‘I just come to relieve you of some of Uncle’s things,’ Eliza said, keeping her voice low for fear of waking Arthur. ‘I thought they would do for
Arnold.’
Ada set the jug down on the table. ‘Come into the front parlour, Eliza. I’ve put all your uncle’s things in there, laid out so as you could take what you wanted.’
Eliza followed her out of the warm kitchen into the front room. ‘You’ve done wonders, Ada. And in such a short space of time.’
‘I can’t tell you how much it means to me to have a proper home.’ Ada’s voice cracked and she blinked away a tear. ‘Don’t take no notice of me, Eliza. It’s tears of happiness that I’m shedding. Silly old me.’
‘I’m glad I could help. Uncle Enoch never appreciated his home. He never appreciated nothing.’
‘Well, he’s dead and gone, and can’t hurt you no more. There’s his things, such as they are. He wasn’t what you call a big spender, was he?’
Enoch’s clothes had been neatly laid out on the horsehair sofa. Eliza couldn’t bring herself to touch them. ‘Perhaps Davy could bring them to the chandlery tomorrow?’
‘Of course he can. And there’s this as well, I found it in a cupboard in the old man’s bed-room.’ Ada reached up to the mantelshelf and took down a small, wooden box and passed it to Eliza.
Inside she found a daguerreotype of a young woman, faded but still clear enough to reveal an
oval face framed with ringlets of light hair and large eyes that held a hauntingly sad expression. Ada cleared her throat. ‘I thought perhaps it was your mother, Eliza. You look just like her. And there’s a mourning brooch too. The hair in it is flaxen just like yours. I reckon your dad must have had it made up.’
As she held the likeness in one hand and the brooch in the other, Eliza felt hot tears flooding down her cheeks. ‘I’m sure it’s my mum; she’s just as I imagined her. But I don’t understand why Uncle Enoch kept it hidden. Bart would have liked to have it, I know he would, but it’s too late now. He might be dead too for all I know.’
‘Now, now, don’t give way to morbid thoughts. Your Bart is a big, strong fellow and he’s well able to take care of himself. He’ll turn up on your doorstep one day, large as life. I’m certain of it.’
Wiping her eyes, Eliza pinned the brooch to the neck of her black dress. ‘You’re right, Ada. He’ll come home and I’ll be waiting for him. I’ll build the business up bigger and better than Uncle Enoch ever done. I swear to God, I will.’
Bart peered into a shard of mirror balanced precariously on a table made out of planks salvaged from the ruins of Fox Camp after the great storm. He scraped at his beard with a somewhat rusty cut-throat razor, swearing loudly as he nicked his cheek. It was bitterly cold inside the stone hut that he had built with his own hands after his first shelter had been swept away in the floods of that dreadful winter. Despite temperatures well below freezing, he had hefted the stones from the riverbed, piling them together without the advantage of mortar. He had not had the necessary skill to build a chimney, and in desperation had lit a fire just outside the door to take the bitter chill from the single room, half choked by the smoke, but glad of the smallest degree of warmth to keep himself from freezing to death. Somehow, against all odds, he had survived and the winter was over now, with the hint of spring softening the air even though the mountaintops were still iced with snow.
Bart dabbed at the cut with a piece of rag. What he wouldn’t give for a jug of hot water and some
shaving soap, but these were luxuries that he had learned to do without. Life had been hard enough before Tate’s murder and afterwards had become almost unbearable. The police had never found the culprit and, due to his reputation for being quick-tempered, Bart himself had come under suspicion for a while. It had been Captain Hayes who had spoken out for him and, with no evidence or motive, the police had come to the obvious conclusion that Tate had been murdered for the bag of gold he had won at cards. He had been buried in the cemetery along with hundreds of other unfortunate souls who had died violent deaths or been taken by pneumonia, typhoid or scarlet fever. A wooden cross, simply inscribed ‘Tate’ in pokerwork, marked his grave. It was then that Bart realised that he had never known him by any other name; he did not even know if Tate was his surname or his Christian name. Neither did he know whether there was anyone in England who would mourn his passing: it seemed that Tate had left this world as he had come into it, unwanted and unloved.
