Wildflower Hill (18 page)

Raphael, if eating alone, took his dinner in the sitting room at the round wooden table he used for cards. She knocked quietly and entered. He was standing at the closed French doors, gazing out into the dark beyond. The sitting room seemed enormous now that it wasn’t full of noisy men, though the drapes still smelled of smoke.

She silently slid the tray onto the table, hoping to escape unnoticed. But he had already noticed her, though he didn’t turn or look at her.

“It’s lonely here tonight, Beattie,” he said.

“Yes, sir. Very quiet.”

He turned and smiled. “Call me Raph.”

Beattie was aware that even Alice called him Mr. Blanchard. “I wouldn’t feel comfortable, sir.”

“Would you feel comfortable sitting with me while I eat my dinner?”

“No, sir.”

He shrugged. “I pay you. A little discomfort won’t kill you. Sit.”

Beattie hesitated, saw she had little choice, and sat opposite him. He slid into his seat and began to eat noisily, with his head bent close over his plate. She looked around the room, mentally straightening the painting that hung over the mantel, jiggling her knees under the table.

“So,” he said through a mouthful of food. “Where in Scotland are you from?”

“I’m English, sir. My mother was Scots. I lived in Glasgow a little while.”

“Alice tells me you have a little girl. No husband?”

“No, sir.”

“Who was the father, then?”

Beattie didn’t know how to answer, so she remained silent, bracing herself for his reaction.

He looked up, licked his lips. “Oh, go on. Do tell. Somebody dashing and dastardly, I imagine? Had his way with you, then abandoned you?”

Beattie stood. She could not let him think that she’d allow him to speak to her this way. “If you’ll excuse me—”

“No, I won’t excuse you. Sit down. I’ll stop asking you about your naughty past.” He poked his fork at her for emphasis. “Go on. Sit.”

She did as he said.

He returned to his meal. “Now, let’s find a topic of conversation that won’t upset you. You live with Margaret Day?”

“Yes, that’s right.”

“And is she really as tedious and tiresome as she appears to be on short acquaintance?”

Beattie stifled a laugh, and Raphael smiled eagerly. “Ah, she
is.
Though you’d never say it. Are you all about God like she is?”

“Margaret is a fine model, sir.” Anything to put him off her. “I’m a good Christian.”

“Apart from having a child out of wedlock?”

“I do my best.”

“Probably not good enough for Margaret. Here’s the
thing.” He pushed away his half-finished meal and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “I’ve been watching you these last few months, and I think you’re very pretty. I’d rather like it if you’d come upstairs with me for a tumble in my bed. But I sense that you’re going to say no.”

Beattie was frozen.

“So I won’t ask you that directly. Leo Sampson, my lawyer, told me explicitly that I wasn’t to offer you money or threaten to fire you. I usually take his advice. So that leaves me in something of a bind. How
do
I get you? Because I want you.”

“You can’t have me,” she said forcefully. “You should forget it.”

He shook his head. “But I can’t. I’ve tried. You’re not like the others. They usually fall the moment I crook my finger.”

Beattie forced herself to her feet and was halfway to the door when he seized her by the wrist.

“Don’t run away from me, girl.” His pupils were pinpoints in his pale blue eyes.

“I’m not running away. I’m walking away. At twenty shillings a week, you do not pay me enough to be insulted. Now let me go, or I will tell Mr. Sampson what you said.” Her heart thudded in her chest: she really couldn’t afford to be so principled. She needed the job.

Raphael pulled his eyebrows together: a cross child’s expression. But he let her go. She hurried away, through to the kitchen, and stopped only when she had reached the warmth of the stove. She put her head in her hands but didn’t cry. Simply, she couldn’t be alone with him again. She would have to beg Alice not to put her in that position.

At length, she collected herself. She kept busy with little tasks, listening for his approach. He didn’t come. At ten o’clock she went back to the sitting room, opening the door with trepidation. He was gone. She collected the dinner plates and hurried back to the kitchen. Nothing else to do except wait for midnight, when Mikhail would blearily come and get her for the drive home. Beattie put her head on the table, too tired to work, too wary to sleep.

