Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) Read online

  “Mr. Vinson, ye be nae hearing me. It matters not atall to me what the moralists and the law-makers think of the practice. ’Twas not a pound-for-pound business value I signed up for. ’Twas an opportunity. He gave me opportunity to change me life, something I could never do on me own. Without him I could nae break the sorry pattern me life was taking. I owe him far more than boat passage.”

  “You give away your freedom for an opportunity.”

  “Nae. Put me freedom in hock a few years, perhaps, with the hope of a far better life in the future.”

  The gray eyes stared at her; the pale lips broadened into a bright smile. Perhaps her argument was getting through! He turned to Meg. “There, Meg! She said it perfectly. You pawn the present as surety against a better future. That’s the Christian faith! You enslave yourself to Jesus in this life, and reap the richest of rewards in the life to come. Indenture yourself now in order to reign with Him tomorrow.”

  He had missed the point completely. Samantha was talking not about the spiritual but about the practical, the everyday, from an Irish spinster girl’s point of view. Nor did she feel like arguing any more at a brick wall.

  She stood up, her tea untouched. “Mr. Vinson, clearly, I’ll not change your mind. I meself be breaking nae law in black and white, and I’ve a clear conscience.” She glanced at Meg. “In all matters, I might add. I best go now. There be chores waiting.” She stared at Meg. And there be chores waiting for you, too, sister. “I thank ye for yer hospitality and yer ear. G’day for now.”

  He was standing, too. He grasped her hand again in that same warm squeeze. “Thank you for coming by. I’m sorry I couldn’t be a better help to you.”

  She nodded to him and to Meg and stepped down off the porch. Her stiff legs complained painfully. She walked out across the goat pasture and through the little church, because that was the only way she knew in or out. Her legs loosened up as she reached the road and started home.

  Fluffy clouds up there were taking turns blotting out the midmorning sun. She still had no luck predicting rain, but there must surely be some sort of rules to the game. Familiar hoofbeats behind her made her turn. It was Sloan, back already. He rode Sheba with Gypsy in tow.

  He swung down from his saddle, apparently not the least bit sore. “You’re just getting back?”

  “Nae, returned last evening, sir. Pleasant trip up. Thank ye again for the thoughtfulness. Yerself wasted nae time.”

  “With two horses I could rest one and ride the other. It became something of a challenge to see how quickly I could make it. Care to ride the rest of the way?”

  “Thank ye, nae, sir.”

  He grinned. “Still stiff.” He glanced at the road ahead, thought but a moment and pulled the bridle off Gypsy’s head. He gave her a swat. Her nose high, she bolted forward, surprised by the sudden freedom. At a loose-limbed canter she took off for the barn, quickly, no doubt, lest her master change his mind. Sheba nickered and waltzed in place.

  He started walking and she fell in beside him comfortably, in rhythm, as if from long practice. He was the master, she the servant; if he wanted conversation it was for him to initiate. She spent the silence happily analyzing her feelings just now. She was enjoying this walk immensely. They were walking purposefully, striding the last few furlongs home. And yet this walk was akin somehow to the gentle stroll of a lass and a swain.

  That kiss …

  Come now, Samantha. Let’s not get sentimental and romantic. She rebuked her wayward thoughts.

  “If you got home yesterday, why are you out here now?” He didn’t say it accusingly, but there was an edge to his voice.

  “I took it upon meself, sir, to speak to Mr. Vinson—”

  “You don’t speak to Mr. Vinson a blooming thing! You don’t go near him. And that’s an order.”

  The spell shattered. The conversation ended. He the master had spoken, and she the servant had pawned her freedom to reply. Humbly, silently, she followed him home to the messy kitchen and their dinner hanging on the clothesline.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Desperation

  One expects trees in a forest, and of course this rain forest abounded in trees. Scores of different sorts of trees fought shoulder-to-shoulder for space and sunlight. A few of them, bold, tough fellows, managed to thrust themselves above the canopy, paying for the sunshine with the vulnerability of their unnaturally long trunks. Below the thick mat of branches and leaves grew myriad bushes, some gangly and some squat. Strangler figs and delicate vines tied top to bottom, branch to earth. And hidden in the cracks and crotches of all this, a hundred kinds of orchids bloomed.

