"And?"
Dr. Soames' hazel eyes widened. "She has childbed fever."
"That's not possible," Iverson said dismissively.
"I thought so, too, sir, but I have been watching her closely. She was fine yesterday, but began to exhibit the signs around noon. Now, there is no doubt."
Dr. Iverson removed his gloves and went to the patient's side. He counted her pulse, felt her forehead, and bent to listen to her chest. "Rapid pulse," he murmured, "fever and congested lungs." When he gently pressed her abdomen, she moaned in her sleep. "Could be something else," he said, but with doubt in his tone.
"Check under her nightgown, sir. The discharge is unmistakable."
Sir Marcus did, and his face went white. "How is it possible?" he said, stepping away from the bed and beckoning to the female ward attendant. "Childbed fever only afflicts postpartum women."
"Apparently not."
"Dear God," Sir Marcus whispered. There were forty women in this ward. Were they all going to come down with the fatal fever? The answer had to be in the bad air. If, as Miss Conroy asserted, the infection was carried on the doctor's hands, how had that happened in this particular instance? Dr. Soames had never touched the maternity cases, nor had Dr. Iverson touched the patients on the side of the ward, and he had certainly never been near Molly Higgins. "Clearly the miasma has spread somehow from one side of the ward to the other. We must maintain vigilance in keeping the infected air away from these patients." To the attendant he gave orders that chlorine sheets were to be placed around Molly Higgins' bed and to see that all windows remained closed and locked.
"Pray that this is just a fluke, Soames," he added with a mouth that had suddenly run dry.
Hannah lay in the crook of Neal's arm, tracing a fingertip over the lines of tattooed red dots on his chest. She listened in lazy joy as he talked softly. Hannah had never been so in love, had never felt so alive and so full of purpose.
She had long dreamed of this moment, but had never imagined that physical lovemaking brought such pleasure, such delirium, and such desire for more. She lay naked beneath the sheets, and he lay next to her, the bedroom in a soft glow from a single oil lamp. Outside, voices drifted up from the street, the sound of horses' hooves filled the night. For Neal and Hannah, however, the outside world did not exist. They were deliciously tired from their intimate expression of love and desire. And now in a moment that Hannah thought of as soft and glowing, Neal was telling her a fantastical yarn about a girl named Jallara and her Aboriginal clan.
"An amazing thing," he said as he stroked Hannah's long hair that had come undone and streamed down her back. "They are the healthiest, most robust people I've ever met. They have very little illness. I think it's because of their nomadic lifestyle. They are constantly on the move, going to fresh grounds and fresh water."
Neal had decided not to mention Sir Reginald abandoning him after the sandstorm, that Oliphant had in fact been a fraud, his famous books based only on other men's books and hearsay, with a bit of fiction mixed in. No good could come of sullying a dead man's name, and Neal wanted to focus on the positive aspects of his experience.
Throwing off the blanket, he got out of bed and crossed to the window, where moonlight streamed in, allowing Hannah to feast her eyes on Neal's muscular body. He watched horses and carriages go by on the street below, where even a few pedestrians were still abroad, moving in and out of the glow of street lights. "It's hard to believe," he said quietly, "that just seventeen years ago, there wasn't even a village here. Did you know, Hannah, that John Batman bought all this land from the Aborigines? He gave them blankets, clothes, tomahawks and fifty pounds of flour. I wonder if they were aware of what they were signing away. And now the original inhabitants are either living in Christian missions, or on a government reserve."
"Wouldn't they prefer to live freely in the Outback?"
"That isn't their ancestral territory. Melbourne is, and although they no longer have access to their sacred places, they are staying close by. I honestly think, Hannah, that some of them believe the white man will one day pick up and leave."
He turned to look at her across the moonlit bedroom. "Hannah, during my time in the Nullarbor, I experienced what I believe was a spiritual revelation. It came to me that Josiah Scott is my real father. I don't know how I knew it, but there was no doubt in my heart that I had not been left on his doorstep."
She sat up in bed. "But Neal, that's wonderful news! Have you written to him about this?"
