South Landers: Wenna Part 22

"I hope you intend to forgive me sooner or later." Devon turned from the water heating on the stove, his handsome face tense and drawn.

Wenna stood, wrapped in her shawl, waiting to fill her jug for a wash. "And for what do you need forgiveness?" Although she waited, hoping for one moment that he would say he loved her and that he hadn't meant a word he said to Nick, he had no idea that she had overheard the conversation. To tell him and risk showing that he had hurt her would be impossible. She knew that her husband didn't think of her as anything but a servant, when she was so very proud of her accomplishments.

He drew a deep breath. "I'm ashamed that I drank too much, Wenna. Consider me contrite and not about to repeat that particular, painful error." His repentant smile came too easily to be anything but a tried-and-true ploy.

She hardened her resolve, not about to fall for his easy charm again. He had called her a redheaded servant. And so she would likely remain in his eyes. A woman who could manage on her own should not need the praise of a man who relied on others for his support. "My temper burns out quickly," she said with a shrug. "We could have settled the argument the same night, but you ran off and drank yourself into a stupor." She backed toward the stove, her spine rigid, but her heart far too willing to listen to an explanation.

"A male solution that rarely works." He made a rueful mouth. "I thought you wanted a sitting room, and I thought I would please you by offering to have the work done quickly."

She shook her head, almost shocked by his irresponsibility. "You don't understand our situation. I couldn't afford to spend money on painting and furnishing. As it is, I make my own clothes."

"But you had no need." He sounded frustrated. His forehead creased and he spread his hands. "I told you I would buy you all the gowns you wanted. I made the offer to refurbish the sitting room. I intended to pay."

"And then where would you be when you wanted to look as rich as all your fine friends?" she said, her throat aching.

"I would be where I am now, financially. I have money, Wenna. I can afford to look as rich as my fine friends. I simply don't spend for show."

"I've yet to see a fistful of money other than that you hand over every night for our meal." She blinked hard.

"I keep most of my money in the bank."

"How much is most?" She met his gaze, hoping against hope that he really did have enough money to support himself.

His shoulders lifted. "Currently, I have no idea, but I have an income of five thousand a year. I don't have much call on my pocket other than the costs for the house."

"Five thousand?" Her heart gave one big thump and then went into a pitter-patter that shortened her breath. She didn't know a person in the world who had that much money-but yearly? She shook her head, her mouth curled with disbelief.

He looked defensive. "I'm quite rich, you know. You should know. How else would I have been able to buy these rooms and the house?"

"What house?"

"I showed you my house. You thought it would be very nice for someone else to live in."

"You own the house you are building? And you have five thousand a year?" She took another step back, turned, and with her back to him, very carefully placed her empty jug in the sink. "No family would pay a younger son so much to stay away," she said in a definite voice that hid her fading doubts.

"I'm not paid to stay away. I'm wanted at home and have been this past year. You know this. I told you from the very beginning."

She couldn't make herself turn back to him. "You're the son of a gentleman farmer and you have five thousand a year? What is your father farming? Gold?" Her laugh sounded derisive, but she knew deep inside that he told her the truth. He had always had the sort of confidence that seemed to be inborn, the sort that came with money and security.

"In a way. He did own acres of land. In terms of rentals, that's gold, but my main income comes from my mother's estate. I told you before that I'm her only heir."

"So, your mother was rich, too?" Her gaze lowered with her voice. Part of her died at that moment. Of course his mother was rich. No one in the colony owned plates and dishes as beautiful as those Wenna had stored under the stairs. She had misjudged him, and for no reason other than that he didn't waste a penny. Nor did she, yet in herself she thought being careful with money was a virtue. Although she should be wild with joy, but she could only shrivel with shame. Her hands shook as she slowly turned to face him.

"I was going to have to tell you sooner or later, and as it pans out, I should have told you sooner, but it's not common knowledge. Nick knows, and the lads I met at Cambridge, but no one else."

"Knows what-about your wealth?"

"That my father had a t.i.tle."

She blinked. "A t.i.tle? An aristocratic t.i.tle? Is that why you're called 'honorable?'" Her ignorance warmed her cheeks with embarra.s.sment.

His face relaxed and he stared straight into her eyes. "It's the courtesy t.i.tle for younger sons of earls, when no other t.i.tles are currently available in the family."

"So you're the son of an earl." Moving away from the sink, she groped behind her, found the back of a wooden chair, and sat. "I thought I had married the family wastrel." Even to her, her laugh sounded too high-pitched. "I thought I would be supporting you until I could get you into a decent job."

