Daring Masquerade (15 page)

Harry sat next to Ross, resting her back against a giant river gum, glad of a chance to rest for a while. So much had happened over the last couple of days, her head spun. How could she heal the rift that stretched like a chasm between them? He was obviously in no mood to receive an olive branch, just sat staring into the distance, a sullen anger sharpening the angles of his face.

Finally, he roused himself. "Time we were off. We've got a lot of ground to cover before dark."

Emptying the billycan over the flames to extinguish them, he kicked dirt over the ashes to ensure no embers remained. Purposely she hung back so he could take the lead as the horses ploughed back into the bush to continue their grueling journey.

He showed no mercy either to her or their horses. When her mount baulked, refusing to slide down a steep incline into fast flowing water, he gave it several hard slaps with a swish to get it going. She hung on for grim death. He used the same methods on his own mount to send it plunging down the incline after her.

Mile after mile they traversed some of the roughest, most inhospitable country she had ever seen. The sun had set like a giant fireball behind the mountains when he finally called a halt in a clearing.

"It will be an easy ride to Benalla tomorrow," he said. "You get the fire going, I'll see if I can rustle us up something to eat." He strode off carrying his gun.

She unsaddled their horses and led them down to the creek for a drink then put hobbles on them so they could graze, but not wander off. She made a fire, set the water on to boil and laid out their ground sheets and blankets. Two shots echoed in the stillness. Shortly afterwards, he appeared carrying a pair of rabbits, already gutted and skinned.

He swung them from side to side. "Dinner. Nice succulent bunny. Nothing like it."

They skewered them on sticks that he sharpened with his hunting knife, and toasted some stale bread he had packed in his saddlebag. With their black tea they would have some of the shortbread Mrs. Bates had thoughtfully provided.

"This is what I call paradise." His white teeth flashed as they ripped through the succulent flesh. She watched fascinated, the muscles in her stomach contracting, as he put his tongue out and slowly licked at the fatty juices dripping off his bottom lip.

"On Gallipoli I thought of the Australian bush, picturing a place like this. It kept me sane through all the noise and carnage. On the sixth of August, the New Zealanders made an assault on Chunuk Bair, while we attacked Lone Pine. A bloody massacre, but nothing like what happened to Gilbert's lot at the Nek."

Ross shuddered. "Six hundred men went over the parapets in waves. They were caught in a deadly crossfire of machineguns and rifles, and mown down like corn in a field. In three minutes, half of them lay dead. That's what your brother survived."

"Lone Pine was bad according to the papers." She shifted closer to him.

"Seven Victoria Crosses were won there. Should have been a hundred. The place of the Lonely Pine wiped out all the young men from some small country towns. I doubt if they'll ever recover from it."

"Don't go back to the war," she pleaded, grabbing his hand. "You've done your share."

"I'll have no say in it if the army finds me fit. You think I want to leave all this?" He waved his arm around. "How the hell can I stay here, when other men are fighting and dying in France?"

Once the sun went down, night fell quickly. It was pitch black now, except for the glowing embers of their fire and the twinkling stars a million miles away in the sky.

"Better get some sleep," he said. "We'll be leaving at first light in the morning. Goodnight."

She hoped he might kiss her. Hoped he might do more, but he rolled himself up in his blanket and turned his back. He didn't want her anymore, she thought sadly, wondering why she loved him so much, when he was so indifferent.
If only I looked beautiful then he would desire me.

Sadness and loneliness overwhelmed her. As she settled into her blanket, a solitary tear slipped from her eye, followed by several more. She scrubbed at them with her fingertips, but they kept coursing down her cheeks.

"What's wrong with you?" He rolled closer. "Hope you're not getting a cold."

"I'm not getting a cold."

"For goodness sake, you're crying. Why?"

"You don't want me," she blubbered.

"Oh, Harry." He gathered her close and she nuzzled her face against his shirt. "It isn't that I don't want you."

"Make love to me then."

"No."

She recoiled as if he had slapped her face, and tried to pull away, but he held her tightly.

"Go to sleep."

"Why?"

