The Best of Sisters (22 page)

‘I don’t think so.’ Shaking his head, Bart vaguely remembered seeing him at the Provincial Hotel in Arrowtown. If this man was a member of the Buckingham family, then he must say something; make some appropriate remark. Out of practice at dealing with people, Bart cleared his throat. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir.’

‘You knew my sister?’

‘I met her once or twice in Arrowtown. I was going to marry Daisy, the maid what was drowned alongside Mrs Hayes and her baby.’

Buckingham paused, staring at Bart. ‘You’ve
been misinformed, sir. It was Mary Crowley who sadly passed away. Daisy is our parlour maid and I’m glad to say she’s alive and well and in the house as we speak.’

For the second time that day, Bart felt the world spin about his head as if he were about to faint, and he clutched the fence for support. ‘Daisy’s alive?’

‘Come with me.’ Placing his hand beneath Bart’s arm, Buckingham led him through the gate and up the path to the house where he rapped on the door.

It opened and Daisy stood in doorway holding a kerosene lamp. With her pale golden hair shining like a halo, she looked to Bart like an angel from heaven. For a moment she stared at him, wide-eyed and with her lips moving silently in shock.

Buckingham pushed Bart forward. ‘I think you know this fellow, Daisy.’

‘Bart!’ Daisy’s voice broke on a sob as he swept her up in his arms.

‘Well, it seems that good has come out of bad,’ Buckingham said, relieving Daisy of the lamp before it fell to the ground and was smashed. ‘I’ll hang up my own coat and hat then, shall I, Daisy?’

Bart and Daisy were married in Port Chalmers two days later, with Conrad Buckingham giving
the bride away and Betsey, the cook, and Jakes, the handyman, as witnesses. Conrad paid for the hire of a bullock cart to take them back to Arrowtown, insisting that it was his wedding present to the newly married couple. As soon as the brief ceremony ended, Bart and Daisy set off for home. If the journey was arduous and beset by flooded roads, wheels sinking in mud up to the axles and even a late snowstorm or two, Bart was oblivious of everything except the delight of having Daisy all to himself. Nights spent curled up with his bride on the hard boards of the cart, with rain beating a tattoo on the tarpaulin overhead, were as blissful to him as sleeping in a featherbed in the grandest hotel he could imagine. Daisy was everything that he remembered and even more: he was a man deeply in love and, for once in his life, Bart was totally happy. When they arrived in Arrowtown, they left the bullock cart to be rehired for the return trip to Port Chalmers, and set off on foot for the cabin.

The winter snows melted, sending icy water tumbling down the mountainsides and swelling the Arrow River into a foaming torrent, scouring the riverbed with dislodged rocks and gravel. As he climbed out of bed, Bart was careful not to disturb Daisy, but he could not resist dropping the lightest of kisses on her slightly parted lips
and on her swollen belly. He covered her tenderly with the eiderdown that he had purchased with the last of his money. Nothing was too good for Daisy; she must be cared for and cosseted during the months to come while their baby grew in her womb. Bart couldn’t help smiling at the thought of his son, or maybe it would be a girl, a perfect blend of Daisy and Eliza for him to love and cherish. It was cold in the cabin, the fire having died down to ashes in the night, and Bart dressed quickly, pulling on his boots and tying the laces. He would fetch water and then light the fire, so that the room was warm for Daisy when she awakened. He would have tea brewed so that she had something to ease the morning sickness that had been bothering her lately. As he plucked his jacket from the back of the chair, a folded sheet of paper fell to the floor. He retrieved it and put the letter he had written to Eliza on the table: it had taken days to compose. Daisy had helped him put his feelings into words and had corrected his poor spelling. In it he had told Eliza about their life, about the child they were expecting and how he was certain that his luck was about to change. Soon they would be rich and he would bring his wife and baby home to England. All would be well; he knew it in his bones.

Shrugging on his jacket, Bart picked up his hat and, jamming it on his head, he let himself
quietly out of the cabin. Half blinded by the brilliance of the early morning sunshine, he collected the wooden bucket that he used for toting water from the river and set off down the bank, slipping and sliding on the mud. The sound of the rushing torrent filled his ears and the spray sparkled in the sunlight, forming rainbows across the water.