  With those millions of millions of leaves, one would think it a wonder rainwater ever reached the ground. It did. It poured from the sky into the forest, cascaded down the countless leaves and dripped off their specially pointed tips to the leaves next below. Tiny raindrops gathered thus into huge blobs of water, plopping finally into the mud or coursing in rivulets down the trunks and vines. Indeed, the ground never truly dried out.

  Samantha stood under the back porch roof mindlessly watching the deluge. Irish rain fell sweetly, almost like a gentle mist at times. Not like this. Not like this at all. The only hearts gladdened by this downpour were those of the green tree frogs. Their piercing songs rang from all directions.

  “The gnomes have been working overtime.” Linnet’s light voice at her shoulder made Samantha jump. The girl stepped in beside and leaned casually against a porch post.

  “Gnomes? Sure’n we left them behind in Erin.”

  “Eh, nae. Fat Dog’s wife says the gnomes here around swab the tree frogs’ throats. They use some medicine mysterious and sweet to keep the poor things from going hoarse.”

  “Ye wouldn’t want a frog to croak, now.”

  “The soul of a poet ye’ll never have, Sam.”

  “Nae more than yerself’ll ever have the soul of a worker. Be the carpets swept?”

  “I would nae dare stand here if they weren’t, would I?”

  “Ye’d try.” She felt damp, for want of a better word, all over. The pervasive humidity seemed to creep past her clothes into the very fabric of her being. Samantha turned and walked back inside.

  A thousand little chores begged for attention. Samantha felt like doing none of them. Still, she ought—

  Someone pounded on the front door. Samantha covered the length of the house at a jog to answer the knock.

  Mr. Butts stood under the roof absolutely drenched. He stepped into the foyer and handed her his water-logged hat. “Is Cole around?”

  “I’ll go see, sir, if you’ll excuse me momentarily.” She curtseyed and hurried off down the hall.

  “Tell him it’s absolutely critical,” called the half-drowned man to her back.

  She rapped at the office door and entered. “Mr. Butts here, sir. Says ’tis urgent.”

  He sighed heavily. “I’ll see him.”

  Samantha grabbed the brocaded wingback chair and dragged it to a corner. Quickly she pushed the leather-upholstered chair—the essentially waterproof chair—to the center of the room across from the desk. She nodded curtly to the gaping Mr. Sloan and hurried back down the hall to fetch his guest.

  She ushered Mr. Butts through the office door and hastened to the kitchen for tea. She steeped the Fortnum and Mason black pekoe; Mr. Sloan looked like he could use it. When she returned with the tray, Mr. Butts was perched on the edge of the leather chair like a crow on a fencepost, gesturing wildly.

  “ … Even though I explained to them. They insist I must honor the note now. I’m sorry, Cole, but I need the rest of your pledge. All of it.”

  “I understand, John. And I hope you understand that the money is not right here. I’ll have to send for it. Be a couple days. Maybe a week. But it will be in your hands just as soon as I can gather it in.”

  “Of course. You don’t keep a sum like that in your petty cash box. Uh, might I have some sort of written promise from you; you know, just to be able to
hand them something?”

  “Certainly. Least I can do, since I’m keeping you waiting. Miss Connolly, a snack tray.”

  “Not for me.” Mr. Butts raised a hand. “Much too agitated to eat.” He fidgeted and tugged at his necktie. “Cole, every time I think I can see the light, something else rears its ugly head. It’s so bloody frustrating. Perhaps I’m not cut out for this business, after all. And yet, I do love it.”

  “They say the most gratifying relationships are those built on a love-hate basis.”

  John Butts laughed nervously. “That’s it exactly!” He watched with hungry eyes as Mr. Sloan wrote across a letterhead and tucked it in an envelope.

  “That should hold the wolves at bay a few more days.” Mr. Sloan passed the envelope across to the distraught businessman.

  Mr. Butts bolted to his feet. “Thank you, Cole. Thank you! I knew I could depend on you! Thank you!” With a few more expressions of eager gratitude he backed out the office door. Samantha saw him out.

  When she returned, Mr. Sloan had melted into a sorry glob in one corner of his roomy chair. Quietly she dragged the wet leather chair back where it belonged and restored the wingback to its usual place. He had not touched his cup.

