Mary Brock Jones Page 8

  “I should never have said his name,” he said.

  “No. I should have not forgotten him.” She stood slowly, then stepped back as he rose to his full, forbidding height. She dipped her head, too guilty to meet his gaze. “I must thank you for your kind offer, sir.”

  “Spare me. Just spit it out.”

  She drew herself up as straight as she could, folding her hands in her lap and taking refuge in the formal manners she had been taught by her mother so long ago. “I apologise if I have misled you, but I am not free at present to accept an offer. I cannot marry while my brother still needs me.”

  “And if he didn’t?”

  All she could do was blush and try to turn away. His hand caught her, holding her chin in a grip that was firm, but not enough to hurt her.

  “You will kiss any man the way you just kissed me?”

  That brought a flush of anger, and she did not need his hand to make her face him now. “Of course not.”

  “And I suppose men propose to you all the time? It means nothing to you?”

  “Someone has asked me to be his wife at least once a day since we arrived at the Arrow.”

  “No wonder you have the answer down pat. So which of them do you intend to accept?”

  “While Philip needs me, none. Until he finds the fortune he needs and we return to England for his studies, I cannot forgo my responsibilities. I made a promise to my mother on her death bed that I would be there for him till the day he no longer needs me. I do not break promises—ever!”

  “And in England? Marriage to some Oxford Don?”

  “No.” Her anger died away as suddenly as it had come, and she could no longer bear the pain of looking at him, at what might be. She broke from his grasp, stumbled to her feet and marched to the edge of the hill, looking blindly over the township. “I don’t know what comes after,” she whispered.

  It didn’t appease him. She heard his boots on the dry ground as he stalked after her. Then he grasped her arm and pulled her round to face him. “Don’t play me for a fool. What kind of man will it take to snare you? Who is it you intend to marry?”

  “Other than you?” Her voice was barely audible now and she felt the ghost of a smile fracture her face.

  She hugged her arms tight around her to keep in the pain, refusing to look at him. “I know my brother is young and foolish. I know he thinks himself grown up and does not need me.”

  “He’s eighteen. That’s a man full made round these parts.”

  “I am the only family he has left in the world. Yes, he is breaking away from me, but that doesn’t mean he is ready to finally let go. He still thinks he is responsible for me. When he no longer needs to feel that, I will know … but it is not yet.” Her fingers played with the cloth of her sleeves, weaving in and out in an uncertain pattern. “Until then, I cannot accept your proposal—yours or anyone else’s. But you were not a fool. I was, but never you. After you, I cannot imagine accepting any other man’s proposal.”

  Her admission made John feel no better. She said the words, but there was no hope in her tone. Could she not see? The sense of rightness between them, of being at home, was too strong. He could not believe it was all on his side. Not with her even now unconsciously fitting her body to his as he held her tight.

  “You will still leave with your brother?”

  She nodded, and left him no choice. He must step back from her.

  “I respect your feelings, for now. I have to.” He took a deep breath. “I have my own confession,” he went on, his voice tightly held, even to his own ears. “I came to the Johnston’s before you arrived one day. There was no one else home, and your journal lay on your bed.”

  She gasped, looking at him in shock.

  “Yes, I read it. I could not resist.” His hands clenched on air. “ I needed to know what is precious to you. Your art … your talent is stunning.”

  “Thank you,” she muttered, blushing and nervous. “How much did you see?”

  “I saw your drawings of your brother. After those… That was as far as I looked.” The shock faded slightly from her face. He took another breath, knowing he had to finish this. Somehow. “I do understand what he is to you, but that makes this no easier. Do not ask me to keep from doing anything I can to protect you. I will be following your travels through the packers and other friends.”

  She drew herself up and nodded slowly. “On one condition. That you keep yourself and your home safe. I need to know that.”

