by Lois Mason
Abigail smiled up at him, and for Rob, her smile was sparkling water, winter sunshine. Bless him! He had won her for a moment.
They were met at the ‘Golden Haven’s’ door by a very agitated Mrs. Barton.
“Mr. Sinclair! I’m afraid ye can have only one room tonight. There’s a certain party from Dunedin, a family with two children, just arrived. They wish to stay the night—’twill shortly be too dark for them to travel further. I trust this will not inconvenience ye?”
“No, madam. You did warn us when we booked in. I shall remove my belongings immediately,” Rob replied.
“I took the trouble of doin’ it for ye,” she said complacently.
“Ah. Thank you then. Come, Abigail! We shall prepare ourselves for dinner.”
“Ready in a quarter of the hour, sir,” Mrs. Barton informed them.
“Thank you, Mrs. Barton!” Rob turned to Abigail. Her heart sank. So she was not to be alone on the eve of her marriage after all! She was compelled to make the best of the fait accompli.
As they entered the cramped little tin room, she pointed to a bed in the furthest corner. “I trust you will have the decency to sleep there,” she said boldly to her betrothed.
“But of course. I shall respect your wishes,” he grinned roguishly at her, the edges of his piercing eyes crinkling at the corners.
“I wish to wash before dinner, and I shall have to change,” she said pointedly. With horror, she realized she had not yet inspected her bags to see if her clothes were still there. “That is, if I have something to change into.”
Rob, who had picked up her bags from the hotel’s entrance, dumped them next to her bonnet. “By the feel of these I’m sure your clothing is intact. Besides, I doubt that those rogues would wish to wear any of your frills,” he jested.
He was right, nothing had been disturbed. The familiar things were like long-lost friends. But it brought home to her all the more the loss of her little stocking purse. Clothes could not buy her a passage back to Dunedin, and she was too proud to beg her way back.
The “Golden Haven” was becoming rowdier by the minute. The miners were coming in after their day’s toil, with a thirst that could only be slaked by a strong brew. Wild, coarse shouting and singing rang out on the cool night air. Abigail was glad of Rob’s protection, unsolicited though it was. Unfortunately, she had learned the truth of his predictions at first hand; but for him, the consequences might have been indescribable.
“Abigail, I shall stand outside the doorway whilst you wash and change. Call me when you are ready,” he ordered, and then did as he had said.
A gentleman? Faced with one so rough in appearance, she was surprised to have even thought the word. Yet ... There was something more refined about Rob Sinclair. More refined than any of the other men she had encountered this day, apart from the Reverend Mr. McNeil that was. She knew that all manner of men had given up their occupations to seek the golden prize, doctors, lawyers, clerks, apothecaries, blacksmiths. Which was Rob? Her thoughts were fleeting, and she set to the task of washing with the cold water from the pitcher on the washstand.
She took off her dress and looked at it, then hastily bundled up the reminder of the unpleasant affair. She would not be wearing that gown again, it was beyond repair. She pushed it to the bottom of one of her bags. What would Mama have thought? Tears came to her eyes again, but determinedly she resolved not to dwell on thoughts of Mama. She had shed enough tears for the day. Too much had happened in too short a time.
She longed for sleep, but was apprehensive about the coming night. Carefully, she buttoned the green chintz and arranged its wide skirt over her hoops.
“I’m ready now,” she called.
“You look exhausted. Would you like me to arrange for Mrs. Barton to prepare a tray for you to dine here?”
Out front, the raucous laughter and carousing sounded far from inviting. She looked appreciatively at Rob and nodded her assent. Her legs were still very sore, and after that horrible encounter they were not the only places where she was bruised.
“Stay and rest then, I’ll see about our meal. Don’t move from the room,” he cautioned as he disappeared again through the shabby damask doorway.
The meal looked delicious in the mean light of the room, but Abigail had little appetite for the roast lamb and potatoes. She was too tired to eat. Rob’s appetite, on the other hand, was most hearty. He looked solicitously at Abigail.
