Mary Brock Jones (22 page)

Maybe it was fitting. It certainly felt like it. It scarcely seemed that Nessa had been here. He refused to remember how she stood in his kitchen that first night, casting the spell of her presence on his home. Tonight, that hurt too much.

He struck the flint and lit the wick of the small candle. He carried it across and lifted down the oil lamp from its hook in the ceiling to light the wick. Gradually, the yellow light pierced the gloom in the room. It could not take away the chill.

He supposed he should think about something to eat. Bob had been busy here too. A pile of logs and kindling was laid by the fireplace, yet he could not summon the energy to set the fire and prepare a meal. Some leftover bread and cold meat were in the safe. That would do for tonight. He sat down in his chair by the fire and stared at the pile of cold logs.

Give up, said a voice in his head. Forget her. Maybe that’s what he should do. He supposed that was what he should do. Maybe he would … when he felt up to deciding anything.

There was a bang on the door. It opened and the Coopers’ eldest son poked his head in.

“Mum says you’re to come down to our place for your dinner. She said she won’t take no for an answer.”

“Thanks, Timmy, but not tonight.”

“She said you’d say that. Then I got to tell you it’s an order and you got to come. I have to stay here till you do. So please hurry and say yes, Mr Reid. I don’t want to have to stay here all night.”

Even through the fog enveloping him, John recognised the inevitable. He gave the ghost of a laugh. “Then we’d better get going, young Timmy.” And he lifted the kitchen lamp and followed the boy out the door.

Later that night he sat back in the visitor’s chair at the Coopers’. He had been hungry after all, it seemed, or maybe it was just Ada’s cooking and the exuberance of the Cooper brood. Now Ada was attempting to clean up after dinner and get them all to bed, leaving Bob and him to sit “out of the way” as she put it, by the fire.

It seemed an eminently sensible idea to John, one ear half listening to the chatter over the dishes. Then Bob did something he had never done before. He interrupted his evening puff on his pipe to speak.

“So when are you going to bring the lassie home?”

He looked at Bob to check whether it was really his taciturn head shepherd sitting there.

“It better be soon, boy. This place ain’t going to run without you forever.”

“I’m here now.”

“Maybe.” Bob took another puff on his pipe then pulled it out and pointed it at John. “But not your head. Nor your heart.”

What was he to say? He took refuge in the good whiskey Bob had poured him and, for the first time ever, wished for Ada’s ready tongue to deflect Bob from his line of questioning.

“It’s none of your business,” he finally mumbled in defence.

“It is when a good man is throwing away his life and a good bit of land in fretting for a lass who doesn’t want him. Is she worth it?”

“Yes.”

John had answered without thinking. It was the simple truth. She was worth anything. He glanced across at Bob, only to be met by the man’s rare smile.

“So what are you going to do about it, laddie? With winter coming on, that Campbell’s field is no place for a body, let alone a pretty young lass like Miss Ward.”

“Tell that to her brother.”

“Hmmph.” Bob leaned back, checked the bowl of his pipe and stirred it with a matchstick to stir up the embers. “I’ve watched that boy. The lad’s got good makings; but some of the folks going over the hill? Not the kind of folks I’d like one of my daughters to be around. Happen the lad will come to his senses in good time.”

“And Nessa? Will she come to her senses?”

Bob shrugged, and took a puff on his pipe. “In good time. It do no good to back a woman into a corner, not like you and that brother of hers have done. Give her a way out, laddie, and see what happens.”

John sat silently, savouring his whiskey and thinking. Finally, he looked up again.

“You’re a wise old one, Bob. Thank you.”

“So when you off to get her? To end that fretting of yours?”

John had to smile at that. “That won’t stop till I’ve got her tied up and safe, married to me and in my home. Until then, don’t ask me to stop fretting. Do you know what could happen to her over there?”

