She reached for the bowl of green beans and spooned a generous portion onto his plate. “Potatoes?” Deftly she scooped up several pieces swimming in buttery cream sauce.
“And now a nice piece of sirloin.” She picked up the carving knife and fork and with expert ease cut two thin slices and transferred them to his plate, ladling oyster gravy over them. “It’s a nice cut of beef, not too grainy or overdone, as the English are wont to do. But the fried veal patties are a cold meat dish; I’ve made it before. Quite likely, the veal was a part of last night’s dinner fare. I advise you not to pay more than five shillings for it.”
Thomas smiled at her. “Ye’ll make a grand wife, ye will, looking after yer husband so. I did not think to ask if ye cook, but glad I am to hear that ye do. Ye’re a clever thing, Aisleen.”
Aisleen nodded primly, uncomfortable with his use of her Christian name, but she did not correct him this time. After all, he had complimented her. But as she watched him spear a piece of potato with his knife and poke it into his mouth, she mentally added his table manners to the list of changes she must make in him.
“I will do my best to see that you are fairly treated by tradesmen and domestics,” Aisleen began. “Further, I will keep an orderly account of all household expenses, which you may wish to peruse as regularly as you do your foreman’s business books.”
Thomas nodded and chewed, undecided if he should tell her that his foreman did not keep records and that he could not read them even if the man had. “I’ll take yer word for the expenses. As for records, we’ll see.”
Aisleen picked up her fork but after a moment’s thought laid it down again. “Forgive me, Mr. Gibson, but I really must know something of your immediate plans. In order that I may formulate my own, you understand.”
Thomas swallowed. “Is that what’s had a frown riding yer fine brow? Well, ’tis easy enough to answer. We’ll be spending the night in Sydney. A little time to ourselves
would not be amiss, I’m thinking,” he added with a grin that made Aisleen blush.
“I see,” she answered faintly. Her task of taming her new husband would begin sooner than she hoped. First of all, he must be made to understand that she was not immediately to become his brood mare.
“Do ye, lass? I wonder.” Thomas reached across the table and placed his hand over hers. He felt her try to withdraw and curled his fingers over the back of her hand to hold it still. “Do nae be afraid of me, lass. I’m yer husband now.”
“I find intimacies in public to be singularly distasteful,” she answered in a breathless voice and was relieved that he released her. The warm, rough touch of his callused hand had not been unpleasant but somehow unnerving.
Thomas held her shy gaze. “There’s none to see us. A man might be excused a small liberty or two, seeing as how ’tis his wedding day.”
Aisleen looked away from his cocky smile. Those too-bright eyes spoke with an eloquence their owner lacked, and their meaning was clear. “We are not the ordinary sort of bride and groom,” she said, carefully choosing her words. “We are little more than strangers, sir. I am unaccustomed to the company of gentlemen and find your attentions, however well meant, disconcerting.”
“We’ll soon be taking care of that,” Thomas answered easily. “From this night forward, ye’ll be having me in yer bed. ’Twill make the knowing of me that much quicker.”
His answer brought her gaze flashing back toward his face. He could not be serious? Yet the answer was there in his confident male grin. Dismay quickened her heartbeat. She had no intention of sharing even a room with him, this night or any other. “I believe it will take time, nothing less than that, to change us from strangers to companions,” she replied with more conviction. “I reiterate, we are little more
than strangers. We did not wed because of personal suitability or sentiment.”
“Loving, do ye mean?” Thomas questioned in surprise. “
Wirra!
It never crossed me mind to think that a lady of yer refinement would consider love a proper reason for marrying. Love’s easy enough to come by. I thought ye saw clear the reason I’ve not wed before now.”
“In truth, I do not,” Aisleen answered cautiously.
Thomas shrugged. “I won’t lie to ye. I’ve known me share of women—Aisleen, lass, do not be screwing up yer face the like. ’Tis a monstrous sight. As I was saying, I might have wed a dozen times, but I didn’t, as none of the lasses had a pedigree to match yers.”
