Lighthouse Bay (35 page)

“Berenice has taken rooms, not a single room or a bed to share. We will have separate berths on the steamer. People do woo each other, Matthew. They have a courtship and an engagement, and they are allowed to see each other during those times. Please try to remember this is the twentieth century. Women will have the vote soon, and then nobody will dare to judge a woman for traveling with whomever she wishes. Besides”—here she drops her voice low—“Matthew, we are living here without the blessing of marriage anyway. You know that. Why should you be afraid to be accused of something you are?”

She has gone too far, and Matthew colors from the roots of his hair down into his beard. Shame and anger. He turns away, mutters something gruffly, then heads down the ladder and slams the door to the telegraph office. Her heart beats hard, and she takes a deep breath and tells herself to be calm. It matters little if Matthew will not travel with her. She will survive. She will get on.

But there is part of her that so longs for his company, for him to dance with her as though they are in love and together, to show him off to Berenice, who would love his calm practicality and would surely appreciate his manly loveliness.

No, it is a silly fantasy. Matthew won’t come. She stands up and shakes out the dress, holds it against her and admires the silk and expensive lace. But the thought of wearing it to Berenice’s ball is hollow. She wants to look beautiful for Matthew, not for strangers.

She unfastens her dress and slips out of it, then pulls on the ball gown and laces it firmly. She unties her hair and lets it hang loosely around her shoulders, then turns once, trying to see her reflection in the glass cabinet. She catches a glimpse of her waist,
the contrast of her white skin against the deep color of the fabric. Then she heads downstairs to show Matthew.

The door to the telegraph office is open, and he is not there. Curious, she moves to the bedroom door. He stands over the chest of old clothes he keeps at the end of the bed, his back turned to her.

“Matthew?”

He turns, sees her, and smiles. “You look beautiful.”

She can see now that he is holding a jacket in his hands. “What’s that?” she says.

“This is the jacket I was married in.”

Her skin feels cool and hot at the same time. “You’re married?”

“I
was
married. Many years ago. My wife died when she was only twenty. Her name was—”

Isabella quickly presses her fingers against his lips. “Don’t. Not now. I will hear about her in time, but please don’t give me a name just yet, lest I grow to resent it.” She knew, of course, that he must have loved once. A man does not get to his age without loving; but the sting of jealousy she feels surprises her.

He presses his lips together, unhappy but compliant.

She touches the sleeve of his jacket. “Will it still fit?” she asks him.

“I presume so. I am not a man of much appetite, so my body has changed little. If you like, I could wear it to the ball.”

Isabella smiles. “Yes, Matthew. I would like that very much.”

He looks at the jacket sadly. “It is a waste to wear it only once, I suppose.” Then he turns his eyes to her again. “I have already contacted the Telegraph Department. We will go away to Brisbane together for Lady McAuliffe’s spring ball. You can’t travel without my protection. Just in case . . .” He trails off, then gathers himself.
“Isabella, I don’t know how much longer I have you, and I want this memory to hold on to.”

She falls into his arms, pressing her face into his shoulder, breathing in his familiar scent. “I am so glad, my love.”

They hold each other, both terribly aware that time is running out.

T
he clattering horse-drawn tram drops Isabella and Matthew off outside the Bellevue Hotel on George Street. It stands on the edge of rambling gardens, opposite the parliament house, and is constructed of neat brickwork, wide verandahs and iron lace. Isabella clasps Matthew’s hand firmly. She can tell he is overwhelmed but will not admit it. She squeezes his fingers, but he doesn’t squeeze in return; he is still not comfortable with this open display of affection between them. But more than that, he seems to take no joy from their being in a bustling town where so many eyes can see her. The specter of Percy Winterbourne is on his mind. Certainly, it is on hers too, but she must not let it intimidate her. She needs to sell the jewels if she is to get away.

The entrance hall is large and busy, lined with pedestals that bear stone urns. Isabella can see through to the leafy courtyard past the reception desk. To its left, the huge double doors are open to a large dining room, and she wonders if this is where Lady McAuliffe’s spring ball will be held. Staff dressed in white bustle about laying tables with crisp white linen. Isabella and Matthew sign in at the register and leave their luggage to be sent up in the lift, then find their way up the wide staircase to their apartment.

