The Secret Rose (13 page)

Thomas nodded in approval. She was so proper, nothing at all like the winded and flushed young woman who had first attracted his eye, but she was exactly what he had waited for: a lady. “Ye are that different, Miss Fitzgerald, and everyone will comment on it, but we’ll give it a go for ’tis the way I mean to go on.”

Aisleen was astonished when he reached for her hand and bent over it as though he might kiss it. He did not. He had nearly forgotten, she supposed, that she was to be his employee. But when he raised up she saw amusement in his expression.

“I’m not a man of pretty phrases and fawning manners,” he said forthrightly. “But then, ye’re not the sort to need them, I’m thinking.”

Aisleen gave him a polite smile. “Indeed, you are simple and direct, which I prefer, Mr. Gibson.”

Thomas smiled. Looking at her closely, he saw again the fine gold-flecked eyes that were direct, inquisitive, and very alive in her serious and quiet face. When she blushed, the pinkening of her cheeks added youth to her face. “How old are ye, lass?”

“Five and twenty, sir,” Aisleen replied. It was his right as her prospective employer to ask questions, however unusual this interview. “I’m of sound health and hardy disposition, too.”

“Glad to hear it,” Thomas answered. “After all, a man would ask as much of a horse he’s buying, now wouldn’t he?”

Aisleen stared at him in silence.

“Ah, well now, I can see that I’ve insulted ye, and I did not mean such. I’m a plain man, ye can tell that for yerself, but I admire quality in others, that I do. And ye’ve spirit. The way ye gave chase to that larrikin when ye might have come to harm, I liked that in ye.”

“Spirit had naught to do with it,” Aisleen informed him
ruefully “All that I possessed in the world was in that purse. Had I lost it I would have been destitute.”

The answer pleased him. “Then ye’re not displeased that I’ve come for ye?”

Aisleen supposed that this frankness was one of the things she must become accustomed to if she was to be in his employ. “I am quite indebted to you for your interest in me and hope that I may serve you in the manner which you require.”

“A pretty speech,” Thomas said with a hint of laughter. “Me bairns will speak as ye do, without the damning brogue of their sire.”

“My parents were Irish born and bred,” Aisleen answered. It was a thing she seldom mentioned, but, contrarily, she wanted him to know that she was not the English lady he thought her to be. “I was the recipient of an English education, else there’d be no difference in our speech or manner.”

“Ye are Catholic?” Thomas prompted.

“I am,” she answered forthrightly. If this was to damn her in his eyes, then so be it. To her continued amazement he laughed.

“Ye’re not as pretty as some perhaps,” Thomas voiced, thinking of Sally, “but looks have never mattered to me.”

“I see,” Aisleen said in a tight voice because his pause seemed to beg an answer of her.

“No, ye do not.” Thomas squared his shoulders. This was the moment. “What I’m saying to ye is I’m a man who knows it’s time he wed and who knows what he wants in a wife. That’d be a lady of refinement and good breeding who can turn me station house into a home and educate me children as is fitting for a man of property and wealth. The minute I laid me eyes on ye I knew ye were the one.”

“What one?” Aisleen asked in confusion.

“The one I mean to marry”

“Marry?” she repeated stupidly.

“Aye, proposing is what I’m doing, Miss Fitzgerald. Is this not the way these things are done?”

“I’m sure I wouldn’t know,” Aisleen said stiffly and rose to her feet. All at once, she understood. This was a joke! But who could have put him up to it? Who knew that they had met? Major Scott! He had a deplorable sense of humor, but she had not thought him capable of ridicule. Yet had he not advised her not to accept the first marriage proposal that came her way, after slyly insinuating that one would? It was more than cruel; it was a humiliation not to be endured. Without a word, she turned to leave.

Thomas called after her, “Does this mean ye’ll nae consider me?”

Aisleen turned on him, indignation flaring in her gold-bright eyes. Poor she might be, and a spinster with no hope of marriage, but she had her pride. “I do not understand why you wish to torment me. I am a spinster, that is true, but that fact does not make me a fool, Mr. Gibson. I find your jest more than vile. It’s beastly and undeserved!”

