Mr. Andrus gestured. “Come on. I’ll let you peek at your room and then get the introductions out of the way.”
She couldn’t help admiring the heavy carved furniture, or the sound of the grandfather clock’s chime. A woman’s touch was obvious based on the small details around the house. Lacy runners on tables, empty vases on windowsills, the flowery wallpaper.
They climbed the stairs and made their way down another hall. He stopped before a door, resting his hand on the knob. After a slight hesitation, he opened the door and moved, allowing her to enter first.
Ivory-colored curtains were drawn back, showering the room with sunlight. A wedding ring quilt and a ruffled skirt decorated a large mahogany four-poster bed. The kind of bed she had only dreamed of. An old bureau sat in the corner, beside it a washstand, and on the opposite wall a vanity. A yellowed doily decorated the middle of the vanity, along with a silver-backed brush set, much like the one Bridgit’s mother had owned. Her heart wrenched and she realized this was Charlotte’s room. Mr. Andrus gazed around as though he expected his sister.
Too in awe, she struggled to raise her voice above a whisper. “It’s nice. Thank you, sir.”
He frowned. “There are some things here you might be able to use. You’ve come unprepared, but there’s no need for you to do without. You’ve no bonnet to keep the sun off your face, or toiletries. If you can make use of some of her things, help yourself.”
His voice was matter-of-fact and detached. A knot in her throat kept her from speaking. How would it affect him to see her using his lost sister’s things? It wasn’t fair to remind him of Charlotte. The sorrow on his face was well masked, but she wanted to soothe it away. He’d shown concern for her when she hurt herself; she wished she could help him somehow.
He nodded at the far wall. “That’s the nursery. Olivia is right next door for convenience.”
Bridgit snuffed the urge to offer a comforting touch. He glared at the closed door like it might be a portal to hell. She had no such qualms. Meeting Olivia excited her more than arriving at Laurie Lark had. As much as she wanted to wander the garden and see the rest of the house, the desire to snuggle the baby was stronger.
“May I?” she asked.
He shrugged. “I’ll bring your bag up. If you need anything, Martha or Farjana can help you.”
“Thank you, Mr. Andrus,” Bridgit said again.
He paused for a second, then retreated. With shaking hands and a hopeful heart, she opened the door that connected her room with the nursery.
In the corner stood a bassinet decorated with delicate lace. A changing table stocked with plenty of nappies and gowns sat nearby. By the window, an ornately carved rocking chair provided a view of the grounds. The perfect spot for soothing a baby. It seemed Charlotte had arranged everything accordingly. Bridgit stepped toward the bassinet.
The sight of the tiny girl took her breath away. Olivia appeared perfect. Her fist was in her mouth, her eyes closed as she dreamed. Bridgit reached out and smoothed dark curls off Olivia’s forehead. The child stirred and sighed. The corners of her mouth lifted and her eyes opened, revealing the bluest irises Bridgit had ever seen. Her heart melted.
The baby gazed up at her with a bemused look. Her face wrinkled and she wailed.
Undaunted, Bridgit swept up the infant. Babies cried. It was nothing personal. A quick inspection revealed Olivia was wet. Murmuring, Bridgit went about gathering the items required for changing.
Olivia quieted, but Bridgit imagined the girl was hungry. Hugging the baby close, she descended the stairs. Her hand glided down the smooth banister, and her feet barely made a sound against the runner. She’d never thought she’d have the privilege of living in such a house. It must have cost a fortune. The fine details were meant to be enjoyed, the house lived in and loved. Her luck seemed on the mend.
The kitchen was large and homey, a stone floor with gleaming sideboards and a rectangular table piled with ingredients for supper. A plump, gray-haired woman whistled at the stove. A salty, greasy smell wafted through the kitchen. Bridgit’s stomach growled.
“Ma’am?”
The older woman jumped and spun around, her hand pressed against an ample bosom. “For heaven’s sake, what’s the meaning of sneaking up on a poor soul?” Her accent was decidedly British. Her tone was scathing, her eyes narrow with suspicion. Bridgit’s heart plummeted. “I am sorry. Martha, isn’t it? Forgive me for interrupting. I believe Olivia is hungry.”
