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  Captain Marcus descended, roaring.

  “To your cabin, Miss Drummond! At once!”

  And there Elizabeth remained while Aurora was towed to her berth; then all she could see through the porthole were masts, all she could hear were bellowing voices, the chug of an engine.

  When, it seemed hours later, the knock fell on her door, she leaped off her bunk, heart thudding. But it was only Perkins, the passengers’ steward.

  “Your trunks have gone ashore, Miss, and so must you.”

  “Mrs. Halliday?” she asked, following him into a chaotic world of winches lowering crates in rope baskets, ruddy-faced men in flannel shirts, sailors whistling and jeering.

  “Oh, she disembarked a long time ago. Asked me to give you this.” Perkins fished in his waistcoat pocket and handed her a small card. “If you need her, you can find her there.”

  Down the gangplank, across the filthy boards of the wharf between high stacks of crates and cases—where were her trunks?

  Having found them in a relatively peaceful corner against the wall of a tumbledown shed, Elizabeth sat on one, put her purse in her lap and folded her hands on top of it. Where to go, what to do? Thinking that if Alexander Kinross saw the Drummond tartan he would recognize her at once, she was wearing one of her home-made dresses, but this was not the weather for serge wool; in fact, she thought, dazed with heat, little of what reposed in her trunks was suitable for this climate. Sweat dewed her face, ran down the back of her neck from her hair, confined inside a matching bonnet, and soaked through her calico underwear into the Drummond tartan.

  And after all that, it was she who recognized him in an instant, thanks to Miss MacTavish. She sat looking down a narrow lane between the off-loaded cargo and saw a man who walked as if he owned the world. Tall and rather slender, he was dressed in clothes strange to her eyes, used to men in working flannels and caps, or in the splendor of kilts, or in somber suits over shirts stiff with starch and stiff hats upon their heads. Whereas he wore soft trousers made of some fawn-colored skin, an unstarched shirt with a scarf at its neck, an open coat of the same skin that dangled long fringes from its arm seams and hem, and a soft fawn hat with a low crown and wide brim. Under the hat was a thin, deeply tanned face; his hair was black sprinkled with grey and curled on to his shoulders, and his black beard and mustache, greyer than his hair, were carefully trimmed into the exact same style as the Devil wore.

  She rose to her feet, at which moment he noticed her.

  “Elizabeth?” he asked, hand out.

  She didn’t take it. “You know that I am not Jean?”

  “Why should I think you Jean when you’re obviously not?”

  “But you—you wrote for—for Jean,” she floundered, not daring to look at his face.

  “And your father wrote offering me you instead. It’s quite immaterial,” said Alexander Kinross, turning to signal to a man in his wake. “Load her trunks into the cart, Summers. I’ll take her to the hotel in a hackney.” Then, to her: “I’d have found you sooner if my dynamite hadn’t chanced to be aboard your ship. I had to clear it and get it safely stowed before some enterprising villain got to it first. Come.”

  One hand beneath her elbow, he guided her through the aisle and out into what seemed an enormously wide street that was as much a depot as a thoroughfare, littered with goods and crowded with men attacking the wood-block paving with picks.

  “They’re putting the railway through to the docks,” Alexander Kinross said as he thrust her upward into one of several loitering hackneys. Then, as soon as he was seated beside her: “You’re hot. It’s no wonder, in those clothes.”

  Finding her courage, she turned her head to study his face properly. Miss MacTavish was right, he wasn’t handsome, though his features were regular enough. Perhaps that they were not Drummond or Murray features? Hard to believe that he was her own first cousin. But what chilled Elizabeth was his definite resemblance to the Devil. Not only in beard and mustache; his brows were jet-black and sharply pointed, and his eyes, sunk deep between black lashes, were so dark that she could not distinguish pupil from iris.

  He returned her scrutiny, but with more detachment. “I’d expected you to be like Jean—fair,” he said.

  “I take after the Black Scot Murrays.”

