Band of Gold (7 page)

He nodded, pleased. He hadn’t wanted to leave his precious breads to finish rising on their own, and if Leena was in charge of ferrying the breakfasts, he would be free to get on with his pastries. Because, as everyone surely knew, making pastry properly was a complex process that could only be achieved successfully at the hands of an accomplished
fabricant de pâtisserie
. Which, of course, he was.

On the morning that Pierre’s Bayou Bakery opened, no one came into the shop. Eight o’clock came and went, and nine o’clock, then Pierre lost his temper.

‘Why are they not coming to buy the beautiful breads,
hein? Mon Dieu
, what a crowd of Philistines!’

Kitty was also feeling increasingly uneasy: you would think that hungry prospectors would be falling over themselves to buy good, quality baked goods. ‘Perhaps we should have advertised? Should I have gone next door to the
Ballarat Times?
’

‘The
Ballarat Times
, to hell with it,’ Pierre said huffily. ‘If they cannot appreciate my magnificent baking, then what is the likelihood they will have the brains enough to read?’

‘We could put a sign outside,’ Leena suggested.

Pierre stopped stamping his foot, and eyed her speculatively. ‘
Non
, not a
sign
—we will put the
fabricant de pâtisserie
outside!’ he declared triumphantly.

Grabbing a basket, he carefully arranged a selection of his pastries, two
baguettes
and two
pains de seigle
in it, and strode out onto the verandah. Kitty and Leena followed him to the doorway, wondering what he was about to do.

What he did was march up and down the street outside the shop, bellowing about the excellent quality of his goods and accosting everyone he encountered, almost forcing them to sample his baking.
At first people gave him a wide berth—and who could blame them, presented with an angry little Cajun with a King Charles goatee and gold teeth—then a few stopped and tentatively sampled his offerings, then a few more, and, finally, they began to come into the bakery.

By the time Rian wandered in at eleven o’clock, the shop was crowded. Eating four
macarons
in quick succession, he looked around and remarked to Kitty, ‘You’re very busy. You must be pleased.’

She was more than pleased—she was ecstatic. Not to mention relieved.

A week after that, the shop was busy from the minute the door opened until it closed at two in the afternoon, leaving Pierre, Kitty and Leena exhausted, tomato-faced and sweaty from the heat of the huge oven. The work, however, didn’t end then. There was the oven to be cleaned out, the tables and the cooking utensils to be washed, and the bread dough prepared for the next day and left to sit, covered with damp muslin, to rise for tomorrow’s baking. They had added meat pasties and savoury pies to their menu, and these were also proving very popular, but the fillings had to be partially prepared the day before to save time the following morning.

By the time Kitty returned to Lilac Cottage in the afternoon, she could do little more than collapse on Amber’s daybed and contemplate her aching back and red hands, raw from washing so many bowls and pots. Pierre had assured her repeatedly that it would get easier once they got into a regular routine, but Kitty wondered. The only day they didn’t open was Sunday, when everyone on the diggings observed a day of rest. Or, more likely, a day of drinking, sport or playing cards.

They were, however, making plenty of money, even after the extremely costly ingredients for the baking had been purchased twice a week. Some customers paid with cash, and some bartered, but many
offered gold which had to be measured out on the set of brass scales kept under the shop counter.

Binda was turning out to be an excellent nanny for Will and Molly, who had taken to her immediately, which left Leena free to work in the shop whenever she chose. And when she didn’t, Amber was always more than happy to step in behind the counter, greeting each customer with a smile and a surprisingly professional line of patter about how delicious Pierre’s pastries were. She was friendly to the wives and children who came in, and could charm even the roughest, hairiest, most pungent-smelling prospector into walking away with a hatful or a handful of treats.

One man in particular took a fancy to her, a miner named Mr Searle. He was a cheerful-looking fellow of around forty, Kitty guessed, with receding, nondescript hair and a ready smile. Every day he came in and purchased the same thing—a
baguette
and a
macaron
—and, leaning on the counter, spent so long talking to Amber about the wife and three daughters he’d left behind in Cornwall where he’d been a tin miner that Kitty had to remind her to serve the other customers. But she looked so sweet in her white apron with her thick, shining hair pulled back beneath a ruffled white cap, and it wasn’t often that anyone left Pierre’s Bayou Bakery in a worse mood than when they had come in.

