Mary Brock Jones (12 page)

“Oh, no. I didn’t mean to bother you further. I can find something for myself.”

“In this town? Don’t be a fool, girl. Maggie and me, we’ve got it all organised. If you can agree to pay a bit by way of board each week and help out with the littl’uns, why, you’d be doing us a right favour. Our Jenny’s man is not what she deserved. Good enough, and gentle as all can be, but not a doer, no. Won’t ever amount to much here, that one. She could do with a bit of extra coming in and a woman’s help, sure to God.”

Before Nessa could say anything, she was hurried up the street. In short fashion, she found she was the proud occupant of her own bed in the annexe of a small canvas and wood hut on the edge of town, and was putting at ease a shy young woman with the rural speech of middle England and a horde of little children plucking at her skirts. The girl was younger again than Nessa and seemed unable to make the children do a single thing she wished. Nessa looked over the head of the young mother at Tildie Fleming and nodded her agreement. This child-woman needed help, and Nessa was it, it seemed. Though she suspected she would be only too glad to escape to her desk in town and the translation business she hoped would soon be thriving.

For not the first time, it struck her what a wealth of riches her parents had left her in the education and knowledge she had gained in her unusual childhood. Not many others would agree, granted, but she had been blessed by her parents in their own unique way. She sent them a silent prayer of quiet memory and thanks—and a plea to watch over her here. She was going to need it.

“She’s what?” John was tired, frustrated and in no mood for listening to gossip.

“Taken lodgings with Tildie Fleming,” the packer went on, smugly spouting his nonsense. “Leastways, according to Mat Parker, who just rode in, who got it from old Davy, who heard it from…”

“Tildie Fleming! The most notorious madam on the fields?”

“Her brother insisted she be lodged with someone respectable-like, it seems. And Tildie, now, well, she can sound right hoity when she puts her mind to it.”

“So I’ve heard.” John glared at the man lounging indolently in his stable door. “Get yourself and your horse fed then be on your way. And I better not hear this pack of lies making the rounds, you hear me?”

“Whatever you say, Guv. I’m sure the young lady is all right.”

“Not when I get there, she won’t be,” muttered John, stalking out of the building and marching down to the Coopers’ home.

“And how long have you been back on this farm since last you left?” Ada Cooper glared at John as he snapped out his next order. “Bob here is only one man, if you haven’t noticed. He can’t do the work of a whole crew.”

“Last night, and Bob can cope”

“Leave it be, Ada,” said Bob quietly from his chair by the fire, blessedly quiet otherwise as John stalked from one end of the room to the other, all calm lost.

Ada was not so considerate. “Don’t expect me to stand by and watch you work your way into an early grave, Bob Cooper. There’s hay to be got in and that field waiting to be ploughed for the planting next week. Leastways that’s what you was telling me last night.”

“It’ll be done.”

“By who? You, on your own? What with young Jimmy going off with the gold nuggets in his eyes, you be all that’s left. And you with all the bloom of youth in you still.”

That was news to John, banging into an offending chair and sending it flying. “When did Jimmy leave?” he growled.

Ada wasn’t about to back down, no matter how black his mood. “Yesterday afternoon, just before you got back in. And he won’t be the last, as you well know. The gold fever gets all these young boys we take on. My Bob can’t do everything around here.”

John stopped his frantic pacing. He stood clutching the back of the chair is if to an anchor. “Ada, didn’t you hear me? She’s gone to live with Tildie Fleming!”

“And you, my lad, have a farm to run.”

A wee Cooper boy poked his head in the door, took one look at his mother’s face and scuttled out again. Bob twitched in his chair as if wishing he could do the same; but his wife had not finished with his boss yet.

“I spent a day with that young lady, and you should be right ashamed of yourself, laddie. If she is at Tildie’s she will have good reason. Nor will she have done it blind. That brother of hers may be a right lummox, but Miss Nessa’s got a good head on her shoulders.”

John harrumphed, but wasn’t ready to give in yet. Not with this tight knot of fear coiling in his belly.

