Abigail's Quest

by Lois Mason

  “You silly fool! Don’t you see I saved your life? God knows what those animals might have done to you. I don’t know whom you imagine me to be, but I am not one of those.” He waved a dirty arm in the coach’s direction.

  She opened her eyes, and her lids fluttered again. “You must not faint,” he urged. “There’s no point in fainting here.”

  It could not have been a less hospitable place. The man transfixed her with a penetrating stare, and Abigail was compelled to look at him. Without the physical restraint, his icy eyes still held her captive. Her lip quivered and she felt cold, despite the heat of the day. She was weak with fear and pain; the cage of hoops had protected her upper regions, but her legs were now aching greatly.

  “Here! Let me see if you can stand.” The stranger towered over her, thrusting out a brawny hand, and she noticed his fingernails were neat and well-kept.

  “Don’t! Don’t you touch me!”

  “You are being ridiculous, madam. If I wished, I could put you over my knee and there’d be no stopping me! I am afraid ’tis necessary for you to trust me. There is no one else will aid you. You obviously cannot arise by yourself.”

  What the obnoxious man said was quite true, Abigail realised. Reluctantly, she allowed him to pull her to her feet. Her legs were not broken.

  “Turn your back,” she ordered, hoping desperately that he would obey.

  He replied cheekily “Who will stop me peeking?”, but nevertheless did as she asked.

  Abigail pulled up her soiled skirt and petticoats. As she feared, bruises were already welling nastily, but despite the pain, she could walk gingerly. The miner, for that was what she presumed he must be, was on the other hand in excellent shape.

  “We will have to put cold compresses on those bruises.” He inclined his head knowingly towards her legs.

  “You must make a practice in falling out of coaches. You appear unharmed,” she replied bitterly.

  “Sarcasm does not become you, madam.”

  “No? Well, perhaps you might inform me what we are to do next, since you seem to be the only one who knows.”

  “I suggest we take you up to that farmhouse yonder.” He pointed up the hill, where Abigail could just discern a thin column of smoke. “But first you must tell me, have you wherewithal upon you?”

  “So that you can rob me now?” Her spine shivered. Despite her hatred of the man, she knew she needed him for survival. If he were to abandon her now ... The thought was insupportable.

  “I said I was not one of those.” His voice was piqued. “I merely sought to ascertain our resources. Food and shelter do not come free.”

  “Then, nay. Nay. I have nought. All I have is what I stand in. Everything I owned was in that coach!” Every inch of bravado deserted her, and she burst into a torrent of sobs. “Oh, what shall I do? I have nought, nought! I can go nowhere. All my plans gone, quite gone. Oh, Papa! What is to become of me?”

  There was no comfort for her. The strong hand touched her shoulder, she was immediately on guard again.

  “Pull yourself together,” he commanded tersely.

  “’Tis no use. I am helpless,” she blubbered.

  The man grasped her roughly and turned her to him. She would die, she thought, she was sure of it. His trenchant words were brutal effrontery to all she had ever dreamed.

  “You will marry me.”

  He was mad. He must be. Was this what she had come all the way from Sydney for, to have her hopes dashed in a single moment, to be captured by an insane man? Abigail’s thoughts raced. She would have to humour this hawk with his little mouse. Play him along, look for an escape-route, then scuttle.

  “Marry you?”

  “Aye. Unlike you, I carry my riches next to my person, I have lose nought. You have lost all. You will be well cared for, I assure you.”

  This was surely the most bizarre proposal imaginable! Love, caring, and the ancient promises of the marriage ceremony were salient requirements in any marriage proposal for Abigail. Her girlish dreams had encompassed thoughts of a debonair gentleman, who loved her beyond belief, begging for her hand in a drawing-room, conservatory, or similarly suitable surroundings. A crude command from a complete stranger, an unkempt, churlish stranger, in a remote scrubby bushland, could not be further from her wildest dreams.

