The Secret Rose (16 page)

She looked up into his face to be struck again by his pleasantness and took a deep breath, feeling as though she were stepping off a high cliff. “In return, I will keep your home, act as your wife. However, I will not accept brutality at your hands nor suffer shame. If you subject me to either, I shall feel myself free to dissolve the bond between us.” She paused “Do we understand one another?”

“Oh, aye, Miss Fitzgerald. That we do.”

The hour of thy great wind of love and hate.

—The Secret Rose

W. B. Yeats

Chapter Seven

Aisleen slipped the final button of her lace-bodiced gown into place. Her fingers unconsciously tightened at her throat as she gazed at her reflection. She was as pale as the white lace she wore, her nostrils pinched and her mouth drawn. Her eyes, always clear and serious, were on this morning dull and puffy from lack of sleep. Only her bright red hair tumbled colorfully about her shoulders in riotous waves.

“Altogether, I look like a banshee braving the light of day,” she murmured. She could not imagine a picture that was less bridelike. She felt no elation, no eagerness. How could she? She was about to marry a man about whom she knew nothing.

She picked up the rock-crystal brooch. The large stone sliced rainbow flakes from the morning light and shattered them upon the floor and wall. She ran a finger lightly over the gold filigree and wondered how her father had allowed it
to pass unnoticed and unpawned. But, of course, it was not a diamond and was not of much value. She supposed that she should be grateful that there was anything left of the once proud Fitzgeralds. Everything else gone: the land, Liscarrol, even the belief that they would withstand and endure. Even her name was about to change, and she would be a Fitzgerald no more.

With infinite sadness, Aisleen reached up to pin the brooch at her throat, wondering what she should tell her mother about her marriage. Should she tell her the truth? While she had not changed her low opinion of marriage, she was capable of viewing wedlock as a reasonable alternative to starvation. It was a marriage of practicality, mutual need, a transaction in which both parties gained. Mr. Gibson would have his lady wife, and she would have the management of her own household.

No doubt her mother and Mr. Kirwan would choose to believe that she had fallen under the romantic spell of some colonial rogue when, in reality, she cared nothing for the man she was to wed. No, she would not mention her marriage to her mother.

Aisleen ignored the guilty flush that climbed her cheeks. Not even marriage would hold her if she chose to forsake her vows.

The idea had come to her in the middle of the night as she lay waiting for dawn. It should be a simple matter to gain command of Mr. Gibson. After all, he was a simple fellow. No man of sound reasoning would have offered his name to a stranger. While she would have preferred to wed a man whose vigor had been tempered by the years, his youth might well be an advantage. Immediately after the ceremony, she would take him in hand just as she would any new nursery charge placed in her care and begin molding him into a gentleman. She would rid him of that embarrassing brogue, pare the rough edges off his manners, and teach him
how to treat a lady. In time, and if she were half as clever as she should be, she would domesticate Mr. Gibson. If that proved impossible, she would gather her monthly salary and leave him without regret or misgiving. After all, theirs was a contract, and contracts could be broken.

“You will bend to the rules of society, but men, Miss Aisleen Fitzgerald, you shall bend those rules to your own purposes!” she whispered to the gaunt-faced reflection in her mirror.

“Are you ready—? Why, Miss Fitzgerald!” Though Mrs. Freeman had known the young lady a month, she scarcely recognized her in the gown of lace and lavender silk. The flattering cut revealed the youthful figure she kept hidden. Absent, too, was the shrouding bonnet or frilled house cap she usually wore. The blazing head of hair revealed was quite the most lovely shade Mrs. Freeman had ever seen. She wondered if Mr. Gibson were aware of his bride’s crowning glory and doubted it. What a nice surprise he had in store.

The matron nodded in approval. “You’re the very picture of a bride! How fortuitous that you had such a gown in your possession.”

