Wenna Page 3

  “No doubt,” Mr. Brook said, his tone one decibel above a growl. “Well, please take your redheaded doxy with you, or my daughter will have my head.”

  “He means me. I’m the doxy. Do you have transport?” Wenna glanced at Mr. Courtney’s face, which she couldn’t read. Surprised, was he, or trying not to laugh? Oh, Lord, she wanted to shove him into next year, the blackguard.

  “Almost,” he said, and as if cued, wheels crunched over gravel outside, and stopped. “I have the loan of James Hawthorn’s gig—looks as though he’s brought it over himself.” He stepped back to squint through the pane of etched glass in the front door.

  “Well, make room for me, because it’s your fault that I’ve lost my job.”

  “My fault?” He glanced back to Mr. Brook.

  Wenna didn’t care what they said to each other. She was too mad to think. Grabbing at her skirts, she ran up the hallway and through the kitchen to the servants’ quarters, where she snatched up her other black gown, her spare collars and cuffs, her underwear, and her nightgown, and roughly shoved them into her bag. She pushed her plain black hat onto her head.

  As she ran back through the kitchen, she said to the maid and the cook, “I’ve been dismissed, and I’m leaving with Mr. Courtney.” Deathly silence followed her. She didn’t care. No one accused Wenna Chenoweth of luring gentlemen, or called her a doxy. She rushed out the front door, terrified that Mr. Courtney would leave without her. The trip back to town on foot was possible and done by the Silesian women of Hahndorf weekly, yoked up like oxen to take their goods to market. But Wenna was an indoor servant and not a leathery country woman.

  However, Mr. Courtney stood beside the two-seater gig in the pleasant sunshine, watching young Mr. Hawthorn swing over a paddock fence and disappear into the scrub before turning to her. “Bearing in mind that I’m taking a passenger to Adelaide, James has decided to walk back to his brother’s house. It’s only a mile or two as the crow flies, and the exercise will do him good.”

  “I’m so glad to hear he won’t be too much put out,” Wenna said between her teeth. “And this is from a woman who won’t get two months’ pay, a reference, or another job because young gentlemen don’t like being put out.”

  Mr. Courtney took her bag from her. “We’ll have time to discuss my failings on the way down to town. Brook told me what happened; I accept that it’s my fault, and I can’t talk him into taking you back. Therefore, I’ll give you a ride into town and see what I can do for you. Please alight and quarrel with me elsewhere.” He tossed her bag into the back of the high-sprung gig, which likely cost more than a house. “Do I need to hand you in?”

  She took a look at the high step and disdained his help. With a lurch, she heaved herself onto the front seat, wishing he had a carriage with a shady hood. The horses had apparently been expecting to leave, and began to prance. The vehicle lurched and the wheels creaked. Mr. Courtney leaped in front of her, took up the reins and sat, easing off the brake. The gig jerked into movement, beginning the journey Wenna dreaded—the journey to beginning again. She tied on her hat.

  “Brook said you’re all mine. Apparently, he doesn’t like someone else playing with his toys,” Mr. Courtney said in a conversational tone. “I decided not to put him straight, and I hope you don’t mind, but you didn’t lure me on, and I objected to his estimation of my character.”

  “Your character? Do you honestly think I would let a man like him touch me? Oh, he would like to, and he certainly gave me enough hints, but I didn’t once let him think I heard him. Not once.”

  “I’m glad to know that, because I gave you a hint or two, and you didn’t let me think you heard me either. If I can’t be better than he is, I don’t want to be worse in your estimation.”

  She clutched her bag tightly on her knee, already feeling the sweat collecting under her hat and trickling down behind her ears. “Don’t worry about my estimation. I don’t like either of you, and I’m going to burn to a cinder in this sun. I don’t suppose you have a parasol?” She hoped she sounded more polite than at the end of her tether.

  “Feel under the seat. I don’t know what James has here, and I rarely use parasols myself, unless wedged under with a pretty flirt.”

  “You are a man of no discrimination.”

  “So I’ve heard. Or, have you met my father?”

  “Of course I haven’t met your father.”

