Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1)

by Sandra Dengler

  Mr. Sloan spoke first. “There are limits to my generosity; the title transfer there would be insurance for me. I’m happy to advance you the loan. Your tea plantation is nearly as important to me as it is to you, as we were just discussing. But should you ultimately go under, heaven forbid, I need some means to recoup at least part of my money. Once your land reverted to the bank I’d be left out completely. You understand.”

  “Absolutely. You’re quite wise to ask for title assurances. Were I to go bankrupt, my land would be tied up who knows how long. And you’d have to share the debt burden with the bank and my other creditors. You’d be lucky to come away with a few stray shillings on the pound. No, I agree. I want you covered.”

  “But you’re not going bankrupt. I have every confidence that your run of bad luck will end soon, if it hasn’t already.” Mr. Sloan extended his hand. “John, this is the beginning of your success; I feel it.”

  Mr. Butts positively glowed. He reached over, shook hands warmly with Mr. Sloan, and returned to his second piece of coffee cake. He waved his fork. “My accountant is going to howl, you know. He’ll say I’m giving away the farm.”

  “Does he realize how close to insolvency you are?”

  “Oh, yes. He advises selling out while I can.” Mr. Butts snorted. “And why shouldn’t he? It’s not his blood, sweat and tears that went into it. Draws his pay and goes home. If I were to sell out, he’d simply hire on with the next bloke. I’m foolish to struggle, I suppose, but my tea plantation means so much more to me than simply a business enterprise.”

  “I understand what you’re saying. I didn’t build up this cane patch and mill because I like a little sugar in my tea.”

  Mr. Butts laughed, and the fear and worry had fled his face. His shoulders were squared again, his head high. He was not the same man who had stood in the shadows under the porch a half hour before.

  After fifteen minutes more of happy small talk he left. Samantha saw him to the door and returned to the office, then started gathering up the dishes.

  “Sit down, Sam. You look tired.”

  She obeyed and within moments, found herself relaxing, melting back into a chair still warm from Mr. Butts’s presence.

  Mr. Sloan was studying her with a wry, bemused look on his face. “Butts didn’t notice you, but I did. You gave more than passing interest to that little offer I made him. So tell me: what do you think of it?”

  “None of me affair, sir.”

  “I know, I know. You’ve a quick mind, Sam; you’re capable. More than capable. Just for curiosity, I’d like to know what you think. So forget indentures and master-servant and such for a moment here. Tell me what you see.”

  Should she be a quiet, perfect little know-nothing servant, or should she answer truly, since he asked? One of the reasons she could never keep a position long was her honest mouth. It opened now almost against her wishes. “If the final agreement includes the terms on that draft, I cannae believe he’d sign it. In essence it hands his whole property over to ye.”

  “Have some tea and pour me another. You put Queen Victoria in the flowered pot and Fortnum in the blue one, correct?”

  “You’ve a good sense of taste.”

  “And Butts has none. There are a few things a tea grower must have, and a delicate sense of taste is one of them, because the people who purchase tea can taste good from bad. The climate here in Queensland is too warm to grow really tasty tea. You need high elevations with cool weather for that. He complained about not supplying Australia. If his plantation produced a million pounds, I’d still buy my tea out of England and Canada because I can taste the difference.”

  “Ye think tea cannae be grown commercially here.”

  “On the contrary, it can. Most people don’t care about the subtle nuances of flavor, provided the tea is inexpensive.”

  “Which tea grown locally would be. Nae transport.” Samantha nibbled at the coffee cake, but her heart wasn’t in it. She must work to keep her tongue in check.

  “Spill it.”

  “What?”

  “Whatever’s bothering you.” Mr. Sloan polished off his third slice of cake.

  “Methinks ye’re taking unfair advantage of Mr. Butts in his extremity and it bothers me immensely.”

  “You, ah, failed to mention your school in your letter of introduction. University?”

  “I’ve had nae schooling of that sort, sir.”

  “Butts has. You’ve been in charge of a large business operation, I trust.”

  “Nae, sir. Supervised two dozen other girls at a woolen mill once, but then it closed.”

