The Currency Lass Page 10

  ‘Why, for goodness sake?’ Catherine forced her fingers to unclench and studied the indentations of her nails in the palms of her hands.

  ‘Seven years ago, during the depression, your father bought up some adjoining properties which had failed to weather the downturn in trade to ensure that the tenants would not be dispossessed. In order to do this he borrowed money and it is that debt which must be repaid.’

  ‘Well, we will repay it. How much is outstanding?’

  ‘It is not as simple as that. Your father was keen to have the matter resolved before his untimely demise.’ He shook his head. ‘He had another solution.’

  She looked up. Of course Pa had another solution, he’d never risk everything he’d worked for. ‘And that is?’

  A sudden stillness settled on the room as she waited for the gavel to fall.

  ‘Your marriage to Bartholomew.’

  Now it became clear. Her hand flew to her chest, beneath her palm her heart thundered as though foreshadowing the rest of De Silva’s news. It wasn’t going to be good.

  ‘I don’t understand. Why would my marriage to Bartholomew solve the problems of the loan?’

  ‘Mr Bartholomew is a very wealthy man. If and when you marry he will finalise the loan.’

  ‘Why would he do that? You said that when I was twenty-one the property would become mine.’

  De Silva let out a long slow sigh. ‘I must appraise you of the finer details of the marriage contract, any marriage contract. Once a woman marries, her assets, the property in this case, becomes that of her husband.’

  She sat bolt upright. ‘Bartholomew would own Cottington Hill?’

  De Silva nodded, just once, a short sharp bob of his head.

  ‘But he lives in Sydney. His business is in Sydney. Supposing he sells?’ He’d told her they’d live in Sydney once they married. Not asked. For heaven’s sake, the man hadn’t even bothered to find out whether she had arrived home safely with Pa’s coffin.

  ‘He would be quite within his right to sell the property.’

  He couldn’t. She’d been born here. Pa had built the house for Ma, for their family, for his grandchildren. ‘What if I refuse to sell?’ Her voice rose a notch or two.

  ‘Sadly, the law is not in your favour. As a married woman your assets become your husband’s. You are unable to challenge his actions. It simply wouldn’t stand up in a court of law. In fact, the law does not permit you to file a case against your husband.’

  Losing Pa was bad enough. To lose Cottington Hill, everything Pa stood for, believed in, worked for. She wouldn’t do it. ‘I don’t want to marry Bartholomew. I don’t want to give him Cottington Hill. It isn’t what Pa intended. He panicked because he was sick. I don’t care what loans are outstanding, we’ll pay. I can’t marry Bartholomew. And I can’t live in Sydney. I belong here.’ The stamp of her foot sent De Silva’s empty sherry glass skittering to the floor. He bent and picked it up, placing it back on the small table with exaggerated care.

  ‘It is plain from my accounting journals that we do not have the funds to cover full repayment of the loan.’ He cleared his throat, again, colour staining his prominent cheekbones. ‘Your father discussed the matter with Mr Bartholomew at length.’ He flicked through his diary. ‘I have a record of it here.’

  The twist of foreboding tangled in her stomach … Bartholomew, that nasty, pompous, strutting little man. She wouldn’t, couldn’t marry him.

  ‘I believe you and your father visited Bartholomew while you were in Sydney.’

  Until she’d sneaked Pa out from under his nose and fled home. De Silva didn’t need to know the ins and outs of that underhand rout. It obviously hadn’t concerned Bartholomew overly. Surely her refusal to accept the betrothal ring coupled with her flight had made her wishes clear. A trickle of shame traced her spine. She’d behaved appallingly. Maybe she could put it down to distress. Some form of insanity, temporary loss of her senses due to grief. She should have formally declined Bartholomew’s offer there and then, not let him continue to believe she might change her mind.

  ‘I’m surprised the matter of the loan didn’t come up when the marriage contract was discussed.’

  She leapt to her feet. ‘Marriage contract! There is no marriage contract. Mr Bartholomew simply made me an offer which, I might add, I declined. I gave him back the ring.’

  De Silva rummaged in the case at his feet and produced a single piece of paper. ‘It was your father’s dying wish to see you settled, become a wife and a mother. To provide him with heirs.’

