Harlow Kane stepped forward, taking Chelsea’s hand and pressing it to his lips in a perfunctory gesture of gallantry. Now that her eyes had adjusted to the dimness of the cabin, she could see that her first impression of a distinguished gentleman had been correct. In fact, Harlow Kane was impressively dressed as a man of some means, and the sprinkling of gray at his temples contrasted favorably against the deep tan of his skin. When he bowed over her hand, she caught the flash of a jeweled stick pin in his cravat and the aroma of Bay Rum cologne.
She remembered the letters stashed away in Honoria’s trunk, all of which she had read. Mr. Kane’s stiffly written platitudes, and his penchant for making arrangements for Honoria with her brother-in-law and her sister, had left her unimpressed with the man. If ever she was to make her confession, now was the moment.
“Captain Winfield,” said a voice from the doorway. “I need your signature to recover my goods from your hold. Excuse me, I didn’t realize you were busy.”
“Come in, Mr. Tanner. I was just about to pour sherry in celebration of Mrs. Harris’s marriage to—”
“Harlow Kane!” Quaid exclaimed.
“Er … I see you know each other.” The captain was clearly unnerved by Quaid’s intrusion and reaction, but hospitality forced him to include his unexpected visitor in the celebration.
Chelsea looked from one man to the other, feeling the hatred that sparked between them.
“I see you’ve imported some cuttings, then. From France, I assume,” Harlow was saying smoothly to Quaid. “I hope they made the voyage successfully, unlike last year when everything was lost.”
“I packed them myself and gave specific orders for their care. If what I’ve just seen is any indication, I should think I was quite lucky. This year,” Quaid said soberly. “So if you’ve come to witness my ruin, Kane, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Not your ruin, Tanner, your destruction. You really should accept my offer for Clonmerra while I’m still willing to pay an attractive price. Next year, when your vintage fails …” Harlow shrugged.
“I’d burn Clonmerra and salt the ground before I’d sell it to you, Kane.”
“You say that now.” Harlow accepted the glass of amber sherry from the captain. “Next year will be different. I always get what I want, Tanner, remember that. And I’m a very patient man. Bellefleur is growing, and I want your land. It’s only a question of time.”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen!” the captain interjected. “This is hardly the time to air your differences; we must think of the lady.” He offered Chelsea a glass and watched her take it with trembling hands. “Can’t you see you’re upsetting her?”
“I’m terribly sorry, my dear.” Harlow moved to her side protectively. “If you didn’t hear the captain when you so rudely intruded, Tanner, this is my wife-to-be, Honoria Chelsea Harris.”
For a long moment Quaid stared into Chelsea’s eyes, not believing what he had just heard, waiting for her to announce that she was not Mrs. Harris, willing her to discard the charade and come into his arms. His ebony gaze held hers, waiting, waiting.
“To the happy couple!” Captain Winfield toasted cheerfully.
Unable to tear his eyes from hers, Quaid watched as Chelsea put the glass to her lips, sealing his fate and accepting her future. In response, his glass sailed across the cabin and shattered into a million fragments. Like his heart.
He turned and thundered out of the captain’s cabin, a bitter taste in his mouth. How could she do this? He knew she was ambitious and even greedy, but how could she agree to marry Harlow Kane? She was a liar, an imposter, he told himself. If ever there was the time to confess her duplicity, it had been at that moment in the captain’s cabin.
Quaid’s shoulders slumped. His heart lay like a stone, heavy and lifeless, in his chest. Who was he to condemn Chelsea for being ambitious and greedy, for being a liar and an impostor, when those same sins were his own? He’d told the truth when he’d said he couldn’t marry her. His love for Clonmerra had exacted yet another price from him. In the past he’d been more than willing to do or say anything to keep Clonmerra, and always in the past it had been a price worth paying. But not this time, not today. Losing Chelsea had proved to be far too costly. How had he fooled himself into believing that she would want him under any circumstances? Her reaction today had proven that she, too, had a price, one he couldn’t afford to pay. She wanted a prosperous marriage, security, and a life of ease, the very things he couldn’t give her. He’d hoped he could trust her, hoped she’d understand.
