Wollombi, 1911
The sudden backfire sent Lettie rocketing forward. Head down, heart pounding, hands clutched tightly to the steering wheel, furious that even in the country, as far from the sea as she’d ever travelled, Thorne’s accident could still haunt her.
She pulled off her gloves, untied her scarf, mopped the layer of perspiration from her face and exhaled slowly, bringing her thundering heartbeat under control.
No need to check the motor. She’d babied it for the last few miles. It was a gift she’d made it this far. Releasing the hand brake, she coasted down the gentle incline towards a sign announcing she’d reached the town of Wollombi.
Hardly a town, but several yards ahead there was a solid building emblazoned with the words Family Hotel and behind it a meandering creek surrounded by neatly fenced, well-tended paddocks and a large market garden. Easing out from behind the wheel she stretched her legs, peeled off her thick dustcoat and pushed up her sleeves.
A straight flat stretch of track disappeared into a shimmering heat haze and to her right a slight incline led to some sort of a general store and a few other surprisingly substantial sandstone buildings. Not her destination but a necessary stop. Lizzie was going nowhere until she found her a drink. What were the chances of motor spirit in an out of the way place like this?
Pushing her driving goggles up on top of her head, she strode up the hill.
The faded door of the general store, though firmly closed, sported a scrawled sign reading Open. She turned the handle and entered the cool, dark interior.
‘Stinking out there. Close the door behind you.’ The words came from the depths of the shop but the owner of the gravelly tones remained invisible.
She swung the door closed and waited while the shadows took shape and resolved into a long counter covered in an array of wilting vegetables and other knick-knacks.
‘What can I do for you?’ A heavy-set man stepped out from behind the counter, his bushy eyebrows quivering as he took in the goggles perched onto the top of her head.
‘I’m after a can of motor spirit.’
‘That’d account for the extra pair of eyes then.’ He gave a sigh, which may well have been relief. ‘Where’s the motor?’
‘At the bottom of the hill. I thought I’d make it into town but I had to coast the last little bit.’
He peered outside. Must have caught sight of Lizzie because he turned with a smile. ‘Get a few motors through here nowadays. Not usually driven by a woman though.’
‘So you carry motor spirit?’
‘Nah.’
Her stomach sank. She couldn’t leave Lizzie skew-whiff on the side of the road in some out of the way town.
‘Where are you heading?’
‘The Ludgrove-Maynard properties.’
‘Yellow Rock?’ His eyebrows raised. ‘A good twenty miles. Go see Armstrong, at the forge.’ He flipped his thumb over his shoulders. ‘Just across the road. I’ll keep an eye on the motor. Not that you’ll have a problem. No one in town today. Too bloody humid. Armstrong’ll fix you up.’
‘Thank you, thank you very much.’
‘How’d you come by the motor?’ He scratched his head and studied her from head to toe.
‘It belongs to my brother.’ Belonged she mentally corrected, not wanting to get into the conversation that would ensue.
‘Ah! That’s more like it. Where’s he then?’
‘Sydney.’ No lie in that. And somehow she felt that if Great-Aunt Olivia hadn’t received Miriam’s letter she should be the first one to hear the news of his passing—from her, not from some shopkeeper in the local town.
‘You drove yourself?’
‘Plenty of practice. I had a good teacher.’ She slipped through the door before he could ask any more questions.
Across the road a winding flagstone path edged with faded geraniums and the stench of cats led to a couple of slab buildings and a sign dangling from a branch announcing The Forge. Following the sound of hammering she wandered down the path and drew to a halt a good few feet from a blazing fire where a sweaty man in a leather apron hunched, belting the daylights out of a blazing horseshoe. He gave a final thump and lifted his head.
‘Mr Armstrong? I’m after some motor spirit. The man at the general store said you carried it.’
He wiped his forehead on a filthy rag and tossed it aside. ‘Nat, can you see to that while I re-shoe your horse?’
A lean muscular man stepped from the shadows, hat pulled low, dark hair curling at the collar of his faded shirt. ‘Where is it?’
‘Out there. Not here.’
The man ambled to the back of the building, ducked his head beneath the lintel and disappeared.
Lettie scampered after him.
‘How much do you want?’ he called over his shoulder.
‘I’ve got three two-gallon cans to refill.’
Half hidden behind the makeshift bench, Nathaniel poked around and pulled out a few cans, most of them empty. Who the hell was she? There was something about the lilt in her voice, the way she tilted her head when she spoke, something familiar but he was damned if he could place her. ‘Nah! He’s only got one. Be another delivery on the Sydney dray tomorrow.’ He straightened up, snatched another look, didn’t want to appear to be staring.
‘I’ll take that. Thanks.’ She rammed her hand into her pocket and brought out a wallet, more like a man’s than something a girl would carry, though the bug-eyed glasses rammed on the top of her head didn’t look much like something a girl would wear either.
‘Where are you heading?’
‘The Ludgrove-Maynard properties.’
‘Yellow Rock?’
‘Apparently.’
‘That’ll be two shillings and sixpence.’ Armstrong charged twice the going rate but she wasn’t in a position to argue.
Without a second thought she pulled out a crisp pound note.
