The intricately embroidered skirt of the white christening gown would almost touch the floor when the baby lay in her arms. The exquisite outfit brought a lump to her throat.
Did Luke walk into a shop and buy the most expensive gown available, or had he chosen it himself? If so, why pick such an exquisitely fragile thing? Sheer male pride and arrogance? Or did he feel real affection for their little son? Sometimes she would have sworn he did but at other times… you could never be sure of anything with him. He was so unpredictable.
On Sunday, she swept her hair up over a pad from a centre parting, pinned two horizontal ringlets one below the other at the crown and left the rest of the hair hanging loosely about her shoulders. She wore the black velvet hat that Luke had provided, tipped well forward.
Glory wore a wine-colored silk gown, trimmed with darker mauve. Her large hat was covered in purple and mauve feathers. Katie wore a pale pink gown, edged with a white and gold fringe. Rosa’s gown was blood red. She had never seen the Italian girl in any other color.
Mark was a beautiful baby, but her mother’s heart especially filled with pride today, although nerves tempered her excitement. Rosa's eyes swam with tears, her voice choking as she kept calling him a beautiful bambino.
The smithy had promised to pick up Benny, and Jo's excitement became tempered with nerves. George drove them over in an open carriage. Strange seeing the plump barman dressed in a dark suit instead of his usual trousers and gold and green silk waistcoat.
A number of carriages were already lined up outside the yellow sandstone church. The smithy and Benny waited for them, wide grins on both their faces.
“Gawd, haven't been in a church for forty years. Hope the roof doesn't collapse on us.” Glory’s face was as heavily made up as usual, her plump fingers adorned with numerous large rings. She would have hundreds of pounds worth of jewelry on her fingers alone.
They entered in a group, Jo a step or two ahead of the others. As they walked in single file down the aisle, an audible buzz rippled through the congregation. The Minister's face blanched and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down.
Luke sat alone in the front pew. His head did not move so much as an inch, but he must have heard the gasps.
“Ullo, Mr. Kilvain.” Rosa waved to the storekeeper who squirmed in his seat.
Jo stifled a laugh.
“Gawd, he'll be for it later, poor little bugger.” Several heads turned at Glory's over-loud whisper.
As they filed past, Luke sat stony faced, only his eyes seemed mobile, they fairly blazed. Jo couldn’t decide whether this was from anger or admiration.
Before they sat down, Rosa and Katie made the sign of the cross.
“Lo, Luke.” Benny's greeting received a nod of acknowledgement. George and the smithy merely nodded.
“Look at this bloody place,” Glory muttered. “I don’t mean to be sacrilegious but the Virgin Mary wouldn't be viewing me too fondly.”
Jo glanced at the interior of the church, plain except for a beautiful stained glass window depicting the nativity scene. The sun playing on the pieces of colored glass, reflected like tiny moving lights on the ceiling.
The simple service commenced. She had regularly attended church in Melbourne with the two Miss Dalgleishes, and took pleasure in singing the beautiful old hymns. Not that her voice was anything much. Katie's wonderful soprano voice soared above all the rest. Luke made no attempt to even move his lips and he held his mouth in a thin, savage line.
Because of the warm weather, she had not wrapped Mark in his blankets, and he wore only the beautiful gown, his feet kicking energetically beneath the soft folds of the material.
“Most of you will not be aware of this, but there is to be a baptism during service today,” the parson said. An audible buzz bounced off the high church ceiling. Jo felt sorry for Reverend Donaldson, who looked embarrassed and agitated.
“Could the par, um, the child be brought to the front please.”
“Give him to me.” Luke reached for the baby. “Our son does us proud, Jo.”
The whispered words were barely audible and she wondered whether she had imagined them. They went out together. She felt as if dozens of eyes drilled holes in her back as the christening began.
“Mark Ian Campton Saunders.” Emotional tears burned at the back of her eyes. An audible ripple ran through the congregation. “I baptize thee in the name of the father, and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”
Jo’s heart slammed against her rib cage, the breath caught in her throat and she blinked back the hot tears forming in her eyes. Luke had kept his word, publicly acknowledging Mark as his son.
