The Widow of Ballarat Page 2

  No movement from the coach.

  Finn grimaced. ‘Step outside, you coward, or I’ll shoot you where you sit.’ He heard the growl in his threat.

  ‘My wife’s in here, you braggart.’

  But still no appearance by the fine, upstanding, courageous husband. ‘Don’t hide behind her skirt. It’s not the good lady I want.’

  He heard the sputters from within the coach. ‘There’s gold in bags here under the seat.’

  Finn fired at the coach, under where he presumed Amberton sat. His ears rang with it. A scream rent the air, and not a female one, it seemed. His shoulder jerked. His hand shook. Not now …

  A guttural, urgent voice snarled from within the coach. ‘Get up … Get up and stand in front of me.’

  The door, a canvas drop curtain swinging against it, opened and Finn stood stock still. A young woman, gaunt, dressed in a white blouse and dark blue skirt, bent in the doorway of the coach. One of her arms was held in a grip by a large hand, no doubt her husband’s, who couldn’t be seen.

  Finn lowered the empty revolver, slipped it into the saddle’s bag. No time to reload that one, but the third one was still unfired. He settled a hand over the butt of it, ready. If he withdrew it all the way, the woman was in danger of being shot, either by him or by her husband. ‘Step down, Mrs Amberton.’

  Except now he could see she couldn’t step down. Her husband had grabbed both her forearms from behind so that her body shielded him.

  Finn’s glance flicked to her face. It was partly in the shadow of her white bonnet, and sturdy sprigs of yellow wattle on it jiggled as she shook. A strong chin, a straight nose, and he imagined her a fair woman, not a beautiful one. What hair he could see was soft blonde. She might once have been slender, but was now thin, the blouse loose over her bosom. Young, but not a girl. Just Amberton’s type. Her eyes, though downcast, were wary. The brief study showed him her mouth was grim, her jaw set.

  ‘You know me, scum. How is that? And you call me coward yet hide behind that mask,’ Amberton shouted, yet he still held his wife in front of him in the coach doorway.

  ‘The mask is for your wife’s sake. And I know you because of Susie.’

  Amberton blurted a cough, a choking sound. Hesitated. ‘Liar,’ he grated.

  ‘I said to step outside.’ Finn’s hand, still steady, tightened around the butt of the next gun.

  ‘And I said the bags of gold are under the seat, in here,’ Amberton yelled. ‘I’ll throw them out. Take ’em. Take them. It should be payment enough.’

  Gold? A trick, no doubt. Finn’s patience wore off. ‘Step down now, Mrs Amberton.’ He knew she would have to lower herself to the step, then slide to the ground. He would not be availing her of the foot step that jutted from the coach, nor would he assist by offering her his hand.

  Awkwardly, with only one arm now in her husband’s grasp, she gathered her skirt, struggling to stay upright. Lifting her booted foot over the step, her heel caught and she lunged forward, nearly wrenching out of her husband’s grip.

  Amberton shoved her the rest of the way over the edge of the step. She dropped to the ground with a cry. He was now a wide target in the open doorway of the coach, and his hand-gun came up to take aim.

  Finn’s hand began to shake violently. He tried to snatch the pistol from the saddlebag, but his fingers wouldn’t close over the butt of the gun—

  The rifleman, hidden from the coach behind an outcrop of low boulders, loosened his stance. Settling the butt of the long Enfield rifle-musket into his shoulder, he concentrated his sight only on Andrew. It wasn’t a difficult shot now. The range wasn’t so long; he had skilled precision. He’d been shooting at game since he was a young child, so he was used to succeeding with moving targets. And Andrew was a large target, objectionable, and barely mobile. It would almost be too easy.

  A deep, sharp sting in his side, courtesy of an earlier bayonet slash, brought a grunt to his throat. His guts squeezed, which made it worse, and the pain was a brutal reminder of events that had followed the fiery, doomed stockade battle.

  Even so, intent on his mission, just moments before now, he’d found this bend in the road. His vantage point would be clear, the coach an easy target. It would be travelling at speed but would take the sweeping bend at a slower pace. His shot would be dangerous, perhaps even lunacy itself, but luck had been shining. No need to imagine the horror of mistakenly killing horses, or an innocent coach driver or—God forbid—Nell.

