Not here. Stones like bald white heads lay wherever they appeared. The ground remained all chopped up and lumpy, for no one took the trouble to smooth it in any way. Sticks and leaves and severed branches stuck out of the tortured dirt, and you just knew that in a few days the weeds would be back—the forest’s first steps toward reclaiming its own. In this jumbled plot that could nowise be called a garden a score of hands planted the banana stocks.
Samantha the cook found herself pressed to service as farmhand as well. Under penetrating sun they worked, burying in the disturbed soil each chunk of banana plant along with a few fish for fertilizer. The scrambled mess which Mr. Sloan called his banana patch was completed by evening, but supper would be late.
Finally, after an eternity in the broiling sun, Samantha could return to the dark and quiet kitchen. Her nose would probably never forgive her for frying it so today. She tried to wash her poor roughened hands. They smelled of thoroughly dead fish, no matter how hard she scrubbed. Her fingernails were broken back to the quick, and yet they still tenaciously held dirt that could not be brushed out, try as she might.
Why did Mr. Sloan hate Luke Vinson so? Was it those notes or something else, something deeper? And what could the preacher man ever want with all those oxcart-loads of useless vegetation? Such a disquieting place this was! Samantha felt even more an alien and she couldn’t explain why. Nothing seemed to fit right; nothing lined up correctly with what she had always assumed was common sense.
She tried to write a long letter to Mum that night. She said they planted bananas but there she stopped. How could she describe the lackadaisical way they halfway cleared the land? Her parents would think this place even more savage than it was. Mum’s letters already as much as accused Samantha of living in a grass hut and eating insects. Or would they, after all, be right?
She found herself wandering through the darkened house. She rapped softly at the office door and obeyed the call to enter. “Would ye be liking tea or such, sir, before I retire?”
“Your father’s a cabinetmaker, you said.” His sleeves were rolled to the elbow and his shirt open. He looked even wearier than Samantha felt.
“Aye, sir.”
“What does he pay for planed ebony and mahogany?”
“I’ve nae inkling, sir, but I’m writing to them tonight. I can ask.”
“Do that. I want the retail price he pays as a workman. All the major hardwoods, particularly imports. A steamboat will be leaving Mossman Friday morning. Make sure your letter’s aboard her and request a prompt reply. Tell him I asked.”
“Aye, sir. Tea?”
He rubbed his face. “Why not? What’s in the pantry?”
“Meself’ll prepare ye a tray as the water’s heating.”
He nodded and stared at his desk. “Serve me an extra five hundred pounds sterling along with tea while you’re about it.”
“I’ll check the pantry, sir, and fetch whatever money I find there.”
Their eyes met and for a delicious moment shared the escape that friendly banter provides. She returned to the kitchen with a lovely, strangely warm feeling. For a few brief minutes at least she was shaking that miserable sense of alienation.
The fruit bread was gone so she sliced fresh fruit itself and arranged it on a platter. She thought long and hard about putting two teacups on the tray and decided on one. Two would be presumptuous. Then genius struck. She would leave a teacup and saucer on the mantel in the parlor halfway between kitchen and office. Should he suggest she get a cup and join him, she could do so quickly. Delighted by her own cleverness, she returned to the office and poured tea for her master.
He sipped at it. “Queen Victoria.”
“Y’re out of the Fortnum and Mason, sir. ’Tis this or the Murchie’s Lapsang souchong.”
“Lapsang souchong smells like a burned barn.”
“Aye, the dry stuff does. But the brewed tea be tasty.” She glanced at him hastily. “Me own humble opinion, sir.”
He burst out laughing. “Sam, you should be the mistress of a vast plantation. You’ve too many strong opinions for a servant.”
“Me brash and forward tongue be a vice, sir, which mehopes to conquer. A woman’s tongue is the most unruly part of her.”
“I’d be a fool to argue. So tell me, brash and forward servant, what Vinson is doing with his dead cane.” He chose a slice of fruit without really looking; she noted he seemed attracted more to red than to cream or green.
“The ox drivers should be able to tell ye before too long.”
