Dream Time (historical): Book I

by Parris Afton Bonds

  Celeste dimpled. “Sin. He brought me here. Our new carriage driver ran off with Molly Finn. Mother had to ask Sin—most diplomatically—if he would drive the carriage. I suppose she thinks that since he is leaving in just two weeks with the wagon train, I won’t have time to recant my—”

  “A wagon train is leaving for the outback?” It had been almost a year since the last one, made up of graziers and squatters, had attempted the perilous passage through the Blue Mountains.

  “Aye, Sin said he would be traveling with it. At least, initially.” Suddenly she covered her face with her hands. “Oh, Amaris, he almost seemed relieved when I told him I had promised Mama to wait a year!”

  “What did he say?”

  With the back of her hand, Celeste wiped away a tear. “That he agreed with Mother, that it would be better if he had a place prepared for me.” She managed a small, rueful smile. “But you know that distance doesn’t make the heart grow fonder, it only makes the heart go yonder.”

  “If there were no reason for your mother to hold you to that promise, would you go with Sin into the Never-Never?”

  Her eyes brightened. “I’d go with Sin to hell.” She glanced apprehensively around the room. “I suppose my blasphemy would shock your father.”

  She laughed. “I imagine he’s heard plenty of blasphemy working with the derelicts of the Rocks. It’ll only take me a minute to change clothing.”

  After she had slipped into a white dimity dress and her straw shepherd’s hat, she went to her mother's room. Leaning down to kiss her cheek, she said, “I’m spending the day with Celeste, boating on the Hawkesbury.”

  Her mother squeezed her hand. “Good, you have spent too much of your time on work and not enough on pleasure.”

  “Mother, what do you know about Nan Livingston?” The question took Rose by surprise. “Why, I imagine no more or less than anyone else in Sydney. I do know that Nan Livingston, despite the stories of ruthlessness, has much to be admired—her indomitable spirit, her love and devotion to this land, her kindnesses to those less fortunate. Just look how generous she’s been to you over the years.”

  “Yes,” she said, barely able to restrain the bitterness from her voice, “Just look.”

  The drive to the Hawkesbury River was a pleasant one, made even more so by the morning’s spring sunshine that gilded the landscape. Sitting on the coachman’s seat, Sin said little. To her, his broad back was no less menacing than his devil-black scowl.

  She knew he was aware of every word she and Celeste exchanged. In his presence, Celeste seemed as golden as the countryside. Every so often, she would lean forward, touch his shoulder, and make a comment or ask a question. Her need to have contact with him was a tangible thing. With her, he was so patient. There was no getting around it, Celeste brought out the best in everyone.

  By the time they arrived at the landing, the rest of the boating party was already there. Sin helped both Celeste and Amaris from the carriage, but Amaris noticed Celeste's hand lingered in his. Then Francis strode toward them, and Celeste relinquished his hold.

  Watching Francis make a leg, then straighten to smile down at Celeste, Amaris couldn’t help but be envious. Celeste’s joyous disposition and gentle beauty attracted all men.

  That morning, Francis stood out as usual. He wore a superfine black frock coat over Petersham trousers that were drawn into his boots in a Cossack fashion.

  When he turned to Amaris, she affected a lighthearted smile. “Our paths crossed sooner than you thought.”

  “And I’m glad.” His manner held an attentiveness that had been lacking in their earlier relationship.

  Celeste might have noticed this, but her whole being was focused on Sin. “I’ll return this evening for you two, so don’t stray off should I be late,” he was saying, his critical gaze running over the assembled people, as if he thought one among them might want to harm the delicate woman who stood silently adoring him.

  When everyone had boarded, the sloop set off along the river’s sluggish current. A canvas cover had been erected for the outing, and the young women were already spreading a lavish array of food beneath it.

  Nan had had her cook prepare an assortment of cheeses, cold cuts garnished with savory herbs, freshly baked bread that was still warm, and a couple of bottles of French wine.

