Kitty (21 page)

Kitty sat up straighter, thinking how best to explain it all to him. That was, of course, if he was interested in knowing. ‘I
wanted
to do the work, Rian. It was important to me, to earn my passage. When I woke that first morning, the morning after we sailed, I knew I couldn’t go back to Paihia, not for some time anyway.’ Rian raised a disbelieving eyebrow and she hurried on. ‘No, I did know it, in my heart, even though I said I wanted you to take me back. I felt…I felt I was drifting, as though I’d been cut loose and was drifting, and that was the only thing I could think of to anchor myself, to go back. I know Aunt Sarah probably
wouldn’t have welcomed me after what happened. She thinks it’s my fault, you know, Uncle George and Wai. She thinks my “wanton ways” encouraged her.’

Rian said, ‘I didn’t realise you had wanton ways.’

Kitty ignored him. ‘But I could have lived with someone else—Rebecca, perhaps. Or at another mission station.’

‘No, that wouldn’t have worked,’ Rian said. ‘Word travels very fast, even in New Zealand. The scandal would have followed you wherever you went.’

‘You don’t have to tell me that,’ Kitty said.

‘Tupehu would also have followed you,’ Rian added.

Kitty nodded. ‘I know. But I liked Rebecca, and the children. All of them—the mission children and my students. I was very fond of them. Even Simon, once I got to know him. He’s a very decent man.’

Rian nodded. ‘He is. But would you really have married him?’

‘No, and he didn’t want to marry me. It was an arrangement of convenience so people would stop match-making. That was Aunt Sarah’s greatest ambition, you know, to marry me off. But I do miss him, just a little.’

Rian regarded her for a moment. ‘Do you know why he didn’t want to marry you?’

Kitty shrugged. ‘Not really. He just said he wasn’t the marrying kind.’

‘Well, I hope you didn’t take it personally,’ Rian said. He shifted in his seat. ‘Simon’s a homosexual, Kitty. He’s also very honest, and therefore unlikely to marry any woman.’

Kitty stared. ‘I don’t understand.’

‘Simon’s a homosexual. A molly, a pansy, a sodomite, call it whatever you like, but he prefers the sexual company of men.’

Stunned, Kitty said, ‘He never said anything to me!’ Thinking back, though, she suspected that he might have tried.

‘Well, he wouldn’t, would he? It’s hardly a suitable topic of conversation for tea parties. And after that business with William Yate, I expect it would be the last thing he’d want made public.’

A deeply disappointing possibility occurred to Kitty. ‘How do you know? That Simon’s…like that.’

‘I guessed. You tend to see a lot of them around ports. And then one day he said something. I think he was trying to tell me…’ Rian faltered. ‘Well, that you weren’t really spoken for.’

‘So you already knew he wouldn’t be marrying me, that day on the lawn at the treaty discussions, the day we left Paihia? Were you deliberately teasing me?’

‘Yes. I’m sorry. Another example of my appalling behaviour.’

Kitty felt like telling him exactly what she thought of it, but decided she didn’t have the energy. She did, however, have another unpleasant notion. ‘He wasn’t…well, you know, doing that at Waimate, was he?’

‘If he was, he was very discreet.’ Rian shrugged. ‘It’s none of my business anyway—it’s his and that’s the way it should stay. I only mentioned it because I wanted to ask you why you didn’t want to marry him.’

‘I’m not the marrying kind either,’ Kitty said shortly. ‘I was telling you why I wanted to earn my passage.’

‘Yes, you were.’

‘Well, when you said you wouldn’t take me back, I felt so…well, so horribly alone. I’ve never really had to look after myself before. It was always my father’s job, and when he died it was Mama, then it was Uncle George and Aunt Sarah. So I decided it was time I learned, especially given that we would be in Sydney in less than two weeks whether I liked it or not. Wai has Haunui, and she has me, but I’m going to have to rely on myself. I’m sorry, I was being childish. But I was angry, too.’

‘Yes, I knew you were angry. So was I.’

‘Why?’

Rian wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘I didn’t want to have to sail with women on board. It’s a rule I have.’

‘So why did you agree to take Wai in the first place?’

‘I had no choice in the matter. She was in danger.’

Kitty nodded, feeling her respect for him growing. ‘I can imagine
what you were thinking, then, when Haunui and I came rushing out as well.’

‘No, you can’t.’

‘We had to,’ Kitty said. ‘We didn’t have a choice either.’

‘I know, Haunui told me. And I could see the state Tupehu was in.’

‘What would you have done about Wai when you got to Sydney, if she’d been on her own?’ Kitty asked.

