The Widow of Ballarat

by Darry Fraser

  Lewis supplied his full name and particulars, though he was sure he had put the same in his letter requesting an appointment. He sat in one of two high-backed, leather-seated chairs, side by side, and settled. He didn’t have to wait long. In an office off to his right and behind Mr Bagley, voices rose, chairs scraped, and the vocal tones of business being finalised reached him. A door opened.

  A tall man, slightly stooped as if to disguise his height, he knew as Mr Campbell, but of his client, who walked grimly ahead, he knew nothing; he did not recognise him. These days between the two towns and the burgeoning population of both goldfields and surrounds, it was impossible to know who was who any longer—newcomers or original settler people.

  He nodded in acknowledgement of the man, who murmured a ‘Good day’ to him with a perfunctory nod, a deep frown on his face.

  ‘Allow Mr Bagley to get your hat and help you into your coat.’ Mr Campbell nodded in the direction of the door.

  The man flexed the fingers on his hand, stretching out his arm. ‘No need. You see it is back in good working order,’ he said. ‘Thank you, Mr Campbell,’ he said and shook his hand. ‘And you, Mr Bagley.’

  ‘Pleasure, sir. I will see you out.’ Mr Bagley left his seat to escort the man to the front door.

  Keeping the confidentiality of their client, as befitted those working in a solicitor’s office, neither Mr Campbell nor Mr Bagley provided any clue as to who the man was. In any case, his identity was neither here nor there.

  Turning his attention, Lewis shifted in the chair, preparing to be invited into the inner sanctum of Mr Campbell’s office. In the moments before Mr Bagley returned, another office door opened, and a younger man stood in the doorway. Lewis got to his feet.

  Matthew Worrell tucked a paper into his waistcoat pocket, then offered a handshake. ‘Morning, Lewis. I know you’re here on business, so I won’t dither with the usual pleasantries. Mr Campbell will see you first, then if necessary, Baggles will come get me to join you.’ He nodded towards Mr Bagley, who was returning. ‘I’m just finishing up some work here.’

  Lewis dropped his hand. ‘Of course, Matthew. Then I thought we could perhaps reacquaint with a drink—’

  Matthew waved him off. ‘Have to run now, but maybe see you later.’ He returned to his office, shutting the door.

  Resuming his seat, Lewis waited for Mr Bagley. It was a good thing Matthew would attend the appointment at some time. He had taken care of Andrew’s ledgers, and would bring the most recent figures pertaining to the business’s holdings. Pity he seemed to be a little dismissive just now. Perhaps just busy. A good sign.

  He was a few minutes early for his appointment, so he settled back as Mr Bagley took his seat and recommenced his work. Lewis shifted as the wound in his side gave him a twinge, compliments of the long hard ride from Ballarat. Other than that, he was comfortable enough.

  He’d arrived late in the afternoon yesterday, as the setting sun was still glowing long into twilight. He’d found a hotel, and paid for a good bed in a private room, a hot bath to be drawn, and his horse to be stabled. Damper and mutton stew at the bar downstairs in the hotel had satisfied his appetite. He felt he’d deserved some comforts on this occasion. He was preparing to take over his birthright.

  Refreshed this morning, and barely sore in his side, he’d shaved, donned his clean shirt and trousers and prepared for the meeting. As he sat waiting, he gave thought to his uncle. He easily dismissed the death at his own hands of a man known for his brutality to women, and clearly to women with child; a man whose madness could only be stopped one way. The fact that Lewis would directly benefit from killing him did not prick his conscience. The man had been an atrocity in nature. Lewis’s vigilante action had saved Nell, he was sure. Perhaps even his mother—who’d have known if Andrew’s raging temper would finally spill over onto her?

  He had not devised a plan in time to save poor Aunt Susan, Andrew’s first wife, before she’d met her death, but it certainly accelerated a strategy. Why his mother had tolerated the madness in her brother he had no hope of understanding. He knew that she had arrived in the colony long before Andrew, had married, had a child and been widowed, so perhaps she just had no way of dealing with it. Andrew had arrived a little after Lewis’s father had died of apoplexy.

