Mary Brock Jones (21 page)

This was a killing toil. Had Philip known? She dared not ask.

Another two miles and they came to Campbell’s, in yet in another gully. The whole southern face of the range was folded into gullies, it seemed, all staring hard into the face of the cold south winds. At least Campbell’s was busier than Potter’s, and there were a few shops. That was something. They came past a group of men digging what looked like a ditch.

“It’s a water race,” said John. “There are plenty of springs on this side of the Old Man, but the water is high up on the hill, and the gold is here. The race will bring the water down to the workings.”

So that was one problem solved, or nearly so.

“There are more men here than I expected,” said Philip.

Nessa knew the question lying behind his words. Why had John been so set against them coming here? She looked at the stores and saw a butcher and a baker. This place was more civilised than most they had been in.

“Probably about a hundred or more,” agreed John evenly, giving nothing away. But there was no smile on his face.

A decent number of miners, then, and well organised, going by the building of the water race. Yet still she felt uneasy. The diggers lifted their heads, giving a cheery wave and calls of welcome to John. He introduced them, and the interested stares and words of welcome to her were no different from those she had become used to other miners’ camps.

Within a few minutes, one had called out “Can you cook, Missy?” and another had asked how she was with a needle. It was the old story. A full stomach and mended clothes were as important to these men as having a woman to warm their beds.

“Miss Ward is a good friend of mine,” said John, in a voice that brought sudden silence.

“Ah, so that’s the way it be. Don’t worry, Mr Reid. Your lady be safe here.” It was a cheery-looking man in the front who spoke, and most of the rest nodded agreement. All but one man at the back. Instinctively, she drew her horse closer to John’s.

She had seen such looks from men before, and Philip’s gun and her own sense had kept her safe so far. There was just something about this place that made her feel the same might not be true at Campbell’s.

Maybe it was the cold shadows of the place, the mix of folded gullies, long grass and small bogs. The sun was shining high in the sky, reaching, for the moment, into the deep gully; but Nessa guessed that would not last many hours, and with winter coming on, it would be a rarity for the sun to shine here.

Maybe that was it, or that it felt colder here than at Chamonix, or the loneliness of the views below. The hills fell to a flat valley. From the rise before the settlement, she had seen a river meandering through the valley floor, but no houses, no friendly sheep bleating, no sign of a track from travellers such as she had become used to on the northern side of the range and inland. Here they were at the edge of the gold explorers’ range, and something in her was cowed by it. Only an act of sheer will allowed her to climb down from her horse when they stopped in front of the first store in the township. She unclipped her swag and handed the reins back to John.

“Thank you for bringing us, Mr Reid. It was very kind of you.”

“There’s an hour or so before I need to leave, to avoid being caught out on the tops. I’ll wait to see you settled.”

She nodded her thanks and wondered if he could see the relief in her eyes at not yet having to say goodbye—that for a spell longer she could keep pretending he would be near to keep her safe.

Philip went into the store. The sign outside proclaimed its other role as office of the local gold official. John stayed to hold the horses, and she stood beside him, fiddling with the reins. John was carefully surveying the town, a grim look on his face. She dared not ask why. Fortunately, Philip soon came out again.

“I’ve got us a claim just up the hill a bit. We’ll have to join the water scheme, but it should yield a good dig, says the warden.”

“Tom’s a straight man. If he says that, you can count on it,” said John. “Let me help you back on your horse, Miss Ward.”

“It’s all right. I can walk.” She did not want him touching her, fearful of the effect.

“Rest that foot while you can. You will need to be on it soon enough.”

Philip had to add his bit too. “Come on, Ness. I want to mark out the claim before it gets dark.”

So she had no choice but to let John put his strong arm around her waist and hoist her back into the saddle. And if his hands only slowly left her, caressing her down the long line of her leg before placing her foot securely in the stirrup? If Philip noticed nothing, then who was she to comment? She turned to thank John and saw in his eyes frustrated anger, and something else. She hastily turned back before he might see something similar in her own eyes.

