When Keziah heard the excited babble of children’s voices she lifted Gabriel from his little tin tub. At four months old he loved water so much he was always loathe to leave it. Wrapping him in a towel she hurried to the veranda to watch the arrival of Sunny Ah Wei’s travelling emporium. She hoped he’d have new bolts of winter fabrics and news of the outside world.
Drawn by a horse in a harness lavishly decorated with brass, the red, green and gold wagon was a joy to behold. Emblazoned on the side under his name a golden scroll advertised the magical list of contents for sale – Chinese robes, silks, haberdashery, toys, confectionery, kitchenware and herbal medicines that claimed to cure ‘toothache, dyspepsia and all manner of human, canine and horses’ ills’.
Barefoot children ran down the track to keep pace with the wagon. Sunny Ah Wei was dressed in his customary robe and cap, his thin pigtail swinging down his back, his face lit up with the celestial smile that had earned him his Australian nickname. Sunny’s reputation endeared him to all, not only because his exotic merchandise arrived like manna from heaven in isolated lives, but because of his cheap prices and fair dealings.
While sorting through materials Keziah fished for news after the children had run off. If anyone collected rumours on his travels, it was Sunny, but he preferred to be the bearer of good news.
‘Many people collect money for statue in Sydney Town to honour last governor.’
Keziah was pleased to hear it. ‘Mr Bloom says Sir Richard Bourke tried to give us elected government and schools for rich and poor but those damned Exclusives blocked him.’
She steered the conversation to Bolthole Valley, asking Sunny for local news.
‘Big crowd at cemetery for laying of tombstone for lady killed at Blackman’s Leap last year.’
‘Who did that?’ she asked quickly, hoping to remain anonymous.
‘Good soul but no one know who paid money.’
‘What is the latest bushranger activity? I hear The Gypsy has been sighted.’
Sunny lowered his voice. ‘I think this bolter bail me up last week.’
There was no one in sight but Keziah also whispered. ‘How do you know it was him?’
‘One gold earring. Dressed very flash. Silver belt, gold coins on waistcoat. He said strange thing. “A fine wagon, Sunny. I made Romani wagon for my wife in Wales.”’
Keziah forced herself to ask the conventional question. ‘Did he take all your money?’
Sunny shook his head. ‘Only one silver ring and he paid for it!’
Keziah was overcome with pride that Gem would not steal from another outsider. Once she was back in her cottage her tears rained on the black mourning veil she had just sewn to her bonnet.
After the arrival of Jake Andersen’s note warning that Caleb Morgan threatened to post a reward for her arrest on his return to Sydney Town, Keziah had acted swiftly. She had sent an anonymous cash order to Bolthole Valley’s stonemason and now she knew the tombstone was in place. But the inscription was crucial. Was it correct?
Nerida hovered in the doorway, sensitive to Keziah’s emotions.
Keziah brushed away her tears. ‘I know you fear ghosts as much as I do, Nerida, but I need to visit a friend’s grave.’
• • •
On arriving in Bolthole Valley, Keziah encouraged Nerida to accompany her to Feagan’s General Store. She knew how painful Nerida’s memories of this place must be.
‘Remember, Nerida, you are my friend and you are employed at Ironbark Farm where everyone respects you. Nobody will dare treat you rudely when you are with me!’
After collecting the latest newspapers she had ordered, Keziah was careful to assume Saranna’s well-bred accent when she asked Feagan for directions to the cemetery.
His sharp eye noticed the bouquet of flowers she carried and he quickly assumed a suitable expression of respect for a mourner.
‘I am sorry for your loss, Miss Plews. Was your dear departed a near relative?’
‘Keziah Smith and I were passengers on the coach that crashed at Blackman’s Leap last year. I was at her side when she died but I have been unable to visit her grave till now.’
‘Then you’ll be pleased to discover the new headstone some anonymous person erected.’ There was innuendo in his voice as he added, ‘It would seem the Gypsy girl had friends in high places.’
Keziah disguised her fear by idly examining the label on a tea caddy. ‘What makes you think so?’
‘An English gentleman named Morgan came here in search of her. It was my sad duty to inform him where her remains are buried. He was disturbed by my revelation.’
