Unto Death

by Lena West

  She didn't have time for the weakness of tears, no matter how agonising the pain in her heart. And she wouldn't, absolutely wouldn't, leave this sanctuary with red, swollen eyes, advertising her distress to the whole household.

  I’ve been a silly little girl, she told herself sternly, dreaming romantic dreams I should have put aside on becoming a wife. She would put them aside now.

  Truthfully, love was a boon granted to none but the lucky few. Apparently, Lucy Fortescue was not numbered among them. She would be lucky if she could depend on Stephen to continue treating her with kindness and a modicum of affection when she …

  Wait, Lucy ordered herself, sitting straighter in her chair. Wait.

  She recalled Grandmama's lessons on managing a husband. This horrible business warranted the very strongest of management if ever anything did. She considered her options a while longer.

  If she confronted Stephen with her accusations, she would certainly drive him from her side. Gloom descended upon her when she realised he would probably run straight to Isabella, the very opposite of what she wanted to happen.

  If they argued it was inevitable things would be said. Unpardonable things that could never be recalled. Even if she succeeded in separating Stephen from That Woman, her marriage might become a hollow shell; a mere shadow of what it ought to be. Should be.

  Sister Mary Magdalene had talked to her of her duty. Grandmama had given her the weapons to fight with. Lucy forced herself to smile, although the result was a grim travesty of her former sunny smiles.

  She felt she had aged at least a hundred years in the space of one morning. Catching sight of herself in the mirror on the wall opposite, she was amazed to see how completely normal she still looked.

  I can do this. I can hide my pain and carry on as usual while fighting a very private war for everything I hold dear.

  She would fight her enemy with each, and every weapon that came to hand.

  Standing, she picked up the tea-tray and made her way with it to the kitchen.

  She had sworn once before to fight for her man, then mistakenly thought him already won. Now battle was about to be joined in earnest. How much simpler it would all be if she could ride out armed with sword and pistol and fight her enemy to the death, no quarter given.

  At that moment, if she'd had a gun in her hands and Isabella Cummings in her sights, she'd have pulled the trigger.

  *****

  “Good morning, Dad. I missed you at breakfast. Who is this young man then?”

  “This lad? He's Josh, from Far Horizons with an invitation to a dinner in your honour tomorrow night.”

  Lucy's senses went on high alert.

  “Josh Watson?”

  The boy nodded, whipping his hat off and clasping it to his thin chest.

  “Yeah, Missus.”

  “Well, Josh Watson, I'm very happy to meet you. I believe you were here yesterday, too?”

  “Yeah, Missus. Missus Cummings, she give me a note fer Mr Stephen.”

  Thomas threw back his head, his amiable smile a distant memory; his eyes narrowed to slits. His reaction was a tacit confirmation of Lucy's worst fears.

  “Are you sure, lad. It might have been for me.”

  “No sir, it weren't. The missus partik'ly said ta give it ta Mr Stephen and nobody else. Sir.”

  Meeting Thomas's fierce glare, Josh took a step back.

  Creating a mild diversion, Lucy offered the boy refreshments.

  Uncomfortable under Thomas's stern glare, he declined, eager to escape. The excuse of a pouch full of other invitations to be delivered ensured his escape.

  ***

  So that was how they arranged their meetings, Lucy mused. They used Josh Watson as their go-between.

  No room now to hope she was mistaken. Lucy changed her mind about helping the girls peg out the wash. Needing to escape from friendly chatter and too-observant eyes, she clapped her broad-brimmed straw hat on her head and went to weed the new borders at the front of the house. Sometime later, Old Pete shuffled up to her, trundling a barrow to collect her growing pile of weeds.

  “You didn't oughta be out 'ere in the 'ot sun, doin' me job for me missus. Not thet I'm not grateful, mind, 'cause I am. Only if you end up sunstruck, thet there Bridget Murphy'll be after me 'ide.”

  Lucy laughed, pleased to discover she was still able to, with her heart so heavy.

  “You leave Bridget Murphy to me,” she reassured him.