"Wenna." Shaking his head, his mouth tilted with remorse, he reached for her hands. Somehow he urged her up and she stood against the wall of his chest. "How could you possibly support me?" He touched her neck, then his knuckles rubbed gently across her cheek.

"You're the son of an earl. An earl in Cornwall." She met his gaze. "Which earl?"

"Marchester." His tongue flickered briefly over his lips.

She nodded, her eyes burning with unshed tears. "So, your mother was Lady Ann, a t.i.tled lady in her own right. And my mother was her maid." She flattened her palms on his chest, pushing away from him, a weird laugh forcing through her throat. "How utterly perfect. You couldn't have thought of a better way to humiliate your family."

His eyebrows lowered. "What?"

"Don't worry. I'll wear the red dress to show the earl exactly who I am. I made a promise to you, and I'll keep it." She turned, poured her water into her jug, and marched upstairs to wash and dress for work. And then she began to laugh hysterically.

She would be the mother of an heir to the estate of the Earl of Marchester, who had once insisted that her mother leave his employ.

How totally, utterly perfect her husband's plan was to avenge himself on his father.

Dev had always known that when Wenna found out that her mother had been his mother's maid she would be taken aback, or possibly even slightly embarra.s.sed. He hadn't realized she would be hurt. Her comment about humiliating his family told him so. She thought she wasn't good enough. Even though his father might have agreed, he would soon have changed his mind once he met her.

However, the situation at home had changed completely now. His reason to keep his t.i.tle a secret no longer mattered, for he now had no t.i.tle. The tenth Earl of Marchester, his brother John, would be glad Dev had married a colonial, or he would at least be very careful what he said about Dev's marriage.

Perhaps as a silent protest for Dev a.s.suming she would not need any more new gowns, Wenna bustled about the next morning still dressed in her maid's uniform. The night before he had faced her back again, too guilty to try to make love to her. First he needed to placate her, without knowing how to placate a woman who had a genuine grievance.

"Here," he said, desperate to try anything. He placed the money he kept in his desk on the table, a wad of pound notes and some change. "Buy whatever you want. If you want a gown for every day of the week, buy one."

"I have enough gowns."

"The thing is..." He swallowed. "I thought, a.s.sumed really, that you would rather have Paris-made designs. You'll be able to buy the very best when we get to England. Not that we need to save in the meantime, not at all, not if you want a hundred gowns."

Her face expressionless, she stared at him for some seconds. "In that case, you can keep your money. I don't imagine I'll need to be a fashion plate on the high seas."

He rubbed his forehead, certain he hadn't managed to buy her affections. Before he left for his run, he took out his brother's letter and read the words yet again. Perhaps he should have explained his situation to Wenna earlier, despite knowing hers hadn't changed. However, that was the reason why he hadn't said so. He couldn't even hint he wanted to renege on his promise to take her to England. She had married him on the strength of his promise.

Dear Dev, old chap, As you would realize by reading this, the report of my death in India was too previous. I haven't been taken yet, though I certainly had the devil of an injury. I came near to losing my right arm, which left me unable to write until recently. I am sure you will forgive me for the tardiness of my correspondence. However, the news of our father's demise needed to come from me. He died a month after my return. In his last days he handed over the running of the estate to me.

How it came about I can't say but during a conversation I had with the old man, I told him how Will and I ragged you about your mother. The tutor looked nothing like you. He was a stick with brown hair. You're the image of your mother, as Pater said. Jealousy is a green serpent.

Possibly because of this, Pater was anxious to pen an epistle to you, herein enclosed signed and sealed from prying eyes as you can see. What ho!

As you know, now I'm the earl, you lose the Dellacourt t.i.tle. I might yet produce a son. Or you might yet inherit all unless I get busy and find myself a wife. Ha ha. In the meantime, I need you to come back, dear chap, and sort out all your personal holdings. It was fitting for Pater to manage this, but not so for me.

Yrs truly, your brother John, Earl of Marchester.

Dev had to go back, but he didn't have to stay. John would marry speedily and produce a brood of children, if only to cut Dev out of the succession. In the meantime, John would treat Wenna with courtesy. She was too proud and beautiful to be despised by anyone and Dev would spend the rest of his life making sure she was honored by all. He laced up his soft shoes and left for his usual run.

For the first mile, he sprinted, his feet pounding, his breath huffing along the deserted paths as the sun rose behind him. The leaves of the surrounding trees warmed, perfuming the air with fresh eucalyptus. Magpies sang, greeting the day with a melodic hymn, and Dev's chest expanded with gusts of air while the muscles of his legs eased and flexed, eased and flexed. The exhilaration of being alive filled him as usual, but finally he steadied his pace into a regular jog.

