by Laura Parker
Afternoon became evening and then a short, brilliant dusk rapidly gave way to a blue-velvet night as they rode toward Parramatta.
In the beginning, Thomas had been talkative, but Aisleen would not answer his ramblings about places she had never been nor wished to see. After they left Sydney and entered a strange forest of tall, high-limbed, pale-trunked trees that flanked the road, he had lapsed into a thoughtful silence for which she was grateful.
Less gratefully, she had sat mile after mile while they paused for neither comfort nor refreshment. From the dark wall of the surrounding forest came the strange cries of unseen birds, their exotic chatter the only conversation on the lonely trail.
She glanced at him, wondering why he did not share her desire to have a drink of water, to stretch cramped muscles, or even to answer the call of nature. Though they shared a wagon seat it was too dark to see anything more of him than the sharp silhouette of his features, the pale gleam of a single eye, and the relaxed sway of his body as he held the reins between his fingers.
She could not bring herself to speak to him. With hours of silence between them, to speak would seem to require a need of some magnitude. The need to relieve herself was much too personal and humbling an excuse. She would manage.
He suddenly sat forward on the bench, and she carefully let out the breath she had not realized she held. “We’re here,” he said in a cheery voice that gave no sign of the strain between them.
Then she saw them, too—lights on the road ahead.
A few minutes later, he drew the wagon to a halt at the edge of a clearing under the starry night sky. The clearing was filled with dozens of glowing tents. Laughter rippled across the night, rising and falling in counterpoint to the steady hum of voices. The aromas of roasting mutton, burning wood, and tobacco smoke misted the night air. Aisleen’s stomach murmured in expectation. All the same, a makeshift camp was not what she expected to find at the end of a weary day’s journey. “Why are we stopping here?”
Thomas cocked a brow at her, annoyed that her first words were tinged with rebuke. “Where would ye be having us stop?”
“Sydney would have been my preference,” she answered ungratefully because her back ached and her stomach churned with hunger and he had not given a moment’s thought to her discomfort. “As I have not been consulted until now, I will merely suggest that we look for a sound roof under which to sleep.”
“Aye, we’ll have that.” He pointed at a tent which stood a little apart from the others “That’ll be our resting place for the night. A bit grand, perhaps, for our needs, but after this we’ll be doing without the trappings of civilization.”
Resentment whipcorded through Aisleen. He was being deliberately rude. “You cannot mean to suggest that we shall be without even the shelter of a tent after this night?”
“Musha, I did not suggest it, I said it.” He knotted the reins about the brake lever and climbed down from the wagon.
This time he did not offer her a hand in assistance, and so she gathered her skirts in one hand and negotiated the steep descent with as much dignity as she could.
Thomas watched her, ready to help if she needed it but too proud to face a second rebuff, for he was smarting from the punishment of her long silence. And though he might have guessed it would be so, her first words to him had been ones of discontent. He was tired and hungry. His head ached from the rare, lingering effects of rum, and his muscles were sore from the cramped quarters in which he had slept the night before. The narrow bunk at his station was even less suited for two. A bigger bed was one of the first things he would order when he returned home. Aye, a big brass bed with fancy trim and a genuine feather tick mattress.
The thought of bed lingered in his mind. Aisleen had shown him the fine edge of her anger that morning, but she could not have meant all the things she said. She was his wife. When she had had time to think things over she would welcome him back into her arms.
The distant bleating of sheep momentarily drew his attention. Some of them would be the new flock he had purchased to increase the stock on his station. He would have to speak with Jack about selling them, for his plans had changed. But first he must settle his wife.
“Come along, then, and meet the folk,” he said encouragingly.
Following the gentle prod of his hand in the small of her back, Aisleen crossed the yard, acutely aware of the road dirt which streaked her dark skirts. “You might have warned me that I would be meeting your friends.”
“Ye did nae ask,” Thomas countered in an even tone. “Ye did nae say much at all this day.”
