Mary Brock Jones (13 page)

“Say thank you to Mr Reid, boys, then back in the house. Your mother will be home soon, and you need to wash your hands and faces for lunch.” She bent down, hugging each gently and beginning to usher them inside. There was a soft light in her eyes as she watched the little ones talking excitedly about the big horsie.

“You handle small boys well,” he said.

“They are so like Philip at the same age.”

“But you were his sister, not his mother.”

“Mama died when he was only seven.”

“And you were as a mother to him after that?” John cursed silently. He had seen her drawing, but hadn’t realised the boy had been so young. How could he fight such a tie? Ought he to?

“Our father was busy with his studies and explorations,” she said defensively. Her reserve was back and he cursed inwardly again.

A sound, a call came from down the hill, and a small, brown-haired woman hurried into sight. “Sorry I was so long, Nessa. That man in the store would not listen to reason, and his prices!”

John looked. Memory suddenly brought him a picture stark and too clear for comfort. He knew this woman … had known her in the oldest meaning of the word. A night many months ago, when the loneliness had become too deep. A small, timid girl, new to the fields, almost missed among the brash and noisy women seeking his favours in the false grandeur of that rough shack on the Dunstan. Gentle and kind she had been, more a victim of her class and poverty than one born to such a calling, and once her fears had been dispelled, very adept.

And Nessa was lodging with her?

He had to get out of here, before the woman recognised him. Then he scoffed at the thought. Much chance of that! He was only one man among who knew how many. He couldn’t stay here. Nor could Nessa.

He mumbled something, he never knew what. Then turned and left. He glanced back once, to see Nessa staring in astonishment. Then a careful mask of polite nothingness fell over her face when she realised he was looking at her, and her shoulders drew back.

Don’t worry so, he wanted to whisper to her. But that other woman was beside her, and she was forced to turn and listen to what the girl was saying. I will make it all right, he promised silently.

But first, there were two people who had a lot of explaining to do.

In swift time, he had found and marched into the gaudiest hotel in the town. He pounded on the door pointed out to him as the owner’s. It opened and an immaculately dressed matron confronted him.

“Mrs Fleming, I presume?”

“And who might you be, Sir?” Another man appeared at her elbow. Not a client, more a guard dog, from the scar on his face and the muscles in his coat. It made no difference to John. Right now, he would welcome a brawl.

“Mr John Reid of Bald Hill. I want a word with you, madam.”

“So you’re Miss Nessa’s beau. About time you turned up.”

John bristled at the unneeded reminder that Nessa had not yet given him the right to claim any such thing. “I’m a friend of Miss Ward and her brother,” he agreed only. “And I would like to know how Miss Ward came to be lodged in the home of one of your cast-off girls?”

Tildie Fleming flung the door wide and almost dragged him in, gesturing briskly at the man to shut it after him. The man slammed it quite sufficiently hard to satisfy his mistress’s look then came to stand right behind John, his arms crossed threateningly. John cared not a whit. He glared instead at the madam, standing hands on her hips and glaring right back at him.

“I don’t let my girls be insulted, still working for me or not.”

“So you don’t deny Mrs Jenny Brown once worked for you?”

“No, but I’d like to know who told you.”

“They didn’t need to. I had the pleasure once of being her client.”

“Oh.” The madam threw her head back in laughter, a huge grin on her face. It did nothing for the fragile hold John had on his temper.

The woman stopped laughing, but her amusement was clear in the arrogant stare she fixed on him. “That don’t mean I’m about to let you abuse one of my girls,” she said. “Even if she be well and truly retired. If you remember being with Jenny, you would also remember how quiet and shy she was. Meek as a lamb, poor dear.”

“Maybe, but she’s got a man to look after her now. She doesn’t need to have Miss Ward embroiled in her affairs. And get this big oaf off my back before I do,” he added furiously.

Still grinning, Tildie gestured to her man to move back. Then her smile vanished. “Your Miss Ward will come to no harm in Jenny’s house. Too many of the married women on the fields used to work in hotels for folks worth knowing to say anything. As for Jenny’s husband, Caleb Brown’s a right good man, as gentle as she is—and just about as useless at making his way in the world. He was a widower with two small boys when they met last year.”

