She would have to find employment of some kind, something she could do while keeping Meggie close by. Will would want her to do that. Sarah spent the next hour or so going over her options. The money she had would tide them over for a while but, as soon as a decent period of mourning was observed, she would look for work.
Sarah sighed as finally young Meggie, who’d become unusually fractious, drifted off to sleep. She looked at the sleeping child and her lips moved in a wan smile. If only she could do the same, sleep, but each time she put her head to the pillow, memories of Will invaded her mind and the tears would start to roll down her cheeks again. She closed the bedroom door and moved back to the parlour. The picture, little more than a crayon sketch she had done of Will holding a sleeping Meggie caught her attention. She went over and picked it up off the mantel shelf. Studying the simple lines, drawn in haste, she considered it a fair likeness of her late husband and their babe. She remembered the evening she had sketched it; there’d been just enough light coming in through the many-paned window to capture Will’s features in repose, the clay pipe in his hand and young Meggie asleep nestled against his chest. A tear slipped down her cheek. This sketch was the only likeness she had of him now, apart from her memories.
Lost in her memories, and thoughts for their future, she almost didn’t hear the knock on the door.
Wondering who could be calling at this late hour, she sat up straight, and waited until she heard the rapping a second time. Only then did she rise to answer the door.
Her heart plummeted when she recognised Elijah Waugh’s figure silhouetted in the open doorway.
‘I’m not receivin’ visitors,’ Sarah informed him stonily. He had attended Will’s funeral and mouthed platitudes of sympathy with other mourners but, as far as she was concerned, now that her husband was gone, she had no obligation to tolerate or talk to him.
‘Just callin’ to see that yer and young Meggie are all right,’ he made the excuse. God, she was a finelooking woman, even in her grief-stricken pallor, and her high cheekbones devoid of colour. He glanced at her crown of red hair. It was tumbling all about her shoulders, thick, lustrous-like. He longed to comb his fingers through its warmth, feel the softness of it against his fingertips. His glance skittered down to her breasts, saw how they strained against the woollen material. An ache began inside him, an ache that had started when he’d met her in Dublin and had worsened with every passing month. He wanted her like he’d wanted no other woman, ever. None could compare with his Sarah O’Riley, and now it was time to take what he wanted.
Sarah almost reeled backwards from the smell of alcohol on his breath. No doubt he’d been attending Will’s wake at one of the taverns the soldiers of the regiment frequented.
‘We be fine. Goodnight.’ She made to close the door, but too quickly he put his foot in the breach and then pushed the door back, setting her off balance.
Elijah strode into the room and glanced about at the small oak dining table and four chairs, the dresser with its odd assortment of plates, the padded chair Will used to sit in close to the fireplace. His stance and the expression on his face looked, for all the world, as if he owned all that was in it.
‘Not so fast, Sarah O’Riley.’ He turned to face her and, planting his legs wide apart, he clasped his hands behind his back. ‘I’ve come to make yer an offer. To assist yer in your time of need. Me mate Will would appreciate that.’
Sarah’s chin lifted. ‘I am not in need and if I were, Corporal Waugh, you would be the last person I’d look ta for assistance.’ Surely that was clear enough for even a dullard such as he. ‘Will you please leave.’
‘Uppity miss. It’s one of the things I like about yer, Sarah. Yer spirit, it stirs me up, yes it does,’ Elijah muttered, his beady eyes narrowing as he stared his fill at her. Under his skin he could feel his nerve endings jumping with anticipation, his muscles pumping the blood through him, hardening his body all over. He’d waited too long for this, for her, but no longer.
Sarah made a clucking, disgusted sound with her tongue and half turned away to tidy the plates and cutlery on the table. She could feel his eyes all over her body and, at first, an embarrassed heat suffused through her, but this was quickly replaced by an iciness borne of anger. Holy Mother of God, it wasn’t fair that Will should lie cold in his grave while this poor excuse for a man breathed. Will had been a fine, upstanding man, but months ago she had begun to sense a subtle evil in Elijah Waugh and, if she hadn’t been so angered by his unwelcome and uninvited presence in her home, she might have had the sense to be a little daunted by him.
