Mary Brock Jones (5 page)

Then he sat up abruptly. “What must you think of me?” he said, deliberately putting space between them. “Believe it or not, I’m not normally in the habit of making love to every young woman who passes this way. It’s just … seeing you there, lost in your study of that clump of grass.” His hands gripped the edge of the rock, as if to anchor them, to keep them in control. “Don’t worry, you’re safe enough with me.” And he offered his hand. She looked up, fearing to blush, but saw the genial blandness settling on his face and knew for some reason that here was a man she could believe in—if for no other reason than that she guessed at the effort it cost him to look so at ease. His other hand still taut on the rock face was proof.

“Friends?” he said.

“Friends,” she agreed.

Yet all through the rest of that afternoon as he firmly kept to the ordinary and acceptable and showed her the plants and land of his home, she couldn’t stop wishing for more. Friendship wasn’t enough, not from this man.

But it was all she could allow.

One more night. It wasn’t enough. John stood in his doorway and watched Nessa put griddle cakes to cook on a pan over the fire. He thought he had never wanted anything so much in his life as to be able to take her in his arms and tell her what was in his heart.

She would think you were mad. She’d be right too
.

He drank in the sight of her, from the escaping tendrils of hair on her head to the trim, curved figure glimpsed through her gown and her proud stance, never quite forgotten, even when bending over to test each scone for readiness.

The sound of footsteps hurrying round the corner of the house broke his reverie. The brother, back from the river. John straightened, deliberately planting a booted foot noisily on the kitchen floor. She turned, smiling a welcome and it was more than he could do to move again. Did she have no idea what her smile did to him?

“Mr Reid! You’ve completed your chores then?”

“Yes.” He had to clear his throat to speak. “The dogs are settled down for the night,” he finally managed.

“You lead a busy life here. Thank you for sparing me time to show me the hill this afternoon.”

“It was my pleasure,” he said with utter truth. “Did you … ah. Did you manage to paint the grasses you saw?”

Another of those killing smiles. For the first time in two days, he welcomed the sound of the brother’s voice.

“Nessa, wait till I tell you about today!”

Nessa frowned, gesturing automatically to Philip to remember his host. Philip had bustled straight past John, so intent was he on the joys of his day. John was only grateful for a chance to re-gather his control and hope that neither had noticed his stupid dumbness. Was there no way to make her stay?

On only two nights’ acquaintance?

She seemed at ease with him. Wasn’t that a good sign?

And how long would that last once you started mouthing passionate entreaties to forget her brother and stay here with you?

Not long at all
, John admitted morosely, then fixed his bland ‘company’ smile on his face with more difficulty than he would have believed possible, turned to the brother, and asked brightly after the success of his day.

John spoke little that night, content just to hear her voice as she told her brother of the marvels she had learned at Mrs Cooper’s.

Not that she had much chance to speak. Not against Philip’s excitement as he related all the ins and outs of panning for gold in the dangerous Molyneux—in far more detail than John would have thought possible

“Tom says the Arrow and Shotover are the richest fields right now. Crowded with latecomers, but for a young fellow like me there’s bound to be a hard-to-get-to site others have passed by. And the others said every foot of the Arrow gorge is coated with gold.”

“So why are they still down the Twelve Mile beach?” John couldn’t help himself asking.

“I think Old Tom’s made his stash,” pronounced Philip as one of huge experience and wisdom. “Made his money but been so long mining he doesn’t know what else to do. He’s tagged a good spot here and doesn’t want to leave till it’s panned out.”

Which is more sense than you’ll ever have, my boy, thought John, seeing the glint of scorn in the young man’s face. He was one of the restless ones. Miners who would try a dig for a spell, then hear of another ‘richer’ strike, and before you knew it they were off over the hills to the next big thing. The fields were full of them—restless wanderers, never staying long enough at a claim to make more than needed to keep body and soul together.

John wouldn’t have cared if Philip Ward kept moving on forever. But he cared so badly it hurt that he would drag his sister after him in his stupid search. And John was powerless to stop it. She loved her brother too much.

