Heart of the Country Page 9

  Thomas watched as she disappeared around the corner of his hut. He scratched his head and looked around. He couldn’t reach the troublesome lump on his own. What was he to do? The boils he’d seen on others were certainly nasty-looking things but they surely wouldn’t kill a person – would they?

  “Are you ready?”

  “No, not yet,” he called and hobbled over to his horse, where his bedroll was still hooked to the saddle. He brought it back by the fire and with a series of manoeuvres, he managed to uncover the troublesome area without too much of the rest of him being exposed for Lizzie’s eyes. Finally when he was stretched out on his belly, he called out and tucked his head back into his arms under his hat. He felt a movement as she settled on the ground beside him.

  “Oh, poor Thomas. However did you stay on your horse?” she said. “That’s a nasty boil but I am sure I can bring you some relief.”

  Thomas heard the rustle of her movements as she busied herself at the fire.

  “I’ll need to bathe it in very hot water. It might be a bit painful but I’m sure it will improve once the poison is released.”

  He pressed his head further into his arms, not sure which was worse, his extreme embarrassment or his alarm at the treatment.

  “Now this will be hot.” He felt her kneel beside him again. “It looks ready to explode so you should have relief in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”

  He gritted his teeth as the first press of heat was applied. Lizzie chattered away as she worked and after a while he forgot about the pain and listened to the soothing tones of her voice. Finally there was a sharp sting and then the throbbing pressure eased.

  “There you are,” Lizzie said. He could hear the satisfaction in her voice. “I’ll bathe all the poison away and it should clear up. I am wondering though, Thomas, if you have more drawers.”

  Thomas kept his head buried, suddenly remembering he was stretched out with his rear end partially exposed to a young woman he had barely met. How was he to extricate himself from this position?

  “It would be a good idea if you went down to the creek and had a wash,” Lizzie said. “If you don’t have clean trousers I could wash these for you and –”

  “I can manage now.” Thomas twisted his head sideways. “If you could give me some privacy, Miss Smith, I’ll go to the stream.”

  “All right,” she said. He watched her bite at her lip to hold her twitching mouth in check, then she stood and turned away.

  Thomas scrambled to his feet and pulled up his pants and, with the blanket draped over his shoulders, he made for the stream. What he saw there pushed his mortification aside. There was more water in the stream than before he’d gone bush, but to his dismay, his carefully built barrel-filling structure was nowhere to seen. There were a few pieces of timber scattered on the highest part of the bank – it was obvious that a lot of water had been through the stream while he’d been away although there had been no rain while he had worked the sheep. He looked towards the distant hills and recalled Duffy’s sharp laugh. Damnation but perhaps the smug man had been right. The water must have come all that distance and in large volumes, judging by the damage.

  Further downstream he lowered himself into the water. He sucked in a breath against the cold. The pool was deep enough for him to submerge himself. The level was much higher than when he’d bathed there previously. He could see the ripples lapping at the bases of trunks that had been well out of the water before. It was late in the afternoon and the sun was low in the sky, taking the warmth of the day with it.

  He shivered and climbed out onto the bank, where he tied himself in a knot trying to see the site of the boil. It was impossible, but at least the pain was gone. He wrapped himself in the blanket and gathered up his clothes. They were a reddish brown and now that he’d washed himself he could smell them.

  He peered up over the edge of the bank and scanned the open ground between himself and the hut. He prayed that Lizzie had gone but common sense told him that was unlikely. Her father was to collect her and there had been no sound of drays or bullocks. Thomas made it to his hut without encountering the bold young woman and put on his extra set of clean clothes. It was a pity he didn’t have the other trunk. His father’s clothes would have been useful, even if a little small.

  Through the crude opening in the hut wall, Thomas could see Lizzie sitting close to the fire, stirring the pot she’d filled with kangaroo and vegetables. She had wrapped a shawl around her shoulders and removed her hat. The late afternoon sun made her hair glow like gold. There was nothing for it but to join her. He couldn’t hide in the hut forever.

