Taste of Victory

by Sandra Dengler

  She waited beyond the wings. No one came back to congratulate her. No flowers. No well-wishes. She felt near tears.

  She heard the piano lid slam shut in the pit. Was Chris angry with her? He shouldn’t be. She’d done her best despite the poor attendance.

  He came back, then, from the silence of the auditorium. The scowl on his fine features made her wince.

  He tossed her carpetbag at her feet. “We’re canceled.”

  “Canceled? All of them?”

  “The impresario feels you’re not ready for the concert circuit. The drongo claims you can’t draw a crowd. I know better, but I couldn’t convince him. No engagements, no pay.”

  “We could play our way back to Adelaide on the steamer, dual pianos in the dining room.” Linnet brightened. “Mr. Giambone’s company will pay our way to Sydney when the time comes. They said so. We’ve nae lost that.”

  “But no tour.” He sighed heavily and flopped into a prop chair in the corner. “Linn…” He licked his lips. “Linn, it’s not just the thrill of the chase anymore. At first, I wanted the satisfaction of finding an unknown and turning her into a world-class artist. But that was just at the first.” His marvelous, warm, classic eyes held hers. “It’s more than that now. I never before cared for a woman the way I care for you.”

  She watched his face, looking for some sign of mockery. She could hardly be called a woman. What was he really saying?

  “I never intended to say anything about it. I don’t know why I’m talking about it now. I believe in you, Linn, and I love you. The only reason I haven’t touched you is that Guli Hack is right: the one thing that will destroy your career is to get mucked up with a man. Babies and footlights don’t go together. That’s why you got the job in Sydney to start with; their soprano tried to have it both ways. I could never forgive myself if I were responsible for destroying your budding career with my own selfishness.”

  Her mouth gaped open, and she had no strength to close it. She shook her head. “Chris, ye ken nae what y’re saying.”

  “I ken every word, gentle Linnet. I ken every word.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Counterpoint on a Heart’s Theme

  For various reasons, none of them savory, the Esplanade Hotel had been delicensed years before. No grog was to be served on the premises, decreed the government, save certain harmless semi-alcoholic accompaniments to dining-room meals. The bar by the registration window had long since been converted to a simple but elegant reading salon. The government’s will be done.

  Economists and other prominent blokes said that Australia rode on the sheep’s back. No such thing. Australia floated on beer. Booze, with its mysterious attraction, thereby gave a fresh twist to an even older adage. “Man proposes but God disposes” became “The government proposes, but customers dispose.”

  Cole Sloan, along with half a dozen other patrons disposed toward having a cool drop on a warm afternoon, draped himself at the bar in the Esplanade’s hidden cellar. Underground by several definitions, the covert pub provided a tidy income for what in the public eye was a struggling hotel in a depressed area and well past its prime. Sloan should have a slice of something this lucrative.

  But for a feeble and jittery little light over the bar, the place dripped gloom. The rough-cut earthen walls were damp and clammy and discolored by seepage from the last rain. Everything about the premises smelled moldy. Eighteen inches above Cole’s head a pall of tobacco smoke hung itself upon nothing. A legion of black flies waded about in a spill near his elbow.

  Behind the bar to Cole’s right a small, tight passageway dissolved in blackness. That passage emerged into light and air not far from the tea garden, provided you didn’t splack into a shoring timber. The passage these days stood forsaken and festooned with cobwebs, for the local constable had just about given up raiding the joint.

  Beside Cole, Captain August Runyan wagged his shaggy, unkempt head. “A beaut, that one. Far and going away, the biggest, most impressive flood I can recall in the last thirty-five years, and I’ve a trove of recollections, for I’ve resided in these environs since infancy. It crested in all its fury just about a year ago this time.”

  “Floods the usual thing right along the river here?”

  “They’re the exception. You can expect high water—by which I mean a river level raised enough to flood into the forests here about—once in, say, four or five years.”

  “You’re telling me, then, no flood this year.”

  “You can wager your life savings on it. It just doesn’t happen twice in a row, as if the Almighty uses all His rain up in one glorious deluge and then stores up for the next one.”

