Ironbark (13 page)

The answer was soon clear. A man dressed in black except for a flash red shirt entered between two henchmen who he dismissed as he crossed to Evans's table.

Jake knew Gideon Park's overseer more by reputation than sight. It was known he took pride in the title given him by his Irish assigned felons – the Devil Himself.

He had florid but well-defined features, a shiny black beard trimmed to a sharp point. In profile he reminded Jake of the King of Spades. Jake had learned to pinpoint settlers' origins from their accents, but the overseer's speech gave him no clues. The man could have sprung from anywhere.

One of his henchmen brought him a bottle of grog then slunk back to the bar.

‘Rotgut,' the overseer said with mild contempt, but downed a glass of it. He pushed a roll of banknotes across the table and Evans furtively placed it inside his coat.

The overseer was faintly amused. ‘Madam Fleur said to tell you business was slow this week.'

‘A likely story.' Evans's question was muffled. ‘Did you test the new merchandise?'

‘Pricey. But she'll bring in the money. Loves it rough. Couldn't get enough of me.'

Jake realised the grapevine was right – Madam Fleur ran her brothel
as a front for Evans. Jake felt a sting of pity for the fallen women who worked it. By indulging two-legged mongrels like this overseer, the girls protected good women. They deserved to be better paid for it.

He finished his drink and ambled across the road to the House of the Four Sisters.

Girls were draped around the darkened room in various stages of undress. Several brightened at the sight of him. Jake hoped he looked presentable. He had bathed in the creek and ironed the clean shirt he had borrowed from Mac for the morning's interview with Rolly Brothers. Women, including prostitutes, deserved a bit of respect.

He tugged at the red neckerchief that suddenly felt tight then removed his hat.

‘Good evening, ladies. Er – been hot enough for you?'

The girls giggled as if he had said something clever. The boldest, a girl with dirty blonde hair, cooed in response, ‘It's never too hot for me! I'm Suzanne, lovey.'

Jake was surprised by the woman who ran the place. At first glance Madam Fleur could have passed as a Nonconformist matron who went to chapel. Close up she was rather different. She steered him to an alcove where she wriggled her hips into the seat beside him. She handed him an Albion Ale with the compliments of the house and sized him up as she ran through the house rules. He would pay as soon as he made his choice.

‘All good clean girls here. Not like that awful Red Brumby down the road!'

She bent her head to catch his request. ‘A wife for the night?' She beamed and patted his knee. ‘Obviously you're a real gent.'

‘I don't know about that, Ma'am.'

Madam Fleur scurried off to greet another customer and Jake watched the girls as they moved between pools of light. His eye was caught by a redhead who sauntered down the stairs wearing a yellow Chinese robe embroidered with a black dragon. She appeared much
younger than the others, but he was struck by the older expression in her hooded blue eyes. Her mouth was like a ripe plum, her complexion so fresh she had no need of the rouge other girls wore that reminded him of pink dots on the cheeks of a china doll. Red hair fell over her shoulders in disarray, suggesting she worked too hard to bother combing it between clients.

He glimpsed the bruises around her ankles – a sure sign she was another runaway assigned lass who had recently done time in the stocks.

He turned to Madam Fleur and discreetly nodded his head in this girl's direction.

Madam Fleur seemed faintly surprised by his choice. ‘She'll cost double.'

‘Righto.' Hat in hand, Jake crossed the room to the girl in the yellow robe.

‘Good evening. I'm Jakob Andersen. Jake. You by any chance free all night?'

She smiled and nodded. ‘For you I am,
cheri
. I am Lily Pompadour from gay Paree.'

Jake wasn't familiar with French accents, but having a mother raised in Dublin he could spot an Irish dialect a mile off. He went along with the game.

‘A French lass, eh? It's a pleasure to meet you, Miss Lily. May I buy you a drink?'

He was not surprised when she ordered a bottle of French champagne to be sent upstairs to their room. Clearly Madam Fleur had her girls well trained.

At the foot of the staircase he offered Lily Pompadour his arm, a gesture that seemed to catch her unawares but she recovered fast. ‘Always the gentleman,
cheri
?'

