With difficulty he pried Linnet loose from the admiring Ajanians and hit the road again. Saltrams sold to several purveyors—all under exclusive contract, of course—and none of them was Sloan. Except for a few of Basedow’s common whites, Sloan was scoring zero so far. Henschke down in Keyneton had committed their good stuff, the Mt. Edelstone and Hill of Grace reds, but Sloan managed to consign for himself a number of cases of their dry whites.
By the time they reached Hamilton’s down in Springton, Linnet’s bounce had flattened out. She no longer glided from place to place. She slogged. To be sure, it was a smooth and delicate slog, but a one-foot-in-front-of-the-other slog, nonetheless. She was getting sun-dried, too. Sloan watched Linnet’s nose turn red and thought of poor old Sam’s ever-peeling nose. Linnet did not take sun well, but Sam took it far worse.
The Hamilton winery, built of big, honest blocks of bluestone, provided welcome relief from the heat of the waning day. Sloan settled his wilted songbird at a table in the coolest corner of the tasting room, asked the lad on duty to provide whatever she requested, then sat down face-to-face with the manager, a man by the name of Geoffreys. The fellow looked and acted cynical enough that perhaps Sloan at last could arrange some business. The day so far had been pretty much a total loss.
Geoffreys nodded toward the corner table and wiggled his massive black brows. “Bonzer sheila to smoodge up to, eh?”
Sloan’s success now depended upon how accurately he read this leering lout, and how well he played upon what he read. He tightened both his face and voice. “Sister of a good friend. And innocent, so I take idle comments about her very seriously, and so does the friend. Now you can ogle some sheila you don’t know, or talk business that can make us both a few quid. What’ll it be?”
The eyes beneath those beetling brows narrowed. Suddenly he laughed. “Let’s talk business, mate.”
“I’m interested in whites.”
Geoffreys flagged his barboy and with one finger tapped a bottle behind him. The lad nodded and disappeared into the back room. The man studied the tabletop a moment. “Dessert wines?”
“If the deal is as sweet. I’m looking more to table wines.”
“Whites. Fix you up with some sauterne in quantity, and chablis. Sure you can’t use reds?”
Sloan shrugged casually. “Such as—?”
“Burgundies, clarets, perhaps rosés, if you’re willing to move smaller quantities.”
“I’m out to build a reputation as a broker, not peddle red ned.”
“Good stuff. I’ll show you.”
This ratbag was beginning to irritate Sloan immensely. His manner grated, especially his clumsy attempts at superiority. Superiority? Without even trying, Sloan had him pitching the one sort Sloan really needed—the reds—and the drongo hadn’t the slightest notion he’d just been played.
The barboy had returned from the back room and was serving Linnet a glass of something dark. Port? She had not tasted wine at all yet today. Apparently she had changed her mind, for Sloan had told her to ask for whatever she wanted.
“Beetle Brows” poured a claret. “Now this stuff is supposed to be consigned, but the price isn’t no picnic. If you can better it, I’d like to let you have it.” The bushy head wagged. “Don’t want to offend the blokes, though, by going behind their backs. Don’t know how to ship it, ah, inconspicuously. Know what I mean?”
“How’s it go out now? Tanunda to Adelaide and east?”
“Yair.”
“The Murray’s not fifty miles east. By the time you hauled it up to Tanunda, you’re halfway to the river. Put it on a boat at Mannum, ship it upriver, and send it by rail from Echuca. New shippers, cellars to shops. No nasty rumors about what’s going to whom.”
Geoffreys nodded. “You sign for me that you’ll ship it by river, and you’ve got a deal.”
In a superb display of acting prowess, Sloan hid his glee as he signed on for the reds he needed so desperately. He’d work some kind of arrangement at Echuca and score a big win back in Sydney. He’d been right. There was no substitute for getting out in the field yourself and gathering the goods.
He walked over to Linnet’s table. She smiled at him somewhat glassy-eyed. He frowned and lifted her empty glass. “How many of these have you had?”
“Three. Meself be very thirsty, Cole. Dry day, aye?”
“Don’t you know wine won’t quench thirst?”