‘I expect I could have arranged for someone to take her in.’

‘Wouldn’t that cost money?’

Rian shrugged. ‘I could have paid. None of this is her fault. In my opinion the blame lies squarely with your uncle.’

‘I know it does,’ Kitty said, and burst into tears.

Rian made a move as though to rise, then sat back again. ‘Don’t cry,’ he said. ‘Please.’

But Kitty couldn’t help herself. The thought of revolting, deranged Uncle George lying with Wai was nauseating, and she was tired and her scalp hurt and her hair looked awful and she still didn’t know what she was going to do when they reached Sydney.

Then Rian did get up. He moved over to the bed, sat down and waited in silence, his hand resting on the lump under the blankets that was her right foot, until she’d cried it all out. When she’d finished he fetched her an enormous handkerchief and she blew her nose honkingly.

She contemplated him from behind the handkerchief, noting that when he wasn’t being grumpy or sarcastic or angry, the lines fanning out from his eyes relaxed. It made him look younger, and even more attractive. Then she realised with a jolt that she’d been thinking of him as handsome for a while now, without actually realising it.

‘Better?’ he said.

Kitty nodded, the last few tears quivering on her eyelashes. ‘I must look a fright.’

‘No,’ Rian said. ‘And your hair is pretty. It’s sort of…wavy now.’

Kitty put up her hand to touch it, then all of a sudden Rian had reached across her and was holding her wrist.

The air between them seemed to expand, and Kitty could no longer
hear the sounds of the sea or the schooner as she rode the night waves. Rian started to say something, then stopped himself. Instead, he bent and kissed her. His lips were soft and tasted faintly of Pierre’s courtbouillion, but the stubble on his chin was rough against Kitty’s mouth. She resisted for only a second, then let herself go. Moving closer, he slid his arms around her, and she felt his warmth and the hardness of his muscles through the coarse fabric of his shirt.

Then he sat back suddenly, and from his uncertain expression she thought he was going to apologise. But he lifted a hand to her hair and swept it off her face, then moved his hand to the back of her neck and pulled her into another kiss. She felt incapable of resisting and didn’t actually want to, even when the delicious sensations darting though her body stirred shifting, disturbing memories of Hugh Alexander.

But this wasn’t Hugh Alexander, this was Rian Farrell, and Kitty realised now how grateful she was that she hadn’t wasted herself on the other. The part of her that didn’t think, didn’t worry and didn’t care about implications or repercussions wanted Rian and, at this moment, it felt right.

She leant into the kiss, and when Rian began to undo the buttons at the front of her shirt—his shirt, actually—she let him. Each release was like a small victory, his rough fingers raising goosebumps on her skin, until at last he came to the final button, then opened the shirt as far as it would go, revealing her breasts, pale ivory in the lamplight. Her small pink nipples stood erect, and he whispered ‘Mo mhuirnín’ as he lowered his mouth to them. The sensation was exquisite, and she felt embarrassed to note that her breathing had become something closer to panting.

He stopped and sat back again. ‘Will you take this off?’ he asked, pulling gently at the hem of the shirt.

Kitty nodded. Shyly, she lifted the shirt over her head and put it aside, leaving her nakedness covered to the waist by the bedclothes. She wriggled down the bed until she was on her back, but Rian slowly slid the blankets off her, baring him to her totally. A tiny draught from the window above the bed danced across her skin, raising more goosebumps.

His hands stroked her, roaming across her breasts then up to her throat and neck where they rested while he kissed her again. Her heart pounding with excitement and need, she raised her arms to draw him closer, but he gently pushed them back to her sides while he continued to explore her body. She felt her stomach tense as his fingers trailed across the hollow beneath her ribs down to the curve of her belly, then over her hips to stroke and smooth the long muscles of her thighs. He kissed her knees, one of which was scabbed from falling over two days ago, then licked his way back up her legs to where they joined, making the dark hair there spring to attention.

Kitty gasped and, seemingly of their own accord, her thighs parted. Rian cupped her with his hand, then slid his finger along her swollen lips and into the satin wetness between them. And she knew, without ever having been told, that she was ready for him.

Rian, breathing now as heavily as she was, broke away and bent to pull off his boots. His shirt came next, dropped without ceremony onto the floor, followed by his trousers, beneath which he wore nothing. In the lamplight his muscled body seemed carved from marble, the width of his chest and his flat belly glinting with a scattering of dark gold hair.

