The Secret Rose (9 page)

“Less—?” Aisleen caught herself and forced her gaze away. It was none of her business. She had chosen to come to New South Wales knowing full well that it had once been a penal colony. The major was right. She would have to become accustomed to strange sights and give them no thought. But she could not still the indignant feeling that had risen within her. Surely, there were better ways of dealing with such men.

“Your bags have been lowered into the dinghy, Miss Fitzgerald.” The steward doffed his hat as Aisleen turned to him. “If you’re ready to disembark, I’m to show you the way.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Major Scott cut in and offered Aisleen his arm.

The offer surprised Aisleen. She had not thought him the gallant sort. Yet, in her dealings with men, she had found they needed little or no encouragement to preen. Doubt dimmed her countenance. “Will you not need to see to your wife, Major?”

“When the rush for the quay has ebbed, I’ll collect her,” he answered, still holding out his crooked elbow.

Aisleen looked down at the bobbing boat into which she was expected to climb and decided that perhaps she might
benefit from a stout arm to help her on shore. “Thank you, Major,” she said, accepting his arm.

“You’ve every reason to be cautious.” The major took up his thought once they were safely ensconced in the boat that carried them the short distance to the quay. “Don’t accept the first proposal that comes your way, that’s my advice to you. Look the lot over before choosing a husband.”

Aisleen stiffened as she sat by his side. “I have not come to Sydney to wed; I’ve come to teach.”

Giving her a skeptical look, he said, “See that lot yonder?” He nodded toward the group of men standing to one side of the pier at dockside. “Bushmen mostly. Whenever they’re in town, they meet the incoming ships in hopes of finding themselves a bride. You’ll be lucky to get past them without receiving at least one marriage proposal.”

Aisleen stared at the throng of bushy-bearded men in floppy-brimmed hats as the boat docked at the pier, and her gaze was greeted by a cheer that made her blush even as she looked away. “Preposterous!” she murmured.

“I see a prime ’un! Get the clergyman!” one of the group called out, and his cry was answered by more raucous male laughter as Aisleen was handed up onto the wharf by two seamen. A moment later the major appeared by her side, and she did not hesitate to take the arm he extended.

“Bring her on, Major!” another jeered. “She deserves better than an old sod the likes of ye!”

“Do not quail before them, Miss Fitzgerald,” Major Scott said under his breath. “They’ll not lay a hand on you. Just talk, that’s all they know.”

Aisleen looked down her nose at the crowd of scruffy men as they started toward the dock. “Is that the fisheries of Port Jackson I smell, Major, or is it the population?”

The men accepted the comment with good-natured hoots of laughter.

“That’s the spirit, lass!” a drayman called from his perch. “Dinna let them jackeroos scare ye!”

She ignored the other sallies coming her way, glad that she had the major as her escort. To her surprise, once they reached dockside the boisterousness subsided. Several of the men who had teased her snatched their hats from their heads as she passed, their grins less leering and their gazes almost shy. Even so, she pretended not to notice, lifting her chin to stare over their heads.

Once on the dock, she quickly became aware of other things, like the costermongers holding up food and liquid libation as their cries of “Two a ha’penny!” and “Shilling a toss!” split the air.

The major led the way through the lines of traffic until he found a patch of shade under the overhang of a warehouse. “Here we are, Miss Fitzgerald. A bit of respite from the heat.”

Aisleen touched a gloved hand to her forehead beneath her corded bonnet, where a fine beading of moisture had formed. “I trust I shall learn to deal with the clime after a few days. The summer’s heat certainly lingers in this latitude.”

Major Scott looked at her with amusement. “September is the beginning of spring by Australian reckoning.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Aisleen sighed inwardly. How, she wondered with misgiving as she lowered her umbrella, was she to survive the climate if the springs were warmer than summers in Ireland?

“You’ll get the right of it,” the major assured her. “If you are not being met, please permit me to…” His voice trailed away as he spied his wife on the deck of the
Black Opal
.
“Sarah! Sarah Scott! Pardon me a moment, Miss Fitzgerald,” he called over his shoulder as he started toward the pier.

