by Darry Fraser
Elsa gently shook her off; it was too hard to dwell on that. Before she lost the ability to summon her voice, she said, ‘I must get to the farm. I’ll be back by tea. I hope the store isn’t too busy for you until then.’
After deciding to lease the farm—they could only get a pittance and Elsa had already signed the lease papers—the bakery was all they had to keep them going for now. But once again, Rosie had changed her mind and was all for getting rid of that, too. Elsa couldn’t keep up, she just plodded along.
Out at the farm, clutching one of Rosie’s shawls about her shoulders, Elsa looked around the dusty yards of their property. Rain had come and gone. It was another cloudless day, and now the cool drift of early spring swirled on the sea breeze.
Standing in the paddocks of home, she inhaled a deep breath of fresh air. Elsa would miss the farm, despite how much extra work it added. It would be hard to leave the place of her childhood, and where her parents and her brothers lay. Leased or not, no matter what, she’d still come here to visit the graves.
The graves. She shook off a strange sensation, as if in her mind she’d heard an echo and couldn’t make it out. Just her nerves jangling—all this planning, changing the plans, the fatigue, the waiting. That was the worst. What would Ezekiel’s reaction have been, if he had answered? She was anxious for mail, waiting for his letter to arrive, telling her that he understood and forgave her. Telling her anything. If he chose to write.
Elsa turned, heartsore, and walked inside the family’s old house, hugging the shawl against the crisp air. She picked up the milking stool, rested it against the wall of the hut and sat down. The kettle was still on the cooker, but the oven was cold. The hutch was empty, clean, and the one remaining pot hung from a nail in the wall nearby. Leaning back, she looked around, idly wondered who on earth would have left one lone pot and stolen most everything else. Some people were just too desperate, and still no end of the depression in sight. Besides, as Rosie had said long ago, the place must have looked abandoned to those who had come here. She could well imagine that.
Drifting, closing her eyes, she let the events of the last long weeks whirl around. She pushed aside the memories of the danger, and the murders. Too horrible to relive. She wanted only to think of Ezekiel, of his children. Of Jonty, the little boy who wanted a mama, of when he told her he knew where George’s grave was. Of what Ezekiel had told her George mumbled when—
She opened her eyes. The graves. A wraith-like touch feathered along her arm.
Ezekiel’s voice. ‘He said something like “we’ll save the farm … It’s in the dirt.”’
That horrible man’s voice. ‘He talked of the tin bein’ at the graves … Nothin’ at the graves on your brother’s place, Mr Jones, and nothin’ at yours.’
The graves. Oh, George—the graves here!
Elsa shot off the stool and crashed outside, throwing off the shawl. Her feet pounded on the cold, hard dirt. Ignoring the recently healed bone in her foot, she ran, stumbling and tripping across the yard to where her parents were buried, to where the earth was still soft over her father.
And there—something she’d seen oh-so-long ago but had barely noticed—was the loosened dirt by her mother’s marker. She dropped to her knees and cried an apology to her mother. Tearing at the foot of the marker, she tossed aside the dirt and pebbles and twigs and ants and … was now scraping, scratching and digging with her hands, fingers gouging the deeper, damp soil. Tears were falling as she swept open a small hole and—oh my Lord—it’s here, the tin.
She pushed grazed fingertips down and lifted it out, hearing the unmistakable clink and slide of coins. Falling on her backside, the grave marker lying flat beside her, she stared at the narrow, weighty tin. Rectangular, only an inch or so deep, its lid was clapped on, no hinges. She tilted it this way and that, tried to pry it open. Etched crudely on the lid were the letters ‘R’, ‘G’ and ‘E’.
Dear George. He’d hidden the tin here for the three of them.
Fifty-Four
Poor Peppin had probably never galloped as hard pulling the cart back to town. Elsa was laughing as she flicked his reins. In the back, she’d barely tied down the milking stool or the lone pot and they slid and jangled in the cart. She didn’t care.
She’d found the tin, and George had left it right in front of her all this time. No matter how hard life had looked, it would ease considerably now if they were careful—if there were indeed thirty sovereigns inside the tin. A fortune.
Oh, she couldn’t wait to tell Rosie.
In town, she braked the cart next to another horse in front of the bakery, and with the tin tucked under her arm, she ran to the door and rushed inside.
