by Darry Fraser
Her eyes were adjusting, too, and she saw his hand in front of her. She was still scared. ‘Don’t touch me,’ she snapped. She turned over onto her hands and knees and pushed up on one leg, hopping perilously but she managed it. A solid rod of iron bumped her and she realised his arm had shot out. She grabbed it and he steadied her.
‘Don’t let go if you intend to come in for the night. You’ll break your neck in this dark.’
‘I need something from the horse.’
‘First I’m going to take you to the verandah and sit you down. Then I’ll get you inside. I’ll get your horse. What’s his name?’
‘Salty.’
‘Salty?’ He clamped his arm to his side, pulling her to him. ‘You’ve come from Nebo’s camp. That’s Tillie’s horse.’
‘Yes, yes,’ she said impatiently, and even to her own ears, it sounded as if she’d whimpered as well. ‘It’s a long story, but my sister and I were set upon by bushrangers at a hold-up—’
‘Bloody Nebo.’ It was barely audible.
‘—and she’s still at your brother’s camp. Tillie was there and loaned me her horse to find you.’ She limped along, his forearm hard and warm under her hand.
The silence from him felt tight in the night air and only a few shuffles later, he stopped as she heard a soft thump, perhaps his shin on something.
A grunted expletive, then a hissed intake of breath. ‘I’ve found the verandah,’ he muttered, his tone wry. He helped her turn. ‘Now, there’s much more to this story, so you’ll tell me all about it.’
She groped her way down and sat heavily. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a flicker, then the glow of candlelight appeared in the window.
‘Zeke?’ a male voice called softly. A tired face appeared, strangely familiar.
‘Aye, Jude, it’s me.’
As Ezekiel padded up to his brother, Jude handed a lantern out the window for him to take. As the light swung, Ezekiel’s face was also familiar—quite the strong resemblance between the three brothers. Nebo Jones was nothing to write home to Mama about, so to speak, and the older brother looked very much older, handsome in a craggy sort of way. But this brother, this Ezekiel, Zeke … Elsa felt her mouth dry. His face was—
‘Seems we have a late night visitor,’ Ezekiel told him. ‘Go back to bed.’
The face still peered out, eyes squinting. ‘You all right?’
‘Aye, I’m all right.’
There was a silence and Elsa glanced up. Ezekiel Jones’s intense gaze was on her and her breath caught. ‘I think’ she thought he said, and his dark eyes were gleaming in the lantern light.
It was awkward. She’d had to lean on him and try to shuffle, hop quietly alongside the verandah, as they made their way to the back door. Inside, she was directed to what might once have been a parlour room of some sort. Barely used, she noted once he’d set down the lantern. He lit another and the room appeared to be used as a store. But in it was a narrow cot by the far wall, and he bid her sit on it. Then he left.
She could hear him murmur to someone down the passage, and when he returned he brought a pitcher of water and a bowl. He set them down on a small table after swiping a stack of old newspapers from it. Turning to look for something, he found it in the corner and pulled a sheet off a piece of furniture. It revealed a commode chair, its chamber pot underneath. Satisfied, he dragged it closer to the cot and left it there.
With a foot he pushed a latched timber trunk into the middle of the room and sat on it, facing her. His feet were clad only in socks, no surprise they were filthy from the bid to run her down. His trousers were tied with a leather belt around his waist and his plain shirt was crumpled. Tufts of dark hair sprouted through the unbuttoned neck. Elsa was sure she had her mouth open. Certainly, her breath was coming a little faster—she couldn’t seem to get enough air. But his face—there was the kindness which she believed was in him. His eyes were dark, and a slight frown was a constant over them. His nose had a bump in it, perhaps it had been broken. The set of his mouth was easy, as if he was comfortable, his upper lip under a shadow of stubble, his lower lip over a glint of what might have been two-day-old silver whiskers. There wasn’t a hint of a smile, but he wasn’t angry, either.
He eyed her. ‘Though the hour is not conducive, a little chitchat might not be amiss. You already know who I am. You must introduce yourself.’ He rested his forearms on his thighs, lacing his large and gnarled fingers. Farmer’s hands. Well used to tightening leather, straining wire on fence posts, hammering horseshoes. There’d been broken bones. One finger had healed bent. The shape of his hands was familiar to her by way of their work.
