Mary Brock Jones (2 page)

John nodded his head again, taking the boy’s offered hand with a great deal more warmth than that with which it was offered. Then he turned to bow deeply to the sister. “Miss Wade. My very deepest pleasure. Miss … ahh?”

“Nerissa. Nerissa Selene Ward. Silly, I know, but our father was a scholar of the classics. My family have always called me Nessa.”

She giggled as she said it. Actually giggled, as if a carefree girl within broke free for an instant.

John was entranced, and inordinately pleased. Not so her brother. Young Mr Wade was staring at his sister as if she were some changeling from a childhood fable. Miss Wade’s face stilled, and a subtle touch of blush tinged her cheeks.

So the lady was not a normally a giggler. Normally, John guessed, the lady hid much of herself, just as she now strove to hide from that unrestrained moment.

But it was there, and that was all he needed to know for now. He had a reputation as an honest man, largely due, he knew, to his solid height and open face, and he could readily assume a bland geniality. Mrs Cooper would often glare as she saw him about to close yet another deal. Later she’d tell him exactly what she thought of him but then say, “Well, as I’ve never known you yet to cheat any man, I daresay no harm is done. But you should not do it, Mr Reid. Not give that dumb lambkin face of yours. It’s not fair to man or boy and that’s a fact.”

Still, to be seen as of no threat could be a very useful trait, and right now seemed a very good time to use it.

“Miss Ward, a pleasure to welcome you to my humble home. Please, come in, both of you.”

He stood aside, opening his door wide and gesturing them to enter.

The boy sulked uncertainly, then looked at his sister and gave a shrug of defeat.

“We thank you for your hospitality, sir,” he said stiffly, taking his sister’s hand on his arm to help her up the steps. John had hoped for that pleasure, but settled for drawing up the best chair close to the fire as they passed through to the large kitchen area, which served him as general living room, cum workroom. He had built himself a small parlour, but reserved it for business deals where its stiff formality was useful in adding to his authority. There was little of warmth or welcome in that room, unlike the big kitchen with its scrubbed table. The camp oven was starting to bubble over the glowing fire and send out a tantalising aroma of mutton stew; and the busy collection of tools, books and memorabilia that filled the room created a genial ambience. This room welcomed a visitor in, and John badly wanted Miss Nessa Ward to feel welcome.

“Please, sit here,” he said to her, indicating his best chair and pulling forward two wooden kitchen chairs for himself and young Philip. He moved over to the fire, pulling the kettle over the flames and setting his best cups ready.

“A nice cup of tea in you both and maybe you will forget the hardihood of the trail.” He spoke to Philip but all the time kept an eye on Nessa. She sat stiffly upright in the chair, refusing yet to sink into the soft cushion set behind her. Relax sweetheart, John felt himself willing her. You’re safe here. He wished he could say it aloud, but she was too close to jibbing away, still seeing him as a stranger and regretting her impetuousness, he guessed. He addressed her brother instead.

“You have travelled far today?”

“From near the ferry at Beaumont.”

“That’s a good hike. No wonder your sister was glad of shelter.” John saw the mulish tilt twist the boy’s mouth again and added hastily, “No doubt you are both eager to make the goldfields proper.”

“It was lucky we had the horse,” agreed the boy. “My sister could rest from time to time.”

Miss Ward—Nessa—spoke again. “My brother and I grew up following my father in his work. He was a scholar, seeking ancient antiquities throughout Europe and the mid-east. Making our way through isolated and little developed regions is not new to us.”

Now he’d put her on the defence. What had happened to his vaunted glibness of tongue? All he could come up with now was, “That must have been an interesting childhood.”

“It was.”

Then silence but for the clattering of cups and the whistling of the kettle. With relief, John turned to the familiar rites of the teapot. Soon, the visitors were sipping the fragrant brew. John could only be grateful for the comfortable silence that developed as the visitors relaxed under the familiar taste and ritual. It didn’t stop him discreetly studying her.

