by Darry Fraser
She needed to visit Mr Steele.
Seven
Nell held onto her hat and looked up at the bold sign above the wide doorway. Steele and Sons Coach and Cart stood out proudly in green outlined in red. Inside, a wide and long dray sat along the far wall. Leather and oil, dust, sweat, and manure reached her nostrils.
Four horses stood in a small corral, watching her, nodding their heads. Nell saw him, his back to her, a tin in one hand, a greasy rag in the other as he wiped oil along the foot board of his coach. ‘Mr Steele?’
Startled, he turned sharply. ‘Mrs Amberton,’ he said. ‘Good day to you.’ He wiped excess oil from his hands onto the rag and stuffed it between the spokes of a wheel. Bewildered, he said, ‘What can I do for you, missus? I hope you are well after—’
‘I am well, thank you.’ Nell had practised what she would say, something about perhaps helping him clean the inside of his coach, which would have been a sensible excuse. Instead she stood dumb in front of him, her little drawstring purse dangling from her hands.
‘That’s grand, Mrs Amberton. Grand.’ He looked around. ‘Would you have a seat? I think maybe this box here. I could—’
‘No, I’ll stand. I won’t take up much of your time.’ She looked beyond him into the interior of the coach.
‘It’s been cleaned,’ he said, matter-of-fact. ‘Strong lye will scour just about anything.’
‘It will.’ She nodded. ‘Did I thank you for your help that day, Mr Steele?’
‘You did. Terrible day, Mrs Amberton.’
‘For many people.’
He nodded. He looked younger than she’d thought him to be. Black hair, oiled here and there with grease from the can no doubt, hung in strands that he tossed back from his face. He had a patchy day-old stubble on his cheeks and jaw. He also seemed nervous, but she supposed she was a new widow, and one who had aimed a rifle at him upon his return to the coach that day.
May as well come straight to the point. ‘Mr Steele, the day of the hold-up, the bushranger had come with two horses. The spare horse also saddled.’
He blinked as if recalling. ‘Yes, he did. You’re right. And a good thing, too.’ He shifted his weight and rolled his shoulders a little.
Nell glanced around the building and looked back over at the horses. How on earth would she tell if any of these horses was the one Mr Steele rode away on to get help that day? She’d taken no notice at the time.
‘Why do you think that was?’ She tilted her head. ‘It has played on my mind.’
He shrugged. ‘Strange thing.’ He was not able to hold her gaze.
Nell clasped her purse in front of her to stop her hands shaking. ‘I could barely speak afterwards, as you know,’ she began. ‘But now, after some time to recuperate, I felt I needed to come and see you today. I want you to know that the bushranger was … did not seem a thug to me.’
Mr Steele looked confused. ‘A good thing he was behaved, Mrs Amberton,’ he said finally, and scratched his head.
‘And that he was, in fact, kind to me.’
A nod in response, a kicking of dirt at his feet.
Nell’s nerves settled somewhat. She knew she was right. Mr Steele did know the bushranger, it seemed to be written all over the poor man’s face. ‘I hope the police have not bothered you too much over it all,’ she said.
He looked up, surprised. ‘Not one bit. They don’t care. Still chasing their tails, tryin’ to be the big men but can’t. Heard some have deserted already, knowin’ they’ll be in trouble for what they did at the stockade.’
Nell looked around again. ‘You have a good business, it seems. A big dray for heavy work. The coach for hire, as well.’
He stared at her, waiting.
‘My husband knew you ... how?’
He thumbed at the dray. ‘He would purchase implements for his diggers from a merchant I cart for.’ He lifted his chin towards the coach. ‘He knew I had a coach as well. There’s some talk a service might open from here to Bendigo if the road gets some work. I mentioned I’d like to drive it. And then, he—’
‘Yes. Bendigo. I hope you are successful. It would indeed be a good service. I’ve heard it’s quite the place to be. When I was younger, my family was supposed to move there, but it didn’t happen.’
He only nodded, seemed to know he wasn’t required to say anything.
Nell opened her purse. ‘Mr Steele, can I leave something with you?’
