“Mrs. Livingston is waiting for you in her office.” Eighteen, he mentally tallied. And inexperienced. Her kind wouldn’t know how to love a man. With her sharp tongue and rebellious nature, she should have been born Irish. She would be one of those women determined to have her own way, whatever price she and those with her had to pay.
He sighed, wiped his hands on the rag at his feet, and rose to follow her. She walked with that free- swinging stride peculiar only to her. Her waist-length braids no longer bounced against her back but had been unplaited for her coal black hair to be gathered in a careless coil at her nape. Wayward strands coiled like moonvine tendrils along the long column of her neck.
Admittedly, her slender hips had a certain rhythmic sway that a man would find enticing. Except she was English. The colleens he occasionally bedded were usually Irish like Molly, who desperately wanted someone to take care of her. Amaris of the stormy gray eyes was one of those currency girls, second-generation Australian.
To put her in her place, he strode on past her and entered Nan Livingston’s office without waiting to be announced. With Nan was a big lunker of a man with a ruddy complexion lined by the weather. He sat with one thigh perched on the edge of her desk. His face was vaguely familiar. He had the scent of salt and sea about him.
“I beg your pardon!” Nan snapped at Sin.
“You sent for me?”
She rose from behind her desk. Her sparse brows gathered like disturbed nesting wrens. “When I send for you, Sinclair, you will—”
“Josiah Wellesley,” the big man said, sticking out his hand.
Sin stared at the large hand uncomprehendingly. Then, realizing the gesture for what it was, he made a short bow. “Sinclair Tremayne, sir, at your service.”
“The Livingston family, as well as Jimmy Underwood, has been singing your praises.”
Now Sin remembered him. The man had stopped by occasionally to chat with Jimmy. The lad might be English, but he hated the English government almost as much as Sin did. Sin missed the camaraderie he had known in the shipyard. ‘Do they now? All of the Livingstons?”
Josiah grinned. “Well, most of them. Now, Nan, why don’t you tell Sinclair why you sent for him so you and I can get back to business.”
The middle-aged woman flashed the man a reproving glare. “Celeste has her heart set on riding over to Parramatta for the horse sale. She wants a horse for hunting. As some business has come up, I want you to accompany her and Amaris there and back. Macarthur will accept my word of payment as good as a draft, if Celeste settles on something suitable.”
He inclined his head in acknowledgment, paused, then said what was on his mind. “I would like to request a firearm, mistress. There has been talk of bushrangers plying their trade along uninhabited stretches of the road.”
Her hazel eyes drilled through him. “Convicts aren’t allowed firearms.”
“For Celeste’s security, I would suggest you arm me.”
She was silent, considering the consequences, and he said, “If I wanted to strike out for the Never-Never, the firearm would not be one of the more important factors.”
She raised a sparse brow. “Really, now. What would?”
“The season for one. Road traffic. Whether the governor is in residence at his summer retreat. My own physical condition.”
Then he leaned forward, his hand splayed on her desktop, an impertinent act. “I swear that regardless of how favorable the conditions may be for escape, I would never put your daughter’s life at risk by deserting her.”
“Perhaps you should assign him to Celeste on a permanent basis, Nan,” Josiah said with a broad smile. “You would ensure the continued faithfulness of your servant.”
Without taking her gaze off Sin, she said, “A servant’s papers are easy enough to buy, Josiah . . . and sell, if one becomes impudent. You may saddle Mr. Livingston’s bay for your use, Sinclair.”
She paused deliberately, then added, “His pistol is in the holster on his bedroom armchair. Take it with you when you accompany Celeste and Amaris. And then return it.”
He inclined his head. “Good day, Miss Livingston . . . Mr. Wellesley.”
“Josiah, lad,” the man corrected as Sin closed the door behind him.
Celeste was waiting outside for him. She grabbed his hand. “Did Mama say you could take us, Sin?” Her enthusiasm drew a smile from him. “Go get ready. I’ll meet you at the stables in half an hour.”
By the time he had made full preparation for the day’s outing, both girls were waiting, their horses saddled. Celeste’s expression was full of exuberance. Amaris’s was sullen, stating clearly that his presence spoiled the day for her.
