Daughter of Australia (16 page)

Alex was startlingly handsome. He stood a full head taller than Leonora's uncle, even taller than her aunt by several inches. In his winged collar and ascot his skin was smooth with a hint of tan, his dark hair upswept and rugged, almost windblown, adding a casualness to his form.

“It's not like he's picking rock, darling!” Owen scoffed, then conceded with a bow, “I promise to have you assess the physical attributes of all my workers from now on.”

Alex turned to Leonora, his eyes falling on the scoop of her dress. She stretched the fabric to her neck before catching her aunt's scowl. Eleanor motioned to the maid to refill Leonora's wineglass and then addressed her husband: “Your niece has decided to volunteer at the hospital.” The statement sounded strangely like a compliment.

“Is that so?”

“What sort of work will you be doing, Miss Fairfield?” Alex asked, his dark, nearly black eyes holding her face.

“I'm not sure,” Leonora answered. His gaze became too strong and her face heated. His lips curved to a grin and she was grateful when the maid stepped between them.

Owen raised his empty glass. “Scotch, please.”

“Not before dinner, Owen!” Eleanor ordered.

He ignored her. “Alex, will you join me?”

“Not if it displeases the lady.” The young man's tone rang with authority and Leonora was amazed. Governors and business moguls alike kowtowed to the Fairfields and here was this man with unsettled hair who did not pluck a word or stall in self-consciousness.

“Actually, I think the evening calls for champagne,” Eleanor decided. “Mr. Harrington has put me in a celebratory mood.” And indeed, his presence had a joviality about it. Usually evenings were indigestible, choked between excruciating silence and nagging quips. But tonight there was levity and Eleanor Fairfield bubbled subtly like the champagne now uncorked.

“A toast!” Eleanor raised her glass. “To my husband's homecoming, to our guest, Mr. Harrington, and, of course, to our country!”

Leonora drank her champagne, felt the effervescence tickle against her tongue, felt it blend with the white wine already in her stomach, and she found herself flush with gratitude. Tonight brought the banter of her uncle's relaxed speech. Tonight brought a man who drew her aunt's attention away from Leonora's shortcomings. And tomorrow the hospital, freedom from the confines of the house. Tonight there was air. Leonora could breathe, really breathe, this evening, and she turned to Alex and smiled without realizing it—her smile unwavering this time, simply grateful. He raised an eyebrow and his dark eyes danced over her features.

Eleanor Fairfield relaxed into the alcohol, her face loosening, almost pretty. “So tell me, Mr. Harrington, what line of work is your family in?”

“Banking. Investment firms. Commodities. That sort of thing.”

“And how's business?”

Owen sucked on an ice cube. “My wife wants to know if you're rich.”

Alex laughed. “Working for your husband, no. No disrespect, of course.”

“None taken.” Owen patted him on the back, then eyed his wife. “Now leave the young man alone, dear.”

“It's all right,” said Alex. “I have no qualms about talking money. In fact, I admire her frankness. Most people try to find a man's story by his manner or dress or education, or by gossip. I appreciate the forfeiting of games—it makes for a much more interesting and honest evening, I think. Besides, I take no pride in the wealth of my family, just as I'm not ashamed of my own lack of it.” Alex leaned casually, his body inching closer to Leonora's. “My father passed when I was quite young; my mother a few years ago. My stepfather is a rich man, it's true, and money has been set aside for me if I need it. But I don't need it, nor will I ever use it.” His whole figure shifted and tensed, his eyes hard and steady. “I intend to be a very rich man, but plan on earning every penny myself.” He grinned arrogantly. “That's why I feel so fortunate Mr. Fairfield has taken me under his wing. I'm learning from the best.”

“Nothing you don't deserve.” Owen spoke between bites of ice. “Productivity magnifies around you. Don't know how you do it. Could teach me a few tricks at this point.” He plopped another scotch-soaked cube in his mouth. “That's why I'm bringing him to the mills. Want him to see where all that ore is going.”

“I hope that means you'll be staying here,” Eleanor insisted.

“I don't want to impose.”

“Nonsense. We certainly have the room.” She turned to Leonora and clicked her teeth with her tongue. “Don't we?”

“Then I'd be honored. I expect we'll be seeing quite a lot of each other.” Alex grinned at Leonora, his comment singularly defined.

Eleanor nodded with slit, glowing eyes. She took Owen's drink out of his hand. “Come check on dinner with me.”

“I'm sure the cooks have it covered, dear.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes, pulled her husband's hand, tilted her head toward the young people. Leonora blushed hotly and lowered her eyes to her hands, tried to sink through the carpet.

Alex reached into his jacket pocket and brought out a small silver case, flicking it open with his thumb. He displayed the line of cigarettes. “Do you smoke?” She shook her head and twisted her hands.

“Good.” He took out a cigarette, smacked it twice against the silver and put it in his mouth, shoving the case back in his pocket. “I find it unladylike.” He cupped his hand away and lit the tip, sucked in, shrugged. “I'm old-fashioned that way.”

They were quiet for several minutes. He peeked at her. “You aren't going to have your aunt throw me out for smoking, are you?”

“No fear of that,” Leonora said softly. “You charmed her. That's not an easy task.”

Alex leaned back and placed his hand on his heart. “Ah, she speaks!” He smiled widely. “Your aunt is a strong woman and I respect that. A man knows where he stands.” He looked at her steadily. “But the bigger question is, have I charmed you?”

Leonora swallowed, but a smile tipped her lips.

“That's more like it!” he teased. He smoked casually, watched her. “How long have you lived with your aunt and uncle?” Alex asked.

“Since I was eight.”

“Mind if I ask what happened to your parents?”

The words were drilled and rehearsed. “They died in a fire.”

