Sweet Fire

by Jo Goodman

  God but he wanted her to say those words and know what she was saying.

  “Did you hear me?” she asked when he didn’t make a reply.

  He squeezed her hand. Above her, his eyes closed momentarily. “I heard you.”

  She thought he might say that he loved her. He didn’t. Lydia said them instead. She turned in his arms and kissed his face and thought she tasted the wet saltiness of tears, but she was never sure that they weren’t her own.

  He made love to her then and Lydia forgot about everything except for the moment.

  They stood arm in arm at the taffrail of the Avonlei as the ship was made ready to sail out of Apia Harbour. On shore a group of islanders waved and children chased one another along the beach, laughing with the clear tones and unfettered joy of youth. One of the boys tossed something white into the air and they all scrambled to catch it. It fluttered to the ground just out of their reach.

  “Is it a kite?” Lydia asked, intrigued by the antics of the children. “I could have shown them how to make a better kite.”

  “I don’t think that’s what it is,” he said, following the children’s play with narrowed eyes. “In fact…No, it couldn’t be...” He disengaged himself from Lydia’s arm and hurried away, returning in less than a minute with the captain’s spyglass. He held it up, adjusted the focus. “I’ll be damned,” he said softly, lowering the glass and passing it to Lydia. He was smiling now. “See for yourself, Lydia.”

  Puzzled, she lifted the small telescope. “Oh, Lord,” she said, mortified. “Where did they...” Her voice trailed off. She remembered where. Her cheeks were deeply flushed as she gave the glass back to Nathan. “It’s all your fault.”

  He was trying to look innocent, but there was the unmistakable glint of laughter in his eyes. The object the children were tossing and chasing with complete abandon was Lydia’s corset.

  Part III

  Ballaburn

  Chapter 9

  The Avonlei left San Francisco in spring and in just over four weeks, sailed into winter. It was late on the night of June 28 when Avonlei’s lookout spotted light from Macquarie Tower’s single oil lamp at South Head. Sydney Harbor was just beyond. Lydia and Nathan stood on deck with their fellow passengers and watched the beacon of light, still some twenty miles away, grow infinitesimally brighter as they neared it. Lydia was glad for the lined cape that had hung uselessly in her wardrobe until now. Their breath misted in front of her as the temperature nudged the low forties and the southeast trade winds no longer seemed warm.

  They stayed on board Avonlei that evening while the ship was anchored in Watson’s Bay, waiting for dawn to ease its passage to Sydney Cove. Lydia was up before Nathan. She had all their belongings packed and was sitting on one of their trunks, anxious and expectant, hopelessly incapable of containing her excitement.

  Looking at her, it was impossible for Nathan not to smile. She had his clothes laid out for him, his shaving soap lathered, and fresh water in the basin. Whenever he performed his morning rituals with less speed than Lydia thought was warranted, she sighed audibly and dramatically.

  Their trunks and valises were finally placed on a carriage bound for Sydney along the South Head Road. Lydia would have ridden on top with the luggage if Nathan had let her. She wanted to see everything, know everything, about her new home. The other passengers were indulgent, giving her the window seat on the right so she could enjoy the best view on their journey.

  What she saw delighted and mystified her. It also frightened her a little as well. She could not put a name to most of what she saw. Nathan saw her distress and intuitively understood the cause.

  “It’s not your memory,” he whispered in her ear. “You’ve never seen the like before, because there’s none like it. Imagine what the men on the First Fleet must have thought when they sighted Botany Bay.”

  “It was another world.”

  “It was hell.” The words were not said angrily but simply as a statement of fact. “This whole area is sandstone,” he said. “You saw the beaches on the ocean side, how beautifully golden they are. That’s from the wearing away of the sandstone. Where you can’t see it outright in the ridges and gullies, it’s only covered with a shallow bed of humus. It won’t support market crops and it won’t support a garden.”

