Mary Brock Jones (17 page)

This time, Philip caught her arm and helped her sidestep another pile then held onto her as she stumbled on the steadily sloping track.

“Why build a town on a steep hillside like this?” The disgust was clear in his tone, obviously not as taken with the small huddle of canvas buildings as she.

Then she tripped sideways as a man led a horse by. She reached out automatically and clutched at the horse’s flank.

“Here, watch it. Old Betsy don’t like folks bothering her.”

Old Betsy agreed with him, reaching round with a tooth-filled mouth and nipping sharply at Nessa’s hip, at the same time pirouetting on her hind feet and rearing up just enough to lift her front hooves up. Then came down with a twisting crunch right on Nessa’s foot. Pain shot through her, and she would swear the spiteful beast twisted its hoof hard down on her instep before lifting it off again. It gave a couple of disgruntled harrumphs, then subsided again to stand meekly beside its owner.

“Ness, are you all right? Lord, you’re as white as a sheet.”

“Don’t worry Phili—” Nothing else came out. Everything was a blur and Philip’s voice sounded far away.

“Nessa. Ness!”

“Here, lad. Bring her to Jacques’s store.”

“Old Betsy don’t like strangers. No need for the lass to take on so.”

“She’s hurt, you old fool.”

The voices seemed to string together. She recognised the feel of Philip holding her. He’s so much bigger than me now, she thought in surprise. Other voices were new. Her foot felt enormous. If she breathed slowly, the pain might go. It was all she had strength for.

“’Ere, on my counter.” A new voice. French, a country man by the rough tones, and older. “Stretch ‘er out now. Pass the knife ’ere, M’sieur Robert.”

She began to struggle at that.

“Hold still, Nessa. They’re trying to help.” Philip again, his voice sounding very young. “They have to cut your boot off.” She slipped back into the blurred world. When she came round again, the Frenchman was talking and her foot felt a bit easier. The mangle of pain had receded enough to let her open her eyes.

“Ah, mam’selle, you return to us.”

She struggled, trying to sit up.

“No, no, lie still for now. Your foot, it is not so pretty at the moment. Let Robert do his work and then you can rise.”

She turned her head to where she thought Philip stood.

“Nessa. You gave me such a fright.” His face was as pale as she guessed her own must be.

“I’m sorry Philip. Ah … do you mind if we stop here a few hours to let it recover? My foot…” Why did her voice sound so small, so far away?

“Shssh, Sis. Of course we’re stopping here.” Philip’s eyes never left her face, watching each movement nervously.

“And how far is it you were planning to walk, young feller?” Another voice this, younger than the Frenchman, but older than Nessa. She was too tired, too weak to turn and look.

“Over the hill to Campbell’s,” Philip said, “once we’d bought our supplies.”

“Not today, m’sieur. I am sorry to tell you, mam’selle, it will be some days before you will be fit for that.”

“What’s she done to her foot?” demanded Philip. “Is it broken?”

Nessa waited anxiously for the answer. The Frenchman seemed to know these things.

He shook his head. “Probably not. No. It is very badly bruised. By tomorrow, it will be twice as big and all colours of ze rainbow.”

“No.” Philip’s cry echoed her own. “What do we do now?” Then she saw him draw back his shoulders and knew such pride in him. “We’ll manage somehow, Ness. Don’t you worry.”

It made her want to cry. “Get Ada,” she whispered. “Ada will help.” But it was not the name she really longed for. Her head fell back weakly, and she let her eyes close over again. It was the only way she knew to hold in the tears.

To one side she could hear whispering. She was a nuisance to them all, that was plain. Soon, she would worry about it. When she could. When her foot stopped hurting quite so much. She let the grey world take her under again.

“You leave my Betsy, young feller,” suddenly intruded loudly. Then Philip’s voice, quiet so she could not hear the words, only the tone. Urgent, demanding. No Philip, we need their help. If only she had the energy to take charge.

Then the Frenchman’s calm voice. Good, someone else had taken over. The whispering stopped, retreated and a door opened and shut. More footsteps coming and a familiar scent. Her brother. She gathered her wits as best she could.

“Nessa, you awake?”

