This Golden Land (53 page)

     Up and down the street, lamplighters with their familiar long poles were going about the business of lighting the candles in street lamps, each glass globe giving off a comfortable glow against the night. The front of Addison's had been decorated with additional lanterns, and bright light spilled from the large plate glass windows as elegantly dressed people arrived in fancy carriages and walked two by two through the brightly lit entrance of the hotel. Although a few gentlemen arrived alone, and some ladies arrived in pairs or groups, only one lady stepped down from her carriage and walked along the red carpet unescorted. But everyone knew Hannah Conroy and so they were not surprised.

     The lobby had been converted into an art gallery, with paintings displayed on walls and easels. A string quartet played Mozart while footmen in livery moved through the crowd with glasses of champagne and platters of hors d'oeuvres. Overhead, chandeliers burned with a hundred candles, and silver candelabras had been placed on shelves and tables, making the lobby glow and glitter. The women's gowns were the colors of the rainbow, shining like butterflies in silks and satins, with sparkling gems at their throats, while the men wore black or gray, with starched shirts and polished shoes.

     Seeing her friend step through the tall glass doors, Blanche came up with hands outstretched. "You look lovely, Hannah." Blanche was pleased to see that her friend had taken her advice and used the services of the best dress designer in town. Hannah's off-shoulder gown of cream-colored satin and edged in pink lace showed exquisite taste.

     "Everyone is here," Blanche with satisfaction, herself wearing a stunning gown of deep purple that offset her violet eyes. "The Governor sent his regrets, but that was to be expected. His wife is here and she has her eye on a painting that will bring in a hundred pounds."

     Hannah handed her cape to a maid and searched the crowd for a particular face. She could not recall when she had been so nervous, excited and afraid all at once.

     After her encounter with Blanche outside the hospital that afternoon, she had come straight to Addison's Hotel where finishing touches were being done for tonight's gala. Blanche had said she left Mr. Scott here, but
Hannah was told he had just left. She had gone home to go through the two weeks' worth of mail and messages waiting for her, to see if Neal had left one. Hannah's housekeeper, Mrs. Sparrow, confirmed that an American gentleman had indeed paid a visit, and had left a note. "I pray you are the Hannah Conroy," Neal had written, "with whom I spent six months at sea on a ship called the
Caprica."

     Hannah had no idea where Neal lived, or how to find him, and so she had had to endure the agonizing hours until she would see him at tonight's charity event.

     "And the American photographer?" she asked, her heart racing. Hannah had to raise her voice to be heard over the roar of conversation and laughter that rose to the high ceiling. "Is he here?"

     "Mr. Scott said he had to step out but that he would be right back," Blanche said, her eyes darting anxiously toward the main entrance. Was Marcus going to come? If he did, Blanche decided she would take him aside and explain about what happened that day a year ago, why she could not agree to organize his hospital tour.

     Suddenly, there he was, handing his opera cape and top hat to one of the attendants. Blanche was thrilled to see him, and he looked exceptionally distinguished in black cutaway coat and tails, the silver in his black hair catching the light from the chandeliers. Blanche felt a jolt of sexual desire and realized that her feelings for him had not diminished in the year since he had stopped being friendly toward her. She could pinpoint the exact moment when his attitude, after two years of being a dear friend (although there had been no romantic overtures), had changed to one of cold aloofness. She knew how devoted Sir Marcus was to his hospital, that it was his life. But how could she tell him that the very sight of the building put knots in her stomach and chilled her to the bone? She had not expected his reaction afterward, when she had turned down his request that she organize a fund raising tour of his hospital. It had surprised her when the invitations to picnics and horse races stopped. And by the time she realized the reason, she didn't know how to fix it.

     Dr. Iverson came through the crowd and walked right up the Blanche and Hannah, and while Blanche's heart raced in utter delight to see him, it
was Hannah whom he addressed. "It is nice to see you again, Miss Conroy."

     "Thank you," Hannah said. "Dr. Iverson, what is Nellie Turner's condition?"