Keziah found it difficult to breathe. ‘Is that gentleman still here?’
‘He departed on yesterday’s coach. Nothing much here to hold a man of the Quality.’
• • •
The cemetery was deserted. Keziah opened the iron gate then hesitated. Across the road in Hobson’s cart the two little boys lay asleep in Nerida’s lap. Murphy’s dark head lay nestled against Gabriel’s blond curls.
She adjusted the mourning veil on her bonnet. In the non-denominational corner she stood before a standing stone and felt a rush of guilt mixed with relief as she read the inscription. Sacred to the Memory of KEZIAH SMITH. Daughter of GABRIEL STANLEY. Born Wales 1820. Accidentally Killed Blackman’s Leap 1837. At the bottom edge was the carefully worded phrase she had requested. May the young girl who lies here rest in peace.
Keziah felt guilty that Saranna had been buried in unsanctified ground, unmarked by her Christian cross, but this false tombstone was necessary to ensure Gabriel’s safety.
‘I had no choice at all!’ she said, startled by the sound of her voice. After checking to make sure that she was unobserved, she placed on the grave her posy of bush flowers entwined with her favourite herb, rosemary for remembrance.
As she retraced her steps towards the gate she froze at the sight of an approaching horseman wearing a grey cloak and high-crowned hat. Mi-duvel! It’s Caleb!
In panic she hid herself behind a tombstone and prayed to The Del to make her invisible, but as he rode past she saw the older man bore no resemblance to Caleb.
She giggled from sheer relief and apologised to the unknown owner of the grave. ‘Forgive me, I’m starting at shadows.’
Back in the cart she woke Gabriel from his sleep and held him tightly in her arms.
‘My little Rom. Now we are free,’ she said, feeling far from convinced. She had spent all her money on the tombstone to prove Keziah Smith was dead. She wondered if she had succeeded in fooling Caleb Morgan.
• • •
The four of them sang together as Keziah drove home through the forest. She was grateful for her narrow escape. Only one day earlier and she could have collided with Caleb at Saranna’s grave.
Today baxt was on her side but she must continue to lay low until she was convinced Caleb had left the colony. Surely he would not remain in this outpost of the British Empire – he loved luxury too much.
Glancing at Gabriel, Keziah clung to the wild hope that Gem would accept the myth of his adoption. Jealousy was inborn in every Rom but in Gem it was uncontrollable. She shivered, remembering that terrible day in North Wales.
Keziah sauntered along the riverbank, waiting for Gem’s return from trading a horse. A hare sped across her path, causing her to fall headlong into the water. Unable to swim, she felt the river sucking at her skirt, dragging her down to its depths. Within seconds water would fill her lungs. Her arms flayed wildly, tangled by reeds. Looking up through the water at the sunlight, she sent her thoughts to Gem. My beloved, I am yours even in death. And then nothing but blackness.
She regained consciousness to find herself being carried in the arms of a gaujo. Gem’s voice roared out, accusing the man of rape. When Gem seized him by the throat, the stranger was so stunned he dropped Keziah to the ground.
Keziah screamed that the gaujo had saved her life but Gem was so consumed by rage that he was deaf to her words. Until she struck his face so forcibly it left a livid mark. Only then did Gem release his grip. The gaujo did not wait to be thanked and raced off into the woods.
Keziah was horrified. ‘If I hadn’t struck you, you’d have been hanged for murder!’
Gem gave a wild cry, took her face in his hands and his kiss devoured her. He tore off her wet clothing and hungrily made love to her.
As Keziah looked across at Gabriel asleep again in Nerida’s arms she dreaded Gem’s rage when he saw the child. If he was so jealous of an innocent man, how on earth will he react to you, little one?
• • •
On Saturday morning Keziah opened her door to find herself eye to eye with a trooper, Sergeant Kenwood. She invited him to try her cherry cake and poured him tea, chattering with the veneer of Saranna’s ladylike manner masking her feminine Romani guile.
Kenwood was a stocky Englishman with an accent difficult to fathom because of the harelip he disguised with a russet-brown moustache. He was clearly disarmed by her warm hospitality. Not every settler in this locality treated troopers with such respect.
