Abigail's Quest

by Lois Mason

  “Move forward a little,” Rob ordered. He slipped his arm around her, cushioning her from the jolts.

  The effect was not displeasing. Nestled into his rough, woollen coat, for a moment she felt cocooned from calamity. His blue-grey eyes glanced at her benevolently and Abigail turned from his gaze, her pulse quickened. The thought that she might even come to like the man took her unawares. She rapidly brushed it aside. It was impossible! The man had taken full advantage of her distress, her helplessness. Only a scoundrel would act in such a manner. It was inconceivable that she should ever like him. How she loathed her need for dependency! It was a millstone.

  “We’ll be there in five minutes, sir.” McLaren turned to Rob. “Where shall I drop ye?”

  “We shall need lodgings. Can you take us to some?”

  “The ‘Golden Haven’ then!”

  Abigail trembled. Theirs was truly a false situation. Lodgings for Mr. and Mrs. Sinclair! And they were not yet married.

  CHAPTER

  FIVE

  The “Golden Haven” bore little resemblance to its name. It existed in the mind of the proprietor only. A hearsay lure for the weary, an affront to the discerning. Its high, wide wooden facade promised some ostentation, but Abigail had already spied the low iron roof and the mean proportions behind it, as the McLarens’ dray slowly ground to a halt.

  Like her, the building was a pretence. It was no more capable of fulfilling its enticing promise than she felt she was, then, of being Mrs. Rob Sinclair. A crippled vessel swept under Rob’s current, she allowed him to steer her towards its gaping door.

  A stern-faced, well-proportioned woman bustled towards them.

  “Have you accommodation for my wife and myself? I should like two rooms,” Rob asked her. Abigail breathed more easily. Perhaps there was to be a respite for her after all.

  The woman took in their dishevelled appearance. “Two rooms? Will ye be requirin’ meals, sir?”

  “Aye. Thank you.”

  “Then ’twill be three shillin’ for each person. Costs us a lot to bring our supplies in.”

  “Very well.” He had no choice but to pay the exorbitant rate.

  “You’re lucky. I can let ye have two. Not so much call for lodgin’s these days, with most havin’ gone off to the Dunstan. All our business is in the refreshment line, if ye take my meaning, sir.”

  “Indeed I do.”

  “I doubt there’ll be a rush for beds tonight. If there is, mind, ye’ll have to have only the one room. I can’t afford to turn business away. What name is it?”

  “Sinclair.”

  “Where are your belongings, Mr. Sinclair? I’ll send Jenkins out to fetch them.”

  “I fear we have nought. We were but a few hours ago held up by bushrangers. My wife and I escaped, but the brutes took away the coach.”

  “Lawks, sir! And ye were just recently on it! Ten minutes ago and ye would have seen it leave here for the Tuapeka. ’Tis the talk of the town.”

  “Indeed?” Rob replied. Abigail’s gamine face looked forlorn—to think they had just missed the transport, and now they were to be delayed in her search for the want of ten minutes!

  “Aye. Poor old Will, right shaken he was! First time such a thing ever happened to him. The passengers ... very angry they were. Seems the escort had offered to go with him, and he refused it. A grand thirst the men had, when they arrived here. Never seen them so much in need of a drink! A very brisk trade we had!”

  “I’m sure you did. Was anyone harmed?” Rob asked.

  “Nay. That was the funny thing,” she screwed up her eyes intently. “Garratt’s gang tied their victims to trees, and I’ve heard tell there’s many a body cast into the Kawarau River by a gang in the gorge.”

  Abigail felt quite ill as she listened to the woman’s gossip. “Apparently they took money and valuables from the men, then they stripped the coach of the baggage, and left. Cabbage Tree Will said one of them kept demanding for a ‘Sir Robert’, but of course, there was nobody of that name on the coach. None of the diggers looked like a high-bred gentleman!”

  “’Tis a relief, then, that nobody was hurt,” Rob said. “That’s true enough. The police went off half an hour ago to track the robbers. ’Tis my guess they’ll have given them the slip again.”

