Abigail's Quest

by Lois Mason

  His strokes were gentle, arousing, and a tingle of fire darted in the small of her back. She was sure he was not going to leave her alone, as he had done the previous evening. She closed her eyes and found herself moulding, pressing her own slight body against his, for this time the mystery of her desires had taken hold, willing him to unleash his lovemaking upon her.

  Nothing urgent, vehement, or savage goaded Rob’s instincts. His attentions were all for his wife, and in their sweetness Abigail’s thoughts were swept beyond consciousness so that she did not notice the hardness of the earth on which they lay.

  She had come to need Rob Sinclair. Only he could obliterate all previous terror from her mind.

  CHAPTER

  TEN

  Three more days it took them before the Lower Township of the Dunstan, or Manuherikia as people were now calling it, was reached. Three days with no further unwanted episodes to interrupt their slow journey. But they were long, weary days where a body sought a night’s rest to shake off the stiffness and fatigue of day, only to be assailed with exhaustion again the next morning.

  For a time they had lost sight of the ant colonies scattered along the beaches of the Molyneux, and often they had to lead their mounts on foot where the steepest ascents on that tortuous track through the Knobbies, a range of mountains blocking a direct route north to Manuherikia, made riding perilous.

  Damper, mutton, cheese, was their diet; but the night before last Rob had shot a wild pig so pork provided variety.

  For Abigail, the nights were oases of comfort on that tiring trek. Apart from mustering strength for the next day, they afforded time to delight in the company of her new husband. And delight she did. Now that she had absolved him of her suspicions, she could enjoy his attendance unreservedly, abandoning herself to his power. From an involuntary glow, minute by minute, her affections slowly kindled to a conflagration of unsuppressed admiration and love for a man she had known for scarcely a week.

  But his intensity had made these few days seem like years, and a young woman’s intuition sensed that what was now was good, integral, and above all, most desirable. Had not family cares so preoccupied her mind, love’s fires might have been boundless; for the moment it was enough that she was more than comfortable at Rob’s side.

  “Penny for your thoughts, Abby?” he asked now. It was still afternoon and they were working their way through the last passes of the ridges of the Knobby Mountains.

  “Oh! I was just wondering what Papa will say when he finds he has a son-in-law.” She turned her clear eyes up to him.

  “I should think he’d feel his daughter was admirably suited, and be most relieved to have her well settled at last!” His virile mouth wore a teasing expression. How nicely arrogant he was! “And if he should not?”

  “Then he’d be a most ungrateful man, especially when he sees your bonny face and yourself so well under my protection. Nay, Abby, leave it to me. Your father will be well-pleased with your choice, I’m sure.” He smiled winningly, despite his smugness.

  “There was hardly any choice in the matter, if you recall,” Abigail declared boldly.

  “How pretty you look when you’re aroused! Of course you are correct, my dearest. But, tell me now! Had you known me the usual time, say ... a year ... would you still have become betrothed to me?”

  A faint pink touched her cheeks. The conceit of the man! Yet she must be truthful. “Aye,” she answered, “that I would.”

  Rob smiled with satisfaction. “There! You see! What difference does it make? A year ... an hour. ’Twould be all the same in the end.”

  “But I may yet be a shrew who’ll nag from dawn till dusk, or,” she lowered her eyelids, “run off to be a dancing-girl and tweak my plumes at all the gentlemen!”

  Rob threw back his head and laughed so loudly that Ned turned around from in front. “By gad, Abby!” he chortled. “Say you are!”

  “Nay! You know ’tis not possible. But how could you be so sure of it? What a chance you were taking!” And what a fortunate chance was mine, she added mentally.

  “My dearest Abigail, a man knows these things. There’s much to know, but time will wait,” he hinted vaguely. “In the meantime we have each other honestly.”

  “Aye, Mr. Sinclair, we do!” Abigail avowed wholeheartedly.

  They were in true desert country now, void of greenery, in land marked by weird, distorted, almost supernatural formations of schist and old greywacke, softened only by the infinite tufted silvery gold and red snowgrass. Here snow lay in sunless hollows in winter months, melting in the spring thaw to make an endless bog.