  As he opened the door he heard a distant call and then the faint rumble of wheels. He walked around the corner of the hut and Lizzie bumped into him coming the other way.

  “Sorry.” They both spoke at once then Lizzie moved around him.

  “That will be Father,” she said. “He’s late. It will be dark soon.”

  They watched as two bullocks emerged from the bush pulling a wagon with a man seated on top.

  “Hello.” She waved.

  The man lifted his hand in response then called the bullocks to a halt.

  “You’ve been a long time,” Lizzie said. “Is everything all right with the boys? We’ll never make it home before dark you know and there’s that treacherous stretch of gully.”

  “Slow down, Lizzie girl,” her father said as he climbed from the dray. He slapped his hand on the side of his pants then extended it to Thomas. “I’m George Smith, but I’m sure if you’ve spent any amount of time with our Lizzie you’ll know more about me than I do by now.”

  The man smiled as they shook hands and Thomas saw the same sparkle that lit Lizzie’s eyes.

  “Thomas Baker.” The hand he held barely gripped his before it dropped away. Mr Smith rubbed at his shoulder.

  “Oh, Father,” Lizzie said, hurrying forward and poking at his arm. “You’ve overdone it again, haven’t you? Those lazy brothers of mine have had you working.”

  “I’m fine, Lizzie girl,” her father said and gently pushed away her prodding hands. “I injured my arm a while back,” he explained to Thomas. “It’s not as strong as it used to be.”

  “Injured!” Lizzie snorted. “You did everything but break a bone. It was a right old mess. It happened a month ago and he still can’t use it properly. I’ll have to make a new poultice for you when we get home.”

  “Our Lizzie fancies herself as a nurse, Mr Baker. If you don’t watch out she’ll be plying you with potions and bandaging or bathing some part of you.”

  Mr Smith chuckled. Thomas cast a wary glance at Lizzie, who was still fussing over her father. Surely she wouldn’t tell him about the boil.

  “We should stay the night,” Lizzie said. “We can leave at first light and be home for breakfast.”

  Thomas stared at the back of her fair head. He would enjoy the company but he was sure at any moment Lizzie would tell her father about her earlier ministrations and then, weak arm or no, Thomas was sure Mr Smith would want to kill him.

  “Mr Baker may not want visitors, Lizzie.” The man was looking over his daughter directly at Thomas.

  “Your company is most welcome, Mr Smith, but my camp is very basic –”

  “Listen to you two, Mr Baker and Mr Smithing,” Lizzie said. “George and Thomas is so much easier, and your arrangements are more than adequate, Thomas. You should see ours: it’s no palace, is it, Father?”

  “You and your mother have made it a home, Lizzie.”

  “I haven’t been back from my rounds all that long, sir, but Lizzie has been busy cooking in my absence.” The wind had dropped to a soft breeze and the delicious aroma of Lizzie’s stew wafted around them. “Why don’t we eat?”

  Thomas led the way to the fire behind the hut. He would have to keep an eye on Lizzie and make sure the conversation was kept far away from ailments. As they ate their meal, he relaxed. The talk was all about the land and managing the sheep. George had lived on the
neighbouring run for over two years and had developed a broad knowledge of the conditions.

  He agreed with Thomas that AJ’s sheep needed to be sorted into groups, mobs he called them, and he offered his sons to help. He was also less harsh than Duffy had been in his talk of the natives, although it was obvious he wasn’t fond of them.

  They followed the kangaroo stew with a slice of the wild peach pie. It had a tart flavour but was most enjoyable, and very good for them, according to Lizzie. Finally it was Lizzie who urged both men to their bedrolls. Thomas climbed into his hammock and watched her moving around in the firelight. Lizzie Smith was the last person he’d expected to meet out here but he was glad he had. Embarrassed as he’d been over her ministrations, he couldn’t help but be taken in by her easy manner and charming smile.

  Thomas slept soundly and woke to the vision of Lizzie tending his fire in the predawn gloom. He wondered if she’d even been to bed. They had a mug of tea and a slab of damper and then Lizzie and her father were on their way.