  “’Tis to be hoped not. Now, madam, would you kindly show us to our rooms? My wife has hurt her legs in our escape and I’m sure she will wish to rest.”

  “Of course, sir. If ye would follow me.”

  They went down a short corridor. The woman pointed to two adjacent, shabbily curtained openings.

  “’Tis makeshift, Mrs. Sinclair, but I trust ye’ll be comfortable enough. I’ll have some water brought to ye, and some fresh linen towels. The beds are already made up.”

  Abigail thanked her, and cautiously entered the small and very ugly room. The walls were corrugated iron partitions, and a crude ceiling of paper and scrim was not a pretty sight. As many beds as could be squeezed into that room filled it, and left little free space. Rob pushed himself in behind her. His hand dug into her shoulder.

  “Abigail, lie down and rest awhile. I have some business to see to, and I shall probably be away for an hour or so. Will you promise not to run away?”

  “I shall do as you say,” she replied dejectedly. As if she could run away! There was nowhere to go, trapped in this remote place. She was powerless to move and it angered her.

  “Good. I’ll look in on you when I return. Stay in your room till then.” He disappeared through the curtain. There were no windows in her iron cell, but Abigail was so tired that its dinginess hardly mattered. The bed-linen looked clean enough. She undid her bonnet ties, and placed the hat on one of the beds, then she slowly unbuttoned her small leather boots, and carefully unrolled her silk stockings. Boots and stockings joined the bonnet, and these were followed by her travelling clothes—the dress much the worse for the day’s hazards.

  Now that she was clad only in her shift, the cool bedding soothed her bare legs. She wondered what she would do about her lack of clothing. Perhaps her “husband” would come up with a solution; he seemed to have an answer for the worst situations. Abigail surprised herself by thinking this way. She could not understand it. Rob Sinclair had promised to help find Papa, yet he was obviously a rogue. Oddly, she trusted him to keep his promise.

  As for the bargain she had made ... Well, they were not yet married. It might be some time before a minister could be found, and anything could happen before then. If they could find Papa before the marriage...

  Of course! Papa would forbid it! He would not allow that dastardly rascal to marry his daughter. Yes! That was it! They must find Papa, and soon.

  Yet a small niggardly thought lurked behind the others. Rob did not seem quite the reprobate she had first thought him. His was a disturbingly powerful presence, and she was uncertain that it did not appeal to her. He was crude in dress, of humble origins, but there seemed promise that he could rise above them. Oh, how weary she was ... Find Papa, she must find Papa. She must not marry Rob. Her thoughts drifted into sleep.

  Rob did not come up with a solution to her clothing problem—the Otago Mounted Police did. A cacophony of thudding, horses snorting, and much shouting, jolted Abigail to wakefulness. The iron walls were no barrier to sound.

  “They got away ... I’ll catch O’Malley and his men some time ... Yer reckon, Tom? ... He’s a crafty one ... Cunnin’ bastard ... Hey! Yer there, Mrs. Barton...?”

  “Oh! There ye are, madam! We picked up some of the baggage the bushrangers left behind, and we’re takin’ it to the Tuapeka. Have you heard anythin’ of the man and the girl off that coach yet?”

  Abigail heard Mrs. Barton’s reply. “They arrived an hour ago. The man’s gone off, but his wife’s still here. She’s sleeping.”

  “Ye’d best wake ’er up. Some of this might belong to ’em.”

  Abigail had already buttoned her brown dress by the time Mrs. Barton called her. She followed her
out into the bright sunlight, narrowing her eyes against it until she accustomed herself to the brighter light.

  Her carpet-bags were identified readily enough, even though they were mud-spattered. But what of her “husband’s”? She had no idea what belongings he had taken with him, and as she searched the wooden trunks, leather and canvas containers thrown into a cart, desperately hoping for some clue, she stalled for time in the anticipation that he might arrive before she revealed her embarrassment.

  “You did not find a small tapestry bag, by any chance?” She had cursed her foolishness in putting her stocking purse inside it, alongside Mrs. Sergeant’s cake and sandwiches. “I left it inside the coach.”

  “Nay, ma’am, afraid not. Did it have valuables inside it?” the constable asked.

