This Golden Land

by Wood, Barbara

  "Why didn't you set them straight?"

  "I started to, and then I realized that someone sharp enough would realize we had been out there for gold, and Galagandra would be overrun with gold seekers. Luckily, Archie never said anything about us discovering gold. It was sacred land, Hannah, I couldn't do that. Fintan and I went to Adelaide as soon as we could. I searched all over for you. I knew you thought I was dead. But I thought I would find you! I went to the Australia Hotel, but it was under new ownership. I went to Seven Oaks and the McKeeghans had no idea where you were. Finally I did get information on your whereabouts, that you had gone to Sydney."

  She swallowed painfully. "I didn't think to leave you a message at the Adelaide post office, or on Mr. Day's public board. I thought you were dead!"

  Hannah was vaguely aware of space being cleared in the vast lobby, and couples taking up a waltz. Aromas drifted on the air as a buffet table was set, bringing delicious aromas of roast beef and spring lamb from the hotel kitchen. The lobby was hot and noisy, people passing by murmured, "Good evening, Miss Conroy," but Hannah was aware of none of these.

  "I only got your note this afternoon," she said. "I have been out in the country, visiting patients. But why did you ask if I was the same Hannah Conroy who had sailed on the Caprica?"

  He laughed softly. "You wouldn't believe how many women share your name. In Sydney, I put up notices on public boards and adverts in newspapers. I checked with hospitals, doctors, chemist shops, other midwives. I even offered a reward for information on your whereabouts. I followed two leads to Hannah Conroy, both taking me far off the track into the Outback, only to find very different Hannah Conroys. Finally, I decided to try my luck in Melbourne. I sent Fintan ahead to find a studio for us, while I came the overland route with my equipment and supplies." He added with a smile, "I don't trust ships."

  Hannah saw changes in Neal. He seemed more subdued, not as brash as he had been when he had started out on the expedition with his scientific instruments. She wondered what had happened to him during his journey through the wilderness. Even physically, he was different—the closely cropped hair now grew long and curled loosely around his ears. His skin was tan, with lines at the eyes and framing his mouth. Strangely, the sunwrinkles did not make him look older, but wiser. Hannah looked at the photographs displayed on the wall and wondered if it was Australia itself that had wrought the changes.

  She also wondered about the fiancée, her name, how they met. But she was afraid to ask.

  "But look at you, Hannah," Neal said softly. "You are obviously doing well. I take it you are a success as a midwife?"

  "I have had to make some adjustments," she said, reaching into her small bag and bringing out her card. "I had difficulty getting established at first, and I blamed society. And then one day I realized that it wasn't society that was confining me to a narrowly defined role, I was doing it to myself. Once I redefined my role in life, success followed."

  Hannah had changed, he thought as he looked at the card, and it was more than a mere re-titling of her occupation. When they first met, over six years ago, he had thought of her as a girl. Now she was a woman. On the Caprica she had had only a vague idea of her direction. Now she was in charge of her destiny.

  "I say, are you the photographer, sir?"

  Neal turned, blinked. "I beg your pardon?"

  A whiskered gentleman with a portly belly and red cheeks said, "That picture up there, can you tell me where it was taken? I've never seen anything like it." Hannah recognized the man as Mr. Beechworth, a wealthy entrepreneur who had recently formed Melbourne's first railway company.

  Blanche materialized at that moment to say, "Did you know the bidding has reached fifty pounds on that piece, Mr. Beechworth? If you want it, you must enter your bid right away. The auction will close soon."

  Blanche looked at Neal for a long moment, and then at Hannah. She knew there had been someone in Hannah's past, a gentleman with whom Hannah had sailed from England. But there had been few details, little of the story, only that he was the reason Hannah was not interested in being introduced to eligible gentlemen in Melbourne. And now, as she led Mr. Beechworth to the auction table, she wondered if this intriguing American might be the mysterious someone from Hannah's past. . .

  Across the crowded lobby, Dr. Marcus Iverson watched the pair at the photographic exhibition.