Drying his face on a scrap of cloth, Bart put on his one good shirt, a waistcoat and his jacket that was showing signs of wear and tear but would have to do until he could afford a replacement. Feeling under the straw palliasse on his wooden bunk, his fingers curled around a pouch
containing the small amount of gold that had taken him two weeks to pan from the river. Today was his day for going down into Fox Camp, now rebuilt and renamed Arrowtown. His need for fresh supplies was only a little greater than his need for Daisy. Sometimes in the dead of night, huddled in his straw bed too cold to sleep, he was tormented by fears that Daisy would get tired of waiting for him to strike it rich; that one of the handsome, younger bucks who had come upon their fortune in gold nuggets would steal her away from him. In his heart, Bart knew that Daisy was faithful and that she loved him, although he could not think why she would give herself so completely to a rough, penniless, ill-tempered fellow such as himself. He had not even had the money to buy her an engagement ring, and marriage was out of the question until he had found that crock of gold that was at the end of the elusive rainbow.
With one last look around his hut, he went outside and dragged the ill-fitting door across the entrance. There was no lock, nor even a bolt, but it would keep some of the cold out and there was nothing of value for anyone to steal. Making his way through the wet scrub, slipping on the frosty surface of the mud, he began the trek down the mountainside towards Arrowtown. As he neared the settlement he could smell wood-smoke from the campfires of the tented
community, the scent of boiling hops from the brewery and the mouth-watering aroma of freshly baked bread. New buildings had popped up like a field of mushrooms and the town had lost none of its robust bustle and vitality. Bart entered the town with a spring in his step. Soon he would be with Daisy; he would take her in his arms and taste the sweetness of her lips, bury his face in her scented hair and feel the softness of her voluptuous body against his.
Her old lodgings had been destroyed in the storm that had wiped out half the town, taking with it the roof of the Provincial Hotel and damaging the Prince of Wales into the bargain. But Bully Hayes and Rosie had already left, suddenly and with no warning, in the middle of June, having sold the hotel for half its value. The Buckinghams had also departed and Daisy had been out of a job, but she had soon found work with Mary Ann Anderson who was a rough, tough woman who, earlier in the year, had been arrested for running an unlicensed grog shop and disorderly house. Chained to a log outside the police station, a common punishment due to the lack of prison buildings, she had impressed even the hardest of men with the range of her invective.
Bart was not happy that his Daisy should be working for Mary Ann, or Bull Pup as she was nicknamed, after the dog that was always at her
side, but in that terrible winter it had been a matter of survival. Arriving outside the clapboard building, Bart took off his hat and went inside. The fumes of stale alcohol caught him in the back of his throat, hitting his empty stomach and making him retch, although he quickly covered his mouth with his hand as Bull Pup emerged from a back room with a look on her face that would have scared a lesser man. Then, to Bart’s surprise, she grinned.
‘Well, if it isn’t young Bart. I thought you was the law come to arrest a poor woman for trying to earn an honest living.’
‘Is Daisy about, Miss Mary Ann?’
‘We was busy last night.’ Nudging Bart in the ribs, Mary Ann gave him a knowing wink. ‘She’s a working girl and don’t you forget it. If you go tiring her out you’ll have Bull Pup to answer to.’
Biting back an angry retort, Bart gritted his teeth. The meaningful leer on Mary Ann’s face made him want to punch her in the mouth, anything to wipe that smile off her face; but for all her foul language and toughness, she was still a woman and he’d never hit a woman, not yet anyway.
Mary Ann jerked her head in the direction of the door to the back of the building. ‘Go on then. I’ll not charge you this time, young fellah, but I ain’t running a charitable institution here.’
Bart grunted a reply, fisting his hands but
keeping them close by his sides, as he headed for the rooms where Mary Ann’s girls entertained their clients. Anger roiled in his stomach, cold and bitter as gall, making his mouth dry; his heartbeat quickened, sending the blood drumming in his ears. The thought of another man laying hands on Daisy made him physically sick and a red mist blurred his vision. Barging into her room without knocking, Bart came to a halt by the bed where Daisy lay sleeping, her golden hair tumbled about her face and her red lips parted slightly as though she were having a pleasant dream. The room smelt of stale sweat and cheap grog; it was a tart’s room and his beloved Daisy was a common whore. Looking down on her as she slept, jumbled visions clouded Bart’s mind of unwashed, uncouth men using her lovely body for their pleasure. Fuelled by hatred for these unknown violators, Bart’s heart was filled with murder and his soul racked with anguish. In sleep she looked like an angel, innocent, young and vulnerable. Choked by a rasping sob, Bart fell to his knees by the bedside, buried his face in his hands and wept.
