Daring Masquerade

by Margaret Tanner

  "Why not, if I cut my hair and wear loose clothing? I'll pretend I'm your kid brother so no one will worry about my high pitched voice or lack of facial hair."

  "What about sleeping arrangements, bathing, all that other woman's stuff? You could be sharing a hut with a dozen or more men. You could be raped."

  "I'll stay close to you all the time. It's ideal." She bent down and caressed a red geranium hanging over the fence. "Good pay, accommodation provided. If I could maintain the charade for a couple of months we'd get two lots of wages. If the place is isolated, six months maybe."

  "Why don't you get a newspaper and see what other jobs are going?"

  "All right." She kissed his cheek. "I'll see you tomorrow about ten."

  Biting her lip with worry, she watched him shuffle into the grounds of the hospital. Pale and drawn, trembling with exhaustion, would he ever be strong and well again? Not only had he lost his hand, but he was suffering shell shock as well.

  Anxiety weighed her down, sapping her spirit as she trudged along the street to the guest house. Built from large square blocks of blue stone it had red glass panes on either side of the carved wooden door and a matching fanlight over the doorway.

  Her knock was answered by an elderly woman with fluffy white hair.

  "My name is Harriet Martin. Do you have a room? I'm sorry for looking such a mess, but I got pushed over in an alley by a man trying to snatch my handbag."

  "How dreadful for you. Yes, I do have a room, come this way. You can sign the register after you've settled in. Do you think you might need to see a doctor, dear?"

  "No thank you. I just need to rest up. It's the shock more than anything else." Giving a theatrical sigh she followed the woman down a carpeted passageway.

  Harry bit back an exclamation of surprise on being ushered into a comfortably furnished bedroom. Through an open doorway she spotted a cold water tap attached to a wall over the bath tub.

  "I'll have one of the maids bring you up some hot water, Miss Martin, and you can have a soak in the tub."

  "Thank you." Hot water! What a luxury. Just what she needed to ease her aching bones and work on her plans for taking those jobs at Devil's Ridge. What would Ross Calvert be like?

  Chapter Two

  Ross Calvert scowled. It had been over a week since they placed the advertisement in the paper, and not one reply. Bloody war. How the hell was a man supposed to run a cattle station with practically no men?

  "I can't understand it, Jack. I'm only asking for farmhands who are experienced riders, for God's sake."

  "I gave the ad to the newspaper office like you said."

  "I didn't mean to infer you didn't." Ross apologized to his uncle as they worked to replace rails on the holding yards.

  "If I don't get a cook to replace Sandy, I'm sunk. The army wants horses and cattle. I've got scrub cattle and wild horses stripping my paddocks, breaking down my fences, and no one to round them up. What's a man supposed to do? Why the hell did Sandy have to enlist right now?"

  Jack pointed down the track. "Two horsemen coming this way. Your luck might be changing."

  "It would jolly well want to." Ross narrowed his eyes against the sunlight as he watched two horsemen ride up the steep, winding track. They both rode well, with the relaxed manner of experienced riders.

  "Go and have a smoko break, Jack. I'll be with you in a while."

  He strode towards the riders who sat their mounts waiting for him.

  "You Ross Calvert?" enquired the taller one in a voice husky with dust or fatigue.

  "Yes."

  "We've come about the jobs. I'm Gilbert Martin and this is my kid brother, Harry."

  The young man dismounted. He swept his hat off and a swathe of blonde hair flopped across his forehead. Dusty, sweat-stained clothes clung to his thin body and his pale face had a pinched sickliness. I'll give them a drink before sending them off. He wasn't desperate enough to employ a sick man. "I'm about to have a mug of tea, want one?"

  "Thanks. Coming, Harry?"

  The boy called Harry practically vaulted from his horse. He looked about thirteen, thin as a whippet and barely five feet tall.

  "Hello, Mr. Calvert," he said in a high-pitched voice.

  He had a head of wild red curls, and hazel, doe-like eyes that sent Ross’ pulse racing. He cursed under his breath. What the hell was wrong with him?

  "I don't think you're quite what I want. I need men, not boys."

  "Is it because of this?"

