Wildflower Hill (21 page)

He tapped his pocket. “More cards?”

She smiled and nodded. “Come on. I’m determined to beat you at least once tonight.”

Beattie was relieved to see Lucy’s initial disdain for her new home quickly replaced with excitement. There were dogs and horses, rabbits and wallabies, miles of paddocks to roam in, and the big echoing kitchen to sit in, drawing with the new set of pencils Henry had bought her. The rug and the bed arrived in the first week, and Lucy settled back in to life with her mother.

Lucy was frightened of Mikhail at first but soon grew used to him. He came to visit every night, and Lucy fell asleep in the bed while Mikhail and Beattie played poker for matchsticks. Beattie found she had a knack for the game: years of watching men play helped, as did her gift for judging her opponent’s hand through his subtle physical reactions. Soon she was confidently beating Mikhail at almost every hand. He began to call her the Matchstick Tsarina, until Lucy complained that her mother’s name wasn’t Serena, it was Beattie, and he should get it right.

Two days before Henry was due to collect Lucy for her next visit, Alice came to find Beattie in the laundry. Lucy was sitting on an upturned fruit crate, wrestling a peg doll into a tiny
dress that she had sewn herself. Beattie was pressing Raphael’s shirts through the mangle as the copper cooled beside her.

“Beattie, you have a telephone call,” Alice said.

Beattie stopped and wiped her hands on her apron. “A telephone call? Are you sure it’s for me?”

“It’s Molly MacConnell.”

Lucy looked up and beamed. “Mama Molly! Can I speak to her on the telephone?”

Mama Molly?
Beattie’s heart sank into her stomach.

Alice shook her head. “She wants to talk to your mother, dear. Not you.”

Lucy pouted. Beattie stroked her hair off her face. “I’ll tell her you said hello.” She followed Alice to the long hallway, where the telephone sat on a polished table. She picked it up and said, “Hello?,” trying not to sound too nervous.

“Beattie, it’s Molly.” Her voice was distant and small.

Beattie wound the cord around her fingers, leaning against the wall. Morning light through the transom fell in a pattern on the floor. The house was dim and quiet. “How can I help you?” she said.

“I hope you don’t mind me calling, but I need to discuss something with you while Henry isn’t around.”

“Oh?”

“It’s about Lucy.”

Mama Molly. How long had Lucy been calling her that?

“Beattie, I know you love your little girl, and I know you are doing your best to provide for her, but . . . frankly, when we dropped her off last time, I was appalled. A bare room without even a bed—”

“We have a bed now. And rugs. Lucy loves the farm.”

“Nonetheless, she’s nearly five. Next year she’ll need school. Here in Hobart, there are many schools. There’s her church.” Molly’s voice grew urgent. “And a proper house with a room and a bed of her own, toys, books, everything she could need.”

Beattie knew where this conversation was heading. “I see. So you think she’d be better off with you? With Mama Molly instead of Mama Beattie?”

Molly fell silent.

“
I
am her mother,” Beattie said.

“Henry is her father. He has as much claim on her as you.” Molly calmed herself. “Beattie, I don’t want to argue with you. But surely you can see good sense? If we reverse the arrangement and she spends one week a month with you, then she will still get to run around on the farm from time to time.”

Beattie was fighting tears. She knew deep down that Molly was making good sense, but to admit it was impossible. “Why did you have to call me when Henry wasn’t there?” she asked. “Doesn’t he want her?”

“Quite the opposite,” Molly said. “He wants her all the time. He’s been talking about engaging a lawyer, going to the court. I thought if I spoke to you, we could arrange something amicably, something that you could be happy about.”

Happy? How could she possibly be happy if they took her little girl away? But then how could she hold on to Lucy in the face of this? Her job was uncertain, her living arrangements were inadequate, and Lucy spent hours of every day unattended.

“Beattie?” Molly said gently.

“Why must you be so kind?” Beattie said through tears. “Why can’t you at least be cruel so that I can hate you?”

“Kindness is all we have to give others,” Molly said. “You are Lucy’s mother, and you will always be in our lives. Is it not better that nobody hates anybody?”

Now Beattie felt foolish, young, a naughty girl. “I suppose I have no choice,” she said. “If I say no, Henry can afford a lawyer, and I can’t.”

Molly was silent, but Beattie knew what she was thinking:
You won’t say no.

