Quaid forced a laugh. “You better not let their mamas hear you say that. You could be tarred and feathered.”
“Oh, posh! They all look like a good wind would blow them over. I’m telling you, not one of them is suitable for life anywhere but in the city. They belong in some fancy finishing school and then marrying some dandy with a lot of money so they can sit on a cushion and direct their households. Life here is hard. Now you take Mrs. Harris—Chelsea I believe she’s called. Well, she’ll do well on Harlow’s spread. That young woman has grit. Reminds me of myself when I first came here. She’ll make Harlow a good wife. Bear strong, healthy children. Good breeding always shows. Old Harlow still has some spit in him.”
Quaid could feel his stomach turn over. Jesus, he’d given no thought to children. Of course Harlow would expect children from his union with Chelsea. The question was, did Chelsea’s thoughts run in the same direction? Chelsea as a mother to Harlow’s child! Quaid’s blood ran cold at the thought. It should be his own child, their child, conceived in love and raised at Clonmerra. Sudden longings gripped him, longings he knew could never be satisfied. Here again was another reason Chelsea couldn’t live with him on Clonmerra. Their children would be bastards, with no rightful claim to their birthright. Quaid suddenly felt sick.
It would be unforgivable to his hostess to leave the table now, he realized. He would simply have to wait out the rest of the meal and then disappear when the men went outside for a cigar. No one would miss him.
Dinner seemed to drag on forever. Course after course was served, and glass after glass of wine was poured. Finally, however, it was all over; Quaid excused himself politely and thanked Phyllis Donner for being such an engaging dinner companion.
The moment he was out of sight and earshot, he sprinted for the stairs, taking them two at a time. Christ, which was Chelsea’s room? Was he supposed to bang on every door until Martha stuck her nose out to tell him he’d finally found the right one? But he soon realized there was little to worry about; all the doors stood open, save one. For some reason his knock sounded urgent to his ears.
Martha opened the door and smiled. “Mr. Tanner, how nice of you to call.”
“Where’s Chelsea?” he demanded.
“Indisposed. Sleeping off her wine.” Martha gave him a weighing look. “I don’t know if my father will be pleased or angry at your intervention.”
“What is it you want, Martha? Why do I have this feeling that you’re up to something?”
“Don’t you think it’s the other way around, Mr. Tanner? I was sitting at the table eating my dinner when you implored me to bring Chelsea up to her room. I did as you asked, and then you turn around and ask me what I’m up to. I don’t understand.”
“The hell you don’t. I saw you that day on the hilltop, watching when Chelsea came to visit. You wanted me to see you, so you needn’t deny it. You couldn’t wait to tell your father, could you?”
“If I had told my father, you wouldn’t be standing here haranguing me the way you are.”
Quaid had to acknowledge the truth of her statement. Harlow would have come after him. There was no question in his mind who would have been the winner, but that was beside the point. “Are you sure Chelsea is all right?”
“She’s all right inasmuch as she’s sleeping off the wine.”
“I’ll take your word for it. Did … did she say anything?”
“Such as?”
“Any response to your comments at dinner. About coming to my house when you return to Bellefleur.”
“As a matter of fact, she did. She said she would be there around noon on the second day after we get home. And you needn’t worry, Mr. Tanner, neither my sister nor myself will be with her.”
“I hate to ask this, but what’s in it for you?”
“All in good time,” she whispered. “You’d better leave now before someone sees you. I’ve my reputation to think of, and I’m also protecting Chelsea.”
“Then I’ll say good night—and good-bye. I’m returning to Clonmerra tomorrow. Give Chelsea my regards and have a safe trip back to Bellefleur.”
Martha laughed. “We’ll do that, Mr. Tanner.”
Now why had he said that? Quaid could feel his shoulders slump as he walked down the stairs.
He’d had no intention of leaving Sydney until the moment the words were out of his mouth. It was Phyllis Donner’s interrogation that was prompting his hasty return to Clonmerra. So rarely was there ever any mention of his wife that she was often quite easily forgotten. He felt no attachment to her, she was a stranger. But he never forgot his brother. That was a part of the past he would always remember.
