Gallipoli Street (2 page)

Even his sister Pattie, Veronica's closest friend, had been home schooled by a governess and was never made to leave. Another wild one was Pattie, though in a different way from Veronica.

Pattie was a tomboy, straight out.

Veronica was…well she was Vera. Vera would be the one standing in the mud, squishing it beneath her toes or sitting in the tree humming songs to herself, always the last one to want to come inside. Such was the girl. He wondered at the adult version of this nature child. He'd thought she would come home after four years away a polished little clone of her refined English mother, yet here she was tearing along the track, bare legged and as wild as ever. Jack's mind filled with the image – like an ancient goddess on a chariot, he mused to himself.

He shook his head, rejecting it. It was just the shock of seeing her suddenly grown up. They hadn't had the chance yet to try to be friends as adults. Working in the city meant he'd only seen her sporadically during the past four years, and then only on the occasional weekend when she was home. Even now that she was back for good, those precious two days were likely to be taken up with cricket and courting Rose.

Good Lord, Rose!

Jack immediately snapped out of his reverie and mounted Tilley, who made short work of the sprint back to the stand of trees in the high paddock where the other world lay waiting. Spying Rose's horse Arrow grazing nearby Jack let out his breath, relieved that she hadn't left in a huff. He ducked his head through the whispering casuarinas that secluded their secret spot.

‘You sure took your time,' she said. ‘What was it? A runaway horse?'

‘Hmm? Oh yeah, just some local kid.' Jack lay down next to her, marvelling at the fact he could have forgotten about her for so long as he cupped her soft cheek. ‘You feel hot,' he observed, tracing the damp line along her brow.

‘Still getting used to the Sydney weather.' She smiled, pushing her dark red hair back in a thick curtain and baring one creamy shoulder from her blouse. Jack stared, his mouth going dry. He'd never been with a woman like Rose before. The girls he'd courted were mostly strictly raised Catholics whose mothers were never far away – he'd been lucky to steal a kiss or the occasional brush against them at a dance. He'd visited Kings Cross, of course. All the men in his circle did, mostly to play cards and dine at some of the more risqué clubs, however a few times the night had ended in darkened rooms between perfumed sheets. But that was different. It had been perfunctory, fast, professional. Detached.

Rose was a delicious cocktail of Catholic girl and seductress. She was a lady, yet she responded with free abandon to her passion without seeming to harbour any guilt or restraint. These past two months with her he had learnt how to please a woman: where they liked to be touched, how they liked to be touched. How much fun a lady could have without completely surrendering her virtue.

He leant forward and lifted her hair, kissing her softly behind her ear, noticing that his breath raised little bumps along her arms. She closed her eyes as he found her mouth, playing against it until she sighed, her eyes heavy and asking for more.

‘Did you miss me?' he asked.

She reached behind and showed him a pile of unlaced corsets, raising her eyebrows in answer.

‘I'll take that as a yes.' He laughed, rolling her onto the blanket and kissing her deeply again, this time running his fingers across the thin fabric to feel the bare skin beneath. He stretched her arms up above her head and traced circles against her breasts, watching her gasp as her skin met his touch.

‘You're a bad, bad boy Jack Murphy,' she whispered, tracing one nail across his chin. Jack kissed her again, the sweet scent of the splintered leaves baking above them, all thoughts of runaway carts swept from his mind.

Veronica didn't go straight home; in fact she decided heading to the creek and cooling off was a much better idea. After tying up Bess she took off her shoes, welcoming the familiar feel of the large smooth rocks under her feet as she picked her way downstream to her favourite spot. This was a small pool to the side of the creek, hidden behind an enormous log and ringed by sand.

It was here, to this secret oasis, that she came to escape the confines of her life, a life once as natural and easy as these surrounds. How she had longed for it as she endured the stuffiness of the classrooms at her hated finishing school; now, in her newly prescriptive role as young lady of the house, this place was her only solace from routine. Here, soothed by the clear water and the light dappling the leaves in multiple shades of green, she could distance herself from expectation and restraint and savour the freedom that had once been hers. Back when being with Jack was an everyday event. Back when being with Jack was simple.

Veronica undressed, absently watching the rainbow lorikeets squabbling among the grevillea, their jewel colours brilliant alongside the strangely curling, long red flowers. Laying her clothes on the sand, she placed her shoes on top and walked gingerly into the water, its coolness soothing her overheated skin as she lay alongside the log, her head resting on a smooth branch. She breathed in deeply, welcoming the familiar honey of the gum blossoms hanging overhead and tracing the scribbly gums' little pathways with her eyes, forcing her mind to relax.

‘Hello, Eddie,' she said. The butcherbird had jumped up beside her, tapping his beak expectantly on the log. She smiled and he hopped a little closer. ‘No, I haven't got any bread for you today. Go and catch something, you lazy thing.'

He waited for a while, then eventually accepted there would be no free lunch and began to dig about in the leaves for grubs.

Veronica's mind wandered back over the events of the past hour, scowling as she remembered the condescending way Jack had looked at her, his dismissive words. The moment he had pushed her away as though he suddenly realised she was just a child.

The way he ordered her about as if he were her brother
.
Who was he to tell her she couldn't race a wagon and enjoy herself? So what if she'd let out a few calls and her skirt had ridden up a little?

Veronica blushed. Actually she had tucked it up and Jack Murphy had just seen more of her body than anyone else since her mother dressed her as a child. Sighing, she leant back in the water, staring at the sky. There would be hell to pay if she was found out, so what had possessed her to do it? She didn't really know, she just knew she needed to do things like that sometimes, to remind herself how it all used to feel. Before she'd had to grow up.