The river was in full spate and, as Bart made his way to the edge, he paused for a moment, his breath taken away by the power and beauty of nature. Then, just as the rainbow pierced the surface of the water, Bart saw something gleaming on the riverbed. Blinking hard, he thought at first it was simply a trick of the light, a refraction of sunbeams on wet gravel. His heart seemed to miss a beat and then it began to race; he was not sure whether the pounding in his ears was the drumming of his own pulse or the roaring tumult of the river. Wading into the icy waters Bart felt the powerful surge of the current beating against his legs as it swept everything in its path; he knew what he was doing was dangerous but he was not going to give up this, his first real chance of riches. Moving in and out of his vision beneath the swirling mass of gravel and water was the largest gold nugget that he had ever seen. Plunging down beneath the torrent, Bart’s fingers clawed at the gold as he attempted to prise it from the mud that held it
fast. When his lungs were close to bursting, he came up for air, shaking the water from his hair and eyes. Then he dived down again digging frantically, oblivious of the pain from his cut fingers and torn nails. Coming up once again, he filled his lungs with air and then lunged with all his strength; the lump of gold, twice as big as his fist, came away in his hands just as a wall of water hit him in the back, knocking him off his feet. Bart kicked out, but his boots were full of water and his sodden clothes weighed him down. The river was hurling him from rock to rock, taking him up to the surface like a cork and then sucking him down into its green depths. Above him, Bart could see daylight and he clutched his gold to his chest. He could see Eliza and Daisy smiling down at him through the ripples. He had not let them down after all. He was a rich man.

As Eliza turned the key in the lock, she paused before opening the chandlery door and looked up at the name above the shop front. Illuminated by the first tentative rays of morning sunlight, the weathered gold letters seemed to wink at her, starting her day on a cheery note.
E. Bragg, Ship Chandler
. Once that title had belonged to Enoch, and the store had been a terrible place, but during the last six years she had made it her own. It had not been easy, and there had been many times when Eliza had felt like giving up; none more so than in the dark days after she had learned of Bart’s death. It had seemed to her then that cruel fate had robbed her of all those she loved most in the world. In the initial shock of bereavement, she had been tempted to hurl herself into the Thames, seeking relief from the swirling waters that would blot out grief and reunite her with Bart and her dad. But, in the depths of her despair, when even the love of her adopted family and Davy could not reach her, Eliza had discovered something in her deepest self: a core of stubbornness and the will to
survive. Bart would not have wanted her to give in; she would keep going for his sake and for the sake of his child.

With dogged determination, she had set about learning the trade of the ship chandler. In the beginning, she had made enemies, especially amongst the merchants and mill owners who had been Uncle Enoch’s church-going cronies. They had kicked up a fuss when Arnold had gone to collect their outstanding debts; they had bullied, threatened and cajoled but eventually, thanks to his lowering brow and iron fists, they had paid up. After that, Eliza had never allowed credit to anyone. She had tried to deal fairly with suppliers and customers alike and sometimes she had been swindled, cheated and defrauded, but it had all added to her learning and understanding of the business. She had become a familiar figure at auction sales, warehouses and trade exhibitions. She had learned how to cut a deal with men twice her age and she had done all this with Arnold at her side.

‘Morning, Miss Eliza.’

Eliza turned with a cheery wave to acknowledge Jiggins, the rope maker, on his way to work near Limehouse Dock. This early in the morning, the docks and the river had a freshly washed look about them. The people of the night had gone to ground, and the air was cool and untainted by the stench that would gradually
rise above the city in the heat of the day. Letting herself into the shop, Eliza took off her bonnet and shawl and laid them neatly on a shelf behind the counter. She peered into the mirror tucked in between a stack of ledgers and she patted her hair into place, tucking in a few wayward strands that refused to be confined in the chignon at the back of her head. She adjusted the high neck of her grey dress, touching the mourning brooch that contained a lock of her mother’s hair, a habit that she had almost unconsciously adopted. The brooch was her link to the past, to the people whom she had loved and lost; the simple act of touching it seemed to bring her closer to them.