  She paused by the tray. “Ye might feel better for a bit of tea, sir. ’Tis yer favorite.”

  He glanced up at her with a wan smile. “Butts is the one who looks like something the cat dragged in.”

  “Nae, sir. The cat would never let itself get that wet toying with its prey.”

  The smile opened into a grin. He leaned forward for his cup and sat back again. “Remember the promise of money I made him in exchange for title rights?” He sipped at his tea.

  “I see. Now, if ye are to gain a solid claim to the land title, ye must produce the money. Which ye have nae.”

  “Which I have nae. If I don’t come up with the balance of the amount promised, I lose any claim on his land plus what I’ve already paid him, and he loses everything—which makes it all the harder for me when the time comes to expand. Butts I can work with. These Sydney bankers I can’t.”

  “Manipulate, ye mean.”

  He smirked. He sipped. Should she leave or stay? Presently he said, “There’s a way, but it puts Sugarlea on the line. Do I take the chance, or let Butts and his tea slide away? Do I risk everything on a gamble that will three times pay for itself if I win?”

  “Ye’re asking a woman who left everything familiar behind her in order to gamble on a new life.”

  He studied her a long time with those deep dark eyes. “Pack my dark suit and the conservative shirts. Use the kangaroo-hide bag. And dark ties. Melbourne is chilly this time of year.”

  “Aye, sir.” She paused in the doorway. “’Tis the gamble, eh?”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.” He snorted. “Or lost, for that matter. Yes, Sam, the gamble. Heigh-ho and away we go.”

  And away he went, leaving that afternoon through the pouring rain with his kangaroo bag and a cryptic instruction to keep the place from burning down in his absence. When Samantha asked Mr. Doobie what the master might have meant by that, Mr. Doobie replied that Mr. Sloan always said that when he left town.

  The next morning Meg dressed up and walked out to have tea. With whom Samantha could easily guess. Not only did Meg’s lack of responsibility irk her but also the snippy way she said, “Mr. Sloan may have told ye not to see Luke, but he didn’t tell me.” Linnet was supposed to have the weekly housecleaning done, and she had barely started. It was going to be a long day.

  Was Samantha feeling lonely and at loose ends because Mr. Sloan was gone? Hardly! How foolish. It was her sisters, her sisters who so casually shirked their duties—that was what irritated so badly.

  At midmorning, Mr. Gantry, the mill foreman, thumped on the kitchen door.

  Samantha invited him in and waved toward the chair by the kitchen table. “Might I fix ye a sandwich and tea?”

  “Don’t mind if you do. Mr. Sloan coming back soon?”

  “Methinks the man himself doesn’t know. I surely don’t.”

  “But it’ll be awhile.”

  “Aye.” Samantha flapped a sliver of goat cheese on the slab of roast mutton and dropped the second slice of bread on top. She gave the whole creation a bit of a squeeze, just to make certain all the parts kept their places. She set it and the tea before him. “Can I do something more for ye?”

  “Sure you can. Come sit on my lap here.”

  She took a deep breath. This sort of thing cropped up with distressing frequency, but it always caught her off guard. “I prefer not, Mr. Gantry.”

  “And why not, with the old man gone? Nothing for you ’til he gets back anyway.” His hand snaked out and seized her wrist.

  She grabbed his cup and splashed the scalding tea in his face, leaping back as he yelped. “I’ll thank ye, Mr. Gantry, to maintain a gentlemanly decor. There be naething between the master and meself regardless what gossip ye may be hearing, and there’ll be naething between yerself and me. Are we clear?”

  “Pretty uppity for a bondservant, ain’t you?” He stood up.

  She held her ground. “I strongly recommend against trespass, sir. Now. Be there anything I can do for ye regarding the business of Sugarlea?” Was her bluff good? Apparently. He stared at her a moment, then sat down and whipped out a handkerchief.

  He mopped off his face. “I was hoping to catch him before he left. We have enough good cane coming I can open the mill part time. Need some cutters.”

  “Be they not all employed elsewhere by now?”

  “That’s the trouble. He shouldn’t have sent them all packing like he did.”