  Here and there a pillow was tossed on the deck, and Eileen Hannaby, who had her mother’s pouter pigeon form, was already flirting with Thomas, a short, wiry man reclining across from her. At first, everyone was busy exchanging bits of news, joking, and pointing out the brilliant-plumaged birds or exotic plants along the banks.

  Despite the measure of respect Amaris had earned as a writer and a champion of the downtrodden, she was still considered, even after all these years, an outsider. One of the drone class, as Becky Randolph had termed it. Did Becky realize that her own mother was supporting her father with funds to run a newspaper?

  If Amaris felt an outsider, she took advantage of that position to stand at the wooden railing and listen, to observe, to glean insight into personalities she might use in her writing.

  Becky, for example, was talking faster than an emu could run. That she was more nervous today than usual was obvious.

  Concentrating solely on Becky, Amaris gradually noticed an almost imperceptible but continual movement of Becky’s gabardine skirts, too heavy to be rustled by the river’s light breeze. At last, Amaris perceived that Lieutenant O’Reilly, who lay braced on one elbow next to Becky and slightly behind her, had one hand hidden from view.

  When Amaris fully realized the implications, that Becky’s nervous patter was the result of O’Reilly’s fondling fingers, she couldn’t contain an outburst of laughter that she abruptly choked off with a cough.

  “I see you have taken note of the animal world’s peripheral activities,” Francis said with a chuckle from behind her. He was standing close enough that the river breeze entwined her skirts about his legs.

  She was partly embarrassed and partly curious about this intimate aspect of courtship. She forced herself to turn and share a conspirator’s smile with him. She knew she had to capitalize on what she had seen in Francis’s dark brown eyes. Her voice was lowered to an intimate level. “I think the animals know something we don’t.”

  His pupils dilated. She was smitten by the look in his eyes. Staring into them, she knew what he was thinking—that she was no coy maiden.

  One of their party called out that the sloop was docking, and Celeste’s approach interrupted whatever reply he might have made. “Come on,” she chided with a smile, “you two are slower than tortoises today.”

  “Go on and I’ll catch up with you later,” she told Celeste, including Francis in her glance. “I wanted to take a look at the female factory.”

  Celeste stared at her. “I admire you, Amaris. When I help out at your females’ home, I don’t feel good or anything but sorrow for those poor women.” Amaris was ashamed. She never felt good on those occasions either. Sometimes, in fact, she was repelled by the women. For whatever reason some of her anger dissipated the hours she worked there. It was as if she was letting authorities and people in high places know there was one less outsider looking in.

  “I won’t stay long. I’ll join you at the Government House Park.”

  What she hoped for happened. While Celeste and the others deboarded to stretch their legs under a brilliant midday sun, Francis tarried to chat with the captain of the vessel.

  She took her time raising her parasol, a foolish thing to carry. She was already tanned by the sun from the many occasions she had either neglected or flatly refused to wear a hat or carry a parasol.

  Just as it looked unseemly for her to dally a moment longer, Francis ended the conversation and hailed her. She looked over her shoulder and flung him what she hoped was an inviting smile. “Don’t tell me, you were negotiating with the captain to carry New South Wales Trading cargo.”

  He laughed. “No, I was stalling until I could c
atch you alone.”

  Her hopes brightened. She continued walking. “Any particular reason?”

  He groaned. “Miss Wilmot, you have yet to learn the tricks of the female, which is perhaps why I enjoy talking to you.”

  “The tricks being . . . ?”

  “You don’t ask why a man wants to talk to you, you say, ‘I’m so pleased.”’

  “I thought about that and decided it wouldn’t work on a man with a reputation for being a heartbreaker. Especially, one who knows he is.”

  A flush suffused his face, then a smile began at the corners of his mouth and finally took hold. With a broad grin, he spread his hands in a gesture of helplessness. “Knowledge is power, to thine own self be true, and all the rest.”

  They turned their footsteps, as if in mutual accord, along the river walk, deserted at the noon hour. Her voice took on a deliberate husky quality. “And I know myself. I’m unlike other women in more ways than the one you mentioned.”