Satisfied that she looked neat, tidy and businesslike, Eliza set about inspecting the shelves and making sure that they were fully stocked before Arnold and Millie arrived. She had deliveries for Arnold to do that morning with the help of Millie, who was now sixteen, and an able assistant, keen to learn the chandlery trade. Ted still worked in the sail loft, although he seemed to Eliza to have aged suddenly and he left a great deal of the work to Davy, who was now a fully qualified sailmaker in his own right. He had chosen to stay on and work with Ted rather than seek employment elsewhere. Although she did not want to admit it, Eliza knew in her heart that Davy’s apparent lack of
ambition was down to her. They had been close friends for as long as she could remember, and that was the trouble; Davy might have other ideas but she had always thought about him as a brother and even more so since Bart’s tragic death. It had taken five months for the letter to reach her. At first she had been overjoyed to receive a letter from him, informing her of his marriage to Daisy and the child that they were expecting. It was a letter full of love and hope, but the tear-stained postscript had been written by Daisy after Bart’s body had been dragged from the river. She related how his battered body had been found a couple of miles downstream, entangled in a mass of weed. Even in death, he had appeared to be smiling as he clutched the large gold nugget in his stiff fingers. Daisy had ended the letter abruptly at that point.

Eliza had written back immediately, begging Daisy to come to London as soon as she was able, but she had never received a reply to her letter; she did not even know if Daisy had been safely delivered of her child. All she could do was hope that somewhere, on the far side of the world, Bart’s son or daughter was now a thriving, happy five-year-old. This made her even more determined to make a success of the business so that she would have something worthwhile to leave to Bart’s child. Eliza had decided long ago that she would never marry, and therefore
would never have children of her own. With Freddie gone, she had no interest in the young men who had tried to find favour with her. She knew that she would never, could never, love anyone as she loved Freddie. The worst of it was that she did not even know if he was alive or dead: many convicts did not survive the long voyage out to Australia and who knew what privations he might have suffered if he had ever reached the penal colony. If he had survived, then he had probably forgotten all about her; she had been little more than a child when he was sentenced, and he could have had no idea what passions had burned in her young heart. If still alive, he would be a man in his prime and might even have taken a wife. Eliza had long since given up hope of ever seeing Freddie again, but that had not prevented him from haunting her dreams. She was now considered to be a young woman of property; there had been would-be suitors, both young and old, but she had dismissed them without a second thought.

Opening the order book, Eliza sighed, not knowing quite what had brought about this melancholy host of memories and ghosts from the past. She must write up the delivery notes that she would pass on to Millie, who in turn would supervise Arnold loading up the wagon with the goods. Although he could neither read nor write, he had the ability to memorise the
contents of each crate, sack and barrel, but Millie would accompany him on his rounds, checking off the items on the bill of lading to make sure that a dishonest quartermaster or mate didn’t cheat them.

Eliza looked up as the doorbell jangled and she smiled as Millie and Davy entered the shop. Davy held the door, allowing Millie to pass, and she was laughing at something he had said. With her bonnet slipping off her head and the sunlight striking golden lights in her dark blonde hair, Millie bobbed a mock curtsey.

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Don’t mention it, ma’am.’ Bowing from the waist, Davy grinned. ‘You’re a cheeky little monkey, Miss Turner. Best get to work.’

Millie’s smile faded and a shadow passed across her face as if a cloud had momentarily blotted out the sun. Eliza stifled a sympathetic sigh; she could only guess at what Millie was feeling, but it was painfully obvious that her childish hero-worship for Davy had deepened into something much more adult. Davy, on the other hand, seemed completely oblivious of Millie’s feelings, treating her in much the same way as he treated his sister Mary. Why, Eliza thought, was love so complicated? She might have locked her own heart away in a protective shell inside her breast, but that did not stop her feeling desperately sorry for Millie’s unrequited
love for Davy. Perhaps it had been a mistake, allowing her to work in the shop? Maybe it would have been better if she had found her a place in service like Mary, who worked as a parlour maid for a silk merchant’s family in Islington. Eliza closed the order book and handed it to Millie with what she hoped was a cheerful smile. ‘Best make a start on this as soon as Arnold arrives.’