  Came a smile; it was indeed, as Miss MacTavish had said, a wonderful smile, but no part of Elizabeth’s anatomy went weak at the sight of it. “So do I, Elizabeth.” He reached out a hand and put it under her chin to turn her face to the brilliant light. “But your eyes are remarkable—dark, yet not brown or black. Navy-blue. That’s good! It says there’s a chance our sons will look more like Scots than we do.”

  His touch made her uncomfortable, so did his reference to their sons; as soon as she felt he would not take offense, she pulled away from his fingers, stared at the purse in her lap.

  The cab horse was plodding uphill away from the wharves and into a genuinely big city that seemed, to Elizabeth’s unschooled eyes, quite as busy as Edinburgh. Carriages, sulkies, gigs, hackneys, carts, drays, wagons and horse-drawn omnibuses thronged the narrow streets, lined first with ordinary buildings, but then with shops rendered alien by awnings that jutted to the edge of the pavement; their presence hid the contents of the shop windows from any traveler on the road, a frustration.

  “The awnings,” he said, it seemed able to read her mind—yet another characteristic of the Devil—“keep shoppers dry when it rains and cool when the sun shines.”

  To which Elizabeth made no reply.

  Twenty minutes after leaving the dockside the hackney swung into a wider street flanked on its far side by a sprawling park wherein the grass looked absolutely dead. Twin tracks ran down the middle of this street; here the horse-drawn public transport took the form of trams. Their driver drew into the curb outside a large yellow sandstone building with Doric pillars around its entrance, and a marvelously uniformed man helped her out of the hackney. His bow to Alexander was deferential, but became even more so after Alexander slipped a gold coin into his hand.

  The hotel was incredibly luxurious. An imposing staircase, plush crimson everywhere, huge vases of crimson flowers, the glitter of gilt from picture frames, tables and pedestals. A colossal crystal chandelier blazed with candles. Liveried men bore her trunks away while Alexander led her not to the staircase but to what looked like a gigantic, lacy brass bird cage, where another liveried man waited with his gloved hand on its open door. As soon as she, Alexander and the attendant were inside it, the cage jerked and quivered, then started to rise! Half fascinated, half terrified, Elizabeth looked down on the receding lobby, saw the cross section of a floor, a crimson hallway; creaking and groaning, the bird cage continued to rise. Four, five, six floors. Shuddering, it stopped to let them out.

  “Have you not seen a lift, Elizabeth?” Alexander asked, his voice amused.

  “Lift?”

  “Or, in California, an elevator. They’re governed by the principle of hydraulics—water pressure. Lifts are very new. This is the only one in Sydney, but soon all commercial buildings will grow higher and higher because their occupants won’t have to climb hundreds of stairs. I use this hotel because of its lift. Its best accommodation is on the top floor, where there’s fresh air, a view, and a lot less noise.” He produced a key and used it to open a door. “This is your suite, Elizabeth.” Out came a gold watch; he consulted it and pointed to a clock ticking on the marble mantel. “The maid will be here shortly to unpack for you. You can have until eight o’clock to bathe, rest, and change for dinner. Evening dress, please.”

  That said, he vanished down the hall.

  Her knees were weak now, but not due to Alexander Kinross’s smile. What a sumptuous room! A pale green color scheme, a vast four-poster bed, and an area containing a table and chairs as well as something that looked like a cross between a narrow bed and a sofa. A pair of French doors led out on to a small balcony—oh, he was right! The view was wonderful! Never in her life had she been u
p more than one flight of stairs—if only she could have seen Loch Leven and Kinross County from such a lofty eminence! The whole of eastern Sydney was spread before her—gunboats moored in a bay, many rows of houses, forests on the distant hills as well as along the foreshores of what did indeed look, from so high up, the grandest harbor in the world. But fresh air? Not to Elizabeth’s sensitive nose, still able to smell that fetid stink.

  The maid knocked and entered bearing a tray of tea, little sandwiches and cakes.

  “But have your bath first, Miss Drummond. The floor butler will make the tea when you’re ready,” said this dignified person.

  Elizabeth discovered that a huge bathroom lay through a door beyond the bed, together with what the maid called a dressing room, replete with mirrors, cabinets, bureaux.

