She inspected her nakedness, something she’d not done for a long time. Her breasts were well rounded and firm, the nipples pointed out now after her swim. The rest of her body was smooth and the bruising was all but faded. She wasn’t sure about her left leg: there were still yellow patches high near her hip, and when she bent her knee up to her chest, she felt the twinge of pain that had eased but not completely left her since her beating. Maybe she would always have it, along with the damage to her face, a permanent reminder of her ordeal.
She shivered and looked around. How stupid she was for not thinking ahead. She was stuck there until her clothes dried. There was no way she would walk back to camp naked. She rearranged the garments on the branch to get the best of the sun. As she sat back, a movement from across the creek caught her eye. She pulled behind a leafy branch and stared. She could see nothing but two other large gums opposite her and yet she was sure there’d been something, a shadow of movement.
Maybe it was one of those black people Septimus had warned her about. Harriet’s heart thumped so fast in her chest she felt it would burst. Her mind scrabbled over ways to escape but there were none. The stretch of sparsely vegetated ground was the only route to reach the bush behind her. She sucked in a breath and forced herself to remain still. Her eyes searched the opposite bank. There, in the mosaic of light and dark within the shadows, she saw a figure standing tall. It was a kangaroo. He was on his hind legs, pulled up to his full height. If he had been beside her he could have looked her in the eye. His ears pulled back. He stared in her direction.
Harriet exhaled. One of the kangaroo’s ears twitched. He lowered his head a little. Then she noticed the others at his feet. They were various sizes stretched out in the shade. Harriet eased back into the sun. The largest kangaroo lifted his head then lowered it again. He knew she was there and had decided she wasn’t a threat.
She smiled. She wasn’t any good at killing things but Septimus had recently traded some potions for a firearm. With the last of the sheep gone they needed more meat. Kangaroo would make a good stew. If the animals camped there regularly Septimus might be able to shoot one for her.
Septimus stopped the wagon in his usual spot and unhitched Clover without a word to the woman tending the fire. He’d nodded in her direction as he’d arrived then kept his eyes diverted. He knew the time had been right for her to wear a dress again instead of the dirty men’s clothes she hid beneath. The real Harriet emerged in that dress. If he went closer he would see the bump in her nose and the jagged scar on the side of her face but from this distance she was an attractive woman. Besides, he had a man lined up who wouldn’t care what she looked like. He wanted a woman to keep him warm at night and cook whatever he brought home. Harriet was capable on both counts. If her attack had left her less willing in bed, he’d be long gone before her new husband found out.
Septimus whistled as he went about tending the horse and repacking his wagon. The people of the new Burra mine had been eager for his Royal Remedies. After today’s sales his stock was all but gone. It was time to make the trek back to Adelaide to restock. He stopped sorting the small bottles and pots. Harriet remained by the fire but she was standing still, watching him.
“Something wrong, Harriet?”
“No, I wondered –”
He dismissed her with a glare and turned his back on her but he could feel her stare. A tiny part of him wanted to talk to her, to hold her in his arms even. Wearing that dress, she looked so like the sweet little Harriet he had bedded when he’d first arrived in Adelaide. If only she hadn’t been attacked he might have been tempted to … Septimus shrugged his shoulders and got back to sorting the last of his bottles. She was nothing to him now but a saleable item. He would make good money to add to the stack he had already then go back to Adelaide for more goods – alone.
That night, while he swallowed her appetising soup, Septimus once again studied Harriet. She sat on the other side of the fire, her head bowed over her own bowl of soup. Now that he actually looked at her carefully there was definitely something different about her besides the clean dress. Then he took in her hair. It shone in the firelight, falling in thick bunches around her face and flowing over her bare shoulders, left exposed by the low-cut bodice.
“Did you bathe today, Harriet?”
She lifted her head. He noted the gleam in her eyes but her face remained expressionless.
“Yes.” She went back to her soup.
“I have a brush in my trunk. It was my mother’s.” The lie rolled off his tongue so easily he could almost believe the trunk and contents were his own. “You can use it if you’d like.”
Harriet didn’t look up. She put her bowl down and reached her hands towards the fire. “Thank you,” she said.
“I think there’s a shawl in there as well.” He took a branch from the fire, strode over and stuck it in the ground to throw some light on the trunks. He opened the larger one. He’d removed from it anything he’d thought he could sell in the bush but there were a few things he’d kept. The shawl was soft, made of deep green wool in a large triangular shape. Clean and serviceable, it still smelt a little of the rose petals that had been in its folds when he first unpacked it. Harriet was still sitting with her hands stretched to the flames.
“Here,” he said. “You can keep them.”
She stood up, took the shawl and, with great care, drew it around her shoulders, leaving him to stand still holding the brush. The shawl covered her pale shoulders and the paisley dress. Harriet was not tall but she stood straight, shoulders back. She looked so much older than her years. Septimus tossed the brush beside the log she’d vacated and spun away. He returned to his side of the fire, where he drew out a recently acquired pocket knife and began to whittle at a stick.
In between the sounds of the knife on the wood he heard the soft rustle of her clothes.
“I saw a mob of kangaroos today.”
