Daughter of Australia (24 page)

T
he rain lashed the side of the New York City hotel, deafening against the stone. Despite the width and depth of the balcony, the water spilled to the very edge, only inches from the open doors of Leonora's suite. It was early afternoon, but the sky was nearly black, muting the shades of the buildings to gray. Not a soul was out. No lightning or thunder bombed the sky, only the solid sheet of rain.

Leonora was glad to keep the doors open—a window in the stifling walls. She sighed and folded her hands over her stomach. From behind, Alex put his strong arms around her. “Are you cold? I could close the doors,” he offered.

“No. I like watching the rain.”

Alex kissed her cheek. “I like watching you.”

Her uncle had met with Alex first, told him she had taken ill. Not used to the city, he had said. Women were fickle creatures. Emotional. Feverish. Must have caught a bug from the help. Owen had calmed Alex so completely that when she finally accepted his proposal he did not bat an eye at the reversal and slid the ring on her finger like it had always been there.

Alex's hands inched around her waist, clasped at her stomach. He rested his chin on her head. Humid air damply textured the room so it became warm and heavy, almost tactile. Alex's thighs pressed against the backs of her legs; something hard stirred at the small of her back. He pulled aside her hair and kissed the back of her neck. “Have you heard of the Kama Sutra?” he whispered behind her ear.

She glanced back quickly. “No.”

“It's an ancient Hindu text. About pleasure.” He twirled her hair in his fingers. “Sex, to be specific.”

A blush moved up her neck, through her cheeks. His fingers pressed in pulses.

“Describes the many ways a man and woman fit together. The details are quite graphic.” He kissed her neck again. “Sixty-four positions in all.” His lips moved down until they reached the collar of her dress. “I'd settle for just one.” Gripping one hand to her waist, Alex reached up with the other and nimbly undid the top button on the back of her dress.

“Alex . . .”

“Shhh . . .”

Leonora did not protest, tried to control her breathing as he went down the line of buttons, moving his lips over each inch of exposed skin, his breath hot against her back.

Alex twisted her to face him and pressed his lips against hers, his tongue darting in her mouth as he pushed the sleeves off her shoulders. His body shoved against her and she stepped back with the pressure until her back touched the wall. She wanted to slink down, escape through the door, but realized with a hollow pang that he would soon be her husband. Worse things were yet to be endured, and so she did not struggle.

With her body steadily affixed against his rib cage, Alex pushed the dress easily down the silk slip and over her hips to her feet, then kicked it away before she could reach it.

“Alex, I can't breathe!” she gasped against his open mouth, but he did not hear her. He pushed his palms over her breasts and moaned into her neck. With one bent knee, Alex pried her legs open while his right hand slid under the hem of the slip. She recoiled and turned her head from him, reached down to grab his hand away, but it was moving upward, squeezing the flesh of her thigh. His finger etched the lines of the garter belt, his nails clenched in the skin.

Leonora struggled then, didn't care that he would soon be her husband. She shimmied her elbows under his chest, pushing futilely against his weight. “That's enough.”

He chuckled against her neck. “No, it's not.”

Her heart pounded with his inching fingers. “We're not married yet,” she stalled.

His teeth touched against her skin as he smiled. “Times have changed, darling. There's a war on, you know.” He brought his other knee between her legs. “This might be our last chance.”

Alex's thighs pinned her hard to the wall. “I won't think less of you; I promise. Besides, you owe me. You've caused me quite a bit of distress of late.” He looked up at her then, sharply, before returning to the quest under her slip.

Leonora twisted her hips, which were widening without her will. Alex slipped his hand between her legs, moved it up her inner thigh and into the edge of her panties. With a thrust upward, his index finger entered her. She froze. He met her eyes, held her gaze, smiled in satisfaction, moved his finger in and out of her. She whimpered and flung her body back against the wall, but there was no retreat. The more she struggled, the harder and rougher he pushed. She closed her eyes, paralyzed.

Abruptly, Alex stopped, clutched her buttocks with two hands and carried her a few steps to the bed. Her mind could not catch up. Before she realized she wasn't tied to the wall any longer, her slip was off and he was on top of her, straddling, while he peeled off his shirt and unbuttoned his pants.

Leonora shook her head, started to plead with sounds, unable to utter words any longer. Cold panic seized and she turned desperate. She leaned up and pushed him in the chest, beat at him with tight fists. Alex grinned, pushed her shoulder down with one hand and removed his pants with the other. Terror swept across her as his penis came into view, stiff and throbbing. She reached for his face, scratched his shoulder, tried to scream, but her throat closed.

