To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  “Because it isn’t right to go from place to place and from man to man.”

  Tingari’s eyes fell on Chelsea, and her tone was that of a purring cat. “Does Mitjitji always do right?”

  This brought vivid color to Chelsea’s face, but there was no accusation in Tingari’s glance. Nor did it seem she expected an answer to her pointed question.

  Tingari hefted Chelsea’s trunk into the buggy as though it were weightless, then added hatboxes, shoe bags, and parasols to the crowded baggage rack. It was a day-long journey into Sydney and not one Chelsea relished. A full day cooped up with Martha and Harlow was going to give her a raging headache, and she could already feel it coming on, squeezing into the soft depressions of her temples.

  It wasn’t long before Chelsea realized something was wrong with Martha. Hatred shone from her vapid blue eyes, and she made a great show of moving as close as possible to her father as though she couldn’t bear dirtying her skirt hems by brushing against Chelsea. All attempts at conversation fell flat. Even Harlow, although he said nothing, was aware of his daughter’s animosity. Hurt and embarrassed, Chelsea sat with her hands folded and her eyes straight ahead. Sharing a room with Martha, who was to act as chaperone, was not going to be enjoyable.

  “You’ll like Lucy and John Abernathy, Chelsea,” Harlow said, and Chelsea thought she detected a note of desperation in his voice.

  “I’m certain I will, Harlow.”

  “I especially want you to be nice to John Abernathy. He’s my banker. Lucy is a shy woman who lives entirely in her husband’s shadow. Spend time with her, try to draw her out. We must play politics at times in my business.”

  “Actually, Father, I’m surprised you’re bringing Chelsea to this party. After the wedding would be soon enough.”

  How snide her tone was, how hateful, Chelsea thought. What had she done? Was it having Tingari come to work at Bellefleur?

  “Chelsea is the reason and the only reason that I’ve brought you along, Martha, so I don’t want to hear any more talk like that. Chelsea is to be my wife, and I want her to make friends. The sooner she does, the sooner she’ll be accepted into our society.”

  Martha did not take her father’s admonishment easily and spent the rest of the day with her lips clamped in silence.

  They changed horses twice through the day during the ride to Sydney; the last exchange they made went lame and two hours out of the city had to be driven at an easy pace. Thus it was very late when they arrived at Harlow’s townhouse, only time enough to be introduced to Mr. and Mrs. Lockey Druce, the housekeeper and butler, before retiring exhausted from the trip. The master bedroom was Harlow’s, and the guest bedquarters were to be shared by Martha and Chelsea.

  The bed looked inviting and cool. Wearily undressing and slipping into a nightdress, Chelsea fell into it gratefully. She was just drifting off to sleep when Martha’s harsh whisper jolted her awake.

  “I saw you. I know when you arrived and I saw you when you left.”

  Chelsea listened silently, brain spinning, speculating, devising excuses.

  “Don’t deny it,” Martha continued. “What do you think my father would say? He hates Quaid Tanner.”

  Chelsea’s throat went dry. “I’m not married to your father yet.”

  “If he finds out, he’ll never marry you. My father would never take Quaid Tanner’s leftovers.”

  “What a despicable thing to say!”

  “What a despicable thing to do!” Martha hissed, a strange light burning in her usually vapid eyes.

  Chelsea felt like a cornered rat in the back alleys of London. Denials would be futile, but that strange light in Martha’s eyes told Chelsea she wanted something. “You were spying on me, Martha. That makes you a sneak.”

  “I’m protecting my interests. I have a bargain to make. In return for my silence I want you to see that I’m able to make it to England. The man I love was driven off by my father. I’ve had a letter from William, several letters. He wants me to come to him, but I can’t go without money. You give it to me and I’ll repay you with my silence. If you don’t have it yourself, get it—I really don’t care how. If you don’t, I’ll tell Father, and where will that leave you, Mrs. Honoria Chelsea Harris?”

  Yes, Chelsea thought, where would it leave her? On the first boat to England, providing she could come up with the passage money, and then straight back to Cosmo Perragutt’s theater company. “This is blackmail, Martha.”

  “If that’s the word you choose to use, then so be it. I look upon it as protecting my—father.”

  Chelsea snorted. “How very noble of you. And how do you propose to protect your father if you’re in England?”

  “What I don’t know then won’t hurt me,” she said childishly. Chelsea remembered that some children could be very mean.