  She could feel his heated gaze on her. “Such as?”

  She glanced at him from the corners of her eyes. His head inclined toward hers, titillation flaring in his own eyes. They both knew the preliminaries of word play had to be adhered to. “Such as I’m not afraid to go after what I want.”

  “Which is?”

  Green oak boughs temporarily encompassed them in leaf-dappled shadows. The river’s cooling breeze played the shorter tendrils of her hair that had escaped the clasp at her nape. She gathered her courage. “Right now, I want to know what it would be like to kiss you.”

  His breath inhaled sharply. Then he grabbed her shoulders and pulled her against him. His mouth took hers in a hungry kiss.

  She had expected this of Sin but not of Francis. Her body surprised her by responding in a sudden heat. An aching knot formed low in her stomach. Yet it was as if another part of her stepped outside her body to observe and dissect the gamut of emotions that obliterated her usual rational thought processes.

  He slipped his hands from her shoulders to the back of her waist and pressed her into him. She could feel the hardness of him—and that even harder part wedged against the apex of her legs.

  Excitement rushed through her. Her hands clung to his shoulders to keep herself from sagging. The spectator side of her was fascinated by the intensity of her reaction.

  Her next reaction fascinated her even more. His tongue pushed between her lips, and, moaning, she boldly joined her tongue with his. Her parasol dipped to the ground. Her hand clasped the back of his head, her fingers curling in his sun-gilt hair.

  His hands strayed from her waist to cup her hips and pull her into him. Suddenly, both she and Francis were panting heavily.

  “Over here,” he said, pulling her deeper into the seclusion of the oaks, where afternoon strollers wouldn’t espy them. He pressed her against an oak’s trunk. Its rough bark abraded her skin through the thin dimity material of her waist.

  His cheek nuzzled hers, then his lips found her ear, below it, and just above the collar of her waist. “Your scent,” he said. “It intoxicates. I’m dying to know what you smell like elsewhere.”

  She laughed. She felt lightheaded herself. “You don’t have to die to find out, Francis.”

  “You are real, aren’t you?”

  She heard the wonder in his voice. “If admitting that I want what you want makes me real, then I very much am.” What amazed her was that she was putting on no act; she really wanted Francis.

  He reached around her, and his hands began loosening the fastenings of her waist while his mouth made forays across the planes and angles of her face. Her blouse fell to her waist. A low, rusty sound came from his throat. Then his hands cupped her breasts and began to knead them. Her eyes closed, and she shuddered at the wave of pleasure that washed through her.

  Even as he kissed her breasts, he pulled her downward with him, until they both lay side by side in the sparse grass growing at the base of the oak.

  Somehow, she wasn’t exactly sure in the rush of passion, he divested himself of his clothing and hers. Maybe she helped him. She did know that when he at last thrust into her, she felt no pain at losing her maidenhead, only an excitement that was unequalled by anything she had ever felt before. Whenever he plunged, she arched in return.

  Her fingers dug into his back, and she gasped out the word, “More!”

  “Aye,” he said hoarsely. “This is not enough. Not yet!”

  The power of her senses escalated, so that the sound of their breathing, the slap of the river against the bank, the salty taste of his skin, the feel of his muscles contracting beneath her hands, the scent of the damp earth, the vegetation, the dank river, and he and she commingled, overrode all external reality.

  In an instant, within her body a multitude of sensation points burst in an overflow. She cried out, her surprise and intense pleasure were strangled sighs, crashing one upon the other like waves slamming against the beach.

  He held her tightly against him. Then, with a mighty shudder, he collapsed on top of her.

  For what seemed a long time, they lay together, unstirring. She could hear his heavy breath in her ear. Her own had already evened out. And, as she lay there, she wondered if she had been the ultimate of fools.

  Had she given away freely that from which she might have wrung a price?

  Yet something very certain, very strong, very female, whispered in the recesses of her mind that what she wanted from a man like Francis, she wouldn’t have gotten in barter for sex.

