Destiny's Path (15 page)

‘I’ve plenty of room and feed for yours. Conn would never forgive me if I didn’t look after it. He treats his animals more like children than horses.’

‘Perhaps to make up for the fact that he has no children, nor is he likely to.’

‘His wife is . . .’ Reece hesitated, not knowing how to describe her.

‘A vile creature, full of spite and nastiness,’ Ronan finished for him. ‘I don’t know what poor Conn is going to do with her now. She was mad to follow him to Australia.’

‘I pity him. My own wife is a wonderful woman.’

‘They’re an amazing group of sisters.’

The two men finished tending the horses, then washed their hands and went to join the women.

Cassandra greeted them with an offer of a cup of tea, which she went to make in the kitchen, a separate building at the rear of the small house.

Xanthe looked up. ‘That sky’s growing darker. I was hoping the threat of rain would pass but it’s winter, so we can expect wetter weather now.’

‘I always thought Australia was a hot, sunny country,’ Ronan said. ‘I haven’t found it so.’

‘Western Australia is very hot in the summer – too hot sometimes – but this is winter.’

Sure enough, as they were finishing their evening meal, it began to rain and water was soon pounding on the roof and bouncing up from the parched earth, making even the veranda uninhabitable as the wind drove the slashing spears of rain against the front of the house.

‘You’ll have to sleep inside the house tonight, Mr Maguire,’ Cassandra said with a frown, ‘though where we’re going to put you with Kevin’s body lying in his bedroom, I don’t know. You could sleep on the floor there.’

He shuddered. ‘I’d rather not keep a corpse company.’

‘No, I’d not like that myself.’

‘Mr Maguire can sleep in the living room with me,’ Xanthe offered.

Ronan nearly choked on his mouthful of food.

She pulled a cheeky face at him. ‘I don’t mean in the same bed, Mr Maguire, but at the other side of the room.’ She placed one hand on her chest and pretended to be terrified. ‘I’ll sleep near Reece and Cassandra’s door, in case I have to scream for help during the night.’

Everyone else laughed; he couldn’t. The picture she’d raised in his mind had shocked him for a moment. He was surprised how relaxed they were about an unrelated man and woman sharing sleeping quarters. He looked doubtfully at his host and hostess.

‘When people are travelling, they’re welcome to stay in most houses they pass, but have to take what’s available. There are so few settlements of any size outside Perth, you see, and therefore few inns. We’re not immoral, just practical. You can’t sleep in the cart or on the veranda in a downpour like this, nor can we fit Xanthe in our bedroom, now that Sofia is sleeping there, but of course we’ll leave our door open for propriety’s sake. Not that I think you’d cause us any trouble.’

‘No, no! Of course I wouldn’t.’ He tried not to smile at the thought of how his mother or sister would have reacted to this situation. Neither of them would have ever considered sleeping with the bedroom door open and a stranger a few feet away.

He
wasn’t going to cause anyone trouble, of course he wasn’t, but the presence of the beautiful Miss Xanthe Blake so close by would cause him trouble and make it extremely difficult for him to get to sleep.

At Galway House Maia fetched Conn to carry his mother to the sitting room for the evening. He knew she mustn’t be feeling well, because she rarely asked him to carry her. Outside it was threatening to rain and the sky had grown dark early, but a fire had been lit and a couple of oil lamps, so the room was cosy.

Kathleen was still pacing up and down the front veranda, muttering to herself, so he left her to it and sat down to chat to his mother.

After a while he heard Kathleen come inside but she didn’t join them and he looked at his mother doubtfully.

‘You’d better check what she’s doing.’

He got up and went out quietly, following the harsh sound of his wife’s voice to the kitchen and standing quietly outside the door to see what she was up to now.

‘What are you doing, Mary?’

‘My name’s Maia and unless you use it, I’m not answering you.’

Conn tensed as Kathleen took a step forward and half-raised one hand as if to slap the maid.

Maia picked up the ladle. ‘Don’t you dare lay a finger on me!’

‘How can I call a servant Maia? It’s not a suitable name for a person of your class.’

‘If you don’t use my real name, how will I know it’s me you’re speaking to? Your requests for service will probably go unanswered.’

Conn smiled and watched Maia go on with her cooking. But he could see that she was keeping an eye on the woman still standing by the kitchen table. He too wondered if Kathleen was going to attack the maid and he tensed, ready to go to Maia’s aid if needed.

‘I’ll ask again, then. What are you doing,
Maia
?’

‘Cooking a hearty broth for our evening meal.’

‘What’s for the main course?’

‘That’s it, broth. With Xanthe away at Kevin’s burial, there’s no one to do any fancy cooking, and no time for it, either.’

‘I can’t believe my husband would only offer broth to his guests! That’s poor people’s food.’

‘Broth and bread, with apple pie for dessert is plenty to fill a stomach – any stomach, rich or poor. There are fruit trees here and we bottle our own apples, though we’ve nearly used up last year’s supply now.’

Kathleen stayed where she was, silent, but from what Conn could see of her face, she was puzzled, frowning as if she didn’t understand the situation. He saw Maia stealing a couple of glances at her, as if trying to guess how she was feeling.

‘Why don’t you sit down for a moment or two, Mrs Kathleen? You must be tired with all that travelling.’

His wife stood quite still for a moment or two longer, then took a seat. ‘It is tiring.’

Her voice had changed and she sounded calmer, the way she did when she was with horses. ‘Why are you doing that?’

‘I’m making the pastry.’

‘I’ve never seen pastry made before.’

Had his wife never sneaked into the kitchen when she was little? he wondered. He could remember Cook letting him roll pastry and make his own little pies, his brother too.

Once he’d made sure his wife had calmed down, Conn slipped back to join his mother, feeling more sure that Maia could stand up for herself in all but the most extreme circumstances. And if she needed help, he’d hear.