‘Oh, yes,’ she said and nodded, distracted as she’d been by other things. ‘I’m Elsa Goody, my sister is Rosie. You wrote to our father, Curtis Goody, about the death of our brother George. You’ve buried George on your property.’
His brows furrowed, and this time he didn’t appear comfortable. ‘You’re Curtis Goody’s daughter?’
She really did not like the sudden dark look that crossed his face. He doesn’t believe me. ‘Yes. And when you’re able to get Salty and find my satchel, the letter you sent us is in there. It’ll prove who I am.’
He thrust off the trunk and stood over her so suddenly Elsa reared back on the cot. Her feet scuffed the floorboards as she tried to keep some distance. She winced as her sore foot protested.
He thrust a thumb over his shoulder. ‘I’ve met a man who calls himself Curtis Goody, and George’s father,’ he said, his teeth clenched. ‘He attacked Jude, my brother, a day ago. Stabbed him, left him in a pool of blood. What are you up to?’
Baffled, shocked, Elsa cried, ‘My pa is dead, Mr Jones. Dead a day after we received your letter about George, barely a week ago. What are you talking about?’ Pressing herself against the wall, wary, and her pulse thudding in her throat, she stared as Ezekiel Jones blinked back his fury. Which one of us is mad? ‘My satchel. Get my satchel, it’s got your letter.’
‘When I find that man again,’ Mr Jones muttered to her, ‘he’ll wish he was dead.’ He spun around, grabbed a lantern and stormed out of the room. Next, she heard his footfalls on the verandah, and a long throaty whistle followed.
A horse whinnied, and she heard more of Ezekiel’s murmurs. The dogs had begun to bark again, but another whistle, sharp this time, silenced them. She thought she’d heard children cry out, and then a woman’s soothing voice calming them.
She waited, straining to hear something more. It seemed like ages had passed before hurried footfalls sounded on the verandah. Then he was back in the room, her satchel in his hands. He set down the lantern then held out the bag for her.
She grabbed it, frowning and indignant. Just to set him straight, she said, ‘I don’t know who you think you’ve met, but it is most definitely not my father.’ This time it was her jaw that clenched. She was so angry—she couldn’t stop the tears forming, trembling. She dashed them as they fell and they stopped. Her father was dead. How could Ezekiel Jones possibly think that he’d seen her father here, in this district? She rummaged in the satchel and snatched out his letter. Threw it at him.
He caught it, checked it. Pulled the single-page letter from the envelope and bent closer to the lantern. Elsa could easily see that he recognised what it was. She watched his features crease, shaken, bewildered.
When he looked up, his eyes were fiery under twisted brows. ‘I took him to your brother’s grave,’ he said, apologetic, perhaps horrified that he’d made such an error of judgement.
He lies by a great eucalypt on my land, a place of peace and comfort, and he faces the colony of his birth.
His written words now played across Elsa’s mind in the compassionate tone she could hear in him. The letter, and his voice just now, was not that of a cold-hearted man. They were of someone who had known sorrow, and grief, who’d known the importance of comfort in dark times. She’d felt it when she first read his letter, when she first realised how deeply his prose had touc
hed her. How kind, she’d thought at the time. She remembered it clearly.
Then he looked to the ceiling and spoke, relief in his voice. ‘I did not give him your brother’s belongings.’
‘I’m grateful for that,’ she said softly. She held out her hand for the letter. ‘Will you take me to my brother’s grave in the morning?’
‘I will.’ He tucked the page into the envelope and handed it back to her. ‘I have the packet containing the locket. If you’ll allow, I’ll bring it to you now.’
Elsa nodded. She thought it strange that he still had it with him, after meeting a person he’d believed to be George’s father. He must have had his suspicions. But she was happy and relieved that it would be returned to her and Rosie. As she huddled on the cot, his look at her lingered a moment before he left the room. She laced her shaking fingers and she waited.
