Dream Time (historical): Book I (9 page)

By rights, Celeste Livingston should have been spoiled rotten. Her parents doted on her. But such a condition was impossible for her angelic temperament. She loved life and loved people and easily overlooked her mother’s interfering ways that often put off some Sydneysiders.

Rose Wilmot stared from the neatly penned invitation to Amaris’s bland expression. “Nan Livingston is inviting you to her daughter’s tea party?”

Amaris shrugged. “I didn’t know anything about it.”

“Well, you must be on your best behavior, love. That wild streak in you that I adore, Nan Livingston just might abhor.”

Amaris wanted to see the inside of a mansion; at the same time, she felt a little silly going to a seven-year-old’s tea party.  Her curiosity won out, and she went to the tea party dressed in a made-over dress donated by none other than Nan Livingston herself. By the time Rose had plied her needle, the dress was indistinguishable from the one Nan had worn. True, it was a trifle small for Amaris, but as long as she didn’t stretch or gambol about like a monkey, the seams wouldn’t rip.

The Livingston house was a Georgian manor, imposing and out of place among the rural cottages and her father’s rectory, skirting Sydney proper. As she waited for her knock to summon someone to the Livingstons’ front door, she felt extremely uncomfortable and tugged on the hem of her bodice.

Behind her, Pulykara said, “Remember who you are—one of them Dream Time people. Don’t be afraid of her.”

“Celeste?”

“You know who, Miss Priss. You two are a lot alike.”

Amaris almost hooted. “Me and Nan Livingston!”

A uniformed girl in black with a crisp white apron answered the door. Pug-nosed and freckled, the girl was not much older than she. Amaris gave her name and said, “I’ve come for Celeste Livingston’s tea party.”

Her fair hair straggling from beneath her mop cap, the girl curtseyed. “I’ll tell the missus you’re here.” So, she would finally get to meet the remarkable Mrs. Livingston. The woman had come to the shores a convict and was now a wealthy woman—and the formidable woman behind New South Wales Traders, Limited.

Amaris’s curiosity was greater than any trepidation she had in meeting the imperious woman. Even though Amaris was well aware that she was at least as tall as Nan Livingston, judging by the cast-off clothing, Amaris hadn’t expected the woman to appear so fragile.

She swept into the room with a rustle of puce crepe skirts. Her gaze flickered to Pulykara standing discreetly behind Amaris, then settled on Amaris to study her as intently as Amaris was her. Nan Livingston’s brown hair was tugged back tightly into a netted chignon at her nape. Her thin face was heart shaped, her chin a mite too pointed.

The gray eyes scanned Amaris in return, doubtlessly finding fault in her wild black hair, and Amaris wished she hadn’t unplaited it. Suddenly her feet and hands felt cloddish and clumsy, her dress inappropriate for her size and age. Worse, when every female in the colony strove for the fair skin that can only come from a sheltered life, her sun-browned skin was tantamount to evidence she was a former convict.

“It seems my daughter has taken a liking to you.”

Amaris, copying Nan Livingston, folded her large hands calmly before her. Then, wincing at how unsightly they were, she quickly put them behind her. “It seems so.”

“How did you two meet?”

“Celeste didn’t tell you?”

“I’d like to hear it from you.”

“We met at her birthday party.”

“I don’t recall you being on the guest list.”

“I wasn’t.” Beneath the woman’s basilisk gaze, Amaris felt compelled to elaborate but fought back the weakness.

At last, Nan Livingston said, “I see. Well, Celeste is out in the garden, awaiting your arrival. Molly will show you the way. If your aborigine woman will go
to the kitchen, I’ll see that she is given food and drink.”

Amaris was too preoccupied noting the furnishings of the drawing room to pay any attention to the Livingston woman’s and Pulykara’s joint departure.

A marble bust stared out of vacant eyes at Amaris, and satyrs frolicked in a painting she was sure must be by some famous artist. She had too much pride to cross the parquet floor and read the signature.

