The Woman In the Green Dress Page 6

  ‘You can, it’s there. Never thought I’d long for the smell of eucalyptus. My mum used to rub it on me chest when I was a nipper.’

  She sniffed again, mostly to cover her smile, in case he thought she was teasing him. She could smell something other than coal smoke, something vaguely medicinal. His description just made her think of Vicks salve but it was his voice that made her smile. He sounded so much like Hugh, the way he put his words together, the lilt at the end of the sentence, as though he was asking a question.

  ‘It’s the gum trees. I dreamt of the sound of the wind rustling the leaves in the trenches. Never thought I’d make it back.’ His broad nasal twang did sound a little as though his nose was stuffed.

  The poor man, the ship was full to the gunnels with soldiers who’d suffered appalling injuries in the trenches, far worse than anything she’d seen in London. If she had her way she’d have every one of the German soldiers and their masters hung drawn and quartered at Tower Hill. ‘Do the trees cause a problem?’

  ‘What?’ He frowned at her then laughed. ‘No. It’s the smell of Australia. We’ll lose it as soon as we see land, it’s the way the wind’s blowing, a good westerly. Off the Blue Mountains.’ He let out the longest sigh and rocked back on his heels. ‘It’ll be good to be home.’

  Whereas this was the furthest she’d ever been from home. The only time she’d left London was for a day trip to Brighton with Mum and Dad. They’d huddled under the pier and eaten ice cream in the pouring rain.

  Six weeks had gone someway to ease the confusion Mr Waterstone’s announcement caused. She’d been carried along in his wake. He’d taken over and organised her passage though how he’d managed she had no idea. She felt guilty taking up space that belonged to some poor soldier returning home but she’d shared the cabin with three of the nurses on board to care for the wounded, and spent much of her time trying to help in some small way, reading, writing letters, just talking to pass the time. Some of the injured needed all the help they could get. She had no idea how they would manage once they got home.

  ‘There’s the Heads.’ The soldier almost threw himself overboard in his attempt to reach the deep indigo ribbon of the horizon. ‘We made it!’

  She rubbed at her eyes, still couldn’t see anything but a vast expanse of water slipping by below the ship and the distant horizon, pretty much the same as it had been since they left England.

  ‘Give it another six hours and we’ll be heading up the harbour.’ He threw her a wink and limped off, no doubt to share his excitement with his mates.

  In six hours she’d be on dry land. She’d read Mr Waterstone’s instructions so many times she knew them by heart. Collect her baggage then ask someone to point her in the right direction. As long as it was before six o’clock, go to Hunter Street. Number 50, to the new premises of Lyttleton & Sons. They were expecting her and would have all the details. If there was a problem, check into the Berkeley Hotel on the corner of Bent Street, a reservation had been made in her name, and go to the solicitors the following morning.

  Despite Mr Waterstone’s assurances the cost still worried her. He’d given her a horribly large amount to tide her over. Emergency funds he’d called it. More like more-cash-than-she’d-ever-seen-in-her-life funds. No matter how much she complained about not using Hugh’s money Mr Waterstone had insisted. Kept saying it was her money now. It couldn’t be. She knew with a deep abiding certainty Hugh was still alive. That’s why she’d made up her mind to come, convinced there was some sort of error.

  When she got off the ship Hugh would be there waiting and, just as he’d promised on that windy day at Westminster Registry Office, their new life would begin.

  As the weeks passed there’d been days when her conviction had faltered. Seeing all the poor men on the ship, some of them with no idea who they were or where they had come from. Suppose Hugh was on another ship. Suffering from shell shock. Not knowing who he was or where he was going.

  Everyone she’d spoken to said they always sent a telegram to the next of kin and that the chaplin sent the soldier’s personal belongings and their identity disc after the burial. Something just didn’t add up. And until it did she would search for Hugh. How could a firm of solicitors be sent Hugh’s personal belongings? And if Hugh had told his solicitors they’d married why wouldn’t he have told the army? How had Mr Waterstone found her? Nothing made any sense at all.

  The ship’s horn sounded and there was a sudden rush of people to the rail, all pointing and laughing. The words home, ripper and bloody bewdy on everyone’s lips. She could pick out the shadow on the horizon now, growing clearer with every passing moment.

