Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  Sloan took the violin case back. “So where shall we go?”

  “There be several nice little places in Gawler Street, if ye wish.”

  “Lead the way.”

  As they walked, Linnet described her adventures in the academic world with the same lilting cadences Sam used. Sloan could listen to it forever. Sloan felt younger—that was it, indeed, younger!—with this nubile creature at his side. She positively exuded enthusiasm and innocence. Sam shared that zest for life, and the innocence as well, without the extreme youth. Ten years between them, Sloan recalled.

  “Let’s see. You’ve passed your nineteenth birthday now, right?” Sloan led her out across a busy thoroughfare. They angled toward a small north-south street.

  “Eh, true, and well nigh me twentieth. Some of the souls here guessed me to be seventeen or eighteen, so I let them have their fancy. ’Tis me feeling they’ll be more forgiving of me many blunders if they think I’m younger.”

  Sloan chuckled. “I daresay that’s the closest I’ve ever seen you come to conniving.”

  She giggled lightly, brightly, and all the weariness of his long journey drained away. She brought him to a charming, unassuming little sidewalk cafe of the sort university students frequent. And she called him Cole because he asked her to. He noticed with unadorned delight that they were getting farther and farther away from the master-and-serf relationship of the old days at Sugarlea. He admired her flexibility. In the past she was the fawning servant girl when that role was appropriate. Now she wore the cloak of simple friendship quite as comfortably.

  They ordered, ate, and lingered over tea in a soothing fog of constant laughter and conversation.

  “Be ye still in Sydney?” she asked eventually.

  “Basically. I do a lot of traveling, lining up goods, arranging transport at the best rates. For example, I’ve just been down to the wool stores in Geelong. Warehouses a block long. Men who can pull a tuft of wool from a bale and tell you the exact nature of that bale’s contents. Amazing.” This was certainly not the time to mention the heavy frustrations and tensions of trying to arrange sales with precious little in the way of earnest money.

  “It sounds to be an exciting life. ’Tis me own fond wish to someday travel far and wide. And me fondest wish: having someone else paying for it.”

  He grinned. “The only way to go. Musicians travel—opera stars and such.”

  “Opera.” She shook that lovely auburn mane. “Nae opera. Me voice lacks the timbre, so I’ve been told. But mayhap with the piano, as I improve.”

  “Or the violin.”

  “Nae. Never will I master that thing, I fear. ’Tis fine musical training, but ’twould take me a lifetime to build the skill Libby already possesses. We’ll let her travel with the violin, aye?” Her luminous eyes went wide. “The time, please?”

  He dug out his pocket watch. “Half past two.”

  “Eh, well, too late now.”

  “I’ve caused you to play hooky.”

  “Aye, me Latin class be past now. Nae much lost; I’ll not succeed in Latin this time round. But there’s a rehearsal with Chris this afternoon—pianos—for which meself cannot help but be late.” Those liquid eyes glowed. “Eh, sure ’n I much prefer being here to being there!”

  “And I’m enjoying this interlude so much, I don’t feel the least bit guilty about keeping you away from your work.” He laid his hand on hers. “In fact, I’ll be a total villain and ask you to play hooky tomorrow. I’ll be riding out into the Barossa Valley, possibly the Clare—lining up wine shipments. Come along.”

  “Just skip out of school and come?” A happy smile spread across her face. “Aye, Mr. Sl—I mean, Cole. Let’s!”

  “There you are!” A wiry, earnest-looking jumping-jack of a young man came bounding up. If he was out to impress someone with his velvet trousers and sleek silk shirt he was succeeding, but the impression was not a favorable one. He eyed Sloan as a duke might look upon a ragpicker.

  Sloan stood up and offered a hand. “Cole Sloan. How do you do?”

  “Yes. Elizabeth told me. When Linnet failed to appear instantly after her Latin class, I thought you might still be here; this is her favorite place. Come, Linnet. I’ve booked you for an engagement tomorrow night, and you’ve much preparation.”

  “Ye know, Chris, Miss Hack says I be nae ready for any such.”

