Daughter of Australia (17 page)

Several weeks later, the moon was new, but the gas lamps bordering the rose gardens spilled ample light along the gravel path. Each segment haloed in the glow before waning gradually into the contrasted darkness, until the garden seemed a place of its own, surrounded by the black of the universe, the stone mansion nowhere in sight. The perfume of roses clung to the warm air and enveloped the skin and senses. Leonora held a silk shawl lightly in her wrists, the back of it drooped along the small of her back.

“There you are.” Alex emerged from the shadows. “Your aunt's been looking for you. Party's about to start.” He watched her face and edged closer. “What's wrong?”

“I don't do so well . . . socially.” She shot a furtive glance at the house, twisted the shawl.

He laughed and kissed her temple. “Ah, but you've never had me as a date before.”

His body radiated warmth, made the rest of the air feel cold in comparison. She neared him, the smooth fibers of his jacket brushing against her arm. His thumb touched her little finger, tickled the skin. He took her hand and pulled her gently to a stop. “Is there something else? You've been quiet ever since you got back from the hospital.”

“Do you think the war will last long?” she asked, her lips frowning.

“Yes. Fighting like this doesn't end quickly; blood's too thick.”

The thought settled dully in her chest. Images of wounded British soldiers who had been shipped to the states for critical care fanned in her memory, bundles of pain more than human bodies, and now the cruelty was to continue with new boys, new pain that spread man's ruthlessness like the plague.

“With war, there are those who suffer and those who prosper,” he preached. “I, for one, have no intention of being on the suffering end.” Alex touched her cheek with the back of his fingers, traced a path to her jaw before sweeping them under her chin. Without seeming to move at all, he appeared closer, leaned in slowly, touched his lips against hers, lips as full and soft as petals. He put his hand at the small of her back and pressed softly, guiding her body against his. Her arms reached around his waist and held tight to his jacket, her caress spurring him closer, his lips moving surely. Her body, unaccustomed to touch, soaked in his fingertips as they moved up her spine and etched lines across her shoulder blades.

His kiss grew fervent as he parted her lips, slid his tongue around hers, forced her mouth open. The sensations came too fast and she pulled away with a jolt.

With empty arms spread and mouth still open, Alex stood stunned. Then he shut his mouth, covered it with one hand, his body laughing. “I don't believe it. You've never been kissed, have you?”

She turned away, hoped the earth would swallow her whole.

“Aw, darling, don't be upset.” The laughter stopped, but his voice was full of merriment. Alex came up from behind and held her shoulders. “I'm sorry I laughed. Truly.”

When she didn't move, he kissed the back of her neck. “I find it lovely, actually.” He whispered near her ear so that all the tiny hairs of her face tingled with his breath. He kissed the side of her neck. “It's quite enchanting.” He kissed the ridge of her collarbone. “Irresistible.”

Alex turned her toward him and kissed her lips again, treading more slowly, grazing her lips instead of pressing them. “We'll just have to take this slow, won't we?”

He leaned in and kissed her softly on the throat, moved his lips up her jaw to her earlobe and whispered, “As slow as you like . . .”

 

By Fairfield standards, the party that evening was a small affair, though the guests held most of Pittsburgh's wealth in their palms. The Monroes and Edmontons were old money multiplied by generations in real estate and banking. New money in resource management, inventions and construction plumped the pockets of the Beekers and Sotherbys. Judge Richardson attended with his gaggle of girls who flirted with any male over seventeen and scowled at any female regardless of age. Then the select higher brood of Mr. Fairfield's steel mills, young men without immediate wealth but its future acquisition a certainty, for no one stayed poor long under Owen Fairfield's wings.

Leonora wore another new dress to go with the others that kept showing up in her wardrobe—Italian, French tags, lower necklines and clinging fabric, silk stockings and slips that made the body feel more naked than clothed. Cocktails were served in the sitting room while maids bobbed invisibly between circles of guests, refilling glasses at every sip. These parties were not new for Leonora, nor was the anxiety surrounding them, for they were insistent reminders that she lived on the periphery and did not fit into any group. But this party was different, for Alex stood so close to her side that a line of heat grew between them, so close that the sour whispers of the Richardson girls and the winks of the mill men could not reach her. His lean, strong body shielded her from Eleanor's pointed criticisms, while his erudite conversation saved her from the tedious chore of small talk.

“Alex!” called Owen Fairfield from a ring of smoking men. “Come join us.”

