Daughter of Australia (10 page)

L
eo wasn't at breakfast, hadn't been there all week. James looked at the empty chair every few seconds to see if she appeared, looked at the wide main door for her entrance, but she didn't come, and her absence hung like dust-speckled cobwebs. He knew where she was—stuck in that tiny office with that mealymouthed tutor. The room was nothing more than a converted supply closet, only now it held a desk and two chairs, the mops and brooms shoved to the side.

James spoke as rarely as Leonora now. There was nothing to talk about and no one to listen. He floated through sleep, through waking, did not speak of Ireland, tried not to think of it. The old talk of emerald grass, of wool and chalk cliffs, of sheep and warm fires, seemed the talk of silly toddlers, of treasure chests and fairies, and he wasn't a child anymore.

This was his life. He felt the deadness of it, the black corners that boxed him. His thoughts were empty now and they had been so full not long ago. So full there was little room for any others, and now they were gone and the void tasted sour in his mouth and thumped like steel drums in his chest.

James gave a final sigh to the empty chair before returning his plate and fork to the kitchen. The gray tutor shuffled into the dining room, grabbed a plate from the cook and sat down. He'd never seen her eat outside the office and his heart galloped. James took off quickly and ran past the two classrooms to the end of the hall.

Without knocking, James threw open the door. Leonora shot up from the chair and backed against the brooms. “Sorry, Leo. I didn't mean to scare you.” He waited for the shock to leave her face, waited for the smile that took away the deadness, but she just stared.

“Hurry, Leo. That pigeon lady's having breakfast.” He held the door open wide. “Let's go before she gets back.”

She stood perfectly still, her eyes wide. James approached. “Don't worry; she won't get mad. We'll be back quick.”

Leonora leaned farther into the brooms and shook her head.

“It'll be fine. I promise.” He grabbed her hand. A small cry left her lips.

“What's wrong, Leo?” Icy fingers tickled the backs of his legs. “What is it?”

She hid her hands behind her back. Gently, he reached for her right elbow and pulled her arm to him. Her hand was in a fist and then she opened it, slowly, palm up.

It took a moment for the red lines across her palm and fingers to register. His heart thudded hard and rough as he reached even more gently for her other hand. An open cut bumped across her knuckles, the palm raw as the other.

White rage, sharp and cold, pumped through every vein as he stared at the tiny beaten hands. He looked into her face. “Don't!” she begged.

But he was already gone, running blind with fury, down the hall. He did not look for the tutor but ran to the rectory, to Father McIntyre's small office, and pounded on the wood door with the side of his fist. There was no answer. James pounded again. He heard a shuffling behind the door but still no response. James pressed his shoulder against the door to force through the bolt, but the door opened easily; it was not locked.

Father McIntyre came through the bedroom door, his hair matted on one side. “Is all that banging really necessary, James?” He plopped down at his desk. “Why aren't you in class?”

James slapped away the question. “Why didn't you answer the door?”

Father McIntyre gathered a pile of papers and collected their corners. “I was resting.”

“That's all you do,” James seethed.

Father McIntyre looked sharply at him. “I don't appreciate your tone, James.”

The white rage took over and James landed both palms fiercely on the desk, their sudden smack sending the priest inches off his seat. “Wake up!” James shouted.

The priest sat stunned, then slowly rose. “Don't raise your voice to me, young man!”

James stuck out his chin, his eyes deep and black and blind. With one hand, he picked up the desk lamp and hurled it against the wall. The glass shade shattered against the floor, spilling thick, clear oil around the shards and open wick. “How could you?” James's breath came quick and fierce through his nose, the rebellion raking his body.

Father McIntyre gazed dumbly at the mess on the floor, his expression as broken as the lamp. He searched for clarity in the oil. “I don't know what you're talking about.” But then, through the haze, Father McIntyre reached for the boy, suddenly lucid. “I'm sorry, James. Please, don't hate me!” he begged through a warped smile. “I was only trying to protect you.”

