To Taste The Wine

by Fern Michaels

  The beads beneath Chelsea’s nightdress gave her the courage to speak out boldly. “You don’t know your daughter, Harlow. If you did, you’d know she will never come back here. And I don’t blame her. First of all, she’s in love, and you’ve no right to deny her that happiness. Secondly, she could never live here after what you did to her. She must hate you and Franklin.” Chelsea was breathless by the time she’d finished, but her hands never left the beads at her throat.

  Harlow’s face was purple with rage. “You’d better hope you’re wrong, otherwise I’ll be forced to think you had something to do with all of this.” He moved a menacing step closer to the bed and stared intensely at Chelsea. “Pray my daughter comes back to this house.”

  Chelsea managed to meet Harlow’s gaze and hold it. “She won’t be back, know it now. But before you begin placing blame, look to yourself and your own relationship with your children. It wouldn’t surprise me if Franklin wasn’t contemplating the same move as Martha.” There, that would give him something to think about. His son leaving, his right hand abandoning Bellefleur.

  She was gasping for breath when the door closed behind her husband. For a moment she’d believed he was going to strike her.

  When Tingari returned with Chelsea’s breakfast, she found her mistress in a state of distress. “Tingari, Harlow won’t be able to stop Martha, will he?”

  “Tanner is smart, Mitjitji.”

  “What if Harlow decides to go to Sydney and force Martha to come home?”

  “Boss Kane’s pride will not allow him to think so far. He rules with a strong hand. He threw his child in the dirt with nothing,” Tingari said. “He does not believe she can go without a dress and money.”

  “What about when he sees her trunks are gone?” Chelsea wondered nervously. “Listen, Tingari, I have an idea. We’ll send Martha my trunks. They’re stored in the garden house. We’ll simply transfer her clothes and hope to buy her time. We could fill Martha’s trunks with bedding and lay some nightclothes on top. I don’t think Harlow will go through them; just seeing them will be enough. We’ll have to get Emma out of the way. Where is she?”

  “She trims corks for her brother in the wine house.”

  “Then we’ve got to move fast.”

  Two hours later, all of Martha’s clothing and some of her own were nestled in Honoria Harris’s trunks. Thank God she would never have to look at them again.

  Chelsea watched in wonder as Tingari bent down and picked up one of the heavy trunks. She did a balancing act for a second or two until she had the trunk on her shoulder. Chelsea knew that it would have taken Franklin and another man to carry the trunk out to the road. Tingari made three more trips, then returned to the garden house for the pouch of money.

  Chelsea raced back to Martha’s room to make sure her hurried job of stuffing Martha’s trunks would pass muster. Satisfied with the disarray she had created, she made her way back downstairs to the dining room. “Fetch me two cups of coffee,” she told a startled servant. She would sit here until Tingari returned. Childishly, she crossed her fingers. It would all work out.

  Saturday, the day Martha’s ship sailed, was hot and airless. Emma was at her worst, whining fretfully, refusing to go to the winery with her father. Chelsea sat through lunch with her teeth clenched. As usual, Franklin glowered at her the whole time. Chelsea knew she wouldn’t draw a free breath until after sundown when the ship sailed. Was Quaid still in Sydney waiting to see Martha off? She hoped so. How much did Emma know or suspect? As far as she could tell, Martha’s trunks were still the way she’d left them. Bette had told her that Mr. Kane had gone once to Martha’s room to see if things were intact. Then, satisfied his daughter’s fate was still in his hands, he had closed the door and, as far as anyone knew, had not entered it again.

  Chelsea did not like what was happening to Harlow, and she felt as though she were walking on eggshells. He took pleasure in goading poor Emma and enjoying her misery. She missed Martha terribly and at meals the empty chair was a constant reminder. Harlow’s suspicions were aroused as to Chelsea’s part in Martha’s mutiny, and he treated her with contemptuous politeness.

  “I miss Martha,” Emma cried suddenly as they ate lunch. “She’s not coming back, is she? Today is the day her ship leaves for England! I want to go with her!”

  Startled at Emma’s outburst, Chelsea dropped her fork and it clattered onto her plate.

  “That’s enough, Emma,” Harlow commanded. “Martha isn’t going anywhere. When she’s had enough of scavenging the hills, she’ll be back. She has nothing, everything she owns is here; she has no money, no clothes, and no way of obtaining any.”