"I gave it a great deal of thought, and decided to respect his wishes. For whatever his reasons, my father chose not to tell me the truth about my mother and himself. When I left Boston for England eight years ago, when we said good-bye, that was his opportunity to tell me the secret he had kept all those years. But he chose to remain silent, and I will respect that."
"What do you think happened inside the mountain?" Hannah asked as she marveled over the small round scars on his torso, straight and curved lines that created an astonishing pattern of red design on his white skin.
"I don't know. All I can say is that the experience had a profound affect on me. I went into the Nullarbor expecting to measure and quantify and categorize everything I found. Instead, I came out thinking that there are some mysteries that can never be explained by science. The initiation did something to me, Hannah. It's hard to describe. I was made part of this land. My blood ran into the red earth while black men chanted prayers older than time. I went walkabout and found myself inside a red mountain. I belong here, Hannah. And perhaps that is another reason I am going to leave my current relationship with my father as it is. That was another life. This is my life now. But I need to know more about my new home. I need to go out and explore and capture Australia on glass. And there is more," he added softly. "I am no longer an atheist, but it is not something I fully understand and I need to explore that, too."
Hannah said, "You left Adelaide as a worshiper of the future, but came back in love with the past."
She slipped out of bed and joined him at the window where they were concealed by curtains. Hannah was unashamed of her nakedness, relishing the freedom from clothing, the feel of the night air on her skin, and then Neal's hands touching her in places that ignited flames of desire. She pressed herself to him and they kissed long and deep.
She laid her head on his chest and said, "Your experience in the Outback was a lot like my own with Jamie O'Brien and his men. It is as though we went through it together."
"We did. In spirit."
He looked long and searchingly, filling his eyes with every detail of her face as his hands explored her back. "We have both changed, Hannah my darling. You are now a health practitioner with an office and patients. And you did it on your own. The Aborigines would say it was your Dreaming to be a healer. They would say that you are following your songline."
He kissed her again, deeply, shuddering with desire but also with a new and overwhelming emotion. "I thought I knew what love was," he said as he kissed her cheeks, her neck, her shoulder. "But oh my dearest Hannah, words escape me." He traced the curve of her jaw with a fingertip as he said, "I never want to leave your side. I had planned to travel north tomorrow, to a place beyond Bendigo. During my trip overland from Sydney, I ran into an old fossicker who told me about a sacred Aboriginal site he had discovered last year. A curious formation of giant boulders in the forest north of Bendigo. He explored underground caves there and came across very old Aboriginal art. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of hand prints on the walls, painted centuries ago, and some so high up they are beyond the reach of a normal man. When I expressed interest in seeing it, he said I had better hurry as he had stumbled upon a quartz reef near the cave and he said that once word of it got out, the area would be invaded by gold hunters."
"Then you must go," Hannah said.
"I can't leave you now that I have found you."
"Neal, we have had an outbreak of fever at the hospital. It began with my patient. I must go the
re tomorrow morning and help Dr. Iverson to keep it from spreading. Go to the Cave of the Hands and bring back beautiful pictures for all of Melbourne to see."
As Neal gathered her to him and kissed her again, Hannah heard her own words and felt a stab of doubt. Neal must go out into the wilderness, she thought, and I must stay where there are people. How can we possibly live together? When would we see each other? And where would we live? I could not live above a photography studio. I need an office to see patients. And Neal cannot live above a midwife's office, with patients calling for me at all hours.
As Neal enveloped her in a moment of warmth and love and desire, Hannah tried to suppress the questions that suddenly haunted her. Could two people, following such different paths, create a life together?
43
F
INTAN RORKE COULD BARELY CONTAIN HIS EXCITEMENT AS HE approached Miss Star's dressing room at the Queen's Theater. As he had worked in his studio all day, sculpting a picture frame, delicately coaxing rosebuds and miniature starlings out of the wood, Fintan had thought of nothing but Alice Star and their brief encounter at Addison's Hotel the night before. He had stood there in the lamp light, twine and scissors forgotten in his hand, spellbound by the sparkle and enchantment Miss Star had brought into the musty room. She had invited him to come backstage after tonight's performance, and now here he was, wearing his best black frock coat and silk top hat, a small package in his hands.