  But Lewis recalled a long-ago memory. His uncle had raised a fist at him, and had been seen just this once by Enid. A bitter exchange followed behind closed doors between his mother and his uncle, and after that Andrew always hid Lewis’s subsequent thrashings.

  As physically volatile as Andrew was, his mother had a waspish tongue, sharp and as nasty as they came. Now that he was head of the family, Lewis would ensure that her vitriol towards Nell, and others, was reined in.

  That would suit him well where Flora was concerned. Flora had been aghast that Nell, whom she’d come to know as a friend, would be so treated by Enid. And then to learn of black eyes, and bruises to Nell’s arms, and likely elsewhere, perpetrated by the woman’s brother! Flora had taken Lewis to task over his mother’s apathy.

  He had tried to spread his hands as if helpless, but when Nell had appeared after a bashing, Flora exploded. She had broken off their relationship in the street immediately outside Enid’s house and then confronted his mother with her anger.

  Lewis scratched the back of his head as he recalled the altercation. Flora had aimed some colourful language at him, but she left the greatest derision for his mother. ‘Your sort of woman is the worst,’ she snapped at Enid. ‘If we women don’t put a stop to this, how will it ever be fixed? Your brother needs committing to an asylum for his actions, and yet you do nothing but blame his wives. You turn your eye, and that’s evil too.’ She’d aimed a deadly look at Lewis. ‘Your mother and your uncle both disgust me. If I so much as glimpse your uncle near my laundry again, I will yell blue bloody murder.’ And she’d stormed off.

  With neighbours gawking, and Enid’s mouth opening and closing, her hand at her throat, Lewis had directed her quickly back inside. He’d torn outside to follow Flora but hadn’t been able to find her.

  The decision had been made. He’d fixed the issue of his uncle, and once all this had been settled, once he’d obtained his inheritance, he would follow Flora. He would put things right between them—

  ‘Mr Wilshire.’ The lawyer himself stood at Mr Bagley’s desk, offered his handshake and beckoned Lewis to follow into his office. ‘Please sit.’

  ‘Thank you, sir.’ Lewis’s heart thudded in anticipation as he sank into the chair Mr Campbell indicated. On the wide desk, he could see the lawyer had his letter of request open atop a clean blotter for a dip pen and ink pot, which stood nearby. A small stack of papers was alongside.

  As Mr Campbell looked at him, Lewis was taken aback by the youth of the man. He could be no more than a dozen years older than he, yet he had the demeanour of a much older person.

  He pulled his spectacles low over his nose to peer above the rim at Lewis. ‘Your letter states that you believe you have your uncle’s business to attend.’

  Lewis wondered if he’d misheard the tone of voice. He frowned. ‘Well, yes, Mr Campbell. My uncle, Andrew Amberton, had a considerable estate and now he has passed away, I believe I am to administer his assets.’

  Mr Campbell laced his big knuckled fingers. ‘Since receiving your letter, we have investigated as is usual, and have no reason to believe that your uncle left a will. We have not found anything lodged with the Office of Births, Deaths and Marriages.’

  Lewis stared. ‘No will?’

  ‘In fact, unless you can recover such a will—from your residence perhaps—it would appear that your uncle died intestate.’

  Lewis sat forward, felt his guts chill. ‘He always spoke of a will, and of his wishes and stipulations that were in it.’

  Mr Campbell raised his brows. ‘Indeed. However, I have knowledge that there are considerable debts held against him. Any asset that he alleged he owned might have to be sold to cover these
claims on his estate or passed on to his successor to pay.’ He tapped the papers.

  ‘Debts?’ Lewis scowled despite a gnawing doubt. ‘He has a strong business. Mines on the fields at Ballarat. Income in gold. Two homes in the Ballarat township.’ He leaned forward. ‘He spoke of his own farming land in the Western Districts, and he’d bought land north-east, newly surveyed, on the Murray.’

  Mr Campbell rested his hands on the desk. ‘He may very well have spoken of such things, but in truth, it appears not to be so. None of it, except the mining business. You might check that the licenses are all as they should be, especially in light of the riots.’ He tilted his head towards the small stack of papers by his arm. ‘Your mother instigated a public notice as she registered his death, citing this office as contact for any outstanding debts. She might not ever have imagined this, but these are the many claims on his estate that have come into my office since.’