One day, though, Lily Pearce swept into the shop and Amber immediately walked away from the counter and stood sulkily near the oven.

Kitty, rolling out dough, asked, ‘What are you doing there, sweetheart? You should be at the counter.’

‘Not while
she’s
in here,’ Amber answered tersely, her arms crossed over her chest.

Kitty followed the direction of Amber’s gaze, and her heart sank.

‘Good morning, Mrs Farrell!’ Lily called, the note of cheer in her voice flagrantly insincere. She pushed her way to the front of the
queue. ‘Working your fingers to the bone, I see!’

She was wearing another of her flamboyant gowns, her hair done up in a twist from which tumbled the usual cascade of ringlets.

Oh God, Kitty thought, irrationally irritated. Why does she have to go about looking like a parakeet? Surely even a madam can dress discreetly? Look at Flora.

‘Good morning, Miss Pearce,’ she said curtly, wiping her hands on a cloth.

Pierre, chopping vegetables for the next day’s pasties, eyed Lily Pearce impassively, then split a fresh onion with devastating force.

‘I would like some of those little things,’ Lily said, pointing. ‘What are they called?’

‘
Brioche.
’ Kitty wondered why the wretched woman hadn’t addressed Leena, who was standing directly behind the counter.

‘
Brioche?
That’s a French word, isn’t it? How cosmopolitan of you. I’ll take half a dozen, thank you.’ Then Lily suddenly looked at Leena, as though noticing her for the first time. ‘Oh,’ she said loudly. ‘Oh
dear
.’

Kitty closed her eyes, waiting for whatever unpleasantry was sure to come.

‘Is that a
myall
you have working for you?’ Lily said even more stridently. ‘Aren’t you worried that she might, well…’ She left a deliberate gap for everyone listening to interpret as they chose. ‘After all, you never know where her kind have been, do you?’

There was an uneasy muttering among the customers waiting behind her. Leena flushed to the roots of her hair, but said nothing.

Kitty felt the heat of anger rise in her. No one had commented on Leena working in the bakery before, but now that Lily Pearce had drawn attention to the fact, customers would likely start considering whether they really wanted to purchase food handled by an Aboriginal woman, even if her skin was relatively fair.

Biting off each word, Kitty replied, ‘She is the wife of a crewman on board my husband’s schooner. And she is a very good friend.’

‘But that’s not much of a recommendation, is it?’ Lily countered, shaking her head as though in genuine regret. ‘No, I don’t think I will take any of your
brioche
after all, Mrs Farrell. I always think it’s better to be safe than sorry, don’t you?’ And she turned and departed the shop with a self-satisfied smirk on her painted face.

There was a moment of embarrassed silence, then Kitty said, ‘Ignore her, Leena. She’s taken against me for some reason.’

Pierre banged his knife down on his chopping board. ‘She was insulting both of you.
Chienne!
’

And when Kitty turned to apologise to her customers, half of them had gone.

The seventeenth day of October started out more or less like any other day on the diggings—except for the mood of the diggers themselves. As a result of their intense lobbying of goldfields authorities, six days before James Bentley and two of his associates, William Hance and Thomas Farrell, had been subjected to a judicial inquiry regarding James Scobie’s death, although, to the diggers’ dismay, the inquiry had been led by Commissioner Rede, Police Magistrate d’Ewes and Assistant Commissioner James Johnston. The diggers had fully expected a guilty verdict for Bentley and his associates, but all three men had been exonerated and discharged by d’Ewes and by Rede. Only Johnston had dissented.

A public meeting to discuss what to do next was arranged for the seventeenth. The same committee of diggers and others who’d pushed for the first inquiry was now pressing for a more thorough, and less biased, investigation, one that included a jury. The gathering was to be held at midday outside the Eureka Hotel, and it was hoped that a large crowd would attend.

Like plenty of other diggers, Rian and the crew had packed up for the day and come into town with Patrick and his chums. A
conspicuous number of placards and bills advertising the meeting had been posted around the Flat and on Bakery Hill, the Old Gravel Pits and at the Eureka diggings. Even if the injustice of James Scobie’s demise wasn’t at the forefront of your mind, Rian reflected, you’d be very tempted to attend just to see what developed. Especially as it was rumoured that Bentley was so frightened of what might happen that he’d gone bleating to his mate d’Ewes and there were foot soldiers hiding behind the furniture inside the hotel.