“I've been summoned.” Alex winked at Leonora. “Don't talk to any strange men while I'm gone.”

Lithe as a cat, Eleanor Fairfield slid to fill his spot, one arm folded at her waist, the other balancing a wineglass. “It's going well then?” she asked. Leonora nodded.

“He's very attentive. I doubt he's taken his eyes off you all night.” She pointed her glass to the Richardson girls. “Look at them nearly panting in the corner. Shameful. Of course, their mother's no better.
Tsk-tsk
. Why does that woman insist on wearing cream when it washes her out completely?

“Look at the effect he has on the men as well.” Now Leonora's aunt pointed the wineglass at the group of black tuxedos. Owen was bright with story, his hand clasped to Alex's shoulder. “I daresay my husband has a crush on him!” She laughed. “Do you see how the men straighten around him, fix their hair? Remarkable.” And she was right. Alex rubbed his fingers through his hair and two of the young men imitated him with comical timing. His manner combined arrogance with casual posture, the beguiling smile erasing any insult. As if his ears were burning, Alex turned to the ladies and took leave of the men.

Eleanor inspected her niece quickly. “Don't screw this up, Leonora.”

Alex returned to Leonora's side, placed a hand on her waist and kissed her temple to the open pleasure of her aunt and the chagrin of the young women and men jealous in their own way. “This room is becoming lopsided with beauty,” Alex said brazenly. “Not fair really.”

“You're a charmer, Mr. Harrington.” Eleanor pinched his cheek affectionately before making her way to her husband.

Alex scanned the guests. “I'm having a hard time thinking of anything other than that kiss. You've put me in a pickle.” He took a sip of his drink, grinned and rubbed a thumb against her back. “I might have to take you in my arms right now and do something very improper.”

After cocktails, they joined the others in the banquet hall and took their seats. Gerald, the butler, as experienced and subtle in his role as a ghost, poured wine so not a glass was less than half-full. Angela, the new table maid, struggled with the tray of soup bowls, each filled to the top. She served Mr. and Mrs. Fairfield first, then nervously placed a bowl in front of Leonora, who looked up at her and smiled with reassurance. The woman took a noticeable breath and steadied.

Owen Fairfield's nose was red from drink as he slapped the table, continuing some story he found extremely amusing. “. . . of course, they didn't expect a Yank to know a lick about polo, but our boy here”—he pointed across the table to Alex—“our boy here beat them clean, then handed them their balls!” The men erupted in laughter.

“Owen!” Mrs. Fairfield gasped.

He raised his hands innocently. “It's polo, dear.”

Alex leaned back and laughed, bumping his head against Angela's arm, sending the soup she was serving down the center of his shirt. He bolted upright, nearly knocking the chair over. “Jesus Christ! You clumsy b—!” he shouted, his fury immediate and violent.

Leonora froze, his anger stopping her cold. He caught her look and loosened his jaw. “It's all right.” He picked up the napkin and began wiping off the mess.

“It is not all right!” Eleanor scolded. “Did she burn you?”

“No, I don't think so.”

Eleanor growled at the quivering maid, “Get out and pack your bags!”

The maid began to cry, her eyes flitting from face to face. Leonora rose and took her by the shoulder. “It wasn't her fault.”

“She's right,” Alex said, composed, adjusting his neck. “It was my fault.”

“Nonsense!” Mrs. Fairfield addressed the butler: “Gerald, get her out of here. Now.”

Helplessly, Leonora let go of the maid, watched her hunched figure depart.

“Please accept my apology, Mr. Harrington.” Eleanor rubbed her neck. The rest of the guests stared awkwardly into their soup. “Leonora, take Alex upstairs for a new shirt.”

Leonora ignored Alex as she stormed from the room, did not slow down as he tried to catch up. She stomped upstairs to the last room, throwing open two walnut doors like shutters.

“You think this is my fault, don't you?” he asked as she opened one closet after another, pushing full hangers aside. She played deaf, scanned a line of shirts and pulled out a white one.

“I'm the one who got scalded by hot soup and you're angry at me?” he shouted.

Leonora inspected the tag at the collar and shoved the starched shirt to him. “Here. This should fit.” She moved toward the door and he grabbed her arm.

“Don't be cross. Please?” he begged. “Besides, you can't leave me up here. I'll be hopeless to find my way back.”

She kept her back to him but did not attempt to leave. Alex removed his jacket and laid it on a dimpled ottoman and began fumbling with his collar and tie. “Damn it,” he mumbled. “Could you give me a hand? These blasted buttons are caked with soup.” She turned, dubious.