  Gilbert Martin raised his left arm, and Ross stifled a gasp of shock on seeing a stump where his hand used to be.

  "Hail the conquering hero," Gilbert said bitterly. "Let's get out of here, Harry."

  "From the war?"

  "Yes, Calvert. Gallipoli, as if anyone cares."

  "Turkish bayonet." Ross fingered his ugly scar. "I need a cook as well as a stockman."

  "You think my brother can't muster a few cattle, just because he's lost his hand?" Harry shot back. "He was a Light Horseman, and I can ride as well as any man."

  "Shut up," Gilbert snapped.

  "All right, this is my Uncle, Jack Calvert." Ross introduced them to the wiry middle-aged man, who stood near them. "He's in charge when I'm not around. Gilbert and Harry Martin."

  "G'day, boys."

  "Hello," the Martin's chorused.

  Ross poured out mugs of tea, sweetened but without milk and handed them around.

  "I need help mustering some scrub cattle for the army. Think you're up to it, Gilbert?"

  "Call me Gil. Yeah, I'm up to it."

  What small dainty hands Harry had, Ross shocked himself by thinking. God Almighty, his nerves must be in a worse state than he'd thought.

  "You can bunk in over there." He pointed to a log hut. "There's only a few men here at the moment."

  "We don't want to share with anyone else," Harry said.

  Insolent little sod. "I'm not running a hotel, for God's sake."

  "It isn't that."

  What a strangely girlish voice Harry Martin had.

  "Gil gets terrible nightmares, don't you?"

  "Yeah, about the war. I yell and thresh around a bit. The weather's hot so we'll build ourselves a little lean-to. Harry's used to me by now."

  "You'll be the cook, Harry."

  "All right, boss." He dropped his chin, giving Ross the impression he had already drawn more attention to himself than he wanted to.

  "There are two storerooms in the cookhouse. You can use them I suppose."

  "Thanks, we're obliged," Gil said.

  "There are eight men. They'll be in about six, have something ready for them, please."

  * * *

  The cookhouse turned out to be a long slab building with earthen floors. Ross disappeared and Jack showed them over it.

  "Where's the boss sleep?" Harry asked.

  "There's a hut up there behind the trees. He uses that. The old homestead is down in the valley a couple of miles from here. He planned to build a new house."

  "New house?" Gil queried.

  Harry realized this friendly garrulous man liked to gossip.

  "He got engaged before he went to the war, came back scarred and she rejected him."

  "How awful," Harry said. No wonder he's so bitter looking.

  "Right bitch," Jack went on. "Broke Ross' heart. He worshipped the ground she walked on."

  How terrible to be wounded in battle then scorned by the woman you loved. Such cruelty. Harry wished she could somehow ease his pain. An illogical thought, because she hardly knew the man.

  Ross Calvert was several inches taller than her 5 feet 1 inch. He stood tall, tanned and hard as whipcord. His over-long black hair grew thick and wavy. A jagged red scar slashed his cheek in half, running from just under his eye, down his face and neck until it disappeared into the collar of his shirt. Gunmetal-gray eyes held a hard bitterness. He had suffered, and it showed. Even so badly scarred, he was still a handsome man, and her heart turned cartwheels. This charade was not
going to be as easy or straightforward as she imagined. She thought Ross Calvert would be an old man, hopefully a half blind one. In her wildest fantasy she did not think he would be young, ruggedly handsome and virile looking. Dear God, what was she thinking of?

  Jack left them to explore on their own. The kitchen had a large oven and numerous pots and pans, thankfully clean. But what on earth could she give them to eat?

  Gil dumped their bedrolls in the storeroom which was divided from the kitchen by a partition of calico stretched over a sapling frame.

  "Plenty of food here, Harry."

  Plenty of food, what an understatement. Bags of flour, sugar, sultanas, a box of tea, jars of jam and preserves, a tin of treacle, and numerous other supplies. Her eyes widened at the variety and quantity. "Heavens, haven't seen food like this in years."

  "Yeah. There's not much in the other storeroom, how about we move everything into here so we can use the other one as our quarters."

  "Good idea."

  "I could sleep on the floor in the kitchen, no-one will know, you can have the storeroom to yourself."

