by Darry Fraser
‘She’s very beautiful, Conor.’ Kate retrieved her work and pretended to concentrate on it. ‘And young,’ she commented, softly.
‘She’s twenty-two. Don’t you talk to me about “young”, Katie Hannaford. You weren’t even seventeen years old when you married Peter, God rest his soul,’ he reminded her, rising to the bait.
‘Oh ho, big brother,’ Kate mocked. ‘And tell me, has she consented to being your wife?’
‘Don’t take on so. And no, not yet.’ He sipped his drink.
Kate’s brows arched. ‘You chased her all over the countryside and you don’t even know if she’ll say yes?’
Foley gave his sister a look but remained silent.
‘So, if you’re to be married then, I shall no longer be mistress of your household.’
‘That’s right, sister, I’ll put you out on the street,’ he said. ‘Don’t be ridiculous, Katie. You know this is your home forever.’
‘Oh, but I must go, Conor.’ She rested her needlepoint again and folded one hand over the other. ‘You see, you’ve been so taken up with your lady love you’ve not noticed my newest acquisition.’ She waved her left hand at him slowly, and he caught a glimpse of white fire. She laughed gaily as his brows shot up.
‘What—you and Angus Forrestor?’
‘The very same.’
Foley set his drink on the mantelpiece and hugged his sister tightly. ‘I am more than pleased, my dear Katie. This is wonderful news. You’ve been alone far too long now,’ he said, gripping her until she winced. ‘And Peter would have approved, too. Good for you.’ He released her, took his rum and raised it in salute.
Mrs Jenkins knocked and entered smartly, the soft swish of her plain dress a whisper in the room.
‘What is it—what’s the matter?’ Foley demanded, rum slopping over his hand in his agitation.
‘Our patient is awake, Mr Foley. Would you like a couple of minutes?’
But Foley threw back the last of his drink and thrust the glass at Kate. He bounded out of the room and up the stairs before the nurse could finish speaking.
Georgina sat propped up by numerous pillows and she smiled weakly as Foley burst into the room. ‘Good morning,’ she offered.
‘Good afternoon,’ he answered gruffly and then dropped to the floor by her side. He took one of her hands in his and kissed it. He studied her face. It was pale, but her eyes were clear, if sleepy. She smelled of freshly applied scent, her hair had been brushed and her nightgown changed. He suspected she’d been awake for some time and that Mrs Jenkins had helped her pretty up. She had lost weight, but as those gorgeous eyes regarded him evenly, he knew she was well on the road to recovery.
‘That silly woman wanted me to sleep some more. I feel like I’ve been asleep for a month,’ she complained. ‘My head is foggy.’
‘You’ve been asleep for a week, by and large too long. I can now let Jemimah know—’
‘Oh no, Conor, don’t let them know where I am.’ She groped for his other hand and held it as tightly as she could. ‘They don’t want me there. I don’t want to go—I came looking for you … ’
‘Shush, shush, shush.’ He touched a finger to her lips. ‘You’re miles from them. You’re here at my house in Melbourne and you’ll stay as long as you wish.’
‘In Melbourne.’ Her eyes grew wide.
He reached into his coat pocket. ‘Perhaps this will convince you how I feel,’ he said as he withdrew the small box. ‘I hope this means you’ll stay as long as we both wish.’
Her eyes left his and focused on the glowing ruby. It was as big as her little fingernail, and set in a delicate band of gold.
Foley took it from the box and slipped it on her wedding finger. ‘It hardly does you justice, my dear Georgie.’
‘Oh,’ she whispered and sank back on the pillows, closing her eyes momentarily. Then she looked up at him, a frown on her face. She shook her head just a little and looked back at her hand.
He waited for her to speak. He couldn’t read what was in her eyes. It occurred to him then that she was not as excited about her engagement as she could have been. He chided himself. Even I can see she’s still not quite recovered. Of course she’s excited—she’s still not well enough … what a fool I am … what a damn fool—
‘Will you marry me, Georgina?’ he asked, clarifying his intentions.
He became alarmed as her eyes filled with tears. He was just about to jump up and call the nurse when Kate joined them.
