by Laura Parker
“But if you are not married—”
Sarah smiled serenely. “I had every legal and moral entanglement with Sedgewick, and it did not keep him from breaking his vows to me, the church, and the state. Laws do not hold a heart that does not wish to be held. Love only can make the abidance pleasant.”
“Love can change.”
“Love does not change. Trust, Mrs. Gibson, is that not what you vowed in your love of Tom?” Sarah’s cream complexion pinkened. “Oh, I do so enjoy plain speaking! I don’t mind telling you that I’ve gazed fondly on your Tom in more ways than is proper, being that I’m pledged to Matt. Not that he would have had me. He always said he’d know the one for him the instant he laid eyes on her.”
Aisleen frowned. “Why should he say that?”
Sarah leaned forward over her considerable middle and beckoned Aisleen with a crooked finger. “I don’t believe such things myself, being a proper Anglican, but Tom once said he was in league with pixies or some such Irish fancy.”
“Did he?” Aisleen murmured softly, remembering Tom’s reference to that very thing himself. “An Irishman with half Thomas’s gift for blarney might claim as much. It’s a common boast.”
Sarah eyed Aisleen with a knowing look. “All the same, I’d say Thomas has had his share of luck, considering his beginning in the colony.”
“What beginning would that be?”
Sarah’s expression went blank. “Has he not spoken to you of it?”
“No.”
“Oh, dear.” Sarah lowered her eyes and began fanning herself. “I did not think, did not think at all. What a silly goose I am!”
She looked up, blushing as a naughty child might, and Aisleen wondered how this seemingly naive woman could be the adulteress, child deserter, and mistress she proclaimed herself to be. “Tom will tell you about himself when he is ready. You won’t tell him that I mentioned it? Promise?”
“Of course not,” Aisleen answered because it was the only thing to do. She turned and quickly picked up her bundle. “I bought cloth with which to make a new gown. If I hurry, I can have it cut out before the men return.”
Sarah nodded, wishing that she had held her tongue. When Aisleen had gone into the next room, she glanced at her empty cup and then rose awkwardly to her feet. So Tom did not want his bride to know about his past. If he found out that she had nearly given away his secret, she would need more than a finger of gin to brave the storm.
*
“I like them very much,” Aisleen answered. “It is not a matter of liking them. Sarah is diverting company, and Matt seems a man of good character. It is only that I think we are imposing upon their hospitality.”
Thomas rolled from his back to his side to see his wife’s face better in the moonlight. “Where would you have us go, lass? Jack’s due in tomorrow or the next day. After that mob’s sold to slaughter, we’ll be heading home.”
“What if Jack is late or the sale takes longer than you expect?” she answered.
“What is a few days?” Thomas reached out to roll her onto her side to face him. “Can ye think more kindly of the cook wagon than ye do the bed underneath us?” His hand curved down over her buttocks to pull her tight against his aroused loins. “Would ye be allowing me this with Jack and the others about to hear our every move?”
Aisleen blushed under the cover of darkness as he bent to kiss the side of her neck. “You know I would not. But still, could we not find a hotel? Our presence gives Sarah extra mouths to feed as well as extra work.”
“Mmm,” he murmured against her ear. “Matt tells me that ye’ll not be allowing Sarah to lift a finger when ye’re about, that even the maid is complaining that ye’re there behind her half the time. The house has never looked better. Why should Sarah be wishing ye to leave when ye work so diligently, and for nothing besides?”
Aisleen caught her breath as his tongue snaked into the hollow of her ear. “Thomas! You’re being inconsiderate because you’re too well pleased to have a bed to share with me to think of the consequences.”
“Oh, but I know the consequences, lass,” he whispered huskily as he thrust his hips provocatively against hers. “’Tis why I’m nae anxious to be gone from here. A few more days, ye salve your conscience for a few more days, cannae ye?”
Before she could answer, his mouth found hers, and it was a long time before Aisleen was free to think of anything more than the joy of his lovemaking and her own eager response.
“Can we leave in the morning?” Aisleen prompted when Thomas’s dark head once again lay quietly upon her left breast.
