They had heard that there were many strangers in the land beside the sea where the sun was born. Like the white sands of the shore, it was said. But they never went there anymore, only the ancient ones could remember that land from which they had been driven. Huge white birds with many wings had floated them across the waters and they had brought sticks that smoked and boomed, putting round deadly holes in brown bodies.
The woman had no such stick, not even a pointed spear and she trembled in her sleep. Could she be afraid of them? They were many and she was just one, but the stone was alive and they were apprehensive. One of the little girls touched it and her mother snatched her away carefully examining the child’s hand for burns. There were none.
Her eyes opened and they were so stunned by their brilliance they forgot to run. They sparkled like the stone around her neck but without the fire. She tried to sit up but fell down again. Could she be hurt? Crystal drops stole down her red cheeks, but they were not magic—they were tears. The spirits did not cry. Could she be flesh and blood just as they were?
One of the very old women went forward and helped her drink some water. Not too much because her lips were dry and cracked and she would get sick. She said something which they couldn’t understand and then someone else offered her food. Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head pushing the offering of the choicest grubs away.
They butchered the beast and moved on to a safe spot taking the woman with them. She moved like one asleep and her fingers touched and rubbed the stone. Night descended and they built a fire and shelters. The aroma of the cooking flesh was good and this time the woman ate, slowly at first, then hungrily. She hadn’t eaten in a long time.
For three days and nights the stranger was in their midst. At night while she slept she talked and cried but her eyes were closed. Was she sick, or hurt? One night she sat up screaming, scaring them all into the bush. It was a disruptive influence on them. She couldn’t stay. So they approached the shadow of the mountains. It took over a week.
“Will! Willie Mudd, come here this instant!”
He dropped the hoe and went. Hazel never called like that unless something was wrong.
The garden was behind the house and as he rounded the corner he saw a group of dark-skinned aborigines. That was odd in itself because they usually didn’t come so close to this place. He had only seen them two or three times and then always watching from the shelter of the trees. But right in among them was a white woman!
“She must be lost, Will,” Hazel said her fat body quivering all over like jelly.
“I don’t think she came to pay a call, old girl!”
She gave him a push. “Go find out!”
Cautiously Will approached the little group and they melted away into the forest. “Are you lost, girlie?” She looked at him, frowning and then turned to find her friends gone. She hadn’t even tried to thank them and now they had disappeared.
“Are you lost, dearie?” The fat woman echoed her husband, waddling over to the woman.
“Why—I don’t know.”
She had a lovely voice and under the dirt Hazel could tell she must be quite pretty. A bit on the skinny side though, but what eyes!
“She got to be lost, Hazel, otherwise what would she be doing with that band?”
She ignored him. “What’s your name?” Again that puzzled concentration.
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t know your own name, don’t know if you’re lost? Where did you come from?”
She shrugged her delicate shoulders. “I only remember being with them,” she said pointing at the trees into which her companions had dispersed. “But I’m not one of them, am I? I couldn’t understand them and they ate my horse. Well I did have a little myself. I was hungry.”
“Ate your horse! Damn, I could of used a good horse.” Will slapped his hand against his thigh. “The one we got now is a bag of bones.”
“I think it was dead already.”
“Poor child, must be hungry now with only old horses to eat. Come into the house and rest up a bit. Maybe after some decent food and a good night’s sleep you’ll remember something.” Hazel took her hand and led her toward the house. “You talk like a real swell, dearie. Like a lady from back home. Though heaven knows it’s been long enough since I last saw London.”
“London? Is that a place? London—it sounds nice.”
“Well parts is and parts isn’t; depends on where you live.”
“It’s nice here—yes, I think I like it here. There’s nobody shouting at me.”
“Did they yell a lot at wherever you came from?” Hazel’s black eyes were round with curiosity.
“I’m not sure, but they must have if I said it.”
The house was a small square one-room building containing the bare essentials. There was a fireplace, a table and four chairs, a bed and one rocking chair. The floor was raw wood, well scrubbed but with knot holes and gaps. The windows had animal skins stretched tightly over swinging frames and were open. Rough shelves lined one wall and on them were jars of preserves, dishes, kitchen utensils, and staples. An oval rag rug was the only touch of color.
“Sit yourself right down—take my chair.” Hazel pushed her into the rocking chair and went to stir a black pot hanging over the fire.
A delicious aroma came from the thick bubbling stew, and the woman leaned her head wearily against the back of the chair closing her eyes. The motion of the chair should have been soothing but instead it was disturbing. Her arms ached to hold something, she didn’t know what and a hard lump rose in her throat. She wanted to cry without knowing why but she forced back the feeling.
“Oh!” Her green-blue eyes flew open as an animal sprang onto her lap. An orange striped cat inspected her and curled up, and her fingers stroked the soft warm fur. It began to purr, a low rumble in its throat, and she felt a little better. But a cat was not a child and she knew then that her arms longed to cuddle and rock a child. Her child?
“What is your cat’s name?”
“Marmalade. Don’t she look just the color of orange marmalade?”
“Yes, she does.” The woman scratched the cat beneath the chin.