But now it was too late.
When Quaid stormed out of the captain’s cabin, the sweet sherry turned to vinegar on Chelsea’s tongue. What had she done? She wanted to run after him, explain that at the moment he’d come into Captain Winfield’s cabin she had been about to confess that Honoria Harris was dead. Now it was she who was dying, inch by inch, betrayal by betrayal! Damn him, anyway. He’d added insult to injury inviting her to live with him on his precious Clonmerra with no assurances for the future and not even the cloak of respectability. Harlow Kane at least asked a woman to marry him before he expected her to live with him.
Until this very second she’d had no intention of retaining Honoria’s identity in front of Kane. But she was frightened enough, and enraged enough, to want to lash out against Quaid’s rejection. If he didn’t want her, there was one man who’d already spoken for her. Peering over the rim of her glass, Chelsea scrutinized this tall, debonair Australian. Close-cropped graying hair revealed a well-shaped head and proud, intelligent brow. His skin was dark, darker even than Quaid’s, and held the mellow bronze of long days in the sun. She guessed him to be somewhere past fifty, but he held his age gracefully. Slim, with only a slight thickening at the waist, he seemed to be youthful and active. He didn’t have Quaid’s broad shoulders and powerful thighs, but he was a handsome man, she decided. And from what she heard him telling Captain Winfield about his estate, he was rather well-to-do, with a certain position in society.
“When will the wedding take place?” Captain Winfield asked, breaking through her daze. “I wouldn’t allow too much time to pass, Mr. Kane. A man doesn’t find himself promised to a lady of Mrs. Harris’s charms every day. Don’t let her get away.”
“I don’t intend to, Captain.” In a slightly possessive move, Harlow stepped closer to Chelsea and smiled down at her. “As soon as it can be arranged, I think. When will it be, Honoria?”
Hearing herself called by that name stirred something inside Chelsea. “Please, I prefer to be called Chelsea. It’s a family name of sorts.” Had she really said that? Was she actually going to go through with this marriage? Her glance fell on the glistening shards of glass and the wet stain of spilled sherry.
“But your brother-in-law referred to you—”
“I know. But I prefer the name Chelsea.”
“Yes, of course.” He was momentarily disarmed, and she judged it a position in which he rarely found himself. “When shall the wedding take place, my dear?”
When Chelsea couldn’t bring herself to answer, he bent toward her solicitously. “That cretin has upset you, hasn’t he? You’re not to worry about him. Clonmerra may border on my Bellefleur, but that is all we have in common, and you’ve seen the last of him, I promise you. If I have my way, and I believe I will, Clonmerra will be mine one day soon and Quaid Tanner will be gone entirely.”
“He’s a neighbor of yours?” Chelsea asked in disbelief.
Harlow nodded. “But not a neighbor as you know in England. The house on Clonmerra is nearly five miles away from Bellefleur, and you’re not to give him a second thought. We rarely socialize, although I must admit there is a section of society here in Sydney that finds him not only acceptable but charming. But that opinion is quite limited, my dear, and I don’t share it. Mr. Tanner’s interest in Clonmerra is quite recent. He and his brother were hardly more than boys when they were sent to England to be educated.”
“A brother?”
“Didn’t you know? Of course, how could you? A brother, Luke, younger by a year or so, if I recall,” Harlow told her. “A rascal, running about like a wild animal, consorting with the Aboriginals, hardly civilized. Not that Quaid was much better. A disreputable family, I assure you. At every turn some sort of gossip or scandal was attached to Clonmerra. Although I must say Mr. Tanner’s interest in Clonmerra has never ceased to amaze me. When he was a boy I wouldn’t have thought he’d ever return from England to take up the reins. Now, about our wedding,” he said, throwing Chelsea off guard with the abrupt change in subject.
“Surely, Mr. Kane,” she murmured, lowering her dark lashes coyly, “you will allow me time to recover from my voyage and to become acquainted with my intended.”
Harlow frowned. “A delay would make things … inconvenient,” he replied, clearly in no mood for maidenly reluctance. “There’s your reputation to consider. You couldn’t possibly reside in my house until after the wedding.”
