by Lena West
Australian Historical
Romance
Unto Death
LENA WEST
Gymea Publishing
Published by Gymea Publishing
Copyright © 2017 Lena West and Gymea Publishing.
All rights reserved.
No parts of this work may be copied without the author’s permission.
https://www.facebook.com/LenaWestAuthor/
www.lenawestauthor.com
ISBN-13: 978-0-6482110-9-9
Disclaimer
This story is a work of fiction.
Names, characters, places and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to events, locales or actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Some actual locations may be referenced in passing.
Table of Contents
Disclaimer
Table of Contents
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
EPILOGUE
Here is Your Preview of Emily’s Baby
1
About the Author
Other Books by Lena West
Connect with Lena!
Dedication
To Darryl
1
I am Archibald Cummings, and I have a story to tell. Let me begin.
My life changed forever in February 1860, when I travelled to Parramatta to buy a champion bull to improve my breeding stock here on 'Far Horizons' in the Upper Hunter Valley. But that bull wasn't the only prize I brought back from my trip South. I met the most beautiful, most amazing woman it had ever been my misfortune to encounter. Yes, I say misfortune advisedly; because she noticed me, too.
“Damn it all Stephen! Don't you turn your back on me!”
Thomas Fortescue's face, already beyond red, edged towards an alarming puce, the blood thundering through his veins.
“I'm your father, and the very least you owe me is the courtesy of listening while I try to instil a little common sense into your thick skull!”
“Stop shouting at me Dad! I'm no longer a child you can order around.”
Stephen, red-faced and equally furious, stomach roiling, took a deep breath, firming his grip on his own flaring temper. God only knew how much he loathed angry confrontations. Usually he found a way to avoid them, and wished it were possible now. Fighting with his father, whom he respected and loved deeply, would achieve nothing but grief; for them both. He strove for a more conciliatory tone when he continued.
“I'm a man now, Dad; and I have a man's right to live my life the way I choose. A man's right to make my own decisions; even if they don't meet with your august approval.”
Gritting his teeth, he glared defiance, determined, somehow, to have his way in this, the most important argument of his life.
“Alright!”
Stung by the unaccustomed lash of his son's anger, Thomas, hand pressed against tightly closed eyes, inhaled slowly, holding the breath till his unaccustomed excess of temper was safely reined in. He waited a moment longer, until the blood pounding within his head slowed and he once again felt himself capable of civil speech.
“Alright, Stephen. I'm sorry I shouted at you. But even though you're grown, a man as you say,” - although whether any youngster of twenty-one years had sufficient maturity to be classed a man, he'd take leave to doubt – “you're still my son. I care deeply about you, Stephen. I always will; and when I see you making a grave mistake I can't help trying to set you right.”
“You only think I'm making a mistake because you're old. You've forgotten what it is to love.”
This was dangerous ground; the weak point in his argument. As Stephen very well knew, he was trespassing against all the rules of civilised society, and the uncomfortable position of knowing himself to be in the wrong had led him to lash out in retaliation.
“Stephen!”
Thomas recoiled from the venom in his son's voice. Turning to hide his pain, he leant his forehead against the cool glass of the window.
He needed to set the boy straight, that was irrefutable, but he'd back down for now rather than destroy completely their formerly close relationship. Grimacing, he rubbed a callused palm over his chest where sudden pain warned him to go easy.
Taking another deep breath, he further calmed himself before once more facing his son; this time deliberately employing a soothing, semi-jocular tone.
“I will admit to being past my first youth, Stephen, but I'm yet a long way from my dotage. And son, I loved your mother. With all my heart and soul. Our love for each other is the one thing I'll never forget. Never.”
He allowed the naked grief he still felt when thinking of his beloved wife's early death to show on his usually impassive face.
“My last promise to Georgiana was to take the very best care of you. Always. So please, can we sit down and talk this over like rational men?”
Thomas spent a long moment lost in thought, remembering the plans he and Georgie had made. His years in India with the army had been well spent. Through judicious business deals he'd successfully parlayed a comfortable inheritance into a sizeable fortune. Stephen, their first-born, was never meant to be an only child.
Their intention had been to establish a dynasty. Arriving in New South Wales in 1838, newly married and with a child on the way, he'd bought Eden Vale, one of the largest properties in this region, to become his family seat. With Georgie at his side they had built it into the highly profitable estate, producing grain, fruit, wool and prime beef, it now was. As well, he had his fingers in quite a few other profitable colonial pies.
After Georgie's death, all his hopes for the future became centred on his only child, Stephen, and the grandchildren he anticipated. Now, in 1860, with Stephen of marriageable age, those hopes had seemed near to fruition.
Until the extremely undesirable liaison the boy had recently formed placed this dream for the future in jeopardy.
Thomas gave himself a shake. Now was not the time for introspection, he had a crisis on his hands; one in which he was terribly afraid he might fail. But oh, how he wished Georgie, with her wise counsel, was at his side today.