“Me?” James shouted, aghast. “This has nothing to do with me!”

“It has everything to do with you, my son! Don't you see?” The disconnect was growing. Nothing about his words made sense. “I had to think of your future, protect you. The letter . . .”

“What letter?” James shook his head, pushed aside his own question. The Father was talking like a fool. James closed his eyes in disgust. “You're supposed to protect her, not me!”

Father McIntyre clamped his lips tight, swallowed something that had tried to escape. He met James's eyes and this time he was awake. “Tell me what you're talking about, James.”

“Leonora,” he said with palpable pain. “How could you let them hurt her?”

Possessed, Father McIntyre tore down the hall. James tried to keep up as they headed to the storage room. They could hear voices behind the wall. Father McIntyre pushed the door open with such force that both Leonora and the tutor jumped.

“Let me see your hands!” he ordered. Leonora was immobile with fear. The priest checked himself, calmed his voice. “You're not in trouble. Please, let me see your hands.”

With eyes turned to her feet, she raised her cut and bruised hands. Father McIntyre held them as if he handled shredded glass. His upper lip rose above his teeth and his face burned red.

“Leave now!” he ordered the tutor.

“I had no ch-choice,” the woman stammered. “She has much to learn in little time and can be painfully slow. Some days she hardly speaks!” She eyed the girl accusingly. “Mrs. Fairfield gave me strict instructions.”

“You're fired.”

“Mrs. Fairfield hired me and only Mrs. Fairfield can fire me.” The woman's voice wobbled with fake authority.

Father McIntyre dropped Leonora's hands and faced the woman. “Leave now before I take the switch to you, Mrs. Applegate.” He picked up the stick next to the desk and waved it perilously close to her cheeks.

Mrs. Applegate grabbed her purse to her stomach, her face ashen, and turned abruptly, her heels clicking against the floor as she fled through the hall like a blown dust ball.

Father McIntyre seemed to forget he wasn't alone. His eyes flickered left and right and he mumbled under his breath, swinging the switch against his shoe. He turned then and noticed James, dropped the stick to the ground under the boy's gaze. “James, ask Sister Louise to wrap up Leonora's hands.”

“I'll wrap them.” James's voice was hard and deep. He moved in front of Leonora, shielded her protectively. “I'll take care of her.”

“I
'm going to Northampton.” Father McIntyre pushed savagely past Sister Margaret and weaved between children. He did not pack a bag, no water or food. He did not saddle his horse but rode bareback, kicked her sides roughly, sending pebbles flying under hooves.

Father McIntyre had been drowning in the muddy water, the pull of sledge beneath his feet stronger than his will, but now anger pulsed and dangled a branch into the water and he clutched it with both hands. The brown mare barreled past the church onto the cliff road. Vertigo swirled. Father McIntyre kept his eyes closed, turned his head away from the endless waters. He hugged the horse's neck as if it were a ledge, its hair reaching into his nose and whipping his face. And he stayed this way until the crash of the sea weakened.

He thought of Leonora's little hands, red and swollen, and he unbent his spine, kicked the horse harder. His black cassock flapped loudly above the hooves, the sound resolute as they flew. Balled fists held the reins—the hands of a man, not the hands of a child; whole and clean hands, not cut and sore. He was not a child, he was a man, and it was his job as a man to protect a child.

In Northampton, the priest's legs were stiff and heavy from constant clutching and his thighs twitched like a cow trying to rid herself of a fly. For a moment, his reserve wobbled, but he forced the picture of Leonora's hands to his mind as he entered the red-carpeted lobby of the Duxton Hotel, saw her knuckles as he took the wide steps two at a time. He needed the anger to keep him strong and alert. He breathed hard, closed his eyes to channel her wounds and gave three hard knocks to the double pine doors of the Fairfield suite.

“Bring it in!” Eleanor Fairfield's voice rang from inside.

He pounded again. She opened it swiftly and snapped, “I said you can bring . . . !” Her eyes widened. “Why, Father McIntyre, this is unexpected! I thought you were Housekeeping back with the laundry. Please, do come in.”