“Still can’t remember yours, dearie?” inquired Hazel pulling up a chair and looking curiously at her. “I should call you something, can’t keep calling you dearie all the time. Any name in particular you’d like?”
“I can’t think of any. Why don’t you name me—until I remember. I don’t know if I want to.”
“Yes,” Hazel sighed, her frizzed blond hair jouncing as she nodded vigorously, “there’s lots I wouldn’t like remembering too. Maybe you been blessed, maybe you run off from what you didn’t like.”
“Now let’s see—a name. Always told my Will if I ever had a girl child I’d name her Rose. You like that? Seeing as how I’m too old to be having any babes you might use that name.”
“That’s fine, any name is fine. If you like that one then call me Rose.”
“Well, Rose, would you like to wash before Will comes in for supper? You’re quite a sight.”
“Am I? Why I don’t even know what I look like!” She ran her fingertips over her face and through her tangled hair.
“Soft hands, like a lady,” commented Hazel patting one. “Guess you’re no escaped convict, Rose. But if you’re a lady there’s probably folks looking for you. Maybe Will should ride into Sydney and have word—”
“No! No!” Rose stood up dumping the cat to the floor, her eyes wild. “Not Sydney! No one wants me, no one is looking for me.”
“Settle down, dearie! Will only goes once a year—not for a few more months anyhow. Stocks up on things for the winter.”
“Could you let me stay, for just a little while?” Rose begged. “I don’t have any money but I could work and clean and do whatever you want.”
“Of course you’ll stay. Rose. Do you think Will and me would turn you out in the bush? Too bad you can’t remember, both of us could do with some news of Lon
don. Been here for twenty years now!”
“Thank you. I’ll work hard and I’ll try and remember. Do you think I’ve ever been to London?”
“You’re a lady and all ladies and gentlemen go to London. The tales I could tell you! Used to be a cook in a grand townhouse and Will was a groom.” Hazel smiled nostalgically, a faraway look in her bright black eyes. “Enough talking! Let’s get you cleaned up.”
So she had a bath and washed her hair behind a blanket used as a curtain. Hazel talked the whole time exclaiming over the two necklaces Rose had been wearing. And when she was clean and dressed in a gown of Hazel’s that hung like a sack on her thin body, the excited little woman thrust the gold locket into her hands.
“Look! Just look! I knew I had to open it when I saw it. Lockets can hold so many interesting things.” She thrust it into Rose’s hand and watched her eyes inspect the miniatures. “The little girl is the spit of you and the boy looks like the man on the other side. Look at them eyes! Don’t they make you melt? Bet he’s broken a few hearts and bedded a score of swooning women.”
“I don’t like him,” Rose said covering his face with her thumb and looking at the vibrant faces of the two children.
“Don’t like him! He’s got to be your husband, dearie! Why just look at the resemblance—”
“The children are very pretty.” She smiled at the painted faces with a distant look on her face. “But how could I forget my own children, if they are mine and...”
“And how could you forget a man like that!” Hazel moved Rose’s thumb and gazed with rapt attention at the bold, handsome man. “You’re a real puzzle, Rose, a mystery. Can’t ever say I’ve met anyone before who forgot who they was. And if he was my husband I’d never forget the likes of him—or let him forget me!”
Rose shivered as she looked again at the man. In some way even the painting upset her. How much more would the real man? There was a sense of power emanating from those dark eyes, something that held her like a frightened rabbit about to be pounced upon. The chiseled lips moved before her startled eyes: “Whore!”
She dropped the locket on the floor with a cry that sent Marmalade flashing out the open door.
“What is it. Rose? Did you remember something?”
“I hate him! I don’t want to look at him again. You keep the locket, Hazel, I don’t want it!”
“I’ll put it away. You might be wanting it later.”
Before supper Rose examined her face carefully in the small hand mirror that Hazel handed her. The little girl did look like her and a stabbing pain jolted through her. She was beginning to get a headache from trying so hard to remember.
“Well, do you like what you see? Be pretty with some more flesh on you.”
“I don’t like my eyes,” Rose said critically, staring at herself.
“Nice color, unusual. Too sad though. But we’ll cheer you up, dearie! Will and me have a good time even if we do live a hundred miles from nowhere!”
After a supper of kangaroo stew and thick slabs of bread dripping with butter, the night came down with a slam. Farmers were abed early and Hazel and Will retired to their bed in the curtained alcove. Rose soon heard him snoring and the sound was oddly comforting.
It was cold outside but she was warm and drowsy, snuggling deeply into the fur rug before the fire. Another patchwork of fur covered her. Kangaroos supplied them with fresh meat and the luxury of their pelts to ward off the night air. Without realizing what she was doing Rose slipped off Hazel’s nightgown and rolled herself in the deliciously tickling, caressing fur. She stretched languorously with a little sigh. As she fell asleep she dreamed there were gentle hands on her breasts and warm lips against hers.
“Angel, love,” a voice murmured and she reached out to him but he wasn’t there.
