by Rue Allyn
William shrugged and headed for the house.
Their conversation had been civil, but without warmth. She didn’t follow her husband into the house, but sat in the gardens for some time wondering how to penetrate his emotional armour.
Her thoughts slipped back to the night before when he had taken her face in his hands. There was no denying the thrill of his kiss, and his touch on her body had fired a confusing array of emotions. That was, of course, before she hit him. She was not sure what she wanted from him, except an end to this unpleasant impasse. Perhaps an opportunity to make peace would present itself.
• • •
When, sometime later, she climbed the stairs to her room, she could hear low voices in the library, followed by an exclamation from William. She opened the door quietly to see William, shirtless, facing away from the door while Shi Liang applied salve to the red welt across his back. As she ran appreciative eyes over the hard, muscled expanse of his upper body, she saw a large, jagged scar under his left shoulder.
Electra walked into the room and silently indicated to Shi Liang that she would take over. He handed her the jar and tiptoed out of the room. The jar contained an herbal mixture with a slightly tangy smell. She began to apply it.
William sucked in a breath and she felt the sinews harden in his back as he tensed. His hand grasped her arm.
“What are you doing? Leave it.” He tried to rise from the stool.
With her free hand, she put gentle pressure on his shoulder and pulled her wrist from his grasp. “No,” she said as she continued to gently spread the salve. “Please let me help, William. After all, I did cause the injury.”
He grunted and sat down. “It’s nothing and I would have paid it no heed, except Shi Liang saw it and insisted on the salve.”
Despite his initial resistance, she felt him relaxing under the gentle rhythmic movements of her hands. How long had it been since a woman had touched him like this? Would she ever feel his touch on her bare skin?
Electra’s hand passed over the old scar, impressive despite its age. It ran up through his shoulder blade, curving onto his shoulder. “Do you mind if I ask how this happened?”
Her question was met with a stony silence. Finally he answered, his voice abrupt. “It was a bayonet. In Spain, near Talavera. It doesn’t matter now.”
Her hands continued their soothing movements. “If you are willing, I would like to hear about it.”
He was silent for so long, Electra was sure he would not speak of it, but then he began. “I was an officer in the British infantry under Lieutenant General Wellesley. We had crossed the border from Portugal into Spain to join the Spanish army and move against Joseph Bonaparte. A small group under my command was sent ahead with intelligence that the French were retreating. We were to bring back word of their position.” He paused, seeming reluctant to dredge the memory forward. She remained silent, continuing to move her fingers over his back.
“It seems the intelligence was faulty and the French unexpectedly advanced through the night. Our group was taken by surprise by a French scouting party and none but myself survived the attack.” She drew in a sharp breath as he continued. “I watched a young boy, no more than fifteen years, bleed to death. The French had moved on, thinking we were all dead. I must have gained consciousness and could hear the boy’s rasping breath. I crawled over to him, and do you know what he said?” She shook her head even though she knew he couldn’t see her. “He said, ‘You did everything you could, sir.’ Can you believe it?” He slammed his fist down on to the arm of the chair. “The little blighter was worried about how I felt!” He shook his head. “I don’t remember much after that. I spent a year recuperating in Spain. It took months for my injuries to heal.”
His body had become rigid as he spoke, his next words spoken so quietly, she nearly missed them. “I should have died with my men.”
Electra’s instinct was to hold and comfort him, but after her actions of the previous night, she had no right. Instead, she put her hand on his shoulder. “I … I don’t know what to say. You must believe you could do no more, surely.”
When there was no response, she realized he was not yet ready to forgive himself for not protecting his men. But to wish death? Electra suspected it was more than the attack prompting those words, but pushed him no further. She also curbed her curiosity regarding the scar under his eye. Instead, she concentrated on easing the tension that had built in his body with the telling of his story.
By the time, she handed him his shirt, the hostility and discomfort between them had lessened. She left the room, unsure as to what would take its place.
• • •
The next morning, following a light breakfast in her room, Electra sought out Mary Buckley. The girl was in the drawing room sweeping the floor.
“Mary, can I have a word, please?”
“O’ course mum, you’re the boss. Ain’t that right?”
Electra chose to ignore the insolence and tried another tack.
“I wondered how your baby was going. Is he well and do you need anything for him?”
Mary looked up, surprised at her words. “Oh yes mum, he’s a luv’ly boy. A bit small and I’m worried that he’s not growin’ real fast like.”
“Can I see him? Perhaps he needs better food. Or, are you still feeding him yourself?”
Mary nodded. “I am but I fear as how I ain’t got enough milk for him.”
“Then it sounds like it’s you we have to feed better. Come on, put down the broom and we’ll go and see him now,” said Electra, ushering Mary out the door.
Electra had not been to the workers’ cottages before this and discovered the farm had up to fourteen full-time workers at any one time. Mary informed her that during harvesting and shearing, the numbers swelled. As they approached the cottages, Hero loped toward them. Electra stilled, hardly daring to breathe, until he sniffed her hand, sat on his haunches, and lifted his paw for her to hold. Absurdly relieved, she took his paw, and stroked his sleek head. She looked up in time to see Mary entering one of the huts.
