Daring Masquerade (5 page)

The verandah covered shops were made of the same yellow sandstone as the pretty little church they had passed coming into town. A small rotunda set amidst lawns and colorful flowerbeds, stood at the end of the main street.

"We need to support our soldiers after their valiant battle in the Dardanelles. They're crying out for reinforcements," a portly gentleman said. "What type of man would loaf around here while his fellow Australians are dying in the trenches?"

"Here, here," a well-dressed young woman cried out. "Conscript all the shirkers who won't enlist."

"What are you doing here, young man? Aren't you ashamed to be so cowardly as to let other men fight for you?" A middle-aged matron shoved a white feather into Gil's hand.

"You old bitch," Harry yelled, knocking her hand away, while Gil stood pale and shaking. "How dare you accuse my brother of cowardice?"

"Why doesn't the coward enlist?" someone else called out.

"You despicable creatures!" She screamed back. "You should be arrested."

Back and forth, Harry and several of the women hurled insults as more people milled around listening to the argument. Harry became so inflamed she didn't care what came out of her mouth. "You parasites, living comfortably here while forcing someone else to die."

"Your brother is a coward, young man," the portly gentleman said. "He should enlist and do his bit for the Empire."

"Here, here, Mayor," someone endorsed his views.

"He's done his bit," she shouted. "You pompous, overstuffed pig. Show them, Gil, show them your arm."

From the corner of one eye she saw Ross striding toward them, but didn't care. She dragged Gil's arm from his pocket and raised it high. "He's given one hand to the war, isn't that enough?"

Silence reigned. Amidst the embarrassed muttering, Ross' voice rang out loud, clear and deadly.

"What the hell are you up to, Harry?" He strode forward and grabbed her arm. "Are you mad?"

"They gave Gil a white feather for cowardice." She fought him as he dragged her kicking and screaming from the dais. "They gave Gil a white feather."

"Shut up," he snarled, "before you get arrested. What happened, Gilbert?"

Gil tried to speak, but the words would not come out. He opened up his hand and a white feather fluttered to the ground.

"You know this crazy boy, Calvert?" The Mayor pushed his way towards them. "I'll have him arrested for assault," he blustered.

"Who gave this boy a white feather?" The ice in Ross' voice silenced the crowd.

"He should enlist," the Mayor spluttered.

"He's already lost his hand at Gallipoli, what more do you want from him?" Harry screamed again.

"Get me out of here, quick. I feel dizzy." Gil's face turned ashen.

"Here, sit down for a minute." Ross guided him to the dais and the milling crowd stepped aside.

"Gil, Gil, I'm so sorry."

She knelt beside him. Tears sprang to her eyes and trickled down her cheeks.

"For God's sake, Mayor," Ross snapped. "Disperse this crowd."

"We didn't know he was a wounded soldier. He looked fit and healthy," one of the women blustered.

"You should be sure of your facts before you accuse someone of cowardice, madam." Ross' voice sounded as cold as forged steel and Harry shivered. Trembling, the woman scurried away.

"What possessed you, Harry? You damn near caused a riot." Pressing Gil's head between his knees, Ross held it there with a hand on the back of his neck.

"They ridiculed him. Some old bitch handed him a white feather." She banged her fist on the dais. "I couldn't let them get away with it. They humiliated him."

"You'll have to learn to rein in your temper, boy, or it will get you into real trouble one day. You're like a furious, snapping terrier. Most men would not have dared take on the Mayor."

Harry couldn't help thinking he sounded as though he grudgingly admired her. No scowl, no anger showing. Maybe even a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"God, I need a drink after that. Can you make it to the pub, Gilbert?"

"Yeah, thanks. My nerves are shot. If someone upsets me I go to pieces."

"Early days yet, you'll be right," Ross assured him.

They walked towards the pub without speaking. Ross would probably have preferred to prop at the bar with a beer and a counter lunch, but couldn't because of her.

The single-storied, red brick hotel had a hipped roof of corrugated iron extended to form a verandah on both sides. It stood on a sharply angled corner block with entry via a side door.

