Daring Masquerade (2 page)

"What!" His head snapped back.
Oh God, was she hurt bad?

"Bashed her and threw her in the cellar," she repeated to make sure he understood.

"Hell. What cellar?"

"Under the kitchen. Don't say I told you. I can't afford to lose my job."

"All right." Gil ran the fingers of his right hand through his hair to control his fury and swallowed down on a mouthful of swear words.

"Littlejohns are having a garden party out the back. Go down the side here. Give me a couple of minutes to get to the kitchen."

"All right. Thanks. We owe you."

Rage built up as he waited. How dare they treat his sister in such a way? He should put the law on them. His head ached, his stump throbbed from the phantom limb pains he sometimes got, and he felt as weak as a starving kitten.

He gritted his teeth and forced his trembling legs to carry him up the sideway. Muted voices and high pitched female giggling floated towards him. He homed in on the short, dumpy man in a white sac coat who fitted Harry's description of Littlejohn.

"Mr. Littlejohn, I'm Private Gilbert Martin, I want to see my sister Harriet."

"How dare you barge into my garden!" But Sebastian Littlejohn must have noticed the neatly folded sleeve on the army tunic and his indignant tirade died on his lips.

"Have a seat, my boy," a distinguished middle-aged man said. "You don't look well."

"I'm not." Gil dashed a trembling hand across his damp forehead, hating himself for feeling so weak and pathetic. "I'm at the convalescent hospital in Cleveland Street." He slumped into a chair.

"My sister always comes to visit me and she hasn't turned up. One of the maids told me the housekeeper bashed her and locked her in the cellar."

Mr. Littlejohn protested haughtily. "How preposterous."

"Well, where is she?"

"Sylvia, get Mrs. White immediately," he ordered the maid who had just handed over a glass of lemonade.

"Your housekeeper has had it in for my sister ever since she arrived here, treats her like a slave."

He drained his glass and stood up as a middle-aged woman in a gray dress minced up to them.

"You wanted to see me, sir?"

"Yes, Mrs. White." Mr. Littlejohn edged away from his guests. "Where is this young man's sister Harriet?"

"I don't know, sir. She went out."

"Lying bitch." Gil ignored the shocked gasps from around him. "I heard you bashed her, before throwing her in the cellar."

"I did not."

"All right, let's go to the cellar." He towered over her, for once glad of his height.

"If you will excuse us." Mr. Littlejohn apologized to his guests. "It won't take a moment for me to sort out this unfortunate misunderstanding."

By the time they arrived at the kitchen, Mrs. White's face was blanched, her belligerence fast evaporating. Mr. Littlejohn lifted a ring of keys off a hook, plodded to the cellar door and unlocked it.

"Help me, please."

"Harry!" He shoved Littlejohn aside to get to his sister.

"Gil." She screamed his name, crawling up the steps.

"What is the meaning of this?" Mr. Littlejohn blustered.

Gil met Harry halfway down the cellar steps. He lifted her to her feet and she clung to him.

"I thought I'd die down there," she sobbed.

"Mrs. White, what on earth possessed you?"

Elsie dashed up with a glass of water. Nodding her thanks, Harry gulped it down.

"This little chit is always insolent and I lost my temper. I wouldn't have left her there long."

"I could have died down there you vicious old cow," Harry accused, her bravery fast returning.

"I have to maintain discipline, Mr. Littlejohn."

"This is not the way to discipline servants."

"You should get rid of this vicious slave-driver," Gil flared. "My sister wants her wages. She's not staying here a moment longer."

"I'd rather sleep in the street than stay another night here," Harry shrilled. "I'm going to report this to the police."

"No need for that," Mr. Littlejohn blustered. "I'll pay for your accommodation in a hotel for a few days, until your brother is discharged from hospital."

"A week." Harry stabbed her finger at him. "Then we'll be leaving Melbourne and never coming back."

"All right, a week, if you don't take this little misunderstanding any further?"

"No repercussions against Elsie," Gil put in. "If it wasn't for her letting me know, you could have murder on your hands."

Mr. Littlejohn's face blanched, his eyes bulged. "Of course, of course."

After accepting twenty pounds from him, Harry threw her few belongings into a bag and walked away without a backward glance.