His marriage would strengthen when he gave Wenna her heart's desire, and he would somehow show his wife that although he might have chosen her without a thought in his mind for her comfort, he had grown to respect and appreciate her, and much more. Although his motives had been ign.o.ble, his choice had been perfect.

No other woman would have had the strength of character to accept being shoved from her comfortable existence into his disorganized world, lodging above a shop with a husband who kept his business to himself. Wenna didn't complain about the living conditions, she didn't insist on servants, and she had waltzed into society as if she could waltz.

His lips curved with reluctant amus.e.m.e.nt as he ran. During her first ball, she had fit in well with society, despite a slight show of stage fright. His father, had he still lived, would have been delighted with Wenna.

My Very Dear Son, his father had written during his last days on earth. My third born, but by no means my least son. You have always been as dear to me as your mother, my greatest love, my only love, if truth be told. With two brothers ahead of you, you were not born to be the earl after me. I could only give you money and the means to seek a place for yourself, the chance to be your own man, which you have been with great style and dash. I couldn't have been prouder of any son ..."

Yes, his father, who loved him enough to let him go, would have enjoyed Wenna. John would be guardedly impressed, too. Wenna might be at outs with Dev at the moment, but when she had her heart's desire, her own gracious house in Cornwall, she would see how much he had grown to love her-as he had told Nick-and she might see that Dev was the right husband for her.

He rounded the corner and headed toward the east end markets, still smiling with hope. The night watchman lifted his long hooked pole from one gaslight to the next, a routine he managed with the flair of practice as he steadily doused the street lamps, ducking between the traders as they unloaded their wagons. Cart horses stood by with idly flicking tails and drooping heads, nickering, nuzzling into the water troughs, tossing manes, and adding to the general smell of manure, hay, sweet fruit, and rotting vegetables. A market gardener tossed an apple to Dev as he pa.s.sed through. "That'll keep up yer energy."

Dev grinned and shoved the apple into his pocket. Other produce growers smiled or waved. Dev had become a morning fixture. Once the camaraderie had amazed him; the acceptance he'd found from all in this colony. No longer. He had grown used to being accepted not for whom his parents were, but because he ran in the morning for no other reason than he liked running.

Wenna would find that same acceptance in England, but because of his birth. As his wife, she would be flattered, deferred to, and invited everywhere. She would have the life his mother had, idle and easy. Wenna would want to stay. He had to accept that.

His jaw clenched as his long, fast strides took him to the Rundle Street corner. He turned into the street, pa.s.sing the hotels and shops that had not yet opened for the day. Another street lighter moved patiently from one lamp to the next-and the ground rocked with an explosion beneath Dev's feet.

He pulled up, shocked into a stumbling stand-still. Black smoke billowed from the business center. The road ahead, blown up high, began settling in heavy pattering clumps all around. From the middle of the disturbance, flickering flares of red shot into the air, dropped, and faded into an unearthly shade of menacing blue.

"Blimey," the night watchman said, moving close beside him. He shivered. "What 'appened?"

Dev frowned. "Gas, more than likely. Stay back! This might not be the last of the explosions."

"We've got pipes under the whole street." The watchman stood staring at his feet, his two hands gripped hard onto his pole, as if steadying himself for a trip through the air.

Dev squinted at the billowing smoke. "The road has been ripped up. We need to make sure the fire doesn't spread. Run for the fire wagon," he yelled as he sped past his premises toward the explosion.

Within half a block, he saw a line of flame cross the road and lick at the pastry shop. Mrs. Lock, the pie maker, lived above with her three young children. He sprinted faster, leaping over puttering flares and landing in front of the shop. The facade blistered and the flames began to snake up the veranda posts.

He crashed through the front door of the building, calling for Mrs. Lock, but she didn't answer. Thinking of the children, he raced up the stairs, the heavy smoke following him. He opened the first door. Three wide-eyed children dressed in nightwear huddled in a big bed, holding each other for dear life. "What's that noise, Mister?" A girl of about six raised her panicked gray eyes to him.

He drew a breath, willing himself to look authoritative. "That was an explosion in the street. Best not to stay here. Come along with me."

"Mum would want us to wait for her. She's downstairs."

Dev looked around and saw a clothes chest. "Get dressed, and I'll take you downstairs. Coats and shoes will do. Hurry. Put these on. We have to be quick." A fire fueled by gas would travel fast, but he didn't want to scare the children.

"Might be cooking smoke," the biggest said nervously. Her gaze flickered between Dev and her siblings. "Sometimes Mum burns the cakes."

