Moonfire

by Linda Lael Miller

  Maggie was preoccupied and it was a moment before Susan’s words sank in. When they did, she glared at the girl, her cheeks pulsing, her eyes flashing like the swift silver blade of a knife. “What did you say?” she demanded in a hiss.

  Susan stepped back, holding the basket in front of her like a shield, and Maggie subsided.

  “I am no man’s mistress, Susan Crockett,” she said haughtily as the streetcar approached with a clanging of bells and screeching of rails, drawing its power through long metal rods from the wires strung above the street. “And you can tell Mrs. Lavendar and all the maids that I’ll not put up with being gossiped about!”

  Maggie mounted the streetcar steps first, handing the fare given her by Mrs. Lavendar to the conductor, and took a seat near the back. The car was nearly empty, and sheepishly, Susan sat down beside Maggie.

  “I’ll be done with the marketin’ long before you’ve bought all the frillies on that list, love. Remember that you’re supposed to take the Pitt Street car back home and don’t get yourself lost.”

  Maggie recognized an attempt at friendliness when she heard one and she was not given to grudge-holding, but she sniffed, just to let Susan know that she had overstepped the bounds of acceptable behavior and must take care not to do so again. “I won’t get lost,” she promised, chin high, voice cool.

  The car rattled and clanged along toward the heart of Sydney, and Susan did not find her tongue again until they were passing through a seedy-looking section. There were saloons everywhere, with bawds and no-accounts of every stripe lounging outside, and a din loud enough to compete with the noise of the streetcar filled the air, along with the pungent smell of seeping sewage.

  “This is King’s Cross,” Susan confided behind the shelter of one upraised hand. “See that you don’t never come here by yourself, be it night or day.”

  Maggie was staring wide-eyed at the spectacle of women in dresses that showed not only their legs but their shoulders and most of their bosoms as well. In a doorway a man and woman embraced, the man’s hand thrust boldly inside the woman’s blouse, cupping her breast.

  The sight was disgusting, of course, but it also gave Maggie an odd feeling that made her squirm on the streetcar’s hard seat, remembering the shameful dreams of Reeve McKenna she’d had the night before. Dreams? They’d been nightmares, and when Maggie had been jolted awake by sheer shock, she’d have sworn that the scent of shaving lotion tinged the air….

  The car made several stops, taking on passengers—housewives and clerks and chattering maids—and then reached the wide street where merchants sold fresh fish, mutton, and vegetables from open stalls. Susan patted Maggie’s hand in a reassuring fashion and left the car, swinging her basket at her side.

  Maggie smiled as she watched the girl go; she couldn’t help liking her.

  Downtown Sydney was as daunting as before, with crowds of people streaming in and out of shops and business buildings and the bells of streetcars clanging as if to drown each other out. Skittish horses pulled wagons and carriages and buggies, and women as well as men pedaled past on bicycles.

  Taking refuge in the archway of a bank, Maggie got out the careful list Mr. Kirk had provided. Frowning, she read it for the fourth time since it had been given to her at breakfast by a stony-faced Mrs. Lavendar.

  Morning dresses, afternoon dresses, evening dresses. Shoes and slippers. Wrappers and nightgowns, skirts and shirtwaists.

  Maggie swallowed hard and folded the list, tucking it carefully into her worn handbag. She was sweltering in a dark green woolen dress that she’d bought secondhand from a stall in the streets of London. Though she longed to be rid of it, she wondered if Mr. Kirk expected more of her than was proper. What man bought nightgowns and wrappers and evening gowns for his children’s governess?

  Just as she braved the crowded sidewalk again, Maggie felt a strong hand take hold of her arm and before she could voice a protest or even get a look at her assailant’s face, she was thrust into the cool, leathery interior of a carriage. Her abductor was none other than Mr. Reeve McKenna, wearing a broad and insolent grin on his deplorably handsome face.

  More infuriated than frightened, Maggie lunged for the carriage window, fully intending to put her head out and scream for assistance. When she moved to do this, two iron hands caught her at the hips and wrenched her back, and the carriage seat came up hard against her bottom.

  “How dare you?” she hissed, glaring.