“One of them’s already returned. Gantry was right. Townsville. Railroad head.”
“And no hint where from there?”
“The driver claims there was a lading order with a name on it, but he can’t read.”
Samantha smiled. “Perhaps ye ought hire only laborers out of university.”
“As strong as the labor unions are getting, it may come to that.” He paused and frowned. Someone was pounding on the front door.
“‘Scuse me.” Samantha curtseyed and hurried out and down the hall. She felt vaguely disappointed that Mr. Sloan had not asked her to sit and join him. Silly Sam! Why should he do that? And yet, the disappointment persisted. Perhaps if they had not been interrupted now by this late-evening caller …
She opened the front door.
In the gloom under the porch a chunky man in a tunic removed his helmet. “Constable Percy Thurlow for Cole Sloan, please.”
“Come in.” She made a brash, forward decision and conducted the gentleman straight back to the office. She stepped inside the door. “Constable Thurlow, sir. Another cup for tea?”
The constable extended his hand to Mr. Sloan. “Not for me, thank you. Can only stay a moment. We’ve received word, sir, that your cane-cutter—Vickers is his name?—is being held down in Cairns as regards your verbal complaint. Until you sign a formal complaint against him, however, they can’t hold him long. Thought I’d tell you tonight without waiting for morning.”
“I appreciate your extra effort, Constable Thurlow, very much. I’ll get right on it. Go to Cairns myself. Thank you!”
The man hesitated, head atilt. “Your complaint said something about suspicion of theft? You think he stole from you when he left?”
“Something like that, yes.” Mr. Sloan came around his desk to escort the man out personally.
This was none of Samantha’s affair. She should remove the fruit dish and tea, but was Mr. Sloan finished with it? She ended up following the men at a respectful distance.
Mr. Sloan closed the door and pivoted. “Sam, get Fat Dog up. I want Gypsy saddled now. And tell—”
“You’re leaving for Cairns tonight, sir?”
“Moon’s in first quarter. Light enough. And tell him he’s to—no. I don’t want Gantry, I want you. You’ll ride Sheba.” He headed for his rooms.
“Sir?” She ran up behind him. “Ye be telling meself to ride upon a horse to Cairns with ye tonight? Me?”
Ridiculous!
He turned so abruptly she nearly bumped into him. “Why not?”
“For a start, sir, meself has never ridden horseback, save for a few gentle rides on a plow horse at an uncle’s. And I’ve me duties here and all.”
“Your duty is to serve my needs, and I may well need a woman as a matron, possibly even to go places men can’t go. Tell Fat Dog to fetch the horses down, now.”
“Aye, sir.” Samantha was halfway to the stable before she had worked out what was really happening. Vickers the cane-cutter had run off with Amena O’Casey. That was the theft in question. Mr. Sloan would bring Amena back, by hook or by crook, because she was his. His was a prior right even stronger than the tug of true love. His was the right by reason of economics. The crocodile had robbed him of one servant. That upstart Vickers would not deprive him of another.
And Samantha? She who hated intrigue was right smack in the middle, and about to make an utter fool of herself. Horseback. Fifty miles.
Sure and s
he should have emigrated to Boston.
Chapter Ten
Just Plain Pain
When Samantha was young and carefree (though she didn’t know then just how carefree she was), she used to ride the great Shire mare named Molly on her uncle’s village farm behind Ballincollig. That broad, flat back would wedge her legs nearly straight out. But even when Uncle Colin urged Molly to a lumbering jog, Samantha had no trouble staying on; she would simply grip the nickel-plated hames tightly, one in each hand, and laugh as she bounced up and down. Much as she liked horses, that was the sum of her experience as a horsewoman.
Until now.
The first four hours of the ride south, with the rising moon splashing black and silver on the road, wasn’t all that bad. They pounded on the door of a tiny inn until the sleepy-eyed owner fed them bread and cheese as their horses rested.
Samantha’s first major error on that journey was climbing back in the saddle after those four hours. Precisely at the joint where leg meets torso, pure, unadulterated pain stabbed her. She assumed it would abate. It did not. Three hours further into that hideous night, she became aware of a new seat of pain, literally: the places where her hip bones most closely surfaced.