The heavy red damask drapes and red floral-patterned carpet made the room seem too dark for her taste. She much preferred her bedroom’s shuttered windows that were folded back each morning to let in the flood of endless sunlight and balmy air. Her parents’ small house might be a building of irregular and crumbly bricks, fashioned by convicts, its walls not whitewashed clean, its roof only thatched. Yet, it possessed a personal warmth the stately mansion lacked.

“This way, miss,” the uniformed girl said. “If you be needing anything, Molly Finn’s me name.” Her smile revealed bad teeth.

Amaris followed her along a corridor walled with more paintings interspersed with closed doors. After two right turns, the corridor ascended a short flight of stairs and emptied into the garden.

Sunlight temporarily blinded Amaris, then amidst the garden’s lush greenery, Celeste was sprinting with arms thrown wide toward her. “Amaris!”

“So, are you going to serve tea?”

The little girl grasped her hand and drew her around an ell of the mansion to a grape arbor. “Look, Mama set it up. Come sit down, and I’ll pour us a cup. Our cook prepared some crumpets. Mama never lets me have crumpets unless it’s something special.”

“Where are your other friends?” Amaris barely fit her Amazonian body into the painted-white wooden chair constructed for a child.

“You’re the only one I wanted to invite. My friends are nice, but they’re not all grown up like you—and brave. Me neither. Not yet anyway.”

“Oh.” She sat awkwardly as Celeste filled a porcelain cup.

Leafy shadows dappled the little round face. “The tea set is by Wedgwood.” Celeste passed the cup to her. “Mama says she met the Wedgwood brothers.” She chattered on, and Amaris began to relax. Of the children her age, none were as educated as she, and at seven Celeste was a fountain of information that entertained her.

Celeste took a dainty sip, put down her cup and said, “Guess what? I persuaded Papa to hire that convict.”

“What convict?”

“The one on the dock last week. Remember, he picked you up when you fell.”

“An insolent man,” she said, remembering with shame his mocking smirk.

“Sinclair Tremayne’s his name. I made Papa promise not to use the whip on him, but then Papa never does on any of his workers at the shipyard.”

“Your father’s gentle, like you.”

“Oh, yes, but it was Mam
a’s idea. She said that a bottle of rum was more incentive to work than the lash.”

“Your mother doesn’t approve of me, I don’t think.”

“Oh, that’s just Mama’s way. She’s really a nice woman.”

Amaris didn’t want to argue with the little girl, but
she could almost feel the woman’s antagonism burning through her back.

Tom’s skill in trade had brought affluence to the Livingston family, and Nan was knocking on the door of Sydney’s upper society, although she chose to remain in the background. Eventually, the Exclusionists would trample each other to include her as one of them.

She trusted Tom’s opinion. But not in this one matter. He didn’t know all the facts. Pushing back the drapery, she peered out the window overlooking the grape arbor. “I’m against this girl coming here, Tom.”

“Why? Celeste likes her well enough.”

“There is something about her that needles me.”

“It’s because she is not from the right class, isn’t it?”

“Partly. Partly because she acts too stubborn, too proud.”

Sitting in the wingback chair, Tom laced his fingers over the slight paunch his stomach made. She often thought of Josiah and his rock-hard stomach. She missed him and occasionally regretted having sent him on his way. He knew too much. A mistake in judgment could lose her all she had worked for.

“Well, for once, Nan, I’m opposing you. You’ve picked all of Celeste’s friends, and she and I both went along with you. But this time, you’re going to let our daughter make a choice of her own.”

§ CHAPTER EIGHT §

Je voudrais un tas de—de—
” Amaris abandoned her effort and threw up her hands. “I’ll never use the French, Celeste. This is utterly—”

“
Non, non
,” Celeste’s tutor remonstrated. The old convict, transported for book theft, wagged his finger beneath his bony nose and sniffed haughtily. “English is the language of shopkeepers, French the language of love. One day, if you ever become a lady, you will be grateful I insisted you practice.

“Now your turn, Mademoiselle Livingston.”

“Oh, please, monsieur. Can we end the lessons for the day?”

The French tutor glanced at the mantel clock. “There are still ten minutes remaining, and your mother—”

The eleven-year-old girl broke in, saying, “Mama will not mind at all, I swear. And the dance master is waiting in the foyer.”