  “If you tell Harlow,” she said reasonably, “he’ll never allow you to go to England. I may be out on the street, but where will you be? Locked in that house doing chores for the rest of your life.”

  “That’s true. But while I’ve already had a taste of that, you haven’t. You don’t want to be out on the street. Marriage to my father is fortune smiling on you. You can always visit Quaid for additional entertainment. If he wanted to marry you, he’d have done so already. He’d never let my father stand in his way. Quaid Tanner is a man. You’re good enough to take to his bed but not good enough to marry.”

  The words hit home for Chelsea, and tears burned her eyes. Thinking the same thing and hearing someone else say it aloud were two different things entirely. She swallowed hard and spoke quietly. “Money seems to be your answer, then. You want me to get it for you. Do I understand you correctly? You will defy your father and leave Bellefleur if I can get it for you. How much?”

  “One thousand pounds,” Martha said, and smiled. She’d known it would work; Chelsea Harris was no fool. “Is it a bargain?”

  “A bargain,” Chelsea replied softly, “at twice the price.”

  For a long time after Martha had gone to her own bed, Chelsea lay awake, thinking. How did she always manage to get herself into such tight spots? Cosmo would throw up his hands in disgust. She understood Martha, that was the pitiful part. She could sympathize with the homely young woman. Hadn’t she herself been locked into a similar situation in England? Who was she to sit in judgment? One way or another, everyone blackmailed someone sometime. She’d done it on a daily basis with Cosmo. But where in this world would she get one thousand pounds for Martha?

  Chelsea bolted out of bed and stumbled about in the dark, fumbling in her baggage for her small velvet pouch. Her fingers probed Honoria’s diamond ear studs and the opal ring Quaid had given her. She could never in all conscience part with the diamond studs; except for the wardrobe, they were all that was left of poor Honoria. The ring was a different matter entirely. It had been given to her; it was hers to do with as she pleased. Cosmo had a favorite expression, one she’d always detested; now, however, it seemed appropriate. “When push comes to shove,” Cosmo was fond of saying, “you shove!”

  She wondered if there was a pawnbroker in Sydney who could tell her how much the ring would be worth. Having no concept of the value of opals, and considering the way Quaid had so carelessly tossed it to her, she doubted it was worth much. In all fairness, she should first offer it back to Quaid. Martha wanted one thousand pounds, and that was what she would ask. No more, no less.

  Chelsea glanced over at the rigid figure in the bed next to hers. She knew Martha wasn’t sleeping; she could tell by her breathing. How desperate the woman must be to force such a showdown! Guilt stirred within Chelsea. Giving in to blackmail was one thing, but helping another human being was something else. Suddenly the pity she felt for Martha threatened to overwhelm her.

  Without making a sound, she slid her legs over the side of the bed and padded over to Martha. She could almost feel the young woman’s rigid body as she reached out and said softly, “Martha, we must talk. I don’t mean blackmail talk, ei
ther. I mean woman talk. I know I’m of an age with you, so perhaps we could talk as sisters. I feel the need to talk to someone, and I can only imagine you feel the same. It isn’t good to keep things bottled up inside, because the harder we try to hide them, the worse they get. They can even kill us in the end.”

  “What do you know of how I feel?” Martha said tightly. “How could you know? I don’t believe for a moment that you love my father. Tell me the truth and maybe then we can talk.”

  Chelsea reached out for Martha’s hand. “All right, we’ll talk. You’re right, I don’t love your father. But I will make him a good wife. I was like you, Martha, at the end of my rope … until someone helped me. I have to try and do the same for you. It has nothing to do with the thousand pounds you asked for, either.”

  Chelsea spoke softly, gently, into the wee hours of the morning. She skipped nothing, left out no detail of her past. For the first time in her life she was as honest as she knew how to be. Once Martha squeezed her hand, and she knew there were tears on the girl’s cheeks. When one dropped to her hand, she ignored it.

  “Then you do know how I feel,” Martha cried.

  “Of course I know. I can feel your pain. In my own way I’m in exactly the same place you are—with one difference. There’s a man waiting for you who loves you. I don’t have that security. There’s no one who loves me. To your father I am what he needs for society and someone in his bed to … to … relieve himself. To Quaid Tanner I’m an experienced woman who loves to make love, but isn’t good enough to marry. If your father knew who I really was, do you think for one minute he’d want to marry me?”