Martha raised her chin and appraised Bridgit. It was nothing new to her, so she bounced Olivia a bit and waited for the other woman’s judgment.
“It’s Mrs. Jackson to you. You’re Jonah’s convict?”
Bridgit nodded, maintaining eye contact. She knew the rules, but she possessed a measure of pride too.
“Yes, Mrs. Jackson. I’m Bridgit. Would it be possible to feed Olivia now?”
Martha’s scowl deepened. Bridgit looked down at Olivia, feeling more sympathetic than before. They were a pair, both orphaned and trying to survive in a strange country. At least Olivia looked well cared for, even if it had been grudgingly.
Martha turned to the stove, then uttered a sharp cry. A dishcloth lay across an open grate on the stove. Fire crept up the rag, flames growing larger as it lapped the material. If the fire spread away from the pan, it wouldn’t be easy to extinguish.
Common sense caught up with Bridgit’s surprise. They needed to douse the flames with anything except water. A pantry caught her eye. Olivia squawked as Bridgit grasped a can of baking soda on the top shelf. She pried the top off and tossed a handful of powder on the stove and over the pan. The fire died out as she continued to sprinkle. She breathed a sigh of relief.
Disbelief was written on the older woman’s face, along with a layer of soda. Bridgit wiped a hand across her cheek, aware it probably covered her too.
“What the devil?”
Bridgit turned and saw Mr. Andrus. Olivia sneezed, a tiny noise that sounded loud in the shocked silence. His brow furrowed as he looked between his help and the stove. The scent of charred material hung heavy in the air.
“This wretched woman ruined supper!” Martha bawled.
“Bridgit?”
“Yes, her! Look at it, the chicken’s covered with baking soda. It isn’t even fit for the dogs.”
Bridgit hoisted Olivia higher and stood firm, ignoring Martha’s tears. “It was on fire. A towel fell on the stove and right over the blasted pan. I didn’t fancy letting the house burn to the ground.”
Mr. Andrus appeared puzzled. Then a grin spread over his face. “Onya, Bridgit.”
“Wh-what?” Martha asked.
Bridgit cocked her head. “I beg your pardon?”
“Good on you. Well done,” he answered. “I have enough to do without building a new kitchen.”
“What about dinner?” Both women asked at the same time.
Mr. Andrus waved his hand dismissively. “Figure out something else. Get this mess cleaned up. Martha, love, please be more careful about the stove.”
His voice was gentle as he looked at the cook. Bridgit thought if it had been her who set the place on fire he’d have dragged her back to Parramatta without a second thought.
“You’d best go clean up yourself. There’s powder on your face, just there.” He rubbed his own cheek in demonstration before he left.
She touched her face. Martha muttered under her breath, but it grew louder as Mr. Andrus’s footsteps faded. She threw a harsh look at Bridgit as she removed the pan.
“I’ll just step upstairs for a minute,” Bridgit said, leaving the scene behind. For all her good intentions, she hadn’t done herself any favors in Martha’s eyes.
7
“Blasted powder,” Bridgit muttered, brushing streaks out of her dress. “Of all the things to happen today.”
At least Mr. Andrus hadn’t been angry. He’d even thanked her, but she wouldn’t share her working hours with him. It would be Martha, who wasn’t happy with her.
A rapid knock on the doorframe startled her. She half-dreaded answering the sound. After suffering Martha’s attitude, she understood why the former maid had fled.
A short, slender black woman smiled from the doorway. Long plaits hung over her shoulders. Her dress stood out with bold colors against the dark wood walls. She was pretty, Bridgit mused.
“Mr. Jonah sent me up here to see that you’re settled.” Her English was as good as that of the man outside.
“I believe I am. Just cleaning up a bit after an episode downstairs.” Bridgit couldn’t help smiling as the woman covered her mouth, stifling a laugh.
“Old Martha is still muttering about it. I am Farjana, Rupert’s wife. He told me Mr. Jonah came back with a pretty girl instead of another one like Martha.” Farjana entered the room, studying Bridgit. She seemed pleased at the idea.