Which didn’t mean he had to stop trying. “It’s hard country inland from here,” he said. “Mrs Cooper could always do with some help and would be pleased to board you sister. That would leave you freer to find your fortune.”

He managed to keep his voice sounding casual, but still Nessa foiled him.

“I’m safe enough in my brother’s care,” she said quickly.

He doubted she believed her words any more than he did. It was not Nessa who was in her brother’s care. Quite the opposite. But why did she feel so tied to the whim of a young man well old enough to find his own way?

Frustrated, John could do no more tonight, and worrying about it would only mar the time he had left—time he meant to enjoy. He made himself put his thoughts aside and drink in her beauty instead. It wasn’t hard. Her face blinded him. Like a rare beam of sunshine in an English winter, her smile brought a light to his heart he hadn’t known existed.

They talked after that of comic notes and pleasure, crowning the evening with her sweet voice raised in a song the brother and sister had learned in their travels. Young Philip had a good voice, the clear strength belying the spoilt turmoil of youth. John barely noticed, entranced by the sweet contralto of his sister, raised in easy counterpoint. It was with warm words that all parted to bed.

In the morning, John was up early, but not soon enough to catch her on her own.

“We must be on our way as soon as possible, to make up for lost time,” said Philip.

Nessa was dressed and ready. She made breakfast one last time, and John swore she lingered over the fire place, taking special care as she put the porridge on their plates. Or was that just wishful thinking on his part?

He had no chance to speak alone to her, but still he managed one message, smiling at her with all the honest passion in him.

“If ever you are in trouble, call for me. Tell one of the packers. They travel all over the fields and owe me enough favours. Any message you give them will get to me. Do you promise me that at least?”

Philip was busy checking the goods on their horse’s back and couldn’t hear him.

“Do you promise?” he said again.

“I promise,” said Nessa. She gave him her hand and he put it to his lips. Then gave himself the pleasure of hoisting her into the saddle, letting his hands linger for a precious interval.

“Call for me and I will come,” he repeated, as Philip began to lead the horse off. Then more loudly: “Godspeed to you both and good luck with your search.”

“Many thanks,” said Philip. “Particularly for your kind hospitality and for taking me down to the river workings. We will see you again soon on our way back home with our riches.”

It was all John could do to nod complacently. Fortunately, Philip had already set forward, with a careless wave and no backwards glance. John kept watch. Just as the trail was about to disappear, Nessa turned. She lifted her hand in farewell, holding it there as she looked long and hard at him, as if seeking to remember everything about him, then slowly pulled her hand back and tucked it down by her side as her head turned slowly away and she was lost to sight.

His fist clenched and John swung about in fury, then strode over to his own waiting horse and flung himself into the saddle. Seconds later, he was galloping madly, in the direction opposite that he wished so strongly to follow. He rode as fast as he could for Chamonix, the packers’ village just back down the trail. He had a debt to call in, and word of it spread to the ends of the goldfields as soon as ever possible.

Arrowtown they called it. At first sight, Nessa could only think the word ‘town’ optimistic in the extreme. The collection of canvas tents and shanties planted either side of a strip of dirt was like no town she had seen before; but after days of travelling through the gold rush country, Nessa had learned a few hard facts.

For hours after her last sight of John Reid, she had kept her head fixed on the head of the horse in front of her. If she refused to look at what surrounded her, she could keep his face fixed in her head. Could not be forced to see what took the place of his solid home. Could feel safe.

Inevitably the bustle of the journey intruded. At each small gathering of huts they entered came the same cries of “Hello, dearie”—calls she refused to understand. Philip tried to pick a fight the first few times men accosted her but, at her urging, he learned to be satisfied with “Mind my sister!” Mostly it stopped the loud calls, but not the stares. Not even his fingering the rifle they had come to carrying prominently on the horse’s flanks could stop those.

Now, Nessa and Philip stood on a hilltop looking down at their latest home. Even Philip seemed daunted. He looked at Nessa, almost as if in apology, then squared his shoulders.

