Band of Gold Read online

  ‘You don’t have any?’ Kitty said, hopefully.

  The man pushed his cap back on his head. ‘Didn’t say I didn’t have any, but I don’t have what you might call a range, as such.’

  ‘Well, how many do you have?’ Rian asked impatiently.

  ‘One.’

  ‘We’ll see that, then, if you will.’

  The saddler disappeared into the back of his shop, re-emerging a moment later with a side-saddle slung over his arm. ‘Top-grain cowhide. Not very prettified but serviceable, so I’m told. I could tool the safe and pommel for you, if you’re interested? Leaves and flowers, perhaps?’

  Rian raised his eyebrows at Kitty, who shook her head. ‘No, that will do nicely, thank you,’ he said as he opened his purse.

  ‘Up on the hill, are you?’ the saddler asked.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘On the hill, near the Camp? Where the swells all live? It’s just that only ladies buy side-saddles, and the ladies here all live on the hill. In fact it’s only ladies as can afford to buy and keep horses, now that I come to think of it.’

  ‘No, we’re down on the Flat,’ Kitty said.

  The saddler looked taken aback, but noticed the flash of indignation that crossed Kitty’s face. ‘Oh, well, beg your pardon, Missus. And I’m not saying as there aren’t decent women on the Flat, of course. There’s a good few hardworking, God-fearing wives on the diggings.’

  Rian said, ‘I’d like to leave a saddle here to be collected by one of my men later today. Is that possible?’

  At the man’s nod of agreement, Rian handed over the money and waited while the saddler counted out his minimal change, which he did with a flourish.

  ‘Christ, that was expensive,’ Rian said outside.

  ‘It wouldn’t have cost anything if I’d been able to—’

  ‘—wear your trousers. Yes, I know—but you can’t, not here, and that’s all there is to it.’

  They changed the saddles then headed off up the road, which had narrowed to a rutted street lined on both sides with stores. Kitty was surprised at the variety of goods and services on offer. But then there were a lot of people to service on the diggings—over 20,000, according to the proprietor of Bath’s Hotel. Most of the business premises here were wooden and seemed relatively permanent, unlike the canvas stores out in the gullies, which drew attention to themselves with the aid of large, gaudy flags on tall flagpoles. Here they passed barber shops, doctors’ and lawyers’ offices, tent- and mattress-makers, drapers—one of which, Kitty noticed, had a particularly spectacular window display of laces, silks, satins and fancy hats—several chemist shops, a gunsmith, a confectioner, two jewellers, bakehouses, a bakery, a grocery, an assay office, a photographic parlour, a post office, two blacksmiths, a tinsmith and a candlemaker, a theatre, several stables, shanties advertising lemonade or coffee or ginger beer or all three, which Rian insisted were grog shops, and at least nine hotels. There was even an undertaker’s parlour, with a selection of coffins in the window and a sign advertising the services of a monumental mason.

  Verandahs or boardwalks fronted most stores, keeping shoppers out of the worst of the muck. Down the centre of the street a channel had been worn by animals’ hooves, wagon wheels and rain, and along this trickled filthy water, mud and sewage. Melbourne’s central business district might be grander and more established, but there seemed little on sale there that couldn’t also be purchased here.

  Further along the street, where the road widened again, were a sawmill, several timber merchants, a brickyard, a foundry, and a wheelwright and coach builder.

  ‘I think we’ll sell four of the bullocks,’ Rian remarked.

  Kitty adjusted her seat: already the high, curved pommel was pinching the tender flesh above her knee. ‘Won’t we need them when it’s time to go back to Melbourne?’

  ‘Yes, but we can buy another team. Otherwise we’ll only have to feed them, and the price of feed here is ridiculous. We’ll keep two, sell the wagon and buy a smaller cart. Perhaps two.’

  ‘But we’ll keep the horses?’

  Rian nodded. ‘I don’t fancy walking everywhere, do you?’

  Eyeing her filthy boots, Kitty agreed. ‘We also need to buy a few things for the house. A bath, for a start.’

  ‘Yes, well, you and Amber can go shopping tomorrow.’

  ‘She needs a camp bed or something similar. I don’t want her sleeping on the floor.’

  ‘Well, get her whatever she needs.’ Rian brought McCool to a halt. ‘Amber was right: it is a circus.’