He had something important to say to her.
Fintan knocked and a gray-haired woman opened the door. She wore a maroon satin gown with white lace cuffs and collar, and a white lace cap on her head. She smiled warmly and said, "You must be Mr. Rorke. Please come in."
Removing his hat, Fintan stepped through the door and into a theatrical world. He saw the rack of gowns and capes, the stands displaying bonnets, crowns and tiaras, the mirrored dressing table littered with bottles and jars, brushes and pencils—a performer's dressing room. But what met his senses was the glitter and sparkle of Alice Star's private world, the crystal chimney lamps encasing flickering flames, the fragrance of myriad flowers from bouquets in vases and baskets, the feminine sound of petticoats rustling.
Alice herself was still wearing the white Grecian gown from her performance, the Empire waist accentuating her breasts. A stole of transparent white gauze was settled on her shoulders, like a cloud, Fintan thought, and a rush of sexual desire shot through him.
Alice welcomed him with outstretched hands. "Thank you for coming, Mr. Rorke. Permit me to introduce my dear friend and companion, Mrs. Lawrence. Margaret has been with me since my days at the Elysium in Adelaide."
He took the woman's gloved hand. "Mrs. Lawrence, I recall seeing you at the gala last evening."
The older woman smiled brightly at the handsome young man, pleased that Alice was entertaining so refined a gentleman, and one with an artistic reputation. She retired to the one chair in the cluttered dressing room that wasn't strewn with clothes and assumed a watchful pose.
"Mr. Rorke, may I offer you some champagne?"
He glanced at Mrs. Lawrence who sat primly observant, hands clasped in her lap, maroon skirts billowing around her, and he knew that etiquette had to be observed. Since he and Alice had only met the night before, and at that had not been properly introduced, Fintan knew that he was not to stay long, not on their first social engagement, and in Alice's private dressing room.
"I came to give you something, Miss Star," he said, and he handed her the small gift wrapped in a blue silk handkerchief.
Alice delicately picked at the knot and drew the silk away to reveal an exquisitely carved bird nesting in her hand. She gasped. The detail was astounding, down to the fluffy breast feathers, miniscule beak nostrils, and the long delicate tail. The piece had not been painted. Mr. Rorke had left it in the natural walnut color of the wood from which it had been carved, and it struck Alice as being all the more lifelike. She could almost see the plump breast rise and fall with little bird respirations.
"It's called a Splendid Fairy-Wren," Fintan said, "an Australian songbird, and she has a beautiful, rich warbling call."
As Alice cradled the enchanting creature in the palm of her hand, she pictured Fintan as he must have looked as he worked at his craft, his head bent, a curl of black hair falling on his forehead. She saw the concentration in his dark eyes, his hands manipulating the small sculpting knife—hands that would seem too large for so tiny and delicate a task.
She was at a loss for words. Fintan Rorke could have placed emeralds and rubies in her hand, and they would have been valueless compared to this.
"I don't plan to be a frame maker forever," Fintan said quietly, overcome by the look in her eyes as she stared at his humble work. "My dream is to be a sculptor and produce art."
She looked at him with wide, blue eyes. "But Mr. Rorke, your picture frames are art!"
"But I want to do more," he said. "I would like to sculpt people. I would love to capture your beauty, Miss Star," he added with a blush, "in mahogany or teak, to last forever." He fell silent then, and the moment stretched while they heard voices in the corridor beyond and felt Mrs. Lawrence's eyes on them. Fintan cleared his throat and glanced at Alice's chaperone.
"Margaret," Alice said, reaching for a crystal carafe. "Be a dear and refill this with water, please."
Mrs. Lawrence rose and took the decanter, but gave the gentleman caller a significant look. "I shall be right back," she said, leaving the door ajar.
"Margaret is very protective of my reputation," Alice said.