  “Miss Hack is not paying your rent. You are. Come quickly, please. We’re wasting valuable time.” He nodded tersely toward Sloan. “Pleased to meet you. Good day, sir.” He snatched Linnet’s violin case out from under the table, stuffed her papers into her hands and escorted her off, just like that.

  Who in blazes was this boor named Chris? The serving girl appeared at Sloan’s side, probably worried about the bill. He paid with the closest coin he had and told her to keep the change.

  Linnet and her abductor were halfway up the block already. Sloan closed the distance to a quarter of a block and followed discreetly. For one thing, he enjoyed the ethereal way she rather floated along. Linnet possessed the same grace of movement that made Sam’s bearing so elegant. And yet, Linnet lacked the elegance. Curious.

  From beside Sloan on the other side of the street, three young larrikins came popping out of the Commercial Hotel. At an eager double-step they crossed the street, moving rapidly ahead of Sloan, and hastened up behind Linnet and her escort. Street noise—the horses’ hooves, the buggy wheels, the voices and clinks and rattles—prevented Sloan from discerning words, but their intent was clear. They bailed up Linnet and Chris and engaged them in intense conversation. Linnet was shaking her head and Chris looked worried.

  Just as a fellow with his hair parted down the middle laid a hand on Linnet’s arm, Sloan arrived at the party. “Linnet!” Every eye turned to Sloan. “Go to your rehearsal. And take your violin along. We wouldn’t want it damaged.”

  Hesitantly she pulled the case from Chris’s hand.

  “Go.”

  “No.” The larrikin kept a grip on her arm. “She’s with us now. And none of this bull wool about the vice chancellor. We invited her and she agreed, days ago. Didn’t you, lass?”

  Sloan let his tone of voice convey his thoughts, and they were hostile, even murderous thoughts. “Step back.”

  The larrikin dipped a nod toward Chris. “This dandy’s no fighter. Three against one? Leave while you can, stickybeak.”

  “Linnet, go.”

  The galah continued to grip her arm tightly.

  The fellow had one thing right: Sloan could not expect help from this Chris. There was no black tunic in sight; no help from the police, either. He himself must put them in their place. And the expectation of it tickled him. Suddenly he wanted to bash these boozers with their ugly thoughts. He wanted to show that no-hoper Chris what a real man was. He wanted Linnet to be able to walk the streets in peace and safety.

  He didn’t have to think about where the danger lay. The three telegraphed their pugilistic incompetence with their swaggers and sneers. With his left he reached for that hand on Linnet’s arm, but it was a feint on his part; his left continued on sideways quickly enough to block the blow coming from the larrikin’s companion. He put his full weight behind his right and planted it in the fellow’s belly. His knuckles cracked against the lad’s belt buckle.

  Without slowing he swung on around and grabbed the third drongo by the shirt. With a mighty heave he hauled the flailing man into the first. Both tumbled, and the one larrikin nearly dragged Linnet down with him. The slice in Cole’s left arm ripped open again. He could feel it go. But his blood was so hot he didn’t care.

  A whistle blew upstreet. A helmet and black tunic on a shiny black bicycle came into view, now that the excitement was over. Sloan modulated his voice with considerable difficulty. All three sprawled flat in the street, but he was still ready to fight. He pointed at the jack with the hair parted down the middle. “I never want to see any of you within a hundred feet of Miss Connolly. Understood?”

 
; He stepped back. The cape of the Conquering Hero fit so well, and felt so warm. He had saved the damsel in distress. He dismissed the fact the distress was minimal on a busy street in midafternoon. Distress is distress. And this Chris needed some lessons in manliness, anyway. A smugness, an elation welled up inside Sloan.

  After all his recent losses, from the huge setback of Sugarlea’s demise to the annoyances of the last few weeks, it was so nice to win one once!

  Chapter Ten

  Variation on a Christmas Present

  Cole Sloan was king of the world. At least, he felt that way. These motor automobiles might as well be called “motor thrones.” And Queen Linnet sat on the seat beside him, an expression of pure delight on her face. He regally piloted their shiny black open Tarrant through the little town of Gawler. They had left Adelaide not much more than two hours ago. Thirty-odd miles in a couple of hours, and the mechanical horses still eager to run—what a way to travel! This trip had him absolutely convinced: his next major purchase, once he regained solvency, was going to be a motor car.

