To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  “Where is Martha? I haven’t seen her all day.”

  “Hiding in her room. She does that sometimes. She’s reading William’s letters. Then she answers them but doesn’t mail her answers. Father won’t allow it. The only reason she has mail from William is because Mr. Tanner brings it from town. Father doesn’t know.” Emma chortled.

  “Mr. Tanner does that for Martha?” Chelsea asked in surprise.

  “Yes, I just found out myself. Martha told me before the wedding. That’s why she used to walk to Mr. Tanner’s house. If Father ever found out he’d be very angry.”

  “I thought you said that Martha was smitten with Mr. Tanner.”

  “I did think that, and I told her so, but she set me straight. Do you like me, Chelsea?” Emma asked suddenly.

  Emma, as Chelsea had found out, could never stay on any one subject for very long. Her mind constantly wandered to different things, particularly to her romantic notions. “Of course I like you.”

  “Do you think a man will ever kiss me? Not just any man, but a man like Mr. Tanner.”

  “One day when it’s time for you to be kissed, some man will come along and sweep you off your feet,” Chelsea said, and hoped she sounded convincing.

  “No, they won’t. I’m different. I’m not like Martha and you. Father says I take after Mama’s side of the family. I have three witless aunts, he told me. Am I witless, Chelsea?”

  “No … of course not.” Chelsea faltered. “You’re a very sweet young lady, and I like you a lot. We’re going to be good friends.”

  Emma picked herself up, gathered together her books and her satchel of needlework, waved airily in Chelsea’s direction, and left without another word. A sinking feeling settled in Chelsea’s stomach, and she swallowed hard. What would Harlow say when Martha told him she was leaving?

  Suddenly Tingari appeared on the veranda. “Mitjitji, Miss Martha calls you.”

  “That’s fine, Tingari. Tell Miss Martha that I’ll be there in a moment—and will you bring me a glass of lemonade, and one for Martha, too?”

  “The wind is bad today,” Tingari said.

  “What does that mean’?” Chelsea asked anxiously. Ever since Quaid had appeared at the garden house, Chelsea paid rapt attention to anything Tingari said.

  “It means trouble, Mitjitji. The scent is in the air. Before the day is over there will be much trouble.”

  Chelsea snorted. She didn’t need Tingari to tell her that. The minute Martha told her father she was leaving, there was going to be an explosion.

  “Tingari, I’m new here, I don’t know all of my husband’s ways yet, but Martha is his daughter and he will be fair. I think. I hope.”

  “It will not be,” was Tingari’s stolid prediction.

  “Come in,” Martha called when Chelsea rapped on the door.

  “You look very busy,” Chelsea said, eyeing the array of clothing and the open trunks strewn about the room. There was no sign of Emma.

  “I am. Chelsea, when are you going to give me the money?” Martha said anxiously. “I have to pay for my passage ticket.”

  “In plenty of time. You can purchase your ticket an hour before sailing. You aren’t going to have a problem. There’s no way you can get into Sydney before the weekend. I won’t fail you.”

  “No, I don’t think you will,” Martha said thoughtfully. “You look different somehow. Isn’t married life agreeing with you?”

  Chelsea chose to ignore the hateful question, and it was hateful—she could tell by the gleam in Martha’s eyes. How quickly she could change! One minute she acted as if she cared and would show concern, and the next it was almost as if given the chance, Martha would throw her to the dogs. “I’m fine. I think I’m worried about you. Tingari expressed concern. Those people seem to have a sixth sense at times. She also claims to know your father rather well.”

  “Do you find that hard to believe? Men, especially men around here, take their loving where they find it. I think Franklin is following in Father’s footsteps with Tingari.”

  Chelsea gasped. “Martha!”

  “Why are you surprised? Franklin has no time to go into Sydney, and there are no young women close by. You know it’s early to bed and early to rise around here, especially during vintage. A man needs to have a woman from time to time.”

  “But he’s so young compared—”

  “And aren’t you young compared to my father?”

  “That’s different.”

  “I didn’t say Franklin was going to marry Tingari, I just said I thought he was sleeping with her.”