Bob coughed. “Best listen to my Ada, lad. It’s a good week’s travel from here to Queenstown. The lass cannot come to more harm if you wait a few days longer. That hay must be got in if the animals are to get through the winter, and Ada’s right. I can’t do it all mesel’.”

John glared at him, hating the truth of Bob’s words.

“Or is it that you don’t truly trust the lassie?” added Ada slyly, sealing it. Not that John would give her the satisfaction of honouring her with a reply.

“Get that tea down you, if you must, then meet me in the paddock,” he flung at Bob then marched out the door.

It was a full week before he had caught up with enough work to be able to leave the farm. Only the thought that he needed a home to bring Nessa to got him through each day. But nothing helped in the long stretches of the night as one bitter picture after another battered at his resolution. The sun had barely risen on the day he finally knew he could leave before he was up on his horse, galloping out of the gate and down the long track to the inland fields.

If he could have, he would have kept up his mad pace all the way to Queenstown. The land denied him that luxury. There was the wait for the ferry across the turbulent Molyneux, the miles of hard walking on steep, rocky and treacherous tracks, the winding in narrow file through rocks, up steep passes and through twisting gorges. At this time of year, the sun still lingered long into the grey twilight, and John pushed on as late into evenings as he dared, rising again from his bedroll at the first light of day to set out again. If it were not for his horse’s needs, he wouldn’t have stopped at all. His mount learnt to quickly snatch at mouthfuls of tussock grass as they rode along, so grudgingly did John spare him time to graze.

On the last night on the road, John lay on the hard ground, sheltered by a small bluff and the tall native grasses just off the track, and listened to the snuffling as his horse finished the last of the mash he had brought with him then snorted into the water of the small creek running beside them. It was a big, strong-hearted beast. He should feel guilty for pushing the animal so hard—he who would have verbally flayed any man of his who drove his mount as hard. But he had other priorities. He fixed his eye on the stars above, fighting to keep at bay the nightmarish images.

Nessa in a crowded room with all the scum of the fields leering at her, Nessa fighting off a man. Worst of all, Nessa wearing the false smile of the bar room, welcoming a man in. It couldn’t happen. He had known her so briefly, but even five minutes with her was enough to recognise the deep core of integrity that ruled her. Whatever anyone might say, Nessa Ward would not go willingly into the pay of a Tildie Fleming.

But what about unwilling? What would she do to protect that worthless brother of hers? Almost anything, whispered the demon in his head.

He gave up the useless struggle to sleep and went to check on the horse. “Hey, boy,” he said, soothing the horse’s starts as he appeared silently beside it. The horse lifted its head, then put its nose back to its dinner, as if deliberately reminding its rider of the day’s trials. “I know. Life’s hard. For both you and me, old fellow.”

John stood a while, hand laid on the bay’s shoulder as if seeking to absorb the calm pragmatism of the animal. After a while, the horse finished its mash and relaxed into the night’s peace. “Get some sleep,” he murmured to it and moved back to his hard blanket on the ground. He wished he could do the same.

At first light, he was off again. He was nearly there, only a few hours travel remained from the steep pass where he had lain last night, over the flats around the inland lake, and he would be at the growing new town where Nessa waited.

John had not visited Lake Wakatipu since the previous autumn, before the madness of gold fever had descended. He had come to buy some sheep from Rees, the run holder on this remote country. At that time, all that was here was a farmhouse and outlying buildings, surrounded by a vast emptiness. Stark hills rose on the far side of the lake, with the wide flats of the basin and shoreline on this side.

It was no longer empty. Rees’ quiet homestead site was a bustling town, and the lake was covered with boats of every shape and size. He had laughed at the presumption of settlers when he heard the name they had given this place. Now, he saw they had good reason.

It made it no safer for a young and single lady. Just the reverse. He dug his heels into his horse’s flanks, urgent to find her.

He didn’t expect it to be so easy to discover someone who knew of her. The man was young, disreputable and completely lacking in respect, in John’s opinion.

“Miss Nessa? Sure I know her. Whole town does. You’ll find her up at Mrs Jenny’s at this time of the day, helping with the lunch and all. She’s too busy with her work later in the day to help.”

“Work?”

“Yep. There’s a queue and a half waiting to see her some days.” Then even this cocky young devil must have seen sense, and fell silent.

