by Bonnie Leon
David rested a hand on Lydia’s arm. “Luv, I’m sure if he wanted us to know, he’d have said.”
Lydia glanced at David’s hand. “I simply thought we might be of help.”
John needed to say something. He looked at Hannah, hoping for encouragement, but she stared at clasped hands in her lap. He looked back to Lydia. “As far as I’m concerned, Margaret is dead. I don’t intend to give her the time of day. We shan’t see each other again, I’m certain of that.”
“A decree of divorce should be forthcoming then, eh?” Lydia pressed.
“Not easy to do.” Perry leaned his elbows on the table. “I knew a bloke once who tried to divorce his wife; he had good cause, but he never managed to get one. He lived the rest of his life with the wench on one side and her father on the other, musket ready.” He chuckled.
Gwen jabbed him in the side with her elbow.
“What? What did I say? It’s the truth.” His smirk disappeared. “I’ve never known one person who managed to free themselves, not unless their spouse went off with someone else.”
“I doubt anyone would want a woman like her,” David said. “If it were the right bloke, he’d take her,” said Lydia. “What ’bout that newly widowed constable? He might be looking for a wife. She is comely. Perhaps we ought to inquire.”
John felt a flicker of hope. “Do you think it possible to divorce if she has another suitor?”
Lydia shrugged. “Maybe. I’m wondering if she came because there’s a need for wives in New South Wales. There are a lot of men without women.” Lydia rested her chin in one hand.
“Not likely,” Perry said. “She wouldn’t have any trouble finding a husband in London, treacherous or not.”
John studied a brilliantly colored butterfly fluttering against the window. It tried again and again to get inside, its delicate wings trembling. “I’ve just cause for divorce—after what she and Henry did.”
“I should say you do.” Lydia’s tone was heated. “That woman was more than unfaithful, she—”
John held up a hand to shush her. “Enough.” He didn’t want to hear more. And he could see all this talk was upsetting Hannah. She’d turned ashen. He took her hand and squeezed it gently. “I shall apply for a divorce.”
“As Perry said, it’s not so easily done.” Hannah’s voice quaked.
“That may be so, but I’m determined. It shall be accomplished whether she has another suitor or not.” The fear and hurt in Hannah’s voice pierced John’s heart. This wasn’t fair to her. His rancor intensified. It was so like Margaret to do what pleased her with no thought to anyone else.
“Not to worry, luv. I’ll see to Margaret. She’ll not have her way.” He lifted Hannah’s hand and kissed the back of her fingers. “Trust me.”
Hannah nodded, but she barely looked at him.
A cranky-looking woman, wearing an apron blemished with spatterings of the morning’s fare, set platters of eggs, toast, and hot porridge on the table. She returned a moment later with a stack of plates and a handful of utensils. “I’ll be back with tea and coffee, if ye like.”
“We do.” Lydia picked up a plate, dished a helping of eggs onto it and a slice of toast, and set it in front of David. Gwen did the same for Perry, then scooped out a bit of hot cereal for herself.
John picked up a plate. “What would you like, luv?”
“Nothing. I’m not hungry.”
John studied her a moment. “The eggs look fresh.”
“No. Tea is all I want.”
“All right, then.” John served himself eggs and toast.
The woman returned with tea and coffee, placing them on the table. “Anything more I can get ye?”
“I think we’re fine,” David said.
With a nod, she moved away.
Hannah lifted the kettle and poured herself a cup of tea and then stirred in a bit of sugar.
“It will be a long trip home.” John leaned closer to Hannah. “You’d best have something to eat.”
“I said . . . I’m not hungry.” Hannah’s tone was sharp.
“Just meant to help.”
Hannah flashed him a heated look. “There’s nothing you can do to help.”
John’s natural response would be to defend himself. Instead he returned to his breakfast and his thoughts. There must be a solution. He took a bite of egg. It was tasteless. He poured himself a cup of coffee and took a drink of the dark brew. He looked into the cup. Bitter, like my life.
