A Wicked Deception

by Tanner, Margaret

  “What is it? Has there been an accident?” she dashed towards him.

  “It’s James.” In three strides he made it to her side. “The troopers have got him.”

  “The troopers? You mean the police? Wh … what happened?” She could hardly get the words past her quivering lips. James, dear God, if something bad happened to him. She clutched her chest, sick dread almost overwhelmed her.

  “They came license hunting, that bloody Ogilvy leading the pack. Father had found this new lead in a dried up creek bed. You know he hasn’t been too well lately, anyway he got so anxious to get things started James helped him chip away some clay and rock. The police came hunting for licenses. Even when we explained James wasn’t a digger they wouldn’t listen. I came straight over to tell you. Thought you might be able to persuade Ogilvy to let him go. If not, you have to pay a five pound fine.”

  “Five pounds! We don’t have enough money,” she wailed.

  “Hurry, there’s no time to saddle your horse, ride up with me. Once James is taken to town, Ogilvy couldn’t help you even if he wanted to.”

  She ripped off her apron and followed Robbie to his horse. He vaulted into the saddle. She put her foot in the stirrup and one hand on his wrist, and he helped her mount. Sitting behind him, she wrapped her arms around his waist as he heeled the horse into motion.

  Having wasted no time searching for a bonnet, the wind whipped through her hair, scattering the loosened strands across her face. What if something happened to James? She would never forgive herself if her actions with Tom Ogilvy got him into trouble.

  As they breasted a hill, the mining camp stretched out before them, harsh and dusty in the spring sun. Most of the tents looked dirty; the odd one or two that stood out starkly white belonged to newcomers to the gold fields.

  The moment Robbie pulled the horse up, she slid to the ground. Not bothering to wait until he tethered the animal, she dashed towards the troopers who continued rounding up diggers.

  She spied her brother with his hands manacled to a tree stump, and anger consumed her. She raced towards him. “James, James!” When he turned around, she gasped in shock. Blood oozed from a wound at the side of his forehead.

  “What are you doing here?” He shook his head slightly, as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  “Robbie came to get me. How could they do such a thing to you? Are you all right?”

  “Yes.” He rattled the chains binding his hands. “Look at me, anyone would think I’m a rabid dog.”

  Robbie joined them, his face white with anxiety. “Ogilvy’s coming, go over and speak to him, Mel.”

  “Good afternoon, Miss O’Dea.”

  She pivoted sharply, her eyes blazing. “Let my brother go. How dare you. He isn’t a miner, you know that.”

  “Do I?” He gave a sniggering smile. “He’s been apprehended at the diggings without a license.”

  “Please, Tom.” She edged closer, her eyes pleading with him. “You could set him free.”

  He laughed harshly, his lips mean and twisted. How could she have been stupid enough to ever believe him a gentleman? He leaned down from his horse until his face almost touched hers. “Would you make it worth my while?” he leered.

  His sordid query was degrading enough, but his treatment of James enraged her. Without thinking of the consequences, she lashed out. Her hand connected with a loud crack against his cheek. It left a vivid red mark, and rage blazed in his eyes as she faced him, defiance in every cell of her body. Several diggers loitering near by snickered.

  “I’ll pay you back for this insult,” he snarled, “even if it takes me months.”

  He wrenched his horse’s head around and spurred it into a gallop, leaving the other troopers to round up their prisoners.

  She returned to James, her shoulders sagging. “I’m sorry, I lost my temper. Now things will be worse for you.”

  James’ sudden grin collapsed into a wince. “I’m glad you slapped him, serves him right.”

  “What will we do? There’s only about two pounds at home. Shall I try selling a sheep to raise the rest?”

  “No. Don’t sell any livestock. I’ve got few enough left as it is. Go over to Alf Johnson, he’ll lend you the money. Tell him I’ll work it off later.”

  “I’ll go,” Robbie volunteered.

  “No, it’s best if Melanie goes.” The two men exchanged glances, and she knew James passed an unspoken message to Robbie. He wanted her off the goldfields.

