Bess stayed silent, determined to out-wait Ida if she could. Only when those manicured fingers reached again for the keys did she finally let out a breath and admit to herself she was no match for this woman of stone.
“I once told you I wouldn't share personal confessions, Ida. But do you know what my husband’s last words were to me before he shot himself? Do you know what he did to me before he shot himself?” Her voice was rising, and Bess could feel it, hear it, but she couldn’t stop it anymore than she could stop the bitter bile that rose with the words, into her throat, leaving a bad taste.
“He beat me. He smashed me with his fists. He killed our unborn child with his fists because it was a girl. Because he wanted a boy. Because he knew, I realize now, that my father wanted a boy. And when Paul finished beating me, he raped me. He treated me like a paid whore. And he told me I was the worst 'wife' in the world. Except he didn't mean wife. He meant...”
The tears came then, but Bess choked and chewed them back, shaking her mop of curls and battling for control. When she continued speaking, it was through clenched teeth.
“It was all my father’s doing. My own father. He made me into a whore, Ida, and by God if I’m going to be one, I’m going to be a rich one. My father has the money and I'm going to make him pay. I don’t know how yet, but I will make him pay!”
She closed her eyes against the tears again, holding back the moans that fluttered in her stomach like frenzied bats. And when she finally opened her eyes, it was to meet two eyes that looked like blue chips of stone.
“Did Geoffrey treat you like a whore?” Ida asked bluntly.
“Did Geoff tell you about...us?”
“No! Geoffrey would no more do that than fly to the moon, and you’d know that, Colorado, if you were thinking straight. But I’m older than you and I’m older than Geoffrey, and I’ve been places you’ve both never been and I hope you never go. No one needed to tell me you two finally got it together. It’s written all over both of you like a rash. Now, answer my question. A simple yes or no will do, since I’m not real interested in the details, if you don’t mind. Did Geoffrey Barrett treat you like a whore? Ever? In any way?”
Bess tried. She really did. But the answer stuck in her throat, grasped with painful claws at her tongue, and wouldn't leave her lips. Ida sat patiently, then rolled down her window, lit a cigarette, and made a great show of smoking it.
“Okay, Colorado, stop torturing yourself,” she finally said. “I already knew the answer. I just wanted to know if you thought he’d treated you that way, in which case I might have dropped you off at the mental ward instead of taking you home. So, whose opinion are you going to take? That of a damn loser you were silly enough to marry? Worse than loser, from what T... Rossiter said. Or that of the man you love?”
“Geoff doesn’t know about Paul. I mean, the rape and suicide. I've never told him. I've wanted to tell him at least a dozen times, but now I can't.” Bess didn't trust her voice anymore. Looking down, she watched tears stain her linen slacks. Then, raising her face, she gazed imploringly at Ida.
“What you want me to say is that he won’t ever know, at least not from me. So all right, he'll never know from me. But he’ll have to know from you, for your own sake. You’ve got to tell him, Bess, if you’re going to have any future together.”
“We won’t have any future together. It's impossible. It's never been possible.”
“Ah...” It was one of Ida’s all-encompassing, say-everything-and-nothing ahs. Then she reached for the ignition. “Because you're intrinsically flawed; damaged goods. How silly of me not to have seen that. Ah well... I'm running out of time, Colorado, so it’s home again for you and back to work for me. Whole damn thing is out of my ball park now anyway.”
Ida drove back through the Punchbowl and through a variety of side streets until she could see Geoff’s driveway, empty, so she drove right up to the door and let Bess out of the car.
“You’re a good girl, Colorado, no matter what you think,” she said in farewell. “Stupid, but good...or you will be when you grow up. Don’t lose touch, and remember, you’re tougher than you think.”
Bess felt anything but tough as she let herself into the house and went straight to her room to change clothes. Then, wearing jeans and an old Beatles tee-shirt, she returned downstairs and stared at the blank face of the computer.