  She held out her hand, a shaking hand, then gritted her teeth. ‘May I see that, please?’

  Pa’s neatly written words danced before her eyes.

  De Silva,

  As you know my health is failing and bearing in mind our long business association I would ask your assistance in facilitating the marriage between my daughter, Catherine, and Henry Bartholomew. I feel certain his business acumen will ensure Cottington Hill prospers…

  The sound of Mr De Silva’s repeated throat clearing broke through the pounding in her ears.

  ‘Perhaps you should sit down again, Catherine.’ He guided her back to the chair and hovered above her like a harbinger of doom. ‘Let me explain.’

  Explain! She didn’t need anything else explained. It was written in black and white. She fought the urge to screw the nasty flimsy sheet of paper into a ball and hurl it into the fire.

  ‘As I said, your father wanted to see you settled and the property free of debt before he died.’ De Silva sat down on the chair opposite her and rested his elbows on his bony knees, peering at her with a frown of concentration. ‘On your marriage Bartholomew will clear the outstanding debts and I see no reason for life not to continue at Cottington Hill as it always has.’

  With one exception: she would be married to Bartholomew and he would own her and Cottington Hill lock, stock and barrel. And he intended for them to live in Sydney.

  ‘You’re your father’s sole heir.’ His gaze drifted to the window, to the cedar tree where Pa’s future lay, deep below the ground.

  She shivered, suddenly cold, as cold as the graves of her family.

  ‘On your marriage the debt will be cleared. There’s very little point in your husband having a debt over his own property.’

  His own property? ‘My property.’

  De Silva coughed. ‘As I said, on marriage a woman’s property reverts to her husband.’

  Catherine blinked owlishly at him while his words slowly sank in. ‘Let me get this clear, once and for all. You’re telling me that if I marry Bartholomew, Cottington Hill would belong to him. Not me.’

  ‘Look on it as a dowry you bring to the marriage. It’s a formality. Bartholomew’s interests lie in Sydney. If he’s in agreement I could continue to run the property with Archie’s help, of course. And ensure the mill, the timberyard and the tenant farmers flourish. In fact, with the additional availability of funds I see no reason why Cottington Hill couldn’t go from strength to strength. We could make a start on the hospital. Just as Reginald wished.’

  She couldn’t see Bartholomew relinquishing control over anything. His organisation of Pa’s funeral was proof enough. ‘What if I don’t marry Bartholomew?’

  ‘That is not what your father wanted. Surely you will grant him his dying wish. A woman’s role is to produce heirs, that’s what your father hoped.’

  No matter what Pa wanted she still couldn’t imagine him forcing her into a marriage to someone she loathed.

  ‘Answer my question please, Mr De Silva.’

  ‘You cannot inherit Cottington Hill until your twenty-first birthday. I am the trustee and executor of your father’s will. A position I accepted with the utmost sincerity and intend to execute.’ He steepled his fingers, drumming them together in an irritating fashion. ‘Your father intended I should continue to play a significant role in managing Cottington Hill.’

  A further reminder, as if she needed one, that at this moment she wa
s being manipulated by some unseen hand. ‘If I don’t marry Bartholomew by my twenty-first birthday, the seventh of September, I’ll inherit everything in my own right.’

  ‘Yes, that is correct, everything, including the debts, as femme sole.’

  ‘What is that?’ She rather liked the sound of the words. Femme sole. A woman alone. Yes, that was what she wanted.

  The tension eased and she relaxed into the chair. ‘Even though it was Pa’s wish that I marry Bartholomew there is nothing binding in his letter to you, no marriage contract.’

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘What are the terms of this loan? Is Cottington Hill in a fit state to service it, to continue to make the repayments?’

  ‘I would of course have to check the figures but my understanding is that barring flood or fire or one of the other natural disasters that continue to plague this country, the anticipated cattle and sheep sales should provide the necessary funds.’ He frowned and flicked to the back of his ever-present journal, then nodded. ‘Things will be a little tight. No more philanthropic endeavours.’ He scratched his thinning hair. ‘We might manage as long as there is no increase in the interest rates. However, I would counsel against it. Isn’t it every girl’s dream to marry a man who can provide for her, offer her security? Bartholomew is well able to do that and there is no reason why life at Cottington Hill shouldn’t continue without the pressure of a financial noose. Be careful what you wish for.’