A quick glance informed him his son had lost the bitter, angry expression which had struck fear into his heart. He breathed a little easier.
“Son, I was wrong to lose my temper and start shouting. I promise to listen to your arguments if you'll listen to mine. All decisions will then be up to you.” A silent prayer that common sense would prevail accompanied his words.
Stephen relaxed as the tension in the room abated. That sounded fair enough. Maybe his father wasn't as hide-bound as he'd thought.
Stomach settling, he nodded agreement and flung himself into his accustomed armchair to the left of the library fireplace. Truth be told, he was ashamed of his childish outburst. How could he expect the Old Man to take him seriously if his behaviour mimicked the tantrums of a spoiled brat? Which he'd never been permitted to become. From his earliest years he'd been trained to the responsibilities of his position, his father even going so far as to make him work alongside the men, learning how to do every single task necessary to the successful running of Eden Vale.
At the same time, Stephen was desperately serious in his love for Isabella Cummings, in spite of the seemingly insurmountable obstacles in their way. Never having fallen in love before, his first glimpse of Isabella's ripe, sultry beauty had struck at his
heart; a thunderbolt aimed by a particularly mischievous god. The heart-stopping intensity of his emotions in that moment had swept him off his feet; and, although he would be the last to admit it, swept away every vestige of common sense he possessed. His whole concept of right and wrong had been turned on end and cast to the wind.
Due to the necessarily secretive nature of the affair, he'd been unable to confide in anyone. The guidance afforded by his father's sage counsel had been sorely missed.
Disposed, therefore, to meet his father half-way, he hoped Thomas could steer him towards an acceptable solution to his present dilemma. Provided the solution was one which would grant him his heart's desire. He didn't really hold out a great deal of hope, though.
His father's social mores were too rigid, too old-fashioned, to allow his father to accept a forbidden love such as the one he and Isabella shared.
Thomas, breathing in the cleansing, aromatic scent of eucalyptus, let his gaze linger briefly on the gleaming brass ewer of fresh, purplish gum tips which presently filled the hearth; a tribute to the paucity of flowers now there was no woman of the house to take any trouble over the gardens. There had been no-one, he thought sadly, to care about such matters since his wife's death thirteen years earlier, but he still remembered the riot of colour surrounding the house during her lifetime. With a wary, sidelong glance, he seated himself rather more erectly opposite his son.
“You first.” Seemingly casual, Stephen waved his hand in his father's direction. “I'm listening.”
Another deep, calming breath. It was essential to Thomas that he remain in control of himself, not least for the state of his health.
His boy, his only child and the light of his life, was on a runaway course bound for certain disaster; and he didn't know if he could steer him to safety.
Blinded by the worst kind of hopeless, romantic infatuation as the boy was, Thomas was afraid there were no more arguments he could advance which had the slightest hope of impinging on the boy's damned, pigheaded determination; a trait inherited from himself, he acknowledged with a rueful shake of his head.
“I blame myself, you know,” he began, honestly believing he deserved the lion's share of the blame for the perilous situation his son was in. “It was selfish of me to keep you here by my side. Instead of hiring a tutor, I should have sent you off to school, then university. I've denied you exposure to the wider world, leaving you far too inexperienced; too vulnerable. Most young men of our class leave home for a time to learn the ways of the world and sow their wild oats. Only I couldn't bear to be parted from you, Son. Following your mother's death, you were all I had in the world, and foolishly, I clung to you too long.”
“Stop flagellating yourself, Dad.”
A tiny hint of sympathy crept into Stephen's voice. His next words carried no such softer tones.
“Although really, no amount of worldly experience would have made any difference to my feelings for Isabella.”
Stephen was adamant on this point and didn't miss his father's wince on hearing the unwelcome words. Besides, he did have the kind of experience his father was surely referring to.
He had fond memories of several visits to a certain Newcastle house of ill repute in the company of his best friend, Adam Merton, who worked for an import company in the busy port.
Since he was nine years old he had accompanied his father when he visited his friend and financial advisor, Peter Gordon, who lived in Morpeth, close to the busy port of Newcastle. In the last year or two he'd often gone alone with the men taking their produce down to the port to be shipped to Sydney. He had made the most of these excursions away from his father's watchful eye.
“That may be so,” Thomas replied. “However, with wider experience you would have dealt with this situation more maturely.”
Thomas caught a glimpse of Stephen's lips tightening, imminent mutiny once again casting a frowning darkness across his son's handsome countenance.
“But you're right; enough of pointless recriminations. Apart from all other considerations though, Stephen, predominant among them the marked difference in your ages, the unpalatable truth is, Isabella Cummings is a married woman! She's not for you, Son. How can she be? How can loving her hold any viable future? For either of you? In pursuing Isabella Cummings, you not only court disaster; you're doing her a great disservice. You will both earn the severest censure from society. Both of you will become outcasts, but the brunt of the blame will be visited upon her. Surely you don't want to expose her to such a damnably unpleasant fate.”
