Beyond The Blue Mountains - Plaidy Jean (бесплатные онлайн книги читаем полные .TXT) 📗

“Ah!” said Sir Anthony.

“How I have looked forward to tonight!”

Lady Greymore moved away, leaving them together. He bent his head close to hers and he talked. He talked rather excitingly, in a way which recalled Marcus. He talked of the rich side of London life though, and it was that mingling of the rich and squalid that had made Marcus’s descriptions so fascinating. He talked of gambling and balls, of the Regent growing fatter every day and indulging in amours with the grandmothers for whom he showed such preference. He gave her a picture of a spacious house in a London square, and lovely rooms that were really old as nothing in this country could be old; he showed her a picture of a gracious life, of entertaining clever people, of listening to and perhaps one day contributing to their wit. Politics and fashion, wonderful clothes which would be out of place in this settlement. It was a gay picture he showed her.

In the next room, which had been cleared for dancing, some musicians were playing Mr. Mozart’s music. It was beautiful; she longed to dance; her feet tapped in time to the music.

The dancing here,” he said, ‘is years behind the times. In London we have the new dances … You will be enchanted by London, Miss Katharine.”

“I do not think I shall go to London. Perhaps later …” She smiled into a future. Henry, said Marcus, was made for prosperity; he was not content to ship his wool to London; he wanted to go there to hunt out the best markets. Henry said: “We shall go to London, you and I, and we shall see if it is as grand a place as they tell us.” She pictured Henry and herself, walking hand in hand along the riverside; looking together at that frightful Newgate at whose name Mamma’s face turned pale; visiting the chocolate houses; listening to the talk; riding about the town in a carriage. She had dreamed of London, but only with Henry by her side.

“Why should you not go to London?” He leaned so close that she could smell the wine on his breath; it mingled with the perfume in his clothes; she noticed his long white hands. One did not see such hands in this part of the world, idle hands, carefully manicured … women’s hands! Her own were well shaped but burned brown by the sun, and the nails were short; useful little hands they were.

“Well, because my home is here.”

“Why should your home always be here?” His hand was laid delicately on her arm, and she shivered though it was warm and caressing.

“Would you not like to go to London? I shall be returning soon. I could take you …”

“Oh, no!. she said.

“That could not be.”

“Could it not, Katharine? It would be delightful …” His fingers ran up her arm. It seemed sacrilege that anyone but Henry should touch her. She shrank back.

“No, no!” she said.

“You cannot mean…”

“I mean I will marry you, Katharine. I will take you back Home where you belong. You never belonged to this society of felons.” Hot blood ran into her cheeks. How dared he talk of her home like this. This stupid fop! What did he know of the men who had made this country? He talked of felons … slightingly, sneeringly. Marcus. Her own mother.

She said earnestly: “I would have you know that this country is being built; by great men. They are pioneers. They came here to make a new land; my father is one of them.” She had stood up.

“Felons!” she said.

“You talk of felons. Who was it who made these felons? Your England! Her wicked laws. Her cruelty! And she sent them here ingloriously, to fend for themselves … eleven ships, and five packed full with sick and starving men and women. England did that… and not yet forty years ago! And already here we have our own Sydney. It is young, but it will be great. We have crossed the Blue Mountains! New country is opened up. These men have had a hand in that… these felons, as you call them! And I would have you know that we are not all felons.”

“Gad!” he said, amused and liking her fervour.

“What a patriotic little soul it is! And, Dammed, it becomes you, Katharine. I’d like well to hear you make that speech in your own drawing-room.”

“I mean it,” she said, ‘and am I not making it here in my own drawing-room?”

“In your father’s, my dear. Listen, Katharine. I’ll go and tell your father now that you’ve promised to marry me. You need not look so frightened. I tell you, I have already spoken to him.”

“You have spoken to my father?” He came nearer, his lips close to her ear, his eyes burning.

“He is delighted to receive me as his son-in-law, my dear.”

“But… I…”

“Hal Ha! A spirited young lady, as I saw at once when I first made your acquaintance! Remember, Katharine? You were on horseback, and Dammed if I ever saw a woman cut a better figure. And you are sweet as honey, and lovely as a garden of English spring flowers! Dammed. I can scarce wait to take you back!”

“I am not coming.”

He rocked back on his heels. A very self-opinionated young man. He did not believe that any Sydney-born young woman, with parents who, though among the wealthiest in the town, were for some reason not so well received even in Sydney society as they might have been, could really say No to him. She was a coquette then, for all her frank looks. She wanted wooing, did she! Dammed, he was ready enough to do the wooing. He put his hands on her shoulders.

“You are coming, my love,” he said. I’m in love with you. You shall be my wife, I mean it!”

“No!” she said.

Margery was standing in the doorway, open-mouthed.

“Pray excuse me.” said Katharine coldly, and went over to Margery. He stood, staring after her, fumbling for his eyeglass and his dignity.

Margery said: “Lor’!” and drew her into the passage, on the other side of which was the open door through which came the sound of music and laughter.

“Come… quickly,” said Margery in a hoarse whisper.

“If your Ma was to know…”

Henry was in the kitchen. Katharine ran to him, and they dung together, kissing.

“How beautiful you are!” said Henry. She laughed almost hysterically; Henry in lamplight was such a contrast to Sir Anthony, satin-coated in candlelight. She took his hand and kissed it. She found it difficult to stop kissing it.

Henry touched her white shoulder wonderingly; then the lace and the soft material of her gown.

“You are so beautiful.” he repeated.

“You are so beautiful!”

She said: “It is the dress. I would rather be in my riding kit, on the veranda with you.”

He kissed her and they looked at each other incredulously as though they could not wholly believe in the existence of each other “Why did you come?” she asked breathlessly.

“I thought of you in there … dancing … being so beautiful that every man must love you.”

“Stupid!” she said, and they kissed again, and his hands caressed her bare shoulders.

Margery was crying in the corner. The beauty of it! The beauty! Oh, to be young … seventeen and eighteen, and to believe love went on for ever! The lovely children … and me lord in there making love to her and wanting to marry her, and her wanting the other! Poor little soul! Funny listening to their lovers’ talk. It didn’t mean anything but “I want you! I want you.” They thought it did though, poor little innocents. You can’t go on wanting for ever though, and what’s a station beyond the Blue Mountains compared with a grand house in London Town! Muck and squalor, gaudy lights, and the poor and the beggars, and the lords and ladies. London! I hate you. London, I love you! Why is it, when you think of London, you get a pain inside you that nothing could ease but a sight of the wicked old city? If you was wise, me lady, you’d choose London Town. But love and wisdom never was two to go hand in hand. Your lady mother’s right, and so is the master, and what are they going to do about it, eh? And who’s going to win … you, me darling, and your rampaging lover, or wise Mamma who knows more than she’d like you to think she knows and your Papa who was born wise? And here’s old Margery, watching and taking a hand. Who let him into her kitchen, eh? Who gives him bits of gossip, eh? It’s nice to know you’ve got a hand in things … when you’re old and there’s nothing much left to you but a glass of grog at the kitchen table.