The Secret Rose (12 page)

Marriage.
Why did that word keep cropping up when one mentioned life in Australia? Aisleen wondered in annoyance. “I have no wish for nor need of a husband,” she answered curtly. “I came to find employment. I am a teacher.”

“We’ve jobs available for laundresses, cooks, domestics, and seamstresses,” Mrs. Freeman said promptly, her concern evaporated by the young woman’s rebuff. “At which would you care to try your hand?”

“None,” Aisleen answered truthfully, and saw the older woman’s brows lift. “It’s not that I’m afraid of hard work, Mrs. Freeman. I am not. My last employment was as a governess in Yorkshire, and I assure you that I cooked for my charges, carried firewood, and washed nappies, as well as saw to their educational requirements. But, as you have said, I am better suited to more cerebral pursuits.” She glanced about the small office. “Perhaps I could assist you.
I write a legible hand, am familiar with both numbers and the management of children.”

Mrs. Freeman’s expression was a study in frozen politeness as she said, “Those of us who volunteer our services at the Immigrant’s Home do so as an act of charity for those unfortunate souls who arrive on our shores without adequate means.”

Aisleen blushed. She had insulted the woman. “Forgive my ignorance. As a lady who has found it necessary to earn her way in the world, I thought only of seeking a position of respectability.”

The older woman’s face softened slightly. “Very well, Miss Fitzgerald, but I must repeat that your skills are not those sought in the ordinary course. It is to be regretted that you do not have relations or acquaintances among the local population. Of course, you shall remain here with food and lodging taken care of until you find a situation.”

Aisleen rose. “Thank you. I assure you that I have not come all this way to become a ward of the state. I fully intend to live a useful life in the colony.”

When she was gone, Mrs. Freeman sat a moment behind her desk, a thoughtful expression on her face. The young lady had looked so stricken when told that her post was lost to another, as if it were her last hope. Miss Fitzgerald was a puzzle: well-educated, remarkably so for an Irish woman. What on earth could have brought her halfway around the world without a friend or relative on whom to rely?

Mrs. Freeman frowned. She had cautioned Sarah Britten against sending all the way to Ireland for a teacher when one might possibly be found here. And so one had, but not before the
Black Opal
set sail with Miss Fitzgerald aboard.

“What could Sarah have been thinking of to give the post to someone else?” Mrs. Freeman murmured to herself, and then a smile rounded her features. Her husband always
gave sound advice. She would ask him for guidance in the matter of what was to be done about Miss Fitzgerald.

*

Aisleen patted the perspiration from her brow with a handkerchief as she paused in composing a letter. Sighing, she adjusted the portable wooden desk that rested heavily on her knees. Twice she had had to blot a drop of perspiration from her correspondence. Her supply of paper was small, and she could not afford to waste a single sheet.

Mrs. Freeman’s warning aside, she knew she must make an effort to find employment. She was thousands of miles from home with five pounds between her and destitution. Five pounds would not buy a return ticket to Dublin.

There were other needs as well. Two days in Sydney had convinced her that the woolen gowns that served her in Yorkshire would not do here. Once she found a post, her first purchase would be calico cloth to make summer gowns.

Aisleen glanced up as a jewel-bright fly darted past, its rapid wingbeat humming in the still, oppressive air as it soared out of the open window of the barracks.

For a long moment, she stared out at the stark brilliance of the day. From beyond the faded pink brick walls that surrounded the barracks came the sounds of the city. The voices were English. The rumbling of wooden carriage wheels and clip-clopping of hooves were familiar city sounds. Yet the vague, confused sense of utter abandonment settled over her.

What on earth was she doing here? What had she thought to accomplish by the impulsive act of immigration?
Independence:
how hollow the word seemed now. Pride had brought her to this place. Determined not to be a burden to her mother, she had chosen to strike out on her own. Did she have the courage to see the course through now that her
plans were in ruin? She did not need much to make her comfortable, but surely she deserved more than this.

“Ye’ve a guest, Miss Fitzgerald.”

