Seventeen

The dishwater was too hot, but Michael didn't care. His hands were so work-roughened by now that he couldn't feel the scald.

He plunged Caitlin's breakfast bowl in, wiped it clean, then set it aside. He always gave her the bowl without the chip in it. Did she notice?

Did it matter?

He'd be leaving soon, and she'd be choosing her own bloody bowl.

He picked up the next dish.

In less than a month's time, he'd be a free man. And he had no idea what he'd do.

He did know that Caitlin would be glad to see the back of him. She'd always made it clear that she didn't want a man, not for keeps. And she'd got what she wanted. She could read as well as anyone of her station and write serviceably. Her debts were nearly paid. Perhaps she'd miss his cooking, but she could employ someone for that, a real house servant. It was only a matter of time before she could afford one, the way things were going.

The only thing that separated Michael from a housemaid was the fucking. And Caitlin was tiring of that too. The way she'd tensed up under his hands the day before, as if his touch repulsed her. Then the way she'd ridden him last night—she'd had to work so hard just to find her pleasure. She'd pulled him close afterward, most likely because she felt sorry for him.

He set the last cup down, clean, then crossed to the table to fetch the porridge pot. The heavy iron was crusted with cooked maize. Better to let it soak a bit before attempting to scrub it out. He poured some of the water inside and began drying the other dishes, putting them away one by one.

His eyes wandered to the back door where she'd disappeared just a half hour before.

What would he do?

It was hard to muster the will to even mull the question over. Not with any seriousness. The fact of the matter was, he didn't care what he did or where he went. It didn't matter. But he'd have to go somewhere . Take up space in some other town, some other house.

Sydney was the most likely, the only place he could imagine, really. Even if he wanted to stay in the country or one of the smaller towns, finding employment would be next to impossible. Men out here were supposed to work the fields or tend to sheep, and Michael was no good for that kind of job, not the paid type, anyway. He knew his way around a kitchen, and he'd learned plenty of new skills in the last year, but it wasn't as if he could apply for a position as a cook or a dairymaid. No, Sydney was the place to go. He could work at an office or a warehouse, find some hovel to sleep in, lose himself in the stinking crowd, and live out what was left of his life.

Sydney had the grog houses, at least. There would be no reason to avoid the temptation once he was a free man. Davey would try to keep him away from drink, but what did it matter to Davey, really? Michael had kept himself sober this entire year for Davey's sake—and Caitlin's—and what difference had it made? Caitlin knew how to read, but Michael was right back where he'd started. He might as well make himself comfortable there.

He set down the dish towel. Nothing left but the blasted porridge pot and a sinkful of tepid, dirty water. He hated the way the soggy bits of maize polluted the clean water. How they felt on his hands, all moist and slushy.

In the silence, the magpie's song filtered through the half-open window. It was mating time for that bastard again.

He listened for a moment to the trilling, bubbling well of sound as it skipped its way through the silence. Then he huffed a breath. Time to get the scrubbing over with—

A knock sounded at the front door.

Who the devil could that be? Michael stood frozen, thinking. The two fieldhands had mostly avoided the house, as promised. But if, for some reason, they needed something, they'd come to the back door, surely. The only person who'd come knocking at the front since Michael had arrived was Mrs. Thatcher, the neighbor, and then only once. She'd said she'd come to call on Caitlin, though Caitlin told him later that she'd really come to spy for her husband, who wanted to purchase the farm and was hoping Caitlin would prove to be inept in her own husband's absence. Thankfully, Michael's presence seemed to scare the old biddy away. One menacing look, and she'd turned white as the linens Michael had just hung out to dry, stammered some excuse, and turned tail.

But this was not the light, fake-friendly knock that Mrs. Thatcher had tapped out. This was more insistent. More presumptuous.

Michael swallowed and brushed his wet hands on his trousers. Whoever it was, he'd have to answer.

The knocking came again, louder.

He strode down the hall and into the sitting room. Without moving the curtain, he angled himself to see as much as he could. A carriage and two well-matched horses stood in the drive, with a bored-looking driver on the perch. Michael couldn't see much of the verandah, but it appeared to be a man standing at the door, neatly dressed in a coat and trousers and a tall hat. No one out here dressed so formally. This caller must be from Sydney. A government official, perhaps here to assess the farm for some reason. Or the men. Or Michael himself.

"Hell," he muttered, as he crossed through the corridor. Then he drew himself up to his full height, trying his best to don the mask of cold authority Father had worked so hard to mold onto his face.

He opened the door.

It was indeed a well-dressed, well-groomed man of perhaps five and twenty. He wore an immaculate black coat, trousers with stirrups, and a somber black waistcoat with a crisply starched cravat. A tall beaver hat sat on his head, and perfectly trimmed side-whiskers framed his thin face. The man didn't even wear boots, but the fine slippers one saw on fops in London. He carried a leather case, like something a solicitor might use to transport papers.

But it wasn't the man's clothing that gave him away for what he was. It was his skin, pale and white. And the scared look in his gray eyes. It was too familiar for Michael not to recognize. He wasn't from Sydney, at least not for long. This man was from England. London most likely.

A creeping sense of foreboding snaked up Michael's spine.

"Can I help you?" Michael allowed the hostility he felt to sound in his voice. He might be in his shirtsleeves, with dishwater staining his trousers and wrinkled, calloused hands, but it would not do to show any kind of deference to this intruder, whoever he was.

The young man stared, clearly not sure what to make of Michael. "I—I've come to see Mrs. Caitlin Blackwell," he stammered. "This is her home?"

"Yes."