  He had observed Miss Conroy and the American for the past few minutes, noting in their body language an ease and familiarity that denoted friendship, yet at times a tension and nervousness that might indicate deeper and more intimate sentiments not yet requited. Sir Marcus was surprised to feel a stab of jealousy, an emotion he had not experienced since the days when his beloved Caroline had been the belle of many balls and the center of male attention.

  He decided to pay his respects to the American photographer who had donated his time and presence for such a deserving cause.

  They were standing a little closer than decorum called for, Sir Marcus thought as he neared Miss Conroy and Mr. Scott. And the way their eyes were locked, the way the gentleman touched Hannah's arm, as if the world did not exist—

  Sir Marcus was nonplussed by his feelings. All he could think was that Hannah Conroy reminded him somehow of his own cherished Caroline, who had died of typhoid. Caroline had been a widely read, highly educated woman with opinions of her own, and while he had not always agreed with her, he had enjoyed their debates. Sir Marcus did not deny that he admired smart women, found such minds very attractive in fact, and suspected that there were far more intelligent women in the world than they themselves let on.

  "Hello again, Miss Conroy," he said.

  After Hannah conducted an introduction, Sir Marcus turned to Neal, extending his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, sir."

  While the two men spoke for a moment about photography, Hannah espied Neal's fiancée across the lobby, stunning red-hair shining beneath the chandeliers. Hannah could see what Neal saw in the young lady. But it hurt. Hannah felt sick. She had grieved for him, mentally laid him to rest, only to have him stride back into her life in all his power and virility—to lose him all over again to another woman. It was more than she could bear. And she did not want to be introduced to the fiancée. Not yet. She wasn't ready.

  Dr. Iverson addressed Hannah. "I am afraid I must leave this delightful event," he began, and suddenly an idea came to him. "When I left the hospital this afternoon, there was a new case of childbed fever."

  "Oh no!"

  Sir Marcus cleared his throat, a little ashamed at his obvious ploy to break up the tête-à-tête, and not sure why he had done it. But he was also pleased that it had worked, because Miss Conroy said, "Perhaps, doctor, I should pay a visit to Nellie Turner?"

  Unaware that Hannah's eyes were on a woman in green coming their way, Sir Marcus said, "That would be a good idea, Miss Conroy, and I should welcome your opinion on the new case. Shall I meet you at the front doors?"

  When Sir Marcus left, Hannah said, "Neal, I really must go, and people are going to want to talk to you about your photography."

  "Hannah we have to talk," he said quickly. "Tomorrow morning. The very first thing. My studio?"

  "Tomorrow is my morning to staff the Quaker Meeting house for the distribution of clothing to the poor. But I am available in the afternoon."

  She slipped her gloved hand into his, her heart rising in her throat at his touch. "I want to hear everything you have been doing," she said, dreading to hear about the fiancée, "and I shall tell you a rather extraordinary story in return."

  Alice was standing near the entrance, chatting with friends, when she saw Hannah retrieve her cape and leave with Dr. Iverson. She watched the carriage drive off, then she turned her attention to the crowded lobby, where she saw Neal Scott at the far end, surrounded by well-wishers and people with questions about his pictures.

  Then he did a curious thing. Holding up his hand, he said something to Blanche, and left the group to stride to a plain door t
hat led off one side of the hotel registration desk. A sign on the door said, "Private." Alice watched as Neal went in and emerged a moment later, returning to the table where the auction bids were being taken.

  Alice returned her attention to the plain door and gave it some thought. What was behind the door, and what had it to do with Mr. Scott?

  Excusing herself from her companions, she threaded her way through the crowd to the registration desk, with people congratulating her along the way. When she reached the door, she placed her hand on the doorknob and looked around to make sure no one saw, then she quickly opened the door, slipped inside and closed it behind herself.

  A dimly lit supply room lay before her, with shelves stocked with boxed stationery and fresh linens, empty flower vases and clean spittoons. But in the center of the floor stood large wooden crates with FRAGILE stenciled on the sides, and a mound of straw packing in between. Alice heard rustling from behind tall cabinets, and then someone whistling. Footsteps sounded on the stone floor, and presently a man came from the back, carrying a ball of twine and a pair of scissors. He wore no jacket over his trousers, his shirtsleeves were rolled up, suspenders curving over his broad shoulders.