“Eh, he said it would.” She waved a hand toward the barboy.
Geoffreys appeared at Sloan’s elbow. “My orders; the lad knows what to do. Thought I’d soften her up for you, know what I mean? Just a little favor of the house.”
Never in his life had Cole Sloan resorted to alcohol to soften up some sheila. He didn’t have to, and the mere suggestion that a little wine might be needed impugned his manhood. If he wanted Linnet, he’d win Linnet, and without resort to booze or gimmicks.
He turned on Geoffreys and started walking, forcing the hairy drongo clear across the room, backing him up against the wall. He stopped when his nose was six inches from Geoffreys’. “Don’t you ever presume to do me a favor again. My only restraint from strangling you is my need to do business with you. So help me, I’d kill you right here if it weren’t for that.”
The literal fear of death flashed across Geoffreys’ face for a moment. He drew a deep, shuddering breath. “Ye can count on it.” He paused a moment, almost as if waiting for some axe to fall. He forced a smile. “Still business mates?”
Sloan backed off. He did not offer his hand. “Only because we can use each other.”
Geoffreys nodded. “Good honest reason. Appreciate working with a man who puts it right up front.”
Sloan turned his attention to Linnet. How shickered was she? She seemed a little unsteady on her walk out to the motor car. She giggled, but then Linnet did that anyway. Maybe it would wear off by the time they got home.
It didn’t. Rather than return to Tanunda, Sloan cut straight across to the west, along a tired, rutted little track that wound gracelessly between low hills. He drove into Adelaide just after dark. As they chugged south down King William Road, Linnet was still quite obviously inebriated.
Now what should he do with her? If he sent her up to her room like this, and her priggish school learned about it from the landlord, she could find herself in deep trouble, trouble not of her own doing. Letting her sleep it off in his hotel room would be far worse; that would guarantee her expulsion, should it become known.
He pulled up to the house where she stayed. Its doorway, shrouded in darkness, looked half a mile distant, though it was only a few yards beyond the hedges and plantings. He would have to send her up to her room and hope she didn’t slam into walls. That was best.
He gave her a hand down. “Watch your step, luv. There you go.”
She melted against him. “This was such a beaut day, Cole! Meshelf enjoyed the holiday immenshly. I feel so good.”
“I’m sure you do.” But just wait ’til morning, and the headache… He hesitated. Taking unfair advantage is one thing; taking what’s due you is another, he thought. A good-night kiss will not be out of line in the least. She responded to his kiss freely, comfortably, the way she responded in everything—with no guard, no reservation.
And in that sweet, gentle good-night kiss, Sloan learned again the lesson he already knew: Linnet was not Sam. No matter how closely the sisters resembled one another in some respects, it just wasn’t the same.
At Sugarlea, Sam had attracted him; Linnet had not. He could not manufacture that attraction now, no matter how hard he tried. Still, a girl like Linnet was superior to, say, Hilary.
He escorted her toward the door as she tried simultaneously to walk and to grub her key out of her handbag. She couldn’t do either one adequately, let alone together.
“Don’t bother, Linn. I’ve a key here.” Chris was perched on her front stoop! He stood up, his silk shirt gleaming in the light of distant streetlamps. “I cadged a spare from the
landlord; told him you mislaid yours.”
Linnet lit up like fireworks. If Sloan doubted before where her heart lay, he doubted no more. “Chris!” she beamed. “We went on such a lovely excursion. ’Tis lovely country, with the vineyards and the lovely stone wine cellars.”
“We had an engagement to play for a banquet tonight, or did you forget why we practiced all afternoon yesterday?”
“I’m sorry, Chris.” And her tone of voice echoed the sentiment. Sorry. I really am.
“It was more my fault than hers,” Sloan cut in. “I led her astray.”
“You certainly did!” Chris snorted. He wrenched his key in the lock and shoved the door open. “Do try to make it to class in the morning, Linn. Good night.” He gripped her elbow, thrust her through the door and locked it again. Without a glance at Sloan he walked out to the street and disappeared beyond the hedges.
