At one point Harlow turned and looked directly at Chelsea while he was still talking to Franklin. How beautiful she looked presiding over his table, he thought. She was going to make an excellent showpiece. Already his friends were talking about what a lucky devil he was, and some of them openly said they envied him. And rightly so. She was an asset, a prize. But if he didn’t watch things, she could also be a handful of trouble. He was going to have to find a way to temper her tongue. A hot rush coursed through him as he wondered if she felt any desire for him. She was so cool and regal sitting at his table. It was unlikely that a lady such as Chelsea would allow herself to think of bedroom activities at the dinner table.
“What are your plans for tomorrow, my dear?” he asked casually.
“I’m serving luncheon to several ladies of the Horticulture Society. They’re trying to entice me into becoming a member. Do you think I should join?”
“By all means. Bellefleur needs a woman’s touch in the garden. Water is no problem.”
This was new, this domestic questioning by Harlow. Chelsea’s eyes flew to meet Martha’s intense stare, and the slight answering shake of the young woman’s head meant she had kept her end of the bargain. Whether Harlow was fishing or just making polite conversation was up to Chelsea to decide.
“I think that will pretty much take the entire afternoon,” Chelsea continued after a slight pause. “There will be eight ladies for luncheon. Afterward, they’re going to present me with a diagram showing where certain flowers, bushes, and bulbs should be planted. I think after a late-afternoon refreshment there will be little time until dinner. My day is well planned. Was there something you wanted me to do?”
“No, my dear. I’m happy that you’re socializing and getting to know our neighbors. It’s important out here in the country that we all stick together. Our social life at Bellefleur has declined over the past years and it’s been my fault. Now that you’re here, things will perk up. The girls need company, and Franklin could use a little entertaining himself. Perhaps a pretty young girl will set her cap for him.”
It was said half in jest. But Chelsea was watching Franklin as his father spoke, and the angry light in the young man’s eyes upset her. It was the same light that shone in Martha’s eyes, a feral glow to which she would never become accustomed. On occasion she had even seen a similar flicker in Emma’s vague, blank gaze. More and more she was convinced that there was no love between Harlow and his children. What in the name of God was he going to do when Martha informed him she was leaving? Her churning stomach told her there would be a bloody battle.
“I noticed quite a few young ladies in Sydney, Franklin,” Chelsea said, trying for a little light conversation. “Their mothers are most anxious to find suitable husbands for them. After vintage we’ll have a grand party, if your father approves, and invite some of the beauties. You’ll be able to pick and choose.”
“Pick of the litter, so to speak, Franklin,” Harlow said jovially.
“If you don’t mind, Father, Chelsea, I much prefer to do my own picking and choosing—when I want.” The words were quiet, yet intense. Evidently, this was a sore topic of conversation between father and son. Franklin’s eyes were smoldering now as he excused himself from the table. Martha averted her eyes, and Emma let her own blank gaze follow her brother from the room.
Emma’s words startled Chelsea and brought a frown to her father’s face. “Franklin doesn’t like any of us. He doesn’t like you, either, Chelsea. Ask Father. Franklin doesn’t like anyone. He hates the vineyards and the grapes, and he hates Bellefleur.”
“That’s enough, Emma!” Harlow barked. “Leave the table. Immediately. I must apologize for my daughter’s lack of manners, Chelsea. There are times, and this is one of them, when she gets carried away with her erratic notions. Martha, I thought you had this witless creature under control.”
“I have no control over what comes out of Emma’s mouth,” Martha protested. “I never know what she’s going to say until she says it. I’m sure Chelsea understands that what Emma says is not to be considered the gospel truth.”
“One of these days she’s going to embarrass the lot of us, and then what will we do? Tongues will wag and we’ll be a laughingstock.” Harlow’s face, normally ruddy, was a bright crimson. How mean his eyes looked, Chelsea thought uneasily, and how sharply he spoke.
“Then lock her up somewhere if you’re afraid of what she’s going to say,” Martha said callously.