  “Come and see us when you are ready for the boys to help with the sheep,” George said, and climbed up onto the wagon seat beside Lizzie. “We can repay your hospitality.”

  “I’m not sure I provided much but a fire to sit around,” Thomas said. “Thank you for the food, Lizzie.” He gave her a smile and she beamed back at him. He felt his heart skip. She really was the prettiest woman. He would most definitely have to visit the Smith property soon.

  “My pleasure, Thomas,” she said and tied her hat on her head as her father called the bullocks to move forward.

  Thomas stepped away from the wheels. He wondered how George did that without a whip.

  Suddenly Lizzie twisted in her seat and called back over her shoulder. “You make sure you keep washing that boil, Thomas Baker. Don’t let it get dirty.”

  Thomas could feel the heat in his cheeks again. In his guilty mind he expected George to stop and ask questions but the older man didn’t look back. Thomas returned to the fire and sat with little pain. Silence pressed around him. His feelings of guilt and embarrassment were overtaken by a desire to hear more of Lizzie’s cheerful banter. In spite of her forthright ways, he looked forward to seeing her again.

  Thirteen

  Septimus pushed the last morsel of damper into his mouth and washed it down with sweet tea. He would have to get used to his own cooking again. He sat a moment longer by the fire, sliding his gaze sideways to watch Harriet as she cleaned up the pots. Her hair shone in the morning light, flowing in thick locks down her back. She looked much better than he’d hoped. Her hair hid the scar on the side of her face and, apart from the limp and a slightly bent nose, she had recovered from the beating, as far as he could tell. She’d go to the farmer for good money and Septimus would get on his way back to Adelaide to restock.

  Of course he wouldn’t return to the area for a trip or two, until she’d settled to her new life, but there were plenty of other farms and little settlements spreading out across the land for him to visit. One day he would come back and Harriet would have a husband and a brood of children. He was doing her a favour really. Better off a farmer’s wife than the whore she’d have become under Mabel’s tutelage. He stood up and stretched. “Time to go, Harriet.”

  She washed her hands with the last of the cooled billy water then twisted her hair up into a knot before tying on the bonnet he’d given her. She threw the shawl around her shoulders. Suddenly she was transformed into a modest young woman. Septimus chuckled to himself. Only he knew any different. He helped her up onto the seat of the wagon and climbed up beside her.

  “Come on, Clover,” he called. The horse moved obediently forward, towing the wagon onto the trail he had worn through the bush to the track that led to Burra.

  The sun was struggling to shine from a cloudy sky by the time they reached the outer edge of the community. Septimus noted another hut finished. The mine had only been opened a short time but already little hamlets were appearing close by. He stopped the wagon. There were a couple of women here who had wanted some of his Royal Syrup for the coughs and colds that afflicted their families. He had done a roaring trade with it. Today was pay day at the mine so it was worth stopping.

  He told Harriet to stay in the wagon while he unwound his Royal Remedies sign. Before he had even finished setting up his little store, the women were gathering.

  “I’ll take two bottles of your syrup, Mr Whitby.” A small woman had pushed in close, her round face looking from him to the shelves of potions over his shoulder.

  “Leave some for the rest of us, Edith,” another of the women snapped. She was tall and thin with a face pinched into a scowl.

  He opened his hands wide and smiled. “Ladies, ladies, take your time. I assure you there will be enough to go around, but …” he paused and cast his look over the crowd of women “… I will soon be on my way back to Adelaide, where I hope to restock, so do make the most of my presence today.”

  That sent them into a buying frenzy. For a time, Septimus was busy dispensing medical advice with every sale. Finally it was down to two women standing near his horse. He was surprised to see one of them was Harriet. He’d forgotten during the dispensing of his Royal Remedies that he’d even brought her with him.

  Harriet reached an arm across the other woman’s shoulders and gently propelled her towards him. “This is Mrs Kemp, Seth.” He noted the stumble in Harriet’s voice as she said his name. She drew closer and lowered her voice. “She has been having difficulty … keeping with child. I told her you would have something that would help her.”

