The Secret Rose (14 page)

*

Thomas flopped belly first on the hard-baked red earth, gulping air into his starved lungs. He had groped his way blindly through the inferno, some instinct for survival driving him to this place from which fresh air was being bled by the flames. Smoke hung heavy in the air. He heard nothing but the omnivorous roar of the nearby blaze. Bush fires were unusual along the Hawksbury River in the spring months but no less dangerous. When they occurred, every able-bodied man for miles around came to the aid of those who stood in the path of the blaze.

For three days, he had worked without pause, and then it happened. In a single blast, the fire had leaped the fire line where he had been digging a trench, hemming him and the men who worked beside him between twin walls of flame. It was one of the peculiar dangers of fire in the colony. The volatile oils of the eucalyptus trees often exploded, sending balls of flame shooting across the sky like earth-born comets to light new fires in bush hundreds of feet away.

He coughed repeatedly, dislodging a shower of soot and ash from his hair. The action rubbed his shirt against his shoulders and red, raw pain radiated across them. He was burned and singed in a dozen places. His lungs felt scrubbed out by steel wool, and his eyes ran continuously in their effort to flush the detritus; but he knew he should not remain in what, for the moment, seemed a safe place. The fire lines had lost their definition when the new blazes sprang up. At any moment, he might feel the lick of flame once more.

Curling his hands against the red earth, he pushed himself
up into a half-sitting position, only to groan as his left calf muscles contracted in protest. Reaching back, he began to massage it gently with the knuckles of his blistered, broken-skinned hand. The weak limb did not always cripple him, but a week earlier, he had wrenched it while stacking supplies. He hoisted himself up, using his good leg, but he could not gain his feet. His left leg trembled under his weight and threatened collapse if he put his full weight on it. Swearing under his breath, he balanced on one foot and looked around. It was daybreak. Moments before the explosion, the eastern horizon had been showing pure pastels in counterpoint to the livid red-orange flames reflected in half the sky. He had to move, even if it meant hopping about like a kangaroo.

“Tom! Tom, you bastard! Answer me, you bloody get!”

Thomas grinned as the profanity reached him over the roar of the conflagration. He should have known Jack Egan would find him. “Jack!”

A short distance away, a man appeared out of the swirling smoke, a gigantic figure against the gray-white haze. Thomas tried to hail him, but a racking cough unbalanced him and he tumbled to his knees.

Without a word, the man ran forward and lifted Thomas and carried him, childlike, in giant strides across the flame-scarred ground.

“Thanks,” Thomas croaked.

“Keep yer bleedin’ trap shut!” came the gruff reply above his head.

“The other lads?” Thomas rasped.

“Safe enough. Only one damned fool doubled back on the fire.”

Despite the caustic words, Thomas closed his eyes and concentrated on his breathing. That was what a mate was for: companionship and dependability.

Suddenly they broke through the pall of sickly sweet
rosin and dry cinders, and a cheer went up from the men camped in the clearing beyond. Thomas grinned. A man needed his mates, he did that.

Jack dumped him none too gently on the ground beside a dray wheel, but his huge face, blackened by dirt and smoke, was etched with concern as he bent over Thomas.

He shoved a tin cup he’d taken from another man at Thomas. “Drink.”

Thomas did as he was told, only to gasp and choke as the raw whiskey fanned new flames from his burning throat.

Jack hunkered down and grabbed Thomas’s chin, turning his face this way and that. Then he reached for Thomas’s hands, examining them. Finally, he grabbed the cuff of Thomas’s left pants leg and shinnied it up to the ankle. With surprising gentleness he felt along the calf, testing the bulk of muscle and then delving into the unnatural hollow of the scar tissue.

Thomas sucked in a quick breath as Jack began massaging the crippled muscles, but he said nothing as the man worked out the knotted flesh.

After a moment, Jack pulled down the pants leg and rose to his feet. “What bride’ll want a man who’s shod of his hair and hide?”

Afraid that it had been singed off, Thomas grabbed his hair with both hands and then touched his brows. They remained.

