“A shilling a night for room and meals. Laundry’s extra. Pay me once you get some money. Next week’s no problem,” she said in the bluff, straightforward manner in which, as Nessa was to learn, Mina Johnston approached everything in life.
“About your work,” said the Sergeant as Mina finally wound down. “I’ll get a couple of boys to set you up with the stall next to the Assay office. If any trouble comes up, you will be within shouting distance of the assay agents, and my office when I’m in.”
Nessa could only nod in agreement, feeling rather like a leaf bowling down a river with little to do but let the current take her where it would. All her pride could salvage was to insist on staying in her own tent that night. Philip was to set off in the morning. For one last night, she wanted to hold onto all that was left of the only life she had known, the brother she had cared for since he was so small. Next morning, she watched Philip roll up the tent and collect his newly acquired mining tools, and she forced her lips into her best smile. He had traded in their faithful horse to pay for his new gear. Horses were no use in the steep tracks up the Arrow Gorge.
Mostly, she was worried about him. He was so young. That’s what she told herself anyway. The clenching in her guts was not panic at the thought of being left on her own.
“Look after yourself,” she said as she fussed over his bags. She was about to check inside his bedroll, but the look of shocked pride on his face made her pull back. Everything suddenly seemed topsy-turvy in this frontier world.
She was more than relieved to see the solid figure of Sergeant Garret. He watched with her as Philip strode across the upper bank and disappeared into the dark cavern of the gorge without even one cheery wave as he climbed the far bank. The sergeant then grabbed her last bag and she was off to Mrs Johnston’s. He stayed, her sole anchor in her confusing new world, as she settled in at Mrs Johnston’s and met the men who were building her office.
By lunchtime, her new business was ready. There was a price list tacked to the outside of a small, canvas-sided hut, and a queue was already forming outside. She launched gratefully into her customers’ demands.
When the queue finally broke up as the day ended, she was so tired she forgot to wonder how Philip was faring until just as her head finally hit the hard pillow in her new bed. Mrs Johnston had put up a curtain to give her a small, private alcove to herself, but she could have fallen asleep even in the middle of the busy main room.
Mina’s husband, Tom, had arrived as the sun was going down. He said little, ate his meal then headed soon after to his bed. But the four Johnston children made up for him, chattering, squabbling, laughing until their mother ordered them outside for what was left of the twilight hours. Nessa lay, eyes closed, listening to them play as she drifted off.
Just before sleep overtook her, a picture came to her. A big, strong, calm man standing watching with her as children played in front of a solid, cob cottage. He put his arm around her shoulder and she leaned into the comfort of his presence. A smile drifted across her face and she knew no more till morning.
Chapter 6
“Is that the last of them, Georgie?”
The freckle-faced boy of ten standing guard at her shop door popped his head round the canvas flap, surveyed the street outside, then turned back with a grin. “Yep. Not a single body waiting, Miss Nessa. Lunchtime?”
“Yes, Georgie, it is. I take it you are hungry again?”
The boy nodded his head vigorously, licking his lips as Nessa leaned down to pull out the billy from beneath her desk. Fortunately Mina Johnston knew her son well. It was packed to the top with thick slices of damper, cold mutton and pickles.
“Your mother is a treasure, Georgie.” She set the billy aside in the shade and stood, easing the ache in her back from sitting too long. “Come on, let’s go rescue that ginger beer from the riverside before someone else finds it.”
She laughed as Georgie raced ahead of her. The lad possessed one speed only—full ahead as fast as he could possibly go.
The boy had appointed himself her personal watchdog and protector two days after she had moved in with the Johnstons. The second child in a large family, he usually spent his days helping his father at the river or his mother around the house.
She refused his help at first. It didn’t take long to see how hard the Johnstons must work, both in hunting the gold and in feeding, clothing and making a home for their brood in this place. How could she take Georgie away when he was needed by his family? But it was no problem, they all assured her. And Sergeant Garret couldn’t get on with his work until she had someone to escort her about the place, they added. She had, it seemed, no choice but to agree to the plan, but she could and did insist on paying for Georgie’s time.
