her birthday party.”
“I don’t recall you being on the guest list.”
“I wasn’t.” Beneath the woman’s basilisk gaze, Amaris felt compelled to elaborate but fought back the weakness.
At last, Nan Livingston said, “I see. Well, Celeste is out in the garden, awaiting your arrival. Molly will show you the way. If your aborigine woman will go to the kitchen, I’ll see that she is given food and drink.”
Amaris was too preoccupied noting the furnishings of the drawing room to pay any attention to the Livingston woman’s and Pulykara’s joint departure.
A marble bust stared out of vacant eyes at Amaris, and satyrs frolicked in a painting she was sure must be by some famous artist. She had too much pride to cross the parquet floor and read the signature.
The heavy red damask drapes and red floral-patterned carpet made the room seem too dark for her taste. She much preferred her bedroom’s shuttered windows that were folded back each morning to let in the flood of endless sunlight and balmy air. Her parents’ small house might be a building of irregular and crumbly bricks, fashioned by convicts, its walls not whitewashed clean, its roof only thatched. Yet, it possessed a personal warmth the stately mansion lacked.
“This way, miss,” the uniformed girl said. “If you be needing anything, Molly Finn’s me name.” Her smile revealed bad teeth.
Amaris followed her along a corridor walled with more paintings interspersed with closed doors. After two right turns, the corridor ascended a short flight of stairs and emptied into the garden.
Sunlight temporarily blinded Amaris, then amidst the garden’s lush greenery, Celeste was sprinting with arms thrown wide toward her. “Amaris!”
“So, are you going to serve tea?”
The little girl grasped her hand and drew her around an ell of the mansion to a grape arbor. “Look, Mama set it up. Come sit down, and I’ll pour us a cup. Our cook prepared some crumpets. Mama never lets me have crumpets unless it’s something special.”
“Where are your other friends?” Amaris barely fit her Amazonian body into the painted-white wooden chair constructed for a child.
“You’re the only one I wanted to invite. My friends are nice, but they’re not all grown up like you—and brave. Me neither. Not yet anyway.”
“Oh.” She sat awkwardly as Celeste filled a porcelain cup.
Leafy shadows dappled the little round face. “The tea set is by Wedgwood.” Celeste passed the cup to her. “Mama says she met the Wedgwood brothers.” She chattered on, and Amaris began to relax. Of the children her age, none were as educated as she, and at seven Celeste was a fountain of information that entertained her.
Celeste took a dainty sip, put down her cup and said, “Guess what? I persuaded Papa to hire that convict.”
“What convict?”
“The one on the dock last week. Remember, he picked you up when you fell.”
“An insolent man,” she said, remembering with shame his mocking smirk.
“Sinclair Tremayne’s his name. I made Papa promise not to use the whip on him, but then Papa never does on any of his workers at the shipyard.”
“Your father’s gentle, like you.”
“Oh, yes, but it was Mam a’s idea. She said that a bottle of rum was more incentive to work than the lash.”
“Your mother doesn’t approve of me, I don’t think.”
“Oh, that’s just Mama’s way. She’s really a nice woman.”
Amaris didn’t want to argue with the little girl, but she could almost feel the woman’s antagonism burning through her back.
Tom’s skill in trade had brought affluence to the Livingston family, and Nan was knocking on the door of Sydney’s upper society, although she chose to remain in the background. Eventually, the Exclusionists would trample each other to include her as one of them.
She trusted Tom’s opinion. But not in this one matter. He didn’t know all the facts. Pushing back the drapery, she peered out the window overlooking
“I don’t recall you being on the guest list.”
“I wasn’t.” Beneath the woman’s basilisk gaze, Amaris felt compelled to elaborate but fought back the weakness.
At last, Nan Livingston said, “I see. Well, Celeste is out in the garden, awaiting your arrival. Molly will show you the way. If your aborigine woman will go to the kitchen, I’ll see that she is given food and drink.”
Amaris was too preoccupied noting the furnishings of the drawing room to pay any attention to the Livingston woman’s and Pulykara’s joint departure.
A marble bust stared out of vacant eyes at Amaris, and satyrs frolicked in a painting she was sure must be by some famous artist. She had too much pride to cross the parquet floor and read the signature.
The heavy red damask drapes and red floral-patterned carpet made the room seem too dark for her taste. She much preferred her bedroom’s shuttered windows that were folded back each morning to let in the flood of endless sunlight and balmy air. Her parents’ small house might be a building of irregular and crumbly bricks, fashioned by convicts, its walls not whitewashed clean, its roof only thatched. Yet, it possessed a personal warmth the stately mansion lacked.
“This way, miss,” the uniformed girl said. “If you be needing anything, Molly Finn’s me name.” Her smile revealed bad teeth.
Amaris followed her along a corridor walled with more paintings interspersed with closed doors. After two right turns, the corridor ascended a short flight of stairs and emptied into the garden.
Sunlight temporarily blinded Amaris, then amidst the garden’s lush greenery, Celeste was sprinting with arms thrown wide toward her. “Amaris!”
“So, are you going to serve tea?”
The little girl grasped her hand and drew her around an ell of the mansion to a grape arbor. “Look, Mama set it up. Come sit down, and I’ll pour us a cup. Our cook prepared some crumpets. Mama never lets me have crumpets unless it’s something special.”
“Where are your other friends?” Amaris barely fit her Amazonian body into the painted-white wooden chair constructed for a child.
“You’re the only one I wanted to invite. My friends are nice, but they’re not all grown up like you—and brave. Me neither. Not yet anyway.”
“Oh.” She sat awkwardly as Celeste filled a porcelain cup.
Leafy shadows dappled the little round face. “The tea set is by Wedgwood.” Celeste passed the cup to her. “Mama says she met the Wedgwood brothers.” She chattered on, and Amaris began to relax. Of the children her age, none were as educated as she, and at seven Celeste was a fountain of information that entertained her.
Celeste took a dainty sip, put down her cup and said, “Guess what? I persuaded Papa to hire that convict.”
“What convict?”
“The one on the dock last week. Remember, he picked you up when you fell.”
“An insolent man,” she said, remembering with shame his mocking smirk.
“Sinclair Tremayne’s his name. I made Papa promise not to use the whip on him, but then Papa never does on any of his workers at the shipyard.”
“Your father’s gentle, like you.”
“Oh, yes, but it was Mam a’s idea. She said that a bottle of rum was more incentive to work than the lash.”
“Your mother doesn’t approve of me, I don’t think.”
“Oh, that’s just Mama’s way. She’s really a nice woman.”
Amaris didn’t want to argue with the little girl, but she could almost feel the woman’s antagonism burning through her back.
Tom’s skill in trade had brought affluence to the Livingston family, and Nan was knocking on the door of Sydney’s upper society, although she chose to remain in the background. Eventually, the Exclusionists would trample each other to include her as one of them.
She trusted Tom’s opinion. But not in this one matter. He didn’t know all the facts. Pushing back the drapery, she peered out the window overlooking
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