Hearts of Gold

by Janet Woods

  Today he’d rigged up a line and said, ‘That’s a wardrobe to hang your clothing on.’

  ‘Thank you, but I only have what I stand up in.’

  ‘So you do. You can’t blame those people, since they paid hard cash for the claim and the camp. It was the Irishman who robbed you. I’ll go and see them. I can’t carry off the whole camp and won’t get a second opportunity, so what means the most to you?’

  She didn’t hesitate. ‘There’s a small tin trunk that contained personal goods that belonged to my mother. My father gave it all to me. That’s where the woman got the dress from.’

  John scratched his head and thought for a moment. ‘Can you make me a list of what was in the trunk?’

  He unfolded a polished writing case with silver hinges and mixed a small amount of ink before handing her a pen, with the advice. Don’t press too hard or you’ll ruin the nib.’

  She began to write on a scrap of paper he gave her, concentrating on her spelling and getting all the letters even. Hairbrush and mirror. Bible. Gloves . . .

  ‘You have been educated, I see. You have good writing skills.’

  ‘My mother taught me. She was a governess before she married my father, and my father taught me numbers. He was a clerk in a bank. When we left here he was going to send me to a proper school.’ Speaking of her mother had triggered Sarette’s memory. ‘Oh, yes, and there was a brooch with my mother’s likeness in it.’ Spitting into the inkwell she mixed the last traces of ink in and added in almost invisible lettering, locket brooch.’

  ‘Ladies shouldn’t spit, not even to moisten inkwells. Don’t do it again.’

  Sarette looked up into eyes as dark as molasses. John Kern had a handsome, but rather stern face under his grey whiskers. He wasn’t a man she’d deliberately disobey. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘You needn’t call me sir.’

  ‘But I’m your housekeeper.’

  He laughed at that, said mockingly, ‘And what a grand house it is that you have to keep, Miss Sarette Maitland.’

  ‘I like it. I have my very own room.’

  ‘You’re easily pleased. Have you ever lived in a proper house?’

  ‘Sometimes I remember a house in England. It had a thatched roof and a garden that smelled of roses.’ She closed her eyes and smiled, drawing on some distant memory. ‘Everything was green, and I remember being happy there. My mother drew a picture of it in her sketching block.’

  ‘Would you like to go back to England?’

  ‘Oh yes. When I’m grown up. I could be a governess like my mother was.’

  ‘Not a very worthy ambition, if I may say. Governesses are usually spinster ladies. They don’t earn much and when their charges grow up they’re dismissed from their positions.’

  ‘Well, perhaps I’ll find gold and be wealthy, and marry a fine lord.’

  ‘You think a blue blood would want a scruffy little ragamuffin like you when he has the most beautiful, most wealthy and perfectly mannered young ladies in London to choose from?’

  ‘My pa said I’m beautiful. And you’ll be sorry you said that when you have to bow to me.’ She opened her eyes to the sight of him pushing a revolver into the waist of his trousers. ‘Are you going to dig for gold or hunt for dinner? I can help you. I know how to sift the dirt and you could give me fifty per cent of what we dig up.’

  He began to roar with laughter at that. ‘Fifty per cent, when I’d be doing the lion’s share of the work? You’re more ambitious than I thought, Princess.’

  She began to giggle. ‘Twenty per cent then.’

  ‘I’ll think about it. After all, twenty per cent of nothing is nothing.’

  ‘Then you could easily afford to pay me fifty per cent.’

  ‘I could, but twenty per cent of nothing works out to the same amount, so why should you complain? All the same, I quite like your thinking process. I’m going off to retrieve your trunk, young lady. I can’t promise you the dress, the woman might be wearing it.’ He reflected for a moment, then his eyes filled with amusement. ‘I could rip if off her body, I suppose.’

  She gasped, saying, before she realized he was teasing. ‘No don’t. Be careful, sir, the men living there look tough.’

  ‘They’ll probably be out working the claim. If I’m lucky they won’t even see me.’

  ‘You’re going to steal it? I thought you were going to see them and ask for it.’

  He shrugged. ‘Never you mind how I’m going to obtain it for you, but obtain it, I will.’