Now, hurrying to catch up with the sprite, she wondered if she had not been tricked horribly. Young Georgie was trouble on two legs, with a truly awesome talent for getting into mischief.
Mind you, Georgie was well enough known in the camp that no sane man wanted to get on his bad side. The young scamp was very inventive in extracting revenge—which allowed her to come and go to work safely as long as Georgie was close by. After a week here, she had seen enough to know that was a minor miracle. She had learnt how to sleep through the nightly raucous goings-on in the camp, but she was not stupid enough to leave the Johnston home after sunset and was grateful for the loaded rifle Mina Johnston kept by her bed. The lure of gold drew all types.
She had been in tight spots in her time, but none matched this place. There were just too many young men here, too much money and too few lawmakers to control them. Uncivilised and dangerous was the undercurrent of this place.
But so alive.
She felt the grin touch her face. The sun was shining, her translation business was a roaring success and, for the first time in her life, she had sufficient funds for her needs. Soon, Philip would come back down the gorge with news of a golden strike. They would leave here, go back to England and live in the comfort their birth required. Finally, her real life would begin.
Her smile slipped. That was a good thing, surely?
Yes, yes it was. She shook herself sternly. England would be wonderful.
“Hello, darling. Care to help a rich young fella spend his gold?” Then suddenly, a heavy hand fell over her shoulder. A second arm snaked around her waist, held her in far too familiar a fashion and pulled her hard against an overly muscled body. The smell of the man almost made her gag.
She shoved her elbow sharply back. “Let go of me, you ignorant oaf.”
“Now, sweetheart, that’s no way to talk to a man. All I want is a bit of fun.”
“Georgie,” she shrieked, one hand battering uselessly at the big hand holding her. The child had scampered ahead but turned back at her call, running madly in and tackling the stranger’s leg. The man shook Georgie off, sending the small boy sprawling. Nothing daunted, Georgie sprang up, put up his fists and stood in furious challenge.
“Let her go. That’s Miss Ward. You let her go!”
The man just laughed, holding Georgie off easily while starting to drag Nessa away.
“How dare you. Leave the boy alone. Who do you think you are?” She dug her hands into his, trying to claw them open.
“Just a man who wants a good time with a pretty lady.”
“And you think I would want anything to do with you?” She thumped madly at his arms, straining as hard as she could to get away from the hot, nauseating breath as his mouth came down on hers. Around them, a laughing crowd began to gather. Not a single man stepped forward to help. She recognised a couple of faces—men she had helped. They had been so grateful then. Now, they stood with the rest, egging on her captor. So much for her dream of safety.
“Go on, give her one.”
“Want to share her, mate?”
Between Georgie’s shouts, the crowd calls and her shrieking, the noise volume had reached mad levels. Then a single gunshot rang through the air. A dead silence fell.
“Move away from the lady. Now!”
It was a voice she knew so well, but had never really expected to hear again. He stood at the edge of the crowd, the rifle pointed straight at her tormentor as the crowd edged slowly away.
“C’mon mate. I just want a bit of fun. Go find your own piece of skirt.”
“You really are stupid, son.” There was a click of the rifle being cocked.
“Do as he says, boy,” growled another voice. Then another, and more joined in. The young man turned slowly to face the growing ranks against him.
Carefully, he lifted his hands away from Nessa, stepping deliberately back from her. “No harm done, sirs.”
No one else moved, all eyes shifting uneasily from the young miner to where John Reid stood watching the man leave, his gun slowly tracking the man’s movements. John did not lower it until the man was pulled swiftly by his mates into the crowd. One of them cuffed the man impatiently round his head.
“You idiot. That’s John Reid. You want the run holders and packers against us?”