Alex grabbed both her wrists with his left hand and held them above her head. The next moment, his full weight topped her, sinking between her thighs. And then with a groan and a swift thrust, he was inside. She arched her back with the force, biting her lip from the pain. His bare chest rubbed against hers as he rocked against her body, her pelvis spreading in cracking aches. Her mind closed down and quivered in the corner; her eyes shut tight. And it went on and on for short or long periods, she did not know which, until his body suddenly stiffened. A wounded moan left his throat. He shuddered, pulled out and lowered his head to her torso.

Alex rolled to his back, stared at the ceiling, his slick chest rising and falling, his penis limp against his thigh, hanging like a dog's panting tongue. Lazily, he turned on his side, propped up on an elbow. He looked at her and smiled, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Are you all right?”

She swallowed, molded her sight to the plastered ceiling.

“It only hurts the first time. You'll see.” Contented, he rubbed a palm over her breast, stomach and hip and spoke to them. “God, you're beautiful.”

Her chin trembled as she fought back tears.

“Ah . . . the virgin remorse. Don't be ashamed, darling.” He rubbed her arm with the backs of his fingers. “Waiting for the wedding night is a bit outdated, don't you think?” He circled her nipple with his finger, his voice low. “At least now you can't change your mind.”

Leonora turned her neck and faced him, his eyes shining with a hard glint.

“Wouldn't want you backing out of our wedding with the next fever, would we?” he said. The look passed in an instant and he grinned, kissed her gently on the forehead. “Good night, Mrs. Harrington.”

Leonora turned back to the ceiling. Her chest rose and fell slowly, the rest of her body still and naked upon the cotton sheets. Soon Alex's breathing mellowed in sleep. The curtains floated into the room and then sucked back to the balcony. The rain had stopped. Warm, moist air grew thick. The buzz of insects stretched from under bushes and scraggly city trees. And her future took shape—one prison for another. Inside her heart a light flickered, and she begged it not to go out, cupped it with her hands and cradled it against the darkness.

The melancholy song of a siren rose from the window. Leonora listened to the wail, did not move as warm tears released from her eyes and streamed down her cheeks to the sheets.

S
hamus's funeral would be held in drought, under blue, piercing sky—a canopy of dry tears.

James sat on his haunches, his worn boots creased permanently at the toes, the hems of his moleskin breeches stained orange with dirt. He rubbed his fingertips across the ground and picked up the fine dust, rubbed the granules with his thumb before letting the powder fall from his palm. He stood, his tall body stretching from its folds, his back broadening under the white, ironed shirt, only now relaxing from starch. He wiped his hand on his trousers. With legs straight and slightly open in a V, he was the tallest form for a mile under the cloudless blue sky. The sun beat mercilessly atop his leather hat. Only mulga scrub, spinifex and the occasional lizard brought any life to the spot. Life but no comfort.

Mrs. Shelby stood to James's left, covered in black, a worn dress now faded with memories of those long buried. Tom stood to his right, their postures even. The ring of red-haired girls flanked him. John and Will were away at war but their presence still strong. The Shelby circle stood close, a buffer against the outside world as they had always been.

The preacher offered the only shade in the high noon, his imprint stretched on the ground in front of the tombstone. The ground below his feet lay unbroken, no fresh mound of disturbed dirt, for the marker was only that—a reminder of a life that was; a reminder of who was buried far out in the fields, unmarked.

“And so we mourn the passing of Shamus O'Reilly,” the priest heralded before sprinkling holy water on the ground, the dust sucking God's moisture in quickly. “May he rest in peace.”

Two white tombstones. Side by side. Tess O'Reilly. Shamus O'Reilly. Mrs. Shelby tucked her hand through James's arm—orphaned twice in one lifetime.

The preacher clicked the gate of the cemetery, a useless bit of metal to keep the ghosts tucked in and the living pushed out.

“Come back an' eat.” Mrs. Shelby touched James's elbow. “Leave this day behind. No mass, I promise.”

“I've got some things to clear up at the house.”

Mrs. Shelby nodded and squeezed his arm, then turned to Tom. “You still heading out?”

“Yeah. It'll be late.”

“Be good, Tommie, or so help me . . .” Mrs. Shelby pointed a finger in his face.

Tom smiled and batted her hand away. “Always.”

“Orright,” said Mrs. Shelby. “I'll ride back with the preacher. Children gettin' rowdy. Better feed 'em before they start killin' each other.” Mrs. Shelby patted James's shoulder. “You go back to that house an' do what you have to. After that, you put this day behind you, son. That place ain't your home no more. Your home's with us now. Always has been.”

James bent down, kissed her cheek. She squared her shoulders, yelled out to the children, “Pile on! We're headin' back.”

James watched the wagon grow smaller, the empty land grow wider. He turned to Tom. “Where you off to?”