  What it did support, however, was remarkably diverse and hardy. There were trees, some as high as fifty feet, with gnarled trunks and a thick hide of bark, narrow, silvery leaves, surviving in the sandy soil by grit and determination that seemed wholly Australian. There was the red gum, growing quite impossibly where a tree should not have been, sprouting from the head of bare sandstone rock and inviting the sun’s caress on its smooth and satiny bark, shining with a hint of pink and white. There were fragrant eucalypts with their bluish-green leaves and groves of cabbage palms with slender, graceful trunks, and a headdress of fan-shaped leaves.

  The billowing sails of clipper ships dotted Port Jackson and the port itself was shaped by dozens of inlets and bays. The route their carriage took closely followed Rose Bay at one point then passed near Double Bay and Woolloomooloo Bay. It seemed fitting that such an alien place should have its share of equally alien names.

  Sydney had much in common with the vegetation surrounding it. The city was a battler and a survivor as well, settled by people who had put down roots in spite of the long odds against them. Nearly one hundred years after the First Fleet landed, Sydney was not merely surviving anymore. She had come into her own, flourishing with industry and trade, deserving of the hard-earned reputation as the mother city of the Continent.

  Petty’s Hotel, on the western side of York Street, was where Nathan and Lydia finally alighted. It was a grand and stylish building, with three floors, wide verandas, and wrought-iron railings. On the perimeter of the property was a spiked iron fence. Stone pillars flanked the main gate.

  Lydia looked around the lobby while Nathan registered them at the front desk and the clerk sent out two boys to bring in the luggage from the sidewalk.

  “Does Mad Irish know you’ve returned?” the clerk asked, making a notation in the heavy registration book. He squinted over the top of his spectacles rather than push them up his nose.

  “Not unless rumor travels even faster than I think it does,” said Nathan. “We’ve only just arrived.”

  The clerk looked beyond Nathan’s shoulder, his brows raised slightly as his eyes darted over Lydia. She was examining the small collection of native oil paintings on either side of the fireplace. “That’s her, then?” he asked, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Who would have thought Mad Irish would—” He broke off because Nathan had closed the registration book over his hand and was pressing on it hard. “So that’s the way of it,” he said, trying to ease his hand out. “She doesn’t know.”

  “I swear I’ll break your hand, Henry. But I’ll do it one finger at a time, perhaps one knuckle at a time.”

  Henry smiled nervously. His high forehead was instantly shiny with sweat. “Of course,” he said. “I don’t know a thing about the wager. Not a thing.”

  Nathan didn’t release the clerk’s hand right away. He leaned his elbow casually on the book and called to Lydia to join him. “Lydia, this is Henry Tucker. Henry, my wife. Henry’s been at Petty’s about four years now. Isn’t that right, Henry?” Henry’s smile was fulsome, but he didn’t do more than nod. “And he’ll see that we get the best treatment while we’re here.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Henry was moved to say.

  “How very kind you are, Mr. Tucker,” said Lydia. “I’m certain I’ll enjoy my stay.”

  Nathan leaned away from the desk. Henry removed his hand surreptitiously and got the keys to Nathan’s suite. “Your room opens on the veranda,” he told them. “Anything wrong at all, come to me. I’ll put it right again, just see if I don’t.”

  On the stairs to their room, Lydia said, “Mr. Tucker was very accommodating. You must know him well.”

  Nathan shrugg
ed. “He used to work for Mad Irish at Ballaburn. Now he caters to the Squattocracy.”

  “The what?”

  “The Squattocracy. The aristocracy of the bush. Graziers. Stockmen. Farmers. Men who got their claim on the land by squatter’s rights and now have some money in their pockets to spread in the city. Generally a squatter is a large landholder.”

  “I see. Then it was your money and position that made Mr. Tucker so pleasant.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Oh,” she said softly. “And I thought it was because you had his hand slammed in that book.”

  Saint Benedict’s Church was one of the oldest Roman Catholic churches in the country. Built of stone in the Gothic style, it had a spire that towered over its neighbors on Abercrombie and George Streets. The chapel was used on weekdays as a school, and that’s where Nathan found Father Colgan.

