Where the Murray River Runs Page 5

  ‘You handed the child over to Miss Seymour’s agent.’

  His wits flooded back. ‘But I didn’t sign no paper to that!’

  Mr Campbell shrugged lightly. ‘It’s well known you are not the baby’s natural father, even by your own admission. You clearly had agreed to Mrs Wilkin’s request about appointing guardianship elsewhere. Actions, et cetera, Mr Wilkin.’

  ‘Speak louder than words, do they, now?’ Gareth thrust upright, a hot surge of fury propelling him. Behind the seething mist that clouded his sanity, he grasped a thought before it darted past him. ‘So, these wills. They don’t come for free. They don’t come cheap. Who paid for the new will? I didn’t. I know her ancient old aunt wasn’t dead yet either, so there was no money from her. So it can’t be legal.’

  ‘That’s privileged information and I assure you it is all very legal.’ Mr Campbell’s eyes widened as he stared at Gareth. ‘But it does make a person wonder if Mrs Wilkin set her affairs in order because she foresaw her fate.’

  The heat in Gareth’s chest whisked away. A cold slide of dread cut across his gut and he felt his features slacken. ‘What are you sayin’?’

  The lawyer laced his hands and rested them on the desk. ‘Only that my advice to you, Mr Wilkin, is to walk away. Your wife is dead and buried, but her letter, her will and its content, all give rise to her testament. Her express wishes will stand up in court.’ Mr Campbell sat forward. ‘Walk away. There is nothing for you here.’

  Gareth Wilkin sprang out of his seat, his face burned, the flare surging from his chest to his cheeks. He leaned heavily on the desk, his face not far from the implacable lawyer. ‘Mr Campbell. That inheritance money is my property. And I am gonna have it.’

  Seven

  On the river to Echuca

  Ard stood at the stern as the ’Bidgee raced for the wharf at Echuca. He’d had scarce to do on Mr Egge’s boat other than helping heft some wool bales on board at Wentworth. Then a bit of packing up and unpacking the merchandise to secure it from stop to stop.

  Plain, gentle river sailing. From time to time they idled, waiting as snagging steamers ahead tackled and winched fallen trees from the water. Snags were impossible to see. They threatened to block clear access through the muddy water, and the danger of holing a boat was all too real.

  Wherever the boat docked, Ard tossed his swag onto the bank high above the working parties and slept under the stars. Money was so tight he didn’t part with any for food. He needed what he had for the train fare from Echuca to Bendigo. Mr Egge would see him some beef jerky for the ride home. He’d also handed him the sturdy pair of boots Ard had tried to purchase, waving away Ard’s offer of payment.

  By the time they reached Swan Hill, Mr Egge’s stock was much reduced thanks to good sales. The ride to Echuca was a light and fast affair. More cloudless, still days, the sunlight reflecting low banks and tall trees in the calm waters.

  It was a relief going back upstream. A homecoming to set right his affairs. With each turn of the side-wheel, with each throbbing chug of the steam engine, with each step closer to home, his heart grew heavier. Linley had to be faced.

  Burdened by the deaths of Mary and the child, saddened to his bones, he bore a guilt he couldn’t name. Not that it could’ve changed anything. Besides, Mary had seen right through him.

  She’d laughed him off as she adjusted her clothes. ‘You don’t need to be sorry around me. Your heart’s with someone else, any fool can see it, so don’t make this something it’s not. I just wanted to cheer you up, have a bit of fun. I’m not hankering after you. I don’t “love” you. Don’t need you.’

  She’d certainly made that clear, not telling him about the baby until after she’d married someone else. But why didn’t she scream that it was his baby? No family other than her ailing old aunt, her parents dead, no siblings anyone knew of … Why hadn’t she come after him?

  Don’t need you. Was that it, so simply put?

  Sad? He was sad, yes, about Mary’s lost life and the life of the baby. And yes, he admitted to himself, he was also relieved in a sense, for sure. That sat uneasy in his gut. They’d been lost, both of them … and he hadn’t owned to either.

  You’re pathetic, man.

