by Lena West
“After talking it over with your mother,” he bestowed the warmest of loving smiles upon his practical, no-nonsense wife, Maggie, “we have decided not to answer on your behalf, but to trust you to accept or decline as you see fit. Bear in mind, though daughter, this offer of marriage is one your mother and I have been hoping to receive for some time.”
A suddenly stern expression hinted she should think very carefully before refusing.
“It is towards this precise end we've granted you young people the freedom to get to know each other while you were growing up. Thomas as well. He brought young Stephen with him on his business trips so you and his boy would have the chance to become friends. Your mother and I are both so happy our forbearance has borne fruit. This very proper letter to me says everything a father wishes to see in a proposal of marriage.”
Peter Gordon allowed himself a deep, self-satisfied chuckle.
“There'll be no problems from his father either. I know from past conversations, my old friend, Thomas is bound to be just as happy with the match as we are.”
Stunned into open-mouthed surprise by the talk of marriage, Lucy began to relax at the mention of Thomas.
She knew only one Thomas with a bachelor son named Stephen, whom her father would designate as his old friend.
Anticipation began to fizz through her veins, bubbling up into outright excitement when her father picked up an unopened letter and passed it across the desk to her.
“Here you are then, Puss. Stephen Fortescue very properly wrote to you as well. No doubt you'd prefer to read his proposal in private. Off you go, daughter. Give your mother and I your answer when you're ready; although I'm sure I can guess what it will be.”
He chuckled again, pleased at the rising joy he read in her face.
“You have no need to guess, Papa. It is my pleasure to accept Stephen's offer of marriage.” Unaccountably shy, she had descended into formality.
“You may so inform him, Papa, but may I write to him myself?”
Lucy, clutching her precious letter to her bosom, bounced to her feet, excitement making her sweetly pretty face vibrantly attractive. Warm golden lights sparkled in her wide-open brown eyes, her best feature, although in the eyes of her indulgent father, no other girl held a candle to his little Lucy.
Faced with the imminent fulfilment of her most cherished dream, she forgot all about the childish pleasures she'd so recently been lamenting. Stephen Fortescue, the princely lover of her romantic girlish dreams, filled her thoughts.
“Certainly, my dear. It is quite acceptable for a young lady to exchange letters with her betrothed without asking permission, you know.”
Betrothed!
Betrothed to Stephen Fortescue! Lucy could barely contain her excitement.
Standing at the same time as her daughter, Maggie Gordon hugged the girl. The closeness between the two women whom Peter loved most in the world, brought a sentimental tear to his eye, which he hastened to wipe away before either noticed. He couldn't help observing how much his daughter was like her mother when he'd fallen in love with Maggie and carried her off in the teeth of her parents' opposition. He smiled fondly at the pretty picture they made together.
“I'm so happy for you, dear,” Maggie whispered, brushing away a solitary tear of her own, “although you must know I'm going to miss you dreadfully.”
Smiling into her daughter's heart-shaped, rosy face, pert dimples adorning both cheeks, she sighed in pleasure and patted the silky, light brown curls that framed it so delightfully.
Pretty and well-behaved; well, mostly well-behaved, she amended. Was ever a mother so blessed in her only child?
*****
Careless of crushing her skirts, Lucy threw herself down on her bed, leaning against the headboard, and carefully slit open her precious letter. Her first letter from the man she loved. She would treasure it forever, she sighed, clasping the precious missive to her bosom. Stephen Fortescue was the most handsome man of her acquaintance. How the other girls would envy her. She wasted a few moments lost in imagining her next meeting with her tall, sandy-haired, blue-eyed fiancé.
The very word was enough to bring a rosy blush to her cheeks and a tingling moistness in that private place between her thighs, of which she had recently become aware.
Biting her lip in embarrassment at the wanton thoughts creeping into her mind, she applied herself to Stephen's letter.