‘May I come in?’ she enquired, already well and truly inside the room, Mrs Jenkins on her heels.
‘Of course,’ Foley cried, suddenly distracted from his purpose, ill at ease, as if caught at something he should not have been doing. ‘Georgina—my sister, Mrs Hannaford—’
Kate brushed Foley aside and sat on the edge of the big bed. ‘I am Katie, my dear.’
‘She needs to rest some more, Mrs Hannaford,’ Mrs Jenkins interrupted.
‘Are you all right, my dear?’ Kate asked and placed the palm of her hand on Georgina’s forehead. The nurse fluttered over to the two of them, Foley immediately on the outer.
‘Yes, thank you,’ Georgina said. ‘But my head is starting to ache.’
‘Perhaps it is the breath of rum all over you.’ She glanced at Foley over her shoulder and waved a hand under her nose. He scowled. ‘A powder, please, Mrs Jenkins, no more of the drops,’ Kate ordered. Her gaze dropped to the ring on Georgina’s finger as she held her hands. ‘Oh,’ she cried, giving Mrs Jenkins a start. ‘Oh, how absolutely exquisite.’ Katie held Georgina’s hand up to the light for the nurse to admire the ring.
Nurse Jenkins moved. ‘Please, everyone. This is quite enough for one day. Now, out you go, yes, even you, Mrs Hannaford. This is too much at the moment. We need some more rest.’
Georgie’s head ached, her arm ached where Kate had held it aloft to gaze at her engagement ring, her heart ached and she wanted to cry. She bit her lip.
Once Mrs Jenkins had delivered the required powder and cleared the room, Georgie fell asleep almost immediately. In her dreams, the enormous weight of the ring on her finger felt like a yoke on her neck.
Her groaning had brought the nurse to her side, shaking her awake, fearful of a fever. Her medical enquiries satisfied, the nurse allowed Georgie some more sleep, tucking her in.
‘I’ll be right in there if you need me,’ Mrs Jenkins said, indicating the small servant’s room.
Georgie watched her go, her eyelids dropping with fatigue.
Engaged to Conor Foley. Everything I wanted …
Before Dane MacHenry.
Georgina’s convalescence took little time. She and Kate took long walks in the extensive gardens, enveloped in the early season’s scent of eucalyptus from the towering gums. Wafts of delicate perfume from the Alba roses Kate had been instrumental in planting accompanied their mornings.
Kate found the girl to be quiet and withdrawn, far from Foley’s description of her. At first Kate put it down to Georgina’s ordeal, but as September withdrew and October gloried in the full onset of spring flowers, and still there was no change, Kate realised something was amiss.
She decided, one afternoon, to draw the girl out. Someone needed to do it, especially as the girl had no family to assist her in times of uncertainty. She would have to inform Conor if the problem did not have an easy solution.
On a garden bench, Kate began the conversation with some news of her own. ‘I want you to be the first to know, Georgina, but you mustn’t tell a soul.’
‘You have a date?’ Georgina cried.
‘Yes, sometime in December, a summer wedding and hopefully in this garden.’
‘How very wonderful.’ Georgina clasped Kate’s hands joyfully. ‘Oh, how lovely, and in this beautiful garden.’
‘Why don’t you and Conor plan to marry with us? Don’t you think that’s a grand idea?’ She squeezed Georgina’s hands.
Georgina stiffened. ‘Oh, but—’
‘You haven�
�t named the date already, have you, dear, and not told me?’ Kate asked.
‘Oh, no—we haven’t … ’
Kate sat back. ‘You’ve gone a shade of white, Georgina. What on earth is the matter?’
Georgina removed her hands from Kate’s. ‘Oh, it’s my fault, Katie. I’m sure Conor would marry me tomorrow if he could. But I can’t quite seem to settle down to it just yet. I thought I could … all this time and before, but I can’t seem to.’ She closed her eyes, the heels of her hands on her brows.
Kate straightened. So, Georgina was unsure about marrying. And why would that be? She patted the girl’s arm. Conor had told her Georgina had accepted his offer unconditionally, yet this did not seem to be the case.
