POWDERFLASH

Sally Odgers

ISBN 1-891020-64-1

(c) copyright May 1999 Sally Odgers

Cover art by Judith Huey

New Concepts Publishing

http://newconceptspublishing.com

Chapter 1.

By the time the brigantine Clara docked at Sydney Cove, Garnet Perry was heartily tired of life at sea. Five months separated her from England and she wondered bleakly if she would ever see it again. Not that there was anything left for her there. Papa was gone, and she did not pine for Martha and Prudence.

Life on board had not been all bad. The food had been dull and indigestible, the rolling tiresome, the brackishness of the water a tedious hardship, but still there had been company. As well as married ladies sailing to meet husbands who had emigrated a year or so before, there were young, single women, traveling under the aegis of the Antipodean Society for Young Gentlewomen. A few hoped to take up congenial work in the colonies, but most were frank in their hopes of finding husbands.

“There are so few eligible women in New South Wales,” said Eliza, a pert, dark-haired beauty from Bath. “We shall be able to take our pick of the gentlemen.”

“Why, I hear that most of the young ladies who travel on the bride-ships are married within weeks of setting foot in Sydney town!” put in plump Mercy.

Eliza smiled. “I shall not wed the first gentleman who offers for me. I shall wait a while and choose the most eligible.”

“I shall become a governess to the children of a handsome widower and shortly I shall marry him,” said Georgianna.

“What is his name?” asked Garnet. She was still smiling a little at her new friends’ frankness. She should have been shocked, perhaps, but she found them refreshingly honest. The marriage mart was a reality in London, but in the salty cool air aboard the Clara, the talk was more good-humoured than among the perspiring, perfumed crowds at balls and breakfasts. For one thing, there were no match-making mamas.

“Lord, how can I tell? I have not selected him yet!” Georgianna laughed. “You are so green, Miss Perry, I wonder you ever made the push to leave London! Why do you travel on a bride-ship if you do not hope to be married?”

“I am to marry Mr. Landis of Sydney town,” said Garnet. “He has sent for me to come.”

“How romantic!” sighed Eliza, clasping her hands to the breast of her demure muslin gown. “Are you fathoms deep in love with him, Miss Perry?”

“I have never met him,” said Garnet shortly. She felt a little envious, for her fate was sealed while the other young ladies seemed to look forward to all kinds of delightful possibilities.

“He must be a splendid match,” said Georgianna. “It is very romantic that he has sent for you, especially. How did it come about?”

“He is a connection of my stepmama’s,” said Garnet. “He heard of my circumstances after Papa died and wrote to offer for me.” Her mouth twisted as she remembered the circumstances of that offer. It had been an ugly scene, and not at all romantic....

Jeremiah Gold was also considering his matrimonial prospects on that late June day in 1831. He was already in New South Wales, having been born in that colony some thirty years before; a Currency Lad from the very early days of British settlement. His father had been an army man, the second son of a titled English gentleman; his mother a convict girl, a Jewess whom his father had loved and lived with for years but whom he had never married for fear of being disinherited. Jeremiah had always borne her name, first with mortification, but later with defiant pride. She was gone now, his gentle mother, but he knew she would have been pleased with his decision to take up land to the west of Sydney town. He was satisfied with his property, a raw enough place nestled on the side of a range and named, with his usual enjoyment of defying convention and society, “Gold’s Kingdom.”

He had his land, he had health and determination; what he currently lacked was a wife to share his dreams. There were women in the colony, but the available spinsters were of definite types, and seldom fell into his own rather peculiar stratum of society. Currency Lasses were few, and most were too young and too raw for his purpose. Many of the convict wenches were said to be weak in body as well as in moral character, and the ladies, the daughters of wealthy English gentlefolk, were far above his touch.

Jeremiah wanted a wife of spirit and intelligence, but what woman of that sort would be willing to come to his kingdom, far from the small nugget of society that made up the gentry of Sydney? What woman of that sort would be willing to marry the bastard result of a misalliance? It seemed that the women who would have him, were the kind he did not want, not for lack of breeding, exactly, but from a fundamental want of interest in any world beyond the day to day material.

The puzzle seemed insoluble, so Jeremiah, with the fatalism of his mother’s race and the inborn pride of his father’s, decided to wait. In the short term, he busied himself by building a simple two-roomed dwelling, by obtaining a stalwart horse to work his land and by spending the hours God gave in making Gold’s Kingdom fit to bear its arrogant name.

It had appeared to Garnet, when she was first hustled aboard the Clara by Martha Perry, that this voyage to meet her unknown fiancé would provide no more entertainment than the interminable months spent already as her stepmother’s pensioner. It had not proved so bad, for on the Clara, she was spared the monotonous whining clack of Martha’s voice, and the chafing of Prudence’s complaints. And perhaps Mr. Landis, her intended, might prove an indulgent and congenial husband. According to his cousin Martha, he had tired of London society many years before and sailed off to take up property in the new world. That sounded gaily adventurous, but it also argued that her husband-to-be must be at least twice her own age of nineteen years...And, if he were so anxious to help his cousin’s family, why had he not offered for Prudence, Martha’s daughter, instead?

Perhaps, thought Garnet darkly, perhaps he had offered for Prudence, and perhaps his suit had not prospered. Which argued that Mr. Landis was neither so wealthy nor such a desirable part as Martha claimed.

It was a puzzle, but if Georgianna and Eliza and the others chose to envy her for her settled future, she would not disillusion them. And so she smiled and agreed that she was fortunate, and vowed to invite them to visit as soon as she was settled. “I may hold a ball,” she said gaily. “I shall have Mr. Landis invite all his eligible friends and so you may take your choice.”

She was only half serious, but the other girls pretended to believe her, and they passed many hours laughing and planning for their sparkling futures. And now the Clara had docked at Sydney, and the anticipation on the faces of the emigrants was changing rapidly to dismay.

It was spring, or so they had been informed, but where were the soft blue skies, where was the water-colour prettiness of that season? The forest they could see was a dull, drab green, the air was humid rather than fresh, and the smell that rose from the docks seemed composed of fish and filth rather than primroses and April showers. But then, it wasn’t April at all, but rather, the second week of September.

The girls watched from the deck as a line of ragged men shambled past. They were shackled together, and the villainous smoke from their pipes added more foulness to the air. Some wore ragged ducks, the garments of others were crudely printed with the broad arrow. Their hats were crushed, their boots - if they had any - were broken and dusty. All carried picks and shovels. They were escorted by redcoats carrying muskets with fixed bayonets. Garnet’s eyes widened with pity, but Georgianna smiled. “I do so love a gentleman in uniform,” she said.

“I believe that lady is waiting for us.” Eliza pointed to a motherly body who was scanning the disembarking settlers. “She must be from the Society for Young Gentlewomen.”

Eliza was correct, and Garnet’s friends were soon swept off by their new mentor to the Gentlewomen’s hostel where they would stay until settled in congenial situations - or married to some of the hopeful gentlemen who lounged on the docks watching their arrival. Garnet wished she might go with them, but she had no chance to repine. Mrs. Hepplewhite, a kindly lady with whom she had shared a cabin, was in a sad muddle and needed her assistance.

“I cannot deny, my dear, that I feel like a bride!” she said with a twinkle to Garnet. “I have not seen Mr. Hepplewhite for quite two years, and I fear he may find me sadly aged.”

“I am sure he will be happy to see you, dear ma’am,” said Garnet, and hoped, for her friend’s sake, that this would be true.

At last Maria Hepplewhite was ready, and Garnet followed her to the rail. A very tall gentleman was approaching the gang plank, gazing at them expectantly. He was graying and quite old, and for a moment, Garnet thought it might be Edward Landis. Her spirits sank, then swung upwards again as Maria Hepplewhite gave a sudden undignified cry of delight. Of course. The gentleman was her husband, and nothing to do with Garnet at all.

They descended the gang plank, and he gave his wife a great hug and bore her off to attend to the formalities. “You are most welcome to accompany us, Miss Perry,” he said kindly, but Garnet shook her head.

“I shall wait here for Mr. Landis. He is expecting me, sir.”

“Then we shall meet you, and your intended, back here in a short while,” smiled Maria Hepplewhite, and went away happily on her husband’s arm.

Garnet wondered, as the docks seemed to heave beneath her feet, how she was meant to recognise Mr. Landis when he arrived. Her stepmother had described him in the vaguest terms. Perhaps he had been told to look out for a young lady with auburn hair, green eyes and a shapely figure? It came to her that there was a good chance that Mr. Landis would never find her at all. He could not be certain she had traveled on the Clara, for Martha’s original letter, informing him of Papa’s sad passing, must have been sent over eighteen months before. His own letter of instructions had borne a date in May, 1830, and that was over a year ago.

Perhaps, thought Garnet with mingled hope and trepidation, he had forgotten her. Perhaps he had found a wife in the meanwhile, or been carried off by a putrid fever. Perhaps she should make a push to follow Georgianna and Eliza, or to remain with Maria Hepplewhite?

Her imaginings came to an abrupt halt as she became aware of someone staring. She turned slowly to meet the gaze of a pair of widely spaced gray eyes with slightly darker rims. The man was tall and broad-shouldered, with a firm, clean-shaven chin, shaggy chestnut hair and strongly marked features. He was wearing dusty duck trousers tucked into boots, a striped cotton shirt and a soft hat which he now removed and held in his sun-browned hand. His face held both intelligence and humour, but there was also a suggestion of stiff-necked pride.

There was no doubt that he was gazing at her, and Garnet’s heart gave a hard little flutter of excitement. She smiled tremulously and stepped forward. “Mr. Landis?”

“That all depends,” he said. His accent was cultured, but his voice had a rough edge that would have sounded out of place in a drawing room.

“I am looking for Mr. Landis,” said Garnet.

The man raised one lazy brow. “What do you want with Ned, then?”

Garnet drew herself up. “I am his fiancée,” she said. “I collect you are not he.”

She felt a twinge of foolish regret as the man shook his head. Foolish, because he was, (to judge by his clothes and free and easy speech) nothing better than a labourer. A fine-looking man, well set-up, but his boots were worn and his skin had the heavy tan of one who lived most of his days outside. Certainly not a gentleman, unless he were one who had fallen on hard times. She tore her gaze from his, and would have moved away, had her mind not suddenly grasped an important fact. This man knew Edward Landis.

“Mr. Landis is expecting me,” she pursued, “but I have not seen him as yet. Since you are acquainted with Mr. Landis, my good fellow, would you be so kind as to appraise him of the fact that Miss Perry has arrived?”

The man shook his head decisively. “I think not.”

“You do not know him?”

“I know of him, Miss Perry, but even if I knew where to find him this afternoon I would not be inclined to appraise him of your arrival.”

Garnet’s bosom swelled and her eyes snapped with anger. “Then I find you insufferably rude.”

“Perhaps,” he said with maddening calm. “It is said by some that I am rude. I prefer to call myself directly spoken. Walk along with me and we can explore the subject at our leisure.”

“We have not been introduced,” said Garnet distantly.

“I am Jeremiah Gold. Will you not offer your hand, Miss Perry? Perhaps it is your own manners which need a little polish?”

“You, sir, are...”

“Insufferable,” he agreed. “So you have informed me.” He let his hand fall to his side, and stared at her for a few seconds more. His gray eyes widened, his mouth curved in a fashion that made Garnet feel distinctly unsafe. She had no idea why this should be so, and before she could come to any conclusions, he bowed abruptly, then dropped his hat on a bollard and reached out to take her gloved hand in both of his. “Miss Perry,” he said, his voice deepening, “will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?”

Garnet gaped at him. “How dare you insult me so!”

“How should a proposal of marriage be construed as an insult?”

“I do not know you,” she said crushingly. “I do not consort with men of your class. Besides, I am engaged to Mr. Landis.”

“Reconsider, Miss Perry, and take me instead.”

She stared at him with hauteur. He was insufferable! And he was still holding her hand in a fashion that must look most particular to any onlookers. She pulled it away. “I cannot see why you persist in this madness,” she said. “Unless you find it amusing to torment your betters.”

He recovered his hat, and held it, gazing at her with those disturbing eyes. His pupils were round and wide, despite the brilliance of the day, and she wondered if he might have escaped from some bedlam. “I need a wife to work on my selection, and to share my bed,” he said coolly. “You look strong and healthy. You plan to marry anyway, you say. I am here and very willing to wed you. Ned Landis is not here, although I have seen his man Harbord a few moments ago.

“As for my class - perhaps I am not so far below you as you think.” His smile was steely. “Perhaps I am not below you at all...Fine clothes do not always make a gentleman. Have you considered that, Miss Perry?”

“I do not know you,” she repeated. “I do not wish to know you.”

“And how well acquainted are you with Ned?” demanded Jeremiah Gold.

Garnet eyed him fulminatingly.

“I thought so. You have not been introduced to him, either.”

“Mr. Landis is a family connection,” said Garnet. “A gentleman of breeding and substance. I have come to New South Wales to marry him, not to be insulted by riffraff. Your vulgarity amazes me, Mr. Gold. More than that, it disgusts me. Either you are a person of the very lowest sort, or else you have permitted yourself to sink in such a fashion that any decent person must cut you in the streets.”

Jeremiah Gold’s gray eyes narrowed and he replaced his hat. “Indeed, Miss Perry. Then I shall relieve you of my presence.” He shook his head. “So sad that such a lovely face and form are backed by such a cold and rigid nature. And yet - I wonder.”

“You wonder what?”

“I wonder...” he repeated. “I wonder if you are really so cold?” He closed the gap between them and slipped an arm around her waist. His other hand splayed against her shoulder blades, pressing her body to his own. Garnet tried to pull away and staggered. Her shriek of outrage was muffled as his mouth homed in on hers.

She struggled wildly, shocked and appalled at the intimacy of the caress, and still more by her own response. His lips were firm and warm, and she felt a queer clutch of excitement deep in her chest, and other, less admissible sensations in other parts of her body.

She gasped for breath, and was further appalled when his tongue slid between her lips and touched her own. Parts of her seemed to be dissolving while other parts became taut and throbbing...the hand at her waist slipped lower and held her against his body while his fingers gently kneaded the yielding flesh below her modest corset.

Garnet gasped again at the hot new sensations, and then he released her so abruptly that she staggered once more. She was panting, chilled and burning, shaking with outraged disgust. Oh, let it be with disgust! She stared at him for a moment, wild eyed, her breast heaving as if she had run a marathon, her full lips shaking. Then she raised her hand, stripped off her cotton glove and slapped him hard across the cheek.

He made no move to defend himself, but eyed her sardonically. “I was right,” he said. “Welcome to Sydney, Miss Perry. Welcome to the world of the flesh.” He bowed and walked away, leaving her staring with tears of shock trembling on her eyelashes.

She pressed her kerchief to her eyes, then scrubbed hard at her mouth, and jumped violently as a hand touched her arm.

“Would you be Miss Perry?” The man who had addressed her this time was big and broad, handsome in a rather brutal fashion. Garnet’s stomach gave a sudden angry heave and the ground seemed to shift beneath her feet.

“I am Miss Perry,” she said, a trifle shrilly. “And you, sir? Are you Mr. Landis?”

The man chuckled, eyeing her up and down in a manner which she disliked intensely. She wondered if he had seen the disgusting behaviour of Jeremiah Gold. “Not I, miss, though I’d oblige you if I could. Ned Landis sent me to fetch you home. That your bundle?”

Garnet looked down at the old black valise at her feet. “Has Mr. Landis not come to greet me himself?”

The man surveyed her insolently. “I’m his man. Harbord.” He jerked his head away down the docks. “The coach is over at the livery stables. That your valise? Looks just like one of Ned’s.”

Garnet looked about. “Is all the colony like this?”

“Like what?” asked Harbord sardonically.

“So rough. So ugly. The people so crude and unpleasant.”

“Lor’ love you no!” he said, and watched the relief grow in her eyes before scotching it. “Most of it’s a sight worse. Dust and flies, dogs, blacks, dirt and scum, that’s what you’ll find in New South Wales.”

He was enjoying her dismay, and Garnet felt her temper rising. “You are impertinent, Harbord,” she said coolly. “I shall report your insolence to Mr. Landis.”

Harbord smiled. “You do that. Where’s y’r abigail?”

“My traveling companion and chaperone was Mrs. Hepplewhite, whose husband resides in the colony. As to a maid; I understood Mr. Landis was to see to all my needs,” said Garnet.

“Did you?” Harbord’s smile widened, showing strong white teeth. “I reckon you might be in for a shock, if that’s what you understood, but no doubt your needs will be met, one way or another.”

“What do you mean?” Garnet felt perspiration beading her forehead and upper lip, and her shawl was suddenly much too hot. She let it fall, and her rising indignation seemed unimportant. She found she was still clutching her kerchief and clapped it over her mouth.

“Land-sickness,” said Harbord. His voice seemed to come from far away. “It takes some folk this way when they come off the ships. Be thankful you traveled above-decks and not in the hold, like the canaries have to do. That’s the convicts, miss, that wear the yellow slops.”

Garnet moaned, but at the back of her mind she was aware that her nausea had less to do with the unruly behaviour of the ground than with self-disgust at her reactions to her recent encounter with Jeremiah Gold. If Harbord had witnessed that disgraceful scene, if he reported her loose behaviour to his employer...

“I wish to leave this place,” she gasped. “I wish to leave now.”

Harbord chuckled, but it seemed he had not witnessed her humiliation, for surely a man of his stamp could not have resisted the temptation to taunt her with the knowledge.

Forgetting to take leave of Arthur and Maria Hepplewhite, Garnet allowed Harbord to take up her valise and escort her to the livery stable where the carriage was waiting. The ground continued to sway and heave beneath her feet, and her stomach heaved as well, but she would not be ill before the contemptuous gaze of Harbord. She raised her chin, unaware that her face had blanched to the shade of new milk.

The carriage was sturdy, but old-fashioned. It smelled vaguely of dust and mice. Once inside, with the odious Harbord seated on the box in front of her, Garnet sighed wearily and loosened her bonnet strings. She longed for a cool drink, a can of hot water and time to compose herself, but first there was another journey to be borne.

The ill-sprung carriage jolted and swayed, and Garnet was forced to wedge herself uncomfortably in the corner. She had lost weight during the voyage, the lack of exercise more than compensated by the dearth of appetising food. She hoped very much that Mr. Landis would keep a good table, but with every mile her expectations sank. The state of the carriage, the insolence of the coachman, the generally unpleasant aspect of the colony, all hinted that her new life would be no better than that she had left behind. It, at least, had been familiar.

While Garnet Perry swayed in the over-stuffed seat of the carriage, Jeremiah Gold was searching the docks for the gentleman he had come from Gold’s Kingdom to meet. Hepplewhite was his name, and it was said he was a reputable dealer and had a good riding horse for sale.

Jeremiah’s land might have been freely granted, but to develop that land it was necessary to have funds for stock and equipment, and a swifter method of travel than a wagon pulled by his slow and steady Clydesdale, Atlas. Good horses were expensive, and almost as rare as good wives, for there were many tricks designed to make an unsound animal appear in good health.

He asked about, and was soon rewarded by a piece of luck in the shape of a thin, middle-aged lady who was fretting audibly about some chit whose companion she had been. The chit, it seemed, had been abducted from the docks and the lady, who was telling everyone she met her name and direction in case of any news, was Mrs. Arthur Hepplewhite.

He stepped forward, and removed his hat. “Mrs. Hepplewhite? Ma’am? My name is Gold. Jeremiah Gold. Might I be of assistance?”

“Oh, sir, I hardly think so,” began the woman, but Hepplewhite nodded gravely. “Mr. Gold? I had heard you had business with me, and in fact, I should like to discuss some important matters with you myself. Unfortunately, you come at a difficult time. My wife is distressed about a young lady who appears to have vanished.”

“Quite so,” said Jeremiah. “A Miss Perry. I have seen Miss Perry a bare quarter hour since. She was searching for Edward Landis, whom I believe you must know?”

Mrs. Hepplewhite’s face cleared a little. “Miss Perry is engaged to Mr. Landis. Is he here? It is very odd of her to go off without bidding us farewell. She is a dear girl, and I was quite desolated when I thought harm had come to her.”

“Landis is not here,” said Jeremiah curtly. “It seems likely Miss Perry has gone home with his man, Harbord.”

Hepplewhite patted his wife’s hand, smiling down at her. “There, my dear. It seems your Miss Perry is safe, and will no doubt visit with you in the near future.” He glanced back to Jeremiah. “It is not convenient to talk business today, Mr. Gold, but if you wish you may wait upon me tomorrow. Shall we say around eleven o’clock? Excellent!”

Jeremiah nodded, well pleased with the other man’s manner. Which was more than he could say about Miss Perry’s. He was surprised to feel, beneath his angry amusement at the way she had reacted to his proposal, an undercurrent of hurt. More than that, a vain twinge of longing that things could have been different.

He should never have kissed her. Not that he cared a snap for society’s ridiculous mores, but the brief contact with a warm and lovely woman had awakened his carnal desires. He should never have kissed her, but done was done, and he thought with some gloom that it would be quite some time before he would be comfortable with his lot once more.

The road that led away from the docks was wide and dusty, and though some of the sandstone buildings in Sydney were fine enough, the people looked strangely down at heel. Most of the ladies were wearing the skimpy Empire gowns that had gone out of style five years before, and Garnet, who had felt her own gowns sadly old-fashioned, began to feel that she was not in such a bad case after all. This cheering reflection occupied her for a few minutes only, before sinking without trace as the carriage rattled over an increasingly uneven and rutted road. The houses thinned, becoming meaner and finally dwindling into clusters of huts that, despite their relative youth, reminded Garnet of the slums. And then they were out in the country, a strange, alien countryside, with none of the soft greens of the English spring.

After two hours, when the swaying of the carriage threatened to turn her ill, a larger house came in sight, a tall, squarish residence, built from the ubiquitous sandstone. The house was surrounded by a stout wall, and looked less raw than many of the surrounding buildings. Some attempt had been made at landscaping, for there were young trees and a small herbaceous border. A straggling rose bush bore a few rust-spotted leaves and the promise of green buds.

The carriage drew up, and Harbord jumped down and came round to open the door. “This is it,” he said shortly.

Garnet climbed down and stood swaying, brushing ineffectually at the dust and salt-stains on her gown. Her heart seemed to be thumping rather hard, but the solidity of the house had reassured her. Mr. Landis was clearly a gentleman of substance and some taste. She looked around expectantly, but apart from a ragged-looking urchin who approached to take charge of the horses, the place seemed curiously deserted.

Harbord picked up Garnet’s valise and jerked his head towards the house.

Garnet drew herself up. If she were to be the mistress of this dwelling, she must act the part from the beginning. “Thank you, Harbord,” she said. “You may go.” She nodded to him to set down the valise, and waited until he had turned away before tapping on the door. It opened with a sudden rush that almost sent her backwards, and Garnet stared with astonishment at the fat, giggling servant girl who stood framed in the jamb. Her apron was filthy, her bodice indecently low, and her face looked as if it had been liberally sprinkled with nutmeg.

“Good afternoon,” Garnet said coolly. “I am Miss Perry. Is Mr. Landis at home?”

The girl’s face quivered as she tried to choke down more giggles. “Lawks!” she said faintly. “Never say you come at last! We was wondering if you’d run off with Jacky-boy!”

“There is no need to be insolent!” snapped Garnet. “If you cannot speak civilly, have the goodness to summon someone who can!”

The girl gasped and giggled again, her plump cheeks wobbling. Garnet wondered if she were a simpleton. “Is - Mr. - Landis - at - home?” she asked slowly.

The girl seemed to sober abruptly. “Yes, miss, ma’am. Master’s home, like always. He been waiting for you and the old lady, too. You better come with me. Where’s your maid?”

Garnet flushed. “I understood Mr. Landis was engaging an abigail for me.”

“I’ll ‘elp you for today,” said the girl. “Lawks! Me, a lady’s maid! Just wait till I tell my old mam!” She picked up the valise and stood back to let Garnet enter her new home.

“You best get ready,” she said over her plump shoulder. “I just let Master and Vicar Higgs know.”

Garnet was a little flustered by the way this good-natured slut assumed authority, but she made an immediate push to restore matters to a better footing. “Wait!” she ordered. “What is your name?”

“Mag, miss,” said the girl with another giggle. “You go on up them stairs. No need to fret - I bring you up some ‘ot water.”

On the point of saying angrily that she desired to be taken to Mr. Landis at once, Garnet reconsidered. Not only was Mag already retreating, but perhaps it would be better if she tidied herself a little before this momentous first meeting.

Mighty uncivil behaviour on the part of Mr. Landis, she thought, as she turned and made her way slowly up the stairs. Surely courtesy demanded that he would have sent for her immediately, even if he could not bestir himself to meet her at the docks. As for Mag! If that girl were a fair sample of the servants available in Sydney town, she could see why the ladies she had seen had appeared so ill-kempt. But Mag was young, and there was bound to be a housekeeper. Perhaps a butler also.

The door at the head of the stairs stood a little ajar, and she pushed it open. The bedchamber was well furnished, with a brass bedstead, a massive dressing table, two chairs and a ewer and basin on a stand. A hip-bath stood behind a screen, but it was empty. There was water in the ewer, but as she had expected, it was cold.

Wearily, Garnet took off her bonnet and sat in one of the chairs. She felt numb, and very ill-used. So far, she had gained no good impression of the manners of the colony. The discourtesy of her fiancé was unpleasant, but as she waited for Mag to return with the promised hot water she realised that the worst of it all, the most unpleasant experience, had been the encounter with the man Jeremiah Gold.

She shivered with distaste, and fought down a desire to scrub at her lips again.

Panting breaths announced the arrival of Mag, bearing a can of hot water and Garnet’s valise. “All right, miss, they ready for you downstairs. I told ‘em they wait for you to tidy yourself.” She poured the water into the basin. “Don’t mind me, miss, you get washed.”

“Mag, you are being...” Garnet broke off, unsure of the way to phrase the reproof. The girl was not precisely insolent. She was certainly very over-familiar, but at least she seemed good-natured. “Have you been employed here long?” she asked.

“I been here a twelve-month, miss.”

“How many other servants does Mr. Landis employ?”

“There me, and Pearl, what helps old lady, and Jenny - that’s Cook, miss - and o’course old Ben. He’s groom. Then there’s Jacky-boy Harbord, what does for Master.”

Garnet nodded. Not a large staff for a country estate, but more than adequate for a modest house with a bachelor master. She washed quickly, then, with Mag’s fumbling assistance, changed her gown for another, less stained. She could have managed alone, having practised enough during the months at sea, but her hands were numb with fatigue, so she allowed Mag to draw in the strings of her corset, and fasten the close-fitting waist of her gown. She pulled out the modest puffs of the sleeves, then sat down so the girl could brush her hair.

“You got pretty hair, miss,” said Mag admiringly. She twisted the back tresses into a low knot and twirled the ringlets to hang becomingly. “There now. Time to go downstairs.”

Garnet almost smiled at the motherly tone, but Mag was already too familiar, so she simply nodded her approval and put on her gloves. Mag followed her down the stairs, and tapped on a door. There was a low murmur of voices within, so Garnet opened the door and stepped into a stiffly furnished parlour. Despite the heat of the antipodean spring, there was a fire in the grate. The room seemed quite crowded, but after Garnet’s first nervous glance around she realised there were, aside from herself and Mag, only five persons present. One was a crone in a rusty bonnet and lace mittens, who was seated by the fire. Another, younger, woman was so slight and faded she appeared a mere wraith. Then there were three men, including Harbord, whom she had met and disliked already. One of the other men was stout and round-faced with small gray eyes and old-fashioned mutton-chop whiskers. His pantaloons were pale and his blue coat seemed to wrinkle as it strained across his stomach. The third man had a long face, bulging eyes, and the unmistakable garb of a cleric.

Garnet’s hopes of a congenial husband spluttered and died completely, but she raised her chin, and, aware of the critical appraisal of the older lady by the hearth, walked steadily up to the plump gentleman and curtsied. “Mr. Landis,” she said, and offered her hand. “I am Miss Perry - your fiancée.”

Edward Landis accepted her hand in a slightly damp grip, then lifted it to his lips. His whiskers brushed it, and he let it go. “Good day. I hope you had a pleasant voyage.” His voice seemed rather high and light.

“Quite, thank you,” said Garnet. The feeling of unreality persisted, as she heard Mag give a sudden giggle and retreat. She gazed at Edward Landis, trying to find something admirable in the man she was to marry, but the first impression remained; a man of considerably more than forty years, slack jowled and flushed. His round face might have seemed amiable, but the eyes, sunk in pouches of flesh, were bored and cold.

Garnet shivered, and looked inquiringly around the room, but Landis made no push to introduce her to the others, and she was left in some doubt as to whether they represented the rest of the household or whether they were guests, or even neighbours come to inspect the bride. She was longing for her tea, but it did not seem quite right to ask for it.

Landis turned to the vicar and nodded. “Might as well get on.”

“Land, that’s no way to go on, Ned!” squawked the old woman by the fire. “Put some blood in it! Begin as you mean to continue!”

The vicar’s cool gaze turned to Garnet. “Are you ready, Miss Perry?”

Ready for what? Garnet frowned, perplexed, then a horrid suspicion dawned on her. “We are not to be wed today!” she exclaimed.

“There is nothing to be gained by waiting,” said Landis.

“But sir - we are not acquainted!”

“That is easily mended,” he said. “The papers are in order, the banns have been called. Now all’s needed is the parson’s blessing.”

“I have no trousseau.”

“Nor will you need one,” he said. “We live quite retired here, Miss Perry. There is seldom any company.”

Speechlessly, Garnet found herself drawn to his side, to stand before the vicar. Her gloved hand was held in Landis’s, the fire flickered, bringing beads of perspiration to her brow. She felt most unwell. “I am not ready to be married yet!” she expostulated.

The old woman cackled. “There, Ned. The girl mislikes your looks. Better get her wedded and bedded today. There are plenty of other bucks would steal her away if you dally.”

Harbord laughed, and the old woman glared at him.

Garnet’s face burned with shame and anger, but the vicar, after an outraged glance at the wrinkled harridan, had begun.

The ceremony was brief, dry and unemotional. The old woman echoed the words in a rusty whisper, and prompted Landis when he momentarily mislaid the ring.

“In your pocket, you great looby. Have I to wipe your nose for you as well?”

“Be quiet, Mama,” he said. Clumsily, he stripped off Garnet’s glove and forced a heavy gold ring past her knuckle. Garnet sucked in her breath with the slight pain as the metal pinched her flesh. So preoccupied was she that she missed the exact moment when they were pronounced man and wife. When Edward Landis - her husband! - bent and kissed her mouth, she was startled, recalling the other, insufferably insolent, embrace she had suffered that day. The warmth of Jeremiah Gold’s hands, the pressure of his lips, the touch of his tongue - even the feeling of smooth, firm flesh against her palm when she had slapped him - intruded painfully in her memory. Her husband’s touch gave her no excitement, no strange yearnings, nothing but a certain weary distaste and the smell of stale tobacco and brandy.

But incredibly, she was married. She signed the register offered by the vicar, then the pale young woman - the vicar’s daughter, since she wore no ring - came forward and touched her hand. “I hope you will be very happy in your new home, Mrs. Landis,” she said, and blotted her brimming eyes with a gloved forefinger. Her voice shook a little with emotion, and Garnet thought; how strange! For she felt nothing at all. Bewildered, she turned to her husband. Her stepmother’s kinsman, she remembered, and he had called the waspish crone by the hearth “Mama.”

She met the old woman’s rheumy eye and saw a certain air of triumph there. “Come and give your new mama a kiss, girl,” said old Mrs. Landis. She cackled suddenly. “Eh, look at that red hair though! This one will warm your cold blood if anything could, Ned!”

“Be quiet, Mama,” said Landis.

The old woman clasped Garnet’s newly-ringed hand in her knobbed claws. Garnet tried to smile at her. She did not want to kiss that wrinkled cheek. The dirt was ingrained, and the flesh speckled with age. “I hope you will advise me how to go on, just at first,” she said. “I have had little practice in managing a household.”

Mrs. Landis grinned, showing three lonely teeth in shiny gums. “You need not trouble your pretty head about that, girl,” she said. “I am mistress in this house. Your job is to give Ned here a brat, to carry on the line. It’ll die out, else! His Pa an’ me was cousins and had no others. By the look of you, that ought to come easy enough. Good child-bearing hips.” The vicar made a sound of protest and Mrs. Landis laughed coarsely. “Swallowed a fly, Vicar? You’ve no call to look so blue round the gills. Wasn’t you just prating about being fruitful, not ten minutes past?”

Garnet found herself wanting to laugh hysterically. No wonder Edward Landis had needed to wed a girl from far away. No local lady would ever have accepted his suit while his crone of a mother held the domestic reins. She must have been about seventy years old, but the vitality in her gaze and the snap in her voice belied the wrinkled claws and mottled jowls.

There was a scratch at the door, and the old woman swung round. “Here comes Mag with the wedding breakfast! Get the door, Harbord. Make yourself useful for once. And fetch the brandy. I want to drink a health.”

The Madeira cake was stale, but Mrs. Landis dipped her slice in her glass and ate the resulting mess with relish. Garnet, although almost faint with hunger and exhaustion, could scarcely bring herself to swallow. She sipped a little of the brandy Harbord gave her, but her throat would keep clogging with tears. She had barely eaten half her cake when Mrs. Landis put aside her glass and swung her gaze on the vicar. “That’s it, Vicar. Off you go. We’ll have you back before the year’s out to baptise a brat, just see if we don’t! This one, at least, won’t go off in a fever. Not like poor Bertha. No stamina, that one. No backbone.”

The vicar’s pale face flushed again, and his daughter looked almost ready to cry. She touched Garnet’s hand and murmured conventional good wishes, but the expression on her face was more eloquent than her words. “Perhaps you might come and call on me, Mrs. Landis, after your wedding journey,” she murmured.

Garnet opened her lips to reply, but the dreadful old woman interrupted. “Wedding journey, wedding journey...a waste of time and money. Many’s the brat that’s been slipped because stupid chits travel about on bad roads. The only wedding journey she’s going to make is up the stairs to the bedchamber.”

“Be quiet, Mama!” said Edward Landis.

He left the room abruptly, ushering out the vicar and his daughter. Left alone with her mother-in-law, Garnet felt the old familiar signs of rage building within her. She had been cruelly forced into this marriage, by Martha, by this old witch, and by Edward Landis himself. And who was “poor Bertha”? Had her husband been married before? It was done now, but she was not going down without a fight. She must accept Landis as her husband, but she would not be cowed by his dreadful old mother.

“You are fatigued, ma’am,” she said. “Shall I ring for Mag to see you into bed?”

“I am not in the least fatigued, and I would not have that blob of lard to wait on me if she were the last girl alive!” snapped Mrs. Landis. “Wretched incompetent! I only keep her on because my son is foolishly attached to that man of hers.”

“Is Mag married to Harbord then?” asked Garnet in amazement.

“Not to say married.” Mrs. Landis looked at her shrewdly. “Now don’t you be talking to Mag, girl. Much too knowing, that one, and no better than she might be...” Noisily, she sucked some cake from between her teeth. “Ring for Pearl, tell her I want my wrapper. And have her draw the curtains, and make sure the shutters are closed. I cannot abide the night air.”

The evening was as strange as the day had been. Dinner was served in a coy dining room. The meat was tough and the cabbage watery, and the whole meal was accompanied by a virulent yellow pickle which stung Garnet’s mouth and brought tears to her eyes. She was very tired, but she dreaded the coming night when she must share a bed with her husband. She had no clear idea of what to expect, but she had heard enough low-voiced gossip among young matrons to know it would probably be shocking and distasteful when experienced at the hands of a husband for whom she had no partiality.

At last, when her eyes persisted in sagging closed, she gave in to her mother-in-law’s pointed comments and retired to her bedchamber. Mag came to help her undress and the girl’s rough kindness brought her almost to tears. “Don’t you worry none about Master, miss,” said Mag. “He won’t likely bother you much.”

Garnet knew she should put a stop to such familiarity immediately, but she was painfully apprehensive, and Mag took her silence for encouragement.

“Best you start a brat straight off,” she said. “Old lady be right glad. She been nagging Master for years, long ‘fore poor Mrs. Bertha passed on, so Jacky-boy say.” She sniffed. “She never caught no brat, Mrs. Bertha. Too weak and mewling, perhaps.”

“That is all very fine,” said Garnet, “but I have no notion how to do as you say.”

Mag giggled. “Reckon I could tell you how not to fall, but that ain’t much help,” she said. “Just lie still, an’ let Master do what he wants. What he can. Likely he like most men - so pleased with hisself after he’ll be like dough in your hands.” She unlaced Garnet’s corset then helped her into her bedgown and turned down the bed. “In you get, miss,” she said. “Left side, ‘cos Master always has right.”

“But Mag...”

“Don’t fret, miss. Better than a poke in the eye,” said Mag incomprehensibly, and left the room.

Garnet lay stiffly between the cold linen sheets, waiting for her husband. The time stretched, and she bit her lip in panic. Perhaps she should try to sleep...but he came at last, and it didn’t take his uneven footsteps and slurred voice to tell her he was in his cups. The strong smell of brandy was sufficient, and so were the over-familiar tones of Harbord as he helped his master undress by the faint light of the lamp.

Garnet tugged the sheets up under her chin, but Harbord just glanced at her sardonically and pushed Edward Landis into the bed. “In you get, Ned. The wench is waiting, all right and tight.”

Landis muttered, and Harbord turned down the lamp and closed the door.

Garnet lay stiff with outrage at her husband’s lack of propriety in coming to her in this state. Did he have to be drunk to approach her? The second-hand brandy fumes made her head swim, and she was within a second of scrambling out of bed and demanding...but what could she demand? She was married to Edward Landis and he had the right to come to her as he pleased, to do with her as he chose. She was his chattel, and in the eyes of the world she was fortunate. She had brought no portion to this marriage, no personal or material advantage. He had married her in pity, and because he needed a wife to provide him with an heir.

She choked back a shriek of fright as Landis rolled over and seized her, one hand fumbling on her breast, the other pushing up her bedgown. His whiskered face came against her throat. “Got to get a brat,” he said thickly, as if he had read her fevered thoughts. “Couldn’t get a brat on poor Bertha, got to get a brat on you. Got to please Mama...help me, girl!”

Rigid with disgust, Garnet tried to push him away, but his mouth was hot and wet. He was kissing her, almost gnawing at her. Her bedgown was around her waist, his night-shirt was rucked up and he was pushing himself rhythmically against her. His belly, his bony knees, and a cold limp thing that she could not name were touching her, pressing on her. A patch of wiry hair which she dimly realised must be akin to the downy curls that grew between her own thighs scratched at her tender skin...her husband was breathing heavily, but his activity began to slow, his muttered instructions became whimpers and then abruptly, he was asleep, lying against her.

Shaken and sick with disgust, Garnet edged away, tugging down her bedgown. She felt soiled, and wondered if she must endure these assaults every night. It would not have been so bad, she thought bitterly, if Edward’s touch had generated any kind of warmth such as she had read of in novels. Abruptly, her thoughts flew to the uncouth Jeremiah Gold. Slapping that man’s face had been so satisfying.

She could feel nothing for this husband of hers, no warmth, no excitement, nothing but a deep and slightly pitying disgust. And whatever he had tried to do to her, it had obviously brought him no satisfaction. How could she get a child from that?

Promptly at eleven o’clock, Jeremiah Gold attended his meeting with Arthur Hepplewhite. The office was situated in the new house Hepplewhite had built for his wife; a pleasant place, and one which suggested that he was a man of some substance and some good taste. The two men shook hands, liking one another’s strong grip, and then settled down to business.

“I hear you have a useful riding horse to sell,” said Jeremiah.

“I have,” said Hepplewhite. “King Cole is his name, and I would not be parting with him except that I have need of a team to draw a coach - and I ride seldom lately. King Cole is spoiling for want of exercise, and he does not run well as part of a pair. However, I shall be plain with you, Gold. I would sell him only to a person who would use him well. He is an odd beast sometimes, with some peculiar humours, although he is free from vice.” He smiled. “No doubt you think me all about in my wits.”

“Not at all,” said Jeremiah politely, but Hepplewhite raised a warning hand.

“I appreciate plain speaking, Gold.”

“So as well do I,” agreed Jeremiah. “But I believe you had some matter to raise with me?”

“Yes,” said Hepplewhite. “I wish to buy your land.”

Jeremiah stared at him for a few moments. He had not expected this. “You have land already,” he said.

“Aye, cleared land,” said Hepplewhite. “I have it in mind to buy more land, perhaps partly or wholly unimproved, and keep it as an investment.”

Jeremiah shook his head in puzzlement. “But why?” he asked. “A year ago, or a little more you might have had land for the asking.”

“Ah, but at that time I had quite decided to return to England if Maria disliked New South Wales,” said Hepplewhite. “However, she professes herself well pleased with her new home and assures me she will wish to stay. And I know of many others who are cursing their flat-footedness in not taking up ground when it was offered. I should warn you I would sell any more that I purchase at a profit if I am able. Come, I shall make you a good offer, and pay you as soon as you please. What do you say to - ”

“I say thank you kindly, but no,” interrupted Jeremiah.

Hepplewhite regarded him in amusement. “You have not heard my terms, Mr. Gold.”

“I do not wish to sell,” said Jeremiah. “I have it in mind to develop my selection and see what I may make of it.”

“Then I cannot change your mind?”

“No, I thank you.”

Hepplewhite nodded, and rose. “Then we have no further business, Mr. Gold.”

“The horse?”

“Ah yes - you must come and see the beast, then afterwards Maria insists that you take your luncheon with us.”

“There is no need for that,” said Jeremiah.

“There is,” said Hepplewhite firmly. “Maria has expressed that wish and so I shall do all in my power to please her. You are not wed, Gold?”

Jeremiah shook his head, aware of a sudden sharp regret. “I hope to be one day,” he said, “or else why should I develop my property?”

“Indeed. And I shall presume to give you a little advice. When you marry, please your lady in any small ways that you may. It makes for a happy home.”

“I shall remember,” said Jeremiah, “but I doubt I’ll have cause to put it to the test for some time yet. I proposed to a lady but recently and received a very dusty answer!”

Chapter 2.

That first day and night in her husband’s house set the pattern for the days and nights to come. Garnet’s days were dull, enlivened, after the first three weeks, only by the constant jabs of old Mrs. Landis who inquired at least once a day if her son had succeeded in “getting a brat” on his bride. At first Garnet had no notion how to answer her, but the old lady, divining her ignorance, was perfectly frank about the symptoms she might expect.

Presumably Mag would have been more sympathetic, but Garnet’s few remaining strands of pride precluded her from gossiping with the servants. Besides, she saw little of Mag now, for her mother-in-law had hired her an abigail, a silent, middle-aged woman with a mouth as tight as the top of a reticule. The days were long, and Garnet had little to do. The bride’s traditional preoccupation of learning to manage a household and consolidating her place in society were barred to her, for Mrs. Landis held domestic arrangements firmly in her own grasp, ordering the meals she liked at times which suited her, never caring whether they suited anybody else.

As for her place in society; apart from the vicar’s daughter and the occasional tradesman, Garnet saw nobody but her husband, his mother and the servants.

Gradually, she determined that it was the old lady who held the purse strings and who had the money, and that her husband was an ineffectual in business as in other matters. Quite what he did remained for some time a mystery, but eventually Garnet learned that he was employed as a solicitor’s clerk, and had to do with legal matters. Whatever tiny consequence this position gave him, he shed with his hat and topcoat as soon as he walked in through his own front door.

After breakfast in the mornings (a thin gruel which was all the old lady fancied), Edward would leave and Garnet would be left to sit in the parlour most of the day, sweltering as the spring edged into summer. Occasionally she would go into Sydney, escorted by her silent maid Susan and the sly-faced Harbord, but for the most part groceries and haberdashery items were delivered each week.

The vicar’s daughter called once a month, but as she scarcely spoke above a whisper and seemed completely under her father’s sway, the visits were not entertaining. Garnet’s tentative suggestions that she might ride out with the groom, or make contact with some of her friends from the Clara were scorned by Mrs. Landis. Riding would prejudice her daughter-in-law’s chances of “getting a brat,” and as for gadding with chits from the ship, surely she had better things to do with her time! In any case, Garnet had not got their direction. A proposal that she might visit Maria Hepplewhite was also turned aside.

On one of her few essays into Sydney, Garnet glimpsed a familiar figure. Without thinking, she half-raised her hand, then blushed furiously as she realised it was Jeremiah Gold. He was coming towards her along the dusty street, and she thought he had not seen her yet. If they did meet face to face she could bow coldly or cut him. Any gentleman, no matter how depraved, would understand that treatment, and could hardly take it amiss, since they had not been introduced. However, in the back of her mind she knew Jeremiah Gold was no gentleman, and feared he would react to such a rebuff with some audacity which would embarrass her at best and make her the speak of the town at worst. She had insulted him at their last meeting, but in no way had she been so insulting as he. She had censured his conduct and denounced his effrontery and his pretensions, while he...

He might not remember her, she thought hopefully. His every feature, the touch of his strong hands, the very smell of his skin was etched in her brain, but to him she might have been nothing but a passing temptation. A haughty new-chum chit whom he would teach a lesson. Despite her very limited social intercourse in Sydney she had learned already that clothes and manner were not always reliable indications of class in New South Wales. If only she had not yielded to temptation herself! If only she had kept a rein on her unruly tongue! But that was a vain wish, for her temper had always been her mortification and her undoing.

“Garnet’s powderflash,” her papa had called it, opining that she let fly with all the noise and drama of a barrel of gunpowder, but without a fraction of the resulting harm. Her papa had laughed and ruffled her hair whenever something set her off, but her stepmother had always been coldly disapproving.

“You’ll bring yourself to grief one of these days, my girl,” Martha Perry had said quite often.

It was no comfort to Garnet to reflect that, for once, Martha had been proved correct. If only she had controlled herself, that day on the docks!

But it was too late to repine. He was striding in her direction, coming up fast. “Wait here,” she said to Susan, and abruptly pushed her packages into her hands. “I shall be but a moment...” Leaving her maid gaping after her, she turned into an emporium and began earnestly examining the goods on display. The fact that they were cross-cut saws and other ironmongery made no difference. She saw very little, all her concentration centered on the depth of her relief at avoiding a potentially unbearable situation. After a little it came to her that it wasn’t she who should be embarrassed. She had behaved with propriety, it was Jeremiah Gold who had overstepped the bounds in every direction. It was he who should have faced the censure of society.

This being so, why was she cowering in this place while her tormentor strolled at large along the streets of Sydney town? Her chin came up and she turned on her heel, stifling a squeak of horror as her impetuous movement almost precipitated her in the arms of the man she had meant to avoid.

Two strong hands gripped her upper arms and held her away, and Gold’s wide-spaced eyes, not so very far above her own, laughed down at her. “Miss Perry, I do believe! Or is it Mrs. Landis already?”

Her face came up and she froze him with a stare. “Let me go!” she snapped. “You have no right to touch me! My husband shall hear of this!”

The laughter died abruptly from his eyes, and he stepped back, raising his hands ostentatiously before taking off his cabbage-tree hat. He looked even dustier than he had before, his hair over-long, his face indifferently shaven. He looked - weary, she decided - and yet, there was nothing weary about the coldness in his eyes. “I do beg your pardon, Mrs. Landis. I had forgotten - to you I am the lowest of the low, a man who dares to work for his living! And yet, from what I hear from an utterly disinterested source, your own late papa might have done better to have tried some occupation...Your husband, I collect, is a man of substance, but is it his own or his mama’s?”

“You...you...”

“Lost for words, Mrs. Landis? But of course you have no wish to be civil to a former suitor.”

“You followed me here,” she accused, her bosom heaving.

“If I did,” he flung back, “I merely wished to be civil, to ask how you did and how you find your new status and home in Sydney.”

“I am very happy,” lied Garnet. “My husband is a gentleman and treats me with every consideration.”

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “I see you bear the bloom of a well-loved wife, and your gown is very modish - although it was clearly made in the colonies. I hear you have Ned’s mama for company. She must be a great comfort to you, and you to her...no you don’t, Mrs. Landis!” For she had raised a gloved hand to strike at him again. “One slap I deserved, perhaps, for forcing a kiss on you, but I have done nothing to deserve another. Perhaps I should remedy that small neglect...”

He took a step towards her with such menacing intent that she turned and fled from the emporium, hurrying past her startled maid with the breathless exhortation that they must return to the livery stable at once, lest Harbord be waiting for them.

Jeremiah Gold was angry, much more angry than the situation warranted. So, that red-headed snip of a girl had married old Ned Landis after all. Had gone coldly into marriage with a man old enough to be her father. A man, moreover, who was said to go to his mama hat in hand in order to ask permission to cough! Money spoke, loud and clear, and a woman who wed for it and for no other reason could be little better than a whore. At least a whore was honest, in her fashion. If Arthur Hepplewhite’s wife were to be believed, the former Miss Perry had fled her father’s ruin and coldly married a middle-aged sot in a bid to restore her fortunes. Not that the lady had put it in so many words; when he had dined with them she had seemed determined to believe the best; but Jeremiah was convinced he could read between the lines. No doubt the girl had spun Maria Hepplewhite a pathetic tale.

And old Ned, thought Jeremiah furiously, was welcome to her. The chit had hair like glowing coals, eyes the cool, pure green of sea-water, skin that resembled rose petals on a summer’s day - and a temper like a raging volcano. Or no - perhaps it was more like the flash of gunpowder - a shower of words that had scathed his pride like brands. She had flung them at him, a fistful of hurtful sounds, and he had felt the sullen ache of them for days. And underneath had been the queer patch of hurt that after all, she was just like the other chits. Just like the others that could not or would not see beyond his dusty boots and work-hardened hands.

So she had married old Ned Landis and his moneybags. He wished her joy of him. He hoped he would see her again, heavy with child, perhaps, sweltering in the summer heat. He hoped he would see her laden with heavy parcels. He would drive on by and leave her breathing in his dust.

But of course it would never come to that. Mrs. Edward Landis would have a maid to carry her parcels, and she would never be seen abroad in the ungainly state of pregnancy.

Jeremiah roused himself with a start. The chit had left the emporium some minutes ago, and now the clerk was staring at him, obviously wondering if he had come to buy or steal. Angrily, Jeremiah turned on his heel and left the place. He found himself looking up and down the street in quest of a blue muslin gown. He called himself a fool, and turned a corner at random, striding along at such a rate that folk turned to stare, wondering if he had the duns at his heels. He was a man of property now, and had raised the capital to develop his holding. Arthur Hepplewhite would have made him a generous offer for his selection, but he had turned it down unheard, preferring his independence. His satisfaction in that state was marred by this chance encounter with Mrs. Edward Landis.

Garnet was still shaking with an indefinable mix of emotions as she mounted the carriage and instructed Harbord to take her home immediately.

I shall inform Edward at once, she fumed, as the carriage swayed its way back to the house. I shall inform Edward of that man’s crude behaviour and he will...

Her thoughts failed her then, for likely Edward would do nothing. Whenever she appealed to him for support, he backed away, telling her she must do what his mama thought best. He chafed against the old lady’s strictures himself, but made no push to make life more comfortable for his bride.

“I expect your first wife died of boredom!” snapped Garnet the day after her excursion into Sydney, tried beyond endurance by his lack of conversation, and by her own unwilling comparisons between her husband and the man she had so contemptuously rejected. If she had married Jeremiah Gold...but what was she thinking? He was a beast, a brute, a libertine...he would have proposed to any woman unfortunate enough to cross his path. “I expect she could not bear the constant disregard of her wishes,” she continued, to give her thoughts a new direction.

That was a mistake; though Edward reddened, and pretended not to hear her, the old lady was furious, and rang such a peal over her that Garnet nearly choked with impotent fury.

Edward was no support and certainly no comfort. He was her husband, but in some ways she knew as little about him now that they had been married six months as she had known on that first day. She would have welcomed any variation in routine that did not involve meeting or thinking about Jeremiah Gold. Or so she thought.

Only at night was she free of the old woman’s waspish, gadfly ways, and then she had to lie with Edward, who was either morose and sober or maudlin-drunk. His attempts to get her with child were quite frequent at first, but soon they dwindled to nothing. Garnet knew something was wrong, but she could not understand exactly what. She found Edward’s humiliation as hard to bear as her own discomfort at his approaches. He had become very peevish, and his sourness was aimed mostly at her since he could not stand up to his mother.

Then, one hot, gray day in February, matters came to a head. The old lady fell on the newly-waxed floor and damaged her hip. She was not much hurt, but could not get up. One hand seemed stiff and she raved incomprehensibly for an hour. The surgeon was summoned, but there was little he could do but make the patient comfortable and prescribe laudanum and sherry-wine. Mrs. Landis must keep to her bed and her hurts would heal. Given time, and no excitement, he said doubtfully, she might be as good as new...

Now Garnet was even more tied to the old woman. She must fetch and carry all day, read from improving books, bring a wrap, take away cold gruel, make beef-tea, fetch laudanum and sherry wine and hot bricks until she was ready to scream. She began to dread the shrill summons of Mrs. Landis’ bell, shaken in her left hand since her right remained slightly clawed and stiff.

Despite her mother-in-law’s incapacity, the daily interrogations continued. “Any sign of a brat yet?” The voice was a little slurred.

“No, ma’am,” said Garnet, seething. “I am not feeling ill, I am not becoming plumper in the waist, my bleeding comes on time.” By now she had rehearsed her state so often she did not even blush at the coarseness of question and answer.