His father had teasingly called him mule-headed, and he felt mule-headed enough at that moment to justify the girl’s feelings. He clasped his hands for Celeste’s booted foot and hoisted her into the saddle.
“Thank you, Sin.” A cheerful smile accompanied her words.
He turned to saddle the bay, leaving Amaris to mount her horse, which to her was inconsequential. With her height and skill, she would give an Irish jockey a run for his money. Still, Sin’s action was distinctly discourteous. He smiled to himself, thinking how much amusement thwarting the missionary’s daughter afforded him.
The morning promised to turn into a beautiful day. Sunlight gilded the land. Some twenty kilometers from Sydney Harbor, Parramatta was almost a suburb. Only a few farms remained to remind newcomers that the stretch between Sydney and Parramatta had once been an agricultural area.
The feel of the sturdy animal beneath him, obeying his body’s signals, the fresh air and open countryside tempted him sorely. He knew he could survive in that isolated region that was known as Never-Never. No one could ever find him out there beyond the Blue Mountains.
But first, he had to cross that formidable mountain barrier crouched ahead of them. The mountains got their name because of their blue haze, a result of the fine mist of oil given off by the eucalyptus trees.
In earlier days, the few escaped convicts and adventurers who had attempted to transverse those rugged mountains had ended up practicing cannibalism to survive. Sin shut a mental gate on that ever present desire for freedom and chatted with Celeste. She rode alongside him, with Amaris bringing up the rear.
“Is Ireland really as green as an emerald?”
“As green as moon cheese.”
She laughed. “As green as Mama’s pea soup?”
“As green as Amaris’s eyes.”
Really gray, her eyes only looked green in certain slants of sunlight. He was interested in what kind of response the Wilmot girl would make, and he wasn't disappointed.
From behind him came her cool voice. “Is it true the Irish are full of—of—”
“Blarney?” Celeste supplied.
“Earbashing.” Amaris finished.
The bush was always interesting, never boring or monotonous. Here he was forced to look beyond the first impression to observe detail, to train his eye to pick out the subtlety. The rich beauty of Ireland was too brazen compared to this much older landscape.
The marvelous saltbush plains were dotted with gray and magnificent red kangaroo, some grazing by the side of the dusty road. They scratched themselves, watching, ears twitching.
Later, mobs of emus ran swiftly and stupidly with no sense of direction. Wedge-tailed eagles, two pairs, soared in the sky high above. Glorious flight so free.
So free.
Eventually the wastelands gave way to richer countryside and small farms owned by Emancipists. John Macarthur owned Elizabeth Farm, named after his wife. Their house was something of a Georgian/colonial mishmash but large enough to be impressive to the commoner.
Today, everyone had come to attend the horse sale, some from as far away as Cow Pastures and Camden. All the visitors had gathered around the main corral. Sin shouldered a path for Celeste and Amaris, so they could better watch the event, already in progress.
Celeste climbed on the bottom railing to watch the
next horse paraded out by a little man in red livery. A mustachioed old man and plump little woman appeared to recognize Celeste and began discoursing. Protective and concerned, Sin positioned himself closer to Celeste.
Startled, the girl glanced up, then grinned. “Sin, this is Mr. Barnaby and his wife. Mr. Barnaby is our banker.”
Noting the deplorable state of Sin’s only jacket, a threadbare worsted item of clothing belonging to a former servant, the old man nodded condescendingly. The woman barely acknowledged him.
Their pompous attitude bothered him little. In fact, reflecting that it would be the banker who would eventually have to approve Celeste’s selection for draft on his bank, he relaxed.
He concentrated on the horse being led around the ring. The mare was well formed, with a deep-barreled chest, straight legs, and a good slope to the shoulders.
“She’s got a glossy coat, doesn’t she?” Celeste said. “Can we get her?”
“Tis up to you. Your mother said that you were to decide which ...”
His words trailed away as he watched the horse move, too slow for such a young one. The mare walked as if her hooves were sore. “No, I don’t think this one, Celeste. I’d wager someone has ridden the mare hard for a couple of days so it would be too tired to show its true nature. You don’t want to be buying a ‘throwing’ horse.”