He schooled his face. More than Armstrong had seen in a while. ‘Got anything smaller?’
She answered with a smile, not much more than a crease at the corner of her mouth, followed by a raised eyebrow above large green-brown eyes smudged with shadows. ‘Keep the change and I’ll come and pick up some more on my way back.’
Olivia would be in for a surprise, or maybe she was expecting a visitor, though he couldn’t imagine she wouldn’t have mentioned it. ‘You’re visiting. For long?’
She shrugged. ‘I’m not sure. Would the Family Hotel have a room?’
‘Maybe. Thought you were going to Yellow Rock. Plenty of room there. The old lady’ll love a bit of company.’
‘You know the Ludgrove family?’
‘Everyone knows everyone around here. I do a bit of work there now and again.’ More than a bit now Olivia was getting on, but she was determined not to give up the horses. The cattle had all gone though the drovers still called in on their way north. She couldn’t know the family well if she was calling Olivia a Ludgrove. She was Maynard through and through and would take a horse whip to anyone who tried to tell otherwise. ‘Where’s the motor? I’ll give you a hand.’
‘Down at the bottom of the hill. I ran out at the top of the crest and coasted into town.’
‘Right you are.’ He hefted the can. ‘We can go out this way.’
A whistle slipped out between his lips when he set eyes on the motor. As sleek as the girl standing in front of him. He’d always maintained a horse was all he needed but he wouldn’t mind the opportunity to take a ride. He dumped the can down and stood in front of the car running his hand over the glossy green paintwork, brushing the road dust away. ‘I thought motors only came in black.’
When he lifted his head, she was watching, lips tilted in another of those half smiles. ‘Mostly they do. It’s my brother’s car. It was custom-built in Victoria. He helped, and chose the paint colour. It’s the only green one in Australia.’
And it matched her eyes perfectly.
‘I need to fill her up.’ She held out her hand.
The can would be much too heavy for her. ‘Let me.’ The motor spirit would have to go in under the front, that’s where the engine was kept, wasn’t it? He reached across and unclipped the bonnet. A mass of gleaming tubes and cylinders and all manner of bits and pieces greeted him along with the smell of oil and grease. The tank had to be there somewhere. He lifted the can.
‘It’s under here.’ She swung open the driver’s door and lifted the seat.
‘Ah!’ Heat rose to his face. ‘Right you are.’ He closed the bonnet. ‘Pretty engine.’
‘A front-mounted 177-cubic-inch inline four-cylinder engine, which produces twenty horsepower for a top speed of forty-five miles per hour.’
She might as well have been speaking double-dutch for all he knew.
‘I’m right out of spirit, the can should fit easily.’
He fitted the funnel she held out, tipped the spirit in and replaced the lid. Not too difficult. Maybe he could get the hang of these things. ‘Will that see you to Yellow Rock?’
‘I’ll be good for about fifty miles.’
‘Nowhere near that far. Know the way?’
She pointed down the road to the bridge. ‘That way.’
‘You’ll cross Cunneens Bridge about two hundred yards down, after that the track gets a bit rougher. Make sure you follow the brook, there are seven crossings. Rain wasn’t too bad—you shouldn’t have a problem but don’t hang around. There’s a storm coming and the water rises fast. Once you ford the last crossing follow the track and Yellow Rock’s on your right. You’ll see the drive, can’t miss it.’
‘Thank you.’ She pulled the goggles down, covering her eyes, and worked her fingers into her leather gloves.
‘My pleasure.’ He opened the door and glanced down at the three pedals on the floor and some sort of brake. Couldn’t be too complicated; he’d seen enough of them getting around on the Sydney roads. ‘Are you ready to go?’
‘It’s not quite that simple. There’s a couple of things I need to do first.’ She leant across and fiddled with two levers hanging off the side of the steering wheel, then walked around to the front and grabbed hold of a bent piece of pipe poking out from the car. That was it. He’d seen blokes in Sydney winding their motors up. ‘Let me do that for you, Miss …’
She stepped back with a smile. ‘Rawlings. Letitia Rawlings.’
His head came up with a snap. ‘You related to Olivia?’ That would account for the familiarity in her looks and mannerisms. Denman always maintained Olivia had been a looker in her early days; if Miss Rawlings was an example of the family breeding it would be easy to understand.
‘She’s my great-aunt.’
‘And you’ve come from Sydney.’
‘Yes.’
He gave the pipe a swing.
Nothing happened.
‘You need to …’
He wiped his arm across his forehead, gave another mighty swing. Not much more happened, though he wasn’t sure what to expect. Perhaps it wasn’t as easy as it looked, and it was bloody hard work. Not something you’d imagine a slip of a woman handling.
‘It’ll fire in a moment. It’s because she ran out of motor spirit.’ She bent down and fiddled with something tucked below the bonnet. ‘There, that should help prime it. Let me have a go. Stand aside. They have a habit of kicking back.’ Her shoulder muscles tightened and she set her feet square before giving the metal bar an almighty swing with her left hand. The engine spluttered and sprang to life. ‘Thank you for your help.’ She reached for her dustcoat, wiped her hands and slid in behind the wheel.
Moments later, with nothing more than a wave she headed over Cunneens Bridge into the arms of the incoming storm.