Dark Torment (14 page)

As Sarah surveyed the dress she had laid out on the narrow bed,
she wished that she had ordered a new gown for herself when Liza and Lydia had
ordered theirs. Just once, she would have liked to look nice. She refused to
consider why. If Gallagher’s darkly handsome face appeared momentarily in
her mind’s eye, she resolutely banished it. Anyway, the finest of satin
ball gowns in the loveliest of colors wouldn’t have transformed the ugly
duckling into a swan. The white silk dress that she had worn to every party
since she was seventeen would do just fine. Anything else would have been
wasted on her.

Sarah pulled on her chemise—as a concession to the nature of
the evening she chose one of fine muslin, but it was as unadorned as her
everyday cotton ones—and topped it with a single petticoat. It was too
hot for any additional undergarments, and if as a result her dress did not have
the fashionable full skirt, that was just too bad. What was one more sartorial
shortcoming among so many?

The dress itself fitted close around her neckline, framing her
throat with a little frill of lace and buttoning clear down past the snug waist
with two dozen tiny, silk-covered buttons. The sleeves were short and puffed
and likewise ended with a frill of lace; a white satin sash was tied in a big
bow at the rear, with the trailing ends of the sash falling girlishly down the
back of the skirt. The skirt itself was plain, and cut full for the three
petticoats that were supposed to be worn beneath it. With only one, it billowed
around her. The effect had always pleased her, because she felt that it must
disguise her lack of a rounded derrière and curving, feminine thighs. A
pair of white cotton stockings—she had always felt it was absurd to wear
silk ones, as Liza and Lydia did, where no one could see—held up by
frilly white-satin garters that had belonged to her mother and sensible flat
black slippers completed her ensemble. She wore no jewelry—indeed, the
only pieces she possessed had belonged to her mother, who had been considered a
beauty; they would have been wasted on Jane Markham’s plain daughter. She
brushed her hair until it crackled, then wound it up into its usual bun. Not
even twenty-four hours spent in rag curlers, as she had tried on several
occasions when she was younger and more foolish, had sufficed to give her
curls. She had learned to be content with herself as she was; and tonight, if,
when looking at herself in the slightly wavy mirror on the wall of her attic
bedroom before hurrying downstairs, she was somewhat less than content, there
was nothing she could do to change either the feeling or her appearance.

By ten o’clock the ball was in full swing. The musicians
were scraping a lively tune on their fiddles; couples were kicking up their
heels and laughing breathlessly as they romped around the floor. Even Mrs.
Grainger was dancing, partnered by one of the Eaton boys, who was crimson with
the indignity of just having been told that he had two left feet in the old
lady’s strident voice, which carried to every corner of the room. His two
brothers were more fortunate: one partnered Liza and the other Chloe. Liza was
entrancing in her rose-pink satin gown, her hair arranged in a careless pile of
curls that Sarah knew had taken the better part of the day to achieve. She was
flirting madly, shamelessly batting her eyelashes at the boy, who looked
suitably dazzled by his good fortune. Lydia was dancing with George Banks, a
distinguished-looking man of about fifty with a full head of silver hair, and
flirting quite as openly as Liza. Sarah looked quickly around to see if her
father had noticed. He was partnering Mrs. Eaton, his expression politely
attentive as he piloted that lady’s ample form about the room. If he was
aware of his wife’s behavior, he showed no sign of it. Like Sarah
herself, Percival was not dancing. As she looked in his direction, he started
toward her, clearly bent on rectifying that omission.

“Will you dance, Miss Sarah?”

Percival was looking more attractive than usual in a brown cutaway
coat and yellow breeches. A striped cravat was tied haphazardly around his
neck, giving him an unaccustomed rakish air. His dark brown hair was already
untidy, straggling over his forehead, although it still bore marks of the comb
that had been dragged through it when it was wet. His sunburned skin was redder
than usual, flushed with the exertion of having preceded Sarah’s father
as Mrs. Eaton’s partner. He was smiling at her, his thick lips parted
over teeth that overlapped in front. The smile was quite absent from his eyes.

“I’d rather not, thank you, Mr. Percival.” The
reply and the glance that accompanied it were cool. His
faux
smile
faded, to be replaced by a darkening frown.