“Are we speaking of buying cattle again, Mr. Gibson?” Aisleen asked coolly.
Thomas did not misunderstand this reference to their second meeting. “Aye, and so many a more sound marriage would be made were the parties to bring the wariness of a buyer into the choice. A man would not buy a horse, nor a cow, nor a bullock, without first seeing the stock. I saw ye and knew ye to be to me liking. And ye did the same.”
But did I?
Aisleen mused. She picked up her fork again, ploughing her creamed potatoes with the tines. She should have been better prepared for his pleasant but obstinate nature. She had seen it work to remarkable effect. She was wed to him with less than two days of acquaintance between them.
Thomas watched her smear her plate with what was, to his mind, quite nice tucker. The hand holding her fork was gloved, and he wondered how she managed to eat without getting gravy stains on the tips. His perusal moved from her hand to the attractive straw bonnet she wore. She had replaced her veil with the pretty thing in the carriage, but he had hoped she would remove it now that they were alone. Remembering his single glimpse on the dock of her incredibly bright red hair, he nearly suggested it. The tiny frown puckering her brow changed his mind.
It was his wedding day, a day that a man had every right to look upon with pride and anticipation. The worst was over, the vows said, and now he wanted to celebrate with the lady who had consented to be his bride. So why did she sit there staring down as though she were on her way to an execution?
He wanted to put her at ease, but he did not know what to say. Words were never easy for him, particularly when she knew so many more of them than he did. His inclination was to put his arm about her shoulders, but he was certain that she would shy away if he did. She had turned her mouth from his kiss after the ceremony, offering him the cool, damp velvet of her cheek instead. He could scarcely remember the feel of her skin, and it rankled.
Give it time, Thomas, lad. Give it time
,
he counseled himself.
Aisleen looked up suddenly. “Do you mean that?”
“Mean what?” Thomas questioned, surprised to find himself staring into a pair of poteen-colored eyes, as rich and warm an amber as any whiskey this side of Dublin.
“That we have time, that you will give me time to become accustomed to marriage?” Aisleen replied.
“Aye, we’ve a lifetime for that,” Thomas agreed, but puzzlement resonated in his words. He did not remember speaking his thoughts aloud. He must be more anxious than he realized.
The desire for whiskey that he had been denying himself for two long days suddenly loomed as an overpowering need. He rose to his feet. “There’s a matter or two of importance that I should have out of me way before nightfall. If ye will not think badly of me, I’ll be leaving ye some short while to attend to it.”
Aisleen rose instantly to her feet. “By all means, see to your business. I shall deal splendidly well alone.”
Thomas removed his cravat and opened his collar, too caught up in his own desire to leave to hear the relief in her voice. “I may not be back before dark, but I have the landlord’s word that ye’ll receive anything ye may wish. We’re staying the night and then it’s for Parramatta tomorrow where we’ll meet me mate who’s waiting to accompany us home.”
He reached for his floppy-brimmed hat and then crossed the room and opened a door, motioning with his head. “The bedroom’s in here. They brought our things up before we came up to eat.”
Aisleen moved to the doorway, stepping carefully past him to keep her skirts from brushing his legs. The room beyond the door was small but neatly appointed with printed wallpaper, a chair, valet stand, and, dominating the small space, a narrow brass bed with a crocheted cover.
Blood stung her ears as her gaze slid from the bed to the baggage stacked in one corner. It did not seem possible that two human beings could share that tiny confine and long remain in ignorance of one another. How should she broach the subject?
When she turned back and saw that Thomas’s complexion had turned strangely red beneath its heavy tan she knew she could not. “Very well, Mr. Gibson,” she murmured.
“Thomas, Tom, or just plain Gibson, but ye’ve no need to call me Mister anything after the morning’s work,” Thomas answered shortly. He set his hat on his head at an angle that shaded his eyes from her view. “G’day, then, missus,” he said and walked to the door.