Rosie was finishing with Mrs Collins, and handing her change of a pound coin. Fit to bursting and barely being able to wait, Elsa hopped from one foot to the other. Dust from the drive floated from her, and her hair had become unruly again—she puffed it out of her face, swiped it with her free hand, and rubbed her scraped and dirt-filled fingernails on her dress. She didn’t care. The tin tucked under her arm—oh joy—was such a bright light after the awful events of the last months. And then Rosie did an unusual thing. As soon as Mrs Collins left, she walked to the front door and shut it, turning out the CLOSED sign.
‘Finally,’ Elsa burst. ‘Oh, Rosie, look, It’s George’s tin.’
Rosie, coming back to her at the counter, lit up. She reached to grab it. ‘Oh, that’s so wonderful. It’ll come in very—’
‘It was at Ma’s grave all this time.’ Elsa brushed Rosie’s hands aside. She slapped the tin onto the counter, grabbed the towel tucked into Rosie’s pinny and wiped dust from the lid. ‘It all just seemed to come to me when—’
‘Elsa.’
‘—I was sitting out at the farm and … What’s the matter?’ She realised Rosie’s tone was strange. ‘You’re not excited? But it’s the best thing that could’ve happened—’
‘Elsa.’ Ezekiel stepped out from the back of the shop. Her breath caught. He came around the counter to her. ‘Hello, my love,’ he said, reaching for her.
‘You’re here,’ she breathed, and slid into his arms, touched his cheeks to make sure he was real. Her heart was light, her head woolly. ‘Oh, finding the tin is nowhere near … This is the best thing that could ever have happened.’ She stared unblinking into his handsome, smiling face, his darkly glinting eyes searching hers. ‘Ezekiel.’
He took her hands, brought them to his chest. ‘I was summonsed,’ he said, tilting his head towards Rosie.
Elsa, wide-eyed, looked from him to her sister.
Rosie folded her arms, looked a little flushed. ‘Well,’ she said, in a huff. ‘I’d been selfish for too long, Elsa, and despite the—’ she took a breath, ‘—indelicacy, I could no longer allow the, um, whole burden of it, and the bakery, and with me being with—all … to fall on your shoulders.’
Elsa blinked in surprise and then suspicion of her sister’s motivation descended. A frown threatened.
Ezekiel bent to Elsa. He smelled of horse, and leather, and the dust on his shirt was grainy under her fingers. ‘How could I not come for you, and for your sister, when I learned of Nebo’s child?’ He smiled and swung Elsa with him to speak to her sister. ‘I knew my brother well, Rosie. He’s sorely missed and the child you carry is part of him, so part of our family.’ At Rosie’s prim nod, her colour high, he said to Elsa, ‘And I was so affected after your last letter that I forgot a second one had arrived at the same time.’
Rosie cleared her throat. ‘I wrote to Mr Jones and mailed it the same day of your last letter. Told him myself of the, er, my predicament.’
Elsa stared at Rosie, increasingly stern. Rosie’s ‘predicament’. ‘How hard that must have been for you to tell Ezekiel, Rosie.’ Ezekiel’s arms shifted, tightened around her but she went on, ‘To take such a risk.’
Rosie, her eyes downcast, waved a hand. ‘Oh, was only, er, uncomfortable while I was writing.’ She went on in a hurry. ‘I told Mr Jones you
wouldn’t come to him because you wouldn’t leave me, that was the whole reason.’ She glanced at Ezekiel. ‘And I believed by telling a gentleman, such as Mr Jones, of—family news, that my reputation would’ve been protected.’
Rosie’s effrontery. Astounded, Elsa could hardly believe her ears. Rosie had ensured the security of her own future and that of her child. Why, she’d begun to do that from the moment she knew she was with child: having Elsa leave the farm, having her slave in the bakery, half dead on her feet, mopping up after her …
But it had brought Ezekiel.
Rosie, rushing on, ducked back behind the counter, clearly believing it to be a safe distance. ‘So in the light of that, because of course I knew you wanted to be with Mr Jones, I also asked that I might be allowed to accompany you both to Casterton.’ At Elsa’s amazed glare, she said hurriedly, ‘To make a new life for myself there.’ She paused, looking from one to the other. ‘If my presence would not disturb his family.’
