Nine

Caitlin was up early the next day in preparation for the trip to Sydney. She did the milking by lantern light, then came in expecting to wake Dunn, only to find him up and breakfast on the table. They ate in silence, listening to the morning song of the magpie that nested in the eves. She wasn't nervous about the coming day, not exactly. But even still, something about the bird's haunting tune was a comfort. It always had been.

Then she left to ready the wagon while he cleared away their few dishes. It seemed some kind of miracle to have the kitchen tidied—and without even having to ask for it. Had it been her, she'd have had a cold breakfast of milk and stale bread, left everything, and come home to the morning's mess.

The sky to the east was awash in color as she brought the horse and dray round to collect the bags of finished wheat. Greg walked up just as she was climbing down, a huge smile on his face and a half empty rucksack slung over his shoulder. "Beautiful morning, ain't it, Mrs. Blackwell?"

"It is." She couldn't help but return his smile. The man looked positively radiant, and who could blame him? Today marked his first taste of freedom in six years. "I've something for you." She fished in her pocket for the coins she'd brought.

Greg accepted them, his eyes widening. "But I thought—"

"You were here for the planting and the harvesting. And I did get something for that first load. You deserve it." She caught his eye. "Just don't drink it all up. Use it well."

If it were possible, Greg's smile grew even wider. He tucked the pouch away. "You needn't worry about that, Mrs. Blackwell. Thank you."

Dunn came out of the house just as they had finished loading the dray. He must have stopped to wash, as his hair was damp and his face shining and freshly shaved. With a flash of guilt, Caitlin remembered what she'd noticed yesterday—he had a suitable set of clothes, given to him by Mr. Flemming, no doubt, but he was in need of a hat. His shoes, too, weren't whole enough to deserve the name. He could hardly go to town like that.

"I'll just be a minute." She left the men and ran into the house, then quickly rummaged through the chest in her room and came away with the straw hat John had kept here for his use, as well as a pair of boots. Both were too well made for a man of Dunn's standing, but it was what she had.

She walked briskly out to the dray, handed Dunn the things, and climbed up to the driver's seat.

There was a moment's hesitation, as there was only room for two on the bench. Dunn looked up at her questioningly, the hat and boots still clutched to his chest. "Shall I—?"

"I'll ride in back," Greg's cheerful voice interrupted him. "More comfy there, anyway."

Dunn nodded and hoisted himself up to sit beside Caitlin, then bent down to pull on the new boots.

An uncomfortable silence settled between them as Caitlin directed the dray down the drive and onto the road. It was another mild, sunny day, with fluffy white clouds moving lazily across the blue sky. The scent of acacia and things growing filled the air. Greg ignored them completely. He lay on his back, chewing absently on a grass stem and gazing at the sky.

Michael's thigh rested beside hers. He'd donned the hat she'd given him, and he wore it well—better than John ever did. It was cabbage fiber, trimmed by a sober black ribbon. The type of hat well-to-do men in Sydney wore when out and about during the day.

"Do the boots fit?" Her question was the first break in the quiet for at least half an hour.

"Yes. Thank you."

A brightly colored king parrot moved in the branches over their heads, squawking merrily. The wagon jounced in a rut.

She couldn't get but two words out of the man.

"There's a good bit more wheat still to come," she tried again. "I thought I'd send the rest down river instead of hauling it the whole way. Mr. Colfax in Windsor will take it on his barge if we get it to him." Silence. "‘T'will be difficult for me to leave the farm during harvest, with Greg gone. I thought you might haul it for me. The wheat, I mean."

"Of course."

Her eyes drifted to his leg, clad in thin woolen trousers, right there beside the cotton of her skirts.

One didn't have to talk to shag, did one?

She allowed her eye to move up his thigh, his body, then sneaked a glance at his face. He appeared at ease. His gaze was fixed on the road ahead, his face relaxed. His flaxen hair, fine as spun gold, blew gently in the breeze.

He was like a shell. A handsome, useful shell. If she did request his . . . services , would he comply as simply and thoughtlessly as he did with every other command she gave?

Was that even what she wanted?

And what kind of lover would he be? Would he expect her to take charge of that too? It was hard to imagine him ordering her about in bed, but that's what men did, wasn't it? Certainly, John had only desired her as something to rut into, and then only rarely. Before him, on the ship from Cork, Smythe had wanted the same. He'd command her to lie down or suck, and then he'd quickly fallen asleep in the tiny cabin he'd kept her in. In both cases, the men's attention had been to her benefit. Worth it, to be sure, but it had hardly been pleasurable.

Even in Cork, most of the men who'd employed her services seemed to only require a wench to do their bidding, to woodenly stand or lie down while they pumped into her.