"Well then, we'll go down and see." Dev had never dressed a child in his life and he tried to shove a resisting pair of little arms into a Cardigan sleeve. "If you can't be very fast, you'll need to leave without dressing. And you don't want to stand in the street in your nightclothes."

The oldest very carefully disentangled herself from her other siblings and climbed out of bed. She slipped on a pair of shoes, donned her woolly cardigan, and pa.s.sed another to the middle-sized child. "Put your shoes on, Sally."

"What's your name?" Dev asked as he kept trying to garb the smallest. Smoke hovered around the window, searching for an entrance. "I'm Devon."

"Molly's m'name. Let's go downstairs and see Mum."

Dev grabbed up the smallest, a boy, and strode to the doorway. "Follow me." Smoke curled into the room behind.

With a frightened yelp, Molly swooped at him and clutched his leg. Sally held onto Molly. Enc.u.mbered, he stepped ahead dragging them and carrying the struggling and wailing small boy in his arms. "You go down first," he said to the girls when he reached the stairs, and they hurried down, holding onto a newel at the bottom, their waiting faces stark and anxious. The heat of the fire radiated through the air.

Loaded with the children, he reached the kitchen. The fire of the oven competed with the heat outside. Stew simmered and rounds of pastry waited on the side bench. A saucepan sat upturned on the floor, surrounded by a mess of cooked tomatoes. One leg of the central table had collapsed, trapping a crumpled heap of rags beneath. He took a long look but smoke and dust billowed in through the open back door, and he had no time to waste speculating. He settled the boy on his feet in the laneway outside, gathered the children into a bunch, and noticed a collection of onlookers approaching. "Could you take these children away from the fire," he shouted.

A woman wearing an ap.r.o.n stepped forward. "Where's your mum, Molly?"

"She must have gone down the street."

After a questioning glance at Dev, the woman took Molly's hand and hurried the children away. Dev leapt back into the kitchen. The children would be guarded until order was restored, and he thought he knew where to find Mrs. Lock. Clearly, the pastry shop had taken the brunt of the first blast.

A sudden dust-filled explosion blew out the windows. Dev threw himself to the floor to avoid the flying gla.s.s. A tongue of fire licked along the floorboards from the front of the shop, heading for the stairwell. He lifted to his elbows and crawled beneath the table. The rags-petticoats-resettled to show a black stocking-covered leg. First a moan, an uplifted head, and then, "The children," said in a hoa.r.s.e voice. "Upstairs."

"I found them. Don't worry, Mrs. Lock. They're safe. Let's get you out of here too. Can you move?"

She rolled to the side. "Slowly. Nothing hurts but my head."

Dev crawled backward, rose to his knees, and hauled her out. He stood, dragging her with him. She subsided in a hoop of skirts. Time was short. The flames would soon begin blistering along the wooden floorboards. He scooped her up and settled her over his shoulder. "We're off. Hold onto me." He made his way to the door as she grasped his belt at the back.

Outside, he sucked in fresh air and then put her on her feet. "Can you stand?"

She swayed for a moment, breathing deeply. "Thank you, thank you. The children. I gotta find them."

He put one arm around her waist, supporting her down the laneway. "They knew the woman who took them." Glancing up, he saw her three children hurtling down the lane.

"Mum, Mum."

Mrs. Lock gathered the three in her arms, patted each little head, and kissed each little face. He waited long enough to smile, hearing the sullen crash of the fire bell. Clearly, the wagon was nearby. The city fire station was only two blocks away. Banging the smoke out of his shirt, he pelted back up the lane to Rundle Street.

The fire-wagon horses stood, tails flicking, eyes showing white. Firemen dressed in heavy canvas ran, pulling out the hose, unraveling the folded length, while volunteers stood helplessly waiting. Dev stood back, a.s.sessing the damage. The veranda of the pastry shop was now engulfed in flames, and had begun to drop blackened slat by slat. The other side lurked in smoke, awaiting the same fate.

Dev watched, knowing the adjoining s.p.a.ce had been untenanted for a few weeks but as he stared through the smoldering flare, he noticed a sign.

"Wenna's Place," he said to the nearest bystander. "How long has that sign been there? I thought the shop was empty."

"The shoemaker moved out coupla weeks ago. People aren't buying so many good shoes nowadays. That's the new tenant."

"Wenna. My wife's name is Wenna." Dev suddenly lost his breath. "What does the shop sell?"

The man turned to the woman beside him. "Some sort of lady stuff, isn't it?"

The woman nodded. "The owner does lady's hair. She doesn't usually open up until nine, so she won't be in there yet."