Kitty raised her arms to him again and this time he let her. Kneeling carefully between her legs he lowered himself, his hips settling onto hers but taking much of his weight on his elbows. He smelt of fresh sweat, and of the sea. She felt his hardness nudging her and lifted her own hips to meet him. Groaning, he pushed gently but firmly into her. There was a brief, bright moment of pain and then he slid in, filling her with his strength and his rhythm.

She wrapped her arms across his broad back and hung on, feeling each increasingly explosive, grunting thrust until finally he was still, sweat slick across his skin and his breath coming in great ragged gasps. She waited, and eventually his heart slowed and his taut muscles began to relax.

‘Oh
God
!’ he groaned into her hair, loudly enough to make her jump.

Then he propped himself on one elbow and gazed down at her. ‘I didn’t
intend for that to happen, Kitty. I couldn’t…I couldn’t help myself. I’m sorry,’ he said, pulling her close and squeezing her against him.

She nodded and snuggled into him, making the most of the delicious feeling of comfort and warmth and security.

It had been wonderful, and shockingly exciting, and deeply satisfying.

And she knew she could never allow it to happen again.

Sydney, February 1840

B
ugger,’ Rian said, squinting through the spyglass across the glinting waters of Sydney Cove towards the wharves and warehouses of The Rocks.

‘What?’ Hawk said, beside him.

‘It’s that little bastard Kinghazel. Look.’ Rian handed him the glass.

Hawk raised it to his eye. In the centre of the vivid circle surrounded by black was the magnified image of a man rowing determinedly towards them, his hat set well down on his head and his face red with exertion. He turned around every three or four strokes, as though reassuring himself that the
Katipo
hadn’t disappeared while he wasn’t looking.

‘We are carrying a legal cargo,’ Hawk said. ‘There is no problem.’

Walter Kinghazel was a customs and excise man, the scourge of every captain who traded in and out of Sydney and an all-round pain in the arse, as far as Rian was concerned.

‘Not this time, no,’ Rian said, but he was sure that Kinghazel hadn’t forgotten the
Katipo’s
last visit to Sydney Cove last November. Kinghazel was an officious and unpopular little shite but he wielded an inordinate amount of power, and Rian had seen several acquaintances sent to prison—rightly or wrongly—over the past few years after sailing foul of him.

He sighed and gave the order to have the ladder lowered.

Unaware of all this, Kitty leant on the
Katipo’s
stern rail eating a floury apple, watching the lazy rise and fall of the many ships anchored in the harbour and the progress of small boats criss-crossing the bright, shifting waters like back-swimmer beetles. She’d seen Sydney Harbour before of course, when she and Uncle George and Aunt Sarah had been on their way out to New Zealand, but had been in no mood to appreciate it, or even really notice it. It was true that the sea voyage had soothed her, but the prospect of going ashore had only reminded her that it wasn’t Norfolk, and that she had no idea when, or if, she would see England again. Then, they had been collected immediately from their ship by someone from the Church Missionary Society and taken by small boat upriver to Parramatta, where they were to stay until they managed to secure berths on to New Zealand. The waterman had treated them to a guided tour along the way, but Kitty hadn’t bothered to listen to any of it. Now, she wished she had.

This time, coming into Sydney Harbour between North and South Heads past the oddly named Pinchgut Island and the imposing walls of Fort Macquarie at Bennelong Point, she had been entranced by the scenery, so different here from that of New Zealand. It was a real marvel: the two countries were not very far apart at all, yet New Zealand was lush and ripe—truly a new green and pleasant land—whereas Australia, this part of it anyway, seemed to be dry and scrubby with great slabs of orange rock lining the coves and bays all the way into Sydney Cove. Even the hue of green here was different: a much dustier version than she’d seen anywhere else.

It was, however, beautiful in a barren sort of way, and Kitty could see the attraction for the immigrants who had been coming here in increasing numbers over the years. Not all had chosen to, of course; many had arrived on convict ships courtesy of three English kings and now the new queen, and in all likelihood would never go home again.

She raised her chin and gave a sad little smile as the wind blew her hair back off her face. Her long tresses had gone, and so had the old Kitty Carlisle. Her time with Rian last night had been a revelation, and when he’d kissed her and left her to sleep she’d known then how easy it would
be to fall in love with him. And, with just as much certainty, she knew that if she allowed that to happen, betrayal would be sure to follow. Men were never what they seemed, and the only man she had trusted—her beloved father—had left her. So she’d told Rian this morning that there would be nothing more, that whatever happened next she would face by herself. His eyes had narrowed, but his only words had been a terse ‘As you wish’. Then he’d walked off, leaving her feeling relieved and strangely empty.

