Code of Honor (Australian Destiny Book #1) (21 page)

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 from 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.

By the time she got back from Port Douglas that night, the clouds were piling up against the mountains to the west, promising another drenching rainstorm by morning.

Those gnomes had better get busy with their swabs.

Chapter Seventeen

Up and Down the Hills

The moment she heard the front door slam, she knew who it was. She left her book face down on the kitchen table and ran the length of the ell to the parlor. He was standing there shaking his drenched hat, trying to reshape the brim.

“Welcome home, sir.” Samantha snatched up the kangaroo-hide bag. “I’ve mutton stew on, just mayhap you’d be coming this night and had nae eaten yet.”

“Thank you. Is the table set?”

“Nae, sir; I’ll get to that directly.”

“Don’t bother. I’ll eat in the kitchen.”

“As ye wish, sir.” She put the bag down in order to catch his soaked jacket as he shrugged it off his shoulders. She shook it out. “And how did your business go? Well, I hope.”

“The fat’s in the fire. We’ll see what happens next. The mill’s operating. I saw the smoke and steam beyond the trees as I was coming in.”

“Part time. Mr. Gantry says there’s good cane coming on, to make it worth your while. He knows his cane, aye?”

“Ought to. Grew up with a cane knife in his hand. Set my place. I’m coming.”

“Aye, sir!” She draped his jacket across a dining room chair to dry out and left the kangaroo bag at his bedroom door. This was absolutely ridiculous. Why did she feel so bubbly? She had rather enjoyed the absence of the master—less pressure to keep the place in perfect order, fewer chores, less service. Now here she was bouncing about like a schoolgirl in the throes of a first crush.

She stopped cold. That couldn’t be what it was. Surely not. She forced herself into motion again. By the time he came into the kitchen, she had black pekoe steeping for him in the flowered teapot.

He paused to pick up her book and glance at the front page. “
The Passenger from Scotland Yard
. H. S. Wood.”

“Mystery tale written perhaps fifteen years ago. Five men board a train in Paris. One is murdered and ye must figure out from the clues who is the culprit. ’Twas in that little used-and-abused shop in Port Douglas. A great fan of used books, meself.”

“Been shopping in Port Douglas?” He sat at the place she had laid and snapped his napkin open.

“Hardly the most of it.” She ladled stew into his bowl. “Your humble servant here has been overstepping her bounds again, sir. We can discuss it now or later, but there’s things ye must know.”

“Now’s better than later. I need a good laugh. You’ve eaten, I take it.”

“Aye, but meself can join ye with a bit of bread.” She pulled the towel off the plate of muffins and was pleased to see they were neither hard nor cold yet. She set the muffins and butter before him, poured his tea and sat down across from him.

“Overstepping your bounds. What now?”

“Not long after ye left, Fat Dog appeared. His trackers, out hunting, came upon a white man in the hills to the west of us. A fossicker, it appears. He described the man and the description fits the fellow I met near Cairns; Abner Gardell.”

He stared at her transfixed, the stew forgotten. “Here! Did you see him?”

“Nae, sir. Burriwi and Wurra Whoever are keeping an eye on his whereabouts and daily doings, at me request. That’s one of the instances where I took it upon meself to give orders.”

“So far so good. You’re sure it’s Gardell?”

“Nae atall, sir. But Mr. Gardell does occupy himself with tramping about the mountains in search of a particular gold strike, and your trackers seem to think that also be the intention of our mystery fellow here. Walkabout, they call it. On the chance it is … and by-me-by he should find some gold here …” She licked her lips. “I, uh, er … took the liberty of going down to the land office and filing for mineral rights in the hills behind Sugarlea. On your behalf, of course. Brought the papers home, forged yer signature and took them back. Uh, there be costs involved in it, and something about squatter’s rights …”

“You forged my signature on state documents.”

“Aye, sir.”

“And filed for mineral rights without my approval.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Just on the spare chance that some drongo back in the hills is a half-mad fossicker who might, million-to-one, find gold.”

“Aye, sir,” she muttered. Her grand notion had always seemed foolish to a degree, but the way he described it now revealed her splendid idea for what it truly was—absolutely asinine.

“That’s it?”

“That’s it, sir. Plenty, I warrant.”

He bolted to his feet, grabbed both her upper arms and yanked her out of her chair. He kissed her harder, more violently, than she thought ever a man could. With a triumphant “Ha ha!” he plopped her back into her chair and returned to his own.

“Sam, you’re a beaut! I love you!” He scooped his napkin off the floor and tackled his stew with renewed exuberance.

Her heart would have pounded to hear those words but for his tone of voice. He was using the word as does one who loves to ride in a carriage in the park, who loves iced desserts, who loves a good brouhaha at the bear and bull pits. “Ye be nae angry with me?”