by Darry Fraser
Mrs Chaffey gave him a small smile. ‘No, Mr Taylor, I don’t believe there was anyone here who interested Maggie.’
He nodded his thanks and let go of the breath. All right.
She sat back and stared towards the olive grove. ‘On the day, we’d been visiting friends, and had taken our other house girl with us. Maggie was here alone, so we had Nara Wadge—the other missing woman—come do a few chores with her. They were good friends, you see. They got along well, and I knew things would get done properly. By the time we got back, it had already happened. It seemed that Maggie took it upon herself to attack this Robert Boyd—who believes he’s a very fine citizen—with an iron rod from the smithy’s forge.’
Sam’s brows shot up. An iron rod? Jesus, Maggie-mine.
‘Consequently, now he has somewhat the look of a raccoon,’ she continued. ‘It’s not as if it hasn’t …’
Raccoon. Whatever that was. Mrs Chaffey’s soft burr ran on. What he’d already heard wasn’t sounding like the Maggie he knew. Sure as anything she was opinionated, had hold of her convictions, knew her own mind and made it known to all and sundry, but to pick up an iron rod and clobber a bloke?
Well, wait a minute, Sammy-boy. If the bloke was being an ar—
‘… Then, by all accounts, after that, she ran off. That way,’ Mrs Chaffey said, pointing at the olive grove where young trees stood proudly in rows.
Sam sat up. ‘By all accounts?’ he asked. ‘Does that mean someone saw her?’
‘Mr Watson, from a farm just out of town.’
Sam’s gut churned. ‘And he was sure she just up and bashed this fine citizen?’
Mrs Chaffey cleared her throat. ‘It seemed there was something indelicate being perpetrated on Nara Wadge.’
Sam glanced at her, and the faint pink blush on her cheeks confounded him. Not exactly something you ask a lady for more details about. ‘Right.’ He felt his own face burn, and the roots of his hair itched. No wonder Maggie bashed the fella. He took a gulp of tea. ‘So Maggie was helping her friend, and trying to defend herself.’
‘Exactly, Mr Taylor. But the man she hit—Mr Boyd—is a very brash person whose belief in himself is exaggerated. He likes to think he has the ear of important people and so he has already ensured that Maggie’s character has been well tarnished. He has suggested apparently that she tried to murder him.’
Sam was staggered. ‘And what has this Watson fella said?’
‘Nothing. A case of not wanting to upset Mr Boyd, who is known to be a very vindictive individual.’
Sam’s blood simmered.
George and Charles thundered along the verandah in a flash of tumbling limbs, roaring young voices and the swish of long sticks brandished as swords. Mrs Chaffey gave Sam a look then called sharply, ‘Boys.’
Her two sons stopped for a moment, staring at her, before they dashed off in silence, waving the sticks.
She lifted the plate of shortbread. ‘Please, you haven’t had one yet, and they are excellent.’
He nodded his thanks, took a biscuit and bit. Smooth and buttery, he thought he’d crave shortbread forever. He devoured the rest of it, took another and put it on the small china plate she had set in front of him. Mrs Eleanor back in Echuca had taught him some manners; his own mother had tried.
‘And so, the other woman is also gone?’ he asked.
‘Yes. She and her husband have an abode down by the creek,’ Mrs Chaffey said and lifted a hand indicating somewhere at the back of the house. ‘But they’re not there now.’ She set down her cup. ‘I’m sorry I’m not able to help further. Maggie was quite well liked here, and we miss her.’
Sam took his cue that it was time to leave. Then one of the youngsters appeared at the end of the verandah behind Mrs Chaffey. His crumpled red face, the angry eyes and the tears pouring meant that an eruption was close. He let out a bawl and Mrs Chaffey spun in her seat. ‘Oh dear. What is it, Francis?’
Francis let her know what was troubling him, but for the life of him, Sam could not decipher the garbled protest, full of wails, pouts, and rage.
Clearly, his mother could. ‘Well, I’ll speak to Harriet about that,’ she said to the boy. ‘Now wait just a moment.’
Sam ears were ringing as the boy continued to wail his grievances.
