Daughter of Australia (22 page)

 

Through the open shutters of the New York hotel room, phases of night, of uprising stars and veering moon, kept her company through the hours of fitful sleep. Dreams bordered on nightmares, sucking in the sounds from outside and distorting them with anxious will.

By morning, she was only dully refreshed, her body jittery. The smell of garbage and old urine snaked above the streets, rose between the stately buildings. The haze from exhaust washed away the dawn. Leonora dressed, found the tea and fruit the butler had unobtrusively left in the sitting room.

A siren wailed a farewell song, for she planned to leave this morning. She tried again to close the leather suitcase against the pyramid of flung clothes. She moved her thoughts to Pittsburgh, and while the home and her aunt brought her no joy, the hospital reached to her like a beacon and she held on to its wide wings as if they were a waiting embrace.

The door to the sitting room slammed. Her nerves iced. A long silence paused until the knob to her bedroom turned and Alex walked in, closed the door and leaned against it, arms folded. He was clean shaven, his hair still damp from bathing, but dark circles lined his eyes. “Good morning,” he greeted formally. “Going somewhere?”

“Home.” Even as she said it, the word didn't fit. She had no home. The Fairfield mansion was only a building of cold stone and contempt. A wave of sadness suddenly left her weak.

“All right.” Alex moved to the sofa and, to her surprise, pressed against the suitcase until it locked effortlessly. He picked up the handle and set it on the ground. “But not until I have a chance to apologize.”

He sat on the sofa, pulled down his tie, unbuttoned the collar and then massaged his eyebrows with his fingertips. “Sometimes I forget how naïve you are.” She shot him a look and reached for the suitcase.

“Sorry, bad word choice. Sensitive. That's what I meant.” He patted the seat next to him. “Sit. Please?” It was not a command but a request and she set herself reluctantly, straight spined on the edge of the velvet.

“Your sensitivity is one of the things I love about you. The innocence of it.” He turned to her with soft eyes. “You have to understand that I work around men all day. Not men like your uncle. Men as hard and rough as coal who'd sooner smash a rose with their fist than smell it. It's easy to forget the sensitivities, the gentleness, of women. I'm sorry I mocked the soldiers.” He put his hand on hers. “We come from very different places, Leonora. We're going to have to meet in the middle sometimes.”

Leonora stared at the hand on top of hers, felt the warmth of his touch, the warmth of his eyes. There was so much coldness to her life, and the pull to that warmth, to anything not made of ice, drew her heart forward.

“Let's start over.” Alex stroked the fight away. “Promise me you'll give me a few more days to make it up to you. If you're still unhappy, I'll drive you home myself. Is that a deal?”

She nodded and turned her hand over, squeezed his fingers, let the heat eclipse the cold. Maybe this was how men and women worked. She had never dated before, never known a kiss before Alex's. Perhaps all men had moods that swung; perhaps she
was
too sensitive.

Alex sighed and raised her hand to his lips, held it out in front of him, turned it over and etched a line down her palm, the touch so delicate her fingers twitched. “You have the most beautiful hands, Leonora. White. Smooth. Perfect.” He rubbed his thumb over hers. “They remind me of my mother's.”

His face fell with a memory and her heart opened to his sudden raw pain.

“She died when I was away at boarding school,” he began. “My stepfather never contacted me. I didn't find out she was dead until I came home for holiday.”

“I'm so sorry, Alex. That's terrible.”

“Par for the course.” He sank his head into his hands and scratched his scalp methodically until he began to laugh. The shift frightened her with its bitterness. “A proud name—Harrington. My mother scrambled to acquire it, then drank herself to death to forget it.”

And then she recognized it. The cold. He had known it, too, had felt it in his life just as she had. And in that moment she understood him. The anger fell away like a feather upon silk. He only needed warmth to chase away the ghosts, the bitterness. He could be kind; she had seen it. He just needed warmth, her warmth.

