Elsa Goody, Bushranger Read online

  DARRY FRASER’S first novel, Daughter of the Murray, is set on her beloved River Murray where she spent part of her childhood. Where the Murray River Runs, her second novel, is set in Bendigo in the 1890s, and her third novel, The Widow of Ballarat, takes place on the Ballarat goldfields in the 1850s. The Good Woman of Renmark is set on the mighty Murray in the 1890s once again. Darry currently lives, works and writes on Kangaroo Island, an awe-inspiring place off the coast of South Australia.

  Also by Darry Fraser

  Daughter of the Murray

  Where the Murray River Runs

  The Widow of Ballarat

  The Good Woman of Renmark

  www.harlequinbooks.com.au

  Dad

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Darry Fraser

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Twenty-Six

  Twenty-Seven

  Twenty-Eight

  Twenty-Nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-One

  Thirty-Two

  Thirty-Three

  Thirty-Four

  Thirty-Five

  Thirty-Six

  Thirty-Seven

  Thirty-Eight

  Thirty-Nine

  Forty

  Forty-One

  Forty-Two

  Forty-Three

  Forty-Four

  Forty-Five

  Forty-Six

  Forty-Seven

  Forty-Eight

  Forty-Nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-One

  Fifty-Two

  Fifty-Three

  Fifty-Four

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgements

  Excerpt

  One

  Robe, 1896

  My brother is dead.

  The bold, confident script swum before her eyes and Elsa Goody dropped the page onto her lap. She took in deep silent breaths until the taut pain eased in her chest. Finally lifting the letter again, its words weighty, she angled it towards the candle and read to her dying father. Her voice shook as if unused to speech.

  ‘To Mr Goody, Goody Farm near Robe, In the Colony of South Australia.

  ‘Dear Mr Goody, it is with regret I write to tell you that I have, today, buried your son, George. He has died this morning.’

  These words from a stranger—this Mr Ezekiel Jones—carefully scribed, were impossible to absorb, to comprehend. How could her brother be dead? And—where? In Casterton. The place was fully three days’ ride from here, in another colony.

  George. Her eyes closed a moment and the picture of him was clear. Wild, wavy hair, the colour of stringy-bark honey, framed a pale face under dark amber eyebrows—like their mother once had, like Elsa’s own. His small nose and luminous green eyes were also just like hers. How alike they’d been when they were young children, especially when he’d lopped off her long tresses—with the shears—which then resembled his own much shorter mess. She should’ve been more wary of her twelve-year-old brother when he’d come back from the shed, hands behind his back and a peculiar look on his face. His strike had been swift and wickedly gleeful, and suddenly there lay ten years’ growth, the tight bundle of thick curls lifeless on the ground. She’d belted after him, not able to run him down as he charged across the home paddock laughing himself silly. The little devil had nearly got away with it too, telling Pa that she’d done it herself.

  Their other three siblings, two dead and only Rosie left, had not looked like their mother at all. Now that beloved George was dead, there was no one around to remind her of her mother, Kitty, who’d died long … Where was the locket with her mother’s likeness in it? Tucked safely inside Elsa’s cherished keepsake was a curl of her ma’s soft deep golden-brown hair. Oh, now’s not the time to wonder where it is.

  She stared at the letter, her vision blurred, until she blinked and took a breath. It had been so kindly written by Mr Jones, and from so far away that she should give it her full attention. It had come from a farm outside Casterton, in the Western Districts of Victoria. Gracious me, George had got all the way there on his adventure. The date on the letter told her that he’d died almost two weeks ago. What was I doing around here on that day? Why didn’t I feel something strange or telling? She couldn’t remember. She’d have been doing her usual chores—trying to coax the vegetables to grow, or re-aligning that fallen fence-post, and digging it deeper into unforgiving earth. Maybe she’d been chopping wood. Nothing unusual.

