“Long years of practice,” he mumbled, mouth contorted. “In warm water with a bit of soap, easy. On Alexander I shaved dry.”
Finished, he rinsed the razor, folded it and laid it in its case before washing and drying his face. That done, he looked aimless, glanced at the fire and decided that it needed a part-burned log pushing back. No, it was still dangerous; he added a log as a prop, stood back, adjusted it. He lifted the lid of the spouted kettle, seemed disappointed that it did not need more water, walked over to his books, just about invisible.
“Richard,” she said gently, “if you are truly trying to find something to do, we can eat. That will fill in a few more minutes while you summon your courage to start giving me children.”
His eyes flew to hers, astonished, then he threw back his head and laughed until the tears came. “No, wife.” His tone growled down to a caress. “Suddenly I am not hungry for food.”
She smiled at him sidelong and walked through her door. “Do close the shutters,” she said as she went. Her voice floated back out of the darkness. “And put MacTavish out for the night.”
They will always, thought Richard, lead us when they want to. Ours is an illusion of power. Theirs is as old as creation.
His clothes he left behind him, halting inside her room until he could see shadows within shadows, the vague outline of her upon the bed, sitting bolt upright.
“No, not where I cannot see you. In the firelight, and as God made you. Come,” he said, holding out his hand.
The rustle as she shed her night shift, the feel of warm and trusting fingers. He took her back and left her standing near the hearth to pluck the straw mattress from his bed, then threw it on the floor between them and looked at her. So beautiful! Like Venus, made for love. And it would be naked skin from the beginning, he wanted this to bear no resemblance to clothed convulsive couplings on the flags of the London Newgate. Sacred, an act dedicated to God, Who had made it possible. This is what we suffer for, one divine spark that turns the blackness of the pit to the brilliance of the sun. In this is true immortality. In this we fly free.
So he folded her into his arms and let her feel the satin of skin, the play of muscle, the strength and the tenderness, all the love for which he had found no outlet in years upon years. And she seemed in their wordless mingling to sense the timeless pattern of it, to know how and where and why. Always why. If he hurt her, it was only for a moment, after which there was no tomorrow, no more than her and this for all eternity. Pour forth your love, Richard Morgan, hold nothing back! Give her everything that you are and do not count the cost. That is the only reason for love, and she, my gift from God, knows and feels and accepts my pain.
PART SEVEN
From
June of 1791
until
February of 1793
“Peg,” faid Richard, for once in a mood to volunteer emotional information, “was first love. Annemarie Latour was purely sex. Kitty is last love.”
Eyes twinkling, Stephen contemplated him, wondering how he had managed to turn what ought to be infatuation into what would undoubtedly be an enduring passion. Or is it perhaps that he has gone so far for so long that whatever he feels is magnified a thousandfold?
“Ye’re living proof of the fact that there’s no fool like an old fool. But ye’re wrong about one thing, Richard. Kitty is love and sex rolled up in the same parcel. For you, at any rate. For myself—I used to think that sex was—well, if not the most important, certainly the most urgent, the one I had to satisfy. But ye’ve taught me a great many things, one of which is the art of going without sex.” He grinned. “As long, that is, that no one absolutely delectable comes along. Then I am all to pieces. But it passes, and so does he.”
“Like every man, ye need both.”
“I have both. Just not rolled up in the same parcel. Which, I have come to realize, suits me very well. I certainly do not repine,” he said with genuine cheerfulness, jumping up. “Out of my stint on Norfolk Island I am going to get a commission in the Royal Navy, I am determined upon it. Then I will strut around a quarterdeck in my white, gold and Navy blue with a spyglass tucked under my arm and forty-four guns at my command.”
They had paused for a drink of water and a brief rest from digging the foundations of Richard’s new house. Joseph McCaldren had been granted his 60 acres and happily parted with the best 12 of them for the sum of £24; he drove a hard bargain. Then D’arcy Wentworth bought the other 48 acres as well as a part of Elias Bishop’s 60 acres at Queensborough. Major Ross had endorsed the transfer of deeds with great good will.
“I am very pleased ye’ll occupy McCaldren’s land,” he said to Richard. “Ye’ll have it cleared and under cultivation in no time, and that is what the island needs. More wheat, more Indian corn.”
There were only four lots in Norfolk Island which incorporated both sides of a stream in them; they immediately became known as “runs,” prefixed by the name of the owner. Which gave Norfolk Island four new landmarks to add to Sydney Town, Phillipsburgh, Cascade and Queensborough: Drummond’s Run, Phillimore’s Run, Proctor’s Run and Morgan’s Run.
Unfortunately the sawpits left Richard little time to get on with building his new house. Barracks had to be constructed in Sydney Town and reasonable huts for the New South Wales Corps at the place the Sirius seamen had occupied; a proper gaol had to be finished, more civilian officials’ houses—Major Ross’s list seemed endless. Nat Lucas, who had over fifty carpenters toiling under his command, was frantic.
“I cannot guarantee the quality of the work anymore,” he said to Richard over Sunday dinner in Richard’s domain at the head of the vale. “Some of the buildings are downright shoddy, hammered together without thought or care, and I cannot divide myself into enough of me to keep an eye on Queensborough, Phillipsburgh and all the rest. I run, run, run, Lieutenant Clark yapping at my heels about the western settlement, Captain Hill rudely poking my shoulder because the New South Wales Corps huts are leaky, or drafty, or—truly, Richard, I am at my wits’ end.”
“Ye can do no more than ye’re able to, Nat. Has the Major himself complained?”
“Nay, he is too great a realist.” Nat looked a little worried. “I heard this morning that Lieutenant Clark had been deputed to take divine service because the Major is not well. Not well at all, according to Lizzie Lock.” None of Richard’s close friends ever called the Major’s housekeeper “Mrs. Richard Morgan.”
The food had been delicious. Kitty had killed two fat ducks and roasted them in her big oven-kettle with potatoes, pumpkins and onions around them; she had taken Olivia and the twins outside to look at Augusta and her rapidly growing female offspring, soon either to be killed and sold to the Stores or sent with their mother to a different Government boar. Thank God Richard had built a large sty!
“When your foundations are in, Richard,” said Nat, changing the subject, “George and I have organized a working bee for two weekends in a row to put up your house, and I have secured the Major’s permission to absent ourselves from Sunday service. That way, with any luck ye’ll be able to move from here before the next transport arrives. ’Twill be rudimentary but livable, and ye can continue with the finishing unaided. Have ye enough timber?”
“Aye, from my own land. I put a sawpit on it and Billy Wigfall, God bless him, saws with me. Harry Humphreys and Sam Hussey turn up on some Saturdays, while Joey Long debarks the logs. I thought I may as well start clearing my own land rather than use trees from other locations.”