“Where can I find this Mrs Jenny’s house?”

“Up the street a way. First right then head up the hill.” He coughed, as if trying to get his courage up. “You better mean her well, Mister. Miss Nessa’s made a parcel of friends in this place.”

“Oh, I mean well all right.”

“Yeah, well, you better,” muttered the young man, with the little courage he still retained. John ignored him and drove his heels into the horse’s flanks, cursing the traffic in the street that prevented him going faster than a walk.

Then he was at the house. ‘Mrs Jenny’s place’ had been sufficient direction for bystanders to point him in the direction of the small, canvas and wood house. He knocked on the door frame. Inside, he could hear the high-pitched shrieks of young children. Not surprisingly, given the din, no one came to his knock. He viewed the closed door flap with a grim twist of his mouth. Then decided to ignore convention. Everyone else in his life did these days. He strode round the side of the house.

It was just as the first time he had seen her. The instant recognition and feeling of something slotting into place and the sudden clench of desire. It shouldn’t be so, not today. Her hair was astray, a dark flush stained her cheek along with a streak of flour dust. and she was bent over, striving to separate two little boys brawling on the ground. None of it made a difference. She was beautiful.

He must have made a sound. She looked up and, for an instant, he thought he caught a flash of joy in her eyes. Then she looked down and saw the boys, still struggling to thump each other between her outthrust arms.

“That’s enough of that.” John strode over and picked up the two small boys, depositing them at opposite ends of the room. “Stay there. You can move when you are ready to say sorry to the lady.”

The boys sat in stunned amazement, a thumb slipping into each little mouth, and John could only be thankful that his high-handed actions had not sent them into wails of terror. They nodded in unison. At any other time, he would have been charmed by their innocent rowdiness, but he saw the flush deepen on Nessa’s face as she pushed ineffectually at the strands of hair falling about her face and smoothed down her gown, and cursed silently. He had embarrassed her.

But she was safe, and that alone made that inner knot of tension in him uncoil.

She twitched on the spot, barely able to look at him, while he…

He wanted to kiss her senseless.

“Mr Reid. How nice to see you. Did you have business with Mr Brown?” she finally murmured, looking at a spot somewhere below and beyond his shoulder.

“Mr Brown?” He was still enthralled, unable to decipher her words. Then realised who she must be talking about.

Mrs Jenny? Mrs Jenny Brown, it must be. He couldn’t remember when he had felt more foolish. She was staying with a married couple with young children. Not stuck in some brothel. He would kill that tale-carrying packer when he caught up with him. What in hell was he going to say now?

“Ah, no. I was travelling by this way and heard you and your brother were in town,” he mumbled. “Thought I would make sure… That is, you are well, Miss Ward?”

“Yes, thank you sir.”

“And your brother?”

“He’s working a claim up the Shotover River, by Arthur’s Point. He comes in when he can to check I am all right.”

“And are you?” John could not resist asking.

“Yes, perfectly, thank you, sir.”

She looked up then, finally looked at him, and he lost himself in the deep pools of her eyes. There was a hint of challenge in them, and he grinned inside. “Mrs Brown has been very kind to me, and my services as a translator are as sought after here as at the Arrow.”

The final knot in his stomach sprang open. Work! “You’re translating again?”

“Well, yes. Of course. It was you who first suggested it, and it pays better than housekeeping. The packers have been most helpful in spreading word of my business. I cannot thank you enough for recommending us to them.”

“Think nothing of it.” He could feel a smile spreading across his face. She was safe.

But now, it was time to leave. The strictures his mother had taught him still held sway, particularly concerning Miss Nessa Ward, and he had stayed talking to a single young lady on her own quite long enough. He would see her again, and it was going to be all right between them. He started to make his farewells, turning to the two small boys, still nervously eyeing him from the corner, and within minutes had set them to rights again with the offer to show them his horse.

“If you are very good and behave like proper gentlemen, you may pat him,” he said to the boys shortly after. Their eyes lit up. He lifted each one up, and watched as they reverently stroked the nose of the large bay, standing placidly and putting its head down for the lump of sugar Nessa had found for it.