  Alexander must have explained to the maid that all this was strange to his intended bride, for the woman, expressionless, took over—showed her how to flush the water closet, drew her a bath in a massive tub and washed her salt-caked hair as if she saw naked women every day and thought nothing of it.

  ALEXANDER KINROSS, thought Elizabeth later, sipping tea. Impressions can be treacherous, shaped by accident and gossip, ignorance and superstition. It was Alexander Kinross’s misfortune that he happened to be the image of a head-and-shoulders sketch of the Devil that Dr. Murray had deliberately hung on the wall of the children’s Bible-study room. Its aim was to terrify the children of his congregation, and it succeeded: the thin mouth with its slight sneer, the horrible dark pits of eyes, a malignancy suggested by shrewd lines and shadows. All Alexander Kinross lacked were the horns.

  Common sense told Elizabeth that this was sheer coincidence, but she was far more a child than a woman. Through no fault of his own, Alexander entered Elizabeth’s life with an ineradicable handicap, and she took against him. The very thought of marrying him terrified her. How soon? Oh, pray not yet!

  HOW CAN I look into those diabolical eyes and tell their owner that he is not the husband I would choose? she asked herself. Mary told me what to expect in the marriage bed, though I already knew it is no joy for a woman. Dr. Murray made it clear to me before I left that a woman who enjoys the Act is as loose as a harlot. God gives pleasure in it only to husbands. Women are the source of evil and temptation, therefore women are to blame when men fall into fleshly error. It was Eve who seduced Adam, Eve who entered into league with the serpent, who was the Devil in disguise. So the only pleasure women are allowed is in their children. Mary told me that if a wife is sensible she separates what goes on in the marriage bed from the person of her husband, who is her friend in all else. But I cannot envision Alexander as my friend! He frightens me more than Dr. Murray does.

  HOOPS, MISS MACTAVISH had remarked, were out of fashion now, but skirts were still voluminous, held out by layer upon layer of petticoats. Elizabeth’s petticoats were singularly unlovely, made of unbleached cotton without embellishment. Only the evening dress itself had been crafted by Miss MacTavish, but even it, Elizabeth sensed as the maid helped her into it, was unimpressive.

  Luckily the gas-lit hall was dim; Alexander’s gaze passed over her and he nodded in apparent approval. He was clad tonight in white tie and tails, a masculine fashion she had seen only in magazine illustrations. If anything, the black and white served to enhance his Mephistophelian quality, but she put her hand on his arm and allowed him to lead her into the waiting lift.

  When they arrived in the lobby she understood a great deal more about the limitations of rural Scotland and Miss MacTavish; the sight of the ladies strolling about on gentlemen’s arms reduced her pride in the dark blue taffeta dress to nothing. Their arms and shoulders were bare, one separated from the other by a puff of silk or a froth of lace; their waists were tiny, their skirts gathered at the back into huge humps that cascaded frills into trains sweeping the floor behind them; their matching gloves came up past their elbows, their hair was piled high and wide, half-naked bosoms blazed with jewels.

  When the pair entered the dining room, it stilled. Every head turned to survey them; men nodded gravely to Alexander, women preened. Then the whispers began. A toplofty waiter guided them to a table at which two other people already sat, an elderly man in what she was to learn to call “evening dress” and a woman of about forty whose gown and jewels were superb. The man rose to his feet to bow, the woman continued to sit, a fixed smile on her otherwise unreadable face.

  “Elizabeth, this is Charles Dewy and his wife, Constance,” said Alexander as Elizabeth sat in the chair the waiter drew out.

  “My dear, you’re charming,” said Mr. Dewy.

  “Charming,” Mrs. Dewy echoed.

  “Charles and Constance are to be our witnesses when we marry tomorrow afternoon,” Alexander said as he took the menu. “Do you have any preferences in food, Elizabeth?”

  “No, sir,” she said.

  “No, Alexander,” he corrected gently.

  “No, Alexander.”

  “Since I know all too well the sort of fare you ate at home, we’ll keep it simple. Hawkins,” he said to the hovering waiter, “a flounder meunière, a sorbet, and roast beef. Well-done for Miss Drummond, rare for me.”

