“Ladies and gentlemen, Linnet Connolly!” He was shoving her piano back. Now he was leading her by the hand and placing her beside his instrument. Then, with lovely embellishments, he was rolling out the introductory bars to, of all things, “Brennan on the Moor”!
Linnet laughed suddenly. She faced Chris, with her back to the audience, and for a long moment she could not stop laughing. This was all so ludicrous! The die was cast. Why struggle? She tossed propriety aside and put her heart and soul into “Brennan on the Moor.”
Linnet really did enjoy applause! At the close of the piece, Chris explained how Brennan was an actual highwayman from Linnet’s native Cork County. Then he asked how many in the audience had used the Vaccai method in their study of voice. “Splendid!” he boomed. “You will recognize this next selection.” In her ear he muttered, “Lesson eight, appoggiaturas, both pieces, and go right on to fifteen, riepilogo.” He sat down to play.
Singing Vaccai to an audience of music enthusiasts was like showing your penmanship practice page to an expert graphologist. And yet, why not? The tunes were fun, the words delightfully sentimental. Linnet was trapped in an impossible situation created by that impossible young man now playing an introduction. She might as well give it her all.
She put aside the thought that these were vocal exercises. She sang of spring, of flowers and new grass and Cupid. She sang of the sapling by the stream and of fresh new thoughts of love. By the time she sang the final Compagno e del piacer, Linnet Connolly was in love with love.
And apparently, the audience was in love with Linnet Connolly. Their response added new dimensions to the word gratifying. With two more selections, she exhausted both her vocal repertoire and her voice.
Chris thanked them all, presented her for further applause, and led her offstage.
That night, Linnet received her first curtain call.
Herr Helmut Hoffman, the Bach expert, never did show up.
Chapter Eight
The Wharfmaster’s Lackey
“You look much better. How do you feel?” His marvelous dark eyes watched her closely, intently. Cole Sloan. Samantha still couldn’t quite believe it. Cole Sloan. Her mind pronounced the name over and over.
“Much better, thank ye. ‘Normal’ is stretching it a bit, but ‘satisfactory’ applies.”
He chuckled, from down deep. “The Sam Connolly exactness; I’d almost forgotten about that.” He shook his head. “You were the last person in the world I expected to see under that wharf—except maybe the mayor of Perth. And then when you turned from red to white and dropped over, I panicked. Sam, never in my life have I ever panicked, but I did then.”
“Sure ’n I’m flattered, sir. And never before has meself ever fainted dead away like that. ’Tis an experience I dinnae wish to repeat.”
This was one of her favorite places in town, this little tea garden under a bower, and at the moment it was one of the coolest. Good. No doubt heat had a lot to do with her embarrassing display of fainting fifteen minutes ago. Still, she’d certainly taken surprises in stride before, even the shocking death of Edan, and she burned with shame now for having acted thus in front of Cole Sloan, of all people.
The serving girl brought the scones all smothered in jam and fresh whipped cream. Though not exactly hungry, Samantha was ready for Devonshire tea, that delightful combination of tea with scones and accompaniment. Her hand shook only slightly as she poured for Mr. Sloan and herself.
“You’re supposed to be in Melbourne.” His baritone rumble was just as pleasant as she remembered it. “Why are you in Echuca, of all places?”
“I obtained temporary work here on me journey south and saw nae reason to go on.”
“Temporary? Are you employed at the moment?”
“Nae ’t the moment. And what finds y’rself here, a thousand miles from home?”
He smiled. “More like five hundred. I’m looking for a deal. I’ve been getting heavily into commodities brokerage. As you know, I learn all I can about what I’m doing. I study both the people who are succeeding and the people who fail. People who fail seem to lack contact with their sources. That also seems to be my main problem—finding out what goods are available and where to get them. So I’ve come to the source of wool and timber. I hope to make enough contacts with the producers themselves that I can beat some of the prices the major houses in Sydney offer. An immense business advantage, dealing face-to-face with the producers.”