  They roared along the flat, open track as a dust cloud the size of a merchant ship boiled up behind them. The road was packed hard as a cobbled street now, in the dry season. In the wet, it would be a frustrating morass for any vehicle, motor or horse-drawn.

  “Cole? Did ye already know how to operate such doovers as these, or did ye learn last night?”

  “Last night when I rented it. Spent an hour with the owner. Apparently he has to give lessons to just about everybody who rents it. Driving a motor car, of course, is never going to be a common thing that everybody knows. Say, I’ve been meaning to thank you for being so prompt this morning. As I recall from Sugarlea, you’re not always the earliest of risers. I figured we might possibly start out of Adelaide at sunrise if we were lucky; instead, we were on the road more than an hour before sunup.”

  “Eh, after ye mentioned motor cars meself could barely sleep a wink. Sure ’n I was waiting for ye fifteen minutes before ye pulled up to the door.”

  Near the crest of some low hills they paused beneath a wattle tree for breakfast. Linnet unpacked the food basket in the back of the motor car as Cole built the fire for tea. After the meal, it took him ten minutes and some anxious moments to crank the auto to life again. They rolled up to the big stone Tanunda Hotel in time for morning tea.

  Sloan was ready to sit quietly in the shade awhile. Speedy and efficient though a motor car might be, it jarred one’s teeth out and vibrated the hands down to throbbing stumps. Twenty minutes after they were seated inside, his fingers still shook a bit, rattling the teacup.

  He watched Linnet sip her tea. “Feel bad you cut class?”

  “Nae.” She smiled. “People miss class all the time because of illness. Why nae because of happiness, aye?”

  “Aye, indeed. On the other hand, I’d hate to see you get into trouble for the sake of a lark.”

  “And a lovely lark it is!”

  Sloan studied the gentle patterns of movement created in his tea. “Who’s this Chris lair, anyway?”

  She hesitated. Embarrassment? No, apparently not. The hesitation seemed more like uncertainty. “A mentor, I suppose ye’d say. Were it nae for him, I’d be forced to give up me schooling, for I could ne’er afford it depending upon Meg and Sam. And he’s a good friend.”

  “He’s a nark.”

  “Eh, now, I aver he acts like a spoiled brat at times. Our practice yesterday afternoon, after ye left us, was nothing but criticism and impatience. He’s a good sort, though. And gentle.”

  “Gentle!” Sloan snorted and drained his tea. “Ah well. On to business.” He escorted her out into the brilliant sun and they began to walk. Gentle? Bah, Cole thought. Gutless. Is she so shook on the blighter that she can’t see his true colors? She didn’t seem infatuated or overly fond of him. But then, she was so enthusiastic about everything that you could never tell when something struck her particular fancy.

  “We be visiting a winery, aye?”

  “Three of Australia’s best wine-producing districts lie right close to Adelaide. The Barossa here, the Clare, and the country south of town. I intend to hit them all within the next few days.”

  “Quite a lot of wine to be tasting.”

  He chuckled. “You don’t have to taste it all to know whether it’s good stuff or lunatic soup. We’ll start here with Basedows.”

  Although some brokerages dealt with one wine-producing area or another, and often with one vintner alone, Sloan would pick and choose from among the whole lot, a batch from here and a batch from there. He would provide New South Wales and the world with the bounty of South Australian wines.

  But he would, in effect, be providing coal to Newcastle. Face it. Excellent vintners called New South Wales home, and the world had plenty of quality wines already. If Sloan were to cut an edge at all, that edge would be price.

  A block or so from the Tanunda Hotel and across the railway tracks, he escorted Linnet into what was obviously her first wine cellar. They descended from summer heat into endless and uniform cool. Her large eyes flitted about, dancing across the many racks of bottles, the ornately carved tasting bar, the hundreds of twinkling glasses hung by their heels from ceiling racks. She craned her neck to see through an opened door into a dark aging room beyond, where stack upon stack of wooden casks sat brooding in the gloom, undisturbed.