His question caught her off guard. ‘I am investigating the death of Mrs Smith, a Gypsy traveller. I understand you are a survivor of the Blackman’s Leap coach tragedy.’
Keziah assumed her most cooperative attitude. ‘I was present when Dr O’Flaherty pronounced her dead. I placed gold coins on the eyelids of her corpse out of respect for her Romani traditions. Then I rode to the Shamrock and Thistle Inn for help. I later returned the horse to Rolly Brothers,’ she added quickly, mindful of the savage penalties for horse theft.
‘Did the dead woman ever mention a Mr Caleb Morgan?’
To hide her anxiety Keziah pressed him to accept a whisky from the bottle she kept to loosen tongues and gain information.
‘No, but I recall Mrs Smith said she was a widow and an actress.’
Whisky warmed Kenwood to his subject. ‘Forgive the indelicacy of the question but was Mrs Smith well advanced with child?’
Her mind raced to provide a convincing answer. ‘We had occasion to share a bed at an inn. Keziah was no more with child than I am.’
She flung her arms wide to offer an agreeable view of her full bosom and slim waist.
Kenwood flushed brick red. ‘Quite. Thank you.’
‘May I venture to ask who had such a strange idea?’
‘The said gentleman, Caleb Morgan. I can now report to him no child existed.’
Keziah refilled the trooper’s glass. He downed the whisky with satisfaction then asked if she’d heard of the bushranger Gypsy Gem Smith.
‘The blighter’s jolly hard to track down. Perhaps the two Smiths were related given their common vagabond origin?’
She forced a smile. ‘I understand many Romanies are transported to the colony.’
His tone was conspiratorial. ‘England’s riddance, what?’
After his departure Keziah leaned against the door taking in large gulps of air, wondering if her performance had convinced him.
‘God damn your gaujo eyes, Kenwood!’ One thought consoled her. Gem was free and close by.
Through the window she saw Trooper Kenwood dismount at Joseph Bloom’s homestead. She was alarmed by the realisation of her mistake. She had automatically said ‘Romani’ to correct Kenwood’s word ‘Gypsy’ in common usage by gaujos. Had Kenwood noticed?
• • •
Keziah’s anxiety grew after finding under her door a hand-written invitation to afternoon tea at Joseph Bloom’s house after school. Was this connected with Kenwood’s investigation? Or a pretext to be alone with her? Despite his kindly solution to the problem of keeping Big Bruce MacAlister in school, Keziah still remained cautious around Joseph Bloom.
His house was unusual. In contrast to the standard separation between cookhouse and living quarters to contain any outbreak of fire, his two separate kitchens were a source of much speculation in the village. Local women didn’t know the reason so gossip invented one. Keziah had overheard the claim that Mrs Rachael, Bloom’s housekeeper, needed two because she kept burning pots and pans, that Mrs Rachael failed Bloom in the kitchen but pleased him in the bedroom! Their laughter was knowing, not vicious, as this type of arrangement was what assigned women could expect from a lonely master.
Keziah had discovered the truth. Mrs Rachael, a Polish Jewess transported from London’s East End, kept a kosher household. One kitchen was for kosher meat brought from Goulburn, the other for dairy foods.
Keziah paused before Joseph Bloom’s door. Attached to the doorframe was a small silver cylinder inscribed with an odd letter. She had seen similar mezuzahs in Liverpool and Chester, and knew it contained holy words on a tiny scroll. Right now she really could use a blessing!
Ushered into the sitting room by Mrs Rachael, Keziah had time to observe the housekeeper – a sedate matron so spick and span her white apron looked as if it would recoil from the mere suggestion of a stain. Despite the woman’s age, Keziah knew how loneliness attracts strange bedfellows and instinct told her that Mr Bloom was a lonely young man.
Guest and host faced each other on throne-like chairs. Keziah was glad she had dressed in Saranna’s formal travelling outfit that she had re-tailored to fit her. Joseph Bloom wore a conservative English frock-coat with pinstriped trousers and a gold watch chain looped across his waistcoat. His black cap looked to Keziah like a velvet tea-cosy.
Loud noises came from one of Mrs Rachael’s kitchens. Keziah wondered if the woman was making her presence felt as chaperone or as a jealous mistress?