  Eyeing the papers, Lewis cleared his throat. ‘And they are for what?’

  Mr Campbell took the papers and set them in front of him, one by one ‘As you can see, the debts are considerable.’

  Lewis picked up the closest paper. ‘This is for the house he and Aunt Nell occupied.’

  Mr Campbell leaned forward, reading upside down. ‘Yes, a rental amount due.’ He tapped the page.

  ‘Rental?’ Lewis squinted at the figure. ‘And for the house my mother and I occupy?’

  Mr Campbell lifted a page. ‘Same. Rent owed.’ The finger tapped again.

  Lewis looked up. ‘I believed that he had purchased those houses.’ His stomach rolling, he asked, ‘Did he actually own land in the Western Districts?’

  The lawyer tapped another page. ‘He put a down payment here, took out a loan, settled, and has since neglected to repay anything, defaulting on the loan. The bank is about to foreclose. Mr Amberton cited security with a counterfeit title to this property—’ he said as he shuffled the papers and withdrew one, ‘—here.’

  Lewis squinted. ‘Counterfeit. How?’

  Mr Campbell lifted his loose shoulders a little. ‘A clever copy. And a lazy clerk who didn’t follow procedure. It was not discovered until the default.’

  Lewis sat back. ‘Did he own anything?’

  ‘It appears not.’ Shuffling again, Mr Campbell came up with another paper, handwritten. ‘It seems he also took out, shall we say, a loan from his previous father-in-law.’

  Rigid, Lewis stared. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘This is a loan receipt for five thousand pounds made out to Mr John Seymour.’

  Lewis closed his mouth but couldn’t mask his shock. What in God’s name would his uncle want with a loan for that huge amount? Where were the ill-gotten gains? It certainly wasn’t in property, according to Mr Campbell. Perhaps it was to pay for all the other debts … No wonder he’d been bolting out of town as quick as he could, the mad, lying, cheating bastard.

  ‘I am at a loss,’ Lewis said, shaking his head, staring at his hands, listening as his birthright, his inheritance whooshed away on thin air.

  ‘Understandable,’ Mr Campbell replied. ‘Now, tell me, is the mine still operating, Mr Wilshire?’

  Lewis rolled his hands together. ‘I’ve simply conducted business as usual. It is well known I am the manager …’ He looked up sharply. ‘Am I personally liable for these debts?’

  ‘No. But I suggest you continue to operate the mine as usual, until this mess is sorted out. As there is no will, therefore no administrator, the proceeds from the mining, a license being still in his name—’

  Lewis snapped to attention. ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘—might well have to pay off these creditors.’

  Nodding, Lewis dropped his head to his hand. He would have to let Andrew’s licenses lapse, stake the claims as his own. But how would he keep control of the mines without the other men to work them? He’d have to get things in his name, in place, quickly. But would he still be liable somehow?

  ‘You could apply to administer, as you are one of Mr Amberton’s relatives. That way you can manage matters.’

  Lewis’s head snapped up. ‘And what ramification does that have for me?’

  ‘I suggest you agree to release the land in the Western Districts and forfeit Mr Amberton’s initial outlay. I would also suggest that the rent on the houses needs to be paid in full if you are to continue to occupy them.’

  ‘If I apply to administer—’

  ‘Do you want to administer his affairs?’ Mr Campbell tapped the papers in front of him, drawing attention to the amount owing on rent.

  Lewis blanched.

  ‘I didn’t think so.’ Then Mr Campbell gave him another shock. ‘But this loan of five thousand pounds will have to be repaid. It has your name and signature on it as guarantor, and the family wants it back.’

  Sixteen

  Ballarat

  Nell dug her knuckles into her back and stretched. She’d forgotten what working over a washing tub felt like, or how the skin of her hands would begin to crack as they dried out. How the biting odour of lye would linger in her nostrils.

  The morning was already hot, and the sun beat down mercilessly on a cloudless day. Heat from the fire underneath the boiler throbbed up, and her perspiration evaporated before it could drip anywhere.

  Noise, even this early at the diggings, was incessant. Men shouted at each other, some in derision, some in jocularity. Dogs barked at any moving thing. Children ran, unchecked, playing chasing games, squealing with delight or bellowing with rage. Women emerged from tents to work, fossicking, child-minding, cooking, mending, doing laundry. Their day was only done at the moment they fell asleep.