  ‘But you’re an honest, respectable and pious man who sings hymns when he’s lost.’

  He laughed. ‘Respectability can be acquired along with fortune, however dubiously it’s earned. As for being honest, nobody has accused me of that before. I’m not pious, though I believe there is goodness in me when the occasion arises. I sing hymns because Hercules likes them. He belonged to a preacher man.’

  ‘What shall I do while you’re away?’ she called out as he mounted.

  ‘You’re a female. You could always take a wash, unless you want to be mistaken for one of the native children. Then I can see for myself whether or not you’re beautiful under all that dirt. There’s a tin bath in the kitchen, water in the barrel and some soap on the shelf. Use what you need as long as there’s enough left to last until the cart comes tomorrow. And you could wash your clothes in it afterwards. You can wear my robe while they’re drying if you like.’

  ‘Fight the good fight with all your might . . .’ he began to sing, and Hercules’s ears pricked forward and he gave a small snicker as they moved away.

  A wash! A whole bath of water for herself! First she washed her hair, which turned the water a dirty yellow. Standing, she washed herself all over with the soap. It was a crude yellow block which had been made by Mrs Benstead, then cut into chunks to be sold in the store. With her knees tucked under her chin Sarette just managed to sit in the bath. Closing her eyes she scooped water over herself with her hands and savoured the coolness of it running over her skin, which brought her out in goosebumps. When she was rich she would sit and soak in a bath every day. The feeling was delicious, but she felt guilty for wasting so much water on herself. She would make sure it was put to further use.

  After her bath she plunged her skirt and bodice into the brew and scrubbed away at the dirt and stains. Wringing them out as best she could she spread the clothing over the shrubs to dry. She fetched a cloth and used the water to wash the dust from the table, chairs, storage shelves and a wooden trunk.

  She was about to pour the filthy water remaining into the roots of a shrub when she remembered another use for it. Scooping up some dirt she placed it in the gold pan that was leaning against the tree, added some of the water, stirred it about then gradually allowed the silty swirling water to spill out. Amongst the traces of mud left behind she found half a dozen sparkling specks of gold. Carefully, she lifted them out and placed them in an empty match box.

  An hour later her clothing was almost dry. The fabric was covered in brown stains and crinkled up. But at least she felt clean as she’d braided her long hair and tied a rag around the end.

  She gazed around wondering what to do next, then hung a kettle of water over the campfire. An examination of the dwelling revealed that the wooden box with a tightly fitting lid contained dry goods, and there was some meat in a damp sack. She made a loaf of bread, cooking it in the ashes.

  John had no compunction about retrieving Sarette’s clothes. He was outraged by what had happened to her. If he ever ran into the cowardly Irishman who’d sold the girl’s home and living from under her he’d give him a good thrashing. No man worth his salt would make destitute and abandon a girl so young on the diggings.

  He left Hercules and proceeded to the camp on foot. As he’d expected, the males were absent. But where was the woman? The campfire in its circle of stones was barely alight, and unattended.

  As he listened he heard the snap of twigs and branches, of a chopper slicing into wood. He stepped
forward and entered the tent, which was little more than a piece of canvas over a tree branch. It was secured with ropes tied to pegs in the ground.

  The trunk was at the back and had the name Sara Maitland on it. No mistaking who that belonged to. He picked it up and made his escape, snatching up the blue dress which was thrown over a hammock.

  There was a shout as he headed into the bush. The owner of the voice, a man, crashed in after him. John zigzagged back and forth, heading for his horse and keeping a tight hold on his prize. Behind him he heard a click, then an explosion. Buckshot peppered the bushes around him and a few pellets lodged in the cheeks of his arse.

  A woman began to screech hysterically. A man answered her in a hectoring voice and she shut her mouth.

  John cursed. His backside stung, but he wasn’t about to give them the chance to reload and come after him. He made his horse in record time, mounted with the trunk in front of him, and, head down, put Hercules to the run and was out and gone. As soon as he was out of range he slowed down and began to laugh. He’d forgotten how exhilarating flirting with danger was.