Wide eyed, the young man waved a hand vigorously. ‘Uh, no, Mrs Amberton. Your husband paid me before we left. It was part of our deal because I wouldn’t take him anywhere unless he paid—’
‘I know that.’ She clearly remembered Andrew storming about it that morning before the coach arrived for them. She looked at her hands, now steady. ‘I meant that I would very much appreciate leaving a message for your kind friend.’ She withdrew an envelope from the little purse.
He made no attempt to take the envelope. ‘I don’t have no kind friend.’
Nell placed the envelope on the step into the coach, avoiding the oiled foot board. ‘Of course. Even so.’ She stepped back, fearful if she didn’t she would snatch up the envelope and run away. ‘Good day, Mr Steele.’ Her voice sounded rough to her own ears, and when she left, he was gaping at the envelope.
‘Good day,’ she heard him say.
Nell’s heart pounded. She hadn’t seen signs of anyone else there, but the young man’s response to her was telling. Even if her bushranger wasn’t close by, he would certainly have her note very soon.
Eight
Rain pelted the parched earth and had dropped the temperature unseasonably. It would extinguish the burning tents from memory, the sooty scars from the land and from the hearts of men.
Nell scoffed. Nothing would remove the stain of Eureka. Nothing would change the fact that once again a government and its military had—with gross arrogance—used brutal force for unfair advantage on a much weaker adversary. She hoped the lives lost had not all been for nothing. The Geelong Advertiser was not giving the government favourable press, and it might have been making a difference—there was talk of a new Goldfields Commission of Enquiry. Perhaps Governor Hotham might now be listening to the pleas of ordinary people for a better life under his authority.
She stood at the front window, watching the heavy shower crash to the dust of the road. The only thing the rain did was stop her walking to the main store. She needed to step outside this oppressive house and take some air.
She rested her head against the sill and felt the cool air of outside chill her cheek. The time at Wilshire House had rallied her strength, rested her mind, and given her thoughts safe ground once again. Even Enid had been tolerable. A twinge of guilt burrowed deep inside. Since she had her strength back, and her monthly had been, it was now time to make it known that she was not with child.
Folk scurried, some under sturdy brollies, some clutching the hands of their children, as if in desperate need to never let go. The memory of that night three weeks ago and the horror of the losses would never leave the living who remained. But here, as Nell watched, life went on.
‘You look well, aunt,’ came a voice from the doorway. ‘Even in so few weeks, you have gained better health.’
Turning, she acknowledged Lewis. He was only a scant year older than she, but he had aged this last month. His strong frame still seemed stooped. Tiny creases had formed at the edges of his blue eyes, and his hair, a much darker shade of ginger, and much thicker than his mother’s, looked unkempt, as if slept on and not brushed for some days. Nell had never met Lewis’s father, Mr Michael Wilshire, who’d died and left a poor stipend for his wife and young son, but he must have been a handsome man. There was little of Enid’s countenance in her son, and therefore little of Andrew, for which Nell was glad.
‘Better than you are, I’ll wager, by your look. Are you not well?’ she asked.
He leaned on the doorjamb. ‘I’m well enough to wager at the races today, though I believe this
rain might hamper quite a few of us. However, I’m better these days than I was before.’ He looked past her to the view from the window. ‘Like most of us since that night.’
That was certainly true. And Lewis might have been talking of the murderous brawl of the stockade, or of his uncle’s demise, or both. She didn’t feel the need to make comment on either. ‘Will you come in and sit? I have some tea.’ Nell gestured to a small pot on a table next to where she had sat.
‘Thank you, but no tea.’ Lewis pushed off the doorway and, in measured steps, headed to a chair in the middle of the room. Its back was to the fireplace, which had the makings for the next fire. The weather had turned cool, strange in the middle of summer, but it wasn’t cold enough yet to light.
Lewis sat and stretched out one leg, levering his body into the low chair. ‘And how is your health, my dear aunt, after everything?’ His eyes held candid concern.
Waiting a beat, Nell composed her features. ‘I am well, so far.’
His gaze didn’t shift. ‘It will be joyous day to have a child in the house,’ he said.