My dearest Lucy,
I've found myself thinking of you rather a lot recently. I've always enjoyed your company on my visits to your home and wished we could be together more often. There are so many things here on 'Eden Vale' I would like to share with you also. Such as watching the shooting stars flash across the brilliant, glittering night sky; or the pink glory of sunrise from the top of the ridge this district is named for.
I could take you for rides through the eucalypt forests, showing to you the cuddly koalas chewing on gum leaves high up in the branches; the spiky echidnas grubbing for termites, and the mobs of kangaroos bounding across the paddocks. I recall your particular fondness for our native birds and am pleased to be able to inform you of the flocks of vibrantly coloured parrots and honeyeaters of all varieties which abound in the forests. There are flowers too, especially in spring – wattles, banksias and flaming red bottlebrushes along with a myriad of others.
Wanton thoughts had fled following the introduction of the pastoral beauties of the bush. She loved the bush; loved the freedom she always experienced away from the confines of the town, but still ... Lucy giggled. She simply couldn't help it. This paean to the Australian bush was so unlike her practical, down to earth Stephen.
Although she had been in love with him, seemingly for ever, and truly believed their love to be mutual, Stephen had always been too circumspect to indulge in stolen kisses. They had never even exchanged whispered words of love; and obviously such words did not come easily to Stephen's pen. Yet the words he did write were lovely, almost poetic, and she'd be sure to hold him to these promises when she went to live with him in his home, Eden Vale, on Blue Gum Ridge. Which was soon about to become her home also.
She hadn't needed to think twice about accepting his proposal. Marrying Stephen had been her secret dream ever since the day two years previously when she had slipped on the muddy path, only to be caught up safely in his arms and clasped to his hard, muscular chest until he'd set her safely on her feet again. She had melted against him, her arms automatically wrapping themselves around him.
Breathless, her eyes had locked onto his so she couldn't tear her gaze away.
She had thought for one magical moment he was going to kiss her. Then he'd straightened, setting her firmly on her feet, and stepped away, placing her hand on his arm as they walked on. That too brief contact had stirred something primal to life inside her. Something new and exciting and more than a little scary that changed forever the way she viewed her friend.
In her dreams, he had kissed her. Soon he would in reality. All over again, Lucy found herself entertaining those wanton thoughts, accompanied by that delicious tingling awareness in her body. Once again, a rosy blush heated her cheeks as she fell into a daydream of the two of them exchanging kisses under that starry sky he spoke of or walking hand in hand among the flowers growing in the forests. It felt like the promise of a particularly desirable idyll.
Suddenly impatient, she shook herself free of her delightfully romantic daydreams, eager to read on to those oh so important sentences speaking of marriage.
Such a pity Stephen hadn't come in person, but she quite understood the constraints of farm life, and Stephen and his father were working farmers; not effete gentlemen pretending to be farmers while hired men did all the work. As Stephen's wife, it would be her role to support them, not drag them away from their duties to dance attendance on her; not when there were important tasks requiring their attention.
There and then, she formed the firm intention of being the very best wife a young farmer could have by his sid
e. Buoyed by natural optimism, she turned back to her letter.
But my dearest Lucy, it is not as a mere visitor that I wish to share the delights of my home with you. I want you to live here with me. I want us to spend our lives together; to grow old together, and watch our children and grandchildren grow up if we should be so blessed.
In short, Dearest, I want you for my wife.
I know we've not spoken of marriage before, but I cannot believe you to be unaware of the warmth of my feelings for you. I hold you in the highest esteem, however, and it would have been dishonourable of me to make romantic overtures while you were yet a child. Now you have celebrated your eighteenth birthday, you are a woman; and I can hold back no longer.
I felt writing this letter would be less embarrassing for both of us should my feelings not be reciprocated. Should such be the case, you can merely write back to say so and no more need be said. However, should our hearts be in accord, I'll swoop down on Morpeth and carry you off without more ado.
So, dear Lucy, will you do me the great honour of consenting to be my wife?
I will be eagerly scanning the mails for your reply; which, please God, will be the one I long to receive.