‘As I said, I’d like to make yer an offer, woman. Yer’ll be needin’ gold now that Will’s not around to provide for yer. It’s difficult in Sydney Town for a woman alone with a small child to care for, yer know. I’d be willin’ to come in as a boarder, pay yer to rent the bedroom and for yer to feed me.’ He eyed her up and down. ‘I likes yer cookin’, Sarah. Say, two shillin’s and sixpence a week. Generous of me, I’d say.’
‘I’d rather rent the room ta the devil himself,’ she retorted. She pointed her arm and index finger towards the door. ‘Get out. I never want ta see you under my roof again.’ Oh, she could read his thoughts as easily as a map. It wasn’t the room he wanted, it was easy access to her. A lump of bile rose in her throat, almost making her gag, as she thought of him being in close proximity to herself and Meggie. Never. She’d rather starve.
He went on as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘I can be most generous,’ he repeated, ‘and, after a sufficient period of mournin’, as society and the church dictates, I might even be willin’ to marry yer.’ That usually worked, made a woman come around…a promise of marriage did, even if it wasn’t sincerely meant. He stepped closer, breathing in the sweet aroma of her, until they were only a foot apart. ‘It’s a good offer, a fair offer. And don’t be thinkin’ that by and by another man’ll come along for yer, Sarah O’Riley. I’ll be makin’ sure no other lad gets what I’ve been wantin’ to have for nearly two years now.’ His face contorted into an ugly mask. ‘Just as well the fever got Will ’cause I was gettin’ tired of waitin’.’ His voice thickened with the huskiness of passion. ‘I’ve never wanted a woman like I want yer, Sarah. Yer beautiful, the most beautiful woman in Sydney Town.’
As if unable to control himself any longer, he lunged at her and caught her to him. Pinning her arms behind her back with one hand, he laughed as he ran his free hand through the thickness of her hair. ‘I’ve waited a long time for this, longer than for any other woman. Yer’ll not deny me now.’ His hand continued to roam over her body, across her breasts, testing the slimness of her waist, the enticing roundness of her hips. He chuckled as she tried to wriggle free of his grasp and couldn’t. ‘I’ll show yer what a real man’s like, my Sarah. And you’ll like it, my lovely. Did yer know I used to watch yer and Will on the ship, in the cargo hold?’ He chuckled louder as he saw the revulsion in her eyes. ‘Yer a passionate woman, Sarah, I watched how yer spread yer legs for Will, real willing like. I likes passion in a woman, and I know how to pleasure a woman right. Yer’ll see that soon enough.’
‘And you call yourself Will’s mate,’ she accused with an open sneer. ‘You don’t know the meanin’ of the word friendship.’ In vain she tried to free her hands from his iron grasp. ‘Let me go, you revolting pig! I wouldn’t lie with you if you were the last man on God’s earth. Let go now, or I’ll scream.’
CHAPTER ELEVEN
‘Oh, scream, will you?’ He didn’t want that. Didn’t want nosy neighbours poking their head around the door.
In an instant his free hand came up to strike her hard across the face, after which his fingers settled around her throat and squeezed just enough to be threatening. ‘There’ll be no screams, Sarah. Be good to yer Elijah and yer won’t regret it.’ His whispering words were a menace and a promise of reprisal if she didn’t comply.
Then, confident that he had her where he wanted her, his hand left her throat to pull at the neck
of her gown until it tore. He gave an animal-like groan as his hand closed around her breast. He stroked and kneaded each breast, bruising them, and pulled her hard against him so he could grind the lower half of his body against her, to show the evidence of his arousal.
‘There, Sarah, feel what I can give yer, my beauty. It’s hot and hard, and it’s been ready for months.’ And he laughed triumphantly in her face at his physical domination over her.
Sarah, still reeling from the blow to her face, and the violation of his touch, strove to keep her head. Elijah was so strong. He had a bullish neck and a thick chest, and the muscles of his arms were like bands of metal that imprisoned her to him. She knew she could not best him physically and, from the gleam in his eye, she saw that he meant to take her by force, if he had to. Yes, he was evil enough to commit a base act, and she believed it would give him even more enjoyment.
