A Heart Divided
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A Heart Divided
Mary Brock Jones
From debut author Mary Brock Jones comes a sweeping historical romance about growing up and getting what you really need, set against the harsh landscape of the New Zealand gold fields.
Newly arrived on the Otago Goldfields of 1863, a young Englishwoman is caught between two men: the younger brother who needs her and the man who loves her.
The goldfields are rough and dangerous, especially for a woman, but Nessa’s brother Philip, like all miners, hopes to makes his fortune, and her place is by his side. But the fields hold more than a few surprises, including the acquaintance of Mr John Reid, a local run holder who comes to their aid.
John Reid takes one look at Nessa Ward and knows that he wants her—in his home, in his bed, in his life—but she is hell-bent on putting her brother’s needs before her own. All he can do is protect her as best he can, and never give up hope that she will return his love.
About the Author
Mary Brock Jones lives in Auckland, New Zealand, but her childhood years in the stunning Otago region of the South Island live on in the romantic adventures of her heroes and heroines. When not fending off the demands of two eternally hungry cats or being towered over by her four grown sons, much to their endless amusement, she writes historical romances and science fiction.
Acknowledgements
With thanks to all those who have helped me on my journey to publication: the wonderful Kate Cuthbert, my publisher, who said yes; my copyeditor Laura Daniel for her endless patience, everyone at RWNZ for their support and help; and most of all my family—my parents who brought me up to love books and my husband and sons who put up with me forever disappearing into the stories in my head.
Thanks also to the Department of Conservation, the New Zealand Historic Places Trust and all the committed locals of Otago who keep alive the places and stories of the Otago Gold rush.
John Reid’s home is loosely based on Mitchell’s Cottage, a preserved stone cottage and outbuildings at Fruitlands, just south of Alexandria, Otago. It was actually built twenty years after the gold rushes began, but there are similar ruins dating from the time of the rushes scattered throughout this naturally treeless region. I stood in the front door of Mitchell’s cottage one sunny day, looked down into the lovely valley below, and knew I had to put it into a story.
To my husband and sons, always
Contents
About the Author
Acknowledgements
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
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Chapter 1
Otago, New Zealand. January 1863
It was the girl he noticed first. At any other time of day, travellers would have passed by unnoticed, another group of hopefuls straggling to the goldfield, but evening was coming on, and John Reid stood on his front porch, as he did every day at this hour, pausing from the work of the day to take in his new world before darkness drove him inside his small home.
A sudden spark of light from the dying sun caught his attention, and he looked up at the ridge line to the east. The track from the coast crested a rise there, and she stood motionless, her body a perfect silhouette against the darkening sky. Women were scarce in this place, and a woman with a body like that even scarcer.
But it was not that alone that caught John’s interest. It was the way she stood, tugging at his memory in a way he couldn’t ignore. He had stood exactly like that three years ago when he had first crested that same rise and seen this valley. Bought and paid for down country, sight unseen, this was his land to make of what he could. In that moment he had known it was much more. In that moment, he knew he had come home.
And the woman? What did she see?
She was not alone. A man came over the rise and stood beside her, trailing a horse behind him. He said something to her then hurried impatiently down the track, barely stopping to look.
It was a rough track, climbing eastwards from the coast, riven by spurs of rough land where the mountains reached their rocky talons down to the river. Walking consisted of a wearisome struggle up and around the jumble of rocky outcrops and through the creeks that gouged out each hollow. To come over that last steep part and stand looking out over this valley of golden tussocks and open flats was like being granted deliverance. What kind of man was this stranger to ignore such a view?
The man tugged on the horse. It was unmoved, plodding slowly down the rough trail. He could see it was laden with gear. At least they were properly equipped. Too many fools rushed into the wilderness expecting to find supplies and stores such as were found in the great European cities. Granted, in the six months since the inland rushes had started, the traders had flocked to the Dunstan, the Arrow and the Shotover fields. You could buy just about anything from them, but at a price few newcomers could afford.
The pair was close enough now to see properly. The woman was young, barely in her twenties. And the man with her looked a youth, no more than eighteen, he’d guess. So maybe not husband and wife. His interest grew.
She was saying something to the boy. He shook his head, but still she continued speaking. Then he saw her thrust her hand first up the long path leading west to the Dunstan field, then back to his home. John eased farther back into the shadow of the doorway, not wanting to be seen watching. The young man was talking now, an angry arm waving at his house and his head shaking vehemently. She spoke again; again he shook his head and began to move on. She stood watching, her shoulders slumped in defeat.
John was surprised by a sudden spurt of anger in himself. Still he kept hidden, but he saw her give a long look to his cottage—almost as if to a place of refuge. She had every right. Humble by the standards of the house of his birth it may be, but here in these barren wastes of Otago the simple cob house was as rare and worthy as any fine manor at home.