  She had quickly developed a fondness for Pete Smith. He was a decent old bloke who worked miracles in the garden in his quiet way. He leaned on his shovel, settling in for a chat.

  “Saw young Watson 'ere earlier?”

  “That's right, Pete. We're invited to dinner at Far Horizons tomorrow.”

  “He were 'ere yesterd'y too, carryin' notes.”

  “So I've heard.”

  Lucy stood and stripped off her gloves, amusement forgotten. She'd had enough of this conversation. She didn't have to put up with being interrogated by the gardener.

  “I jest thought, missus, I might keep an eye out like, and let ye know if I see 'im about agin. 'im and 'is notes.”

  Arrested, Lucy turned back, meeting the old man's honest, unflinching gaze. Unspoken understanding flowed between them. After a very long moment, she gave a brief nod. Moving off, she spoke softly over her shoulder.

  “You do that, Pete. I would be most interested to hear.”

  “Thought ye might, missus. Thet I did.”

  Satisfied he’d not been mistaken in the missus, the old man picked up the handles of the barrow and ambled off around the corner.

  Lucy watched till he was out of sight. It seemed prayers were sometimes answered, even if the means were somewhat unexpected. She was no longer alone. She had a co-conspirator whose contribution to her cause might prove to be very valuable indeed.

  Forewarned was forearmed; and knowing when an illicit assignation was imminent was a very powerful weapon indeed. When Pete’s warning came, she'd only to stick to Stephen like a burr in a fleece. Let Isabella see how she liked it when Stephen failed to show.

  *****

  Surveying herself in the cheval glass, Lucy felt distinctly nervous. This was taking the fight to the enemy with a vengeance. She was determined to show to advantage next to Isabella Cummings and had dressed to showcase her most significant advantage over the other woman – her youth.

  The pale pink of her silk taffeta evening gown was an excellent foil for her delicate colouring. The narrow band of darker pink embroidered rose-buds just above the hemline drew attention to her youth, yet the decolletage and off-the-shoulder bodice, subtly displaying the enticing mounds of breasts her husband had so often caressed, was too sophisticated for a mere schoolroom miss. The simple, almost straight, front panel swept back into a demi-train displayed her shapely figure, of which she had no need to be ashamed, to full advantage.

  She clasped a very tasteful, very expensive, diamond pendant hung on a diamond studded chain, Stephen's wedding gift to her, round her neck.

  Yes.

  She smiled at her reflection, thoroughly satisfied with what she saw. From the top of her elaborately coiffed curls to the tips of her glittering evening shoes, she was the picture of a fashionable, well-bred young matron. She thanked Deirdre, who had helped her with the row of tiny buttons down the back and headed for the drawing room.

  Both Thomas and Stephen were generous with their compliments when she pinned her gayest smile to her lips and joined them to set out for Far Horizons. Stephen had been quite gratifyingly solicitous all day.

  Guilty conscience, she assumed, repelled, but thoroughly prepared to take advantage.

  Last night, still coming to terms with her altered situation, she had found it difficult to respond to his advances, excusing her lack of enthusiasm by claiming a touch of the sun from her gardening.

  Tonight, she'd be ready to deploy her weapons to the best advantage.

  *****

  Archibald and Isabell
a Cummings stood at the front entrance to Far Horizons homestead to welcome their guests. It gave Lucy a little burst of extra confidence when she saw she had guessed correctly.

  Isabella, decked out in attire as up-to-the-minute as Lucy's own, managed to appear vulgar, at least to the female eye. Her red and gold gown was a little too vivid; the neckline dipping considerably lower than was generally considered acceptable in polite colonial society.

  The male guests might think she was just the thing; the female contingent knew better.

  As would Isabella, when she became aware of their unspoken censure. She would be left in no doubt she came in a poor second to Lucy Fortescue in the field of social acceptability.

  Lucy lay her fingers lightly upon her husband's arm and trod confidently up the shallow steps to greet her hosts.

  “Stephen, my dear. I'm so happy to welcome you to my home,” Isabella tittered.

  “You too, Lucy I mustn't omit the guest of honour.”

  While his wife gushed over the young couple, Archibald wrung his friend's hand.