  He stopped short, the whistling silenced. "Hello!" he said with a smile.

  "Hello," Alice replied, her diamond tiara glinting in the light of the flickering oil lamps. She could not help staring at the handsome young man. The cleft in his chin and the cupid's-bow mouth brought to mind a portrait she had seen of the poet, Lord Byron. This young man was graced with the same long-lashed soulful eyes and luxuriant wavy hair.

  Alice glanced at the crates with Neal Scott Photography stenciled on the lids, and realized that they must be for transporting the framed photographs. "I am going to guess that you gave me a gift, sir," Alice said, feeling a strange fluttering in her stomach. "A framed watercolor."

  When he blushed, Alice thought: He does not know how beautiful he is. The term Black Irish came to mind, those dark-haired folk in a red-headed population who were said to be the descendants of survivors of the Spanish Armada.

  "Guilty of being your secret admirer," he said and extended his hand. "Fintan Rorke at your service."

  They shook hands, and Fintan held hers a moment longer than was necessary, black eyes delving hers.

  "You know, Mr. Scott's photographs are beautiful," Alice said. "And they deserve to be sold for a lot of money. But I secretly believe it is the frames that people are really paying so much for. You carved them, didn't you, Mr. Rorke? You carved the one that was brought to my dressing room a week ago. I am very pleased to meet you."

  "The pleasure is all mine," he said, and the small cluttered room suddenly became intimate, personal. The breath caught in Alice's throat.

  "I wonder, Mr. Rorke," she said, "if you wouldn't think me too forward to invite you to come to the theater tomorrow night and be my guest backstage after the performance."

  Fintan couldn't take his eyes off this angelic vision he had fallen in love with during the very first performance he had attended, a month ago. He had come ahead to Melbourne to find a place for Neal to set up a studio, and one afternoon had decided to take in a show that everyone was talking about. It took only one song from this ethereal creature, and Fintan Rorke was in love. He had gone to every performance since, to sit in the dark and adore her. He had even been so bold as to send her a gift, anonymously, to let her know that her beauty inspired yet more beauty.

  "I shall be delighted and honored to accept your invitation, Miss Star."

  The door swung open and light poured in. "Alice, there you are!" Blanche said. "I've been looking all over for you. The Governor's wife would like to thank you personally for your performance tonight."

  "I'll be right there." She held out her hand. "Until tomorrow night, Mr. Rorke?"

  He clasped her hand and she felt strength in the fingers, felt his warmth permeate the fabric of her white glove. With dark eyes holding her captive, Fintan said in a low voice, "Tomorrow night, my dear Miss Star."

  41

  H

  ANNAH WAS SUSPENDED IN GOLDEN LIGHT. SHE FLOATED in the air, wondering how it was she could fly. And then she realized Neal was holding her, his strong arms around her as he held her tightly to him, his lips pressed against her neck.

  Radiant luminescence embraced them. Strange, towering trees surrounded them. In the silence, Hannah heard only the synchronous beating of their hearts. She felt Neal's bare skin beneath her hands. When had they removed their clothes? Her own skin burned with fire. Neal's kisses seared each spot they touched. When his mouth met hers, Hannah felt fireworks ignite within her. Her passion expanded to the sky. Sexual desire filled her with a delicious ache.

  "I love you, Hannah," Neal murmured as his hands explored her body.

  "Never let me go," she whispered as her flesh came alive beneath his touch. She closed her eyes. "Yes yes . . . now. . ."

  Hannah's eyes snapped open. She stared up at the dark ceiling, wondering where the light had gone, where Neal had gone. And then she realized she was alone in her bed, and that dawn had not yet broken. Her heart was racing and her night clothes clung to her damp skin. Some time during the night she had kicked the bedding to the floor. Her legs were bare. She had never felt so hot.

  Summer is coming, she told herself as she sat up and swung her feet over the side of the bed. She could barely breathe. There was no wind, no breeze. No way to cool off.

