Daring Masquerade (3 page)

"Plenty of food here, Harry."

Plenty of food, what an understatement. Bags of flour, sugar, sultanas, a box of tea, jars of jam and preserves, a tin of treacle, and numerous other supplies. Her eyes widened at the variety and quantity. "Heavens, haven't seen food like this in years."

"Yeah. There's not much in the other storeroom, how about we move everything into here so we can use the other one as our quarters."

"Good idea."

"I could sleep on the floor in the kitchen, no-one will know, you can have the storeroom to yourself."

She nodded her agreement.

Gil went outside searching for wood and soon returned with an armful of neatly cut logs.

She lit the fire. "Ask Jack if there's any meat," she shouted to him as he went out again. "I might do a stew with dumplings. I saw some carrots and onions; there was a large bag of potatoes too. Wonder if the big boss eats with us?"

Gil returned a few minutes later. "There's a Coolgardie safe hanging out the back, and some chickens wandering around. Jack's going to show me around. Calvert's gone off somewhere else"

She would have preferred being shown around, too, but didn't have the time. After all, she was employed as the cook, and forgot it at her peril.

Cutting some beef into small chunks, she put it on to simmer while she chopped up the vegetables. The kitchen had obviously been built for a large contingent of men but with the war and lack of manpower, the Devil's Ridge work force must be depleted like every other farm in the country.

* * *

Ross threw down his pen and shoved the accounting books to one side. He felt restless and irritable. His shoulder ached, a relentless gnawing, throbbing toothache type pain.

If it hadn't been for the fact of young Gilbert being wounded on Gallipoli, he would not have employed them. Harry spelled trouble. Deep down some instinct warned him. Something strange about that kid. He could not quite put his finger on it, but he always distrusted pretty boys. Pretty females, too, he thought viciously, reminded of Virginia's betrayal.

Oh, she had reveled in being seen with an Army Officer. It obviously stroked her vanity, the beautiful, selfish woman. He had been absolutely besotted with her. Believed all her lies. He learnt his lesson the hard way. No woman would ever get close to him again, he vowed, giving a mirthless laugh. Purely academic, swearing off women. Who would want a man with a hideously scarred face?

I'll go down and try Harry's cooking. Hope to hell the kid can cook—or I'll have a mutiny on my hands.

He was a lousy cook and Jack even worse. Between the two of them, they somehow managed to serve the men chops, potatoes, eggs and damper. The same fare for breakfast, lunch and dinner sorely tested the men's boredom threshold.

If Mrs. Bates hadn't provided fruit cake and preserves, and come up on a couple of occasions to cook the men a decent evening meal, he would have been in dire straits. But at her advanced age the journey from the homestead was too strenuous and he didn't want to risk bringing her up again.

She should really be pensioned off, but he couldn't do it. Mrs. Bates had called Devil's Ridge home for over fifty years. She was a distant relative and had been governess to his father and Jack, then nanny to himself and Eric. Her position was the only thing he argued with Virginia about. He always gave in to her on other matters, but not when it concerned Mrs. Bates.

"Get rid of her and get someone younger," Virginia had yelled. "She's only a servant. If you won't tell her, I will."

This behavior should have alerted him to Virginia's cruelty, but her beauty blinded him, a goddess with thick, lustrous black hair, chocolate brown, slightly oriental eyes and soft lush mouth. Those long, willowy legs and ripe, pink tipped breasts. Oh God, he still wanted her. He could have coped with his disfigurement if she had stayed true to him.

He left the hut before he became even more maudlin and sauntered along with his hands shoved deep in his pockets. On every tree branch, colorful parrots jostled each other for position now the sun had set. The peaks of Devil's Ridge, the ragged mountain range that inspired the name of his property, turned pink as the last rays of the dying sun washed over them. This was his favorite time of day. Even on Gallipoli, the sun setting over the Aegean Sea had been spectacular.

His father had planted pine plantations years ago, and they proved a profitable venture with the timber mills taking as much as they could get. Each time an area was felled, they replanted, but no native timber had been cut down for years. Huge areas of messmate and blue gum had been felled for timber milling in his father's time, but he did not cut down native trees anymore. Nothing more majestic than snow gums and mountain ash.

