by Laura Parker
“Yes,” Aisleen answered quickly. “Yes, of course.” She picked up her purse and black lace shawl. “Is there something wrong?” she asked when she noticed that the girl was staring at her.
The girl blushed. “It ain’t mine to say, miss, only I’d wear a gown fit to turn the head of a Sydney lad were one to come calling on me.”
“I have not been invited to turn the heads of the Sydney lads, as you put it. Quite the contrary.” Aisleen turned quickly away before the girl could see her angry blush. Turn heads, indeed!
When she reached the doorway she was startled to find the walkway beyond filled with barracks girls. Elbows dug into sides and giggles suddenly erupted behind feminine hands when they noticed her. They parted immediately but stood lining either side as if she were a parade about to pass by.
Annoyed at being once again a source of diversion for them, Aisleen ignored them as she stepped onto the path. No doubt they had been drawn by the sight of a red-coated officer. At least Major Scott had been spared this vulgar display of curiosity by waiting outside the gates.
“Good luck, miss,” one of the girls said shyly when Aisleen passed her.
“Aye, have a go at ’im, that’s what I say!” called another as girlish laughter rippled on the afternoon air.
“Good luck! Good luck!” came a chorus of cries.
Aisleen walked on, growing more and more annoyed with their good wishes. One would have thought this a momentous occasion. How easily excited these girls were.
*
Beyond the gates, Thomas impatiently paced Queen’s Square before Hyde Park Barracks, working out the stiffness in his leg. As he waited he repeatedly dug a finger between his starched collar and his neck. The stiff linen had rubbed a welt on his skin, and his cravat threatened to strangle him.
“Bloody hell!” He seldom put himself to this torture, but he was certain that Miss Fitzgerald would not approve if he arrived in his moleskin breeches and shirt sleeves.
When he had completed another turn about the square, he cast a look at the barracks gates. “Where is she?” he murmured He had nearly stopped on the way to fortify himself with a tankard or two at the Crown and Cross until he remembered Sally. The night before she had thrown a tankard at his head when he entered.
He brushed an arm across his brow, leaving beads of sweat on his broadcloth coat sleeve. He was not an indecisive man. Yet here he was pacing and sweating like some green lad, wondering if he were about to make a fool of himself. He was satisfied with Miss Fitzgerald, but what if she refused him? After all, he was a colonial squatter without manners or refinement. Ladies, he had been told, regarded some things above money. If she refused him, what would he do?
“Mr. Gibson!” a feminine voice declared with distinct displeasure.
Thomas turned sharply on his heel, so lost in his thoughts he had not heard her approach. He took her in in a single glance. Buttoned up to her chin in vile green wool and a black bonnet more fitted for a wake than courtship, she looked twenty years his senior and about as approachable as a wart hog. It was what he expected: she had come but she was not pleased. “Miss Fitzgerald? ’Tis glad I am that ye agreed to see me.”
“See you? I agreed to no such thing!” Aisleen answered stiffly. His appearance at the barracks was the embodiment of her worst fears. She glanced right and then left, but, mercifully, Major Scott was nowhere in sight.
She turned her haughtiest look on the object of her displeasure. “What do you mean by tarrying before the barracks? If you wish to speak with me then I suggest you approach the matron, but I warn you I do not intend to speak to some…some swagman who waylays respectable ladies on the street!”
Thomas grinned as her petticoats rustled in response to her agitation. She had enough starch in them for two ladies. “That being so, why did ye come in answer to me summons?”
A niggling suspicion burrowed its way quickly through Aisleen’s simmering thoughts. The wide-eyed stare of the girl who had summoned her…the troop of girls on the path…their boisterous good wishes. She turned sharply to discover several suspicious shadows lurking just inside the gates. The girls had known who waited for her, yet none of them had warned her.
Regaining her composure, she turned back to him. “Perhaps I am in error, Mr. Gibson. I expected someone else, you see, and when the girl told me that a gentleman had arrived for me, naturally I assumed…”
“Ye expected another gentleman?” Thomas questioned. “What gentleman?”