  Guilt. Guilt. And more damn guilt. He shook his head, a quick flick to try to dislodge the weight of it. He was unused to it. Never thought himself a man to shirk his duty.

  Had he known it!

  Angry? More than he’d ever experienced … The frustrated, defenceless type of anger where the only relief came from lashing out and hurting something. Something other than a dead woman who hadn’t thought he was worth telling of his responsibility. Hurting something, even if it meant crunching his own knuckles into the granite-like trunk of a red gum.

  But this anger, this pain, went deeper, and he had no name for it. He couldn’t reach into its black hole, grasp it by the throat and choke the life out of it.

  And what would Linley have made of all of this? His actions would have hurt her, deeply, even though there had been no formal promise between them.

  And why would that make a difference, O’Rourke? He knew how this would have hurt her. He knew.

  He tasted bitterness then, a bile that rose and pressed on his tongue, gagging him. He pitched over the stern rail and spat into the water. He wiped his mouth on the back of his hand and bent back over the rail. It wasn’t Mary’s fault. She and the baby were dead. He didn’t even know whether it was a boy or a girl—Linley hadn’t mentioned. She hadn’t mentioned the baby at all.

  Linley.

  His chest hurt to think of what he had done to her. He sniffed hard, palmed both hands to his eyes to wipe off the moisture. Truth was, if Mary was going to die in childbirth it would have happened whether he’d been married to her or not. Babies were dangerous creatures, at least the birthing of them was. No place for a man—nothing a man could do to prevent that …

  Except not let your cock rule your head in the first place.

  He spat the loose saliva over the stern again.

  ‘You keep that up, there’ll be a flood downstream.’ Mr Egge stood at his shoulder.

  Ard nodded, palmed his eyes one last time. ‘Reckon it’s time to muscle our way in?’ He lifted his chin towards the wharf.

  ‘Reckon it’s time. There’s a crane swinging free just now.’ The old man’s eyes crinkled shut as he looked skywards, then back at the wharf, blinking as the midafternoon sun watered his eyes. He leaned on the rail beside Ard. ‘Reckon it’s time I put this old ’Bidgee out for a rest. Look to life by the river, not on it.’

  Ard thought about that. It was good advice. He’d like to live by the river, too, but couldn’t see it for the foreseeable future. He was still tied to the family land at Bendigo.

  They both watched the dock for a long moment, then Mr Egge pushed himself off the rail and headed back towards the wheelhouse, tugging at his waistcoat before rolling up his sleeves.

  ‘Gun her up a bit, Maxy, take her in at four knots.’

  Ard set aside his thoughts, let nothing else into his head other than getting the boat docked and the freight lifted off as quickly as possible. Once it was off, the merchants would pay up. Once they paid up, Mr Egge would be on his way home, back downstream to Wentworth.

  Ard would head for the train station. He wouldn’t dally atop the wharf, never had. He would only just be in time to purchase a ticket to Bendigo and get on board that train.

  And right now, that’s all that mattered.

  Eight

  Bendigo

  CeeCee folded the letter and tucked it up her sleeve again. Always the same for her when letters came from James. She didn’t want them far from her reach, but not so tucked up against her person that they should irritate if they were snug against her breast.

  James was at hand, she told herself, not at her heart. The dull pound of her pulse brought a lie to that. He was always at her heart. She just rarely let it be said.

  The front door clicked shut and
from the parlour window she watched Linley carry the baby down the path to the gate at the street front, the soft carry bag under him, a bundle on which Toby rested. Linley would walk the three blocks to Mrs Lovell’s house, leave Toby to be fed, return, then she would trudge back again and pick him up. It wouldn’t be for too much longer—perhaps two or three months—and then he could be fed by their own hands.

  She had to admire Linley’s tenacity. Not too many unmarried girls would take up another woman’s orphan baby and bring it up, caring for it as if it were her own.

  What an odd thing to think, Cecilia Celeste. You did it yourself with Linley.

  Linley was her blood, her own niece. And CeeCee’s liaison with James Anderson had given her the freedom to continue to do so. Of course James was at her heart.

