Ironbark (74 page)

‘Daniel carved the bedstead. See? Our initials are entwined inside that fancy knot.'

‘It's a lover's knot,' she said and left the room.

Since then she had given monosyllabic responses to his attempts at conversation. He studied her in silence. Keziah had not changed her dress or scarf since her arrival home.

‘Always liked that blue dress on you,' he said hopefully.

‘Daniel just bought it in Parramatta. My own clothes won't fit me.'

Jake could see she was pale and a bit on the scrawny side, only to be expected after more than a year of prison pap. He'd make damned sure she ate fresh food. His lamb, his fruit, his veg, his eggs, milk and cream.
Bloody hell. What am I doing wrong?

‘Do you like the wine?' he asked. ‘A new local vineyard. A First Fleeter's son has gone into partnership with an old lag. Pretty good drop I reckon.'

‘I'm not used to wine. I'd get lushy.'

‘I won't complain,' he said lightly. ‘Wine makes you very affectionate.'

No trace of a smile. It unnerved Jake to realise she was shy of his touch. He was angry with himself. After their long separation he couldn't think of another thing to say.

His eyes traced the line of the thick black plait over her shoulder. It made her look like a schoolgirl. The shadows under her eyes. No colour in her cheeks. None of that mattered.
But where the hell is Keziah's spirit?

He decided to take control. ‘Come on. It's time to give you
my
present.'

He grabbed a lantern and pulled her by the hand past her beloved
vardo
, which rested under the leafy umbrella of a giant fire tree. He stopped inside the stables.

‘There!' He waited for her reaction, as confident as a gambler holding a royal flush.

The magnificent colt pawed the ground. The eyes held intelligent fire, his lines were as graceful as any horse Jake had ever seen. Dick
Gideon had groomed him like a champion fit to parade before young Queen Victoria.

‘He's yours, Kez. Arab bloodline. I'd go hungry before I'd sell him. Ride him, stud him, race him – your choice. All he needs is for you to name him. What do you reckon?'

The colt moved closer. Jake handed lumps of sugar to her in readiness for this moment but all Keziah did was to feed the colt sugar from the palm of her hand. No Romani bonding.

Jake drew Keziah back against his chest, his voice hungry for her praise. ‘Tell me, Kez, you do
like
him?'

He kissed the shoulder of her dress, kissed her plaited hair. Keziah pulled away.

‘Thank you, more than I can say. It's been a long journey.'

‘Struth, what a fool I am,' said Jake. ‘Of course, you're tired.'

He followed her back to the homestead. When they reached the
vardo
, she turned to him with eyes that seemed to be looking at another country.

‘I'd prefer to sleep in here tonight.'

‘Wherever you want, Kez. I just need to hold you in my arms tonight. That's all. Word of honour. The rest can come later when
you
are ready.'

Keziah nodded. ‘Tonight I need to sleep alone.'

She climbed the steps into the
vardo
. The sound of the bolt sliding behind her held an ominous note of finality.

• • • 

This pattern continued for two weeks. At first Jake assured himself it was simply because Keziah was conditioned to being locked in a cell. But he knew that was a lie – she would not even allow him to sleep beside her like a mate.

She seemed to be using the children as a shield. Day by day she picked up the threads of their lives, read them stories, heard their lessons, lengthened Pearl's skirts to give modest covering to her daughter's
legs – her Romani instinct. She took over the cooking from Jake without a word exchanged on the subject. He saw she was trying to fit back into their lives – like a stranger in Keziah's shoes. Whenever her eyes were forced to make contact with his, her expression was wary. Why?

Since her return Jake had never once seen her without her headscarf. Despite the plait he suspected her hair had been shaved off in prison. He was worried if he raised the subject he would strip her of what little remained of her formidable Romani pride. On the other hand, if he dodged the issue Keziah might misinterpret that as being a rejection of her looks and keep him at bay until her hair grew again.
Hell, that could take a year!

He worked out exactly what to say to broach the subject tactfully and marched in to the cookhouse where Keziah was alone, except for Yosie in his highchair. The fuel stove increased the day's high temperature. Sweat ran down her face and created damp patches under the sleeves of her blouse, but despite the heat her head was tightly bound by that eternal headscarf. Her plait swung wildly as she kneaded the dough for baking bread.