Mr. Sloan seemed not the least discomfited. He kept Gypsy at a smart, even walk as Sheba rambled along behind. The eastern sky turned from charcoal gray to misty silver. There would be no bright sun today—a blessing to an Irish girl whose nose tended to peel. Hazy overcast dulled the light and muted the forest greens.
Samantha tried to shift in the saddle. No position, no change of weight distribution helped. Raw pain. Raw, unmitigated pain. She made her second error an hour past sunrise as they stopped at another of the country’s ubiquitous roadside taverns: she dismounted.
The dismount began innocently enough. She tipped her weight onto the left stirrup and hauled her right leg up and across the horse’s back. She must have watched riders do that a thousand times. She herself had done it more than once. Not this time. Her knee buckled. Her ankle relaxed and her foot slid out of the stirrup. She grabbed the pommel and a fistful of Sheba’s mane, trying wildly to catch herself. Her right leg, as useless as her left, came sliding down like a falling log; its heel gouged poor Sheba’s flank. The startled mare threw up her head and sidestepped. That ended it. Samantha’s grip melted and she flopped in the dirt, a defeated, pain-racked parody of a horsewoman.
She couldn’t move her legs. She couldn’t even sit up straight for the aching stiffness in her bottom half. She sat leaning at an angle with both hands in the dust; she snuffled, and she tried to keep the tears from coming. It took several moments for her to muster the courage to look up.
He stood towering before her, leaning casually against Gypsy, watching. It wasn’t a smile; it wasn’t even a smirk; but the look on his face maddened her. As if she didn’t know already, his eyes told her that he was in complete control and she was in absolute shambles.
He extended a hand. “Haven’t been riding much of late, I take it.”
She didn’t move. “On the contrary, sir. I’ve been riding twelve hours too much of late.” She looked at that warm, waiting, steady hand. “’Tis nae good, sir. They won’t work. Me legs have gone on strike and I dinnae blame them the least bit.”
He chuckled as he shouldered Sheba aside and stepped in behind her. The long, sleepless night hadn’t sapped his strength at all. He hooked under her arms and hauled her swiftly, deftly to her feet. She clung to Sheba’s mane and tried to make her legs stiffen up and behave. Why did she always end up with all the suffering and inconvenience? If there really was a God, He had a dismal way of playing favorites.
Mr. Sloan piloted her to the door and her legs actually began to function on their own as they entered the little tavern. He pointed to a wicker chair with arms, at a table in the middle of the room. “Sit there.” He left her to lower herself carefully (very, very carefully) into the seat and crossed to the door behind the bar.
She heard him discuss what was undoubtedly breakfast, but she paid no attention to the words. She ached so all over that surely she could not sleep even if there were opportunity.
But there would be no opportunity. How far had they come? How far need they go? She sighed and her ribs hurt.
He flopped down in the chair at her left and stretched his long legs out. “Breakfast in five minutes. He has the hostler up to look after the horses. And he’s bringing you the pillow off his bed.”
“The pillow—?” She felt her cheeks flush. “Meself hardly doubts that ye’re very sorry ye brought me.”
“Sorry? No.” Those dark eyes sparkled. “Amused.”
The heat in her cheeks turned to rage. She must keep her tongue in check.
He waved a hand. “The first day, you’re afraid you’ll die. The second day, you’re afraid you won’t. The third day is apples. Very few horsemen die of saddlesores.”
“Ye can well afford a cavalier attitude. No doubt ye grew up riding horses.”
He smiled and his voice softened. “No. I was once right where you are, pillow and all. I’m a city boy; grew up with streetcars and omnis and a racy little Stanhope gig of which I was extremely proud. Never sat a horse before I came to Mossman.”
With a big, white, fluffy pillow in his hand, the tavern keeper came waddling out. “As ye requested. Ye want molasses for your porridge?”