Mrs. Landis screwed up her face and looked more witch-like than ever. “Are you using some device, girl? Some vile brew soaked into a sponge to prevent a brat? By God if you are I’ll have you whipped within an inch of your life! Residing here in comfort, eating my food, wearing gowns bought with my money, as little use as a barren cow!” Her face worked, one side of her mouth drawn down a little since the fall. “What devil’s mischief are you at?”

“None!” cried Garnet. “How can you even say such a thing?”

“Then it must be Ned,” snarled the old woman. “He knows he must get an heir, but he would do anything to flout me. He has always been so, from a boy.” She glowered at Garnet. “I suppose you think him sorely tried by his mama? Then let me tell you, my girl; were it not for my rod on his back he would do nothing at all! Idle as the day is long, no notion of what is due to his family line. Send him here.”

Garnet fled from the room, shaking. Her husband was in the parlour, perusing a broadsheet. He glanced up indifferently as Garnet came in.

“Your mother wants to see you,” she said baldly. “She is...”

Edward frowned. “Cannot Harbord help her to her chair?”

“She wants to see you. She...she...” Garnet’s voice was choked with rage, but Edward did not meet her eyes. He tossed aside his newspaper, and without another glance at his wife, left the room.

A little later, Garnet heard raised voices, but made little of it, supposing it to be another of the spats that occasionally flared between her husband and his mother. At last Edward flung out of the house, to return much later, very much the worse for brandy.

The atmosphere was so unpleasant when the old lady was in a passion that Garnet had Susan put her to bed early, hoping to sleep through any renewed hostilities.

She was awakened a little later by Mag, who had brought her hot spiced milk. Garnet detested the stuff, so she merely sipped a little, pulled a wry face and told Mag she would drink it later, when it cooled. “Where is Susan?” she asked.

Mag ignored the question. “Master said I was to see you drink the milk,” she said stolidly. She did not look happy about it, but these days Mag seemed less inclined to giggle and bounce. “Please, miss. Master might turn me off, else.”

Garnet sighed. No doubt this was another of her mother-in-law’s ploys to help her fall with child. Quite how drinking the insipid brew would help when her husband no longer approached her was beyond Garnet, but she knew it was fruitless to argue. She supposed Edward had passed on the order to Mag simply to gain a little peace for himself.

Well! Garnet hardly cared about Edward’s feelings, but she would not endanger Mag’s position in the household. The girl had been kind to her, that first night. “Draw the curtains closer, Mag,” she said cunningly. “The mistress mislikes the night air and perhaps she is right about its injurious effects.”

Mag went to wrestle with the heavy velvet, and Garnet reached down, drew out the chamber pot, and emptied a generous measure of the milk. When Mag turned back to the bed she was draining the glass, her face drawn up with disgust at the cloying taste. She handed the empty vessel to Mag, whose face showed guilty relief. “Now you sleep tight, miss. An’ don’t worry if you do ‘ave dreams...Full moon tonight.”

Laughing a little at the girl’s superstition, Garnet settled back to sleep, only to be woken once more by the familiar creak of the door and reek of brandy. She sighed, and drew up the blankets as usual as Harbord guided Edward’s stumbling steps towards the bed. She had learned to disregard the man’s presence; he was a servant, and getting his master to bed was part of his duties.

The lamp was turned low, and she kept her eyes shut resolutely as clothing fell to the ground, a chair was jarred aside, and a heavy body settled finally in the bed beside her. There was a moment’s silence, then a hand touched her hip. She remained still, forcing herself to breath deeply and steadily. The hand slid down, and she felt her bedgown being raised.

Crossly, she tugged it down again, then gasped with fright and outrage as it was jerked up and she was pulled against a hard body. A mouth came down on hers, and, despite the familiar taste of brandy and tobacco, she knew it was not Edward. Her hands shot out, touching harder flesh than Edward’s, thicker legs and a probing thing that was quite unlike the flaccid member she associated with her husband’s occasional approaches. She would have screamed, but her mouth was covered, and she was choking, gasping for air. She gurgled with terror as the thing touched her thighs, and jack-knifed in self-defense. By pure luck her knee caught her assailant in the groin, and he jerked his head away with a curse.

Harbord.

Rage coursed through Garnet. She began to scream, but, despite his obvious pain, he slapped his hand hard over her mouth. “Stop making this difficult,” he growled.

Garnet tried to bring up her knee again, but this time he fended her off. Instead, she grasped at him, encountering a round bulge of flesh which resembled two plums in a sack. She squeezed, hard, and Harbord gave a high wail of pain and let her go. Garnet scrambled back out of the bed, and turned up the lamp. “How dare you!” she flashed, and picked up the heavy ewer.

Harbord cowered in the bed.

“You will be turned off for this,” stormed Garnet. “You will be sent to prison! Oh, my husband will hear of this!”

To her chagrin, Harbord gave a short crack of laughter. He sat up, and the lamp-light played across his handsome, brutal face. “You stupid chit, your husband has heard of this,” he said in a low voice. “Whose idea do you think it was? Well?”

Seeing he was in no mood to renew his attack, Garnet put down the ewer and hauled a blanket about her shoulders. Her white-hot rage began to dissolve in uncertainty as she took in the figure of her husband, still fully clothed, and snoring slightly in the easy chair.

Harbord dragged a pillow behind him and settled back, his hands clasped ostentatiously behind his head. “Your precious Ned needs an heir, and since he can’t get a brat on you himself, he told me to do the job. Then he drank himself into the state you see here.”

“I do not believe you.”

“Ask him yourself when he is sober,” drawled Harbord. “He will deny it, but watch his eyes.” He yawned.

Something about the man’s odious self-confidence convinced Garnet. A man-servant who had tried to bed his master’s wife should have been trembling in abject terror of being handed over to the law, but Harbord, now his pain had subsided, was patently enjoying the situation.

“You were supposed to be well-dosed with laudanum,” he said. “Not that I wouldn’t rather have had you awake and willing, but Ned wanted you thinking it was him giving it to you, right and tight, if you noticed anything at all.” He reached down and patted the bed. “Why not be a good wench and jump back in? We could have a bit of fun, you and I. Ned will get his brat and you get a proper man...and that old witch might give him a bit of peace at last.”

“I’ll see you in hell first!” said Garnet coldly. She stepped away, but trod on the trailing edge of blanket. Harbord’s hand shot out and grasped her wrist, and he jerked her hard across his legs, catching the other wrist so she was face down and helpless. Garnet kicked out, toppling the heavy ewer on the floor. The thud shocked her into momentary limpness, and Harbord took advantage of that to thrust back the coverlet, drag her into his arms and roll her beneath him in the bed. The coverlet slid to the floor.

Garnet drew in a deep breath to scream, but Harbord’s weight was crushing her. She was genuinely afraid now, for his eyes were dilated and there was a new purpose in his grasp. He was too heavy for her to dislodge, and though she thrashed around, she had little hope of saving her virtue. After a few moments she subsided, panting. With his weight upon her and her wrists held tight she had no chance to repeat her earlier assaults. Oh, if she had not put down the ewer! If she had a knife or a club! Harbord smiled slowly and bent his handsome head to kiss her unwilling mouth, his erect member probing damply against her thighs...

Locked in their battle for escape and subjugation, neither Garnet nor her attacker heard the door open. There was the sound of a sudden shriek and a sizzling blow and Harbord stiffened, yelling with pain and leaping off Garnet to land naked by the bed, his male member collapsing like a pricked bladder.

Garnet, her bedgown disarrayed, her wrists and face smarting, her ribs bruised, could only stare with distended eyes at the apparition that stood by the bed. Leaning heavily on one stick, brandishing a glowing poker, Edward’s mother was mouthing incoherently, screaming words Garnet hardly recognised. Mrs. Landis struck out at Harbord again with the poker, catching him across the thighs, and then the cheek. He howled with pain, livid marks appearing in the wake of the blows. The old woman then brandished the thing at Garnet.

“Slut! Filthy whore!” she slurred. “This will spoil your damnable beauty...I’ll brand you for the slut you are...”

She raised the poker and advanced on Garnet, who screamed as the scorching metal was thrust against her breast. She shied violently, and knocked the poker from her mother-in-law’s hand. The knobbed end struck her forehead in a blaze of agony, and the stink of scorched skin and overheated cloth rose like a miasma.

Through the daze of tears of pain and sickness, Garnet heard more vile words, and saw the grotesque figure of her mother-in-law turn like a viper on her sleeping son.

“Sot! Cuckold!” she screamed at him, and spat in his face before lunging to catch him by the shoulders. “You sleep like a pig in swill while your bitch of a wife whores in your very bed! You...you...” The old woman seemed to gasp for breath, then uttered a sudden gurgling cry and sagged, falling heavily across her son’s unresponsive body and crashing to the floor.

The door was still open, and now the rest of the household came crowding through. Everything was a blur to Garnet, for a white-faced Mag was screaming at the moaning Harbord, while Pearl, Susan and Jenny the cook were trying to lift the old lady from her huddled position.

Garnet dragged herself out of the bed, hot and sick with humiliation, pain and shock. She felt like screaming again, or laughing hysterically, but in the end she simply sat down and clasped her arms around her ill-used body while pandemonium reigned about her. Even when Pearl raised a frozen face and cried out that the mistress was dead, Garnet could feel nothing at all. Nothing but the searing pain across her breast and the depths of degradation.

Once more, Garnet’s whole life changed in the space of a few days. The surgeon, hurriedly summoned, pronounced life extinct and gave it as his opinion that the elder Mrs. Landis had succumbed to an apoplexy brought on by sudden shock or exertion. Knowing the deceased’s nature, he seemed to find it quite in order that she should have been brought to throw something at her daughter-in-law, although it was a little odd that she should have done so in the master bedchamber. Garnet’s bruises were superficial, he said, the burn would soon heal, and there was nothing wrong with her husband that a course of sobriety would not mend. He went away, leaving the household in a state of shock. Apart from Mag and Harbord, no one knew exactly what had occurred. It was generally suspected that the young mistress, tired of Master’s inadequacies, had succumbed, like many a wench before her, to Harbord’s lusty charms, but since Harbord had fled and everyone liked young Mrs. Landis, they seemed to hold her little to blame.

Edward woke the next morning to find his mother dead, his man-servant absent, his bride bruised and silent, and his household in turmoil. He took refuge in a pose of aggrieved forgetfulness, and over the next three days he hardly spoke to Garnet at all.

After the obsequies, husband and wife returned in silence to the house. Garnet went straight to the parlour and sat down, worn out by the shocking events. Presently, Edward joined her, and cleared his throat. He did not sit down, but took up a position before the fire, legs apart, thumbs hooked in his waistband, seemingly more at ease than she had ever known him.

“You realise, of course, that you cannot remain here, Garnet,” he said abruptly.

Garnet raised wide eyes and looked at him blankly.

“Your behaviour has put you beyond the pale,” said Edward. “No!” He raised a hand to still a protest she had not made. “I do not blame you wholly for Mama’s passing, but you must see that you cannot continue as my wife. Your folly, your ill-reined temper, your betrayal of a husband’s trust...”

Garnet clenched her teeth. “You set Harbord to attack me,” she said in a low, dangerous voice. “You are not man enough to do your duty, so you had me drugged and set him to attack me. He told me you would deny it, but I can see it in your eyes. For all his evil ways he did not lie. He would not lie if he could hurt me more by speaking the truth.”

Edward reddened. “If I were you, Garnet, I should not repeat that accusation,” he blustered. “Preposterous! What gentleman would even consider such a course! Naturally, it is a pity you have been so cold towards me, have made no push to encourage my ardour, but to slander your husband in such a vile fashion; no, that is outside of enough! If Mama had not been so obsessed with the family...” He laughed abruptly, and bent to grasp Garnet’s wrist. “Did you know my father was a convict? Did you? Is that why you despise me so?”

Garnet stared at him blankly. He seemed strangely excited; exalted, almost.

“My father was sent here thirty years ago for embezzlement,” said Edward. “Mama nearly died of the shame, but she knew her duty and we followed him to Sydney. By then he had taken the pox from a whore and died raving. Mama had money...and so we have dragged ourselves out of the gutter his weak ways tossed us in.” He shook his head and cleared his throat. “But what am I to do with you? I could divorce you for infidelity, but I do not relish the role of public cuckold. There are plenty to say I was a fool to take a young bride, but Mama’s sense of what is due to the family...” He appeared to lose the thread of his conversation and sipped his brandy before continuing. “If I pay you off people will talk, if I put it about that you have run off I shall look a fool.” He paced the room for a little, then swung back to her. “I have a fancy to remove to Van Diemen’s Land. I shall sell this place, dispose of my chattels and start fresh where no one knows me.” He nodded. “Yes, I see the way of it now. The thing remains, what shall I do with you? I can scarcely keep you as my wife, nor should I, in all conscience, abandon you.”

“Do as you like,” said Garnet. “I have always known you were a weak man, Edward, but I thought you had some admirable qualities. The servants like you, and you had a good deal to suffer from your mama. Do what you like with me. It can hardly be worse than what you have done already.”

Sydney was growing and thriving, and Edward Landis had little trouble in selling his house and chattels. The servants were dismissed, save for Harbord, who had not come back. Edward was resolved to leave as quickly as possible, for he was shrewd enough to know the maids would gossip and that any version of the story they told would not paint him in a good light.

He visited his banker, then bought passage for Van Diemen’s Land. Awkwardly, for he was unused to packing, he stowed his traps and Garnet’s in bags, bundled Garnet into the remaining carriage and drove towards the docks, turning off well before they reached their destination.

“Where are we going?” asked Garnet listlessly. It was the first question she had deigned to ask.

Edward ignored her. He continued to drive slowly, refreshing himself occasionally from a hip flask, and soon Garnet realised they were in a less salubrious part of town; heading for the warren known as The Rocks. There was little enough room for the carriage, and yelling urchins kept darting across the mean narrow streets, risking themselves beneath the wheels. In a wider street, she saw loungers and apprentices, with their loudly dressed women on their arms. The bold eyes of these women assessed Garnet’s blanched face and mourning-clad figure and found her wanting. Their gaze flickered over Edward as if he did not exist.

The houses became down-at-heel, the reek of the open gutters overpowering. In a stinking, half-enclosed square, a crudely lettered sign pointed the way to an auction.

“A bankrupt selling off his traps to avoid the duns,” said Edward, speaking to Garnet for the first time in over an hour. He took another swig of brandy, and Garnet glanced at him in puzzlement. He had not been drunk since the night his mother died. He was not drunk now - not staggering drunk - but his voice sounded coarser than usual.

He drew the carriage to a halt, and sat watching the sale, his eyes gleaming coldly in his pouchy face. Garnet clasped her gloved hands. Her mind was darting like a rat in a barrel. She had no wish to go to Van Diemen’s Land with Edward. After his double betrayal, she had no wish to do anything with Edward, ever again. She would climb down from the carriage and run...but Lord, what could she do? She was Edward’s wife, he could demand her return if he felt so inclined. There was work for governesses, for servants, but she neither looked nor spoke like a maid-servant, and she might be recognised for a wife who had cuckolded and deserted her husband. It was so unfair.

The auction was proceeding merrily, with everything from a rough wheelbarrow to a set of chipped china cups being knocked down for pennies and shillings to the uproarious bidders. The owner was acting as his own auctioneer, and his wife, a plump, harsh-voiced woman in a none-too-clean mobcap and indecently low-cut gown was standing by, screaming insults and imprecations on her husband and the buyers alike. Garnet watched with astonishment as the woman picked up a box of assorted household items and began throwing them at her man, who dodged and continued to offer a battered copper jam pan.

“Thruppence!” called one of the onlookers. “Throw in somethin’ else o’ value an’ I’ll make it a shillun’!”

“Make it a guinea, an’ I’ll throw in the woman!” cried the much-tried husband.

The woman screamed and flung a soiled dishcloth at his head, more passers-by, attracted by the promise of a brawl, came crowding into the square.

“Not on my life!” cried the would-be purchaser. “Yon woman’s a proper scold!”

“Aye, she is that, but she has many good qualities,” said the husband, apparently much-taken by his idea. He grasped the woman’s arm, and she turned on him with a snarl, then suddenly smirked and straightened her cap. “She has been a viper and a curse to my bosom,” added the husband, “but she is able to bake and brew, she is a hard worker and she can sing and drink ale with the best. As you see, she is comely in face and figure, she is kind to the young...what am I bid?”

“Half a guinea,” said an onlooker.

“And thruppence...”

“And a tanner...come up, missus, show us your wares...”

Garnet stared as the shameful spectacle continued. “They are no better than savages,” she said in a stifled voice. “No better than brutes. Drive on Edward, please.”

Her husband made no answer, and when she glanced at him in entreaty she saw him staring as though fascinated. There was a faint flush on his sallow cheeks, but it was evidently not a flush of shame. Garnet averted her gaze and stared at her own black-gloved hands.

A movement at the edge of the crowd attracted her attention, and she looked up to see a new arrival; a horse and heavy wagon. The wagon was piled with goods and the figure sitting relaxed in the seat with a hat tipped over his eyes was only too familiar.

Jeremiah Gold. It was so like him, she thought viciously, to be attracted to such an infamous spectacle. So like a man of his low degree to enjoy the humiliation of womankind. To be sure, the woman seemed unconcerned, shouting encouragement to the bidders in such terms as to bring a flush to Garnet’s cheeks, but the victim’s very lack of dismay showed how far she had fallen. She pulled down the mourning veil she wore, covering her face as if to shut out the disgraceful sight. Covering her face, lest Jeremiah Gold should recognise her.

“Three guineas an’ a good sheepdog!” cried a man from the crowd. There was much laughter at this, but also some mutters of chagrin. No further offers were forthcoming, and vendor and buyer shook hands on the deal. It seemed that the auction was concluded, for the woman, with a last coarse jeer at her erstwhile companion, allowed herself to be boosted into the sulky of her purchaser while the dog, which seemed considerably more distressed, was handed over on a length of twine. The successful bidder slapped up his horse and the sulky rolled briskly away.

“He’m in a hurry,” said someone loudly. “Gone to find parson...”

“Gone to find a bed more likely,” whooped someone.

There was a burst of coarse jibes and laughter, which rose in pitch as the dog gave a sudden howl, dropped its head and slipped its collar before galloping after the sulky.

There was much ribaldry at the vendor’s sudden loss, but he seemed contented enough, pocketing his gains and bowing ironically before hurrying out of the square.

“That was shameful. Shameful!” cried Garnet. “Drive on, Edward.”

Edward sat as though fascinated, and in any case he would have been hard-put to drive on, for a peddler had taken advantage of the ready-made customers to lay out his wares.

“Laces and ribbons for your ladies,” he cried in a high, monotonous voice. “Fine twills and tweeds!”

“Much good will it do them as ‘ve got no lady!” snorted one of the disappointed bidders. “Get out o’ here, man!”

“Get out,” agreed others, “unless you’ve goods like that last batch on offer!”

Quickly, the peddler began to re-pack his stock. The mood of the crowd was getting ugly.

“Wait!” cried Edward suddenly, raising his whip.

Garnet glanced at him incredulously. Surely Edward was not about to buy dry goods in such a place! They had little enough time before they must take ship for Van Diemen’s Land. “We should be off to the docks,” she urged, and went so far as to touch his arm.

Edward shook her off as if she were a gnat. “Wait!” he cried again, and his voice was strangely excited. “I have goods to offer!”

He cracked the whip, making Garnet gasp and the horse leap suddenly forward. Edward pulled it roughly to a halt, looped up the reins then rose unsteadily to his feet.

Faces gleamed up in interest at this new entertainment, especially when Edward bent to seize Garnet by the arm and drag her upright. “I have goods to offer...” he repeated eagerly. “What am I bid for this woman?”

The noise of the auction had attracted Jeremiah at first. He had come up to Sydney to replenish stores that had run low. Work on his spread was proceeding, but even men of property had to live rough if they took on unimproved land. He whistled to his horse, a lively black with a long white blaze, named King Cole. Arthur Hepplewhite had not cheated him, despite his disappointment when Jeremiah refused to sell his land. The beast was sound, spirited, and in excellent condition. However, he was not an animal which took kindly to life between the shafts.

“No more should I,” said Jeremiah aloud, “but, as Father Tim would say, we must all turn our hands to whatever task is offered.”

No doubt folk thought him touched to talk to his horse, but he had precious little opportunity to talk to anyone else. He could have had convict servants, but there remained the problem of overseeing their work, and of feeding and housing them. Convicts often ran off, and then there was the bother of hunting them down, a thought Jeremiah did not relish, but yet a necessity, for Europeans found it almost impossible to live off the land and an escaped convict would either starve to death or turn bushranger and begin looting, thieving, killing and such-like infamy.

Lacking a like-minded partner, he had decided to work alone for a while, until he had established himself. Now, on this glowing May morning, he had heard the stir in the square, and, upon investigation, had discovered an informal auction. He hoped to pick up chicken coops or barrels or some such useful items, or at the least, to enjoy a little cheerful society. Whatever he expected, it was not the astonishing sight that confronted him as he turned King Cole and the wagon into the square.

Tom Stokes was selling his woman. It was illegal, of course. Slavery had never existed in New South Wales, and even convicts could not be bought and sold, for (in theory) a convict who had served his sentence would be free to do as he pleased. Certainly wives could not be sold. And yet - it happened sometimes. The shortage of decent women meant that men were inclined to take whatever offered, and if they regretted the match later, there was little to be done. Divorce was difficult and costly, desertion a greater sin in the eyes of the colonials. It seemed best to many if a contentious woman could be given into the keeping of someone else, and if money changed hands, well then, a man had to have some compensation for his loss and trouble. The purchaser, on the other hand, would acquire a woman without the time and trouble taken to go courting. Such a woman would have few illusions, and, as the old saw had it, one man’s poison might well be good strong meat to another.

Jeremiah reflected that, had he not had a certain inconvenient fastidiousness, he might have been tempted to bid for her himself. The young ladies from the bride ships were often comely, but they had a good idea of their own worth, and would prove more costly in time and money than buxom Annie Stokes... But there - he was fastidious, ridiculously so for a Currency Man of New South Wales. He liked his women clean but not strongly scented with sickly pomade.

He watched sardonically while the woman was knocked down for three guineas and a dog, and laughed with the other onlookers as the dog fled back to its original owner. The woman seemed much less likely to do so...a peddler began to lay out his wares and Jeremiah lost interest. He wanted no fripperies, and it seemed the auction of Stokes’ chattels was done.

King Cole was snatching angrily at his bit and stamping his finely made hooves. Jeremiah touched him warningly with the whip, a gentle tap which reminded the horse of its manners. He was about to leave the square when a sudden upheaval across on the other side made him pause. A whip cracked, and in the sudden silence a man’s voice was heard, offering a second woman for sale. Jeremiah put back his hat, which he had pulled forward to shield his eyes from the brilliant autumn sunlight, and stared in lively astonishment and some distaste.

This woman was a lady, and presumably a widow, since she was dressed in black. Her bonnet was veiled, but, despite the heavy bombazine mourning, it was somehow clear to Jeremiah that she was young. But what evil thing was this? Was she destitute, or could some perfidious relative be ridding himself of an unwanted pensioner? For the moment the woman stood frozen, her arm stiffly upraised in her companion’s grasp.

“What am I bid for this woman?” called the man in a curiously exultant voice. He cracked the whip again.

The woman reacted then, shying like a terrified horse, trying to drag herself free. Her captor shook her and she struck out with her free hand, eliciting a stagger and a curse.

“Go for it, missus! You show ‘im!” called someone encouragingly, and there was a chorus of approving stamps and whistles.

Jeremiah stiffened. He could not see her face, but he was suddenly sure he knew this woman. Something about the swift, fluid movements, something about the sudden uplash of her hand...

He raised his whip. “Three shillings!” he called.

There was more laughter. The woman screamed, and kicked out. Now she was struggling in earnest with the man, whose hat fell off to reveal a round, bewhiskered face, crimson with rage.

Jeremiah’s intuition hardened into certainty. The man was Edward Landis, which meant the lady was no widow, but his lawful wife.

“What am I bid!” cried Landis again.

“Nothin’, till we see her face!” quipped someone. “You might be selling’ your old mother! She might be scarred, or destroyed by the pox!”

Landis freed one hand and ripped away the heavy veil, revealing a flawless pale face lit by a pair of blazing eyes. The full mouth was twisted in a snarl and, as the bonnet was dragged sideways, a swag of auburn hair tumbled down.

There was an excited stir, as the disappointed bidders forgot Annie Stokes’ ripe charms and drank in the beauty of the new prize before them.

“Two guineas!”

“Two pun seven!”

“I’ll bid this horse!” cried someone, inspired.

“This nugget...” A rough-voiced man turned to his mate. “Let’s us put in together - reckon we could share the wench...”

The woman screamed and tried to sink her teeth into Landis’ hand.

“Better keep your ‘orse!” whooped someone. “At least ‘e don’t bite you to the bone.”

“Three guineas,” drawled a toff in a high hat.

“Ten guineas,” said Jeremiah. He felt his face flush red, then white, for it was an exorbitant sum; almost all he had in the world.

The woman screamed again, and Landis slapped her across the mouth. A trickle of bright blood ran down. “What am I bid?” he panted, but the fun was over.

“That one’d murder you in your bed,” muttered someone, and it was generally agreed. Two redcoats strolled into the square, and suddenly, it seemed, the crowd was melting and Landis was desperate to be gone.

“All right, ma’am?” said one of the soldiers suspiciously.

The woman was still, her white face whiter than ever, a red patch across her jaw.

“Quite all right,” huffed Landis. “This lady...”

“Ma’am?”

She swallowed, blotting her face and lifting her hands to adjust her bonnet. “I was a little overcome,” she said, almost inaudibly. “My...my...”

“Her sad loss ‘as just come ‘ome to her,” said someone helpfully.

“Yes.” She swallowed again. “This gentleman has fetched me here, but now I wish to go to my - ”

Jeremiah tossed his reins to a startled onlooker and pushed through the crowd. “I have come to take my cousin home,” he said to the redcoat. He turned to the woman and held up his hands. “Come, my jewel,” he said briskly. “Say thank-you-kindly to Mr. Landis and come along home with me.”

The crowd, most of whom had little cause to love the redcoats, murmured with delight at this audacity. Landis went from red to purple, and his wife, outwardly meek, allowed Jeremiah to assist her to the ground. He took her arm in an apparently comforting grip, and fished in his pocket.

“Thank you, my good man,” he said in a patronising tone to Landis. He took out some money and, making sure the curious redcoat could not see the amount, offered it to Landis. “A small consideration to pay for your trouble and for your care of this lady!”

Landis gobbled incoherently, but took the money and thrust it into his waistcoat.

“Come, my jewel,” said Jeremiah again, and tugged on the rigid arm in his.

As if in a nightmare, Garnet swallowed hard and allowed Jeremiah Gold to lead her away. Her thoughts were chaotic, and her head ached fiercely from screaming so much. She could have turned to the redcoats, could have begged for their protection, but then Edward would have been dragged up before a magistrate and perhaps imprisoned. He deserved it, but what good would it do for her? As the wife of a convicted felon, and known as a wife he had tried to sell, how could she have ever raised her head again? And how could she have lived?

And so she allowed Jeremiah Gold to lead her to his wagon, to help her into the seat with apparent solicitude. She sat there like stone as he returned to Edward’s carriage and asked civilly for her traps. Her eyes darted from side to side, but she could not bring herself to run. Not now, not yet, for she had no plans, no possible way of making her own living. Instead, she tugged her torn veil over her face and only then gave way to furious tears.

A creak and sway of the wagon heralded Jeremiah’s return, he said something in a low voice to the man who held the horse and then she heard him click his tongue and slap the reins. The wagon began to move.

Her mouth was shaking and her hands were clasped together. She was shivering in great shudders, although the day was warm. The silence stretched interminably as the wagon creaked along the narrow streets.

Back in the square, Edward Landis whipped up the horse and, driving at a pace little short of recklessness, made for the docks. His eyes were blurred with the enormity of what he had just done. Deep chagrin, plus a certain relief at having rid himself of a huge burden...he glanced at his fob watch and realised in a panic that he had very little time left to board the Nellie May for the voyage to Van Diemen’s Land. He swerved into an alley, hoping to cut through the quieter streets, then a man loomed suddenly from the shadows; a tall, thick-set man, handsome in a brutal fashion, but dreadfully scarred. “Ned!” he called, and flung up his hands in greeting. “What brings you here?”

The tone was genial, but there was an underlying menace that caused Edward’s face to drain of colour. He whipped up the hired horse. The man who had hailed him leapt aside with a curse, but the off-side wheel of the carriage ran violently into a gutter. The whole equipage teetered for a moment on the brink, then toppled on its side. The much-tried horse uttered a scream, then all was smashing timbers and pandemonium.

“Well, Mrs. Landis,” said Gold after an age. “So we meet again, in less than social circumstances.”

Garnet stared stonily ahead.

“Are you not going to thank me for coming to your rescue?” he inquired.

She swallowed. “Why should I thank you? You are every bit as depraved as...as...”

“As your erstwhile husband,” he said smoothly. “The man with whom, you assured me but recently, you were very happy. The gentleman who treated you with every consideration.” He paused, then added with devastating cruelty, “With fair consideration of your worth, perhaps?” He slapped the reins on the black’s rump. “Well, Mrs. Landis? Have you nothing to say?”

“I hate you,” she said.

“Better hate your gentleman husband. Now, what can you have been up to, to make him so desperate to be rid of you?”

“I have done nothing!” she flashed. “Nothing!”

“I wonder.” She refused to look at him, but she knew he was staring at her. She could feel his gaze boring through the heavy stuff of her veil. She could still feel the hard grasp of his fingers on her elbow, although he had not touched her since escorting her to the wagon. “You must have done something to anger him,” he continued. “Since he is such a gentleman.”

Garnet clamped her jaw closed. If she once began to bandy words with this man, she would lose control over her fragile dignity.

“Take off the veil,” said Gold.

“I will not.”

“You will do as I say, Mrs. Landis.” His voice was quiet, almost amused, but there was an undercurrent of menace. “Take off your veil.”

“Please...” said Garnet. Her hands were shaking. “Please.”

“All right, you may keep it on for the present, but understand this, Mrs. Landis, I have purchased you and you will do as I say.”

“That is monstrous!” she cried. “You have no right. You cannot buy a human being, even in New South Wales!”

“No? Then why did you come with me? Why did you not protest, why did you not cling to your husband, beg protection of the law? Those redcoats would have succoured you, I am sure.”

She was silent.

“I shall tell you why,” he said. “Either you have done something so indefensible that you feel you deserve your degradation, or else you are still so high and mighty you would prefer to be carried off by a brute like me to admitting that Mrs. Edward Landis has so displeased her husband that she must be offered up like a whore to the highest bidder.”

Garnet said nothing at all, and now at last, he touched her arm. “Tell me the truth, Mrs. Landis. Shall I take you back to your husband? Or would you prefer to go straight to the governor with your complaint?”

She shook her head. “Set me down,” she said through clenched teeth. “Set me down and I shall make my own way.”

“Certainly I shall set you down to make your own way,” he said.

She turned to stare at him incredulously through the veil.

“Upon repayment of the ten guineas I have expended on your behalf, you will be free to do as you please...”

“I did not ask you to spend it.”

“No, and it is most ungentlemanly of me to demand it back. However, as you have said on more than one occasion, I am not a gentleman. Since you seem disinclined to reimburse me, you must prefer to repay me in kind.”

Now she was rigid with shock. “I - beg your pardon? You must know I have no money of my own.”

“You have the currency all whores offer in abundance.”

Garnet felt she would choke with rage.

“But first,” he added, “we have a call to make.” He clicked up the horse.

Now there was silence again, as the streets grew less and less crowded. Soon, they had left Sydney and the black horse was plodding along an unmade road. The wagon was rolling like a ship, and Garnet’s hands were clasped tightly in her lap. She had no idea where they were going, and her throat was too tight to allow her to ask.

An hour after the accident, Edward’s carriage no longer lay in the gutter. The scavengers of the Sydney alleyways had descended and carried it off, piece by piece. Edward was too shaken to do more than protest incoherently, but he did rouse himself sufficiently to seize hold of two of his bags and to seat himself on an overturned trunk.

Harbord had helped him up and brushed him down. The horse had bolted, dragging broken traces behind it, but Harbord had taken up the driving whip and a pistol of his own and held off the marauders who threatened to remove the bags from Edward’s grasp.

“And where might you be bound, Ned?” he asked, when the last of the scavengers had carried off their booty.

Edward bristled at the over-familiar tones, but the sight of Harbord’s powerful bull shoulders was comforting. “I am taking ship to Van Diemen’s Land,” he said a trifle thickly. “I sail on the Nellie May.”

“How long will you be away?”

“I’ll not be back.” He nodded, and searched anxiously for the fob which had disappeared; apparently plucked from his person by some sneaking thief while he lay stunned in the gutter. The thought that Harbord might have appropriated it occurred to him, and was pushed away. Even if he had, perhaps it was no more than the man’s due...he had felt a trifle badly after the Incident. Harbord’s handsome looks were marred by the crimson seam across his cheek and one eye was badly puckered. “Is your burn quite healed?” he asked inconsequentially.

“No more than somewhat,” said Harbord. “I lost the sight in the eye. So you are leaving Sydney town. I’d not heard.”

Edward felt in his inner pocket for the guineas the upstart fellow in the wagon had paid him in exchange for the woman. They clinked reassuringly. “Mama is dead,” he said. “There is nothing to keep me here now.”

Harbord’s good eye narrowed. “What have you done with the wench?” he rapped out.

Edward opened his mouth foolishly. He had been briefly stunned, and somehow the fall had sobered him. His actions at the square seemed dream-like, inadmissible. He could no more explain them than he could have spoken of the events of a shameful dream. “We decided we did not suit,” he said after much too long.

“Indeed?”

“Why do you ask?” blustered Edward. “What is your interest in her?”

“I have some business to settle with your lady wife.” Harbord touched his cheek. “Where is she?”

“I am traveling to Van Diemen’s Land alone,” said Edward. One hand strayed once more to the inner pocket, while the other clutched the battered black valise. Time was marching on.

“You’ve taken passage on the Nellie May. Alone?”

“I have.” Edward felt again for his fob and frowned pettishly.

“You sold up your estate, then? Or is your wife still there?”

“I must go,” insisted Edward. Harbord was unpleasantly persistent, and his head ached. His eyes were blurring, his feet suddenly seemed a goodly distance away. The blow on the head seemed to be affecting his vision. “I fear I may have missed my berth and must wait for another.”

“We cannot have that,” Harbord said, almost gaily. “Let me take your bags. I shall hire a hackney - or at least go on ahead and secure your berth.” His hand stretched out for the black valise, as apparently casual as his glance, which flicked up and down the now-deserted alleyway.

“No! And not that one.” Edward’s grip tightened defensively on the bag. “Go and hail a hackney then. Bring it here to me, and I shall pay you well. We may be in time. Not that bag, I say!”

Harbord lifted the pistol. “Yes, Ned, that one.”

Edward Landis’s intelligence had never been more than ordinary, but he understood the gape of the pistol, even before Harbord made his demand. “Give me the bag, Ned, or I shall put the ball right through your hand.”

Babbling, almost blubbering, Edward released his grasp on the valise. “I shall pay you well!” he gasped.

Harbord dragged the valise towards him with a crooked foot then bent to pick it up. “Oh, so you will. Let me see - what did you promise me if I saved you the embarrassment of being known to be less than a man? Half your inheritance, and the woman as well for my pleasure once the brat was born? Was that not the bargain?”

“There was no brat!”

“Not my fault, Ned,” said Harbord. “I had that first mewling wife of yours again and again - she was barren. You wanted to be rid of her, I arranged her departure.”

Edward stared. “But Bertha died of a fever!”

“You were rid of her, I say. Yet you must needs marry another wench. You failed again, so again I bedded her in your name. And this time, Ned, that old witch caught on. Not my fault, that, but I paid the price.” He touched his face again. “I lost an eye, as you see. You owe me, Ned, for that.” He smiled in an almost friendly fashion. “Now off you go. If you hurry, you might still catch the packet.”

“My bags!”

“Better forget your bags. ‘Tis better to travel lightly than be pumped full of lead!”

Edward’s legs trembled as he rose and backed away.

“You will tell no one about this, will you?” said Harbord casually. “After all, things might have gone hard for you had I not been here. You might have been robbed and left for dead.”

“No, no. I would never do that.” Edward stumbled in a panic. “But - my money - I have not a coach fare.”

“You have some guineas in your pocket,” said Harbord.

“Yes, yes, I forgot.” He had taken three more steps when Harbord raised the gun again.

“I may as well have those guineas as well,” Harbord said. “Unless - you will tell me where to find the woman?”

Edward stared at him blankly, then suddenly, he began to laugh. “You want her? By God! You could have had her any time these past ten days...Had her with my blessing, just as you had poor Bertha.”

He remembered abruptly what had happened to his first wife and added hastily, “Too late now! I had quite thought you’d want none of her since she set up such a to-do about lying with you.”

“Too late now?” said Harbord. “Never say you too have blood on your hands, Ned!”

“Not at all,” said Edward. “I...” Even yet he balked at the truth. “I...she went off with someone,” he said vaguely. “I do not know where.”

“Then our business is over,” said Harbord. His finger tightened on the trigger.

Chapter 3.

Four miles out of Sydney, Jeremiah and Garnet reached a slab hut, set off among some eucalyptus trees. Smoke rose from the makeshift chimney, a massive and contented-looking nag dozed under a tree. It woke quite suddenly and neighed, and the black horse answered with a clear whinny that sounded like a clarion call. Chickens scratched in the dust, clucking and murmuring, and a small vegetable garden flourished beyond a fence of sharpened stakes. A pump sat fire-new in the yard; under it was a stone trough full of water. A cow and her large calf grazed nearby. The place was at once roughly simple and calming to the spirits.

Jeremiah climbed out of the wagon and tied his horse beside the nag which greeted the black with every appearance of friendship. “Come down,” he said mildly.

Garnet stayed where she was.

“I warn you for the last time, Mrs. Landis. You will do as I say or suffer the consequences.” He held up his hands imperatively, and Garnet, biting her lip until it almost bled, allowed him to swing her down from the wagon. “Give me your left hand.”

Unwillingly, she held it out, flinching as he dragged off her glove.

“Remove your ring.”

She drew off the ring Edward had pushed on her finger, stared at it for a moment then thrust it at Gold. “Here - take this! It must be worth ten guineas! Take it and let me go!”

He laughed, and pocketed the ring. “A trumpery piece, my jewel. It might be worth half a sovereign, perhaps. Come.” He took her arm and led her to the door of the hut. She dragged her feet. Was this to be her new home? It seemed not, for Gold was beating a brisk tattoo on the door, which opened immediately to reveal a mountainous figure in a stained and scruffy cassock. The priest’s rubicund face was unshaven, but it beamed with goodwill that even the fumes of brandy could not extinguish. “Jeremiah, me dearie! I thought I heard a horse - and what a cry, to be sure! And a lady...how do you do, child?”

“Hello, Father,” said Jeremiah with a grin.

Garnet wondered for a wild moment if this giant man could be a close relative of Jeremiah’s, but the next few words dispelled that idea.

“Father Tim, I wish to marry this lady immediately.”

“But - ” Garnet’s voice broke suddenly as Jeremiah squeezed her hand.

“Yes, yes, my jewel. I realise you feel it a little premature, with Edward so lately departed...” He turned back to the immense cleric, who was beaming on them with slightly alcoholic goodwill. “My fiancée here has lately lost her first husband, but we are bound for my selection and I feel it would be more convenient to marry now rather than have to leave her with a stranger for the required six months.” He patted Garnet’s bare left hand. “We could, of course, continue now and be married later, but weak flesh being what it is...”

“Yes, yes,” approved the cleric. “Best to be married, better than burning, according to Saint Paul. Come in!”

“We have not called the banns,” began Jeremiah.

“Never mind, me dearie,” said the cleric comfortably. “Best not to leave matters too long. Remember your father...” He was ushering them into the hut as he spoke.

“I always try not to remember my father,” said Jeremiah wryly.

“I also...” For a moment the round face looked rueful.

“Excellent!” Jeremiah drew Garnet to his side. “If you will excuse us a moment, Father Tim? My fiancée needs a moment or two to compose herself.”

“Of course, me dearie!” The big man beamed, then turned away to scrabble in a chest, pulling out a set of grubby vestments and a well-thumbed prayer book. “Just find the right place,” he murmured.

“Do you think I am going to allow this charade to proceed?” hissed Garnet.

“I do think so,” said Jeremiah. “Who is to debate the issue? Father Timothy is not the most learned man of the cloth, but he did take holy orders. An unfortunate fall from grace robbed him of home and living, but he has always been the best of friends to me. And certainly the Lord has blessed him with an amazing amount of luck since he gained his ticket of leave. What is your name?”

“My - ”

“Your name, Mrs. Landis! If this marriage is the result of a long-standing acquaintance, as we would have Father Tim believe, I must be in possession of your given name!”

Garnet snorted. “You would lie to a man in holy orders?”

“On occasion. But not this time. Long-standing acquaintance I said, and I meant it. Consider this; we met before you ever laid eyes on old Ned. I made you a present of my name on that occasion. Now, what is yours?”

“Garnet,” she muttered.

“Garnet?”

“It is as good a name as any!”

“And better than most, in the circumstances, for in a few moments more, you will be Garnet Gold!”

This exchange was all they had time for, because Father Timothy, after fumbling his way into a surplice, announced himself ready to perform the ceremony.

Afterwards, Garnet wondered exactly what had made her acquiesce to this madness, for madness it undoubtedly was. Jeremiah Gold could talk about long-standing acquaintance all he pleased, but the fact remained that she was a married woman, and whether or not her husband wanted her, she was committing bigamy by allowing herself to be married a second time. She wondered if she might throw herself on the mercy of the old Father, but he seemed to know Gold quite well.

She repeated the vows numbly, unable to believe in her own actions. She was committing a crime, she could go to prison for this! She would go to prison, and all because she could not face up to the scandal that would have followed if she had refused to go with Gold!

Chilled with shock, she found herself wearing a second ring, this time a strange serpent-shaped signet ring Jeremiah had removed from his own little finger. The metal was warm from contact with his skin. It seemed to burn like a brand on her frozen hand. He put back her veil with every sign of tenderness, but she saw the glint of triumph in his eyes before he bent to brush her lips with his own. Her heart clenched and seemed to roll over with fear, and then the other ring, the one Edward had given her, was handed to the cleric in payment, and, with a final, brandy-scented blessing, and a great hug for Jeremiah and a pat on the cheek for herself, they were allowed to leave the hut.

The day was waning and the light beginning to fade, and as she was handed into the wagon Garnet was still aghast at the charade that had taken place.

Jeremiah Gold was not given to analysing his motives, and on this occasion he had been acting on instinct, propelled by anger, disgust and the driving urge to possess and humble the woman who had managed to flick him in the raw upon each of their brief meetings. It was pure madness to gamble his money on a wench who was obviously a termagant of the first order, and, in addition, had evidently committed some sin which had rendered her odious to her husband. The little he knew of Edward Landis would not have led him to think the man unduly vindictive; in fact, Landis had the reputation for weakness, especially when it came to his old witch of a mother.

“How is the elder Mrs. Landis, Garnet?” he asked after the silence had gone on long enough.

“She is dead,” said Garnet in a low voice.

“I see,” said Jeremiah dryly. And he thought he did see. Some action of this girl’s must have some precipitated the old lady’s demise. It could not have been murder in the strictest sense, or a constable would have been summoned, but something had rendered her presence insupportable to the bereaved Edward Landis.

The woman said nothing. She had resumed the veil and he was piqued by the desire to see her expression, to see what lay behind in her eyes. “Take off the bonnet,” he said abruptly.

Her veiled face turned to him and he knew she could see his expression although he could not see hers.

“Take it off,” he said in a sterner tone. “You cannot be too cut up at the old woman’s passing. She was not your mama.”

“A lady does not go bare-headed in the open,” she said in a low voice.

Jeremiah scowled. “There is no one to see,” he said, and indeed they had plunged deeper into the heavily wooded countryside.

Her hands went reluctantly to the strings of the bonnet, but before she could untie the knot, a bullock wagon swayed into sight. Jeremiah stayed her with a hand on her elbow, then raised his whip mechanically. The bullocky spat and waved back, staring openly at Garnet, who had clasped her hands in her lap. “Shall I remove the bonnet now?” she asked.

“Better leave it on until we get to the inn,” said Jeremiah in a carefully controlled voice. His guts twisted in a spasm which he dimly recognised as acute possessiveness. He had seen this woman in many moods. There had been an expectant light in her green eyes when he had first encountered her at the docks, a beckoning light which had soon changed to a frosty contempt. Her eyes had sparked with rage after he had kissed her on that fateful day, and again when he had followed her into the emporium. Pride and scorn, he had seen, but today she had been white faced and snarling, reduced to the magnificent despair of a cornered lioness. She had looked sick and bewildered, and finally, he had seen hate in her eyes when he bent to claim his kiss after the mockery of a wedding. How would she look next time he beheld her?

He did not know, but suddenly he longed to see her face softened by passion, blazing with desire. He longed, with a primitive savagery that quite astounded him, to hide her away from the world, to keep her quite for himself.

Swift on the heels of this desire came its justification. Bigamy, which he had led her to commit from that same primitive wish to grasp and keep his unexpected prize, was a serious crime. This fact gave him a greater hold over her, and a greater reason to keep her in seclusion. He was not proud of his actions, still less of the emotions from which they had sprung, but neither was he about to spend over-much time in regrets.

“Yes,” he said, as if there had not been silence for the past several minutes. “Better leave it on until we get to the inn...”

The inn was a large sandstone edifice, built by a wealthy official who had died soon afterwards. It boasted several rooms upstairs and down, and kept the best table between Sydney and Melbourne. It was some miles drive from Sydney, with ample stabling, and so travelers often put up there for the night, pleased to sleep in relative comfort and safety. The goose feather pillows were considered very fine, and if the linen reeked of powdered southernwood and tansy, at least it harboured no vermin.

Garnet looked up at the imposing frontage with awe; she had thought Edward’s house was fine, but this place was easily twice as big. She was tempted to put back her veil to see it more plainly, for dusk was falling and the air was growing chill. She opened her lips to inquire what business they had there, but Jeremiah had not spoken to her in an hour. His company oppressed her, and she could not break the silence.

She sat stubbornly in the wagon while Jeremiah knocked up the innkeeper and spent the last of his ready money on lodging and food. A boy came to take the horse and wagon, and she scrambled down and followed Jeremiah into the inn.

She was bone weary, exhausted and numb from the outrageous happenings of the day. Of the night ahead she would not think, for she feared that if she allowed her imaginings to take shape she would run mad and scream as old Mrs. Landis had screamed on that last fateful night before she slumped into death.

It seemed odd that Jeremiah Gold had enough consequence to request supper on a tray, but it was just as likely, she thought, that the innkeeper had no proper dining room. Up the stairs she climbed on leaden feet, disbelief still hammering in her mind. She had quite expected to spend this night aboard the Nellie May with her husband, although, as she remembered it now, she realised Edward had never actually said he was taking her with him. He had said almost nothing to her since the extraordinary conversation that had taken place after his mother’s funeral.

Was it possible that he had been planning to sell her from that day on? Or had it been a whim of the moment, inspired by the auction they had chanced upon? She supposed she would never know, but the problem of Edward’s motives dimmed into insignificance when she considered those of Jeremiah Gold. Why, why, had he bought her? Why had he humiliated her so? He had said something about his need for a wife when he had first accosted her on the docks, but if that had been so, surely he could have made a push to marry months ago. She thought of her companions on the Clara. Why had he not approached one of them? Or had he, and had they all rejected him? Well, he had a wife now, she reflected with a certain bitter humour. He had a wife now, although she was somebody else’s.

Silently, she stood in the middle of the room they were allotted, silently, she watched as a chamber-maid fetched up a great ewer of hot water. The supper tray followed, a tureen of thick soup with some of the heavy bread known as damper. Jeremiah had it set down on the low table and then nodded curtly to the maid to close the door.

And still Garnet stood in the middle of the floor, cold to her very bones.

Jeremiah took off his hat and set it down on the stiff-backed chair. His chestnut hair was longer than she had first seen it, springing thick and unruly around his head. His strong-featured face might as well have been carved in stone for all the human warmth it showed, but it seemed to Garnet that his gray eyes were glittering in the lamplight. He turned to her at last.

“Take off your bonnet, Garnet,” he said.

She bit her lip, hard, but there was no help for it. For now she must do as he said. She removed her gloves and slowly untied the strings of her bonnet, removing it and the veil in one piece. Her hair still tumbled around her shoulders, for it had slipped from its pins when Edward had man-handled her. She half raised her hands to tidy it, then let them drop. After all, what did it matter? She lifted her head and, with an internal shiver, looked Jeremiah Gold in the eye. “Are you satisfied with your purchase, Mr. Gold?” she asked coldly.

He stared back at her, and it seemed that a flame was kindled in his eyes. Perhaps it was the dance of the candle that stood upon the dresser, but twin points of fire seemed to hover like devils in their depths.

“Well?” she said, unable to bear the silence.

“That,” he said, “remains to be seen. Clean yourself, and then eat your supper.”

“I am not hungry,” she said. She felt cold and hollow inside, but she did not interpret these sensations as hunger.

“Clean yourself and eat your supper,” said Jeremiah again.

“I have told you, I am not hungry.”

“And I am telling you!” he said with sudden violence. “You are my property, Garnet, until you have repaid your debt.”

“My debt! It was you, sir, who chose to purchase me!”

“It was I who saved you from utter humiliation. You must have feared that state more than you feared me, or else you would have given the lie to what I said when I claimed you.” He stared at her, and the devils danced. “That is the debt you must repay, and until you have done so, you will do as you are told. For the last time, wash yourself and eat your supper!”

Her chin came up, but he looked so dangerous that she dropped her gaze and did as he said. The water was hot and plentiful, and she washed the dust from her hands and face. Her mouth was sore where the hot water touched it, and her jaw felt a little swollen. She supposed the pain came from the blow Edward had given her. It hurt, but seemed of little consequence. Edward had abused her and sold her, but she felt sure Jeremiah Gold had the power to make her suffer much more. She wondered if he would beat her if she disobeyed. It seemed likely.

When she had finished, he took his turn with the hot water, stripping off his sweat-stained shirt and rubbing his neck and chest with the coarse lye soap. It scarcely lathered at all. Garnet, after one shocked glance, turned her face away, but the sight of the man who now owned her seemed burned into her brain. He was broad and well-made, with strong shoulders and a narrow waist. Nothing like Edward, and not much like the brutish Harbord, whose strength had given the impression of a thick, solid pillar, and whose head had seemed to grow directly from his shoulders. She recalled other features of Harbord’s body, features which she had hardly noted on the night of his attack, but which had haunted her dreams ever since. If she could ever be grateful for anything old Mrs. Landis might have done, she was grateful to her for stopping Harbord.

Jeremiah had finished his ablutions and dried himself, and now put on a clean blue cotton shirt. He thrust the tails into the waistband of his duck trousers, then indicated the tureen. “You had better serve the supper, Garnet, before it gets cold.”

“I am not a servant!”

His gaze was implacable. “Serve the supper, Garnet.”

She sighed. It seemed that he would simply repeat whatever orders he chose to give her until she obeyed. If she did not, he would punish her. She served the supper and, rather to her own surprise, managed to choke some down. The hot soup and bread made her feel a little stronger, but she was very tired. A maid came to take the crocks away, and after the girl had gone, Jeremiah put on his coat.

“I am going to see to my horse,” he told Garnet curtly. “I want your word you will remain in this room.”

“And if I do not choose to give it?”

He shrugged. “Then I must lock you in.”

“Would you trust me?” she demanded.

He laughed without humour. “Be sure I do not, but I have taken the precaution of explaining to the innkeeper here that you are still dazed with grief over a recent bereavement, and must on no account be allowed to wander away.”

“Then why did you ask for my word, if you meant to shame me anyway?” she flashed.

“If you had not questioned me, you would never have known.” He eyed her sardonically. “I shall be gone a few minutes, and I recommend you use them to ready yourself for bed.”

He nodded and went out, and to her chagrin she heard the click of the key in the lock.

She was tempted to stay exactly as she was, but she was exhausted, so she undressed, tossing the hateful black bombazine over the chair. Edward had insisted that she must wear mourning for his mother, but she found it scratchy and much too big; it had been made up in haste and the measurements were incorrect. She was tempted to hurl it out the window so she need never wear it again, but caution held her back. She had not many gowns in her valise and must not waste what she had. Perhaps she could find someone who would remove a breadth of stuff from the back...She took off her outer petticoat and then, with a sigh of relief, her corset. A strip of whalebone had worked loose and she had a sore, chafed place at her waist. Clad in her clinging muslin chemise she opened the valise to take out her bedgown, then froze in dismay. Instead of the garments she had packed, the valise held an old driving coat of Edward’s.

She bit her lip, then began to delve underneath, but her questing fingertips found no muslin, no dimity; nothing but the heavy dark cloth of the coat.

She was still scrabbling hopelessly when she heard the key in the lock once more. She gasped, turned back the counterpane and tumbled into bed in her chemise, pulling the heavy linen sheet around her shoulders. Her hand shot out to turn down the lamp, and she was lying still as a mouse by the time the door was open.

She heard Jeremiah come in, cursing softly as he stumbled against the abandoned valise.

“No doubt you are disappointed to note I did not break my neck,” he remarked.

She held her breath, hoping to convince him she was asleep. For a while she thought she had succeeded, for he said nothing more, although she heard him moving quietly around the room. It was a shock, therefore, when he suddenly turned up the lamp and stripped back the covers.