  Nell stared at the scene laid out before her. The children scampering about, free as birds when they weren’t ordered into their families’ mining activities. Why weren’t they at school? Her mother had taught her to read and write; perhaps she’d begin her mother’s work again, and take some of these children in to teach. But it didn’t appeal overly much, it was just something she could do. She looked at the mountains of dirty clothes. First things first, then she might think more about it.

  Nell took the long, sturdy rod again and plunged it back into the frothing water, pulled the clothes this way and that, dirt and fat and oils streaming in their wake. Not only was the pile of clothes and bed linens beside the boiler half as tall as she was, but the supply of soap needed to wash it had to be replenished. It was her turn to make it, and this would be her next job.

  Soap making was a necessary skill, and an art, Flora had said, and Nell knew it well. Saving most of the ashes from the fires, Flora used it in barrels with a layer of hay over a drain hole in the bottom. After she poured hot water slowly over it, leaching it, a tub underneath caught the run-off solution, the lye. Then pounds of lard were required to boil with the lye over a slow fire. It was a skill she needed to brush up on, much to Flora’s gleeful delight.

  Hot work, dawn ’til dusk, on a day with the sun shining. At least she was alive.

  She pulled and pushed once more on the rod and determined that this tub of clothes was about as clean as it was going to get. Heaving in a deep breath, she tested the heat of the water with a hand, then plunged it in to pull out sodden clothes. Squeezing out excess water from each article, she dropped them into a tub of cold water and pulled and pushed the rod once more.

  Oh, to have one of those new machines where you wound a handle round and round and pushed clothes through two tight rollers. Water would squeeze out effortlessly and the garments or linens would be ready to hang out to dry. Flora had shown her newspaper advertisements. They pondered together whether it would be prudent to save for one. No one here had yet seen one of these magical washing machines, but they couldn’t come too soon, if Nell had her way.

  After dumping more filthy clothes into the hot water to stew for a bit, she wrung out the rinsed trousers and shirts and flung them over the drying ropes. Flora had strung a series of lines between six-foot posts sunk for her by eager min
ers. Nuggets had been found in the holes dug, so the posts were haphazard. Sturdily sunk, but not exactly in straight lines.

  Flora poked her head out of her tent. ‘I’m just getting Ma organised—’

  ‘Me name’s Josie,’ Nell heard a voice call loudly from inside the tent.

  Flora rolled her eyes. ‘I’m just getting Josie organised with her sewing, Nell. I won’t be long. Put the billy on, will you?’ She ducked back inside.

  Nell, glad of the break, filled the billy from their water barrel and set it over the kitchen fire pit. She sat on a rough-hewn bench and threw in a handful of tea leaves grabbed from the plain packet Flora kept in a tin nearby.

  Murmurs of encouragement, gentle complaints and rippling laughter reached her from Flora’s tent. The lilting Irish notes of mother and daughter was a sharp reminder of the loss of Nell’s own mother.

  Her heart gave a lurch. Ma, my beloved ma. I miss you every day. A breath caught in her throat as she thought of her mother’s last few gasps. They’d laboured harder only for a minute or so, signalling her passing from the consumption. Then, with Nell’s hand holding hers, and hearing Nell’s whispered words of support for her to go, Cecilia had left her daughter for the next world. Nell’s father, Alfred, had been at the pub.

  Flora emerged from the tent, smiling, tilting her head at the vagaries of her mother’s affliction. ‘Not so long ago, there’d be folk who’d say she was touched by fae.’

  ‘Don’t they still?’ Nell asked, poking a thin stick into the brew and giving it a stir. Aromatic steam hid her eyes from Flora, but not well enough.

  ‘What is it, Nell? You’re sad.’ Flora sat beside her on the bench, took the stick and stirred the brew some more.

  ‘Fae or not, you’re lucky you still have your Josie. My ma’s been gone two years now.’

  Flora wiped the back of her hand over her forehead. ‘I’m sorry for it, Nell. I remember Mrs Thomas fondly.’ She reached over and squeezed Nell’s arm.