His mouth moved to her throat, kissing, slavering all over her like a wild beast, until bile rose in her throat and she feared she would be ill. Revulsion at the thought of his hands on her, his manhood forcing itself inside her body, almost made her faint, which would have been a mercy but…she would not, could not give in.
To best him, she must be more cunning than he, more devious. Think, Sarah, think!
She stopped fighting him and went limp in his arms. ‘You’re right, Elijah, what you say makes sense but…it would not be proper for you ta live here with me. Think what people would say,’ she whispered to him, blowing her breath into his ear and hating that she had to do it. ‘I am a decent woman, I could not have my reputation sullied so.’
He went still, and then, his gaze narrowing on her, he asked thickly, ‘What would yer be suggestin’ then?’
‘Oh, Elijah, surely you know.’ Gritting her teeth, she rubbed her body suggestively against his and, as his grip slackened with surprise, she made her move. Putting both hands against his chest and pushing with all her strength, she broke free of him.
‘What…?’ he muttered dully, his mouth slack, a frown making his unpleasant features even more unpleasant.
Sarah knew she had but one chance. She picked up the closest item on the table, a fork. Before he could guess her intent, she struck, stabbing him in the cheek and raking the prongs all the way down to his jawbone.
He howled with pain and grabbed at his face with both hands. Blood spurted from the wound, the dark liquid covering his fingers as it ran down his arm onto his uniform. Growling like a beast, and stumbling, he lurched towards her once more. ‘Yer sly, connivin’ bitch, yer’ll pay dearly for that.’ The bitch had bested him…but not for long. He’d beat her black and blue after he’d taken her, by Christ he would! She’d learn who was master soon enough, and it would be Elijah Waugh.
By now Sarah’s temper, fuelled by fear, had reached boiling point, and she moved with a swiftness borne of desperation. She grabbed the frying pan from the table, where she’d left it after serving Meggie her meal, whirled it above her head and hit him in the shoulder with all the strength she possessed. Caught off guard, he fell to one knee and as he began to rise again, uttering words that would have done a seasoned sailor proud, she brought the pan down on the top of his head. A cracking sound, metal hitting bone rent the silence of the room. He crumpled to the floor and lay still.
Panting from her exertions and shock, she stared at him with narrowed eyes, waiting for him to rise again. He didn’t.
‘I’ve killed him,’ she said softly, her hand covering her mouth. ‘Oh, Holy Mother,’ she crossed herself, ‘what have I done?’
Elijah moaned then and a mixture of relief and regret flooded through her because he wasn’t dead. Meggie’s cries in the bedroom diverted her and she raced to her child. Wrapping a shawl around Meggie and unmindful of her bruised, exposed breasts, she clutched her babe to her and ran out of the house to get help.
In part because Sergeant William O’Riley had been a popular non-commissioned officer, and his wife held a certain respect in the army community, the regiment treated Corporal Elijah Waugh more harshly for his transgressions than he might otherwise have been. For his attempted rape on Sarah, he received twelve lashes, not from the cat’o’nine tails reserved for convicts, but from a sturdy whip which, none the less, scarred him for life. In front of his company he was then stripped of his corporal’s stripes, demoted to private, posted to Newcastle and warned by the tribunal not to make contact with Sarah O’Riley again.
People, neighbours, some of the soldiers’ wives, were exceedingly kind to Sarah and Meggie, helping them both to get over the ordeal of Will’s death and Elijah’s attack. They offered meals, and several of the mothers took care of the child as Sarah struggled to bring her grief at such an untimely widowhood—she was just twenty-one—into perspective. She garnered some satisfaction at learning of Elijah’s punishment and thanked the Lord that he was being sent a goodly distance from Sydney Town.
Two weeks passed before Sarah had pulled herself together sufficiently to begin to look for work…
‘But, Mr Peabody, Meggie’s a good child, she’ll be no trouble at all,’ Sarah pleaded with the owner of Peabody and Sons General Store in George Street.
Peabody’s was the fifth business she had come to seek employment at, but all appeared to harbour the same belief. A child would be a hindrance to the employer, to other employees and customers.
‘Mrs O’Riley, I understand your predicament, but you, too, must have sympathy with mine. A place of business is not suitable for a small child. However,’ Cedric Peabody glanced down at O’Toole’s reference once more, ‘you are well credentialled, and if you can find someone to care for your child, then I would be pleased to employ you.’
