Eighteen

They crept in quietly through the back door. Caitlin took a moment to peel off her work apron and smooth her hair. The dress she wore was old and stained—she'd not planned for anyone but Michael and the men to see her today—but there was nothing to be done about that now.

Nerves juddered low in her stomach as Michael tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.

"What do I say to him?" She hated how her voice wavered.

"I'll introduce you formally. Simply acknowledge him, then ask him to sit down and hear him out. Perhaps it isn't—" He stopped himself from whatever he'd been about to say, finishing simply, "Anything."

"Perhaps not." But she saw her own doubt reflected in his eyes. A man did not travel from London to New South Wales for nothing. She stepped past Michael. "Very well."

"Whatever happens"—he stopped her with a hand on her arm, drawing her round to face him—"don't show any fear. He's wary already, I've seen to that." He raised his brows ominously. "Best to keep him that way. And"—they were quite alone, but his voice dropped, as though confiding a secret—"I don't know if he suspects, about us. But it's best not to let on. It would reflect poorly on you."

Caitlin's nerves became a prickling heat. This was her house. She had the right to do whatever she liked. "I'm not ashamed." She did not lower her voice. "And neither should you be."

"Perhaps not." Michael lifted a hand in a placating gesture. "But . . . whatever he's here for, it's best not to let him think you anything other than a respectable widow. Surely you can see that?"

Caitlin drew a long breath. She despised everything about this: the London nob in her sitting room, the deception Michael was insisting she be part of, and the hint of menace in his words. The fear that buzzed about them both, clouding her thoughts. But what Michael said held sense. "Very well." She managed a tight smile. "You're me secretary then. Nothing more." Michael nodded, relief showing on his face. Then another thought struck her, bringing with it a different kind of panic. She grabbed his hand. "You'll stay with me, won't you? You won't leave me alone with him."

"Of course not." He smiled, a small but genuine smile. He leaned down and planted a kiss on her forehead. "I'll be there. Whatever happens."

Something about the press of his lips and the certainty in his voice . . . It was like a gentle smoke to bees. Her nerves calmed to a low hum.

She waited in the darkness of the corridor while Michael announced her. "Mrs. Blackwell will see you now." She could hardly believe that voice was his. All the roughness was gone, replaced by a smooth, sinister kind of snobbery. From anyone else, she'd have loathed it, but given the circumstance, it made her feel just a tiny bit safer. Protected. She took a breath and walked into the sitting room.

It was stiflingly hot. Michael had stationed himself beside the door, and she hazarded a quick glance in his direction as she passed by. He didn't meet her eye, just stared straight ahead, a fierce glower on his face.

"Mrs. Blackwell." Her attention was drawn to the other man in the room, who stood as he said her name. Mr. James was younger than she would have expected, but otherwise the very picture of a London gentleman—or what she supposed a London gentleman might look like. Tall and thin and pale, dressed in an uncomfortable manner with a heavily starched cravat strangling his neck, and perfectly white gloves shrouding his hands. His face was covered in a sheen of sweat.

"Mr. James." She extended her hand, wishing she'd thought to put on gloves to cover her callouses. The man grasped it and inclined his head slightly. "Please, sit down—"

"I've come to—"

They spoke over each other, and Caitlin felt her cheeks heat, though she held her head high. She could sense Michael's presence behind her, bolstering her. She raised a brow and gestured toward the sofa.

Mr. James sat. An unfriendly smile creased his lips. "I've come to speak with you." His eyes swiveled toward Michael. " Alone , if I may."

Caitlin remained standing. "Mr. Dunn is me secretary. A trusted servant." Somehow, her voice sounded calm and certain, though she felt strangely disconnected from it. As though someone else were speaking. "He can hear whatever it is you have to say."

Mr. James's gaze was still fixed over her shoulder at Michael. At her words, his eyes flicked nervously back to her face. "Of course." He smiled that strained smile again, a mixture of fear and annoyance.

There was an awkward pause. The young man looked to Michael again as if his attention were drawn there against his will. His brows knitted together, and he swallowed, blinking back at Caitlin. She could only imagine the fearsome look Michael must have conjured.

"What is it you came here for, Mr. James?" Caitlin allowed her voice to rise, making her irritation clear.

The young man took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his brow. "I've come from London. My father wrote to you last year, to inform you of an inheritance of your late husband's."

"I remember." So this was the son. That explained his youth.

"I'll get right to the point, Mrs. Blackwell." Mr. James tucked the cloth back in his pocket, then leaned forward slightly. "In light of your husband's death, we located the next man in line. Another Mr. Blackwell, a cousin. Given the inheritance of this farm, he's interested in developing an investment in New South Wales. In sheep , to be exact, as the prices for merino wool in London are—"

"I believe Mrs. Blackwell made it clear in her letter that this farm would serve as her dower." Michael strode forward as he spoke, his words like steel.