Matthew visibly relaxes when the door has closed behind them and they are alone. He removes his hat and holds it at his chest with crossed arms. “And your friend, Lady McAuliffe, has paid for all this?” he asks.

“She is very generous. Also, very rich,” Isabella says, pulling off her gloves and laying them on the dining table. The furniture is made of darkly stained cedar. Two high-backed grandmother chairs sit on either side of the door to the verandah. A chaise lounge is pushed against a wall decorated with flocked wallpaper. Isabella opens the door to the first room to see a canopied bed and a cedar dresser with wing mirrors. She goes into the room and pulls the heavy curtains open to inspect the view across the treetops. This kind of luxury is familiar to her; she remembers it in her bones.

Matthew stands at the door. “We have a room each,” he says. “I have discovered mine.”

She comes to him, slides her arms around his middle. “Nothing will keep me from sleeping by your side all night, my love,” she says.

He smiles diffidently and drops his voice low. “I am not used to so many people around. There may be guests just in the next room.”

“They neither know us, nor care about what we do,” she says to soothe him. “Come with me.”

She takes him out onto the verandah, where two cane rocking chairs take in the view of the wide, sluggish river. Matthew runs his fingers over the ornamental ironwork while Isabella sits and rocks. “Is it not splendid?” she breathes.

“Rather too splendid for me.”

A knock at the door makes him jump, and Isabella laughs lightly, touching his hand. “My dear, you worry too much. That will no doubt be Berenice.” She returns inside and opens the heavy wooden door, and it is indeed Berenice, dressed in a silk tea gown.
She encloses Isabella in a warm hug, then releases her and stands back to consider Matthew, who hangs back shyly. He is not used to society, and certainly not used to the kind of lavish comfort surrounding him now. He looks out of place: Isabella notices for the first time that his beard needs trimming. She feels a pang for him so sharp and so deep that it almost takes her breath away.

“Berenice, I would like to introduce you to my friend, Mr. Matthew Seaward.”

If Berenice notices his discomfort, she blithely ignores it. She shakes his hand warmly and says, “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Seaward.”

“And a pleasure to meet you, Lady McAuliffe.”

She waves the title away with her cane. “Pish.
Berenice
will do me. And what line of work are you in, Mr. Seaward?”

“I keep the lighthouse and man the telegraph at Lighthouse Bay. I have been there six years, in service to the marine board for twenty.”

Berenice inclines her head. “That is dedication,” she says. “You are to be commended. Now, I am certain you won’t want to wait here and suffer through an hour of women squawking over jewelry. May I recommend to you the reading room downstairs? It is a lovely apartment with writing tables and you may read newspapers or periodicals in peace down there.”

Matthew smiles apprehensively, and Isabella is keen to know what has amused him. She supposes he hasn’t had the company of many women, and Berenice is certainly a singular woman. Perhaps she terrifies him in her delightful way. “Thank you, Lady McAuliffe,” he says, showing that he is determined to acknowledge the difference in their classes. “I will do just that.”

When Matthew has slipped out, Berenice urges Isabella to show her the new jewelry. Isabella has kept her little case near to her
the whole journey, and she lays it on the table and flicks open the catch. Berenice coos. There are six brooches and three bracelets. “So very beautiful, dear. We’ll sell every piece. I’ve told them to bring their money with them, lest they go home empty-handed. The tea will be here in twenty minutes, so you go and wash your face and tidy yourself, and I will lay all of these gorgeous baubles out to best advantage.”

Isabella slips into her bedroom, her heart thudding. At the end of this day, all of the Winterbourne gems will be gone. The sturdy rope that has kept her life tied to theirs is fraying. Soon she will be free.

She pours some water into the bowl on her dressing table and splashes her face with it. It has been a long time since she has seen herself in the mirror and she is surprised by how well she looks, how rosy her cheeks and bright her eyes. She can’t remember ever looking this well back in England after Daniel’s death. She had become a shadow, but now she is returning to three dimensions. A pull of panic: does that mean she is recovering from her grief? Please, no. She never wants to stop feeling it, in case it means she has stopped loving him.

