Quaid was silent; he was looking at her, measuring her, and she didn’t like it. She could feel the heat in her cheeks beneath his appraising stare. “Don’t look at me that way. I’ve worked hard; I deserve the finer things life has to offer, and I’ll appreciate them, I can tell you. A man won’t find me ungrateful, at least not the right man who has everything I want.”
“You’re a candid little beast, aren’t you? Most women would never admit to being fortune hunters, to themselves or anyone else, for that matter, and especially not to a man.”
“I feel quite safe in telling you this,” Chelsea said as she lay back in his arms, head nestled on his shoulder. “After all, you’ve nothing to worry about, have you? You keep sheep and grow grapes, and you never did tell me whether or not there was a wife and babies waiting for you in Australia. You’ve nothing to offer me, so you’re also safe from my greedy clutches.” She yawned sleepily, nestling down once again.
“What if I told you there was no wife, no children?” His tone was serious again.
Chelsea’s eyes opened, and she was very still for a moment. “Are you telling me?”
“I said what if?”
“Then I would like you better; I wouldn’t think you such a faithless bounder.”
“As if you’d had nothing to do with my so-called faithlessness, you little witch! Chelsea, you amaze me. Your virtue and scruples are always perfectly suited to your logic. And vice versa.”
“You still haven’t answered me. Do you have a wife and children?”
“No, I don’t. There never seemed to be time to take on a family. I’m only just now getting Clonmerra established, and I’ve little energy left for the nicer things in life.” He smiled down at her. “I’d like you to see it someday.”
“So I can feed your chickens and shear your sheep? No, thank you. I’ve told you, I want something better out of life. Uncle Cosmo only uttered one truth in his entire life, and do you know what it was? ‘Life is not a dress rehearsal.’ I believe that.”
Something in Quaid died a little at Chelsea’s words. He was incapable of giving her all the things she wanted, and it might be years before Clonmerra was self-supporting. If it weren’t for the months he spent living below ground like a wombat in Coober Pedy, digging for opals to feed Clonmerra’s greedy coffers, he might have gone under before this. He’d had offers for his land and his vineyard, offers that would have permitted him to live a life of ease, but he was attached to the land, and bringing Clonmerra to the glory it deserved was an obsession with him. He wasn’t starving and he had more than enough, but not enough for Chelsea. Not yet. God save all men who love ambitious women!
“I’m leaving the ship tomorrow when we make port in Lisbon,” he said abruptly. “There’s business I must take care of, and I don’t know if it will be done in time to continue the voyage on the Southern Cross. I may have to take another ship.”
Chelsea didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. It had crossed her mind many times that three months spent aboard the Southern Cross with Quaid would be her undoing. She felt far too much for him, emotions that were dangerous to her long-range plans, emotions she refused even to name. And now he was telling her that he might not be sailing the rest of the journey with her. From the way he’d said it, it was almost a certainty—a decision, perhaps, that had already been made … not by circumstances, but by Quaid. “What will you be doing in Portugal?” she asked.
“There’s a winery with which I’ve contracted for a shipment of vines, which I’ll bring back to Clonmerra. They may do very well in our hot climate.”
Chelsea noticed that when he said, “Clonmerra,” it could have been a woman’s name, a woman he loved. An emotion she refused to recognize as jealousy exploded in her chest. She didn’t want to think about this now, not when he was so close and his arms so warm around her. “I suppose that leaves me to the mercy of Mrs. Crain.” She tried for levity but suddenly found the effort too much for her.
He tried to read her thoughts, half hoping, half dreading she would ask to come with him. When she spoke again, her words startled him into momentary silence.
“I suppose this is good-bye, then?” She waited for his response, every moment an eternity. Part of her wanted to run as far away from him as possible, yet she needed more than life itself to remain in his arms. She almost blurted that she wanted to go to Lisbon and continue the journey with him, but she bit back the words. Where had everything gone wrong? This wasn’t the way she’d planned it. She would not fall in love with Quaid Tanner! There was more to life than wasting away on a farm somewhere and growing old before her time. There had to be more! A feeling of dread overcame her, and an echoing voice whispered that it was already too late.
