"I shall be all right," Hannah said as she removed her gloves and bonnet.
"Why don't you go and see him right now? I can handle this."
But Hannah wasn't ready. Part of her was eager to run to Neal, to fly into arms and drink in his warmth and strength, to dispel once and for all his "death." But a greater part of her was afraid. She was not ready to hear about the fiancée. "There is a large crowd this morning," she said. The numbers of poor and needy in Melbourne were growing alarmingly as immigrants continued to pour into the city in answer to the call of gold.
"Do you want to talk about it?" Blanche said quietly, out of the hearing of the other ladies.
"Thank you, Blanche," Hannah said with a grateful smile. "But I would rather not."
As Hannah went to a tall, podium-desk where a ledger lay open, with a quill in an inkwell, Blanche recalled the way Marcus had looked at her the night before. Blanche had felt a stab of jealousy at the time, and she tried not to be jealous now. After all, Hannah was not interested in Marcus, and was in fact wrestling with her own demons—discovering that the man she so desperately loved and thought lost forever was not only alive but marrying someone else!
Retrieving the box of handkerchiefs, Blanche began sorting through them, her hands snapping this way and that. Hannah looked up from the ledger, where they kept a record of inventory and dispersal, and said quietly, "You're upset about Sir Marcus, aren't you?"
"Oh Hannah, what an pair you and I make. Why does love have to be so complicated, and so painful? He came to my event and then ignored me. I think he's punishing me."
Hannah waited until Winifred Bromfield had picked up a bag of stockings and then returned to the table of boots and shoes. "Blanche, I saw something in Sir Marcus's eyes when you weren't looking. He still bears a fondness for you, I am sure of it. And I would wager he wishes the friendship were restored."
"Then he should say something."
"I imagine he is too proud," Hannah said, keeping her voice low and watching the other ladies as they prepared to hand out clothing. "Perhaps you should make the first overture."
As she watched her friend sort through the handkerchiefs, not doing a very tidy job, Hannah added, "You and Marcus had such a wonderful relationship. Everyone speculated that you might even get married. It's such a shame to give that up over a misunderstanding."
Hannah was surprised to see tears in Blanche's violet eyes when she turned and said, "It's because of my fear! I am positively crippled by it. Hannah," Blanche said, lowering her voice. "Ever since that terrible experience I told you about, the one I had when I was a child, my fear of hospitals has been so deeply rooted in my nature that it is something I can never overcome. It is irrational, I know. And I have tried. When Marcus held the charity tour of his hospital, when you were away in the north district visiting farms, I dressed for the occasion and went in my Brougham. But as soon as I stepped to the sidewalk, my heart began to race, my mouth ran dry, and I broke out in perspiration. I could not move. I could not bring myself to join the others who were going up the hospital steps and through the front door. Hannah, this sounds strange, but I was in the grip of panic. And so I turned around and went home."
Hannah laid a hand on her friend's arm. "You need to tell him that."
"I don't know how. And anyway," Blanche stiffened her shoulders stiffened and tilted her chin. "Maybe it's for the best, about Marcus and me. Not every woman needs a man. And there are other things in life."
Blanche Sinclair had come out from England eleven years prior, a bride of nineteen. Her husband, Oliver, had been well to do at the time and had tripled his fortune in Australia until his premature death at the age of thirty-eight when he had been thrown from a wild horse. In their seven years together, there had been no babies. Blanche wondered if she was barren. It didn't matter. She had never felt a longing to have children, she had not even created a nursery when Oliver had had their mansion built. Blanche's yearnings lay elsewhere. Although where, she did not know.
All she knew was that she wanted to do something. She wanted purpose. Blanche envied her two friends who enjoyed careers: Alice, who had the stage, and Hannah, the healing profession. When Blanche had asked them how they had known what they wanted to do in life, Alice had replied that singing came from her soul, that without it she would die, and Hannah had said that for as far back as she could remember, she had wanted to follow in her father's footsteps. Blanche had never known such personal passion, she had never known a "calling."