  No, what she had that most women did not was the use of her brain. Or rather, no fear to use her brain to achieve her will.

  Her hands captured either side of Francis’s face, and she kissed him with abandon. She could tell she had caught him off guard by his fleeting expression of amazement. He had undoubtedly expected her to bemoan the loss of her virginity.

  With a husky laugh, he returned her ardent kiss. Gasping, he released her lips to whisper raggedly, “I cannot let you wander far from me, my Amazonian maiden.”

  Nor you from me, she silently promised both herself and her nemesis, Nan Livingston.

  § CHAPTER THIRTEEN §

  “You haven’t changed your mind about refusing to marry Francis, have you, Celeste?”

  “Of course not.” The young woman walked the length of Amaris’s bedroom, tiny enough to fit in the Livingston pantry. Celeste’s hands rubbed together. For once, her eyes weren’t lustrous. Her teeth chewed nervously on her lower lip. “Sin leaves for the outback in two days, Amaris. With a wagon train Major Hannaby has put together. I can’t give Sin up.”

  Amaris sat back on her bed in a most unladylike fashion, with her knees drawn up. She clasped her hands behind her head and leaned against the wall. “I have a suggestion.”

  Celeste paused in her pacing. Hope shone in her eyes. “What?”

  “I’ll marry Francis. Cheated of her prospective son-in-law, your mother will have to give her blessing to your marriage with Sin.”

  Celeste’s wing-tipped brows knitted in perplexion. “Francis wants to marry you?”

  “He will. With your help.”

  “And you want to marry him? You love Francis?”

  “No, I don’t love him, but I could come to love him. And, yes, I want to marry him. We could make a good life together by starting out somewhere new.”

  The light went from Celeste’s face, and she sighed. “Even if Francis were to marry you, I don’t think Mother would permit me to marry Sin. Not now, anyway. You see, I gave my word to wait a year.”

  “She would agree to a marriage, if she thought you were carrying his child.”

  Shock at the implications behind the suggestion played across Celeste's lovely face. Then she said quietly, “You know I couldn’t lie to my mother.”

  “You will if you ever want to see Sin again.”

  Celeste’s expression revealed the inner battle being waged. “All right,” she said at last. “What do I need to do?”

  “First, manag
e to talk with Francis when he calls on your mother tomorrow. What is it—around elevenish they do business? Tell Francis to meet me at the Brigsby Pub tomorrow night at eight.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “I am. Talk to your mother—and, Celeste, don’t let her talk you out of what you want to do.”

  Celeste stopped before her. Determination steeled that usually gentle expression. “I shall be Sin’s one way or another.” She smiled brightly. “I feel like we’re conspirators. It’s terribly exciting, don’t you think? I’ll take care of Mama, you take care of Francis.”

  Amaris deliberated all that night about what to say to Francis and how to say it. In the end, he made it very easy for her to lead into what she wanted to say.

  He was already waiting for her, sitting at the same table where she had watched the fracas among the newly arrived female prisoners that rainy afternoon. His tankard was nigh empty. Pipe smoke hazed the air, lending their tryst a further air of mystery.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. “About last Sunday afternoon at Paramatta.”

  His eyes held the same heat she had purposely ignited on the sloop. She delayed a moment, sipping from her pint o’porter. “I would have thought you would have more important matters, like business for instance, to occupy your thoughts.”

  He chug-a-lugged the last of his ale. “Business matters are exactly what I don’t want to think about.”

  “That gloomy, eh?”

  He sighed, set the tankard down, and stared at its tarnished pewter. “One gets tired of being a puppet.”

  “With Nan Livingston pulling the strings? You don’t have to continue to be the puppet, you know.”

  He raised his gaze to meet hers. His mouth twisted wryly. “I do. I happen to enjoy living in the style of luxury in which I was raised and would like to continue doing so.”

  She leaned forward and stared into the depths of those brown eyes, hoping to touch a chord somewhere inside. “You can do that, and never have to have a puppet master again.”