“Please? Your fingers are much smaller than mine.”

Plastered with acorn soup, the man looked quite helpless. Leonora stifled a laugh.

He grinned. “Seeing you smile like that makes a third-degree burn almost worth it.”

Leonora stepped toward him and undid the first three buttons under his neck easily. At his chest the button stuck with the soup and she twisted and struggled to free it. The shirt opened in a V at his chest and she swallowed. Her fingers worked on the next button. As she was fully aware of him watching her, a blush rose to her cheeks as her fingers brushed his stomach. She moved a button lower and her hand began to shake. She knew he was smiling just by the way he was breathing. She plucked the button and turned away.

“There's one more,” he said smoothly. “You forgot the last one.”

Leonora bit her lip, turned back to the shirt, pulled at the button above his belt until the shirt fell open. A line of dark hair grew between his muscles and thickened above his waistband, sending a wave of heat down the backs of her legs. He followed her gaze, looked at his stomach, his muscles rippling with the bend. “You're a nurse.” He smiled. “Is the burn very bad?”

“I'm not a nurse,” she said, averting her gaze.

“Well, you spend enough time with them.” He peeled off the shirt and let it fall to the floor, his broad shoulders as disturbing as the chiseled chest.

She blushed hotly. “You'll live.”

Alex finished dressing while she tapped her foot and tried to calm her pulse.

“All better, eh?” he said, moving close. Brushing an arm past hers, he opened the door and bowed. “Thank you for your assistance, Leonora.”

As they walked down the hall, he leaned a shoulder against her back and whispered in her ear, “And, for the record, if you ever have soup spilled on you, I'd be happy to reciprocate.”

W
ork in the dry years exhausted James with infertile ground, sowing hope and despair in equal profits, but work in the wet years exhausted him with brute labor. For as soon as the sun exchanged spots with the moon and the tea was as dark as the sky, the work began, and did not finish until the dingoes howled. As a man, James was tall and lean, his muscles long hardened. Still his limbs ached until they quivered, and a dinner fork felt like lead between his fingers. But the growth, the life, was enough to raise weary eyes before the rooster's call, gave the strength to work, and he was nearly disappointed when the day had called to a close. The land fed them, housed them and paved the future, and they drank the green like champagne.

From the woodpile James carried as many logs as would fit in his arms to the house. Tess was buried to her chin under quilts next to the stove. Her eyes lit bright at the sight of him and she stood, dropping the blankets to the floor and holding the chair for support.

“ 'Tis late.” Tess reached for one of the logs in his arms, but the weight was too much and the log slipped out of her fingers to the ground. Fumbling, she bent to retrieve it and brush the splinters between the floor cracks. “Clumsy tonight,” she said while keeping her eyes averted. “Here I am tryin' to lighten yeer load an' I'm makin' more of a mess.”

“It's all right.” James knelt, gently took the log from her hand, then opened the damper on the stove and added the new wood to the fire, stoked it with a poker. He wiped his forehead. Outside, the air was hot; inside, the room was an inferno.

Pots banged at the sink and he turned to see Tess wrestling with the wrought-iron skillet. “Shamus comin' in soon?” she asked, trying to keep her voice level.

“Soon.” James picked up her blankets and folded them back on the chair. “Trying to work while the moon is full.” But the man worked whether it was light or dark, obsessed. To a man like Shamus, hard work healed all. He worked to keep from seeing Tess's face, hoping his tilling would bring life back into his wife as it did to the plains.

From the pantry Tess found potatoes, and began shaving them with a small knife. “Shame on me, not havin' dinner waitin'.” There were tears in her voice.

James came next to her. He was a full two heads taller now. He removed the knife from her fingers. “I'm not hungry.”

She hid her face. “Don't lie t'me. Ye haven't eaten all day.” A tear dripped on his hand.

James held her by the shoulders, the bony knobs round against his palms as he steered her back to the chair. He covered her with the blankets. “I'll make tea.”

She grabbed his hand. “Ye'll have one, too? Ye'll sit with me?”

James smiled and turned to the stove, boiled a pan of water and brought the steaming tea with two scoops of sugar. He sat on the floor next to her slippered feet and sipped the boiling drink. Sweat leaked out of every pore, the tea hot and solitary in his stomach.

“Yeer so much like him,” Tess said quietly.

It was hard to focus on anything but the heat and gnawing hunger. “Who?”