But Bob had said more than enough for now. He leant back in his chair, ignoring the sounds of Ada in the scullery and the children arguing at the table, and puffed contentedly on his pipe. Expecting no more, John copied him, staring into the fire, trying to ignore the images he saw in the sharp toothed flames. Nessa. Always Nessa.

The silence of old friends enveloped their corner of the crowded cottage. Ada and the eldest children finished in the scullery, then came into the main room. He was aware she looked at the end where her men sat, but she kept her orders for her children. First the youngest, then the older ones were hurried off to bed. The rustles and whisperings continued for quite some time before quiet fell over the house. Ada came and took her own chair by the hearth. The three sat in companionable silence, Bob puffing on his barely glowing pipe, John nursing his barely touched whiskey between his long, powerful hands as he stared into the fire, and Ada, biding her time.

The fire began to die down, but Ada let it be. At last, a log collapsed, falling into the embers in a shower of sparks and a loud crackle.

It was enough to rouse John. He looked up from the flames at his two oldest friends here.

“Next week. That is when I will bring her back. Long enough by then for that brother of hers to come to his senses.”

Ada nodded in agreement. “And where will she stay?”

John took a deep breath. “Would it be too much to ask? No, forget I spoke. You’ve no room.”

Ada tutted. “Wondered when you’d think of us. Of course we’ve room. I told Sally she’d be losing her bed as soon as I saw Miss Ward back again.”

“Thank you. The pair of you. I cannot tell you how grateful I am.”

“Just you get that girl to marry you. I’ve got the cake already planned,” said Ada complacently. Bob just smiled.

He waited a full week. It was the longest week of his life. The previous months had been hard enough, never quite knowing where she was, whether she was safe, but now she was just over the other side of his own hills, almost on his land; and he knew exactly what dangers she faced.

One week and not a moment more. The morning after, he saddled up in the barely grey light of night’s ending. The worst of the weather was holding off this year, but his breath still announced itself in ghostly puffs of winter white and there had been heavy clouds shrouding the ranges the last few days. He wrapped the muffler his mother had sent him last year securely round his neck and pulled on his leather gloves. He had already checked his saddle bags; they held an extra coat, hat, woollen scarf and gloves for Nessa. It could turn hellish cold up on the tops. They had brought their own stock down to sheltered paddocks around the homestead over a month ago.

Everything in place, he nudged his horse into motion, tugging on the reins of the mare he was bringing for Nessa with the unthinking ease of long practice.

He knew the hills above as well as he did the ordered lanes of his family home back in England. These harsh slopes and rocks were his, and he loved each dangerous crag and unwelcoming, steep slope with a passion that he had thought could never be surpassed—until the evening Miss Nessa Ward walked up to his front door.

In his short years here, he had studied every inch of this land, spending the early months here walking and riding over all he laid claim to. He learned where sheep would flourish, and where he could grow the small crops they depended on for survival in the cold months: oats, barley and the winter kale he had introduced this year. Now, he thanked his innocent self. That hard-won knowledge would keep Nessa safe when he brought her home, no matter what demons the weather gods of this place sent against them.

He pushed his horse as hard as he dared, mindful of the return journey. He sighted Old Man Rock before mid-morning. He stopped, only to give his horses a spell, letting them drink from the water he had brought and giving them a small shot of mash, then mounted and pushed on again far too quickly for his irritated steed. It reached round and gave him an annoyed bunt as he lifted himself up, champing bad-temperedly at the bit. The mare he’d brought for Nessa was much more accepting, John was pleased to see, placidly lifting her head and settling into the steady walk of the best of stock horses.

By midday he was on the slopes heading into Campbell’s and rehearsing his speech to Nessa, turning the words over and over in his head. Then he caught sight of the camp and the words went out of his head completely.

After a week at Campbell’s, Nessa had learned the ways of this field enough to make her way here. It was second nature after making a home in so many new places. Find out how to get food. Who were the people to trust and who to avoid? What places were safe and where she should steer clear of. The butcher, the baker, her brother’s claim, the trench where the miners worked: these were the safe places. The general store with its continual trail of newcomers and the two saloons that had sprung up: these were not.