“Flaming fool!” Jack spat and abruptly walked away.

Thomas gazed after the man a long time. He had known Jack for nearly five years, yet the man remained as strange and unpredictable as the bush fire they had fought for the past week. There was a violent intensity in his pale eyes that kept most people at bay. Jack was not a good man or an easy man, but he was reliable.

Thomas drained the whiskey in his cup. Jack did not approve of much, and he disliked women most of all. Well,
with or without his mate’s approval, he was going back to Sydney at the end of the week and wed Miss Fitzgerald. She was what he needed to fill his loneliness. It was quite simple once he thought about it. He had always wanted a family, and for that, he needed a wife.

He had seen the priest, and the banns had been read each Sunday of these past three weeks. Miss Fitzgerald would be angry, he suspected, when she learned what he had done without her consent. But then, he did not expect anything else. That was one of the reasons he had not remained in Sydney to court her. Five minutes in her company had convinced him that his presence would only antagonize her. He had taken her measure, knew what he wanted, and taken steps to ensure that he would get it. If not for the fire, he would have returned to marry her a week earlier.

He raised a hand to suck his bleeding knuckles. At first, he did not credit it, the splatter of wetness upon his face. Then he heard the gentle rumble of distant thunder followed by a round of hoarse cheers from the weary men about him. A second later heavy, cold rain splashed down, raising feathers of red dust from the ground. The break they had prayed for was at last upon them. Rain would do what they could not—smother the flames.

Thomas closed his eyes, allowing the whiskey to pull him down into the deep sleep of exhaustion.

October 1857

The days moved much too quickly in New South Wales, Aisleen thought as she tied the strings of her seventh starched petticoat about her waist. Underneath them she could already feel the chafing itch of her horsehair crinoline. Twice she had paused in dressing to apply talc to her
shoulders, arms, and bosom. The heat had drawn more moisture to the surface of her skin, and the headache that had threatened all morning had blossomed into pain.

Major Scott’s invitation to tea could not have come at a better time. His note said that he would introduce her to the families of his fellow officers. She cast a doubtful glance at her gown. It was lighter in weight than any of the others she owned, but she was not certain she should wear it.

The gown was lavender taffeta, the bodice made of white lace with a sash of deep pink. It was a present from her mother, a wild extravagance sewn in secret. She had been embarrassed by the gown and suspicious that the expensive material was a gift from Kirwan Mills. Weeks of fruitless effort had worn down her reluctance to solicit Major Scott’s aid in her search for employment. Even with the support of the Immigrant Fund, she was nearly penniless. But what would the major think if she came dressed in silk and lace? It was a fashionable gown—everyone would recognize it as such—and far too nice for a maiden lady who was without a post or independent means.

Regretfully she decided against the gown and reached for her serviceable green wool gown with the black velvet banding on skirt and sleeves. When she had affixed the last button, she looked at herself in the mirror. What she saw did not please her. Her cheeks were flushed and shiny, and her hair had lifted from her brow to form a foam of coppery curls above her forehead. With a murmur of annoyance, she turned and searched through her trunk until she found a small white lace collar. Beside it lay the rock-crystal brooch her mother had given her.

She picked up the stone framed in lacy filigree, pleased by the facets of rainbow light it drew to its center. Reds and greens, blues and golds, they danced before her bemused gaze. It was as if the stone held within its depths a tiny treasure in topazes, rubies, and sapphires. Once it had been
a minor gem in the collection of ancient Gaelic jewels that had adorned the hilt of the treasured O’Neill skean. One by one, they had been sold or bartered for the sake of Liscarrol until only this inconsequential stone was left. Now it was all that there was of the Fitzgerald legacy.

A sharp pain jabbed her temples, and Aisleen dropped the stone back into her belongings and covered it. When she had pinned her collar in place she smoothed her hair and put on her bonnet. She tied the ribbons and looked at herself once more. The deep black brim of her bonnet seemed to enfold her like the ominous wings of some bird of prey. Her head felt woolly, dull, and achy.