“By God, girl, if you don’t stop trifling with me . .
.” The harsh words, muttered under his breath, broke off at her outraged
stiffening; but his eyes stayed angry as they met her icy gaze.

“What will you do, Mr. Percival?” she inquired
sweetly, raising her punch cup to her lips and taking a sip as she eyed him
with inquiringly lifted brows.

His lips thinned, and he openly glared at her. “I’ll
school you proper when I get you to wife,” he growled. Then, as though
aware that he had said too much, he shut his mouth with a sharp click of teeth
and turned on his heel, stomping away from her.

Sarah took another sip of punch, hoping that the innocuous orange
brew would steady her, hoping that no one standing nearby had overheard the
exchange. She glanced surreptitiously about. Mr. and Mrs. Brady were talking
animatedly to Lawrence Newcomb, the banker, and young Jared Bledsoe was
whispering something to Amy Carruthers, who for once was not being quietly
retiring and was actually giggling. They were far too engrossed in their own
activities to have spent any time eavesdropping on her. For which Sarah was
thankful.

The exchange with Percival had worsened the headache that had
plagued her all evening. She took another sip of her punch, then set the glass
on a nearby small table, her movements deliberate so that she would not reveal
her upset by spilling any. Percival was growing more and more open about his
intent—and resorting to more forceful means of expressing it. Thoughts of
what he might try in the future alarmed her. There was one very good way by
which a man could almost make certain that the woman he wanted would become his
wife. She would not put it past Percival to resort to rape—but she meant
to make mighty certain that he didn’t get the opportunity.

No one noticed Sarah as she slipped away to the kitchen, as she
had been doing all evening. Mrs. Abbott had had the monumental task of making
sure that the trays of refreshments on the long table at the end of the room
were kept filled. At the moment, she was slicing the meat off a leg of mutton.
She looked over her shoulder as Sarah entered the kitchen.

“Tired of dancing, lamb?”

When they were alone, Mrs. Abbott sometimes resorted to a cozy
familiarity that Sarah knew stemmed both from long years of knowledge and true
affection. Sarah smiled at her.

“Just tired.” She crossed to watch the older woman as
she deftly sliced the meat onto a large platter already filled to overflowing.
“You’d think we were feeding an army.”

“Dancin’s hungry work.” Mrs. Abbott’s
cheeks were flushed from the heat of the kitchen, and perspiration beaded her
brow beneath her frazzled, salt-and-pepper topknot. The only concession she
made to the heat was that the sleeves of her dress, another high-necked,
long-sleeved black bombazine, were rolled up to her elbows. “You there,
Mary!” she said sharply over her shoulder. The maid came out of the
pantry, an open jar of candied fruit in one hand. “Take this platter on
into the parlor. Be careful with it, mind.”

With a quick bob, Mary set the jar on the table and obeyed.

“You ought to take something in yourself and watch the
dancing for a while. You need a break,” Sarah said gently.

Mrs. Abbott snorted. “They’d likely spit on the likes
of me.”

“Not in this house they wouldn’t.”

“No, ’cause you wouldn’t let them. You’re
a real lady, Miss Sarah, and I’m not the only one around here that thinks
so! You treat people like people, with no never mind about whether they be
convicts or not. Them other two . . . ! They’re no ladies.”

“Mrs. Abbott . . .”

“I know, I know. I shouldn’t be talkin’ about
them that are my betters. But that’s what I think. Can’t ’ang
a body for thinkin’, can they?”

Sarah had to smile at the truculence of the look that accompanied
this last. “No, they can’t,” she agreed. Scooping a section
of candied orange from the jar Mary had left on the table, Sarah popped it into
her mouth.

“I’m going out in the back garden for a breath of
fresh air. If anyone comes looking for me, don’t tell them.”

Mrs. Abbott said, “Not me, Miss Sarah,” and shook her
head vigorously. Sarah had a feeling that the housekeeper knew all about
Percival’s attempts to coerce her into marriage; she was very cool toward
Lowella’s overseer whenever she saw him, which, thankfully for the
station’s harmony, wasn’t too often.

