Mystic Mountains
In the early 1800s the penal colony of Botany Bay was an unforgiving and harsh place. Isabella O'Shea is transported to New South Wales for wounding a member of the British aristocracy who raped her, so it is understandable that she loathes members of the upper class and the system that punished her; sentenced her to seven years transportation.
Tiger Carstairs is rich, ambitious and English-so is it any wonder she is determined to hate her new master. Tiger dreams of making a new life beyond the aptly named Blue Mountains, so called because of the perpetual haze of blue surrounding them.
Mystic Mountains is a story of courage and persistence-traits that were essential for the settlers who carved out a new life in a raw land where suffering and heartbreak were commonplace.
Isabella and Tiger face tragedy and many hardships in their quest for a new life in this untamed land.
Reviews:
“Tricia McGill has written a sweeping love story of two people fighting for their places in an unfair world among the wild, untamed vistas of Australia. The strong plot reveals much about the early settlement days of the continent of Australia and is a history lesson in itself besides a sizzling romance. A job well done by Ms. McGill.” Lani Roberts 5 stars ***** Affaire de Coeur
“Sometimes we in America forget that Australia is an equally young country, complete with tales of adventure about the settlement of the land. In this story of love adventure and hardship, we see a man and a woman work together to survive and overcome the harsh land that is Australia. A thoroughly enjoyable book, well-written and exciting.” Deborah Brent for Romantic Times book club
Chapter One
March 1818 Sydney Cove.
A wind as hot as the devil’s breath sent the longboat
rocking. Isabella tried not to think about her roiling stomach as she raised a
hand to shield her eyes from the sun that blazed down on them. Fear, like some
deadly snake, coiled itself around her innards, sliding viciously into every
muscle and bone, every part of her body, leaving a bitter taste in her mouth.
The woman Isabella now counted as a true friend groaned. “S’pose
we’ll ‘ave to get used to this heat,” she muttered as she ran a hand around her
nape and blew a strand of greasy hair out of her eyes. “‘Tis hotter ‘ere than
it was on the stinking ship when we was anchored off Rio de Janeiro!”
Isabella grimaced. “That’s a fact, Gracie.” They had been
forced to get used to a lot of things, a deep and abiding despair more than
anything else.
“These blooming six days we’ve been stuck out on the water ‘ave
seemed longer than the whole bloody voyage,” Gracie grumbled. “Gawd but it’ll
be good to get me old feet on solid ground again.”
Isabella wrapped her arms about her middle and shuddered,
swallowing the bile that threatened to choke her. “I don’t ever want to see the
ocean again as long as I live, Gracie.” Much as she might wish she were back in
Stepney, she would never want to repeat that dreadful voyage. A violent storm
lasting for nearly two days coming round the Cape had caused such wretchedness
they’d feared they would all perish. No, she wouldn’t care if she never saw the
ocean again.
Gracie nudged Isabella as the wharf loomed before them. “Well,
girl, ‘ere we go, ‘ow d’ya feel, eh?”
“As if a mess of worms are wriggling about inside me, that’s
how.”
Even when evading the constables in the alleyways and back
lanes of Stepney Isabella had always felt that one day things would improve.
That certainty died on the day of her arrest. Gracie had tried to give her some
hope for better days ahead, but Isabella knew that a woman in her position had
little hope for anything in life, least of all a bright future.
Gracie winked broadly at one of the sailors, now getting
ready to stow the oars. He blew a raspberry and she chortled. Isabella had no
idea how she would get by without Gracie. The older woman had been like a rock
on the awful voyage. Dougal too. She saw the Scot now on one of the other
longboats, which was carrying cargo. She waved and his plain face reddened as
he shot her a cautious grin.
The first mate made a rude gesture. “Right, you lot,” he
shouted. “Get a move on. The time has arrived for you to leave this illustrious
vessel. Steady now, we don’t want you falling in the drink and spoiling your
nice clothes, do we?” He sketched a bow. “This here’s Government Wharf.”
Isabella felt like pushing him into the sea, but the small
moment’s triumph wouldn’t be worth the punishment she knew him capable of
dishing out. How she hated him. Sweat trickled between her breasts and ran down
her legs and she trembled as much with fear as with anticipation.