She tossed the apple core into the harbour and watched it disappear momentarily, then bob back up and float slowly away on some unseen current.

‘There is a funny little man coming aboard,’ Wai said, coming up behind her. Like Kitty, she was wearing her dress again, cleaner now and mended. ‘He does not look happy,’ she added.

Kitty followed her along the deck to the forecastle, where a funny little man was indeed hauling himself over the rail. He was not much over five feet tall and almost as wide, the buttons on his fancy waistcoat straining under the immense pressure of his paunch. He was beardless, but the whiskers of his long sideboards stuck out frizzily, giving him the appearance of an overweight squirrel, an impression reinforced by a ruddy face and beady little eyes that darted about in all directions. The crew were on deck now, their shore bags at their feet, busy concealing an alarming assortment of hand weapons about themselves. No one bothered to introduce the stranger, who was glaring at Rian with naked animosity. Rian stared back with the amused, arrogant expression that had so irritated her in the past.

‘Be my guest,’ he was saying. ‘In fact we’re all about to go ashore, except for Mick on watch. Bring your men out by all means, or feel free to start now. If you want a cup of tea or something stronger I’m sure Mick will oblige, won’t you, Mick?’

Mick grinned unpleasantly.

A loud and prolonged rattling of chains signalled the lowering of the
Katipo’s
two boats.

Rian made a production of digging in his pocket and consulting his
watch. ‘Forgive me, Mr Kinghazel, but you must excuse us.’ He gestured at Kitty and Wai to come forward. ‘Ladies first.’

Kinghazel eyed the two girls suspiciously but said nothing.

Everyone except Mick descended into the rowboats, the crew smug in the knowledge that the customs and excise man could tear the
Katipo
apart plank by plank and still not find anything that could remotely be considered illegal. They were as clean as a whistle on this trip.

Kitty climbed the slippery, barnacle-encrusted ladder up onto the wharf and waited as the others followed. She had to admit, as they appeared one by one, that they were a ragged and rather fearsome-looking lot.

Rian came first, his shirt open at the neck, his jacket flapping over the pistol at his belt, and his sea-boots in need of a good polish. His hat, too, had seen much better days. After him came Gideon, the black, barefoot giant. Kitty knew by now the story of how Rian had ‘emancipated’ Gideon on one of his trips to America, and had arranged for him to be taught the King’s English and to read, write and do basic bookwork. Consequently, as well as his duties as a seaman, Gideon also dealt with much of the
Katipo’s
paperwork, an accomplishment most casual observers would never imagine.

Hawk was next, wearing his knife in his belt as usual, and a long speckled feather in his left ear. Then came Sharkey with his gap-toothed grin, glinting earrings and sly eyes—the sort of character who gave the impression of being generally untrustworthy. Kitty had little doubt that he was exactly that, and very rough and ready as well, but she also suspected that he was remarkably loyal to his captain and to the crew he sailed with.

She moved forward as Wai appeared, extending her hand to help her friend up the last few rungs. Poor little Wai with her bare feet and patched dress. Between them they made a right pair, Kitty thought, neither having bonnets, gloves or even shawls. They must look as though they’d recently been fished out of the ocean after some catastrophic shipwreck.

Then came Haunui, almost as big as Gideon but much more
menacing-looking with his ugly face and extensive moko, and his lovely decent heart beneath his tatty shirt. Behind him was Ropata, quiet and contemplative but nevertheless eye-catching, his bushy, shoulder-length hair in a topknot today in honour of the shore leave. Of all the crew, Ropata was the most recent recruit, having sailed with Rian for only six months. He had replaced another Maori seaman, one Te Kanene also from the Ngati Kahungungu tribe of New Zealand’s East Coast, who had departed to run his own coastal shipping business.

And finally Pierre, who this morning was wearing a hat that looked like something left over from the Napoleonic Wars. He had greased his hair and waxed his wispy little moustache, and as he stepped off the ladder Kitty caught a definite whiff of lavender coming off him.

Anyone looking at them could be forgiven for thinking that they might be a gang of pirates. Then Kitty noticed that more than a few people on the wharf actually were staring at them, and moved a little closer to Haunui.