  “Take my horse, save you going back for your own,” Robbie suggested. “You can give me the money. Probably safer if I take it to the commissioner.”

  James nodded. “Good idea, Robbie can wait here until you get back. Be a good girl and hurry up. I don’t fancy fourteen days in jail.”

  “Fourteen days in jail?” The thought sickened her. “So long?”

  “On your way, I don’t want you riding around alone once it gets dark.”

  With Robbie’s help she mounted and rode off.

  Once clear of the diggings, she urged the horse into a gallop. She wouldn’t be going to the Johnson place, but to Guilford Lodge because it was much closer, and she wanted James released as soon as possible. Michael would lend them the money even though their last parting had not been cordial. He was not a vindictive man, and James had once been his friend.

  She slowed the horse for a time, lest he became too exhausted. It would take nearly an hour to ride to Guilford Lodge. She took little notice of the wild daisies growing in profusion. Pastel tinted ground orchids, normally a source of pleasure, succumbed to the battering of the horse’s hooves.

  To save time she took a short cut straight through the scrub. She passed stringy barks and tall eucalypts full of squawking bird life. Small native animals scurried amongst the scrub in the gullies, while several kangaroos grazing quietly, scattered at her approach.

  Guilford Lodge, at last. She galloped through the open gates without reducing speed.

  As she raced towards the house she realized a garden party was in progress. Several fashionably dressed young ladies sat in the shade of the verandah, sipping tea.

  A groom hastened over. Even before he could offer assistance, she dismounted. “I’ll need the horse again in a few minutes, thank you.”

  Throwing him the reins, she dashed towards the house. What a mess I must look she thought, running up the steps.

  Priscilla met her on the verandah, resplendent in blue taffeta, her dark hair beautifully dressed, not even one strand out of place. In fact, nothing marred the perfection of her appearance. “Miss O’Dea, isn’t it?” she asked, haughty as a queen.

  “Is Michael home? I have to speak with him urgently,” Melanie gabbled. “It’s an emergency.”

  “Wait here.” Priscilla made no effort to introduce Melanie to her guests, her tone of voice indicating to those on the verandah that this inferior creature didn’t warrant any consideration or courtesy whatsoever.

  “Michael,” she moaned in distress as he strode towards her. Her hands fluttered at her breast as she forced herself to stand still, instead of rushing towards him as she once would have done.

  “Melanie, what is it?” His eyes flicked over her, his mouth tightening as he noticed her distress.

  “The police troopers are taking James to jail.”

  “What!”

  The story poured out. Halfway through, he stopped her with a wave of one hand and turned to Priscilla. “You should see to your guests.”

  Melanie watched the Englishwoman pout before flouncing off. Thank goodness Michael had sent her away.

  “Now let me get this clear. James has been taken by the troopers because he had no mining license?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you expect me to do about it? I can’t interfere with the due processes of the law.”

  She stamped her foot. “I want you to loan me the five pounds we need to pay his fine, otherwise he has to spend fourteen days in jail.”

  “He br
oke the law. It’s about time the authorities clamped down on the lawless and rebellious behavior on the gold fields. It’s treasonous the way those miners are acting. They’re setting the colony up for civil war.”

  “He was only helping Uncle Alex. Tom Ogilvy picked him out on purpose.”

  Michael’s hair touched the collar of his cut-away jacket, which he wore over tight fitting white trousers. He stood straight and tall, like a country squire surveying his kingdom.

  “I wasted my time coming here, didn’t I? Go back to your aristocratic friends,” she said bitterly, turning to go.

  “Wait.” His hand on her shoulder restrained her. “I’ll give you the money. Exactly how much do you need?”

  “Robbie said it would cost five pounds. We can pay it back, not straight away, but James could work it off. Maybe I could get some kind of employment.”

  “Are you looking for employment, Miss O’Dea?” Priscilla, gliding up to link arms with Michael, must have heard the tail end of their conversation. “We could do with another maid while we wait for that new girl to come from Melbourne. If you expect me to entertain in the proper manner, we must have more help. My parents would be mortified to know how little assistance I receive.”