As she pivoted away, his laughter trailed after her, lifting the hairs on her neck. How despicable he was, to find her misery amusing. She took no more than three steps when blazing anger made her spin about a second time. “Sir, you are contemptible! Were I a man and carried a pistol, I would shoot you!”

She could not believe that she had spoken so outrageously, but his hand moved to his waistband and opened his coat to reveal the pistol stuck in his belt. Fear splashed through her, drenching her in a sea of alarm. From afar, she heard Mrs. Freeman’s cry of fright and her own indrawn breath as he removed the pistol and strolled toward her. She backed away until the barrier of the closed door halted her flight.

“Ye’ve a bold spirit, Miss Fitzgerald, and I’ve already said I like ye for it. Here, then, take yer revenge.”

Before she could prevent it, he took her right hand in his and slapped the butt of the gun against her palm. “If ye think me a liar and cheat, that I do not mean to marry ye, then pull the trigger.”

Aisleen stared at him, her mind too muddled to make coherent thought. She held the gun gingerly, as if it might recoil on her and bite. And well it might, for she had never touched one before.

“Well, then?” Thomas encouraged. “Either ye’re believing me to be the lowest of rascals or ye know I’ve made ye an honest proposal. Which is it?”

The ludicrous situation both frightened and exhilarated her. She brought a hand to her lips and discovered that they were trembling. But it was not in fear. She was near laughter. At any second, she felt it would burst out in loud, ringing peals. The realization appalled her. She detested dramatics, particularly her own, but the man before her had driven her so far from self-possession that she no longer trusted herself.

“Since I’m not lying on the carpet bleeding, I take that to mean ye believe me,” Thomas said quietly. He gently pried her fingers from the butt of his pistol and casually thrust the barrel back under the loop of his belt.

“Well now, that’s better. I can see I’ve surprised ye, Miss Fitzgerald, and I know a lass will have her way in such matters. So here it is, then. Ye’ve until Saturday three weeks hence to turn the matter over in yer mind. Then I will come for yer answer.”

He turned to the matron as Aisleen slipped sideways away from him. “G’day, Mrs. Freeman. G’day, Miss Fitzgerald, until the end of the month.” As the two women remained silent and motionless he walked out, closing the door behind him.

“Well!” Aisleen turned an incredulous look on Mrs. Freeman.

“Dear me, dear me!” Mrs. Freeman sank heavily back
into her chair and reached for a paper with which to fan herself. “I’ve never seen the like. Pistols and proposals. What will James say?”

Aisleen bit her lip. She was not altogether convinced that the man was serious. “I do suppose I should be grateful that he came here and spoke in your presence rather than accosting me on the street,” she mused aloud. “I was warned about the eccentricities of bushmen, but I must say I did not take the warning seriously, until now.”

“The man must be mad!” Mrs. Freeman answered. “It’s the sun that turns their minds. Scraping and lurking about in the bush, no one to talk with for weeks on end, it’s enough to turn the hardiest stock.”

“Oh.” Aisleen resisted the urge to glance out the window, where she knew she could have seen him crossing the promenade. She had stared quite enough for one day. She only hoped he had not misunderstood her glance. She had been in awe of the perfection of nature’s craft, nothing more. The man himself, she well knew, could be the soul of Satan come to life. “He proposed!” she murmured in stunned amazement.

“So he did, Miss Fitzgerald,” Mrs. Freeman replied and broke into a chuckle which made Aisleen wonder what the woman thought of her to have aroused such passion in a stranger.

“Well, it is finished. He will not come again,” Aisleen said firmly.

Mrs. Freeman did not respond, for she was not at all certain what the squatter named Gibson would do next. Perhaps the third Saturday of the month would bring the answer.