Eric had been killed in April of 1915, at the Gallipoli landing, and the grief at losing his young brother weighed him down.
Why did I live, yet he had to die? Jack and I are the only Calverts left now.
There would be no more. The war and Virginia's desertion robbed him of producing the next generation. Bitterness and anger at the hand fate had dealt the family threatened to destroy him if he didn't pull himself together.

He sniffed at the air. The smell of food wafting from the kitchen reminded him he was hungry. As he strode into the dining room he heard the men laughing and joking as they sat with plates full of stew and—hell—were those dumplings? He hadn't eaten dumplings in years.

"Better food than you can cook, boss," someone called out.

He grinned feeling suddenly cheerful. "Come on boys, I'm not that bad." Gilbert sat with Jack at one end of a long wooden table. "Mind if I join you?"

"No, pull up a pew." Jack chuckled. "The kid can sure cook. Tell Harry to dish up an extra plate will you, Gilbert."

"It's all right, I'll see him myself." Ross swung away from the table and strode towards the kitchen, inhaling the appetizing aromas anew. Harry had his back turned, bending over something in the oven.

Without speaking, he watched for a few moments. The lad was obviously unaware of his presence. "Harry."

He swung around. "Oh, Mr. Calvert."

The boy's curls clung damply to his head, his cheeks were flushed a delicate pink and he quickly lowered his eyes. That's why Harry seemed furtive. He never looked at you directly. One thing he could not abide was deceit.

"I've decided to eat with the men, the food smelt so good."

Harry's slim hands ladled out a generous portion of stew and dumplings. Effeminate hands. Soft face. Slender body. Oh God, could he be one of those queers? Ross' stomach curdled with disgust.

He reigned in his thoughts. Personal feelings shouldn't come into it. All he needed to worry about was whether the kid could cook. He carried his food back to the table and joined Gilbert and Jack.

"Best meal I've eaten in weeks," Ross said between mouthfuls. "I must say, your brother can really cook."

"Yeah, Harry's all right."

"Do you feel up to mustering tomorrow, Gilbert?"

"Yes, sir. What about Harry?"

"Call me Ross. He stays here to prepare the evening meal for us."

"Stays alone?"

"I've employed him as a cook, nothing else."

"I know, but we don't like being separated."

Ross snorted his annoyance. "He's not a baby. What are you, Siamese twins or something?"

"No, of course not, but we don't like being away from each other."

"You sure as hell didn't take him to Gallipoli with you?" Ross snapped.

A shudder shot through Gilbert, and his trembling fingers dropped his fork. Once the shakes began he couldn't control them. The color faded from his face, leaving his skin bloodless. Sweat poured from him, his eyes glazed over.

"What the hell's the matter with him?" Jack jumped from his chair.

"Shell shock. I've seen it before, dozens of times, unfortunately. I'll get the kid. Men, finish your meals." Ross marched down the room. "Harry, your brother needs you."

Harry dashed from the kitchen, almost knocking him over. "Gil, oh, Gil, what's wrong?"

He watched with surprise as Harry's eyes filled with tears. The boy knelt down beside his brother's chair.

"It's me, Harry, your brother. What happened?" Harry whirled around, his eyes accusing. "You upset him, didn't you?"

"Get control of yourself, you're blubbering like a girl," Ross snapped. "He can sleep it off. Did the hospital give him any medication?"

"I don't think so. Come on, Gil, have a nice lie down. You'll feel better soon," Harry soothed.

Harry clung to one arm, he took the other, as they helped Gilbert out of the dining room.

"He'll be all right, won't he?"

"Yes. The boy needs to rest. The hospital shouldn't have let him out." He purposely spoke in harsh tones, trying to hide the fact that Harry's love and concern for his brother moved him. Exactly the way he had always felt about Eric.

* * *

In the storeroom, Harry had laid out both bedrolls side by side. She waited, dry mouthed, heart thudding, as Ross' gaze swept the room.

Had she left anything out that might betray them?

"You undress him."

"Pardon?"

"Undress your brother."

"What! Oh, yes."

"Well?" Ross stared at her.

