Lily's Leap (9 page)

“Witch!” he muttered into the air and closed his eyes again.

Chapter 5

“Lily, I don’t care what you think. This is what is going to happen.” Troubled by a feeling of impending doom, Tom’s tone left no room for misinterpretation. “Will and Bonnie will stay here with Pete and the horses. Jem and I will escort you to St Albans.”

The situation was ridiculous. This time she would have to do as she was told; besides he needed her there in exchange for the ransom money. He didn’t want the other horses or his men anywhere near Dungarven. There was always the possibility that they might have the constabulary in tow, but he doubted it. Men of Dungarven’s ilk wouldn’t want the magistrate or the constabulary involved; they’d rather fight their own battles and not run the risk of having their property confiscated for unpaid bills and outstanding debts. And if Lily was right, there were plenty of those.

“But Tom I–”

“No, Lily. That is what is happening. Now saddle up we’re leaving. I want to be there before dark.”

“I’m taking Nero.”

Tom licked the beaded sweat from his upper lip. Oppressed by the afternoon heat and the tension, he just wanted the whole thing over and done with as soon as possible. If everything went according to plan, they’d hand over the money and Lily would be out of his life. As much as he would love to keep the stallion, Nero was far too recognizable and he’d never be able to ride him. His stomach sank, he’d never be able to look at the stallion without seeing Lily, her hair flying behind her, a purple vine tangled in it, as she galloped through the bush. He shook his head and exhaled noisily trying to still the churning in his stomach.

“Yes, take Nero, that’s fine.”

“What about Bonnie?”

“For God’s sake!” He’d be well shot of her if she continued to carry on this way. “I told you, Bonnie stays here with Will and Pete. When your father hands over the money he gets you back and Bonnie will be brought to The Settler’s Arms. That way we’ve still got a bit of muscle if anything goes wrong.” He swung up onto his horse noticing immediately the comparison between Pete’s old nag and the gray remount that he’d become accustomed to.

“Are you ready?” He drummed his feet in the stirrups as Bonnie handed Lily her heavy black cape and gave her the kind of hug he would have preferred to deliver.

“Let’s go.”

****

The moon was rising by the time the lights of The Settler’s Arms appeared through the trees. They had managed to cover the entire distance on the tracks running parallel to Mogo Creek and they’d seen no one.

Reining the horses in under the cover of the white cedars backing the inn, Tom looked around his mind filled with thoughts of hold-ups and shootouts. “Jem. Stay here with Lily until you hear my whistle. I’m going to check everything is clear and have a word with Molly.” He wheeled his horse around.

“But I–”

He turned back, looking over his shoulder and tossed a deliberate look of reproach at her. “For once, Lily, do what you’re told and stop interfering. Jem will keep you company.” There was no time for her constant questions and arguments. Entanglements made a man vulnerable. It was a luxury he couldn’t afford. He needed his wits about him and his concentration razor sharp.

Leaving the stand of massive white cedars which marked the boundary of the cleared land, he flexed his muscles hoping to relieve the tension that lay curled like a snake in his stomach. He strode purposefully toward the bright light of the inn. Through the canopy of leaves the stars of the Southern Cross pinpointed his progress and he heard the hoot of a mopoke owl. Distant hooves beat a galloping tattoo on the hard packed dirt of the road in front of the inn and then the drumming slowed as yet another visitor pulled up.

He tethered his horse at the back door and dismounted. Ducking his head beneath the lintel he made his way through the narrow passage into the poorly lit taproom and up to the timber bar.

Molly McDonald looked up, and then put down her drying cloth. She leaned suggestively across the bar raising her eyebrows and grinning. “Hello stranger.”

Tom smiled at the buxom woman. “It’s good to see you, Molly.”

“What can I get you?”

“A brandy if you have one.” He leaned against the bar. “I’ll be using my room tonight if that’s alright.”

“It’s your room, you pay the rent. I just keep it locked, just as you asked.”

His heart rate kicked up a notch as he looked around. “It’s pretty busy tonight. Anyone I should be worried about?” He scoured the room in the half-light searching for Dungarven, George or anyone who looked remotely connected to him.

“No. The usual crowd and a coach is in though I can’t understand why they’d bother to come this way. The steamer’s much quicker now you can get through to Morpeth.”

Tom drummed his fingers on the bar as he continued to search the crowd. Molly was worth her weight in gold and as an ex-convict she hated the authorities with a passion that rivaled his own. Like most of the locals she was more than willing to help out whenever she could, anything that rectified the biased justice system. He leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low whisper. “I’ll have a visitor tonight, staying with me.”

“There’s room in the stables, I’m down to one yard boy. You’d probably like some peace and quiet.”

Tom lent across the bar and spoke softly. “No Molly. A visitor. A guest.” He emphasized the final word and Molly’s eyes widened.

“Oh.” She drew out the comment until it was almost a whistle. “A lady friend.”

Tom nodded as Molly placed her finger against her bulbous nose and tapped it. “Fine by me. Been telling you for a long time that’s what you needed.” She pulled the bottle of brandy back down from the shelf and handed it to Tom. “You’ll be wanting that too then.” He dropped the half-full bottle into his coat pocket as she winked, and the wrinkles in her skin contracted like worn leather. “Have you eaten? I can send something up to the room.”

“That’d be good Molly. Whatever you have. I’ll be back in a few minutes and pick it up. Is it alright if we use the back stairs?”

“You know the way. Help yourself.”

Tom left the way he had come, constantly scanning the crowd until he ducked back through the door into the night. Jem answered his long, low whistled immediately and within a matter of moments he and Lily appeared through the darkness.