  “Butts’s tea plantation is an ambitious undertaking—more complex than a woolen mill.”

  “Oh, meself wasn’t in charge of the whole mill, sir. I—”

  “Right,” he interrupted. “Just a small part of it. Do you see my point?”

  “Nae, sir.”

  “Butts has chosen to play the game with the big boys, so to speak. Major investment in a large operation. No one forced him into tea growing. It started as a lark for him. And he’s well educated. Now, here’s a simple Irish servant girl without that education or ambition, and she sees right through my offer.”

  “In short, I was wrong to speak out just now, let alone peek at that paper.”

  “Not at all. Your indignation amuses me. In fact, I admire your principles. Now consider, Sam. I did nothing illegal or underhanded. I laid my offer right out front there, for him to take it or leave it. Apparently he’s choosing to take it. If an untrained servant can make a wise decision about it, shouldn’t I expect a trained businessman to know what he’s doing?”

  “If he takes yer offer, ye’ll be the rich robbing from the poor. A sad twist to the Robin Hood legend.”

  “Not quite.” He waved an arm over the melange of papers. “He says Sugarlea wasn’t hurt. Another wrong guess. What I’m telling you is for your ears only. We’re closer to insolvency than he is. That lost sugar crop will put me under unless I play my hand very carefully.”

  Samantha studied those dark, dark eyes for the longest moment. Somehow the master-servant division had blurred in these last few minutes. In Ireland she would never in her wildest imaginings expect to sit across from the master of the house and talk about business as if she were an equal. Was this strange, tenuous equality something unique to Australia or simply an anomaly of this particular household and the late hour?

  She poured the last of the Queen Victoria into her cup and didn’t care that it was cold by now. She stirred in a dollop of sugar and sat back, still thinking. “It seems to me, sir, if I read that rough proposal correctly, that your notion of diversification and Mr. Butts’s be not atall the same.”

  “Explain.”

  “Ye both agree a variety of crops and enterprises be beneficial to the local economy. Mr. Butts has in mind a variety of entrepreneurs. Yerself, methinks, has in mind all the crops under one ownership. Your own. Sugarlea, raising more than just sugar.”

  His eyes danced; their corners crinkled up. Was he bemused again, as he had mentioned once before, or was he simply playing her along, a cat with a mouse? “Explain further, Sam. Why variety?”

  “That I needn’t think about. Should a single crop fail, the whole plantation’s gang aglee. But ’tis nae likely that several crops would all fail together in a given year; ’tis the good crops carry ye over, so to speak.”

  “Very good.”

  “I should think, too, that a diversified district would be less likely to suffer doldrums, and would therefore attract ambitious people and thrive further; prosperity begetting prosperity, if ye will. I should think it well behooves ye as a businessman to attract our brightest and best.”

  And she froze. Brightest and best. When had she used those very words? When Edan’s shrouded body lay outside their door cooling off. Not that many months ago. Here she sat talking about attracting the brightest and best of Australia even as her Ireland, her beloved Ireland, was slaying them. She shuddered. />
  “Sam?” His sharp voice sounded worried. “You all right?”

  “I’m sorry; me thoughts strayed. The late hour, no doubt.”

  “I doubt it. You’re thinking very clearly. I’m impressed. And you’re right on all counts. Butts’s tea plantation is a boon to the whole district. But—John Butts is making a muddle of it. He’s not a tea grower. Poor businessman, doesn’t know the tea trade. Do I sit back and let his farm go under, to the detriment of the whole area, or do I step in and save it? Make it pay off, to the benefit of the whole region?”

  “Sir? Why be ye addressing all this to me? Why confide our financial state? Why encourage me opinion? Why any of this?”

  He studied her a moment and rubbed his chin. “I’m not sure. You’re a good servant, probably the best I’ve ever had, and I—”

  “Kathleen Corcoran was the best ye’ve ever had, I daresay.”

  He nodded. “True. Until she went wading. And I think I see in you far more than a mere indenture. You’re good. Very good. Even better, you know your place. You’ll not betray confidences. I can trust you.”