He stared down at the small mound beneath the wattle tree. The sun was shining brightly and birds sang but Scott’s heart was dark and heavy. Part of him lay beneath that earth, created by a miraculous fusion with Angela. A childhood disease and inflammation of the lungs were just words but the reality was being parted forever from his laughing black-haired daughter.
And now Angela was gone. He had driven her away—to her death, Ezra said and everyone else agreed. The differences between them had been too monumental to surmount but he could at least have curbed his rage and treated her with some understanding. If only he had known. But it was too late now for regrets—or was it?
“I can’t believe she’s dead no matter what they say.”
The search had produced nothing. If Angela was dead they would have found her body, or at least her remains if the dingos had gotten to her. The thought of wild dogs tearing at her flesh was a torment that had left him sleeplessly tossing half the night. Angela! Angela! She haunted him. She troubled him more dead than she ever had in life.
Not dead, he told himself, never that! Tomorrow he would begin the search again, by himself if need be, with Ezra if he could convince him. He didn’t care that Celeste had ordered him back to Thornhill, didn’t care if he was branded as a runaway and hunted down. If Angela was alive he would find her and then . . . then what? He would send her home to the safety of England with the immense relief of knowing she was alive. There would be no more nightmares and no more regrets lying heavy on his conscience.
He went into the house. It was quiet with Robert and Clare on an outing in Hyde Park with the Irish girls. What would he do with Clare if Angela was never found? She was her daughter, not his. He had no responsibilities toward her. Could he send her to Jane? She would probably accept Angela’s child eagerly, especially since she had been the source of her husband’s title and riches.
Who was Clare’s father? It always came back to that and Scott went in search of Ezra. The man hated him but he must convince him to talk. With Angela gone why shouldn’t he?
Ezra was in the sitting room with papers spread on the table before him. As Scott came in he hastily gathered them up and turned them face down.
“I wanted to talk to you,” Ezra said and Scott raised a surprised eyebrow. ”I have been debating whether to tell you or not for two days. You don’t deserve it after what you have done but there is no way I cannot tell you.”
“About what?”
“Angela made me promise her once that I would bring you your children and these papers if she didn’t survive.”
“She thought she was going to die? Was she sick?” Scott’s interest was captivated.
“It’s a long story but you have been wanting to know. She wasn’t sick. She thought that she might be murdered. . . .”
“Murdered! Who would dare?”
“Gaston Laporte!” Ezra spewed out the revolting name like a curse.
“The pirate?”
“None other. When we set sail from Jamaica he captured the Dark Lady and scuttled her.”
So that’s what had happened to his ship! The Dark Lady was residing beneath the blue waters of the Caribbean. Damn, but he would like to get his hands on that Frenchman! But how had he survived those vicious wounds he had dealt him at their first meeting?
“I didn’t see the battle to capture Angela but I heard about it later. With two pistols she held them off in her cabin for half an hour. She hid the children and when they tried to break in she killed four of them. Even after she was shot and the pistols were discharged she still fought them like a fury.”
“The wound on her shoulder,” Scott gasped in astonishment, “that was from the pirates?”
“Yes. Even those cutthroats were impressed with her courage. Laporte took her, the children, and Molly hostage and it was only after seeing Captain Darnell hanged and Angus thrown to the sharks that she passed out.”
“Angus!” Scott’s face was grim with shock. “She never told me.”
“There is a lot she never told you. All hands were killed and I only escaped by pretending to be an idiot. We were taken to Laporte’s island in the Bahamas as his prisoners and kept in his house while ransom was d
emanded for our safe release.
“Life there was not pleasant. We were guarded, although as an idiot I had much more freedom than Angela. I began building a raft in secret, not even she knew about it. Laporte was polite and distant until he moved in for the kill.”
“I crippled him,” Scott said, “and I wish I had killed the bastard! So he wanted revenge.”
“And he got it! It seems he was carrying on an affair with Jules but he had a taste for women as well as boys. He ordered Angela to his room and planned on making her his mistress.”
“Because of what I did to him,” Scott said with cold rage eating into him like acid. “It was all my fault!”
“She didn’t go even though he predicted dire consequences. Then Molly disappeared. Laporte requested her presence again, and again she refused. He took Angela to his ship and her maid was there. He tied her to the railing and made her watch as his crew raped Molly to death. That was Angela’s punishment for rejecting him.”
Scott’s face had paled beneath his tan and there were harsh lines on his face. His lips were pressed tightly together and two deep grooves etched from his nose to his mouth. “That monster,” he managed to say. “He didn’t turn Angela over to them?”
“No. He wanted her himself. Angela blamed herself for Molly’s death, if she had given in she would still be alive. But it was too late.
“Laporte played with her like a cat with a mouse. He had saved his winning hand for the last. He threatened the children!”
“Damn!” Scott sprang to his feet knocking over the chair in which he had been sitting. “I’ll kill him! When I’m free I will seek out that—that—”
“He’s dead,” Ezra said, watching him control himself with difficulty, “but before he died he got his revenge.
“Laporte didn’t mean to kill Robert or Lorna, just introduce them to the perverse delights of which he and Jules were so fond. Angela gave in. What else could she do?”
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