The crowd quickly broke up now. John’s eye was on them all the time, gun set over his shoulder and ready if needed. Finally, only he and Nessa remained.
Now the threat was over, all Nessa could feel was acute embarrassment. She stared solidly at the ground. This was not how she hoped to meet this man again. Then a firm hand tilted her chin up.
“Are you all right?” said a deep warm voice. Her memory of that same voice had kept her from panicking throughout the trip here and she had called it to mind whenever she felt afraid. Those clear grey eyes were studying her. She saw concern in them, and anger.
Suddenly shy, she could only mumble a subdued, “Thank you.”
John saw the red blush tinge her cheeks and harshly clamped down on the anger shimmering through him. He wasn’t sure whom he wanted to thrash more—the idiot miner who had been bothering her, the idiot brother who had apparently abandoned her here in this lawless hellhole, or himself for not stopping her coming here. And what about the Johnston’s—a safe haven, he’d thought, with no one the wiser that it was he who had asked Garret to arrange it. Yet here she was wandering around on her own without any protection. Someone was going to answer to him.
“Hey, Miss Ward, you coming?” The bright-faced, dust-covered young boy grabbed her skirts far too freely, thought John. How dare the cub? Not when John wanted nothing more than to fold her into his own arms and keep her safe forever. As well as a few other things, he conceded ruefully.
“What about you, Georgie. You’re not hurt?” she was asking the lad.
“Nah. Just a bit of a dust-up I reckon. Now come on. Mum’s got bacon for lunch and we’re in for a right treat. She’s found where the dratted hens are laying.”
John raised an eyebrow, now recognising the scamp as the cherubic-looking hellion he had met last time he visited the Johnstons.
“You coming to lunch, too, Mr Reid? Mum’d be real pleased to see you again.”
Since it matched exactly with what John wanted, he accepted the invitation and ignored Nessa’s quick look of surprise at Georgie’s familiarity. Hopefully, she would assume that he was just well known among the miners, though why that should be so in a camp so many days’ travel from his own property was more than he cared to explain. His name was certainly well known as a supplier and friend to the packers, as she had seen today. But not many knew him personally, not the way the Johnstons or Jean-Claud did. He wasn’t that free with his confidences.
George was still chattering madly as they turned into the track to the Johnston’s cottage. John used the many holes in the road as an excuse to take Nessa’s arm in his. She stiffened at first, but he held her lightly and was soon rewarded. One hole was big enough to cause her to lean into his side. He kept her there and she made no demur. It was enough for now. The churning seas of anger washed easier on his heart. Someone would pay for the fright to her, but not till after lunch.
The scent of her surrounded him as the quiet grace of her voice mingled with the young boy’s, sometimes answering the child and occasionally venturing to respond to his own sallies. Then she asked the question he had feared. The one he couldn’t answer, not yet.
“What brings you so far from home?”
“Business,” he said, hoping against hope.
She looked at him, clearly in doubt. Then put on a polite smile. “I trust it turned out well, after such a long journey … and I cannot be other than grateful for your timely arrival.”
He had escaped, yet felt strangely disappointed and knew why. The formal words sank into his heart. His reasons were no concern of hers, they said. Yes they are, my darling.
How was he to convince her of that? It was starting to drive him crazy. He would swear he had not imagined that look in her eyes when he arrived. And not just because she was frightened.
Or was he fooling himself?
The Johnston’s house was a welcome sight, the cheerful gabble of words that accompanied the family’s welcome even more so.
He could only stay in the Arrow two days. There was too much work at home, and to stay longer might frighten off his Nessa. In those two days, he snatched whatever time she would spare to him. Hope grew. She was attracted to him, he was sure of it. Her pleasure in his company was too real, as was her determination to resist it.
Out of loyalty to her brother? That seemed to rule her life to the exclusion of all else, and what that boy had ever done to deserve such loyalty was beyond him. Then he found out. One afternoon when John came to the Johnstons’ house, Mina was there but no Nessa. The older woman gave him a knowing smile when he queried after Miss Ward. “She’s out with the children, bringing in the washing. Wait here and I’ll fetch her.”