"She did." Mr. James kept his eyes trained on Caitlin. A bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face. "But I'm afraid that won't be possible. You see, Mr. Blackwell—the new Mr. Blackwell—has designated a dower portion in Scotland. A large estate in the north that's recently come into the family. Quite nice, I'm sure." He fished the handkerchief back out of his pocket and swiped at his neck, then his brow "I've been directed to provide passage for Mrs. Blackwell and an allowance to be paid annually for expenses."

The air in the room was too thin, her lungs too weak. "But I have the deed to this farm. ‘Tis mine, by law."

"Yes, that ." Mr. James had turned away and was shuffling through some papers he'd laid out on the end table. He selected one and thrust it toward her. "Before I came here, I paid a visit to the land office in Sydney to explain the situation. The men there were quite amenable."

He handed her a document. It only took one glance to see what it was—a land grant, exactly like the one she'd been given after John's death. It had the same official red wax seal, but instead of her name listed as owner, Mr. Edward Blackwell was written on the paper.

The words blurred.

She looked up at the man. He was still sweating uncontrollably, but he had a gleam in his eye as he watched her. He knew he had won. He'd won before he'd even arrived—there had never been a contest.

She'd never stood a chance.

The hot air lodged in Caitlin's throat. She couldn't breathe. The world wavered like the far hills on a hot day.

Don't show fear .

Michael's words came to her in the nick of time, along with the memory of his kiss, cool on her brow. Though her lungs rebelled at the motion, she forced a long breath in, then out through her nose, clamping her teeth down hard against the surly words that swarmed in her mouth.

With shaking hands, she passed the paper to Michael. He scrutinized it for a long moment then let it fall to his side. "Mrs. Blackwell has an excellent lawyer in Sydney. We'll take this matter up with him."

Mr. James smirked. "If you insist. I will warn you though, I brought a letter from Lord Bathurst himself in support of Mr. Blackwell's claim."

Caitlin's already labored breath seized completely, the air stuck in her lungs, thick like honey. She and Michael had read about Lord Bathurst in the papers. He was Secretary of the Colonies, one of the most powerful men in England. Even the governor didn't dare stand against him. She gritted her teeth and forced a breath. Another.

Don't show fear.

"May I see that letter?" Somehow, Michael sounded just as composed as he had when they'd stepped into this room.

"Of course." The young man turned to his pile of papers, then handed one to Michael.

Michael scanned the writing. Then he looked up and met Caitlin's eye. He shrugged.

"You have one week to vacate the place." Mr. James's voice faded in and out. She tried to breathe, but there was no air. She would lose everything. The bees. The wheat. The house. And what would become of the men? "I understand you have three convict servants here." It was as if he'd heard her thoughts. "They're to be sent to Sydney for the time being. They're expected at the barracks by Friday."

The garden. The little carrots and turnips that were just now sprouting. The cows . . .

"The livestock?" she choked out. "Surely that's mine?"

Mr. James fidgeted with his hat. "I'm afraid not, ma'am. The letter states that it's to be everything on the farm—crops and livestock alike. It's not as if you could take a milk cow with you to Scotland, after all." He smirked, as if they were sharing a joke.

The figure of Mr. James swam before her. She blinked. Blinked again. It did no good. Her legs were trembling, her body weak. "But . . . this land's not suited for sheep," she pleaded, "It's rich farmland—"

"So I've been told." Mr. James nodded, serious again. "Though it's still quite valuable, I understand. I plan to sell it and use the proceeds to set up an operation further inland, past the Blue Mountains." His eyes flicked to Michael, as if he expected an argument. "I've been authorized to make such decisions."

Caitlin shook her head desperately to clear the blur and rubbed her eyes. Her knees would give way any minute—

Then she felt a hand on her arm, steadying her. "I'm sure you can understand, Mr. James, that this news comes as a shock to Mrs. Blackwell. Especially so soon after the death of her beloved husband." Michael's voice was so confident, so solid. Caitlin held to it, grasped at it like a lifeline. "Perhaps you could grant her a month to see to—"

"I'm afraid that's not possible." Mr. James rose and began stuffing papers back into his bag. "I've a schedule to adhere to. I'm sure you understand." He slung the satchel over his shoulder, then addressed Caitlin. "Your passage has been booked, ma'am, on the Lady Juliana. She sails next Tuesday. I'll leave a portion of your allowance with the captain, for your expenses. The rest can be collected when you arrive in Liverpool." He held out one last piece of paper toward Caitlin. "The terms of the dower are written here. You may take a maid with you." His brow rose. " If you have one. And as I said, your assigned convicts are to report to the barracks within the week." He paused, eyes settling meaningfully on Michael. "They're expected."

