Mary Brock Jones

by A Heart Divided

  “You felt no inclination to join this mad rushing after gold?”

  He chuckled, and was rewarded with a break in that fixed mouth. “No, Miss Ward, I have not. I prefer to be my own master. The gold can be a cruel taskmaster, as you will find. I take it that is why you have come this way? To seek your fortune in the diggings?”

  “I plan to use the gold I find to finance my future studies,” said Philip, hunching his shoulders defensively and managing to look even younger. Something John would not have thought possible.

  “Philip hopes to follow in our father’s footsteps. He is particularly interested in the architectural remains left to us by the ancient Greeks and Romans and plans to one day join an expedition digging up the ruins of the past.”

  “But no British explorer will take me on unless I have the necessary qualifications, preferably from Oxford or Cambridge.”

  Finally, a use for the stripling. Defence of her brother had broken the barriers of restraint and shyness. “Our father was undoubtedly a brilliant man but, unfortunately, not a wealthy one,” she said.

  The hint of a smile on that lovely face hit John square in his stomach. He barely heard the brother’s hasty interruption.

  “Any wealth he had, he used to further his pursuit of knowledge. He was passionately committed to his researches into the antiquities,” explained Philip.

  And just as single-minded and selfish as you, decided John.

  “I take it your father is no longer with us?” he said to Nessa.

  “No. He passed away early last year. A bout of typhoid fever hit the village near to his latest project.”

  “And your mother?”

  “Died many years ago, when Philip was quite young. She had not adjusted as well as she had hoped to a wandering life, said our father.”

  “Then who cared for you all? You can’t have been more than a child yourself, Miss Ward.”

  Her back straightened and he could have bitten out his tongue. “We managed,” she said stiffly.

  “Forgive me. I meant no criticism.”

  Like hell he did. He could see it all too clearly. The self-absorbed father and a young brother, both of whom took it for granted she should take over from their mother. For how many years had she put her life on hold for them?

  Something was stirring in him. Something he wasn’t certain he was ready for. Yes, she fascinated him. He knew he wanted her, wanted to know the truth of the graceful curves and beautiful secrets he could only glimpse through her workday dress. But overpowering all was an urgent need to cherish her. To take on the cares and burdens cutting away the life in her. He would give just about anything to take her in his arms, fold her up in the chair with her head on his shoulders and whisper gently in her ear, “Shh. It’s all my worry now.”

  Madness. He’d only just met her. She would think him touched in the head if he said anything so soon. He stood abruptly and began to collect cutlery and plates.

  “May I help,” said her beautiful voice beside him. He hoped she did not notice his fumbled attempt to collect the saltcellar. He murmured a “Thank you” and passed her the tableware, pointing to his sole tablecloth hidden under a pile of stock journals.

  ‘You never know who might call on you,’ his grandmother had said, thrusting it into his protesting hands as he packed his trunk before leaving home. How right she had been, as he watched Nessa soothe her fingers over the finely embroidered linen. The simple proof of civilisation seemed to ease the worry in her, and he discreetly switched from the everyday, thick earthenware plates to the few best ones he kept for Sunday lunch.

  He stirred the stew and watched in delight as she arranged the tablecloth and dressed it with implements, fussily adjusting the condiments and arranging the bread neatly on a plate. Then she stepped back, and gave the faintest of nods as she surveyed the whole. There was another of those heart-stopping smiles. He had to turn immediately to the hearth, ladling stew onto each plate and passing them to her to put on the table. His hand shook only slightly, and by the time he had to pass the plates to her, he had controlled it enough that he did not think she noticed.

  He was a good cook, by necessity, and his guests had travelled far that day. There was little talk as the first pangs of hunger were satisfied, but slowly stark need eased, and there was time to spend spreading thick butter over Mrs Cooper’s finely baked loaves and savouring the rich juices flavoured with vegetables from his own garden. Even young Philip shed some of his edgy defences as satisfaction took away the bite of need. He appeared to remember lessons drilled into him long ago. By his mother or, more likely by the sister who must have been as mother to him for much of his growing years. No wonder he both resented and took her for granted. It was the usual way of sons new to manhood and seeking to break free of the ties of childhood. He ruefully acknowledged the truth of that in his own life.