  The aquamarine eyes glowed with inner laughter, almost as bright as the charm visible in the V of his open-necked shirt. “Suffice it to say that I dare. Period.”

  “Let me out of this carriage, Mr. McKenna! Immediately, please!”

  He only chuckled and settled back against the seat, his powerful arms folded across his chest. He wore a white shirt and black trousers and he looked entirely too casual to be about any respectable sort of business. “You’re not being kidnapped, Miss Chamberlin, so kindly compose yourself.”

  Maggie just gaped at him, too stunned to speak. If this wasn’t an abduction, what was it? The nerve of this rascal, grabbing an innocent woman off the streets in the broad light of day. Oh, there were plenty of things she’d say to this rounder once she found her voice again!

  The impossibly white teeth flashed in another grin. “That’s better, Miss Chamberlin,” the knave said indulgently. “Much better.”

  Maggie swallowed, but when she tried to speak, only a croaking sound came out.

  Reeve McKenna ignored her, raising his voice to be heard over the hubbub of Sydney. “What were you reading so intently back there? You were squinting and holding the paper an inch from your nose.”

  Something—Maggie could not have said what—made her take Mr. Kirk’s list from her bag and extend it to her captor. Her voice was back and she’d meant to harangue Reeve McKenna vociferously but, strange as it seemed, she spoke in normal tones. “I’ve been wondering why a governess would be required to have such clothes,” she ventured to say.

  McKenna scanned the list several times before he replied, and his frown made creases in his brow. Far more unsettling, however, was the snapping blue-green fury in his eyes. For a moment it seemed that he was about to say something unforgivable—in fact, Maggie braced herself for that very occurrence—but Mr. McKenna only hesitated and then said, “I have no idea. But I thought you said you were an actress, Mag—Miss Chamberlin, not a governess.”

  Maggie sat up very straight, feeling as though her integrity had been challenged. Susan’s remark about women who like warming a gentleman’s bed came back to her, stinging her cheeks to a fiery pink. “I have never taught before, Mr. McKenna, but I do like children very much and I am well educated. Since my plans to perform”—she paused to favor the fiend with a scathing look—“fell through, I had to find another way to make a living.”

  “Have you any understanding at all of what Duncan expects of you?”

  Maggie snatched back the list of clothing required for her position. “Quite. Mr. Kirk expects me to train his children in reading, writing, and arithmetic. I intend to teach them history and botany as well.”

  “Guess what Mr. Kirk plans to teach you, Miss Chamberlin: basic anatomy.”

  Maggie stared blankly for a few moments before catching his meaning. Immediately infuriated, she lunged for the carriage window again, and just as quickly she was pulled back.

  “Governesses do not require evening gowns, Miss Chamberlin, nor are their employers generally concerned with their nightclothes. Use your hard little Yankee head! Kirk didn’t engage you to teach.”

  Maggie wanted to deny that hotly, but she remembered her beautifully appointed room and remained silent.

  “In any case, you don’t need to worry about Kirk, because you are now working for me.”

  Few things Reeve McKenna could have said would have come as more of a shock. “What?” Maggie rasped.

  Smiling again, he drew a folded document from the inside pocket of his vest. “I’ve bought y
our papers, my love. You may either play the role of Kate in The Taming of the Shrew as you originally planned, or you may serve as a governess to my four-year-old niece. The choice is yours.”

  “Suppose I choose to go back to Mr. Kirk’s house and teach his children, as I promised to do?” Maggie asked, struggling to keep her voice level.

  “You will recall that that particular choice wasn’t mentioned. That was because it isn’t a choice, Maggie. You’re as good as indentured to me.”

  Pale, Maggie reached out for the document and he didn’t withhold it. “It isn’t possible,” she mumbled, her fingers trembling as she unfolded the paper. Some niggling instinct told her that it was not only possible but quite true.

  Sure enough, Lady Cosgrove’s flourishing signature graced the bottom of a paper that Maggie had signed herself, back in England, promising to work three years in Australia until or unless she married.

  “Lady Cosgrove knew I had another position—she arranged it herself.”

  Mr. McKenna shrugged. “Be that as it may, the papers are legal, Maggie.”