  Circumnavigating the main street of the town he entered his own camp from behind, leading his horse in. It was a precaution he took in case someone was lying in wait for him.

  He saw Sarette at the campfire and was transfixed by what he saw. She must have sensed him, for she turned, stared at him for a moment then gave him a wide smile. ‘I didn’t hear you coming.’

  Her father had been right. The girl was beautiful with a sweet delicacy to her movements, and her long braid had a coppery sheen, like chestnuts, which reminded him of the trees in autumn at Fierce Eagles. He experienced an ache somewhere in the region of his heart. ‘What are you cooking?’

  ‘What remains of that kangaroo in the sack. I thought I’d make a stew with it. It will last a day or two.’

  He nodded and walked towards the hut carrying the small trunk and the dress. She followed after him. ‘You’re bleeding.’

  ‘It’s nothing,’ His bravado had fled and he felt a fool when he told her, ‘It’s buckshot. Someone mistook me for an emu and tried to scare me off.’

  Her lips twitched. ‘Someone mistook you for a thief, you mean. You’d better drop your pants and let me doctor you. Wounds go rotten very quickly here.’

  She wasn’t telling him anything he didn’t know. ‘I’ll do no such thing, you saucy little hussy.’

  She tossed him a grin. ‘Suffer, if that’s what you want.’

  ‘I can see to it myself.’ He placed the trunk on the floor and the dress on top of it, then went back into the living room and assembled a metal probe, a pair of tweezers and a bottle of iodine.

  Sarette came through with a wooden-backed hand mirror and propped it against a jug filled with leafy twigs. ‘Here, so you can see what you’re doing.’

  He gave the twigs in the jug a second glance. Typical of female thinking to pretty the place up in such a manner. ‘Thanks.’ He shooed her outside. ‘Go outside and give Hercules a feed of oats and a drink while I doctor myself. The oats are in that sack hanging from the nail. If he’s difficult, sing him a hymn.’

  A few minutes later, as he got the first pellet out, he heard her sing:

  There was a black gelding from kucamandoo who uncovered a nugget of gold with his shoe. A pretty white mare from kucamandee wore a red garter tied over her knee, and a handsome young mule from kucamandonga woke up the dawn with a sweet braying songa, while the ass who lived at kucamandaisy honked like a goose and drove everyone crazy.

  ‘D’you like that song, Hercules? I made it up specially for you.’

  John peeked out of the door and saw Hercules with his head on her shoulder and his eyes shut. Sarette was gently rubbing his nose.

  He probed for the second pellet and exclaimed, ‘Bloody hell! That one’s gone too deep.’ He couldn’t see a damned thing in the mirror without bending at the knees. Also, he was right-handed, and the pellets were embedded on the left side so he could hardly reach. And when he did locate a pellet in the mirror his hand went in the opposite direction to where he’d meant it to go, as if it had a mind of its own.

  Feeling frustrated he called the girl in. ‘You’ll have to do it, but don’t look at my backside.’

  ‘Then how can I get the pellets out?’

  ‘You can look without seeming to, can’t you? Pretend you’re a doctor.’ Luckily he was able to keep himself fairly decent by holding his trousers over the rest.

  The pellets were dug out with no regard for his comfort or dignity, and they were dropped on to the table he was leaning over, making little metallic thuds. Picking up the iodine she dripped a little into one of the wounds. It stung like hell. He sucked in an involuntary breath and gave a yelp.

  She sighed. ‘You’re a grown man, John Kern. Stop making such a fuss about nothing.’

  Nothing! Wait till she had a backside full of lead pellets to sit on. As it was obvious she was going to give him no quarter he proved to himself that he wasn’t at all grown-up by subsiding into a heap of ursine rumbles.

  When she’d finished doctoring him she turned her back modestly while he straightened himself up. ‘Thank you,’ he grunted.

  ‘It’s my fault. If you hadn’t fetched my things . . . Thank you, I appreciate it.’

  ‘You’re a surprising girl. How old are you, eleven?’

  ‘I’m fourteen . . . almost grown-up.’