  When they finally steamed between the two huge cliffs standing sentinel to the harbour the panorama took her breath away. A clear blue sky mirrored in the crystal water, boats gliding in and out of the moorings, halyards chinking against the masts, gulls swooping and circling, more beautiful than anything she’d ever imagined. Golden stretches of sand fringed with green vegetation nestled at the end of the bay and the neatest town she’d ever seen spread inland from the water’s edge. They said it was a city but it seemed no bigger than Brighton, although there wasn’t a pebbly beach or a grey cloud in sight. Everything in Australia sparkled golden and bright against the azure backdrop of the towering sky.

  After an unexpected seven days in quarantine on North Head, the wave of diggers scrambling away from the wharf brought a smile to Fleur’s face. They were as impatient as she was. The case of smallpox, which had held them up in Alexandria, and the threat of the influenza epidemic had put the fear of God into the authorities. Even the nurses said they’d all be wearing masks in the streets before long. However, nothing had eventuated and everyone had received a clean bill of health and been sent on their way.

  ‘Number 50 Hunter Street, please.’ Fleur bent to pick up her suitcase but the cab driver beat her to it. He deposited it on the leather seat and handed her up as though she was a frail nineteenth-century miss.

  ‘Have you there in no time, once we get through this lot. Come from London, have you?’

  ‘Yes.’ She struggled out of her coat and draped it over her arm.

  The sun beat down like a great ball of fire. Mr Waterstone had told her it would be warm but it was sweltering, the hottest day she’d ever experienced. ‘Is it always this hot?’

  ‘Should’ve been ’ere last week. Had one of those spells just to remind us what summer’s all about. Cooled down a bit now with the southerly buster.’ He climbed up and flicked a whip across the horses’ flanks.

  Fleur did a quick recap of the contents of her suitcase. She’d only got one cotton dress, her best, and she’d given that a good flogging during the voyage. She couldn’t bring herself to spend the money Mr Waterstone had given her. She’d thrown in Mum’s clippie boots and jacket and for some reason she couldn’t quite fathom, a pair of trousers. She’d suffocate in that lot. One skirt and a couple of blouses would have to see her through. She shucked off her gloves and tucked them into her pocket then thought twice about her hat as they turned into a very smart street lined with large sandstone buildings that wouldn’t have looked amiss in London.

  ‘Got family here, have you?’

  Fleur craned her neck to get a better look at the buildings. ‘No. Well, yes. Maybe.’

  The driver tossed her a quizzical frown and shook his head. She wasn’t about to get into a discussion with him about why, especially when she couldn’t explain it to herself.

  ‘Macquarie Street.’ He gave an expansive wave of his hand, almost as though he’d single-handedly built every one of the large solemn-looking buildings. ‘Where all the nobs hang out. Parliament House and the like. ’Unter Street’s just around the corner.’ He pulled out into the traffic, narrowly avoiding a clanging tram, and threw a turn that had the cab tipping on its wheels before it slewed to a halt. ‘Here you go. Number 50 ’Unter Street. Lyttleton & Sons. Got some business to sort ’ave you?’

  She swallowed the
inclination to tell the man to mind his own and rummaged in her bag for some money. When she pulled out one of Mr Waterstone’s pound notes the cabbie’s eyebrows disappeared under his cloth cap. ‘Ain’t you got nothing smaller?’

  ‘No, I’m sorry. I haven’t.’

  ‘Well, duck inside and get them to break it.’

  She very nearly told him to keep the change but then sanity prevailed. It wasn’t her money. She was just a caretaker. Hugh might well need every penny. ‘I won’t be a moment.’ Leaving her suitcase on the pavement she ran up the steps. A big brass knocker hung dead centre, and when she lifted it the door swung open revealing a long, carpeted corridor. It was dreadfully smart. ‘Is there anybody home?’

  Waiting for her eyes to adjust to the dimness of the interior, she stood like a fool on the doorstep while the cabbie dumped her case at her feet.

  A rail-thin woman dressed in brown leather brogues and a high-necked blouse and dark skirt appeared at the end of the corridor. ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  ‘My name’s Fleur. Fleur Richards.’ She smiled at the somewhat flustered-looking woman with a profusion of escaping hair.