John was left on his own and glanced idly around. All was as he remembered from previous visits, except for the extra cot tucked into an alcove on the far wall. Nessa’s cot. John grew still.
There was a book on her bed. Hand bound, with a cover of stiff card decorated with one precisely drawn, single white rose. John could not resist. He picked it up, brushing his hand across the fine brush strokes marking out each petal. She liked to draw, she had said, not that she was an artist.
He opened the cover and saw it confirmed. He became aware that he was holding his breath.
Leaves, flowers, trees, plants of every kind brought to exquisite life in pencil or paint. Each page had been carefully hand stitched into the folio with a brief note on the back. Name, location, year. A bald recital of her life. Laurel, England, 1856. Herbs on a hill, Thessaloniki, 1860. Now in a child’s hand but with her talent already obvious; a caption that said Seaweed, Beach, Italy.
These were her special sketches, the jewels she kept with her. He lifted over each page slowly, carefully. So many places, so many memories. Some bright and gay, flowers of brilliant reds and yellows gleaming in brightest sun, others dark and glum. From England were grey bushes, dull with water and mist. From Provence, a single pale cluster of flowers shining against a dark wall. Evening, he guessed, from what appeared to be moonlight. Then the seaweed on the Italian beach, black against the sand with edges of frazzled dryness. She would have been a small child when it was drawn.
Then came Greece, Spain, the Aegean Sea, colour festooning the tough and twisted trees—flowers, bushes and grasses so real he would swear they moved in a breeze.
He kept turning, greedy to know more … and came to a face: a woman, tired, worn but with so much love in her eyes, then a little boy running along a beach, followed by a man digging in a rocky soil. They were pencil sketches, their lines simple and lacking the precise complexity of her later drawings. So much love shone in that woman’s eyes.
He turned the pages over, seeking the names on the back. Mother, 1850. Philip, 1851. Father, 1859.
He had to turn back, to look again at the images. The boy was so carefree; but there was the man he would become, in the eyes and the bright curls on his head. He could see the son in the mother’s face. Nes
sa’s mother.
There was little of her daughter in the physical lines of the woman’s face, but the strength, the caring: those she had passed on. Nessa took more after her father in looks. There was a lean wiriness to the man that hinted at the slim grace of his daughter. He couldn’t see the man’s face. It was too resolutely set towards the hole he was digging, and away from his watching daughter.
He turned another page and stopped in shock.
Pictures, drawn in thick, black charcoal. A grave. A bouquet of roses, each petal meticulously outlined. A small boy lost and confused. Even in the simple sketch, the grief on the child’s face was obvious to John. Less clearly drawn, a man stood at the head of the grave, isolated from the boy.
He turned the next page. The boy huddled on the ground and a young girl crouched beside him, holding him. Her face was hidden but her arms were locked around him and her back was stiff. The boy clung tightly to her skirts.
He didn’t need to turn the page to know whom Nessa had drawn this time: her younger self and Philip. The sketch was a statement, both of a promise made and a challenge. She would protect her brother, love him, keep him safe.
His hand clenched in a fist above the drawing. How could he fight that?
“Here, what you doing with Miss Nessa’s book?”
It was young Georgie, barrelling through the door and glaring at him.
“Just looking,” said John softly.
“Not that book. That’s Miss Nessa’s special one. She don’t show it to anyone. You put it back.”
There wasn’t an ounce of fear on the young bantam’s face. John had to laugh. He put the book down, exactly as he had found it, and ruffled the boy’s hair.
“Tell your mother I’ll come back later. I’ve something to attend to now.”
Georgie nodded as he left, seemingly satisfied with the excuse. He hoped Mina understood well. He could not talk to her, not now. And talk to Nessa? Not till he’d had a walk—a very long walk.
Mary Brock Jones Page 6