Sinking into the cool water she ran her hand down her arm, reliving the moment he'd touched her, remembering the feel of his fingers, as if they'd burnt her. She'd been so close to him she could breathe in his scent; every part of her alert. His open shirt and his low-slung trousers had revealed a flat brown stomach with a trail of fine dark hair. She blushed to think what lay at the end of it.

No, Jack Murphy was definitely not like a brother to her. He never had been really.

What was he doing, riding around half dressed like that? she wondered distractedly. Maybe he'd been for a swim. That would explain it…although he didn't look as if he'd been swimming. Maybe he'd been about to, and that was where he was headed when he saw me. Or – maybe he had been taking his clothes off for other reasons. Maybe Rose even took them off. Veronica sat up straighter, not liking that idea at all. No, he wouldn't do such a thing…would he?

The O'Shay and Murphy children had been brought up going to the same small local church with the same teachings every Sunday, and they all knew that sins of the flesh only led to damnation. Jack would surely resist, even if this particular temptress were Rose, with her generous cleavage and flirtatious ways. Veronica sighed, looking down at her own breasts, wondering if she would ever tempt him in the ways that Rose did. As if I'd want to! she told herself primly. But as she emerged from the water and put on her clothes she knew somehow that was exactly what she wanted, and she had no idea how to pray for that.

Highview, Beecroft

It looked as though it was going to be a long, lazy Saturday afternoon, and Catherine O'Shay was just settling onto the rocking chair on the porch, her favourite Austen and a nice cup of tea on the table beside her, when she spied the buggy coming over the rise.

She rose with a sigh and smoothed her hair. ‘Veronica, the Dwyers are coming. Tell Eileen, will you?' She paused, waiting, then repeated, ‘Veronica?'

Her daughter started from where she'd been sitting on the front step of the family homestead, Highview, lost in a daydream as was usual. She was even more prone to them of late. ‘Pardon? Oh, yes, Mother.'

Catherine watched her rush off and sighed, wishing her children would stop growing up. All this mooning about was obviously due to one thing, or one young man to be more precise, and as she considered the competition Catherine didn't envy her daughter's plight. Watching the carriage approach she reflected there would be little respite for any of them from Miss Rose Dwyer that summer, especially if the hot weather continued, and the socialising that came with it.

Her English sense of propriety had never quite become accustomed to the ‘surprise pop-in visit' that was so popular in this part of rural Sydney, though at least after so many years she knew to expect it. She didn't mind if it was the Murphys visiting: they were practically family. No, it was more these new neighbours, the Dwyers, who had her on edge.

Her husband Kevin joined her on the verandah with a wide grin and a kiss on the cheek. ‘Here comes a bit of fun, eh, Cate?' he whispered in her ear. ‘Should I fetch you a sherry?'

‘Behave,' Catherine warned him, but patted his cheek just the same. ‘Where are the boys?'

‘Checking out the race results down at Riley's. You didn't ask who won the game.'

‘Judging by the superior expression on your face I can see that we did.'

‘Victory to Beecroft once more, my dear girl! And there was some other excitement this morning –'

‘Hush. Here they are.'

The Dwyers alighted amidst a flourish of courtesies. Mildred and Rose were ushered into the front room while Kevin stole Dr Dwyer away to smoke cigars, discuss the cricket and leave the ladies to their ‘nattering'.

‘What a lovely dress, Rose. You look very pretty today,' Catherine said, settling her skirts on the velvet settee. She acknowledged that Rose was masterful when it came to promoting her natural advantages, appearing cool and crisp in the dark green dress, its rich hue finding the gold in her skin and the cut emphasising her much admired curves.

Rose curled one red tendril about her finger and smiled. ‘Thank you, Mrs O'Shay.'

‘And how are you faring in this heat, Mildred?' Catherine addressed Rose's Irish mother, nodding in anticipated sympathy.

‘Oh, 'tis dreadful hot, Catherine. I don't know how we're to bear it this whole summer long.' Mildred fanned at the round expanse of her face, flushed in mottled pinks, her greying fair hair already clinging about her neck. She looked nothing at all like her attractive daughter, who had inherited her red hair from her father, along with his cooler complexion and brown eyes. The Dwyers' son, Iggy, also looked like his father and younger sister, and Catherine often thought poor Mildred looked like a weed in the flowerbed. Even so, despite being a bit of a fusspot, Mildred radiated genuine kindness, and Catherine had liked her instinctively. Her opinion of young Rose, however, was far less favourable.

Veronica arrived with the tea. Although the O'Shays had two maids, Catherine believed in having her daughter assist in the finer points of entertaining, including supervising in the kitchen and bringing the tea. An unintended result of this excellent training was an appearance of servility she suspected Rose thoroughly enjoyed exploiting to advantage. The child was an artful player in the games women employed, Catherine observed. She had encountered many a Rose in her debutante days in London and knew when her dreamy daughter was walking straight into Rose's traps. Sure enough, as Veronica poured the tea, Rose slyly dipped her cup, and its contents splashed on the spotless white tablecloth.

‘Veronica, please, do be careful! Dear me, Rose, are you all right? You're not burnt?' Catherine dabbed at the stained cloth with her napkin, inwardly seething.

Mildred clutched her handkerchief to her mouth, her watery blue eyes round. ‘Blessed saints, are y'scalded?' She turned her daughter's palms about in alarm and examined her wrists.

‘Oh,' Rose breathed, ‘I'm sure it was my fault for holding my cup the wrong way. And no doubt Veronica will get better at pouring tea as she becomes more accustomed to entertaining company.' She smiled sweetly at Veronica, who could only gape back at her. Catherine knew her daughter was aware she was being toyed with but was helpless against it. She'd little practice in societal scheming.