The twig's eyes widened at the snarl in Michael's tone. "Is she . . . at home?" He craned his neck to peer beyond Michael into the house.

Michael leaned slightly to the side to block the fop's view. "No."

"Can you tell me when she'll—"

"She's out. In the fields."

"Ah." The lad straightened up. He breathed in through pinched nostrils, then continued in an affected, snobbish tone. "And your position in this house is . . ." He raised a brow.

Michael gritted his teeth. "I'm her secretary."

"I see." The man smiled, as if he'd won something. "Well then, fetch Mrs. Blackwell if you please. I'm here on important business."

Michael stood his ground, scrutinizing his opponent through narrowed eyes. From London. Important business. All his impulses told him to knock this stranger onto his arse, to chase him back into his carriage and then all the way to the other side of the world . . . Still, as intimidating as Michael could make himself look, there was nothing behind it. No real power. As much as he might want to, he could not protect Caitlin from whatever news this man brought.

He grunted and gestured for the lad to follow him into the sitting room. "Wait here." He turned, then raised a brow of his own. "Who shall I tell her is calling?"

"Mr. James. From London."

Michael turned quickly, hiding his surprise. Mr. James . That was the name of the solicitor who'd written the letter to tell Caitlin's husband of his inheritance. It had been nearly a year, time enough for a letter to be received in London and to allow for passage back to the colony . . . The sense of foreboding he'd felt earlier settled in, moving from the base of his spine to his gut.

He'd almost reached the door when the man's voice stilled him. "May I ask, sir. Are you a paid servant, or . . ."

"A convict?" Michael wheeled around to see that the younger man had opened his bag and was pulling out papers. He didn't look up, and Michael recognized the trick. Show your power by feigning disinterest in your opponent. It was one he'd mastered in his short time as Earl of Banton.

Why did this affected little boy have to remind Michael so much of himself?

He waited, lips pursed, staring at the young man intently until the twig had no choice but to look at him. Ah yes, the fear was returning. Good.

"I'm a convict, sir," Michael growled. He narrowed his eyes and balled his fists. "The worst kind."

The boy's eyes flashed with terror, and he looked quickly back to his papers.

Michael left the room.

Caitlin gave the bellows one last squeeze, sending the smoke from the smoldering pile of rags streaming into the hive. Then she set them down carefully, pulled off the lid, and squinted down into the wooden frame.

Her gaze was met by a mass of healthy, smoke-sleepy bees. Beautiful, golden honey filled the top frame. This would be what they'd made from the orchard's blooms—apple, peach, and cherry blossoms. Between the honey and the comb that held it, it would bring in near enough to pay the last of the debts.

"Hello, me lovelies," she murmured.

The low hum of wings was her only reply.

Carefully, she set the lid back on before sitting back on her heels and peeling off her gloves.

A feeling floated up within her like a bubble underwater. It surfaced with a splash, and she wanted to laugh or perhaps screech with delight. What a glorious day. Warm, but not yet hot. The trees that surrounded the hives had set fruit and were well on their way to a beautiful harvest. The wheat was plump and ripening well in the fields. And now this. This was the last hive. She'd inspected all eight of them, and each was ready for the first harvest. Yet it was only November. She'd never seen so much honey so early in the season.

Now she just needed to convince Michael to stay. Then her year of plenty would be complete.

She'd planned to do it this morning over breakfast, but she'd lost her nerve. Not that her world would end if he decided to leave. She'd braced herself for the possibility, but the thought had occurred to her that the last few weeks would feel awkward for both of them if she asked now and he said no.

She'd so enjoyed her time with Michael. To ruin it now seemed a waste.

So she'd hesitated, thinking it better to wait.

But that was daft.

She got up and stamped on the rags to put them out. The jarring motion felt good. Decisive. Michael deserved to know what was on her mind, so he could plan his future—even if it did lead to some temporary discomfort.

And there was always the chance he'd say yes.

A smile spread across her face at the thought, and her eyes wandered across the blue sky, where two magpies soared together over the fields. So free, so happy . . . She could just imagine the two of them here for the rest of their days. Growing old together, enjoying the fruits of their labors. It was almost like she'd imagined as a girl . . .

No. That had been the dream of a young innocent. She knew better now. Even if he did stay, it wouldn't be forever. Nor did she want it to be. She would still make her own way, independent of any man.

She stooped to pick up the rags and bellows. She'd bring the next set of wooden frames tomorrow morning to set underneath, then collect the top ones the day after that. She'd have to make time to drain and press the honey. Or perhaps Michael could do it.

She straightened and once again scanned the sky. There were no clouds, and the air was already growing heavy and hot. It would be a muggy, thick kind of a day, perhaps with a storm later.

Now on to the garden—

"Caitlin!" Michael's voice called from behind her.

She turned to see him striding quickly through the orchard. Something about the way he walked brought a pang of worry. What had happened?

He reached her, slightly out of breath, eyeing her warily. As if he didn't want to tell her of whatever had brought him here.

"What is it?" she prodded.

"There's a man. Mr. James. Here to see you." At the blank look on her face, he continued. "He's the solicitor from London. The one who wrote that letter."

" What ?" Caitlin stared at him, trying to understand. "The letter about John's brother?" Michael nodded. "What could he—?" She broke off. There were very few things that would force a man like that to travel from London to this tainted, shameful colony.

Melia murder . She closed her eyes, bit her teeth down hard, and swallowed.

"I don't know why he's here," Michael said gently, touching her arm in reassurance.

Caitlin opened her eyes and forced a smile. Her heart was hammering in her chest. "Best get it over with, then. Where is he?"