  “I want her here now. I’m tired of cutting corks in the winery. I miss Martha,” Emma continued to whine defiantly. “Martha has money, she has lots of money. She can buy new clothes. She isn’t coming back. I know she isn’t.”

  “Emma! Martha has nothing I didn’t give her. She will return. You, meanwhile, are to go back to the winery and help Franklin. It’s your duty!”

  Franklin stood abruptly, the expression of rampant disgust unmistakable. Chelsea believed she had fallen into a snake pit.

  Emma began to cry, great heaving sobs. If she’d hoped for comfort from Harlow, she was disappointed. Disgusted with her, he stomped out of the house, leaving Chelsea to comfort her and take her to her room. “She isn’t coming back, is she, Chelsea?” Emma sobbed.

  “No, she isn’t. You’ll have to get used to not having Martha around. When she’s settled she’ll send for you. Martha won’t break her promise.”

  “I wish you’d never given her the money. I know where she is, I watched Tingari.”

  Emma’s words unnerved Chelsea. This girl could destroy everything, all of them. When she spoke, her voice betrayed her by quivering. “What are you talking about, Emma? What money? I thought Martha’s young man sent her the money.”

  “Martha told me, it was a secret. She said you got it from Mr. Tanner for her. Martha couldn’t keep the secret from me. I can keep a secret; I didn’t tell Father.”

  “And you won’t, will you!” It was a command.

  “Not if you …” Emma lifted her eyes to look at Chelsea and seemed to change her mind. “I just told you I can keep a secret, I’m tired, I want to sleep,” she said as she lay back on her bed, curling herself into a ball and pulling the edge of the coverlet under her chin.

  Chelsea watched helplessly as Emma drifted off to sleep. With Emma, there were no guarantees. She might pick up her thoughts immediately when she woke, or she might not mention anything about it for days. How was she to cajole this fey girl into keeping quiet? Right now, all she needed were hours of quiet until Martha’s ship set sail. She would stay right here with Emma until she awoke and then keep her busy.

  The room was quiet and dim with the curtains drawn. Chelsea sat with a book open on her lap. Her thoughts, however, were on Quaid. When tears gathered in her eyes and her heart skipped beats, she forced her thoughts to Emma and what her damaging words could do to life at Bellefleur. From now on she was going to have to be Emma’s constant companion. Her shadow. Hopefully, it would keep the young woman under control.

  When Emma woke shortly before dusk, Chelsea was aware, even in the dimness of the room, that the girl’s eyes were feverish. She leaned over and felt her forehead. “Are you feeling all right, Emma?”

  “I don’t feel very good,” Emma said in her best little-girl voice. “I don’t think I can go down to dinner.”

  “I’ll have a tray sent up, something light. Bette will stay with you.” How relieved she sounded to her own ears. A reprieve. Now all she had to do was keep Emma away from Harlow a little while longer, and Martha would be safe. That she would suffer the consequences was something she couldn’t think of right now. She sat with Emma a while longer to see if the girl would mention Martha. Harlow, she knew, would never bother to check on his daughter, leaving such things to her and the servants.

  Chelsea dressed for dinner
that evening with extra care. She felt jittery and out of sorts as she made her way down to the dining room for dinner. She didn’t know why. Perhaps it was Tingari’s dark gaze or the implacable look on her face.

  There was only Harlow and herself at dinner. Chelsea went on at great lengths about Emma and how feverish she was. Harlow nodded and commended her solicitude in regard to his daughter. Chelsea forced smile after smile to her lips as she spoke of one thing and another. The dinner plates were being carried out to the kitchen to make way for the rich dessert Harlow favored when Chelsea saw Bette walk past the dining room door to return Emma’s tray to the kitchen.

  Chelsea’s stomach started to churn. She shouldn’t have left the girl alone. Suddenly Emma appeared in her nightdress, her face shiny clean. The long braid hanging down her back made her look winsome and woebegone. Chelsea sucked in her breath, eyes wide with apprehension. It was coming—her moment of reckoning spurred on by this witless woman-child. She could feel it in every bone in her body. Martha was safely out to sea now, and there was nothing Harlow could do to bring her back. The thought only made her more uneasy. She was going to pay for the help she had given Harlow’s daughter.