  Before them sat the enormous round tent they had seen the day before. From this angle, the sign was clear: Jones’s National Circus.

  He sighed in weary resignation. ‘We’ll never hear the end of it if we don’t bring her to see it.’

  ‘Well, we will, then,’ Kitty replied simply, noting the banners advertising trapeze artists, strongmen and acrobats. ‘It could be quite an afternoon’s entertainment.’

  ‘Not for me, it won’t,’ Rian said. ‘I don’t hold with men swinging about in their undergarments. It’s not…manly.’

  Kitty laughed and tapped Finn with her heel to move him along. They soon came to a capacious chapel built from bush timber with a canvas roof, then even more hotels, a concert hall, assembly rooms and another huge tent, its sign proclaiming it to be the Adelphi Theatre.

  ‘I’d no idea Ballarat was such a mainstay of culture,’ Rian remarked drily.

  ‘Or so tolerant,’ Kitty added, inclining her head towards two men hurrying in their direction.

  They were Chinese, immediately recognisable by their loose tunics and trousers, and their conical, broad-brimmed straw hats. Behind them trotted five European boys, throwing stones and shouting insults.

  ‘Little shites,’ Rian muttered. He urged McCool forward until he was between them and the Chinese, glaring at one boy readying himself to heave another stone. ‘Hey, you! Yes, you, boy. What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

  ‘Chasing the Chinkees,’ the boy replied insolently.

  ‘Well, don’t!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because I said not!’ Rian barked, then leant down as if to take a swipe at him.

  The boy skipped out of the way and blustered, ‘I’ll tell my father!’

  ‘You can tell who you bloody well like. Now bugger off!’

  Sullen-faced, the boys backed away, then turned and ran. Rian watched them go, then glanced at the two Chinese men, watching from a safe distance. One of them bowed slightly, and Rian touched the brim of his hat.

  The remainder of their reconnaissance was fascinating, if uneventful. The diggings were littered with prospectors working on claims staked mere yards apart, and criss-crossed with muddy tracks over which bullocks pulled carts piled with washdirt, and men laboured to push teetering wheelbarrows. Many of the tents they had seen yesterday appeared to house both miners and the shafts they were sinking, and dogs, bulldogs in particular, roamed everywhere, getting underfoot and barking aggressively at passers-by. Here and there women and children fossicked in piles of mullock, hoping, perhaps, to find a few flakes of previously undetected gold.

  Stopping to talk to diggers as they went, Rian and Kitty discovered that the sails they had noted all around the diggings were the contraptions Mr Harcourt had spoken of, that the half-barrels filled with washdirt and water that men were vigorously stirring were called puddlers, that a cradle was a box on rockers through which washdirt was sieved with water to separate the gold, and that the largest of these set into the Yarrowee and its shallow winter tributaries were called long toms.

  On the way back to Lilac Cottage, Rian finally admitted to Kitty that he had a lot to learn about mining.

  Chapter Four

  August became September and the weather finally began to improve. The rain was no longer a daily occurrence, and the swamp that was Ballarat Flat began to recede slightly, as though it were gradually being sucked back into the Yarrowee, which, it was said, would
itself shrink to no more than an ambitious stream in the summer months. The temperature could still be low, though, and there were still days during which puddles remained iced over until the sun rose to thaw them. But the mud, at last, was hardening off.

  Between them, Kitty and Amber had transformed Lilac Cottage. They had bought drapes to keep the heat from the hearth in and the cold out, and heavy oilcloth and a carpet for the floor. A daybed for Amber had been ‘delivered’ by Patrick O’Riley, with more tapping of the nose and a discreet payment from Rian, and shelves had been built in the back bedroom so Pierre had somewhere to arrange his pantry and store his cooking utensils.

  It was while she was out shopping—on her own, against Rian’s wishes—that Kitty once again, to her distaste, encountered Lily Pearce. There was something about the woman that raised Kitty’s hackles.

  She was looking at the price of linsey-woolsey when a voice said, ‘Mrs Farrell, how nice to see you again.’

  Realising to whom the voice belonged, Kitty reluctantly turned around. ‘Good morning, Miss Pearce.’