  She nodded her agreement.

  Gil went outside searching for wood and soon returned with an armful of neatly cut logs.

  She lit the fire. "Ask Jack if there's any meat," she shouted to him as he went out again. "I might do a stew with dumplings. I saw some carrots and onions; there was a large bag of potatoes too. Wonder if the big boss eats with us?"

  Gil returned a few minutes later. "There's a Coolgardie safe hanging out the back, and some chickens wandering around. Jack's going to show me around. Calvert's gone off somewhere else"

  She would have preferred being shown around, too, but didn't have the time. After all, she was employed as the cook, and forgot it at her peril.

  Cutting some beef into small chunks, she put it on to simmer while she chopped up the vegetables. The kitchen had obviously been built for a large contingent of men but with the war and lack of manpower, the Devil's Ridge work force must be depleted like every other farm in the country.

  * * *

  Ross threw down his pen and shoved the accounting books to one side. He felt restless and irritable. His shoulder ached, a relentless gnawing, throbbing toothache type pain.

  If it hadn't been for the fact of young Gilbert being wounded on Gallipoli, he would not have employed them. Harry spelled trouble. Deep down some instinct warned him. Something strange about that kid. He could not quite put his finger on it, but he always distrusted pretty boys. Pretty females, too, he thought viciously, reminded of Virginia's betrayal.

  Oh, she had reveled in being seen with an Army Officer. It obviously stroked her vanity, the beautiful, selfish woman. He had been absolutely besotted with her. Believed all her lies. He learnt his lesson the hard way. No woman would ever get close to him again, he vowed, giving a mirthless laugh. Purely academic, swearing off women. Who would want a man with a hideously scarred face?

  I'll go down and try Harry's cooking. Hope to hell the kid can cook—or I'll have a mutiny on my hands.

  He was a lousy cook and Jack even worse. Between the two of them, they somehow managed to serve the men chops, potatoes, eggs and damper. The same fare for breakfast, lunch and dinner sorely tested the men's boredom threshold.

  If Mrs. Bates hadn't provided fruit cake and preserves, and come up on a couple of occasions to cook the men a decent evening meal, he would have been in dire straits. But at her advanced age the journey from the homestead was too strenuous and he didn't want to risk bringing her up again.

  She should really be pensioned off, but he couldn't do it. Mrs. Bates had called Devil's Ridge home for over fifty years. She was a distant relative and had been governess to his father and Jack, then nanny to himself and Eric. Her position was the only thing he argued with Virginia about. He always gave in to her on other matters, but not when it concerned Mrs. Bates.

  "Get rid of her and get someone younger," Virginia had yelled. "She's only a servant. If you won't tell her, I will."

  This behavior should have alerted him to Virginia's cruelty, but her beauty blinded him, a goddess with thick, lustrous black hair, chocolate brown, slightly oriental eyes and soft lush mouth. Those long, willowy legs and ripe, pink tipped breasts. Oh God, he still wanted her. He could have coped with his disfigurement if she had stayed true to him.

  He left the hut before he became even more maudlin and sauntered along with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. On every tree branch, colorful parrots jostled each other for position now the sun had set. The peaks of Devil's Ridge, the ragged mountain range that inspired the name of his property, turned pink as the last rays of the dying sun washed over them. This was his favorite time of day. Even on Gallipoli, the sun setting over the Aegean Sea had been spectacular.

  His father had planted pine plantations years ago, and they proved a profitable venture with the timber mills taking as much as they could get. Each time an area was felled, they replanted, but no native timber had been cut down for years. Huge areas of messmate and blue gum had been felled for timber milling in his father's time, but he did not cut down native trees anymore. Nothing more majestic than snow gums and mountain ash.

  Eric had been killed in April of 1915, at the Gallipoli landing, and the grief at losing his young brother weighed him down. Why did I live, yet he had to die? Jack and I are the only Calverts left now. There would be no more. The war and Virginia's desertion robbed him of producing the next generation. Bitterness and anger at the hand fate had dealt the family threatened to destroy him if he didn't pull himself together.

