horrid man!” Celeste said of the overseer. She turned to Amaris. “Do something, please!”
Amaris had to fight back displaying her surprise. Celeste clearly thought she could do anything. Her gaze returned to the convict. He shuffled back into line with the others, all who were fresh off the convict ship. A bloody stripe traced the path the lash had left. “Your mother and father hire convicts, Celeste. Talk to them.”
By rights, Celeste Livingston should have been spoiled rotten. Her parents doted on her. But such a condition was impossible for her angelic temperament. She loved life and loved people and easily overlooked her mother’s interfering ways that often put off some Sydneysiders.
Rose Wilmot stared from the neatly penned invitation to Amaris’s bland expression. “Nan Livingston is inviting you to her daughter’s tea party?”
Amaris shrugged. “I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Well, you must be on your best behavior, love. That wild streak in you that I adore, Nan Livingston just might abhor.”
Amaris wanted to see the inside of a mansion; at the same time, she felt a little silly going to a seven-year-old’s tea party. Her curiosity won out, and she went to the tea party dressed in a made-over dress donated by none other than Nan Livingston herself. By the time Rose had plied her needle, the dress was indistinguishable from the one Nan had worn. True, it was a trifle small for Amaris, but as long as she didn’t stretch or gambol about like a monkey, the seams wouldn’t rip.
The Livingston house was a Georgian manor, imposing and out of place among the rural cottages and her father’s rectory, skirting Sydney proper. As she waited for her knock to summon someone to the Livingstons’ front door, she felt extremely uncomfortable and tugged on the hem of her bodice.
Behind her, Pulykara said, “Remember who you are—one of them Dream Time people. Don’t be afraid of her.”
“Celeste?”
“You know who, Miss Priss. You two are a lot alike.”
Amaris almost hooted. “Me and Nan Livingston!”
A uniformed girl in black with a crisp white apron answered the door. Pug-nosed and freckled, the girl was not much older than she. Amaris gave her name and said, “I’ve come for Celeste Livingston’s tea party.”
Her fair hair straggling from beneath her mop cap, the girl curtseyed. “I’ll tell the missus you’re here.” So, she would finally get to meet the remarkable Mrs. Livingston. The woman had come to the shores a convict and was now a wealthy woman—and the formidable woman behind New South Wales Traders, Limited.
Amaris’s curiosity was greater than any trepidation she had in meeting the imperious woman. Even though Amaris was well aware that she was at least as tall as Nan Livingston, judging by the cast-off clothing, Amaris hadn’t expected the woman to appear so fragile.
She swept into the room with a rustle of puce crepe skirts. Her gaze flickered to Pulykara standing discreetly behind Amaris, then settled on Amaris to study her as intently as Amaris was her. Nan Livingston’s brown hair was tugged back tightly into a netted chignon at her nape. Her thin face was heart shaped, her chin a mite too pointed.
The gray eyes scanned Amaris in return, doubtlessly finding fault in her wild black hair, and Amaris wished she hadn’t unplaited it. Suddenly her feet and hands felt cloddish and clumsy, her dress inappropriate for her size and age. Worse, when every female in the colony strove for the fair skin that can only come from a sheltered life, her sun-browned skin was tantamount to evidence she was a former convict.
“It seems my daughter has taken a liking to you.”
Amaris, copying Nan Livingston, folded her large hands calmly before her. Then, wincing at how unsightly they were, she quickly put them behind her. “It seems so.”
“How did you two meet?”
“Celeste didn’t tell you?”
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
“We met at
Amaris had to fight back displaying her surprise. Celeste clearly thought she could do anything. Her gaze returned to the convict. He shuffled back into line with the others, all who were fresh off the convict ship. A bloody stripe traced the path the lash had left. “Your mother and father hire convicts, Celeste. Talk to them.”
By rights, Celeste Livingston should have been spoiled rotten. Her parents doted on her. But such a condition was impossible for her angelic temperament. She loved life and loved people and easily overlooked her mother’s interfering ways that often put off some Sydneysiders.
Rose Wilmot stared from the neatly penned invitation to Amaris’s bland expression. “Nan Livingston is inviting you to her daughter’s tea party?”
Amaris shrugged. “I didn’t know anything about it.”
“Well, you must be on your best behavior, love. That wild streak in you that I adore, Nan Livingston just might abhor.”
Amaris wanted to see the inside of a mansion; at the same time, she felt a little silly going to a seven-year-old’s tea party. Her curiosity won out, and she went to the tea party dressed in a made-over dress donated by none other than Nan Livingston herself. By the time Rose had plied her needle, the dress was indistinguishable from the one Nan had worn. True, it was a trifle small for Amaris, but as long as she didn’t stretch or gambol about like a monkey, the seams wouldn’t rip.
The Livingston house was a Georgian manor, imposing and out of place among the rural cottages and her father’s rectory, skirting Sydney proper. As she waited for her knock to summon someone to the Livingstons’ front door, she felt extremely uncomfortable and tugged on the hem of her bodice.
Behind her, Pulykara said, “Remember who you are—one of them Dream Time people. Don’t be afraid of her.”
“Celeste?”
“You know who, Miss Priss. You two are a lot alike.”
Amaris almost hooted. “Me and Nan Livingston!”
A uniformed girl in black with a crisp white apron answered the door. Pug-nosed and freckled, the girl was not much older than she. Amaris gave her name and said, “I’ve come for Celeste Livingston’s tea party.”
Her fair hair straggling from beneath her mop cap, the girl curtseyed. “I’ll tell the missus you’re here.” So, she would finally get to meet the remarkable Mrs. Livingston. The woman had come to the shores a convict and was now a wealthy woman—and the formidable woman behind New South Wales Traders, Limited.
Amaris’s curiosity was greater than any trepidation she had in meeting the imperious woman. Even though Amaris was well aware that she was at least as tall as Nan Livingston, judging by the cast-off clothing, Amaris hadn’t expected the woman to appear so fragile.
She swept into the room with a rustle of puce crepe skirts. Her gaze flickered to Pulykara standing discreetly behind Amaris, then settled on Amaris to study her as intently as Amaris was her. Nan Livingston’s brown hair was tugged back tightly into a netted chignon at her nape. Her thin face was heart shaped, her chin a mite too pointed.
The gray eyes scanned Amaris in return, doubtlessly finding fault in her wild black hair, and Amaris wished she hadn’t unplaited it. Suddenly her feet and hands felt cloddish and clumsy, her dress inappropriate for her size and age. Worse, when every female in the colony strove for the fair skin that can only come from a sheltered life, her sun-browned skin was tantamount to evidence she was a former convict.
“It seems my daughter has taken a liking to you.”
Amaris, copying Nan Livingston, folded her large hands calmly before her. Then, wincing at how unsightly they were, she quickly put them behind her. “It seems so.”
“How did you two meet?”
“Celeste didn’t tell you?”
“I’d like to hear it from you.”
“We met at
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