Aisleen turned her head to find one of the barracks girls standing in the doorway. “Are you certain?”

“Mrs. Freeman said to say ’e asked most particular for ye.” The girl eyed Aisleen curiously. “I seen ’im. A right toff, ’e is. Took ’im for a pommie, the likes of ye.”

Aisleen did not pretend to follow the girl’s speech. “Who is this gentleman who has asked for me?”

“Didn’t give ’is name. Ye’ll find ’im waitin’ in Mrs. Freeman’s office.”

“I see. Thank you.”

Aisleen gently patted her brows and cheeks dry, feeling better with each moment. Major Scott must have come to visit her.

“Does the gentleman wear a—?” she began, but the girl had disappeared. Oh, well, what did it matter? She was not alone, after all. She had a friend in the major. She had thought of appealing to him for help before. It would be bad manners to impose on so slight a friendship. Yet if he should inquire about her situation, that would change things. Perhaps he would offer to assist her in finding employment when he learned what had happened.

After carefully smoothing her center part with both hands, she drew on a pair of white lace gloves and then adjusted the matching lace collar at her throat.

She entered the matron’s office with a complaisant smile on her lips. “You sent for me, Mrs. Freeman?” she asked politely, but her gaze had already strayed to the man standing at the open window. He stood in the sun’s full glare, which overshadowed his features, yet she realized with disappointment that he did not wear a uniform, nor was his figure that of Major Scott. He was taller and slimmer, and he wore a tweed suit.

“Come in, Miss Fitzgerald,” Mrs. Freeman said warmly. “Mr. Gibson tells me that you are just the person he has been looking for.”

“Indeed?” Aisleen answered, turning toward the man with a neutral expression.

As he crossed the room toward her, Aisleen noticed that he favored one leg, and she wondered fleetingly if it were a momentary discomfort or a continuing malady. Belatedly, she lifted her gaze to find that he smiled at her.

He was clean-shaven, his skin satiny smooth as only a man’s could be after the application of a razor. From the ridges of his cheeks upward, his skin was sun-darkened. Below, his cheeks and chin were pale. She surmised that he had worn a beard until recently. His eyes were beautifully ringed with sooty lashes that matched the jutting brows and shock of shiny black hair he had only partially succeeded in taming. His nose was boldly shaped, a trifle wide but well formed, the perfect balance for a firm mouth and strong chin.

She had always admired in others the beauty which she felt she lacked. Looking at this gentleman was like gazing at a glorious sunset, or the dappled brilliance of a trout as it slipped through the green-brown depths of a stream. As he neared she offered her hand, and until his hand closed over hers, conveying through his warm, rough flesh the reality of the man, she did not give a thought to how her gawking must seem to him. Suddenly he was human, not an objet d’art, and her pleasure vanished.

“Sir,” she said stiffly, looking away even as his smile widened, “I am certain we have not met before.”

“Miss Fitzgerald, that honored I am to make yer acquaintance,” she heard him say with a lilting Irish accent that brought her gaze quickly back to his face. The eyes…too blue and too bold—

“I
do
know you!” she said in vexed surprise.

“Is there a problem?” Mrs. Freeman questioned. From the moment the man arrived she had been fascinated by his connection with Miss Fitzgerald, for the young lady had been quite insistent that she knew no one in the colony. The tale he had told her left her more curious than ever.

Thomas turned to the matron. “The very morning of Miss Fitzgerald’s arrival in Sydney a larrikin stole her purse. A lucky thing it was I was there to retrieve it.” He smiled encouragingly at Aisleen. “Isn’t that so, lass?”

“Yes,” Aisleen answered woodenly. She had been pleased at the time, but that did not explain why he was here. Had he changed his mind about her offer of a reward?

“I know what ye’re thinking,” Thomas continued when he saw the frozen look on Aisleen’s face had not thawed. “Ye’re wondering why a stranger has come calling when ye did not give him yer direction.”

Aisleen merely nodded, aware that Mrs. Freeman watched her.