“Lily, come with me.” He reached up to help her dismount but she was too fast for him. Exasperated, he grabbed her hand and pulled her firmly to his side. “Jem, I’ll leave the horses with you. There’s room in the stable if you want a bed.”

“Nah, I’m fine. I’ll take the horses with me. We’ll be in earshot.” He jerked his head in the direction of the stand of cedar trees. “Just whistle if you need me.”

With his palm resting against the small of Lily’s rigid back he guided her through the door and up the irregular wooden stairs.

“Tom I–”

“Ssh! Wait until we get to my room.” He leaned closer trying to ignore the familiar waft of the warm perfume from her body.

“Your –”

“Ssh!” His hand fumbled deep in the pocket of his breeches for the worn key and he pulled it out and inserted it into the lock. The door groaned as he pushed his shoulder against it and then he stood back allowing Lily to enter the room. With his palm still in the small of her back, he nudged her in the direction of the bed and placed the bottle of brandy on a small table. She moved to the bed, turned and sat facing him. His gaze raked her lovely body outlined in the shadowy moonlight and he forced down the mixture of admiration and sympathy threatening to distract him. He didn’t want to feel anything for Lilibeth Dungarven. She was, at this moment as she had so rightly put it, a cash cow. He turned on his heel with almost military precision and left.

****

The door shut behind him with a groan and Lily heard the key rattle in the lock.

“No!” She struggled to her feet but the uneven mattress hampered her movements. By the time she reached the door it was firmly locked. She pounded her hands against the timber in frustrated fury until her palms were red and stinging. Finally she gave up and kicked the unyielding door in blind rage.

She crossed the room to the single sash-cord window. Breathing heavily against the dirty glass she rubbed the pane with her hand and tried to clear the accumulated dirt and dust but her efforts were futile. With trembling lips, she bit back her tears and peered out into the shadows, craning from left to right in an attempt to get her bearings. Crashing her foot against the sandstone wall, she turned and raked her fingers through her hair blinking as she became accustomed to the half-light and the details of the room slowly came into focus.

The big bed sat flush against one wall with a large cedar chest at its foot. A table served as a desk and piles of leather bound books and ledgers of different shapes and sizes covered every surface. Papers and documents spilled across the tabletop and polished timber boxes of various sizes balanced as makeshift bookends and additional surface space. Rolls and rolls of paper and notebooks sat propped and stacked in confused abandon in every corner.

A sagging bookshelf ran along one wall, each shelf littered with artifacts and
objects d’art
the like of which she had never seen. She picked out what looked like a charred aboriginal boomerang, a spear which on closer inspection proved to be the seed head of an enormous dried flower head and then she stretched out her hand and reached for a massive egg, blown and polished and covered in tiny ochre-colored dots. She dislodged it from its resting place and it rolled almost falling to the ground before she caught it at the edge of the shelf. Turning it carefully in her two hands she held it up to her nose, it smelled faintly of dust and something oily. A coiled lyrebird feather curled across a piece of flimsy layered bark colored with more strangely organized daubs of paint.

Putting the egg carefully back in place she moved to the cedar trunk at the end of the bed. Balanced on top of it were two smaller finely polished boxes. The corners were protected by beaten brass. A small metal key rested in the lock. She turned it cautiously and the lock opened smoothly. Nestled inside the faded red satin was a large timepiece. Frowning she picked it up and studied it. It was unlike anything she had ever seen. She carried it carefully to the window and turned it in the half-light. The faded letters on the face gave her the clue and she realized with a start that it was a compass. She rotated it slowly, her fingers tracing the scratched brass casing as she watched the needle swing from point to point.

With the compass cradled comfortably in her hand she moved restlessly around the room examining the maps and documents on the table and finally picked up one of the rolled-up cylinders of paper. She unfurled it carefully and laid it on top of the crumpled and faded patchwork quilt covering the bed. Using the compass as a paperweight she stretched it out and stared down at a hand drawn map. It showed details and accuracy far more involved than those in her father’s library. Small illustrations of fish illuminated the lines of the river, a detailed drawing of a leaf and seed pods and distinct rocky outcrops marked specific sites. She peered at the signature marked the bottom right hand corner then stepped back and looked around the room in bewilderment.

A larger box with a leather strap stood in the corner of the room. Struggling to balance its unexpected weight she eased open the brass clasp. Nestled inside she found a small telescope, tripod and what looked like a pendulum. She closed the box carefully and gasped as she dislodged a large worn leather pouch. The weight of it surprised her and she lifted it carefully. A length of chain with polished brass handles tumbled into her hand. She paused trying to make sense of the collection of instruments and tools. It was a strange hoard for convict bushranger.

Her mind raced as she struggled with the significance of the notebooks, maps and instruments. Were they bounty stolen on the road in some hold up? She picked up the compass from the bed flinching as the map rolled back up with a sudden snap breaking the silence of the room. Turning it in her hand she traced her fingers over the engraving on the back
Thomas Roscomon 1835, London.
The name didn’t ring a bell at first and then she realized Tom could well be the diminutive for Thomas.

She blinked slowly. This man, Captain Tom, the bushranger was no lightweight and unlikely to be a convicted felon unless he had stolen the hoard he kept locked in this treasure trove room. What had he said? He was here courtesy of Her Majesty’s Government. Surely the knowledge and skills to create maps such as these were wasted on the road. The instruments marked him as a surveyor or explorer, and surveyors were in short supply. He would have a lot to offer the colony and the government. What was he doing hiding out in this backwater? She’d dismissed him as an adventurer and an absconder, albeit a very attractive one, now it seemed he was nothing of the kind and she wasn’t sure she understood him at all, or the secrets he kept hidden.