     "Come now!" Blanche said, stepping between them, dismayed by the way Marcus ignored her. Blanche was further upset by the way he looked at Hannah. She felt pain rush through her, but she kept up her smile to cover the deep hurt. "No business talk tonight. Marcus, let me introduce you to our artists."

     "I should be delighted, Mrs. Sinclair, but in a moment, please." Marcus Iverson was appalled at the rush of desire he felt by Blanche's nearness. She had proven herself to be less than a friend, but while his mind knew this, his heart said something else. He only had himself to blame. After his wife died, he had thought he could never love another woman. For a long time he devoted himself to medicine and his hospital. And then Blanche Sinclair's husband died and Marcus found himself wishing to comfort her. She was, after all, young and attractive, with a delightful personality, well read and educated, and generous. He started taking her for carriage rides and picnics and they became very good friends, after a respectable mourning period. There had even come a time when he had wondered if they had a future together.

     And then he had asked her to organize a charity tour of his hospital to raise funds for a new wing—with Blanche Sinclair chairing the event, the donations were guaranteed—but to his shock she declined with the thinnest of excuses. Showing her true colors, he had decided, proving to be only a shallow friend.

     A carriage drew up outside just then, pulled by four plumed horses and drawing everyone's attention. Two footmen opened the door and assisted the passengers to the wooden sidewalk—a young lady, and older woman, and a middle aged man—all attired in fine evening dress. The fourth passenger, Miss Alice Star, stepped into the glow of the lights in a stunning white gown and white velvet cape trimmed in white fur, with tall egret feathers rising from a diamond tiara in her golden blond hair. Alice was one of the highest paid performers in Melbourne, second only to famed Shakespearean actor, Donald Craig.

     Doormen opened the hotel's doors and as Alice swept under the chandelier, everyone applauded. She paused dramatically, returned the salute with a stage bow, then she handed off her cape and told her three escorts to go and enjoy themselves. Hannah watched as a circle of admirers formed around Alice. At twenty-five, her figure had filled out into womanly curves. She was more confident and radiant than ever, with no sign of the timid maid Hannah had met in Adelaide almost six years ago.

     Excusing herself from the circle, Alice glided toward Hannah. "Is it true? Neal is alive? I almost fainted when I read your note. Have you seen him yet? Where is he?"

     "I am told he stepped out and will be back."

     "Have you seen his work yet?" Although Alice had never met Neal, she had heard a great deal about him from Hannah, had seen his photograph, and had witnessed the depth of Hannah's grief when she received news of his death. But now! He was alive!

     After a polite exchange with Dr. Iverson and Blanche, both of whom moved off in different directions, Alice threaded her arm through Hannah's and, as they made their way through the glittering crowd, said, "I am bursting with joy for you, Hannah. I don't know how you can be so calm."

     "Alice," Hannah said as they walked past easels displaying paintings of varying styles and subjects, the artists at the center of attention. "Neal is engaged to be married."

     Alice stopped and stared at her. Now she saw how pale her friend was, saw the dampness in Hannah's eyes, and how her lower lip trembled. "You can't be serious!"

     Hannah spoke with barely controlled emotion. "I have now had the information confirmed by others. Neal opened his new studio last week, and already everyone is clambering to have him take their photographic portraits, and a few were not shy about asking after his marital status."

     "Oh Hannah," Alice said, her joy turning to sharp disappointment. "I am so sorry. How could that happen?"

     Hannah tried to speak objectively, but it was a struggle to hold herself together. "Well, it
has
been four and a half years since we last saw each other. A lot can happen in that time. Certainly a lot has changed in my own life.
Here we are," she said as they arrived at a section of wall hung with large photographs in beautiful frames. A sign identified them as being the work of "Neal Scott, Photographer."

     Hannah and Alice stared in wide-eyed wonder. While the other artists had chosen to depict Australian city or rural scenes—sheep shearing, horse races, ships in harbors—the American photographer had ventured into the world that lay beyond the last outpost of civilization, capturing images of wonders that most people would never see. And Neal's photographs of the Outback were more than mere pictures, they were works of art.