  Chelsea had seen no sign of it from Tingari. Her face was inscrutable. “Martha, I hesitate to mention this, but I could ask Tingari to make you a potion.”

  Martha’s shrill laughter circled the room and seemed to settle directly over Chelsea’s head. “A potion! Why would I need a potion? I don’t believe in Tingari’s black magic. I find all of this highly amusing. You’re supposed to be so educated, Chelsea.”

  “I know it works. I—I experienced one of her spells.”

  Martha tossed a stack of petticoats into the trunk, an uneasy look on her face. “What kind of potion? What will it do?” she found herself asking.

  “Whatever you want it to do. I think Tingari is worried about what your father is going to do when you tell him this evening. He certainly isn’t going to take it lightly. You know that. I myself am concerned. You are his eldest daughter, and he isn’t going to want you to go so far away.”

  “Oh, pooh, is that all? Tell Tingari to keep her potion. I’m going, and that’s all there is to it. I’m all packed except for this trunk. I wasn’t sure if I could count on Franklin to take me to the ship, so I asked Helen Bakus if her husband would drive me. Everything is settled. Father can’t stop me.”

  Chelsea wished she felt as confident as Martha sounded. “Well, the decision is up to you, of course. Now, I’ll leave you to finish your packing. I’ll see you at dinner.”

  Martha took a deep breath and exhaled slowly when the door closed behind Chelsea. She was frightened, almost out of her wits. In the end, what could her father do, except beat her or forbid her to leave? In either case she would still leave. A potion might alleviate some of the pain of the beating, but she would still carry the scars of it in her heart. Whatever was to be, would be.

  It was time to attend to some of her wifely duties, Chelsea thought as she made her way down the stairs. Dinner was progressing nicely. Fresh-baked bread was cooling on a long wooden table. Garden-picked greens were being pared and chopped. Whatever was in the pot was fragrant and simmering, sending its aroma throughout the house. A huge pan containing a cherry cobbler sat next to the cooling bread. Chelsea picked at the flaky crust and smiled her approval at the cook.

  From her inspection of the kitchen, Chelsea made her way to the back porch, where Bette was wringing wet clothes to hang on lines that ran from the porch to the trees. Bed sheets, pillow slips, and towels sat in a sodden mound waiting to be hung.

  If she had the buggy prepared, she could drive to Quaid’s house in minutes. Her tawny eyes looked down the road.

  “It does no good to dream, Mitjitji,” Tingari said softly, coming up behind her.

  “I know,” Chelsea replied just as softly. “I’m trying, but sometimes I can’t help myself.”

  “Mr. Tanner was a fine man.”

  Chelsea’s eyes widened. “You make it sound as though he’s dead.”

  “To you, Mitjitji. You are Boss Kane’s woman now.”

  Tears burned her eyes. “Yes, I know. It must get better as the days go on. Tingari, this is none of my business, but are you and Franklin …”

  “If it not Mitjitji’s business, do not ask. There is work.”

  Chelsea grimaced. How like Tingari to put her in her place. Shaking her head, she entered the house. Maybe a nap before dinner. If she did that, she wouldn’t be able to sleep tonight. With nothing else to do, Chelsea lay down on the bed and closed her eyes. She wouldn’t s
leep; she’d just rest.

  Emma rapped on Chelsea’s door shortly before the dinner hour. “Are you sleeping, Chelsea? It’s almost time for dinner,” she said, poking her head in the doorway.

  “I guess I did doze off. Thank you for waking me. I’ll be down in a few minutes. Go along, Emma, you don’t have to wait for me.”

  Chelsea picked through her dinner. Emma stirred her food with her fork and looked constantly at her sister. Martha’s eyes were unusually bright, and there was a flush on her cheeks. She was eating her dinner slowly and methodically. Harlow stared at her several times, and Chelsea could sense the tension building at the table. Franklin watched his father and had little to say. Conversation for the most part had been limited, as always, to talk of the grapes, the bottling, and the huge new oaken barrels. It was all so boring, Chelsea thought she could fall asleep and not miss a thing. She took a large gulp of the vin ordinaire when she saw the rest of her life stretch before her. Thousands of dinners, just like this one. Good God, what had she done?

