Loretta is going to kill me for this, Reeve thought with a remarkable lack of emotion. Slowly, he let his hand fall away from the charm he wore around his neck and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Quite the contrary, Miss Chamberlin; I was paying you a compliment. Few women have the spirit to play Kate credibly, but you do. The part is yours if you want it.”
She backed up to the door, her hands behind her, probably clasping the knob, her lovely eyes wide and suspicious and hopeful. “Please don’t tease me, Mr. McKenna—I’ve come a very long way only to be disappointed, and it would be most cruel of you to make matters worse.”
“If you want the role,” Reeve answered wearily, settling still deeper into the water and sighing, “Come to Number Fifteen George Street as soon as we dock in Sydney.”
The wench didn’t leave the room, but lingered, still gazing at Reeve’s face, trying, he supposed, to read it. “There is the matter of my agreement to work three years in return for my passage—”
Reeve waved one hand in dismissal, impatient for the chit to be gone. His baser instincts were coming to the fore, probably stirred by the incredible fact that this young woman had inflicted herself upon a naked man and then had the temerity to stay and argue. It seemed to him that a real lady would have fled in a proper state of shame and disgrace. “Good God, Miss Chamberlin,” he snarled, “do you never tire of prattling on and on? I’ll buy your damnable papers if I have to—just get out of here before I forget my manners and take it upon myself to find out exactly to what extent Philip Briggs has deceived you!”
Once again Maggie’s cheeks went from a soft apricot shade to a fierce scarlet. She pulled open the door at last, and fled through it, slamming it closed behind her.
Reeve scowled at the place where she had stood, wondering. Could Maggie Chamberlin possibly have escaped Briggs’s more intimate attentions? Given her brass, it didn’t seem likely. The idea made him furious, and he flung the bar of soap at the door behind her.
Avoiding Mr. McKenna for the short remainder of the voyage was easy: Maggie had only to keep to her own side of the ship and never let her eyes stray toward the first-class section. She took her meals in the women’s compartment, sitting cross-legged on her berth, and her strange mood vexed Tansy into a dither.
She paced back and forth before Maggie’s berth, her arms folded across her chest. “You went to Mr. McKenna’s cabin, Maggie Chamberlin—I know you did!” she charged in a hissing whisper. “John ’iggins saw you with ’is own eyes! What on earth could you ’ave been thinkin’ of to do such a thing? Surely you’re not like them women what got off at Thursday Island—”
Tansy’s intimation stung Maggie, and she didn’t bother to hide the fact. The women who’d left the ship at Thursday Island to be “housekeepers” to lonely men were lightskirts of the crudest sort, after all. Maggie leapt off her berth, her plate clattering forgotten to the floor, and faced Tansy nose-to-nose. “How dare you suggest that I did anything immoral in that cabin, Tansy Quinn!”
Tansy retreated a step, but there was a twinkle in her blue eyes. “I ain’t suggestin’ anything of the sort, love. It’s just that—well—after all your carryin’ on about bein’ pure for your ’usband come your weddin’ night, it looked a bit odd.”
All of Maggie’s ire escaped her and she sank to her berth like a deflated balloon. “I was desperate,” she said. “I had to know why Mr. McKenna behaved so strangely when I introduced myself to him as Philip’s intended.”
Tansy sat down beside Maggie and shyly took her hand. “What did ’e say, then?”
“Awful things,” Maggie replied, sudden tears springing to her eyes and burning there. “Oh, Tansy, he despises Philip!”
Tansy’s workworn hand patted Maggie’s smooth one and, though tempted, she refrained from saying I told you so. “Coo, but ’e’s a ’andsome one, that Mr. Reeve McKenna. Pure man from the soles of ’is feet to the crown of’is ’ead—I’ll wager ’e could make a girl carry on somethin’ fearful!”
Though she wouldn’t have admitted it on pain of death, Maggie had had the same thought ever since she’d burst into Reeve McKenna’s cabin and caught him in his bath. She remembered his broad chest and the dark swirls of wet hair that had covered it, remembered his powerful arms and the mocking light in his blue-green eyes. A strange, melting heat had spread through her on sight of him, and the curious needs left in its wake showed no signs of abating even though a full day and night had passed.