“The Cross.” Tom kicked the dirt and looked up shyly.

“Yeah?” James grinned. “What's her name?”

“Ashley.” His eyes bounced with the name. “From the dance a few months back.”

“I remember.” James crossed his arms and eyed his friend. “Also remember we didn't see you for two days after.”

Tom laughed and raised his eyebrows. Then he turned his face to the cemetery and grew serious. “Want me to come with you? Just say the word, mate.”

“No, thanks,” James said. “Just need to be alone. Do this myself. Long time coming.”

Tom nodded. “See you back home then.”

“Be good.” James pointed a finger at him, just as Mrs. Shelby had done.

“Always.” He smirked.

Once Tom left, James walked past the cemetery, lowered his hat over his brow. The sun beat from the front, so he kept his head down, watched his boots spray red earth with each step. The buzz of cicadas rose from the ground and hovered until it seemed no other sound existed.

To the east, a thin line of wheat bordering an acre of Livingston property shimmered in brushed gold. A breeze blew, perhaps as far away as the sea. The gold strands rippled as thin and smooth as hair. Warmth flooded his chest as the memory of a friend, of hair and sea and light carried on a wind from very long ago. But then he blinked, raised his chest, shoved his hands into his pockets and turned the wheat back into wheat.

 

On Leonora's wedding day, Eleanor Fairfield tapped her foot harder and quicker as she assessed her niece. “Thank God for veils. You look like a ghost.” She adjusted a few strands of Leonora's pulled-back hair.

“Did you find those diamonds?” Eleanor snapped at the maid.

“Yes, Mrs. Fairfield.” The woman handed her a rosewood jewelry box.

Eleanor raised the lid and grimaced. “I swear, you're like a five-year-old child, Leonora.” She picked up a small, round stone. “Stashing gravel with diamonds!” She flung the rock across the room. Without moving her head, Leonora watched its path until it rolled under the bed.

Roughly, Eleanor pushed the diamond studs through her niece's ears, looked her over one last time. “That will have to do. We're already late.” Her aunt opened the door to leave, then turned back. “Well?”

“I just need a minute,” she said softly. “Please.”

Eleanor rolled her eyes and bustled into the hall, her voice trailing orders as the maid followed at her heels.

Leonora scrambled to the bed, scrunched the wedding dress around her knees as she bent down and reached across the floor, rescued the stone that was as smooth and perfect as a tiny bird's egg. She rubbed the surface, saw the kind smile of a dear friend and felt an old warmth that went beyond the sun's.

 

James stood upon the sloped porch of his old home, the splintered wood buckling under his weight. Tobacco spit stained the walls like splattered blood; broken bottles littered the floorboards. He opened the screen door, the hinges screeching from rust. Flies were everywhere. Disrupted, they buzzed at the intruder before settling back into favorite corners. The curtain wall that divided his room from the others was torn, the mattress on the floor hollowed out from rats.

Shamus's room lay gutted, the iron bed pushed against a wall, no blankets or pillows. The striped, thin mattress was stained from rusted springs, soiled with yellow spots. Drawers were gone. No remnants of good days remained—only scars of the bad days, the bad years.

James left the house and went to the small shed in the back, pushed the cans and tools aside until he found the kerosene. He twisted the cap, doused the base of the wood frame and the steps along the porch with short, quick splashes. The wood was dry and old; the fuel, a guarantee. James lit a match against a stone, the blue flame hissing with new life.

 

Leonora stepped from the car, blind to who carried the gown's train or put flowers in her hand. Life moved through the veil in a foggy haze.

Music began. Violins and cellos stretched bows across taut strings; resin powdered under bridges. Pachelbel's Canon in D Major. Voices and chatter hushed within the hall. Her uncle took her elbow, whispered in her ear, “You're breathtaking, darling.” And her feet moved. One step at a time. One step closer.

 

James threw the match at the kerosene-soaked timber, stood back, his spine firm, his thumbs tucked in belt loops. He watched the fire fill the space under the porch, wrap around the boards.

Leonora looked through the smoky veil. Alex took her hand. The priest spoke. “Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband?”

 

Fire inched up the posts, the weak fibers collapsing quickly into a fountain of sparks. Spastic flames licked each beam, blackened fissures sizzling under their tongues. The fire reached inside, disintegrated the flimsy curtain shreds.

 

Leonora answered, “I do.”

 

The porch collapsed. The charred slats of the house crumbled.

 

“Ladies and Gentlemen, I introduce you to Mr. and Mrs. Alexander Harrington.”

 

Smoke choked James's throat.

 

Tears burned her eyes under the veil.

 

Flames of regret—embers of pain.