Margaret had started behaving strangely toward Beattie: not meeting her eye, not falling into conversation with her, not walking to the shops with her anymore. Lucy was still close to Margaret; sometimes Beattie grew jealous at how well they got along. But she’d expected an increasing coolness—Margaret had made it clear she didn’t approve of Beattie’s job—so she didn’t dwell on it.

But one morning Margaret seemed more agitated than ever.

It was a Sunday, after church, and Margaret wouldn’t settle to sew or to read to Lucy. Rather, she paced back and forth between the sitting room and the verandah, humming tunelessly.

“Are you expecting someone?” Beattie asked.

“Perhaps,” Margaret answered, glancing at Lucy. Lucy looked up at her and smiled, and Beattie had the distinct feeling that they were keeping something from her. Uneasiness prickled in her muscles. But she was tired from working late the night before and was easily distracted. She and Lucy were
putting together a jigsaw puzzle at the dining table, and she was hunting for blue pieces.

The sound of a car out front. Beattie rose. “Is that Mikhail? He’s very early.”

“No, no,” Margaret said, pushing her back into her seat. “I’m sure it’s not your driver. Let me see.”

Margaret disappeared out the front again. Beattie looked at Lucy, who was staring at her.

“What is it?” Beattie asked.

“I do love you, Mummy.”

“And I love you.” She smoothed Lucy’s hair. “Why do you look so frightened?”

“But I love him, too.”

For an innocent moment, she thought Lucy was talking about God or Jesus. But then she heard the voice outside, and freezing water hit her veins.

Henry!

She leaped from her seat and ran toward the door. She had to stop him before Lucy saw him. Margaret was walking him up the path, smiling at him.
Smiling!
How dare she? How dare she arrange this visit without Beattie’s knowledge? She never should have trusted her, what with her cousin living right next door to Henry. She should have left Margaret’s house months ago. All these thoughts raced across her mind as she hurried down the path and blocked their way.

“No!” she cried. “You’re not coming near my daughter.”

Henry smiled kindly. “She’s our daughter, Beattie.”

Beattie turned on Margaret. “Why did you have to interfere? You know what kind of man he is.”

“I know what kind of man he
was,
” Margaret said with a sanctimonious lift of her head, “but I have been hearing from Doris over the last few months about the kind of man he has
become.
And you have nothing to fear.”

Beattie was so angry that she couldn’t understand what Margaret was saying. She stood immobile on the path with her arms spread against Henry’s entry to the house.

Henry spoke incredibly gently. “Beattie, if you are worried, I won’t see Lucy today. I came to speak to you, anyway. Will you walk with me? Away from the house? Will you listen to my story?”

Lucy. Lucy
knew.
She had said as much. “You’ve already seen her, haven’t you?” Beattie said, dropping her arms in defeat.

“I have been to visit three times.”

Beattie gave Margaret a cold glance, but she shrugged it off. “I’ll go inside to look after the child,” she said. “You two talk.”

Henry softly took Beattie’s arm and led her down the front path and out the gate. A shining new Ford was parked on the street, and Beattie realized it must be his.

“How did you afford a car?”

“Things have changed for me,” he said, leading Beattie past the car and down the street. “I work for the government now. In transport. I get good pay every week, and I spend it wisely.”

The morning was cool, with a fresh wind blowing clouds in from the west. Beattie had forgotten her jacket, and gooseflesh rose on her skin under the sleeves of her blouse. She must have shivered because, a moment later, Henry had slipped off his jacket and had spread it over her shoulders.

She was startled and slightly afraid.

“Which way?” he said.

She guided him toward the main road. “So you don’t work for Billy anymore?” she asked.

“I don’t. Nor do I owe him money, and nor do I rent his cottage, though I’ve remained good friends with Doris. The first step was breaking his spell on me, putting that life behind me forever.”

As they walked, she stole glances at him, assessing him. He seemed to be telling the truth: his skin and eyes were healthy, he looked well fed and strong. And his clothes seemed well cared for. They walked in silence for a while.

“Where are we going?” Henry asked.

“To the creek. There’s a big flat rock there where Lucy and I go to sit and tell stories.”

He followed her obediently. She turned the situation over in her head. What did he want? Turning up clean, sober, and rich: did he want her and Lucy back? Would that be such a bad thing?