It happened so quickly Aisleen could not prevent herself from falling to her knees when she was shoved roughly in
the back. The next instant, her purse was snatched from her wrist.

“My purse!” she cried indignantly as she scrambled to her feet. “That boy—oh! There he goes! Stop him! Stop him!” Without waiting for aid, she started after the thief. All her money and the address of her employer were in that purse. If she lost it, she would be destitute and helpless.

“Let me pass!” she cried to those who crowded the quay. To her dismay, the thief s path was opening up before him as if by magic while the seamen in her way did not move aside but stood grinning at her. They were deliberately allowing the boy to escape!

“Out of my way!” she ordered again and tried to elbow her way through the wall of sailors. When they did not comply, without hesitation she stamped the pointed heel of her leather boot hard on the instep of the man nearest her. The burly man reeled away with a yelp of pain, and she dove through the opening he left.

Her height served her well, for it allowed her to keep sight of the boy. But, hampered by the weight of her many petticoats and the rubbery-kneed feeling left from having been a long time at sea, she could not keep up with him, and he quickly outdistanced her.

“Oh, no!” she whispered in dismay when he rounded the corner of a warehouse. Gasping for breath, she reached the corner only to find that he had disappeared. It was gone, all of it: her money, her instructions, and the crystal brooch her mother had given her. Anger swept her as she turned away from the empty alley. “Damn! Damn! Damn!”

“Do you hear that, laddie? The lass must be a fearsome dragon, for all she looks a lady.”

Aisleen looked up at the sound of the amused masculine voice with the caressing lilt of an Irish brogue. The next instant her gaze locked with the vivid blue of a stranger’s
and she felt her world compress to the limits of those incredibly bright eyes.

A wild tangle of black beard hid half his face, and a hat with turned-down brim cast a shadow low on his brow. She could smell the unpleasant musky odor of dirt and sweat and sheep emanating from his worn and stained clothes. Yet, for a moment, something as familiar and comforting as a childhood memory rose to mind.

A scent like heather borne on a breeze from the Irish Sea suddenly enveloped her with poignant sweetness, faint at first and then nearly overwhelming in its pungency. The shadows of home reached out to her…

The sensation vanished more quickly than her senses could record it, and an instant later Aisleen realized that the bushman held her thief firmly by the hair. “You caught him!”

“That I did,” the stranger replied, easily avoiding the kicks and blows the boys aimed at him. “What will ye have me do with him, then?”

She frowned at the boy. He was not as large as she had thought. He was nothing more than a filthy assortment of rags and angular bones topped by a thatch of sun-bleached hair.

“Don’t hurt him,” she cautioned when the boy finally landed a blow high on his captor’s thigh and the man retaliated by smacking the flat of his hand against the side of the boy’s head.

The stranger gave her a hard glance. “Hadn’t ye better make up yer mind?” He jerked a cry of pain from the boy in an effort to restrain him. “Ye were giving fair chase after the lad. Was it to thank him for relieving ye of this?”

Aisleen looked at the purse he held out. “Thank you,” she said with heartfelt relief. Careful not to touch the stranger’s hand, she took it. When he smiled at her she knew he understood her reluctance to touch him and was
amused by the fact. That annoyed her, and she turned quickly to the boy, her expression severe.

“Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? What would your parents think were they to learn of your thievery? Do you realize what sort of impression your conduct makes on new arrivals?”

Before she could guess his intent, the boy kicked her in the shin. With a sharp cry of pain, she stepped back.

A rude guffaw exploded from the black tangle of the man’s beard. “Ye’re wasting yer breath, m’um.” He shook the boy roughly until Aisleen’s teeth hurt in sympathy for the child, and then he gave the boy a box on the ear before releasing him. “Off with ye!”

The boy’s feet had scarcely touched the ground before he swung back on Aisleen with a hiss of fury. “Ye bloody pommie slut!”

This time, Aisleen was prepared, and her eyes narrowed in challenge as she hoisted her parasol. “Touch me again and I’ll thrash you myself,” she said in a tone she would never have used with a well-behaved child.