“Meself doubts it’s much done. Ye find few city businessmen in Echuca these days, though I’m given to understand that twenty years ago Echuca attracted the best money and business minds in the nation. But, of course, ’twas the Colonies back then.” Excellent scone, tasty and fresh. Here was the other reason she so enjoyed this little place. The food.
He leaned back, his mouth pursing out and in. He took a deep breath. “It’s none of my business, but tell me anyway. Have you, uh, found anyone yet? Any swains on your horizon?”
Reginald Otis.
“Nae,” she lied. “Nae man me heart feels a-flutter for.” That part was true. “And y’rself, since we be prying into each other’s affairs?”
He shrugged. “Been seeing a lady named Hilary. I doubt she’s the one, so to speak. She’s afraid of horses, and she doesn’t like to walk in streets that aren’t paved.”
“Streets that be nae paved. Eh, sure ’n Australia has enough of those.”
Endless pink dirt roads through nothing. She owed Reginald Otis her very life. She knew that now.
They talked for another hour. She told him about Linnet’s venture into the world of higher learning and he was not nearly so surprised as she expected. He mentioned meeting Pearl and Martin Frobel, Jr., and seemed most anxious to deal in Queensland beef. They exchanged addresses and promised to keep each other informed of any moves. He paid the bill. They shook hands. She further assured him she was quite fine now, thank you. They parted.
The white-bright streets of Echuca turned gray.
She wanted nothing more than to return to her modest rooms and flop on her bed. But she had one chore which, though she had not been instructed to do it, must be done. She left her bag at the tea garden momentarily and walked over to the wharfmaster’s office to see if Mr. Drummond was in.
Mr. Drummond was in, but not literally. He sat outside his office door under its little barely stuck-on porch. He leaped to his feet as she approached and waved toward his just-vacated chair. “Miss Connolly! Please sit down.” He eyed her worriedly. “My wife and I happened to be walking down by D dock, and I saw it happen—uh, saw you take ill. I do hope it wasn’t serious.”
“Seriously embarrassing. I’m fine, thank ye.” She sat down, simply because he would drive her to distraction hovering over her if she did not. “Mr. Drummond, Mr. Otis received word from his home board that he can nae longer maintain an office in town. From now on ye’ll find it necessary to deal with him directly at Barmah.”
“Oh.” Mr. Drummond seemed to require an extra moment to assimilate this bit of intelligence. “The mission office here is closed completely?”
“It will be, aye. The new arrangement will nae doubt cause inconvenience at times, but nae severe problems, surely.” She stood up and offered her hand. “Mr. Drummond, g’day.”
“So you’ll be working out there, too.”
“Nae, Mr. Drummond, I be nae longer associated with the mission. Ye’ll be dealing with Mr. Otis himself, or with his assistant, Ellen Fenton.” She tried again to leave. “G’day.”
“G’day, Miss Connolly. And thank you.”
She must also notify the postmaster. She turned, smiling, and walked away. She had not gotten a hundred feet closer the post office before he called her name. She looked back.
He came running up at a waddling, lumbering gait. The hundred-foot dash left him breathless. “Miss Connolly, may I speak with you further?”
“As ye wish.” She returned with him to the shade of the little porch and resumed her seat in th
e wooden chair. He ducked inside. She heard the unmistakable rattle of papers hitting the floor. He brought out a simple straight-backed chair for himself and plopped it down beside her. He sat. Perspiration dripped from his forehead. His face had been dry a moment before.
“Miss Connolly, have you other employment?”
“Nae, sir. I’ll look about a bit, but most likely I’ll continue on to Melbourne.”
“Mmm.” He cleared his throat. “In the matter of that shipment of roofing tin and all for Barmah mission: I am much impressed with the way you acted quickly and decisively to solve the problem.”
“Eh, sir, much of the credit goes to the captains of the Echuca Charlene and the Etona. They saved the day, not I.”
“You are too modest. At the very least you engaged their instant cooperation, something I find very difficult, as a rule. And the clever way you provided accommodation for Mr. Otis’s black crew: most impressive.”
