by Darry Fraser
‘It won’t, but we need to hurry.’ She threw her head back. ‘James—’
‘No sheath …’ He slid his hands up, squeezed her soft flesh, felt her muscles tense under his fingers. The thought of throwing her back on the bed, her knees up while he dipped his tongue into sleek—
‘We can risk it this time.’ She shimmied, her bare knees touching his.
Standing, he lifted her atop him, arms under her backside. Once she was straddling his thighs, he gripped her hips, kissed her, then rubbed his face into the curve of her neck. Words were lost as he nudged between her legs, as he lowered back to the bed.
She gasped as he slid inside.
‘Hurt?’ He stopped, straining to keep still.
‘No…’ Breathless. ‘Wonderful …’
Her thighs firm, she pushed down and he surged up inside. She rode deeper, cried out, grinding his need. Popping the buttons of her blouse open, she pushed a breast, its nipple taut, into his mouth.
He sucked. At her sob he stopped again, unsure. He’d loved her long and hard before, but—
‘Harder. Keep going … hurry,’ she pleaded and her fingers dug into his shoulders.
He swelled in her, and the spasms of her own pleasure came quickly. Then he soared, bucking up hard as his seed flew into her.
She teased every last drop from him. As she leaned over his shoulder, he felt her tongue on his back licking little tastes. Lifting her head with a murmur of pleasure as she moved, she pressed kisses to his face. Still together, he lay them down on the narrow bed, and his body slipped from hers, spent.
Soft, warm arms and languid legs still wrapped around him … He closed his eyes. His body was heavy with release. Drowsy. Needed to sleep …
Instead, fighting off sleep, he propped himself up on one arm and out of the tangle of her limbs. He gazed at her. The yellow and blue-black bruises on CeeCee’s ribcage and chest as she lay alongside him caught his eye. Her beautiful breasts were marked as well, a long thick line of one bruise due, she’d said, to the top rung of the gate slamming into her.
Slow, roiling anger simmered through him. He crushed it down. Had to. Anger would wait and feed later. He dipped to her nipple and licked.
She smiled a response. ‘You see? You didn’t hurt me.’
‘You should be a little fragile, my love.’
‘I missed you, James. I needed you.’
His heart clamped and he kissed her forehead. ‘I’ll always be here.’
CeeCee shifted a little to make more room for him. ‘We don’t have much time.’ Her fingers tapped through the hair on his chest then her palm rested over his heart.
‘You exhaust me, woman. Let’s wait for tonight, CeeCee. Plenty of time.’
‘Oh, but with Linley and the baby …’
He held up her left hand. ‘This ring says I have every right to sleep with my wife.’
‘But Linley—’
‘Miss Linley knows that we are husband and wife in all but name.’ Fingers folded over hers. ‘And I will rectify that as soon as I can, too.’ He looked down at her, raised his brows. ‘What is this? No protest this time?’
Gorgeous dark amber eyes gazed back at him. ‘No, James. No protest this time. I’m ready.’
CeeCee washed and dressed with James’ help. He’d done the best he could for himself in a basin in her room but longed for a bath as soon as possible.
And then, when they sat on new furniture in the little room in the front of the house, a cup of tea each laced with rum, James told her of the news. He relayed the story, the fire at CeeCee’s, the fire at Mr Campbell’s, and finally the orchard fire.
CeeCee clasped his hands. His grip was strong but as she absorbed Wilkin’s crime, her hands flew to her face. ‘My house.’
‘Houses can be rebuilt and you had it insured. But it is the many things destroyed within that cannot be replaced.’ He took her hands back and pressed them between his.
Her mouth twisted. ‘The main things were the photographs I had left of my family. We have so few with us. Oh, a few well-loved letters lost, my writing desk, lost.’ She sniffed. ‘But this violence … it follows us, James. I wish it were over. I wish we could finish.’ She stopped. Swallowed. ‘Yet we can’t finish, I know. There’s too much to do.’
‘That’s true, for now.’ He stretched out his long legs. ‘And I met an Ard O’Rourke in the days before the fire. I found him unconscious inside your house just after it had been burgled. He seemed to be looking for Linley.’
CeeCee waited a moment. ‘Most probably. Not badly hurt, though?’