  “I will always be there. It’s what I do,” he added, unable to stop the bitterness. It achieved nothing in the long term, but did get her to open her arms and hold them out for him to step back in to her welcoming body. Whether he would ever have the pleasure of feeling her curves fit all the places of his body made for them, he could not say, and his kiss was more desperate and less gentle than he intended or she ought to expect. It mattered not and, for a precious time, he could believe her heart was his.

  Sometimes, he wished his father had been a less decent man, had brought him up differently. Just now, he could make her do almost anything, and a part of him wanted to do just that.

  Instead, he eased away, his hands gently removing hers from his waist. His arm still fell protectively over her shoulders as he turned her towards the path down the hill, carrying the basket in the other hand. At the bottom of the hill, he lifted his arm from her, handed her the empty basket and stepped back.

  “Write to me.”

  She nodded, then he turned his back and walked away, refusing to look back. It was the hardest thing he had ever done.

  Chapter 7

  Nessa opened the door of the tent and looked out on the bustle below. Another clear blue sky, a lake tipped with lightest of ruffles from the early autumn breeze, and a crowd of miners hurrying to make their fortune. Queenstown they had decided to name this place—a pleasant flat of land sloping down to a jewel lake, stretching on the right to the high mountains of this world and disappearing on the left around a rugged shelf of a hill rearing straight up from the lake shore to form a parched and scrub-studded citadel wall.

  A flotilla of boats passed back and forth around that way. She guessed they were headed to the small settlement of Kingston at the bottom of the lake. Sergeant Garret had told her of the new southern supply route starting from there. From Kingston, the trail passed down valleys and through gentler rolling country, he had said, a much easier path for supplies to come and gold to leave than over the rough tracks she and Philip had followed on their way here.

  She saw now in the morning light that Queenstown had taken full advantage of it. They had arrived last night in near darkness. Exhausted, they’d had only the energy to pitch their tent in the place a neighbouring miner had said was yet unclaimed and eat a cold mess of left over dried meat and stale bread before crawling under their blankets to sleep. Philip still slept behind her, but her curiosity was back, and she was ready to explore her new home.

  It was bigger in all ways than the camps they had seen so far. More people, more buildings and, best of all, from up here on the slopes above, it looked more like a real town than any place she had seen since leaving Dunedin on the coast. The backs of the buildings were still largely of calico on wooden frames, but most had proper store fronts made of timber, and not one would have a street frontage of less than forty feet. She counted at least fifty businesses lining the carefully laid-out pattern of streets: shops, banks, tradesmen and the inevitable bevy of hotels. This was a town that looked as if it meant to stay here. Would she be able to do the same?

  Half of her wanted it so badly. She was so very tired of being rootless and homeless. As she turned back to look at Philip, hope faded … and the hastily buried constant: John Reid was not here.

  Still she stared down at the town but no longer saw it. He had seen inside her journal. Her heart remembered the look on his face: the wonder and the sadness. But he had not seen it all, had not turned the last pages.

  She didn’t have to get
the book out to recall what she had drawn on those pages: the tussocks of that day on his hillside, the solid cottage standing bravely in the sun, and a man’s face—a face warm and brown from hours spent in the sun, strong and solid with the mark of authority, his clear gaze and the crinkle lines of laughter just touching his eyes. The face of a man a woman could trust, a woman could come to love.

  No. Love didn’t come so quickly. Did it?

  She shook her shoulders, quietly set back the tent flap then picked up the billy and set off to fetch water for breakfast. The morning was far too beautiful for wasted wishes.

  “You be wanting clean water?” came the cheerful call from a woman coming down the hill.

  It was their new neighbour, briefly met last night. Nessa nodded and smiled a welcome.

  “You come with me then. There’s so much a doing down by the lakefront these days, you don’t want to use that for nought but washing. For drinking, now, there still be a sweet wee stream round the bay. It’s a bit of a walk, but the sun’s shining and it’s a lovely morning for a chin wag. My name’s Maggie.”

