The next morning she had mustered every ounce of her courage and summoned him to the station office. As she faced him across the large, scarred desk at which she did the station accounts—she seated; he, in the absence of an invitation from her to sit, standing with his hat in his hand—she had met his blue eyes, which seemed nearly as hostile as she felt despite outward composure. Inwardly she was a mass of nerves, but she was determined that he would never guess. To that end, her tone was severe as she told him that if he ever, ever so far forgot himself again as to lay a hand on her, she would not hesitate to report his behavior to her father, who would undoubtedly mete out the severest punishment. Her manner implied that what had happened was entirely something that he had done to her; her eyes dared him to so much as remember how she had responded to his outrageous act. He stared at her as she spoke, his face as coldly aloof as her own, his big body formidable in the small room, his eyes now unreadable. When she had finished, favoring him with her haughtiest stare, he spoke not a single word by way of a reply. Instead he merely inclined his head arrogantly at her, with more mockery than deference, turned on his heel, and, without permission, left. She had been left staring at the gently closing door, fiercely fighting an impulse to pick up the heavy glass paperweight near her left hand and hurl it after him.
Since then, she had spoken to him as little as possible, and then only to assign him to some task or another. She had kept her words brief, her manner cool. His replies had been equally brief, and entirely proper—too proper: “Yes, Miss Sarah; No, Miss Sarah,” while his lilting Irish voice mocked her and his eyes seemed to laugh.
Maddened, Sarah knew that her only recourse was to go to her father and tell him everything that had transpired between Gallagher and herself, starting with his appalling insolence and ending with his constant refusal to recognize and keep to his place. The trouble with that was that she would have to reveal everything, including that shameful kiss. And that she could not bring herself to do.
* * *
The guests began to arrive the day before the ball. Because of the distances between homesteads, some would stay for two or three nights. Everyone would stay at least the night of the ball. Sarah was glad when Tom and Mary Eaton and their three strapping sons arrived, followed shortly by Amos McClintock and his only child, his daughter, Chloe. The single men would share the convicts’ bunkhouse, which had been cleaned and furbished especially for the occasion, while the convicts made do with bedrolls in the sheep barns. Tom and Mary Eaton had been given Sarah’s own sitting room, which she had converted back to a bedchamber temporarily. Chloe, who was one of Liza’s particular friends, would share with Liza, as would Katy Armbruster when she arrived. Sarah had moved out of her own room, which would serve for another of the married couples among the guests, and up into the attic with Mrs. Abbott and the maids. Supposedly, her reason was to make more room for their guests, but really Sarah could not stand the idea of sharing her chamber with several of the young ladies, which she would have to do if she remained. Nearly all of them were closer to Liza’s age than to hers, and treated her with the deference due a member of an older generation, combined with the almost unconscious contempt accorded a woman already past marriageable age who had failed to catch a husband. Sarah knew their attitude was not deliberate, but still it hurt. She hated being reminded that she was an old maid, even if it was the truth.
No sooner had the Eatons and the McClintocks been settled than more guests began to arrive. They came in a steady stream throughout the day. For the most part, they were bluff, hearty people, used to hardships and hard travel in this country they had adopted for their own. The heat was a nuisance, but no more. The distance was something one took in stride, even if it meant camping out under the stars for a night or two on the way. Not all were wealthy, though most were well enough to pass. All were graziers, and all, without exception, were staunchly exclusionist. Looking at them, separately and as a group, Sarah shuddered to think how they would titter if they knew that she was caught in the throes of a devastating sexual attraction to a convict.
With guests on hand, Lydia bestirred herself to act as hostess. It was a role she thoroughly enjoyed, sitting in the sparkling parlor that Sarah and the maids had refurbished from floor to ceiling, dispensing tea from the ornate silver service that Sarah had spent hours polishing because the servants were busy with other tasks, making light, witty conversation so that the guests remarked to one another how very charming the second Mrs. Markham was. And beautiful, too. Liza had had a new ball dress for the occasion; Lydia had ordered a whole new wardrobe. Every time Sarah saw her, resplendent in green satin or orange taffeta, she winced, thinking of Lowella’s depleted coffers. With the money that had been spent on clothes, food, drink, and renewed hangings and furnishings and linens—the list was endless—for this one occasion, the sheep could have been kept in grain for a year.