Leonora reached around his waist, but he was too absorbed in his thoughts to notice. Her heart pounded; he looked as wounded as the torn soldiers in the hospital. She kissed his cheek, tried to turn his face toward her to distract him from the pain. She pressed her lips against his fervently until she felt them soften and bend against her mouth. She slipped her arm under his jacket and slid her nails down his spine. His mouth became urgent with the touch and he raised his shoulders, took her face in his hands, slid his lips to her neck and ran his tongue to the base of her throat. He pulled at the fabric on her shoulder until he found her slip strap and tugged it down her arm, his nail scratching a line of red.

Pressing his face against the crook in her neck, he reached for her breast, squeezed it roughly, pushed it upward until it came loose from the fabric. Her mouth went dry as he sucked it in his mouth and found the nipple. She stiffened. He felt the tension and took it for pleasure, pulling at the nipple with his teeth. Crying out, she tried to pull away, but he clasped his hands to her back, swung her to his open knees and pushed her against him. A hard bulge pressed against her inner thigh. The warmth disappeared and she began to panic under the hands molding her breasts and tried to push away.

A loud knock rattled the room. “Alex, you in there?” Owen Fairfield's voice rose and fell pleasantly.

“Fuck!”
Alex growled into her breast before raising his head. Leonora took the pause to tuck her body parts back into her dress and pull up the straps.

“Anybody home?” called the voice again.

Alex placed his finger to Leonora's lips, waited until her uncle's footsteps receded. Alex grunted, adjusted his pants, the mood broken. “Your uncle's timing is perfect, isn't it?” He smirked, his words flowing lazily. “Help me with my tie, darling? Sounds like he wants to talk. Hopefully, it's good news.”

Taking the black tie with shaking fingers, she formed a knot and glided it under his chin. He stood, scanned her body before drawing her against him. “You'll remind me where we left off?”

She placed a hand on her forehead, stared at the floor. “I'm just going to rest. I'm feeling a bit under the weather.”

“You do look pale.” He kissed her lightly. “Rest, darling. Tomorrow's a new day.”

She stood in front of the closed door for several minutes. She touched her left breast gingerly, still sore from his fingers and mouth. Inside her body, a pulling had begun; straws of feelings gathered and tightened until they were no longer vague memories and sensations but one emotion. And with the gathering, a truth formed and trailed a subtle power—a knowing. She thought of Alex's face, how it looked in anger, in mirth, in desire, and the faces melded until she saw him, saw one face. Her nerves settled under this knowing, for she cared for Alex, at times felt great affection for him, even desire. But she also now knew with all certainty and a hint of fear that she did not love him.

 

Over the next few days, Alex kept his promise and when he wasn't at a meeting with her uncle he doted on her with attention and affection. If he gathered with his friends and stayed up late with drink, he kept it hidden. And, three nights later, Alex escorted Leonora to a private terrace atop the hotel. The sky rose lavender above the city. Lights flickered from candles, orange and yellow flames elongating across the marble terrace, reflecting the silver urns of fire in a mirage of imitation. Simmering rose drifted and thickened the air like brandy, left Leonora breathless as she scanned the gossamer canopy over their table, the shower of white lilacs hanging over every ledge and railing, softening each angle.

Alex wore a black tuxedo and white bow tie and had never looked more handsome. He pulled out her chair. She could smell his rich cologne with the movement. The waiters disappeared. The weather was neither hot nor cold, but balmy enough to tickle the light fabric of her dress around her crossed ankles. It was perfect.

Leonora's skin suddenly chilled. It was too perfect, too planned, and what should have been obvious before she even left Pittsburgh became startlingly clear now as Alex rose to his feet, drifted toward her and took her hand. Each of his movements stood out strangely magnified and she watched it all play out before her as helplessly as a dreamer. Her chest sank in steady increments that matched his descent to one bent knee.

“Leonora.” He spoke with sureness and clarity. “I know that we have not known each other for any great length of time, but I knew as soon as I saw you that I had found my wife.”

The word
wife
brought a fresh wave of panic. She tried to stop the widening of her eyes, tried not to look horrified, but her face was frozen.