The boy hesitated, his widened eyes darting to the bearded man and then back to the lady. He was not accustomed to ladies who gave chase. Most often, they could be counted on to scream and faint when he robbed them.

“Bleedin’ pommie sow!” he called over his shoulder as he turned and ran.

“Keep away from the wharf or I’ll have you arrested!” Aisleen called back.

“Good on ye!” the bearded man voiced in approval. “Threats are all he understands. As for his parents, wouldn’t doubt their acquaintance was above an evening’s.”

Aisleen blushed at the crude remark. Because he had saved her purse, that did not mean that the bushman had the right to be familiar. “I thank you for your timely intervention,” she replied in the same superior tone she had used with the
major. “This should answer for your trouble.” She opened her purse and offered him a coin.

She saw a flash of anger in his eyes as his gaze moved from the coin in her gloved palm to her face. Then his gaze moved down over the voluminous skirts of her navy blue traveling dress. A slow smile formed in his nest of beard as his gaze wandered back to her face. The smile widened in response to some huge joke that he did not share with her. To her astonishment, he reached out and pulled one of her curls which had come loose in the chase. “Can ye do no better, lass?”

Aisleen stepped back and self-consciously put a hand to her bonnet, only to realize that it had slipped from her head during the chase and now dangled by its ribbons down her back. Her hair, which had been carefully coiled into buns on either side of her head, had slid free of its pins and cascaded over her shoulders. Hastily she retrieved her bonnet and set it on her head.

“Do nae hide yer glory, lass,” he said softly. “’Tis bonny fine hair ye have. ’Tis the color of a sunset in the back of beyond.”

She ignored the dubious assessment of her charms and turned away. Relief swept through her as she spied the figure of Major Scott bearing down on them.

“Good heavens, Miss Fitzgerald! You shouldn’t have chased that larrikin!” He sounded winded as he reached her side. “A lady, alone in an alley—you cannot possibly imagine what might happen.”

The major’s scolding only added fuel to Aisleen’s embarrassment. “Nonsense, Major! I am quite accustomed to dealing with children. Besides, I was hardly alone. I have Mr.—” Aisleen fell silent as she turned and found the bearded stranger had disappeared. “Why, that’s odd. Where did he go?”

“The bushman, do you mean?” the major asked. “I
saw him. No doubt he thought better of braving an English officer. Did he make overtures to you, Miss Fitzgerald?”

“Overtures?” Aisleen repeated in mystification. “I should think not! He caught my thief.” She held up her purse as proof.

The major was not impressed. “Miss Fitzgerald, if you are to get on in the colony you must remain on your guard. That man might have been the thief s accomplice. They may have plotted together to snatch your purse to lure you away from the dock. Good God!” he cried, forgetting that he was in the presence of a lady. “You might have been stolen out from under my very nose.”

“Stolen for what purpose?” Aisleen asked skeptically as she readjusted her bonnet.

Major Scott’s startled gaze rested on her a moment. Could she really not guess the reason? Her appearance was that of a pleasant but plain spinster lady, yet surely some man had once pursued her? And now, with her bonnet askew, her cheeks flushed, and the most remarkable red curls tumbling from beneath her bonnet, she was quite a fetching picture. All the more reason, perhaps, that he should admonish her.

“Miss Fitzgerald, I must be frank. Do not assume that life in New South Wales will be a pastoral idyll. There is civility among the city population but, unfortunately, you’ve already witnessed the other sort.”

Aisleen heard the censure of her behavior with faint irritation. “I suppose you refer to the man who saved my purse when no one else would.”

The major’s cheeks reddened. “Perhaps, Miss Fitzgerald, I am less than fair in his case. But I warn you, do not be deceived by the rogues of Sydney. Men like those who greet the arriving ships and this bushman who saved your purse are not bound by the rules of decent society. They consider any female without male protection fair game.” He did not
see the gathering storm in Aisleen’s expression or he would not have continued. “In any case, you would not wish to consort with convicts.”