  Martha made a sound deep in her throat. Chelsea thought it was a chuckle. “My father is a cruel, hard man. He’s very self-righteous. No, he wouldn’t bestow his good name on you if he knew who you were. I don’t envy you your marriage to him. But what makes you say you aren’t good enough for Quaid Tanner to marry?” Martha asked curiously. “There must be a reason. Quaid is a fine man.”

  “Your father is a fine man, too, but you just answered your own question. Fine men don’t want to marry actresses, now do they. Tell me something; would your young man want you if you were … tarnished?”

  “Oh, yes,” Martha breathed. “Nothing would make a difference to William. If I were to tell him about you, he’d say you had no other choice, that you did what you had to do and shouldn’t be punished. He says everyone has a right to be happy. But neither of us can be happy with Father controlling things. He’s so hateful. He was never a kind or loving father, even when my mother was alive. After she died it was almost as though the three of us became his enemy. What other father do you know who would deprive his daughter of being happy? Not one, I’d wager.”

  “I know, Martha. I’ll do my best for you. I want you to believe that.”

  “Then you really are going to go through with the wedding. You really are going to marry my father.” There was awe in Martha’s voice. There was despair in Chelsea’s when she responded:

  “I have no other choice.”

  “Have you tried talking it out with Quaid?”

  “The one thing I want from him he cannot give me …” Chelsea paused; did she dare raise Martha’s hopes? “But there is that ring I told you about—the opal—perhaps he’d buy it back and secure your passage.”

  Chelsea looked around the room at the shadows. Soon it would be dawn. They’d talked most of the night, and she wasn’t sorry. She felt they were friends now, and Martha’s tight hold on her hand confirmed her feeling. Martha wouldn’t betray her, of that much she was certain. And she reaffirmed her intention to help get Martha to England any way she could.

  “You’ll look after Emma, won’t you?” Martha asked tearfully. “Just until William and I can get enough money together for passage for her. You might have to help. Will you?”

  Chelsea sighed deeply. How could she say no? She’d gone this far, she couldn’t back out now. It would be the best thing for both girls to be together, in her opinion. Harlow would have to learn to live without his daughters just as other fathers did.

  Martha turned and wept into her pillow. “You must think me a terrible daughter,” she sobbed. Gently Chelsea smoothed back Martha’s hair and spoke soothingly, hoping she was saying the right things.

  Just as Martha dropped off to sleep, Chelsea found herself humming a lullaby. Why was it, she wondered wearily as she made her way back to bed, that there was no one to give her aid and comfort when she needed it? Honoria, poor thing, was the closest thing to a friend she’d ever had, and now she was dead. If circumstances were different, she could have been friends with Martha, but Martha was going away, too. She would be left alone with a new husband she knew she could never love. What bitter irony.

  Harlow proved to be an entertaining, gay, and gallant escort. Each day he appeared in his best bib and tucker, discarding the faded utilitarian clothes he wore in the vineyards. He made quite a dashing figure with his suntanned skin and light gray eyes—a handsome man, dignified and sophisticated. In London he would have been called a “gent.”

  The townhouse in Sydney represented the more aesthetic side of Chelsea’s intended. Three floors, red brick, and black iron ornamental railings, the house on Crescent Street displayed Harlow’s fine taste in furnishings, even if they did lean to the masculine, and helped him present a picture of success to his associates. In fact, Chelsea had realized that Harlow had no close friends; his social inclinations leaned more toward business acquaintances. It also didn’t take her very long to realize that he was viewed with respect and that as his wife, she would command the same.

  There was an immediate camaraderie between Lucy Abernathy and Chelsea. Hour-long conversations concerning London, the latest fashions, and, of all things, the theater, pleased Chelsea immensely. Lucy spoke of the social season and the magnificent parties and soirees beginning in the month of July, Australia’s winter season.

  “It’s an endless social whirl, Chelsea. I do hope you and Harlow will take part this year. Poor man, since he lost Irmaline we haven’t seen much of him in the city. He claims Bellefleur takes every ounce of his energy and every moment of his time. If you think you’ll be wanting dresses for the season, I can give you my lady’s name. Have you given any thought to a wedding dress?”