A knock at the apartment door alerts her to the arrival of the tea. She quickly tidies her hair and her shirt, smooths over her skirt and returns to the dining room.

Two young servants are laying out the tea on the dining table. Berenice has folded out a card table and laid out the brooches and bracelets artfully. She smiles at Isabella. “You look beautiful, Mary,” she says.

“Thank you. Thank you for all your help. I can never repay it.”

Berenice nods once. “One day you may be in a position to help someone who needs it. Repay it to them.”

Isabella thinks about Xavier, his loveless family.

Within moments, the maids are busy to and from the door, letting in a parade of society women in frothy dresses, who know and love—or know and fear—Berenice. They greet Isabella effusively, talk about how they have seen her pieces and “simply must have” one of their own, but their talk doesn’t necessarily add up to action. They eat and gossip and drink tea, some of them spreading out onto the verandah, and Isabella worries that they have forgotten about her jewelry.

Then she finally sees two women at the card table, gently insisting that they each saw a ruby brooch first and therefore it is theirs to purchase. Something about this polite disagreement captures the attention of the others, and before long a crowd has gathered around the card table and Berenice presses Isabella forward to talk to them.

“How much for this bracelet?” one matronly woman asks her.

Isabella thinks of a figure in her head, then doubles it, as Berenice has told her to do. “Seventy pounds.”

“I’ll take it.”

And so it goes, until all of the pieces are gone and she has enough money to take Xavier to New York and back two or three times. Her heart flutters, but her face is warm with excitement now, not anxiety.

Just as the last pair of guests are leaving and the maids are clearing off the dining table, Matthew appears at the door looking uncomfortable. “Shall I come back later?” he asks.

Berenice grasps his hand and pulls him in. “No, not at all. Would you like cake? We seem to have rather a lot left over. Everyone was more interested in Mary’s jewelry.” Berenice nudges her gently. “You really must make more. You could be a wealthy woman.”

Isabella is aware of Matthew’s gaze on her. “I have no desire
to be a wealthy woman,” she says. “I have a few, simple goals. I thank you for helping me achieve them.”

Berenice’s eyes narrow, but she is still smiling. “You are a mysterious one, Mary Harrow,” she says. “I’m never quite sure whether or not to take you seriously. Nonetheless, you are a sweet girl and pretty to boot. I shall look forward to seeing you at the ball tomorrow night. Listen out for the dinner gong at seven.” She nods to Matthew. “We will speak again.”

“Of course, my lady,” he says.

Berenice rolls her eyes good-naturedly. “Yes, well. If you’re determined to call me so.” Then she is gone.

Isabella and Matthew wait out on the verandah until the maids have cleared away and the apartment is once again their own.

“Did you enjoy the reading room?” Isabella asks him as they watch the sky turn dusky over the river.

“Yes, and there is an electric telegraph in the other reception hall. The hotel has its own.”

“I think many of the parliamentarians stay here.”

“I wonder who else comes here. Let us hope Percy Winterbourne isn’t lurking, looking for you.”

“Oh, pish, Matthew. You are seeing monsters where there are none.”

“Still. There are a lot of wealthy people between these walls.” He smiles across at her. “Am I to understand you are one now?”

Isabella nods. “I sold them all. I have more than enough for a new start in America.”

“Then you should go. Tomorrow, maybe. Steamers leave for Sydney all the time, and from there you can get a passage to San Francisco or New York.”

“Not tomorrow,” she says guardedly. “I shan’t miss Berenice’s
ball. Not just yet. I can travel to Sydney from Mooloolah Heads just as well.”

“But—”

She leaps from her chair and presses her fingers against his mouth, then leans in and replaces them with her lips. “Matthew,” she murmurs, “forget all of that for just a few days, please.”

He does as she says, at least outwardly. But guilt is starting to dig the ground out from under her.

S
tiff trousers, shirt, silk waistcoat, heavy jacket, dark cravat: one by one Matthew pulls the items on, wondering why he is here. He should have stayed home. At the lighthouse, he knows what he is. But here . . .