The Gold Seekers (28 page)

Red swore under his breath. The devil take Benjamin Lucas, he thought bitterly, but controlling himself, he said without rancor, “You’re not to blame, sir. For God’s sake, he’s brought it on himself, just as he did on our passage out.”

“Well, perhaps,” his father conceded. He sighed. “We sent him to the hospital in my curricle. That was how I came to be with Claus. He met me when I was starting to walk back here and of course offered me a lift. I brought him in because the maid told me you were here, and I supposed you would welcome the opportunity to renew your acquaintance with him. And also, of course,” he added with a brief smile, “the opportunity to look over his fine new schooner, which, he told me, was built in Boston, Massachusetts, by the shipwright who has pioneered these clipper ships, Donald McKay.”

They talked of the clippers, both men enthusiastic, while Jenny listened politely, her attention occasionally wandering when their discussion grew too technical for her to follow. Their peace was abruptly shattered when the Irish maidservant, Biddy, announced a second visitor, and George De Lancey entered in a state of visible agitation.

All three rose to receive him, and Jenny started to speak but fell silent when, ignoring her tentative greeting, the judge announced in a voice vibrant with emotion, “Justin, Red, I owe you both the most abject apology. My son Francis, to my infinite regret and shame, has run off with Mrs. Lucas. The infernal young rogue left a note, if you please, in which he claimed that he and this—this woman are in love and cannot live without each other! God knows where they have gone or what they intend to do. Frankly, I do not greatly care.” He paused, two bright spots of shamed color burning in his cheeks. “I cannot begin to tell you how grieved I am that my son’s lies and prevarications should have caused a rift between our two families. I … and I’ve just heard that Captain Lucas suffered a stroke as a result, I can only surmise, of receiving a similar letter to my son’s, written by his wife.” He looked uncertainly at Justin. “Is that so? Is the rumor correct? Have they taken him to the hospital?”

Red watched with a glow of pride as his father slowly inclined his head and then, taking George De Lancey by the arm, led him to a chair.

To Jenny, Justin said quietly, “I fancy your uncle could do with a glass of brandy,Jenny my dear. Be so good as to pour him one, would you please?” Then, turning to his stricken

brother-in-law, he went on, still in the same quiet, even tone, “We all make mistakes, George, particularly where our children are concerned. I’m most infernally sorry for what’s happened, believe me. It must have come as an appalling shock to you—and to Rachel and Magdalen also.”

“It has,Justin,” George De Lancey confessed. “It was they who insisted I must offer you my apologies. Not that it can compensate, but—” Jenny brought him his brandy, and as he put out a shaking hand to take it, he met Red’s gaze. “Magdalen charged me to beg that you will call on her, Red, so that she may express her contrition for the way she has treated you. I hope that you will find it in your heart to do

so.

Red’s answer came without hesitation or, indeed, without conscious thought. “I shall be happy to, sir,” he said. “I— dear heaven, I’ll be more than happy!”

She had not wanted to take the drastic step of running away with Francis De Lancey, Dora Lucas reflected wretchedly as she watched the rooftops of Parramatta vanish into the gathering darkness. And she had longed to stay overnight at the hostelry in the township, so that she might wash and change her clothing before continuing the journey—a tedious one, in their heavily laden bullock wagon, with no shade from the sun in daytime and no shelter from the night chills or any sudden shower.

But Francis, fearful of pursuit, had insisted that they must go on. Crouched in the wagon behind him, Dora shivered, sharing his fear. Her husband, as she well knew from bitter experience, was a vindictive man, tormented by jealousy, but even he would surely have stopped short of creating a scene had he found her in the Parramatta Arms, which was always crowded. Whereas on the open road, with only Francis to protect her … She drew an unhappy, sobbing breath, glancing involuntarily behind her and half expecting to see the dread figure of her husband, galloping after them and intent on vengeance.

But there was no sound of hoofbeats, no other vehicle on the long, winding road to their rear. Yet Benjamin must be aware, by this time, that she had left him. She had penned her note as soon as he had set off for the naval dockyard, and had left it propped up on the dining room mantel, where he would be certain to see it when he returned for luncheon.