The baby whimpered as the Minister made the sign of the cross with the water. She forced herself not to glance back and see the congregation’s reaction. After the ceremony, Luke pocketed the baptismal certificate. He continued holding Mark until they returned to their pew.
Mrs. Kilvain gave her a look of sheer poison as she brought the collection plate around. Sanctimonious old witch. When the collection plate came to them it contained coins, but as it was handed back several notes rested amongst the loose change. The parson took the plate from Mrs. Kilvain and stared at it in disbelief. Jo hid a cynical smile. Obviously the congregation was not normally so generous.
They were the last to leave. When it came time to shake the Minister's hand, she caught obvious condemnation in the eyes of some, but grudging admiration from others.
“Well, our boy behaved like a perfect little gentleman, eh.” Glory nudged Luke. “I'm throwing a party for him at my place. Coming?”
“No, thank you, I've things to see to.”
“Come on, Luke, why don't you come?” Katie said in invitation. “You'll have a good time. We'll get Yasmin to do her belly dance.”
“Sorry, I can't. Another time perhaps.” He gave the Irish girl an apologetic smile.
“Could I have the baptismal certificate?” Jo asked.
“I'm keeping it.”
“I’m his mother, I should have it.”
“No.”
“You should have told me about changing his name.” She fought to keep the tremor out of her voice, but a warm feeling swept into her heart. At least she now knew that Luke did care about his son’s position in society. He was trying to relieve the stigma of illegitimacy, by not only admitting in public that Mark was his son, but that he wanted him to have Campton in his name.
“I didn't change it, merely added mine.”
“I haven't thanked you for the gowns, both of them. They’re beautiful.”
He shrugged.
Glory scooped the baby out of Jo’s arms. “Come to Auntie Glory.”
“Did you have to make it a four-ringed circus?” Luke asked tersely
Jo stamped her foot. “They're my friends, the only ones I've got and I'm not ashamed to be seen with them. They're sincere, which is more than can be said for those other pious hypocrites in there. Why didn't you bring Cassandra?”
“She would have created a scene.”
“Oh, and we couldn’t have that could we?” Sarcasm edged her voice and she hoped he noticed it.
“No,” he snarled, turning on his heel and striding away.
Glory, having taken charge of Mark, waited in the carriage with the others. As they drove away, Jo glanced back. Luke, now mounted on his stallion, sat tall and arrogant staring after them. He looked what he was. A man alone. A man who needed no one.
Chapter Fourteen
A month after the christening, Jo got a surprise visitor, Cassandra. Little and delicate as she was, the girl had still managed to drive over to Ian’s homestead.
“Good morning Jo.”
Her enormous blue eyes were cunning, furtive. She stared into Jo’s face, but if their gazes met, Cassandra’s slid away. Her mannerisms appeared agitated, but the moment she saw Mark she reached out for him. She was so pathetically eager to nurse the baby, Jo handed him over with reluctance. What harm could it do?
“He'
s beautiful.” Cassandra stroked his cheek. “I've got babies, too.”
“Have you?”
“Yes, there's Jemima, she's fair like me with beautiful long curls and Evelyn’s got black curls. I dress them in pretty gowns every day.”
“They sound nice.”
The girl must be talking about dolls, the poor pathetic little thing.
“Luke didn't like my babies. He tried to throw them away. It was a terrible thing, him trying to murder them.” A sudden mad cunning darkened her eyes.
“I'll take the baby now.” Jo forced herself to speak calmly and not upset the girl. “We can have some tea.” Cassandra was unstable. Jo’s heart raced with fear but she dared not show it as the girl clutched the baby to her breast and rocked backwards and forwards on the chair.
“Put him down now so we can have our tea.”
“You're trying to steal my baby,” Cassandra yelled. “You want to take him away from me.” Her eyes turned wild, burning fever bright. Her face contorted, and a girl who looked so pretty only moments ago, had turned ugly.
