Pearl, having suffered an hour of similar diatribe, was snappish. ‘A week ago you were comparing the Captain with a Greek god.’
‘That was before I had his true measure. Ah, but I’ll make him regret his attitude. You see if I don’t.’ The injured beauty flounced away, leaving Pearl to her work.
However the idea that her behaviour had seemed childish had taken hold on Jo-Beth. Applying her intelligence, she began altering her manner towards the Captain. Interest in his ship and matters that interested him were an obvious ploy, but her naturally friendly nature and genuine desire to understand soon had an effect. Captain Petherbridge began almost imperceptibly to alter his attitude, seeking the women’s company a little more frequently to join in their conversations, and showing an appreciation of the more sophisticated weapons in Jo-Beth’s social armoury.
There was no doubt she could be a delightful, witty companion when she chose, well-read and, for a young female, well versed in world affairs. She even played a good game of chess. As for her appearance, a face so vividly expressive had no need of classical features. Pearl doubted whether Jo-Beth had grasped the truth, that the basis of her allure lay in her vivacity; in the wit and intelligence that fought her parents’ stultifying control; in a spirit that refused to give up. Little wonder that Ethan Petherbridge had finally succumbed, Pearl thought.
Yet, as she soon realised, he was that rarity amongst the males of her acquaintance, a moral man who was not a prig. He might be entertained, even strongly attracted by Jo-Beth, but he would not take advantage. Jo-Beth, herself, seemed unsure of her effect on the Captain, and Pearl grew weary of the nightly session before she could go to her bed.
Jo-Beth paced the short length of the cabin, skirts swinging, her hands locked together. ‘Sometimes I fear he has a heart chipped from some arctic glacier. Yet his smile can melt my bones. Pearl, tell me. Is he interested, or merely humouring me? I couldn’t bear to think so.’
Pearl tried to answer. ‘I don’t believe –’
‘Do you know today he held my hand to assist me onto the upper deck but did not release it for fully ten seconds, all the while gazing as if seeing me for the first time? I swear his touch caused a frisson from my toes to my head.’ She halted to face Pearl. ‘Tell me, who is the magnet and who the needle? Could I be the victim of my own plotting?’ She laughed, but her unhappy face was more honest.
‘Captain Petherbridge is scarcely likely –’ Pearl began again.
‘Oh, no doubt it was just a breeze brushing my skin to make me shiver. Yet I wish... No, never mind.’
Pearl held her peace, but watched even more closely, unable to decide whether the sexual tension developing between the Captain and Jo-Beth was any more than mutual attraction denied. Whatever it might be, it was growing, and Pearl found it all quite interesting.
The still shadows lay deep around the life-boat. But now, within those shadows there was movement, as two figures clutched and strained together, mouth upon mouth, breast to breast and thighs pressed so hard against one another that the pulsations throughout Ethan Petherbridge’s body shook Jo-Beth as if with fever. She was on fire. Her corset and petticoats stifled her. She longed to be free of them, to know this man’s flesh against her own.
With Ethan’s hands at the neck of her gown her own hands went up to tear at the collar, pulling it aside to let the heat out and allow Ethan’s questing fingers to enter. In her wildest moments she’d never known such sensation, such a slipping of the boundaries as her body’s demands overtook her will. Her numbed mind allowed one brief clear thought to form, that this was victory, but it was also folly, then sank back into chaos as a hand closed on her breast, sending a current of exquisite lightning through her. Nothing existed beyond his arms and the taste of his mouth on hers.
‘My own beauty,’ Ethan murmured against her lips before stepping back from her, withdrawing his hand and closing the neck of her gown with precision.
Jo-Beth clutched at the chain on the life-boat while the world still reeled around her. When it steadied, she opened her eyes, struggling against her confusion. A stray beam from a lamp on the masthead revealed Ethan’s expression, amused and uncompromising. His voice, so thrillingly deep, so expressive, was firm.
‘That’s what you wanted, isn’t it? Are you now satisfied?’