With the house full, Sarah had less time to think of Gallagher, for which she was thankful. Percival had sent him back to the stables while there were so many guests about, and Sarah didn’t even have to see him. Which was a relief. When he had been constantly about the house, she had never felt comfortable. She always had the feeling that, even if he was out of sight, he was somehow watching her.
She was surprised, therefore, the day before the ball, to hear his voice as he greeted Mrs. Abbott. Sarah was in the small pantry off the kitchen, checking to see that they had enough jams and jellies and other dainties on hand to feed fifty-odd people determined to have a rollicking good time at Lowella’s expense. Mrs. Abbott was in the kitchen, frantically trying to save Liza’s birthday cake, which was supposed to be seventeen tiers tall. Two of the layers had failed to rise, and Mrs. Abbott was in despair. Lydia had been most insistent on having a tier for every year of Liza’s age.
Sarah stopped what she was doing and stood motionless for what must have been the first time in a week as she heard Gallagher’s voice. Then she heard his footsteps approaching, and became suddenly very busy again.
“I need to have a word with you.” His voice came from directly behind her, deep and low and full of the lilt that made it different from any other she had ever heard.
“Yes?” she said, turning slowly to face him. Reluctant to do it, she nevertheless made her eyes meet his. Their blueness startled her; she always thought that they could not possibly be as blue as she remembered, and they were always bluer. He was frowning slightly as he stood in the door of the pantry, his head brushing the top of the doorjamb and his big body completely blocking her exit. He was clad in the loose white shirt and snug black breeches that were standard attire for all the convicts on Lowella.
“I overheard some of your guests getting up a race for this afternoon. They mean to put Max with one of the dunderheads up against another boy with a new horse that he says is the fastest thing for a hundred miles around. It’s too damn hot: they’ll kill those horses. I want to stop it when they come for Max, but I don’t have the authority. I need your permission.”
He was looking at her very steadily. Sarah had to fight the impulse to let her eyes drop away from his. It was very, very important that he not guess how nervous she was in his presence.
“Why come to me? Why not my father, or Mr. Percival?”
“Mr. Percival has taken a group of the men shooting. Your father is off somewhere with another group of men showing them his beloved sheep.”
“Oh.” She dared to look away from him for a moment. It was ridiculous, the way she had to fight to keep her eyes from wandering from his face to his body. That tall, strong body that had felt so hard pressed against hers . . . “Of course you have my permission. You’re right: it’s far too hot for a race.”
“Thank you.” He inclined his head and turned as if to go. Sarah was surprised at how much she hated to see the back of him. Then he looked at her over his shoulder and gave a mocking grin. “You have flour on your nose. Miss Sarah.” She gaped at him, astonished at his sudden reversion to his f
ormer manner, while her hand flew to her nose. His eyes raked her once, and then he was gone, his booted feet making noises on the stone floor of the kitchen as he let himself out the back door.
* * *
The day of the ball dawned as hot and dry as the six weeks preceding it. Sarah, in the attic, which was hotter by several degrees than the lower floors, had slept with her window open; the first thing she did upon arising was to pull back the insect netting shrouding it and lean out, hoping for a breath of cooler air. The hope was futile, of course. The air outside was just as stuffy as the air within.
The windmill groaned in the distance, protesting wearily at the impossibility of its task. Hot gusts of wind blowing down from the mountains to the north kept the paddles turning sluggishly. When the winds ceased, as they inevitably did, Percival had rigged up some sort of contraption with ropes and a wheel, and mules to turn the wheel, that got the windmill going again. Without the windmill, there would be no water for the house and orchards. And probably no water for the horses. Edward was perfectly capable of refusing every creature on the place, except for his sheep, a drop of water if it got scarce enough.