Garnet’s eyes sprang open and she made a belated snatch, but the sheet was twitched through her fingers. “I was asleep,” she said coldly, horribly aware that her chemise was old and worn and revealed her shoulders and arms as no decent bedgown would have done. “Have the goodness to turn out the light and then let me be.”

“You were awake,” corrected Jeremiah. “I saw the light go out as I opened the door. Have you forgotten this is our wedding night, my jewel? Is this any way for a bride to greet her husband?”

“The wedding was a lie,” she said hotly. “I am not your bride!”

“Perhaps not in the usual way, but in the eyes of the world you are my wife.”

“I shall take care to inform the world its eyes are deceived!”

Jeremiah’s gaze narrowed in a way she was already beginning to recognise. “Perhaps you would rather be known as my whore?” he inquired in a silky voice.

“I would rather be let alone,” she retorted.

“I fear your preferences are not under consideration,” he said, and got into bed beside her. “Why are you wearing your chemise?”

“Mr. Gold! Gentlemen do not ask such things!”

“But then, I am not a gentleman,” he reminded her. “As you have been at pains to tell me. Take off that chemise. No need to look so shocked. You may put on your bedgown.”

“I have no bedgown,” she spat. “You fetched away the wrong valise.”

“Then old Ned must have made a mistake,” he said. “To be sure, he was in something of a rush to be rid of you and yours. I suppose you must be content with the clothes you have; there are many worse off.” He looked down at her rebellious face, her red hair in disarray on the pillow. Garnet looked distrustfully back, her furious resentment giving way to apprehension as she saw his eyes dilate. The gray iris was swallowed up almost wholly by the darkness; she seemed to be looking into pools of pitch. His stony expression was changing, she could hear his breath coming faster as he bent towards her. She turned her face aside, but his hard fingers slipped under her jaw to hold her still while his mouth met hers, not ravaging and punishing as she had feared, but softly in a gentle caress.

For a moment her heart seemed to lurch, for this kiss was unlike Edward’s occasional clumsy salutes. A vision of Harbord’s suffocating mouth rose in her mind then slid away, for Jeremiah’s mouth was nothing like Harbord’s, either. It was feathering over her own in softly ravishing touches, light as breath, and she found herself straining to lift her head to meet him more squarely with kisses of her own.

She heard him chuckle quietly, and his hand left her jaw to wander down her cheek and over her bare arm and shoulder.

Her heart seemed to hammer in her throat, and the warmth was growing within her, just as it had grown that other time he had kissed her. She didn’t hate him less; she still despised him, and she knew in a corner of her mind that she should despise herself. She should pull away now, immediately, but somehow the touch of his mouth was balm to her shredded pride, stanching a wound she had never known she possessed, a wound caused by Edward’s accusations, by his callous scheme with Harbord and his desire to be rid of her. He had blamed her for not attracting him, had blamed her for his clumsy failure to get a child on her.

Jeremiah drew back a little, and it took all her self-control to keep from lifting her hands to pull his face back down to hers. Instead, she kept her eyes tight closed.

“Garnet?” he said, and she felt him shaking her shoulders. “Garnet, look at me!”

Her eyes snapped open, and she winced back from the molten blaze in his. A tear spilled down her cheek. “No!” she gasped, but his mouth came blindly down on hers again, and this time he rolled against her as Edward used to do. She felt his thighs on hers, warm and muscular, then the touch of the other thing that was firm and hardening rapidly. He surged against her, his hands grasping her buttocks, and she panicked suddenly and tried to push him away.

“Not so coy!” he said harshly, and grasped her wrists, probing at her still, hard and hot against the juncture of her thighs.

She thrashed her head about, kicking and struggling in earnest, clamping her thighs together.

“Stop that!” he gasped, and rolled on top of her, seeming to gather himself for some great effort.

“No!” she protested, panic-stricken, as his hard flesh thrust against her. “You must not!” She was gasping for breath, writhing beneath his weight. He had freed one hand and was groping down between her legs, his fingers somewhere among the tangle of limbs and sensitive flesh. She felt an odd pressure, then he thrust himself hard against her. There was a flare of pain, and she was sure she was splitting asunder. She screamed and clawed at him desperately, her nails raking his cheek as the pain knifed through her loins.

He gasped and cursed, then rolled away, thrusting her from him so she tumbled out of the bed.

Slowly, Jeremiah sat up, slowly he brought one hand to his cheek and looked in disbelief at the blood that blotched his palm. The bitch had clawed his face! He dabbed at his face with the sleeve of his nightshirt, then turned to vent his fury on the vixen who had almost had his eye out. To his considerable astonishment, she was not raging at him, spoiling for a fight, but crumpled on her knees by the bed, sobbing in a muffled fashion. Her red hair spilled over her bare shoulders, and she looked slender and heart-breakingly young. He stared at her, then hardened his heart. No doubt Lucretia Borgia had looked young as well. No doubt Delilah had once seemed small and slender. And Jael, the harlot in the Bible, who had murdered a man while he slept...And Judas had had red hair...

“Get up!” he snapped, and leaned over to grasp her by the shoulders. Her disheveled ringlets tangled around his hands, soft and warm as silk, but his cheek was smarting, and his watering eye felt bruised.

She was sobbing so hard she scarcely seemed to hear his voice, but she reacted violently to his touch, flinging herself aside to fetch up with a crash against the small table. It must have hurt, but she did not cry out, only kept on with those harsh, racking sobs.

“Get up!” he ordered again. “Hell’s teeth, woman, are you completely deranged?”

He got out of bed, and bent to raise her. Again she jerked away, but this time he was ready, and scooped her up with one arm around her shoulders, and the other beneath her thighs. She struck out at him, but it occurred to him for the first time that her assaults seemed more panic-stricken than vicious. He dumped her on the bed, and sat down, breathing hard, pinioning her wrists to keep her from throwing herself off again. She heaved like a landed fish, but he was back in control.

“What the devil are you trying to do?” he asked. A drop of blood rolled down his cheek but he could not spare a hand to blot it. “Can you give me one good reason why I should not thrash you?”

She was breathing is great gasps, her eyes so distended they looked like brimming black pools. “You hurt me!” she blurted. “How dare you...you...”

“If I hurt you it was because you struck out at me,” he said furiously.

“Of course I did! That even you could be so utterly depraved...”

“Oh yes,” he said sardonically. “So utterly depraved as to kiss you! Kisses you found so distasteful you were like to swallow me whole! Spare me any missish lies, Garnet! I may not be a polished beau of the drawing room set, but I have enough experience to know when a woman is hot for me.”

“But you - you - you hurt my - ” Amazingly, she seemed lost for words, and a sudden dark blush dyed her cheeks, running in a tide of crimson up to her brow and down to the neck of her chemise.

“I did what any man would do,” he said. “And why pretend to be shocked? You were wed to old Ned for long enough! Perhaps he is not the most lusty young stud but surely you do not mean to tell me...” Something in her eyes gave him an inkling of the truth, a truth so unpalatable that he almost choked himself. “You do mean to tell me,” he said flatly. “He never had you at all.” He felt his own colour rising, ridiculously, since this was in no way his fault.

“Are you not going to apologise?” she snapped.

“No,” he said, equally incensed. “Why should I apologise? You allowed me to believe you were experienced, and now I find you are not. Having tasted your reaction to a man’s attentions myself,” he added, pointedly touching his injured cheek, “I can scarcely find it in my heart to blame Landis for disposing of you. To allow his wife to withhold his conjugal rights for so long - that argues the patience of Job, and puts a new complexion on the matter! What happened to set him off this morning? Did you attempt to claw out his eye as well?”

“I have never tried to harm him,” said Garnet, “never once!”

“Perhaps the threat was enough to make him give you a wide berth!” He breathed deeply. “If let you go, will you stay quiet?”

“Not if you hurt me again...”

“It need not have hurt,” he repeated. “At least not so much, if I had known you were a maid. And done is done, I suppose.” He grasped the hem of her chemise and raised it. Garnet struck out like a wildcat, and he dropped it hastily. He had learned all he needed to know. “Done is certainly done!” he said with grim amusement. “It will hurt very little next time, if at all. So long as you do not fight me.”

“Next time!” she said wildly.

“There will be a next time, Garnet. There will be several next times. And if I am any judge you will very soon come to enjoy it, if only you will allow yourself. Now go to sleep. We have an early start in the morning.”

Garnet was shocked at the experience. In the beginning, she had felt all manner of enjoyable sensations, but the nightmare invasion that had followed had been terrifying. She supposed she should have been better prepared. Edward had never explained what he was trying to do, but Harbord’s attack should have been enough to enlighten her. He had probed at her thighs, and but for old Mrs. Landis’s well-aimed blow with the poker, no doubt he too would have succeeded in thrusting inside her body. She felt ill at the thought, suddenly certain such an experience with Harbord would have been even worse than the one she had had with Jeremiah. He at least had made some attempt to please her, in the beginning. And his assault had not been coupled with the sickening pain of the burn.

If Jeremiah had been at all apologetic, if he had sympathised with her shock and pain and begged pardon for his depravity, she might have relented, but he had gone almost straight to sleep, pausing only to lock the door of the bedchamber and ostentatiously thrust the key under his own pillow.

Garnet and Jeremiah were not the only ones to suffer an unpleasant shock that autumn night. Harbord, having arrived at the docks too late to take up Edward’s berth on the Nellie May, had consoled himself by spending one of the guineas he had acquired in a particular establishment in George Street. Having availed himself of the services of three of the madam’s lustiest and most phlegmatic girls, he was presently snoring in the upstairs room of the bawdy house. The girls, always on the look-out for a little better payment, lost no time in opening his two bags. One held the accoutrements of a man of money but poor taste, musty-smelling and of no interest and little worth. The girls tittered and thrust it away. The other, which they found more inviting, held a lady’s gowns and underclothing. Muslin and gingham, kerseymere and serge...everything was serviceable but again, of little worth.

“Jacky-boy must be setting hisself up as a traveler in ladies’ unmentionables,” laughed Peg. “Reckon he won’t find much custom wid this stamp o’ goods.”

“Else he’s got hisself a wife,” said Pockle Sue. “Though that phiz wid the scar...errr...” she shuddered. “‘E lost the sight of ‘is eye, you know.”

“What Mag say about that?”

“Mag took the coach to Melbourne...lost her place when her mistress passed over,” said Mary-Mary, and crossed herself.

“Then Jacky-boy’s drowned his sorrows,” said Peg with satisfaction. She pulled out a kerseymere shawl and spread it over her bare shoulders, then turned, smirking, as Harbord woke up.

“Where did you get that?” he barked.

“Out of your bag, Jacky-boy,” said Peg without shame. “You owe me summat for the bruises...see?” She hitched up the shawl and displayed her plump buttocks, reddened a little from blows he had delivered in the heat of passion.

“Out of my bag?” said Harbord. The mists of sleep seemed to have cleared miraculously, and he let out a roar and leapt, clad only in his grubby flannel shirt, from the bed to paw through the already-tumbled clothing in the black valise.

The three bawds watched, their jibes fast turning to apprehension as he pitched the garments around the room, the burn scar seamed and shiny on his cheek.

“‘Ere - watch it, Jacky-boy! If you don’t want ‘em at leas’ leave ‘em fit to wear,” objected Pockle Sue. She shook out a linen chemise, then staggered back as Harbord struck her across the mouth.

“Where have you put it?” he cried.

“Wha’?” Pockle Sue was used to blows, but this had been hard enough to knock her across the room.

Harbord lunged towards her, knocking Peg out of his way. Mary-Mary snatched up the shawl and tried to slip out the door, muttering Irish blessings, but Harbord was there before her, throwing the bolt and menacing her with a raised fist. “Right, you whores, what have you done with it?”

“Done wid what?” demanded Peg. She bent to remove her shoe, ready to fling it out the window if need be to summon help.

“You know,” said Harbord grimly. He grabbed his discarded moleskins and slipped out a pistol. “The money!”

“Them guineas in yer shirt?” said Mary-Mary virtuously. “We ain’t been touching ‘em, have we girls?”

Pockle Sue was holding her soiled petticoat to her mouth, but Peg shook her head. “Not us, Jacky-boy, only but one a’piece. You know Auntie keeps an honest house.”

Harbord shook out the shirt, and found six of the guineas. His out thrust hand soon garnered the other three from the bawds, but of whatever treasures Edward Landis had sought to protect there was no evidence at all. Blows, threats and the leveled pistol brought no information, and at last he lost his temper and hit Peg so hard she screeched loudly enough to bring the madam pounding on the door.

In the morning, Jeremiah was very matter-of-fact and did not refer to the occurrence at first, although Garnet was aware of his silent fury when the innkeeper stared at his wounded cheek.

“No doubt they believe we have been quarreling,” he said coldly to Garnet when he had paid the shot and were back in the wagon. “My cheek is cut, you have a bruise on your jaw. Never mind. By the time we see any one other than ourselves again, the marks of battle will be long since faded.”

“Where are we going?” she muttered. Her jaw had stiffened overnight, and she was aware of other bruises, at hip and thigh and shoulder. She wished she could blame these on Jeremiah, but knew they were the result of her fall from the bed. Even the spot that had throbbed the night before had now subsided.

“We are going to my selection,” he said.

“I suppose you will lock me in my chamber there?” she said sourly.

Jeremiah laughed. “Indeed I will not! There are no locks at Gold’s Kingdom. But do not run away with the notion that you can escape me, Garnet. There may be no locks, but there are no roads either. The trees grow thick and tall, and if you ran I would very soon find you again. If you were lucky.”

“And if I were not lucky?”

“If you were not lucky, you might be found by someone or something you would hate even more than you hate me,” he said bleakly.

“That would be impossible.” She was wearing the bonnet again, but had ripped away the remains of the veil. Now she turned to stare at him, at his strongly featured face, at his dusty clothes and workman’s hands. “I suppose you can keep me with you,” she said. “You are stronger than I. You can keep me with you, you can make me do as you say, but you must realise that means nothing. You may talk of debts, but any loss you may have suffered is of your own making. You are nothing but a common bully.”

His face never altered, his hands never so much as tightened on the reins. Only a dolt could be so unfeeling, decided Garnet. She pulled her bonnet low over her brow and closed her eyes, but though she tried to sleep, she remained infuriatingly aware of the powerful man beside her. Every breath she took seemed full of the musky scent of him, and every movement of his body in response to the sway of the wagon reminded her of the touch of his flesh on hers.

The road, such as it was, continued to the south, but after a while they reached a place where a pale blaze showed out on the trunk of a eucalyptus tree. The sap which gave the tree its common name of “gum” had oozed and hardened in a glossy rim around the sliced-off bark.

“This is where we turn off to my selection,” said Jeremiah. He drew rein and allowed the horse to rest in the shade a little. It seemed he had consideration for four-footed brutes, but none for a Christian woman.

“It is a long way from Sydney,” said Garnet, depressed. “Why did you not take up land that was close to town?”

“Those selections had been taken long ago,” he said. “I have had this place but a year...it was one of the last to be granted.”

Garnet glanced at him, and then away.

“Surely you know that land must now be purchased at auction?” he said. “There was some outcry at the time, but with the number of folk in the colony grown to forty-eight thousand, there is little need to encourage more men to settle.”

“Forty-eight thousand!” murmured Garnet. She had not known there were so many.

“And land to be paid at a minimum of five shillings an acre now. I have been offered much more than that for my own spread, if I’d a mind to sell! All this makes you an expensive property, Garnet,” he said sardonically. “I could have had more than forty acres instead.”

“I wish you had!” she flared, but he shook his head.

“I have my land, Garnet. What I need is someone to help me work it.” He gathered the reins and touched the horse lightly with the whip. “Come up, King Cole. You know the way by now.”

The horse sighed and turned off the road, and Garnet gave a muffled cry as the wagon seemed to plunge into unmarked bush. Saplings swished and whipped at her bonnet as the horse picked his way through the dense scrub.

“Why do you - not - cut a road?” gasped Garnet, clinging to her bonnet.

“Because I do not care to advertise the route to my selection,” said Jeremiah.

She digested this, a worm of unease in her stomach. What manner of a man was he, to buy a wife, force her into a bigamous marriage and then hide her away in the wilderness?

He glanced at her. “You have a very expressive face, my jewel, when you forget to guard it. No doubt you are thinking all manner of unkind thoughts about my honesty and morals. I almost hate to spoil your enjoyment, but I should tell you the secrecy is for our own protection. Yes, even yours, after today. The bushranging act has not entirely succeeded in ridding the colony of their depredations.”

“Bushrangers?”

“Escaped criminals, Garnet. Some of them hole up in the hills, and ravage the homes of honest settlers. You must be remarkably complacent not to have known about them. Or did you believe your gentleman-husband would shield you from such unpleasant facts?”

“It seems you will not,” she snapped.

He flicked the whip lightly at an overhanging branch. “You are right about that,” he said. “I will never attempt to shield you from unpleasant facts, and I tell you plainly, there are many bushrangers who would use you much more harshly than ever I will do. They roam in twos and threes, and one might hold you down while the others took their pleasure of your body.”

“You disgust me,” she said.

“I am warning you to stay close by me should anyone come to the selection.”

Garnet gave up and removed her bonnet, clasping it in her lap until the lurching of the wagon made it necessary to place the bonnet on the floor at her feet and cling to the rough-hewn seat. She was hot and uncomfortable, and she thought with wonder of the way she had objected to the motion of Edward’s carriage when she had first arrived in New South Wales. She was close to despair, for even the glow of hate she felt for the man who was tormenting her seemed to have dimmed a little.

Edward had shielded her from knowledge of such matters as bushrangers, but he had tried to give her into Harbord’s filthy hands. He had tried to drug her, he had lied to her. He had sold her to the highest bidder, and now, no doubt, was enjoying a passage to a new life in Van Diemen’s Land, free from the responsibility of his mother, his wife and any domestic considerations. She wondered vaguely what he would do when he got there. No doubt the money raised by the sale of his house, goods and wife would buy him a handsome future...the house had belonged to his mama, but upon her death it had come free and clear to Edward as her next of kin. Now he had it all, even to his wife’s few gowns. All she had gained from the marriage was misery, betrayal, a hideous set of mourning clothes and a moth-eaten old driving coat which Edward would never even miss.

She was tired and bruised by the time they reached Jeremiah’s selection. The extent of the place was marked by more blazes on the boundary trees, but, apart from an acre or so of cleared ground, there seemed nothing much to set it apart from the surrounding bush.

The cleared area was dotted with stumps, and there was a pile of freshly cut timber to one side. A small strip of plough teased the nostrils with the rich smell of soil, and strong green plants raised their heads above the clods. A solid slab house huddled alone in the middle of the open space, and a few paces away Garnet saw an enclosure, fenced with heavy logs. Inside, a powerful draught horse nickered a welcome to the black.

“I call him Atlas,” said Jeremiah. “He would lift the world if I asked it of him.” He looked about with what seemed, amazingly, to be the pride of ownership, then lifted the whip to indicate a rough-built structure made from lashed saplings and heavy sheets of bark, tucked away in the fringe of the bush. “The implements and stores are in there, the cook-fire is close to the creek.” He pointed away to the west. “The top of the range there forms my western boundary; it brings the rains so we have adequate water. A double-edged blessing, for the water which hastens the growth of crops also gives us thicker scrub and timber.”

Garnet looked around with dismay. “You live there?” she said.

“In the house, yes.”

“But - it is so small! It is a hut! A hovel!”

Jeremiah’s mouth hardened. “Two rooms above, I am building a goodly cellar below. I wonder what kind of dwelling you would have achieved, if you had had to cut every piece of timber and raise it with the strength of your own arms and back?”

“There are architects,” she murmured. “There are stonemasons.”

“All of whom require payment. And consider this; a large house, such as the one in which you have been living, requires a staff of servants. You dwelt with Ned and his old mother; three of you, and how many slaved to keep the household going? How many had to be fed and housed?”

Garnet did not reply.

“A round half-dozen or more, I’ll warrant! Deliveries made from town, a little distance away, not fetched along the day-long route such as we have had to travel. And the three of you spoiled for want of occupation! My house, there, is a place to sleep, at present. The daylight hours are very full, I promise you. Come.” Jeremiah swung down from the wagon, then held out his hand to Garnet. Pointedly, she ignored it, but stumbled ignominiously as she reached the ground. Her legs ached, and the sunlight blazed down, the black bombazine absorbing it so that her body was bathed with perspiration.

“No doubt you would like a cup of tea,” said Jeremiah.

“Thank you, I would,” she said stiffly. It hurt to thank him, but she was thirsty, and almost crying with tiredness.

Jeremiah took her arm, and led her to the lean-to. “The billy-can is in there, and so is the chest of tea and the pannikins,” he said. “Be sparing; it is costly stuff. The cook-fire is damped down with sods. You should be able to coax it back to a tolerable blaze. Do not let it burn too high - hot coals are the most valuable. We have good stocks of green wood, but there is little enough that is seasoned.”

His voice was mild, but Garnet was sure he was mocking her. Her temper rose, but she saw his sardonic eyes. He wanted her to flash out at him, to refuse to be treated as a servant. Very well then, she would strive to disappoint him.

“Thank you,” she said meekly, and went to investigate the fire while he unharnessed the black horse and began to stow away the stores.

It took some little time to revive the flames, but eventually, the sweet-smelling wood-smoke began to rise, almost invisible in the brilliance of the sunlight. Garnet took the blackened billy-can to the creek, a shallow stream that murmured secretly through the ferns. She stripped off her gloves and dipped the billy-can full, pausing to bathe her face and hands in the peat-smelling water. Almost, she expected her over-heated skin to hiss with the moisture.

Returning to the fire, she parted the coals and set the billy-can to heat, then fetched a small chest of Indian tea and two tin pannikins from the lean-to. A generous pinch of the black leaves went in the billy when the water boiled, then Garnet used a green stick to lift it clear of the fire.

“The tea is ready,” she called.

Jeremiah came over to the fire, and accepted a pannikin of tea. “So you have some useful skills after all,” he said with a lift of his brows.

Garnet turned her face away, flushing, not wishing to explain exactly where she had gained such abilities. Servants’ work...and yet when she had learned to make tea, to mend and pamper a smoldering fire, she had not thought of it so. Her father’s old friend the charcoal burner had not been quality, but he had been kind to an awed child who had thought his way of life the most romantic on earth.

She knew better now, but the skills had remained.

She sipped the tea, and pulled a slight face. It tasted odd, and if she had not been so thirsty, she might have tossed it aside.

“The leaves are cut with those of some local species,” said Jeremiah. “Pure Indian tea is very costly. This blend is wholesome enough, and you will soon be used to the taste, just as you will become used to eating kangaroo instead of mutton. Bank the fire when you are ready, then help me with the last of the stores. After that, you may begin to prepare a meal. There is some jerky in the lean-to, and I fetched a sack of onions and one of flour. The salt is in the canister.”

“And what if I refuse?” she asked between clenched teeth.

“Then you will find yourself going hungry.” He swallowed his tea then returned to his task. Garnet choked down renewed rage at his high-handedness and did as he said.

Chapter 4.

The work was hard, for the stores were, for the most part, heavy, and had to be stacked just so. Jeremiah knew exactly where everything must be kept, but Garnet found herself completely bemused by the system.

Foodstuffs such as flour and salt which would suffer from the damp went in the middle of the structure, covered with canvas, while onions and turnips were apparently to be suspended in nets. She would have discarded some onions with long green shoots, but Jeremiah pointed out patiently that these were meant to be set in the ground. “I have potatoes and cabbages already,” he said, indicating the green plants that grew in the ploughed strip of land.

A side of bacon was swathed in muslin and hung from the roof, and a crock of vinegar reserved for preserving the cabbage. Other crocks contained strong-smelling powder, and various other substances she did not recognise. Firearms were kept in a metal case, and an axe, a saw, and various other implements beside them. Some sugar-bags, sacking and canvas made her hope there might be cloth from which she could contrive a lighter gown, but apart from the muslin which was bought to preserve the bacon from the persistent flies, it seemed there was nothing that would do.

By the time the stores were put away, Garnet was very hungry, and turned with some distaste to the task of preparing a meal. She supposed the dried meat jerky should be soaked, but she had no idea of what to do with it next. Jeremiah came to her rescue, with a patient air which she found inexpressibly galling.

“Boil it with some bacon and onions in the large pan,” he said. “Can you make damper?” She shook her head contemptuously. “Then watch, and make sure you pay attention.” He mixed flour with a generous pinch of salt and added water to form a solid dough which he then placed on a flat stone in the fireplace. Hot coals and ashes went over it. “You can do it next time,” he said. “Is there hot water ready?”

“No,” she said.

“Then we must make do with cold, for today. There are no maids here, Garnet, no skivvies and no footmen. If you wish to wash in hot water you must heat and carry it for yourself. Now, come and wash. You look overheated, and that is unhealthy.”

Without watching to see if she followed, Jeremiah fetched a threadbare towel and a piece of lye soap and went to the creek, well down-stream from the clearing. The water was deeper here, and Jeremiah took off his hat and boots, then stripped off his shirt, vest, and tight duck trousers. Clad only in loose woolen drawers, he knelt on the bank and splashed his chest and arms with water before lathering his upper body. He winced as the harsh soap bit into his scratched cheek, and the renewed pain hardened his resolve against the woman he had bought.

He had considered breaking her in gently, but her rebellious face when he had told her to prepare the meal warned that she would take advantage of any softness in his attitude. He had seen her eyeing the firearms, and had made a mental note to continue his cautious practice of keeping the balls and powder well away from the guns themselves. She would probably not try to kill him, but she might have some foolish notion of trying to force him to take her back to Sydney. There was also the axe and knives to consider, but he doubted if she would try to make use of those.

The best thing would be to begin as he meant to go on, so he shrugged and took off the drawers. It was not done to be naked in polite society, not even with a spouse of many years’ standing, but this was his selection, his kingdom, and he made the rules to please himself. There was no one around but Garnet and possibly some of the natives, who ignored him mostly and who seemed to have no particular use for clothes.

He soaped his legs and lower body, then stepped down into the water to rinse. It was thigh-deep at this spot, so he crouched on the stony bottom. Decently submerged, he looked up to see Garnet staring at him with a very strange expression. She was still fully dressed, even to the ridiculous coal-scuttle bonnet.

“Is there another place to bathe?” she asked abruptly.

“This is the best. I have seen no leeches here.” He waited with some interest to see what she would do, but she simply stayed where she was, staring down at him. After a while, he began to get cold. He suppressed a shiver, then caught her eye as she deliberately folded her arms across her black-clad bosom. So the minx was hoping to out-face him! Well, he would call her bluff.

Sternly putting down embarrassment at the inevitable result of sitting in cold water, he rose to his feet and waded towards the bank. Whether by accident or by deliberate intent, she had planted one cloth-booted foot on his towel. He put out a hand to twitch it free, but she glanced down and stepped on it fully. Her face was crimson, whether with embarrassment, with heat or some other emotion he did not know. She had averted her gaze, a little, and he wondered just what she hoped to achieve.

“You are standing on my towel, Garnet,” he said with quiet amusement.

She did not answer, nor did she move, but her green eyes flickered in his direction then swerved away. She seemed to be trying to compose an expression of scorn.

“So,” he said, folding his arms in a deliberate copy of her own pose. “Exactly what is it about my person that you find so contemptible, and yet so fascinating? Is it the colour of my skin, perhaps? Some degree of swarthiness is common in those whose work takes them much outdoors. However, I am not a Gypsy tinker. As you may have observed, the skin that does not receive its share of sunlight is as white as any gentleman’s. For my own part I find nothing distasteful in the sight of skin, whether it is black, white or yellow. I suppose you find that shocking.”

She looked a little disconcerted.

“If it is not the weathering of my arms, you may be disgusted by my unshaven state,” he continued. “For that, you might blame yourself, in part. When you clawed my face you rendered shaving difficult for some days to come.”

She bit her lower lip.

“You might also object to the sight of my lower body, and scorn its shrunken appearance. A wench with no experience might not recognise the effect of cold water. A respectable married lady might know, but would not be so indelicate as to comment. Of course, there is also the chance that this is mere prurient curiosity. If so, I wonder why you did not see fit to indulge it with your first husband? Or perhaps you did? Perhaps your evident disgust and contempt rendered him unwilling or unable to consummate your marriage?”

He heard her gasp with outrage, but although her bosom heaved and her green eyes darted hate, she did not remove her boots from his towel.

“If curiosity is your motive, you will have plenty of time to indulge it at a time and a place of my choosing,” he said cuttingly. “For now, I prefer to dry myself in peace.” He took hold of the towel and tugged.

Later, he thought he must have overestimated her weight, or perhaps rage had lent him unusual strength, for the sudden movement of the towel did not make her step aside, which was what he had intended. Instead, it toppled her, and she staggered wildly before falling sideways into the creek. He had just enough presence of mind to catch her, but the sudden force of her landing unbalanced him as well and they fell backwards in the water.

Jeremiah was cool enough already, but the chill of the creek water soaking through Garnet’s heavy black garments must have been considerable. She gasped and screamed, but whether with shock or outrage he could not tell. His arms tightened on her automatically, and, even in the discomfort of his position, he was aware of the softness of her lower back beneath the rigid corset.

He regained his feet, and lifted her clear of the water, holding her against his chest. “This is an unexpected pleasure, my jewel,” he remarked, and, drawn by the impulse to punish her, he kissed her hard on the mouth.

A violent movement of her shoulder warned him, and he straightened abruptly and let her fall before she could slap his face. She sank in a whirl of bubbles, then fought her way to the surface. She was severely hampered by the heavy, clinging clothes, as well as by the air that was trapped beneath her skirts. She sank once more, and struggled up again, panting and gulping. She was in no great danger of drowning, but there was panic in her eyes as well as rage, so he gathered her up once more and climbed out onto the bank where he set her on her feet. He was breathing hard, and not only with cold and exertion. The kiss had disturbed him greatly, reminding him of last night’s interrupted consummation. Only a brute would have persisted in the face of her evident distress and shock, only a brute or a fool. Jeremiah felt himself to be neither, but nor was he a saint. He had been too long without a woman, and here was the result.

Her hand came up again, and he caught her wrist, holding it firmly. “Garnet, I will not allow you to slap my face,” he said. “If you try it again, be sure I shall slap you back.” He let her go and stepped away, then bent to pick up the towel and wind it rather hurriedly around his loins. “I trust your ducking has cooled your body? It certainly does not seem to have done much for your temper! Take those clothes off and let them dry or else you’ll sleep cold and wet tonight, and so, perforce, shall I.”

“I will not!” she said violently.

Hip mouth twitched. “At least take off the bonnet,” he begged. “It looks even more ridiculous now than it did before.” He turned his back and dried himself as well as he could, then resumed his clothes. Without looking at her again, he walked back to the cook-fire. The stew was not ready, but it smelt quite appetising. The damper, he judged, should have a while longer in the ashes. He set some water to heat for tea; enough for her as well. She had prepared the stew, though not with very good grace.

Perhaps a twig cracked under her foot, perhaps it was the ambiance of cold that emanated from her sodden clothes, but he was suddenly aware that Garnet was standing behind him.

A little warily, he glanced around. If he had been wrong about the axe...but she looked woebegone rather than murderous. Water streamed from her ugly wet gown in inky runnels, and she was shivering convulsively.

“Well?” he said politely. “Why have you not removed that gown?”

“I cannot get it off,” she muttered. “The hooks are caught in the cloth.”

Jeremiah bit the inside of his cheek to distract himself. It would be cruel to laugh at her now. “Turn about,” he said.

She glowered at him mutinously, but did as he said. Her wet red hair streamed down her back, and he had to put it aside before he could examine the fastening. She had the right of it, he discovered. The coarse bombazine had frayed and snarled and the hooks were snagged. Had she been wearing an overdress, which buttoned up the front, she might have cleared the obstruction herself, as it was, she would find it very difficult. He took out his knife and used the point to tease apart some of the tangles, then deftly unhooked the gown. It was such an ugly thing, but she claimed it was the only one she had.

The voluminous calico petticoats beneath were stained with black; as wet and unsightly as the gown. He untied them at the waist with difficulty, for the strings were shrunken with the wet.

“Can you manage now?” he inquired, and turned her about to face him.

Her cheeks were blotched with red, and she seemed to have trouble catching her breath. And no wonder, he thought impatiently. The whalebone corset was heavy with damp, the flannel covering looked as if it might have shrunk already.

Rather grimly, he turned her back again, and tested the lacings. As he had expected, they were clenched into knots as harsh and immovable as the sudden knot of desire in his belly. “Stand still,” he warned her, then used the knife to slice through the laces. The ruined garment fell off, and he saw her ribs expand with agonised relief. She was wearing a short-sleeved chemise, but she might as well have been naked. The clammy muslin was clinging to her body, molding hips and waist and buttocks and binding around her ankles.

“Take it off,” he said, and his voice sounded harshly in his ears. “Take it off, Garnet. This one is not so soiled; it will dry if you hang it over a branch.”

She made no move to do so, but stepped away from him. “If you were a gentleman,” she said fiercely, “you would offer me your coat.”

“So I would,” he agreed, “but we are agreed that I am not a gentleman. Besides, my coat, such as it is, would swamp you entirely. Have you truly no other garments?”

“No,” she said. “I have not. Edward - my husband - gave you the wrong valise. The one you brought away contains nothing but a very old driving coat.”

“It may be useful yet,” he said. “The weather is not always so kind.” He paused, frowning, unconsciously clenching his hands. “But why do you speak of Landis as your husband?” he shot at her abruptly.

“He is,” she said.

“To ‘husband’ means to care for and conserve, as well as to take in marriage,” he said. “Landis seems to have made a pretty mull of it with you.”

“And you would do better?”

“Yes,” he said shortly. “I would do better. I will do better. I have already been more of a man for you than he, although you were wed to him for close to a year. If ‘wed’ you can call it, when you were still unused.”

She whirled to face him, and he saw the chemise was clinging to her breasts as well. Her teeth were bared, and, with her red hair wet and streaks of black down her delicate shoulders, she looked suddenly like a primitive. “How dare you!” she cried. “How dare you remind me of that degrading thing you forced on me last night? You are nothing but a common beast.”

Her hand came up and he struck it down more roughly than he intended. She gave a sharp cry of pain, nursing her wrist with the other hand.

Infuriated by her continuing intransigence, Jeremiah seized her and turned her away while he roughly removed the chemise, then ripped away the sagging be-ribboned drawers. She screamed and fought him, but he had had enough. Leaving her naked and raging, folded into a white huddle, he went into the slab house and fetched a shirt of his own.

“Put this on,” he said harshly. “It will keep the sun off your skin, at least.” He tossed the shirt towards her, then turned on his heel and went to investigate the stew. He was famished, furious with himself and with her. For all his confident words, for all his buried longings, it seemed that he was no better able to husband Garnet Perry than Edward Landis had been.

Garnet could scarcely choke down her supper. Her life had become a nightmare, and although she sought desperately for a solution to her problems, she could not see any route for escape. It was her old predicament over again. As in London, as in Edward Landis’s house, so now in this remote and ironically named Gold’s Kingdom. She hated her situation, was dependent on one she detested, but she had nowhere else to go.

She had thought of running away when Martha had arranged her passage on the Clara. She had thought of going for a governess, but her innate intelligence had told her it would not have answered. To gain employment, governesses needed written recommendations and a modicum of artistic skill. They were also wont to be older and (she knew without vanity) plainer than she. No careful mama of growing sons, nor wife of a roving-eyed husband would have wanted Miss Garnet Perry to join her household. And besides - her own pride would have suffered if she had been forced to become one of the gray-clad mice who taught the children their letters. And so, lacking any real alternative, she had boarded the Clara for New South Wales.

Edward’s indifference and his mother’s unkindness had renewed her dilemma but scarcely altered it in practical terms. She had loathed her situation, but had seen no chance of anything better, even before her husband’s perfidy and his mama’s death had precipitated even worse calamity. And now she had come to this - stripped naked in this wild and lonely place.

She dragged the proffered blue cotton shirt around her throat, and rolled up the sleeves. It was an ungainly garment, and smelled disturbingly of its owner, but at least it covered her after a fashion. It covered her body and her scarred breast.

“Eat your supper,” said Jeremiah. He handed her a piece of damper, ash-dusted and gray on the outside, white and fragrant within. “Eat your supper, Garnet, and dry your hair by the fire.”

“And if I do not?” she asked, rebelliously.

“You will go hungry and damp to bed and may take a chill.”

She did as he said, outwardly obedient, inwardly raging. And then she scoured the tin plates and pannikins by the creek. Her chemise remained damp, so she kept on Jeremiah’s shirt. He showed her the primitive sanitary arrangements, then announced it was time to retire.

“We must be up early in the morning,” he said.

“What for?” she asked. “Where are we going?”

“We are going to work, Garnet,” said Jeremiah.

And so they did, but first there was the night to be faced.

Jeremiah produced a lantern and ushered her towards the slab house. “This is where we sleep,” he said coolly, “and before you start raging again, I am going to be plain. There is just one bed, large and tolerably comfortable. There are two blankets and a bolster which I propose to share with you. Two blankets are sufficient; at twenty shillings each they are not to be bought so lightly. If you show yourself to be sensible, we should rest well enough, but if you persist in foolishness, if you scream and rage, neither of us will get any sleep and we shall both suffer tomorrow. Get into bed. Over beside the wall, if you please.”

Garnet was worn out, so she did as she was told. The bed was curiously springy, and she discovered later that it was composed of dried boughs from a native shrub, covered with layers of soft, strange kangaroo skins that looked a little like rabbit but which were very much larger. The smell of the bedding was strong but healthful; it reminded her a little of wintergreen and mint. She settled herself warily, tugging the voluminous shirt down as far as it would go and clamping her legs together. Jeremiah pulled on his night-shirt, turned out the lantern and got into bed beside her. She shivered with apprehension, but it seemed she had nothing to fear tonight, for he simply rolled over on his side, facing away from her.

“Goodnight, Garnet,” he said.

There was some quality in his voice that disturbed her greatly, but, after all, she was used to sharing a bed with Edward. Jeremiah was a tidy sleeper, quiet and peaceful. He seemed disinclined to attack her tonight, so she presently relaxed and slept herself.

She woke in the grip of a nightmare. A heavy body was crushing her, a stiff rod probing at her private parts. She was suffocating for air, pinned down and terrified. Her eyes were distended with pain and fear, and then she saw a face that haunted her, a vindictive, witch-like face. There was the sound of a thud, a scream, and a glowing poker hovering over her, descending with nightmare slowness.

She cringed and tried to roll away from the terrible pain to come, but there were hands on her shoulders, holding her down. And then there was a sea of avid faces, a distorted version of her husband Edward’s face, his mouth agape and his eyes with sick excitement as he dragged her before the mob. “What am I bid for this woman?”

She gasped for breath, and tears spurted from beneath her eyelids - which was strange, because her eyes were surely open.

Then she did open her eyes. The faces were gone, and so was the suffocating panic, but the hands were real, clenched in the cloth that covered her shoulders, pulling it awry as they fought to hold her down.

And now, instead of the slurred tones of the harridan with the poker, instead of the barracking of the mob, and her husband’s shrill excitement, she became aware of Jeremiah’s deeper voice, exasperated, but somehow comforting.

“Garnet, wake up! Garnet!”

The bed was moving, rustling, and she realised he was shaking her, heaving her to and fro in an effort to bring her to wakefulness.

“Stop - that!” she gasped. “How - dare - you?”

He let her go. “Well,” he said, after a moment’s silence. “That sounds more like it.” He put out a questing hand, and Garnet pushed it away.

“You woke me,” she said resentfully.

“You were crying.”

Garnet scowled into the darkness, then raised an uncertain hand to her face. It was wet with tears.

“What was it?” asked Jeremiah. “You sounded as if you were fighting for your life. Has someone attacked you, harmed you?”

“Yes,” she said briefly. “You.” She swallowed a dry sob. She could not tell him the real nightmare. She could not tell of Edward’s sorry scheme for Harbord to get her with child. She could not speak of the terror of that glowing poker.

“It’s all right now,” said Jeremiah, and his hand touched her shoulder again, then drifted down to rest on the curve of her breast. “The best way to scare off demons is to exorcise them,” he said.

She stiffened, but he gathered her against him with the other hand and continued to caress her breast. It was not the one that was burned, but she cringed away.

“There is no need to be afraid,” he told her, and his voice sounded husky. “No need to be frightened of me, Garnet. This will not hurt you.”

“No,” she said. “No, please do not make me...”

Her protest died away as his mouth came down on hers.

It was her nightmare all over again, in a fashion, but this time there was no suffocation. His hands on her body were firm, but not bruising; they gentled her, smoothing her flesh, first outside the shirt then, somehow, beneath its protection. She clamped her mouth in the beginning, but then his fingers gently stroked her nipple and she gasped as fire shot through her body. His tongue touched hers, then withdrew, and he freed her mouth to kiss along her jawline instead, lingering over the bruise, then sliding down her throat beneath the soft, unbuttoned collar. He lifted the shirt-hem slowly, gradually, stroking her thighs and flanks and then her belly. His hands were firm but gentle, the work-roughened skin providing a maddening friction, even to the shiny stretched skin that marked her brand.

He kissed her again, and her hands came up in a desperate effort to push him away, to still the assault on her senses. Instead, she found them splayed on his back, molding the taut, tensed muscles beneath his night-shirt. They hardened beneath her fingertips, and he groaned, tearing his mouth from hers and burying his face against her throat. His own hands clenched on her hips, then slid down and under her lower back, lifting her buttocks clear of the bedding. His knee was parting hers, and she became rigid with sudden terror. It was going to happen again, the unbearable invasion of her private places. She cringed, but his mouth slid down in the dark once more, closing on the nipple he had caressed before.

Fire streaked through her again, a shooting star across the night of her mind, and she was aching and throbbing. She moaned, thrashing her head against the bolster, held in the steely silken net of acute desire. She hated him, she hated the cynical way he had used her, was about to use her now, but she could not break away.

His hands shifted, one touched her inner thigh then came to rest on the part that was throbbing so. She writhed, shocked and shamed, for no hand had ever touched her there before. She was shocked, yes, but her body had taken over and she could not help arching her back, pressing herself against that audacious caress. His fingers were stroking, slowly, but as she reared up the tempo changed. Faster and faster, and the friction was burning, and then she realised, with a further shock that his fingers had thrust inside her. There was no pain, just a mounting throb. Just as she thought she could bear it no more, he withdrew his hand, renewing his grip on her buttocks, then almost at once she felt a second invasion, a slow, inexorable filling of her void.

She would have cried out, but his mouth was on hers again, and now she was utterly lost to his rhythm as he thrust and thrust again. No pain, but a building of tension that seemed to drain all feeling from her limbs and center it on that one pulsing, throbbing seat of her need. And then it was over. His back arched, and he removed his hands to brace them on the bed, supporting his body as he reared up with a choking cry before subsiding wearily against her.

She writhed beneath him, frantic to assuage her own tension, and after a moment he rolled aside.

She cried out in protest, lifting her knees high and wide, reaching out for him.

“Ssh,” he murmured, and even in her extremity she heard the amusement in his voice. “Hush, it will be all right, I promise.” He took hold of her and rolled her over so her back was braced against him. One arm curled round her waist to hold her securely in his lap. She stiffened, aware of warm fleece and wetness against her bared buttocks, then his hand slipped over her hip and down between her thighs. Two fingers slid inside her, and his thumb was rubbing against her. She tried to heave away, but he held her firmly. “It will be all right,” he repeated. “I shall make it right for you. Just let me help you.”

The tempo of his stroking fingers increased, and she was swallowed up abruptly in a surge of sensation that brought a hoarse cry of astonishment and relief from her throat and left her reeling, panting, shuddering against him. “There,” he said, and his voice was indulgent, amused, “I told you all would be well, and all was very well, was it not?”

The shock-waves died away in ripples, and she was abruptly aware of their mingled sweat that damped her shirt, of the abrasion of his wiry hair against her buttocks, of the indignity, the terrible shame, of her position, and of the things she had allowed him - no, encouraged him! - to do.

A crimson tide of blood surged up, staining her face and upper body in the darkness. She made a convulsive movement to get away from him, scrambling to the far edge of the bed, but coming up short against the wall. He touched her shoulder, and she whirled and struck out at him, catching him a lucky blow on the cheek.

His indrawn breath of pain suggested that she had hit the part she had clawed before. She was fiercely glad of it, but his hands, so recently caressing, shot out and clamped on her shoulders. He shook her once, hard. “Garnet, I will not have you strike me! I warned you of that before.”

“You - you - ” she choked in fury, heaving for breath.

“I took you as a husband takes his wife,” he agreed. “And Garnet, let there be no mistake, you took me in as a wife should take her husband.”

She tried to pull away. “I did not!” she stormed. “You forced yourself on me and I hate you, and I will not have you touch me in that fashion again! You have no right!”

“I have told you,” he said heavily, “I will take you again, and often. It is my right. You were never truly a wife to Landis, but you are wife to me, and I shall take you as my wife.”

“Never! Never again!” she cried.

“Perhaps you would prefer it if I took you as a whore instead?”

“I might as well be a whore!” she blurted. “If that is what men do with such depraved creatures.”

“You are my wife, in every way that matters.”

“I am Edward’s wife. But wife, whore, what is the difference?”

“That, my jewel,” he said, and now the undercurrent of menace was very evident, “is something you may soon find out, to your sorrow. Now go to sleep. There is work to do in the morning.”

“I shall never sleep!” she flashed.

“I think you will. It is said that such fulfilling congress will send a lady to sleep in the fashion of laudanum - but without the attendant injury to her health.” He pressed her down against the bed. “Sleep now, or if you will not, at least let me.”

Garnet lay back, furious with him but deeply ashamed of herself. It came to her, as languor flowed through her body, that he had been right to liken the experience they had shared to the taking of laudanum. Not only was it making her very sleepy, but she had the unpleasant fear, in the back of her mind, that it might very well prove itself addictive.

In the morning she had little time to repine, for Jeremiah was up with the sun, rousing her with a touch to her shoulder. “Wake up, Garnet, and dress yourself. It is time to work.”

He left the house and she shivered, climbing out of the bed and looking ruefully at herself. The blue cotton shirt came down to her fingertips and covered her body from throat to knees. Almost decent, she thought, but it had not kept her decent in the night. No doubt the heavy dew of autumn would have rendered her own garments damp again, so she bit a fingertip, wondering what to do.

As she stood there, Jeremiah returned, carrying a bundle of cloth. “You should wear these for today, perhaps,” he said.

Garnet recoiled from the sight of woolen drawers, tight duck trousers and a shirt of heavy red serge. “I cannot!” she snapped.

“Then remain as you are,” he said indifferently. “I warn you, the sun, the insects and the thorny scrub will do you far more damage than the assumption of a man’s clothes. Or is it the fact that they are a working man’s clothing, rather than a gentleman’s, that dismays you?”

“I cannot wear clothing you have worn,” she said stubbornly. “It would be indecent.” Her skin cringed from the idea of donning garments which had touched his skin, which had outlined his muscular frame...

“Really, Garnet,” he drawled, “must you be so conventional? And after last night, when you welcomed me into your body so willingly, I should have thought the mere sharing of clothing would have seemed the merest trifle.”

“How dare you...”

He smiled dangerously. “Garnet, that phrase of yours in becoming quite passé. There is little I will not dare when it comes to taming you.” He leaned forward and touched her cheek lightly. “We might deal quite well together, you and I, if only you would cease this foolishness. I own you, remember. I bought and paid for you. I even married you, after a fashion.”

“You have shamed me,” she said. “You have degraded yourself and me by your actions. But I suppose you had no choice.”

For the first time, he looked disconcerted.

“You had no choice,” she repeated. “You had no other hope of getting a woman, for what woman, respectable or otherwise, would have wed you willingly? You have no breeding, no manners, no sense of what is fitting. No wonder you were driven to bidding at a public auction.”

She watched with mingled satisfaction and fear as his cheeks drained of colour and his eyes narrowed to a molten glitter. His hand came up and she thought that he would hit her, but instead he took hold of her jaw.

“You are quite right,” he said cuttingly. “I had no choice but to bid for you at public auction. As you say, what other woman would have come to me willingly? What other woman would have let me do this...” His hand tightened, forcing her mouth open, and he kissed her lingeringly. “Or this...” He ripped open the shirt and drew her nipple into his mouth, “...or this?” His hand slid down and a crooked forefinger invaded her body, making her gasp and writhe. His gaze fell on the scar across her breast and widened in astonishment. He let her go abruptly. “How came you by this?” He reached out to touch the place, but Garnet was dragging the shirt across her breast, gasping and sobbing.

“I hate you,” she stormed. “I hate you!”

“Better hate the man who marred your beauty!”

She clenched her teeth, her green eyes stabbing at him.

Jeremiah drew breath as if to speak, then shrugged instead. “Dress, or not, as you like,” he said, and left her standing there.

Jeremiah was shaking with rage as he left the house, shaking with rage and hurt and pity. He had not wanted to humiliate her continually, but she seemed to leave him no choice. Again and again she struck out at him, with blows, with insults and with accusations. He wished he had never bought her, had never given in to the whim of “marrying” her and bringing her to Gold’s Kingdom.

However, she was right about one thing, though very wrong in others. He had had no choice. Having once seen her offered for public sale, he could not have left her to suffer. She might have been bought by one man and shared with many others. She might have been violently subdued with blows and cruelty, might have suffered more pain than it seemed she had already. She might have been bought by a toff, then despised in society, or taken by a procuress for one of the many bawdy-houses that lined the alleyways. Scars such as hers might be thought to render her unsuitable, but there were many who found such blemishes exciting.

Of course - he could have bought her and let her go, but what would she have done? A bad-tempered innocent, what would she have done in the raw society of New South Wales? He had not let her go, but at least, he excused himself, he had fetched her away from public disdain, and he was vain enough to believe she was better off with him than she would have been with most other situations. Especially with the scar...it looked like a brand, but he knew she had never been a convict. Could Edward Landis have done such a thing to her?

Well, the burn made no difference to his desire for her. He was sorry for her pain, but she would learn to value him in time. She had cut at him with words, she affected to despise him, but he knew, with a sudden lightening of his spirits, that she was not indifferent to him. The night before she had taken fire in his arms, had begged him, without words, to take her. Bodily, at least, she had not been unwilling, for her body had welcomed his so generously that he had reached his own satisfaction too soon and had been forced to help her in alternative ways.

It had not been any hardship. He relived those few moments when she had trembled against him, when she had parted her thighs and strained towards his hands. Freed of his own urgency, he had been able to savor that surrender to the full. She had wanted him then, gentleman or not. The scarring, however she had come by it, had not destroyed her passions.

One battle had been won, but the war was far from over. He must see what the day would bring.

He bent to mend the fire, fetched the water and set it to boil. Bubbles were rising when he became aware of her presence. He flicked a glance behind him, resigned to the sight of damp and draggled bombazine, or even to Landis’s mothy driving coat. Something leapt inside him as he saw her dressed unconventionally but neatly in the clothes he had given her, her feminine curves straining the cut of the trousers, her agitated breaths heaving the front of his scarlet shirt. Her ringlets had been sadly draggled by the creek water, so she had braided her hair in a child-like style, and donned one of his own soft hats. He supposed her bonnet was ruined along with her coiffeur and gown. Her eyes were stormy, daring him to comment, so he nodded a greeting and dropped a pinch of tea-leaves in the water. He swung the billy-can and poured the resulting brew into the pannikins.

“Drink your tea,” he said mildly. “We shall breakfast later when the work is done.”

“What do you expect me to do?” she asked resentfully. “I know nothing of ploughing. You may find it strange, but I was not brought up to be a common labourer, nor a skivvy.” Her lip curled at the thought.

“No more was I,” he responded. “Yet there is nothing shaming in working hard. Your work will include the less skilled tasks, also the matters of domesticity. You will tend the fire, prepare and serve the meals, clean and air the bedding and our clothing, see to the hens and cow. You will take over the listing of our stores, and keep account; I trust you are able to write and figure?”

“Of course,” said Garnet. “Are you?”

She caught her breath at her own vulgarity, but he seemed in good spirits this morning, and simply shook his head. “I write and figure better than you might think,” he said dryly. “I was forcibly taught at an early age.” He frowned a little, as if at some disagreeable memory, then lifted his shoulders in a shrug and returned to the present. “I travel infrequently to Sydney, as you know, so it is necessary to keep account of all the goods we shall need. I shall have to make another trip presently; I had not planned on another mouth to feed so soon.”

She stored that thought for future consideration, but he was expecting an answer, so she did not disappoint him. “I see,” she said. “I had thought any woman would do. Even one with a scar.”

“No, Garnet. Any woman would not do. Until I saw your predicament I was fully satisfied to wait for an apposite opportunity before taking a wife. I may be over-nice in my choice, but I would never court a dose of the pox...”

“Smallpox?” she cried, alarmed.

“Perhaps, but I was referring to another, less socially acceptable ill. An ill which, for certain reasons, I do not fear taking from you. A scold you may be, but at least you are a cleanly scold. Innocent too, in your fashion.”

His meaning was obvious, and Garnet felt herself flushing.

“You will also assist me in the construction of the cellar,” he said, returning to the previous subject.

“You said there was a cellar.”

“So there is, of sorts, but I abandoned the idea of completing the task alone. If a timber had slipped, if there had been a cave-in of the soil above, I might have been trapped inside, and I doubt even Atlas at his most sagacious would have saved me.

“Now I have a companion, I may venture to enlarge it, but for today, you may try your hand at housewifery and clerking.” He gave her an ironic smile. “When you have done these, we may see what kind of groom, gardener and labourer you make.”