  ‘Oh my goodness.’ Her face flushed a little. ‘I’m Vera Lyttleton. We weren’t expecting you quite so soon.’

  Fleur’s stomach sank. She stood on the doorstep fidgeting while Mrs Lyttleton shook her head and looked her up and down. ‘I can come back tomorrow.’

  ‘No. Come in. Please, come in.’

  ‘I must pay the cabbie and I don’t have any change. I wonder if you could …’ She waved the pound note in the air.

  ‘I’ll sort him out.’ Mrs Lyttleton took the money and held back the door for Fleur to enter. ‘Kip, can you come and deal with Mrs Richards’ luggage please. Go ahead. On the left. I won’t be a moment.’

  Fleur pushed open the door. A large desk filled the space in front of the open window and a lovely bunch of cottage roses stood in a vase on the mantelpiece perfuming the air. Not knowing quite what to do next she hovered in the middle of the room.

  ‘Just leave it in the hallway, Kip. We’d like some tea if you don’t mind, and there’s oatmeal biscuits in the tin if you can find them.’

  Mrs Lyttleton offered a half-hearted smile. ‘Welcome to Australia.’ She held out her hand. ‘This is the only respectable room I’m afraid, we’re in the throes of moving to the premises.’

  Fleur shifted her coat to the other arm and took Mrs Lyttleton’s hand and gave it a brief shake, with her damp and sweaty palm, worry fluttering in her stomach. ‘I’m pleased to meet you.’ It was as though she’d arrived early for a party or turned up on the wrong day.

  ‘Come and sit down. Let me take your coat.’ Mrs Lyttleton hung it on a hat stand in the corner and Fleur took one of the two chairs drawn up in front of the empty fireplace. ‘As I said I wasn’t expecting you for a day or two. When did your ship dock?’

  ‘I’ve come straight from the ship. We had to spend seven days in quarantine because there was a case of smallpox on board.’

  ‘And this threatening influenza no doubt. I do hope no one is suffering.’

  ‘No, not a single person.’

  A young man in shirtsleeves, his overlong hair masking the pencil tucked behind his ears, brought in a rattling tray and thumped it down on the desk.

  ‘Thank you, Kip. Fleur, this is Kip Cassidy—he helps me out.’

  The boy’s ears turned bright pink as he mumbled something indecipherable then made to leave.

  ‘Just a moment, Kip. Could you please ring the Berkeley Hotel and inform them Mrs Richards has arrived and will be requiring her room earlier than we anticipated.’ Mrs Lyttleton sighed. ‘I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a really bad time. As I said we’re moving. All our paperwork is still boxed so I’m not able to deal with the formalities. My husband, Mr Lyttleton was called away to assist with the repatriation board.’

  ‘Mrs Lyttleton, I …’ She sucked in a deep breath and waited for the young man to leave. She didn’t need any formalities, she needed to pin her down and tell her that she wasn’t intending to accept anything of Hugh’s. ‘I have to explain my reasons for coming to Australia.’

  ‘I’m thrilled you were able to. It will make matters so much easier. From what Mr Waterstone said in his telegram the inheritance has come as something of a shock.’

  More than a shock! She couldn’t sit here and let the charade continue. ‘Hugh and I only knew each other for a matter of days.’ A blush rose to her cheeks. ‘We met, had five days together and were married, then he returned to the front.’

  ‘I’m so sorry. I’ve been remiss.’ She poured out a cup of tea, added some milk and put it on the small table between them. ‘Please let me offer you our sincere condolences. Mr Lyttleton told me Hugh was a delightful young man.’

  Fleur let out a long slow breath and pulled her shoulders back. It had to be said, and now. She felt like a fraud. ‘I don’t believe that I am entitled to benefit from Hugh’s will.’ There, it hadn’t been too difficult. Now for the rest. She had to give voice to her belief. ‘And to be honest, I’m not convinced Hugh’s dead.’

  Eight

  Sydney, NSW, 1853

  After his preferred breakfast of black coffee, Wurst and Käse, which Sladdin had managed to conjure up, Stefan peered out of the open window into the swirling confusion of the street below. An uncontrolled buggy skirted a barrow laden with fresh vegetables, forcing a group of overdressed gentlemen into the centre of the street. They scattered, making way for three high-stepping, polished bays that would have done the Viennese school proud. He narrowed his eyes, squinting into the early-morning sunshine, then let out a crack of laughter.