Aisleen squared her shoulders. “I do not see where that should concern you.”
“Then ye’ve a thing or two to learn about me, Miss Fitzgerald, for anyone who has to do with me intended, particularly when he wears trousers, is me business.”
“Really! This is too much!” She glanced up the street in hopes of spying a red uniform coming their way. “I am waiting for someone else.”
Thomas nodded his head and hung a hand over the edge of the carriage door. “I’m nae always a patient man, but I will wait until ye’ve said yer regrets.”
Aisleen stared at him as if he had suddenly grown a second head. Of course, he had not. In fact, the one he had was quite as attractive as she first remembered it. Far from mollifying her, the fact fed her annoyance. He knew he was a handsome devil. In her experience, men thought themselves handsome when even a hog would show to favor against them. Charm and regular features could not tempt her to be civil to him. “Mr. Gibson, if you do not remove yourself from my presence immediately, I will call for assistance!”
“Ye’re angry because I did not return sooner,” Thomas mused aloud “As a man who hates to wait himself, I can understand yer peevishness. But I’m here now, and here I will remain until we’ve tied the knot proper. Is that to yer liking?”
“Mr. Gibson,” she began in a withering tone, “you are laboring under a misapprehension. Through a method of reasoning I find quite incomprehensible and irrelevant, you have decided to court me and believe that I have given you the leave to do so.”
“Ye’ve a grand way with words, Miss Fitzgerald, which I do admire,” Thomas said pleasantly.
His smile was the most charming Aisleen had ever witnessed, and it made her furious. “Sir, I did not, do not, and never intend to be courted by you. Do you understand?”
“Me name’s Thomas,” he answered with irritating good humor. “There’s no need to simper and humble yerself to make me like ye better. I like ye well enough to post the banns these last weeks at Saint Mary’s.”
“You—? Oh, my!” She spun away from him, as if once he were out of her sight he would cease to exist, and walked briskly toward the gates. When Major Scott came, he would announce himself.
“What am I to tell the priest?”
Aisleen disliked herself for slowing her step, but she could not resist questioning his statement. “What priest?”
“Father Jacob, of course,” came the reply from behind her. “He’s to marry us, ye see, come Monday.”
Aisleen turned back slowly, her thoughts as intense as the sunlight slanted down on her. People were listening, the barracks girls and the coachman. Anything she said would be fodder for gossip for weeks to come. “This has gone quite far enough. You cannot expect me to believe that you’ve duped a priest into taking part in this—this detestable jest!”
Thomas swung the carriage door open. “Come and ask him for yerself.”
“I’m not mad enough to go anywhere with you!” Aisleen raised a gloved hand and pressed it tightly to her forehead. Her head throbbed to near bursting; perspiration dribbled down her temples and snaked down her neck into her high, tight collar. All the while, he stood before her grinning like a boy who had won a prize. It was unseemly, it was vile, it was….
Thomas realized just in time that she had begun to sway. He reached her quickly and caught her by the elbow. “Steady, Miss Fitzgerald,” he said bracingly. “The midday sun is hard on those not accustomed to it.”
“Of course,” Aisleen whispered, clos
ing her eyes against the giddy rush threatening her.
“Perhaps ye’d like to sit a moment?” he encouraged, drawing her toward the carriage. “That’s it, lass. We’ll be finding a shady spot to have a dish of tea.”
Aisleen heard in his voice a comfortable, vaguely familiar anchor for her dazed senses. Tea, yes, tea sounded delightful. But should she go? There was someone else who had offered her tea. “I must be sensible,” she said to no one in particular as he handed her up into the carriage.
“Aye, ye’d be that, sensible,” Thomas said. “Windmill and Fort streets!” he called to the driver and then climbed in beside her and shut the door.
To Aisleen’s amazement, he sat down beside her on the narrow seat rather than on the opposite bench. She twitched her skirts aside to make more room for him, but she could not keep her elbow from brushing his. The casual contact startled her, but he did not seem to notice.