  “Father, you must come with me. I have something I want you to see. You lied to me,” she accused. “You said Martha was coming back. Come, Father.”

  Harlow’s eyes narrowed. Chelsea sat rooted to her chair. Tingari stood outside the dining room door, her large arms folded across her ample breast, watching, waiting. Chelsea listened to Harlow’s booted steps going up the stairs and down the corridor to Martha’s room. Minutes later the thunderclap of the slamming door shuddered through her.

  “Why?” Harlow bellowed as he entered the dining room. “What you have done is unforgivable. Why did you interfere?”

  The black rage on Harlow’s face was directed at her and more awesome than his attack on Martha. Chelsea trembled with fear as Harlow towered over her. “It was best for Martha,” she managed to reply.

  “Who are you to decide what is best for my daughter? I’m the only one to decide that. How dare you interfere with my orders?”

  “I didn’t decide, Harlow,” Chelsea said, rising to face him. “Your daughter decided. Yes, it’s true that I helped her. She asked for my help. I couldn’t refuse her.”

  “And where did you get the money to give her?” Harlow demanded murderously.

  “You know very well where I got the money. Emma told you. Martha’s gone now, sailing to England. It’s done with. History. We can’t dwell on it now. We should both drink a toast with your finest wine to your daughter’s happiness,” she said defiantly.

  “A toast with vinegar to that slut would be asking too much. You’ve made me a laughingstock. You betrayed me to my enemy. I’ll never be able to hold my head up again. My wife, going to that man. What exactly did you do for Tanner to get the money for Martha? … Answer me, damn you!”

  Chelsea backed up a step and then another as Harlow advanced upon her. “I sold him a ring. A ring that meant a great deal to me and that was given to me out of … out of love. I also sold it at a great loss. It was very valuable, but I thought that … Martha was so unhappy.” There was no need for Harlow to know that the whole episode had started out as a blackmailing scheme and ended up with her wanting desperately to help the unhappy young woman.

  “A likely story. This sordid little escapade will be all over Sydney by now.” Harlow cut short his scathing words and glowered murderously at Chelsea. It was what he wasn’t saying that made Chelsea back closer to the door where Tingari stood.

  “Boss Kane wants vengeance,” Tingari hissed in Chelsea’s ear.

  Chelsea heard the words, but her eyes were on Harlow as he thundered from the room. She turned and fell into Tingari’s arms. “What will he do to me?”

  “I do not know, Mitjitji. You have taken his control, and he will not forgive. He is shamed.”

  “What if he does to me what he did to Martha?”

  “Boss Kane is hard on women. His mamu, his spirit, is cruel and mean. Men of this mamu do not enjoy old age.” Tingari’s fathomless black eyes, rife with mystical knowledge, pierced Chelsea.

  “Where will I go?” she cried. “What would I do? The friends I met here are Harlow’s; they won’t take me into their homes against his will…. No, I’m being silly. I’m his wife; what I’ve done really isn’t terrible. He wouldn’t treat me as he did Martha.” Even to her own ears her words lacked conviction.

  “Mitjitji, there is Tanner.”

  “No. Never. I can’t ask for his charity, I can’t go to him like a whipped dog. Harlow simply would not throw me out of this house. He wouldn’t.”

  “Mitjitji forgets young boss.”

  “Franklin? What does that mean?”

  “Young boss is angry and filled with hate. He would like Mitjitji to be gone. Always a son can talk to his father.”

  Chelsea fumed. “You’re being ridiculous. I know Franklin is jealous and angry that I’ve come to Bellefleur. He feels he’s working to support me, and his share of Bellefleur will be less. But he would never …” Her words trailed away as she stared at the tall Aboriginal. “How do you know how angry Franklin is?”

  “Tingari knows.”

  “Tingari knows because she sleeps with him.” Chelsea seethed. “You don’t like him, why do you do it? He’s using you!”

  The Aboriginal shook her head. “No. Tingari used him. I carry a child.”

  “Oh, no!” Chelsea sputtered, already contemplating the consequences. Harlow and Franklin would throw Tingari off Bellefleur as soon as they found out. Sleeping with an Aboriginal was one thing, having a mixed-breed bastard running around the place was another entirely. “Why didn’t you make one of your potions? Why didn’t you do something?”

