To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  Chelsea escaped the din of her prenuptial party, sighing in relief as she walked across the backyard through the shrubbery to the garden house. It had been impossible to pretend a gaiety she did not feel. The laughter, the drinking, music and dancing, all the things she had once thought so important had given her nothing but a headache. If it had been in celebration of her marriage to Quaid, she would have danced the night through, joyously celebrating the first step of a lifelong journey with the man she loved.

  “Ghosts walk in Mitjitji’s eyes,” Tingari said as Chelsea closed the garden house door behind her.

  Chelsea was very close to tears. “This isn’t what I want, Tingari. Not this marriage to Harlow. I want Quaid, so much there’s an ache in my soul.”

  “A woman knows, Mitjitji,” Tingari commiserated, gathering Chelsea into her long-armed embrace, allowing her to cry unchastened tears.

  “Tingari can fix for Mitjitji. Come to bed.” Gently, like a mother leading her child, Tingari helped Chelsea undress, slipping her silken nightdress over her head and loosening the pins from her hair. “Stay here, Mitjitji. Rest.”

  Quickly Tingari left the garden house, leaving Chelsea with unanswered questions. What was Tingari going to do? Did the Aboriginal think a simple herb cloth could chase away these demons that haunted her?

  Tingari returned holding a dun-colored cloth in which several items rattled. “Mitjitji watch. I will bring Tanner to you.”

  “On a flying carpet?” Chelsea asked, clearly skeptical. Then hope rose in her breast. “Oh, can you, Tingari, can you?”

  “This night,” Tingari stated.

  Chelsea leaned over the side of the bed, watching Tingari sit tailor fashion on the floor, the fine hairs on the back of her neck prickling as the Aboriginal began to chant in her deep, musical voice. The dun-colored parcel opened under Tingari’s long, elegant fingers, a sorcerer’s kit of small objects. In the glow from the lamp each object seemed to burn with a life of its own as Tingari touched it. Pearl shells, a smooth piece of quartz, a round orb of glass, glittering and sparkling as she laid them side by side, rearranging the objects to suit her. A narrow piece of wood painted with concentric circles; a carving, half man, half beast; finely ground powder from a scrap of parchment; all were added to the objects Tingari placed before her. And always the even cadence of the chant she intoned in her deep, melodious voice.

  Tingari picked up the small white shells and tossed them into the center of the floor. She seemed to be counting them, marking their positions. Once, she moved a shell closer to another. Again she scooped them into her hand. Again, she tossed them. After the third time she smiled broadly, large white teeth gleaming. “Tanner comes, Mitjitji.” The shells and objects were quickly gathered and replaced into the dun cloth. She added a pinch of the mysterious powder to a glass near Chelsea’s bedside. “Drink this, Mitjitji. Drink without fear.”

  “Is this what you call Dreaming?” Chelsea asked, swallowing the water in which the almost tasteless powder had dissolved.

  “My people say tjukurpa, Dreamtime, when yesterday is today and today is forever. All things have mamu, all mamu is Dreamtime.”

  Chelsea knew mamu meant spirit. Was Dreamtime then a kind of timelessness, a sacred knowledge of that which lived before and still brought influence upon the present?

  “Mitjitji’s lover comes,” Tingari announced, and Chelsea had no doubts. None at all.

  She lay in her bed, waiting, the lamp wick turned down to a mere flicker, the ruby-red shade creating a soft, ethereal glow. The powder Tingari had administered seemed to relax her, and she had no awareness of the passage of time or of the sounds of revelry from the big house. Her thoughts were on Quaid, only Quaid, and her dreams must have conjured him from the thin air—or was he actually standing beside her bed, looking down at her with tender eyes.

  “You came,” she whispered, stretching her arms up to welcome him into her embrace.

  “I don’t know why or how, but I’m here. I must be dreaming.” Then he was in her arms, nuzzling the soft skin of her throat. “Perhaps it was the wine,” he murmured. “God bless the wine!”

  The wind outside the garden house lifted, stirring the branches of the twisted mulga tree, making it sway in an endless rhythm. The black night sky touched with stars was like a coverlet drawn over the tiny garden house when Quaid extinguished the lamp. They were alone, two souls wandering in the wilderness, finding each other, knowing each other.