  Tears hadn’t come when she’d first read the letter. Collecting it from the post office in town earlier today, she’d opened it as she walked the couple of miles back to the house; the faraway postmark had been a mystery she couldn’t resist. After that, it had been a walk home from hell.

  Still no tears, even now, after reading it to her father. Anyway, this was not the time for her tears. There was much to do about this, but for the life of her, she couldn’t think of what right now.

  She folded the page in her lap and looked at her pa. Propped up in his bed with all of their meagre pillows stuffed in behind him, Curtis Goody remained silent. His drawn features were shut beneath his lank white hair, the dark blond of his youth completely gone. Where had he vanished to, her father? So few years ago he was vital, strong and alive. Perhaps all the deaths, his wife, his sons, had left a gaping wound that finally sapped his life.

  He stared across the dim room that was the sum of their house. ‘Read the line again where he talks of regret,’ he said, and shifted under the blanket draped around his bony shoulders. Perhaps he could feel the night-time chill beginning to settle in but she had nothing else to keep him warm.

  Holding the candle closer and unfolding the letter, she cleared her throat. ‘… it is with regret I write to tell you that I have, today, buried your son, George.’

  Nothing but the chirrup of birds calling before they took to their nests for the night filled the silence. The little flame flickered and, worried her gulping breath would blow it out, she dropped the letter again. Cupping the wick with her hand to guard it, the flame steadied on the tiny piece of wax. There were only a couple of candles remaining in the house, so she’d have to hurry to make some more—although with what, she didn’t know.

  A murmur came from her father yet she heard the words, the deeply borne grief, as loudly as if they’d been shouted in her ears. ‘My son, my last son. My fault. I let him go wanderin’.’

  Alarmed, she said, ‘I’m sure not, Pa.’

  ‘Oh yes, oh yes,’ he cried softly—his breath troubled by illness and bereavement. ‘Too easy on him.’

  The letter remained on her knees as she carefully set the candle down on a sturdy little stool that served as a bedside table. When they still had their cow, it had been their milking stool. Now the cow was gone, there was no milk to churn for butter. No butter, no money. Their whole farming enterprise, sheep mainly and a few cows, had whittled down to that last old girl once her father became too ill to manage.

  Strangely, she thought about that cow now, about when it had delivered its first calf. The baby bull was born dead. Its mother had stood over it for hours, cleaning it and trying to encourage it to life. Only when she finally
plodded away, lowing mournfully, accepting her baby was dead, did Elsa find George and have him help take the small body away. George buried their dead animals; he said it respected them. She’d understood, or thought she had, but her siblings had thought it senseless. Their father had indulged him.

  When the cow had been ready to calve the next time, Elsa was more prepared. Old Mr Conroy, a bullocky, had told her about lathering soap over a person’s hands and arms, which helped to ease them inside the birth canal to grab the calf. Despite the massive contractions, and the calf slurping back in, Elsa had managed to pull the infant heifer into the world. She’d stayed with the baby, and watched as the cow hovered, waiting anxiously until the poddy could stand on wobbly little legs to take her first drink.

  Elsa missed that cow. Missed the calf who’d been sold when it was old enough for market. How many times had she nursed both mother and baby—clearing feeding problems, massaging teats to milk, cleaning their makeshift stall, keeping watch for wild dogs, stitching cuts to the mother and calf when they’d stampeded over a rotting fence.

  She’d done a lot of stitching, of her brothers’ wounds, too, as well as tending to animal births and helping to build fences, and clear the well, and keep the cartwheels oiled, and the leather goods pliable, and—

  Oh, goodness. Stop. She couldn’t help wanting to escape the reality of George’s death. She so missed her brothers … how big and boisterous the family would become when they all got together. Rosie was never much fun, and she seldom even visited. She was always glum and snappy, so when the older boys had died, Elsa had clung to George until he’d left home. Now he was dead too. No more big family, no more siblings to laugh with, to wrestle, to belong …

  A breeze crept in between the timbers of the walls, its crisp, sly tendrils mocking her. She’d have to mix some pug—clay and straw—find the gaps and fill them. Another chore. After her mother had died, her father never finished the stone house he and the boys were building, so the timber hut with its clay fillers was all they had. Kitty was missed, such a force in their lives. Cheery, Elsa remembered, and fun, and her lean arms would hug hard and make the breath whoosh out of you. And she loved Pa. Her hands would cup his face and she’d plant a kiss on his mouth—right in front of us. He loved it; he loved her. No wonder the life started to leave Pa when Ma went.