“If Jack comes in,” he muttered sleepily.
“Even if he doesn’t I would prefer to find another residence.”
Thomas lifted his head, peering into her night-shadowed face. “What’s the matter, lass?”
Aisleen wet her lips. “Do you know that Sarah and Matt are not legally wed?”
He tried in vain to see her expression. “Who told ye that?”
“Sarah.”
“And ye were that shocked with the hearing of it,” he answered flatly. “Lord love us! Yer prudish ways are certain to be sorely abused while ye remain in the bush. Lass, ye’ll not be living among the gentry and the genteel any longer. I’ve told ye before, there are different ways of thinking out in the bush. Ye’ll come to see the right of it after a time.”
“I don’t know that I’ll ever see the right of it—as you put it—if that includes sharing my home with criminals.”
Thomas stilled. “Sarah told ye about that, too, did she?”
Aisleen sighed. “I know it makes me seem intolerant and self-righteous, but I cannot avoid the truth. As nice a man as Matthew Mahoney seems, I am not comfortable sharing my life with those of the criminal class.”
“What if I were to tell you I, too, was once a criminal?”
Aisleen smiled. “Do not be silly! Of course you were not, and so there’s no need to speak of it.”
“How can ye be so very certain?” he questioned quietly.
“Well, you would have told me, wouldn’t you? You have been nothing if not frank and honest in your dealings with me. I find I cannot fault you on any account. So you see, I trust you would not have kept so obvious an objection from me.”
“How quickly ye’ve changed,” he remarked absently. “Not a week past, I would not have been able to say with any clear dependability that ye found anything about me worthy of yer praise.”
“So you will agree that we must leave?” she pressed.
Thomas lowered his head back to her breast. “I can’t rightly think where we might go, so, for the present, we will remain. There’s a shivoo tomorrow evening. We’ve been invited.”
“A party,” Aisleen murmured, thinking of the gown she had begun. With passing regret, she thought of the lace and lavender silk taffeta gown her mother had made for her. It was still in the cook wagon along with most of the rest of her belongings. She would need to make her needle fly to finish a new gown from the material she had purchased earlier in the day.
Thomas turned his head away. His greatest fear had come to pass. Aisleen abhorred the thought of sharing the company of convicts, even one who demonstrated by his industry that he was a useful member of society. She had not asked what Matt’s crime had been, had not voiced one word of sympathy for Sarah and her situation. Could she not see how much in love they were? No, she found their love shameful and tawdry because it was not sanctified by ceremony. What would happen when she learned the truth about his past? There was nothing she could do. They were wedded and bedded and…
He reached out a hand to span Aisleen’s flat stomach. Perhaps a child would soften her feelings. She liked bairns. She had expressed great interest in Sarah’s pregnancy. Aye, a bairn would soften the blow, if and when it came. Until he was certain that she was breeding, he would say nothing to her about himself.
His hand moved farther until the slight pebble-textured mark on her hip was under his fingers. He traced the
shape of a perfect rosebud with his forefinger and smiled. His thorny rose-haired wife. Until she accepted herself, he could not tell her about himself. He wanted her love, completely and freely given.
* * *
The clearing was filled with dozens of men, women, and children. Laughter rippled across the night, rising and falling in counterpoint to the ebb and surge of voices. Punctuating the din were the barks of dogs. The aromas of roasting mutton, burning wood, and tobacco smoke misted the night air. Across the yard stood a huge open-ended barn, its interior lit by whale-oil lamps and candles. From the shed came the shrill whine of a bagpipe, the whistle of tin flutes, and the tattoo of a bodhran accompanying the lively sawing of an expert fiddler.
Aisleen smiled. The lilting, toe-tapping melody of the Irish jig was familiar. It had been many years since she had heard it, and the tune brought her a rush of pleasure.
Thomas jumped down from the Mahoneys’ trap and reached for her. “Come along, lass. Ye once promised me a dance. Tonight I will collect.”
“Oh, how I envy you,” Sarah said as Aisleen stepped down. “I’m afraid I must content myself with sitting on the sidelines.”
Aisleen smiled stiffly and said nothing.