  Boldly her fingers found the fastenings of his clothes. If there was only tonight and tonight would be the last, she would have him and sate herself with his love. Naked together, they clung, kissing, murmuring, lips moving softly against lips. Her flesh came alive under his touch, her excitement and passion communicating with and stirring his own.

  She was his love. He had held her this way before, worshipped at her breasts and taken possession of her innermost core, yet she excited and stirred him as if it were the first time. There was so much more to Chelsea than fair skin and alluring curves; there was the woman within, the woman he could not live without. He pulled her on top of him, wanting her to master their desire.

  Wild blood coursed through her veins, her aching need for him cried within her soul. This was the man she loved. She would marry another, but always her heart would belong to Quaid. Only he could chase away the demons and bring this overwhelming sense of security. Only with him could she know the joys between a man and a woman, the tender words and gentle emotions they shared.

  Her fingers traced the lines of his face, committing him to memory. Her lips tasted his, a kiss bittersweet, filled with the knowledge that tonight would be the last. She could offer him her body and stir his passions and give her heart, but she could never have him for her own. Not even Tingari’s magic could make him free to marry her. If tonight was all she could have, then she would make it a night to remember.

  Slowly he filled her with himself, and she opened to him, moving with him, imprisoning him in love’s tender sheath. Chelsea whimpered softly, loving the feel of his body, responding to the sound of his tender whispers when he told her of her beauty and the way he loved the scent that was only hers.

  He savored her lips, tasting the ambrosia of passion’s fruit, tantalizingly withdrawing from her and entering again with slow, sensuous strokes and the caressing roll of his hips beneath her haunches. He inspired her to ride him, to take him deep within, helping her find the sweet fulfillment at the center of her being. His loving hands possessed her breasts, cupping their firmness, following their lovely slope to tease the rosily pouting crests.

  Fire sparked where their flesh joined, but it was only kindling to the raging conflagration of their souls. And when their lips met again, they tasted the salt of tears and each thought it was their own.

  Together they slept in one another’s arms, but when Chelsea awakened she was alone. Had she only dreamed Quaid had come to her? Were the tears that had dried on her cheeks the result of a night terror? She turned her face, dreading the first light of day. Was she just imagining it, or could she smell the scent of him on her pillow?

  Chelsea’s knuckles were rigid and white when she uttered the words that would make her Harlow Kane’s wife. “Till death do us part.” That meant forever. Oh, Quaid, where are you? Chelsea thought wildly. It should be you standing here beside me making these vows.

  “You may kiss the bride.” The Reverend Archer smiled.

  Harlow lifted Chelsea’s short veil and kissed her soundly. The wedding guests smiled their good wishes. The narrow gold band on Chelsea’s finger felt like a brand. It was done. She was now Mrs. Harlow Kane. Like it or not, she had accepted a new life. Cosmo would have said she’d made her bed and now had to lie in it. Well, she would. She wouldn’t like it, but she would.

  Proudly Harlow led his bride to the receiving line. Smiles, handshakes, light breathless kisses, all wishing her happiness. But happiness, she knew, was on a place called Clonmerra.

  Musicians struck
their opening chords; the guests began to gravitate toward the elegantly ornamented tables laden with food and fresh flowers. It was all for her, this lavish display, and in her heart she wanted none of it. Today she must give the performance of her life, smiling, pretending a happiness she did not feel. Only this was a role that would play on forever. Cursed by a woman’s need for security, for respectability, Chelsea wept, the glistening tears running in rivulets down her cheeks to be quickly dried with the edge of her lacy handkerchief and to be excused as sweet sentimentality.

  Later, Chelsea found herself standing beside Franklin. What to say to this surly, angry young man?

  He should have congratulated her, kissed her lightly on the cheek. Something. But no, he had to sulk. People were watching. Again, Chelsea forced a wide, warm smile and touched Franklin on the arm. “People are staring at us, Franklin. Your father is watching. Smile as though you mean it. Welcome me to the family, and then I’ll walk away. Do it quickly, your father is making his way toward us. Don’t shame him, Franklin.”