The moment stretched and expanded while Jo-Beth absorbed the shock. Ears ringing, her breath trapped in her throat, she was immobilised. Seconds later she felt a blush rising to flame in her cheeks, releasing her. Her hand swooped but was caught and held. Her swift indrawn breath tangled in a web of angry tears and she choked, livid with herself, with him, with the whole situation.
‘You can’t go on behaving this way, you know.’ He sounded infuriatingly reasonable. The fingers of her free hand curled. ‘You will end by ruining yourself. You must know it. I respect your intelligence. I admire your wit, and no less, your lovely person. But at present you’re behaving like a fool.’
‘How dare you! Let me loose.’ Still incoherent, she tried to tear her hand free, discovering it might as well have been encased in rock. With her other hand she raked the skin of his fingers, and heard him laugh as he captured her, drawing her closer, forcing her to look up into his bearded face.
‘Little cat. Be still and listen for once to someone who has your welfare at heart. Oh, yes. All appearances to the contrary, I am not unwounded by your arrows. You might even say I’ve reached the point of surrender. My feelings – ‘
Jo-Beth had recovered her voice, which she now made as glacial as possible, considering the combustion going on inside her. ‘I’m not interested in your feelings. Release me at once.’
Surprisingly, he did, so suddenly that she rocked back against the life-boat. Her rage was fuelled by a mental image of her appearance. With shaking fingers she rebuttoned her collar, clutching at her hair slipping down, knowing she resembled the slut he had all but named her.
Ethan watched her, his voice warming as he said, ‘You’re still young and inexperienced, despite your efforts to convince me otherwise; and I understand your need to rebel against the confines of your life. But this is not the way, my dear. Believe me.’
‘Why should I? You know nothing about me, except...’ Chagrined, she paused.
‘Except that through habit, wishing to annoy your parents, you determined to enslave the nearest eligible male. It’s a dangerous game if you meet the wrong opponent. Fortunately, I’ve fallen in love with you, and will protect you from yourself.’
‘A game! You will protect... Ohh!’ Jo-Beth crammed her fists against her mouth to stifle her shriek of outrage. The arrogance of the man – so sure in his judgement of her, yet blind to her tumble into the pit she’d dug for him. For the truth had hit her along with the hurricane of passion only minutes before. She was desperately in love with her proposed victim. It was fully thirty seconds before the rest of his statement penetrated.
‘Did you say you loved me?’ Her incredulity drew another laugh from him.
‘I did say that. Do you dislike it?’
She thought about the past few days and how her casual desire to capture this man had escalated into a driving need. Could he possibly feel the same – that the game they played had become a hunt in earnest, a pursuit that must end in consumation? She recalled the heat between them, her desire to bury her whole body in his, to know his flesh on hers... and shivered. ‘How can I believe you?’
‘A man who didn’t love you might not have stopped when I did.’ He regained her hand and raised it to his lips. The brush of his moustache reawakened the quiver of excitement that had preceded her headlong dive into the maelstrom. ‘I do love you, Jo-Beth. I love your untamed spirit, your perfect body, your eyes so full of truth and courage. I want you by my side as I sail the oceans of the world. Will you come with me, my heart?’
She was gripped by a sudden longing to respond. What a life that would be, change, adventure, untrammelled save for the loving restraints of a husband wh
o had earned her respect. She knew his crew trusted him. He was kind – witness his treatment of Pearl – while his integrity shone against the shabbiness of so many others. And he could make her heart soar. Searching his face in the dimness, seeing only the gleaming eyes holding hers, she knew she wanted him, whatever the cost.
There would be a price. This man, straightforward, toughened by his lifestyle, would not easily compromise. Accustomed to command, he’d find it hard to give way to her; she’d have to fight him at times. But that sort of conflict would add spice to their lives. And she knew he would never use his great strength against her.
Yet she hesitated. ‘Would you love me always, Ethan? Would you really keep me at your side, wherever you go, whatever you do, as your companion and friend, as well as wife?’
‘Always and forever. You need never fear chains again, my lovely rebel.’
‘Then I will love you and wed you, Ethan Petherbridge, and we’ll sail the world together.’
As he stepped forward eagerly, she fell into his embrace, her mouth raised to meet his in a kiss that was a tender promise for the future.