‘I hope not so much that I'll disappoint you, Miss Lily.'

Her smile was disarming but Jake recognised her manner was
professional when she closed the door behind them and ran her hand down his chest inside his shirt.

‘Perhaps we are both in for some surprises tonight, eh
cheri
?'

Her dimly lit room had red and gold wallpaper and a large brass bed. A Chinese screen was folded to give him a nice view of her milk-white body as she changed into a bit of flimsy black lace. She draped one hand on the screen as she showed herself to full effect.

Jake had stripped off his shirt and unbuckled his belt. ‘I bathed this morning but no doubt you'd care to wash what matters, just to be sure.'

Lily nodded and Jake enjoyed the cool touch of her fingers. Then she surprised him. She held out a rope and whip. ‘Your generosity entitles you to other pleasures.'

He gave a dismissive wave. ‘Not to my taste, love, but if you're willing to take me on, I'd like something else from you.'

Lily's fixed smile almost faltered. ‘Your pleasure is my pleasure,
cheri
.'

‘It's Jake. Thanks, but I'm not paying to hear false sweet talk. I want you to be straight with me. I always enjoy going to bed with a woman.' He felt suddenly embarrassed. ‘The problem is I want to learn what makes a
woman
happy – in connection.'

Lily stared at him. Her French accent suddenly disappeared. ‘All in one night?'

‘Hell no. I don't expect miracles. I've just been hired as a coach driver so I'll pass through Bolthole every few weeks. If I keep coming to see you, will you—?'

‘I'll talk straight. And I promise you, Jake, you'll love every minute of what I'm going to teach you.' She took his hand and led him to the bed. ‘Lesson one,' she said softly.

• • •

Next morning as he dressed in the half light Jake studied Lily Pompadour's sleeping face. Her arms lay above her head on the pillow,
a painful reminder of Jenny the very last time he had seen her. He pushed aside the sharp memory.

When he dropped one of his riding boots the sound woke Lily. She rolled over onto her stomach and gave him a naughty sidelong glance from under her tangled mane of hair.

Her voice was an impure invitation. ‘You'll come back to me for more, Jake?'

He pulled on his left banking boot. It was empty now but would be healthy again after he drew his first Rolly Brothers pay cheque and repaid Mac's loan.

‘All right, girl. What's your verdict?'

‘If I said you had no problem, you wouldn't come back. That's bad for business.'

‘You agreed to talk straight, remember?'

‘I am. The first time you were so excited you couldn't last long enough. Happens a lot. Once you were familiar with my body you were very good, very strong. Next time I'll teach you clever new tricks. How to delay your own pleasure and drive a woman crazy.'

She lazily waved him goodbye. ‘Is that worth a second bite of the cherry, Jake?'

His short laugh had an edge. ‘Try and stop me, Lily.'

As he crossed the road to The Shanty with No Name he saw Mac had already set up their drinks for breakfast. Jake was never guilty of allowing a cold Albion Ale to grow warm.

• • •

On the day before his scheduled departure for Sydney Town on Mac's coach, Jake rode Horatio towards the turn-off signpost that read ‘Ironbark – One Mile' but he knew the village was really a bushman's mile off the Sydney Road. The last time he had passed through Ironbark was en route to Tagalong to see Mac about the Bulldog Kane match. He had been light of heart, sure he would soon be holding Jenny in his arms. That day seemed a lifetime away. Now he was in search of his
bolting wife. One-horse towns had long memories.

Ahead of him on the Sydney Road stood a stationary wagon piled with packing cases. The line of the driver's slouched shoulders had the familiar look of a New Chum lost in the bush. He was hunched over a map, swearing loudly.

As Jake rode up to help the man find his bearings, he grinned in recognition. There was no mistaking the stuttering surgeon who had stitched him up at the Rum Hospital.

Dr Ross spoke as if to a stranger. ‘Could you kindly direct me to Barnes's Farm, Sir? This map is bloody useless except for getting a body lost.'

Jake pretended not to know him at first. ‘Can't miss it. Just follow the road till you come to a scribbly gum. Cross a wobbly bridge. The turn-off to the left leads straight there.'

‘Thank you. But what in God's name is a scribbly gum?'