The day’s toil had left its mark. And not only the last day, he would guess. Dust coated her hair and face and dark smudges shadowed her eyes. The grime could not hide her haunting beauty. Slim, long fingers held up the cup, clinging to its familiar warmth; but above, the fragile wrists spoke of a long privation. Not starvation. He would guess the pair had been adequately provisioned. But something about the depth of weariness he saw in her told of a long journey and life-sapping toil. He ached to fix it for her. To fix everything.

He must be going mad.

Slowly, too slowly, the tea worked its magic. She began to relax, and John was careful to look as if he was merely staring into the fire. Her back slowly gave in to the cushion’s comfort and, finally, she looked up from the cup, seeming to remember her surroundings and the need for polite conversation. He saw her look to her brother in expectation, with no success. Then she put on her polite smile, and he cursed inwardly, loathing the barrier it made.

“You have a well-built home here, sir,” she said. “The more surprising given the canvas and makeshift dwellings we have seen on our journey so far. I take it you have been here since before the gold discoveries?”

“Yes. Three years to be precise. There was little farmland left on the coast by the time I arrived, and so I joined the drive inland. In truth I have not regretted it. This is good sheep land.”

“You felt no inclination to join this mad rushing after gold?”

He chuckled, and was rewarded with a break in that fixed mouth. “No, Miss Ward, I have not. I prefer to be my own master. The gold can be a cruel taskmaster, as you will find. I take it that is why you have come this way? To seek your fortune in the diggings?”

“I plan to use the gold I find to finance my future studies,” said Philip, hunching his shoulders defensively and managing to look even younger. Something John would not have thought possible.

“Philip hopes to follow in our father’s footsteps. He is particularly interested in the architectural remains left to us by the ancient Greeks and Romans and plans to one day join an expedition digging up the ruins of the past.”

“But no British explorer will take me on unless I have the necessary qualifications, preferably from Oxford or Cambridge.”

Finally, a use for the stripling. Defence of her brother had broken the barriers of restraint and shyness. “Our father was undoubtedly a brilliant man but, unfortunately, not a wealthy one,” she said.

The hint of a smile on that lovely face hit John square in his stomach. He barely heard the brother’s hasty interruption.

“Any wealth he had, he used to further his pursuit of knowledge. He was passionately committed to his researches into the antiquities,” explained Philip.

And just as single-minded and selfish as you, decided John.

“I take it your father is no longer with us?” he said to Nessa.

“No. He passed away early last year. A bout of typhoid fever hit the village near to his latest project.”

“And your mother?”

“Died many years ago, when Philip was quite young. She had not adjusted as well as she had hoped to a wandering life, said our father.”

“Then who cared for you all? You can’t have been more than a child yourself, Miss Ward.”

Her back straightened and he could have bitten out his tongue. “We managed,” she said stiffly.

“Forgive me. I meant no criticism.”

Like hell he did. He could see it all too clearly. The self-absorbed father and a young brother, both of whom took it for granted she should take over from their mother. For how many years had she put her life on hold for them?

Something was stirring in him. Something he wasn’t certain he was ready for. Yes, she fascinated him. He knew he wanted her, wanted to know the truth of the graceful curves and beautiful secrets he could only glimpse through her workday dress. But overpowering all was an urgent need to cherish her. To take on the cares and burdens cutting away the life in her. He would give just about anything to take her in his arms, fold her up in the chair with her head on his shoulders and whisper gently in her ear, “Shh. It’s all my worry now.”

Madness. He’d only just met her. She would think him touched in the head if he said anything so soon. He stood abruptly and began to collect cutlery and plates.

“May I help,” said her beautiful voice beside him. He hoped she did not notice his fumbled attempt to collect the saltcellar. He murmured a “Thank you” and passed her the tableware, pointing to his sole tablecloth hidden under a pile of stock journals.

‘You never know who might call on you,’ his grandmother had said, thrusting it into his protesting hands as he packed his trunk before leaving home. How right she had been, as he watched Nessa soothe her fingers over the finely embroidered linen. The simple proof of civilisation seemed to ease the worry in her, and he discreetly switched from the everyday, thick earthenware plates to the few best ones he kept for Sunday lunch.