Lantern light barely flickered in the still night as she listened to the stirrings of the house. A snore from somewhere, a cry that sounded as if it came from a child’s dream, soft footfalls on the boards. She breathed in its scents. Furniture polish—perhaps a lemon fragrance. Musty paper. Dust. It wasn’t a new house, but was sturdily built, she could tell. The timber floors were older and shot-edged—the planks butted together—but the walls were more recent tongue-and-groove, as if the place had been refurbished. The planks were most definitely milled, and pine probably. How lovely—a proper house. She’d seen others like it at home in Robe. She wondered if he worked at a sawmill, or was this a farmhouse and he ran sheep, perhaps he grew crops. She couldn’t tell in the dark of the night, but as lanolin and urea odours were very faint, she guessed that he was more a crop farmer.
Ezekiel appeared at the door, his face blank, a packet wrapped in newspaper in his big hands. ‘This is what my brother gave me of George’s.’
It looked very small, but recognising it, she knew that inside was a memory that could never be replaced, that was more precious than anything else she had ever held in her hands.
He placed the parcel gently in her outstretched hand. Unwrapping it, she nodded; it was all she could do in response as she drew it to her chest. Her throat closed with emotion so strong she couldn’t speak, and a sob almost tore from her. She held on, her stomach tight, fearful she would crack and not recover.
Composing herself, she glanced up through unshed tears. He’d been watching her, and now looked around, as if undecided what to do next. He bent to the trunk, unlatched it and drew out a beautiful quilt, faintly fragrant with herbs and some sort of spice. He dropped it onto the cot. ‘I have no spare pillow,’ he said. He looked fierce about that.
‘No matter,’ she said, and it wasn’t.
‘I’ll put Salty in the stable with the other horses.’ Then he said, ‘Remember, there’s a madman out there and this is the safest place for you to be. So don’t think about leaving in the night.’
Elsa blinked. Sniffed. She straightened up, the envelope still held tight. ‘I’d hardly get very far, would I? I have a broken bone in my foot.’ Her foot throbbed as if agreeing with her.
His features softened. ‘Someone will help you with your foot in the morning. And … again,’ he indicated his letter. ‘My condolences about your father. Goodnight, Miss Goody.’ And with that, he turned, his feet whispering over the floorboards as he left the room.
‘Goodnight,’ she called to his back. ‘And thank you, Mr Jones.’ He might not have heard her.
She let out a long breath, and still clutching the packet, gathered the quilt around her as best she could and tucked in her feet. She lay down and opened the newspaper parcel, angling it towards the light.
In it was a stiff envelope, folded and clasped with a piece of twine hooked loosely over a dob of cracked sealing wax; it had been opened. She unwound the twine and shook out three buttons, nondescript little wooden ones that George might’ve made himself, and clearly something he thought he might have needed. Perhaps Pa had it drilled into him, to keep up appearances should his shirt be missing buttons. She couldn’t really imagine that, though. She turned one of them over. Something was scratched in it, the letter ‘R’. She turned over another and it had the letter ‘G’ on it. The third had ‘E’ on it. They were his and his sisters’ initials.
George. A sentimental wanderer. Her heart filled, and a sob escaped this time. Next, she withdrew the handkerchief that was wrapped around the locket. As far as she could tell it was clean—thank you, George. Perhaps he’d kept it so for securing his mother’s likeness. She felt for the tiny clasp and opened the piece. Inside was the sealed but unmistakable lock of her hair, and the picture of her mother Kitty, unsmiling, gazing serenely in profile.
A peace descended on Elsa. No tears. No lump in her throat. She gazed at her mother’s likeness and let long-forgotten memories race and tumble over her. She touched the tiny glass under which was the curl of shiny dark brown hair, then carefully closed the locket. She kissed it and, clutching it to her cheek, remained still for long moments. Sighing, she tucked the locket back into the packet. She lay awake, the reminiscences receding, then she leaned over, blew out the lantern light and snuggled down.
Drowsy, she wondered who’d made the quilt, and who’d stored it so lovingly with rosemary and lavender and another spicy scent she couldn’t identify. Restless throughout the night, whenever she rolled over, the scent of it brought the picture of Ezekiel Jones’s face—when he’d stared at her under the lantern light by his brother’s window.