  “Floods make good trade for you rivermen, I’ll bet.”

  The crusty old man drained the last of his glass. “Last year was one of the most profitable in decades. Not only did we move goods during the flood to and from places we can never reach in a normal year, we also had a record wool clip. Barges laden so bounteously they could scarcely fit under the bridges. More wool than would fit on the river.

  “That, you see”—he wagged a finger at Sloan—“is why I bunged on such an act when my sweet Charlene ran aground. I didn’t need the money. I had no business taking her upriver on that low water. Your fair Irish lass, with her eyes as deep as the ocean, bewitched me. You, you bloody dill, could go jump in the river. I would never’ve done it for you. But when she asked, I was all yesses. ‘Yes, I’ll take your supplies out to the mission.’ ‘Yes, I’ll give your mates a ride, wherever you wish.’ Blast! My weakness still makes me crook.”

  “I assume your Echuca Charlene is still perched on that mud bar.”

  “You assume correctly. And there she shall remain, stripped of the dignity and glory of her kind, until the water comes. I see, though, that we can expect water any moment; your delicate flower of Erin has taken to posting the latest word right outside the wharfmaster’s office. Saves us who toil upon the river from having to wander all about town finding a bit of news here, another bit there.”

  He kept referring to Sam as Sloan’s. If only it were so! Sloan needed the subject changed. “Think I’ll have enough water to move a ton or so up from Mannum?”

  “Maybe. Don’t count on it. This will be a down year.” He was staring morosely at his empty glass, so Sloan signalled the barman for a refill. “Hear this, city lad,” the riverman continued; “you can never count on the river for anything, except trouble. She’ll have you thanking your lucky stars for a good and profitable run; and the next bend round, she’ll hang you up on a snag. She’ll change her course in the middle of the night and fill in the old channel without the courtesy of telling you. She’ll give you a smooth run or she’ll yank the water right out from under you; makes no difference to her either way. A mind of her own has the mighty Murray, and a lady she’s not.”

  ****

  With bells and mournful hooting, the train lurched to a halt. The car jerked and nearly threw Reginald back into his seat as he pulled his carpetbag off the overhead rack. He followed a handsome, sun-tanned young fellow down the aisle. They stepped together out into the bright sun. The young man turned back toward the baggage car and Reginald went the other way, toward the wharfmaster’s office.

  There she was. She stood by the engine as the engineer hung out his window. The conductor handed her a paper of some sort. She signed it and handed it back, smiling. They were all three nodding and laughing. No surprise there; wherever Samantha stood the whole world beamed.

  She spied him as he approached. The smile on her lovely face absolutely melted him. How could he be so smitten this late in life?

  She extended her hand. “Welcome back, sir.”

  He seized the opportunity to kiss that lovely hand. “May I whisk you away to lunch, or are you engaged in business?”

  “Sure’n I’ll nae turn down a lunch!” She took her leave of the railroad men and walked beside him out across the wharf toward what he knew to be her favorite place, the tea garden. “Ah
Loo and I’ve been paying daily visits to y’r roan down at the livery. We take him a carrot or whatever Ah Loo’s uncle provides. He’s in fine fettle, and ready to be ridden home. However, check before ye leave; Captain Runyan thinks to float his Charlene free tonight or tomorrow. Ye might not have to make the journey on horseback.”

  “I’ll stop by your office for the latest on my way out.”

  “And how went y’r trip to Melbourne?”

  “Since you ask, disastrously. No church board in Victoria has funds to spare for Barmah Mission. I tried the cathedral in Bendigo in the bargain.”

  Silence. He glanced at her. Her brow had puckered in that way of hers. She was thinking about something. “Might a secular source underwrite ye, for the good will of it? The Herald, mayhap, or the local commissioners? Barmah Mission be a feather in any community’s cap, aye?”

  “Do you think?”

  “Sure ’n ’tis worth the try. Mr. Drummond is the one to approach the commissioners. We’ll write up a proposal after lunch. Have ye tried the government offices?”