“That be more the hand of God, for God be Mr. Otis’s ally. The iron bedsteads just happened to be part of the shipment, and that be nae thing meself could have arranged.”
“Again, you are too modest. I shall be direct. I wish to employ you as a clerk here on the wharf. You will be an employee of the borough, as am I, and second in rank to myself.”
“Sure ’n ye have competent clerks a-plenty, sir. There be more people than jobs in Echuca.”
“My last clerk quit several weeks ago. Personal reasons, he said. I suspect family problems of some sort.”
“The rate of pay?”
“Double whatever the mission paid you.”
Samantha found herself staring. She averted her eyes quickly. From her seat here at the office door she looked across the width of the wharf to the trees beyond the far bank of the Murray. She could see a bit of the water itself, just as the river slipped around a distant bend. Sky, greenery, the worn and weathered patterns of the wharf decking—a lovely view, and it could be hers. She thought about the view behind her, that dustbin of an office. That would be hers, too, were she to accept the job. Twice the pay Mr. Otis could afford, and Linnet in need of money for school…
“When could I commence work?”
“This instant; that is, if you feel up to it. When you fell…” He shook his roly-poly head. “That bloke coming toward you reached you long before I could, of course—much nearer. He scooped you up in his arms, quite limp, and there he went in that white shirt, up the stairs at very near a run. My wife Martha seemed to think it quite romantic, but I—” Again he shook his unromantic head.
“Be there a budget? For example, I might wish to employ pick-up labor for cleaning. Day work.”
“We might squeeze something out. Nothing extravagant, understand.”
“I be nae extravagant person, I assure ye. Aye, Mr. Drummond, I would be honored to take the position of clerk, at the rate of pay mentioned. Meself shall bring me latest pay stub around to y’r office to confirm the amount.”
“That isn’t necessary. I trust your integrity. After all, Mr. Otis is, as you said, a friend of God.”
“Nonetheless, I feel far better keeping business on paper, aye?”
“Of course.” And he practically beamed. He rose because she did.
She extended her hand. “If ye please, sir, I shall commence me duties first thing tomorrow.”
“Splendid! I’ll give you a key.”
She was on her way five minutes later, a wharf office key in her skirt pocket and a job in hand. Wharfmaster’s lackey.
What next?!
If the post office was not closed already, it would be by the time she got there. Instead, she walked down the stairs and under the wharf to the riverbank.
With nearly every boat idled by low water, surely she could hire someone for a minimal sum to scrub and whitewash. But the length of the wharf, as far as she could make out, lay completely vacant. The boys with their game of marbles had vanished. No stevedores lolled. It was near suppertime. Obviously, the world had better things to do than sit around waiting to be hired for a pittance.
Beyond the wharf on the far side, three small Chinese boys played along the river’s edge. No, they were fishing. They were the only souls of any sort she saw on the river. She turned to leave.
A piercing soprano scream spun her around. Two small Chinese boys were jumping around on the shore. One of them ran away, thunking up the far stairs two-at-a-time. Samantha found herself running toward the boy still on the bank, although she could not imagine herself moving faster than a stroll through the heat.
The lad was sobbing, his face twisted. A small pillbox hat floated in the greasy brown water perhaps twelve feet offshore. Thinking would waste precious moments. Samantha did not think. She ran out into the tepid river and realized instantly how quickly the bottom fell away. A tiny hand broke the water ahead of her and disappeared. She began swimming. The last time she had swum, she was nine years old, playing in the frigid pond on her uncle’s farm behind Cork. This water was warm as a bath.
She kicked something. She folded herself, reaching down, groping, grasping. Foul water filled her mouth and nose and ears, and she remembered now how utterly she abhorred getting her face under water! The inside of her nose caught fire clear to the middle of her head. Her hand touched fabric. She gripped and pulled and began kicking mightily.