  A grimace stretched tightly across Franklin’s lips. “The second sorriest day of my life was when you arrived here. The first sorriest day, in case you’re interested, was the day I was born. Bellefleur has another prisoner today. You’ll grow old here, Chelsea. You’ll learn to hate it as I do. But first you’ll come to hate my father and the sacrifices he’ll demand of you, all for the sake of Bellefleur. You’ll give your youth to that parched land and your beauty to each hard-earned harvest. And then you’ll die for Bellefleur, just the way my mother died. And in the end you’ll know it was my father who killed you, just like he’s killing me.”

  Chelsea hated herself for asking, but she had to. “Franklin, if Bellefleur were yours, what would you do with it? How would you change it; what would you do differently?”

  “I’d sell it to Quaid Tanner or to the highest bidder within an hour of acquiring the property,” Franklin said coldly. “I see your new husband is about to descend on us. I’ll take my leave.” Another grimace whipped across Franklin’s face, and then he melted into the crowd.

  Harlow placed his arm familiarly around Chelsea’s shoulders. She wanted to shrug it off but knew she couldn’t. Instead she smiled at her husband.

  “What did Franklin have to say?” he asked.

  “He wished us well and said I made a beautiful bride,” Chelsea said.

  “I find that hard to believe, but I’ll take your word for it. You’d never lie to your husband, would you, Chelsea?” There was an undeniable threat beneath the simple words.

  The party seemed to go on forever before the musicians wound down and the last lingering guests retired for the night. In the morning, after breakfast, all of them would be gone. Franklin was helping Harlow up the stairs. She hadn’t seen the young man take a drink, and she’d watched him when the toast was made. He’d brought the glass to his lips but hadn’t swallowed. Harlow, on the other hand, had consumed great quantities of the grape.

  “Hadn’t you better be getting upstairs to my father?” Martha asked quietly.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Chelsea replied. “I know what’s expected of me, and I was never one to shirk my duty.”

  “I want the money, Chelsea. My ship leaves Sydney in a week. I’m packed, and the arrangements have been made. Don’t disappoint me.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it. We made a bargain, and I’ll hold to my end. You’ll have your money when it’s time to leave. I promise.”

  “I haven’t congratulated you, have I?” Martha raised an imaginary glass. “To you, Chelsea. May your life here be as happy as mine. I wish you longevity and the patience to endure. Go upstairs to him and try to pretend it’s Quaid Tanner instead of a hateful old man,” she said scornfully. “Tomorrow’s another day; you can run off to see your lover then.”

  The sharp crack of the slap echoed in the still room, and even Chelsea flinched. The red mark on Martha’s cheek and the tears that sprang to her eyes made Chelsea want to cry, too. It had been a long day, and she was tired and dreading what lay ahead of her. “I’m sorry, Martha. I shouldn’t have done that. Forgive me.”

  Martha’s narrow shoulders slumped. “No, I was hateful. I deserved that. My nerves are getting the better of me.”

  “Don’t explain. I understand. Please go to bed, now. And sleep well. Dream about your prince in England and how you’ll soon be with him. I envy you. What you’re doing takes courage, more than I have.”

  “Will you take care of Emma?”

  “Of course. She’ll miss you terribly. Trust me, Martha.”

  When Martha turned to face Chelsea, her smile was warm and genuine. “I do. Somehow, I do. I even feel sorry for you, Chelsea.”

  “Don’t waste your tears on me. This journey began a long time ago with one little lie. I’ll learn to live with it.”

  Upstairs, Chelsea closed the bedroom door behind her. She was alone. Alone, to wait for her husband to come to her. There was no urgency to shed her clothes, no anticipation to climb into the big bed. Someone, probably Bette, had laid her pale blue nightdress across the bed. The covers were already turned down.

  Methodically, Chelsea undressed, leaving her wedding dress in a careless heap on the floor at the foot of the bed. She bathed her face in cool water and quickly sponged her body. Cologne was patted behind her ears and between her breasts, a dab of scent on a linen handkerchief placed beneath her pillow.