  “Good to see you, Thomas. We need to talk about mustering over on the flats, but that can wait till later. Now I'd like an introduction to your lovely daughter-in-law. My wife had the pleasure of making her acquaintance in Sydney,” he said, causing a frown to flicker across his friend’s face.

  Neither Stephen nor Lucy had mentioned the meeting, and Thomas couldn’t help wondering what had transpired.

  “Now it's my turn,” Archibald concluded.

  He bowed over Lucy's hand with delightful, old-fashioned courtesy.

  “Pleased to meet you, Mrs Fortescue. Stephen,” he stretched his hand to offer a brisk shake, “I must congratulate you, son. You're a lucky man to have won the affection of this lovely young lady.”

  Lucy and Stephen murmured their responses, then, the next guests on their way up, Lucy tucked both neatly gloved hands around her husband's arm and, without a sideways glance, led him away from his hostess, into the drawing room.

  For the next half hour, they circulated among the other guests, all of whom Lucy had met on previous occasions and felt entirely comfortable with.

  When Mrs Watson, the housekeeper at Far Horizons, rang the dinner gong, Isabella danced into the centre of the room and dramatically clapped her hands for attention, waiting till all eyes were on her.

  “My husband and I were away when dear little Lucy was introduced to local society, so we decided to hold this dinner party in the bridal couple's honour. Since Stephen and Lucy are therefore our guests of honour tonight, I know none of our good friends gathered here will mind breaking with protocol. Archibald, my dear, will your escort Lucy in, and Stephen, you are with me.”

  Lucy wondered sourly if she was the only one to detect the gloating satisfaction in their hostess’s carefully modulated tone.

  Isabella, matching actions with words, promptly latched onto Stephen's arm, leading the way into the dining room.

  There were several points in that very annoying speech Lucy felt moved to take violent exception to; not least Isabella's sugar-sweet, 'dear little Lucy' which had been so deliberately patronising. However, there was nothing she could do other than smile warmly at Archibald, her fellow victim, for whom she felt a great deal of sympathy, take his arm, and follow.

  Too far down the table to hear the conversation at the other end, Lucy was, all the same, fully aware of Isabella monopolising Stephen, to the chagrin of both their other neighbours on their other sides.

  Resigned to being sidelined till the end of the long drawn out dinner, Lucy very properly conversed with her host when not attending to John McGowan on her other side. Conversation with the taciturn Archibald Cummings was hard going at first, until Lucy passed a comment on the wide variety of parrots to be seen on the Ridge. From then on, the two of them got on most amicably, comparing observations on all the beautiful Australian birds they both found quite fascinating.

  When the gentlemen, mindful of their hostess's admonition not to linger over their port and cigars, rejoined the ladies in the drawing room, Isabella abandoned her efforts at polite conversation with the ladies and went to stand beside her husband.

  “Dear friends, this is a celebration of a wedding, and what would a wedding celebration be without dancing? Dearest Archibald had the men working hard all day, sanding and waxing the side veranda in readiness for tonight; and Miss Forster has kindly consented to play for us.”

  Miss Forster, a dowdy, middle-aged spinster, who was governess to the four youngest of the Mannering brood, trotted over to where the piano had been sited, in close proximity to the recently polished side veranda. Isabella, on top of her form, thanked her then turned once more to her guests.

  “Come, Archibald. You and I, as hosts, will open the dancing with our two special guests.”

  As Lucy moved to comply, she heard Hetty McGowan whisper urgently to Mrs Mannering next to her.

  “Susan, pass the word to follow my lead.”

  Then she passed out of earshot and was left wondering what Grandmama's friend was up to. She wasn't left wondering for long. The two couples waltzed up and down the wide expanse of veranda, Lucy trying unsuccessfully not to notice that her archenemy was dancing much closer to Stephen than was strictly correct, practically inviting him to drool over the bosom overflowing the scandalously low bodice of her dress. Lucy gritted her teeth and endured, since she was powerless to do otherwise.

  They had completed one circuit and were starting a second, when the McGowans stepped forward, adroitly ousting Isabella and Archibald to take their places. Lucy, wondering what was going on, heard John McGowan's hearty command to his host.

