it to his lips. The brush
of his moustache reawakened the quiver of excitement that had preceded her
headlong dive into the maelstrom. ‘I do love you, Jo-Beth. I love your untamed spirit,
your perfect body, your eyes so full of truth and courage. I want you by my
side as I sail the oceans of the world. Will you come with me, my heart?’
She was gripped by a sudden longing to respond. What
a life that would be, change, adventure, untrammelled save for the loving
restraints of a husband who had earned her respect. She knew his crew trusted
him. He was kind – witness his treatment of Pearl – while his integrity shone against
the shabbiness of so many others. And he could make her heart soar. Searching
his face in the dimness, seeing only the gleaming eyes holding hers, she knew she
wanted him, whatever the cost.
There would be a price. This man, straightforward,
toughened by his lifestyle, would not easily compromise. Accustomed to command,
he’d find it hard to give way to her; she’d have to fight him at times. But
that sort of conflict would add spice to their lives. And she knew he would
never use his great strength against her.
Yet she hesitated. ‘Would you love me always,
Ethan? Would you really keep me at your side, wherever you go, whatever you do,
as your companion and friend, as well as wife?’
‘Always and forever. You need never fear chains
again, my lovely rebel.’
‘Then I will love you and wed you, Ethan
Petherbridge, and we’ll sail the world together.’
As he stepped forward eagerly, she fell into his
embrace, her mouth raised to meet his in a kiss that was a tender promise for
the future.
CHAPTER NINE
Elly stood inside the door in the eight
foot high stone wall and gazed across a stone-paved court at the building facade.
It was the centre one of three – long, double- storied, the pillared verandahs
giving a chilly shade on this crisp March morning. A sharp wind blew uphill
from the harbour, rattling the square-paned windows and pressing Elly’s skirts
against her legs. Gum trees and young Moreton Bay figs clashed their leaves
around the Old Convict Barracks on the corner, and dust flew up, discouraging
the usual Hyde Park saunterers. It was no day for lingering to admire the view,
magnificent as it might be. Elly grasped her meagre bag of necessities,
supplied against her conscience by Paul Gascoigne, and walked up the front
steps.
Peering into the empty porter’s office, she
crossed an unswept lobby, feeling grit crunch under her boots. At the foot of a
staircase she turned left down a hallway but had only gone a few yards when a
door sprang open suddenly and a man darted out, almost knocking her over. Elly
reeled back, dropping her bag.
‘Who the hell are you?’ He paused, eyed her
closely. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, but I’m in the devil of a hurry.’
He grabbed the bag, thrusting it into her hands,
closing the door behind him at the same time. Narrow as a churchyard rail, he
emitted a medicinal odour that reminded Elly of her father, while the stains
and smears on his coat proclaimed his calling all too well.
Elly said quickly, ‘Sir, can you direct me to
the Matron’s room?’
Already on his way down the corridor, he threw
his words over his shoulder. ‘Upstairs to the right.’ He disappeared through
another doorway.
Elly retraced her steps to the lobby and climbed
the stairs, which creaked under her feet, as did the bare boards on the top
floor. A white-washed corridor ran the length of the building, its walls
cracked and dingy and broken intermittently by scarred doors. One door bore a
sign with LADY SUPERINTENDENT printed on it. She knocked loudly, since the
building resounded with voices calling, moaning, some even shrieking – muffled
by the closed doors, but still distressing to hear. Elly was startled when, with
her hand raised to knock once more, the Matron’s door opened and a starched cap
shot out almost in her face.
‘Come in. Come in. Sit, do.
of his moustache reawakened the quiver of excitement that had preceded her
headlong dive into the maelstrom. ‘I do love you, Jo-Beth. I love your untamed spirit,
your perfect body, your eyes so full of truth and courage. I want you by my
side as I sail the oceans of the world. Will you come with me, my heart?’
She was gripped by a sudden longing to respond. What
a life that would be, change, adventure, untrammelled save for the loving
restraints of a husband who had earned her respect. She knew his crew trusted
him. He was kind – witness his treatment of Pearl – while his integrity shone against
the shabbiness of so many others. And he could make her heart soar. Searching
his face in the dimness, seeing only the gleaming eyes holding hers, she knew she
wanted him, whatever the cost.
There would be a price. This man, straightforward,
toughened by his lifestyle, would not easily compromise. Accustomed to command,
he’d find it hard to give way to her; she’d have to fight him at times. But
that sort of conflict would add spice to their lives. And she knew he would
never use his great strength against her.
Yet she hesitated. ‘Would you love me always,
Ethan? Would you really keep me at your side, wherever you go, whatever you do,
as your companion and friend, as well as wife?’
‘Always and forever. You need never fear chains
again, my lovely rebel.’
‘Then I will love you and wed you, Ethan
Petherbridge, and we’ll sail the world together.’
As he stepped forward eagerly, she fell into his
embrace, her mouth raised to meet his in a kiss that was a tender promise for
the future.
CHAPTER NINE
Elly stood inside the door in the eight
foot high stone wall and gazed across a stone-paved court at the building facade.
It was the centre one of three – long, double- storied, the pillared verandahs
giving a chilly shade on this crisp March morning. A sharp wind blew uphill
from the harbour, rattling the square-paned windows and pressing Elly’s skirts
against her legs. Gum trees and young Moreton Bay figs clashed their leaves
around the Old Convict Barracks on the corner, and dust flew up, discouraging
the usual Hyde Park saunterers. It was no day for lingering to admire the view,
magnificent as it might be. Elly grasped her meagre bag of necessities,
supplied against her conscience by Paul Gascoigne, and walked up the front
steps.
Peering into the empty porter’s office, she
crossed an unswept lobby, feeling grit crunch under her boots. At the foot of a
staircase she turned left down a hallway but had only gone a few yards when a
door sprang open suddenly and a man darted out, almost knocking her over. Elly
reeled back, dropping her bag.
‘Who the hell are you?’ He paused, eyed her
closely. ‘I beg your pardon, madam, but I’m in the devil of a hurry.’
He grabbed the bag, thrusting it into her hands,
closing the door behind him at the same time. Narrow as a churchyard rail, he
emitted a medicinal odour that reminded Elly of her father, while the stains
and smears on his coat proclaimed his calling all too well.
Elly said quickly, ‘Sir, can you direct me to
the Matron’s room?’
Already on his way down the corridor, he threw
his words over his shoulder. ‘Upstairs to the right.’ He disappeared through
another doorway.
Elly retraced her steps to the lobby and climbed
the stairs, which creaked under her feet, as did the bare boards on the top
floor. A white-washed corridor ran the length of the building, its walls
cracked and dingy and broken intermittently by scarred doors. One door bore a
sign with LADY SUPERINTENDENT printed on it. She knocked loudly, since the
building resounded with voices calling, moaning, some even shrieking – muffled
by the closed doors, but still distressing to hear. Elly was startled when, with
her hand raised to knock once more, the Matron’s door opened and a starched cap
shot out almost in her face.
‘Come in. Come in. Sit, do.
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