  “Nessa. Nessa Ward.”

  “New to this place, but not to the fields?” asked Maggie. Her eyes summed up Nessa’s hardy boots, calico gown and plain cloth bonnet.

  “No. We came in from the Arrow last night.”

  The woman nodded, satisfied, then proceeded to interrogate Nessa so efficiently that soon she had her entire life story out of her. Even their friendship with John Reid. All Nessa kept back was the secret buried in her heart. How she felt about the big strong farmer was her business alone.

  “He’s been a good friend to many a miner,” agreed Maggie. “Getting the packers to take you under their protection was a real kindness on his part. If it wasn’t for Jean-Claud and his like, many a man would lose his stake.”

  “How so?”

  “It’s like this, see,” said Maggie, settling in for a comfortable cose. “Even with all the supplies coming in to the fields now and the prices coming down, the packers and their horses are the only way to get goods into places out of the common way. Without the packers, a body either starves or must come to town to pick up supplies … and has to hide his gold or bring it with him. Dangerous that. There are still claim jumpers, and worse. More than one man’s been lost down the Molyneux and Shotover for the gold he carries. I’ll put the word round you’re to be kept safe.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

  “Think nothing of it. We women folk have to stick together in this place. Now, here’s the stream. Fill up your billy and we’d better get back. My man will be back for his breakfast soon, and none but hungry weans to greet him.”

  Nessa copied the woman, dipping down to fill her pan from the fast-running water away from the stream’s edge, then helped Maggie carry the larger of her two pots on the way back. By the time they returned to camp, a firm friendship had been struck, and Nessa was feeling more at home. She had made herself a business in Arrowtown. She could do the same here.

  By day’s end, she was well on her way to succeeding. A general store keeper had agreed to lease her an area in his shop, telling her anything to bring in the customers was good for him. There was already a printing business in the township, and with part of the money she had saved in the Arrow, she arranged for the printing of handbills to put up around the town.

  Yet it was a rough place still, and Philip stayed with her through the day. Nessa could almost see in his face the impatience to be setting off for the diggings. She looked at the crowds filling the streets and saw other women safely walking unescorted. Women in sensible calico like her, not the glittering costumes of those who worked in the bars and saloons that littered the goldfield towns. They must be wives and mothers, here to look after their families as was she. She was no longer as conspicuous as she had been at the Arrow diggings, so Philip could leave her here. But the Arrow had also taught her that safety could be an illusion, and that she would not allow.

  She dragged a shocked Philip into a gunsmith’s shop.

  “How can I help you, sir,” said the man”

  “It’s for me, actually,” she said. The man turned to look at her in surprise. “I want a small handgun. One that will fit in a reticule or pocket.”

  “Aaah,” said the man, in full understanding now. “It’s safe enough in town these days, ma’am, but that be a wise thing for a lady to carry, sure enough.”

  “Nessa, you haven’t shot a gun in years!”

  “Then you can help me learn again.”

  Philip looked at her as if she had grown an extra head.

  “Your wife is a sensible woman, sir. It can be dangerous for a woman in these parts when her man’s out working his claim.”

  “Sister. She’s my sister,” blustered Philip.

  “You be single, Miss? Then a pistol is an absolute necessity. Unless, of course you be wishing to take on a husband. Elijah Smith is my name—a good solid, God-fearing name it be, too. And if a young lady would be interested in taking it on, well, I’ve built up as good a business as you could find here, and enough put by to build me a real house with four solid walls and a proper chimney to cook with to boot. Wouldn’t that be grand for a lady such as yourself?”

  Nessa smothered the laugh that rose to her lips, so intent was the look on the man’s face. It wasn’t even her looks he coveted. Her many proposals had taught her it was a cook and housekeeper he wanted most.

  “Thank you for your kind offer, but I must respectfully decline,” she said.

  “Now see here,” spluttered Philip simultaneously.