  His reflections did not help ease the anger young Ward roused in him, but at least they dampened it somewhat with amusement. He even allowed Philip to draw him out to talk of his own history.

  “There’s not much to tell in truth,” John protested at the idea of his settling here being by way of a dangerous adventure. “I’m a younger son of a man comfortably but not excessively well endowed with fortune. In the manner of such things, I must therefore seek a livelihood. I like farming, and the Otago colony offered good opportunities for hard-working men. As for why this particular spot; it’s good sheep country, there is a reliable water supply from the stream you passed on your way up the track and from springs up the hillside, and the land was available. The last was the most important,” he added with a laugh.

  “So here you are,” said Nessa. He looked up sharply. There was something unspoken in her tone, but for the life of him he could not decide what. Almost as if she had discovered some hitherto undreamt of truth.

  “Have you never thought to go in search of gold yourself?” said the brother, with all the disdain of youth for a stay-at-home.

  “No. It’s been both a blessing and a curse to these parts. But I’ll warrant I’ve made more money out of the rushes than many a poor fool who hurried up here ill-prepared and seeking too easy a wealth. Yes, there are those who have made their fortune, but too many have chased after wild rumours and have come away with nothing but age and wisdom for their troubles. This is hard country, young man. Far harder than has been told down country and by the dratted papers. It gives up its riches grudgingly. Have you ever panned for gold?”

  “No.”

  “Hmph.” He let an easy silence develop. Time enough for the boy to find out what he was taking on. And for his sister? He hid a frown, reaching instead for the cheese barrel and the crackers he kept there, and offering a last drink to wash it down. All the time, his thoughts were busy with conjecture.

  He let none of it show, drawing his guests out to talk instead of their own history. But while young Philip was quite happy to speak of ancient ruins and fascinating discoveries in obscure libraries, Miss Nessa kept silent.

  “It sounds as if you have seen most of civilised Europe,” he teased. “And perhaps some parts not so fair these days.”

  “I daresay we came across the odd spot of bother over the years,” said Philip carelessly, “but Papa and I were far too intent on our researches to be troubled much by such inconveniences. In general, Nessa picked up enough of the local languages to make understood our needs. Once the common people knew we were scholars and no threat, they were often only too pleased to be of assistance.”

  Miss Ward’s silence deepened. Just what had she been forced into, to deal with these “inconveniences” her brother dismissed so readily, he wondered. She had a core of strength he doubted her brother ever noticed, but how often had she needed to call on it? Too many times, he’d a feeling, for her comfort. Or his. So why did she keep so silent? How could he get past the shield she put up to find the woman hidden within?

  “You have a talent for languages, Miss Ward?”

  “Only the mode
rn ones,” she said hastily. “I never acquired the fluency in the classical modes of Latin and Greek of Papa and Philip,” she added as if to appease her brother, “but I can get by well enough in the common tongues we came across in our travels throughout Europe.”

  Philip had relaxed enough to laugh teasingly at this. “My sister speaks French, Italian, Spanish, Greek, and German like a native and can get by well enough in Turkish to manage the officials in most parts of the Aegean coast.”

  “Very impressive, Miss Ward.”

  Nessa blushed. “Maybe. It was more a matter of needs must. And none of that is of much use out here.”

  “On the contrary. Miners have flocked here from all over the world. Someone with your skills would be a boon to those with little English. To help fill in claims or deal with bankers and storekeepers. You would be invaluable.”

  “Maybe,” was all she would concede, even as she hid the smallest of yawns. He cursed himself.

