Crow Mountain (10 page)

W
hen I woke a pink-streaked dawn was filling the windows and, somewhere, a cockerel was crowing. The bed was deliciously warm and comfortable, the mattress well stuffed and the coverlet tucked around me; I hadn't been so comfortable in weeks. I wriggled in a stretch and my naked foot touched something warm. Skin, with a soft crackle of hair. I froze. I could hear breathing, soft and shallow.

I scrambled out of the bed, struggling from the covers and stumbling as my bruised leg protested. You were sprawled on your back on top of the covers, one arm above your head, wearing only a pair of white linen drawers, which ended indecently at mid-thigh, the kind I had seen on camp washing lines. The contours of your stomach were clearly defined above the drawstring tie, the other hand resting on your
chest. Your strange pagan necklace hung over the bedpost. A blanket was partly across your hips but your bad leg lay on top of it and I saw then the reason for your lameness: a long, livid scar stretching from just above the knee right down over the top of the foot.

‘Glad I don't mind you gawking, English.' You smiled, propping yourself on your elbows.

I lifted my chin, but didn't meet your eyes, face flaming. ‘I . . . didn't realize you'd be sleeping with . . . in here.'

‘It's my bed.' Getting up, you were suddenly too close.

‘Don't touch me,' I said as strongly as I could, then ruined it with a whispered, ‘please.'

‘You ain't never been around menfolk, have you?' You opened the door, looked out at the weather and stretched, the muscles of your back flexing. The day was fine, the blue sky clear. Tara was waiting for you and you limped down the steps to the grass and scratched her neck, speaking to her softly.

Inside, I sat on the chest at the bottom of the bed in despair. What was to become of me in this place where the rules of my life did not apply? I had, unwittingly, shared a bed with a man whilst engaged to another. I put my head in my hands and almost cried again. But the tears did not come. I thought of Papa, and his advice to me before the journey; the coming weeks would be a trial, but to be brave and do my best at all times. He was right, I should be brave. This was the adventure I had wanted, and afterwards, in the drawing room in Larkin
Street, I would be able to recount it at parties and perhaps even make a joke about how I was a real frontierswoman. Although my beautiful, quiet Mama hated jokes of any kind amongst gathered groups of women.

Fetching the comb I braided my hair as neatly as I could, for I had never dressed my own hair before, but there was nothing to tie it off with. There was a shadow against the sunlight and I looked up in surprise as you held out a bootlace; I hadn't heard you come in.

I tied off the braid, but it slipped immediately from the smooth threads of my hair and fell on to the boards of the chest still coiled. You sighed and sat down next to me, still less than half dressed.

‘Won't work if you do it like that now, will it?' With a shake of your head, you threaded the lace through the braid further up, before wrapping it around and around in a thick, neat rope and tying it off. ‘Never saw myself as much of a lady's maid, but hell.' You smiled.

My face coloured again. I had heard curses only in the street in London. And once, from Mr Ellis, last year when my staylace snapped in his hand before Papa's annual Christmas party for the other ambassadors. He had apologized to Mama instantly, but I think she was too upset about how long it was going to take to rethread an eight-yard lace to have even noticed.

‘You want to wash? There's a place in the stream I can show you. Or I can fill the tub?'

I shook my head, alarmed at the idea of being naked
around you again. ‘Not presently. I think I may become chilled. But thank you.'

‘Are you cold now?'

I nodded.

‘It's warm today, for the time of year.'

‘I feel the cold.'

‘Ain't surprised. Not enough on your bones.' You picked up a towel from the peg near the door and disappeared up behind the house towards the stream.

When you came back, I was sitting on the bench, looking at the view. Your hair was wet and droplets of water clung to your chest.

I avoided your gaze. ‘How far are we from where the coach crashed?'

‘Why?'

‘I thought . . . that we might try and see if any of my things are still there. My clothes. Some shoes. Before you take me back.'

You looked at me for a long time. ‘No, it's too far. And you only had one shoe on when I found you. Didn't think it was much use, one shoe. And the melt was on us.'

‘But I can't wear these things. And I have no shoes.' I looked down at my bare, cold feet.

‘You've found your voice this morning, ain't you? No one will ever find that coach, smashed up like it was, to splinters. Your stuff is long gone.'

‘So . . . well, perhaps that doesn't matter. How far is it to Helena? Or Fort Shaw?'

Inside, the kettle shrieked on the stove and you disappeared. ‘Helena? About two hundred miles,' you shouted, clanging about. ‘Fort Shaw is about a hundred and thirty, give or take.'

My heart sank.
One hundred and thirty miles?
An impossible distance. When you came back out, you were dressed, and carrying two cups of tea, a tin plate of toasted bread, a bone-handled knife and an earthenware jar tucked beneath your arm. You sat down and took off the lid, digging out a chunk of dripping honeycomb, spreading it on to the toasts.

‘So how will I get to Oregon, please?'

You shrugged, passing me the first piece.

I took it. ‘Thank you. But you're not being very helpful.'

You raised an eyebrow. ‘I pulled you out of a wreck and saved your life. I've doctored you, fed you, clothed you and even acted your maid. And now I'm not being helpful?'

I blushed. ‘I'm sorry. And I am grateful. Truly. I'm asking too many questions, I realize.'

‘Ask me anything you like. Mayn't have the answer, but you can ask. Eat first though,' you ordered, crunching into your own piece.

I ate.

‘Tell me again, why do you need to get to Oregon?'

I breathed out, frustrated, and put the heel of toast down. ‘You know why!'

‘Yeah, but you don't really want to marry this guy, I mean, do you?'

I folded my hands in my lap. ‘That's hardly the point.'

‘Crap is what
that
is.'

I gasped.

‘I apologize for my language, ma'am,' you said, with a hat-tip gesture.

‘Please stop mocking me.'

‘Oh, I'm sorry,' you said, sounding not at all sorry, which you never did when that particular word came out of your mouth. That was when you were least sorry of all. You stared, horrified, as the first tear fell. ‘Jesus, English . . . don't
cry
.' You looked away, down towards the lake, awkward.

‘I can't stay here alone with you, you know I can't.'

You shrugged, still not looking at me. ‘Told you, ain't gonna hurt you. You don't believe me?'