  “Ah, well, it was worth a shot,” said the gunsmith. “But I can sell you a good pistol at least.” He pulled out a selection from a tray beneath his counter and helped her test the weight of the small, deadly looking weapons until she found one that fit her hand. “It’s a good choice, that one. Easy to fire and quick to reload. Now, if you need help practising with it, I’d be only too pleased to help.”

  “I am quite capable of looking after my sister, sir.”

  Philip had turned an alarming shade of red. Nessa quickly paid for her new weapon and hurried him out of the shop before the man should say anything else. While Philip was young and naive in many ways, he was also an expert shot and swordsman. Their father had taught both of them as children, in one of his few concessions to the dangers of the places he took them, and Philip had taken to the lessons with vigour. She could have no better teacher than her brother to help her with her new gun.

  They turned up the street, heading back to their tent.

  “Mr and Miss Ward?”

  “Yes,” said Philip curtly.

  What now? They both turned to see who was calling out their names right in the middle of the street. A dusty man was leading a packhorse up the stony roadway.

  “Jamie MacTavish at your service,” the little man said, coming up to them. “Just to let you know the word’s come to the packers here that you be a friend of Mr John Reid. You get any trouble, you let us know and we’ll sort it.”

  Philip’s mouth seemed to be stuck open, but Nessa had learned that guardian angels came in all guises.

  “We are most grateful, Mr MacTavish,” she said warmly.

  “Jamie’s enough,” he said gruffly. “I’ll be off then, but if you need help, yon Henry Maxwell where you got your desk? He’s a good man and will get a message to us.” With that, he marched on up the street.

  “Does every tinker and traveller in these benighted lands have a description of you?” Philip had recovered the use of his vocal muscles, it seemed. “And must you be so familiar with them? Whatever would Father or Mother think?”

  “Father wouldn’t have noticed and Mother would have praised our good fortune.” It was long past time Philip faced up to reality. “How do you think she and I managed to keep food on the table and a decent roof over our heads all these years? Have you forgotten the places Father dragged us to?”

  Philip was in no mood to back down. “Mo
ther was never less than a lady, no matter the circumstances. And Father always engaged an agent to deal with the tradesmen and such like. He told me so.”

  “After the first one fleeced us thoroughly, Mother promptly disengaged him. From then on, she made sure Father dealt with them only in writing, so he never knew they didn’t exist. It saved her, and later me, from many unpleasantries.”

  “What do you mean ‘unpleasantries’? You think Father or I would have ever exposed you to anything unseemly?”

  “What do you call this place?”

  “A bit primitive, but you have had me or someone suitable with you since we arrived.”

  “Only thanks to Mr Reid and his lowly packers.”

  “No!”

  “Yes.”

  They stood in the middle of the street, glaring uselessly at each other. How had they come to this?

  “Are you going to marry the man?”

  “Who?”

  “Mr Reid, of course. Whom else does every person we meet assume you are going to marry?”

  “Oh.” She felt the blush running up her necks and overwhelming her cheeks. “He hasn’t actually asked me.” Which was true enough. Telling her he was off to get a parson wasn’t the same as asking.

  “Would you, if he did?”

  Now she could not mistake the sulky anger in his voice. Or the nerves. “I barely know him. And I thought you needed me.”

  “God, Nessa, I’m near nineteen.”

  “I thought you appreciated my help.”

  “Of course I do.” He raked his hand through his hair and marched up the street, then turned and paced back to look her resolutely in the face.

  “If I said I didn’t need you any more, would you marry him?”

  She sighed, her heart clenching. “I don’t know. I like him, I enjoy being with him, but do I love him? How can I love a man I’ve seen but a handful of times? And the same for him. Yes, he has made sure we are safe, but I’ve talked to enough people here to know that John Reid has a reputation for helping those who need it. Maybe that’s all it is. We were two inexperienced people, ill-suited to this land. That’s why he helped us to settle in here.”