“You must try to eat. Look at you! You’re so fragile, so tiny.”
“I’ve always been this size,” she replied flatly.
“Come on, Abigail, do try. I’ve some good news for you. At least, I’m hoping it will prove fruitful.” Abigail looked interested. “Oh, yes?”
“I told Mr. Johnson we were searching for your father. While I was relating this to him, a customer nearby—a certain Fred Thomas—told us that he may have heard of him.”
She was immediately alert. She turned her clear, bright eyes towards Rob. He wanted desperately to enfold her, reassure her, but thought best to tread warily in the meantime. He took her hand tenderly in his.
“Aye. He said he knew of a man, Nugent Bracken, who once worked a claim with a person by the name of Wright. He wasn’t sure of his Christian name, but he was certain that Mr. Nugent Bracken was still at Gabriel’s Gully.”
“Oh! I pray it might be Papa.”
“We’ll try to find this man as soon as we reach the Tuapeka, but don’t build up your hopes too much. There may be many men with the name of Wright. We do not yet know.”
She believed in him. Her eyes asserted it. Gently he raised her hand to his lips and caressed it for a moment, and Abigail did not recoil. On the contrary, she found the gesture not unpleasing. To her surprise, she found that she was blushing.
“Thank you, Rob, for your news.”
It was the first time she had addressed him by name, and in the saying of it she had acknowledged a familiarity, a closeness towards the man. His warmth was beginning to encompass her, little by little, endearing him to her, in spite of what she had originally thought of him.
Papa might be at Gabriel’s Gully then! “How far are we from the Gully?” she asked.
“About a couple of hours by coach. Mr. Thomas is going back there tomorrow afternoon. At least, he is heading for Weatherstone which is nearby, but he has offered to take us to the Gully, so we shall be there late afternoon. ’Tis becoming dark—I had best light the lamp.” He moved over to the washstand and lit the small oil lamp.
Gabriel’s Gully! So near, and yet so far. A space of a new direction in life, a turning point, the relinquishing of girlhood before she could reach the possibility of seeing her father again.
The low, flickering light lit the pair of them as they finished their meal in silence. It heightened Abigail’s youth and beauty whilst the ugliness of the restricted room was diminished. Rob found it hard to take his eyes from her lithe figure, her pretty, firm mouth. He savoured his prize. Tomorrow she would be his, he told himself.
Abigail’s wide eyes were even wider, glittering in the lamplight. The light embraced both, brought them together, isolating them from the boisterous doings of the saloon. Rob’s own handsomeness was thrown into focus; the shadows played on his smooth shaven face, and etched his firm jawline. He ached to clasp Abigail to him, to love her, reveal the extent of his feelings. But she had been bruised enough today. He feared adding more strain lest his porcelain should crack. They finished their meal at the same time.
Rob stood up. “Give me your tray and I’ll take our dishes back to Mrs. Barton. If you should wish to retire—”
“Aye, I do. Kindly take your time,” she replied.
Abigail rinsed her face and hands, and quickly whisked off her dress, petticoats and hoops. Swiftly she pulled her nightgown over her head. She looked sadly at the torchon lace appliqued to the bodice; Mama had helped her sew the gown. There were reminders of Mama in all her clothes—her dear, exquisite handiwork. She rapidly un
pinned her hair and brushed it briskly. The long copper locks shone in the low glow of the lamp.
By the time Rob had returned, she was firmly tucked into bed. Trembling, she prayed he would not come near her. He glanced at her. Her burnished hair lay tousled against the white pillow. She was breathtaking, he thought: his heart leaped, but he mastered his emotions. Abigail held out a hand to him.
“I daresay you’ll be needing this tomorrow.”
He took the ring from her. “For tomorrow, aye. But when I am able, there will be another. Your own.”
“Will you look for gold yourself?” she asked him.
“Perhaps, but first we look for your father.”
“Can you afford to?”
“Aye. Now you mustn’t bother your pretty little head about such things. Go to sleep, Abigail.”