When Joseph Bloom left the room Keziah studied the bookcase. Some titles were in a language she presumed was German, others were written in an unknown alphabet. Alarmed by the title, Famous British Murder Trials, Keziah felt a wave of nausea as she had a vision. Joseph Bloom was in a courtroom wearing a barrister’s wig. A red-robed judge sat before the British coat of arms.
On her host’s return Keziah turned her attention to an exquisite silver seven-branched candlestick. Noting her interest he was happy to explain what it was.
‘This menorah is my most valued possession, inherited from my father Yitzhak Blum of Blessed Memory. A trader in old clothes, he saved for me to study Talmud at the yeshiva in Worms to become a rabbi. I regret I disappointed him. I chose to be a lawyer.’
‘You decided not to practise law in the colony, Mr Bloom?’
He explained that it was not permitted for those of the Hebrew persuasion to practise law in the German lands. After his father’s death he went to London to work for his Uncle Shmuel, who gained permission for him to study British law. After being called to the Bar his health had deteriorated.
‘The London winters?’ He shrugged philosophically. ‘Ironbark’s healthy climate healed my lungs. But perhaps I was never meant to practise law?’
‘Yes, you are! The colony needs your gifts!’ Keziah said this with such conviction that it startled them both. She added hastily, ‘If you should so decide.’
Invited to discuss her pupils’ progress she felt on safer ground.
‘Even the youngest children recite their alphabet with confidence and can write their names. Winnie had trouble learning to read but she has a wonderful gift for drawing. She sees everything in pictures. So I invented a special alphabet made up of little stick figures.’
‘How does that work?’ he asked politely.
She jumped to her feet to enact it. ‘The letter M is two boys facing each other and shaking hands. T is a scarecrow. P is a fat man with a puffed-out chest.’
Joseph Bloom’s smile made him look quite boyish. Encouraged, Keziah rushed on.
‘The older children write and illustrate their own book. They pool their talents on each chapter, free to write about the world around them or soar off on a flight of fancy. I gave the final chapter to a Catholic and a Protestant who always squabble. Now they must pull together to write it.’ She paused, suddenly serious. ‘Am I talking too much?’
‘Not at all. Your enthusiasm is most refreshing.’
Keziah continued on. ‘I am concerned about Big Bruce MacAlister. He will soon need to study at a higher level than I can teach him. He needs to study Latin, science or law.’
‘I share your concern. I am working on a way he can be granted a scholarship to attend a senior school, yet still allow his mother to survive comfortably on her farm.’
Keziah clapped her hands. ‘How clever of you.’
He looked pleased but changed the subject. ‘How do the children spend their leisure?’
‘Leapfrog, races. Their favourite game is “Bushrangers and Troopers”. I was disturbed to discover troopers literally flogging little Davey Collins for his crimes as a bushranger.’
‘Children reflect the adult world. May I ask how you dealt with this problem?’
‘I suggested the bushrangers challenge the troopers to a game of cricket.’ She gave him a sidelong smile. ‘The bushrangers won by three wickets.’
‘What an ingenious solution. Despite my British citizenship cricket remains one of life’s mysteries to me but it is an excellent way to teach children fair play.’
Just as Keziah was beginning to relax, his next question unnerved her. Did she believe in coincidences? Keziah tried to give a neutral response but Joseph Bloom was gazing into the middle distance as if he had half forgotten her presence as he explained the reason for his question.
Yesterday he had been reading the passage from the Book of Job, ‘Nowhere in the land were women as beautiful as Job’s daughters’. One of whom was Keziah. Then Trooper Kenwood had arrived to question him about the coach tragedy victim, Keziah Smith.
‘The same girl Jakob Andersen said Caleb Morgan was pursuing, you remember when I passed on Jakob Andersen’s letter to you?’
Keziah felt the blood drain from her face. How on earth could I ever forget! ‘Keziah Smith was my fellow passenger. I told Trooper Kenwood all I knew. Is there a problem?’
‘No. I just thought you might be interested in the coincidence.’
Keziah felt a sense of relief when her host left the room again to ask Mrs Rachael to serve tea.
