Ironbark (28 page)

When Jake woke at dawn Lily was still asleep. He lay there thinking of the Widow Smith. He felt sure she was alive. Of course he wasn't remotely interested in her as a woman.
But you've got to admire a girl who chucks modesty to the winds to save a bloke's life. I reckon her problem is she's a good woman trapped in a body that attracts trouble!

He felt Lily's hand moving down his chest towards his groin.

‘Like me to wake you up, Jake?' she purred.

‘Only if you want me to get you into a heap of trouble, Lil,' he said gently as he rolled her over on top of him.
Thank God for whores.

• • •

Jake decided to stop off at Gideon Park on his way to Sydney Town. Julian Jonstone was known throughout the county for his lavish hospitality when he was in residence. Jake knew it was a long shot, but there was a chance Jenny might have been his guest at some banquet or ball.

As he rode Horatio towards the impressive Georgian sandstone mansion Jake was aware his approach was being observed by the only person in sight, a young convict working in the rose garden. Despite the occasional sounds of male voices coming from the farm buildings at the rear, the Jonstones' house appeared to be deserted. The shutters of the French windows bordering the terrace were all closed. The assigned housekeeper told him the reason – the Jonstones were away in Sydney Town to attend the governor's Foundation Day banquet.

As Jake turned away in disappointment he noticed the same young assigned gardener was now watching him intently, although half hidden by the shrubbery. He looked nervous. Had this bloke overheard him asking about Jenny? Jake's heart leapt. Did he
know
something?

He crossed over to him and coolly announced, ‘I'm Jake Andersen.'

The young man hesitated as if surprised, even suspicious of Jake's outstretched hand but he finally accepted his handshake.

‘Browne,' he mumbled warily. ‘What do you want?'

Jake filled his pipe and proffered his tobacco pouch, but the convict declined.

‘You might have seen my wife, Jenny. She disappeared some time back with my little girl, Pearl. Maybe Jenny was one of the Jonstones' guests. You wouldn't be likely to forget her.'

Jake described Jenny in detail, her blonde-haired beauty. Browne shook his head but Jake saw he looked confused, anxious.
Or is he lying?

‘Are you sure?' Jake pointed to his own chest. ‘She has a black beauty spot just here.'

Jake thought he saw a flicker of recognition in the young convict's eyes. He drew on his pipe and waited, trying not to rush him. This bloke was no run-of-the-mill felon. Despite his dirty slop clothing and gaunt face his features were fine enough to pass for Quality given the right circumstances.

Browne seemed to be weighing something in his mind. Jake felt as though he was being studied in great detail, like a butterfly under a microscope.

Finally the convict nodded with a show of reluctance. ‘I don't know for sure. Wait here.'

Jake was left standing near Horatio. He tried not to allow his hopes to be raised only to have them dashed yet again.

When the man returned a few minutes later he carried a scroll of paper which he unfurled and handed to him.

The moment Jake saw the portrait he was angry to feel his hands shaking.

‘This is my Jenny, all right – except for the dark hair.' He looked up sharply. ‘Was she with a bloke? A little girl?'

‘Only a gentleman, but I never saw his face. They arrived in a flash carriage with a coat of arms on the door.'

‘How long ago?' Jake asked quickly.

Browne pointed at the portrait. ‘The date I finished it is written on the back. So she would have been here a few days earlier.'

Jake checked the date. He was hungry for every detail of the young artist's memory of that night, despite the pain the answers gave him.

‘How did Jenny look to you? Well? Happy or sad?'

‘She smiled like she knew she could twist men around her little
finger. Except me. I just wanted to paint the flirt.' Browne turned away, unable to meet his eyes. ‘Sorry. Forgot she was your wife.'

‘
Is
my wife,' Jake corrected.

‘I heard her tell my master she was afraid of me – she wasn't! But next day I copped hard labour on Jonstone's orders – thanks to her!'

Jake nodded. ‘Would you sell me this picture? Keep it for me? I'll pay whatever you ask. But the truth is I can't give you the money till I get back from Sydney Town. I'm fixed up for a fight.' Jake emphasised the words. ‘A fight I
have
to win.'

Browne hesitated for a minute that seemed to Jake more like an hour. ‘I don't want to profit from your troubles. If you want it, it's yours.'