  Long ago, around the time Linley had come to her, CeeCee had funded homes in Melbourne and Bendigo with James Anderson. Now that the Bendigo Benevolent Asylum had been closed for some years, the plight of the homeless and disadvantaged was so much more acute, especially for women disadvantaged by abandonment, poverty and illness.

  Not that CeeCee had thought too highly of the local asylum when it was operating. It was a horrible place where the inmates, though given a roof over their heads, were subject to overcrowding and despair. The workhouse a dismal, fearful place. The children there had been orphaned, or given up to the asylum because of family hardship, or simply because they’d been deserted by their parents. The place had been all too foreboding, as if being lost in this world was some crime committed by the lost themselves.

  CeeCee wanted to see a home where mothers who could not support themselves and their children—for whatever reason— would be looked after, and found work if possible. Or, if they wished, the opportunity to marry, or marry again. It was a timely project. It had achieved some success, and it had been a very busy few years for CeeCee and James. James, who wanted to marry her, even still, after twenty years.

  She watched as her niece walked out of sight, then sat at her desk, a new sheet of writing paper ready and awaiting her quill. Words did not come.

  Outside, a breeze nudged clouds out of the way. Light spread across the window she’d just left, spilling into the parlour, a small room fitted with a lumpy settee, a large lounge chair and a foot stool by the empty fireplace. The cradle, waiting for its tiny occupant to be returned, stood in a corner behind the settee.

  Another warm day coming. Another day with no rain in sight. CeeCee let out a long breath. She should never have written to James in the mood she had been in the last few days. He would worry.

  She got up from the desk and went back to the window, dragged the heavy drapes further to one side and returned. Sunlight illuminated the worn carpets and the dust atop the mantelpiece. But her desk was spotless. A pristine workspace. These days, when the baby wasn’t squawking or snuffling for a meal or some coddling, she would compose her letters to parliamentarians regarding the petitions of the day. Letters of support for Miss Vida Goldstein and for the suffragist movement would go to newspapers in both the Victorian and the South Australian colonies. She had communicated with Mrs Lawson in New South Wales on her efforts to enfranchise women. CeeCee fully intended to be voting in elections when Federation finally arrived—or she just might have to shift to South Australia, where women were about to get the vote.

  She laughed to herself at that. Another depression was looming so her finances needed careful tending. There was the upkeep of her home here in Bendigo with Linley, and the home in Melbourne she owned with James Anderson. There were now two other premises in the mix of things so all that would keep her firmly grounded in the colony of Victoria for some time.

  As she lifted the quill from its tray and dipped it into the inkwell, James’ letter slipped out of her sleeve to the floor. With a patient sigh, she put the quill down, picked up the envelope and lay it on the desk. Another sigh, and she slid the letter out, unfolded it and re-read. This letter had arrived the day she’d posted her last letter to him.

  Darling girl,

  I trust you are well and that your new charge is healthy and happy. I am sure with your excellent credentials the baby will thrive. I hope Linley has risen to the task as admirably as you expected.

  CeeCee smiled at that.

  We have had such an influx of souls lately that we are turning people away, not the worst of them, but those we can see would fare better than others.

  He went on to tell her about the house and its occupants, the workers and their charges. It was to the bottom of his letter that she skimmed. In his powerful script he wrote,

  ‘Until such time as I see your face, I will miss you every minute of the day. When I see you again, my heart will be filled to the brim.

  I await your next visit to Melbourne. I beg you to let me know when that will be.

  Yours with the greatest affection, James.’

  CeeCee’s heart danced again and she smoothed the paper with both hands and let it rest before her. She closed her eyes and James’ face appeared, his merry brown eyes crinkling at the corners as he smiled at her, his wide, happy mouth flashing white teeth, his lips daring her to kiss.

  A little intake of breath as she tilted her head, remembering his fingers lightly at her throat, their feather-like glide to the swell of her breasts a sweet memory from months ago. Then his mouth on her neck, his whiskers scratchy, and the shivers of delight sped through her all over again.