She knew that she enjoyed a reputation for being one of Melbourne's busiest society matrons. Just last night at the ball, Mrs. Beechworth had declared, "Mrs. Sinclair, I don't know where you find the energy for all your projects!" Blanche had smiled. What the other lady did not know was that it was not enough, and that the more Blanche filled her time, the emptier her hours were.
But she refused to sit back and wait for her life's purpose to present itself. She opened up to new experiences—taking up archery, sculpting, collecting sea shells—searching for her calling, as if it lay just around the next corner. As she once half-joked to Hannah, "I have a burning desire to have a burning desire."
She had made the mistake of expressing this dream to her brother back in England, who had written in reply: "You are restless, dear Blanche, because you are lonely. You need a husband. And as you seem to have proven yourself unable to have children, I suggest you find a respectable widower with children of his own and take over their care as soon as possible. Now that Father is gone, it is my responsibility to see that you are properly situated. If you cannot find a husband, then I suggest you return home to England. Mary and I shall make room in our house for you, and you can help raise your nieces and nephews."
Blanche had kept her personal feelings from him after that. Why did the answer to every woman's problems have to be a man? Even women with husbands and children could desire something else in their lives. Blanche's best friend, Martha Barlow-Smith, had five children but left them in the care of governesses and nannies while she pursued her interest painting watercolors.
But. . . was that a calling, Blanche wondered for the first time, or was it just a hobby? Did Martha have a passion, a need to paint, or was it a diversion from house and children?
Blanche was the president of the Melbourne Ladies' Benevolent Society, a group comprised of over forty women of wealth and social standing, most of whom had families. She had never thought about it before, but she realized now that the members' husbands did not object to their wives outside activities as long as the households ran smoothly and the children were taken care of. And none of the women received a salary. It seemed that, as long as the wife was not being paid, work was permissible, but earning a wage was beneath them.
How she envied Hannah, who not only plied a busy medical practice but had published a book as well, a collection of stories she had inherited from a man named Jamie O'Brien. She had had them published in a book called This Golden Land: true tales and lore of our Southern Land—a tome filled with stories human and tragic, about drovers and sheepmen and Aborigines. And Hannah was now planning a second book, a health manual for people who lived in rural places where doctors were scarce.
What was it like to know where one's talent lay? How did a woman find her niche in this world?
To Blanche's surprise, her fear of hospitals jumped into her mind and, for the first time, she did not see the fear as just an impediment to mending her rift with Marcus Iverson. Suddenly she was wondering if such a crippling phobia was in fact impeding her ability to find her true calling.
It was such a new and astonishing notion that Blanche stood at the sorting table with hands frozen over the handkerchiefs, her eyes fixed ahead. She thought of Hannah and Alice who had both overcome personal obstacles, fears and challenges, to be where they were today. Was that what Blanche must do? Face her fears?
She felt a small thrill of excitement. Perhaps a solution was to be had after all! And it might even lead to mending h
er friendship with Marcus Iverson. Then she frowned. How was she to do it? Facing a fear was one thing. Overcoming it, quite another.
42
N
EAL'S NEW STUDIO WAS PART OF A ROW OF BLUESTONE buildings that had gone up in the past year, and it consisted of the shop in the front, the photographic studio next door, called a "glass house" as it had a transparent roof to admit sunlight, and a dark room in the rear. Neal had said that he lived in the apartment above the shop.
In the warm afternoon sunshine, with carriages and horses passing by in the dusty street, Hannah paused on the wooden sidewalk and read the gold lettering above the window: Neal Scott—Photographic Studio. Underneath, a smaller sign said, "Now! Through a revolutionary new process, shorter sitting time! Perfect for infants, children, and folks with tremors! Our fine pictures take only fifteen seconds of exposure instead of the twelve minutes other photographers require. Now you can smile for your portrait."