They came to a survey marker matching the claim paper. On the slope above was a small hollow just big enough for a tent site. It was as good a spot as she could hope for on this field. They would be sheltered from the southerly winds by a bit of a rise in front, and Philip pointed out where a man had told him a spring rose not far below.

“It’s not that reliable, he said, but enough for cooking at any rate.”

Both men forced her to sit to one side while they erected the tent, built a fire pit and set up her cooking area. It consisted of nothing more than a camp oven, resting on the rocks surrounding the fire place, and a stirring spoon, ladle and butcher’s knife hanging from a hook on the tent. Their plates and cutlery they hung inside along with the food, out of the way of the mice that quickly plagued any miners’ camp if food was carelessly stored. To foil them, Nessa had contrived an enclosed, canvas shelving unit that folded up into nothing for transport, but opened into a convenient safe that she could hang with twine from the centre pole of their tent.

Finally, all was set, and there was no other reason she could find to keep John from leaving. Philip went to bring the horses round. John watched him go, waiting till Philip was out of hearing. He turned to her then, the impassive look vanished.

“You don’t have to stay here.” It was as if he could hold the words inside no longer. A knife twisted in her. She had no choice, whatever he might urge.

“I do,” she told him.

The horses were nearly on them. They both heard the jingle of harness.

“Remember your promise. You will send me word if you need me.” He grasped her hand. “You will do that? One of the packers is here a couple of times a week.”

She looked at his hand and made no effort to escape. Then lifted her head. “I promise.”

He released her.

Then Philip was on them with the horses, and John was mounting. She was lifting her hand in farewell. It could not be real. Too soon he had disappeared over the ridge line.

“I promise,” she whispered to the rising wind. “I promise.”

He was riding away, again. Bleak despair crashed in on him. He was over the ridge now, all hope of seeing her was gone.

Was this all he would ever have? Must he forever be forced to endure the pain of leaving her in a place that made his skin crawl in terror?

Unlike the miners, he knew the weather here—and knew what the diggers said: that the farmers’ fears were nothing but the words of men who never wanted the miners here anyway—but he had been here long enough to know that this year was unusual. It was well into autumn, but still the days stretched warm and dry, with just a chill in the nights to warn of what was to come. The rush to Campbell’s was a new one. Men had tramped past his home daily, all heading for Chamonix and over the range to Campbell’s, Potter’s and the other bleak gullies carved into the southern faces of the Old Man Range. Not even the snow on the tops had put them off. The glitter of gold banished all reason.

Now Nessa had followed the call. No, not Nessa … that brother of hers.

The boy was growing up. Even John had to admit that. He had kept his sister safe amidst the raucous hurly-burly of the mining camps—no mean feat. And he had pulled his weight at Chamonix while Nessa was recovering, working in the kitchens of Tom’s place to help offset their board and writing letters home for those who had never learned how to set pen to paper. There were good bones there. It did not make John forgive him. Not when he had such a hold on his sister.

Would she ever be free of him? Worse, would Nessa ever let him go? John had thought he was patient, but that was before he met Miss Nessa Ward. Would she ever turn to him?

If she survived the fields. Fear gnawed his guts, jolting him with each leaden footfall of the horses trailing after him. Most of the men here were sound, but some he did not trust at all. Not with Nessa. That sullen one hanging at the back of the crowd. The way he had eyed Nessa. John’s guts churned.

That man had worried Nessa, too, but right now, she was too sunk in misery, staring up at the ridge line long after John disappeared from sight. What was she doing here?

“Are you all right, Ness?”

Philip had finished unloading their gear into the tent.

“Yes, fine,” she lied. “I better get down and see what supplies the store sells before it gets dark.”

“Hang on a minute, and I’ll come with you. We don’t know how safe this place is.”

He strapped his pistol to his side, she noticed, and was grateful.

As it turned out, only a few men were at the store. Most were still out working. Still, she was glad to have Philip beside her.

The butcher and baker were much as in any other mining camp. The only meat available was mutton, but that was plentiful.