And no matter how convincingly Sarah pleaded her case that Meggie was a perfect, quiet child, Cedric Peabody would not be moved from his position.
With Meggie toddling beside her as they walked home, Sarah found herself having to rethink her plans. The only other course which appeared available to her was to find a domestic position with a well-to-do family who would accept Meggie in their household. The thought did not sit well with her. She had always seen herself as being in business, gaining experience, so that one day she would be able to have a small business of her own. One day…
As fate would have it, that very afternoon, one of Captain Stewart’s maids came to the door and asked if Sarah might be free to speak with Mrs Stewart the following afternoon.
Promptly at three-thirty, Sarah and Meggie arrived at the Captain’s home, a terrace dwelling near Hyde Park which, long ago, had been the town’s racecourse.
A maid showed Sarah into the drawing room where, unused to seeing such affluence, the young widow admired the handcrafted European furniture, the crystal chandelier and the ceramic ornaments which bespoke the home of a fine lady and gentleman. She knew, and had heard from her Will, that Captain Edmund Stewart was the second son of an English earl and had an independent income of almost one thousand guineas annually, which was, to her, a veritable fortune.
A swish of skirts and the rustle of at least three petticoats heralded Mrs Cynthia Stewart’s entry into the drawing room.
‘So glad you could come, Mrs O’Riley. This is your little one?’ Cynthia asked, chucking Meggie under the chin and smiling as the young child stared up at her.
‘My pleasure, Mrs Stewart. Yes, this is my Meggie,’ Sarah replied formally, at a loss to understand the reason for the summons, but prepared to wait until this lady made her thoughts known. She watched as the captain’s wife smoothed Meggie’s fair hair, the gesture being gentle and caring. She could sympathise with Cynthia Stewart’s internal pain. It was common knowledge that she had had four miscarriages in three years, and it was generally believed amongst the army community that, for all her trying, she would ever be childless.
‘Would you care for tea?’
For an instant, surprise showed on Sarah’s features. Tea? With Captain Stewart’s wife, in their home? If only Will were alive to know of it, he�
�d be grinning from ear to ear.
Cynthia pulled a cord near the doorway and, within minutes, a tea tray arrived and was settled on a highly polished timber table, by the same maid who’d seen her in.
‘My dear, I must be frank with you,’ Cynthia spoke as she poured. ‘Do not be offended, but word has come to us, my husband and I, of your difficulty in finding a position to help you financially now that Will, er, is gone.’
Sarah’s spine stiffened as did her expression. ‘Meggie and I will be fine, Mrs Stewart, we’ll not be askin’ for charity.’
Cynthia nodded as if in agreement. ‘And I would be the last one to suggest such a thing. I was hoping,’ she paused to take a sip of tea, ‘that you might consider it as a kindness to me and come into the Stewart household.’
Sarah’s brows rose with shock, then slowly settled. That was one possibility she had not thought of, and it made her wonder whether this position was being offered because the captain had considered her Will such a fine soldier. ‘Your offer has taken me quite by surprise, ma’am.’
‘I’m sure. Sometimes one does not have the luxury of time,’ Mrs Stewart began in a slightly vague tone. ‘I learned two days ago that my husband will be doing a tour of duty on…’ she coughed delicately, trying to disguise her dislike of the idea, ‘Norfolk Island. Of course I will be accompanying him, and Edmund, the captain, has informed me that I will only be able to take two maids with me.’
‘Why me, ma’am?’
Cynthia sighed. ‘I have heard that Norfolk is a lonely, desolate place. No real social life, little to do. If I have to accompany my husband, and such is my duty to, then I would like to take one or two people with whom I’d be amenable.’ She looked directly at Sarah. ‘We served well together on the voyage to New South Wales, my dear, did we not?’ She waited for Sarah’s agreeable nod. ‘I have fond memories of the sewing bees you organised. So,’ her tone became a trifle brisk, ‘would you consider it, Mrs O’Riley, coming to Norfolk Island with me as our housekeeper in charge?’
Whispers Through the Pines Page 16