  The moment Martha laid her fork down and folded her napkin, Chelsea’s back stiffened. Emma slid down in her chair, trying to make herself invisible. Franklin’s eyebrows rose, as did Harlow’s. “Father, I’d like to speak with you,” Martha said nervously.

  “I’m listening. What is it, daughter?”

  “I wanted to tell you that I’m leaving. On Saturday. I should have told you sooner, but I—”

  Harlow was half out of his chair. “Leaving? For where? I don’t remember giving you permission to go anywhere. Sydney is no place for a woman alone. You aren’t going anywhere, Martha, so get that notion out of your head. You just came back from Sydney.”

  “I’m going to England.”

  Harlow threw back his head and roared with laughter. But it didn’t sound funny to Chelsea, and Martha wasn’t smiling. Franklin’s face looked as if it were carved from stone. Emma giggled as she slid farther down on her chair.

  After a moment Harlow sobered. “England? Do you plan to swim? Where would you get the money to go to England?”

  “William sent me the passage money,” Martha said. “I’m going, Father.”

  “You aren’t going anywhere, you’re staying right here. I’ll not have some scoundrel putting in claims on my lands. I told you he was no good! I ran him off and I’d do it again! You just get all these notions out of your head.”

  Father and daughter were both standing now; their chairs pushed back behind them. “I said I’m leaving,” Martha said firmly. “My trunks are packed, and Mr. Bakus is driving me to the ship. Everything has been taken care of.”

  Chelsea cowered in her chair. She saw the blow coming, but Martha had turned her back on Harlow. It caught her on the left side of the head. She staggered and screamed for Franklin to help her. Harlow’s hands pulled and yanked at Martha’s hair, spinning her around to face him. He slapped her and beat at her face with his closed fists. Martha screamed again for Franklin and then for Emma, who was hiding beneath the table.

  The sound of Martha’s gown ripping sent Chelsea into a tizzy. She knew she would hear Martha’s screams for days, just as she would see her bruised and battered face for the rest of her life. She was about to get up from her chair and intervene when she felt Tingari’s strong hands on her shoulders, pinning her to her chair.

  “Now tell me you’re going to that low life you call a man,” Harlow thundered.

  Martha’s mouth would swell to twice its size. Her nose was bleeding, and one eye was nearly closed. A long scratch ran down the length of her narrow cheekbone, but still she managed to stare defiantly at her father. “I’m going!”

  Chelsea later swore she had felt the blow that Harlow dealt his daughter. Tingari’s strong hands dug deeper into her shoulders.

  “Tell me again, daughter, what you’re going to do,” Harlow raged.

  Martha was on her knees as her father kicked at her with his knee, sending her sprawling across the room. And when she tried to get to her knees, he kicked her again. “We’ll just see how far you’ll get,” he said, and scooped her up like a lifeless kitten. He carried her to the front door and kicked at it until Franklin scurried to his side to open it.

  “Boss Kane throws his child into the dirt,” Tingari said emotionlessly. “His mamu will suffer.”

  “I don’t believe what I just saw. I can’t believe it. No man, no father acts like that. Why didn’t Franklin help her?”

  “Boss Kane is hard on women. He would be harder on his son. Believe this, Mitjitji, you must not interfere.”

  “Go to her, Tingari. Help her. Do something. Please,” Chelsea pleaded. “Take her to Mr. Tanner’s house. Tell him I—”

  “Tingari knows. Listen well, do not interfere.”

  As if she would. For the rest of her life the scene she had just witnessed would stay with her. What was she supposed to do? Ignore the entire incident? Confess her part in it? Did she dare to openly despise Harlow’s brutality?

  “Emma, get out from under the table. Sit here next to me,” Chelsea said urgently. But Emma refused to budge, and in the end Chelsea got up from the table and made her way to the foyer and the stairway. She refused to look at Harlow when she walked past him. There was more than one way to show contempt.

  Chapter 14

  Chelsea lay awake the entire night, listening for Harlow’s footsteps, waiting for him to come to their room and dreading that he would. When the new day crept over the hills, Tingari opened the door and came into her room. She searched the Aboriginal’s eyes for knowledge of Martha. “Tell me,” she asked hoarsely, wanting to know, fearing the answer.

