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.Had he been herhusband, she would have gone to him.But he wasn't her husband, he was her master.And although she was his mistress, she was also his servant.Their relationship wasconfused, indistinct.In bed they were lovers profoundly, almost uncannily in tune witheach other's needs and desires.But outside of bed she was sometimes so terribly unsureof where she stood with him.She must have made some small sound because his head swung slowly around.Heexhaled a long stream of smoke and regarded her through narrowed eyes."You should beasleep."She shook her head."I can't sleep when you're not in bed."He turned to stare up the hill again."Do you miss her terribly?"He stiffened, but she went to him anyway.She wrapped her arms around his waist andpressed her cheek against his hard, broad back."I found a painting of her, you know,among her things.She was very beautiful."He lifted his cheroot and inhaled deeply.She thought he wasn't going to answer her.Thenhe said, "I never should have brought her here.She didn't belong here.And she hated itso much.""I think she was afraid of it," said Bryony, remembering those paintings of broodingmountains and haunting, drooping gums."But surely she didn't hate it.""She hated it.She hated it for what it was.For the mud and the flies and the heat.But shehated it even more for what it wasn't.It wasn't England." He took another drag on hiscigar, one corner of his lips twisting up into a sad travesty of a smile."It was the simplethings she missed the most.The sight of brick chimneys, rising above parks full of oaksand chestnuts.The sound of church bells, ringing out the changes on a crisp Sundaymorning.She always talked about how empty and quiet it was here.Everything was toonew, too wild, too different""And yet she enjoyed India, didn't she?"He shrugged."India was.oh, full of pageantry and well-trained servants and a constantwhirl of social activities attended by the kind of people she'd known all of her life."Bryony remembered Laura's pictures.Paintings of officers in smart uniforms, ladies infashionable dresses.Lawn parties.Picnics.And dark-skinned, obsequious servants."But New South Wales." He paused."New South Wales is raw, and so are the people.Even in Sydney.Most of the officers here could never have made it into a betterregiment, and very few of them bring wives out.Most of them make do with convictmistresses.And they don't take them into society."Convict mistresses.Women like her, Bryony thought, feeling the heat of shame stain hercheeks.Women who might share a man's bed, but could never aspire to share his table.at least not in the company of ladies such as Laura St.John."It wasn't as if she complained," he said, putting out his cigar."She simply grew silent,nervous.Everything was too much for her; the weather, the lack of supplies, the servantswho weren't really servants at all but thieves who didn't know how to wash clothes orplant a garden or cook a decent dinner.And she didn't have a clue how to teach them.Sometimes I'd come home and find her sitting in her room, quietly weeping withdespair." He pivoted in Bryony's arms so that he could look down on her."She wasn'tlike you, you see.She gave way to despair.""I despair," said Bryony quietly."Yes.But you don't give way to it."She stared over his shoulder at the top of the hill, trying to reconcile his words with theimage she'd built up in her mind.She'd always thought of Laura St.John as having cometo this alien land willingly.And yet how much say had Laura really had in her husband'sdecision to settle here? In her own way she had been as much a prisoner of New SouthWales as Bryony.Thinking always of home, missing the places and people she'd leftbehind.And finally dying here."She didn't give way to it, Hayden.She just.died."He turned away from her, and she heard him expel his breath in a long sigh."She didn'tjust die, Bryony.I killed her.I spilled my seed inside her, even though I knew she neverreally enjoyed it, even though she'd already miscarried one child, even though I knew shewas afraid of having another.I stayed away from her as much as I could, but." He flungback his head and squeezed his eyes shut."Oh God, Bryony.In my own way, I killedher, as surely as you killed Oliver.""No," she whispered, her voice as hoarse and agonized as his."Yes.If I hadn't married her, she'd still be alive and happy in England.""You can't know that, Hayden.Besides, she chose to marry you.She chose to leaveEngland with you
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