The Cedar Cutter (20 page)

‘They're long gone.' His jaws clenched as his teeth clamped, making his cheekbones stand out in the flickering shadows of the fire. ‘It's a sorry tale, and of my own making. Had I not had my head in the clouds with thoughts of a better world my darlings would be with me today.'

‘We all want a better world for those we love.' Wasn't that the very reason she'd left Sydney? So Ruan could run free, go to school and grow without the shadow of his conception hanging over him.

‘It's the injustice of it all I couldn't stand, cannot stand.' He slammed his hand down on the floor, making the rum slop up over the brim of the mug, forming a damp spot on his thigh. His eyes flashed and every muscle stretched taut. ‘The bloody English landlords bending the laws, hacking away at our lives and our land until we'd barely enough to scrape a living. Me rations on the convict ship were more than I was able to provide for Liam and Brigid.'

Liam and Brigid?
Her fingers froze and her heart twisted tight. She dropped her sewing to her lap. ‘Your family?'

‘Me wife and darling boy they were.'

‘I didn't know.' She moistened her lips, her throat tight with unshed tears, tears for this man who'd lost his child and tears for herself. She couldn't imagine … Her stomach clenched. If anything happened to Ruan, she couldn't live. He was her world.

She'd known from the very beginning the sadness in Carrick's eyes when he looked at Ruan held more than he admitted. And his easy familiarity, knowing what to say, how to make Ruan feel good about himself. Oh he'd make a wonderful father. Life was so unfair.

Why had he deserted his family? He didn't seem like a man who would leave his responsibilities. What crime had he committed? She needed to know. Besides, how could she let Ruan alone with the man if she didn't?

‘It's the thought of what they must have suffered that still makes me sick to me stomach and breaks me heart.'

‘Do you want to tell me? Sometimes it's better to share a sorrow.' Her duplicity twisted in her belly. Why was she asking—to ease his pain or reassure herself that Ruan wasn't in danger? Not for herself, she didn't care, but for Ruan. Oh, God, what if any harm came to Ruan because she'd let down her guard, because of the tall, handsome Irishman with a soul full of memories as black as his unruly hair?

He took another swig of his rum, his eyes still trained on the fire. ‘It's a simple story. I wouldn't bow to the landlord's demands. He sent his agents to toss us out, we'd not paid the rent, no crops, no food. They'd come to get the women and children, take them to the Poor House. Some of us thought we could do better. Stop the bloody agent in his tracks. The bastard came with his band of henchmen.' His voice broke and the empty mug toppled from his numb fingers to the ground. ‘I thought to waylay them. Kill the agent if necessary. Get rid of the pale-eyed sadist, except they were one step ahead of me, they'd brought dogs, the hounds of hell. We were no match. They set them on us. Like a bunch of scared rabbits, we were. Then when they'd had their sport they made us watch. Watch while the soddin' agent torched the thatch and my darlings burned.' Tears poured freely down his face, dropping to the floor.

She sank down on her knees and cradled his broad shoulders close, trying to ease the shudders racking his body.

‘I will have vengeance. I owe them that. Raise a stone for my poor darlings. I'll seek him out, hunt him down. King Polai will give me the money for that. Then and only then can they rest in peace. I'll take his life the same way he took my darlings.' He put her away and stood, scrubbing his hands over his wet face, then picked up a log and threw it into the fire, sending a shower of sparks across the floor. He stamped out the smouldering remains and turned to the window, his shoulders shaking. ‘Ignore me. 'Tis the rum speaking. A long-held grudge and nothing that should rest with you. I apologise.'

‘Aren't we good enough friends now for you to know that if it has scarred you I carry your pain also?'

Her words didn't register; his eyes were fixed on some far-off place she couldn't reach. ‘God says I should forgive.' His lip curled. ‘I can't and I'll not. Not until I see the bastard in his grave.'

He picked up the flagon and tipped his head back, his throat moving as he poured down the remains of the rum. ‘I'll be leaving.' He swayed, spreading his arm wide to steady himself against the wall, dwarfing the room with his big body and his misery.

She reached up and wiped his hair back from his face. ‘Stay a while. I'll make some tea.' She eased him back into the chair, running her hand down his cheek, hoping to soothe his pain. He grasped her hand and pressed her palm to his lips. ‘You're a good woman, Roisin. A good woman.' His hand fell limp to the arm of the chair and his eyes closed, his taut body relaxed at last. ‘Victim of an unjust system, rioting and aggravated assault,' he murmured as his eyes closed.

Roisin tiptoed to the kitchen and placed the billy on the fire, then climbed the ladder to the attic to check on Ruan. He lay asleep on his side, the snakeskin draped across the blanket, breathing sweetly.

His wife and child
. The Irish, Ireland, the Famine. She'd seen the Irish girls lining up outside the Sydney Barracks, riddled with tuberculosis and all manner of disease, their faces drawn and wan, their stick-like figures and sad, hollow eyes.

She lowered herself back down the ladder and dragged the quilt from her bed. She couldn't bear to think of Carrick alone in the crude tent down by the brook with no one for company except Slinger and the ghosts of his past.