‘Oh, my dear Georgina,’ Kate began. ‘Forgive me, but is it because your heart lies with another?’
Georgina’s eyes flew open. ‘Oh no, not my heart. No, no, no. Just my thoughts … and only sometimes—’
‘My dear girl,’ Kate cried and took her by the shoulders. ‘You must realise Conor loves you heartily. You mustn’t make him wait too long for an answer. I can see you love him.’
‘It’s just that … all of a sudden having someone to blurt it out to seems to make things more … real. I wanted to be with Conor, that’s why I ran in the first place. And now I am, and beautifully dressed, and well looked after, and loved and with a beautiful engagement ring … ’ She cast her gaze about the gardens, wringing her hands.
Kate still had her by the shoulders. She squeezed her arms. ‘Is there something you want to tell me, Georgina?’
The girl shook her head.
‘Well, then, do you need to know anything … about … being married?’
Georgina shook her head again, but with less certainty.
Perhaps that was it, Kate mused. No one to ask about marital duties and that sort of thing. ‘My dear, you are aware, are you not, that Conor is a big and—well, healthy man.’
Georgina nodded, blushed bright red.
‘It would not be right to ask a man to wait for his bride when she lives under his very roof and has not yet consented to name the date of their wedding.’
Georgina straightened herself, brushing her skirt and pulling at her hair. ‘I shouldn’t burden you with my silly problems. I promise I will make a decision with Conor as soon as I can. I will order my thoughts appropriately.’ She looked to the arbour at the far end of the garden. ‘It would certainly be lovely to be married here.’
Now Kate was sure Georgina’s heart was with another. She silently despaired for her brother.
Sixteen
It had been difficult to order her thoughts appropriately. For one thing because there was nothing appropriate about Dane MacHenry. She had tried repeatedly to forget him, but it was proving useless. His face kept coming back to haunt her.
She didn’t understand her growing obsession with him.
By now Dane would know she was with Conor Foley in Melbourne, and engaged to be married. Conor had told her he’d telegraphed Jemimah with the news, to be courteous.
There was no escaping her reality.
And so what of it? Dane would hardly be bothered seeking her out after their short time together, especially as she’d run as fast as she could to be clear of him.
A distraction was what she needed. She needed to ride again, to feel the blast of the wind on her cheeks and the power of a horse beneath her.
She couldn’t have chosen a more contentious subject if she tried.
Now Georgie sat stiff-backed opposite Conor in his office. ‘Conor, you have known all along I had horses on Jacaranda.’
He was bent over a ledger and didn’t look up. ‘That was before you took a terrible tumble and had to be carried unconscious to my house.’ A strand of ruddy hair dropped onto his forehead and he flicked it back.
‘I was not unconscious. I was administered a drug to aid my transportation after my fall on the wharf.’ She felt a frisson of triumph when he blinked at his numbers without raising his head. ‘I mean to have my own horses, Conor,’ she stated. ‘And I mean to have at least one horse to ride, and soon.’ She edged her seat closer to the desk. ‘I am quite well, I have recovered—’
‘No.’
‘No?’ she asked, bewildered.
‘There will be no horses for you to ride. There is a carriage at your disposal. I don’t want you to go to the stables, I don’t want you to be seen anywhere in the yards, or to be asking to work the horses.’ He turned a page back and forth, studying something closely.
Her cheeks burned. Someone had reported to him that she’d been to the stables.
‘Why not? The stables are on the grounds—hardly out of bounds. Why on earth would you demand such a thing?’ She spread her hands, hoping to catch at least a glance from him. ‘Horses have been my life for years now.’
He did glance up, gazing at her for a minute before returning to his books. ‘You have a carriage at your disposal, and Buttons will drive you anywhere you choose. Within reason,’ he added. He picked up a pen and dipped it in the ink well, made a note and underlined it.
‘Conor. I have had my fill of sitting here in this house. I need to be out in the fresh air, riding. I will purchase my own mount if I have to.’ Her voice shook a little and her hands had gripped the arms of the chair. Why did it feel as if she was always fighting? The weight in her chest was heavy.