     With tear-filled eyes, Hannah looked from one to another, taking in the mountains, rock formations, tree-less plains. She sensed a spiritual power emanate from the images. How had he managed, with glass and paper and a few chemicals, to invoke the sheer immensity of the Australian landscape? One in particular captivated her: On the right and left edges, leafy eucalyptus trees seemed to lean away from one another, giving the illusion of curtains opening upon a theatrical stage, and in the distance an awesome rock, ancient and massive, rose up from the flat desert. Neal had so expertly composed the picture that it was as if he knew there was an audience standing behind him and his camera. He had captured an incalculable volume of luminous space, filled it with incandescent light, and turned it into a stunning display of radiant wonder. By a clever trick—the bottom of the photograph had been cropped so that there was no hint of ground where a bulky tripod and human being had stood—Neal created the illusion that the observer of the vista were drifting in space. Hannah was taken aback. This was spatial experience on a breathtaking scale. Neal magically drew his audience into the scene, allowing them to float through golden light and across ancient land.

     It made her heart swell with love for him, and an aching desire to tell him in person how deeply his work affected her. And then the remembered the fiancée and pain shot through her.

     "Notice the frame, Hannah," Alice said quietly.

     Struggling for composure, Hannah tore her eyes from the image and inspected the wooden framework. At first it looked like a fanciful pattern surrounding the photograph, but when she looked more closely, she saw
miniature flowers carved into the wood, and trees, tiny woodland creatures, even a waterfall!

     "Alice," she said, "it looks like the frame around that painting your secret admirer gave to you."

     "Yes, it does," Alice said, suddenly excited.

     It had started a month ago. Alice had been performing nightly at the theater, plus weekend matinees, and while she was used to seeing regulars in the audience, one in particular had caught her attention. At first she wasn't sure why he especially caught her notice until she realized that he always sat in the same seat near the back, in shadow, and that at the end of each show, he would leave instead of trying to see her backstage, or wait in the alley at the stage door like the others (which was why Alice never went out without at least three escorts). Alice was also used to receiving lavish gifts and flowers, but in every case the giver identified himself. A week ago, a package had been delivered to her dressing room with no card from the admirer. The package contained a watercolor by a local artist—black swans on the Yarra River—but when Alice saw the exquisitely carved wooden frame—miniature birds and butterflies—she realized that it was the frame, not the painting, that was the gift. And as the gift had been given anonymously, she had wondered if it had come from the mysterious man who sat in shadow.

     "I wonder if he is here, tonight!" Alice said suddenly. "These beautiful frames are every bit works of art as the photographs. It makes sense that the man who carved them would be here, doesn't it?"

     Hannah saw a spark of interest in her friend's eye that she had never seen before. Alice did not lack for admirers, but she wasn't interested in being courted. She had told Hannah that men were not in love with her but with her façl;ade, with an illusion, and she knew that once the makeup was washed off, the hairpiece and tiara removed, their dream would be dashed and she would be left humiliated. Yet there was something unique about this particular admirer. Why was he hiding his identity? Why did he come to every performance and yet not step forward to introduce himself? It might only be a game, but Hannah saw that Alice was intrigued.

     "Miss Star," Blanche said, coming up in a rustle of silk and petticoats,
her deeply dimpled cheeks flushed, her narrow pointed chin shiny with excitement. "We're ready for you."

     Alice hesitated, placing a hand on Hannah's arm to ask softly, "Are you all right? Shall I stay with you?" When Hannah assured her that she was all right, Alice took her place in the center of the lobby, beneath the chandelier, and waited graciously while everyone quieted down. When the air was so still that only the occasional sputter of an oil lamp was heard, Alice cleared her throat, clasped her hands at her waist, drew in a deep breath, and began to sing.

I dreamt I dwelt in marble halls
With vassals and serfs at my side,
And of all who assembled within those walls
That I was the hope and the pride.
I had riches all too great to count
And a high ancestral name.