  It was luck of the best type and a most convenient thing: the appearance of a bushranger who’d bailed up the coach. A stationary coach with an easier target than ever if Andrew stepped out. And he did. Just after Nell appeared then fell to the ground.

  He fired. The butt hammered his shoulder, and the juddering shock burrowed deep, down into the cut in his side. He rocked, light-headed with the throbbing agony of it. Steadying, exhaling low and long, he checked the coach through the sights again. Blinking and swiping at his watering eyes, he waited.

  Two shots rang out, one from Amberton. But the other?

  Finn’s horse danced and snorted beside him. Holding the reins fast, one-handed, his stare fixed on a spout of blood erupting from Amberton’s chest.

  Mrs Amberton screamed. She scrambled under the coach as her husband pitched face forward into the dirt. As the body landed, she scrabbled backwards. Wordless, she panted and desperately tugged at her skirt, the hem caught under the wheel. Finn stood, blank, wondering in a split second if Amberton’s shot had hit him. He looked down over his front. No blood spurting. No pain. He hadn’t been hit. And his horse still danced by his side.

  He sprinted to Amberton and fell to his knees alongside him, checked for a pulse in the broad neck. Nothing. A sightless eye stared off into the distance, as if from where the shot had come, the other stared at the dusty road under it. Finn squinted at the terrain where Amberton’s last glare was aimed. He scanned the landscape, saw nothing untoward in the scrubby bush and small rocky outcrops of the one hill that overlooked the road. No glint of light off a gun barrel, no movement in the scrub.

  Finn glanced over at the coach. Mrs Amberton was under it, tearing at her skirt, frantic to free herself. He heard a great rent give way and then she scrambled out the other side.

  The shudder rippled through him. He clutched his elbow, couldn’t forestall it. He stayed on his knees, hunched over the arm wracked with tremors. ‘Stay where you are,’ he grated. As she scampered away, he raised his voice. ‘I would not want to come find you.’

  She stopped, just beyond the coach. The horses shied and stamped their feet, then settled, their eyes wide, ears pricked.

  Rolling back on his feet, Finn lurched upright, arms held tight against his chest. His right shoulder jerked and a spasm splayed his fingers, and then it left, as quickly as it had arrived. He shook out the stiffness in his hand, and steadied himself. He looked over his shoulder, sure that if a gunman was on the hill somewhere and intent on more murder, he would have been shot at by now. And so would the woman.

  Expecting she might yet have fled up the hill, he spun back. He didn’t want to chase her, catch her up there, risk his identity, or worse—offer a target if she was the objective.

  Instead, she had stood up, was dusting herself off, and seemed in no hurry whatsoever. Half her skirt was missing—there was a piece caught tight under the coach wheel. A simple white chemise showed, torn in part, falling short of her ankle boots. As she sucked in draughts of air, her chest rose and fell. The bonnet gone, her hair hung loose over one eye, and her forehead creased in a frown.

  ‘How I hate gunshots,’ she said through her teeth. Without looking at Finn, she asked, ‘Is he dead?’

  Finn stared at her, not sure he’d heard correctly.

  ‘Is he dead?’ she demanded, louder.

  ‘Yes.’

  Then she lifted her one blue-eyed gaze to his. ‘Well?’

  Still he stared.

  The frown deepened. ‘If you’re going to kill
me, it wouldn’t be a very good idea, would it?’ Her voice wavered only a little. ‘To kill your only witness to self-defence.’ Her chin lifted.

  Is it fear? No, it’s a calculation. She seemed to be weighing him up. ‘I’ve no intention of killing you, Mrs Amberton. I had only intended to kill him.’ He pointed to Amberton’s body. ‘But as you can attest, I was beaten to it.’

  She gave a curt nod, then backed up against the coach. ‘So, what now that someone else has made your mission redundant?’ Her hands found the thorough-brace suspension and she sagged a little.

  Guts. She had guts, this one.

  He spread his hands as if to say he had no idea. Which was true. And then he saw it fully—a dark puffy bruise above and below her left eye that coloured her cheek with a deep sooty smudge. ‘You’re hurt.’ He tapped his own eye.

  ‘A blow landed. ’Twas nothing like the usual,’ she dismissed. Her glance darted to the body and back to him again.