CHAPTER NINE
Elly stood inside the door in the eight foot high stone wall and gazed across a stone-paved court at the building facade. It was the centre one of three – long, double- storied, the pillared verandahs giving a chilly shade on this crisp March morning. A sharp wind blew uphill from the harbour, rattling the square-paned windows and pressing Elly’s skirts against her legs. Gum trees and young Moreton Bay figs clashed their leaves around the Old Convict Barracks on the corner, and dust flew up, discouraging the usual Hyde Park saunterers. It was no day for lingering to admire the view, magnificent as it might be. Elly grasped her meagre bag of necessities, supplied against her conscience by Paul Gascoigne, and walked up the front steps.
Peering into the empty porter’s office, she crossed an unswept lobby, feeling grit crunch under her boots. At the foot of a staircase she turned left down a hallway but had only gone a few yards when a door sprang open suddenly and a man darted out, almost knocking her over. Elly reeled back, dropping her bag.
‘Who the hell are you?’ He paused, eyed her closely. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, but I’m in the devil of a hurry.’
He grabbed the bag, thrusting it into her hands, closing the door behind him at the same time. Narrow as a churchyard rail, he emitted a medicinal odour that reminded Elly of her father, while the stains and smears on his coat proclaimed his calling all too well.
Elly said quickly, ‘Sir, can you direct me to the Matron’s room?’
Already on his way down the corridor, he threw his words over his shoulder. ‘Upstairs to the right.’ He disappeared through another doorway.
Elly retraced her steps to the lobby and climbed the stairs, which creaked under her feet, as did the bare boards on the top floor. A white-washed corridor ran the length of the building, its walls cracked and dingy and broken intermittently by scarred doors. One door bore a sign with LADY SUPERINTENDENT printed on it. She knocked loudly, since the building resounded with voices calling, moaning, some even shrieking – muffled by the closed doors, but still distressing to hear. Elly was startled when, with her hand raised to knock once more, the Matron’s door opened and a starched cap shot out almost in her face.
‘Come in. Come in. Sit, do. I’m that distracted today I don’t know whether I’m on my head or heels.’
The owner of the cap, a dumpling of a woman in a tight black bombazine dress and the tiniest boots Elly had seen on an adult, fluttered back to a table squeezed in under the window and sat down.
Wondering whether everyone in the building made a habit of going through doors like charging bulls, Elly accepted the invitation to enter a room lined and compressed by wall cabinets into a slit little wider than the window. She took the only other chair, opposite the table, and found herself face to face with the woman. Sunlight pouring through the uncurtained glass cruelly revealed lines of worry in a skin like pitted tallow, but the woman smiled hopefully as she held out a hand to Elly.
‘I’m Mrs Box, the Matron, only the Board prefers the title “Lady Superintendent”. My dear, welcome to the Sydney Dispensary and Infirmary. We take in the poorer citizens on recommendation, you know. Now that transportation has ceased, the old idea of a convict establishment has gone for ever.’ She took a breath. ‘You have come in answer to the advertisement, of course. Now, tell me all about yourself.’
Elly glanced around the room once more, mentally preparing her approach, noting the partition dividing a once reasonable space to create more of an alleyway than an office. Through the thin wall she could hear quarrelling voices and the clangour of metal being dropped.
She raised her own voice. ‘I’m afraid I know nothing about an advertisement, Matron. I landed at the Sydney Quay only twenty minutes ago and came straight here in the hope of obtaining a nursing position with you.’
The plump shoulders sank. The starch seemed to go out of the Matron’s bonnet. ‘Oh, dear, how vexatious. I did so hope... You seemed like someone... A definite improvement on the usual style of applicant...’
Elly studied the woebegone face. ‘What is the difficulty, Matron? Perhaps I can help.’
The woman shook her head. ‘I don’t know... They said it must be someone well qualified. I can’t go on without a trained assistant. But it’s so difficult to find... ‘ Her hands picked agitatedly at her collar.
Elly’s heartbeat quickened. ‘You’re seeking an experienced nurse? What qualifications must be met?’
