Early the next day, sitting in the studio, Mrs Kingsley had Evie’s hand in hers. She had insisted Evie stay at their house last night.
‘I’m just so very glad it’s over,’ Evie said, despite Edwin’s threat still rolling around in her head.
‘The man is abominable,’ Mrs Kingsley said. ‘I’m quite sure his threat was an empty one. Those sorts are all bluster.’
Evie wasn’t as sure.
‘And just bear in mind,’ Mrs Kingsley said, ‘that no matter what article appears in the paper detailing the outcome, people will still gossip about all this for quite some time.’
‘I don’t think I’ll ever live this down,’ Evie said, her tone sour, her mouth grim.
‘Rage is futile against the nature of vicious gossip, my dear, which sticks rather more than the truth, despite proof and a magistrate’s ruling.’ Mrs Kingsley squeezed her hand. ‘I know you feel your reputation is at stake.’
‘It’s had a stake through its heart already, Mrs K,’ Evie said.
‘Now you’re despairing. We know you better than the gossips. Give them nothing but a proud lift of your chin.’
Rueful, Evie considered the hats and the fabrics, the messy table with the huge shears, the pin cushions, and boxes of feathers and trinkets. Millinery was her life, working with gorgeous bits and pieces to make equally gorgeous creations. Her mind would be swept into a cool and calm place with a needle and thread in her fingers, and a picture in her head of a beautiful work of art to adorn a lady’s head.
‘Do you believe that Craig, Williamson will agree to exhibit after all?’
‘The store had better change its tune,’ Mrs Kingsley said, but her smile was weary. Then her eyes rounded and a sheen of perspiration covered her face. ‘Oh, for goodness’ sake.’ She dropped Evie’s hands to reach for a cloth draped over a bowl of water.
‘Honestly,’ she said, wringing out the cloth and patting her face and neck. ‘This is hardly bearable.’
Evie chewed her lip. ‘Anything I can do?’
‘Well, apart from mixing a potion of newt’s tongue and essence of mole, I don’t think so. I’m not about to try opium, or powder of cow’s ovaries, or something derived from the testicles of Lordonly-knows what creatures.’
Evie gulped down a bark of amused surprise.
‘I could go ahead and keep myself drunk as a monkey; some say that’s supposed to help. Help what, exactly?’ Mrs Kingsley was in fine fettle as she blotted her face and decolletage. Taking a breath, she felt around on the bench under pieces of velvet and lace to find a bigger fan. ‘I’m so glad of these little beauties; they help. I have them all over the house. Probably better than waving hocus-pocus over me.’
‘I’m so sorry it’s happening, Mrs Kingsley.’ That sounded lame in the face of all this. Evie was well out of her depth. ‘I hope when this change of life afflicts me, I’ll have your sense of humour.’
‘You’ll need it.’ Then Mrs Kingsley tut-tutted, and the fan was retired to the bench. ‘Oh, I’ve gone on and on again, haven’t I?’
‘It’s all right, Mrs K. I suppose we women should all learn these things, but it seems to be …’
‘Taboo,’ Mrs Kingsley supplied and huffed. ‘How ridiculous. Happens to all of us. I hope your mother gave you some instruction on your bodily functions. You didn’t have to wonder if you were bleeding to death when you were twelve or thirteen, did you?’
‘No, thankfully. She did give me some information about certain things. But not about this.’
‘Was she very old when she died?’
‘Fifty-two.’
‘Ah. Perhaps she didn’t realise what was happening to her—that’s if anything was happening.’ Mrs Kingsley sighed. ‘My two daughters are in Melbourne. I have yet to speak to them of these things. Perhaps when next they visit.’ She was quiet a moment then, shrugging, she reached for the fan again. ‘It’s not something we women chat about in groups at afternoon teas, or during the rallies for voting rights and such, but here, one on one in this little studio, we do talk, as you well know.’ The fan flapped open. ‘I see a great many women my age swooning from internal combustion, or falling asleep in the chair at eleven in the morning because of sleepless nights, or complaining of headaches, or—another worry—loss of interest in their husbands.’ She slid a glance at Evie and smiling then, confided, ‘Can’t always blame change of life for that one.’ Fanning again, she said, ‘My mother died at sixty-eight, and she never said a thing to me. Not one whisper that she’d experienced any of this, or that this might occur. I can only presume what horrors she might have gone through. Awful, just awful.’
‘What is the good of it?’ Evie asked. ‘I know I must have my monthly courses if I ever want children, though I don’t know why, but what is the reason for this change?’ She frowned. ‘Although, being older, I shouldn’t imagine monthly courses would be welcome. Well,’ she said on reflection, ‘they’re not welcome now. Why can’t the courses plain stop when we’re older and we go back to normal, just not being able to have babies?’