“I don’t need any advice from you, Martha. Mind your manners. What is Chelsea going to think of us?”
“Not what is she going to think, Father. It’s what she already thinks. Isn’t that so, Chelsea? We’re a houseful of mindless idiots run by a tyrant of a father.”
“Martha!” Harlow thundered. “That’s enough!”
“You’re absolutely right. Enough is enough! Excuse me, Chelsea, Father.” She was up from the table, her plate of food barely touched, and out of the room before Harlow could get out of his chair.
Harlow’s face was black with rage. First Franklin, then Emma, and now Martha. He hated the confused, frightened look on Chelsea’s face. When a man couldn’t control his children, he was a poor man indeed. After all, he was a father, a parent, and he demanded respect. Things had really gone to hell as far as the children were concerned since Irmaline had died. Well, they would do as he said when he said it, or they could leave.
Chelsea rose from the table, her face a mixture of confused emotions. She felt frightened and knew it showed on her face. She was trembling from head to foot. She’d never really known what the expression “the fear of God” meant, but now she knew. The man sitting across from her could turn his emotions off with the blink of an eye. He was smiling now, a devilish light in his eyes, as he apologized once again and suggested a short after-dinner stroll.
“I have a raging headache, Harlow. Perhaps tomorrow. Yes, yes, after dinner tomorrow, and we can talk about the ladies from the Horticulture Society. Good night, Harlow.” She literally raced from the room through the kitchen and out to the garden house, slamming the door shut behind her.
Once safely inside her own private space, Chelsea took a deep breath and sat down on the only chair in the small room. He had the devil in him, this man she was going to marry. She sat for a long time, long after Tingari came and lighted the lamp and turned down the coverlet and laid out her nightdress. She was still sitting in the same chair with her hands folded the same way when Martha rapped lightly and entered the room, a furtive look on her face.
“Give it to me,” she cried in excitement.
“After the wedding. Not one second before.”
“Oh, no, you don’t. No tricks, Chelsea. We made an agreement. Don’t force me to renege and tell my father.”
“I gave you my word and I’ll keep it, but after the wedding. If you want to persist in your threat and tell your father, I’ll simply take the money and leave myself.”
Martha’s jaw quivered as she digested Chelsea’s brave words. “What do you think of my father now that you’ve seen what he’s capable of? You did notice his famous uncontrolled rage, didn’t you? One day it will be directed at you, the way it so often was at my mother. Why do you think Emma acts so witless? It’s the way she copes. She wasn’t always as she is now.”
“Martha … I—”
“I know, you don’t know what to think or do. You wanted all of this,” Martha said, waving her arms about. “But you’re beginning to realize that you’re getting more than you bargained for.”
“That sounds like a warning,” Chelsea said nervously.
Martha laughed, an eerie sound that made Chelsea clench her teeth. “It is. Don’t think for one minute that you fooled me about Tingari. I know why you have her here. You’re nervous, admit it. She’s your protector. But when you move into the house, who’s going to watch over you? Who’ll save you from your own husband?”
“Tingari is a servant, that’s all. You don’t know what you�
��re talking about.”
“Don’t I? I overheard you telling father, not asking him, that you wanted Tingari for yourself. The Aboriginals never come into the house. He told you that, and you said you didn’t care, that you wanted her for yourself. And he finally gave in. That’s when Franklin and I knew we didn’t stand a chance here anymore.” Martha’s voice rose shrilly. “It isn’t fair that you should come here out of nowhere and take what is rightfully ours. For myself, I no longer care because I’m leaving. But I do care about Franklin and Emma.”
“Martha, you are all your father’s children. He will always provide for you. Surely you know that.”
“Until such time as you have children of your own. What about them, what’s going to happen to them? When will they have lives of their own? When do you think my father would ever allow me to marry? Never! Forget about Emma. Franklin, do you think Father will allow Franklin to take a wife and share his life and money with someone else? My father keeps what is his, and he does not share. Only on his death will anyone—and that includes you and whatever children you may have—get a penny. You sit here now and think about all that has gone on this evening. Well, think hard, Mrs. Chelsea Harris!” Her words were bitter but not unkind.