Rian noticed that many of the meeting’s organisers were Scots: Patrick pointed out that several of them had been jurors at Scobie’s inquest. Decisions were made: they would petition Governor Hotham for a fair trial, form an official committee to carry on the work, and begin a subscription list to provide a reward for the apprehension of Scobie’s murderer.

Towards the end of the meeting, a party of mounted police arrived and stationed themselves at the rear of the crowd.

‘That fellow over there, the one just voted onto the new committee,’ Rian asked Patrick, ‘who is he?’

‘That, me boy, is Peter Fintan Lalor,’ Patrick replied proudly, as though he’d personally raised the man from infancy. ‘Went to Trinity College, da’s an MP and strict anti-Union; here to make his fortune like everyone else. Got a good head on him, isn’t afraid to speak out.’

Rian nodded—he’d heard of Patrick Lalor. ‘He’ll get the job done? Get justice for Scobie?’

‘Sure he will. The poor bugger can rest easy in his grave then.’

Simon appeared at Rian’s elbow, accompanied by Mick and Daniel. He inclined his head at the large crowd, for some reason suddenly getting bigger now that the meeting had ended. ‘I thought there’d be a bit more argle-bargle than this. It’s been a very civilised sort of meeting, hasn’t it?’

‘And where would the thousands of enraged diggers be?’ complained Mick. ‘I was looking forward to a good stoush, so I was.’

‘I’d say there are well over a thousand here,’ Rian observed. ‘But you’re right, they’ve been pretty quiet.’

But he’d spoken too soon. A moment later, just after the mounted police began moving through the mass of people, a brick flew through the window of the Eureka Hotel, followed by a crash as James Bentley’s lovely lamppost toppled to the ground. A great roar went up from the crowd—still growing by the second—the police horses reared in alarm, and hundreds rushed forward, brandishing spades, sticks and any makeshift tool they could lay their hands on. In a matter of minutes, every window in the hotel had been broken and the weatherboards were being systematically torn away.

Rian and Hawk, well away from the
mêlée
, watched as Commissioner Rede hurriedly arrived and climbed onto the sill of a broken window. His voiced drowned out by the clamour, he was forced to dodge as he was pelted with various missiles. He gave up, his place taken by another official, who also soon stepped down, and then the looting started. Clearly at the end of his tether, Rede signalled his troops to move into and around the hotel, amid a barrage of catcalls, jeers and small projectiles.

It was then that the faint smell of burning drifted through the air above the crowd. Heads turned in the direction of the bowling alley adjacent to the hotel, and a jubilant cry went up as ribbons of smoke could be seen curling around its canvas roof above tiny tongues of flame. In no time, the wind had made passengers of the sparks and deposited them among the shingles on the hotel’s roof, and soon the hotel was ablaze. Half an hour later, James Bentley’s pride, joy and golden goose was a smoking heap of charred timbers.

A
t Lilac Cottage, two evenings later, Rian was lovingly cleaning his pistols, the mahogany case open and its contents spread all over the table. The smells of oil and polish permeated the air, making Amber sneeze.

But her next sneeze became a scream as the door flew off its hinges and a stream of policemen burst in, pistols drawn. Bodie, startled out of her wits, shot under the daybed as Kitty, her own heart thumping madly, hurried to calm Amber.

Rian leapt to his feet. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’

A sergeant barked: ‘Thomas Farrell, we are under orders to arrest you for the murder of James Scobie.’

Unable to dismiss the diggers’ strength of feeling against the Camp officials, Charles Hotham had ordered the re-arrest of those under suspicion for the Scobie killing.

‘Oh, for God’s sake, I’m not Thomas Farrell,’ Rian said, and sat down again.

The sergeant, his eyes beginning to bulge in an already alcohol-reddened face, kicked the leg of Rian’s chair. ‘Get up! You’re under arrest. You’re being taken to the Camp!’

Rian shrugged. ‘Suit yourself, but I’m not Thomas Farrell.’

‘He’s not!’ Kitty protested. ‘He’s my husband, Rian Conor Farrell. He had nothing to do with James Scobie’s death!’