Ezekiel shook Elsa a little as if to distract her. ‘A child arriving is not disturbing. It’s disturbing that there’ve been too many in my family already departed. We welcome Rosie and Nebo’s child, Elsa.’ He pulled her closer. His eyes were merry, and a smile twitched. ‘Nebo told me that he wanted Rosie as his wife. I thought then how well suited they were to each other.’ The wry smile remained.
Poor Nebo.
Rosie smarted, had the grace to look uneasy.
Ezekiel kissed Elsa’s forehead. ‘I would’ve come to you anyway, to hear with my own ears that you didn’t want to be with me. I refused to believe it from your letter. Then Rosie’s letter confirmed it, gave me the best excuse to come,’ he said.
Ezekiel’s grip on her hadn’t lessened. He was a good man; she’d known it from the very first. I would’ve come to you anyway. Elsa’s glare softened towards her sister.
Rosie saw it, and triumphant, broke the silence—back to her bossy self. ‘Now, if you’ll both kindly take yourselves into the parlour,’ she said, ‘I must re-open the store. We are expecting prospective purchasers for the bakery.’
‘What?’
‘I wouldn’t move colonies and be as poor as a church mouse, too. For goodness sake, Elsa,’ Rosie tut-tutted. ‘And take that grubby little box of coins with you. It’s made a mess.’ She walked to the front of the store, opened the door and effusively greeted a man and woman there.
Elsa clutched the tin and tugged Ezekiel into the small well-lit parlour warmed by the bakery ovens in the next room. Daylight cheerfully swathed the room in a pale, yellow haze. Dropping the container with a clatter, she spun in his arms and held his face in her hands. ‘I still cannot believe you’re here, Ezekiel, in front of my eyes.’
He whirled her around and hugged her. ‘That’s from Giff and Gracie and Jonty. They’re with Jude and Lily, desperate for your return.’ Then he kissed her hard. ‘And that’s from me.’
She stopped him, anxious. ‘Ezekiel, Rosie planned all this, orchestrated that you come here. I would never trick—’
‘I know that, and good, I’m glad she did. Here I am.’ He brushed wisps of hair from her face, planted another kiss on her brow. ‘Besides, I really am happy to know that Nebo’s child is coming.’
Still annoyed at Rosie, she whispered, ‘Do you believe the child is Nebo’s?’
‘Do you believe it?’ At her nod, he said, ‘That’s all I need.’ Ezekiel leaned close to her. ‘I could see at the campsite that my brother and your sister were two peas of the same pod, my love, and I knew Nebo well. They’re both childlike in their selfishness. They’re transparent, needy, jealous.’
‘She didn’t love him.’
‘Ah, but we loved him and so we’ll care for her as Nebo’s widow. The babe will be a happy, well-loved Jones child. You leave dealing with Rosie to me.’
She touched Ezekiel’s face tenderly then took his hand. ‘I’m so sorry I disappointed you with my letter.’ She pressed her lips to his fingers. Her eyes squeezed shut. She was right to love this man.
‘Disappointment is not what I’d call it. It was a good thing Jonty reminded me of the other letter; I might not have recovered so fast. Not the first time the lad has pointed me in the right direction.’ He gave a short laugh. ‘Now I can personally deliver my reply,’ he said and took a wrinkled, folded page out of his pocket. ‘It’s very short. “My dearest Elsa, you must come home to us as quickly as you can. Jonty is very impatient for your company.”’ Raising his gaze from the letter, his dark eyes were now regarding her intently. ‘Not only Jonty,’ he said and kissed her head, burying his face a moment in her hair. ‘Hmm. Dust from the paddock.’
‘I rushed in from the farm with the tin.’ She bent and picked it up.
‘The infamous tin.’
Huddled, they sat together at the little table and pried it open to count the sovereigns. ‘Only twenty-nine,’ Elsa said. ‘George must have found a way to spend one.’ She let her thoughts run to her mop-haired brother. Well, good for him. Then she cheered up. ‘Come on, read the rest of your letter, you haven’t finished,’ she said.
He dropped his hand over hers. ‘It says, “On second thoughts, I’ll come and get you, just to be sure you don’t gallop off on other adventures, my lady bushranger. You are loved and missed, and my life is not complete without you.”’ He tucked a long wavy lock of hair behind her ear. ‘To tell the truth, I didn’t even write that. I plain decided to get on my horse and ride.’ He smoothed her frown. ‘Come home to me. To us.’