  “Sole,” said Mrs. Dewy, “doesn’t exist in these waters. We make do with flounder. Though you should try the oysters. Quite the best in the world, I venture.”

  “WHAT ON EARTH is Alexander about, to marry that child?” asked Constance Dewy of her husband as soon as the lift had deposited them on the fifth floor.

  Charles Dewy grinned, raised his brows. “You know Alexander, my dear. It solves his problems. Puts Ruby in her place and at the same time gives him someone young enough to mold to his liking. He’s been single far too long. If he doesn’t begin to raise his family soon, he’ll not have time to train sons to run an empire.”

  “Poor little thing! Her accent is so thick that I could hardly understand a word she said. And that awful dress! Yes, I do indeed know Alexander, and his taste runs to opulent women, not dowdy misses. Look at Ruby.”

  “I have, Constance, I have! But only with a spectator’s lust, I swear,” said Charles, who stood on excellent and humorous terms with his wife. “However, little Elizabeth would be a real stunner if she were made over, and do you doubt that Alexander will make her over? I do not.”

  “She’s afraid of him,” Constance said positively.

  “Well, that’s only to be expected, isn’t it? There’s no sixteen-year-old in this iniquitous city half as sheltered as Elizabeth obviously has been. Which is why he sent for her, I’m sure. He may philander with Ruby and a dozen others, but he’s not a man who’d want anything but complete innocence in a wife. It’s the Scots Presbyterian in him, protest though he does that he’s an atheist. That’s a church hasn’t budged an inch since John Knox.”

  THEY WERE married in the Presbyterian rite at five the following afternoon. Even Mrs. Dewy had no silent criticism to level at Elizabeth’s wedding gown, very plain, high to the throat, long-sleeved, ornamented only by tiny covered buttons down its front from collar to waist. Its satin rustled, the calico underpinnings didn’t show, and the white slippers emphasized ankles that Charles Dewy judged promised long and shapely legs.

  The bride was composed, the groom imperturbable; they made their vows in firm voices. When they were pronounced man and wife, Alexander lifted Elizabeth’s lace veil off her face and kissed her. Though the salutation looked innocuous enough to the Dewys, Alexander felt her shiver, her tiny withdrawal. But the moment passed, and after warm congratulations outside the church from the Dewys, the bridal couple and their two witnesses went their separate ways, for the Dewys were going home to somewhere called Dunleigh while Mr. and Mrs. Kinross walked back to the hotel for dinner.

  This time the other diners applauded when they entered, as Elizabeth was still clad in her wedding dress. Red-faced, she kept her eyes on the carpet. Their table bore white flowers, chrysanthemums mixed with feathery white daisies; sitting down, she admired them for somethi
ng to say, something to alleviate her embarrassment.

  “Autumn flowers,” Alexander told her. “The seasons are reversed here. Come, have a glass of champagne. You will have to learn to like wine. No matter what you might have been taught at the kirk, even Jesus Christ and his women drank wine.”

  The plain gold wedding band seemed to burn, but not as much as the other ring on that same finger, a diamond solitaire the size of a farthing. When Alexander had given it to her during lunch, she hadn’t known where to look; the last place she wanted to look was into the little box he held out.

  “Don’t you care for diamonds?” he had asked.

  “Oh, yes, yes!” she managed, flustered. “But is it proper? It’s so—so noticeable.”

  His brow creased into a frown. “A diamond is traditional, and my wife’s diamond must be fitting for her station,” he said, reaching across the table to take her left hand, slide the ring on to its third finger. “I know all this must be very strange for you, Elizabeth, but as my wife you must wear the best, have the best. Always. I can see that Uncle James didn’t endow you with more than a small fraction of the money I sent, but I suppose I expected that.” He smiled wryly. “Careful with his bawbees, is Uncle James. But those days are over,” he went on, turning her hand within both of his. “From today, you’ll be Mrs. Kinross.”

  Perhaps the expression in her eyes gave him pause, for he stopped suddenly, got to his feet with unusual clumsiness. “A cheroot,” he said, going to the balcony. “I like to smoke a cheroot after I’ve eaten.”