The sitting room was plush with Oriental carpets and polished oak. A large, gilded mirror owned half a wall. Mrs. Fairfield lowered into a high-backed chair, a queen on a throne, and motioned to the horsehair sofa. “Please, Father McIntyre, have a seat.”

“I'll stand,” he said coldly. “I won't be long.”

“All right.” She studied him carefully, sleepily. “So, to what do I owe the honor?”

“I've come to talk about Leonora.”

“So I guessed. However, I was expecting you later in the week. No matter. My lawyers just finished the paperwork, so you can sign the contract today. It will save you another trip.” She reached for a brown leather case and placed it on her lap.

“There won't be an adoption.” The words smoldered, heated the lining of his mouth.

“Is that so?” Eleanor Fairfield raised her eyebrows and the corners of her lips tipped in amusement. “And why is that?”

Father McIntyre tried to hold his temper, but his ears burned and his bottom lip trembled. “I won't allow a child to be beaten!” he growled.

Her brows dropped, all levity erased. “What are you talking about?”

“I saw her bloodied hands!” His teeth chattered. “I won't tolerate child abuse!”

Eleanor Fairfield pushed her back into the chair and stared at the right wall, ruminative. When she turned back, her face was drawn and serious. “I'm a hard woman, Father McIntyre, but not a violent one. Mrs. Applegate hit her?”

“Don't play games with me, Mrs. Fairfield. She said you gave her strict orders.”

“Yes, to teach her, Father McIntyre!” she defended. “To teach her, not hurt her.”

Her anger mirrored his own, sapped him. He tried to push her. “I fired the tutor.”

“Good.” She nodded. “I'll find a replacement.”

The fight waned. He needed the rage, the fire. “I believe the result will be the same, Mrs. Fairfield. Your expectations are too high for the girl.”

With that, the softness left her face and the glint returned. “I can assure you, Father, I want her bruised no more than you do.” She leaned forward, defiant. “However, I'm surprised by your passion on the subject. ‘Spare the rod, spoil the child'—isn't that the saying, Father? I've always heard the church was a strong proponent of corporal punishment.”

“The only outcome of abuse is fear and a broken spirit.”

“Mind you, most of the world thinks differently,” she toyed. “I have to say, you impressed me with your vigor just now. I don't have much trust in priests. Find them quite selfish and out of touch.” She clapped quickly with wrists held high. “Let's start fresh, shall we?” She pointed again to the sofa. “Please, have a seat and let me get you a drink.”

His legs were suddenly weak from the gallop, the anger. He drifted to the sofa, his figure dwarfed by the large camelback. “I'll have tea.” He wasn't sure who the enemy was anymore.

“Tea? No, have a drink with me. A real drink and a chat.”

The priest took the brown drink from her hands and did not ask what it was.

“You've never inquired about my husband,” noted Mrs. Fairfield as she took her own drink and sat back into the throne, crossing her long legs leisurely. “Don't you want to know if he's a good man? After all, he's also adopting Leonora.”

“So,” Father McIntyre asked flatly, “is he a good man?”

“Yes,” she answered. “He's smart and good and kind. Kinder than me. You would like him. He's in mining, in case you were interested.”

“I'm not.” It felt good to pinch her ego. Father McIntyre leaned back, his whole mind and body alert to her moves. He sipped the liquid slowly and she smiled as if his silence tickled her.

“So, tell me, Father . . .” Mrs. Fairfield gave a quick laugh to a passing thought and sipped her own tall drink. “What did you tell the couple that wanted to adopt Leonora?”

His fingernails bit into his knees. “I told them she didn't want to go with them.”

“Huh!” She laughed and held her glass up in a toast. “Brilliant! Blame it on the child. A noble choice.” Her tongue played in her cheek. “I'm guessing you aren't a very good liar, Father McIntyre, which of course can be a virtue or a curse. So, tell me, did they believe you?”