“I’m Bridgit. Not quite what Mr. Andrus was after, I’m afraid. He’s made that clear enough.”
“He will be thankful for your presence here in no time. Polly, the last maid, she didn’t care much for watching after a baby. I started taking Miss Olivia home with me at night since Polly ran off. He would never admit it, but having her away from the house made Mr. Andrus nervous,” Farjana explained.
She crossed the floor and caressed the baby’s soft, fat cheek, humming a few notes of a song Bridgit hadn’t heard before. It sent a chill down her spine. Farjana raised her dark eyes.
“They say you came across the ocean in a big wooden ship. Shackled and bound under the laws of England. You are a prisoner and you must do what that Mr. Jonah asks of you. Is that true?”
Bridgit’s mouth was dry. “Yes.”
Farjana’s expression turned thoughtful. “Like Mr. Langnecker. Do you know him?”
“No. He’s a convict as well?”
Farjana didn’t answer. Her gaze flitted around the room again. “Many, many years ago my ancestors lived here. Their spirits live in the rocks, the trees, even the grass. This house was happy once. Mr. Jonah’s family has been here a long time. The spirits didn’t mind. His people were good to the land. The spirits whispered and fretted when Miss Charlotte got with child. She was doomed from the beginning. They fret still as they watch Miss Olivia.”
The temperature seemed to plummet. Was Farjana telling her someone or something in the house didn’t like her? She clenched her fists at her sides as tension tightened her stomach.
Quick as the concern changed her face, the aborigine woman straightened and her smile came back. Her white teeth flashed. “Someday the house will be happy again. First there is much healing that needs to happen. I have a feeling about you, Miss Bridgit.”
“What kind of feeling?” Wariness crept over her. Her dealings with the natives were limited to polite nods.
“The spirits hushed their fussing when you came here. They think the same things I do. Perhaps you can help restore the happiness we lost.”
“I doubt that. I won’t be here long enough to restore anything except polish and shine. The spirits should find someone else to make this house sing.” She disliked talking of spectres, although she was aware the aborigines believed their ancestors were everywhere. Thinking about ghosts frightened her. In her country, spirits weren’t always friendly.
The dark-skinned woman shrugged, but her smile didn’t fade. “You need something, you let Farjana or Rupert know. We’re happy to assist you. Rupert helps with the stock, and I take care of the garden and laundry. You need nappies for that baby, you see me. Alright?”
The conversation had taken such a turn, Bridgit was even more startled. She nodded and forced a smile. Mr. Andrus had an interesting assortment of friends and employees. Farjana sailed out of the room as mysteriously as she had come.
She thought supper turned out nicely, despite the mishap with the fire. Martha glared at her nonstop, even when Bridgit complimented the meal. There was no friendship blooming between them. Why the woman should be hateful was beyond comprehension.
Mr. Andrus came back long enough to eat a few bites before he saddled a fine black horse and rode out to see to his land. He offered no explanation and didn’t say when he would return. So far she hadn’t seen a single cow. She watched at the nursery window until he was no more than a speck against the horizon.
Olivia drifted to sleep without a complaint. She never stirred when Bridgit placed her in the bassinet. At a loss about what to do next, she returned to the kitchen.
“I could help you clean up, Mrs. Jackson. With Olivia asleep, I have a few spare moments.” It couldn’t hurt to extend her friendship.
Martha turned her back and scrubbed the frying pan.
Perhaps Farjana was right. The house felt empty and sad. Its mistress was missing. The house wasn’t a home without a family. The rooms were too quiet. Pushing thoughts of spirits out of her head, she settled in the study. It was a man’s domain, from the painting of hunting dogs and horses to the furniture, ashtray and box of cigars on the desk.
Dusty shelves held rows of leather bound books. An impressive collection. They must have been costly to buy and bring to the station. A big wingback chair beckoned her. Bridgit sank into the cushions, closed her eyes and recalled the sound of children’s laughter. If she thought about it hard enough, she could picture her home. Her father smoking his pipe as her mum darned by lamplight. How Collin and Donovan played with a top on the floor. Bonnie learning to read, sounding out words while Bridgit listened and encouraged. It was such a pleasant memory, she almost missed the rumble of distant thunder.