“’E’s here, miss!” a young girl called from the barracks door. “’E’s come in a carriage!”

Aisleen started at the sudden voice but bit off the rebuke that came to her lips. It was not the girl’s fault her head ached. “Thank you. I’ll be along in a moment,” she answered and heard the tremble in her voice. Major Scott was her last hope. If he could not help her, what would she do next? Where would she go? Where could she turn?

It came from nowhere, a sudden careless breeze upon her cheek, a sweet morning breath of anticipation that was at odds with her own mood. She glanced about sharply. From where had the sensation come?

“Are ye all right, miss?” the girl asked.

“Yes,” Aisleen answered quickly. “Yes, of course.” She picked up her purse and black lace shawl. “Is there something wrong?” she asked when she noticed that the girl was staring at her.

The girl blushed. “It ain’t mine to say, miss, only I’d wear a gown fit to turn the head of a Sydney lad were one to come calling on me.”

“I have not been invited to turn the heads of the Sydney lads, as you put it. Quite the contrary.” Aisleen turned
quickly away before the girl could see her angry blush. Turn heads, indeed!

When she reached the doorway she was startled to find the walkway beyond filled with barracks girls. Elbows dug into sides and giggles suddenly erupted behind feminine hands when they noticed her. They parted immediately but stood lining either side as if she were a parade about to pass by.

Annoyed at being once again a source of diversion for them, Aisleen ignored them as she stepped onto the path. No doubt they had been drawn by the sight of a red-coated officer. At least Major Scott had been spared this vulgar display of curiosity by waiting outside the gates.

“Good luck, miss,” one of the girls said shyly when Aisleen passed her.

“Aye, have a go at ’im, that’s what I say!” called another as girlish laughter rippled on the afternoon air.

“Good luck! Good luck!” came a chorus of cries.

Aisleen walked on, growing more and more annoyed with their good wishes. One would have thought this a momentous occasion. How easily excited these girls were.

*

Beyond the gates, Thomas impatiently paced Queen’s Square before Hyde Park Barracks, working out the stiffness in his leg. As he waited he repeatedly dug a finger between his starched collar and his neck. The stiff linen had rubbed a welt on his skin, and his cravat threatened to strangle him.

“Bloody hell!” He seldom put himself to this torture, but he was certain that Miss Fitzgerald would not approve if he arrived in his moleskin breeches and shirt sleeves.

When he had completed another turn about the square, he cast a look at the barracks gates. “Where is she?” he murmured He had nearly stopped on the way to fortify
himself with a tankard or two at the Crown and Cross until he remembered Sally. The night before she had thrown a tankard at his head when he entered.

He brushed an arm across his brow, leaving beads of sweat on his broadcloth coat sleeve. He was not an indecisive man. Yet here he was pacing and sweating like some green lad, wondering if he were about to make a fool of himself. He was satisfied with Miss Fitzgerald, but what if she refused him? After all, he was a colonial squatter without manners or refinement. Ladies, he had been told, regarded some things above money. If she refused him, what would he do?

“Mr. Gibson!” a feminine voice declared with distinct displeasure.

Thomas turned sharply on his heel, so lost in his thoughts he had not heard her approach. He took her in in a single glance. Buttoned up to her chin in vile green wool and a black bonnet more fitted for a wake than courtship, she looked twenty years his senior and about as approachable as a wart hog. It was what he expected: she had come but she was not pleased. “Miss Fitzgerald? ’Tis glad I am that ye agreed to see me.”

“See you? I
agreed to no such thing!” Aisleen answered stiffly. His appearance at the barracks was the embodiment of her worst fears. She glanced right and then left, but, mercifully, Major Scott was nowhere in sight.

She turned her haughtiest look on the object of her displeasure. “What do you mean by tarrying before the barracks? If you wish to speak with me then I suggest you approach the matron, but I warn you I do not intend to speak to some…some swagman who waylays respectable ladies on the street!”