The Postmistress
Chapters (53)
- Cover
- About Alison Stuart
- Also by Alison Stuart
- Title Page
- Dedication
- Prologue
- One
- Two
- Three
- Four
- Five
- Six
- Seven
- Eight
- Nine
- Ten
- Eleven
- Twelve
- Thirteen
- Fourteen
- Fifteen
- Sixteen
- Seventeen
- Eighteen
- Nineteen
- Twenty
- Twenty-One
- Twenty-Two
- Twenty-Three
- Twenty-Four
- Twenty-Five
- Twenty-Six
- Twenty-Seven
- Twenty-Eight
- Twenty-Nine
- Thirty
- Thirty-One
- Thirty-Two
- Thirty-Three
- Thirty-Four
- Thirty-Five
- Thirty-Six
- Thirty-Seven
- Thirty-Eight
- Thirty-Nine
- Forty
- Forty-One
- Forty-Two
- Forty-Three
- Forty-Four
- Author’s Note
- Acknowledgements
- Preview of The Goldminer's Sister
Cover
About Alison Stuart
About Alison Stuart
Australian author Alison Stuart began her writing journey halfway up a tree in the school playground with a notebook and a dream. Her father’s passion for history and her husband’s love of adventure and the Australian bush led to a desire to tell stories of Australia’s past.
She has travelled extensively and lived in Africa and Singapore. Before turning to writing full time, she enjoyed a long and varied career as a lawyer, both in private practice and in a range of different organisations, including the military and the emergency services.
Alison lives in a historic town in Victoria.
Also by Alison Stuart
Also by Alison Stuart
Available in ebook from Escape Publishing
Lord Somerton’s Heir
By The Sword
The King’s Man
Exile’s Return
Title Page
The Postmistress
Alison Stuart
Dedication
This book is dedicated to the memory of Australia’s pioneer women,
who endured untold hardship to make their way in a man’s
world and an unforgiving land,
whether they chose to work the land or the gold claims,
run businesses or keep homes and raise children—or,
indeed, all of these things!
Prologue
Prologue
Oldfield House
Liverpool, England
6 December 1861
Tock, tock, tock …
The muffled tick of the marble and gilt clock on the mantelpiece beat out the minutes of Adelaide’s life. She stared at the egg congealing on her plate and fought back rising nausea. At the far end of the table, her father, Sir Daniel Lewis, read his morning mail.
Tock, tock, tock …
‘More tea, Miss Lewis?’ Hawkins, the footman, hovered at her elbow.
Adelaide shook her head.
As the man turned away, her father brought his fist down on the table with such force that it rattled the crockery and caused Hawkins to slop tea onto the oriental rug, the dark liquid spreading across the pattern of entwined leaves. The footman gave a cry of alarm, fell to his knees and mopped frantically at the wet stain with a table napkin.
‘Leave that,’ Sir Daniel snapped at the footman. ‘Get out.’
The man rose to his feet and inclined his head, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
‘What is it, Papa?’ Adelaide’s voice sounded reedy and thin.
Her father looked at her, his mouth a hard line and his brow furrowed. He waved the telegram he held. ‘Calamitous news. The Evangeline has not made port in Savannah.’
‘The Evangeline is lost?’ The room spun and Adelaide grasped at the table.
‘I fear so.’
‘What of … what of Mr Barnwell?’ It took a supreme effort to keep the tone of her voice even and disinterested.
Her father shrugged. ‘If the Evangeline is lost, we can only assume all hands are lost with it. I will have to inform his father, of course, but His Lordship has other sons.’
Adelaide’s hand rose to her mouth but not in time to choke back the sob.