With a racing heart, she entered the shop and found it tastefully decorated with portraits of women in wide crinolines, men standing stiffly in frock coats and top hats, children with solemn faces. Many were framed in the same beautifully carved frames she had seen last night at the gala. Hannah looked around for Neal.
After leaving the Quaker meeting hall, she had gone home to bathe and change into fresh clothes (and had found a note from Alice, excitedly reporting that, last night at the gala, Fintan Rorke had turned out to be her secret admirer). From there Hannah had paid a brief call on a patient who was eight months pregnant, and now she was at Neal's studio, a jumble of emotions. Fear clashed with desire. Joy did battle with sadness. Hannah wanted to hear every detail of his life from when they parted in front of the Australia Hotel. But she was sick at heart to know she must also hear about a bride to be.
Hannah saw a small brass bell on the counter and was wondering if she should ring it when a curtain parted at the back of the shop and a young man emerged.
"Mr. Rorke," Hannah said, recognizing him. "It is a pleasure to see you again."
"And you as well, Miss Conroy," he said with vigor. "Neal's in the darkroom. He'll be out in a minute. He's been watching for you all day."
Hannah saw a new maturity in Fintan Rorke. His face was less "pretty" and more arresting. But he still had the endearing trait of blushing when he smiled.
"Please come this way," he said, taking her by the elbow and leading Hannah into a most extraordinary setting. This was the photographic studio, he explained, and it was currently decorated as an outdoor scene. Palm trees grew out of stone urns, flowers stood in vases. Beneath a glass ceiling, soft diffuse sunlight touched every leaf and petal. There was a bronze sundial, a marble birdbath, and a garden trellis draped in blossoming vines. Hannah felt as if she were in a fantasy world.
Fintan invited her to sit on a white wicker bench that was embraced by potted ferns and small, fragrant trees, as if she sat in a city park or in a greenhouse. "I'm afraid I must go," he said. "But Neal will be with you directly."
She watched him leave, wondering if he was on his way to see Alice. Fintan was dressed in a fine suit of clothes and what looked like a brand new bowler hat on his head. The spring in his step was unmistakable.
Hannah brought her attention back to the extraordinary studio which was a tranquil setting. But she was not soothed. Besides her anxiety over having to hear about Neal's fiancée, Hannah was thinking of the land agent she had contacted yesterday afternoon and whom she had hired to locate Charlie Swanswick, the owner of Brookdale Farm. She was anxious to hear from him. With so many overnight millionaires returning from the gold fields, choice properties were being snapped up. She prayed Mr. Samson Jones reached Swanswick before other interested buyers did.
Also on her mind was Nellie Turner and the two new maternity patients with childbed fever at the hospital. Where had the contagion come from, and how was it being spread?
The darkroom door opened and Neal emerged, and all thoughts, all worries vanished from Hannah's mind. He was dressed in shirtsleeves and black trousers, suspenders rising like exclamation points up and over his shoulders. And he had never looked more handsome.
"Hannah!" he cried. He reached her in three strides. She rose from the garden bench and before she could speak, he swept her into his arms and kissed her on the mouth.
Tears stung her eyes. She inhaled scents that were familiar yet also exciting—his shaving soap and hair cream. She pressed against the hard body, put her hands on the broad chest and shoulders, relished the masculine strength that made her feel helpless and feminine, and flooded her with desire.
The kiss was long and deep, and would have gone on forever but Hannah had to draw back and look up into his eyes. "Neal, we cannot do this."
"Why not?"
"We must think of your fiancée."
He frowned. "Fiancée?"
"My friend Blanche Sinclair told me that you had just recently come from Sydney with—"
"Oh! No, Hannah. When Mrs. Sinclair asked me what brought me to Melbourne, I told her I had come here to get married."
"But the young lady who accompanied you to the gala last night. . . in the green dress."
He searched his memory. "Oh! You mean the lady who walked through the door when I did. Hannah, I have no idea who she was."
"But I saw you say something to her before you came over."