She let the remark pass. He was right. She had deliberately kept silence as a punishment for his behavior. Now she realized that she had been much more miserable than he. He had had the knowledge of their destination to look forward to while she had sat fidgeting and stewing.
As they crossed the grassy ground, a man with a large Adam’s apple and two missing teeth stepped out of the tent they neared and paused long enough to cry, “G’evenin’, Tom!” He pulled his forelock at Aisleen, then hurried his partner, a rail-thin woman in a blue print gingham gown, past them.
Thomas took Aisleen’s elbow to steer her through the shantytown of tents. “Smile, Mrs. Gibson. They’ll nae bite ye. They’re all me friends.”
Aisleen nodded politely at the blur of passing faces, conscious that she was quickly becoming the center of attention for the people who strolled among the tents. Most of the glances were friendly, some merely interested; all were curious. Children paused to stare openly at her. They were neatly dressed, but most were barefoot.
Casting a look about, she noted that most of the women wore the simple cotton gowns of servants and the lower classes. Likewise, the men wore shirts open at the throat and cloth breeches. None of them wore a jacket and soft black tie of the kind Thomas wore. They were obviously herdsmen and laborers.
“There’s Ian,” Thomas announced. “Ian, man! Over here!”
The man called Ian came toward them with the listing gait of a sailor. “I won the ringer’s prize, Tom! Damn ye for not competing!”
“Against ye, Ian? A man’d be a fool to do so,” Thomas answered with a chuckle and offered his hand, which the other man grasped so tightly he winced. “Mind the hand. I’ll not come against ye, but even a squatter has a need for his shearing hand.”
“Aye, I hear ye’ve no need of prize money these days. Jack’s claiming half the sheep in New South Wales as yers. All the same, there’re those who remember when ye took the grand prize and set the record which stood six seasons. They’d have the others believe ye’re still the better man.”
Thomas grinned. “Musha, I am the better man!”
“Is that a fact?” Ian’s gaze ran warmly over Aisleen, “Then why are ye hiding the lass?”
Thomas turned her and urged her forward with a hand on her waist. “Lass, I’ll have ye meet Ian Rafferty. Ian, Mrs. Gibson.”
“Gibson, is it?” Ian turned a surprised stare on Thomas. “Never tell me ye’ve gotten yerself married, lad?”
At Thomas’s nod, Ian returned his widened gaze to Aisleen. “There’s little enough to be seen under that wake bonnet.” He reached out and tipped the brim back from her face with a flick of his forefinger.
“That’s better!” he continued over her gasp of indignation. “Tom, man! She’ll be a handsome one, for all she’s wearing a pinched expression. She’ll do me the honor of a kiss, I’m thinking.” He swept her up in an arm and crushed her to his chest.
Startled out of her self-possession, she cried, “How dare you! Put me down!”
Thomas intervened with a smile but a firm hand on Ian’s arm that demanded her release. “Ian, man, ye’ve frightened me lady.”
“Lady?” Ian repeated, squinting down into Aisleen’s flushed face. “Marrying ye, I’d have thought her a girl of some spirit.”
Aisleen backed out of his embrace. “You are impertinent, sir, and quite disgustingly drunk!”
“I
dearly hope so!” Ian answered fervently.
“And here I’ve not had so much as a thimbleful,” Thomas said regretfully, smoothly steering Aisleen behind him and out of Ian’s reach. “Will ye be pointing out the direction of the kegs, Ian?”
Ian frowned, trying to focus his rum-glazed eyes. “Ye’ve truly wed, Tom?”
Thomas nodded. “Aye, I have. Now if ye’ll be forgiving us, me wife has not yet met the other folk. Can’t have her sweating and stinking before she’s made the acquaintance of the others, can we? Evenin’, Ian.”
“I seldom perspire,” Aisleen said in a horrified voice as Thomas hurried her away. “And I never stink!”
“Of course ye don’t,” he agreed pleasantly, “but I say there’s no harm in Ian thinking it’s possible. He’s harmless enough except when he’s spied a woman he fancies. When he’s the whiff of a lass in his nostrils, he’s little put off by sweat or odor, come to that.”