  “Move over mate. We all want a turn at the bridal waltz with these young ones. Local tradition, you know.”

  Archibald, a reluctant dancer at the best of times, yielded his place with murmured thanks to John, who winked at Lucy as he energetically led her into the dance. And so it continued.

  At regular intervals, new partners claimed Lucy and Stephen, while other couples filled the available space. Isabella found herself partnered by Michael Duffy, a doddering septuagenarian who clasped her to his sunken chest as if she was his lifeline, saving him from a tumble. One glance at Isabella's stormy countenance was enough to inform the most casual observer the situation was quite definitely not to her liking.

  ‘Local tradition’ was cited once again to ensure Stephen and Lucy had the next dance together, this time with no interruptions. Thomas led Lucy out next, claiming a father's right. Lucy saw Isabella making a beeline for Stephen again, to be foiled when the youthful rapscallion, Mark Mannering swept her into the dance without bothering to ask permission.

  Isabella was never without a partner; only she was given no opportunity to claim Stephen a second time. During a break in the dancing, she got close enough to lead him off, although unable to progress very far. A group of older men, quietly smoking out of the way of the dancers cut them off, drawing Stephen into their midst, entertaining him with humorous advice to a new husband.

  So that was Hetty's plan.

  Lucy didn't know if everyone complied out of kindness to herself, or dislike of Isabella, or simply thought it a good lark; Australians being renowned for their larrikin ways. Whatever the motivation, she thoroughly applauded the result.

  Seeing Miss Forster taking her place on the piano stool once more, she dared risk a foray of her own.

  Strolling up to the group at the end of the veranda where Isabella, still hanging on Stephen's arm was trying unsuccessfully to extract him, she drew on her marital rights. A place was made for her on Stephen's other side. Not wanting to make him appear the bone in a dogfight, she made no attempt to grab him and tear him away, simply smiled up at him and apologised to his companions

  “The music's about to begin again,” she informed him. “Let's be first on the floor, shall we?”

  What else could Stephen do in the circumstances than agree? Releasing himself from Isabella's grip, he escor
ted his wife onto the dance floor just as the first notes of another waltz floated onto the night air.

  “This is such fun; don't you think darling?”

  She drew him a little closer, glad this was a waltz which was so much more accommodating than a reel. She tilted her head back, gazing up at him with guileless, pansy-brown eyes.

  “I do so love dancing with you, Stephen. I've really enjoyed this evening. It was such a kind thought, don't you think? You and your father have some wonderful friends, and they've made me so welcome.”

  She didn't mind that Stephen made no answer beyond an assenting mumble, she'd made her point where it counted. Best of all, she knew she had allies.

  It was Isabella Cummings who’d been isolated, as not even Stephen, bound by convention, had taken her side tonight. Still, it wasn't enough to win a battle, Lucy reminded herself; there was a whole campaign ahead of her before this war reached its end.

  Shortly after, their hostess declared the dancing at an end, forgetting to thank the pianist, which scored her another black mark in the female ledgers.

  Supper was served then the guests rapidly dispersed, the Fortescues among the first to leave. Thomas, shrewd enough to read the evening's events correctly, determined to leave no opening for a setback after the support troops left the field. At the last minute, Archibald begged them to wait, darting back inside to appear moments later, a large tome clutched to his chest, eyes searching Lucy's face.

  “For you, m'dear. A little wedding present for you.” He thrust the heavy, leather-bound book into her hands.

  “It's John Lewin's Birds of New South Wales. I picked it up at an estate auction several years ago. Been wondering what to do with it when ...”

  He closed his mouth on the rest of the sentence. Lucy turned the covers, amazed at the quality of the colour reproductions. This was indeed a rare and valuable book.

  “Thank you, Mr Cummings. Thank you so much. I'll treasure it always. You couldn't have given me anything I'd like better.”

  A tear glistened in the corner of her eye as she leaned forward to kiss his cheek. He was such a nice man. She'd thought so earlier while they talked at the table. What a pity he'd made such an unfortunate choice of wife.