  The man pressed his point. “Look at you. How far do you think you would get with your injuries? You will need money to return to Dunedin. Well, I can give you that, but I overheard your conversation with Mrs. Grant—you wish to find your father. Marry me, and I shall aid you in your search. You must realize by now, ’twould be impossible for you to continue on your own. ’Twas extremely foolhardy for you to have attempted it. You are temptation for even the strongest of men.”

  She knew he was not speaking of physical strength. She reeled from his speech. Regrettably, she acknowledged, there was some truth in what he had said. Marrying would be a way to her father, and finding her father was all. She had little choice.

  “It seems I must accept your proposal,” she murmured painfully.

  “You must,” he stated forcefully, and reaching over tilted her head up, so that she was compelled to meet his icy blue gaze.

  His eyes slowly roved over her face and his expression was one of savage triumph. Could she have donned seven-league boots she would have done so that instant. With a satisfied smile he took his thick finger from under her chin, and gripping her tightly above the elbows pulled her, trembling, brusquely to him.

  “Mine. You shall be mine,” he breathed roughly. “It has to be.”

  “Aye,” she faltered, her breath coming in little pants of fear as she wondered what this overbearing man would do next.

  “Then we shall seal our betrothal,” he pronounced, his eyes glistering with a hidden passion. She recoiled instinctively, but before the first word of protest could leave her lips, his full mouth had bruised hers in a cruel, hard kiss.

  As he momentarily drew back for air she twisted violently, breaking his hold, and stumbled back on the grass. He made no attempt to jerk her to him but watched her with a sardonic expression.

  “But ... but,” she blurted, “I don’t even know your name!”

  “Sinclair, madam,” was his curt reply. “Rob Sinclair.”

  CHAPTER

  FOUR

  Mrs. Rob Sinclair. Rob’s wife. Wife to a stranger. Years later, Abigail often thought that agreeing to his proposal was just as rash as her leaving Dunedin on her own. Had she not been so consumed by one single purpose, Papa’s search, she would never have countenanced such a scheme.

  For all his ragged appearance, her future husband was masterful. Abigail found herself sullenly compliant as they made the slow, painful trek uphill.

  “ ’Twould be simplest if I called you wife from now on, save much explanation. Your name, I know, is Abigail. You are now Abigail Sinclair. We will be churched, I promise, as soon as possible.”

  “As you will,” Abigail replied to the man at her side. She vowed to herself that she would be wife in name only, although she had no conception of how this could be managed. Rob Sinclair was strong enough to force anything.

  The miner rummaged in his pocket and drew out a small leather box, and from it he took a ring. “Here. You will wear this in the meantime. It belonged to,” he hesitated, “my mother. She was much your size, so I should think ’twould fit you.”

  He was right. The wide gold band, inlaid with sapphires, caught the sunlight. It was exquisite. It was also made for her finger. Abigail felt sick at the pretence. What she was forced to do was sinful, but she was swept up by his power. She suppressed remarking caustically that he was more than well-prepared for the day.

  His firm arm supported her as she picked her way carefully through the tangled scrub. “What will happen to those poor people in the coach? Will the bushrangers murder them?” she asked.

  “ ’Tis hardly likely if Sir Robert is not amongst them. He would be the only one for whom they would risk
the noose. ’Tis my guess they’ll take their belongings and scuttle.”

  Abigail averted her face. Had she revealed her thoughts, he would have seen the very word had recently been in her own mind.

  “What of the coach and horses?”

  “Probably leave them behind. Too easily identified in any search for the rogues.”

  “Did you have baggage on the coach too?”

  “Aye. Just clothing and some equipment.”

  “You were off to the gold fields? Searching for gold?”

  “In a way. Aye.”

  “Then I am delaying you from your purpose.”

  “ ’Tis immaterial to me, Abigail.” He spoke her name softly. She glanced up at him. He looked resolutely ahead, a strong, weathered face. The sun touched glints of gold in his thick, waving light brown hair, and his long Dundreary whiskers. She barely reached his shoulder. Despite herself, she warmed slightly towards him. What manner of man was he? She knew as much of him, as he of her.

