The Horse Who Bit a Bushranger (14 page)

The night before the ball Mama plaited Mattie Jane’s hair in rags, and Sarah Quince’s too. Sarah was Mattie Jane’s best friend…except for Rebel Yell, she thought, a little guiltily, thinking of the big horse in his paddock. No one came near him these days, except for her—not the horse who’d killed his master.

It was good to have a best friend you could whisper to after the lights were out. Sarah was nearly three years younger than she was, but she was as close as any sister. Mama paid her to help at the balls now that Martha was married: not the hard work, like scrubbing—there was money now to pay Mrs Hatchett to do that—but the cooking and the polishing, laying the table and arranging the flowers.

The ball would be the biggest one the Horse and Jockey Inn had ever held. It would be the last one too. Mama had been right. The inn and the balls and races had brought in money enough for all the girls,
in land or deposits in the bank. Money for a house for William, and for Elijah too, when he decided to get married.

She couldn’t sleep—not with the bundles of rags poking at her scalp, not with wondering who might come tomorrow. Some gentleman on a big black horse maybe—black as Conservative was white—who’d fall in love with her, just like in those books of Mama’s.

Mattie Jane smiled, and snuggled down under the goose feather quilt. It was good to dream of handsome men when you were fifteen.

The smile faded. It was just a dream, of course. The consumption was still there. She’d had to spend all last winter in bed, and most of spring too. She’d grown stronger in the warm weather, but one day, she knew, the consumption would win.

A handsome man might dance with her, flirt with her, send her love letters maybe. But when the frosts froze the horse apples and icicles dangled from the fences she knew she’d grow sick again. And this time, she might not see the spring.

She coughed a little as the feather dust tickled her throat, then carefully wiped her mouth on her handkerchief, in case blood spilt on the pillow. Another stain on the handkerchief wouldn’t matter, but you had to soak a pillow straight away in cold water to get blood out. There would be enough work tomorrow without that.

Through the open window she could see the moon, a yellow cheese above the horse paddocks. You had to hold a ball at the full moon, so those who weren’t staying the night could see their way back home.

Something moved in the moonlight; something large and pale. Mattie Jane frowned. It was Rebel Yell.

She had been able to ride him a few times this summer. But it wasn’t enough, not for a big horse like Rebel Yell. He needed a master. Someone to ride him hard and fast, mustering cattle or chasing brumbies. Someone with strength to match his own. The big horse was her friend. She loved him. But when you loved someone—a person or a horse—sometimes you knew they would be happier without you. Love hurt, sometimes.

Rebel Yell was a prisoner in his paddock, for no one except Mattie Jane would ride a horse that might have killed a man. No one would bring their mares to be covered by a killer.

Mattie Jane knew Rebel Yell was no killer. He might bite, if not approached the right way, quietly and with an apple. He’d kick out too. But when you rode him he went straight and true, with no mean tricks like brushing you against a tree trunk or diving under low branches to force you off.

Papa’s death had to have been an accident. Or maybe Richard—

She shut her mind to that. The whole family shut their minds to that. Whatever Richard had done—or not done—was never spoken of, just as no one ever spoke of Rebel Yell.

Richard had gone off droving before the inquest into Papa’s death. It was better, Mama said, that he not be there to answer questions. Mattie suspected Mama was afraid Richard might lose his temper, if the police or magistrate questioned him too hard.

Richard came back once or twice each year; worked
a few months with William or Elijah, then was gone again. Mattie could never work out if it was worse if he was guilty, and not in gaol, or if he was innocent, and living all his life with the suspicion.

At least Richard is free, she thought. Not like Rebel Yell.

She’d bring him extra apples in the morning, before the guests arrived. Sarah could come with her. Maybe if Sarah became Rebel Yell’s friend too then she could ride him when…

When she was gone, and Rebel Yell would have no one else at all.

Faintly she could hear the sound of tearing grass. It was comforting. Make the most of every second, Mattie told herself. When you didn’t know how many seconds you had left every one was precious.

She’d enjoy the ball, watching the dancing, watching the ladies in their bright new gowns, just like she enjoyed the sound of her friend munching in the darkness…

Mattie Jane slept.

