Swift Runs The Heart

by Jones, Mary Brock

  A sudden smile lit his face, chasing away the heavy frown lines. “So that’s your problem. Perhaps it will help if I say I am not untroubled by MacRae’s attentions, just better able to take action against them.” He pulled back his coat, showing her the gun tucked into his waistband.

  Geraldine’s mouth dropped open, chagrin etching her own frown lines deeper. “I do know how to use one of those,” she pointed out.

  “Possibly, but it’s only my life he wants from me. It’s a deal more he wants from you, and who can blame him? Though perhaps if we let him see you as you are now, he might forget a certain bewitching vision.” The man had the hide to laugh—yet again.

  It didn’t stop Geraldine blushing bright scarlet. She knew exactly what Bas Deverill meant. Her hands were chapped raw, her hair straggled about her face, the dress she had on had certainly seen better days and she was painfully conscious of a smear of soot over her cheek from scouring out the camp oven. All she had of respectability with which to cloak herself, it seemed, was her own inbuilt pride. She drew herself squarely up, folded her hands primly and lifted her chin.

  “Was there something in particular you wished to discuss with me?” she said. “For if not, I fear I am too busy to waste my day in idle chatter.”

  His lips twitched and he bent his head in acknowledgment, then put on what she had come to call his ‘gentleman’s face’. It was one she had come to particularly dislike. His usually lively face became still and utterly unreadable, but for one eyebrow that rose maddeningly.

  “There was, as it happened. You may have forgotten, but Christmas is only two weeks away. The miners will want to celebrate – and I wish to profit by it.”

  She refused to rise to his bait, but could not stop her lips tightening.

  “Consequently,” he continued, “I have ordered in extra supplies of food, liquor and champagne for those fortunate enough to afford it. There will be a Christmas dinner here for upwards of two hundred, plus I have booked in extra entertainment for the occasion. I thought, as Molly and the girls are very busy at this time of year, I would leave it in your capable hands.”

  He was watching her closely, an annoying quiver at the corner of his mouth. He didn’t think she could manage it! Well, she had told him she was staying, and stay she would.

  “That will be fine, though I will have to employ extra staff for the day. I take it that will be in order?”

  He was silent a minute, still watching her. Then, with an ironic salute, he said, “Fine, as long as you let Molly seek them out. Just don’t bankrupt me – and use someone else to go out for supplies. You stay here,” he ordered, and then he was gone, leaving Geraldine standing stock still in the kitchen, both fists clenched and prey to an overwhelming urge to do just as he warned against - use up every last penny of his ill-gotten wealth. She counted to ten, very slowly, and then to one hundred when that failed.

  It did calm her down sufficiently to realise the absolute folly of what she had promised to do. Aunt Shonagh had ensured that she knew the rudiments of social duties, but she doubted whether organising a Christmas celebration for a crowd of miners would in any way resemble tasteful afternoon teas for a handful of Dunedin’s matrons, which was all she had previously attempted.

  She sought out Molly. The madam of the brothel was feisty, prone to using interesting language and had not yet abandoned plans to use Geraldine “as that fine figure of yours was meant to be employed,” but she was also shrewd and wise in the ways of a goldfield.

  “A Christmas feast, is it? About time he set someone to manage that. What with a parcel of new girls to train and himself opening up new places on the Arrow and Shotover fields, I’m about run off my feet.”

  “But I’ve never done anything like this,” squawked Geraldine.

  “Nothing to it. Plenty of food, drink, some good musicians, and my girls and the miners will take care of the rest. We had a fine old knees-up on the Tuapeka field last year. Now, you just go and find someone to organise the extra supplies we’ll need and don’t worry that pretty head of yours too much about it. We don’t want frowns on the most valuable young woman on the Dunstan, do we?”

  With which provoking comment, Molly also left her standing.

  Well, there seemed to be nothing for it. And suddenly a mischievous twinkle lit her eyes. Lord High and Mighty may think her bound to fail this test, trapped as she was in his wretched saloon for fear of Black Jack MacRae. All thanks to him on that one too, she ruminated crossly. But no one ever said young Gerry MacKenny shouldn’t wander the streets. How could she know it wouldn’t work here if she didn’t try it?