  “We shouldn’t interrupt their instruction,” Lydia said, pulling Nathan by the sleeve in an attempt to hold him back. “Oh, look, we’ve already distracted them from their lessons.”

  Nathan felt the press of two score of eyes turned suddenly in his direction. The youngest children were already talking out loud and shifting in their seats. Father Colgan clapped his hands once to regain their attention, gave his book to the oldest child in the classroom, and bid them all to recite multiplication tables in unison.

  “Nathan, my boy!” he said happily when they were outside the classroom. “What a sight you are! And Mad Irish himself wonderin’ if you’d ever return to Ballaburn. I told him you were as good as your word—and so you’ve proved me right.” His large hands clasped Nathan by the shoulders and gave him a small shake, beaming widely. Father Colgan had fiery red hair and eyebrows only a shade darker. His green eyes were open and friendly and his nose was slightly flat and misshapen, the result of three rounds of fisticuffs with a street bully in his youth. “Mad Irish has seen you, hasn’t he? You’ve only just come from Ballaburn?”

  Nathan shook his head. “We’ve only just come from Petty’s Hotel and before that from the Avonlei. Mad Irish is certain to hear I’m back before the day’s out.”

  Father Colgan turned his hearty smile on Lydia. “And it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, dear child. I’ve been wanting to meet the woman who could lay claim to—”

  “My heart,” Nathan interrupted. He had no idea where Father Colgan’s statement might end, but he was not prepared to take any chances. It worked. The priest was distracted.

  “Love, is it?” Father Colgan laughed. “Sure, and I can see for myself that it is. Who would have thought? I wasn’t certain there was a colleen who would have you. And what a fair lass she is, too.” He poked Nathan lightly in the ribs. “What a wager it’s been, eh? Make the introductions, boyo.”

  When Nathan was done, Lydia was warmly embraced by Father Colgan. His obvious affection surprised her, for she had done nothing to earn it save become the wife of Nathan Hunter. Perhaps that counted for something more than Nathan had led her to believe. Squattocracy indeed.

  “Lydia and I want to be married here, Father,” Nathan said.

  “Married? But you said…it’s Lydia Hunter, isn’t it?”

  “Oh, yes,” Lydia assured him. “But I don’t remember that, you see, and Nathan thought I might like to have another ceremony. One I can remember. You’ll do it for us, won’t you?”

  Father Colgan’s smile was fixed now and his eyes were sharply questioning as he turned to Nathan.

  “Lydia,” Nathan said quickly, “would you mind terribly if I spoke to Father Colgan in private?”

  She was gracious, though bewildered. “I wouldn’t mind at all. Perhaps I could stay with the children. Their recitation requires a little work. Seven times eight is not sixty-three.” She slipped inside the classroom and in a matter of minutes the droning voices became a lively chorus.

  Father Colgan listened and nodded his approval. “She’s a fine one. You were fortunate it turned out so well for you. How’s Brig taking it and what’s this folderol about her not remembering your wedding?”

  “Let’s go to your office,” Nathan said. “Lydia will be fine with the children. She loves them—the more urchin-like, the better.”

  The priest listened without comment for twenty minutes as Nathan explained the situation more fully. Even then he knew there were some things the younger man was keeping to himself. He wanted to press with questions but counseled himself to tread lightly. He leaned back in his chair, supporting the back of his head in the cradle of his palms. “It was a mad scheme from the beginning,” he said finally. “And didn’t I say that very thing to Irish? Oh, well, I’ll take it up with him when I see him again. He’s not been to church above three or four times since you and Brig left for California. As things turned out, praying wouldn’t have come amiss.”

  Perhaps that was so. Nathan wasn’t sure, and what he didn’t need from Father Colgan was yet another lecture on the sheer folly of Mad Irish’s plotting. “Will you marry us?” he asked.

  “It’s what she wants?”

  “Yes. You can ask Lydia yourself.”

  “I believe you. It’s clear as my lumpy nose that she loves you.”