“Your beauty and grace, your refined dignity and purity . . . it leaves me breathless.” He squeezed her hand and smiled. “I want nothing more than to spend my life with you.”

Alex reached one hand into his pocket and pulled out a black velvet box, opening it slowly to reveal a large oval-cut diamond set in gold and flanked with emeralds. “It belonged to my mother. I can't think of anyone's hand more worthy to wear it.” He took a deep pull of air in just as her own lungs stopped. “Leonora Fairfield, will you marry me?”

No. No!
The word screamed. She closed her eyes, felt such a fool for not seeing this day was coming. She did not know how long she was silent—a second, a minute—before the words came out. “I'm sorry, Alex.”

He cocked his head, the smile still plastered to his lips. “What?”

“I'm so sorry.” She tried to squeeze his hand, but it was cold and stiff.

“Sorry?” he repeated, still trying to grasp the word. Alex pulled his hand away, shook his head like his ears were filled with water. “You're saying no?”

She nodded slowly.

“Why the hell not?” he shouted.

Her mind swam in a million directions and yet he stared at her, waiting for an answer. In her silence, his face drained of any tenderness and hardened.

“I know it doesn't make any sense, Alex.” She floundered for words that wouldn't hurt and came up empty.

Alex's eyes narrowed and his knuckles cracked into a fist. “Is there someone else? So help me, I'll—”

“No! Alex, no.” She shielded her eyes with her hand and pressed her temples. “I just can't marry you. I'm so sorry.”

A prolonged pause showed real pain in his face before a seething ripple clenched his jaw and flared his nostrils. Leonora's throat closed. “Please don't be angry.”

“Shut up!” he spit, and raised a hand, pounded it against the air as if it were a wall. “Just . . . shut . . . up!”

Alex looked over the rooflines and snorted. “And would you mind telling me what the last three months were about?” His eyebrows rose to sharpened peaks. “Was this all some kind of game to you?”

Her hands writhed; she lowered her head. Alex flicked her chin up. “Damn it, look at me! What? Did you get a thrill leading me around by the dick all this time?”

The foul speech was rough, violent, and her lips began to tremble. “Please don't say that.”

“Then why?” he shouted. “Why won't you marry me?”

This is why!
her mind whimpered. She opened her mouth to speak, but no sound came out. Everything began to shut down and she was a child again, mute, too scared to move.

Finally, Alex pursed his lips and nodded. He pulled his shoulders back and rubbed his palms across his lapels, straightening them. He looked at her then, his lips twisted in disgust. “You're a fool, Leonora. A damn bloody fool.”

He turned to walk away but stopped at his pulled-out chair, kicked it flying into the air before it landed wounded and shattered across the tiles.

 

Leonora looked down from her hotel room balcony. Window shutters closed with a click behind her. She took her elbows off the wrought-iron banister, did not turn around. The sweet smell of pipe tobacco joined her before her uncle did. Owen Fairfield smiled over the sea of traffic and took a deep breath of the air.

“I'm not marrying Alex.”

“So I've heard.” Owen chuckled. “I suppose he reacted well to the news?” When she didn't answer, he grew serious and stepped closer to the balcony, leaned on his forearms and made a pyramid with his fingers. “I'm very disappointed.”

“I don't love him.”

He was quiet for a moment. “The problem with the Western world is we look for fairy tales, Leonora. In India and Asia, almost all of the marriages are arranged. Did you know that? They say those unions end up happier than in countries where men and women choose their own mates.” He looked at his hands. “We carry the word ‘love' cupped in our palm as if it were something that falls out of the air and needs to be caught. Sometimes it happens that way. Sometimes. But most often, love needs to be grown, added to, watered.” He smiled then with a thought. “Eleanor didn't marry me because she loved me, Leonora. I knew that then and I know it now. But the love did come, over time. Just like it will with you and Alex. He's a good match for you, dear. And he loves you. You might not feel the same way now, but you will. I promise.”

“It's not just that.” She struggled to find the right words and was surprised by the ones that she chose. “There's a cruel side to him.”