So that was how the wind lay. This Chris, remarkably protective for a mere friend, agreed that Sloan was leading Linnet astray. Why not? It seemed that way to all external appearances. Astray. There it was again. Remember Christ our savior was born on Christmas Day, to save us all from Satan’s power when we were gone astray. That wasn’t Satan, it was Geoffreys. Despite Milton’s opinion in Paradise Lost of what constitutes evil, Geoffreys wasn’t smart enough to be Satan.
Sloan started back to his motor car. He’d have to purchase more fuel tomorrow before heading north into the Clare Valley. Or perhaps he’d just skip the Clare completely. He’d heard of the Reynell vineyards to the south, one of the oldest wineries in South Australia. He might just dabble down south and search out a bargain or two there.
A shadow stepped out of the hedges beside him. “S’cuse me, mate. Got a light?”
“No, I don’t. Sorry.”
Then the world exploded. He was on the ground behind the hedges, unable to breathe or cry out. Something smashed him in the side of the face. A boot kicked him in the belly, and it was flying at him again. He grabbed it frantically and twisted. The fellow crashed into the hedge. But there were other boots and fists—too many to fend off.
“Early Christmas present, blighter,” an unknown voice crowed gleefully.
And suddenly he was enraged—enraged at that spineless Chris for arranging this and probably participating, enraged at himself for not being on his guard, for letting this happen. Most of all he was enraged by the thought of losing. Never in his life had he lost a hand-to-hand fight, but he didn’t have Buckley’s chance with this one—not when he was down and unable to get his breath.
Rage and consciousness faded together into ignominious defeat.
Chapter Eleven
Intermezzo With Old Friends
Samantha stood in the office doorway and surveyed the effect. Washing the windows and whitewashing the walls did indeed achieve miracles of brightness. But the floor—that sad floor. No amount of scrubbing seemed to help. Its planks remained much the same color as the weathered dock outside. Should she cover it with something? No. She had neither money nor brilliant ideas at the moment. It was clean; that would be enough.
“Ah Loo, we’ll bring the desk in first and place it by the window there.”
Her Man Friday jogged outside and had removed the drawers by the time she got there. The desk was fashioned from red gum, too heavy to move with the drawers in. They positioned the big wooden file cabinets sans drawers and the straight-backed chair and empty side table. They polished the brass postal scale and cleaned the oil lamps. They removed the shade from the one electric fixture and dumped its load of dead insects outside. Then they spent several minutes oohing and awing over this bright creature and that. Wonderful things, insects, so long as they’re dead. Finally they brought in all the drawers full of papers as well as the many boxes and piles of papers, stacking them in the one remaining corner.
Samantha dug into her beaded reticule. “Y’r day’s pay, Ah Loo. Well done! I could nae have managed without ye.”
He grinned. “It was fun. This place looks so much better. I liked the whitewashing especially. It’s fun when you can see a big difference, huh?”
“Absolutely! G’day now.”
“G’day, mum!” He looked for the first time at the coins in his hand and his eyes grew large. “Thank ye, mum!” and he was off.
He almost collided with Mr. Drummond on his way out. Drummond scowled after the lad. “How much did you give him, anyway?”
“He earned a man’s pay, for he did a man’s work this day.”
“Absurd! He’s what—nine years old at the most.”
“True enough. But ye’ll notice, sir, that the whole task be finished in a single day. Often ’tis a great saving if ye can somehow complete the work quickly and smartly.” She led the way to the stack of drawers and papers. “Meself wishes to dispose of all records more than seven years auld, and store those older than three years. As is, ye’ve more paper here than the room can hold.”
“Yes. But, ah, if you’re going to store some, store all. Uh, where did you intend to put them?”
“The vacant warehouse next to us. Records show it belongs to the wharf, despite that several wool brokers use it seasonally, apparently rent free.”
“Certainly! Oh, and Miss Connolly, I’ll not be in until late tomorrow morning. There’s a commissioners’ meeting.”
“Aye, sir.” That suited her well enough. If he wasn’t around, he wouldn’t be trying to help sort through this rats’ nest. He went his way, and she carried the first of many drawers over to her desk. What a mess!