Septimus lifted his eyes. She had kept to the bargain and not spoken but to answer his questions. This was the first sentence he’d heard her speak since their uneasy alliance began. She was watching him as she pulled the brush through her hair. He went back to his whittling.
“We don’t have any meat left,” she said. “I thought you might be able to shoot one.”
He threw the stick into the fire and rose to his feet. “Don’t mistake my generosity for anything else, Harriet,” he growled. “Keep your trap shut.”
She pursed her lips but held his gaze, still using long, slow strokes to tug the brush through her hair.
Her apparent lack of fear was infuriating and her silence, even though he demanded it, exasperated him. He covered the space to where she stood in a quick movement, grabbed a handful of her hair with one hand, yanked back her head and laid the knife across her exposed neck with the other.
“I could still do you in,” he snarled.
“Yes,” she whispered and he saw the tremble of her pulse just below the surface of her pale skin. Perhaps she wasn’t as tough as she made out. That gave him some satisfaction, although really it no longer mattered. The next afternoon he’d be rid of her.
He pushed her away. She stumbled close to the fire.
“Go to bed, Harriet,” he said. “Tomorrow you can brush your hair again, tidy yourself up and put on your best face. I’m taking you to meet some people.”
Twelve
Thomas slithered from the saddle. The throbbing pain in his backside eased, only to return with each step he took towards the hut. He’d been away for five days and most of that daylight time had been spent in the saddle. Derriere had gained in strength and was proving to be a steady worker, but the pain in Thomas’s left buttock had increased.
This morning he had gingerly tested the area with his fingers and found a large lump that throbbed at his touch. He suspected it might be a boil. Some of the men he had shared quarters with back in Adelaide had suffered with the large pus-filled sores on their arms and legs and Duffy had pulled up a trouser leg
to reveal one when they’d sat by the fire.
Thomas hobbled from the trees towards his hut then pulled up, gritting his teeth as the pain radiated further. His fire, which should have been cold, was sending up puffs of smoke. He cast his eyes around the camp but there was no other sign of movement or change. Carefully he stepped forward again. The fire had been burning long enough to make coals, over which his pot was steaming.
He pushed back his hat and scratched his head. Maybe Duffy had come back and was sleeping off his drink in the hut. No tell-tale snores reached Thomas’s ears as he slowly made his way around to the door at the front. It was closed. The hinge creaked as he opened it. A quick glance showed nobody inside. He looked towards the stream but could see nothing. He didn’t want the pain of walking that far.
His thoughts were on the coals and the pocket knife he carried. If he could heat the tip of the knife he might be able to cut open the boil. Back at the fire he threw fresh twigs and wood on the coals to make flames then lay his knife on the stone beside the pot. He undid his belt and buttons, lowered his trousers and twisted to try to see the cause of his pain.
A footfall and gasp made him spin. Beside his hut stood a young woman carrying a small bag and an armload of sticks. It was, God help him, the very same young woman he’d seen in the shop when buying his hat. He staggered and tried to pull up his trousers but tripped and fell to the ground, landing with full force on his bottom; the pain knifed up his body and he let out a yelp.
The woman dropped her load and rushed toward him. “Are you hurt?” she said, her face lined with concern.
Thomas pushed one hand towards her to stop her coming any closer. Besides the merciless pain he was aware that his garments were still tangled around his legs and he was sitting in his drawers. “I’m all right,” he gasped.
“You don’t look all right. Can I help?”
Thomas scrabbled backwards and cried out as he put his hand too close to the coals of his fire.
She took another step forward. “It looks like you need –”
“Stay back,” he gasped.
She held him in a piercing gaze. A puzzled look crossed her face as if she was trying to remember something, then it was gone.
“All right,” she said, “but I have four brothers who have had all kinds of injuries and ailments. I am quite used to the male form, from helping Mother mend them.”
“Please, Miss …”
“Elizabeth Smith.” She nodded her head. “But as we’re neighbours, you can call me Lizzie.”
She spoke so fast Thomas thought his head would spin, and oh dear, she looked like she was going to step forward again. “Please, Miss Smith, can you turn away?”
“Men,” she huffed. “Too much pride.” She spun on her heel and walked back to where she’d dropped her things.
Thomas got to his feet as quickly as he could, eased his trousers back around his waist, did himself up and inspected his hand. A red mark was forming. He must have put it on a coal. All the while the woman continued to speak about the weakness of male vanity. Finally he interrupted her.
“Miss Smith.”
She spun around, a big grin lit up her face. “It’s Lizzie.”
Now that he was dressed, Thomas had time to study her. She looked to be his age, and was short in stature, with fair hair parted straight down the middle and swept into a knot at the back of her head. Her lips were pink and full, below a button nose and her eyes – He drew in a breath. They sparkled back at him.
He cleared the lump in his throat. “Where have you come from?” he asked.
“We are your neighbours over that way.” She pointed in the opposite direction from the way Duffy had come. “We heard Mr Browne had employed an overseer. Father had to take the wagon with supplies to the men camped not far from here, building some yards. He dropped me off to say hello and leave you a welcome pie. You’ve made some good improvements around here already. I put it inside on a shelf,” she said.