"Now what?" Gil suddenly looked pale and drawn, and his hand trembled as he passed it across his perspiring forehead.

"I noticed a guest house near the hospital. I'll book in there for a couple of nights until we find out what's happening with you." She took command though her head throbbed, every bone in her body ached and she felt so disheveled she feared no respectable guesthouse would take her in.

She grinned. "I'll tell them someone assaulted me."

"My God, Harry." He laughed. "You'll need some excuse, you're a wreck. Do you really think she would have left you down there?"

"Probably a couple of days for sure. The woman's a sadist."

When they arrived at the hospital, Harry felt too scruffy to be seen. "I better not come in."

"Yeah, you look terrible."

"Thank you, brother dear. Remember, we are taking those jobs with Ross Calvert."

"No. It's too dangerous. We'd never get away with it."

"Why not, if I cut my hair and wear loose clothing? I'll pretend I'm your kid brother so no one will worry about my high pitched voice or lack of facial hair."

"What about sleeping arrangements, bathing, all that other woman's stuff? You could be sharing a hut with a dozen or more men. You could be raped."

"I'll stay close to you all the time. It's ideal." She bent down and caressed a red geranium hanging over the fence. "Good pay, accommodation provided. If I could maintain the charade for a couple of months we'd get two lots of wages. If the place is isolated, six months maybe."

"Why don't you get a newspaper and see what other jobs are going?"

"All right." She kissed his cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow about ten."

Biting her lip with worry, she watched him shuffle into the grounds of the hospital. Pale and drawn, trembling with exhaustion, would he ever be strong and well again? Not only had he lost his hand, but he was suffering shell shock as well.

Anxiety weighed her down, sapping her spirit as she trudged along the street to the guest house. Built from large square blocks of blue stone it had red glass panes on either side of the carved wooden door and a matching fanlight over the doorway.

Her knock was answered by an elderly woman with fluffy white hair.

"My name is Harriet Martin. Do you have a room? I'm sorry for looking such a mess, but I got pushed over in an alley by a man trying to snatch my handbag."

"How dreadful for you. Yes, I do have a room, come this way. You can sign the register after you've settled in. Do you think you might need to see a doctor, dear?"

"No thank you. I just need to rest up. It's the shock more than anything else." Giving a theatrical sigh she followed the woman down a carpeted passageway.

Harry bit back an exclamation of surprise on being ushered into a comfortably furnished bedroom. Through an open doorway she spotted a cold water tap attached to a wall over the bath tub.

"I'll have one of the maids bring you up some hot water, Miss Martin, and you can have a soak in the tub."

"Thank you." Hot water! What a luxury. Just what she needed to ease her aching bones and work on her plans for taking those jobs at Devil's Ridge. What would Ross Calvert be like?

Chapter Two

Ross Calvert scowled. It had been over a week since they placed the advertisement in the paper, and not one reply. Bloody war. How the hell was a man supposed to run a cattle station with practically no men?

"I can't understand it, Jack. I'm only asking for farmhands who are experienced riders, for God's sake."

"I gave the ad to the newspaper office like you said."

"I didn't mean to infer you didn't." Ross apologized to his uncle as they worked to replace rails on the holding yards.

"If I don't get a cook to replace Sandy, I'm sunk. The army wants horses and cattle. I've got scrub cattle and wild horses stripping my paddocks, breaking down my fences, and no one to round them up. What's a man supposed to do? Why the hell did Sandy have to enlist right now?"

Jack pointed down the track. "Two horsemen coming this way. Your luck might be changing."

"It would jolly well want to." Ross narrowed his eyes against the sunlight as he watched two horsemen ride up the steep, winding track. They both rode well, with the relaxed manner of experienced riders.

"Go and have a smoko break, Jack. I'll be with you in a while."

He strode towards the riders who sat their mounts waiting for him.

"You Ross Calvert?" enquired the taller one in a voice husky with dust or fatigue.

"Yes."

"We've come about the jobs. I'm Gilbert Martin and this is my kid brother, Harry."