  Secretly, Maggie found the situation intriguing, in a way she’d rather not have to define, but she was also outraged. “You are reprehensible!” she spat out.

  He smiled. “I know,” he said proudly.

  Maggie was very much at a loss. She read the document very slowly, hoping to find a loophole, and instead came to the disturbing conclusion that she was indeed obliged to work for Mr. McKenna for three full years. “Suppose you abuse me? Will I have no recourse?”

  “This is Australia, not the deep jungle, Miss Chamberlin. And I am not in the habit of abusing women!”

  She had nettled him and she was glad, though it seemed a pinprick compared to the shenanigan he’d managed to pull. “Your bad manners don’t go beyond kidnapping, then?” she asked with scalding sweetness.

  “I wouldn’t have grabbed you like that if I’d thought you’d listen to reason, you hardheaded—”

  “Yankee,” Maggie finished for him. Underneath her ire there was a certain relief that she would not have to be beholden to Mr. Duncan Kirk for a fancy bedroom and a new wardrobe of clothes. She would miss the boys, Jeremy and Tad, however; she’d liked them both, even if Tad had called her stupid.

  “Why the sad look?” Mr. McKenna demanded, frowning. “Have you already formed an affection for our Mr. Kirk?”

  “Actually, no,” Maggie replied honestly, “but I do like his boys. I feel terrible about deserting them this way.”

  Mr. McKenna looked distinctly uncomfortable, and it came to Maggie that he had the same weakness she did: children. “They’re looking forward to having a teacher, are they?”

  Maggie nodded. “I think so.”

  Reeve let out a long sigh and Maggie was reminded once again of the dreams she’d had the night before. She wondered if men really did those piercingly pleasant things to women. To her utter surprise, Mr. McKenna handed back the document.

  “You’re free, Maggie. I may hate Duncan Kirk, but I’ve nothing against those lads of his.”

  Maggie stared at him, unable to believe that she’d just been handed three full years of her life as easily as that. She might have thanked Reeve McKenna, but he leaned toward her and shook an index finger in her face before she got the chance.

  “You’ve got to promise me one thing, Maggie,” he warned, looking dour.

  There seemed to be something caught in Maggie’s throat, so her voice came out as a squeak. “What?”

  “That if you have any trouble with Kirk, any trouble at all, you’ll come to me. And don’t buy anything on that list but what a governess would wear.”

  Maggie couldn’t resist a smile. “That’s two things, but I promise anyway. Thank you, Mr. McKenna.”

  “My name is Reeve,” he replied, at the same time thumping on the carriage wall with his knuckles. The elegant vehicle came to an immediate stop. “And you’re welcome.”

  Maggie was out of the carriage and standing on the sidewalk in a wink. She was free. It was all she could do not to leap for joy. “Thank you again!” she called, jumping so that she could look into the carriage. “Thank you so much!”

  “No nightdresses and no evening gowns!” Reeve yelled in response, and then the carriage was moving away.

  For a moment, just the fleetest, maddest moment, Maggie considered running after it, brazenly calling out to the driver to stop. But her freedom was too precious and for that reason she simply stood on the sidewalk, staring dumbfoundedly at the disappearing carriage.

  After almost a minute Maggie looked around her and realized that she’d been set down in a welter of shops and stores, any one of which would grant unlimited credit on Mr. Duncan Kirk’s name.

  Mindful of her promise, not to mention her own scruples, Maggie bought six serviceable summer dresses, four badly needed cotton nightgowns, and a new pair of shoes. She would ask Mr. Kirk to deduct the cost from her pay, week by week.

  Maggie had boarded the trolley car in Pitt Street, as instructed by Susan, before it occurred to her that her employer might be angry with her for not purchasing all the items on the list. And then she smiled, for it didn’t really matter whether Mr. Kirk approved of her decision or not. Thanks to Reeve McKenna, she could once again call her soul her own.

  Chapter 6

  UPON RETURNING TO MR. KIRK’S TOWN HOUSE, TIRED, elated, and burdened with parcels, Maggie was secretly relieved to learn from Mrs. Lavendar that the master had been called away to a place known as Lightning Ridge, where the largest share of his opals were mined. He would not be back, according to the housekeeper, for some days.