By the time she returned to the parlour he was fast asleep. She tucked her quilt around him and picked up the long-forgotten corset and drawers. While she'd played and primped with silk and satin in the relative safety of Aunt Lil's and Madame de Lolle's, this man, the Irish, had suffered more than she could ever imagine—and Australia was the convict colony? She lay her sewing atop the trunk, doused the lamp and closed the door softly. Let him sleep in comfort by the fire before he set off again. How she'd miss the handsome Irishman when he left. He'd worked his way into her heart, into the fibre of her life. Ruan would not be the only one cut to the very quick when he departed.

With little time for sleep, Roisin measured, cut and sewed in an anxious blur, her thoughts constantly returning to Carrick. When she'd woken the next morning he'd gone. The bullock dray had left and only the remnants of the fire remained at the campsite down by the brook.

With the aid of her sewing machine, she'd managed to finish the basic dress and today when Mrs Winchester arrived she'd check her measurements before she began the lace overskirt and embellishments. The undergarments, unmentionables—she grinned at the memory of Carrick's face and the twinkle in his eyes when she'd shown him the drawers—had come up a treat. If she hadn't known better he might have been imagining her dressed in them.

A flush of heat washed over her, doused by the memory of their conversation that followed. The horror of his story was more than she could imagine. She tried to force it to the back of her mind; however, in the long evenings while Ruan slept and she sewed, she couldn't help but remember the agony etched deep on his face, as much a scar as the brand on his shoulder.

She shook out the corset. Although as yet unadorned, it would provide Mrs Winchester with sufficient support to show the dress to its best advantage. If only she had some more lace; tatting had never been a skill she'd mastered.

The knock on the door came at nine-thirty sharp and she smoothed her skirt and answered it.

‘Good morning, Mrs Winchester, Lady Alice.'

‘Good morning, Roisin. I brought Lady Alice with me again as she is to be the first to witness your skill. We are beside ourselves with anticipation, are we not?' She turned to the dour Lady Alice, attired today in a vomit-coloured walking-out coat trimmed with a mustard-yellow stitching. Whoever was responsible for the lady's wardrobe deserved to be taken out and shot. Brushing her uncharitable thoughts aside, she led the way into the parlour.

Mrs Winchester scanned the room. ‘Where is it? I'm agog. I simply can't wait.'

‘Your dress is hanging behind the curtain. I must ask you to put it on. I can't make the final adjustments without seeing you in it. The corset is also there. I will draw the curtains across the window. Would you like me to lock the door?'

‘That won't be necessary.'

Roisin busied herself at the window and Lady Alice dropped into the chair while Mrs Winchester disappeared behind the curtain.

Butterflies peaked and swooped in Roisin's stomach as she waited for the verdict.

‘Are you ready for lacing?'

‘I am.' Clad in a hooped petticoat, under-linen and the corset, Mrs Winchester stepped from behind the screen into the middle of the room, her eyes closed. ‘Please, help me with the dress.'

As the rose silk slipped over her head Mrs Winchester shivered, and when the skirt pooled on the ground Lady Alice let out a gasp. ‘It's exquisite. I had no idea you had such skill.' She beamed, her sallow face shiny. ‘Would it be possible …? I wonder if you would have the time …'

Roisin's stomach sank. If Lady Alice asked her to make a dress, she'd have to refuse. Not only did she not have any suitable material, she simply hadn't the time. Even if she stayed up all night for the next week she'd never be able to get it finished.

Mrs Winchester smoothed her hands down her dress and stood on the low stool for Roisin to pin the hem. ‘Now see what we have started. You will have a constant trail of ladies clamouring for your services.'

‘I shall look like an under-stuffed duck,' Lady Alice mourned. ‘My dress is nowhere near suitable to stand alongside you.'

How she hated to turn Lady Alice away. Creating a new dress was out of the question, but perhaps … ‘I might be able to help you. If you call back tomorrow we could take a look at the dress you intend to wear. Perhaps a little nip and a tuck here and there could make all the difference.'

‘And one of your magic corsets,' Mrs Winchester added, smoothing her hands over her hips and turning to show off her new silhouette.

Lady Alice's skin bloomed, an instant improvement. ‘Could you?'

Roisin nodded, resisting the grin which wanted to creep across her face. If they only knew what she could do with a corset. Turn a duck into a peacock. Maybe that was the solution to Lady Alice's problems. Some discreet padding to soften her angular shape. An easy fix with some cleverly placed carded lamb's wool and a fichu of lace. ‘As I said, there isn't the time to make a new dress, but I'm sure I could fashion a new corset for you. First tell me about your dress.'

Lady Alice's eyes brightened. ‘It's a little difficult to describe, the colour is, well, the colour is unusual …'

Please, God let it not be vomit yellow. ‘Would you be able to bring it in tomorrow?' She glanced at Mrs Winchester. ‘Is that possible?'

‘I have a previous engagement; however, I shall arrange for my driver to escort Lady Alice.'

Roisin knelt and pinned up the underskirt of Mrs Winchester's dress. ‘I need to hem this for you and attach the overskirt. I could have it delivered as soon as I finish and then I'd be free to spend the next few days assisting Lady Alice.'

Happy with their morning, the two ladies left and Roisin slumped against the front door. Why had she agreed? She'd no idea except the poor woman was such a mouse she tugged at her heart, making her want to help.

She reached up and stretched, circling her neck, soothing her cramped muscles, which were stiff after the long hours of sewing the previous evening. It would have to be a very plain corset for Lady Alice because she'd just about run out of ribbons and lace. She must find the time to write to Aunt Lil and get some more sent. If only she could order another pair of hands at the same time. She certainly needed them.