Moments ticked past in the cool, dim hallway.

“All right, then,” Beattie said at last. “You win.”

“It’s not a competition. What’s important here is what Lucy needs.”

For a moment Beattie wavered: Lucy needed her own mother, didn’t she? More than anything else? But she wasn’t such an idealist. “You’re right, of course,” Beattie said. “I’ll let her know what we’ve decided.”

Beattie waited until the morning they were to collect Lucy to tell her. She didn’t want anything to spoil their last night together, snuggled up in the narrow bed. Lucy was excited about seeing her father again in the morning, demanding her hair be pulled into plaits, her pale skin flushed with happiness.

As Beattie sat her between her knees on the bed, carefully combing Lucy’s silky red-gold hair into even strands, she
finally said it aloud. “Darling, I need to tell you something important.”

“Hm?” Lucy said absently.

“I spoke to Molly, and we all think it’s best if you stay with her and Daddy and just visit me once a month.” She hadn’t meant to cry, but her voice broke and the tears spilled over.

Lucy pulled her hair out of Beattie’s hands and turned to face her. “Mummy? Why is it best if I stay with Daddy and Molly?”

“Because there you have a room of your own, and you can go to school and church. And I know you love your daddy so much.”

“I love
you
so much.”

Beattie realized, through her own tears, that Lucy’s little mouth was quivering. She hadn’t expected this. She’d assumed that Lucy would be happy with the new arrangements. She put her hands gently on Lucy’s white cheeks. “Don’t cry.”

“Don’t you want me to live with you anymore?”

“Of course I do. I want you with me all the time.” Beattie pressed Lucy against her hard. “But my life is so uncertain, and Daddy and Molly can give you things I can’t.”

“I will miss you.” Lucy’s voice was muffled against her shoulder.

“I’ll miss you, too. But you’ll come once a month for a week.” Even as she said it, Beattie knew that arrangement wouldn’t hold forever. Not next year, when Lucy was at school.

If Beattie even had a job next year.

And as Lucy cried against her, and her heart ached, and
she felt the full weight of her life’s uncertainty, Beattie found herself growing angry. When she’d left Henry, she was certain she’d been taking control of her life. Being a woman who does things. And yet here she was, giving up her daughter for fear of having things done to her once more. She was tired of it, so tired that her bones hurt. All she wanted was a decent, secure, well-paying job, but there were thousands who wanted the same thing. She was one of a crowd of people who couldn’t get ahead; she could never prove to Henry and Molly that she could look after her own daughter adequately.

Was there anything she could do to struggle out of that crowd; was there any pathway of thought she hadn’t explored, any special skill or talent she could use? Her dressmaking skills meant nothing—but she had spent years working around men with ratlike cunning. What had she learned from that experience?

An idea glimmered. She felt giddy with fear. But she resolved to do what she had to.

It was late. Raphael and his lawyer, Leo Sampson, had already dined. It remained only for Beattie to bring them their brandy. She stood in the hallway, quite unable to open the door and go in. Her nerve was failing her. She wanted very much to open the brandy and take a long swig of it herself, for courage.

Do it, Beattie, do it.
There wouldn’t be a better time. She needed Leo to be there, and within a month Raphael himself might be gone. She strode forward, pushed open the door.

This time she didn’t shrink about, hoping to remain invisible. She walked to the dining table, put the drinks tray down, and stood, erect, waiting to be noticed.

“Beattie?” Raphael said, his eyes roving over as they always did. “You’re being rather a nuisance. We’re busy talking.”

Leo Sampson smiled at her weakly, embarrassed by Raphael’s behavior. “Is there something wrong?” he asked.

“May I sit with you a moment?” she asked Raphael.

He raised his eyebrows, waved a languid hand. “If you must. Pour yourself a drink, too.”

Beattie sat. She poured drinks for everyone, threw back the brandy quickly, forcing herself to relax. She couldn’t let him see how anxious she was.

“Now, what’s all this about?” Raphael asked.

“Do you want me to go?” Leo said.

“No, no, Mr. Sampson. I want you here very much.” She smiled at him, then returned her attention to Raphael. “Mr. Blanchard, a few weeks ago, when you came to see me at the shearers’ cottage, you said that you would give anything for a chance to sleep with me.”

Leo’s busy eyebrows shot up. “Steady on,” he said, but Beattie wasn’t sure if the warning was for her or for Raphael.

