This Golden Land (58 page)

     "Then you must go," Hannah said.

     "I can't leave you now that I have found you."

     "Neal, we have had an outbreak of fever at the hospital. It began with my patient. I must go there tomorrow morning and help Dr. Iverson to keep it from spreading. Go to the Cave of the Hands and bring back beautiful pictures for all of Melbourne to see."

     As Neal gathered her to him and kissed her again, Hannah heard her own words and felt a stab of doubt. Neal must go out into the wilderness, she thought, and I must stay where there are people. How can we possibly live together? When would we see each other? And where would we live? I could not live above a photography studio. I need an office to see patients. And Neal cannot live above a midwife's office, with patients calling for me at all hours.

     As Neal enveloped her in a moment of warmth and love and desire, Hannah tried to suppress the questions that suddenly haunted her. Could two people, following such different paths, create a life together?

F
INTAN
R
ORKE COULD BARELY CONTAIN HIS EXCITEMENT AS HE
approached Miss Star's dressing room at the Queen's Theater. As he had worked in his studio all day, sculpting a picture frame, delicately coaxing rosebuds and miniature starlings out of the wood, Fintan had thought of nothing but Alice Star and their brief encounter at Addison's Hotel the night before. He had stood there in the lamp light, twine and scissors forgotten in his hand, spellbound by the sparkle and enchantment Miss Star had brought into the musty room. She had invited him to come backstage after tonight's performance, and now here he was, wearing his best black frock coat and silk top hat, a small package in his hands.

     He had something important to say to her.

     Fintan knocked and a gray-haired woman opened the door. She wore a maroon satin gown with white lace cuffs and collar, and a white lace cap on her head. She smiled warmly and said, "You must be Mr. Rorke. Please come in."

     Removing his hat, Fintan stepped through the door and into a theatrical
world. He saw the rack of gowns and capes, the stands displaying bonnets, crowns and tiaras, the mirrored dressing table littered with bottles and jars, brushes and pencils—a performer's dressing room. But what met his senses was the glitter and sparkle of Alice Star's private world, the crystal chimney lamps encasing flickering flames, the fragrance of myriad flowers from bouquets in vases and baskets, the feminine sound of petticoats rustling.

     Alice herself was still wearing the white Grecian gown from her performance, the Empire waist accentuating her breasts. A stole of transparent white gauze was settled on her shoulders, like a cloud, Fintan thought, and a rush of sexual desire shot through him.

     Alice welcomed him with outstretched hands. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Rorke. Permit me to introduce my dear friend and companion, Mrs. Lawrence. Margaret has been with me since my days at the Elysium in Adelaide."

     He took the woman's gloved hand. "Mrs. Lawrence, I recall seeing you at the gala last evening."

     The older woman smiled brightly at the handsome young man, pleased that Alice was entertaining so refined a gentleman, and one with an artistic reputation. She retired to the one chair in the cluttered dressing room that wasn't strewn with clothes and assumed a watchful pose.

     "Mr. Rorke, may I offer you some champagne?"

     He glanced at Mrs. Lawrence who sat primly observant, hands clasped in her lap, maroon skirts billowing around her, and he knew that etiquette had to be observed. Since he and Alice had only met the night before, and at that had not been properly introduced, Fintan knew that he was not to stay long, not on their first social engagement, and in Alice's private dressing room.

     "I came to give you something, Miss Star," he said, and he handed her the small gift wrapped in a blue silk handkerchief.

     Alice delicately picked at the knot and drew the silk away to reveal an exquisitely carved bird nesting in her hand. She gasped. The detail was astounding, down to the fluffy breast feathers, miniscule beak nostrils, and the long delicate tail. The piece had not been painted. Mr. Rorke had left it in the natural walnut color of the wood from which it had been carved, and
it struck Alice as being all the more lifelike. She could almost see the plump breast rise and fall with little bird respirations.

     "It's called a Splendid Fairy-Wren," Fintan said, "an Australian songbird, and she has a beautiful, rich warbling call."

     As Alice cradled the enchanting creature in the palm of her hand, she pictured Fintan as he must have looked as he worked at his craft, his head bent, a curl of black hair falling on his forehead. She saw the concentration in his dark eyes, his hands manipulating the small sculpting knife—hands that would seem too large for so tiny and delicate a task.

     She was at a loss for words. Fintan Rorke could have placed emeralds and rubies in her hand, and they would have been valueless compared to this.

     "I don't plan to be a frame maker forever," Fintan said quietly, overcome by the look in her eyes as she stared at his humble work. "My dream is to be a sculptor and produce art."

     She looked at him with wide, blue eyes. "But Mr. Rorke, your picture frames
are
art!"

     "But I want to do more," he said. "I would like to sculpt people. I would love to capture
your
beauty, Miss Star," he added with a blush, "in mahogany or teak, to last forever." He fell silent then, and the moment stretched while they heard voices in the corridor beyond and felt Mrs. Lawrence's eyes on them. Fintan cleared his throat and glanced at Alice's chaperone.