After the bright sunshine outside, Harry blinked at the dimness inside. She took off her hat, rummaging her fingers through her damp curls as they went into the ladies lounge, where huge ceiling fans dispensed cool air.

Ross chose a table near the window, overlooking an ivy-clad courtyard.

"Two beers thanks, George," he ordered. "And you?" He jerked his head at Harry.

"Oh, ginger beer, thanks."

"Still do the mixed grill?"

"Yeah, Ross. Did you hear they might be opening up the timber mill again? Clyde Bromley, some millionaire city man, is behind it."

"The timber is just about all gone, wouldn't be viable. I'll have three mixed grills, thanks."

Harry opened her mouth to protest at Ross' high-handed attitude of ordering without consulting them, caught Gil's stare and thought better of it. What made her want to defy him all the time? She couldn't understand herself.

Close up, the scar appeared jagged, deep and still raw. Gray flecked his thick, wavy hair even though he couldn't be more than thirty or so. Surprisingly, considering the blackness of his hair, his cold eyes were pale. What would it take to bring back the warmth, to smooth away the bitter lines, and bring a smile to his sensuous lips?

She must be going mad thinking like this. She tried to dampen the heated excitement swirling in her stomach by diverting her thoughts to the three smartly dressed young women, sitting at a table with a middle-aged couple.

"Remind me to pick up a paper from the bar on the way out." Ross broke the silence. "I want to see how the war is going."

"I want to forget about it," Gil said. "All my close mates are dead except for one. He's back in Egypt, last I heard. Probably on his way to France by now."

"Maybe you should write to him, Gil."

"Nah, he's got eight sisters who write nearly every day. You know, he used to get dozens of letters each mail call. God, we envied him."

"I know the feeling." Ross’ tone carried a note of sympathy. "I hardly got any mail. Jack wrote every now and again; Mrs. Bates, my housekeeper, every fortnight."

"Your fiancée?" Harry blurted before she could stop herself.

His lips thinned. "Who's been discussing my private affairs?"

"Oh, I just heard a couple of men talking."

"Jack, the old gossip. He has no right discussing my affairs with the likes of you."

"What makes you think you're so superior to us? I suppose you went to Melbourne or Geelong Grammar," she sneered.

He stiffened in his chair and his head went back proudly. "Melbourne Grammar, as it happens. I don't like my personal business being bandied around in public."

Their drinks arrived. She watched as Ross half emptied his glass in a single, angry swallow.

"She wasn't worthy of you." Instinctively Harry reached out to pat his hand, but stopped herself just in time. "You'll find someone better."

"With a face like this?" His bitter laugh grated on her nerves. "Not likely."

"You will," she reassured.

"I don't want anything to do with treacherous bloody women. They cause a man nothing but heartache."

"Expensive too," Gil put in suddenly with a sly grin.

Her attention switched to him. "How do you know?"

"There's a lot you don't know about me little…"

She kicked him under the table.

"Brother."

Phew. That was close. "Have you had a girl, Gil?"

"Might have."

"I read somewhere about those erotic Egyptian girls," she remarked with a cheeky innocence.

"Filthy whores," Gil shot back.

"God, yes," Ross agreed. "Even if he was going to war, no sensible man would touch them."

"Yeah, full of disease. You there at the Wazir riot, boss?"

"No, I was out on maneuvers at the time, but we heard about it."

"What happened?" Harry asked.

"The soldiers burned the brothels down, whole streets of them. They called it the battle of Wazir," Gil explained with a grin.

The food, when it arrived, chops, bacon, eggs and vegetables slathered with gravy, was well cooked and nicely presented. She hungrily started on the juicy steak.

"This is good," she said between mouthfuls, aware of Ross watching intently. Had she raised his suspicions by the way she ate? Perhaps she should have wolfed the food down, chewed loudly or even dribbled some on her shirt. She half expected a critical comment from him, but he had only praise for the food.

"They always put on a decent feed here, nothing fancy mind, but I've always liked well-cooked, simple meals."

"Harry and I have never had much fancy food. I did have a slap-up meal in some fancy hotel in Cairo though, about eight courses in all."