“I'm sorry.” His face mellowed.

She drew upon the champagne's warmth to dull her nerves and drown out the guilt of the lie. “My uncle likes you. You must be very good at your job.”

“I am,” he said with unabashed confidence. “But my credit is limited. I've learned everything from your uncle.” He shivered playfully. “Wouldn't want to be on his bad side.”

“Oh, he's a teddy bear.”

Alex stopped short. “With hidden claws, my dear! I've seen him tear men to shreds.”

Now she stopped. “Are you saying he's violent?”

“No. Not violent. But ruthless.” He turned to her shocked expression and grinned. “It must sound like I'm speaking ill of him, but it's a compliment. Really. He's an amazing man. A master negotiator. He can give a man a choice, acts like the decision is completely out of his hands, when, in truth, there is only one answer and it always—always—works out in his favor, just as he intended.” He glowed in admiration. “Your uncle's got a true gift.”

Leonora grew silent. Alex ground out the cigarette in a crystal ashtray. “Here I am with a beautiful woman and I'm talking business. Feel free to yawn.” He smirked mischievously, then shoved his hands in his pockets. “Tell me, Miss Fairfield, are you seeing anyone?”

The nerves sparked again, her heart thumping. “No.”

“You sure? I'm quite certain I saw a line of suitors standing outside the gates!” he teased.

She rolled her eyes, tried to suppress her smile.

“No husbands I should know about? Hmm? Wouldn't want to step on anyone's toes.”

She laughed then—a real laugh with a real smile. She glanced at him and his eyebrows rose with pleasure. “Good,” he said as if she had answered. Then he moved to her side, inched his shoulders closer and stared boldly, his face and manner sanguine. He whispered in her ear, “Then you won't be angry if I try to steal a kiss.”

“Dinner's ready!” Owen hollered from the hall, nearly loud enough to cover the hammering of her heart.

 

“Just stand here and hold the pan steady,” ordered Nurse Polansky. Tall and blond with a hint of a Polish accent, the nurse looked better suited to the Milan runways than a patient's bedside, but her hands moved aptly and surely over the man's body, raising his eyelid to make sure he was asleep. Taking the scissors, she cut the line of bandages that reached from his knee down to his covered foot, the gauze opening wider with each steady snip.

Leonora felt the blood drain from her face. The skin crumbled black below the gauze, and the smell of wet, rotting flesh rose from the bed. Nurse Polansky removed each square slowly, placing the crusted bandages in the quivering bedpan. Drops of blood beaded from the man's disturbed skin. Leonora closed her eyes and the room spun; bile rose to her throat. “Go,” the nurse said firmly, taking the pan and turning back to the patient.

Leonora sped from the room, covering gags until she reached the bathroom. Gripping the toilet with both hands, she vomited until there was nothing left, and still her stomach spasmed for more. She slid to the floor and covered her eyes, reached for the toilet paper and wiped her cheeks. Finally, she walked out to the mirror, her face white, her hands still trembling as she splashed water over her face and patted it dry.

Nurse Polansky didn't look up when she returned. She finished wrapping the man's limb in a fresh bandage, cleaned up the remaining scraps, then motioned with a curved index finger for Leonora to follow. From the nurse's expression, she would be sent back to rolling bandages.

In the common room, Nurse Polansky scrubbed her hands to the elbow, dried them and folded the towel next to the sink. She turned to Leonora. “You're the Fairfield girl, aren't you?”

Her heart sank. “Yes.”

“Why aren't you working downstairs with the other volunteers?”

Leonora flushed as she remembered the way the women teased her, called her princess and mocked her cruelly. Nurse Polansky seemed to read her thoughts and nodded. “Do they know you're working up here?” she asked.

“No.” She waited for the dismissal.

The nurse opened a drawer and handed her a name tag that said Clara D. “Make sure they don't find out.” Leonora looked up gratefully.

“And there's a young man in room three eleven who wants your help writing a letter.” The nurse gave a wink. “I think he likes you.”

Leonora found the room at the end of the hall and recognized the young man whose arm was amputated a few days before. He couldn't have been more than her age. The stump from the elbow was thickly bandaged and held in a sling. He watched her sit next to the bed and pick up the notebook and pen. She met his gaze and asked gently, “How are you feeling?”

He shrugged one shoulder. “About the same. Gets so I can't remember what it's like not having something in pain.” She sat before him intact and yet she knew exactly what he meant.

Leonora tried to change the subject. “Where are you from?”

“South Carolina. Spartanburg.” The accent was drawn and smooth. He was freckled, not handsome, but cute, cocky like a farmer chewing a piece of straw.

“And who would you like the letter to?” she asked with poised pen.

“My mom.” He smirked. “You married?”

“No.”

“Got a beau, then?” His eyes began to glass over.

She knew where this was going, for Cupid held no chance in the face of morphine. “No. Now, what would you like the letter to say?”

“Will you marry me?” The young man looked at her dreamily, and she put down the pen.

“That's the morphine talking, I'm afraid.” She covered him up with the sheet for the sleep that was coming his way.

His speech began to slur as he protested, “A man knows when he's in love.”

“You don't even know my name.”

“Course I do.” He craned his neck and squinted at her name tag. “It's Clara. Clara D.”

“That's not my name.”

“Sure, it's not! See it right there. Not nice to tease a cripple, Clara! Now come on . . . what d'ya say? Will you marry me, darlin'?”

She patted him gently on the good arm. “I'm very flattered, but I won't be marrying you or anyone else, for that matter.” The words took her by surprise, for she meant them heartily.

“Sure,” he said sarcastically before closing his eyes lazily, giving up the fight against the morphine and her hand. “I know you, Clara. You'll marry. The good ones always do.”