  “Your home, ’tis in Dunedin?”

  “For the moment. Aye.”

  “And your family?”

  “Back in England.”

  So he must be an immigrant, yet he did not speak with the clipped, concise English accent. It was difficult to place his origins.

  “You have been in New Zealand for some time them?”

  “Nay. All these questions, Miss Curiosity! What about you? Where are your family, that they allow you to go traipsing off on your own?” He spoke censoriously, and Abigail felt her annoyance rising again.

  “I only have two brothers. My mother died last week.”

  “Oh. I am very sorry.” His tenderness was genuine.

  She bestowed temporary forgiveness. By now, she also knew that the man was remarkably sane. “That is why I must find my father.”

  “I understand. I shall do all in my power to help you find him.”

  She wondered how far the powers of an ignorant, rough and ready fellow extended.

  “Mind that bracken. I think we’ll go over there.” He steered her away from the tenacious undergrowth. “Where did you say you came from?”

  “I didn’t, but I come from Sydney. Is it much further to go? I feel very weak.”

  “We’re nearly there,” he replied, “but I don’t think our welcome will be cordial. Wait, while you catch your breath.”

  Abigail looked up the hill. The tiny weatherboard cottage was in full view. So also was its owner, standing astride the open doorway, wielding a shotgun aimed in their direction.

  This was too much! “Good heavens!” she gulped. “What do we do now?”

  “He’s hardly likely to shoot you!” Before she could blink, she found herself swept up into the man’s arms, and he quickened his stride. They were challenged about twenty yards from the door.

  “Halt! State your business!” The farmer was a stocky, surly individual with dark, wiry hair and beard. His thick black eyebrows met above his nose, contributing all the more to his dour expression.

  Rob shouted, “We are victims of a robbery! My wife has injured her legs and we are seeking aid.”

  “Put her down!”

  Abigail was planted firmly beside him. The man scrutinized them slowly. “All right. Come on then,” he called.

  As they drew near, he muttered, “Can’t be too careful these days. All manner of strange folk comin’ through these parts! O’Malley gang has been notorious about here lately.”

  “You are quite right, sir. I fear we may have suffered at their very hands. My poor wife here needs cold water to bathe her limbs. Would you be kind enough to allow us to have some?”

  “Go on in. Morna will draw ye some. Morna!” he called out.

  Abigail entered the room by herself. Its furniture was sparse and simple, crudely fashioned from wood. There was no floor, only the dirt on which the cottage had been built. Someone had laid bracken, and trampled it down into the earth. A recently-skinned sheep hung from a hook near the door.

  She sat down on one of the two wooden chairs in the room. At one end, was an open fire with iron pots suspended over it.

  Its owner was still shouting for his wife to come, and Abigail collected her thoughts while she waited for Morna. Her mind was a whirl. So much had passed but a few hours since she had waved goodbye to Billy and Mrs. Sergeant. She had been accosted, robbed, bruised, and now she had a “husband”! Her head spun turbulently. She closed her eyes, shutting away the sight of the disturbing raw meat, and hoped it was all an illusion.

  “Mrs. Sinclair!”

  Abigail did not stir.

  “Mrs. Sinclair!” the voice persisted. Sinkingly, she realized there was no illusion. The voice was directed at her.

  “I’m sorry, I must have dozed.”

  “I’m not surprised, from all I’ve heard. Here! I’ve brought ye the water and some auld cloths.”

  They were filthy, but Abigail tried not to show her distaste as the gaunt woman proffered the dirty rags. She was thankful she had no open wounds on her legs, no chance for infection.

  “Put your legs on this.”

  The woman pushed over an old wooden stool from near the fireplace. She watched silently as Abigail dipped the rags into the bucket and placed them over her bruises; her face showed envy of Abigail’s silken travelling clothes, despoiled though they were, and she looked discontentedly at her own well-worn linsey bodice and stained, bedraggled grey poplin skirt clinging limply to her bony hips.