But there had been one man, different from the rest. She hadn't thought of him in years. He had been wealthier than most, old but still handsome enough. He'd brought her to a clean, warm room at an inn, fed her, and had a bath brought up—a luxury she hadn't known since she'd left the farm as a child. When she'd asked him what he wanted her to do, he'd just looked back at her, a lustful twinkle in his eye, then turned the question around.

"What would you have me do, Miss Caitlin?"

Remembering that moment, even all these years later, a shiver ran down her spine, and her cunt throbbed. She'd been truly clean for the first time in two years, her naked body wrapped in a soft towel and reclined on a bed of feathers. She'd hesitated, not knowing what to say, but he'd waited for her to speak, stacking more money on the dresser until, finally, she'd found the nerve.

"Come ‘ere."

He did.

"Touch me cunt . . . No. There. That's it."

His hand had been gentle, almost tenuous, like he wanted her pleasure, not just her hole. It was so unlike the others who only took what they wanted, rough and quick, sometimes in a back alley, sometimes in a dark and dirty room. She'd been heady with the feeling—desire, she supposed. It wasn't something she'd ever before felt with a man, and she'd rarely felt it since.

"Take off your clothes," she'd commanded, her confidence growing along with that strange feeling of wanting a man to fuck her. Not for the money it would bring, but for the pleasure of it.

He'd obeyed without hesitation, dropping his coat and trousers like a shot off a shovel, then pulling his shirt over his head. She could still remember his cock—thick, but not long—standing at attention. And his eyes, waiting for her command.

"You may fuck me now." She'd said it like she imagined a lady might, and she chuckled to remember it. She'd been a sixteen-year-old street whore, fresh from the country. She hadn't even known what a lady was.

Perhaps that's what got him off?

The actual shagging had been a bit of a letdown. Nothing out of the ordinary.

And she'd never seen the man again. It wasn't long after that little Gerry'd got sick. She'd needed money to pay the doctor, and that fat old man's fine silk handkerchief had seemed such an easy thing to nick while he lolled, drunk and satisfied on the bed . . .

Michael shifted beside her, pulling her from her thoughts.

Goodness. Where had that come from? It was so long ago . . . the man, so handsome and fine in her memory, was just another grinder with a nasty imagination. It wasn't as if he'd actually thought she was special. He'd just got off on being bossed about by a dirty mot.

Dunn's elbow bumped against her arm as he reached into his pocket. Then came the sweet smell of tobacco as he cut off a plug and packed it in. He was as different from that far-away toff as could be. Not kind at all, and certainly not interested in her that way. Only obedient.

Yet, he had once been something different, hadn't he?

He lit the pipe, and puffed the bowl to life. A white cloud blew past her and the acrid, earthy aroma of the smoke filled her senses.

"What was it that got you sent here?" she asked before she could think better of it. It would only make him more uncomfortable, and it wasn't as if it mattered. "Never mind—"

"Forgery. I forged a document. Claimed to be someone I wasn't."

She glanced at him, waiting for him to say more, but he just pulled deeply on his pipe and stared at the road ahead. The skin on his neck was tanned and rugged, his fair hair ruffled in the breeze. What would it feel like to touch him?

She blinked the thought away. "Could I have a draw?" The tobacco would settle her mind and her body. With hours of driving still ahead of them and this handsome, silent man beside her, she'd need something .

He handed her the pipe. She pulled from it, held the smoke in her mouth, then breathed out slowly, allowing that weighty, rooted feeling to soak through her.

"Thank you." She handed it back, and he brought the pipe to his own lips, puffing on it in turn.

The damn pipe tasted of her. Her mouth, his mouth. Breathing the same air, the same smoke.

Michael should have sat in the back with Greg. It had been far too long since he'd been with a woman. He'd known that. And sitting so close to her . . . it brought out the animal in him. Not the vicious, snarling beast from Moreton Bay, but the rutting, vulgar one. The one ruled by his cock. The man known to many whores in London. The man who'd accidentally tried to bed his own cousin, thinking she was a housemaid. The man who'd allowed a woman in Sydney to keep him just drunk and satisfied enough for her to spend all his earnings.

He angled away from the widow and pretended to examine the trees as he smoked.

They reached Sydney at midday and left Greg by the police station, just a few blocks from the secretary's office where he'd get his ticket. The young man shouted a gleeful farewell as he leaped from the wagon bed. Then he disappeared down George Street and around a corner. Michael watched the spot where he'd vanished. He seemed a good sort, hopefully one to keep his wits about him. A ticket of leave meant freedom, but only to a point. Any infraction, even a small one, could see that freedom revoked and the man back in chains.

"I only hope he's got the sense to stay out of trouble." The widow spoke softly. "He's so young . . ."

Michael glanced at her, and their eyes snagged. A silent agreement. Then she quickly looked away and chirruped to the mare, directing her toward the warehouse where they'd drop the wheat.

Unloading the wheat was quick work. Mrs. Blackwell's buyer seemed an honest man, and he paid her in ready money.