Enid must have told him what Andrew had wrongly assumed. Nell inclined her head. She folded her hands in her lap and met his steady gaze with her own.
His hands gripped the arms of the chair. ‘I wonder what possessed my uncle to charter a coach to drive to Bendigo so early on that terrible morning.’ Then he scratched his head. ‘I would assume urgent business, but of all mornings …’
Nell lifted a shoulder. ‘He needed to see Mr Campbell, his lawyer. For what, I don’t know.’ She looked away, as if by turning her head the unsavoury events of that morning would not come forth.
‘Sad business. I’m sorry, aunt, that I mentioned it.’
Deflecting, she said, ‘Please don’t call me aunt. It makes me feel as if I should be in my dotage.’ The last thing she wanted was to comment on how she felt.
‘Hardly dotage.’
‘Nell will do,’ she said, and turned back to him to offer a small smile.
‘It must have been frightening for you, the appearance of a bushranger.’
Not nearly as frightening as it was relieving. Nell nodded. ‘It was a dangerous drive, as well. Mr Steele was ordered to go ever faster. Up until that bushranger bailed us up, we’d been driving like the devil was behind us.’ She took a breath. ‘Perhaps he was behind us, in the wake of the madness of that night. And then when Andrew was shot—’
Lewis sat forward, eyes wide, listening attentively.
‘Well, after the terrible attack at the diggings earlier that morning,’ Nell went on, ‘it was too much. The police have spoken to me again.’
He seemed to relax. ‘It was too much, I agree, and I have asked the constable that his men should now leave you alone. After their visit here last week, they have their statement from you and have no need to return.’
‘Yes, no need. My memory is quite clear. Nothing will change.’
‘I believe it. My mother said you seemed remarkably calm giving your statement.’ He shifted in his seat at her surprised glance. ‘She said that you had very clear recall.’
Nell kept her voice calm. ‘I knew well what to tell them, and how.’ She clasped her hands. ‘It was a strange experience, the hold-up, the shooting. It was as if it were not happening to me. As if I was watching it unfurl before me, and I was quite removed from it.’ She remembered screaming, and that a sharp clarity had descended on her once the bushranger had threatened to chase her.
After a moment, seeming satisfied, Lewis said, ‘I know my mother can, at times, be …’ He searched for a word but failed to produce one. ‘Anyway, I just wanted to ask after your health, myself.’
His eyes seemed full of concern. Nell felt her cheeks warming. Lewis’s attention had never gone beyond what was proper before, and nor would she have expected it to, but there was a subtle difference in him now. Since that terrible day, something had changed in him. Perhaps he was preparing for his new responsibility as head of the household; stretching his wings, so to speak. Becoming a little bold? As he studied her, she became increasingly more uncomfortable.
But Lewis had a sweetheart, Flora Doyle, and the two women knew each other reasonably well. Surely then, Nell was wrong in her assumption about Lewis’s attention and her blush was because of her own embarrassment, nothing else.
He slapped his knees. ‘Now I need to go to Bendigo to make an appointment to see Mr Campbell. A formality, of course, to have the will read. I’ll also meet with his cousin, Mr Worrell, who looked after my uncle’s ledgers.’ He let out a laugh. ‘I confess, I know only what little Uncle chose to impart. I will need to acquaint myself of the books fairly quickly.’
It was true. Andrew had kept Lewis working in a junior capacity in Ballarat, until he felt the miners in his employ were ‘getting too big for their boots’. He’d then sent Lewis to note their grievances, to cajole and plead, to placate, to pay a few pennies more, but Lewis would come back more on the side of the miners than of their employer.
Nell spoke up before he could rattle on. ‘And when will Miss Doyle visit again, Lewis? I presume we will be seeing more of her.’
Lewis ducked his head. ‘Flora has decided that perhaps I am now too high and mighty for her.’ He examined his fingers. ‘Though it seems a laundrywoman with her own customers can earn more money than I, so I wonder who is the more high and mighty?’ He gave Nell a rueful smile.
He seemed genuinely saddened by Flora’s apparent rejection. It likely had something to do with Enid. Lewis’s mother had probably made a no-nonsense visit to young Flora, unbeknownst to Lewis.
‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ Nell said.
‘She deemed herself unsuitable as my wife, though it seemed to me to come out of thin air.’ He shook his head as if he were baffled.
It seemed unlikely, though, that Flora had made a hasty decision. What Nell knew of her—a young, dark-haired Irish woman whose mother also worked as a laundress—was that she was a forthright person with her own strong opinions. Nell liked her. They had struck up a friendship on the fields long ago, when in passing they discovered they were both laundresses. When life at her father’s laundry became too oppressive, Nell would seek Flora. There was warmth and companionship in her darkly witty conversation.
Lewis had met Flora while using the services of her laundry. By chance, Andrew had accompanied him and enquired about Nell, Flora’s visitor. The next day, Andrew had shown up at Nell’s own laundry. Weeks later, Susan had passed away.
If Flora had any reason to reject Lewis, it would be because she’d clearly appreciated that, once married to him, she would have to work just as hard, and for little in return, and with Enid as a mother-in-law.
There was an understanding on the goldfields that women had as much right to paying jobs as the men. How Nell suddenly envied Flora her freedom. Was that a way forward for her—working for herself? Sometimes the women did better financially than the men, and set up shop charging for work that a man would not do, or had no time to do.
Perhaps Enid and her ilk clung too tightly to the preference of being a possession rather than having possessions. Enid would not approve of Flora earning her own living, yet many women on the diggings did just that.
Nell’s life would take another turn very soon. A visit to Flora might be the thing to do; there would be much to talk about.
Lewis gave a short laugh, as if exasperated, which brought Nell back to attention. ‘I will have to find myself a wife, a suitable wife, soon, if I’m to look after this family.’ And then his gaze became a study of her again, polite but steady.
Nell allowed a breath to fill her lungs deep into her belly. When her eyes met his, she wondered if he’d intimated marriage. Surely it was only her nerves conjuring innuendo. The next days would be fraught, so no use reading any nonsense into what might just be simple concern. But as she and Lewis were not related by blood, was it such a ridiculous thing for him to consider a marriage to her? It would certainly fix many t
hings all at once.
People didn’t marry for love, she knew. Oft times it was for convenience only. Hah! As it could be said of her own marriage to Andrew—his convenience. How could she even think to enter into marriage with Lewis? Clearly, she wasn’t as far removed from addled thinking as she’d hoped. She wanted to leave this whole family behind her.
Realising he expected her to comment, she said, ‘Well, if it’s not to be Miss Flora, I’m sure you will find a deserving wife, Lewis. A gentleman such as yourself would have no trouble securing a good match.’
‘My choices on these fields are quite limited to few and far between,’ he said, a little wryly.
Nell deftly skirted what he might have meant. ‘I agree, there are not so many single women of marrying age,’ she said. ‘As for Flora, however, I should like to maintain my acquaintance with her.’
‘By all means, if you wish it.’ He gave her a small smile, and a slight raising of his brows. ‘And on that note,’ he said as he carefully stood up, ‘I will take my leave and find a friend who might partake of a drink with me.’ He dipped his head. ‘Good day, Nell.’
‘Good day, Lewis.’
The door clicked shut. In her mind’s eye, she saw the look on his face again, and the small smile. But could she be sure he’d understood her? She would not be his ‘deserving wife’.
Nell closed her eyes, wondered if the bushranger had received her note. Wondered if she had a right to expect to hear from him. After all, a bushranger … She laughed at herself. She shouldn’t be thinking of that man at all. Or any man. She would be free of all of them.
Her own mother had told her a long time ago, ‘Make sure you have running-away money, if you can get it.’ There was still a little time to earn some, if she was clever.
Nine
Ballarat goldfields, January 1855
Nell ventured onto the digging fields. Bad enough she had to walk around this hellish campsite as a lone woman, but at least she wasn’t enfeebled with child. There had been horrible stories coming out since the skirmish, or the massacre, as the papers were now calling it. She shuddered. People were saying that even women—some of whom were carrying their unborn—and little children had been murdered, that innocents were sacrificed.