The storms that blew into Parramatta were the fiercest she’d ever seen. At the Factory, the gaolers expected the convicts to work regardless of the noise and lightning. The sandstone walls of the gaol were seldom damaged by the winds, but this house could be. She buried her fingers in the chair arms as the thunder intensified. Above the noise, her own heartbeat pounded in her ears.
When the clap ended, she bolted out of the chair, wondering where she might hide. Memories of the ship pitching and tossing swelled over her. The smell of sickness surrounded her as surely as if she was inside the hold. The terrible crushing certainty the Margaret would sink into the deep, black ocean haunted her.
She tripped up the stairs, aware the walls would do little to stop wailing winds that might tear apart the wooden structure. If that happened, there would be no protection against the lashing tongues of lightning. Shaking at the thought, she curled up on the bed.
Helped along by the gathered clouds, darkness fell with the speed of a hawk diving for a mouse. How much time passed, she didn’t know. Everything was quiet, except for the sounds of the storm and horrors playing through her mind.
Without warning, a great peal of thunder rattled the windows. Bridgit pressed her hand over her mouth to stifle a whimper. The door opened and Mr. Andrus entered, his shirt darkened by splatters of rain.
“What are you doing? Martha said she called for you before she left, but you didn’t answer.”
Feeling foolish, she sat up. Clasping her hands, she wished for something more solid to hold on to. Before she could answer, lightning lit the night and she flinched. He didn’t seem aware of the danger around them.
“Going to be a long night,” Mr. Andrus stated. “Alright here?”
He shifted awkwardly, but her gaze flew to the window. If the squall bothered him, he didn’t let her know. She heard him come closer, his footsteps light against the rug. His weight caused the ropes holding the mattress to groan. His side pressed against hers.
“You’re frightened of storms?” His voice was quiet, free of mockery.
When he touched her, the fear faded. They hadn’t been so close since he’d checked her ankle.
The frequent brilliant flashes of lightning made his features clear. Thunder rumbled overhead. A ragged sob escaped her. She jumped to her feet. His hand shot out and grabbed hers. He pulled her down onto the quilt. His fingers entwined with hers.
“Are you afraid of the storms?” he asked again.
&
nbsp; “We’ll be blown away.” Her voice came out a harsh whisper. She struggled to free her hand, but his grip was unmovable iron.
“No, we won’t.”
He turned toward her. Bridgit bit her bottom lip, not at all reassured. The clatter of debris hitting the house belied his words.
“This is just a small storm. Trust me.” He used his free hand to smooth stray hair from her face. “There isn’t anywhere else to go. If this worries you, you won’t make it through the spring, love.”
He squeezed her hand and let go. He’d called her love once before, when he was protecting her from a stranger. What did it mean? She was baffled by his actions. Before she could ask what he was doing, he reached out and took her by the shoulders, pulling her against his chest.
She placed her hands against his chest, tried to push away. He didn’t have the right to be so close. They were nose to nose. The next flash of light revealed his smile, combined with a wicked glint in his eyes. All the strength left her body. Her will vanished as though tossed away on the violent wind. When he pressed his lips over hers, the power to make rational decisions was rendered useless.
His mouth bruised her lips in a hungry kiss she returned. She’d never kissed a man before and her attempts were clumsy.
He caressed her breasts through the material separating their flesh. As his hands inched down her side, she moaned with pleasure, wishing he touched her bare skin. He planted soft kisses along her jaw and down her neck. The top two buttons of her dress opened with the flick of his fingers. With her collarbone laid bare, he kissed it too.
“I’ve itched to taste you since yesterday evening,” he murmured.
A heat as foreign as the landscape rushed through Bridgit. The thunder seemed distant. Somehow he made the worry fade with hot kisses and searching hands. Beneath the rough material of her dress, her nipples hardened into tight peaks. Thumbs taunted them until they ached. For what, she couldn’t say. Surely it was inappropriate to want his mouth there.
The Convict and the Cattleman Page 5
