Golden Hope (54 page)

Finch's kiss was like no other, a desperate message of anger, need, lust, tenderness – unleashing a passion that stunned her because she knew in her heart she was the cause of it. Now that it was in the open there was no escape.

He did not physically touch her body but the message in his eyes was unmistakeable. He read her mind and knew she would give him whatever he asked.

Clytie dredged up enough strength to force the words out – like a blade cutting between them.

‘It's Rom I love.'

‘I know,' he said. ‘But I'm here, he's not. Face the truth, Clytie – there's Buckley's chance Rom is coming back to you.'

Clytie cried out in denial, the long painful wail of a child. She reached out blindly and flayed him with both hands.

He did not flinch. ‘I'm sorry, girl, the truth always hurts. I'm the man who wants you –
not
Rom.'

Finch caught her wrists and held her tightly to his chest, his voice suddenly tender. ‘This is the way it's going to be, girl. There's no other way.'

He picked her up in his arms as easily as if she were indeed a child and carried her to the bed. He freed her from her robe, drew her hands to stroke his chest and thighs. He did not lay hands on her body until he had caressed her with his mouth, kissing and making love to her – a meld of words in her own tongue and some foreign language she did not need to understand, overcome by the eloquence of its passion.

Lying hot and naked beneath him, caught by the wild rhythm of his love-making, Clytie was shocked to discover who she really was. This man she did not love was invading her body, demanding she match him in passion, in hunger, in the waves of desire that he used to fight her, tame her, enticing her to fulfil them both.

‘This is all wrong. I feel I'm using you,' she cried.

‘Be my guest,' he said softly in her mouth.

The truth shocked her. Together they were totally alien – yet totally natural. One body.

•  •  •

Dawn's pale creeping light restored the full force of reality. Clytie opened her eyes to see her fingers entwined in the blond hair of his chest. She could feel the steady rhythm of his breathing. In sleep his face was young, untroubled, unguarded. Her eyes traced the line of his profile, the hooded eyes, the slightly crooked nose, the scar on his forehead, the strong jaw now covered by the suggestion of a golden beard. Instinctively she wanted to touch the wide mouth that had kissed every intimate part of her.

For a moment she was overcome by the wonder of it – as if during the night she had been transformed into another woman's body. Then the past flooded back – and with it the dark truth of her betrayal.

Her first tentative movement to rise from the bed caused a reaction that shocked her. Finch lunged across and pinned her to the bed,
causing her to flinch with the pain of her wrists, caught by hands as strong as iron manacles.

Finch was wild-eyed and panting. She saw the look in his eyes and knew what it must feel like to be a soldier seconds from death at the mercy of the enemy.

‘Forgive me.' He instantly released her. ‘I thought you were the enemy. A reflex – nothing more. You know I'd never hurt you. You
do,
don't you?'

Breathing deeply as if from a narrow escape, Clytie nodded in answer.

Reaching for her robe, she hastily covered herself and slipped into the living-room. Her teeth chattered, shivering with cold. Or was it fear?

With shaking hands she ignited the chips set in readiness for the morning's fire, blew on the flames and huddled over it for warmth. She could not bring herself to look at the photograph on the mantelpiece.

Finch stood half clothed in the doorway, watching her with an uneasy half-smile as if he needed reassurance.

‘Are you all right? You were perfect.'

‘You're quite a lover, Finch. But it was all a mistake. Mine, not yours.'

‘What are you saying? Clytie, it was our first time. It takes time to know each other's needs in bed. Give me a chance.'

‘It can never happen again, Finch. It's not your fault.'

‘Who's fault then? Tell me the truth. Did I play too rough? Did I hurt you?'

‘No.'

‘Look at me. Tell me you felt nothing when I made love to you – and I'll call you a liar.'

‘It doesn't matter what I felt. It was an illusion.'

‘An illusion? Oh, I get it. You think I'm also going to bolt. Well, think again. I'm real. Here and now. Ready and willing to marry you. Name the day. I won't let you down.'

The words stunned her. She felt she was walking a tightrope below which there was no safety net. Those were the simple words that she had waited so long to hear from Rom – but which now came from the mouth of a virtual stranger, taunting her by the ease with which they were offered.