  “I have one, I brought it from England,” Chelsea told her. “You will come to the wedding, won’t you, Lucy? Harlow thinks the world of you and John, and I know he’d want you to be there.” She wished she were speaking of her wedding to Quaid but knew she must let go of that dream. She was going to marry Harlow Kane, and no amount of fantasizing would change that simple fact.

  “Of course we’ll be there,” Lucy was saying. “We wouldn’t miss it for the world. We have so few chances to get out into the countryside. And if there’s anything I can do to help, just call on me. I could even come out a few days early to help.”

  “You’re very kind, Lucy.”

  “Not a bit; it would give me a chance to get away from boring banking conversation. Money, money, money, that’s all these men ever talk about. Sometimes it makes me ill. Don’t misunderstand, I love my husband and take an interest in his business—but there are other things in life.”

  What those things could be, Chelsea couldn’t imagine. If it were Quaid she was marrying, she wouldn’t care if they had to forage and hunt the way Tingari did, as long as he held her in his arms every night. Marrying Harlow, however, created a different set of priorities entirely.

  “Chelsea,” Lucy Abernathy confided, “you are the envy of every woman in this room, and Harlow has climbed a few rungs in the eyes of the men here, I can assure you.” Lucy looked around the drawing room, surveying the other begowned women who had come to her social.

  “Have all your guests arrived?” Chelsea asked.

  “Not all, but it’s Quaid Tanner who’s missed. He should be arriving tomorrow. It wouldn’t be a party without him. Every foolish young girl has her cap set for him. He was caug
ht once, and it was the husband who was the worse for wear.” Lucy laughed. “Goodness, what’s gotten into me? I shouldn’t be repeating such gossip; it must be Harlow’s fine sauterne. John would certainly take me to task. He’s fond of Quaid, as we all are, and the men especially overlook his little follies. Perhaps it’s because they take pity on him, being alone in Australia with his wife living in Europe somewhere. Poor thing has a bad heart, and the doctors forbade her to make such a long ocean voyage.”

  Chelsea felt as though the floor had dropped out from under her. Quaid married? A wife in Europe? Then Quaid had told the truth when he’d said he couldn’t offer her marriage. How could he, when he already had a wife! She felt the color drain from her face; the room began to spin.

  “Quaid is devoted to Clonmerra,” Lucy chattered, obviously unaware of the shock she’d just delivered to Chelsea. “He and Harlow have never been on good terms. Something to do with water rights from a natural spring lake. Harlow keeps insisting Quaid should sell out to him, but I don’t believe that will ever happen,” she confided. “For one thing, Quaid doesn’t need the money. He owns an opal mine in the outback, and Clonmerra Wines are respected, if not widely distributed. Don’t you be telling my John I’ve discussed this with you, he’d positively have my head. Now, where is that daughter of Harlow’s?” Lucy asked, abruptly changing the subject. “I wanted to see about matching her up with the new minister from Cape Town. It’s difficult.” She sighed. “Martha’s no youngster any longer, and she looks so lonely and out of place. I think she has a certain attractiveness, though, don’t you? A certain character of face. Irmaline was hardly a beauty, and I suppose Martha takes after her side of the family. Irmaline was a good woman, don’t misunderstand, but Harlow has the good looks in that family. Oh, I do rattle on, Chelsea, forgive me. I must be boring you to tears.”

  Chelsea managed to find her voice. “You’re not, really. I’m interested in my new neighbor. Somehow I received the impression he was a farmer.”

  Lucy Abernathy laughed. “Quaid Tanner, a farmer! Oh, I suppose it’s because he keeps sheep and provides pasture for them. Chelsea dear, Mr. Tanner’s bank balance would be the envy of every man in this room. But remember now, not a word to anyone. Quaid is quite well off, extremely well off. He mines some magnificent opals, and I understand from my husband that he’s commissioned his wines to a famous broker in Portugal. When Harlow discovers this, he’s apt to throw a fit. He has personally courted this particular merchant for several years, and he thought he was close to success, but Quaid visited Portugal and secured the arrangement right out from under Harlow’s nose. Dear heaven, I shouldn’t be telling you this. You’re going to marry Harlow. Well, it’s best you heard it from me, this way you can prepare for it. Not that Harlow isn’t a wealthy man in his own right; I’m certain you won’t want for anything. It’s just that he’s not an overly generous man; sometimes he is even very, very frugal. But a young lady like yourself should know how to work around that. Men can be bought, Chelsea, if the price is right. Always remember that.”