‘Mr Taylor,’ Mrs Chaffey said, a little louder, and stood up. Sam stood as well and pocketed the last shortbread. ‘I’ll have to attend to this, I’m afraid.’ She turned. ‘Francis,’ she admonished the boy abruptly. He took a few gulps and quietened, remembering his manners. Addressing Sam, she said, ‘However, I would like to pack you a hamper to take on your journey. I expect you won’t stay too long in Renmark if Miss O’Rourke is gone.’
Sam hadn’t planned that far ahead, but he would be grateful of a meal to take with him. ‘Thank you, Mrs Chaffey.’ He remembered his hat was under the seat and bent to grab it.
‘Lucy,’ Mrs Chaffey called, and the maid who’d appeared earlier came to the door and stepped out. ‘I’ll deal with Francis—’ who’d begun to yell again about the injustices done to him ‘—if you would please attend to a packed lunch for Mr Taylor.’ She took the boy’s hand firmly and said to Sam, ‘Follow Lucy around to the kitchen. Good day, Mr Taylor. I wish you luck. Do let me know when you have found her.’
‘I will. Thank you, Mrs Chaffey,’ he repeated as she led away the aggrieved boy.
Lucy’s glance darted at Sam. ‘This way.’
They headed in the opposite direction to Mrs Chaffey, around the side of the house and along to the kitchen room. Lucy pointed to a seat outside the open back door. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ She ducked inside.
Sam sat again and stared across at the two great stone wheels on a circular slab. A slight man, fair to red hair, wearing a singlet and loose trousers was cleaning the set up. ‘What’s over there?’ he asked of Lucy, poking his head into the kitchen and thumbing over his shoulder.
Lucy looked past him, her dark eyes frowning a little as she focused into the light. ‘The olive press. It’s resting now. Mr Mead is waiting for another crop.’
‘Olive press?’
‘We extract oil for cooking here, bottle and sell it.’
Sam had never heard of olive oil, but then he wasn’t a cook either. That was Maggie’s department, and the last time she’d cooked anything when he was nearby was—
‘I have information.’ Lucy was wrapping damper in a brown paper bag. Then she packed dried fruit and jerky and boiled eggs.
Sam stood in the doorway. ‘Yes?’
Lucy kept her voice low. ‘After it happened, Nara snuck back and told me how Maggie got that iron pick-up, run over and crashed it on his head.’ Nervous, darting a glance here and there but not at Sam, she kept packing his hamper. So far, she had three packages for him to take and she was still reaching for more. ‘Then Nara left.’
Sam took a deep breath in. ‘Did you speak to Maggie after?’
She shook her head. ‘She’d long gone, Nara said. I haven’t seen her. But my Bert—he delivers goods here—he says he saw her at the wharf that day. He thought she got on a paddle-steamer. I’m not sure which one.’ Lucy ducked around him to peer out the door. ‘I haven’t told anyone about this, and neither has Bert. Mr Boyd is right nasty. Nothing proved, mind, just people gossiping. There’s horrible things said about him.’
‘What horrible things?’ His heart felt like it rolled for a moment as he faced the last thing he wanted to hear. ‘Do you think she’s alive?’
Lucy’s eyes widened. ‘Oh, I’ve worried you unduly. I’m sure she is. Nara said that she and her husband would keep an eye out for her, and they’ve gone too. They were friends with Maggie. She made us all friends, even real poor people like them, like Nara.’ She stopped a moment and took a breath. ‘Besides, if she did get on a boat, Mr Boyd might not even know about it. We certainly haven’t said a thing, not even to Mrs Chaffey.’ She chewed her lip. ‘We’d get into such trouble if she found out we hadn’t said anythin
g. It’s been two weeks now.’
Sam rubbed his chin hard. Two weeks. He needed to hurry up, be on his way, back to the wharf, at least. Mr Strike said he’d be there a couple of hours more if Sam needed to go further and time was passing. ‘Did Bert say which way she went?’
‘He thinks downriver. There was a few boats in, he told me, and he was helping unload.’ She shoved a thick slice of some sort of cake into the last of the three bags and dumped all of them in front of him. She swiped the back of her hand over her forehead. She frowned again, thinking then finally looked at him. ‘I forget which boats.’
‘Right.’ Sam peered at the bundles of food in his arms as aromas of pastry and fruit reached his nose. His stomach growled, and he looked up. ‘Your Bert, how do I find him?’