“Yeer father.”

James peered into the black tea, his brows scrunching toward the bridge of his nose.

Tess's fingers tucked his hair behind his ear with the lightness of a feather. “He'd be proud o' ye.” She laughed softly then. “The way yeer forehead creases an' yeer eyebrows knit when yeer thinkin', it's like he's sittin' here with me.”

She smoothed down the quilt across her knees. “Wish I had known him better. I was just a girl when he went off. But I remember watchin' him with his books an' his writing. How serious he was, how smart! At night, he'd sneak out to his meetings, dressed in his wool coat, tall an' swift on his horse. Like this gallant Irish knight! I was in awe of him. We all were.”

James's throat burned. A question stuck. “Was he a good man?”

Her eyes saddened as she searched James's face. She put her fingers through his hair. “Aye, James.” She nodded fiercely. “He was a
great
man. Don't ever think fur a minute he wasn't.”

He turned away, but she knew what was in his mind. “James, men were arrested in Ireland for stealin' bread. Boys even! Takin' from their mum's side, fur poachin' a little cow's milk fur a dyin' baby. Yeer father never stole. He was arrested for his words, James. That's all. Fur his words that he spoke an' fur the words that he wrote an' distributed. He spent his last days defendin' the ones who couldn't speak fur themselves.” Tess lowered her voice. “Or were ye askin' 'bout he an' yeer mother?”

James held tight to his cup, the heat spreading.

“He loved yeer mother, James. Sometimes love doesn't come bundled neatly.” She took his chin in her hand. “Take no shame in it.”

The door banged. A hard shadow fell across Shamus's expression as he saw Tess and James so close. Tess dropped her hand.

“Sippin' tea while I'm slavin', are ye?” he snapped at James.

Tess stood up, quivered. “Don't speak to 'im like that! Poor boy hasn't even eaten.”

“Makes two of us.” Shamus peeled off his shirt to his singlet, pried off his boots and chucked them outside. “It's bloody roastin' in 'ere.”

James went to the sink and started peeling the potato left on the counter. Tess's eyes followed him in apology.

Shamus leaned back in the chair, his mood calming. “Tess, ye should see the bales! Goin' t'need a team just to get 'em all to market.”

Tess sat down at the table and patted her husband's arm. His eyes fell to the bony fingers; he looked away. “Think we might get a second harvest, too. What d'ye think, James?”

James plopped the lard into the pan and began frying the potatoes. He added the side meat, the grease hopping into the air. “Shelbys starting a second, won't be as big, though. Tom said they're selling the east corner. Hundred and fifty acres.”

“That right? Why they sellin'?”

“Didn't say.” James didn't know why he lied. But he remembered the expression on Tom's face about selling the property; looked like it nearly killed him. James wasn't going to share the Shelby money problems with Shamus.

“That's what happens when ye leave a woman t'run a business. Sells the best parcel just when the land is givin' back.”

James and Tess exchanged a glance. Only Shamus didn't see the wisdom in the Shelby logic. James handed a plate to Tess, but she pushed it away. “No, thank you, James.”

Shamus's face fell. “Ye got t'eat, Tess. Please!” he begged. “Just a bite or two.”

She poked at the potato, took a few bites into her mouth. She turned away with tears in her eyes and pushed the plate. “I can't.” She got up and slipped to her room.

James brought his plate to the table. “She needs a doctor.”

The man swallowed and cut into his meat. “Doctor don't know a bloody thing. Ye heard what he said last time. Not goin' to pay t'hear a man's lies.”

James lost his appetite and the food grew cold. “She's sick, Shamus.”

Shamus stopped chewing and growled, “Course she's sick!” Then he sighed and chewed slowly again. “That's why we're goin' t'take care o' her till she's all better.”

 

Days passed filled with harvest. And when clothes and hair smelled of cut grass and the kookaburras drowned the night with their lulling cackle, James would read to Tess from books borrowed from the Shelby library. With green eyes glowing, Tess drank the words, carried them into her dreams and slept pale with lips upturned. Shamus listened, too, but his eyes darted with the jealousy of the illiterate, his posture sagging with disgruntled admiration.

The last week of October brought sun till supper and rain till breakfast. Boots sank ankle deep into morning red mud and dried stiff by noon. Wheat bowed their tips with the weight of rain, their stalks bent as willows, then slowly rose rigid with the tug of the sun. At times, the wheat seemed to unbend right in front of a man while he watched.