‘Shut up!’ the sergeant ordered.

‘Don’t tell my wife to shut up!’ Rian shouted.

Hawk appeared in the doorway and pushed his way in. ‘Rian, what is happening?’

A policeman attempted to shove him back outside and Hawk punched him, sending him flying. Another jumped on Hawk’s back and they fell through the door, rolling in the dust outside. Then Pierre appeared, roaring like a man possessed, followed by Gideon, followed by everyone else.

Rian sat in the wagon, holding a sodden kerchief over his bleeding nose. Beside him, Pierre squinted through an eye that had swollen almost shut, and Daniel dabbed repeatedly with the tail of his shirt at a split lip. Only Gideon had remained unscathed.

Behind them trotted six mounted police, battered and bloodstained but nonetheless looking smugly pleased with themselves at having captured what they clearly believed to be a ruthless, cold-blooded killer and his band of brigands.

The Camp, laid out on a grassy mound in front of the town proper and overlooking the Yarrowee, was surrounded by a wooden fence that encircled neat lines of military tents, stables, and a tall flagpole flying the Union Jack. The troopers guarding the gate saluted as the wagon entered and came to a halt outside a collection of wooden buildings.

The sergeant climbed down and ordered Rian and the crew off.

Looking around interestedly, Mick remarked, ‘I’ve never been in here before.’

‘Shut up!’ the sergeant snapped. ‘You, you and you,’ he said, pointing at three of his men, ‘keep an eye and I’ll alert Mr d’Ewes.’

A short period of standing around, then they were ‘escorted’ inside to face Police Magistrate John d’Ewes.

He sat behind a large desk, giving off fumes of what smelt suspiciously to Rian like very good Burgundy, and didn’t look pleased to have been disturbed in the middle of his evening meal.

He stared at Rian for some time, then turned to the sergeant.

‘This isn’t Thomas Farrell.’

Rian smirked.

‘I believe it is, sir.’

‘It is not, Sergeant Coombes. I should know. I’ve already had him in front of me once.’

Sergeant Coombes fumbled for a piece of paper in his uniform pocket. ‘But this is the address I was given for him, sir. Lilac Cottage, near the Red Hill Lead.’

‘Well, you’ve been misinformed.’ John d’Ewes turned back to Rian. ‘You won’t be tried for murder, but I am fining you five pounds. Each.’

‘What for?’

‘Disturbing the peace.’

‘
I
didn’t disturb the peace. Your trained monkeys did that.’

The magistrate looked pained. ‘Would you rather pay ten pounds each, Mr Farrell?’

‘It’s
Captain
Farrell. No, we wouldn’t.’

‘Then pay five, and go away. I have a dinner to get back to. Sergeant Coombes? Have Mr Buckley make the arrangements.’

When he’d gone, Simon, whose ear had swollen to the size of a Brussels sprout and was causing him a lot of pain, said loudly, ‘What a supercilious turd.’

‘Watch your mouth,’ Sergeant Coombes growled. Then he smiled unpleasantly and said to Rian, ‘You can’t pay it, can you?’

‘Yes, I can.’ Rian opened his purse and counted out £40 and waved it in Coombes’s face. It was an enormous show of bravado—it was money he couldn’t really spare—but it was worth it for the satisfaction of annoying the prick. ‘Now run along and find this Buckley fellow.’

Coombes glared at him, then spun on his heel and marched off, slamming the door behind him.

After a moment, Hawk remarked, ‘I am not sure that was a good idea, Rian.’

A week after Bentley’s fire, it appeared that Pierre’s Bayou Bakery was being boycotted, at least by some. Leena was distraught, apologising to Kitty repeatedly. As though it were her fault, Kitty thought angrily.

Not everyone stayed away, but the shop was no longer crowded every day and profits were down. Flora came in one day to talk to Kitty about it.

In a complete reversal of his reaction to Lily Pearce, Pierre whipped out from behind the counter, grasped her hand and bowed low over it.

‘Mademoiselle McRae, to see you again is a delight!’ he exclaimed effusively.

Kitty wondered if he fancied her.

Flora smiled graciously at Pierre, and shook her parasol free of a sprinkle of rain from a recent shower. To Kitty, she said matter-off-actly, ‘I hear we are having some trouble.’