He had built it with his own hands from mud and straw and scarce timber packed in from down country and sited it with careful deliberation. Up the slope but not too far from the creek, facing to the northwest in this land where the north side was hot and the south wall chilled. The morning sun warmed his kitchen through a small window then tracked round to beat on the mud bricks through the day, till it slowly fell behind the hills at the end of the valley.
His cottage’s charms made no difference to the woman. She slowly turned her head away and began to follow the young man, taking the horse’s reins from him and leaning wearily against its flank.
Did they know they were unlikely to make any other settlement before dark? The nearest was the mining camp at Butcher’s Gully, but even that would take another two hours or more, and the track past his valley was rough again, with plenty of holes to trap the unwary.
He could let them continue; leave them in their ignorance. They must have a tent and supplies on the back of that horse. Then he thought of the road past his valley and the bleak rise of the land before Butcher’s, strewn with rocks and loose gravel. They might make it to the camp with luck, he supposed. A frown spread across his face. He wouldn’t take a young woman into a place like Butcher’s Gully, even for one night.
> The track was bringing them within hailing distance of his cottage. Both walked with heads drooping to the ground and avoiding looking at one another. They neared, then began to pass, still unaware of him. He saw the tiredness in the young woman’s shoulders. There was a shawl slung over her head that hid her face from him. He searched for clues in her body instead and saw beneath the exhaustion a grace of movement that spoke more of the ballroom than the road. His gaze became even more intent.
In a moment, they would pass round a corner of the track and be hidden by the small hillock there. He could forget the couple, remember the shawl covered head and hidden face as an interesting puzzle, and return to the simpler challenge of his newly turned fields. They would be gone from his life, likely never to return.
“Good evening,” he called, stepping out into the twilit night. “Were you in need of hospitality?”
The boy heard him and slowed, obviously annoyed. The narrow-boned face that turned toward him was wary with hostility.
The horse had stopped now too, tugging on the reins held by the woman. It was only that which brought her to a halt. Her face lifted as if dazed from its fixation with the dirt scuffing her boots.
“Thank you, sir, but we can manage,” said the young man. John barely heard him, watching closely as the woman finally turned her face to his.
It was the eyes he noticed first, dark and questioning pools of soft brown velvet. They looked at him in hope above a finely turned nose set over the sweetest of mouths. Small and infinitely kissable, was his immediate thought. Beneath the shawl, an odd tress of rich brown fought to escape the confines of the sombre linen, and all John could think was how his hands longed to release the rest of those strands from their shroud. He would run his fingers through her hair as he bent to cover her lips with his own. As for the roundly swelling form hinted at beneath the serge gown…
Damn, the isolation of this place must be getting to him. He thrust his thoughts aside, trying to concentrate on the young man.
“It’s a long hike from here to the next settlement and you won’t want to camp by the roadside in these days. Not all who come to the goldfields are well disposed to travellers.”
The young man shrugged, obviously suspicious of John.
“Thank you, but we will carry on our way…” he began, but was interrupted.
“What do you mean, sir?” said the woman.
“People have been known to disappear on this road, ma’am,” he said, softening his voice. He had frightened her and was sorry for it, though it was only the truth.
“Philip, please, can we not stop here for the night?”
“Nessa, no. We know nothing of this man!”
“No more than we knew of those men in the hovels in which we slept these last few nights.”
There was a look of surprise on the brother’s face. So the lady was not in the habit of speaking back. Not surprising, given the hint of a pout forming on the youth’s mouth. But tonight was different.
“I’m tired. I want a fire to cook over and a warm bed to sleep in and four solid walls to keep me safe.”
More and more intriguing. He could feel a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth as he saw the glare she sent the boy. Time to push his claim further.
“I admit it’s naught but a bare bachelor’s comfort I can offer, and normally I would suggest you stay with my head shepherd’s wife, Mrs Cooper, but she’s already full to the rafters with a party of miners who came in some time ahead of you. I swear the woman makes more from providing lodgings than ever her husband could make from digging. It’s the only reason he stays with me, I would guess.”
He was rewarded by the hint of an amused sparkle in those brown depths. The youth was still unconvinced.
“But perhaps you do not care to stay with a stranger. Let me remedy that at least.” He bowed his head. “May I present to you one John Reid by name and this is my humble home and land you are passing through.”
The sparkle flared to fill her whole face. She poked the young man. “Philip, manners.”
Young Master Philip was definitely sulking now. He thrust a hand forward in the barest of courtesies. “Philip Wade, by your leave. And this is my sister.”
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.”
Mary Brock Jones Page 1