“First things first,” she said, and set about composing a complicated message to Mouse. That done, she sent it, then wiped it from the computer’s memory. Calling up the file she'd titled “Kate's Confession,” she began to work her way through a scenario written out of context. She – and Geoff, for that matter – rarely wrote out of sequence. However, this particular scene was vital to the book’s heroine, and the story itself. It involved a lengthy confession. The hero, now re-named a more formalized Thomas, was the recipient of Kate's declaration about her pregnancy, and...
Once this portion was completed, Geoff could finish the rest of the book with his eyes shut. So Bess had deliberately been delaying her best efforts, mainly because she'd wanted to delay the imminence of her departure.
Now, her fingertips fairly flew over the keyboard. Her fingers were linked to her mind, but working almost faster than she could think. The words seemed to pour out like individual droplets merging into a stream, a river, a cascade of words and emotions she couldn’t halt. She didn’t pause to edit, didn’t pause for anything, merely let it flow.
Suddenly, the cadence and rhythm of The Highwayman was in control, and Bess, still typing furiously, swayed in her chair to the music in her head.
Kate flinched as Thomas grasped her arm. She knew he meant to console her. In fact, his grasp had none of the passion he'd shown a few minutes earlier. But Kate simply couldn't help herself. Memories of Paul invaded her mind; memories she'd managed to hide, the same way she'd been schooled to hide her legs beneath her voluminous petticoats. However, she wasn't wearing petticoats now, and her mind was suddenly as naked as her body.
“My God, Kate, what's wrong?” Thomas asked.
“I want...” she began, then took a deep breath before continuing in a rush. “I want to make love, I need you to love me, except you don't know about...about Paul Yeldarb.”
“Who the bloody hell is Paul Yeldarb?”
The voice Thomas used was as cold as Paul's voice had been that long-ago December twenty-fourth, when he'd entered Kate's bedroom and locked the door. She had been wide awake because she never enjoyed a decent sleep on Christmas Eve. Too much excitement. Too much anticipation.
She'd always been half in love with Paul, who was twelve years her senior and her father's protégé, so his presence didn't disturb her. In truth, having just turned eighteen, she was convinced his visit meant a proposal of marriage. Which she'd accept, even though her father had become dissatisfied with Paul's business acumen. Father oft grumbled that Paul wasn't resourceful or intelligent, had no foresight and lacked gumption.
San Francisco was thriving. Paul could easily secure another position, especially since he was so attractive. He possessed a pleasant, exceedingly light voice, and had always treated Bess like royalty. Paul had risen in the ranks to become one of her father's bookkeepers, yet in Kate's opinion he deserved a position that was better suited to his congenial demeanor.
Looking up at him from her bed, she hoped her smile would encourage him. But his face was so contorted, she found herself blurting something far different from what she'd meant to say.
“I'll speak to Father, Paul. I know he's been treating you horribly. And undeservedly, I might add. You know Father listens to me. I'll insist on some changes and—”
“Changes? It's too late for changes.” Paul lifted her from the bed, stood her upright, and the voice she had thought exceedingly light screeched in her ears. “I have a better idea,” he said with a sneer, as one clenched fist followed the other into the softness of her belly.
When Paul's rage could no longer keep her upright, Bess collapsed to the floor, h
er face branded by slap marks, her eyes blinded by tears, her stomach a well of roiling, heaving pain. Almost immediately, she began to gag.
“Don't you dare spew, bitch,” Paul threatened, “because I have other plans for you.”
Momentarily, he looked contrite, or maybe Kate only imagined it. She wanted to scream, had wanted to scream from the start, but his blows to her belly had dried up her voice and she could only whisper, “What plans?” just before she released the roiling contents of her stomach. With her head lowered, she couldn't determine his expression, but she envisioned it to be one of disgust, and she desperately hoped he wouldn't renew his abuse. She wanted to tell him that she wouldn't tattle, that her father would never know about this, but her belly convulsed again.
Impatiently tapping his foot, Paul waited until she'd finished. Then he grasped her about the waist and carried her, arms and legs dangling, halfway across the room. When he finally put her down, she was on her hands and knees...like a dog.