  “Federal and state both. They have their own projects in place, they say.”

  “Philanthropists?”

  “For that I need contacts. I have none.”

  “Eh, nae big thing. Take an evening stroll, noting addresses of the finest houses. Then go down to the lands office and look up the owners’ names. ’Twill give ye someone to write to as ye sit in lovely isolation. Also, ye might have y’r hair trimmed before ye return to Barmah. We have a barber who knows everything about everybody.”

  He chuckled. “I’ll try them all.”

  She was frowning again. “I shall make contribution out of me wages. Well I know from working for ye that every bit counts. But I cannae give ye a sum. I recently made a loan to a friend in need, and it’s cut me account quite low.”

  “I certainly don’t expect that of you!”

  “Were ye expecting it, meself’d think much the less of ye.”

  They arrived at the tea garden, and conversation ceased as they were seated and served. She was still thinking when the serving girl left with their order. Reginald didn’t mind the quiet a bit. Basking in her presence sufficed.

  The sandwiches and tea arrived, and still she had not spoken. Reginald offered a blessing and took over as mother of the pot.

  She spread her napkin in her lap. “Now that the office be in order, me duties are nae nearly so demanding as I would have imagined when first I took this job. Most afternoons be free. I’ve been using them to become better acquainted with the persons with whom we shall do business once the slack picks up.”

  He nodded and bit into a sandwich.

  She leaned forward, her forearms on the edge of the table, and laced her fingers together. “And now meself shall be an utter hussy and a froward woman. I recall when first I began work for ye, I read y’r charter, issued from London and approved by New South Wales. Among the other allowances it provides y’r salary, and a stipend for y’r wife, the reasoning being, I presume, that she be a co-worker with equally onerous duties.”

  “That’s true.” Was she headed where he thought she was?

  She swallowed, and her cheeks flushed pink. “Were we man and wife, ye would collect both y’r salary and the stipend, a needed addition to y’r operating budget. Meself could keep me job here and work for the mission in me spare time, which as I said is ample. ’Twould justify the stipend, ye see. If y’r budget be similar today to what I remember from last year, the stipend would make a welcome addition, as would whatever part of me salary was left after living expenses. Indeed, if ye suffer a month like last October, it could mean the difference between black ink and red. Ye’d have a place here in town whenever ye come in, and would nae shoulder the cost of an accommodation and meals taken out. There be all sorts of financial advantages.”

  He could not suppress his grin, his happiness. “What a unique proposal!”

  The pink flush turned vivid red. “I be nae proposing, ye blackguard. I be suggesting a possibility to think about. Nae more.”

  He sobered, but only a little. “We’ve not discussed love.”

  “Nor need we. Love is a skill to be learned, if what I read in Scripture be true, and well ye know it is. Over and over, we are commanded to love. We are nae to wait until some mysterious emotion comes upon us. We’re to love. Now. Since God made nae distinction in His Word between one sort of love or another, I have nae doubt it refers to the love of man and wife as well as any other.”

  Reginald’s eyes burned hot. He must not allow an embarrassing display now! He managed to stammer a self-evident “I’m speechless” as he fought it back. This woman, brought into the fold through his influence, was absorbing the wisdom of God more quickly and more completely than he could ever have hoped or dreamed.

  He completed the luncheon in something of a daze. He was still half numb when they returned to her office and drafted a proposal for the commissioners. He saddled the roan and paid the livery tab with nearly his last farthing, accepted a picnic supper from Samantha’s hand, and set out east toward Barmah. He could take the road, essentially the long way around, or he could strike out overland, following more or less the course of the river. The moon would be entering first quarter tonight. Once the roan got close enough, its homing instinct would surely take over and they could finish the trek in the dark. He chose the short, rough route.

  He sang. His heart sang. His soul sang. Samantha!

  A bit over eight miles out of town a boat whistle hooted in response to Toplady’s “Rock of Ages.” He turned the roan aside and rode down to the river shore. There sat the Echuca Charlene, four feet from the New South Wales bank, huffing smoke and puffing steam.