  “No. He’s never been out of England. We’re about to pass the Graces’ soon. I’ll drop by and ask to borrow a parasol. With four or five women in the house, they’re bound to have at least one.”

  Wenna sat with her lips clamped, annoyed by his confidence. This over-privileged man was never at a loss. He couldn’t be embarrassed or made to feel guilty no matter what she said.

  Sure enough, he took the gig off the main road and along a shady lane until he reached pair of imposing, rendered gateposts, one marked “The Graces.” He drove in and pulled up in front of a single story stone-built house.

  Lady Grace, a pretty little woman who had visited Mrs. Brook a number of times with her look-alike daughter, came out of the front door. “A parasol?” she said, after Mr. Courtney made his request. She looked up at Wenna with concern. “Of course you can borrow a parasol. You shouldn’t be out in the hot sun. I’ll go inside and get the big white one. That ought to reflect the heat best. Haven’t we met before?” She waited for Wenna to answer.

  “No, ma’am. I’m Mrs. Brook’s maid. You might have seen me.”

  “Of course,” Lady Grace said, smiling. “Yesterday. You made Patricia’s hair neat again. And now you’re off to the city with Mr. Courtney.” Apparently, she hoped Wenna would say why, but Wenna simply nodded.

  The parasol was found and presented. Mr. Courtney promised to return it to Lady Grace as soon as possible, and he drove off. Wenna shaded her face. “A lady. A real lady.”

  Mr. Courtney nodded. “In more ways than one. If she put you off, you can bet she would have sent you away with shade and your wages. You’re far better off out of the Brooks’ service.”

  “I would have preferred to leave when I was ready, with money and a reference.” At the moment, she seemed to have little control over her tongue. She could see her time wasting away while she fought to earn back the money she had lost. “I was a lady’s maid for a year before Mrs. Brook offered to double my wage if I came to her. She was a credit to me. Other ladies were beginning to notice I had a way with hair, but I didn’t plan to stay with her. No. I was on my way up. Before she employed me, I could save no more than a few pounds a year. Now, because of you, I’m going to have to start all over again.”

  “You’re a smart woman. You’ll get another job.”

  “Without a reference, I’ll be lucky to get a job as a housemaid. Do you think I can say to my next employer that I was Mrs. Brook’s personal maid but she sent me off without a penny because a gentleman accosted me? Not a person in the world, looking at me, would believe that.”

  His brow wrinkled. “I could back up your story.” He turned slightly to look at her, and his broad shoulder brushed hers.

  Her insides tightened each time he accidentally touched her. “Don’t be ridiculous. A word from you, and I’ll be seen as the doxy the Brooks say I am. In the meantime, I don’t have anything but my savings to live on. And I don’t want to live on them, which is why I have savings.” The gig hit a rock, and the handle of the parasol whacked the side of her head, making her eyes water.

  He glanced at her but stayed silent. The track began to wind down the hill, through the spindly scrub. The occasional sheep wandered in and out of the trees. A kangaroo zigzagged ahead, stopped abruptly and stared, scratching under his arm as they drove past.

  The sun grew hotter. Wenna’s face dripped sweat, her mouth dried, and her arm ached from holding the parasol. The area around looked interesting enough, but she had no tie with this land. In Cornwall, she would find pretty fishing villages and ancient stat
ely houses, beauty made more authentic by the history of the country. Here, no one told exciting tales of smugglers. No one spoke of anything but making money or exploring the harsh empty land.

  “What are you saving for?” Mr. Courtney asked eventually.

  Jaw tight, she glanced at him. “I made Mumma a promise to take care of her parents. I’ve been sending money to them for years, but I want to see them.”

  He raised his eyebrows, staring sideways at her. “Not all families want to be together. I suppose that’s very worthy of you, though. Presumably, they still live in Cornwall?”

  “They do.”

  “It’s a pretty place,” he said with what sounded like reluctance. “Warm, sometimes, but the winters are wild.”

  “Do you know Cornwall?”

  “My family also lives there.” He shrugged. “I’m expected back this year. Needless to say, I don’t want to return.”