  She was grown-up in many ways. The goldfields did that to children. But she was undeveloped and slender, like a boy. ‘Are you sure you’re fourteen?’

  ‘Yes. I had a birthday in March. That’s when my pa gave me the trunk. He said I’d soon grow into a woman and would be able to use the things inside it.’

  ‘I doubt if you’re a woman yet.’

  He could have kicked himself when colour raided her cheeks. She might not be a woman yet, but she thought like one. ‘I’m sorry if I embarrassed you.’

  She shrugged. ‘Pa said it would happen to me all of a sudden.’ Tears filled her eyes at the thought of her father. ‘What will happen to me?’

  ‘You can stay with me if you wish. I’m not your pa, but I’m old enough to be your grandfather. I had a daughter of my own once. You resemble her a lot. Her name was Margaret.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She died.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘So am I. I couldn’t stay in the house where she died because everywhere I turned I imagined I saw her. And worse, I imagined she could see me, a miserable and lonely old man without her. So I came adventuring to Australia.’ He gazed at her. ‘You have a good mind, Sarette. I could teach you.’

  ‘Are you a teacher then?’

  ‘No. I came from a long line of pirates, smugglers and adventurers.’

  The trill of laughter she gave was a pure delight. ‘That’s an awful lie. Anyone can tell you’re a gentleman from the way you talk. I’ll stay if you’re lonely. Where else would I go?’

  ‘I could take you to the city. You could probably find employment as a servant.’

  ‘I’d rather stay with you and find gold.’

  ‘I’m not as respectable as you believe. I really am what I said I was.’

  ‘I don’t care. I like you.’

  That this child would take him at face value and trust herself to him was humbling.

  ‘What would you teach me? I can already read and write and add up numbers.’

  ‘The geography and history of the world. And I’d give you some books to read before the termites finish them off, and I’d expect you to write essays on certain subjects, as well as keeping a journal of your time here.’

  ‘As long as I don’t spit in the inkwell.’

  ‘There’s that, of course. We could work on your manners. Think about it and let me know tomorrow. Reflect on what your parents would have wanted for you, if you will.’

  ‘Do you keep a journal?’

  ‘Yes. It’s for my nephew, Magnus Kern, and will go i
nto the family records eventually.’

  ‘What do you write in it?’

  ‘I record day to day life on the goldfields, and what happens.’

  ‘So I’ll be in it for this Magnus Kern to read about. Will you allow me to read what you’ve written about me?’

  ‘Certainly not. Journals are private.’

  ‘So if I kept a journal I could write what I liked about you.’

  She was certainly quick-witted. Warily he eyed her grin, then nodded. ‘Journals will end up as family history for your children and grandchildren. After we’re dead they will be interested in what their ancestors got up to, and how well we lived our lives.’

  She made an impatient huffing noise. ‘Give me time, I’ve hardly lived mine yet.’

  ‘You could record the passing of your father, and what caused it.’

  ‘A soddin’ bite from a soddin’ death adder, that’s what killed him.’ She looked sad. ‘Right at the end he told me the biggest lie of all. He said he’d never leave me. I hate snakes.’

  Gently he touched her cheek. ‘Remember they were here first, and we’re the intruders. You can’t blame them for defending their territory.’

  ‘Well, I do, and so would you if one had killed your pa. He suffered, my poor pa did.’

  He didn’t want to start her bawling all over again. ‘Yes, I daresay I would blame them too. Now, a word about your manners, Miss. I don’t approve of ladies swearing, especially in the company of gentlemen. It’s a bad habit that makes them appear crude and common.’

  Colour rose to her cheeks again. ‘Sorry, sir.’

  ‘You can call me Mr Kern, or John if you wish.’

  ‘Mr John is nice.’

  She’d misunderstood, and his mind went back to Fierce Eagles where the servants had always referred to him as Mr John.

  ‘Would you call me Sarry, like my pa used to?’ she said.

  He nodded, picked up his shovel, pan and pickaxe and placed them in the wheelbarrow. ‘I’m going off to do some work now. I’ll be within shouting distance today if you need me. And if you go into town don’t wear your mother’s dress in case those people see it and come after us. I don’t want any trouble.’