"For God's sake," he exploded. "We have to face your aunt tomorrow morning. It wouldn't be decent."

"Why? She wouldn't know."

"I'd know. Go to sleep. Please, you're making things difficult for me."

"So you do want me?" Her heart lifted with hope.

"Yes, damn it," he ground out. "Go to sleep while I've still got some control over myself."

"I love you." She cuddled into his hard, warm body and wriggled into a comfortable position.

"Stop it." He groaned. "You don't know what you're doing to me."

* * *

The next morning, they arrived at Auntie Bertha's house, a single-storied, rambling place with a neat garden. They had changed into clean shirts and pants, but she still felt disheveled. He didn't appear happy about his own shabby appearance, either.

"Well, this is it. Auntie Bertha's establishment for genteel folk."

Across the flagged verandah they went, and Harry banged the brass knocker against the door. The tall, grim-faced woman who answered stared at her without recognition.

"Hello, Auntie Bertha, it's Harry."

"Good Lord, Harriet. What have you done to yourself?"

"This is Ross Calvert. Ross, my aunt, Bertha Martin."

"Good morning, I'm pleased to meet you." He swept his hat off.

"You better come inside. Can't have you loitering out on the porch. The neighbors might start gossiping." Sniffing slightly, she led them down a long, carpeted hallway leading into the parlor.

"Now, what is it you want, Harriet?"

"Do I have to want anything?"

"You wouldn't come near me otherwise," she said bluntly. "Sorry to hear about Gilbert. I suppose you got him involved in some wild stunt."

All warmth drained from Harry at her aunt's cruelty, but she defended herself bravely.

"I would have given up my own life if it could have saved Gil."

"Miss Martin." Ross said in an icy voice. "Harry had nothing to do with Gilbert's death."

"Don't argue with her. Old witch has always hated me."

"Harriet, how dare you speak to me like that?"

"The war caused Gilbert's mind to go," Ross explained. "There was nothing Harry or anyone else could do to save him. He was hell bent on his own destruction."

"What about you? Why aren't you off fighting?" Bertha went on the attack again.

Harry jumped to his defense. "Ross was wounded at Gallipoli."

"Leave this to me, Harry. You're only making things worse."

"I suppose you want some tea?" Aunt Bertha's tone indicated she hoped they didn't.

"No thanks," he said. "All I want from you is your written consent so Harry and I can get married."

"You won't get it."

"Why not? You'll be rid of me once and for all. I'll be his responsibility. Your Christian conscience will be clear."

"A bit of religion wouldn't do you any harm. Your father fell down badly there. Of course, I blame your mother for that."

"You leave my mother out of this. She made my dad happy."

"Your father could have done much better for himself."

"This is getting us nowhere," Ross interrupted. "I need your consent to marry Harry."

"No."

His cheeks flushed with anger. "I can keep her in the appropriate manner."

"You don't look as if you have two coins to rub together."

"I'm one of the Calverts from Devil's Ridge," he retorted arrogantly, every inch the public school boy and army officer.

"Never heard of you."

"I'm having a baby," Harry blurted out.

Bertha flopped into a chair and started fanning herself frantically with a lace handkerchief.

"Harry." His hard tone stilled her runaway tongue.

"I'm fronting an Army Medical board in a few days, then I'll be off to France. We need to be married before I leave."

"You Catholic?"

"No. In normal circumstances I'd have banns read out at the local church, but there's no time for that now."

"Very well, you leave me no choice. There's been enough scandal in this family already. If it got out about your condition, Harriet, I would be ashamed to show my face in church again."

"We couldn't possibly have that, could we?" Harry sneered. "Dear me no, those pious hypocrites would have a field day."

"Harry, be quiet," Ross ordered. "If you write a note giving your consent, we'll be off."

Harry made to speak, but a hard stare from Ross stopped her. Aunt Bertha stomped over to the dresser drawer, took out a writing kit and quickly wrote out her consent.

"You're welcome to her." She thrust the paper into his hand. "She's trouble. Always has been."

"Thank you, we won't take up any more of your time," he said haughtily. "Don't bother seeing us out."