Much later, when Chelsea got up from the chair and changed into her nightclothes, she felt stiff and sore. Exhausted, she crept into bed and pulled the covers up to her chin. She wished Quaid were here to take her in his arms and say everything would be all right. But she wasn’t going to see Quaid again. She would never be his wife. She knew the loss would stay with her the rest of her life.
Tingari entered the room, spread her mat, and lay down to sleep. The moon rode the heavens majestically while Chelsea lay awake remembering everything there was to remember about Quaid. Memories could be such a comfort when you had nothing else, she reflected. She would grow old on her memories. Gray would creep into her hair, her bones would become rickety, and her eyes would get like Emma’s. But the memories would be bright and fresh because she would never let a day go by when she didn’t bring them to the surface.
Chelsea was snuggled deep in the cocoon of sleep, dreaming she was in Quaid’s arms, as the first light of day crept over the huge gum trees. Her subconscious registered that Tingari was up and folding her mat. She slept on.
The following Sunday, after a late breakfast, Harlow sought out Chelsea, gallantly taking her arm to lead her out to the garden. “It’s time, my dear, that we set our wedding date,” he told her. “Two weeks from today, I think. I cannot wait any longer. I’ve heard whispers, and I don’t like it. Everyone is curious, and that’s something else I don’t like. Too much time has gone by. I was mortified this morning when the minister chastised me. I do believe he thinks we’re living in sin. Two weeks from today,” Harlow repeated firmly.
Chelsea nodded weakly. Two weeks. Fourteen days. Later when she was alone she would calculate the hours and the minutes. Not long enough. She knew she was expected to say something. “Have you told your children?” was the best she could manage.
“I will over luncheon. I’m sure they’ve been wondering why it’s taken so long. I’ve been patient, but that patience is wearing thin.”
“Yes, I know, and I do thank you for allowing me this time to become accustomed to Bellefleur. I was … I was frightened, Harlow. Everything was so strange … I was anxious. I tried too hard to make things right for everyone, to earn my place here.”
“And you did a wonderful job of it,” Harlow said sincerely. “Now it’s time to take your rightful place and let others do for both of us.”
“Of course you’re right. I’ll have to see about getting …” What, she couldn’t think. Her clothes, proper clothes, Honoria’s clothes. What? Dear God, two weeks was barely any time at all. Invitations! “Harlow, surely we won’t have time to get the invitations out and make arrangements for everybody,” she said anxiously.
“Don’t worry, my dear. It’s all taken care of. The minister will announce our marriage next Sunday. All you have to do is think about yourself and do whatever it is women do before marrying.”
As he leered at her, Chelsea could feel her nails biting into the palms of her hands. She wished she knew someone to ask what it was she was supposed to do to be ready. She felt ill. “It’s very considerate of you,” she said, smiling weakly.
“What kind of man would I be if I worked my woman to the bone before her wedding and have her all tired out? That’s not what I want. I want this to be a new beginning for both of us. We’ll forget your dead husband and my dead wife and pretend we’ve never been married. It will be exciting, don’t you agree?”
Dead. Why couldn’t he at least have said “deceased?” For a moment she had to think whom he was talking about. Honoria’s husband, of course. “Absolutely,” she gushed. Her head was pounding now. Two weeks. She could still leave; Tingari would help her. All she had to do was pick up her feet and go … but she knew she wouldn’t. She didn’t ever want to be homeless and have to scavenge for food. Quaid didn’t want her. Harlow wanted her so badly it oozed out his pores. Cosmo had always said to go for the sure thing—and Harlow was about as sure as she was going to get. Harlow was going to be her life from now on.
“Now that it’s all settled, I think I should confer with Mrs. Russell,” Chelsea said, and excused herself, eager to be away from him.
“Of course, my dear. You run along and speak with her. Make whatever decisions you want. After we’re married, though, I’ll be making the decisions in this household. Remember that.”