‘Thanks. But I can't accept your work for nothing. It ain't right. I'm pretty broke right now. But you can count on me to come through with the cash.'

‘Take it. Money here only gets stolen.' He paused. ‘But you could do something else for me.'

‘Name it,' said Jake.

‘Next time you're passing, bring me some tubes of oil paint and a fine paintbrush.'

‘Right. I'll not forget you for this—' Jake studied the signature, ‘Daniel Browne.'

Jake rolled up the portrait then offered his hand to seal the bargain. Daniel Browne kept his eyes fixed on him as they shook hands. Jake felt oddly unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. He'd never met an artist before. Were they all a bit weird like this one?

‘You don't believe I'm gunna come back, do you? Look, I just gave you my hand on it. Everyone knows Jake Andersen is as good as his word.'

Daniel Browne jerked his head in the direction of the convict quarters. ‘A man's word counts for nowt around here. But if –
when
you come back, I'd like to paint you.'

Jake gave a short laugh. ‘You must be joking. Me? What the hell for?'

Daniel Browne took a deep breath as if to summon the courage to find the right words.

‘You're a Currency Lad. There's something about you that's – different. You're not like other men. Every bloke around here is ugly, evil – or dead inside. You have a special quality. Vitality. You walk with pride – like you know who you are. Don't laugh – but I can see inside a man's soul. You love this land. You judge people as you find them – fair and square. This shows in your face. That's why I want to paint you. Now do you understand?'

Daniel Browne looked flushed from the effort of speaking. He kept his eyes fixed on Jake as if hanging on his answer.

Jake tried to cover his embarrassment. ‘Look, I'm grateful for Jenny's portrait. I'll bring you the art stuff as promised. What you do with it after that is your business, mate.'

Jake quickly swung up into the saddle and rode away. On the crest of the hill he looked back over his shoulder, feeling slightly uneasy. Daniel Browne was still standing in the same place watching him intently.

‘Jesus wept, Horatio. That proves it. Artists
are
a bit barmy.'

• • •

Riding towards the Shamrock and Thistle Inn, Jake realised the importance of Jenny's portrait to identify her in his search but its unexpected discovery came with a full measure of pain.

He said the words out loud. ‘If Jenny thinks she can hide from me by wearing a black wig, it'll take a bloody sight more than that to stop me tracking her down, Horatio.'

The memory of her was so sharp Jake shifted his thoughts to the Widow Smith. Her joy when she stuck the lorikeet feather in her hat, those disturbing blue eyes that seemed to read his thoughts, how he'd been half crazy with pain until she held him against her
breast to give him her body heat.

He dismounted at the Shamrock and Thistle Inn where Mac had said Saranna raised the alarm after the coach accident. The publican might know something.

After leading Horatio to the water trough Jake headed for the bar, drawn by the sound of raised voices. Standing beneath the framed portrait of the pretty young Queen Victoria, a young man was arguing loudly with the publican, Fingal Mulley.

The stranger had ‘made in England' stamped all over his aristocratic features and the cut of his modish grey dress jacket declared its London tailoring. His short military haircut and arrogant bearing embodied everything Jake held in contempt.

‘My lawyer has evidence that Keziah Stanley, alias Mrs Smith, travelled to this county. She is wanted for theft and kidnapping my child.'

Jake was thrown by that news.
Jesus wept. How did a kid get mixed up in all this?

‘We Morgans will not be hoodwinked by a thieving, vagabond Gypsy. I warn you, Mulley, if you are party to this woman's skulduggery you will pay dearly for it. I'll see you're stripped of your hotel licence!'

Mulley almost crumpled in fear at the Englishman's feet.

Jake's lazy drawl cut across them. ‘Hey, Fingal, what does a bloke have to do around here to get an Albion Ale?'

Mulley took one step towards Jake then a step backwards, unsure where his best interests lay.

Jake prompted him. ‘Give the New Chum a drink on me. Poor bugger's on a wild-goose chase.'

Jake's barb hit its target. The Englishman drew himself up to his full height.

‘And why is this Gypsy wench any concern of yours?' ‘I'm the driver who drove her coach over the bloody cliff. That's why!'