  He sniffed at the air. The smell of food wafting from the kitchen reminded him he was hungry. As he strode into the dining room he heard the men laughing and joking as they sat with plates full of stew and—hell—were those dumplings? He hadn't eaten dumplings in years.

  "Better food than you can cook, boss," someone called out.

  He grinned feeling suddenly cheerful. "Come on boys, I'm not that bad." Gilbert sat with Jack at one end of a long wooden table. "Mind if I join you?"

  "No, pull up a pew." Jack chuckled. "The kid can sure cook. Tell Harry to dish up an extra plate will you, Gilbert."

  "It's all right, I'll see him myself." Ross swung away from the table and strode towards the kitchen, inhaling the appetizing aromas anew. Harry had his back turned, bending over something in the oven.

  Without speaking, he watched for a few moments. The lad was obviously unaware of his presence. "Harry."

  He swung around. "Oh, Mr. Calvert."

  The boy's curls clung damply to his head, his cheeks were flushed a delicate pink and he quickly lowered his eyes. That's why Harry seemed furtive. He never looked at you directly. One thing he could not abide was deceit.

  "I've decided to eat with the men, the food smelt so good."

  Harry's slim hands ladled out a generous portion of stew and dumplings. Effeminate hands. Soft face. Slender body. Oh God, could he be one of those queers? Ross' stomach curdled with disgust.

  He reigned in his thoughts. Personal feelings shouldn't come into it. All he needed to worry about was whether the kid could cook. He carried his food back to the table and joined Gilbert and Jack.

  "Best meal I've eaten in weeks," Ross said between mouthfuls. "I must say, your brother can really cook."

  "Yeah, Harry's all right."

  "Do you feel up to mustering tomorrow, Gilbert?"

  "Yes, sir. What about Harry?"

  "Call me Ross. He stays here to prepare the evening meal for us."

  "Stays alone?"

  "I've employed him as a cook, nothing else."

  "I know, but we don't like being separated."

  Ross snorted his annoyance. "He's not a baby. What are you, Siamese twins or something?"

  "No, of course not, but we don't like being away from each other."

  "You sure as hell didn't take him to Gallipoli with you?" Ross snapped.

  A shudder shot through Gilbert, and his trembling finger
s dropped his fork. Once the shakes began he couldn't control them. The color faded from his face, leaving his skin bloodless. Sweat poured from him, his eyes glazed over.

  "What the hell's the matter with him?" Jack jumped from his chair.

  "Shell shock. I've seen it before, dozens of times, unfortunately. I'll get the kid. Men, finish your meals." Ross marched down the room. "Harry, your brother needs you."

  Harry dashed from the kitchen, almost knocking him over. "Gil, oh, Gil, what's wrong?"

  He watched with surprise as Harry's eyes filled with tears. The boy knelt down beside his brother's chair.

  "It's me, Harry, your brother. What happened?" Harry whirled around, his eyes accusing. "You upset him, didn't you?"

  "Get control of yourself, you're blubbering like a girl," Ross snapped. "He can sleep it off. Did the hospital give him any medication?"

  "I don't think so. Come on, Gil, have a nice lie down. You'll feel better soon," Harry soothed.

  Harry clung to one arm, he took the other, as they helped Gilbert out of the dining room.

  "He'll be all right, won't he?"

  "Yes. The boy needs to rest. The hospital shouldn't have let him out." He purposely spoke in harsh tones, trying to hide the fact that Harry's love and concern for his brother moved him. Exactly the way he had always felt about Eric.

  * * *

  In the storeroom, Harry had laid out both bedrolls side by side. She waited, dry mouthed, heart thudding, as Ross' gaze swept the room.

  Had she left anything out that might betray them?

  "You undress him."

  "Pardon?"

  "Undress your brother."

  "What! Oh, yes."

  "Well?" Ross stared at her.

  Surely he didn't expect her to undress Gil? Of course he did, she was his brother, wasn't she?

  "Um, there's baked treacle pudding in the oven, could you get someone to dish it out for the men, and some tea for Gil. There's boiling water on the stove."

  As soon as he left the room, she knelt down and took her brother's boots off, then his shirt and trousers. Leaving his underpants on, she laid a blanket over him.