Left alone Keziah desperately tried to predict Joseph Bloom’s next move. First Jake, now Kenwood. Pure coincidence? No! Joseph Bloom had linked her to Keziah Smith! Lawyers were clever, tricky by nature. How could she hope to hoodwink him? Would he expose her? Or invite her to share his bed as the price of his silence?
She pressed her fingertips to her temples convinced that the life at Ironbark Farm she had built for Gabriel was going to be shattered. Why am I always fated to run away?
Joseph Bloom returned with Mrs Rachael carrying a silver tea service and rich cakes. He cast Keziah a searching look but his request for her to pour tea appeared to be innocent.
Keziah poured it in her best Saranna Plews style. Again she was caught off guard.
‘I should imagine, Miss Plews, that as a teacher you are interested in history?’
She teetered on the verge of panic. Her grasp of history was elementary. What if he asked her about King Canute or that awful King Henry who chopped off his wives’ heads?
Joseph Bloom seemed content to question himself. ‘What exactly is history? Records by historians to flatter their rulers and patrons? Or is it what ordinary folk experience when their world veers off its axis?’
Keziah thankfully accepted an almond cake to avoid replying.
‘Women are the hidden characters in European history,’ he reflected. ‘Apart from royalty, wives of famous men and, forgive me, courtesans, their role is seldom recognised.’
Keziah tried to assume an intelligent expression but her thoughts were in chaos. Courtesans! Where was all this leading? His bedroom? If Gem found me in a compromised situation he would shoot to kill and ask questions later!
Joseph Bloom continued on blithely. ‘And yet women by nature are enormously influential in building communities and achieving change. We Jews are fond of the quotation, “a woman of valour’s worth is above rubies”.’
He offered her another cake. ‘It seems to me you ladies are the spaces between the lines of the historical events recorded by the male of the species.’
Keziah was out of her depth. Did he expect her to say something? Was this a trap? He opened a book that had the title A History of the Romani Tribes of Europe. Keziah choked on her tea.
‘The Romanies are a nomadic people that a lazy world labels Gypsies. We Jews are known as the People of the Book. Romani people are sometimes called the Brothers of the Wind. Both our peoples have parallel experiences of persecution. Both forced to flee from country to country across Europe.’
He appeared unaware of her reaction. ‘At different times my people were granted refuge by enlightened or mercenary rulers but later made scapegoats, the subject of false libels. In medieval Spain we were given three choices. Flee, enforced conversion or be slaughtered.’
Despite Keziah’s trepidation she was fascinated by the parallels he was drawing.
Joseph Bloom continued. ‘The Romanies possess an extraordinary life force. Despite persecution they retained their nomadic way of life down through the ages. No host nation ever destroyed their soul.’
He placed the book on the table. ‘You may care to read it. In my opinion Jews and Romanies are heroes in the art of survival. Why? I suspect we have three traits in common. We cling to our own relationship with our Creator but do not force our beliefs on others. We greatly respect animals and the natural world. We love and protect our children.’
Keziah looked into his eyes and at last understood the message behind his words.
When he enquired about her foster son, Keziah was happy to sing Gabriel’s praises.
She decided the timing was perfect. ‘Is there some way I can formally adopt him?’
‘There is nothing so secure as a legally binding piece of paper. Leave that to me. I will arrange for you to sign the legal documents,’ Joseph Bloom offered. He poured wine into two thimble-sized glasses. ‘You are a teacher of great value to our community. In Hebrew we toast to life. L’chaim!’
Keziah gave him her most glorious smile and repeated the toast. The wine tasted even sweeter mixed with her sense of relief. She left his house, light of heart and convinced Joseph Bloom was to be trusted. Both came from tribes that had suffered at the hands of gaujos.
• • •
That night as she bathed Gabriel by the fire, Keziah was startled by an image in the dancing blue flames – Gem being pursued by the traps! Was this the future or was he in danger right now?
She was suddenly aware that Gabriel was crying, trying to bring her back to him.
Forcing herself to block out that frightening fragment of time she cuddled him in her arms.
‘Forgive your mama, Gabriel. I was so slow to love you but you are teaching me to be a good mother. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.’
That night she tossed and turned trying to sleep. She knew that Gem was the love of her life. So why did the image of Jake Andersen keep intruding into her thoughts?