“Stay calm,” Jo inwardly warned herself. “Don’t show any fear.” And she was afraid, she was petrified. Mark was in mortal danger.
“You took Luke away,” Cassandra screamed like a demented banshee. “You won't have my baby, too. I'll kill him first.” She put her hands around Mark's neck and shook him.
“You don't want to hurt the little baby, Cassandra.” Jo forced her voice to remain even. One false move and her baby would be choked to death. She had once read about maniacs developing tremendous strength. It wouldn’t take much to kill him, a little pressure exerted in the right place. Sweat beaded her upper lip, her hands felt damp and sticky. Like a hunted beast, she glanced around for Ian's rifle. It was under her bed.
She sidled across the room. “Do you want me to make you some tea? I've got real English tea in a box in my bedroom. Let me get it for you.”
Fixing a smile on her face, she edged across the room, keeping up a flow of chatter about historic homes in England.
“My family has lived on our estates for five hundred years,” Cassandra said, falling for the ploy.
“How many tenants do you have?” The girl started to relax, the rocking subsiding.
Once out of the parlor, Jo sprinted for the bedroom. For one so small, Cassandra moved fast, her madman's cunning must have warned her Jo would try something. They reached the bedroom almost together. Jo pounced on the rifle, but Cassandra dropped the baby on the bed and with lightning speed, lunged forward.
They grappled like two starving dogs over the one prey. She had always considered herself strong for a woman, but this slight girl possessed a fanatical strength, fighting like one possessed. The shot, when it came, lifted Jo off her feet and flung her backwards. An excruciating, burning pain seared through her shoulder.
She must have blacked out for a moment, for when she focused her eyes again the room was empty. Cassandra and the baby were gone. Dragging herself to her knees, she crawled over to the bed. Pain speared cruelly into her shoulder, but somehow she managed to drag herself upright.
As she glanced down the front of her shirt she saw blood soaking into the fabric. She tried to still her shaking hands. Her legs felt so weak she could barely totter. Grasping hold of the wall, she supported herself enough to stagger out into the parlor.
No sign of Cassandra or Mark. Fear such as she had never known before almost overwhelmed her. She must get help. Hopefully the girl would take him to Kangaroo Gully.
“Please, Lord let it be so.”
Her legs buckled and she slumped to the floor.
“God help me save my baby. I've sinned with Luke. Punish me if you must, but not Mark.”
On her hands and knees, she made it to the verandah. Her head throbbed. Pain seared through her shoulder. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm her.
A horse was her one hope. No way in the world could she ever make it to Kangaroo Gully on foot. Every time she tried to stand, the dizziness worsened, and she almost fainted. She crawled out into the front yard. The sharp stones grazed her knees through the cloth of her breeches, and the spiky tufts of dried grass pierced her palms.
The few hundred yards to the fenced-in paddock where the horses ran free seemed like miles, as she needed to rest every few yards. Once, she toppled face down in the dirt and lay there sobbing with pain and desperation.
Pain speared into her shoulder but the hot stickiness of blood trickling down her bare arm acted as a catalyst. Mark needed her. He might be killed. She must stay conscious. Screams rose in her throat at the thought of what this deranged girl could do to him.
Gathering the last of her strength, she crawled on. When her wounded arm kept collapsing, she lay on her back, propelling herself along with her feet.
Help me Lord, she beseeched. I must keep moving, keep moving, only a few more yards now. The pain became excruciating, the noises in her head almost unbearable. Nothing mattered except Mark.
The stockyards at last. She put up a hand to grasp the bottom rail so she could slide under. For a moment, she lay there trying to build up her reserve of puny strength to stand upright. Once on her feet she supported herself by leaning back on the rails, trying to accustom herself to a seesawing landscape. Tears of relief pooled in her eyes when her horse Blaze ambled up.
“Come on, girl.” She stretched her hand out as the mare came closer in case there might be something to eat. Thank goodness, she had always ignored Ian's advice about giving Blaze extra tidbits. Now it might pay dividends.