Thank goodness Gil had recovered from his bad turn. She flashed Ross a grateful smile.

* * *

Later, as they drove back to Devil's Ridge, Ross' puzzled gaze intermittently swept over her. Did he suspect something? It was like living under a death sentence, never quite knowing when the axe might fall.

If he ever discovered her true identity the consequences would be dire. Little use deceiving herself on that point. No man liked being made a fool of. But he wouldn't find out if she kept her temper in check and watched how she acted. She inwardly cursed her red hair and volatile nature. Why wasn't she born docile and blonde?

The heat of the summer sun diminished as they climbed higher towards Devil's Ridge. Wattle scrub lining the track became so dense in places it would be easy to get lost, never to be found.

"We'll take these supplies with us to the outstation," Ross said. "When the rest arrives from town we can store it at the homestead until we need it."

"What happens to us after we get the cattle to the rail head?" Gil asked.

"Don't worry I've got plenty of work for you. Miles of post and rail fencing to repair. Probably a boundary rider's job. Wild horses need to be rounded up and broken in. The army will take as many as I can give them."

On reaching the stable area, Ross headed towards the homestead, leaving her and Gil to transfer the supplies to the other wagon. Disappointment surged through her because he did not invite them into his home.

Gil puffed from his exertions, and took several swigs out of the canvas water bottle hanging from the wagon. Under the shade of a huge oak the Clydesdale, still between the shafts, munched lazily from a nosebag, flicking the flies away with his tail.

Once they had loaded the wagon, Gil wandered off to chat with old Hughie. Harry leaned with her back against a tree, pulled her hat down over her eyes and chewed on a blade of grass.

"What do you think you're doing, you lazy young devil?" Ross nudged her with his foot. "I don't pay you to sit on your bum all day."

She jumped to her feet. "I've unloaded the wagon. What more do you want?"

"Don't be insolent. Where's Gilbert?"

"In there." She jerked her finger towards the stables. "With Hughie."

He strode off.

What was wrong with the man? Moody, always treating her more harshly than any of the others. He looked positively ferocious with taut cheekbones and thin lips. What had she done to annoy him this time?

With the supplies stacked around her she waited in the back of the wagon until the men appeared.

"Are you sure?" Gil exclaimed, his voice rising. "So many?"

Ross' features were fixed, as if they had been hewn from stone, a pulse convulsing in his jaw was the only sign of movement in his face. Gil's whole body shook and his face was white and stricken.

She attacked straight away. "What did you say to my brother?"

"Nothing." Ross ground the word out.

“Yes you did. He's upset."

"Shut up. You're like a vicious little mongrel dog," he snarled, "snapping at my heels all the time. Any more of your abuse and I'll fire you."

"Harry, please." Gil sounded sad and drained. "Ross was telling me about how bad things are going at the war. The newspaper said the French were slaughtered at Verdun, four hundred guns opened up on them. There have been over eighty thousand casualties in less than a month."

"You've done your share, both of you."

"My shoulder is healing up. If the Australians start taking heavy casualties they'll be needing field officers."

Ross' statement shocked her. "You can't be thinking of going back." Her heart turned to stone and the weight of it dragged her shoulders down. She didn't want him to risk being wounded again. Worse still, dying on some French battlefield.

"I might not have a choice if the army wants me and I pass the Medical Board. If I'm fit enough to fight, I'd be a coward not to go."

What could she say to that? An honorable man like him would not sit back and let other men fight his battles. If his country needed him again, he would answer the call. She hated herself for feeling relieved that Gil, with only one hand, would never be fit for active service again.

They arrived at the outstation to find it empty, lonely and brooding.

"Get a brew going, Harry, we'll have a drink before joining the other men, eh, Gilbert?"

"Let me come," she pleaded.

"No, you're here for the cooking, nothing else."

"That's not fair. I'm as good as any man in the saddle."

Ross glared at her. "You're a cheeky kid, who'll end up getting a backhander from me before much longer."

She grabbed a handful of tea leaves, flung them into the boiling billycan and stirred them with a stick.

"What meat will I use? The meat safe is empty."

"Can you make parrot pie?"

"I can damn well make anything."