She looked up, startled at Jake's entry. He was armed with an axe.

‘Been building up your woodpile,' he said and charged at the problem head-on.

‘What's up, Kez? I don't give a damn what you wear. You'd look good in sackcloth and ashes, but you haven't taken off that headscarf since you left the Factory. A bloke doesn't have to be too clever to work out why. Those bastards in charge shaved off your hair to punish you, right?'

She didn't answer him. He hated to see the pain in her eyes.

‘What are you afraid of, Kez? Do you think I won't fancy you without your hair? Jesus, you must think I'm shallow. Nothing could put me off you, girl. Not a bloody thing.'

His gesture was quick but gentle. He pulled the scarf from her head – the plait was sewn inside it. The anguish in her face chilled him. Jake
concealed his shock at the reality – her shorn skull was covered by a dark fuzz like a man's rough beard.

‘It'll grow in next to no time. I'm sorry, Kez. I know what your hair means to you but it doesn't matter to me.' He reached out to stroke her head but she pushed his hand aside.

‘Don't you dare pity me!'

Snatching the scarf from his hands, she scooped up Yosie from his highchair and fled to the
vardo
, slamming the door and bolting it behind her.

‘Well, you made a right mess of that, you stupid bastard,' Jake berated himself. He stalked off and swung his axe at a gum tree he was determined to fell to relieve his frustration.

His confusion magnified as he hacked away at the trunk. He had tried to release Keziah's humiliation in the same way he used to lance a boil – one initial stab of pain followed by a flood of relief when the pus ran free and healing followed. Instead he had made things worse.

As he aggressively swung the axe and the noise resounded through the bush, he was bitterly reminded of the cold reception Keziah had given to his gift – the still unnamed Arab colt. He could hardly forget her passionate joy over Gem's gift of the brumby.

The problem ran deeper than being stripped of her hair. What the hell was wrong? She clearly intended to continue to bolt her door against him. Why did she reject Yosie each night? Was it simply because he was Jake's child? He never made distinctions. His, hers, theirs, they were all his children. After he had slain the timber giant the answer hit him.
Yosie sleeps beside me. It's not him she's rejecting, it's my body. I've got to be patient.

He decided it was time for Keziah to try her wings in public. He cornered her in the kitchen.

‘I promised to take Gabriel to Goulburn tomorrow. Pearl and Yosie will stay with Bran. He loves cooking for them and Pearl's so capable she could run Goulburn Hospital single-handed.' He added only
half joking, ‘We'll take Dan along as our chaperone, eh?'

Keziah nodded in cautious agreement.

‘I won't lie to you, Kez. Gabriel wants to visit Mrs Hamberton, the magistrate's wife. He's taken a shine to her. My gut tells me she was that unknown woman who pulled strings to wangle my release. And I reckon she helped swing your ticket too. I owe her big.'

He looked her straight in the eye. ‘I think you know what I'm asking, but it's up to you.'

Grey and steamy, the day was plagued by a westerly wind that frayed tempers, buffeting the group as they travelled in silence. Keziah felt as if she was being carted off in a tumbrel to the guillotine.

For the sake of appearances Jake established their public pecking order – himself as driver to Mr and Mrs Daniel Browne who sat behind him like royalty.

Keziah was touched by Gabriel's intense concentration, seated beside Jake like a pint-sized apprentice absorbing his father's driving skills.

When they drew up in the bustling Goulburn town centre, she chose to remain in the cart while her two husbands went about their business. Sensing her fear, Gabriel sat beside her in silence. She shielded her face with her sunbonnet in the hope she would escape recognition, overwhelmed by shame that was both public and private. For weeks she had avoided any response to Jake's patient attempts to ease her back into her role as his wife and into his bed.
Mi-duvel. How long can I keep him at bay?

Her reverie was broken. Jake sprang onto the driver's seat like a jack-in-the-box.

‘Right. Our business is done. Daniel's gone to sink an ale at a public house. I'll join him later.' He handed Gabriel a penny flute. ‘This is for you, mate.'