  Gus Runyan threw a line ashore. “Gimme a bit of a tug, man of God, not to mention a brief prayer. She’s just on the verge of freeing herself. One more straw on the camel’s back should do it.”

  Reginald obliged with both the prayer and the tug. On the verge was overstating it considerably. It took the roan and the river current and Charlene’s straining engine nearly an hour to shake her free. With a raucous hoot of her whistle, she steamed west toward home.

  The east had turned pink and the kookaburras were issuing their first call for the sun when Reginald saw the roofs of Barmah Mission shining in the distance. The roan picked up the pace. Even so, it was another half hour before he rode, bone weary, into the dooryard. The roan slogged, just as weary, to its shelter and fumbled to a halt.

  What a staggering week this had been—rebuff on all sides, the long hours of travel by train and horse, a night without sleep, and most of all, Samantha’s startling plan. Samantha. She lingered on his mind as he unsaddled the roan and turned it into its paddock. He tossed it a fork of hay and pointed his exhausted body toward the house.

  He gasped and paused. Ellen stood two rods away in the gray-pink dawn. She wore a dark dress, true, but that was no excuse. Why had he not seen her immediately? She came to him and he altered course to join her. She extended her hands and he grasped them. They were warm and soft, and they gripped his firmly.

  “Welcome back, Reginald.”

  “Ta. Good to be home, Ellen. And what disasters happened in my absence?”

  She fell in beside him and they continued toward the house. “Disasters! What is the word? Pessimist. That’s it.”

  “Very well, what blessings were bestowed in my absence?”

  “Your safe travels.”

  An uncomfortable silence descended that even the kookaburras honored. The dust beneath his feet felt firm and settled. It had rained here recently.

  He paused by his verandah. “What is it, Ellen?”

  “I’ve a matter I must discuss with you, but it will wait until you’ve rested.”

  He sighed and watched the pink sky turn yellow. “Dawn. Wake-up time. No, I’ll not go to bed today. I’ll retire early tonight to make up for it.” He plunked down on the verandah step. “Come. Sit here with me. I’ve a matter to discuss
with you as well. We’ll discuss together.”

  “You’re sure you don’t want to take a nap?”

  “Sit.”

  She sat. She looked at the dust, the verandah floorboards, the quickening sky, the distant trees.

  “You first,” he prodded.

  She shook her head. “I had it all so carefully rehearsed; I knew exactly what must be said; and it’s all fled. I don’t—” She bit her lip and started over. Her black eyes held his firmly. “Ever since you left I’ve been rising very early, like this morning, for prayer. I’ve a hideous problem, Reginald, with jealousy. I can’t control myself. I can’t rid myself of it. And prayer isn’t working, no matter how much of it I do.”

  “Jealousy! Of whom could you be jealous? Toby’s Polly?”

  “Samantha Connolly.” The dark eyes fell away.

  He felt himself staring, and he could not muster the presence of mind to stop. If the object be Samantha, that meant—

  The black eyes rose to meet his again. “I’ve loved you since the first day I came. I told myself it’s a fatch—a fatchi—”

  “Infatuation.”

  “Thank you. It’s not. It grows each day. I know you well enough that I’m aware of your shortcomings as well as your virtues, and I love you no less. I want to serve you and be a part of your life. I want you to be my life.” Her lip trembled. “And I understand that you do not return this love. I don’t fault you for that; it’s the way things are. But I had to tell you the way things are with me. I’m sorry if it troubles you.”

  “Troubles me? No, not that. I had no idea, Ellen. I didn’t—” His head spun. Perhaps he ought take a nap. He was reeling, unable to think.

  “You have a matter to discuss, you said.”

  He shook his head. “I must first make decisions regarding the matter, and I must make them alone. You can’t help me. No one can, save God. I must talk to Him first before I say or do anything. As for your jealousy, the first step is to recognize it and confess it. You’ve done that. I suggest now that you not bother giving your jealousy to God. He doesn’t want it any more than you do. Rather, give into His care the situation precipitating the jealousy. I think if you give that to Him, the jealousy will pretty much take care of itself. He can handle any situation, you know.”