  “All right.” His lips tightened. “Do you mind helping out for a time, Melanie, just until the other maid arrives? It shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks.”

  “I’d prefer to work the debt off. I’ll stay here until you get someone else.” He didn’t even try to hide his displeasure, but as far as she and James were concerned, it would be perfect. O’Deas never took charity.

  “Could I have the five pounds now please? I have to get back before dark.”

  His mouth tightened with annoyance as he handed over the money. “I’m expecting more guests, otherwise I would accompany you. Melanie, please stay away from the diggings. There’s trouble brewing there, big trouble.”

  “Don’t worry about me. Robbie is going to take the money into town. When would you like me to start working?”

  He glanced at her first, then Priscilla. “Sort out the domestic arrangements between yourselves.” Turning sharply on his heel he strode away, his rigid back testimony to his annoyance.

  “You can start tomorrow.”

  Melanie stared at this haughty English lady who was Michael’s intended bride and nodded her agreement.

  “Report to the kitchen on your arrival,” Priscilla ordered. “The housekeeper will see to everything. A carriage will fetch you after lunch.”

  A shaft of trepidation shot through Melanie. Venom dripped from Priscilla’s voice, her demeanor threatened retribution. Nothing specific, but she felt it, a clawing, overwhelming sensation of fear, but for a king’s ransom wouldn’t show it.

  The groom helped her mount Robbie’s horse, and without glancing back she galloped away. The spring sun soon lost its warmth once the afternoon drew to a close and chill seeped into her bones. Chill not only from the plummeting temperature, but from worry about James.

  What if the authorities wouldn’t let him out of jail? Thinking of her brother being incarcerated with common criminals caused sobs to rise up in her throat. Tom Ogilvy thirsted for revenge now. Why did she slap him? What kind of fool would deliberately antagonize him? So, he’d openly accused her of being a whore. What did that matter compared to James’ well being? He would probably start picking on Robbie as well now.

  Arriving at the diggings, she dismounted and dashed towards Uncle Alex’s claim. She passed several miners, and even though it was getting late, most of them kept diligently toiling away. Uncle Alex, old and feeble looking, rocked the cradle that separated the lighter sand from the gold.

  “Uncle Alex, where’s Robbie?”

  “Down the shaft. Did you get the money for James?”

  “Yes.” She hurried over to where Robbie worked and peered over the edge. Three poles, with the tops bound together, straddled the shaft, and from this hung a block and pulley. Notches cut into the sides of the shaft enabled him to climb up and down more easily.

  Buckets filled with the wash dirt were hoisted to the surface before being puddled to get rid of the sticky mud, so nothing would remain except gravel and gold. Uncle Alex would shift more dirt if he took in a partner to share the workload, she reasoned. If only he wasn’t so stubborn. So hell bent on digging up a fortune.

  “Robbie!” His head suddenly appeared above the shaft.

  “Did you get the money?”

  “Yes, from Michael.” Quickly she explained what had happened. “I’ve got a temporary job at Guilford Lodge to work off the debt.”

  Climbing to his feet he muttered a curse. “Surely he could have given it to you. He’s got plenty.”

  “I prefer it this way, we don’t take charity.” As she tossed her head back proudly, loosened strands of hair tumbled about her shoulders.

  Robbie put a hand out and brushed some of the flyaway strands off her face. “You have beautiful hair. Sometimes it looks like the sun got trapped in all those curls.”

  “They will let James out, won’t they? Won’t they?”

  “Yeah. Give me the money. You better wait in the tent until we get back.” He shoved the money into his pocket, and with a wave, strode towards his horse.

  Few diggers possessed a horse; they always walked to where they wanted to go. The fact Robbie owned one set him apart from the other men, but he was a popular, well known identity around the diggings. She often wondered why some desperate miner didn’t steal his horse as he hobbled it at night and let it graze freely. The diggers obviously had a code of honor amongst themselves, for they left it alone. This tough, cosmopolitan group had forged a comradeship with each other due to the hardships they shared.