Twenty-four hours later Ah Loo had trundled away thirteen fruit crates of paper on his little dock dolly. He had been paid and dismissed. Samantha sat back in her chair by the office window and stared awhile at what remained. It had melted down to a tiny pile, praise God, and tomorrow—perhaps even tonight—it would disappear completely. Praise God. Yes. Samantha could do that now, though the reality of God’s presence still startled her somewhat. It was very new.
She looked around the room. All relevant and necessary papers were tucked into their appropriate cabinets. The stationery and postal necessities rested in a place of their own in her desk drawers. Incoming mail and business had its place, easily found, and the outgoing mail sat in the little basket on the corner of her desk. The typewriter was off the floor at last and back on its proper typewriter table. It must have been deposed years ago, for none of the papers she had taken off the little table was dated 1905 or later.
Samantha stood up suddenly and pulled her purse off the hatrack. She had been at this onerous task two full days, and then some. Mr. Drummond was already gone for the day. There was nothing so urgent that she should work into the evening. She felt a strong compulsion to go home.
She strolled down High Street in no real hurry and thought of the evenings back in Cork, so cool, even damp. This evening, with its waning golden sun, was nearly as torrid as midday. Echuca never cooled off; it was only more or less hot.
As she turned the corner into her street she heard footsteps behind her. “Excuse me, mum, can you spare a coin? I’m penniless.”
That voice! She wheeled. It was! And look at him!
She clapped her hand to her mouth, stunned. “Mr. Sloan! Whatever happened to ye?!”
One of three large bruises on the sides of his face had swelled his left eye nearly shut. A bit of plaster covered a cut over his right eye. Worst of all, he looked—well, he looked beaten. Defeated.
He extended a hand, and when she offered hers he held it a moment and kissed it, ever courtly. “I’m delighted to see you looking fit and well despite the heat.”
“Ye did nae answer me question.”
“Nor did you answer mine.”
She frowned. His question?
“Can you spare a coin?” he repeated.
“I’ll wager y’re in need of far more than a coin, but let us start there. When last we met, ye treated me to tea at the garden. Might I reciprocate today?”
“I accept with pleasure and as
much dignity as the circumstance will permit.” He took her arm in his and headed back down the street with her. “Which isn’t much. I haven’t let the lady pay my way since I was a lad asking Mum for a penny to buy candy.” He walked stiffly, almost with a limp. “You are looking well, Sam. I’m glad. I know you and heat don’t get along.”
“Me son tells me the rains will return come March, and then I’ll be enjoying glorious weather. Now ye must stop evading the obvious question. Whatever befell ye?”
“Ruffians robbed me in Adelaide. They stole my hotel key along with everything else and cleaned out my room before I returned to it. I wasn’t joking a moment ago; I really am penniless. I accepted a loan from a friendly police officer for the train ticket this far. Very nice police in South Australia. Polite, considerate.”
“Adelaide! Have ye visited Linnet at all?”
“She sends her warmest greetings. She’s doing very well and succeeding brilliantly with her music. She was hoping to come to Echuca for the holiday, but a friend of hers is booking her for a number of engagements. Christmas concerts and the like. She’ll be paid for some of them, apparently.”
“Meself be pleased to hear it. She never writes, and I do wonder sometimes how it goes with her.” Ruffians! Ever so briefly she thought of this stalwart and handsome man being pounded into the ground by bullies. A chill ran down her back despite the heat. Beaten and robbed. It could happen to anybody. But to him…to someone so proud…
If he were robbed blind, why did he not request a loan of Linnet? Silly Samantha! Linnet had no money.
Here they were at the tea garden. The proprietress tried to hide her shock with a smile. It didn’t work. She seated them in the cool of the bower and hastened off to bring tea.
Samantha held his hand a moment, surveying the poor scuffed knuckles. “In a perverse way, I be pleased to see ye did nae go peacefully. ’Twould nae be the Cole Sloan I know if ye did nae give near as good as ye got.”
“Nowhere near as good as I got. But I tried. I was hoping against hope you were still at the address you gave me, and hadn’t gone off to Melbourne looking for work. May I take it you’ve found a good position here?”
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