In deference to modesty, he put out the lamp. She could hear him undressing and washing, but the noise was faint. The rowdiness of the drunken miners invaded their tin sanctuary, but even this vulgarity achieved a monotone, and Abigail was soon lulled by the noisy hum.
She awoke to pitch dark and silence. Silence, but for the steady breathing of her betrothed in the far corner. Then it started. A faint scrabbling near one wall, then a louder scratching coming closer and closer, with increasing volume. She sat bolt upright, terrified. What strange night creature was this?
She cried out, but the sound stuck in her throat. The scrabbling receded, then came back towards her again. This time Rob heard her shriek, and he was beside her in a flash.
“Abigail! Gad, what’s the matter?” he asked, holding her to him comfortingly.
“Some horrid thing. Listen!” She shook in his arms.
There was the scratching again, but Rob laughed. “Tush! ’Tis only a rat in the ceiling.”
Only a rat? Abigail quailed. What if it were to jump on her? She could not bear it.
“Oh, no!” she moaned.
“Hush now, my sweet, ’tis all right. There’s no way it can get in here. The thing’s between the paper and the roof. It can’t come down.” He did not mention the possibility of its gnawing through the paper, trusting to providence that such an event would not occur this night.
Abigail drew heart from his explanation. It was very agreeable being held close to him, reassuring. He kissed her gently on the forehead. She hardly understood the strange stirrings inside her as she felt his firm mouth seek her own. This time his kiss was not cruel—she found herself returning it to him, enjoying it. She put her arms up around his neck, let her fingers slide through his soft, thick hair, but Rob put his hands over hers and carefully pulled them away from him.
“Not now, my love,” he whispered. “Not for gratitude. Go to sleep again. We have much to do tomorrow. Goodnight.” He kissed her eyelids and went back to his own bed.
Abigail lay down again. Her heart was still pounding. She realized, then, that her kiss had not been one of gratitude. Tomorrow Rob Sinclair was to become her husband. In the space of a few hours she had discovered little about him; but what she had discovered was that, by the minute, he was becoming disturbingly irresistible.
CHAPTER
SIX
Chinks of sunlight touched the mean room as Abigail awoke. Instantly she sought her betrothed, but the rumpled bedcovers gave the only hint of recent occupancy. So he had deserted her—just when she had accustomed herself to the marriage. Rising panic forced her quickly out of bed before she spied the small note standing against the washbowl.
She snatched it up and read the strong, sharp writing.
‘Dearest Abigail,
‘It is supposed to bring ill luck if the bride sees her fiancé the same day, prior to wedding. Therefore I have thought fit to respect this superstition and have gone elsewhere until our appointed time of a quarter to ten, when I shall return to fetch my bride. Mrs. Barton will bring breakfast at eight-thirty.
‘My affections are ever yours,
‘Rob Sinclair.’
The panic disappeared. It was to be her wedding day after all, and oddly enough, her trepidation had considerably diminished from that of the previous day. Although she barely knew the man who was so soon to become her husband, Abigail found herself anticipating the coming event with more than moderate intent.
What a miracle it was that she had not lost her clothes to those robbers! The choice of dress for the morning was easy. She had packed her most serviceable travelling outfits, but in anticipation of some celebration in finding dear Papa, she had fortuitously included an afternoon dress which would serve for the momentous occasion. How ironical for it to be worn before the designated event!
She shook it vigorously, hoping to shake away the creases, and spread it out over one of the beds. Yes! It would be most appropriate, and none the worse for its adventures. The taffeta looked almost as crisp and fresh as on the day when Mama had last pushed the heavy flat-iron over it.
Now for the bonnet. The tip of the spoon-shaped straw brim had flattened in the packing and the flowers were somewhat crushed. If she could just pull it firmly, and spread out the apricot- and pink-tinged petals of the small roses under the brim ... Ah, yes, it would be hard to discern the dents now. The bonnet had been made to match her dress, both in the colour of the first pink blush of sunrise.