Conversation came in fits and starts and finally died altogether. When the meal was nearly completed, the woman who had served them returned. “Is one of ye John Bradshaw?”
John set down his fork and wiped his mouth with his napkin. “That would be me.” She handed him a small envelope and walked away.
He looked at it, turning it over and over in his hands. He knew it was from Margaret. He glanced at the others.
Lydia set her spoon aside. “Well, are ye going to read it?”
John slipped an index finger beneath a wax seal, opened the envelope, and lifted out a note. He didn’t want to read it. Margaret couldn’t possibly have anything to say that he wanted to hear. Still, his eyes dropped to the note. He immediately recognized the florid script.
My dearest John. I am at a loss to explain my feelings, but I will do my best. I am delighted to have finally found you, and yet my heart is breaking over your austere reception. I have dreamed of our reunion and what it would be like. Your rebuff confuses me. I can only guess at your reasons.
It seems we have much to talk about, especially upon learning that you’ve remarried. I understand why you would take a wife when believing me to be dead. However, I must point out that your present marriage is invalid since you are still married to me.
John felt the hard thrum of his heart. It was true—Hannah was not his legal wife.
Please come to me at the boardinghouse so we can talk. I will do my best to explain all that has happened since your arrest. You must believe it was never my intention that you be imprisoned and sent to this godforsaken country. I love you. I always have. Yours sincerely . . . Margaret.
John reread the note. Was it possible he had misunderstood the circumstances of her disappearance? He tucked the letter back into the envelope, then looked at his companions and at Hannah. “It’s from Margaret. She wants to speak to me. This is all quite a mess. I must go.”
If it were possible, Hannah’s skin became even more ashen. Her chin trembled and she fought tears. John took her hand. “We must sort this out so we can go on with our lives. Try not to worry, luv. Everything will be fine. I promise.”
“Of course it will be.” Lydia smiled encouragement. “The Lord wouldn’t bring ye together to allow something like this to separate ye, especially after all ye’ve been through. Ye’ll stand against this, like all the other troubles ye’ve faced before. And the Lord’s not forgotten Thomas. He’s in the midst of this too.”
“Lydia’s right,” David said. “I’m sure you’ll find a solution.” His tone belied the words.
Hannah stood. “I’m going to our room. I’ll wait there.” Her brown eyes sought out John’s and held them for a moment before she turned and walked away.
“Poor Hannah,” Gwen said. “I can’t imagine.” She looked at John. “I’m sorry.
Perry laid his fork on his plate. “Ye’ll find a way to solve this, I’ve no doubt.”
John stood. “Of course, you’re right. Though this is shocking and seems a mess, I’m confident it’s not out of God’s control. Just as you’ve said, he’ll sort it out. I’ll speak to Margaret and then to the governor. I’m sure he’ll understand I have good reason to divorce her.”
John wished he felt as confident as his words sounded. If while living in London Margaret truly hadn’t meant him any harm, then speaking to the governor would do him little good.
Shoulders back, spine straight, John left the café. Inside he quailed. What could he say to a woman he’d hated for years and had believ
ed dead? He imagined telling her what he thought about what she’d done, and he could feel the pleasure of retribution.
Unaware of his steps, he kept moving. A wagon rolled past and a dog barked, but they seemed part of another world. Everything around him seemed blurred. There were people, horses, drays loaded with supplies, but they moved by like vague shadows. A woman twirling a parasol sauntered past and smiled. John barely noticed. His mind was with Margaret. What would she say? No matter what it was, he didn’t want to hear. If giving all his worldly possessions could keep him from this meeting, he’d have offered them gladly.
He stopped in front of the boardinghouse. Its white walls shouted at him, the spotless windows winked malevolence. He stared at the door. When it opened suddenly and a man stepped out, John’s pulse picked up. The man brushed past with barely a glance.
