Daughter of Australia by Harmony Verna Page B

him out of school and work the brains right out of him? That was not the life for the boy—not for James. Not for his James. Name or no name, blood or not, the boy belonged here.
    The letter was sent more than three months ago. His eyes settled on the last line, read it again and again until his blood chilled. They were saving money, coming to Australia.
    Father McIntyre held up the letter, pinched the corners with thumb and index finger and tore the paper to pieces, sprinkled the scraps into the wastebasket. “Over my dead body.”

C HAPTER 18
    A t the turn of the century, Perth could not compare to its splendid rivals across the continent, but to Ghan this was the biggest city in the world. And as he left the bush behind and passed the houses that grew in size and frequency and proximity to one another, he entered the city as a man braces for a hurricane, with body stooped and eyes shielded.
    In no time, the buggies and weighted supply drays and the formidable Cobb & Co stagecoaches swallowed up the humble noises from his horses and wobbly wagon. The momentum of the city shook from all sides, assaulting Ghan’s senses until direction blurred. The reins pulled tight, wrapped under his strained knuckles as he worked to hold the panicked horses against street-savvy carriages and trams that honked like geese and veered close, blasting exhaust, gray and heavy, into their nostrils.
    Ghan grabbed his hat, wiped his face with it, traveled the streets until he found the Dayton Hotel, as large and grand as a ship, a line of black buggies lining the entrance. He took his place in the queue.
    A man dressed in a dark gray suit with tails and a large top hat ran from the gilded doors, blowing hard into a whistle. “Get out of here!” he shouted. “Where you think you’re going with that thing?”
    Ghan grimaced at the red-cheeked man, the whistle an inch from his lips again. “Pickin’ up my passenger!” Ghan hollered.
    The man scoffed, “No guest here is riding in the likes of that! Go on now. I don’t have time for games. Move this bloody thing out!”
    â€œNot leavin’ wivout my passenger,” Ghan said stubbornly. “Go on an’ look him up. An American—last name Fairfield.”
    â€œFairfield, you say?” He turned and blew his whistle until a sweaty bellboy came fast as a lapdog. “Go see if Mr. Fairfield’s expecting anyone?” Then he turned back to Ghan and pointed his finger. “Five minutes, then I’m calling the police.”
    Before the deadline passed, a man with a white suit, white hat and trim, neat white beard sauntered from the wide doors looking at a pocket watch. His arm linked with a thin woman who was a full head and shoulder taller. The whistle blower bowed to the couple and bent to hear the man, nodded with innocent surprise before pointing sharply at Ghan and blowing madly into the whistle. The other buggies pranced forward, made a U to the end of the line. “Christ, ’ere we go,” Ghan muttered.
    Before Ghan could descend, the bags were loaded on the wagon. The tall woman, dressed in blue silk with layers of fabric in darker shades of the same, was stiff, looked older than she probably was. A white-gloved hand pressed against her lips. She didn’t try to hide her disgust and glared at her husband, pulled her arm out of his.
    â€œNow, now,” Mr. Fairfield said appeasingly.
    â€œDon’t ‘now, now’ me! Where’s your carriage?” She didn’t give him a chance to answer and tapped the shoulder of the top-hat man. “Where’s his carriage? I would think your hotel would have better sense than to leave the lane open for vagrants.”
    Instinctively, he put the whistle in his mouth like a pacifier, and she slapped it from his lips. “I want an answer, not a whistle from your blow toy!”
    â€œEleanor, please,” Mr. Fairfield soothed as he took her hand.