  “Aye.” It had nearly all the money Mama had brought with her to help them find Papa.

  “Ah, then there’ll be no chance of findin’ it.”

  Rob had not appeared, and already the remainder of the force were remounting their horses, impatient to be off to their destination. She would not concern herself then with his belongings. She decided to pretend that her carpet-bags were the only baggage they had.

  “This is all, then. Thank you for finding them for us,” she murmured to the blue-coated policeman.

  “Not quite, my dear. I think you are forgetting this.” Her “husband” reached over from behind her and extricated a large, dark leather portmanteau from amongst the tumbled luggage. She had not seen him coming up behind her.

  “I should look inside your bags, sir. Ye may find the robbers have taken yer belongin’s,” one of the constables called.

  Rob opened it up. “I’m in luck. There seems nought missing. Nothing of value in it, sir,” he called back.

  “Better to travel that way these days, it seems. I trust yer bags will have been untouched also, ma’am. I doubt they’ll be wantin’ female apparel!” The man at the cart tipped his flat-topped, peaked cap. “We’ll be off then, if ye’re sure ’tis all ye had.”

  “Quite sure, thank you,” Rob stated. He guided Abigail away from the cart. The policemen were soon away.

  “Abigail, I want you to meet the Reverend Mr. McNeil. He can marry us tomorrow morning, but he requires some information from you.”

  A cold fear gripped her heart. So that was what he had been up to whilst she slept! He had certainly wasted no time. There was nothing she could do but meet the clergyman.

  The Reverend Mr. McNeil was standing against the timber wall of the Bank of New South Wales, erected opposite the “Golden Haven”. He greeted Abigail, after Rob had introduced him to her. For all his sober, clerical clothes he was youngish, though slightly older than her husband-to-be. Abigail judged him to be in his early thirties. His kindly eyes looked gently on her.

  “’Tis highly irregular to be marrying without the due notices, but it seems expedient in your case, and I can appreciate the urgency. Mr. Sinclair has impressed the delicate nature of the circumstances upon me, so I thought that my wife and my friend, who is the bank manager here, would best act as witnesses. They are both souls of discretion, so ye can rest assured that nae other will know of our wee service tomorrow. I trust these arrangements are suitable, madam?”

  Abigail wondered what Rob had told the Reverend Mr. McNeil—it sounded like a highly-coloured version of the reality. Rob stood firmly beside her. “I think the arrangements will be admirable, sir. Abigail?” He looked down at her.

  She was coerced into nodding. “I’m surprised to find a minister in these remote parts. The township seems almost deserted,” she said to him.

  “At the moment, madam. But another hour, and ye won’t know the town! All the diggers are on the fields at present. Then they come in for banking, buying stores, and, more’s the pity, refreshments. Oh, aye, there’s quite a call for my services.”

  “I can’t see a church.” Abigail indicated the few buildings that represented Waitahuna township.

  “Not here, but I have a tent near the diggings. We gather there on the Sabbath for our services.”

  A tent? Surely she was not to be married in a tent? The clergyman saw her panic, and he took her hand in his. “Mr. Johnson has very kindly offered us the use of his offices for your special day, madam,” he said gently. “We shall try to make them as pleasant for you as we can.”

  “Mr. Johnson’s offices?” she asked hesitantly.

  Mr. McNeil indicated the building behind him. “The bank, madam.”

  Abigail attempted to quell the nervous hysteria rising up in her. Any minute now she would either laugh or cry, she knew not which. Again she felt that all this was a dream, and again she was shown the brutal reality. Rob’s grasp on her elbow was not ethereal.

  “My dear, Mr. McNeil has to take some details of your parents and birthplace, in order to complete our marriage licence. Mr. Johnson has allowed us to use his room for the purpose. Shall we enter now, sir?”

  “If ye would be so good.”

  As Abigail told the clergyman the details he required she glanced over her surroundings. The pit of her stomach felt hollow as she thought that this was to be the scene of the most important day in her life.