  Atop the huge stallion sat a small scrawny figure, legs almost horizontal, barely spanning the back of the enormous steed. By the look of things young Herr Burless must have overheard his comments to Sladdin and not wanting to miss an opportunity had found not two, but three, excellent animals.

  He threw up the window and raised his hand. Doffing his cap, Bert acknowledged his salute then shimmied down and led the three horses across the crowded street, giving the overdressed gentlemen a wide berth.

  ‘Guter mann,’ he called then slammed the window closed and bolted down the stairs in his shirtsleeves and braces.

  ‘Can I be of any assistance, Captain?’ Sladdin, all skinny black-suited arms and legs, blocked his path to the outside.

  ‘None at all, none at all.’

  ‘A word, Captain von Richter.’

  Stifling a groan, he turned to Sladdin with raised eyebrows.

  ‘I trust you enjoyed your visit to the Curio Shop.’

  It was as well he wasn’t conducting an illicit relationship, the man seemed to scrutinise his every move. ‘I did.’

  ‘Would you like me to procure some horses for you?’

  ‘That won’t be necessary.’ He pushed through the door and bounded into the street. He’d rather rely on the young lad than the all-knowing, sycophantic Sladdin.

  ‘And the top of the morning to you.’

  His laughter echoed along Bent Street. ‘Irish today are you, lad?’

  ‘Like to ring the changes. Found you some horses, if’n you’re interested.’ Bert’s grin stretched from ear to ear, cracking his dirt-encrusted face.

  ‘And who might you have here?’

  Bert made no reply as he walked around the three horses checking them from every angle. ‘Well?’ he asked as he reached the horses’ heads, his voice gruffer than he intended. The animals were excellent. Who had he stolen them from?

  Bert lifted his chin, his eyes narrowing. ‘Thought you wanted to hire good horses. If that’s not the case, I’ll be on me way.’ He clicked his tongue and the animals turned neatly to follow him.

  Three, not two as he’d asked. Quite why he was giving the lad such a hard time he had no idea. The animals were just what he wanted, oozing stamina and reeking of good health. Out of the corner of his eye he could see Sladdin standing in the doorway of
the hotel, his beady eyes capturing every moment. More than likely regretting the loss of business. ‘Wait a minute.’ He ran his eye over the animals’ perfect conformation. All three were magnificent, good strong bones, deep across the chest, bright eyes. ‘Where did you get them?’

  Bert sniffed loudly and wiped the back of his spare hand under his filthy nose. ‘Man don’t give away his sources’.

  ‘Man better if he wants to make a quid or two.’

  The lad rolled his eyes and looked heavenward. ‘I ain’t nicked ’em if that’s what you think. You said you wanted two good strong horses.’

  ‘And you brought three.’

  ‘Thought maybe you’d need one for your manservant.’

  ‘I haven’t got a manservant, as you very well know. How much are these going to cost me a day?’ He stopped in his tracks and studied the skinny, carrot-topped bunch of bones jiggling from one foot to another. ‘I’m interested, and if you have a mind to accompany me I can offer you a decent wage.’ Now where had that come from?

  Two bright eyes shone up at him and a wide grin split the grubby face.

  ‘You can handle a horse on the open road, can’t you?’

  ‘Course I can.’

  He delved into his pocket and produce a handful of coins and notes. ‘Go and get yourself a decent set of warm clothes and good boots, meet me back here in an hour, and arrange for the hire of the horses. I’ve got some business to attend to.’

  ‘You for real?’

  It was a bit of a gamble but from what he’d heard most men for hire hid their limited good qualities beneath a preference for copious amounts of rum which tended to render them useless. This lad amused him. ‘And get yourself scrubbed clean, too.’ He’d got a good head on his shoulders and he liked his spirit.

  ‘Yes, Capt’n.’ Bert gathered the reins and took off as though the hounds of hell were after him.

  Whistling some waltz caught in his mind from the Governor’s soirée, Stefan turned into O’Connell Street and then into Hunter. The door of the Curio Shop stood wide open and he stepped inside, inhaling the strange medley of odours he remembered. The sinister overtones of the night before had vanished in the beam of sunlight that illuminated the polished timber floor.