Hill Of Gold: Free Prequel

By Darry Fraser

The free prequel to The Widow of Ballarat from Australian author Darry Fraser.
A compulsively readable story of passion, adventure and a woman's quest for independence set against the colourful backdrop of 19th century Bendigo and the goldfields of Ballarat.

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Oct 1, 2018
• ISBN: 9781489276780

Darry Fraser

Darry Fraser fell in love with the great Murray River when her family moved to her childhood town of Swan Hill in Victoria. Stories of the river have been with her ever since and it's where a number of her novels are set. Her stories are of ordinary people in nineteenth century Australia who are drawn into difficult circumstances - adventure, mystery and mayhem, love and life, and against the backdrop of historical events. Darry lives on the beautiful Fleurieu Peninsula, South Australia, very close to the mighty River Murray. To find out more, visit Darry on her website. You can also follow Darry on Facebook, Instagram and Twitter.

Book preview

Hill of Gold

Darry Fraser

www.harlequinbooks.com.au

Contents

Hill of Gold

Hill of Gold

Flora Doyle stood with her hands flat on her hips. Behind her, heat from the laundry fires blasted a furnace, and perspiration trickled down her back and popped on her face. Puffing a sharp, impatient breath, she tried to blow away dark strands of hair stuck on her cheeks and nose.

Through the lazy smoke of her campfire, she glared at Trudgy Walker.

He had just dumped a cart of filthy clothes on her newly laid out canvas—the largest intact piece she’d retrieved from the abandoned tent on the next claim to hers. She could smell the heat coming off him, too. Bad enough her fires had to be bigger than everyone else’s to heat her tubs, without having her customers land a load of sweat-soured laundry on her in the heat of midday. Early morning or early evening was best.

‘I’ve just cleared all dirty laundry off that canvas, Trudgy.’

She thumbed over her shoulder at the steam coming out of the wash-stands. The dolly-rod leaned against the tubs, waiting for her to take it up and push and swirl the previous customer’s clothes one last time. Her nose twitched as the biting sting of lye wafted over. She’d never got used to it and probably never would. She simply ignored it.

‘That’s the truth as I saw it, Miz Flora,’ he agreed. ‘So, with an empty space there, I reckoned ye’d have been lookin’ fer more laundry to fill it up, and, well, here ‘tis.’ The gap-toothed, meaningless grin came out of a dirty face with deep lines like the tracks over a boggy road. He turned to tip his battered hat at Flora’s mother, who sat by the campfire, stitching a shirt. ‘Miz Josie,’ he said, a wary note in his tone. He looked at the man standing behind her, and only nodded.

The man nodded back, and Flora set her mouth. ‘Ever obligin’,’ she said to Trudgy through her teeth, but softened her tone. She needed the work, and this was her profession.

‘Every man needs clean clobber, now or later, Flora,’ her mother chided without looking up. ‘And Trudgy Walker, if I find somethin’ in that lot needs stitchin’, and I’m sure I will, I’ll get to it soon as I’ve finished here with the lad’s shirt.’ She held up the bundle of tatty fabric.

Trudgy kept eyes downcast as a smirk twitched. ‘Aye, yer known fer yer good stitchin’ on the lad’s shirt, Miz Josie.’

Flora hands bunched on her hips. The firm set of her mouth kept her biting words from spitting forth, but it barely contained the lump in her throat. Most everyone knew that Josie needed to keep her hands busy. It seemed to save her mother’s poorly mind from wandering too far.

Josie nodded, agreeably it seemed, her handiwork now back in her lap. Her grey-streaked brown hair was neatly tied in a bun, and her pinafore was clean over a dark-coloured dress that might once have been blue. ‘An’ I don’t charge ye for me sewin’, if ye pay me girl a fair price.’ She bent to the side and picked up something from under her skirt, then laid a slingshot over her lap, resting it on the lad’s shirt.

The man behind Josie coughed, as if he expected attention. Flora ignored him. Lewis Wilshire would have to wait a moment longer—she’d already told him that.

‘Trudgy Walker, it’ll be done day after tomorrow. And that lot,’ Flora pointed to the mound of stinking clothes on the canvas, ‘will cost ye one pound.’

Walker cleared his throat. ‘Thing is, some o’ the boys are going up to that meetin’ on Bakery Hill tomorrow. And I, er, put me last few coins towards that good cause, sort of like a