"Yeah, we aren't going to steal your silverware." Harry fired off one last parting shot as she followed Ross into the hallway. "Miserable old bitch."

"Keep that mouth of yours shut. I don't like liars."

"I had to lie. She wouldn't have given her consent otherwise."

"You'll push me too far one of these days, Harry, and so help me."

"You don't have to marry me."

"You think I would if I had a choice," he snarled. "I won't have any child of mine being called a bastard."

His ferocious words slammed into her like a brick wall and she almost doubled up with the impact. They mounted in silence and rode away.

Ross glanced over at Harry hunched in the saddle. He could not understand why he had spoken so brutally to her.

"I'm sorry. I'm a mongrel for speaking to you like that. Let's get out of this town"

"All right, whatever you think is best."

She sounded as if all the life had been sucked out of her, and remorse washed over him. It was true; he didn't want to get married. Would never trust a woman again. If he could not have Virginia, he didn't want anyone, simple as that.

Why the hell did he ever employ them? Why did he let his guard slip and give in to his carnal desires without a thought for the consequences? Had he secretly harbored the thought Harry might be the kind of girl who could look after herself? Truth be known, he hadn't thought of anything except his own sexual need. Now he had to pay for it. He didn't like it. Not one little bit.

Did she deliberately trap him? Had it been any other woman he would have said yes, but she was guileless. What you saw with Harry was what you got.

* * *

Three weeks after their visit to Bertha Martin they married at the Presbyterian manse in the morning. Jack and Mrs. Bates attended as witnesses. After sharing a celebratory lunch, they caught the afternoon train to Melbourne.

Harry wore a parchment-colored, voile frock with tiny green flowers embroidered all over it. On her bright curls perched a straw boater hat, trimmed with the exact shade of green as that on her dress. Ross had taken her shopping for some clothes, and for the first time in her life, she felt attractive.

"I can't believe I'm really Mrs. Ross Calvert." She twisted the simple gold wedding band on her finger.

"Well, you are."

Sitting opposite her in the first class compartment, he opened up the paper to catch up on the latest war news.

Her eyes grew increasingly heavy as the train steamed along. She had not slept well over the last few days. Ross' moodiness combined with excitement about getting married interfered with her sleep.

When they arrived in Melbourne, they took a motorized taxi to the Grand Hotel in Spring Street. What an exclusive place. A uniformed porter met them and escorted them into the foyer. So this was how the rich people lived. She watched as Ross signed a brown leather-bound ledger.

A young, uniformed maid came up to them. "Please follow me Mr. and Mrs. Calvert. She led the way up a carpeted stairway to the first floor.

The moment they entered their room, Harry threw her hat on the dressing table and kicked off her shoes.

"This is nice." She bounced on the bed. "I've never stayed anywhere posh like this before."

"It's not bad. I prefer Scott's, but we couldn't get in at such short notice."

She had read about Scott's Hotel. Most of the landed gentry stayed there when they visited Melbourne.

"Do you want to have dinner up here or in the dining room?" he asked.

"The dining room please, unless you'd prefer not to."

"It doesn't matter to me." He dropped into a brocaded armchair.

A porter knocked on the door then brought in their luggage. Not that they had much, just a case each.

"Thank you. Put them over there." Ross pointed to a space under the window.

He put a sixpence into the boy's hand and he left all smiles.

"You can do some shopping in the morning while I'm fronting the Medical Board," he said.

"I want you to come and help me choose some clothes."

"Surely you can buy a few dresses on your own, you don't need me. We'll go out to dinner somewhere. I'll take you to the Princess Theater in the evening, if you like, it's only a few doors up the street from here."

"I thought I might visit Elsie, one of the girls I worked with at Littlejohns."

"Sebastian Littlejohn?"

"Yes. Do you know him?"

"I've met him a couple of times, pompous ass. You mean you actually worked for the man?"

"Yes, while Gil stayed at the convalescent hospital. I worked as a scullery maid." She grimaced. "Just for a few weeks. I had to be near Gil, and they lived less than five minutes walk away. It was a live-in position. I hated it."