Thomas stared at her in annoyance. She could not bring herself to be more than civil to the people who had housed her. With a prod of his hand, he forced her to start across the yard. “’Tis me hope that ye’ll nae find everything tonight to be beneath yer interest,” he said when they were out of earshot of their companions.
“I can’t think what you mean,” Aisleen replied, but she did know. She was behaving churlishly, but she could not help herself. Everything she had been taught rebelled against the scandalous behavior of their hosts. Why could Thomas not understand her reluctance to align herself with people who openly flouted the conventions of decency and propriety?
As they stepped up onto the hardwood floor of the shearing shed, he caught her elbow in a hard grip “There may be a fair number here tonight of whom ye will nae be approving. If so, I’ll thank ye to keep the knowledge of it to yerself. These are me friends and I’ll nae have them insulted, even by me wife!”
The harsh words were spoken barely above a whisper, but Aisleen trembled. He was very angry, angrier than she had realized.
“G’evening, Mrs. Fahey,” Thomas greeted as he paused before a middle-aged woman who wore a violet silk gown over her ample figure. “May I introduce to ye me bride?”
“That you may,” the woman answered in a cultured voice. The effect was spoiled as she suddenly barked in amazement, “Bride, did you say, Tom?”
Aisleen met the woman’s inquisitive gaze with a smile. “Good evening, Mrs. Fahey.”
“Gracious! A lady!” Mrs. Fahey’s frank surprise widened her eyes. “Do relinquish her to me, Tom. You’ve the look of a man with a thirst yet to be quenched. Come along, Mrs. Gibson. We will speak of things that would not interest a man.”
“Me very thoughts, exactly,” Thomas answered. “Of a surety, I’m thanking ye to be looking after me wife while I pay me respects in certain quarters.” Without a word to Aisleen, he sauntered off toward the group of men standing before a makeshift bar.
“Don’t worry,” Mrs. Fahey said as she snagged Aisleen by the elbow. “He’ll come back when he’s had his fill.”
The thought of a drunken husband was not a comforting one, but Mrs. Fahey would not be gainsaid, and so Aisleen found herself steered toward a row of chairs which she had not before noticed.
Mrs. Fahey settled herself and patted the chair beside her. “Do let’s become better acquainted, Mrs. Gibson. There’s so little of society readily available outside of Sydney. Who are your people, dear?”
“I am a Fitzgerald,” Aisleen answered calmly, though she was repealed by the woman’s avid gaze.
“The name is not unknown to me. I once met a Captain Fitzgerald of Cork who resided in Melbourne with his lady wife. Are you, perchance, related?”
“No,” Aisleen answered, casting an anxious glance toward the crowd. Sarah and Matt had entered the shed and stood chatting with Thomas. Reluctantly she brought her attention back to the woman beside her. Thomas had introduced them—the least she could do was make a good impression. “I am newly arrived in Sydney.”
“Then you knew Tom before? In Ireland?”
“No. Mr. Gibson and I met since my arrival in Sydney. We met through the offices of Mrs. Freeman, matron of Hyde Park Barracks. Mr. Gibson was kind enough to take an interest in me.”
“I see,” Mrs. Fahey replied in a tone which Aisleen could not mistake. “Hyde Park Barracks is, as a rule, a sanctuary for domestic servant girls, is it not? Yet you are educated,” she mused aloud, “and your manners are those of a genuine lady. But, my dear, there are so many parvenus in the colony one simply cannot be too careful, you understand.”
Aisleen glanced toward Tom once again, wondering if the woman meant her husband or the Mahoneys.
“For instance, the couple conversing with your husband is a case in point. The woman is well spoken, but her husband is the crudest sort—a Vandiemonian, that one. I’m amazed the magistrate issued a liquor license to him. Of course, though we’ve eliminated convict transportation, it’s nearly impossible to stem the flow of emancipists into the colony. I tell Mr. Fahey constantly that he should do more to hold the lines between the classes, but he will not hear of it.”