  “Tingari never hoped to have a child,” she replied, placing one of her huge hands on her belly. “This is my joy!” She beamed. “Mitjitji should make a child. You would always have a home on Bellefleur.”

  There was truth in what Tingari was saying, but the idea was abhorrent to her. “No. Not if it can be helped. Do you think I would want a child of Harlow’s after I see what kind of man he is and what his seed spawns? Another witless Emma; a surly, unloving Franklin; another scheming Martha? No, Tingari, I couldn’t.”

  Tingari turned Chelsea to face her, her large, slender hands cupping her mistress’s face. “Mitjitji, a child is a child,” she said slowly, meaningfully. “A child would protect you. Any man can plant his seed; a child belongs to its mother.”

  Chelsea’s eyes widened. “Are you suggesting I find any man to give me a child?” she gasped. There was no reply from Tingari. “I couldn’t,” she bleated. “No, I couldn’t.”

  “Mitjitji will have a child. It is better she chooses the father.”

  “It’s too cold, too callous.”

  “Tingari thinks Mitjitji chooses Tanner.”

  “Men have ethics, too,” Chelsea said. “Doing that to Quaid would be unthinkable.”

  “Think how you would feel birthing Boss Kane’s seed. A man does not know what becomes of his seed once it is spent. Mitjitji, I stay here when another woman sleep in your bed. Again, I remind you Boss Kane is hard on women. That other woman was old before her time, her mamu died and then her body.”

  Chelsea thought of the nights when Harlow came to her room, of the ugly, loveless couplings and his forceful taking of her even when her body was not ready or receptive. Never a tender kiss or a fond caress, nothing to stir her to anything even resembling passion. He was methodical and quick, not caring that she was stiff and unyielding and her body dry and resistant. Her mirror told her what those nights were doing to her. Circles beneath her eyes, a new tightening around her mouth. Gasping like a fish out of water, Chelsea struggled to speak. “How … how should I do this? When?”

  “Mitjitji knows how. Whatever is Mitjitji’s moon cycle. Nine days after.”

  Chelsea’s brain clicked as she counted on her fingers. The flush
on her cheeks brought a smile to Tingari’s generous mouth. “Three days, three more days.”

  Harlow Kane climbed out of the deep bowels of his winery to stand at the small narrow window that had been cut into the four-foot-thick masonry walls, watching his wife as she strolled among the newly planted flower beds. His eyes narrowed. She was beautiful, and she was his. Her defense of Martha had come as a shock to him; more, it was a personal betrayal. Everyone on Bellefleur had his place, and Chelsea was no exception. She’d had no right to defy him and to intervene for Martha. It was the fact that she had elicited the help of Quaid Tanner that cut him to the quick. She’d sold a ring to him. And what else? he wondered spitefully. He could feel heat rushing through him at the thought of Chelsea and Tanner together. But he had no proof, and accusations were a waste of time. His gut churned as his imagination played vividly. He hated—a deep, searing hatred—the man who was his neighbor and possibly his wife’s lover.

  Then Harlow did something foreign to him. He tossed his smock onto a bench and left the winery before midday. His step was firm and purposeful as he joined Chelsea in the garden. “Come with me,” he demanded hoarsely.

  “What’s wrong, Harlow?”

  “Nothing. I merely wish to exercise my conjugal rights.”

  “Now? It’s mid—”

  “Don’t argue, you’ve done enough of that. Get into the house.”

  In the bright sunlight of her bedroom, Chelsea watched as Harlow stripped naked; then, at his stern urgings, she undid the buttons of her gown. She could feel the burning flush of shame color her flesh as Harlow’s eyes licked at her nakedness.

  Obscenities rolled off his tongue as he dragged her to the bed, and she squeezed her eyes shut and tensed for the onslaught. When it was over he stood beside the bed viewing her nakedness. His expression was cold and half-mocking as he watched the agony in her eyes turn to shame. Carelessly he tossed her the coverlet.

  Tingari was sitting on the back porch, an odious-smelling cigar clamped between her teeth. Smoky spirals surrounded the Aboriginal’s closely shorn head. “What did you mean yesterday when you said men of evil mamu did not enjoy old age?” Chelsea demanded, hatred for Harlow flooding her senses.