They ascended the slope up from the wharf, past several looming warehouses, and crossed the dusty, pot-holed thoroughfare that ran parallel to the waterfront. The street was thronged with people going about their business, or merely hanging about on corners enjoying the sights. Many were obviously locals, but there was also the odd police constable, a smattering of soldiers in distinctive red and blue uniforms, and many more seamen, if the number of men wearing gold rings in their ears was anything to go by. A cock-fight was in progress at the junction of two streets, the simultaneous cheering and groans of the spectators momentarily drowning out the cries of hawkers and a small boy standing on a box trying to sell newspapers. The town seemed to be extremely noisy and busy, worse even than market day in Norwich, Kitty thought, although the amount of animal dung on the ground was about the same. After the peace and quiet of Paihia over the past twelve months she felt a little unnerved by the din, bustle and excitement. The buildings, too, were impressive for a relatively new town, great pale stone or red brick edifices that rose several storeys high, interspersed with smaller buildings and cottages, shops and narrow little lanes.

‘Keep close,’ Gideon said, falling in beside Kitty and Wai. ‘There are plenty of pickpockets about. And they do not much like seamen here.’

‘I think we’ll be safe,’ Kitty remarked, eyeing Gideon’s massive shoulders and bulging muscles.

‘It is better to be safe than sorry,’ he replied, sounding exactly like Aunt Sarah.

They had turned off the main thoroughfare now and were walking up a steep, narrow street named Suffolk Lane, lined with pubs, tenement houses and shops. The sea smell of the harbour was fading, replaced by a dreadful stink that was beginning to make Kitty’s eyes water—dead animal, offal and human waste mingling incongruously with the aroma of fresh bread. At the end of the lane they turned left onto the slightly wider but equally pot-holed Gloucester Street, also bordered by narrow terrace houses and shop fronts, and yet more drinking establishments.

Panting slightly, Kitty now understood how The Rocks had come by its name: the town had clearly been hewn directly from the rock it stood on. The streets running north to south were relatively level, but the lanes dissecting them from east to west were markedly steep and uneven, some dwellings apparently accessible only by perilously steep steps cut into the solid rock. There were open drains everywhere, channelling the effluent the hard ground clearly couldn’t absorb directly onto the streets, causing Kitty to pick up her skirts and choose very carefully where she placed her feet. It must be a nightmare here when it rained: natural indentations and channels in the sandstone indicated where water had had to make its own way for perhaps decades. There were no horses, carts or gigs in the narrow lanes, but there were still plenty of people, staring suspiciously at them from front steps and doorways as they passed.

They came to a halt at the mouth of another close little street named Cribb’s Lane. On the corner stood a handsome, genteel-looking tavern—St Patrick’s Inn according to the shingle above the smart, panelled double doors. The view of the harbour below was impressive. But none of the crew went in, heading two doors further down and going into another, considerably rowdier, establishment called the Bird-in-Hand.

‘We can’t go in there,’ Kitty said to Rian.

‘No, you can’t,’ he replied. ‘One of us will meet you in St Patrick’s at…’—he got out his watch—‘one o’clock. There’s a parlour there where you can wait.’

‘No, I mean we can’t go into a hotel.’ Kitty said. ‘It’s not, well, it’s not respectable.’

Rian gave her a measured look, none of last night’s tenderness evident in his expression at all now, then let out a frustrated sigh. ‘You’re in Sydney now, Miss Carlisle, not embroidering altar cloths at some mission station. The rules are different here.’

Kitty felt an unwelcome pang of regret at his formal use of her surname, and at his deliberate sarcasm. She had spurned him this morning, that was true, but she hadn’t realised he would take it quite so much to heart. But he would soon see that she could be just as aloof when it suited her.

‘This is The Rocks,’ Rian went on. ‘It’s a different way of life. But St Patrick’s is respectable. I know the proprietors, the Maguires. They’re decent people.’

‘What do you suggest we do for three hours while you’re supping away in here, then?’ Kitty asked, inclining her head towards the doorway of the Bird-in-Hand.

‘Go shopping,’ Rian said, withdrawing his purse from an inside pocket of his jacket. He counted out ten sovereigns and handed them to her.

She stared at the heavy gold coins in her hand.

At her look of incomprehension Rian said, ‘You need clothes and things, don’t you?’ He emptied the remainder of the coins from the purse and slipped them into his pocket, then gave the purse to her as well. ‘Best to keep it in this. Out of sight.’

‘We can’t take money from you.’

Rian shrugged. ‘Well, it’s up to you. But you also can’t go around dressed like that for the next however many months. You look like a pair of doxies, and down-at-heel ones at that.’

Kitty couldn’t argue with him, although she would dearly have liked to; she had never taken money from a man before in her life. Apart from her father, of course. And after last night this felt somehow…degrading.
She glanced quickly at Rian to see if she could detect any hidden meaning behind his gesture, but his face was as impassive as ever.