Jake drove them to a street lined with the elegant houses of the Quality and pulled up before an impressive double-storey sandstone building. The L-shaped veranda and Juliet balcony were decorated with wrought-iron lace like icing on a wedding cake.

It was one thing for Gabriel to enjoy visiting this house and its mistress, but how could Jake understand what this visit would cost
her
? Keziah had no intention of alighting.

Jake forced the issue. ‘You've got the guts to meet her, Kez. I know you have.' As if that closed the subject, he stretched out on the seat and pulled his hat over his eyes ready to sleep.

Keziah took hold of Gabriel's hand as he helped her climb down. It reminded her of the hour of his birth and the way his tiny hand had gripped hers and given her courage.

On the ivy-shaded veranda she gestured him toward a wrought-iron seat. ‘Wait here for me, Gabriel. I won't be long.'

The boy nodded and put his new flute to his lips to entertain himself.

A housemaid ushered her down the black and white chequered marble corridor. Keziah glimpsed her reflection in a mirror. Her blue Indian cotton dress was crushed from travelling, her braid topped by a Romani-style scarf. Her cheeks showed a faint trace of colour after weeks of fresh farm food. Her eyes were ringed by mauve shadows. She was determined their message would be unmistakable. No quarter asked, none given.
What do I care what this
gaujo
woman thinks of me? She's not fit to judge anyone.

All too soon Keziah found herself in an elegant drawing room face to face with the magistrate's wife. Mrs Hamberton was seated in a straight-backed chair, dressed in sober anthracite silk – the same grey colour as the telltale shadows around her eyes.

It seems I'm not the only one who had a sleepless night.
In court Keziah had been shocked by that single flash of recognition. Now she had a moment to study the woman. The greying fair hair was coiled back from her face without any attempt at artifice. She wore no jewellery. Her beautifully shaped hands were tightly clasped in her lap, her well-modulated, upper-class voice sounded calm.

‘I thank you for coming to see me. I appreciate how difficult that decision must have been for you, Mrs Browne.'

‘I doubt it.' Keziah had intended to remain standing, but when her
knees trembled she sank into a chair. Her eyes fixed on the grandfather clock as it chimed twice.

When Mrs Hamberton poured tea from a silver teapot, Keziah was reminded of her own, the Award for Bravery from Janet Macgregor's Wesleyan Women for Temperance group. How bitterly ironic that gift was right now. She had never felt more like a coward.

‘Understand one thing,' Keziah said. ‘I am here for one reason only. My … my friend Jake Andersen believes that the magistrate's wife has friends in high places and has the ear of Governor Gipps. Jake thinks you played an influential role in his release from prison. And perhaps my own.' Her tone was icy. ‘Is that true? I refuse to be in your debt!'

With a wave of her hand Mrs Hamberton dismissed that idea. ‘You are in no one's debt. In both cases justice was at last achieved.'

Keziah's mouth went dry but she could not bring herself to touch the delicate bone china rimmed with gold. A white teacup was bad luck.

‘I understand Jake Andersen brought my son Gabriel to visit you.'

The question drew a faint smile of relief. ‘Yes. Your son is an extraordinarily perceptive child, like his mother.'

Keziah rejected the intimacy. ‘You may think you know me. You don't. My father, Gabriel Stanley, was a true Rom. He died in prison from injuries received in a fight, but in truth he died years earlier from a broken heart. Betrayed by his
gaujo
wife. He died at her hands as surely as if she'd fired a pistol at his heart. My
Puri Dai
told me my father's wife chose to return to the bosom of her family, to her place in
gaujo
society. A dowry was arranged to enable her to marry within her class. To hide the
indiscretion
of her youth – me!'

Keziah's tone conveyed the acid she felt rising inside her. Mrs Hamberton turned pale. She gave a nervous little cough.

‘Your grandmother told you the truth as she knew it. She was a proud woman who repeatedly rejected the money sent to her for the care of Gabriel's little daughter.'

Keziah eyed her with contempt. ‘We Romani do not accept blood money.'

Mrs Hamberton rocked slightly in her chair. ‘I am sure that young girl, your mother, would never have forgiven herself for the terrible choice she made.'