“I will, Harlow. I will,” she said, feeling as though her fate was sealed.
Chelsea got as far as the dining room. Then she had to sit down and get her thoughts in order. She poured tea and sipped it, but it did nothing to calm her heaving stomach. Mrs. Harlow Kane. Mrs. Harlow Kane, compliments of Honoria Harris.
At the thought of Honoria, her eyes widened in alarm. Until this very second she’d forgotten the few lines Honoria had insisted she write in her own hand. Honoria had thought of everything. Where was the damn letter? She’d have to root through everything to find it. God, maybe she’d thrown it away. How naive she’d been to think she’d be safe with Quaid should Jason ever inquire after his sister-in-law. Another dusty dream.
Chelsea returned to the garden house to search through all her belongings. Finally she came up with the letter Honoria had written. Now all she had to do was go back to the house, get an envelope from Harlow’s study, and post it. She made a mental note to remind herself to mention it to Harlow in case he took it into his head to write on his own. Once it was done, all her loose ends would be neatly tied in a bow.
Chapter 13
The following two weeks were hectic for Chelsea. Wedding gifts arrived by wagon from Sydney and the other vineyards in Hunter Valley. Each one was unwrapped and appreciated, each was placed on several long, gleaming tables in the front hall, the name of the giver written in Emma’s careful hand on a card placed beside each gift.
Late breakfasts, midday luncheons, and full dinners were served at Bellefleur as the guests began to arrive later in the week. It was a happy time for the bride-to-be, and Chelsea enjoyed every minute of attention and generosity. For the first time she felt as though she belonged, that she was really a part of Bellefleur.
The great house had been cleaned and polished. Freshly laundered and ironed sheets were placed on the beds, window seats, and anyplace a body could rest for the night. Even the bunkhouse had been scoured and aired, the gentlemen guests moving there to make room for the ladies at the big house. If Harlow had been on better terms with Quaid, his neighbor, wedding guests would have been invited to stay at Clonmerra.
Fresh flowers, brought by the armful, adorned every corner of the house. Dishes and silver platters gleamed, and the multipaned windows sparkled. Bellefleur was a reflection of Chelsea, of her caring and sense of order, and she was proud of it.
Most of all, it was the acceptance of people like Lucy Abernathy and
the easy friendship of groups like the Horticulture Society that Chelsea valued. They liked her, they believed she was one of them, and she wanted to be. Marrying Harlow would give her that—respectability. Chelsea knew what it was not to be able to hold up her head in polite society. Actresses did not enjoy such benefits. Harlow was offering her what Quaid couldn’t—marriage. Perhaps marrying Harlow wasn’t a dream made in heaven, but it was the closest thing she was ever going to get.
Quaid Tanner paced his house from one end to the other. Nothing satisfied him this day. There was no chair that could hold him, no food that would stay in his stomach. In less than twenty-four hours Chelsea would marry Harlow Kane.
He uncorked another bottle of his vin ordinaire, making a pretentious ceremony of pouring the dark, shimmering liquid into a glass before gulping it. He ached, he hurt. He longed and he loved. He supposed he’d always known that somehow the past would catch up with him, but he’d always believed that it would take Clonmerra away from him. Instead, the past had insidiously separated him from the one woman in the world he wanted. To come forward with the truth would be to lose everything—Chelsea and Clonmerra, and probably his own neck in the bargain.
He loved her. God, how he loved her. And yet he could offer her nothing. To set things straight in order to marry her, questions would be asked, confessions would be made, and in the end Chelsea would be alone and without anything. He’d probably swing from the end of a rope, and Clonmerra would be relegated to decades of litigation; the land would never be developed, and it would never come into its prime in the hands of English lawyers, thousands of miles away.
Quaid brooded, trying to drown himself in Clonmerra’s nectar. Misery was his only companion, heartache his only friend. And as he immersed himself in his thoughts of Chelsea, a strangeness overcame him: it was almost as though he were watching himself from outside his body. It must be the table wine, he decided. It was more potent than he remembered.
To Taste The Wine Page 25