As she followed Mary into the small hut she shared with the other maidservant, Annie, Electra was greeted with a full-throated wail from little Freddy Buckley. The twelve-year-old babysitter gladly thrust him into his mother’s arms.
Mary’s pinched, surly features took on a Madonna-like glow as she reached for her son. Her practiced hand loosened the laces at the front of her smock and she gently manoeuvred Freddy into position. He latched onto her breast hungrily but all too soon pulled away, kicking and screaming in frustration.
Electra left the hut and hurried back to the kitchen followed closely by Hero. She grabbed a clean piece of muslin and had Shi Liang pour some warm goat’s milk into a bowl. Back at the hut, she dipped the muslin into the milk and put it to the child’s mouth. He spat it out at first but soon tasted the milk and pursed his lips for more. Together she and Mary sponged goat’s milk into Freddy’s mouth until he finally fell back in Mary’s arms, sated and fast asleep, with milk dribbling down the sides of his mouth.
Mary looked at Electra, her eyes shining. “He ain’t never been so happy before. Thank you, mum, and I’m that sorry I was such a bleedin’ horrible sod an’ all.”
“Well, it was a strange situation for us both,” said Electra, stroking the baby’s silky hair. “Let’s forget that now and see about a good diet for you so you have enough milk for little Freddy. It means you will have to be nice to Shi Liang if you want his help. Do you think you can do that?”
“Gawd, this is all a bit much for one day, mum.” She looked over at Freddy and sighed. “Orright then, I’ll do me best but he still makes me all squeamish like.”
Together they went to find Shi Liang. He eyed Mary suspiciously, but when he heard about the baby, his face softened. If she came each morning early, he agreed to provide fresh milk, ale to increase her milk, and good portions of red meat.
• • •
William had been out earl
y with Callum and returned to the library to deal with his correspondence. The soft tinkle of laughter caught his attention. He pushed the papers aside and peered through the window. Surely he was imagining the scene below. Electra walked toward the kitchen with her hand casually on Hero’s head as he trotted at her side. On her other side walked Mary Buckley, talking animatedly, devoid of all earlier hostility. A small grin stole across his face. Well, well, she has managed to bring both the dog and the surly Mary Buckley to heel.
As their voices faded, he allowed his mind to conjure Electra as she had looked that night by the fire. His body reacted as if she were once more in front of him, her head back, lips inviting. He pinched the bridge of his nose, shut his eyes, and angrily shook the image from his head. What sort of fool had he been to imagine she would want him? It had been clear he repulsed her to the point of violence. The best they might manage with time was some sort of truce. It would be better that way. Attachment, he reminded himself, brought nothing but pain and wretchedness. At least they were not so uneasy in each other’s company since their encounter in the library.
The natural progression of his thoughts led him to Charlotte. Nine years on, the taste of her betrayal was still bitter on his tongue. And every detail of his disastrous homecoming remained firmly etched on his mind.
It was all exactly as he had imagined throughout the long year he had lain desperately ill in the hospital in Spain. He could hear one of the maids singing as she walked from the stables to the kitchen, and smelt the sweet tang of freshly cut grass. Peacocks strode arrogantly through the gardens and yellow jonquils dipped their heads as he passed. Miraculously, his body was intact, the arm healing nicely, although still unusable. The day of his unannounced homecoming had been warm and familiar until the moment the front door opened.
His father was striding toward his study when the butler admitted William. The Earl stopped in mid-stride, blanching at the voice of a ghost.
“Good God, it can’t be! They said you were dead,” he had stammered, his face the colour of the whitewashed walls.
“Father, forgive me. I should have sent word. This must be a shock for you.”
“But how — ? Where have you been all this time?” The Earl made no move to approach his son.
“They thought I was dead. The others were all killed. I was badly injured and not in my right mind,” he answered, confused by his father’s restraint. As they spoke, he heard quick, light footsteps and a voice so familiar his heart leapt to his throat.
“Darling, did I hear someone at the door?”
And there she stood. The woman whose image had filled his days and haunted his nights. So beautiful, he couldn’t speak.
But something was not making sense. His mind pushed through a quagmire of disconnected thoughts. It had not been him she had called “darling.” There was not joy but horror on her face as she recognised him. She and his father were looking at each other frantically, as if the other held the answer to an intolerable situation.
Then it hit him. He was the intolerable situation. Dear God, could it get any worse?
Apparently, it could.
As they all stood in astounded silence, a nursemaid descended the stairs with a dark-haired, rosy-cheeked child in her arms. In innocent oblivion, the woman curtsied and handed the baby to its mother.
William’s jaw clamped so tightly, he thought it would break. He managed to hiss the words, “How old is the baby?”
This seemed to break the spell and Charlotte ran to him, beseeching him to understand how devastated she had been when she thought he was dead.
He shook her off. “I asked how old the baby is.”
She looked at the Earl, who nodded. “She is nine months,” she said quietly.
William gazed at her unwaveringly, while his mind did the calculations. He had been gone just eighteen months; six months fighting and twelve months in the hospital and village recuperating.
“Who is the father?”
