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Chapters (53)
  1. Cover
  2. About Alison Stuart
  3. Also by Alison Stuart
  4. Title Page
  5. Dedication
  6. Prologue
  7. One
  8. Two
  9. Three
  10. Four
  11. Five
  12. Six
  13. Seven
  14. Eight
  15. Nine
  16. Ten
  17. Eleven
  18. Twelve
  19. Thirteen
  20. Fourteen
  21. Fifteen
  22. Sixteen
  23. Seventeen
  24. Eighteen
  25. Nineteen
  26. Twenty
  27. Twenty-One
  28. Twenty-Two
  29. Twenty-Three
  30. Twenty-Four
  31. Twenty-Five
  32. Twenty-Six
  33. Twenty-Seven
  34. Twenty-Eight
  35. Twenty-Nine
  36. Thirty
  37. Thirty-One
  38. Thirty-Two
  39. Thirty-Three
  40. Thirty-Four
  41. Thirty-Five
  42. Thirty-Six
  43. Thirty-Seven
  44. Thirty-Eight
  45. Thirty-Nine
  46. Forty
  47. Forty-One
  48. Forty-Two
  49. Forty-Three
  50. Forty-Four
  51. Author’s Note
  52. Acknowledgements
  53. Preview of The Goldminer's Sister

All Caleb had to alleviate her misery was a small blue bottle of laudanum. This he gave to Posy with instructions on its administration. Posy bathed the woman’s face and hands and Caleb sat beside the bed watching as Lizzie dropped into a fitful sleep, her feverish hands plucking at the sheets that covered her.

He rose to his feet, stretched and moved to the window. The shadows outside were lengthening and the tall fence made the once pleasant room gloomy. He glanced at Murray, who had not moved since Caleb had entered. He wanted to rail at the man for the idiocy of moving his wife, taking on that risk and responsibility not only for her life but also that of the whole town, but what was done was done and nothing would be accomplished by adding to this man’s guilt and helplessness.

‘Come and sit with your wife,’ he said.

Murray shuffled to the bed and Caleb showed the man how best to ease his wife’s suffering.

Outside he took a deep breath of fresh air and went to the first of the containment rooms. He poured water into the bowl and scrubbed his hands with the carbolic soap that had been left there.

‘You’ll scrub your skin off,’ Posy remarked from the doorway where she stood holding a steaming tin pannikin.

Caleb hastily dried his hands and took the mug from her. ‘Washing hands keeps the illness at bay,’ he said. ‘I want you to make sure that you regularly wash your hands and young Robert’s.’

The girl managed a humourless smile. ‘Cleanliness is next to Godliness?’

Caleb returned to the verandah, sat on the bench and leaned his head against the wall. A wave of sadness washed over him as he looked up at the palings that now imprisoned the family. Lizzie Murray had probably sat on this bench chatting with passers-by while she shelled peas or mended her husband’s shirts. He saw death in Lizzie Murray’s eyes. She would not live out the week.

Eighteen

Eighteen

18 January 1872

Maiden’s Creek froze as a pall of fear descended. The roads in and out were shut off. The shops did not open, and parents kept their children home from school. Every inhabitant seemed to hold their breath, eyes turned to the pretty little house hidden behind a great wall on the side of the road to Aberfeldy. Despite the cottage’s isolation, the screams of the dying woman could be clearly heard by people passing the house and, scared, they held their breath and kept to the furthest side of the road.

Unlike the rest of the town, the police station bustled with activity. Extra constables had been sent up from Buneep to assist with securing the roadblocks and the Emergency Committee had taken over Sergeant Maidment’s office.