Kathleen watched carefully for a moment or two as Maia filled the pastry shell with apples and moistened the edges with beaten egg. ‘I’ve never seen anyone making apple pies before.’

‘Haven’t you? I used to watch my sister cooking when I was a child. My mother died when I was quite young.’

‘I was never allowed in the kitchens.’

‘What a pity!’

After another silence, Kathleen said suddenly, ‘Conn’s living like a peasant! He surely has enough money to live in better style than this.’ She gestured round the room.

‘I don’t know anything about his money.’

Kathleen got up, paced up and down for a while, then came back to watch Maia decorate the apple pie crust with pieces of pastry cut out as leaves. ‘What does pastry feel like when it’s not cooked?’

Maia passed her a piece. ‘Try it. You could make some leaves for the other pies, if you like.’

Kathleen felt the pastry, squeezed it, then spread it out and picked up a small knife. But her leaves were clumsy.

Maia could see her getting frustrated, so said quickly, ‘It takes years of practice to do it right, but I thought you’d like to try.’

‘Yes. It was interesting.’ She pushed the bits aside, got up and began pacing to and fro again, then stopped to ask, ‘What do people here do in the evenings?’

Maia was surprised that Conn’s wife was bothering to talk to a servant when she’d been so scornful about them. If she wasn’t able to see that her companion was a grown woman, she’d feel as if she was talking to a child, and an unhappy one at that. ‘My sister and I work long hours, but we enjoy reading in our free time, especially in winter, when it rains a lot. Mr Largan usually sits with his mother. Sometimes they chat, or he reads to her – he has a lot of books if you want to borrow one – other times they sing. They both have lovely voices. I don’t understand the words of the Irish songs, though.’

‘I don’t like reading. It makes my eyes hurt. Do neighbours not call to visit Mrs Largan?’

‘They’re as busy as we are and most go to bed early. Besides, although Mr Largan was jailed for political activity, people still treat him like a criminal.’

‘He
is
a criminal. His father said so. But I’m not a convict and people don’t talk to me, either. It isn’t fair. Where do people of our class meet one another?’

‘Once a month there’s a church service in a local barn. I don’t know whether you’ll consider the people there your class, though, because they’re mostly farmers.’

‘Are there any other convicts?’

‘Your husband received a conditional pardon when he arrived here, so he’s not a convict. They call people like him emancipists. And no, there aren’t any others like him near here, not now. The man whose burial Xanthe and Ronan are attending was an emancipist.’

There was no answer so Maia peeped sideways. She saw Kathleen smear away a tear. Against her will, she was beginning to feel sorry for Conn’s wife, who seemed so limited in her thoughts and so angry at the world. What had made her like that?

She heard footsteps come along the corridor and Conn joined them in the kitchen.

‘I’ve been watching your mother’s maid make apple pies,’ Kathleen announced. ‘I’ve nothing else to do.’

‘Would you like to sit with me and my mother now, Kathleen? I was going to read to her.’

‘Yes. All right.’

Maia carefully avoided looking at him as they left. That had been one of the strangest conversations she’d ever held. She remembered a young woman who’d lived a few streets away in Outham, who’d been very similar to Mrs Kathleen, set in her ways, always certain these ways were right and aggressive about sticking to them. Was it possible Conn’s wife was the same?

But what sort of life had Mrs Kathleen had? If she had to hazard a guess, she’d say the poor woman had never been loved. No child deserved to grow up without love.

But why in heaven’s name had Conn married a woman like that? He was comfortably off and pleasant looking, could have chosen anyone.

She wished he wasn’t married, wished she could still allow herself to dream about him. Oh, she was a fool! He was married and she must learn to turn her thoughts elsewhere.

Only, how did you stop yourself dreaming of what could have been when you loved someone so much?

The room was dark, except for the glow of the embers in the iron stove. Ronan was finding it as hard as he’d expected to get to sleep, with Xanthe sleeping only a couple of yards away. Or was she sleeping? Her breathing hadn’t slowed down.

As if she could sense that he was thinking about her, she suddenly said in a low voice, ‘Are you awake too?’

‘Yes. It’s not easy to get to sleep in strange surroundings.’

‘Especially on a hard floor. Never mind, you’ll be lying in a soft bed again tomorrow night.’

‘But you won’t be nearby.’

He heard a soft gasp as if what he’d said had surprised her. ‘I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that. But you’re a beautiful young woman and that does affect men who come near you.’

‘It’s so annoying. They stare at me but they don’t see me, not really.’

He knew what she meant. ‘I’m beginning to see you, I think.’

‘You still stare.’

He chuckled. ‘I’ll try not to from now on.’

‘Where are you going after you leave here?’

‘I don’t know. I have to go back to Ireland to tell my brothers about Mother and deal with her affairs. I don’t know anything about her will, but I suppose she’s left everything to me and my brothers. After that, well, I don’t know what I’ll do. I used to live with her; now I’ll probably find somewhere of my own.’

‘Did your mother live with your oldest brother?’

‘No. She lived in the dower house in the grounds of Ardgullan. When Father died, she thought Hubert would get married within a year or two, so insisted on moving into her own house. But he hasn’t married.’

‘You’ll have to clear her things out of the house then, which is such a sad task. Or is there a woman relative who will do that for you?’

‘No one but me and my brothers. I’d not ask Patrick’s wife to do that. She looks down her nose at everything Irish. I can’t understand how she ever came to marry him.’

She didn’t say anything else and he heard her breathing slow down and deepen, so knew she was asleep. He wasn’t as fortunate. Their conversation had been perfectly innocuous and yet he’d enjoyed the intimacy of chatting in the darkened room. The trouble was, his body was now reminding him it was a long time since he’d had a woman.