The Cedar Cutter (39 page)

Sentencing Carrick to Port Arthur or one of the other penal settlements wouldn't stop Dankworth taking Ruan, it would just make him more determined, make him think he could play with people's lives like wild cards in a poker game. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction. Surely Carrick understood.

Short of killing Dankworth, what else could Carrick do? She stopped, the breath snatched from her lungs. Did he mean to kill Dankworth? It was the only way she'd be free of him. How could he? He was locked in a cell. He wanted to see Slinger. What could Slinger do? They might live by the law of the cutter's justice in the forest, but that wouldn't stop the likes of Dankworth, it would only get Slinger into trouble. She had to go back and see the Winchesters, put the record straight. They couldn't imprison an innocent man. And she wouldn't allow Carrick to become a martyr. It was Dankworth who was guilty, not Carrick.

She slipped through the door and back into the night to find Jane lolling against the fence with Constable Brown, his legs astride her, his body pinning her. Laughing, Jane threw back her head, all the while keeping his wandering hands at bay. What now? They hadn't thought to plan their escape. Too hurried, too keen to see Carrick, and what good had that done? If she called out, would Jane be able to run away? Say her mistress was calling her. Roisin took a few more steps and turned, glancing back at Jane, still fending off the constable's advances.

A heavy arm wrapped around her, and a hand covered her face, stifling her scream. Her heart jumped into her mouth as she came to rest against the bulk of a body. She smelled cedar and rum, not sweat and tobacco.

Slinger!

He let his hand drop and motioned her to silence, then indicated she should wait. A splash of light from the inn ran across the road like a track.

Slinger stepped into it. ‘Get your bleedin' hands orf my woman,' he hollered, vaulting the fence in front of the courthouse.

Constable Brown stepped back and dropped his hands as though he had a gun trained on him. Slinger's low, indecipherable words made the constable back off, then he grabbed Jane by the arm, gave her a hefty clip around the ears and marched her up the street, the perfect picture of an outraged husband.

The constable adjusted his breeches and slouched back into the courthouse. Once he'd vanished from sight, Roisin bolted, cutting around the buildings and in through her back door. Without bothering to check the house, she climbed the ladder to Ruan's room. He lay in a patch of moonlight, sleeping with the possum tail clutched under his chin. Light-headed with relief, she eased her way back down the ladder.

Moments later Slinger and Jane fell through the door, their laughter filling the tiny house, dispelling the last remnants of her fear.

‘Did you see his face? It was a picture.'

‘My hero.' Jane dropped a curtsy to Slinger, who bowed in a most impressive fashion and lowered his long, brawny body into a chair. ‘Well? How did you get on?' Jane adjusted her blouse and rearranged her décolletage, oblivious to the disappointment on Slinger's face.

Now was not the time to tell Slinger what Carrick wanted him to do, especially as she'd no intention of following his instructions. She had a sneaking suspicion Slinger would want to carry out Carrick's words to the letter. Instead, she forced a smile.

‘I'm going to present the evidence to Mr and Mrs Winchester tomorrow before Carrick comes up before the court.'

‘You are?'

‘Even after yesterday?'

She folded her arms and nodded at Jane and Slinger. If Carrick was determined to make some sort of a martyr of himself, she'd fight it with every fibre of her being. Doing what he wanted wouldn't solve anything. Dankworth wanted both Carrick and Ruan. He wouldn't get either.

The following morning Roisin dressed with care. Her emerald jacket was far too frivolous so she donned her slate-grey pelisse, squinting and turning in front of the glass. The colour did nothing for her, and besides, it sapped her courage. Today was a day for courage. She'd need every snippet she could muster. She tossed the grey aside and shrugged into her green jacket. If she failed … well … she couldn't contemplate it.

When she entered the kitchen she found Slinger lounging in front of the fire, a mug of tea in his hand and a broad smile on his face. Jane's cheeks glowed a pretty pink, enough to make Roisin envious. ‘There's fresh bread and some of my raspberry jam if you'd like it.'

Roisin shook her head. ‘No, nothing. Maybe tea.' She meant to be brave and she sounded like a shy, retiring pansy caught beneath the flagstones. Throwing back her shoulders she repeated, ‘Tea.' Then settled her skirts and sat at the table, her head held high. ‘A cup of tea, Jane, please, before I go.'

‘To the Winchesters,' Jane finished for her.

‘Yes, to the Winchesters. I can take Davy's dray again. He'll be going back to St Albans.'

‘You'll do no such thing.' Slinger leapt to his feet, dwarfing the small room. ‘Maisie's buggy is waiting outside all hitched up.'