“We bought some old ewes off Mr Reid just two days ago,” said the butcher. “Plenty of good mutton stew on those cuts, and here’s a fine joint you might fancy, ma’am. A man needs a full belly to dig at Campbell’s, and no mistaking.”

“Thank you. Mr Brown, is it? The stewing meat will be ample for now.” She sounded like the old governess her father had insisted she employ when she turned fourteen. The widow of an officer, fallen on hard times since the loss of her husband, the woman favoured the military discipline of her late husband’s parade ground. Her life had known much hardship, and she had been hell bent on ensuring that Nessa shared in her misery. Nessa had got rid of her as soon as humanly possible, by the simple expedient of convincing the woman that her father was much in need of a new wife. Her marked attentions had terrified Professor Ward into giving the woman her marching orders in no time at all.

Now Nessa felt the same disapproving pucker blight her own lips. Philip looked at her in surprise but said nothing. In the bakery, she was even worse, leaving the talking to Philip and merely selecting a loaf and placing it on the counter with the politest of nods to the storeman.

“They getting much out of the ground here?” Philip was asking.

“Good enough.” The baker was not a man of words, she was relieved to find.

Philip was not put off. “I’m more used to panning in a river. It looks more like what I’ve heard of the Tuapeka here. You have to dig for the shine?”

“Yep.”

Philip persevered. “So who do I talk to about getting some water from that race for the digging?”

“Next door.” The man pointed with his thumb to the adjacent store.

Then he grunted something, and Nessa handed what she guessed he had claimed in payment. The man was honest at least, shoving back two pennies.

“We’ll be off then,” said Philip. “Thank you for your help.”

They walked out. She could feel the laughter Philip was struggling to contain, and a part of her responded.

“Friendly folk here.” Then Philip stopped outside the next store. It looked to sell a little of everything: hardware, trousers, gold office and sly grog shop. “Looks like somebody is making money out of Campbell’s.”

She had been long enough in the fields to know what he meant. Philip was still looking the place over.

“Better not come in, Ness. Doesn’t look quite the place for a lady.”

A fine time for Philip to find his conscience, but Nessa had to agree. “I’ll go back to the tent,” she said.

“Keep your gun handy, just in case.”

So Philip was also infected with the edge this place held. She pulled her gun out of her pocket and slipped it into her bag. She had loaded it before coming to the store and knew how best to use it, placing it in the bag containing the bread and meat in such a way that the handle stuck out very obviously.

For all her nervousness, the return to the tent was uneventful. The few men she met were pleased to see her, respectful and easy, but still courteous in the friendly ways that ruled in the colony.

She had a strong suspicion John Reid had made his attachment clear to the men here even before their arrival. Not one called out a cheery proposal of marriage, as usually happened when they came to a new camp. She was still glad to see familiar canvas walls and her own fire place, and busied herself starting a fire and preparing the stew.

It was the main staple of the miners. Vegetables were scarce, and Nessa had learnt to use some of the wild plants of this place to ward off the ever present threat of scurvy. She pulled the heart from a tussock to add to the pot, thanking the wisdom of Ada Cooper. It was something she did every day. She dreaded to think what hardships they would have faced in this place without the knowledge she had learnt in Mrs Cooper’s kitchen. A very special day, and her hand paused as she saw in her mind once again a sunny hillside, felt the warm rock beneath her and remembered the rich male scent and warmth of a large body beside her. A painful ache invaded her chest. What was she doing here?

It was late by the time John reached home, and the dark shades of night were already closing in. He turned his horse towards the tack shed and dismounted. Tiredness seemed to infest every bone in his body. Sheer will alone made him fetch the brushes and slowly, methodically rub down every part of his equally tired horses. Finally finished, he turned them out and went to fill the trough with an extra measure of mash for the night.

It was already full. Bob had been there before him. The mangers were also stuffed with hay, and a first glimmer of light broke through the dark cloud that engulfed his spirit. More hopefully, he trudged over to the hen house and dog kennels. Bob had been ahead of him in both places. He was free to go into the house. He pushed open the door and reached for the flint he kept with a candle stub on the ledge beside it. A cold kitchen, cold house.