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
Mrs Greaves placed her hands on her hips. ‘Nonsense. You’re not an imposition. Besides, do you have the money to pay for a hotel? It is only days to Christmas and the town is full of homesick miners.’ She raised a hand as he opened his mouth to object. ‘I’ll hear no more about it. Now, let me send for Maidment, and if you want to go chasing after Hannigan, it can wait until the new year when you are fit and well, and not before.’
‘In that case, at least allow me to pay for board and lodging. It can’t be easy for you, supporting a child by yourself.’
A slight colour darkened her high cheek bones, and for a moment he thought she would refuse, but she gave a curt nod of her head. ‘Thank you, Mr Hunt. I would be obliged. Can you afford six shillings a week?’
Caleb smiled. ‘Hannigan’s defection has not left me completely out of pocket, Mrs Greaves. Six shillings it is.’
From the post office came the tinkle of the bell. Adelaide Greaves gave him a quick, sharp inclination of the head and turned back to her responsibilities.
As the door to the post office closed with a decisive thump, Caleb lay back against the cushions and amused himself with thinking about the hundred different ways he would deal with Hannigan if their paths ever crossed again.
Eight
Eight
24 December 1871
Adelaide stood on the back step regarding her small flock of domestic fowl. The two roosters strutted among the hens, cockscombs up and chests proud, ignorant of the fate that awaited one of them: Christmas dinner. She generally left the distasteful task to Netty but Netty was fully occupied with baking.
‘Come on, my fine feathered friend,’ she said to Cholmondeley, the largest of the two roosters, who reminded her of her father’s butler, a pompous man with fading red hair. She knew it was always a mistake to give animals a name.
Cholmondeley strutted across to her outstretched hand. In the kitchen, Netty dropped a pan. The metallic crash startled the bird and he retreated to his hens, flapping his wings and protesting.
Adelaide straightened and considered her next move, hands on her hips. Her gaze met Mr Hunt’s, who sat on the bench outside Mick’s shed, whittling, and they both turned to look at the indignant Cholmondeley, who watched her suspiciously with one beady eye.
‘Can I assist you with something?’ Mr Hunt asked.
‘I am trying to catch that rooster while Danny is out. The wretched bird is to be our Christmas dinner but I’m not very fond of dispatching animals, and Danny views them all as personal friends.’
Mr Hunt regarded the rooster. ‘And very tasty he looks too. I tell you what, Mrs Greaves, if you can catch him, I’ll deal with him,’ he said.