Aisleen did not know how to answer the indelicate statement and so concentrated on righting her bonnet as he led her between the next tents.
Thomas sniffed the air. “The smell of stew has me belly rumbling. Same with you, lass?”
“What I should like is—is…” Aisleen stammered to a stop.
“The privies are yonder,” he offered with a knowing grin. “When ye’re done ye’ll be finding me with Ian.” He nodded toward the group of men who had gathered by kegs of rum stacked nearby. “I’ve yet to pay me respects to the lads.”
“You don’t intend to drink whiskey?” Aisleen asked, anxious not to face a drunken husband for a second time. But he only waved at her as he walked away, and she could do nothing but watch him with misgiving.
She turned toward the tents behind which he had said she would find the necessary facilities. As she rounded the corner the stench of feces and urine rose up to meet her, halting her in her tracks. Clamping a gloved hand over her nose and mouth, she peered into the darkness. Where was the outhouse? Without the light from the dozen campfires, she could see nothing. And then she realized that there was nothing to be seen. The “facilities” were nothing more than a gash in the ground.
Immediately her imagination conjured up vivid images of what the scene must be like in daylight, and she began backing away. No need was so pressing that she could not find a better place than this.
Weak with hunger and slightly nauseated from the swaying wagon, she hurried back toward the center of the encampment.
She did not notice the man’s approach, but suddenly she was lifted from behind, spun about, and set down. Expecting to encounter Ian’s rummy gaze, she looked up in annoyance. A broad canvas shirtfront was where she expected a face to be. Her gaze rose and rose until at last she stared up into the rough-featured face of a seven-and-a-half-foot Goliath whose bright red hair and beard blazed in the lantern light. With a deliberateness that bore no glimmer of respect, the man’s gaze moved down over her and then came back to her face, at which he stared in insolent silence.
“I beg your pardon,” she said in what she hoped was a daunting voice, “but certainly you have mistaken me for someone else. Kindly allow me to pass.”
Instead, like Ian before him, the giant tipped her bonnet back from her face as though he had every right to touch her familiarly. This time Aisleen held her temper, but her golden brown eyes reflected anger held in check. If this were an example of the frontier manners which her husband hoped that she would amend, it seemed that she had her work before her.
The man stared at her a moment longer, his craggy features as immutable as stone, and then turned without a word and walked away.
“Mercy!” she murmured. “Insufferable man!”
“Jack Egan? Nae, only a bit rough for most tastes.”
Aisleen spun about to see that Thomas had come up behind her. “Do all your acquaintances paw the women to whom you introduce them?”
Thomas shrugged. “He’s a man whose respect ye’ll nae easily win.”
“It’s an acquaintance I’ve no desire to further.” Aisleen spied the cup in his hand and guessed the contents. “You’re drinking rum.”
He glanced at his cup and then offered it. “Ye would nae care for a nip, now would ye?”
“Certainly not!”
“I thought as much,” he replied in a regretful tone.
“Drunkenness is a sin,” she said righteously.
“A sip never hurt any of God’s creatures,” he maintained. “Ye do nae drink, but I do, and that’s the way of it.”
“Does that mean that you will—?”
To her vexation, he turned away and headed after Jack Egan. Because she would not lower herself to shout after him, she was effectively silenced once more.
Two women passed her, smiling and nodding. She smoothed her face into an unreadable expression and nodded in turn, her smile a frozen monument to civility.
“Aisleen, aren’t ye coming, lass!”
She turned her head to see Thomas waving at her from a distance.
“Newlyweds,” she heard one woman say in a carrying voice
“Aye, she’s a lucky lass to be claiming Tom Gibson for a husband.”
Aisleen cringed inside as she walked toward him. She knew what the women were thinking, that he must be anxious to get her away from the prying eyes of others, to be alone to kiss and cuddle and—oh, all those things that made her squirm inside just to think of them.
“What’d be the reason for yer frowning now?” he asked as she reached him.