  “She thinks she does.”

  Father Colgan had no reply for that. Nathan would not believe anything he said to the contrary. “Very well, Nath.” He sighed. “I’ll do it. Mad Irish would like to see this marriage, though. Can it wait a day or so? Give him time to come in from Ballaburn?”

  “No. Lydia and I want to be married today.”

  “All right. We’ll have the ceremony in the chapel. I’ll excuse the children for the afternoon. Let me get the proper vestments and find Sister Isabel and Sister Anne. They’ll be very pleased to act as your witnesses and Mad Irish would never dare doubt them.”

  Nathan’s lips were cool and dry as they touched Lydia’s mouth at the end of the ceremony. Her hands were enfolded in his, protected and warm. There was a faint reassurance as he squeezed them gently. Lydia’s dark blue eyes were bright, her smile radiant, both of them lighted from the inside as if she were the source.

  Father Colgan offered his congratulations and kissed Lydia on the cheek. He turned to Nathan. “There was never a wager like it,” he said, shaking his head. “And, God willing, there never will be again. Here, sign your names in the book so the marriage can be recorded.”

  Lydia wrote first, signing her name Lydia Chadwick Hunter. There was a space to record her occupation. “What do I put here?” she asked.

  “American free settler,” the priest told her. “It means you’re not a convict.”

  Lydia finished quickly and gave the pen to Nathan. He had to produce his ticket-of-leave and dutifully record his crime and his sentence. For the first time Lydia had a sense of the burden Nathan carried and she understood the bitterness she sometimes glimpsed in his eyes. When he straightened she saw the anger that was not quite shuttered, the embarrassment at having to record his convict status in front of her. She took the pen from his hand then took his hand, and now it was she who offered reassurance.

  They did not return to their hotel immediately after the ceremony. Nathan took Lydia to eat at the Royal Hotel, which boasted a polygonal bar and two grand saloons, each one hundred feet long. They dined on clams and wild rice, sweetly buttered peas, and drank champagne from delicately fluted crystal goblets.

  “People know you here, too,” she said, a little awed by the fact.

  One corner of Nathan’s mouth lifted in a self-mocking smile. “If we were in San Francisco it would be much the same thing, only it was your family that was known. It’s really Mad Irish they know, and me by association. And if you’re carefully observant, you’ll notice that the Sterling don’t pay much heed at all, only the Currency.”

  “Sterling? Currency? What does that mean?” Honestly, she thought, they spoke English in two different languages. At various times today she had heard herself described as a sheila, a cliner, a sninny, and most, disturbingly, as troubl
e and strife—the wife. Tea was supper, dinner was lunch, and supper was a light repast in the late evening. Bluey was a man with red hair and bloody was an interjection that turned inoffensive statements embarrassingly blue. “What does money have to do with anything we were discussing?” she asked.

  “Everything and nothing. Sterling are the children of the English free settlers. The coin of the realm. No convict stain. Currency, though, refers to the paper script used here before there was a gold strike and a mint. It means the offspring of convicts.” His mouth flattened fractionally. “What our children will be.”

  “Will you mind?” she asked.

  “I should be asking you that question.” In truth, Nathan had spoken without thinking. He had never given much thought to having children, none at all to having children with Lydia. She could be pregnant now, he realized, and he had never even considered what that would mean to her, to him. God, but he was a selfish man. “I don’t think I’ve adequately prepared you for life here, Liddy. It’s not what you were used to.”

  “I don’t remember what I was used to.”

  “So you’ve told me.”

  Lydia looked around the dining room. None of the other patrons were paying them the least attention. Her hand slipped under the table and touched Nathan lightly on his leg. “Our children will be quite proud to call you Father.”

  Nathan held Lydia’s glance over the rim of his goblet. Her hand had traveled stealthily to his inner thigh, and though her features were serenely innocent, her thoughts were not. “Keep your hand there a second longer, Mrs. Hunter, and I’ll put you over this table, toss up your skirts, and see if I can’t start our family right now, right here.”