Francis had insisted on that, too.

“I want him to know that I am taking you from him,” he had said obstinately when she attempted to argue. “I owe that, at least, to Red Broome. I’ve caused him more trouble than he deserves, one way or another. But he never under

stood, Dora, he never tried to understand that what I feel for you is not mere infatuation. You are the love of my life, my sweet darling, and …” He had looked down at her with such tenderness, Dora remembered, holding her in his arms, his strong young body pressed against hers. “Now that you are carrying my child, you cannot stay for a single day longer with that unspeakably vile old man. You are mine, my beloved—you and the child.”

Dora shifted uneasily, seeking relief from the joking of the unsprung wagon. She had made a grave error, she realized now. She should never have told Francis that the baby she had conceived was his. Undoubtedly it was; Benjamin’s frequent but futile attempts to get her with child had never succeeded and had only filled her with loathing and contempt for his ineptness. But she could have deceived him; he wanted to believe that he was capable of fatherhood, so that it would not have taken much ingenuity to play on his vanity. And she could then have pleaded her pregnancy to spare her from his unwelcome lovemaking, and thus have lived, in reasonable contentment, in the grand official residence allotted to him, freed of financial worries and able to enjoy the social standing she had always coveted.

Benjamin would have been placated, and she could have continued a clandestine relationship with Francis, which, thanks to his father’s eminence and his family’s loyal support, could probably have gone on for years, quite unsuspected.

But instead … Dora’s small white hands clenched convulsively at her sides. She had been foolish, she chided herself bitterly. She had permitted her heart to rule her head, and, when Francis had run inquisitive fingers over her thickening belly, as they had lain together on a deserted beach in a joyous prelude to their lovemaking, she had told him the truth, quite unprepared for his reaction to it.

“We will run away, darling,” he had decided, in a voice that brooked no argument, for all it trembled with happiness. “I’ll buy a wagon and a tent and supplies, and we will go to the goldfields—Lucas won’t look for us there. It will mean living rough for a while, I know, but we’ll be together, and it is spring … it will not be too cold in the mountains, and in any case I will look after you. You will not need to sully your hands, because I will do everything. I will take the greatest care of you, my love, until your time comes and we will have to seek the services of a midwife. But until then we’ll be free, like traveling folk, with the sky for our roof! Think of it, my sweet Dora … It will be heaven, I promise you. And who knows?” He had thrown back his handsome head and laughed, like the boy he was, she remembered. “Who knows, we might strike it rich, and then all our troubles would be over. I’d be able to buy you a grand house in Sydney Town, or a squatter’s sheep run in the back country, and like the fairy tale, we should live happily ever after, with our children around us, wanting for nothing save each other!”

He had painted an entrancing picture, Dora recalled, and she had let herself believe in it, despite her better judgment and the sound common sense she had hitherto relied on when it came to making decisions. But the reality—even at this, the outset of their journey to the Turon River—was proving a disillusionment, and at the rate the bullocks traveled, it would take at least a week or ten days to reach Bathurst. From there the way would lead through the Roch Forest, along a steep mountain road that was said to be difficult for vehicular traffic… . The wagon lurched, and Dora cried out in protest.

“Don’t worry, my darling,” Francis called back with irritating cheerfulness. “I’ll get the hang of driving these wretched animals soon. Try to sleep, my love, because we have to push

on.”

He “pushed on,” to Dora’s increasing discomfort, for day after endless day, never quite seeming to manage the bullocks, despite his efforts. The road, after they had crossed the Nepean River, became heavily congested. Impatient horsemen squeezed past, leaving clouds of dust in their wake, and every variety of dray and wagon and horse-drawn carriage impeded their passage, while men on foot added to the confusion.

They were from every walk of life—doctors, clerics, and ship’s officers rubbing shoulders with clerks, shopkeepers and humble laborers; new immigrants from America, England,

and New Zealand mingling with settlers from Adelaide and Perth and deserters from the ships that had brought them to their destination. They were almost exclusively male—Dora looked in vain for the sight of one of her own sex in the motley throng—and for the most part they were friendly, if impatient of delay in reaching the goldfields and the fortunes all were convinced were awaiting them there.