When Abigail inspected her petticoat, she pouted. The lace-trimmed edges were much mud-spattered and the dust of travel had become well ingrained into its original pristine whiteness. Perhaps when they reached Gabriel’s Gully, where there was a thriving township by all accounts, there might be a washerwoman ... What if a washerwoman was beyond the scope of her husband’s purse? How little she knew of him! Still, she suspected, finding out was going to prove most interesting.
There was one fresh petticoat and two changes of drawers left amidst her packing. She would have clean underwear today, even if her hoops were somewhat grubby!
She glanced at Rob’s note. The neat script showed some learning and she wondered where he had been taught to write so well. She remembered her own tediously laborious days at the Model School in Fort Street to which Papa, ever conscious of his own lack of education, had sent all of his children. Rob’s writing showed more elegance than his appearance suggested; it also showed that he trusted her to be there when he returned. >
She would show herself trustworthy. The last remnants of desire to escape that ceremony had, like that pesky rat, disappeared for the moment. They were replaced by apprehension, a tingling apprehension and an exciting curiosity for the life ahead. Was it to be Pandora’s box, or an opposite sweetness of treasures?
The man meant her no harm, she could see that now. All he had done had been for her protection. But with what haste! A tornado, he had lifted her up and literally deposited her at the nuptial altar! Not quite that, she reminded herself. She could hardly visualize Mr. Johnson’s section in the Bank of New South Wales assuming church-like dignity.
“Mrs. Sinclair? Ye awake yet?” Mrs. Barton’s raucous tones addressed her from outside the curtain door. Abigail bade her enter.
“Here’s your breakfast. Fresh eggs today, arrived late last night on Willy David’s dray. He brings me my provisions from Dunedin. And fresh-baked bread. Oh! What a comely dress!” She eyed Abigail’s gown draped over the bed. The buxom woman glanced up at Abigail. “Ye must look a picture in it, Mrs. Sinclair. The colour suits ye admirably.”
Her compliment was freely given. There was nothing she liked more than to serve a lady of breeding. It made a welcome change from the hundreds of uncouth, garrulous men and equally obstreperous women who frequented her husband’s saloon. Whilst they were making their fortune off those who searched for the yellow dust, Mrs. Barton had found it just as much a grind as the diggers in their long, hard toil. Rarely a night passed without some scrap or fight under and outside her iron roof. Tempers ran high, either from disappointment or rivalry, out in this shifty society.
She was tired of gin-soaked, screeching women of easy virtue, for the sporting la
dies were the only women, apart from the dancing girls, who entered her saloon. And the virtue of the dancers was, most of the time, just as easy. Those who could afford to stay under her roof now, were few and far between, and ladies, like Abigail, stayed close to their rooms.
She envied Abigail’s youth, her freshness, and a figure that needed no constriction of tight-lacing. Her years of hotel life in New Zealand with Alec Barton had taken their toll. Like her, her drab brown bombazine was well past its prime. It had seen the bulk of service in the North Island, but the threat of raiding Maori marauders united in the belligerent “King” movement, and Alec’s temerity, had brought them as far south as they could go. This was to Dunedin, and thence, the slow, weary trek by bullock cart, transporting overland much of the supplies needed for setting up a liquid trade for what was then a canvas town. By degrees, timber, wattle and daub and tin were replacing canvas. The bank, the General Store, and the “Golden Haven” were, so far, the most durable in their ramshackle appearance.
Mrs. Barton fingered the pale pink skirt of Abigail’s dress longingly. With a sigh she put it down—such was not for the likes of her.
“I’ll come back for the dishes in about half an hour, then,” she said.
“Thank you,” Abigail answered, and set to the task of breakfast.
By the look of the narrow shafts of sunlight intruding into the dreary room, the day promised fair. A spirit of generosity seized Mrs. Barton. The girl had come through the dusty tracks, she knew only too well, and the luxury of her first warm bath after days of grit still lived in her memory. “Madam, there’s a tub in the kitchen. There will be none but me there shortly. If ye’d care, I can prepare a bath for ye.”