‘Scrapes. A lump on his head. He was lucky.’ James blew into his tea, then sipped. ‘The fire at his orchard knocked him more, afterward. Probably best he wasn’t there at the time.’
She sat back, giving James a despairing glance. ‘And Mr Campbell?’
‘He’s a tough old fellow. Shaken a little, but well enough.’ He loaded an extra wee dram of rum into her tea cup, and encouraged her to drink. ‘Have a little more of this. I don’t think it will lead to your ruin, darling girl. It’ll fortify your nerves.’
She laughed a little then, and winced. ‘I need fortifying.’ She took as deep a breath as she could. ‘What a mess.’ She put a hand to her chest.
‘We will get you a doctor, and we will stop all our shenanigans until then.’ He patted her knee.
‘If we must.’
James sighed. ‘We must, for a little while.’ He leaned back. ‘At least all of that business in Bendigo puts past the mystery of our Toby’s father.’
CeeCee nodded, her hand over her heart, and sipped her tea. ‘I have news on that front, too.’
‘Tell me.’
She settled the cup on a saucer and it rattled a little. ‘I’ve known Ard for a long time. I’ve watched him grow up, not close to his family, but I knew them of course. He and Linley, and others, were friends at school. They’ve known each other for years.’ She thought of the younger Ard. The sturdy lad with the intense gaze and the wild black curly hair had grown into a fine man now, it appeared.
‘Ah. Of course, since school days.’ James sat his tea cup down and laced his fingers over his stomach. ‘Ard is of the belief that Toby is his son.’
CeeCee nodded, reached across and squeezed James’ hands. ‘I guessed that a while ago now.’
James’ brows rose. ‘Does Linley know he is the father?’
CeeCee nodded. ‘I’m positive of it, though she hasn’t actually said.’ She took another swallow of tea, closed her eyes a moment as its warmth swept through her. ‘It seems she might be embarrassed to tell me. The only thing that matters to me is what he does about it, that Linley is not hurt by it. She loves that baby as if he were her own. So if Ard’s come looking for her, I hope she can forgive him. She’s long carried a torch for him.’
James grunted. ‘And he for her, and I believe it’s much more than just a torch. I might have pulled rank on him and warned him off.’
She darted a glance at him. ‘I don’t think we should warn him off. I think we should be encouraging the two of them …’
At that moment, Linley rushed in the gate with the baby screaming at the top of his lungs from a bouncing perambulator.
‘Oh dear.’ CeeCee sat forward to look out the window, and winced. ‘Perhaps you could get the door, James, before she flies through it. And … and we might wait a bit before we tell Linley of the fire.’
She heard James at the door, then Linley crying and raging about some person who’d slighted her in the street. How she’d gotten herself lost trying to dodge this awful woman who, as it turned out, only lived two blocks over and she knew that because she’d caught up behind her after finding her way back home and how she’d seen someone at the wharf she knew and—
‘My dear girl.’ James carried the gurgling and gulping baby in his arms as he herded Linley, red-faced and tear-streaked, and the pram into the room where CeeCee sat. ‘Sit there and gather yourself.’
‘And I can�
�t stop Toby screaming,’ Linley wailed.
‘He seems comforted now,’ CeeCee said and nodded towards James holding the baby, rocking him in his arms. A warmth spread across her belly, surprising her.
Linley gulped down more sobs and sat in the chair James had vacated. She snatched up the tea cup beside her and swallowed the remaining contents, then spluttered on the rum-flavoured hot tea. She sniffed loudly.
CeeCee withdrew a handkerchief from her skirt pocket and handed it to her niece. ‘You have had an adventure, Lin.’
‘A horrible day.’ Another sniff or two.
James carried the baby back and forth in the room until he settled, burrowed against the broad chest, his chubby fists waving. ‘I’ll give this little man a few more moments to compose himself then I’ll replenish our tea, ladies. I will be back shortly to hear all about this adventure.’ He hummed at the bundle in his arms as he left the room.
CeeCee waited until Linley wiped her eyes and blew her nose. ‘Well, if we’re to wait for James, I’ll tell you of my adventure today. I found a church this afternoon.’