Two people who could threaten everything he held dear. Two faces that stood between himself and everything he wanted, all that he lived for: Chelsea and Clonmerra.
In the garden house, Chelsea tried to ignore Tingari’s watchful eyes as she primped and fussed with dressing. The Aboriginal’s glance was all too knowing; there didn’t seem to be any curiosity, only a kind of sad knowing.
Tingari filled the small garden house with her towering presence, her long arms reaching easily to the top shelf of the chifforobe, her enormous feet with their long toes remaining flat on the carpet.
“I’ll be back late, Tingari,” Chelsea told her, “but before dusk. I wouldn’t want to get lost on the road or travel by dark. Mrs. Russell packed me a small lunch.”
“Mitjitji will not eat lunch. There are other things on her mind.”
Chelsea looked at the woman blankly. “How do you know so much?”
“Tingari not know too much. Enough to know your insides flutter like the wings of a moth.”
It was too true. Her insides were quivering like a bowl of jelly. Anytime she knew she was going to see Quaid, she was a mass of nerves. And today she was going for Martha instead of herself. Before she forgot, she found the ring and placed it on her index finger, setting it firmly against her knuckle.
“The ring is very beautiful, Mitjitji.”
“It’s an opal,” Chelsea said.
“Yes. I know that ring. It is very rare, the black opal.” Tingari’s eyes held Chelsea’s. “It is Tanner’s ring.”
“No, Tingari,” Chelsea replied defensively, “it is my ring. He gave it to me.”
Tingari shrugged, reaching out to grasp Chelsea’s hand, her fingers covering the stone. For a moment she stood motionless, as though listening. “It is Tanner’s ring,” she said simply.
Positively unnerved, Chelsea stumbled out of the garden house. Usually Tingari’s quiet strength was comforting, but at times like this, when the woman seemed to reach beyond reality into the all-knowing, it frightened her.
Quaid Tanner waited all morning for Chelsea. He’d awakened at the crack of dawn, as was his habit, but instead of going out for a day’s work beside his men in the vineyard, he had bathed and shaved and dressed. When he finally observed the ball of red dust two miles down the road, it was midmorning. Only Chelsea would run a horse in this heat, he knew, and he waited for her.
When the buggy flew up his drive, he stepped off his veranda to meet her. She was a vision that reflected the sun itself in her pale yellow dress. “Couldn’t stay away, eh?” he asked, grinning devilishly.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Quaid Tanner. This is strictly business.”
“Now what kind of business could you and I have except …”
“Say it, and I will take this buggy whip to you,” Chelsea threatened.
“Don’t tell me Harlow sent you here to buy some of my cuttings.”
“Harlow doesn’t even know I’m here, and you know it. Don’t bait me, I’m not in the mood.” She stood and waited for him to help her down from the buggy.
“What are you in the mood for, little love?” he asked softly as he held her against him for an instant before she struggled to the ground. He had to be satisfied with the soft pink flush staining her fair English complexion.
Chelsea found her balance and walked away a
few steps, making him follow.
“All right,” he said impatiently, “Harlow doesn’t know you’re here, but Martha does. Both of you have managed to whet my curiosity. By the way, I never had the chance to tell you how lovely you looked at the Abernathys’ party.”
“Before or after I disgraced myself?” she demanded bitterly. “Damn you and your wine.”
“Couldn’t do without either, could you, love. Of course, I’ve no respect for a woman who can’t hold her wine,” he teased. “You were practically swimming in it, and I don’t think it was because the flavor was so pleasing. What were you running away from, love?”
“Nothing! You … you simply make me nervous. You and Martha. I’ve been under a great deal of stress, thanks to both of you. What would you expect me to do?”
“Does what I expect really make a difference? You have a mind of your own, and you pretty much do as you damn well please. You’re here now, you’ve come before, you’re still betrothed, and still you come to me. What am I supposed to think?”
“Whatever you damn well please.”
“I was hoping you’d come to your senses after your trip to Sydney and decided to leave Harlow. He’ll never make you happy, Chelsea. There’s more to life than position and security.”