He stirred the stew and watched in delight as she arranged the tablecloth and dressed it with implements, fussily adjusting the condiments and arranging the bread neatly on a plate. Then she stepped back, and gave the faintest of nods as she surveyed the whole. There was another of those heart-stopping smiles. He had to turn immediately to the hearth, ladling stew onto each plate and passing them to her to put on the table. His hand shook only slightly, and by the time he had to pass the plates to her, he had controlled it enough that he did not think she noticed.

He was a good cook, by necessity, and his guests had travelled far that day. There was little talk as the first pangs of hunger were satisfied, but slowly stark need eased, and there was time to spend spreading thick butter over Mrs Cooper’s finely baked loaves and savouring the rich juices flavoured with vegetables from his own garden. Even young Philip shed some of his edgy defences as satisfaction took away the bite of need. He appeared to remember lessons drilled into him long ago. By his mother or, more likely by the sister who must have been as mother to him for much of his growing years. No wonder he both resented and took her for granted. It was the usual way of sons new to manhood and seeking to break free of the ties of childhood. He ruefully acknowledged the truth of that in his own life.

His reflections did not help ease the anger young Ward roused in him, but at least they dampened it somewhat with amusement. He even allowed Philip to draw him out to talk of his own history.

“There’s not much to tell in truth,” John protested at the idea of his settling here being by way of a dangerous adventure. “I’m a younger son of a man comfortably but not excessively well endowed with fortune. In the manner of such things, I must therefore seek a livelihood. I like farming, and the Otago colony offered good opportunities for hard-working men. As for why this particular spot; it’s good sheep country, there is a reliable water supply from the stream you passed on your way up the track and from springs up the hillside, and the land was available. The last was the most important,” he added with a laugh.

“So here you are,” said Nessa. He looked up sharply. There was something unspoken in her tone, but for the life of him he could not decide what. Almost as if she had discovered some hitherto undreamt of truth.

“Have you never thought to go in search of gold yourself?” said the brother, with all the disdain of youth for a stay-at-home.

“No. It’s been both a blessing and a curse to these parts. But I’ll warrant I’ve made more money out of the rushes than many a poor fool who hurried up here ill-prepared and seeking too easy a wealth. Yes, there are those who have made their fortune, but too many have chased after wild rumours and have come away with nothing but age and wisdom for their troubles. This is hard country, young man. Far harder than has been told down country and by the dratted papers. It gives up its riches grudgingly. Have you ever panned for gold?”

“No.”

“Hmph.” He let an easy silence develop. Time enough for the boy to find out what he was taking on. And for his sister? He hid a frown, reaching instead for the cheese barrel and the crackers he kept there, and offering a last drink to wash it down. All the time, his thoughts were busy with conjecture.

He let none of it show, drawing his guests out to talk instead of their own history. But while young Philip was quite happy to speak of ancient ruins and fascinating discoveries in obscure libraries, Miss Nessa kept silent.

“It sounds as if you have seen most of civilised Europe,” he teased. “And perhaps some parts not so fair these days.”

“I daresay we came across the odd spot of bother over the years,” said Philip carelessly, “but Papa and I were far too intent on our researches to be troubled much by such inconveniences. In general, Nessa picked up enough of the local languages to make understood our needs. Once the common people knew we were scholars and no threat, they were often only too pleased to be of assistance.”

Miss Ward’s silence deepened. Just what had she been forced into, to deal with these “inconveniences” her brother dismissed so readily, he wondered. She had a core of strength he doubted her brother ever noticed, but how often had she needed to call on it? Too many times, he’d a feeling, for her comfort. Or his. So why did she keep so silent? How could he get past the shield she put up to find the woman hidden within?

“You have a talent for languages, Miss Ward?”

“Only the modern ones,” she said hastily. “I never acquired the fluency in the classical modes of Latin and Greek of Papa and Philip,” she added as if to appease her brother, “but I can get by well enough in the common tongues we came across in our travels throughout Europe.”