‘Marry me? Too late. I'm married to Rom – in my head and my heart.'

Finch seemed to search for the right words. ‘Use your head, Clytie. I'm here. I'm
real.
I'll stick by you. I can give you what you need. I'll give you children.'

Clytie gasped with shock.
Five days – that's all I had with my baby. All I'll ever have – unless Rom comes home.

Finch pressed on. ‘I'll wait – as long as it takes.' But there was a note of urgency in his voice that belied the words.

‘It's too late, Finch.'

He stared at her, challenging her to change her mind – to take him into her life.

‘Forgive me, Finch. I can be your friend – nothing more.'

He gave a short laugh that he turned against himself. ‘Thanks, Clytie, I'll treasure that offer.'

Pausing at the door, Finch jerked his head towards the bedroom.

‘Don't worry, Clytie. You have my word I won't attempt to engage us in close contact again. Nice while it lasted – but easily forgotten, eh?'

‘How can I ever forget? The night I betrayed Rom.'

‘Spare me your guilt, Clytie. I have enough guilt of my own to sink a battleship – but not about Rom. I'm beginning remember who I am, what I've done.'

She looked up startled. ‘Whatever it is, you're welcome to stay in the barn. You don't have to move out on my account.'

‘Oh, yes I
do
.'

He paused in the doorway. ‘I'll be back later in the week. There's a hole in your tank. I'll fix it. You don't need to be here.'

And then he was gone.

Totally drained of all feeling, Clytie clasped the mug of tea between her cold, trembling hands.

The photograph of Rom eyed her from the mantelpiece. The edges around him were fading. The laughter in his eyes remained triumphant.

In the days that followed The Night that Never Happened, no matter how hard Clytie worked, organising the pantry shelves or scrubbing the kitchen floor at the Diggers' Rest, there was no escape. She was invaded by random, erotic images of Finch's naked body, his soft words, his rough but tender love-making, the expression in his eyes, his mouth – the passionate words of commitment that she had yearned to hear from Rom.

She felt as if her body was being washed by waves of heat. Determined to cover her confusion, she relentlessly scrubbed the tiles until her knuckles were raw.

Mary Mac looked at her curiously. ‘Hey, you're as red as a beetroot. You've come over all queer. You could be going down with a fever, love. Best you pop in and see Doc – he'll fix you up in a jiffy. There ain't nothing that man can't cure. I reckon he could have raised Lazarus from the dead if he'd been around at the time.'

Clytie smothered a giggle. ‘Best you don't let your new priest hear you say that.'

‘Nuts! He's heard worse than that in Confession, I'll warrant. We've got more than one unsolved murder in Hoffnung – and the bloke what did the last one is still walking around free as a bird.'

‘Really? Who? Tell me, I won't breathe a word,' Clytie promised, glad to be distracted from her carnal thoughts.

Mary Mac was delighted to enlighten her. ‘Ten years back a local bloke came home to find his wife dead at the bottom of the stairs with a broken neck. Doc's autopsy recorded she was covered in old bruises. He wrote the cause of death was ‘unknown'. Her husband, a known wife-beater, has had it in for Doc ever since. I'll give you a clue. He copped the name “Bruiser”.'

Clytie gasped. ‘You mean Counsellor Twyman?'

Mary Mac gave her a nudge and a wink. ‘You never heard it from me, but!'

A voice from the doorway caused them to draw apart guiltily.

‘What are you two doing wasting time? I don't pay you to chatter. Get back to work, the pair of you. There's bucket loads of work to do before tonight's celebration.'

Mrs Yeoman stood arms akimbo, glowering over the spectacles that pinched her thin nose. She hurried away, muttering audibly about the poor quality of kitchen hands.

‘Don't worry, love. Mrs Y is all bark and no bite. She really likes you. Here, I'll finish the floor for you,' Mary Mac said with real concern. ‘From the looks of you you've been overdoing things. Bed rest is what you need, my girl!'

An unwanted image of Finch rolling her over to straddle him and his cry of pleasure – ‘You ride like an angel . . . !' – caused Clytie to break out in perspiration.