“Have you finally decided to concede?” Raphael laughed, leaning forward. “Was it the promise of new furniture?”

“I don’t want new furniture. I only want to give you the
chance
of sleeping with me. If you’ll give me the chance to get something I really want, too.”

Raphael frowned, pushing his wet bottom lip out. A log on the fire cracked loudly and crumbled to ash.

Leo intervened, his face red with embarrassment and anger. “I don’t think it’s a wise idea for an employer and employee to discuss such things. This is unspeakable, it’s—”

“Mr. Blanchard has raised this topic on many occasions,” Beattie said. “I’m merely trying to resolve it once and for all.”

“What do you want?” Raphael blurted suddenly. “Anything.”

“This house. The stock and the land, too.”

“You’re mad. I’m not going to give—”

“Not as a gift. As a wager. Against my body.”

Now he was laughing: cruel, merry laughter. And Beattie knew she’d already won the first round. He was going to say yes.

“Oh, dear, what a delight you are. Are we talking poker here?”

Beattie nodded.

“You will ante up a night of pleasure with me if I ante up the house? Good Lord, could you imagine if I lost? My father would have a conniption and die. With a touch of luck.” Laughing again, bending over double. “It’s beautiful.”

“Well? Will you do it?”

“Of
course
I will!”

Beattie turned to Leo. “Will you witness it and make sure the transfer of the property happens if I win?”

Leo sat in stunned silence.

“Will you?”

“I’ll do as I’m instructed by my client,” he said gruffly.

“And I absolutely instruct you to draw up whatever papers are necessary to reassure Beattie that I take her wager
seriously.” He eyed Beattie. “Though I doubt you’ll be able to witness Beattie fulfilling
her
promise. You’ll have to take her word that she’ll go through with it.”

Beattie repressed a shudder. “I’ll go through with it.”

“Let me be clear,” he said. “You have to do
anything
I want you to.”

She nodded, and he clapped his hands together like a gleeful child. “Let me think, let me think. How are we to do this? Best of three games? I know, we’ll play for buttons—that’s all you can afford, isn’t it, Beattie? Some buttons from the laundry? After three games, whoever has the most buttons wins.”

“If that’s how you want to play.”

“Girl, have you ever even played poker before?”

She shook her head. “No,” she lied, “though I’ve watched many games.”

He laughed until he coughed, then calmed himself. “One week from tonight, then,” he said. “Leo, get the papers ready this week. I’ll want you to be here for the game. It will be quick, and you’re welcome to stay for dinner afterward.” He turned his attention to Beattie. “Off you go, then. Keep yourself nice for me. And thanks for providing me with so much amusement.”

Beattie stood, locked her knees to stop them from shaking, and made her way to the door. Leo Sampson rose and grasped her wrist gently at the threshold. “You don’t have to do this, you know,” he said in a low voice.

“Leave her be, Leo,” Raphael called after him.

She looked at Leo, smiled sadly. “Yes, I do.”

“You really think you can win?”

She shrugged, and he let her go. “I’m tired of struggling,” she said.

“I’ll make sure it’s all aboveboard. As aboveboard as such a transaction can be.”

“Thank you,” she said. “That’s very reassuring.”

Then she was out in the hallway again, the door closed behind her, letting her knees turn to jelly and gasping for breath. She allowed herself a moment’s weakness, then straightened her back with steel. She and Mikhail only ever played for matchsticks. After her experience with Henry, she had grown to hate gambling. But if she was going to gamble once in her life, then she was going to gamble big.

Very, very big.

W
ithin a day, everyone else at Wildflower Hill knew about the wager. Alice told her she was the most foolish girl she’d ever met and refused to speak to her. Terry laughed openly at her when she brought him his tray with dinner. “I don’t know whether you’re mad or bad,” he said, his sun-reddened cheeks shining with amusement. “But I hope you’ll give me a job if you win.”

On the first night, Mikhail crept across the hallway to her room. “Come on, we practice. You win.”

“Bless you, Mikhail,” Beattie said.

What had been a leisurely pastime became terribly serious business. Sitting on the fruit crates, they played. Mikhail dealt hand after hand. Every spare moment they had that week, they practiced, passing the matchsticks back and forth between them. The little shards of wood were meaningless but by Sunday night, the buttons would be as heavy as gold.