He bore her away in his arms,

The handsomest young man there…

—The Host of the Air

W. B. Yeats

Chapter Six

“This passes all belief!” Aisleen said in bewilderment as she sat on the side of her bed with her arms folded tightly across her bosom. The light of dawn lay in a long, faintly-veined stream across her pillow. In its flood, motes as bright as tinsel drifted lazily. All about her, the inhabitants of the barracks lay supine, cherishing their final minutes of sleep.

But not I!
Aisleen thought angrily. She had awakened in a cold sweat with the suffocating thickness of smoke clogging her nose and mouth. At least, she thought she had smelled smoke. Yet all about her was bathed in utter peace. The freshness of the morning air mocked her burning throat and stinging nose. There was no fire. It was only another dream.

During the past three weeks scarcely a night had passed without her sleep being interrupted by some discontent. A few nights earlier she had been dragged to consciousness by an excruciating pain in her left calf. The agony had passed almost immediately, but for the rest of the day she had limped about, forced to explain the inexplicable malady as a muscle spasm.

I
am not a child
,
Aisleen chided herself, only to wince in pain as she swallowed. If she had drunk scalding tea her throat could not hurt more. She was well past the age for hysterics. The sheer fabric of nightmares should not bind her in fear. Yet their disturbing aftermath lingered in physical expression: first the pain in her leg and now the parched aching of her throat.

“Nerves, that is all it is,” she whispered huskily to herself. She had every right to be anxious. Another day was beginning, and she was no nearer a solution to her problem than the day she arrived.

She had answered every likely advertisement in the
Sydney Morning Herald
,
including those for a lady’s hairdresser, seamstress, and clerk. This last was addressed to men, but it offered the highest wages and she was qualified for it. Not one of her inquiries had elicited so much as a note in response. Yet a majority of the other women residents in the barracks had found employment, while new ones arrived daily.

The morning bell broke the stillness. Aisleen clenched her teeth as it jangled her spine. Immediately, the girl in the bed next to hers groaned in protest. Cots creaked as other sleepers rolled and stretched to awaken.

Aisleen turned and gazed steadily out of the window to hide the distraction she knew was expressed in every line of her face. She was the source of much gossip and speculation among the other women. It had begun with the arrival of that impertinent Mr. Gibson. Within half an hour of his visit, everyone in the barracks had heard of his audacious marriage proposal. It had made her a celebrity of sorts among them, a fact she found quite distressing.

“Wretched man!” she muttered and again swallowed painfully At least that matter had resolved itself. No further
word had been heard from him, and she was now convinced that he would not return as he had promised to do. After all, the actions of a man so obviously disturbed were not to be trusted.

“Breakfast, Miss Fitzgerald,” one of her roommates called as she passed Aisleen’s bed.

Aisleen nodded, not turning from the window. Only when the final footsteps had faded away did she turn from the window. The emotional whirlwind had died, but its ravishment left her feeling drained. The thought of porridge made her stomach contract. That aside, she doubted she could swallow a single spoonful. Smoke or dream, her throat was raw.

A quiver began at one corner of her mouth. She had never before been the victim of a nervous complaint. Hysteria was not unusual in women in her rank and circumstance, she knew, but she thought of herself as having far too practical a nature ever to succumb to the weakness.

So, being practical, she went to the foot of her bed and extracted from her trunk the medical volume which she had carried since the day she began supervising children. She turned unerringly to the section entitled “Nervous Complaints” and ran a finger down the paragraphs until she came to the one marked “Fits.” The term “Apoplexy” did not apply to her symptoms but, with a small gasp, she read the following under “Hysterics”:

The patient may suffer warning symptoms: headache, weak pulse, and often believe himself the victim of all manner of maladies, suffering false symptoms of disease. These are apt to follow great depression of the spirit and shedding of tears.

She closed the volume with a snap and replaced it. “Enough of that, my girl!” she said decisively. She simply did not have time to languish about in a state of
hysterics. If her throat was sore, she must be sickening. The best remedy for that was rest.

Lying down on her cot, she fell instantly into a deep, troubled sleep.