"I did? Probably, 'Enjoy the evening,' to be polite. We arrived at the entrance at the same time, I opened the door and let her go in ahead of me. That, dear Hannah, is the beginning and ending of my relationship with the young lady in green."
Neal fell silent and looked into her eyes, where he saw currents of emotions. His own being was flooded with intense feelings. He had dreamed of this moment for so long, had fantasized its many varied scenarios, that it hardly seemed real.
Neal was speechless at the sight of her. The memory of last evening flashed in his mind, what a vision Hannah had been! Her neck and shoulders had been bare, and the top of her bosom, her skin so pale and smooth, it had been difficult to tell where skin ended and white satin began. He remembered the last time he had glimpsed her bosom, that afternoon in front of the Australia Hotel, and it had rocked him to see his handkerchief tucked in such an intimate place. "Hannah, my God, Hannah," he whispered. He filled his mouth with her name, filled his eyes with every detail of her, from the shiny black wings of hair swept over her ears into a chignon in the back, to a single fleck of black in the gray iris of her right eye.
"Hannah, please sit down," he finally said in a tight voice.
When she was seated on the garden bench, looking up at him perplexity, breathlessly giddy and still stunned by the revelation that there was no fiancée after all, Neal said, "I've rehearsed this moment so many times, and now all words escape me." Lowering himself to one knee and taking her hands into his, he said, "Hannah Conroy, I have never loved a woman as I love you. You stole my heart six years ago, on the Caprica. I knew then, when we parted company at Perth, that I wanted to spend the rest of my life with you." Releasing her hands, he reached into his trouser pocket and brought out a small box. Lifting the lid, he exposed a diamond ring to the sunlight that streamed through the glass ceiling. "Will you marry me, Hannah? I promise to care for you and love you and respect you for all my days. Without you I am but a shadow of a man. You and I are two volumes of one book. You complete me, Hannah Conroy. Please say you will be my wife."
She could barely find breath to say, "Yes."
With a cry of joy, Neal swept Hannah up into his arms and, with his lips on hers, carried her to the stairs.
The carriage came to a halt beneath the glow of a street lamp, and the lone passenger alighted without the usual assistance from his coachman. Dr. Iverson was both annoyed and in a hurry. His young colleague, Dr. Soames, had sent an urgent summons to the hospital without saying why. Sir Marcus had been enjoying a dinner party with the Lieutenant Governor and other colonial officials, and so it was with a great show of impatien
ce that he swept into the deserted lobby of Victoria Hospital and, without removing his cape or top hat, hurried up the stairs to the women's ward.
Lanterns and candles created pools of light along the length of the room where women slept or moaned or breathed with difficulty. At once, the pungent smell of the chlorine-soaked sheets met his nostrils, a sign that the air was being properly disinfected. When he reached the far end, he found Dr. Soames bent over a bed, taking a patient's pulse.
Edward Soames was a careful and methodical physician, Oxford educated, St. Bart's trained. Tending toward plumpness, he had a round, boyish face with frizzy red-gold hair and spectacles that pinched his nose. A soft-spoken man who expressed genuine concern for his patients, but possessing, Iverson thought, the tendency toward alarmism that was often seen in young doctors.
"What is the emergency?" Iverson asked, looking around and seeing nothing that had warranted being called from an important dinner. The woman Soames was seeing to was not even Dr. Iverson's patient.
They had divided the ward, with each doctor overseeing one row of twenty beds. Maternity patients and gynecological patients were under Iverson's care, all other injuries and ailments were Soames's purview.
"It's another case of childbed fever, sir," the younger doctor said quietly.
Sir Marcus's sharp eyes went up and down the row of beds where his own patients slept. "When did we admit another maternity case? I gave strict orders we were to admit no more until the fever was contained."
"That's just it, sir," Soames said, laying the patient's arm on the sheet and giving her hand a reassuring pat. "This is Molly Higgins," he said of the sleeping patient. "A fifty-year-old washer woman who presented yesterday with a dislocated shoulder."
This Golden Land Page 39