Her niece frowned, sniffed some more.
‘And a very helpful reverend by the name of Stephen Reville. An Irishman, to boot.’
Linley looked horrified. ‘Catholic?’
CeeCee tut-tutted. ‘I don’t care what persuasion he is, although he did invite me to attend some meetings. It was somewhat awkward.’ She laughed at herself. ‘But what luck I had. He was able to assist with a birth registration paper. Isn’t that wonderful?’ From her other pocket, she withdrew a large folded piece of paper. ‘It seems all we need to do is fill it in and mail it off to the registrar’s office in Melbourne.’
Linley reached across and took the paper.
‘Then of course he asked me if I was going to baptise my baby.’ CeeCee smiled.
Her niece stared at the paper in her hand. Then she glanced up at her aunt. ‘What did you just say, Aunty?’
CeeCee faltered. ‘Of course, you don’t have to baptise or christen him, but it’s the done thing, after all.’
‘Is it?’ Linley sounded as if she’d forgotten.
CeeCee frowned. ‘Is there something distracting you about the paper, Linley?’
Wide-eyed, Linley shook her head. ‘It’s just that I thought I knew whose name to put in the column where it says “father’s name”.’
‘Yes?’
Linley looked back at the paper, then shifted her gaze out the front window. ‘Now I’m not so sure I should.’
James stood in the doorway, a sleeping baby in his arms. ‘Hard to fill the kettle and put it back on the stove when you’ve got an armful, but we managed.’ He took the quiet baby to the pram and put him in it. ‘What’s this you’re not sure about doing?’ he asked Linley.
She glanced across at her aunt and back to James. ‘I’m having trouble deciding what to put on the birth registration paper.’
‘What part?’ James queried. ‘Can I help?’
CeeCee sat up. ‘She had a name picked out. O’Rourke, wasn’t it, Linley, for the father’s name?’ She glanced at James, who leaned against the mantelpiece.
Linley’s cheeks flushed. She nodded.
James raised his eyebrows at CeeCee. ‘Then, that should be the name,’ he said decisively. Looking about the room, he finally pointed to a small box near the doorway. ‘I had Mr Jenkins bring some ink, paper and a couple of quills. I could help you fill it in, Linley.’
‘The man whose name it is, Ard O’Rourke,’ Linley blurted, ‘has a wife, and a baby on the way.’ Tears erupted afresh. ‘That’s what happened today. I saw them.’
‘No.’ James shot a glance at CeeCee.
‘Yes,’ Linley declared, her face screwed up. She used the handkerchief again. ‘I saw them at the wharf not an hour ago. She was out here.’ Linley extended her arm its full length, her cheeks reddened.
‘No,’ James said again and let a laugh slip. ‘No. It wasn’t him you saw. It couldn’t have been.’ He knelt down beside her chair. ‘I left Ard O’Rourke in Bendigo this morning. He most certainly was not on the train with me. There’s no way on earth you could have seen him on the wharf.’ He glanced at CeeCee and gave a little shrug.
Linley gaped at him. ‘Ard is in Bendigo?’
‘Most definitely, my dear girl. Now then.’ James reached across and took the registration paper. ‘Let’s get this underway and I’ll take it to the mail.’
Thirty-Five
Swag slung over his shoulder, Ard boarded the train bound for Echuca. Minus one pair of new boots, he had a little money in his pocket after he’d paid the fare.
Thank you, Mr Taylor, once again. Sam would benefit from his father’s purchase of Ard’s boots, no doubt about it. And it was a good thing they hadn’t got mad drunk last night; he needed a clear head this morning and Mrs Taylor had seen to that. She filled them up on a robust beef dinner with potatoes and thick gravy, then took away the rum jug. And that was that.
If Ard got work again on Mr Egge’s boat, or even if he was directed elsewhere, he’d have another new pair of boots in no time. He felt lucky. He felt hopeful.
The swag sat on its end at his feet. Hardly better than a couple of old horse blankets now, but enough for his needs. Sleeping on a sandy bank would do him, used to it as he had been for most of his life.
The train rattled to life and the chug of the engine pulled it reluctantly out of the station. No one else had joined him in the compartment. Ard snatched off his battered hat and threw it across to the other seat. He was on his way to find Linley and to find his son.