  Elsa grasped her father’s hand, its large and nobbly-knuckled fingers cool and dry. She leaned in. ‘There’s more in the letter, Pa.’ She edged closer to the candle and held the paper near the flickering light.

  Concentrating on the letter, she found the script looked as if done by a firm hand, assured of its task. Elsa imagined the hand had hesitated, but once decided, the words had flowed, and the page had been filled with elegant prose for their loss.

  Glancing at the flourish of Ezekiel Jones’s signature, she wondered about his name. Not often heard these days, biblical and—

  ‘Go on,’ her father rasped.

  She collected herself and continued reading aloud. ‘He has died this morning. He lies by a great eucalypt on my land, a place of peace and comfort, and he faces the colony of his birth. He was brought to me for help after injuries inflicted by bushrangers in the district, but alas, his wounds were too great, and he succumbed to merciful death.’

  Bushrangers, Elsa thought. Good Lord, in this day and age. She kept her head bowed, felt a distance as if all this was happening to someone else. The letter was a thoughtful missive to strangers—compassionate, sincere, and the writer must have known the family would suffer immeasurable loss upon reading it. It seemed to her that he was reaching out to say he shared their sorrow. The lump in her throat grew. His words warmed her, as if his gentle hand had settled on her shoulder, sharing some of the burden of hurt.

  Curtis Goody took in a long noisy breath. ‘He was impetuous, that boy, and he thought nothing could stop him.’ He withdrew his hand from hers. ‘First our John by snakebite, then our Ned by fever. And now our George …’ He tapped her hand and she looked up. ‘We didn’t find the snake that killed our John, we couldn’t fight the fever that killed our Ned, but—’ He beat a fist weakly on his chest, his mouth a grimace. ‘If I were a well man and not dyin’ myself, I’d go after those bushrangers for killin’ our George.’ A lone tear rolled down his cheek.

  Elsa took his veiny hand and laid it down. ‘Rest a bit, Pa.’

  ‘My sons. All gone. And I don’t have the fight left in me.’

  Her pa would hate anyone to see that tear, but as she was only his daughter, it wouldn’t matter. Only his daughter, not one of his sons. She cut off that thought. Elsa reached over and with the edge of her pinny dabbed at his face to wipe the tear, ignoring that he’d alluded to his own impending death. On one of the few visits from the doctor the family could afford, they were told that his illness was most probably in the organ called the pancreas and not curable. Dr Wilson had left sleeping draughts, no doubt powerful tinctures against deep and burrowing pain. Elsa glanced at the little glass bottle by the bed. It wouldn’t be the right thing to administer another dose now, so close to the last one, even to help ease her father’s heartache—grief would only bide its time anyway, so it might as well be faced now. Besides, she knew she had to be careful with the doses. The doctor did say that at this stage in her father’s illness she could use too much. Her hand hovered over the bottle. She withdrew sharply.

  Breathing deeply, she said, ‘I should write back to Mr Jones to thank him.’

  ‘Aye. Would be the right thing. Perhaps our George left some possessions.’

  Elsa nodded, although thought that would have been odd of her brother, and Mr Jones hadn’t mentioned anything. George had only the clothes on his back. She said, ‘Tomorrow, I’ll go into the town and tell our Rosie.’

  ‘Your sister will be terrible afflicted by this news.’