Thomas had already had the disagreeable experience of overhearing the disturbing rumours circulating among their neighbours. What would happen when Isabella's husband became aware of them, as he undoubtedly would? At all costs, he must save his boy from ruin. Or worse.
Coming between a man and his wife was liable to attract greater danger than scandal.
Thomas shuddered, remembering a duel fought for just such a reason, which had resulted in the death of a fellow officer during his army days. He redoubled his efforts to steer his beloved son onto safer ground.
“Do you imagine for one minute, that Archibald Cummings is going to step aside and condone his wife's having an affair?” Thomas continued.
“Absolutely not!” he thundered, bringing his fist down with a bang on the arm of his chair. Stephen flinched.
“You're fortunate he hasn't already become aware of what is going on behind his back. There's no future other than tragedy in a liaison such as yours, Stephen. It's always so when one takes liberties with another man's wife.”
Stephen, squirming in his seat, hung his head.
His father's words were irrefutable.
There were a few more unpalatable truths; unsavoury truths; Thomas could tell about that damnable piranha of a woman; only the mood the boy was in he'd refuse to believe them. Instinctively, Thomas knew he would gain no advantage from trying to blacken Isabella's name. Quite the contrary. Such a move would serve only to drive Stephen further from him than he already had. Straight into the woman's arms. He didn't know the full extent of the affair; feared knowing; although, as rumour would have it, he was already too late to nip it in the bud. He could only pray Stephen's infatuation proved to be as short lived as these affairs usually were.
The woman would be bound to expose her true nature sooner or later, and surely Stephen would be disillusioned enough to break away when that day came. Thomas prayed it would come sooner.
“Isabella and I could go away together,” Stephen began, somewhat tentatively. He saw his father shake his head, and spoke more urgently.
“We could, Dad, I've been thinking. You and I have been discussing the potential benefits of acquiring another property in the new country being developed in Queensland. Why don't we go ahead with the plan? I'll persuade Isabella to go with me, and we'll say she's my wife. Nobody will know the difference.”
Thomas cringed at the preposterous idea.
“Everyone would know,” he ground out. “The colony isn't big enough to hide a scandal of such elephantine proportions. Think about it Son.”
He searched his mind, triumphantly pulling out the one unassailable argument his son had no option but to accept.
“Even if you could pull it off, do you really think Isabella would agree? She's a woman who enjoys her comforts. Somehow I can't see her in the role of a frontierswoman.”
Although, Thomas admitted to himself, as a last resort, the suggestion held considerable appeal; provided his son went north unaccompanied by his paramour.
Stephen stared blindly at his boots. Isabella had already shown herself to be recalcitrant in committing herself openly to their love. He hated to admit it, but his father had the right of it.
His next words, born of hopeless desperation, came out tinged with unintended sarcasm. Not that he really expected a workable solution; he'd racked his brains for days over this very problem and had about given up hope.
“What do you suggest then, Dad?”
“Stephen!”
Isabella hissed her annoyance with her impetuous young lover when he pulled her into his arms in the middle of the morning. In the middle of her garden with the house full of spying, disapproving servants merely yards away.
Tall for a woman, pale olive skin attractively flushed, albeit with annoyance, and eyes the deepest of velvety browns, now emitting a dagger-like glare, she pushed him from her and stepped back to a more circumspect distance.
“What are you thinking of?” she hissed through perfect lips delicately enhanced with rouge. “With all the gossip doing the rounds we agreed to be more careful and not take unnecessary chances.”
“It's alright my darling.”
Stephen reached for the sable-haired beauty only to be repulsed once again when she raised her fan as a barrier between them. A pulse throbbed at his temple and his lips thinned to an angry line. “I saw Archibald heading towards the timber-felling camp.” Even to himself, he sounded petulant. Striving for a more mature tone he continued, “He'll be gone for hours, Darling. We're quite safe.”
“It's not only him we need to beware of, my foolish pet.” Isabella, ever observant, had noted his annoyance. She moderated her tone to a seductive coo and risked giving her delightfully youthful lover's cheek a gentle pat.
“This prison of a house is full of nasty, watching eyes and tattling tongues.”
Instantly contrite, Stephen was quick with his apology.
“Oh. Of course. I'm sorry my love, I forgot. I won't stay long, but we need to talk. You can pretend I really came with a message for Archibald. Dad knows about us Isabella, and we need to discuss what we should do. No. No, he doesn't know everything,” he hastened to reassure a horror-struck Isabella. “He'd heard the rumours someone's been spreading about us, and taxed me with them.” Defiance chased the melting glow of love from his eyes. Chin up, he added, “I couldn't lie to him, Darling; not about something so terribly important as our love for each other.”