The man leered and suddenly grabbed her arm. “Now we’ll see ‘ow
you’ll manage without that Scottish dolt watching over you every step of the
way. You got away with it on the ship, slut, but let’s see how you like having
one of those toffs putting his hands under your shift, eh?” He grinned evilly
as he nodded to the men milling about on the wharf. “And not only his hands. He’ll
be poking on you with more than his hands, mark my words.”
Isabella squirmed. “Let me go!” But he tightened his grip
until she thought her arm might break.
“I will, after you gives me a little thank you kiss for
being so nice to you.” Before she could back off he pressed his wet sloppy
mouth over hers.
He was pushed aside, and forced to let her go or head into
the water, as the women jostled to be first off the boat.
“All right, all right, don’t shove,” one shouted, elbowing
Gracie.
Gracie threw herself bodily at the first mate. “Whoops, must
‘ave tripped,” she said with a grin.
Isabella wiped her mouth on the hem of her skirt, and jumped
swiftly onto the dock. The first mate shook a fist at Gracie and she waved
audaciously. He cursed loudly.
Gracie muttered, “Just look at that Marjorie, carrying on
like the doxie she is.”
A buxom woman on one of the other boats lifted her skirts
and shook a leg, making the boat wobble dangerously. The sailors guffawed. Some
of the women made lewd gestures and shouted obscenely to the sailors as they
climbed out, adding to the crew’s amusement.
Isabella was silent. She would never feel anything but
heartsick at being brought to this hostile land. Some women had stolen with one
purpose in mind: to join lovers and husbands already transported, and these few
were cheerful at the prospect of being reunited with their menfolk.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a shout. “That there’s The
Rocks.” The first mate jerked his head towards the cottages and shacks sprawled
on the hillside. “If any of you ladies is interested in working in the public
houses and rum taverns, that’s where you should head,” he said, amid coarse
laughter from his mates.
“Gawd, let’s ‘ope we’ve seen the last of pubs, eh?” Gracie
said as Isabella huddled closer to her side. Gracie had made no secret of being
a whore in London. To most of the women, whoring was the only means of
supporting themselves and families apart from thieving. Isabella shuddered and
Gracie patted her hand. “You’ll have no need to end up over there, you wait and
see.”
“I hope to God I don’t, Gracie.” For a period back there in
Stepney she had expected to spend the rest of her days as a whore. Most of the young
girls in that slum had resorted to selling their bodies to save themselves from
starvation.
But for good or evil, that scum of a gentleman had put paid
to that expectation.
She grimaced as Gracie went on blithely, “I saw it in me tea
leaves, you’re gonna make yer fortune ‘ere in the colony.” She chuckled at
Isabella’s skeptical look.
“Oh Gracie, what am I going to do without you?” Isabella
shook her head. The thought of their impending separation made her feel sick.
“You’ll do a treat, ducks, yes you will.”
“I only wish I was as certain,” Isabella muttered. She’d
been lucky to end up with Gracie when the prisoners were split into mess groups
at the start of the voyage. Gracie had been her protector and her mentor. Not
even a childhood spent foraging for sustenance in Stepney, or the violence
during her stay in prison, prepared her for the hardness and cruelty of some of
the thieving harlots on the prison ship. Gracie held Isabella’s hand when they’d
peered through the scuttle holes to get their last despairing glimpse of
London, knowing they’d never see it again.
Gracie now tapped Isabella beneath the chin and grinned
again, showing the many gaps in her teeth. “You’ll get a good master, don’t fret,
then all your troubles will be over.”
Isabella had a feeling her troubles would never be over.
Dazedly she watched as the boat dropped off the last woman
and turned to head back to the ship for the next load of human cargo. The haze
caused by the swirling dust gave the scene a sense of unreality. Sweat seemed
to seep from every pore in Isabella’s skin, soaking her ragged clothing, but
she’d grown used to almost every form of human discomfort. What was a bit of
sweat? The wind raced across the wharf, the flying dust stinging her cheeks,
bare arms, and ankles.
The harbor was a cauldron of activity. Longboats ferried
cargo to and from the dozen or so ships bobbing at anchor in the cove, most
bound for exotic and oriental ports. At first sight of it the startling scenery
had lifted the convicts’ flagged spirits after weeks of endless ocean, but that
first sense of exhilaration had soon dispelled.
Gracie nudged her. “Buck
up dearie, ‘ere’s the nobs.”
Isabella tried to stop her fingers shaking as she wiped at
her dry, cracked lips. Soldiers, lined up and armed, stared at the unkempt
women as if they were no better than the rats that had swarmed below decks.