Michael stiffened. Obviously, this man didn't know it was bad form to refer to government men as convicts—

Sweet Jesus. Michael was to report to the barracks. She'd not even understood when he'd said it earlier. But without Michael, she'd—

"I believe it's time for you to leave, Mr. James." Michael stepped forward, his fists balled tight. Caitlin wavered at the loss of his touch, but somehow her legs held.

Mr. James shrank away. "Of—of course. I'll see myself out." He slunk around the edge of the room, and Michael pivoted to follow him with his eyes. Once he reached the door, the solicitor ducked his head into his hat, then glanced back. "One week, Mrs. Blackwell. I'll have a wagon sent for your trunk. And I've hired a man to look after the place. He's set to arrive on Saturday."

And he turned and fled.

The front door banged shut, leaving a stifling silence behind. The sound of wheels crunching on gravel drifted in, then slowly receded.

The midday sun poured through the front window as a hot rage surged through Michael's veins. He had the overpowering urge to run after that prig, to drag him from his blasted conveyance and beat him to a bloody pulp—

"Michael?" Caitlin's voice, small and scared, pinned though his anger. She was pale as milk, and she was staring at him, blinking slowly.

But before he could find words, her eyes rolled back in her head, and she crumpled.

Shit . He caught her just in time. But she was limp as a rag doll, her eyes closed, her head lolling against his chest. Her breath came light and fast. He hoisted her up, holding her under her arms and knees, but then he hesitated—it was too hot in her bedroom, too hot anywhere in the house. She needed air. He ran through the corridor, through the kitchen and outside, setting her down in the shade of the house. Content that she was as comfortable as he could make her, he strode quickly to the well and filled a bucket with water.

The air was thick as soup. Better than inside, but not by much.

When he returned, she'd already woken and was struggling to sit up.

"You shouldn't—" he started, but it was no use. She ignored him as she pulled herself up to sit against the wall before wrapping her arms tightly around herself. Her face was still white, though it no longer showed that panicked fear. Nor sadness either. Nor emotion of any kind.

"Do you feel any better?" Michael held out a dipperful of water. She gazed up at it and shook her head, her lips pressed tight together—whether it was a rejection of the water or an answer to his question he wasn't sure. Both perhaps. He stood for a minute, looking down at her. Then, not knowing what else to do, he set the bucket on the grass, pressed his back to the wall, and slid down till he was sitting beside her, his knees to his chin, his thigh against hers.

She still didn't acknowledge him. He was just beginning to wonder if he should go—perhaps his presence was an intrusion—when she reached for his hand and threaded their fingers together.

The sounds of the farm wafted around them, the lowing of the cow to her calf and the far-away clank of their bells, the contented cluck of the hens as they gossiped and scratched in the dust. The rustling breeze as it blew the thick air through the gum leaves. The dull clink of the metal pulley as it was blown against the wood of the well cover.

"I—I couldn't breathe." Caitlin's voice joined the chorus of familiar sounds.

Michael brought their clasped hands to his lips and pressed a kiss to her knuckles.

She turned to him, her eyes pleading a desperate hope, as if he might know a way out of this. "That letter from Bathurst . . ."

"It looked real to me." Michael shook his head. He so desperately wanted to give her a reason to hope. But there was none, and they both knew it. "You don't have to go away, though, to Scotland, I mean. If you don't want to. You could stay."

She scoffed. "Stay? And do what? Work in some man's house, scrubbing his floors and emptying his chamber pots? Whore myself?"

"No, of course not."

As quickly as it had come, Caitlin's fire died away. Her shoulders sank, and that lost silence settled between them once more. He loosened his hold on her hand so she could get away, but she didn't. She gripped him tighter.

"Do you know anything of Scotland?" She stared blankly into the distance as she spoke.

The question hung in the air for what seemed an eternity as a deep black hole opened inside of Michael. A bottomless well. The weight in his stomach dropped into it, fell and fell into the darkness of the pit . . .

"No," he lied. "My father's family has ties there, but I've never been." He pressed his lips closed.

Caitlin heaved a sigh. "I'd have me own house there, and some money. ‘Twould have to be better than . . . Without the farm I've got nothing here." She turned her head to look at him. "At least there I'd have me freedom. And a place of me own."

Michael's mouth turned bitter.

He'd be here, and free within the month.

"I just can not believe—" She broke off, and her hand came up to her hair as her eyes searched the landscape before them. "This is mine. It's mine . I built it."

Michael swallowed the bitterness away. There was no use for it now. "You did. You deserve better."

She turned to him again, her eyes wide. "And what of you? You'll—"

"I'll be fine."

She searched his face, looking for the truth behind his lie, then looked away.

They sat for a long time, hand in hand, listening to the sounds of the farm.

Finally, Caitlin released her grip and rose, dusting off her apron. "I must go tell the men." Her color had returned, but her lower lip quivered, then pinched tight.

Michael pulled himself up. "I'll come—"

"No. ‘Tis me responsibility." She lifted her chin, pivoted away from him and strode toward the fields.