“Nothing that interests me,” she retorted. “Someone told me you have a wife in Europe. Is it true, Quaid?” Her words were blunt, not so much a challenge as an accepted statement of fact. She turned to face him, searching his eyes for the answer. When he said nothing, when he didn’t make the denial she so desperately wanted to hear, but looked silently down at her, holding her with those ravenblack eyes she turned away again, this time to hide her emotions. “I told you I came on business. Invite me into your house; the sun is brutal today.”
Quaid wanted to explain; Chelsea deserved that much, at the very least. But where to find the words? It was all catching up with him, standing between him and the woman he loved, and there wasn’t a damn thing he could do about it.
“My house is yours, anytime,” he told her, and meant it. Couldn’t she see that he meant it? “Go along into the kitchen, there’s cool tea and fresh scones. You’ll have to help yourself, my housekeeper is off buying supplies and visiting her family. After the way you whipped this horse, he needs water and shade. I won’t be long.”
Chelsea climbed the five steps onto the wide, railless veranda and walked into the cool depths of Quaid’s house. She loved this place; it was so like the man. It wasn’t overcrowded with unnecessary furniture, and fresh flowers, placed in little bouquets on nearly every polished table, filled the air with a delicate scent. This she knew wasn’t Quaid’s doing, but he had to approve or his housekeeper wouldn’t continue the practice.
The kitchen, fragrant now with the aroma of freshly baked scones, was a nice place to be. Anywhere that concerned Quaid was a nice place to be, she thought wistfully. This would probably be the last time she would come to this house, come to Quaid. She wouldn’t visit him after she married Harlow.
“I see you found everything,” Quaid said, accepting the glass of tea she poured for him.
“Quaid, I have to talk to you about something very important. I need one thousand pounds, and I need it as soon as possible. It’s not a loan, I have something I can sell you.”
Quaid’s brain reeled. Of all the things that had raced through his mind, this wasn’t one of them. “I have the money,” he replied cautiously, “but I think I deserve to know why you want it and what it is you’re so willing to sell me. Can you tell me that?”
Chelsea’s heart pounded. He couldn’t refuse her, he couldn’t. “I could tell you, but I’d rather not. Will you give it to me?”
“Chelsea, a thousand pounds is a great deal of money. I work long and hard to earn that much from the vineyard. Tell me what the problem is. I want to help you, but I need to know more.”
“I knew you were going to be difficult! What is it you want in exchange?”
Quaid slammed his glass down onto the table. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Chelsea. I wouldn’t demean you by paying for your lovemaking, and I won’t have you doing it, either. That was a low blow.”
She couldn’t deny that’s what she’d been thinking, and the knowledge shamed her. “It’s just that I’m desperate.”
“I can see that. What is it you want to sell?”
“This.” Chelsea opened her clenched hand.
Quaid’s eyes widened. “That’s my opal. You want to sell me my opal?”
“It’s not yours, it’s mine. You gave it to me. I thought I’d do you the courtesy of first refusal. If you don’t want it, perhaps you can sell it for me and bring me the money, if you think you can get a thousand pounds for it. I’ll take whatever it will bring.”
“I gave you that opal.” Quaid growled, angrier than she had ever seen him, angrier even than he’d been in Captain Winfield’s cabin when he’d learned she was going to marry Harlow. “You’d get a thousand pounds for it; you’d get ten thousand! That stone is priceless. I wanted you to have it.”
Chelsea hesitated. “This isn’t easy for me, you know—”
“The hell it isn’t! You rattled off this whole deal as if you’d rehearsed it.”
“It’s my acting ability.”
“Acting ability, my ass.” He took a deep breath. “All right, all right, I’ll give you the damn money. But you’re going to tell me why you want it.” There was murder in his eyes, and Chelsea backed away in sudden apprehension.
“All right, but you’re going to be sorry you asked me,” she told him. “It’s for Martha. She wants to go to England, but Harlow refuses to allow it. She followed me the last time I was here, and she knows that we … that I … She threatened to tell Harlow. She’s desperate, Quaid. I have to help her; I have no choice.”
