The Cedar Cutter (18 page)

As the last of the giant stand of cedars fell beneath the cutters' axes the days became longer. It was time to call it quits. All that remained was King Polai and one question. Should he take it alone or share his nest egg with Slinger? Carrick stared into the dying embers of the fire. ‘Tomorrow will see the last of the cutting. The bullocky'll be back and we'll be out of here.'

Slinger nodded. ‘I'll miss the forest. I like the hush.'

‘You're right. I like to stand at the end of a day's work when the saws are stilled and listen to nothing. Nothing but the stirring of the breeze. Once the sun has set even the animals are quiet.'

‘Except for the howls of the dingoes. Never forget the dingoes.' Slinger scratched at a festering bite on his arm. ‘Mind you the little biters are a bloody nuisance. The boys are going north, up Bellinger way. They say the trees are big there, bigger than here.'

Perhaps, if the rumours were true. Carrick doubted they'd find anything bigger than King Polai. The last one. His pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. The last figures from Brinkworth in Sydney confirmed his reckonings. It was time to return to Ireland. Make good the agony he'd left behind and raise a stone for Liam and his Brigid. They deserved that. Even after all the years the need burned deep, made worse every time Roisin and the lad tugged at him. A living reminder of how he'd failed. He'd put it right. The bastard would pay. He closed his eyes and let the rum work its magic.

A house built by his own hands. The red cedar walls shining in the lamplight, reflecting Roisin's hair as she bent her head over her sewing. The gentle breathing of the lad while he slept, dreaming of treasures. King Polai would provide that. A fitting end to his life in the forest. Maybe he'd leave the cedar for Roisin and if he didn't come back, she could build a house, a house of her own where she and the lad could thrive. A house no landlord could take away. And if he did return, then they'd build it together.

He jumped to his feet, scattering the sparks from the fire. Slinger blinked lazily at him. ‘What's got your goat? Settle, man. For once there's nothing to do.'

That sealed it. ‘Slinger can you keep yer gob shut?' He studied the man sprawled at his feet. Although his eyes were blurred from the rum, Carrick knew him and knew him as the finest cutter. Together they'd bring King Polai down faster than he could alone and he'd be one step closer to making an end of it, one step closer to a life worth living.

‘Reckon.'

‘Want to make some big money? Might mean you never have to cut again.'

‘You serious?'

Carrick nodded and sank down onto the ground. ‘I've got one more job to do. One more tree.'

‘Boys won't be happy about that. They're ready to go.'

‘Not the boys. Just you and me.'

The rum left Slinger's eyes in an instant, his muscles tightened and he sat hugging his knees to his chest, rocking towards the last of the fire. ‘Tell me.'

‘Old Pella showed me. He calls it King Polai, King of the Cedars.'

‘Not more of your native nonsense.' The tension leached from Slinger's body as he reached for the rum bottle again.

‘Not ten miles from here. Deep, deep in the valley. It's got to be two hundred feet.' He threw another log into the fire, watched the sparks rise and ignite Slinger's interest once more.

‘How do you know? How did you find it?'

‘Old Pella spotted it that first spring when the tips of the new leaves were pink. You can see them from miles away.'

‘He's having a piece of you.'

‘He's not. I've seen it with me own eyes. He took me there before I put the team together, before I brought the team into the Yarramalong.'

‘And you've kept it to yourself? All this time?'

Carrick nodded, he had no guilt about that. It was never part of the deal he'd struck with the cutters. They signed on for as long as it took to clear a stand, he paid them a decent wage and next time they could stay or go. Only there was no next time now. Just King Polai. But Slinger, Slinger was different. They'd shared too much, far back to the days of the labouring gangs and the mines, back before they'd been picked for the cutters crew. Slinger deserved the chance. He was his mate.

‘Why should I help you?'

‘I'm not asking for your help. I'm offering you a share. It's the last tree I'll cut. We'll take the boys back to Morpeth, send them on their way. Wish them well. Pay off the bullocky and go in. Just you and me and a couple of horses.'

‘Think you can find it again?'

‘I can find it.' He could. The memory was etched in his mind as deeply as the bastard's brand on his shoulder.

‘And after?'

‘We'll cut it. Bring in the bullocky. Once the tree is down it doesn't matter who knows. There's nothing else around there worth taking. The rest is small stuff. I reckon we can do it in a week or two.'

‘Strange. You'd think where there was one there'd be many.'

‘It's deep in the valley. Fed by a single shaft of sunlight. The rest are spindly, the cedar moth got to them.'

‘And what'll you be doing then?'

‘Then I'm back to Ireland. I've got business to finish.'

‘Oh it's business now, is it?'

‘Yeah, mine. Not yours. I'm asking if you want in on the tree, not the rest of me life.' Carrick stood, wanting to distance himself from Slinger. He'd share the tree, not the pain in his heart. Never had. Never would. ‘Make up your mind.'

Slinger grunted then grinned and stuck out his hand. Carrick grasped it and hauled him to his feet. ‘It's a done deal, then.' He slapped the big man's shoulder and they shook on it, the rough, calloused grasp of a man he'd trust with his life. Then he breathed a sigh. He'd sleep well and tomorrow he'd start making good the mess he'd left behind in Ireland.

The days passed in a flurry of preparation as Roisin scrubbed and dusted the parlour until it sparkled. She rummaged through her trunk and took out her sewing tools, box of cottons and silks, every piece of material and lace, edgings, ribbons and tassels she'd brought with her, even some of the scraps. Three more days until Mrs Winchester returned.