“No, it’s not good-bye,” he murmured, turning to press himself against her. “There’s still tonight.”
Quaid’s mouth claimed hers in a deep, searching kiss that reverberated through her soul. For a moment, just for a moment, she had believed he would ask her to come with him. Instead, he was doing tender things to her body and evoking her answering response. Chelsea threw herself into Quaid’s arms, moist lips parted and welcoming. It tonight were all she would have, then she would make it a night to remember.
Chelsea stood straight and still, a white-knuckled grip on the starboard rail as she watched Quaid wend his way through the dockside havoc at Lisbon port. The scape of the city perched on the rolling hills went unnoticed. The sun glinting off the charming red-tiled roofs and whitewashed building façades, the intriguing sound of a foreign language, all meant nothing. Only the sight of Quaid’s dark head and the proud set of his shoulders were real. Her eyes followed him until he was out of sight, and even then she stared in that direction. Her eyes dropped to the magnificent opal on her finger, Quaid’s gift to her last evening. Why wasn’t it bringing her some kind of comfort? It had to mean something. Payment for services rendered; farmer or not, Quaid was a gentleman. Well, he was gone, out of her life, and now she was free. There were no choices to be made, and the danger of giving her heart had passed. Why then, did she feel this emptiness inside, this hollow anxiety as though she had somehow missed a very important cue?
Chapter 8
Quaid never returned to the Southern Cross. Chelsea had watched until the last possible moment, then had stood at the rail long after the sight of land had vanished beyond the horizon.
The remainder of her journey aboard ship was long and tedious. She came to know every board and nail that comprised her cabin, and she was able to be entertaining and charming in the dining room with her fellow passengers. Mrs. Crain loaned her several books on the flora and fauna of Australia, and Chelsea became well versed in the names of various flowers and birds as Mrs. Crain schooled her lessons. Once she’d picked up the basic rules, polite games of whist and cribbage whiled away the quiet evenings. Chelsea, a natural mimic, was soon at ease with her new style of living. Choosing the correct fork at dinner was no longer a problem, and neither was the meaningless chatter at which ladies of good breeding were expert.
To replenish supplies, the Southern Cross had put in at strange and exotic ports of call whose names had been meaningless to Chelsea before this: Morocco, Cape Verde, Cape Town, and Madagascar. When the Southern Cross sailed across the equator, she longed for the cool, damp climate of England, and when they traversed the Tropic of Capricorn, they were becalmed for nearly eight days before a God-blessed wind rolled around the earth to puff gently into the sails. As they traveled southward, people became darker skinned and finally black, and she listened incredulously to natives whose tongues were capable of making almost incredible patterns of speech.
Once, while docked in Madagascar, Mrs. Crain learned from the captain that there was a Chinese trader on the next quay. Seizing Chelsea’s elbow, she said eagerly, “Come along, girl, and bring your purse. I smell a bargain in the air!”
And bargains there were. Yards of silks for dresses and lace for trimmings. Uncountable ribbons and fragrant oil
s and perfumes. Sandalwood boxes and lacquered chests. Tortoiseshell combs and pearl-handled brushes. Their purchases were carried back to the Southern Cross by porters whose heads barely showed over the intimidating pile of goods, yet Chelsea was able to heft her barely touched coin purse with satisfaction. The pale lilac silk she had bought would make a beautiful gown, as would the printed dimity and featherweight linen, which Mrs. Crain had advised would be cool and practical in Australia’s heat.
Like children beneath a Christmas tree, Chelsea and Merriam unfolded, unrolled, and inspected their purchases. Chelsea’s cabin overflowed with silks and fine muslins for petticoats and yards and yards of laces. Merriam Crain had stockpiled Chinese teas and various spices from the Orient, and tins of sweetmeats and dried fruits had been bought with social gatherings in mind. Over and over she reminded Chelsea that everything they had bought would cost ten times as much in Sydney, and both felt as though they had stumbled upon a king’s treasure.