Undaunted by Maggie’s failure to answer, Tansy rushed on. “I asked John about ’im, so curious was I, and ’e said McKenna’s one of the richest men in Australia—got ’imself over from Ireland when ’e was just a wee lad and made ’is fortune right and proper.” Suddenly, the light went out of Tansy’s eyes and her smile faded. “’E ’as a mistress, though, and to ’ear John ’iggins tell it, she’s as pretty as an angel.”
Maggie couldn’t think why she wanted to cry, but she did. She wanted to fling herself facedown on her berth and pound her pillow with her fists, too, while kicking her feet and wailing. Of course, she did none of those things; she merely jutted out her chin and said, “He’s promised to buy my papers if necessary, and give me a part in The Taming of the Shrew, so what do I care if he’s got a mistress?”
Tansy’s eyes went wide and her mouth dropped open. “Buy your papers, is it? Give you a part? And what’s ’e askin’ in return for all this, missy?”
“Nothing,” Maggie said stiffly. “Nothing at all.”
Tansy clasped a thumb and forefinger to the bridge of her nose and shook her head in frustration. “Lordy, lordy, lordy, I’ll get nothin’ done for watchin’ after you, I can see that!”
Incensed, Maggie got off the berth and ferreted beneath it for her carpetbag. Once she’d found that, she made busy work of arranging and rearranging its meager contents, careful not to speak to Tansy Quinn or even to look at her.
Just after midnight the Victoria docked in Sydney Harbor.
Tired and unable to see much in the dense darkness, the one hundred-odd emigrant women left the ship by one ramp while the first-class passengers disembarked via another. Laughter and warm greetings wafted over the dark water, deepening the loneliness of those who had no one to greet them.
For this reason the band of women stayed close together as John Higgins, holding a lamp high above his head, led them into a long, shedlike building, where more lamps shone.
Maggie saw what seemed to be dried seaweed piled up against the walls in heaps and, out of the corner of one eye, a rat skittering across the bare plank floors. There was no furniture, no food, no one to offer a warm welcome.
“Looks like we’ll all be piggin’ in ’ere together!” Tansy sang out in cheerful tones.
There was a stunned silence at this, Maggie being no more vocal in the face of such a prospect than the other women.
Tansy surveyed her audience with exasperated affection. “Now, don’t be lookin’ so woebegone, all of you—there’ll be wagons come for us in the mornin’, bright and early.”
Maggie was thinking of what Mr. McKenna had told her in his cabin: that she was to come to Number 15 George Street as soon as the ship docked in Sydney. Given the late hour, the prospect was hardly appealing, but it beat “pigging in” on a bed of scratchy seaweed, with rats for company.
Always one to act on a thought in virtually the same moment it surfaced, Maggie bounded out of the shed on the landward side and along a dimly lighted wooden walkway to the place where the first-class passengers were being helped into sleek buggies and carriages.
In the light of gas-powered streetlights, Maggie searched for Reeve McKenna, having long since given up on the idea that Philip would be waiting here for her, eager to whisk her away to a place where one could have a bath and a clean bed to sleep in. Intuitively, she knew that Tansy had been right about Mr. Briggs, indeed, that Mr. McKenna had spoken the truth concerning him as well. She wondered that her heart had not broken under the knowledge.
There were a good many people milling about in the golden glow of the street lanterns, and it was some time before Maggie spotted Mr. McKenna. When she did, she almost turned away.
A tall woman, clad in a fashionable white silk dress trimmed in the softest wine-colored velvet, with a tiny feathered hat to match, stood scandalously close to him, her gloved hands moving up and down his sides in a most familiar way.
“You still smell of the sugar fields, darling!” the vision trilled, and her laugh rang out in the night like the sound of bells in the far distance. “Oh, but I’m so glad you’re here—”
Reeve McKenna muttered, “Loretta,” and bent his magnificent head to kiss the woman who clung to him with a thoroughness that made Maggie, watching in horrified fascination, wonder what there was to do while kissing besides touching lips. It was clear enough that something more complicated was going on here, and it was galling not to know what that something was.
“Ah-hem,” said Maggie, to let them know that she was there.