‘Just look at you, you're going down with something. Go home and rest!'

‘I can't. I need the money. And all hands are needed on deck tonight.'

‘Well, just get some fresh air. I'll cover for you if Mrs Y is on the warpath.' Mary Mac removed the scrubbing brush from Clytie's hands and divested her of her pinafore.

Hastily bundled into her street clothes, Clytie grabbed her hat and basket and stepped out into the street, relieved to be bathed by the cool breeze that countered the heat of the day.

At the Post Office a gaggle of women were clustered around the hatch window where Marj Hornery was holding court.

‘I tell you that woman gets weirder with every passing day. And it's the Full of the Moon tonight. It's common knowledge that's when them lunatics are at their most dangerous.'

Mrs Baker was wide-eyed. ‘Fancy! I never knew that. Do you think she'd do anyone a mischief, Marj?'

Clytie strode angrily towards them, frustrated that no name had been mentioned but there was no mistaking where the slander was aimed.

‘Has my friend, Miss Hundey, been in today to collect her mail?' she asked pointedly.

‘Not my business to say,' Marj said archly. ‘I suppose you want your mail – nothing important, just some postcard.'

The picture showed a circus arena below a banner proclaiming the forthcoming Leon Bros Circus. The sight of it brought an instant lump of nostalgia to Clytie's throat.

She quickly scanned the greetings on the back from Pedro and Tiche.

‘I suppose you're itching to go back to circus life,' Marj said. ‘After all, there's nothing worth waiting for around here for
you.
'

‘I have
everything
worth waiting for,' Clytie said firmly, ‘and you can tell the whole town I said that!'

She shouldered her way outside, distracted by the sound of angry women's voices in the street.

Oh my God, that's Adelaide! What's she up to now?

Every woman in the store rushed onto the veranda to gain a better view of the dramatic scene. At the head of them, Clytie was ready to defend her friend, right or wrong.

Adelaide and Sister Bracken stood in the centre of the road, facing each other like two gunslingers in a Mexican stand-off, their backs straight, each shaking a gloved fist to punctuate their words.

‘. . . you can't run away from what you've done, Bracken. You need to confess it to the innocent people you've hurt!'

‘Who are you to lecture me? People only tolerate you out of respect for Doc. If it wasn't for him we'd have had you locked up in Kew Lunatic Asylum years ago – where you belong. You're half mad, nobody takes you seriously. Sick in the mind, you are!'

Adelaide was transformed into a dragon, breathing fire.

‘You've had plenty of time to put things right. Don't think you're going to walk out of Hoffnung and turn your back on the problem you created! Your God won't let you get away with it. And if He doesn't stop you – I will!'

Bracken turned to the bystanders. ‘You heard her – she threatened me! Somebody call Sergeant Mangles and get her locked up!'

‘Call him by all means!' Adelaide Hundey taunted her. ‘Wash your dirty linen in public – and let the Law deal with you!'

Adelaide shook her furled parasol in the air as a gesture of defiance, but it was Sister Bracken who lunged at the attack. Her arms raised above her head, she smashed her umbrella down on her opponent's head with an audible whack. Adelaide's fashionable picture hat was
almost cleft in two. One half hung suspended over her eyebrow, causing her to let forth a bellow of outrage.

‘That's done it! You've crossed the line, Bracken. This hat was from Paris!' Adelaide's lace-mittened hands grabbed Bracken around the shoulders and shook her. ‘Sign that letter, damn you!'

Clytie was relieved to see two things happen simultaneously.

Finch drove up in the Jantzen buggy with Sonny seated beside him.

Sergeant Mangles appeared on the scene, shepherded by two schoolboys who were like barking terriers guiding him to the ruckus.

‘Look here, ladies, what's going on here?' Sergeant Mangles demanded. ‘What's the cause of this unseemly disturbance of the peace?'

Sister Bracken whimpered, releasing a flood of arguments in her defence. ‘I was minding my own business, Sergeant, ordering medicines from the apothecary for my hospital – when this mad woman jumped out of nowhere and attacked me . . .!'

Miss Hundey had gone strangely quiet. Clytie saw she was watching Mangles intently as if silently pleading for him to let her go without charge.