“No.” He released the pressure on his knee. “I don't think so.” He raised his eyebrows and turned back to his drink. Through the glass he could see his fingers, warped and bloated, could see the shadow of her form in the bottom as she watched him. “Why is it so important that Leonora be the one?”

Her foot dangled from the dress, the hem flirting with the air. “Because she's a ghost.”

“I'm not following you.”

“She leaves no fingerprints. She has no past, no history, no name. If she disappeared tomorrow it would be like she never existed at all.
Poof!
” She snapped her fingers. “No one would know she was gone.”

His expression turned hard as granite. “I would.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling. “And I've taken precautions that you'll never share that information.”

“The contract?” he scoffed, nearly spilling his drink. “A name signed in ink is only as strong as one's word. A man's word may change over time. Even a priest's.”

She laughed. “I'm not an idiot, Father McIntyre. My lawyers tear through contracts daily. I know of how little worth they are. No, my assurances go much deeper, I promise you.”

Mrs. Fairfield stared into her glass, seemed to search for words within the liquid. “My sister recently passed away.”

“I'm sorry,” he said automatically.

She shot him a look of buried pain and snarled, “Don't be sorry for me.” She composed herself, rubbed the folds of her dress. “Anyway, she was in Sydney when she passed, a mental facility. She hanged herself.” She said the words calmly, but her neck lengthened. “I was the one who sent her there. Thought Sydney the farthest civilized place I could find, and I was right.”

With a sudden switch, she smiled and raised her glass. “I invented a story, Father McIntyre. I was quite elaborate in my telling, too. All about my beautiful, brilliant sister living the exotic life in Australia. I even created a daughter for her.” She pinched her lips. “I don't make many mistakes, but that was one of them. When my sister died, everyone wanted to know what would happen to the child. ‘The poor darling! ' they cried. ‘Surely, you'll bring her home!' they cried. ‘A child must be raised with family!' ”

Eleanor Fairfield put the drink to her lips and finished it, rattled the empty glass in her hand as if calling for a waiter. “And that, Father McIntyre, is why I'm adopting Leonora. She will be my long-lost niece and the only history she will bring is the one she is taught.”

Father McIntyre's mouth fell open. He wondered if she was joking, but the truth sat in the frigid, set lines of her face.

“Ah,” she said. “I've shocked you. You think I'm a woman without a heart.”

Eleanor studied him, then reached for her checkbook. “I promised you twenty-five thousand dollars. If it helps you sleep at night, I'll make it thirty thousand.”

The corrosiveness of the money severed all restraint, and before he realized it he whipped the pen out of her hand and threw it at her feet. “I'm not in the business of selling children!”

She stood and faced him, her tall frame matching his own.

“That's where you're wrong, Father. You sold Leonora just like a slave, auctioned her off to the highest bidder.”

“How dare you!” He tried to find an excuse, felt his own mind cripple. He stammered, “The ch-children . . . I was trying to help—”

She cut him off and paralyzed him by the poison of her words. “You teach them and train them and then sell them off to people too poor to hire proper help.” She pushed him into the murky water. “Your intention might be godly and noble, but the outcome is the same.” She tore the branch from his hands. “You throw them to the wolves and pat yourself on the back as they're eaten!” She held his head under the waves.

He stepped back. The room closed and he couldn't remember where the door was. “Why?” he asked, desperate. “Why are you saying these things?”

She inched toward him. “Because beneath those black clothes, you are a man. You may indeed be a good man or you might be a bad man, I quite don't care which. But once dressed in that suit, once leashed with that collar, you become something greater than a man, don't you? You become a man of God; you become a treasured child of the Heavens. What a prized and fortunate human you are. The ultimate hypocrisy! You see, naked you are a man, as weak and flawed as any other. Clothed you are a priest!” An old scar revealed itself in the rawness of her tone. “I dislike hypocrites and I hate priests!”

The water filled his lungs and plugged his ears until every part throbbed and drowned. In his mind he ran from the room with fury, but in truth he fled slowly as a coward and the door slammed against his back.