  With a grin, she reached up to where her bundle was stowed on a high shelf. Shortly after, a disreputable youth slipped out the back entrance of the saloon, an unholy grin on his decidedly grimy face.

  Not even Aunt Shonagh would recognise me now, decided Geraldine, malicious delight singing in her veins.

  Soon she was part of the throng flooding the streets of Dunstan that warm December day. Here was what she had dreamed of. Her bright eyes darted quickly about, alive with excitement under the broad brimmed hat hiding her tightly braided hair.

  Crowds of people filled the street, people in all their multi-hued wonder. Experienced miners from California with their distinctive crimson sashes. Old hands from the Melbourne fields and new chums from the farms, offices and workshops of the world. It was easy to pick the latter. They were either laden with piles of unnecessary gear or had rushed to the fields with no supplies at all and wandered about with an air of anxiety on their faces.

  Geraldine was not the only one eyeing the innocents avidly. Shops abounded; primitive, barely more than canvas tents with counters of whatever solid material was at hand. Here the back of an old dray, there a sheet of iron. Very often a mere sign above the open flap, with goods laid on the bare earth below. And in them – all the miners might need, and much more they might not. Cradles, gold pans, shovels, canvas tents, flour, sugar, salt, all at exorbitant prices. A cart rolled into town as she watched, laden with lamp oil and dried fruits according to the driver who loudly extolled his wares as he reined up. He was immediately rushed. The driver jumped on his seat, a handgun suggestively displayed at his hip as he fought to keep order. He succeeded by refusing to serve any but those directly in front of him. His companion took up an even more menacing stance on the back of the cart, a long rifle sweeping slowly over any who thought to help themselves without paying.

  She laughed at the sight, then set swiftly about her own business. Soon she had organised three men to help her in the next week. One claimed to have been an undercook in an English gentleman’s household, a claim she could only hope to be true. He certainly seemed remarkably ignorant of the ways of the colony.

  She saw yet another lost-looking newcomer and set her chin, ploughing determinedly towards him. One more helper and she could face Christmas with some hope of success. The man suddenly turned in his wandering, seeming to be about to disappear into a tavern. Her strides lengthened. No you don’t, she vowed.

  “Oof”

  “Here, watch where you’re going.”

  A very large stomach met her eyes as she sat back hard on her backside. Swiftly, she scrambled to shove her hat closer over her face as she painfully picked herself up.

  She knew that voice.

  “Sorry, sir,” she muttered in the deepest voice she could find.

  “Should think so. Go back to your mother’s skirts, you young idiot,” growled the voice of Black Jack, one long hand sweeping out in a vicious sideswipe. It never connected. A long, thin hand caught it in mid-swipe, the thin fingers exerting a pressure far beyond their appearance.

  “Leave the boy alone, MacRae.”

  A dangerous silence spread around them. Geraldine groaned silently. Beside her stood Bas Deverill, one hand pulling back his coat and resting on the pistol tucked there. Black Jack glared at it, his own hand moving slowly to his hip then stopping. Geraldine peeped up. Bas Deverill had do
ne no more that flick a glance over the man’s shoulder but, as Geraldine discreetly looked that way, she saw two more men lounging against a dray, their own hands stroking long rifles.

  “One day, Deverill, you will be alone,” growled Black Jack. He shrugged, breaking the tense deadlock and moved slowly off.

  Bas stood to watch him go but as Geraldine made to slip away, one of those deceptively thin hands shot out to grab her. She could have made a scene, forcing him to release her, but he knew full well she dared not.

  “An interesting incident,” said a gruff voice. Geraldine looked carefully under her hat, to see a sergeant of the colonial troopers had strolled up.

  “Brannigan. Glad to see you back,” said Deverill.

  “So I noticed. I didn’t know you and Black Jack were acquainted, Bas.”

  “In a manner of speaking.”