  “Sir, ye’ve asked me, in essence, to spy on the likes of Amena O’Casey and me own sister. If ye really trust me, please dinnae ask me to betray the chance confidences of others.”

  “Carrying tales is part of the job, my dear. From the servants to me, that is; but not what I tell you in confidence.”

  “I was afraid of that. But how can the girls’ romances and such be your concern?”

  “I just said Butts is no businessman. He thinks more money will save him. If he can just buy his way out of this hole, he won’t fall into that hole. No. Competent people—a good staff—are what keep you going. If I’m to save Sugarlea, I must expand her productivity beyond just sugar. Broaden her base. And for that I need workers, even more than I need money.”

  “I see. So when ye bring in a working girl, sure’n ye don’t want her marrying and running off right away.” Samantha drained her teacup. No, fair Meg, ye need not bother asking; he’ll not buy back yer indenture no matter what the price.

  “Precisely. When I hire, I’ve bought a proprietary interest in the hiree. He—or she—is mine, and I won’t have what’s mine ripped out of my hands.”

  Samantha stared at him and couldn’t stop. “The crocodile. Ye were so visibly angry. Ye seethed fury. But ’twasn’t because a poor woman be lost. The brute took something ye considered yer own. It bruised yer pride. ’Tis its effrontery that galled ye, and nae its ghastly deed.”

  “That bloody croc deprived me of a good worker.”

  Samantha set her cup on the tray. “I see, Mr. Sloan. I see a great deal.” She gathered in dishes and crumbs and napkins quickly. “Our conversation tonight will go nae further than this room so far as I’m concerned. But I shall mourn poor Mr. Butts, for I can see what’s coming.”

  “I expect that of you.”

  She stood erect with her tray. “And I mourn yerself, Mr. Sloan. This be surely not the last time ye’ll grasp a questionable business opportunity, nor probably is Kathleen Corcoran the last good possession ye’ll lose. I see more anger in yer future and more hard-heartedness. But nowhere in yer future do I see any happiness coming from all this.” She dipped her head, because carrying a loaded tray makes a curtsey next to impossible. “G’night, Mr. Sloan.”

  Chapter Seven

  Unanswered Questions

  Samantha plopped a dollop of sugar into her tea and crossed the kitchen to the woodbox. Luncheon was completed and dinner was not yet close enough to demand her energies. She sat down carefully on the blanket folded across the stove wood, lest the wood beneath shift and send her sprawling, and stretched her legs out full length. Her feet were tired. Her legs were tired. Her arms were tired. Her shoulders were tired. Her brain was very, very weary.

  The walking. So much walking. She thought about Ireland, dear old Ireland, so far away. By contrast, Erin was such a small country, and pinched together. Houses were tight, compact, stacked story on story. Town house shouldered against town house, and shops waited close at hand. Here the house sprawled casually out across its acres (it seemed) of floor space, and kept itself hundreds of feet aloof from its own outbuildings. The nearest neighbor lay at least half a mile distant.

  But it was more than the walking. Domestic work back in Cork drained her at times. And certainly Mr. Sloan maintained the accouterments of civilization as best he could. Yet somehow work here was infinitely more taxing. There was a pervasive wildness to the land, and that wildness had to be dealt with constantly.

  For one thing, Samantha was becoming a crackerjack wood-splitter, for the aboriginal lad assigned the job was more often than not nowhere around. Splitting this hardwood took skill and muscle. Samantha was developing the skill, but the work part wore her out. So did keeping this dense wood burning. No glowing peat fire, no gentle coal heat.

  She was getting pretty good at cutting up dead animals, too, for there were no butcher shops at all. She could dress out a sheep in no time flat now, right down to sawing through the bones. She had even served cassowary once, for that had been the only meat available. Just once. A tougher and less palatable bird she had never tasted.

  But it was more than that. Strange noises and alien calls put her on edge day and night. The rain forest brought unrecognized jungle creatures to her very doorstep. The forest crept in close, always closer, always trying to reclaim its lost ground, challenging axe and machete and cane knife.