The Southern Cross approached Australia from the southwest, crossing the frontier town of Melbourne and traveling up the eastern coast to Sydney. Here the waters were blue and foaming, schools of whales sounded the depths, and a playground of porpoises frolicked in their wake. The captain had ordered food scraps to be stowed and not dumped overboard because of numerous sharks in these waters, and the cacophonous clatter of pots and pans accompanied the vociferous complaints of the ship’s cook.
Chelsea strained for her first sight of Sydney. Over the headwaters she could see ribbons of white sandy beaches hemmed by low jagged sandstone ledges. And beyond the spit of land she could just make out the tall masts of hundreds of other ships that had docked in Port Jackson. Farther south of them was Botany Bay, the notorious harbor that until recently had welcomed thousands of England’s convicts; when the community of rejects had been declared unhealthful, the colony had been forced to move north to the magnificent anchorage of Sydney Cove.
Once entering the harbor, signs of civilization immediately made themselves known. Houses and businesses lined the wharf, and in the distance loomed the stunted ridges of the Blue Mountains. It was mid-January and the beginning of Australia’s summer when the Southern Cross made portage. Women paraded the dock areas, their colorful parasols bobbing like a garden of flowers in the gentle sea breezes. A flurry of activity could be seen, and the sound of men’s voices, their harshness softened by distance, wafted over the water. Merriam Crain stood by Chelsea’s side and pointed out various places of interest: the Common House, the Hall of Records, the courts of justice, the governor’s mansion. Stevedores hauled ropes thrown from the decks of the Southern Cross and pulled the ship into dock. When she heard the thunder of the gangplank dropping onto the wharf, Chelsea’s heart beat frantically. She was here, she had arrived, and the future spread out before her like a blank piece of paper; it was up to her to write her own destiny. It was an exciting thought, and one that thrilled, yet frightened her.
It wasn’t until she saw his face that she realized she’d been looking for him. Before this moment it had been a ridiculous hope that she would see him again, find him waiting for her. Ever since he had left the Southern Cross there had been an emptiness, a deep hollow core, that had brought her eyes more than a few times to his cabin door. He had told her before leaving the ship that, in all likelihood, he would reach New South Wales before she did, since the Southern Cross put in at so many ports of call. It had been a formless hope, yet here he was, his dark eyes searching the rail of the ship, looking for her. And when he at last saw her, he raised his hand in welcome.
Chelsea tried to slow the beat of her heart as she watched him climb the gangplank. He hadn’t forgotten her, no more than she’d been able to forget him. Over and over she had considered what she would make of her life in Australia, and she had never come up with a satisfactory answer. Now the answer was walking across the deck toward her, sun-bronzed and tall, broad-shouldered and lean, with a light in his eyes meant only for her. In the weeks since Quaid had left her, she had learned that ambition and dreams were cold companions on lonely nights. Being a farmer’s wife wasn’t the worst fate in the world; there were always the long winter nights under downy quilts.
Walking toward her, Quaid knew why he had been so impatient for the Southern Cross to make Sydney Cove. It wasn’t the remainder of his baggage in the ship’s hold nor the oaken casks in which French grape vines had been carefully stowed. It was clear now; his only reason for being here was standing at the rail with her dark eyes fixed on him and a welcoming smile touching those adored lips. Chelsea. Only propriety prevented him from taking her in his arms and pressing his hungry mouth to those sweetly curved lips.
“Mr. Tanner!” exclaimed Merriam Crain, intercepting his direct path to Chelsea. “How in the world did you manage to arrive in Sydney before us?”
“We only stopped in Cape Town for supplies,” he told the voluminous woman. “I managed to book passage on a cargo ship heading directly for Sydney and arrived only three days ago.” He was looking over the top of Merriam’s head directly at Chelsea, whose tawny eyes held him in a fragile embrace.
“You remember Chelsea Harris, of course,” Mrs. Crain was saying. “Things weren’t as lively after you left us, Mr. Tanner. Porter, for one, missed playing cards with you, didn’t you, Porter? Porter?” She turned around to look for her husband, who had gone off in another direction. “Now where is that man? Excuse me, won’t you? Porter!” she called, and walked away, leaving Chelsea and Quaid alone at last.