  “Just see it stays that way. I want no trouble in this town.”

  The sergeant stared at Bas, then apparently saw something in the Englishman’s face to satisfy him. “If it comes to a killing, make sure it’s not on my patch,” he said. His eyes roved over the boy at Deverill’s side.

  “Another of your strays?”

  “No, I just didn’t fancy seeing the lad’s jaw broken by our mutual friend there.” Deverill’s voice gave nothing away, but his hand gave a careless clout to her head, pushing her hat forward and closer over her face in the process.

  “One day that long nose of yours is going to get you in trouble,” observed the trooper. Then he nodded coolly and strode off.

  Now was her chance, but before the thought had even finished forming in her head, Deverill’s hand clamped down hard on her elbow. Geraldine found herself pulled unceremoniously between the nearest tents. “What the blazes are you up to?”

  How dare he? “What business is it of yours?”

  “Damned if I know, but for some insane reason, I feel responsible for you. Have you no idea what Black Jack wants to do to you if he finds you?

  “Some,” admitted Geraldine, hating the hot blush she could feel spreading over her face.

  “So why go about the streets in that ridiculous get-up? Did you really think no one would see the woman under it?

  “No one did but you,” she pointed out. “I was only hiring extra staff for this Christmas fling of yours.”

  The eyebrow shot up again. It was his ‘gentleman’ face. That was all she needed.

  “What business is it of yours what I do? Why do you seem to feel impelled to take responsibility for me? Your main concern seems to be milking yet more money from the miners flocking here. Why change that for me?” She stuck her hands on her hips, glaring at him.

  “You told me yourself that I owe you a debt,” he said.

  “So? I didn’t know you then or I wouldn’t have bothered.”

  “No?”

  “No,” she said flatly.

  “Still a liar, I see. It changes nothing. Whatever the reason, I do feel responsible for you. Nor do I want to see you fall prey to Black Jack, though I have no idea why.”

  For an instant, there was a hint of vulnerability in his voice. Then it was banished, and the sardonic wit was back. “Since, my young friend, you choose to appear as an errand boy, you will have to excuse me if I treat you as one.” Saying that, his hand grasped her elbow again in an unbreakable grip and, to her disgust and the amusement of those they passed, she found herself frogmarched back to her kitchen. Fortunately, after depositing her there like so much flotsam, he took himself off. By the end of that humiliating parade, she was barely responsible for her actions and, before she knew it, the heaviest pan in the kitchen was in her hand. It was well for him he had left so swiftly.

  Chapter 7

  She did not see him alone for some days after. A brief glimpse, once, of a white bandage showing under his collar that made something in her clench tight; terse orders thrown at her when he was with Molly; a sight of his horse disappearing down the street.

  “He’s gone to check on the new place at Fox’s claim on the Arrow,” said Molly to her query. “It’s a rich field, that, and more opening nearby. Ripe for the plucking by His Lordship.”

  Why that should send her innards into twists, Geraldine could not say. He tells me not to stray, yet practically invites Black Jack to have a go at him, she muttered angrily in excuse. And near succeeding too, by at least one story she had heard. But that was not it. The bucket of water in her hand sloshed wildly as she clumped it down on the table.

  Stupid thoughts seemed to be forever rising up to attack her lately. To drive them away, she threw herself harder than ever at her work. Theirs was to be the most extravagant, most glorious of all the Christmas revels planned in this heady town, of that she was determined. And if a certain gentleman was surprised by her prowess, so much the better.

  She had so little time. The days flew by in a welter of domestic toil, organisation, cooking extravaganzas with her newly acquired team of helpers, and exciting forays into the commercial wonderland that was a goldfield town. She had found at last that world of excitement she had fought for so hard. Dunstan was a merchant’s paradise; too many people and too few goods. Most had little money, but those who had struck it rich appeared to want nothing more than to give it away to whichever shopkeeper first took their fancy. Here, a beautiful gown sold for the same exorbitant fee as a plain, utilitarian pair of good boots. The latter was needed for survival, the former only for pleasure.