He forced his hand to reach for the knob, grabbed and turned. Opening the door, he stepped onto a carpeted entryway and pulled the door closed behind him.
A doorway to his right led to a parlor, where Margaret sat on a divan sipping tea. She didn’t see him, seemingly entranced by a book she was reading.
She wore a gown made of lavender linen with long sleeves and a rather revealing neckline. John felt familiarity. She was more handsome than when he’d last seen her. She wore her auburn hair caught back, allowing thick tresses to cascade onto her shoulders and down her back. It shimmered in the sunlight. Her dark eyes were lined by heavy lashes, and when she lifted the cup to her mouth, her full lips seemed to caress the rim.
John was captivated and for a brief moment transported back to their first meeting. He’d been instantly smitten and thrilled when she seemed interested in him. Their courtship had been heated and brief. They were married soon after that first encounter.
John tugged at his waistcoat and stepped into the room. Margaret looked up. Was it adoration he saw in her dark eyes? He dare not think on it. “Margaret, you wished to speak to me?”
“Yes. I’m grateful you’ve come. I was afraid you might not.”
“It seems I have no choice.” John kept his tone impersonal. “We’re still married, and that means we’ve matters to discuss.”
Margaret looked wounded. “I should think so.”
Removing his hat, John crossed to a cushioned chair and sat. Sliding the brim through his fingers, he held his angry thoughts inside and waited for her to speak. After all, she’d summoned him.
Margaret set her book aside. She offered John a loving gaze. “It’s wonderful to look at you. There were times I feared I’d never see you again.”
Her voice was soft as rose petals, and John felt a stirring in his heart, remembering how he’d once loved her. He’d always been enraptured by her voice.
“It seems we’ve a bit of a problem. You’ve taken a wife, yet you’re still married to me.”
“We’ve no problem.” John fought to keep his voice resolute. “We’ll divorce.”
Shock tightened Margaret’s features. “Divorce? How can you suggest such a thing? After all I’ve done to find you? I’ve come so far. I thought you loved me.” Her hands trembled and she set her saucer and cup on the table beside her. “Have you no feelings for me at all?”
“I did . . . once. But that was a long time ago.”
“What cause have you to divorce me?”
“Cause? You ask me for a cause?” John was taken aback. “After what you did?”
“What I did?” Margaret tugged a handkerchief out from beneath the cuff of her sleeve and dabbed at tears.
“You act so innocent.” He could barely hold back a sneer. “I was in prison because I defended Henry in a fight at the pub. And then you and he went off together and took my fortune with you.” He set his jaw and glared at her, enjoying the sense of reprisal.
Margaret looked bewildered. “That’s not how it was at all. I can’t believe you’d entertain such an idea.”
“Henry told me how it happened. You weren’t innocent.”
“I am innocent of this. You know how I loved you . . . there has never been anyone else. Henry forced me to go with him. He held me captive, and . . . I had no choice or lose my life.” She gazed at her hands, seeming to relive some sort of horror. “While holding me prisoner, he told me of his scheme and how he’d taken the business and its assets. I anguished for you, John. Please believe me.”
John was not convinced. “A neighbor saw you leave together. He made no mention of your being in distress—quite the contrary.”
“That’s how Henry wanted it to look. He held a pistol to my side every moment we were traveling. And then . . . he . . .” She twisted the handkerchief. “He ravaged me.” A sob escaped and she buried her face in the handkerchief.
John didn’t know how to respond. All this could be a ruse, but for what purpose?
“I became ill and Henry left me. By the time I made my way back to London, you’d already been transported.”
“If you were so distraught about my going, why did it take you so long to find me? It’s been three years.”
“How is a woman alone to undertake such a journey? I had no means. When I returned to our home, it had been sold and there was not a farthing left in the bank. Henry took everything.”
John stared at her, hoping to discern the truth. How could he trust her?