“You’re beautiful,” he told her, “even more beautiful than I remembered.”
“Is that why you’ve come here?” she challenged, her tone light, her voice deliberately casual.
He hesitated, his eyes narrowing slightly. “You won’t give an inch, will you?”
“And should I?”
“What do you want from me, Chelsea?” Why couldn’t she say something that would tell him how she felt? Time hadn’t changed him; he’d been miserable all these months without her. He wanted her; he loved her.
“What is this, Quaid, an inquisition?” Why was he standing just beyond the reach of her hand? She wanted him to catch her up and carry her away.
Her demeanor was so cold, the fury in her eyes burned through him. He wanted to sweep her into his arms and take her away with him. Instead, he matched her tone and replied, “I was wondering if you still harbored the same ambitions we spoke about just before I left the Southern Cross. You remember, about waiting for the man who has everything and will hand it to you on a silver platter. Didn’t I hear Mrs. Crain introduce you as Chelsea Harris? Still haven’t confessed have you?”
Chelsea turned away, sudden tears stinging her eyes. “Leave me alone. If you’ve come here to humiliate me and hold threats over my head, it won’t work.”
“Dammit, Chelsea, that’s a low blow. I thought you knew me better than that. I thought we were …”
“What, Quaid? Thought we were what?” She spun around to face him, choking back a sob. “You thought we were lovers? Companions? Shipmates? Friends?” Say it, Quaid, she silently begged. Say you want me with you. Say you’ll marry me.
“All those things,” he told her quietly. “Even more. Chelsea, would you come to Clonmerra with me?”
“Need someone to feed your chickens and clean your house?” Even before the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them.
“It wasn’t what I had in mind, but I’ll take you on your own terms,” Quaid said bitterly. He never saw Chelsea’s arm strike out. The slap resounded as sparks shot through his head, and her next words made him want to throw himself overboard.
“You bastard! I’m good enough to feed your chickens and shear your sheep and warm your bed, but not good enough to marry? No, thank you. I wouldn’t go to that farm of yours if you got down on your hands and knees and begged!” When her arm swung out again, he caught it, holding her wrist painfully in his grasp. He pulled her forward until she was tight against him, her head snapped bac
kward from the force of his action.
“I want you, Chelsea. I want you so much I can’t think of anything or anyone else but you. I can give you a life at Clonmerra, but I can’t marry you.” His voice was deep; there was misery in his eyes.
“Can’t or won’t! In the end it’s all the same, isn’t it? You’re not the man for me; you never were. At least, not the right man. Oh, get out of my sight! Go back to your precious Clonmerra. I thought I was free of you when you left the ship in Lisbon. You make me sick, Quaid Tanner, physically sick!”
Without waiting to hear any more, Chelsea turned and ran. Her flight away from Quaid was intercepted by Captain Winfield himself. “Mrs. Harris, is something wrong?” he asked solicitously. “Don’t tell me now that you’re here in Australia you’ve changed your mind.”
“No, Captain.” She dabbed at her eyes. “I suppose I’m only a little homesick for London.”
“This is your home now,” he said kindly. “Come along with me, I know someone who’ll dry your tears.”
He led her along the busy deck, helping her skirt the seamen and stevedores who were unloading the holds of the Southern Cross, to his quarters behind the helm. He held the door for her, and she stepped out of the bright sunshine into the cool dim interior of his cabin. Someone was standing just inside the doorway, a tall, dignified man wearing an impeccably tailored white suit and pale gray waistcoat. He held his wide-brimmed white hat in his hands, and there was a speculative expression in his light eyes. “You know I take a paternal interest in all my passengers, Mrs. Harris,” Captain Winfield was saying, “and I am proud to be able to introduce you to your intended, Mr. Harlow Kane. Mr. Kane, Mrs. Honoria Chelsea Harris. Mr. Kane approached me with a letter of introduction and explained the situation. I’m surprised you never mentioned you were coming to Australia to be married, Mrs. Harris.”
To Taste The Wine Page 15