  Each day she ventured into the streets, clad in her guise of a scruffy young lad, face begrimed and chest strapped tight to hide her sex, her eyes sparkling anew as she took in the scenes around her. She had discovered a hitherto unguessed-at talent within her. The shrewd bartering that took place over the least of transactions was Heaven-sent food for her soul. Her voice ringing out in outrageous denigration of goods, she would enter wholeheartedly into the fray.

  There was one thing she always did before each foray into the streets; check the whereabouts of Mr Bas Deverill. Fortunately, he seemed to be avoiding her. Since that last, disastrous meeting, he had gone out of his way to avoid the kitchen. Or perhaps he had merely ceased to think her of any importance, she mused one morning, slowly buttoning her coat and pulling her hat down low. At one time…her thoughts flew disconcertingly back to that last night in the miner’s tent. The night he had made her feel sensations she had never known before. He had said he wanted her then, but he had been drinking.

  Geraldine MacKenny, what are you thinking of! Her hands shook and a heat stung her cheeks. No. She breathed in deeply—once, twice—it had to be enough, and grabbed at the cold ash to add one more smear to her already dirty cheeks, suddenly needing another layer of disguise. What she most certainly did not need were any improper thoughts troubling her concerning a certain bright-haired Englishman.

  Particularly one who had so plainly lost interest in her.

  She thrust her chin forward and set out. She was almost set for the party; everything was in order, but there was one more purchase she must make. On a high shelf, hidden in a jar of spices, she kept a small bag. She reached for it now, feeling the heavy chink of coins hidden there. She had little need to spend on herself here, with her food provided and no chance to go shopping in her own guise, so she had managed to save almost all of the wages Bas paid her. She opened it now, counting it over slowly. Would it be enough?

  Ten minutes later, she was in front of the shop she sought. It was still there! An elegant confection of the softest green silk moiré. Not too fussy; she knew its graceful lines would set off her figure to perfection. For the first time in her life, she wanted to dress to attract. In this gown, she would be a woman.

  She called to the merchant, putting on the hesitant tones of a gauche youth. “Excuse me, could you please tell me how much the green dress is?”

  He turned, took one look at the shy youth nervously tugging at his jacket front, and burst out laughing. “Come back, sonny, when you’re old enough to afford the kind of woman
who could wear that dress.”

  She couldn’t help it. She blushed, the scarlet wave washing over her cheeks, and hung her head. “It’s to send to my big sister, sir – for Christmas. I’ve got money.”

  “Yeah, sure.” And he named a price well beyond Geraldine’s meagre savings. Her head drooped and she began to turn disconsolately away.

  “Hold on, son,” said the man suddenly. “Damned if I know what it is about you, but it is near Christmas. You got me on a soft day. Let’s see how much you got.”

  She spread her coins on the counter.

  He counted them slowly, one by one, then looked up at her. “Tell you what. You come in here every afternoon for a couple of hours and do some chores for me, and you can have the dress for this much.” He pulled half the coins towards him. “You’ll need something left for the rest of your family, I suppose.”

  A grin a mile wide spread across Geraldine’s face. She looked up and remembered just in time, ducking her head again before the merchant got too close a look at her ‘youth’s’ face.

  “You won’t regret this, sir. Thank you.”

  All the way home a jaunty hop and skip crept into her steps. Well, she was supposed to be a youth. As to how to fit in working at the merchant’s as well as her usual duties - she had managed worse. With the way Bas Deverill was avoiding her, it shouldn’t be too difficult. Molly only objected to activities that interfered with the business, turning a diplomatic blind eye to her street forays. She even suspected a certain sympathy from the doughty madam, possibly due to a forthright youthfulness in the woman’s own past.

  Then she remembered the cause of Deverill’s absence, and the glow inside her vanished. All those trips of his to new establishments in the raw townships springing up with each discovery of gold on the Arrow and Shotover Rivers, further west into the forbidding interior. They were even more lawless than the Dunstan by all accounts, and the tracks to them traversed many lonely and exposed miles.