‘A little,’ Kitty replied and reached for the hatch to allow Flora into the back of the shop. However, she was beaten by Pierre, who almost gave himself a hernia heaving it up and ushering Flora through.

Flora waited patiently until the shop was empty. ‘And I also hear it originated with Lily Pearce publicly humiliating Leena and you?’

Kitty nodded, grateful that Leena was not at work today. ‘I could have slapped her, Flora. She implied that Leena was unclean!’

‘I suspect that Leena is a great deal cleaner than Miss Pearce,’ Flora replied curtly. ‘And as a result, customer numbers are down?’

‘They appear to be.’

‘You leave Lily Pearce to me, Kitty. She’s not a woman to cross. And I will do what I can about the customers.’

When Flora had gone, Kitty said to Pierre in a voice low enough for Amber not to hear, ‘You don’t feel your behaviour is a little, well, enthusiastic regarding Flora?’

Puzzled, Pierre looked at her. ‘
Non.
She be a fine woman, and I admire the feminine beauty.’

‘Actually, I think you might be…well, I’m not sure Flora wants…’ She trailed off.

Pierre shrugged. ‘So? I am not wanting to marry her, only to look. And to respect.’ He tapped his head. ‘She be a very smart woman, Mademoiselle McRae. Such a thing is very admirable.’

Flora was indeed a very smart woman: several days later a new sort of customer began to patronise the bakery. Both Leena and Amber were serving when the first came in.

He was Chinese, and had smooth skin but lines around his eyes, suggesting he could be anywhere between thirty and his mid-forties. He wore the customary Chinese costume, and held the hand of a girl who looked to be about the same age as Amber. She had exquisite features, beautiful honey-coloured skin, and hair with the colour and sheen of onyx. She was the first Chinese child Kitty had seen in Ballarat, and she wondered where her mother was. But perhaps she didn’t have one: Kitty hadn’t seen any Chinese women on the diggings, either.

‘Good morning,’ she said brightly. ‘What can I get you today?’

His face impassive, the Chinese man replied, in excellent English, ‘You may not recall, but some weeks ago you and your husband Captain Farrell saw off some boys who were throwing stones at my companion and me. We are now in your debt. I am here to repay it.’

‘Oh,’ Kitty replied, not quite sure what else to say.

The man went on. ‘My name is Wong Fu.’ He rested a hand on the girl’s head. ‘This is my daughter, Wong Bao. I am told by a mutual friend that you require patrons for your business.’

Kitty opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

‘So I will purchase one dozen of those long bread loaves, and…’ Wong Fu bent to his daughter’s level and said something to her in his own language, to which she replied in kind. ‘…And half a dozen of the little round confectioneries, thank you. What is it you call them?’

‘These? These are
macarons
.’ Kitty hoped the child wasn’t going to eat them all—she’d be ill. She selected what Mr Wong had requested, set them carefully in the basket his daughter placed on the counter, then added up the cost.

He handed over the money, and bowed. ‘I am pleased to shop here, Mrs Farrell. Be assured that my people will also, if it is convenient for you.’ He smiled faintly. ‘It seems that it is often
not
convenient for other shopkeepers on these diggings.’

Silently thanking Flora, Kitty replied, ‘You are always welcome here, Mr Wong. And we are grateful for your patronage.’

Mr Wong bowed again, then whispered something to his daughter. Letting go of his hand, she moved down the counter nearer to Amber and, in English almost as good as her father’s, said, ‘Good morning. I am Wong Bao. I am thirteen years old and I have come to Hsin Chin Shan to help my father find plenty of gold. What is your name?’

Delighted, Amber grinned. ‘It’s Amber. This is my mother, and this is my friend Pierre. And I’m here to help
my
father find plenty of gold. What does
sin
…
shin…
what you said, what does that mean?’

‘In Cantonese it means New Gold Mountain.’

Bao’s father said then, ‘Come, daughter, it is time to go. You may talk to Miss Farrell next time.’

As they departed, Bao looked over her shoulder and, with a cheeky smile, gave Amber a little wave.

‘You might have found a friend there, sweetheart,’ Kitty remarked.

Eyes sparkling, Amber replied, ‘Oh, that would be nice, wouldn’t it?’