All too soon, Michael was knocking on the door to Mr. Snodgrass's office. Mrs. Blackwell stood stiffly behind him, shoulders squared, back straight, and an expression of tight politeness plastered on her face. She'd donned a bonnet today as well as gloves, and she alternated between balling her hands into tight fists and stretching out her fingers.

It was the same kind of posture she'd greeted him and Davey with when they'd first arrived at her house. He was coming to recognize it.

Michael balled his own fists, as if the movement might give him some kind of assurance that this was a good idea. It wouldn't. The last time he'd met this lawyer, Michael had been in charge of Cowper's warehouses, a man of standing, albeit still a convict. Now, he was . . .

He didn't even know what he was.

Did Snodgrass know he'd been to Moreton Bay? Would he even agree to see them?

Mrs. Blackwell cleared her throat nervously.

Michael clenched his hands tighter, forcing his head up. He might be good for nothing, but he must pretend, for her. He straightened his back and arched his brow, summoning the manners and assurance of his youth.

The door opened to Snodgrass's clerk, a plump man of middling age. His eyes widened behind his spectacles. "Mr. D-Dunn?" Then his gaze moved to Mrs. Blackwell, standing tall and serious behind Michael.

"Is Mr. Snodgrass in? We'd like a word with him if we may." Michael managed to sound as if he expected to get what he wanted, and it worked. The man stood aside, motioning them in.

"He is here, but . . . he's not expecting you, I'm afraid. I'll—I'll just have to—" The clerk closed the door behind them, then motioned toward the inner door that Michael knew led to Snodgrass's office.

"This is my new employer, Mrs. Blackwell." Michael gestured toward her.

"Pleased to meet you, ma'am." The clerk bobbed his head in the widow's direction.

"An urgent legal matter has come up, and I recommended Mr. Snodgrass's services. If he's not available—" Michael turned as if to leave.

"Oh, no. He's here. I'll just—" The clerk knocked lightly on the interior door. A short, "Come," filtered through the wood, and the bespectacled man disappeared into the lawyer's office.

The door snicked shut behind him, and Mrs. Blackwell exhaled loudly. Michael turned to see her warily looking around. Clearly, she felt justs as out of place as he did. The antechamber was nothing special. A small desk for the clerk, some drawers. A half-drunk cup of tea sat next to a pen that had been hastily set down.

Michael felt the urge to reassure her, to smooth her shoulders and get rid of the stiff nervousness, though, in truth, his heart was hammering in his chest. It had been so long since he'd had to act with authority that it had taken far more effort than he'd anticipated. "It's—it's going to be all right, you know," he managed.

"Of course it is," she snapped.

The clerk reemerged, the surprised look he'd greeted them with banished from his face. He held the door open. "He'll see you, but you must be brief. He has another appointment in—" The man checked his fob. "Fifteen minutes."

"Of course." Michael didn't glance at the man as he passed into the room. Mrs. Blackwell followed at his heels.

Snodgrass greeted them with cautious curiosity. It was clear from the way he looked at Michael that he knew of Michael's removal to Moreton Bay. But as Michael had hoped, the lawyer's good nature overruled any trepidation he may have felt. Once Mrs. Blackwell had presented the letter from the solicitor in London, along with the outline of her predicament, Snodgrass seemed to forget Michael's presence altogether.

"Are you quite sure your husband died after his brother, Mrs. Blackwell?" The lawyer let the letter fall to his desk, though he still stared at it pensively, his brows drawn into a straight line.

"I am. John died in July. This letter is dated April." Mrs. Blackwell's tone was so confident even Michael would have been fooled into thinking she'd read the letter herself.

"And your marriage was legitimate and recorded?" Snodgrass looked up, one brow arching.

"It was—it is . He picked me out of—" She stopped, then restarted. "We were married in Sydney in aught-six. I have the document."

"And you hold the deed to your farm now? In your own name?"

"I do." She hesitated. Michael gave her what he hoped was an encouraging look. "But the man at the land office said it was only because John had no other heirs."

"I see . . ." Snodgrass's eyes had wandered to the window. Now they refocused onto Mrs. Blackwell. "And you want to keep your farm—Swindale—I suppose? Or would you rather go to England given the opportunity?"

She seemed surprised by the question, almost offended. "I'm Irish, sir. I've no desire to go to England. All I want's the farm." Her chin raised. "And to be left alone."

"Where is Swindale, Mrs. Blackwell?"

"Just west of Windsor."

"Is it on the Hawkesbury? Or near?"

"It is near. There's a creek that runs into it just past the fields."

"A valuable piece of property." The lawyer's gaze wandered back out the window.

"I suppose so," Mrs. Blackwell replied tightly.

Mr. Snodgrass nodded to himself, as if deciding something, then focused on the widow once again. "Would you like me to represent you in this case, Mrs. Blackwell, or simply advise you on a course of action?"

Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Then she looked to Michael, clearly unsure.

The lawyer's fees just for meeting with them would be enough of a financial burden. Representation would be far too dear. Michael knew that much. "Mrs. Blackwell is interested in your advice, sir. We'll handle the rest for now," he answered.

"Well, then." Snodgrass ignored Michael and continued to speak directly to Mrs. Blackwell. "In my opinion, ma'am, much depends on your late husband's heir. As his widow, you are entitled to a dower, which, given that you have no children, is one half of your husband's estate, devoted to your use for the rest of your natural life. But that is limited to real property, not investments or accounts. And which part of the estate is dependent entirely on the whims of the heir. He could decide to move you back to England if he wanted the property here for his own use."

"But sir, I hold the deed. Surely, he couldn't . . . "

Snodgrass shook his head. "In my experience, the courts in Sydney bow to England, ma'am. Again, it depends on the heir himself and his connections. But there's no guarantee that deed wouldn't be revoked in his favor, if he desired it. He will have a great deal of wealth, that much we know."

Mrs. Blackwell's hands tightened into fists again. The muscles of her jaw moved. "What should I do then, sir? In your opinion."

"If I were you," Snodgrass caught Michael's eye, making sure he was following before focusing his attention back on Mrs. Blackwell, "I'd write to this solicitor." He picked up the letter. "Tell him of your husband's death and the timing of it. He'll need to locate the next in line. You could also state your desire to stay in New South Wales on the land you currently occupy, in lieu of any claim of dower in England. Make it seem as if you're doing him a favor. With any luck, that will be enough, and the matter will be finished."

"But there's still a chance . . ." she prompted.

The lawyer nodded. "There's a chance, as slight as it may be, that he'll have an interest in the land here." The lawyer shrugged. "Only time will tell. Certainly, you are not required to give any detail of the property in question or its desirability." He arched his brow. "Not deception, per se. Simply choosing the right words."

Michael was already drafting the letter in his head. There would be no mention of access to the Hawkesbury or the newly constructed road to Sydney. Certainly no mention of the yields of crops. Probably even the creek on her property would be reduced to a mere muddy trickle, useless in the dry season, but liable to flood the fields in the wet.

Mrs. Blackwell drew a long breath, and if it were possible, sat up taller in her chair. "Very well. I will write to this solicitor right away."

Michael felt a swell of admiration for the woman.

The lawyer glanced at the clock. "Now, if there's nothing else, I believe I have an appointment due any minute." He stood, circling round the desk to usher them out.

He opened the door, and Michael left the room as any servant would, leaving Mrs. Blackwell to shake the man's hand and give her thanks. Then the two of them crossed to the front door.

Just as they were coming out of the shadow of the office into the bright sunlight and raucous noise of Sydney, the clerk's voice called after them.

"I'll send you a bill."

They rode home in silence, albeit a more comfortable one than on their way into town. Caitlin was so lost in her thoughts she forgot about Michael altogether.

Lose Swindale. Go to England. Everything the lawyer had said seemed impossible. And it was. It wouldn't happen; he had more or less assured them of that. They'd just have to write the letter in a certain way. But even still . . . it had turned up worries that she couldn't seem to bury.

This wasn't what she needed. Not now. There was wheat to harvest and thresh and winnow. A garden to weed. Candles to make. Honey to press. The bees were busy, and she'd have to add more frames to the hives soon. One of the cows was nearing her time; she would calve, and there would be more milk than they could use. Caitlin would have to churn butter and make cheese to sell in Windsor.

"What if we didn't tell him?" She didn't realize she'd spoken the words aloud until Michael answered.

"The solicitor, you mean? In London?"

She nodded, speaking slowly as she tested the idea in her own mind. "What would happen if we just ignored the letter? Didn't write him back to tell him John's dead?"

Michael was quiet for a minute. "If he didn't hear back . . . My guess is he'd inquire elsewhere. With the secretary's office. Or he'd put a notice in the paper. He'd find out somehow."

They'd reached an open part of the road. The rolling landscape stretched before them, the sun hanging low above it, a great fiery ball in the sky. A drip of sweat trickled down Caitlin's neck, tracing its way between her breasts. "I suppose we must, then. Tell him, I mean."

Michael didn't answer.

"You'll help me write it, won't you?" She hated how pathetic she sounded. But truth be told, she needed his help.

This time he was quick to speak. "Of course. I've had plenty of practice writing letters to solicitors." A bitterness permeated his words, though she knew better than to ask what he meant.

Instead, she turned her head to look at him, so near, yet not touching her. "Thank you."

He stared straight ahead. "It's nothing." The words were a low grumble.

A warm tingling spread across her chest, her belly. She opened her mouth to say more but closed it again before the thoughts could take form.