“Well, I’ll be frank for I’ve little time for niceties. Me name’s Thomas Gibson and I’m seldom to be found drinking tea or strolling the streets of Sydney. I’ve a station to see to most of the year. When I see something that attracts me eye, I stake me rights’ or let it pass. Do ye follow me?”

“I think not,” Aisleen answered honestly. “Would you care to sit, Mr. Gibson?”

“No, but seat yerself, lass, if ye’ve a need for it,” he replied with a fine disregard for the imformality of his speech. “What I’ve come to say is that I’ve a need for a lady of yer refinement on me station.”

“You have come to offer me a post at your…” Aisleen turned to Mrs. Freeman. “Forgive my ignorance, but what is a station?”

“Mr. Gibson is a sheep grazier,” the woman answered.

“Two thousand, one hundred and forty-three acres, five thousand sheep, and two hundred cattle,” Thomas added
proudly. “That makes me a man of consequence, does it not, Mrs. Freeman?”

“Indeed it does,” the lady answered enthusiastically, seeing a solution to the problem of Miss Fitzgerald. “Mr. Gibson, if you are seeking a young lady of education and refinement to—”

“To look after me station,” Thomas cut in hastily. His gaze flickered measuringly over Aisleen. He had gone over the matter in his mind a dozen times until he was certain of what he would say to her. But now, looking at the prim young woman perched on the edge of a chair, he wondered if he had been wrong about her. Nothing was left of the sense of rightness which had accompanied their first meeting. Seeing her glorious bright hair severely scraped back into an ugly knot made him frown in annoyance. From the high, tight neckline of her gown to the pristine white-gloved hands folded in her lap, she looked as pious and unreachable as any of the wooden statues of martyred saints that stood inside the doors of Saint Mary’s Cathedral. Yet the feeling that she was meant to be his wife had been too strong for him simply to walk away now. He would see it through.

“I’m founding a dynasty,” he said, testing the sound of that and finding it to his liking. “Aye, that’s it. I need a lady of quality to see to the running of me house and rearing of me children. Do you like children, miss?”

“I do,” Aisleen answered evenly. At last, she began to understand why he had come. He sought a governess. A man with thousands of acres could well afford one. “Do you have many children, Mr. Gibson?”

“Not yet, but I will. Six or seven, maybe. What would ye think of that?”

“I’m certain I think nothing at all of the matter,” Aisleen replied primly, flustered by the impertinent question. Once more she was at a loss. If he did not yet have children, what interest could he have in her?
Don’t be a fool
,
she chided
herself She would accept whatever post he offered. “If you wish to be assured that I can properly care for as many as seven children, Mr. Gibson, the answer is yes.”

The answer made Thomas smile. She liked children. While she was slim, she did not look sickly. Bearing children would round her out a bit, and he liked a rounded woman. “Do ye sing, Miss Fitzgerald?”

“Tolerably well,” she answered.

“Irish songs, Miss Fitzgerald? I’ve a grand passion for the music of me homeland.”

“I know a few and will learn others, if it pleases you.”

“Would ye be knowing yer way around a piano?”

“I play and give instruction as well,” Aisleen replied. Really, the man was quite impossible, questioning her education as though his had been one of the best when clearly he was little more than illiterate.

“Do ye dance, Miss Fitzgerald?”

“A little,” she answered cautiously and added truthfully, “but I would not consider myself a dancing mistress.”

“Perhaps a test of yer skill is in order.”

Aisleen looked at him in puzzlement when he did not elaborate. “Do you mean here and now?”

“Would ye oblige?” he asked with a smile startling in its intensity.

“Well, I don’t—” Aisleen bit off the thought. In confusion, she sought Mrs. Freeman’s advice, but Thomas spoke up. “’Twas only me teasing ye, lass. There’ll be time enough for dancing when there are fiddlers and a harp and the pipes to play the measure. Will ye promise me a dance when the time comes?”

The man had come to offer her a post of some sort. It was an opportunity Mrs. Freeman had warned her she might never be given while she remained in Sydney. Was she to quibble over a night of dancing? “I’d be delighted to, Mr. Gibson, if you are certain that it will not be out of place.”