“I told you not to spew,” he said in his death wind voice. “But I suppose it doesn't matter, so long as you clean up your mess after I leave. Not the maids; you! Do you understand me, Elizabeth? There will be no evidence of tonight's activities, not even your foul, revolting vomit. And if you dare vomit again,” he said, his tone suggesting that she'd spewed on purpose, “I'll slap you senseless.”
Kate managed to nod before the final degradation began. She was only vaguely aware of her nightgown being thrown back, but she was all too aware of the violation that followed. And with the greatest effort of her young life, she contrived to swallow the bitter bile that rose in her throat.
When it was over, when she lay in a dazed heap, Paul patted her curls and said, “Your father wants an heir, Kate. We will be wed as soon as your belly begins to grow.”
Paul's plans had never come to fruition. Upon learning that Bess was with child, her father had sacked Paul. Whereupon, Paul cornered Kate in the stables.
“You would have been lousy, loathsome wife,” he said, “which your father's bootlick will discover soon enough. Did you hear me, Elizabeth? You're a lice-ridden, despicable cow! Worse than a cow, underneath the covers, where you've no talent at all.”
Then, pulling a pistol from his belt, Paul shot himself between the eyes.
Kate had miscarried during the earthquake. With the ground rumbling and buildings exploding all around them, an elderly woman, a stranger, nursed Kate through the painful ordeal. The woman even ripped her own petticoats into strips so that Kate would have rags to staunch her blood.
“My baby was a girl,” Kate told Thomas, finishing up her confession in tones that said she had obviously failed there, as well. Then, with a sense of trepidation, perhaps even dread, she waited for his reply.
“That was then and this is now,” he said. “I don't love you any less, or any more. I just...love you.”
“You cannot love me,” she cried. “Don't you understand? I'm filth!”
And with that, Kate fled from the room and the house, hearing but not hearing Thomas's urgent shouts to come back.
Bess was just about to begin properly reading and editing when she heard Geoff's Land Cruiser pull into the driveway. Blindly, she reached out to save the scene.
By the time Geoff entered the office, Lady orbiting round his ankles, Bess was back at work on the main portion of the book, and she forced herself to look up and at least attempt to be pleasant.
“You’ve had a busy day, Lady,” she said to the dog, who rushed over to try and leap into Bess’s lap, all four feet skittering on the plywood, tail whirling like a demented weather-vane.
“Sit!” said two voices in unison, and the dervish dog plunked her rump on the ground, then looked anxiously from face to face, certain she’d been ganged up on, but not sure who was now the boss.
Bess would have laughed. Wanted to laugh, but didn’t dare meet Geoff’s eyes to see if he shared her impulse. So she kept her own eyes downcast and her mouth closed.
“You about finished for the day, Bess?”
Geoff's voice was calm, totally unrevealing. Except, she thought, and then cursed herself inwardly for thinking it, too polite. “I wouldn’t mind stopping, if that’s what you’re getting at,” she said. “It’s been a long day. I got heaps done, but I ended up deleting most of it,” she fibbed.
“Well my day’s been just the same,” he said, surprisingly soft-spoken. “What say we go buy a steak and a beer somewhere, maybe that Lone Star restaurant. It’s so American it gives me the bloody shivers, but they do a splendid steak and the line-dancing and music are worth at least half the price.”
“Okay,” Bess replied, her stomach growling approval. “At least I won’t have to change, which is just as well. I absolutely must wash clothes tomorrow.”
“Leave tomorrow for when it comes. Go find some shoes and we’ll leave as soon as I give Lady her tucker.”
They drove in silence to the Lone Star, and sat in almost-silence throughout most of the meal.
“Tomorrow I must drive to Hobart for the day,” Geoff said. “I assume you’ll be all right by yourself.”
It wasn’t a question. It was, like nearly everything else that passed between them, a sort of do-si-do, a mental and verbal line dance. Try to keep the rhythm, try to stay in step, but never, ever, really touch. And be aware that in different countries, different cultures, different circumstances, the line dance to a given piece of music isn’t always the same.