“Is there nowhere else to stay?” she asked sweetly. “I’m simply not prepared to marry while—while in this state of exhaustion.”
“There is a summer cottage,” Harlow conceded, “and you could take your meals at the house. But it’s hardly fit accommodations.”
“Nonsense, it will do perfectly. And I do appreciate your understanding.” She lifted her eyes, holding him with her gaze, flirting outrageously. “You are so sensitive to realize a woman needs to be courted.”
“Courted—hardly, Hon … Chelsea. There’s no time. The vineyards demand my attention. This is summer, and soon it will be harvest. Grapes to be picked, wine to be bottled.”
“There will have to be time, Mr. Kane.” She lowered her eyes and drooped her shoulders in an attitude of disappointment. “I cannot wed a stranger. It would be impossible.” She allowed a tremor to enter her voice, evoking sympathy.
“Perhaps she’s right Mr. Kane,” Captain Winfield interceded. “After all, she’s never seen you until today, and I know Mrs. Harris to be a woman of delicate sensibilities.” He paused thoughtfully, and Chelsea knew he was recalling her enduring attendance to Honoria. “It’s been a difficult voyage for her in many ways, among them the tragic loss of her maidservant, who was a lifelong companion.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know,” Harlow apologized beneficently, but there was something in his eyes that told Chelsea he was not a man who easily gave in to a woman. This was simply a concession. “We’ll postpone the wedding for the time being, until just before harvest.”
Glad for the respite, however grudgingly given, Chelsea smiled … and curtsied. “You won’t be sorry, Mr. Kane.” Simple words, yet she was able to communicate to him that his patience would be amply rewarded.
Chelsea admired the way Harlow issued orders to a seaman to have her trunks brought to his buggy, which was waiting on the wharf. She noticed that several businessmen checking cargo on the quay tipped their hats respectfully. Obviously Harlow was well-known in the city, and he confirmed this by telling her he had had lunch with the governor earlier that day.
“Do you come into the city often, Mr. Kane?”
“Quite often, but rarely at this time of year. As a vigneron I have my responsibilities to Bellefleur. I’ve more free time during the winter months, and I keep a townhouse here. Inns and rooming houses are not sufficient for my needs.”
“Who takes care of your townhouse when you’re at Bellefleur?”
“I’ve a housekeeper and her husband.”
“And at Bellefleur?”
He turned to look at her, brows raised. “At Bellefleur I’ve two daughters to keep house. That will be one of your responsibilities, Chelsea, taking those girls in hand and making a home for my son, Franklin, and myself. Martha and Emma seem to have little talent for anything, and housekeeping the least.”
“You brought me all the way from England to keep house and train your daughters in domestic chores?” she asked boldly.
“Your brother-in-law, Jason, told me you were quite helpful in his household.”
This Chelsea could not believe about Honoria and supposed it was just another boast on Jason’s part to entice Harlow and rid himself of a burden. “Helpful, yes, Mr. Kane, but I was hardly a drudge.” She slipped off one of her wrist-length gloves and extended her smooth white hands for his inspection. “These hands do not scrub or garden or prepare meals, Mr. Kane. If you wanted a housekeeper, you could have secured one without a promise of marriage.”
Harlow was clearly taken aback. He was unused to having women speak their minds so directly. “Your brother-in-law misled me, Mrs. Harris. I asked for a woman to tend my house and train my children.”
“No, no, Mr. Kane, you asked for a slave, which I am not. Either you employ servants to bring to Bellefleur, or I will find myself other arrangements.”
Harlow didn’t answer, merely occupied himself with maneuvering the buggy onto the busy thoroughfare. This was becoming complicated, he thought to himself. He’d asked for a lady to share his bed, and that seemed to be exactly what he’d gotten. Chelsea Harris wasn’t amenable to having a hand in Bellefleur’s growth and prosperity. In fact, she wasn’t at all like his first wife, Irmaline, who had died just a year before last.
“You will stay the night at the Red Lion Inn,” he told Chelsea coldly, showing his irritation. “We will leave for Bellefleur at first light. I will make arrangements for dinner to be served in your room.”