“I see,” said Garnet. She was resolved to be nothing of the kind, but there was no point in angering him now. She would save her defiance for when it was needed; when he made another lewd approach on her body. If the scar had not turned him off.

The memory of the events of the night flooded over her again, bringing a sudden rush of bile. Violently, she tossed aside the remains of her tea. She must have been mad, to let him touch her in such a fashion. To let him handle her, to moan and writhe in his arms. She must have been mad!

She took her mug and his, and scoured them in hot water, then left them to dry. She fetched out the bedding and shook it violently, finding it free of insects, grime and damp. He might be an overbearing bully, but at least he was a cleanly bully. Her ruined gown and petticoats she dunked in the creek, but so much dye ran out that the bombazine took on a rusty hue and the petticoats became a uniform gray. Abandoning her attempts at laundry, she spread them over a bush to dry as they would. Her hands and arms were chilled from contact with the water, so she returned to the fire and began to ready the breakfast, boiling a piece of bacon and dropping meal into a pot to make a kind of porridge. As hot now as she had been cold before, she moved away to the edge of the clearing, where she discovered a coop of clucking chickens and an extremely ill-favoured cow.

Milk! she thought, and felt a little better. Milk on gruel, in tea, milk puddings and buttermilk scones.

She waited impatiently for Jeremiah to return from whatever tasks he had undertaken. When he did so, she pointed emphatically at the cow. “I hope you do not truly expect me to milk the cow? I am not a dairy maid!”

“Neither am I,” he said mildly. “However, it is not so difficult, if the cow can be brought to like you. I shall give you a lesson presently - if the calf has left any milk.”

“The calf?”

“Naturally she has a calf,” he said. “Did you think I would be so cruel as to leave a cow un-milked for three days while I went to Sydney town?”

Garnet shrugged. She knew nothing of that.

“The milk continues to be produced,” went on Jeremiah. “If it is not drawn off, she would soon be in grave discomfort, and might become quite ill. That is not a problem for Milady here; if left unhindered, her calf takes all she can produce. See how fat he is?” He indicated a second animal which had wandered into sight and which now thrust his muzzle under the pendulous udder and began sucking loudly. “But now we are here, the lad may be confined at nights and we shall have our share of the milk. Give her some grain; she needs to be got to trust you.”

Garnet looked doubtfully at the cow, at the horned, parti-coloured head, the brindled body, the ungainly, swaying udder.

“The grain is in the store, in an iron churn,” said Jeremiah. “I keep it there so Milady does not help herself and get a colic. Fetch a pint or so and see how she reacts to you.”

Garnet did not want anything to do with the cow, but she put up her chin and went to the store as requested. She fetched a dipper of grain, and brought it back, reflecting that the indelicate garments she was forced to wear were surprisingly comfortable if she ignored a little tightness about the hip. And lord knew she was used to that. Her corsets seemed unwearable at present; she must somehow contrive new laces for them before she returned to Sydney. And return she would; he could not keep her here indefinitely, and when she did return she would seek out one of her ship-board friends and beg for asylum. Maria Hepplewhite would help her. She only wished she had not been too proud to seek her direction before. She presented the grain to the cow, Milady, wondering why such an ill-favoured creature should be so-called.

“It is very ugly,” she observed, watching distastefully as the cow snuffled up the grain.

Jeremiah gave her another ironic glance. “Worth need not be measured in the coin of beauty,” he said. “There are other attributes to be considered.”

“Then you would have bought me just as willingly if I had been ugly and if you had known I was disfigured,” she said.

He had been looking at the cow, now he raised his head in astonishment. “More readily, I trust,” he said simply.

“But why - why? I thought men paid only for beauty?”

“Because you would have faced worse than you did already, perhaps. Or maybe I am wrong. Maybe if you had not been beautiful, you would never have come to such a pass. Pulchritude seems to confer a brand of arrogance - a beautiful scold may hope to be forgiven, an ugly scold courts a ducking in the pond. Of course, you have had the ducking... Tell me, Garnet, have you found your beauty to be a blessing?”

On the verge of snapping back at him, she paused, scenting a trap. “I have not said I am beautiful,” she parried. “I am scarred and I think it will never fade away.”

“But you are beautiful, if one has a taste for red hair and green eyes. Not fashionable in the ballrooms of the mother country, perhaps, but certainly it holds the attraction of the unusual. To be sure, your appearance is sometimes distorted by pride, evil temper, and lack of grace, but the scar is nothing. It is less than nothing, so far as appearance goes. In general I would call you very beautiful. Is it a blessing?”

“No,” said Garnet. She thought of Martha’s desire to be rid of her, that her own daughter Prudence might shine. She thought of the harridan’s words and threats. “Had I been plain and lumpish,” she said, “I might have remained in England, and never been subjected to your company.”

Jeremiah raised his brows, but Garnet had no taste for confidences. Especially not with this man who had bought her and degraded her, and who surprised her constantly. If he had been an unlettered dolt, or a brute of Harbord’s stamp, she would have felt less imperiled.

“Whatever you say,” she said abruptly, “I think you would have turned aside if I had been ugly. Unless you had wanted a second frump to match the cow.”

Jeremiah touched her shoulder and looked down into her stormy eyes, his own oddly intense. “Do you wish I had? Garnet? Do you wish I had turned aside and left you to the wolves?”

“Better wolves than a boor, perhaps,” she said. She turned her back, but not before seeing that his gaze had hardened and his mouth had set in a rigid line.

The day was filled with work, hard, unfamiliar, largely silent, and exhausting. By nightfall Garnet was ready to drop but Jeremiah, who had worked considerably harder, seemed unaffected. After she had banked up the fire, Garnet went into the house and dressed herself quickly in the shirt she had worn before. She was quaking, wishing she had not insulted him that morning. At that time, the night had seemed comfortingly far ahead... She put on her drawers, which had dried, but they felt uncomfortable so she took them off again. What was the use? If Jeremiah were so inclined, he would rip them away from her and then they might be torn. They were the only pair she had...she must inspect that valise. It was just possible that there was some small garment in it besides the heavy driving coat. Even a handkerchief or a fresh chemise would be welcome. She could not continue wearing Jeremiah’s clothes.

For the moment, she had little choice, so she re-braided her hair and climbed into the bed. Jeremiah came in, but she said nothing, hoping he would think her asleep. The bed creaked alarmingly, but to her relief he seemed at pains to settle himself quietly. She nearly bit her tongue with shock when he put a large warm hand on her hip. He bent over her, and she held her breath with dread, but he simply kissed her on the cheek and lay down again.

“Goodnight, Garnet,” he said, and she thought she detected a breath of laughter in his voice. She had dreaded another assault, and had been quite resolved to fight for her virtue, but now, perversely, she felt slighted and annoyed. She let out her breath in an exasperated sigh, then gasped as his arm snaked around her waist. He pulled her firmly against him, as he had done the night before, but this time his hand lay quiescent on her shirt-covered belly and, so long as she remained still, he made no move to take any further liberties.

Garnet lay quietly for a time, then it seemed that she must move, or scream with suspense. She moved.

“Much better,” he said approvingly. “I had wondered if I were holding a statue or a victim of Medusa.”

“I do not know what you mean.”

“Medusa was a Greek monster which had snakes for hair. Her gaze could turn a strong man to stone, and then a hero named Perseus trapped her in a looking-glass made from his shield. A pretty legend, is it not? The hero cut off the monster’s head and carried it off as a trophy.”

Garnet shuddered.

“As well he did,” mused Jeremiah, “for he came upon a beautiful lady held in chains. Her beauty was to be defiled by a sea-monster, but the hero Perseus turned the monster to stone by displaying Medusa’s severed head. Naturally, the maiden had the wit to look aside.”

Garnet grimaced with distaste. “What savages,” she said.

“To bind a lady for the appetites of a monster?”

His voice held nothing but polite inquiry, but she felt her cheeks grow red. “Why are you holding me like this?” she asked pettishly.

“You are my wife.”

“I am not your wife. I am Edward’s wife...”

“And he never held you. You cannot pretend you bear him any affection, or even respect.”

“You cannot pretend you bear me any affection...”

“I pretend nothing,” said Jeremiah, “but I would not have you feeling neglected.”

Garnet gasped with outrage, but he simply patted her hip, drew her more firmly against him, and relaxed into sleep.

The next few days proceeded much as the last had done, but Garnet became more proficient at the tasks she had to do. She was no longer quite so exhausted when night fell, and now she found time to look about, and to wonder what might lie behind the hill to the west of the selection. One day she might climb it - but not until the weather settled. One day, she might do a lot of things, but first, she must work out her servitude.

After she had lived at Gold’s Kingdom for three weeks, she found some simple sewing necessities in the store and began to remodel her wardrobe. The petticoats she took apart and laid out breadth by breadth, then used some of the cloth to contrive a bodice and sleeves. The resulting garment was a long way from the first stare of fashion, but at least it was reasonably decent when a skirt of bombazine was added. The bonnet she damped and reshaped, carefully molded over a round knob of wood. Even the corset proved salvageable, although it seemed much too tight when she tried it on.

She made sure to attend these tasks while Jeremiah was away ploughing with the stalwart horse Atlas; a frustrating job, since the ground was covered with stumps and roots, even when the timber had been cut. Atlas dragged some of them away, but many proved immovable.

“I shall need to blast those with gunpowder,” said Jeremiah one evening as they ate their meal. Today this comprised fresh kangaroo meat, dark, gamy and tough, which Jeremiah had acquired the day before. Garnet had trouble chewing it, but Jeremiah seemed impervious, and ate with obvious enjoyment. “It is better hung for a few days,” he commented, putting aside his trencher. “It can also be stewed with bacon.”

“I beg your pardon,” said Garnet stiffly. She always contrived to be polite as evening came, for the ever-present specter of bed-time loomed. She had not been able to hold to her boast that she would not allow him to take her again. She had tried to fight him at first, but he was very much the stronger, and, mindful of his threat to use her as a whore, she had not tried to claw his face.

She could not prevent him from taking her, but she could at least deprive him of giving her pleasure. She developed the habit of biting down hard on the inside of her cheek and digging her fingernails into her palms whenever he touched her body. The moistness, the fiery sensations, would come, but by inflicting pain on herself she was able to keep from writhing. She could clamp her knees until he forced them apart, she could gaze wide-eyed into the darkness, summoning the image of old Mrs. Landis and the poker, of Harbord and of her ineffectual husband when Jeremiah entered her. She could keep her arms at her sides, and clench her teeth to prevent his kissing her. To keep back the moans and pleas which seemed a natural accompaniment to each act of degradation.

After he had spent himself, and rolled away, she would allow her taut muscles to unlock, would wipe the tears from her eyelashes and sink into an exhausted sleep that brought her no refreshment.

She found herself aching during the day, throbbing with the shameful wants and desires that he seemed to have awakened in her. She would wait until he was out about the selection, then strip off her clothing and plunge into the cold water of the creek, scrubbing fiercely to remove the signs of his attentions and the evidence of her own desire. By evening she would be about her business at the cook-fire, keeping her eyes downcast and her face averted, speaking with a cool civility that hid her raging urge to get away from him, to get far, far away where he would never find her.

Chapter 5.

Jeremiah was locked in a battle of his own. He was troubled by his woman’s wan appearance, but he had laid his hand to the plough and could not draw back. “Why do you fight me, Garnet?” he snapped one night when he had taken her unresponsive body.

There was a pause, and, suddenly suspicious, he leaned over and turned up the lamp. She lay on her back, but as the light swam up she flounced over to face the wall.

“Garnet?” he said. “Look at me.”

Slowly, she turned to face him. He was shocked to see her bitten, trembling lips, and stripped back the coverings abruptly. “Show me your hands.” She made no move to comply, so he took her fists in his and forcibly uncurled the fingers. Along the palms were deep grooves, some purple, some freshly bloodied. He drew in his breath, then saw the defiance in her green eyes and lashed out in anger to assuage his guilt.

“So,” he said coldly, “you are determined to keep on fighting yourself as well as me. That much is evident from the state of you. What I cannot understand is why you would do such a thing? Why can you not allow yourself to enjoy my attentions?”

She glowered at him. “I cannot prevent your disgusting attentions, as you call them, but at least I need not degrade myself by pretending to enjoy them.”

“Pretending!” he exclaimed. “There was no pretense that first night!”

“No indeed,” she said emphatically. “As I recall I marked you fairly. You were bloodied then.”

“That was a pardonable error,” he said, breathing hard. “How could I know you were untouched? A wife of some months? You wrong me, Garnet, in blaming me for any shock and pain you suffered then. The next night, though, the night we came here. You enjoyed it then. Damn it, I could not be mistaken. You moaned in my arms. Your sweet body opened like a flower to mine.”

Her eyes flashed. “Pretty words for a man who forces himself on an unwilling woman.”

“You were not unwilling then. You wanted me as much as I wanted you, I swear. Yet you fight me now.”

“I have never struck you since you threatened me.”

“You fight me with cold silence, and I think you also fight yourself.”

There was silence. “Believe what you like,” she said at last, indifferently. “Believe what you like, Jeremiah, but let me go to sleep. If I am to skivvy for you all day, at least give me time to rest.”

She flung over on her side again, but he was fully roused to anger now. This ridiculous defiance of hers had gone far enough. “Turn over,” he said harshly and, when she did not move, he grasped her shoulders and rolled her onto her back. “Take off that shirt.” He sat up and removed his own night-shirt with a single furious tug. She gasped and closed her eyes to shut out the sight of him.

“Open your eyes, Garnet. You looked your fill that day by the creek. It will do you no harm to look again. Take off that shirt, or by God I’ll take it from you and you’ll not have it back.”

Her lips thinned and she sat up and removed it, folding her arms across her breasts. “There,” she said coldly. “Now I have obeyed, and I wish to sleep.”

“Lie down,” he said, and pushed her down, grasping her wrists and pulling them wide while he looked down at her rosy breasts. The scar, a shiny stretch of skin, lay branded across the top of one, and he bent his head to kiss it gently. “You are going to stop fighting me,” he said. “You are going to stop fighting yourself. Open your eyes, Garnet, and look at me. See what the sight of you is doing to me.”

Still holding her wrists, he rose to his knees, displaying his fully roused body. She drew in a long, shaking gasp, and her eyes widened then flicked aside. “Why so shocked?” he asked wryly. “You have seen it before, you have felt it almost nightly, although never with your hands. Have you never been curious to touch?”

She seemed mesmerised by the sight, and he smiled grimly and let himself down to lie beside her, pulling her into his arms. For the first time he felt her bared body wholly against his own, without the intervention of night-clothes, and wondered dizzily why he had never ventured before. The touch of her was intoxicating.

“You cannot!” she gasped. “You have just done it!”

“And we shall do it again,” he said. “And this time, you will not bite your lip, nor will you clench your hands. You will touch me as I touch you.” He was on fire with resolve, but at the back of his mind was the tremor of fear, for what if she refused? He could never beat her, he could never starve her, he could never harm her at all. But she did not refuse. With a frantic little sob she did as he said, and for the first time in over a month, he was able to kiss her mouth without fear of being bitten.

“Kiss me back, Garnet,” he breathed, his head spinning. She complied, unpractised, but apparently resigned. He wanted more than resignation, so he feathered gentle kisses along her jaw and down to her breasts. Free of the restrictions of flannel and linen, he stroked her here and there, then he took her hands in his and brought them into contact with his body. At first her fingers were stiff and unresponsive, but at last she curled them slightly. He caught his breath, wanting her more than he had ever wanted a woman. He caressed her urgently, holding off, kissing her ribs and belly, resting his cheek against the softness there, waiting for her to give some signal that she was ready. At last he realised her legs were parting, tangling with his, and he drew her closer, taking her gently, holding back until he felt the unmistakable shuddering of her release; the first, he thought exultantly, since their first night at the selection. He allowed himself to spill, glorying in the touch of her hands on his back, clinging to his shoulders, then relaxed against her, kissing her neck and the side of her averted face.

“There!” he said with triumph, and eased himself away. “How much better our congress can be if you do not fight!”

She said nothing, and he felt her shudder slightly.

“Garnet?” The light was still warm in the cabin, and he half sat up and turned her face to his. To his dismay there were standing tears in her eyes, and her lips were trembling. “Oh, Garnet!” he said hopelessly. “Why can you not be content with what we have?”

“You have done as you wished,” she said, and her voice was stony and belied the stricken look in her eyes. “You have used me as a whore. You have had me twice and made me pleasure you. Now please, have the goodness to let me sleep.”

Jeremiah felt his own face drain of colour. Without another word, he handed her the shirt he had taken and pulled on his own. Then he put his driving coat on top, pulled on his boots and left the house.

The stores from Sydney usually lasted Jeremiah for close on three months, but with Garnet’s needs to be filled as well, he realised he would have to make an earlier journey to town. She had kept account of the supplies, and he could not fault her figuring, but still he wished he could have held out a little longer. He did not want to take Garnet with him, fearing a trip to town would unsettle her more. Nor did he wish to leave her alone. Several times he was on the verge of asking her to give parole, but each time he backed away from the request. For one thing, it would be useless, and for another, he hated to think she felt herself a prisoner. It occurred to him now and then that he should take Garnet back to Sydney for good, since she hated and despised him so, but he knew she had no kin in the colony. What would she do and where could she go? If word had got out that Landis had sold his wife, her position would be untenable. She would have to live retired and disgraced.

They had not been idle, during the past several weeks. The house now had three rooms, and the cellar was partly-dug. Several kangaroo skins had been dried and cured, and were ready for trading in Sydney. Winter was upon them, and if they did not go soon, spring rain might render the roads, such as they were, impassable. Yet still Jeremiah put it off. He felt, with a superstitious dread quite foreign to his usual nature, that trouble awaited them in Sydney town.

At last, matters drew to a head. They were in urgent need of stores and the young bull, Milady’s son, was old enough to wean. Milady was nearly dry by now, and Jeremiah meant to exchange the calf for the young heifer belonging to Father Timothy. He was small enough still to be carried on the spring wagon, but would not be so much longer. Even now he would be difficult without a second pair of hands. For this reason, Jeremiah decided to take Garnet with him when he left the selection. It was a risk to leave the place unattended, but the risk of leaving a woman alone seemed greater still. She might walk away, or fall foul of bushrangers or a native bent on revenge for some killing of a fellow tribesman. Despite such efforts as the pictorial proclamation boards Governor Arthur had instituted in Van Diemen’s Land, trouble between the natives and the settlers continued spasmodically, with several attacks being made in Western Australia and New South Wales during the past two years. Jeremiah himself got along well enough with the blacks, on the odd occasions when he encountered them, but there was no knowing when some other settler might destroy the fragile harmony.

Having made up his mind, he informed Garnet of his decision. At first, she thought he was offering her a chance to make her own way, a notion she greeted with a leap of thankfulness. She would go to Mrs. Hepplewhite or, failing her, to Georgianna, Mercy or Eliza. To be sure, she had had contact with none of them since her arrival in the colony almost a year before, but she remembered them well, and was sure they would welcome her. She must be able to find the direction of at least one of them...she wished heartily that she had turned to them before, when she was offered for sale, or even earlier, when Edward Landis had failed to meet her at the docks.

On the heels of these thoughts came the feeling of chagrin that she must approach her formerly envious friends as a pauper and supplicant, with nothing but the clothes on her back. And such clothes! The reconstructed garments were in poor repair, and she dreaded the idea of traveling in Jeremiah’s.

“Well, Garnet?” His voice was impatient, his gray eyes fixed on her with a stony regard. He had not touched her since the bitter encounter over a week before, and his humour seemed always dour. “Will you come, or not?”

“You may be sure I will,” she said with equal cool. “I was but wondering what clothes I should wear.”

“You must make the best of your gown,” he said indifferently. “I hope to trade the skins and the calf and if there is money over, we might get stuff for a new gown. It will not be very fine, but it will cover you decently, at least. Some dark stuff that will not be much harmed by work and wood-smoke...have you a fancy for green or brown?”

“Yes,” she said. “Some dark stuff fit for your unpaid skivvy.”

“You will have time to make it up on our return,” he said. “You must have some skill with your needle.”

Garnet felt a sickening sense of disappointment. So he really meant to bring her back... She opened her mouth to plead with him, to beg him to take her to her friends instead, but she knew what the answer would be. And if she pleaded, if she begged, she would be giving him back the upper hand. She would be giving him some clue in her plans...

“Yes?” said Jeremiah. He was looking at her still, his eyes widening in a fashion she had not seen for some time. A fashion she never wanted to see again.

“No - ” she said in protest as he put out his hand. “No...not again...”

“Garnet.” He touched her cheek, then cupped a hand around her shoulder. Mesmerised, she could not look away, could not restrain the great shiver of reaction that ran through her as his hand slipped down to touch her breast. “Please, Garnet,” he said, and drew her close to him. “Please...do not turn from me.”

She was shocked, because it was daylight, because they were outside the house, because she had never expected an approach like this. His mouth touched hers, and she shivered again, a long, strong shuddering that seemed to come from her very core. She thought she might fall, but instead she found herself close in his arms, lying back while he kissed her with what seemed like desperation. It frightened her, and she turned her face violently aside, stumbling when he let her go abruptly. She touched her mouth, her pulses leaping. She knew she had to get away.

“Wh - ” Her throat was dry, her heart hammering, and she had to moisten her lips before she could continue. “When do we leave?”

“Tomorrow,” he said flatly. “Ready yourself. We leave at dawn.” He turned on his heel and went to work; nor did she see him again for some hours. Even then he simply ate the meal she had prepared, told her harshly to stack the hides in the wagon, and went off again.

Garnet lay awake long into the night, but Jeremiah did not come into the house. She supposed he must have slept in the store room, and told herself she did not care at all. In fact - his absence made her plan much easier to carry out. Before dawn she rose, and dressed quickly in the duck trousers and red shirt. Over the top of these, with some little difficulty, she tied the petticoats and bombazine skirt. The calico bodice scarcely hid the shirt, but she rolled up the sleeves and crossed her shawl over her breast in peasant-woman fashion, pulling it closely about her throat. Fortunately, the morning was cold, so she had an excuse for her huddled appearance.

She considered the black valise Edward had mistakenly given to Jeremiah, but there seemed little use in taking a driving coat that would be much too big for her. She remembered the reek of camphor with distaste. Besides, she could not recall where Jeremiah had put it. In the store room, perhaps, or down in the half-made cellar. She had no money, but the ring she wore could surely be pawned or sold if need-be. It was unusual enough, but, unlike a fob watch it could have no name engraved to establish the owner. Nothing but the serpent’s head with the tiny sapphire eye and the clover-leaf seal.

Having made her preparations, she hurried out to boil the billy, using the last of the hoarded tea leaves and the cold end of the damper she had made the day before.

In the chill before the sun came up, the smell of the surrounding bush came strongly, the faint peppery smell of the wattle tree up the hill, the damp ferns of the creek, the constant background of eucalyptus leaves, and the tang of honey from some source she had never identified...the sun was gilding the eastern hills, and she poured tea into pannikins. What she would give for a cup of English chocolate in a proper porcelain cup...English chocolate and thin bread and butter, served by her maid in the morning...

She was bending awkwardly to bank up the fire when Jeremiah came up. She thought he looked at her oddly, but said nothing until she handed him his steaming mug.

“Are you ready, then?”

She almost shrugged, but recalled the red shirt beneath the shawl. “Ready enough,” she said coolly, although her heart was thumping hard.

Jeremiah drank his tea and tossed the dregs across the fire, which hissed. “Dowse it well,” he said curtly. “A blaze could set us back a year or more, besides destroying the timber.”

Garnet put out the fire, then helped him lift the young bull into the wagon. The beast’s legs were loosely hobbled, and the cow was shut in the enclosure with Atlas.

“Right,” said Jeremiah. He helped Garnet into the wagon, then climbed up himself and shook the reins. “Get up, King Cole.” The black horse leaned into his harness, the calf gave a startled thrash and the cow bellowed loudly. All this so preoccupied Garnet that they were well along the faint track before she fully realised she had seen the last of the clearing and rough dwelling that had been her home for close to two months. She had only the journey to weather now, only the journey and the chance to slip away. If all else failed, she could plead for a rest stop, but she must wait until she was close to the town. He would find her very soon if she tried to run through the trees and scrub.

So preoccupied was she with thoughts of escape, that she hardly noticed Jeremiah’s silence. The only times he spoke to her were to ask her assistance when it came time to halter the calf, undo the hobbles, and let him walk behind the wagon for a little to stretch his legs. So mindful of the comfort of beasts, so neglectful of her own, she thought savagely. It would have been helpful to know where he planned to put up for the night, and where he planned to sell the calf, but she thought it would look particular if she asked.

After a time, the calf tired, and was lifted back into the wagon; they paused to rest the horse, to drink from a creek and to eat cold damper and jerky. And then they had left the vague track, and were on the road, such as it was, that led to Sydney.

Garnet nibbled her lip with growing apprehension. As the afternoon progressed, it seemed less and less likely that her plan would work. Jeremiah was ever mindful of his possessions, and it was plain that he regarded her as one of their number. Her depression deepened, but suddenly, Jeremiah was drawing rein outside a slab hut that was definitely familiar. Garnet bit her lip again. If Jeremiah planned to call upon Father Timothy for any length of time, they would be forced to spend the night in Sydney town before going to the markets in the morning...she had hoped to get away before another night could threaten her fortitude.

“Shall we be here long?” she asked, trying to sound casual.

Jeremiah flicked her an unsmiling glance. “Why do you ask?”

“I am looking forward to a sight of Sydney, and of folk other than you.”

He folded his arms. “I fear you will not be seeing Sydney this time, Garnet.”

“But - ”

“You will be staying safe with Father Timothy.”

Her lips parted indignantly. “But my gown! You said we might shop for stuff for a gown!”

“So I shall. But I prefer to do my marketing without distractions.”

Garnet swallowed, hard. He was afraid she would run, then. She forced herself to smile at him and put a coaxing hand on his arm. “Please, Jeremiah? Please take me to town?”

He looked at her dispassionately. “Not so very long ago I said please to you,” he reminded her. “You pushed me away, as I recall. Come along.” Taking her arm, he helped her down from the wagon, and tapped on the door of the hut. It opened in short order, and Father Timothy stood there, his rubicund face beaming in welcome.

“Well, Jeremiah! And Mrs. Gold...ma’am! How do ye fare?”

“We are well,” said Jeremiah.

“Come in - come in and take tea with me! I’ve thought of ye often - aye, and prayed for ye as well!”

“I have business in Sydney,” said Jeremiah, “but if Garnet might remain here with you I would be most grateful. She is a trifle fatigued, as you see.”

“Surely, surely,” beamed the priest. “It is not often I have such a charming visitor other than Sister Joseph.” He smiled at Garnet. “My sister in Christ, me dearie, not here at the present. But sit ye down, and tell me how ye go on with this blessed boy o’ mine.”

“Yes, sit down, Garnet,” said Jeremiah with a smile that did not reach his eyes. “Come, Father Tim - we have brought you a gift for your menagerie.”

He put his arm around the cleric’s shoulder and urged him outside. Garnet watched with dismay as the two men man-handled the bull calf out of the wagon. She had thought Jeremiah intended to take it to market. What could an elderly, drunken cleric want with a bull? The obvious friendship between the two was baffling.

Disconcerted, she waited for whatever was coming next. When Jeremiah came in, she would demand that he take her on to Sydney town...but it seemed that Jeremiah was not coming in. He was clasping the older man’s hand, and mounting the wagon again. He was touching black King Cole with the whip, and the wagon was lurching off towards the town. A peculiarly hollow sensation seemed to strike at Garnet’s heart, a sinking feeling. He had gone. Jeremiah Gold had driven out of her life without so much as a glance or a word...for a moment the scene swam before her, and she lifted her hand to her throat. Then her vision steadied. He had gone, and now all she had to do was evade Father Timothy; surely not too taxing a task since the old man seemed often fuddled and inclined to enjoy his brandy.

She sat demurely where she was for a few minutes more, watching as Father Timothy chivvied the bull calf into the small yard. He tossed it an armful of what appeared to be meadow hay, and the calf began to eat. Father Timothy beamed, brushed a few stray wisps of straw from his cassock, and ambled back to the hut.

“Now, how do ye take your tea, me dearie? We had little time to become acquainted on your last visit. The blessed boy was all afire to be wed - and no wonder.”

Garnet smiled back, acknowledging the rather clumsy compliment. “After so many weeks out in the bush I hardly know how to answer you, sir,” she said. “You are the first person I have seen since...since I do not know when.”

“It is a lonely life, a selector’s,” agreed Father Timothy. “It would not suit me...I wrestle my demons well enough, but I could not face those of loneliness.” He brightened visibly. “But now Jeremiah has your company, he need not suffer them either.”

He made the tea, lifting a blackened kettle with care. He added milk to Garnet’s, and a tot of brandy to his own. “Something to keep out the cold,” he said, with a slightly guilty smile. “There are many who disapprove, but after all, the Bible upholds the right of every man to sit under his own vine and enjoy the fruits of the earth...”

Garnet nodded, her bright smile concealing her turmoil. Could she contrive to get Father Timothy drunk? He had certainly seemed a little worse for drink on the occasion of her “wedding.” Today he seemed wholly sober, and even if she could distract him and add more brandy to his cup, there would be no knowing how much he would be affected. Better to be patient.

Smiling determinedly, she drank more tea, answering questions, and hearing a little of the news of the colony in return. Most of it was inconsequential enough, but one matter seemed to grieve the old man considerably.

“The poor soul died with much grace, or so I hear,” he was saying. “A manly end, and he had made his peace with God, but still, how much better had it never come to that!”

“I beg your pardon?” said Garnet.

“Ye would not have heard,” said Father Timothy. “Now what was the poor soul’s name - yes, it was Brennan, me dearie. The soldier who was executed at Dawes Battery.” He shook his head. “It is said he discharged his piece at his sergeant. Such actions cannot go unpunished, but there is so much death...so much death in such a young colony, and for what? For want of discipline, for want of understanding of mankind’s little weaknesses.” He mused for a little. “Not all felons go to their maker with such dispatch. The miscreant who murdered that poor wretch in May has lately escaped his captors.”

“In May?” Garnet murmured. “I had not heard.”

“It is not a tale for ladies, but it is said the felon returned to the scene of his deed and was apprehended there in the alleyway...but we must speak of lighter things. Have ye no glad news for an old man, perhaps?”

Garnet blinked, then reddened as the import of the question dawned on her. He saw her blush, and read more into it than she could have intended, seeming much pleased. Garnet let the talk flow over her, as a new plan began to emerge in her mind. She lifted her hand to her brow, and closed her eyes for a moment. “Sir...”

“Ye must be calling me Father Tim, me dearie,” he interrupted. “But that is of no importance now. Are ye feeling a little faint, perhaps?”

“I am fatigued,” admitted Garnet.

“Of course, of course. So the blessed boy has informed me. Perhaps ye should rest a little in the quiet?”

“That would be pleasant,” she agreed.

“Come then! I have a small guest house behind this hut - Sister Joseph spends time here in the warmer weather. She would be happy, I know, if ye’d care to rest there. It is not elegant, but I trust it will suffice...”

“Thank you, Father Tim, you are very kind,” said Garnet sincerely. She allowed herself to be led to the chamber which was indeed austere. Rather like an anchorite’s cell, she mused. She took off her bonnet and sat down on the hard couch, nodding and smiling until Father Timothy had taken himself away. The little room was rather dark, but that was all to the better... Garnet removed the bolster and placed it in the middle of the couch, pulling up the quilt. The bonnet she placed on a small table.

She waited a while, then hastily, her fingers fumbling with tension, removed her shawl, gown and petticoats. From among their voluminous folds, she retrieved one of Jeremiah’s older hats, a peaked affair such as was worn by working men and boy-children about the colony. She rolled up her hair and secured it in a net, then perched the hat on top. She tugged the red shirt straight, frowned down at her light cloth boots. They were worn in tatters by now, so she shrugged and took them off. Barefoot Currency Lads were not so uncommon in the colony, and she was now, to all purposes, a Currency Lad. She wrenched off her wedding ring and pocketed it, then bundled up her women’s garments and crept out of the hut. She wished she could leave them behind, but if Jeremiah asked after her movements, he must be asking for a lady in a rusty black skirt, a tattered light bodice and shawl...

Her red hair was a curse, and threatened to tumble onto her shoulders. She would have cut it if she could, but she had no shears, and did not wish to risk the time in searching for any. She peered out to be sure the way was clear, then slipped away from the little hut, plunging into the trees beyond. She rubbed a handful of soil into her cheeks to conceal her feminine smoothness, and then she ran, staying parallel with the road, just out of its sight, heading for Sydney.

It seemed a long way to walk barefoot, and darkness was coming. The way was harsh underfoot, but she dreaded meeting Jeremiah or even being overtaken by a pursuing Father Timothy if she took to the road. At one point, she paused and thrust her bundle of clothing under a log. She regretted the shawl, but such a garment must look out of place on a lad. She wished she had thought to bring a piece of sacking. As she straightened, a rumble of wheels heralded a heavy dray, carrying hides and timber, and drawn by a team of plodding bullocks. Garnet bit her lip, then decided to take a chance. An old man sat among the hides, so she stepped up into the road and began to saunter along, limping a little as if footsore.

As she hadood deal.”

She put the ring on the counter, and the lounging gentleman’s eyes narrowed at the solid sound. “I suggest you look at the gewgaw, my good man,” he drawled. “And you, my lad - I suggest you tell us where you came by it.”

“It is my own,” muttered Garnet.

“It bears a crest,” said the gentleman, picking it up to see. His voice sharpened. “A clover leaf...How do you come to have this? Did you steal it?”

“It is mine - my - someone gave it to me.”

“A likely tale.”

“It is mine.” In her growing exasperation, Garnet allowed her voice to rise to its normal register.

The pawnbroker held up his hands and retreated, distancing himself from the affair. The redcoats sniggered, and the gentleman raised his brows, laying down the ring. “And your name, my girl?”

“I am...” Garnet stopped short, flushing furiously. “I do not know what you mean,” she muttered.

One of the redcoats reached out with his bayonet and flicked off her cap, revealing her bundled hair. “A thieving servant wench,” he opined. “Who’s your master, girl?”

“It is my own ring,” said Garnet stubbornly. She thrust forward her bare left hand. “You see? Here is the mark it has made on my finger.”

The gentleman frowned, examining her hands, the lack of old calluses, the small scratches and cuts attendant upon bush life and hard work. “What is your name, girl?”

Garnet scooped up the ring. “My good man,” she said angrily, “I have come to this place to do business. Since you are not willing to oblige a lady, I have not choice but to take my custom elsewhere!”

“Not so fast, miss,” said the gentleman, and he did not look relaxed anymore. “You may well be a lady born, but you cannot expect us to believe your business is respectable. Your dress, your manner...the fact that you are trying to pawn a valuable ring. What is it - the duns? Unlucky at cards? Or have you run from your husband?” He put a fatherly hand on her arm, and now she was really afraid.

“It is my own ring!” she persisted.

“You have a bill of sale?”

“It is my own ring. I did not buy it. It was given to me.”

“And your husband may not be very pleased if you roam the streets and return without it!” The hand on her arm tightened. “Tell us his name and direction, and then we can send for him to come and fetch you home.”

Garnet drew herself up. “Let me go, sir! You have no right to handle me so!”

The gentleman sighed. “Your husband’s name?”

“That is of no consequence. Your business - such as it is - is with me.”

“We could find it out, by the crest and a clear description.”

“Your business is with me,” she repeated wildly.

“Then I have no choice but to arrest you as a common thief...” The gentleman nodded ironically to the pawnbroker. “So much for your boast that only honest folk frequent your doors! The suggested change in the law cannot come too soon!”

The pawnbroker began to bluster. “I tell you, I know nothing of this woman! I have never seen her before, and I would not have accepted that ring without a bill of sale.”

Garnet dragged her arm away from the gentleman’s grasp and doubled back through the door. One of the redcoats thrust out a lazy boot and tripped her. She fell sprawling in the dust, and the ring rolled away, to be scooped up by a young lad with a quiff of yellow hair. He had been watching avidly, and now slipped the ring into his pocket before falling back a little to enjoy the rest of the spectacle. The redcoat pounced, Garnet screamed, and in half a minute a crowd had appeared as if conjured out of the air by the promise of a scuffle.

There were shocked murmurs from ladies as they took in Garnet’s sex and attire, and many gentlemen seemed quite anxious to help her to her feet. Her temper flashed out as they handled her and she began to scream in earnest, striking out at the gentleman who had started it all. The crowd grew, and suddenly a fat, gloved hand, knobby with rings came down on the gentleman’s arm.

“Allow me, Mr. Worthing!” The voice was stentorian, the woman - she was not a lady - had a square, bulldog face, a much-plumed bonnet and small eyes sunk in rolls of flesh. A personage of some influence, it seemed, for the crowd fell silent.

“Ma Babbage - is this one of your girls?” demanded the gentleman.

“Indeed it is,” said the woman decidedly. She reached out and put her arm around Garnet’s shoulders. “Now you calm down, my dear! Easy does it - Auntie will take you home presently for a nice hot cup of chocolate.” Supporting Garnet in her massive arm, she shot an unfriendly glance at the gentleman. “You should be ashamed, Mr. Worthing. Laying hands on my poor young niece.”

“Niece, is it?” said one of the redcoats. “How many nieces have you got then, Ma? Ninety-nine?”

“Fourteen, all told,” said Ma Babbage with dignity. “And it’s Mrs. Babbage to you. Lucy here is the youngest, aren’t you, my chuck?”

Garnet tried to pull away, finding the old woman almost as alarming as the men.

“She’s a little upset just now - her fancy has taken up with another...” said Mrs. Babbage.

“This young woman is under arrest for trying to pawn a stolen ring,” said Worthing sternly.

“Ring? I see no ring...” The fat woman looked about. “Anyone see this ring? No? Even if there was a ring, you may depend it was not stolen. More likely poor Lucy was given it by her fancy, and now cannot bear the sight of it.”

Worthing looked sour. “She has also tried to assault an officer of the law and impeded him in his rightful duty.”

“Oh yes! And you told her what you were, right?” said the woman shrewdly. “No! You just laid your filthy hands on her and scared the poor child half to death!” Mrs. Babbage looked around, collecting approval. She draped her rusty black shawl around Garnet, and addressed the crowd. “What I say is, Mr. Worthing and his men would be better employed capturing that desperate felon that murdered that poor gentleman down the alley back in May. They had him in the cells, mind you,” she added with a rich chuckle, “but they must needs let him out for a fair trial.” She snorted. “Trial! I’d have strung the miscreant up by his thumbs! He was away on his toes. Off to his fancy-woman, they do say; the poor gentleman’s own wife what connived at his murder...” She turned back to the furious Worthing. “That’s what you ought to be doing, Mr. Worthing. Not hounding poor gels that are half distraught with grief. Now, if you got no more to say, I’ll be taking my poor niece home. Come along, Lucy. I declare - what would your poor sainted mama say to see the pickle you’re in today? Here - hackney!”

Abruptly ceasing her spate of talk, Mrs. Babbage raised a jet-trimmed parasol and gestured at the driver of a hackney coach who was trying to pass the milling crowd. The man tilted his hat, and Mrs. Babbage, thrusting Garnet ahead of her, climbed into the coach. “George Street,” she said briefly. The driver, by flourishing his whip at the crowd, managed to get the horse out of the alley and soon they were creaking away. At first relieved to be away from the suspicious Mr. Worthing and the avid crowd, Garnet rapidly realised she was in a difficult situation. She had lost her wedding ring, her only convenient source of income, and the hack was taking her rapidly away from any chance of its recovery.

She glanced at the massive woman beside her and cleared her throat. “Could you have the driver let me off at the next corner please, ma’am?”

The bulldog face turned to her impassively.

“It was very good of you to take my part,” said Garnet. “And you were not mistaken in me. I have done nothing wrong, and did not deserve to be harassed. The ring was my own.”

“You need funds,” said Mrs. Babbage. Her voice was every bit as loud in the coach as it had been while battling the gentleman in the square.

“I was on my way to visit an old friend, but I am not precisely sure of her direction,” said Garnet. “I had no wish to go to her as a destitute.”

“What name does your friend go by?”

“She was Eliza Carrick, when I knew her a year ago. She may be wed by now.”

“Eliza...” mused Mrs. Babbage. “A young lady would she be? Your age?”

“Yes! Do you know her direction? She was going to the Society for Young Gentlewomen, but she may have left there by now.”

“Oh yes,” said Mrs. Babbage. “You come home with me, my chuck, and I shall see you to rights directly.”

Garnet drew back a little, not liking to be taken over so. “Perhaps you could have the driver set me down instead, ma’am,” she said. “I really should return to the pawnshop and fetch my ring before I visit my friend.”

Mrs. Babbage chuckled. “Better get you into some decent attire, my chuck. You cause too much stir walking around in that rig. You come with me - I can give you a gown, and a ring besides, to replace the one you lost.”

“But - ”

“Not another word,” said the woman largely. “Glad to be of help to a young gel in distress. Comfort and succour. That’s my business, after all. Comfort and succour. No harm done and guineas for them that needs them.”

She banged on the roof of the cab, and, when the driver told her to hold the row, she told him she liked his sauce. “Set us down near ‘The Gables,’” she bellowed. “It’s that big place...”

“Aye, I know ‘The Gables,’” said the coachman. “An’ that’ll be three shilluns.”

“Daylight robbery, you should be strung up,” said Mrs. Babbage, but she drew some coins from her old-fashioned netted reticule. “Here, Lucy, give this grasping fellow his blood,” she said as the hackney groaned to a stop.

Garnet paid the driver, and, with some misgiving, watched him depart along George Street. She had known hackney fares were high, but any idea of hiring one to take her to Eliza’s house died right there. She did not have three shillings; she had no money at all, and it seemed less likely now that she could pawn the ring, even if she regained it. She turned aside with a sigh, thus missing a sight which might have intrigued her, under other circumstances. A yellow-haired lad, clad in dusty slops, was clinging to the back of the hackney, crouched like a monkey behind the luggage racks.

“Ma’am...”

“Call me ‘Auntie,’ my chuck,” said Mrs. Babbage. “All my gels do. Come in, do, else all the lags’ll be ogling you.”

The house; a Georgian sandstone, looked foursquare and handsome, and Garnet relaxed a little as she followed Mrs. Babbage inside. A primly aproned maid bobbed as she took her mistress’s parasol and heavy bonnet. Now revealed in her massive dark dress and a hugely ruffled cap, Mrs. Babbage looked every inch the respectable grandmama. “Chocolate, please Betsy, and some lady-fingers for Miss Lucy,” said Mrs. Babbage. “A jug of hot milk, too, to help her rest.”

The girl bobbed again, and vanished into the depths of the house. “Come into the parlour, Lucy,” said Mrs. Babbage. “You can tell me about yourself and then we can have some gowns sent down for you.”

Mindful of her dusty garments, Garnet perched on the edge of the over-stuffed chair beside a vase of vast pink cabbage roses such as she had not seen since leaving England. To her relief, her hostess was not too particular in her questions.

“So, you are looking for Eliza. Came out from home together, did you?”

“Yes, we did.”

“Maybe she’s spoke of you - what’s your name, chuck?”

Garnet hesitated...“Lucy,” she said.

Mrs. Babbage chuckled. “Lucy Locket. Suit yourself. Have you no one other than young Eliza to take you in, Lucy? No relatives in the colony?”

“Not now,” said Garnet. She glanced up, feeling she had been ungracious. “You must think it very odd of me, ma’am, to be abroad wearing these garments. They are not stolen. They belong to...”

“Your brother, perhaps?”

“He passed away,” said Garnet in a burst of inspiration. “Our stepmama was planning to have me wed her cousin. Can you conceive, he was thrice my age!”

“So you fled him,” nodded Mrs. Babbage. “What any gel of spirit would do. And now you find yourself at point non plus, without funds or a place to live.”

Garnet’s head came up, but the woman was nodding again. “Seems best you stay with me for now.”

The maid brought in the tray, and Garnet, who was ravenous, ate the lady-fingers and drank her chocolate.

“Swallow down that hot milk, too,” said Mrs. Babbage. “Set you up after your tribulations.”

Garnet drank some of it, trying to hide her distaste. “I really must be going, ma’am,” she said. “I have trespassed on your hospitality long enough.”

Mrs. Babbage ignored her, and rang the bell for the maid. “A gown for Miss Lucy, Betsy,” she ordered. “Take that look off your face, gel. She’s a lady and should be displayed as one. That blue merino, and the cream silk... Stays - have you stays on, gel?” Bemused, Garnet shook her head. “A fine shift and those new petticoats I had made up - thirty six shillings per dozen,” she added proudly. “All pinned and tucked. Now, you finish up that milk, Lucy.” Reluctantly, Garnet drank more of the milk. It tasted sickly and strange; nothing like Milady’s bounty. Mrs. Babbage turned to chivvy the maid, and Garnet tipped the last of the milk into the vase of vast roses. By now she had realised they were artificial, and would not be harmed by it.

Betsy went silently away, and returned with an immense armload of frothy muslin, lawn and silk. She laid this down on a chair, then fetched a jug and ewer of hot water, which she placed behind a large dressing screen.

“In there,” said Mrs. Babbage. “Take off those things of your brother’s, and hang them over - they can be washed and pressed up fine, just in case we need them.” She chuckled. “You make a fine Currency Lad, Lucy. You with your Sterling voice. Must remember that, but first, we’ll see you as a lady.”

By now Garnet’s head was spinning, but she did as she was asked, washing the grime of her adventure from hands, face and feet before lacing herself into the light stays and, with Betsy’s silent help, putting on the silk gown. So clothed, she felt like a butterfly, all fleecy skirts and flounces, but rather draughty about the shoulders, for the gown was extremely décolleté.

Looking down at herself in confused amazement, she wondered what Jeremiah would think. Would he recognise her at all? Would he think her beautiful? She put away that thought, and glanced down at the swell of her breasts above the neckline of the gown; a trifle lower down, and the scar would show.

Jeremiah had touched the scar, had kissed it...

Garnet drew a deep breath and stepped out from behind the screen. She was very tired, although it was barely midday, and she hoped Mrs. Babbage would not begin talking again. Really, this was ridiculous. She could not accept this gown. She could never wear it in a public place...

But it seemed she was not to be displayed just yet.

“You need a good rest now, Lucy,” said Mrs. Babbage. “All but asleep on your feet! Come upstairs, and lie on your bed for an hour - or more. The callers will be hours, yet, and the gels will not disturb you, I shall see to that.”

“Thank you,” said Garnet, although she had no clear idea why she was thanking Mrs. Babbage.

The room to which she was conducted was quite the most luxurious she had seen, far outshining any in Edward’s house. There was a great, four-poster bed, with crimson canopies hanging in great swags, tied with heavy silk cords. The linen was white and crisply laundered, the counterpane matched the hangings. There were paintings on the walls, and a dressing table with a looking glass, pots of powder and a cut-glass bottle of perfume.

Vaguely, Garnet wondered whose room it could be; it was far too fine for a guest chamber, yet the thought of Mrs. Babbage in such surroundings was laughable.

She would have liked to admire the place, but she had trouble focusing her eyes. Perhaps, she thought vaguely, she should take the old woman’s advice and rest a little; after a nap she would be feeling more the thing and could explain to her kind hostess that she must be on her way.

Mrs. Babbage clicked shut her fob watch with satisfaction. “Lucy Locket” was quite an acquisition. Mrs. Babbage prided herself on running an establishment that catered to every level of gentleman, but so far, she had found few that suited the finicky tastes of some of the young toffs. There were girls in plenty who said they could ape their betters, but when it came down to it they always fell short of their boasts. “Lucy Locket,” or whatever her true name might be, was a genuine lady, young and beautiful. Friendless and without family, yet she could not be such a niminy piminy as she might appear. Had she not put on man’s clothing for her flight? (And must remember that some gentlemen liked a lady dressed as a lad, derived some twisted delight from unbuttoning trousers rather than taking off a gown.)

Mrs. Babbage was no innocent, and she thought it very likely that “Lucy” had fled a husband, and that the clothing had belonged to that gentleman - or perhaps to a deserting lover. All the better; in Polly Babbage’s experience virgins were more trouble than they were worth. They were apt to go into a decline - or to fall in love with the man who took their virtue.

Well satisfied, she sat back to wait for evening, and the arrival of her more discreet clients.

Chapter 6.

Garnet stirred and woke, drowsily realising the room was lantern-lit. It still looked beautiful, luxuriously appointed, and the bed was soft with a yielding feather mattress. The shutters were closed, and the whole place cozy and inviting as any boudoir could be.

Her head ached.

She was rubbing her temples gingerly when the maid came in, carrying a tea tray, set for two.

“You’re awake, Miss Lucy!”

“Yes.” Garnet reached for a cup, hoping tea might help dispel her headache, but the maid shook her head.

“Ma’am said you was to sit over by the table. I’ll just spark up the fire, and then you’ll be all comfortable.”

She poked the fire vigorously, and Garnet watched, bemused.

“All right now, you’re about to have a caller,” said the maid. “You understand me, miss? Someone you must act pleased to receive.”

Garnet smiled. So Eliza had come! “Thank you, I am ready,” she said.

“You just act the lady, like you are,” said the girl.

There was a tap at the door, and the maid replaced the fire screen and went to open it. “Come in, sir, do,” she said. “Miss Lucy is ready to receive you.”

Garnet’s eyes widened with indignation as a gentleman entered the room. He gave his hat and stick to the maid, who bobbed a curtsy and left, closing the door quickly behind her.

“Miss Lucy!” The gentleman came forward, bowing, then settled himself in the chair opposite Garnet. He was middle-aged, with a sleekly plump body and well-kept linen. His face was round and his eyes blue. “John Smith, Esq. So pleased to meet you, m’dear. Will you be Mother and pour the tea?”

Garnet drew a deep breath of outrage. “Sir! You are impertinent! I do not know you!”

“Very good, m’dear,” said Smith lazily, surveying her through an old-fashioned eyeglass. “You do it very well indeed. Ma Babbage is to be congratulated.”

“I must ask you to leave this room!” Garnet got up and swept over to open the door, her dignity slightly hurt by the fact that she was tripping over her fleecy skirts. She still had no shoes, no shawl, no drawers. She recovered in an instant, and grasped the door knob. She had made several futile efforts to twist it before she realised it was locked. Her eyes widened, and she found herself clasping her hands to her breast in sudden terror.

The gentleman smiled broadly and clapped his hands. “Oh my word, Miss Lucy! You should be on the halls. Or perhaps you do tread the boards on occasion?”

Garnet stared at him, fear and outrage choking her.

“You come back and pour the tea, there’s a good girl,” said Smith. “Come and let me look at your beautiful face. Oh, and let those eyes flash! I like a wench with spirit!”

“Open the door immediately!” said Garnet. “Let me out of here!”

Smith shrugged and made his indolent way over to the door. Garnet stumbled back and watched him remove his fine gloves and try to twist the handle. “By George! Ma Babbage has had us locked in together!” he said, and gave a sudden guffaw. “The old beldame must be afraid I’ll skip without paying my dues!” He turned to survey Garnet with a decided twinkle in his eye. “This adds a bit of spice to the proceedings, does it not? Now, do pour the tea. My throat is parched.”

Garnet had begun to wonder if the gentleman were mad, but now a sick suspicion that he was not was fast becoming a certainty. Things that had been said, by the redcoat at the square, by Mrs. Babbage, by the maid, and now by this Smith were adding up. She swallowed, and retreated. “Sir,” she said, and hoped her voice sounded more certain to him than it did to her. “I fear you have been misled about the reason for my presence here.”

“Oh no, m’dear,” said Smith affably. “You’re a prime high stepper, just as Ma Babbage promised.”

“I believe you take me for a whore,” said Garnet desperately. “I am not - I have been abominably tricked!”

Smith looked highly entertained. “Oh, very good. Now why should I take you for a whore, Miss Lucy? Can it be because I find you in a whorehouse?” He stepped closer, and laid a casual hand on her shoulder. “Can it be because you wear gowns that are fit for a whore?”

Garnet gasped as his hand plunged through the low neckline to squeeze her breast. She struck out, catching him across the jaw.

Smith yelped, and caught her wrist, much as Jeremiah had done when she had slapped his face. But his fingers dug in viciously, hurtfully, and Garnet gasped again, in pain. He jerked her arm up behind her, then bent to twitch up her skirts. “Can it be because you wear no underthings, Miss Lucy?” His eyes widened, and he propelled her back towards the bed. “Tea be hanged,” he mumbled, “I’m having you right now.”

Garnet screamed in earnest, and kicked out, her foot catching the heavy silver teapot. The occasional table tumbled, the crockery smashed on the floor. There was a long period of confusion, then suddenly, the grating of a key in the lock. The door flung open and Mrs. Babbage came massively into the room.

“What is amiss?” she demanded.

“Oh ma’am - Auntie - this man - this man has taken me for a whore!” stammered Garnet. “Pray, tell him he is mistaken!”

Amazingly, Smith seemed angry rather than shamed. He slapped Garnet insultingly across the face and turned to Mrs. Babbage with his hands on his hips. “I thought ‘twas your boast you had your girls schooled right!” he exclaimed.

“So I have,” said Mrs. Babbage stolidly.

“Then how do you explain this?” Smith tapped his jaw, which was now reddening, and gestured at Garnet. “Hit me she did, the little vixen. Hard as you like! Ought to be a prize fighter!”

“He - he insulted me!” gasped Garnet.

“Schooled! Don’t make me laugh!” snapped Smith.

“Come now,” said Mrs. Babbage. “You wanted a gel could act the lady. Did you expect she’d lie down like any whore for you? Of course she defended her virtue! What lady would not?”