They arrived at the restaurant as strangers and went home as strangers, but when Bess slipped her tense, weary body beneath her eiderdown quilt, she knew exactly what she had to do.
Tomorrow. He'd given her the day, and she would make the most of it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The striking young woman who marched into the offices of the Dover Warren Cornwall conglomerate was a far cry from the waif in faded jeans and Broncos sweatshirt who had flown as directly as humanly possible from Launceston to Melbourne to Los Angeles to New York. And, in strict disobedience of all logic, she had traveled with no more than a purse and a laptop computer.
It was much easier, and much faster, dealing with customs that way.
As a bonus, due to the time difference, she had landed at LAX three hours prior to her take-off from Melbourne. Meaning, she'd gained more than one day.
Elizabeth Carson Bradley was power-dressed to the nines in a British racing green suit that set off her hair, an autumn-rust blouse that matched her hair, and all the accouterments that cried out: Here is a woman to be reckoned with!
Jet lag be damned. It had taken her less than half a day to visit a series of expensive boutiques.
“I would like to see my father, please,” she said, having negotiated her way through a host of new employees who didn’t know her. Now, finally, she faced her father’s final bastion, Miss Dragonian. And well named too, Bess had always thought. This woman of mixed-ethnic descent was truly – and had been right from the start – the dragon at the gate to Cornwall’s inner sanctum.
The great man emerged from his office like a bear leaving his hibernation den, and it was all Bess could do to keep from spitting as she allowed herself to be smothered in his welcome, to be hugged and held away for inspection, then hugged again.
“You look wonderful,” he said.
As well he should, she thought. He was paying for it. She had used Geoff’s return ticket as far as L.A., but from that point on she had splurged with the company credit card she'd never before used. It had paid for her flights, her meals, her hotel and her clothes.
“But I wish you’d come back a bit earlier, Elizabeth. I really did want to put you together with Reg Bingham, the British chap I phoned you about. Did I tell you he's met the Queen? And Fergie? And Prince Charles, of course. Bingham was very disappointed when he couldn't find you in Colorado Springs.”
Bess held her breath, then let it out slowly. Fought for total control, and found it. Crunch time, she thought, and carefully chose her word
s.
“Not as disappointed as I was when your idiot employees totally ruined my situation in Tasmania, Father,” she said, forcing a strength she didn't feel into her voice. “When did you start hiring fools? I had him all but hung out to dry, and then your bunch of fifth-rate mafioso had to come along and ruin it.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
Cornwall's expression told Bess he knew exactly what she was talking about. She watched him open and close his mouth several times, looking like a grounded fish.
“I’m talking about Geoffrey Barrett and his control of the Tascalypt shares you craved. The ones you got, I assume, but almost got me raped in the process. Raped, Father! And for what? I could have had the stock up for sale in another week. By the way, have you managed to acquire the majority you wanted?”
“I managed to acquire them all,” Cornwall said, staring at his daughter and wondering how he could have missed seeing this new Elizabeth. She was exactly the heir he'd always wanted. Strong, confident, ready to face up to anything, even him! A strange sort of pride surged through him, blotting out her rape statement, blotting out any misgivings, blotting out all logic.
“Good,” she said, turquoise eyes flashing. “Considering what I had to endure because of your meddling, you won’t object to turning them over to me, will you?”
In her eyes, Cornwall saw something he’d never dreamed he'd see... raw, naked power. His daughter was himself, many years ago, and he felt as if he was poised on the steps of heaven.
“And while you’re at it, Father, why don’t we stop this game-playing and simply give me control of the whole box and dice? I'm going to inherit anyway, so why don't we get the paperwork done while I’m here? Then I can get out of your way and let you run things as you wish, until... well, let’s not go there. I’m sure you have years and years ahead of you. I certainly hope you do. But it’s time I had voting control too, at least for the various blocks of stock that are in my name and Mother's name, willed to me. Shall we start by fixing that little oversight?”
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