‘The white trunk looks like kiddies scribbled over it. Don't remember me, eh Doc?'

The Highlander frowned. ‘Aye, you're the lad crowned by a flying bottle in The Rocks. I'm surprised you can remember me. Roaring drunk as I recall.'

‘Guilty as charged but you did a good job. Right as rain now. Can I shout you a drink, Doc?' Jake reached for the whisky flask in his saddlebag.

‘Much obliged to you, but I'm on my way to inspect a property for sale. Barnes's Farm. I understand the locals are in dire need of a physician in these parts.'

‘Last one died at the bottom of a bottle. The farm ain't a bad bit of dirt but it's got a funny reputation. Known as the Haunted Farm. The story goes Barnes was a wife-beater. In 1825 he went to God with a hatchet in his skull courtesy of a convict protecting Barnes's wife. Play your cards right, you'll cop it for a song. That's if you don't hold with that ghost bullshit.'

Dr Ross's mouth twitched. ‘Aye. Sheer drivel. Thanks for your advice, Mr—?'

‘Name's Jake. Good luck, Doc. If I cop the wrong end of another fight, I'll know where to come.'

‘In that case I suspect I'll be seeing a fair bit of ye. What are the odds of running into you twice over such a great distance?'

‘You ain't in England now, Doc. There's only fifty-five thousand of us white fellas – half of them convicts – scattered down the whole of the colony from Moreton Bay to Port Phillip. And bloody few roads. You'll find we all keep bumping into each other, like it or not.'

Jake realised the irony of his words.
So why can't I bloody well find my own wife?

Keziah Stanley lay in the darkness on her bunk on the
Harlequin
unable to sleep because of her rising sense of excitement. For days whenever the weather was fine and the winds favourable they had hugged the coastline close enough to catch glimpses of the eastern seaboard of the Australian continent. Rumour onboard was they would sight the Heads of Port Jackson tomorrow!

After fourteen weeks at sea Keziah had totally assumed her new identity as the widow Mrs Smith, taking elaborate care to hide her past and future plans to prevent the Morgans from finding her. Each day, rain, hail or shine, she had remained on deck, not only to escape the fetid air below and her fellow passengers but to disguise her morning sickness as seasickness.

Keziah looked around at the figures sleeping in tiers of bunks that lined the ship's hull. Each bunk provided barely enough room to turn over and there was only twenty-four inches headroom between bunks. After a lifetime of freedom on the open road it was galling to be confined with thirty
gaujo
immigrants in their section, forced to eat and wash in this cramped passengers' mess – a communal space shared not only with women and sickly children but lusty husbands who demanded their conjugal rights during the night.

Keziah had long since devoured her share of rations but the babe in her womb reminded her she must find something to stave off her hunger pains. How long till dawn?

In the darkness she carefully drew her shawl across her growing belly. But there was no disguising breasts that strained the confines of her bodice.

Keziah sighed. If only this child had been Gem's.

Passing the ship's galley she saw the cook was slumped asleep. She helped herself to a hunk of cheese and a crust of stale bread and made her way up on deck.

She clung to the railing to stay upright against the ship's roll as she searched the horizon. The first traces of dawn came with a breeze that whipped hair around her face and refreshed her spirits. She admired the nimble climb of a seaman to the crow's nest, while others chanted their work songs in unison and expertly unfurled sails to take advantage of the wind.

There was a jubilant cry from the crow's nest, ‘Land ahoy!' The sun blazed with tropical intensity and Keziah gasped as the
Harlequin
sailed into an amazingly large expanse of harbour. She was forcibly reminded that November was late spring down here at the bottom of the world and already far hotter than many a high summer she had known in Wales.

She held her breath at the sight of the islands that lay like floating gems on the harbour. On their port side one small island shaped like a tree-covered pyramid flashed a warning light to ships. A sailor was quick to explain.

‘That be Pinchgut, Ma'am. Not long since prisoners who stole food were strung up on a gibbet at the highest point. Left to rot as a warning to other thieves.' He added under his breath, ‘The good old days, they called 'em. I hear the authorities be more civilised now. They just chain the poor wretches alive out in the open.'