‘Maisie?'

‘Yes, Maisie. I told her I needed a favour.'

‘But you're one of the cutters. She thinks you're a bunch of troublemakers and we're a couple of whores servicing you and the Paterson crew.'

‘Maisie blows a lot of hot air. I put her straight this morning. Now drink up and let's get this sorted.'

Whatever would Carrick say? Slinger was not doing what he wanted at all, although to be fair she hadn't seen fit to tell him what Carrick wanted.

‘And while we're gone, Jane will pack up your belongings and keep an eye on the boy. If we need to leave for Morpeth, we'll be ready as soon as we return.'

He'd got everything covered and without a word from Carrick. ‘Slinger I … I can do this on my own.'

‘You might think you can, but you're not going to. I'll be waiting outside. Carrick would have my guts if he thought I'd left you to do this alone.'

Carrick would have his guts when he discovered that he was aiding and abetting her to do the very thing he didn't want to happen. ‘But that's not what he wants.' She clapped her hand over her mouth.

‘Sometimes a man doesn't know what he wants. This is what he wants. At least it will be when it works, so make sure you do your best. Are you ready?'

She nodded and pulled on her gloves.

‘Have you got the stopper?' Jane asked.

She patted her reticule, all of a sudden unsure how something as simple as a stopper from a flask could solve any of their problems or prove a man's innocence.

As the buggy took off down the street, she snatched a glance over her shoulder. Elsie and Maisie stood out the front of the inn, flanked by Mr and Mrs Blackmore and a crowd of others. Even Billy Boy and Old Pella stood watching from the banks of the brook.

‘They're all wishing you well.' Slinger threw her a lopsided grin. ‘Can't have these Sydney folks running the show. This is Wollombi, we take care of our own.'

Not daring to speak, Roisin clamped her teeth firmly together and peered through a haze of tears. She could do this and she would.

It took an eternity to cover the few miles and when she caught sight of the magistrate's house, glaring down at her, all she wanted to do was turn and run.

Slinger's rough hand patted her arm. ‘You'll be right, love. And if you're not, sing out. I'll sort the buggers out. We'll spring Carrick and head for Sydney, or maybe even the goldfields. What do you reckon?' He winked and eased the buggy to a halt. ‘Right now Carrick doesn't know his own mind. Too buried in the past. Believe me, this is what he'd be doing if he could think straight.'

With his words to buoy her, Roisin marched up the path to the impressive front door and knocked. A wisp of a maid opened up.

‘I'm Mrs Ogilvie. I'd like to speak to Mr and Mrs Winchester.' The maid cocked a knowing eyebrow, smirked, then led her to the sitting room, where she'd spoken to Mrs Winchester so unsuccessfully only the day before.

Her courage deserted her as the sitting room door closed behind her. She paced the very same carpet as before, ringing her hands, pulling off her glove then replacing it, adjusting her hat and tucking a wayward curl out of sight. Out of the window in the fenced paddocks the cows grazed peacefully. There was nothing peaceful about her mood. Her thoughts tumbled and churned like a willy-willy.

‘Mrs Ogilvie. Roisin, what a delight. I was so hoping I'd have the opportunity to speak with you, thank you.' Roisin froze as Lady Alice crossed the room, both hands outstretched as though greeting a long-lost friend. Thank her. Thank her for what? For providing her with a son? For handing Ruan into her care? She swayed, the very thought of it draining the blood from her head.

‘Come and sit down. Goodness me, you're quite pale. Did you have a terrible journey? The road from Wollombi is a disgrace, all those holes. The jogging and the jiggling is enough to turn anyone's stomach.'

Lady Alice's words washed over her as she sank into the chair. She did feel a trifle disorientated. Was it any wonder her pulse raced and black spots danced in front of her eyes?

‘I must thank you.' Lady Alice clasped Roisin's hand in hers and peered into her eyes. ‘Thank you so much. You can't believe the difference you have made to my life.'

Made to her life. Difference. Of course, having a child, an heir, would make a difference, she supposed. Losing her son would make more than a difference. It would destroy her. She steeled herself to tell Lady Alice a son and heir would come to her only over her dead body. Oh, where was Mrs Winchester? Surely she could help, this was too, too difficult.

‘If it hadn't been for my corset, I'd never have had the courage. I am quite a different person.'

Roisin let the air escape slowly from her lips and sneaked a quick glimpse under her eyelashes at this new, animated Lady Alice, whose mind was as far from sons and heirs as imaginable. Or else she was a consummate actress, as devious and two-faced as her husband.