Next morning everything was underway before cockcrow: the jellies setting on the steps in the cold morning air; the puddings boiling in the pots on the stove; Elijah carrying in armful after armful of wood; pies cooling on the kitchen table; six big turkeys, stuffed, ready to roast; and a baron of beef already turning on the rod in the hearth, a few coals under it to make sure it didn’t cook too fast and toughen.

Sarah’s job was to swat the flies before they could land and leave crawlies for the visitors to find. Mattie
Jane would have liked to swat the flies as well, but darting about made her cough.

Instead she scattered candle shavings on the ballroom floor, and watched while William dragged a bag of sand over and over them, till the floor was smooth as a mirror for the dancing.

William rolled barrels of beer in from the dairy—Mama’s own brewing, as good as any beer around. There was a hogshead of wine too, and a fruit punch for the ladies, made with cold tea and juice from their own apples and lemons, and—luxury of luxuries—a pineapple, all the way from Queensland, ordered specially from Sydney, and chopped up small.

The musicians arrived at midday—two fiddlers, and Mama would play the piano too.

It was time to undo the rags, and brush her hair into ringlets. She and Sarah dressed together, so they could do up each other’s buttons behind. Mattie Jane had a new dress, pale blue with lace. She wished she was old enough to wear a hooped petticoat, to put her hair up, and have a dress that showed her arms and shoulders.

Mama said she could when she was sixteen. People would talk if she put up her hair too early, and there had been too much gossip already about Markdale.

But there was a long winter to live through before she’d be sixteen.

By half past four the guests were sitting down to dinner. Ladies’ wide skirts took up so much room with their petticoats and ruffles that there had to be six tables for the forty-two guests. The family and
Sarah served, with aprons over their good clothes. William Junior sliced the meats, and the girls brought in platters of vegetables, then pie after pie, and the plum pudding, refilling glasses with punch or wine or beer in between courses.

Forty-two people, at ten pounds a head. Four hundred and twenty pounds, minus fifty to pay for the food and drink brought in, and ten pounds for the fiddlers.

By seven everyone was dancing. Mama’s ball dress was older than Mattie Jane. But Mama sewed on new lace, changed the sleeves and put a wide petticoat under the skirts, so it looked almost new.

Mattie wore her blue silk, and Sarah wore yellow, with matching ribbons in their hair. Of course the silk dresses were covered with white aprons, for even when the ladies and gentlemen were dancing, with other men standing against the wall and the older women on chairs, they needed drinks to cool them down. The candles and the fire looked festive, but they made the room so hot…

Mattie tried not to cough as she edged toward the door, hoping to open it to let in some fresh air.

Suddenly the door was flung open from outside. A man stood there, a young man, in a brown coat and hat, not evening dress. He held a pistol in each hand; there was a third one in his belt. Bushranger!

A lady shrieked, and dropped her fan. The bushranger stepped forward and to one side so his back was to the wall, limping a little, holding his pistols high and steady.

‘Stand and deliver,’ he said, smiling as though it was all a joke, as though they should know exactly
why he was here, without him having to say the words.

Another woman screamed, over and over, till someone shook her, hissing at her to be quiet.

‘A damn—
dashed
bushranger.’ It was Colonel Foukes from over Goulburn way. He was flushed from drinking wine, and even more from anger, but he stopped moving when the bushranger pointed the pistols at him.

The bushranger still smiled. It was a strange smile. There was anger, and sadness too. ‘If anybody moves again I’ll shoot.’

Mattie knew him from the sketches in the newspapers William brought back from town. It was Ben Hall. She wondered where his gang was. Outside perhaps.

Suddenly she remembered she should be scared.

He had the clearest eyes she’d ever seen. He was about Papa’s height. He looked around the crowd with that sharp smile. Then he caught her staring.

She smiled at him—she couldn’t help it. He smiled back, a different smile now, one that made his face look like it had been lit up by a lantern. His eyes looked warm now. She felt herself flushing in their heat.

Beside her Sarah whispered, ‘Oh my. He’s the handsomest man in the world.’

No, thought Mattie Jane. He just makes the other men look like they don’t matter. That’s why you think he’s handsome.