Celeste’s large brown eyes shadowed with disappointment, then just as quickly cleared to watch in absorption the next horse led into the corral.
An uneasiness assailed Sin. Amaris was missing. He scanned the crowd. The girl was old enough to take care of herself. Servant gossip implied that Nan Livingston wouldn’t be disappointed if Amaris never showed her face around the place again. Yet he felt responsible.
“Celeste, where did Amaris go?”
The girl looked up in amazement. “I didn’t see her leave, Sin.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. He hated to take Celeste away from the fun of the action. Hell! When he found Amaris . . .
“Mr. and Mrs. Barnaby, would you mind watching Miss Livingston for a moment?”
The gray mustache lifted in a perfunctory smile. “Not at all, Tremayne. I trust you won’t be gone any longer than it would take to gain your freedom?”
He looked the man directly in the eye. “I don’t think you need that reassurance. I’m here precisely because Mrs. Livingston trusts me not to escape.”
Mr. Barnaby looked skeptical, and his wife interjected, “We’ll watch Celeste.”
After telling Celeste he had something to check on, he struck out in long, rapid strides for the picket area, where he had hitched their horses. Amaris was not there. Damn her! Where could she have wandered?
His boots thudded on the encircling veranda of the Macarthur house and he knocked on the door to inquire of the dowdy housekeeper if a young woman had entered.
“Not to me knowledge,” the woman said, “but you might try the tent erected for repast after the auction.”
Amaris wasn’t there either, although the table, spread with kidney pie, mutton, and at least half a dozen different meat dishes, tempted his hungry stomach. Concern drove him on past the tent toward the various outbuildings, sheds, and barns.
A quarter of an hour later he found Amaris behind the sheep barn. She knelt over a ragged-looking puppy that had the wild look of the dingo about it. “What in the hell are you doing?" he demanded. She sprung up and whirled around, her expression startled. When she saw that it was he, annoyance replaced her momentary dismay. Her almond-shaped eyes narrowed to slits. “Oh, 'tis just you.”
Anger roiled through him. His hands gripped her upper arms. “Do not ever take for granted the saying that Irishmen are wild and lawless.”
Nonplussed, she stared at him. Without thinking, he bent his head and kissed her open mouth. He felt her stiffen beneath his hands and realized instantly what folly he had committed. Where such desire had come from, he couldn’t fathom, but he knew he didn’t want to serve an additional fourteen years for forcing himself on an unwanting maiden.
He set her from him and watched her wipe his kiss from her mouth with the back of her hand.
His smile was grim. “I didn’t think you were enough woman to appreciate that.” He turned his back on her before she could retort with that sharp tongue of hers. Over his shoulder, he said, “Get back to the auction before I decide to take you in the hay here and now.”
He strode on out into the sunlight with her curse of “Paddy!” tingling his ears.
§ CHAPTER NINE §
“Proper young women don’t go without petticoats, Amaris.”
“Proper young women don’t wear secondhand petticoats donated by the prostitutes of Brigsby Pub.”
Rose Wilmot’s face blanched, and Amaris was instantly contrite. “I’m sorry, Mama. I just don’t want to—”
“Stand still, gal,” Pulykara said. The wrinkles around her mouth undulated her once arrow-straight facial tattoos. With bare feet splayed, she squatted on her haunches before Amaris and stuck pins in the ruffled material to mark a long hem.
“Stand straight, luv,” Rose said.
“—go to the Livingston dance,” she continued, “because not only am I too tall, I am too old.”
Rogue, the half-dingo stray she had insisted on carting back from Elizabeth Farm two years before, darted in and out beneath her ruffled hem.
Avoiding the playful dog, Rose stepped back to observe the new hem length. The first hints of gray tinted the hair at her temples, and her once elfin frame was softened by middle-age weight. “Twenty isn’t too old, and if a man loves you, he will ignore your height.”
“Mother, I don’t want a husband. Nan Livingston does. She’s matchmaking for her daughter.”