  In his bed they had loved and loved, and there was nothing about his big muscled body, sun-scarred and tanned from years of work on the railways, that she did not crave, did not hanker after, even in her sleep. She clasped her hands, laced her fingers. Memories lingered over her body. She knew she was lucky to be loved by such a man.

  CeeCee leaned back in the chair, the memory still vivid.

  ‘Aunty, how do you know if you love a man?’

  Truth to tell, it startled her. Her foster baby, her niece was growing up. ‘Oh. Well, it becomes a feeling inside. And you just know.’ Even to her own ears that answer sounded half-baked and a little dismissive.

  Linley had frowned. ‘What does it feel like?’

  CeeCee frowned as well. How did one describe that? ‘Like nothing you’ve ever experienced before.’

  ‘And, and how do you know when to … to …’ And her furious blush had given her away.

  CeeCee wasn’t about to be a hypocrite. But Linley had never had a gentleman caller, and as far as she knew, still didn’t have one. In that light, perhaps the conversation was a little worrying. ‘Who is it you have in mind?’

  ‘Nobody, Aunty. Nobody.’

  Which CeeCee didn’t believe was true. How could she begin to explain …? Perhaps she simply needed to relate her feelings for James. How she had known when it was right ‘to … to …’.

  James Anderson, and that day of the Chinese street procession in Bendigo, all those years ago.

  They’d agreed to meet there after he’d arrived from Melbourne earlier that day. He’d had an appointment with a land agent to keep but after that he would be free. She knew she would take him to her bed right from the moment she met him at the Bendigo train station.

  In the main street later, beside him and watching the colourful procession, she knew that was the day she would love him. He lifted her hand and kissed it.

  A couple of matrons beside glanced her up and down.

  Didn’t matter. CeeCee knew what she was about to do. And all it took was to slip her hand into his and tug him away from the celebration. When they finally stood at the entrance to her house, the little weatherboard she lived in, he stilled.

  ‘I would like nothing better than to be in your bed, my dear CeeCee. So you see, my intentions are not gentlemanly.’ A lock of fiery red hair fell over one eye and he brushed it aside with a flick of a finger.

  ‘And neither are mine,’ she’d replied.

  Except for the talk of some of the women whose lives she’d helped put back together, she had no clue
what to expect and was eager to feel for herself what being with a man would be like. Most of the women thought highly of that private side of their lives until things went badly wrong.

  She remembered the delicious slide of anticipation in her belly, warming her deep inside. Gripping his arms, she felt the solid muscles tense under his shirt-sleeves and then relax as he wrapped them around her and held her close. Heat pooled low and deep between her legs and an exquisite throb there distracted her.

  He shook his head a little; his voice sounded strained in his throat. ‘We should marry.’

  ‘No, no, I don’t want to marry. I want to work, and fight for rights for women. I’ve told you, I want to be with you, but the shackles of marriage …’ She hesitated.

  He frowned down at her. ‘They don’t have to be shackles.’

  ‘The law of the land …’

  His voice rose. ‘I am not the law of the land. You will—we will continue to fight your fight.’

  ‘You would tell me anything at this moment.’

  ‘Yes. But I only have my truth to tell.’

  He had hold of her shoulders and she touched his hands. ‘Come inside, James. Linley is at school for another couple of hours.’

  He didn’t hesitate further.

  In her parlour, she removed her hat, gloves and jacket. His gaze warmed her blood, but it never left her face. She reached over and placed her hand flat on his broad chest and felt his heartbeat thud against her palm. Then she pressed her lips hard against his.

  Citrus, light and spiced with cinnamon or nutmeg, tingled her senses as she breathed him in. When he broke away and buried his face in her neck, its scratchy rasp against her throat, her breathless cry let something go in him.

  He clutched at her skirts, bunched them higher over boot-clad ankle, over dimpled knee and firm thigh. She slid her hand to his trousers. The smooth feel of well-worn fabric enticed her hand over his erect penis, and then over the buttons she hoped she’d be able to open.