  The cool of the water eased Abigail’s pain, and she asked the woman if they had lived here long.

  “Just a year. ’Tis a hard life. We’d nay idea how cauld it could be in winter. Still, here we are free. My husband’s his ain man. Nobody gives him orders now. Morna McLaren’s my name.” She thrust out a long, thin hand.

  Abigail shook it. “I am pleased to meet you, Mrs. McLaren. ’Twas a relief to me that your home was nearby.”

  “Have ye eaten?”

  “Aye. I had my—our—food back at Tokomairiro.”

  “Then ye’ll take some tay with us?”

  Abigail nodded. The woman busied herself buttering bread rolls, and brewing up their tea in a heavy earthenware pot. She took two tin mugs, and a pair of pretty blue and white china cups and saucers, from a small wooden cabinet beside the fireplace. The latter were for Abigail and herself.

  It was stifling inside; the fire, and the sun beating on the zinc roof, added to the heat. Abigail asked the woman if she might wash, and Mrs. McLaren directed her into the only other room. Here, again, the furnishings were sparse—a bed, washstand, and a single high wardrobe. The cool water revived her.

  “Ye’ve no bairns, either?” The woman had followed her in.

  Abigail found herself blushing. “Nay.”

  “Nor we. And I’m glad we have none,” she replied vehemently. The reason was not long in coming. “Look at us! Look at this room. I’m ashamed o’ it. ’Tis not the place for bairns. ’Tis a hard country, Mrs. Sinclair.” Her voice was bitter.

  Abigail murmured a consoling reply. Was she to live like this woman too? Was Rob’s home also a cheerless, cramped shelter? The woman had little joy with her husband, it was obvious. What happiness was there for her, toiling year in, year out, for a humourless man? Time would tell what her own lot was to be. She set her face grimly. She would mount that hurdle when she came to it.

  She followed Mrs. McLaren back into the kitchen. The afternoon tea was now prepared.

  “Come out the back. ’Tis shaded, and there’s a breeze. I’ll bring the tay, if ye’ll help with these.” The woman indicated the cups. Abigail picked them up and followed, glad to be out of that stuffy room.

  They sat on an old blanket watching the sheep grazing nearby. Clumps of toe-toe shimmered in the wind, silver flags stretching to the clear sky. The land was cleared extensively; McLaren must have worked hard in the short time he had settled there.

  To the south of the cottage was a much larger building, stables, with an open sheepyard beside.
Poplar saplings ringed the settlement some distance away from it; they would prove an effective windbreak, but, until they reached maturity, Abigail imagined that many a gale would batter the little timber home. The breeze was brisk where they sat, refreshingly so. It was cheering to return to some semblance of civilized living as they sipped their tea, in spite of McLaren’s reticence in conversing. His wife was also taciturn in his company. “Where are ye headin’?” he finally asked Rob.

  “Waitahuna.”

  “I see.”

  “ ’Tis far from here?”

  “Depends. Half a day’s walk. About three-quarters of an hour by horse.”

  “Could you possibly take us?”

  The man’s eyebrows lowered even further. “Well, now...”

  “I can pay you.”

  His eyes lit up. “Very well.”

  “We shall stay the evening there, then pick up the next coach for Gabriel’s Gully.”

  “Ye’ll be waiting till Friday.”

  “Then we shall wait. ’Twill give Mrs. Sinclair time to recover,” Abigail detected a half-smile on his lips.

  The farmer had soon hitched his dray to the solid chestnut. Abigail thanked Morna McLaren for her hospitality, meagre though it was. Rob assisted her into the cart and leaped in beside her.

  Her legs were not aching quite so much, and she stretched them in front of her, reclining against the hard back of the dray. It was a relief to see the last of that depressing cottage. She breathed more freely, but she could not get herself comfortable, jarring her back repeatedly against the edge of the narrow wooden slat.