  What she wished for! Marriage to a man old enough to be her father was nothing she wished for. Nor was relinquishing Pa’s life’s work. The best memorial to Pa would be the continuation of life at Cottington Hill.

  ‘Mr De Silva, I need a few days to contemplate my alternatives. I would hate to make any decisions without thinking matters through.’

  His face fell and he waggled his long thin finger in the air. ‘You have a lot to learn, Catherine. It is not a woman’s role to manage a property of this size. Women are intended for procreation. If Cottington Hill is to continue, it requires a man at the helm. Your role is to produce the sons to do this in the future.’

  ‘Please don’t take offence, Mr De Silva, I value your advice. Nevertheless, marriage is a decision I have to make for myself.’ She stood and walked to the door, making it obvious their meeting was over. ‘Perhaps we could meet again in a week or so. This has all come as something of a shock, as I’m sure you appreciate. Please leave the accounting ledgers with me. I would like to look over them.’

  He placed two leather-bound books on the desk. ‘Promise me one thing.’

  She raised an eyebrow and waited.

  ‘Don’t do anything rash. Think on what I have told you. Send someone to my offices when you’re ready to discuss the matter further.’ He stood and collected his scattered papers. ‘Good afternoon to you.’

  As the door closed after him Catherine let out a long slow breath and sank down into the chair behind the desk, running her hands along the worn armrests, inhaling the scent of the leather and Pa. She would give anything for the opportunity to speak with him one more time.

  Not two minutes later the door opened again. ‘Catherine.’ Mrs Duffen stepped into the room. ‘There’s a Mr Gatenby here to see you. I’ve tried to get rid of him. Told him the house was in mourning, but he just won’t go away. He says he has a letter for you.’

  Catherine held out her hand.

  ‘I haven’t got it. He insists on placing it into your hand, and he’s waiting for a response.’ She huffed. ‘The cheek of the man. Shall I send Susy to get Archie? He can tell him where to go?’

  ‘Calm yourself. It’s perfectly all right. I’ll see him.’

  ‘Not after you’ve had that Mr De Silva here and talking about poor Mr Cottingham’s will. It ain’t proper.’

  ‘I’m fine, Mrs Duffen. Ask him to come in and perhaps send Susy to get Archie, just in case, then come back and see if we would like refreshments. That way if there’s a problem ...’ Her voice tapered off. Mr Gatenby? The name sounded familiar but she couldn’t place it.

  Mrs Duffen beetled out and returned seconds later to usher a thin-faced man with sharp eyes into the room.

  ‘Mr Gatenby.’ Catherine stepped from behind the desk. ‘Please sit down. I believe you have a letter for me.’

  He slipped his hand inside his jacket and produced a folded sheet of paper. He didn’t offer it to her, just sat down and ran his finger around his somewhat dirty collar. ‘Mr Bartholomew asked me to deliver this into your hand and I’m to wait for a response.’

  Ah yes. Bartholomew’s man. The one he’d mentioned in Sydney. The one who would collect her belongings so she would never need to return to Cottington. ‘Thank you.’ She eased the words through her gritted teeth and held out her hand.

  He relinquished the letter. The thick paper sat warm and damp from resting beneath the odious man’s jacket.

  Catherine Cottingham.

  By Hand.

  The words sprawled across the folded paper, taking up most of the space and ending in an elaborate flourish. She turned it over and picked at the imprint in the red wax seal. H.W.B. above three suspended spheres. What did that represent?

  Gatenby coughed and she lifted her head.

  Mrs Duffen stood at her elbow. She hadn’t heard her return. ‘Can I get any refreshments?’

  ‘Mr Gatenby?’

  ‘No, thank you. Read the letter and give me your reply and I’ll be on my way. I’m catching the afternoon steamer back to Sydney and don’t have time to spare.’ He glared at the letter in her hand as if he could force her to hurry.