“Stand to one side,” one of the soldiers ordered and another
waved his truncheon.
“What do they think we are, a load of stupid sheep?”
Isabella moaned.
“Ah well, we should be used to it by now.” Gracie sighed as
they all moved to where they’d been directed.
“They’re looking at us as if we’re creatures on display at
the fair. You’d think they’ve never seen a female con before.”
There were men everywhere, not just the soldiers. They
lurked around corners and on rooftops, treating the arrival of a shipload of
women as a spectacle.
“‘Tis a fact that we’ve been brought here because they have
a shortage of women in the colony, Bella. I s’pose that lot’s waiting to find
out which of us they’re gonna own, eh?” Gracie jerked her head towards a motley
group of men standing openly surveying them, eyes gleaming.
It took some time to bring all the prisoners to shore.
Isabella was close to fainting with the heat before the final boatload was set
down.
At a signal from one
of the officials a gentleman came out of a building. Moving with stiff
precision to the center of the dockyard, he stopped, then wiped his face on a
white kerchief as he cast his eyes along the row of women. Unsmiling, he
announced, “On behalf of Governor Macquarie I welcome you to New South Wales.”
“God bless me, if he don’t sound like ‘e’s really glad to
see us who’ve come from the other side of the world at the King’s pleasure.”
Gracie chuckled. “Nice of Governor Macquarie to send one of ‘is codgers to make
sure we’re all ‘appy to be ‘ere.”
“Yes, happy as larks,” Isabella retorted in a sharp whisper.
“As you know,” the man went on, “you have been allocated
quarters or assigned masters. These good men,” he gave the officials a stiff
smile, “have spent many hours taking your particulars to ensure that everyone
goes to an appropriate place of employment. You will show your allegiance to
these masters. If you work hard to prove you are of some worth to the new
colony you will earn your freedom as many others have before you.” Obviously
bored, he ran his eyes along the row of sweltering women. “Many of you will be
in far better positions than you would ever have hoped to attain in England.”
He turned and strode back into the building.
Isabella blew upwards in an effort to cool herself. She’d
only taken in half of what he’d said. She was a prisoner, for all his fancy
words. Still, in the long run, better to work here, hopefully in some nob’s
kitchen, than to rot in a prison back home. Or face the hangman’s noose.
Home? It was so far away and so far removed from where she
stood now, that it seemed as if the years before she’d been arrested had been
lived by another person. But for all their poverty she’d always known what it
was to be a part of a close, loving family. Oh how she missed her ma, and her
brothers and sisters.
Isabella ignored the
leering looks they received from men scurrying to off-load cargo. Her legs felt
as if they would give out on her at any moment. Her bad foot with its crooked
toes was beginning to ache fiercely and she swayed.
At last they were herded to where a stern government clerk
sat at a table, a ledger in front of him and a pen in his hand.
Gracie poked Isabella in the back. “I ‘ope I get a strong ‘ansome
master,” she said with a chuckle. “Like that one with the gold ‘air over there.
Look at ‘im. Lord, ‘e’d do me fine. E’s been staring ‘ard at us since we came
ashore. Stands out from the other lot like a boil on yer nose, don’t ‘e? Rather
a dandy, I don’t mind saying so. I’ll warm ‘is bed any time ‘e likes.”
“Can’t say I noticed him,” Isabella lied.
“Oh no, suddenly you’re blind, eh?”
“One member of the gentry’s the same as the other. They can
all rot in hell.” Isabella shuddered. She detested them all, with their fine
clothes, finicky manners, and hearts as cold as stone.
“You may sit on the ground, ladies.” The officer in charge
gave the order then smirked as he marched away.
“Cripes, why didn’t they tell us that before?” Gracie sank
with a huge sigh onto her well-padded bottom. The others followed her.
* * *
Tiger Carstairs removed his hat, then ran his fingers
through his sweat-dampened hair. Smiling grimly he pushed the hat back on as he
turned his back on the bedraggled lines of women.
What a bunch. They didn’t get any better. Still, one female
had caught his eye. She was a bit short on flesh to cover her bones, but there
was a light of defiance in her eyes that the dreadful journey with all its
degradation hadn’t snuffed. She’d stared right at him from eyes as green as the
sea as she’d limped past, her spine straight as a broomstick. He liked that.
Yes, she’d do perfectly.