  That’s it! she thought. Much of this constant weariness is surely nothing more than unfamiliarity with this new land. When I become better attuned to the forest and the sea, I will undoubtedly feel more relaxed and less wary, as Mr. Sloan and Doobie and the others have become. She left her teacup at the sink on her way out.

  She walked up the path toward the stable. It had been trimmed and cleared just recently—chopped leaves and branches still littered the ground—but already the forest was reaching out with new growth to close the wound. She passed Fat Dog and the horses all dozing in the midday heat, and continued back the trail along the creek.

  The dark green and the boggy ground and the tall bars of the strangler figs were as she had remembered them. Her shoes got soaked, and they squished where the path was marshy.

  She arrived eventually at that infamous pool. Did antediluvian monsters still lurk in the flat dark water, posing a threat to life and limb? Perhaps the beaters and the hunters had not killed them all.

  Silence. Peace. Samantha tried to picture Kathleen walking along this shore, disturbing the buzzy flies. With her mob cap a bright white spot in a dark world, she takes shoes in hand and wades out into the water—tepid water, so inviting. Suddenly, from out of nowhere … Mr. Sloan said Kathleen struggled. Screaming, flailing, she tries to return to shore. She almost makes it! But inexorably she is drawn back, back and down, beneath the dark water. The beast stuffs her limp body into its lair somewhere in that jackstraw pile of logs and swims away.

  No! Samantha could not imagine such a thing. Her mind would not even consider it. This place was too serene for such a horrid event to happen.

  An overwhelming sense of loss engulfed her. Edan. Kathleen. Even her Ireland, her lovely, familiar land, was lost to her, for she had no means to return, even if she could. The brooding rain forest—hot, muggy, close, confining; in short, everything Erin was not—pressed in upon her heart. It was gone, it was all so hideously gone.

  On the crook of a branch overhanging the water, a brilliant blue bird with a long beak perched. Suddenly it darted out over the pool, dipped against the surface and soared up to a distant perch, a silver fish flapping in its bill. Slow, lazy circles moved out from where the bird had touched serenity and left its mark. The circles faded to nothing; serenity prevailed.

  “Kingfisher. It’s a relative of kookaburras.”

  She shot straight up and wheeled. Cole Sloan stood not fifteen feet away, leaning against a tree with his arms folded. And he was grinning! She closed he
r eyes and took a few deep breaths, trying to convince her heart that it didn’t have to beat its fists against her breast. She walked over to what had once served as a chopping block and sat down.

  “’Tis lucky ye are, Mr. Sloan, that this humble servant girl nae would dream of punching ye for scaring her out of her wits.”

  “What’s this humble servant girl doing out in the bush?”

  “I dinnae know.” And she caught her breath, for she realized that she truly did not know.

  He moved in closer and leaned against a tree very near her. “I saw you leaving the compound. I was going to call you back but I changed my mind. Followed you, instead.”

  “And silently. I dinnae hear ye.” She stared out across the dark, silent pool. “She was young. Next best to being immortal, she said.” And Edan, too.

  He was watching the silence also. “Death is a fact of life, Sam. Strong ones win and weak ones die.”

  “Aye. Death and life. And fain would I understand either one, but I cannae.” She wagged her head and studied the dense, enclosing forest, pretending she could see beyond the trees. “I knew when I agreed to come that ’twould be different here, but … The map of Australia in me atlas back home has such broad blank spaces, including where we sit this moment. Yet I’ve heard ’tis nae all like this. That somewhere the closeness opens up and ye can see yer future nearly.”

  “None of it’s like this. You’re sitting in Australia’s only rain forest, that we know about, at least. Most of the country; small trees or none at all, low hills or none at all. Mostly it’s very dry, and flat forever.”

  “Meself cannae picture that—flat forever, I mean. ‘Outside the city’ means hills. Me father and me, we’d tramp the hills up behind Cork, and to the west. The Boggeraughs. Now and then we’d take a three-day holiday over to the Killarney lakes.”

  “Just you two?”

  “Aye. Meg be not one for tramping. Edan was working by age fourteen and Linnet and Ellis were too young.”