“This is going too far!” raged Smith. “I cannot be marked.”

“Leave her with me a while,” said Mrs. Babbage. “Go and have a cup of tea. Come back in half an hour. She’ll be ready for you. Tell Betsy to fetch up some milk.”

Grumbling, Smith left the room, leaving Garnet at bay, facing Mrs. Babbage. She would have darted out and down the stairs, but the big woman was planted foursquare in front of the door.

“What is the meaning of this, Lucy?” asked Mrs. Babbage sorrowfully. “I take you in, dress you nice, introduce you to one of my best gentlemen clients and what do you do? You hit him!” She shook her head. “Like I said, he wants you to act the lady, but not to go so far as that. Now, will you be good, or will I have Betsy give you a nice dose o’ something to quieten you down?”

“I will be leaving here right now!” snapped Garnet. “Get out of my way...” Her temper was up, and she dashed at Mrs. Babbage and tried to thrust her aside. She might as well have tried to overturn the house itself.

Light footsteps heralded the entrance of Betsy with a glass of milk on a tray. “Here, ma’am,” she said to Mrs. Babbage.

“Betsy - help me!” gasped Garnet, but the maid might have been deaf for all her reaction.

Mrs. Babbage took the glass and held it out to Garnet. “Drink this, Lucy.”

“I will not!”

“Drink this,” said Mrs. Babbage again.

Garnet tried to dash the glass from her hand, but the woman was too quick for her. She threw a massive arm around Garnet, trapping her arms against her sides. With her spare hand, she pressed the glass to Garnet’s mouth.

“Drink!”

Garnet clamped her mouth shut, then choked as Betsy grabbed her nose. Desperately gulping for air, she took in a mouthful of the sickly warm stuff, then, unable to think of anything else, she kicked hard at Mrs. Babbage and bit a chunk out of the glass. There was a curse and a smash, and milk streamed all over Mrs. Babbage’s dark gown.

“All right,” said the woman, breathing hard. “All right, Miss Lucy. You can have it your own way. I’ll send Mr. Smith away - for now. You’ll come to your senses soon enough.”

She gave a grim chuckle and pushed Garnet towards the bed. Then she turned on her heel and, thrusting the little maid ahead of her, left the room.

Garnet heard the door locked behind her.

Jeremiah searched the docks, went to the coaching office to see if Garnet might have tried to haggle a fare to Parramatta. There was no word of a young lady in a dark skirt and made-over blouse. Garnet might have left Father Timothy’s and vanished into the air.

After an exhausting day of searching, Jeremiah was forced to conclude that she might never have reached Sydney at all. There were bushrangers around, there were also other, more impersonal dangers; poisonous snakes, plants that were dangerous to eat. She might have run foul of some hostile Aborigines, or fallen down a ravine. She might have been overtaken by a hundred different disasters. Jeremiah returned, exhausted, to Father Timothy’s hut, but the old man had seen nothing of the runaway.

The next day passed in much the same fashion, but on the third, Jeremiah put up posters in the windows of such emporiums whose owners were sympathetic, offering a good reward for any news of the whereabouts of a young lady with red hair and green eyes, last seen wearing a dark bombazine dress, white bodice and dark stuff shawl. After yet another fruitless day of inquiries, he placed a similar notice for the next issue of the Sydney Herald. Then, with nothing further suggesting itself, he returned to Father Timothy’s to await the appearance of that newspaper in two days’ time.

It was only then that he had the chance to read the old edition he had purchased several days before.

Garnet soon lost track of the days and nights. She was shut up in the luxurious bedroom all the time. The chamber pot beneath the bed and a daily jug of water thrust in through the door were the only comforts she was allowed. She gave up battering at the door and the shutters; the heavy construction of the house deadened the sounds, and her hands were soon bruised and sore. She had no shoes, so kicking the panels got her nowhere. She slept, fitfully, afraid to remove the fine gown lest someone should enter the room while she was resting.

After a while - perhaps it was three days, perhaps four - the door opened and Mrs. Babbage came in with a glass of hot milk. “Made up your mind to behave?”

“Let me go!” cried Garnet.

Mrs. Babbage laughed. “Go? Go where? You have no money, no friends. You told me as much. No, Lucy, you stay right where you are. Drink your milk, and then you can wash your face and hands. You have a gentleman to entertain. And this time - no tricks. You hear me? You act the lady, but not too missish and no hoyden’s tricks. If you hit the gentleman again, it will be the worse for you.”

“I will hit him if he lays hands on me!” said Garnet.

“Then he has my permission to beat you. But you act sensible and it won’t come to that.” The old woman eyed her with something that could almost have been sympathy. “Come on, gel, what’s the to-do? You’ve had a man or two already, I’ll be bound, and one man is much like another. You act nice and Mr. Smith’ll treat you nice; might even give you a bauble or a guinea.” She held out the milk, and Garnet, seeing no way out that would not lead to more time spent locked up in her prison, drank half of it down. “No more,” she entreated, handing it back. “Truly - I shall be ill.”

“All right. You wash yourself and Mr. Smith will be along in a minute or so. Betsy will bring the hot water and the tea.”

There was no chance of escape, for Mrs. Babbage waited until Betsy had come and gone again before she left her post at the door. Even then she waited until Smith arrived, genially ushering him into the room. “Miss Lucy is feeling much more the thing today, is that not right, my chuck? She is ready to receive you.”

Garnet’s mouth felt numb and her lips were stiff, but she managed to sketch a smile. “Good evening, Mr. Smith.”

Smith smiled slowly, his round face scrubbed and pink-looking, then bowed over her resignedly offered hand. Garnet could not help contrasting him with Jeremiah, whose face was angular and tanned with working out of doors, and who had never bowed to her, save to mock her. She pushed the thought away angrily.

It came to her that she might as well let Smith have his way with her; he was personable and gentlemanly, much more so than Jeremiah. To be sure, Jeremiah had “married” her, but it had been a farce, a sham, connived at by old Father Tim - unless he had been hoodwinked into believing her a widow. It was a crime to be married to two men, and so she could not risk coming before the constables.

Smith went on holding her hand, then turned to the watchful Mrs. Babbage and smiled. “You may leave us, Mrs. Babbage. Miss Lucy and I shall deal extremely well together, this time. Will you be Mother, Miss Lucy?”

Garnet nodded, hearing Mrs. Babbage turning the key in the lock. The woman was taking no chances on her new docility. Her head was aching from a combination of the airless room, food deprivation and whatever had been in the milk, but her mouth watered at the thought of hot, fragrant tea. She sat down at the occasional table and took up the teapot, and Smith watched with approval as she poured the tea. “Sugar, Mr. Smith?” she asked.

“Thank you, Miss Lucy.” He came towards her and she held out the tea, her hand trembling a little with tension and weakness. The liquid slopped over in the saucer and Mr. Smith clicked his tongue.

“Not schooled yet, Miss Lucy?” he suggested.

She stared at him, uncomprehending, and he took the cup and set it down with a thud that slopped it more. With his other hand, he grasped her wrist, dragging her out of the chair, which promptly tumbled backwards. He twisted her hand up behind her back and she gasped with the pain.

He held her that way for some time, explaining all the time that she was a clumsy, willful slut, and needed schooling. She tried to defend herself, but he jerked her arm, turning her sick and faint, before suddenly thrusting her back so she fell on the bed, legs flailing. Her abused arm darted pins and needles from shoulder to wrist, but the cold air that fell suddenly on her legs was much more ominous. He was bent over the bed, and had thrown her skirts high, so they fell over her face. His hands came down, one on either side of her, pressing the cloth of her skirts to the mattress, pinning her arms to her sides. She thrashed and gasped, half smothered, but the bed was too soft and yielding for her to be able to slither clear.

“Ahhh.” It was long-drawn sigh of greed. She felt the bed shift as he clambered up beside her, and then he must have replaced one hand with his knee, for, though the tight bands of cloth did not loosen a whit, she felt his smooth thick fingers exploring her thighs and belly.

She tried to kick him, but she could scarcely breathe. “No...” she mumbled, tearing violently at the fleecy material with her teeth. “No!” The fingers that touched her so intimately were too smooth, too soft; Jeremiah’s hands were firm and a little rough-skinned from his work on the selection. The soft fingers were prowling around, and from Smith’s pleased exclamations, she gathered he was enjoying the exploration. Her legs were necessarily free, and she stopped kicking and clamped her thighs together, but that merely trapped his hand against her.

The indignity was too great to be borne, and her head was swimming. If only she could faint, shut out this beastliness! She gasped for air, and gasped again, gurgling desperately. She could not get away; her arms were pinioned, so she could not do to Smith as she had done to Harbord. All she had left was her cunning, and a strong desire not to suffer any more of this. Any thought of letting Smith have his way had vanished with his first touch. Personable gentleman or not, she could not bear it.

Garnet forced her body to go suddenly limp. She had used this technique on Jeremiah often enough, and now she had cause to be grateful for the practice. In a way, this was easier, for she had only Smith to fight, and not herself. She lay still, holding what breath she had been able to draw into her lungs.

The disgusting handling of her body continued for a few moments, then suddenly, he took his hand away. A long moment followed, then the weight was lifted from her skirts, and the cloth turned back from her face. He grasped her elbows and she could see, between slitted eyes, that he was peering into her face.

“Miss Lucy! Wake up, wench! Damn it, what did that beldame dose you with?” He slapped her face, and she reacted with a gasp, flinging herself off the bed in a shriek of tearing cloth. She stumbled to the door, thumping on it with both fists, screaming at the top of her lungs, but Smith was after her, gagging her with one hand, then punching the side of her head. He shook her, and the lingering headache rose to an unbearable, nauseating pitch. Her body convulsed, and she vomited.

That hot milk, she thought dazedly, but Smith was exclaiming with disgust, pushing her violently away from him.

Gasping, wiping her face on her ruined skirts, Garnet backed against the door. Smith was dabbing at his shirt, cursing and almost sobbing with rage and frustration, but as Garnet began to pound again on the panels, he crossed the room in three great strides and seized her arm.

“You little vixen!” he said bitterly, “you worthless little whore. By God, you’re going to pay for this!” He hauled her towards him, then pushed her away again. “Faugh! You stink! Get those clothes off and wash yourself, then clean up that mess before I school you...”

“I am ill,” said Garnet. Her head was pounding and she did feel most unwell, but once more she was prepared to use her cunning. He had lost whatever desire he had had for her body; now she must be sure it did not rekindle.

“Get that gown off!” repeated Smith. He seized the low back and ripped the bodice down; the cloth dug into Garnet’s shoulders before giving away and she screamed. The flimsy petticoats followed, leaving her clad in the stays and a muslin shift.

“I am ill,” she said again, and crouched down to rock herself back and forth. “Take care that you do not take the sickness from me!”

Smith had been angrily unbuttoning his spattered, stinking shirt. Now he paused with it half on and half off. “Take what?”

“The pox,” said Garnet. She had no idea if nausea were a symptom of that disease, but she recalled that Jeremiah had mentioned it, and she had surmised a sketchy idea of its nature. “The pox,” she said more certainly. “I have the pox.”

“You are lying,” he said. “I saw no sign of it, and be sure I looked well enough.”

She rocked herself again. “Why do you think my husband rid himself of me?”

“What husband?” Smith sounded uncertain now.

“I am Mrs. Edward Landis,” she declared. “He sailed on the Nellie May for Van Diemen’s Land more than two months since, and, because of my illness, he cruelly left me behind.”

“Landis!” Smith sounded shocked. “You lie, girl.”

“I am Garnet Landis,” insisted Garnet. “I came from London on the Clara a year ago to marry Mr. Landis. The Reverend Mr. Higgs will tell you so! Edward’s mama died and he sold the house. He learned of my infection and turned me off before he left.” She spat, trying to clear her mouth of the taste of spoiled milk and bile. “Check with the captain of the Nellie May if you choose. Mr. Landis traveled alone...”

Smith laughed shortly, but he looked almost as sick as Garnet felt. “Edward Landis did not travel on the Nellie May, you little bitch. Oh, he had bought a berth, but he was murdered on the way to take it up...foully done to death before he reached the docks.”

Garnet felt her mouth sag open, and she choked back a cry of shock. “Murdered...” she breathed. “Edward is dead?”

“Yes indeed,” said Smith. “And his killer returned to the site of his grisly deed to search for gold, it is said. And so was taken by the constables.”

“Dead,” said Garnet again. Her gorge rose, and she almost vomited again. “But who - you say the man was taken?”

“Taken, and escaped. It was his serving man Harbord - your lover, I’ll be bound! They said there was a wench in the case. Harbord has the pox for certain.”

Garnet’s head spun with the implications of what she had learned. She started violently as Smith came and yanked her to her feet. “You know where Harbord is laid up,” he said. “I’ll have the law on you! But first - I’ll have my fun.”

He unbuckled his belt, and Garnet’s eyes widened. “You cannot!” she cried. “I tell you - I have the pox!”

“There’s more than one way for a gentleman to enjoy himself.” Smith’s eyes were intent, and he pulled the belt through his fingers, then pushed Garnet towards the bed. “Face down I think, Mrs. Landis,” he said. “We need not mar that beauty. Kneel, and say your prayers. Keep on saying them.” Garnet knelt, then let her legs give way and huddled against the bed. When he tried to drag her up again, she turned with a shriek and sank her teeth into his arm.

Smith screamed, a high, womanish sound, and Garnet, gagging at the taste of his blood, screamed as well. She scrabbled over to the tea table and seized the teapot, flinging the heavy thing at Smith. The tea was too cool to scald, but in any case the silver struck his head. He toppled over, dazed, and staggered into the window, making the shutters quiver before slipping down to the ground. Garnet seized a chair and began to batter at the shutter, screaming at the top of her lungs.

There was so much noise that she scarcely noticed when an outcry began downstairs. This sound approached rapidly, and resolved itself into angry expostulations and a rhythmic thudding at the door.

Smith had shaken off the effects of the blow and dragged himself up to take hold of Garnet with such murderous intent that her screams took on a renewed vigour. His hands closed around her throat, his thumbs probed for her pulse points, and for the first time, it occurred to her that Smith might really kill her...

The uproar outside doubled and vaguely Garnet heard Mrs. Babbage’s strident tones remonstrating, “All right, all right! Just let me unlock the door...”

The door, whether unlocked or not, burst open, and a body of people tumbled into the room. Garnet could see nothing but a red mist in front of her eyes, but suddenly there was the sound of a blow and the pressure on her throat eased abruptly. She crumpled to the floor in a graceless huddle, too worn out to do more than move feebly, trying to cover herself with her inadequate shift.

Then rough hands were seizing her again, dragging her up from the floor. They were bruising, urgent hands, and she could not see their owner. She could not hear his voice for the roaring in her ears, but she knew it was Jeremiah who held her, Jeremiah who had lifted her into his arms, who was cursing Mrs. Babbage and Smith and calling down imprecations on their heads.

Garnet had always despised women who were so missish as to faint from an excess of emotion, but suddenly she knew she had been too harsh in her condemnation. She gave a soft, despairing cry - and fainted.

It was the next day before Garnet learned the facts of her rescue, and then it was not from Jeremiah. She had woken, briefly, during the journey back to Father Timothy’s hut, woken to find herself wrapped in Jeremiah’s heavy coat. Her arms were firmly fastened to her sides, but she felt no sense of panic; the coat, old and oily as it was, smelled comfortingly of its owner.

“Where are you taking me?” she mumbled.

“Home; where else?” said Jeremiah. He sounded forbidding, and she supposed he must be very angry with her for running away.

“I made a mull of it,” she said drearily. “I lost the ring and I never found Eliza at all.”

“Eliza?”

“Eliza is my friend who traveled with me on the Clara. I was going to ask her to take me in.”

“You never spoke of her before.”

“Why should I? Would you have cared?”

“I had thought you might try to go to Mrs. Hepplewhite,” he said.

“I did not know her direction, nor Eliza’s. I have made a mull of it.” She began to cry quietly, with shame, with misery. She had had a wretched time, had been hurt and humiliated and terrified, and for what? She had gained nothing, except the incredible news of Edward’s death, and she had not had time to take that in.

Jeremiah did not contradict her. He simply drove on, the wagon creaking and swaying, and Garnet, worn out, presently slept.

The next time she woke she was in a place she recognised, painfully, as Sister Joseph’s cell. She was alone, which amazed her a little until she realised that she was naked under the coarse linen sheet and that her clothes - or indeed any clothes she might have worn - were missing. Only her bonnet, resting incongruously where she had left it, remained.

A tap on the door brought her to full alertness, her cheeks crimsoning with renewed shame and misery, but to her relief it was old Father Timothy who entered, bearing a bowl of broth.

“So ye’re awake, me dearie,” he said, as benevolently as if she had not abused his hospitality before.

Garnet tugged the sheet up under her chin, but Father Timothy smiled at her. “No need for that, child. Let me help ye with this bolster and ye can be getting a little meat on that frame.”

Garnet struggled upright, dragging the counterpane with her, and accepted the bowl of broth. Her stomach felt shrunken; she had had nothing in days but that damnable hot milk. The first sip seemed likely to choke her, but after that it became a little easier.

“May I have my clothes?” she asked when she had finished the broth.

Father Timothy shook his head, and she flinched and bit her lip. “I promise I’ll not try to run again. I see how foolish I have been.”

“Tes not that, me dearie,” said Father Timothy hastily. “But ye have no clothing worth the name. Jeremiah left it behind at that wicked place he found ye.”

“I did not want that,” she said, painfully. “But my shirt and the ducks I was wearing...I left my skirts under a bush somewhere.”

The old man nodded. “So that’s how ye came to slip our net! Jeremiah was asking after ye as a lady in a dark skirt and shawl and all the time ye were...”

“A lad in duck trousers and a shirt and cap,” she muttered. “I thought it would be safer so.”

“Aye, but safer from whom?” asked Father Timothy shrewdly.

Garnet looked down at her hands, wan and pale after her captivity. “From Jeremiah,” she said. “At first. Then I thought it would be safer to travel as a lad...and so it was until I tried to pawn the ring.”

Unexpectedly, Father Timothy chuckled. “And a right to-do that was being! It was in the Herald, me dearie. See if I can remember the way of it...Ah yes. “On Tuesday morning last a young lad was taken up by the constable while trying to pawn a valuable gold signet ring at the establishment of Mr. T-P-. Said lad declined to give his name, and became quite violent when questioned, and later proved to be no lad at all, but a veritable flame-haired Venus posing as a Ganymede.” And so it went on, to tell of the lady concerned being taken up by a female person well-known to the constable, Mr. Worthing. It did not take a great knowledge of human nature to guess who that person might have been.”

“Oh dear,” said Garnet. You must think me excessively foolish to have been taken in by Mrs. Babbage, Father Timothy, but at the time I quite thought she would take me to Eliza...and besides, I could not allow myself to be clapped up by the law.”

“Ye did not wish Jeremiah to learn of your whereabouts,” said Father Timothy.

“No, I - he - ” Garnet broke off. “I know now I am wholly dependent on Jeremiah,” she said bitterly. “Without his good offices I have not so much as a stitch of clothing to my name.”

“That is the way with most wives, me dearie,” said Father Timothy philosophically. “Jeremiah values you highly and I know he has fetched you some cloth from town...but he will wish to tell ye of that himself.” Smiling, he took away the broth bowl, leaving Garnet alone with her thoughts.

She slid down under the sheet again, feeling better in body, but agitated in mind. When she pieced together the things she had learned, several things stood out.

Edward was dead. She could think about that without sorrow. She had never been fond of him, and knew he had despised and disliked her, but she would not have wished him dead; he should have been away in Van Diemen’s Land. But he was dead, if the man who called himself “Smith” were to be believed. Murdered by Harbord on the very day of his proposed departure on the Nellie May. And, since he had had but a short drive to the docks in a carriage while she and Jeremiah had had four miles of bad road to cover in the wagon, it seemed likely that he had died before her wedding to Jeremiah had taken place. She might have been a widow for two hours before she was again a wife...and a true wife she was, it seemed, wedded and bedded.

She was Jeremiah’s wife. All the time she had seen herself at odds with the law, as nothing better than a bigamous concubine, she had been a legal wife. And Jeremiah did not know.

Her relief at finding herself on the right side of the law dimmed quickly, for (again) if “Smith” were to be believed, the authorities suspected her of some complicity in Edward Landis’s murder. They suspected her of being Harbord’s lover, a willing party in the deception of her elderly husband. The thought made her feel ill, and filled her with a dread of the future greater than any she had experienced before her fateful sojourn in Sydney. Harbord’s lover, a party to his murderous plans...if the suspicious Mr. Worthing ever learned her real identity from “Smith” or Mrs. Babbage, she could find herself clapped in irons, sewing rough cloth in the female factory if she were lucky, hanged by the neck until dead if she were not.

Cold dread laid its hands on Garnet, and she began to shake. But Jeremiah knew the truth. Jeremiah knew she had not been present when Harbord murdered Edward Landis. He could not be certain she had had no hand in the plot, but he could testify to the fact that she had never been Harbord’s lover...nor anyone’s, but his own.

The thought of asking him to speak of such a matter in a court of law made her feel even worse, but if the alternative were hanging, oh, she would ask him! And perhaps he would be willing.

“Jeremiah values you highly,” Father Timothy had said, and so perhaps it was true - if only for his ten guinea investment.

Garnet folded her hands to still their trembling and waited for Jeremiah to come, but when he strode into the hut an hour later, she found she could ask him nothing at all. His expression was cold and forbidding, his eyes were narrow and his jaw set in a way she recognised with foreboding. Jeremiah Gold was in a temper, a cold, iron-clad rage, and she would not dare to ask him anything. He closed the door behind him, then dumped an armload of crumpled gray cloth on the bed.

“Get up,” he said curtly.

Garnet bit her lip, painfully, and looked down at the bundle. “Am I to wear these things?”

“Unless you wish to travel naked,” said Jeremiah. “The garment you were wearing in that iniquitous place is burned, and your own things, Father Timothy informs me, have been left behind or thrown away.”

“I might be able to find them?” she offered, although her spirits sank at the thought of searching a mile of scrubland for the rusty bombazine.

“Let them be,” said Jeremiah. “I have not the stomach to search myself, and I cannot trust you an inch.” He paused, then added cruelly; “If I let you loose in the bush to search, you would be off, mother-naked, like a kangaroo before the hounds.”

Garnet said nothing, but reached for the clothing. She thought Father Timothy had said something about Jeremiah buying her some cloth in the town, but the garment she saw now was more like a penitent’s robe. Old and worn, crumpled and rough from indifferent laundering.

“It belongs to Father Timothy,” said Jeremiah dryly. “He once thought to mortify his flesh, but then he decided the Lord could not want him forever tripping and falling over its hem. Now he offers it to cover you until we reach Gold’s Kingdom.”

“You are taking me back?” she said. She twisted the coarse cloth in her hands, but was suddenly too shy to dress while he was there. She thought he must see the filthy marks of defilement left by “Smith’s” white hands on her body. Invisible, as the brand on her breast was not, but she felt they were there.

“I am taking you back,” said Jeremiah. “I own you, Garnet, and be sure you will have no more opportunity to escape me.”

“Will you never let me forget that damnable ten guineas?” she flashed. “I have told you over and over; I did not ask to be put so in your debt. I did not ask you to shame me so!”

Jeremiah’s face lost what little colour it had, making him appear sallow and ill beneath the tan. “You would rather be used by gentlemen in Ma Babbage’s establishment, perhaps? You would rather be driven to your knees and beaten, had by men who have turned from their own wives, and subjected to all kinds of filthy perversions than remain with a plain man like myself? I may not have much polish, Garnet, but I did try to treat you fairly.”

When he put it like that, her rebellion sounded very foolish indeed, but she hit back. “You! Treat me fairly? You forced yourself upon me, you pleasured yourself, and made me wear rags and slave for you, and all the time you could talk of nothing but the debt I owed you! So - what would you have paid a man who worked as I have done? One pound per week, perhaps? Ten shillings, if you were mean? What would you have paid a whore for the use to which you have put me?”

“Little enough,” he said harshly. “No whore would cheat a client as you did me; the veriest slut would be sure to show more enthusiasm for her work.”

Garnet’s rage swelled, and something seemed to snap inside her. “Then even so I have but a few weeks more until I may consider myself morally free of any debt I owe! And once free, be sure you need never see my face again!”

“You forget,” he said coldly, “I have spent some days and not a few shillings in searching for you. You have willfully abandoned such clothing as you stole from me, and have disposed of a family ring, pure gold, with a sapphire. And this debt you did incur by choice. You will work for me, Garnet. You will work until every groat, every farthing of the debt is paid!”

“And then, then,” she said, “I shall go to Eliza, or another of my friends, and none shall stop me.”

“They will not welcome you,” he taunted. “You have made your name a byword in the town.”

“Get out!” shrieked Garnet. “Get out of here and let me dress myself!”

Jeremiah was breathing hard, but he flung out the door and stamped across to the wagon. Father Timothy was waiting, gentling King Cole, who seemed to have caught the heavy atmosphere and whose ears were flickering uneasily.

“Me boy...” he began, but Jeremiah rounded on him in fury.

“Not a word, Father Tim! Not a word!” He struggled with his passion for a moment, feeling the heavy thud of his own heart against his ribs. At last, he drew in a long, shaken breath. “Forgive me, my old friend,” he muttered. “I do know what I owe to you, and when I am feeling more the thing be sure I shall thank you properly.”

“No need, me dearie,” said the old man. “Ye have your wife back, after all.”

Jeremiah groaned. “Yes, I have her back - and I wonder what the cost will be?”

“Mankind is born to sorrow,” said Father Timothy, “but joy cometh in the morning...”

“Oh yes,” said Jeremiah, and gave a short laugh. “And so you mix your Scriptures just as you mix your damnable stews.”

“Will ye be taking the heifer with ye?” asked Father Timothy.

“Not today. I cannot watch over two flighty female things.”

The men turned to watch as Garnet came across the pasture to the wagon. She was wearing the roughly sewn garment, which was so long she had to gather it up in both hands.

“Get up,” said Jeremiah. She glared at him, and hoisted herself awkwardly into the wagon.

“I have no shoes,” she said.

“And shall have none until we reach Gold’s Kingdom,” said Jeremiah. “Sit by me. Now - will you give me your word you will remain where you are, or must I halter you like a beast?”

“I will stay,” she said, and even through his fury, he could not deny her courage. She settled herself on the narrow seat and bent to extend her hand to Father Timothy as graciously as if the visit had proved unexceptional. “Thank you for your kindness, Father Timothy,” she said. “I am truly sorry to have caused you disquiet.”

Which was more than she had said to him, thought Jeremiah as he gave King Cole the office to start.

The journey back to Gold’s Kingdom was a long one for Garnet. Jeremiah said little, speaking only when forced to do so when pausing for rest or comfort stops. During one of these stops, he offered Garnet a flask of brandy. She spluttered and gasped at the burn of it, and tried to push it away, but he told her brusquely to swallow more. “We have a long drive, and if you faint, you may fall.”

“I rarely faint,” said Garnet.

“Only when it suits you, perhaps,” he rejoined. “Drink the brandy and try to keep alert. And eat this damper, as much as you can. I’ll not have you claim I’m starving you.”

“Shall we sleep at the inn?” she asked.

“No,” said Jeremiah, and that was the last he said until they reached Gold’s Kingdom.

It had been dark some hours by then, and moonlight was silvering the clearing. All was still, too still, thought Garnet, shivering in the long coarse robe. The stuff was thick enough, but her blood seemed to run chill since her imprisonment in the stuffy over-heated room. She clambered down from the wagon and looked about, trying to divine what might be amiss, but it took Jeremiah’s furious curse to draw her attention to the yard where Atlas and Milady had been confined. Even in the moonlight she could see it was empty, the poles that made up one side had been smashed to the ground.

Jeremiah swore at length, and Garnet ventured to ask if the animals could have been taken by bushrangers or natives.

“Taken by thirst and starvation, more like!” he flashed at her.

“But - we left them water and fodder...”

“Enough for two days perhaps, or three; but due to you, dear wife, we have been gone for near a week!”

“You could have come back alone,” she muttered.

“And what case would you have been in if I had?”

Garnet felt a shudder run through her body at the thought. Jeremiah’s anger, even his scorn, were far easier to bear than the thought of being used by “Smith” and others like him. Her gorge rose as she recalled the feeling of the man’s soft fingers on her body. “God knows I would have been dead - or mad,” she muttered, but Jeremiah had flung away and did not hear.

“I shall go to find them,” she said loudly, but Jeremiah told her to get to bed.

“Stay in the house until I come back,” he said grimly. “I mean it, Garnet. Stay in the house. And sleep. There is work enough tomorrow.”

Dejectedly, Garnet went into the slab house. The familiar smell of eucalyptus leaves and fresh timber rose about her, and she lay down on the couch with a sigh. The mattress felt springy and odd after the feather-softness at the house in George Street, and Garnet lay there for some while, waiting for Jeremiah’s return. Finally, she went to sleep.

Jeremiah spent most of the remainder of that night searching for his heavy horse and cow. The heifer he had had from Father Timothy in exchange for the bull calf remained unclaimed; he had had too much on his mind to bother with livestock once he had learned of Garnet’s defection. Now, as he stumbled through the well-wooded ground of his selection, he felt his emotions shifting once again.

He had been furious with Garnet for leaving him, but the fury had been swamped by the terrible fear that he might never get her back. She was his wife, and he was responsible for her welfare and conduct, and, quite apart from that, she was an innocent in so many ways; the proof of which was evident in the way she had gone with Mrs. Babbage.

Whorehouses such as the establishment in George Street had done roaring trade for years, but now, with more respectable young freewomen arriving in the colony, they would receive less patronage than in the past. Jeremiah supposed Mrs. Babbage had seen in Garnet a friendless lady who would provide welcome novelty to her “gentlemen” clients. If the silly wench had given her true name and direction to Constable Worthing, he would have come for her before she had ever set foot in the cursed place. The fact that she had not done so, even after several days of residence and use by men of “Smith’s” stamp, argued that she held Jeremiah in greater hatred and contempt than any of the others who had had her since.

The thought stung, driving him to unleash his bitterness on her.

Perhaps he should have left her there, he thought viciously, but “Smith,” whom he had recognised as a married gentleman with quite a different name, might have killed her. The bruises on her throat had been so dark as to preclude any simple sexual games and the scene in the luxurious chamber had been an ugly one.

The sight of her, half naked, dressed in a transparent shift and a whorish corset had roused such a medley of emotions and sensations that he had lashed out without thinking, knocking “Smith” to the ground. He had not waited to see how much damage had been done, but had scooped up his swooning wife, tossed a few well-chosen threats and curses at the madam, and carried Garnet down the stairs.

The route to the outer door had been lined with gaping girls. It had scarcely occurred to him that they too might be in need of rescue, and now he thought about it he decided they were probably well enough. They had not been locked in nor stripped of their clothes.

The propriety of carrying a near-naked female from a whorehouse to his wagon had not troubled him, but the evening had been chill, and Garnet’s frame had seemed slighter than he had remembered it. Had the old bitch been starving her? He had bent abruptly to set Garnet on the chaise-lounge in the hallway, then stripped off his coat and wrapped it tightly around her before picking her up again and shouldering his way out through the door. After he had gained the wagon he had not stopped until he had reached Father Timothy’s dwelling.

He had been strung-up and hot with indignation and, he realised with some shame, with acute desire as he drove. It had been all he could do to keep King Cole moving, not to draw rein and take Garnet back into his arms, kissing her awake and assuaging his discomfort in an outpouring of relief. Only the thought of the other men who had had her held him back; only the knowledge that she had withheld her true name from both police and the madam. She had preferred possession by lewd strangers to a return to life with him.

Savagely, Jeremiah thrust his way through the undergrowth. A thorny branch of “prickly mo” swung back and scored the side of his face, but he pushed on, driving himself blindly.

That he found the horse and cow at last was more pure luck than systematic intention. He had scarcely searched with any set plan, nor paused to look for broken scrub or dung-piles which would have helped his quest. Yet there they were, together, the cow folded down and rhythmically chewing the cud while the Clydesdale dozed with one massive hind hoof propped on its tip.

They were startled at first, by the sudden appearance of their master, but the cow breathed a heavy sigh and got up, and the horse gave a drowsy nicker of welcome.

Jeremiah ran his hands over their sides and legs in the moonlight, but could feel no injuries. Their placid demeanour reassured him, but he felt a deep guilt, all the same. They, no less than Garnet, depended on him for their well-being. He should not have forgotten them so utterly.

He grasped the head-collar that the great horse wore, and led it back through the bush. The cow, Milady, as he had expected and hoped, followed. He restored them to the holding yard along with King Cole, and made up a temporary barrier before filling their water trough and giving them a wholly extravagant measure of grain. Only when this was done did he unload the provisions from the wagon, stowing them carefully by lantern light in the lean-to.

Dawn was already lightening the eastern sky when he had finished. He wrapped himself in the coat that had shielded Garnet and sank down on a couch of folded meal-bags.

He slept fitfully, and woke unrefreshed to find the sun well up and the sweet smoke of the cook-fire already on the breeze. They had doused it before leaving, so Garnet must have kindled it afresh, using the tinderflint he kept in the house.

He left his makeshift couch, grimacing at the cold stale feeling that accompanied sleeping in his clothes. Garnet, he recalled, would still be wearing the penitent’s robe...the thought of his wife clad in such a garment turned him sick, so he turned abruptly to the part of the storeroom set aside for spare clothing. The new cloth he had bought for her was propped in the corner, mutely reproachful. The muslin, the green and blue worsted, the bolt of printed cotton - he could not give them to her today, not with the evidence of her distaste for him so fresh and sour in his mind. He thrust the coloured stuffs under a pile of sacks, took the boots and a pair of fustian trousers and a cotton shirt of his own, and strode over to the cook-fire.

His wife was tending the billy-can, awkwardly holding up the robe with her elbows. He could have sworn his approach had been silent, but she glanced up, her face expressionless.

“I have some more suitable clothes for you,” he said abruptly, and tossed them at her feet.

Her face cleared, to surprise and a kind of pleasure, then, as she focused on the workaday garments, it set once more. “These belong to you.”

“You might as well wear them,” he said. “You have nothing else but that robe of Father Tim’s, and that will hardly do.”

“No.”

“You cannot work when you must forever be lifting your skirts.”

“Of course not.” She bent to pick up the trousers and shirt, letting the hem of her robe fall awkwardly about her feet. She gathered it up, then turned and walked back towards the house without another glance at him. Her back was straight, and she seemed to be moving stiffly; he wondered for a moment if she were hurt, but then another possible reason for her stiff-legged gait occurred to him. His face hardened and he turned back to the fire.

She came out a little later, clad in the fustian trousers, the shirt buttoned to the waistband in the old-fashioned way. “It saves a belt,” she said, and shivered. “The boots cannot be yours?”

“I bought them in town,” he said.

She nodded. “Have you made the tea?”

“Yes. There is no milk,” he warned her. “Milady has gone quite dry.”

“She is all right? And Atlas?”

“Well enough, so far as I can judge.”

“I am glad,” she said, and sipped her tea. “As for the milk - I believe I should be delighted if I never set eyes on the stuff again!”

Her suddenly vicious tone startled him, and he looked at her closely for the first time that morning. She looked pale and rather ill, and her hand was clenched white-knuckled about the handle of the mug. “Why do you say that?” he asked.

She shuddered. “Milk...the filthy stuff has preceded too many foul events in my life. I would rather drink Father Timothy’s broth.”

She looked so bereft that he was moved to set aside his own tea and rise to comfort her, but she put away her mood and stood up also, the new boots squeaking a little. She drained her tea, then set the mug upside down over a wooden peg and folded her arms, looking up at him. “I am ready,” she said.

“I - beg your pardon?”

“I am ready to begin repayment of this mountainous debt of mine. I trust you will allow my keep to be offset against my work? Even a carpenter or the sorriest schoolmaster, I believe, get bed and board to supplement their wages.”

He caught his breath, and his cold tone matched her own. “Very well, Garnet. You have been used to keeping account of the stores and fodder; now you may keep account of your debt.”

“I did not ask you to buy me, I did not ask you to pay for notices in the Herald.”

“We shall sit down together and work out how much you owe me, then draw up a reasonable sum to be set against the work you perform.”

“Skivvying?” she said.

“And such field work as you might be able to manage. The garden needs attention, so do the livestock. There are stumps to blast from the field and meat to be dried...building to be done and the cellar to finish. Such heavy work will earn proportionally more than the mere housekeeping you did before.” He watched her narrowly, wondering if she would flinch, but her chin came up instead.

“Whatever you say, master,” she said. “And whoring for you - how much is that to be worth?”

Jeremiah felt as if he had been kicked in the groin, but he managed to keep his face still and answered her level. “I have no taste for whores, my dear Garnet. That is why I married you.”

“How much am I worth then, being your wife?” she demanded. “Does it raise the value of my services?”

“Such services are worth nothing,” he said. “I will not sleep with whores and you, my dear, are forever reminding me that you are not, in fact, my wife.”

“But I am,” she said. “You married me.”

“I gave you a ring, which you valued so lightly that you let it fall prey to whatever scoundrel might take it out of the dust. It was my mother’s ring, Garnet, given to her by my father as a token of their love. He had it from his mother, and so on, far away through the generations. While you wore that ring you were my wife. By tossing it aside you have demonstrated your contempt for me and for all my works. And so your body is nothing to me at all. I’ll not be using it.”

“But - ” She flushed suddenly, and seemed about to argue.

He could bear it no longer. He felt sick to his soul, so he lashed out at her. “Let it be, Garnet! Suffice it to say I want you as little as you want me. And your first task, after you have made up the fire, is to help me cut timber for a new slab hut.”

If pressed, young Frederick Byrne might have said he lived down by the creek with his old gran, an Irishwoman whose speech was redolent of the bogs and whose short black pipe was an villainous as any sailor’s. It would have been more to the point if Frederick had said he lived everywhere - or nowhere. Certainly he slept sometimes at the old woman’s hut, but she was inclined to give him the wet end of a green rope at times, so he was adept at not wearing out his welcome.

Frederick was an expert at self-preservation; he could toady with the best of them and often did, holding horses for coppers and doing the pretty for benevolent ladies who stopped to offer him buns. Knowledge was power to Frederick, and he peeped and pried to good effect, often garnering bits of loot from the caches of various thieves and bushrangers with whom he was acquainted. He was very proud of his brothers; much prouder than their few exploits warranted, and when a reward for their capture was pinned to the wall of the lock-up he fairly burst with reflected glory.

If he ever reached fourteen, and was a man grown, they had promised to let him ride with them - as soon as he had the guineas to buy a horse. Naturally, he could steal one, but horse-thieving was a dangerous business, and could get you hanged. Besides, he had in mind just the kind of horse he wanted; a proud black with a white blaze like the one he had held for a selector once. Frederick’s only fault was a magpie habit of admiring his treasures at every opportunity. His gran was too short-sighted to notice, but his brothers would cuff him and take the baubles away. Even worse was their new associate, a man named Jacky Harbord, whom Frederick, for all his pride and courage, really feared. Harbord, he felt, might gut him one day, just as he might gut a chicken, and for less reason.

A week or so after he had taken the ring the red-haired lady had dropped in the dust, he drew it out to admire the delicate patterns. The serpent head intrigued him, and the sparkling blue eye seemed to wink at him. His gran was away, buying tobacco, so it should have been safe if Harbord had not dropped by, mounted on his crazy plunging bay.

“And what have you got here, boy?” asked Harbord. He dismounted, struck the horse across the rump and lifted the ring neatly from Frederick’s palm.

The winter sunlight caught the shiny pink scar that marred his cheek and closed and puckered his left eye. Frederick nearly choked with envy. He wanted that scar, and had almost determined to use a hot poker to get one.

“A ring, Mester Harbord,” he said.

Harbord clouted him across the head, then roughly steadied his bay. “Mr. Green, boy, and don’t you forget it...” He slipped the ring in his pocket. “I’ll take that.”

“But it’s mine!” objected Frederick. He felt bold today, for Harbord was almost affable. “It came off the young lady they all thought was a lad. Red hair she had, and she was wearing ducks. Mester Worthing was real cut up when old lady Babbage took her up.” He grinned at the memory. “She was right blowin’ her top, was the lady, callin’ Mester Worthing all sorts o’ things.”

Harbord looked thoughtful. “Right blowing her top, was she? Tell me, boy, did she speak like a lady born? Lah-di-dah?”

“Once she forgot to talk like a lad she did...” Frederick laughed, primmed his mouth and prepared to put on a show. He was an excellent mimic. “My good man - that’s what she called Mester Worthing, see - My good man. I ‘ave come to this place to do business. Since you are not willing to oblige a lady, I ‘ave not choice but to take my custom h’elsewhere!”

Harbord applauded lazily. “You should be doin’ the halls, boy. And you say this lady went with old Ma Babbage?”

Frederick nodded. “C’n I have my snake ring back?” he asked boldly.

Harbord laughed. “You’ll be lucky.”

“But it’s mine! I found it in the dust!”

Harbord took out the ring and examined it. He could not remember Garnet Landis ever wearing anything like it, but it was an expensive ring. If she had had it recently, it argued that she might also have other things belonging to Edward Landis. The things he had sought to protect, perhaps. The minx must have stolen them away, the Landis guineas, and spent one on that ring!

“Tellee what,” he said casually, “you find out where that young lady is now. I know her, see, and would like to see her again. We were mighty close, once.” He chuckled, as if pleased with the thought. “Do that, and I’ll think about giving this back to you. It’s a trumpery thing, after all.”

Frederick frowned. “You could go ask old lady Babbage.”

“Not me, boy, and not you either.” Harbord laughed again, coarsely. “A sprig like you has no business in a place like Babbage’s whorehouse, and she’d have my head off - and maybe a few other choice bits also. No. You just keep your eyes open and tell me if you see her round the place. Be still, damn you!” This last was to his bay, which had shied suddenly as someone dropped a pannikin over by the fire.

Chapter 7.

Garnet could hardly believe Jeremiah meant it, but over the next week, as the new hut took shape, she came to realise he did. Garnet was exhausted at the end of every day. At first, she worked just a few hours at a time, awkwardly trimming the branches from the logs Jeremiah felled. As she recuperated from her ordeal and grew stronger, she did more, steadying the logs as her husband built them into walls, bracing them as he drove in the sharpened stakes which would support them. The roof was laid from great slabs of heavy bark axed from the larger logs, or, sometimes, from living trees.

“The Aborigines take pieces of bark to fashion into canoes,” Jeremiah told her, dashing the sweat from his forehead. “So long as the bark is taken from but half the tree it will take no harm. It is only ring-barking that will stop the sap and kill the thing entirely.”

Vines, which he called “lianas,” were used to bind the bark into position; the tough green fibrous things had to be stretched and tied down with pegs. As they dried they would shrink a little, rendering the bark quite rain-proof. Cracks in the wall were caulked using clay from the creek bed, and a door was fashioned from heavy kangaroo hide.

All the while, Garnet continued to sleep in the three-roomed house, and Jeremiah to occupy the lean-to. The new hut was situated at the far side of the clearing, some four hundred yards away from cook-fire and creek, but Garnet did not complain. She told herself she was glad to be rid of his presence in the night. And perhaps, he would act the gentleman and leave her to occupy the established house while moving into the new small hut himself.

She was quickly disillusioned.

Jeremiah hammered in the final precious nail that pinned the hide to the wooden frame, then fetched two stout poles about six feet long. He reared these up on their ends, and jerked his head to Garnet. “Come and stand between them.”

Puzzled, she did so, and he nicked the poles six inches or so from the tops. Garnet stared at him, her face growing warm as she realised her body was reacting to his nearness. After her experience with “Smith” she would have sworn she could not have borne the touch of a man, let alone find herself longing for it, but the clean, outdoor scent of Jeremiah’s skin, the film of perspiration on his forehead, even the familiar cut of his workaday cotton shirt made her suddenly yearn to feel his arms around her, to have his hands as rough and urgent as they had been on the day he rescued her from her luxurious prison.

Horrified, she pushed the thought aside, biting the inside of her cheek to distract herself from his nearness.

“You may move now,” he said sardonically, and she realised she had been standing like a stick.

“What’s that?” she asked. Her voice trembled with reaction. “Are you making me a gibbet? If so, I warn, my feet will trail on the ground...”

Her attempt at humour fell flat, for he simply shook his head. “You’ve done nothing to warrant execution, Garnet - not that I know of, anyway. This is for your bed.” He laid the poles together, then pushed them a yard apart and cut notches close to either end, trimming shorter poles to fit. “I leave it to you to make your mattress,” he said coolly. “You may use meal-sacks from the lean-to, or some of the kangaroo hides. Cut slits in the sacks and thread them on the shorter poles - or else you will have to stitch the hides. You may then choose to add dried fern or twigs as I have done, or sleep in the stretcher as it is. I am told the result resembles a sailor’s hammock, but also that it is much more stable.”

He grasped the shorter spars and tested them to see if the fit were snug enough, then took up his axe and chisel and turned away.

Garnet swallowed. “Shall I do that now?” she asked.

“Please yourself. But remember, any work designed to add to your own comfort cannot be said to count to the payment of your debt to me.”

She drew in a long, shaky breath at this brutality, and found her fingernails were biting into her palms. The sharp pain, familiar from her nights as his bed partner, brought on another surge of awareness, and she felt tears prickling her eyes at the hopelessness of her situation.

“Oh, I can see I’ll never be free of you!” she cried passionately. “A full week I have been slaving, and now you tell me it counts for nothing, simply because the hut is for my own habitation! Why do you not sleep in this? That way it could be said to benefit you!”

“I am too tall for the bed and too tall for the roof,” said Jeremiah coolly.

She was angry with herself for failing to notice this.

“You did it on purpose!” she flashed. “You built this hut so it would be of use to no one taller than I!”

“Naturally!” he said. “To make it taller would have required more logs and longer labour. Why should I be so wasteful? And why should I move from the house when I am a permanent resident and you will be off as soon as ever you can?”

This logic was unassailable, so Garnet ground her teeth and left it alone. At least her fury had cleansed her of the unseemly desire for the arms of her captor. He had stepped away and was watching her narrowly.

“I shall do it later,” she said. “And before I do, I wish to know the comparative value of meal-sacks and kangaroo hide. No doubt you will set the cost against my labour.”

“No,” he said. “You were right about room and board. If you had offered to sleep in the lean-to, there would have been no hut to build. You may take what you need - but be sure the sacks you choose are leaky already, and that the hides have powder-burns. They will do just as well as those that are whole, and will not be missed.”

Garnet found her hands were wet with perspiration. She dried them angrily on her fustian trousers. “What shall I do now, sir?” she asked, letting her bitterness colour her tone.

“You may mend the fire and see to our dinner; after that, you may move such supplies as you need into your own quarters.”

“But - ” She was perplexed.

“Flour and meat, tea and turnips, Garnet. Take some limes and a cabbage as well. There is the older billy-can, and the second pan, a knife and one of the pannikins.”

“But - am I not to cook and skivvy for you?”

For a moment, his expression cut her like a whip, then the shutters came down. “No, Garnet. That is the point of building your own hut so far from mine. You will shift for yourself, and so shall I. By the terms of our agreement, I shall continue to provide you with the wherewithal for living, but as time goes by I shall expect you to make some push to provide for yourself. The ground is ploughed, you may set seeds there.”

“If I am not to work for you, how shall I ever redeem the debt?” she asked.

“You will continue to work for me, Garnet,” he assured her. “You will assist me in much of the work on the selection, but you will no longer skivvy for me.” He surveyed her grimly. “You scarcely look like a skivvy in those garments. You scarcely look like a woman at all.”

“I have no gowns, so how could I look like a woman!” she cried, aghast at his injustice.

“And whose fault is that? You chose to throw away the one you had, you chose to go about Sydney dressed as a man.”

“You said you would buy me cloth...”

“So I did.” His eyes were narrowed so they appeared to be almost closed. All she could see was the gleam of a slight gray rim between his heavy lids.

“And so?”

“I would have clad you with pleasure,” he said heavily, “but what did I find on my return from town? I found you had fled, leaving Father Timothy to blame himself for your flight.”

“He was not to blame!”

“Of course he was not! I had not told him to act the warder; why should I? How could I? He has been my life-long friend; more of a father to me than my own ever was. How, then, could I tell him my wife, wed barely ten weeks to me, would have none of me, liked me so little she would liefer flee to Sydney and live a life of penury or worse than stay at Gold’s Kingdom as my helpmeet and love!”

He must have heard her gasp of astonishment, or perhaps he was astonished at the words that had fallen from his own lips, for his eyes opened suddenly wide before he turned on his heel and headed blindly away into the bush.

Having received no other orders, Garnet drearily began to furnish her hut. She took the offered meal sacks and, after a little experimentation, made them into a tolerable mattress. She had little idea of the right kinds of boughs for bedding, so she left it bare. She needed a blanket, and she recalled Jeremiah telling her there were only two, so she set about searching for the black valise that Edward had given Jeremiah in mistake for the one containing her own effects. The heavy driving coat, no matter how mothy, would be better than nothing. She supposed it would be better to unpick it; if it was generously cut there might be sufficient cloth left over to fashion herself a skirt.

The fustian trousers were certainly practical wear, but they were very ugly, and Jeremiah’s assessment of her charms when clad in them had cut her to the quick. She did not like to examine her motives for feeling that way. Heaven knew she did not want to act as a skivvy, but still, it hurt to know that her husband - who was not even a gentleman born - held her in such distaste that he no longer wanted her to serve him and cook his food.

And yet, he had spoken of love!

Garnet had not seen the black valise since the day she had arrived. She knew it was not in the house, and she had investigated the lean-to quite thoroughly while helping Jeremiah put away the first lot of stores. The only place left - if her husband had not disposed of the shabby bag - was the underground cellar. She wondered if she should ask permission to search, but after all, the thing was hers by right. It had belonged to Edward Landis and since his death, she supposed it belonged to her. If there had been a son, or a nephew it would have been different, but if there had been a suitable male heir old Mrs. Landis would not have been so mercilessly determined that Garnet should bear a child. Perhaps there was a male heir whom Mrs. Landis had not considered suitable? But no, decided Garnet. That could not be so, for old Mrs. Landis had not been mealy mouthed and would have been certain to have expressed her disapproval.

Rather mournfully, she wondered why she was troubling herself with these considerations. If she had not balked at what she had then considered a bigamous marriage, why should she worry about the rights of a possible male heir now? It would be more sensible to worry about what Jeremiah might think if he found her down in the cellar.

To reach the underground place, she had to enter the second room of Jeremiah’s dwelling. This room had a heavy timber floor, and in the middle, beneath a possum skin rug, was a trapdoor. Garnet had seldom been inside the cellar, finding it rather claustrophobic, but Jeremiah had spent quite some time digging it out, supporting it with heavy beams and lining it with sheets of flat bark, carrying off the earth from the hole so as to leave no tell-tale pile.

Inside, he kept a sack of potatoes which he wished to keep from greening, and a selection of other stores. Garnet had once asked why these were not in the lean-to with the bulk of the supplies, but Jeremiah had told her these represented his insurance against disaster. “If bushrangers come, or hostile Aborigines, they might take or destroy the stores; this way, we would have sufficient to keep us until we could make a push to restore our fortunes.”

As well as foodstuffs, there was a musket and ammunition, a flask of brandy, a spare tinderflint and lantern, oil, a bolt of canvas and some other stuffs against the wall. It was dark, even with the heavy trap-door propped above, and even though Garnet waited a while to allow her eyes to accustom themselves to the dimness. She felt among the things stacked in the corner, and almost at once her fingers brushed something that felt like muslin. She drew out a little from the bolt and rubbed it between her fingers; it was muslin, and the stuff beside it was heavy worsted cloth.

So Jeremiah had bought the cloth in Sydney. He had bought it and fetched it back to Gold’s Kingdom, but he had not given it to her. Instead, he had forced her to choose between a degrading penitent’s robe and the clothing of a poor bush worker. He had provided her with boots, but that, no doubt, was simply to get more work from her. A person wearing boots could walk more surely and carry more load than someone forced to pick a barefoot way through the thorns, stakes and vicious biting ants. So - he had given her boots, but not the means to dress herself becomingly - or even decently. She wondered if she should confront him with the unfairness of this, but why should she give him the satisfaction? He might give her the cloth, but he would undoubtedly make her pay for it in work or humiliation.

Better to stay as she was.

Bypassing more bolts of cloth, she moved on to the corner where the bark lining ceased and the raw earth wall began. And there, tumbled behind a barrel and a broken crate, and an oilskin bundle, she found the valise.

Suddenly dry-mouthed in case Jeremiah discovered her in the cellar, Garnet unstrapped the valise and dragged out the driving coat. She hung the heavy garment over her arm and scrambled out through the trap-door, letting it fall with a thud behind her. She kicked the possum-skin rug back into place, and left the house, sighing heavily with relief as she realised she had been unobserved. Though why she should feel guilty when it was Jeremiah who was behaving so brutishly, she could not have said. She was his wife, and he had never forbidden her the cellar.

She had no time to remodel the driving coat just then, or for some days more, for her husband returned shortly after and ordered her to work. By nightfall she was so tired and aching, all she could do was strip and crawl onto her stretcher bed, dragging the heavy coat to cover her. It was not, after all, her only source of warmth; Jeremiah had left her one of the blankets and a possum-skin rug.

The work went on, hard and lonely labour, for Jeremiah, having said she was not to skivvy for him, seemed determined she was to have no company, either. Each day he would set her to work, watch to see she could do the task, then stalk off to his wood-cutting and ploughing. This was proceeding slowly, for the growth of timber was heavy and the stumps left behind were hard to move. It was a never-ending task, for stock needed pasture, pasture needed fencing, and the wood for fences had to be taken from the land itself.