  The ink was still wet on the paper and the Reverend Mr. McNeil had barely laid down Mr. Johnson’s pen on his inkstand, beside the pots of ink, but Abigail could stay there no longer. “Will you excuse me, sir? I feel rather faint. I must lie down,” she said to the man.

  “I’ll come with you,” Rob declared.

  “There’s no need,” she blurted. “Stay and converse with Mr. McNeil. I’m sure there’s still more to discuss about this wedding day.”

  Hastily she turned her back on them. Tears in her eyes, she picked up her skirts and all but ran out of the crude building. Every pair of male eyes was turned towards her as she disappeared through the door. She was trapped. Confound the man! There was no prospect of finding Papa now, before the wedding. All hope was dashed.

  She kept on running, slipping and sliding in and out of the muddy patches in the dirt road, oblivious to the many curious stares as she skittered like a brown balloon past the last makeshift buildings of the town, out on to the tussock. Free! She had to feel free again, away from the constrictions of her situation. She tossed her head back and breathed deeply, quite unprepared for the assault.

  “Aha! My little beauty! Give us a kiss, eh?”

  Sudden fumbling hands grabbed her and forced her head back, stifling any scream. Abigail was pushed down into the bushes. The man clutched and clawed at her bodice; terrified, she heard it tearing. She tried to bring her legs up, to kick off her attacker, but it was useless. His horrifying weight had her pinned.

  Just as suddenly she was weightless, lying alone on the mud and tussock. She looked up. Her attacker was sprawled on the ground, her rescuer looked angrily down at her.

  “Get up! Don’t ever run away like that again,” he shouted furiously. The man who had assaulted her picked himself and his wide-brimmed felt hat up from the ground, slinking off like a weasel.

  Abigail was numb with recent terror, and Rob helped her to her feet.

  “Abigail, I beg you. If you must go off in these parts, always, ask me to go with you. You can see how dangerous ’tis for you.”

  “It seems I cannot do without you,” she muttered.

  “Have some sense, girl!” he said tersely. “You know as well as I what would have been in store for you had I not followed.”

  She nodded bitterly as she became uncomfortably aware of her dishevelment and nakedness. Her bodice was rent open, in one long jagged tear, almost to her waist. Hastily she tried to pull it together, but it was useless. The best she could do was to fold her arms across her thin chemise.

  “Oh, Abigail!” Rob softened at the sight of this pathetic, defiantly wanton creature, so provocative and set to arouse every inner emotion he possessed, as a flood of protectiveness washed through him. “If anything should happen to you...”

  He placed his palm
against the side of her cheek, stroking gently. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  His touch was soothing, and strangely stirring ... She found herself yielding beneath its tender smoothness, but his voice was enough to remind her that she would never, never, yield to this domineering ruffian.

  “As well as can be expected,” she said coldly, yet, though she knew she must make the first move, away from him, some unseen power rooted her momentarily to the spot, tolerating his gentle tracing of her face.

  As his index finger moved slowly, carefully, across her half-open lower lip, she turned her limpid brown eyes up to his. He held her firmly in his magnetic gaze.

  “We will fare well together, Abigail,” he intoned as his eyes rested thoughtfully on her face, “I promise you that. You will not regret our arrangement. You must stop tormenting yourself.”

  She lowered her eyelids and felt his hand encircling the nape of her neck. “There is nought else I can do,” she whispered tremulously.

  “Then accept, Abigail, accept,” he urged.

  “In my mind ... never!” She turned from him, not seeing the hurt look passing over his face.

  “You had best wear this.” Rob started taking off his short, dark broadcloth topcoat. “’Tis cool now, so the townsfolk will not think it strange for you to be wearing a man’s jacket. You cannot walk back to the inn with your dress like that.”

  He held the coat for her to slip into. Gratefully, she did so. Her dress was ruined. She felt ashamed of her foolhardiness, and very much shaken.

  “Take my arm. We shall walk slowly as if naught has happened. An old married couple, out for a late afternoon promenade. Chin up, my girl. Which would you care to see? Mr. McHenry’s General Store, Mr. Johnson’s Gold Office, or Mr. Barton’s ‘Golden Haven’? I’m afraid the sights of Waitahuna are rather limited!” he bantered.