She opened her eyes and tried to smile. From the concern suddenly on his face, it must have ended up more a grimace.

“Hold up, Sis. Just a bit longer. They’ve sent for help and there’s a boarding house across the street that has a private room. We’re going to carry you there now. Can you manage?”

She nodded her head carefully. She would have to.

Philip held her by one shoulder and the Frenchman by the other.

“Thank you, m’sieur…?”

“Just Jacques,
ma petite
. But don’t you worry about it now. Only a short trip and you will be more comfortable. Ready?”

Again she nodded and set her teeth as they slowly lifted her up. Someone brought a chair and they put her in that, lifting it to carry her over the rough track that made up the main street of the small township.

The boarding house was no grander than the store from which she had come. Rough timber framing and calico walls, like all the buildings here; but it would keep out the wind and sun, and inside she found it had been partitioned off into a series of rooms little more than cubicles. At the rear, though, was a larger one, with a real door, a proper bed, a table with a wash jug and a coat rack for hanging clothes on. Civilisation.

Her hand reached out to caress the embroidered counterpane laid over the bed. A myriad of tiny daisies and forget-me-nots had been stitched across the soft white of the linen. “How lovely.”

“A present from my sister and Mam. They sent it out when they heard I had bought this place.” Another strange man stood to one side, turning his hat over in his hands. “Happen they thought it a bit grander than I told them. I put it on special for you, Miss.”

“Thank you, sir. It is beautiful.” She carefully lifted the exquisite cover to turn it down and the shy owner moved to the other side of the bed.

“Let me, Miss. Me Mam used to do the same each night on her and Da’s bed.”

She smiled her thanks, and wondered again at the hints of home she so often came across in this crude place. Then the smile slipped as she was lifted onto the bed, and must endure their handling of her foot as a pillow was placed under it and more at her back to make her comfortable.

“My apologies, mam’selle. It was necessary.”

Despite his brusque tone, Nessa smiled her thanks. There was little of the flowery in this Frenchman, but she trusted him. Earthy practicality had been the rule by which she had lived most of her life, and this man would not try to hide from her a reality that what must be faced.

“I cannot thank you enough, m’sieur,” she said when she had recovered enough to speak again. He nodded as if in recognition. Then, gesturing at the others to follow him, he left. Only Philip remained, and she lay back gratefully on the bed.

“The Frenchie said you need to rest a while. He is sending for someone they seem to think will know how to strap that foot and check it properly, but that will be some hours away. Is there anything you need in the meantime?”

“No. Yes, a cup of tea.”

“Right, one coming up,” and her brother leaped up almost in relief at having something to do. In minutes she was truly alone. She shut her eyes and let the pain swallow her again.

Thankfully, it was long before Philip returned with her tea. Someone had managed to find a china cup, and tears stung her eyes at the sight.

“Be sure to thank whoever owns that cup.”

“It’s just a cup.”

She didn’t try to explain, but he did promise to pass on her words. Exactly as she told them, she commanded.

The homely taste did more than all the medicines in the world to restore her. Afterwards, she drifted off. They must have put something in her tea.

She wished they had not. Strange and dark dreams clutched at her. Mama alive, but scolding. She had never done that before. “Don’t you desert my baby, Nessa. Don’t you leave him.”

“He’s grown now, Mama, not a baby. And me? Don’t I deserve something too?”

“Don’t be foolish.” Her father now. “The boy’s got a bright future. You be sure he gets it. A farmer boy is nothing. Don’t you let him get in the way.”

“Not a farm boy, Papa. He’s a special farm man.”

“Forget him. Forget him.” A whole chorus now: Papa and Mama crowding in on her, like multiple reflections in an old mirror—the kind with bevelled edges that showed a hundred or more distorted versions of an image.

“Can’t love him,” she mumbled. “No, no,” louder now, startling herself.

“Shh, shush, lie still, Miss Ward. You’ll hurt yourself. Please, Nessa.”

She opened her eyes. She was not dreaming.

“You’re here.”

He smiled crookedly. “Of course. You’re hurt. Where else would I be?” The last was said so quietly, she wondered if it was but part of her dream.