     "Margaret," Alice said, reaching for a crystal carafe. "Be a dear and refill this with water, please."

     Mrs. Lawrence rose and took the decanter, but gave the gentleman caller a significant look. "I shall be right back," she said, leaving the door ajar.

     "Margaret is very protective of my reputation," Alice said.

     "It's understandable. You must have a legion of admirers."

     "She approves of you, though, I can tell."

     "I want to tell you something, Miss Star," he said quickly, as if afraid of losing his courage. "When Neal Scott and I were in the Nullarbor, we were victims of a terrible tragedy. . ."

     "Yes, I know. Galagandra," she said gently. "Hannah and I read about it in the newspapers. How awful it must have been for you."

     Fintan glanced toward the door and the deserted corridor beyond. Returning his gaze to Alice, where he saw compassion in her clear blue eyes, he said, "Neal and I tried to save those men but in the end we could only save ourselves. I suffered from nightmares for months afterwards, and although the terrifying dreams have ceased, I am still not over what happened there, perhaps I never will be. But when I first attended one of your performances, my dear Miss Star, a month ago, I watched an angel in white standing in a glowing column of light. I heard silken threads of voice unfurl over the hushed audience, and I felt a most unexpected balm wash over me. Miss Star, for the first time since the tragedy at Galagandra, I knew a moment of solace."

     He paused, holding her eyes with his, then he said, "I have attended every performance since, and each time I have left the theater feeling less troubled than when I went in. I have come to believe, Miss Star, that the grace of God and His healing power lies in your voice."

     Alice did not know what to say. A mere "Thank you," was inadequate. Deeply moved, she could only part her lips and look up at him as he stood over her, taller, looking down at her with black eyes burning with passion. The breath caught in her throat. Her skin suddenly felt as if it were on fire. She thought of Fintan's hands as they coaxed a songbird from inanimate wood, and suddenly wanted to feel them on her body, coaxing love and desire from flesh that had never known the intimate touch of a man.

     Margaret Lawrence appeared in the doorway at that moment, crystal carafe in hand, and a look on her face that said she had returned just in time. Alice and Mr. Rorke stood so close together one could barely see light between them. He had placed a hand on Alice's bare arm. His handsome head was bent. For a brief instant, recalling her own youth and days of courtship, Mrs. Lawrence thought of turning around and leaving them alone.

     But Alice had an image to uphold. As a singer—a stage performer—she must be more vigilant than ordinary women. Her virtue had to be protected.

     "Here you are, dear!" she said, placing the decanter on the dressing table. "My goodness, look at the hour."

     Fintan stepped back. "May I pay a call on you again, Miss Star? Or perhaps we could visit the new botanic gardens?"

     "I would like that," Alice said, offering him her hand. "By the way, Mr. Rorke, may I ask why you always sit in that shadowy corner of the theater?"

     He grinned. "Because there I feel as if I am the only one in the audience, and that I have you all to myself."

     Seating his top hat on his thick black hair, Fintan gave Alice one last lingering look, then he bade both ladies good night and left.

     As she watched him go, Alice marveled at the strange new emotions that flooded her, exciting and marvelous, and as she held the memory of his nearness in her mind, she was unaware that her right hand had fluttered up in a defensive gesture to the side of her face, where scars lay carefully hidden.

E
DWARD
S
OAMES STOOD AT THE FRONT DOOR OF HIS RESIDENCE, AS
he did every morning, and kissed his wife and four children goodbye. First, six-year-old Winston, then four-year-old Harold, next two-year-old Charles, and finally Lucy his wife, and little Anna, a baby in her arms—bestowing each with a tender kiss on the lips.

     It was his habit to walk to his office, but this morning Dr. Soames hailed a hansom cab. He was feeling out of sorts and a little tired. The cab did not get far before Soames found that his breathing had become labored and so he redirected the driver to Victoria Hospital, where he would have Dr. Iverson listen to his chest. It was probably nothing, but one could never be too cautious.

     Hannah stared at the empty basin and wondered why it had not been refilled.

     She looked around the noisy hospital ward where women were gathered at bedsides, nursing sick loved ones, coaxing them to drink the tea, eat the bread, take the medicine that the doctor ordered. Although it was not the ward attendants' duty to care for the patients, it
was
their responsibility to see that the hand-washing basins were kept filled with chlorinated water. And Hannah had arrived that morning to find all four basins dry.

     Wondering where the attendants were—there were chamber pots to be emptied as well, and water pitchers to be filled—Hannah left the ward and went down the stairs.

     Earlier, just before dawn, Neal had taken Hannah home in his own carriage, worried what people would think if they saw her leaving his apartment at such an improper hour. Hannah hadn't minded. They were engaged to be married, and she was blissfully in love. After kissing Neal good-bye, she had watched him drive off, wishing she could stay with him. But she was needed at the hospital, and Neal needed to pack his photography wagon for his trip to the Cave of the Hands. He had said he would come by her home at noon, to say good-bye.