At length, they came to the creek and the causeway where Beattie had nearly lost Lucy. She led Henry to the flat rock, and they sat down, still not talking. The creek ran past, gurgling, and the clouds grew darker.

“The day I left you,” Beattie said, “it stormed, and Lucy and I walked for miles in the rain only to find this causeway flooded. We tried to get across, but Lucy was swept away. If it hadn’t been for the actions of a kind man passing, she certainly would have drowned.”

Henry went visibly pale. “And it would have been all my fault.”

Beattie nodded. “Yes, perhaps.”

“I was awful to you. Especially to Lucy. On the one hand declaring how much I loved her, and on the other taking away all her security. Taking food out of her mouth to gamble and drink. When you left me, I saw that clearly. But I’m changed now, and thanks to God’s help, I have been sober and debt-free for six months. I intend to stay that way.”

“And so now you want us back?”

Henry blinked rapidly, then glanced away. “I . . . ah, no, Beattie. Not both of you.”

“Oh.” Beattie swallowed her embarrassment.

“I . . . Well . . . Molly’s come, you see. My wife.” He smiled. “Molly’s kept me straight and will continue to keep me straight. I owe her my life.”

And even though her love for him had long since turned cold, a barb of jealousy pierced her heart. She didn’t love him anymore; she didn’t want him anymore. But she had hoped that he might miss her and regret what had passed. Beattie’s heart hardened. “Well, you can’t have Lucy. She’s my daughter, I’ve taken care of her her entire life, even when you couldn’t. You can’t just walk back into her life now and expect me to give her up.”

“I certainly don’t expect you to give her up. I came to see you today to ask if you would consider letting her visit with us regularly. Perhaps one week out of every month.” He saw that she was about to refuse, so he spoke quickly over the top
of her. “We would pick her up and return her, she would be well taken care of and loved . . .” He ran out of words momentarily. “I would love her so well, Beattie, you’ve no idea.”

That love between Henry and Lucy, which had so tortured her the first years of the child’s life, was back, and she had to deal with it. If she said no, Lucy would go wild, try to run away, not speak to her for months. Damn Henry and Margaret for concocting this plan. They
knew
that if he saw Lucy first, Beattie couldn’t say no.

“You went about this entirely the wrong way,” Beattie said, helpless tears brimming. “You shouldn’t have seen Lucy without my knowledge.”

“I’m sorry, but that was Margaret’s idea. She’s got it in her head that you’ve fallen in with a bad crowd and—”

“I work because I have to. I do nothing that I’m ashamed of. I work to put food in my daughter’s mouth and make sure she has new shoes. It may not be honest business, but it’s honest work, and if I didn’t do it, I’d be the worst kind of mother: with morals and no money. Children can’t eat morals.”

Henry was chastened, held back whatever reply he had thought of. Instead, he nodded. “I understand.”

“Will you get lawyers? If I say no, will you spend your rich wife’s money on taking Lucy away from me anyway?”

“I’m hoping it won’t come to that, Beattie. You are a reasonable person, and I am making a reasonable request. You speak of what Lucy needs, and she needs a father.”

Beattie was about to snap that Lucy didn’t need another mother but then realized she would have sounded jealous. She
was
jealous. The thought of Molly looking after Lucy for a
week every month was a knife turning in her heart. She took a deep breath, tried to regain her perspective. “This is all a bit of a shock,” she said.

“I can give you some time to decide. A day or so? A week?”

“I’ll need to meet Molly.”

“I’ll bring her the first time we come to pick Lucy up. You’ll like her.”

“She’ll hate me,” Beattie said with a grimace.

Henry shook his head. “Her forgiveness is vast, humbling. She is truly a remarkable woman. And she’s longing to meet my girl.”

Beattie put her head in her hands. The creek sang, the wind shook the branches of the eucalyptus that lined it. A crow growled, low and lonely. Her heart wanted to shout “No!,” but her head was telling her quite a different story. What little girl wouldn’t want to be with her beloved daddy from time to time, especially a good Christian daddy with a shining car and a rosy-cheeked wife at home? And to be honest, Beattie could do with a break from parenting from time to time. Having been solely responsible for Lucy for so long had bled her dry.

She lifted her head. “I don’t need time to decide,” she said, already feeling the anxiety and regret building in her breast. “The answer is yes.”