The Englishman eyed Jake's muddy boots with disdain and then demanded his name.

Jake flexed his fists, ready to take him on. ‘I'm Jake Andersen. Who wants to know?'

The reply was icy. ‘Caleb Morgan of Morgan Park, Lancashire.'

‘I don't give a damn who you are or what crackpot theory you have about the lady. I was there. I saw her
die
.' Jake's voice was dangerously quiet. ‘You want to call me a liar?'

Caleb Morgan returned Jake's hostile stare. Although he seemed somewhat shaken by Jake's revelation, he quickly recovered his superior air. He made a sweeping gesture that took in Jake, Mulley and every man in the bar.

‘An Englishman's word is his bond. I shall now return to Sydney Town to post a reward of two hundred guineas for Keziah Stanley's arrest. The choice is yours. Deliver her up or be transported to Norfolk Island!'

Tossing his cloak over one shoulder Caleb Morgan stalked out of the bar.

Jake pushed his hat back on his head and turned to the publican. ‘Make mine a double whisky, mate, and have one yourself!'

Jake knew he'd been guilty of many things, even gaoled for one of them, but never in his life had he turned his back on a woman in distress. He owed this Keziah Smith his life.
I've got to warn her about Caleb bloody Morgan before I go to Sydney Town but where the hell is she?

As Jake downed his whisky he was hit by a series of wild thoughts. Maybe there was no need to search for the Widow Smith. If his memory was correct and Saranna Plews really
had
died she might be the girl buried in Bolthole cemetery. If that was the case the Ironbark schoolteacher who told Joseph Bloom that
she
is Saranna Plews, might really be – Keziah Smith in hiding!

Jake reached Ironbark village in the middle of the night. The far-off
howl of dingoes was answered by the bark of cattle dogs. As Jake slipped two notes under Joseph Bloom's front door, he was aware his spelling was pretty crook, but he hoped it would get his message across. He addressed the accompanying note to The Schoolmistress, Ironbark School, to avoid alerting the lawyer to her possible true identity.

I am sending this message to you care of Joseph Bloom. I reckon you saved my life, so I owe you. This is a warning to be dead careful. Caleb Morgan is offering a big reward for Keziah Smith on his return to Sydney Town as he reckons she kidnapped his child. I reckon any good woman would bolt from that mongrel. I've got to fight a bloke in Sydney Town but I'll return soon to sort things out for you. Jake

It was a Saturday afternoon. The crowd milling on the footpath outside the Bald-Faced Stag Inn spilled across the Parramatta Road outside of Sydney Town.

Jake was pleased his fight with Pete the Hammer had drawn a large crowd – drunks, ticket-of-leave men, bond or free, a large percentage were Irish. He knew most men in the underbelly of the colony's class system were united by a common religion. Gambling. This crowd was bound to bet heavily on a prize fight. No doubt they'd favour their local fighter against Jake.

Jake sprang about on the balls of his feet and swung his arms like a windmill, warming up his body as if he didn't have a care in the world. In fact he was covertly sizing up the Hammer's muscularity compared with his own. His opponent was of similar height but had a very different body. Wide shopfront belly, thighs like tree trunks, arms covered with sentimental tattoos vowing eternal love for his mother and assorted females. The Hammer's face was not his finest feature – a puffy map with a nose that looked like a potato dumpling.

Jake knew his own body and what he could make it do when he was
in top form. He had strenuously exercised his leg since it was free of the cast. How many rounds could he count on to see the distance? He was confident he would be faster on his feet than the Hammer, had a longer reach and his southpaw stance was awkward but delivered a wicked left hook – if he could land it. At rock bottom he had youth on his side – and desperation.

Pete the Hammer was surrounded by supporters who roared approval when a weedy hanger-on bought him a giant jug of ale. The Hammer derisively waved away the accompanying pannikin, opened his bear-trap of a mouth and poured the jug's contents down his throat, spluttering and gargling to the delight of the crowd.

Jake wryly noted the contrast. Right now he didn't have two coins to rub together for the price of an Albion Ale. Last night he had slept in the bush in order to buy a bread loaf for breakfast and drank water from the fountain, but he consoled himself he would have money aplenty to knock back a few ales after he collected the winner's purse.