Mr. McKenna seemed in no hurry to end the kiss; indeed, his hands encircled the woman’s tiny waist and lifted her slightly, the better to mystify untutored onlookers such as Maggie.
Embarrassed and not a little envious, Maggie nevertheless found the courage to clear her throat again, this time more loudly.
It was the woman who broke away from the kiss, putting her small hands to Reeve’s chest and twisting her head to one side with a delicate gasp. Deep brown eyes glistened in the lamplight, taking in Maggie’s person with dispatch. “Yes?”
By now Maggie wished that she’d stayed in that dreadful shed with Tansy, among the women and the seaweed and the rats. Before she could think of a reply, Mr. McKenna assessed her almost as coolly as his ladyfriend had and said, “In the morning, Miss Chamberlin. In the morning.”
Maggie felt like a child; even in the darkness she was painfully conscious of the contrast between her clothes and those of Mr. McKenna’s mistress. And there were other differences, too—differences in age, in experience, in sophistication, that were equally hard to bear. “Yes—thank you—” she said stupidly, turning to walk away.
She waited outside the shed until her flaming cheeks had cooled.
“Who on earth was that?” Loretta demanded coyly, keeping the carriage driver waiting, toying with the collar of Reeve’s smoke-tinged work shirt.
Reeve was impatient; this was neither the time nor the place to discuss the Yankee. He wanted to reach the town house, look in on Elisabeth, and then luxuriate in Loretta’s uncanny knack for driving him right out of his mind. “Just a girl,” he said.
Loretta would not be moved; her feet were rooted to the cobblestones and her dark eyes searched Reeve’s face. “’In the morning,’ you said. What’s going to happen in the morning, Reeve?”
Reeve sighed. At this rate it would be morning before he could indulge the desires that had been plaguing him ever since Miss Maggie Chamberlin had so gracelessly entered his cabin on board the ship. “Philip Briggs promised to marry her, Loretta,” he said. “She came all the way from England expecting to be his wife. The least I can do is see that she’s properly looked after.”
Loretta’s hands tightened on Reeve’s collar. “I fail to see why it should be your responsibility to clean up after poor Philip.”
Reeve had never loved Loretta, but he had liked her, and heartily. Now, strangely, that worthy emotion was fading away. At the look he gave her, Loretta let go her grip on his collar and instead traced the circumference of the brass charm hidden in the thick hair that covered his chest.
“Are you tiring of me, Reeve?” she asked softly, and Reeve realized with a start that perhaps he was. In fact, he had to admit that he wished that it were Maggie Chamberlin coming to his home and his bed.
He was silent, and Loretta wriggled against him, reminding him of her singular skills. Her gaze strayed toward the lighted shed where the emigrants would wait out the long night. There was a wistful expression on her face, visible even in the darkness.
“I see I’ll have to be very, very careful to keep you happy, my love,” she said. “Very careful indeed.”
Reeve, feeling a raw ache where there had once been real affection for Loretta, ushered her somewhat roughly to the carriage and climbed in after her. “How is Elisabeth?” he asked once the vehicle was rolling and rattling over the cobblestones.
Loretta gave a sigh and snuggled a little closer to Reeve on the leather seat, well aware that her breast touched his upper arm as she reached up to take off her hat. “She’s been a perfect horror ever since you left,” she answered. “Fortunately, your niece is her nanny’s problem, not mine.”
“That’s fortunate indeed,” Reeve retorted evenly.
Loretta bristled. “Reeve, you know we agreed that I would have no responsibilities whatsoever where the child is concerned!”
“Elisabeth is alone in the world except for us. Are you completely void of womanly feelings, Loretta?”
“You know very well, Reeve McKenna, that I don’t lack for ’womanly feelings.’ It’s just that I’m an actress of some renown, that’s all—I have a reputation—”
“If being my mistress didn’t ruin your reputation, why should mothering Elisabeth do it any damage?”
The light of streetlamps along the way caught in the huge tears that had arisen in Loretta’s beautiful brown eyes. “What’s come over you, Reeve? Why are you being so difficult—is it that girl back there? That emigrant?”
Reeve remained silent.
“So I was right,” Loretta whispered in despair. “You want her, don’t you, Reeve?”
