She must have dropped by yesterday afternoon, he thought.
He is filled with excitement, but also, strangely, by a sense of calm. He brings the note to his nose to see if it still held her scent. It does, a little, or maybe it is just his imagination.
He would close the shop early, take the day off tomorrow. He wondered if anyone in town would notice, think it unusual, as it was rare that he ever took any time off. But he would leave young Robbie to mind the shop for tomorrow; the experience would be good for him, and he wouldn't have to do anything but the more routine tasks. Anything else could wait for his return.
"Yes sir, Mr. Marston," Robbie had answered.
John had only smiled at him kindly and gently said, "You don't have to call me sir, Robbie."
He turned the sign in the window to "Closed", noting the time when he would return, locked up and left for the day. He needed to straighten up the cabin. But first a walk into town to pick up a few things - he stopped at the market, the bake shop, and almost bought a bouquet of flowers from a flower seller. He decided instead to cut a spray of the beautiful white native orchids that grew up in the trees, on the fallen logs of the forest floor and in many other places near the cabin and rocky sea cliffs, that she had so admired.
As she makes her way to the cabin, the morning mist rises from the tranquility of the sea like smoke. The sun would burn it off before too long.
When she arrives, she says nothing, not a word; she just just enters the open doorway and falls into the embrace of his bear arms and his kisses, their lips and bodies crushing together. "Oh my love," he softly groans. He holds her tightly, and for a long time.
"Come and lie with me," he whispers eventually. She gasps.
"Yes."
He leads her to his bed, pushing aside the semiopaque curtains that separate it from the rest of the room. The headboard is a rough-sawn, live edge slab of natural timber. A spray of the native orchids has been placed on the pillowcases. There is a small bookshelf above it with a few books, and a small side table with a vase and an oil lamp.
"They're lovely," she smiles and says, thanking him, again appreciating their lovely white petals and tiny pink center petals, taking them up and placing them in the vase of water that he had left there on the table beside his bed. They only need air and rainwater to live, she remembered. How miraculous.
They undress, and he stands there before her, naked with a man's body and no shame of it. All of the trepidation, all of the self-doubt she has felt is gone now too, and she is filled with desire for him as she slips out of her layers of clothing, corset and camisole, petticoats and undergarments, and rolls down her stockings. If she is slightly trembly now, it is because of desire.
As they lie together, she seems to bloom, and he hangs on her every word, every sigh.
It had begun to rain in the afternoon.
He listens to the soft patter on the rush-thatched roof above him, and the soft hiss of it falling outside the open windows, the damp air cooling and dispelling the room of the day's heat. Thunder quietly rumbles in the distance, restful.
I wish you could stay the night, he whispers into her hair as they half-doze in the afterglow; she in his arms, lying on her side, facing him. She is beautiful. He traces his fingers over her breasts, remembering the feel of them in his hands, their teardrop shape, and then over deep curve from her ribs to her hip and the faded, silvery marks on her belly from where she'd had her bairn, breathes in the scent of their lovemaking.
"I miss ye already, why is that?" he teases, leaning down and kissing the top of her head. He pulls up the bedclothes around them a little so she won't feel chilled.
She smiles up at him dreamily, kissing his chin, remembering the delicious feeling of him inside her, filling her, and runs her fingers through the generous hair of his chest, which she has discovered that she adores.
She doesn't want to answer. She fears that speaking will bring her back to her senses, spoil the day. She smiles sadly up at him, because she wishes it too, but she knows she will have to leave soon.
"Tell me about yourself," she says instead.
"What would you like to know?"
"Have you someone back in England?"
"No. Not anymore."
"Were you married?"
"Yes. For a short time."
"Children?"
He shakes is head. "No. No children."
"Did you love her?"
"Yes."
"Do you still?"
"No."
She herself was really in no position to judge.
He continued.
"English law allows for the dissolution of a marriage when a convict is sent away to the colonies. That is what she, and her father, had wanted. Did you know, had you guessed that about me? That I was a convict? Would that bother you?"
She knew that there were convicts sent to Australia and New Zealand, but not specifically about his situation. She hadn't really been exposed to much town gossip.
"No," she answered him. She did not care. She is not interested in changing or reforming him. She loves the man he is now, the man she knows.
He told her where he had been born and had grown up (Glasgow), his youthful apprenticeship with the smith, and after that, when he had moved to England as a young man seeking work and where he'd married; then about the farmers' uprising that had turned bad and had led to his arrest. That a British soldier had been killed, but not by him. About the long voyage to Australia, and his pardon. He told her nothing more, and she did not press him. It was enough.
They were all here to start their lives anew, it seemed, whether by intention or chance. That was all behind him now. And he had done a good job of it, putting it behind him, working hard and building a thriving business.
When she finally had to tear herself away from him, she rose from the bed, gathering up her clothes. She looks at her disheveled appearance in John's mirror with dismay. She looked a state.
He sits up and watches in amusement as she dresses and fixes her hair, with all the articles of clothing she had. A button had come loose from her jacket and had skittered and rolled across the floorboards, and she knelt to pick it up. She'd have to mend it when she returns to the boarding house.
"Now that you are going, I am miserable," he told her with a smile. She gives him a skeptical look and smiles too. He catches her hand and draws her back to him. "I need to know Shawnet, what do you mean to do now? Will you come back again?"
"Yes," she promised him. "Yes, because I love you."
They were able to share a cup of tea together.
Before she had to leave, she sat down at the piano for a few minutes in just her camisole and skirts. As she played, he came up beside her to listen and clasped her shoulders, kissing her neck where it met her shoulder, gently pushing aside the fabric of her camisole, making her shiver, and her eyes closed, his hands moving down and caressing the smooth skin of her bare arms.