  Today Lily Pearce was wearing a bright Prussian-blue skirt and fitted jacket, and a tiny black straw hat decorated with velvet flowers. It was a much fancier outfit than her travelling costume, but equally well cut. Kitty felt an irrational pang of jealousy at the quality of the woman’s clothes, even if the colour and style were rather unsuitable for day wear. But then they would be, in her line of business. She noticed with petty satisfaction that there was mud on Lily Pearce’s hem.

  Lily’s rouged lips curved in a pleasant smile that did not reach her eyes. ‘I hear you and your fine husband have settled nicely into Lilac Cottage. Silly name for a slab hut, but then Henrietta Murphy was quite a silly woman.’

  Kitty hadn’t even met the Widow Murphy, but still she bridled at the unkind comment. And how did Lily Pearce know they had taken over Lilac Cottage?

  ‘Were you acquainted with Mrs Murphy?’ she asked. ‘I wouldn’t have expected you to travel in the same circles.’

  Lily flicked her bright curls over her shoulder. ‘Not so much Mrs Murphy, no. More her husband. And how is your charming daughter?’

  ‘Well,’ Kitty said brusquely.

  ‘And has Captain Farrell made his fortune yet?’

  ‘No.’

  Lily looked surprised. ‘Really? I was sure that a man with such enthusiasm and…passion would have struck gold by now.’

  Kitty didn’t reply. She eyed Lily warily.

  Lily smiled again. ‘Of course, having been here for some time, I know quite a lot about mining. Why don’t you tell him to come and see me? I could perhaps give him…a few tips.’

  Over my cold and lifeless body, Kitty swore to herself, then suddenly became aware of a presence behind her.

  Lily Pearce’s gaze shifted.

  Wearily, a woman’s voice said, ‘Go and tout your wares somewhere else, Lily. You’re wasting your time with this one’s man.’

  Fascinated, Kitty watched Lily’s face lose its veneer of amusement and her eyes narrow to obdurate slits.

  ‘And you’d know, would you? Tried and failed already?’ she said, her sudden venom coarsening her accent. She laughed unpleasantly, then swept out of the shop in a flurry of skirts.

  But Kitty missed her grand exit, as she’d recognised the owner of the voice. She stared for a long moment, then felt the anger and the tension drain from her body. She smiled. ‘Flora Langford. It’s been such a long time.’

  ‘Yes, it has, hasn’t it, Kitty? Nine years? Or is it ten? And it’s Flora McRae now.’

  Kitty continued to stare at her old friend, realising she wasn’t particularly surprised to see her here at Ballarat. There were shallow crow’s-feet around Flora’s blue eyes now, but her hair was still a rich, dark gold and her face as calm and pretty as ever. Kitty also noted her heavy, black grosgrain dress and discreet jet jewellery.

  ‘Are you widowed? I’m very sorry to see that, Flora.’

  Flora waved a black-gloved hand airily. ‘Yes, five years ago. But I like black. You know that.’

  Kitty nodded, recalling the day in Auckland when she had discovered several gowns at the back of Flora’s wardrobe—one black satin and one scarlet, both too beautiful, and rather too risqué, for a girl employed as an assistant to a watchmaker.

  ‘You don’t wear scarlet any more?’

  Flora laughed. ‘Oh, no, my scarlet days are well behind me. But I am still in the business, and what better place to operate such a business than on the goldfields where a lonely man will pay almost anything for an hour with a soft, willing and perfumed woman?’

  ‘You have…an establishment?’

  Flora nodded. ‘The finest in Ballarat.’

  ‘And Lily Pearce? Is she also…?’

  ‘A madam, yes.’ Flora made a disdainful face. ‘A working one, however. And her house is nothing compared with mine. My girls are said to be the most alluring in all of Victoria.’

  Kitty was sure they were—Flora Langford had always had a flair for business.

  Flora eyed Kitty thoughtfully. ‘I have some time to spare, Kitty. Would you like morning tea?

  They seated themselves in the dining room of one of the Flat’s more salubrious hotels. The table was spread with a white cloth, the carpets were a floral pattern, oil lamps gave the room a soft glow and a fire crackled in the grate beneath an ornate mirror.

  ‘Very nice,’ Kitty remarked as she untied the ribbons of her bonnet, wondering yet again whether she should just not bother with it. Flora wasn’t wearing one. ‘Quite “genteel”.’

  ‘It is. The menu is often passable, too.’