‘He’s a big fella. Bright orange hair, lots of freckles. Always smiling. If he’s at the wharf, you won’t miss him. Here,’ she said and wrapped a piece of paper around a small biscuit with a dollop of jam poked into it. She handed it to him. ‘Give him this. He’ll know it’s from me.’
‘Thank you, Miss Lucy.’ He tucked the treat into his pocket. If he didn’t find Bert at least he’d have this sweet to enjoy.
‘Mr Taylor,’ Lucy said as he turned to go. ‘If any of us could have a crack at Mr Boyd, we’d go at him the same way he uses his fists and give him a taste of his own medicine.’ She demonstrated double-handed thumps on a lump of dough on the table. She stopped. ‘Not me, personally. My Bert would, and others, and not half for his wandering hands and all, on us women.’ Her frown appeared. ‘Don’t tell anyone I told you about where she went.’
He stared at her pinched face, the flour-dusty hands clasped over her apron. ‘I won’t. Good day.’
Sam left her and went back to the hitching rail at the front of the house. He stowed the packets of food in the saddlebags and gave Pie a couple of soothing rubs. ‘Back to the wharf, old boy,’ he said, and Pie’s ears pricked. ‘We’ve got a trail to follow.’ He’d just put a foot into the stirrup when Pie snorted, skittered a little. ‘Whoa, Pie.’ Thinking it might have been a snake spooking the horse, he stepped out of the stirrup and looked around.
Nearby and sitting patiently, was a liver-brown, curly coated dog, stocky-built, deep-chested, and with large floppy ears. Golden-yellow eyes stared solemnly up at him. The dog’s glance shifted quickly to Pie but settled back on Sam.
Holding Pie’s reins, and making more soothing sounds, Sam squatted close to the dog. ‘Mate, my old Pie doesn’t know too much about dogs. Who’re you?’
‘Bucky,’ a voice piped up.
At his name, the dog’s tail swished in the dirt. Sam looked across and young Margaret stood on the verandah. ‘Bucky, is it?’ he asked of her as he looked down.
Another swish.
‘He’s come off a boat,’ she said. ‘His master died, and Bucky hasn’t taken to another boat. He come up here to us and the men don’t mind him around. He gets rats and things. He’s good at getting the ducks when they fall in the water after being shot.’
‘Fine-looking dog.’ Sam lifted his foot to the stirrup again and the dog jiggled his body expectantly.
‘I heard you talking to Lucy about Miss Maggie. She right took to Bucky.’ Margaret’s soft burr seemed urgent.
Sam swung into the saddle. He looked at her, then at the dog. ‘Did she, now?’
‘You going to find Miss Maggie?’
Sam doffed his hat at her. ‘I intend to do just that, miss.’
‘And Bucky right took to Miss Maggie, they’re friends,’ she blurted. ‘He’s not really ours. You could take him with you.’ She seemed on the verge of tears.
‘I don’t know much about dogs.’
‘Don’t need to.’ Margaret stood solemnly on the verandah, one hand by her side, fingers fiddling with the edge of her pinafore, the other hand in a pocket. Her stare was intense. ‘If you’re going to get on a boat, he’s a boat dog. They’re called river dogs.’
‘You said he hasn’t taken to another boat.’
‘He will with you, if you’re looking for Maggie.’
Margaret seemed intent on Sam taking Bucky. The dog still sat expectantly, looking up at Sam, his tail swiping a hollow in the dirt. Seemed Bucky was intent on Sam taking him as well.
‘Nara said he could track things too, like she and Wadgie can. They learned some from the blacks,’ the girl said.
‘Where is Nara?’
‘Don’t know. Bucky sometimes lives with her, but she’s now gone, too.’ Margaret’s chin puckered as she withdrew her hand from her pocket. In it was a clean and folded handkerchief. ‘This is Maggie’s. I went in her room. Don’t tell Mama.’
Sam’s heart thundered.
Margaret took the steps down to where Pie stood and held the handkerchief to Bucky, who was still watching Sam. The dog took a sniff, eyes on Sam, and his tail thumped.
Sam reached down for the handkerchief. He also put it to his nose and breathed in, not sure he could pick up Maggie’s scent, but at least it was something of hers.
The dog’s tail thumped hard and he got to his feet. ‘All right, dog,’ Sam said. There was an elated full-body waggle from Bucky.
Margaret burst into tears. ‘Goodbye, Bucky.’