“Brown sugar, please.” Samantha stood up oh so cautiously and arranged the pillow in the chair. She lowered herself. Ahhh. “And so, Mr. Sloan, if ye be such a city fellow, how do ye do so well as a farmer and pastoralist?”
“By doing what Mr. Butts will not do—learning and adapting. He thinks he can grow tea without becoming knowledgeable about tea. Before I took my first step north from Sydney, I made sure I knew what cane needs to grow, and what I would need to grow it, and where my transportation would be found once it was milled. I didn’t send for those banana stocks until I knew they’d produce in this climate. I can tell you more about growing tea than some Chinese can.”
“So ye do intend to relieve Mr. Butts of his plantation.”
His face changed slightly and she could not read the expression. “I forgot how sharp you are. I’ll not make that error again.”
And then the sausages arrived, followed closely by the porridge, and Samantha quickly learned that her churning stomach was eager to accept whatever she sent down. They lingered over tea. Samantha talked about Uncle Colin’s farm and Mr. Sloan actually seemed interested. He paid for breakfast and, bless him, bought the fellow’s pillow.
The pillow didn’t make much difference at all; riding Sheba hurt as badly as ever—maybe even worse. But the pillow was so fluffy with shelduck feathers, Samantha could convince herself that it surely must make a vast improvement. Ergo, it did. The human mind, properly flummoxed, is a wonderful thing.
They arrived in Cairns not long past one in the afternoon. The only evident life was the ever-present flies buzzing in clouds around whatever might in the least way attract them. The sweat on Samantha’s brow attracted them. The horses attracted them. Garbage middens, tangles of seaweed on the shore, horse plops in the street, fishy grease spots on the wharves—hundreds of things in Cairns proved interesting to flies.
The houses intrigued Samantha, and almost made her forget her suffering. Most of them perched awkwardly on stilts, a story above ground level. Everything from buggies to hogs occupied the shady spaces below the floors. Were storms so wild here that stilts were the only way to keep the surf out of your parlor? Was this particular architecture simply an extension of the thatched-roof huts of nearby island habitations? Houses well uphill of the shore were built thus even as stores and homes on the very beach hugged the ground on conventional foundations. Most curious.
They passed a knot of aboriginal hovels near the shore. Nondescript gray dogs lolled in the shade with their tongues out and watched the horses pass. Out on the end of a pier sat two black girls in simple cotton shifts. They dangled their legs, kicking idly
as they talked—such a … a … human thing to do. How many times had Samantha and Meg sat like that talking, on a lake pier or waterfront quay or the loading dock where Ellis worked his pony wagon?
Samantha assumed Mr. Sloan would be seeking out a nice restaurant. No such thing. They passed several without pausing. He dismounted finally in front of a shabby horse barn on a back street. But of course. Sheba was stumbling and Gypsy had completely lost her prancing lilt. The horses come first, Sam. The horses always come first.
The Livery sign had weathered to a few flecks of paint. Lining one side of the shed were buggies Samantha would not trust to make it around the block. Ramshackle fences pretended to be strong enough to contain the dozen brumbies dozing in the paddocks. No one had done a thorough cleanup lately.
Samantha slid cautiously to the ground and clung awhile to the saddle, until her legs regained their starch.
Mr. Sloan picked her pillow up from where it had fallen into the dirt. “This stays with her saddle. I’ll expect them to be ready an hour after sunrise tomorrow.”
The hostler grunted. “Do I lead ’em away now or do I stand about while the lady hangs there some more?”
Samantha drew herself up and risked stepping back. To her relief, her legs still functioned. “Ye best hold yer tongue or else speak respectfully, sir. Meself has just ridden fifty miles farther than ever I’ve ridden before in me life, and I daresay I’ve reached this far end of the sojourn in better shape than many a woman might. I’ve naething to be ashamed of and yerself has naething to make fun of.”
The hostler mumbled something apologetic and led the horses away.
There, her mouth had spoken out rashly again. It was Mr. Sloan’s province to reprimand the man, if he was to be reprimanded—not hers. She glanced guiltily at her employer as she assayed a few trial steps toward the street.
Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) Page 10