‘And you’re sure that
will
be good for business?’ Rian asked dubiously.

Kitty moved the oil lamp closer, and smoothed fabric over her knee to better see the hole—yet another—that Rian had torn in his trousers. ‘I can’t see why not. And there are quite a lot of Chinese on the diggings.’

‘I know, love, but if half the population of Ballarat has stopped buying their bread from your bakery because Lily bloody Pearce has decreed the buns are off because an Aborigine girl works there, are they likely to start again if the place is patronised by Chinese? You know how they’re viewed.’

‘Well, I don’t care what other people think—I’m happy to serve them in my shop. I’ll take anyone, so long as they don’t cause trouble. Except for Lily Pearce.’

Rian stretched his legs towards the fire, his socks flopping off his feet. ‘What is
wrong
with that woman? She seems to have really taken against you. Do you know why?’

Kitty hesitated. ‘Well, I suspect she’d like to make you one of her, ah, conquests.’

Rian snorted disparagingly. ‘I wouldn’t sleep with Lily Pearce if she were the last woman on Earth. And I certainly wouldn’t
pay
her!’

‘But she is attractive.’ Kitty couldn’t help pushing Rian a little, if only to give him the opportunity to deny the appeal of another woman
and compliment the allure of his own wife. And, she reluctantly had to admit, to reassure herself.

‘Well, to some, perhaps, but not to me. Anyway, she’s probably riddled with pox.’ He left a long, long pause, then grinned and said, ‘And she’s
nothing
compared with you,
mo ghrá
. Nothing at all…Is that what you wanted to hear?’

Kitty went red. ‘No, it was not.’

‘Yes, it was!’ Rian was laughing now.

‘No, it wasn’t!’ Kitty snapped, thinking she was far too old for this sort of thing.

She was saved from further discomfort by Amber appearing at door and announcing that supper was ready.

Walking arm-in-arm with Rian to the crew’s tents, Kitty noticed that, now that the end of October was approaching, the diggings suddenly, and unexpectedly, seemed a little less harsh and unforgiving. The breeze on her face was no longer laced with the icy touch of winter, and the colour green was creeping back into the landscape. She had been so busy with the bakery she had barely noticed the quiet approach of spring.

No one said anything as they dug into Pierre’s lamb stew with dumplings, savouring the usual high quality of his cooking. These days he prepared enormous amounts of food: he was feeding thirteen people, and sometimes Patrick and his wife, Maureen, as well as occasionally Binda and her own two grandchildren. There were seldom leftovers.

Mick set his tin plate on the ground, leaned back on his elbows and burped gently. ‘Would anyone be thinking of going to the moonlight dance?’

Nods from the crew, but Kitty was mystified. ‘What dance?’

‘At the Adelphi Theatre, Saturday night,’ Mick replied. ‘Have you not seen the bills posted everywhere?’

Kitty hadn’t. ‘And it’s a public affair? For diggers?’

‘If it wasn’t, it would be at the assembly rooms, wouldn’t it?’ Simon said, referring to the frequent balls held by Ballarat’s government officials for themselves, military officers and the town’s swells.

‘Can I go?’ Amber asked eagerly. She’d been to the circus once so far, but a dance would be even better.

‘Certainly not. Not by yourself,’ Kitty shot back.

‘Well, why don’t we all go?’ Rian suggested. ‘It’ll do us good.’

Mick sat up. ‘Think of all the colleens!’

Don’t get your hopes up, Kitty thought; Flora had already told her there were only about 200 single women on the diggings. But that wouldn’t deter Mick, and he’d probably visited one of the brothels already. If he had, she hoped it had been Flora’s establishment and not Lily Pearce’s.

But, she wondered, what do you wear to a dance in a tent in the middle of a goldfield?

Anything, apparently. The men all seemed to sport trimmed whiskers and slicked-down hair, and were dressed in ensembles ranging from the simple addition of a waistcoat over clean work clothes, to pressed serge or canvas trousers, jackets and smart hats. The women had also gone to some effort to look their best, wearing a great array of bonnets featuring lace, ribbons and artificial flowers, and even a few fancy straw hats. Practical day dresses had been replaced by ‘best’ gowns, and drab capes with light shawls in paisley, tartan and good wool.