  Wanting to do anything to delay getting into the double bed, Chelsea crossed the room to open the door a crack. She still had her hand on the knob when Harlow appeared.

  “I do like an eager woman,” he leered as he closed the door behind him.

  Unceremoniously, he stripped out of his clothes, then walked jerkily to the bed and almost fell into it. His breath reeked of wine, and Chelsea could smell the ripe odor of sweat emanating from under his arms. She tried to smile; this was, after all, her wedding night.

  The bed creaked and groaned with Harlow’s weight as he struggled to stretch his perspiring body over Chelsea. She tried to ease her own position, but Harlow’s hands and mouth were all over her. She felt herself pinned beneath him as his mouth sought hers. Then the sour taste of wine invaded her mouth and she cried out, thrashing beneath him. She didn’t know if her cry excited him or angered him, for suddenly he was biting her, her shoulders, her neck, her breasts. She cried out again in pain.

  Spittle dripped onto her chest; she could feel the sliminess of it. She swallowed hard, willing it all to be over. She felt her knees brutally jerked apart, and again she cried out as he stabbed into her, ruthlessly invading her unwilling flesh.

  An eternity later, he rolled off her. She struggled to bring her legs together, the ache in her thighs as real as the pain in her back. She knew she was covered with bruises and teeth marks. Shame pierced through her. She had been degraded, abused, and humiliated.

  Long into the night Chelsea lay beside Harlow, listening to his breathing, her eyes staring at the ceiling. At one point a sob caught in her throat, and tears ran silently down her cheeks. Once again Harlow had proven how ugly the sex act could be without love.

  When Chelsea awakened the next morning, she was surprised to find she’d slept at all. Harlow was gone. The day on Bellefleur had already begun. Gingerly, aware of each bruise her husband had inflicted upon her, she crept out of bed. She didn’t want to stay in this room a moment longer than necessary. She washed, wishing she could linger in a long, hot bath.

  From her window she could see work progressing in the garden. A good reason to dress and escape the house for the outdoors, where she hoped the air and sunshine would chase away last night’s ugliness.

  Chelsea walked outside to observe the gardeners as they dug and spaded the hard-packed earth. Great barrels of water stood ready to moisten the flowers and shrubbery. It kept her mind occupied as she referred to the diagram showing what was to be planted where. From time to time she made a suggestion and was pleased to see that the workmen did her bi
dding without argument. She wouldn’t think about Quaid, and she wouldn’t think about Harlow. She was also going to try not to think about dinner this evening, when Martha planned to announce that she was sailing for England at the end of the week. Still musing over the probable effect of Martha’s announcement, Chelsea stepped onto the veranda, which was slightly cooler than the yard. It was pleasant, she decided, the white wicker furniture an effective contrast to the highly polished floor with the woven mats.

  “Emma, what are you doing here?”

  Emma smiled. “Thinking.”

  “About what?”

  “About Martha and how I’m going to feel when she leaves. She plans to tell Father tonight at dinner, you know. Her trunks and bags are all packed. I said she could take a lot of things that were my mother’s. I won’t have any use for them, and if Martha is going to marry, she’ll need them. Wasn’t that nice of me, Chelsea?”

  “It was very nice. Of course you’re going to miss Martha. She’s going to miss you, too. But she’ll write and send presents to you. You’ll like that. And I’ll be here for you to talk to. We can really get to know one another.”

  “Martha said I’ll miss her at first and then I’ll forget her. That’s not true.”

  “No, it isn’t, but Martha didn’t want you to feel bad.”

  “Father isn’t going to let her go. I wanted to tell Martha that, but I didn’t.”

  “Emma, Martha has the money for the passage. Your father won’t stop her. There’s nothing for her here.”

  “He won’t like it. She wanted to go before. She cried for weeks, and he still wouldn’t let her go.”

  An uneasy feeling settled over Chelsea. “Emma, you didn’t say anything to your father or to Franklin, did you?”

  “Gracious, no! Martha made me promise not to. Chelsea, do you think a man will ever want to marry me? I don’t know if I would like living with a strange man and taking off my clothes so he could look at me. I don’t like babies, either. They cry too much.”