Jeremiah was no happier with their situation than Garnet. He spent as little time as possible in her company, for to see her and hear her, to watch her movements, lithe or awkward according to the state of her muscles and the task concerned, made him feel cold and hollow inside. He was a man of straw, he told himself, chilled and battered by every wind of fortune. He had always been proud of his ability to take decisions and hold to them, but now he seemed stubborn where he should have been pliant, and vacillating where he should have held firm.

Several times he had to rise from his cook-fire and physically turn himself away to keep from going to her, from...well, from what he wasn’t certain. From pleading for another chance? From demanding to know how she had enjoyed whoring for Ma Babbage’s gentlemen clients? From ordering her back to his hearth, back to his bed, as his wife? The four hundred yards between their habitations should have been sufficient, but he seemed always to catch sight of her from the corner of his eye. He would hear her awkwardly hacking up logs, and see her struggling to draw water from the creek, then carrying it past his home to reach her own fireside.

He avoided her when he could, but then came the day he could no longer do so. Much of the wood had been cut from the new pasture, but stubborn stumps remained which he would need her help to move. He was a capable horsemaster, but he could not direct and encourage Atlas and lever up a reluctant stump at the same time.

He almost approached her at breakfast time, but when she slanted an inquiring look at him, he turned away and headed blindly for the stockyard where he gave Atlas and King Cole a wholly undeserved and unnecessary measure of grain. Milady, who was swelling rapidly with her latest calf, lurched to her feet and bustled over to join the horses at their banquet. Jeremiah stared at them for a moment. Was he less than a horse or a cow, that he could not simply go and take what he wanted? It seemed that he was. He could not ask her favours, he could not even ask her help. He went on with such make-work as he could before finally capitulating two hours later.

Garnet was cutting kindling when her husband came stalking through the scrub and ordered her abruptly to put the heavy collar on Atlas. Surprised, she complied, then led the friendly beast to the new pasture Jeremiah was clearing. She had not been there for some time, for she tended to avoid watching him at work if she could.

“I need to hitch him to that stump,” said Jeremiah shortly when she arrived. “I have dug around the roots, but the thing seems set in iron.”

“You could burn it out, perhaps,” suggested Garnet. “Or blow it up with the powder.” Then he would not need her help.

“One would take too long, the other is costly and dangerous.” Jeremiah’s mouth set in a grim line. “Fetch Atlas here.”

Garnet watched as he hitched the trace to the great stump, and wondered why he had not felled the tree on level with the ground. But perhaps the angle would have been impossible for axe or cross-cut saw, and a great stepping-stone-like round of stump might well have broken the plough at some future date. Jeremiah was right. It had to come out.

“Lead him forward,” commanded her husband, and Garnet tugged gently on the great horse’s halter.

Atlas stepped up willingly, and Garnet saw him leaning his shoulders into the collar, not panicking at the heavy drag on his harness as a lesser horse might have done. She patted him, encouraging him with soft words of praise.

“Do not distract the beast!” snapped Jeremiah. He thrust a crowbar among the roots of the stump and levered until the muscles stood out along his arms and shoulders and the veins shone dark in his neck.

“I have heard you talking to him as he works,” retorted Garnet.

Jeremiah made a mighty heave. For a moment, Garnet thought the stump had given way, but then she saw the bulk of it was still in place. The crowbar had broken through the mass of roots, unbalancing Jeremiah so he fell ungracefully to one knee.

He remained in that position for a few seconds, panting heavily, then he got up and dusted down his trousers. His eyes met Garnet’s, and he gave a sudden, rueful smile. “You are right, of course,” he said. “Most beasts do better if their efforts are appreciated. Let him rest a moment, then we shall try again. Talk to him all you wish.”

Garnet nodded. There had been an odd tone in her husband’s voice; almost, he had apologised for snapping at her. She couldn’t think why his attitude had changed even so little, but she felt her own depression lighten. If she had to spend the next few weeks with Jeremiah Gold, she would much rather he was civil than forever snarling and blistering her with his words.

The stump would not come out. Despite Atlas’s strength and willing work, and Jeremiah’s repeated efforts with the crowbar and a pick, the great thing remained lodged in the soil like a reluctant molar in its socket.

“If I had know it would prove so obstinate, and if it had been in good heart, I would have left it to grow,” said Jeremiah, his chest heaving with his exertions. “A tree in the pasture would not have looked so bad.”

“This one was dead anyway, was it not?” said Garnet.

He looked at her grimly. “Lightning strike,” he agreed. “Or perhaps it was ring-barked. In any case, it could have come down at any time.”

“Down, but not out,” suggested Garnet.

Jeremiah gave an angry snort of laughter. “Yes. It would have snapped one day at head-height, or beyond, falling across the pasture, and leaving a jagged stump in any case.” He took up the pick and attacked the ground once more, driving the pointed tip deep among the tough fibrous roots. “At this rate - I shall be here - till Christmas,” he panted. “Have Atlas try once more.”

Atlas tried, but the stump remained in place. Jeremiah flexed his aching shoulders, wiping an earthy hand across his face. The brown streaks mingled with his perspiration to make him resemble a painted savage, but somehow he did not look ridiculous. He let the pick fall and came forward to take Atlas in hand, rubbing the great arched neck and crooning to him. “Not your fault, my fine friend...it would take a team of bullocks to draw this tooth from its socket.” He rubbed a finger against the damp patches sweat had made on the horse’s nose and about its eyes, then glanced at Garnet. “Unhitch him; he deserves a rest.”

“Should I take him back to the stockyard?”

“No - let him be. He will do well enough.”

Garnet did as she was told, and watched with mild pleasure as the big horse, itching with sweat, lowered himself with a snort and rolled in the plough before heaving to his feet, snorting loudly again and ambling off towards the creek.

Jeremiah, brows lowered, stared at the stump as if seeking inspiration. “Better try blasting it out,” he said.

“Why not burn it?”

“I told you - it would take too long, and besides, a charge well-laid is quickly over. A fire must be tended for days, and a steady column of smoke may alert bushrangers that we are here.”

Garnet opened her mouth to object that the cook-fires produced smoke, then closed it again, remembering the fires were kept low. She supposed it would be difficult to control the rate of a smoldering stump. “There seem to be no bushrangers around here,” she remarked.

Jeremiah shook his head irritably. “I’ll get the powder to lay the charge. Take the crowbar and widen the hole, then see if you can make three more like it at intervals around the stump.”

Garnet took the crowbar and began to prod it into the earth. It was lucky it was winter, thought Jeremiah as he went to fetch the gunpowder. If he had waited until summer to remove these stumps the ground would have been brick-hard.

He wondered why Garnet was working so diligently. Since their confrontation over the new hut, nearly two weeks before, she seemed more settled; presumably she was relieved at this proof that he had no more interest in claiming his connubial rights. He thought a little bitterly of the cloth he had meant to give her as soon as the proper opportunity arose. Now he realised this might never come, for what if she thought his gift of printed cotton was intended as a hint that she should make herself look more attractive? She was too damned attractive as it was, even in shabby fustian.

For the five hundredth time since their stormy wedding night, Jeremiah cursed the impulse that had set him on the road to his present miserable situation. It had been better when he was alone. At least he had not had to face the constant daily temptation of a woman’s presence. A woman he had wanted from the start, and who appealed to him still despite all the reasons he could marshal to persuade himself that she should not. But he must not waste time thinking of that now. He must continue to work, making up for the time lost in seeking Garnet, and in building the new hut. He must finish lining the cellar and put more supplies there for safety; that task should have priority, but he had saved it for a time when the weather might be too bad for ploughing.

He thought about the Sydney Herald, of the mocking news item that had led him to the whorehouse on George Street. He had had no trouble recognising his wife in the “veritable flame-haired Venus posing as a Ganymede,” and no trouble recognising Ma Babbage in the “female person well-known to the constable, Mr. Worthing.” The attempted pawning of the gold ring had clinched the matter.

The rescue had been simple enough; he had fetched Garnet away to Father Timothy’s, and while he had waited, fretting and simmering, for his wife to wake, he had perused the rest of the news. The cost of the services of the high caste Arab horse Abu might have raised his brows if he had not been so troubled, the number of cattle impounded also. Proof that some settlers had taken on livestock without first seeing to their fencing?

Public notices, courts of bequest - his eye had fastened on an account of one Jacky Harbord, wanted for the murder of a gentleman, lately his employer, who had escaped the custody of his jailers while traveling to the court. It had originally been thought that the miscreant Harbord might have taken shelter with the widow of his victim, with whom he was reputedly on peculiarly good terms, and whose whereabouts was still unknown. More recently, however, it had been rumoured that said Harbord had been seen in the company of the gang of bushrangers known collectively as the “Byrnes.”

Harbord was said to be a stalwart, somewhat thick-set man with heavy shoulders, one good eye and a scarred visage, this scar described as a burn from a poker or branding iron. The man rode a raking bay horse and was known to be dangerous...

At the time, this piece of news had seemed curiously unimportant beside his own personal troubles, but later he had had the time to reflect that Dermot and Dan Byrne and their cousins, while not excessively violent, were both simple and heedless. If they had taken up with Harbord, they might well become more dangerous. Harbord had the ruthlessness and intelligence they lacked and would find it easy to use them to his own ends.

From his own knowledge of Harbord’s situation and character, Jeremiah had had little trouble identifying the gentleman murdered on his way to the docks; as for the missing lady, it could only be Garnet. And while he had no suspicion that she had been in any way involved in her husband’s death, he did wonder if Harbord had some hold over her. The fact that both had recently-acquired burn scars seemed singularly suspicious. Had Harbord been responsible for Garnet’s injury? It seemed unlikely, since the man was scarred (apparently in a worse but similar fashion) himself. Could Landis have suspected some liaison between the pair and branded both of them? That seemed even more unlikely, yet Harbord had turned murderer!

It was shocking, but scarcely surprising when Jeremiah considered it. The man had been unsteady forever, and it had long been rumoured that he had some kind of hold over his weak-willed master. There was even the occasional suggestion that the two were homosexual lovers, but that had been largely discounted since Harbord had always had such a lusty reputation with women.

Harbord had not been in evidence when Landis had sold his wife; perhaps he had been turned off, or perhaps there was some uglier reason for his strike against his master. Could he have discovered the sale, and been angered by the news? But surely such a man would have thought a matter of wife-selling a very good joke...unless he had coveted the woman for himself.

Whatever the truth of the matter, Jeremiah felt uneasy at the possibility of Harbord’s ever encountering Garnet again. Perhaps he should warn her of her former husband’s murder and his murderer’s escape - but if there had ever been any attachment between them, who was to say she would not set out to search for him?

Having decided not to mention Harbord’s present company to his wife, he must now take every step to ensure the two did not meet. In any case the risk seemed low, for Harbord could not know of Garnet’s whereabouts, nor of her second marriage, and Gold’s Kingdom held little else to entice a gang of bushrangers into a visit.

Scowling, Jeremiah fetched the gunpowder and his tinderflint. He returned to the stump where Garnet had made little headway in enlarging the pockets in which he would pack the charges.

“Give that to me,” he said, more abruptly than he intended, and she gave him the crowbar, watching silently as he finished the task and bent to pack the cavities with the powder. He then joined the charges by means of short powder-trails leading to a ring like the spokes of a wheel, and laid a longer trail across the rough-hewn ground. “Stay back,” he ordered Garnet, then bent and lit the fuse.

He moved quickly back to stand by Garnet as the small flame snaked and sizzled along the ground. It seemed to pause on the rim of the stump hole, then divided and described a ragged circle, the rim of the wheel, before following the spokes to their inner seats. Typically, Jeremiah saw the great shrug of the explosion a split second before he heard it; Garnet gave a muffled squeak - of surprise, he thought with sudden approval, not of fear. The stump came reluctantly from its cavity, and lay upended on the surface of the ground.

“Atlas?” said Garnet when the sound had finished echoing round the hills. “Will he be afraid?”

“He has heard it before,” said Jeremiah. “There are two or three other ones that look stubborn; I might as well blast those as well, then you can hitch him up again and he can drag them out of the way.”

It took longer to blow the other stumps, for they had not been undermined by earlier digging. It was an hour later that Jeremiah, sweating and aching, finished seating the last charge and watched the stumps erupt from the ground.

“Fetch Atlas,” he said to Garnet. “He is probably with King Cole and Milady.”

She left briskly enough, but returned without the horse. “King Cole is in the stockyard and Milady under the big tree, but I could not find Atlas. I called for him.”

He had heard her calling, and frowned.

“Are you sure the explosion would not have startled him?” she asked tentatively.

“I have told you - he has heard the sound before and been quite unworried.”

She shrugged. “I’ll look again.”

She was off before he could comment, and presently he heard her hailing him from the water hole. He needed a wash in any case, so he headed in that direction, but then her voice came again, and the tone warned him of disaster. He broke into a stumbling run, for now he could hear splashing and cries from Garnet, and by the time he reached the creek he had realised what he would find.

Atlas, his gentle, splendidly willing giant of a horse, was down in the water, thrashing about like a stranded whale, his hooves beating the bank, his great head swinging repeatedly to his distended side. Garnet was in the water also, her clothing drenched, her red hair dripping as she fought to hold the horse’s head. Atlas was jerking her back and forth as a fish is jerked on a line; it was clear that the poor beast was both deaf and blind to anything but the terrible pain in his belly.

“Jeremiah! Help me!” cried Garnet, and even in the extremity of the moment, he realised that it was almost the first time she had ever addressed him by his given name. “Is he poisoned?” she panted. “Has he been hurt?” Atlas heaved again, and Garnet fell, still clinging to the head-collar.

“Get out of the way!” cried Jeremiah. “You’ll be hurt...” He pushed her aside, and was aware of her sobbing as she dragged herself out of the creek. Perhaps the horse had kicked her; a random blow from one of those hooves could crack or shatter a bone as easily as he would snap a dry twig in his fingers.

He was much heavier than Garnet, but Jeremiah found himself thrown about as helplessly as his wife had been. “Fetch the heavy rope if you can!” he cried, and Garnet scrambled farther up the bank. When he glanced up she had gone, so he supposed she was unhurt.

She was back in a short while, but it seemed an age to Jeremiah. He was too blown to thank her, but he seized the rope and knotted it securely to the head-collar Atlas still wore. He tossed the other end up the bank and nodded towards a gum tree that overshadowed the creek. Incredibly, Garnet seemed to understand. She passed the free end of the rope around the trunk, then began to pull. The rope drew taut, but she had not the strength to manage more than that. Jeremiah floundered up to her, pushed her aside again and seized the rope. He took a turn around his own body, and began to haul, using the tree-trunk to gain leverage. His eyes glazed with the effort, and it took a moment before he realised his wife had joined him, dragging at the tense strands of rope in front of him. She seemed to give that up after a while, apparently unable to gain purchase on the rope, but then she was behind him, her arms wrapped around his waist, hands clasped, her breasts pressed against his straining back. He was aware of her boots, sliding in the churned-up mud, of her heavy panting breath.

Whether her efforts made the difference or not, the rope began to inch around the tree. Unable to swing his head and neck, Atlas went still, and the water buoyed him up. Finally, his head, shoulders and front hooves were on the bank. His back legs were still kicking aimlessly and he was groaning. Jeremiah fastened off the rope with a quick highwayman’s hitch and Garnet abruptly dropped her arms and backed away.

“Fetch the whip,” he said.

“What?”

“The whip!”

Shooting him a furious glance, she stumbled off, to return with the rawhide carriage whip. Jeremiah took it, breathed in deeply to steady himself, then slashed it hard and fast across the labouring horse’s quarters.

Atlas quivered, snorting painfully.

Jeremiah steadied himself and slashed his horse again, but as he raised his arm for a third blow, Garnet flew at him and dragged his elbow down.

“How can you!” she cried hysterically. “How can you be so cruel, so wicked!” She slapped him hard across the face.

Jeremiah set his teeth. “Do you want him to die?” he demanded.

“No!”

“Then let me save him - you little fool.”

Ignoring his stinging cheek, he swung the lash again. Blood started out from the weal on Atlas’s gray quarters, and he gave an equine scream and a sudden lunge. Jeremiah dropped the whip and hauled on the rope, calling encouragement. The horse lunged again, and then, miraculously, he was on the bank, staggering and snorting distressfully, his nostrils wide and reddened, his eyes rolling with shock and suspicion as well as pain.

Jeremiah dragged up the slack of the rope and knotted it again, then, when it seemed likely the horse would remain standing, he released it with a quick tweak. Sliding in the churned-up surface, he stepped forward, commanding the horse to follow. “Get the whip,” he said to Garnet. “If he tries to lie down, hit him. Hit him as hard as ever you can.”

“I - ”

“If he goes down again, it will probably kill him.”

She gave a sob of denial, but she must have picked up the whip, for when Atlas, overcome once more by the terrible pain in his gut, tried to throw himself down, Jeremiah heard the feeble crack of the leather meeting hide.

“Harder!” he commanded.

The next crack was more definite, but so were the sobs behind it.

For two hours the dreadful procession staggered about the clearing, the great horse walking almost easily one moment, then overtaken by a spasm of pain the next. The whip cracked, the horse groaned and shuddered, Jeremiah’s feet were rubbed raw by his wet boots. How Garnet was faring in her newer, less yielding pair, he had no time to ask, but when he glanced at her later he found she had discarded them.

The end did not come quickly, but gradually the spasms decreased in intensity and the periods of calm grew longer. Finally, when they were all close to dropping, Jeremiah called a halt.

He stroked Atlas’s neck remorsefully, and felt doubly chastened when the great horse swung round to nudge his arm.

Garnet was leaning against a tree, her eyes half closed, her face swollen with crying, her long hair hanging in half-dried hanks. “What was it?” she asked in an empty voice.

“Colic.” Jeremiah was surprised she hadn’t known, that he hadn’t told her. Surely she had asked before...

“Colic?” She sounded astounded, as well she might. “But - Papa had colic, often and often. He took bicarbonate of soda or bismuth...”

“Colic in horses is much more dangerous,” said Jeremiah. “Their pain is bad, and they fling themselves down, as you saw. Sometimes their - er - their internal pipes rupture.”

“Has he ever had it before?”

“No,” he said, then added bitterly; “but then, I have never over-fed him before, then followed the corn with hard, heavy work and a too-great indulgence in cold water. He must have gone straight to the water hole when you loosed him, then drunk until he swelled up like a great balloon.”

“Then it’s my fault.”

“No, Garnet,” he said wearily. “It is mine. I knew about colic. You did not. And the poor beast could not be blamed. But now I trust you see why it was necessary to beat him so sorely? The pain of the whip had to be great enough to break through the other, to force him to try for his feet. Had it been King Cole, I could have yoked him with Atlas to keep him walking, but in this case Atlas could have brought down King Cole as well.”

His face stung, and he lifted a hand to touch his cheekbone. She had struck him again, but she had come through when he needed her. When Atlas needed her. “Go and put on something dry,” he said. “I shall stay with Atlas a while longer.”

She opened her mouth to say something then visibly changed her mind, and limped off towards the new hut. It seemed only a few minutes later that she was back, clad once more in the penitent’s robe which she had girded up with a piece of hide. Her hair was unbound, she had cleaned the mud from her face, but she still presented a woeful sight. In her hands were two steaming pannikins. She stopped an arms length away from him, looking a little apprehensive, then held out one of the mugs. “I made you some tea.”

Jeremiah would rather have had a stiff tot of brandy or rum, but he took the mug and thanked her. He swallowed a scalding mouthful and felt a little better. “You need more clothing,” he said abruptly. “You seem forever bound to souse, lose, or otherwise cast away or ruin your garments.”

“I know,” she said. “My nurse - when I was small - had many strictures on the subject. I can recall her homilies even now.”

“There are some bolts of worsted and other stuffs in the cellar,” he said, his gaze studiously on the vapour that rose from his tea. “If you have time, you might be able to use them to contrive something suitable.”

Garnet could never be certain just what it was that first made her soften towards Jeremiah. His treatment of her remained brusque and impersonal, but whenever she came close to screaming at him for some harshness or injustice, she would find herself remembering other moments, sudden kindliness, chances he had had to crush her utterly, but which he had allowed to slip by.

He had warned her never to strike him again, but she had done so. The bruise stood clear and purple on his cheek for days, blackening his eye, but he never mentioned it. He had beaten poor Atlas unmercifully, but in the days that followed he smoothed salve into the weals. The stumps, which he had been in such a hurry to remove, were left to lie while the horse regained his health and spirits.

She had taken him at his word about the cloth, and had visited the cellar again, openly this time, with a lantern. There she had found the blue and green worsted, the muslin, and, surprisingly, a pretty printed cotton. She thought he had bought it for her, but concluded sadly that, as it had been bought for his wife, she had no right to it now she was nothing but a servant.

If only she had not run away. Over the long evening hours as she sat alone in her hut painfully stitching the green worsted skirt, she would sometimes find herself replaying that fateful visit to Father Timothy. If she had her time over again, she would have remained in the hut with the old man, drinking tea, and then perhaps wandered around his small-holding, admiring the contented animals and his little patch of garden.

She might have asked him about Sister Joseph, the absent nun whom he seemed to hold in respect and affection. Most of all, she might have asked him about Jeremiah, whom he had obviously known for many years. She might have spent that evening learning more about her husband’s forebears, in drinking broth and perhaps making Father Timothy a proper damper. Instead, she had run off, duping the old man and enraging Jeremiah. The whole sorry adventure had cost her a great deal; her wedding ring, her remaining innocence, humiliation and terror and, it seemed, any chance of rebuilding the life she might have had.

The only thing she had gained was the knowledge (if “Smith” were to be believed) that Edward Landis was dead, and that her marriage to Jeremiah was most probably valid. The only thing - except - but for a good while Garnet stubbornly shut out the other thing she had gained from “Smith.” What was the point in brewing misery for herself?

The skirt was done at last, and a bodice begun. The set of the sleeves troubled Garnet exceedingly, so she gave up any notion of fashion and made them into simple tubes, cutting them short to end at her elbows. Such sleeves might be considered indecent, if worn without long gloves, but Garnet never wore gloves any more, and, with her sleeves rolled up to her forearms anyway, it seemed sensible to set them there to start with.

When the gown was done, she tried it on. It seemed raw and rough, but serviceable, so she set to and made another, blue this time, with a shorter skirt, cut wide so she could walk vigorously without tripping over its folds. Trousers were really more practical, but to make a pair was beyond her; she had no pattern and hesitated to open out the seams of the fustian pair she wore every day. These had not been improved by their dunking in cold water; the seams were shrunken and puckered and, once slit, might never cobble together again. Jeremiah and her old nurse were right, she thought sadly. She was really very profligate with her clothes.

She sewed in the evenings alone, she slept alone, and tended her solitary cook-fire. During the day she worked hard for Jeremiah, sometimes alone, sometimes in his company. He was civil enough, but he treated her as if she were a lad, perhaps a rather weak and foolish lad who must be patiently shown his business, again and again. Just so, she thought in frustration, might he have treated an assigned convict had he ever applied for one.

She learned how to chop logs without endangering her feet, she learned how to built a post and rail fence. She knew how to lay a charge of gunpowder, although she had never yet done it, and she knew how to load and fire the musket. Jeremiah shot kangaroos at intervals, for they needed meat and the skins were to be tanned for trading. The crops would be slow to mature, and Jeremiah would not stock the land until he had sufficient pasture and suitable fencing. Garnet skinned the creatures and jerked her share of the meat, then scraped the hides and rubbed them with saltpeter and alum. Steeped wattle bark made good tannent, and her hands were often drawn and wrinkled from the stuff.

Often she would look ruefully down at herself and think she looked the very picture of a settler’s wife. Her stepmother would never recognise her, and as for Prudence! The thought of her stepsister’s appalled face if she could see Garnet now made her smile wearily. She wondered if Martha knew of her Cousin Edward’s death, but concluded that there would not have been time for a ship carrying the news to reach England. No doubt Martha thought of her (if she considered her at all) as Mrs. Edward Landis. No doubt Martha thought her perfectly contented - unless Martha had known Edward’s mama?

The pasture was cleared, albeit roughly, in time for spring-time sowing, and Jeremiah, having no seed-drill, contrived a bag from a hide and filled it with grass seed fetched from Sydney. The sowing went well enough, with Garnet’s help, but he needed more seed, more nails and another pick.

“I need to go to Sydney,” he told Garnet abruptly, one early morning in mid September. The wattle and blackwoods were in blossom, and the air was full of their scent. The sweetness had an odd peppery tang behind it, and Garnet sneezed every now and then.

“I see,” she said warily.

“The problem is,” said Jeremiah, “what am I to do with you? I can scarcely take you with me...”

“No,” said Garnet blankly, “I suppose you cannot. I might run away again. Or do you think I would return to Mrs. Babbage?”

She was very much hurt, and Jeremiah grew cooler still.

“I could leave you here, but then you would be alone, or else you could come and stay with Father Timothy again.”

Garnet, whose face was still stiff with hurt, put down the gruel she was making. “You would trust me to stay with him?”

“Perhaps,” he said. “In any case, Father Tim would be on the alert to be sure you did.”

“I prefer to remain here alone,” she said.

“I prefer you to come with me. Put Atlas in the stockyard. He will do well enough with Milady until we return.”

“You cannot mean we are leaving now!”

“Oh, but I can,” said Jeremiah.

The journey to Sydney was almost entirely silent, and Garnet, who had resumed her bonnet, felt terribly dowdy as they began to meet other conveyances on the road. The wagon lurched along with nothing like the speed or comfort of a gig or a barouche, but she knew such vehicles would have been useless for the rougher part of the journey, just as the gowns of the ladies would have been useless for the work she was forced to do.

In the event, Father Timothy was not at home when they reached his small-holding. King Cole cried out with his highly individual neigh, but there was no answering whinny from Father Timothy’s nag. As they came closer, Garnet saw a notice nailed to a tree at the boundary. This informed all interested persons that the priest was away to fetch his sister in God from the convent where she had been staying, and bade anyone who was weary to take their rest a while and drink from his well before proceeding to Sydney.

Jeremiah seemed disconcerted to find his old friend not at home, and he flicked the looped reins against his knee for a few moments while he considered. Then, without a word to Garnet, he clicked up King Cole and drove on towards the town.

Garnet gazed wide-eyed at the streets of Sydney, smelling the dirt and smoke, the odour of unwashed humanity. She had lived in this world for a while, but now it seemed tiresome and noisy. She kept her head down, dreading the thought that she might see Mrs. Babbage, or even “Smith.”

Mr. Worthing, the redcoats, the pawnbroker, the hackney driver, folk from the jeering crowd - there were suddenly too many people in Sydney whom she did not wish to meet. Too many who might know of her time at “The Gables,” and despise her, yet who, she thought with a hot dash of anger, had done nothing to warn her of what awaited her there.

Jeremiah got down, and tossed the reins to her, then disappeared into an emporium. She stayed quietly in the wagon, hardly even able to appreciate the fact that Jeremiah had left her alone with the horse. Was he not afraid she would drive off and try to sell King Cole? Or perhaps he relied on the fact that she knew the penalty for horse-thieving as well as he did. And then he was back again, mounting the wagon once more, driving on without comment to the grain and forage stores in Elizabeth Street.

Here, he hitched King Cole to a railing, flipped a penny to a yellow-haired boy to watch the horse, then handed Garnet down from the wagon. It was the first time he had touched her since the fraught time they had spent tending Atlas, and her heart lurched uncomfortably, then began to beat with such heavy thuds she was sure he must hear it.

“Stay by me,” he said curtly, and took her arm.

He bought bushels of grass seed, and more meal, then bargained with a local grazier for some calves to be fetched when they were weaned. “Shall we get you a shawl?” he asked Garnet as they returned to the wagon.

“No,” she said. “I do not wish - I mean - it will be summer soon...”

Jeremiah nodded. “It will not add to your debt,” he said. “Call it a gift.”

A gift. He would give her a gift...but a shawl was not the gift she wanted. Garnet’s eyes brimmed with tears, and she dashed her hand across them.

“I would like to buy you one,” said Jeremiah.

“No!” flashed Garnet. “I have already said no - how many times must I repeat myself!”

“Then go to the wagon and wait while I finish my business here,” snapped Jeremiah. “I have cattle to bespeak for when the fence is finished.”

“Be sure I shall!” Her voice was high, and for a moment she was too angry to see the sudden interest of the lad who was holding King Cole.

“Hey, lady,” he said, smiling up at her engagingly. “You wanta buy a nice gold ring? Maybe the one you lost? I know a gentleman who w’d be glad to see you. Mighty close you were wi’ him, he tell me.”

“No!” said Garnet, alarmed. “Be off, now. I shall mind the horse.”

When Jeremiah returned a few minutes later, he drove straight back to Father Timothy’s. He had arranged for word to be left with his old mentor when the cattle should be ready for delivery. The acquisition of these cattle represented a large investment, an outlay which would bring Gold’s Kingdom to fine prosperity, but he was much too angry to speak of this, or of anything else, to Garnet. It was dark, and he hitched up King Cole and handed Garnet a small loaf. “Get to the Sister’s cell,” he said coldly. “I shall sleep under the wagon. We leave early in the morning.”

And so they did, but not before Garnet had spent a chill, unhappy night, and not before Frederick Byrne had contrived to watch with interest as the red-haired angry lady and her scowling man had headed off on the road from Sydney with the Irish priest’s heifer haltered and walking placidly behind them.

The man had left a message scribbled in charcoal on the notice that hung from the tree. Frederick was no scholar, so he tore off the paper, folded it carefully and carried it back to town to find someone who could read it for him.

When Jeremiah and Garnet reached the selection, they parted. Garnet went silently to her own hut, while Jeremiah put the heifer calf in the stockyard with Milady. He was as jumpy as a dingo, and he did not delude himself as to the cause of his restlessness. For far too many hours he had been sitting close to Garnet in the wagon, and his traitorous body had reacted with embarrassing, and ultimately rather painful, persistence. So she hated him still. She had refused his offer of a shawl, she had shivered with distaste when he had held her arm. He should have left her in Sydney...

But then, how could he have done that, knowing the rumours, knowing what had happened last time? No one would employ her, no one would take her in. Except for Mrs. Babbage.

The new pasture was sown, the spring progressed and sharp points of green began to show above the wild brown loam.

Milady came to term, and instead of simply appearing one morning with a new-born calf at her heels, she folded down at ten o’clock and lay heaving and bellowing distressfully for some time. Garnet watched for a few moments, unsure as to what was happening, then as Milady’s afflictions increased, she went out to the pasture to call Jeremiah.

He came across the new grass, and she was able to watch his approach. It seemed to her that he looked older somehow, even a little stooped, and she bit her lip at the unwelcome thought. “Yes?” he said, stopping three yards away from her.

“It’s Milady,” she said. “She seems very ill. Could she have the colic?”

“More likely she’s calving,” said Jeremiah.

“Are you sure? She seems to be in pain, and she is thrashing her head about just as poor Atlas did. I tried to get her up, but she would not stand.”

Jeremiah sighed. “Cows have messy births,” he said. “She is probably well enough, but since I’m here I might as well see to her.”

He walked beside her to the labouring cow, and Garnet felt her cheeks suffusing with blood. She wished she could put it down to embarrassment at Milady’s state, but knew it was caused by his nearness.

She was wearing her blue gown now, but he never seemed to notice, never showed by so much as a glance that she was not still clad in fustian trousers and a shabby shirt.

Jeremiah approached the cow, which was lying in an ungainly sprawl, heaving and bellowing at intervals. “She’s calving, right enough,” he said. He patted Milady’s neck, then rubbed behind her ears, but the cow scarcely seemed to notice. “Come on, my lovely, it will soon be over.”

He watched a while longer, then glanced at Garnet. “Have you never seen birth before?”

“Of course not!” she said.

“I suppose you would not. You mentioned your papa once. Did he not have a whelping bitch? Did the kitchen cat never have kittens?”

“We had no kitchen cat...we lived in London.”

“Of course.” He nodded impersonally, then returned to his survey of the cow.

Garnet stood beside him. She knew she should move away, but for the life of her she could not. He was watching the cow, ignoring her utterly, and she told herself that if she had any pride, she would return to her work. “If all is well, you might as well go back to whatever you were doing,” she said a trifle peevishly.

He turned, frowning. “I am not so sure that all is well,” he said. “Fetch me some warm water and soap.”

“Soap?”

“Yellow soap. There is some in the store.”

“How much water?”

“A can - whatever you can fetch.”

Garnet went to do as he said. She could not imagine why he should want the soap, but when she returned with the slopping can of warm water she was effectively distracted from her curiosity.

Jeremiah had stripped off his shirt and his vest as well.

She stared, taking in his muscular frame, the wedge-shaped patch of tan at his throat, the weathered forearms. He seemed bigger and stronger than ever; she supposed the work of chopping wood and dragging out stumps must have built up his body. She blushed, furiously, as he turned and caught her staring.

His eyes widened a little, then shuttered again. “The soap,” he said brusquely.

Garnet fumbled with it, managing to give it to him without touching his hand. He nodded his thanks then turned and plunged his arms into the water, soaping them briskly. He placed the tablet on a log to dry, then moved behind the cow. “You might like to leave now,” he said very dryly. “This will be messy and distasteful and you will be very much shocked.”

Garnet’s mouth seemed numb.

“On the other hand,” he said, “if you care to remain you could be of service to Milady. If you sit by her head you could help to keep her calm. I am told...” and again his voice was dry, “that ladies need comfort from their own sex at times like this. Well? What is it to be?”

Garnet found her voice. “I shall stay, of course,” she said. “Since it will help Milady.”

She knelt awkwardly by the cow’s head, stroking her, murmuring in her ears. She was aware that Jeremiah was crouched behind, then, incredibly, lying on his belly on the ground. One hand was gripping a stump as if for purchase, the other...Garnet gasped, for Jeremiah’s other arm was buried almost to the elbow inside the cow.

“What are you doing...”

“Trying - to - reach this - calf,” said Jeremiah. “It has - a foreleg - doubled back - or so I - believe.” He seemed to be straining. “Garnet - fetch me a thin - rope.”

Garnet hurried to do so, and when she returned she found he was on his feet again, filthy to the elbows, his chest covered with mud and sweat. He soaped and washed his arms again, then tied a loop in the rope and soaped that as well.

“Now,” he said. “I fear I must ask you to come round here and hold her tail aside. Close your eyes if you wish.”

He was down on his belly again, pushing the rope slowly inside the cow, who chose that moment to lurch suddenly and painfully to her feet.

“Blast you, Milady!” said Jeremiah, jumping back. “You almost broke my arm!”

He began again, and after a tense ten minutes he breathed a sigh of relief. “There - I have him! Now we must pull him out.” He pulled back hard on the rope, and Garnet watched anxiously. It was filthy, it was distasteful, but Jeremiah had not shrunk from doing what he could to help the cow. As she watched, a white tipped hoof appeared, then another, soft as leather. There was a nose, a sleek seal-brown head, then suddenly, with a rush, the calf was born and lay snuffling on the ground.

Jeremiah stumbled backwards with the suddenness of the delivery, and Garnet reached out instinctively to support him. Her hands touched his skin, slick and slimy, and slid forward, so she was, however briefly, hugging him, her cheek against his back. The scent of his skin rose around her, briefly overwhelming the stink of mud and manure. He pushed her aside, and, to hide her confusion, she knelt to examine the calf, which was floundering like a giant landed fish.

Milady, miraculously restored, was spinning anxiously to examine her calf, which Jeremiah, after a brief inspection, pronounced to be a daughter. He was smiling with relief, exhausted and filthy, and Garnet felt suddenly shy. “Sh-shall I fetch you more water to wash?” she asked.

Jeremiah looked down at himself. “A plunge in the creek should suffice.” He glanced at her, his smile wiped away. “Perhaps you should wash yourself, Garnet. I fear your gown is somewhat soiled. So are your hands.”

He nodded to her and strode away to the creek.

Chapter 8.

Garnet watched him go, then turned away, moved almost to tears by the sight and sound of Milady’s joy in her calf. A sudden sob broke from her lips, hurting her chest and shocking her very much.

She was in love with Jeremiah.

At least, she supposed that was what ailed her. She had read of love in novels from the circulating library when she had been in London, she had heard young ladies prattle of it, sigh over it, and yearn for it. She had never felt it before, but she was feeling it now. It hurt. It astonished her.

She had known Jeremiah for more than a year, had lived with him for ten weeks as his wife, then for two months more as his reluctant servant. In all that time she had hated him, despised him, feared him even, and bitterly resented him for the hold he had gained on her.

Now, when it was too late, she began to see his action in buying her from another perspective. She had always supposed he sought to humiliate her, to drag her down to his level, now she was realising it could just as well have been his personal reaction to a creature in distress.

She had seen him with Atlas when he was ill, with Milady while she laboured to produce her calf. His beasts had been in trouble, and he had spared no time nor effort to help them. Even his actions after he removed her from Mrs. Babbage’s house made sense now. She was his creature, his wife, and he had brought her out of danger.

His anger with her had been immaterial. He had cursed Milady, and thrashed poor Atlas, but never for a moment had he ceased to care for them.

Her cheeks reddened more as she remembered something else. After he had pleasured himself on her body that first night at Gold’s Kingdom, he had calmed her and held her and helped her through her trouble.

And she had done all in her power to make him pay for his pleasures, by denying him the knowledge of any pleasure of her own.

So - now she knew, and now at last she could admit to herself what it was she had learned from “Smith”; that the touch of that man’s hands on her private parts could be so sickening while Jeremiah’s had brought her rapture - until she spoiled it all.

She knew better now, and so she would tell him.

Garnet raised her chin, then stopped and planted a hasty kiss on Milady’s startled muzzle. “Thank you, Milady!” she said, and her voice was shaking with a mixture of tears and laughter.

Jeremiah was right, she thought, looking ruefully down at herself. She was filthy, her gown was damp and soiled, her hands sticky with whatever nameless substance had coated Jeremiah’s skin. She must go and wash at once, perhaps near Jeremiah. If she could only talk to him, be friendly and natural; surely he must soften towards her. She could take the tablet of soap, and offer to cleanse his back...

She snatched it up, then hastened down to the water hole, but Jeremiah had already gone. She saw a damp patch where he must have stood on the bank. Sighing, she stripped off her gown and, clad in her muslin petticoat, she knelt on the bank to wash her face and arms. She damped the soiled patches on the gown and soaped them, then rinsed them and hung the garment over a shrub to dry. She left it there, and went back towards her hut where she sat down on her narrow couch and thought hard.

She was in love with Jeremiah. She wanted to stay with him, to live with him, to be his wife again. And this time there would be no nonsense about refusing to acknowledge any pleasure. This time she would abandon herself to it gladly, no, greedily. She would welcome his hands on her, his mouth on her, however and whenever he liked. She would sleep in his arms, she would kiss him often and explore his body. He could take her every night if he chose, she would welcome it, she would glory in it!

Her breath was coming faster, her cheeks burned, her breasts throbbed and tingled. And this was from the simple thought of him! How much more could she feel when he was with her, when he was in her!

She should be shocked at such lewd, immodest thoughts. She would be shocked if anyone else had known of them. Except for Jeremiah.

She took several deep breaths to calm herself, then dressed in her green gown. She tidied her hair as well as she could, then stepped out of the hut. She felt exultant and oddly shy. If she could go to him right now and tell him what she wanted, perhaps all would be well by tonight!

She thought he must have gone back to work in the field, so she picked up her skirts and set out across the clearing.

Jeremiah was inside his house. He had gone in to fetch dry drawers and trousers, then, suddenly overcome by hopelessness and weariness, had laid himself on his bed to rest. He slept fitfully, then woke, late in the afternoon, with a headache and dull and heavy limbs. He stretched, feeling his muscles creak sullenly, then left the house to check on Milady and her calf. He was half across the clearing when he became aware that Garnet was standing, not at her own hearth, but by his. She had coaxed the coals into low flames and was bending over, apparently in the act of lifting off the billy-can.

“What are you doing there?” His voice was harsher than he intended, and she jumped. He heard the hiss as water splashed on the coals, half dousing the flames.

“Oh Jeremiah - you startled me!” Her face was a shadowed oval, for the setting sun was behind her, outlining her fiery hair so it was almost too bright for the eye to bear.

“Is something amiss with your boiler?”

“No.” She set down the can with care. “I had thought you might like a cup of tea when you woke.”

Was she mocking him? Her voice sounded strange.

“I rested only a little,” he said.

“Three hours or more. Milady is well, and the calf is suckling. I have fed the horses and given Milady some corn. I trust that was what you wished?”

Now he was sure she was taunting him with sleeping the daylight away while she worked. “Leave that,” he said. “I shall get my tea when I want it.”

“But this is ready.”

“Oh - as you please.” He accepted the mug she gave him, and sipped the tea. His heavy stew-pot stood in the coals, and a savoury smell was rising.

“I added some of those onions to the meat you soaked,” she said. “Are you hungry?”

He was, but he shook his head. “Thank you Garnet,” he said, “I have told you you need not skivvy for me.”

“I know that,” she said. “I thought you seemed tired today.” She gave him a hurt look, and walked away towards her own hut, leaving Jeremiah staring after her.

Garnet cursed herself as she walked away. Why had she asked if he were hungry? Why had she not simply ladled out the stew, as if she had never ceased to be his wife? She had planned to eat her dinner with him, to stay and talk until night was fairly come. Perhaps, in the darkness, she could have broached the matter that she longed to discuss. Instead, she had accepted his dismissal and set off for her own small hut like a scolded child.

“‘Tis easier sure to break than to mend, ‘tis longer it takes to sew than to rend,” she said to herself, quoting the favourite maxim of her long-dead grandmother.

She had no heart for cooking anything more, so she ate some damper and banked up her fire. She hoped Jeremiah was enjoying his dinner...no she did not! She hoped he was lonely and wishing he had company.

Dark came, and she got up and went slowly into her hut. By the light of a candle she undressed, and put on the old shirt she used as a bedgown. She lay down, but sleep would not come, so she sat up again, dragged a length of left-over blue worsted around her shoulders, and reached for her sewing things.

She felt more in the mood to rend than to sew, so she took up the driving coat and set herself to rip out the seams.

The cloth was lined with heavy sateen, and the stitching seemed loose and poorly done. Perhaps the old woman had done it? But the shoddy portion changed suddenly to neat, tailor’s stitching.

Perhaps a rent had been mended, but why should the lining have split so neatly? Suddenly suspicious, Garnet felt along the bulky lining, ripped out the poor stitching and slipped her hand inside. There was a rustle of paper, perhaps some thin card had been used for stiffening...but surely it was too thin. She drew it out and held it up to the light, her eyes rounding with astonishment. She was holding a bank draft for four hundred and seventy pounds.

She stared for fully ten seconds, then blinked. So this was why Edward had kept the old driving coat and sought to take it to Van Diemen’s Land! He had sold up his holdings in Sydney, collected whatever monies his mama had held and converted it to an easily concealed and easily carried draft on the bank. He had put it in her valise; no, he must have put it in his own valise, and, in the heat of the moment given the wrong one to Jeremiah. How he must have cursed his mistake - if he had ever known he’d made it. But perhaps he had died before he had realised.

Four hundred and seventy pounds! She supposed it was hers now. She could easily prove - if proof were needed - that she was, or had been, Mrs. Edward Landis. The vicar would vouch for her, so would his daughter. With four hundred and seventy pounds, she was wealthy! She could build two fine houses in the middle of Sydney, she could hire servants and wear modish clothes! She could leave this place and return to London, and live comfortably there, thumbing her nose at Martha and Prudence!

Slowly, Garnet folded the bank note. She thrust it back into the lining then, with precise and careful stitches, she closed the rent in the seam. She tied off the thread, and broke it. She was about to fold away the driving coat, but she decided to keep it by. It might come in useful, after all, if the weather turned inclement.

She was not Mrs. Edward Landis. She was Mrs. Jeremiah Gold and her husband would be off on his rounds of the livestock before retiring for the night. Every evening her went, soon after dark, to see that the animals were safe and well. Tonight there was Milady’s calf to survey as well, so he might be a little while longer.

Garnet snuffed the candle, flung the dark blanket over her head and shoulders and cautiously opened her door. She could see the wink of Jeremiah’s fire in the distance, and the glow of his lantern over by the stockyard. If she were quick and quiet she would reach his house before he returned.

The ground felt cold to her bare feet, any warmth from the spring sunshine had leached away into the night. The house sprang up before her, a darker patch of shadow, and she let herself in as quietly as she could. She felt her way to Jeremiah’s bed, cast off the blanket and scrambled in, burrowing under the covers like a guilty child. The familiar herbal scent of the bedding had mellowed a little as the twigs and leaves dried out, the smell of leather was stronger, and her heightened senses detected the scent of Jeremiah’s skin. A siege of longing swept over her, and she moved restlessly. If he would only come in, if he would get into the bed, she would put her arms around him and show him with her body what she couldn’t tell him with her voice.

She waited, forcing herself to relax. Perhaps she should remove the shirt and welcome him with her naked body - but he would not be naked. He would be clad in his night-shirt. She remembered his touch, his warmth, his voice and his hands in the darkness. The softness of the heavy cotton garment, the softness and heaviness of that part of him she had never really examined.

She swallowed, and made herself lie quietly.

At last, she heard him at the door. She had pictured him entering in darkness, had somehow forgotten the lantern. She had forgotten, too, that he would be fully clad when he arrived. She blinked up at him through the dazzle, unable to see him clearly. She hoped he was smiling, but she was very much afraid he was not. His voice, when he spoke at last, confirmed her fear.

“What are you doing here, Garnet?”

It was almost the same thing he had said to her when he had found her near his fire, and it had a similarly dampening effect.

“I was waiting for you,” she said.

He put the lantern on the bench and folded his arms, his shadow dark and menacing. “Why?”

“I thought...” She wet her lips. “I thought perhaps I might sleep with you tonight.”

“Why?”

Desperately, she tried to smile. “I wanted to be with you. And I thought - I thought it is so foolish for us to live apart. We are man and wife.”

“You have always rejected that fact.”

“I was wrong.” She swallowed. “I heard that Edward - Mr. Landis - had been killed. Since he died in Sydney it seems most likely we were wed some hours after his passing - else he would have been on the ship.”

“Where did you learn this piece of information?” he asked harshly. “And when?”

“I heard it in Sydney.”

“You were alone for perhaps ten minutes while I concluded my business. Are you about to say some kind person approached you in that period and told you your first husband was deceased? Someone you knew, perhaps?”

“No - ”

“Ah! But I was forgetting!” he said. “You were quite alone in Sister Joseph’s cell that night. Did a holy vision of the good sister come to you and inform you of your freedom?”

“No!” She was getting angry now, and sat up so as to be more on a level with him. “I learned of his passing in Sydney town when I was there alone. The time I tried to pawn the ring.”

“From whom?”

“From whom?” she faltered.

“From whom did you learn it?”

“Why, from...from a gentleman,” she said. “I do not know his name.”

“Was it perhaps Harbord?” asked Jeremiah. “A man you have known as long as you have known me - and perhaps have liked a good deal more? Was it from him that you learned it, Garnet?” He bent suddenly and took hold of her chin, his fingers and thumb biting into the points of her jaw. “Do not play the innocent. I know Harbord has been often enough to that whorehouse where I found you. It is notorious and so is he. Did he boast to you that Landis was dead before or after he had you? Did he tell you that it was by his hand Landis died? Or did you learn that fact from the other - gentleman - in whose company I found you? Was that why you seemed so afflicted? Not by his actions, but by the intelligence he brought you?”

“How dare you!” screeched Garnet.

“I dare because it is true,” said Jeremiah heavily. “Harbord was taken up for the crime because he had the temerity to return to the scene. For what reason I do not know. Perhaps he wanted to be certain his victim was dead, or perhaps he hoped to find some booty he had missed upon the body. Ned Landis was well-to-do, and had no heirs aside from you - and you certainly did not benefit from your association, in money or experience.”

Garnet clenched her fists.

“You knew that, too,” said Jeremiah. “You knew Landis was dead, you knew Harbord had killed him. And now, a certain time after the event, you are suddenly stirred with a desire for my bed; the very place you fought so long and hard to leave.

“Do you know what I think Garnet? I think you may be with child. It cannot be mine, for if it were you would be swelling by now. I think you suspect you are bearing Harbord’s child, or maybe that of some other man who had you in Sydney, and this nocturnal visit of yours is a ploy to father it on me!”

Garnet was aghast at this accusation. For a moment, she simply stared at him, dazzled by the lantern light.

“Nothing to say?” he demanded, and she thought she detected an undercurrent of hurt in his anger. “I quite thought you would fly at me with your nails. I hoped you would, and prove it untrue.”

She swallowed. “No,” she managed faintly. “I will not do that again.”

“Then say something! Tell me...”

“Tell you what? Tell you it is not true?” She blinked. “It is not true. I am not with child, neither yours nor that of any other man. There has been no other man.”

“You cannot expect me to believe that,” he said dryly.

“Why not? You knew I had not been with Edward - not in the way I have been with you.”

“We are not speaking of him. What about Harbord? Can you lay your hand on your heart and say he has never come to you in lust? Has never availed himself of your body?”

“How could he? I have never seen him since the night old Mrs. Landis died,” she said, after a moment.

Perhaps Jeremiah heard the prevarication, but his anger seemed a little abated. “Then what of the gentleman I struck down in Ma Babbage’s establishment?”

“No!” she said passionately. “Why do you think I was locked away? Why do you think I was in such a case? It was because I would not - I could not lie with that gentleman. Nor with any other.” Her gorge rose at the memory, and she swallowed, hard, more than once. “I could not bear the thought, I could not bear his touch.”

“I see,” said Jeremiah. “Then I can see no reason for your presence in my bed.”

“I thought you might be pleased to see me,” she said. “I thought - you seemed so tired today. You have worked so hard since you spent that time in search of me.”

“So you thought you would be safe from my depredations!” He sounded grimly amused by now, but he was implacable. “Go back to your hut, Garnet, and sleep in peace. It was my own choice to spend time in search of you. I really do not need your gratitude - Nor your pity.”

“But why did you search for me?” she cried. “You do not want me as your wife, you cannot want my work; an assigned convict would do better.”

“I searched because I was angry that you fled me. My consequence was hurt that you would run from me as if I had beaten you. There you have the round tale of it, so go back to your hut.”

Garnet returned to her hut, bruised in spirit. She lay down on her stretcher and tried to think of the freedom and consequence she would have in Sydney or London if she left Gold’s Kingdom with her inheritance from Edward. Unfortunately, she no longer wanted such freedom. She wanted to be Jeremiah’s wife in fact. Well then, she could offer the inheritance to him...but then perhaps he would think she was trying to buy his regard. And that was not for sale.

She lay in the dark, smelling the familiar odour of wood-smoke, eucalyptus and leather. She would win through, she thought. She would work as hard for her goal as she had previously worked against it. Jeremiah was a man. It was only a matter of time before he needed a woman, and then - she would be there.

Garnet needed all her determination to get her through the next few weeks, for Jeremiah proved every bit as obdurate as she had been. By degrees, she managed to thaw the frost that had settled between them, but their relationship, although cordial enough, seemed no more than the relationship between any fair-minded master and his servant.

The weather began to warm, and soon Garnet had no need of the driving coat for covering. Although she had rejected the idea of offering the bank draft to Jeremiah or of using it herself, she did not wish to lose it. Fire or a thorough dousing with water would ruin the paper, she knew, but though she considered returning it to the valise in the cellar, she did not do so. She had no wish to put it in a place from which she might not be able to reclaim it if her situation suddenly worsened, nor did she wish to be caught with it in her possession. Jeremiah did not really trust her. It hurt her that he did not, but she could understand his reservations. She had run from him, and he had no way of knowing her change of heart had been sincere. She loved him, but she had never told him so, and if she did - why, he would think it another ruse.

There remained the problem of the coat and its secret, which she solved at last by pushing it away under her stretcher bed. Not a good solution, but the best she could think of. With this task done, she did the only thing she could do; worked with Jeremiah, toiling beside him as often as she could, sitting by him whenever he would allow. She found his attitude towards her somewhat confusing; sometimes he seemed to welcome her presence, at others he would tell her brusquely to leave him, or would simply remove himself from her ambiance.

The job of blasting out stubborn stumps continued, but Jeremiah usually did that task by himself, preferring to leave Garnet the day-to-day work of caring for the livestock. Only one day he asked her assistance in fetching a barrel half-filled with gunpowder from the lean-to and stowing it in the gaping socket left by the blasting of a stump. “Better not to have it too close to the cook-fire and house,” he explained shortly. “Dangerous stuff.”

“But it makes the job much easier,” said Garnet.

“Yes,” said Jeremiah. “Sometimes a powderflash and a bang will achieve more than a week or a month of slow smoldering...Garnet?”

“Yes?” she said, trying to hide her eagerness.

“Stay away from the stumps,” he said.

“I could help you - ”

“Stay away from the stumps, Garnet. Stay away from me!”

And then came a visitor - their first since their hasty wedding and arrival at Gold’s Kingdom. It was Father Timothy, of course. The old man rode into the clearing on his nag, his skinny shanks dangling. The nag whinnied a welcome to Atlas and King Cole, who replied with his shattering cry.

Jeremiah had just finished his evening meal, and was cleaning his crocks in a pail of water drawn from the creek. Garnet was close by, hauling water for her own cooking. They both jumped as King Cole heralded their visitor.

Father Timothy smiled genially at their startled faces, then slid down from his mount. “Well, me dearie!” He held out his hand to Jeremiah. “And Mrs. Gold, how do ye do?”