The young man dismounted. He swept his hat off and a swathe of blonde hair flopped across his forehead. Dusty, sweat-stained clothes clung to his thin body and his pale face had a pinched sickliness.
I'll give them a drink before sending them off.
He wasn't desperate enough to employ a sick man. "I'm about to have a mug of tea, want one?"

"Thanks. Coming, Harry?"

The boy called Harry practically vaulted from his horse. He looked about thirteen, thin as a whippet and barely five feet tall.

"Hello, Mr. Calvert," he said in a high-pitched voice.

He had a head of wild red curls, and hazel, doe-like eyes that sent Ross’ pulse racing. He cursed under his breath. What the hell was wrong with him?

"I don't think you're quite what I want. I need men, not boys."

"Is it because of this?"

Gilbert Martin raised his left arm, and Ross stifled a gasp of shock on seeing a stump where his hand used to be.

"Hail the conquering hero," Gilbert said bitterly. "Let's get out of here, Harry."

"From the war?"

"Yes, Calvert. Gallipoli, as if anyone cares."

"Turkish bayonet." Ross fingered his ugly scar. "I need a cook as well as a stockman."

"You think my brother can't muster a few cattle, just because he's lost his hand?" Harry shot back. "He was a Light Horseman, and I can ride as well as any man."

"Shut up," Gilbert snapped.

"All right, this is my Uncle, Jack Calvert." Ross introduced them to the wiry middle-aged man, who stood near them. "He's in charge when I'm not around. Gilbert and Harry Martin."

"G'day, boys."

"Hello," the Martin's chorused.

Ross poured out mugs of tea, sweetened but without milk and handed them around.

"I need help mustering some scrub cattle for the army. Think you're up to it, Gilbert?"

"Call me Gil. Yeah, I'm up to it."

What small dainty hands Harry had, Ross shocked himself by thinking. God Almighty, his nerves must be in a worse state than he'd thought.

"You can bunk in over there." He pointed to a log hut. "There's only a few men here at the moment."

"We don't want to share with anyone else," Harry said.

Insolent little sod. "I'm not running a hotel, for God's sake."

"It isn't that."

What a strangely girlish voice Harry Martin had.

"Gil gets terrible nightmares, don't you?"

"Yeah, about the war. I yell and thresh around a bit. The weather's hot so we'll build ourselves a little lean-to. Harry's used to me by now."

"You'll be the cook, Harry."

"All right, boss." He dropped his chin, giving Ross the impression he had already drawn more attention to himself than he wanted to.

"There are two storerooms in the cookhouse. You can use them I suppose."

"Thanks, we're obliged," Gil said.

"There are eight men. They'll be in about six, have something ready for them, please."

* * *

The cookhouse turned out to be a long slab building with earthen floors. Ross disappeared and Jack showed them over it.

"Where's the boss sleep?" Harry asked.

"There's a hut up there behind the trees. He uses that. The old homestead is down in the valley a couple of miles from here. He planned to build a new house."

"New house?" Gil queried.

Harry realized this friendly garrulous man liked to gossip.

"He got engaged before he went to the war, came back scarred and she rejected him."

"How awful," Harry said. No wonder he's so bitter looking.

"Right bitch," Jack went on. "Broke Ross' heart. He worshipped the ground she walked on."

How terrible to be wounded in battle then scorned by the woman you loved. Such cruelty. Harry wished she could somehow ease his pain. An illogical thought, because she hardly knew the man.

Ross Calvert was several inches taller than her 5 feet 1 inch. He stood tall, tanned and hard as whipcord. His over-long black hair grew thick and wavy. A jagged red scar slashed his cheek in half, running from just under his eye, down his face and neck until it disappeared into the collar of his shirt. Gunmetal-gray eyes held a hard bitterness. He had suffered, and it showed. Even so badly scarred, he was still a handsome man, and her heart turned cartwheels. This charade was not going to be as easy or straightforward as she imagined. She thought Ross Calvert would be an old man, hopefully a half blind one. In her wildest fantasy she did not think he would be young, ruggedly handsome and virile looking. Dear God, what was she thinking of?

Jack left them to explore on their own. The kitchen had a large oven and numerous pots and pans, thankfully clean. But what on earth could she give them to eat?

Gil dumped their bedrolls in the storeroom which was divided from the kitchen by a partition of calico stretched over a sapling frame.