubborn old bastard.”

  “Don’t call your father bad names.”

  “All right.” He absently patted her horse’s neck. “Come over to the tent, I’ll put the billycan on for some tea.”

  “Thanks, I do feel thirsty.”

  He helped her dismount with his hands about her waist, as always holding her for slightly longer than necessary. He pulled her close and gave her a long, hard kiss. She slipped her arms around his neck, and they stood with their bodies pressed together for a few precious moments before he reluctantly stepped away.

  Cold ate into her bones when she no longer had the comforting warmth of his body. The strength of his arms allayed her fears, his bravery infusing her with courage.

  After tethering her horse, they made their way to a small calico tent on the slope of a hill not far from Canadian Gully. As they walked along, she filled him in on her visit to Guilford Lodge.

  “See, I always said he was a snob. They shouldn’t have treated you like that. Who the hell do they think they are?” Robbie exploded. “I ought to go over and punch Guilford in the mouth.”

  He held the tent flap back for her to enter. As she passed by him, she could feel the tension in his body. He always took any slight against her personally.

  The smallness of the tent assailed her straight away. The whole area scarcely measured more than about twelve feet by eight feet. Pathetically furnished, it had two tree stumps for chairs and a tea chest table. Two stretchers made from forked stakes and saplings were covered with a sheepskin and some blankets. Forks, knives, spoons, plates and mugs lay on the table.

  A cooking fire burned outside the tent. Robbie poked at the glowing coals and threw on a couple of logs before hanging the blackened billycan on a forked stick.

  “There’s a hunk of cheese somewhere, bread too I think, if you’re hungry.”

  “No thanks, just tea will do to warm me up.” From somewhere close by came the fretful crying of a baby. It would take tremendous fortitude for a woman to survive with children in such harsh conditions. Could she do it? Melanie closed her eyes. Of course, she could. She would willingly give up her comfortable home if Robbie asked her to. No sacrifice would be too great as long as they could be together.

  “Tea’s nearly ready.” He waited another minute or two before emptying the scalding liquid into three tin mugs. “I’ll go and get Father. Our shaft is down more than fifty feet now, still not a trace, though.” He grimaced. “I’m trying for the alluvial stuff in between helping in the shaft. There’s plenty being found in the creek. We’d do better there, but try telling him that, stubborn old goat.” He turned on his heel and strode off.

  When Robbie returned to the tent he was followed by his elderly, stooped father.

  “Good morning, Uncle Alex.” Melanie smiled. He wasn’t really her uncle, but a distant relative.

  “I’m pleased to see you, my dear.” He greeted her warmly, but deep bags hung under his eyes, and his skin wore a sickly pallor. He looked old and frail. The worry darkening Robbie’s eyes constricted her heart.

  “Did this boy of mine offer you something to eat?”

  “I don’t feel hungry, thanks.” In truth she could have done with something to eat, but they had so little food she hated taking any of it.

  James kept them supplied with mutton. Each time he killed a sheep he always sent some over. Sometimes she would bake pies or biscuits for them, although she had to be careful it wasn’t misunderstood. Proud Uncle Alex offended easily.

  “Found much gold lately?” she asked.

  He smiled through bushy whiskers. “A couple of small nuggets last week, but I’ve a feeling here.” He thumped his chest. “We’re about to strike it rich.”

  How many times had they heard this before? Robbie rolled his eyes behind his father’s back and she stifled a giggle.

  “Don’t go wandering off, son. After your tea, you can go back to working the cradle for me.”

  “Could I help?” Melanie offered.

  “My dear child, certainly not, mining is man’s work.”

  “I saw some women panning as I rode in. I could easily work the cradle for a while.”

  The old man looked mortified at the very idea, and Robbie grinned at her. “Stubborn old goat,” he mouthed disrespectfully and she smothered a laugh by turning it into a cough.

  Uncle Alex would be more at home in a schoolroom or working in an office, he wasn’t physically robust enough to be a miner.

  She didn’t know much about mining except for it being hard dirty work, more often than not, unrewarding. James had explained about the cradle being a wooden box where the pay dirt got shoveled. Rocking it backwards and forwards would separate the lighter sand and gravel from the heavier gold. She could easily operate a contraption like that.