“Come on, come closer so I can mount. You wouldn't want the little baby to die would you?” she crooned.
As soon as the mare came close enough, she grasped her mane. “Stand still, please.” Blaze, drowsy from the afternoon sun, stood half-asleep as she endeavored to mount.
After three failed attempts to swing up from the ground, she realized this was impossible. Letting go of the mane she stumbled to the fence.
“Don't move away. Wait for me.” The horse stood staring at her with wide eyes.
There would be no second chance. If she could not mount from the fence on her first attempt and fell in a heap on the ground, the mare would be off. Ignoring the pounding in her head and the excruciating pain searing her shoulder, she looped her good arm over the top rail to drag her feet on to the bottom one.
“Come closer to me, good girl.”
She swung her leg over the horse’s back, gritting her teeth to stop from fainting. Pain seared through her shoulder with the intensity of a red hot poker. If the mare took off now she would probably be killed. Like the docile animal she was, Blaze stayed in the same spot, while Jo mounted like a novice.
Threading her fingers through the mane, Jo nudged the mare forward until they came to the slip rails. With strength born of desperation, she managed to remove the top two rails, so Blaze could step over the bottom one.
Her head turned cartwheels from the motion of the horse, and the shoulder pain burned from her chest through to her back. But this was nothing compared to the mental anguish worrying about Mark’s welfare. He might already be dead. Terrible thoughts churned around in her mind and would not be stilled.
Mile after tortuous mile they journeyed, with Jo sobbing and moaning in agony. He was so little. Even if Cassandra didn’t deliberately harm him, how long could a baby survive without being fed?
Kangaroo Gully. At last. Through half closed eyes, she saw cattle in the distance. She heard men’s shouts. Then oblivion.
She opened her eyes gingerly, trying to focus them. From what seemed like a hundred miles away, a voice said, “she's waking up.”
“Can you hear me, Jo?” It sounded like Luke. Everything wavered before her eyes, as the shoulder pain became unbearable. She struggled to sit up. She had something important to tell them, but the throbbing in her head mixed everything up.
“My baby, my baby. She's got my baby,” Jo screamed, struggling to get up, but strong hands held her down.
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“Stop it.” The harsh sound of Luke's voice stilled her desperate struggles for a moment. “Where's the boy? Where is he?”
“She took Mark.”
“For God's sake, who took him?”
Pain caused her to moan in agony.
“She took him.” Her eyes started closing. “Someone stole Mark.” A sharp slap on her cheek brought Jo to full consciousness again.
“Who?”
“Cassandra.”
Cassandra kidnapped Mark and she had to save him. She fought to sit up, but the hard hands held her down.
“I'll take her to the house first.” Luke issued his orders. “You stay with the herd. I'll send word if I need any of you.”
Once mounted, one of the men handed Jo up to him. He supported her in the circle of his arms.
She looked white as death. Her tangled hair was encrusted with blood, yet still managed to spill over his shirt like molten gold. The wound appeared severe, an inch or two lower, and it would have proved fatal. He shuddered. What the hell had happened at the Saunders homestead? Cassandra was unstable, but surely not capable of murder.
He urged the horse on. Faster and faster they galloped until the house came into view. His yells even before he dismounted brought Mrs. Osborne and one of the maids rushing out.
“Mr. Campton, what happened?”
He didn't answer until he had carried Jo inside and laid her on the couch.
“Have you seen my wife?” he demanded.
“No, well, what I mean is,” Mrs. Osborne blustered. “Mrs. Campton took a buggy out, said she wanted to visit a friend.”
“And you let her go?”
“I'm not her jailer, Sir.”
“See to Jo, will you please? Send one of the men into town for the police and a doctor. I have to find Cassandra. Check with the other servants, try to find out if they know where she might go.”
“But, Mr. Campton...”
“Do it,” he snarled. “She's taken the baby, shot Jo, and God knows what else she's capable of.”
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