Garnet put down her water and came to give a greeting, glancing at Jeremiah in bewilderment.

“Father Tim!” he said, very much aware of his wife’s presence, and the obvious evidence of a dual household.

“Quite a village ye be having here,” said his friend. “Three buildings, no less, I see!”

“We need extra room for storage,” said Jeremiah quickly. “But Father - what brings you here? Have you news for me?”

“I have indeed, and I came also to see if ye had the little cow I promised,” said Father Timothy. He peered round in the growing dusk. “I see ye have - and how is the pretty thing?”

“Well enough,” said Jeremiah. “But surely you knew we had her?”

“I thought so, but how could I know for sure?”

“I left you a notice to that effect, written on the base of the one you had nailed to the tree.”

“Did ye so? To be sure I never had it - maybe it blew away...it is no matter,” said Father Timothy. “I see the little cow, and can this be Milady? What a fine thing she is now, to be sure.”

Jeremiah nodded. He wondered why his old friend had come to visit. It was a long ride, through rough country. Why should he bother, simply because of a misplaced notice? “Garnet, put Father Tim’s horse in with King Cole,” he said to his wife, who was still standing by, wide-eyed, a pail of water in her hand.

She tossed her head, and her chin came up, quite in her old way, but she said nothing, merely coming forward to take charge of the nag.

“Come, you must eat with me,” said Jeremiah. “I have tea brewed already.” He tipped out the last of his pannikin of tea, swilled it in the pail and poured in more from the billy-can. “There is damper, and even a little butter - and jerky, if your teeth can stand it.” Bachelors’ fare, he knew, and felt his face warming a little at Father Timothy’s speculative glance. “But you say you have news? You have not come simply because of the heifer?”

Father Timothy sat down on a cut-off stump and looked about. “Not at all. I hear tell those beasts ye bespoke some months back are ready for delivery. Shall I have the man bring them all the way, or would ye meet him on the turn?”

“I’ll meet him at the blaze tree,” said Jeremiah decidedly. “No sense in courting trouble by having folk come right here.”

“Now why should folk be trouble?”

“They are, to me.” Jeremiah looked at the old man with affection. “You know how it is with me, Father Tim. A gentleman’s son, but a bastard, half Christian, half Jew, claimed by neither.”

“And wholly stubborn as Dooley’s donkey,” added Father Timothy. “Ye’ve been busy, me dearie, the place is looking well.”

“I have.”

“Your lady is in good heart?”

“Garnet is a good worker.”

His wife was passing, on her way back to her own fireside, and he would not have been surprised had she paused and given him an inimical glance, or made a sharp retort, but she dumbfounded him utterly by saying; “Jeremiah, shall I make up a stretcher for myself in the little hut? Perhaps Father Timothy would like to share the big house with you, for tonight.”

“I’d not put ye from your rightful place, me dearie,” protested Father Timothy. “I’ll sleep snug enough in the little place; am I to be your first house-guest?”

“Yes - you are,” smiled Garnet. “Then I shall make up a bed for you. I’ll not be long.”

She went away, and was back quite soon, unobtrusively placing a bundle of her own effects in Jeremiah’s house. She then returned to his fireside and sat down, as if of right, conversing with Father Timothy with a sweet modesty and friendliness that quite disarmed the old man, and which left Jeremiah stunned at her powers of dissimulation. To look at the woman, anyone would have taken her for a devoted wife; she asked his opinion, she sought his gaze, even touched his hand on occasion. He had no idea what she was up to, and with Father Timothy so close he could hardly ask her. He could only suppose she was as unwilling as he for the man who had married them to know just what a sham that marriage had been from the beginning.

Father Timothy was obviously tired from his long journey, which he declared had had no more urgent purpose than to pass on the news and satisfy himself that the heifer was indeed safe in her new home. He soon went to his bed in the new hut, leaving Garnet alone with Jeremiah. Her face was shadowed, and her grace, as she bent to push a smoldering brand into the coals, caught at his desires.

“Thank you,” he said, at last.

“Thank you?” Her voice was quick and light and brittle.

“Thank you for upholding the fiction that all is well, for preserving my dignity - such as it is - from one whose good offices I value.”

“Do not thank me for that, Jeremiah,” she said wryly. “It was my own dignity I preserved, after all. What wife wishes it known she is banished beyond the pale? That she is told to stay away from her husband?”

“By your own actions, you made it clear you did not wish to continue as we were!” he said hotly.

She was silent, staring into the coals.

“Well?” he snapped. “Can you deny you were dissatisfied with our life - so much so you ran away at the first opportunity? Yes, even though it ended in a whorehouse?”

“I have never denied that!”

“And if you could return to the way we were...would you lie in my arms like a log, hating me, hating your own body and its desires? Would you, Garnet? Would you return to that, if I demanded it?”

“No!” she said with a shudder. “I would not return to that, but - ”

“Then there is nothing more to be said,” he affirmed, and turned away from her. “Sleep in my house, Garnet. You’ll not be molested.”

Walking stiffly, angry with himself and with her, and even with the innocent Father Timothy, he walked away to the store-shed, where he had spent so many other troubled nights. There were three rooms in the house, but he could not trust himself so close to her. One touch in the night, he thought grimly, one touch after such a charged conversation as they had just had, and he would go up like powderflash.

Father Timothy stayed with them two days, but though they pretended civility, the estrangement between husband and wife remained as bleak as ever. And so it seemed set to last for good, but away in a makeshift camp, not far from Sydney, events were already taking another turn that would have a shattering effect.

Frederick Byrne had taken a while to find someone who could read the scrap of paper he had torn from the tree outside the old slab hut. He knew the place for the dwelling of Father Timothy Keely, an Irishman of indeterminate years, doubtful sanctity and peculiar habits. The old man lived unguarded except by an assortment of barnyard animals, had no musket, no pistols and barely an axe. Nevertheless, even those who made their way by preying on others never troubled Father Timothy. His hut was never burned, his animals never driven off. Lawless lads and renegades, convicts and freemen, all seemed content to leave him be. The freemen had some respect for his cloth, the convicts knew he had been one of themselves at some distant point in his past. Quite what had brought him from his green native bogs to the dustier colours of the growing colony was something few cared to ask.

Frederick knew well enough who Father Timothy was, but rather less about the couple who had overnighted at his place in his absence. The red-haired lady was the one whose serpent-shaped ring he had scooped out of the dust, then lost to Jacky Harbord, but the gentleman with her, although he had sometimes had Frederick hold his horse in Sydney, was an enigma. Not wealthy, no toff, yet he spoke with the accent of a gentleman.

For the sake of the splendid black horse with the blaze, Frederick was inclined to let the gentleman be, but for the sake of the serpent ring and his standing with Harbord and his brothers, he must find out his identity and direction. Mr. Harbord had business with the red-haired lady who had gone off with old Ma Babbage. He claimed the woman would like to see him; that they had been very close. And why not? She certainly seemed to dislike the gentleman with whom she lived at present.

Quite cheerfully, therefore, Frederick took the torn notice and showed it to different folk who pretended scholarship, and quite soon learned that the signature on the notice belonged to one Jeremiah Gold.

No one seemed quite sure of Mr. Gold’s direction, but Frederick found someone who knew he had been granted land out west of the town some time before. And soon, by degrees, he had found enough information to take to Mr. Harbord and trade for the serpent ring. To some it might have seemed monstrously unfair to have to scrape and seek to get back something he had found in the first place, but Frederick was used to the way of the world. The strong took from the weak, the large from the small, the armed from the innocent. And so it went on.

Unfortunately, though he now had the information Mr. Harbord wanted, that gentleman was not to be found, for, while Frederick had been off on the hunt, his brother Dan had got a ball in his leg from a redcoat. He had escaped right enough, but had had a fever, and was now laid up with his granny, enduring stinking poultices and waiting to heal. Jacky Harbord, Frederick’s other brother, Dermot, and his cousins Will and Dick had gone off elsewhere in case the injured Dan might be captured and persuaded to talk.

When Frederick asked their direction, Dan spat and said he had no idea where they were, his granny cuffed him and grunted, and so the boy, having visited all the haunts he knew and drawn a blank, was forced to kick his heels until Harbord might contact him. This happened when summer was well begun, a month after Father Timothy’s visit to Gold’s Kingdom.

Frederick had known of that as well, and had even tracked the priest part of the way through the scrub. He had marked a few discreet blazes on trees, and thought he could find his way back to the selection if need-be. He even toyed with appealing to the lady himself, and asking her to intercede for him with Harbord, but she had given him a dusty answer before, and her man might recognise him, so he decided to hold off and let Harbord make his own approaches.

He unburdened himself of his information at last one night in the middle of December, with the strange, southern Christmas fast approaching. Not that Christmas meant a lot to Frederick, save a chance to pick up gleanings from kindly ladies and gentlemen in the streets; and these gleanings had been shrinking year by year as he himself grew from winsome boyhood to his current ragamuffin lankiness.

Jacky Harbord and Dermot Byrne returned during the night, rousing up the dogs and earning themselves a sleepy curse from Dan, who, after so long in his granny’s musty hut, was perfectly sound again and spoiling for some action. The three greeted one another without emotion, the old woman shrugged and turned back to her pipe. Blood was blood, but she had no particular use for her grandsons otherwise, and none at all for Harbord.

None of them looked up as Frederick sidled in, but Frederick, after listening for a while to the idle talk, dared to touch Harbord’s sleeve.

“Mester Green?” He was proud of himself for remembering the name, but the scarred man laughed harshly.

“No need for that, boy. Folk know well enough who I am now - thanks to that cursed scandal-sheet.”

Frederick nodded, approving in his fashion. “Mester Harbord, I saw that lady you was wanting.”

Harbord raised an eyebrow. “What lady is that? Pockle Sue?”

“The red-haired lady, the one what lost the snake ring in the dirt. Ee was wanting to know where she was.”

“So I am.” Harbord was all attention. “Is she close by, then, boy? Did you tell her a friend was wanting to see her? An old acquaintance?”

Frederick shook his head. “She would not talk to me, Mester Harbord.”

Harbord cuffed him. “Then why are you wasting my time?”

Frederick rubbed his stinging ear absently. “I know where she’m living, Mester Harbord - place called Gold’s Kingdom, wid Jeremiah Gold.” He sniffed. “Mester Gold - he got a good black ‘orse wid a long white blaze.”

Dermot laughed his silly giggle. “It’s all up with you, Jacky. Jeremiah Gold’s got your woman, and what he has, he holds, or so they say. Ask the toff what sought to buy ‘is spread!”

Harbord looked dangerous, then he reached out to ruffle Frederick’s hair. “Not my woman yet, Dermot, but you might say Gold has something I want. Something I was cheated of by that minx and her sneaking ways. If folk say I’m like to swing for old Ned I might as well have the game as the candle.”

“What’s that, Jacky-boy?” put in Dan. “What’s so great you got to have it, besides the woman?”

Harbord spat. “A black valise,” he said slowly. “That’s all. A black valise.”

Frederick looked at him shrewdly. “Don’t ee want the red-haired lady then, Mester Harbord?”

“Oh yes,” said Harbord. “I look forward to meeting that lady again. I do indeed.”

“Then now c’n I have my snake-ring back?”

Harbord laughed and slapped his head. It hurt, and Frederick felt shaming tears in his eyes. “Gimme my ring!” he persisted.

Harbord put his hand in his pocket and drew out the gold ring. He held it in his palm for a moment, then raised it above his head. “Take it, boy, if you can,” he said.

Frederick reached up, then jumped. He was angry and hurt when his brother Dermot giggled.

“Aw - give ‘im the thing, Jacky,” said Dan with a yawn.

Harbord put the ring back in his pocket. “Later - perhaps. Let ‘im take it when he can! Right now I’d best rouse up Will and Dick.”

If Garnet had hoped, after their show of amity while Father Tim was at the selection, that Jeremiah might have softened towards her, she was disappointed. It seemed that she loved and wanted him more each day, and cursed herself each night for allowing pique, willfulness and her own unruly temper to spoil the life she might have had.

Sometimes, she thought of leaving Gold’s Kingdom, but always she would begin to hope again. She must hope, for where would she go, and what would she do? She had the banker’s draft, but that would be dust and ashes if she must live alone. She supposed she might become a wealthy eccentric, but the idea lacked appeal. The only happening of note, after Father Timothy’s visit, was the arrival of the fifty young cattle purchased in Sydney. Jeremiah went to meet the drover who had fetched them, and brought them back through the bush to be settled in their new pasture. Red and white, they were, fat and placid, quite unlike Milady.

“To be sure,” said Jeremiah distantly when she asked. “These are bred for meat, not milk. Meat and leather. I have a thought to build a tannery, one day.”

It was close to Christmas, though the usual harbingers of that season were absent in the Antipodes. Garnet wondered if she should make some push to keep the festival, but there seemed little enough to celebrate. The selection was thriving, but her relationship with her husband remained as barren as ever. She took to exploring around the selection, inspecting the newly blossoming wild flowers and sometimes seeing the shy wild animals and birds. Occasionally, she thought she heard the ring of an axe or the sound of a falling tree, or caught a whiff of fragrant camp-fire smoke. Jeremiah said brusquely that there were no more selections closer than Father Timothy’s hut, so she decided it must be timber-getters - perhaps even Gypsy charcoal burners, if such folk existed in New South Wales.

Jeremiah had finished fencing the main pasture, and the yearling cattle were grazing contentedly. They were stalwart and healthy, and waxed fat in the good conditions. It began to drizzle three weeks into December, and Jeremiah decided to finish lining the cellar. Garnet, unable to help him, (for he no longer asked her to work beside him in any confined space), had put on the old driving coat and climbed up the hill behind the selection. She had long wanted to do this, and now the weather, if not dry, was warm, at least. She had some idea of trying if she could see as far as Sydney town, or even to Father Timothy’s hut. To be sure, she had no spy-glass, but anything was better than sitting in her hut and pining for Jeremiah.

It was pure chance that she chose that day to make her climb, but whether the chance was good or bad, she could never afterwards decide. If she had been near the house when the bushrangers came, she might have warned Jeremiah, but then, perhaps she would have been taken herself and had no time for anything. She was far away up the hill when the gang arrived, and by then she was hot and damp and wishing she had not made the journey at all. True, the coat kept off the worst of the rain, but its weight made her perspire so that she at last flung it off and hung it from a convenient branch to reclaim as she came back down the hill.

She was wondering whether to complete the climb when she heard, above the faint patter of rain on the leaves and bark, two sharp snaps and a sound like distant thunder. At first, she thought it was thunder, and perhaps the sound of falling boughs, but the noise continued, grew louder and became interspersed with cries and more reports.

Garnet froze, certain now that something was wrong. She hastened out along the brow of the hill to a steep outcrop, then crouched to peer over the edge and down into the valley. Her indrawn breath caught in her throat as she saw the new pasture; the fence was down and most of the cattle, Jeremiah’s precious stud cattle, had vanished into the bush. She could make out their progress by the movement of the low scrub along the creek, and also by the bobbing rumps of two chestnut horses, whose riders were driving the stock away. She might have cried out indignantly, and plunged down the ravine, but there was still movement on the selection; three more horses and riders. Two horses were galloping in seemingly mindless circles, their riders whooping and occasionally firing into the air, the third was a little way off; tied to a tree; his rider was on the ground, and was grappling with Jeremiah.

From where she perched, Garnet could not hear the sounds of blows or the heavy panting of the men, but she could see the staggering steps and the reeling back and forth. Her nails bit into her palms as she watched the crazy scene, but before she could formulate any plan to help her husband, even if she had been in range, the fight ceased abruptly. The man had pulled out a pistol and was holding it at Jeremiah’s head.

Garnet’s breath came in panting gasps, but she could do nothing. She crouched like a frightened animal and stared, terrified in case any incautious sound or movement might make the gunman fire. The suddenly one of the circling riders uttered a yell and rode straight at the pair. The horse reared aside at the last moment and fell on its side, the rider was thrown clear and rolled into the melee, knocking Jeremiah and the other man off their feet. As all three struggled up again, Jeremiah made a lunge for the door of his house. There was a confused few moments while the two others regained their balance and converged on the door, the loose horse plunging off to add to the general confusion.

There was a sudden puff of smoke and the thin snap of a pistol from within the house, and Garnet knew Jeremiah was firing at the invaders. If she could only reach the store-room, she could snatch up an axe and...and the men would fell her with their pistols long before she was close enough to do them any harm. She wrung her hands impotently as more shots were exchanged. She had no idea how much ammunition Jeremiah had to hand. Most of it, she thought, was in the lean-to.

Some sort of parley seemed to be going on, for she could hear voices now, raised in speech instead of uncouth yells. She was not close enough to make out the words, but the tone of one voice was chillingly familiar. The hair seemed to rise along the back of her neck, but she had no chance of recognising the man until a lucky shot from Jeremiah struck his cabbage tree hat and sent it bowling away. The lower part of his face was obscured by some kind of muffler, but as he recoiled from the shot his face turned upward and she saw the livid patch of a scar across his cheek and eye.

Harbord.

Garnet’s skin crawled. Harbord was a murderer, now turned bushranger, and whether it was blind chance or not, his presence could mean nothing good for Gold’s Kingdom.

The third man had evidently tired of galloping around, for now he dismounted and strolled over to the fire. He poked it vigorously, and, despite the damp, it flared up. The man riddled it with a stick, and drew out a glowing brand, with which he gestured, unmistakably, towards the house. Away from the heat of the fire, the brand dimmed, then went out, pouring white smoke and vapour into the soft gray air.

Jeremiah had recognised Harbord as soon as he had seen him, but that was much too late to be able to do anything effective against the man. The first hint he had had of anything amiss had been the muffled thunder of the cattle. Even then, insulated inside the cellar as he was, he could not be sure it was not some normal high spirits. Young stock often did take it into their heads to gallop about, especially if it happened to be windy. Perhaps one of them had come into heat, or perhaps Garnet had somehow startled them.

He pulled himself up from the cellar and went out to see what was happening. He could not see Garnet, but he did see that his cattle were being driven off through the bush. King Cole and Atlas were missing from the stockyard, and two horsemen were whooping around the clearing. He had never met the Byrne boys, but he knew their reputation, and at once he realised who had invaded his selection. Crazed and foolish, but perhaps he could stave them off. He must stave them off, before they found Garnet. Desperately, he wondered where she was. With luck, she had heard them coming and hidden herself away. He must give her time to get well clear!

“What the devil are you doing?” he yelled, rushing out and waving his arms in a foolish manner.

The horsemen whooped with glee, and fired their pistols in the air.

“Stop!” Jeremiah hoped he might be able to bring one of them down, but then, too late, he saw a third horse, already tethered to one of the standing trees, and plunging nervously as if it would soon break free. The rider emerged from behind the house and stepped up, neatly cutting Jeremiah off from the room inside.

“Harbord!” said Jeremiah, for he recognised the scarred visage. He had known Edward Landis’s man by sight for some years, and he knew him again, despite the scar and the kerchief that masked the man’s lower face. Harbord and the Byrnes - it made sense. The others who had driven off the horses must be the younger cousins, Dick and Will.

Harbord was holding a drawn pistol; he pointed it negligently at Jeremiah. “Jeremiah Gold,” he said, and sketched a bow. “The Jewboy himself.”

Jeremiah’s muscles clenched for action, but he nodded curtly. “As you say,” he said. “What do you want, Harbord? A meal? There is damper and jerky.”

Harbord laughed. “That’s rich, Jewboy,” he said. “We drive off your stock and you offer us a meal! Oh, very bold, but we do not want your food. Besides, I fear my Irish friends are a little wild. They seem to have ruined most of your supplies.”

“Then what do you want?” Jeremiah dropped his eyes, trying to keep the fury out of his voice. “You have my stock, all but the milch cow there. My horses have gone. You say the stores have been wasted. What more can you want from me?”

“Several hundred guineas or more, I should judge,” said Harbord.

Jeremiah was astonished. “And how should I have such riches? I have spent all I had on stock and supplies your men have just ruined or taken away!”

Harbord laughed again. “A very good jest, Jewboy, indeed.” He cocked the pistol. “I have come for the fortune you had from your - woman.”

He was shaking his head before he thought. “You are mad!” he said positively. “I have no fortune.”

“Then where is the woman?”

“The woman?”

“The whoring bitch in your bed!”

Jeremiah struck out at Harbord, aiming for the man’s blind side. His fist connected, the pistol went wide, and suddenly they were grappling, staggering back and forth, panting and cursing.

The heat of action did not last long, for a shot from one of the Irishmen scorched past his ear. Before he could recover, Harbord’s pistol was cold against his temple, and Harbord had seized his unresisting arm and pulled it high behind his back.

“Now, let us speak of Mrs. Edward Landis,” snarled Harbord. “A red-haired wench with a scar across her bosom - that little hellcat and I have business to transact. I have reason to believe she made off with a good deal of money from the estate of her late and ever-loving husband! Money that was promised to me for services rendered.”

Jeremiah thought fast. This nonsense of Harbord’s - it had to be nonsense. If Garnet had had funds she would never have stayed with him, not for an hour. “If your business is with Mrs. Landis, you had best find her and transact that business,” he said.

“So I shall - as soon as you tell me where she is.”

“I do not - ” Harbord jerked Jeremiah’s arm high and he gasped with pain, but he managed to say lightly; “I do not know. How would I know? In any case, I think someone has misled you. The woman was a pauper when I took her; she was turned off by Landis with nothing but the clothes she stood up in. I paid him ten guineas for the pleasure, and she was very dear at the price. A hellcat indeed, and I was glad to see her leave.”

Harbord snarled. “Then where is she now? And where is the gold?”

“I tell you, she had nothing!” said Jeremiah. “And I do not know where she is. She ran off when I was foolish enough to take her to Sydney town.”

“I know that,” jeered Harbord. “She ran off with old Ma Babbage, and caused a right to-do, I hear, but she has been seen with you since then. Meek as a nun, or so I understand. Did you beat her?”

“I got her back, yes,” said Jeremiah indifferently. “Much good it did me! She said she’d have none of me and ran off again first chance she got. Hi! Watch out!”

His cry of consternation was genuine, for Dermot Byrne, tiring of his crazy gallop, had wheeled and was riding straight for them. The horse reared and the rider fell, stumbling against Harbord and Jeremiah and bringing them both down. The wrench on Jeremiah’s arm made him turn sick, but he was free of the pistol for the moment, and he clawed himself to his feet, kicked Harbord hard in the wrist and bolted for the house.

It was foolish to go in there, but at least he knew Garnet was somewhere else. If he could keep the attention of the invaders focused on the house, he might at least buy her time to get right away. He supposed he was finished, but Garnet might still have a chance. By now she must have realised something was wrong. If she were in her hut, or down by the creek, she must have heard the disturbance and gone to hide. She could not have been at the pasture or the stockyard when the bushrangers had arrived, or else they would have captured her or given chase at once. It seemed that Garnet was their target, so they would not have wasted time on him.

Inside the house, Jeremiah pushed the heavy chest against the door, thankful that it was wooden and not a skin curtain. It might delay them a few minutes more. He seized his musket from the wall and loaded it, aware that Harbord, and probably the Byrnes as well, would soon be beating down the door. On cue he heard the thuds and the hinges began to shudder, so he hastily poked the muzzle of the musket out through the crack and fired.

The snap and whine of bullets replied, but the balls, if they had hit at all, must have buried themselves in the stout walls of the house. There was a cry from outside, but it seemed more startled than pained; he wished he could see, but to poke his head out the door would be suicidal. If he stayed inside, down behind the chest, he might hold them off a while. Ten minutes, or even fifteen. He dared not think any more than that. There were three of them in the clearing, and if the two who had taken the cattle returned there would be five. He had built this house alone; the work had taken days, but these men could take it down in half an hour.

He fired again, and then felt a wince of fear, for the rank smell of smoke was suddenly all around.

“No, you fools!” yelled Harbord’s voice, and the sound of a blow and a cry encouraged Jeremiah to think there might be dissension among the gang.

“Burn ‘im out!” cried one of the Byrnes. “Burn ‘im out like the rat ‘e is!”

“Daftie!” spat Harbord. “How is he to tell us where the wench is hid if he’s nothing but a cinder? And what if she’s hid the guineas somewhere close?”

“Just burn the place!” said the other voice again. “Burn it! No need to have him tell, the wench will come back to see what’s happening, and you can pluck ‘er like a plum!”

“And what if the guineas are in that place?”

“He says the wench is gone off again - like she took the guineas with her.”

There was a sudden silence, and Jeremiah crouched tensely behind the chest.

“She came back here, so the young sprig said. She must’ve come for something so if she’s left again - you might be right at that,” mused Harbord. “You - Jewboy! Where is the woman? Talk, and maybe you need not roast.”

“I tell you, the wench is gone and I never saw any guineas. She had nothing,” said Jeremiah.

“A black bag, perhaps,” said Harbord. “A black bag she would guard right closely.”

Jeremiah blinked. Garnet had had a black bag - the one Landis had tossed from the carriage. She had seemed to think it should have held her clothing, but instead, it had contained nothing but an old driving coat. Could there have been guineas in the pockets inside it? Had Garnet somehow tricked Landis into handing over the wrong bag? Surely not. After her first dismay she had never asked for the bag, had never seemed interested in it at all. Neither had he. He tried to remember where the thing was now.

“A black bag, perhaps!” insisted Harbord. “Twin of the one Landis was holding so safe when - so safe. Where is it, Jewboy?”

“She took it when she went,” said Jeremiah. His mind was working furiously. “I do not know where. I never regarded it, never knew it held anything but an old coat. I quite thought he had given her that as a mark of his scorn.”

There was another silence, and he heard his own pulse beating furiously. He achieved a scornful laugh. “If I had known the bitch had money, do you think I would have let her go?”

“You know now,” said Harbord. He said no more - at least, to Jeremiah, but presently, came terrifying sound. The rustle and thump of branches and kindling being piled against his walls. A brand from the fire would do little harm this weather, but if they ever raised a good hot flame against the door, the house would go up and he would be burned to death - unless he managed to force his way through the bark roof in time, in which case they would probably shoot him down. As Harbord had said, he knew now, and whether or not this wealth existed, he was about to die for it.

He should try to shoot his way out now, but he had no more ammunition. Fool. He should have kept a bullet for himself.

“Wait!” he called.

“Time’s up, Jewboy,” called Harbord. “We’re going to roast you now.”

The lack of emotion is his voice was even worse than gloating might have been, but Jeremiah could do little but wait. The sounds of brush stacking continued, and now he could hear a sinister crackling as well. Smoke was beginning to curl through the gap under the door, snaking along the roughly-built jamb like an evil mist.

“Wait!” He tried to rip away a corner of the bark roof, but he had done his work too well. The liana binding had dried and the sheets of bark were firm as slates. The rafters he had raised to strengthen the roof only added to his danger now. If he had an axe - the pick - a crow-bar - even a hammer! But most of the heavy implements were in the lean-to. He was breathing deeply as he strained against his own good work, drawing in air and coughing with the smoke. If he could buy a little more time he might be able to save himself.

“Wait - Harbord - I know where she might - have taken - the bag!” He had to break down and cough, but through his own choking gasps he could hear the man’s sharp question. “Cannot - speak,” he wheezed. “Put - out - the fire!”

“Tell me!”

“Ma - Babbage - ” choked Jeremiah. “She likely - hid - the bag - there.”

“Of course!” grated Harbord, and now there was triumph in his voice. “Dermot - fetch my horse. Quietly, fool! He does not like the fire.”

“The - fire!” cried Jeremiah. His eyes were streaming and his lungs felt fit to burst.

“The boys might put it out,” said Harbord. “Dermot - get me my bay and then fetch water from the creek. Dan - you could start hauling those faggots away into the brush.”

There was a brief silence, then dimly, Jeremiah heard the drum of hooves, a double snapping sound and a cry. He had retreated into the new room, furthest from the door, but the fire was beating back through the timbers of his home. The heat was unbearable, the smoke was blinding him. His lungs hurt, and his straining ears could hear nothing but the relentless progress of the fire. If ever a man cursed himself for building strong and building stalwart, Jeremiah Gold was cursing himself now.

Chapter 9.

Garnet went limp with relief as the brand from the fire went out. Harbord clouted the man who had brandished it, hard across the face, forcing him to drop the smoking torch. She hoped the ensuing turmoil might give Jeremiah a chance to escape the house, but the man who had been struck, far from hitting Harbord back, simply made a wild swing and fell to the ground himself. Harbord kicked him, and he got up, rubbing his face sullenly.

And then, after another long, tense pause during which she was sure some kind of bargain was being driven, Garnet saw more activity. This time, it seemed, the men meant business. Before her appalled gaze they began building a barrier of brush-wood against the door of the house.

From where she was crouched, the scene had all the unreality of a magic lantern show, but she knew Harbord, she knew his cruelty, his callous disregard for human feeling. She could no longer watch and do nothing, so she began to climb down the hill, secure in the knowledge that the three invaders were making too much noise to hear any sound she might make. She came down by degrees, slowly at first, praying that the wood and the house would be too wet to burn, that Jeremiah would somehow break free, or give the men whatever they wanted. And what did they want? They had the cattle, King Cole and Atlas were gone. What could they have against Jeremiah, apart from the fact that he had tried to defend his own property?

She scrambled on down the hill, slithering on the damp coarse grass. Faster and faster, for what if the fire took hold? Surely Jeremiah would break out through the roof - but she saw, in a glimpse through the scrub, that one of the horsemen had his pistol trained on the door. The brute would shoot Jeremiah if he tried to come out, yet if he stayed inside the house, he would surely be roasted. They had lit the faggots now, lit them low and carefully screened from the wind. The tinder might have been dried leaves or even oil-soaked cloth or wadding, but it caught surely and a thin trickle of smoke began to rise. And then smoke came from other points as well; the monsters were taking no chances.

She found herself sobbing as she scrambled on. Sobbing with shock and rage. If she could only hold off these brutes, lure them off so she could drag the fire away from the front of the house, at least! She could fetch a pail of water from the creek and dash it over the fire, run back and forth until the flames were out - and what would the bushrangers be doing meanwhile? How could she distract them? Offer them Edward’s bank draft - or even herself and her favours - in exchange for Jeremiah’s life? She cringed at that thought but she could, she would, make the sacrifice. She would steel herself to do it and even smile - but no doubt Jeremiah would die in any case. They would take the money and take her while the fire burned on.

No matter how she replayed the scene in her mind, no matter how she tried to force a solution, she could see no way in which one unarmed woman could outwit or out-fight a gang of bushrangers. Especially when the leader was Jacky Harbord, whose last encounter with her had led to painful and disfiguring burns for them both. No doubt he blamed her for that, for it had been her screams and struggles which had attracted the attention of old Mrs. Landis. The best thing she could do, the only thing she could do, was to stay away from the selection, to go back up and over the hill and try to work her way around and back to Father Timothy’s hut. Father Timothy would take her in, for a time, at least. He would see that the authorities - the superior Chief Constable Worthing and his men or the redcoats - knew where the gang had been and what they had done. They would be caught and punished, and they would never burn another house nor terrorise its residents.

That was the best and only thing she could do, but it would not save Jeremiah. Therefore, Garnet did not do it, but went slithering and scrambling down the hill towards disaster, ready to take on all three men with rocks, with screams and insults, with a flaming brand from their own fire. With whatever it took to make them pay, and distract them while Jeremiah made some effort to save himself. Oh, she would scar Harbord again, him and those others!

Her fingertips were bleeding from clutching at the tough scrub in an effort to keep her feet. Her cheeks were stinging from the whip-like lash of lianas and swept-back branches. She plunged down the ravine, sobbing and panting so much that she failed to hear two more shots ring out below. She heard, instead, a terrible crackling and smelt the deceptively sweet scent of burning eucalyptus logs. Billows of smoke rose sluggishly, then hung in the damp air, hovering like banks of fog.

Garnet reached the foot of the hill and pushed fiercely through the thick scrub Jeremiah had left behind the clearing. She fell, twice, and seized a lump of rock in both bruised hands. As she burst into the open, she realised she was already too late. There was only one horseman left in the clearing; it was Harbord, and he was retreating fast, his mount plunging uncontrollably, obviously spooked by the flames and sparks. With a sob, Garnet hurled her rock after the horse, but it fell a long way short of its target. She would have screamed imprecations at Harbord, she would have shrieked and raged like a madwoman, but her headlong flight down the hill had robbed her of the breath for screaming.

It seemed to take an age, her breast heaving, her lungs burning like cold fire. A stitch knifed her side, but she ran on towards the blazing house, as if by torturing herself she could somehow put out the fire.

“Jeremiah!” she shrieked, finding her voice again. She would have beaten on the door with her fists, but the door was a roaring sheet of flame. The fire forced her back, her cheeks already red from the searing heat.

She seized an abandoned pail and tore to the creek to fetch water, almost falling over a body which was sprawled face-down on the bank. For a frenzied moment she thought it was Jeremiah, and flung herself down to roll it over. A pock-marked face stared vacantly at the sky, the trademark muffler of the bushranger pulled askew by the fall. The man was a stranger, and he was young, warm and dead. Garnet let him lie and dipped up water, then fled for Jeremiah’s life.

Back to the house, flinging the water against the blazing door. The flame-wall faltered, blackened briefly, then regained its former glory. Garnet fetched more water, then stopped and ripped fiercely at her skirt, dragging out the careful stitching that had joined it to her bodice. She soused the draggled cloth and rushed back to use it to beat at the blazing timbers, but she could not get close enough. She screamed with anguish, but in seconds more it no longer mattered, for the supporting timbers fell with a roar.

Sparks swept up like a wave of hot gold, there was a fierce triumphant crackling and in place of the blazing house was a pile of rapidly charring timbers. The heat was still too great for Garnet to approach, but by now she knew sickly that it was too late anyway. The house had fallen in and Jeremiah was somewhere underneath. She could only pray in anguish that he had died of the smoke before the flames reached him, before he was crushed by the terrible burning hell.

She stared for a few seconds with wild eyes, hot and dry and reflecting the flick of the flames. She felt her mouth open, gaping and square, felt her jaw stiffen as if it belonged to somebody else. It was over, it was too late, but she would not, could not believe it. She would not give in. She would not let Jeremiah burn. He was dead. She knew that, but she felt she must see him just once more. She must get his body free of the inferno before, like any primitive, she could give way to her wrenching grief and fury.

She resumed her trek to and fro between creek and house, hauling pails of water and using her tattered skirt to beat at the remaining flames. A blanket would have been better, but when she risked a glance at her hut she saw, without emotion, that it, too had been burned. The lean-to had been savagely wrenched apart, and seeds and food-stuffs scattered. Wooden implements had been chopped like kindling. The destruction, apparently senseless, of Jeremiah’s orderly work would have made her blindingly angry at any other time. Now she had no room for any more emotions.

She found a few draggled kangaroo skins and flour sacks, and soused them too. They were muscle-wrenchingly heavy, but she was strong from weeks of work on the selection. She beat the flames and she beat the glowing winking coals, putting out their eyes as savagely as if they had been Harbord’s. The burned wood crackled and creaked, the sour smell of charred timber clogged her nostrils. She beat and she beat, and at the back of her mind, forcing itself on her attention, was the growing conviction that even this would do no good. The fire had burned quickly and it had burned hot. The lianas and bark had given way and the timbers had charred and collapsed. The remaining logs were blackened and ruined, but still stalwart and far too heavy for her to drag away. Jeremiah’s body would be trapped where she could not reach it.

She braced her boot against one of the smaller logs and pushed with all her strength. There was a grinding sound of leather on charcoal, and that was all. She kicked the log, but her foot bounced away. She might as well have kicked a living tree.

Atlas; she must have Atlas to drag these logs away. She looked around the devastated clearing, but the stockyard was down and Atlas and King Cole were gone. She hoped they had fled in a panic, hoped they had not been driven off by the marauders. Jeremiah was gone, but she knew he would never rest quietly while his mightily Atlas and bold King Cole were put to work for Harbord.

“Atlas?” she called, then more loudly, her voice cracking and breaking with the strain and the lump in her throat. “Atlas!”

A fearful noise of snorting and snuffling brought her attention to the grove of trees beyond the ruined house. Almost fearing what she might see, she stumbled over in that direction.

“Milady?” she cried, for the gentle milch cow looked wild-eyed and filthy. There were lash marks on her ribs and her coat was staring. She was peering at a slumped bundle on the ground, pawing at the ground and snorting, more like an angry bull than a matronly cow.

Stone-faced, Garnet bent over the bundle; a second body, a second young stranger, freshly dead. Another of the bushrangers? Could Jeremiah have killed this one? It seemed unlikely that he could have shot the one by the creek; he had had the musket to hand only after he had entered the house.

She had seldom seen death before, and never so violently, but now she shrugged it off. This young man looked vaguely familiar, somehow, but he was dead and she had to find Atlas.

She called out several times more, but the big horse did not return. She went back to the smoking ruins, and pulled away some of the smaller sheets of bark and burned-out leather. She was dragging hopelessly at one of the larger timbers, her hands blistering, her muscles and joints creaking with the effort, when she heard, incredibly, a voice calling her name. It was hoarse, painful and unrecognisable but she had never the slightest doubt that it was her husband.

Stupidly, she looked up and all around, peering through the scrub. He had escaped! He had somehow broken free of the blaze and run, gunning down two of the bushrangers as he went. No doubt Harbord had fled from his fury - but why was she thinking of Harbord? Jeremiah was alive!

“Jeremiah! Jeremiah! Where are you?”

Her rage was incandescent. She had mourned, she had grieved, she had burnt and bruised and strained herself on his behalf, and there he was, alive, calling out for her to come to him. How dare he!

“Jeremiah? Where are you hiding, damn you?”

“I am here,” he croaked, and now she heard, or thought she heard, a choking cough.

“Down there?” She glared at the blackened heap, willing it to rear up, for Jeremiah to rise, somehow whole and unburned, like a phoenix from the heart of the fire. “Where?”

There was no answer, so she stamped her foot. “Where, damn you?”

This time she heard the soft choking almost under her feet, and recalled, for the first time, the way in which Jeremiah had constructed his house.

“Are you in the cellar?” she demanded.

“Yes - ” It was little more than a wheezing exhalation of breath. “Cannot - breathe.”

Of course not! The cellar was inclined to be airless at the best of times, but now it must be full of smoke and the reek of fire.

She felt like screaming, but this was no time for hysterics. She mastered herself. “What can I do?”

“Pick - ” wheezed Jeremiah. “Crowbar - ”

He wanted her to break through the floor of the house, to let in more air. So simple, really, but she did not know where the pick was, nor the crowbar. And how was she to reach the floor when it was covered with mounds of burned out timber?

While she was wondering, her legs were carrying her towards the wreck of the lean-to. She found the pick, but its handle had been snapped off by one vicious blow from the axe. The axe itself was nowhere in sight, but after an age she found a crowbar, lying full length in the dark wet grass. Either the bushrangers had not found it, or else they had been unable to destroy it, for it seemed unmarked. Garnet supposed it would take a metalsmith with a heavy forge to damage a crowbar. She seized it and ran back to the house. The pick would have been better, for she could have swung it by its handle, but there was no use repining.

She had used the crowbar before, but never so urgently. She clambered over the smoking rubble and balanced herself in the middle, over the place where she hoped the trapdoor might be. “Look out, below!” she cried. Then, summoning all her strength, she thrust the bar down through the timbers to the floor. It wedged and stuck, slid down and came up hard, jarring her arms and shoulders, but she raised it again, up and down like a piston.

“Jeremiah?” she panted. “Are you there?”

The end of the crowbar vanished suddenly, falling through the floor with a clang, bringing a startled cry from Jeremiah. Garnet lost her balance and toppled forward, barking her hands and legs painfully on the still-smoking timbers. She tried to get up, put her hand on a spark and cried out.

“Garnet? Garnet?” His voice was clearer now, though still cracked, and she could hear him gulping lungs full of air from the aperture she had made. “Garnet? Are you there?”

“Of course I am!” she snapped. “Can you get out?”

A foolish question, but he answered right away, with long pauses between the words for coughs. “I will - in a - while. Garnet - go now.”

“What?” She felt the adrenaline draining, she would have collapsed if there had been anywhere to sit. “What do you mean, go?”

“Just - go,” he managed. “Harbord - they could come - back.”

“Two of them are dead,” she said. “Did you shoot them, Jeremiah?”

“Not unless - by luck,” he gasped. “Harbord?”

“He rode away. I saw it from up the hill.” She shuddered uncontrollably. “They tried to burn you! Why - and why did you run into the house? How stupid. You should have run for the hill, through the scrub where they couldn’t take the horses.”

“A fool,” he agreed. “Go - away Garnet.”

“Why?”

“They might come - Harbord might - go now!”

His voice rose as the sound of hoofs approached. Garnet leapt from the rubble and fled, not up the hill as she had advised Jeremiah, but away towards the pasture. She had no particular goal in mind, but simply ran, for if Harbord had killed his companions he would hardly blink at killing her. If Harbord saw her crouched by the rubble, he might realise he had failed to kill Jeremiah.

Jeremiah heard Garnet’s retreating steps, heard the approach of the horseman. He tried to steady his breathing, schooling himself not to cough, feeling in his bones that it would be better by far if Harbord thought him dead already. His left side ached abominably, his shoulders felt as if he had a very bad case of sunburn and his lungs felt grayed with the smoke. Yet he was alive.

The horse slowed and stopped, and he heard a long, piercing whistle. “Anyone ‘ere? Mester Harbord? Dan? Dermot?”

It was not Harbord, then. And Garnet had claimed there were two dead bodies. Another of the gang - perhaps a Byrne cousin - had returned to the selection.

There was a strained silence, then a sharp exclamation. “Dan! Dan, lad! Dan?”

Jeremiah heard the crunch of boots as the horseman dismounted, and then the same voice said; “Gah, the bastard’s shot ee!”

There was more muttering, some incomprehensible sounds and then the thud of retreating hooves. And then - silence.

Garnet crouched in one of the stump holes in the pasture. She could hear nothing, and see nothing but the raw earth - and the keg of gunpowder which Jeremiah had stored there for safety. For a while she simply breathed hard and fought down conflicting emotions of shock, fright, rage, joy, apprehension - her heart and mind felt like battle grounds. After a while, as her pulse rate slowed and the flush of immediate danger faded, she began to consider the barrel of gunpowder. If she could not find Atlas, might it not be possible to use the powder to blast away some of the timbers that trapped Jeremiah? It would be horribly dangerous, but maybe he could coach her through it. The afternoon was already waning, but it was December, and the daylight would stretch clear to eight o’clock and beyond. Perhaps Jeremiah could be freed by nightfall!

She clung to that hope, and crouched in the hole, waiting. After an age, she dared to clamber out and make her way back to the clearing, hoping the horseman, whomever it had been, would have gone.

To her utter dismay, she found the clearing inhabited now by two men. They had rebuilt the stockyard and put their horses inside, which argued that they planned to stay a while. For just a moment she thought of approaching them and begging for help, but their clothes, the mufflers that hung loose about their throats, and the fact that both horses were chestnuts convinced her that these were the remaining men of Harbord’s gang - the two who had driven off the cattle.

Angrily, she bit her lip. What did they want? There was nothing left worth stealing, the two dead men and Harbord had seen to that. Holding her breath, treading softly, she crept forward, hoping to learn of their intentions, but for a while she heard nothing but their movements and the occasional curse and expletive.

One of them was building up the cook-fire, the other poking about the ruins of the lean-to. This one bent suddenly and picked up a shovel. The broken handle stuck up like a jagged tooth, snapped off short four inches from the blade. “Gah!” he exclaimed in disgust, and spat, then shouted over his shoulder to the man at the fire; “I got ee a shovel, Will, but it’s bust.”

“That will be no good,” said Will. “Anything else? A pick? A crowbar?”

“All bust,” said the other man angrily.

“Likely ‘t was Dan that bust ‘em,” said Will. “Have to dig over in the plough and serve ‘im right.”

“Take a while, even there, wi’out a shovel. Native dogs will likely dig ‘im up.”

“Better let the native dogs eat ‘im straight off? That what you want, Dick?”

The first man growled and came back towards the fire. “Oughta get Crazy Dermot to dig ‘is grave. Dan’s ‘is brother. Let’s wait for Dermot to come back.”

Will sighed and got up. “Right. If ‘e ever comes back. You tend the fire, Dick. I’ll get us some water an’ gather up some of them tea leaves an’ jerky. Keep your eye out - Jacky-boy might get back any time, and we’m to watch in case the wench comes back. Jacky says likely the Jewboy lied when ‘e said she’m run off again. If ‘e did, ‘e’s well paid out - well as for what ‘e did to Dan.” He picked up the pail Garnet had been using, and with a curious glance sideways at the ruins of the house, he headed down for the creek.

Garnet bit her lip again. It seemed the men did not know Jeremiah was alive in the cellar. Most likely, they did not know the cellar existed. There was no external evidence, and Jeremiah had built the house himself. It was pure luck - no, it was pure Jeremiah! Ever cautious, ever meticulous, except when it came to his choice of a wife.

She crouched down, peering round the tree trunk, hoping the man Dick would leave the fire and follow his mate. Surely when Will discovered the second body down by the creek he would call out! Surely Dick would hurry to see what was amiss. And how strange that they could speak as if Jeremiah were a murderer!

She waited tensely, measuring the distance from her hiding place to the ruins. She could dart across in a minute or two, but once there she would have no better opportunity to help Jeremiah than she had had before. She needed time and strength, for such a rescue, more than she had of either.

The cry came from the creek, as expected, but Dick merely stirred the fire and glanced up incuriously when Will came back with the water. “Get your feet wet, Willy boy?”

“Nah, but I tell ee now it’s no use waiting for Mad Dermot. ‘E’m down by the water ’ole. Shot through the back.”

Now Dick sprang up, looking wildly about. “Mad Dermot too? You reckon Gold got a mate? We’m better get out o’ this place! ‘E’ll ‘ave us riddled next!”

Will laughed shortly. “Nah. Could a’ done us any time this past while. Nah, Gold’s gone right enough, and never ‘ad no mate. Just the wench. Must’ve done Dan and Dermot straight off before ‘e burned.”

“Then Jacky-boy - ”

“ - will be expectin’ us to keep watch, like he told us. Let’s just ‘ope them cattle stay in the yard. If they wander, we’m dead men.”

There was silence for a while, while Garnet puzzled over that last remark. The cattle were not in the yard, they had been driven off some hours before. And yet, these two men, who had taken them away, had come back to the clearing after a bare two hours. There must be a stockyard somewhere close by, she concluded; perhaps a rough one they had built in the bush. This raid could have been planned for weeks - the bushrangers could have a camp nearby, perhaps just out of earshot. Maybe it was they she had heard while wandering through the scrub some days before. Her skin crept at the thought. If she had happened upon them, maybe this could all have been avoided - or maybe it would have happened that much sooner.

The afternoon dimmed into evening, and still the two men showed no signs of leaving the selection. Instead they made a camp of sorts, building a rude shelter from the remains of the lean-to and swearing because their leader and their dead mates had burned the habitable buildings.

The fire glowed brighter as the darkness came in, and Garnet began to shiver. She moved cautiously around to the foot of the hill, and concealed herself among the bushes there. She could see little and hear almost nothing, but she thought she would be able to tell if the men left. She was chilled in her petticoat and bodice, but her other clothes were burned, all but the old driving coat, and she placed no reliance on being able to find that in the darkness. Likely she’d fall and break her neck instead.

“It is summer,” she told herself firmly. “It is summer.”

Frederick Byrne knew something was afoot. His brothers, his cousins and Harbord had left with the dawn, heading for Jeremiah Gold’s selection. Harbord had claimed he wanted to speak with the woman who had lost the serpent ring, but Frederick was no fool. He knew there was more to it than that, else why would Harbord take the others along? No man bent on courting or whoring would take along his mates to cheer him on. There had been words about a black valise, which must mean Gold had something Harbord wanted - besides the red-haired lady. And Harbord, as Frederick knew from experience, always took what he wanted.

The more Frederick thought about it, the more he wished he had said nothing to Harbord. Jeremiah Gold had given him coins for holding the fine black horse, and now he might be in trouble. Fair enough, thought Frederick, if he had regained the ring, but Harbord had not yet given it to him.

“Later,” he had said, but what if “later” never came?

Hoping for information, Frederick went towards the slab hut, the place from which he had taken the piece of paper with Gold’s signature. It was nightfall when he arrived, dusty and footsore, and he helped himself to a draft of water from the well and some milk from the old priest’s cow. Then he crept on until he reached the faint blaze he had made to mark the track that led to Gold’s selection.

He was somewhat startled to hear hooves; just one horse, he thought, so likely not the gang returning. He hid behind a tree, and in the light of the rising moon recognised Harbord. He must have made an incautious movement for Harbord’s bay, always a nervous creature, shied violently off the track.

Harbord swore and hit his mount with a crop, then spurred it roughly in a circle. “Who’s there?”

“Tes me, Mester Harbord,” said Frederick, emerging. “Did ee see the lady ee was wanting?”

Harbord laughed. “That is for me to know.”

“Did ee get what else ee wanted?”

“I am on my way to get it now,” said Harbord.

“Where are Dermot an’ Dan an’ the others?”

“Safe at the Jewboy’s selection, keeping watch. Now let me pass, boy.”

“What about that ring? Will ee give it to me now?”

Harbord laughed and spurred the horse again, and it snorted and plunged off along the track.

Frederick scowled after him. His fingertips prickled, and he looked about uneasily. There was another horse approaching now, but this time the beat of hooves sounded different. Frederick forgot about Harbord in a moment, pushing through the scrub to intercept the horse. For a moment he thought his brothers must be following Harbord, but then he realised this beast was without a rider; a fine big black with a long white blaze.

“Ee, my beauty!” murmured Frederick. His eyes gleamed. This horse was straying, surely, and would be impounded if it were found wandering the roads. And it was the black -

The penalties for horse-stealing left his mind, for he had wanted that black since he had first held it in Sydney. A good horse like that should never have been put to pull a cart - it was made for a spirited rider. He began to hiss gently through his teeth, approaching the animal which had paused and was watching him suspiciously. It veered away, but Frederick leapt, and his fingers closed on the rough head-collar. He was dragged a bit, and his foot was trodden, but he managed to secure the horse.

He rubbed its nose a while, gentling it, crooning to it happily, then by degrees he began to realise he must make some decision, quickly. He could return it to its master - but if Jeremiah Gold had learned that Frederick had told Harbord his direction he might well prosecute him for theft. He could take the black back to his granny’s...and then his brothers or Harbord would be bound to take it away from him. He frowned, never ceasing to gentle the horse. At last, still far from a final decision, he began to lead the black along towards the road. Maybe he should go right away - down to Melbourne?

The horse came with him in fits and starts at first, but soon became used to him and even gave him a friendly nudge as they plodded on.

All went well, and might have continued to do so, but as he passed the priest’s slab hut the priest’s nag neighed a greeting. The black replied, with a ringing clarion call which startled Frederick almost out of his wits.

He had hardly composed himself when a light sprang out and the old priest came from his hut, lantern held high. “Jeremiah, me dearie!” he cried in greeting. “Ye’re about late tonight, but come in, come in!”

The black whinnied again, but Frederick simply stood there, dumbfounded, as the priest’s face changed from eager welcome to ludicrous surprise.

The night passed slowly at the selection, and the day after that slid by more slowly still. Garnet was tormented by thirst, and she shuddered to think of Jeremiah, still trapped down there in the ruins. If only those men would go away! It seemed they planned to stay on until Harbord came back, but then, late in the morning, the one called Will went off, apparently to check on the cattle. Garnet held her breath as his companion, after poking around in a desultory sort of fashion, propped his pistol on his knees, tugged down his cabbage tree hat, and went to sleep.

For a while, he twitched and muttered, occasionally swatting away a mosquito or bush-fly, but at last he seemed to have settled. Garnet was stiff with cramp, but she rose from her hiding place and crept over to the ruin, keeping the burnt-out timbers always between herself and the bushranger.

“Jeremiah?” she called, just above a whisper. “Jeremiah, are you all right?”

There was no reply.

“Jeremiah?”

Silence, and then a low cough.

“There is a man out here,” she said, quick and low. “He is asleep. I can fetch the gunpowder - is it safe if I blow a hole in these timbers?”

“Go, Garnet,” came the husky murmur. “Leave - me. Go - to - town.”

“Is it safe if I blow the timbers?” she persisted. “Jeremiah?”

“Not safe. Go.”

“I want to get you out.”

“For the sake - of heaven - Garnet! Why can you - never - do as you - are bid?”

Garnet set her jaw. He was alive, but it seemed to her that his voice was weaker. If she were to act, surely it should be now, before the other man came back! Her mind wrestled the problem. She could use the gunpowder to set off an explosion that would distract the man called Dick. However, the sound might fetch the other man back, and the distraction would not last long enough for her to get Jeremiah out.

She had to do something.

She slipped around to the pasture and dropped back into the stump hole. There was the gunpowder, but immediately, she ran into a problem. However she tried, she could not heave the barrel clear of the hole. Almost sobbing with frustration, she decided to take off the lid and carry as much as she could, but this also proved difficult, for the lid was stubborn and as she levered and wrenched at it, she had visions of her efforts setting off a monumental explosion.

At last she succeeded in prying free the lid, and still shaking with fear, she managed to scoop a quantity of the stuff into her much-abused petticoat. The water pail would be better, she thought, but she had not got it close by - she went to fetch it, and, heart thumping madly, filled the pail with powder and set it in the rude shelter the men had made. There, at least, it would be out of sight for a time. Jeremiah had explained that the stuff must be confined to make a good explosion, so she carefully turned the pail upside down and weighted it with a chunk of rock. She had no idea what the men would think when their shelter blew sky high, but she hoped it would scare them off, at least for a while, while they searched for the culprit.