“Good day to you, Mis—Thomas,” she replied. She was not surprised that he turned to smile at her, but, to her astonishment, he winked at her!
“Well!” she let out in a great sigh when the door was closed behind him. That man had no manners at all.
*
Thomas was in fine high spirits as he ordered the third round for the company of the Wallaby Tavern. It was quite gratifying, he reflected through the haze of amply imbibed grog, to know that a man could walk into a tavern a stranger and within moments have the entire assembly drinking his good health. Marriage had made him a roomful of new mates.
The rousing chorus of “Carroty Kate” sung to the tinny accompaniment of an upright piano filled the air with boozy conviviality as man after man slung a fraternal arm about the shoulders of the man nearest him to form a circle about the player. Thomas’s rough baritone underscored the Irish tenor of Michael O’Casey as they sang,
“…Her hair was the color of ginger,
She could reckon you up on a slate.
My colonial, she was a swinger,
And they called her Carroty Kate!
“She was very fond of riding,
As you can plainly see.
For one fine day she rode away,
With a chap from the Native Bee!”
As the next verse began, Thomas fell back from the circle to reach for his cup, but froze as Jack Egan’s mighty frame filled the doorway of the tavern. Jack did not cross toward the singers but walked over to a table in an empty corner and sat down.
“Will ye nae give us another chorus, Tom?” Michael O’Casey cried, clamping a hand on Thomas’s shoulder.
“Nae. Ask Tim there, he’s a fine voice,” Thomas answered. “I’ve a mate just come in.”
Thomas made his way smilingly among the revelers, who were two-thirds drunk on his coin.
Ah, well, that’s as it should be
,
he thought. When he reached Jack’s table he asked preemptively, “Are ye mad? What are ye doing in Sydney?”
Jack had drawn his pipe from his pocket and continued to tap tobacco into it. Knowing that he would answer in his own time, Thomas sat down and folded his arms across his chest.
When the tobacco was to his liking, Jack pulled a straw from his pocket, stuck one end into a blazing lantern that hung nearby, and then lit his pipe with the smoldering end. “She’ll be right plain looking, Tom,” he said finally, releasing a puff of smoke.
In that simple sentence was the answer to his presence in Sydney. Jack had been at the wedding, a silent and unseen witness. “Perhaps, but did ye hear her, Jack? She’s a lady, a thoroughgoing lady.”
“Manners will nae keep a man warm at night,” Jack said shortly. “But ’tis none of my affair.”
Thomas’s eyes narrowed at the curt dismissal of his bride. “I’m not asking ye to like it, Jack. I’m asking ye to give her a chance, that’s all.”
Jack exhaled a huge cloud of smoke. “Open up the station to her like, and what will ye get? Respectability, civilization, and the
law
.” His voice was low but edged with rage. “Next thing, she’ll be building a bloody church and calling the drovers in for prayer!”
“She’s going to the station with me,” Thomas said flatly. “She’s me wife, and ye’ll give the respect she’s due. By the by, it’s not safe, ye being in town. Or have ye forgotten the wee matter of the Macquarie murder?”
Silence stretched between them as Jack continued to suck
on his pipe. After a moment, he stood and started for the door.
“We’ll be in Parramatta tomorrow night,” Thomas called after the retreating man. “Ye’ll be there to meet us?”
Jack did not slow his step or reply.
“Bloody hell!”
*
Aisleen retied the bow at the neck of her bed jacket for the twelfth time. “Oh, bosh!” she exclaimed as she peered into the mirror that hung above the wash basin in the bedroom. She jerked the ribbon free. It looked horrid. Everything she had was horrid. Why had she not thought of what it would mean to share close confines with a man?
“Because you did not expect that eventuality to occur,” she murmured. Absently she began to massage the pain from her temples.
The headache that had retreated during the ceremony had returned not long after Thomas had departed. The ache had increased in intensity as she had spent the afternoon going over again and again in her mind what she would say regarding the double bed and the single bedroom when he returned.