“Better get on with it.”

They both set one foot forward, unconsciously in unison, as Philip tugged on the horse’s reins, laden with all their gear. They had given up trying to ride it through the rugged, narrow pathways of this country.

Nessa looked at their goal. Right now, her life felt as if it had been one, long trudge onwards. If the mean huddle of makeshift tents below was Philip’s promised land, it didn’t seem to have been to much point.

All too soon they entered the dirty roadway that served as a main thoroughfare. Not all the tents were miner’s homes, they found. Many were fronted by makeshift facades of wood or iron roughly panelled with the name of the business and its wares. Too many seemed to be hotels or worse. Nessa unconsciously drew closer to the reassuring bulk of the horse.

Certainly enough people were in the street for a full-blown town, dressed in all manner of rough and ready wear. Some wore the high boots, calico shift and broad-brimmed hats she had learned marked out the gold miners, but the rest there wore an extraordinary mix of the gaudy and fine. Men in frock coats and mud-covered boots, women with wide crinolines and cheap blouses, intermingled with the odd barefooted child and mother in simple homespun.

Up ahead, a rough brawl suddenly erupted, no sooner started than over. The adversaries clapped each other on the back and repaired to a large shanty sporting the title Prince of Wales emblazoned in bright letters on a board over the front.

She shrank even closer to the flank of the horse, trying to hide behind its comfortable familiarity. Thank goodness for her modest homespun. It marked her out as unusual in the raw town, but for once that was an advantage. Most of the other woman wore the fake brightness of the saloon. True, there were a few calico-bonneted women going about their business unmolested, but many still showed the flash of a past, in the gay confidence of their replies to the miners’ sallies.

Nessa had been in rough places in her life, but that kind of cheerful wittiness was quite beyond her.

Then came the call she dreaded.

“Hey, it’s a new woman in town,” yelled a man.

To her horror, a crowd quickly collected around them and the comments grew ever broader.

“Sir, you are speaking to my sister,” Philip expostulated.

“Sister? So you’re not married yet, darling?”

“Soon will be!” called another. Nessa stole a quick glance. Never to you, was her only thought.

Not all the comments were in English. Mr Reid had thought her skill with languages would be a help to her, she thought, as a pair of men described precisely what they would like to do to her.

It was the final goad. She switched to French and then Italian with unthinking ease, telling both men exactly what she thought of their suggestions.

“But you spoke first in English,
ma cherie
.”

“A true daughter of
Napoli
,” crowed the other.

“I’m neither, you oafs. I just happen to have the misfortune of speaking your tongues,” she shot back in her own pure English, quickly translating it to French and Italian to make sure they understood. It did nothing to put them off, merely encouraging them to renew their dubious suit, along with every other man crowding ever closer.

Philip may not have her skill in foreign tongues, but it did not need that to make plain to him the situation his sister found herself in.

“Hey, that’s my
sister
you’re speaking to. Mind your tongue.”

“Or you’ll do what, bantam?”

“Stay out of this, pup.”

“Yes, boy, stand back and let the men folk settle this. Now, see here, m’ darlin’,” said the ugliest of the singularly unattractive crew.

Just then a large hand reached in and plucked the speaker out of the way.

“Men? Ha. Maybe when she sees one, she can decide to do something. For now, it’s only
les petit chiens
I see here.”

The rumbling voice belonged to the largest man Nessa had ever seen. The crowd fell silent, many edging cautiously away.

“We meant no harm, Jean-Claud.”

“This lady’s under packer protection. You leave her be,” the giant warned in a low rumble.

Within seconds, the crowd had melted away, and Nessa found herself being greeted by a rough bow and a distinctly Gallic flourish on both cheeks.

“Ignore them, mam’selle. Beautiful, unattached women are a precious rarity here. But you, you have no reason to worry. The packers see to that.

“Hear! I say, sir, my sister’s wellbeing is my affair,” cut in Philip pompously, his red face a testament to his embarrassment.