  ‘No refreshments, thank you, Mrs Duffen.’ She really didn’t want to read the wretched letter. What she wouldn’t give for Bartholomew to disappear from her life.

  She glanced down, her eyes grazing at the ornate script, which looked as though it belonged in some illustrated bible or children’s book of fairy tales. She picked the wax seal then unfolded the letter.

  My dear Catherine,

  I must apologise for my silence. I trust this letter finds you well and somewhat recovered from the trauma of your time in Sydney.

  Her time in Sydney? Was that the way he intended to refer to Pa’s death? She scanned the next few lines.

  I had every intention of attending Reginald’s funeral, however pressures of business forced me to absent myself.

  As we both know, it was his dearest wish to see our families united. Let me alleviate the grief of your father’s passing by pressing my suit.

  What a complete barrel load of balderdash. Pa’s misplaced idea perhaps. Not hers. Nor would it ever be. The hairs on the back of her neck prickled and she fought the overwhelming desire to tear the offending letter into a million pieces. But Mr Gatenby’s eagle eyes were upon her.

  We will be married in Saint James’ Church on July 7th. They will commence calling the banns next week.

  I await the date of your intended arrival. Please provide Gatenby with such. He will make arrangements for your possessions to be transported to Sydney.

  Until then I remain,

  Yours, etc.

  Henry W. Bartholomew.

  Catherine dropped the letter onto the desk and rested her head in her hands. Less than a month. She needed more time than that to get her mind around everything De Silva had told her. A pulse pounded in her temple and she threaded her fingers through her hair. Squeezing her eyes tightly shut she let out a long sigh.

  Gatenby sucked his teeth, his annoyance obvious. ‘Miss Cottingham, I understand this is difficult for you.’ He eyed her riding jacket with a flicker of distaste then ploughed on. ‘There is no need for you to reply to Bartholomew’s letter. Just tell me you agree.’

  So the man was aware of the contents of the letter. Did he have any idea just how difficult the situation was? A sob snatched at her throat and she rummaged in her empty pocket for a handkerchief.

  Gatenby let out an impatient huff and began drumming his fingers on his knee and in so doing gave her the answer. She w
ould deal with the matter in her own time and not be bamboozled by Bartholomew or his lackey.

  She dabbed at her eyes with her fingers, managing to encourage a few tears to trickle down her cheeks. She hadn’t believed she had any more to shed. ‘Thank you, Mr Gatenby. Would you please be so kind as to convey my answer to Mr Bartholomew.’

  ‘That’s the idea.’

  ‘Please tell Mr Bartholomew that I’m in mourning for my father and I’m therefore unable to leave Cottington Hill until a suitable period has passed. Several months.’ She dropped her head back into her hands and gulped out a sob. ‘This interview has been very taxing.’ It was a performance worthy of a spot amongst Rudi’s circus antics.

  Between her splayed fingers she caught sight of Gatenby’s raised eyebrow and his further appraisal of her clothes. A white blouse under a dark blue jacket was hardly suitable attire for someone in mourning. Perhaps he’d think people did things differently in the country.

  ‘The arrangements have already been made. I will return to escort you to Sydney next week.’

  He would do no such thing. Bartholomew couldn’t dictate her whereabouts or the day of her wedding. Surely she must have some say in the matter.

  ‘Mr Gatenby, I repeat I am in mourning. Please convey my response to Mr Bartholomew.’ Rising, she stumbled to the bell pull to summon Mrs Duffen. ‘My housekeeper will see you out.’ With that she scuttled from the room, hoping he hadn’t noticed her filthy breeches.

  She was mourning Pa, in her own way, but somehow she couldn’t get past the fact that, as much as she missed him, he was happier now. The horrid illness had rendered him a shadow. In her heart of hearts she knew his wish for her to marry Bartholomew was a product of panic inspired by the laudanum that had claimed his mind and his life.

  With her ear pressed to the sitting-room door she counted Mrs Duffen’s footsteps as they shuffled along the timber floor. Mr Gatenby must have accepted her response because two sets of footsteps echoed to the front door, which gave its usual opening squeak to the accompaniment of muffled words and then closed.

  ‘Where are you, Catherine?’