Surely he didn't expect her to undress Gil? Of course he did, she was his brother, wasn't she?

"Um, there's baked treacle pudding in the oven, could you get someone to dish it out for the men, and some tea for Gil. There's boiling water on the stove."

As soon as he left the room, she knelt down and took her brother's boots off, then his shirt and trousers. Leaving his underpants on, she laid a blanket over him.

"Are you cold?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, I nearly gave the game away," he whispered. "I'm just tired now. I'll be all right after I have a sleep."

She knelt at his side with her face up close to him, and her tears splashed onto his cheek.

Ross returned within minutes and handed her a steaming mug of tea. "I'll see about getting the pudding dished up."

"No, Harry can do it," Gil rasped, raising himself so he could take the mug. "I'll drink this and rest for a while. I get these attacks on and off."

"Are you sure, Gil?" She prayed Ross wouldn't pick up the tremor in her voice or notice the tears pricking the back of her eyes. Boys didn't cry.

"Yes, leave me, I'll be all right."

She followed Ross out into the kitchen.

"Need any help?" he asked.

"No thanks."

"Come up to my hut when I leave here. I've got a draught my doctor friend made up for me. It will ensure Gilbert gets a good night's sleep."

"Thank you, he's very restless sometimes. Can't sleep properly."

"Yeah, know the feeling. Too scared to sleep because of the dreams."

"Yes." Ross Calvert must carry emotional scars as well as his physical ones.

"I've been through it myself. Still have nightmares sometimes."

"Does it get better?" she whispered, desperate for reassurance.

"Yes. Time and a peaceful environment are great healers."

"Oh, I hope so. Thank you for being so understanding."

She stared straight into his eyes, and for a moment their gazes held. When she touched his arm he leapt back as if she'd seared him with a burning branch.

Even with several days' stubble and the scar, he was still a handsome man. Tough, strong and resilient. Momentarily, compassion warmed his eyes, until the bitter hostility returned. What would it take to melt the icicles encasing his heart?

She cleared the table and piled the dirty dishes in the kitchen sink before making her way to Ross who waited just inside the doorway.

It took only a couple of minutes to walk to his cabin. He strode along and she practically ran to keep up. Pinpricks of twinkling stars covered the night sky and a fat, old moon hung over the highest peak of Devil's Ridge.

Ross' hut loomed up around a curve in the track. Shadowed by the dark silhouette of trees, it appeared lonely, almost sinister. Shivers pricked along her spine.

She had let her guard down earlier, touching his arm and weeping in front of him. No boy would act like that. It must never happen again.

He pushed the door open and she followed him in, almost cannoning into his back as he stopped to light the lamp. When the flame flared into life she saw a large room containing a roughly hewn table and two chairs, and an old miner's couch with the stuffing hanging out. A bed pushed up against one wall had an old packing case as a bedside table. The floor appeared to be of compacted earth. A shelf contained several books and a couple of tin plates and mugs. The whole place looked stark, austere, with not one personal item lying around.

He did not ask her to sit down, so she hovered near the doorway watching as he rummaged through a wooden crate. A blackened kettle and an equally blackened cooking pot were suspended over a fireplace constructed from slabs lined with stones and clay.

"Here, mix a spoonful of this powder with a little water." His abrupt tones made her jump. "I'm not sure what it is exactly, some witch's brew from my army friend. It works though."

"Thank you, Mr. Calvert."

He shocked her by saying "You called me Ross before."

"Thank you, Ross."

Could he possibly know how little and sad she now felt? How desperately she needed a strong shoulder to lean on? Mentally she stiffened. The boss' shoulder was not meant to lean on.

"You'd better get back to your brother. Breakfast is at six."

"All right. Goodnight." She tried and failed to keep the tremor from her voice, before fleeing into the darkness.

* * *

Harry rose at five the next morning. She poked up the fire and started preparing a huge pot of porridge. Pancakes would be quick and easy and there was plenty of jam to spread on them. Eggs from the chicken run out the back and tinned beans completed the menu.

A pale and drawn looking Gil wandered up to the kitchen to collect his food with the other men. She was pleased to see him laugh when one of them chafed him about something.