“Thank you,” Aisleen answered, embarrassed and not quite certain of what to answer. “My mother forced the frivolity upon me.” When Mrs. Freeman’s smile dimmed, she knew she had said the wrong thing. Why could she not accept the compliment? Because she knew what Mrs. Freeman was thinking: that despite her claims to the contrary she had brought the gown like an item in a hope chest in the expectation of attracting a marriage proposal. If it had been five degrees cooler, she told herself, she would have resorted to the gray wool. She quite ignored the tiny voice inside her head which whispered,
Liar!

“Mr. Gibson has sent a carriage for you,” Mrs. Freeman said “Are you packed and ready?”

“Yes, thank you. You may send the fellow for my baggage. I have only to put on my bonnet.” Aisleen quickly gathered her fire-bright cloud of hair into a ball and pinned it into a knot.

Mrs. Freeman hesitated as Aisleen picked up the straw bonnet with matching pink and lavender ribbons. She looked down at the garment in her hand. Should she make the gesture? Of course she should. “Miss Fitzgerald, I have a gift for you.” She held out a length of white lace. It was a wedding veil. “The girls of the barracks purchased it for you when they heard you did not have time to buy a proper trousseau.”

Aisleen gazed blankly at the lace veiling. She had not made a single friend among the barracks girls, nor had she attempted to do so. “Why should they give me a present?”

Mrs. Freeman’s lips thinned. “I wonder myself,” she murmured and cast the veil upon the cot before folding her arms. Really, the young woman had a great deal to learn about graciousness. “We wish you well, Miss Fitzgerald,” she said stiffly. “If at any time we of the Immigration Society may be of further aid to you, do feel free to contact us.”

Aisleen blushed. She had offended the lady once more. “Thank you, Mrs. Freeman, and I ask that you thank the others for me. When I am done with it, I would like to return the veil to the barracks.” She saw Mrs. Freeman stiffen further and hurriedly added, “That it may be used by other barracks brides.”

Mrs. Freeman thawed slightly. “A generous gesture, Miss Fitzgerald, but the girls would be hurt if you did not keep it for your own daughter’s wedding.”

This time Aisleen held her tongue and merely nodded. There would be no point in saying that she doubted she would ever have a daughter. That was another of the matters she meant to take in hand.

She picked up the lace veil and carefully folded it. After a final glance in the mirror, she turned to the matron, and suddenly she needed very badly someone’s assurance. “Do you think I’ll do, Mrs. Freeman?”

The feminine question, posed as any bride might, disarmed the older woman. Bridal nervousness would account for the young woman’s pallor and skittishness.

“You look very fine, indeed, Miss Fitzgerald.” She reached out and took Aisleen’s hand in her own. “I know you’ve had a bad start in New South Wales, but you’ve shown yourself to be a most sensible young woman. Marriage is the best thing for you. You’ll see. You must come and visit when next you’re in Sydney and tell me how you’ve fared.”

“I will,” Aisleen answered and gave the woman’s hand a quick squeeze. “And thank you.”

“Now hurry along, dear; your groom awaits you.”

The carriage ride to Saint Mary’s was quickly accomplished. Aisleen alit reluctantly, wishing she had given in to her impulse to ask Mrs. Freeman to accompany her. There would be no friendly faces at the ceremony. Mr. Gibson had informed her that his friends lived too far away to ask to Sydney on short notice. She did not have any. In fact, she was not at all certain that Mr. Gibson himself was present as she entered through the vestibule.

She paused uncertainly, dazed by the sudden gloom after the glare of the Pacific sun. Gradually her vision adjusted. The chapel was cool and dark, with too few candles lit. The altar was bare, without flowers or witnesses. With a leap of relief, she at last saw her groom, talking with the priest near the entrance to the sacristy.

Thomas forgot the dignity required within the holy walls when he spotted Aisleen. Laughing in relief, he started down the aisle toward her. With every step, his grin widened. He had wondered when she would arrive, had been half-afraid that she would not. While it was considered bad luck to see one’s bride the morning before the ceremony, he had nearly ridden in the carriage to pick her up. Yet she had come, dressed as he had never seen her.

She was gowned in a most becoming shade of lavender, with a tight lace bodice and pink sash that showed off to advantage a trim waist and, well, a remarkably healthy bosom.