She stopped short. Was she frowning? If she was, the reason for it was too personal to be dealt with comfortably, and so she said derisively, “It would seem that some women believe you’re quite a catch.”
Thomas’s eyes crinkled at the corners as he reached for her hand and inclined his head to whisper in her ear, “And a fair number of lads are wishing they were in me place tonight.”
Aisleen felt her face catch fire and tried to withdraw her hand, but he held it tight.
“Ah, well, I’ve done it again—insulted ye when I meant to please ye,” he said mournfully. “Now why do ye think that’s so, lass?”
“I would prefer that you address me as Mrs. Gibson when we are in public,” she answered coolly.
“And what would ye be having me call ye when we’re in private?”
Startled and embarrassed by his question, she did not know where to look and so chose a spot above his left shoulder. But his hand moved to her chin to bring her eyes back to his. “Tell me, colleen, what does a man say to a lady like yerself that’d put a smile on her pretty face?”
Aisleen stared up at him in mute surprise. He was the one with the handsome face. Absently she wondered what other women saw when they looked at him. Did they respond to his attractive exterior in the belief that it made him a kinder, bolder, more romantic male than the men in their lives?
“Aisleen, lass, we should be friends,” he said huskily.
He was so close that she could see the lights from the campfires reflected in his eyes…and feel his warm, rum-laden breath—a sudden, sharp reminder of the night before.
She turned abruptly from him. “You smell of the brewery, Mr. Gibson. I hope that does not portend a repeat of last night’s humiliation.”
Thomas heard the demise of his hopes in her frigid voice. “I’m nae drunk, lass,” he said as he reached for her arm, but she jerked free.
“No, you’ve only consumed enough rum to drown your memory,” Aisleen retorted. “Well, I have not! I remember everything!” including the fact that he had left with Sally and been absent more than an hour, she added in her thoughts.
“Everything?” he repeated softly, but she turned away, and he did not know whether or not she had heard him.
He watched her cross the clearing to their wagon, wondering when she would realize that there was nowhere else to go. She stood a while by the wagon, her head erect and her arms folded tightly across her bosom. Let her stew, then, he thought. He had tried his damnedest to please her.
The call of nature that had momentarily receded had become too much for Aisleen to bear. She could no longer wait. In desperation, she sought the concealment of the trees that edged the clearing.
He waited, watching the place where she had disappeared, but she did not return. Frowning, he started toward the wagon. Damn! She must have gone into the bush. Trust a city lass not to have more sense than to leap into danger.
Ferns and bushes snagged the hem of her gown, but Aisleen did not stop until she had waded into the densest portion of the underbrush, where the lights from the clearing did not penetrate. Close by she heard the lap and gurgle of flowing water. When she turned toward the sound, she saw that the river was only a few feet away, its blue-black surface gleaming under the stars.
As she tried to maneuver her voluminous skirts into manageable handfuls she began to envy the colonial women who wore fewer petticoats and simpler clothing than she. At last, she reached the waistband of her drawers and pulled the drawstring to release them. They dropped to her ankles, but she could not squat without bracing her feet wider apart than the garment would allow. With a sigh of exasperation, she stepped out of them and squatted down.
She saw the intruder too late. For an instant, she thought the glow was the reflection of starlight on wet stones, but then it changed color, becoming the eerie green glow of predatory eyes only two feet from where she crouched.
Her muscles locked in spasms of fear. She had never seen a bear or a wolf or a lion; but this was a wild country, and surely the wild creatures who inhabited it must be very dangerous.
“Aisleen!”
She heard her name called in relief. “Thomas?”
“Aisleen!”
His cry accompanied the thrashing of the bush as he made his way toward her. The sudden noise startled the animal and it leaped forward, right at her.
With a scream of terror, Aisleen flung herself to one side. Arms caught in the fullness of her skirts, she fell forward onto the riverbank with a force that knocked the breath from her and slid, headfirst, into the river.
Thomas broke through the bush just as he heard a splash and, without seeing her, he knew what had happened. Shucking his coat, he paused long enough to pull off his boots before he flung himself into the inky water.