After a while, satisfied that they had lost themselves in the crowd, Francis relaxed his vigilance and, to Dora’s relief, permitted an overnight stay at an inn on the outskirts of Bathurst. The inn was rough and overrun by the travelers, all demanding food and drink and beds in which to sleep, but a hefty bribe to the landlord secured water in which Dora could wash and the doubtful privacy of a curtained recess in his cookhouse, furnished with a single, cramped bunk and a soiled straw mattress.

After that experience, she ceased to complain about spending the night in their tent; but as they climbed higher into the mountains, the cold increased, and the flimsy tent proved incapable of keeping out the first steady rain they encountered. Francis was assiduous in his attentions, deeply distressed by the hardships their elopement had caused her, and anxious, in any way he could, to spare her discomfort, but … he was not any more fitted for the conditions than she was, Dora came unhappily to realize.

The bullocks were slow and, in Francis’s untutored care, became increasingly intractable, and Dora suggested he exchange them for horses. Francis finally did so, making the exchange with a party of rascally fellows returning to Sydney from Ophir, purportedly with their fortunes made. The gold diggers got the better of the bargain, for the horses were worn-out, half-starved creatures whose progress, hauling the heavy wagon, was little faster than that of the bullocks; and the bullocks’ new owners, to Dora’s distress, slaughtered their purchases for food while still in sight and sound of her and Francis.

They reached the township of Sofala, on the Turon River, at last, only to find so many people there that they could find nowhere to stake a claim, save in the dry diggings on a hillside, where, Francis was told, it was necessary to sink a shaft some forty to fifty feet deep.

“Go on to the Meroo River,” he was advised. “It’s not above thirty miles distant. Or the Louisa Creek—that’s where a lot of folk are heading. Carry on northward, and maybe you’ll get there ahead of the rush.”

“We’ll have to go, my dearest,” Francis said, after breaking this news. “There’s nothing for us here.”

They went on wearily, Dora greatly troubled by morning sickness and alarmed by the rugged terrain through which they must travel. She wept bitterly as they ascended what had appeared to be a gentle rise, with a well-defined track running through the box and gum trees, only to find themselves on the verge of a precipice, with a sheer drop of close to two hundred feet to the river below. In the gully there were men at work, their tents and bark gunyas pitched close by, under the swamp oaks at the water’s edge, with still more dotted at intervals on the opposite side, where other men were toiling with picks and shovels to dig into the hillside.

“That’s the Meroo River,” Francis declared, tightlipped and hard put to it to hide his disappointment. “The rush is here before us, alas! Well, there’s nothing for it but to press on, darling. They say that the country round the Louisa is comparatively flat, and there are some farms in the vicinity.” He noticed Dora’s tear-filled eyes and came to kneel beside her in the back of the wagon. “Oh, my sweet love, what have I done to you, bringing you to this wilderness? I … Dora, heart of my heart, if you say that we should turn back, I’ll do so. I will take you back to Sydney and yield you up to your husband, if that is your wish.”

But that was a prospect Dora knew she could not face. Benjamin, if he consented to take her back, would exact a terrible price for the humiliation she had caused him, and … there was the baby, her unborn, innocent child, conceived in love, whom he would claim. She looked up at her lover and, blinded by tears, shook her head, finding fresh courage.

“No, Francis, we’ve come too far. We’ve been through too

much to turn back now.”

It had all started lightheartedly, she recalled. When she

had boarded the Galah at Devonport, she had already been disillusioned where Benjamin was concerned, repulsed by his fumbling lovemaking, resenting the demands he had made on her, and fearful of his uncertain temper and occasional outbursts of violence. She had been—Dora bit her lower lip, feeling it tremble—she had been ripe for a flirtation, even for a clandestine affair, so that, for her own self-esteem and gratification, she might defy the hateful man she had married and assert herself in the only way open to her. Her small mouth twitched into a wry, pouting smile. Initially she had set her cap at the Galah’s commander, but Red Broome had ignored her advances, treating them with cold contempt and adding to her bitter discontent, because he had struck at the roots of her pride.