  “Don’t want to return?” She gave a bitter laugh. “That’s the way of the gentry, isn’t it? My dream is to go to Cornwall, and just a few thoughtless words from you ended that—and you don’t want to return.”

  Angry with him all over again, she stared straight ahead over the gray-blue forested hills to the flat of the settlement, the spreading township of Adelaide. The colony slowly but surely pushed ahead. New roads had been clearly marked, and even at a distance she could see how the place was built in pockets, with large holdings for the rich sitting side by side with smaller allotments built on for those who would provide the household labor.

  “I can make up the wages you’ve lost.”

  “I won’t touch a penny of your money.”

  “You’re being bloody-minded. If you need the money, I will give it to you. How much are you owed?”

  “Two pounds.” Her lost wages almost equaled a man’s pay, taking into consideration the free board. She elevated her chin, sneaking a glance at him.

  “And I’ll take you to the labor exchange.”

  She flicked a dusty leaf from her black gown. “If you don’t mind, I would rather you took me to the Brooks’ town house so that I can collect all my belongings.”

  “I’ll do that, too.” Although he looked unconcerned, his mouth curved into a rueful smile. Likely he’d never had a worry in his life. Now that she’d been forced into proximity with him, she was all too aware of his maleness. She glanced at his hard muscled thighs and wished she hadn’t. She wanted to see him as an irresponsible dilettante rather than an attractive male.

  They reached the tollgate at bottom of the hill, and he stopped to water the horses. “Do you want to stretch your legs?” He tied the reins to the brake and stepped down, holding out one large gloved hand to her.

  Touching his hand was too intimate; the firm grip, the steady balance as she climbed down from the gig. All this care from the man whose thoughtless words had lost her a stable job and a solid wage. She wobbled slightly when her feet touched the ground. “I didn’t realize how cramped I was.”

  “How tense you were. Walk around and ease your shoulders. The trip is quite safe now, and the roads are better down here. I’ll let the horses rest for a while before we go across town to the Brooks’ place.” He led the horses to the trough by the guardhouse and took a drink from under the pump.

  She followed, mainly to get out of the way of a mob of sheep. The shepherd lifted his hat to her and paid the toll, while his dog kept the group in a huddle. Soon enough, the doomed beasts continued down Glen Osmond Road, on the way to the market on East Terrace.

  After turning right at the tollgate and clipping along the ring road to Walkerville, the rest of the journey passed quickly enough. Sweaty and travel-stained, Wenna collected her poise and walked through the back door of the Brooks’ double-storied town residence. A group of servants sat around the big kitchen table, drinking lemonade and eating frosted wedges of cake. In a trice, shame-faced, each rose to his or her feet.

  Wenna smiled. “Even Mrs. Green wouldn’t fault you for taking a break while the master and mistress are away. Sit, please. I’m here to collect my things. I’m no longer employed by Mrs. Brook.”

  “What happened?” The outdoors man sounded worried. He’d always been very respectful of her.

  “Miss Patricia believed her swain was more interested in me.” She stood, earning the hurtful reaction she expected—laughter. “And so I’m running off with him.”

  “You’re a one,” said the youngest housemaid, wiping away tears of mirth. “What really happened?”

  “While I’m packing my belongings, glance discreetly out of the front window and see the man sitting on the gig. He was Miss Patricia’s swain.” And because she hadn’t spoken an untrue word, chin up, she left for the servants’ quarters behind the house and collected her belongings.

  She might have been dismissed, but she certainly hadn’t lost face.

  Chapter 3

  Devon, or Dev as he was starting to think of himself in this less formal country, hoped he wouldn’t have to keep the horses standing too long in the heat. Most of the shady native trees had been removed from North Adelaide, and the new plantings of the more popular oaks and elms from the old country hadn’t yet grown tall enough to provide good cover. Fortunately, after no more than ten minutes, Wenna walked back through the squeaky side gate of the two-story, bluestone mansion, holding three bulky cloth-tied bundles. She wore a plain navy blue cotton gown with a flat straw hat. The blue of her gown and the white of her skin contrasted with the bright red hair she wore closely knotted at her neck.