“I met them.”

Then you’d know they’re a bit of a handful. Not that Jenny doesn’t love them like they was her own; but with those two, plus her own wee one on the way now and Caleb not bringing that much into the house—well, Miss Ward has been a Godsend.”

“Maybe, but what about Miss Ward? She has no idea of your Jenny’s past. What’s to stop people saying she is the same as Mrs Brown?”

“Your Miss Ward knows exactly what the story is, young man. She’s got more brains in her head than you and that brother of hers put together. As for her reputation, until you came blustering in, it was just fine. Folks here take people as they find them. She’s been a good help to Jenny, and her translating work is a rare treasure in a place like this, what with folk arriving from all over. Some with even less sense than you. You leave her be. Miss Nessa Ward knows exactly what she’s doing. She doesn’t need some man deciding what she’s about,” she finished, poking a finger in John’s face. It was the final straw.

“We’ll see about that.”

Somehow he got out of there. The big ox looked like wanting to plant him a facer, but the madam shook her head. “Let him go off and cool down some, Joe,” she said.

That was the last thing John planned to do. Nessa was living as an unpaid servant to an ex-whore, and he was not about to tolerate it. Not when he planned to marry her.

If she will ever agree, came the silent niggle. He ignored it. If she didn’t know what was good for her, then it was up to those who cared about her to make sure she was looked after. He flung himself on to his horse and hauled on the reins, turning its head toward the track to the Shotover diggings.

It was a typical inland Otago day. The sky was a clear blue, wide and cloudless, and the grasses breathed the dry, dusty promise of late summer. He barely noticed. The rough track was busy with foot traffic, forcing him too often to a slow walk. Passersby called a cheery hello. Others shook a baleful fist as the dust of his horse’s hooves choked those on foot. He saw none of it. Inside his head churned too many thoughts, too many needs. The biggest part of him wanted to go back to Nessa and fling himself to his knees, begging her to take him, to marry him, to ride away home with him. He was stopped only by the certain knowledge that she would refuse him—while she thought her blasted brother needed her. And now, it seemed, as long as any other stray needed her. Well, he would see about that.

Only the cluster of huts, tents and inevitable hotels signalling the settlement at Arthur’s Point slowed him.

“Where can I find Philip Ward?” he called out to the hurrying men in the street. Again and again he asked, only to be rewarded with as little interest as he had given to others on the way here. Where was the useless boy?

Finally an answer. A man who thought someone like he described was with a party working upriver a bit.

“You’ll see a scrubby matagouri by a pile of rocks. Look for the rope tied to a big boulder near the tent site. They’ll be digging down below.”

He found the spot readily enough, despite the description being too much like every other claim dotting both banks of the steep-sided river. He looked up and down the banks, searching for his quarry. No sign, not in any of the scurrying groups of men working anywhere there was the smallest scraping of a gravel beach, all of them busy digging the gravels of the fast flowing river and bringing it back to the ever rocking cradles. It felt liked he’d strayed into Bedlam.

Most were parties of two to four men, at least one digging then dishing water into the cradle, another constantly rocking it back and forward to wash out the light river dirt and rinse the heavier gold dust and flakes to the bottom, to be caught in the cloth tacked to the base of the cradle. So much effort in such an inhospitable place. The men clung to the river bank in places like leeches fixed firmly to the rich vein of the treacherous currents. Give him a flock of sheep and a stretch of grass any day.

He tugged on the rope the man had told him about. No answering shout came. Too busy to see, or elsewhere? He turned and surveyed the makeshift campsite behind him. A simple shack, barely more than a sheet of canvas stretched over an A-frame of wood, with stones to anchor the base. The cooking fire was outside, and all other domestic duties were done there too, by the looks of it. How these men imagined they would survive the vicious winter coming, he couldn’t think. It was hot enough now, but those who had lived here more than a season knew how quickly that would change. Another month or so, and the first snows would fall.

A man came round the corner of a path leading up the hill. Not much more than a boy, he halted at the sight of an unknown visitor. One hand moved to the trigger of the shotgun he carried.