Liking the woman less and less, Aisleen noted with distaste the damp circles on the violet silk beneath Mrs. Fahey’s arms and the faint vinegary odor rising from the woman’s damp skin. “It must be very difficult for you,” she murmured absently, thinking that Tom had gotten his revenge by setting the woman upon her.
“Mr. Fahey is quite a man of some distinction here in the west,” Mrs. Fahey said proudly. “The Hill End branch of the New South Wales Bank is but one of the feathers in his cap. I don’t mind telling you that its success is no little credit to him. The diggers are a mad lot, wildly extravagant with the gold they scratch from the earth. Why, if it were not for Mr. Fahey’s persuasion, I do believe they would prefer to be swindled by the gold merchants and sly grog shopkeepers who roam the fields like vultures. A strike, large or small, means only a further opportunity for women, wine, and song. I will admit my surprise that your husband traded his modest strike for property.”
She seized Aisleen’s arm. “Have you seen his station? I’m told it is quite the most extraordinary piece of property in all the New England region of the colony!”
Aisleen held herself in check against the inclination to back away from the woman, whose features had grown alarmingly red. “Would you care for a drink, Mrs. Fahey? Perhaps a cup of tea?”
“Tea?” Mrs. Fahey flushed a deeper shade of red. “My dear child, a glass of Bengal rum would do quite nicely.”
Aisleen’s eyes widened, but she remembered her manners. “Rum. Of course. I shall fetch a glass directly.” She stood and started across the floor.
Rum. Imagine, a banker’s wife who openly consumed liquor in public! She was not surprised by Sarah’s conduct, once she learned the woman’s history, but Mrs. Fahey’s intoxicated state quite shocked her. The morals of the entire colony were reprehensible.
“Mrs. Fahey gave ye up,” Thomas said when she reached him. “I’d not have thought she’d allow ye to leave her side for some good while.”
Glad that the Mahoneys had slipped away as she approached him, Aisleen confided in a shocked whisper, “That lady is quite…quite flushed.”
“Is she now, and me thinking her a wee bit flummoxed,” Thomas answered amicably.
“You knew she was drunk, and still you allowed me to be—?” Aisleen stiffened at his chuckle. He thought it a jest. “Where may I find a cup of rum?”
He glanced at his tin cup and then offered it.
She eyed him coldly. “It is for Mrs. Fahey.”
“I was afraid ’twas so,” he replied in a regretful tone. “Ye might learn a thing or two from a sip now and ag
ain. Ah, well. Ye do nae drink but ye do dance, Mrs. Gibson?”
She could not resist the challenge in his eyes. “Yes, I do, sir.”
“Sir, is it? And how’s that sound to a husband who’s asked his bride to dance? ‘Thomas’ will do for dancing,” he said carelessly before draining his cup and tossing it aside. “When we’re home again, there’s another name or two I’ve a mind for ye to call me.”
He was smiling that charming smile that made Aisleen wish she had spurned his offer, for the music had turned toward the slower tempo of a waltz.
“Have I told ye what a charming piece of work ye made of that muslin?” he asked as his arm slid about her waist. Her right hand was caught up in his left, and then he stepped off into a turn. “Ye’re so clever with words and with yer fingers. ’Tis a wonder ye’re nae so clever when it comes to people.”
“Perhaps I’ve had less experience with people,” she rejoined. He was unexpectedly close, much closer than Monsieur Pardieu, the dancing master, had ever dared.
“Why are ye showing the folks yer quite nice face screwed up as though ye’d been asked to swallow a dose of cod-liver oil?”
She blushed as she met his gaze. “I am concentrating. I have never before waltzed with a gentleman.”
“Good! I like knowing that there’s many a thing ye’ve shared only with me, and yer body’s the most important!”
Aisleen took a backward step to separate them, but with a neat turn, he brought her back to him, holding her closer than ever. “Please!” she whispered in embarrassment. “People are watching.”
“And so they should, being that I’m dancing with the prettiest lass here,” he answered unabashedly.
His body seemed to flow into every inch of space hers provided, as though he had no sense of separateness from her. The hand on her waist rose to the small of her back, arching her closer until she had to rely on its support or lean against his chest. There was nothing to do but give herself up to the moment.