By the last day of the month, the rain fell early and dampened the stalks so that the sickle only dented and could not cut fully. Still, Shamus pressed on through the hanging rows with stubborn slashing and cursing. But the rain pelted and landed so hard in the mud that drops bounced back up so both the sky and ground seemed to rain at once. The horse moved each hoof out of the mud with a long sucking sound and the wagon wheels sank with each step.

“Furget it, James!” Shamus finally hollered, his face slick with water. “Mud's too deep. Call it a day!”

James unhooked the harness and led the horse back to the barn. A stream of water poured from the center crease of his hat. His skin was soaked even under the oilskin coat, the rain dripping down the collar. On the verandah James kicked his boots off and threw the coat and hat on top, then walked into the house shaking the water out of his hair.

“Shhhh.” Shamus put a finger to his lips and motioned toward Tess asleep on the bed in the next room. The two men sat across from each other at the table in silence as they ate the leftover stew both were too tired to reheat.

The bed creaked. Tess sat up, her face contorted with fresh pain, her gaunt cheekbones angled with shadows. Shamus turned away, swallowed a chunk of lamb without chewing.

“James”—Tess tried to clear her voice—“will ye come sit with me? Read t'me a little.”

Shamus's dark eyes leveled and his mouth twisted to the side. “Ye heard 'er.” He stabbed a potato in half with his fork.

James sat on the spindled chair and picked the thick volume off the night table. Emily Brontë. Tess leaned into the thin pillows and pulled the quilt to her chin, the material dwarfing her in its folds. Her black hair and green eyes stood out too boldly, magnified against the white of her skin while everything else seemed to be fading away.

“Read the one 'bout the earth is still,” she said lazily. “Ye know which one I mean?”

“ ‘How beautiful the earth is still'?” he asked.

“Aye! 'Tis the one.” Her breath came rapidly, the few words heaving her chest. She lay back down and spoke calmly. “Please.”

James read the black lettering on nearly translucent paper. From the corner of his eye he saw Tess writhe. “I'll get Shamus.” He stood, but she grabbed his arm.

“No, please. Just stay with me. Please.” She closed her eyes for a moment, sank into the pillow. “ 'Tis passing.”

James glanced past the door, saw the back of Shamus's head, his elbow moving food from plate to mouth. When James looked back to Tess's face, she was staring at him. Tears began to spill from her eyes, shining them until they looked like giant green emeralds.

“I'm sorry,” she whispered.

Fire shot through his chest. She reached for his hand and squeezed tightly. “I'm so sorry t'leave ye.” Her voice broke. “Will ye forgive me?”

“Don't say—” James balled his hands into fists, trying to force his nails through his palms, anything to stop the fire from spreading.

“I need ye t'promise me something,” she begged.

James turned away and tightened his mouth, but she grabbed his chin, forced him to look at her. “Promise me ye'll remember that ye were loved. Ye
are
loved. Always.”

A tear escaped his eye and dripped hot down his cheek, the very burn of it angering him.

She stroked his cheek, brushed away the trail of the tear and smiled weakly. “Now.” She leaned back into the pillow and patted the top of his hand, closed her eyes. “Read to me.”

Through the fire, he opened the book, the weight pressing into his numb hands, almost too heavy to hold. He began to read, one sentence at a time, his own shaking voice unfamiliar.

Tess's nails dug into his hand, her body arched.

Her hand untightened, rested limp against his. James's eyes lowered to the end of the poem, the lettering stretching with blurred vision. He choked and read:

Her hand slid from his and hung over the bed.

James closed the book, his breathing lone in the room. He rose and did not look down at the woman—there was no need.

James stood in the doorway. Shamus still sat at the table, his back turned. His plate was clean of food and pushed to the center of the table, in wait for someone to clean it. His arm moved back and forth as he scrubbed an oiled cloth over a rusty gear. He glanced back at James quickly before turning back to his work.

And then Shamus stopped. His body stilled, his elbow poised above the gear in suspended motion. With barely a shift of his neck, his face turned, his chin fell, his lips quivered. In that instant, his face morphed from that of a man to that of wild agony.

The gear slipped from his hand and landed with a hollow
ding
on the floor, spinning around and around and around until it fell flat. Shamus tried to stand, gripped the table while his chair fell to the ground with a bang. He pushed past James into the bedroom.

Behind James, the face of agony turned into the sound of agony—pleading snorts into hair, light slaps against skin, shaking flaccid limbs: the heart-stabbing sounds of a burning man trying to wake a corpse.