  Half a dozen men and a few women stood about at the bar or surveyed the racks. Whether they were patrons or escapees from the heat, Sloan did not know.

  Sloan introduced himself to the young man behind the bar, and the fellow trotted off to summon the manager. The manager was not at all what Sloan would expect a wine maker to be, for here came a very short, dark, Turkish-looking fellow. He was wide and square, yet lean. Muscular.

  He extended a stubby, powerful hand. “Herbert Ajanian, Mr. Sloan. Welcome to Basedows.” His eyes flicked to Linnet and stared. “Why…indeed, it is! Miss Connolly! Linnet Connolly, is that correct?”

  She looked at him blankly. “Aye, sir. How do ye do.”

  “Miss Connolly, I’m honored! My wife and I traveled down to the city for Helmut Hoffman’s Bach presentation. You were splendid! What a sweet voice!”

  “Y’re too gracious, sir. Thank ye.” Her cheeks flushed.

  Sloan realized he himself was staring. He was almost certain Linnet had never been through the Barossa before. Yet here they were over forty miles from civilization and this total stranger, obviously a patron of the arts, recognized Linnet on sight.

  He commenced a business discussion with Ajanian, sniffing this wine, carefully tasting that one, arranging for shipments by the case. And all the time, a discordance rang at the back of his head. That Chris bloke—what sort of mysterious power did he wield over the gentle Linnet? What precisely was the nature of his financial aid to which she alluded? And now, to have this Ajanian pick her out of nowhere….

  Mrs. Ajanian appeared, obviously his wife even before her husband introduced her. She was framed along the same short, solid lines as he. As she greeted Sloan and crowed rapturously over Linnet, their hired man brought in two big boxes.

  “Christmas decorations.” She smiled, almost embarrassed. “I realize the first week into December is a bit early, but I do love the season so.”

  Linnet looked misty-eyed. “I’ve naething to do while Mr. Sloan completes his business. Might I help?”

  “By all means!”

  While Sloan haggled and calculated, Linnet hung garlands. In Sloan’s youth, decorating had fallen primarily to the servants. Pity. It rather looked like fun.

  “Miss Connolly, do you not think we might sing carols as we work?” Mrs. Ajanian handed Linnet one end of a coarse pine-bough swag and trotted nimbly up a small ladder.

  “Aye, the very thing!” And she plunged instantly into song.

  “God rest ye merry, gentlemen, let naething ye dismay.

  Remember Christ our Savior was born on Christmas Day,

  T’ save
us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray….”

  All discussion of wines had ceased. Everyone stood about rapt, engrossed in the impromptu concert. About half the voices in the low, echoing room joined her for the chorus.

  “…O-oh, tidings of comfort and joy, comfort and joy;

  O-oh tidings of comfort and joy!”

  Sweet, rich, melodious—what a glorious voice! Sloan was a man not easily impressed by artsy sorts of things, but he stood there agape, quite as taken over as every other person in the room.

  To save us all from Satan’s power when we had gone astray. Astray. Sloan was ofttimes accused of straying. Hardly! He smiled to himself. He was not astray. Astray suggests wandering. Sloan seized the moment whenever opportunity appeared. He was blasting through life with grit and determination. He had locked horns with fate, and he wasn’t about to let fate win. By no stretch of the imagination could that be called wandering.

  He wrenched his thoughts back to Ajanian and the business at hand. “I understand you make an excellent red. What have you available in the reds?”

  “For you, nothing.” Ajanian smiled apologetically and waved a hand. “My reds are spoken for.”

  “Then let me bid on next year’s pressing.”

  “I’m sorry; I was unclear. My reds are committed to another brokerage. They take all I produce under exclusive contract. Except, of course, for the few bottles I sell at the cellar door.”

  “When does the current contract expire?”

  “It is, ah, an ongoing understanding. My reds are not available at wholesale. I’m sorry.”

  “I see.” Indeed, Sloan saw quite a bit more than he wanted to see. He was the new chum; his rivals were well established. He would no doubt be forced to wait years to gain the sort of entree the older brokerages expected as a matter of course. How many more exclusive contracts was he going to slam into today? He hated to think about it.