He wasn’t looking at Mattie now, she realised with a pang. The brief interest had vanished. He pointed to the middle of the dance floor. ‘Watches. Jewellery.
Any weapons.’ His words were sharp and clear. ‘Throw them down there. You too, sir. Don’t tell me you don’t have a watch in your pocket. Now stand back against the far wall. All of you.’

The crowd moved as though they were a millipede with one head and lots of legs. Suddenly there were only three of them: Ben Hall near the doorway, Mama still at the piano, and Mattie Jane, standing alone on the dance floor.

Sarah darted over. She tugged Mattie’s hand. ‘Come on,’ she hissed. ‘He’ll shoot you.’

Would he? Mattie Jane had stared death in the face many times. She didn’t feel like it was in the room with her now. But Sarah was anxious, and she was her friend. She let her lead her over to the wall. Sarah clasped her arm, as though to make sure Mattie Jane didn’t move again.

Now only the bushranger and Mama were left.

Mama stood up from her seat at the piano. She looked more alive than Mattie had ever seen her, her dark eyes bright.

‘Mr Hall, I believe?’ She stepped gracefully across the polished floor, still shiny with its beeswax and the slide of dancing slippers, so the candlelight flickered on its sheen. One hand in its clean white glove held up her skirts. She held the other out to the bushranger. ‘How kind of you to join our dance, Mr Hall.’

The bushranger stared at Annie, his pistols unwavering in his hands. His eyes flickered around the room, to make sure no one was moving, then gazed back at Mama. ‘Madam, I’m not here to—’

‘Not here to spoil a party? I’ve heard you never spoil a party, Mr Hall.’ Mama smiled up at him. She looked at him the way Mattie remembered her looking at Papa sometimes, as though telling him things that couldn’t be said aloud. ‘So join us. Enjoy yourself for a night. It’s a sad thing to spoil a party.’

His voice hardened. ‘It’s a sad thing to be hauled off to the gallows.’

All at once Mama’s smile was gone. She met his eyes again. ‘Trust me, Mr Hall. No one here is armed. Drink and firearms do not mix—or rather, mix too well. You have nothing to fear from anyone here tonight. You have my word.’

‘And what is your word worth, madam?’

‘I have only broken one promise in my life, Mr Hall, and that I regret most bitterly. I won’t break this one to you.’

Mattie tried to read the bushranger’s expression. He looked around the room, the pistols still held high. Mama laid her hand on his wrist. Her glove looked very white against his grubby jacket. ‘You have your pistols to keep you safe. Let my guests take their trinkets back. Choose a partner, Mr Hall.’ There was a hint of command in Mama’s voice now, like when she told Elijah that they needed more wood for the kitchen stove. ‘I am about to play a polka. Do you dance the polka?’

‘Yes. I know it.’ It was as though the anger and the strain had been wiped off his face with a wet cloth, like Martha had wiped Mattie’s when she was sick. Suddenly he grinned. He thrust his pistols into his sash. He beckoned toward the crowd.

Mattie stared. He couldn’t be…

Sarah nudged her. ‘He’s looking at you!’ Her voice was envious, but happy for Mattie too. Sarah’s the best friend in the world, thought Mattie vaguely, even as she stepped forward onto the dance floor, empty except for the small pile of jewels and watches.

‘Hold your hand out, so he can take it!’ hissed Sarah.

The bushranger heard. He grinned again. Mattie blushed, and held out her hand. Out of all the grand women in the room, he’d chosen to dance with her.

‘Your apron!’ Sarah ran up behind her and untied the white apron strings at her back. ‘You can’t dance in an apron!’

She was in a dream, a fever dream, but those were frightening, and this was the most wonderful thing in the world. The candlelight, the shining floor, all blurred together in one great burst of happiness and light.

Vaguely she heard Mama playing the piano again, and the fiddlers beginning the tune. One of the guests bent to pick up his watch. The others followed, grabbing their jewellery then self-consciously starting to dance again, glancing at the bushranger and Mama. Then Mattie and the bushranger were dancing too, round and round and round. Her feet slid across the polished floor. His boots might have been dancing slippers, he moved so lightly. The room was spinning, the watching faces, the music and his eyes, those clear eyes looking down. She danced and danced. His limp didn’t matter. And she never coughed at all.

And then the music stopped. She made herself breathe shallowly, so she didn’t cough. If she coughed she’d break the dream.