‘I’ll look after him, Margaret,’ Sam said.
‘He’ll look after you,’ she answered, her bottom lip quivering.
As he turned Pie, the dog following a safe distance from Pie’s hooves, Sam muttered, ‘He probably will at that.’
Fourteen
Eleanor held her husband’s hand. The doctor from Echuca had just been to see him, and had left without being able to give her much more information.
The big warm hand in hers was still callused, even though he had been in his bed for days now. The pads of her fingers traced them, and she stared at the scars across his knuckles. Her thumb brushed them, resting on his wedding finger that was bent at the big joint. Each injury, big or small had a story. Lorcan’s story.
She looked up as her son spoke.
‘The doctor told me that Pa is in a deep sleep.’
Eleanor nodded. ‘He said not a coma, but alike to one. That perhaps there is a deep infection somewhere and his body is fighting it.’ Even as she said the words, the heaviness in her chest deepened.
Ard folded his arms across his chest. ‘So we have to wait until the infection breaks. I will sit with him, Ma. You need to sleep.’
‘Perhaps later. I’ll call you in.’ She smiled at him. ‘No movement from my new grandchild? No expectation of an arrival?’
Ard pushed off the doorway, shook his head. ‘Linley is still waddling about and has now decided to clean windows.’ He shrugged. ‘I wouldn’t have thought windows would be on her mind right now.’
‘Ah,’ said Eleanor. ‘Windows. Well, lad, let her go. It occupies her, but you keep an eye out when you can.’ She didn’t say that a burst of energy in the mother sometimes augured the baby’s readiness to come into the world.
‘I’ll be at the stables,’ Ard said. ‘The two new stalls are nearly done. I can hear your shout from there, if it comes to that.’ He came across and planted a kiss on her head. Reaching over to brush away a lock fallen onto his father’s forehead, he said, ‘He’s not too hot now.’
‘We have to take him off the laudanum, slowly. Perhaps the persistence of pain will wake him.’
Ard squeezed her shoulder. ‘I’ll just be over behind my house, Ma.’
She watched as he left the bedroom. Her son was almost a mirror image of his father. Strong, built solidly but with height to balance. Black wavy hair. Piercing blue eyes, twinkling most of the time, but when stormy, they would darken. As she gazed at her husband’s face, she wondered when the deeper lines on his cheeks had appeared. Eleanor knew almost the exact month the silver streaks had appeared in his hair, though they’d arrived in his beard long before—bristly tufts at his chin when he’d not shaved for days.
She sighed aloud. Maggie’s colouring was just
as dark as her brother’s, but her temperament was very different. Where Ard was slow to anger, Maggie was quick, and her blue eyes would flash like her father’s … Where was she now?
Eleanor squeezed Lorc’s hand again. He didn’t know she was missing. Couldn’t bring herself to say so. It had only been days since Sam had left. No point waiting for any news yet.
She wouldn’t tell him; it would be a fright to him. The doctor had assured her it was most likely Lorcan couldn’t hear her, but Eleanor knew her husband. He’d hear everything. She smiled a little at that. So, she decided she would talk to him of other things while she sat. Even if he wasn’t interested, she had a captive audience.
She placed her other hand on his as well and her fingers found his pulse, the solid pump of it. It heartened her, and she lifted his wrist to her lips, pressing a kiss there.
‘Our son tells me the two new stalls in the stable are nearly done, and that Linley is waiting for baby by cleaning windows. That reminds me, so long ago now—of course, we didn’t have windows then, but do you remember when …’
Fifteen
The previous day’s steaming out of Lyrup had been an uneventful short few hours, and Maggie had hoped the calming sail would allow a good night’s sleep. By the time they’d tied up somewhere yesterday, if anything, she felt more agitated and her night was restless once again. How long would it take to settle down? Four days had already passed.
It hadn’t been the first time today that she’d smelled smoke on the breeze, thinking nothing of it until she realised it persisted. It wasn’t coming from the tiny galley stove; she’d checked. Only big enough for two cooking hobs on the top and for a small damper inside, it was easily managed. She supposed that sometimes the men cooked outdoors on open campfires so a big oven inside wasn’t required. Besides, she had tamped it down to glowing coals after they’d had tea. Her mutton stew was sitting in the pot waiting to be reheated later for the evening meal, so no new wood was burning in the galley.