“Can I help you, mister?”

“I’m looking for Philip Ward.”

“Who’s asking?”

“A friend of his sister’s. John Reid’s the name.”

The boy suddenly relaxed and dropped his gun. “You should have told your name right off, mister. You that run holder down by Four Mile beach on the Molyneux?”

John nodded, amused. No doubt the boy knew the names of every run holder and manager throughout the gold country. A miner never knew when he might need their help.

The boy walked over to the lip of the chasm, holding on rather carelessly to the single rope that stopped him plunging down the rocks below.

“Hey, Ward, someone to see you.” There was only a muffled sound in reply. John was too far back from edge to hear. “I dunno. Something about your sister.”

Well, that should bring a response. John leaned forward on the pommel of his saddle and let his horse’s reins slacken so it could graze while they waited. Eventually, a head emerged from the lip of the gorge and a few moments later, a familiar figure climbed up to meet him.

He’s grown, one part of John noted. Gone were the unformed muscles of the youth he had first met not much more than a month ago. This boy was harder, muscles formed by sheer hard work sculpted his upper body, and an adult wariness was evident in the sharper-edged face. Give him a few years and he might even be able to take on John himself. He was near to becoming a man. Good.

He watched the boy walk towards him, put his hands on the bay’s reins as if to control it and look up in challenge. John stared right back, all his anger boiling up.

“Do you have any idea what kind of woman your sister is living with?”

He was gone. Why so suddenly, Nessa had no idea. But it had been painfully obvious he was in a hurry to get away from her.

“Who was that,” asked Jenny.

“Mr Reid of Bald Hill.”

“Seems nice enough. Have I met him somewhere?”

Nessa blushed, suddenly conscious of exactly where a girl like Jenny could have met a run holder. “No, I doubt it,” she said, and hoped it was true.

She had never hidden from herself what Jenny’s background must be, even if unable to imagine the plump, quiet young woman in any such place. Tildie Fleming, yes. Strong, brash and utterly confident in her pursuit of wealth. Young Jenny Brown, with her gentle, caring husband, no.

And John Reid would never frequent those houses. Would he?

“How about a nice cup of tea?” she said too brightly. “You must be for longing for a sit down after that climb up from the lake.”

She soon had Jenny chatting merrily of what she had seen in the township, but Nessa could not banish thoughts of John Reid so easily. If only Philip were fully grown and she were not still tied. Then she was swamped in guilt. Where did such a wish come from? She was never so grateful to hear the shrieks of children barrelling out and demanding she rule on their latest spat. It kept her fully occupied, mind and body, until she could escape to her translation work.

Mrs Fleming had not exaggerated when she said Nessa would be doing a favour as much as receiving one, but it had not taken her long to become as fond of wee Jenny as were all the young couple’s many friends—nor to realise what her past must have been before she married. The only places for a poor, single woman to work were the profusion of bar rooms that sprang up wherever there was a trace of gold and a collection of miners. It should never have happened to Jenny, and she had swiftly joined in the conspiracy of former workmates to make sure Jenny Brown would never have to work in such a place again. Her husband Caleb was as well-liked and as incapable of surviving in this place as she.

Yet for all their poverty, their simple hut was a place filled with a rare beauty. The man could make the finest of furniture from the offcuts of buildings, all that was available here in a place where wood was a scarce luxury, and Jenny was an expert needlewoman. The pity was that neither seemed to realise their skills could earn them far more than Caleb’s luckless digging, and both tended to give away work that could be sold for a fortune in the thriving township. Their friends had to keep constant watch.

Sitting at her desk that afternoon, Nessa looked at the card she had put in the window of the general store. “Anyone asking about this,” she said to Henry Maxwell, the storeowner, as she tapped a finger on the message board.

“Yes, and I gave them directions to the Brown place and told them to visit in the evening when Caleb gets home, just like you said, Miss Nessa.”

“Thank you.”

“I shoulda told ’em to make sure you be there too, so those two wouldn’t be fleeced like the innocent lambkins they be,” he added chuckling.