Closing her eyes, she leaned back against the seat and willed her heart to slow. Heatstroke, that was what she suffered. In a moment, she told herself, her heart would find its regular rhythm and her head would clear and then she would demand that he return her to the barracks. But not just yet. The infernal heat of New South Wales combined with her own agitation was making her heart palpitate and her head feel as though it were caught in an ever-tightening vise.
Thomas watched her intently, wondering what he should do. Had she been in the bush, he would have removed the ugly bonnet she wore and loosened her collar. Yet here on the streets of Sydney, he was not at all certain that she would understand. So, against his better judgment, he did nothing, simply watched the slowing rise and fall of her bosom as she drifted into slumber. After a moment, he smiled and gathered her against his shoulder.
When the carriage rocked to a halt, Aisleen opened her eyes, not quite certain where she was or how long she had been there.
“Ye dozed,” Thomas said in answer to her puzzled expression.
She became aware of several things at once. She was slouched down in the carriage seat, her head resting scandalously upon a strange man’s shoulder, and his arm supported her. She bolted upright on the seat, conscious that he smiled at her in that vile, charming manner he had. “Where are we?” she demanded tartly.
“Lord Nelson’s,” Thomas answered. “Never been inside meself, but there’s certain to be a place to order tea.”
Aisleen doubted the propriety of the venture, even more so when he had handed her down into the street. “Why, this is a hotel!”
“So it is,” Thomas agreed. “A fine one, too. Tea, Miss Fitzgerald?” He offered her an arm which she reluctantly took.
Once inside, she permitted herself to be mollified by the decorous surroundings. The foyer of the small building was neatly appointed; the tavern room into which her host steered her was neat and quiet and occupied by several other couples. It was all quite proper and quite harmless.
“Tea,” Thomas ordered when they had seated themselves in a corner. “Seen much of Sydney, have ye?” he questioned politely when the order was taken.
“No, I have not,” Aisleen answered faintly, for he had turned toward her and his proximity made her feel more flushed than the heat. She reached for her fan and flicked it open, plying it between the scant space that separated them.
“Aye, well, then, we’ll have to give ye a look round before we leave.”
“Before we leave?” Aisleen pinned him with a cold look. “I have no intention of leaving Sydney.”
Thomas gazed at her flushed face, wondering how to talk her out of that ugly bonnet. “Ye’ve no liking for the country, then?”
“Quite the contrary.” Aisleen answered too quickly and felt her cheeks burn as he lifted a single black brow. “I came to New South Wales for the express purpose of employment. I am a teacher, sir. It is what I do, the thing at which I excel.”
“Are ye now?” Thomas answered and fell silent as the waitress approached. He was not adept at small talk. When cups were set before them and the tea poured, he lapsed into an uncomfortable silence.
Several minutes passed, but Aisleen did not touch her cup. Finally the suspense became too much. “What exactly, Mr. Gibson, do you want from me?”
“Why, to make ye me bride, Miss Fitzgerald.”
Aisleen gave her head a slight shake. “You must understand that I find your singular interest in me quite unreasonable.”
“How’s that?”
“I am scarcely the sort of woman to be pursued. I am not the marrying type, Mr. Gibson. I am a spinster who has had to make her way in the world as best she can. Never once have I entertained the hope of marriage When you came to the barracks on the first occasion, I assumed that you sought a teacher or governess for your children.”
“I offered ye better than that.”
“Mr. Gibson, I am not at all convinced that marriage to you or any man is preferable to an offer of regular employment.”
Thomas regarded her in silence. When he spoke, there was no smile on his face. “Ye refuse me proposal of marriage, yet ye would have considered an offer of employment from me? Do I have the right of it, Miss Fitzgerald?”
At her nod, his mouth softened. “Well then, here’s me new offer to ye. I’m weary of living me life alone. I want a family to come home to, a house that’s felt a woman’s touch, and meals to share with someone other than sheep and jackeroos. I want music and laughter and gentleness. In return I’m offering ye protection, a good home, more than enough to see to yer needs, and me name.”
“That is a proposal of marriage,” Aisleen maintained.