“And what will you do this evening?” she asked innocently, ignoring his coolness.
“I, Mrs. Harris, will be busy securing servants to come to Bellefleur. I take it since you’ve learned to do without a personal maid, you will continue to do so.”
“I’ll be happy to make the concession, Mr. Kane. For the time being, at least. A housekeeper, scullery maid, and laundress will do nicely—to start.”
Harlow’s pale gray eyes bespoke his displeasure, but Chelsea didn’t notice; she was too busy contemplating the distance between Clonmerra and Bellefleur. The buggy wheels seemed to be clicking the same words over and over as they rode the cobblestones on Queen Street: “Five miles down the road. Five miles down the road. Five miles down the road.”
Chelsea’s first morning in Australia seemed to be a celebration of radiant sunshine over the clear blue waters of the harbor and heralded by the screech and warble of strange, exotic birds. Chattering parakeets sat in the tree outside her window at the Red Lion Inn. Crimson and yellow-crested finches busily tended their nests, and the bright musical notes of a black bird she recognized from Mrs. Crain’s books as a currawong welcomed her arrival. From somewhere nearby came the pugnacious, aggressive cacophony of a flock of kookaburras.
The morning was still, but heat would follow, and she had dressed appropriately in a cool muslin dress, eliminating two of her three petticoats. Her window faced Oxford Street and gave her a view of the far hills. Sydney, as she had noticed during the buggy ride to the inn, was very much reminiscent of an English village bulging at the seams and more than ready to burst out as a full-fledged city. The buildings’ façades were brick and painted clapboard, and most of the streets were paved with cobbles or laid with quarry stone. Only the side thoroughfares retained evidence of a frontier colony, red-packed clay worn into grooves by wagon wheels and treading feet. Used to the age-worn look of London, Chelsea found everything in Sydney new and sparkling, although the town itself was over one hundred years old.
She watched out her window, enjoying the sights, while she waited for Harlow, who had cautioned her to be ready at first light. It was now several hours past dawn, and still he had not arrived. She almost hoped he wouldn’t come at all, that she’d offended him beyond endurance with her protests and demands.
A sprite black buggy rolled up Oxford Street, followed by a common dray with a blue-shirted man at the reins. Chelsea recognized Harlow driving the buggy, and she saw the dray was filled with boxes and cartons and three women perched among the cargo. Chelsea smiled to herself as she d
escended to meet him; it would seem her intended was willing to honor her wishes—for the time being, at least.
Harlow drove the buggy at a brisk trot, the well-oiled springs providing a comfortable ride. “It’s going to be a scorcher today. Keep your parasol slanted against the sun,” he warned. “No reason to ruin that lovely English complexion. We’ll make Bellefleur by dusk,” he told her, “providing we keep to a good pace. We’ll stop twice to change horses at way stations where I’ve made arrangements.”
“You’re so well organized, Harlow,” she commented sweetly, hoping to flatter a smile to his face. She had no desire to ride a full day with a scowling, ill-tempered man.
“It pays to be organized, and I’ve an eye for detail. You will approve of my choices for the servants I’ve employed. Mrs. Russell comes recommended as a fine cook and the other two, I don’t remember their names, should serve adequately as scullery maid and laundress.” His voice held no emotion, but his pale gray eyes glowered in the shade of his wide-brimmed hat.
“I’m certain to be pleased with your choices, Harlow. I know you’re not a man to tolerate less than the best.” How long must she keep flattering him until he was in a more pleasant mood? She suspected Harlow Kane could be a very tiresome man.
“Your assumptions are correct, Chelsea. I consider myself a very discerning man, although my children might consider me a taskmaster. I believe in building character; unfortunately, my—their mother spoiled them intolerably.”
“From your letters I received the impression that your children are nearly grown.”
“They are grown. Franklin is twenty-six, and Martha, the oldest girl, is twenty-four. Emma, the youngest, is already eighteen.”
She pretended surprise. “Harlow, you must have been only a boy when you married!”
“Hardly. I arrived in Australia when I was twenty and assumed the duties of Bellefleur from my father’s brother, who left no heir. I married Irmaline at twenty-five.”
To Taste The Wine Page 16