Yours forever,
Stephen.
What noble sentiments he expressed. Lucy sighed, clasping the letter to her bosom. If her heart wasn't already filled with love for him, this letter would have had her falling headlong in love with Stephen Fortescue. How would she ever be worthy of such a sterling young man?
*****
Lucy guessed Stephen had laboured over his letter to her, only she could never in a lifetime have guessed quite how difficult the task had been. He came to it straight from his reluctant promise to Isabella; could still smell the intoxicating musk of Isabella's perfume on his skin, distracting his thoughts with longing to be forever with the woman he truly loved; even though he knew such joy was not destined to be. He and Isabella were fated to suffer the cruelty of being star-crossed lovers; a modern-day Romeo and Juliet.
Even though it had been Isabella who pressured him into pursuing this sham of a marriage, it had been his father's suggestion in the first place. It felt uncomfortably disloyal to be upset with Isabella, so it was upon Thomas's long-suffering head Stephen savagely heaped all the blame for his being forced into taking this dishonourable, and most unwelcome, step. He hadn't shared his decision with his father yet, perversely
choosing not to until he received Lucy's, or her father's, reply. Let the Old Man worry and wonder for another week or two!
He deserved no less. Knowing how spiteful that decision was, did nothing to prompt him to alter it.
It was almost a week later before Stephen rode down the track to Merton's Store to post his letters to the Gordons. Days during which he stomped through the house, slamming doors and glaring at whoever had the misfortune to cross his path.
Angry, feeling hunted and hounded, the only respite he found from his guilt-ridden conscience lay in hard physical labour. With Archibald Cummings confined to the house with an attack of gout, and demanding the constant attendance of his wife, Stephen was temporarily denied even the fleeting solace of Isabella's arms.
He wished gout was a fatal disease; wished inoffensive Archibald Cummings would succumb and die a natural death. Then there would be no impediment to his marrying Isabella.
No, he didn't.
Not even to be with his true love forever, would he ill-wish the innocent man who stood in their way. Only, if God should be disposed to be helpful, he was cutting it awfully fine if the Gordons accepted his suit.
Sick at heart, Stephen dreaded returning to the homestead each night to face his father's stern, honest face across the table with a semblance of civility; retreating at meal's end to lock himself in his room, labouring over the damnable letter to Lucy.
He didn't really have to write to her, he supposed. The formal offer of marriage made to her father was sufficient; only somehow, it didn't feel right to him not to direct his question directly to the person most affected by it. He couldn't offer her his love, so it seemed inordinately important that he be scrupulously polite.
In the midst of his emotional turmoil he sorely missed the former companionship he'd shared with his father; missed their nightly games of chess, and Dad's pithy wit; but was still too miserable and angry, with himself as well as his father, to make the first move towards restoring their relationship.
The letter directed to Peter Gordon had been practical and to-the-point; relatively simple to compose with the help of a useful little volume he'd unearthed from his father's extensive library. However, nothing in this volume seemed to fit the bill when it came to Lucy. Her letter demanded a more personal touch.
He swore, tossing yet another crumpled sheet into the waste basket. Why did his words to Lucy keep turning out all wrong? If he'd known it was going to be so damnably difficult to write he'd never have tried, but once started, he gritted his teeth and stubbornly refused to give up.
It needed to be a proper proposal to keep faith with his promise to Isabella, yet he didn't want it to be too persuasive, since he was secretly hoping Lucy would refuse. Neither could it be so discouraging as to be an insult. In the end, he kept it brief and to the point, padding it out with references to nature when it seemed too terse. When all was said and done, he really did like Lucy and had not the least wish to cause her pain.
She was one of his oldest and dearest friends and didn't deserve to be caught up in the abominable melodrama his life had become.
In the end, he settled for telling the truth as far as he could, though he'd been unable to force himself to write even one lying word of love. Words of love were reserved for his one true love. For Isabella.