Her head broke the surface, but precious little good that did. Her throat was so full of water she could not breathe. Water cascaded down her face from her hair and blinded her. She dragged the child to the surface and kicked wildly, trying to swim one-handed. A foot touched slurpy bottom. She fell forward toward shore and got another foot planted in the mud. Choking and hacking, she pulled the lad ashore with her.
She sat on the bank a brief moment coughing, trying to get enough water out of her tortured lungs that she could breathe. The child lay with his mouth open and his eyes half closed. Only whites showed from behind the slanted lids. She lurched to her feet and draped the limp little fellow in half over one arm. She had no idea what to do. She pounded on his back. She shook him.
He gasped suddenly and vomited all over her skirt. Never would she guess she might welcome such a revolting event, but it was unmistakably a sign of life! She rubbed his back. At length, too spent herself to support him anymore, she lowered him to the ground and sat down beside him.
He himself was coughing now. He struggled a moment. The other boy grabbed him by the shoulders and helped him sit up. Both began to wail lustily. What should she do? One thing she definitely did not want was to listen to this racket. She begged “Hush! Hush!” and gathered the water-soaked lad into her arms. “Hush!” she warned the other.
With sobs deep enough to reach his native China, the dry lad ceased his wailing. She was rather amazed at his self-discipline. The wet lad she held close and rocked, back and forth, back and forth, until his howling abated to a cough-riddled whimper.
The noise, of course, had drawn the attention of many up on the wharf. Men came running down the stairs, now that the excitement was over. The dry lad, still terribly frightened, crowded in against her and eyed the milling swarm of legs.
Samantha chose at random two young men. She asked them to keep onlookers at bay. They seized so earnestly upon their appointed task that they nearly prevented the approach of what were obviously the parents.
The dry lad plastered himself instantly to his mother. Samantha delivered the wet child into her arms and hauled herself to her feet. Suddenly she was so weary she doubted her strength to climb those stairs to street side. In a stroke of genius she mentioned her weariness not to the many asking questions but to the two young men. Eager to bask in reflected glory, they ushered her to the top of the stairs, threatening mayhem to any who blocked her way. Up on the wharf she thanked them profusely, shook their hands, and made her way home. She forgot their names before she reached her door.
She awoke at dawn in her nightgown. She remembered only vaguely peeling out of her foul and sopping clothes the evenin
g before. She had not eaten. She was fully aware of that now. Her job. The key. She pawed through the pile of wet, stinking clothes. Here was the key. Her job was real!
She sat for a few moments at her table, allowing the rest of her aching body to catch up to the day, watching the birds outside. What a time yesterday! The river trip, Cole Sloan, the new job, the near drowning…not to mention a marriage proposal and a lost job within the last seventy-two hours. Whatever today brought, it couldn’t hold a candle to the last three days.
She washed her hair and dressed. She was just pondering breakfast options in the cupboard when a timid knock came at the door. An hour past dawn? She answered it.
A Chinese man, a Chinese woman, and a small boy stood solemnly in the golden morning light.
Like everyone else in town, Samantha purchased all her milk, eggs, chicken, pork, and vegetables from Chinese market gardeners. They walked up and down the streets with their great handbarrow carts, ever ready to barter. This man was probably also a market gardener, though she did not recognize him as someone with whom she regularly did business.
The three bowed deeply.
Samantha bowed in response and stepped back. “Please come in.”
They stepped inside. Her two small rooms here contained no parlor furniture. She pulled out her only chairs, the three lyreback kitchen chairs. “Do be seated. Sorry I’ve nae started tea.”
These people were obviously dressed in their very best. Mother wore a black silk shirt and pants. The shirt, with its erect little collar, was adorned with magnificent silk embroidery in a hundred hues. Birds and chrysanthemums tumbled across her front from shoulder to shoulder. Samantha did not doubt that the back was similarly gorgeous. The father wore a tailored silk version of the cotton outfits the men wore as they peddled produce from their carts. The lad was a miniature of father and mother—a man’s suit with delicate embroidery. Even his little silk slippers were beautifully decorated. He and his father removed their pillbox hats.
Taste of Victory Page 9