  “There was a slight fall in the winze at Jim McBride’s claim,” Uncle Alex said.

  “Anyone hurt?” Robbie asked.

  “No, gave them more of a fright than anything else, didn’t use enough timber I should say. Always in such a hurry these young fellows, makes them careless.”

  “What’s the winze?” Melanie knew a few mining terms, but not this one.

  “My dear, the winze is the shaft connecting the underground workings.”

  “Make a digger out of you yet.” Robbie chuckled. He ran his fingers through his riotous curls, giving them an even more unruly appearance and she wanted to reach out and smooth them back into place.

  “If you don’t need me to work the cradle I’ll go, I’ve got a few things to do at home.” She placed her mug on the tea chest.

  “Goodbye, my dear.” Uncle Alex smiled as Robbie held back the tent flap so she could pass through.

  “I’m back, Bess.” She rubbed her little mare’s nose. Robbie stood so close now she could feel his warm breath caressing the back of her neck and it sent tingles down her spine.

  “Oh, Melanie,” he groaned, dragging her into his arms. “I love you so much.” His mouth closed over hers in a devastating kiss. It quickly had her pulses racing out of control and heat pooling deep within her belly. She felt his tongue moving inside her mouth, darting, flicking, plundering all her sweetness, yet obviously craving more. When she entwined her tongue around his, he trembled with emotion.

  Suddenly she was free. “Oh God, Mel,” his voice rasped. “I want you so badly it’s killing me.”

  Robbie helped her mount and then she rode away. After a short time, she turned around to wave. He stood motionless, standing straight and tall like a fearless young gladiator waiting to be blooded.

  Her heart filled with dread. Her insides quivered. The moisture in her mouth dried up, making it difficult to swallow. If the gold fields exploded into violence, courage alone would not be enough to save him.

  Chapter Two

  One evening, several days after they had first met, Tom Ogilvy called in to see Melanie. Out of uniform, he wore tight fitting white moleskin trousers tucked into black knee-length boots. The white linen showing beneath his dark jacket appeared to be of the finest quality.

  “Good evening, Miss O’Dea.” He clicked his heels and bowed slightly as he took her proffered hand in a rather extravagant gesture.

  “Mr. Ogilvy,
what a pleasant surprise. Come in, I’d like you to meet my brother James.” She introduced the two men, watching her brother’s closed-lipped smile. He hesitated for a moment before shaking hands with Tom.

  “My sister tells me you’re a trooper in the police force.”

  “Unfortunately yes. I’ve only been in the colony for a short time, so I needed to gain employment straight away.” He gave a half shrug before taking the seat James indicated. “Please call me Tom.”

  He appeared to be about twenty-five, clean-shaven with neatly combed black hair skimming his collar. His voice sounded well educated, even though he spoke with a pronounced drawl.

  “You’re an American?” James queried, obviously picking up on the accent.

  “Yes, I lived on a plantation in Georgia.”

  Melanie longed to ask what he was doing in Australia, but did not quite dare for fear of being considered forward. James obviously held no such qualms. “What brings you to Australia?”

  “A dispute with my father.” Tom shrugged. “I wanted to expand, buy more land, and get more slaves....”

  “Slaves?” Shocked, she butted in on the conversation.

  “Yes, we have over a hundred, but the Abolitionists in the North are making things difficult for plantation owners like us. They keep inciting slaves to rebel. They hide runaways.” He spat the last few words out.

  “It’s cruel keeping slaves! For one man to own another is fiendish.” Melanie couldn’t stop the words of condemnation.

  “I agree,” James backed her up. “I’m glad we don’t have that kind of thing out here.”

  “Slaves are treated well on most plantations,” Tom’s voice remained calm but his eyes flashed. “They’re valuable property. A fit young field hand costs fifteen hundred dollars, slave children are worth a hundred dollars at birth, and their value increases every year.”

  “Do you have many slaves that are half white?” she asked with a morbid curiosity.

  “You mean mulattoes?”

  “Yes, if that’s what you call slaves with white blood. What happens to the baby, if say the father is white?”