  “She is with Tanner. She is in his good hands.”

  “What did Mr. Tanner say?”

  “It is what he did not say,” Tingari whispered. “Martha will go to the sailing ship. Tanner does this for you, Mitjitji. Tingari has been sent to bring Martha’s trunks.”

  “How can we do this?”

  “When Boss Kane go to wine house. I will carry the trunks to the road to meet Tanner. Do nothing, Mitjitji. Tingari and Tanner do all.”

  Quaid was coming here, as near as the road? If only she could touch him, see him. There was nothing she could do but remain in the house and keep watch. “Harlow will kill you, Tingari, if he learns you helped Martha.”

  “No, Mitjitji. Boss Kane will not touch me. I fear for you.” She opened her hand, and there on the startling white palm lay a string of small dark beads no larger than apple seeds. “Mitjitji wear this, it is good mamu and keep you safe.”

  Chelsea remembered the potion Martha had refused and gladly took the beads.

  “The others wait to eat,” Tingari told her.

  “No. I don’t want to see Harlow—or Franklin, either. Let them have breakfast without me,” Chelsea said adamantly.

  “Yes, you eat,” Tingari insisted.

  “I’m not going to sit across from those two men and try to make polite conversation. They disgust me, both of them! And there’s something I want to know. Are you sleeping with Franklin, Tingari?”

  “It is not important for Mitjitji. I do what I must. My reasons are my own.”

  “I think you should make a potion to get rid of both of them. What Harlow did to Martha last night was horrible, and Franklin never lifted a finger to help his sister.”

  Tingari frowned in disapproval. “Potions and mamu are for good, Mitjitji. Evil potions, evil Boss Kane, it is the same.”

  Chelsea realized her mistake. The magic Tingari practiced was only to protect, never to harm; by telling the Aboriginal to do so, she had put her in the same class as Harlow. “Tingari, I never meant to insult you or to take your magic lightly.”

  “Tingari knows,” she replied, having already forgiven Chelsea. “Food will come to you, Tingari will bring it. Mitjitji must be strong.”

  A while later there was a soft tapping at the door, and Harlow entered dressed in his work clothes. He wished her a good morning and asked how she felt. Then, “Chelsea, I not
iced last evening that you avoided me, and I thought I would give you a chance to calm yourself before we talked. I sense you disapprove of the way I handled Martha’s ridiculous outburst last evening. She is my daughter, and she will do as I say. A dutiful daughter obeys her father or suffers the consequences. Martha will come crawling back when she sees the error of her ways. She has no clothing, no money. She can’t go far. Understand, Chelsea, I am not apologizing for my rightful authority as her father.”

  Chelsea sank deeper into the pillows. She forgot Tingari’s warnings and blurted, “You were so brutal! She’s a woman, how could you beat her with your fists? Would you do that to me if I displeased you? And your son, what kind of man is he to allow his sister to be beaten? I could never respect a man like that. I will never forget that scene, ever. Poor Emma hid under the table.”

  “My family is my business, as is how I deal with them. I will not tolerate interference from you or anyone.” Harlow shoved his hands into his pockets. How dare she criticize him! His eyes narrowed with suspicion. “Did you have anything to do with what happened last night? Did you fill Martha’s head with ideas of England and love and other foolishness?”

  “Of course not. Martha has a mind of her own. I don’t see anything wrong with her wanting to go to England. She said she has family there and the young man she loves. There doesn’t seem to be much here except living the life of a spinster, pitied by the other women, with only Emma for company. Surely you don’t want that for her, do you?”

  The answer was in his eyes. He wanted to be in total control of everyone and everything. “I knew you were a domineering man, Harlow.” Chelsea said at last. “I just didn’t know until last evening to what lengths you would go to remain in control. She’s a woman, with a woman’s needs; why can’t you allow her a little happiness?”

  “Be careful how you speak to me, Chelsea. I told you my children are my concern, not yours. When Martha comes back with her tail between her legs, she’ll understand the way she is to live her life.”