  “My apologies. I have kept you up chattering far too late. News of the world is always welcome, even with all the passersby we get through here. Please, Miss Ward, let me show you to your room. Then, if Mr Ward would like to accompany me while I check my dogs and stock for the night, he can check on your horse while you ready yourself for the night.”

  He stood up, passing up the short hallway to the door opposite the parlour. It was his own room, but he did not mind in the least giving it up for Miss Nessa Ward.

  “It’s basic, but the bed is comfortable and warm. We will see you in the morning.”

  She thanked him very prettily and he wished heartily that her brother was not there. He badly wanted just one small kiss on her cheek. No, be honest, he wanted a hell of a lot more than that. Instead he must watch her close the door and then turn and clasp her brother on the shoulder.

  “Come on, Ward. Let’s check the animals then we will set up our mattresses by the kitchen fire. Primitive I know, but quite comfortable.

  He walked briskly enough out the door and was perfectly polite to his young guest; but late that night, he still could not sleep, and he glared over at the boy’s shape across the room from him. It was not the shape he needed beside him. All he could see in his mind’s eye was a fair cheek and dark curls lying on the pillow of his bed. And beside her, his own, large body. His hands ached to reach out and trace those haunting curves. He fell asleep at last, and could only hope to be lost in dreams—of her, of him, of what he longed to do with her.

  Chapter 2

  Nessa woke early. She stretched. Something was different. Then she knew what it was. She felt safe.

  And excited.

  No, that couldn’t be it. Excitement had ruled her life as long as she could remember. The scary, fear-filled excitement of new lands and unfriendly strangers. The unknown uncertainties as she fought to find comfort, shelter, food. Whatever her small family might need.

  Yet the feeling she had this morning was different. Something lay just before her, almost touching her hands. Not scary, not something to be feared or endured. Not the excitement of hushed voices and wary footsteps. This was … wonderful.

  A new word, that. There had been special times in her life. Distant memories of a gentle mother long gone. The joy of a baby brother and the fierce protectiveness that welled up in her at her first sight of his tiny face. Moments of playfulness later on. The pride when her father thought to raise his eyes from his book and notice the meal she had put in front of him. The delight at first seeing a new flower or tough little shrub or towering tree of a kind not seen before, and the thrill as she sought to capture with her paints the light and shape of the new plant.

  The sun was coming through the window, touching her cheek with warmth, and she opened her eyes to see a rough-hewn wall and the brocaded whiteness of the bedspread covering her. It smelt faintly of mothballs, and she remembered a voice from last night. A present from his mother last Christmas, he’d said. Too fine for everyday use in this raw place. Yet for her, he had brought it out to make a bed “fit for a lady” were his words.

  There it was again: that faint tingle of a promise of something to come. Now she knew the cause. Him. John Reid. The source of both the hitherto unknown sense of safety and the sparkle of excitement. Both came from the one man. Large, tall, solid. Brown hair and a gentle smile. He reminded her of the great oaks dimly remembered from a long-ago visit to her grandfather’s home. Old with the test of years they had been, but when she first saw them, they had just come into their spring leaf, alive with the joy of rising sap and summer about to come. Yes, that was John Reid.

  She smiled. Then felt it slip from her. Don’t be silly. This was but a one night stop in their lives—hers and Philip’s. That other memory intruded. Her mother and a dark room in a rundown inn. “Keep them safe for me,” her dying mother had said to twelve-year-old Nessa.

  It was a promise Nessa had kept through all the trials and grief since. It hadn’t been enough to protect her father, but she would keep Philip safe.

  In that she must not fail. For there was another memory forever lodged in her heart. A bewildered seven-year-old crying at his mother’s grave. Philip had looked up at her that day, lost and frightened. “Where’s Mama gone?”

  In the months after, she had watched Philip’s early childhood curiosity about their father’s work grow into a passion as he learned the hardest of lessons. Only when talking of work did their bereaved father notice his children.