  He leaped down from the gig to take up her bundles, which—should they contain all her worldly goods—showed she had few. “Good Lord. Not only are you the fastest packer on both sides of the ocean, you’ve had time to change and freshen yourself. I hope my travel dustiness doesn’t put you to shame.”

  She glanced at him in disbelief. “I’m applying for jobs. Of course I’ve freshened up. And it doesn’t matter how you look.”

  He blinked. “You’re right.” Nevertheless, he’d been properly put in his box yet again by this forthright female.

  She made him want to laugh. Shorter by half a head, slender, jobless, and, according to her, penniless, she would try to punish him for his transgression until her last breath, if she could.

  “We can pretend I’m your driver. I’ll only need to hunch over and button my jacket tightly and no one will ever know I’m not.”

  She aimed her green-gold pitying eyes at him. “Even if you only wore a fig leaf, you would still look like the lord of all you surveyed.” Her cheeks turned a hot shade of pink.

  “Ah, you noticed my poise.” He enjoyed her self-embarrassment, and he imagined her sitting on his lap in the gig with her skirts up around her waist, and her knees under his arms. He groaned and breathed through his reprehensible moment.

  Last night he’d dreamed of Jenny again. In his dream, he’d held her, and she’d laughed and kissed him; undressed him; caressed him. She’d been insatiable, and he’d taken her again and again. He’d had to ease himself, half awake, wondering where she was until he remembered.

  This redhead was no substitute. Wenna was feisty. If a spirited woman such as she loved him, she wouldn’t let herself be torn from him. She wouldn’t quietly agree to marry a local farmer. She would fight for him until the bitter end. Or would she simply fight him? Doubtless, he would never find out, for she was just a passing fantasy who would find herself a good job, more than likely without his help. She had competence and confidence written all over her. She was nothing like gentle Jenny.

  “Well, dear lady, take your seat and we’ll be off.”

  Wenna swung up into the gig beside him.

  When he reached the city, he drove along King William Street at a slow pace. Unlike the other colonies, which had simply grown, Adelaide had been planned. The city streets were wide and set in a grid-like formation as a shelter from the hot north winds. A bullock dray passed in the other direction on the
way to the port. Whips cracked and men shouted. The carriage in front rumbled to a halt, and he needed to pass carefully. Dust swirled and settled, leaving the taste of grit in his mouth.

  The sun sat high in the sky. He couldn’t leave James’s weary horses standing outside the labor exchange in the searing summer heat. Instead, he pulled up in the center of the road. “I’ll leave you here and be back in about an hour.”

  Wenna narrowed her eyes at him. “Then you’ll hand me my things out of the gig.”

  “You can’t wander around with that load. You’d be smothered under the weight.”

  “Better that than losing the lot.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “What use would I have for ladies’ clothing?”

  She didn’t stir. A wagon laden with sawn wood pulled up behind them, and the driver shouted for him to move along.

  “I can’t afford to trust you,” she said, her expression mutinous.

  “You can take my fob as surety. It’s solid gold.”

  She stared at him as if he were a lunatic. He worked the fob off the chain, pulled off his carved emerald signet ring, and placed both in her palm.

  “That’s the greater part of my worldly possessions. I’ll be back to claim them in an hour.”

  Shaking her head, she stepped off the gig and, without a backward glance, headed toward the tall Georgian building clearly marked “Labor Exchange.” Business thrived in this colony, and hard workers were as well rewarded as those who had money to buy land. Already the colony exported a wealth of minerals along with the golden wheat.

  With an hour to waste, Dev headed down Flinders Street, as requested, to drop off the gig. James Hawthorn owned a carriage-building business, and he’d said one of his staff would deliver the equipage to the grand mansion where he lived with his newly married older brother.

  Wenna’s belongings caused a slight problem, resolved by the generous offer to have an idling employee of Hawthorn’s drive him back to his lodgings with the load. Duly dropped off with Wenna’s three cloth bags and his own leather valise, he strolled into his rooms, needing to match her with a change of clothes and a wash.