“Please, John, you must believe me.” Margaret moved from the settee, dropping to her knees in front of him. “All this time, I’ve thought only of you and the life we could have. I’ve prayed I’d find you. And now I have.”
John didn’t know what to believe.
“Why would I come all this way, if not for love?”
He could think of no reason. Even with the additional property he’d purchased, he had only a fledgling farm and very little cash. He gazed into her dark eyes, trying to read what was there. He was stunned by what he saw—devotion. “Why not a letter, then?” he asked.
“I did write. If you didn’t receive word from me, it is the post that is to blame.”
John knew gaolers cared little about the prisoners or the mail. What if he’d been wrong all this time? He pushed out of the chair and offered Margaret a hand up. The two stood almost toe to toe.
Remembering Hannah, John turned abruptly and walked to the window. Looking out on the street, his eyes moved to the hotel. Hannah was there . . . waiting for him. If Margaret were speaking the truth, what would that mean for him and Hannah? Pain swelled in his chest like a cruel fist squeezing his heart.
He turned and looked at Margaret. “I’ll think on what you’ve said.” John couldn’t allow her to see his emotions. He moved toward the door. “We’ll speak again.”
“John, please. What shall I do?”
He didn’t want to hear her velvet voice plead. He wanted to hate her. “I’ll think on it. That’s all I can do. I promise nothing.” He walked out of the room, knowing that under these circumstances a divorce would never be granted.
3
Hannah stood at the window of her hotel room and watched the street below. Two women, both with children in tow, greeted one another, chatted for a few moments, and then went on their way. A shopkeeper swept the sidewalk in front of his store, then stopped to study a wagon roll past, which raised more dust that would need to be cleaned away. Two dogs barked at him from the back of the wagon, which seemed to be overflowing with children. How odd that the world went on as it always had while her life had been turned upside down.
John had been gone a long while. She couldn’t imagine what he and Margaret could be talking about all this time, or perhaps she was afraid to imagine. Finally, she moved to the mirror. She looked dreadful, her eyes puffy and red-rimmed. Removing the pins from her hair, she allowed the dark tresses to fall to her shoulders, then pulled a brush through the fine strands. John often caressed her hair, saying it was soft as silk.
What could be taking so long?
After pinning her hair back in place, she splashed her face with cool water and returned to her
position at the window. She caught her breath when she saw John cross the street. He walked with purpose, his fists clenched and his brow furrowed. Clearly, he was distressed. Hannah suddenly felt sick.
She watched until he disappeared beneath the hotel eaves, then turned and faced the door. He’d be there any moment. Noticing a wrinkle on the bedspread, she moved to smooth it, then quickly returned to her place at the window. What would he say? What had Margaret told him?
Muffled footfalls moved down the hallway toward her room. It must be him. Just outside the room the paces stopped. The door didn’t open. He’s just standing there. Hannah knew that whatever had taken place must be bad. She held her breath.
When the knob finally turned, Hannah hugged herself about the waist. What if he still loves Margaret? What shall I do? I can’t bear it. She shushed her runaway thoughts, reminding herself of John’s devotion to her. How many times had he assured her of his love—more than she could count. And hadn’t he always said he would love her forever? She clung to the tender memories.
The door opened and John stepped into the room. At first he didn’t look at her, but when his hazel eyes settled on her face, she saw his anguish. She sucked in a breath and pressed a hand to her stomach.
He closed the door. Silence hung between husband and wife.
Hannah couldn’t bear to hear, but she must know and finally asked, “What’s happened?” Wishing she could take back the question, she turned to the window and stared at the street and its people who happily went about their daily errands. “No. Don’t tell me.” She wanted to be one of those people—the one’s whose lives weren’t ruined. If only she and John could go on with theirs, as if nothing had happened.
“Hannah, we must talk.” John’s voice sounded tight, as if he were being strangled. He moved to her, but she didn’t turn to face him. Resting his hands on her upper arms, he pulled her close.
Hannah didn’t respond. She couldn’t.