“How do you know she won’t take the money and tell her father, anyway?”
“She gave me her word. I trust her.”
Quaid raked his fingers through his hair. Christ! He couldn’t believe he was doing this, actually paying to keep Chelsea at Bellefleur with Harlow. He looked into her eyes and then looked away again in defeat. He would give her the money. It was the only thing he had to offer; he had nothing else to give. His gut told him it was a mistake. It would be better if Harlow discovered their secret—then he would consider Chelsea unsuitable to marry. He knew from experience that Harlow was a hard man, unloving and even dangerous. How much better off Chelsea would be if she left Australia and went somewhere else to find a life for herself. But then she would be gone from his own life as well, he told himself. And what comfort was there to be gained in knowing that she lived just over the hill at Bellefleur? asked a small voice deep inside him. It didn’t matter, came the answer. However small it might be, he was ready to reach out and grab it, regardless of the price.
“Say you’ll help me, Quaid,” she said, praying he would tell her to forget about Martha, forget about Harlow, and come to him at Clonmerra to be his wife.
“The money is yours, Chelsea,” he told her, but she was so steeped in her own misery that she failed to hear the anguish in his voice.
Chelsea knew her eyes were going to be red and swollen when she got back to Bellefleur. As she drove the buggy, she kept wiping her eyes and blowing her nose.
He hadn’t denied having a wife. Somewhere there was a woman who carried his name. She wanted to hate that woman, hate Quaid, but instead she hated herself. She still loved him, would always love him, even though all hope was dead. He’d given her the money, and it was the same as telling her to go through with her marriage to Harlow.
The tears turned to sobs and the sobs to hiccups as Chelsea rounded onto Bellefleur’s drive. Tingari materialized from nowhere, her flat black gaze taking in the Mitjitji’s appearance; but she said nothing. Together they walked to the garden house.
“Lie down, Mitjitji,” Tingari suggested, finally breaking their silence. “You will sleep, and when you awake, your eyes will be clo
udless. The man who brought these tears, he was worth it?”
A sob of self-pity caught in Chelsea’s throat. “I don’t know, Tingari. I’m so tired, I can’t seem to think straight anymore. I never should have left England.”
Tingari’s hands were gentle as they placed a cool cloth on Chelsea’s brow. She was a woman, she understood. “Leave such thoughts behind, come into the world of Dreaming,” she crooned.
Sitting at the foot of the bed, she removed Chelsea’s shoes and began to rub her feet, all the while humming a strange, tuneless melody. Chelsea felt herself drifting, drifting, floating, following the sound of Tingari’s voice to a place known as Dreaming, where all was as it should be.
When Chelsea woke hours later, she felt better than she had all day. Whatever it was that Tingari had fashioned in the way of a poultice had worked wonders. The mirror never lied. Now all she had to do was dress for dinner.
“You must hurry, Mitjitji,” Tingari told her. “The dinner hour is near. Miss Martha was here several times. I would not allow her to wake you.”
“Tingari, she didn’t … you didn’t allow her to …”
“It is safe, Mitjitji. Your money pouch is safe. There is no cause for worry. Miss Martha was quite angry.”
“I’m sure she was. Thank you.”
“It is not wise, what you have done,” Tingari said solemnly.
Chelsea didn’t bother to ask what the woman was talking about. She’d given up trying to figure out how the Aboriginal knew the things she knew. “I had no other choice. I don’t want to discuss it, Tingari. What you know stays between us.”
“Yes, Mitjitji. Hurry or there will be questions. Questions you will be unable to answer.”
“I’m ready. I’ll speak to Martha myself.”
Dinner was a dismal affair. Harlow and Franklin talked of nothing but the coming vintage. Emma picked at her food and twice had to be reminded to eat by a sharp-tongued Martha. Once, when Martha’s eyes met Chelsea’s bright gaze, she nodded imperceptibly. The sparkle that flew into Martha’s eyes made Chelsea wince.
To Taste The Wine Page 24