When the moment finally arrived it almost took her by surprise. For some reason she couldn't fathom, Ruan had been particularly fractious, not wanting to go to school, mumbling something about having to go down to the brook and emu eggs. She simply hadn't the time, so she'd bundled him out of the door with strict instructions to come straight home from school at dinnertime and not wait for her.

She changed into one of her voile blouses and attempted to tame her hair into what she hoped resembled a tight chignon. The knock on the door made her jump. Taking one last peep in the mirror, she patted a few stray strands of hair into place, and sucking in a steadying breath made her way to the front door.

‘Good morning, Mrs Ogilvie.'

‘Good morning, Mrs Winchester.'

The magistrate's wife swept into the parlour, followed by another woman, thin and somewhat peaked, her drab olive-green pelisse buttoned high and her bonnet covering all except her pointy nose.

‘May I present my dear friend, Lady Alice.'

Lady Alice.
Roisin stumbled a half-hearted curtsy, more of a crooked bob, in fact. She gestured to the chair by the fire. ‘Please sit down.' One, only one chair. Why had it never crossed her mind that she might have more than one customer at a time? ‘Let me fetch another chair.'

‘It's not necessary, Roisin. Why don't you sit down, Alice?'

Lady Alice.
Roisin swallowed a squeal and schooled the grin threatening to spill all over her face. ‘May I get you some refreshment? A cup of tea?'

‘No, thank you, Mrs Ogilvie. We have much to discuss. These are the ladies' fashion papers I promised.' She toyed with the tasselled drawstring on her embroidered reticule then eased it open and withdrew a sheaf of papers, which she spread on the table.

Roisin blinked once, then again. The latest illustrated papers of fashion, not a reprint from one of the Sydney newspapers—the actual papers. She clapped her hand over her mouth to prevent it running away with her. Illustration after illustration of the most beautiful evening gowns she'd ever seen. The sleeves were much smaller, a narrower and more practical silhouette, the necklines lower. How could she remember all of this? The latest fashions. Was there a date? How new were they? It only took a matter of weeks for ships to reach Australia now. The headline read,
Gagelin-Opigez et Cite Paris
. Exquisite shawls and wraps complemented the dresses. ‘These are unbelievable. Works of art.' The hushed, reverent tone of her voice startled her.

‘Mr Worth. A young Englishman who is making something of a name for himself in Paris. His use of fabrics and exquisite tailoring is causing quite a stir. Can you make me a dress like this, Roisin?' She stabbed at a particularly elegant evening dress covered with white embroidery and silk lace. It represented hours and hours of work even with her sewing machine.

‘It's beautiful.' Orange silk and white lace, spider-web fine, accentuating the waist and fall of the skirt.

‘Can you copy it? Something similar?'

‘I could.' Yes, she could if she could get hold of some suitable fabric and yards of lace. ‘What colour did you have in mind?'

‘I have brought a small piece with me. My driver could deliver the bolt. I acquired it in Sydney.'

Roisin fingered the rose-coloured piece of silk, her mind swirling as she studied the design, the low scoop neck, the short sleeves. Mrs Winchester had the figure to carry it off. A fine waist and broad shoulders for her narrow frame; however, she'd need a heavily boned corset to set it off to perfection.

When she looked up Mrs Winchester was standing at the window staring out to the street. ‘I'd need the dress completed by next month for the Governor's Ball. Is that possible?'

A month, just a month. Could she do it? Of course she could, even if she had to sit up all night, every night.

A large sigh from the depths of the chair by the fire broke into her musings. ‘Lady Alice?' She blinked. She'd ignored the woman, forgotten all about her. Been so taken with Mrs Winchester's request she'd daydreamed and overlooked a customer. ‘Can I help you with anything?'

‘No. Sadly, no.' Lady Alice's thin, humourless face lifted and disappointed eyes met hers, eyes that seemed as though they'd searched for something for so long their brightness had waned.

She'd taken off her bonnet and she sat picking at the ribbons as it rested in her lap. ‘I have a dress for the ball. Besides, I could never hope to emulate Grace.' She gave a small derogatory laugh. ‘I don't have the …' She sketched a wave in front of her chest. ‘The necessary benefits to carry off something so, so revealing.'

For the first time Roisin studied the woman. Next to Mrs Winchester's sparkling assurance, Lady Alice appeared very dowdy, though there was nothing wrong with the quality and cut of her pelisse. It was the colour. The olive green of her walking-out coat was such a poor choice for her pallid skin and hazel eyes. If she introduced some additional colour through ribbon or even trimmings on her bonnet, her complexion would bloom. Nothing that couldn't be fixed with a little bit of artifice. She offered a small smile. ‘That is not an insurmountable problem if you would allow me to make some suggestions.'

Lady Alice curled her lips in a polite, somewhat distant smile and pleated the dull ribbons on her bonnet, making no effort to respond. Roisin turned back to Mrs Winchester. ‘You would also need certain undergarments to set this dress off to perfection.'

‘Undergarments?'

‘Yes. Specifically a corset.'

‘I have corsets.'

‘I would suggest that they would not be suitable for this dress. It will require a much smaller, briefer corset to complement the neckline and pinched waist.' She picked her words carefully, not wanting to cause offence and spoil this unexpected opportunity. How to explain that without the right undergarments the dress would not hang correctly and that she was more than capable of creating both.