The Earl reached out, pulled Charlotte and the baby possessively to his side and answered, “I am. She is mine. They both are.” Charlotte blushed and lowered her eyes, but remained silent.
“Will, we can sort this out. We are family, after all.” He added smoothly.
William rounded on him, shaking with rage. “Family? A whore and a cradle snatcher?” He turned to Charlotte, his voice breaking. “I was probably still on English soil when you rushed to his bed.”
The punch took him by surprise, cutting open his cheek. His hand curled into a fist as his whole body tensed, but he made no move against his father. The Earl was not stupid enough to test his son’s restraint again and backed away. Charlotte rushed forward, dabbing at the blood oozing from his cheek, pity in her eyes.
He hit her hand away, growling, “Don’t touch me. You both disgust me.”
“Enough! You will not speak to your father or your stepmother in that manner,” said the Earl.
William’s eyes bored deep into his father’s. “I have no father and I certainly have no stepmother.”
Without a backwards glance, he turned and walked out the door. And kept going until he reached New South Wales. He had neither seen nor spoken to either of them for nine years.
He sighed, rubbing his hands over his face as if that would erase the memory. His finger traced the scar under his left eye: a constant reminder of those last moments in his family home. As he raised his eyes, the fields of Riverside, visible through the window, changed his mood. This land meant a thousand times more than the estate he would have inherited. His life was satisfactory and would continue to be so, provided he kept his emotions in check.
He moved his attention back to the letters on his desk and inserted the letter opener into what looked annoyingly like an invitation.
• • •
“William! Where are you?” said Electra bursting into the library.
“I’m busy, Electra. What is it?”
She stopped at the tone of his voice. “I’m sorry; I should not have disturbed you.”
“No, no come in. I just had my mind elsewhere. Tell me what you want.”
“Mrs. Grenville has sent a messenger. All the garments are ready to be collected and — ,” she looked away, still not used to being kept by William.
“And she wants her money. Is that what you’re going to say?”
“Yes, it was,” she said. “What shall I tell the lad?”
“We can go tomorrow if you like. It will be quite timely.” She raised her eyebrows in question. “Come back after you speak to him and I will explain.” Electra left the room wishing she knew more about William. His face had looked drawn and his eyes heavy, but she could not ask for his confidence.
The messenger was soon sent on his way and Electra climbed the stairs again with Shi Liang behind her carrying tea and biscuits. She poured the tea and handing William a cup, she waited expectantly. William sighed, held out an embossed invitation, and sat back while she read it.
“A formal dinner dance at the governor’s house? Oh, Lord.” She put the invitation down, feeling wretched. “I can’t go, it would be too awful.”
“Of course you must come. I wouldn’t go myself if it wasn’t a political necessity, but I will certainly not go without you.”
“The likes of Mrs. Cameron will be there with their claws sharpened. I imagine I will be the main course.”
He chuckled. “That’s what they’ll be hoping. However, we will be forced to disappoint them. We will go with our heads held high and you will be magnificent.”
A warm flush rose at his words and despite the fear already clamping her stomach, Electra decided she would meet the challenge, for them both.
• • •
Mrs. Grenville greeted her like an old friend and once again ushered William out the door while they had final fittings. She held Electra at arm’s length, narrowing her eyes as she looked at her. Something akin to recognition flickered in her eyes but she seemed to dismiss it.
“
Tell me to mind my own business my dear, but I don’t see the bloom of love on your cheeks.”
Electra drew in a short breath, swallowed, and turned away.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” she said.
“I mean I don’t see in your or Mr. Radcliffe’s eyes that spark of shared secrets, if you get my meaning.” She put her hand up to stop Electra’s protestations. “Now he’s a man and they don’t say no to a woman coming into their bed. So all I can surmise is that you haven’t tried as yet.”
Electra tried to stammer a response but could not find the words. The woman had no right to pry. But Electra could not find it in herself to berate her. For a start, she had seen the truth of her marriage and seemed genuine in her concern. Electra frowned and lowered her eyes.
“It’s all right, love, but don’t wait too long. From what I hear, he’s a man worth having. Now let’s make sure his eye doesn’t rove elsewhere,” she said, laying out the gowns for Electra’s approval.
Yes, thought Electra, any woman in this small colony would do no better than William Radcliffe. A ripple of jealousy and possessiveness went through her at the thought of another woman laying claim to him. He is my husband, she reminded herself. It still felt strange on her tongue.
At least there was some comfort in looking like the wife of a man of William’s standing. Her fingers caressed the silky undergarments laid out before her and when Mrs. Grenville draped the two ball gowns across the counter, she gasped. They were exquisite and either would be perfect for the upcoming function at the governor’s residence. The difficulty would be in choosing.
• • •
To keep her mind off the impending dinner dance, Electra spent much time riding her chestnut mare, and familiarizing herself with the vast property. William had introduced her to a native worker named Billy, who cared for the sheep. She found she was curious to know more of these dark people who had been the only inhabitants before the English came. William warned her that most of the English settlers treated the natives with either fear or contempt and made no attempt to learn from, or understand, them. Electra had never let others influence her opinions. As she had little respect for many of the countrymen she had met so far, their views meant little to her.