‘Oh, don’t ask me the wisdom of it, if there’s any at all,’ Mrs Kingsley said, her fan waving. ‘Probably nature’s way of bumping us old girls off so we’re not in competition for young breeding stock.’ She harrumphed. ‘Not that we’d want babies at this age, for goodness sake. Grandbabies, of course. We can hand them back.’
Evie bit down a smile, didn’t know what to say to that.
‘I’ll tell you this,’ Mrs Kingsley said. ‘There’s one good thing about these ferocious surges. Outside the court yesterday, I had a surge so strong that I could have sallied forth and beaten the daylights out of that despicable Mr Cooper with my bare hands, raging at him, pulling his hair and gnashing my teeth. And the bonus, I wouldn’t have cared a hoot about who saw it.’ She burst out laughing.
Evie couldn’t control her laughter, then. ‘Oh, what a sight that would have been,’ she said.
‘Indeed, and well deserved, the sod.’ Mrs Kingsley smiled broadly while wringing out the cloth again. ‘That manager at Craig, Williamson better watch out and not give me any more trouble about our exhibition.’ Then, taking Evie’s hand, she said, ‘So you’ll be all right at home tonight?’
After the ordeal in the court, Evie had thought hard about going home, then thought of nothing else but Edwin’s terrible intimidation. When she’d relayed to Mr Kingsley what Edwin had said, he’d immediately taken her to the police station where she filed another complaint. But as soon as Evie had signed the thing, she knew it would be a worthless piece of paper. The look the trooper had given her was dismissive, derisive, but he had said they’d be visiting Edwin Cooper. She wasn’t completely satisfied it would stop him, but at least it might encourage him to cool off. Despite what Mr Rudge had said to him, it was foolhardy to expect he would.
Mr Kingsley poked his head in the door. ‘All right in here, my dears? Ready to go when you are, Evie.’ Mr Kingsley would drive her home. She’d return the following day to resume work with Mrs Kingsley.
‘Are you sure you’ll be all right, my dear? You’ve had a terrible few months.’
‘I will. I just have to get on, Mrs Kingsley.’
When they arrived at Evie’s place, Mr Kingsley insisted on checking doors and windows and, once satisfied, doffed his hat, climbed back on board his cart and turned for home. Afterwards, Evie headed to the store to purchase stock for her pantry, and once again at the butchers and the baker, she was shunned. Her blood hummed. While the verdict in her favour wouldn’t yet have filtered through to the community, it still didn’t bode well for her future in Bendigo. That, and the fact that Edwin Cooper might still remain in town and be an ongoing problem.
By the time she’d returned to her house, she was steaming, and thinking drastic thoughts about packing up and finding another town in which to live right that afternoon.
The night was uneventful. Or she assumed as much because she hadn’t heard a thing. She’d been so exhausted that not even anger had kept her awake. She’d slept like the dead and nothing had disturbed her.
The next morning, despite scratchy and puffy eyes—she admitted to a fit of tears in the small hours just before dawn—she was determined to put behind her the shock of finding Fitz so hurt, Constable O’Shea’s murder, her firing a rifle at someone, the court case and all the adventure of the past month. Meryl’s death and her grief was another matter. And Raff, well, Raff wasn’t here. Today she would start to work out what to do from now on. She had the house, her mother’s inheritance, her craft and her talent. That was portable for the most part, she could take her skills anywhere, order fabric when she needed it. Perhaps she’d rent a new residence somewhere and work out of a room in it.
She would figure something out, if only she could keep the rage that was building inside her from bursting through the dam.
She pulled on her gloves and donned one of her favourite hats. That was sure to cheer her. It was a little toque of soft mauve velvet with a pale teal band and a maroon spray of feathers pinned to it. Very smart. It was a perfect contrast to the outfit she wore of the very latest fashion, a tiny black-and-white houndstooth-check day dress. No one else in town was wearing it. In fact, it was hardly in Melbourne. She’d had to order it especially.
Opening the front door, she stepped outside, locked it behind her, pocketed the key, and turned.
Raff Dolan and Bluey were outside the gate. Her heart took a leap. Raff, solid, strong, a light in his eye and his hat in his hands, and great, big, beautiful Bluey freshly groomed—they were a handsome pair. Both were staring at her.
‘Raff.’ She took the few steps forward and stopped, so pleased to see him that for a long moment, she lost any more words.
‘Good morning, Evie. I trust you had a good night’s sleep.’
‘I did. And you?’ She smiled or tried to smile. His horse was all packed up; Raff must be leaving. Goodness, her heart had started to gallop.
He nodded, but wasn’t smiling. ‘I’ll walk with you if you don’t mind. Where are you going?’