‘Bart?’
He felt Daisy move beneath the covers but he could not lift his head. Her arms were about him and she was murmuring his name over and over again.
‘Bart, Bartie dear, what’s wrong with you? Speak to me.’
Ashamed of his weakness and of his inability to control that dark river of rage that had almost ruined his life, Bart wrapped his arms around Daisy’s waist and laid his head against her breast.
Rocking him in her arms like a baby, Daisy stroked his hair back from his forehead. ‘There, there, love. I dunno what brought this on but everything’s going to be all right.’
‘I – I’m sorry,’ Bart mumbled, hiccuping and pulling away from her to rub his eyes on the back of his hand. ‘I’m sorry, Daisy.’
‘So you should be, you bad boy. You’ve made the front of me nightgown all wet,’ Daisy said, kissing him on the forehead.
Her tender but puzzled smile and the sight of her breasts outlined by the damp cotton of her nightgown filled Bart with love and a surge of desire that sent thrills through his body, but at the same time made him feel ashamed. He was little better than the men who paid for her affections; his lust for her body was as great a sin as theirs, for hadn’t he heard this often enough in the lengthy Sunday sermons that Uncle Enoch had forced him to endure? He loved her with all his heart, but without money he could not protect her or take her away from this degrading way of life. What sort of a man was he to have left
his own sister, a mere child, to the mercies of a miserly old hypocrite like Enoch? What sort of useless creature was he that could not find gold even when others were stumbling over nuggets that made their fortune overnight?
‘Oh, Bartie, love. Don’t take on so,’ Daisy whispered, in between kisses. ‘Come to Daisy, she’ll make it right for you.’
Unable to resist her lips or reject the only comfort that Daisy had in her power to give him, Bart climbed onto the bed beside her, closing his eyes and allowing her gentle hands to undo his clothes. ‘I love you, Daisy. I want to take you away from this rotten place.’
‘You will, dear,’ Daisy whispered, nipping the lobe of Bart’s ear while her hands caressed his body. ‘You will, Bart. But not until later.’
He was drowsing in Daisy’s arms, physically sated and happy, but was dragged back to reality by someone thumping on the door.
‘Daisy, wake up in there. You got a customer.’ Mary Ann’s voice had a steel edge to it that must be obeyed.
Daisy wriggled from Bart’s arms, and climbed out of bed. ‘You got to go, love. I’ll see you later.’
‘No!’ The word was wrenched from Bart’s throat in a cry of pain. ‘No, I won’t let you. You can’t go with another man. You’re mine, Daisy.’
She dragged her wrap around her shoulders,
eyeing him coldly. ‘Keep your voice down. I got a job to do.’
‘Bugger that,’ Bart cried, scrambling out of bed and grabbing her by the shoulders. ‘You got to give it up, girl. It’s not for the likes of you.’
‘Likes of me? Don’t talk soft, Bart. You know what I am, what I got to do to earn a living. Stop acting like a fool.’
‘A fool! Yes, I must be a fool to love you like I do.’ Bart struggled to control his temper. ‘It’s got to stop, Daisy. I can’t let you sell yourself like a common harlot.’
Her eyes narrowed and flashed with anger. ‘But I am a common harlot. You knew that when you asked me to marry you.’
‘Don’t say that.’ Pressing his hands against his temples, Bart felt his self-control slipping into an abyss. ‘Don’t ever say that. I want to marry you, I do.’
She faced him, hands on hips, allowing her wrap to fall open, and revealing her curvaceous body, still glistening with a silky sheen from their lovemaking. ‘Then do it. Marry me or get out of my life. I’m a whore, remember, and I don’t do it for free.’
The rage that had been simmering in Bart’s belly exploded into a firestorm at her taunting words and something seemed to snap inside his head. He lashed out with his fist, knocking Daisy to the floor where she lay in a crumpled heap.
For a moment, Bart stared at her inert figure, not fully understanding how she had come to lie there at his feet. Dazed and shaking from head to foot, the full horror of what he had done hit him in the stomach like a punch from a bare-knuckle fighter. He fell to his knees and cradled Daisy’s head in his arms. His tears fell on her upturned face, mingling with the blood from her cut lip which had already swollen to twice its size. ‘Daisy, Daisy, please forgive me. I never meant to hurt you. Daisy.’