  But it was high summer and the land could not be drier. Dust, unsettled by hooves, swirled about the little group and clung tenaciously. Abigail licked her dry lips and tasted grit. And at the end of that tedious day, after they had been in danger of losing their lives in fording the Manuherikia River, she saw that dust also covered the town that was their destination.

  Rob pulled his horse alongside as they entered the long street of tents. “Abby, you must remember there are thousands here. Your father is one man among so many ... And we have not an inkling where he might be. You still have his photograph?”

  Her hand went instinctively to the locket hanging about her neck alongside Mrs. Sergeant’s St. Christopher. She had forgotten the medal and she thought that perhaps its power was there, bringing her through the perils so far encountered. It might even have sent Rob to her.

  She was ever-optimistic of finding her father, no matter how grim the picture her husband painted. Rob sensed this, and he smiled down at her. “Aye, Abby, never fear. We’ll keep on trying until we find something, someone, who will lead us to him.”

  The dying sun flushed the higher tops of the Dunstan mountains as they rode into the dusty township, about one hundred and twenty-five miles from Dunedin, where the Manuherikia River flowed into the mightier Molyneux. Abigail shuddered at the sight of that river now. Its swift, treacherous current was destructive, swollen as it was in the height of summer with melted mountain snow.

  There was no time for vistas—lodgings must be sought. They dismounted and Abigail banged her skirts to rid them of the nostril-clogging dust. They tethered their horses to a convenient water-trough and the animals drank noisily while Ned called over a young lad, as dusty as the calico dwellings. He bade the child stand watch and to holler for his life should any thief touch their horses.

  Rob tucked Abigail’s arm over his and they followed Ned down the crowded street. They passed banks, skittle alleys, open shops, dancing saloons and refreshment tents, as the sly-grog shops were euphemistically called. They fought for passage down the narrow alleyway as they pushed their way around carts and drays, bullock teams and canvas-hooped wagons. The canary coach from Dunedin had arrived just ahead of them, and it too added its passengers to the throngs.

  Shopkeepers were trading well with prices at a premium—what with flour two shillings and a tanner a pannikinful, bacon three shillings, and mutton and beef one and threepence a pound. One enterprising rogue was doing nicely with a brisk business in gin cases at three pounds each.

  “What are they for?” Abigail asked Ned.

  “ ’Tis the only timber around here,” he replied. She had noticed no trees from where they had just come. “Cradles are twenty pounds each, but the diggers can make their own from the cases, or walls for their shanties.”

  There was even an apothecary! On upturned wooden boxes there were the favoured remedies—‘Dr. Collis Browne’s Chlorodyne’, ‘Blair’s Gout and Rheumatic Pills’, ‘Morrison’s’, and ‘Lamplough’s Effervescing Pyretic Saline’.

  It was all a circus to Abigail, who had never seen the like before. Even Weatherstone was tame in comparison to the diversity of people and amusements. She blushed for her sex at the brazen hussies, boldly decollate in gaudy shades of red, green and purple, parading their plumped-up bosoms, plying their partners of the minute with liquor, and sashaying turkey feathers in a manner that had A
bigail hastily averting her eyes and praying that her husband would not be beguiled by their false charms. Jugglers and acrobats skipped through the crowds, for already it was the time of evening entertainments and the raucous brass bands from the two dancing saloons were now beating out the varsovienne above the shouts and brawling.

  She wondered where they could possible make a start in seeking out her father from this conglomeration. It was beyond reason to think of it now, she reasoned, they must wait till the morrow.

  They walked and walked down that hectic street, with Rob and Ned carrying the saddlebags and blanket rolled over one shoulder. It was not until they could see the tents and shanties thinning out that Abigail spotted the enormous canvas structure of an accommodation house.