Thomas frowned. It was hard to keep up.
“The pie that is.” She continued to talk at speed. “I made it myself from the delicious little red fruits that are ripening now. We call them wild peach. That’s why I wasn’t here when you returned. I was checking to see if you’ve got any of the trees nearby and you have. Only one but it’s loaded with fruit. I’ve picked some.” She raised the bag she held in one hand. “You can dry them. They keep well.”
She spoke so fast and the pain of his burned hand along with the throbbing boil was making it hard for Thomas to concentrate. “Your father left you here, alone?” he said.
She pulled herself up. “You’re alone. Women are often alone when the men are all working. It’s the way it is in the bush. No point in putting on airs and graces out here. Although names are helpful.”
“I’m sorry; I’m Thomas Baker, from England, and more recently Adelaide and now here.”
“Pleased to meet you, Thomas Baker,” Lizzie said.
The smile on her face took his breath away. She was the prettiest woman he’d seen in a long time. Then he couldn’t help but smile at the thought she was the only woman he’d seen in a long time.
She strode forward.
Thomas stepped back. The movement made him wince.
“Oh, what’s the matter? Please let me help you, Thomas. I can see something is bothering you.” She put down her bag, dropped the bundle of sticks close to the fire and brushed off her hands.
He turned over the hand that he’d touched on the coals. “It’s a bit of a burn.”
She took his hand gently in hers. His looked like a meat cleaver in her small grasp. She bent her head over it and inspected the red welt on his palm. “You’re right, it’s not too bad and the best thing for it is cool water.”
“Shouldn’t it be butter?” Thomas said, remembering a similar burn from his childhood.
“If you have some I’d be happy to apply it for you.”
Thomas watched the sparkle in her eyes grow brighter until her face burst into a grin again.
He couldn’t help responding with a small smile of his own. He hadn’t had any butter since the meagre scrapings they had sometimes put on their bread at the Square. “Water will be fine,” he said. He didn’t mind what she did as long as she didn’t remember the original pain site was his rear end.
“Sit yourself down and I’ll have that seen to in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
“I’ll stand,” Thomas said.
“Suit yourself.” Lizzie hurried away to the keg beside the hut and brought back a dipper of water and an empty pot. “Hold out your hand.”
He obeyed. She trickled the water over his palm to the pot below. The cool water gave immediate relief from the sting of the burn.
“How did you know this would help?”
“I stumbled too close to a campfire once myself. I burned my leg but there’s hardly a scar there now.”
Thomas was appalled to see her put down the dipper and reach for her skirt. He bent to the pot, which was now full of the water, and submerged his hand.
“You can reuse the water. It’s a good idea to keep your hand in it. Luckily my father did that for me. It was when we first came here. There was no hut and our fire was a hole in the ground. I was in my shift preparing for bed and somehow fell on the edge of the flames. My hem caught fire. It was my good fortune we were beside the creek. My father threw me in. Over the days that followed I discovered the cold water of the creek was the only thing to bring me relief from the pain. We didn’t have any butter either.”
Lizzie paused and smiled at him. This time Thomas smiled straight back. She was certainly a chatterbox but there was warmth in her words that lifted his spirits, and those eyes. They were the blue of cornflowers and mesmerising.
“I spent a lot of time in that creek,” she said. “The leg blistered but by the time the blisters came off, I had new skin growing underneath. A miracle really.” She poked at the fire. “The coals are ready. I was going to make you a kanga
roo stew. Father will be ages yet. You keep dipping that hand in the water while I set to work.”
Thomas did as he was told and watched as she carried food from his hut, including kangaroo meat that she must have brought with her. He leaned one hip against the side of his makeshift table while she worked. She dropped the meat in a pot with seasonings and vegetables, some of which he’d never seen before. She talked the whole time. He stopped cooling his hand and shifted himself to a different position. The pain in his backside was growing stronger.
“Whatever else it is that’s bothering you, you should let me help.”
Thomas looked up. Lizzie had finished rearranging the coals and settled her pot among them. Now she stood with her hands on her hips, studying him closely.
“It’s probably only a boil,” he said and straightened up. “I’ll be all right.”
“Samuel had a patch of them on his back a while ago. I had to deal with them. There was no way he could reach them.” She paused then her lips turned up in a gentle smile. “I’m guessing from the way you were nearly twisted inside out when I appeared that your pain is in a … delicate spot.”
Thomas could feel heat rising in his cheeks. “It’s only a lump; I’ll manage,” he said.
Her gaze softened. “It could get very nasty and you’ve no one to help you. I’ll go into the hut and finish putting away my things. You get yourself organised so the ‘lump’ is exposed but all else covered and I’ll come back and take a look.”
“Miss Smith …”
“Lizzie.” She smiled again. “Now come, Father wouldn’t forgive me if I let our neighbour take so ill that he died before we all had the chance to become acquainted.”
Thomas frowned at her. “Died?”
“People have died from a nasty case of boils, you know.” Once again her smile sparkled with kindness. “But no one in my care. Now you give me a call when you’re ready.”
Heart of the Country Page 8