  “Do you want me to help with the cradle, Uncle Alex?”

  “No thank you, my dear.”

  The diggings were a hive of activity, with miners scurrying to and fro, the uniform dress being red or blue worsted shirts, worn over moleskin trousers. Most of the men had beards, probably because they had no time or water to spare for shaving.

  “You’ll stay for dinner when the boys get back, won’t you, my dear?”

  Uncle Alex always behaved with old-fashioned courtesy. He wasn’t cut out to be a miner, everyone realized this except him. Before gold fever fired his blood, he had worked at Guilford Lodge as a bookkeeper.

  Someone discovered gold in Ballarat shortly after Michael sailed for England, so Uncle Alex, her mother’s cousin, left the cottage that had been provided for him to try his luck at the diggings. He met with little success, his hopes of striking it rich somehow never materializing. If only Robbie’s mother had not died a few months before the first gold strike things would have been different. Aunt Sarah was a gentle woman, who nonetheless exerted a strong influence on her husband. She would never have allowed him to throw in a well paid position. Maybe he left Guilford Lodge to help ease the pain of losing his wife? Melanie could understand that. They had always seemed such a devoted couple.

  “Good evening, Miss. How are you, Alex?”

  “I’m all right, Peter.”

  “Getting much color?”

  “Not yet. Let me introduce you to my niece. Melanie, my dear, this is Peter Lalor.”

  She smiled at the tall handsome stranger who swept off his hat.

  “Where’s Robbie?”

  As the older man explained about James, Melanie watched Peter Lalor’s face darken with anger.

  “We can’t let them get away with this persecution. Something has to be done. I tell you, Alex, blood will flow here before much longer. The Governor will have a full-scale riot on his hands,” he ranted. “Men won’t stand much more of this degradation and persecution.”

  She excused herself and escaped into her Uncle’s tent. Surely it would not come to bloodshed? The Governor would have to do something. The tent seemed smaller, more pitifully bare than ever. If only Uncle Alex would give up this madness. In a hessian bag hanging from the side of the ten
t, she found a leg of mutton soaked in brine, colonial ham, as some people called it.

  Not even a cloth to spread over the tea chest, she thought, laying out the cutlery, plates and mugs. From the tent she gazed out over bare jagged hills. The trees and scrub had been replaced by yawning holes and heaps of yellow dirt. Even though summer was not yet here, everything wore a shroud of dirty brown dust.

  No surveyed streets, merely a mud track that turned into a bog in winter, and a dust bowl in summer. Surely some of the gold taxes paid by the diggers should be used to improve the roads. Most men lived in canvas or calico tents, although a few owned crude huts. Successful diggers, or those with money before they arrived, lived in quite grand tents, some even had fireplaces.

  There was a church of sorts, which she often attended with Robbie. Built out of rough planks, it had several rows of benches for worshippers to sit on. The roof was canvas, but compared with the other living quarters on the diggings, the clergyman, whose abode this was also, lived in luxury.

  Darkness had fallen before James and Robbie returned. Melanie, staring at her brother in the firelight, gasped in shock. His face had cuts and bruises all over it.

  “What happened?” She went over to him, and gently fingered an ugly welt on his cheek.

  “Ogilvy took a riding crop to me. Bastard, I ought to kill him.” He made no apology for the oath as he forked his fingers angrily through his hair.

  “I caused all of this. If only I hadn’t slapped him,” she railed against herself. “Couldn’t you complain to the commissioner?”

  “He wouldn’t take any notice. We’re diggers, aren’t we? Means we’re second-rate citizens,” Robbie raged. “We ought to burn his place to the ground and him with it.”

  “Wild talk like that could get you into a heap of trouble, son.” Alex’s appearance calmed the situation. “I have a bottle of whisky here somewhere, we all need a drink.” Rummaging in a trunk, he found a full bottle and drew it out with a flourish.

  Melanie watched him pour some into three mugs. He did not offer her any, thankfully. The horrible stuff would have made her sick.