“
Bon.
We resume next Friday.”

After
he collected his hat and departed, Amaris sprawled on the settee, clasped her hands behind her head, and sighed. “I dislike the dancing master even more. His palms are sweaty and his breath smells of garlic.”

Celeste settled at the sofa’s other end. “He’s only nervous. Mama makes him that way the days she comes in and watches.”

Amaris felt the same way on those days. Well, not nervous, but she was certainly aware of the woman’s obvious antagonism toward her. As for herself, she felt only a mild contempt for the materialistic woman.

Yet Amaris had to admit she was enjoying the fruits of this woman’s labor: French and dancing lessons, family celebrations, outings to the new
racetrack, the theater, and Hyde Park—all at Celeste’s insistence that Amaris share her life and, of course, abetted by Celeste’s father.

Regardless of the constraint between Nan Livingston and Amaris, the friendship between the two girls had only deepened over the last four years. It was
impossible not to love Celeste, with her outpouring of love, but Amaris was also jealous at times.

At sixteen, she could justify the jealousy
intellectually. After all, Celeste had everything—wealth, beauty, a doting family, friends, and the most enviable gift of all, her ability to see the best in everyone. Try though Amaris did, she couldn’t explain away the dark torment inside herself.

The only real disagreement she and Celeste ever had was over Sinclair Tremayne, the Irish convict who had been working for the Livingstons for the past four years. Only the week before, Celeste had
confessed to being infatuated with the convict from the first time she had seen him.

“I call him Sin, because there is something dangerously intriguing about him, don’t you think?"

Amaris had stared at the precocious girl. “Dangerous maybe, but intriguing, no."

Her reply had been offhanded, when in fact she was disturbed by the convict. He was polite enough whenever their paths crossed, but his somber power threatened her where it reassured Celeste. “Besides, the convict is too old for you, Celeste.”

“Not at all,” she said in her grown-up tone. “Only twelve years. Papa is almost nine years older than Mama. Age doesn’t make a difference.”

At that moment, the new dancing master, turf hat in hand, entered the salon. As obsequious as the French tutor was pompous, Mr. Whitaker’s claim to excelling in the art of dance was based solely on his mother’s career as a dancer with the French opera.

“We begin early today, eh? In that case, shall we learn the steps to the quadrille?”

Celeste jumped to her feet. A smile of joy wreathed her mouth. “Then we will need a fourth!” With that, she darted from the room before the startled dancing master could gainsay her.

“Whatever can she be about?” he muttered. In distraction, the short, pudgy man fingered the brim of his hat, the shape of an inverted flowerpot.

“Most likely another homeless person or animal. She collects them and finds places for them.” Amaris realized that Celeste had found a place for her, installing her as practically a member of the family.

Yawning, she rose and ambled over to the window. She drew back the curtains and let the sunlight nudge away the room’s shadows. Open curtains annoyed Nan Livingston. The days she attended the girls’ lessons, she would invariably cross the room and draw the curtains closed.

In the garden below, Amaris sighted Celeste with a reluctant Sin in tow. His large brown hand in hers, she tugged him toward the house. From his other hand dangled a hammer. He had been building a gazebo. “It appears our fourth will be Sinclair Tremayne,” Amaris told the dancing master.

“Oh, my word, her mother will not like this.”

“I think you are right.” It suddenly occurred to Amaris that Celeste adored the convict because—like herself—he was so contrary to Celeste’s sunny nature.

She burst into the salon, and even the sunlight seemed to pale beside her. “Now, we can practice properly!”

Behind her towered Sin. He wore homespun brown breeches and a coarsely woven kerseymere tunic. Little about the convict resembled the emaciated wretch Celeste had rescued from the chain gang on the wharf.

At twenty-three, his shoulders had broadened. Nourishing food had added pounds to his skeletal frame. Laboring in the sun had restored a healthy color to his flesh and a reddish sheen to his overly long, dark brown hair, clubbed with a leather thong at his nape.

The inner power of the man was still evident in a face that might hav
e been termed homely. The cheekbones were flat, the nose too prominent and obviously broken sometime in the past, the thick brows sharply angled, the mouth long and the upper lip asymmetrical.