  Maggie was beginning to feel a keen dislike for some of the other women employed in that house. In an effort to show that she wasn’t uppity, she’d entered the house by way of the rear door, and Mrs. Lavendar, busy at the sink paring vegetables, had been pleased by the gesture, though she tried her best not to show it.

  She frowned as she took in the parcels Maggie carried. “The rest being sent, is it?”

  Maggie shook her head. “This is all of it, Mrs. Lavendar. I suppose Mr. Kirk will be angry, but I couldn’t see buying such fancy things—where would a governess wear evening gowns?”

  “Where indeed?” huffed Mrs. Lavendar, but she looked kindly upon Maggie for just the briefest moment. “Well, you’ll have some free time, anyway. Mr. Kirk took the boys along with him, so there’s no need in your staying around here if you’ve other things to do.”

  Maggie started toward the rear stairway, once again feeling rebuffed. As she made her way toward her room, she wondered why Mr. Kirk had not left his sons in her care, so that they might begin their lessons.

  The moment she crossed the threshold of that improperly beautiful room, she noticed a letter propped against the base of the bureau’s glistening mirror. After unceremoniously dropping her parcels onto the bed with a sigh of relief, she opened the fine cream-colored vellum envelope and read the brief note enclosed. Inside the single sheet of monogrammed paper was a pound note.

  Margaret, [Mr. Kirk had written] I’ve taken the boys with me to Lightning Ridge, as Mrs. Lavendar will have told you by now. Since the mines will one day come to them, I feel they should be exposed to the workings of the place at every opportunity. Your first week’s pay is included herewith, and I hope that you have had a happy day shopping. I am looking forward to having a hostess under my roof again, as well as a governess. Regards, D. Kirk.

  After pushing back the parcels, Maggie sat down on the edge of her bed, her lower lip caught between her teeth. A hostess? Mr. Kirk hadn’t mentioned that duty when she’d accepted this post, but it did explain why he had wanted her to buy such elegant clothes.

  Now Maggie felt vaguely ashamed of herself for thinking there had been anything untoward in Mr. Kirk’s generous request that she outfit herself with grand gowns and dancing slippers, and she was very glad that she would have an opportunity to carry out his wishes before he returned to Sydney.

  Th
e one question that bothered her as she put five of her new dresses away in the armoire and changed into the sixth, a soft blue gown with puffy sleeves and a ruffled hem, was not one that could be easily put aside, however. What did she, Maggie Chamberlin, daughter of circus performers and late of London’s second-rate theater circuit, know about serving as a rich man’s hostess? What did a hostess do, for that matter, beyond shaking the hands of arriving guests, smiling a lot, and making sure that the servants didn’t spill soup in anyone’s lap?

  Gathering up the empty dress boxes and their wrappings, Maggie pondered these questions as she walked down the hall to the rear stairs and descended into the kitchen.

  “Excuse me, but where might I dispose of these things?” she asked of Mrs. Lavendar, who was working at the stove.

  “Fireplace,” the housekeeper replied succinctly, giving Maggie’s dress a quick assessment before pursing her lips and turning back to salting and stirring and lifting pot lids to peer inside at the bubbling contents of each pan. “You’ve company, Miss Margaret—that woman who was with you the day you came here. I told her to wait in the back garden.”

  Tansy! Maggie flung the wrappings into the cold cavern of the kitchen fireplace and dashed out through the rear door, eager to see her friend.

  Tansy was pacing along a flower-lined walk, her face red at being asked to wait outside like a beggar looking for a handout, but her blue eyes shone when she caught sight of Maggie in her new dress.

  “Coo, love—it looks as if ye’ve fallen into a good thing ’ere!” She reached out one chapped hand to catch the soft cambric of the skirt between her fingers and gave a low whistle through her front teeth.

  Conscious of prying eyes and ears, Maggie took her friend firmly by the arm and ushered her farther into the garden. There, beside a fountain with a statue in the center, she demanded urgently, “Tansy, what does a hostess do?”

  Tansy’s eyes went wide. “A ’ostess? Why, she’s a man’s wife, love, but for the weddin’ license and the tumbles between the sheets. And sometimes—”