‘I will.’ With her head against his, Elsa thought of her family’s farm. She’d leased the place, but it was still her address in South Australia. She leaned back to look at him. ‘I’ll have to come back here to vote though, in the future. Victoria doesn’t allow it yet.’
‘Of course. We’d make it a holiday by the sea each time.’
She leaned back to look at him. ‘I’ll work on your farm,’ she said.
‘You’ll work beside me. You’re a farmer.’
‘I am.’ She thought of Giff and Gracie, and the little lad, Jonty. ‘And I’ll be a mother to your children.’
‘And to ours who’ll follow.’
Her fingertips idled over the stubble on his cheek. ‘I’ll have a good life with you. We’ll have a good life.’
‘We will, my love. I have no doubt.’
Her thoughts strayed to family, and children laughing, hens bustling and kelpies barking. Soon on their farm, there’d be dairy cows, or cattle roaming on those golden plains of Casterton. She smiled. ‘No doubt whatsoever.’
Author’s Note
As usual, any mistakes or omissions are mine.
Rosie and Frank’s bakery in Robe is fictional.
At the time of writing the name of the first woman to vote in the 1896 election in Robe is not known. According to a journalist’s article, she did cast her vote at 9.45am. The State Library of South Australia informed me that electoral roll records from the area for that particular election have not been found. We do hope they still exist, and if they ever come to light, I hope Elsa Goody has done the lady justice.
The story behind the thirty sovereigns was true in part in my own family history going back to the early days of the Depression on the land in Victoria. My great-grandfather discovered the stash after he took up a land division. When no one came forward for them, he was very careful how he spent the find. A dirt-poor farmer would’ve had a hard time trying to change a sovereign back in those days, much less thirty of them.
Acknowledgements
Thanks to my readers, I remain deep in the batcave and in nineteenth-century Australia—long may it continue. Once again thanks to Susan Parslow who casts her eagle eye over my first draft—she always knows when I’ve fallen asleep at the wheel. To Fiona Gilbert who abandons husband Tony to travel with me on our book tours, and who keeps up the flow of essential road trip items, especially for happy hour. To Leon and the team at Leon Bignell MP’s office Aldinga and Kingscote, SA—my day job keeps me connected to
the outside world. To the fabulous history in Liz Harfull’s Almost an Island: The Story of Robe, to the many journals and articles found via my go-to Trove, to the State Library of South Australia. The amazing townships of Robe and Penola in South Australia. The Penola Coonawarra Visitor Information Centre was a gem and a mine of information, as was the wonderful Casterton Visitor Information and Kelpie Centre in Victoria. As always thanks to the booksellers everywhere, especially on the home front, Kangaroo Island: Kingscote Newsagency, Kingscote Gift Shop, Big Quince Print for being so supportive, and to the library in Kingscote and in Penneshaw. My island home had a hell of a finish to 2019 which led into more devastation and desperate heartache of January 2020; the road to recovery will be a long one. Big thanks to the fab team at HarperCollins Harlequin Mira—my publisher Jo Mackay, editor Chrysoula Aiello, and Annabel Adair, Brand Manager Sarana Behan and the creative magic of Darren Holt who brought an evocative Elsa Goody, Bushranger to life on the cover. To my friend, Barbara Goody Ward, for lending her surname for Elsa. And finally, to my writing partner (part kelpie himself), Hamish the Wonder-dog without whom life in the batcave would be very different.
One
Ballarat, Victoria, December 1854
The coach juddered and rocked as it thundered over the rough road. Nell Amberton’s hands trembled in her lap, and not only from the dangerous ride away from the explosive violence at the Eureka stockade this morning. That she could still see her hands, or anything at all, out of one eye, was a blessing but little comfort.
Never had she trembled at anything—in fear or rage—as much until her husband Andrew had barged malevolently into her life. At her father, perhaps, but he was no match for Andrew. He was shouting now ever louder over the grinding whir of the coach wheels as it banged and bounced over the pockmarked road.
‘… Until you are delivered of a male child, I will continue to administer punishment as befits the chit you are.’ He glared and pointed at her eye. ‘I see you didn’t attempt to hide the results of your comeuppance this time.’