But, oh, the eyes. Fires burned there. The blue
irises burned as hot as the blue center of winter fires. Burning wild and powerful and threatening . . . and warming.

Celeste drew him forward. “We have partners now, Mr. Whitaker. Can we learn the quadrille steps, please?” Mr. Whitaker bobbed his head. “Yes, of course, Miss Livingston.”

“Sin, put the hammer down,” the little girl told the convict.

Amusement curled one end of his mouth, but he laid the hammer on a secretary.

“If you will arrange yourselves opposite me and Miss Wilmot, we’ll begin.”

Amaris went to stand opposite her friend and the convict. Beside her, Mr. Whitaker was noticeably sweating. “Uh, if you’ll place your hand in mine, Miss Wilmot, and if you’ll take Miss Livingston’s hand, uh, Mr. uh . . .” He clearly did not know how to address Sin.

His lips twitched derisively. “Tremayne. Mr. Sinclair Tremayne.”

“Mr. Tremayne, yes. Well, on the count of four we step forward, forming an arch with our upraised hands. Think of it as a rose arbor, Miss Livingston.” Amaris stood opposite Sin. He was close enough for her to smell the odor of healthy sweat mixed with sunlight and fresh air. Without knowing why, she felt the urge to touch his neck, where the sunburnt skin was molded by muscled columns. His flesh would be warm, the pulse in his throat beating strongly with life. His mouth curled even higher at the one end. His thickly lashed eyes held a knowing look.

She swallowed hard. Her fingers fidgeted with the strings of her calico waist. Like Pulykara, he had some intuitive ability to read people’s souls. Amaris resented his subtle divining of her less reputable thoughts. With a dismissive shrug, she turned her face away to focus her attention on whatever it was the dance master was instructing them to do.

“.
. . second count of eight, you will release your partner’s hand, taking that of the person opposite you and march down the length of the room.”

Reluctantly, she laid her hand in Sin’s. His palm was rough with calluses. He was so big boned that, as tall as she was, she felt small for once. His maleness both tantalized and threatened her, and she was disgusted by both o
f her reactions. Her mouth flattened, her nose tilted, and she kept her distance—as far away as his grip would allow.

“Does me lack of eau de cologne bother you, mistress?” His voice was low and sardonic.

“Your lack of a bath does.”

He clicked his tongue against his teeth. “Auk, a shame to subject a lady to such a distasteful and distressing situation. But then you are no lady. Not even a colleen. Only a coward.”

She whirled on him, forgetting where she was. “A coward? You are an impertinent oaf who had best mind his manners!”

“Sin! Amaris!” Celeste pushed between them. Concern blighted her usually joyful smile. “Please don’t fight. You two are my dearest friends.”

The challenging mockery of his expression evaporated instantly to be replaced by gentle contrition. He bowed low before Celeste. “Me apologies for spoiling your day, little one.”

Amaris could have exploded. The convict treated her with ill-mannered indifference and behaved
toward Celeste as if the girl were a Mauri princess.

When he once again took Amaris’s hand in his, a flush of fury heated her skin. She wanted to dig her nails into his broad palm, but her nails were too short and his palms too hard for her to render any pain. “Paddy!" she whispered, disgust lending the word the quality of an epithet.

In courtly steps that belied his rustic appearance, he returned her to the room’s other end, where Nan stood watching from the doorway.

“I think that is enough practice for today,” she said, her expression sealed as tightly as an Egyptian sarcophagus.

“But, Mama,” Celeste said in bewilderment, “we’re just getting started.”

“Sinclair has the gazebo to finish building.”

Sin inclined his head at Nan and, releasing Amaris’s hand, strode from the room. He carried himself with the careless grace of an aristocrat, despite the mood of the savage that clung to him. The term Black Irish fit him well, Amaris thought.

She shifted her gaze back to Nan. The woman was no more pleased with him than she was with Amaris. Amaris’s keen intuition perceived that for once Nan Livingston and she both had something in common. The Irish convict was a threat to both of them!

Yet Amaris at the inexperienced age of sixteen could not identify what kind of threat Sinclair Tremayne presented to either her or Nan.