  Neither said anything as a young girl took their orders, then bustled off.

  ‘And Captain Farrell, is he well?’ Flora asked.

  ‘Yes, very,’ Kitty replied. ‘Exasperating, though. He’s decided to try his hand at gold mining.’

  Flora nodded. ‘I’d heard about that.’

  ‘Had you?’ Kitty was startled. ‘How?’

  ‘There may be thousands of men on the diggings, Kitty, but more often than not they’re poor souls pushing barrows all the way out from Melbourne and hoping to make their fortunes. There aren’t many Irish sea captains. Word travels fast here. I heard the name and wondered, so I asked around. I was hoping our paths might cross.’

  ‘Yes, well, he bought a claim while we were in Melbourne. In fact he spent a good portion of the money from our latest cargo on it,’ Kitty said ruefully. Then she laughed. ‘He’s absolutely convinced we’ll make our fortunes.’

  ‘You might,’ Flora said, leaning back so the serving girl could set down a tray of tea and cake. ‘You’re still sailing and trading around the world, then?’

  Kitty nodded, and turned the teapot three times. ‘Constantly, since the last time I saw you.’

  ‘On the right side of the law?’ Flora’s finely arched eyebrows went up.

  ‘Not always. You know what Rian’s like.’

  Flora had a fair idea. She had never met him, but Kitty had talked about Rian frequently.

  Kitty said, ‘And did Hattie marry her butcher?’

  ‘Yes, six months after you left. And produced a child exactly nine months later. Each to her own, I suppose.’

  When Rian had sent Kitty to Auckland to keep her out of harm’s way during the Northern War in New Zealand in 1845, Kitty had boarded with a widow named Mrs Fleming. Hattie Whelan and Flora Langford had also been lodgers.

  ‘And I left just after that,’ Flora continued, transferring a piece of cake onto a plate and reaching for a fork.

  This time Kitty’s eyebrows went up.

  ‘I had to,’ Flora said flatly. ‘One of my “gentlemen” decided he wanted to marry me.’

  ‘Not your Mr McRae?’

  ‘No, not Mr McRae. I made it clear that I had no interest in being a married woman, but he was very persistent. And then he became rather unpleasant, pointing out that were our affair to become public, I would have more to lose. He was qu
ite correct, of course. He was a single man, after all, whereas I would be revealed to all and sundry as a harlot. Which, as you know, I was. Not an ideal situation in a town as small as Auckland. So I left New Zealand.’ Flora sipped her tea, then relaxed back in her chair. ‘You’re looking very well, Kitty. Married life must suit you. Or is it the bracing sea air?’

  ‘Both. I do love the sea, but Rian is my life.’

  ‘Still?’ Flora looked surprised. ‘How extraordinary.’

  ‘Well, what about your husband, Mr McRae? Did you not love him?’

  ‘Not really.’

  ‘Then why did you marry him?’

  ‘I know, I always said I wouldn’t be a wife, didn’t I? But he was extremely wealthy, if somewhat elderly.’ Flora met Kitty’s gaze steadily. ‘And then, of course, he died. A tragedy.’

  ‘And left you all his money?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Kitty fleetingly felt sorry for poor, deceased Mr McRae, then gave a mental shrug: Flora’s business was her own.

  ‘And how is that child of yours, Amber? Still wild? Or do you have a great brood of them now?’

  ‘No, just Amber. And, no, she’s not still wild. Well, not often.’ Kitty smiled. ‘I think you’d like her, Flora. She’s very, well, shall we say, independent? And rather clever.’

  ‘She wouldn’t remember me, I’m sure.’

  ‘I think she would. She remembers Mrs Fleming and Hattie. Why don’t you come and visit us?’

  ‘Perhaps. Tell me, Kitty, I’ve always wondered this, how did your husband take to being told he had suddenly become guardian to a little street urchin?’

  ‘Father, Flora, not guardian.’

  ‘I would have thought it would be the last thing a dyed-in-the-wool sea trader and part-time smuggler would want to hear.’

  ‘It was, and to be honest he wasn’t pleased at first. But then there was all the other trouble and by the time that was over he’d decided he quite liked her. Now he adores her.’

  Flora took a bite from her slice of cake, then made a face and put it back on the plate. ‘Lard, not butter. What trouble was that?’