There must be a powder-trail, she knew, so she returned to the barrel more than once and made a trail which she covered with grass and leaves.

A flame would be the hardest thing to achieve, for Jeremiah had the flint and tinder box. She could strike a piece of flint herself, but the sound would alert the men. She could fetch a brand from the fire, but if she tried to keep it alight it would smoke and give away her position to anyone who chanced to glance her way.

She was still pondering her options when, abruptly, the choice was taken from her.

There was a sudden sound of a shout, and hoofbeats approached. She heard the crack of a whip more than once; and it seemed that the horse was tired or lame. The second man was returning, the one called Dick had woken with a snort and was heading off to meet his mate, and if she were to divert the pair of them away from the house ruins it must be done now. She would have no chance if both were present and alert.

Having no time to ponder, she hitched up her petticoat and fled across the clear space towards the fire, seized a short burning branch and ran back towards the powder-trail she had made. She hoped they were making too much noise to notice her, but a cry from behind made her gasp with dismay and peer back to see the horse emerging from the trees. And this was no chestnut, but a roman-nosed bay, lathered and jittering, the whites of its eyes and the red of its nostrils clearly visible.

Harbord.

“There she is! The hellcat herself!”

The man had recognised her even as she recognised him, and she felt cold to her very soul. She was too late, too late to reach the powder-trail, too late to do anything but run away once more and wish she had obeyed Jeremiah’s orders. She ran, her boots slipping and skidding on the summer-dry ground. She ran, sobbing dryly with rage and terror, clutching the glowing brand.

The man Dick was running after her, but Harbord reached her first, spurring his tired horse mercilessly. The bay’s shoulder buffeted her, and she staggered, then, in disbelief, she found herself jerked from the ground and dragged painfully across the front of the saddle. She was face down, the horse was plunging, and Harbord was yelling at Dick to steady it.

The pommel was biting into her ribs, but her rage was so great she scarcely felt the bruising pain. “Let go of me!” she screamed with the remaining air in her lungs. “You have no right!”

Harbord slapped her buttocks hard, and spurred the horse in a circle, making Dick swear and stumble. “Where is the money?” he demanded. “The money you had from Ned?”

“Let me go!” She would have bitten him, gladly, she would have struck him with the brand, but she was face down and could only flail and screech, hurting herself and upsetting the horse still more.

“Tell me,” he rapped, apparently at the end of his patience. “The Jewboy lied, and we roasted him. Tell me the truth and you might live - keep on defying me and I’ll brand you myself - after I’ve had my fun!”

Garnet heaved and flailed at the horse, which plunged again, breaking free from Dick’s swearing grasp and bounding forwards. Then she flung out the still glowing stick she had taken from the fire, flung it as hard as she could towards the powder-trail.

Jeremiah waited helplessly after Garnet left the second time. He hoped very much she would obey him, but he placed no dependence upon that. If only she had gone when he told her first - she could have reached Father Timothy by now! She would have been safe, at least.

His side was throbbing like one vast toothache and he thought he might whimper with the pain of it. One arm was numb and his hand seemed useless. Better if he had died in the fire. The way things were going, he seemed likely to die of thirst - or perhaps at Harbord’s hands if the man came back and found he was alive. More likely, perhaps, Garnet would do as she had threatened and blow up the ruins, and him with them. A pretty end, and perhaps he deserved it for buying her in the first place.

Sometimes he dozed, sometimes he slipped into a haze of pain and weakness. Sometimes he could hear faint sounds outside, but he had no idea who made them, and perhaps he imagined them, after all.

And then he did hear something, hooves, cries, the snap of a whip, curses and finally, his wife’s piercing tones, raised in familiar vituperation. His hopes flickered and died, and rage grew in their place, a flaming, clarifying rage that ran through his veins like a flood of cleansing acid. That stupid, pig-headed bitch! If only she had done as she was told - just for once - it need not have come to this!

His furious thoughts broke off with a jolt as an immense explosion ripped through the melee of sound. He was used to that noise, of course, but this time he cringed and tried to shield himself, certain the ruins would fall on top of him at any second. The cellar seemed to shudder, but although charcoal and dust sifted down it held.

There was a confusion of galloping hooves, shouts and screams, and then a sudden silence.

“Dear God,” said Jeremiah. “What has she done to me now?”

Garnet lay where she had fallen. For the first few minutes she was stunned, deafened and shaken by the fall and the force of the explosion. She had a dim impression that bits of bark and wood had come pattering around like rain, but the air had been driven from her lungs with such force that she could never be sure. She sobbed for air, cringing, afraid Harbord would scoop her up again, or ride his maddened horse over her body, breaking her bones or crushing her into jelly. She was shaking uncontrollably, but after a while she became aware of the silence.

Was she deaf? She considered that, then realised she could hear her own sobbing breath.

She moved her arms and legs, then forced herself up on hands and knees. She hurt all over. Her body was scraped and bruised, but it seemed she was whole.

Apprehensively, she looked about, but the clearing was empty. No horses, no men. Only herself, the scattered evidence of the explosion - and the ruins of the house.

She crawled over to it and leaned over the now-cold timbers. “Jeremiah?”

“You stupid bitch!”

He was still alive, then. She tried to be glad of that. “I have to get you out of there,” she said. “Before - before anything else happens. Before they come back.” Her voice cracked. If they did come back, they would not be in a pretty mood.

“Get Atlas!” said Jeremiah between his teeth.

“He is not here. Do you understand? He is not here!” Her voice rose to a shriek of rage. “I am going to get you out!”

“All right,” he said in a low voice. “You do it, Garnet. Only please - will you bring me some water first? I do not wish to die thirsty.”

“You have no right to die at all,” she flashed. “You have no right!”

The pail was gone, blown to matchwood. There was nothing to carry the water, so in the end, Garnet tore a strip from the top of her petticoat and soaked it in the creek. Then she carefully pushed the wet cloth through the hole made by the crowbar.

“Thank you,” said Jeremiah. “Now, how do you propose to get me out of here?”

“I shall burn you out,” she said resolutely.

“Oh, my God.”

She fetched some scattered embers from the cook-fire and built a small blaze which she pushed carefully under the tumbled timbers. They were charred and still damp, and she thought for a while that they would not catch, but after a while they began to glow.

“This will take a while,” she said.

“Yes,” said Jeremiah.

There was silence for some time, except for the slow hiss of burning wood. Garnet kept the fire in check, breaking up the charred wood whenever it was possible. She fetched him more water at intervals, but evening was drawing in when she heard him take a long breath. “Garnet?”

“What?”

“Why did you marry Ned Landis?”

She was surprised at the question, but too tired to dissemble. “My stepmama was his cousin,” she said. “She wrote to tell him Papa had passed on, and Edward wrote and offered for me. Martha - my stepmama - made me come to New South Wales, and so I married him.”

“I see,” said Jeremiah.

“No doubt you think me a weak fool for giving in to her orders!” she snapped.

“You certainly never - gave in to mine,” said Jeremiah.

“I had not much choice. When Papa passed on we found he was deep in debt. We lived retired, and with no portion left, what was I to do?”

There was silence.

“I could not go as a governess,” she said. “I had not the coach fare - and - and there were other reasons.”

“And no careful mama would be so foolish as to hire a woman like - you.”

“I can sew, a little,” she said resentfully. “And you, what brings you so low?”

He was startled at the change in her tone. Her voice had been cool, now it was almost vicious. He shook off the creeping drowsiness that lapped so temptingly at his feet. He was tired to death, his body hurt, but he felt that if he slept he would probably not wake again. Much of the cellar had fallen in, and the part where he was wedged was narrow and unstable. He should have built it better - he would have, if he could have had his time again. One arm hung limp from his shoulder. His hand felt cold and he could not move it at all.

“So low?” he said, and coughed as more smoke seeped through the cracks about him. It was increasingly difficult to breathe.

“You speak like a gentleman,” she said. “You said you were better bred than I - perhaps. What brings you here?”

He could have laughed. So long they had lived together, and she had never asked before. “My father was a gentleman,” he told her. “He did not - wed my - mother. My grandfather had - a title. That was what I meant. It was - vanity. All is vanity...” He felt his wits wandering and bit his cracked lip to try to keep alert.

“Why did Harbord call you a Jewboy?” The question was like a douche of cold water and he forced himself to concentrate.

“My mother - she was a convict. A Jewess, right enough. Father - Father Tim - was hired to teach me.”

“Where are they now, your mama and papa?”

“My mother passed on, my father - I believe is gone back to England.”

“You believe?”

“Just - so.”

“But who is he? Why did he never wed your mama?”

“A convict - and a Jew? He would have been - cut off.”

“You had nothing from him?”

“Not his - name. Only the serpent - ring - which he gave my mother.”

“And which you forced on me. Oh, why did you ever do it?”

“I - had to,” he muttered. “Why did you wed Landis?”

“It is as I told you before!” she said impatiently. “Perhaps the question you really want to ask is, why did he offer for me? It was...was obvious he had no need of a wife. And I think many folk knew he had little use for women and none for me.”

“I suppose he wanted - an heir,” said Jeremiah.

“His mama surely did.” Garnet sounded so cold he almost shuddered. “She would have done anything to get a brat.”

“Then why, after so many months - were you - ”

“Why was I still pure?” she put in viciously. “Edward could scarcely bear to touch me. He tried, but - but he had to be drunk before he could bring himself to make an attempt.” She paused, and wiped her face roughly with the back of her hand. “His mama blamed me for that, and everything. They quarreled so and - ” Her voice broke off in a great sob.

“Garnet? Garnet!”

She must have kicked a burning timber, for it fell apart, sending hot coals trickling down through the aperture.

Jeremiah gasped as one glanced off his arm, then continued; “What happened - Garnet? How did you - get that scar?”

“Harbord,” she said, and choked on another sob.

“Harbord burned you? But how - why?”

“Not that,” she said. “It was Edward’s mama who burned me. She caught Harbord trying to - to get a brat on me and she struck at us with the poker. He was burned, and ran off, but I - I - ” She felt hysteria building like a huge bubble, and swallowed hard. “Edward’s mama died then - of rage, I think. Perhaps an apoplexy. She fell on the floor - down dead. And Ed - Edward told me...”

It was no good. She was becoming incoherent.

“Go on,” said Jeremiah.

“No.”

“Go on.” If he could hold himself together, so could she. So must she, if either of them was to get out of this situation.

His persistence maddened Garnet. He was trapped, probably injured, yet all he could do was rake up a past she wanted to forget.

“Go on,” he said for a third time.

“I cannot,” she said tightly. “It is too shaming.” She clenched her jaw until it ached.

“It is not so strange - that you would try to satisfy the old woman,” said Jeremiah in a soothing voice. “Perhaps it was a little - unwise to - select a man like Harbord for your...”

Garnet’s fragile control snapped. “I did not select!” she screamed. “Edward selected! Edward told Harbord to give me a brat and then he turned against me! They drugged me - even Mag was a party to it. They drugged me, only - ”

“Only?” He sounded a little stunned.

“Only I dislike hot milk, and so I did not drink it all,” she muttered. “If I had - if I had done what Edward thought - I might never have known, I might have had a brat by now and - and I would still be m-married to Edward!” She gasped on a sob which emerged like a giant hiccup. “He had me drugged, he had Harbord try to take me, then, when his mama died, he could not bear to see me, so he sold me to you. A pretty tale, is it not? You may well despise me now, as Edward did!”

“I see,” said Jeremiah, and he sounded cold and shaken as she was herself. “You were sent away from - your home, and treated wretchedly, attacked and sent off like a barren mare and then you were sold to me - and - it began all over again. I treated you wretchedly also, did I not, Garnet? I forced you to lie with me, I forced you to work, and you hated me so much you ran away.” He coughed. “So now,” he gasped, “quite rightly - I should despise you.”

She tried to answer, and could not. Her voice seemed to have deserted her.

“In fact,” continued Jeremiah, “You must have hated me much more - much more than you ever hated Ned Landis - or Jacky Harbord. You never - ran - from them.” His voice faded away.

“No,” she said wearily. “I never did.”

After a while, she kicked the charring timbers again. “These are breaking up,” she said.

Jeremiah did not answer, and after a while she grew frightened. “Jeremiah? Jeremiah?”

There was still no reply.

“Damn you, Jeremiah, you answer me this instant! How dare you sit there - judging me - answer me this instant or I shall fetch the rest of the powder and blow this place sky high!”

“Do - not - do that,” he said faintly. “I beg - you - do not do - that.”

Garnet was on tenterhooks lest Harbord, Dick or Will should return before she had freed Jeremiah, but as the night came on, it seemed less likely that they would come back. She could not imagine why they should have gone right away, although she was devoutly thankful that they had. She was exhausted, she could barely keep awake, but she knew she must control the fire that was steadily eating away the fallen house. If the air-vent she had made became blocked, Jeremiah would suffocate. She pinched herself at intervals, and dashed cold water in her face, but her drowsiness continued to overwhelm her, and snatches of dreams invaded her consciousness.

Several times she thought she heard horses or voices, but each time when she jerked awake there was nothing but the fire, herself and an increasingly silent Jeremiah. And then suddenly she did hear horses. Two at least, then maybe three! Her weariness fled and she felt herself baring her teeth, seizing up a brand to defend herself and her helpless husband again.

Dazzled by the firelight, she could see the horses as silhouettes, so she plunged forward, shrieking defiance. One of the riders dismounted quickly, and a pair of huge arms engulfed her, while an unfamiliar voice broke through her daze.

“She’m gone mad! She’m out a’ bedlam!” A boy’s voice, light and rough, from beyond and behind her captor.

And the reply, “No, me dearie, this is my friend Mrs. Gold. Hush now, Garnet, hush and tell meself and the boy what has happened to you here.”

It took some time, but eventually Garnet managed to choke out most of the story to Father Timothy. The boy’s name appeared to be Frederick, and at first she could not imagine how he had come on the scene, nor the priest, either.

“Simply told, me dearie,” said Father Timothy. “The boy here found Jeremiah’s good black beast straying in the bushes. The lad took him in charge, and brought him to me - sure, the black knew my old nag in the dark and called a greeting. I took them in, for t’was too late to be doing much else, then today we find there is trouble abroad, more than the loss of a horse. The lad saw a miscreant he knew head for this place and so we came along to see what might be done. It took some time, we missed our way and had to lead the black. Then we found your good Atlas caught up in a tree, poor beast, and a great many other beasts as well - sure, we have been playing mighty drovers, the boy and meself.”

The priest’s voice flowed on, gentle and slurring, and Garnet stopped trying to make sense of the explanation. All that mattered was that help had come, Atlas was found, and as soon as day-break came the great horse could be put to work to drag away the last of the burned out timbers.

Chapter 10.

Jeremiah was injured, but almost worse than his own pain and discomforts were the sight of his selection and his wife, both battered and crushed beyond the pictures he had held in his imagination. Leaning on his old tutor’s arm he stared, white-faced, at the spoliation. There was a great deal he might have said to Garnet, but not while she looked so worn and so much a stranger. She was clad in Father Timothy’s old coat, but underneath she was wearing only a soiled bodice, a petticoat and her scarred, burned, boots. She looked ready to drop, and no wonder. He stared at her and felt a deep, profound regret.

He and Garnet were not the only ones who had suffered from the bushrangers’ raid. The two horses were largely unharmed, the younger heifer and the calf were roving around, wide-eyed, but Milady was lame. She had quieted by morning, which was as well, as the little milk the priest had managed to draw from her was almost their only sustenance. Such food as had been stored in the cellar was smoke-spoiled or buried beneath the collapse, and the stores from the lean-to were scattered, either by the bushrangers’ depredations or by Garnet’s gunpowder explosion.

The boy Frederick, whom Jeremiah recognised vaguely as the yellow-haired lad who had sometimes stood guard over King Cole in Sydney, had been quiet enough during the night; come daylight, and with Jeremiah finally drawn from the cellar, he had gone to the creek for water and recognised the two dead bodies of his elder brothers. He seemed shocked, as well he might, but not so much grieved as incredulous.

“They ‘ad their names up on posters an’ that!” he said more than once. “Rewards an’ all. And now someone’s done for ‘em!” His white peaked face turned to Jeremiah. “Did ee do for Dan an’ Dermot, Mester Gold?”

“I cannot be sure if I did or not,” said Jeremiah. “There was so much happening.”

“They tried to burn him alive,” said Garnet coldly. “He was unarmed, it was unprovoked. What sort of men were these brothers of yours, that they could do such things?”

Frederick gaped at her.

“They had no reason,” she cried.

“Mester Harbord said ee would want to see ‘im,” said the boy. “Ee wanted Mester Gold to give over some black bag wid gold or guineas inside.”

“Mr. Gold had no guineas,” snapped Garnet. “He had nothing but what was here and is now ruined.”

“Mester Harbord takes what ee wants,” said Frederick simply. “Ee was in a right takin’ when ee came spurrin’ back from Sydney town.” He turned to Jeremiah. “Why didn’ ee do for Mester Harbord instead of for Dan an’ Dermot?”

“I cannot see how I could have done for either of them,” said Jeremiah. “The door of my house was there.” His arms hurt, so he indicated the direction with a jerk of his head. He was shivering still with reaction and pain and an encroaching weakness in his head. “I caught up the musket when I ran inside and I fired through the door, perhaps six times. If I hit any man he must have walked some distance with my charge in him before he dropped.”

Father Timothy shook his head. “These men were dying immediately, me dearie,” he said. “There was not much blood, and no sign of any movement after they fell.”

“Then Mester Harbord did for ‘em,” said Frederick. “An’ likely Dick an’ Will as well.” He turned back to Jeremiah. “Did ee get what was wanted from ee at the last, Mester Gold?”

“He wanted a pack of moonshine,” said Jeremiah somberly. “A chimera, you might say.” He would have added more, but he felt himself slipping into a darkness that had nothing to do with the morning. He peered around for Garnet, but he could see the faces of the boy, peaked and scared, and of his old friend, full of sadness and a boundless compassion. “I did not kill them, I believe,” he said. “I never - never meant such - ” His voice was strange, it did not seem to belong to him at all.

“Ye’ve had a shock, me dearie,” said Father Timothy, and took out a flask of brandy from the saddlebag of his placid horse. “We must tend to your hurts, but not here. Drink this, and we shall lift ye into the wagon.”

“What about those men?” asked Garnet’s voice. “You cannot leave them here.”

“They too must be taken in,” said the old man. “But later, I think. They are safe enough for now.”

Jeremiah gulped down the brandy, too pained and ill to resist. His recollections of the next few hours were always blurred, something for which he was thankful. He remembered things in flashes, but when added together these flashes would have occupied barely fifteen minutes, while the actual journey must have been very much longer.

The wagon jolting, his own voice crying out with pain. His body shaking with cold, and a heavy coat being laid across him, damp and smelling of leaves but not of smoke.

Garnet by him, her voice cold and hard, telling him he was not to give in, that he had no right.

The lurch of the wagon, a cry from the boy...“Mester Harbord!”

“No,” said Jeremiah, but could say no more.

For Garnet the journey was almost as fragmented. Her injuries, unlike Jeremiah’s, were mostly superficial, but she felt a gray and creeping exhaustion. She might sleep for a month, she thought, but she knew there would be nightmares when she finally closed her eyes. The two dead men, whom she had surveyed dispassionately when she had thought that Jeremiah was dead, would haunt her, so would too many other events of the past two days and nights. And the horrors were not over yet, for the priest was clearly worried about Jeremiah. “Have ye no blankets unburned?” he asked Garnet quietly, but all she could do was shake her head.

“There is just an old coat,” she said at last. “I left it up the hill...” She turned her white face towards the hill, but she knew she could never climb it now. “Hanging on a tree.”

“The lad will fetch it, me dearie,” said Father Timothy. “It will do him good to be serving ye.”

The boy had fetched the coat, which the priest tucked around Jeremiah, steady Atlas was put in the shafts of the wagon, and the party moved off through the bush. And even the wagon had suffered from the bushrangers’ visit. One shaft was part chopped through and the leather seat had been slashed.

The track was always rough and difficult, but doubly so with Jeremiah in no fit state to choose the way. Startled cattle appeared from the bush sometimes, it seemed that they must have escaped from whatever place the bushrangers had put them. A chestnut horse blundered through the scrub, dead lame.

“Belongs to Dick, ee do,” said Frederick, but when he tried to catch it the horse reared away.

The crowning horror, for Garnet, was the discovery of yet another horse, a bay, head down and shaking. The saddle was pulled askew and the rider, fallen and dragged a mile through the bush by the stirrup, was so battered and broken as to be almost unrecognisable.

“Dear God!” said Father Timothy, pulling Atlas to a halt.

And young Frederick, riding Father Timothy’s nag and leading King Cole, exclaimed, “Mester Harbord!”

Sickly, Garnet waited for Harbord to move, to speak, but he simply lay there, limp in death. “I suppose his horse must have bolted when the gunpowder blew,” she said bleakly.

“That ‘orse were always a bolter,” said the boy.

He tethered the nag and King Cole, and before Garnet’s horrified gaze, he approached the lathered animal and took off bridle and saddle, letting the body slump to the ground. The horse shied and bucketed away. “Likely eem go as a brumby,” said Frederick. He bent over Harbord for a moment, feeling in the man’s pocket, then straightened and came back to the wagon.

“Sometime, ‘e’d give it back, ee said...I say sometime is now.” He held out his hand, palm up, to Garnet. In it, lay the serpent ring.

Garnet felt nothing at all. Not when she saw the ring, not when Father Timothy climbed out of the wagon to make the sign of the cross over the broken body. Nothing.

It was not until some days later that Garnet, rested and freshly clothed in a pale green gown, began to feel herself. She had not stayed on with Father Timothy, for with Jeremiah and young Frederick in residence he had no room. Sister Joseph, the elderly nun, had good nursing skills, and she told Garnet serenely that she would look after the gentleman. In the meantime, Father Timothy sent a message which resulted in Garnet’s being taken up in a carriage and sent to stay with her old friend Mrs. Hepplewhite, newly returned from Parramatta.

That lady was welcoming, and if she had questions about Garnet’s violent widowhood and immediate remarriage, she kept them largely to herself.

“Father Timothy holds you blameless, my dear,” she said kindly, “and though I am not a Papist and do not know him well, Arthur assures me he is a good kind of person - if a little odd - and that his word is to be trusted.”

“Father Tim would hold Lucifer himself blameless,” said Garnet sadly. “I have made a mull of things, ma’am, and that is the bare truth of it.”

“You were not quite happy with the late Mr. Landis?”

“I was not at all happy with the late Mr. Landis,” corrected Garnet.

“I collect you deal better with Mr. Gold, then. I thought him a very good kind of gentleman when he came to talk business with Mr. Hepplewhite.”

Garnet laughed a little hysterically. “I deal with Jeremiah Gold very badly indeed,” she said. A sob caught her unawares.

“Then you have not been happy?” said Maria wistfully.

Garnet thought of the battlefield that had been her marriage with Jeremiah. “No,” she said. “I have not been happy. Indeed - other than that brief time on the Clara with you, dear ma’am, I have not been happy since before I left England.”

Jeremiah was in a high fever for two days after his rescue, and continued ill for some while more. By the time he was able to take hold of his life again, he found that his wife had gone to stay with her old friend from the immigrant ship. Milady and her calf and the heifer, said Father Timothy, were well enough, for Arthur Hepplewhite, having heard of the disaster at Gold’s Kingdom, had taken it upon himself to help solve some of its immediate problems.

Through his aegis, the three dead bushrangers had been brought back to Sydney, and another member of the gang; Dick Shawcross, had been found wandering in the bush and fetched back to stand his trial. His brother Will was still at large. As for young Frederick, his part in affairs had been minimal, said Father Timothy. Away from the influence of his brothers and Harbord, and with right and proper guidance, he might yet turn out as a respectable man.

“I hope you do not intend that I should guide him,” said Jeremiah restlessly.

“He would like to be assisting ye on the selection, me dearie,” said Father Timothy.

“That will not be possible.”

“So now ye read the future?” mocked the priest gently.

“I should have done so before and saved myself - and others - a deal of grief.”

“Perhaps ye should.”

“And now I shall do better. For myself, and for my wife.”

Having made up his mind to this, Jeremiah’s hurts mended sooner than he expected. His burns scabbed over, he recovered much of the strength of his injured arm and back. The deep bruising left him stiff and sore for some time, and his leg was still quite lame, but three weeks after the attack he pronounced himself well enough to take up the reins of his responsibilities. His first move, after ascertaining Garnet’s position, was to seek news of the cattle the bushrangers had driven off. The result was disheartening, but not unexpected.

Arthur Hepplewhite, who had come to Father Timothy’s to inquire after his health, said some half dozen had been recovered, but the others had vanished. “Likely driven off by that miscreant Will Shawcross,” he said. “Or else impounded and sold off before I heard of them. I am sorry, Gold.”

“How should you be sorry?” said Jeremiah, rather more abruptly than he had intended. “It was not your business to mop up my spilled milk.”

“Perhaps not,” said Hepplewhite, “but my wife has a kindness for your lady, and I confess I still have an interest in your ‘milk’ as you put it, myself.”

“I see,” said Jeremiah.

He limped heavily over to the yard where Atlas and King Cole kept company with Father Timothy’s horse. Leaning on a stick, he lifted a hand to gentle King Cole. The horse nudged him then snuffled inquiringly at Arthur Hepplewhite. “He remembers you still,” said Jeremiah. “Have you ever regretted parting with him?”

“Often enough,” said Arthur, “but I had insufficient work for him at the time.”

“And now?”

“And now - perhaps we might come to some agreement.” Arthur took Jeremiah’s arm and led him over to a fallen log, on which he sat down. “I will be plain with you, Gold,” he said. “You have been much hurt, in pocket as well as in body. The stock you have lost, the damage to your selection; these, I apprehend, will have caused you some continuing distress.”

Jeremiah moved restlessly, wishing the man would get to the point.

“I would never try to teach a man his business,” went on Hepplewhite, “but perhaps I might be of assistance to you?”

“Why?” asked Jeremiah. “And in what fashion?”

“There are several arrangements which might benefit both of us,” said Hepplewhite. “I might, for instance, offer to loan you the monies you need to get back on your feet.”

“I can accept no such loan,” said Jeremiah painfully. “I have no dependence in my ability to pay it back. However, I do stand in need of urgent funds. You made me an offer some months ago - I wonder if you would be prepared to make that offer again?”

“I believe I would,” said Hepplewhite, “but how would it benefit you? If I take over your land, what need would you have of the money?”

“You might say I need it to right a wrong,” said Jeremiah.

Garnet’s spirits had been low ever since her arrival at the Hepplewhites’ home. Maria was kindness itself, but Garnet felt she was treading water, that she was going nowhere at all. She acted as a companion to her friend, but Maria was no fretful elderly woman in need of someone to wind her knitting wool and sort her silks. She was an energetic lady whose husband formed the center of her existence. There was no real room in her life for Garnet. And yet, with the house on Gold’s Kingdom destroyed, and no room at Father Timothy’s hut, where else was she to go? She had remained with the Hepplewhites so far. Maria was expecting a child, but as yet her condition was scarcely to be noticed. She had bought Garnet new clothing, declaring herself glad of occupation and company. There was just one slight contention between them; although Garnet had asked after some of her old friends from the Clara, Maria had seemed curiously reluctant to have them visit. “They have gone their own ways, my dear,” she said kindly but firmly.

“Are none of them still resident in Sydney town?”

“Oh yes, but most are wed - Georgianna has a babe, you know, and the others are busy with the social round. They have their own establishments.”

“I see,” said Garnet. She supposed she also might set up her own establishment, but until she heard from Jeremiah she could make no decision. She would have visited him, but after all that had passed between them, she felt she must wait for him to make the first approach.

And then he came, driven in his own wagon by the young Frederick Byrne.

Garnet was sitting in the arbour with Maria, and her upsurge of delight at the sight of his familiar figure shocked her like a punch in the stomach. He looked so much the same, and yet so different, that she caught her breath and, for a moment, was reduced to silence. If he had held out his arms, or even smiled at her, she would have flown to him, but Maria was with her, and Jeremiah simply climbed down from the wagon and sketched an awkward bow, clasping his hat to his chest. “Ma’am, Garnet...I hope I find you both well.”

Garnet’s heart seemed to sink in her breast. He was not smiling, he was not pleased to see her, even arrayed in a modish summer muslin! He was not pleased to see her at all. Well, two could be cool. Two could be polite and formal. Her green eyes widened and she straightened her back. Her chin came up. “Mr. Gold,” she said.

“I shall leave you two to yourselves,” said Maria Hepplewhite, gathering her stitching.

“No - do not leave on my account, ma’am,” said Jeremiah. “What I have to say will not take long.”

“At least sit down!” said Maria, a little blankly.

Jeremiah did as she said, and Garnet saw that he was thinner, and not so tanned. He was leaning a little on a cane, but she tamped down her instinctive questions.

“It is good to see you so much restored,” she said.

“Thank you,” said Jeremiah. His face was stony, his voice as cool as hers. But surely his heart was not racing in his breast!

Garnet tilted her head so her bonnet shaded her eyes.

“You also are restored to health?” he said.

“As you see.” She brushed aside his query. “There was never very much wrong with me.”

“No,” he said. “You were merely burned and bruised and terrified out of your wits. You only defended me and mine and freed me from the rubble.”

“Father Timothy and Atlas freed you.”

“But without you, I would have been long dead.” His eyes were strained. “Believe me, Garnet - I am not insensible of my debt to you!”

“Think nothing of it,” she said. “I do not regard it. But perhaps I have now repaid my own debt?”

“There never was a debt - ” he began passionately.

She started to her feet. “You bought me, you paid for me, you never let me forget that! You took me away from that place...”

“Whatever I did,” he said with bitter harshness, “I did for my own reasons, for my own gain. I owe you my life, Garnet. You have been very much wronged, by others, and especially by me.”

“I am well enough,” she said, and touched her pale green skirts. “As you see.”

“That is a new gown?”

“I could not wear my others, Jeremiah! What was it you said to me once - that I seem forever bound to souse, lose, or otherwise cast away or ruin my garments? You were quite correct. My former skirts were burned, soused, ruined and cast away.” She smoothed her skirts again. “However, as you may note, I have regained the ring I also cast away.”

“So I see.”

“I had it from young Frederick. He came with Father Timothy to see how I did.” He had also told her enough to make her realise how much he had been responsible for the whole sorry affair, but she had put away her anger. He was just a boy, and no doubt Harbord would have found her anyway.

“Keep it,” said Jeremiah.

“I intend to. As you said once to me - ”

“Garnet, can you not cease to remind me what I said once to you? I regret it, I regret it all, and I have come to make what reparation I may!”

“I see.” She was aware of Maria’s sudden uneasy movement beside her, but she kept her gaze on Jeremiah. Surely, surely he would hold out his hands to her now!

“I can never take back what has been done to you,” he said, “but I have made what amends I am able.” He rose awkwardly, and she saw stark pain in his face. “This is for you,” he said abruptly, and held out an envelope.

Speechlessly, Garnet took it. For a moment his hand touched hers. “Goodbye, Garnet,” he said. “I wish things could have been better between us.” He bowed a little and turned away.

“Jeremiah!” she exclaimed. “What is this? Where are you going?”

“I believe the enclosure will explain everything,” he said, and limped back to the wagon.

Garnet sat in frozen silence as the vehicle creaked off. Then she opened the envelope. Perhaps there was a letter, a passionate outpouring of the feelings he could not reveal before Maria?

The envelope was thick and creamy, but the enclosure within was pitifully thin.

Garnet sat staring at it in silence, her eyes glazed with tears. Then she held it out abruptly to her friend. “He wants to be rid of me!” she said. “He is turning me off! How dare he be so cruel?”

Maria Hepplewhite took the proffered paper. “This is a first class ticket for the Katherine, bound for London,” she said without surprise.

“I know what it is,” said Garnet wildly. “But how dare he try to send me away! How dare he?” She snatched back the ticket and tore it across, then cast the pieces on the ground.

Maria touched her shoulder. “There, my dear, Mr. Gold is trying to make up for the horrid time you have had. He was sure you had a disgust of the colony, and of him, and so he has made you the best gift he could, the chance to return home. After all, you say you were not at all happy as his wife.”

Garnet dashed tears from her cheeks. Her green eyes were sparkling with rage. “And what does he imagine I would do in London?” she demanded. “Does he expect me to live retired, where no one will know of my shame?”

“You would find it difficult to continue to reside in Sydney, my dear,” said Maria. “You have not been about in society since your arrival here, but I fear there is some unkind talk...not that I regard it.”

Garnet turned on her, incredulously. “What talk?”

“Why, that you were seen about dressed as a boy, my dear.”

“Is that all?”

Garnet saw from her friend’s painful blush that it was not. “What else do they say, ma’am?”

“I tell you, I do not regard it!” Maria sounded agitated, her embroidery was crumpled in her hand.

“I see,” said Garnet in a chill little voice. “You do not regard it, dear ma’am, but there are others who do. Eliza, perhaps. Mercy and Georgianna.”

She saw without satisfaction that this was correct.

“No wonder they have not called to see how I go on,” she said. “No wonder you have made no push to allow me to visit them. I thought it could not be just because of your condition, ma’am.” She looked ruefully at the pieces of ticket as the wind blew them about. “Perhaps I should paste them back together, and leave your home,” she added. “Your offer of hospitality to one beyond the pale can hardly add to your consequence.”

“You are angry,” said Maria with a sigh, “and indeed I did not mean to offend you.”

“I am not angry with you,” said Garnet swiftly. She touched her friend’s hand. “Never with you, ma’am. It is only Jeremiah who puts me in a passion. How dare he try to rid himself of me! Turning me off without a word, without a second thought...and how did he contrive to pay for this ticket, I wonder? The house is gone, the crops trampled and the cattle run off. It is I who have kept account of his business, and I tell you he had not the funds for this.”

She heard Maria Hepplewhite draw a quick breath and turned a sparkling emerald gaze on her. “You know something more,” she stated. “What has he done?”

Maria eyed her nervously. “Now Garnet - there is no need to take me up so. Mr. Gold has sold some of his land to my husband. It is nothing new; the offer was first discussed some months ago, but at that time Mr. Gold did not wish to sell.”

“What?” cried Garnet. “He - he cannot have done so! He would never part with that land! It means everything to him, I do believe!”

“He wishes to send you home, my dear,” said Maria simply. “Mr. Hepplewhite offered to advance him the funds as a loan, but Mr. Gold was adamant. He said he would sell the land in any case, so Mr. Hepplewhite agreed to buy it. We are established in Sydney now, and he will re-sell when he is offered a good price.”

Garnet stared at her friend, her face now red, now white. “He sold the land just to send me back to a place where I have no wish to go! Did he never think of asking me what I would have preferred?”

“He thought he was doing right,” said Maria.

“Oh yes,” said Garnet between her teeth. “Of course he thought he was doing right. Jeremiah Gold always thinks he’s right. Oh, how dare he?” She turned back to Maria, her eyes flashing dangerously. “Forgive me again, ma’am, but would you mind very much if I spend some little time alone? I am much too angry to be good company.”

Maria rose without another word and went into the house, where she found her husband attending to some papers. He glanced up inquiringly. “So we are soon to lose the society of your young friend, my dear?”

“Perhaps,” said Maria.

“And perhaps it is as well,” suggested Arthur. “Your social engagements have been much curtailed, with Mrs. Gold in residence.”

“I have scarcely missed them,” said Maria. “And they would have been soon curtailed in any case.” She flushed as her husband’s smile broke out. “She is a dear girl, but so unsettled! And oh Lord, what is to become of her? She has torn up the ticket Mr. Gold gave to her and declares she has no wish to leave New South Wales!”

Arthur looked grave. “She does not hope to continue here with us?” He reached out and touched his wife’s barely rounding stomach with a gentle hand. “Really, my love, you should not suffer these apprehensions at a time like this.”

“I scarcely know what she hopes,” said Maria.

Garnet was so angry she jumped up and paced the length of the veranda, several times, twisting the serpent ring on her finger. Jeremiah had sold some of his land, simply to do her a favour she had no mind to accept. There must be something she could do, something to bring her about from this disaster! She had no home, yet she had funds, if only she could fetch them. She had funds, and what had been sold could always be bought. She raised her chin with a new resolve, and went to seek out Maria.

“Ma’am, I wonder if you would do me a favour?”

“Anything in my power,” said Maria cautiously. Arthur had been unexpectedly stern at the notion of Garnet Gold’s continuing residence in their house.

“It has been borne upon me that I have been most ungrateful for all you have done for me,” said Garnet. “I owe you so much - even the clothes I wear. In truth, I have nothing of my own, save this ring, and a coat which belonged to Mr. Landis and which now belongs to me. That coat is presently with Father Timothy, and I very much wish to have it back.”

“But what can you want with an old coat?” asked Maria, perplexed. “As for the rest, you need never feel yourself in our debt, my dear! I was happy to be of help, for you were very much a comfort during that interminable voyage.”

“After I have the coat, I shall tell you the rest of my plans,” said Garnet. She clasped her hands. “Pray do not question me now, ma’am! I need to provide for my future, you see, and this is the only way I can see. It will be difficult, but I am determined.”

Bewildered, Maria passed on Garnet’s request to Arthur. “It seems most odd of her,” she said plaintively. “What can she want with her husband’s old coat? It cannot be sentiment, for I am persuaded he treated her with little consideration. I trust she is not planning some madcap escapade! To be seen once in the garb of a lad may be passed over, but to be masquerading again - oh, that is outside of enough!”

“I agree wholeheartedly.” Arthur smiled. “But tell me, Maria, when does young Mrs. Gold not seem rather odd?”

Jeremiah had been tempted to sell the whole of his selection, but prudence and a certain weary resignation had intervened. Arthur Hepplewhite had given him a fair price for the part already improved, better than might have been had from public auction at such short notice. The money had been quite sufficient to buy a ticket for Garnet and to replace some of the tools and stock he had lost to the bushrangers. Now he had only to regain his strength and return to Gold’s Kingdom to begin his work over again.

A new house, new pasture, more wood cutting, more fencing, more stumps to blast from their sockets. He wondered wearily if he would ever be able to bear the sound of a powder-blast again. Perhaps he should have sold the lot and gone to Van Diemen’s Land or to Victoria to take up a different occupation. It hardly mattered what he did, for now his dream for the future would never come wholly true.

The year had turned and it was well into February when he began his labours. He had brought Atlas back to the part of the selection he still owned, but not King Cole, for as yet he had no stockyard. A bolt of canvas would serve him well enough for a summer dwelling, and if he worked hard he could have a new hut built and his smallholding well begun by winter. A modest farm it would be, and would do him well enough since he would be alone for much of the time. It was arranged that young Frederick Byrne might spend some months with him during busy seasons, to assist with the work. The rest of the year the lad was to remain with Father Timothy, who planned to teach him his letters and whatever else he cared to learn.

Jeremiah arrived in the morning, having traveled through the night, and worked until sundown with hardly a pause. He found it difficult to get in the rhythm of the tasks, for Atlas missed King Cole and was constantly calling for him.

“Be quiet, Atlas!” he snapped at last. “You, at least, will soon have your companion again, whilst I am doomed to be without mine forever!” He rubbed the sweat from his forehead, feeling the creak and ache in newly healed muscles and joints.

The Katherine would be sailing today with his wife aboard, and it was no accident that Jeremiah had timed his return to the selection to coincide with that date. Had he remained in Sydney the temptation to visit the docks would have been much too painful. He supposed he should have gone to bid her a formal Goodbye, should have had the courage to let it end where it had begun, but why should he harrow up his feelings for nothing? He would never kiss that warm red mouth again, never hold his wife’s pliant form in his arms...Jeremiah swore savagely as Atlas raised his head and whinnied.

“All right, we shall rest,” he said, and removed the bit so the horse could snatch at the coarse grass.

Into the silence came the distant ring of an axe.

Jeremiah rubbed his face for a moment, surprised, for he had thought himself alone. Perhaps it was Arthur Hepplewhite, come to inspect his new possession? Perhaps he was clearing away some of the burnt debris before putting up the land for resale. The sight of a ruined house would scarcely encourage new tenants.

Jeremiah had not been back to the site of the fire since his return, but he was curious to see what Hepplewhite was about, so he tethered Atlas to a tree and walked the half mile to find out. Hepplewhite would not take his curiosity amiss, he knew; might even be pleased to share a pannikin of tea.

He pushed through the last of the trees, his hand already raised in greeting, but it seemed, from the slight outline of the axeman, that Hepplewhite had not come, but had sent someone else instead.

Jeremiah stared in chagrin and his cry of greeting died on his lips as the axeman, somehow alerted to his presence, turned about to face him.

“You!” he exclaimed, and a rush of joy was swamped by a sudden overpowering anger. Would this woman never cease to trouble his thoughts and tease his passions with her presence?

Garnet eyed him with apparent calm. Her breast was heaving beneath the boyish shirt, but that must have been with exertion, for little emotion showed on her face. “Hello, Jeremiah,” she said.

She brought down the axe so it remained wedged in the log she was chopping. She was skillful now, strong and fitter than he. And, from the look of the logs she had readied, she must have been there some time. A drowsy nag rested under a tree - Father Timothy’s mount, but the priest was nowhere in sight.

Garnet gave the axe handle a professional shake to be sure the blade was properly seated. The play of her high breasts beneath the shirt turned Jeremiah’s mouth dry, and he swallowed convulsively. Her upper lip, he saw, was beaded with sweat, her hair, bundled back under a soft hat, clung to her brow in damp ringlets. She let go the axe and came towards him, striding freely. She was clad in tight duck trousers and high boots, and the swing of her hips unsettled him even more. She paused a yard away, and met his gaze with a challenge in her green eyes.

“What are you doing here?” he asked, between his teeth. “Damn it, Garnet, you are supposed to be on a ship, safely on your way to England, out of my life!”

“I did not wish to go,” she said, and her eyes flashed like emeralds. She planted her hands on her hips, long fingered woman’s hands, delicate yet capable and faintly callused.

“I bought you a ticket!”

“I tore it up. I did not wish to go to England.” She snapped her fingers. “That for your ticket and your ship!”

“You tore - it up. I sold my land to provide for you and you tore up your ticket!”

“I never asked you to sell your land,” she pointed out. She licked the sweat from her upper lip and he felt the shock of desire at the sight.

“But what are you doing here?” he asked, trying to swamp it in anger. “This is trespass!”

She cocked her head on one side and smiled. “Now, how can it be trespass for a woman to stand upon her own land?”

“I tell you, I have sold this land, it belongs to Arthur Hepplewhite!”

“Oh no,” she said, “it belongs to me.” She stared at him with narrowed eyes, and licked her lip again. He shivered, almost able to taste the salt of her sweat. “I bought it from Mr. Hepplewhite,” she added. “He did not wish to sell to me, but I told him I meant to remain in Sydney town if he would not sell.” She chuckled. “I bought these garments you see, and sat at his table. It was unkind of me, but he was soon persuaded to sell the land. Better I live retired on my selection then continue to grace his home. I was lucky to meet with Father Timothy; he put me in the way of borrowing his nag for a few days.”

“You are lying,” he said coldly. “This is some trick of yours, some plan to make me ridiculous! You cannot have bought the land, no, not if you pawned every stitch of clothing you had! Not if you pawned the ring I gave you! And Father Tim would never conspire against me.”

“I have the ring, and I bought the land,” she said, “fair and square, with my inheritance from Edward Landis.” She pulled a face, and for the first time her certainty faltered. “Yes, Harbord...Harbord was quite correct! Edward did have money, but it was not in guineas, nor in gold, but in a draft upon his bank, sewn up in his old driving coat. He had no heirs, and so it was mine. The only good thing he ever did for me was hand the wrong valise into my keeping.”

“How much?” demanded Jeremiah.

“Four hundred and seventy pounds.” She smiled scornfully. “Enough to pay for a fine new house, for stock and implements and gowns. I found myself quite an heiress, so you see, it was never necessary for you to sell your land, just to provide for me. I am well able to provide for myself. I need never have tried to pawn the ring, I could have given it back to you. I shall, if you want to have it.”

“And when did you make this interesting discovery?”

“Oh - some time ago. When I tried to convert the coat into a more useful garment.”

“And you did not choose to tell me.”

“I would have told you,” she said stonily. “I wanted to offer it to you, but I knew you would not be bought. You would have turned me aside again. Admit it, Jeremiah! Your damned pride would have risen up!”

He scowled at her, and she nodded. “Just as I thought. And so I said nothing, and now I have bought your land and I plan to live on it and build myself a hut. I can do it; I was taught some time ago, if you recall.”

“So you were,” he said. “And you could not have found a better way to torment me if you’d tried. So - now you have had your fun.” He felt his face drain of colour. He wanted her badly, and there she was, scornful and beautiful, and almost within his reach. His loins ached with a maddening throb, and he felt the sweat starting on his brow. He could not bear it if she made her home so close and yet so far from his.

“No,” she said. “I have not had my fun. Not yet. You owe me, Jeremiah. You owe me your life. You admitted as much yourself.”

“So I did,” he said with bitterness. “And now you have the ascendancy. Gloat, if you choose.”

“I have the land,” she corrected. “And I am willing to give it back to you - to share it freely - under certain conditions.”

“I see!” he said. “Then save them, for I’ll not accept any more of a burden of gratitude. Not from you!”

Her breast heaved with indignation, but she controlled herself with an effort.

“You forget,” she said, “I owe you my life as well. Yes I do! You saved me twice from degradation, once when Edward sold me and once at that house in George Street.” She bit her lip. “It was there I found out just what it was I would have faced if it had not been for you. You saw that man...” She laughed without amusement. “I could almost be grateful to him, for he made things very clear to me. I thought I loathed what you made me feel; with him I learned what loathing truly was. I thought you had used me as a whore, he would have done that and it was very different - his hands - oh, I could not bear them! I knew then I was wrong about you.” She stepped forward, and he caught his breath. “We have both been wrong, Jeremiah,” she said in a softer tone. “We have made a mull of things. You said, when you gave me that damnable ticket, that you wished things could have been better between us. Did you mean it? Please, I have to know.”

“Of course I meant it, but milk once spilled is spoiled! Things cannot be better.”

“They can if we make them better! I am through with lies, I am through with all deceit. When I thought you had been burned, I knew - oh, I was so angry then!”

“Angry?”

“Yes, angry,” she snapped. “I was angry with myself for wasting what we had. I was angry with you for setting me aside. You had no need to do it - but I thought I could win you back, with time. I was willing to work and wait for what I wanted. And then - then the bushrangers came and I thought the chance had gone. And then, when you were alive, I thought I had a new chance, but all you could do...” Her voice broke in a sob. “All you could - do - was try to send me away!” She stared at him, her colour mounting. “I have made my declaration, and all you do is stand there like a stick! Oh, if you were a gentleman...”

“I am not a gentleman,” he said harshly. “I am a bastard, and a man!”

“You are my husband! And if you were a gentleman, you would not have forced me to say all that! You would not have shamed me so! You would have said something to make it all right - Oh, it is so damned hot!” She tore suddenly at the buttons of her collar, letting it fall open to reveal her white throat. A pulse was beating furiously, and he felt himself begin to shake, his groin was throbbing in time.

He swallowed as she opened more buttons. “But what should a husband say?”

“Nothing,” she said passionately. “He should say nothing! He should strip off his shirt and trousers and his - his drawers.”

She ripped her shirt apart and her white breasts sprang free. The sunlight touched the pink scar, the soft proud flesh.

“Then he should take me in his - arms and - put his hands on me - and his mouth and...and...” Her voice quivered to a halt, and he saw that she was crying. A tear rolled silently down her face and dropped on the top of her breast. It slipped down and came to rest like a dew drop on her nipple. Distractedly, she raised her hand to blot it away.

“Don’t!” he cried harshly, and closed the last gap between them. He put his hands on her shoulders, then, holding her green gaze with his, bent slowly and took the salty dew drop into his mouth.

At the touch of his tongue on her flesh, she burst into a storm of sobs, and buckled at the knees. He slid his arms around her and let himself fold down with her onto the ground. Still holding her, he bent his head once more, and drew the tip of her breast into his mouth, suckling fiercely. Her sobs continued, but took on a different quality, frantic little gulps, and her hands were clutching at his shoulders.

“Please, please, Jeremiah!” she gasped. “Help me! Quickly!”

Still bewildered by the sudden turn of events, he would have pulled away, but she reached down between their bodies and pressed her palm against his groin with unmistakable meaning. He groaned at the sweet torment, then pushed her gently away, while he stripped off his shirt. She half sat up, and her mouth was against his chest. She was kissing him with open-mouthed caresses, and he felt another surge of passion. His hands went to his waist, and he opened the flap of his trousers and pulled down the drawers. The relief of pressure was incredible, but she was struggling with her own fastenings, panting and moaning with frustration.

He pulled her hands away, then undid the trousers. She lay back and arched so he could peel them free. “I planned - to be - wearing a gown - for this!” she said through gritted teeth, and incredibly, she chuckled. “The best plans...”

He laid his shirt on the ground, and she moved over on to it. He looked down at her body, seeing it clearly in the rosy afternoon light, seeing the flush that suffused her face and upper chest. Her nipples were standing proud in peaks, and her eyes were glittering with arousal. “Please?” she said, and reached out for him. He placed his palms on her breasts, then kissed her deeply. For a moment she clung to him, then slid her hand down to touch him intimately, her fingers gentle but certain. He felt himself harden still more, amazed that it was possible. Her questing hand slipped round beneath his scrotum, and he almost lost control.

“Wait!” he gasped. “We must be sure you are ready...”

Incredibly, she seized his hand in hers and tugged it downwards. He touched her thigh, then drew back in amazement at the slick wetness he encountered there. She moaned, and thrust herself against him, rolling towards him and twining her legs about his, bringing her groin in contact with his own.

“Jeremiah!” she gasped, and somehow he had entered her, lying on his side, holding her close. He felt himself tense and groaned in disappointment, but she was crying out, and her powerful internal muscles were clenching about him, even as he spilled.

Afterwards, she lay panting in his arms, her breasts heaving against him. He held her firmly, suddenly afraid she would turn on him again as she had before. Instead, she snuggled closer and kissed his chest. Her hands were down, exploring him, and he felt a warning tension. It had been so long...

She looked up, with mischief on her face. “Again?”

“Not yet,” he said, and shivered as she touched a sensitive spot. “You liked it,” he stated.

“I like it a lot.” She accompanied her words with an emphatic squeeze which made him yelp. She took her hand away, blushing in confusion. “Oh - I am sorry!”

He restored the hand to its position. “Touch me,” he begged. “As much as you like.” He drew in his breath as the tentative exploration began again. “Why did you buy the land?” he asked. “Was it just to torment me?”

“I wanted to be close to you.” Her brows drew together, and she proved her words with a nestling movement that almost unmanned him. “I thought if I stayed nearby, if you had to see me often, I might work around to telling you...you might work around to listening...”

“Telling me what?” he encouraged.

“Telling you I wanted to be your wife again. In every possible way.”

“So you taunted me.”

“No! I tried to explain!” Her palm cupped him and pressed gently. “We could share the land,” she suggested. “And build a house to share as well.” Her fingers were kneading gently.

“Yes,” he agreed, and shifted restlessly. “It is foolish to live apart when we love one another so.”

“We do? You do?”

“Yes, and you do too, or else you would not be here. You would not be doing that.” He half raised himself and pressed her shoulders gently on the ground. “It took a long time, Garnet Gold, and you gave me a damnable time.”

“We could share the money...”

“Damn the money!”

“It might come in very useful,” she said in primly, and her hands became more purposeful.

“We can share everything if you choose,” he said. He kissed her breasts, alternating between them until her head thrashed restlessly. He kissed her belly, then moved on down to her damp red curls. She cried out hoarsely as his lips touched her there, and clawed at his back.

“Please...”

“Please?” he queried, raising his head. He was enchanted by her responsiveness, but sad as well. All the misery, all the misunderstandings, need never have been. “What are you asking me, Garnet Gold? What are you pleading for?”

“Love me!” she gasped.

“I do,” said Jeremiah. He lowered his lips again and she writhed at the intimate caress.

“And however I flash out at you - however vile my temper - please - ” Her voice broke off in a hoarse cry as her climax took over and swept her into ecstasy. He cradled her in his arms then quickly entered her and eased himself.

“You were saying?” he panted, as she closed her arms around him, stroking and soothing him in her turn.

“I forget,” she said.

“Remember,” he said sternly. “Or else I shall keep you naked in this place...”

“I do not object.”

“And I expect Arthur Hepplewhite to come at any moment...or young Frederick, to see how we do - ”

She gave a muffled squeak and began to grope for her discarded clothing.

Jeremiah lay back and chuckled, laughing all the more as she began to swat at him with her shirt. After a moment she managed a lucky flick on his cheek and he jumped up and grabbed her arms. “Enough!” he said, and shook her gently, then pulled her against his naked body, glorying in the feel of her.

She sagged against him, and he felt the dampness of her thighs and smelt the bush scent on her skin and wanted her again.

“You were saying?” he repeated, and slid his hands down to cup her bottom before delivering a small, sharp pinch.

She squeaked. “How dare you!”

“Now,” he said, “you sound like my Garnet again. A touch, a tweak and it sets you off like powder!”

She snarled at him, then caught his eye and laughed reluctantly. “You win,” she said. “I was saying, whatever I do or say, please do not send me away again. Please remember I love you...”

“And I love you,” he said. “And so I win, you win, we both win. And so you may keep the land and I shall keep you, and you shall keep the ring...”

“You talk too much,” she said.

THE END