“I had nae finished,” Thomas replied. “I see that ye’ve need of proof of me intentions. I will pay ye a salary. Ten pounds a month for keeping me home and hearth. Will that be sounding fair to ye?”
“Well, I—”
“There’ll be bonuses for attending shivoos and weddings and such. And a hundred pounds sterling at the birth of each of me children.”
“You’re mad!” Aisleen whispered low. “Quite and thoroughly mad!”
“Mad, am I, when ye said yerself ye’d work for me?”
“Employment is not the same thing as being a paid wife,” Aisleen replied. “Why it’s nothing short of—of whoring.” The last was scarcely audible.
“I’d not pay a whore so much,” Thomas answered calmly “As to that, ye may name yer price”
Aisleen stood up. “I’ve never been so insulted in my life!”
“Insult!” Thomas roared, irritated out of his good humor as he came to his feet. “Insulted? Because I’ve asked ye to marry me and have me children? If that’s an insult to a lady like yerself, ’tis no wonder ye’re not wed!”
The ringing words brought every face in the tavern swiveling toward them. Aisleen sank into her chair, too ashamed of her own lack of control to reprimand her companion. Likewise Thomas sat, but after a wink at their audience.
When she thought she could control her voice, Aisleen raised her eyes to Thomas. “It’s not marriage you offer me but a position as a wife for hire.”
“I thought that’s what ye wanted,” Thomas answered. “I’d wed ye and no difference to be made; but ye would regard it as a business proposition, and I respect that.”
“I—I—” Aisleen sighed. What did she want? Was she really ready to scrub floors or be a barmaid in a pub before considering marriage? “If I were in your employ I would be free to leave my post at any time. Marriage is different.”
“Would ye prefer a trial period? We could say we were wed with none but ourselves to know. If ye did nae like it, ye’d be free to leave at any time.”
“And you’d be free to desert me!” Aisleen answered bitterly, remembering her father and his whoring days before his death. “I’ll not be your whore.”
“Then you’ll be me bride,” Thomas answered simply.
“We would be married in a church?” she asked faintly, scarcely believing that she was beginning to consider his proposal.
“Aye,” T
homas said, holding back on his inclination to smile.
Aisleen looked at him, at his too-blue eyes and remarkably handsome face. Was it possible that she could wed such a man? Was it not insanity even to consider it? She looked away. She disliked and distrusted the motives of all men. Why should Thomas Gibson be any different?
Say yes!
Aisleen glanced over her shoulder. “Who said that?”
“Said what?”
Aisleen shook her head. She had heard the Gaelic words distinctly, yet no one was there. “Nothing.” She wet her lips and looked down at her hands clasped tightly in her lap. “I will wed you, Mr. Gibson, on the condition that you treat me as an employee—with respect and a regular salary.”
It was a mad scheme but one that would pay her passage back to Ireland within a few months. “Ten pounds is a generous sum for a governess, but as this is an unusual arrangement, I accept it. Ten pounds to be paid into my hands at the beginning of each month.”
She looked up into his face to be struck again by his pleasantness and took a deep breath, feeling as though she were stepping off a high cliff. “In return, I will keep your home, act as your wife. However, I will not accept brutality at your hands nor suffer shame. If you subject me to either, I shall feel myself free to dissolve the bond between us.” She paused “Do we understand one another?”
“Oh, aye, Miss Fitzgerald. That we do.”
The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.
—The Secret Rose
W. B. Yeats
Chapter Seven
Aisleen slipped the final button of her lace-bodiced gown into place. Her fingers unconsciously tightened at her throat as she gazed at her reflection. She was as pale as the white lace she wore, her nostrils pinched and her mouth drawn. Her eyes, always clear and serious, were on this morning dull and puffy from lack of sleep. Only her bright red hair tumbled colorfully about her shoulders in riotous waves.
“Altogether, I look like a banshee braving the light of day,” she murmured. She could not imagine a picture that was less bridelike. She felt no elation, no eagerness. How could she? She was about to marry a man about whom she knew nothing.