His answer was a long time in coming; after all, Loretta was his mistress, and had been for several years, and he was not without feeling for her. “Yes,” he answered at last, wishing to God that it was in him to lie. “Yes, I want her.”
Loretta lifted her hands to her face and began to weep, and Reeve was reminded of her performance in a recent play. She’d cried just that way in the second act, and just as convincingly.
When the carriage came to a stop before a splendid white house overlooking Rushcutter’s Bay, Reeve got out, helped a distracted Loretta down, and dismissed the driver.
That night, for the first time in years, Loretta and Reeve slept under the same roof without sharing a bed.
Chapter 3
THE NIGHT HAD BEEN A LONG AND SLEEPLESS ONE FOR Maggie; she’d sat upon a thatch of seaweed next to Tansy throughout, clutching her bag to her bosom lest it be stolen away, and cursing the day Philip Briggs had first drawn breath. If it hadn’t been for him, she wouldn’t be in this godforsaken place, so far from the rest of the world.
At dawn the wagons Tansy had promised the night before began to arrive in twos and threes, though by this time a good portion of the emigrant women were gone. Maggie had watched them gather their reticules and bags and boxes and creep out, here one, there another, all through the dark hours.
The rattling of wagon wheels on cobblestones awakened Tansy, and she sat up, stretching her arms high above her head and sighing happily. She might have spent the night in a feather bed with linen sheets for all the distress she showed. “Wide awake already, then?” she chimed sunnily, squinting at Maggie and yawning again.
Maggie shook her head at her friend’s aplomb and then sighed. Tansy was adaptable, that was all. And if she wanted to make a niche for herself in this upside-down, sunshine-in-February place, she’d best learn to be adaptable too. “Most of the women have gone,” she said quite unnecessarily, for anyone with eyes could see that the shed was all but empty.
“Streetwalkers,” Tansy confided in a blithe whisper. “Never a thought in their ’eads of peelin’ potatoes or scrubbin’ floors for a livin’.”
Maggie’s eyes went wide. “You mean, they came here under false pretenses?”
Tansy’s regard was steady and completely lacking in venom. “Didn’t you?”
Maggie blushed and looked away. “It’s hardly the same thing,”
she protested.
A grand lady swept into the shed at that moment, dressed in a finely made gown of the most disturbing pea-green color Maggie had ever seen. The skirt was smocked between silken stripes of a vile olive shade, and the train was flounced and trimmed in ribbon. A tiny hat with one limp yellow feather dangling to the side capped a head of snow-white hair, carefully coiffed. Kind blue eyes looked out of an eager, generously powered face.
“Good morning, girls,” the matron said in an operatic voice touching upon every note in the scale. “My name is Lady Cosgrove and I’ve come to take you to the Girls’ Friendly Society. You shall have baths and hearty breakfasts and then we’ll see to your placement.”
Maggie started to step forward, to explain that she had an appointment at Number 15 George Street this morning, but she stopped herself. A bath and breakfast sounded very good and besides, if she left too hastily, Lady Cosgrove might decide that she was of an ilk with those women who had sneaked away during the night. That would never do, and anyway, she certainly didn’t want to present herself at Mr. McKenna’s theater in this state of untidiness.
Without a word she joined Tansy in one of the wagons.
The day was sunny and hot, but Maggie paid little attention to the weather: She was too enthralled with Sydney itself. Far from the outpost of thatched roofs and barefoot natives she had expected, it was a cosmopolitan city with trolley cars, macadamized streets, telephone wires, and towering business buildings. Indeed, it was as modern as New York or London but infinitely cleaner and much more spacious. The waters of the harbor were of a startling aqua color, reminiscent of Mr. Reeve McKenna’s eyes.
“Pretty place, ain’t it?” Tansy asked, giving Maggie a knowing nudge in the ribs. “The Queen’s Jubilee is this year, you know, in June, and there’ll be parties and races and illuminations too.”
Eventually, the three wagons came to a lumbering stop in front of somber brick house of English-estate proportions. One of the drivers opened the high wrought-iron gates that separated the house and its beautifully kept lawn from the sidewalk, while another proceeded to help the passengers down from their straw-filled wagons just as though they were ladies of the court.
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