His son.
He exhaled loudly. Why hadn’t she told him the baby had lived after Mary’s death? No clue.
How would he be a father to this baby? How would he hope to support him?
Another thought clanged in his head. Would Linley even allow him to be a father to the baby?
Too may questions. Too many unknowns.
The first unknown was their whereabouts. Echuca, for sure, if that’s where James Anderson had indeed finished up. Someone would know where he was. Nobody could miss the big bloke with the bright red hair and the look of a zealot in his eye. Anderson knew Miss CeeCee, and with CeeCee he would find Linley for sure in Echuca. It wasn’t that big a town.
Shifting around to get comfortable, he felt the crinkle of the letters in his waistcoat. No need to revisit Mary’s letter, he knew it by heart. It was as plain as plain could be. But Linley’s letter … had she given him any clues and he’d missed them? He withdrew the two letters, tucked Mary’s back and sat with Linley’s in his hand.
Addressed to ‘Ard O’Rourke, Renmark’, it had found him quick enough. The boys at the Renmark wharf had given it to his father once the mail was sorted. From there his life had changed. He hardly knew how to run with it. Shock, grief, loss. Fear. He could consider everything he felt and still not glean a way forward, so he stuffed all that into a room in his head and shut the door on it.
The letter rustled in his hands. He fingered the envelope then gripped the pages within and unfolded them.
She had simply put ‘Ard’—not ‘my dear friend’, or ‘Dear Ard’, just addressed him as if he was nothing to her.
He couldn’t believe he was nothing to her. At the gleam in her eye, he’d felt his own heartbeat race. Freckled cheeks had pinked up whenever she returned his gaze. The furtive touch of hands when they were down the street, jostling others at the market … No. Not nothing.
The picnics they took, as friends, all of them, with simple fare as each could afford. Apples and pears from Ard’s place, mutton pies from Sam’s mother’s kitchen, beef jerky CeeCee had provided for them. Others had brought along jam sandwiches and beef pies and they’d sit, old school friends, on an old blanket provided by someone’s mother. They’d play a game of cricket, rules much modified.
He and Linley would be close, sometimes fingertips would brush. The last time they picnicked, he’d told her that he was going away for a time.
When he saw her bewildered face, stricken, a look that nearly brought him undone, he’d walked away. He hadn’t misinterpreted her expression.
And so, what did he do? He went home to the orchard, and found that Mary had followed an hour later.
Ard folded the letter again and rested it on his lap. Now this. This business of his baby, whose mother was dead, and whose life was being held by the woman he loved.
Shaking his head, he pressed down the mounting heave of his chest. He squeezed the letter in his hand. The thin paper rustled again and he opened it and read.
Ard, Mary Bonner is dead after childbirth. She told me that it was your baby and that you know it is the truth because she wrote you a letter.
You dallied with her but she married a Gareth Wilkin to give a name to the child she will never hold. I just wanted you to know she’s dead.
And I am so angry at you, Ard O’Rourke.
Mr Wilkin turned out to be this awful creature, a man who beat her and harassed her and, finally, it is my belief, killed her.
Two lives have been dashed. I found out too late about you. She told me after it was too late for her. I would have made you marry her. Why didn’t you marry her, Ard O’Rourke?’
She’d signed it, ‘Linley Seymour’. Nothing else.
He scanned the letter again. He could have been mistaken earlier, but he didn’t have any clue that the child might have lived. He read ‘two lives have been dashed’ and assumed she meant Mary’s life and the baby’s. It wasn’t until Sam told him in the pub that he realised Linley had been given Mary’s baby.
Was he so thick? Who else could she have meant?
Hers? Linley meant her life?
Vitriol leapt off the page at him again. So fierce were her words, so damning of him as a person, as a man, that he couldn’t bear to re-read it. He folded the letter and lowered it to his lap, staring out the window. The train chugged and chortled and rattled over the line sweeping past dry, brittle countryside. And here he was, a man with barely two pennies to rub together, no work and no means likely, trying to find her and the baby.
He would secure work, a place to sleep and eat and get that out of the way. Set about finding Linley. Somehow. He would think of something.