The guests were still sleeping, of course—most of the men, especially, got too few chances to sleep in at home—but the aborigines were already in the orchard, crooning their native songs as they picked insects from the leaves before the day grew too hot. Mrs. Abbott was in the garden, harvesting the vegetables she would need to feed the crowd of guests for the day. Tess was there with her, digging industriously at the potato hills. Sarah started to call to them, but just at that moment a man strode from the stables toward the house. Gallagher. Sarah watched, fascinated at the way the already bright sun picked up shimmering blue highlights in the ebony waves of his hair, at the broadness of his shoulders and narrowness of his hips in comparison, and at the length of his stride as his long legs ate up the short distance. She heard the lilt in his voice as he greeted Mrs. Abbott and Tess, and heard the affection in Mrs. Abbott’s answer as she straightened away from the rows of vegetables and urged him to come into the house for a bite of breakfast before anyone else was up. Mrs. Abbott knew as well as Sarah did that no convicts ever ate in the house; her invitation was a flagrant violation of one of Edward’s unspoken but universally understood rules. But Sarah would not reprimand Mrs. Abbott for her transgression. Despite the weight Gallagher had gained since she had first seen him on the convict ship, and despite the breadth of his shoulders and the hardness of his muscles, he was still too thin. He needed feeding up.
Mrs. Abbott was already inside the house, Gallagher a few paces behind her, when Sarah started to draw her head back inside. She had meant to go straight down; now she would have to give Mrs. Abbott time to feed Gallagher and get him out of the house first, or else, for appearances’ sake, she would have to scold the housekeeper after all. Her head came into hard, painful contact with the windowsill. Sarah cried out automatically, clapping a hand to the injured spot and rubbing tenderly. Three stories below, Gallagher looked up. His eyes locked with hers for a long moment, then moved swiftly over every part of her that he could see, from the childish twin plaits that kept her hair tidy while she slept, to the expanse of skin left bare by the skimpy cotton chemise that she had worn in preference to a nightgown because of the heat. Sarah crimsoned and immediately withdrew back inside the window. But not before he had given her one of his nasty, mocking smiles.
For the rest of the day she burned with embarrassment whenever she thought of that incident. And, as she attended to the myriad last-minute tasks that were crucial to the evening’s success, she thought of it with maddening frequency. When she directed the maids to give the front parlors a final sweeping and dusting, it was at the forefront of her mind. When she helped Mrs. Abbott peel the mountain of potatoes that would be made into potato cakes for that night’s birthday feast, it hovered beneath the light conversation she was exchanging with the housekeeper. The terrible thing about it, she admitted to herself, was that, while she did not like the idea of Gallagher seeing her in such dishabille, it was not the impropriety of it that bothered her most: it was the knowledge of how unprepossessing she must have looked with her infuriatingly straight hair hanging over the windowsill in braids as thick as his wrist, and her lack of feminine curves readily apparent in the chemise that did nothing to conceal her shape. If he had found her unappealing before, what must he think of her now? And this, to her fury, was the thought that aroused her blushes.
Liza and Lydia, and, for that matter, nearly all the female guests except old Mrs. Grainger, spent the day in their rooms, resting up for the evening’s festivities. Mrs. Grainger, a feisty old lady whose husband had been one of the first white men in this part of Australia, could not be left to her own devices. So Sarah, feeling duty-bound, joined her on the front porch, where she listened as patiently as she could to the old woman’s reminiscences, which at any other time would have been fascinating. Mrs. Grainger’s husband, John, now long deceased, had come to Australia in 1770 on the HMS Endeavour under the captainship of Lieutenant James Cook. Her tales of those early pioneering days were vivid, and occasionally spiced with expressions not often heard on the lips of ladies, but which Mrs. Grainger had culled from the vocabulary of her seafaring husband. By the time Sarah was able diplomatically to suggest that it was time that both ladies start dressing for the evening, she was torn between scandalized laughter and a nagging headache that throbbed relentlessly at her temples. The knowledge that she had still to see to a few last-minute details before she herself could retire didn’t make her feel any better.