She was young, if not very hearty, but Thelma had told him
to keep his eye out for one who didn’t look as if she’d be off in a flash with
any man who showed up at the back door. This one hated men, if that glower she’d
given him was anything to go by. So blatant was her scorn he’d fully expected
her to spit in someone’s eye. The sunshine had picked up glints in hair that
would probably be reddish-brown after a good washing. But the wench had really
taken his fancy, stirred some deep emotion. It was an unnerving sensation,
peculiar in its uniqueness.
“Ho, Tiger Carstairs, after a new woman to warm your bed?”
called one of the other men who’d come to inspect the new arrivals.
Tiger eyed the man coldly. Half of these poor dregs of
humanity would end up as bed-warmers for this lot. Still and all, most of the
females who’d landed today had whored in London and on the journey over, so the
new life in the colony would hold no surprises for them.
“No, Mackenzie. Believe it or not, some of us are merely
looking for women capable of keeping our homes clean and our stomachs full.”
Tiger looked away, watching the hustle and bustle of unloading.
Mackenzie’s laughter was coarse as he walked away. Probably
rum soaked as usual. Tiger sauntered over to the table where Gregson sat with
his list of assignments.
“The wench there with the cropped red hair, who’s to take
her?” he asked indolently. “I’d like her.”
“Have to wait your turn, Carstairs. She’s been assigned. I
have your woman already noted. Let me see...” Gregson ran a finger down his
list. “Ah, yes, you have been allocated one Moira Paine.”
“I don’t want one Moira Paine unless it’s that wench.” Tiger
pointed to the red-haired girl. She was staring at her feet, looking for all
the world as if she was unaware of what was going on around her. Or had cut
herself off from it all.
Gregson peered along the line to the woman in question. “What
would you want with a scrawny wench like that, eh?” He shrugged. “Mind you, she
has the makings of a beauty, I suppose.”
“I care not for looks, old chap.” Tiger knew he lied. “My kitchen
woman needs a girl to help. This one looks capable.”
“Oh aye.” Gregson chuckled. “She does look capable enough.”
He leered, and Tiger hid a grimace of disgust. These men all had one thought in
mind where women were concerned, and that was having them on their backs with
their legs spread. “Hold on, old man, we’re about to start allocating now.”
Tiger eyed Gregson with annoyance. With a look along the
line he saw that the wench in question still stared at her feet. His heart gave
a strange lurch, unsettling him.
* * *
“Ah, thank the Lord, I’m gasping for a drink,” Gracie said
when some women came along the line with water jugs. “You cons?” she asked the
one who offered her a mug.
“Yea, all of us.” The woman grinned.
“‘Ow d’ya find it ‘ere?”
“It’s a blooming laugh a minute ain’t it?” She showed her
toothless gums as she threw her head back in a laugh. “Mind yer Ps and Qs and
yer’ll find it ain’t half bad,” she advised, before going on down the line.
“Not bad!” Gracie blew a raspberry, then wiped her mouth
with the back of a hand. “Gawd, but it’s like a blooming oven out ‘ere, ain’t
it?” She wiped the hem of her filthy skirt across her face, making streaks
through the grime.
Isabella sighed wearily. Her bad foot ached, her stomach was
twisted in knots, her hair was lousy and she stank like a pile of animal
droppings. The seasickness that had racked her during the long months at sea
was still with her, and the ground seemed to be going up and down.
Now the fear that had plagued her since she’d been herded
onto the ship so many months ago rose up to stifle her. Just what sort of
master would she get? She knew she was as strong as any woman here, but they
would take one look at her crippled foot and discard her as a domestic help.
She’d get picked as some man’s whore for certain, that was all these high
falutin’ nobs sought. That was how she’d got herself into this mess in the
first place. By taking a knife to one of them who’d thought it was his
God-given right to lay his white pampered hands on her.
With a small sob, her right palm went to her stomach. The
babe had lain there such a short while. Although she’d loathed the thought of
the nob’s spawn resting in her womb, when the growing babe had been torn from
her she had mourned its loss. It hadn’t been the babe’s fault; and perhaps it
had been better off not coming into this cruel world.
One of the babies born on board began to whine and Isabella
stared at its screwed-up face. Poor mite. Its mother, a doxie who’d worked the
streets of Islington, put the child to her sagging breast.
Heartsick and afraid of what the future held, Isabella put
her face on her bent knees and closed her eyes.
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