“How is she, Mr Reid? Will she be all right?” Philip leaned across her urgently, demanding an answer from the other man.

John—Mr Reid—moved away, down to the foot of the bed. He lifted the blanket covering her foot and she saw the mottled and swollen shape of it. His hands traced the outline, spread over the inflamed sole and his eyes lifted to her face. She saw the apology there.

“Hold her still a moment. This will hurt.”

Philip obeyed, and next minute, those fingers that had once touched her so gently, bit down into the mangled area, pulling the foot this way, then dragging it back another. The room spun.

Then it was John holding her, John’s fingers wiping the tears from her sweat-beaded face, John’s voice murmuring desperately in her ear, “It’s over now. Don’t ever make me do that to you again.”

Slowly, the room came back to normal, but her foot still throbbed in agony. It was a long moment before she could master the pain enough to force her eyes open again. That very crooked smile was there again, but it was his eyes that held her. Haunted and filled with guilt.

“It’s not broken,” he said. Then breathed in deeply, pulling back and looking up at her brother. “The horse has badly mangled it, but nothing that won’t come right with rest and compresses. Her bones are fine.”

“How soon?” Nessa swallowed. “How soon before I can continue on to Campbell’s?”

John looked at Philip, avoiding her eyes now. “Do you have a horse still?”

“No,” admitted Philip.

“She won’t be walking on that foot for a good week or more, and then only short distances. It’ll be weeks before she’ll be fit to take on a track like that one. It’s a long, hard tramp and there’s already snow on the tops.”

“Oh.”

Nessa couldn’t speak. She turned her head away, unable to face either of them. She felt a hand firmly holding hers where it was tucked under the blanket near to John. She knew the feel, the big solid hand covered with the roughness of his work and the smoothness of sheep grease. Her fingers groped back, desperate for the comfort of his touch.

“Leave it with me,” he said then. “I’ll sort something.”

He would. She knew it, deep in her bones, and felt something inside her relax. She was safe for now. The drugs and the shock were pulling her away again. She surrendered, and closed her eyes.

John saw her lids flutter down. On her other side, her brother Philip stood watching, stopping John from dragging her up into his arms and shaking her eyes open again, to show him she was all right.

The foot was badly bruised. Old Betsy had a vicious temper and had dealt harshly with Nessa, but John had spoken truth to her brother. There were no broken bones, and it would heal to normal, given rest and proper care. Saying it made no difference. Nothing eased the blow he had felt when Jacques’ man had ridden over to bring him here. A Miss Nessa Ward, hurt and needing his help. When she was his, he was going to keep her so closely guarded that nothing and no one would ever hurt her again. He could not bear it.

And she would be his. When, he could not yet say, but that was another thing he could not bear. That she would never give him the right to keep her safe. His eyes traced her face, tracking down her body and noting each angle and indentation. The curves were still there, those entrancing rounds and hollows that even now and in this company could make him hard and wanting. But they were not so full as before, and under her eyes the shadows told of hard work and privation. In her eyes, too, was the same haunted truth he saw in all the women who came here to care for their men folk. The knowledge that the goldfields were not a place of riches and wealth, but of endless toil and hardship. It was the women who bore it the most.

But not Nessa, he vowed. He could not offer her the ease of the old country, but he had a good home already built and enough folk nearby that she would not have to do the killing work of so many wives here. Which brought him back to his original problem: how to get her to marry him. Nothing in her drained face led him to believe that gigantic pride of hers was in any way diminished by her toils and this latest injury. Nessa was not about to give in yet.

Then he chuckled to himself. You haven’t even found a way to get her to accept your help now. Let alone marry you. That pride of hers would have her up and traipsing over the track to Campbell’s before she could walk properly rather than accept his help or money. So what excuse could he use to keep her here without her finding out he was paying their board? He went off to find Jacques.

Between them all, they managed to keep Nessa still in bed for two whole days—days that drove her half mad with frustration.

“We cannot impose on you any longer,” she said on the morning of the third day, much to the consternation of Pat, the kindly owner of the boarding house.

“Not at all, miss. No problem at all,” he said, hastily backing out of her room with the tray carrying the remains of her breakfast.