  ‘She will,’ Elsa agreed. As I am terrible afflicted. But her sister would soon forget her grief with the promise of the farm coming to her and her husband now. Rosie was older and had married at sixteen, in the year Elsa was born. When the fortunes of the town were growing, Rosie and her husband had done well as bakers. Now Robe was in decline, and folk had left in droves, leaving only a small population trying to eke out a living in the South Australian coastal town. Once a thriving port but now in competition with stronger rivals, it was a shell of its former self—a beautiful shell, with many grand and stately, but empty, buildings.

  The port was one thing; the farms struggled too. Not that her father owned much land, but with the boys gone—the last of her brothers, that scallywag George, had refused to work the farm—Elsa’s future now looked bleak. She didn’t believe for one minute that she would feature in her sister’s plans.

  Elsa could almost hear what her father was thinking. His eyes were closed, his jaw was set, and his breathing was now measured. He pulled the blanket a little tighter around himself.

  ‘You must bring Rosie home, here,’ he said, an urgency in his tone. ‘I must speak with her first. Frank is the only man in the family now, but I don’t want Frank to …’ His voice drifted off. He frowned, his eyes averted from Elsa’s.

  Frank, Rosie’s husband. A puffed-up lardy ball if ever there was one, in body—Elsa was sure he ate much of their bakery’s profits—and in soul. She couldn’t understand her sister ever having taken to a man who strutted about the town hardly doing a thing, while his wife worked down to her bones, sweltering in front of the wood-fired ovens for the best part of every morning, after kneading and shaping loaves and buns in the hours prior. Rosie had lamented over the years that she hadn’t had any babies and wondered if she’d worked too hard for her body to bear children. It’d been a while since Elsa had heard her sister’s laments.

  And that husband of hers is so lazy, it’s a wonder Rosie thought she could possibly become— Again, Elsa stopped those thoughts. Not her business why they hadn’t had children. Rosie was getting on in years now. She’d be over forty this year—she could easily have
been Elsa’s mother although she didn’t look like their mother. She had their father’s features. A narrow face (that could turn too sharp once she put on that determined, bossy pose), a long nose and a strong chin. Her hair was a paler shade than Elsa’s, much subdued compared to Elsa’s rich and wild mane, and not likely to attract attention. Rosie’s brown eyes appeared, to others, to warm towards folk. Elsa had found that bemusing when she heard talk of it. Rosie—warm? But whatever her thoughts of her sister and brother-in-law, one was insistent and clear: Frank did not inspire her confidence.

  She leaned towards her father to whisper, ‘I’ll bring her. But Frank doesn’t have to do anything for you, Pa. I can administer if you name me in a legal paper. You know the laws have changed.’

  By the look on his face, if he could have harrumphed, he would have. Mr Curtis Goody had been unimpressed by laws regarding property changing in favour of married women, and allowing women to have the vote in South Australia. ‘Slip of a thing like you,’ he grumbled but not unkindly. ‘You’re the youngest, my farm girl. Better that you marry Pete Southie and not get Frank offside any longer.’

  ‘Pa, I’m not a slip of a thing. And you know why I would never marry Mr Southie. He’s an awful creature.’

  ‘Now, I’m sure he’s not as bad as you say,’ her father wheezed. ‘I’m sure the man didn’t mean to bump into you like that.’ His hand, with its thin and dry skin, rested on top of hers and patted absently.

  Her father’s memory was still sharp. Pete Southie had been making a pest of himself when Elsa had refused to acknowledge him. One day not long ago, he’d stalked right into the house, pressed his suit for her, offered marriage and then he’d pressed himself on her. When she complained loudly and with a crack of her dustpan on his head, Southie had claimed that his enthusiastic attention was an accident.

  Enthusiastic? Accident? Did the man think her a fool? She had in no uncertain terms told him what she’d thought of his enthusiasm. While he’d controlled his zeal from then on, it was the leery grin he’d give her whenever she’d seen him since that set her teeth grinding. She should’ve crowned him more than once with the dustpan.