  ‘He used his fists on you, too.’ He eyed her face, searching for other bruises, other marks on her. None he could see, but he knew there would be more. He knew the Amberton of old. His sister had married him. Had died at his hands.

  The woman pointed at his arm. ‘You are injured.’

  Surprised she even cared to mention, he said, ‘A jarring, is all.’ He rolled his shoulder as he came closer, flexing his arm. As he advanced towards her, she pressed back and watched him in taut silence. Her chin puckered as she held on to her distrust, her good eye growing wider as he approached.

  He held up a hand. ‘I would not harm you, Mrs Amberton.’ Finn was only a few steps away. ‘But what should I do with you? I’d only come to dispose of that pile of garbage.’ He pointed again to the prone body of her husband. ‘I’m not sorry for it, but it was not something a lady should’ve witnessed. Especially his wife. And for that, I am—’

  ‘Do not be sorry on my account. He is not worth it. And I have not seen your face.’ She indicated the kerchief. ‘I can’t identify you.’ Attempting to stand upright, she wobbled and so remained where she was. ‘You sound like a gentleman, as if you have had an education, are perhaps gentry.’ The twitch at her chin appeared again, and she turned away from her husband’s prone form. ‘Yet, a gentleman would not have left me … in these dire circumstances.’ Her eyes did not meet his as she waved towards Amberton’s body.

  Taken aback, Finn cocked his head. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I gave no thought to your dire—’

  ‘I will be destitute,’ she cut in sharply over his quip. Darting him a glance, her booted feet scuffed at the dirt, scraping, tapping.

  Ah. It was money she was after. A pay-off, perhaps, for her silence. In that case, a greedy, grasping woman was by far more easily dealt with than a crying or beseeching one.

  Finn pointed to the coach with one of his guns. ‘He said there was gold in there.’

  She flashed him a look. ‘And for how long will I have that in my possession?’ This time she stood up and braced against the coach.

  ‘Theft was not, and is not, my intention,’ he said.

  A moment’s confusion crossed her face. Then, ‘It will not last me long when I have to—’

  ‘He liked to boast he had a couple of large estates, and that he is a wealthy man.’ Finn shrugged, not apologetic. ‘Was.’

  Mrs Amberton glanced at the body, and blood seeping out from under it, muddying the dirt. She began to cough, or sob, or gag—he couldn’t decide. She settled, took a couple of breaths, smoothed her skirt. Her hands at first seemed agitated, then she firmly pushed at the heavy fabric against her legs. ‘A wife does not inherit.’

  Now Finn understood. Unless her husband had instructed that a stipend from his estate be awarded to his wife upon his death, she would have nothing on which to survive. He knew it from his own marriage. That was the ancient Dower law, and she would indeed be left for the poorhouse without it. Clearly, this woman believed it had not been put in place for her. He knew of old that in her husband’s family there were no kindly relatives, only Amberton’s sniping sister, and a nephew he knew little about. Finn rubbed his hand over the kerchief. Unfortunate circumstances indeed, even for this lovely, avaricious lady. But surely not his concern—

  ‘I have to produce an heir for the family, a male child, to gain financial support.’ Her voice wobbled, low and gravelly, but her stare was direct.

  It challenged him. It wasn’t greed but something else. Her eye, intense, darker blue now, never wavered from his. Instantly he knew what she wanted. Her jerky breathing, her chest rising and falling. He knew as a peculiar heat from his gut crept up his neck. As another simmered deep down inside, he knew.

  ‘And do you carry a child?’ He surprised himself; it was indiscreet, bold. He took a step closer, her stare firing his blood.

  Her head shook just a little. Her gaze fell to his chest, then lower where it lingered before travelling back up again. ‘Not yet.’

  A primal surge bolted through his belly. But he recoiled in shock. At himself, at his sudden reaction. ‘I have never committed rape, madam, ever, and I never would.’ A burst of anger scorched through him, but as her face flushed a deep red, it dropped away.

  One of her hands lifted and dropped, as if in apology for decrying his honour. ‘It would not be rape.’ Then she fingered the neckline of her blouse. ‘There would be time before anyone comes.’ She faltered but there was a resolve in her bleak stare.

  Had she just spoken those words? He backed up a step and looked down the road where Ben had bolted. No one would come soon—the military had shut down the town and had it under martial law. The diggings were eerie, quiet as death.