  Going to the window, she parted the drapes and looked out at a street that never really slept. It was dark out, yet horses clip-clopped by, men loitered beneath glowing street lights. Loud voices rose nearby on the humid air. Hannah looked at the clock over her fireplace, on the mantelpiece where Hygeia stood in an eternal pose. It was five a.m.

  She had never known such physical desire.

  He is engaged to be married.

  Donning her robe, Hannah lit a lamp on her desk and put a tea kettle on to boil. While her apartment, on the floor above her office, had a full kitchen, she didn't want to disturb Mrs. Sparrow, who occupied a room at the end of the hall, so Hannah occasionally made tea in her bedroom using a spirit lamp. As she scooped tea leaves into a ceramic pot, she thought about her dream. It had been astonishingly real, causing emotions and feelings that she had buried when she had mentally laid Neal to rest, to flare up brighter and hotter than before.

  He had come back into her life only to be leaving it.

  Neal had wanted to see her first thing this morning. Hannah was thankful she had a legitimate excuse to put off their reunion. Every Wednesday, she and Blanche helped with the distribution of donated clothing to the poor at the Quaker Meeting Hall on Russell Street. The busy task would keep her occupied until noon, keep her thoughts focused on the needs of others instead of her own anguish.

  How was she going to survive in the same city as Neal, knowing he was with that other woman, loving that other woman, sleeping with her, giving himself to her? Hannah's throat was so tight with pain, she could barely swallow her tea.

  She forced herself to focus on other matters, particularly the baffling case of Nellie Turner. Last night, after the gala at Addison's Hotel, Hannah had gone to the hospital with Dr. Iverson to find that Nellie's condition had worsened. And now two more maternity patients burned with the fever.

  How was the contagion being spread? Where had it originated in the first place?

  The tea was hot and sweet as it went down her throat. She closed her eyes. When was Neal's wedding date?

  Blanche Sinclair lived in the northern suburb of Carlton, on Drummond Street, a broad avenue lined with European elms, where Melbourne's moneyed families of lawyers, doctors, men in government lived. A quiet, elegant neighborhood of polished brass plaques, butlers in white gloves, and rear entrances for deliveries. Her fourteen-room mansion was surrounded by perfect lawns and flower beds, and in the rear, a carriage house with stables for the horses.

  It was a short ride from her mansion to the Quaker meeting house,
and she was accompanied by a maid who cradled a bundle of used clothing in her lap. Out of deference to her Quaker friends, Blanche wore a plain gray gown without ruffled sleeves or lace and a modest cap covering her thick red-brown hair. Upon arriving, she sent her driver away with instructions to return at noon, and began supervising the unloading of sacks of donated clothing that had been brought to the rear of the meeting house by wagons and carriages.

  As she worked, Blanche could not stop re-living the events of the night before—Marcus arriving at the ball, making her hopes soar, only to treat her coolly and focus his attention on Hannah. At the time, Blanche had been hurt. Now she was angry.

  Although she knew how much Marcus's hospital meant to him, and that he had been counting on her to organize the charity tour to raise funds, it seemed to her now an overreaction on his part when she declined the project. Overnight, they had gone from being warm and close friends to coldly polite strangers.

  No matter, she thought now as she swallowed back her emotions and directed her energy toward organizing the volunteers inside the hall. Clocks cannot be turned back, nor the past recaptured and mistakes avoided. What's done is done.

  Although the doors of a Quaker meeting house are never locked, the large crowd gathering on the sidewalk called for members of the congregation to keep the doors closed and ask people to wait patiently and in an orderly line. Hannah was allowed through, and once inside, as she removed her bonnet, she surveyed the temporary tables heaped with the donations of generous citizens. She saw Blanche giving instructions to the other ladies: "Shoes and boots on this table, please Myrtle. Skirts and bodices here. Winifred, please fold those shirts into neat stacks."

  When she saw Hannah, Blanche set down the box of handkerchiefs she had been carrying and hurried toward her friend with outstretched hands. "Hannah! There you are! You poor dear! I was so dismayed when I read your letter. Are you all right?"

  Among the morning's messages and calling cards and post that had arrived at Blanche's residence was a note from Hannah containing the astonishing news that the American photographer at last night's event was the man Hannah had been in love with and had thought dead the past few years.