Zeke lay down on the swag again, reached over, lifted the lantern glass and blew out the wick. Darkness engulfed him. He’d had to leave the spare room quickly. He was feeling things that had been long gone, that were now unfamiliar. It made him uncertain.
Elsa Goody smelled of horse, musky, grassy, of leather and dust, and beneath that, her own scent, an ambrosia sweet on her skin, and elusive. He took a deep breath, trying to capture the memory. She’d felt all woman when his hands had slid down her legs seeking a hidden weapon. There was no gun—the weapon had been the surprise of her.
He bet her smile would be as wide as sunshine—if he ever saw her smile. And those eyes of hers, staring at him, at first fearful—he couldn’t blame her for that—then angry, and wide, challenging everything he said.
Being the boy’s sister, she’d have to learn everything they could relate to her. He’d given her the packet of his belongings. He’d take her to his grave as soon as he could. She’d have to meet Jude.
Damn. There was Mrs Hartman to look after. The kids would help. Maybe he should keep them away from school because of this imposter Curtis Goody on the loose. Who knew what the man would try?
He turned on his side, away from Jude’s soft rumbles. His brother seemed comfortable, and out of danger from the knife wound.
But his thoughts wouldn’t let him sleep. There was a woman on his mind, a woman with a forthright stare, a proud stance despite a broken foot, and a clear and bright confidence in her speech. A capable woman.
A woman with a supple, strong body. Younger than he, but not immature. A woman to whom he’d responded—on a deeper level than just the obvious (to him, at least), and one who looked as if she’d felt it, too.
Oh sure, his cock was responding, and thank Christ it was—meant he wasn’t dead to the pleasures of the world, but he was too tired, and that could wait. He rolled on his back again, closed his eyes and slept.
Twenty-Nine
Elsa could feel the flutter on her lashes. What was that? She was asleep, wasn’t she? And yet, it was a breath … It was someone, or something was breathing, steady and low. Close to her face.
No light had crept under her eyelids. No sounds had pricked her ears. Frozen in place, not daring to move, she tried desperately to remember where she was. Rosemary. Lavender. Oh yes. Ezekiel Jones’s house.
She made a noise. If it was some animal, a dog perhaps, staring down at her, maybe it would scurry away.
‘Oh good,’ a child’s voice said. ‘Pa said not to wake you, but
I brung you some tea.’ It was a lispy whisper. ‘I didn’t wake you, did I? I’ll get in trouble ’cos I’m not allowed to be in here.’
A child’s voice. Elsa cranked open one eye and found she was face-to-face with a young boy whose big brown eyes were studying her. He had a tin cup in one hand, steam was rising from it. ‘No, you didn’t wake me,’ she said, her whisper as quiet as his. The moment her eyes had opened, her foot began to throb.
‘Then you better hurry up and drink the tea. I have to go to school.’ He stayed close, reached out, and stroked her cheek with his other hand. ‘You’re real.’
‘I am real,’ she said and struggled to sit up, tangled as she was in the quilt.
‘Will you be here when we come back from school?’ he asked, still very close to her face.
There was no mistaking whose child this was. He was Ezekiel Jones’s son, that was very clear. The boy was as alike to his father as peas in a pod, right down to the line of his jaw, the colour of his eyes, even the tilt of his head. The resemblance was strong to Nebo Jones, as well, but there was no mistaking whose child he was. But there was another dimension there. Not all Ezekiel. The boy’s mother would have made her mark on him, possibly the deep dimple in one cheek.
The boy’s mother. The female voice she’d heard murmur last night. No doubt Elsa would meet her soon. So better be quick to put those stupid thoughts from last night out of your stupid head. She squeezed her scratchy, dry eyes shut and open again. Barely made any difference.
‘Will you be here?’ he repeated, insistent.
Elsa couldn’t see herself leaving today. ‘Today I should be here. Tomorrow I might have to go.’
‘What’s your name?’ He still whispered and thrust the cup at her.
‘Elsa,’ she said and took the cup before the contents landed in her lap. ‘What’s yours?’
Nose to her nose, ‘Jonty,’ he said.
‘Pleased to meet you, Jonty.’