  Optimistically entitled ‘The Tranquil Nook’ in a huge flowing black scroll atop its many doors, this shanty, unlike the other places of lodging, was distinguished by the absence of a dancing hall and “refreshment tent” attached to it. Even so, it was a crowded place and, because the “rooms” were formed by scrim dividing walls, every conversation joined into a hullabaloo.

  They were soon ensconced in their little partition. Though she had experienced nothing as crude as this, apart from their camping out, Abigail was so tired that she did not care.

  She made no objection to Rob’s pushing together the manuka frames with slung sacking nailed to them which served as beds. Closeness was security where all were vulnerable, unprotected, and strangers were separated only by flimsy divisions that would not keep away any unwelcome intruder.

  Her husband had paid five shillings each for himself and Abigail for the “room” and meals. Ned, by now a firm friend, went to fetch the horses and pitch himself a tent close by. After the long days together the men, now fast mates, were on first-name terms. Rob lit the lamp, and Abigail glanced anxiously at the dangerous flammable walls.

  “I trust everyone else is careful with their lights. This shaky place could flare with a single spark by looks of it,” she said nervously.

  “Aye, but see here, dearest. We are on the outside, if that is some comfort,” Rob assured. “All we need do is duck under here.” He lifted the edge of the outer calico against which he had his bed.

  “Lord! ’Tis not too safe is it? So close to the road...” she did not consider his words much comfort at all.

  “Not to worry, Abby. I’ve my gun at the ready should we have trespassers.”

  “Rob?” They heard Ned calling outside their partition..

  Rob glanced at Abigail. His wife had not yet made preparations for washing and changing for dinner, so she was decent for visitors.

  “Come on in,” he called.

  Ned poked his head around the scrim door. “The horses are secured. Look, I think I’ll stay here a few days to spell them awhile before the trip home. I could give ye a hand with your search for Mrs. Sinclair’s father...” Rob’s young bride had won his heart and inspired this act of kindness. “If ye’d care? I’ve nought else to do, and ’twould occupy me while I waited. What d’ye say?”

  “That is very generous of you, Ned. We’d certainly be most grateful for your services. Would we not, Abigail?”

  “Aye,” she replied beaming at the good fellow. “Thank you very much, Mr. Fogg.”

  “Well, I’ll be off now. I’ll see ye at table then!” He was taking his meals at ‘The Tranquil Nook’ also.

  Rob nodded, and when Ned had gone Abigail took out a fresh chemisette and the tarlatan dress from the saddlebag. She looked down at her chintz—it desperately needed washing. She could barely make out the patterning beneath the grime of travel.

  She rinsed her face and hands in the thick china bowl and dried them on her one and only linen towel: that, too, wanted a hard rubbing with soda and boiling water. It would be a long while before she would see the last of this horrid dirt. It was impossible to wash her hair here—the shining copper was now lustreless bronze—and the best she could do in the meantime was to brush it vigorously. What did her husband make of this dulled beauty? she wondered. The change from her original allure was yet no deterrent to his ardour.

  Somehow the grime of their journey sat well on him, doing little to detract from his resolute looks. The beginnings of a beard joined his Dundreary whiskers and he seemed even more prepossessing. It mattered not that millions of motes settled on to his clothes—they had no need of pattern and colour for enhancement, being purely practical in nature.

  Abigail turned to him, a little embarrassed by her request. “I’m going to change and I do not wish the world to know. Do you think you could put out the lamp an instant?”

  “Of course,” he agreed. “I do not wish others to be gazing at you either. You are mine alone.”

  She rapidly changed her chintz for the cleaner dress and lace-trimmed chemisette.

  “Ready now,” she murmured. But before the lamp was relit Rob had taken her in his arms, covering her mouth with a long, pleasurably hungry touch. She caught her breath in a small sigh as he released her. “Come! Dinner awaits us,” he said abruptly.

  Ned was seated at one of the rough wooden trestles arranged under cover of a lean-to calico roof at the back of their lodgings. They took their own tin plates up to the cook, an enormous, white-haired Swede, who ladled an indescribable mess on to them.