"It's understandable. You must have a legion of admirers."
"She approves of you, though, I can tell."
"I want to tell you something, Miss Star," he said quickly, as if afraid of losing his courage. "When Neal Scott and I were in the Nullarbor, we were victims of a terrible tragedy. . ."
"Yes, I know. Galagandra," she said gently. "Hannah and I read about it in the newspapers. How awful it must have been for you."
Fintan glanced toward the door and the deserted corridor beyond. Returning his gaze to Alice, where he saw compassion in her clear blue eyes, he said, "Neal and I tried to save those men but in the end we could only save ourselves. I suffered from nightmares for months afterwards, and although the terrifying dreams have ceased, I am still not over what happened there, perhaps I never will be. But when I first attended one of your performances, my dear Miss Star, a month ago, I watched an angel in white standing in a glowing column of light. I heard silken threads of voice unfurl over the hushed audience, and I felt a most unexpected balm wash over me. Miss Star, for the first time since the tragedy at Galagandra, I knew a moment of solace."
He paused, holding her eyes with his, then he said, "I have attended every performance since, and each time I have left the theater feeling less troubled than when I went in. I have come to believe, Miss Star, that the grace of God and His healing power lies in your voice."
Alice did not know what to say. A mere "Thank you," was inadequate. Deeply moved, she could only part her lips and look up at him as he stood over her, taller, looking down at her with black eyes burning with passion. The breath caught in her throat. Her skin suddenly felt as if it were on fire. She thought of Fintan's hands as they coaxed a songbird from inanimate wood, and suddenly wanted to feel them on her body, coaxing love and desire from flesh that had never known the intimate touch of a man.
Margaret Lawrence appeared in the doorway at that moment, crystal carafe in hand, and a look on her face that said she had returned just in time. Alice and Mr. Rorke stood so close together one could barely see light between them. He had placed a hand on Alice's bare arm. His handsome head was bent. For a brief instant, recalling her own youth and days of courtship, Mrs. Lawrence thought of turning around and leaving them alone.
But Alice had an image to uphold. As a singer—a stage performer—she must be more vigilant than ordinary women. Her virtue had to be protected.
"Here you are, dear!" she said,
placing the decanter on the dressing table. "My goodness, look at the hour."
Fintan stepped back. "May I pay a call on you again, Miss Star? Or perhaps we could visit the new botanic gardens?"
"I would like that," Alice said, offering him her hand. "By the way, Mr. Rorke, may I ask why you always sit in that shadowy corner of the theater?"
He grinned. "Because there I feel as if I am the only one in the audience, and that I have you all to myself."
Seating his top hat on his thick black hair, Fintan gave Alice one last lingering look, then he bade both ladies good night and left.
As she watched him go, Alice marveled at the strange new emotions that flooded her, exciting and marvelous, and as she held the memory of his nearness in her mind, she was unaware that her right hand had fluttered up in a defensive gesture to the side of her face, where scars lay carefully hidden.
44
E
DWARD SOAMES STOOD AT THE FRONT DOOR OF HIS RESIDENCE, AS he did every morning, and kissed his wife and four children goodbye. First, six-year-old Winston, then four-year-old Harold, next two-year-old Charles, and finally Lucy his wife, and little Anna, a baby in her arms—bestowing each with a tender kiss on the lips.
It was his habit to walk to his office, but this morning Dr. Soames hailed a hansom cab. He was feeling out of sorts and a little tired. The cab did not get far before Soames found that his breathing had become labored and so he redirected the driver to Victoria Hospital, where he would have Dr. Iverson listen to his chest. It was probably nothing, but one could never be too cautious.
Hannah stared at the empty basin and wondered why it had not been refilled.
She looked around the noisy hospital ward where women were gathered at bedsides, nursing sick loved ones, coaxing them to drink the tea, eat the bread, take the medicine that the doctor ordered. Although it was not the ward attendants' duty to care for the patients, it was their responsibility to see that the hand-washing basins were kept filled with chlorinated water. And Hannah had arrived that morning to find all four basins dry.
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