“Turn around,” Pulykara grunted.
“Who does Nan have her eye on?”
Amaris turned and faced the open shutters. Across the street a drunk staggered from the George IV pub, the first grog shop to set up trade in what had been a largely rural district. Beyond, she could make out the Livingstons’ red-bricked, turreted house on Darlinghurst Road. “Francis Marlborough.”
Rose pushed back a lock that had fallen over her forehead. Hard work had etched her once-girlish face but not her champagne-fizzy personality. “An earl’s son most likely.”
“No, but the prime minister's nephew. Celeste says that although the law of entail has debarred him from inheritance, his prospects are excellent.”
Not that his financial status was important to Celeste, or Nan Livingston for that matter. Nan had money. She wanted connections.
Francis Marlborough definitely had connections. Not only was he the prime minister’s nephew, but his brother-in-law was Lord Hallock, vice admiral. Francis had made the grand tour of Europe the year before.
When Celeste, standing in the receiving line, offered him her hand, he made a leg and lowered his head to kiss her fingertips with all the grace of royalty.
Observing him from her vantage point slightly behind Celeste, Amaris found the man intriguing. Beneath the effete mannerism of the aristocrat ran a current of confident masculinity. For just a moment, his gaze brushed hers. The brown eyes twinkled. Then he moved on.
Curious about what made one a blueblood, Amaris continued to observe and listen to Francis. He engaged Sydney’s prominent denizens one by one in what seemed to be fascinating conversation, because both male and female guests appeared disinclined to leave his presence. A suggestion of a smile invited the privileged recipient to partake of the man’s warm and worldly charm. His manners were exquisitely and unfailingly courteous. He had a habit of tilting his head slightly to the side and forward, as if engrossed in his companion of the moment. His curling fair hair and lively walnut brown eyes only added to his appeal.
The women smiled coyly or giggled shyly. The men solicited his opinion about such a variety of subjects that Francis had to be a veritable Renaissance man to be so knowledgeable.
Soon the doors to the ballroom were
thrown open and hired musicians began to play a minuet. Francis began his enchantment of one after another of the ladies, but Celeste Livingston was singled out in particular.
Amaris watched the dancing from the vantage point of a wallflower. At sixteen, Celeste had received at least half a dozen proposals, while at twenty Amaris had received only one. In the journal she kept, she made a notation that she suspected her outspoken manner and strong will had put off any would-be suitors.
A lusty sea trader with his tales of adventure mildly interested her for a while. His fumbled kiss that missed her mouth was the only romantic overtone in her life, unless she counted that bold kiss Sin had given her. But then at eighteen she had been inexperienced.
Her gaze moved over the resilient strong-willed women in old silks dancing beneath crystal chandeliers with tough and ambitious men. They signaled that Sydney society, though a child Europe had rejected, was nevertheless the best of Europe’s offspring. Amaris felt a kinship with these visionary people, and yet felt an outsider.
At midnight, after the last minuet was played, the doors were thrown open to the dining room, and the guests paired off, with Celeste and the guest of honor leading the grand march. Francis Marlborough might be a charmer, certainly as irresistibly cocky as an Australian cockatoo, but his partner was clearly charming him at the moment. Her brown eyes sparkled, her cupid bow-shaped lips laughed.
Amaris melted farther back into the shadows of the staircase. She really had no desire to eat or make polite chatter. By the time Molly closed the dining-room doors, Amaris was already slipping out the garden door. She was to have spent the night at the Livingstons’, but, as often happened, she felt the need to be alone.
Her parents’ tiny, impoverished home beckoned, and she started along the moonlit, pebbled carriage drive. Careful to preserve the dress Pulykara and her mother had labored over, she picked up the ruffled hem of her blue satin skirt.
She was not at all afraid to walk the darkened cobblestone street. The Wilmot family members, including Pulykara, wore an invisible shield of protection. This was due to the respect the clergyman’s family had earned by its work among the jetsam of humanity crowded into the rabbit warrens down in the Rocks. No one would be foolish enough to lift a hand against a Wilmot.
Dream Time (historical): Book I Page 10