  He looked from her to Mrs Kemp, who appeared hardly any older than Harriet. Worry was forming fine lines across her forehead.

  “Rest assured, Mrs Kemp,” he soothed and took her hand. Patting it gently, he drew her under the tiny awning and reached for a bottle of pills from the shelves. “These Queen’s Own Pills are just what you need.” He held the bottle and read out the label. “Queen’s Own Pills as taken by many a female royal personage will surely relieve and cure you. Each pill has a specific soothing, healing and curative effect on all female organs and functions. It relieves headache and backache, stops periodic pains and strengthens the womb during the first two months of pregnancy.”

  He took in the look of anticipation spreading across Mrs Kemp’s face.

  “Now I may not be back in these parts for quite some time and you need to take two pills a day so I am going to let you have this large bottle for the reduced sum of one pound.” He saw a flash of hesitation pass over the young woman’s face. It was probably her whole housekeeping allowance. “I wager by the time I see you again you will be cuddling a bonny baby in your arms.” The words tumbled swiftly from his tongue. He gave the young woman another gentle pat on the hand.

  Immediately she dug in her purse and pulled out the money. He slipped it into his bag. She took her pills and hurried away.

  “Do you really think they will help her?”

  Septimus spun around. Harriet was standing close to the wagon inspecting his rack of pills and potions. He raised his hand. She flinched but stood her ground. He didn’t slap her as he would have liked to do, but instead began rolling down the canvas side of his wagon. There were still people about and he didn’t want to draw attention to the woman he was about to part company with. Besides, she had lured the young customer in. Mrs Kemp might not have been brave enough to approach him if it had not been for Harriet.

  “Trust me,” he said. “Those pills have assisted many a woman.”

  “It’s just that she seemed most anxious to have a baby. Her husband wants children and he beats her when he finds she’s not pregnant. Those pills are a lot of money; if they don’t work he’ll probably beat her for that too –”

  “Enough, Harriet. You’ve brought in a customer but I asked you to wait in the wagon. Go there now.”

  They made two more stops. Each time he was busy with customers but he noticed Harriet out of the corner of his eye. She stood on the e
dge of the crowd, watching, but when the purchasing was finished, she would be back in the wagon.

  By mid-afternoon he had sold the last of his supplies. There was still the trunk of items he’d taken from the Baker fool. He’d got rid of the clothes but some of the other items he thought more valuable. He imagined he’d get a better price for them in more established villages. He’d save them till the time was right. The brush and the shawl would be Harriet’s dowry. His lips tugged up into a smile at the thought.

  Septimus pulled in close to a roughly built hut that was little more than a room where ale was sold. He knew the man he was seeking would be inside now.

  “Is this where we will find the people you want me to meet?” Harriet’s gaze switched from the hut to Septimus in quick flicks.

  “Stay with the wagon, Harriet,” he said. “There’s a man who wants me to buy clothes for his wife and, from his description, she’s about your size. He’ll want to look at you to confirm so that when I go back to Adelaide I can buy the right clothes. He will pay me well to do it. Your job is to smile nicely and not speak.”

  She gave him a slight nod. He climbed down from his seat, feeling her gaze on his back. He stooped through the small door of the hut. Before his eyes adjusted to the gloom, a hand grasped his shoulder. “Have you brought her?” a voice hissed in his ear.

  Septimus shrugged from the grip and turned his lips up in a smile. “Of course, Mr Jones.” He looked around. There was no one but themselves and the owner in the drinking house at that time of the day. “Let me buy you a drink then, Mr Jones,” he said, “and we can finalise our business.” He strode to the crude logs that served as a bar. The big man followed him.

  The barman poured two drinks then snapped at Septimus, “Do you want some food too?”

  Septimus looked from the ruddy-faced man behind the bar to the nearly empty tin plate in front of Jones. A vile-looking grey slosh lay across the bottom with a few small lumps of some kind of greasy meat barely recognisable as food.

  “No, thank you,” Septimus said. The bartender left them to it, busying himself moving bottles from his store.