The woman peered at her more closely, her interest sharpened. ‘Why, well, experience in nursing, of course, plus the control of staff and patients. It would be such a help if you could make out reports for the Board of Directors. Mr Deas Thomson - he’s an Honourable, you must know – is most particular in the matter of reports. But there are so few women able to...’ Again she drew in her breath. ‘Could you do it?’
Elly thought rapidly. Dared she try for it, without any real credentials? Yet this could be her entree to the medical world, where opportunities might occur, or be made to happen.
‘I believe I could satisfy the Board as to my suitability, Mrs Box. How many wards are there?’
The Matron began to tick off items on her fingers. ‘There are seven in all, two female, both on this floor, with twenty beds to the ward, although we fit more than one person to each bed. There are two honorary physicians plus two honorary surgeons on staff, augmented by the divisional surgeons, with Mr Hugh Houston as our resident in charge.’
‘How many nursing staff do you have?’
‘We have three female nurses with twelve wards men for the male patients.’ Mrs Box paused, perhaps seeing Elly’s expression alter. ‘We are sadly understaffed, but the Board has promised this will change. I could perhaps arrange a slightly higher salary. Should you prove satisfactory.’
The hastily tacked-on phrase at the end amused Elly, now aware of Matron’s desperate need. Well, she’d give good value and earn the extra money. ‘How much are you offering, Mrs Box?’
‘Twenty pounds per annum, all found.’
Elly grimaced. It would keep her alive. ‘Matron, I’d like to apply for the position. I could start immediately.’
Mrs Box glanced at Elly’s meagre luggage and rose. Clearly she was reassured by Elly’s own evident need for somewhere to stay and earn her keep. ‘Come and I’ll show you the wards. Oh, dearie me. I quite forgot to ask your name.’
‘It’s Eleanor Ballard, Miss Ballard.’
‘Then, Ballard, you may begin your duties on a probationary basis tomorrow at six a.m. Do you have any baggage to be collected from the Quay?’
Elly, flushed, shook her head, and found herself bustled out into the corridor.
Matron Box indicated a nearby door. ‘These are the nurses’ quarters, which I’ll show you later. Now, here we have Number Five men’s ward. I should warn you that we are fearfully overcrowded, due to the recent influenza epidemic, al
though, thankfully, this has begun to wane.’ She flung open the door.
Elly looked over the smaller woman’s shoulder, and was stunned. The room was chaotic. Ambulant patients ran up and down in their nightshirts, some clearly feverish or semi-demented. Those confined to bed lay like waxworks, either comatose or physically unable to move, with at least two and often three men to a bed.
Clearly a meal had recently been served. A wheeled wagon stood inside the door with metal dishes piled high. Several more dishes lay on the floor, their contents discharged over the boards and trodden in. Nearby two men struggled with a third, naked and yelling as they tried to force a nightshirt over his head. A bowl of water had been spilt over the bed. An elderly man held his head, shrieking piercingly, on and on, while two others clutched a torn blanket at each end in a grim tug-of-war. A young fellow whose hair sprang up like a fox’s brush danced a hornpipe on the wide window-sill, while two others chanted and beat with spoons on the bed ends. It was total uproar.
Mrs Box, looking annoyed, trotted up to the dancing sailor and dragged him down from the sill. Her voice somehow rose above the cacophony. ‘Get back to bed, Billy Wales, at once. If you’re well enough to dance, then you’re well enough to be discharged.’
Billy obeyed, sheepishly, but immediately joined his friends in beating time to the sea-shanty. The shrieking man had his hands pulled away from his ears as Matron called for the wards men to leave their naked patient and come tie Mr Abrams’ arms to his bed. The screams died to a keening wail. Matron turned to Elly.
‘It’s not always so noisy,’ she bellowed above the uproar. ‘Come outside where we can be heard.’ She closed the door on the ward. ‘I’ll send someone to take away the wagon and clear up the floor. Oh, dear, we could use twenty more staff, I’m sure. They do their best but...’ She sighed.
Elly said, ‘That man who was shrieking, surely he’s deranged. Shouldn’t he be kept apart from the other patients?’
A HAZARD OF HEARTS Page 8