  How real was Philip’s interest in the ancient world, was a question Nessa had asked herself again and again. Was it no more than the desperate search by a child for love from the only parent left to him?

  Philip must have the time and opportunity to find what it was that he truly wanted in life.

  As for her dreams? Buried in the grave with her mother. She’d almost forgotten she once had any. She shook her head, flinging away the treacherous thought. Today they would move on and life would continue.

  This gold fields adventure was Philip’s idea. “We can make our fortune in no time,” he’d told her back in the grey streets of London.

  They had not brought Papa’s body back with to England with them. Far better he be laid to rest under the sun-warmed soil of the land littered with the memories of the ancient world he loved. It was in that world he had truly lived, far more than the world of every day, where butter must be haggled from a street vendor and the price of a room was cold, hard coins from hours of scrubbing and toil.

  She rubbed her hands together and felt their rough chapping. No, hopes of joy were not for her. Not yet. She gave a last glance out the small window to the bright sunshine of the day and resolutely set her foot to the floor. They must leave this place soon, and there was work to be done. She began to dress.

  Outside, the air held a dry crispness. By the sun, it was still early, and there was only a hint of the heat that would follow. She paused by the front door. He, Mr Reid, had sited this house exactly right. Up the slope enough to catch a stray breeze, but not so far that the sheltering comfort of the valley floor was abandoned.

  She could see glimpses of other cottages nearby, down the hill and up the valley. Mrs Cooper’s, she guessed, and the other farm staff. Immediately in front of her were only the track and the rocky ridge. Beyond it she knew lay the river and to her right the long track that had brought them here. In this small valley, both were hidden and could be ignored.

  Behind the house, she could hear dogs barking and, from the slopes beyond, a sheep bleating in sudden disturbance.

  He had said it was good sheep country, and she must believe the pride in his voice, but it reminded her more of the barren uplands of Spain or maybe the harsh, dry slopes of Greece. That was goat country though. The only sheep country she knew was the green pastures of the Loire valley or the dimly remembered damp fields of the Romney marshes. Nothing like this place.

  There were patches of green. Small, square plots of tilled pasture hacked out of the surrounding tussocks. But mostly the landscape was
filled with native grasses and shrubs, and gone were the rocks they had stumbled over yesterday. Coming over the rise last night and seeing the land open out into this gentle valley had been like a deliverance. Now it seemed even more so. A blessed refuge from the toils and hurly-burly to which her life had descended.

  A fantasy perhaps, but in the hopefulness of dawn’s light, she would indulge herself.

  “Good morning.”

  She jumped. He was coming down the slope from behind the house, a bucket in one hand and a trio of dogs gambolling about his heels. Mr John Reid.

  “Excuse the boys here. They’re always a bit mad first thing.”

  The dogs saw her and immediately deserted their master to explore this fascinating newcomer. John Reid hurried up, trying to pull the curious animals away, but stopped at her sudden laughter. She reached down, stroking the warm fur and soon managed to quell the overly inquisitive noses.

  “Sorry about them.”

  “Don’t worry. I love dogs. But I’ve never seen any quite like these.” They were smooth-coated, black and tan, with splashes of white on their muzzles.

  “New Zealand sheep dogs. A bit of border collie, and a bit of whatever dogs shepherds have brought out from the home country. I bought these from a shepherd on Galloway Station. They’re bred for our big runs. Sometimes we have to drive sheep for days. You need a dog with a good, deep bark and able to keep on going for that.”

  “Days?” How big was his land? “I thought you just had this land around the cottage.”

  He chuckled. “That, and the lease on a parcel more.” He stood there in the sunshine and his hands pointed to the horizon. “We run up the top of the range and over the other side to the south, back a ways to just before the packers’ settlement at Chamonix to the east, over that rocky ridge to the river, and northwest as far as Butcher’s Gully. Mind you, much of it has now been declared a goldfield, but I can still farm it. Once the gold’s gone, the sheep and I will still be here.”