  “Be yerself a cutter, Mr. Gantry?”

  “How I got my start. Best cutter in Queensland once. Caught the eye of the old Mr. Sloan and got the mill job. I’m a real man, lass; worth taking a second look at.”

  “Ye see? There’s one cutter. Now, how about that Mr. Dakin?”

  “Eh, he’s still around. But he works the crusher; ain’t no cutter.”

  “Train him. Then ye can show Mr. Sloan how efficient ye’ve made yer operation. Men who can work any job needs doing. If the mill operates part time, ye’ve time enough yerself to cut. Put Mr. Doobie to running the field tram. As cutter and foreman, ye can pocket two paychecks in the place of one—nae a bad thing.”

  “Did Sloan put you in charge whilst he’s gone?”

  “Now, who’d let a woman handle such a task? More tea?”

  “I didn’t miss your meaning with that trespass remark.” He stood up again. “No tea, thanks. Nor have I forgotten the way he scooped ye up when we went crocodile hunting back there. I’ll be on my way. Go find Dakin. Get Doobie to firing up the donkey engine. Oh—I’ll need a draught if I’m to start hiring.”

  “He took the checkbook with him. Sorry.”

  “Then I’ll just have to put it on account. G’day. And consider reconsidering, aye?” He winked lasciviously.

  “G’day, Mr. Gantry.”

  She watched him shove out the door with the last bit of his sandwich in his hand. It was sinful to feel so smug. Her feelings went far beyond smugness, too. For a few moments, at least in Mr. Gantry’s eyes, she was mistress of this plantation. For a few precious minutes her freedom was out of hock and she had the answers.

  But only for a few minutes. Almost immediately, nagging doubt displaced the smug satisfaction. What if Mr. Sloan didn’t want the mill reopened? Quite possibly his answer to Mr. Gantry would have differed greatly from hers. And when he demanded of Mr. Gantry an explanation, the chooks would quickly come home to roost. How could she have let petty pride urge her to this?

  She had no time to dwell on her mistakes. Here was Fat Dog at the back door.

  He pushed his black face against the fly net. “Mr. Sloan back soon?”

  “Not for quite some time. What’s wrong? Come in. Come in.”

  He stepped inside and instantly appeared somehow out of his element. He shifted his weight fr
om bare foot to bare foot nervously as his sunken eyes darted about. “Burriwi and Wurraoonah, they back. Gone hunt, come. There be lone man, one man, up in the hills behind here. Whitefeller.”

  “In the forest? Doing what?”

  “Bushranger. Fossicker. Nuthin. Sumpin.” Fat Dog shrugged. “Walkabout. Just walkabout.”

  “Did he just come recently or has he been up there a time?”

  “New. Since full moon. Just come.”

  “Did they see him or only his tracks?” Samantha might be new to the country, but already she knew that the aboriginal hunters could look at a single faint footprint and tell you whether its maker was male or female, young or old, black or white.

  “Both. Him. Signs. This big; gray beard this shape.” Fat Dog gestured with his powerful hands. “White-feller clothes—white shirt, pants like fossicker. Boots like fossicker.”

  “And walkabout.” She nodded. “I’ll tell Mr. Sloan instantly he returns.”

  Fat Dog bobbed his hairy head. “See more, he does more, I’m back, tell you more.”

  “Thank ye.”

  The wary aborigine bolted for the door and swept himself outside with a look of immense relief on his face.

  Samantha called after him, “Would ye saddle Sheba, please?”

  He waved a cheery will do and strode off toward the stable with that marvelous, loosely swinging gait of his kind.

  She left a note for Meg to start dinner, left a second note with instructions for Linnet, and hurried to her room. She changed from this straight black skirt to the full one with sufficient fabric for her to straddle a horse and remain modest.

  If she was going to play the role of plantation mistress, she would do it in grand manner. She would ride down to Mossman, and if what she needed was not there, on to Port Douglas, as if she had every right to do so. She could likely be done with her business by midafternoon.

  Would Mr. Sloan approve of this latest idea of hers? She was certainly overstepping the bounds of a simple housekeeper. And yet, he didn’t seem to mind gambling against formidable odds. This was certainly less a gamble than his, whatever he was doing. This was merely a shrewd move.