Sarah smiled her thanks and let herself out the back door. With
darkness shrouding the shriveled brown grass and the nearly leafless trees, the
garden was much more pleasing than during the daytime. Tonight a huge full
moon, round and misty white, hovered low over the horizon. It cast a silvery
light over everything. A breeze, cool compared to the searing winds that had
whipped down from the mountains earlier, set the grasses and leaves to
rustling. The scrape of the fiddles, playing at a slower tempo now, wafted
clearly to her through the open windows. In the distance a dingo howled. It was
a mournful sound, but, because Sarah had been familiar with it from babyhood,
it was oddly comforting. The heady fragrance of the wattles mingled with the
spicier scents of oranges and lemons as she wandered toward the orchard.
Reaching it, she paused to lean against a fig tree, not thinking of anything in
particular as she let the peace of the night envelop her. Her headache was
almost gone. . . .

“For a minute there I thought you were a ghost. I nearly
ran.”

Sarah would have recognized that teasing lilt anywhere. She turned
her head to find Gallagher standing behind her, a few feet away. The foliage of
a banana tree blocked out the moon rays where he stood, so that he appeared to
be no more than a tall, dark shadow. Sarah had thought that she would feel more
embarrassed than ever the next time she saw him, remembering that morning when
he had seen her in nothing but her chemise. But the peace of the night seemed
to have infected her. Besides, what harm could come from talking—just
talking—to him? She smiled faintly.

“I would like to have seen that.”

He moved a couple of steps nearer, drawn perhaps by the unexpected
friendliness of her tone. The moonlight poured over him now, highlighting the
sculpted bones of his face, the proud curves of cheekbones and chin and
forehead, the faintly aquiline nose. It formed a soft, silvery nimbus around
his hair, which was darker than the night; the light touched his mouth, the
feel of which her lips remembered so well, like a lover’s caress.

“Is your sister enjoying her party?”

“I think so. She seems to be. So does everyone.” She
was talking to him like an equal again, as she seemed to most of the time. But
what harm could come from it? Just for tonight . . .

“Except you?”

“What do you mean?” She frowned, trying to read his
expression in the shifting pattern of light and shadows.

“You’re out here.”

“Oh.” She smiled and shrugged. “My head ached.
And I didn’t feel like dancing. Probably because I’m not very good
at it.”

“You should learn. With your natural grace, you would enjoy
it.”

She stared at him. He was smiling, just barely, that handsome
mouth twisted up slightly at one corner so that it looked almost lopsided.

“Why, thank you.” She nearly stuttered, so flustered
was she by the compliment. She rarely got compliments; in fact, she
couldn’t remember the last one. And from Gallagher . . . Did he really
think she was graceful? To cover her confusion, she continued lightly,
“Maybe I will learn one day. If I can find someone to teach me.”

“I will.”

“What?” She thought she must have misunderstood him.

“I said, I will teach you. To dance. Miss Sarah.” He
sounded as if he were laughing at her, but he looked perfectly solemn, except
for dancing devils in his eyes.

Sarah looked at him warily. “You told Liza you
couldn’t dance.” It was foolish, but it was the first thing that
came into her head. She should be upbraiding him for his impertinence.

“I lied.” He moved forward until he stood directly in
front of her, towering over her so that she had to tilt her head back to see
his face. He was so big—she liked the sensation of being small and
fragile she had when she was near him. It made her feel, for once, very
feminine. “I’d like to teach you to dance. Will you let me?”
He held out his hand as he spoke, clearly waiting for her to put her own into
it.

Sarah stared at that brown, long-fingered hand. He was a convict.
She would be utterly disgraced if anyone ever learned of it. The explosive
reaction his slightest touch seemed able to engender in her made it dangerous .
. . too dangerous.

She put her hand in his.

“That didn’t hurt, now, did it?” He was smiling.
His teeth gleamed white against the darkness of his face.

Quivering with renewed misgivings, Sarah stared up into that face.
She should pull away from him now. . . . Her hand trembled in his like a
trapped bird. His much larger one enwrapped hers comfortingly, refusing to let
it go. In the distance, the fiddlers struck up again. Sarah recognized the
tune. It was a new one, from England. A waltz.