A gleam from her finger caught her eye and she glanced at the ruby ring. Her heart thudded unhappily.
Trapped.
He dropped the quill onto the blotter, clasped his hands on the desk and looked at her. ‘My dear girl, you will do nothing of the sort … even if you had money. No horses. Get out in the fresh air. Walk.’
Heat rushed to her cheeks again. She sat forward. ‘I insist on my own horse.’
‘Your insisting is not becoming. A carriage or nothing. I will not be providing you with a horse. And that is that.’
This was not the genial man she knew from those days on the river, the attentive caller courting her, looking after her every whim. The man who seemed to agree with her bid for freedom, her vocal opinions on emerging women’s rights—such as she knew them. She had to try again.
‘I did not hurt myself riding—’
‘There is no discussion to be had. You have seen the last of your riding days.’ He looked down at his papers again, picked up his quill and continued to makes notes.
‘You will not dictate to me what I will and will not do. I am not some servant to be ordered around by the master of the house.’ She leaned over his desk and poked a finger at the neat stack on invoices. ‘I would rather go back to Jacaranda and what little freedom I had there, than sit here cooped up like some prize monkey.’
He placed his pen on the desk and patiently neatened the skewed stack of invoices and bills. He looked at her, his steady gaze icy. ‘Is that so?’
Her stomach dropped. Heat beaded through her veins as if she’d placed her hand on a hot iron. Georgie willed her temper to cool, willed herself to show no more emotion. Her thoughts raced in time with her heartbeat. If she could not be free here, she was well and truly trapped. If she walked away from the engagement and subsequent marriage, she would be destitute and on the street. No woman survived well without family or a husband.
Choose your path wisely.
‘Georgina,’ he said, a whisper on cold breath. ‘Had I known you felt so strongly I would have responded differently. Humour me a little longer while you convalesce.’ His hands once again clasped on the desk in front of him. ‘It’s been just over three weeks, and I’m only thinking of your welfare. Let me find something suitable, a manageable mare. But in the meantime,’ he continued, ‘get yourself well and calm. You have a lot of excitement ahead with our forthcoming marriage.’
She stared back at him. How to escape …
‘At least agree to wait until after we are married. Then I can concentrate properly and source some good stock from which to choose a horse. You have
only to name the date of our wedding and your every wish is my command.’
She calculated quickly. If she could bide her time, she could try again. She would not make herself destitute over a mistimed battle. She would have her horses and her home—here, with Conor.
But now her picture of the future looked very different than it had before.
‘Are we agreed?’ he asked. His hazel eyes had returned to the warm colour she knew.
Her lips were dry. She lifted her hands from the arms of the chair, and nodded.
He returned to his papers.
Georgie stood. ‘Good afternoon,’ she said and left his office. In the hallway, she leaned against the wall to steady herself as she dragged in deep breaths. She must think.
The newspaper. In the morning room there were the newspapers brought to the house by the help. If she was lucky, they wouldn’t have removed them yet—she could still find the article she remembered reading a day or two earlier.
A cool atmosphere prevailed over the evening dinner table and at breakfast the following day.
Georgie laced her fingers and rested her hands on the table. ‘Conor, I would like to take a carriage ride, today.’ It grated to hear her voice echo a pleading she’d heard others use with their husbands.
But Conor gave her a sudden smile. ‘Of course, my dear. Delightful idea. Shop for your trousseau to your heart’s content. Buttons knows where my accounts are in Spring Street or Collins or wherever might take your fancy.’
She blinked a little in surprise. Trousseau … Or wherever might take your fancy.
He set his tea cup down, leaned over the table and pressed her hands. ‘You might think me overprotective but for the most part, my dear, I would do anything for you.’ He poured himself a refill from the silver pot.
Once Buttons cleared the carriage from the gates, Georgie gave a loud sigh and fell back on her seat. Free at last. She was certainly not going to purchase anything on Conor’s accounts—although she would hide some of the coins he’d given her, because she had no clue what had happened to her own purse—even though her instructions from him were to buy whatever she wished. She thought it might have been his way of apologising for being so overbearing the day before, but she doubted it.