She was forced to pass the general store every day on her way back to their tent, and every day was just as this morning. Her head down, she hurried past the store and saloons with quick, purposeful strides, deliberately deaf to the calls from the porch in front. Not all were in English, but after the first day when her cheeks had glowed red from the comments she had heard, she had been very careful not to let the callers see she understood them. Most of the men here would have been hugely embarrassed by her knowledge. But there were a few, more than enough for comfort, who would have relished speaking to her in a way that would have enraged Philip if he could have understood. At the thought, her feet picked up their pace. She was almost safe.

Then came a slow drawl she had learned to dread. He was English, like her. That made it worse somehow. The man knew almost as many tongues as she and, despite everything, she could not hide her response from him. Today, it was German. Yesterday had been French, the day before Italian. He had laughed when her rigid back had told him she knew the words he called her: filthy, from the street, deliberately used to degrade. Always the last words were the same.

“Run along, girl. Albert knows where to get you when I want to—and I will be coming.”

Today, she was safe. There were men working near enough to see her. They could not hear his filthy, softly spoken words, and would not have understood them even if they could. But they would hear if she screamed. The man could not touch her this morning, so she said to herself. If she kept repeating it often enough, she might just believe it.

She picked up her pace, and hated the sound of satisfied laughter she left in her wake. Then she was back at her tent and separated from her tormentor by the trench, filled with hard working and decent men. One of them was her brother. She was safe.

Only then did she dare to look back. The man had not moved, knowing her well enough by now to wait. He stood, lolling on the porch rail. He was far enough away now that she could not clearly see his face, but she still saw the insolent switch of his hand. A corrupted salute from a man who acknowledged only his own rule—nor could she miss the miner’s breadth in his shoulders and the strong muscles of a full grown man.

Philip would be no match for him. She checked her gun again, her hand stroking the barrel and seeking the trigger and safety switch. She carried it always now, the weight of it in her pocket bumping a reassuring tattoo against her leg with every step she took. She did not tell Philip of her fears. For his own good, for his safety, he must not know.

Her Mama would be so proud.

She had much to do, too much to be held by flights of fancy. The weather held fine, and today she meant to take advantage of the sun’s rays to wash their bedding, ready for the cold of winter to come. She stripped their makeshift cots, hauling out the blankets to bundle up and carry down to the small creek nearby. It was only a small trickle, but it ran true and clean, tumbling down far enough from the diggings to be free of the spillage from the miners and their tents. She had to go down the gully a bit to be below the place where they all took their drinking water but begrudged that only a bit. It was the greatest sin in their small community to soil the drinking water they all depended on.

The pile of blankets was heavier than she expected. She took a step. A heavy stone caught her foot.

“Idiot,” she muttered at herself. She could not see a thing for the pile of bedding, and it was so heavy she feared she might drop it before she had even left the camp site. She chuckled, suddenly feeling better. She had been so worn down by the man Albert’s stares and her unease at this new place, she had forgotten the ordinary difficulties of life.

Stop worrying about what might happen, she scolded herself. She turned back, dropping half her cumbersome pile on her cot, then snagged the canvas bucket holding the soap she needed, before setting out again.

It truly was a beautiful day. There had been the nip of winter in the air first thing, but by the time she had carried both bundles down to her chosen spot and began beating the dirt out of each with a rock she found by the stream, the combination of warming sunshine and hard labour had warmed her enough to bring back the feel of a summer’s day. A small lizard basked on a rock nearby, and the last of the summer’s crickets set up his lone call into the sunlit day. What could she do but smile and beat her woollens in time with his cheery song?

A snatch of tune kept running through her head. She had never known the words, but the rhythm and the song had welcomed her often on such a day when they had once lived in Italy. Their house had overlooked a vineyard, and the autumn days had been filled with the laughter and song of the grape pickers. It was their song she hummed softly now, the hard beating of her washing leaving her without breath for anything louder.