When Sarah at last made it up to the small, airless cubbyhole that she had taken over for the duration of the guests’ stay, she just had time for a quick wash and change of clothing before she had to be downstairs again. Lydia’s hostessing did not extend to overseeing the final readying of the food, the allocating of the staff, or the strategic placement of the traveling musicians who had been engaged for the evening so that their music could be heard to best advantage.
She was not able even to have a tub bath; the maids were being run off their feet carrying hot water in cans up to the other women, and Sarah was too hospitable to demand their attention for herself in preference to her guests. And she was too tired to fetch the hot water herself. She contented herself with stripping down to her skin and standing in a basin while she washed herself with soap and a wet cloth. When she was finished, she caught up the pitcher and sluiced the water remaining in it over her body to rinse away the soapsuds. Then, feeling marginally refreshed, she dried herself.
As Sarah surveyed the dress she had laid out on the narrow bed, she wished that she had ordered a new gown for herself when Liza and Lydia had ordered theirs. Just once, she would have liked to look nice. She refused to consider why. If Gallagher’s darkly handsome face appeared momentarily in her mind’s eye, she resolutely banished it. Anyway, the finest of satin ball gowns in the loveliest of colors wouldn’t have transformed the ugly duckling into a swan. The white silk dress that she had worn to every party since she was seventeen would do just fine. Anything else would have been wasted on her.
Sarah pulled on her chemise—as a concession to the nature of the evening she chose one of fine muslin, but it was as unadorned as her everyday cotton ones—and topped it with a single petticoat. It was too hot for any additional undergarments, and if as a result her dress did not have the fashionable full skirt, that was just too bad. What was one more sartorial shortcoming among so many?
The dress itself fitted close around her neckline, framing her throat with a little frill of lace and buttoning clear down past the snug waist with two dozen tiny, silk-covered buttons. The sleeves were short and puffed and likewise ended with a frill of lace; a white satin sash was tied in a big bow at the rear, with the trailing ends of the sash falling girlishly down the back of the skirt. The skirt itself was plain, and cut full for the three petticoats that were supposed to be worn beneath it. With only one, it billowed arou
nd her. The effect had always pleased her, because she felt that it must disguise her lack of a rounded derrière and curving, feminine thighs. A pair of white cotton stockings—she had always felt it was absurd to wear silk ones, as Liza and Lydia did, where no one could see—held up by frilly white-satin garters that had belonged to her mother and sensible flat black slippers completed her ensemble. She wore no jewelry—indeed, the only pieces she possessed had belonged to her mother, who had been considered a beauty; they would have been wasted on Jane Markham’s plain daughter. She brushed her hair until it crackled, then wound it up into its usual bun. Not even twenty-four hours spent in rag curlers, as she had tried on several occasions when she was younger and more foolish, had sufficed to give her curls. She had learned to be content with herself as she was; and tonight, if, when looking at herself in the slightly wavy mirror on the wall of her attic bedroom before hurrying downstairs, she was somewhat less than content, there was nothing she could do to change either the feeling or her appearance.
By ten o’clock the ball was in full swing. The musicians were scraping a lively tune on their fiddles; couples were kicking up their heels and laughing breathlessly as they romped around the floor. Even Mrs. Grainger was dancing, partnered by one of the Eaton boys, who was crimson with the indignity of just having been told that he had two left feet in the old lady’s strident voice, which carried to every corner of the room. His two brothers were more fortunate: one partnered Liza and the other Chloe. Liza was entrancing in her rose-pink satin gown, her hair arranged in a careless pile of curls that Sarah knew had taken the better part of the day to achieve. She was flirting madly, shamelessly batting her eyelashes at the boy, who looked suitably dazzled by his good fortune. Lydia was dancing with George Banks, a distinguished-looking man of about fifty with a full head of silver hair, and flirting quite as openly as Liza. Sarah looked quickly around to see if her father had noticed. He was partnering Mrs. Eaton, his expression politely attentive as he piloted that lady’s ample form about the room. If he was aware of his wife’s behavior, he showed no sign of it. Like Sarah herself, Percival was not dancing. As she looked in his direction, he started toward her, clearly bent on rectifying that omission.
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