  Abigail was so hungry that she would have eaten anything; although the huge chunks of bread accompanying the stew were the most palatable of all. Ned mopped up his gravy with the bread and ate with appreciatively noisy slurps. Rob, fortunately, did not resort to this manner of finishing, but placed his knife and fork neatly across his plate.

  Noise abated whilst the thirty or so diners tucked in. Scraping of cutlery, chinking of cups joined in with a piano accordion from the tent next door, and soon an Irish tenor was united with the music.

  “Shut yer gob, O’Hagan!” roared the owner of the shanty next to the canvas, who did not welcome 'the tune.

  A great cackle of laughter came from his antagonists, the Tipperary boys, and they struck up even louder.

  “I said will ye shut up, and I meant it!”

  “Shut yer face yesel’, yer bloody limmer!” O’Hagan’s retort was fast and furious.

  The diners listened, mouths agape, expectant for the next piece of action.

  Abigail looked across to her husband. His eyes twinkled in the lamplight and he and Ned grinned wryly at each other. Up struck that wind machine, and the Irish brogue burst forth again, rich and hearty.

  “O’ Hagan! Yer a bloody menace! A body can’t get a bit o’ peace with ye around. I’ll cut down yer ruddy tent if ye don’t stop that racket!” the sour neighbour yelled out.

  They all heard the Irishman’s raucous response, and when his song ceased another Tip called out, “Ye can’t stop us, Cairns, so ye may as well join in. What d’ye like us to sing next?” he taunted. They did not wait for his request, however, bursting lustily into a song that had Abigail hot about the neck, something about “ladies naughty” and “corsets”. Cairns did not wait for it to finish.

  “Put yer confounded instrument down and yer fists up, O’Hagan! Will ye shut up if I knock yer brains out?”

  The diners, eyes glistening and open-mouthed, heard the Irish singer take up the challenge. “Yer on, Cairns!”

  The next thing Abigail knew was a mass exodus of men from ‘The Tranquil Nook’ with only Ned, her husband and herself remaining. Jeering and booing broke out as the men took sides and gawked at the brawl.

  She looked at Rob. “Do you wish to go too? Do so if you please. I shall retire. I’m very tired.”

  Her husband shook his head. “ ’Tis of no consequence to me. I do not relish watching men beating each other up and knocking themselves about. Come! We are all weary. An early night will serve us well. Good night, Ned. We shall see you in the morning.”

  “Good night, Mr. Fogg,” Abigail inclined her head.

  As they lay on their makeshift beds under their blanket rolls, the noisy mele
e outside reached fever-pitch. O’Hagan and Cairns were now not the only combatants. Abigail was thankful that they were well away from the donnybrook. Suddenly one cry—“Coppers!”—was enough for the noise to quell, and ‘The Tranquil Nook’ reclaimed its occupants as quickly as it had been deserted by them.

  Lying there, the obnoxious drama ringing in her ears, Abigail comprehended only too well how right Mr. Dun woody had been. The gold diggings was not the place for a girl on her own. She had seen, to her shame, that single girls out here were the “scarlet women” that Mama had spoken of in furtive tones, and others of her sex were the wives who accompanied their men. From the open staring she had so far been more than aware of, she knew that she was not only meat for bushrangers and rogues, but fuel for the burning desires of men without women’s comfort.

  Rob had saved her in more ways than one. And what a charming saviour he was proving! What fortune had smiled on her at the time of their encounter? Hardly encounter...

  But there was something more than the mystery of his background and that puzzling letter bewildering her now. In him, there seemed a strange juxtaposition of coarseness and refinement, an elegance of manner and speech usually not found in one so rough in appearance. This now was the greater mystery.

  “Are you still awake, Abby?” His voice, low and soft, murmured in her ear.

  “Aye.”

  “Give me your hand,” he commanded, breathing warmly near her head. She did so. “Ah,” he intoned. “So soft and smooth in this raw part of the world.” He held it to his cheek and she could feel the prickle of his unshaven jaw. Then he touched the band on her finger. “We shall buy your own, a special ring for my bride, when we return to Dunedin,” he declared.