*****
Thomas noticed his son's vile mood; how could anyone not! It hurt him unbearably to see the boy in such distress. He longed to lift the burden from his young shoulders. Unfortunately, there was not a single solitary thing he could do. It was Stephen's problem. The solution must be Stephen's also, although he hoped he'd given the boy some useful suggestions. Thinking back, he didn't believe their contretemps constituted the sole cause of his son's distress, so hopefully there had been a falling out with that bloody witch, Isabella Cummings.
It took a monumental effort on his part not to ask; to keep his tongue firmly behind his teeth, but he managed it, waiting patiently till Stephen should get over his foul temper and see fit to confide in him once more.
If he ever does, Thomas thought, the fraught atmosphere in the house making him a prey to gloomy thoughts.
Thomas looked up as a noisy, squawking flock of crimson rosellas flew up from the creek, their vibrant crimson and azure beauty giving temporary ease to his heart. Buying Eden Vale on his arrival in New South Wales was the best move he'd ever made.
Other than marrying his Georgiana, of course. How he wished she was still by his side. He was plagued by the knowledge of his failure the other day. Georgie would never have permitted matters with their son to reach their present sorry state. How he missed her love and wisdom.
A fleeting grin flickered across his face, momentarily lightening its gloomy expression as he noted the speed with which the new fences were going up.
The speed due in large part to the way the boy was working off his bad temper, wielding axe and post-hole digger like a maniac, setting a pace with which the men in his team found it difficult to keep up.
It was true, no cloud was without some tiny, unexpected glimmer of silver in its lining, not even the black thunderheads hanging over Eden Vale. There was no real need for Stephen to do the work himself of course, since there were more than enough men employed on Eden Vale for such tasks, but he'd always encouraged the boy to share in the labour of running the property. Thomas firmly believed a man should know what was entailed in every task he assigned to others.
Thomas sighed. He hoped Stephen's accustomed sunny smiles would return soon. He missed them. Missed the companionship of his best mate.<
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*****
Euphoric over Stephen's proposal, Lucy went looking for her beloved grandmother, tracking her down in the herb garden, the old lady's favourite corner in the home she shared with her son, Peter, and his family.
It was a spot where she and her granddaughter often shared confidences in the cool, dappled shade of a spreading peppercorn tree.
“Grandmama! Grandmama, you'll never guess what's just happened.”
“So, if I'll never guess, maybe you'd better tell me love.”
She stripped off her gardening gloves, glad of an excuse to rest, and led the way to the comfortable seat in the shade. Even this early in Spring, the Australian sun had a fierce bite to it. Fanning her reddened cheeks, Susannah Gordon turned an expectant countenance towards the girl she loved so dearly.
“It's Stephen, Grandmama. Stephen Fortescue.”
Lucy's voice caressed the name as she uttered it, a blush adding delicate colour to normally pale cheeks.
“He's asked me to marry him! Oh Grandmama, I'm so happy!” Lucy flung herself into the old lady's arms, hugging her tightly.
Returning the exuberant hug, Susannah's heart skipped a beat. How could she dash her darling's joy? But it would be wrong to leave the girl in ignorance. That way lay the potential for real heartbreak if what she had heard was true.
Playing for time to choose suitable words to share her knowledge as gently as she could, she asked,
“When did he arrive, Lucy, dear? I'm sure I never heard any bustle of an arrival.” Lucy laughed from sheer joie de vivre.
“He didn't. It was a letter. He wrote to Papa, and to me, too, asking to marry me.”
Almost bouncing with excitement, she clasped both her grandmother's hands, wrinkled with age and spotted with sun blemishes from long hours working in her beloved garden, in her strong, smooth, youthful ones.
“Mama took me with her into Papa's office and Papa told me. He had a letter from Stephen asking for my hand. Both my parents approve. They're old friends with Stephen's father, as you know. They said they'd been hoping for a match between us; and yet they gave me permission to make up my own mind. Wasn't that wonderfully kind of them, Grandmama?” She didn't notice the slight frown creasing Susannah's brow.