His grin stretched even wider as new possibilities danced through his head. An arranged marriage did not have to be a sour one. “Miss Fitzgerald, so glad I am to see ye!”

For a nervous moment, Aisleen thought he would embrace her, but he did not. He merely took her hand in his and squeezed it with surprising energy.

“Good morning, Mr. Gibson,” she replied, taking in a glance his dark blue broadcloth frock coat, starched cravat, and gray-and-navy plaid trousers. She suspected that he had visited a barber, for his unruly hair lay docilely about his head. He was handsome, she gave him that.

A seldom consulted, feminine part of her could not help but wish that Nicholas Maclean could know that the poor spinster governess he had sought to ravish was about to marry the most handsome man in New South Wales.

Aisleen squelched the thought. It was unworthy of her. Handsome or ugly, old or young, Mr. Gibson represented nothing more than security. To gain that, she would marry him were he cross-eyed and fifty. And better so, she told herself, but did not dwell too long on the boast.

“Shall we?” Thomas questioned with a nod toward the altar.

“Just so,” she answered. The sooner the better, for she was beginning to entertain the oddest notions.

“No, wait!” With a quick tug at the ribbon tied under her chin, she loosened her bonnet and lifted it off and placed it
in a pew. With a quick shake, she freed the veil from its folds and draped it over her head. “Now, sir, I am ready.”

“…I, Thomas Finnian Butler Gibson, take ye, Aisleen, as my lawful wedded wife…”

Thomas Finnian Butler Gibson
,
Aisleen mused as she gazed at the gold band he held poised at the tip of the third finger of her left hand. She had not even known his full name until this instant.

“…From this day forward, for better or for worse, in sickness and in health, until death do us part…”

As the ring slid onto her finger, she noted that it was a good fit.

“…I, Alice—Aisleen Meghan Deirdre Fitzgerald, take thee, Thomas, as my lawful wedded husband…”

Aisleen heard herself saying the words of the marriage vows in faint wonder. Was it real? Was it possible?

Aye, ’tis possible.

“Until—until…”

“Until death do us part,” the priest prompted.

“Until death do us part,” she repeated very softly as the fateful words tolled in her head.

As she knelt for the final blessing, she ceased listening to the words of the ceremony. Something quite inexplicable was occurring. A warmth enveloped her. Unlike the heat of Sydney, it was a comforting warmth, a thrilling, buoying enfolding that wafted about her and bound her in a swaddling of contentment. And words: something or someone whispered to her, in a voice too subtle to be audible, a benediction on this meager ceremony.

She closed her eyes, aware that for the first time in nearly a month her head had ceased aching. She felt relief and comfort. Yes, she had done right to wed.

“…now pronounce you man and wife. You may kiss your bride, Thomas.”

Thomas rose and turned to Aisleen, his face growing
concerned as he gazed down at her. On each cheek was the slick of a single tear’s path. The sight was so unexpected that he acted without thinking. Gently clasping her by the shoulders, he bent and kissed each dewy track. “Fear nae ye,” he whispered against her ear and for an instant pressed his cheek to hers.

Too stunned to react, Aisleen stood docilely beneath his touch. His hand moved to frame her cheeks. As he bent toward her, his eyes closed. For a fraction of a second, she saw with wonder the thick black lashes lying snugly against his sunburnt cheeks. An instant later, she turned her head away, and the soft impression of his lips grazed her cheek. It was a light touch, a casual brushing that nonetheless made her draw a quick breath. And then it was over.

“Congratulations, Mr. Gibson, and my felicitations to your bride,” Aisleen heard the priest say, and then she was being propelled down the aisle on the arm of her groom. From the corner of her eye, she thought she saw a shadow move at the far end of a back pew, but then she was stepping into the bright, blinding light of the Australian morning.

*

“Do ye not care for the beef?” Thomas questioned solicitously when he realized that Aisleen had scarcely touched the wedding breakfast he had had prepared especially for them in a private dining room of the Palisades Hotel.

“I am not very hungry,” Aisleen answered, aware now that he had cleaned his plate with astonishing speed while she had been lost in thought. “But do allow me to serve you.”