  Is this some trickery?

  He looked back at her. Her eyes, searching, seemed not to have left his face. This time he saw another woman in the hollow of her gaze—a desperate woman. It wasn’t greed he had seen before. It was strategy—the swiftly devised plan of a survivor.

  She could not really want this...

  When he found his voice, he said, ‘It would not be his child, even if there was—’ he hesitated, ‘—conception.’ He stood there, agape at the nature of the conversation.

  A quick frown. ‘I’m perfectly aware of that.’

  Testy? He could hardly believe his ears. ‘Even if you were to become—’

  ‘No one would know it wasn’t his. No one would ever know any different.’ The woman shook her head. ‘It would be only another base act, in itself that means nothing to me. It could produce a male child for this God-bereft family and secure my future,’ she said. ‘And I know the time is right.’ She held his stare, swiped the back of her shaky hand over her mouth. ‘I know it.’

  Another base act. Means nothing … His hands clenched as tightly as his gut. ‘But you might not become … as you want, and you would have sullied your—’

  ‘I will take a chance.’ She licked her lips and a frown darkened her brow. ‘If it happens, I gain everything. If it does not, I would have gained a little time to squirrel away some funds. But either way, no one will know except you, and me, and I don’t even know who you are.’ Her words came fast, urgent, desperate. ‘But if not now, there will be no other chance. They will force me out onto the diggings, or the street.’

  Too many words coming at him, he couldn’t take it in. He forestalled again. ‘But it might not be a boy.’

  The woman dragged in a pained breath. ‘I have prayed to every god I am aware of, if any are left above this world, that it would be a boy.’

  He stood dumb. Why was he even discussing this? Get your brain back in your head, man.

  ‘Is there something wrong with your grasp of my situation?’ she snapped.

  More than testy. Finn shook his head. ‘No, there is not. But nor is there good sense here, either.’ He pointed in the direction of Amberton’s body.

  She didn’t glance at it. She stood taller, a little unsteady, and he saw a flicker of what he thought was hope in her good eye. She took in a long, deep breath. ‘It’s n
ot sense I need. Just do not show me your face.’

  What man would not oblige on such an invite? He hesitated. What would it matter? He would surely be hanged for the holdup and what it appeared he had committed, not to mention taking a woman on the very same roadside and risking her blurting to the troopers.

  Since returning from the war, he hadn’t cared if he lived or died …

  His thoughts turned over. The back of his hand went to the kerchief as he searched for any ploy, any coquettish flutter of eyelashes. He saw nothing in her one open eye. Her direct, proud stare was blue, intense, and clear. And suddenly it mattered a great deal to live. To be alive. To fight for life. A flash of clarity wedged in his head.

  He didn’t want to be a dead man anymore. He wanted to live.

  Back-stepping, he drew a deep breath. ‘But I need sense, madam. Regretfully, I must decline your request.’ He damned the lust, damned his better sense. ‘Very regretfully. I am not your solution.’

  She stared. Bleak. Bemused. Then, exasperated. Finally, she shied away from his scrutiny, her head bent. ‘You leave me in a situation, sir.’

  Finn pointed towards the body again. ‘He is dead. Whatever your situation now, it is a better one than before. Yours and mine, both.’

  She didn’t look in its direction. Instead, she looked at Finn, appeared to want to shout, or scream; her rage was palpable. Then her shoulders dropped. She sighed as if resigned and pushed herself upright. She seemed awkward a moment until she brushed down her skirt and slapped at the dirt at her knees and the hem.

  ‘My hat,’ she said without looking at him.

  He glanced around for the white bonnet and found it, not far away. The little yellow flowers attached were bedraggled, and he brushed them gently. They seemed a small light in an otherwise dark day. He returned the hat to her and silently she placed it on her head.

  Finn’s own hat was by his horse’s forelegs. He left the woman to snatch it up, took up the reins and turned back to her.

  ‘Help will be along.’ His voice was terse. ‘You should sit back in the coach and wait, if you can bear to be near that,’ he said, indicating the body with a tilt of his head. ‘I’ll put the driver’s gun in there for you.’ He took Ben’s rifle from a sling strapped off the side of the coach and slid it inside. ‘Don’t attempt to drive away. The road might be crawling with unsavoury types. Bushrangers, for instance.’